Centres and Peripheries in the Early Second Temple Period (Forschungen Zum Alten Testament) 9783161542930, 9783161550256, 3161542932

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Forschungen zum Alten Testament Edited by Konrad Schmid (Zürich) · Mark S. Smith (Princeton) Hermann Spieckermann (Göttingen)

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Centres and Peripheries in the Early Second Temple Period Edited by

Ehud Ben Zvi and Christoph Levin

Mohr Siebeck

Ehud Ben Zvi, born 1951; Professor emeritus of History and Classics at the University of Alberta; 1996–2013 General Editor, Journal of Hebrew Scriptures; 2001–02 President of the Canadian Society of Biblical Studies; 2008–15 General Editor, Ancient Near Eastern Monographs (SBL/CEHAO); 2016–18 President of the European Association of Biblical Studies. Christoph Levin, born 1950; Professor emeritus of Old Testament Studies at the University of Munich; corresponding member of the Göttingen Academy of Sciences and Humanities and of the Finnish Academy of Science and Letters; 2010–13 President of the International Organization for the Study of the Old Testament.

e-ISBN PDF 978-3-16-155025-6 ISBN 978-3-16-154293-0 ISSN 0940-4155 (Forschungen zum Alten Testament) Die Deutsche Bibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2016  Mohr Siebeck Tübingen. www.mohr.de This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (beyond that permitted by copyright law) without the publisher’s written permission. This applies particularly to reproductions, translations, microfilms and storage and processing in electronic s­ ystems. The book was printed by Gulde Druck in Tübingen on non-aging paper and bound by Buchbinderei Spinner in Ottersweier. Printed in Germany.

Preface This volume emerged out of a workshop held at the Ludwig-MaximiliansUniversität (LMU) in Munich from June 10 to 14, 2015. The workshop was convened by Professors Levin and Ben Zvi and was part of a long-term collaboration between LMU Munich and the University of Alberta on ancient Israel. As usual in the workshops organized through this collaboration, each paper was energetically discussed by the group. We thank all the participants for these discussions. We also hope this volume will continue that conversation. We also thank colleagues who for reasons out of their control could not physically participate in the workshop, but still submitted their contributions and contributed much to our general endeavour. We gratefully acknowledge the generous support of the Fritz Thyssen Stiftung that made the workshop possible. We also thank various granting agencies and institutions that facilitated the research of many of the participants. We wish to extend our gratitude towards the editors of this series for accepting the volume for publication. We would like to thank Dr. Henning Ziebritzki, Editorial Director, Theology and Jewish Studies at Mohr Siebeck. We want to express our sincere appreciation for the editorial staff at Mohr Siebeck for their help in preparing this volume, for their professionalism and for the support they have provided us. Finally, we wish to thank Ruben Burkhardt, Anna Cwikla, and most especially, Dr. Kathrin Liess for editing it. August, 2016

Ehud Ben Zvi and Christoph Levin

Table of Contents Preface ......................................................................................................... V List of Abbreviations ................................................................................... XI Ehud Ben Zvi Introduction ................................................................................................... 1 Ehud Ben Zvi Introductory Centre/Core-Periphery Considerations and the Case of Interplaying of Rigid and Flexible Constructions of Centre and Periphery among the Literati of the Late Persian/Early Hellenistic Period ....21 Laurie E. Pearce Looking for Judeans in Babylonia’s Core and Periphery ..............................43 Bob Becking Centre, Periphery, and Interference Notes on the “Passover/Mazzot”-Letter from Elephantine ............................65 Sylvie Honigman Intercultural Exchanges in the Hellenistic East The Respective Roles of Temples, Royal Offices, Courts, and Gymnasia ..................................................................................79 Diana Edelman Identities within a Central and Peripheral Perspective The Use of Aramaic in the Hebrew Bible ................................................... 109 Francis Landy Between Centre and Periphery: Space and Gender in the Book of Judges in the Early Second Temple Period .......................... 133 Hermann-Josef Stipp Jeremiah 24: Deportees, Remainees, Returnees, and the Diaspora .............. 163 Kåre Berge Are There Centres and Peripheries in Deuteronomy? ................................. 181

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Reinhard Müller The Altar on Mount Gerizim (Deuteronomy 27:1–8) Center or Periphery? ................................................................................... 197 Erik Aurelius Periphery as Provocation? 1 Kings 17 and 2 Kings 5 .................................. 215 Magnar Kartveit The Temple of Jerusalem as the Centre of Affairs in the Book of Chronicles Memories of the Past and Contemporary Social Setting ............................. 229 Louis C. Jonker Being both on the Periphery and in the Centre: The Jerusalem Temple in Late Persian Period Yehud from Postcolonial Perspective .................................................................... 243 Gary N. Knoppers What is the Core and What is the Periphery in Ezra-Nehemiah?................. 269 Juha Pakkala Centers and Peripheries in the Ezra Story ................................................... 295 Friedhelm Hartenstein The King on the Throne of God The Concept of World Dominion in Chronicles and Psalm 2 ...................... 315 Beate Ego Jerusalem and the Nations: “Center and Periphery” in the Zion Tradition .................................................................................. 333 Kathrin Liess Centre and Periphery in Psalm 137 ............................................................. 347 Christoph Levin The Edition of the Psalms of Ascents ......................................................... 381 Ann-Cathrin Fiß “As far as the east is from the west, so far does he remove our transgressions from us” (Psalm 103:12) Mercy as the Centre of Psalm 103 .............................................................. 401

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Urmas Nõmmik Qinah Meter: From Genre Periphery to Theological Center – A Sketch ............................................................... 411 Peter Juhás “Center” and “Periphery” in the Apocalyptic Imagination The Vision of the Ephah (Zechariah 5:5–11) and the Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch as Case Study .................................. 437 List of Contributors .................................................................................... 453 Source Index .............................................................................................. 455 Author Index .............................................................................................. 461

List of Abbreviations AB ADAJ AfO AHw ANE ANEM AOAT AOS ASOR ATANT ATD AThANT ATSAT BA BaAr BaM BASOR BBB BE BEATAJ BETL BibInt BiKi BHS BKAT BM BN BThSt BWANT BZAW CAD CANE CBQ CDLI CM ConBOT CTA CTM

Anchor Bible Annualof the Department of Antiquities of Jordan Archiv für Orientforschung Akkadisches Handwörterbuch, Wiesbaden AncientNear East Ancient Near East Monographs Alter Orient und Altes Testament American Oriental Series American Schools of Oriental Research Abhandlungen zur Theologie des Alten und Neuen Testaments Das Alte Testament Deutsch Abhandlungen zur Theologie des Alten und Neuen Testaments Arbeiten zu Text und Sprache des Alten Testaments Biblical Archaeologist BabylonischeArchive, Dresden Baghdader Mitteilungen Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research Bonner biblische Beiträge The Babylonian Expedition of the University of Pennsylvania, Series A: Cuneiform Texts Beiträge zur Erforschung des Alten Testaments und des antiken Judentums Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium Biblical Interpretation Bibel und Kirche Biblia Hebraica Stuttgartensia Biblischer Kommentar, Altes Testament British Museum Cuneiform Tablets Biblische Notizen Biblisch-theologische Studien Beiträge zur Wissenschaft vom Alten und Neuen Testament Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago Civilizations of the Ancient Near East; New York Catholic Biblical Quarterly Cuneiform Digital Library Initiative Cuneiform Monographs Coniectanea Biblica: Old Testament Series Corpus des tablettes en Cunéiformes Alphabétiques découvertes à Ras Shamra-Ugarit de 1929–1939 Concordia Theological Monthly

XII CTMMA CUSAS DBAT DCH DDD2 DJD DMOA EŞ EstBib EThSt ETL FAT FOTL FRLANT GAG GAT GKC GMTR HAL HALOT HAT HBM HBS HCOT HdO HeBAI HKAT HSM HSS HThKAT HTR HUCA ICC IEJ JAAR JAJSup JANEH JANER JAOS JBL JBTh JCS JHS JJS JNES JNSL JSHRZ

List of Abbreviations Cuneiform Texts in the Metropolitan Museum of Art Cornell University studies in Assyriology and Sumerology Dielheimer Blätter zum Alten Testament Dictionary of Classical Hebrew Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible, Leiden, 2nd ed. 1999 Discoveries in the Judean Desert Documenta et monumenta orientis antiqui Istanbul Archaeological Museum Estudios Bíblicos Erfurter Theologische Studien Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses Forschungen zum Alten Testament Forms of the Old Testament Literature Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments Grundriss der Akkadischen Grammatik Grundrisse zum Alten Testament Gesenius’ Hebrew Grammar Guides to the Mesopotamian Textual Record Hebräisches undAramäisches Lexikon zum Alten Testament Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament Handbuch zum Alten Testament Hebrew Bible Monographs Herders Biblische Studien Historical Commentary on the Old Testament Handbuch der Orientalistik / Handbook of Oriental Studies, Leiden Hebrew Bible and Ancient Israel Handkommentar zum Alten Testament Harvard Semitic Monographs Harvard Semitic Series/Studies Herders Theologischer Kommentar zum Alten Testament Harvard Theological Review Hebrew Union College Annual ICC International Critical Commentary Israel Exploration Journal Journal of the American Academy of Religion Journal of Ancient Judaism Supplements Journal of Ancient Near Eastern History Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions Journal of the American Oriental Society Journal of Biblical Literature Jahrbuch für Biblische Theologie Journal of Cuneiform Studies Journal of Hebrew Scriptures Journal of Jewish Studies Journal of Near Eastern Studies Journal of Northwest Semitic Language Jüdische Schriften aus Hellenistisch-Römischer Zeit

List of Abbreviations JSJ JSJSup JSOT JSOTSup JTS KAANT KAT KHC Klio KTU LBH LCL LHBOTS LSTS LTQ NAB NABU NBL NEB Neot NJPSV NRSV NTS OBO OECT OLA OLB OrAnt Or. OTE OTL OTS OtSt PBS PNA PSAT RA RB REA RGTC R&T SAT SBAB SBLDS SBLEJL SBLSCS

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Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic and Roman Period Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic and Roman Period Supplements Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Journal for the Study of the Old Testament: Supplement Journal of Theological Studies Kleine Arbeiten zum Alten und Neuen Testament Kommentar zum Alten Testament Kurzer Hand-Commentar zum Alten Testament Klio, Leipzig Die Keilalphabetischen Texte aus Ugarit Late Biblical Hebrew Loeb Classical Library Library of Hebrew Bible / Old Testament Studies Library of Second Temple Studies Lexington Theological Quarterly New American Bible Nouvelles Assyriologiques Brèves et Utilitaires Neues Bibel-Lexikon, Zurich Neue Echter-Bibel Neotestamentica Tanakh: The New Jewish Publication Society Version, Philadelphia New Revised Standard Version New Testament Studies, London Orbis biblicus et orientalis Oxford Editions of Cuneiform Texts Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta Orte und Landschaften der Bibel Oriens Antiquus Orientalia, Rome Old Testament Essays Old Testament Library Old Testament Studies Oudtestamentische studiën Publications of the Babylonian Section of the University Museum, Philadelphia Prosopography of the Neo-Assyrian Empire, Helsinki Poetologische Studien zum Alten Testament Revue d’Assyrologie et d’archéologie orientale Revue biblique Revues des Études Anciennes Répertoire Géographique des Textes Cunéiformes Religion and Theology Schriften des Alten Testaments in Auswahl Stuttgarter Biblische Aufsatzbände Society of Biblical Literature Dissertation Series Society of Biblical Literature Early Judaism and Its Literature Society of Biblical Literature Septuagint and Cognate Studies Series

XIV SBLWAW SBOT SBS SEG SJOT SR SubBi SUNT SVSK.HF TADAE TCS ThSt ThWAT Transeu TSAJ TTZ TUAT TZ UBL UCPSP UF UTB VAS VAT VS VT VTSup VWGTh WAW WBC WMANT WUNT YOS ZA ZAH ZAW ZBK.AT ZDPV ZTK

List of Abbreviations Society of Biblical Literature Writings from the Ancient World Sacred Books oft he Old Testament Stuttgarter Bibelstudien Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament Studies in Religion, Toronto Subsidia Biblica Studien zur Umwelt des Neuen Testaments Skrifter udgifna af Videnskabsselskabet I Kristiania Historisk-Filosofisk Klasse Textbook of Aramaic Documents from Ancient Egypt Texts from Cuneiform Sources Theologische Studien Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Alten Testament, Stuttgart Transeuphratène Texte und Studien zum Antiken Judentum Trierer Theologische Zeitschrift Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments, Gütersloh Theologische Zeitschrift Ugaritisch-Biblische Literatur University of California Publications in Semitic Philology Ugarit-Forschungen Uni-Taschenbücher Vorderasiatische Schriftdenkmäler Vorderasiatische Tontafelsammlung des Berliner Museums Vorderasiatische Schriftdenkmäler, Berlin Vetus Testamentum Vetus Testamentum Supplements Veröffentlichungen der Wissenschaftlichen Gesellschaft für Theologie Writings from the Ancient World Word Biblical Commentary Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen Testament Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament Yale Oriental Series Babylonian Texts Zeitschrift für Assyriologie Zeitschrift für Althebraistik Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Zürcher Bibelkommentare Altes Testament Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche

Introduction Ehud Ben Zvi Basic, heuristic frameworks encapsulated by the expression “centre and periphery” have been very influential in social, political, anthropological, cultural and economic studies since the last decades of the 20th century. This is not surprising given that “centre-periphery” (hereafter “C–P”) paradigms relate to unequal systems. In fact, C–P models may work, at least, heuristically for the study of any system whose dynamics are strongly influenced by a substantially unequal distribution of some quality central to the relevant system. Needless to say, these systems are ubiquitous. This being so, it is not surprising that C–P models have explicitly or implicitly provided an underlying methodological ground for works in fields such as sociology, social-anthropology, post-colonial as well as other approaches to literature, comparative and historical comparative literature, urban planning, human/social geography in general, archaeology, religious studies (including studies on “official” and “popular” religion), linguistics, ancient, medieval and contemporary history, and for cross- and transdisciplinary approaches. Moreover, the lay of the field has never been static. For instance, whereas earlier research has, at least in part, tended to place emphasis on clear categories, dichotomies (and often on the oppression of peripheries by the centre), more recent research has, at least in part, tended to emphasize the interrelatedness of centre and periphery, discussing the hazy lines separating them, their relative rather than essential character as demonstrated by the fact that a group may be “peripheral” to a certain “centre” and simultaneously a “centre” to another “peripheral” group, or even that at times one group may be construed as “central” to another from a particular perspective and as “peripheral” to the very same group from another perspective. Of course, all these considerations only underscore the potential close relation between conceptual approaches that focus on constructions of “centre-periphery” and those aimed at studying “hierarchical relations.” Approaches strongly informed by research frameworks at whose core stand concepts such as hybridity, in-between or third spaces have also contributed in recent years directly and indirectly to conceptualizations of “centre and periphery.” Similarly, recent studies on Ancient Empires have underscored that empires were based on negotiation with local groups and particu-

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larly their elites – which in turn have to negotiate with the local non-elite groups. The “sea” of C–P approaches includes today multiple currents and undercurrents, and it is teeming with ideas, conceptual re-examination of both “centre” and “periphery,” and potential and actualized contributions in a wide range of fields, but what can it contribute, in its present stage and variety, to the study of the early Second Temple period? Christoph Levin and I decided to explore this question and convened for that purpose the workshop out of which this book emerged. As diverse as the participants of our workshop are in terms of methodology and areas of interest, our shared strength is on our ability to examine textual evidence and draw conclusions from it. From the outset, we were adamant that within this basic limitation, what is needed is a multi-pronged approach to this question. C–P models are construed and used in multiple areas and any appropriate exploration of their potential for early Second Temple studies has to take into account a significantly wide range of areas and be informed by a commensurate significantly wide range methodological approaches. In other words, any attempt to limit the exploration of the potential use to C–P models to just a narrow number of issues or critical approaches had to be rejected. Of course, this decision meant that any volume that would emerge from such a conversation would by necessity be a “rainbow” volume. But Levin and I are convinced that precisely this is the kind of volume that is needed to explore the matter and to draw the attention of the readers to the wide range of ways in which the concepts of “centre and periphery” may serve as critical lenses that allow us to “see” either that was not “seen” before or to “see” in a somewhat different light that which we have “seen,” as well as making as aware of what might become blurred or suddenly “unseen” when one wears these “lenses.” The following twenty-one essays deal each with a particular topic and range of approaches. The opening essay is my own contribution. It serves as a methodological introduction to the volume as a whole and to C–P in all its variety. Its main role is to provide readers with a shared basic background from which to approach the other contributions of the volume. It includes a “theory” section (section “A”) and then moves to “practical examples” (sections “B” and “C”). The latter is meant to clearly illustrate the existence, usefulness as well as limitations of C–P cross-cultural/cross-historical patterns and their generative “grammars.” To be sure, these general crosscultural tendencies necessarily lead to unique historical outcomes, because of matters of historical contingency. The examples brought up in section “B” mainly deal with: (a) self-constructions of groups that are peripheral in terms of political and economic capital as central in terms of cultural and symbolic capital, and (b) the construction of the “central” city of a group as “peripheral.” The latter case also exemplifies that social-anthropological models and

Introduction

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underlying, systemic generative grammars may work for “real” societies and social agents but also for societies and social agents that existed only in the shared memory and imagination of a group. Section “C” stresses via examples that C–P constructions are often neither linear nor unidirectional and that often the system works through a set of related “axes” rather than one “axis.” To do so, it discusses a variety of significant and substantially different cases that substantiate, beyond doubt, that at times, seemingly expected differentiations of what is central and peripheral were negotiated along a multiplicity of axes. The next contribution is by Laurie E. Pearce and is entitled “Looking for Judeans in Babylonia’s Core and Periphery.” What does the evidence of cuneiform administrative and legal texts referring to activities of Judeans in urban and rural Mesopotamia may say on the question of whether a C–P relationship may have existed between Judeans in urban and rural in Mesopotamia and their Babylonian and/or Achaemenid contemporaries? Pearce argues that “research on cuneiform archival texts of the long sixth century has paved the way for applying the C–P heuristic to the study of the Neo-Babylonian and Achaemenid periods” (pp. 45–46). Sifting and analyzing this documentation, including significant material recently published by her and Cornelia Wunsch, leads her to conclude that: “… As a population group in their home territory, they inhabited the periphery of the Babylonian empire; as deportees in Babylonia, they could have remained economically peripheral, that is, in a relationship defined by the core powers extracting labor and capital from them in exchange for benefits that the state could provide. To some degree, it could be said that occurred. But the textual evidence attests to Judean integration into the economy and core at levels commensurate with those of native, as well as other non-native, population groups. In light of that, the Judeans in Babylonia should be viewed as part of the core, although their precise level in that division remains to be fully defined” (p. 63). Thus, their situation may be considered in light of comparative evidence of processes by which an entity shifts between being core and peripheral status, and in terms of the branching hierarchies discussed in the introduction. Pearce discusses also how Babylonians expressed their own notion of C–P and deals as well as the crucial issues of how peripherals can be identified in the corpus and what their economic activities entailed. During Persian period, there were also Judeans in Egypt, and those in Elephantine left archives. The next essay addresses the testimony of a particular letter from one of these archives. Bob Becking’s essay deals with “Centre, Periphery, and Interference: Notes on the ‘Passover/Mazzot’-Letter from Elephantine.” He stresses that centre and periphery are both complex, mutually dependent systems and that any complex system may lose its stability under the influence of external interference. Becking asks us to read the letter as

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part of a communication between “centre” and “periphery.” Hananiah, the “author” of the letter, was “some sort of a civil servant for Yehudite affairs under the satrap Arsames” who have had “a double loyalty being a Yehudite in the Persian administration since he was both peripheral and central at the same time.” As such he would have exemplified the bridging role of many original members of peripheral elites who were simultaneously central and peripheral and thus served as crucial systemic intermediators (e.g., Udjahorresnet). Most likely Hananiah included in the letter some portion of the section relevant for the Yehudites from a document issued by the centre, which is the real “author” of and “authority” behind the policy communicated in the letter. Becking’s analysis leads him to the conclusion that the letter attests to a case in which the centre unintentionally triggered a process that led to the destabilization of the peripheral, complex, multi-ethnic community of Elephantine, with serious consequences for the Judeans there. Becking also discusses how the Persian centre expressed its own notion of C–P. Social processes of cultural exchange, in multiple directions, and the associated issue of the education of at least local elites play important roles in all historical C–P systems. The essay by Sylvie Honigman, “Intercultural Exchanges in the Hellenistic East: The Respective Roles of Temples, Royal Offices, Courts, and Gymnasia,” deals directly with these matters and asks the readers to reconceptualize the main models for education and the intercultural exchanges of ideas and texts in the Hellenistic East. Sylvie Honigman advances observations about the roles of temples, royal offices, courts and gymnasia, and on their basis endeavours to explain the social processes involved in Hellenistic education in the “periphery” and for the social and culturally crucial exchange of ideas and texts during the period and across boundaries. She makes the case that “the question of education and that of the circulation of texts and ideas are two distinct matters, and need to be treated separately.” Her model for the question of education rests on the grounds that there “was no clear-cut separation between the temple personnel and the personnel of the royal administration in the various regions of the Hellenistic East, including Judea” and “[i]f temple and royal scribes were either the same persons, or belonged to the same social circles, this would greatly weaken the assumption that they were educated in separate institutions and taught different contents … whereas Greek literacy and the rest of primary education were acquired in the same institutional sites and not in separate ones, advanced intellectual education was acquired in the same way as all other professional skills: through apprenticeship in the workplace, as much in the temples as in the royal offices … both institutions were potentially centers of literary production, at least in terms of the literary genres aimed at scribes – in particular wisdom and instruction literature” (pp. 81–82). Honigman musters a wide range of comparative evidence from Ptolemaic Egypt to support this point. But what about her second issue, the social processes and institutions through

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which texts and ideas crossed social and cultural boundaries? Her model for the circulation of literary texts within a society “is based on the notion of the network, with particular attention to the role played by administrative offices and private initiatives; this networking can be either decentralized or multicentered, given that the social structures at play in it were primarily professional ties, and friendship and patronage relations” (p. 83). This said, she argues that this model, however, cannot explain the circulations of books and ideas across geographical boundaries. According to Honigman, the royal courts “operated both as institutional settings for intercultural encounters between priests and priestly texts from different regions, and also as knowledge hubs from which priestly texts and ideas were disseminated to circles outside the priesthoods, a phenomenon I will refer to as ‘devolution’ of priestly lore” (p. 83). She musters evidence from royal courts as “major centers in the centralization and cross-cultural circulation of priestly texts and lore, [that] relate to Egypt (Manetho, and Ḥor) and Mesopotamia (Berossus, and the Uruk Prophecy)” to argue the case. But what does all this say about Judea in the Hellenistic period? Honigman argues that the situation in Judea is comparable. She writes “the traditional models for foreign influence on Judean scribal lore [e.g., Hengel’s] have … shortcomings … the assumed divide between the Jerusalem temple and the royal administration in Judea needs reconsideration … scribes, in Judea as elsewhere in the Hellenistic East, moved between the two – if only because they had the required skills to serve in both … instead of Hengel’s gymnasion I propose the cultural and social circulation of people and material between temple and royal administrative offices as the primary channel of Greek influences” (pp. 106–107), and concerning Babylonian influences, she writes “the traditional model whereby Babylonian texts were brought along to Judea by immigrating Jews compels us to assume firstly that these immigrants included a fair proportion of scribes, and secondly that these had direct contacts with the Babylonian priesthoods … [w]hile these two assumptions are not entirely impossible, the hypothesis that the encounters between Judean (priestly) scribes and Babylonian priests occurred at the royal court adds two elements that the hypothesis of a direct contact lacks: the added prestige of texts that were first circulated in a competitive setting, and a guise of international style acquired by the said texts owing to the fact that they were first publicized at court.” In addition, the influence of the Alexandrian scholarship in Qumran is consonant with a model of transmission in which “the royal courts were cultural centers through which knowledge was centralized, and redistributed” (p. 107). Socially shared choices to use a “peripheral” language for particular purposes (e.g., speaking on certain social and cultural contexts, writing particular books) draw strong attention to the importance of the “linguistic” dimension of C–P systems. Cross-cultural studies into social selections of an innergroup language over that of the centre’s have indicated, inter alia, that such

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selections usually serve as expressions (and outcomes of processes of) identity construction, formation, affirmation, and the like. The next essay in the volume, Diana Edelman’s “Identities within a Central and Peripheral Perspective: The Use of Aramaic in the Hebrew Bible,” directly addresses these issues. It opens with a substantial introduction that deals with methodological issues involving “Identity Strategies” from, mainly, socio-anthropological perspectives and which provides the readers with a sociolinguistic overview of “Code-Switching in Bilingual and Multi-Lingual Contexts” with helpful examples. Then, informed by these matters, Edelman turns her attention to “The Use of Hebrew and Aramaic in TANAK,” paying special attention to Genesis 31:47; Jeremiah 10:11; Ezra 4:8–6:18; 7:11–26; and Daniel 2:4–7:28. Among her conclusions she states, “[t]he relative absence of Aramaic from the majority of the books in the collection forming the Hebrew Bible could be attributed to gradations in the purity of written Hebrew … [i]n the three books that include a sentence or more of Aramaic, Hebrew is assumed to be the matrix language of communication to insiders, and in all three cases, Aramaic is situationally representing the voice and authority of the NeoBabylonian or Persian imperial Other … [i]n Jeremiah, Aramaic carries overtones of power and authority as the “high” language of the Empire … [i]n Ezra, it does as well, but the story-line shows how the Other is turned against the insider community by the Samarians but in the end, comes to endorse and support the community, issuing favorable imperials edicts on its behalf … [i]n Daniel, by contrast, Hebrew seems to serve as the “high” language and Aramaic, the language of the Empire, as the “low” language … [s]uch a switch may well signal the emergence of the Hasmonean dynasty and a sense of new empowerment by using Hebrew to assert a national political identity” (p. 131). The preceding chapter has shown how an approach strongly informed by linguistics may dovetail well with C–P frames. But can C–P frames be relevant for a literary approach that merges new historicist and psychoanalytic methodologies, one in which “the transactions between conscious and unconscious in the work of art” play a central role? Readers may find an answer in Francis Landy’s “Between Centre and Periphery: Space and Gender in the Book of Judges in the Early Second Temple Period.” Landy discusses from the said perspective the book of Judges, its stories and characters and pays particular attention to the story which is often called the “Levite’s Concubine.” His analysis stands on itself, but also raises C–P observations that shed light on the book as a whole. For instance, he notices that “[i]f the centre of Israelite life, at least for Yehudite literati, was Jerusalem, that centre is not yet, or only ambiguously, Israelite [in the book of Judges] … [i]ts northern equivalent, Shechem, is Canaanized, through its worship of Baal-Berit and its claiming of Hamor as its ancestor” (p. 137). The absence (reinforced among the perspective of the literati in Yehud, the memory of the destruc-

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tion/absence of Jerusalem in the not-so-far past) draws, by necessity, attention to the periphery and there most of the stories of the Judges take place. But, of course, “[t]he set of stories, dotted around the perimeter, draws attention to the absence of a centre” (p. 139). But “centres” and “peripheries” are not constructed as rigidly separate from one another. Landy underscores that “[i]f Jerusalem is the sacred and political centre, its foundations are haunted by the idealized Canaanite other … [t]he conquest, moreover, is incomplete; Jebusites and Israelites coexist (Josh 15:63; Judg 1:21) … [t]he capital of Judah is in Benjaminite territory” and so on (p. 157). But marginality in the book of Judges and elsewhere is present in multiple ways. Landy notes that the “marginality of space is matched by that of the judges themselves, all of whom are socially or physically anomalous” (p. 138), and of course, one may argue that which is “anomalous” carries here also a sense of centrality. Landy discusses how literary patterns in Judges (and elsewhere?) are meant to create “an impression of literary coherence which masks incoherence.” His approach shows also that impressions of centrality and periphery, of that which is “normal” and “anomalous” may actually mask an underlying fuzziness or ambiguity about these categories and at times even a dread from that fuzziness, and Landy would argue that all these play important roles in shaping the motivations and impulses of the writers. Beyond his discussion on Judges, the essay by Landy raises awareness that some form of C–P frame is at work when scholars refer to the “anomalous,” the “marginal” and so on. These very terms imply a conceptualization of a centre, of that which is putatively “normal” or of “normativity,” and that which is not, and thus peripheral, marginal and so on. As Landy shows, the boundaries between the marginal, the anomalous and so on and their conceptual counterparts – without which they would be devoid of meaning – are often porous, not-rigidly conceptualized and at times open for exploration, whether conscious or unconscious. Given that our shared strength is on our ability to examine textual evidence and given the central role of the textual repertoire of early Second Temple period, it should not surprise the readers that the majority of the essays deal with particular texts within that repertoire and explore ways in which C–P approaches may be heuristically helpful as well as what these texts may contribute to conceptualizations of C–P that are appropriate and relevant to the early Second Temple period. These chapters, and particularly because the diversity of methodological approaches in them, raise also general questions about C–P frames. Hermann-Josef Stipp’s “Jeremiah 24: Deportees, Remainees, Returnees, and the Diaspora,” as per the title, focuses on a text that has often been considered as expressing a marginal viewpoint. As Stipp writes, “the chapter has for a long time been puzzling scholars, as it voices a view of certain aspects of Judean history that clashes sharply with what we read elsewhere in the book of Jeremiah, or in the remainder of the Hebrew Bible, for that matter”

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(p. 163). Stipp advances a detailed study of the text, including an examination of existing positions concerning the origin and background of Jeremiah 24, and raises the need for a new explanation for this text. Among his conclusions, and particularly relevant to C–P matters, he argues: “Jer 24 documents that the center of Jewish life in Jerusalem during the late post-exilic age could adopt an outright hostile attitude towards the diaspora, at times to a degree that the Jews outside of Yehud and Babylonia were disowned as illegitimate … [i]n the view of this center, there ought to be no periphery (a category that in the world of the text apparently does not apply to the golah) … [u]nfortunately, the writer of Jer 24 felt so much in agreement about this stance with his target audience that he saw no reason to give any hint as to the motivation of his resentment against his brethren abroad” (p. 179). The next essay is Kåre Berge’s “Are There Centres and Peripheries in Deuteronomy?” Berge begins by noting that the land has a spatial centre, namely “the place,” ‫המקום‬, which God chooses to let his name dwell there. He then raises the basic question of whether a book in which “travel to the centre with tithes and judicial questions, and for pilgrimage festivals, contribute much to the spatial production of internal coherence” avoids locating this place (p. 184). There is no name or location in Deuteronomy for “the place.” To address this question, Berge builds on the approach advanced by Adam T. Smith, The Political Landscape: Constellations of Authority in Early Complex Polities, and particularly on the “idea that the physicality of space is only one dimension of landscape … [l]andscape is about the interaction of space, imagination, place, and memory; of values and beliefs that are bound to a landscape. Landscapes are multifaceted places, vested with cultural significance, social memory, and political consequence” (p. 183). In Deuteronomy, “landscape and place contribute to power and authority,” but in D.’s landscape “the place” is not characterized by particular architectural structures. Everything that Alexei Lidov subsumes under the term “hierotopy” is missing, but at the same time, “it is filled with meaning, sense, and memory, but it is a thought form, a device of rhetoric; it is even … something of mystique, just because this place is not visualized … [i]n Deut 31, it is the Book of the Torah of Moses that visualizes this centre, but this book, again, is mystified as it is not there to the readers any more, it is lost but only represented in and accessible to the reader through the Book of Deuteronomy itself” (p. 188). Berge continues with considerations about the utopianism of Deuteronomy and argues that “the future of Deuteronomy is praxis more spatial than temporal; it is about living in the Land that extends from the Centre, the ‫;המקום‬ in fact, the place is this Torah, or more precisely, it is the teaching of the Torah by the Levitical priests (Deut 31:11–12)” (p. 192). In his conclusion, he states, “it is necessary to start from the fact that the ideology of Deuteronomy is about a religious community called Whole Israel, whose centre is not a place but a Book, the Book of the Torah of Moses … [t]his book is only

Introduction

9

represented by or accessible through the present Book of Deuteronomy … the authors mystify their authority … scribes behind the present book are the only legitimate interpreters of the Moses Torah, that is, through the interpretation of the present book, and ‘Israel’ is the ideal community of Torah-readers and -interpreters … [t]hey have to locate the religious centre in space, but they do that only by referring to ‫המקום‬, which somehow indicates that this is not the important thing … [t]he important thing is the Torah, its readings and interpretations for communal life” (p. 195). The next contribution also relates to Deuteronomy. Reinhard Müller, “The Altar on Mount Gerizim (Deuteronomy 27:1–8): Center or Periphery?,” again raises the question of the location of the place,” ‫המקום‬, and stresses the fact that the chosen place is not mentioned by name. He draws the attention, however, to the fact that “Deuteronomy contains one passage that may be read as an implicit or indirect reference to the geographical location of the chosen place … [i]n Deut 27 Moses instructs the Israelites to build an altar and to start making offerings, after they will have crossed the Jordan … [a]ccording to this instruction, this altar will be the place of the first centralized cult in the land … in this case it is precisely stated where the altar shall be built” (p. 198). Following a discussion of the textual history of Deut 27:4 whose original text read “Gerizim” not “Ebal,” Müller discusses the compositional/redactional history of Deut 27:1–8 and the variety of associations with Gerizim within this history. He concludes that Gerizim “seems to have been introduced at first not for the altar, but for the Torah inscription (i.e., in vv. 4, 8) … [w]hen the instruction about the altar was inserted between vv. 4 and 8, the adverb ‫שם‬, probably taken up from Deut 12:7, referred to Mt. Gerizim, because this place is mentioned in the preceding v. 4. … the idea of placing the Torah inscription on Mt. Gerizim seems to be deduced from the ritual of Deut 27:12–13 where six Israelite tribes are instructed to stand on Mt. Gerizim ‘to bless the people,’ while the other six shall stand on Mt. Ebal ‘for the curse’ … the possibility that the author of vv. 11–13 did not yet know about the placement of the Torah inscription on Mt. Gerizim cannot be ruled out … [h]owever after the idea came up that Gerizim is the mountain of the blessing, it seemed reasonable that this inscription was placed there as well, since the inscription was set up to be read and to remind the Israelites of the Torah so that they abide with it and may be blessed … [t]he inscription on the Gerizim was then combined with the altar of unhewn stones, at the third level of the literary history of this text” (pp. 212–13). Müller turns then to the question of contested centres and peripheries through the prism of his observations of the text and its history. He concludes, inter alia, that “it seems that the scribes who composed Deut 27 cautiously inserted some short references to Mt. Gerizim into the book that are on the one hand open to be understood as attesting the holiness of the place, but on the other do also suggest that the final place of the central cult may be found elsewhere, because Yhwh later chose a dif-

10

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ferent ‫ … מקום‬against this background, it remains a remarkable phenomenon, however, that a deliberate change of the place name in Deut 27:4 became necessary at a certain moment … [t]his textual change indirectly indicates that readers of the Hellenistic age were in fact able to find in Deut 27 a hieros logos for the sanctuary on Mt. Gerizim …[t]his etiological reading of Deut 27 was made impossible by the replacement of the name Gerizim with Ebal … Josh 8:30–35, which already presupposes this change, attests the same tendency … [t]hese scribal interventions mirror an exclusive Jerusalem-centered perspective, and they implicitly witness Jerusalem’s claim to be the single chosen place of Yhwh (cf. esp. Ps 132), [i]t seems, however, that these interventions took place only at relatively late stages in the transmission of the Pentateuch and the book of Joshua” (p. 214). As in the case of the previous contribution, consideration is given to utopian aspects of description, see “the Torah inscription is in all likelihood a kind of utopian idea that was never realized in this form” (p. 213). Readers will enjoy reading these two contributions alongside each other, noticing their methodological differences, but also elements of complementarity and above all, the underlying conversation that they reflect. Erik Aurelius discusses in “Periphery as Provocation? 1 Kings 17 and 2 Kings 5,” two related excellent examples of compositions from a (selfimagined) center that construe, portray and use a periphery and characters associated with this periphery to advance particular didactic purposes. Following a compositional analysis of the stories, he shows that in the stories of the nameless widow in Zarephath and the Aramean officer Naaman, the periphery and characters associated with the periphery are didactically used to provoke a reaction in the intended audience (i.e., in the “centre”). This advances the educational point of these two stories while at the same time shaping a sense of a complex construction of C–P boundaries, as author and audience associate what they consider to be prescriptive, most indicative attributes of the centre with a periphery and some of its characters, while at the same time constructing the centre as carrying attributes they would tend to relate with peripheral groups. Even if the periphery remains periphery, it may carry and exemplify attributes of the centre and vice versa. Further, Aurelius’s essay raises interesting questions about constructions of both land and people as centre and periphery in the early Second Temple period. In addition, he offers intertextual considerations linking these two examples with Matt 8:10; 15:28 and Luke 4:24–27. Magnar Kartveit in “The Temple of Jerusalem as the Centre of Affairs in the Book of Chronicles: Memories of the Past and Contemporary Social Setting” turns our attention to a different instance of C–P and to the heuristic potential of approaches informed by C–P frameworks. In the world portrayed by Chronicles, the temple stands at the centre of Jerusalem, Jerusalem at the centre of “the land,” and “the land” at the centre of the world. But what does

Introduction

11

this mean in terms of Samaria/Northern Israel within the world-view advanced by Chronicles? After an examination of the strengths and weaknesses of three main approaches in the field, Kartveit concludes that Chronicles’ “model allows for the full existence of both Jerusalem and the North, and locates them inside a system: it is a form of centre and periphery … [t]he centre owes its power to some extent to the existence of the periphery, and the centre is understood as open to extension, and the periphery is eligible for in-corporation … [t]he power balance between them can be adjusted so that the periphery comes closer to the power in Jerusalem [t]his will strengthen the central power, without obliterating peripheral power … [t]here might be degrees of power, and a shift of emphasis … [s]uch an understanding can demonstrate how flexible the idea of centre and periphery might be, and that it may be malleable according to concrete cases” (p. 242). Louis C. Jonker’s “Being both on the Periphery and in the Centre. The Jerusalem Temple in Late Persian Period Yehud from Postcolonial Perspective,” shows ways in which C–P frameworks interact, are informed by and inform Postcolonial perspectives. Jonker draws attention to how “the Chronicler … participated in discourses that engaged with different levels of sociohistorical existence” (p. 265). To address these issues, Jonker deals with three case studies: (a) “the Jerusalem Temple and Persian Imperial Religion,” (b) “The Jerusalem Temple and Other Sanctuaries,” and (c) “Tribal [i.e., Judah and Benjamin] Rivalry Over a Central Sanctuary.” In his discussion of the first of these, for instance, he argues that “on the one hand, the Second Temple in Jerusalem – when viewed from the imperial centre – was a sanctuary of a local people based in a province on the periphery of the empire. It is likely that the local officials who served in the Persian administration were expected to show allegiance to the Persian religious ideals (associated with Ahuramazda) … [b]ut on the other hand, the book of Chronicles represents a view from the periphery … the Chronicler’s portrayal of the temple does not provide witness to an attitude of subjugation, but rather to a position of agency … concepts used in postcolonial criticism might be helpful to understand this seeming discrepancy” (p. 254). Among his overall conclusions, he states “that the Jerusalem temple functioned both as periphery and as centre simultaneously … [o]n the level of the empire, the temple was peripheral, but through mimicry could be used as a subtle polemic to undermine the imperial religious conventions … [o]n an inter-provincial level, the Chronicler made clear that the Second Temple still represents the cult of All-Israel, and that it therefore stands central in the cultic landscape … [o]n the inner-Yehudite level, the Chronicler also claimed centrality for the Jerusalem temple, without estranging the Benjaminites” (p. 267). Gary N. Knoppers brings substantial cross-cultural considerations to bear when he raises the issue of “What is the Core and What is the Periphery in Ezra-Nehemiah?” As Knoppers states “[t]he answer would seem to be rela-

12

Ehud Ben Zvi

tively simple and straight-forward … [t]he core is Jerusalem and Yehud and the periphery is everywhere else” (p. 269). In fact, “[t]here seems little doubt that Ezra-Nehemiah promotes a pivotal status for Jerusalem in the context of an international age in which Judeans reside in various places both within the land and outside of it [and t]he support shown by Judeans in the Diaspora for the traditional centre is a recurring motif in the various stories in Ezra.” This said, Knoppers writes “the matter of core and periphery in this book is a much more complex matter than the traditional Jerusalem-focused rubric allows.” To explore this complexity, he draws “on the insights offered by analysis of ancient Greek settlements on the one hand, and Diaspora studies on the other hand” (p. 272) as well as our knowledge of the central roles of Susa and Babylon at the time. When viewed from such a cross-cultural perspective, the situation portrayed in Ezra-Nehemiah seems anomalous. For instance, “the homeland community and not the diaspora community engages in cultural affiliation” (p. 286); “if a homeland community is traditionally understood as the originating centre and its related communities in the Diaspora as dependents, then that relationship is reversed in the book of EzraNehemiah … [t]he homeland has become dependent on its better resourced Diaspora” (p. 288). Knoppers continues his analysis with an exploration of how C–P frameworks strongly informed by diasporic studies and a C–P view from Susa and Babylon may shed light on these reversals. Among his conclusions, he states “the category of core-periphery may be too self-limiting to do justice to the complexities of how minority communities coped with life under imperial rule … [h]ow one defines the core and how one defines the periphery very much depends on one’s time, presuppositions, personal commitments, and specific geo-political context … [o]ne’s core may be another’s periphery and vice versa … [o]ver the decades, the expatriate Judean communities within the large urban settings of the East undoubtedly absorbed elements of the mental geography prevalent in the international cultures in which they found themselves and the formation of Ezra-Nehemiah may reflect the influence of such a particular international orientation … [I]ndeed, one may ask whether the core in this particular book has shifted subtly toward the Judean communities of the east and the periphery has shifted to the land of Judah, which repeatedly receives interventions from members of the Eastern Diaspora that catalyze and refocus rebuilding efforts” (p. 294). His words, “[o]ne’s core may be another’s periphery and vice versa” resonate in and recall other contributions in this volume and are of particular methodological importance for discussions concerning C–P frameworks. Juha Pakkala discusses “Centers and Peripheries in the Ezra Story” from a different, though to a significant extent complementary perspective. He examines multiple C–P axes (e.g., ideological, spatial, and political), discusses how the relevant C–P interactions may have been directly related to power and authority, explores how positions of centre and periphery may change

Introduction

13

within the plot of the story and how diachronic studies may uncover instances in which additions shifted or created centres that were not existent in the early version. Thus, for example, Pakkala argues that “change is apparent in the case of some fundamental center-periphery relationships in EzraNehemiah” (p. 296), often within the main original units of Ezra-Neh (Ezra 1–6*; Ezra 7–10*+Neh 8*; Neh 1–7*; and Neh 9–13*) and argues, e.g., “[t]he starting point in the Ezra story is that the people in Jerusalem and Yehud, unaware of the Law, live in a lawless state, in the periphery of the Law. The Law is in Babylon, and therefore someone from Babylon is needed to bring it back to Jerusalem so that it can be the center again … [t]he beginning of the story Babylonia is the implicit center in many respects and even in matters concerning the Law, but it has shifted to Jerusalem at the end of the story … [t]his also reveals that Jerusalem would not be regarded as the center just because it is Jerusalem, but because of other reasons, such as the Law being there … [i]n other words, Jerusalem without the Law (or the Temple or other central institutions) could also be regarded as a peripheral location in early Judaism” (p. 299). He points out, for example, that “the Ezra story makes Ezra a central figure, but on the basis of other contemporary Jewish literature he remains peripheral until the Common Era” (p. 301), and explores why this may be the case, and his diachronic analysis leads him to the conclusion “[i]t seems that prior to the addition of the rescript in Ezra 7, the authors of the Ezra story were not concerned about the political setting and the political center, or they were not relevant for the story to be mentioned … [t]he lack of any reference to political structures may have been one of the reasons why a later editor added the rescript and Ezra 8:36, thereby making Persia the clear political center” (p. 306). Pakkala argues that the “Ezra story contains various centers and peripheries that do not contradict each other … [r]ather, they form a complicated web of center-periphery relationships in which the story essentially unfolds” and “center-periphery axes disclose some of the central motifs of the authors” (pp. 313–14). He also relates these matters to what he sees as the historical circumstances in which these authors lived and their intentions. What can be more central within the discourse of the literati of the early Second Temple than the throne of YHWH in Zion? Friedhelm Hartenstein, “The King on the Throne of God: The Concept of World Dominion in Chronicles and Psalm 2,” deals with this throne, which symbolically serves not only as the centre of the Jerusalem temple, but also of the entire world. His essay deals also with Persepolis and Zion, and with constructions of kingship and domin-ion. Hartenstein draws particular attention to the close association of the Davidic king with not only YHWH, but also with YHWH’s dwelling, i.e., Zion, and its implications for constructions of the concept of kingship. He shows the existence of similar ideological threads in the construction of kingship in Ps 2 and Chronicles and argues that the “main features of the Achae-

14

Ehud Ben Zvi

menid concept of the world kingdom are comparable to the corresponding concept in Chronicles and Ps 2” (p. 321). His examination of these matters focuses on temporal constructions (i.e., the concept of translatio imperii) and spatial constructions (which include, of course, C–P conceptualizations). He argues, for instance, that “not only the king of Judah (Ps 2:7–9), but also the rulers of the earth (Ps 2:10–12) seem to be situated ‘before’ Zion, the centre of the earth … [t]he scenery evokes a kind of an universal audience before the king and his heav-enly counterpart/overlord (cf. … the Achaemenid throne pedestal).” Among Hartenstein’s other conclusions, “Ps 2:10–12 (and in this light also Ps 2:1–6) seem to render the world as a temple/palace with cosmic dimensions (like in Ps 96; 104; 138 et al.), which is characteristic also of Chronicles … the relevant war reports in Chronicles [Hartenstein refers here to 2 Chr 13, 14 and 20] stress the static element in the scenery, as well … [v]erbs of ‘standing’ dominate … [t]he stage of the events shifts between temple and world – one remembers the prayers and the cultic worship on the field of battle with singers who intone psalms of thanks” (p. 328). Beate Ego’s “Jerusalem and the Nations: ‘Center and Periphery’ in the Zion Tradition,” continues the conversation about Jerusalem as a multifaceted centre and its multiple peripheries, and in particular “the Nations,” but from a different angle and on the basis of different textual corpora. She also continues the conversation about the Zion tradition. She follows the various ways in which the C–P relations were structured (and imagined) within this tradition over time. She focuses on select Psalms as case studies that demonstrate this historical development. She argues that within this tradition as it evolves in the neo-Assyrian era “center and periphery are related to each other in an antagonistic manner; however, the center can be described as being stronger than the power at the periphery” (p. 336). Her test cases for the period are Pss 46 and 48. Although this antagonistic construction does not disappear completely (see Ps 2), a wide range of texts from the exilic and Persian period portray the C–P relationship as “complementary and harmonious” (p. 337) (e.g., Ps 102:13–23). She then raises the issue of how (and why) “Israel painted the nations in such a positive light, given its experiences with foreign rulers in the destruction of the Jerusalem temple and in the exile” (p.339). She draws attention to the fact that in Achaemenid royal ideology, “the center of power and the periphery, the subjugated nations, exist in a harmonious and complementary relationship” (p. 340). Within this ideal ideological world, the various nations voluntarily pledge their allegiance to the Persian king. Ego argues that the image of the harmonious pilgrimage of the nations to “YHWH, the royal God enthroned on Zion,” each bringing presents and exulting YHWH in the Persian period Zion tradition, is analogous to those present in Persian royal ideology and that “[i]f the Jerusalem conception of the cult draws on images from Persian royal ideology, then it naturally includes an utterly anti-imperial impetus. Instead of the Persian Emperor, the true ruler

Introduction

15

of the world is the God of Israel” (pp. 342–43). Ego then discusses three different trajectories for constructions of the relationships between centre and periphery within the Zion tradition in the Hellenistic Period. In the first one of them, “the motif of the pilgrimage of the nations and the return to Zion is connected to the basic ideas of Deuteronomic-deuteronomistic theology with its emphasis on the Tun-Ergehen-Zusammenhang, the act-consequence relationship” (p. 344) (e.g., Tobit 6: 13:5–6, 10–11). In the second one, “the Torah teacher has the function of building a bridge between center and periphery and of transporting the positive and life-giving powers of the center to the edges of the world” (p. 345); the flow of the nations towards Zion is thus associated with the flow of Torah from Zion to the nations (see Sir 24:23–29, 32–34; and earlier, still in the Persian times, Isa 2:2–4 and Mic 4:1–5). Finally, the third one continues the antagonistic imagery (see Zech 14). In her conclusion she states “[t]he tradition-historical development that we are able to grasp with regard to the relationship between center and periphery in the Zion tradition can be described very generally and somewhat strikingly as the movement from antagonism between center and periphery to their complementarity and harmony … [i]n any case, even in the older concept, the center as the symbol of God’s presence and power, dominates the chaotic periphery; however, during the course of the development of the traditions – the positive powers of the center are getting stronger and – finally – are able to transform the chaotic edges of the world” (p. 346). Kathrin Liess’s “Centre and Periphery in Psalm 137” takes as its starting point the pre-exilic Zion tradition, along with its horizontal and vertical axes, its imagery and the concept of “the invulnerability and inviolability of the city of God [which is] taken for granted in the Zion psalms.” It is against this background that Liess sets her analysis of the later Psalm 137. She advances first an English translation of the text and discusses its structure (three main sections: “A Retrospect to Life in the Periphery” [vv. 1–4], “Loyalty to the Centre” [vv. 5–6] and “Imprecations Against the Periphery” [vv. 7–9]. “Apart from the leitmotif ‘remembrance’ expressed by the key-term ‫( זכר‬vv. 1, 6, 7), the central topic that ties together the three parts of the psalm is the opposition between Babylon and Jerusalem (Zion) … [t]he whole psalm is shaped around the contrast between these two locations … [t]he framing inclusion between the reference to Babylon at the beginning and at the end of the psalm (vv. 1, 8) envelopes Jerusalem in the middle section (vv. 5–6) … Babylon is, so to speak, located in the peripheral verses of the psalm; Jerusalem, however, is situated at the centre” (p. 352). She then develops a detailed discussion of the imagery used “to construe and portray centre and periphery” (p. 349) in this psalm. In the first section she shows, inter alia, how the image of the watered city, which had been associated with Zion in the Zion tradition, and the closely-related image of water, which normally evokes ‘life’ (and images of vegetation by the waters) are turned around so as

16

Ehud Ben Zvi

to paint a peripheral landscape that seems on the surface positive, but for the exiles is a place of suffering: “the streams of the city and its trees are a place of weeping, of tears and silence for the exiles in Babylon portrayed in Ps 137 … [t]he positive image of Babylon is thus associated solely with the external circumstances of life of that group and stands in opposition to its inner situation” (pp. 356–57). In the second section, she shows, inter alia, how “forgetting the centre in the periphery, even if the environment of periphery is pictured as a centre, brings the speaker of the psalm near death” (p.364) within the world of this text, and discusses, among others, the rhetorical power body-centred images and oath language/logic used to convey this meaning, the central role of remembrance. As she studies the imagery of the third section, she writes “with regard to the topic ‘centre and periphery,’ two aspects of these closing verses should be considered … [o]ne concerns the centre, namely the matter of its foundation and destruction (v. 7), and the other, the periphery, namely the destruction of two peripheral locations, Edom and Babylon” (p. 368). She stresses that “in contrast to the preceding Psalms of Ascents the speaker of Ps 137 does not express his wishes concerning the welfare of the centre … [h]e does not even request the rebuilding of the destroyed centre” (p. 371) and notices the influence of prophetic language rather than that present in the psalms of Zion. Following this discussion, Liess addresses the question of the historical setting of Ps 137. She stresses that “[e]ven though Ps 137 is likely a post-exilic composition, it contains a retrospect on the exilic situation” (p. 377) and explores how groups in peripheral or central spatial positions may have read the psalm against the background of their own geographical and historical conditions. The Psalms of Ascents were peripheral to the goal of this essay, but stand at the very core of the next one. Christoph Levin’s “The Edition of the Psalms of Ascents” looks at centres and peripheries in Psalms, though in a particular collection in Psalms, not a particular Psalm, and from a different methodological approach. Levin’s “thesis is that this collection of psalms does not envisage a return to the Diaspora … these psalms are promoting the move from the Diaspora to the proximity of the Temple, because ‘it is good and pleasant when brothers dwell in unity’ (Ps 133:1) … [and] those who follow the appeal and depart from the places where they presently live do so ‘from this time forth and for evermore’ (Ps 121:8; 131:3)” (p. 382). Levin argues that “to deduce the intention behind this collection, we have to distinguish between the individual psalms as they were composed and transmitted, and the work of the editor who chose and arranged them under a particular aspect and, we must suppose, commented on them through literary additions” (p. 383). But “[t]he investigations that have been made up to now are … confined to the simple distinction between transmitted text and editorial additions … [which] is hardly sufficient, for it is only possible to form a reliable judgement about the

Introduction

17

editing process of the Psalms of Ascents if we view the collection in the form it took when it was still outside the context in which we have it today … [and c]onsequently, the stratum of changes made while editing the collection itself must be distinguished from additions which served to incorporate the collection into the larger book of Psalms, or which were added when the collection had already become part of the Psalter, and which therefore are a part of the literary development of the book of Psalms as a whole” (pp. 383– 84). Thus Levin addresses these matters, discussing, inter alia, the process by which the collection was incorporated in the Psalter, “the Israel Revision,” “The Righteousness Revision,” “The Edition of the Psalms of Ascents,” “The Reworking of the Individual Psalms,” and psalms within the collection “in which no definite traces of the editor can be discerned” (p. 398). This study leads to the conclusion that “[t]aken together, the thematic editing of the individual psalms and the selection and arrangement of the collection allow us to make out a clear editorial profile.” He then focuses on and explores the implications of the dominance of two themes: (a) blessing and (b) the presence of God on Zion. Among his conclusions, he writes “prayers focus not on the complaint, but on the experience of help and the triumphant account of that help … [t]he first verse of the whole collection sounds this counterpoint: ‘In my distress I cried to Yahweh, and he answered me’ (120:1) … [j]ust as Mount Zion is never shaken, so Yahweh protects his people ‘from this time forth and for evermore’ (125:2) … [t]he lasting duration of the blessings, which is repeatedly stressed in these psalms, speaks emphatically against their being interpreted as songs for regular pilgrimages … [t]he author of these prayers does not intend to leave Zion ever again … [t]he Psalms of Ascents strive to convince the followers of Judaism, scattered as they are throughout the world, that the place to settle is in proximity to Zion” (pp. 399–400). The next contribution in the volume is by Ann-Cathrin Fiß. Her essay, “As far as the east is from the west, so far does he remove our transgressions from us” (Psalm 103:12): Mercy as the Centre of Psalm 103,” brings forwards another axis along which one may discern centre-periphery constructions and interactions. As per title, Fiß argues that YHWH’s mercy is at the centre of the Psalm, which she dates to the Hellenistic period. As she advances the case she discusses, inter alia, “Mercy as the Foundation of Anthropology,” “Mercy and Creation Theology,” “Mercy and the Fulfilment of the Commandments,” “Celestial Beings Obedience to the Commandments” and “To Whom Does Mercy Apply?.” Psalm 103 communicates that YHWH’s mercy is central because Israel, due to the human condition, cannot fully comply with the covenant and YHWH’s regulations. The community imagined in the Psalm is (/made) self-aware of their condition, of the centrality of YHWH’s mercy and they fear YHWH and confess to YHWH and are blessed in return. Moreover, they participate in the worship of the

18

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heavenly beings, whose heavenly worship “ensures the stability of the kingdom of YHWH” and “maintain a continuous course of action in pleasing YHWH, and through their actions they contribute to the fact that YHWH may himself act in compassion and mercy” (p. 408). Blessing YHWH and participating in the worship involve a sense of reciprocal actions: “through this interchange YHWH becomes the centre of every praising soul and every praising soul gets in the centre of YHWH’s kingship, before his heavenly throne” (pp. 408–409). The essay deals directly and indirectly with multiple, though conceptually interwoven, C–P axes and interactions, e.g., YHWH’s mercy and divine commandments and regulations; YHWH and created creatures (including heavenly beings), the pious community and heavenly beings, Israel, “the confessional community” and “the nations” (see, e.g., “if YHWH-fearing arises from the experience of mercy and leads to blessing, the theological concept of Ps 103 will show an opening for the peripheries, the nations, too” [p. 410]). Urmas Nõmmik, “Qinah Meter: From Genre Periphery to Theological Center – A Sketch,” looks at C–P interactions and axes in the case of a literary genre. He turns our focus to the character and historical development of the genre of qinah. The trajectory he reconstructs, following an analysis that involves, inter alia, diachronic, textual, meter, colometric, plot, genre, ideological, historical and oral-written considerations and a significant number of test cases, shows “a development of genres with a very distinct function from the periphery to the theological center of the Hebrew Bible … [t]his observation has broader implications for our understanding of the developments in the Hebrew Bible … [y]ounger texts are making use of several kinds of styles and genres which once had a concrete Sitz im Leben … [t]hrough a process of synthesis of genres and gradual stepping back before the theological reflection, several stylistic features have been brought from their narrow peripheral function to the theological center … [p]aradoxically, this leads to the fading out of classical forms” (p. 436). The last essay in this collection is by Peter Juhás, “‘Center’ and ‘Periphery’ in the Apocalyptic Imagination: The Vision of the Ephah (Zechariah 5:5–11) and the Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch as Case Study.” It opens a connecting window with later periods and raises interesting comparative issues. Apocalyptic works from the Second Temple and Roman periods are different from contemporary so-called apocalyptic novels, but the question is whether the tendency in the latter to revert centre-periphery, by turning the former into the latter and vice versa may apply to their ancient ‘cousins’ and if so, what can be learned about centres and peripheries in this regard. Juhás’s analysis of the vision of the ephah leads him, inter alia, to the conclusion that it transforms Babylonia into a “a place unsuitable for living” as “instead of the expected grain in the ephah, there is a personified ‘wickedness’ in it, and it is to be definitely deposited in Babylonia.” He argues that “[t]he central

Introduction

19

territory in the past is going to change to an outer rim of the ‘new world,’ of which the center is Jerusalem … [and c]onsequently, there is a motivation for those who remained in Babylon to return and so to follow a demand from 2:11: ‫ת־בּ ֶבל‬ ָ ‫יוֹשׁ ֶבת ַבּ‬ ֶ ‫[ …הוֹי ִציּוֹן ִה ָמּ ְל ִטי‬t]he concepts of ‘center’ and ‘periphery’ have a role in the Book of Zechariah … [h]owever, in the Zecharian theological framework, their use in terms of historical reality is reversed” (p. 446). Of course, given its historical context, the relation between Jerusalem and Babylon is different in the Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch: “[n]ow, it is Jerusalem, which is reduced to the absolute periphery … [t]he most moving example, describing this reduction is the Baruch’s Lament” (p. 447). Juhás stresses, however, that the horizontal axis becomes secondary to the vertical in 2 Baruch and although the trajectory of Jerusalem over time “could be expressed as follows: political center > absolute periphery > messianic center” and “[a]lthough the text of 2 Bar. gives only scarce information on this, from such a universalistic perspective, or taking the second messianic phase into account, there seems to be not much left for the distinction between ‘center’ and ‘periphery’,” (pp. 450–51) when God renews his creation (2 Bar. 32:6). As readers may have already noticed, there is no essay in this volume that addresses C–P from the perspective of the archaeological evidence in early Second Temple or the latter in a way informed by C–P frameworks. This is not an oversight; it is intentional. Levin and I are convinced that only an entire volume complementing and interacting with the present one would do justice to the topic. In fact, we hope that this volume would encourage archaeologists of the period to prepare such a second volume. We are sure most, and perhaps all, of our readers, look forward to reading such a volume. Finally, we hope that the present volume would lead to a continuous conversation with other scholars of the period. All in all, this volume is an invitation to develop further studies and even a research agenda that takes C–P approaches, in all their complexity, as significant heuristic tools to enhance our knowledge of the period.

Introductory Centre/Core-Periphery Considerations and the Case of Interplaying of Rigid and Flexible Constructions of Centre and Periphery among the Literati of the Late Persian/ Early Hellenistic Period Ehud Ben Zvi As mentioned in the preface, this volume emerged out of a workshop. Since I was the opening speaker at that workshop, and the person who first suggested its theme, it was my responsibility to initiate a conversation about the general methodological issues involved in using this heuristic model, centreperiphery. This contribution reflects that role in the workshop and plays a similar role in the volume. After all, the model itself stands at the very “core” of both the workshop and the volume. My second goal, both in the original oral paper and in this contribution to the volume, is to advance some considerations about the “interplaying” mentioned in the title. In the following I endeavour to intertwine both goals.

A. Basic Considerations about the Model/s For a long while, there seemed to be a kind of genre requirement in many studies using the “centre/core-periphery” (hereafter “C–P,” for simplicity’s sake) approach, namely to include a short discussion of the concept of C–P and its research implications/potential either in the form of an introduction section in a volume or a summary footnote in essays/articles. 1 This is, in itself, noteworthy, and so is the fact that the discussions were not always See, e.g., Michael Rowlands, “Centre and Periphery: A Review of a Concept,” in Centre and Periphery in the Ancient World (ed. Michael Rowlands, Mogens Larsen and Kristian Kristiansen; Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 1–11; Timothy C. Champion, “Introduction,” in Centre and Periphery: Comparative Studies in Archaeology (ed. Timothy C. Champion; One World Archaeology 11; London and New York: Routledge, 1995), 1–20; Elena Fasano Guarini, “Center and Periphery,” Journal of Modern History 67 (1995), esp. issue on The Origins of the State in Italy, 1300–1600, 74– 96 (n. 3, p. 75). Of course, it is impossible to fail to notice that the present contribution fulfills that role as well. 1

22

Ehud Ben Zvi

similar and that even the very concepts were understood in various ways. 2 In retrospect, this was only to be expected, since this model has been used in various disciplines and sub-disciplines. Against this background, it makes sense to begin our workshop with, at least, a few general methodological remarks. Contemporary studies using C–P paradigms and the wide use of the key terms themselves in today’s academic discourses began at earnest in the late 60s, surged in the 70s and with some ups and downs continue to be widely used and influential, even if they are now less popular in research than fifteen years ago (i.e., around 2000; see figure 1).

Fig. 1: The ngram distribution in English books for “Center and Periphery,” “Centre and Periphery” and “Core and Periphery” (all case insensitive); from: https://books.google.com /ngrams/.

Is this a case of paradigm slowly becoming less and less helpful heuristically or of one in which, with some rethinking, may still serve well to further sophisticated historical analyses of ancient Israel, 3 as suggested in what follows? A good entry point for a debate on these issues is to notice that the terms themselves are not new and that their main contribution is basically to reflect and shape a spatial metaphor that, in turn, may be used to explore, both creatively and critically, any number of systems characterized by the systemic presence, and the roles, of substantially unequal participants or agents. To be sure, some of its surge in popularity in the 60s and 70s was due to Wallerstein’s work on system theory, 4 which was then widely used and de2

I would leave to the readers to decide if this is the case in this volume as well. And other areas within a variety of fields in the humanities and social sciences, to be sure. Given my own area of research, the focus here is on its potential for studies in ancient Israelite history and particularly, Persian Yehud. 4 See, e.g., Immanuel Wallerstein, The Modern World System I: Capitalist Agriculture and the Origins of the European World-Economy in the Sixteenth Century (New York: Academic Press, 1974); which was followed by idem, The Modern World System II: Mer3

Introductory Centre/Core-Periphery Considerations

23

bated in political theory in general, including particularly but not exclusively, studies of empires and “imperialism,” of “global South and global North” and in related aspects and studies of contemporary economic history. 5 From a different perspective, but at more or less the same time, Rokkan applied a C–P approach to other issues of social and political theory (e.g., tensions between centralizing, “nation-building” elites and alliances of peripheries including both regional and socio-cultural peripheries in Western European states).6 His work contributed much to the aforementioned surge as well to the continuous use of this model. Post-colonial studies also engaged in various ways with centres and peripheries, even have, at times, problematized these concepts. C–P models, however, are not restricted to these areas. They can work, at least, heuristically for the study of any system whose dynamics are strongly influenced by a substantially unequal distribution of some quality central to the relevant system, be it economic capital, political power, cultural capital, social capital, prestige, (claimed to be) exclusive connection to an “ultimate” agent, and the like. For this reason, this model has been used, debated, and has explicitly or implicitly provided an underlying methodological ground for works in fields such as sociology, 7 social-anthropology, 8 post-colonial 9 and not necessarily cantilism and the Consolidation of the European World-Economy, 1600–1750 (New York: Academic Press, 1980). Both volumes have been republished several times. 5 The World-System approach has been used, of course, also for studies of the ancient Near East and its surroundings. See, e.g., Guillermo Algaze, The Uruk World System: The Dynamics of Expansion of Early Mesopotamian Civilization (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993); Jon L. Berquist, “The Shifting Frontier: The Achaemenid Empire’s Treatment of Western Colonies,” Journal of World-Systems Research 1/1 (1995), available, open access, at http://jwsr.pitt.edu/ojs/ index.php/jwsr/article/view/48/60; Ian Morris, “Negotiated Peripherality in Iron Age Greece: Accepting and Resisting the East,” Journal of World-Systems Research 2/1 (1996), available, open access, at http://jwsr.pitt.edu/ojs/in dex.php/jwsr/article/view/92/104; Ann E. Killebrew, Biblical Peoples and Ethnicity: An Archaeological Study of Egyptians, Canaanites, Philistines, and Early Israel, 1300–1100 B.C.E. (Atlanta; Ga.: SBL, 2005), 23–24 and passim. 6 See, e.g., Stein Rokkan, Citizens, Elections, Parties: Approaches to the Comparative Study of the Processes of Development (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1970). Also republished in various editions. 7 E.g., and particularly in relation to Bourdieu’s approach, Helmut K. Anheier, Jurgen Gerhards, and Frank P. Romo, “Forms of Capital and Social Structure in Cultural Fields: Examining Bourdieu’s Social Topography,” American Journal of Sociology 100/4 (1995): 859–90; Tomasz Warczok and Tomasz Zarycki, “Bourdieu Recontextualized: Redefinitions of Western Critical Thought in the Periphery,” Current Sociology 62/3 (2014): 334– 51. Sociological approaches informed by Bourdieu’s work have been important in particular strands of studies using C–P models. See, e.g., Tomasz Zarycki, “An Interdisciplinary Model of Centre-Periphery Relations: A Theoretical Proposition,” Regional and Local Studies (2007, Special Issue): 110–30.

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24

post-colonial approaches to comparative literature, 10 urban planning, 11 human/social geography in general,12 archaeology,13 religious studies14 (including studies on “official” and “popular” religion15), linguistics,16 ancient, medieval and contemporary history,17 and for cross- and trans-disciplinary approaches.18 8

Note that C–P studies involve addressing matters of “othering” at multiple levels. The tension between “centre” and “periphery” tends to play a core (or even foundational) role in post-colonial discourses. 10 E.g., Steven Tötösy de Zepetnek, Comparative Literature: Theory, Method, Application (Amsterdam and Atlanta, Ga.: Rodopi, 1998) and esp. ch. four, “Cultures, Peripheralities and Comparative Literature.” 11 E.g., J. Brian McLoughlin, “Centre or periphery? Town planning and spatial political economy,” Environment and Planning A 26/7 (1994): 1111–22 and from a different perspective, Oren Yiftachel, “Planning and Social Control: Exploring the ‘Dark Side’,” Journal of Planning Literature 12/2 (1998): 395–406. 12 E.g., and from multiple perspectives, Maurice Yeates, “The Core/Periphery Model and Urban Development in Central Canada,” Urban Geography 6/2 (1985): 101–21; Peter E. Murphy and Betty Andressen, “Tourism Development on Vancouver Island: An Assessment of the Core-Periphery Model,” The Professional Geographer 40/1 (1988): 32–42; and Christoph Stadel, “Core Areas and Peripheral Regions of Canada: Landscapes of Contrast and Challenges,” in Estudio de casos sobre planificación regional (ed. José Luis Luzón and Márcia Cardim; Barcelona: Universitat de Barcelona, 2009), 13–30. 13 E.g., Champion (ed.), Centre and Periphery. 14 E.g., Edward Shils, Center and Periphery: Essays in Macrosociology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1975), and see the earlier and much debated, idem, “Centre and periphery,” in The Logic of Personal Knowledge: Essays Presented to Michael Polanyi on his Seventieth Birthday, 11th March 1961 (London: Routledge & Paul, 1961), 117–30. 15 E.g., in P. Staples, “Official and Popular Religion in an Ecumenical Perspective,” in Official and Popular Religion: Analysis of a Theme for Religious Studies (ed. Pieter Hendrik Vrijhof and Jacques Waardenburg; RelSoc 19; The Hague: Mouton, 1979), 244–93. 16 E.g., Sari Pietikainen and Helen Kelly-Holmes (eds.), Multilingualism and the Periphery (Oxford Studies in Sociolinguistics; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013). The study of, inter alia, linguistic code-switching has been approached within the core/centreperiphery paradigm. 17 For ancient history, see, e.g., Michael Rowlands, Mogens Larsen, and Kristian Kristiansen (eds.), Centre and Periphery in the Ancient World (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1987); see also Heleen Sancisi-Weerdenburg and Amélie Kuhrt (eds.), Centre and Periphery: Proceedings of the Groningen 1986 Achaemenid History Workshop (Achaemenid History IV; Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten [NINO], 1990); Benjamin Forster, “Centre et périphérie: une perspective mésopotamienne,” in Devins et lettrés dans l’orbite de Babylone: Travaux réalisés dans le cadre de l’ANR Mespériph 2007–2011 (ed. Carole Roche and Robert Hawley; Paris: Éditions de Boccard, 2015), 15–22. For medieval history, see, e.g., Katherine L. Jansen, G. Geltner, and Anne E. Lester (eds.), Center and Periphery: Studies on Power in the Medieval World in Honor of William Chester Jordan (Later Medieval Europe 11; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2013). Contemporary history examples are a legion. 18 See, e.g., Zarycki, “An Interdisciplinary Model of Centre-Periphery Relations.” 9

Introductory Centre/Core-Periphery Considerations

25

The wide-ranging use of the model mentioned above implies, by necessity, the existence of not one, but multiple and diverse “C–P” approaches, depending on the discourse of the relevant research community, whether within a particular disciplinary, sub-disciplinary or inter/cross disciplinary field. Moreover, within each of these approaches, the very crucial terms would end up pointing at, and shaping central attributes of a gamut of different things. At the same time, the very use of this model across disciplinary boundaries and a wide range of different “things” strongly suggests that there is indeed something pragmatically useful about thinking in terms of a C–P model, when constructing and structuring a system characterized by a substantially unequal distribution of some quality considered to be central within that system. To be sure, these substantially unequal systems are abundant. It is precisely this fact that explains, at least in part, the widespread use of the paradigm in so many different fields and sub-fields. But at the same time, the abundance of such systems per se does not explain why C–P models may be heuristically helpful. A good starting point to address this matter is to draw attention to a basic attribute of C–P systems, namely that they are by definition relational systems. Utilizing C–P models means that the (voluntary or involuntary) “partners” (be they associated in the main with the centre/core or the periphery) are not to be construed as separate entities, but as participants in a system that as such constitutes/construes, at least in part, them themselves. Moreover, these paradigms require the presence of some attribute distributed substantially unequally among two partners, which thus shapes by necessity an axis along which the mentioned unequal attribute is distributed. However and most importantly, they do not require at all that the mentioned “partners” be connected only through that single axis or that they must be connected only to each other. Moreover, since the system is grounded on a differential position, not only does it imply that “separate poles” cannot exist, but also that the two partners do not have to represent “absolute,” “homogeneous,” or for that matter, “static” poles.19 Furthermore, the unequally distributed attribute serves actually as a representation of, or stand in for, the average outcome of interactions between the two systemic “partners” and as such, any position in the axis is far more like-

19

As it will become clear in this essay, not only do I think that C–P approaches do not have to be grounded on a static, essentialist and essentializing “oppositional binary” or on unidirectional models of (asymmetrical) interactions, but in fact that they are most helpful heuristically when they are not.

Ehud Ben Zvi

26

ly to reflect asymmetrical two-way interactions than just unidirectional interactions.20 Of course, to think in terms of a system is also to think, implicitly or explicitly, about some rules or sets of rules in the form of a “grammar” of preferences and dis-preferences governing, in numerous ways, interactions among the various “partners”/“participants” and thus creating tendencies favouring (and dis-favouring) the chances of particular outcomes. In the case of the types of systems discussed here, since all of them are shaped by a substantial unequal distribution of some core quality, crosscultural and cross-disciplinary patterns may emerge, because the relevant, underlying grammars may, at times, share important traits. Although these grammars are not necessarily or narrowly anchored in historically contingent circumstances, they do contribute much to very contingent outcomes, such as the shaping of the participants’ character and their eventual (and contingent) attributes in human societies. Examples of the latter will follow in the next pages, but first let me mention that by drawing attention to the mentioned axis, the mentioned paradigm is particularly helpful for study of a few trans-cultural processes. 1. Processes of Relative Hierarchical Branching Since centre/core and periphery represent hierarchically organized relational concepts and since centres and peripheries mutually constitute each other, the same entity may be or may fulfil the role of a peripheral entity in relation to one entity and be or fulfill the role of a core-entity for another entity, and so on,21 resulting eventually in a complex hierarchical network and a dynamic construction of roles, which in turn, eventually contributes to the shaping of “identities” in particular ways. For instance, and particularly relevant in a workshop organized by LMU and UAlberta, Munich was peripheral to Berlin during the Wilhelmine period, but central to Bavaria; Central Canada was a peripheral territory to Great Britain in the late 19th century and at the same time played the role of core/centre to its Western territories (including the later, Alberta), and the elites of the territories and later provinces fulfilled central/colonial roles inso20

Even the most asymmetric cases do not involve the absolute disappearance of any shred of agency for the subjugated “partner” nor any shred of potential impact of the latter on the subjugating “partner,” even if for a variety of reasons and purposes, these cases may be construed just as such by the participants themselves or by any group in which a social memory of these cases plays an important mnemonic, social and, needless to say, ideological role. 21 In fact, in the case of ancient socio-political structures of powers, the process can continue up to the level of single families and even subfamily units, e.g., the house of the mother, of the group of children/sons of a particular individual.

Introductory Centre/Core-Periphery Considerations

27

far as it relates to the First Nations in their territories.22 Moving millennia back, Lab’ayu, king of Shechem in the LBA, was peripheral to the Egyptian centre, but very much at the centre of a substantial polity in Canaan and Shechem which was central not only to villages around it, but also served as the core of an important alliance of cities. 23 Closer to our own period of research, local elites in monarchic Jerusalem during the Assyrian period were peripheral to the core of the empire, but served as the centre for their regional entity; Jerusalem was both peripheral and central, and so on. 2. The Study of Inner Core or Peripheral Complexity and its Own Processes A number of peripheral entities are, most often, part and parcel of the “core/centre.” Moreover, a very wide spectrum of peripherality tends to exist in these cases. For example, one may notice the existence of the poor and marginal in the core-countries of our present world-system, or – and again and purposefully across millennia – that of forced-labour and exiled groups in ancient Mesopotamia. As pertinent to this discussion, non-Persians were in the court and army of the Great King, 24 and Arameans were part and parcel of the Assyrian centre at all levels, including high administrative positions in administration and the army and, obviously, at the core of the court in the case of Naqia/Zakutu.25 Nabonaid was both a king and a peripheral figure in Babylon, at least for some of the Babylonian elite. 26 At the same time, there is plenty of evidence that some “Assyrians” lived in the “peripheries.” Further, the entire process of cross-deportation brought not only “internationalization” but turned original local central groups that were peripheral to the empire into peripheral groups in other regions and from the perspective of the locals, at least for a while, an embodiment of the power of the imperial centre. Moreo22

Readers are kindly reminded that the workshop was the result of an ongoing collaboration between the University of Munich (LMU) and the University of Alberta. 23 E.g., Israel Finkelstein, The Forgotten Kingdom: The Archaeology and History of Northern Israel (ANEM 5; Atlanta, Ga.: SBL, 2013), 13–22, available, open access, at https: //www.sbl-site.org/assets/pdfs/pubs/9781589839106_OA.pdf. 24 See, e.g., Maria Brosius, “Greeks at the Persian Court,” in Ktesias’ Welt = Ctesias’ World (ed. Josef Wiesehöfer, Robert Rollinger, and Giovanni B. Lanfranchi; Classica et orientalia 1; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2011), 69–80. 25 On Arameans in Assyria, see Martti Nissinen, “Outlook: Arameans Outside Syria. 1. Assyria,” in The Arameans in Ancient Syria (ed. Herbert Niehr; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2014), 273–96. 26 It is worth noting that Nabonaid repeated absences from the Akitu festival constituted also shift away from the absolute centrality of the performance of the cult in Babylon, as understood within the traditional ideology of its priests. Cf. Caroline Waerzeggers, “Babylonian Kingship in the Persian Period: Performance and Reception,” in Exile and Return: The Babylonian Context (ed. Jonathan Stökl and Caroline Waerzeggers; BZAW 478; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2015), 181–222.

Ehud Ben Zvi

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ver, rarely, but there were even occasions (e.g., during the reign of Sargon) in which Assyrians were deported.27 In sum, neither centres nor peripheries are uniform or static. Their composition is complex and changes over time. 3. Centering and Peripheralizing Tendencies and Processes Given that centre-periphery relationships are not static, but tend to be renegotiated in an ongoing basis, it may better to focus on the ways in which a C–P axis draws attention to tendencies bringing some matters or institutions to the centre or to the periphery of the system. Moreover, given that centre and periphery may be construed in multiple ways according to the unequally distributed value around which the “system” is construed, then we may notice, at times, multi-directional tendencies. For instance, was Hebrew becoming more “central” or more “peripheral” in Persian Yehud? Both were probably true, depending on the “system” being discussed. If the substantially unequal attribute constituting the system is the symbolic value of the language, one will have a certain response. If the substantial unequal attribute is the ability of a local elite to interact with imperial centres, then the answer would be different. In other words, what constitutes “centre/core” and “periphery” depends often, though not always, on the perspective, social mindscape and discourse of the “observer.”28 4. Multiple and Complementary Systems of Centre and Periphery involving the Same Partners Directly related to the issues mentioned above, it is easy to imagine the existence of a C–P system working along the axis of economic or political capital in one way, but working (or construed to be working) exactly in the opposite direction, along the axis of cultural or symbolic capital. For example, Babylon was a powerful centre of cultural capital for the entire ancient Near East during the LBA, but certainly not a dominant political or economic centre. Moreover, all across history, there have been multiple cases of political peripheries that at least imagined themselves as cultural centres. For instance, one may mention Greek thinkers in the Augustan era (see, for instance, the case of Dionysius of Halicarnassus). Directly related to our main area of 27

Cf. Angelika Berlejung, “The Assyrians in the West: Assyrianization, Colonialism, Indifference, Or Development Policy?,” in Congress Volume Helsinki 2010 (ed. Martti Nissinen; SVT 149; Leiden: Brill, 2012), 21–59. 28 To be sure, some practitioners of C–P approaches, and particularly among those involved in studies of colonial, dependence and imperial relations from Marxist or Marxian perspectives would likely strongly disagree. From their perspective, “subjective” constructions of colonial/dependent groups as “centre” would be just excellent examples of merely a “false consciousness” meant to mask their subjugated status and which is part and parcel of an imperial ideology of domination.

Introductory Centre/Core-Periphery Considerations

29

research, there is no doubt that while the literati in Yehud can be construed as a small peripheral group in a marginal, poor area (and were understood as such by, for instance, the Persian centre), it is also undoubtedly true that the Yehudites (or at least, their literati) imagined and construed themselves as the central group in YHWH’s world, that is, the only “real” world, from their perspective. 5. Matters of Othering (Including Gendering) Since the mentioned axis is based on hierarchical constructions, C–P models are often very helpful to study constructions of “self,” Other/s, and related gender constructions, i.e., women as the “Other.” Of course, when the model is approached from this perspective, matters of porousness and “in-between” areas emerge and these are significant to reconstruct both C–P systems in the “historical worlds we as historians reconstruct” and even more so, “the worlds construed by the ancient participants” in accordance with their own social mindscape, general discursive tendencies and the like.29

B. From Theory to Practical Examples The heuristic value of general models is grounded in their ability to help us to notice patterns; in this case, both cross-cultural and cross- and interdisciplinary. In other words, they are like lenses that help us to see or see better certain things (i.e., patterns).30 But, of course, for this to hold true, there must be some helpful, discernible general, even if by necessity partial, patterns to begin with. Let me illustrate with just two examples the existence, usefulness as well as limitations, of these heuristic patterns, which even if partial by necessity given the role of historically contingent contexts, by their very existence make the use of general cross-cultural/cross-historical model/s such a C–P so much worthwhile. The first example involves a cross-disciplinary approach to the basic C–P model, but whose sights are not at all in the world of ancient Israel but in a society far remote from ancient Israel, namely contemporary Poland (and to a less extent and less relevant to our case, Russia) and which is informed by

Cf. the essays in Ehud Ben Zvi and Diana V. Edelman (eds.), Imagining the Other and Constructing Israelite Identity in the Early Second Temple Period (LHBOTS 456; London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2014). 30 At the cost, as usual, of making other things (i.e., patterns) less visible. 29

Ehud Ben Zvi

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some present-day political/ideological discourses.31 Zarycki, the author of the essay, writes: Poland seems to be a country which attaches a relatively great deal of importance to cultural capital as a factor compensating for the weakness of the state and the society. The intelligentsia, defined first of all in terms of cultural capital, continues to play a significant role as the key fraction of the social elites and an important representative of the country in the external world. Culturally defined pictures of Poland are also considered to be an important asset of the country in its international politics (among others, the weight attributed to democratic achievements and the power of the First Republic of Poland, the suffering of Poland and the Poles in the period of partitions, in World War II, and in the communist period, the achievements of Polish artists, intellectuals and scientists as well as social and political activists and priests under the leadership of John Paul II). Thus, one may propose the thesis that in case of Poland cultural capital constitutes its key resource supposed to compensate for the peripheral status of the country and its deficit of economic capital in relation to the centre … … In the case of a strategy based on the compensatory use of cultural capital, an equivalent statement might read: We are not as wealthy and modern as countries of the West (centre), but our noble history, education and achievements in the field of culture and science ensure universal respect for us and the right to belong to the communities of the West (core).32

Zarycki is dealing here with a very common set of patterns that tends to appear in peripheral groups and particularly their elites, namely compensation for peripheral status. In the sections cited above, and using an approach informed by the work of Pierre Bourdieu, he notes that a sense of deficit communicated by peripherality, that is the relative lack of a crucial resource, in this case, “economic capital” is compensated by construing a balancing surplus in another form of capital. In the case of Poland, it is cultural and symbolic. In the same essay, he contrasts the case of Poland with that of Russia (as he sees it) in which the main balancing capital is political. Ancient Yehud was, of course, very different from contemporary Poland (or Russia), but the literati who certainly noticed that Yehud was a very peripheral place in terms of political and economic capital, clearly emphasized, time and again, their cultural and symbolic capital in their literature. In fact, through acts of reading (and writing) they construed themselves as the only group on earth who has access to the divine teaching of the real King of Kings and knowledge about the true character of the world and its future. In fact, within their world, all the nations will one day flow to Jerusalem, the true city at the centre of the world, to learn ‫ תורה‬from them. They also construed Israel as having an abundance of social capital, given that their Israel was uniquely related the true source of power, YHWH, a deity who may 31

Zarycki, “An Interdisciplinary Model of Centre-Periphery Relations.” Zarycki, “An Interdisciplinary Model of Centre-Periphery Relations,” 115–16. Italics in the original. 32

Introductory Centre/Core-Periphery Considerations

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shake the earth and raise hegemonic kings for the sake of Jacob (e.g., Isa 43:14; 45:4). 33 In both cases, they construed a world in which the nonIsraelites, including the Persians, are dependent on the real centre, i.e., Yehud, and in which the latter controls the flow of this social and cultural capital and thus, reverting the typical image of empire-colony. It goes without saying that within peripheral groups that compensate by stressing the importance of cultural capital, social resources will be allocated to produce a group possessing the necessary competencies to produce and reproduce this capital. This holds true for Poland and for ancient Yehud.34 This example can be further elaborated, but it already suffices to make a point, a model of core/centre periphery in which multiple axes, each shaped according to a particular type of unequally shared resource/capital and running in opposite directions complementing each other is heuristically helpful for studies of contemporary Poland and Persian Yehud. Moreover, a particular pattern, or to be more precise, a generative grammar of preferences and dispreferences is at work in both cases, because such a grammar is associated with the systemic aspect of C–P situations, rather than the singular historical circumstances of each case. To be sure, a grammar may produce myriads of “sentences.” The texts and memories that provided the intellectual Polish elite with cultural capital are absolutely different from those that produced a similar outcome among the Yehudite literati. Sentences are very much historically contingent, as they have to reflect the social mindscape and ideological discourses of the relevant group, but the grammars are far less so, because they depend (mainly, though not only) on the system itself. If similar systems are at work, somewhat similar basic grammars may emerge. Grammars, of course, are not simple systems and even similar basic grammars may lead to different outcomes. The very same example mentioned above raises the issue of how the group may construe the outcome shaped by its abundance of cultural (and social) capital. Although there is no infinite number of practical possibilities, the latter include more than one possible option. In this case, the way exemplified by the case of Poland, as construed 33 Moreover, this very lack may even explain, in part, why much of the effort was devoted to writing and reading texts rather than to building buildings to project cultural power. First, building buildings is not something at which they may excel more than the other socio-ethno-cultural groups; and second, as a politically and militarily very peripheral group with no power to control their local situation, they are well aware that buildings carrying much cultural and symbolic capital can be easily compromised or plainly destroyed. Cultural products such as texts and social memories can be far more impressive and durable. 34 Conversely, in groups that compensate by focussing on political or military capital, social resources will be allocated to maintain and further develop the competencies of those producing and reproducing this capital.

32

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by Zarycki, construed the goal in terms of inclusion in the existing core as an important and respected partner. One may argue that Josephus or Philo, for that matter, had a similar goal in mind. In Yehud, among its literati, however, the main goal was not to be included in some existing “core,” but to replace it and turn the previous core into a periphery.35 In addition, peripheral elites tend to be multi-lingual. They interact and “translate” the “core” and thus know well its language, but they often have their own language. Further, they serve as “core” in relation to the local “peripheries” and often this hierarchization tends to go hand and hand with some linguistic difference. Thus, linguistic differences are associated in these cases with C–P axes and the existence of multiple linguistic “languages” (be them “proper” languages or “sociolects”) cannot but bring about matters of codeswitching. When to use which “language”? Zarycki, in the mentioned essay, discusses some of these issues against the background of contemporary Poland. These issues, however, are as relevant in Yehud. The literati used Aramaic to deal with “core” and to address the administrative needs of the regional “core,” but when constructing their cultural capital, they switched to “biblical” Hebrew, and especially to SBH. This language carried the symbolic value required to enhance the cultural capital of Israel, and of the literati themselves, who are now also “separated from the rest” by their shared ability to switch to that language.36 In addition to the literati’s code-switching, one may raise the issue of linguistic choices and shifts among the population in general. Aramaic becomes widespread, but also pockets of Hebrew and instances of code-switching are likely, and in any event the situation may be fluid within the Persian period.37 Again, far more can be elaborated, but the point is clear, C–P systems tend to engender multiple linguistic axes. The preceding example has clearly demonstrated that the heuristic potential of general cross-cultural/cross-historical model/s such as C–P is so much 35 I expanded on this issue in Ehud Ben Zvi, “The Yehudite Collection of Prophetic Books and Imperial Contexts: Some Observations,” in Divination, Politics and Ancient Near Eastern Texts (ed. Alan Lenzi and Jonathan Stökl; ANEM 7; Atlanta, Ga.: SBL, 2014), 145–69, available, open access, at http://www.sbl-site.org/assets/pdfs/pubs/978158 9839984_OA.pdf and see cited bibliography. 36 I discussed some of these issues in Ehud Ben Zvi, “The Communicative Message of Some Linguistic Choices,” in A Palimpsest: Rhetoric, Ideology, Stylistics and Language Relating to Persian Israel (ed. Ehud Ben Zvi, Diana V. Edelman, and Frank Polak; Piscataway, N.J.: Gorgias Press, 2009), 269–90. 37 See, e.g., Ingo Kottsieper, “‘And They Did not Care Speak Yehudit.’ About the Linguistic Change in Judah during the Late Persian Era,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Fourth Century B.C.E. (ed. Oded Lipschits, Gary N. Knoppers, and Rainer Albertz; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2007), 95–124.

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worthwhile. But, to dwell on only one, even if significant, example is not proper procedure. Thus, in what follows I will discuss a second example. Let me begin my exploration with a relatively marginal note in a study about Lotman: St. Petersburg offers a fitting site for studying eccentric social practices, since the Russian imperial capital was unexpectedly constructed at the margins of an empire that was in itself often described as a cultural oddity. As Lotman notes, “The eccentric city is situated “at the edge” of the cultural space: on the seashore, at the mouth of a river”… Eccentric structures tend toward “openness and contacts with other cultures” as opposed to “concentric” structures, given to “enclosure” and “separation” … Peter the Great’s “transfer of the politico-administrative centre to the geographical frontier was at the same time the transfer of the frontier to the ideological and political centre of the state”… In this sense the founding of St. Petersburg represents a shifting of the eccentric to a position of cultural legitimacy.” (p. 319)38

The reference to the founding of St. Petersburg in a peripheral area and the transformation of that area from peripheral to core raises interesting issues concerning models of “centre/core and periphery” and their dynamic aspects. What happens when centre and periphery shift places, or when eventually a bi-polar centre structure emerges (e.g., in this case, Moscow and St. Petersburg; or for that matter, Tel Aviv and Jerusalem; or Berlin and Munich, Toronto and Montreal, and in my own region of the world, Edmonton and Calgary)? Even more interesting for our present purposes is the act of founding a (successful) capital in an “eccentric” place, in the periphery. I brought here a reference to Peter’s and St. Petersburg’s case, but this is just one of many examples, across time and geography, that could have been brought up.39

38

Citation from Julie A. Buckler, “Eccentricity and Cultural Semiotics in Imperial Russia,” in Lotman and Cultural Studies: Encounters and Extensions (ed. Andreas Schönle; Madison, Wis.: University of Wisconsin Press, 2006), 299–319. 39 Ottawa, at the border between Quebec and Ontario is eccentric to both and because of that, it could be “central” to first the Province of Canada and then Canada. For ANE instances, see the case of El Amarna, and from a different perspective, see Ömür Harmanşa, Cities and the Shaping of Memory in the Ancient Near East (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 2013), esp. pp. 72–101, whose discussion is devoted to “The Land of Aššur.” It is worth stressing that there are also instances of only partially successful cases of moving the capital to an “eccentric” place. A good study case for the latter is the building of Brasilia by Juscelino Kubitschek – “the father of modern Brazil,” according to some at least). The city was founded in 1960 and the aspect of opening to the world was evident in the choice of modernist architecture (see the strong footprint of Oscar Niemeyer) and so is the role of bringing peripheral areas more to the centre/core of Brazil, amply demonstrated by the selection of the place and in the in general approach of Kubitschek. The extent to which his program has been successful is open for debate, but such a debate cannot be carried out here, for obvious reasons.

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An important mnemonic narrative among the Yehudite literati concerned David who moved his capital from Hebron, at the centre of Judah, to a seemingly eccentric town, Jerusalem (see, e.g., 2 Sam 5:1–9; 1 Chr 11:1–9). The latter was associated with both Judah and Benjamin (see Josh 15:8, 63; 18:16) and thus stood in a kind of “in-between” land, projected a sense of replacing a Judah-centered world with an openness towards a world that includes Benjamin and northern Israel. 40 By being eccentric to Judah, Jerusalem shapes “Israel” as David’s kingdom and becomes its centre. In addition, the Jerusalem of the time, and of earlier times – see Melchizedek; Gen 14:18–20; cf. Ps 110:4 – evoked memories of pious non-Israelites and openness to their incorporation and the incorporation of their property into “Israel,” as demonstrated by the case of the threshing floor of Araunah/Ornan (2 Sam 24:18–25; 1 Chr 21:18–22:1), which not-incidentally represents another case of “eccentric” place becoming the new “centre,” within a general story about the making of Jerusalem, YHWH’s and Israel’s capital.41 The historical actions of Peter the Great, as understood today, and those of David in the post-monarchic main mnemonic narrative about Jerusalem and its Temple as eccentric to Judah itself and thus central to “Israel” and to Yehud’s claims to be Israel (and to some extent to memories and claims towards openness) that existed among the literati in Yehud are both illuminated by studying them from a cross-cultural centre/core – periphery approach. Significantly, the model is relevant not only for the study of both historical events and societies, but also for the study of social memories held in particular remembering communities. As I discussed elsewhere, social-anthropological models and underlying, systemic generative grammars may work for “real” societies and social agents but also for societies and social agents that existed only in the shared memory and imagination of a group.42

40

Significantly, in the world portrayed and evoked by Chronicles, both monarchic and post monarchic Jerusalem are inhabited by pious Israelites, including those from the North (cf. 1 Chr 9:3; 2 Chr 11:13–16). To be sure, by doing so, it creates a Yehud that stands for and even is Israel while it reinforces a Jerusalem-centered understanding of what Israel (not only Yehud) is and should be. The geographically “eccentric” site of Jerusalem facilitates this discourse here too. 41 Note that the references to Hiram in the context of establishing Jerusalem/the Temple. The latter are open to Hiram, in ways that Hebron never was. 42 The story of the shared “national” memory of “Israel” embodied and communicated by the Pentateuch, being the most obvious example. Here the mnemonic narrative shapes an understanding of the formation of a shared foundational memory of two groups, according the usual model of an original unity and then a split. See my, “The Pentateuch as/and Social Memory of ‘Israel’ in the Late Persian Period,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Pentateuch (ed. Joel Baden and Christophe Nihan; Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press, forthcoming).

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C. Reconstructing Some of the Rules for Constructing Centre and Periphery Axes within the Discourse of the Yehudite Literati Historians may utilize models of centre/core and periphery to advance reconstructions of the social, political and economic history of late Yehud because the existence of various systems of centres/cores and peripheries contributes much to the shaping of the “actual” social, political, economic circumstances of the community in the “worldly world.” This is a very important endeavor and I am delighted that several contributions to the workshop and to this volume deal with these matters. At the same time, historians interested not only, but particularly in intellectual history and social mindscapes, like myself, cannot but notice that these systems were at work also when the community discursively and imaginatively construed and remembered their world. To be sure, the literati in ancient Israel did not learn contemporary system theory, or about dependence and compensation mechanisms, or had in their vocabulary general terms such as “C–P.” But people may have pragmatic, implied concepts for which they have no terms.43 Thus there is both room and need for studies on how the Yehudite literati addressed, constructed, imagined and remembered systems of unequal relations, be them among polities, urban spaces, social groups and subgroups within groups and sub-subgroups; about how they created hierarchies among mnemonic figures of, and narrative about the past, or for that matter, literary works within a repertoire, various literary genres, and for their own constructions of gender. Needless to say, an exploration of these matters will contribute to a better understanding of the social mindscape of these literati as well as, indirectly, to its possible relation to the actual historical situation in which they lived.44 To be sure, there is no room to deal with all these matters in one essay, but many of the examples mentioned above hint at possible, helpful paths that

43 See Gad Prudovsky, “Can We Ascribe to Past Thinkers Concepts They Had No Linguistic Means to Express?” History and Theory 36 (1997): 15–31. I illustrated this point with respect to ancient Israelite thought in my “Analogical Thinking and Ancient Israel Intellectual History: The Case for an ‘Entropy Model’ in the Study of Israelite Thought,” in Relating to the Text: Interdisciplinary and Form-Critical Insights on the Bible (ed. Timothy J. Sandoval and Carleen Mandolfo; JSOTSup 384; London: T&T Clark, 2003), 321–32. 44 I consider this type of study to be complementary to those focusing on various systems of centres/cores and peripheries because it contributes much to the shaping of the “actual” social, political, economic circumstances of the community. Reconstructing the history of the period requires both.

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may be taken, which is the most that can be done in a kind of introductory contribution. Let me begin by stressing that the examples already mentioned above have suggested repeatedly that C–P constructions are often neither linear nor unidirectional and that often the system works through a set of related “axes” rather than one “axis.” In what follows, I further this point by drawing attention to a variety of significant and substantially different cases that substantiate, beyond doubt, that, at times, seemingly expected differentiations of what is central and peripheral were negotiated, or turned upside down. Seeming peripheries may indeed end up being construed as centre and vice versa and thus adding complexity or enhancing particular features of these cognitive and ideological distinctions, without blurring them. In fact, the literati constructed, at times, important memories in which that which was “eccentric” was remembered as central, and the central as peripheral, at least in relation to a particular period. In sum, and in other words, that which was hinted at before becomes sufficiently clear: In numerous and various, very substantive cases C–P constructions among the late Yehudite literati were often neither linear nor unidirectional and that often the system worked through a set of related “axes” rather than one “axis.” Moreover, their implied C–P models were influenced by a grammar that often preferred flexibility and fuzziness over rigid constructions and that such a grammar was at work at various and multiple levels. Let me begin this brief exploration, with a simple, transcultural observation, namely that groups tend to construct themselves as the “centre” in their own discourses, and the Other/s as peripheral, “eccentric,” and the like. The literati of Yehud were obviously not an exception. Their texts were mainly about their history, land, cities, laws, and about their deity (note the common ways to refer to YHWH as the God of Israel, of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, as the one who brought Israel out of Egypt, and so on). At the same time, as I discussed at length elsewhere, the very same literati were deeply involved in the creation of in-between areas, fuzziness and multiple examples of crossboundarying and the like. 45 Since centering and othering go together, the creation of these in-between areas increased substantially both complexity and flexibility along the C–P axes, as construed within the social mindscape of these literati. In addition, multi-directional C–P axes were clearly at work as ideological and cognitive tools to construct relations between Yehud and Persia, between the local literati and the Persian king, as well as those between Israel and 45

See in particular my “Othering, Selfing, ‘Boundarying’ and ‘Cross-Boundarying’ as Interwoven with Socially Shared Memories: Some Observations,” in Imagining the Other and Constructing Israelite Identity in the Early Second Temple Period (ed. Diana V. Edelman and Ehud Ben Zvi; LHBOTS 456; London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2014), 20–40.

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previous empires (e.g., Assyria and Babylon). 46 This multi-directionality shaped by itself a sense of fuzziness about who/what is core and what is periphery and communicated a clear preference for flexible, rather than rigid constructions. This preference towards flexibility appears also in relation to constructions of the relative centrality of seemingly “core” concepts within the discourse of the literati. For instance, a Davidic monarchy was both central and peripheral to the history of Israel. The literati remembered that it may or may not have a place in the utopian future, and that it existed for a particular period that is clearly not co-terminus with the history of Israel, as the literati construed it to be. Within their world, Israel could, and most importantly, can exist without the Davidic monarchy. David, of course, was, in turn, associated with the centrality of Jerusalem and its temple, and one may correctly say that at the end of the day, “David” was peripheral to the Temple and Jerusalem. Although such a centrality was evoked time and again within the authoritative repertoire of the Yehudite literati, the very same literati remembered that, at times, the Israel populating Jerusalem was associated with cultural peripheriality, while the peripheral was associated with centrality and its normative aspects, such as during the days of king Ahaz of Judah and the prophet Oded in Northern Israel (2 Chr 28). Moreover, the place itself may be central, but being born in the land is a central spatial attribute in the construction of memories of prophet in the prophetic book collection, David was not born in Jerusalem. Even more importantly, what was promised to the patriarchs was the “land”, not just Jerusalem. Thus, Jerusalem is central to the land in some mnemonic and ideological contexts, but peripheral to the land in others. Of course, Israel did exist without Jerusalem and so did Moses, who never walked in “the land.” Moreover, Moses was associated with ‫ תורה‬and the latter associated with foundational events outside “the land,” even as it was construed and remembered as emphasizing the promise of “the land.”47 In any event, Jerusalem and the temple were construed as central, but also and often and clearly as peripheral to ‫( תורה‬e.g., in the case of story of the finding of

46

I discussed these matters, though from slightly different perspectives, in Ehud Ben Zvi, “Yehudite Collection of Prophetic Books and Imperial Contexts,” and, idem, “Memory and Political Thought in the Late Persian/Early Hellenistic Yehud/Judah: Some Observations,” in Leadership, Social Memory and Judean Discourse in the 5th–2nd Centuries BCE (ed. Diana V. Edelman and Ehud Ben Zvi; Memory and Culture; London: Equinox, forthcoming 2016). 47 See, Ben Zvi, “The Pentateuch & Social Memory of ‘Israel’.”

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the book during the time of Josiah). Certainly, it is because of ‫ תורה‬that the temple is central, not the other way around.48 Thus, it is not surprising at all that within the mnemonic landscape of the literati, there are memories of an utopian future in which ‫ תורה‬and YHWH’s word will come forth for the nations from Zion/Jerusalem (e.g., Isa 2:2–4; Mic 4:1–5). Yet not all remembered exaltations of future Jerusalem within the repertoire of the literati directly referred to or even evoked ‫תורה‬. In the world of memories evoked by Isa 60, for instance, Jerusalem and YHWH are central and ‫תורה‬, if it was obliquely referred to (see v. 21 ‫יקים‬ ִ ‫)וְ ַ ֵמּ ֻכּלָּ ם ַצ ִדּ‬, took a peripheral role in that vision. Likewise, whereas many texts evoked a sense that ‫ תורה‬rather than Jerusalem stood at the centre of the differentiation between Israel and the “other nations” (e.g., Deut 4:6) and whereas this was consistent with Israel being conceived as a group around ‫ תורה‬and a foundational narrative according to which Israel was shaped in the desert, after the Exodus, still the readers of Chronicles remembered, for instance, that at least for a moment Solomon of Israel and Huram of Tyre shared a common ‫תורה‬,49 and that Nebuzaradan was a much better and “godly” pupil of Jeremiah than most Judahites of his time (Jer 40:2–3). 50 Even more significantly, the literati remembered that ‫ תורה‬will eventually be taught to “other nations,” but they may not necessarily become “Israel” through the process (see, e.g., Mic 4:1–5). To be sure, the second foundational story of Israel, also embedded in ‫תורה‬, was centered on kinship and genealogies. Were the latter, central or peripheral to what constituted Israel, and to what constituted some “core” Israelite subgroups, within the conceptual world of these literati? Perhaps genealogies and kinship were considered central in cases of the “male” seed of David and of the priests.51 But plenty of individuals characterized as “for48

See, e.g., Thomas C. Römer, “Du Temple au Livre: L’idéologie de la centralization dans l’historiographie deutéronomiste,” in Rethinking the Foundations: Historiography in the Ancient World and in the Bible (ed. Thomas C. Römer and Steven L. McKenzie; BZAW 294; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2000), 207–25, and Ehud Ben Zvi, “Imagining Josiah’s Book and the Implications of Imagining it in Early Persian Yehud,” in Berührungspunkte: Studien zur Sozial- und Religionsgeschichte Israels und seiner Umwelt: Festschrift für Rainer Albertz zu seinem 65. Geburtstag (ed. Rüdiger Schmitt, Ingo Kottsieper, and Jakob Wöhrle; AOAT 250; Münster: Ugarit Verlag, 2008), 193–212. 49 See Gary N. Knoppers, “When the Foreign Monarch Speaks about the Israelite Tabernacle,” in History, Memory, Hebrew Scriptures: A Festschrift for Ehud Ben Zvi (ed. Ian D. Wilson and Diana V. Edelman; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2015), 49–64. 50 See, e.g., Klaas A. D. Smelik, “The Function of Jeremiah 50 and 51 in the Book of Jeremiah,” in Reading the Book of Jeremiah (ed. Martin Kessler; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2004), 87–98, esp. p. 97. 51 Although concerning the latter, see also see the case of Samuel in the book of Samuel. It is particularly significant that Chronicles turns him into a Levite, but on the general issue, see also Isa 56:1–6.

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eigners” by different markers were considered Israel,52 and explicit marriages to “foreign” Israelite women were associated with Moses, Joseph, Judah, Boaz and the Davidic line – Rehoboam was the son of a Naamah the Ammonite. Moreover, in 1 Chr 2:34–41, one of the longest genealogies in the Hebrew Bible is that of an unnamed daughter of a marginal character such as Sheshan who had children with an Egyptian slave, named Jarha. 53 Kinship was construed as central to identity, but also peripheral.54 The literati, of course, construed themselves as a central group. ‫ תורה‬was construed as textual embodiment, as the book of ‫תורה‬, that is, as an asset available directly only to they themselves and as such providing them with unique and incomparable cultural, symbolic and social capital.55 Along with this, a conceptual axis of centrality and peripheriality within the general repertoire of authoritative repertoire of books held by the community was raised and also negotiated. It stressed Pentateuch as a unit, but significantly, as a non-exclusive or exclusivist unit, as readers construed complementary reading collections such as the Deuteronomistic Historical Collection, the Primary History, the Hexateuch and likely saw Deuteronomy as a kind of prophetic book of Moses.56 Core and periphery may thus include the same texts and as a result the “periphery” is partially given attributes of “core” and vice versa.57

52 E.g., Uriah the Hittite, Amasa, an important character associated with David’s time and family who was explicitly remembered as the son of Jether the Ishmaelite (see 1 Chr 2:17), and at the very least two – and likely more – individuals called Obed-Edom. 53 See Gary N. Knoppers, “‘Married into Moab’: The Exogamy Practiced by Judah and his Descendants in the Judahite Lineages,” in Mixed Marriages: Intermarriage and Group Identity in the Second Temple Period (ed. Christian Frevel; LHBOTS 547; London: T&T Clark, 2011), 170–91 (182). Lev 24:10 might be another case of mixed marriage and matrilineal Israelite line, but the case is not as clear as the previous examples and remains open for debate. See my “Re-negotiating a Putative Utopia, Social Memory and the Stories of the Rejection of Foreign Wives and Children in Ezra-Nehemiah: A Case for Re-negotiating the Historical Gaze,” in Worlds that Could Not Be – Constructing Utopia in Chronicles, Ezra and Nehemiah (ed. Frauke Uhlenbruch and Steven J. Schweitzer; LHBOTS 620; London: T&T Clark, 2016), 105–28. 54 Moreover, genealogies may serve to marginalize and keep away peripheral elements, but also to bring them into center. On these and related matters I expanded in Ehud Ben Zvi, “Othering, Selfing, ‘Boundarying’ and ‘Cross-Boundarying’ as Interwoven with Socially Shared Memories: Some Observations,” in Imagining the Other and Constructing Israelite Identity in the Early Second Temple Period (ed. Diana V. Edelman and Ehud Ben Zvi; LHBOTS 456; London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2014), 20–40. 55 See, e.g., 2 Chr 17:7–9 and the explicit reference to the book of YHWH’s ‫ תורה‬in v. 9. 56 See, Ben Zvi, “The Pentateuch & Social Memory of ‘Israel’.” 57 Constructions of “core” and “periphery” likely arose within the Pentateuch itself, as Genesis served as a preface/introduction to the “Mosaic story” of Exodus-Deuteronomy.

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One may argue that although the literati construed “all Israel,” not just themselves as associated with ‫תורה‬, their unique access to ‫ תורה‬still construed them as central, because they were those able to teach it to the rest of Israel. Yet, they also construed a utopian world in which their role will be needed no more (see Jer 31:33–3458). Moreover, in so far as they also construed ‫ תורה‬as “wisdom,” they engaged in a negotiation about the extent of ‫תורה‬, the importance of “peripheral” approaches to “‫ ”תורה‬that are not dependent only on a set a readings of particular books (see, esp. Ps 19). Let me conclude with a different kind of example. As any society in the ancient world, the Yehudite literati of the late Persian (or early Hellenistic) period were androcentric. Males and masculinity were at the centre position of the centre-periphery axis. But, at the same time, it is worth noting that the very same literati identified more with Jacob than with Esau. Moreover, whereas the warrior hero image was associated with YHWH, their main human heroes were rarely construed as, mainly, mighty warriors. Further, these literati certainly associated themselves with Israel and Jerusalem, both construed as wives of YHWH, but not of anyone else. This is not the place to discuss these matters in any detail, but to observe that in this case, the maintenance of a social and ideological normative axis of centre and periphery within which they had to associate with and embody the masculine centre required them to reconceptualise masculinity so as to allow them to be at the “centre.” To conclude this section, the observations advanced here demonstrate a strong tendency not to dismantle concepts of centre and periphery as conceptual, structural and structuring tools to construe, imagine and take control ideologically of the world, but to approach them with a very pragmatic and flexible mind 59 that allowed the literati to shift centres and peripheries according to context and to imagine multiple, multi-way and even branched C– P axes, balancing and complementing each other. As I discussed elsewhere, this approach is particularly consistent with the existence of a low level of existential anxiety in the relevant society and a preference for social and ideological integration over “rigid,” univocal “truths” and is at widely attested as at work within the social mindscape of the literati, which in turn may be consistent with a particular way of being in the worldly periphery of the Achaemenid empire.60

58

Cf. Ezek 11:19; 36:26–27; Hos 2:21–22. On the concept of “flexible” and particularly in contradistinction with that of “rigid” mind from socio-anthropological, transcultural perspective, see, e.g., Eviatar Zerubavel, The Fine Line: Making Distinctions in Everyday Life (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1991). 60 See, e.g., Ehud Ben Zvi, “On Social Memory and Identity Formation in Late Persian Yehud: A Historian’s Viewpoint with a Focus on Prophetic Literature, Chronicles and the 59

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To conclude this contribution, my hope is that by bringing both theoretical issues and practical observations I may have sparked conversations and discussions about these structural and structuring axes and models that serve us in our contemporary discourses, but which were also at work among the Jerusalemite-centred literati of the early Second Temple period.

Dtr. Historical Collection,” in Texts, Contexts and Readings in Postexilic Literature Explorations into Historio-graphy and Identity Negotiation in Hebrew Bible and Related Texts (ed. Louis Jonker; FAT II/53; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 95–148.

Looking for Judeans in Babylonia’s Core and Periphery1 Laurie E. Pearce A. Center/Core and Periphery: A Heuristic Model In his keynote presentation, Ehud Ben Zvi suggested that core/centre and periphery (henceforth, C–P) serves as a heuristic model “for the study of any system whose dynamics is strongly influenced by a substantially unequal distribution of some quality central to the relevant system, be it economic capital, political power, cultural capital, social capital, prestige, (claimed to be) exclusive connection to an ‘ultimate’ agent, and the like.”2 Socio-linguists Pietikäinen and Kelly-Holmes describe C–P as “a common spatial metaphor used to describe and explain the unequal distribution of power in the economy, society, and polity.”3 Both statements underscore that, in spite of its infiltration into many disciplines and its transformation into a kind of shorthand

1

Abbreviations used here follow those used in the Chicago Assyrian Dictionary (CAD Š/3), with the addition of: BaAr 6 = Babylonische Archive, Dresden: ISLET; CUSAS 28 = Laurie E. Pearce and Cornelia Wunsch, Documents of Judean Exiles and West Semites in Babylonia in the Collection of David Sofer (CUSAS 28; Bethesda: CDL Press, 2014); PNA = Prosopography of the Neo-Assyrian Empire, Helsinki; GMTR = Guides to the Mesopotamian Textual Record, Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Scholars of the ancient Near East employ multiple terms to designate the Mesopotamian empires and chronological periods in which the Judeans of the exilic and post-exilic eras lived. From the perspective of socio-economic history, the term “long sixth century” captures the continuity that characterizes many aspects of rule and economic administration as Mesopotamia transitioned from the last native Babylonian dynasty to the Achaemenid empire (Aspects of the Economic History of Babylonia in the First Millennium BC: Economic Geography, Economic Mentalities, Agriculture, the Use of Money and the Problem of Economic Growth [ed. Michael Jursa; AOAT 377; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2010], v). Here, the term Neo-Babylonian may be used to refer to the entire period, although properly speaking, Neo-Babylonian refers spefically to the period of native Babylonian rule (626–539 B.C.E.), and Achaemenid to the time from Cyrus to Xerxes (539–465 B.C.E.). 2 Cf. this vol., p. 23. 3 Sari Pietikäinen and Helen Kelly-Holmes, Multilingualism and the Periphery (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 3.

44

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signifying “dichotomies,” C–P gained traction in world-systems analysis, 4 where it expresses a relational concept. Wallerstein’s statement that coreperiphery “is not a pair of terms that are reified, that is, have separate essential meanings”5 may be useful background for the current study, which aims to review the textual evidence for the presence of Judeans in Babylonia and to consider whether a C–P relationship may have existed between them and their Babylonian and/or Achaemenid neighbors. In the original context of the C–P heuristic model, core or centre refers to the seat of economic power – most often the capital of the imperial power under consideration – into which flowed goods produced in peripheries, defined variously as settlements, villages, towns, or even regions at a distance (specified or not) from that center. The strict polarity of this terminology was insufficient to account for complexities apparent when C–P was invoked to describe socio-economic and political relationships, and the terms semiperipheries and external were introduced to afford the heuristic greater granularity. At first glance, the concept of C–P appears to hold value for the investigation and description of relationships between Judeans and Babylonia/Babylonians in the exilic age and early Second Temple period. Judah, and indeed the entire Levant, geographically belonged to a Babylonian periphery; the ways in which the Babylonians themselves perceived this to be the case will be commented on below. The history of the Judeans, however, complicates the question, as their relationship with the Babylonians and Achaemenids transpired both in Judah and in the imperial centers. Although no complete assessment of C–P as a construct for examining the relationship of the Judeans to the Babylonian and Achaemenid empires is possible without considering communities of Judeans in both Judah and Babylonia, the present study will limit itself to the cuneiform evidence of Judeans in urban and rural Mesopotamia and will consider whether they became part of the center or were relegated to a semi-periphery or some other designation of social or economic distance from the Babylonian center.

4 Immanuel Wallerstein, The Modern World-System I: Capitalist Agriculture and the Origins of the European World-Economy in the Sixteenth Century, with a New Prologue (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011); for a synopsis of Wallerstein’s work, see: http://legacy.fordham.edu/halsall/mod/Wallerstein.asp (accessed 2/22/2016). 5 Immanuel Wallerstein, World-Systems Analysis: An Introduction (Durham: Duke University Press, 2004), 17.

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B. A Top-Down Model Until recently, research focused on Judah and the Levant on the one hand and the economies and social structures of the Neo-Babylonian and Achaemenid empires on the other has been limited by the nature and extent of the evidence for the social and economic location of Judeans in the exilic and early Second Temple periods. However, recent studies are reshaping our understanding of various aspects of Judean economic, social, and political standing in the NeoBabylonian to Hellenistic periods. For example, excavations at Ramat Rachel have provided evidence that establishes the continuity of the site as an administrative center from the days of the independent Judahite kingdom through the Achaemenid period.6 Because that evidence is diachronic and transcends shifts in political powers that governed the Levant, it will contribute to developing a more complete understanding of the C–P relationship between Judah and its imperial neighbors and overlords. Another archaeological project that looks to understand the C–P relationships from the perspective of the periphery is the current excavation and study of the Edomite capital Busayra, in which methods from the emerging subdiscipline of household archaeology are employed to investigate how inhabitants of Edom – clearly in the geographic periphery of the Babylonian and Achaemenid empires – may have demonstrated agency in shaping the approaches of three successive empires (Neo-Assyrian, Neo-Babylonian, Achaemenid) toward this city and region.7 Such explorations, which document changes observable in local subsistence materials and patterns, household size and arrangement, etc., hold promise for the identification of peripheral developments and as an important corrective to the top-down bias in the study of material culture and other archaeological data. Research on cuneiform archival texts of the long sixth century8 has paved the way for applying the C–P heuristic to the study of the Neo-Babylonian 6 See Oded Lipschits, “Shedding New Light on the Dark Years of the ‘Exilic Period’: New Studies, Further Elucidation, and Some Questions Regarding the Archaeology of Judah as an ‘Empty Land’,” in Interpreting Exile: Displacement and Deportation in Biblical and Modern Contexts (ed. Brad Kelle, Frank Ames, and Jacob Wright; Atlanta, Ga.: SBL, 2011), 57–90 for a summary of conclusions that can be drawn from the Ramat Rachel evidence. 7 Stephanie Brown, a doctoral student in Near Eastern Archaeology in the Department of Near Eastern Studies at the University of California, Berkeley, is preparing a dissertation “Living on the Edge of Empire: Edomite Households in the First Millennium BC.” See also Brown et al., “The Busayra Cultural Heritage Project’s 2013 Site Assessment Season,” ADAJ (in press). 8 Jursa, Aspects of the Economic History of Babylonia, v adapted the appellation “the long sixteenth century” to the Mesopotamian context, and has promoted the “long sixth century” as a rubric to describe the continuity apparent in the construction and content of

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and Achaemenid periods. “Museum archaeology”9 makes it possible to identify and describe the major archives of this period in terms of their location, main actors, and contents.10 Textual evidence, whether from monumental or archival documents, and in the case of the latter, imperial or private, also tends to show a top-down bias. Administrative texts were produced as artifacts of transactions that occurred in private or imperial environments, offer information about various social and economic sectors of Neo-Babylonian society, and often provide glimpses at their operation at local levels. The Murašû texts provided the first identifications of Judean participation in the private agricultural sector of the Babylonian economy. In them, nearly all attestations of Judeans occurred in the witness lists appended to legal transactions.11 That is to say, they appeared in a role which located them in archival texts from the start of the Neo-Babylonian empire (626 B.C.E.) through the second year of Xerxes (484 B.C.E.). An awkward synonym for the adjectives “Neo-Babylonian” and “Achaemenid” that describe empires defined by their respective dominant political powers, the “long sixth century” succinctly describes the diachronic nature of empire; even when administrative processes endure largely unchanged, the notion that they transcend traditional temporal, or even political boundaries underscores the relational nature of the C–P construct. The Cuneiform Digital Library Initiative (CDLI; cdli.ucla.edu, accessed 3/22/2016) catalogues 18,903 documents dated to the Neo-Babylonian (14,290) and Achaemenid (4,613) periods. In 2005, Jursa estimated the number of NB documents (published and unpublished) to be 20,500 (Michael Jursa, Neo-Babylonian Legal and Administrative Documents: Typology, Contents, and Archives [GMTR 1; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2005], 1). 9 Caroline Waerzeggers, “The Dispersal History of the Borsippa Archives,” in Approaching the Babylonian Economy: Proceedings of the START Project Symposium Held in Vienna, 1–3 July 2004 (ed. Michael Jursa and Heather Baker; AOAT 330; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2005), 343–63. 10 Jursa summarizes them in Neo-Babylonian Legal and Administrative Documents. 11 In chronological order, publications of the texts of the Murašû family archive appeared in: Hermann Hilprecht and Albert Tobias Clay, Business Documents of Murashû Sons of Nippur Dated in the Reign of Artaxerxes I (464–424 B.C.) (BE 9; Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 1898); Albert Tobias Clay, Legal and Commercial Transactions Dated in the Assyrian, Neo-Babylonian and Persian Periods … Chiefly from Nippur (BE 8; Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 1908); idem, Business Documents of Murashû Sons of Nippur Dated in the Reign of Darius II (PBS II/1; Philadelphia: University Museum, 1912); Oluf Krückmann, Neubabylonische Rechts- und Verwaltungstexte, autographiert und mit Inventarverzeichnis und Namenlisten versehen (TMH II–III; Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1933); Henry Frederick Lutz, “An Agreement Between a Babylonian Feudal Lord and His Retainer in the Reign of Darius II,” UCPSP 9/3 (1940): 269–77; Matthew W. Stolper, Entrepreneurs and Empire: The Murašû Archive, the Murašû Firm, and Persian Rule in Babylonia (Istanbul: Nederlands Historisch-Archaeologisch Instituut te Istanbul, 1985); Veysel Donbaz and Matthew W. Stolper, Istanbul Murašû Texts (Istanbul: Nederlands Historisch-Archaeologisch Instituut te Istanbul, 1997); Cuneiform Texts in the Metropolitan Museum of Art: Private Archive Texts from the First Millennium B.C. (ed. Ira Spar and Eva von Dassow; CTMMA 3; New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art,

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proximity to the entrepreneurial Murašû, but which also concealed the ways and degrees to which they may have participated as principals in economic transactions. These constraints, in combination with the ~150-year gap between the events associated with the start of the exile and the start of the Murašû archive, may have contributed to the focus on the distinctive and diagnostic Yahwistic names,12 which has been generally accepted as means to identify Judeans living in Babylonia and their participation in more diverse roles and interactions with various sectors of the Babylonian population and administration. In addition to the Murašû texts those from āl-Yāḫūdu and Brepols, 2000); Matthew W. Stolper, “Fifth Century Nippur: Texts of the Murašûs and from Their Surroundings,” JCS 53 (2001): 83–132. 12 Ran Zadok published his major compendia in 1977 (On West Semites in Babylonia during the Chaldean and Achaemenian Periods: An Onomastic Study [Jerusalem: H. J. & Z. Wanaarta]), 1979 (The Jews in Babylonia during the Chaldean and Achaemenian Periods according to the Babylonian Sources [Haifa: University of Haifa]), 1988 (The PreHellenistic Israelite Anthroponymy and Prosopography [OLA 28; Leuven: Peeters]), 2002 (The Earliest Diaspora: Israelites and Judeans in Pre-Hellenistic Mesopotamia [Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University]); his extensive bibliography is listed at http://humanities1.tau.ac.il/ segel/zadokr/ (accessed 2/22/2016). Michael David Coogan’s foundational work (West Semitic Personal Names in the Murašû Documents [HSM 7; Missoula, Mont.: Scholars Press, 1976]) inaugurated the modern study of the morphology and phonology of Yahwistic names. In addition to linguistic and orthographic studies, for which there are numerous other citations that could be referenced, Yahwistic names occasionally have been invoked as indicators of the theological leanings of the individuals and families in which they are attested. See for example: Samuel Daiches, The Jews in Babylonia in the Time of Ezra and Nehemiah According to Babylonian Inscriptions (London: Jews’ College, 1910); Clay apud Hilprecht and Clay, Business Documents of Murashû Sons of Nippur; Elias J. Bickerman, “The Generation of Ezra and Nehemiah,” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 45 (1978): 1–28; Yigal Bloch, “Judeans in Sippar and Susa during the First Century of the Babylonian Exile: Assimilation and Perseverance under NeoBabylonian and Achaemenid Rule,” JANEH 1/2 (2014): 119–72. While Yahwistic names and other distinctive linguistic markers can serve to identify individuals who trace descent from or membership in a specific population group, caution is necessary to avoid drawing over-reaching conclusions about the ramifications of naming patterns for establishing religious or cultural identity. Michael David Coogan, “Life in the Diaspora: Jews at Nippur in the Fifth Century B.C.,” BA 37 (1974): 6–12, 11 noted: “it was not considered a serious compromise of one’s Jewish identity to give a child a name which was not Yahwistic, nor even of Hebrew or Aramaic linguistic stock.” Paul-Alain Beaulieu, “Yahwistic Names in Light of Late Babylonian Onomastics,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identity in an International Context (ed. Oded Lipschits, Gary Knoppers, and Manfred Oeming; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 245–66, 247 echoes Coogan’s cautionary statement, stating that the fundamental indexical value of names, including Yhwistic names, “… possess no intrinsic meaning beyond pointing to the bearer of the name. … the sole fact that a particular individual bears a Yahwistic names tells us a priori nothing about his religious convictions or those of his parents. The name could have been chosen for a number of reasons we cannot know.”

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related areas,13 are particularly valuable for their contribution of data which, although part of an administrative system that operated under royal aegis, documents lower levels of activity and participants in that economic sector. Unfortunately, the inventory of historiographic and monumental texts, which were produced and located in imperial capitals, other major urban centers, and even in remote mountain passes, offers only general statements. The few exceptional mentions of members of the Judean community (and especially its royal family)14 that appear in palace records make the rare specific contributions of monumental texts attesting to a C–P relationship between Judeans and Babylonia.

C. How Babylonians Expressed a Notion of Core and Periphery The Neo-Babylonian text and iconographic programs demonstrate that the empire’s kings held a vision of their central place in and power over a king-

13 In chronological order, primary publications of the āl-Yāḫūdu and related documents are: Francis Joannès and André Lemaire, “Contrats babyloniens d’époque achémenide du Bît-Abî Râm avec une épigraphie araméenne,” RA 90 (1996): 41–60; idem, “Trois tablettes cunéiformes à l’onomastique ouest-sémitique,” Transeu 17 (1999): 17–34; Kathleen Abraham, “West Semitic and Judean Brides in Cuneiform Sources from the Sixth Century BCE: New Evidence from a Marriage Contract from Āl-Yahudu,” AfO 51 (2005–2006): 198– 219; eadem, “An Inheritance Division among Judeans in Babylonia from the Early Persian Period,” in New Seals and Inscriptions, Hebrew, Idumean, and Cuneiform (ed. Meir Lubetski; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2007), 206–21; Laurie E. Pearce and Cornelia Wunsch, Documents of Judean Exiles and West Semites in Babylonia in the Collection of David Sofer (CUSAS 28; Bethesda: CDL Press, 2014); Cornelia Wunsch, Judeans by the Waters of Babylon: New Historical Evidence in Cuneiform Sources from Rural Babylonia in the Schøyen Collection (with collaboration of Laurie Pearce; BaAr 6; Dresden: ISLET, forthcoming). 14 Texts from the royal administrative and monumental sector include the Weidner ration lists (Ernst Weidner, “Jojachin, König von Juda, in babylonischen Keilschrifttexten,” in Mélanges syriens offerts à monsieur René Dussaud [Paris: Paul Geunther, 1939], 923– 35); the Chronicle Concerning the Early Years of Nebuchadnezzar II (Albert Kirk Grayson, Assyrian and Babylonian Chronicles [TCS 5; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2000]; Jean-Jacques Glassner, Mesopotamian Chronicles [WAW 19; Atlanta, Ga.: SBL, 2004]; http://www.livius.org/sources/content/mesopotamian-chronicles-content/abc-5-jerusalem-c hronicle/), the Hofkalendar (David Stephen Vanderhooft, The Neo-Babylonian Empire and Babylon in the Latter Prophets [HSM 59; Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1999], 90–98; Rocío Da Riva, The Neo-Babylonian Royal Inscriptions [GMTR 4; Münster: UgaritVerlag, 2008]; eadem, “Nebuchadnezzar II’s Prism [EŞ 7834]: A New Edition,” ZA 103 [2013]: 196–229).

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dom that extended well beyond the principle regions of the geographic core.15 The Neo-Babylonian rock monuments erected at strategic points in the peripheral landscape, such as at Wadi Brisa,16 establish, by virtue of their remoteness, a perimeter of imperial rule;17 by “connecting the dots” on a map pinned with the monuments’ location, a graphic representation of its extent would emerge.18 These peripheral texts were intended to demarcate a physical periphery and promote the agenda of the imperial core. There are a number of texts from the Mesopotamian heartland that also express imperial notions of core and periphery. One text in particular, the Hofkalendar (“court calendar”) provides a textual guide to the organization of the Neo-Babylonian empire and specifies the three regions that, in the Babylonian mind, constituted the physical core of the empire.19 The terminus post quem of the composition of the text, the seventh year of Nebuchadnezzar (598 B.C.E.),20 makes its presentation of the imperial hierarchies nearly contemporaneous with the first wave of deportations. The Hofkalendar lists pro15 Vanderhooft, The Neo-Babylonian Empire and Babylon, 45ff summarizes much of the evidence from which the notion of Babylon’s centrality in the Babylonian worldview may be deduced. 16 Rocío Da Riva, The Twin Inscriptions of Nebuchadnezzar at Brisa (Wadi EshSharbin, Lebanon): A Historical and Philological Study (AfO Beiheft 32; Wien: Institut für Orientalistik der Universität Wien, 2012). 17 Rocío Da Riva, “Enduring Images of an Ephemeral Empire: Neo-Babylonian Inscriptions and Representations on the Western Periphery,” in Mesopotamia in the Ancient World: Impact, Continuities, Parallels: Proceedings of the Seventh Symposium of the Melammu Project Held in Obergurgl, Austria, November 4–8, 2013 (ed. Robert Rollinger and Erik van Dongen; Melammu 7; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2015), 603–29, 603 n. 3, 607, 613–14. 18 While the Achaemenid iconographic program is concentrated in the core of the empire, it, too, offers physical representations of the empire’s extensive geographic reach. (See, for example, Cindy Nimchuk, “Empire Encapsulated: The Persepolis Apadana Foundation Deposits,” in The World of Achaemenid Persia: History, Art and Society in Iran and the Ancient Near East [ed. John Curtis and St. John Simpson; London: I. B. Tauris, 2010], 221–29, 222–23). 19 Da Riva, “Nebuchadnezzar II’s Prism (EŞ 7834),” 199 states: “These three areas, which correspond to the traditional geographical composition of Mesopotamia, formed the territorial core of the Neo-Babylonian Empire.” For a general introduction to the NeoBabylonian royal inscriptions, see Da Riva, The Neo-Babylonian Royal Inscriptions. This text is the only known Neo-Babylonian building inscription written on a prism and the only one that references a specific date, i.e. Nebuchadnezzar’s seventh regnal year, 598 B.C.E. Although this is not the date in which the inscription was written, it identifies a specific point at which the palace and Esangila storehouses were filled with the products mentioned in the text. (Da Riva, The Neo-Babylonian Royal Inscriptions, 68; eadem, “Nebuchadnezzar II’s Prism [EŞ 7834],” 196 n. 6; Vanderhooft, The Neo-Babylonian Empire and Babylon, 149–52). 20 Da Riva, “Nebuchadnezzar II’s Prism (EŞ 7834),” 198.

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vincial and imperial officials obliged to provide financial support for Nebuchadnezzar’s ambitious reconstruction of the South Palace. The final group enumerates local governors and rulers, including high priests, governors, royal representatives, and, finally, Levantine rulers. Column vii* 23’–29’ names the kings of Ṣurru (Tyre), 21 Ḫazzatu (Gaza), 22 Ṣīdūnu (Sidon), 23 Armada (Arwād), 24 Ašdūdu (Ashdod), 25 and Mir[…]. Whether the frequent suggestion that Judah appeared in a broken section of the text is true or not, the grouping of these Levantine locations delineate Babylonian imperial geographic consciousness. Thus, the Hofkalendar underscores the subordinate economic status of defeated, peripheral rulers relative to the Babylonian court, even as they had been moved to the imperial center and into the palace confines. The collection of the Weidner ration lists26 constitutes another source that reinforces the perception of the top-down documentation for the exploration of a C–P model of imperial organization and economic process. These texts, excavated in the northeast corner of Nebuchadnezzar’s South Palace, offer specific information such as the names and titles of Levantine kings and high officials deported along with Jehoiachin and five sons.27 The ration texts date from Nebuchadnezzar’s 10th to 35th regnal years (595/4–570/69 B.C.E.) and confirm the multinational nature of deportee populations in Babylon. In addition to the Judeans, kings and important administrative officials from Egypt, Philistia, Elam, Lydia, Media, and Persia are recorded as recipients of month-

Francis Joannès, “La localisation de Ṣurru à l’époque néo-babylonienne,” Semitica 32 (1982): 35–43 determined that references to Tyre in a small group of texts identify the settlement on the Babylonian landscape that was named for and inhabited by deportees from Tyre. See also Ran Zadok, Geographical Names according to New- and LateBabylonian Texts (RGTC 8; Wiesbaden: L. Reichert, 1985), 280–81 and Gauthier Tolini, “From Syria to Babylon and Back: The Neirab Archive,” in Exile and Return: The Babylonian Context (ed. Jonathan Stökl and Caroline Waerzeggers; BZAW 478; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2015), 58–93, 64–65. 22 Zadok, Geographical Names, 158. 23 Zadok, Geographical Names, 279. 24 Zadok, Geographical Names, 29. 25 Zadok, Geographical Names, 32. 26 Weidner, “Jojachin, König von Juda.” 27 1 Chr 3:17–18 identifies Jehoiachin’s seven sons: Shealtiel (šʾltyʾl), Malchiram (mlkyrm), Pedaiah (pdyh), Shenazzar (šnʾṣr), Yekamiah (yqmyh), Hoshama (hwšmʿ), and Nedabiah (ndbyh). Three of these names are attested in the āl-Yaḫūdu texts: Shealtiel, CUSAS 28: 57, 58, 61, 62, 64, 92; Nadab-Yāma, CUSAS 28: 10, 16; BaAr 6: 11; Joannès and Lemaire, “Trois tablettes cunéiformes,” text 1; Abraham, “West Semitic and Judean Brides;” Padā-Yāma, CUSAS 28: 39, 76; BaAr 6:3, 5. The others contain elements welldocumented in personal names of the period. 21

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ly disbursements of grain and oil.28 Originally rulers of peripheral regions, they were all attested in texts locating them in the royal capital, presumably in proximity to each other, although it is impossible to determine what the nature, frequency, and duration of their interactions might have been. The disparities evident in the disbursements suggest that these captive provincial personnel were treated differently, perhaps in consideration of their perceived status and origin within the periphery.

D. Identifying Peripherals in the Corpus As the traditional definition of C–P considers relationships between imperial powers and their peripheries in terms of their economic interactions, the abundant cuneiform record from the long sixth century has the potential to provide evidence of a Babylonian–Judean C–P relationship. Thus, this essay reviews the cuneiform administrative and legal documentation of activities in urban and rural settlements in the Babylonian and Achaemenid empires. Ignoring epigraphic and archaeological data from Judah admittedly perpetuates a unilateral approach to the material, and until such evidence is integrated into an exploration of a Babylonian-Judean C–P, the focus should be formulated as an exploration of the experiences in the imperial core of a population that originated in an imperial periphery. Investigation in the cuneiform documentation of relationships between Babylonians and Judeans is possible because of the distinctively Judean Yahwistic names. The specificity of the god Yahweh to the Judean cult renders the use of that theophoric element a reliable marker of Judean background in an individual’s lineage,29 and makes Judean names stand out from those of the general West Semitic population. However, Yahwistic names are not the only productive markers of places of origin. Two other theophoric elements suggest that there are additional possibilities for refining our understanding of features that distinguish cultural or identity groups across cores and peripheries. The Neirabeans,30 the only other 28 Muhammed A. Dandamaev, Slavery in Babylonia: From Nabopolassar to Alexander the Great (626–331 B.C.) (Rev. ed.; DeKalb, Ill.: Northern Illinois University Press, 1984), 239ff discusses rations in the context of his comprehensive study of Babylonian slavery. It is striking that the cuneiform text notes that Jehoiachin’s sons received ~.5 liters while Jehoiachin received fifteen over the course of a month. The smaller amount corresponds roughly to one-half of the average standard daily food allowance of .8–1 liters of dates or barley allotted to slaves and to individuals dedicated to temple service. 29 As noted, for example, in Clay apud Hilprecht and Clay, Business Documents; Coogan, West Semitic Personal Names; Zadok, The Jews in Babylonia. 30 In chronological order of publication, the most important bibliographic items for the Neirab texts are: Édouard Dhorme, “Les tablettes babyloniennes de Neirab,” RA 25 (1928):

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population for which there appears to be a demonstrable return to their peripheral homeland,31 are identified on the basis of gentilics or the place of composition of the tablets. The cluster of Nusku- names, as in the name of the archive principal Nusku-gabbē,32 which points to an allegiance to the moon god worshipped in their ancestral region, suggests that attention to onomastics within sources from a particular geographic setting may support the location of additional populations within the geographical core populated by many groups. The cuneiform corpus of āl-Yāḫūdu increases the number of cuneiform name attestations compounded with the theophoric element Bīt-il-. This element is well-known, both in the cuneiform evidence33 and in the onomasticon of Elephantine.34 In view of the prosopographic as well as onomastic contributions of the Bīt-il- names in the āl-Yāḫūdu texts, the potential of this theophoric element to serve as an identifier of members of a community has been largely ignored.35 The appearance of this distinctive name in both Babylonia and Egypt results from two different (although related) political events.36 The 53–82; Frederick M. Fales, “Remarks on the Neirab Texts,” OrAnt 12 (1973): 131–42; Israel Ephcal, “The Western Minorities in Babylonia in the 6th–5th Centuries B.C.: Maintenance and Cohesion,” Or. 47/1 (1978): 74–90; Marcel Sigrist and Alan R. Millard, “Catalogue des tablettes cunéiformes du Couvent Saint-Étienne,” RB 92 (1985): 570–76; Joachim Oelsner, “Weitere Bemerkungen zu den Neirab-Urkunden,” AoF 16 (1989): 68– 77; Luigi Cagni, “Considérations sur les textes babyloniens de Neirab près d’Alep,” Transeu 2 (1990): 169–85; Stefan Timm, “Die Bedeutung der spätbabylonischen Texte aus Nêrab für die Rückkehr der Judäer aus dem Exil,” in Meilenstein: Festgabe für Herbert Donner zum 16. Februar 1995 (ed. Manfred Weippert and Stefan Timm; Ägypten und Altes Testament 30; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1995), 276–88; Gauthier Tolini, “Le rôle de la famille de Nusku-Gabbe au sein de la communauté de Neirab*,” in La famille dans le Proche-Orient ancient: Réalités, symbolismes et images: Proceedings of the 55th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Paris, July 6–9, 2009 (ed. Lionel Marti; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2014), 591–98; idem, “From Syria to Babylon and Back.” 31 Note Pierre Briant’s caution (From Cyrus to Alexander: A History of the Persian Empire [Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2002], 885) that chronological and historical problems in the Neirab evidence may impact this interpretation. 32 Tolini, “Le rôle de la famille de Nusku-Gabbe.” 33 Coogan, West Semitic Personal Names, 48; Zadok, On West Semites in Babylonia, 60–61. 34 Bezalel Porten, “Akkadian Names in Aramaic: Documents from Ancient Egypt,” BASOR 375 (2016): 1–12, and bibliography cited there. 35 The family relationships that obtain among the holders of Bīt-il- names in the ālYāḫūdu corpus are briefly described in CUSAS 28, p. 13. 36 Judeans arrived at Elephantine in the wake of the murder of Gedaliah, but were also dispatched as auxiliary troops at the very beginning of the sixth century (Rainer Albertz, Israel in Exile: The History and Literature of the Sixth Century B.C.E. [Atlanta, Ga.: SBL, 2003], 97). The Bīt-il- names in the āl-Yāḫūdu corpus appear in texts dating from 5 Cyrus (533) through 9 Xerxes (477). See Caroline Waerzeggers, “The Babylonian Revolts

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evidence of the Bīt-il- names affords an unusual opportunity to assess the outcomes of two distributions of a peripheral population, one into the core, the other into another peripheral region physically more distant from the core than the population’s place of origin. In another small corpus,37 Egyptian names and Egyptian and Carian gentilics are indexical for the identification of another peripheral population in the Babylonian core. A close examination of the application of the vocabulary of these gentilics demonstrates that the Babylonian scribes were not only aware of, but also preserved identity markers, even when peripheral populations were integrated into the core social milieu. Three gentilics are attested: Miṣirāia, Karsāia, and Bannēšāia. The latter two are both used to refer to Carians. The interchangeability of the terms Miṣirāia and Karsāia in reference to the same persons led Waerzeggers to conclude that these two terms refer to a Carian minority that came to Egypt and was subsequently brought to Babylonia.38 The usage of both Karsāia and Bannēšāia to refer to Carians does not, however, lead to the same conclusion. Rather, when occurring in a text alongside the term Bannēšāia, Karsāia is likely to have been used as the Babylonian term referring to an Egyptianized Carian, reflecting a loan of a gentilic used in Egypt, and Bannēšāia referred to Anatolian Carians.39 In spite of the nuanced distinctions maintained among these gentilics, members of the three groups receive uniform treatment in Borsippa. A tax on the free citizens of that city provided for the feeding and (although this is not explicitly stated) possibly for the lodging of Carians, whose reputation as professional soldiers may have been the motivation for their resettlement in Babylonia, where they may have been valuable additions to the Persian army.40 The social and economic arrangement of taxation of the Borsippeans to support the Carians is not unique. The cuneiform text VS 6 128 points to Judeans having been literally “thrown” into the care of the Borsippeans41 in the years between Cambyses year 5 and Darius year 12.42 For the Babylonians, this is another example Against Xerxes and the ‘End of Archives’,” AfO 50 (2003): 150–73 for the significance of texts which postdate the important cessation of archive production that occurred in 2 Xerxes. 37 Caroline Waerzeggers, “The Carians of Borsippa,” Iraq 68 (2006): 1–22. 38 Waerzeggers, “The Carians of Borsippa,” 3. 39 Waerzeggers, “The Carians of Borsippa,” 4. 40 Waerzeggers, “The Carians of Borsippa,” 8. The Carians appear in texts from years 4–9 Darius (with one outlier dating to Cambyses’s fifth year). 41 See Waerzeggers, “The Carians of Borsippa,” 8 for the use of Akkadian nasāku, “to throw,” to describe the assignment of foreigners into the care of Babylonian citizens. 42 Waerzeggers, “The Carians of Borsippa,” 8. Waerzeggers expands on the insight the tablet provides for understanding the officials behind the organization of the ration system. The text is mentioned in CUSAS 28, p. 37 in connection with the name Akkadānu (mak-kada-nu, BaAr 6 43:7), with the notice that the -ānu ending does not generally designate a

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of a general pattern of integrating individuals from a variety of peripheral locations into the core social structures.

E. Peripherals Supporting Core Economic Activities Thus far, this essay has reviewed instances where onomastics have contributed to the identification and location of peripheral populations in the Babylonian imperial core; it now turns to the specific cases of the Judeans, and the ways that they, members of an originally peripheral community, functioned in the imperial center. The cuneiform documentation attests to a Judean presence and a scope of Judean activity in the imperial core from the earliest days of the exile through the early Second Temple period. Its location in diverse geographic and social settings points to a variety of networks of interactions that may be viewed by considering the documentation from the following perspectives: (a) temporal, (b) geographic, and (c) socio-economic. Here the primary organizational principle will be geographic, in order to draw a larger picture of where the Judeans were located, and secondarily, their roles in the relevant documentation will be noted in order to begin to lay out their socioeconomic standing. 1. Sippar A small text (BM 114789) that confirms that Arad-Bānītu had delivered, in 594 B.C.E., 1.5 mina of gold, property of Nabû-šarrūssu-ukīn, to the Esangila in Babylon, provides documentation of a royal official present at the siege of Jerusalem: 43 the rab ša-rēši Nabû-šarrūssu-ukīn (Nebosarsekim, Jer 39:3). Although the text does not mention a Judean, it nonetheless confirms Sippar as a locus for geographic, temporal, and social and economic contacts in relationships between the Babylonians and the Judeans. Thus, it attests to the existence of opportunities for members of these groups to interact with each other in urban centers of the empire. The dossier of the Ariḫ family,44 in which some of his kin are identified as tamkār šarri, “royal merchant,” preserves a great number of Babylonian

gentilic (GAG §56p). Waerzeggers specifically states that the Carians and the Judeans were introduced to Borsippa in the period between Cambyses year 5 and Darius year 12. 43 Michael Jursa, “Nabû-šarrūssu-ukīn, rab ša-rēši, und ‘Nebusarsekim’ (Jer. 39:3),” NABU 2008–5; Vanderhooft, The Neo-Babylonian Empire and Babylon, 149–52. 44 Michael Jursa, “Eine Familie von Königskaufleuten judäischer Herkunft,” NABU 2007–22; Bloch, “Judeans in Sippar and Susa.” For a diagram of the family tree, see Ran Zadok, “Judeans in Babylonia – Updating the Dossier,” in Encounters by the Rivers of Babylon: Scholarly Conversations Between Jews, Iranians, and Babylonians in Antiquity

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names among its members; only two West Semitic names are attested (Amušeḫ = Hebrew Hôšēaʿ; Aḫi-Yāma), of which only the latter is Yahwistic, and the conclusion that this onomastic situation reflects acculturation is surely correct.45 Acculturation accounts in part for the social processes evidenced in the documents and hints at how Babylonians and Judeans regarded the integration of minority, peripheral populations into core institutions. The marriage of Kaššaya, daughter of Amušeḫ and Gudaddadītu is of interest, not simply because it appears to be an intermarriage, but because it occurs in a family with a particular social standing. Whether the mother’s name is West Semitic or Babylonian, 46 the social register from which she hails stands in sharp contrast to the one from which the name of her daughter is drawn:47 Kaššaya’s name is that of one of Nebuchadnezzar’s daughters.48 The groom, Guzanu son of Kiribtu, bore the family name Ararru (“miller”), indicative of his descent from an urban elite family. This family name is attested exclusively in documentation from Babylon,49 suggesting that this

(ed. Uri Gabbay and Shai Secunda; Texte und Studien zum antiken Judentum 160; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 109–30, 120. 45 Bloch, “Judeans in Sippar and Susa,” 129–32. 46 Bloch, “Judeans in Sippar and Susa,” 146 suggests that the name may be a qaṭalṭal/qaṭalṭāl form of the West Semitic root gdd, “to cut,” and that the first vowel may be shewa resulting from vowel elision; this would point to a Hebrew or Aramaic origin for the name. Martha Tobi Roth, Babylonian Marriage Agreements: 7th–3rd Centuries B.C. (AOAT 222; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1989), 94 noted the possible derivation either from Akk qudādu, “small child,” or from gudadû attested in Neo-Babylonian personal names. Bloch, “Judeans in Sippar and Susa,” n. 62 objects to Roth’s interpretation on the ground that it doesn’t account for the consistent orthographic pattern of the syllables –da(d)da in the name of the bride’s mother.” For qudādu, see CAD Q 293, qudādu, “small child, lexical,” and note that the CAD points the reader to the near homophone gudādû when considering Neo-Babylonian personal names. 119: gudādû; fem gudādītu. adj. meaning uncert., occ. only as personal name, limited to NB. Nbk 366:1 mgu-da-du; cf. YOS 7 83:9 and passim: fgu-da-di-tu4 Nbn 253:6 and passim (in all cases referring to slave girls). “Possibly to be considered a variant of qudādu, ‘cripple,’ q.v.” 47 Stephanie Langin-Hooper and Laurie Pearce, “Mammonymy, Maternal-Line Names and Cultural Identification: Clues from the Onomasticon of Hellenistic Uruk,” JAOS 134 (2014): 185–202 offer some observations about the influence of maternal-line cultural background on naming processes in the context of the archival documents of Hellenistic Uruk. An extension of the approach they took to the onomastic data of the long sixth century would contribute to the development of data that would support investigation of the reflection of a mothers’ cultural background in the naming patterns of offspring. 48 Paul-Alain Beaulieu, “Ba’u-Asītu and Kaššaya, Daughters of Nebuchadnezzar II,” Or. 67/2 (1998): 173–201. 49 Cornelia Wunsch, “Babylonische Familiennamen,” in Babylonien und seine Nachbarn in neu- und spätbabylonischer Zeit: wissenschaftliches Kolloquium aus Anlass des 75. Geburtstags von Joachim Oelsner, Jena, 2. und 3. März 2007 (ed. Manfred Krebernik

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Judean girl from Sippar married not only into a Babylonian family, but into a Babylon family. In addition to the benefits of increased economic and social power that marriage generally bestowed, 50 the attested close connections between the Babylon and Sippar economies may have motivated this specific union.51 The composition of the witness lists of the near-duplicate marriage documents associated with Kaššaya’s marriage supports this notion. While it is difficult to assess the suggestion that differences in the composition of the witness lists indicate displeasures on the part of Kaššaya’s brothers over details of the marriage arrangement,52 the two witness lists share all but three names. As expected in a marriage document, witnesses represent both families/parties involved in the transaction. Those that they have in common are either royal merchants or individuals with family names.53 All of the witnessand Hans Neumann; AOAT 369; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2014), 289–314, 303; for attestations, see VAS 3 53:13, Nbk 137:15; Nbn 600:4; RA 19 85:14. 50 Martha Tobi Roth, “The Dowries of the Women of the Itti-Marduk-Balāṭu Family,” JAOS 111 (1991): 19–37, 19: “In each generation, the family acquired more wealth (real estate, silver, slaves, household goods) in the dowries of its daughters-in-law than it expended on those of its daughters. The imbalance in material wealth may be compensated in part by such unrecoverable factors as social prestige and the long-range economic advantages of association with the family.” 51 Jursa speaks of “economic geography” (Aspects of the Economic History of Babylonia, 754–756) as a way of encapsulating the many and varied forms of communication and interaction between Babylonian cities and between Babylonian cities and their semiperipheral urban and rural contacts. Among the connections described is the Babylon network that included Borsippa, and which “probably blended with the region of influence of Kiš (and Cutha) in the east and of Sippar in the north, creating the most closely integrated economic space within Babylonia in this period.” John P. Nielsen, Sons and Descendants: A Social History of Kin Groups and Family Names in the Early Neo-Babylonian Period, 747–626 B.C. (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 127ff summarizes the social and political relationship between Sippar and Babylon in the early Neo-Babylonian period, the time of transition from the Neo-Assyrian to Neo-Babylonian empires. In this period, in comparison to Babylon, Borsippa and Dilbat, there is a much smaller quantity of documentation from Sippar, Kish, Cutha, and Der. Of this, Nielsen notes (Sons and Descendants, 128): “It would would be a mistake, however, to characterize these four cities as peripheral sites that were reliant upon a central place represented by Babylon: Assyria to the north, Elam to the east, and the Chaldeans and Arameans who inhabited Babylonia all exerted their own political and cultural influences.” The extent to which the spheres of political and economic independence and connectedness of the early Neo-Babylonian period may be described with the C–P vocabulary (core, periphery, semi-periphery, external), or whether such divisions (if they exist) carry over into the Neo-Babylonian period are not discussed here. 52 Bloch, “Judeans in Sippar and Susa,” 132. 53 Appearing in BM 68921 (Bloch, “Judeans in Sippar and Susa,” text 2; Roth, Babylonian Marriage Agreements, text 26 ) but not in BM 65149 (Bloch, “Judeans in Sippar and Susa,” text 1; Roth, Babylonian Marriage Agreements, text 26) are three additional persons identified with a clan name, two brothers of the bride, and one name instance that probably

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es identified as royal merchants appear in both texts and have at least one West Semitic (if not Yahwistic) element in their two-tier filiation statements. The foreign (peripheral) background of those witnesses would likely have been known to all involved in the transaction, and is, in fact consistent with other evidence that the ranks of the tamkār šarri were populated by individuals of non-Babylonian background. Evidence of “archers at the disposal of a tamkāru,” provided to accompany a merchant on an authorized, potentially dangerous trip54 to a point at some distance from the core55 demonstrates the protection they received from the crown, and thus, their relationship to it. It seems reasonable to suggest that, if the non-Babylonian names among the identified royal merchants indicate foreign origin or background, there were practical reasons for the preponderance of foreigners in this professional category, and their utility to the crown facilitated their integration into the royal service.56 Although no direct connection can be established between the Judean tamkār šarri and the earliest appearance of Judeans at Sippar, the early date of their presence in that northern city may be considered as a factor contributing to their integration into Sipparean society, and as an indicator of Babylonian lack of concern about individuals’ peripheral origins. BE 8 141, written in Nippur and dated to the accession year of Sîn-šum-līšir (626 B.C.E.), documents the participation of a Judean, Girrema,57 along with a number of individuals with Babylonian names in a transaction connected with the Sippar Ebabbar temple’s purchase of sheep from central and southern Mesopota-

reflects a confusion in the orthography of the name of the fifth witness in BM 65149 (Bēlēṭir/Nabû-iddin vs. Bēl-iddin!/Nabû-iddin). BM 65149 includes one witness (Šamaš-aplauṣur/Nādin) who does not appear in BM 68921. Apart from Ararru, which is limited to the Babylonia environment, the family names which are attested for the witnesses for the groom’s side, i.e., Isinnāia, Ilē’i-Marduk, and Pahhāru, are old family names attested in both Sippar and Babylon (Wunsch, “Babylonische Familiennamen,” 302ff). 54 CT 56 551; Muhammed A. Dandamaev, “The Neo-Babylonian Tamkārū,” in Solving Riddles and Untying Knots: Biblical, Epigraphic, and Semitic Studies in Honor of Jonas C. Greenfield (ed. Ziony Zevit, Seymour Gitin, and Michael Sokoloff; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1995), 523–30, 526. 55 Jursa, Aspects of the Economic History of Babylonia, 767 n. 3817. 56 Bloch, “Judeans in Sippar and Susa,” 132 largely agrees with this view. He is more speculative than I in suggesting that some of the many foreigners in the royal merchant service might have been promoted to that profession on the basis of their reputations and mercantile abilities, and this in spite of their extra-Babylonian origin. The increased receptivity of the crown to foreigners in this royal service should be viewed in pragmatic terms rather than as a reflection of a bias held by the urban elite against “others” (see Bloch, “Judeans in Sippar and Susa,” 132 n. 32). 57 Bloch, “Judeans in Sippar and Susa,” 123 n. 8; Zadok, “Judeans in Babylonia,” 110.

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mia.58 This early evidence of the presence of Judeans in Babylonia may reflect further southward movement of Judeans or Israelites, descendants of individuals deported in the Neo-Assyrian period, who may have already been in northern Mesopotamia. The appearance of Israelites and Judeans in Upper Mesopotamia from 732 B.C.E., and of Judeans in Babylonia already in 602 B.C.E., establishes a chronological framework that would account for the growth of a community, and would provide sufficient time for them to migrate to Babylonia, to towns like Sippar, with its massive temple economy and ties to the crown that could lead to the formation of socio-economic groups such as the attested cohort of royal merchants. 59 Such a scenario makes clear that while originally peripheral, Judeans in Babylonia were quickly and completed counted in the productive economic interchanges of the core population. 2. Susa Evidence of Judeans in imperial centers is known from Achaemenid Susa. Cuneiform documentation produced in the imperial capital of Susa directly attesting a Judean presence consists solely of two documents, which have been discussed previously in connection with the formation and perpetuation of Judean identity.60 OECT 10 15261 is a note concerning a one mina debt of silver owed by one Babylonian to another. It originates in the Egibi archive,62 situating it in the private entrepreneurial sector of the Babylonian economy. The witness list contains a single Yahwistic name, Yāḫû-šar-uṣur/Šamaš-iddin, among a bevy of good Babylonian names. That name adheres to the form of the Beamtenname (officials’ names), thus locating its holder in the ranks of the administration. VS 6 15563 records a debt that “arose from the payment of corvée of the king charged against the chariot land of the qīpu of Ezida … Among the witnesses appear the qīpu of Esagil, the representative of the

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For a discussion of the location of the attested participants in the Sippar milieu inspite of the tablet having been written in Nippur, see Clay, Legal and Commercial Transactions, 1–2. 59 Zadok, “Judeans in Babylonia,” 110. 60 As in, e.g., Bloch, “Judeans in Sippar and Susa.” 61 OECT 10 152 (=Ash 1878.005) is discussed in Bloch, “Judeans in Sippar and Susa,” 161–64. 62 Wunsch, “The Egibi Family,” in The Babylonian World (ed. Gwendolyn Leick; New York: Routledge, 2007), 232–42 provides a general introduction to the Babylon-based Egibi family and its entrepreneurial activities. 63 VS 6 155 (=VAT 5050) dates to 6 Arahsamnu 29 Dar I (=493 B.C.E.). A full edition of the text appears in Bloch, “Judeans in Sippar and Susa,” 164–65.

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šušānus and the qīpu of the Edurgina temple in Bāṣ.”64 Another of those witnesses was a Judean whose non-Yahwistic name Šabbatāia (son of Nabû-šarbulliṭ) is etymologized as “the one of (born on) the Sabbath,” a name which references a cultically significant day considered diagnostic of a Judean background. 65 Thus, in this text, the single Judean (whose father bears a Beamtenname, indicating his enrollment in the royal service)66 comes in direct contact with the qīpu, an official, “an outsider brought in by the king to supervise judicial and economic affairs of interest to the crown.”67 In contact with royal appointees and communities of Babylonians who traveled from urban centers in Babylonia to the Achaemenid capital, these Judeans appear to have been well-integrated into a social environment. 3. Judeans in the Rural Economy: The Land Behind Nippur Within both the Neo-Babylonian and Achaemenid empires, the core may be construed as a large region. However, distinctions that exist between the documentation from the major urban centers of Borsippa, Babylon, Sippar, Uruk and from cities such as Nippur and its environs may point to the need to refine and reapply the terminology of C–P in analyzing the sources. This is evident when the aforementioned evidence for Judeans in the urban centers of Sippar and Susa is considered against that from Nippur and the hinterlands in the triangle defined by Nippur, Karkara, and Kēš – the texts of the Murašû, āl-Yāḫūdu, and related corpora.68 These provide the most abundant and intimate information about the Judeans in Babylonia, and the texts from ālYāḫūdu and environs most closely approximate a bottom-up perspective on the Judean situation. Thus, the āl-Yāḫūdu texts afford an important balance to the otherwise primarily top-down nature of the cuneiform sources. It is striking that the possibility of more closely examining the Judean deportees’ economic conditions and their relationship to the imperial core comes in part from documentation from Nippur, which, in the NeoBabylonian and Achaemenid periods, stands apart from other economic cen64 Caroline Waerzeggers, “Babylonians in Susa: The Travels of Babylonian ‘Businessmen’ to Susa Reconsidered,” in Der Achämenidenhof = The Achaemenid Court: Akten des 2. Internationalen Kolloquiums zum Thema “Vorderasien im Spannungsfeld klassischer und alt-orientalischer Überlieferungen” (ed. Bruno Jacobs and Robert Rollinger; Classica et Orientale 2; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2010), 777–813, 783. 65 Coogan, West Semitic Personal Names, 84. 66 Wilhelm Eilers, Iranische Beamtennamen in der keilschriftlichen Überlieferung (Abhandlungen für die Kunde des Morgenlandes 25/5; Leipzig: Brockhaus, 1940); Michael P. Streck, “Das Onomastiken der Beamten am neubabylonischen Ebabbar-Tempel in Sippar,” ZA 91 (2001): 110–19. 67 Caroline Waerzeggers, The Ezida Temple of Borsippa: Priesthood, Cult, Archives (Achaemenid History 15; Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten, 2010), 42. 68 For the location of āl-Yāḫūdu in this areas see CUSAS 28, p. 6.

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ters of the empire. Without documentation from temple complexes such as those of Uruk, Sippar and Borsippa, the private archives of Nippur provide an entirely different perspective. In spite of a geographic position that would have facilitated interactions with many cities, Nippur stood “nearly entirely outside the geographical area in which the administration of Ebabbar operated.” Moreover, “… Nippur also had no … importance for Uruk and the Eanna archive.”69 This observation about the relationship (or lack thereof) between Nippur and Uruk is interesting in light of indirect evidence from the āl-Yāḫūdu and related texts that suggests that individuals from Uruk may have had connections to communities in the region. Uruk lay beyond the southern vertex of the Nippur-Karkara-Kēš triangle in which āl-Yāḫūdu is thought to have been located. However, the corpus preserves a small group of texts that span the reigns of Nabonidus to Xerxes and include a number of Anu- names.70 There is an increasing number of personal names compounded with the divine name Anu in texts from Uruk from the latest years of the Neo-Babylonian period on. This shift in the onomasticon is an indication of the restoration of Anu worship, which had waned at Uruk after its third-millennium heyday,71 and finds dramatic expression in the onomasticon of the Hellenistic Uruk text corpus. The specificity of Anu- names are to Uruk make it quite unlikely that the individuals bearing them who appear in this group hailed from elsewhere.72

69 Jursa, Aspects of the Economic History of Babylonia, 116–17. This assessment of Nippur’s geographic isolation reminds us that many features contribute to the defininition of cores and peripheries. 70 Anu appears in personal names in CUSAS 28, 51:15; BaAr 6 18:7, 32:12, 66:13, 67:7, 71:5, 80:2, 85:10; in patronyms in CUSAS 28, 30:15; 34:11; 39:15; 41:13; 52:22, 23; 55:10; BaAr 6 8:29; in a toponym in CUSAS 28, 55; BaAr 6 19:5, 9. The orthographies and meanings of the names are discussed in CUSAS 28, 39–40. 71 Paul-Alain Beaulieu, “Antiquarian Theology in Seleucid Uruk,” ASJ 14 (1992): 47– 76. 72 Joachim Oelsner, “Gesellschaft und Wirtschaft des seleukidischen Babylonien: Einige Beobachtungen in den Keilschrifttexten aus Uruk,” Klio 63 (1981): 39–44, 44; Beaulieu, “Antiquarian Theology,” 53ff; idem, The Pantheon of Uruk During the NeoBabylonian Period (CM 23; Leiden and Boston: Brill/STYX, 2003), 330; Heather D. Baker, “Approaches to Akkadian Name-Giving in First-Millennium BC Mesopotamia,” in Mining the Archives: Festschrift for Christopher Walker on the Occasion of His 60th Birthday, 4 October 2002 (ed. Cornelia Wunsch; BaAr 1; Dresden: ISLET, 2002), 1–24, 12. See Hans Martin Kümmel, Familie, Beruf und Amt im spätbabylonischen Uruk: Prosopographische Untersuchungen zu Berufsgruppen des 6. Jahrhunderts v.Chr. in Uruk (Abhandlungen der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft 20; Berlin: Mann, 1979) for the small percentage of Anu- names in sixth-century Uruk, and Matthew W. Stolper, “Late Achaemenid Texts from Uruk and Larsa,” BaM 21 (1990): 559–621, plates (p. 561) for assigning

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Two texts, which admittedly do not preserve Anu- names, do, however, identify residents of the āl-Yāḫūdu environs engaged in transactions related to fishing activity, which may have brought them into contact with the Uruk region. 73 CUSAS 28: 59 is a promissory note for silver, written on 15.i.2 Cyrus (537 B.C.E.) in the town of Ḫimuru. The Babylonian Bēl-īpuš owes the West Semite Aḫ-immê five shekels of silver, the price equivalent of the fish provided to Bēl-īpuš. BaAr 6: 23, also written early in the reign of Cyrus, is a promissory note for 7,000 fish owed to Aḫīqar, the principle actor in the Bīt Našar texts. These texts may suggest that some of the West Semites who inhabited the Nippur-Karkara-Kēš triangle extended their business activities out in the direction of Uruk, the hinterlands of which had watercourses, ponds, and swamps that supported fishing. Indirectly these texts raise the possibility that āl-Yāḫūdu and environs served as a contact point for individuals from two urban centers, Nippur and Uruk that otherwise demonstrated little interaction at higher levels; if correct, this would point to āl-Yāḫūdu’s betweenness relative to Nippur and Uruk. Within the āl-Yāḫūdu documents themselves, the Judeans appear in a variety of roles that record their participation at a number of levels in the activities and administration of the land-for-service sector. This is apparent when considering the genealogy and activities of Aḫīqam son of Rapā-Yāma,74 the most documented figure in the āl-Yāḫūdu texts. Based on the dates of the texts in which Rapā-Yāma is active, 561–533 B.C.E., years which span the reigns of the Neo-Babylonian king Amēl-Marduk through the early part of Cyrus’s reign, it is reasonable to suggest that Samak-Yāma was born in Judah and deported as a young child or in Babylonia. The story of Aḫīqam’s family coincides with the chronological arc of the Judean exile. CUSAS 28:7 (written in year 5 of Nabonidus, 551 B.C.E.) records a standard promissory note for barley designated for rent. Rapā-Yāma is to pay it at the estate of the rab mūgi (biblical rab mag, Jer 39:3), indicating that the landlord Enlil-šar-uṣur was already engaged in the subleasing of land in the land-for-service system. Enlil-šar-uṣur’s Beamtenname further contextualizes Rapā-Yāma’s participation in the ranks of the Babylonian economic system; while Rapā-Yāma occupies a low rung, the ladder extends from him or members of his family to high levels of the administrative hierarchies. CUSAS 28: 17 || BaAr 6: 6 records Aḫīqam’s payment of four mina of silver to Iddinâ son

a post-Darius I date to those Achaemenid Uruk texts with a demonstrable presence of Anunames or patronyms. 73 Kristin Kleber, “Die Fischerei in der spätbabylonischen Zeit,” WZKM 94 (2004): 134–65 for records from Uruk archives dealing with fish. Jursa, Aspects of the Economic History of Babylonia, 28 notes that little documentation exists for the hunting, fishing, and bird hunting that occurred in and around the marshlands. 74 For the family tree of Aḫīqam, see CUSAS 28, p. 8.

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of Šinqā, the deputy (šanû) of the rab urāti.75 Elsewhere in the corpus (e.g., CUSAS 28:19), the relationship of Iddinâ to the political administration is made clear, as he is the one who receives payments in his capacity as manger of lands that are under the authority of Uštānu, governor of the province of Across-the-River. CUSAS 28:9 is a promissory note issued for a small amount of silver which Rapā-Yāma is obligated to repay. The guarantor, Umadatû bears an Iranian name, and the transaction takes place in a town named for an Arabian. About five months earlier, a promissory note (CUSAS 28:8) was issued to Rapā-Yāma for quantities of dates and barley to be delivered to a landsman, Ṭūb-Yāma, in the town that bears his name. Together, these attest to Judeans having been assigned lands and holdings as early as 551 B.C.E.,76 the likelihood that there were several settlements that could be identified as Judean in the area, and the pronounced multi-cultural composition of the landscape. These resettled people, whose origins in the peripheries are assumed on the basis of the etymologies of their names, now occupied a level of production in the economy of the imperial core. When Aḫīqam becomes active in the documentation, he appears to assume the mantle of Rapā-Yāma’s activities, presumably on his death; CUSAS 28:13 records Aḫīqam’s efforts to clear a small debt outstanding against his father. Aḫīqam expands the family assets and the scale of participation in the agricultural land-for-service sector of the economy. The duplicate documents that describe the division of property among Aḫīqam’s five known sons capture a snapshot of some of his success. The texts CUSAS 28:45 || HBM 8 are the only ones in the Aḫīqam dossier to have been drawn up in Babylon. They stipulated that two sons, Nīr-Yāma and Yāḫû-azza, received as their share a slave woman, Nanâ-biḫi, and 10 vats; three other sons, Ḫagga, Yāḫû-izrī, and Yāḫûšu, received 8 vats and the slave Abdī-Yāḫû. The unusual grouping of heirs and portions of the holdings, combined with the years in which the sons were active, suggest that they were the offspring of two different women. The items are not unusual to have been included in an inheritance division, but the fact that the text comprises only these is unexpected; typically, inheritance documents include house parts, 75 Iddinâ son of Šinqā appears in CUSAS 28: 14, 15, 17|| BaAr 6: 6, 18, 19, 20, and 21. Texts that clarify Iddinâ’s position as subordinate to Uštānu, governor of Across-the-River (see Matthew W. Stolper, “The Governor of Babylon and Across-the-River in 486 B. C.,” JNES 48 (1989): 283–305 for more on this individual and title) also indirectly provide us with evidence of Aḫīqam’s standing in the administrative hierarchy. In the aforementioned texts in which Iddinâ appears, Aḫīqam appears as a witness (CUSAS 28: 14, 19, 20), a debtor (CUSAS 28: 17|| BaAr 6: 6, 18), and does not appear in nos. 15, 21. 76 CUSAS 28:2 provides evidence of a Judean granted a bīt azanni, “quiverfief,” a rare equivalent for the better attested bīt qašti, “bow fief.” The year is broken, but the text can be securely dated to the reign of Nebuchadnezzar II.

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further inventory of household items, and descriptions of plots of land. In view of the modest value of the goods, it is unlikely that the property in and of itself prompted a trip to Babylon in order to resolve this family matter. Had the sons been in Babylon on some other business matter that required access to administrative or legal officials, they could have resolved the smaller issue in connection with their other business.77 Thus, in the rural community of āl-Yāḫūdu, Aḫīqam participated in a standard economic process, achieved a modicum of success, and interacted with levels of the administration that led all the way up to the provincial governor (and ultimately to the king). On a much smaller scale, his dealings greatly resemble those attested in the later Murašû texts. As a participant in activities that may described as “Murašû in its infancy,” Aḫīqam is emblematic of the deportee (or descendant of one) who integrated completely into the economic model and participated in the imperial core’s production model.

F. Summary Ben Zvi spoke of a process of “relative hierarchical branching,” which structures the process by which an entity shifts between being core and peripheral.78 In broad terms, the Judeans may be seen in this light. As a population group in their home territory, they inhabited the periphery of the Babylonian empire; as deportees in Babylonia, they could have remained economically peripheral, that is, in a relationship defined by the core powers extracting labor and capital from them in exchange for benefits that the state could provide. To some degree, it could be said that occurred. But the textual evidence attests to Judean integration into the economy and core at levels commensurate with those of native, as well as other non-native, population groups. In light of that, the Judeans in Babylonia should be viewed as part of the core, although their precise level in that division remains to be fully defined. 77 One hypothetical scenario is offered simply as an example of conditions that might have prompted such a trip: CUSAS 28:16 records a pre-litigation debate between Aḫīqam and Nadab-Yāma. At issue was Aḫīqam’s claim that Nadab-Yāma had taken dates that he, Aḫīqam, was supposed to collect from the assessed farmers because he had made the assessment. The document, as is typical for the genre, did not resolve the issue. If such a conflict remained unresolved at the time of Aḫīqam’s death, the sons and heirs, now responsible for the family fortunes, might have looked to judges in Babylon to resolve the matter. While there, the sons could have availed themselves to resolve any outstanding family and inheritance law matters, e.g., the inheritance division preserved to this day. While the scenario is plausible, it is not certain that the pre-litigation document CUSAS 28:16, dated to 12 Darius, would have remained unresolved until 16 Darius, the year in which the inheritance document CUSAS 28:45 was composed. 78 Cf. p. 26 in this vol.

Centre, Periphery, and Interference Notes on the “Passover/Mazzot”-Letter from Elephantine Bob Becking A. The Mappa Mundi Perspective When children are invited to draw a map of the world, they have the inclination to set their own home, street, or village in the centre. This approach is more than understandable since we start to explore the world from our own position. It is only later in life that we are beginning to understand that our position in the world is fortuitous. Next to that it took a genius like Galileo to understand that the earth is not the centre of the cosmos but only an occasional nullity in the vast emptiness of this universe. This ego-centrality is not exclusivity for children. The medieval mappa mundi – on display in the Cathedral of Hereford, England – takes Jerusalem as the centre of the world authenticating areas as the British Isles, sub-Saharan Africa, and the subcontinent of India as peripheral.1 Until this day, politicians from all over the world apply an inclusive we-language that subtly confirms the idea that the capital city of their country is to be regarded as the centre of the world.2

B. A Social Science Model In the social sciences a model has been developed to describe the relationship between the core of a society and its more remote parts.3 The spatial metaphor “centre and periphery” can be applied to all sorts of structural relationships: the metropolitan centre of a nation versus its countryside; the leading On the mappa mundi see Paul D. A. Harvey, Mappa mundi: The Hereford World Map (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1996); Naomi R. Kline, Maps of Medieval Thought: The Hereford Paradigm (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2001). 2 See, e.g., John M. Hobson, The Eurocentric Conception of World Politics: Western International Theory, 1760–2010 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). 3 These theories are presented and assessed by Ehud Ben Zvi, “Introductory Centre/Core-Periphery Considerations and the Case of Interplaying of Rigid and Flexible Constructions of Centre and Periphery among the Literati of the Late Persian/Early Hellenistic Period,” in this volume. 1

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key-figures in a community verses the “sleeping members;” the industrialized rich part of the world versus the developing countries. The metaphor has a pejorative force since it declares a certain part of a society or a community as the better part of it. The model is drenched in the ideological frame of “us” versus “them.” “We” are the vital centre where all the good ideas and impulses come from, “they” are economically and mentally retarded. In the Netherlands, many inhabitants of the city of Amsterdam are of the opinion that civilization ends at the limes of their hometown. A fair warning is at stake. Centre and periphery are mutually dependent. To give one simple example: if the periphery did not produce food for and supply raw materials to the centre, the centre would eventually collapse. On the other hand: the periphery quite often suffers under the demands of the centre. Nevertheless, the periphery is defended by the centre against intruders from outside. Despite this possible pitfall, the model can be used to describe the fabric of ancient cultures. It can also be of help to better understand the machinery that triggered changes as will be made clear by an example from the Persian Period.

C. Elephantine In the fifth century B.C.E., a Persian border garrison was located on the island of Elephantine as well as on the mainland in Syene in southern Egypt. Mercenaries from various ethnic groups were conscripted by the Persians to help defend their southern border. Papyri and ostraca – in Aramaic and Demotic – were excavated in the early years of the twentieth century. The documents are now scattered around the world. Museums in Berlin, Paris, and New York – to mention only the most important – possess parts of the material. Unfortunately, not all inscriptions have as yet been published. These written documents, together with some archaeological findings, open a window into the daily life of this multi-ethnic garrison city. One of the ethnic groups on the island as well as on the mainland is indicated in Aramaic as the yhwdy’.4 Over the last century, various and sometimes contradictory proposals have been formulated as to the origin and provenance of the Yehudites in Elephantine/Syene. I will not enter here into a full discussion of all the proposals and their implications. Suffice it to say that all proposals are to be seen as latter day constructions of the past that do not express the self-awareness of the Yehudites. For the moment, I tend to think that the Yehudites have come to See generally Bezalel Porten, Archives from Elephantine: The Life of an Ancient Jewish Military Colony (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1968). Although this book has great merits for the study of Elephantine, it is slowly becoming obsolete. 4

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Elephantine in various waves: during the reign of king Manasseh of Judah, after the Babylonian conquest of Jerusalem, and during the Persian period as recruits from the province Yehud and from the city al Yahudah in Southern Mesopotamia. It is important to note that these Yehudites formed one of the at least ten different ethnic groups. As I have argued elsewhere the population of the border garrison consisted of persons from over ten different ethnic groups: Persians, Egyptians, Yehudites, Aramaens, Medes, Khwarezmians, Caspians, Bactrians, Carians, Cilicians, Phoenicians, Lybians, and Arabians.5 It is not certain that all non-Persian or Egyptian groups were mercenaries in the border-garrison. The Phoenicians, most probably, were present at Elephantine for trade interests.6 This implies that the Yahwistic community had to negotiate their religious and ethnic identity in confrontation with other groups and belief systems. For the greatest part of the fifth century these groups lived in relative harmony with each other. Conflicts only arose in the last two decades. The Egyptians strived to regain their independence. This goal was reached in 398 B.C.E. In the same period the Persian power was weakened as a result of the wars against the Greek city-states and more recently by the quarrels after the death of Artaxerxes. 1. An Important but Enigmatic Document Among the documents from Elephantine there is an interesting letter that is generally known as the “Passover-Letter” (Papyrus Berlin P. 13464; TADAE A.4.1). Below, I will argue whether this label is correct or not. First, I would like to present a translation of this badly damaged document based on a recent photograph made at the Staatliches Museum zu Berlin:7 Recto 1. [… J]edaniah and his colleagues of the Yehudite f[orce], [from] your brother Hanania[h]. May God […] the welfare of my brothers. 2. […] And now, this year, year 5 of Darius the king, from the king has been sent to Ars[ames …] 3. […………………………] you will count fou[r ……] 4. [……………………… of]fer. You will count from day 15 up to day 21 of [……] 5. [………………………….] be undefiled and be complied work [……………] 6. [………………………… ] you will not drink; and anything that is leavened, you shall not […]

Bob Becking, “The Identity of the People at Elephantine,” in St. Andrews Elephantine Volume (ed. Margaretha L. Folmer et al.; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, forthcoming). 6 See Josette Elayi, Histoire de la Phénicie (Paris: Perrin, 2013), 237–54. 7 See: http://elephantine.smb.museum/record/ID100463/. 5

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Verso 7. [………………………....] setting of the sun until day 21 of Nisa[n …………] 8. [……………………… b]ring to your chambers and seal (it) between the days […] 9. [ ] 10. […….] my power; Jedaniah and his colleagues of the Yehudite force, your brother Hananiah, son of […]

2. A few Remarks on the Translation Line 1. The reading ḥ[jl’], “force,” as is generally accepted, is supported by the repetition of the phrase “his colleagues of the Yehudite force” in line 10. Line 2. The demonstrative pronoun z’ clearly has a deictic function referring to the then actual year.8 Line 6. Grelot suggests that the object of (non-)drinking would have been škr, “beer.” He refers to some passages in Mishnaic law that indicate that the drinking on Passover of zythos, an Egyptian beer, was forbidden. This argument is, however, not convincing.9 Line 10. The first sign in this line has generally been read as an ’āleph. Hence the first word was read ’ḥy, “my brothers,” as an indication for “Jedaniah and his colleagues.” Except from the fact that it is uncertain whether ’ḥy is a noun in the plural with a first person singular suffix,10 the sign on the photograph differs too much from the other ’āleph’s in the text. In my view, the sign should be read as a kaph leading to a word kḥy, “my power,” indicating the role of Hananiah in the Persian rule. As far as I can see, the noun kḥ, well known in Biblical Hebrew, is not attested elsewhere in Ancient or Persian period Aramaic inscriptions. In the Aramaic of the Targumim the noun occurs a few times.11 3. General Remarks Ever since the discovery of this document, the gaps in the texts have been filled with the use of passages from the Hebrew Bible and Jewish tradition.

8 See Takamitsu Muraoka and Bezalel Porten, A Grammar of Egyptian Aramaic: Second Revised Edition (HdO 1/32; Leiden: Brill, 2003), § 41a. 9 Pierre Grelot, “Études sur le ‘Papyrus Pascal’ d’Éléphantine,” VT 4 (1954): 361–62; see also Porten, Archives, 82, 129; Angela Rohrmoser, Götter, Tempel und Kult der JudäoAramäer von Elephantine: Archäologische und schriftliche Zeugnisse aus dem perserzeitlichen Ägypten (AOAT 396; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2014), 384–85. 10 See, e.g., Margaretha L. Folmer, The Aramaic Language in the Achaemenid Period: A Study in Linguistic Variation (OLA 68; Leuven: Peeters, 1995), 211; Muraoka and Porten, Grammar of Egyptian Aramaic, § 12. 11 See Targ Ps 16:3; 22:31; 71:18; 80:3; Job 36:19 and Ruth 3:15.

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Already William Arnold (1912) produced a full and flowing text.12 This tradition has been continued even in the critical edition of Porten and Yardeni.13 As a result, a text emerges in which clear instructions can be read concerning the character of the Passover festival. Erasmus Gass – correctly – warned for the pitfall of over-interpretation and circular reasoning.14 Already Edouard Sachau classified this text as “Sendschreiben betreffend das Passafest.” 15 The letter is commonly known as the “Passover-letter.” I will return to this classification later. Suffice it for now to make the observation that the text as we now have it contains a few references into the direction of a spring festival: – The fragmentary clause “You will count from day 15 up to day 21 of” could refer to the days of the Mazzot-festival. The fifteenth day is mentioned in Lev 23:6–8 and Num 28:17 as the starting day of this festival; – The Aramaic noun ḥmyr, “leavened” (line 6), is quite well-known from the Targumim as the Aramaic cognate of Hebrew ḥāmēṣ; – The clause in line 6 reminds of the prohibition in Exod 12:10 “You shall eat nothing leavened;” – Most probably the Month Nisan is mentioned in line 7: “Nisa[n …………].”16 The absence of words like psḥ, “Passover,” or mṣwt, “unleavened bread,” in the parts of the letter that survived the ages indicates that an exact reference to a specific festival cannot be established. We are left with relative uncertainty. Nevertheless the letter makes clear that on behalf of the Persian administration instructions were given for a Yehudite festival.

William R. Arnold, “The Passover Papyrus from Elephantine,” JBL 31 (1912): 1–33. See, e.g., Pierre Grelot, “Le papyrus pascal d’Éléphantine nouvel examen,” VT 17 (1967): 114–17; Porten, Archives from Elephantine, 128–30; Jan A. Wagenaar, Origin and Transformation of the Ancient Israelite Festival Calendar (BZAR 6; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2005), 142–43. 14 Erasmus Gass, “Der Passa-Papyrus (Cowl 211): Mythos oder Realität?,” BN 99 (1999): 55–68; his view was adapted by Dirk Schwiderski, Die alt-und reichsaramäischen Inschriften: Texte und Bibliographie (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004), 2:6; Lester L. Grabbe, A History of Jews and Judaism in the Second Temple Period (LSTS 47; London and New York: Continuum, 2004), 1:211–12; Anke Joisten-Pruschke, Das religiöse Leben der Juden von Elephantine in der Achämenidenzeit (Iranica N.F. 2; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2008), 151–57; Rohrmoser, Götter, Tempel und Kult der Judäo-Aramäer von Elephantine, 342–44. 15 Eduard Sachau, Aramäische Papyrus und Ostraka aus einer jüdischen MilitärKolonie zu Elephantine: Altorientalische Sprachdenkmäler des 5. Jahrhunderts vor Chr. (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1911), 36. 16 See also Wagenaar, Origin and Transformation, 142–43; Rohrmoser, Götter, Tempel und Kult der Judäo-Aramäer von Elephantine, 341–42. 12

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D. Sender and Address The address of the letter is clear. It was to be received by the leaders of the Yehudite community. Jedaniah – referred to in a couple of other documents from the same period – is apparently seen as the spokesman and contactperson. The sender is less clear. Of course the document refers to a certain Hananiah as the author of the letter. He functioned as some sort of a civil servant for Yehudite affairs under the satrap Arsames.17 He must have had a double loyalty being a Yehudite in the Persian administration since he was both peripheral and central at the same time.18 A few things, however, are unclear. It is uncertain from where the letter has been sent. Three options are open: – From the administrative seat of Hananiah, probably in Memphis; – From the Yehudite temple in Jerusalem; – From the imperial palace in Susa or Ecbatana. The second possibility is only optional. Other than in the request for the rebuilding of the temple, the “Passover-mazzot-letter” does not contain a reference to Jerusalem or Samaria. The uncertainty about the sender is connected to two other questions. Firstly, line 2 seems to refer a memorandum sent by King Darius to Ars[ames …]. Darius here is Darius II. Ars[ames …] refers to Arsames the satrap who was in charge of Egypt in the latter years of the fifth century. It seems unlikely that the present letter would have been the memorandum sent to Arsames. It is more likely that Hananiah excerpted the section relevant for the Yehudites from a text that would have contained a variety of topics. Secondly, who was the “real” sender? Or phrased differently: whose power was behind the instructions? It seems unlikely that King Darius himself would have been involved in religious matters in the periphery of his empire. Most probably, he only gave his approval to a suggestion made to him by an advisor. Who, however, was this advisor or group of advisors? What had triggered this advice? Was it a reaction to a request from the Yehudite community at Elephantine? Did the priesthood in Jerusalem broach the subject? All suggestions to this topic remain, unfortunately, speculative in view of the lack of evidence. A few years later a letter was written from Elephantine to On Hananiah see Porten, Archives, 130; Joisten-Pruschke, Das religiöse Leben der Juden von Elephantine, 75. 18 See Porten, Archives, 130; Ingo Kottsieper, “Die Religionspolitik der Achämeniden und die Juden von Elephantine,” in Religion und Religionskontakte im Zeitalter der Achämeniden (ed. Reinhard G. Kratz; VWGTh 22; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlaghaus, 2002), esp. 150–58. See also the remarks on persons at transit positions between centre and periphery made by Ehud Ben Zvi, “Centre/Core-Periphery Considerations.” 17

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Samaria and Jerusalem requesting the rebuilding of the temple of Yahô after its destruction by the priests of Khnum approved by the wicked Vidranga.19 This letter could be seen as comparative evidence but is far from decisive for the view that the Yehudite community in Elephantine itself had requested regulations on the festival. It only opens the possibility but does not rule out other options. Despite all these uncertainties it seems safe to assume that the letter is part of the communication between “centre” and “periphery.” The reference to the Persian king Darius as well as the noun kḥ underscore this assumption. The application of this spatial metaphor to the power-structure of the Persian empire is not just an invention of a latter day historian. As Bruce Lincoln suggested the metaphor is already present in the presentation of Darius I in the rock relief in Behistun.20 On this famous rock-relief, the centrality of Darius, and hence the Persian court, is depicted both pictorial and inscriptional. Darius I is placed at the point of intersection of the horizontal and the vertical axis. On the vertical axis the king is between the good god Ahura-Mazda and the evil rebel Gautama. The deity is looking benevolently to the king. On the horizontal axis he stands between two heroic Persian soldiers and a group of defeated and yet chained rebels depicted as representatives of a variety of people. The inscriptions surrounding the king (DB§6) contain lists of people living in the Persian

19 TADAE A.4.7=8; TUAT I, 254–58; Pierre Grelot, Documents araméens d’Égypte (LAPO 5; Paris: Cerf, 1972), 415; James M. Lindenberger, Ancient Aramaic and Hebrew Letters: Second Edition (SBLWAW 14; Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 2003), n. 33–36; Bezalel Porten et al., The Elephantine Papyri in English (DMOA 22; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 141, 146; Lisbeth Fried, The Priest and the Great King (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2004), 100–101; Grabbe, A History of Jews, 210–12; Amélie Kuhrt, The Persian Empire: A Corpus of Sources from the Achaemenid Period (London and New York: Routledge, 2007), 855–59; Manfred Weippert, Historisches Textbuch zum Alten Testament (GAT 10; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2010), 481–83. See also Bezalel Porten, “The revised draft of the letter of Jedaniah to Bagavahya (TAD A4:8 = Cowley 31),” in Boundaries of the Ancient Near Eastern World (ed. Meir Lubetski, Sharon Keller, and Clair Gottlieb; JSOTSup 273; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 230–42. See Reinhard G. Kratz, “The Second Temple of Jeb and of Jerusalem,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period (ed. Oded Lipschits and Manfred Oeming; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 247–64; Richard C. Steiner, “Bishlam’s Archival Search Report in Nehemiah’s Archive: Multiple Introductions and Reverse Chronological Order as Clues to the Origin of the Aramaic Letters in Ezra 4–6,” JBL 125 (2006): 647, 665, 681–82 (641– 85); Hélène Nutkowicz, “Eléphantine, ultime tragédie,” Transeu 40 (2011): 185–98; Rohrmoser, Götter, Tempel und Kult der Judäo-Aramäer von Elephantine, 240–90. 20 Bruce Lincoln, Religion, Empire, and Torture: The Case of Achaemenian Persia, with a Postscript on Abu Ghraib (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010), 17–23.

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empire in a somewhat geographical order. 21 The ideology of relief and inscriptions is quite clear. Darius is to be seen as the centre of the earthly realm to whom all nations have to be subservient. Below the relief is the wellknown trilingual inscription narrating in Old-Persian, Elamite and Babylonian Darius’ heroic defeat of his enemies with the help of Ahura-Mazda. An Aramaic version of this inscription has been found at Elephantine.22 This implies that the various ethnic groups in the border garrison must have been aware of the Persian ideology.

E. Centre and Periphery as two Complex Systems Both the Persian administration and the Yehudite community in Elephantine are to be construed as complex systems. The Persian administration was responsible for the order in a vast empire the complexity of which needs no further argument. The Yehudite community in Elephantine was part of a complex system, albeit on a different scale. As noted above the population of the border garrison consisted of persons from over ten different ethnic groups not all of them being mercenaries, however. Indigenous Egyptians and Persians from the administrative echelons completed the multi-ethnic character of the population in and around this fortress. In general, the documents known to us picture an intertwined community with signals of the awareness of otherness. I will give a few examples: – Ahiqar, both novella and proverbs, cannot be assigned to one specific group. It should be noted that Ahiqar is neither a Yahwistic nor a Jewish text, nor a specific Aramean or Persian tradition. The text represents a more general Ancient Near Eastern wisdom. According to Herbert Niehr in his translation the wisdom of Ahiqar was rooted in the Assyro-Aramaic kingdoms of Northern Syria.23 In Elephantine this text was most probably in use as a school-text for the training of writers and officials of all local ethnic groups. Ahiqar contains a tendency to loyalty, prudence, modesty, 21 Recent translation in Kuhrt, The Persian Empire, 141–57. See also Josef Wiesehöfer, Das antike Persien von 550 v.Chr. bis 650 n.Chr. (Zurich and Munich: Artemis & Winkler, 1994), 33–43; Gard Granerød, “By the Favour of Ahuramazda I Am King: On the Promulgation of a Persian Propaganda Text among Babylonians and Judaeans,” JSJ 44 (2013): 455–80. 22 TADAE C2. See Jonas C. Greenfield and Bezalel Porten, The Bisitun Inscription of Darius the Great Aramaic Version: Text, Translation and Commentary (Corpus Inscriptionum Iranicarum I/IV; London: Lund Humphries, 1982). 23 Herbert Niehr, Aramäischer Aḥiqar (JSHRZ NF 2/2; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2007).

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and adaptation. This might imply that the “upper classes” of the various ethnic and/or religious groups in Elephantine were trained in a life style and a worldview that were characterized by the acceptance of the Persian power and an openness to negotiate the identity with “the other.”24 – In the legal document TADAE B.3.9, there is a list of witnesses to the arrangement of an adoption. In this list names of individuals of various origins occur: Aramean, Babylonian, Persian, Yehudite, and Egyptian. – The archives show many examples of what can be mistaken as “identitychange.” At many instances in the indicator PN1 son of PN2 the PN’s have a background in different languages and/or ethnicities.25 I do not construe this phenomenon to be an indication of the adaptation of a different ethnic group by the following generation, but as a sign for the open communication between the groups. In sum: the various groups in Elephantine and Syene did not construe themselves as completely isolated separate ethnic groups. The interaction between the groups and the acceptation of each other’s customs, however, did not lead to a full and complete integration.26 Except for the last twenty years before the Egyptian independence in 398, there are no traces of a concept of “us” versus “them.” Although there was a sense of “otherness,” the “other” was not construed as an outsider. In other words, the population of Elephantine and Syene can be construed as a complex but balanced system that had the capacity of coping with external influences. In general the system was able to stabilize after strife. In the last two decades of the fifth century both systems were on the move and went through a period of change. The Persian administrative system as built up and made almost perfect by Artaxerxes I was losing its grip on the empire. After the death of Artaxerxes I in 424, his son Xerxes II rose to the throne only to rule for a month and a half. His step-brother Sogdianus killed him and claimed the throne. An illegitimate son of Artaxerxes I, Ochus who functioned as satrap of Hyrcania (or Verkâna) an area to the South of the Caspian Sea, rebelled against Sogdanius. After a short struggle Sogdanius was killed. Ochus was crowned as Darius II. His brother Arsites in his turn tried to rebel against Darius, but was unsuccessful. All this bloodshed weakOn Ahiqar see Niehr, Aramäischer Aḥiqar; Michael Weigl, Die aramäischen Achikar-Sprüche aus Elephantine und die alttestamentliche Weisheitsliteratur (BZAW 399; Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, 2010). 25 E.g., Naburai son of Vishtana (Aramean – Persian). 26 See also: Janet H. Johnson, “Ethnic Considerations in Persian Period Egypt,” in Gold of Praise: Studies on Ancient Egypt in Honor of Edward Wente (ed. Emily Teeter and John A. Larson; SAOC 58; Chicago: Oriental Institute, 1999), 211–12; Philip Kaplan, “Crosscultural Contacts among Mercenary Communities in Saite and Persian Egypt,” Mediterranean Historical Review 18 (2003): 1–31. 24

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ened the position of the king as central figure and undermined slowly the accuracy and efficiency of the administration. Already in 465–463 the Egyptians had rebelled against the Persian rule. In coalition with the Lybian chief Inarus, Amyrtaios of Sais fought – albeit in vain – against the Persian Satrap Artaxerxes I.27 The desire for independence, however, did not die. In 411, Amyrtaios grandson Amyrtaios started a rebellion against Darius II leading eventually to the throwing off of the Persian yoke. In 404 Amyrtaios became the first and only Pharaoh of the 28th dynasty, ruling only over the Delta region. Upper Egypt remained under Persian control up to 398 when Nepherites I succeeded in a rebellion and was able to bring all of Egypt under the control of the 29th dynasty. It can be assumed that in the last quarter of the fifth century a growing awareness of Egyptian self-esteem became more and more dominant and that anti-Persian feelings gradually were more and more openly voiced.28 The letter under discussion was sent in the fifth year of King Darius II, in 419–418. This implies that at the level of the histoire conjoncturelle Egypt was on its way to independence. It is my conviction, and not only mine, that complex systems could lose their stability under the influence of external interference. The history of humankind is full of these examples until this day. I would therefore return to the letter with the question in mind to what degree the contents of the letter could be seen as a form of external interference.

F. Interference Despite the fragmentary character of the letter and the uncertainties about its exact interpretation, it can be established that the letter reflects a special arrangement for the Yehudites in and around Elephantine. This arrangement had the support of the Persian administration in the centre of the empire. I will not enter here in a discussion on the concept of the Reichsautorisation, its merits and its weaknesses.29 What seems to be certain is that the Yehudite community was given permission to celebrate a religious festival in a specific way. The absence of evidence for comparable arrangements for the other ethnic groups in and around Elephantine, does not imply that the Yehudites See Porten, Archives, 26; Stephen Ruzicka, Trouble in the West: Egypt and the Persian Empire 525–332 BCE (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), 26–34. 28 See Ruzicka, Trouble in the West, 35–40. 29 Proposed by Peter Frei, “Zentralgewalt und Lokalautonomie im Achämenidenreich,” in Reichsidee und Reichsorganisation im Perserreich (ed. Peter Frei and Klaus Koch; 2nd ed.; OBO 55; Fribourg: Universitätsverlag and Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996), 5–131. There exists an abundance of literature on this topic. 27

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were favoured by the Persians. There always is the possibility that one – or more – of the other groups were granted with an arrangement by the Persian and that the document is still buried in the sand or sleeping in an as yet unopened box in Berlin. The way in which the arrangement for the Yehudite community was perceived by the other ethnic groups or by the local Egyptians, for instance the priests of the Khnum-temple, is unfortunately not documented – as yet. The next few remarks are speculative, but hopefully convincing. In 1923, Arthur Cowley made an interesting proposal that was adopted by Albert Vincent and Pierre Grelot.30 According to them, the letter under discussion unchained a series of events that lead to the later troubles between the Yehudites and the priests of Khnum. Recently, Erasmus Gass and Lester Grabbe developed a variant to this thesis.31 In their view, Darius II or his officials wanted to stabilize ethnic coexistence, but were later confronted with the unforeseen and unintentional outcome of their actions. There is no proof for this assumption and it has been widely dismissed, most recently by Angela Rohrmoser. 32 Those who reject Cowley’s thesis, however, look too much for pieces of evidence at the level of the histoire évenementielle. They are, admittedly, absent. When looking at the level of the histoire conjoncturelle the proposal is far from speculative. In this connexion, the letter TADAE A.4.3 is of importance.33 In this letter sent by Mauziah, the son of Nathan, to Jedania, Uriah and some priests of Yahô an incident and a tendency are referred to. In lines 3–5 Mauziah narrates about his imprisonment: And now, when Vidranag, the Commander of the Garrison, arrived at Abydos, he imprisoned me on account of a dyer’s stone which they found stolen in the hands of the merchants. Eventually, Djecho and Chor, servants of Anani, intervened with Vidranag and Charnufi, with the protection of the God of Heaven, until they rescued me.

This incident can only be read as a hint to the fact that Vidranag – probably out of anti-Yehudite sentiments – abused his power position already before the attack on the temple of Yahô by making false accusations. Thereafter, Mauziah makes a remark at the level of the histoire conjoncturelle: To you it is known that Khnum is against us since Hananiah has been in Egypt until now.34

30 Arthur E. Cowley, Aramaic papyri of the fifth century BC (Oxford: Clarendon, 1923), 62; Albert Vincent, La religion des Judéo-araméens d’Eléphantine (Paris: Geuthner, 1937), 236; Grelot, Documents araméens d’Égypte, 385. 31 Gass, “Der Passa-Papyrus”; Grabbe, History of Jews, 212. 32 Rohrmoser, Götter, Tempel und Kult der Judäo-Aramäer von Elephantine, 345–46. 33 On this text see Porten, Archives, 41–42; Joisten-Pruschke, Das religiöse Leben der Juden von Elephantine, 75. 34 TADAE A.4.3:7; Kottsieper, “Die Religionspolitik der Achämeniden,” 154–55.

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Mauziah assumes that the leadership of the Yehudite community at Elephantine must have been aware that the priests of Khnum had been taken an antiYehudite stand ever since Hananiah became in charge of Yehudite affairs under the satrap Arsames. According to Ingo Kottsieper the openly proYehudite politics of the Persian administrator Hananiah irritated the Khnumpriests. Mauziah’s letter thus underscores my view of a gradually crumbling apart of the pax Persica in upper Egypt. A few years later, the same Mauziah was among those who signed the petition for the rebuilding of the temple of Yahô.35 Construing Elephantine as a peripheral but complex, multi-ethnic community opens the lane for the idea that the core-power in the centre of the empire unwillingly and not on purpose triggered a process of destabilizing the balance in the community. Granting the Yehudites whatever the letter grants, came down in a potential powder keg. The Egyptian wish for independence was on its way to turn the local pax persica into an inflammable situation. The centre was gradually losing its grip on the periphery as a result the decrease of certainty for ethnicities other than Egyptian. Of great importance in this connexion is the reading of the final part of line 5 of the “Passover/mazzot”-letter. Quite often ‘bydh ’[l t‘bdw …] is read leading to a translation “[you shall no]t do any work.” 36 This instruction would be in line with the regulations in Exod 12. It would imply that the Yehudites at Elephantine were allowed to cease work for their religious festival. This might have raised envy with the other ethnic groups and could have fanned the smouldering fire. In view of the critical rule that warns me for circular reasoning, I will refrain from using this possibility as an argument for my view.

G. Passover and Mazzot at Elephantine The “Passover/mazzot” letter does not contain explicit references to Passover or Mazzot.37 That one, or both, of these later Jewish spring festivals is implied, can only be conjectured from the text. Despite this uncertainty it would be of interest to have a look at both religious festivals in general as well as from the perspective of the Yehudite community in and around Elephantine.

TADAE A.4.7=8; see Porten, Archives, 193. Even with Kottsieper, “Die Religionspolitik der Achämeniden,” 151. 37 Pace: Porten, Archives, 128–30; who argue that the letter contained instructions for the Passover-festival. Gass, “Der Passa-Papyrus,” 55–68, and Kottsieper, “Die Religionspolitik der Achämeniden,” vehemently argue for the possibility the Festival of Unleavened Bread is referred to. 35 36

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Both festivals were originally unconnected. Mazzot – or the festival of unleavened bread – is a religious festival originally connected to the agrarian cycle. The festival is connected to the harvest of the first barley in spring. As is the case with all festivals related to the agrarian cycle, the festival first was celebrated after the completion of the harvest. When in exilic or early postexilic times the Israelite festival calendar was designed, Mazzot was connected to specific dates in the month of Nisan.38 In the documents from Elephantine this festival is never mentioned. The background of the Passah-festival is much debated. This uncertainty is connected with the uncertainty of the meaning of the Hebrew root psḥ. It seems safe to assume that the Passover festival originally was at home among the shepherds and other (semi-)nomadic groups of Ancient Israel. Most probably it was a family connected festival in which a lamb was slaughtered. The blood of the lamb then was used in an apotropaic rite. It was smeared on the entrance posts of the tents or the encampment to safeguard the family against bad influence from outside, the mašḥit, “the destroyer.”39 Only later were both festivals connected and became part of the Israelite national identity. The documents from Elephantine do not contain a reference to the Mazzotfestival. This implies that nothing can be said about the question if and how this festival was celebrated by the Yehudites. Passah is refered to twice in the documents.40 The letter TAD D.7.6 (440–430 B.C.E.) contains the clause ’mt t‘bdn psḥ, “when you offer Passah” (line 9).41 The letter TAD D.7.24 (early fifth century) contains the word psḥ, “Passah,” in line 4. The connection with the context of the letter is unclear. These two documents indicate that “Passah” was known to the Yehudites. The date and the character of the festival cannot be detected from these sparse traces of evidence. It has often been assumed that the “Passover-letter” would have functioned as an instrument in a process to smooth the difference in the character of the festival throughout the Persian empire.42 This position cannot be proven, but it might contain a clue for the following. Could it be possible that the “Passoverletter” is one way or another connected to a growing awareness of an Israelite identity among the Yehudites in and around Elephantine? If that were true the “Passover-letter” might hint at another spike that could have been responsible for the destabilizing of the complex system at Elephantine. A more stronger See Thomas Willi, “Mazzot,” NBL 2:746–47; Wagenaar, Origin and Transformation, 51–58. 39 See Angelika Berlejung, “Heilige Zeiten: Ein Forschungsbericht,” JBTh 18 (2003): 3–62; Wagenaar, Origin and Transformation, 44–51. On mašḥit see Samuel A. Meier, “Destroyer,” in DDD2, 240–44. 40 See Rohrmoser, Götter, Tempel und Kult der Judäo-Aramäer von Elephantine, 334, 337–40, 430–32. 41 See also Porten, Archives, 131. 42 E.g., by Porten, Archives, 128–33. 38

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and outspoken religious identity of one of the many ethnic groups could have been a source of a process that slowly interrupted the inter-ethnic balance with its concepts of peaceful coexistence and mutual acceptance of the “other.”

H. Conclusion The analysis above makes a few things clear: – The Yehudites of Elephantine were aware of their position as peripheral to the core power of the Persian empire. – The royal palace of Darius II was construed to be the centre. – The temple(s) in Jerusalem and on Mt. Gerizim as in the rebuilding-request were not yet construed as the centre. – The Yehudites were aware that they were part of a multi-ethnic complex structure on the island and on the banks of the Nile. – The subtle balance between the various groups was unwittingly destabilized by the contents of the “Passover/mazzot”-letter.

Intercultural Exchanges in the Hellenistic East The Respective Roles of Temples, Royal Offices, Courts, and Gymnasia Sylvie Honigman A. Introduction According to Henri-Irénée Marrou and Martin Persson Nilsson – whose books (published in 1948 and 1955 respectively) on Greek education in Antiquity remained influential for decades – across the Greek world primary education was taught in private and communal schools, whereas higher education was delivered in the gymnasion.1 In line with these studies, in his chapter on the influence of Greek education and culture on Palestinian Judaism, Martin Hengel identified what he considered to be the primary channel for the Hellenization of the Hellenistic East, namely that the “GraecoMacedonian soldiers, officials and merchants planted their customary institutions of education, the Greek school and above all the gymnasium in the newly-conquered areas of the East.” 2 In Hengel’s wake, numerous scholars of Hellenistic Judea adopted the view that the offspring of native families all across the Hellenistic East were taught basic Greek literacy by Greek itinerant teachers, and similarly acquired their knowledge of Greek literature and philosophy in local gymnasia, where intellectual activity was fostered by visiting orators and philosophers. This model for the transmission of Greek literacy needs revision for several reasons, both empirical and theoretical. On the empirical front, Philippe Gauthier argued against Nilsson in an article published in 1997, stating that 1 Jean-Irénée Marrou, Histoire de l’éducation dans l’Antiquité (Paris: Le Seuil, 1948); Martin P. Nilsson, Die hellenistische Schule (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1955). Abbreviations for papyri follow the Checklist of Editions of Greek, Latin, Demotic and Coptic Papyri, Ostraca and Tablets: http://library.duke.edu/rubenstein/scriptorium/papyrus/texts/clist_ papyri.html; Austin = Michel M. Austin (ed.), The Hellenistic World from Alexander to the Roman Conquest: A Selection of Ancient Sources in Translation (2nd ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006). 2 Martin Hengel, Judentum und Hellenismus (2nd ed.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1969, 1973). Quoted from the English translation, Judaism and Hellenism (trans. John Bowden; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1974), 1:65. The chapter is pp. 65–78.

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whereas gymnasia indeed flourished in Hellenistic times, they remained primarily devoted to the physical and military training of the epheboi and neoi – the age groups of 18–20 and 20–30, respectively. 3 Gauthier’s conclusions have since been widely endorsed by students of the post-Classical city and the Hellenistic East.4 At the same time, Hengel’s dual model – namely, of Greek literacy being taught by itinerant Greek teachers, and of Greek higher education being provided in gymnasia – is predicated on a set of questionable assumptions. First, that there were essential differences between Greek texts and ideas, and nonGreek ones – the former being “secular,” political, and rational, the latter of a keenly traditional and religious nature. Moreover, those who received Greek education were distinct from those who were trained in native literacy and literary traditions, hence the need for a separate place of learning. Lastly, Hengel presumed that the institutional framework of education depended on content, and not – as I will argue in this contribution – on the social and cultural traditions of the students; moreover, he believed that the institutional setting for Greek education was necessarily the same everywhere – whether in the old Greek cities or in near-eastern societies, and for Hengel this meant Greek teachers, and the system of gymnasia. In Hengel’s view, the gymnasia were to all intents and purposes the institutional loci of Hellenization throughout the ancient Near East. Together, these assumptions adumbrated a clear-cut picture of two opposed worlds: on the one hand, they postulated that the so-called secular elites were educated into Greek literacy and a “rational” mindset in the gymnasia, which provided them with the skills to serve as scribes in the royal administration. Meanwhile the temple scribes clung to their traditional lore, and perceived all things Greek as a threat to their worldview. As just stated, this picture is underlay by premises which – in the absence of clear-cut empirical data – may be questioned on more theoretical grounds, and the latter may further be supported by comparative data. This notion of a neat division between the personnel of the royal administration and that of native temples – including the Jerusalem temple – is predicated on the belief that temples essentially represented the sphere of religion, whereas politics and economy belonged to a separate sphere, and such affairs were necessarily carried out in separate institutions by distinct persons. These premises have been long since dismissed by students of the native temples of Egypt and 3 Philippe Gauthier, “Notes sur le rôle du gymnase dans les cités hellénistiques,” in Stadtbild und Bürgerbild im Hellenismus (ed. Michael Wörrle and Paul Zanker; Munich: C. H. Beck, 1997), 1–11. 4 See for instance Kirsten Groß-Albenhausen, “Bedeutung und Funktion der Gymnasien für die Hellenisierung des Ostens,” in Das hellenistische Gymnasion (ed. Daniel Kah and Peter Scholz; Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2004), 313–22, and further below.

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Mesopotamia, and students of the Jerusalem temple have followed suit. 5 Thus, in a joint article of 2002, Richard Horsley and Patrick Tiller argued that both priestly and non-priestly scribes operated in the Jerusalem temple, where they carried out the various, literary and administrative tasks that required according levels of literacy.6 Second, as I have argued elsewhere, this model correlating Hellenization with the emergence of new secular elites unduly casts on Hellenistic times the paradigm of the rise of the bourgeoisie in western Europe at the time of the Industrial Revolution – a logic whereby temple elites are paralleled with the declining Church and agrarian aristocracies of the seventeenth-century C.E – and should be rejected.7 Furthermore, while it is assumed that elites mastering Greek literacy and an (allegedly) rational mindset were vital to the royal administration, the mode of acquiring these skills is seen not only as decentralized, but as being in the hands of private agents, not to say private entrepreneurs. The contrast with pre-Hellenistic state cultures could not be wider, and moreover at a time when by all accounts royal power was strong. Can we really keep to the view that kings founded cities – that is, advanced juridical Hellenization – whereas itinerant teachers cared for supplying kings with skilled administrative manpower? In view of these considerations, the relation between the process of Hellenization and contemporary structures of social power needs to be examined afresh. In this essay, I argue that the question of education and that of the circulation of texts and ideas are two distinct matters, and need to be treated separately. The alternative model (actually two) that I propose both attenuates the distinction between Greek and non-Greek things – that is, between Greek and 5

On Egyptian temples, see Jan Quaegebeur, “Documents égyptiens et rôle économique du clergé en Égypte hellénistique,” in State and Temple Economy in the Ancient Near East, Proceedings of the International Conference organized by the Katholieke Universiteit Leuven from the 10th to the 14th April 1978 (ed. Edward Lipiński; Leuven: Peeters, 1979), 2:707–29; on Hellenistic times, see Gilles Gorre, Les Relations du clergé égyptien et des Lagides d’après les sources privées (Leuven: Peeters, 2009). On Babylonian temples, see Amélie Kuhrt, “Nabonidus and the Babylonian Priesthood,” in Pagan Priests: Religion and Power in the Ancient World (ed. Mary Beard and John North; London: Duckworth, 1990), 119–55. 6 See Richard A. Horsley and Peter Tiller, “Ben Sira and the Sociology of the Second Temple,” in Second Temple Studies III: Studies in Politics, Class and Material Culture (ed. Philip R. Davies and John M. Halligan; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002), 74– 107. See further Richard A. Horsley, “The Politics of Cultural Production in Second Temple Judea: Historical Context and Political-Religious Relations of the Scribes who produced 1 Enoch, Sirach, and Daniel,” in Conflicted Boundaries in Wisdom and Apocalypticism (ed. Benjamin G. Wright III and Lawrence M. Wills; Atlanta, Ga.: SBL, 2005), 123– 45. 7 See Sylvie Honigman, Tales of High Priests and Taxes: The Books of the Maccabees and the Judean Rebellion Against Antiochus IV (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2014), 51–64. See also Horsley, “Politics of Cultural Production.”

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non-Greek education, and likewise between the circulation of Greek and nonGreek texts and ideas – and links the processes of Hellenization8 back into the frame of the existing political economy of the time. Regarding education – in its sense as both content and institutional setting – we need to re-evaluate the issue from the now accepted view that all ancient temples were economic and administrative centers, meaning that the respective personnel of temples and royal administrations required similar skills to fulfill their duties. I will take this notion one step further, and argue that there was no clear-cut separation between the temple personnel and the personnel of the royal administration in the various regions of the Hellenistic East, including Judea. I base this claim on a comparison with the numerous studies on Ptolemaic Egypt showing that the Greek-speaking royal administration in this country was conducted with a high proportion of scribes of Egyptian extraction. More precisely, in his book on the relations between Egyptian priests and the Ptolemies published in 2009, Gilles Gorre demonstrated that these Egyptian scribes employed in the royal administration originated in the administrative personnel of the temples.9 Based on Gorre’s study, my premise will be that in Judea under the Ptolemies and the Seleukids, as in Ptolemaic Egypt, there was a possibly substantial overlap in personnel between the temple administration and the royal one. If temple and royal scribes were either the same persons, or belonged to the same social circles, this would greatly weaken the assumption that they were educated in separate institutions and taught different contents. I will argue that whereas Greek literacy and the rest of primary education were acquired in the same institutional sites and not in separate ones, advanced intellectual education was acquired in the same way as all other professional skills: through apprenticeship in the workplace, as much in the temples as in the royal offices. This further means that both institutions were potentially centers of literary production, at least in terms of the literary genres aimed at scribes – in particular wisdom and instruction literature. In the discussion that follows, my first step will be to refute the notion that the gymnasion was the institutional framework of Hellenization in the nonGreek societies of the Hellenistic East, by showing that outside Greek cities in particular, they remained institutions for athletic and paramilitary training. Next in sections C and D, I will sketch out a revised picture of the institutional structures of Greek primary instruction and of higher education in Hellenistic times, taking Ptolemaic Egypt as a case-study in both instances. My choice of Ptolemaic Egypt is not only because its educational institutions are particularly well documented and researched, but also because its society was 8

From now on and unless the context unambiguously implies otherwise, by “Hellenization” I mean the acquisition of Greek language, literacy, and (allegedly) secular and rational ideas. 9 Gorre, Relations du clergé égyptien.

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characterized by the co-existence of two social and cultural systems, that of the Greek immigrants and that of the Egyptian priests, making it an ideal window on how education is socially embedded, and proof that the institutional framework of education depends not on content (Greek education vs. non-Greek one), but on social structures and cultural traditions alike. Thus, while the proposed model maintains the notion that Greek learning was decentralized, I link this directly with royal control, particularly since temples in Hellenistic times were increasingly subject to royal administrative supervision.10 The second issue is that of the circulation of Greek and non-Greek texts and ideas. Whereas it would be absurd to entirely rule out that itinerant learned individuals – and likewise merchants – were vectors of cultural exchanges across the Hellenistic East, this model cannot stand alone, especially if we dismiss the view that gymnasia were the realm of itinerant philosophers. We need to look for alternative social processes and institutions through which texts and ideas crossed social and cultural boundaries. In section E, I tackle the issue of the circulation of literary texts within a society. The model I put forward is based on the notion of the network, with particular attention to the role played by administrative offices and private initiatives; this networking can be either decentralized or multicentered, given that the social structures at play in it were primarily professional ties, and friendship and patronage relations. However, for reasons that will be detailed below, on its own this model cannot explain the circulations of books and ideas across geographical boundaries. In section F I point to an alternative model with a specific kind of center, the royal courts. I argue that these operated both as institutional settings for intercultural encounters between priests and priestly texts from different regions, and also as knowledge hubs from which priestly texts and ideas were disseminated to circles outside the priesthoods, a phenomenon I will refer to as “devolution” of priestly lore.

10

See Gilles Gorre and Sylvie Honigman, “Kings, Taxes and High Priests: Comparing the Ptolemaic and Seleukid Policies,” in Egitto dai Faraoni agli Arabi: atti del convegno Egitto: amministrazione, economia, società, cultura dai Faraoni agli Arabi, Milano, Università degli Studi, 7–9 gennaio 2013 (ed. Silvia Bussi; Pisa and Rome: Fabrizio Serra, 2013), 105–19; “La politique d’Antiochos IV à Jérusalem à la lumière des relations entre rois et temples aux époques perse et hellénistique (Babylonie, Judée et Égypte),” in Le Projet politique d’Antiochos IV. Journées d’études franco-allemandes, Nancy 17–19 juin 2013 (ed. Christophe Feyel and Laëtitia Graslin; Nancy: Presses Universitaires de Nancy, and De Boccard, 2014), 301–38.

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B. The Gymnasion as an Institution for Athletic and Military Training The view that the gymnasion in Hellenistic times became the main institution for higher education in Greek cities owes much to Nilsson’s study of the Hellenistic school, mentioned in introduction above. Based on the premise that gymnasia followed the same model everywhere, many scholars have considered the establishment of a gymnasion in Jerusalem – which is famously described in 2 Maccabees 4:7–15 – as the essence of Hellenismos, and pivotal evidence that the gymnasion was the main instrument of “Hellenization” in the East. The last two decades of studies in the social and educational functions of the gymnasia in Greek cities and the Hellenistic East have brought to light a quite different picture. 1. Gymnasia in Greek Cities The primary function of gymnasia in archaic and classical times was physical training. Greeks were famed throughout the Mediterranean for their military skills, and the superiority of hoplitic warfare owed much to the emphasis in Greek education on sports and physical skills. Gauthier’s claim that gymnasia in Hellenistic times primarily maintained their original function was based not only on new archaeological and epigraphic evidence, but also on his understanding of social life in the post-classical cities. Although they could obviously not stand up to royal armies, Greek cities retained their military capacity in Hellenistic times. 11 Gauthier’s argument has been amply confirmed by subsequent studies.12 This emphasis on sports is of course not to deny that intellectual activities took place in gymnasia. However, Gauthier provides clear guidelines for distinguishing between the ideal situation and the effective uses of the gymnasion as a result of financial constraints. Ideally, physical and intellectual 11

Gauthier, “Notes,” 10. On the continued military activities of cities in Hellenistic times, see in particular Miltiades B. Hatzopoulos, “La formation militaire dans les gymnases hellénistiques,” in Das hellenistische Gymnasion (ed. Kah and Scholz), 91–96; Andrzej S. Chankowski, “L’entraînement militaire des éphèbes dans les cites grecques d’Asie mineure à l’époque hellénistique: nécessité pratique ou tradition atrophiée?” in Les Cités grecques et la guerre en Asie mineure à l’époque hellénistique (ed. Jean-Christophe Couvenhes and Henri-Louis Fernoux; Tours: Presses Universitaires François-Rabelais, 2004), 55–76; Angelos Chaniotis, War in the Hellenistic World: A Social and Cultural History (Oxford: Blackwell, 2005), 50–51; and Andrzej S. Chankowski, “Les souverains hellénistiques et l’institution du gymnase: politiques royales et modèles culturels,” in L’huile et l’argent: Gymnasiarchie et évergétisme dans la Grèce hellénistique (ed. Olivier Curty; Paris: de Boccard, 2009), 95–114. 12

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activities would be held independently, and moreover the different ages convened accordingly in separate places. In practical terms, the uses of the gymnasion depended on the size and wealth of the city, which precludes any preset format.13 In the larger and wealthy cities that could afford the construction and regular subsidizing of a number of distinct institutions, the paides (youths aged 12 to 18) were appointed a palaistra14 for physical training, and had no access to the gymnasion, which was instead reserved for the older epheboi and neoi (aged 18–19 and 20 to 30 respectively). As for basic literacy, this was taught in either private or public schools. Similarly, in cities that could afford it, young adults convened in distinct places for physical and intellectual activities. Confirming this partitioning of disciplines is the gymnasiarchy law of Beroia in Macedon (ca. 180 B.C.E.), in which not a single allusion is made either to intellectual activities or to teachers of intellectual disciplines, such as letters, rhetoric and music. Given that we may reasonably surmise that such teaching was provided in Beroia, it must have taken place elsewhere.15 It seems that this partitioning of activities was not applied in all cities, far from it. In those cities where intellectual disciplines were taught in the gymnasia, a specific place (known as the akroaterion) was usually specially designed to hold both regular classes and occasional lectures (akroaseis). 16 Similarly, in smaller cities in which no separate facility could be allocated, the paides trained in the gymnasion of the epheboi and neoi, albeit at different times, and could attend classes for intellectual upbringing there as well.17 Similarly, the privileged association between gymnasia and philosophical schools hinges on the status of the gymnasia, and not on their inherent functions. Properly speaking, in early classical times gymnasia were not civic institutions, that is, there was no overlap between civic status and training, and this dissociation continued to prevail in Hellenistic times. As Gauthier points out, the access criteria for the gymnasion carried in some inscriptions refer to the ideal way of life of the freeborn, and not to citizenship.18 Moreover, whereas only the urban and wealthy part of the citizens composed the ephebic and neoi classes, access to the gymnasion was open to both metoikoi

13

Gauthier, “Notes,” 9. The palaistra is the wrestling yard. 15 Gauthier, “Notes,” 5. Further, Philippe Gauthier and Miltiades B. Hatzopoulos, La Loi gymnasiarchique de Béroia (Athens: Centre de Recherches de l’Antiquité Grecque et Romaine, 1993). For an English translation, see Austin, no. 137. 16 Gauthier, “Notes,” 4–5. See further Peter Scholz, “Elementarunterricht und intellektuelle Bildung im hellenistischen Gymnasion,” in Das hellenistische Gymnasion (ed. Kah and Scholz), 103–28. 17 Gauthier, “Notes,” 5–6. The allocation of distinct timeslots is attested in Beroia. 18 Gauthier, “Notes,” 8–9. 14

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(resident foreigners) and xenoi (non-resident foreigners).19 Given that philosophical schools exclusively attracted members of these elites, including numerous foreigners, it was convenient for them to convene in gymnasia. In this context, it is worth noting that the assumed link between gymnasia and libraries, which Marrou and Nilsson took for granted, is shaky. As recent studies convincingly argued, the libraries associated with Plato’s and Aristotle’s schools in fourth-century Athens were private ones, and they were not related to the gymnasia of the Academy or Lyceum.20 Altogether, this link is only documented in the Ptolemaion of Athens, in Cos, possibly in Rhodes, and in Tauromenion in Sicily.21 Finally, the double equation devised by Nilsson and Hengel of the gymnasion as the main Hellenistic institution for intellectual upbringing and as the instrument of Hellenization in the East overstresses one particular set of secondary activities – namely intellectual lecturing – held in gymnasia in Hellenistic times, while downplaying others of an arguably far more congenial type. As civic control over the gymnasion increased in Hellenistic times, it eventually became a civic institution, to the point that by the first century B.C.E. it operated as a “second agora,” as Louis Robert dubbed it.22 Linked with this evolution, from early Hellenistic times onward the gymnasia became the common site for royal cult practices, which developed alongside the traditional worship of Hermes and Herakles.23 In the first century B.C.E., with the development of the cult of civic benefactors honored as new founders, the gymnasia became the standard venue for this practice. Alongside the competitions and sacrifices to Hermes and Herakles regularly held by the epheboi and neoi, those made to kings (and in the first century B.C.E. to city benefactors) were conducted under the supervision of civic magistrates. 19 On the presence of foreigners in gymnasia, see Gauthier, “Notes,” 9. More generally, on the question whether gymnasia were civic institutions, see Gauthier’s nuanced discussion, 7–10. 20 For an overview and further bibliography, see Gaëlle Coqueugniot, Archives et bibliothèques dans le monde grec: Édifices et organisation, Ve siècle avant notre ère – IIe siècle de notre ère (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2013), 21, col. 2; 39, col. 1. 21 See Coqueugniot, Archives et bibliothèques, 21, cols 1 & 2; 39, cols 1 & 2; 40, col. 2, to 41, col. 1; and catalogue, nos 10 (Cos), 29 (Rhodes), and 33 (Tauromenion); on Athens, ch. 2. See further R. Nicolai, “Le biblioteche dei ginnasi,” Nuovi Annali della scuola speciale per archivisti e bibliotecari 1 (1987): 17–48. Nicolai questioned the association between the gymnasion and the library in Rhodes. 22 As quoted in Gauthier, “Notes,” 10, n. 71 (L. Robert, REA 62 [1960]: 296–98). 23 On this aspect, see Sophia Aneziri and Dimitris Damaskos, “Städtische Kulte im hellenistischen Gymnasion,” in Das hellenistische Gymnasion (ed. Kah and Scholz), 247–71. Add I. Tyr 1, an agonistic dedication to Antiochos III, Seleukos and the gods of the gymnasion, as pointed by John Ma, “Relire les Institutions des Séleucides de Bikerman,” in Rome, a City and its Empire in Perspective: The Impact of the Roman World through Fergus Millar’s Research (ed. Stéphane Benoist; Leiden: Brill, 2012), 62, n. 8.

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To conclude, Gauthier’s distinction between the gymnasion’s primary and secondary functions would appear to counter Nilsson’s claim that the gymnasion became an institution for intellectual education in Hellenistic times – the central argument on which Hengel’s view hinges, namely that it was the instrument for the Hellenization of the East. The reasons why gymnasia spread outside the Greek poleis in the Hellenistic East are linked first with its primary military function, and second – at least in military settlements – with its privileged association to royal cult practices. In contrast, intellectual activities were never seen as being inherently linked to the gymnasion as an institution. 2. Gymnasia outside the Greek Cities Outside Greek cities, gymnasia are primarily documented in conjunction with military settlements, confirming the notion that they primarily served for military training.24 A relatively well-documented case relates to the military settlers garrisoned in Cyprus under Ptolemaic domination. The evidence suggests that the gymnasion itself hosted the soldiers’ cultic devotion to the king. 25 An inscription from the settlement of Toriaion in Phrygia Paroreia, Asia Minor, documents the congenial link between the transformation of a military settlement and adjacent village into a polis shortly after 188 B.C.E., and the establishment there of a gymnasion.26 While the king made provisions for the supply of oil – indispensable for the type of physical exercises the soldiers performed – there is no corresponding record of teachers being dispatched to the outpost. Confirming this is the papyrological evidence of Ptol-

See the geographical survey of gymnasia documented between the late fourth and first centuries B.C.E. in the Seleukid realm provided by Groß-Albenhausen, “Bedeutung und Funktion der Gymnasien,” 313–14. 25 The double title of strategos (commander) and archiereus (high-priest) is attested for two governors of the late third and early second centuries B.C.E. in Cyprus. See Roger S. Bagnall, The Administration of the Ptolemaic Possessions Outside Egypt (Leiden: Brill, 1976), 46, 48–49, 253–56. 26 Lloyd Jonnes and Marijana Ricl, “A New Royal Inscription from Phrygia Paroreios: Eumenes II Grants Tyriaion the Status of a Polis,” Epigraphica Anatolica 29 (1997): 2–29 = SEG 47.1745 = Austin, no. 236. A revised edition together with a new English translation may be found in Nigel M. Kennell, “New Light on 2 Maccabees 4:7–15,” JJS 56/1 (2005): 10–25, at 12–14. See further Klaus Bringmann, “Gymnasion und griechische Bildung im Nahen Osten,” in Das hellenistische Gymnasion (ed. Kah and Scholz), 323–33; Walter Ameling, “Jerusalem als hellenistische Polis: 2 Makk 4,9–12 und eine neue Inschrift,” BN 47/1 (2003): 105–11; Ivana Savalli-Lestrade, “Devenir une cité: poleis nouvelles et aspirations civiques en Asie Mineure à la basse époque hellénistique,” in Citoyenneté et participation à la basse époque hellénistique: Actes de la table ronde des 22 et 23 mai 2004, Paris, BNF (ed. Pierre Fröhlich and Christel Müller; École Pratique des Hautes Études III. Hautes études du monde gréco-romain 35; Geneva: Droz, 2005), 9–37, esp. 10–12; Chankowski, “Institution du gymnase,” 100–101, 114. 24

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emaic Egypt, which associates gymnasia with athletic practice and gymnastics, sportive competitions, and dynastic cult – but nothing about intellectual instruction. 27 In sum, no evidence has so far come to light to indicate that in Ptolemaic Egypt the gymnasion offered any form of higher education.28 Given all the above, we can now apply this argument to the situation in Jerusalem. 3. Jason’s Gymnasion in Jerusalem (2 Maccabees 4:7–15) In an essay published in 2005, Nigel Kennell argued convincingly that the primary function of the gymnasion established in Jerusalem by the high priest Jason was a purely military one.29 The passage describes how Jason gladly founded a gymnasion under the very acropolis and, “drawing up the strongest of the ephebes, led them under the petasos,” (2 Maccabees 4:12) to perform their military training, probably on a daily basis.30 The text further alludes to an “unlawful distribution” (choregia) occurring each day that was announced by a gong (diskos), which Kennell interprets as the distribution of oil – a well-documented practice associated with the palaistra (4:14). Note that nothing in this passage alludes to either intellectual training, or pagan cultic activities.31 Scholars who took this text as evidence for the institution of a school of Hellenization under Antiochos IV ignored the basic fact that the adoption of the “Greek way of life” implied numerous aspects of daily cultural activity, of which the study of Greek literature was only one.32 27 Wolfgang Habermann, “Gymnasien im ptolemäischen Ägypten,” in Das hellenistische Gymnasion (ed. Kah and Scholz), 341–47; Willy Clarysse and Dorothy J. Thompson, Counting the People in Hellenistic Egypt, vol. 2: Historical Studies (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 133–35. 28 See likewise Habermann, “Gymnasien im ptolemäischen Ägypten,” 335 and 345; and Raffaella Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind: Greek Education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 35 (“it is not entirely certain that regular educational instruction went on in the gymnasia, and it is particularly doubtful that they were centers for advanced education, the equivalent of modern universities”). 29 Kennell, “2 Maccabees 4:7–15.” His analysis is based on his new translation of the passage. Kennell’s demonstration may be buttressed by parallel evidence from Babylon. For a detailed survey, see Honigman, Tales of High Priests, 368–75. 30 2 Maccabees 4:12 (Kennell’s translation). The petasos was a broad-brimmed felt hat worn by ephebes. 31 On this matter, see in particular Robert Doran, “Jason’s Gymnasion,” in Of Scribes and Scrolls: Studies on the Hebrew Bible, Intertestamental Judaism, and Christian Origins (ed. Harold W. Attridge, John J. Collins, and Thomas H. Tobin; Lanham: University Press of America, 1990), 99–109; and Lester L. Grabbe, “The Hellenistic City of Jerusalem,” in Jews in the Hellenistic and Roman Cities (ed. John R. Bartlett; London and New York: Routledge, 2002), 6–21. 32 Similarly, cricket and not Shakespeare may be seen as the primary cultural legacy of the British Empire in India and Pakistan. I proposed elsewhere an alternative interpretation

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Basically, 2 Maccabees 4:7–15 refers to the transformation of Jerusalem into a polis in the Greek style – which we might dub “institutional Hellenization.”33 According to this text, Jason’s adoption of the Greek way of life primarily consisted in donning the characteristic Macedonian costumes (including the petasos, a type of military headgear), along with physical training in Greco-Macedonian military techniques. To conclude: in the Hellenistic East the gymnasion was only the instrument of Hellenization as far as physical and military training is concerned. The view that the acquisition of Greek intellectual knowledge required a specific institution – such as separate schools and gymnasia – would seem to disregard the basic tenet that education is socially embedded both in content and in institutional setting, and that the two – content and institution – may become detached when they move from one society to another one. To validate this proposition, I will now consider the institutional settings in which Greek language, literacy, and literature were taught in Ptolemaic Egypt.34

C. Primary Greek Education for Greek and Egyptian Boys in Ptolemaic Egypt Because of the co-existence of two social and cultural systems, Ptolemaic society offers a particularly interesting case-study: whereas the Greek immigrants brought along their cultural practices from the world of the Greek cities, the Egyptian priests maintained theirs – allowing for the necessary adaptations to the conditions of their time. Moreover, thanks to documentary papyri, we have enough evidence to understand how Greek education was carried out in these two social milieus respectively. Let us start with primary instruction.

of 2 Maccabees 4:7–15, based on my revised understanding of the meaning of Hellenismos in 2 Maccabees. See Honigman, Tales of High Priests, 197–214. 33 See, however, Benedikt Eckhardt’s reservations on this interpretation in “Vom Volk zur Stadt? Ethnos und Polis im hellenistischen Orient,” JSJ 45 (2014): 199–228. 34 To judge by the recent studies that have attempted to assess anew the part of the gymnasia in the Hellenization of the East, a true revision of this issue is hampered by the seeming lack of an alternative. See in particular Groß-Albenhausen, “Bedeutung und Funktion der Gymnasien,” and Bringmann, “Gymnasion und griechische Bildung.” If we want to draw the full consequences of Gauthier’s claim that the gymnasion remained a military institution, and refute the well-shared assumption that it had any substantial part in the process of Hellenization of non-Greek communities, we need to look for an alternative institutional setting for Greek education.

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1. Greek Schools vs. Egyptian Temples: The Dual Institutional Setting Starting in the 260s B.C.E. (Ptolemy II Philadelphos), the royal administration of Egypt led a top-down policy of incitement to the acquisition of Greek literacy. As part of this policy, various categories of people were exempted from the salt-tax: according to a letter relating to Alexandria (P. Hal. 1), those were “[teachers] of letters (didaskaloi grammatôn, that is, school teachers), masters of gymnastic and [performers of] the rites of Dionysos and victors in the [Alexandrian contest] and in the Basileia and Ptolemaia.”35 More interestingly for our concern, bilingual tax-rolls from the second half of the third century B.C.E. relating to the Arsinoite nome in the Fayum – an area with a particularly high density of Greek-speaking population – confirm this (modest) tax remission. Alongside school teachers, masters of gymnastics, and an obscure tax-category of “Greeks,” the census lists record “Egyptian teachers” (didaskaloi Aigyptioi) among the beneficiaries of the tax remission.36 Given this context, Willy Clarysse and Dorothy Thompson, the texts’ editors, suggested that these teachers were native Egyptians who taught Greek as a foreign language through the medium of Egyptian.37 Moreover, by cross-checking the nomenclature of the Greek papyri with that used in both Demotic documentary and literary texts showing schoolteachers – in Demotic, “scribes of the school”38 – Clarysse and Thompson convincingly argued that these Egyptian teachers were the same as those who taught Egyptian boys Demotic literacy and instructed them in primary notarial training.39 Now, the institution in which Egyptian primary education and notarial training took place was the temple, and these teacher-scribes further acted as notaries and wrote demotic contracts within the temples: one Greek term used to refer to Egyptian notaries who penned contracts according to the “law of the country” (i.e., Egyptian law) in second-century papyri was grammatodidaskalos, “teacher of letters.” As Clarysse and Thompson concluded, “[i]t could well be the case that, within Egyptian temples, the teaching of Greek for Egyptians – especially future Egyptian officials – was grafted onto 35 P. Hal. 1, ll. 260–65. The letter was sent by Apollonios, Ptolemy II’s dioiketes (financial minister), to Zoilos, the chief-administrator of his land estate. See Dorothy J. Thompson, “Hellenistic Hellenes: The Case of Ptolemaic Egypt,” in Ancient Perceptions of Greek Ethnicity (ed. Irad Malkin; Cambridge, Mass. and London: Center for Hellenic Studies, 2001), 301–22. 36 On the categories of people enjoying tax remission, see Clarysse and Thompson, Counting the People, 2:52–59. On teachers, ibid. 125–33. On teachers’ location, see ibid., 129–30. All ethnic labels in these tax-rolls denote tax categories and not ethnicity. 37 Clarysse and Thompson, Counting the People, 127 and 129. 38 In particular, the demotic tale of Setne I, in Miriam Lichtheim, Ancient Egyptian Literature: A Book of Readings, vol. 3: The Late Period (Berkeley, Ca.: University of California Press, 1980), 135. 39 Clarysse and Thompson, Counting the People, 128.

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a traditional arena of Egyptian life.”40 This conclusion may be further supported by the discovery in a building located within the temenos (precinct) of a pharaonic temple in the village of Narmouthis, of a large number of Demotic school ostraca together with some Greek ones. Admittedly, however, these ostraca date in the second century C.E., and document Roman times and not Ptolemaic society.41 In contrast, the formal setting in which Greek children were schooled in Ptolemaic Egypt is poorly documented, apparently because it remained flexible.42 2. Content: Moral Instruction in Greek and Egyptian Primary Educations Alongside these institutional aspects, the content of primary education is well documented thanks to the Greek and Demotic school-texts and schoolexercises found in papyri. 43 Alongside literacy and numeracy, this level of education consisted in the teaching of Greek literature, mainly Homer, Athenian tragedy and comedy, and contemporary Alexandrian poetry, as well as in moral instruction, based on anthologies of brief exhortatory excerpts.44 The Hieratic and Demotic educational texts from Ptolemaic times show that the Egyptian curriculum in the temples mixed classical literature and moral instruction in a similar way – with one reservation: moral instruction was based exclusively on the classical literature written in Hieratic, probably because it was felt that Demotic literature lacked the indispensable prestige of time.45 Clarysse and Thompson, Counting the People, 128. See Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 22–23. 42 The eighteen or more classrooms (auditoria) discovered in Alexandria date to late antiquity and were used for higher education. See Raffaela Cribiore, “Education in the Papyri,” in The Oxford Handbook of Papyrology (ed. Roger S. Bagnall; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 321. 43 Raffaela Cribiore, Writing, Teachers and Students in Graeco-Roman Egypt (American Studies in Papyrology 36; Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1996); Emmanuel Tassier, “Greek and Demotic School-Exercises,” in Life in a Multi-Cultural Society: Egypt from Kambyses to Constantine (ed. Janet H. Johnson; Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 1992), 311–15, with further bibliography; Herwig Maehler, “Die griechische Schule im ptolemäischen Ägypten,” in Egypt and the Hellenistic World (ed. Edmond van’t Dack, Peter van Dessel, and Wilfried van Gucht; Leuven: Peeters, 1983), 191–203; Clarysse and Thompson, Counting the People, 2:132. 44 Prose texts were excluded from this curriculum. 45 See Tassier, “School-Exercises,” 313–14. The Hieratic script reflected old Egyptian, whereas the Demotic was closer to spoken language. Tassier notes that in contrast with Demotic school-exercises, in which literary texts are not found, tales and wisdom literature formed a substantial part of the curriculum in the Ramessid (late pharaonic) period. In this view, the difference may be because the texts that were used for instructional purposes in the Ramessid period had the status of classical literature – they were written in Middle Egyptian, meaning that they were grammatically obsolete in the Ramessid period. Whereas the earliest works of Demotic literature only dated to the fourth century B.C.E. 40

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On the face of it, this basic similarity of content between the two curricula should have been propitious to the translation and cross-borrowing of wisdom literature. However, the restriction of the two primary curricula to their respective classical literatures precludes the possibility that primary education was the site for cross-cultural encounters. If we may extrapolate to Judean society, whereas the author of the Wisdom of Ben Sira received his basic Greek instruction either in the Jerusalem temple or in his family, he did not get acquainted with Greek wisdom literature at this occasion, but at a later stage of his professional training. If not in the gymnasion, where? Once again, the comparison with the Ptolemaic evidence points to a possible answer to this question.

D. The Higher Education of Royal Officials in Ptolemaic Egypt 1. The Social Identity of the Native Elites who learned Greek Before examining the social setting for the higher instruction of royal officials, it is relevant to our concern – the cross-cultural circulation of literary texts – to ask who these royal officials were. As demonstrated through a close study of handwriting, the first generations of Ptolemaic royal scribes were Egyptians – they merely had to switch from Aramaic to Greek, as their second language, whereas few Greek immigrants would have had the required competence upon their arrival.46 According to Dorothy Thompson, the Ptolemies primarily encouraged education in Greek literacy in Egypt to supply new elites for the offices of the royal administration, with the view to replace the old Egyptian temple families. 47 However, if Greek-speaking families descending from immigrants – both from the Greek world and elsewhere (as for instance Jews) – undeniably benefitted from this Greek education, a high proportion of those who achieved social promotion thanks to their training in Greek literacy remained bilingual Egyptians.48 In addition, as Gilles Gorre showed, these Egyptians were primarily temple personnel, who moved from positions of low rank in the service of their god (or goddess) to positions of either similar or higher rank in the service of the

See Willy Clarysse, “Egyptian Scribes writing Greek,” Chronique d’Égypte 68 (1993): 186–201. On the writing tools, see Joshua D. Sosin and Joseph G. Manning, “Palaeography and Bilingualism: P.Duk. inv. 320 and 675,” Chronique d’Égypte 78 (2003): 202–10. 47 Thompson, “Hellenistic Hellenes.” 48 See Willy Clarysse, “Greeks and Egyptians in the Ptolemaic Army and Administration,” Aegyptus 65 (1985): 57–66. 46

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king, and who at the same time preserved some administrative and ritual functions in their temple.49 Hence the double conclusion: first, in Ptolemaic Egypt there was no clear-cut separation between the temples and royal offices. Second, in the royal offices, Egyptian officials who were also linked to the temples intermingled with Greek officials. 2. Training Officials: Apprenticeship in the Administrative Offices (and not “Higher Education”) What was taught in the Greek-speaking primary curriculum was in essence the content of the paideia – liberal education, or to quote Clarysse and Thompson, “literate knowledge and moral platitudes”50 – and technical and professional training had no part in it. In contrast, the primary level of education for Egyptian scribes included professional training. As a consequence, we can surmise that Greek-speaking officials acquired – and Egyptian scribes improved – their professional skills in the same way as all other professions did: through apprenticeship at their working place. Incidentally, this deduction has potentially far-reaching implications regarding how and in which institutional setting Greek was taught in other societies of the Hellenistic East, including Judea. Traditionally, the professional training of Egyptian scribes consisted in copying model letters, and this teaching method was apparently taken over in the Greek-speaking offices of the Ptolemaic administration – presumably under the influence of the Egyptian practice.51 The hypothesis that a standardized system of Greek technical training for new officials was developed in the Ptolemaic administrative offices was first articulated by Ulrich Wilcken, as a 49 See Gorre, Relations du clergé égyptien, 557–603; idem, “A Religious Continuity between the Dynastic and Ptolemaic Periods? Self-Representation and Identity of Egyptian Priests in the Ptolemaic Period (332–30 B.C.E.),” in Shifting Social Imaginaries in the Hellenistic Period: Narrations, Practices, and Images (ed. Eftychia Stavrianopoulou; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2013), 99–114. A primary source of evidence are the Demotic “biographical” inscriptions on the statues of temple servants erected in temples. 50 Clarysse and Thompson, Counting the People, 2:132. On Greek education, see further Teresa Morgan, Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998); and Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind. 51 Ulrich Wilcken, Urkunden der Ptolemäerzeit, vol. 1: Papyri aus Unterägypten (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1927) (hereafter UPZ I), 110, introduction; Dorothy J. Crawford [Thompson], “The Good Official of Ptolemaic Egypt,” in Das ptolemäische Ägypten: Akten des internationalen Symposions, 27.–29. September 1976 in Berlin (ed. Herwig Maehler and Volker Michael Strocka; Mainz: P. von Zabern, 1978), 197. As Thompson writes, “[t]he papyrus of one of the most detailed sets of Ptolemaic instructions, the second century B.C. instructions of the dioiketes Herodes to his subordinate [UPZ I 110], may well be the result of a school exercise, the copy of a letter which has become a model letter.” (p. 197) See Wilcken, UPZ I 110, introduction.

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way to explain the emergence of an identifiable “bureaucratic jargon” that boasts a distinct vocabulary, along with set phrases (formulas), and cumbersome sentence structures.52 Importantly, this administrative jargon could not be the product of primary schooling, which was restricted to classical and contemporary poetry. In addition, the training of the Ptolemaic officials included advanced moral instruction. Alongside technical documents with formulas and technical jargon, apprentice officials also copied out letters and memoranda, which contained both exhortations from officials to their subordinates, and reports from subordinates to their superiors (e.g., P. Tebt. 703, Austin, 319). As Dorothy Thompson has shown, although these memoranda were written in Greek, they were strongly influenced by the Egyptian literature of instruction, especially in their mixture of general exhortation, maxims, and precepts with practical application.53 Thus, Greek papyri offer evidence that the administrative offices alongside the temples in Ptolemaic Egypt were the primary social setting for the use of sapiential literature, its circulation, and possibly also its production. More accurately, we may confidently surmise that since they employed numerous bilingual Egyptian scribes, the administrative offices played a key part in three processes: first, the importation of the Egyptian classical (Hieratic) texts of moral instruction from the temples (their original social location) to the royal administration, and this movement further implies their translation into Greek; second, the introduction and translation of non-classical (Demotic) texts; and third, also in the likely composition of entirely new wisdom texts, both in Greek and Demotic. Moreover, it is likely that, after their translation, the texts were circulated from one administrative office to the next, traveling across the country. And here we come to the question of the circulation of texts. To address this matter in detail, I will successively examine three models. The circulation of texts within the boundaries of a given society can easily be understood through the activation of social networks. While the circulation obviously started from some precise point, the idea of “center” is not particularly helpful in our case, since there is no reason to believe that the flow necessarily went down according to the bureaucratic hierarchy. At any event, while both

52 I quote from Dorothy J. Thompson, “Literacy and Power in Ptolemaic Egypt,” in Literacy and Power in the Ancient Wold (ed. Alan K. Bowman and Greg Woolf; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 77. See Wilcken, UPZ I 110. 53 Crawford [Thompson], “Good Official,” 196: “[t]he mixture of general exhortation with practical application, of both maxims and precepts, is … a feature of Egyptian instruction literature from the Instructions of Ptah-hotep, vizier of the Fifth Dynasty King Izezi, through the Eighteenth Dynasty tomb records of the vizier Rekh-mi-Re to the more recent fifth or fourth century Instructions of Onchsheshonqy.”

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the origin and reasons that determined how the texts circulated remain unknown, we will look at the role of the royal courts in their cross-regional and cross-cultural circulation, and I will show how the courts may have been pivotal for a process of “devolution,” whereby elite native texts – and in particular priestly ones – reached a wide audience across the Hellenistic East.

E. From the Social Location of Texts to their Trans-Network Circulation within a Society The (assumed) role of these royal bureaus in the translation – possibly the production – and the circulation of wisdom literature put into play what may be described as a closed or close-knit social network – by which I mean a network coterminous with, e.g., administrative, cultic, social, cultural, and linguistic boundaries, and therefore composed of an homogeneous social group – such as scribes employed in the royal administration.54 The movement of texts within such a network is easy to understand, especially when the social network itself is the natural location of these texts, such as wisdom literature in administrative offices. We can also easily grasp how sapiential texts moved between temples and royal administration, given that the Egyptian scribes – who were trained in the temples yet served in both the temple and the royal administrations – stood at the intersection between these two institutional networks. Again incidentally, it is likely that a similar circulation of wisdom literature between the temple administration and the royal administration took place in the Seleukid empire, and in Judea as well, both in Ptolemaic and Seleukid times – which rather makes futile the question whether the author of the Wisdom of Ben Sira was linked to the temple or to the royal administration. Given that individuals usually belong to several social networks, the model of intersecting social networks may be easily extended to explain how literary texts of all genres made their way through distinct social circles across a given society. For instance, networks of friendships – as informal or semiformal social institutions – partially but not entirely overlapping with professional ones, could easily contribute to the introduction of certain texts to new social groups, and, through relations of patronage, reach lower social classes. Private letters testify that individuals had their books copied by slaves, and sent them to their friends, either at the latter’s request or as spontaneous gifts. This private mode of transmission may in particular explain how literary works that were not taught in schools, such as the early forms of the novels,

54 I am aware that “closed social networks” as here defined are a conceptual abstraction, and that in real life social networks always intersect with other ones.

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pseudepigraphic letters (e.g., the Alexander Romance), and translations of Demotic texts (e.g., the Greek version of the Oracle of the Potter), acquired their audience.55 However, chance factors may also have played their part in helping literary and scientific texts reach out to less obvious social circles. A fascinating case-study discussed by Dorothy Thompson shows how the royal bureaucracy could be a site from which – through the interplay of patronage relations, intersecting networks, and chance factors – literary texts of all kinds could make their way into additional circles of Ptolemaic society. Ptolemaios and Apollonios, the sons of one Glaukias, a Macedonian soldier, lived in the Sarapis temple of Memphis ca. 170 B.C.E. Their private papers included not only administrative letters but also several literary works, and Thompson set to investigate how the latter came into their possession.56 The decisive clue was provided by a papyrus on which recto an astronomical treatise was written, whereas the verso had two official letters and the drafts of two private letters. The first letter was written in the same hand as the treatise of the recto, and given that the letters display the typical jargon of Ptolemaic bureaucracy, Thompson concludes that they were drafted for Ptolemaios by a scribe from the Memphite office of the strategos Dionysos, who was a personal friend of the brothers.57 No less fascinating is Thompson’s observation that although Ptolemaios received the astronomical treatise by chance, he definitely read it, given that he described its content in a short note. Administrative and personal ties could easily provide a channel for the transmission of books and ideas both within closed social networks – from one office or temple to the next – and across social boundaries – from one royal or temple official to their friends and protégés. However, such channels fail to explain the intense circulation of texts and ideas throughout the ancient Near East. Nonetheless, according to a well-shared view in modern scholarship, the movement of texts and ideas at a cross-regional and cross-cultural scale may be explained through a basically similar model, whereby the agents of transmission were merchants engaged in long-distance trade, itinerant 55

Peter van Minnen, “Boorish or Bookish? Literature in Egyptian Villages in the Fayum in the Graeco-Roman Period,” Journal of Juristic Papyrology 28 (1998): 108–109, 155, shows that Greek literary texts were found in private houses of priestly families. 56 For a survey of their collection, see Dorothy J. Thompson, “Ptolemaios and the ‘Lighthouse’: Greek Culture in the Memphite Serapeum,” Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 213, n.s. 33 (1987): 105–21. According to Thompson’s survey (107– 10), their literary collection was composed of poems by Poseidippos – an Alexandrian poet who wrote about Alexandrian royal monuments; an astronomical treatise described as the Techne of Euxodos (the ascription is pseudepigraphic); a treatise on negatives, which included excerpts from a wide range of Greek poets; and an excerpt from the Dream of Nectanebo, the Greek version of a Demotic tale. 57 See Thompson, “Lighthouse,” 109.

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craftsmen, mercenaries and migrants – precisely the model underpinning the claim that gymnasia were the instruments for the acclimation of Greek ideas in the East. Similarly, scholars have sought to explain the presence of Babylonian themes in the Qumran literature by pointing to the migratory flow of Jews from Babylonia to Judea.58 Yet, while we cannot rule out that private agency made some contribution to the cross-cultural and long-distance circulation of some texts, it can by no means have been the main, let alone the sole channel, because this model is underpinned by questionable assumptions about the social and economic structures in which cultural contacts and exchanges took place in Hellenistic times. Instead, we need to identify the institution(s) that was (or were) potentially able to serve as the “contact zone” for high-level cross-cultural encounters. The one that best meets this definition is the royal court. In the last part of this essay, I argue that the courts operated as major cultural centers in two ways: first, as contact zones for high-level cross-cultural encounters and as pivots for the wide-ranging circulation of literary texts as well as religious, philosophical, and scientific speculations. Moreover, the royal court mediated the devolution of priestly lore to wider, non-priestly social circles. But before discussing these matters, it is worth analyzing in greater detail the shortcomings of the accepted model positing that itinerant and migrant intellectuals were the privileged vectors of cross-cultural borrowings.

58 See for instance André Lemaire, “Nabonide et Gilgamesh: L’araméen en Mésopotamie et à Qoumrân,” in Aramaica Qumranica: Proceedings of the Conference on the Aramaic Texts from Qumran in Aix-en-Provence, 30 June–2 July 2008 (ed. Katell Berthelot and Daniel Stökl Ben Ezra; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2010), 125–39; and Jean-Daniel Kaestli, “Les rapports entre apocalyptique et historiographie: réflexions à partir du livre de Daniel,” in Ancient and Modern Scriptural Historiography/L’historiographie biblique, ancienne et moderne (ed. George J. Brooke and Thomas Römer; Leuven, Paris, and Dudley, Mass.: Peeters and Leuven University Press, 2007), 200. Kaestli envisioned that a whole group of Judean scribes who started their career at the service of the Seleukid administration in Babylonia migrated together to Jerusalem, where their trusting relations with the Seleukid power soon deteriorated because of Antiochos IV’s hostile action. Not only are speculations about such precise scenarios a very risky matter, but there are good reasons to doubt that Judean scribes, let alone as a group, were employed by the Seleukid administration in Babylonia. Kaestli’s reconstruction is underpinned by the assumption that the royal administration prompted the emergence of new native, non-priestly elites – but this view is disproved by the available evidence. As a rule, the Hellenistic dynasties employed either the traditional native elites or Greeks. See Philippe Clancier and Julien Monerie, “Les sanctuaires babyloniens à l’époque hellénistique: Évolution d’un relais de pouvoir,” in Les Sanctuaires autochtones et le roi dans le Proche-Orient hellénistique: entre autonomie et soumission (ed. Philippe Clancier and Julien Monerie; Topoi 19/1; Paris: de Boccard, 2014), 181–237.

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F. The Circulation of Books and Ideas across Boundaries: The Royal Court as the Institution for Intercultural Encounters 1. Questioning the Model of Itinerant and Migrant Literati In a study on the patterns of spatial mobility of craftsmen, scribes, physicians and diviners in the ancient Near East, Zaccagnini analyzed a pattern of migration which he terms commercial, and whose emergence coincided with the decline at the beginning of the first millennium B.C.E. of the palace and temple bureaucracies to which they were formerly integrated. This new mobility was characterized by freedom of decision, and responded to the need for these specialists to search for new, alternative work opportunities.59 In his investigation of intellectual contacts and exchanges between Archaic Greece and the Near East in The Orientalizing Revolution, Walter Burkert endorsed this model of itinerant specialists in both sacred and profane activities as the main vehicles for the introduction of Eastern influences in the Greek world.60 The main inducements to this flow from East to West were, in Burkert’s view, the greater economic independence and free entrepreneurship available in Greece, in contrast with the despotism of the East. As Ian Moyer emphasized in a thorough critique of Burkert’s model, Burkert’s reading of Zaccagnini was selective. Not only did the “commercial” model coexist alongside the economic modes of reciprocity and redistribution centered on the palace, but it did not develop separately from social and political relations. 61 In Persian times, centralized bureaucracies continued to control a large part of specialists’ mobility, and the pattern of reciprocal exchange whereby physicians, diviners, and other specialists were dispatched from one court to another, and which was a typical aspect of diplomacy in preAchaemenid times, remained valid in Persian times.62 59 My summary in this section is heavily indebted to Ian Moyer, “Golden Fetters and Economies of Cultural Exchange,” JANER 6 (2006): 225–56. Moyer (229–32) refers to Carlo Zaccagnini, “Patterns of Mobility among Ancient Near Eastern Craftsmen,” JNES 42 (1983): 245–64. 60 See Moyer, “Golden Fetters,” 226, surveying Walter Burkert, The Orientalizing Revolution: Near Eastern Influence on Greek Culture in the Early Archaic Age (Harvard: Harvard University Press, 1992). Burkert’s model further drew on Moses I. Finley’s influential The Ancient Economy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1973), which promoted among classicists the notion of separate economies between the ancient Near East and Egypt, and the Graeco-Roman Mediterranean. Finley’s book has been thoroughly refuted by students of ancient economy, including in Hellenistic times. For a survey with additional bibliography, see Moyer, “Golden Fetters,” 231–33. 61 Moyer, “Golden Fetters,” in part. 234. 62 Moyer, “Golden Fetters,” 235–40. Moyer (244–47) cites as an example the wellknown case of Udjahorresne, based on his autobiography. Most importantly, when Udjahorresne returned to Egypt after spending several years at the Persian court, he reformed

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Much of Moyer’s critique of Burkert’s model can be transposed to Hellenistic times. Thus the claim that the gymnasion was the cultural conduit for Greek ideas in the East hinges on the premise that Greek texts required a separate channel of transmission because of their distinct content: Greek literature was secular, whereas native texts produced in temples were religious. Moreover, the model assumes that the two bodies of knowledge were tied to separate institutions – Greek literature to royal bureaucracy (allegedly the realm of Greek rationality and of commerce), whereas native lore was frozen into traditionalism, like the temples themselves. While Finley mapped the divide between two separate economies onto two geographical zones, Hengel’s model relocates it between the two cultural milieus of “Hellenism” and “Judaism.” As the Ptolemaic case surveyed in section E. above showed, these two assumptions – regarding two separate literary corpora and institutional settings – are debatable (and see further below). Moreover, the theory of the gymnasion as a vector of Hellenization, like Burkert’s model, assumes that there were two separate channels of Hellenization in the East – literature and philosophy were the purview of private, itinerant agents, whereas kings founded cities. This picture disregards the fact that the Hellenistic courts were major cultural centers – witness the royal library of Alexandria. Moreover, as the centers of power, the courts were visited by all sorts of elites, both Greek and non-Greek. What happened there? Recent studies on the Hellenistic royal courts have considerably renewed our perception of their social and cultural function, and provide fresh answers firstly to the question of how texts originating in specific temples came to be known in temples that belonged to distinct cultural and cultic systems – such as Babylonia, Judea, and Egypt; and secondly, how they made their way into social circles located outside the temples. 2. Strootman’s “Outer Court” In my view, the royal court was the only institution potentially able to mediate the cross-cultural circulation of literary texts, including texts originating in native priestly circles. The model I propose is derived from Rolf Strootman’s reexamination of the process whereby native urban elites became Hellenized.63 According to him, this process – at once cultural, social, and politithe crafts of the House of Life. To quote Moyer (247), “this is precisely the type of circulation of highly skilled personnel that could facilitate the movement of magical and religious knowledge between centers of learning,” for instance “the introduction of Mesopotamian astrological lore to Egypt.” 63 See Rolf Strootman, “Babylonian, Macedonian, King of the World: The Antiochos Cylinder from Borsippa and Seleukid Imperial Integration,” in Shifting Social Imaginaries in the Hellenistic Period: Narrations, Practices, and Images (ed. Eftychia Stavrianopoulou; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2013), 67–98.

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cal – was the outcome of an interaction between the imperial (Greek) power and native elites. A major site where local and imperial elites met was the royal court, more precisely, what Strootman dubs the “outer court,” as opposed to the more restricted “inner court.” While the inner court was the circle of high officials and royal friends who formed the king’s entourage on a regular basis, the outer court was a temporary expansion of it, which occurred on special occasions, such as inaugurations, wedding ceremonies and religious festivals, when elite persons from all over the empire gathered at the place where the imperial court resided. The outer court operated as a contact zone, that is, a “social space where cultures meet, clash, and grapple, often in contexts of highly asymmetrical relations of power.”64 At these gatherings, the non-Greek guests became acquainted with the manners of the court, both those of the royal family itself and of the Greek philoi who, as members of the inner court, served as mediators between the king and his guests. These guests took back home elements of the Hellenistic court culture, and used them as a means to “signify their affiliation with the empire’s central source of prestige, the king.” Moreover, Strootman compared the Greekness of Hellenistic court culture with “what scholars of Bronze Age material culture have called ‘international style,’” that is, an eclectic elite art whose adoption was a means for local elites “to relate to, and connect with, the leading families of other communities.” 65 Alongside its genuinely Greek traits, Hellenistic court culture incorporated elements from the main non-Greek elite societies that were under the king’s sway. These two propositions are worth exploring further. 3. The Outer Court as a “Multiple” Contact Zone? In line with Strootman’s analysis, I propose that during the gatherings of the outer court, the multi-cultural elites who met there did not behave as merely passive cultural receivers of the king’s culture, but actively took part in a multi-cultural competition that engaged not only with the Greek culture of the king and his courtiers, but with the cultures of all the elites who gathered in the outer court. My proposition is based on a set of circumstantial and indirect evidence. To start with a general observation, there is enough evidence attesting that among the native elites who visited the royal courts – either to settle urgent matters, or as guests to royal events – there were temple elites of high rank. To take a few examples from Judea, in Josephus, Antiquities 12.164–74, we are told that Joseph the Tobiad, the nephew of the Jerusalem Mary Louise Pratt, “Arts of the Contact Zone,” Profession 91 (1991): 33. Strootman, “Antiochos Cylinder,” 73; idem, “Hellenistic Court Society: The Seleukid Imperial Court under Antiochos the Great, 223–187 BCE,” in Royal Courts in Dynastic States and Empires: A Global Perspective (ed. Jeroen F. J. Duindam, Tülay Artan, and Metin Kunt; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2011), 66. 64 65

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high priest, was dispatched as an ambassador to Alexandria, and the story implies that Onias, the high priest, should have gone himself. In 2 Maccabees 4:23–24, the high priest Jason dispatched Menelaos – then a priest of high rank – to Antioch, where he was received by the king, and shortly after Menelaos became high priest, he was summoned back to Antioch, because of tax arrears (4:28). Furthermore, we have specific evidence that texts were written by local priests for the instruction and edification of kings. The best-known examples are Manetho, who wrote his Aegyptiaka for the Ptolemaic court, and Berossus, who dedicated his Babyloniaka to Antiochos I, perhaps on the occasion of the latter’s accession to the throne in 281 B.C.E.66 Moreover, Pierre-Alain Beaulieu argued that the Uruk Prophecy, which was written by an Urukean priest of the Bīt Rēš, the Sin temple whose rebuilding was initiated by Antiochos I, was intended for this king. To quote Beaulieu, this text “was, very much like the Babyloniaca, a work of edification designed to convey a sense of respect for the great antiquity of Babylonian culture, as well as to underscore the ruler’s duty to protect and further that culture by his active support of pious works.”67 A Demotic archive from Sakkara, near Memphis in Egypt, attests that the kings were not impervious to sources of native knowledge, and that this could also be communicated in an oral form. Ḥor, a scribe and dreamer native of Sebennytos in the Egyptian delta, who spent some time in an Ibis sanctuary at Sakkara around 170 B.C.E. and in the following decade, had his day of glory when in August 168 he was granted an audience before the king to inform him in person of his prophetic dream.68 On Manetho, see now Ian S. Moyer, Egypt and the Limits of Hellenism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 84–141. On Berossus, see Stanley M. Burstein, The Babyloniaka of Berossus (Malibu, Ca.: Undena, 1978), 34; Paul Kosmin, “Seleucid Ethnography and Indigenous Kingship: The Babylonian Education of Antiochus I,” in The World of Berossos: Proceedings of the 4th International Colloquium on “The Ancient Near East between Classical and Ancient Oriental Traditions,” Hatfield College, Durham 7th– 9th July 2010 (ed. Johannes Haubold et al.; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2013), 199– 212. See further Ian Moyer, “Berossos and Manetho,” ibid., 213–32. Moyer questioned the accepted parallels between the works of these two native authors. 67 Paul-Alain Beaulieu, “The Historical Background of the Uruk Prophecy,” in The Tablet and the Scroll: Near Eastern Studies in Honor of William W. Hallo (ed. Mark E. Cohen, Daniel C. Snell, and David B. Weisberg; Bethesda, Md.: CDL Press, 1993), 41–52 (50). 68 This episode is known thanks to Ḥor’s Demotic archives. The context was Antiochos IV’s occupation of Egypt in these months. Shortly before 11 July 168, Ḥor had a dream prophesying both the salvation of Alexandria and the birth of an heir to Cleopatra. He reported the dream to his superior, Eirenaios – a high-ranking commander of the Egyptian army, but the latter at first did not believe the dream, because the forces of occupation were firmly in hold of Memphis at this date. When the Seleucid army evacuated Pelusion, Eirenaios changed his mind and diligently arranged for the audience. See John D. Ray, The Archive of Ḥor (London: Egypt Exploration Society, 1976), 126–28. 66

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Alexandrian court poetry is further evidence that the Ptolemaic court had a genuine interest in non-Greek priestly lore. In a pioneering study of 1993, Ludwig Koenen showed that Callimachus, the leading Alexandrian court poet of the third century and head of the royal library, knowingly incorporated themes borrowed from the Egyptian royal ideology in some of his poems. Subsequently Susan Stephens and others have disclosed similar influences of the Egyptian learned culture on more poems by Callimachus and Theocritus.69 Therefore, when we look for an institutional setting – a contact zone – where temple elites from distinct cultic systems could meet, the outer court emerges as the most plausible option. Notably, the members of temple elites attending the outer court did not come alone, and we can perfectly imagine that they and their entourage brought along not only texts specifically intended for the king, but also traditional and recent literary and scientific works in Greek (and Aramaic? 70) translations, and canvassed their intellectual treasures to the other Greek and non-Greek guests. The example of the Alexandrian court poetry further suggests that the mediation of the court could also be indirect, that is, not as the place where embassies and delegations of priests and scribes from different backgrounds met in a physical way, but where they encountered priestly ideas and texts in an already processed form, as an integral part of the eclectic international style of the court. Thus as I suggest, the outer court functioned as a wide-ranging cultural market, from which elite visitors could bring back home everything that was on offer: the courtiers’ way of life, Greek ideas, along with priestly texts and intellectual innovations. Moreover, not only is the court the most plausible contact zone for different priestly traditions, but the mediation of the court brought two factors of strong added value, namely prestige, and a guise of international style. 4. Devolution The hypothesis of the court mediation may also help us solve an additional clue: how did priestly literary traditions and priestly scientific lore reach wider circles, outside the temples themselves? Admittedly, we can easily imagine that the temples actively advertised specific pieces of information that could enhance the reputation of their paLudwig Koenen, “The Ptolemaic King as a Religious Figure,” in Images and Ideologies: Self-Definition in the Hellenistic World (ed. Anthony W. Bulloch et al.; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 81–113. See further Susan S. Stephens, Seeing Double: Intercultural Poetics in Ptolemaic Alexandria (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003). 70 For the Babylonian works, see Beaulieu, “Uruk Prophecy,” 49, about the Uruk Prophecy; and the Aramaic texts of Babylonian origin found at Qumran. 69

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tron-deities: stories of miraculous divine interventions, omens and prophecies, and the like. As much as the priests were eager to divulge these matters, numerous people outside the temples were avid for their consumption – and not only at home.71 However, as the example of Ḥor mentioned above shows, prophecies were first delivered to the kings themselves, and therefore the courts in all likelihood played an active part in publicizing them further. Furthermore, when it comes to the intricacies of priestly lore, we may wonder which private agents might have served as adequate mediators between temples and the outer world – and even more so, between temple literati belonging to distinct cultic systems. Where and how did priests meet other priests?72 To apprehend this process I wish to borrow the notion of devolution from Margaret Miller’s study on the Persian influences on Athenian culture in the heyday of Athenian imperialism in the fifth century B.C.E.73 Miller describes a two-step process: first, as Athenians became acquainted with the luxurious way of life of the Persian kings, satraps and high-ranking officials, Athenian aristocrats emulated items from this life of luxury for their own use, such as certain types of drinking vessels and clothes. In a second stage, Athenians of a lower social rank followed suit by replicating Persian-style goods in cheaper materials. This second step is that of devolution. Presumably, two kinds of mediating agents were at work in the royal courts: not only native priests willing to present their traditional history and lore in Greek translation, but also Greek intellectuals orbiting around the king. Based on the respective intellectual traditions of each, we should not rule out the possibility that the wider spread of priestly lore was the work of learned Greeks prompted essentially by intellectual curiosity, and not of the priests per se. In Egypt and Mesopotamia, the legacy of old times was a symbiosis between temples and palaces. The scarce evidence we have – Manetho, Berossus, and the Uruk Prophecy just mentioned – may support the view that in translating their works, native priests primarily sought to reach out to the Greek kings. In contrast, the cultural tradition of Greek philosophers was 71 Thus Gideon Bohak and Mark Geller have traced a collection of astronomical – mainly lunar – predictions which had been first compiled in Akkadian – one of the celestial omens being dated to Antiochus III – through a brontologion in Qumran (4Q318) in the first century B.C.E. or C.E., a Demotic book of lunar omens of the second century C.E., a late antique Aramaic astrological compendium that was probably composed in the East, a late-antique Palestinian liturgical poem found in the Cairo Genizah, and the more recent Mandaic Book of the Zodiac, and the Syriac Book of Medicines. See Gideon Bohak and Mark Geller, “Babylonian Astrology in the Cairo Genizah,” in Envisioning Judaism: Studies in Honor of Peter Schäfer on the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday (ed. Ra’anan S. Boustan et al.; 2 vols.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 1:607–22. 72 For a critique of alternative processes that were put forward, see above, n. 58. 73 See Margaret C. Miller, Athens and Persia in the Fifth Century B.C.: A Study in Cultural Receptivity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 253–56.

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inherited from the world of the Greek cities, and was far more democratic, so to speak, than that of temple scholars. Once the material passed from its original temple setting and became available in Greek in the courts, it soon made its way into wider social circles. If my intuition is correct, Greek philosophers contributed to this momentum as much as native agents, perhaps more. 5. The Cultural Role of Courts in Pre-Hellenistic and Hellenistic Times: A Comparison To conclude this section, let us compare the way courts functioned as centers in the transcultural circulation of texts and ideas in pre-Hellenistic and Hellenistic times. Although differences are undeniable, they should perhaps not be overstated. To follow Moyer’s line of analysis summarized above, one unquestionable difference has to do with economic modes. Under the native dynasties the spatial mobility of specialists, including scribes and diviners, was to a large extent integrated into the economy of reciprocity that regulated relations between courts, and Udjahorresne’s autobiography attests that their mobility largely remained under the control of the imperial bureaucracy under the Achaemenids.74 In Hellenistic times the processes at play were neatly different. From the Greek literary sources we know that the Ptolemies tried by all means to attract Greek poets and philosophers to Alexandria, where they were installed in the royal quarter as stipended members of the Mouseion.75 However, the (late) literary tradition has anecdotes depicting poets declining the royal invitation.76 Moreover, far from exchanging scribes as part of the inter-court diplomatic relations attested in the Amarna correspondence, Hellenistic kings – particularly in Alexandria and Pergamum – competed to obtain scholars and books.77 That said, it has been argued that the Ptolemaic practice of supporting scholars through stipends was closer to the organization of scientific activities in near-eastern temples than to the Greek philosophical schools, and the stipends presumably created a relation of dependency close to that described by Ian Moyer for the Persian (satrapal) courts.78

74

See above, n. 62. See Sylvie Honigman, The Septuagint and Homeric Scholarship in Alexandria: Study in the Narrative of the “Letter of Aristeas” (London and New York: Routledge, 2003), 42– 45. 76 See Tessa Rajak, Translation and Survival: The Greek Bible of the Ancient Jewish Diaspora (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 56–57. 77 On the Amarna correspondence, see Moyer, “Golden Fetters,” 228, 230. 78 See Paul-Alain Beaulieu, “De l’Esagil au Mouseion: l’organisation de la recherche scientifique au IVe siècle avant J.-C.,” in La Transition entre l’empire achéménide et les royaumes hellénistiques (vers 350–300 av. J.-C.) (ed. Pierre Briant and Francis Joannès; Paris: de Boccard, 2006), 17–32; and Moyer, “Golden Fetters.” 75

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Moreover, we cannot rule out that Hellenistic courts hosted non-Greek scholars – the instance of Manetho in Ptolemy I’s or Ptolemy II’s court may be a clue that they did.79 When we examine the role of the courts and central bureaucracies in the diffusion of scholarly and scribal techniques, the difference between preHellenistic and Hellenistic courts becomes harder to pinpoint. Thanks to the fact that they were manned with a fair number of Egyptian scribes, the Ptolemaic administrative offices were centers not only for the translation of texts from Demotic to Greek – as we saw in section E. above – but also for the transfer of technologies from the temples. In a recent article, James Aitken has compared the translation techniques used in the Old Greek Pentateuch

79 See Moyer, “Berossos and Manetho,” 214. If the notion that Egyptian scholars were accepted as members of the Mouseion in Alexandria may be odd, we should remember that not all Greek scholars who gravitated around the Alexandrian court were – for instance, the poet Theocritus. The presence of non-Greek courtiers at the inner royal courts, to use Strootman’s distinctions, is a vexed matter. In an article published in 1958, Christian Habicht argued on the basis of a prosopographical study that the overwhelming majority of the royal philoi, the Seleukid imperial elite, was composed of Greeks originating in the world of the cities, and secondarily of Macedonians. In contrast the representatives of nonGreek and non-Macedonian elites among the courtiers were very few. See Christian Habicht, “Die herrschende Gesellschaft in den hellenistischen Monarchien,” Vierteljahrschrift für Sozial- und Wirtschaftgeschichte 45 (1958): 1–16. Habicht’s conclusion was famously disputed by Amélie Kuhrt and Susan Sherwin-White in From Samarkhand to Sardis, and again in subsequent studies. See Kuhrt and Sherwin-White, From Samarkhand to Sardis: A New Approach to the Seleucid Empire (London: Duckworth, 1993), 124–25; and further Leah McKenzie, “Patterns in Seleucid Administration: Macedonian or Near Eastern?,” Mediterranean Archaeology 7 (1994): 61–68; Chiara Carsana, Le dirigenze cittadine nello stato seleucidico (Como: New Press, 1996), 20–21. However, Rolf Strootman recently made a strong case for reverting to Habicht’s view. See Rolf Strootman, “Hellenistic Court Society,” 81–84. The following remarks may help clarify this matter. First, a distinction should be made between non-Greek courtiers who were explicitly acknowledged as foreigners, and courtiers who, although they originated from non-Greek communities, were known at court through their Greek name and were referred to as Greeks. Whereas the former were few (Strootman, “Hellenistic Court Society,” 82), the proportion of the latter is impossible to evaluate, precisely because they are inconspicuous in the sources, but we may surmise they were more numerous than the former (Strootman, ibid.). Having a dual cultural identity, these courtiers could serve as mediators between their original communities and the court, exactly like courtiers originating in Greek cities did – on the basis of the known civic ethnika of the royal philoi, it seems that virtually every single Greek city was represented by at least one. Furthermore, the major non-Greek temples certainly had representatives in the courts, of whom Manetho and Berossus are only the best-known characters. The presence of these bi-cultural courtiers may explain the influence of non-Greek texts and ideas on texts written in Greek that originated in the Hellenistic courts.

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and those used to translate non-literary Demotic documents into Greek. 80 Whereas Kim Ryholt argues that several scholarly techniques used by Alexandrian scholars were in all likelihood borrowed from Egyptian temples.81 Most uncertain of all is the history of the devolution process. As far as writing is concerned, it was probably a Greek innovation. Emilio Gabba has suggested that the genre of paradoxography – stories of wonders – that flourished in the Hellenistic era was a popular response to the learned scientific pursuits of the time, mainly under royal auspices.82 However, the entire realm of the oral circulation of stories continues to elude us, and therefore we cannot have any accurate view of the interplay between courts, temples, and popular knowledge at all times.

G. Conclusion How relevant are these considerations to our understanding of the context of intellectual production in Jerusalem (and Qumran)? In the mind of numerous biblical scholars – among them, Hengel – the relations between Greek kings and pious Jews were hostile.83 Moreover, the examples I adduced above to support my claim that royal courts were major centers in the centralization and cross-cultural circulation of priestly texts and lore, relate to Egypt (Manetho, and Ḥor) and Mesopotamia (Berossus, and the Uruk Prophecy), and not to Judea. Should we indeed exclude Judea from this system? I do not think so. First, as I argued in this contribution, the traditional models for foreign influence on Judean scribal lore have their own shortcomings. In particular, the assumed divide between the Jerusalem temple and the royal administration in 80 See James K. Aitken, “The Language of the Septuagint and Jewish-Greek Identity,” in The Jewish-Greek Tradition in Antiquity and the Byzantine Empire (ed. James K. Aitken and James Carleton Paget; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 120–34. 81 Kim Ryholt, “Libraries in Ancient Egypt,” in Ancient Libraries (ed. Jason König, Katerina Oikonomopoulou, and Greg Woolf; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 23–37. See Sylvie Honigman, “Was the Septuagint deposited in the Library of Alexandria? New Insights on the Septuagint Origins and the Library’s Content,” in La Librairie d’Alexandrie (ed. Christophe Rico; Cambridge: Cambridgescholars, forthcoming). 82 Emilio Gabba, “True History and False History in Classical Antiquity,” Journal of Roman Studies 71 (1981): 50–62. On scholarly activity in the Seleukid court, see Paul J. Kosmin, The Land of the Elephant Kings: Space, Territory, and Ideology in the Seleucid Empire (Cambridge, Mass. and London: Harvard University Press, 2014), 31–76. 83 For an extreme restatement of this view, see Anathea Portier-Young, Apocalypse against Empire: Theologies of Resistance in Early Judaism (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2011).

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Judea needs reconsideration. There are no reasons to doubt that scribes, in Judea as elsewhere in the Hellenistic East, moved between the two – if only because they had the required skills to serve in both.84 Therefore, instead of Hengel’s gymnasion I propose the cultural and social circulation of people and material between temple and royal administrative offices as the primary channel of Greek influences. Regarding Babylonian influences, the traditional model whereby Babylonian texts were brought along to Judea by immigrating Jews compels us to assume firstly that these immigrants included a fair proportion of scribes, and secondly that these had direct contacts with the Babylonian priesthoods. While these two assumptions are not entirely impossible,85 the hypothesis that the encounters between Judean (priestly) scribes and Babylonian priests occurred at the royal court adds two elements that the hypothesis of a direct contact lacks: the added prestige of texts that were first circulated in a competitive setting, and a guise of international style acquired by the said texts owing to the fact that they were first publicized at court. Finally, scholars have pointed to the influence of the Alexandrian scholarship in Qumran. 86 Whereas the precise circuit through which these influences were transmitted is beyond our reach, the data from Qumran offer additional evidence that the royal courts were cultural centers through which knowledge was centralized, and redistributed.

84 See above, n. 6. I intend to tackle this issue in more detail in the proceeding of the International Conference “Judea in the Long Third Century B.C.E.: The Transition between the Persian and Hellenistic Periods,” held in Tel Aviv University, May 31–June 3, 2014, to be edited by Sylvie Honigman and Oded Lipschits. 85 See, however, my reservations concerning Kaestli’s view, n. 58 above. 86 See for instance Marcus K. M. Tso, Ethics in the Qumran Community: An Interdisciplinary Investigation (WUNT II/292; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 133–35, on various foreign influences in Qumran, including Egyptian ones. See also above, n. 71.

Identities within a Central and Peripheral Perspective The Use of Aramaic in the Hebrew Bible Diana Edelman A. Introduction The Levant’s status as a land bridge consisting of many ecological niches between major political powers of the ancient Near East encouraged regionalism in periods of political weakness and inevitably gave rise to the use of multiple identity strategies for individuals in periods of political strength. As the Assyrian, Neo-Babylonian, and Persian empires grew and incorporated more polities within their borders, policies were implemented of one-way and two-way forced immigration that created diasporic communities outside their original homelands and regions with mixed ethnic populations. In such circumstances, language often served as a marker of identity among sub-groups and minorities. Drawing on a contemporary ethnographic example of multiple identities among members of the Tewa tribe in Arizona expressed through the use of language “code-switching,” I will analyze the likely functions of the Aramaic texts embedded within the books of the Hebrew Bible using a set of situational functions deduced from the study of examples of code-switching from a range of contemporary cultures. This textual bilingualism indirectly indicates that the Judean literati and intended audiences of the books of Jeremiah, Ezra and Daniel lived in imperial environments that encouraged participation in multiple identities as a local survival strategy.

B. Identity Strategies Identities involve the use of historical, linguistic and cultural resources in the process of becoming rather than being; they deal with the questions of what we might become, how we have been represented by others, and how we might represent ourselves in light of outside representations, not who we are

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or where we came from.1 Identities are emergent products of linguistic and semiotic practices, not existing sources of them, which are fundamentally a social and cultural phenomenon.2 They are constructed within discourse and “are produced in specific historical and institutional sites within specific discursive formations and practices by specific enunciative strategies. Moreover, they emerge within the play of specific modalities of power, and thus are more the product of the marking of differences and exclusion, than they are the sign of an identical, naturally-constituted unity – an ‘identity’ in its traditional meaning (that is, an all-inclusive sameness, seamless, without internal differentiation).” 3 “The process of identity construction does not reside within the individual but in intersubjective relations of sameness and difference, realness and fakeness, power and disempowerment.”4 Identities function only because they construct boundaries that exclude an Other, which is essential to the definition. The development of national or any form of identity depends to a large degree on defining the boundaries between Us and Them.5 Differentiation is based on comparison, which tends to generate evaluation and group egotism that asserts superiority by creating stereotypes that turn narrow differences into fundamental ones that demonize the Other, often turning it into an enemy. At the same time, this Other has to share the same arena in some way. Both historical and sociological studies have demonstrated that the absence of an external Other to define a given society tends to undermine group unity and to encourage internal factions and subdivisions.6 Individuals find and redefine their identities in groups, and such identities shape behavior. While certain ascriptive traits like ancestry, kin, gender, and age tend to predetermine membership in some sub-groups, individuals construct their identities in interaction with others and in relation or reaction to pressure, inducements, and freedom. Typical primary subgroups beyond the ascriptive include those that are cultural, territorial, political, economic, social, or religious. Language is often a marker of group identity. When one adopts a group’s identity, one will perceive the world through the concepts

1 Stuart Hall, “Who Needs Identity?” in Questions of Cultural Identity (ed. Stuart Hall and Paul du Gay; London: Sage, 1996), 1–17, 4. 2 Mary Bucholtz and Kira Hall, “Locating Identity in Language,” in Languages and Identities (ed. Carmen Llamas and Dominic Watt; Edinburgh: University of Edinburgh Press, 2010), 18–28, 19. 3 Hall, “Who Needs Identity?,” 4. 4 Bucholtz and Hall, “Locating Identity in Language,” 27. 5 John Edwards, Language and Identity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). 6 Samuel P. Huntington, Who Are We? America’s Crisis of National Identity (London: Free Press, 2004), 18, 26.

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that underpin that group and express its values and codes.7 So, for example, a person’s mode of speech reveals to others that he or she belongs to a particular nation and lives or has lived in a certain region of that nation. Speech can also reveal the level of education a person has acquired and so situate them socio-economically as well.8 A person can aspire to membership in a group but be rejected, and members in a sub-group sometimes internalize the views of outsiders and at other times may define themselves over against outside claims and perceptions. People often embrace and perform multiple identities at once through membership in a number of sub-groups and can shift among these identities, renegotiate them according to circumstances, and construct new ones. Group identities, on the other hand, are much less flexible. They tend to have a primary defining characteristic.9 Language is one means by which group identity is often defined and expressed. It cements solidarity among members by eliciting feelings of belonging, appreciation, and attraction.10 In the case of the religious community of Israel, written Hebrew serves this function. We cannot be certain how widely or for how long Hebrew was maintained as a spoken language as well, but the oral component of the language no doubt would have contributed to the community’s sense of identity in its formative stages. A language of high status, on the other hand, holds significant utilitarian value for socioeconomic opportunity and advancement and often represents the language of government and commerce.11 In the Achaemenid Persian Empire, this would have been the oral and written language of diplomacy. In the western part of the Empire, it was Aramaic; in the eastern part, it was Persian or Elamite at the Persian court but written and spoken Babylonian in Mesopotamia.

7 Philippe Chassy, “How Language Shapes Social Perception,” in Language and Identity: Discourse in the World (ed. David Evans; London: Bloomsbury, 2015), 36–51, 47. 8 John E. Joseph, “Identity,” in Language and Identities (ed. Carmen Llamas and Dominic Watt; Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2010), 9–17, 17; Chassy, “How Language Shapes Social Perception,” 49. 9 Huntington, Who Are We?, 22–27. 10 Ellen B. Ryan, Howard Giles, and Richard J. Sebastian, “An integrative perspective for the study of attitudes toward language variation,” in Attitudes towards Language Variation: Social and Applied Contexts (ed. Ellen B. Ryan and Howard Giles; The Social Psychology of Language 1; London: Edward Arnold, 1982), 1–19, 9. 11 Ryan, “An integrative perspective,” 4; Mamtimym Sunuodula, Anwei Feng, and Bob Adamson, “Trilingualism and Uyghur Identity in the People’s Republic of China,” in Language and Identity: Discourse in the World (ed. David Evans; London: Bloomsbury, 2015), 81–104, 99–100.

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C. Code-Switching in Bilingual and Multi-Lingual Contexts Recognizing that identity is constructed within discourse, the practice of code-switching, which is the alternate use of two or more languages within a stream of speech or sign language, has been studied to understand how social contexts affect language choice. A couple of objections to the applicability of code-switching to investigating the possible motivations underlying the use of Aramaic in three biblical texts (Jer 10:11; Ezra 4:8–6:18, 7:11–26; Dan 2:4– 7:28) come immediately to mind. However, neither invalidates the usefulness of this phenomenon; rather, both help with the articulation of qualifications that need to be recognized when dealing with literature vs. speech. The first objection is the necessary recognition that code-switching primarily examines recorded, informal oral conversational exchanges between bilingual individuals, while the biblical texts are written communications that include conversations between characters but also narratorial statements containing background information, assessments, scene transitions, and quoted documents presented in two languages. Thus, there are differences in genre. However, conversations often involve story-telling and quotations, as do written narratives, and since both involve communication through language, it is logical to expect a high degree of overlap in rhetorical strategies used to make points and convey meaning in the two forms of communication. Studies of code-switching strategies in written texts have been done, for example, using sermons, other religious prose texts, letters, business accounts, legal and medical texts, “macaronic” poems, longer verse pieces, drama, and various prose texts in Britain in the later medieval period.12 Thus, the applicability of code-switching to the medium of written texts as well as spoken conversations has been recognized and implemented in prior studies. The second possible objection involves the level of bilingualism and its expression. Speakers often are unaware they are mixing two languages since they are equally proficient in both, and recent studies suggest that they are not necessarily using a matrix language and borrowing or inserting bits from one of more other languages into the base structure13 but instead, are operating in 12 Herbert Schendl, “Linguistic Aspects of Code-Switching in Medieval English Texts,” in Multilingualism in Later Medieval Britain (ed. David A. Trotter; Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2000), 77–92; for other studies, see conveniently Penelope Gardner-Chloros, Code-switching (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 20–21. 13 Aravind K. Joshi, “Processing of Sentences with Intrasential Code-Switching,” in Natural Language Processing: Psychological, Computational and Theoretical Perspectives (ed. David R. Dowty, Lauri Karttunen, and Arnold M. Zwicky; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 190–205; Judith L. Klavans, “The Syntax of CodeSwitching: Spanish and English,” in Selected Papers from the XIIIth Linguistic Symposium on Romance Languages (ed. Larry D. King and Catherine A. Maley; Amsterdam: J. Benjamins, 1985), 213–31; Carol Myers-Scotton, Social Motivations for Codeswitching: Evi-

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a world of some convergence between the two languages, be that syntactic merging or the blending or fusing of structures from both languages into a local koine with its own structurally definable pattern. M. Clyne, 14 J. M. Meisel,15 Y. Maschler,16 and P. Muysken,17 for example, have proposed these two phenomena should be distinguished and propose the first that assumes a matrix language be labelled “code-switching” and the second “code-mixing.” M. Meeuwis and J. Blommaert,18 on the other hand, have chosen instead to talk of a monolectal view of code-switching, where two languages are not blended but constitute a code in its own right, with its own dynamics. The use of both Hebrew and Aramaic in biblical texts implies their authors and their intended ideal audiences were assumed to be proficient in both Hebrew and Aramaic, but whether their personal conversations would have contained code-switching or code-mixing on a regular basis cannot be known. Rather, we have the texts they produced. In the case Ezra and Daniel, they have inserted extended chunks of quoted text and narrative in Aramaic into a Hebrew base text. These texts presume “brought along” meaning, but not “brought about” meaning (see the ensuing paragraphs for definitions), while conversational code-switching involves both.19 The texts in Ezra and Daniel could be seen to be instances of what Clyne 20 has called “transversion,” which are situations where the speaker moves completely from one language into another. The data he used for analysis are transcripts of conversations involving bilinguals and trilinguals that usually involve much shorter strings of meanings in discrete languages, but the phenomenon should apply equally to more expansive sections of written texts. Both Ezra and Daniel involve dence from Africa (Oxford Studies in Language Contact; Oxford: Clarendon, 1993), 63, 114–31. 14 Michael Clyne, “Constraints on Code-Switching: How Universal Are They?” Linguistics 25 (1987): 739–64, 740–41. 15 Jürgen M. Meisel, “Early Differentiation of languages in bilingual children,” in Bilingualism across the Lifespan (ed. Kenneth Hyllenstam and Loraine K. Obler; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 13–40. 16 Yael Maschler, “On the Transition from Code-Switching to a Mixed Code,” in CodeSwitching in conversation: Language, interaction and identity (ed. Peter Auer; London: Routledge, 1998), 125–49. 17 Pieter Muysken, Bilingual Speech: A Typology of Code-Mixing (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000). 18 Michael Meeuwis and Jan Blommaert, “A Monolectal View of Code-Switching: Layered code-switching among Zairians in Belgium,” in Code-Switching in Conversation (ed. Peter Auer), 76–98. 19 Norma Mendoza-Denton and Dana Osborne, “Two Languages, Two Identities?” in Language and Identities (ed. Carmen Llamas and Dominic Watt; Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2010), 113–22, 120. 20 Michael Clyne, Dynamics of Language Contact: English and Immigrant Languages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 75–76, 162–79.

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extended segments of Aramaic in the midst of a Hebrew base text that, as already noted, include narrated material as well as quoted speech. Social factors that have been identified as influencing whether or not codeswitching or code-mixing develops include prestige and covert prestige, power relations, the association of each language with a particular context or way or life, “market” forces; the competence of the speakers in each language, their social networks and relationships, their attitudes and ideologies, their self-perception and perception of others; and factors in the conversation, where code-switching and mixing provide additional tools for structuring discourse that are not available to monolinguals. 21 Relevant to the biblical situations, J. Gumperz22 has noted that among a minority group that maintains a minority language, that language tends to serve as a “we”-code for insiders and is used in situations of in-group and informal activities, while the majority language is viewed as a “they-code” to be used in out-group relations and formal situations. While it is the case that conversational analysis has demonstrated that one cannot assume a fixed relationship between an individual social identity and the language used to invoke it during a given oral interaction,23 it is likely that the use of Hebrew in the biblical texts is intended to invoke and reinforce a single social group identity via language, even if authors and audience members would have experienced shifting identities in their daily interactions as minorities within an imperial setting. S. Gal has observed in addition that when code-switching involves a statesponsored (e.g. “they”-code) language and a local one (“we”-code), the continued use of the minority language indicates “how speakers respond symbolically to relations of domination between groups within the state, and how they understand their historic position and identity within a world capitalist system structured around dependency.”24 The same would apply in an ancient imperial, non-capitalist system of economic exploitation. She emphasizes how the larger politico-economic context is crucial in “shaping the nature of interactions between and within ethnic groups, the permeability of boundaries, the definitions and evaluations of actions and resources, and the nature of competition across boundaries, so that differing patterns of code-switching represent both “interactional management around roles and boundaries,” and

Gardner-Chloros, Code-switching, 42–43. John J. Gumperz, Discourse strategies (Studies in Interactional Sociolinguistics 1; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 66. 23 Mark Sebba and Tony Wootton, “We, They and Identity: Sequential versus identityrelated explanation in code-switching,” in Code-Switching in Conversation (ed. Peter Auer), 262–86, 284. 24 Susan Gal, “The Political Economy of Code Choice,” in Codeswitching: Anthropological and Sociolinguistic Perspectives (ed. Monica Heller; Contributions to the Sociology of Language 48; Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter, 1988), 245–64, 247. 21 22

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“the symbolic practices of different sociopolicial positions.” 25 While codeswitching is a linguistic phenomenon and certain tendencies can be found when blending a wide range of languages, the specific forms it takes are not universal but rather, context-dependent. Two approaches to code-switching and code-blending have been identified: the “brought along” meaning26 and the “brought about” meaning.27 The first assumes that identity construction is primarily indexical and social meaning is pre-established and intimately tied to the language being used at a given time: when people used Hebrew, they were identifying themselves with a set of conventions and presumptions associated with being Judean or Samarian, and when they used Aramaic, they were identifying themselves instead with those meanings and associations aligned with being an inhabitant of the imperial regime in power, be that Neo-Babylonian, Achaemenid, Ptolemaic, or Seleucid. N. Mendoza-Denton and D. Osborne discuss two sub-categories of “brought along” meaning.28 The first is situational shifting, where the speaker “assumes a direct relationship between language and the social situation [involving] clear changes in the participants’ definition of each others’ rights and obligations.”29 They give an example where Hungarian-speaking peasants living in Oberwart, Austria would use German when visiting a doctor or speaking to a governmental bureaucrat.30 The second is metaphorical shifting, where a person shifts into a language to index the social meanings available in an imagined or experienced situation without directly experiencing that social situation in the current exchange. An example cited by MendozaDenton and Osborne involves two teenage Latina girls from the San Franciso 25

Gal, “The Political Economy of Code Choice,” 248. E.g. Myers-Scotton, Social Motivations for Codeswitching; Peter Auer and Aldo Di Luzio, eds., The Contextualization of Language (Pragmatics & Beyond New Series 22; Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 1992). 27 E.g. Joseph Gafaranga, “Elements of Order in Bilingual Talk: Kinyarwanda-French Language Alternation” (Unpublished PhD thesis; Lancaster University, 1998), 169–74; Norma Mendoza-Denton and Dana Osborne, “Two Languages, Two Identities?” in Language and Identities (ed. Carmen Llamas and Dominic Watt; Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2010), 113–22, 115. 28 Mendoza-Denton and Osborne, “Two Languages, Two Identities?,” 116–21. 29 Jan Peter Blom and John Gumperz, “Social meaning in linguistic structures: codeswitching in Norway,” in Directions in Sociolinguistics (ed. John Gumperz and Dell Hymes; New York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1972), 407–34, 424; Myers-Scotton, Social Motivations for Codeswitching, 85; Mendoza-Denton and Osborne, “Two Languages, Two Identities?,” 117. 30 Susan Gal, “Variation and change in patterns of speaking: language shift in Austria,” in Linguistic Variation: Models and Methods (ed. David Sankoff; New York: Academic Press, 1978), 227–38; eadem, Language Shift: Social Determinants of Linguistic Change in Bilingual Austria (New York: Academic Press, 1979). 26

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Bay area, in which a conversation takes place in English, but one girl uses Spanish to voice the speech and opinions of her mother.31 Here, the voicing in Spanish carries value and indexical significance recognized and understood by both the speaker and hearer. The second category, “brought about” meaning, interprets social meaning as an interactional resource, where a switch to a different language can only be interpreted in the context of a larger sequence where it introduces a contrast and shift. It does not focus on indexical categories associated with each language but instead, on locally relevant categories, allowing for the possibility that new identity categories may be expressed when one employs codeswitching.32 It goes beyond the assumption that there is a matrix language and that the switch to a new language adds a new set of rights and obligations.33 In this understanding, switching can highlight semantic similarities or oppositions, provide emphasis or accommodation, and create various types of parallelism. It can signal a change in direction, begin a conversation again after an ended interactive exchange, and help those engaged in the conversation to keep track of the main “drift” by “mapping out complex nested structural patterns in the conversation.” 34 It contributes to and determines the social structure during a situation rather than being an outside phenomenon being correlated with pre-existing social structures. 35 “Brought-about” meaning seems particularly closely aligned with the phenomenon of code-mixing as defined above and tends to assume the use of a medium composed of internally mixed varieties of language rather than a base matrix language.36 Both approaches, “brought with” and “brought about” meaning, must be used together in order to understand the complex performative effects of voicing and stylization in situations where code-switching is employed. 37 They are not mutually exclusive or incompatible. As J. Gafaranga38 notes, in spite of weaknesses, current “brought with” theories that interpret the order in talk in two languages “make a strong case for the orderliness of language alternation,” while his own work on language alternation, especially his

31

Mendoza-Denton and Osborne, “Two Languages, Two Identities?,” 117–19. Mendoza-Denton and Osborne, “Two Languages, Two Identities?,” 119–20. 33 Myers-Scotton, Social Motivations for Codeswitching, 74–149. 34 Li Wei, “The ‘why’ and ‘how’ questions in the analysis of conversational codeswitching,” in Code Switching in conversation (ed. Peter Auer), 156–79, 169. 35 Joseph Gafaranga, “Demythologizing Language Alternation Studies: Conversational Structure vs. Social Structure in Bilingual Interaction,” Journal of Pragmatics 37 (2005): 281–300, 294. 36 Gafaranga, “Demythologizing Language Alternation Studies,” 290–91. 37 Mendoza-Denton and Osborne, “Two Languages, Two Identities?,” 120. 38 Joseph Gafaranga, Talk in Two Languages (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), 207. 32

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Overall Model, shows that language shift and maintenance is “brought about meaning” in a local bilingual community like the Rwandans in Belgium.39

D. Language and Group Identity As noted by S. Hall,40 To say that two people belong to the same culture is to say that they interpret the world in roughly the same ways and can express themselves, their thoughts and feelings about the world, in ways which will be understood by each other. Thus culture depends on its participants interpreting meaningfully what is happening around them, and “making sense” of the world, in broadly similar ways.

The role of language as an identity strategy is ably illustrated by the Arizona Tewa-speaking community, who formally are part of the Hopi tribe. Their ancestors were southern Tano who had lived in San Marcos, San Lazaro, San Cristobal and Galisteo in New Mexico, who, after participating in a rebellion against Spanish control in 1696, moved to First Mesa, Arizona near the Rio Grande River Valley to escape Spanish control. After initial tensions between the newcomers and the local Hopi population, they took over land and began a new life as dry-farmers, adopted the Hopi matrilineal clan structure and residence and eventually intermarried with the Hopi after 200 years. One of their current identities is as Hopis, and many serve on the Hopi Tribal Council and several have chaired the council. Their children are educated in the Hopi reservation schools in Hopi, and then many go off-reservation for high school as boarding students, and that education is taught in English. Thus, members of this community are trilingual. They have preserved a sense of separate identity from the Hopis, however, in two ways: through their maintenance of two mutually exclusive kiva groups that trace back to an earlier Tano moiety system, and through their own language, which is taught at home and used in religious rituals. There is an effort made not to allow Hopis to learn the language, which is why they are happy to have their children educated in Hopi. Many may also become members of Hopi kiva groups when they intermarry, but Hopis are not made members of the Tewa-speakers’ kivas. It is very interesting to see how the Tewa created a myth of origins that does not correspond to the known “facts.” It remembers an invitation from First Mesa chiefs to their forefathers to come and protect from Ute invasion a diminished Hopi community that consisted of only seven families. There was Gafaranga, Talk in Two Languages, 174–97. Stuart Hall, “Introduction,” in Representation: Cultural Representations and Signifying Practices (ed. Stuart Hall; London: Sage, 1997), 1–11, 2. 39

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a pledge made by the fourth delegation sent to the Tano to give them land and allow intermarriage in return for their protective services, and this was accepted in an agreement that is symbolized by a staff used in their rituals. Then, they remember that the Hopis refused to give them the land, women, or food promised once the Utes had been defeated by the ancestors, forcing them to live like animals and forage for wild plants, with much disease and starvation resulting, while the Hopis laughed and made fun of them. As a result, they resolved never to let the Hopi learn their language or ceremonies. The Tewas would learn theirs so they could ridicule the Hopis in their own language as well as in Hopi, seeing their culture to be superior. This mythic story is told as part of all Arizona Tewa initiations. 41 As noted by P. V. Kroskrity, “The folk history of the Arizona Tewa, then, can be viewed as an attempt to manipulate historical events by redefining them in ways that could sustain a favorable self-image, instill pride, and provide a basis for the maintenance of cultural distinctiveness for a persecuted minority.”42 This interpretation stems from presentism, 43 where the past is not interpreted for its own sake but “for the sake of the present.” Rejecting an unflattering image in the eyes of the Hopis as involuntary actors, they have framed their immigration and subsequent isolation from the Hopi as deliberate actions they initiated. This active taking control is “a kind of propagandistic self-defense designed not only to vanquish Hopi definitions of the situation but also to bolster Arizona Tewa self-esteem.” 44 The dramatization of the story in ritual creates a continuing symbolic source of alienation from the Hopis and reinforces a discrete, shared past that provides identity for the community. In Hopi folk tradition, the Tewas were aggressive intruders who demanded land. Being against warfare, they placed tabus against the newcomers. Having fought a long but unsuccessful guerilla war against the Spanish from camps in the Northern Rio Grande, the Tano ancestors refused to resettle in their native villages that once again were under Spanish control and instead, sought land adjacent to the Hopi because it lay outside the sway of Spanish authority.45 What has developed, then, for this Arizona Tewa community, in light of their particular historical circumstances, is a repertoire of identities, where

41 Paul V. Kroskrity, Language, History, and Identity: Ethnolinguistic Studies of the Arizona Tewa (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1993), 9–11, 183–84, 184. 42 Kroskrity, Language, History, and Identity, 11–12. 43 George W. Stocking, “On the Limits of ‘Presentism’ and ‘Historicism’ in the Historio-graphy of the Behavioral Sciences,” in Race, Culture, and Evolution: Essays in the History of Anthropology (ed. George W. Stocking; New York: Free Press, 1968), 1–12, 3. 44 Kroskrity, Language, History, and Identity, 184. 45 Kroskrity, Language, History, and Identity, 184.

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individuals have a multiplicity of alternating identities that are communicated via three languages, each of which can signal a different sociocultural identity.46 This is illustrated by an analysis of conversations among members of the community, where switching into different languages is the result of an expression of identity that is not continuously ascribed on the part of the speaker in the given statement. Sometimes the perspective is as a Tewa, sometimes as a Hopi, and sometimes as a citizen of the US.47 The Tewa language itself has different levels of mastery and “purity” within the community. Ceremonial speech is the purest form, where foreign expressions are excluded, but its use is also limited to these contexts alone. In everyday speech, some archaic forms used in kiva language are not found in everyday speech and some mixing of vocabulary from English and Hopi occurs.48 Community members attribute variation in their speech to five possible social variables: gender, clan membership, age, idiosyncracies of the speaker, and the secular or sacred nature of the speech situation.49 War Dance Songs play a vital role in Tewa identity, but more interestingly for the historian, come in two varieties: those used among insiders as obligatory elements in the winter solstice kiva ceremony but which represent postmigration additions to a pre-immigration ceremony, and those performed for insiders and outsiders in the context of a public social dance in the central plaza of Tewa Village.50 The latter are privately sponsored and can occur at any time; they have no fixed repertoire of songs and the dancers also vary. The theme of active warfare was a major distinguishing trait between the Tewas and the Hopis that allowed the former to define themselves symbolically in the face of the derisive definitions assigned them by the Hopis in the early post-migration period.51 As noted by J. Vansina,52 cultural values influence the selection of both the events to be encapsulated in oral tradition as well as the form of transmission. In the public dances, while warfare continues as an important theme that is a cultural symbol of Tewa ethnicity, the Hopi leaders are acknowledged and a common contemporary enemy threatening the security of Hopi lands (the Navajo) is identified. Hopis attend and can perform as dancers but do not understand the content of the songs and never are singers. 53 These secular performances represent an updating of the presentist perspective, which Kroskrity, Language, History, and Identity, 206–10, 222–27. Kroskrity, Language, History, and Identity, 193–212. 48 Kroskrity, Language, History, and Identity, 38–39, 43, 183. 49 Kroskrity, Language, History, and Identity, 81. 50 Kroskrity, Language, History, and Identity, 179. 51 Kroskrity, Language, History, and Identity, 180. 52 Jan Vansina, Oral Tradition: A Study in Historical Methodology (trans. H. M. Wright; London: Routledge, 1965), 108. 53 Kroskrity, Language, History, and Identity, 185–91. 46

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acknowledges the changed relations between Tewa and Hopis. And in 1977, the Hopi crier chief publically accepted the Tewa myth of origins as accurate and identified the Tano in the Hopi story as a third, independent group of uninvited refugees. No Tewa-speaker self-identifies any longer as a Tano, but only as a Hopi, which allows the former conflicting accounts to be reconciled in the current, changed circumstances.54 Two relevant lessons for the situation of Judeans can be drawn from this example. These include the use of Hebrew to express a minority group identity in the collection of writings now called the Hebrew Bible, and implied bilingualism in the daily life of the authors of these texts and their intended audiences. A likely correlate of the latter would have been code-switching in conversations between Hebrew and Aramaic and possibly a third language language like Egyptian, Persian, or Babylonian within the course of a conversation among this segment of the population. Such practice would have expressed an individual sense of identity that was not continuously ascribed but which was situationally created via “… intersubjective relations of sameness and difference, realness and fakeness, power and disempowerment.”55 1. The Use of Hebrew and Aramaic in TANAK The decision of the Judean literati to write the various texts now collected together in TANAK in Hebrew should be seen to be a deliberate move to use language to create a sense of identity. It is an assertion of continuity with the monarchic past, where Hebrew was the official language of the court and its administration, as evidenced by the ostraca from Arad and Lachish, for example. Aramaic became the language of diplomacy in the West under the expanding Assyrian Empire56 and its use to compose administrative and legal documents continued under the successor Empires of Neo-Babylonia and Achaemenid Persia. Examples can be seen in the Behistun Inscription, a copy of which was found at Elephantine, the Elephantine papyri, which show that correspondence with Samaria and Yehud was conducted in Aramaic, the Idumean ostraca, and the legal documents found in the Wadi Daliyeh that derive from Samaria. With Aramaic as the lingua franca in the western Levant, especially under the Achaemenids, the decision to write texts that encapsulated a shared past for the religious community that called itself Israel in Hebrew was likely part of a strategy to maintain a separate identity through language.

Kroskrity, Language, History, and Identity, 192. Bucholtz and Hall, “Locating Identity in Language,” 27. 56 Alison Salvesen, “The Legacy of Babylon and Nineveh in Aramaic Sources,” in The Legacy of Mesopotamia (ed. Stephanie Dalley; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 139–61, 140–41. 54

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How long Hebrew continued to be a spoken language used by ordinary people remains debated,57 as does whether there might have been a resurrection of the language under the Hasmoneans, for example, after an earlier “death.”58 The likely existence of a range of Hebrew spoken dialects in addition to a more standarized form of written Hebrew in the Persian period, as earlier, is also acknowledged.59 Series C of the Yehud stamps that were on pottery vessels have been conclusively dated stratigraphically to the thirdsecond centuries B.C.E. and indicate a decision to use Hebrew rather than Aramaic script for some administrative functions, even if the Aramaic form of the provincial name was retained.60 Nevertheless, while historically, Aramaic became the lingua franca used within the western part of the NeoAssyrian, Neo-Babylonian, and Persian Empires and the biblical texts contain Aramaisms that betray familiarity with or the influence of Aramaic, it has been shown they have no inherent chronological significance.61 Whether oral forms of Hebrew were still in use more widely alongside Aramaic is uncertain. Bearing in mind the range of mastery of Tewa amongst tribal members over time and the debates over the extent of the use of Hebrew as a written 57 For its use in the Persian period, see e.g. Joseph Naveh and Jonas C. Greenfield, “Hebrew and Aramaic in the Persian Period,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism (ed. William David Davies and Louis Finkelstein; 2 vols.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 1:115–29; Joachim Schaper, “Hebrew and its Study in the Persian Period,” in Hebrew Study from Ezra to Ben-Yehuda (ed. William Horbury; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1999), 15–26, 17. 58 E.g. William M. Schniedewind, “Aramaic, the Death of Written Hebrew, and Language Shift in the Persian Period,” in Margins of Writing: Origins of Culture (ed. Seth L. Sanders; Oriental Institute Seminars 2; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 137– 47 and a critique by Ehud Ben Zvi, “The Communicative Message of Some Linguistic Choices,” in A Palimpsest: Rhetoric, Ideology, Stylistics, and Language Relating to Persian Israel (ed. Ehud Ben Zvi, Diana V. Edelman, and Frank Polak; Perspectives on Hebrew Scriptures and its Contexts 5; Piscataway, N.J.: Gorgias, 2009), 269–90, 275 n. 11. 59 E.g. Ian Young, “Biblical Texts Cannot be Dated Linguistically,” Hebrew Studies 46 (2005): 341–51, 346–47; Ben Zvi, “The Communicative Message of Some Linguistic Choices,” 279. 60 Ephraim Stern, Material Culture of the Land of the Bible in the Persian Period 538– 332 B.C. (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1982), 203, 206. 61 Avi Hurwitz, “The Chronological Significance of ‘Aramaisms’ in Biblical Hebrew,” IEJ 18 (1968): 234–40; idem, “Hebrew and Aramaic in the Biblical Period: The Problem of ‘Aramaisms’ in Linguistic Research on the Hebrew Bible,” in Biblical Hebrew Studies in Chronology and Typology (ed. Ian Young; JSOTSup 369; London: T&T Clark, 2003), 1:24–37; Gary A. Rendsburg, Diglossia in Ancient Hebrew (AOS 72; New Haven, Conn.: American Oriental Society, 1990); Ian Young, “What is ‘Late Biblical Hebrew’?” in A Palimpsest: Rhetoric, Ideology, Stylistics, and Language Relating to Persian Israel (ed. Ehud Ben Zvi, Diana V. Edelman, and Frank Polak; Perspectives on Hebrew Scriptures and its Contexts 5; Piscataway, N.J.: Gorgias, 2009), 253–68, 254.

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and oral language, the relative lack of Aramaisms in the TANAK might reflect a concern for “purity” in these texts. As the repository of the group’s cultural memory, these texts, which over time gain a sacred status, might well parallel ceremonial speech amongst the Tewa. We should consider here, then, if the difference between Standard Biblical Hebrew (SBH) and so-called Late Biblical Hebrew (LBH) is one of degree of “purity” associated initially with scribal practices but which over time developed into one of the authoritative religious languages as well. This is similar, though not identical, to the suggestion of I. Young 62 that SBH was a “high” prestige language and LBH features derive from spoken dialects that were generally avoided as not being acceptable in written Hebrew during the monarchy but which were introduced more and more and deemed to be acceptable during the course of the Exile, particularly among writers in the eastern Diaspora. The two “are best taken as representing two tendencies among scribes of the biblical period: conservative [SBH] and non-conservative [LBH],” with LBH becoming a feature of the eastern Diaspora.63 He builds on the argument of G. A. Rendsburg that SBH was a “high” prestige language used in a situation of diverse local dialects.64 Mine would be a complementary observation to the suggestion by E. Ben Zvi that in the late Persian period, standard Biblical Hebrew came to be associated with a time that extended from the patriarchs to the exile, which was deemed core to the community construed and imagined by the Jerusalemite literati, while texts written in late Biblical Hebrew were considered less central and associated with an eastern, Babylonian form of written Hebrew expressing a returnee voice.65 The use of Aramaic is limited in the corpus of TANAK texts to what are portrayed to be citations of legal documents in Ezra 4:8–6:18; 7:12–26; the court stories in Dan 2:4–7:28, the translation of a Hebrew place-name in Gen 31:47, and a single sentence denouncing idolatry in Jer 10:11. Daniel was written ca. 168–165 B.C.E. under the Hasmoneans, and the date of Ezra is disputed but generally is set in the late Persian or early Hellenistic period.66 The absence of a reference to the character or book of Ezra in Ben Sira has been seen as a possible indication the book had not yet been written, which would imply a date of composition perhaps in the first half of the second century B.C.E., fairly close in time to Daniel.67 But it is equally likely that Ben 62

Young, “Biblical Texts Cannot be Dated Linguistically,” 346. Young, “What is ‘Late Biblical Hebrew’?,” 261, 264–65. 64 Rendsburg, Diglossia in Ancient Hebrew. 65 Ben Zvi, “The Communicative Message of Some Linguistic Choices,” 281–85. 66 See e.g. Hugh G. M. Williamson, Ezra, Nehemiah (WBC 16; Waco, Tex.: Word Books, 1985), xxxv–xxxvi. 67 E.g. Philip R. Davies, “Scenes from the Early History of Judaism,” in The Triumph of Elohim: From Yahwisms to Judaisms (ed. Diana V. Edelman; Contributions to Biblical Exegesis & Theology 13; Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1995), 145–82, 158–59. 63

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Sira chose not to mention Ezra because he did not share its priestly ideological outlook,68 so this line of argumentation for dating is not conclusive. 1. Genesis 31:47 Of the four instances of the use of more than a single Aramaic word in a biblical text, this one is least likely to involve code-switching. The use of two Aramaic words in Gen 31:47 is consistent with the storyline, where Jacob concludes a covenant with his maternal uncle Laban and erects a boundary marker that is given a name in both Hebrew and Aramaic to reflect the differing backgrounds of the two relatives. It has no particular implications for the dating of the narrative unit itself and need not assume the audience knew both languages to convey its point. In the narrative context, it either could be explained as a borrowing, where single words or a phrase are incorporated into the grammar of the main language,69 or, if seen to be an example of codeswitching, it would function to signal a direct quote or reported speech.70 If either of the latter two explanations is accepted, however, they would imply the audience was bilingual in Aramaic and Hebrew. 2. Jeremiah 10:11 The sentence in Jer 10:11 has been considered both original71 and secondary.72 It is present in the Septuagint, so it cannot be argued to be secondary on the basis of absence in this early translation; nevertheless, it could date from a wide range of time and contexts. The declaration that the gods who did not make the heavens and the earth shall perish from the earth and from under the heavens is to be made in Aramaic. The implication is that all audience members will be able to understand it clearly this way. Thus, it assumes a readership that uses Aramaic as their vernacular. Some rabbis (Rashi and Kimchi) accept the preface appended in the Targum that “this is the copy of the letter the prophet Jeremiah sent to the leaders 68 See e.g. Diana V. Edelman, “Were Zerubbabel and Nehemiah the Same Person?,” in Far From Minimal: Celebrating the Work and Influence of Philip R. Davies (ed. Duncan Burns and John W. Rogerson; The Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies 484; London: T&T Clark, 2012), 112–31, 120–31 for why Nehemiah is made the builder of the second temple in Maccabees rather than a priest. 69 Gumperz, Discourse Strategies, 66. 70 Gumperz, Discourse Strategies, 76. 71 E.g. Thomas W. Overholt, “The Falsehood of Idolatry: An Interpretation of Jeremiah X. 1–16,” JTS 16 (1965): 1–16, 7–12; Peter C. Craigie, Page H. Kelley, and Joel F. Drinkard, Jeremiah 1–25 (WBC 26; Dallas, Tex.: Word Books, 1991), 157–58 and cited relevant literature. 72 E.g. Robert P. Carroll, Jeremiah: A Commentary (OTL; London: SCM, 1986), 256– 57.

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of the Exile in Babylon.” Some biblical commentators adopt the same idea and assume the passage was addressed to the exiles who had been removed to a land where Aramaic was the vernacular language.73 However, legal documents from Babylonia in which Judeans were contracting parties were written in Akkadian, not Aramaic, and Hebrew rather than Aramaic was used in Judah’s administration while it was a vassal kingdom. Thus, it cannot be demonstrated that the use of written or oral Aramaic had become widespread already in the early to mid-sixth century in Judah or that Aramaic was the koine used amongst West Semitic groups forced to resettle in the eastern part of the Neo-Babylonian Empire, even if the latter is possible. Any assumption of an Aramaic vernacular makes more sense directed to a later reading audience, where this was the situation, rather than to the implied recipients in the story-line. The same applies even if it is assumed this verse was meant to be a magical protective formula or a curse uttered against Babylonian gods or gods of the nations.74 What would require, in an assumed historical setting that deals with exiles sent to Babylonia between 598–582 B.C.E., the use of Aramaic for such a magical formula rather than the native language of Hebrew? B. Duhm at least assumed this verse was a later marginal gloss that eventually got copied into the text without subsequent translation, but T. W. Overholt argues for a Jeremianic origin, where Aramean was becoming known within the Judahite administration from the period from 701 B.C.E. onwards, as evidenced by the exchange with the Rabshakeh in 2 Kgs 18. Even if Judahite scribes knew Aramaic, why would they curse foreign gods in this non-native language rather than in Hebrew, like other curses found in the biblical texts? E. R. Clendenen75 has turned to linguistic discourse theory to try to understand the function of this single verse in Aramaic in the book of Jeremiah, which includes an introductory statement before a direct quotation. He has proposed it is an example of code-switching that here serves as a warning, where the author and audience identify with the Hebrew-speaking community as Us but also know Aramaic, the language of the Other. Here, the message in Aramaic is reiterating the message being expressed in the larger passage, 10:1–16, and serves as the center of a chiastic structure, highlighting it and giving it added emphasis.76 The use of the language of the dominating culture

Craigie, Kelley, and Drinkard, Jeremiah 1–25, 160. Bernhard Duhm, Das Buch Jeremia (3rd ed.; Die poetischen und prophetischen Bücher des Alten Testaments: Übersetzungen in den Versmaßen der Urschrift; Tübingen: Mohr, 1903), 101; Overholt, “The Falsehood of Idolatry,” 5. 75 E. Ray Clendenen, “Discourse Strategies in Jeremiah 10:1–16,” JBL 106/3 (1987): 401–408, 405. 76 So e.g. Gumperz, Discourse strategies, 78; Clendenen, “Discourse Strategies in Jeremiah 10:1–16,” 408. 73

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impresses on the audience the seriousness of the entire pericope by giving it added authority,77 and the switch from the insider language to the imperial one would simultaneously be perceived as a warning or mild threat.78 It remains debatable whether or not the language of empire is being used judgmentally to condemn the false gods of the nations in an implied ironic way, as suggested by A. E. Portier-Young.79 3. Ezra 4:8–6:18; 7:11–26 The citations of legal documents in Ezra 4:8–6:18 and 7:11–26 seem to stem from a desire to provide a sense of authenticity and authority in the story line, as recognized in sociolinguistic studies of bilingual language use. 80 At the same time, they are signaling a direct quote or reported speech.81 They reflect a presumption that Aramaic was used in official correspondence between the Achaemenid court and officials in the province of Yehud. The telling of the larger story in Hebrew reinforces the narrative’s function as a new beginning to an ongoing common history of the people of Israel that offers a more narrow view of who is entitled to membership in the community than is found in other books. Where the Empire impinges directly on the group, the language of Empire is introduced as a natural medium for communication that would have been understandable by local administrators in the story-line alongside their native language of Hebrew. According to sociolinguistic theory, it also would presume an audience that could understand both languages. However, Aramaic is used in Ezra 4:8–11a to narrate the introduction to the first document cited in Aramaic in 4:11b–16. Then, after a short introduction, a second official, first-person royal response appears in 4:17–22 before the story continues to be narrated in Aramaic in 4:23–5:7a, at which point a third Aramaic document is cited in 5:7–17. Narration continues further in Aramaic in 6:1–2a before a fourth Aramaic document is cited in 6:2b–12, with Aramaic narration resuming in 6:13–18 to describe how the governor and his associates enacted the imperial decree, which allowed the Judeans to complete the temple and dedicate it. Hebrew narration begins in 6:19 and continues through 7:11, introducing the citation of a final Aramaic document in 7:12–26, after which the narrative continues in Hebrew until the end of the book. Some explanation for this extended use of Aramaic in narration as well 77 So e.g. Ralph Fasold, The Sociolinguistics of Society (Introduction to Sociolinguistics 1; Oxford: Blackwell, 1984), 203. 78 So Gumperz, Discourse strategies, 92; Clendenen, “Discourse Strategies in Jeremiah 10:1–16,” 405. 79 Anathea E. Portier-Young, “Languages of Identity and Obligation: Daniel as a Bilingual Book,” VT 60 (2010): 98–115, 112. 80 Fasold, The Sociolinguistics of Society, 203. 81 Gumperz, Discourse strategies, 76.

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as cited documents needs to be provided. As noted by J. Berman,82 the use of Aramaic effectively removes this block of text from intertextual allusion within the larger Hebrew corpus. Code-switching helps explain the function of the extended section composed in Aramaic. Here it is apparent that there is a matrix language, Hebrew, and Aramaic is an embedded language. The shift to Aramaic, which then temporarily serves as the matrix language, signals a change in dynamics. The entire block of material in 4:8–6:17 is representing the views and actions of the imperial Other and its representatives against the insider Judean community, which is signaled by use of their official language to cite their alleged oral and written communications in the story-world. This includes the final resolution as a result of imperial intervention, which works to the favor of the insider Judean community and allows the temple to be completed and dedicated. Thus, there is a combination of the code-switching function of quoted speech with that of invoking a sense of outsider authority and authenticity. An examination of the exchange beginning in ch. 4, where the Samarian adversaries are first introduced, shows code-switching between two rival communities that both worship the deity YHWH and consider themselves to be members of the religious community of Israel. When they ask to help build the temple, they use Hebrew to communicate with the Judean officials, asserting commonality based on a sacred language (4:1–7). After being rebuffed, they write an accusatory letter in Aramaic to King Artaxerxes, and this action and the contents of the letter are narrated in Aramaic, the official language. Such use of the imperial language serves to signal distancing and superiority (4:8–16) on the part of the adversaries,83 while also citing a direct quote in its original language. The king’s response is also reported in Aramaic (4:17–22), even though its contents signal he did not speak Aramaic personally but had his response recorded in the lingua franca of the western portion of his Empire in order to be understood. While this ongoing story development involves direct quotation of official royal correspondence, it also can be seen to send a signal that the imperial authority agrees with the position of the Samarian adversaries over and against the Judeans in the use of Aramaic.84 The forceful stopping of the work on rebuilding the temple by the Samarian adversarial ring-leaders, Shimshai and his associates, is reported in Aramaic (4:23–24), followed by the notice that the Judeans took counter-measures and began to rebuild (5:1–2). 82 Joshua Berman, “The Narratological Purpose of Aramaic Prose in Ezra 4:4–6:18,” Aramaic Studies 5/2 (2007): 165–91, 168. 83 Carol Myers-Scotton, “Codeswitching and Borrowing: Interpersonal and Macrolevel Meaning,” in Codeswitching as a Worldwide Phenomenon (ed. Rodolfo Jacobson; American University Studies Series 13/11; Frankfurt a. M.: Peter Lang, 1990), 85–105, 89. 84 Myers-Scotton, “Codeswitching and Borrowing,” 88–89.

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In response, Tattenai, the governor of Across the River, and his associates arrive and ask about imperial authorization for the building and send an official report to King Darius, asking him to verify the claims of the Judeans for authorization from Cyrus, all of which is narrated and cited in Aramaic (5:3– 17). The king’s follow-up search and finding of the original decree, citing its contents, and issuing an order to Tattenai and his associates to supply whatever is needed to complete the building is subsequently reported in Aramaic as well (6:1–12). Finally, compliance with Darius’ cited order is noted, and the Aramaic section ends with the report that the temple was finished by the Judeans and dedicated (6:13–18). This last section shows a change in attitude by the king in light of verified permission granted by his forebear and a move from supporting the Samarians to supporting the Judeans, expressed in the official diplomatic language for Across the River. Here, the use of Aramaic moves from signaling agreement with one party in a dispute85 to pronouncing official authoritative support to other side.86 The proposal by J. Berman87 that “handing over the mike” to the Aramaic narrator is a rhetorical move to allow the audience to learn the truth they have not yet grasped that they can overcome their adversaries is not fully convincing. He argues that this device is equivalent to having feared adversaries speak in Hebrew and reveal YHWH’s greatness and plan to support his people when they are too obtuse to see this themselves in other books.88 He suggests the Aramaic narrator is representing an adversarial Samarian point of view, as indicated by the use of “we” in 5:4 to designate scribes working for Tattenai.89 He does not specify how he understands the use of Aramaic by this group of opponents who claim also to worship YHWH to function in the narrative, in contrast to the Judean Israelites, who speak Hebrew. As seen above, however, this section in Aramaic includes the views of three Persian kings and a governor as well and narrates a shift of imperial opinion from an initially negative stance in response to accusations made by Samarian adversaries to a positive stance toward the Judeans in the light of the confirmation of the relevant facts. The reading or listening audience is expected to take the view of the Judeans throughout, and by the end of the Aramaic section, feel vindicated and also have official imperial endorsement and financial support from the Other. Thus, more is going on here than Berman’s proposal acknowledges. And, he fails to deal with the other section in 7:11–26 narrated in Aramaic, which does not deal with the Samarian adver85

Myers-Scotton, “Codeswitching and Borrowing,” 88–89. Fasold, The Sociolinguistics of Society, 203. 87 Berman, “The Narratological Purpose,” 173. 88 Berman, “The Narratological Purpose,” 169–73. 89 Joshua Berman, “The Narrational Voice of the Scribes of Samaria,” VT 56 (2006): 313–26, 314–16, 324; idem, “The Narratological Purpose,” 191. 86

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saries but rather, introduces and then cites a letter of King Artaxerxes written in Aramaic. This is consistent with the many citations of official documents in the first Aramaic section. In addition, he has not explained why bilingualism is used so rarely among the various books and why this author introduced an Aramaic narrator instead of having the adversaries accomplish the same end by speaking in Hebrew in the more conventional manner. Was this switch into Aramaic a known rhetorical device in use more widely at the time of composition or an invention of this particular writer? 4. Daniel 2:4–7:28 The purpose for the use of Aramaic in Dan 2:4–7:28 is harder to establish. In the nineteenth century it was argued that the entire book was written in Hebrew but then issued shortly thereafter in Aramaic for those who no longer understood Hebrew. Later, a scribe decided to fill in a gap that developed when part of the Hebrew text was lost by copying from the Aramaic version. 90 A reassessment of this position in the twentieth century led to the suggestion the entire book was written in Aramaic and then partially translated into Hebrew in order to allow it to be included in the canon.91 The additional elements in Greek in the LXX are presumed to have been translated from Aramaic or possibly Hebrew as well. Alternate suggestions allowed for the use of both languages in the composition. So, for example, the Aramaic stories (chs. 2–6) and single vision (ch. 7) were written to encourage those suffering persecution under Antiochus IV, while the eschatological visions in 8–12 and the introduction were written in the sacred language of Hebrew and added slightly later to appeal to a more restricted audience but were attributed to Daniel to make it clear they stemmed from the same author.92 A variation on this scheme would see the Aramaic court tales and an originally Aramaic introduction (chs. 1–6) to be an independent work from the Hellenistic period that was subsequently supplemented with ch. 7, written in Aramaic, early in the persecutions of Antiochus IV. Chapters 8–12, in Hebrew, were then added between 167–163 B.C.E. and the introduction was translated to provide a Hebrew frame for the Aramaic chapters.93 This latter position suggests patriotic 90

E.g. August von Gall, Die Einheitlichkeit des Buches Daniel (Giessen: Ricker, 1895),

122. 91 E.g. H. Louis Ginsberg, Studies in Daniel (Texts and Studies of the Jewish Theological Seminary of America 14; New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1948), 38–61; for a summary, see Louis F. Hartman and Alexander A. Di Lella, The Book of Daniel (AB 23; Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1978), 14–18. 92 E.g. Harold Henry Rowley, “The Bilingual Problem in Daniel,” ZAW 9 (1932): 256– 68. 93 John J. Collins, Daniel: A Commentary on the Book of Daniel (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993), 38, 61.

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fervor led to the use of Hebrew. Possibly, but does this yield the only or the most cogent explanation? What about the discursive function of the use of the two languages? The lead-in to the switch to Aramaic in the court tales in chs. 2–6 is the statement in 2:4a that the Chaldeans spoke to the king in Aramaic. A direct quote in Aramaic begins in 2:4b, and then the series of episodes involving the Judean Daniel and his fellow Judean colleagues who serve at the imperial courts of a series of successive imperial regimes and their rulers are told in Aramaic, culminating in the first vision, also told in Aramaic, in ch. 7. In terms of multilingual code-switching, these court tales and vision are reflecting the views and world of the imperial Other, in which the native Hebrew speaking characters are functioning and living but yet are maintaining an Israelite identity simultaneously by observing kashrut, refusing to bow down to images, and presumably are able to converse amongst themselves in Hebrew. There is a logic, then, to narrating events in the story-world that are set in imperial courts from the perspective of the dominant Other, since those events demonstrate how an insider can be successful in such a setting, playing by those rules, while maintaining an allegiance to a different collective identity simultaneously. There might be some poetic justice as well in the use of the language of empire to pass negative judgment on the empire and imperial king and strip it and him of its power in the face of the newly opened heavenly books of the divine king in the vision in ch. 7.94 The Hebrew frame around these court-tales indicates that the book is directed to an insider readership. A. E. Portier-Young characterizes it as a covenant framework that “will place equal emphasis on the actions, power, and promises of God and on the obligations of God’s chosen people even in the face of captivity and later persecution.”95 While the message conveyed in the Aramaic section is important and emphasizes the need of the hero and his friends to negotiate two competing sets of rights and obligations, imperial and covenantal,96 it is the apocalyptic insider visions that convey the most central message for the insider readership. It is coded in the sacred language of the minority group, which takes preference in importance over the language of the dominant Other, in which one can participate and share identity, as the Tewa could in Hopi society and white society. Were this book read aloud in a setting containing a mixed population, many would hear and understand the Aramaic tales and take away a message from them, but only insiders, especially who are described in the book by the terms qaddîšîm (in Aramaic; 7:18,

94

Anathea E. Portier-Young, “Languages of Identity and Obligation: Daniel as a Bilingual Book,” VT 60 (2010): 98–115, 112. 95 Portier-Young, “Languages of Identity and Obligation,” 110. 96 Portier-Young, “Languages of Identity and Obligation,” 110.

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27), maśkilîm (12:3, 10) and ṣaddîqîm (12:3) would get the full message.97 The proposal that the author of Daniel was dependent on and mimicked the bilingualism found in Ezra98 does not contribute to advancing an understanding of the function of the Aramaic sections. In terms of encoding, then, this is not the use of the dominant language to give authority to the same pronouncement in the insider language. It seems rather to illustrate the use of the dominant or “high” language to give the “point” or reason for telling a story that has been narrated in the “low” language.99 In this case, however, the authors and audience are to assume Hebrew, not Aramaic, is the “high” language. Hebrew is the “we-code” in which the more consequential material is written, and the Aramaic “they-code” section, which is set in the midst of the Hebrew frame, is down-graded in comparative importance.100 Portier-Young’s suggestion101 that the resumption of Hebrew in 8:1 “now ask[s] their readers to disidentify with the earlier claims of the empire and make the unexpected – and difficult – identification with a people bound in covenant to God alone” is an aspect of the meaning being assigned in the interpretation of the Aramaic stories for insiders but is not the only or necessarily the primary one.

E. Conclusion In summary, it appears the limited use of Aramaic in the collection of texts now forming the TANAK serves different functions within the story world and amongst the assumed audiences. Sociolinguistic analysis of the role played by code-switching in situations involving bi- or multilingual authors, story-world characters, and audiences suggests that Aramaic has been used to introduce a direct quote or reported speech (Gen 31:47; Ezra 4:11b–16, 17– 22; 5:7–17, 6:2b–12; 7:12–26; Dan 2:4b–7:28), to convey a sense of authority, either in the sense of a warning (Jer 10:11) or eliciting a sense of official endorsement (Ezra 4:8–6:18; 7:11–26), and to use insider “high” language to give the point of a story narrated in “low” language (Dan 2:4b–7:28). The books of Ezra and Daniel, with extensive sections written in Aramaic, pre-

So earlier Otto Plöger, Das Buch Daniel (KAT 18; Gütersloh: G. Mohn, 1965), 27, framed in a different context. 98 So e.g. Daniel C. Snell, “Why is There Aramaic in the Bible?” JSOT 18 (1980): 32– 51, 35–43; Jan-Wim Wesselius, “The Writing of Daniel,” in The Book of Daniel: Composition and Reception (ed. John J. Collins and Peter W. Flint; VTSup 82; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 2:291–310, 200. 99 Fasold, The Sociolinguistics of Society, 203. 100 Sebba and Wootton, “We, They and Identity,” 275. 101 Portier-Young, “Languages of Identity and Obligation,” 113. 97

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sume a bi-lingual audience; the first is likely Hellenistic in date (ca. 332–165 B.C.E.) and the second is written under the Hasmoneans (165–163 B.C.E.), sometime probably between 167–163 B.C.E. Both are written in LBH rather than SBH as well. The relatively late date suggests a change in attitude that emerged when the Ptolemaic and Seleucid Empires alternated control over Yehud and Greek became the official language of correspondence beside Aramaic. The relative absence of Aramaic from the majority of the books in the collection forming the Hebrew Bible could be attributed to gradations in the purity of written Hebrew. In the three books that include a sentence or more of Aramaic, Hebrew is assumed to be the matrix language of communication to insiders, and in all three cases, Aramaic is situationally representing the voice and authority of the Neo-Babylonian or Persian imperial Other. In Jeremiah, Aramaic carries overtones of power and authority as the “high” language of the Empire. In Ezra, it does as well, but the story-line shows how the Other is turned against the insider community by the Samarians but in the end, comes to endorse and support the community, issuing favorable imperials edicts on its behalf. In Daniel, by contrast, Hebrew seems to serve as the “high” language and Aramaic, the language of the Empire, as the “low” language. Such a switch may well signal the emergence of the Hasmonean dynasty and a sense of new empowerment by using Hebrew to assert a national political identity in the newly created “client kingdom” that was to last about 100 years.

Between Centre and Periphery Space and Gender in the Book of Judges in the Early Second Temple Period Francis Landy One of my objectives in this essay is new-historical: how is the past remembered, in response to what ideological pressures, traumas, and current experiences? But also how does it become a literary object, subject to imagination and fantasy, to aesthetic shaping?1 The past thus becomes “our” past, that of the Yehudites who wrote the book; the book of Judges is one episode in a long trajectory leading to the exile and dispossession. From another point of view, Judges is a long aside. Nothing really happens between the Conquest and the establishment of the monarchy. History is a series of false starts; as David Jobling points out, it is discontinuous, since there are no causal or genealogical links between one judge and the next.2 If history, from the point

1 I have been influenced by the New Historical school, in particular the writings of Hayden White and Stephen Greenblatt. See, especially, Hayden White, “Introduction: The Poetics of History,” in Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in nineteenth-century Europe (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973), 1–43; “The Question of Narrative in Contemporary Historical Theory,” in The Content of the Form: Narrative Discourse and Historical Representation (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987), 26–57; and Stephen Greenblatt, Marvelous Possessions (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1992). New Historicists look for the tropes, genres and ideologies underlying historical writing, and the historical contexts of literature. A special issue of Biblical Interpretation, edited by Stephen Moore, was devoted to New Historicism (BibInt 5 [1997]: 89–481). The contributions, however, are mostly concerned with reception history. An exemplary recent study concerning the intersection of myth, literature, geography and history is Rachel Havrelock, River Jordan: The Mythology of a Dividing Line (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2011). Ian D. Wilson, “Conquest and Form: Narrativity in Joshua 5–11 and Historical Discourse in Ancient Judah,” HTR 106 (2013): 309–29, somewhat playfully adapts White’s categories to a biblical text. 2 David Jobling, I Samuel (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 1998), 45–46. See also Gabriel Josipovici, The Book of God (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1989), 109–31, who entitles his chapter on Judges “The Rhythm Falters” (see esp. p. 130). Similarly, Susanne Gillmayr-Bucher, “Memories Laid to Rest: The Book of Judges in the Persian Period,” in Deuteronomy-Kings as Emerging Authoritative Books: A Conversation (ed.

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of view of the historians, was essentially that of the monarchy, with its hieratic and scribal institutions,3 and what needed to be explained was the failure of the divine promise to David, Judges presents a prehistory, an anarchic background justifying the foundation of the monarchy, dynastic succession and the centralized state.4 Across the threshold is a heroic age, utterly different Diana V. Edelman; Atlanta, Ga.: SBL, 2014), 115–32, describes the period of Judges as an “interim.” 3 Yairah Amit, “The Book of Judges: Dating and Meaning,” in Homeland and Exile: Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honour of Bustenay Oded (ed. Gershon Galil, Mark Geller, and Alan Millard; Leiden: Brill, 2009), 297–320, argues that the book was written independently of court and temple, since it does not represent their interests (309– 11). She thinks of it as a subversive composition, probably penned “after hours” by scribes in the royal court (311). This is over-restrictive, in my view; one can readily conceive of royal sponsorship of a national history, with elements critical of monarchy carefully projected into the past, especially since she concludes that it argues “cogently for the necessity of monarchic rule” (320). The meaning of the book, she argues, is historiographic (317), in other words the discovery of pattern and significance in events, as a way of “understanding Divine actions and the reasons for them” (317). See also Amit, The Book of Judges, 363– 83. Likewise, Jobling, I Samuel, 71–76, following Martin Buber, sees the text as confronting the problem of the tragedy of history (see also pp. 274–78). 4 Tammi J. Schneider, Judges (Berit Olam; Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 2000), 287, comments that Judges “lays the groundwork for the following books” by showing that kingship was the only option. This was necessary because “dynastic monarchy was not legitimated in the Pentateuch” (289). Schneider overlooks Deut 17:14–20. Similarly, Yairah Amit, “Who Was Interested in the Book of Judges in the Persian-Hellenistic Periods?” in Deuteronomy-Kings as Emerging Authoritative Books (ed. Edelman), 103–14 (112) remarks that “In the book of Judges we find the conclusion that Israel needs a king; otherwise everyone does as they please.” Others see it as specifically pro-Davidic e.g. Marc Brettler, The Book of Judges (Old Testament Readings; London and New York: Routledge, 2002), 113–16, and references therein. Nonetheless, as throughout the primary history, monarchy is judged critically, especially in the Gideon-Abimelech cycle. Schneider notes, “The evaluation of monarchy in Judges is both good and bad” (288). Similarly, David Jobling concludes his essay on Deuteronomic political thought: “The Deuteronomic History is neither pro-monarchic nor anti-monarchic … nor ‘balanced’ between the two. It lets monarchy be seen for good and bad, and judgeship for good and bad” (“Deuteronomic Political Theory in Judges and I Samuel 1–12,” in The Sense of Biblical Narrative: Structural Analyses in the Hebrew Bible II [JSOTSup 39; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1986], 44–87 [p. 87]). Susan Niditch, “Epic and History in the Hebrew Bible: Definitions, ‘Ethnic Genres,’ and the Challenges of Cultural Identity in the Biblical Book of Judges,” in Epic and History (ed. David Konstan and Kurt A. Raaflaub; Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010), 86– 102 (97–99), posits a “humanist voice” as that of the final editor, which allows us to see both perspectives, monarchic and tribal: “monarchy is inevitable if not always glorious” (99). Similarly, Andrew D. H. Mayes, “Deuteronomistic Royal Ideology in Judges 17–21,” BibInt 9 (2001): 241–58, distinguishes between the implied narratee of Judg 17–21, who would naively adopt a pro-Davidic perspective, and the implied reader, who would read it with an awareness of the ultimate fall of the dynasty. For an exhaustive treatment of the polyvalence of Judges regarding monarchy see Ian Douglas Wilson, “Kingship Remem-

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from the tame and colonized present.5 The past is another country. From the perspective of postmonarchic historians, when all that is left are ruins and archives, the past may evoke nostalgia, and alternative identities and identifications.6 Hence the puzzle: who are we? What did and does it mean? This is also a literary landscape. The historians are writers, poets, creating a literary whole out of disparate material. We do not know, of course, to what extent they are writers creating fictions, to what extent they are collectors of folklore;7 every writer is a palimpsest, as Derrida tells us. But the book, as a literary work, is a tour-de-force.8 I will leave aside the question of whether it bered and Imagined: Monarchy in the Hebrew Bible and Postmonarchic Discourse in Ancient Judah” (Ph.D. thesis; University of Alberta, 2015), 114–25. 5 Susan Niditch, “Judges, Kingship, and Political Ethics,” in Thus Says the Lord: Essays on the Former and Latter Prophets in Honor of Robert R. Wilson (ed. John J. Ahn and Stephen L. Cook; LHBOTS 502; New York and London: T&T Clark, 2009), 59–70, comments on the romanticization of the heroic past in Judges (69–70). 6 In addition to the essays by Amit and Gillmayr-Bucher, noted above, see Kristin A. Swanson, “Judges as a Parody of Leadership in the Persian Period,” in Focusing Biblical Studies: The Crucial Nature of the Persian and Hellenistic Periods: Essays in Honor of Douglas A. Knight (ed. Jon L. Berquist and Alice Hunt; LHBOTS 544; New York: T&T Clark, 2012), 92–106, who thinks it is a satire on the regime of Ezra and Nehemiah. Brian P. Irwin, “Not Just Any King: Abimelech, the Northern Monarchy, and the Final Form of Judges,” JBL 131 (2012): 443–54, attributes the anti-northern polemic in Judges to animosity against the Samaritans in the early post-exilic period, while Yehud was still governed by Davidides (454). The evidence for a succession of Davidic governors (454, n. 37) is limited. Janet Tollington, “The Book of Judges: the Result of Post-Exilic Exegesis?,” in Intertextuality in Ugarit and Israel (ed. Johannes C. de Moor; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 1998), 186–96 (195), similarly, dates the narrative to the period of Haggai and Zechariah. More convincing, in my view, is Gillmayr-Bucher’s proposal that in the Persian period Judges promoted the idea of the unity of Israel, despite tensions (“Memories Laid to Rest,” 122). 7 Susan Ackerman, Warrior, Dancer, Seductress, Queen: Women in Judges and Biblical Israel (New York: Doubleday, 1997), 15, for example, regards “myth, legend, epic, and, in certain cases, folktale” as the most appropriate genres for the study of Judges. See also Niditch’s discussion of the relation of traditional tale and literary formation in “Epic and History” and Judges: A Commentary (OTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2008), 1– 20. 8 There have been several studies of the literary structure of Judges. See Lillian R. Klein, The Triumph of Irony in the Book of Judges (JSOTSup 69; Sheffield: Almond Press, 1989); Barry G. Webb, The Book of Judges: An Integrated Reading (JSOTSup 46; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987); Robert H. O’Connell, The Rhetoric of the Book of Judges (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 1996); Schneider, Judges. Marc Brettler, The Book of Judges (Old Testament Readings; London and New York: Routledge, 2002), 9–21 argues against literary readings that they ignore historical and form-critical considerations, and that the Bible is not literature, even though it might have some aesthetic qualities (19–20). He does, however, grant a certain political coherence to the book (103–16), and shows considerable literary sensitivity in detail, for instance in discussing satire in the Ehud story (33). It goes

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is a book, whether there could be other books and divisions, including for instance 1 Sam 1–7,9 or incorporating Judg 1–2 into Joshua.10 Every book is to some degree arbitrary, the product of editorial decisions and inventions. Nevertheless, as a book, Judges works. I am interested in the relation of the literary coherence to the utter chaos it expresses.11 Are the writers covering over something or nothing? Mieke Bal claims that the book is about the politics of coherence, the attempt by the narrator and the master-narrative to keep control over disintegration, political and literary.12 For Bal, the problem of coherence is related to that of patriarchal domination over the female body, the primacy of public, political, male space over female domesticity, and without saying that I do not agree with Brettler. In my view, his concept of literature as primarily aesthetic is far too narrow. Empirically, I find the narratives of Judges, as well as being vastly entertaining and well-characterized, to be interrelated to an astonishing degree. I agree with Klein that “the exposition of the book of Judges is a complex and subtle structure” (14). I would add that it also intertextual; for instance, the stories of Samson’s heroic encounters with the Philistines foreshadow those of Jonathan and David. My approach has affinities with that of David Jobling, who looks for the underlying “system of meaning” in the text (I Samuel, 5). See also his essay “Structuralist Criticism,” in Judges and Method: New Approaches in Biblical Studies (ed. Gale A. Yee; 2nd ed.; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2007), 90–114, in which he suggests that the meaning “comes to us in patterns” which are inevitably “immensely complex” (113). 9 Jobling, I Samuel, 28–34, claims that the division of the primary narrative into books is the result of editorial decisions. Jobling argues that the current demarcation of Judges characterizes the period of Judges negatively: “the canonical book of Judges gets dumped on from both ends” (34). He proposes that the book could incorporate 1 Sam 1–7, thus ending the period of Judges on a positive note with the ideal final judge, Samuel. For continuities between 1 Sam 1–12 and Judges, see Mark Leuchter, “‘Now there was a [Certain] Man’: Compositional Chronology in Judges – I Samuel,” CBQ 69 (2007): 429–39, and Reinhard Müller, “I Samuel as the Opening Chapter of the Deuteronomistic History,” in Is Samuel Among the Deuteronomists? Current Views on the Place of Samuel in a Deuteronomistic History (ed. Cynthia Edenburg and Juha Pakkala; Atlanta, Ga.: SBL, 2013), 207–24. 10 Judg 1–2 is notoriously complex from a literary-historical point of view. We have two notices of the death of Joshua (1:1; 2:8), and 1:10–15 largely duplicates Josh 15:13– 19. Brettler, The Book of Judges, 96, suggests that originally there may have been no division between Joshua and Judges, and that the material in 1:1–2:7, which may have formed an appendix to the combined book, was moved into its present position to constitute a pro-Judahite introduction. 11 Similarly, Cheryl Exum, “The Center Cannot Hold: thematic and textual instabilities in Judges,” CBQ 52 (1990): 410–29, proposes “a coherent literary interpretation” founded on the ambiguity of both its human characters and that of God and the dissolution of Israel’s coherence “at the structural level” (410). A rather similar view is argued by Josipovici, The Book of God, 110. 12 Mieke Bal, Death and Dissymmetry: The Politics of Coherence in the Book of Judges (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1988). The issue is the focus especially of her first chapter, “The Coherence of Politics and the Politics of Coherence” (9–39).

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YHWHistic supremacy, all comprised in the myth of Israelite conquest of the land. This brings me to the issue of centre and periphery. If the centre of Israelite life, at least for Yehudite literati, was Jerusalem, that centre is not yet, or only ambiguously, Israelite. Its northern equivalent, Shechem, is Canaanized, through its worship of Baal-Berit and its claiming of Hamor as its ancestor (Judg 9:28). 13 Much of the book concerns the failure of Ephraim to assert dominance over the other Rachel tribes, to become a centre. Judah is foregrounded as the divinely chosen vanguard against the Canaanites in 1:2, and provides the first idealized judge, Othniel; it reappears fleetingly as the leader, similarly oracularly appointed, against the Benjaminites, in 20:18, in an inversion of the conquest of the indigenous population in self-destruction. In between it virtually disappears, with only tantalizing hints of its future ascendency, especially associated with Bethlehem.14 Benjamin is hardly a neutral term, since it is the mediating tribe, representing the potential unity of north and south, Ephraim and Judah. Its annihilation reverses its role as the saviour of Israel under the first narratively developed judge, Ehud, in ch. 3.

13 Jack Sasson, Judges 1–12 (AB 6D; New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2015), 390, cautions that nothing in the text indicates that Shechem was non-Israelite. But what then about the claim that Hamor is its ancestor? Shechem elsewhere is represented as the Israelite and specifically Ephraimite political and sacred centre e.g. through the erection of inscribed stones and the ceremony of blessings and curses in Deut 27 and Josh 8, the covenant ceremony in Josh 24, and the burial of Joseph in Josh 24:32. Its “Canaanization” may thus be a rhetorical strategy which illustrates the apostacy and acculturation of the Israelites, just as, according to Ehud Ben Zvi, good foreign kings are “Israelized.” See Ehud Ben Zvi, “When the Foreign Monarch Speaks,” in The Chronicler as Author: Studies in Text and Texture (ed. Steven L. McKenzie and Matt P. Graham; JSOTSup 263; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 209–28 (esp. 224–26). See also “Othering, Selfing, ‘Boundarying’ and ‘Cross-Boundarying,’” in Imagining the Other and Constructing Israelite Identity in the Early Second Temple Period (ed. Ehud Ben Zvi and Diana Edelman; LHBOTS 456; London: Bloomsbury, 2014), 20–40. One may note that according to Yigal Levin, “Ideology and Reality in the Book of Judges,” in The Ancient Near East Between the 12th and 10th centuries BCE: Culture and History: Proceedings of the International Conference Held at the University of Haifa, 2–5 May, 2010 (ed. Gershon Galil et al.; AOAT 392; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2012), 309–26, there was a temple in Shechem in the 11th century, which he sees as being typical of Canaanite rather than Israelite culture. See also Lawrence E. Stager, “The Fortress-Temple at Shechem and the ‘House of El, Lord of the Covenant,’” in Realia Dei: Essays in Archaeology and Biblical Interpretation in Honor of Edward F. Campbell, Jr. at his retirement (ed. Prescott H. Williams and Theodore Hiebert; Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1999), 228–49. 14 One of the minor judges, Ibzan, comes from Bethlehem (12:8), but the tribal affiliation is not specified. Many commentators attribute it to a northern tribe e.g. Zebulun or Asher. For a discussion of the issues, see Sasson, Judges 1–12, 456. Judah also appears in the Samson cycle, as his would-be betrayers (15:9–15).

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The absence or destruction of the centre draws attention to the periphery, most clearly in the stories of Jephthah and Samson, but also in those of Deborah and Gideon, and the Danites. Spatially, they delineate the boundaries of the land, as well as its internal divisions, for instance between Cis- and Transjordan. The two moieties of Manasseh are especially important in this respect.15 The marginality of space is matched by that of the judges themselves, all of whom are socially or physically anomalous. The stories are related diachronically as well as synchronically. There is a story line, a progression from the high hopes of the beginning to the dismal conclusion, from judges who conform to the ideal program to those who are more or less scandalous. 16 The stories presumably originate from different times and places. However, although they are separated by nominal intervals of peace, they take place in different parts of the land and could occur simultaneously. There is no logical sequence between one and the other. Structurally, Judges consists of narrative dead ends, indeed, it is about the deadendedness of Judges; in particular, the meta-narrative, the cycle of apostacy, oppression by enemies, supplication to YHWH and deliverance, notoriously does not work. The failure of the narrative draws attention to its individual components. Why does it not work? How do the individual stories and cycles subvert and claim autonomy from the main one? What does this tell us about Israelite memory? The local as it were conspires against the national.17

15

See especially David Jobling, “The Jordan a Boundary: Transjordan in Israel’s Ideological Geography,” The Sense of Biblical Narrative, 88–134, and “Structuralist Criticism,” 107–111. The importance of Manasseh, according to Jobling, is that it straddles the two sides of the Jordan. Havrelock, River Jordan, 120, argues that this was “a means of domesticating Gileadite clans in the twelve-tribe system.” 16 Exum, “The Centre Cannot Hold,” 410–11, paradoxically sees the degeneration of the judges as that which gives literary coherence to the book. See also Schneider, Judges, xv– xvi, 289–90, and Levin, “Ideology and Reality,” 314–15. An alternative view is developed by Susanne Gillmayr-Bucher, “Framework and Discourse in the Book of Judges,” JBL 129 (2009): 687–702, who argues, in line with the work of Mikhael Bakhtin, that the book of Judges is dialogic. The official story, presented in the introduction (2:11–19), is in tension with the individual stories of the judges which increasingly do not conform to it, culminating in that of Samson, which she sees as “carnivalesque” (702). In the story of Samson the world of the official narrative is “turned upside down.” Gillmayr’s interpretation is explicitly close to Robert Polzin’s Bakhtinian reading of Judges in Moses and the Deuteronomist (New York: Seabury Press, 1980), 146–204. See also Stuart Lasine, “Guest and Host in Judges 19: Lot’s Hospitality in an Inverted World,” JSOT 29 (1984): 37–59, who describes Judg 19 as depicting an “inverted world,” where everything is ludicrous and absurd (37– 38). See also Swanson, “Judges as a Parody.” 17 O’Connell, The Rhetoric of Judges, 6–8, thinks that a “rhetoric of entrapment” is at work, whereby we are led to believe that Judges is a series of local hero stories, whereas its agenda is national and pro-Davidic. This accounts for the shift from the interests of the central stories to those of the final ones.

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But that they are in the same book, as part of the same literary corpus, the same culture, brings them necessarily into relationship with each other. There are numerous correspondences, repetitions, inversions. Moreover, the correspondences cross the boundaries between textual corpora. Judges is full of variations, often parodic, of stories in Genesis, Exodus, Joshua and elsewhere.18 These are among the techniques whereby the biblical text is unified. The more recurrences there are between texts e.g., Judah and Tamar, Samson and the Timnite woman, Ruth – the more we are dealing with a “mytheme,” an underlying building block of the Israelite imaginaire, or repertoire of stories. The mytheme narratively encodes fundamental issues and tensions concerning Israelite identity and its relation with others. The set of stories, dotted around the perimeter, draws attention to the absence of a centre. What is the relation of the dense intertextual web to the incoherence of the text, the breakdown of the official story? The proliferation of stories, the excess of meaning, suggests multiple approaches to insoluble problems. One concern of mine is, then, the systematicity of the text, how patterning creates an impression of literary coherence which masks incoherence. Myth, as in Structuralist theory, may be a way to resolve or think through contradictions. Wendy Doniger sees this as taking place at different intersecting levels: linguistic/textual, theological, political, and sexual.19 Beneath the official story of conquest, perfidy and disintegration there is another story. This is the story of Israel’s integration into the land through marrying its sons and daughters and worshipping its gods.20 All the stories in Judges are more or less concerned with these transactions. How do these stories relate to each other? To put it otherwise, what accounts for the irresistible attraction of the sons and daughters and indigenous deities? To anticipate, and to frame it psychoanalytically, what the text condemns may be its hidden desire; it may be a way of fulfilling the desire while prohibiting it. The pattern always breaks down; I look for fissures in the text, which expose its underlying problems. These fissures are often linguistic; Judges is characterized by its extreme verbal virtuosity, which becomes an instrument of the fragmentation of communication, from the fatal ‫ דבר אלהים‬of Ehud to

18 On these, see Gabriel Josipovici, The Book of God (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1989), 108–34, and Swanson, “Judges as a Parody.” 19 Wendy Doniger, The Implied Spider: Politics and Theology in Myth (Columbia: Columbia University Press, 2011), 7–28. She devotes different chapters of the work to different “lenses” through which myth can be analysed. 20 Bal, Death and Dissymmetry, 20–21, contrasts the coherence imposed by the official story with a counter-coherence constituted by the lives of women. This, in turn, through metaphors such as “whoring,” is associated with the narrative of the conquest of the land. Monotheism and endogamy are the two sides of the same law: faithfulness to the “self” and separation from the “other” (p. 29).

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the speaking body of the Levite’s concubine. 21 Language speaks death, as Mieke Bal comments at the beginning of her book, Death and Dissymmetry (p. 1); every word is potentially a shibboleth, a trap to destroy us. Judges invites psychoanalytic interpretation, such as those offered by Bal and Ilana Pardes,22 because it deals with intimate relations: fathers and daughters, mothers and sons, fratricide and familial rejection. Mythemes evoke archetypes, such as the mother who conceives through divine annunciation. My interest is in the processes and impulses that lead to literary creation. I am assuming an oral basis for these narratives that come from sources which one does not know, as a result of certain pressures. This is what I mean by the textual unconscious. Writing involves choices, and we do not always know what determines those choices. How to characterize people, for example? So there is always a conscious element e.g., conformity to an ideological program, and there are less acknowledged ones, such as pleasure in a literary creation. What are the transactions between conscious and unconscious in the work of art? Where do our sympathies lie, for example?23 21 On issues of language, see Bal, Death and Dissymmetry, 129–68, and Josipovici, The Book of God, 125: “the whole book of Judges pulsates with riddles, songs, parables, and word play of every kind.” 22 Ilana Pardes, Countertraditions in the Bible: A Feminist Approach (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1992); The Biography of Ancient Israel: National Narratives in the Bible (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000). Psychoanalytic interpretation of the Hebrew Bible has been largely been associated with feminist exegesis. In addition to Death and Dissymmetry, see Mieke Bal, Lethal Love (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1987); Ilona Rashkow, The Phallacy of Genesis: A Feminist-Psychoanalytic Approach (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1993); Taboo or Not Taboo: Sexuality and Family in the Hebrew Bible (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2000); J. Cheryl Exum, Fragmented Women: Feminist (Sub)versions of Biblical Narrative (Valley Forge: Trinity Press, 1993). See the discussion of psychoanalytic theory in Jobling, I Samuel, 20–24 and 282–309. From another perspective, the Orthodox Jewish scholar Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg uses a wide range of psychoanalytic theory in her biblical commentaries Genesis: The Beginning of Desire (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1995); The Particulars of Rapture: Reflections on Exodus (New York: Doubleday, 2001), and Bewilderments: Reflections on the Book of Numbers (New York: Random House, 2015), as well as her collection of essays, The Murmuring Deeps: Reflections on the Biblical Unconscious (New York: Schocken Press, 2009). 23 A question that arose in the discussion period was whether psychoanalytic interpretation was anachronistic, since it depended on a modern concept of the self. I could not agree more, and stress that every critical discussion is an interaction between the modern interpreter and the text. Jobling compares this to the psychoanalytic concept of transference, whereby we project our own interests on to the text, just as the text projects its concerns on to us. At the same time, we share with the authors of the text the cognitive architecture of the brain and primary human experiences and drives, otherwise we would not read it. Especially a text that concerns primary human relations – e.g. fathers and daughters, mothers and sons – cannot but suggest psychoanalytic possibilities. For the record, I am espe-

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After these methodological observations, I will begin at the end, with the Levite’s concubine. The end brings a hope of a climax, a resolution of the threads of the narrative, and it does not disappoint; after all the stories of individual tribes and heroes, all Israel once more comes together. At the same time, it is a catastrophe, a dissolution, as one tribe, a very important one, is almost annihilated; so an end in another sense, the end of an epoch, of Israel as a united people. As with many ends, it is also a beginning, in fact two

cially influenced by the theories of Winnicott and Kristeva, but I avoid superimposing them on the text. Hence psychoanalysis mostly appears in the questions I ask, which may open up new dimensions of the text, and in particular images and sensations, such as the Uncanny. Christopher Gill, in Greek Thought (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995) and Personality in Greek Epic, Tragedy, and Philosophy: The Self in Dialogue (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), argues that in contrast to modern subject-centered views of the self, derived from Descartes and Kant, Greeks had an “objectivist-participant” one. The self was defined by its role in society, by its actions, and by a plurality of functions in dialogue with each other. Gill finds parallels with some modern philosophical approaches to the self, for instance by Bernard Williams and Alistair Macintyre. My thanks are due to Sylvie Honigman for these references. However, this approach to the self strikes me as being very close to that of contemporary psychoanalysis, which likewise critiques the idea of the unitary, autonomous self, and sees it as the product of social relations and psychophysical processes. There are other, just as profound, methodological issues: i) To what extent is psychoanalysis appropriate for interpreting fictional characters, who are neither real, nor capable of dialogue, and which provide only very limited data? ii) Psychoanalytic theory and practice has been subject to extensive critique, is unverifiable and has had limited clinical success. In response, fictional characters are alternative selves, which are invested with as much emotional valence and intelligence as people in our everyday lives. Books are of no value unless they teach us something about life. The Lacanian literary critic Shoshana Felman writes that the great value of psychoanalysis, and literature, as pedagogy is that they teach what we do not know about ourselves (“Psychoanalysis and Education: Teaching Terminable and Interminable,” Yale French Studies 63 [1981]: 21–44 [41]). A superb reading of Moses from this perspective is that of Zornberg, Bewilderments, especially the final chapter. On the second point, the clinical evidence is that the best results are achieved by a combination of “talk therapy” and pharmacological or other technical procedures. Psychoanalysis is one of the resources for talk therapy. An issue is that of teleology, since psychoanalysis is more focused on self-understanding than the relief of symptoms. Of course, as with all practices, one has to distinguish between the very outdated classical theory and contemporary psychoanalytic thought. From a cognitive science perspective, the experience of the stable, autonomous self housed in our brains is an illusion, as deeply rooted as it is. In fact, we are housed in many brains, to greater or lesser extents, depending on our degree of empathy and imaginative construction. See especially Douglas Hofstadter, I am a Strange Loop (New York: Basic Books, 2007) and Douglas Hofstadter and Daniel C. Dennett, The Mind’s Eye: Fantasies and Reflections on Self and Soul (New York: Basic Books, 1981).

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beginnings: Ruth and Samuel, depending on which thread you want to pick up.24 A Levite from Mt. Ephraim takes a woman from Bethlehem of Judah. The union, like every sexual conjunction in Judges, has theological and political implications; it promises an alliance between the two principal tribes, bridging the division between north and south, which will determine the fate of the monarchy and, from a post-monarchic/Persian period perspective, represents a loss of unity, of part of the Israelite self. Most of Judges, as already mentioned, concerns the failure of Ephraim to assert dominance over the other Rachel tribes. Judah, and especially Bethlehem, foreshadows the rise of the Davidic dynasty and hence the future, with all the ambivalence it entails. It also harks back to the beginning of the book, to the divine choice of Judah to lead the battle against the Canaanites, to the symbolic endogamous marriage of Achsah, and Judah’s partial failure to fulfil its mandate.25 The union of Ephraim and Judah is thus an ideal, a fleeting possibility, connecting past to future, the period of the Judges to that of the monarchy. It may be an attempt by the past to claim the future, to appropriate a representative of Bethlehem’s fertility, the nutritional potential suggested by its name, as well as its symbolic capital as the birthplace of David. The Levite mediates between the two tribes, and imparts a pan-Israelite perspective, as a member of the tribe with no territory of its own, dedicated to the deity. As a sacred figure, he might be supposed to communicate sanctity to the union.26 He is, however, marginalized as a stranger, sojourning (‫ )גר‬in 24 Ruth picks up the Bethlehemite thread, Samuel the Ephraimite one. See also Jobling, I Samuel, 33–35, for the different continuations. Both present a positive image of judgeship. Phyllis Trible, Texts of Terror: Literary-Feminist Readings of Biblical Narrative (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984), 85 suggests that they have a healing function. 25 From a monarchic or Persian period perspective, Ephraim is the leading tribe of and hence synonymous with the northern kingdom. Moreover, one might anticipate that it would have a leading role, since it is the favoured son in Jacob’s blessing (Gen 48:19–20), and since Joshua was an Ephraimite. That Judah is chosen to lead the struggle against the Canaanites in Judg 1:1 establishes the principle of non-succession. Twice Ephraim objects that a different tribe has taken the initiative (8:1–3; 12:1–6), and in both cases its claim is rejected, politely in the first case, catastrophically in the second. None of the major judges comes from Ephraim, except, ambiguously, Deborah, whose gentilic is not specified. It is remarkable, and rarely observed, that all the other major judges derive from the Rachel tribes: Benjamin, Manasseh, Dan and Naphtali; Benjamin and Dan are also the protagonists in the concluding stories. For the repeated motif of strife at the Jordan, see Jobling, “The Jordan a Boundary.” 26 Yairah Amit, The Book of Judges: The Art of Editing (tr. Jonathan Chipman; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 353, and “Editorial Considerations Regarding Ending,” in In Praise of Editing in the Hebrew Bible: Collected Essays in Retrospect (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2012), 157, argues that his identification as a Levite is not necessary for the story, in contrast to Judg 17–18, and was only introduced to connect what she regards as the anti-

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Mt. Ephraim, and as coming from its recesses (‫)ירכתי‬,27 somewhere peripheral. The woman is a pilegesh.28 The absence of a primary wife makes her subordination more evident. An alien Levite from the hinterlands of Ephraim takes a woman who is not quite a proper wife. The union is thus compromised in advance. A pilegesh is associated with exogamy and sexual violation. Benjaminite appended unit of Judg 19–21 to the preceding narrative. Similarly, HermannJosef Stipp, “Richter 19 – Ein frühes Beispiel schriftgestützter Propaganda in Israel,” in Ein Herz so weit wie der Sand am Ufer des Meeres: Festschrift für Georg Henschel (ed. Susanne Gillmayr-Bucher, Annett Giercke, and Christina Niessen; Würzburg: Echter, 2006), 127–64, notes that apart from the introduction and his report to the tribes in 20:6, the Levite is not identified as such in the main body of the narrative and thus his affiliation may be a secondary addition (132–33). Stipp thinks that the text was originally a crude political pamphlet designed to garner Ephraimite support for David in his struggle against the Saulides (141–59). Mayes, “Deuteronomistic Royal Ideology,” 255–56, partially agrees with Amit, but thinks that the original conclusion of the book was ch. 19. A diametrically opposite view is held by Gale A. Yee, “Ideological Criticism: Judges 17–21 and the Dismembered Body,” in Judges and Method, 138–60, who argues that the text is an antiLevite polemic in the interest of Josiah’s centralization of the cult. See also Tollington, “The Book of Judges,” 193. To the contrary, Mark Leuchter, “‘Now there was a [Certain] Man,’” 438, suggests that it serves the interests of the Judean Levites while condemning their northern counterparts. Henrik Pfeiffer, “Sodomie in Gibea: Der kompositionsgeschichtliche Ort von Jdc 19,” in Die Erzväter in der biblischen Tradition: Festschrift für Matthias Köckert (ed. Anselm D. Hagedorn and Henrik Pfeiffer; BZAW 400; New York: de Gruyter, 2009), 267–89 (270) argues that chs. 19–21 preceded 17–18, since Dan was chosen as the target of anti-northern polemic because Bethel was portrayed positively in ch. 20. In contrast, Christoph Levin, “On the Cohesion and Separation of Books within the Enneateuch,” in Pentateuch, Hexateuch, or Enneateuch? Identifying Literary Works in Genesis Through Kings (ed. Thomas B. Dozeman, Thomas Römer, and Konrad Schmid; Atlanta, Ga.: SBL, 2011), 127–54 (137) thinks that chs. 19–21 come from the latest strand of Old Testament literary history, because of their stress on the concept of the “people of God.” Likewise, Cynthia Edenburg, “‘Overwriting’ and ‘Overriding,’ or What is Not Deuteronomistic,” in Congress Volume Helsinki 2010 (ed. Martti Nissinen; VTSup 148; Leiden: Brill, 2012), 443–60 (445–51), argues that it is a post-Deuteronomistic composition, which uses Deuteronomistic formulae to counteract the generally pro-northern proclivity of Judges. Swanson, “Judges as a Parody,” 101–106, likewise dates it to the Persian period, but sees it as an anti-Levite satire, directed against Ezra. 27 See the discussion of in Schneider, Judges, 247. Translations include “remote hills” (Robert G. Boling, Judges [AB 6A; New York: Doubleday, 2006], 271; “other side” (JPS); “flank.” The estrangement of the Levite, as a ger living in the remotest parts of Ephraim, is emphasized by Klein, The Triumph of Irony, 161. 28 I have left the word pilegesh untranslated, so as to avoid the conventional translation “concubine.” For the difficulty of the term, see Schneider, Judges, 248. Bal, Death and Dissymmetry, 84–86, thinks it refers to patrilocal marriage, and makes the tension between virilocal and patrilocal marriage central to the book. However, there is no good evidence for this interpretation. Most pilagshim in the Hebrew Bible are clearly virilocal. See also J. Cheryl Exum, “Raped by the Pen,” in Fragmented Women: Feminist (Sub)versions of Biblical Narratives (Valley Forge: Trinity International, 1993), 170–201 (177 n. 13).

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In the immediate context of Judges, the only other pilegesh is Abimelech’s mother, in the irredentist enclave of Shechem.29 From the perspective of historians in the Persian period, the pilegesh may be associated with Keturah, Abraham’s belated and prodigiously fertile third spouse, ancestress of many minor Arabian tribes, and the quasi-incestuous violations of Bilhah and David’s pilagshim. The acquisition of a pilegesh from the emergent centre of Bethlehem is thus tinged with strangeness; she is only a second-best protoDavidide. Any descendants of theirs will similarly bear a certain inferiority. Ruth Kara-Ivanov Kaniel has recently argued, from a psychoanalytic point of view, that the ancestresses of David are characterized by alien origins, incest and the crossing of sexual boundaries.30 According to her, the stories represent a working through of primary tensions, traumas and desires, in the progression from the daughters of Lot, to Tamar to Ruth. The relationship between Judg 19 and the story of Sodom and Gomorrah has been frequently noted, for instance by Susan Niditch. 31 The pilegesh from Bethlehem, the matrix of the Davidic line, may then enact unresolved possibilities in these other narratives, the nightmarish shadow cast by their happy endings. Her strangeness, and the incompatibility of the couple, is immediately emphasized by her supposed unfaithfulness and desertion: she “plays the harlot” (‫ )עליו ותזנה‬and goes back to her father.32 Her promiscuity is an undeveloped and hence arresting detail, what Mieke Bal calls “a wandering rock.”33 It is a Judg 8:31. Sasson, Judges, 377, notes that her residence in Shechem does not necessarily mean that she was patrilocal, since Gideon may have had homes in several places, as was common in antiquity. 30 Ruth Kaniel Kara-Ivanov, “The Myth of the Messianic Mother in Jewish and Christian Traditions: Psychoanalytic and Gender Perspectives,” JAAR 83 (2015): 72–119. 31 “The ‘Sodomite’ Theme in Judges 19–21: Family, Community, and Social Disintegration,” CBQ 44 (1982): 365–78. I do not agree with Niditch’s conclusion that Judg 19 should be granted primacy. It fits into a pattern of reenactments of stories from Genesis and Exodus in which the tragic potential outcome substitutes for the happy ending. A good example is the story of Jephthah’s daughter, which is a reworking of the Akedah. For Judg 19 as an inversion of Gen 19, see Stuart Lasine, “Guest and Host,” 38, who argues, correctly in my view, that the story presupposes the reader’s awareness of Gen 19. See also Pfeiffer, “Sodomie in Gibea,” 284, who assigns the Sodom narrative to the earliest strata of the Abraham tradition, and thinks it precedes that of Judg 19 by a century. 32 Many follow the Septuagint in reading “she became angry” e.g. Boling, Judges, 273– 74, Niditch, “The ‘Sodomite’ Theme,” 366; Stipp, “Richter 19,” 138, who holds that the anomalous preposition ‫ עליו‬is decisive. Exum, “Raped by the Pen,” 179 thinks that her fault consists in claiming autonomy, irrespective of the precise meaning of zanah in this context. She cites Yair Zakovitch, “The Woman’s Rights in the Biblical Law of Divorce,” The Jewish Law Annual 4 (1981): 39, as arguing that the issue is the woman’s desertion of her husband. Bal, Death and Dissymmetry, 88, relates the accusation to the conflict between virilocal and patrilocal marriage, to both of which the woman is unfaithful. 33 Bal, Death and Dissymmetry, 196, 235. 29

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familiar figure for Israel’s infidelity with other deities and the inhabitants of the land (e.g. Judg 2:17); it also describes the lure of Gideon’s illicit cult (8:27). Jephthah’s mother is a prostitute (11:2); Samson is attracted to prostitutes, or women who are depicted as mercenary, perfidious and foreign. But prostitutes are symbolically ambiguous; as representatives of the land, they also open the way to it, paradigmatically in the case of Rahab. Samson’s intercourse with a prostitute in Gaza leads to his carrying off the city gates. The pilegesh is both aligned with the Levite, and thus YHWH’s exclusive claim, and available to all men. She embodies the conjunction of qedeshot and qodeshot, the whore and the hierodule, which Kaniel sees as germinal to the entire complex.34 Cheryl Exum thinks that the narrative is the male narrator’s unconscious revenge on the pilegesh, and by implication all women, for their imagined and feared sexual autonomy; it is thus a classic misogynistic text.35 However, the narrator does not sympathise with the Levite; he presents him as base and depraved.36 Exum suggests that the narrator feels “lingering guilt” about the treatment of the woman,37 as evidenced by the discrepancy between the crime which Israel thinks it is avenging, against the man and his property, and the real crime he depicts is against the woman’s body.38 The text is pornographic and, as with much pornography, combines sex and mutilation;39 by condemning the men of Gibeah and the Levite, the narrator absolves himself of guilt and responsibility. 40 The unconscious revenge, with its violent and erotic satisfactions, is denied at the conscious level, by the stance of historical objectivity, of reportage.41 However, Exum thinks one may be a resistant reader: “We can pause, and, if we do, we are likely to stumble over the pornographic

34

Kara-Ivanov, “The Myth of the Messianic Mother,” 89. “By daring to act autonomously in the first place, Bath-sheber (Exum’s name for the woman) puts herself beyond male protection, and for this she must be punished” (Fragmented Women, 179). Exum argues that the dismemberment of the woman’s body in 19:29 is a further extreme punishment, which both desexualizes the woman and exposes her dangerous mystery (p. 181). She regards this, however, as a gender-motivated subtext, rather than a conscious intention of the narrator. She thinks that the detail that woman “prostituted herself” against her husband serves to justify the rape, on the model of “she asked for it” (pp. 188–89). 36 Exum, “Raped by the Pen,” 186, 188. 37 Exum, “Raped by the Pen,” 187. See also 188. 38 Exum, “Raped by the Pen,” 187. 39 Exum, “Raped by the Pen,” 196–98. 40 Exum, “Raped by the Pen,” 197. 41 Exum quotes Lasine that “we are forced to view the scene with detachment” (“Guest and Host,” 45) – and disagrees (“Raped by the Pen,” 198). Indeed, I too cannot understand what Lasine means in asserting that the absurdity of the scene means that we cannot indulge “in ‘tragic’ pity for the plight of the concubine.” 35

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element in the account.”42 Can one not also be a resistant writer? One who adopts of the voice of the counter-coherence as well as the coherence? Bal imagines a movie which would “bring forth, successively, identification with the father, the husband, and the daughter – each of them in turn. There would be no dominating identification.”43 Apart from the one moment of her desertion and her supposed promiscuity, the woman is entirely silenced by the text. She is treated both by her husband and by her father as a non-person. Even the Levite’s servant gets to say a word, but she does not. But this very silence is foregrounded, for example by the details that “she” brought the Levite into her father’s house (v. 3); that he went to speak to her heart,44 though we have no indication either of such speech or any response; and the protracted feasting between father and son-in-law, in which she is conspicuously absent.45 At the climax, we see her hands on the threshold (19:27), a powerful synecdoche for everything she experienced that night. The hands may be imploring, at any rate reaching for a safety that is not there. Bal imagines the perspective from below, as the man comes out, standing over her.46 After four months the Levite comes to get her. We do not know why he waits so long.47 It perhaps characterizes the Levite as dilatory, as will become apparent later. There follows a long sequence in which the father presses the Levite to feast with him day after day.48 As Bal says, “the long scene slowly move(s) into uncanniness.”49 The sense of unease, she continues, results from “a split between what the actors do and what they feel.” The bonhomie be42 Exum, “Raped by the Pen,” 198. Stipp, “Richter 19,” 149, denies that any identification with the woman is intended. 43 Bal, Death and Dissymmetry, 187. 44 Schneider, Judges, 253, extensively discusses the different connotations of this phrase, as well as its association with other references to the heart in Judges. In the immediate context, it contrasts with the father’s repeated appeals to the Levite’s heart in vv. 5, 6, 8 and 9. Bal, Death and Dissymmetry, 90, is too definitive in asserting that “the heart was the seat of reason, not … of feeling,” though she does follow in the wake of several traditional commentators. Trible, Texts of Terror, 67 comments appropriately that the phrase connotes “reassurance, comfort, loyalty and love,” and suggests that it portrays the Levite sympathetically, perhaps to contrast with what eventuates. Similarly, Stipp, “Richter 19,” 148, thinks that it evokes romantic expectations in the audience, which are rapidly dispelled. 45 Of course, this may reflect social convention, in which commensality is gendered. Nonetheless, the woman’s absence is striking. See Trible, Texts of Terror, 68–69. 46 Bal, Death and Dissymmetry, 194–95. Although not explicitly stated, this is the most cinematic moment in her account. 47 Schneider, Judges, 252–53 ingeniously suggests that he waited to see if she had become pregnant (though one wonders how he would know). 48 The verbs used are very strong: ‫ ויחזק‬and ‫ויפצר‬: “he pressed … he urged.” The whole passage would repay detailed rhetorical analysis. 49 Bal, Death and Dissymmetry, 189.

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comes ever more tense, a power struggle between the father’s desire to retain the Levite and his wish to leave. The father, like Jebus/Jerusalem in v. 10, represents a road not taken, an obstacle to the fulfillment of the tragic denouement. If only the Levite had stayed, if only he had waited until the following day, nothing would have happened.50 The father may wish to protect his daughter from the harm that will come to her, out of love, or possessiveness, or a recognition of how untrustworthy the Levite is, or prescience. Alternatively, his desire may be for the Levite; in that way he gets to keep his daughter and gain a son-in-law too, like Laban with Jacob. A Levite may be a desirable asset, as the previous story about Micah shows, because of his sacred status. Moreover, there is no reason why he should not stay; as a stranger, with no inheritance of his own, he can live where he likes. So why is he so keen to go? The father has been spinning an elaborate web of words and drink, the fourth day drags into the fifth, and suddenly, even though it is late, the Levite insists on departing, before he gets more befuddled. The father’s house is a trap; one imagines him thinking “if I don’t leave now, I never will.”51 So he wishes to claim his autonomy, to drag the daughter/wife out of the domain of the father. We know nothing about the relationship of the father and a daughter; not a word is exchanged between them. But by this point in Judges we know that the nexus between fathers and daughters is intense and perilous, posing the possibility of incest on the one hand, and expulsion and betrayal on the other. Two daughters die by fire in their fathers’ house, with their father, or through the agency of their father. We are set up for disaster. Only Achsah seems to be an exception. Achsah is given by the father, Caleb, to his younger brother, Othniel, as a reward for capturing Devir/Qiryat Sefer. She remains within the family; Othniel is perhaps a substitute for the father, just as he is in taking Devir. Uncle-niece intercourse displaces and is but one removed from that between father and daughter. Othniel goes on to become the paradigmatic ideal judge, embodying Judean primacy and ethnic purity. The threat of exogamy is diffused, except that Caleb’s and hence Othniel’s affiliations are murky indeed, since they are Qenizzites, inhabitants of the land. The crossing of boundaries happens within the nuclear family.52 50 Phillip Satterthwaite, “‘No King in Israel’: Narrative Criticism and Judges 17–21,” TynBul 44 (1993): 75–88 (81) notes that the emphasis on the scene prepares us for the misadventure ahead. 51 The Levite makes no response to the father’s final long appeal; it just says that the man did not wish to stay overnight (v. 10). 52 Klein, The Triumph of Irony, 172–73, thinks that the story of the pilegesh is the structural opposite of that of Achsah. For the crossing of ethnic boundaries, see Francis Landy, “The City of the Writing, the Sacred, and the Fragmentation of the Body,” in Voyages in Uncharted Waters: Essays on the Theory and Practice of Biblical Interpretation in Honor of David Jobling (ed. Wesley J. Bergen and Armin Siedlecki; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix

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Jephthah’s daughter “knows no man”; she is sacrificed by the father to the divine father in the ancestral home of Mizpeh, a place rich with intertextual associations, in the liminal space of Gilead. The Timnite woman is the victim of a failed exogamous marriage, a crossing of boundaries between Israelite and Philistine which results in their disjunction. Father and daughter are incinerated together, a communion or commingling of ashes53 which reverses the generative transmission between father and daughter through which the paternal house is perpetuated, symbolized in the Achsah story by Caleb’s gift of two pools. In ch. 19, however, the father is impotent, incapable of protecting his daughter. If her flight to him in v. 2 suggests a reclaiming of the paternal bond, it fails to provide refuge. Whatever the reason for the father’s delaying tactics, he cannot postpone the daughter’s fate indefinitely. Unlike Jephthah’s daughter and the Timnite woman, she dies outside the father’s house. The silence between them, the absence of any communication of emotion, suggests a negation of the relations between father and daughter, an unspoken gap, which is not compensated for by a rapport with her husband. She dies in an interstitial space between them. Bal links the idea of the uncanny to repetition and return.54 The woman returns to the father’s house which is no longer a safe place. She is no longer at home, at home. In part, this is because the situation of daughters is paradoxical: if incest is to be avoided, she has to leave home. She cannot go back to her prenuptial state. But it is also because the house is ambiguous. According to Freud, in a well-known, almost incidental, passage, every home carries with it intimations of the first home, the mother’s body.55 The father’s house is also the mother’s, who is entirely absent. The mother’s body is the place to which one cannot return, except in death. For that reason it is eerie; it is unheimlich, precisely because it is so heimisch, familiar. The Levite is certainly no saint. But we are prepared for this. In the previous narrative, chs. 17–18, an itinerant Levite from Bethlehem comes to Ephraim, and is adopted by an Ephraimite, Micah, as the resident priest for his idolatrous shrine. The Levite is subsequently stolen by the Danites along with the cult objects to found their sacrilegious sanctuary. The Levite is charPress, 2006), 39–56. For a detailed discussion of the history of the Calebites from a historical-critical and redactional perspective, see Jacob L. Wright, David, King of Israel, and Caleb in Biblical Memory (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), esp. 167–220. Wright posits that the Calebites were one of the groups which constituted the Judean polity, but which also resisted absorption into it. 53 Similarly, the Ephraimites theaten to burn Jephthah in his house (12:1). 54 She does so through a long discussion of Freud’s essay, “The Uncanny” (The Penguin Freud Library. Vol.14: Art and Literature [trans. James Strachey; London: Penguin, 1990], 335–76), Bal, Death and Dissymmetry, 186–96. On the issue of repetition and return, see 191. 55 Freud, “The Uncanny,” 368.

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acterized as venial, opportunistic, and disloyal, vices amplified by the implication of Mosaic descent. Once again there is a suggestion of the linkage of Judah and Ephraim, but in the reverse direction. The cult objects are made with silver Micah steals from his mother.56 Micah restores the silver, which his mother then gives back to him to make a pesel umassekha,57 a sculptured image for YHWH. The silver is accompanied by a blessing and a curse, since the mother has both cursed the thief and blessed her son for restoring it. The blessing and the curse may follow the shrine on its peregrinations.58 Micah has a bet elohim, ambiguously a house of God or the gods,59 and he rounds out its ritual panoply with an ephod and

56 David Marcus, “In Defence of Micah: Judges 17:2: He Was Not a Thief,” Shofar 6/3 (1988): 72–80, argues that the text has been misunderstood: Micah had not taken the money from his mother, but she had simply dedicated it for an image for YHWH. The curse is an oath. For example, ‫ לקח לך‬cannot mean “taken from you” but only “taken for you” (76). See also Heinz-Dieter Neef, “Michas Kult und Jahwes Gebot: Jdc 17:1–18:31: Vom kultischen Pluralismus zur Alleinverehrung JHWHs,” ZAW 116 (2004): 206–22 (210). Marcus’s reading is plausible, but it leaves us wondering about the point of the story. If the whole transaction were kosher, why report it? Leuchter, “Now there was a [Certain] Man,” 437 argues that 17:1–5 is a Josianic introduction to an older (and originally pro-Danite!) narrative, designed to colour it with the themes of “duplicity and cultic oblivion.” For Judg 17–18 as originally having been pro-northern propaganda (and the identification of Micah’s Shrine with Bethel) see Baruch Halpern, “Levitic Participation in the Reform Cult of Jeroboam I,” JBL 95 (1976): 31–42. 57 Phillip McMillion, “Worship in Judges 17–18,” in Worship and the Hebrew Bible: Essays in Honor of John T. Willis (ed. M. Patrick Graham, Rick R. Marrs, and Steven L. McKenzie; JSOTSup 284; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 225–43 (233) thinks that this is a hendiadys. Schneider, Judges, 233, assumes they were distinct. It is noteworthy that at the end of the story in 18:20 Micah only gives the pesel to the Danites, but not the massekha. Schneider, Judges, 239, suggests that the latter was a consolation prize for Micah. Exum, “The Center Does Not Hold,” 426, comments that the repeated list is “ironically emphatic.” Renate Jost, “Der Fluch der Mutter: Feministischsozialgeschichtliche Überlegungen zu Ri 17:1–6,” in Gott an den Rändern: Sozialgeschichtliche Perspektiven auf die Bibel: Festschrift für Willy Schottroff (ed. Ulrike Bail and Renate Jost; Gütersloh: Kaiser and Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1996), 17–23, suggests that the pesel may be identified with images of Asherah and Astarte, both of which are frequently mentioned in Judges, and thus with the cult of those goddesses in the Judean royal court, patronized by the Queen Mother, while the massekha alludes to the golden calves in Dan and Bethel. She thinks the narrative, with its black humour, satirizes both idolatrous cults and the wealth that supports them. 58 Jost, “Der Fluch der Mutter,” 19, suggests that the blessing is counteracted by the curse which attends the making of a pesel umassekha, according to Deut 27:15. The curse may be ultimately responsible for the fall of the northern kingdom (22). 59 McMillion, “Worship in Judges 17–18,” 234 notes that in 18:24 Micah uses the plural ‫אלהי‬, “my gods.”

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teraphim. 60 Both of these have rich connotations, especially from a newhistorical perspective; the ephod, for instance, contrasts with the sanctioned ephod of Aaron. In 8:27, Gideon makes an ephod from Midianite gold, which is the object of Israel’s whoring and a trap for Gideon and his house. The ephod is thus aligned with indigenous women and deities as an irresistible and fatal temptation. Micah’s mother doesn’t know that the image is antonymic to the worship of YHWH, that which she has sanctified (‫הקדשתי‬ ‫ )הקדש‬is unholy.61 With this mélange, Micah attempts to establish a house of God/gods, to make Ephraim a sacred centre. He appoints one of his sons as priest, like the sons of David, until the fortuitous arrival of the Levite lends it greater legitimacy. There are thus a complex series of transactions linking and separating mother, son, and YHWH, Judah and Ephraim, with the Levite, as in Judg 19, as the shifty as well as shifting mediator. The doubling of the stories, and the reversal of direction, suggests an irresolvable problem: sacred and sexual unions are attempted, and fall apart. The silver is taken from the mother, and thus is the opposite of the foreign gold used to construct Gideon’s ephod. Stealing one’s mother’s silver is a violation, not only of the commandments to revere parents, but of her integrity. Wealth is an index of value, of the bounty the mother possesses. On the economic plane, theft is the equivalent of rape. The son desires what his mother has, as the source of life and nourishment. One may detect Oedipal associations here, but a better psychoanalytic model would be a Kleinian one: the son steals from the mother for the sake of the reconciliation.62 This is, 60

Oswald Loretz, “Die Teraphim als ‘Ahnen-Götten-Figur(in)en’ im Lichte der Texte aus Nuzi, Emar und Ugarit,” UF 24 (1992): 133–78, argues that teraphim is a derisory scribal deformation of repha’im, or deified ancestors. There are evident intertextual connections with the stories of Rachel’s hiding of the teraphim from Laban (Gen 31:19) and Michal’s dissimulation of David’s flight (1 Sam 19:13), both of which concern the fraught relations of fathers and daughters. See also Karel van der Toorn, “The Nature of the Biblical Teraphim in the Light of Cuneiform Evidence,” CBQ 52 (1990): 203–22, who regards them as ancestral figures, and Francesca Stavrakopoulou, Land of Our Fathers: The Role of Ancestor Veneration in Biblical Land Claims (LHBOTS 473; New York: T&T Clark, 2010), 99. 61 Schneider, Judges, 233; Klein, The Triumph of Irony, 149–51. See, more generally, McMillion, “Worship in Judges 17–18,” who stresses the theological message of the narrative, as a polemic against syncretism and false worship (242). 62 Melanie Klein held that an essential stage in child development, which she called the “manic-depressive position,” was characterized by fits of rage against the parents, especially the mother, followed by remorse and attempts at reparation. The mother is seen as the source of life and nourishment, and consequently is the object of greed and envy; that the mother can survive the child’s aggressive attacks enables the child to integrate the different parts of his or her psyche, and become a whole person (Melanie Klein, Collected Essays, vol. 1, Love, Guilt and Reparation and Other Works 1921–1945; vol. 3, Envy and Grati-

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after all, the story the narrator tells, accomplishing his desire for a happy ending, for forgiveness.63 The son asserts his autonomy, and remains dependent. Of course, it does not work; there is still a residue of guilt, articulated in the curse. Mieke Bal suggests, fascinatingly, that Micah’s mother replaces the absent mother in Judg 19; that she presides over the haunted house.64 In contrast to the pilegesh, there is no tangible father here, a lack made more obtrusive by the appointment of the youthful 65 Levite as a quasi-father, whose paternity as ‫אב‬, but one who is homeless, part of but detached from the family of Judah, may shade paronomastically into that of an ‫אוב‬, one who traffics with the dead, and first of all with the spectral ancestors. The mother contrasts with the Midianites, whose gold is transformed into the ephod, in being as heimlich, as familial, as possible. However, mothers, in the gender politics of Judges, are associated with the subversive countertext, whereby Israel settles in the land precisely through intermarriage, especially with daughters, and the worship of its deities. This is reinforced by an intertextual connection. The 1100 units of silver stolen from the mother correspond to the 1100 units promised by each of the Philistine rulers to Delilah. Micah’s mother may be a displaced version of Delilah; indeed, Tammi Schneider posits that she was Delilah.66 If the identification is made, literally or metaphorically, the mother is the woman paid to betray her lover; she is the femme fatale. The point of the displacement is that the two aspects are separated, both geographically-politically and textually; the mother and the whore are kept apart. Except that the border is always collapsing, centre and periphery fold into each other. The mother is associated with natural fertility, with the land flowing with milk and honey, images of spontaneous lactation and sweetness, and thus infantile dependence. The Israelites are its children or perhaps foster-children, cuckoos in the nest. The mother-land may have conflicted memories and attachments, which may affect those of its subsequent historians: the uneasy feeling that we do not belong here, that we are interlopers. The substance of tude and Other Works 1945–1963 [New York: The Free Press, 1984). Psychoanalytically, the Micah story corresponds to this oscillation between guilt and reparation, if the mother’s gold is a synecdoche for her bounty. 63 I am assuming that narrators want happy endings. Perhaps it might be better to assert that readers want happy endings (and narrators as readers), though this desire may be frustrated, as in tragedy. 64 Bal, Death and Dissymmetry, 203–205. 65 The narrative keeps on stressing that the Levite is a ‫( נער‬17:7, 11, 12; 18:3, 15). Leuchter, “There was a [Certain] Man,” 436–37, holds that the term is especially associated with cultic contexts. It also serves to characterize the Levite. 66 Schneider, Judges, 232. For the metonymic link between the two stories, see Bal, Death and Dissymmetry, 31. Similarly, Jost, “Der Fluch der Mutter,” 18 thinks that the story of Micah contrasts with that of Samson.

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the land is converted into silver, an index of immense value but also transportability. It is stolen away by the Danites, the tribe that cannot establish its territory, whose secondary status is indicated by its descent from Rachel’s maidservant (‫)שפחה‬, Bilhah, who is also described as Jacob’s pilegesh. The main part of Judges can indeed be divided into a Manassehite cycle (6–12) and a Danite one (13–19); both end with Ephraimite defeat and humiliation. The would-be sacred centre is carried off beyond the borders of Israel, emphasizing the void in its midst. Dan is not in its proper place; that it names the new city after its ancestor Dan only draws attention to its being a latecomer, to the previous name and inhabitants of the city, whose unsuspecting isolation and trust so much contrast with the treachery and tribulations of the Israelites. The Levite is identified as Moses’s grandson, if the MT, Manasseh, is corrected.67 The ghost of Moses pervades the book, from ch. 1 onwards, and one can imagine that the young Levite’s lineage lends prestige to the sanctuary. If he is an ‫ אוב‬as well as an ‫אב‬, he represents the Mosaic legacy. The irony is, of course, unmistakable. In Judges, however, Moses is associated with exogamy, as evidenced by the repeated reference to his Kenite in-laws (1:20; 4:11). The Levite is the progeny of a mixed marriage, of the hybridity Mosaic law condemns. From a new-historical perspective, that of Persian era historians, the Mosaic heritage is displaced and marginalised by the official Aaronide priesthood, represented by Phineas (20:28), the guardian of Israelite sexual boundaries, and by the sanctuaries it legitimates. Except that the Ark of Covenant is in the wrong place, in Bethel, the epitome of northern apostacy as well as patriarchal blessing, which renders poignant the abeyance of Jerusalem, still waiting in the wings, destroyed (1:8), unconquered, the place of peaceful coexistence between Israelite and Canaanite (1:21), and, as Ehud Ben Zvi has pointed out, representing a certain pre-Israelite ideal.68 For ex-

A nun has been suspended between the mem and the shin of the name of Moses (‫ )מנשה‬and is generally understood to be a scribal emendation to preserve the honour of Moses. Schneider, Judges, 242, suggests that the insertion may allude to the apostacy of Hezekiah’s son, Manasseh. Steve Weitzman, “Reopening the Case of the Suspiciously Suspended Nun in Judges 18:30,” CBQ 61 (1999): 448–60, proposes that the change may also have been made to indict Manasseh, the brother of the Jerusalem high priest Jaddua, who was the founding priest of the Temple on Mt. Gerizim, according to Josephus, as part of an anti-Samaritan polemic. 68 Ehud Ben Zvi, “Exploring Jerusalem as a Site of Memory in the Late Persian and Early Hellenistic Periods,” in Memory and the City in Ancient Israel (ed. Diana V. Edelman and Ehud Ben Zvi; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2014), 197–217 (216–17), and “Remembering Pre-Israelite Jerusalem in Late Persian Yehud: Mnemonic Preferences, Memories, and Social Imagination,” in Urban Dreams and Realities in Antiquity: Remains and Representations of the Ancient City (ed. Adam Kemezis; Leiden: Brill, 2015), 413–38 (especially 419). 67

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ample, one cannot escape the implication that if the Levite in Judg 19 had spent the night in Jerusalem, everything would have been all right.69 Kenites are a liminal people, allied to the Israelites but not part of them.70 Judging from Deborah’s song, they are nomads, tent-dwellers, without permanent settlement. Like the Anakites in Hebron, they recall an antediluvian past, and the reincorporation of a rejected line, associated with murder and fratricide. The return of the repressed is a persistent theme in Judges; even the deluge cannot obliterate the primal trauma.71 Likewise, Levites are associated with violence, dispossession, and a paternal curse, which their sacred status cannot erase. Moses authorizes the official story, but also represents a dissidence from it: Moses dies outside the land, is not assimilated to its institutions, has his own history of violence. The figure of Moses destabilizes any fixed centre. Let us return to Judg 19. The Levite, his pilegesh, his servant and two donkeys set off home. They avoid Jebus/Jerusalem, and spend the night in Gibeah. Another alternative, mentioned vaguely in passing, is Ramah (v. 13).72 All three are full of significance: Jerusalem is David’s city, Gibeah is Saul’s, and Ramah is Samuel’s. In the future, Levites will gravitate towards Jerusalem and its Temple; that is where a Levite properly belongs. That the Levite refuses to go to Jerusalem, because it is alien territory, not only makes him an exemplar of misplaced piety, but emphasizes his own displacement, that of Levites in general, and that of the deity who has not yet come home. The Levite belongs to a tribe without territory, one literally without a place, a home of its own. According to Deuteronomy, and thus to the DH, a special duty of hospitality is owed to the Levite, as to other marginal figures, such as the widow and the orphan. The Levite is accordingly both privileged, as a member of the sacred tribe, and without status, since “he has no portion or

69 Jan P. Fokkelman, “Structural Remarks on Judges 9 and 19,” in Sha’arei Talmon: Studies in the Bible, Qumran, and the Ancient Near East Presented to Shemaryahu Talmon (ed. Michael Fishbane and Emanuel Tov; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1992), 33–45, sees the refusal to spend the night in Jerusalem as the turning point which reveals that all values are reversed, for example, the servant is right, contrary to convention (44–45). 70 Judg 1:16. Wright, David, King of Israel, 17–18, comments that they were an itinerant group within the boundaries of Judah and Israel whom some Israelites didn’t think properly belong to them. Gary N. Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9 (AB 12; New York: Doubleday, 2004), 316, provides a detailed discussion of Kenites, with links to the primordial Cain. See also Landy, “The City of Writing,” 42, and Ackerman, Warrior, Dancer, Seductress, Queen, 89–102, who thinks they had a cultic function. 71 Pardes, The Biography of Ancient Israel, 109–10, comments on the antediluvian past evoked by the Anakites. 72 V. 13 partially duplicates v. 12. The repetition may be a delaying tactic, and serve to introduce another counterfactual possibility. As the city of Samuel, Ramah is positively valued.

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inheritance among you” (Deut 14:27). The Gibeahites may well see a Levite as a person without power, with no power-base to protect him, and as a stranger, and thus as a potential enemy. Hospitality carries with it the risk of, and averts, hostility. The failure to extend hospitality may be a sign of unease, that there is something wrong with the body politic of Gibeah, that it is a society under threat. Michael Carden comments on the failure of “ethnic solidarity,” that if it were a Jebusite or other non-Israelite who had reported the crime, there would not have been the same response.73 But it also points to the ambiguous, and perhaps therefore uncanny, condition of Levites, as well as to the fears that come with nightfall. The Levite and his entourage arrive in Gibeah. No one welcomes them, except for an old Ephraimite who comes in from the field. The Ephraimite introduces the parallel with the Sodom story, since like Lot, it is a stranger who welcomes them, and thus emphasizes the remissness of the townsfolk. That he is an Ephraimite, however, suggests a certain affinity with the Levite, who comes from Mt. Ephraim, and an association with other Ephraimites in the narrative of Judges, not least in the previous chapters. Ephraimites are not good at keeping Levites. As in the Sodom story, the men of Gibeah, the ‫בני בליעל‬, demand to have sex with the visitor. Ken Stone74 and Michael Carden argue that this has nothing to do with desire; in the honor-shame system, homosexual rape destroys the masculinity of the victim. Carden writes “there is one sure way for a man to make another man queer (and thus identify who is the queer) and that is by buggering him.”75 Through lying with the man “as with a woman,” the Gibeahites effectively turn the Levite into a woman. Of course, this does not happen: the concubine is raped in the man’s stead. On one level, this is just a displacement, since the concubine is a surrogate for the Levite. His honour is destroyed just the same.76 On the other hand, it draws attention to the oddity of the scene. The Ephraimite offers his daughter and the Levite’s concubine to the rapists, as Lot does his two daughters, but thereby exhibits a remarkable extension of his authority.77 The Levite thrusts 73

Michael Carden, “Homophobia and Rape in Sodom and Gibeah: A Response to Ken Stone,” JSOT 82 (1999): 83–96 (92). 74 Ken Stone, “Gender and Homosexuality in Judges 19: Subject-Honor, ObjectShame?,” JSOT 67 (1995): 87–107. 75 Carden, “Homophobia and Rape,” 87. 76 Carden comments, “the Levite is made queer by the rape of his woman” (pp. 91–92). 77 Stipp, “Richter 19,” 139 and Pfeiffer, “Sodomie in Gibea,” 272, both think that this detail was added. Stipp, indeed, comments on its absurdity, which he sees as grounds for rejecting literary interpretations such as those of Lasine and Exum. However, in a carnivalesque reading, it is precisely the absurdity that is the point. Judg 19 parodies Gen 19 by taking the motif of two women but developing it ad absurdum. As Stone says, it shows how valueless the woman is in the host’s as well as the Levite’s eyes.

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the concubine out. Stone assumes that the rape of a woman was held to be more “natural” and less reprehensible than that of a man, and this might be doubly so if she has a subordinate status as a concubine, since she is a proper object of intercourse.78 But in an honour-shame system, a man’s honour is determined by his ability to defend the virtue of his women. By being unable to do so, the man is dishonoured. So then the question arises whether the host and the Levite should offer their dependent women as the price of selfpreservation. By thrusting the concubine out, the Levite not only shames himself, but avoids a certain outcome: one in which he is raped instead of her, or dies to protect her. But these remain as narrative possibilities, ways not taken. Carden disputes whether “homosexual” is an appropriate term for the Gibeahites’ desire, citing much anthropological and anecdotal evidence for the construction of the active role in male-male intercourse as heterosexual in the Middle Eastern imaginaire.79 He suggests that their act is symptomatic of homosexual panic, whereby queerness is displaced onto the victim, who is then subject to homophobic violence.80 But this is to overlook the semiotics of Benjaminites in Judges. They are a queer lot, as is evident from their lefthandedness. Lefthandedness, especially in a tribe whose very name means “righthanded,” signifies deviance, evoking the motif of strangeness, particularly sexual strangeness, throughout Judges.81 It is a queer book. If the cardinal sin of the Israelites is their transgressive sexual union with the inhabitants of the land, homosexual sex goes one step further. According to Lev 18:3 and 24–28, it characterises the practices of the Egyptians and the Canaanites, a typical ethnic slur. It crosses the sexual boundaries that define Israel. Through accusing the Gibeahites of homosexual desire and annihilating them for it, the Israelites are repeating the homophobic panic that they perpetrated on the Levite. 82 But, of course, in another sense, it does not cross sexual boundaries. Same sex is illicit precisely because it does not traverse the difference of gender. In this it is homologous to the prohibition of incest. The Benjaminites are refusing the normative sex through which Israel is perpetu-

78

Stone, “Gender and Homosexuality,” 100. Carden critiques Stone for his use of the term “homosexuality” (“Homophobia and Rape,” 84); however, Carden and Stone agree in most respects in their interpretation of the text. 80 Carden, “Homophobia and Rape,” 88–89. The term “homosexual panic” is taken from Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick. 81 Josipovici, The Book of God, 113. 82 Of course, according to the story the Israelites do not know that the Gibeahites proposed to “know” the Levite. One wonders, however, whether, since the rape of the woman substitutes for the death of the man, whether such knowledge is part of the background to the story, especially since it is recounted by the narrator. 79

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ated, and whose ideal instantiation is the union of Ephraim and Judah the Levite’s liaison promises but does not deliver. What accounts for the Benjaminites’ sexual arousal? We do not know, but it does suggest the linkage between sex and violence both in Judges and the popular imagination. Virility can be expressed through either. A parallel may be found at the beginning of Judges, in which Ehud’s assassination of Eglon parodies anal intercourse, an association compounded by Ehud’s insistence on intimacy.83 The demand to “know” the guest mirrors that in the Sodom story in Gen 19. There the irony is that the Sodomites do not know that the men are angels sent to destroy them. The threatened intercourse is between humans, extremely wicked humans at that, and messengers or representatives of God. It thus reverses the divine-human intercourse in Gen 6:1, which precedes the Flood.84 Here the Levite is a member of the sacred tribe, whose inheritance is YHWH. Same sex intercourse with the Levite thus implicates, and symbolically humiliates, the deity. If anal penetration emasculates the victim, the ultimate object is God. Rape of the woman is not the same as that of the man, though they may be equivalent. The woman, as we have seen, is both a possible ancestress of the royal house and a figure for the potential dangers of women, concubines and prostitutes in particular. If the rape of the Levite threatens the sacred centre of Israel and the ritual-sexual system through which it is preserved, and evokes sacrilege as the nullification of God’s name,85 that of the woman repeats that of the land, as the conquered, violated, and alluring mother/other. She embodies the ambiguity whereby the land is possessed as Israel’s home, which had previous inhabitants and allegiances. This ambiguity renders it uncanny, as a strange but familial place. 83

For the Ehud story as a political satire, which uses sexual and scatological imagery, see Marc Brettler, “Never the Twain Shall Meet? The Ehud Story in History and Literature,” HUCA 61 (1991): 285–304 (295–96), and Robert Alter, The Art of Biblical Narrative (New York: Basic Books, 1981), 39. 84 There are numerous parallels between the Flood story and that of Sodom. I have explored these in my essay, “Flood and Fludd,” in Beauty and the Enigma and Other Essays on the Hebrew Bible (JSOTSup 312; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 328–70 (343–44); cf. also Harold Fisch, Poetry with a Purpose (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1988), 69–71, 74–75, 78; and Robert Alter, “Sodom as Nexus: The Web of Design in Biblical Narrative,” in The Book and the Text: The Bible and Literary Theory (ed. Regina Schwartz; Oxford: Blackwell, 1990), 146–60 (153). 85 This has frequent sexual connotations; for example, in Lev 19, the root ‫ חלל‬links desecration of God’s name through false oaths with prostitution (19:12, 29 cf. also 21:9). For “blaspheming” (‫ )נקב‬as an unmanning or feminizing of God, see Deborah W. Rooke, “The Blasphemer (Leviticus 24): Gender, Identity, and Boundary Construction,” in Text, Time, and Temple (ed. Francis Landy, Leigh M. Trevaskis, and Bryan D. Bibb; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2015), 153–79 (162–63).

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It is commonplace to view the narrative as anti-Saulide polemic. But perhaps one may see it otherwise. If Gibeah is the nadir of Judges and exemplifies the condition of being without a monarchy, it is also associated with the first king. Saul may be an antidote to its lawlessness, and that of Judges in general. Ian Wilson argues for the polyvalence of Gibeah, as a city not only of sexual miscreants but of Saul’s valiant companions.86 Gibeah then represents the recurrent possibility of an alternative, non-Davidic royal future; from the point of view of the Persian period historians, in the wake of the collapse of the dynasty, it evokes the indeterminacy of history, that things might have been, and could still be, entirely different. Moreover, Gibeah prefigures the ambivalence of Jerusalem itself, as well as that of the Davidic dynasty, which is responsible for its downfall. Jerusalem is in any case ambiguous and contested. It has another name, Jebus, repeatedly stressed in the narrative.87 In this it is like Dan, Hebron, Debir and Bethel in Judges, all of which had former names. The former name signifies a different polity, a different language community. If Jerusalem is the sacred and political centre, its foundations are haunted by the idealized Canaanite other. The conquest, moreover, is incomplete; Jebusites and Israelites coexist (Josh 15:63; Judg 1:21).88 The capital of Judah is in Benjaminite territory, according to the tribal lists in Joshua. Benjamin itself, the Saulide heartland, is annexed to the Judean kingdom. So the opposition between Gibeah and Jerusalem, Benjamin and Judah, Saul and David, is maintained at the expense of their confusion. Gibeah may be incriminated in order to assert the sanctity of Jerusalem, to give it an alibi. Jerusalem is both central and the excluded middle, both Jebusite and Israelite, both integral to the Israelite/Davidic hegemony and resistant to it. Its ambiguity corresponds to that of the land, which Israel claims as its God-given territory but which never really belongs to it, which has its own gods and goddesses, its own names and memories. The pilegesh, as we have seen, links the inside and the outside, Bethlehemite promise and promiscuity. But in this she is typical of the daughters of Israel, who are either sacrificed to the father or given by the father in marriages which are more or less exogamous, in which Israel insistently intermarries with the sons and daughters of the land and adopts its deities. The imperative to unite with the daughters/sons of the land Wilson, Kingship Remembered and Imagined, 170–75 (170). That Jerusalem already appears in the El-Amarna letters should make us suspicious of this previous identity cf. Ulrich Hübner, “Jerusalem and the Jebusites,” in Jerusalem before Islam (ed. Zeidan Kafafi and Robert Schick; Oxford: Archaeopress, 2007), 17–22 (18– 20), who thinks that the Jebusites were a fictional entity, created to provide Jerusalem with a distinct pre-Israelite past. See also Pfeiffer, “Sodomie in Gibea,” 278–81. 88 On the cohabitation of Canaanites and Israelites, see my article “Threshing Floors and Cities,” in Memory and the City in Ancient Israel, 79–98 (82–83) and Ben Zvi, “Remembering Pre-Israelite Jerusalem.” 86 87

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and thus become part of it conflicts with the equally exigent one to destroy it. Violence which is properly directed outwards is turned inwards in genocidal civil war; sex, which is properly endogamous, crosses ethnic as well as gender boundaries. Israelite and Canaanite, indigenous and alien, are confused, change places, and combined in liminal figures, such as Yael. The displacements are exemplified in the correlation between Gibeah and Sodom, and the persistent use of Sodom as a trope for maleficent Israel. The mediating tribe, Benjamin, thus becomes the archetype of the evil that dissolves the Israelite body politic. Sodom, with its echoes of the Garden of Eden and the Flood narrative, represents a possibility of deviation, for example from the Abrahamic line, and thus of critique and resistance. In psychoanalytic terms, it may be a split off part of the self. Kara-Ivanov89 has pointed to the contribution of the Sodom story to the scandalous background of David, and thus its reintegration into the royal lineage of Israel.90 We can come to a conclusion. The body of the woman is dispersed among the tribes of Israel, leaving a void that sucks in the tribe of Benjamin, and ever more bodies of raped and traumatized women: the daughters of Jabesh Gilead and of Shiloh. The pilegesh becomes a prototype for these other women, as violence and its other side, violation, proliferates. The daughters of Shiloh, in particular, as the progeny of the sacred city, repeat the fate of the pilegesh; they are surrendered to the bnei beli’al, the Benjaminites, just as the pilegesh is both the Levite’s woman and common property. As there, there is a conjunction of the sacred and the sacrilegious, compounded by the breach of the oath. I have noted the uncanny absence of the mother; correspondingly, the pilegesh herself has no children. I have noted also Bal’s suggestion that Micah’s mother, in ch. 17, replaces the absent mother in ch. 19, and the Levite’s role as a quasi-father. The pilegesh, with her entirely ambiguous status, her crossing of exogamy and endogamy, recollects another absent mother, who likewise combines ancestral and alien qualities. Like Jerusalem, Dan, Bethel, Devir, Benjamin has another name, for which that of Benjamin was euphemistically substituted. Benjamin was really Ben-Oni, “the son of my affliction,” tainted with the death of his mother. Benjamin is both the orphan and the matricide. Rachel’s tomb links Bethlehem, with its Davidic associations, with Ephraim, and with Saul (1 Sam 10:2); in the latter case, it is identified as being on the border of Benjamin. The pilegesh’s peregrinations thus retrace the different locations of Rachel’s tomb, the different places where her primal, traumatic death is commemorated. The uncertainty about the exact site of the 89

“The Myth of the Messianic Mother,” 77, 84–85. In addition, Rehoboam’s mother was Naamah the Ammonite (1 Kgs 14:31). Thus both Moabite and Ammonite branches of the descendants of Lot contribute to the royal line. 90

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grave is important, since the text stresses that she died on the way (Gen 35:18, 20). Rachel is itinerant, excluded from the ancestral tomb of Machpelah; she becomes a symbol for the exiles and for grief over the northern kingdom whose deportation is alluded to in 18:30.91 From a Persian period perspective, Benjamin is both the survivor and the murderer. This brings me back to my original, new-historical, literary and psychoanalytical questions. It should be clear that these approaches and questions cannot be separated from each other. New-historicism concerns the rhetoric and aesthetics of imagining the past, which in turn depend on the unconscious motivations and impulses of writers. Uncertainty is compounded by the range of possibilities for the date of composition of the text, from the 11th century B.C.E. (Stipp, Leuchter) to the 3rd (Levin, Edenburg). What we do see is a pattern of displacement: from Jerusalem to Gibeah, from Gibeah to Sodom, from the Davidic line to its potential predecessors, from Micah’s mother to Delilah. This is combined with an insistence on doublets which emphasize alternative possibilities, like the different potential lodging places. Things could have been different; there ever are counterfactual spectral outcomes. The text, moreover, is overdetermined by the surplus of symbolic associations and by its persistent intertextuality. One story retells another, in endless variations. But we do not know what that story is. The more detail, the less clarity. In my introduction I suggested that the narrated chaos is constructed through narrative perfection. The story itself opens a chasm that grows ever wider. One may suggest various new-historical possibilities, for instance that it represents an instability in the foundations of Yehudite ideology, for example, concerning the status of Jerusalem, whether the sacred centre of Israel is place or text; or that it might be a symptom of a bad conscience concerning the northern kingdom. Perhaps the chasm is a symptom of a rift in being, an emptiness or chaos at the heart of things. Israel’s experience had or has no meaning, the promise was a lure, the song spins itself over an abyss. Jacques Lacan famously saw lack as inherent in desire, which is always for an irretrievably lost object, the primordial maternal space.92 We write out of a desire for meaning that ever 91 Stavrakopolou, Land of our Fathers, 95, comments on the paradox that the tomb is both a boundary marker and a symbol for displacement and the metaphorical death of exile. On the reversal, whereby the dead mother mourns for her children, she comments, “it is the dead Rachel herself who performs mourning.” Stavrakopolou thinks that the grave site shifted in the Persian period from Benjamin to Bethlehem, to give it a properly Judahite identity (96). Even if so, it retains its Benjaminite connotations, with the attendant ambiguities. In any case, as I have noted, the Benjaminite-Judahite border runs very close to Bethlehem. 92 A succinct discussion of Lacan may be found in Adrian Johnston, “Jacques Lacan,” The Stanford Encyclopaedia of Philosophy (Summer 2014 edition). Johnston writes, on the insatiability of desire: “Adults … are aware of a … desiring restlessness in themselves, an

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eludes us. Eros is for that which is just over the horizon, the other person, the other self.93 But perhaps we can look at it otherwise. The mother’s body – the land and its associated women – is carved out and distributed among the tribes; it is the object of sexual pleasure and penetration, of desire which is indissoluble from the wish for its destruction. The Gibeahites want to “know” the Levite, to possess and to have access to the intimate parts of his body, metonymically aligned with those of YHWH. The anal cavity is correlated with the holy of holies; to feminise the Levite is to castrate God. This is the opposite of “knowing YHWH” as a prophetic ideal, as a learning of divine attributes of kindness and compassion (Isa 11:9; Hos 2:22; Exod 34 etc.), and knowledge as a form of eros, of discovery. Knowledge, here, undoes and destroys the object of knowledge. On the other side, there is another act of destructive knowledge: “they knew her and worked their will on her all night” ‫וידעו‬ ‫אותה ויתעללו־בה כל־הלילה‬. What kind of knowledge is this? The woman is a substitute for the man, and thus for YHWH at one remove, but also, I have suggested, she is a mother figure, corresponding to Mother Rachel, the land, and other mother figures in Judges and the HB, including, ultimately and paradigmatically, Zion. The man and woman, YHWH and the land, are conjoined opposites. If Gibeah becomes emblematic for the sinfulness of Israel, as, for example, in Hos 9:9, it stands for a primal breach and trauma. If, as I have proposed, from a new historical perspective, it is a displacement of Jerusalem and the failure of the Davidic dynasty, it evokes the destruction and sacrilege of the Temple, the loss of the land and the subsequent reevaluation of all values.94 But the Benjaminites survive, and so do we. The French psychoanalyst and theorist Julia Kristeva writes that matricide is our vital necessity. By this she means that we have to free ourselves of our infantile attachments in order to

inability to acquire an object or to attain a success which would be “IT” …, the final beall-and-end-all” telos of wanting and wishing satisfying them for good and forever after.” This telos is ultimately the unattainable archaic mother of infancy, whose absence is responsible for the experience of a “lack-of-being” (manque-à-être) which Lacan thinks is endemic in contemporary patriarchal society. 93 Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg, Bewilderments: Reflections on the Book of Numbers (New York: Schocken Books, 2015), 299–301, commenting on Exod 34, quotes the poet and classicist Anne Carson on the eros of knowledge that is “a wooer of meaning that is inseparable from its absence,” that Moses seeks to know precisely that which is unknowable. 94 On trauma theory in relation to the destruction of Jerusalem and the development of the moral self, see Robert Williamson Jr., “Taking Root it the Rubble: Trauma and Moral Subjectivity in the Book of Lamentations,” JSOT 40 (2015): 7–23.

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become autonomous persons.95 We are all survivors, with survivor guilt and responsibility, as well as hungry ghosts-in-waiting. The Benjaminites survive to tell the tale. Let us turn to another mother. Deborah is “a mother in Israel,” judge and prophetess, and a woman, reversing the gender stereotypes in the book. Without textual children of her own, she represents the maternity of Israel, a source of nourishment and life, in contrast to the paternal deity and the patriarchal agenda. The land flowing with milk and honey is Israelite, and Deborah is at the centre. On the fringes, socially and spatially, is another woman, Yael, the gazelle – emblem of wildness – who takes over the maternal function, lulling and murdering Sisera, like Delilah, who both mothers Samson (sending him to sleep on her knees) and destroys him. Murderous mothers, on the border, psychic, mythical and geographical, are split off from the idealized one, performing her function at one remove. There is another mother, Sisera’s. Deborah imagines Sisera’s mother imagining rape and pillage, while it is her son of whom she is bereaved. Between the Israelite and the Canaanite mother there is a nexus, in which pleasure mingles with horror, as in the repeated, slow-motion scene of Sisera’s death. The song, in which the Israelite woman sings in the voice of the other, is indeed triumphant, but it also suggests a hidden sympathy, an empathic if gloating imagination. 96 The song passes from one to the other, and in its wake can be heard another song, the lament. What is the connection between the meaning of Deborah’s name and Samson’s riddle, provoked by the bees swarming in the lion’s corpse? Deborah is the queen bee, at the centre, under the phallic palm tree, whose honey is prophecy and song, that continue to reverberate through the book.97 Samson is the victim of the honey-trap, which in turn engulfs the Philistines who set it. The honey may be correlated with that of the land, and thus the ambiguities of Israel’s settlements. Centre becomes periphery, which twists around and becomes centre once again.

95 “For man and for woman the loss of the mother is a biological and psychic necessity, the first step on the way to becoming autonomous. Matricide is our vital necessity” (Julia Kristeva, Black Sun: Depression and Melancholia [trans. Leon S. Roudiez; New York: Columbia University Press, 1989], 27). 96 Josipovici, The Book of God, 129–30, comments that the poet achieves something that no one else in Judges does, the awareness of someone else’s experience: “for every victor there is also a vanquished, for every mother who rejoices in triumph there is also one who laments in sorrow” (p. 129). 97 The palm tree might also be connected to Deborah’s name, as well as femininity, through its association with date-honey.

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There is another Deborah, a revenant, buried not far away from Deborah’s palm tree, under the oak of weeping in Bethel. She is Rebekah’s nurse, and thus a foster-mother from far away, in the ancestral matrix of Haran. She is a sign of Israel’s doubled strangeness, and its inhumation in the land. She comes back as the bee, as song, the potential for weeping to turn into song, despite the lament, despite, for instance, the laments over Jephthah’s daughter.98

98 There is an extensive discussion of Rebekah’s nurse in Stavrakopolou, Land of Our Fathers, 97–98, who argues that, like Rachel, she represents a nurturing, life-giving aspect of the dead. Stavrakopolou suggests that the two Deborahs might have been confused or separated from each other, and that the various sacred trees around Bethel should be identified. This, however, is to overlook the contrast between the oak (‫ )אלון‬and palm (‫)תמר‬. She follows Wyatt in wondering whether the burial site may originally have been Rebekah’s (Nicholas Wyatt, “Word of Tree and Whisper of Stone: El’s Oracle to King Keret (Kirta), and the Problem of the Mechanics of Its Utterance,” VT 57 (2007): 483–510 [501]). There might be an intertextual connection between Deborah’s palm tree (albeit Masoretically spelled ‫ )תֹמר‬and the two biblical characters named Tamar.

Jeremiah 24: Deportees, Remainees, Returnees, and the Diaspora Hermann-Josef Stipp Jeremiah’s vision report of the two fig baskets is one of the strangest texts in the book of Jeremiah. 1 It is cast in autobiographic style, with the prophet revealing that he once was shown a peculiar sight by YHWH: “two baskets of figs placed before the temple of YHWH, after King Nebuchadrezzar of Babylon had taken into exile from Jerusalem King Jeconiah son of Jehoiakim of Judah, together with the officials of Judah, the artisans, and the smiths, and had brought them to Babylon”2 (v. 1). So the baskets are said to have been standing before the temple at some point in time during the years of King Zedekiah, who governed Judah from 597 to 587 as the successor of Jeconiah or, as he is mostly called, Jehoiachin. The incident is apparently supposed to have taken place in a rather early phase of Zedekiah’s rule, for it is dated “after King Nebuchadrezzar of Babylon had taken into exile,” and so on; that is, in terms of what we read elsewhere in the Bible, after the first batch of Judean exiles had left for Mesopotamia in 597, and there is no reference to the Babylonian siege of Jerusalem at the end of Zedekiah’s reign. The report then continues: “One basket had very good figs, like first-ripe figs, but the other basket had very bad figs, so bad that they could not be eaten.” (vv. 1–2) YHWH asked Jeremiah what he saw, and when the prophet had described the scene correctly, YHWH delivered an interpretive speech covering the major part of the chapter, in which he explained the good figs as a symbolic representation of the deportees who had accompanied Jehoiachin into captivity. The bad figs, on the other hand, stood for the remainees under Zedekiah, as well as the Judean settlers in Egypt (vv. 4–10). The chapter has for a long time been puzzling scholars, as it voices a view of certain aspects of Judean history that clashes sharply with what we read elsewhere in the book of Jeremiah, or in the remainder of the Hebrew Bible, for that matter. Before we look at details, let me emphasize that nowadays most exegetes would concur that the chapter, even though styled as a first person account, is not an authentic unit, written by the prophet himself, but a 1 The present contribution was composed during a research visit to the Department of Ancient Studies and the Faculty of Theology at Stellenbosch University in March 2015. 2 Translations are adapted from the New Revised Standard Version.

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later addition by some redactor.3 An obvious reason for this hypothesis is the formulaic language in YHWH’s interpretive comment, which is marked by an idiom normally typifying secondary layers in the book. Since the formulaic passages occur only in the latter half of the chapter (vv. 6–10), some scholars have tried to assign them to a reworking of a putative authentic core.4 But such efforts misjudge the smooth flow of the unit, which is devoid of any significant tensions demanding diachronic assumptions. The uneven distribution of the set phrases is due to the parenetic character of the vocabulary involved, which largely restricts its usability to pertinent divine or prophetic utterances;5 so the formulaic diction does not indicate any compositeness in Jer 24. Other pointers to a later time of origin are to be found, as we will see, in some rather odd statements on Judean history in the exilic era that can hardly be attributed to a contemporary. But apart from this very basic agreement on the redactional nature of the unit, scholars differ widely on where, when and to what purpose it was penned. After these introductory remarks, let us take a closer look at the text to gather some observations that might help us to bring the problems under debate closer to a solution. Our focus will be on what the chapter has to say on the Judeans during the exilic era: the deportees, those remaining in their home country, the returnees from exile, and the diaspora.

A. The Deportees, the Remainees, the Returnees and the Diaspora in Jeremiah 24 V. 1 echoes the view that the Babylonians in 597 exiled the Judean elite, as we are also told in 2 Kgs 24:14–16 and Jer 29:2. V. 2 proceeds to characterize the two kinds of figs that will subsequently serve as symbolic representations 3

Recent exceptions still opting for an authentic creation include: Jack R. Lundbom, Jeremiah 21–36: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 21B; New York: Doubleday, 2004), 222–36; Mark Leuchter, Josiah’s Reform and Jeremiah’s Scroll: Historical Calamity and Prophetic Response (HBM 6; Sheffield: Phoenix Press, 2006), 179–82; Robin J. R. Plant, Good Figs, Bad Figs: Judicial Differentiation in the Book of Jeremiah (LHBOTS, 483; New York: T&T Clark, 2008), 87. 4 For recent examples, see Judith Pschibille, Hat der Löwe erneut gebrüllt? Sprachliche, formale und inhaltliche Gemeinsamkeiten in der Verkündigung Jeremias und Amos’ (BThSt 41; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2001), 20–24, with further literature; Werner H. Schmidt, Das Buch Jeremia: Kapitel 21–52 (ATD 21; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013), 56–58. 5 This topic is treated more extensively in my essays “Probleme des redaktionsgeschichtlichen Modells der Entstehung des Jeremiabuches,” in my Studien zum Jeremiabuch: Text und Redaktion (FAT 96; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2015), 261–97, and “Formulaic Language and the Formation of the Book of Jeremiah,” forthcoming.

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165

of certain aspects affecting the deportees and the remainees. Two properties of the symbolic representations strike the eye: first, the quality of the figs in the baskets was in both cases extreme. They were either first-rate or utterly rotten, but nothing in between. Consequently, as the text explicitly accentuates, the bad figs were decomposed to a degree making them unfit for consumption, that is, they were totally useless. Second, the image of the rotten figs represents a sort of decay that is irreversible. If for the sake of comparison we take a contrasting example from the book of Amos, we may note that David’s fallen booth can be rebuilt (cp. Amos 9:11), but rotten fruit can by no means be restored. According to v. 3, Jeremiah, when asked what he saw, readily confirmed that the figs were either exquisite or disgusting. Still unaware of the symbolic significance of the vision, the prophet in the world of the text is an unbiased witness who can fully be trusted. With v. 4, YHWH embarks on his interpretive speech, which in its first half (vv. 5–7) establishes a symbolic link between the good figs on the one hand and Jehoiachin and his fellow deportees on the other. In v. 5, YHWH equates this group with the ‫“ גָּ לוּת יְ הוּ ָדה‬the exiles from Judah,” which, taken at face value, is the whole of the Judean hostages banished to Mesopotamia. This contradicts the information given in the Second Book of Kings, that after the Babylonian victory in 587 much larger deportations decimated the Judean remainees to a fraction (2 Kgs 25:11–12, 21). The book of Jeremiah too refers to sweeping expatriations in the wake of the destruction of Jerusalem (Jer 40:1, 4, 7; cp. MT 39:9; 52:15, 27c, 29), and the Masoretic edition of the book further records a third lot of captives exiled in 582 (52:30). When reading on in ch. 24, however, we find that this author indeed held the peculiar idea that the deportation of 597 was the only one for Judah, so that the Jehoiachin group in truth was synonymous with the ‫הוּדה‬ ָ ְ‫גָּ לוּת י‬. I will come back to this in a moment. V. 5 contains another remarkable statement on the exiles: YHWH declares that he has “sent (them) away from this place to the land of the Chaldeans for (their own) good.” So it was YHWH himself who had led part of his people away to a foreign country. Moreover, this was not a punishment, but – quite to the contrary – served a salvific purpose. Yet it should be noted that here I proceed from a syntactical analysis which deviates from the majority stance. As my translation demonstrates, I link the prepositional group ‫טוֹבה‬ ָ ‫“ ְל‬for good” to the preceding verb ‫“ ִשׁלַּ ְח ִתּי‬I sent,” taking it as part of the relative clause 5c.6 Most scholars, though, relate the group to the verb ‫“ ַא ִכּיר‬I regard” 6 I proceed from the segmentation of the verses into Hebrew clauses as done by Wolfgang Richter, Jeremia: Biblia Hebraica transcripta: BHt; das ist das ganze Alte Testament transkribiert, mit Satzeinteilungen versehen und durch die Version tiberisch-masoretischer Autoritäten bereichert, auf der sie gründet (ATSAT 33/8; St. Ottilien: EOS, 1993). But unlike Richter, I count relative clauses as separate units.

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in 5b, construing ‫טוֹבה‬ ָ ‫ ְל‬as a continuation of the main clause 5b and translating, for instance, “I will regard as good the exiles from Judah,” as does the NRSV. This presupposes a large distance from the verbal predicate to this complement, with a relative clause embedded in between. Further, mainstream scholarly opinion attaches a meaning to 5b that merely doubles what follows in 6a: ‫טוֹבה‬ ָ ‫יהם ְל‬ ֶ ֵ‫“ וְ ַשׂ ְמ ִתּי ֵ ינִ י ֲ ל‬I will set my eye upon them for good.” Yet comparative evidence supports the inclusion of ‫טוֹבה‬ ָ ‫ ְל‬in 5c. The rather common verb ‫נכר‬-H “to regard” (38 instances) is nowhere else modified by ‫טוֹבה‬ ָ ‫ ְל‬or its antonym ‫“ לְ ָר ָ ה‬for evil,” whereas Ps 142:5 and Ruth 2:10, 19 bear out that ‫נכר‬-H alone, without any specifying complement, can mean “to regard sympathetically.” On the other hand, the antonymic pair ‫טוֹבה‬ ָ ְ‫ ל‬/ ‫ ְל ָר ָ ה‬several times depends on verbs of motion, the class to which ‫ שׁלח‬belongs.7 A most revealing case occurs in the adjacent context. In the Alexandrian text type of the book of Jeremiah, as represented by the Septuagint, the sentence 6b ‫ל־ה ָא ֶרץ ַהזּ ֹאת‬ ָ ַ ‫“ וַ ֲה ִשׁב ִֹתים‬and I will bring them back to ָ ‫“ ְל‬for good.”8 This prepositional group this land” has been expanded by ‫טוֹבה‬ is no doubt a late intrusion. But what matters here is the fact that the scribe inserting ‫טוֹבה‬ ָ ְ‫ ל‬in 6b must have associated the identical group in v. 5 with ‫ ִשׁלַּ ְח ִתּי‬rather than with ‫ ַא ִכּיר‬, so that he felt the need to stress that YHWH acted out of goodwill not only in the past, when he sent the exiles away, but will also do so in the future, when he will bring them back. As a result of this syntactical aside, we may note that the author of Jer 24 in a daring theological sweep transformed the deportation to Babylon, so often decried in the Bible as an utterly cruel disaster, into a feat of salvation. As we will see, this matches perfectly with what the writer has to say about the remainees. But before turning his attention to them, he fleshes out his radical re-interpretation of the exile by heaping glowing promises of weal on the deportees. Following v. 6, YHWH will regard them kindly; he will bring them back to Judah; he will forever build and plant them, that is, he will grant them an existence of irrevocable stability in their home country. Verse 7: He will give them the capability to know him. Knowing YHWH in Old Testament terminology means abiding by his commands;9 and this transformation will ensure that their relationship to him will finally conform to the ideal encapsulated in the covenant formula (7cd). Gen 31:52; Deut 29:20; 2 Sam 18:32; Jer 24:6 AlT; 39:16; 44:29; the combinations with ‫ שׂים ָפּנִ ים \ ֵ ינָ ִים‬belong here as well: Jer 21:10; 24:6; 44:11; Amos 9:4. 8 Joseph Ziegler, Ieremias, Baruch, Threni, Epistula Ieremiae (Septuaginta: Vetus Testamentum Graecum Auctoritate Academiae Scientiarum Gottingensis editum 15; 4th ed.; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013), relegated εἰς ἀγαθὰ for ל‬Jer 24:6b to the apparatus. He was certainly right in taking the phrase as an intrusion from 5c.6a, but its attestation (B-S-239-538 A-106' c-613 26 Co Aeth Arab) indicates that it was already present in the LXX Vorlage. 9 G. Johannes Botterweck (and J. Bergman), “‫ ָי ַדע‬jāda‘,” ThWAT 3:479–512, 507–10. 7

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167

The final clause 7e comprises another syntactical quandary with an even greater impact on the overall message of the chapter: ‫ ִכּי־יָ ֻשׁבוּ ֵאלַ י ְבּ ָכל־לִ ָבּם‬, rendered in the NRSV as: “for they shall return to me with their whole heart.” This clause starts with ‫ ִכּי‬, basically a deictic particle that can assume a wide range of meanings to be determined through the context. This also applies when, like here and in most instances, ‫ ִכּי‬serves as a conjunction. What matters in our case is the ability of the conjunction ‫ ִכּי‬to perform both causal and conditional functions; it can mean “because” as well as “if.” We therefore have to ask: Will YHWH bestow all these good deeds on the deportees, “for they shall return to me with their whole heart,” or will he do it, “if they shall return?” Obviously, this alternative is extremely consequential for our understanding of the promises and of the chapter as a whole. For if we ascribe a conditional role to the conjunction, the fulfillment of the prophecies of weal is contingent on the behavior of the exiles, implying that the promises may fail to materialize. If, however, we assume a causal function, the future “return” of the exiles “to me with their whole heart” is taken for granted, so that the promises will reliably come true. In this interpretation, the spiritual return is not a condition of the promises but a part of them; in other words, YHWH does not demand from the deportees to reverse their evil ways, but he proclaims that he will make them do it. If we construe ‫ ִכּי‬in 7e as a causal conjunction, the spiritual return is a component of the prophecy to the exiles, so that the promises without exception are totally unconditional. Space does not permit me to give this syntactic difficulty a full treatment in this essay; instead, I have to restrict myself to a brief summary of a more extended analysis provided elsewhere.10 Walter Groß derived from his studies of the use of ‫ ִכּי‬in the bulk of the Old Testament prose the following “rule of thumb”: “Temporal and conditional ‫כי‬-clauses precede [their main clauses]; causal, adversative and object clauses follow them.”11 This conclusion validates for our passage an ancient tradition of translation and interpretation, attested to as early as in the Vulgate (quia revertentur), 12 that takes ‫ ִכּי‬in 10 See my “Jeremia 24: Geschichtsbild und historischer Ort,” pages 349–78 in my Studien (above, n. 5), 358–63. 11 My translation of: „Temporale und konditionale ‫כי‬-Sätze gehen [ihrem Matrixsatz] voraus, Kausal-, Adversativ- und Objektsätze mit ‫ כי‬folgen.“ Thus Walter Groß, “Satzfolge, Satzteilfolge und Satzart als Kriterien der Subkategorisierung hebräischer Konjunktionalsätze, am Beispiel der ‫כי‬-Sätze untersucht.” in Text, Methode und Grammatik: Wolfgang Richter Festschrift (ed. Walter Groß, Hubert Irsigler, and Theodor Seidl; St. Ottilien: EOS, 1991), 97–117, 113. 12 The translation of ‫ ִכּי‬by ὅτι in JerG* is inconclusive as it merely reflects the largely mechanical representation of ‫ ִכּי‬by ὅτι in this translation (on the role of translational routines in JerG* see my Das masoretische und alexandrinische Sondergut des Jeremiabuches: Textgeschichtlicher Rang, Eigenarten, Triebkräfte [OBO 136; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994], 20).

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Jer 24:7e as a causal conjunction. After all, the causal interpretation is in perfect keeping with the context, because YHWH’s giving of “the heart to know me” (7a) would be pointless if it did not prompt a profound reversal of attitudes; or put differently, the change of the heart would be futile if it did not entail a change of heart. Yet this message implies that YHWH’s graces will be showered on the exiles without any effort on their part – even the change of heart will be granted to them as an entirely free gift.13 The peculiarity of these promises will stand out still more starkly, once we contrast them with their gloomy counterpart, the oracle of doom pronounced on the remainees. In vv. 8–10, YHWH relates the bad figs symbolically to those staying behind under King Zedekiah in Judah. In v. 8 he reiterates the statement that the rotten fruit could not be eaten. So ch. 24 for the third time presses upon the reader this distinctive image associated with the remainees, conjuring up the notion of absolute worthlessness. Moreover, this image is now extended to the Judean settlers in Egypt. In v. 9, YHWH threatens to oust Zedekiah’s subjects from their home country and scatter them over a multitude of places worldwide, where they will lead miserable lives, met by utter disdain. Following v. 10, YHWH intends no less than rooting them out from Judah. This prophecy of doom likewise propagates some unusual views on Judean history during the exilic era. It shares with Jer 42–44 the concept of the empty land, that is, the fictitious theory that Judah during the exilic period was entirely devoid of Judeans.14 It however clashes with these chapters by having YHWH state that he will deliberately chase the remainees away from their soil, whereas according to chs. 42–44, YHWH urges the prospective fugitives to stay in Judah, and they flee to Egypt out of their own free will and in open defiance of YHWH’s command. Further, v. 8 takes the Egyptian diaspora as a substantial group of Judean expatriates in the years of Zedekiah already, while following chs. 42–44, it only attained sizeable proportions after the Babylonian victory. But what is especially striking: YHWH’s announcement in v. 9 to disperse the remainees in a wide range of places, where they will become “a horror … to all the kingdoms of the earth,” leaves no room for further deportations to Babylon, in contrast to all other biblical accounts on the period, including the book of Jeremiah. Not even Zedekiah could have

13 For a different recent exegesis of Jer 24, see Henk Leene, Newness in Old Testament Prophecy: An Intertextual Study (OTS 64; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2014), 277, who states: “A future is reserved for only those who subject themselves to Yhwh’s plans, throughout the terror of judgement.” I cannot find anything to that effect in the text. Neither is the exile cast as a judgment, nor does YHWH put any demands to the deportees. 14 See my “The Concept of the Empty Land in Jeremiah 37–43,” in The Concept of Exile in Ancient Israel and Its Historical Contexts (ed. Ehud Ben Zvi and Christoph Levin; BZAW 404; Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, 2010), 103–54.

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169

been banished to Mesopotamia, which runs counter to the unanimous testimony of several biblical passages.15 Yet YHWH’s proclamation stands in full agreement with v. 4, where Jehoiachin and his companions are identified with the ‫הוּדה‬ ָ ְ‫“ גָּ לוּת י‬the exiles from Judah.” The conceptual framework of Jer 24 rules out any additional forced removals to Mesopotamia after the one in 597. The comparison of these prophecies of weal and woe reveals still more traits worthy of note. As we saw, the promises of salvation for the deportees contain no hint of being somehow based on merits of the recipients. The same principle seems to apply to the remainees, but inversely: the promises of doom contain no hint that they are justified by demerits on their part. YHWH raises no accusations against them; within the confines of the unit, the dispersal of the remainees appears just as undeserved as the restoration of the deportees. But a fine difference in the wording should be considered. When symbolically relating the exiles to the good figs, YHWH declares that he will regard them like the delicious fruit – that means, what he compares to the excellent quality of the figs is not merits of the deportees, but the attitude that he adopts towards them. Taken as it stands, the text says nothing about virtues of the exiles; it merely asserts that YHWH will look kindly at them, which is tantamount to granting them his good deeds, as specified in what follows. This confirms our earlier conclusion that the preferential treatment of the deportees is a purely gratuitous gift. But when drawing a similar link between the bad figs and the remainees, YHWH chooses his words somewhat differently: “Like the bad figs that are so bad they cannot be eaten, so will I make (‫ ) ֶא ֵתּן‬King Zedekiah of Judah, his officials, the remnant of Jerusalem who remain in this land, and those who live in the land of Egypt” (v. 8). So what he compares to the rotten and totally useless figs is neither the present condition of the remainees, be it moral or otherwise, nor his attitude towards them, as he did with the deportees. What he compares to the bad figs is the future state of the remainees into which he himself will transform them at a time yet to come. Nonetheless, as harsh as this threat may be, it is not tied to any blame. On the face of it, it is not a punishment but just as arbitrary a sort of treatment as the one accorded the deportees. Let me sum up what we found so far, and draw some preliminary conclusions. In the world of Jer 24, there are two sorts of Judeans, defined in a very idiosyncratic way. The deportees of 597 form the ‫הוּדה‬ ָ ְ‫גָּ לוּת י‬, the group of the golah dwelling in Babylonia. They enjoy YHWH’s benevolence, and he undertakes to grant them plenty of good deeds, including their homecoming to Judah, and a heart which will bring on a profound change of attitude, so that their relationship to their god will be forever healed. The exile is not a

15

2 Kgs 25:7 par Jer 52:11 (cf. Jer 39:7 MT); Jer 32:5; 34:3; Ezek 12:12–13; 17:20.

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punishment but an act of salvation through which YHWH saves the deportees from the doom awaiting the remainees. Opposed to the golah is the anti-golah, the remainees under Zedekiah, along with the Egyptian diaspora. They form the group of the dispersal. Those still staying in Judah will be driven out without exception, and will be scattered across the world, where they will face nothing but misery. For neither group, the chapter offers any motivation as to why YHWH is going to deal with them in ways radically opposed to each other. The concept of the empty land implied in the unit entails that there can be no third group of Judeans staying on in their home country. As mentioned at the beginning of this contribution, solid indications support the redactional authorship of Jer 24. This takes us to the question of how a perspective from later than Jeremiah’s own times might have affected the understanding of the chapter. In the context of post-exilic Yehud, the message of the unit encompassed some noteworthy aspects. If YHWH’s words had proven true and Judah had been entirely deserted during the exilic period, but in the meantime had been repopulated by her rightful citizens, all those Judeans dwelling in Yehud must by necessity be descendants of former deportees banished to Babylonia with Jehoiachin. Moreover, if there existed Judeans settling in areas other than Judah and Mesopotamia, they must stem from the remainees of 597. Read from such an outlook, Zedekiah and his subjects turn out to be the parents of the diaspora, with the term referring to the Jews residing abroad, apart from Mesopotamia. When, where and to which purpose was this vision report authored?

B. Theories on the Origin and Background of Jeremiah 24 1. Deuteronomistic Redaction? Based on the formulaic diction, the theory that our chapter formed part of the deuteronomistic redaction of Jeremiah garnered some support mainly among German-speaking biblical scholars in the last decades.16 This assumption can 16 James Ph. Hyatt, “The Deuteronomic Edition of Jeremiah” (1951), in A Prophet to the Nations: Essays in Jeremiah Studies (ed. Leo G. Perdue and Brian W. Kovacs; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1984), 247–67, 258; Siegfried Herrmann, Die prophetischen Heils-erwartungen im Alten Testament: Ursprung und Gestaltwandel (BWANT 85; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1965), 165–66; Winfried Thiel, Die deuteronomistische Redaktion von Jeremia 1–25 (WMANT 41; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1973), 253–61; Burke O. Long, “Reports of Visions among the Prophets,” JBL 95 (1976): 353–65, 359; Thomas Römer, Israels Väter: Untersuchungen zur Väterthematik im Deuteronomium und in der deuteronomistischen Tradition (OBO 99; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1990), 455–56; Achim Behrens, Prophetische Visionsschilderungen im Alten Testament:

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be summarily dismissed as outdated. Even though the divine speech is clad almost to its entirety in set phrases, the conceptual profile of Jer 24 is far removed from dtr thinking. Salvation and doom do not depend on the compliance with certain religious demands, let alone such as typical for dtr theology, like, for instance, obedience to the Mosaic law with an emphasis on the avoidance of foreign cults. These topics do not crop up at all. Instead, weal and woe of the Judeans are predicated solely on which one of two groups they belong to. Further, it is ironic that in real life it was far beyond the power of most Judeans in 597 to decide which group they wished to associate with – this was exclusively at the discretion of the Babylonian authorities. Besides these disagreements between Jer 24 and dtr theologizing in general, there are additional differences pitting the chapter against the dtr sections in Jeremiah. The dtr portions in Jer 1–25 carry signs that they were penned in Judah during the exilic period.17 They portray the exile as a place of utter despair, where the deportees will inevitably fall prey to the cult of foreign gods: 8:3 Death shall be preferred to life by all the remnant that remains of this evil family in all the places where I have driven them, says YHWH of hosts. 9:15 (English 9:16) I will scatter them among nations that neither they nor their ancestors have known; and I will send the sword after them, until I have consumed them. 13:9–10 (Like this loincloth that was rotten in the waters of the Euphrates:) (9) In the same way I will ruin the pride of Judah and the great pride of Jerusalem. (10) These wicked people, who refuse to listen to my words, who follow the stubbornness of their hearts and go after other gods to serve and worship them, will be like this loincloth – completely useless! 16:13 So I will throw you out of this land into a land neither you nor your fathers have known, and there you will serve other gods day and night, for I will show you no favor.

The stance voiced in these passages is incompatible with what Jer 24 says on the exile. Moreover, in contrast to the dtr sections in Jer 1–25, ch. 24 can by no means have originated in exilic Judah, since it gainsays Judean settlement of the country during that period, and it is rather tricky to deny your own existence. Further, the chapter deviates from the Babelschweigen, the avoidance of any terms and names referring to Babylon and the Babylonians, as typical of Jer 1–19 and the dtr portions in chs. 20–25 (22:1–9; *25:1–10 in Spachliche Eigenarten, Funktion und Geschichte einer Gattung (AOAT 292; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2002), 132–35; Werner H. Schmidt, “Einsicht und Zuspruch: Jeremias Vision und Brief. Jer 24 und 29,” in Textarbeit: Studien zu Texten und ihrer Rezeption aus dem Alten Testament und der Umwelt Israels: Peter Weimar Festschrift (ed. Klaus Kiesow and Thomas Meurer; AOAT 294; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2003), 387–405; idem, Jeremia (above, n. 4), 55–60. 17 For the assumptions on the places of origin of the dtr portions in Jer, from which the following arguments proceed, see my essay: “Das judäische und das babylonische Jeremiabuch: Zur Frage der Heimat der deuteronomistischen Redaktionen des Jeremiabuchs,” pages 325–47 in my Studien (above n. 5).

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the Alexandrian text type). 18 In my opinion, the dtr portions in Jer 26–44 arose among the exiles in Mesopotamia, yet ch. 24 cannot stem from that setting either. For it rules out further expatriations after the one in 597, but by all accounts the bulk of the Judean captives were banished only later, and it defies imagination that a writer could ignore the additional deportations in the face of those who knew when they or their parents had been taken to Babylonia. So a dtr background of Jer 24 is out of the question. Furthermore, we found that, whatever the ideological milieu of the author, a dating to the exilic period is extremely unlikely, because the text cannot be reconciled with either a Judean or a Mesopotamian place of origin during that era.19 2. Golah-Oriented Redaction? Another explanation of Jer 24 that gained some popularity among exegetes in the recent past is tied to the theory of the “golah-oriented redaction” advanced by Karl-Friedrich Pohlmann.20 Following this hypothesis, major narrative sections of the book, especially the extended, novella-like account in chs. 37–44, were subjected to a reworking championing the idea that the Babylonian golah under Jehoiachin was the only legitimate successor of preexilic Israel in YHWH’s plans of salvation, whereas the remainees under Zedekiah and the Egyptian diaspora were doomed. According to Pohlmann, ch. 24 – jointly with 21:1–10 – served as the programmatic onset of this redaction, proclaiming the salvation ordained for the Babylonian golah, as well as 18

For details, see the contribution quoted in n. 17, pp. 338–40. Contrast Dalit Rom-Shiloni, “Group Identities in Jeremiah: Is It the Persian Period Conflict?,” in A Palimpsest: Rhetoric, Ideology, Stylistics, and Language Relating to Persian Israel (ed. Ehud Ben Zvi, Diana V. Edelman, and Frank Polak; Perspectives on Hebrew Scriptures and its Contexts 5; Piscataway, N.J.: Gorgias Press, 2009), 11–46, 17– 24. Following her, Jer 24 and 29:16–20 “reflect the initial stages of polemic prior to the Destruction and in the early years after it, i.e., the early exilic period (597–586 BCE and following)” (24). In addition to the objections arising from the above remarks, it should be noted that 29:16–20 is missing in JerG*, while linguistic markers of the pre-Masoretic idiolect confirm that the passage belongs to the latest expansions inserted into the book. For details, see my “Probleme,” 284–85, and “Formulaic Language” (above n. 5). 20 Karl-Friedrich Pohlmann, Studien zum Jeremiabuch: Ein Beitrag zur Frage nach der Entstehung des Jeremiabuches (FRLANT 118; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1978). Pohlmann is largely followed by Konrad Schmid, Buchgestalten des Jeremiabuches: Untersuchungen zur Redaktions- und Rezeptionsgeschichte von Jer 30–33 im Kontext des Buches (WMANT 72; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1996), 253–69. In the English-speaking world, Christopher Seitz proposed a similar hypothesis under the label of the “exilic redaction” or “Golah redaction,” which however supposedly did not include Jer 24; see Christopher Seitz, “The Crisis of Interpretation over the Meaning and Purpose of the Exile: A Redactional Study of Jeremiah xxi–xliii,” VT 35 (1985): 78–95; idem, Theology in Conflict: Reactions to the Exile in the Book of Jeremiah (BZAW 176; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1989). 19

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173

the judgment awaiting the remainees in Judah and the fugitives in Egypt. This pair of texts was coupled to the narrative in chs. 37–44, as revised by the golah-oriented redaction, which provided the fulfillment report to the divine announcements. In fact, as mentioned before, chs. 42–44 claim that soon after the Babylonian victory literally all the Judeans who were spared the deportations fled to Egypt. Pohlmann initially assigned the golah-oriented redaction to a time of origin not before the fourth century,21 but meanwhile has shifted his dating to an earlier period.22 These assumptions founder on several hurdles. To begin with, in my own analysis of chs. 37–43, I found myself unable to validate Pohlmann’s reconstruction.23 This narrative has not been reworked with the ambitions of the Babylonian deportees (or their offspring) in mind, but it has been created to such an end in the first place. By implication, there was no such thing as a golah-oriented redaction.24 The narrative acquired its bias towards the exiles not through a later redaction writing in a late post-exilic period, but from the moment it was composed in Babylonia during the exilic era. This provenance, however, is ruled out for Jer 24. And what is more, even though chs. 42–44 side with 24:10 in promoting the concept of the empty land, this does not turn them into a fulfillment account to our text. As emphasized earlier, in ch. 24 YHWH proclaims his intention to cast the remainees out of Judah; so he wants them to go. In chs. 42–44 he assumes the opposite stance: He wants the remainees to stay; he promises them a bright future in case they do, and threatens disaster if they do not. When leaving Judah, the deserters are not driven away, but do so out of their own free will. In addition, they do not scatter across the world as predicted in 24, but they depart to one single place: Egypt. In fact, following Jer 40:11– 12, literally all the Judeans having fled to neighboring countries assembled at Mizpah. By making this claim, the writer instills the message that all non-deportees without exception joined the emigrants. To be sure, they leave Judah devoid of Judeans, but they do not disperse, but congregate in one single Pohlmann, Studien (n. 20), 191. Karl-Friedrich Pohlmann, “Das ‘Heil’ des Landes – Erwägungen zu Jer 29,5–7,” in Mythos im Alten Testament und seiner Umwelt: Hans-Peter Müller Festschrift (ed. Armin Lange, Hermann Lichtenberger, and Diethard Römheld; BZAW 278; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1999), 144–64, 146 n. 15. 23 See my Jeremia im Parteienstreit: Studien zur Textentwicklung von Jer 26, 36–43 und 45 als Beitrag zur Geschichte Jeremias, seines Buches und judäischer Parteien im 6. Jahrhundert (BBB 82; Frankfurt a. M.: Anton Hain, 1992), 130–284; largely followed by Gunther Wanke, Jeremia: Vol. 2: Jeremia 25,15–52,34 (ZBK.AT 20/2; Zurich: Theologischer Verlag, 2003), 339–76. Some aspects of my analysis have been summarized in my “Concept” (above, n. 14). 24 That the author on occasion incorporated older sources into his work is immaterial in this regard. 21 22

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foreign country. So, while ch. 24 prophesies calamity for the diaspora, chs. 42–44 implicitly deny the existence of such a social entity. Hence, what chs. 42–44 depict is not the catastrophe befalling the remainees as foretold in ch. 24, but at best a course of events that should elicit calamity in the future. Besides, the afflictions menacing the remainees can hardly be called “Gericht” (judgment), the term used by Pohlmann, because they are unmotivated. These chapters do not record the accomplishment of the prophecies of doom spelled out in 24; they only add more threats. And this is still not the end of our list of disagreements. As stated earlier, ch. 40 refers to deportations after the defeat,25 while ch. 24 discounts such measures. Conversely, the narrative nowhere mentions Jehoiachin and his companions, much less the idea that YHWH favors them over the remainees of 597. Thus to all appearances, no serious effort to align chs. 37–44 and ch. 24 with each other has taken place. Even if we extend the comparison to the entire book, I fail to see a conceptual link between ch. 24 and any other passage in Jeremiah. As it seems, our text is an ideological maverick that needs to be explained solely on its own terms. 3. An Ideological Weapon in Faction Fights in Post-Exilic Jerusalem? A third line of explanation, championed mainly by Robert Carroll,26 derives Jer 24 from faction fights in post-exilic Jerusalem. According to this theory, the returnees from the Babylonian exile, when settling in Judah, embarked on a power struggle with the remainees in order to claim control of the Judean polity for themselves. They designed the so-called ideology of the empty land as an ideological weapon, alleging that all Judeans not deported to Babylon left the country after the fall of Jerusalem. The implication was that all the people dwelling in Judah at the arrival of the returnees were no Judeans. Instead, they must be foreign immigrants who in the meantime had illegally taken over the space of Judah’s rightful denizens. So it was justified to wrestle the unlawfully usurped property and leadership positions back from them. Texts like Jer 24 und 42–44 were tools to propagate this ideology. Their time and place of origin must therefore be sought in early post-exilic Jerusalem.

25

Jer 40:7. I leave aside here vv. 1 and 4 because in my opinion vv. 1–6 form a later insertion to the embedding narrative; see my Jeremia, der Tempel und die Aristokratie: Die patrizische (schafanidische) Redaktion des Jeremiabuches (KAANT 1; Waltrop: Spenner, 2000), 38–41. 26 See Robert P. Carroll, Jeremiah: A Commentary (OTL; London: SCM, 1986), 487; idem, “The Myth of the Empty Land,” Semeia 59 (1992): 79–93, 83. For similar stances, see, e.g., Gunther Wanke, Jeremia: Vol. 1: Jeremia 1,1–25,14 (ZBK.AT 20/1; Zurich: Theologischer Verlag, 1995), 223; Jacques Vermeylen, “Les anciens déportés et les habitants du pays: La crise occultée du début de l’époque perse,” Transeu 39 (2010): 175–206.

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175

Let us ponder the merits of this hypothesis by trying to picture such quarrels in a real life scenario. As the book of Ezekiel testifies in often commented-on passages, disputes between the deportees and the remainees about ownership rights in Judah erupted from early on during the exilic period.27 It sounds indeed credible that the real estate property of the deportees whetted the appetite of the remainees,28 and leadership positions had to be refilled. Thus, discord between the two groups is well-attested and plausible. But what happened when the exiles started to return? In order to put the theory under discussion into perspective, it should be added that the returnees from Babylonia have enjoyed a remarkable career in recent research. In the past, exegetes took for granted that large crowds of exiles set out to travel home as soon as they were allowed to. Nowadays, however, estimates have become much more restrained. In fact, in the guesses of academics, the size of the returning parties has been shrinking steadily, sometimes dwindling to a mere “trickle of people returning individually or in small groups.”29 Simultaneously, according to some scholars, their political clout grew ever larger, so that small bands of returnees were able to gain command of post-exilic Jerusalem,30 successfully arguing that the settlers encountered in the land had nothing to do with their own Israelite heritage ethnically and religiously.31 27

Ezek 11:14–16; 33:23–29. The popular theory that there was an official redistribution of land is not substantiated by the texts; see my “Gedalja und die Kolonie von Mizpa,” pp. 409–32 in my Studien (see n. 5), 421–24. 29 Lester L. Grabbe, “The Reality of the Return: The Biblical Picture Versus Historical Reconstruction,” in Exile and Return: The Babylonian Context (ed. Jonathan Stökl and Caroline Waerzeggers; BZAW 478; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2015), 292–307, 302. 30 See, e.g., Mario Liverani, Israel’s History and the History of Israel (BibleWorld; London, Oakville, Conn.: Equinox, 2005), 253–57. Even though he admits that “[t]he groups of returnees could not have been very numerous” (253), they managed to pull off “the triumph of the returnees and the marginalization of the remainees” (256). 31 Following Frédéric Gangloff, “Le ‘pays dévasté et dépeuplé’: Genèse d’une idéologie biblique et d’un concept sioniste: Une esquisse,” BN 113 (2002): 39–50, 41, the returnees vilified the remainees as “païens, primitifs, ravalés au rang de ‘cananéens’.” Johan Lust, “Messianism and the Greek Version of Jeremiah: Jer 23,5–6 and 33,14–26;” idem, Messianism and the Septuagint: Collected Essays (ed. Katrin Hauspie; BETL 178; Leuven: Univ. Press, 2004), 41–67, 64, commenting on Ezek 35 and Obadiah, declares: “Edom became a symbolic representation of the residents in Judah and Jerusalem who were the enemies of the restored community after its return from Babylon.” According to Vermeylen, “Les anciens déportés” (above, n. 26), 204, the dispute raged “surtout sur la question du leadership et sur l’identité israélite.” For similar scenarios, see, e.g., Daniel L. Smith, “The Politics of Ezra: Sociological Indicators of Postexilic Judaean Society,” in Second Temple Studies I: Persian Period (ed. Philip R. Davies; JSOTSup 117; Sheffield: Academic Press, 1991), 73–97 (90–96); reprinted in Community, Identity, and Ideology: Social Science Approaches to the Hebrew Bible (ed. Charles E. Carter and Carol L. Meyers; Sources for Biblical and Theological Study 6; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns 1996), 28

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This portrayal of the situation in early post-exilic Yehud surely deserves consideration as far as the number of returnees is concerned.32 Although we unfortunately lack any hard evidence on the matter, certain indications caution against overestimating the magnitude and the speed of the return. According to archeological explorations, the population density in Yehud seems to have grown at a very slow pace.33 The polemic against the ‫“( ִדּ ַבּת ָה ָא ֶרץ‬the slander of the land”) in Num 13–14 intimates that many exiles were less than keen to journey home to a country still suffering from devastation and penury, the more so since many of them, following the testimony of extra-biblical sources, had managed to achieve a prosperous way of life in Mesopotamia, as epitomized by the Murašu banking company. Sheshbazzar, Serubbabel and the men making the inquiry in Zech 7:2–3 bear Akkadian names; so the acculturation of the deportees seems to have advanced rather swiftly. Moreover, the Mesopotamian golah was to evolve into the most important center of Jewish life outside Israel for many centuries to come. This would have been impossible, unless a major share of the exiles had turned Babylonia into their permanent home. Thus it appears sensible to proceed from rather low numbers of returnees in early post-exilic Yehud. But then it sounds all the more far-fetched to assume that such small groups of immigrants were able to dominate local poli537–56 (551–55); Gösta W. Ahlström, The History of Ancient Palestine from the Palaeolithic Period to Alexander’s Conquest (JSOTSup 146; Sheffield: Academic Press, 1993), 845–47; Charles E. Carter, The Emergence of Yehud in the Persian Period: A Social and Demographic Study (JSOTSup 294; Sheffield: Academic Press, 1999), 307–16; Liverani, Israel’s History (n. 30), 274–77. 32 Ezra 2:64–65 and Neh 7:66–67 peg the total number of returnees at nearly 50.000 people. This by far exceeds the population of Persian period Yehud even at its peak (see the literature listed in n. 33), and has to be regarded as a “Fortschreibung des ‘Mythos vom leeren Land’;” thus Christian Frevel, “Grundriss der Geschichte Israels,” in Einleitung in das Alte Testament (ed. Erich Zenger and Christian Frevel; 8th ed.; KohlhammerStudienbücher I/1; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2012), 701–870, 811. 33 For recent assessments of the demographic impact of the returnees on the population of early post-exilic Yehud, see, e.g., Oded Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem: Judah under Babylonian Rule (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2005), 250–71; Oded Lipschits and Oren Tal, “The Settlement Archaeology of the Province of Judah: A Case Study,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Fourth Century B.C.E (ed. Oded Lipschits, Gary N. Knoppers, and Rainer Albertz; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2007), 33–52; Bob Becking, “‘We All Returned as One!’: Critical Notes on the Myth of the Mass Return,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period (ed. Oded Lipschits and Manfred Oeming; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 3–18; Othmar Keel, Die Geschichte Jerusalems und die Entstehung des Monotheismus: Teil 2 (OLB 4/2; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007), 999–1001; Israel Finkelstein, “The Territorial Extent and Demography of Yehud/Judea in the Persian and Early Hellenistic Periods,” RB 117 (2010): 39–54; Avi Faust, Judah in the Neo-Babylonian Period: The Archaeology of Desolation (Archaeology and Biblical Studies 18; Atlanta, Ga.: SBL, 2012), 119–47.

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177

tics to an extent that they even could successfully deny the Judean identity of the indigenous population. Still more facts militate against such an idea. Most biblical sources agree that the largest batch of deportees was moved into exile in 587. If Jer 52:30 MT is to be trusted, another lot followed in 582. Again according to the Bible, the hostages were given green light to return in 539. If these data are anything to go by, the forced expatriation effectively lasted for a duration ranging from 45 to 50 years, that is, somewhat longer than the German division in the 20th century. During that period, by all accounts there was travel and interchange between the two communities. 34 The deportees and the remainees were connected by family ties. When the returnees arrived in Yehud, they encountered people speaking Hebrew and worshipping the same god, and they came across relatives among them. Some old people might even have reunited with ancient acquaintances. As Ezra 3:12 and Hag 2:3 have it, the laying of the foundations of the post-exilic temple was attended by men who had seen its predecessor. Regardless whether this is true or not, it is at least possible, given the time-span involved. So, still if we grant that relations between the returnees and the remainees may at times have been tense, it sounds unbelievable that the new arrivals could go as far as disowning the Judean identity of the local populace. And what is more, it seems doubtful that they could have wanted such a thing. For Yehud was sparsely inhabited, had been robbed of large territories by covetous neighbors, suffered from paltry economic activity, disrepair and poor defense capacity, and was under constant threat of further losses. It is hard to believe that in such circumstances the returnees could have wished to hog all the privileges for themselves, at the price of alienating the majority of their fellow-countrymen. 35 Rather, each and every Judean was welcome to help rebuild and strengthen the community. After all, it must have been for a reason that in the exilic and early post-exilic period, promises of multiplication to the patriarchs were a particularly popular subject of Israelite storytelling,

34 See, e.g., Jer 29; 51:59–64; Ezek 33:21–22. The book of Ezekiel constantly takes for granted that the prophet was well aware of what went on in Judah; see, e.g., 11:1–13, 14– 16; 33:23–29. 35 Several recent studies have raised substantial doubts that serious conflict between the returnees and the remainees ever occurred; see John Kessler, “Images of Exile: Representations of the ‘Exile’ and ‘Empty Land’ in the Sixth to Fourth Century BCE Yehudite Literature,” in The Concept of Exile in Ancient Israel and Its Historical Contexts (ed. Ehud Ben Zvi und Christoph Levin; BZAW 404; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010), 309–51, 330–31, 338–39; Hugh G. M. Williamson, “Welcome Home,” in The Historian and the Bible: Essays in Honour of Lester L. Grabbe (ed. Philip R. Davies; LHBOTS 530; New York: T&T Clark, 2010), 113–23; Jean-Daniel Macchi and Christophe Nihan, “Le prétendu conflit entre exilés et non-exilés dans la province de Yehud à l’époque achéménide: Plaidoyer pour une approche différenciée,” Transeu 42 (2012): 19–47.

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and several oracles of salvation from the era prophecy the growth of the population.36 To conclude this point: Whatever purpose Jer 24 was meant for, it was definitely not to deny the remainees their Judean identity. But what else, then?

C. A New Proposal In the course of our investigation of Jer 24, we came across some striking peculiarities that call for an explanation. Let me highlight two points: 1. Jer 24 equates the first deportation, associated with Jehoiachin, with the Babylonian golah by denying later expatriations. Further, the chapter turns the common evaluation of the exile on its head by portraying the exile as an act of salvation that rescued the deportees from the doom awaiting the remainees under Zedekiah. This is a way of handling memories of Israelite history which appears feasible only at an era far distant from the events. 2. The exclusion of the Zedekiah-group from salvation will become apparent by their dispersal. So the descendants of Zedekiah’s subjects are styled as the diaspora. Thus, the real target of the polemic in Jer 24 was not the remainees living in Judah during the exilic period or encountered there at the arrival of the returnees. It was the diaspora, which the text traces to the remainees under Zedekiah in 597. The chapter condemns the diaspora and deprives it of the status of legitimate heirs of pre-exilic Israel. This logic presupposes an origin in the late post-exilic era, after the Jewish citizens of Yehud had had ample time to develop a self-image following which they were all descended from deportees. This self-portrayal is epitomized by the designation 37‫ְבּנֵ י ַהגּוֹלָ ה‬ and can be found in full display in the books of Ezra and Nehemiah.38 So in conceptual terms, Jer 24 is close to the chronistic literature,39 where we find the same sentiment of forming a unity with the Babylonian golah. But there are differences, too. The chronistic writers restricted the first deportation to Jehoiakim (2 ChronG 36:6; 1 Esd 1:38) and Jehoiachin (2 Chron 36:10), whereas the total exile began with the downfall of Judah (2 Chron 36:20–21). And unlike Jer 24, Ezra and Nehemiah ignore the diaspora outside of Babylonia, especially the Jews in Egypt, and according to 2 Chron 36:20, there can

36 Cf., e.g., Isa 49:19–22; 54:1–3; Jer 3:16; 23:3; 30:19; 31:27–28; 32:43–44; 33:10–13; Ezek 36:10–15; Hos 2:1. 37 Ezra 4:1; 6:19, 20; 8:35; 10:7, 16. 38 Cf., e.g., Ezra 4:1ff; 6:19–22; 8:35; 9:1–4; 10:1–16; Neh 8,17. 39 This umbrella term covers the books of Chronicles, Ezra and Nehemiah, without implying that they were authored by the same (group of) writer(s).

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179

be no such thing as a diaspora arising from dispersion in the wake of the disaster. When Jer 24 was inserted after ch. 23 in the late post-exilic era, the position was carefully chosen, with the intention to correct a whole series of preceding passages. In Jer 21:1–10, YHWH grants the Judeans in the besieged Jerusalem under Zedekiah an escape to save their lives, provided they defect to the Babylonians (v. 9). Chapter 24 implicitly repeals this offer. The woe spelled on Jehoiachin in 22:24–30 is countered to a degree by ch. 24, following which this king is heading the group of salvation. At the time when ch. 24 was added, 23:5–6 used to be a prophecy of weal in favor of Zedekiah40 (cp. v. 6 in G* with the name Ιωσεδεκ, mirroring ‫ יה)ו(צדק‬in the Hebrew, a variant of ‫) ִצ ְד ִקיָּ הוּ‬. This oracle was neutralized by ch. 24. Both 23:3–4 and 23:7–8 (with the latter passage originally having been placed at the end of ch. 23, as it still is in G*), foretold the future gathering of the diaspora. This prophecy, too, was revoked by ch. 24. Thus, Jer 24 is an example of biblical literature that is not only counterfactual, but still more countertextual. To sum up: Jer 24 documents that the center of Jewish life in Jerusalem during the late post-exilic age could adopt an outright hostile attitude towards the diaspora, at times to a degree that the Jews outside of Yehud and Babylonia were disowned as illegitimate. In the view of this center, there ought to be no periphery (a category that in the world of the text apparently does not apply to the golah). Unfortunately, the writer of Jer 24 felt so much in agreement about this stance with his target audience that he saw no reason to give any hint as to the motivation of his resentment against his brethren abroad.

40

See Raik Heckl, “‘Jhwh ist unsere Gerechtigkeit’ (Jer 23,5f.): Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Erwägungen zu Jer 21–24,” in Die unwiderstehliche Wahrheit: Studien zur alttestamentlichen Prophetie: Arndt Meinhold Festschrift (ed. Rüdiger Lux und ErnstJoachim Waschke; ABG 23; Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2006), 181–98.

Are There Centres and Peripheries in Deuteronomy? Kåre Berge Deuteronomy displays a paradoxical relation to the Land of Israel.1 On the one hand, there is a relatively detailed description of the land, which Moses sees from the plains of Moab, from Har Nebo. He sees ‫ל־האָ ֶרץ‬ ָ ‫ת־כּ‬ ָ ‫ ֶא‬according to Deut 34:1–3. Areas in Trans-Jordan (Gilead) are included (chapter 3). Deuteronomy calls this region ‫ הארץ‬/ ‫“ עבר הירדן‬the Land / beyond Jordan” (as seen from the East), in one exceptional instance called ‫“ ארץ כנען‬the land of Canaan,” which denotes the pre-Israelite land to be conquered by the Israelites (Deut 32:49), and which alludes to the P-texts in Gen 17:8; 35:6; 48:3. There are occasional descriptions of the distribution of this land, which extends from (inclusive) Judah to Dan or until Lebanon, or even from Euphrates to the Sea in the west, 1:7 and 11:24; the so-called “euphratische Idee”2 connects with Gen 15:18; Exod 23:31; Josh 1:4 and probably belongs to a final Pentateuchal or Hexateuchal redaction. The area falls together with the Persian satrapy “Beyond the River.” This land has a center: It is “the place,” ‫המקום‬, namely the place which God chooses to let his name dwell there (chapters 12 and 26). The land is generally described, but there is a remarkable silence about specific areas within the heartland. It is the land of seven named peoples (7:1), or of six peoples (20:17); a land with altars, maṣṣebot, asherim, and graven images (7:5, 25). It is a land whose ground is possibly blessed, or the fruit of its ground (grain, wine, and oil (7: 13 and cf. Deut 28). The land is praised for its prosperity (Deut 8; 11:11–15; 27:3). It is a land with fields and villages with gates. There shall be three cities of refuge in the land (19:1–3), in addition to the three cities in Trans-Jordan (4:43), but if the people extends its borders, there may be three more. The extent of the land is accordingly flexible. The people are divided into tribes (Deut 27 and 33), and the names of some of these tribes are also the names of geographic areas within the land. But as for the centre of the land, there is silence. The absence of any reference to the place of the “the place,” i.e., ‫ המקום‬in Deut 12 and 26 is remark1 The groundwork of this contribution was developed during my stay at Centre for Advanced Study, Oslo, in 2014 and the follow-up contact in 2015. I thank the members of that group and especially Diana Edelman for a number of conversations about related subjects. 2 Eckart Otto, Deuteronomium (2 vols.; HThKAT; Freiburg: Herder, 2012), 333, 2065.

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able. If it is Jerusalem, it is interesting that the only openly identified cultic or ceremonial places are Mt. Gerizim and Mt. Ebal (Deut 11:29; 27), and that there exist an explicit reference to the erection on Mount Ebal (according to MT and other ancient versions, but Mt. Gerizim in SP and some additional versions3) of stones on which ‫“ כל דברי התורה הזאת‬all the words of this torah” were written and of the associated altar (27:3–7). One has the impression that the central locality of the land, ‫המקום‬, avoids localization and fades out of the geography of the land, even as it is referred to as a destination for pilgrimage and a place to bring taxes. How can this conundrum be explained? One may explain the rhetorical anonymity of ‫ המקום‬as a part of the fiction: all this is before the conquest of the city of Jerusalem.4 This argument from silence is not very reliable, especially because other Pentateuchal texts do refer to important cultic sites and cities by name in much earlier stage of the fictional history, for instance in the Patriarchal narratives (Gen 12:6–8). The other common argument rests on literary references to Jerusalem in 1 Kgs 8:16; 11:36; 14:21; 2 Kgs 22–23 (other options are Shechem [Josh 24:1; Deut 27:1–14]; Shiloh [Jer 7:12]; Bethel [Amos 7:13]). A majority of scholars make historical inferences from this literary connection. The relevant part of it is 2 Kgs 23, which prescribes a centralization of the cult precisely to Jerusalem. Strictly speaking, reading Jerusalem back into Deuteronomy is an intertextual reading (supposing Deut 12 is younger) or a wirkungsgeschichtliche interpretation (supposing it is older), as is also the case for the reference to Jerusalem as the place of the centralization in Chronicles. I have no intention to question the historical interpretation of ‫ המקום‬as Jerusalem. My concern is the rhetorical meaning of it. The simple fact is: Deuteronomy does not mention the locality of “the place,” why? Are there other answers that deserve to be explored? This essay takes as its point of departure for dealing with these matters from a book by Adam T. Smith, The Political Landscape, whose subtitle is “Constellations of Authority in Early Complex Polities.” I find particularly helpful the concept of “constellations of authority.” Smith also deals with the question of where is authority located? Smith writes about early complex polities. In these ancient political formations “authority was predicated on radical social inequality, legitimated in reference to enduring representations of civil community, and vested in centralized organs of governance.” 5 Ac-

3

See discussion of the textual history of Deut 27:4 in the following contribution in this volume, Reinhard Müller, “The Altar on Mount Gerizim (Deuteronomy 27:1–8): Center or Periphery?,” pp. 201–204. 4 Jack R. Lundbom, Deuteronomy: A Commentary (Grand Rapids, Mich. and Cambridge: Eerdmans, 2013), 426. 5 Adam T. Smith, The Political Landscape (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2003), 5.

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cordingly, in this essay, centres and peripheries refers to political power and powerlessness respectively. Smith points to a significant lack of spatiality in modernist political theory, to the benefit of a temporal privilege and hegemony or a temporocentrism.6 This temporal privilege implied, for instance, the recasting of the spatiotemporal problems of procuring food and water and enclosing living areas as exclusively historical acts. Smith takes issue with this temporocentrism to the benefit of the notion of place. May this new interest in the combination of landscape and political theory contribute to our understanding of Deuteronomy? This contribution investigates how notions of landscape and place, in particular the relations between centre and periphery, contributes to the symbolization of power and authority. Smith states, “The temporality of landscape … is rooted not in metalevel transformations but in the highly practical procedures of production, reproduction, and reformation defined in interwoven sets of political relationships.”7 The inspiration that I take from Smith is the idea that the physicality of space is only one dimension of landscape.8 Landscape is about the interaction of space, imagination, place, and memory; of values and beliefs that are bound to a landscape. Landscapes are multifaceted places, vested with cultural significance, social memory, and political consequence,as he says. This access to space takes us a significant step beyond the Braudel approach to the Mediterranean within the confines of the annales school, and beyond Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell’s occupation with the relation between ecological shifts and intensification and abatement in smaller areas and towns of Mediterranean area.9 On the other hand, there is no direct relationship between people and place in the sense of early romanticist tradition.

There is an emotional attachment between humans and landscape, but this is socially constituted. The cultural significance is produced and manipulated through social processes.10 There are interests behind affections and meanings of landscapes. Places are active elements in social production, but the agency of places is socially constructed. The point is, however, that such a construction is a joint “project” of the social entrepreneurs and the general population in their down-to-earth, day-by-day use of the relevant places. Through both activities, places are invested with meaning. This is why I focus on all the notions of this down-to-ground and village environments referred to in the biblical text. Accordingly, the fact that there is no monumenSmith, The Political Landscape, 13. Smith, The Political Landscape, 16. 8 Smith, The Political Landscape, 54. 9 Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History (Oxford: Blackwell, 2000). 10 Smith, The Political Landscape, 65. 6 7

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tal buildings or city constructions in Deuteronomy, cannot in the wake of romantic subjectivist approach to landscape, be taken as an indication of cultural abatement. Rather, we have to look for the ideological intention behind it. Even a cursory reading of Deuteronomy makes evident that landscape and place contribute to power and authority. The transformation of Pesah from a family ritual in Exodus, which I think is originally older than the Deuteronomic law, into a pilgrimage festival together with the two other festivals, the restriction of sacrifices to the one place, and the location of a “supreme court” to the same place moors power and authority to just this place. There is some form of “geopolitics” in the book, which forms a polity (or maybe better a socio-religious community) as a coherent unit in space and landscape, as distinct from neighboring polities. The travel to the centre with tithes and judicial questions, and for pilgrimage festivals, contribute to the spatial production of internal coherence. However, it is more complicated than this, especially because the text does not locate this place, there is no name or location. It is this complication that I want to investigate, if only preliminarily. Smith lists three senses of the term “political landscape.” First, there is the physical ordering of the landscape by political forces, designed to produce law-abiding citizens by shaping how they move through it. Second, there is the semiotic sensibility produced by the landscape. It is an area of politically generated signs, which shape our sense of place. As an example, Smith notes that the establishment of public places in the U.S. were originally designed as democratic places where middle-class values might be paraded. In contrast, today the public space is the insulation of the middle class from contact with the poor. Third, there is the affective landscape, designed to generate emotions by our sensory responses to form and aesthetics in service to the polity:11 In this use of the phrase, the political landscape is constituted in the places that draw together the imagined civil community, a perceptual dimension of space in which built forms elicit affective responses that galvanize memories and emotions central to the experience of political belonging.

It is clear that at least these latter two senses of the political landscape are relevant in Deuteronomy. The land is the fertile land, conditioned on the people’s behavior and attitude to the Torah, eventually the Book of the Torah of Moses. The idea of the Central Place draws together “the imaged civil community” and creates through its religious celebration a sense of unity and common memory (the exodus from Egypt, which is explicit in connection with the Pesah celebration at ‫ המקום‬in 16:6). The central place is the affec11

Smith, The Political Landscape, 8.

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tive symbol or sign of the destruction of the altars of the indigenous peoples of the Land, chapter 12. It is the place of joy and celebration of burnt offerings, sacrifices, and tithes, which binds together not only the families but also their slaves and the local Levites “before the face of Yahweh;” so also about the tithes in 14:22–29, and about the firstborn of the cattle and sheep, 15:19– 20 and 26:2. It is, of course, the place for the three festivals, of which the first is the commemoration of the exodus event; the second and third ones are festivals of joy, which include the slaves, the poor and destitute, the gerim and the Levites, Deut 16. It is the supreme centre where the Levitical priests ָ ‫ ַה‬and ‫ ַה ִמּ ְשׁ ָפּט‬, 17:8–13. Eventually, it is and the judge declare and teach ‫תּוֹרה‬ the place where the tribe of the Levites, the Levitical priests, live from the sacrifices, 18:1–8. All this is well known. The question is how to interpret it in terms of place and landscape? The problem is that there are no roads, monuments, or cities made by the rulers. The villages and their gates are presupposed as already locally existing. The Central Place is just a place “to seek” ‫ דרשׁ‬and “go up to” ‫ עלה‬for the occasions and celebrations already listed. Again, no single building or modification of landscape is mentioned. There is no wall and no gate. As compared to the cleansing of the temple in 2 Kgs 23, which mentions several specific installations and building structures in and around the temple, the notion of the Place in Deuteronomy is remarked by a significant absence of specificity. To be sure, the cleansing in 2 Kgs 23 corresponds to the command about the Asherahs and other cultic installations in Deuteronomy, but this is not the point. The point is rather that Deuteronomy does not relate it to specific structures on ‫המקום‬. The most significant fact is the absence of any city wall and no templeconstruction. This is not explained by the fact that there was only an unfortified village in Persian period Jerusalem, because we are facing a vision of a holy space or a temple. Even Gilgamesh, in the poem’s opening section, presents his authority through his ability to produce the urban fabric of Uruk. The stone relief from the palace of Sennacherib at Niniveh presents persons coming with city models before the King of Assyria.12 Already the Hammurabi stela depicts the king probably as a builder (the measuring devices). There are more examples of this. The king appears as architect and builder of the urban landscape as a manifestation of a divine order. Writes Smith about king and city in Mesopotamia:13 The king as architect establishes the foundations of the city according to the proper order set forth by the god(s). Thus the critical features of urban landscapes were produced within the Mesopotamian imaginary not simply as coherent spaces fixed in the cosmos but also as places legitimately called forth only by authority of the king. 12 13

Smith, The Political Landscape, 206. Smith, The Political Landscape, 209.

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Even when we leave the king out, there is no such foundation of a city or the temple in Deuteronomy. Everything that the Russian researcher Alexei Lidov subsumes under the term “hierotopy” is missing.14 By “hierotopy” he means the creation of sacred spaces as a special form of creativity, a kind of a staging of the memory of a hierophany or experience of the miraculous. Biblical referents for his concept are Gen 28:10–22; Exod 25–40; and King Solomon and the building of the First Temple; but his main material is outside of the Bible in the RussianOrthodox church. Admittedly, there is an altar at ‫ המקום‬in Deuteronomy, but only in 26:4. Of course, the activity ‫ לִ ְפנֵ י יְ הוָ ה‬of sacrifices and celebrations presupposes a sacred materiality, but there is, for instance, no altar of burning incense (as in Exod 30) and no lamps (‫)נֵּ ר ֹת‬. At least Lidov’s model does illustrate that there is no creation of a “concrete milieu” of sacrality at ‫המקום‬. Lidov defines “hierotopy” as a somewhat immaterial “centre of the universe” but as a real space around which the world of objects, sounds, smells, lights and other effects came into being.15 Again, this relates to medieval times and not biblical, and the formulations are difficult to comprehend. However, Lidov suggests that topographical and material concreteness stimulated the power and miraculous efficacy of a spatial image. 16 His ideas centres on Christian icons and the idea of Chora by the Church Fathers. It, so to speak, connects Christ’s dwelling in heaven with his concrete presence on earth. For historical reasons, we cannot apply this to biblical material, although the idea of the divine name dwelling on earth appears as a faint connection. However, the point is that this hardly applies to Deuteronomy’s ‫המקום‬. The only case that comes close to a dramaturgy of a sacred place is Deut 26, but only vaguely so. Except for the altar, the whole image in this chapter is one of the concreteness and materiality of the fruit basket, and of the immaterial words of a confession. God’s name dwells at ‫המקום‬, and something happens ‫לִ ְפנֵ י‬ ‫יְ הוָ ה‬. What this exactly means in this setting is difficult to say, but it is remarkably less “mystifying” than expressions about “seeing God’s face.” There is no numinous presence like in Exod 40:34ff and Num 11:25. There are no miracles, no real hierophany, and barely no “film director,” visible or invisible in the text, who stages the meeting with the divine in terms of sacred choreography, like in the above-mentioned references in Exodus and Numbers. It is relevant to compare with the presence of the glory, kabod, in Exodus, which has much more of a mystique. What is lacking is the meeting with the 14 Alexei Lidov, “Hierotopy: The Creation of Sacred Spaces as a Form of Creativity and Subject of Cultural History,” in Hierotopy: The Creation of Sacred Spaces in Byzantium and Medieval Russia (ed. Alexei Lidov; Moscow, 2006), 32–58. 15 Lidov, “Hierotopy,” 36. 16 Lidov, “Hierotopy,” 38.

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immaterial. There is no participation of the beholder inside the image, so to speak, like in Exod 34:33–35; 40:35. There is no threat, like in the “hierospace” of Exod 30:17–20, the priest in Deut 26 remains silent with no other function than putting the basket before the altar. It is especially the lack of the mystique, which appears as significant. As I will discuss later in this essay, the only case where the mystique appears is about the book. Also, it is impossible to draw any map of the holy place like Jonathan Z. Smith’s on the temple and the city in Ezek 40ff.17 To be sure, this does not disqualify ‫ המקום‬as a place. Jonathan Z. Smith, in his book To Take Place,18 proposes that place is a product of the intellect; it is the focusing point of meaning or sense, space becomes a concrete place only when it is filled with meaning or sense, he says, and home is the dwelling-place of memories.19 Likewise, the anthropologist Johannes Fabian states that places do not merely aid memory and recall; they serve to define the nature of memory. 20 With reference to Frances Yates’ study of classical memory-theory, Fabian states that “‘Places’ were thought of as products of the art of memory, not as actual images of the content of a speech.” It is about “spatialization of consciousness.” The other thing, important to us, is that he, in the wake of Yates, connects spatialization with rhetoric. This is evident when we read Yates’ presentation of classical memory theories, 21 as space supports memory, space is an important precondition for rhetorical activity. As an example of architecture of memory, she refers to the Renaissance theatres. Johannes Fabian maintains that when images, places, and spaces turn from mnemotechnic aids into topoi they become that which a discourse is about. In this case, the main concern about the places is with rhetorical effectiveness and success in convincing an audience, not with abstract demonstration of “truth.” 22 Fabian also states, admittedly about Medieval memorymaking, but relevant to our subject too: The visual images and topoi of the art of memory provided much freedom of combination and invention, precisely because their manipulation was thought of as an art quite different from the simple skill of reading and writing. Finally, the view of memory/knowledge as an “art” favored pretentions to exclusive and arcane knowledge …23

Jonathan Z. Smith, To Take Place: Toward Theory in Ritual (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), ch. 3. 18 Smith, To Take Place. 19 Smith, To Take Place, 32–33. 20 Johannes Fabian, Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes its Objects (Kindle edition; New York: Columbia University Press, 2014), location 2441. 21 Frances A. Yates, The Art of Memory (London: Pimlico, 1966.2006). 22 Fabian, Time and the Other, loc. 2468–2473. 23 Fabian, Time and the Other, loc. 2485–2487. 17

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I think this is somehow what goes on in Deuteronomy’s idea of ‫המקום‬. It is filled with meaning, sense, and memory, but it is a thought form, a device of rhetoric; it is even – in spite of what I said right above – something of mystique, just because this place is not visualized. In Deut 31, it is the Book of the Torah of Moses that visualizes this centre, but this book, again, is mystified as it is not there to the readers any more, it is lost but only represented in and accessible to the reader through the Book of Deuteronomy itself. At least in the post-Priestly Deut 7:6 and 26:18–20, and in the laws about clean and unclean animals, chapter 14, there are clear intertextual relations to Exod 19:3–6 and Lev 11,24 but the whole numinous character of the Mountain in Exod 19 and the Temple as the background for the P-material in Leviticus, is absent in Deuteronomy. And still, there are lots of place in Deuteronomy. Except for ‫המקום‬, there ְ ‫ֶא ֶרץ נַ ֲח ֵלי ָמיִ ם ֲ יָ נֹת‬ is a land with rivers and springs, ‫וּתהֹמֹת י ְֹצ ִאים ַבּ ִבּ ְק ָ ה‬ ‫וּב ָהר‬ ָ , towns with gates and walls, fields for harvesting, areas with cattle and sheep; and a land with figs and honey. It is a cultivated land, taken over from the peoples to be driven out, their villages and cultic installations, cisterns, vineyards and olives (6:10–11). This is, in short, landscape. The Norwegian archaeologist Bjørnar Olsen has pointed out that there has been a strong tendency of seeing landscapes as created in the minds of people – through their experience and engagement in the world around them. Hence, landscapes are always changing and multivocal.25 From this, he calls for a move to the agency of things and landscapes, that is, “rather in their capacities of making a difference through the unique and complementary qualities they have to offer our shared world.”26 This is a move away from “linguistic idealism.”27 Things and landscape do not only image ourselves. One also needs to discover the difference between things – also landscape – and text.28 Olsen writes:29 If our living with things is a predominantly somatic experience, a dialogue between material entities, then we also have to envisage a poetics that, although not untranslatable, is clearly of a very different kind …

This leads me to Henri Bergson’s term “habit memory” and “inattentive recognition.” Deut 11 is a discourse on what we may call “episodic memory.” It is the exodus and desert story, which “you know today,” 11:2. Habit memory we meet in 11:18–21 (KJV):

Otto, Deuteronomium, 850–51. Bjørnar Olsen, In Defence of Things: Archaeology and the Ontology of Objects (Kindle Edition; Lanham and New York: Altamira Press, 2010), location 606. 26 Olsen, In Defence of Things, loc. 727. 27 Olsen, In Defence of Things, loc. 1247. 28 Olsen, In Defence of Things, loc. 1194. 29 Olsen, In Defence of Things, loc. 1212–1214. 24 25

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Therefore shall ye lay up these my words in your heart and in your soul, and bind them for a sign upon your hand, that they may be as frontlets between your eyes. And ye shall teach them your children, speaking of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way, when thou liest down, and when thou risest up. And thou shalt write them upon the door posts of thine house, and upon thy gates: That your days may be multiplied, and the days of your children, in the land which the LORD sware unto your fathers to give them, as the days of heaven upon the earth.

The practice and customs are habit memory and actual memory as different from virtual ones, because it makes itself present. The important thing here is that space and things are closely connected with this practice. The signs on the forehead and doorposts refer directly, so it is presumed in the text, to the immediately experienced landscape: the experience of hills and valleys, of fertilizing rain for the season of grain, wine and oil, for pasture for the livestock, or alternatively the lack of it. There is a similar case in chapter 6:3–12: The signs on the forehead and the hand is closely connected with the land flowing with milk and honey, with the cities, houses, cisterns, vineyards and olive groves, “that you did not plant” etc. The connection makes the experience of all these landscapes and the environment some kind of involuntary memory of something else, which is the commandments of God as symbolized through the habit memory of the sign-ritual. It is in some regards like the madeleine cakes of Proust. There is another part of Proust’s famous novel, which is even more to the point. The main character in the novel suddenly discovers, as in a vision or more properly as a memory, what is behind the church-tower and the houses he sees. This is the “instantaneous” power of things to refer to something beyond, there is a mystique in this; one is involuntarily struck by something. It is exactly the same function, which we find in the blessings on the two mountains, 11:29–30 and 27:12ff. This is prescribed as a one-time event when they have crossed Jordan. However, the mountains are there. The blessing and the curses of the covenant are “inscribed” on the mountains. This is also the point where my understanding of “inscribed memory” – in the wake of Bjørnar Olsen – goes beyond Paul Connerton,30 who reflects on body practices but not on what is inscribed in “things.” My conclusion so far, is that the presence of landscape and “things” in Deuteronomy serves the desire of the authors to link “memory of the Torah” to something material, which is supposed to create a habit or more precisely involuntary memory of it simply by its material presence. At least in these cases in the text, there can hardly be any geographical intention beyond this “materializing” aspect of the landscape of the Land for the creation of the memory of the Covenant and the Torah. To put it in the words of Olsen,31 30 Paul Connerton, How Societies Remember (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989). 31 Olsen, In Defence of Things, loc. 2525–2526.

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Memory is also habitual and material, a constant act of re-membering embedded in our very being-in-the-world … It accumulates and sediments also according to material trajectories that are beyond human control and willful selection, creating the enormously rich and palimpsestal present we encounter every day.

It is precisely the “being-in-the-Land” that is supposed to generate the material and habitual memory of the Torah intended by the authors of Deuteronomy. This leads me to a preliminary discussion of “Utopia.” A number of scholars refer to the utopian character of Deuteronomy. Mosche Weinfeld finds the ban on the peoples of the Land in 7:2; 20:16–17 to be utopian, while Eckart Otto calls it a metaphor,32 based upon the parallel between the ban and the prohibition to make any covenant with them, in 7:2, which means that “the other peoples” are still in the land. It seems clear from Otto’s exegesis that the prescription of the ban is motivated by the concern about the religious cleanliness of a people under the First commandment, as also testified to by the “folk-internal” ban-cases in 13:13–19 and 7:25–26. Also the connection with Josh 9 and 23:5–10 shows that this layer of the Dtr redaction reckons with a continuing presence of “other peoples” in the land, and that the problem addressed by the ban and the intermarriage can be solved only in the future.33

Otto also sees the idea of “Groß-Israel” as utopian.34 Philip R. Davies regards the possession of the land as utopian.35 I argued that the public teaching of the Torah as reflected in Deuteronomy was a utopian project.36 Philip R. Davies has modified this idea,37 suggesting that the notions of major festivals and a single sanctuary were not, or did not remain, “utopian.” His point is that Deuteronomy in these regards “seems to reflect exactly the outcome of this part of the Ezra narrative” [i.e. the command in chapter 7:25 to appoint magistrates and judges who may judge all the people, and Neh 8].38 Davies’ suggestion is more unclear than it looks like because he also states that this phrase in Ezra should not be understood as factual history, hence it must be a program or as he formulates it, a claim that the Torah has the authority of heaven and earth, as also an official institution of enforcement; a claim, that is. My idea of utopia is linked to the idea of each individual father teaching his family the Torah and even explaining it.

Otto, Deuteronomium, 862–63. Otto, Deuteronomium, 847–48, 853. 34 Otto, Deuteronomium, 1065. 35 Philip R. Davies, “The Authority of Deuteronomy,” in Deuteronomy-Kings as Emerging Authoritative Books: A Conversation (ed. Diana V. Edelman; Ancient Near East Monographs; Atlanta, Ga.: SBL, 2014), 37. 36 Kåre Berge, “Literacy, Utopia and Memory: Is there a Public Teaching in Deuteronomy?” Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 12/3 (2012): 1–19. 37 Davies, “The Authority of Deuteronomy.” 38 Davies, “The Authority of Deuteronomy,” 37. 32 33

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All these references use the term in the colloquial meaning of something unfulfilled, or something that has not or will not, be fulfilled, or of a good but non-existent and therefore impossible society. The better way into utopianism in Deuteronomy is through the broader perspective on Utopia in the seminal work by Ruth Levitas,39 or Frederic Jameson. The latter, starting from Ernst Bloch’s statement that a utopian impulse governs everything future-oriented in life and culture,40 also adds that future-orientation is not enough; in order to become utopian, one needs the idea of totality and closure. If this is applicable to Deuteronomy, it reminds us of the closure of the Land in terms of being cleansed of the original peoples and their cultic activities. This, I maintain, is Deuteronomy’s utopia. To my mind, there is a connection between several “imaginary” subjects in and around Deuteronomy: It is ‫המקום‬, which is not identified in this book. It is the imagined Book of the Torah of Moses, which somehow is represented by Deuteronomy. Finally, it is the Book of the Law in 2 Kgs 22–23. I think Kathrine Stott, referring to a number of examples from Greek literature, is right in pointing to the possibility that some of the books are rhetorical not real.41 In another article, I have argued that “The book of the Torah of Moses” in Deut 31 is the lost book that gives the book of Deuteronomy its mystifying and hence authoritative character. It is of course anachronistic to talk about Utopia before Thomas More in 1516, but as all our understanding of the past is through the lenses of our contemporary concepts, we may also approach concepts in the Hebrew Bible through notions of Utopia. Utopia in Deuteronomy should be defined in terms of function more than form because of the clearly didactic initiatives of the book, in texts like Deut 6 and 11. This is the use of it in, e.g. Karl Mannheim’s work.42 It is, to use a distinction from Jameson, about utopian impulse more than a program, it is the idea that there exists a utopian propensity in human beings.43 It is the “education of desire,” which actually is how I read the didactic passages in Deut 6 and 11. On the other hand, I am unsure about whether the Utopia in Deuteronomy should be accessed in terms of its rela-

Ruth Levitas, The Concept of Utopia (Ralahine Classics; Oxford: Peter Lang, 2010). Frederic Jameson, Archaeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions (London: Verso, 2005), 2–5. 41 Katherine Stott, “Finding the Lost Book of the Law: Re-reading the Story of ‘The Book of the Law’ (Deuteronomy-2 Kings) in Light of Classical Literature,” JSOT 30/2 (2005): 153–69; eadem, Why Did They Write This Way?: Reflections on References to Written Documents in the Hebrew Bible and Ancient Literature (LHBOTS, 492; New York: T&T Clark, 2008). 42 Karl Mannheim, Ideology and utopia: an introduction to the sociology of knowledge (London: Routledge, 1991). 43 Levitas, The Concept of Utopia, 12. 39 40

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tion to progress, so as to “help history to unfold in a positive direction.”44 I see no evolution and progress in Deuteronomy. It is more the notion of lament, but still – and herein lies the utopian function – it has the capacity to transform the situation. This does not lie in progressive work but in the Covenant’s claim to immediate and complete change – to use Jan Assmann’s distinction between wisdom and “die Rhetorik der Krise,” by which he names the “binär strukturierten Handlungsraum” of Covenant tradition’s opposition between good and evil.45 One reason why Utopia is a relevant analytical concept is that it raises the question of whether culture can be political, that is, critical and subversive. Or is it necessarily annexed by the social system of which it is a part? This is Jameson’s question, 46 and it is relevant for Deuteronomy too. The Utopiaconcept is necessary in order not to let the book disappear into static or hegemonic structures of emergent Judaism. Jameson points to closure and totality as central to utopianism. In Deuteronomy, it is the closure of the Israelite community in the Land, which seeks a totality of cleanliness by removing and expelling all strange elements. Closure and totality includes autonomy and self-sufficient system, as evident for instance in the judicial system, and there is hardly any connection with other nations and peoples, once settled in the Land. Even the laws of the king contribute to this closure: the king is totally confined within the borders of the Torah-reading community, Torah that is, in the meaning of the Book of the Law of Moses. This utopian closure also seeps into the daily life of individuals’ basket and kneading traugh (28:5), and even has an aesthetical value, 8:7 et al., ‫טוֹבה‬ ָ ‫ ֶא ֶרץ‬. The future of Deuteronomy is praxis more spatial than temporal; it is about living in the Land that extends from the Centre, the ‫;המקום‬ in fact, the place is this Torah, or more precisely, it is the teaching of the Torah by the Levitical priests (Deut 31:11–12; KJV): When all Israel is come to appear before the LORD thy God in the place which he shall choose, thou shalt read this law before all Israel in their hearing. Gather the people together, men, and women, and children, and thy stranger that is within thy gates, that they may hear, and that they may learn, and fear the LORD your God, and observe to do all the words of this law: And that their children, which have not known any thing, may hear, and learn to fear the LORD your God, as long as ye live in the land whither ye go over Jordan to possess it.

Since Utopian space is an imaginary enclave, so Jameson, within real social space, so is the Israel of the Land an imaginary spatial enclave. It is imaginary because the “foreign peoples” continue to live in the land, even when Levitas, The Concept of Utopia, 39. Jan Assmann, Herrschaft und Heil: Politische Theologie in Altägypten, Israel und Europa (Frankfurt a. M.: Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 2002) 112–17. 46 Jameson, Archaeologies of the Future, xv. 44

45

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193

they have been expelled from it and destroyed (7:2). Differentiation in Deuteronomy is both social and spatial. Utopia must be motivated; it must respond to specific dilemmas and offer to solve fundamental problems in society, to which the Utopian believes himself to hold the key. “The Utopian vocation can be identified by this certainty, and by the persistent and obsessive search for a simple, a single-shot solution to all our ills. And this must be a solution so obvious and self-explanatory that every reasonable person will grasp it,” says Jameson,47 continuing, The view that opens out onto history from a particular social situation must encourage such oversimplifications; the miseries and injustices thus visible must seem to shape and organize themselves around one specific ill or wrong. For the Utopian remedy must at first be a fundamentally negative one, and stand as a clarion call to remove and to extirpate this specific root of all evil from which all the others spring.

Deuteronomy over-simplifies the past illness or evil, and does the same to the remedy: The expulsion of the foreign peoples and the destruction of the cult places, and the submission to the conditions of the Covenant. To be sure, the solution to this is Torah Piety, based on the reading and teaching of the Book of the Torah of Moses, whose only witness, to the readers, is the book of Deuteronomy. This contribution is about centre and periphery. Where is “periphery” in Deuteronomy? One way of thinking about “periphery” is to look at the “tentacles,” so to speak, from the imagined centre, that is ‫המקום‬. If the centre is the one that defines life in the Torah community, both in religious, economic and judicial way, and even for the king (as a Torah-reader), periphery is the populace or the common people, who also according to Deut 6:7–8 are required to learn and study, even explicate on the Torah. It is obvious that this puts the covenantal welfare of the populace in the hands of those who keep, read and interpret the Book of Deuteronomy, in my reading the scribes in post-exilic Jerusalem. At the same time however, the populace will be reminded of the obligations of the covenant and the promises of it, every time they deal with the down-to-earth business and the day-by-day-life, looking for prosperity and fertility. This is, in my interpretation of “place” in Deuteronomy, Torah piety is disseminated in the book. Another way is to look at it geographically. One may define “periphery” as the external surface of a body, the edge and outskirts of a city, or the external boundary of any area. So, what belongs to these “outskirts?” Methodologically, I apply Adam Smith’s term “geopolitics,” which “refers to the relationships of authority that are created within practices among polities across a given ecumene through the demarcation of difference, hegemony, exclusion, and inclusion.” Geopolitics are produced on the ground through physical 47

Jameson, Archaeologies of the Future, 11.

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barriers and borders, and in the imagination of the proper political order of the world.48 Periphery is also the areas on the fringes, the area which is most contested. My idea about fringes and periphery goes from the suggestion that contested areas are specifically mentioned in Deuteronomy, while uncontested areas are not. It is worth noting that all specifically mentioned places are in the East, which to me indicates that periphery is the Trans-Jordan area. According to Eckart Otto, the reason for this is the demarcation of the time difference between “erzählte Zeit” and “Erzählzeit.” 49 This does not explain the detailed location. One has suggested that the verses in Deut 2:24–31 mark, as Erisman has suggested,50 a transition from the Cisjordan concept of the promised land, to the inclusion of TransJordan. Moses dealt with the land according to the principle for treating the peoples in the Land, i.e, through cherem. The term “Amorite” linked to Sihon in Heshbon also indicate this.

The reference to the promises in Genesis is explicit. My reading also suggests that there is a connection between the treatment of Edom, with Esau explicitly mentioned in 2:4, Moab and Ammon because of Lot, who is mentioned, v. 9. In Deut 34:1, Moses looks “as far as Zoar, as also in Gen 13:10. The phrase ‫ל־האָ ֶרץ‬ ָ ‫ת־כּ‬ ָ ‫ ֶא‬may be a reference to Gen 13:14–15. If it is, the centre alluded to is “between Bethel and Ai,” but this is not mentioned, as is not the location of ‫המקום‬. This is just a suggestion, already indicated by P. R. Davies,51 but if Bethel, only some few kilometers from Mizpah, is presupposed, so to speak, together with Jerusalem, the whole concept behind the final redaction of Deuteronomy, at least, includes from this imagined “heartland” of Israel, the more contested areas of Trans-Jordan, whether this includes the whole area until Euphrates, or only the so-called tribal territory. The other explicitly mentioned place names are Gerizim and Ebal. Does this have any meaning for the idea of centre and periphery? Is this mentioned because it was not self-evident that Shechem, that is Ephraim and Manasseh, was included in an area whose heartland was Jerusalem-Bethel? Is this geo-politics? Is this the reason why even an altar had to be connected to Ebal, or Gerizim? My final question is about the social and historical location of this Utopia. Is it possible to argue for a specific social origin of this concept? We need to look for the authority reflected in Deuteronomy, or more precisely the symbolization of power or authority. This authority is an informal kind of authority, in the sense of the anthropologist Abner Cohen, who has studied informal authority-building among the “retribalization” of the Hausa merSmith, The Political Landscape, 115. Otto, Deuteronomium, 312. 50 Angela R. Erisman, “Transjordan in Deuteronomy: The Promised Land and the Formation of the Pentateuch,” JBL 132/4 (2013): 769–89, 774. 51 Davies, “The Authority of Deuteronomy.” 48 49

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195

chants in Western Sahara and among the Creoles in Sierra Leone. In both cases, the groups studied attempted to build up an informal authority structure through different sets of identity markers after the British imperial authority left the areas. To my mind, Deuteronomy, as we have it now, reflects the attempt by a Jewish or Pre-Jewish elite group to establish social authority within, but in a sense outside, of the Persian imperial power-system. This I call “informal”: It is outside the imperial control-system. The Cohen-model cannot be applied without modifications. As argued by Joseph Blenkinsopp and others, the general picture of the Achaemenid imperial policy might indicate that the local, scribal elite of Jews were in the service of the imperial administrative system and loyal to this system.52 The law of the king (Deut 17) might also indicate loyalty to the imperial rulers, or at least an awareness of not challenging the empire. This does not mean that they were in charge of the local political system; and even when the empire might have supported the local cult, the ideological system of religious authority presented in Deuteronomy goes far beyond what could be expected as included in such imperial support. In this regard, I prefer to call the attempted power symbolized in Deuteronomy an informal power system. A similar view holds P. R. Davies. The ethne of Deuteronomy recognize themselves within large empires in which divisions into monarchic states have disappeared. 53 Davies also suggests that the book was probably not originally endowed with the authority of a person or institution, but it had to require such associations in order to become authoritative. This means that the book originally, in his view, came out of scribes that did not hold such an authoritative power.54

To conclude, it is necessary to start from the fact that the ideology of Deuteronomy is about a religious community called Whole Israel, whose centre is not a place but a Book, the Book of the Torah of Moses. This book is only represented by or accessible through the present Book of Deuteronomy. By this, the authors mystify their authority. The scribes behind the present book are the only legitimate interpreters of the Moses Torah, that is, through the interpretation of the present book, and “Israel” is the ideal community of Torah-readers and -interpreters. They have to locate the religious centre in space, but they do that only by referring to ‫המקום‬, which somehow indicates that this is not the important thing. The important thing is the Torah, its readings and interpretations for communal life.

52 Joseph Blenkinsopp, “Temple and Society in Achaemenid Judah,” in Second Temple Studies 1: Persian Period (ed. Philip R. Davies; JSOTSup 117; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991), 22–53, 26. 53 Davies, “The Authority of Deuteronomy,” 38. 54 Davies, “The Authority of Deuteronomy,” 39.

The Altar on Mount Gerizim (Deuteronomy 27:1–8) Center or Periphery? Reinhard Müller The book of Deuteronomy revolves around the idea of a centralized cult in the promised land, but it envisages this cultic center from the periphery. Deuteronomy’s framing narrative is located in a peripheral region – “the plains of Moab” on the eastern side of the Jordan valley;1 the promised land with its impressive mountain range lies in front of the Israelites, but they have not yet entered it. Moses has to die on the nearby Mt. Nebo, and it somehow fits in with the peripheral character of this region that nobody knows where his grave is located.2 But in the long farewell speeches that are recorded in Deuteronomy, Moses refers to concepts of centrality, and he does so mainly on two levels. The first level relates to the promised land, the one in which Israel will dwell – compared to this land, all other regions of the world seem peripheral.3 The second relates to the cult that will be centralized, according to Deut 12–18, at the place that Yhwh chooses. This double centrality of two concentric localities – the chosen cultic site and the land in the midst of which this site lies – is fundamental for Deuteronomy’s imagined world. At the same time, it is a typical trait of this biblical book that the chosen place is never explicitly located. The so-called centralization formula4 speaks simply of “the place” (‫)המקום‬, but Deuteronomy does not specify where this place is to be found. It seems that this blank space is left deliberately in the text, and this may be related to the framing narrative; the Israelites have not yet arrived in the land, and it still needs to be revealed to them where the chosen place lies. This seems to be the reason why the centralization formula in the Masoretic Text (MT) speaks about “the place that Yhwh will choose” (‫)אשר יבחר יהוה המקום‬.

1

Deut 34:1, 8; cf. Num 22:1; 26:3, 63; 31:12; 33:48–50; 35:1; 36:13; Josh 13:32. Deut 34:5–6. 3 See esp. Deut 4:26–27; 28:63–64; 30:4–5. 4 Deut 12:5, 11, 13, 14, 18, 21, 26; 14:23, 24, 25; 15:20; 16:2, 6, 7, 11, 15, 16; 17:8; 18:6; 26:2; 31:11. 2

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It is puzzling, however, that Deuteronomy never says how the divine act of choosing the place will be revealed to Israel. The Masoretic version of the centralization formula seems to imply that Yhwh, at a certain point of time in the future, will somehow make known to the people which place he chooses for his cult. The textual tradition attested by the Samaritan Pentateuch, however, contains a different version of the formula:5 ‫“ המקום אשר בחר יהוה‬the place that Yhwh has chosen.”6 Does this imply that Moses and the people already know where this place is found?7 But how would they have come to this knowledge? In this perspective it is even more peculiar that the chosen place is not mentioned by name. Yet Deuteronomy contains one passage that may be read as an implicit or indirect reference to the geographical location of the chosen place. In Deut 27, Moses instructs the Israelites to build an altar and to start making offerings, after they have crossed the Jordan. According to this instruction, this altar will be the place of the first centralized cult in the land. And in this case, it is precisely stated where the altar shall be built. 5 Adrian Schenker, “Le Seigneur choisira-t-il le lieu de son nom ou l’a-t-il choisi? L’apport de la Bible grecque ancienne à l’histoire du texte samaritain et massorétique,” in Scripture in Transition: Essays on Septuagint, Hebrew Bible, and Dead Sea Scrolls (ed. Anssi Voitila and Jutta Jokiranta; JSJSup 126; Leiden: Brill, 2008), 339–51, drew attention to the fact that the preterit of the Samaritan version is also attested by several Bohairic, Sahidic and Vetus Latina manuscripts that probably witness the reading of the Old Greek (see already R. Pummer, “ΑΡΓΑΡΙΖΙΝ: A Criterion for Samaritan Provenance?,” JSJ 18 (1985–87): 18–25, here 25); this strongly indicates that the version with ‫ בחר‬did not originate as a ‘sectarian’ Samaritan change (pace, e.g., Carmel McCarthy, ed., Deuteronomy [vol. 5 of Biblia Hebraica: Quinta editione; Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 2007], 84*) but goes back to a common pre-Samaritan textual tradition; it is not excluded that this tradition represents the original reading of the formula. See also Stefan Schorch, “The Samaritan Version of Deuteronomy and the Origin of Deuteronomy,” in Samaria, Samarians, Samaritans: Studies on Bible, History and Linguistics (ed. József Zsengellér; Studia Judaica 66 / Studia Samaritana 6; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2011), 23–37; Jan Dušek, Aramaic and Hebrew Inscriptions from Mt. Gerizim and Samaria between Antiochus III and Antiochus IV Epiphanes (Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 54; Leiden: Brill, 2012), 90. 6 Alternatively, as discussed by Udo Rüterswörden, Deuteronomium (BKAT V/3.1; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2011), 15, this version of the formula can be rendered in correspondence to Deuteronomy’s narrative framework as “the place that Yhwh will have chosen,” i.e., after Israel’s settling in the land – this would imply that ‫בחר‬ has to be interpreted as “Futur II.” 7 This is implied in the common explanation, see, e.g., Emanuel Tov, Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible (3d ed.; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2012), 88: “from the Samaritan perspective, Shechem had already been chosen at the time of the patriarchs (Gen 12:6; 33:18– 20), and therefore they felt a need to change the tense.” However, it is nowhere explicitly stated that Shechem was a cultic place “chosen” by Yhwh, and the patriarchs built altars at other places as well (see Gen 12:8; 13:18; 26:25 etc.).

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A. Remarks on the Textual History of Deuteronomy 27:4 It is a well known phenomenon of textual history that the textual traditions diverge in this passage. The MT of Deut 27:4 attests the name of the place where the altar has to be built as “Mt. Ebal,” which is also found in almost all Septuagint manuscripts as well as in the Vulgate, the Peschitta, and the Targumim. The Samaritan Pentateuch has “Mt. Gerizim” instead, and this reading is also found, apart from the Samaritan Targum, in the Greek papyrus Gießen 19 and the old Latin Codex Lugdunensis.8 There is a growing consensus that the reading “Mt. Gerizim” is older than the reading “Mt. Ebal.”9 The textual attestation is not easy to evaluate in detail, particularly since the relationship between the papyrus Gießen 19 and the Samaritan textual tradition is not entirely clear. It seems possible that the papyrus – of which only an old photograph remains after the original was destroyed in the Second World War 10 – attests a pre-sectarian textual tradition. 11 This is more evident in the case of the Codex Lugdunensis which indirectly attests a Greek version in which the place name was “Mt. Gerizim.”12 Thus, we may possess two independent witnesses of a Greek version attesting “Mt. Gerizim,” and this reading may either be a result of an early revision of the Septuagint towards a Hebrew text containing “Mt. Gerizim”13 or even go back to the Old

8 See Magnar Kartveit, The Origin of the Samaritans (VTSup 128; Leiden: Brill, 2009), 300–305; Eugene Ulrich, “The Old Latin, Mount Gerizim, and 4QJosha,” in Textual Criticism and Dead Sea Scrolls Studies in Honour of Julio Trebolle Barrera: florilegium complutense (JSJSup 157; Leiden: Brill, 2012), 361–76, here 361–64. 9 See, e.g., Kartveit, The Origin of the Samaritans, 305; McCarthy, Deuteronomy, 122*–23*. Pace Ed Noort, “The Traditions of Ebal and Gerizim: Theological Positions in the Book of Joshua,” in Deuteronomy and Deuteronomic Literature: Festschrift C. H. W. Brekelmans (ed. M. Vervenne and J. Lust; BETL 133; Leuven: University Press, 1997), 161–80, here 167–70, who defends the originality of the reading “Mt. Ebal” with textual and archaeological arguments; see also n. 25. 10 Emanuel Tov, “Pap. Giessen 13, 19, 22, 26: A Revision of the LXX?,” RB 78 (1971): 355–83. 11 Tov, “Pap. Giessen 13, 19, 22, 26,” 373–74; id., Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible, 88, n. 140. Pace Tov, Adrian Schenker, “Textgeschichtliches zum Samaritanischen Pentateuch und Samareitikon: Zur Textgeschichte des Pentateuchs im 2.Jh. v.Chr.,” in Samaritans: Past and Present. Current Studies (ed. Menachem Mor and Friedrich V. Reiterer; Studia Judaica 53 / Studia Samaritana 5; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010), 105–21, here 108–13, defends the hypothesis that Pap. Giessen 19 was written by a Samaritan translator or Rezensent and may reflect the Samareitikon. 12 Schenker, “Textgeschichtliches zum Samaritanischen Pentateuch und Samareitikon,” 106–107. 13 Tov, “Pap. Giessen 13, 19, 22, 26,” 368–77; Pummer, “ΑΡΓΑΡΙΖΙΝ,” 24.

200

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Greek reading of this passage. 14 In addition, a recently discovered Hebrew fragment, presumably from Qumran and paleographically dated to the end of the first century B.C.E., comprises Deut 27:4–6 and attests the same reading in v. 4.15 If authentic,16 the fragment may provide additional evidence that the reading “Mt. Gerizim” was no marginal and purely sectarian tradition, although it remains unclear whether the manuscript contains the text of Deut 27:4 in the context of Deut 27 or of the textual compilation that is known as the Samaritan Tenth Commandment. 17 The textual evidence for “Mt. Gerizim” seems at first glance scanty, but there are good reasons to assume that the Samaritan reading goes back to a pre-sectarian textual tradition, the remnants of which are attested also by the Codex Lugdunensis, and possibly the papyrus Gießen 19 and the newly found Hebrew fragment. Why and when did the change from “Gerizim” to “Ebal” happen? One possibility is that the change was an echo of the destruction of the Gerizim sanctuary by John Hyrcanus18.19 This brutal act may have been implicitly or 14 Georg Braulik and Norbert Lohfink, “Deuteronomium 1,5 ‫באר את התורה הזאת‬: ‘er verlieh dieser Tora Rechtskraft’, ” in Textarbeit: Studien zu Texten und ihrer Rezeption aus dem Alten Testament und der Umwelt Israels (ed. Klaus Kiesow and Thomas Meurer; AOAT 294; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2003), 35–51, here 49, n. 44; repr. in Norbert Lohfink, Studien zum Deuteronomium und zur deuteronomistischen Literatur, vol. 5 (SBAB 38; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2005), 233–51. 15 Ursula Schattner-Rieser, “Garizim versus Ebal: Ein neues Qumranfragment samaritanischer Tradition?,” Early Christianity 1 (2010): 277–81; James Hamilton Charlesworth, “‫ל־הר גְּ ִרזִ ים‬ ַ ַ ‫ – ַה ְבּ ָר ָכה‬An Unknown Dead Sea Scroll and Speculations Focused on the Vorlage of Deuteronomy 27:4,” in Jesus, Paulus und die Texte von Qumran (ed. Jörg Frey and Enno Edzard Popkes; WUNT 2/390; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 393–414. 16 For paleographical reasons, Armin Lange, Handbuch der Textfunde vom Toten Meer, vol. 1: Die Handschriften biblischer Bücher von Qumran und den anderen Fundorten (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 106, has voiced substantial doubts about the authenticity of the fragment; see also Ulrich, “The Old Latin, Mount Gerizim, and 4QJosha,” 364–65, and Harald Samuel, Von Priestern zum Patriarchen: Levi und die Leviten im Alten Testament (BZAW 448; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2014), 40–41 (“nicht über jeden Fälschungsverdacht erhaben”). Ulrich, however, concluded that the fragment seems authentic. 17 Schattner-Rieser, “Garizim versus Ebal,” 279. 18 Classically dated to 128 B.C.E., see James D. Purvis, “The Samaritans,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism, vol. 2: The Hellenistic Age (ed. W. D. Davies and Louis Finkelstein; Cambridge: University Press, 1989), 591–613, here 608; however, according to Yitzhak Magen, Mount Gerizim Excavations, vol. 2: A Temple City (Judea and Samaria Publications 8; Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority, 2008), 178, the Mt. Gerizim excavations “have yielded hundreds of coins dated after 128 BCE, the latest dating to 111–110 BCE. Excavations have also uncovered numerous coins of John the High Priest – Hyrcanus I, who was the first Hasmonean ruler to mint coins. Mt. Gerizim was therefore finally conquered in 111–110 BCE, during the reign of Antiochus IX. The question remains unanswered whether or not Mt. Gerizim was conquered twice.” See Jan Dušek, “Mt. Gerizim Sanctuary, Its History and Enigma of Origin,” HeBAI 3 (2014): 111–33, here 112–13.

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201

explicitly legitimized by the commandments in Deut 7:5 and 12:3 according to which the altars and cultic sites of the inhabitants of the land have to be destroyed;20 the Samaritans of this time were for decades denounced by Jerusalem-oriented Jews as a mixed and foreign population, as we know particularly from Ben Sira (50:25–26),21 and this tradition of denunciation may have justified the destruction of their cultic place in the course of Hyrcanus’ conquests. 22 Against the background of Hyrcanus’ act, it could have been no longer tolerable for Jerusalem-oriented scribes to have a text of Deuteronomy in which Moses instructs the people to build an altar on Mt. Gerizim. However, the change could have happened also earlier, when the denunciation of the Samaritans began, or when the breach between the two communities became irreconcilable.23 The fact that we possess only few pieces of evidence for a pre-Samaritan textual tradition reading “Mt. Gerizim” may point to an earlier origin of the change. The change is already presupposed in the peculiar pericope of Josh 8:30–35, according to which Joshua builds an altar on Mt. Ebal, “as it is written in the Torah of Moses” (Josh 8:31). Although this pericope seems to be a rather late insertion in the Joshua text, since its exact place is not yet entirely fixed,24 it indirectly attests to a textual tradition of Deuteronomy in which the name had already been changed. Thus Charlesworth, “‫ל־הר גְּ ִרזִ ים‬ ַ ַ ‫ ַה ְבּ ָר ָכה‬,” 407–408. See Gary N. Knoppers, Jews and Samaritans: The Origins and History of Their Early Relations (Oxford: University Press, 2013), 214, who refers to “the centralization mandate (Deut 12:1–13:1)” in general. According to Dušek, “Mt. Gerizim Sanctuary, Its History and Enigma of Origin,” 123, the Judean perception of the Gerizim temple as a “foreign sanctuary” that led to Hyrcanus’ act “in accordance with Deut 12:2–3” already presupposed the change of the place name from “Mt. Gerizim” to “Mt. Ebal.” On Josephus’ reports of Hyrcanus’ conquests in B.J. 1.62–63 and A.J. 13.254–256 see Kartveit, The Samaritans, 100–103. 21 See Kartveit, The Samaritans, 140–48. 22 On the larger political context of Hyrcanus’ act see Knoppers, Jews and Samaritans, 212–14. 23 See Dušek, Aramaic and Hebrew Inscriptions, 94–95, who dates the textual modification of Deut 27:4 (together with the change of the original ‫ בחר‬into ‫ יבחר‬in the centralization formula) after 168 B.C.E., when “the Samarian Yahwists, particularly the group of Sidonians in Shechem, officially denied their relationship to the Judean Yahwists and were not later involved in the Maccabean revolt,” and before 145 B.C.E., since, according to Josephus A.J. 13.74–79, Ptolemy VI Philometor (180–145 B.C.E.) decided a dispute between Judean and Samarian Yahwists in Alexandria by recognizing “the legitimacy of the temple in Jerusalem and put[ting] to death the representatives of the Yahwists from Samaria. The modification of Deut 27:4 in the milieu of Jerusalem is perhaps in the background of this story.” 24 On the different position in the LXX, 4QJosha, and Josephus A.J. 5.16–20 see Eugene Ulrich, “4QJosha,” in Qumran Cave 4, vol. IX: Deuteronomy, Joshua, Judges, Kings (ed. id. et al.; DJD 14; Oxford: Clarendon, 1995), 145–48; id., “The Old Latin, Mount Gerizim, and 4QJosha,” 366–68; Kartveit, The Samaritans, 306–309. 19

20

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The classic exegetical solution was the opposite. Scholars traditionally explained the reading “Gerizim” in the Samaritan Pentateuch was due to a deliberate “sectarian” change that was made when the Pentateuch was edited in the Samaritan community.25 However, in relation to Deut 11:29 and 27:12– 13, which refer to Mt. Gerizim as the place of the blessing and to Mt. Ebal as the place of the curse, it is difficult to imagine that according to the original instruction the altar had to be built on the mountain of the curse.26 The textual tradition that placed the altar on Mt. Ebal instead may have been an implicit polemic against the North that alluded to the idea that Yhwh had cursed and rejected the North and chosen Jerusalem as the place of his worship.27

B. Literary History of Deuteronomy 27:1–8 Deuteronomy 27 contains rudimental narrative elements (v. 1a, 9a, 11), which are the first after the long second speech of Moses introduced in Deut 5:1 that comprises the whole of Deut 5–26.28 After this long speech, Deut 27 follows with three short announcements. In Deut 27:1–8, Moses and the elders (v. 1a: ‫ )משה וזקני ישראל‬command the Israelites to erect stones bearing an inscrip25 Thus esp. Wilhelm Gesenius, De Pentateuchi Samaritani. Origine, indole et auctoritate: Commentatio philologico-critica (Halle: Regenerianae, 1815), 61; Carl Friedrich Keil, Biblischer Commentar über die Bücher Mose’s, vol. 2: Leviticus, Numeri und Deuteronomium (2d ed.; Leipzig: Dörffling und Franke, 1870), 529; August Dillmann, Die Bücher Numeri, Deuteronomium und Josua (Kurzgefasstes exegetisches Handbuch zum Alten Testament 13; Leipzig: Hirzel, 1886), 366; S. R. Driver, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Deuteronomy (ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1902), 297. Differently already Carl Steuernagel, Das Deuteronomium (HKAT I/3.1; 2d ed.; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1923), 148; Gustav Hölscher, “Komposition und Ursprung des Deuteronomiums,” ZAW 40 (1922): 161–255, here 218 n. 2. 26 This problem of the MT has already been noted by Ishoʽdad of Merv around 850 C.E. (mentioned by McCarthy, ed., Deuteronomy, 123*), and Abarbanel asked: “Why did the stones have to be set up ‘on Mount Ebal’ (v. 4), where the curse was to be recited (see 11:29), and not on Mount Gerizim, with the blessing?” (‫ מקראות גדולות‬The Commentator’s Bible: The Rubin JPS Miqra’ot Gedolot, Deuteronomy ‫[ דברים‬ed. Michael Carasik; Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 2015], 179). 27 Magnar Kartveit, “The Place That the Lord Your God Will Choose,” HeBAI 4 (2015): 205–18, here 217; Kartveit dates the textual change to “the middle of the 5th century B.C.E., when an altar was actually built upon Mount Gerizim” (similarly id., The Samaritans, 309), but this date may be much too early in light of the extant textual attestation of the older reading. 28 On the relationship of these introductions to the system of superscriptions in Deuteronomy see Heinz-Josef Fabry, “Noch ein Dekalog! Die Thora des lebendigen Gottes in ihrer Wirkungsgeschichte: Ein Versuch zu Deuteronomium 27,” in Im Gespräch mit dem dreieinen Gott: Elemente einer trinitarischen Theologie (ed. Michael Böhnke and Hanspeter Heinz; Düsseldorf: Patmos, 1985), 75–96, here 88–89.

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tion containing the entire Torah and to build an altar; both acts shall be done after Israel’s crossing of the Jordan. In vv. 9–10 Moses and the Levitical priests (v. 9a: ‫ )משה והכהנים הלוים‬address the people with a very short admonition about keeping the divine commandments. And in vv. 11–26 Moses instructs the people to stage a peculiar ceremony on the mountains Gerizim (v. 12a) and Ebal (v. 13a), in the course of which blessings and curses seem to be proclaimed; this instruction ends with a series of twelve curses that is known as the Shechemite dodecalogue (vv. 15–26). In Deut 28, directly after the dodecalogue, we read Moses’ monumental concluding speech about the blessings that will come upon the people if they listen to the divine voice (vv. 1–14) and the curses that will come upon them if they fail to obey (vv. 15–68). The three short instructions of Deut 27, taken as a whole, interrupt the sequence of Deut 26 and Deut 28.29 The monumental speech of Deut 28 about blessings and curses seems to conclude the long proclamation of divine commandments that ends in Deut 25/26. However, the three instructions of Deut 27 are closely related to their immediate context. They refer to certain acts that have to be done just after the people has entered the promised land, and this corresponds to the opening part of Deut 26 which refers to the first offering of first fruits in the land (Deut 26:1–11). The short admonition of Deut 27:9–10 is similar to the covenant formula in Deut 26:17–18, since Deut 27:9 contains an abbreviated form of one part of the covenant formula (cf. 27:9bβ with 26:18aα); in addition, Deut 27:9–10 is connected with Deut 28 as well, since in Deut 27:10 we find the admonition to listen to the divine voice (‫ )שמע בקול יהוה‬that is crucial for the structure of Deut 28 (see Deut 28:1, 15). And the third instruction of Deut 27 about the blessing and curse ceremony on Mt. Gerizim and Mt. Ebal seems related to the main theme of Deut 28 according to which the people will receive blessing if they listen to the divine voice but suffer multiple curses if they disobey. The first part of Deut 27, the instruction about the Torah stones and the altar (vv. 1–8), is proclaimed by Moses together with the Israelite elders (v. 1a): ‫ויצו משה וזקני ישראל את העם לאמר‬ And Moses and the elders of Israel commanded the people,30 saying:

Thus already Julius Wellhausen, Die Composition des Hexateuchs und der historischen Bücher des Alten Testaments (3d ed.; Berlin: Reimer, 1899), 363; see also Driver, Deuteronomy, 294–95. 30 With MT, SP, 4QDeutf, Vulgate, Peschitta and Targumim. Pace Norbert Lohfink, “Die Ältesten Israels und der Bund: Zum Zusammenhang von Dtn 5,23; 26,17–19; 27,1.9f und 31,9,” in Studien zum Deuteronomium und zur deuteronomistischen Literatur IV (Stuttgarter Biblische Aufsatzbände Altes Testament 31; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibel29

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It is conspicuous that the elders are mentioned here, since they play almost no role in the framing narrative. The elders are mentioned only once more in Deuteronomy’s narrative framework, namely in Deut 31:9. According to this passage, Moses wrote the Torah down and gave it to both the Levitical priests, who were carrying the ark, and the elders; priests and elders are therefore depicted as keepers of the Mosaic Torah. Deut 27:1 refers possibly to this function. The commandment of Deut 27:1–8 is about inscribing the Torah on large stones (vv. 3, 8), and this act seems imagined as the process of writing down a copy of the Torah on the stones, presumably under the supervision of the elders, since in Deut 31 they are appointed as keepers of the original document.31 The commandment of Moses and the elders that is recorded in Deut 27:1b– 8 is opened with a summary admonition (v. 1b): ‫שמר את כל המצוה אשר אנכי מצוה אתכם היום‬ Keep the entire commandment that I am commanding you today!

This rather unspecific and comprehensive admonition is particularly reminiscent of Deut 11:8 where we read a very similar instruction: ‫ושמרתם את כל המצוה אשר אנכי מצוך היום‬ And you shall keep the entire commandment that I am commanding you today.

In Deut 27, the opening admonition is followed by a peculiar sequence of topics. On the day of their crossing the Jordan, the Israelites shall erect large stones, coat them with plaster, and write on them “all the words of this Torah” (Deut 27:2–3). The technique of inscribing texts with ink on plastered walls is prominently attested by the Aramaic Balaam inscription from Tell werk, 2000), 265–83, here 273 n. 26, and McCarthy, ed., Deuteronomy, 122*, who prefer the lectio brevior of the LXX that is lacking “the people.” A Hebrew version in which the verb ‫ צוה‬Piel has no object is however difficult to imagine in Deuteronomic style, and ‫צוה‬ Piel is nowhere else attested in Deuteronomy without an object. The reading Καὶ προσέταξεν Μωυσῆς καὶ ἡ γερουσία Ισραηλ λέγων may be better explained as a translational simplification, possibly since the translator regarded Israel’s γερουσία as an integral part of the people and not a group that seems somehow separated from the people, as the Hebrew version ‫ ויצו משה וזקני ישראל את העם לאמר‬suggests. 31 Differently Lohfink, “Die Ältesten Israels und der Bund,” 270–75, who relates the mention of the elders in 27:1a to 5:23–31 and interprets the admonition of 27:1b as an equivalent to Israel’s declaration of will stating the decision to keep the law (cf. 26:17–18); he therefore connects 27:1 with 27:9–10 and discerns in these verses the core of ch. 27 that formed the original transition from ch. 26 to ch. 28 (pp. 276–78). Although one could argue for a separation between 27:1 and the following verses, the sequence of the two short instructions 27:1, 9–10 is however awkward to read and difficult to imagine as the original text; rather, 27:1 anticipates 27:9–10 in order to connect the general admonition to keep the divine commandment with the special instruction of 27:2–3 to erect the Torah stones.

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Deir ʽAllā,32 and it is likewise probable that the Balaam inscription was written down as a copy from a once existing scroll. 33 More significant is for which purpose the Torah inscription has to be made according to Deut 27. The wording of Deut 27:3 reads somewhat awkwardly and redundantly, but it is very precise; the Torah inscription shall be made ‫… בעברך‬ ‫למען אשר תבא אל הארץ אשר יהוה אלהיך נתן לך‬ … ‫ארץ זבת חלב ודבש‬ … when you have crossed over, so that you may enter the land that Yhwh your God is giving you – a land, flowing with milk and honey …

In other words, the making of the Torah inscription is presented as the condition for entering the promised land, as if every Israelite who has just crossed the Jordan needs to stop there and read this inscription before he or she can proceed into the land.34 A similar logic is expressed in Deut 11:8–9, yet on a more theoretical level. In that passage, it is the keeping of the commandment that is presented as the condition for entering the land (v. 8): ‫ושמרתם את כל המצוה אשר אנכי מצוך היום‬ ‫למען תחזקו ובאתם וירשתם את הארץ‬ … ‫אשר אתם עברים שמה לרשתה‬ And you shall keep the entire commandment that I am commanding you today, so that you may be strong and enter and take over the land to which you are crossing in order to take it over …

See Erhard Blum, “Die aramäischen Wandinschriften von Tell Deir ʽAlla,” in Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments Neue Folge, vol. 8: Weisheitstexte, Mythen und Epen (ed. Bernd Janowski and Daniel Schwemer; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2015), 459–74. 33 See Erhard Blum, “Israels Prophetie im altorientalischen Kontext: Anmerkungen zu neueren religionsgeschichtlichen Thesen,” in From Ebla to Stellenbosch: Syro-Palestinian Religions and the Hebrew Bible (Abhandlungen des deutschen Palästina-Vereins 37; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2008), 81–115, here 92 (with literature). 34 The stones that bear the inscription may therefore be compared with a gateway leading into the land, cf. the gate inscriptions of Azatiwada at Karatepe-Aslantaş, ancient Azatiwataya, see David J. Hawkins, Corpus of Hieroglyphic Luwian Inscriptions, vol. I: Inscriptions of the Iron Age, Part 1: Text – Introduction, Karatepe, Karkamiš, Tell Ahmar, Maraş, Malatya, Kommagene (Studies in Indo-European Language and Culture 8.1; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2000), 45; other analogies are the treaty stelae from Sefire, the Mesopotamian kudurru stones and the stone monuments that were erected by Greek settlers in their arrival in the new land, see Jean-Pierre Sonnet, The Book Within the Book: Writing in Deuteronomy (Biblical Interpretation Series 14; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 92–95 (with literature). 32

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The end of this passage (Deut 11:9) refers to the divine promise to the fathers, and the land is praised as “flowing with milk and honey” – a combination of motifs to which Deut 27:3 closely corresponds. On the other hand, the motif of the Torah inscription is unique (apart from Josh 8, which clearly depends on Deut 2735). It is most peculiar that Deut 27 initially does not state where exactly the Torah inscription has to be placed, and from vv. 2–3 one gets the impression that the stones bearing the inscription shall be erected somewhere near the Jordan; this is particularly indicated by the phrase ‫ בעברך‬which means basically “in the act of your crossing,” and this may even imply that the making of the Torah inscription is seen as part of Israel’s crossing of the Jordan. The entire motif has a certain parallel in Josh 4, the narrative about Israel’s crossing of the Jordan, according to which two sets of twelve stones were erected by Joshua and the Israelites, one set of stones in the Israelite camp at Gilgal (Josh 4:3–8), and a second set in the middle of the river (Josh 4:9). These stones are said to have functioned as a memorial (‫זכרון‬, according to v. 7) which should help the Israelites to commemorate the wonderful events when Israel crossed the Jordan. It is probable that the motif of memorial stones in Josh 4 became the literary inspiration for the creation of the stones that bear the Torah inscription according to Deut 27:2–3.36 This would correspond to the notion in Deut 27:2–3 that the Torah stones have to be placed somewhere near the Jordan. The continuation of the commandment in Deut 27:4–8 is even more peculiar. Verse 4 mostly consists of repetitions of vv. 2–3, with one exception: now it is explicitly stated where the stones have to be placed, namely on Mt. Gerizim, according to the older text of Deut 27:4. ‫והיה בעברכם את הירדן‬ ‫תקימו את האבנים האלה‬ ‫אשר אנכי מצוה אתכם היום‬ ‫בהר גרזים‬ ‫ושדת אותם בשיד‬

See Hartmut N. Rösel, Joshua (Historical Commentary on the Old Testament; Leuven: Peeters, 2011), 131–39; Raik Heckl, “Eine Kultstätte auf dem Ebal? Josua 8,30–35 und der Streit mit Samaria um die Auslegung der Tora,” ZDPV 129 (2013): 79–98. 36 Thus esp. Steuernagel, Das Deuteronomium, 147; Hölscher, “Komposition und Ursprung des Deuteronomiums,” 218; Moshe Anbar, “The Story About the Building of an Altar on Mount Ebal: The History of its Composition and the Question of the Centralization of the Cult,” in Das Deuteronomium: Entstehung, Gestalt und Botschaft (ed. Norbert Lohfink; BETL 68; Leuven: University Press, 1985), 304–309, here 307; Christophe Nihan, “The Torah between Samaria and Judah: Shechem and Gerizim in Deuteronomy and Joshua,” in The Pentateuch as Torah: New Models for Understanding Its Promulgation and Acceptance (ed. Gary N. Knoppers and Bernard M. Levinson; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2007), 187–223, here 208. 35

The Altar on Mount Gerizim (Deuteronomy 27:1–8)

207

And when you have crossed the Jordan, you shall set up these stones, as I command you today, at Mt. , and you shall coat them with plaster.

It is a considerable distance from the Jordan to Mt. Gerizim, and it is difficult to imagine that the erecting of “these stones” according to v. 4 should have been done on the very day of Israel’s crossing of the Jordan; therefore v. 4 carefully avoids the repetition of the phrase ‫“ ביום‬on the day” that is found in the beginning of v. 2. The relationship between the commandments of vv. 2– 3 and v. 4 is nevertheless not entirely clear. Since v. 4 is speaking of “these stones” (‫)האבנים האלה‬, the sequence of the instructions in vv. 2–3 and v. 4 seems to imply that the large stones of v. 2bα, after having been coated with plaster (v. 2bβ) and inscribed with the words of the Torah (v. 3a), had to be transported from the riverside of the Jordan to Mt. Gerizim, although the text does not explicitly state this. Verses 5–7 add another instruction: “There” (‫ – )שם‬which must refer to Mt. Gerizim since this place is mentioned immediately before (v. 4 txt. emd.) – the Israelites shall also build an altar of unhewn stones, offer burnt offerings and shared offerings, and eat and rejoice there “before Yhwh.” It is obvious that this altar is a second installation, since its unhewn stones cannot be the same as the presumably flat stones coated with plaster that are mentioned in vv. 2 and 4. The ensuing v. 8 however refers to the latter; it repeats from v. 3 the instruction to write down the Torah on the stones, and adds that this inscription shall be made37 ‫“ באר היטב‬very clearly.”38 37 Grammatically two inf. abs. in adverbial use defining the mode of the verb ‫וכתבת‬ “and you shall write,” see Perlitt, Deuteronomium, 22–23, with reference to GKC § 113 h and k. 38 With NRSV. The precise meaning of ‫ באר‬is disputed. For the translation with “clearly” HAL 102; DCH II, 87; Wilhelm Gesenius, Hebräisches und aramäisches Handwörterbuch über das Alte Testament (18th ed.; ed. Rudolf Meyer and Herbert Donner; Berlin: Springer, 1987–2010), 120; and see Perlitt, Deuteronomium, 22–23, who proposes for Deut 27:8 the translation “Du sollst … schreiben – klar und eindeutig (o.ä.).” By contrast, David Toshio Tsumura, “Hab 2 2 in the Light of Akkadian Legal Practice,” ZAW 94 (1982): 294– 95, deduces from the use of the Akkadian equivalent bâru D (burru) that ‫ באר‬in Hab 2:2 “should be taken as having some ‘legal’ connotation, not just ‘to make plain’ or the like” and concludes that Hab 2:2 “reflects two stages of a legal procedure, i.e. ‘writing down’ a contract, testimony, etc. and ‘confirming’ it by witnesses.” Braulik and Lohfink, “Deuteronomium 1,5 ‫באר את התורה‬,” follow this line and interpret Deut 1:5 as “he bestowed legal force on this Torah” (“er verlieh dieser Tora Rechtskraft”). Pace Tsumura on Hab 2:2 Lothar Perlitt, Die Propheten Nahum, Habakuk, Zephanja (ATD 25,1; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2004), 61–63, and pace Braulik and Lohfink on Deut 1:5 Timo Veijola, Das 5. Buch Mose: Deuteronomium, Kapitel 1,1–16,17 (ATD 8,1; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2004), 10 n. 15; Udo Rüterswörden, “Moses’ Last Day,” in Moses in

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The short passage of vv. 4–8 shows a kind of concentric structure. The references to the plastered stones, on which the Torah shall be inscribed (vv. 4, 8) frame the instruction about the altar in vv. 5–7, and this instruction is in itself framed by the repeated use of the adverb ‫“ שם‬there” (vv. 5, 7): (4)

And when you have crossed the Jordan, you shall set up these stones, as I command you today, at Mt. , and you shall coat them with plaster. (5) And you shall build an altar there (‫ )שם‬to Yhwh your God … (7) and slaughter shared offerings and eat them there (‫… )שם‬ (8) And you shall write on the stones all the words of this Torah very clearly.

The sequence of themes is however very odd and indicates that this is a composite text. Verse 4 begins by interpreting the preceding instruction of vv. 2b–3. It adds one particular piece of information; now it is stated at which place the Torah inscription shall be set up: ‫ … והקמת לך אבנים גדלות‬2 ‫ושדת אתם בשיד‬ … ‫ וכתבת עליהן את כל דברי התורה הזאת בעברך‬3 ‫ והיה בעברכם את הירדן‬4 ‫תקימו את האבנים האלה‬ ‫אשר אנכי מצוה אתכם היום‬ ‫בהר גרזים‬ ‫ושדת אתם בשיד‬ (2)

… and you shall set up for you large stones and coat them with plaster. (3) And you shall write on them all the words of this Torah, when you have crossed over, ... (4) And when you have crossed the Jordan, you shall set up these stones, as I command you today, at Mt. , and you shall coat them with plaster.

Biblical and Extra-Biblical Traditions (BZAW 372; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2007, 51–59, here 55; Eckart Otto, Deuteronomium 1,1–4,43 (HThKAT; Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2012), 303–304; and see already Sonnet, The Book Within the Book, 31. A completely new proposal has been made by Diana Edelman, “The Metaphor of Torah as a Life-Giving Well in the Book of Deuteronomy,” in History, Memory, Hebrew Scriptures: A Festschrift for Ehud Ben Zvi (ed. Ian Douglas Wilson and Diana V. Edelman; Winona Lake, Ind.: 2015), 317–33, here 319: “The Piel conjugation of the root ‫ באר‬might be a denominative verb formed from the noun, ‘well’. If so, the sense ‘to clarify/explain’ might have arisen from the circumstance that a well provides clear, running water; it brings ‘clarity’ to the surface, making it accessible.” This “would create a deliberate contrast with the name used for the mountain of Yhwh (Elohim) and the adjoining wilderness in Deuteronomy: Horeb.” (p. 325) However, there are no clear indications that such a play of words and meanings is intentionally implied in Deut 1:5 or 27:8, although the possibility that some ancient readers did in fact associate this meaning with the verb ‫ באר‬cannot be excluded.

The Altar on Mount Gerizim (Deuteronomy 27:1–8)

209

The preceding text of vv. 1–3 only implies at which place the stones have to be set up – namely somewhere near the Jordan – but this gap is filled with the localization of the Torah stones on Mt. Gerizim.39 It is peculiar that in this context the instruction ‫“ ושדת אתם בשיד‬you shall coat them with plaster” is repeated as well, as if this had not been said before in v. 2bβ. But this repetition finds its logical continuation in v. 8: ‫ … ושדת אתם בשיד‬4 ‫ וכתבת על האבנים את כל דברי התורה הזאת באר היטב‬8 (4) (8)

... and you shall coat them with plaster, and you shall write on the stones all the words of this Torah very clearly.

Thus, vv. 4 and 8 transpose the Torah inscription from the vicinity of the Jordan to the top of Mt. Gerizim, but the idea of an inscription containing the entire Torah remains the same. The short phrase ‫“ באר היטב‬very clearly” that is an expansion in relation to v. 3a seems to be added to highlight the function of the Torah inscription. This inscription shall be easily readable, like Habakkuk’s prophetic inscription (Hab 2:2).40 A difficult question concerns the relationship between Deut 27:8 and 1:5 which is the other instance of ‫ באר‬Piel in Deuteronomy. It is possible that Deut 27:8 refers implicitly to Moses’ act of “expounding this Torah” according to 1:5; this may be substantiated with the reference to ‫כל דברי התורה‬ ‫“ הזאת‬all the words of this Torah” that corresponds to ‫“ התורה הזאת‬this 39 Ulrich, “The Old Latin, Mount Gerizim, and 4QJosha,” 367, deduces from this and from the placement of the first altar near Gilgal in 4QJosha, Josephus and Pseudo-Philo that “[a]t an early stage, the mixed and highly repetitious set of commands in Deuteronomy 27 may not have mentioned a specific place for that first altar (cf. especially vv 2–3); Israel was simply to set up the stones and inscribe the law ‘on the day that you cross over the Jordan into the land’ (v. 2), presumably near Gilgal.” Similarly already Hölscher, “Komposition und Ursprung des Deuteronomiums,” 218 n. 2, who proposed that the clause ‫בהר‬ ‫“ גריזים‬on Mt. ” is a gloss. It is correctly observed that Deut 27 initially does not aim at the place of Mt. Gerizim but to a locality near the Jordan, but the stages in which this localization developed seem in part blurred in Ulrich’s theory. The altar of vv. 5–7 cannot be separated from the localization on Mt. Gerizim according to v. 4 (txt. emd.); it is difficult to imagine that v. 4 originally did not contain the reference to Mt. Gerizim, since such a v. 4* would contain only repetitions of preceding instructions that provide no new information. The placement of the altar at Gilgal in 4QJosha and in Pseudo-Philo L.A.B. 21.7 and the duplication of the altar in Josephus A.J. 5.4, 19 may be inspired by a harmonistic exegesis of Deut 27:1–8 in which the altar of vv. 5–7 was interpreted in light of vv. 2–3 that refer to the vicinity of the Jordan. See the different reconstruction of the textual development in Joshua by Kristin De Troyer, “Building the Altar and Reading the Law: The Journeys of Joshua 8:30–35,” in Reading the Present in the Qumran Library: The Perception of the Contemporary by Means of Scriptural Interpretations (ed. Kristin De Troyer and Armin Lange; SBLSymS 30; Atlanta, Ga.: SBL, 2005), 141–64. 40 Perlitt, Die Propheten Nahum, Habakuk, Zephanja, 61–63.

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Torah” in 1:5. 41 However, the opposite is imaginable as well, and perhaps even more probable.42 The particular meaning of ‫ באר‬Piel “to expound, clarify” that is presupposed in 1:5 may have been deduced from the motif of the clearly readable inscription in 27:8. Verses 5–7 were probably inserted on another level.43 They interrupt the sequence of vv. 4 and 8 and seem slightly misplaced; a more logical place for this instruction would be after v. 8. However, vv. 5–7 seem to be placed deliberately between vv. 4 and 8 in order to indicate a close connection between the Torah stones and the altar; this sequence seems to stress that the altar is even more important than the stones, since the middle part of a concentric structure usually bears the main weight of an argument. In the extant text, the relationship between the two groups of stones, however, is blurred. Verse 8 mentions “the stones,” which at first glance would seem to refer to the stones that are mentioned in the preceding text, namely the unhewn stones in vv. 5– 6;44 however, this cannot be the original meaning of v. 8, since v. 4 does not indicate that the plastered stones shall be used to build the altar, and v. 5

41

Nihan, “The Torah between Samaria and Judah,” 202–203. It has to be noted that 27:8 LXX does not attest ‫ ;דברי‬if this is due to an intentional omission it may have been more than a stylistic simplification after v. 3 (thus McCarthy, ed., Deuteronomy, 123); the omission of ‫ דברי‬creates an even closer connection between 27:8 and 1:5 than in the MT. 43 Andrew D. H. Mayes, Deuteronomy (New Century Bible Commentary; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans and London: Marshall, Morgan & Scott, 1979), 342; Anbar, “The Story About the Building of an Altar on Mount Ebal,” 305–306; Noort, “The Traditions of Ebal and Gerizim,” 172–73 (who presupposes “an independent tradition about an altar, represented by Deut 27,5–7”); Richard D. Nelson, Deuteronomy: A Commentary (The Old Testament Library; Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 2002), 317–18 (who discusses this theory as one possibility: “Verse 8 may have originated as a summary recapitulation of vv. 2–4 or as part of a connected earlier whole consisting of vv. 4 and 8, broken in half by the interpolation of vv. 5–7”); De Troyer, “Building the Altar and Reading the Law,” 150. Cf., e.g., Steuernagel, Das Deuteronomium, 147, who assigned vv. 5–7 in the context of the documentary hypothesis to the source E. Other scholars take vv. 4–8 as one single addition: Christoph Levin, Die Verheißung des neuen Bundes in ihrem theologiegeschichtlichen Zusammenhang ausgelegt (FRLANT 137; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1985), 111; Nihan, “The Torah between Samaria and Judah,” 204–205; Samuel, Von Priestern zum Patriarchen, 32–33. 44 Thus Michael Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel (Oxford: Clarendon, 1988), 162: “while v. 8 literally resumes the command of v. 3, and therewith brackets the secondary (or parenthetical) material, it is possible unequivocably to conclude that the ‘words of this Torah’ were to be written solely on the altar-stones mentioned in vv. 5–6, and not on the free-standing stelae, as suggested by vv. 2–4. And, indeed, this latter is precisely how the text was understood in Josh. 8: 31–2. Complying with the Pentateuchal command to set up an altar upon crossing the Jordan, Joshua wrote the words of the Torah on the stones of the altar.” 42

The Altar on Mount Gerizim (Deuteronomy 27:1–8)

211

clearly speaks of another set of stones.45 By contrast, Josh 8:32 seems to imply that the Torah inscription was in fact written on the very stones of the altar, although this is technically difficult to imagine since according to Josh 8:31 they were unhewn, and no plastering is mentioned in this context. In other words, the two motifs are literarily merged in Josh 8:31–32, while Deut 27 speaks of two separate installations, and not of a single structure as presupposed in Josh 8.46 Joshua 8:30–32 is a harmonistic interpretation of Deut 27:4–8,47 but in Deut 27:4–8, it is not from the outset imagined that the Torah inscription was written on the altar stones, as it is implied in Josh 8:32. The comparison between this harmonistic interpretation and its source text indirectly highlights the composite character of Deut 27:4, (5–7), 8. In sum, the altar instruction of vv. 5–7 is probably the youngest part of Deut 27:1–8.48 The instruction about building “a stone altar” (‫ )מזבח אבנים‬on Mt. Gerizim unequivocally refers to the altar law of Exod 20:24–25 where the same term occurs (‫ מזבח אבנים‬in v. 25). The intertextual link is particularly highlighted by the command to use ‫“ אבנים לא תניף עליהם ברזל‬stones on which you have not wielded an iron tool” (Deut 27:5) which clearly corresponds to the instruction of Exod 20:25: ‫לא תבנה אתהן גזית כי חרבך הנפת עליה‬ ‫“ ותחללה‬do not build it of hewn stones; for if you wield a chisel upon it you profane it.” In addition, the parallel mention of burnt offerings (‫ )עולת‬and shared offerings (‫ )שלמים‬must be inspired by the altar law as well, since these terms are also found in Exod 20:24, and ‫ שלמים‬are in Deuteronomy nowhere else mentioned. The altar instruction of Deut 27:5–7 has nevertheless a distinct Deuteronomic shape. The concluding commandment ‫ואכלת שם ושמחת לפני יהוה‬ ‫“ אלהיך‬you shall eat there and rejoice before Yhwh your God” is a direct quotation of the centralization laws in Deut 12 which command the Israelites three times to rejoice and celebrate when they bring their offerings to the See, e.g., Dillmann, Die Bücher Numeri, Deuteronomium und Josua, 366: “Es versteht sich, dass mit ‫ האבנים‬nicht die Altarsteine (auf welche als unbehauene man wohl nicht schreiben konnte), sondern die V. 4 genannten gemeint sind. Ebensowenig darf aus der Stellung von V. 5–7 zwischen V. 4 u. 8 gefolgert werden, dass der Altar ganz oder theilweise aus den verkalkten Steinen errichtet werden soll …, was der Bestimmung V. 5f. geradezu widerspräche.” Nelson, Deuteronomy, 317: “Verse 8 generates some confusion with its reference to ‘stones.’ These can hardly be the altar stones of vv. 5–7, but must point back those intervening verses to the standing stones of vv. 2–4.” 46 Rösel, Joshua, 136–38. 47 See Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel (Oxford: Clarendon, 1988), 162; Rösel, Joshua, 131–39; and the detailed analysis of Josh 8:30–32 by Heckl, “Eine Kultstätte auf dem Ebal?,” 82–86. 48 Possibly also in the entire chapter, since vv. 9–10 are probably the core of Deut 27 which was connected with Deut 28, and vv. 11–13, 14–26 do not clearly refer to the preceding altar instruction of vv. 5–7, although Mt. Gerizim is mentioned in v. 12. 45

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chosen place (12:7, 12, 18); the formulation in Deut 27:7 is particularly similar to Deut 12:7, where we find even the adverb ‫ שם‬as a reference to the divinely chosen place (... ‫“ ואכלתם שם לפני יהוה אלהיכם‬and you shall eat there before Yhwh your God …”). Thus, the altar instruction of Deut 27 is deliberately brought in line with Deuteronomy’s centralization laws. This connection between Deut 27:5–7 and Deut 12 is additionally highlighted by the term ‫“ מזבח יהוה אלהיך‬the altar of Yhwh your God” in 27:6 which is also found in 12:27; 16:21 and 26:4. Thus, the text does not prevent its readers to see the altar of Deut 27 as the first central sanctuary in the land; in fact, the altar of 27:5–7 has to be understood as such in light of 26:4, which mentions “the altar of Yhwh” in the context of Israel’s first offering of first fruits in the land (see 26:1–2). On the other hand, the fact that Deut 27 does not use the centralization formula itself should not be overlooked; the text does not explicitly state that Yhwh chooses Mt. Gerizim as the single place for his cult. One can even get the impression that this statement is avoided, probably in order to indicate that Mt. Gerizim only temporarily served as such. This is suggested by the motif of the unhewn stones; such an altar seems to be an ephemeral cultic installation that is not made for permanent use. Finally, why is the altar located on Mt. Gerizim? In the relative literary history of Deut 27, this localization seems to have been introduced at first not for the altar, but for the Torah inscription (i.e., in vv. 4, 8). When the instruction about the altar was inserted between vv. 4 and 8, the adverb ‫שם‬, probably taken up from Deut 12:7, referred to Mt. Gerizim, because this place is mentioned in the preceding v. 4. And the idea of placing the Torah inscription on Mt. Gerizim seems to be deduced from the ritual of Deut 27:12–13 where six Israelite tribes are instructed to stand on Mt. Gerizim “to bless the people,” while the other six shall stand on Mt. Ebal “for the curse.” The instruction about this ritual does not refer to any preceding mention of these mountains,49 and the possibility that the author of vv. 11–13 did not yet know about the placement of the Torah inscription on Mt. Gerizim cannot be ruled out.50 49

Neither does 11:29, which refers indirectly to the ritual of 27:12–13, indicate knowledge of the placement of an altar on Mt. Gerizim. 50 In addition, it is possible that the localization of the blessing and the curse on the two mountains is due to a secondary interpolation of both place names. This is indicated by the peculiar sequence ‫“ על הר גריזים בעברכם את הירדן‬on Mt. Gerizim, when you have crossed the Jordan” in 27:12. Cf. Steuernagel, Das Deuteronomium, 148, who takes ‫בעברכם את‬ ‫“ הירדן‬when you have crossed the Jordan” as an interpolation; it is, however, also possible that ‫ על הר גריזים‬in v. 12 and ‫ בהר עיבל‬in v. 13 were interpolated instead. An additional argument for this assumption is suggested by the observation that the ritual seems very unrealistic if the two groups of Israelites are imagined as standing on these two mountains and being separated from each other by such a large distance; for this reason Josh 8:33 changes the ritual substantially by stating that each half of the people was standing “to-

The Altar on Mount Gerizim (Deuteronomy 27:1–8)

213

However, after the idea came up that Gerizim is the mountain of the blessing, it seemed reasonable that this inscription was placed there as well, since it was set up to be read and to remind the Israelites of the Torah so that they abide by it and may be blessed. The inscription on Mt. Gerizim was then combined with the altar of unhewn stones, at the third level of the literary history of this text. In sum, there have been probably three different stages in the literary history of Deut 27 that revolved around the topic of Mt. Gerizim.

C. Peripheries and Centers: Jordan, Gerizim, Ebal, Jerusalem Does Deut 27 contain an etiology for the temple cult on Mt. Gerizim? This question cannot be answered unequivocally. On the one hand, the late passage Deut 27:5–7 instructs the Israelites to build an altar on Mt. Gerizim according to both the altar law of Exod 20 and the centralization laws of Deut 12. If an altar existed there centuries after the Mosaic age, it seems most natural that priests and worshippers who gathered around it remembered the Mosaic commandment of Deut 27 which at least indirectly legitimized their cultic activity. Although we read nothing about this sanctuary in the historical books, the weight of this Deuteronomic instruction cannot be overstated, since it is possible to take it as a hieros logos of the Gerizim sanctuary. On the other hand, the text does not exclude the notion that this place was later given up in the course of the Israelite history and Yhwh finally chose another place for his cult. 51 In fact, the ephemeral character of the altar is suggested by the motif of the unhewn stones of which it is to be made. This corresponds to the fact that Mt. Gerizim is, apart from Josh 8, mentioned only once more in the historical books, namely in Judg 9:7 as the place of Jotham’s polemical speech against the Shechemites where nothing indicates that this mountain is a cultic site. In this context it is important to note that in Deut 27:4–8 the localization on Mt. Gerizim does not exclusively refer to the altar. It is probable that the instruction about the Torah inscription that frames the altar instruction (vv. 4, 8) was inserted earlier than the altar instruction itself (vv. 5–7), and the Torah inscription is in all likelihood a kind of utopian idea that was never realized in this form. Deuteronomy 27 indicates that this installation was originally imagined as located near the Jordan, perhaps as an wards” (‫ )אל מול‬these mountains. It is therefore possible that the ritual of Deut 27:12–13* (14) was originally imagined as taking place near the Jordan, in correspondence to the original place of the Torah stones in vv. 2–3. 51 Similarly Dušek, “Mt. Gerizim Sanctuary, Its History and Enigma of Origin,” 129 (with italics): “We must emphasize that the text of Deuteronomy 27 does not explicitly say that Mt. Gerizim (later Mt. Ebal in Jewish texts) is the only place chosen by Yahweh for his cult.”

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implicit etiological explanation of the pre-historical stone circles of Gilgal. The idea of transferring this inscription to Mt. Gerizim in the narrative world of Deuteronomy seems inspired by the peculiar ritual of blessing and cursing, as it is described in Deut 27:11–13 and referred to in 11:29. And the combination of Torah inscription and altar in the final text of Deut 27 is unlikely to have had a real counterpart during the history of the Gerizim sanctuary. In other words, the composite text of Deut 27 itself marks the distance between the narrative world of the Mosaic age and the world of its readers. It should also be noted that Deut 27:5–7 is only a rather short passage in the whole of Deuteronomy, and that it has no very prominent position in the structure of the book. It seems that the scribes who composed Deut 27 cautiously inserted some short references to Mt. Gerizim into the book that are on the one hand open to be understood as attesting the holiness of the place, but on the other do also suggest that the final place of the central cult may be found elsewhere, because Yhwh later chose a different ‫מקום‬. In this regard, the Torah may be called what Gary Knoppers refers to as “a compromise document.”52 Against this background, it remains a remarkable phenomenon, however, that a deliberate change of the place name in Deut 27:4 became necessary at a certain moment. This textual change indirectly indicates that readers of the Hellenistic age were in fact able to find in Deut 27 a hieros logos for the sanctuary on Mt. Gerizim. This etiological reading of Deut 27 was made impossible by the replacement of the name Gerizim with Ebal. The episode of Josh 8:30–35, which already presupposes this change, attests the same tendency.53 These scribal interventions mirror an exclusive Jerusalem-centered perspective, and they implicitly witness Jerusalem’s claim to be the single chosen place of Yhwh (cf. esp. Ps 132).54 It seems, however, that these interventions took place only at relatively late stages in the transmission of the Pentateuch and the book of Joshua.

52 Knoppers, Jews and Samaritans, 212; similarly Fabry, “Noch ein Dekalog! Die Thora des lebendigen Gottes in ihrer Wirkungsgeschichte,” 95–96; Reinhard Achenbach, Israel zwischen Verheißung und Gebot: Literarkritische Untersuchungen zu Deuteronomium 5– 11 (European University Studies 23.422; Frankfurt a. M.: Lang, 1991), 391–92; Dušek, Aramaic and Hebrew Inscriptions, 90: “The text of Pentateuch [sic], shared by the Yahwists in Samaria and in Judaea, was a fundament of their Israelite identity perhaps from the Persian period onward. This shared text was a compromise between both communities.” 53 This tendency is also found in Deut 11:30 where Gerizim and Ebal are translocated to the vicinity of the Jordan near Gilgal, see Veijola, Das 5. Buch Mose: Deuteronomium, 259. 54 See Reinhard Müller, “David und die Lade, Zion und der Gesalbte: Geschichte und Zukunft des Königtums nach Ps 132,” in Psalmen und Chronik – Psalms and Chronicles (ed. Friedhelm Hartenstein and Thomas Willi; FAT; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), forthcoming.

Periphery as Provocation? 1 Kings 17 and 2 Kings 51 Erik Aurelius In the Gospel of Luke, chapter 4, Jesus gives a programmatic speech in the synagogue of Nazareth. After a variant of the popular sentence “no prophet is accepted in his own town (or: country)” he reminds the audience firstly of Elijah who was not sent to help poor widows in Israel “when the heaven was shut up for three years and six months and there was a great famine” but only to one in Zarephath at Sidon. Secondly he reminds them of Elisha through whom no lepers in Israel were cleansed but only Naaman from Syria (Luke 4:24–27). In the following, Luke makes clear that these allusions on two biblical stories provoke the congregation in Nazareth, quite understandably so, as they serve as a justification for Jesus’ refusal to perform any wonders in his home town and tell about a woman and a man in the periphery who were helped at the cost of the people in the centre. The question now is if these two biblical stories originally in their literary and historical context were as provocative as when they were used in the Gospel of Luke or if they seem to have had some other purpose, or purposes: Elijah’s movement from the centre to the periphery in Zarephath, 1 Kgs 17:8– 16, and Naaman’s movement from the periphery in Syria to Elisha in the centre and back again, 2 Kgs 5. In later tradition, Elijah is by far more important than Elisha, from Mal 3 onwards. Also when both of them are mentioned, Elijah as a rule takes up more space, for instance, in the hymn of our ancestors in Sirach (48:1–11 and 12–14, respectively). The passage in Luke 4 seems to be a rare exception where they are equally important as scriptural precedents; the two episodes alluded to in Luke 4, however, do not seem to play any significant role in other writings preceding or contemporary with the New Testament. The biblical stories about Elijah are contained in 1 Kgs 17–19 and 21, where king Ahab and queen Jezebel are his counterparts, and in 2 Kgs 1, a kind of appendix about his conflict with Ahab’s successor Ahaziah. The stories about Elisha fill 2 Kgs 2:19–8:15, then he appears again in ch. 9, the first part of the story about Jehu’s revolution, and finally in 2 Kgs 13:14–21. In addition, we have as a connecting link an account of how Elisha becomes 1 I thank the participants in the workshop for valuable contributions in the discussion of an earlier draft of this contribution.

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Elijah’s disciple at the end of 1 Kgs 19 (v. 19–21) and an account of how he becomes his successor in 2 Kgs 2:1–18. This said, the literary character of the Elijah-stories is strikingly different from those about Elisha. The Elisha stories appear as a collection of loosely connected episodes but the Elijah-stories in their main part, 1 Kgs 17–19, form a continuous narrative where the sequence between the different parts is essential and cannot be changed without disturbing the narrative logic. The first two chapters are held together by a disastrous drought that Elijah proclaims at the beginning of ch. 17 and that ends at the end of ch. 18. In ch. 17 the drought, after it has been proclaimed, is illustrated by Elijah’s own experience: first he is fed by ravens at the Wadi Cherith and then by a widow in Zarephath, whose son he also revives from the dead. In ch. 18, he confronts king Ahab again, and then the Baal prophets on Mount Carmel, and the chapter ends with a heavy rain. The beginning of the whole composition in 1 Kgs 17:1 reads (“of Tishbe” according to the Septuagint): Elijah the Tishbite, of Tishbe in Gilead, said to Ahab, “As Yhwh, the God of Israel lives, before whom I stand, there shall be neither dew nor rain these years, except by my word.”

If we regard it as the beginning of an originally independent unit of Elijahstories, this verse lacks some vital information: Who is Ahab? Why will there be a drought? We are not even told where the confrontation takes place, although God already in the next two verses commands Elijah to go “from here,” ‫מזה‬. It is true that Wellhausen found the sudden introduction in good accordance with Elijah’s “lightning-like nature” but nevertheless he assumed that there once had been a more comprehensive beginning.2 This has since then been a dominant opinion, in combination with the assumption that the basic narrative in 1 Kgs 17–18 is a pre-deuteronomistic “drought-composition.”3 However, the escape into the unknown is generally problematic; accordingly it is not surprising that the idea of an originally longer but now suppressed beginning has been challenged now and then, already by Skinner at 2 Julius Wellhausen, Die Composition des Hexateuchs und der historischen Bücher des Alten Testaments (3rd ed.; Berlin: Reimer, 1899), 278f. 3 E.g. Immanuel Benzinger, Die Bücher der Könige (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1899), 106; Rudolph Kittel, Die Bücher der Könige (HAT I,5; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1900), 138; Georg Fohrer, Elia (2nd ed.; AThANT 53; Zurich: Zwingli, 1968), 34f, 53; Odil Hannes Steck, Überlieferung und Zeitgeschichte in den Elia-Erzählungen (WMANT 26; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1968), 5, 9, 14 n. 3, 29f; Ernst Würthwein, Die Bücher der Könige: 1. Kön. 17–2. Kön. 25 (ATD 11/2; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1984), 211; Mordechai Cogan, 1 Kings (AB 10; New York: Doubleday, 2001), 431; Winfried Thiel, Könige II (BKAT IX,2; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2000), 22.

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the end of the 19th century, then for instance by Montgomery 1951 and Smend 1975.4 They regard 17:1 in its present wording as the original beginning of the assumed pre-deuteronomistic composition. The weakness of this suggestion is not only that the reader is left with the questions: Who is Ahab? Why does Elijah inaugurate a drought? And where do they meet? But it would also be without parallels that an independent story that introduces an unknown person begins with the narrative form ‫ ;ויאמר‬the only narrative form that is attested in such a position is ‫ויהי‬.5 But if we leave the assumption that the basic layer of ch. 17–19 or at least 17–18 is a pre-deuteronomistic composition, we get answers to all of the above questions. If ch. 17 always was preceded by ch. 16, we know from there that Ahab was king of Israel, and that he was a bad king who served Baal in his capital Samaria and “did more to provoke the anger of Yhwh, the God of Israel, than had all the kings of Israel who were before him” (16:33). Then we are still in Samaria when Elijah meets Ahab and it is quite understandable that the prophet in an oath by “Yhwh, the God of Israel” proclaims a drought as punishment for the king’s apostasy. The conclusion that 1 Kgs 17–19, or 17–18 with ch. 19 as a later addition, was from the outset of a deuteronomistic or, rather, post-deuteronomistic composition has been drawn by Stipp in 1987. Since then, some other scholars have maintained this position as well, though it is certainly not the majority view. In my opinion, however, there are convincing reasons to conclude that this portion of 1 Kings was a later addition.6 4 John Skinner, Kings (2nd ed.; London and Edinburgh: T.C. & E.C. Jack, 1904), 223; James A. Montgomery and Henry S. Gehman, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Book of Kings (ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1951), 292; Rudolph Smend, “Das Wort Jahwes an Elia: Erwägungen zur Komposition von 1 Kön 17–19,” in idem, Die Mitte des Alten Testaments: Exegetische Aufsätze (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002), 203–18, 210f. 5 Walter Groß, “Syntaktische Erscheinungen am Anfang althebräischer Erzählungen: Hintergrund und Vordergrund,” Congress Volume Vienna 1980 (ed. John A. Emerton; VTSup 32; Leiden: Brill, 1981), 131–45, 134; Hermann-Josef Stipp, Elischa – Propheten – Gottesmänner: Die Kompositionsgeschichte des Elischazyklus und verwandter Texte: Rekonstruiert auf der Basis von Text- und Literarkritik zu 1 Kön 20. 22 und 2 Kön 2–7 (ATSAT 24; St. Ottilien: EOS, 1987), 176f; Matthias Köckert, “Elia: Literarische und religionsgeschichtliche Probleme in 1 Kön 17–18,” in Der eine Gott und die Götter: Polytheismus und Monotheismus in antiken Israel (ed. Manfred Oeming and Konrad Schmid; AThANT 82; Zurich: TVZ, 2003), 111–44, 118 n. 31. 6 Stipp, Elischa – Propheten – Gottesmänner, 451–61, esp. 460f; Erhard Blum, “Der Prophet und das Verderben Israels: Eine ganzheitliche, historisch-kritische Lektüre von 1 Kön 17–19,” in idem, Textgestalt und Komposition: Exegetische Beiträge zu Tora und vorderen Propheten (ed. Wolfgang Oswald; FAT 69; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 339–53, esp. 352 n. 52; Susanne Otto, Jehu, Elia und Elisa: Die Erzählung von der JehuRevolution und die Komposition der Elia-Elisa-Erzählungen (BWANT 152; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2001), 159ff; Köckert, “Elia,” 118ff.

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The first reason, already mentioned, is that the beginning of 17:1 is perfectly sufficient when it is preceded by ch. 16. A second reason is that the course of events is directed by words of God, introduced by the formula “the word of Yhwh came to” ‫ויהי דבר יהוה אל‬, in 17:2–3, 8–9 and 18:1. The formula is characteristic for Jeremiah (21 of 85 instances), Ezekiel (43) and later prophetical books; the few cases in the books of Samuel and Kings outside the Elijah-chapters are probably all of deuteronomistic origin or later.7 But if we, with several scholars, regard these passages in the Elijah-composition as later insertions,8 this would again leave us with some questions: Why does Elijah go just to the Wadi Cherith? Why does he go from there all the way to Zarephath, which obviously suffers no less from the drought? And why does he, after some years, go back to meet Ahab? Because God told him to, is the answer in 17:2–3, 8–9 and 18:1. If we omit these passages, we could make the original story, and the prophet, more mystifying than they really are.9 A third reason is that if one regards God’s word as a secondary concept here, it would be consequent also to omit 17:1 as secondary, and then the assumed composition would be dissolved in fragments. Elijah’s proclamation of a drought is not expressly labelled as a word of God, but he refers to God in his oath, which underlines their close relationship. And he uses the rare expression “Yhwh … before whom I stand.” Except the four occurrences in the Elijah- and Elisha-texts this refers, as Köckert has pointed out, only once to a prophet standing before God. This occurs in Jer 15:19 where “you shall stand before me,” ‫לפני תעמד‬, is explicated through the parallel “you shall serve as my mouth,” ‫כפי תהיה‬.10 This is a hint that Elijah, like Jeremiah, is portrayed as standing before God in order to receive and proclaim his word, and that it would be unwise to make a sharp distinction between Elijah’s oath at the beginning (17:1) and the words of God in the following story (17:2–3, 8–9, 18:1). Thus there are good reasons to regard God’s word to and through Elijah as the governing principle of the events already in the original composition and consequently the composition as deuteronomistic or, rather, post7

1 Sam 15:10; 2 Sam 7:4; 24:11; 1 Kings 12:22; 13:20; 16:1; 17:2, 8; 18:1; 21:17, 28; cf. Ernst Würthwein, “Tradition und Redaktion in I Reg 17–18,” in idem, Studien zum Deuteronomistischen Geschichtswerk (BZAW 227; Berlin and New York: de Gruyter 1994), 107–14; Köckert, “Elia,” 121. 8 E.g. Smend, “Das Wort Jahwes an Elia,” 205–10; Christoph Levin, “Erkenntnis Gottes durch Elia,” in idem, Fortschreibungen: Gesammelte Studien zum Alten Testament (BZAW 316; Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, 2003), 158–68; Würthwein, Die Bücher der Könige, 269–72. 9 Köckert, “Elia,” 123f. Concerning the alleged doublet 5a/5b Smend, “Das Wort Jahwes an Elia,” 209 admits that the expression in 5a could be an established formula; cf. v. 15a. 10 1 Kgs 17:1; 18:15; 2 Kgs 3:14; 5:16; cf. Köckert, “Elia,” 123.

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deuteronomistic, and post-exilic, a piece of literature from the Second Temple Period. The writer of the composition might deserve to be called an author. That does not mean that he invented the content of the different episodes all by himself. But from where did he get it? In the case of the widow in Zarephath we can get a hint from a discrepancy between the last two episodes in ch. 17, v. 8–16 and v. 17–24. In the first one she is a poor woman in want of her daily bread (v. 12) but in the next one, when her son dies and is revived by Elijah, she is a “mistress of a house,” ‫ בעלת הבית‬v. 17, even a house with an “upper chamber,” ‫ עליה‬v. 19,11 where the prophet stays, although she is no doubt the same woman, ‫ האשה‬v. 17. Now, in the Elisha collection there are, as is well known, two related stories. In 2 Kgs 4:1–7, Elisha helps a poor widow to get money by a miracle that produces several jars of oil out of the only jar she had left. In the next story, 4:8–37, he visits a wealthy woman in Shunem several times, stays every time in the upper chamber in her house (v. 9–11), and at the end of the long story, with probably more than one literary layer, he revives her dead son whose body she had hidden in the upper chamber (v. 32–35). As has been noted by some scholars, the simplest solution to the problem with the simultaneously poor and wealthy widow in Zarephath is that two different Elisha-stories have been reshaped in 1 Kgs 17 and combined into one Elijah-story with two scenes.12 The first story about the abundant oil supply has been adapted to the general situation of drought and famine, so the oil is supplemented with a jar of a never ending meal (v. 14–16). And both stories have been reshaped in what one could call a theological direction. The miracle with the oil is not only completed with meal but it is also caused by a word of God and preceded by a test of faith in this word. Elijah tells the widow: “first make me a little cake” (v. 13) – of the meal that was just enough for the last cake for her and her son – “for thus says Yhwh the God of Israel: The jar of meal will not be emptied and the jug of oil will not fail until the day that Yhwh sends rain upon the earth” (v. 14). “She went and did as Elijah said” (v. 15) – and they had meal and oil as Yhwh said (v. 16). Gustaf Dalman, Arbeit und Sitte in Palästina VII: Das Haus, Hühnerzucht, Taubenzucht, Bienenzucht (Gütersloh: Bertelsmann, 1942), 85 (“kam wohl nur bei besseren Häusern vor”). 12 Cf. Fohrer, Elia, 35f; Hans-Christoph Schmitt, Elisa: Traditionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen zur vorklassischen nordisraelitischen Prophetie (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1972), 157 n. 23; Alexander Rofé, The Prophetical Stories: The Narratives about the Prophets in the Hebrew Bible, Their Literary Types and History (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1988), 132–34; Blum, “Der Prophet und das Verderben Israels,” 340–42; Köckert, “Elia,” 124–27. 11

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In the second scene, when the boy is revived, some similar changes have been made. There is more emphasis on the prophet’s prayer and less on his magical manipulations in 1 Kgs 17 (v. 20–22) than in 2 Kgs 4 (v. 33–35). And at the end the mother falls down for Elisha in 2 Kgs 4 (v. 37) but in 1 Kgs 17 she utters a confession: “Now I know that you are a man of God and that the word of Yhwh in your mouth is truth” (v. 24).13 If it is correct, as I think it is, that the author of the Elijah-composition in 1 Kgs 17 combined and reshaped two Elisha-stories and transformed them to Elijah, the question remains: Why did he change the stage from the centre, the land of Canaan, to the periphery, Zarephath at Sidon? What point did he want to make by that? He shows the omnipotence of Yhwh, who brings drought also over Baal’s land, and who can help also there, is a common answer,14 sometimes with the addition that this could be a comfort for Jewish exiles.15 But I think Blum’s emphasis on Sidon is more to the point: God commands Elijah to go to Zarephat “at Sidon,” ‫( אשר לצידון‬17:9), and Sidon has a special significance in the Elijah-composition as the origin of his enemy queen Jezebel who is mentioned shortly before, at the end of ch. 16: “daughter of King Ethbaal of the Sidonians” (v. 31).16 By this connection, the poor widow who trusts the word of God through his prophet and is saved, appears as a contrast to the mighty queen who does not trust him and is not saved. The gentile queen is the prototype of unbelief in the Elijah-composition; the gentile widow becomes the prototype of faith. Is there anything provocative in this glorification of a gentile woman? Certainly not as in the allusion in the Gospel of Luke. There is no command to Elijah not to help any poor widows in Israel. In fact he is sent to Zarephath in order to get help himself: “I have commanded a widow there to feed you,” God says (17:9). But perhaps there is a touch of provocation in the fact that the gentile woman in the periphery shows precisely that faith in the God of Israel that the people in the centre should have had but does not show until the end of ch. 18, after a great miracle on Mount Carmel. The story of Naaman in 2 Kgs 5 presupposes that there is a prophet in Israel, called Elisha, who can perform miracles. In other words, it presupposes at least some of the Elisha stories, probably a collection of them, but there is no overall structure that one must know in order to understand the single units.

13 There are no sufficient grounds to doubt that the vers 17:24 is an original unity, expressing the reaction to both wonders and thus closing the whole section 17:8–24; see Köckert, “Elia,” 126 n. 60. 14 Cogan, 1 Kings, 432; Köckert, “Elia,” 120. 15 Würthwein, Die Bücher der Könige, 213. 16 Blum, “Der Prophet und das Verderben Israels,” 343, 345f.

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221

Traditionally, the story of Naaman has been regarded as an original unity, complete and coherent and with few if any remnants of older tradition.17 But Gunkel’s remark that the story also could have ended with v. 14 or 1918 was taken up by Hans-Christoph Schmitt 1972 who held a more optimistic view of the possibility to detect older components here.19 He identified three layers: first one about Naaman’s leprosy, ending with the healing in v. 14 and glorifying Israelite prophecy; secondly an addition about Naaman’s conversion, ending with Elisha’s farewell in v. 19a: “Go in peace!,” a treatise of gentiles’ relation to Yhwh; and finally a last addition about Gehazi’s greed and deceit, with the ending in v. 27 in which Elisha gives him Naaman’s leprosy as a punishment, and which serves a polemic against the greed of some prophets. This analysis has been followed and elaborated in several publications, including the most recent contribution to the subject, as far as I know, by Ruth Sauerwein in 2014.20 Her careful and thorough investigation, however, at the same time illustrates the problem with this analysis. On the one hand, she realizes more clearly than many others how much one should assign as later insertions in v. 1–14 in order to uncover a basic story of more or less the same kind as the other short miracle episodes in the Elisha collection. She reduces as far as possible the unusual great number of characters and of theological expressions and, of course, all connections that actually exist with the two following sections of the chapter, v. 15–19a and 19b–27. The result is a basic layer consisting of v. 1aα.b, 2–3, 9–10, 14, in her own words a reduction to the indispensable:21 5:1. Naaman, commander of the army of the king of Aram, was a great man and in high favor with his master […]. The man, though a mighty warrior, suffered from leprosy. 2. Now the Arameans on one of their raids had taken a young girl captive from the land of Israel, and she served Naaman’s wife. 3. She said to her mistress, “If only my lord were with the prophet who is in Samaria! He would cure him of his leprosy.” […] 9. So Naaman came with his horses and chariots, and halted at the entrance of Elisha’s house. 10. Elisha sent a messenger to him, saying, “Go, wash in the Jordan seven times, and your flesh shall

E.g. Hugo Gressmann, Die älteste Geschichtsschreibung und Prophetie Israels (SAT 2/1; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1910), 296; Hermann Gunkel, Geschichten von Elisa: Meisterwerke hebräischer Erzählkunst (Berlin: Curtius, 1925), 31. 18 Gunkel, Geschichten, 38, 42. 19 Schmitt, Elisa, 78–80, 108, 128f, 173. 20 Ruth Sauerwein, Elischa: Eine redaktions- und religionsgeschichtliche Studie (BZAW 465; Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, 2014), 55–64. Cf. also e.g. Georg Hentschel, “Die Heilung Naamans durch das Wort des Gottesmannes (2 Kön 5),” in Künder des Wortes: Beiträge zur Theologie der Propheten (ed. Lothar Ruppert, Peter Weimar, and Erich Zenger; Würzburg: Echter, 1982) and idem, 2 Könige (NEB 11; Würzburg; Echter, 1985), 23–26; Würthwein, Die Bücher der Könige, 296–303. 21 “Die Handlung dieser Wundererzählung ist auf das Nötigste reduziert” (63). 17

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be restored and you shall be clean.” […] 14. So he went down and dipped himself seven times in the Jordan, according to the word of the man of God; his flesh was restored like the flesh of a young boy, and he was clean.

On the other hand, even so the story differs from the other small Elisha episodes, as Sauerwein herself remarks. It is still less concise; and also after the radical reduction of the population there still are more characters than otherwise: Naaman, a captive girl, Naaman’s wife, Elisha, and Elisha’s messenger. Therefore it seems justified to ask for the point of the procedures, especially in view of the fact that, as Stipp has emphasized and Sauerwein admits, there are no doublets or tensions here that demand a literary critical explanation.22 It is rather the three apparent endings in v. 14, 19 and 27 that have stimulated the questions and procedures – quite understandably, and I usually belong to the optimists when it comes to the search for older literary layers. But here I do not think that the result of even the best efforts is convincing. The natural conclusion, then, is to return to the traditional view that has been revived by Rofé, Robert Cohn and Stipp, that the chapter is an original literary unity.23 As to the three endings one could with Cohn associate to the poem Parting by Emily Dickenson and say: “Like the life of the persona in Emily Dickenson’s poem, the narrative ‘closed twice before its close’.” 24 That might well be an authorial device. There are several possibilities to describe the structure of the narrative; the following one is based on von Rad’s unconventional but attractive idea that the story has two peaks: v. 9–13 and v. 15–19, with v. 14 as the valley between them,25 but one must add, a crucial valley, decisive for all that follows. Exposition: v. 1–2 Naaman goes to Israel: v. 3–8 Naaman and Elisha I. Naaman leaves in anger: v. 9–13 Naaman “goes down”: v. 14 Naaman and Elisha II. Naaman leaves in peace: v. 15–19 Naaman goes back home: v. 20–27

Stipp, Elischa – Propheten – Gottesmänner, 315–19; Sauerwein, Elischa, 56. There are a few words and expressions in MT that are not attested in LXX; at least some of them may be regarded as insertions, already on textcritical grounds. 23 Rofé, The Prophetical Stories, 126–131; Robert L. Cohn, “Form and Perspective in 2 Kings V,” VT 33 (1983): 171–84; Stipp, Elischa – Propheten – Gottesmänner, 315–19. 24 Cohn, “Form and Perspective,” 172. 25 Gerhard von Rad, “Naaman: Eine kritische Nacherzählung,” in Gottes Wirken in Israel: Vorträge zum Alten Testament (ed. Odil Hannes Steck; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1974), 53–64, 57. 22

Periphery as Provocation?

223

The exposition in v. 1–2 stands out through nominal clauses and verbs in the perfect, describing the circumstances. 26 On the stage are on the one hand Naaman, “a great man,” ‫איש גדול‬, but leprous, ‫מצרע‬, on the other hand his contrast, a little maid, ‫נערה קטנה‬, a captive, serving Naaman’s wife. In v. 3 the action starts. Through mediation by the girl, his wife and his king, Naaman came to the king of Israel, but that was the wrong address, v. 7; the right one was the “prophet in Israel,” v. 8. The first peak, v. 9–13, is a clash between the high dignitary from abroad and the prophet who did not even appear but sent a messenger. In substance it can be called, as von Rad does, a clash between Naaman’s request for magic and the prophet’s claim for trust in his word,27 or, as Rofé does, a clash between healing through magic and healing through contact with Yhwh’s holy land. 28 However, the sevenfold dipping in Jordan that Elisha prescribes in v. 10 can also be regarded as magic, although of another kind; it is a question of definition. It would be more precise to talk about a clash between Naaman’s expectation of personal attention through magical manipulations and the prophet’s indifference to, or even dissociation from, such actions. After intervention by his unnamed servants Naaman in v. 14 “went down,” ‫וירד‬, literally into Jordan, figuratively from his arrogance, and his flesh “returned,” ‫וישב‬, into the flesh of “a little boy,” ‫נער קטן‬, a contrast to the “great man,” ‫איש גדול‬, at the beginning; and “he was clean,” ‫ויטהר‬. In v. 15–19 Naaman returned, ‫וישב‬, to Elisha and a completely different meeting with him. He “stood before him,” ‫ויעמד לפניו‬, like a servant before his master, and the first thing he uttered revealed that he had “returned” also in a deeper sense: he had converted to the God of Israel: “Now I know that there is no God in all the earth but in Israel.”29 The confession surpasses or even corrects Elisha’s self-conscious declaration in v. 8, “that he may know that there is a prophet in Israel.”30 That Elisha then so sharply refused to receive any gifts from Naaman and underlined it with an oath, v. 16, shows that he agreed with Naaman’s confession: the healing was not a work by the prophet but by God.31 Naaman countered by requiring “two mule loads of earth.” Before he “went down” in the river Jordan he was full of contempt for “the waters of 26 As noted by Volker Haarmann, JHWH-Verehrer der Völker: Die Hinwendung von Nichtisraeliten zum Gott Israels in der alttestamentlichen Überlieferung (AThANT 82; Zurich: EOS, 2008), 137. 27 Von Rad, “Naaman,” 56f. 28 Rofé, The Prophetical Stories, 128. 29 ‫ … אלהים … בישראל‬1 Kgs 18:36; 2 Kgs 1:3, 6, 16; 5:15 † (cf. Ps 76:2). 30 ‫ … נביא … בישראל‬2 Kgs 5:8; 6:12; cf. Wesley J. Bergen, Elisha and the End of Prophetism (JSOTSup 286; Sheffield: Academic Press, 1999), 115. 31 Cf. Karin Schöpflin, “Naaman: Seine Heilung und Bekehrung im Alten und im Neuen Testament,” BN 141 (2009): 35–56, 40.

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Israel” (v. 12) but now his attitude to this land is reversed – because now he intended to worship no other God than the God of Israel and to do it in the proper way: if not in the land of Israel, so at least on the land of Israel. He obviously wished to establish a small piece of Israel, the centre, outside in the periphery where he lived. As a high state official, he also asked for forgiveness in advance for his future unavoidable attendance at the state cult in Aram. Elisha’s answer in v. 19: “Go in peace!” is much discussed and open for different interpretations; we will come back to that. Verse 19 ends with a cliff-hanger: “and he went from him a short distance.” And Gehazi, “that very disagreeable servant,” 32 regretted that his master had let Naaman go, “that Aramean” as he scornfully calls the man who had just confessed his faith in the God of Israel. Now Gehazi swore with the same words as Elisha: “As Yhwh lives,” but with the opposite content: no refusal to receive gifts, on the contrary: “I will run after him and get something from him” (v. 20). And finally, as a punishment for his deceit, he really got something, namely his leprosy (v. 27). So this may be called a story about the reversal of fortunes: a leprous gentile becomes clean and a clean Israelite becomes unclean. To an unusually great extent, the whole story is characterized by contrasts: – between Naaman’s greatness and his leprosy in v. 1, – between the great but helpless Naaman and the insignificant but resourceful little girl, – between the incapable king of Israel in v. 7 and the mighty prophet in Israel in v. 8, – between Elisha’s prescription and Naaman’s expectation in v. 10–11, – between the rivers of Damascus and the waters of Israel in v. 12, – between the stubborn Naaman and his sensible servants in v. 13, – between the “great man” in v. 1 and his flesh having become like that of “a little boy” in v. 14, – between the God of Israel and all other gods in v. 15, – between the piece of earth in v. 17 and the temple of Rimmon in v. 18, – between Elisha’s oath in v. 16: “I will have nothing (‫ ”!)אם אקח‬and Gehazi’s oath in v. 20: “I will get something (‫”!)ולקחתי‬33 – and between Naaman’s first confrontation with Elisha, when he leaves in anger, and their meeting in v. 15–19, when he leaves in peace. This final meeting is the most discussed section and probably the main point in the subtle and thought-provoking story. It is a treatise of a contradiction. On the one hand the God of Israel is the One and only in the whole world. On Montgomery, Commentary, 376. All these contrasts noted by Klaas A. D. Smelik, “Das Kapitel 2. Könige 5 als literarische Einheit,” DBAT 25 (1990): 29–47, 45. 32 33

Periphery as Provocation?

225

the other hand he can only be properly worshiped in the land of Israel; all other countries are unclean (cf. Amos 7:17). This is the problem of the exiles, of the diaspora, and this problem is according to some scholars addressed by the Naaman story. 34 Other scholars object, probably correctly, that it seems far-fetched that the gentile Naaman should be a model for Jewish exiles. He is, and remains, an Aramean. As Haarmann has emphasized in a recent study, there are no hints of circumcision or Sabbath-observance or any sign at all that Naaman becomes a member of the people or community of Israel.35 It is true that one could associate his “dipping” in Jordan, described by the verb ‫טבל‬, with the proselyte baptism, tevîlâ;36 and that his flesh became like that of a little boy could remind of the rabbinical saying that a converted proselyte is “like a new-born child.”37 But these vague associations do not justify the widespread habit of calling Naaman a proselyte. Rather, he should be regarded as the first God-fearer, in rabbinical terminology a ‫גר תושב‬, a “righteous gentile.” The term ‫גר תושב‬ has changed its meaning in rabbinical texts from the biblical “resident alien,” a foreigner who resides in the land of Israel, into one who is a theological neighbour: a gentile abroad who believes in the God of Israel and no other gods but remains what he is, in this case an Aramean and in no way a member of the people of Israel.38 This presupposes that Elisha’s farewell to Naaman: “Go in peace!” is meant to be an approval of what he had asked for; but is that so? No doubt it sounds friendly. And it is worth noticing that it contains no prohibition nor any rules or admonitions whatsoever. But it contains no explicit forgiveness either. As von Rad says, the prophet “leaves the convert to his young faith or rather, to the hand of the God who had sought and found him.” Von Rad indicates that the lack of precision in Elisha’s answer is a sign that the author is suggesting something that does not belong to the established truths, not yet.39 Cohn has objected: “Elisha’s answer suggests that he deems Naaman as a loyal and legitimate servant of Yahweh despite his other commitment to his ‘lord’.”40 But this is not necessarily an objection. Rather, it expounds what is implied in von Rad’s interpretation, namely that on the one hand it would be too much to say that Elisha’s answer explicitly grants Naaman’s requests, but

Rofé, The Prophetical Stories, 131; Würthwein, Die Bücher der Könige, 301. Haarmann, JHWH-Verehrer der Völker, 151f, 163–67. 36 The verb has nothing to do with baptism (or the dipping of human beings) at the other 15 biblical occurrences. 37 bJeb 22a; cf. Haarmann, JHWH-Verehrer der Völker, 28f. 38 Haarmann, JHWH-Verehrer der Völker, 34, 38f, 151f, 166f; Sauerwein, Elischa, 60. 39 Von Rad, “Naaman,” 59f. 40 Cohn, “Form and Perspective,” 179. 34 35

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on the other hand, its vague but friendly openness lets the reader conclude that Naaman’s future worship in Aram is implicitly accepted. Consequently, Naaman is to be regarded as a model for God-fearers, “righteous gentiles” in the periphery who worship God in their way; and so he is actually regarded in rabbinical tradition.41 At the same time, the story emphasizes the holiness of the land of Israel.42 As for the dating, the implied admission to sacrifice outside Jerusalem does not mean that the story must be pre-deuteronomic and thus pre-exilic, as several scholars have maintained.43 Firstly, it has been noted that if Elisha had told Naaman to sacrifice only in Jerusalem it would have been in conflict with what is presupposed in all the other Elisha stories.44 Secondly, there was no prohibition for gentiles to bring sacrifices to Yahweh outside Jerusalem, as we can see in post-exilic texts like Isa 19:19ff or Jonah 1:16.45 Positively, Naaman’s confession, “There is no God in all the earth but in Israel” surpasses the confession Elijah wants from the people on Mount Carmel insofar as Naaman’s confession is uttered by a gentile.46 It also surpasses the confession Elijah demands in 2 Kgs 1 from king Ahaziah, who turned to Baal of Ekron when he was ill: “Is there no God in Israel?” Elijah asks (v. 3, 6, 16). Compared to this, the confession of the gentile Naaman, who turned to Israel when he was ill, is more clear-cut monotheistic. The story of Naaman’s illness appears as the positive counterpart to the story of Ahaziah’s illness and expresses a clearer monotheistic theology; so it probably presupposes the story of Ahaziah.47 In fact, Naaman’s confession has its closest parallels in

Cf. Haarmann, JHWH-Verehrer der Völker, 166–69. Cf. Cohn, “Form and Perspective,” 183. 43 See Haarmann, JHWH-Verehrer der Völker, 166f (references to Robert R. Wilson, “Deuteronomy, Ethnicity and Reform: Reflections on the Social Setting of the Book of Deuteronomy,” in Constituting the Community: Studies in the Polity of Ancient Israel (ed. John T. Strong and Steven S. Tuell; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2005), 107–23; Norbert Clemens Baumgart, Gott, Prophet und Israel: Eine synchrone und diachrone Auslegung der Naamanerzählung und ihrer Gehaziepisode (2 Kön 5) (EThSt 68; Leipzig: Benno, 1994); Winfried Thiel, “Das ‘Land’ in den Elia- und Elisa-Überlieferungen,” in Landgabe (Prague: Oikumene and Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1995); Otto, Jehu, Elia und Elischa; so also Mordechai Cogan and Hayim Tadmor, 2 Kings (AB 10; New York: Doubleday, 2000), 67. 44 Bergen, Elisha and the End of Prophetism, 119f. 45 Cf. Matthias Köckert, “‘Gibt es keinen Gott in Israel?’ Zum literarischen, historischen und religionsgeschichtlichen Ort von II Reg 1,” in Auf dem Weg zur Endgestalt von Genesis bis II Regum: Festschrift für Hans-Christoph Schmitt zum 65. Geburtstag (ed. Martin Beck and Ulrike Schorn; BZAW 370; Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, 2006), 253–71, 266; Haarmann, JHWH-Verehrer der Völker, 167, 238–42. 46 With Köckert, “‘Gibt es keinen Gott in Israel?’,” 266. 47 Haarmann, JHWH-Verehrer der Völker, 155. 41

42

Periphery as Provocation?

227

Deutero-Isaiah and the monotheistic passages in Deut 4, v. 35 and 39, and Deut 7, v. 9. It can be added that Sauerwein dates already her basic layer in v. 1–14* in post-exilic times.48 Because even this short version differs significantly from the other, even shorter and simpler miracle stories, she regards it as a contribution by the one who first inserted an Elisha collection in the deuteronomistic history. If we look at the whole chapter as a unity, it stands out even more clearly from most of its context: Elisha lives in Samaria, he has a connection to the king, he shows no interest in magical manipulations, rather a negative attitude, and when Gehazi appears again in ch. 8, he shows no sign of leprosy nor any bad relation to Elisha. In all probability, the story of Naaman is a late contribution to the Elisha collection, certainly from the Second Temple period, late Persian times perhaps. Now the final question: is there anything provoking in this story of a high official from the periphery who went back as a radical monotheist and a determined worshiper of the God of Israel? As in the case with the widow in Zarephath, there is at least not the same provocation as in the allusion in the Gospel of Luke. There is no indication that Elisha helped Naaman instead of leprous Israelites. But in this story so full of contrasts, of course there is something provocative for the intended audience in the contrast between the pious and generous foreigner Naaman and the greedy and deceitful Israelite Gehazi;49 perhaps also in the softer contrast between Elisha’s demand that the king of Israel may learn “that there is a prophet in Israel” (v. 8) and Naaman’s insight “that there is no God … except in Israel” (v. 15). No doubt the story has a didactic purpose, the lesson to be learned concerns the true knowledge of God and the lesson is taught by a gentile. In the two stories about the nameless widow in Zarephath and the Aramean officer Naaman, the periphery is in fact used as a provocation for the public in the centre, although not in the same way as when the two gentiles are mentioned in Luke 4. However, it does remind of two stories in the Gospel of Matthew. There, a Roman officer makes Jesus exclaim, “In no one in Israel have I found such faith!” (Matt 8:10) and a woman with a dying child “in the district of Tyre and Sidon” finally gets the answer, “Woman, great is your faith!” (Matt 15:28). It is a peculiar fact that only the Gospel of Matthew mentions both of these two gentiles and in many ways accentuates that they are a couple, two of a kind, the only ones whose faith is praised by Jesus,

Sauerwein, Elischa, 102–104, 116f. Cf. von Rad, “Naaman,” 61; Cohn, “Form and Perspective,” 180; Burke O. Long, 2 Kings (FOTL 10; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1991), 68; Haarmann, JHWHVerehrer der Völker, 145. 48

49

228

Erik Aurelius

whereas only the Gospel of Luke mentions their Old Testament models. But that is another story.50

50 Cf. Erik Aurelius, “Gottesvolk und Aussenseiter: Eine geheime Beziehung LukasMatthäus,“ NTS 47 (2001): 428–41.

The Temple of Jerusalem as the Centre of Affairs in the Book of Chronicles Memories of the Past and Contemporary Social Setting Magnar Kartveit At the centre of the book of Chronicles stands the notion of the temple, depicted as the centre of Jerusalem, which again is considered to constitute the centre of Israel, the land that is described as the centre of the world. World – Israel – Jerusalem – temple – this threefold centralizing is obtained through the list of the peoples of the world in chapter 1, through the survey of the tribes of Israel in chapters 2–8, and by the emphasis on the royal responsibility for the temple in the rest of the book. The last sentences in the book are the beginning of the Cyrus edict that allows the people to rebuild the temple, ending with an encouragement to “go up” to Jerusalem. Scholars agree that these are the overall ideas in the book, but disagree on the purpose of the idea of centralization, its opponents, and its time. In other words, what is the character of this worldview, what constitutes the periphery related to the centre, and in which time was it created? And moreover: how would this material relate to the theory of centre and periphery, as described in the introductory essay by Ehud Ben Zvi that opens this volume?

A. Three Theories In his Ezra Studies of 1910, Charles C. Torrey, assumed that “the Chronicler’s great task was to establish the supreme authority of the Jerusalem cultus, in all its details.”1 The work was undertaken with “the Samaritans and other rivals” in view.2 The complete work included Ezra and Nehemiah, and Torrey’s dating was 250 B.C.E.3 Martin Noth followed the same line in 1943: “In developing his special interest in the legitimate kingdom and the legitimate cult, Chr.’s attention to the cult inevitably turned him against the Samar1 Charles C. Torrey, Ezra Studies (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1910), 208 (emphasis his). 2 Torrey, Ezra Studies, 209. 3 Charles C. Torrey, The Chronicler’s History of Israel: Chronicles-Ezra-Nehemiah Restored to Its Original Form (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1954), xv.

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itan cult community.”4 Noth also treats Chronicles, Ezra and Nehemia as one work, but dates it earlier, to 300 B.C.E.5 A third voice of this persuasion is Manfred Oeming.6 He concentrates on 1 Chr 1–9 and concludes, “So dienen die Genealogien in der alttestamentlichen Spätzeit, in einem Israel ohne eigenen Staat und unter fremder Obrigkeit, der Selbstdefinition und Selbstvergewisserung Israels. Sie bezeugen ein enormes Selbstbewuβtsein der Jerusalemer Tempelgemeinde, besonders ihres Kultpersonals. Im Streit vor allem mit den Samaritanern, aber auch mit frühapokalyptischen Gruppen beansprucht diese ‘Partei’ den Titel ‘Israel’ exklusiv für sich: Wir – und nur wir –, die wir von diesen Stammvätern herkommen, die wir uns fest zu Jerusalem, zu David, zum Tempel und seinen Institutionen halten, die wir dieses Land bewohnen, die wir diese Geschichte mit Gott und seine Verheiβungen haben, wir allein beanspruchen den Titel ‘Israel’ mit Recht, denn wir sind ‘das wahre Israel!’”7 Louis Jonker’s understanding of the Jerusalem temple against its counterparts as presented in this volume comes close to this model. This line of thinking considers the worldview in Chronicles (perhaps also in Ezra and Nehemiah) as depicting a centre – to the exclusion of the opponents’ view. The others are supposed to be there to form a periphery for the centre, but only as a negative point of reference for the statement that Jerusalem alone possesses validity. This understanding of centre and periphery is constituted by a self-asserting centre and an aggressively rejected periphery. A second line of thought is represented by Sara Japhet. She thinks that Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah constitute two different works, and that “the Chronicler did not consider the Samaritans a separate community. The inhabitants of Samaria were, along with the ‘resident aliens,’ descendants of the Israelite tribes, the Judeans’ brothers and an organic part of the people of Israel. We may say that the Chronicler calls for an end to tension and hatred between segments of the people and summons all Israel to unite in worship-

4 Martin Noth, The Chroniclers’s History (transl. Hugh G. M. Williamson with an introduction; JSOTSup 50; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987), 105. 5 “This would then bring us to a date around 300 B.C. as a terminus a quo for Chr.; and I am not aware of any counter-argument that would positively favour setting it earlier. On the contrary: should anyone wish to date Chr. even later, there would be no arguments with which to refute him. I grant that it would hardly be advisable to date Chr. significantly later than about 200 B.C. … For the additions however, and in particular for the numerous supplements to the genealogies, which cannot here be treated in detail, the Maccabean period should be seriously considered. It was at that time that there was a renewed interst in the twelve tribes of Israel as a whole.” Noth, Chronicler’s History, 73. 6 Manfred Oeming, Das wahre Israel: Die “genealogische Vorhalle” 1 Chronik 1–9 (BWANT 7; Stuttgart, Berlin, Köln: Kohlhammer), 1990. 7 Oeming, Das wahre Israel, 218.

The Temple of Jerusalem as the Centre of Affairs in the Book of Chronicles

231

ping Yhwh in Jerusalem.” 8 As a consequence, Chronicles is certainly contemporary with the Samaritans.9 In this model, there is no real periphery relating to the centre, or rather: periphery is incorporated into the centre to constitute one unit. One might describe this model as a centre-thinking that embraces the periphery to the extent that it disappears. Chronicles is aware of the various “others” out there, but defines them as belonging to Jerusalem, even if they are not conscious of it themselves. The book “summons all Israel to unite in worshipping Yhwh in Jerusalem.” Periphery is thus considered part of the centre, even if it is not aware that it is part and parcel of the centre. A third interpretation of Chronicles was presented by Hugh G. M. Williamson in 1977, when he said that the Chronicler “not only suggests that all the twelve tribes are an integral part of Israel, but also shows that there is nothing to prevent the practical outworking of these conclusions in the community of his day.”10 In 1991, he appealed to studies of ecumenism, and suggested that in the presentation of the temple, the Chronicler’s concern is “to link it back by physical ties of unbroken continuity with institutions or settings of far earlier days, before the division of the monarchical period, let alone his own much later time, had surfaced.”11 The date of Chronicles is set “at some point within the fourth century b.c.”12 This model can be described as presupposing a strong centre aware of the fact that the thinking of the “others” is so different that they constitute another entity. This periphery is invited to be included with the centre, as differences can be overcome. After all, they have the same origin and roots, they are, in essence, of one kind, and nothing hinders a manifestation of this unity. Geographically, the others may remain peripheral, but essentially they can constitute one centre.

8 Sara Japhet, The Ideology of the Book of Chronicles and Its Place in Biblical Thought (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns 2009), 261; eadem, The Ideology of the Book of Chronicles and Its Place in Biblical Thought (BEATAJ 9; Frankfurt a. M.: Peter Lang, 1989), 334. 9 Japhet does not date Chronicles, but only says that “the Chronistic position on the subject could only be possible at a time when, although tension between the two communities existed, they were not completely separate and there was yet some hope of unification,” eadem, Ideology, 334, n. 245. 10 Hugh G. M. Williamson, Israel in the Books of Chronicles (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 139. 11 Hugh G. M. Williamson, “The Temple in the Books of Chronicles,” in Templum Amicitiae: Essays on the Second Temple Presented to Ernst Bammel (ed. William Horbury; JSOTSup 48; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), 19; reprinted in idem, Studies in Persian History and Historiography (FAT 38; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 153. 12 Williamson, Israel, 86.

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Magnar Kartveit

Let us now take a brief look at the book of Chronicles to see which of the three approaches may commend itself. When I read the book, I think that most of the text is original, and only smaller units were added with time.13

B. Israel as the Centre of the World: Chapter 1 The mindscape of the book of Chronicles is revealed in the first chapter. The first four verses of Chronicles contain 13 names from Adam to Shem, Ham and Japheth without an explanation of the relation between them. The first ten names represent successive generations, but Shem, Ham and Japheth belong to the same generation, as we know from other HB texts, for example Gen 5. This means that the straight genealogical line widens into a network of sons when it reaches the sons of Noah.14 Verses 5–23 contain an overview of all their 70 descendants, or peoples on earth, basically taken from Gen 10.15 The Table of Nations amounts to a map of the world, moving counterclockwise from North to West to South and East, creating a feeling that Israel is in the centre. Édouard Lipiński has suggested that the Table of Nations centres on Mt. Zaphon in North Syria, which Job 26:7 considered the pivot around which the world revolved.16 If the list has a centre, in Chronicles it would be a different divine abode, namely the temple in Jerusalem. The comments of Gen 10 about settlements and languages of the peoples are omitted, but one comment is retained, “Peleg, for in his days the earth was divided (with a pun on the name, ‫)נִ ְפלְ גָ ה ָה ָא ֶרץ‬,” v. 19. Assuming that this is meant to be a gen-

13 For the first nine chapters see the literary critical analysis (Literarkritik) in Magnar Kartveit, Motive und Schichten der Landtheologie in I Chronik 1–9 (ConBOT 28; Stockholm: Almquist & Wiksell, 1989). An analysis with similar presuppositions would probably yield a similar result for the following chapters. For 1 Chr 1:1–2:2 see Gary N. Knoppers, “Shem, Ham and Japheth: The Universal and the Particular in the Genealogy of Nations,” in The Chronicler as Theologian: Essays in Honor of Ralph W. Klein (ed. M. Patrick Graham, Steven L. McKenzie, and Gary N. Knoppers; JSOTSup 371; London: T&T Clark, 2003), 13–31. He discusses the issue from various perspectives and reaches the conclusion that “almost all of the genealogy of nations stems from the Chronicles’s own hand,” 22. Idem, I Chronicles 1–9: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 12; New York: Doubleday, 2003), 92: “I find myself among those scholars who are skeptical that Chronicles underwent one or more major Priestly, Levitical, or Deuteronomistic redactions.” 14 Knoppers, “Shem, Ham and Japheth,” uses the expressions “linear” and “segmented” genealogies. 15 For a detailed investigation of this text and important comparisons with other relevant texts, see Knoppers, “Shem, Ham and Japheth.” 16 Ralph Klein, 1 Chronicles (Hermeneia; Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 2006), 69, n. 77; Édouard Lipiński, “Les Sémites selon Gen 10,21–30 et 1 Chr 1,17–23,” ZAH 6 (1993): 193– 215.

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eral comment on the Table, we have before us the populated earth with its divisions. A glance at the mosaic inscription in the synagogue floor at En-Gedi (fifth or sixth century c.e.) may help our understanding.17 The first two lines are identical with 1 Chr 1:1–4, then follow the names of the signs of the zodiac in lines 3 and 4, the names for the months of the year in lines 5–7a, and then “Abraham, Isaac, Jacob. Peace.” Line 8 presents the names of the friends of Daniel, Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah. This section is in Hebrew, and the following text is in Aramaic, mentioning that Yose, Ezron, and Hizziqiyu may be remembered for good; then follow four basic values of Judaism, and a curse upon them who violate these tenets. Lines 17–18 repeat that two of the men mentioned in line 9 may be remembered for good for their efforts for God. This text may be understood to the effect that the first names are ancestors of the world; the zodiac signs represent the solar year and the months represent the lunar year, together they present a structured and ordered universe; and then come the ancestors of Israel. The human history and the calendar lead up to Israel, followed by the names of the sponsors of the synagogue, and basic Jewish values. The pillars of the world and the pillars of Israel constitute the contents of this text, a thinking that may have been inspired by the opening verses of Chronicles, and at the same time reveals how these verses were understood in antiquity. The author of 1 Chr 1, after the Table of Nations, returns to a system of a straight line of ten generations, repeating and expanding the genealogy of Shem, ending with Abram, as in Gen 11. The name is explained, “Abram, that is Abraham.”18 Again, the author widens the scope at the point of the tenth generation, with the two sons Isaac and Ishmael, whose descendants are

17 Thomas Willi, Chronik: 1. Teilband: 1 Chronik 1,1–10,14 (BKAT XXIV/1; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2009), 48–51. 18 In this case there is a reading aid in the preceding section, vv. 17–19, in which the first five names are put in relation to each other. Consequently, one is inclined to read the next five names according to the same system, and this makes sense on the background of information from other HB texts, Gen 11:10–26. From the very beginning of the work one can see that information from other HB books is needed to understand the text. The author presupposes knowledge that he does not himself provide. This can be observed in other parts of the book as well, Peter R. Ackroyd, “The Theology of the Chronicler,” LTQ 8 (1973): 104; idem, “The Chronicler as Exegete,” JSOT 2 (1977): 21. Here, we can observe an important trait of the beginning of Chronicles: it depends upon other texts in order to be understood. “The Chronicler’s lists read like sermon notes to be filled in by the speaker as he points out their relevance to his subject,” Jacob Myers, I Chronicles (AB; New York: Doubleday, 1965), 6. We do not have a speaker (any more); accordingly, we are dependent upon extant texts that may explain to us what the lists mean. For an introduction to a work of history this phenomenon is remarkable.

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presented in the following. Ishmael’s twelve sons come first, vv. 29–31, and then the six sons of Keturah, vv. 32–33. This section is followed by a remark in v. 34 (Sondergut): Abraham fathered Isaac, the sons of Isaac were Esau and – not Jacob, but – Israel. The sons of Israel are presented in 2:1–2 as an introduction to the list of tribes in chapters 2–8. Before that, the descendants of Esau, the descendants of Seir, the kings of Edom and the chiefs of Edom (‫לּוּפי ֱאדוֹם‬ ֵ ‫ ) ַא‬are enumerated in 1 Chr 1:35–54. It seems that the traditional, or possible, connection between Esau, Seir and Edom has been severed here – a genealogical list is not provided – but three of the names of the chiefs of Edom have already appeared in the genealogies of Esau and Seir,19 and the section is presented under the name of Esau. Where geographical identifications are possible, they refer to places in the south of Israel.20 The Chronicler’s attitude to the Esau-traditions can be seen in 2 Chr 20:10, 22, 23 (Sondergut). In v. 10 ‫ר־שׂ ִ יר‬ ֵ ‫ ַה‬participates in the war of Moab and Ammon [and the Meunites] against Jehoshaphat. According to v. 23, Ammon ְ and Moab turn against ‫ר־שׂ ִ יר‬ ֵ ‫ י ְֹשׁ ֵבי ַה‬and they make an end of the ‫יוֹשׁ ֵבי‬ ‫ ֵשׂ ִ יר‬. In the days of Jehoram “Edom revolted against the rule of Judah and set up a king of their own … So Edom has been in revolt against the rule of Judah to this day,” 2 Chr 21:8.10. The word for revolt here is ‫ ָפּ ַשׁע‬, often used for “sin.” I do not think there is a contradiction between the king list in 1 Chr 1 and this remark in 2 Chr 21, as it could be uncontroversial for Esau/Edom to have their own kings before kingship arose in Israel, 1 Chr 1, but not when they were ruled from Jerusalem, 2 Chr 21. To separate from the Jerusalem kingdom amounts to revolt, or sin. First Chronicles 1 locates Israel in the centre of the world. There is no mention of the temple in chapter 1, but this institution is a main topic in the rest of the book. Chronicles is about a “Rally ‘Round the Temple.’”21 The start from Adam indicates that Chronicles linked the Jerusalem temple to the beginning of humankind. Adam is here the Adam of Gen 5, who again is the Adam of Gen 1. Chronicles traces the Jerusalem temple back to creation, and Gen 1:1–2:3 aims at the temple, as described in the rest of the book of Chronicles. Already here, the thesis of Williamson struggles, as Adam is seen in a direct link to the Jerusalem temple, and Adam lived long before the common ancestors of north and south Israel.

19 Timna is the grandson of Esau, 1:36, and the daughter of Seir, 1:39; Teman is the grandson of Esau, 1:36; Kenaz is the grandson of Esau. 20 Kartveit, Motive und Schichten, 116. 21 Roddy L. Braun, “The message of Chronicles: Rally ‘Round the Temple,’” CTM 42 (1971): 502–14. Braun considers 1 Chr 1–9 as “a probable later addition,” Roddy Braun, 1 Chronicles (WBC 14; Waco, Tex.: Word, 1986), xxix, but an emphasis on the temple is also seen by scholars who consider the chapters original. Ralph W. Klein points to several passages in 1 Chr 1–9 that are occupied with the temple, Klein, 1 Chronicles, 45.

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C. Jerusalem as the Centre of Israel: Chapters 2–9 1 Chr 2:1 picks up the line from Israel in chapter 1, as here follows a description of the tribes and their allotments in the land, chapters 2–8, ending with lists of the inhabitants of Jerusalem, particularly the temple personnel, chapter 9. Of the two Benjamin lists, I consider 8:1–40 the original, and 7:6–12a a later addition.22 Here also a counter clockwise movement can be observed: starting from Jerusalem, the author first presents Judah and Simeon in the south, moving to the east with Ruben, then northwards to Gad and Half Manasseh, continuing with Issachar and Naphtali opposite the eastern Manasseh, then in a southern direction Manasseh and Ephraim, and after a digression to Asher in the northwest, to Benjamin where Jerusalem lies. Jerusalem is beginning and end. This city constitutes the centre of the land. Most space is devoted to Judah in the beginning, and Levi in the middle, with their cities all over the land. The temple is in focus in 5:36; 6:16–17, the Levites in 5:27– 6:66, and with other temple personnel in 9:10–34. Thomas Willi has suggested a different image for the ordering of the tribes: a spiral, where the first circle is constituted by the description of the tribes in the south and east; then a pause, introduced by the long section on Levi; then a new turn of the spiral, which takes us through the tribes in the north, ending in Jerusalem.23 This is a description which takes into account the space occupied by the tribe of Levi, and it might be correct to focus on this section of 1 Chr 1–9. Chapter 1 first presents a straight line bulging out into a world map, then another straight line widened into the genealogy of Abraham, followed by the genealogy of Isaac, and the seven following chapters bulge out into the genealogy and geography of Isaac’s son Israel. The opening chapters therefore aim at Israel, and more specifically at Jerusalem, the temple city. The tribes here all stem from their father Israel, and there is no mention of immigrants brought by the Assyrians. Later in the story, the fall of the Northern kingdom and the following import of peoples are not mentioned, contrary to the emphasis put upon this event in 2 Kgs 17. Japhet therefore has to presume that northern inhabitants of later times are referred to under the names of the northern tribes in Chronicles, but it is easier to assume that the book simply considers the whole area to be inhabited by Israel proper in a utopic past. 1 Chr 5:6 speaks of “Beerah his son, whom King Tilgath-pilneser of Assyria carried away into exile; he was a chieftain of the Reubenites.” The same exile is referred to in 5:22, when Ruben, Gad and the eastern half of Manasseh conquered the territory of the Hagrites and others, and “they lived in their 22 23

Kartveit, Motive und Schichten, 100. Willi, I Chronik, 154.

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territory until the exile.” This exile is described in vv. 25–26: “But they transgressed against the God of their ancestors, and prostituted themselves to the gods of the peoples of the land, whom God had destroyed before them. So the God of Israel stirred up the spirit of King Pul of Assyria, the spirit of King Tilgath-pilneser of Assyria, and he carried them away, namely, the Reubenites, the Gadites, and the half-tribe of Manasseh, and brought them to Halah, Habor, Hara, and the river Gozan, to this day.” Three of these locations are taken from 2 Kgs 17:6 (the cities of the Medes are omitted, and Hara added), where they describe new settlements of the exiled from the northern kingdom. Chronicles uses ‫ מעל‬and ‫ זנה‬for the sins of the eastern tribes and their worship of other gods, where 2 Kgs 17:7 employs ‫ חטא‬and ‫ ירא‬for the same phenomena. The author of Chronicles thus kills two flies in one stroke: first, the eastern tribes were exiled by the Assyrians, and, accordingly, not of interest in the Chronicler’s day; second, the settlements in Mesopotamia of the northern exiles are occupied by a different set of Israelite tribes: the eastern tribes. According to the logic of Chronicles, there is therefore no need to explain why the book is not interested in the fall of the northern kingdom. The exiling of the southern kingdom is referred to in 6:15 (ET; 5:41 MT), “Jehozadak went into exile when the LORD sent Judah and Jerusalem into exile by the hand of Nebuchadnezzar,” and 9:1 follows up, “So all Israel was enrolled by genealogies; and these are written in the Book of the Kings of Israel. And Judah was taken into exile in Babylon because of their unfaithfulness (‫)מעל‬.” The return to Jerusalem is presupposed in the following lists, 9:2ff. Thus, here the eastern tribes were exiled into places occupied by the northern exiles according to the book of Kings, replacing the exiles from the north by those from the east, and the exiles from Judah and Jerusalem are only mentioned to provide a background for the return to Jerusalem. The thesis of Japhet would presuppose that an utopian original settlement prevailed in the days of the Chronicler, but the author’s awareness of changes in the settlement makes it difficult to uphold. He describes the tribal allotments in a kind of utopian past, since this is what he read in his sources, but is aware of some changes that later took place. So his image of the map of Israel may be transparent of the situation in his own days, but not to the extent that the latter may be reconstructed. After the brief mention of the exile of Judah in 9:1, the continuation is the following in v. 2, “Now the first to live again in their possessions in their towns were Israelites, priests, Levites, and temple servants.” 9:2–17 parallels Neh 11:3–19, but with substantial differences. “And some of the people of Judah, Benjamin, Ephraim, and Manasseh lived in Jerusalem,” 9:3, with the people of Ephraim and Manasseh as a plus against Neh 11:4. That people from these two tribes lived in Jerusalem is evidently a positive feature according to Chronicles, but does not fit the outlook of Ezra-Nehemiah. The following list in Chronicles mentions the people from Judah, Zerah, and Ben-

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jamin, and then priests, Levites, and gatekeepers who lived in Jerusalem. Vv. 18–33 presents the gatekeepers and their duty in the Tent of Meeting as well as in the temple (the house of Yahweh, v. 23), anticipating the temple before its construction has been narrated. And they had been installed by “David and Samuel,” v. 22, in an order opposite to history told elsewhere, again merging different situations. The chapter ends with a repetition from chapter 8 of the list of Benjaminite heads of families, this second time introduced as Levites, who lived in Jerusalem, v. 34 // 8:28, and the Gibeonites with the family tree of Saul, vv. 35–44// 8:29–38. The tribes of Israel are presented in chapters 2–8 as the major outcome of the genealogies from Adam. The eastern tribes were exiled by the Assyrians “until this day,” (5:26). Judah and Jerusalem were exiled by Nebuchadnezzar, and the returnees are described in terms of their dwelling in Jerusalem, and most space is given to the temple personnel. Chapters 1–9 move from Adam to the temple in Jerusalem in a direct line, pausing at important points: map of the world, descendants of Abraham, the tribes in their territories, inhabitants of Jerusalem, and the temple personnel.

D. The Temple as the Centre of Jerusalem and the Land: 1 Chronicles 10–2 Chronicles 36 With this general worldview, and the focus now on the inhabitants of Jerusalem, the history of the southern kingdom is told in 1 Chr 10–2 Chr 36. The task of kings is related to the temple, its construction, up-keep, and reconstruction. It is therefore only logical that the book ends with the first part of the Cyrus edict to rebuild the temple in Jerusalem, 2 Chr 36:22–23. It is often assumed that the history of the Northern kingdom, as described in the Book of Kings, is virtually obliterated in Chronicles. Only minor stories relate to the north. The northern part of Israel thus emerges as periphery in relation to Jerusalem. Let us look at the attitude to the Northern kingdom. The account of the separation in 1 Kgs 12:1–24 is rendered faithfully in 2 Chr 10:1–11:4. There are small variations at several points, but only one major difference: the lack of the report on the installation of Jeroboam as king over all Israel, 1 Kgs 12:20. The effect of this minus in Chronicles is that the supposed inauguration of Rehoboam in Shechem, 1 Kgs 12:1 = 2 Chr 10:1, was aborted, but no other king was installed over the ten tribes. According to 2 Chr 9:31, Rehoboam already was king after his father Solomon, but he went to Shechem to be installed by the ten tribes in a separate action, which then failed. The net result in Chronicles on the part of “the Israelites” in Shechem, is that they do not get their own king, but they sin, or

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rebel, against the house of David until the present day, ‫וַ יִּ ְפ ְשׁעוּ יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל ְבּ ֵבית‬ ‫ ָדּוִ יד ַ ד ַהיּוֹם ַהזֶּ ה‬, 1 Kgs 12:19; 1 Chr 10:19. The word for revolt is here the same as in the case of Edom, ‫ ָפּ ַשׁע‬. The history of the north is therefore characterized by a continuous rebellion against the house of David, not by the existence of a separate kingdom. Some of the kings in the north are mentioned in the following narrative, but no continuous history is reported. Jerusalem, on the other hand, is the kingdom of God in 2 Chr 13:8: “the kingdom of the LORD in the hand of the sons of David,” ‫ ַמ ְמלֶ ֶכת יְ הוָ ה ְבּיַ ד ְבּנֵ י ָדוִ יד‬. Ehud Ben Zvi has stressed the importance of Shechem as the place for the coronation of Rehoboam, against the expected place Jerusalem.24 He supposes that it was a deliberate choice of place and that the ceremony would be for “all Israel,” meaning all the tribes. Ralph Klein, however, supposes that Rehoboam at the time of his appearance in Shechem already was king in Jerusalem after Solomon, and the purpose of the visit was only to have this status confirmed by the ten northern tribes.25 Rehoboam takes over as king in 2 Chr 9:31, and is consistently called “king” in 2 Chr 10, cf. vv. 6, 12, 13 (twice), 15, 16 (twice), 18 (twice); and when he returns to Jerusalem, he is not inaugurated there (2 Chr 10:18; 11:1). The expression “all Israel” can be used with reference to the northern tribes (2 Chr 10:16; 13:4, 15), as well as to the members of the tribes Judah and Benjamin, 2 Chr 11:3. 26 The tension between the double statement that the secession was God’s will, 2 Chr 10:15; 2 Chr 11:4, and the contention that the kingdom of Yahweh is in the hands of David, 2 Chr 13:5, 8, cf. 1 Chr 17:14, can be resolved in the way that although the northern tribes’ rebellion was God’s will, the centre of divine power was Jerusalem. 27 By humbling themselves, the northerners could again become full members of the kingdom of God; in the meantime, they live in rebellion. Even if this rebellion is divinely ordained, it still is rebellion, but a rebellion that can end through conversion, a conversion that also would accord with divine purposes.

24 Ehud Ben Zvi, “The Secession of the Northern Kingdom in Chronicles: Accepted ‘Facts’ and New Meanings,” in The Chronicler as Theologian: Essays in Honor of Ralph W. Klein (ed. M. Patrick Graham, Steven L. McKenzie, and Gary N. Knoppers; JSOTSup 371; London and New York: T&T Clark, 2003), 61–88. Ben Zvi emphasizes the gaps in the story in Chronicles, and theorizes around these gaps. The book of Chronicles does, however, presuppose knowledge of other parts of the HB, see the remarks above in n. 17, and Magnar Kartveit, “Names and Narratives: The Meaning of Their Combination in 1 Chronicles 1–9,” in Shai le-Sara Japhet: Studies in the Bible, its Exegesis and its Language (ed. Moshe BarAsher et al.; Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 2007), 59*–80*. 25 Klein, 2 Chronicles (Hermeneia; Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 2012), 156. 26 Klein, 2 Chronicles, 156, against Williamson, Israel, 103. 27 Ben Zvi, “Secession,” attaches more importance to such differences in the Chronicler’s story.

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The following account, therefore, invites or includes the northerners to participate in Jerusalem, if they humble themselves, ‫כנע‬. This is spelled out in the case of Hezekiah’s passover, 2 Chr 30. He invites Ephraim, Manasseh and Zebulun, but they laugh, scorn and mock the messengers. But some from Asher, Manasseh and Zebulun humbled themselves, ‫נִ ְכנְ עוּ‬, and came to Jerusalem, 2 Chr 30:11. In the case of Josiah’s reforms, Chronicles employs a vocabulary associated with the temple. “In the twelfth year he began to purge Judah and Jerusalem of the high places, the sacred poles, and the carved and the cast images,” 2 Chr 34:3. The verb here is ‫טהר‬, and it is repeated for Judah and Jerusalem in v. 5. After the destruction of foreign worship in Manasseh, Ephraim, and Simeon, and as far as Naphtali, Josiah continues reforms “in the eighteenth year of his reign, when he had purged the land and the house …,” v. 8, implying that the whole land was purged. This purging refers to foreign worship, but it is interesting that the Chronicler uses this terminology, not found in 2 Kings, as if the land is extended temple territory. Priestly vocabulary is evident also at the end of Chronicles. 2 Kings reports about Gedaliahu, his assassination, the following flight to Egypt for fear of the Chaldeans, and the ascendance of king Jehoiakin un Babylon. In place of this material, Chronicles reports of the warning from the prophets, of the empty land, of the fulfillment of the words of Jeremiah, of the enslavement of the exiles “until the land had made up for its sabbaths. All the days that it lay desolate it kept sabbath, to fulfill seventy years” (2 Chr 36:21). The vocabulary is interesting: ‫יה‬ ָ ‫תוֹת‬ ֶ ‫ת־שׁ ְבּ‬ ַ ‫אָרץ ֶא‬ ֶ ‫ד־ר ְצ ָתה ָה‬ ָ ַ is copied and adapted from Lev 26:34–35. 28 This comment is followed by the beginning of the Cyrus edict, with the invitation: “may he go up” to Jerusalem, creating a link to the first settlers enumerated in 1 Chr 9. In this case, one might say that the priestly Pentateuch constituted the form into which history as matter is cast. In line with this thinking, it is emphasized that Jerusalem is chosen, 2 Chr 6:38 (= 1 Kgs 8:48), that God’s name shall dwell there, 2 Chr 6:6 (Sondergut), 34 (= 1 Kgs 8:44); 12:13 (Sondergut). The temple of Jerusalem is chosen for sacrifice, 2 Chr 7:12 (Sondergut). The city and temple are chosen for the name of God to be there, 2 Chr 7:16 (“chosen” is Sondergut); “In this house, and in Jerusalem, which I have chosen out of all the tribes of Israel, I will put my name forever,” 2 Chr 33:7 (= 2 Kgs 21:7); as if the centralization command in Deuteronomy here receives a clarification: the chosen place is Jerusalem and its temple. The vocabulary betrays this. The terms are the same as in Deuteronomy (‫מקום‬, ‫)שׂים‬. Central ideas about the temple in Jerusalem may be taken from Deuteronomy, but there is no centering of it in Israel or 28 Magnar Kartveit, “2 Chronicles 36.20–33 as Literary and Theological ‘Interface,’” in The Chronicler as Author: Studies in Text and Texture (ed. M. Patrick Graham and Steven L. McKenzie; JSOTSup 263; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999), 395–403.

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the world in comparable material in Deuteronomy or the Deuteronomistic History. This is a new idea in Chronicles. We may compare this centralisation to other texts. Ezek 40–48 presents the temple in the middle of the land, and reveals also degrees of holiness of the surrounding area, but this temple is not the centre of the world. Isa 2:2–4 // Mic 4 speaks of an eschatological pilgrimage by all peoples to Zion: “In days to come the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established as the highest of the mountains, and shall be raised above the hills; all the nations shall stream to it,” Isa 2:2. Again, the temple is not the centre of the world. Compared to this text, it is conspicuous that Chronicles describes Jerusalem as the centre of the world from the start. It is no phenomenon of the end times; it was always there. Isa 2:2–4 is closer to Isa 65:17–23 than to Chronicles with its proclamation of a new heaven and a new earth, and a new Jerusalem, for joy and prosperity for Jerusalem. Also, the Temple Scroll in its reworking of Deut 12–26, concentrates on holiness, but not related to the land, nor to the world. Gen 1 lures in the background of Chronicles; the creation relates directly to the temple in Gen 1: there are six days plus the Sabbath, the festivals are mentioned, and there is Adam, the centre of creation. The complete text leads up to the temple service. This motif is expressed in Chronicles by a narrative that starts with Adam and centres on the temple. More interesting are the two cases with the phrase ‫ ַטבּוּר ָה ָא ֶרץ‬, “the navel of the earth/land,” Judg 9:37; Ezek 38:12. Jotham’s fable is told from Mount Gerizim, according to Judg 9:8–15, and the relevant expression in v. 37 comes in the story of Abimelech in Shechem. Two military companies come down from the mountain tops, v. 36, one from ‫ ַטבּוּר ָה ָא ֶרץ‬, and one from ‫ֵאלוֹן‬ ‫ ְמעוֹנְ נִ ים‬, “the Diviners’ Oak.” The latter group could be part of the whole company, or they could be a separate group, from another direction. The narrator is negative to Abimelech and to Shechem, but why is the expression ‫ ַטבּוּר ָה ָא ֶרץ‬used? Ironically? In the context it seems to refer to Mount Gerizim. The other occurrence is Ezek 38:12, in the oracles against God of the land of Magog. This and other nations will go against the “quiet people who live in safety, … to seize spoil and carry off plunder … [from] the people who live at the ‫ ַטבּוּר ָה ָא ֶרץ‬.” This centre is not located or specified, but it is tempting to bring it in connection with the land of Israel, described in chapter 40– 48. If so, then we are inside a thinking that is similar to Chronicles, or perhaps Ezekiel is an inspiration for Chronicles. Walther Zimmerli collects relevant material for the thinking of the “navel of the earth (ὁ ὀµφαλὸς τῆς γῆς),” and mentions Jerusalem as a possible reference in Ezek 38:12.29 This opens 29 Walther Zimmerli, Ezechiel, 2. Teilband (BKAT XIII/2; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1969), 955f.

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for the possibility that the text of Ezek 38:10–13, by Zimmerli considered an addition to the original,30 intends to use the expression with reference to Jerusalem, rather than to the Mount Gerizim of Judg 9:37. Are we then moving into a time when the discussion between Jerusalem and the Northeners had begun?

E. Conclusion Let us return to the three models for understanding Chronicles’ attitude to the rest of the world, particularly the Northern kingdom. And we will do it in a chiasmus, starting with the last. First, Williamson’s idea of ecumenism in the sense of going back to the common beginning. An ecumenical effort would concentrate on the situation where the split occurred minus one: what was the status immediately before the split? Can we return to that point, or at least concentrate on it? This is not the approach of Chronicles. It starts where the whole world started, with Adam, and it ends in Jerusalem, the place and temple against which the Northeners rebelled and sinned. If there is a direct line from Adam to that temple, and the whole world is situated in this large picture, the possibility for ecumenical interests is smaller. On one hand, it is possible to see it as an even more original beginning, a common beginning, but that would mean communicating with the whole world, as described in chapter 1. And if the temple in Jerusalem is described in terms of the ark and the tabernacle, with references to the common ancestors Abraham and Jacob, as Williamson supposes, the place for meeting is still Jerusalem and the temple. But the idea of Williamson has something to commend it: Chronicles has a welcoming attitude towards the north. Second, Sara Japhet’s idea of incorporating the northerners depends upon her reading of 2 Kgs 17 and Ezra 4, and the tribal allotments in 1 Chr 2–8. She concludes that all the northern tribes were exiled and new inhabitants brought in during the Assyrian period. It seems that she builds on two different notions of the situation. If she is right in that the northern area was emptied of Israelite tribes, and only newcomers resided there, does she think that Chronicles later simply incorporated them into the people of Israel under the names of the Israelite tribes? And that it ignored pagan worship and syncretism as described in 2 Kings 17? She does not enter into an analysis of 2 Kgs 17:24–41, but this text is late, perhaps contemporaneous with Chronicles, and has the Samaritans in mind, in a polemical way.31 Neither 2 Kgs 17:24–41 may be taken at face value as a source for the origin of the Samaritans nor 30 31

Zimmerli, Ezechiel, 954. Magnar Kartveit, “The Date of II Reg 17:24–41,” ZAW 126 (2014): 31–44.

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can Ezra 4 be read directly as a historical source. This said, her approach has seen something important in Chronicles: the north is interesting, and belongs to Israel. May we thus conclude that only the option of Torrey, Noth and Oeming remains viable? In other words, that Chronicles is polemical towards the North, the Samaritans in particular? This approach makes a contribution and draws attention to important matters: the North has sinned, the centre is Jerusalem, and by repentance others may come in. Martin Noth saw ChroniclesEzra-Nehemiah as directed against the growing Samaritan community, but he had no material referring to the Samaritans to substantiate this claim. We have now inscriptions from Mount Gerizim, and the excavations of a city there, and we know that the city flourished in the first half of the second century B.C.E., and the inscriptions are from that period. 32 In what follows I will try an approach that is based upon insights from all the three models mentioned. The line from Adam aims at the temple in Jerusalem, which constitutes the centre of Israel and the world. Chronicles sees the Edomites and the Northerners as sinners, since they have rebelled against the kingdom of God in Jerusalem and his temple there. The Northerners are invited in, and if they humble themselves, they are welcome. Foreign kings favourable to Israel were important in this period.33 The royal responsibility for the temple in Jerusalem was taken by a foreign king, Cyrus, 2 Chr 36:22– 23. And Pharaoh Neco was important as a divine messenger to Josiah, 2 Chr 35:21. Tilgat Pilneser was responsible for the exile of the eastern tribes, indirectly helping the western tribes to remain as the sole inheritors to the tradition. With such divine instruments acting on behalf of the God of the temple in Jerusalem: which Edomite, Ephraimite and Manassite could continue in rebellion? Even the emerging Samaritan community should heed the call from Chronicles. Such a model allows for the full existence of both Jerusalem and the North, and locates them inside a system: it is a form of centre and periphery. The centre owes its power to some extent to the existence of the periphery, and the centre is understood as open to extension, and the periphery is eligible for incorporation. The power balance between them can be adjusted so that the periphery comes closer to the power in Jerusalem. This will strengthen the central power, without obliterating peripheral power. There might be degrees of power, and a shift of emphasis. Such an understanding can demonstrate how flexible the idea of centre and periphery might be, and that it may be malleable according to concrete cases. 32

Magnar Kartveit, “Samaritan Self-Consciousness in the First Half of the Second Century B.C.E. in Light of the Inscriptions from Mount Gerizim and Delos,” JSJ 45 (2014): 449– 70, with a review of some of the material we now have. 33 Torrey, Ezra Studies, 153–54, 209–10.

Being both on the Periphery and in the Centre The Jerusalem Temple in Late Persian Period Yehud from Postcolonial Perspective1 Louis C. Jonker A. Introduction It is generally accepted in biblical scholarship that the biblical writings are tendentious and perspectival literature. This applies particularly to biblical historiographies. Not only in endeavours to (re-)construct the history of Ancient Israel is this point of the utmost importance, but it is equally important in other branches of biblical scholarship, such as exegesis. I see the theme of this workshop as a challenge to the participants to explore the biblical literature from the Second Temple period – taking full account of the tendentiousness of the literature under discussion – in order to come to deeper understandings and more nuanced descriptions of the power relations that produced these texts, and those exercised by these texts. As a small contribution to this collective effort, I will focus on how the Jerusalem temple is described in the book of Chronicles, as literature most probably from the late Persian period. My expectation is that such a description will bring us to a deeper understanding of the relationship between “Centre” and “Periphery” in this era. However, the outcomes of our studies are determined by the methods we employ. As the sole representative from the global south in this workshop – a context where postcolonial reflections on the relationship between “Centre” and “Periphery” are very prominent – I see it as an important step in my argument to deliberately and loudly reflect on my methodology for this study. I will therefore start with a methodological “preamble” which will be followed by a discussion of various aspects related to the differentiated socio-historical context of the late Persian period. Thereafter, I will make a synthesis of how 1 An oral version of this contribution was presented at a workshop on “Centers and Peripheries in Early Second Temple Period” held at the Ludwig-Maximilians University, Munich (Germany), in June 2015. I thank Christoph Levin and Ehud Ben Zvi for the invitation to take part in this workshop, and the participants for valuable feedback during the discussion.

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the portrayal of the Jerusalem temple in the book of Chronicles contributed towards a self-understanding from the periphery and/or the centre.

B. Methodological “Preamble” With the advent of – inter alia – liberationist and feminist approaches to the reception of biblical writings biblical interpreters have become more aware of the role of power in biblical interpretation. The seminal SBL presidential address of Elizabeth Schüssler Fiorenza in 1987, titled “The Ethics of Biblical Scholarship: Decentering Biblical Interpretation,” 2 challenged biblical scholarship from a rhetorical-ethical angle to take seriously the “social location” from which interpretation takes place. She rightly emphasized that “[b]iblical interpretation, like all scholarly inquiry, is a communicative practice that involves interests, values, and visions.” 3 Biblical interpretation is political by nature in the sense that power positions determine our interpretations of and rhetoric about the Bible. Because of these power relations, there are centres and peripheries in our interpretations. Those dominating the centre – mainly male, Western scholarship, according to Schüssler Fiorenza – determine the conventions and standards of biblical scholarship. Schüssler Fiorenza therefore indicated that she is “interested in decentering the dominant scientist ethos of biblical scholarship by recentering it in a critical interpretive praxis for liberation.”4 She states: Such a critical-rhetorical paradigm requires that biblical studies continue its descriptiveanalytic work utilizing all the critical methods available for illuminating our understanding of ancient texts and their historical location. At the same time, it engages biblical scholarship in a hermeneutic-evaluative discursive practice exploring the power/knowledge relations inscribed in contemporary biblical discourse and in the biblical texts themselves.5

Although it might not have been the intention of Elizabeth Schüssler Fiorenza in her presidential address, this important input into global biblical scholarship led in many contexts to the development of binary oppositions in scholarship. “Centre” and “Periphery” are often seen as opposing positions in the reception of the Hebrew Bible. The male-female opposition in some feminist studies, and the oppressor-oppressed opposition in some liberationist directions, have become part of critical rhetoric in our field in the past two or three decades. Some postcolonial directions of scholarship have also developed this binary opposition in terms of the distinction between imperium and colony. 2 Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, “The Ethics of Biblical Interpretation: Decentering Biblical Scholarship,” JBL 107/1 (1988): 3–17. 3 Schüssler Fiorenza, “Ethics of Biblical Interpretation,” 4. 4 Schüssler Fiorenza, “Ethics of Biblical Interpretation,” 9. 5 Schüssler Fiorenza, “Ethics of Biblical Interpretation,” 16–17.

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However, in recent postcolonial reflections some voices have started indicating that the boundaries between these spheres of asymmetrical power are porous and untenable. Once the process of decolonisation from imperial domination started in different parts of the world during the middle of the twentieth century, postcolonial studies started emerging.6 In the wake of these global developments theorists such as Edward Said, Gayatri Spivak and Homi Bhabha started reflecting on the dynamics of imperialism and colonialism, and particularly on what effects they have on processes of viewing and interpreting the world.7 In their work they developed a broad collection of theoretical concepts by means of which the ways in which colonial powers have constructed and controlled the identities of subjugated peoples could be exposed. They also showed how these configurations of domination shape the postcolonial experience.8 These theoretical reflections on postcolonialism have influenced literary studies significantly. A distinction is often made between postcolonial theory which “arose out of specific critiques of the effects of colonial practices on the people subjected to imperial rule,”9 and postcolonial criticism. The latter has come to be defined as “a group of reading strategies examining economic, cultural, and political relations of domination and subordination between 6 Gale Yee (“Postcolonial Biblical Criticism,” in Methods for Exodus [ed. Thomas B. Dozeman; Methods in Biblical Interpretation; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010], 193–233, 194 n. 3) explains the distinction which is made between the terms “postcolonial” and “postcolonial” as follows: “Nowadays, scholars prefer the unhyphenated form of ‘postcolonial’ rather than the hyphenated ‘post-colonial,’ which suggests a temporal or ideological discontinuity from colonial times. The beliefs, practices, and structures of oppressive colonial systems do not completely disappear when the colonizers leave a country.” See also Bradley L. Crowell, “Postcolonial Studies and the Hebrew Bible,” Currents in Biblical Research 7/2 (2009): 217–44, 218, who explains the distinction similarly. The term “postcolonial” is employed in our discussion in order to give expression to the fact that this approach is seen as a heuristic method that can assist us to describe the effects of colonialism and its aftermath in any given context on social processes and literature formation. 7 These three theorists have even been called the “Holy Trinity” of this movement. See Yee, “Postcolonial Biblical Criticism,” 194. 8 See a broader summary of these and other theorists’ contributions to the development of the field in Rasiah S. Sugirtharajah, Exploring Postcolonial Biblical Criticism: History, Method, Practice (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012), ch. 1. For discussions of how postcolonial studies have influenced South African biblical scholarship (my own context), and in particular New Testament scholarship, see Jeremy Punt, “Postcolonial Biblical Criticism in South Africa: Some Mind and Road Mapping,” Neot 37/1 (2003): 59–85; idem, “Current Debates on Biblical Hermeneutics in South Africa and the Postcolonial Matrix,” R&T 11/2 (2004): 139–60; idem, “Why Not Postcolonial Biblical Criticism in (South) Africa: Stating the Obvious or Looking for the Impossible?,” Scriptura 91 (2006): 63–82; Jeremy Punt, Postcolonial Biblical Interpretation: Reframing Paul (Leiden: Brill, 2015). 9 Crowell, “Postcolonial Studies and the Hebrew Bible,” 218.

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nations, races, and cultures with histories of colonial and neocolonial rule.”10 Bradley Crowell remarks about this approach: While there is no agreement on a precise definition of postcolonialism, the unifying element for all postcolonial studies is its penetrating critique of colonial expansion and domination, and the lasting effects on the people and institutions subjected to its rule. Since postcolonial analyses explore issues as diverse as nationalism, ethnicity, gender, colonial relations and political asymmetry, any single definition of the theory is necessarily reductive. … Postcolonial criticism as a practice attempts to shift the focus of literary and cultural analysis, in order to expose the conditions of colonial experience, and the methods that colonial subjects have used to construct their identities and expressions within their literature and cultural products.11

This description emphasises the sensitivity of postcolonial criticism to the close interrelationship between socio-political experience, identity negotiation and the formation of literature (and other cultural products). Within this context, it is important to point out that although postcolonial criticism is a fairly modern (or postmodern) approach, it studies the effects of the phenomenon of imperialism, which is not something new. The configuration of socio-political behaviour that is known today as imperialism is something that had already occurred in ancient societies. Imperialism is defined today as that hegemonic power that a political ruler (or government) exercises which encompasses all spheres of life of the colonial subjects. This and similar definitions of “empire” make it obvious why many of the influential empires of biblical times, from the Assyrian, Babylonian and Persian empires, to the Greek and Roman hegemonies, are characterised in this way. The phenomenon of “imperialism” is therefore much older than the theoretical reflection on it in postcolonial studies. Insights from this modern/postmodern approach can therefore be applied legitimately and fruitfully to the situation of ancient imperial rule. However, a recent theoretical insight from postcolonial studies should also be considered here. In a 2008 publication entitled Still at the Margins: Biblical Scholarship Fifteen Years after Voices from the Margin, various scholars investigated the influence of postcolonial studies in biblical studies. 12 The original impetus for considering postcolonial theory in biblical studies came from an essay volume, also edited by Rasiah Sugirtharajah, in 1991 entitled

10

Yee, “Postcolonial Biblical Criticism,” 194. Yee defines “neocolonialism” as follows: “Neocolonialism refers to the replication of colonial rule and exploitation by an indigenous elite brought to power in a newly independent nation that has thrown off its Western colonizer” (Ibid. n. 4). 11 Crowell, “Postcolonial Studies and the Hebrew Bible,” 219 [my emphasis]. 12 Still at the Margins: Biblical Scholarship Fifteen Years after Voices from the Margin (ed. Rasiah S. Sugirtharajah; London: T&T Clark, 2008).

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Voices from the Margin: Interpreting the Bible in the Third World.13 Apart from all the other evaluations and considerations of postcolonial biblical studies in the 2008 volume, Mayra Rivera Rivera presented an important insight into the functioning of power in postcolonial contexts.14 Because of the insights into the hybrid nature of postcolonial situations, scholars have started realising that concepts such as “imperial centre” and “colonised margins” are problematic. Since the functioning of power – be it by means of control of the margins or undermining the centre – flows through the whole system, a clear-cut distinction between centre and periphery no longer holds value. Rivera describes this as follows: Instead of territorially organized structures, power is perceived as travelling at high speed through infinitely branching networks that compromise all levels of relations, erecting and transgressing boundaries and hierarchies throughout. … Power is both everywhere and nowhere. The margins, one could say, are everywhere.15

This observation then leads Rivera to speak about “the topography of power,” or “the multidimensionality of power.”16 These concepts help one realise that the description of imperial relations should not ignore the fact that power relations manifest in different ways in different parts of the system. This insight is particularly important when considering the socio-historical situation of the post-exilic Persian period. One should be aware of the fact that power relations between, for example, the Persian imperial centre, the governors appointed by the Persian Empire, the elite scribes in Jerusalem, the rural population, are never linear. Those who are subjugated in one instance may be the colonisers in another socio-historical configuration. This brings us then to a consideration of how postcolonial studies can impact on biblical studies. Crowell summarises three methods of engagement: First, postcolonial biblical criticism interrogates the interpretations and uses of the Bible produced by modern empires of the fifteenth through the twentieth centuries. … Archives, newspapers, personal accounts, biblical commentaries, and sermons are searched to identify and expose how imperial powers and biblical interpreters were complicit in reading the biblical text for colonial purposes. Second, previously colonized groups produce their own readings of the Bible within their cultural, postcolonial environment. … These readings explore how the Bible can be read within this postcolonial context, and they attempt to disrupt conventional hegemonic interpretations. Finally, postcolonial biblical criticism scrutinizes the biblical text for its own colonial entanglements. … This is typically understood as a historical-critical enterprise that takes the social and cultural environment of Voices from the Margin: Interpreting the Bible in the Third World (ed. Rasiah S. Sugirtharajah; Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1991). 14 Mayra Rivera Rivera, “Margins and the Changing Spatiality of Power,” in Still at the Margins: Biblical Scholarship Fifteen Years after Voices from the Margin (ed. Rasiah S. Sugirtharajah; London: T&T Clark, 2008), 114–27. 15 Rivera, “Margins,” 119. 16 Rivera, “Margins,” 120–25. 13

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empires seriously, and exposes colonial forces at work within the biblical compositions themselves.17

It is particularly the last strategy which offers valuable perspectives for the present study where our focus is on “centres” and “peripheries” in the Second Temple period. In the next paragraphs, my aim will therefore be to investigate which reflections of the power relationship between “imperial centre” and “colonial periphery” can be detected in biblical literature of this period. My study will be delimited by its focus on the book of Chronicles, and particularly how the temple in Jerusalem is portrayed in this historiographical literature. My hypothesis is that the portrayal of this central institution of postexilic Judah will give us better insight into how the relationship between “centre” and “periphery” was viewed during the time of origin of Chronicles (in the late Persian period).

C. The Differentiated Socio-Historical Context of the Late Persian Period and the Portrayal of the Temple in Chronicles A problematic tendency observed in biblical scholarship on Persian-period literature is the tendency to view and describe the Persian-period circumstances very generally, even indiscriminately, regardless of the various levels of socio-historical existence. To speak of “the Persian-period context” in Yehud is an oversimplification of a very complex society. In line with postcolonial thinking, I want to argue that Yehud in the late Persian era functioned on different levels which can, and should, be distinguished, and cannot be isolated or separated. At least four modes of socio-historical existence – with its associated hierarchies of power – can be identified in this time and context. 18 Firstly, Yehud formed part of the Persian imperial context as a presumably independent province. Furthermore, the Diaspora communities who did not return from exile and therefore did not live in Yehud, also started exercising influence within the Persian imperial context. Secondly, Yehud stood in close relation to the province Samaria to the north (the former northern kingdom of Israel), as well as to other surrounding provinces. Thirdly, 17

Crowell, “Postcolonial Studies and the Hebrew Bible,” 220 [my emphasis]. For a full description of and bibliographic references to the various levels of sociohistorical existence of Yehud in the late Persian period, see my discussions in Louis C. Jonker, “Engaging with Different Contexts: A Survey of the Various Levels of Identity Negotiation in Chronicles,” in Texts, Contexts and Readings in Postexilic Literature: Explorations into Historiography and Identity Negotiation in Hebrew Bible and Related Texts (ed. Louis C. Jonker; FAT II/53; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 63–93; Louis C. Jonker, Defining All-Israel in Chronicles: Multi-Levelled Identity Negotiation in Late Persian Period Yehud (FAT 106; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), ch. 3. 18

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Yehud more or less comprised the former tribal areas of Judah and Benjamin, and the relationship between these areas contributed to the social dynamics of the time. Fourthly, the cultic community in Yehud’s centre, Jerusalem, was made up of clergy from different origins and of varying affiliations, including those who had previously been exiled and had returned, as well as those who remained in the land. These four levels of socio-historical existence occurred simultaneously and concurrently, and therefore produced a multi-levelled, complex society with different ideological tendencies and power hierarchies intersecting constantly. 19 Imperial context and colonial existence (in all its varieties of relationships) overlapped during the Chronicler’s time. This differentiated context with its associated topography of power relations should be taken into account when evaluating the portrayal of the temple in Chronicles. Scholars agree that the temple is a much more prominent theme in the rhetoric of Chronicles, compared to its portrayal in SamuelKings. 20 It is also generally accepted that the Chronicler’s portrayal of the First (Davidic-Solomonic) Temple is rather a reflection of conditions during the Chronicler’s own time, that is, during the Second Temple period.21 The 19

Matthew Lynch is heading in the same direction when doing a (what he calls) “broadbased” survey of the Chronicler’s historical context. See Matthew Lynch, Monotheism and Institutions in the Book of Chronicles: Temple, Priesthood, and Kingship in Post-Exilic Perspective (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 48–67. 20 See e.g. Hugh G. M. Williamson, “The Temple in the Books of Chronicles,” in Templum Amicitiae: Essays on the Second Temple Presented to Ernst Bammel (ed. William Horbury; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), 15–31; Gary N. Knoppers, “‘The City Yhwh Has Chosen’: The Chronicler’s Promotion of Jerusalem in Light of Recent Archaeology,” in Jerusalem in Bible and Archaeology: The First Temple Period (ed. Andrew G. Vaughn and Ann E. Killebrew; Atlanta, Ga.: SBL, 2003), 307–26; John Jarick, “The Temple of David in the Book of Chronicles,” in Temple and Worship in Biblical Israel (ed. John Day; London: T&T Clark, 2007), 365–81; Pancratius C. Beentjes, “Jerusalem: The Very Centre of All the Kingdoms of the Earth,” in Tradition and Transformation in the Book of Chronicles (ed. Pancratius C. Beentjes; Leiden: Brill, 2008), 115–27; Steven J. Schweitzer, “The Temple in Samuel-Kings and Chronicles,” in Rewriting Biblical History: Essays on Chronicles and Ben Sira in Honor of Pancratius C. Beentjes (ed. Harm Van Grol and Jeremy Corley; Deuteronocanonical and Cognate Literature Studies 7; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2011), 123–38; Lynch, Monotheism and Institutions in the Book of Chronicles. 21 Schweitzer (“The Temple in Samuel-Kings and Chronicles,” 131–32), e.g., remarks: “[T]he portrayal of the cult during the First Temple period in Chronicles frequently is assumed to reflect Second Temple practice. … This assumption has been supported by and built on numerous analyses of the development of the priesthood and temple cult in the Hebrew Bible and Second Temple literature. These studies have tended to relegate the practices of the detailed cultic system of Chronicles to the postexilic period. Thus, while the historical value of Chronicles for the reconstruction of the temple cult during the First Temple period has been largely rejected (with a few exceptions), its value for reconstructing a history of the temple cult in the Second Temple period has been largely embraced in scholarship.” Schweitzer himself, although not rejecting this scholarly consensus, raises

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description of the Davidic-Solomonic temple in Chronicles not only shows marked differences to the Deuteronomistic version – a tendency which can be associated with the conditions during the Chronicler’s time – but the Chronicler also surrounds the description of the First Temple with references to the post-exilic Second Temple (cf. the culmination of the genealogies in 1 Chr 9 with its focus on the restored Jerusalem community, as well as the announcement of the rebuilding of the temple in 2 Chr 36:23 in Cyrus’s speech). This unique portrayal of the temple in Chronicles brings scholars such as Knoppers to the conclusion that the position of the temple must have been contested during the Chronicler’s time, and that the Chronicler’s work was an attempt to solicit support for this establishment in the restored Jerusalem community.22 I fully agree with this conclusion, but would like to propose that the situation of contestation that gave rise to the Chronicler’s unique treatment of the temple can and should be described taking full account of the variegated socio-historical context of the time (as summarised above). The Chronicler’s portrayal of the temple does not communicate only on one socio-historical level, but rather entangles different discourses within which the temple forms a central theme. The following subsections will give a brief overview of some of these discourses that functioned on different socio-historical levels.23

another interpretative option (ibid., 132), namely that “the description of the temple cult in Chronicles does not reflect any historical reality – either preexilic or postexilic – but instead is a utopian construction by the Chronicler revealing his vision for a better alternative reality to be enjoyed in the future if it will be accepted by the community of his own time. Thus, Chronicles does not reflect historical reality, but instead critiques it and suggests in its place a different society that may yet exist.” See also his Reading Utopia in Chronicles (Library of Hebrew Bible / OTS 442; London: T&T Clark, 2007). 22 Knoppers (“‘The City Yhwh Has Chosen,’” 321) states: “In the context of the Persian and Hellenistic periods, the exclusive authority and privilege of the Jerusalem temple could not be taken for granted. Its supporters had to argue their case.” 23 The examples discussed in the subsections below refer to the imperial, the provincial, and the tribal level of socio-historical existence. The fourth level, namely the inner-cultic situation in Jerusalem, stands in the background of all these discussions. There is consensus among scholars about the fact that the Chronicler wanted to merge different cultic traditions in his portrayal. Within this reconciliatory position that the Chronicler was occupying, he gave clear expression to his views on the centrality of Jerusalem, as will be discussed in the examples below. For a general discussion of the Chronicler’s centrality view, see Melody D. Knowles, Centrality Practiced: Jerusalem in the Religious Practice of Yehud and the Diaspora in the Persian Period (Atlanta, Ga.: SBL, 2006).

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1. The Jerusalem Temple and Persian Imperial Religion Biblical scholars often refer to the Persian period introduced by Cyrus the Great as a time of religious diversity and tolerance.24 Not only do the biblical writings (mainly Ezra-Nehemiah) hint that the sanctuary in Jerusalem was restored after the exile with the financial assistance of the Persian king, but the Cyrus Cylinder also presents a fairly positive picture of the role played by Cyrus in acknowledging different sanctuaries and religions in the empire.25 The content of this text relates well to textual and archaeological evidence of restoration work that was done at certain sanctuaries, including the temple in Jerusalem. However, one should remember that this religious policy had a political function.26 There is no evidence that the early Persian kings, including Cyrus II, were already celebrating the cult of Ahuramazda.27 They rather shared the belief with some of the other Iranian peoples that the natural elements, earth and sky, water and fire, as well as rivers and mountains, were sacred. It is only during the time of Darius I that a royal cult of Ahuramazda rose to prominence, with this king claiming in numerous of his royal inscriptions that he reigned by the favour of Ahuramazda. 24 For a more elaborate discussion of this issue and related literature, see Jonker, Defining All-Israel in Chronicles, Section 3.4.1.4. 25 See the good discussion in Robartus J. van der Spek, “Cyrus the Great, Exiles, and Foreign Gods: A Comparison of Assyrian and Persian Policies on Subject Nations,” in Extraction & Control: Studies in Honor of Matthew W. Stolper (ed. Michael Kozuh et al.; Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization 68; Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 2014), 233–64. Erich Gruen argues, however, that some biblical passages may be interpreted as subtle critique of the Persian Empire. See Erich S. Gruen, “Persia through the Jewish Looking-Glass,” in Jewish Perspectives on Hellenistic Rulers (ed. Tessa Rajak et al.; Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007), 53–75. 26 See particularly Amélie Kuhrt, “The Cyrus Cylinder and Achaemenid Imperial Policy,” JSOT 25 (1983): 83–97. Brosius puts it as follows: “The early Persian kings as well as the Achaemenids were careful to accept the gods of other religions as well, recognising their importance for the subject peoples, and the political value the acceptance of other religions had for their own rule. Thus, the early Persian kings worshipped their own god(s), while also respecting Median, Lydian and Ionian gods, as well as the gods of Babylonia and of the conquered territories in the eastern part of the empire” (Maria Brosius, The Persians: An Introduction [Peoples of the Ancient World; London: Routledge, 2006], 33). 27 Matt Waters discusses the question of whether the Achaemenid religion was similar to or associated with Zoroastrianism, the religion called after Zoroaster, whose date is difficult to determine, but who is seen as the originator of the Gathas which form the core of the Avesta. Waters concludes: “The Achamenids (sic) are often described as Zoroastrians. This is perhaps an apt characterization on the surface – especially if one focuses only on the ideology as expressed in the royal inscriptions – but one that does not do justice to the variety of evidence” (Ancient Persia: A Concise History of the Achaemenid Empire, 550–330 BCE [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014], 151).

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Although worship of Ahuramazda was so prominent in the royal inscriptions and depictions since Darius I, it seems that this cult was not imposed on the peoples of the empire. Brosius describes the situation as follows: [I]t is important to note that the god was the god of kings; never, it seems, did his cult become a common cult celebrated by the peoples of the empire, either through imposition from above or through its adaptation from below. … A different question is whether, in addition to the king, the cult was observed by the Persian noble class. This means not only the immediate members of the royal court who travelled in the king’s entourage, but the Persian nobility in the satrapal centres of the empire. Were they bound to uphold the royal cult as part of their duties at their satrapal court? Were they privy to attend, if not conduct, the ritual for the cult of Ahuramazda? Their access to the royal cult would confirm their status as the king’s representatives in the satrapy, while at the same time it would signify their closeness to the king, which in turn would enhance their exalted status.28

This description has important implications for the way we view the temple cult in Jerusalem. We know that local citizens were employed as governors and representatives of the Persian Empire in Jerusalem. Should this description of Brosius hold true of the situation in the satrapal and provincial centres, those locals who officiated on behalf of the Persian Empire would have been in an “in-between” situation in that they would have been part of the Yahwistic community, serving in the restored temple in Jerusalem, but simultaneously would also have to show their allegiance to the Empire by honouring Ahuramazda.29 Matthew Lynch points out, however, that “[i]mperial religious culture took a distinctive turn under the Persians, at least when compared with the Egyptian, Assyrian, and Babylonian empires that Israel encountered. Notably, great temples and cults played virtually no role within the dominant imperial system.” 30 Lynch further indicates that “[d]espite these absences, there are Brosius, The Persians, 68–69. Matthew Lynch discusses whether one could assume religious distinctiveness in Yehud. Scholars, like Ephraim Stern, have concluded on account of a seeming absence of figurines or statues from Persian-period Yehud or Samaria that Israel’s religion was aniconic and monotheistic. Lynch refers to Izaak de Hulster’s study (“Figurines from Persian Period Jerusalem?,” ZAW 124/1 [2012]: 73–88), however, in which it is indicated that 51 figurine fragments have been discovered in the Persian period stratum of the City of David. Lynch remarks about this discovery: “At present, it is not yet clear that the presence of figurine fragments in loci containing Persian-period coins signals their use in the Persian period. The fact that (a) there is no typological difference between these figurine fragments and Iron Age figurines, and (b) that no such fragments appear in the clean and sealed loci from the Persian period renders uncertain any claim that Iron Age figurines were in use in the late Persian-early Hellenistic period, thought (sic) it is possible” (Lynch, Monotheism and Institutions, 55–56). 30 Lynch, Monotheism and Institutions, 61–62. Lynch builds his view on the work of Margaret Cool Root (“Palace to Temple – King to Cosmos: Achaemenid Foundation Texts in Iran,” in From the Foundations to the Crenellations: Essays on Temple Building in the 28

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strong lines of continuity between Achaemenid palace ideology and ancient Near Eastern temple ideology.”31 Margaret Cool Root argues that there was probably conceptual fluidity between the “palaces” or “audience halls” that can be seen in Persian imperial centres such as Persepolis, and “temples” as “sites of religiously imbued observances focusing on the person of the king ‘in residence.’” 32 From this, Lynch concludes that “[w]hile Persians evidently supported local cults and temples, it appears that the primary means of manifesting divine power was through the imperial palace.”33 Lynch continues this line of argumentation by relating the Chronicler’s portrayal of the temple to this peculiarity of the Persian imperial and religious landscape: The Chronicler’s Judean contemporaries had no local palace of their own34 in which they could reflect and participate in the Achaemenid program of imitable power. However, the Chronicler possessed another powerful medium for imitation – the historical narrative. Through this medium, I suggest, Chronicles painted images of imperial power that rivalled and imitated Achaemenid portraits of power, and that cast a vision for Yehud’s eventual historical reemergence as a significant locus of political and religious power. Though Chronicles almost completely ignores the Solomonic royal palace, for instance, there is evidence that the book conceives of the temple in terms of a royal palace,35 and hence, a vehicle for manifesting Yhwh’s imperial power.36

Within this context, Matthew Lynch then suggests that “it is fruitful to consider the strong emphasis on the grand imperial court and ‘political ceremony’ in Achaemenid Iran, and the emphasis on elaborate ranks of divine ministers and ‘public ceremonies’ at the temple in Chronicles.”37 With reference to Sarah Japhet’s mentioning of the Chronicler’s penchant for public ceremonies, Lynch draws a parallel between the Chronicler’s portrayal of temple ceremonies and the royal imperial milieu: Ancient Near East and Hebrew Bible [ed. Mark J. Boda and Jamie Novotny; AOAT 366; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2010], 170) who observed: “There are very few installations in Achaemenid Iran that fit normative ideas of what constitutes a ‘temple’ as a structure for the housing of a deity and/or for the exercise of ‘religious’ observances.” 31 Lynch, Monotheism and Institutions, 62. 32 Root, “Palace to Temple – King to Cosmos,” 207. 33 Lynch, Monotheism and Institutions, 63. 34 Lynch (ibid.) makes this statement notwithstanding the existence of Ramat Raḥel in close proximity to Jerusalem. He says: “Ramat Raḥel was proximate to Jerusalem, but was nevertheless a reminder of the Judeans’ non-participation in the Achaemenid administrative network.” 35 Lynch (ibid., 63–64) discusses 1 Chr 29:1, 19 where the term ‫ בירה‬is used in reference to the temple. 36 Lynch, Monotheism and Institutions, 63. 37 Lynch, Monotheism and Institutions, 64 (his emphasis). See also Maria Brosius, “New out of Old? Court and Court Ceremonies in Achaemenid Persia,” in The Court and Court Society in Ancient Monarchies (ed. Anthony J. S. Spawforth; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 17–57.

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Chronicles’ ceremonies included “all Israel,” the ranks of priests and Levites, and the king, along with great songs and displays of wealth for the temple (1 Chr 22:3, 14; 29:4, 7). The increased attention to Jerusalem’s temple-ceremonies within a cultural milieu already dedicated to prominent “ceremonial cities” designed to augment the splendor of the king, as found at Persepolis, Susa, and Ecbatana, certainly warrants consideration as a point of possible shared cultural emphasis. At the very least, political-ceremony-as-religiousceremony became a significant feature of the milieu in which the Chronicler wrote. Chronicles’ efforts to bolster Yhwh’s supremacy through great ceremonies and a great “citadel” is in the very least analogous to efforts to exalt the Persian “king in residence” at his great citadel, and even likely, given the purported Persian effort to mimic the imperial court at the local level.38

In this way, according to Lynch, a subtle shift is facilitated in the minds of those in Jerusalem (and elsewhere in the empire) who listened to or read the Chronicler’s work: “Rather than the monarchy, Chronicles reconfigures the memory of Israel’s institutional landscape such that the temple becomes the primary focal point for all Israel, the primary marker of Yhwh’s supremacy.”39 In sum: on the one hand, the Second Temple in Jerusalem – when viewed from the imperial centre – was a sanctuary of a local people based in a province on the periphery of the empire. It is likely that the local officials who served in the Persian administration were expected to show allegiance to the Persian religious ideals (associated with Ahuramazda). But, on the other hand, the book of Chronicles represents a view from the periphery. However, the Chronicler’s portrayal of the temple does not provide witness to an attitude of subjugation, but rather to a position of agency. In this respect, concepts used in postcolonial criticism might be helpful to understand this seeming discrepancy. Postcolonial criticism shows that it is often characteristic of colonial relations that racial or other stereotyping of the colonised by their colonisers takes place. The colonised are often depicted as the inferior Other by their imperial masters. The process of stereotyping Lynch, Monotheism and Institutions, 65. Lynch, Monotheism and Institutions, 261 (his emphasis). Lynch’s conclusion differs from Jozef Tiňo’s view. Whereas Lynch concludes that the Chronicler’s portrayal of the temple points towards the supremacy of Yahweh in the Persian imperial context, Tiňo suggests that the Chronicler was actually pointing towards the restoration of the Davidic monarchy. He indicates: “In Chronicles theocracy is only fully accomplished in the Davidic kingdom which rules over a united Israel, and it would therefore be difficult to accept its message as only the presentation of an ideal theocracy without hope for the restoration of the monarchy. The … re-definition of Palace-Temple relations thus points to an effort to re-evaluate the past history in order to present a vision for the future. However, the absence of eschatological language excludes the possibility of a vision of the ‘last days,’ and the book should thus be read as a program for the renewal of the Davidic monarchy in the days of the ‘achievable future’” (King and Temple in Chronicles: A Contextual Approach to Their Relations [Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2010], 151). 38

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allows the imperial coloniser to distance itself significantly from the colonised in order to justify the process of colonisation, but simultaneously to familiarise itself with the colonised in order to control them. In the ambivalent process of stereotyping, it often happens that the colonisers expect of the colonised to become like them, that is, that the colonised should rid themselves of their inferior cultural habits in order to be elevated to the culture of the colonisers. The result of such a process is a situation of “mimicry,” in which the colonised increasingly start assuming the identity of the colonisers, but use this assumed identity to undermine the colonial power. The move towards mimicry often develops into a condition of “hybridity.” Whereas the borders between the hegemonic imperial centre and the subjugated colonial periphery had been clear before, a “third space” develops where the identities of both colonisers and colonised are not completely pure. Gale Yee explains that “[i]t is through these in-between spaces, … that the colonized can disrupt, challenge, and intimidate the colonizer’s efforts to construct a national script dictating their subordinate place within it.”40 Through the Chronicler’s unique portrayal of the temple (in comparison to the Deuteronomistic version), he mimics the Persian imperial palace where the Persian king’s supremacy by the favour of Ahuramazda is celebrated. However, in doing so, he deconstructs and challenges the authority of this imperial authority by indicating that Yahweh’s supremacy is celebrated in the Jerusalem temple. In this way a “third space” was opened within which the Second Temple community in Jerusalem could assume the hybrid identity of a subjugated province in the Persian empire (i.e., being on the periphery), but simultaneously as the centre of Yahwism. 2. The Jerusalem Temple and Other Sanctuaries In this subsection we move to a description of the religious situation in the Diaspora and in the surrounding provinces of Persian period Yehud. Scholars are in agreement that the temple in Jerusalem was not the only Yahweh sanctuary.41 We know for sure that a Yahu temple existed on Elephantine in Diaspora Egypt,42 but also on Mount Gerizim near Shechem in the northern Israel40

Yee, “Postcolonial Biblical Criticism,” 200. See e.g. Diana V. Edelman, “Cultic Sites and Complexes Beyond the Jerusalem Temple,” in Religious Diversity in Ancient Israel and Judah (ed. Francesca Stavrakopoulou and John Barton; London: T&T Clark, 2010), 82–103. 42 Lynch remarks about this temple: “Egyptian Jews built this temple sometime prior to the conquest of Cambyses in 525 B.C.E. It was destroyed ca. 410 B.C.E., probably due to the expansion of the nearby temple of Knum, but was probably rebuilt before 402 B.C.E. as suggested by its mention in a later bill of sale. Because the Elephantine papyri date only until 399 B.C.E., it is not certain how long this temple persisted” (Lynch, Monotheism and Institutions, 57). 41

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ite territory, as well as in Idumea (probably at Khirbet el-Qôm).43 Furthermore, we have evidence of numerous non-Yahwistic sanctuaries in the areas around Yehud.44 Yehud formed part of the Persian satrap Beyond-the-River, which included the vast area to the south-west of the great Mesopotamian rivers as far as Egypt. This satrap included numerous different provinces. It is difficult to tell when exactly the proclamation of Yehud as an independent province took place, but it probably happened in the last years of the fifth century B.C.E. The provincial constellation of the late Persian period was, as we have seen from other studies discussed above, in many instances a continuation of the provincial organisation which was already in place during the Assyrian and neoBabylonian periods. However, one should also remember that some affiliations and relationships with the surrounding peoples existed in earlier times before the different exilic experiences under the Assyrian and neoBabylonian regimes. The two kingdoms, Judah and Israel, are in the background as well as the sometimes troublesome relationship between them. Furthermore, these two kingdoms also had relations with surrounding nations who shared the geographical area of the Levant. Yehud’s relationship with the surrounding provinces in the late Persian period was therefore nothing new, although the broader socio-historical circumstances, as well as the regional organisation, were totally different than before. The relationship with Samaria to the north was particularly important, because this was the area of the former rival kingdom, Israel. Furthermore, Samaria shared with Yehud not only a people of the same cultural back43

Lynch remarks about this temple: “A land transfer recorded on Idumean ostraca no. 283 mentions a ruined BYT YWH somewhere in Idumea, most likely in Khirbet elKôm/Maqqedah. Based on comparative epigraphy, this temple appears to date from the Babylonian or Persian periods, though precision is difficult. The text also refers to two other temples in close proximity, a BYT ‘Z’ (temple of ‘Uzza), and a BYT NBW (temple of Nabu)” (ibid., 59). See also André Lemaire, “New Aramaic Ostraca from Idumea and Their Historical Interpretation,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period (ed. Oded Lipschits and Manfred Oeming; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 413–56; Esther Eshel, “Two Aramaic Ostraca from Mareshah,” in A Time of Change: Judah and Its Neighbours in the Persian and Early Hellenistic Periods (ed. Yigal Levin; London: T&T Clark, 2007), 171–78; Esther Eshel, “The Onomasticon of Mareshah in the Persian and Hellenistic Periods,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Fourth Century B.C.E. (ed. Oded Lipschits, Gary N. Knoppers, and Rainer Albertz; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2007), 145–56; Ian Stern, “The Population of Persian-Period Idumea according to the Ostraca: A Study of Ethnic Boundaries and Ethnogenesis,” in A Time of Change: Judah and Its Neighbours in the Persian and Early Hellenistic Periods (ed. Yigal Levin; London: T&T Clark, 2007), 205–38. 44 See e.g. Bob Becking, “Temples Across the Border and the Communal Boundaries within Yahwistic Yehud,” Transeu 35 (2008): 39–54; Lynch, Monotheism and Institutions, 60–61.

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ground, but also of the same religion, namely Yahwism.45 The study of Samaria and the Samarians/Samaritans has therefore become a popular topic in present-day research.46 This research is important, not only to trace the history of origin of the Samaritans, who were well known in the early Christian communities and still exist as a group today, but also to gain a better understanding of the “parting of the ways” of Jews and Samaritans in the period between the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament.47 It also provides more insight into the relationship between Samaria and Yehud as two provinces during the late Persian period. Present scholarship, from different disciplinary angles, attests to the fact that the province of Samaria was far better established than Yehud to its south during the Persian period.48 We know this through archaeological evidence, 45 Gary Knoppers states the following, for example: “Culturally speaking, Samaria and Yehud shared much in common. Indeed, in speaking of two separate provinces of Samaria and Yehud, one has to recognize that such a distinction is inherently an administrative and political one and not so much a cultural one” (“Revisiting the Samarian Question in the Persian Period,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period (ed. Oded Lipschits and Manfred Oeming; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 279. 46 See e.g. the two book-length recent publications that were dedicated to this topic: Magnar Kartveit, The Origin of the Samaritans (VTSup 128; Leiden: Brill, 2009); Gary N. Knoppers, Jews and Samaritans: The Origins and History of Their Early Relations (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013). See also the essay collections which stemmed from conferences on the topic: Samaritans – Past and Present: Current Studies (ed. Menaḥēm Môr, Friedrich V. Reiterer, and Waltraud Winkler; Studia Samaritana 5; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010). Samaria, Samarians, Samaritans (ed. József Zsengellér; Studia Samaritana 6; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2011); Die Samaritaner und die Bibel – The Samaritans and the Bible (ed. Jörg Frey, Ursula Schattner-Rieser, and Konrad Schmid; Studia Samaritana 7; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2012). 47 Becking investigates some written evidence from the Mount Gerizim excavations to ascertain whether there were already signs at an early stage of the Samaritan cult going its own way in contrast to the Jerusalem cult. See Bob Becking, “Do the Earliest Samaritan Inscriptions Already Indicate a Parting of the Ways?,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Fourth Century B.C.E. (ed. Oded Lipschits, Gary N. Knoppers, and Rainer Albertz; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2007), 213–22. Becking concludes: “The written evidence excavated on Mount Gerizim does not allow the conclusion that, from its very beginning, the religion of the Samari(t)ans differed from the religion of the Yehudites … Until new evidence is found, we have to assume that the origins of Samaritanism as a specific religion are still buried under the dust of history and that the parting of the ways most likely was the result of a long process of independent developments on both sides of the divide” (here 220). See also Kartveit, The Origin of the Samaritans. 48 Knoppers describes this situation as follows: “The Jerusalem of the Achaemenid era has been described as a village with an administrative center. In contrast, the Samaria of the Achaemenid era has been described as one of ancient Palestine’s larger, urban areas. If so, we are dealing not with a situation of comparability but with a situation of disparity. One regional center was substantially larger and wealthier than the other. The difference between the two provinces and their two capitals cannot but have affected the intelligentsia

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but also through other fields such as epigraphy, iconography and numismatics.49 However, although the above-mentioned studies tend to emphasise the differences between Samaria and Yehud, Gary Knoppers warns that they should not distract from the strong continuities that also existed between these provinces. He argues: Culturally speaking, Samaria and Yehud shared much in common. Indeed, in speaking of two separate provinces of Samaria and Yehud, one has to recognize that such a distinction is inherently an administrative and political one and not so much a cultural one. Attempts at self-definition may have been necessary for some of the elite in Jerusalem precisely because of the similarities between the Yahwists living in the two territories.50

As mentioned above, it has emerged in excavations of the past two decades that it is highly likely that there was some sort of sanctuary or temple on Mount Gerizim already during the Persian period. 51 Whereas scholars had theorised before (on the basis of indications in Josephus) that the origin of a sanctuary on Mount Gerizim should be sought at the end of the Persian periof Jerusalem. During the Achaemenid era, members of the Judean elite were not dealing with a depopulated outback to the north. Quite the contrary, they were dealing with a province that was larger, better established, and considerably more populous than was Yehud” (Knoppers, “Revisiting the Samarian Question in the Persian Period,” 272–73). 49 Izak Cornelius, for example, compares the iconography of seals and coins from Persian period Yehud and Samaria with one another. See Izak Cornelius, “‘A Tale of Two Cities’: The Visual Imagery of Yehud and Samaria, and Identity/Self-Understanding in Persian-Period Palestine,” in Texts, Contexts and Readings in Postexilic Literature: Explorations into Historiography and Identity Negotiation in Hebrew Bible and Related Texts (ed. Louis C. Jonker; FAT II/53; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 213–37. Oren Tal, who did a similar exercise to that of Cornelius of comparing the coinage from Yehud, Samaria, Filistia and Idumea, also hints in the direction of Samaria showing a greater “openness” to outside influence than Yehud. See Oren Tal, “Negotiating Identity in an International Context under Achaemenid Rule: The Indigenous Coinages of Persian-Period Palestine as an Allegory,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identity in an International Context (ed. Oded Lipschits, Gary N. Knoppers, and Manfred Oeming; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 445–59. 50 Knoppers, “Revisiting the Samarian Question in the Persian Period,” 279. 51 See particularly the publications of Magen: Yitzhak Magen, “A Fortified City from the Hellenistic Period on Mount Gerizim,” Qadmoniot 19 (1986): 91–101; Yitzhak Magen, “Mount Gerizim – A Temple City,” Qadmoniot 23 (1991): 70–96; Yitzhak Magen, “Mt. Gerizim – A Temple City,” Qadmoniot 33 (2000): 74–118; Ephraim Stern and Yitzhak Magen, “Archaeological Evidence for the First Stage of the Samaritan Temple on Mount Gerizim,” IEJ 52 (2002): 49–57; Yitzhak Magen, “The Dating of the First Phase of the Samaritan Temple on Mount Gerizim in Light of the Archaeological Evidence,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Fourth Century B.C.E. (ed. Oded Lipschits, Gary N. Knoppers, and Rainer Albertz; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2007), 157–211; Yitzhak Magen, Mount Gerizim Excavations: Vol. II: A Temple City, Jerusalem (Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority, 2008).

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od, Yitzhak Magen argues that it must already have been constructed in the middle of the fifth century B.C.E.52 If these conclusions about the sanctuary on Mount Gerizim are correct, it means that there was already a diversity of sanctuaries during the time when the Chronicler constructed his history. Such a situation would have meant continuity, but also opposition. Both the temple in Jerusalem and the sanctuary on Mount Gerizim were sanctuaries dedicated to Yahweh. However, the old rivalry of the time of the Divided Kingdoms about which version of Yahwism was considered the truthful one must have received new impetus during the Persian era. Bob Becking summarizes this situation as follows: “The presence of competing Yahwistic temples in the Persian Period seems to be a greater threat to the identity of Jerusalem as the centre of ‘real Yahwism.’ … The presence of these sanctuaries indicates the re-emergence of poly-Yahwism, i.e. a variety of forms of Yahwism differing from temple to temple.”53 Although it seems that the Chronicler recognised that Yahweh worship could temporarily also take place at other shrines than Jerusalem (see e.g. 1 Chr 16:39; 21:29; 2 Chr 1:3, 13; 33:17) he employed various rhetorical techniques in his own material in Chronicles to ensure that the Jerusalem temple would be understood as the centre of Yahwism. Some of these are the following: (i) His frequent identification of the Jerusalem cultic community with the expression “All Israel” (which includes the northern and transjordanian tribes) suggests that the Chronicler saw Jerusalem as the centre of Yahweh worship. In pivotal narratives about religious reformation (such as the reforms during Hezekiah’s reign in 2 Chr 30) and Passover celebration (such as in the Josiah narrative in 2 Chr 35), the Chronicler added some comments to make sure that these were understood as occasions where the whole Israel was involved. (ii) The designation ‫ בית אלהים‬as reference to the temple never occurs in Samuel-Kings, but the Chronicler often employs this expression (like in EzraNehemiah). This might be an indication that the Chronicler had an awareness of other sanctuaries (Yahwistic or other), but that he claimed the diversity in cultic worship was actually incorporated into the Jerusalem temple.54 52

Magen, “The Dating of the First Phase of the Samaritan Temple,” 190–93. Becking, “Temples Across the Border,” 53. 54 Schweitzer speculates over why the Chronicler employs the expression ‫בית אלהים‬, in contrast to Kings: “If ‫ בית אלהים‬indicated or could be confused for a temple to another god, then the concern for centralized worship so clear in Kings may have been the source of the resistance to using the phrase for the temple in Jerusalem. Chronicles may prefer it precisely because of the pluralistic context of the Persian period, especially in the use of the generic term ‫ אלהים‬for the divine (Schweitzer, “The Temple in Samuel-Kings and Chronicles,” 134). 53

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(iii) The Chronicler relates the site of the temple to the premonarchical traditions about Abraham. Not only is David’s purchasing of the site from Ornan patterned according to the narrative of Abraham’s purchasing of the Machpelah cave from Ephron (cf. 1 Chr 21:22–25 with Gen 23), but he also relates it directly to Mount Moriah where Abraham had to sacrifice Izaak (cf. 2 Chr 3:1 with Gen 22). In this way, it is suggested that Yahweh’s election of the temple site in Jerusalem goes back to a period long before the division between the north and south.55 (iv) The Chronicler takes pains to indicate that no (northern) Israelite hands contributed to the building of the temple. By patterning the building of the temple on the narrative of the manufacturing of the tabernacle, the Chronicler again relates back to a premonarchical tradition, and thereby involves Tyrian workers and specialist builders in the project. It is furthermore indicated in Chronicles (1 Chr 28:19) that the plan for the temple building came directly from Yahweh’s hand. In this way, the Chronicler claimed a unique position for the Jerusalem temple within the situation of poli-Yahwism.56 These points illustrate that the Chronicler’s intention clearly was to establish Jerusalem as the centre of Yahwism amidst a situation of a diversity of Yahwistic and non-Yahwistic sanctuaries. In this case, the temple in Jerusalem was certainly seen as the religious centre of the region, with all other places of Yahwistic and non-Yahwistic worship on the periphery. 3. Tribal Rivalry Over a Central Sanctuary Scholarship confirms that during the Persian period the former tribal areas of both Judah and Benjamin were included in the province of Yehud. It is difficult not only to determine the outer borders of Yehud during this time period, but also where the border between these former tribal areas was situated. There is a consensus among scholars that it must have been very near to Jerusalem.57 What is clear, however, is that the relationship between these two areas – on political, economic and cultic levels – was always full of tension, but that the situation even became more tense after the destruction of Jerusalem, and particularly after the return from exile.58 After the destruction of Jerusalem in 55

See the discussions in Williamson, “The Temple in the Books of Chronicles,” 20–25; Jarick, “The Temple of David in the Book of Chronicles,” 369–73. 56 See the discussions in Williamson, “The Temple in the Books of Chronicles,” 25–31; Jarick, “The Temple of David in the Book of Chronicles,” 376–80. 57 See a more in-depth discussion, see Jonker, Defining All-Israel in Chronicles, Section 3.4.3. 58 See e.g. Diana V. Edelman, “Did Saulide-Davidic Rivalry Resurface in Early Persian Yehud?,” in The Land That I Will Show You: Essays on the History and Archaeology of the Ancient Near East in Honor of J. Maxwell Miller (ed. J. Andrew Dearman and M. Patrick

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587/6 B.C.E. by the neo-Babylonian force, the Benjaminite area gained importance. It is fairly certain that it became the centre of a Babylonian province, and that Mizpah in Benjaminite territory became an important administrative centre for the next approximately 140 years.59 It is known from the biblical writings that the Babylonians appointed Gedaliah as regent in this area, with his seat in Mizpah. Archaeological evidence supports the picture of continuity with the past in this area.60 A change came, however, from the end of the sixth and during the fifth and fourth centuries B.C.E. Archaeological excavation and survey data show that the Benjaminite region then went through a period of decline, with Mizpah and other centres such as Bet-el, Gibeon and Gibeah losing inhabitants and influence.61 This decline is generally associated with the resettling and rebuilding of Jerusalem after the return from exile of many of the cultic and political elite who had been deported Graham; JSOTSup 343; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 69–91; eadem, “What Can We Know about the Persian-Era Temple in Jerusalem?,” in Temple Building and Temple Cult: Architecture and Cultic Paraphernalia of Temples in the Levant (2.– 1. Mill. B.C.E.) (ed. Jens Kamlah; Abhandlungen des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins 41; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2012), 343–68. 59 See e.g. Grabbe and Knoppers: “The question of Jerusalem as a cult and political centre arises, because Mizpah had become the capital of the province through much of the Neo-Babylonian period. Some argue that Mizpah continued to serve as the political centre of Judah until the mid-5th century (the arrival of Nehemiah)” (“Introduction,” in Exile and Restoration Revisited: Essays on the Babylonian and Persian Periods in Memory of Peter R. Ackroyd [ed. Gary N. Knoppers, Lester L. Grabbe, and Deirdre N. Fulton; Library of Second Temple Studies 73; London: T&T Clark, 2009], 20). See also Ianir Milevski, “Settlement Patterns in Northern Judah during the Achaemenid Period, According to the Hill Country of Benjamin and Jerusalem Surveys,” BAIAS 15 (1996/1997): 7–29; Joseph Blenkinsopp, “The Judaean Priesthood during the Neo-Babylonian and Achaemenid Periods: A Hypothetical Reconstruction,” CBQ 60 (1998): 25–43; Oded Lipschits, “Jerusalem between Two Periods of Greatness: The Size and Status of the City in the Babylonian, Persian and Early Hellenistic Periods,” in Judah between East and West: The Transition from Persian to Greek Rule (ca. 400–200 BCE) (ed. Lester L. Grabbe; Library of Second Temple Studies 75; London: T&T Clark, 2011), 163–74. 60 See Oded Lipschits, “The History of the Benjamin Region under Babylonian Rule,” TA 26 (1999): 179. See also Oded Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem: Judah under Babylonian Rule (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2005), ch. 4; Diana V. Edelman, “Gibeon and the Gibeonites Revisited,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period (ed. Oded Lipschits and Josef Blenkinsopp; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2003), 153–67. 61 Lipschits indicates that survey data show a drop of around 60 % in the number of sites from the Iron Age II to the Persian period (“The History of the Benjamin Region under Babylonian Rule,” 181). He furthermore indicates that “[t]he major conclusion arising from these facts [i.e. the survey data – LCJ] is that in the Persian period the settlements in Benjamin withdrew towards the centre of the region, to the narrow sector on either side of the watershed, while the northern and eastern zones became almost entirely devoid of their settlements” (ibid., 182).

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earlier. The early Persian period saw the main administrative centre moved to Jerusalem again, and the province of Yehud, consisting of (parts of) both the (former) Judahite and Benjaminite areas, was later proclaimed as an independent Persian province. There are particularly two sections in the Chronicler’s David narrative that point towards Judahite-Benjaminite rivalry about the central sanctuary. The first is 1 Chr 16:37–43 where mention is made of the high place at Gibeon.62 This pericope contains the concluding notes on the Chronicler’s Ark Narrative in which the bringing of the Ark of the Covenant to Jerusalem is narrated. 63 This whole section, except verse 43, belongs to the Chronicler’s Sondergut. Verse 43 quotes very selectively from 2 Sam 6:19–23, taking over only verses 19b and 20a of the latter in a modified form.64 Right at the end of the Ark Narrative it is indicated that “all the people went to their own homes” (1 Chr 16:43a || 2 Sam 6:19b), and that “David turned around to bless his house” (1 Chr 16:43b). In the last-mentioned part, the Chronicler changed the verb from ‫ שוב‬in the Samuel text to ‫ סבב‬in his own text. The suggestion is clear: the blessing that the ark brought to the house of Obed-Edom was transferred to the City of David, but is now also bestowed on David’s family (literally “his house”). The house of David is, of course, the royal line that runs from Judah’s first king, David, through all the other Judahite kings (whose histories are narrated in 2 Chr 10–36). The use of the verb ‫ סבב‬here ties this See also my discussion in Jonker, Defining All-Israel in Chronicles, Section 6.3.3. For discussions on the problematic 1 Chr 14 see John W. Wright, “The Founding Father: The Structure of the Chronicler’s David Narrative,” JBL 117 (1998): 45–59; and Tamara C. Eskenazi, “A Literary Approach to Chronicles’ Ark Narrative in 1 Chronicles 13–16,” in Fortunate the Eyes That See: Essays in Honor of David Noel Freedman in Celebration of His Seventieth Birthday (ed. Astrid B. Beck; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1995), 258–74. 64 The Chronicler therefore omits the material in 2 Sam 6:20b–23 where Michal’s response to the bringing of the Ark to Jerusalem and the organizing of the cult at Gibeon is indicated. Michal, Saul’s daughter, features briefly 1 Chr 15:29 as we have discussed above. The continuation of the narrative about Michal’s contempt for David in the mentioned section in 2 Sam 6 does not fit the Chronicler’s narrative, however. If the Chronicler had included this part from 2 Sam 6 the Ark narrative would have ended on this negative note, with his wife despising his actions and attitude, instead of on the triumphant note of Yahweh’s blessings going over onto David’s house (see Steven L. McKenzie, 1 & 2 Chronicles [Abingdon Old Testament Commentary; Nashville: Abingdon, 2004], 150). It furthermore would have emphasized the dark relationship between Judah (David) and Benjamin (Michal); something which the Chronicler rather would like to leave unsaid here. Whereas the Deuteronomistic version also poignantly indicates in 2 Sam 6:23 that “Michal, daughter of Saul, had no child of her own up to the day of her death” – probably ensuring that nobody would think that David’s blood line intertwined with that of Saul – the Chronicler also leaves this remark aside, probably to avoid drawing the lines between Judah and Benjamin to clearly. 62

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text to 1 Chr 10:14 where it is also used in the concluding statement after the death of Saul (a Benjaminite): “Yahweh … turned the kingdom over to David son of Jesse.” The rest of this pericope, that is 16:37–42, comes from the Chronicler’s own hand. It narrates in verses 37–38 the appointment of Asaph and his kinsfolk before the Ark of the Covenant of Yahweh in Jerusalem to serve (with the verb ‫ )שרת‬there on a daily basis, as well as of Obed-Edom and his kinsfolk as doorkeepers at the same place.65 Verses 39–42 continues, however, to indicate that the “high place in Gibeon” where the tabernacle resided was also maintained as working sanctuary with Zadok the priest and his priestly brethren responsible for bringing burnt offerings before the tabernacle according to the written Torah. Furthermore, the Levitical families of Heman and Jeduthun were responsible for the music and the praising at the tabernacle in Gibeon, and the sons of Jeduthun were the doorkeepers. This section therefore suggests that there were two cultic centres during David’s reign: the ark in the City of David and the tabernacle in Gibeon which was in Benjaminite territory. Some scholars dispute the historical reliability of this information.66 Nevertheless, it seems that the Chronicler is not giving this information for historical purposes but is rather using it to prepare the way for the construction of the temple under Solomon (narrated in 2 Chr 2–4). During Solomon’s reign both the ark and the tabernacle were taken to the temple in Jerusalem. 2 Chr 1:3 still mentions that Solomon went to “the high place in Gibeon,” but when the ark and the tabernacle came to the temple in Jerusalem, the cult was united in one center.67 The mention of the ark and the tabernacle at two locations in 1 Chr 16 should probably be related to the tribal composition of postexilic Yehud. The City of David was clearly associated with the tribe of Judah, while Gibeon was one of the Benjaminite places. Bringing the two main cultic symbols to the temple from a Judahite and Benjaminite location, respectively, might have been the Chronicler’s attempt to unite these tribal interests in the cen65 For a discussion of the literary history of this section, see Pieter B. Dirksen, “1 Chronicles 16:38: Its Background and Growth,” JNSL 22 (1996): 85–90. Ralph Klein responds as follows to Dirksen’s view: “My primary difference with Dirksen is that he assigns the core of v. 38, ‘and Obed-Edom and Hosah as gatekeepers,’ to the redactor responsible for adding chs. 23–27 to Chronicles, whereas I attribute the core of v. 38 and most of chs. 23–27 to the Chronicler himself. He and I agree that subsequent glosses identified Obed-Edom as the son of the singer Jeduthun and that the addition of sixty-eight brothers depends on that earlier gloss” (1 Chronicles: A Commentary [Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2006], 368 n. 64). 66 See e.g. Sara Japhet, I & II Chronicles: A Commentary (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1993), 321–23. 67 See also the discussion in Gary N. Knoppers, I Chronicles 10–29: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (1st ed.; New York: Doubleday, 2004), 660–61.

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tralized Jerusalem cult. By indicating that both Zadokite priests and Levitical families served at the former sanctuary in Gibeon, the Chronicler acknowledges the importance of that tradition. However, by merging the Gibeonite tabernacle tradition with the Ark tradition in the temple building account narrated in the following main section of the book of Chronicles, the Chronicler also made clear that Jerusalem is now the place of the legitimate cult which represents all those former traditions. Taking into account that Gibeon most probably had a prominent cultic function during the exilic period after the fall of Jerusalem, and that the Jerusalemite cultic community reestablished itself (at the cost of Gibeon) as cultic centre in the period of restoration, this portrayal would have been powerful rhetoric in the Chronicler’s own time. A next section in the Chronicler’s narrative which is also of significance in this context is the identification of the temple site on Ornan’s threshing floor, as described in 1 Chr 21:15–22:1.68 The most significant difference between the Chronicler’s version and its Vorlage in 2 Sam 24 is the insertion of 21:27, as well as the short section 21:28–22:1 right at the end of the narrative. Verse 27 concludes the section in which a divine messenger appears. Verses 28–30 indicate that David sacrificed on the Jebusite’s threshing floor, although the tabernacle was at that time still in Gibeon. All commentators are in agreement that 1 Chr 22:1 belongs to the Chronicler’s own material. Knoppers even sees this verse – where the divine appearance on the threshing floor of Ornan, the Jebusite, is related to the site of the future temple – as a turning point in the Chronicler’s construction. Knoppers indicates that the impressive divine reaction to David’s offering was preparing the way for the tabernacle to be brought to Jerusalem from Gibeon to be united with the Ark of the Covenant, a move that was necessary given the Chronicler’s ideology of one national cult that adhered to both the Priestly and the Deuteronomic traditions.69 Verses 28–30 can then well be the Chronicler’s attempt to prepare the transition of cultic status from the Benjaminite Gibeon, to the Judahite Jerusalem. Jebus, which probably belonged to both the tribal areas of Judah and Benjamin because of fluctuating boundaries, was the ideal neutral place where these two tribal traditions could be united in one cultic centre. The transition of status from Gibeon to Jerusalem will be concluded after the

68

I have dealt extensively with this text in Louis C. Jonker, “Of Jebus, Jerusalem, and Benjamin: The Chronicler’s Sondergut in 1 Chronicles 21 against the Background of the Late Persian Era in Yehud,” in Chronicling the Chronicler: The Book of Chronicles and Early Second Temple Historiography (ed. Paul Evans and Tyler Williams; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2013), 81–102. See also Jonker, Defining All-Israel in Chronicles, Section 6.3.4. 69 Knoppers, I Chronicles 10–29, 761.

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construction of the temple on the chosen site, as described in the Chronicler’s Solomon narrative. Both the sections discussed above are reflections of the inner-Yehudite deliberation in the late Persian period on the centrality of Jerusalem within a context where Benjaminite places also exercised cultic influence. These are probably good examples of the Chronicler’s attempts to bring the Jerusalem temple from the periphery to the cultic centre. Although there are other Chronicles texts and perspectives that could have been discussed here,70 the above examples suffice to indicate how complicated the power relations were with reference to the Jerusalem temple’s position in the late Persian period. The next section will try to synthesise the insights from the discussed examples.

D. Synthesis: Power Relations and Second Temple as Reflected in Chronicles Although the above examples were discussed separately and sequentially, one should realise that they should actually be interpreted concurrently as part of the Chronicler’s multidimensional communication. We have shown above that the Chronicler’s socio-historical context was variegated and complex, and that the Chronicler through his unique rhetoric participated in discourses that engaged with different levels of socio-historical existence. The Jerusalem temple occupies a central role in the Chronicler’s rhetoric. We have seen that the Chronicler’s re-interpretations of his Vorlage, as well as his new constructions through his own material, focused particularly on the centrality of the Jerusalem temple and cult. Although only small parts of the 70 Two further perspectives that are worth discussing in the context of the power relations during the late Persian period are (i) the economic role of the Jerusalem temple, and (ii) the possible judicial function of the Jerusalem temple. With reference to the economic role, scholars normally rely on comparative material from other better attested temples of Achaemenid Persia. Bedford discusses some problematic aspects of these studies, notably the issues of the temple controlling land, as well as its roll in fiscal administration. See Peter R. Bedford, “The Economic Role of the Jerusalem Temple in Achaemenid Judah: Comparative Perspectives,” in Shai Le-Sara Japhet: Studies in the Bible, Its Exegesis and Its Language (ed. Moshe Bar-Asher et al.; Jerusalem: The Bialik Institute, 2007), 3–20. See also my treatment of the Chronicler’s Judah genealogy from an economic perspective in Louis C. Jonker, “Agrarian Economy through City Elite Eyes: Reflections of Late Persian Period Yehud Economy in the Genealogies of Chronicles” (presented at the Canadian Society of Biblical Studies Annual Meeting, Victoria BC, 2013). With reference to the possible judicial function of the temple, see my discussion in Louis C. Jonker, “Was the Chronicler More Deuteronomic than the Deuteronomist? Explorations into the Chronicler’s Relationship with Deuteronomic Legal Traditions,” SJOT 27 (2013): 191–203.

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book refers directly to the Second Temple and its community, the Chronicler’s reworking of his Vorlage’s material on the construction and functioning of the Davidic-Solomonic temple reveals much of the discourses of his own time. Our first example illustrated how the Chronicler communicated within the religious context of the late Persian period. It was shown that the Chronicler portrayed the Jerusalem temple as the equivalent of the Persian palaces which were public statements of the Persian kings’ splendour by the favour of Ahuramazda. Instead of the connection to a Davidic king (which was absent in the Chronicler’s days), the Chronicler changed the Deuteronomistic version to claim that Yahweh’s splendour was actually displayed in the Jerusalem temple. We have used concepts from postcolonial criticism to describe the power relations involved in this portrayal. Although Jerusalem was a provincial capital on the periphery of the Persian empire, and although the local political and cultic leadership were probably expected to show their allegiance to the royal Persian religion, the Chronicler constructed his version of the temple as mimicry of the imperial religion, and by doing so, opened a “third space” within which the religious authority of the imperial centre could be undermined from the provincial periphery. The relationship between centre and periphery is therefore not linear and one-directional. The Chronicler’s portrayal of the Jerusalem temple opened the space within which Jerusalem could be seen both as peripheral and central. The second example showed how the Chronicler’s portrayal of the Jerusalem temple polemicized against other Yahweh cultic centres (in the province Samaria, in Idumea, and in the Diaspora) and non-Yahweh cultic centres. We have seen from the textual examples that the Chronicler subtly argued that the Jerusalem temple was the centre of Yahwism, and that it should be acknowledged as such. Although it seems that the Chronicler was not as adamant as the Deuteronomistic Vorlage on the issue of centralization of the cult, it was made crystal clear that the “real” Yahwism is based in the Jerusalem temple. On the level of provincial existence, the cultic community in Jerusalem could therefore claim centrality, and could exercise cultic power from the centre to the periphery of other existing sanctuaries. The third and last example showed that the Chronicler acknowledged the influence of the Benjaminite cultic place, Gibeon, but nevertheless claimed that all cultic traditions (the Ark and the Tabernacle) had been united in the Jerusalem temple. The claim of the Jerusalem temple goes back to premonarchical traditions which linked the patriarchs with the site on which the temple was built. The identification of the site on Ornan’s threshing floor pays tribute to the fact that the Chronicler did not want to estrange the Benjaminites by making these cultic claims. The threshing floor seems to be neutral ground between the Judahite and Benjaminite influence spheres. On the level of tribal rivalries between Judah and Benjamin the Chronicler claims

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a neutral, but central, position for the Jerusalem temple. The interlude of the exile when the Jerusalem temple did not function due to its destruction, could be turned back to the “original” situation where the centrality of the Jerusalem temple would be acknowledged within the province of Yehud. When these observations are synthesized into one reading of Chronicles, it emerges that the Jerusalem temple functioned both as periphery and as centre simultaneously. On the level of the empire, the temple was peripheral, but through mimicry could be used as a subtle polemic to undermine the imperial religious conventions. On an inter-provincial level, the Chronicler made clear that the Second Temple still represents the cult of All-Israel, and that it therefore stands central in the cultic landscape. On the inner-Yehudite level, the Chronicler also claimed centrality for the Jerusalem temple, without estranging the Benjaminites.

What is the Core and What is the Periphery in Ezra-Nehemiah? Gary N. Knoppers To inquire as to what the core and periphery are in Ezra-Nehemiah may seem somewhat preposterous.1 The answer would seem to be relatively simple and straight-forward. The core is Jerusalem and Yehud and the periphery is everywhere else, whether locally in neighboring lands, such as Ammon, Moab, Edom and Samaria, or far away in distant lands, such as Babylonia and Egypt.2 In the international world of Judean life, one could say that Jerusalem 1 My assumption is that Ezra-Nehemiah represents a single book and not simply a conflation of two or more very different sets of stories, James C. VanderKam, “EzraNehemiah or Ezra and Nehemiah?,” in Priests, Prophets, and Scribes: Essays on the Formation and Heritage of Second Temple Judaism in Honour of Joseph Blenkinsopp (ed. Eugene C. Ulrich et al.; JSOTSup 149; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992), 55–75; idem, From Joshua to Caiaphas: High Priests after the Exile (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2004); Bob Becking, “Ezra on the Move: Trends and Perspectives on the Character and His Book,” in Perspectives in the Study of the Old Testament and Early Judaism: A Symposium in Honour of Adam S. van der Woude on the Occasion of His 70th Birthday (ed. Florentino García Martínez and Edward Noort; VTSup 73; Leiden: Brill, 1998), 154–79; idem, “Continuity and Community: The Belief System of the Book of Ezra,” in The Crisis of Israelite Religion: Transformation of Religious Tradition in Exilic and Post-Exilic Times (ed. Bob Becking and Marjo C. A. Korpel; OTS 42; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 256–75 [repr. in his Ezra, Nehemiah, and the Construction of Early Jewish Identity (FAT 80; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 1–23, 24–42]; Margaret Cohen, “Leave Nehemiah Alone: Nehemiah’s ‘Tales’ and Fifth Century BCE Historiography,” in Unity and Disunity in Ezra-Nehemiah: Redaction, Rhetoric and Reader (ed. Mark J. Boda and Paul L. Redditt; Hebrew Bible Monographs 17; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2008), 55–74. Along with many commentators, I would acknowledge the existence of originally separate Ezra and Nehemiah traditions that were brought together, reworked, and edited at a later time. The evidence of First Esdras would also seem to point in this direction. Nevertheless, the grouping of the two together, however artificial, in the book of Ezra(-Nehemiah) bears the marks of deliberate editing. Hence, it seems appropriate to examine the portrayals of these two figures within the larger context of a single, albeit diverse, literary work. 2 On the problems in employing the terms “core” and “periphery” in the historical context of the development of the many Greek city states and their assorted settlements in the Archaic and Classical ages, see Irad Malkin, The Returns of Odysseus: Colonization and Ethnicity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 10–21. In the case of ancient Judah, it seems defensible to begin, at least, with these categories before complicating

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and Judah constitute a steady centre, while the various communities of the Diaspora lie at the margins.3 The book begins with a decree of Cyrus encouraging Judeans wherever they may sojourn among all of the kingdoms of the earth to journey to Jerusalem to build the temple there that Yhwh, the God of the heavens (ʾĕlōhê hāšāmayim) appointed Cyrus to construct (Ezra 1:2–4).4 Hence, the very beginning of the work promotes the centrality of Jerusalem to all those anywhere within the vast land mass controlled by the imperial king, who have an interest in worshiping “Yhwh, the God of Israel (ʾĕlōhê yiśrāʾēl),” because “he is,” as King Cyrus localizes him, “the God who is in Jerusalem” (hûʾ hāʾĕlōhîm ʾăšer bîrûšālayim; Ezra 1:3).5 them, because one is dealing with a single traditional Judahite homeland (and not with several different homelands, as in the Greek case) and its related communities in the late monarchy, the Neo-Babylonian period, the Persian period, and the Hellenistic age. 3 In recent decades, the term diaspora has taken on many wide-ranging social, anthropological, political, and economic meanings. In this essay, the term is used in a more limited sense as including the criteria of dispersion to an extraneous territory, a continuing homeland orientation (as a source of value, identity, and loyalty), and a significant degree of boundary maintenance (over several generations). See further Rogers Brubaker, “The Diaspora ‘Diaspora,’” Ethnic and Racial Studies 28 (2005): 1–19 (5–6). 4 Since an involuntary external exile or deracination entails a forcible expulsion away from one’s home, (whether city or larger state), while being explicitly refused permission to return to one’s native land or being threatened with punishment (or even death) upon one’s return to that land, the decree of Cyrus at the beginning of Ezra (1:1–4) signals a seachange in the condition of the Judean exiles. Some sixty years after the Babylonian exile of King Jehoiachin of 597 B.C.E. and some fifty years after the Babylonian exile of 586 B.C.E., dislocated Judeans are granted an opportunity by the highest political and judicial authority in the vast Persian empire to migrate back to their homeland. In the story world imagined by the text, those who do not do so, remain in other lands at their own volition. At this point in the text, the external exile becomes a diaspora. 5 The foundational role played by Cyrus’ decree within the larger context of EzraNehemiah is stressed by Christiane Karrer, Ringen um die Verfassung Judas: Eine Studie zu den theologisch-politischen Vorstellungen im Esra-Nehemia-Buch (BZAW 308; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2001). The detailed study by Hanspeter Schaudig analyzes what remains of the fragmentary text, Die Inschriften Nabonids von Babylon und Kyros’ des Groβen samt den in ihrem Umfeld entstandenen Tendenzschriften: Textausgabe und Grammatik (AOAT 256; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2001), 550–56. The recent survey by John Curtis (The Cyrus Cylinder and Ancient Persia: A New Beginning for the Middle East [London: British Museum, 2013], 31–43) includes new tablet fragments by Irving L. Finkel (pp. 42–43). On the limited range and highly ideological nature of the Cyrus edict, see Amélie Kuhrt, “The Cyrus Cylinder and Achaemenid Imperial Policy,” JSOT 25 (1983): 83–97; eadem, “Cyrus the Great of Persia: Images and Realities,” in Representations of Political Power: Case Histories from Times of Change and Dissolving Order in the Ancient Near East (ed. Marlies Heinz and Marian H. Feldman; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2007), 169–91. R. J. van der Spek stresses Cyrus’ expediency and not unprecedented clemency in repatriating temple objects (statues of the gods) and subject populations, “Cyrus the Great, Exiles, and

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In the account of how Ezra migrates from Babylon to the land of Judah, the narrative promotes the fabulous gifts and tribute Ezra and his entourage convey to the Jerusalem Temple on behalf of King Artaxerxes and the Judean Babylonian community (Ezra 7:12–26; 8:26–34). In this case, a member of the Diaspora successfully exploits a vertical alliance with the imperial king to the great benefit of his homeland community.6 These gifts and tokens of tribute, along with the temple furnishings brought decades earlier in the time of Sheshbazzar (Ezra 1:5–11), are highly important tangible signs of support offered by the members of the Diaspora for the traditional centre. 7 In the beginning of the Nehemiah narrative, the character of Nehemiah may be found in the fortress of the Achaemenid capital of Susa weeping, praying, and fasting on behalf of “the survivors who remained from the captivity” (hāpĕlêṭâ ʾăšer-nišʾărû min-hā-šĕbî) in Judah, who “were in great trouble and disgrace” (Neh 1:1–11). The cupbearer to the king professes a profound attachment to his patrimonial homeland, describing Jerusalem as “the city of my ancestors’ sepulchres” (Neh 1:1–2:5).8 When he prays on behalf of himself, his ancestral house (bêt-ʾābî), and the children of Israel (bĕnê yiśrāʾēl), he identifies himself with the Judean people, all the while implicitly acknowledging that the descendants of this people have become an international phenomenon. 9 At the end of the book, one finds Nehemiah in Jerusalem,

Foreign Gods: A Comparison of Assyrian and Persian Policies on Subject Nations,” in Extraction and Control: Studies in Honor of Matthew W. Stolper (ed. Michael Kozuh et al.; Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization 68; Chicago: The Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 2014), 233–64. 6 On this topic in much greater detail, see my “Ethnicity, Genealogy, Geography, and Change: The Judean Communities of Babylon and Jerusalem in the Story of Ezra,” in Community Identity in Judean Historiography: Biblical and Comparative Perspectives (ed. Gary N. Knoppers and Kenneth A. Ristau; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2009), 147– 71. 7 Peter R. Ackroyd, Studies in the Religious Tradition of the Old Testament (London: SCM, 1987), 46–60; Gary N. Knoppers, “Treasures Won and Lost: Royal (Mis)appropriations in Kings and Chronicles,” in The Chronicler as Author (ed. M. Patrick Graham and Steven L. McKenzie; JSOTSup 263; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 181– 208. For the interpretive option that Sheshbazzar and Nehemiah were one and the same, see Diana Edelman, “Were Zerubbabel and Nehemiah the Same Person?,” in Far from Minimal: Celebrating the Work and Influence of Philip R. Davies (ed. Duncan Burns and John W. Rogerson; LHBOTS 484; London: T&T Clark, 2012), 112–31. 8 The identification is by no means unique. In the work of Thucydides, for instance, the Epidamnian exiles, when venturing to Corcyra, pointed to the graves of their ancestors and appealed to their kin to restore them (Thuc. 1.26.3). 9 Gary N. Knoppers, “Exile, Return, and Diaspora: Expatriates and Repatriates in Late Biblical Literature,” in Texts, Contexts and Readings in Postexilic Literature: Explorations into Historiography and Identity Negotiation in Hebrew Bible and Related Texts (ed. Louis C. Jonker; FAT II/53; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 29–61

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having implemented various reforms, pleading with his deity: “Remember (this) to me, O my God, for credit!” (zŏkĕrâ-lî ʾĕlōhay lĕṭôbâ; Neh 13:31). In short, one could contend that Ezra-Nehemiah is all about renewing core institutions within the centre of Judean life during Persian times. There seems little doubt that Ezra-Nehemiah promotes a pivotal status for Jerusalem in the context of an international age in which Judeans reside in various places both within the land and outside of it. The support shown by Judeans in the Diaspora for the traditional centre is a recurring motif in the various stories in Ezra. Nevertheless, I would argue that the matter of core and periphery in this book is a much more complex matter than the traditional Jerusalem-focused rubric allows. In this essay, I would like to draw on the insights offered by analysis of ancient Greek settlements on the one hand, and Diaspora studies on the other hand to explore the dynamics between the homeland and the Diaspora in Ezra-Nehemiah for the period under view. The ancient documentation pertaining to the historical relations between the various Greek city-states and their settlements in other lands includes epigraphic, archaeological, and literary sources. 10 Ancient Greek travel, trade, and the creation of distant communities throughout much of the Mediterranean world offer some useful comparanda for the study of homeland-diaspora relations in Ezra-Nehemiah.11 In addition, the discipline of Diaspora studies, the comThomas James Dunbabin, The Western Greeks (Oxford: Clarendon, 1948); Jean Bérard, L’expansion et la colonisation grecques, jusqu’aux guerres médiques (Paris: Aubier, 1960); Alexander John Graham, Colony and Mother City in Ancient Greece (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1964); idem, Collected Papers on Greek Colonization (Mnemosyne, bibliotheca classica Batava. Supplementum 214; Leiden: Brill, 2001); Anthony M. Snodgrass, “The Growth and Standing of the Early Western Colonies,” in The Archaeology of Greek Colonisation: Essays Dedicated to Sir John Boardman (ed. Gocha R. Tsetskhladze and Franco De Angelis; Oxford: Oxford University Committee for Archaeology, 1994), 1–10; John Boardman, “Settlement for Trade and Land in North Africa: Problems of Identity,” in The Archaeology of Greek Colonisation, 137–49; idem, The Greeks Overseas: Their Early Colonies and Trade (4th ed.; New York: Thames and Hudson, 1999); Irad Malkin, A Small Greek World: Networks in the Ancient Mediterranean (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011). 11 Hence, I am not drawing a causal link between the historical situations encountered by various ancient Greek settlements with the relationships among the much more limited number of Judean communities in the ancient Mediterranean world. Given the many different Greek states that established colonies (or later claimed them), the settlements that established other settlements, and the extensive networks that developed among these various communities, the Greek situation is inevitably much more complex than is the early Judean situation. Moreover, the number of ancient Greek settlements may be two hundred and thirty in number (Mogens H. Hansen and Thomas H. Nielsen, An Inventory of Archaic and Classical Poleis [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004], 152), whereas the communities in Egypt, Mesopotamia, and elsewhere that may have claimed affiliation with the ancestral land of Judah are comparatively very small in number. Nevertheless, I believe that cross-cultural comparisons offer significant value in gaining a better understanding of 10

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parative analysis of cultural relations between traditional homelands and their related communities in other lands, offers helpful insights for our analysis. In what follows, my study will begin by briefly discussing some aspects of ancient Greek colonization and homeland-diaspora relations before comparing these phenomena with the depictions of homeland-diaspora relations in Ezra-Nehemiah. My essay argues that the very case the literary work makes for the central role Jerusalem should play in Judean life presupposes a not-too subtle shift in power dynamics between the traditional homeland and the Eastern Diaspora.12 The writing selectively upholds critical moments in Judean history over a century’s span, yet each of these major interventions is led by a leader, or set of leaders, from the Diaspora.13 In portraying the long and arduous path toward rebuilding the homeland, the work paradoxically underscores the key role played by the Diaspora in the continuation of Judean life. At the end of this essay, I wish to explore briefly how the depiction of relations among Judean communities scattered throughout certain areas of the Achaemenid empire strains the core-periphery category.

the various ways in which members of these far-flung Judean communities related to each other. That is, the ancient Greek settlements and their relations both with originating centres and with other settlements provide some useful historical analogies for what occurs in the ancient Near Eastern world. The Judeans were by no means alone among population groups in the West Semitic world for whom there is textual evidence for displacement. There is, for example, epigraphic and textual evidence pointing to the existence of various ethnic minorities, such as the Elamites, Egyptians, Phoenicians, Judeans, Gezerites, Arabians, and Phoenicians, residing in Mesopotamian contexts during the Neo-Assyrian, NeoBabylonian, or Persian periods. A good number of these groups were settled in separate enclaves and evidently enjoyed limited forms of self-organization and internal administration. See my “Ethnicity, Genealogy, Geography, and Change,” 147–71, and the further references listed in n. 70 below. 12 The southern Diaspora, consisting of the Judean communities in Egypt, is not in view in Ezra-Nehemiah. Aside from the case of Elephantine, little is known about these communities in the Neo-Babylonian and Persian periods (cf. Isa 18:18–25; Jer 2:16; 43:5–7; 44:1), John S. Holladay, “Judeans (and Phoenicians) in Egypt in the Late Seventh to Sixth Centuries,” in Egypt, Israel, and the Ancient Mediterranean World: Studies in Honour of Donald B. Redford (ed. Gary N. Knoppers and Antoine Hirsch; Probleme der Ägyptologie 20; Leiden: Brill, 2004), 405–37. 13 On the important issues of selectivity of chronological coverage and segmentation of the Persian era, see Gary N. Knoppers, “Periodization in Ancient Israelite Historiography: Three Case Studies,” in Periodisierung und Epochenbewusstein im Alten Testament und in seinem Umfeld (ed. Josef Wiesehöfer and Thomas Krüger; Oriens et Occidens 20; Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2012), 121–45.

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A. Centres and Satellites? The Complexities of Ancient Greek Colonization When discussing the expansion of ancient Greek city states overseas in the ancient Mediterranean world, Classical scholars normally distinguish the relationship between a mētropolis (“mother city”) and its daughter community (apoikia) or colony from the relationship between a mētropolis and its emporion, “trading post.”14 A variety of factors, such as exploration, overpopulation, economic pressures at home, trade, exploitation of natural resources, military considerations, and land hunger, have been cited as giving rise to the development of settlements in other lands. It is difficult to be more specific about the reasons for establishing new colonies, because so many different Greek city states – Chalcis (Χαλκίς), Eretria (Ερέτρια), Corinth (Κόρινθος), Megara (Μέγαρα), Miletus (Μίλητος), Phocaea (Φώκαια), and others – were involved already at a relatively early time in doing so (the Archaic or Late Iron Age) and the leaders of these states (or of groups within these states) may have each formulated their own particular charters for the settlements they founded.15 Moreover, the development of such settlements does not follow any one single pattern. The relationship between originating communities and their satellites was not that of equals. The new settlements formed at some distance from the older communities that gave birth to them appear, at least in the initial stages, as derivative of and dependent upon the older, established city-states. Such satellites were expected to support the particular Greek communities that founded them and continue relations with their metropolises. To complicate matters, the overseas settlements sometimes engendered, in turn, other settlements and, in some cases, the interactions among these settlements could be as important as or even more important than the interactions individual settlements may have had with the original homeland.16 To complicate mat-

14

However, in practice, it may be sometimes difficult to distinguish between them and one must allow for historical and political development. Both could be regarded as poleis or, in the case of an emporion, part of a polis. See further, Mogens H. Hansen, “Emporion: A Study of the Use of the Term in the Archaic and Classical periods,” in Greek Colonisation: An Account of Greek Colonies and Other Settlements Overseas (2 vols.; ed. Gocha R. Tsetskhladze; Mnemosyne, bibliotheca classica Batava 193; Leiden: Brill, 2006, 2008), 1:1–39. 15 On the challenges in applying terms, such as “colonization,” and “polis,” to the expansion of Greek city states in the ancient Mediterranean world during the Archaic and Classical periods, see Gocha R. Tsetskhladze, “Revisiting Greek Colonisation,” in Greek Colonisation, 1:xxv–xlii. 16 Malkin, Small Greek World, 3–64.

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ters yet further, established colonies could be subject to recolonization, not necessarily by the same metropolis, in later times.17 Many settlements in Greek antiquity enjoyed partial or full political autonomy virtually from the time of their inception. At their creation, they may have been led by an oikist (οἰκιστής, founder, colonist) appointed by either the mother state or a particular group therein, but most colonies enjoyed substantial independence and self-autonomy.18 In this respect, the situation obtaining in Classical antiquity should be distinguished from the types of conditions obtaining during the eras of early modern and modern European colonialization in which the originating state would normally exercise control over the satellite state. The top-level administration of the colony would be under the direct supervision of the colonizing power and the colony might not have any independent international representation.19 There is another substantial difference between ancient and modern colonization. In early modern and modern Europe, one of the commonly stated aims of colonization within states, such as Great Britain, France, Spain, Portugal, the Netherlands, Denmark, Germany, Russia, Italy and the United States, was to civilize, if not convert, the brutish and barbaric parts of the world. It was the “white man’s burden,” in the words of Rudyard Kipling, to transform what were considered to be undeveloped foreign cultures and their economies.20 This sort of cultural imperialism does not seem to have been a significant factor in the founding of ancient Greek settlements.21 There is no clear evidence that the Hellenization of “the barbarians” (οἱ βάρβαροι) was consciously planned as part of the colonization process.22 In many instances, Thomas Figueira, “Colonization in the Classical Period,” in Greek Colonisation, 2:427–523. 18 Irad Malkin, Religion and Colonization in Ancient Greece (Studies in Greek and Roman Religion 3; Leiden: Brill, 1987). 19 Anthony Padgen, Peoples and Empires: A Short History of European Migration, Exploration, and Conquest, from Greece to the Present (New York: Modern Library, 2003). 20 “Take up the White Man’s burden, Send forth the best ye breed; Go bind your sons to exile, to serve your captives’ need; To wait in heavy harness, On fluttered folk and wild; Your new-caught, sullen peoples, Half-devil and half-child.” Thus Rudyard Kipling, “The White Man’s Burden: The United States and the Philippine Islands,” originally published in McClure’s Magazine 12 (Feb. 1899), and republished in Norton Anthology of English Literature (8th ed.; 2 vols.; ed. Stephen Greenblatt; New York: W. W. Norton, 2006), 2:1880–82. 21 Tsetskhladze, “Revisiting Greek Colonisation,” l:ii–iii. 22 Indeed, to speak of a pan-Hellenic Greek identity prior to the Classical period and the wars with Persia may be anachronistic. See Jonathan M. Hall, Ethnic Identity in Greek Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 34–66; idem, Hellenicity: Between Ethnicity and Culture (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002), 125–228; Irad Malkin, “Introduction,” in Ancient Perceptions of Greek Ethnicity (ed. Irad Malkin; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2001), 1–28; David Konstan, “To Hellēnikon 17

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Greeks and locals lived alongside each other in Greek settlements.23 Nor is there any clear evidence from the indigenous peoples themselves that they keenly desired to make the outsiders’ cultures their own.24 This is not to deny the phenomena of cultural affiliation and cultural hybridity, much less the achievement of a “middle ground,” a process in which diverse peoples situated within a given geo-political context creatively adjust their differences to forge new meanings and practices.25 The point is rather that such processes did not necessarily happen by deliberate design. In many cases within the ancient world, migrants attempted to maintain enduring ties with their previous domains. The bonds between a colony and its metropolis could take on a variety of forms, such as maintaining political allegiance to the ancestral territory, upholding ties of blood, retaining a common language, articulating and affirming collective myths, forming and reforming common memories, conserving similar social structures, perpetuating traditional feasts and festivals, and participating, when possible, in the cult and sacrifices of the ancestral city.26 The very means by which the immiethnos: Ethnicity and the Construction of Ancient Greek Identity,” in Ancient Perceptions of Greek Ethnicity, 29–50. 23 See David Ridgeway, “Phoenicians and Greeks in the West: A View from Pithekoussai,” in The Archaeology of Greek Colonisation: Essays Dedicated to Sir John Boardman (ed. Gocha R. Tsetskhladze and Franco De Angelis; Oxford University Committee for Archaeology 40; Oxford: Oxford University Committee for Archaeology, 1994), 35–46; J. Nicholas Coldstream, “Prospectors and Pioneers: Pithekoussai, Kyme, and Central Italy,” in The Archaeology of Greek Colonisation, 47–59; Gocha R. Tsetskhladze, “Ionians Abroad,” in Greek Settlements in the Eastern Mediterranean and the Black Sea (ed. Gocha R. Tsetskhladze and Anthony M. Snodgrass; BAR International Series 1062; Oxford: Archaeopress, 2002), 81–96; Adolfo J. Domínguez, “Greeks in Sicily,” in Greek Colonisation, 1:253–357; Jean-Paul Morel, “Phocaean Colonisation,” in Greek Colonisation, 1:358–428. 24 Tamar Hodos, “Colonization,” in The Cambridge Dictionary of Classical Civilization (ed. Graham Shipley et al.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 215–20. 25 Carol Dougherty and Leslie Kurke, “Introduction: The Culture within Greek Culture,” in The Cultures within Ancient Greek Culture: Contact, Conflict, Collaboration (ed. Carol Dougherty and Leslie Kurke; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 1–19; Carla M. Antonaccio, “Hybridity and Cultures within Greek Cultures,” in The Cultures within Ancient Greek Culture, 57–74; Adolfo J. Domínguez, “Greeks in Iberia: Colonialism without Colonization,” in The Archaeology of Colonialism (ed. Claire L. Lyons and John K. Papadopoulos; Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2002), 65–95; Irad Malkin, “A Colonial Middle Ground: Greek, Etruscan, and Local Elites in the Bay of Naples,” in The Archaeology of Colonialism, 151–81. 26 Such indices of common corporate identity are flexible and subject to modification, addition, and subtraction in various historical, political, and social circumstances, Malkin, The Returns of Odysseus, 21–31; idem, Small Greek World, 87–107; Kenton L. Sparks, Ethnicity and Identity in Ancient Israel (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1998); Mark G. Brett, “Reading the Bible in the Context of Methodological Pluralism: The Undermining of

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grants attempted to retain close bonds with the metropolis could put the immigrants at odds, however, with members of the indigenous population.27 Contacts and accommodations made among various parties over time inevitably altered local cultures, both the new and the old. If the migration was forced, the experience may affect the manner in which those uprooted view the local population, but many of the adjustments those subject to coerced movement encounter resemble those faced by migrants, who willingly immigrated to a new land. Whether those subject to population transfer view themselves as expellees, political refugees, immigrants, expatriates, or resident aliens, many of the adjustments such migrants have to make in foreign cultures are comparable.28 In the course of history, remotely separated communities tend to vary in culture, traditions, language, and religious practices. Many such changes are readily understandable. Local contacts, communication, trade, intermarriage, and other forms of cultural affiliation may gradually transform an immigrant population and contacts, communication, and trade are not simple one-way processes. Some practices may be passed on by an immigrant culture to a host culture, but the converse is also true. An immigrant culture may absorb or imitate customs from a host culture. How receptive the host population is to the newcomers very much affects the level of integration achievable by the migrants, provided that the migrants desire such integration. Natural and martial factors also come into play, because pestilence, disease, drought,

Ethnic Exclusivism in Genesis,” in Rethinking Contexts, Rereading Texts: Contributions from the Social Sciences to Biblical Interpretation (ed. M. Daniel Carroll; JSOTSup 299; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 48–74; idem, “Interpreting Ethnicity: Method, Hermeneutics, Ethics,” in Ethnicity and the Bible (ed. Mark G. Brett; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 3–22; Hall, Hellenicity, 9–29; Steven Elliott Grosby, Biblical Ideas of Nationality: Ancient and Modern (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2002); John Kessler, “Persia’s Loyal Yahwists: Power, Identity, and Ethnicity in Achaemenid Yehud,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period (ed. Manfred Oeming and Oded Lipschits; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 91–121; Louis C. Jonker, “Who Constitutes Society? Yehud’s Selfunderstanding in the Late Persian Era as reflected in the Books of Chronicles,” JBL 127 (2008): 707–28; Erich S. Gruen, Rethinking the Other in Antiquity (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2011). 27 There were further complications for local communities with mixed populations, that is, settlements that had attracted immigrant populations from a number of different states. In such cases, the colony would inevitably develop its own individual character, different from any one of the particular city states that may have played a role in founding it. Thus, for example, the formation of a distinctive Sikeliote identity resulted from the interactions of various Greek settlers on the island, who stemmed from different poleis, Malkin, Small Greek World, 97–118. 28 William Safran, “Diasporas in Modern Societies: Myths of Homeland and Return,” Diaspora 1 (1991): 83–99.

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famine, conflict and war unavoidably bring changes to the life of any community. Given these and other factors, diasporic cultural development inevitably assumes a different course from that of the population in the original place of settlement. Each was subject to its own historical, economic, social, and religious development. In some cases, the parent-child metaphor provides a misleading picture of the relationship, because the distant settlement might eventually eclipse the founding polis in certain features, such as urban planning, population, and political development. Moreover, the movement of ideas and practices may be multi-directional. The life of an originating community may be very much affected by interactions with the settlements with which it has ongoing contacts. Thus, Malkin, employing a network model, rather than a centre-periphery model, argues that a distinctive Rhodian identity emerged through interactions with overseas settlements, such as Naukratis. 29 Malkin calls this a “back-ripple” effect. So, rather than think of a central place radiating outwards, one should think of outward and backward currents, occurring along network lines.30 Within a given community, important indices of resistance to cultural affiliation in a diasporic context may be found over long periods of time in spatial concentration, social solidarity, economic or religious relationships that link members of the groups with members of the group residing in other locations, community reluctance to embrace native language change, internal modes of community education, and the maintenance of traditional religious practices.31 Even so, the members of a diasporic community may eventually become so comfortable in their environment that the local area becomes effectively its new homeland. Thus, for example, in contemporary circumstances the members of the Amish communities of the Mid-Atlantic region of the United States of America do not feel that they belong to Switzerland and Germany, even though they seek to retain many eighteenth century customs from their ancestors and maintain a dialect known as “Pennsylvania Dutch” (Deutsch). To take a somewhat different (more integrationist) example, the descendants of the many Dutch settlers in western Michigan do not yearn to reoccupy rural farmlands in the Netherlands, even though they retain several forms of cultural allegiance to the country their ancestors left in the nineteenth century. Rather, they have come to embrace their new land and call it home.

Malkin, Small Greek World, 65–95. Malkin, Small Greek World, 219–22. 31 Safran, “Diasporas,” 83–84; James Clifford, “Diasporas,” Cultural Anthropology 9 (1994): 302–38; James Davidson, “Time and Greek Religion,” in A Companion to Greek Religion (ed. Daniel Ogden; Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 2010), 205–18. 29

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B. Ezra: Core and Periphery in Reverse? To return to the ancient world, there are some Judean behaviors in EzraNehemiah that invert the types of homeland-far away settlement relations analyzed in the disciplines of Classical history and diaspora studies. In many ways, the periphery takes on the role of the core and the core takes on the role of the periphery in the homeland-diaspora dynamic in Ezra-Nehemiah. It will be helpful to supply some examples, beginning with the migrations portrayed in Ezra, before moving on to the somewhat different case of Nehemiah. First, the very nomenclature given to the protagonists in much of Ezra and in select parts of Nehemiah is an inherently diasporic one. In their binary presentation of ethnic relations, the editors speak of the bĕnê hā-gôlâ, “the children of the exile,” from the eastern Diaspora, chiefly Babylon.32 Those residing in Babylon and those who have migrated from the Babylonian captivity are presented as “Israel.”33 The assertion of such an equation between the name Israel and the expatriate population casts Israel itself in a diasporic light.34 Yet, insofar as the epithet embodies dislocation, the epithet ties the population to the land. When the repatriates congregate in a formal capacity, they appear as the “as32 Ezra 4:1; 6:19–20; 8:35; 10:7, 16 (cf. běnê gālûtâʾ in Ezra 6:16). Similarly, hāʿōlîm miššěbî hā-gôlâ, “the ones who came up from the captivity of the exile” (Ezra 2:1//Neh 7:6), or more succinctly hā-gôlâ, “the exile(s)” (Ezra 1:11; 9:4; 10:6; Neh 7:6). 33 On the association of the “children of the exile” with Israel, see Ezra 2:1–2; 3:1; 4:3; 6:21; 7:28; 8:25, 35; 9:1, 4; 10:1, 2, 6, 8, 10; Neh 1:6–9; 8:1; 9:1–2; 10:34). In some instances, the term Israel is understood in a more restricted sense as referring to laypersons, as opposed to priests and Levites (e.g., Ezra 2:2, 70 [//Neh 7:7, 73]; 6:16; 7:7, 10, 13; 8:29; 9:5; 10:5, 25; Neh 2:10). 34 The formulation evinces an ongoing debate about the nature and boundaries of communal identity. See Hugh G. M. Williamson, Israel in the Books of Chronicles (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977); idem, “The Concept of Israel in Transition,” in The World of Ancient Israel: Sociological, Anthropological, and Political Perspectives (ed. Ronald E. Clements; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 119–42; Sara Japhet, “People and Land in the Restoration Period,” in Das Land Israel in biblischer Zeit (ed. Georg Strecker; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1983), 103–25; Ehud Ben Zvi, “Inclusion in and Exclusion from Israel as Conveyed by the Use of the Term ‘Israel’ in Post-Monarchic Biblical Texts,” in The Pitcher is Broken: Memorial Essays for Gösta W. Ahlström (ed. Steven W. Holloway and Lowell K. Handy; JSOTSup 190; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995), 99–145; Thomas Willi, Juda – Jehud – Israel: Studien zum Selbstverständnis des Judentums in persischer Zeit (FAT 12; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1995); Silvio Sergio Scatolini Apóstolo, “On the Elusiveness and Malleability of ‘Israel,’” JHS 6 (2006): 1–27; Joseph Blenkinsopp, Judaism: The First Phase: The Place of Ezra and Nehemiah in the Origins of Judaism (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2009), 44–116; Gary N. Knoppers, Jews and Samaritans: The Origins and History of their Early Relations (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013), 135–239, and the essays in Imagining the Other and Constructing Israelite Identity in the Early Second Temple Period (ed. Ehud Ben Zvi and Diana V. Edelman; LHBOTS 456; London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2014).

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sembly of the exile” (qĕhāl hā-gôlâ; Ezra 10:8, 12–16) or as the “assembly of God” (qĕhāl hāʾĕlōhîm; Neh 13:1).35 In short, the very use of the title “children of the exile” labels the group in a very particular way, stressing its origins outside the land. Second, the label given to the antagonists of the bĕnê hā-gôlâ, “the children of the exile,” the ʿam hāʾăreṣ / ʿammê-hāʾărāṣôt, “the people(s) of the land” is also revealing.36 The precise identity of “the peoples of the lands” has occasioned no little scholarly debate, because the expression is so general and vague. 37 The designation ‫ עמ)י( הארץ‬is ethnically and geographically unspecific.38 Nevertheless, the portrayal of consistent opposition toward the bĕnê hā-gôlâ (“children of the exile”) shown by the ʿammê hāʾāreṣ (“peoples of the land”), means that the community of returnees appears paradoxically as 35 The text quotes Deut 23:2–3, but the qĕhāl Yhwh there evidently refers to a more restrictive body than the general qĕhāl yiśrāʾēl (Deut 5:22; 31:30; cf. 33:4; Ezra 2:64; 10:1). Hence, Neh 13:1 reinterprets the older lemma, broadening its application. On the qĕhāl Yhwh, see also Num 16:3; 20:4; 1 Chr 28:8. 36 In contrast with Ezra 3:3, 1 Esd 5:49 mentions that there were some “from the other peoples of the land,” who joined Jeshua and Zerubbabel, when they prepared the altar, Jacob M. Myers, I and II Esdras (AB 42; Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1974), 69–70; Zipora Talshir, 1 Esdras: A Text Critical Commentary (SBLSCS 50; Atlanta, Ga.: SBL, 2001), 296–99. There is no parallel to this important note in the Hebrew text. In this case, the testimony of Josephus (Ant. 11.75–76) is closer to the Ezra text, stating that the erection of the altar by Jeshua and Zerubbabel generated a negative reaction from the surrounding peoples, πάντων αὐτοῖς ἀπεχθανοµένων, “all of whom were hateful to them.” 37 The anonymity inherent in the expression is well-underscored by the recent study of John Tracy Thames, “A New Discussion of the Meaning of the Phrase ʿam hāʾāreṣ in the Hebrew Bible,” JBL 130 (2011): 109–25. I do not agree, however, with all of his conclusions. 38 E.g., Ezra 3:3; 4:4; 9:1, 2, 11, 14; 10:2, 11; Neh 9:24, 30; 10:29, 31, 32. Cf. gôyēhāʾāreṣ/kol-hā-gôyîm in Ezra 6:21; Neh 6:16. Paradoxically, the Ezra-Nehemiah presents a very clear picture of the protagonists, but not of their antagonists. The writers of EzraNehemiah never refer to a possible intermediate status between the native citizen (ʾezrāḥ) and the foreigner (nokrî), namely the sojourner or resident alien (gēr). In some studies, the “people(s) of the land” are equated with those Judeans left in the land of Judah during the Neo-Babylonian period, but this calculation seems to be too simplistic to do justice to all of the evidence. For some helpful cautions, see John Kessler, “The Diaspora in Zechariah 1–8 and Ezra-Nehemiah: The Role of History, Social Location, and Tradition in the Formulation of Identity,” in Community Identity in Judean Historiography: Biblical and Comparative Perspectives (ed. Gary N. Knoppers and Kenneth A. Ristau; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2009), 119–45; Ehud Ben Zvi, “Reconstructing the Intellectual Discourse of Ancient Yehud,” SR 39 (2010): 7–23; idem, “Total Exile, Empty Land and the General Intellectual Discourse in Yehud,” in The Concept of Exile in Ancient Israel and its Historical Contexts (ed. Ehud Ben Zvi and Christoph Levin; BZAW 404; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010), 155–68. An allusion to the Judean remainees might be found in the expression, “poorest of the land,” in conjunction with Nehemiah’s social reforms (Neh 5:1, 17); Joseph Blenkinsopp, Ezra-Nehemiah: A Commentary (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1988), 66.

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a kind of informal colony in its own land.39 A group of outsiders, who lay claim to what they profess as their homeland, is keenly resisted by various groups, who inhabit the land. Third, it is the homeland community, and not the Diaspora, that shows a tendency to exhibit tangible signs of cultural affiliation.40 When Ezra journeys to Judah as one of the children of the exile and receives a report from local officials (śārîm) that the people of Israel, the priests, and the Levites had not remained separate (lōʾnibdĕlû) from the peoples of the lands” (Ezra 9:1), he is not confronting the members of his own Babylonian generation, but rather the descendants of the children of the exile, who had migrated to their ancestral patrimony generations earlier. 41 The “holy seed” (zeraʿ hāqōdeš) that had mixed itself (hitʿārĕbû) with aboriginals, which in this revised and expanded version of the standard repertoire of aboriginals found in Pentateuchal texts, now includes Moabites, Ammonites, Egyptians, and Edomites (Ezra 9:1–2).42 The diachronic dimension in this inner-community conflict is important. One needs to recall, in this context, that Ezra’s family had been in Babylon for some six or more generations before he decided to journey to his ancestral homeland. When he leads the campaign against mixed marriages, he does so as a freshly repatriated exile over against the descendants of formerly repatri-

39

Admittedly, the category of informal colony is not without its problems, Thomas R. Martin, Ancient Greece: From Prehistoric to Hellenistic Times (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2000), 51–60. 40 See also Peter R. Bedford, “Diaspora: Homeland Relations in Ezra-Nehemiah,” VT 52 (2002): 147–65. 41 The scholarship on Ezra 9–10 has become voluminous. See recently Juha Pakkala, Ezra the Scribe: The Development of Ezra 7–10 and Nehemia 8 (BZAW 347; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004); Lisbeth S. Fried, “The Concept of ‘Impure Birth’ in 5th Century Athens and Judea,” in In the Wake of Tikva Frymer-Kensky: Tikva Frymer-Kensky Memorial Volume (ed. Richard Beal, Steven Holloway, and JoAnn Scurlock; Piscataway, N.J.: Gorgias Press, 2009), 121–42; Christian Frevel (ed.), Mixed Marriages: Intermarriage and Group Identity in the Second Temple Period (LHBOTS 547; London: Continuum, 2011); Willa Mathis Johnson, The Holy Seed has been Defiled: The Interethnic Marriage Dilemma in Ezra 9–10 (Hebrew Bible Monographs 33; Sheffield: Phoenix Press, 2011); Katherine Southwood, Ethnicity and the Mixed Marriage Crisis in Ezra 9–10: An Anthropological Approach (Oxford Theological Monographs; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012); Sebastian Grätz, “The Adversaries in Ezra/Nehemiah: Fictitious or Real?: A Case Study in Creating Identity in late Persian and Hellenistic Times,” in Between Cooperation and Hostility: Multiple Identities in Ancient Judaism and the Interaction with Foreign Powers (ed. Rainer Albertz and Jakob Wöhrle; JAJSup 11; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013), 73–87, and the references within these works. 42 Reading with a few Hebrew MSS in Ezra 9:2 and 1 Esd 8:69. MT Ezra 9:2, 2 Esd 9:1; Vg., and Syr. read “Amorites” (metathesis and rêš/dālet confusion).

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ated exiles. 43 Among these offspring were prominent leaders, priests, and Levites, including descendants of Jeshua, the high priestly contemporary of Zerubbabel (Ezra 9:1; 10:18–19). 44 Given that Jeshua’s genealogy may be also traced back all the way back to Aaron through a collateral line (1 Chr 5:29–41; Ant. 10.152–53; 20.224–34), the mixed marriages controversy pits one Aaronide against other Aaronides. Yet, in the storyline of the book, it is the major Aaronide family, which had been established in the land for several generations whose lapses urgently require correction.45 In this case, a recently repatriated exile in the fifth century B.C.E. attempts to reform the offspring of repatriated exiles, who had migrated to Judah in the sixth century.46 Fourth, there is, by comparison with the situation in the traditional core territory, no sign of decay or degradation among the allusions to the life of the Judean community in Babylon. In matters of social organization, customs, calendar, language, and tribal lineages, the Babylonian community in the Diaspora apparently perpetuates, cultivates, and builds upon earlier traditions. Historically, the situation was, of course, much more complicated. The epigraphic evidence supplied by the āl-Yāḫūdu tablets demonstrates, for example, the practice of intermarriage between Judeans and locals in the region of Babylonia in the first half of the fifth century B.C.E.47 Moreover, in matters of script, language, genre, and formulaic scribal conventions, these legal docu43

The genealogical text of Ezra 7:1–5 claims an impeccable Aaronide pedigree for Ezra by positing a direct link between him (with no intermediary generations) and Seraiah, the last priest before the exile of 586 B.C.E. (2 Kgs 25:18, 23//Jer 52:24, 27), Gary N. Knoppers, “The Relationship of the Priestly Genealogies to the History of the High Priesthood in Jerusalem,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period (ed. Oded Lipschits and Joseph Blenkinsopp; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2003), 109–33. The telescoped link with Seraiah ties Ezra directly to the Babylonian exile, because he appears as only one generation removed from the traditional priestly lineage of his homeland. On the vexed issue of high-priestly succession in the postexilic period, see James VanderKam, From Joshua to Caiaphas: High Priests after the Exile (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2004), 43–99. 44 The circle included Jeshua’s descendants and among “his kin: Maaseiah, Eliezer, Yarib, and Gedaliah” (Ezra 10:18). These individuals pledged to dismiss their wives and, as a guilt offering for their guilt, they donated a ram of the flock (Ezra 10:19). 45 The degree to which the (new) behaviors promoted by certain expatriates in their ancestral homeland reflect adaptations made by expatriates over the generations in foreign contexts is an interesting question, but one that extends beyond the scope of this essay. See my “The Construction of Judean Diasporic Identity in Ezra-Nehemiah,” JHS 15 (2015) (http: // www.jhsonline.org/). 46 The ending of the mixed marriage account (‫ )ויש מהם נשים וישימו בנים‬in Ezra 10:44 is quite cryptic. Hence, one can hardly be sure that the plan for divorce and dispossession was implemented. The parallel in 1 Esd 9:36 exhibits no difficulties, καὶ ἀπέλυσαν αὐτὰς σὺν τέκνοις, “and they put them away with (their) children,” but this relatively unproblematic text appears to clarify a problematic Vorlage. 47 Kathleen Abraham, “West Semitic and Judean Brides in Cuneiform Sources from the Sixth Century BCE – New Evidence from Al-Yahudu,” AfO 51 (2005–2006): 198–219.

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ments fit well within their ancient historical context.48 Such cultural practices demonstrate that this particular group of deportees and their descendants made a number of important adjustments to the new social, cultural, and economic setting in which they found themselves.49 Nevertheless, in the storyline of Ezra, the children of the exile maintain and cultivate core values. There is one curious instance in which Ezra discovers that he lacks a sufficient number of Levites in his planned expedition (Ezra 8:15). This situation leads him to dispatch a delegation of leaders to recruit Levites “in the place Casiphia” (bĕkāsipyāʾ hā-māqôm; Ezra 8:16– 17).50 The site is mentioned twice in Ezra 8:17, but the literary work does not elaborate on the community’s history. Much of the commentary on this curious reference has focused on whether there was a Judean sanctuary at this site.51 Nevertheless, I would like to focus on a related point, namely the im48

Francis Joannès and André Lemaire, “Trois tablettes cunéiformes à l’onomastique ouest-sémitique,” Transeu 17 (1999): 17–34; Laurie E. Pearce, “New Evidence for Judeans in Babylonia,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period (ed. Oded Lipschits and Manfred Oeming; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 399–411; eadem, ‘“Judean’: A Special Status in Neo-Babylonian and Achemenid Babylonia?,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identity in an International Context (ed. Oded Lipschits, Gary N. Knoppers, and Manfred Oeming; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 267–77; Kathleen Abraham, “An Inheritance Division among Judeans in Babylonia from the Early Persian Period (from the Moussaieff Tablet Collection),” in New Seals and Inscriptions: Hebrew, Idumean, and Cuneiform (ed. Meir Lubetski; Hebrew Bible Monographs 8; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2007), 148–82; Cornelia Wunsch, “Glimpses on the Lives of Deportees in Rural Babylonia,” in Arameans, Chaldeans, and Arabs in Babylonia and Palestine in the First Millennium B.C. (ed. Angelika Berlejung and Michael P. Streck; Leipziger Altorientalistische Studien 3; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2013), 247– 60. 49 David S. Vanderhooft, “New Evidence Pertaining to the Transition from NeoBabylonian to Achaemenid Administration in Palestine,” in Yahwism After the Exile: Perspectives on Israelite Religion in the Persian Era (ed. Rainer Albertz and Bob Becking; Assen: Royal Van Gorcum, 2003), 219–35; idem, “ʾel-mĕdînâ ûmĕdînâ kiktābāh: Scribes and Scripts in Yehud and in Achaemenid Transeuphratene,” in The Judeans in the Achaemenid Age: Negotiating Identity in an International Context (ed. Oded Lipschits, Gary N. Knoppers, and Manfred Oeming; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 529–44. 50 Mark Leuchter, “Ezra’s Mission and the Levites of Casiphia,” in Community Identity in Judean Historiography: Biblical and Comparative Perspectives (ed. Gary N. Knoppers and Kenneth A. Ristau; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2009), 173–95. 51 The argument is largely based on the use of hā-māqôm, “the place,” as an attributive adjective, modifying Casiphia. In some literary contexts, māqôm, can designate a sacred place or sanctuary. See further, Gary N. Knoppers, I Chronicles 10–29 (AB 12A; New York: Doubleday/New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2004), 757–58. For the case that the Babylonian Judeans had their own sacrificial sanctuary, see Laurence E. Browne, “A Jewish Sanctuary in Babylonia,” JTS 17 (1916): 400–401; Peter R. Ackroyd, Exile and Restoration (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1968), 34–35; idem, Israel Under Babylon and Persia (The New Clarendon Bible; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970), 25–27;

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plication of this text that there were a number of Priestly-Levitical centres, such as Babylon and Casiphia, within the Judean Diaspora. The precise nature of these centres of communal congregation in which priests, Levites, and temple-servants were clustered and evidently trained is not further discussed (Ezra 8:15–20). In Diaspora studies, these sorts of expatriate communal sites are termed external centres, because they represent sites of religion and culture outside of the traditional homeland.52 These external centres do not necessarily replace the traditional centre, although one could argue that the establishment of external centres reflects a certain level of decentralization.53 In this text, the external centres complement the internal centre and even strengthen it, because Ezra arranges for a new influx of priests, Levites, and temple servants to the Jerusalem temple. Hence, a de-centred, lateral connection among Judean settlements in the Diaspora is exploited to benefit the centripetal connection both settlements share to the homeland.54 There is, in this case, an unequal relationship among parties, as there is between the centres and their peripheries elsewhere in the ancient world. Yet, it is the recently-arrived member of the diasporic community, who enjoys great prestige and authority in the homeland community. Hence, the expected roles between core and periphery are reversed. The very account of how Ezra and his entourage work to reform the centre demonstrates the power of the Babylonian Diaspora in relation to the homeland.

C. Core-Periphery Reversals in Nehemiah We have been discussing the phenomenon of role reversal in core-periphery relations in Ezra. There are some important differences in the case of Nehemiah in that Nehemiah travels as an individual, accompanied by an armed escort (Neh 2:1–9), and does not lead any population transfer to Judah. Moreover, the ethnographic terminology found in the first-person accounts of Nehemiah differs from that predominately used in Ezra. Whereas texts in Joong Ho Chong, “Were There Yahwistic Sanctuaries in Babylon?” AJT 10 (1996): 198– 217. Yet, in spite of the repeated mention of “the place Casiphia” in Ezra 8:17, the literary context does not spell out what this māqôm all included. On the evidence in Ezekiel (midqāš mĕʿaṭ; 11:16), see Baruch A. Levine, “The Next Phase in Jewish Religion: The Land of Israel as Sacred Space,” in Tehillah le-Moshe: Biblical and Judaic Studies in Honor of Moshe Greenberg (ed. Mordechai Cogan, Barry L. Eichler, and Jeffrey H. Tigay; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1997), 245–57. 52 Safran, “Diasporas in Modern Societies,” 83–84. 53 Such mention of a connected network of diaspora centres among Judean communities is, however, rare. 54 On the distinction between lateral and centripetal connections, see Clifford, “Diasporas,” 321.

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Ezra often refer to the “children of the exile,” Nehemiah does not do so.55 Rather, he commonly refers to hā-yĕhûdîm, “the Judeans” (Neh 2:16; 3:33, 34; 4:6; 5:1, 17; 6:6; 13:23) or to hāʿām, kol-hāʿām, hāʿām hā-zeh, “(all) the/this (Judean) people” (e.g., Neh 3:38; 4:7, 16; 5:1, 13, 15, 18, 19; 7:4; cf. 13:1). 56 Occasionally, he speaks of yĕhûdâ, “Judah” (Neh 4:4; 13:12), the house of Judah (Neh 4:10), and the children of Judah (Neh 13:16). Nevertheless, the larger binary dynamic is similar to that found in Ezra.57 Over and against these protagonists, comprising the yĕhûdîm, lie the antagonists, labelled variously as “the nations” (hā-gôyîm), the “enemy” (ʾō/ôyēb; Neh 4:9; 5:9; 6:1, 16; cf. 9:28), “our enemies” (ʾôyĕbênû; Neh 5:9), or “our adversaries” (ṣārênû; Neh 4:5). 58 In this classification, the Judeans are pitted against various local population groups in the region. As in Ezra, it is the people with whom Nehemiah identifies in the traditional homeland, who exhibit marked tendencies toward cultural affiliation. One example is socio-economic, the pecuniary lending practices exercised by some Judean creditors in dealing with those fellow Judeans, who were indebted to them (Neh 5:1–13). The cases of debt mentioned differ in their nature, one evidently involving laborers, who did not own land themselves (v. 2), another involving those who owned land, which they used as security against their loans (v. 3), and yet another, who owned land but had to borrow against this asset to pay the king’s tax (v. 4). There are many questions about the conditions, social context, and nature of this socio-economic crisis, but the point to be made here is that for Nehemiah, these particular lending practices represent a complete breakdown of boundary maintenance between Judeans and Gentiles.59 If Judeans are suffer55 Apart from the allusions in the opening verses of Nehemiah (1:2, 3) to those who remained from the captivity (šĕbî), references to the Judean captivity do not elsewhere appear in the first-person Nehemiah accounts. Nehemiah speaks once of the šibyâ (Neh 3:36), but in so doing he is not alluding to the Judean captivity. Rather, the šibyâ is what Nehemiah wishes for Sanballat, Tobiah, and their followers. 56 The usage is also common elsewhere in Ezra-Nehemiah (Ezra 2:2, 70; 3:1, 11, 13; 8:15, 36; 10:1, 9, 11, 13; Neh 7:4, 5, 7, 72; 8:1, 3, 5, 6, 7, 9, 11, 12, 13, 16; 9:10; 10:15, 29, 35; 11:1, 24; 12:30, 38). The concentration on the territory of Judah (or of Judah and Benjamin), as opposed to a larger land of Israel, is critical to grasping the agenda of the writers, Knoppers, Jews and Samaritans, 135–68. 57 See further, Gary N. Knoppers, “Nehemiah and Sanballat: The Enemy Without or Within?,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Fourth Century (ed. Oded Lipschits, Gary N. Knoppers, and Rainer Albertz; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2007), 305–31. 58 On the usage of ṣar elsewhere in the book, see Ezra 4:1 and Neh 9:27. 59 Hans G. Kippenberg, Religion und Klassenbildung im antiken Judäa (SUNT 14; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1978), 42–77; Hugh G. M. Williamson, Ezra, Nehemiah (WBC 16; Waco, Tex.: Word, 1985), 234–46; Blenkinsopp, Ezra-Nehemiah, 253–60; Rainer Albertz, A History of Israelite Religion in the Old Testament Period (2 vols.; Louisville, Ky.: Westminster and John Knox, 1994), 2:495–503; Lisbeth S. Fried, The Priest

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ing loss of property and entering debt-slavery to compensate fellow Judeans in the same manner as they would to non-Judeans, what difference is there between them? Given that Nehemiah and his supporters had begun a process of buying back Judean kin, who had been sold to the nations (v. 8), the actions of the Judean creditors were placing Nehemiah and his supporters in the paradoxical predicament of attempting to buy back Judean kin, who had been sold by their Judean creditors. The irony of the situation is not lost on the governor, who censures the nobles (haḥōrîm) and prefects (hā-sĕgānîm) declaring: “The thing that you are doing is not right. Is it not better that you walk in the fear of our God than (elicit) the reproach of the nations (hāgôyîm), our enemies (ʾôyĕbênû; v. 9)?” Indices of resistance to cultural affiliation on the part of a community in a diasporic context include, as we have discussed, spatial concentration, opposition to native language change, good mechanisms of communal education, and the maintenance of traditional religious practices. In this case, as in Ezra, the homeland community and not the diaspora community engages in cultural affiliation. From the perspective of the expatriate leader from Susa, such practices are regressive and require correction. Hence, Nehemiah deploys his authority as governor to compel these prominent Judeans to cancel debts and return the fields, vineyards, and olive groves, which they had seized from their fellow Judeans (vv. 11–13). There are many such examples of homeland deterioration in the reform account of Neh 13, considered by most scholars as pertaining to Nehemiah’s second term in office as governor (vv. 4–31).60 One involves the priest Eli-

and the Great King: Temple-Palace Relations in the Persian Empire (Biblical and Judaic Studies 10; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2004); Titus Reinmuth, Der Bericht Nehemias: zur literarischen Eigenart traditionsgeschichtlichen Prägung und innerbiblischen Rezeption des Ich-Berichts Nehemias (OBO 183; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2002), 116–59; Bob Becking, Ezra, Nehemiah, and the Construction of Early Jewish Identity (FAT 80; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 74–84; Sean Burt, The Courtier and the Governor (JAJSup 17; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014), 130–38; Peter Altmann, “Tithes for Clergy and Taxes for the King: Separate or Combined Systems of Payments in Nehemiah?,” CBQ 76 (2014): 215–29; idem, “Ancient Comparisons, Modern Models, and Ezra-Nehemiah: Sources for Insights on the Economy of the Persian Period Yehud,” in The Economy of Ancient Judah in Its Historical Context (ed. Marvin Lloyd Miller, Ehud Ben Zvi, and Gary N. Knoppers; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2015). 60 How many years elapsed between Nehemiah’s first term as governor (445–432 B.C.E.; Neh 5:14) and his second term is unknown, but it could not have been many, as the reign of Artaxerxes I ended in 424 B.C.E. See further Wilhelm Rudolph, Esra und Nehemia (HAT 20; Tübingen: Mohr, 1949), 203–11; Williamson, Ezra, Nehemiah, 379–84; Blenkinsopp, Ezra-Nehemiah, 352–66. For the alternative view that the material in Neh 13:4– 31 (or much of it) relates to Nehemiah’s earlier work, see Sigmund Mowinckel, Studien zu dem Buche Ezra-Nehemia, 2: Die Nehemia-Denkschrift (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1964),

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ashib, granting Tobiah, a near relative of Eliashib, a large chamber in the temple. Since Nehemiah regards Tobiah’s presence as ritually defiling, he orders Tobiah’s expulsion from the temple chambers (Neh 13:4–9).61 Another example of community erosion concerns the people’s failure to provide the Levites and musicians the portions due to them with the result that the Levites and the musicians had gone back to their fields (Neh 13:10–14). Yet another lapse in traditional religious practices involves Sabbath violations. Nehemiah recounts how he saw “in Judah people treading wine presses on the Sabbath and bringing in heaps (of grain) and loading them on donkeys, and also wine, grapes, figs, and every kind of load, they were bringing into Jerusalem on the Sabbath day” (Neh 13:15). Nehemiah’s warns them immediately against selling provisions and moves to block those Tyrians, who were residing in the city and importing fish and all sorts of merchandise, from selling them on the Sabbath to Judahites in Jerusalem.62 Quarreling with the nobles of Judah, Nehemiah argues that they were profaning the Sabbath day and incurring divine wrath much like their ancestors did, when they were guilty of similar behaviors (Neh 13:17–18). A last example of cultural and religious offenses should be sufficient to make the larger case about role reversals between the core and the periphery. One of Nehemiah’s last reforms is to inveigh against mixed marriages with nāšîm nokrîyôt, “strange women” (Neh 13:26–27; cf. Ezra 10:2, 10, 11, 14, 17, 18, 44). 63 In so doing, the governor from Susa cites the Deuteronomic prohibition of mixed marriages with indigenous populations, asserts that mighty King Solomon was undone by his foreign wives (Neh 13:26; cf. 1 Kgs 11:1–11), and invokes the worrying signs of language change: “Also, in those days (gām bā-yāmîm hāhēm), I saw Judeans settling (hôšîbîm) Ashdodite, Ammonite, and Moabite women” (Neh 13:23). 64 As for the offspring from 34–39; Ulrich Kellermann, Nehemia: Quellen, Überlieferung und Geschichte (BZAW 102; Berlin: Töpelmann, 1967), 47–51. 61 Rainer Albertz, “Purity Strategies and Political Interest in the Policy of Nehemiah,” in Confronting the Past: Archaeological and Historical Essays on Ancient Israel in Honor of William G. Dever (ed. Seymour Gitin, J. Edward Wright, and J. P. Dessel; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2006) 199–206. 62 Diana Edelman, “Tyrian Trade in Yehud under Artaxerxes I: Real or Fictional? Independent or Crown-Endorsed?,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period (ed. Oded Lipschits and Manfred Oeming; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 207–46; Benjamin J. Noonan, “Did Nehemiah Own Tyrian Goods? Trade between Judea and Phoenicia during the Achaemenid Period,” JBL 130 (2011): 281–98. 63 For the argument that the nāšîm nokrîyôt were actually Judeans, see Lester L. Grabbe, A History of the Jews and Judaism in the Second Temple Period, 1: Yehud, A History of the Persian Province of Judah (LSTS; London: T&T Clark, 2004), 285–88, 313–16; Becking, Ezra, Nehemiah, 58–73. 64 The hipʿil of the root yšb is usually translated as “to marry” (cf. HALOT 445a; Eth. ʾawsaba, “to marry”), but Tamara Cohn Eskenazi argues that it specifically refers to Jude-

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such unions, “half of their sons were speaking Ashdodite and did not know how to speak Judean, and likewise for the language of each people” (Neh 13:24).65 Alluding to the injunction of Deut 7:3, Nehemiah adjures the Judean men to cease and desist from such practices (Neh 13:25).66 In this hermeneutic, exogamy is associated with violating an authoritative prohibition, inciting Judeans to sin, and endangering the future of the people’s own distinctive tongue. To summarize: an indeterminate number of years elapsed between Nehemiah’s first and second terms as governor, yet the traditional centre of Judean life shows a worrisome propensity to violate ongoing duties of boundary maintenance. Whether the issue is endogamy, retaining the ancestral tongue, perpetuating traditional religious customs, underwriting Levitical officials and musicians with proper support, or protecting the sanctity of the sanctuary, Judeans evince a troubling predilection for cultural affiliation.

D. Core and Periphery: The View from Babylon and Susa If a homeland community is traditionally understood as the originating centre and its related communities in the Diaspora as dependents, then that relationship is reversed in the book of Ezra-Nehemiah. The homeland has become dependent on its better resourced Diaspora. In the century or more of Judean history very selectively addressed by the literary work, it is the members of the Eastern Diaspora, who drive the plot, provide leadership in Jerusalem, work to rebuild Judah’s major institutions, and repeatedly reform the community toward ideals that the leaders of the Diaspora communities, especially those of Babylon, espouse as productive for the residents of Judah and Jerusalem. Using the parlance of ancient Greek colonization, one might say that the work portrays a succession of oikists, rather than a single oikist, in establishan men establishing their new wives in the community through the gift of land, “The Missions of Ezra and Nehemiah,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period, 509–30. It may be that because the expression always refers to actions of men (Ezra 10:2, 10, 14, 17; Neh 13:23, 27; cf. Ps 68:7; 113:9), its force consists of (re-)rooting these women in the land through marriage. 65 Cf. 2 Kgs 18:26, 28; 2 Chr 32:8; Isa 36:11, 13. On the possibility of layering within the text, see Ingo Kottsieper, “‘And They Did Not Care to Speak Yehudit’: On Linguistic Change in Judah during the Late Persian Era,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Fourth Century B.C.E. (ed. Oded Lipschits, Gary N. Knoppers, and Rainer Albertz; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2007), 95–124. 66 In 1 Kgs 11:1–13, Solomon’s foreign marriages are associated with his construction of high places on their behalf, but the deity blames Solomon himself (and not his wives) for the offenses that he committed.

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ing the community and directing its development within the land.67 If generating the movement of goods, materiel, labor, ideas, and leadership are marks of influence, it is the periphery, and not the traditional core, that holds sway. Strikingly, there is no case in which the converse holds. That is, the book does not relate a single case in which a Jerusalemite or someone else from Judah and Benjamin travels to Babylon, Casiphia, Susa, or another Judean expatriate centre to instruct those Judeans or reform practices within these expatriate communities. To employ the phraseology of Malkin, there are no “outward currents along network lines” toward the settlements, no “central place radiating outwards,” only “backward currents” toward the metropolis. Nor does the book recount a single case in which an established homeland Judean, that is, a Judean who is not a direct repatriate, but rather a first, second, or third generation descendant of a repatriate, leads any serious new initiative in the homeland. By serious new initiative, I mean the kind of reform that might be applauded by the editors of the work. There are a number of actions undertaken by members of the homeland community, such as those who refuse to divorce and dispossess their wives (Ezra 10:15–16) that receive mention, but they are considered to be retrograde.68 The major reforms are all led by repatriated expatriates, who operate from positions of expertise, authority, and relative privilege. A critical function of Ezra-Nehemiah is to valorize those who came to Jerusalem at various times in the Persian period and to document their achievements. That the book ends inconclusively with Nehemiah having to implement various reforms against those Judeans, who had regressed, suggests that the work of the expatriates is not over, but is rather an ongoing cause. 69 In the end, the literary work demonstrates an enduring need for members of the Diaspora to take an interest, if not take leadership roles, in the traditional homeland of Judah. This study has operated from the assumption that Jerusalem as the traditional capital of Judah represents the core and the Judean Diaspora represents the periphery, but there is another way of viewing the entire matter. If one approaches the core-periphery question from the larger perspective of international geo-politics, one inevitably arrives at a different conclusion. Babylon and Susa were two of the most important centres of the ancient Near Eastern world. The Judean communities in the area of Babylonia are known from To speak in the plural of oikists seems especially apt, because in an ideal sense the oikist was supposed to take a formative role in establishing the new community, naming the new city, supervising the building of the city walls, temples, houses, and dividing the land, Tsetskhladze, “Revisiting Greek Colonisation,” xlviii. 68 On the question of the beneficiaries of dispossession, see Joseph Blenkinsopp, “Did the Second Jerusalemite Temple Possess Land?,” Transeu 21 (2003): 61–68. 69 I plan to develop this thesis in a future essay. 67

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biblical writings, such as Kings, Ezra, and Chronicles, and from extra-biblical inscriptions, such as the recently-published āl-Yāḫūdu tablets.70 The origins of the Judean community in Susa are uncertain, but its existence is presumed in Esther, Daniel, and Nehemiah.71 It may be useful to discuss, however briefly, the respective positions of Babylon and Susa during the Persian and early Hellenistic periods. Such an overview may illumine the geo-political contexts in which the Judean communities of the Eastern Diaspora found themselves. Babylon became one of the largest cities in the ancient Near East, if not in the world, during the NeoBabylonian and Achaemenid periods, occupying some 890–900 hectares of terrain. 72 During the early Persian occupation, Babylon retained its capital 70 Israel Ephʿal, “The Western Minorities in Babylonia in the 6th–5th Centuries B.C.: Maintenance and Cohesion,” Or 47 (1978): 74–90; M. Helzer, “People from Gezer in Babylonia in the VI Century B.C.E. and Their ‘Tithe,’” in Studies in the History and Culture of the Jews in Babylonia (ed. Yitzhak Avishur and Zvi Yehuda; Jerusalem: Merkaz moreshet Yahadut Bavel, 2002), 85–93; Muhammad Dandamaev, “Twin Towns and Ethnic Minorities in First-Millennium Babylon,” in Commerce and Monetary Systems in the Ancient World: Means of Transmission and Cultural Interaction (ed. Robert Rollinger and Christoph Ulf; Melammu Symposia 5; Stuttgart: Steiner, 2004), 137–51; Laurie E. Pearce, “New Evidence for Judeans in Babylonia,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period (ed. Lipschits and Oeming), 399–411; eadem, “Continuity and Normality in Sources Relating to the Judean Exile,” HeBAI 3 (2014): 166–84; Paul-Alain Beaulieu, “Yahwistic Names in Light of Late Babylonian Onomastics,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identity in an International Context (ed. Oded Lipschits, Gary N. Knoppers, and Manfred Oeming; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 245–65. Some of these small settlements, such as the “town of the Arabians,” the “town of the Cilicians” (Humāya), Ashqelon (Išqallūnu), Qadeš, and the “town of Judah” (āl-Yāḫūdu), are named after their homeland communities. Francis Joannès and André Lemaire, “Trois tablettes cunéiformes à l’onomastique ouest-sémitique,” Transeu 17 (1999): 17–34; Kathleen Abraham, “An Inheritance Division among Judeans in Babylonia from the Early Persian Period (from the Moussaieff Tablet Collection),” in New Seals and Inscriptions: Hebrew, Idumean, and Cuneiform (ed. Meir Lubetski; Hebrew Bible Monographs 8; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2007), 148–82; Laurie E. Pearce and Cornelia Wunsch, Documents of Judean Exiles and West Semites in Babylonia in the Collection of David Sofer (Bethesda: CDL Press, 2014). 71 Esth 1:2, 5; 2:3, 5, 8; 3:15; 4:8, 16; 8:14; 9:6, 11–15; Neh 1:1; Dan 8:2; Jub. 8:2, 21; 9:2. The town of Susa remains, however, an archaeological enigma, Rémy Boucharlat, “The Palace and the Royal Achaemenid City: Two Case Studies – Pasargadae and Susa,” in The Royal Palace Institution in the First Millennium BC: Regional Development and Cultural Interchange between East and West (ed. Inge Nielsen; Monographs of the Danish Institute at Athens 4; Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 2001), 113–23; Pierre Briant, “Susa and Elam in the Achaemenid Empire,” in The Palace of Darius at Susa: The Great Royal Residence of Achaemenid Persia (ed. Jean Perrot; London: I. B. Tauris, 2013), 3–25; Daniel Ladiray, “The Archaeological Results,” in The Palace of Darius at Susa, 139–208. 72 Amélie Kuhrt, “Babylonia from Cyrus to Xerxes,” in The Cambridge Ancient History: Vol IV, Persia, Greece and the Western Mediterranean (ed. John Boardman; Cam-

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status. 73 Within the larger pattern of seasonal migrations undertaken by Achaemenid monarchs to different centres within the empire, Babylon served as a winter residence (so most ancient sources) of the Great King.74 In spite of the rebellions led by Nebuchadnezzar III (522 B.C.E.), Nebuchadnezzar IV (521 B.C.E.), and two would-be-usurpers during Xerxes’s reign (484 B.C.E.), the city largely flourished during the fifth and fourth centuries B.C.E.75 Darius the Great (521–486 B.C.E.) constructed a palace at Babylon and made his crown prince Xerxes his personal representative at the site.76 Sometime during the reign of Xerxes (486–465 B.C.E.) or shortly thereafter, Babylon was divorced from the territory of Transeuphrates (Aramaic ‫ ;עבר נהרא‬Hebrew ‫ )עבר הנהר‬and became an organized political province, along with Assyria, in its own right.77 There is material evidence to suggest that Artaxerxes II Mnemon (404–358) conducted monumental building activities in Babylon.78 Long a major site of scholarship, astronomy, and mathematics, Babylon remained one of the most prominent urban centres of the Persian Empire for some two centuries.79 bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 112–38; eadem, The Persian Empire: A Corpus of Sources from the Achaemenid Period (London: Routledge, 2010); Pierre Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander: A History of the Persian Empire (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2002), 484–87, 600–602, 675–80, 719–26. 73 Francis Joannès, The Age of Empires: Mesopotamia in the First Millennium BC (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2004), 204–25. 74 Christopher Tuplin, “The Seasonal Migration of Achaemenid Kings: A Report on Old and New Evidence,” in Studies in Persian History: Essays in Memory of David M. Lewis (ed. Maria Brosius and Amélie Kuhrt; Leiden: Brill, 1998), 63–114. 75 Muhammad Dandamaev, A Political History of the Achaemenid Empire (Leiden: Brill, 1989), 183–87; Burchard Brentjes, “The History of Elam and Achaemenid Persia: An Overview,” CANE 2 (1995): 1001–21; Heleen Sancisi-Weerdenburg, “Darius I and the Persian Empire,” CANE 2 (1995): 1035–50; Joannès, Age of Empires, 204–11; François Vallat, “Darius: The Great King,” in The Palace of Darius at Susa, 29–48; Paul-Alain Beaulieu, “An Episode in the Reign of the Babylonian Pretender Nebucadnezzar IV,” in Extraction and Control: Studies in Honor of Matthew W. Stolper (ed. Michael Kozuh, Wouter Henkelman, and Charles E. Jones; Chicago: The Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 2014), 17–26. 76 Herrmann Gasche, “The Achaemenid Persian Palaces of Babylon,” in The Palace of Darius at Susa, 436–50. 77 Matthew W. Stolper, “The Governor of Babylon and Across-the-River in 486 B.C.,” JNES 48 (1989): 283–305; idem, “Babylonian Evidence for the End of the Reign of Darius I: A Correction,” JNES 51 (1992): 61–62. 78 Gasche, “Achaemenid Persian Palaces,” 437–48. 79 Benjamin R. Foster and Karen Polinger Foster, Civilizations of Ancient Iraq (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009), 142–46; Muhammad A. Dandamaev, “Achaemenid Mesopotamia: Traditions and Innovations,” in Centre and Periphery: Proceedings of the Groningen 1986 Achaemenid History Workshop (ed. Heleen Sancisi-Weerdenburg and Amélie Kuhrt; Achaemenid History 4; Leiden: Nederlands Institut voor het Nabije Oosten,

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In the aftermath of the peaceful takeover of Babylonia by the forces of Alexander the Great in 331 B.C.E., traditional institutions and practices largely continued. 80 Upon his return from his expedition to India (ca. 324 B.C.E.), Alexander resided in Babylon’s palaces and Babylon remained for a while a major centre of the new and expanded empire. The copying and recitation of cuneiform texts continued. In the form of oral and written transmission, late Babylonian remains “surprisingly alive” until the last decades of Seleucid rule.”81 The transition to Seleucid rule following Alexander’s death does not seem to have been as easy for local Babylonian elites, given the introduction of a new ruling class and a new royal court.82 How much of this change affected minority communities for good or ill is, however, unclear. The city of Susa, the traditional capital of Elam whose inhabitation dates back to prehistoric times, received a massive new investment during the reign of King Darius the Great (522–486 B.C.E.).83 He expanded the city, constructed a spring (or winter) residence of the imperial court, a royal palace, and other buildings at the site.84 This palace was the only one Darius described as a fraša (“wonder”), a “microcosmic replica of the original creation.”85 During the course of the Persian empire, Susa became a site of imperial administration and communications, one capital among others in the multi-capital system of Achaemenid rule. 86 One of Darius’ royal inscriptions boasts of the

1990), 229–34; Tom Boiy, Late Achaemenid and Hellenistic Babylon (OLA 13; Leuven: Peeters, 2004), 288–314. 80 Dandamaev, Political History, 327–28; Joannès, Age of Empires, 226–33; Boiy, Late Achaemenid and Hellenistic Babylon 104–37. 81 Paul-Alain Beaulieu, “Late Babylonian Intellectual Life,” in The Babylonian World (ed. Gwendolyn Leick; London: Routledge, 2007), 473–84 (482). 82 Amélie Kuhrt and Susan Sherwin-White, “The Transition from Achaemenid to Seleucid Rule in Babylonia: Revolution or Evolution?,” in Centre and Periphery, 311–27; Boiy, Late Achaemenid and Hellenistic Babylon, 137–58; Laurianne Martinez-Sève, “Susa iv: The Hellenistic and Parthian Periods,” Encyclopædia Iranica (http://www.iranicaonline .org/articles/susa-iv-hellenistic-parthian-periods). 83 Josef Wiesehöfer, Ancient Persia: From 550 BC to 650 AD (London: I. B. Tauris, 1996), 26–28; Bruce Lincoln, “Happiness for Mankind”: Achaemenian Religion and the Imperial Project (Acta Iranica 53; Leuven: Peeters, 2012), 41–55. 84 Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, King and Court in Ancient Persia 559 to 331 BCE (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2013), 79–95. 85 Lincoln, Happiness for Mankind, 204. See further R. Boucharlat, “Suse et la Susiane a l’époque achéménide: Données archéologiques,” in Centre and Periphery, 149–75; idem, “Continuités à Suse au Ier millénaire av. J.-C.,” in Continuity and Change: Proceedings of the Last Achaemenid History Workshop, April 6–8, 1990, Ann Arbor, Michigan (ed. Heleen Sancisi-Weerdenburg, Amélie Kuhrt, and Margaret Cool Root; Achaemenid History 8; Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten, 1994), 217–28. 86 “There were not one but several centres of power: power was where the Great King happened to be, whether in one of his palaces at Persepolis, Susa, Babylon, or Ecbatana, or

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wide variety of workers, materials, and artists employed in his building projects. Among the laborers and artisans employed were Assyrians, Babylonians, Ionians, Sardinians, Medes, and Egyptians.87 Such a wide involvement of diverse peoples reflected the international nature of the empire itself. Various pieces of documentary and glyptic evidence suggest the existence of a diverse ethnic population within Susa itself (Babylonians, Egyptians, Persians, etc.).88 The palace was rebuilt by King Artaxerxes II, after it was partially destroyed by fire during the reign of Artaxerxes I.89 A major part of the building campaign of Artaxerxes II involved restoring the magnificent residence hall (apadāna), building a new foundation wall, and constructing a monumental palace on the west bank of the Shaur River.90 Babylonian cuneiform records indicate the existence of a “royal canal of Susa,” linking Babylonia and Elam.91 Unlike Persepolis, Susa was not subject to a siege or to destruction at the hands of the troops of Alexander. After an unspecified number of years, Alexander added the territory of the Ouxians to the satrapy of Susiana.92 The sites of Jerusalem, Babylon, and Susa were all situated, of course, within a single vast Achaemenid empire that encompassed all of them. But from the perspective of those residing within the Persian heartland, the southern Levant was a small part of the western fringes of the empire, hundreds of miles from any of the major imperial centres.93 If corporate identity is inevitably defined in relationship, whether to different non-Judean communities in the immediate geo-political context, related Judean communities in different geographic locales, or more broadly to the larger imperium of which all those Judean and non-Judean populations were a part, the identities of the Judean

in some other palace, his, tent, for example, a true mobile palace,” Briant, “Susa and Elam,” 12. 87 Roland G. Kent, Old Persian: Grammar, Texts, Lexicon (American Oriental Series 33; 2nd ed.; New Haven, Conn.: American Oriental Society, 1953), 141–46 (§§ DSe–DSt); Jean Yoyette, “Peoples and Countries of the Empire,” in The Palace of Darius at Susa, 272–79. 88 Briant, “Susa and Elam,” 4. 89 Jean Perrot, “Restoration, Reconstruction,” in The Palace of Darius at Susa, 209–39. 90 Kent, Old Persian: Grammar, 154–55 (§§ A2Sa; A2Sb; A2Sc; A2Sd); Lincoln, Happiness for Mankind, 198–212; Jean Perrot, “The Foundation Wall of Artaxerxes II, in The Palace of Darius at Susa, 205–208; Rémy Boucharlat, “Other Works of Darius and his Successors,” in The Palace of Darius at Susa, 373–407. 91 Briant, “Susa and Elam,” 13–14. 92 Pierre Briant, Rois, tributs et paysans (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1982), 161–73. 93 Briant comments that the historical importance of Yehud to the larger empire is “only an ‘optical illusion’ caused by the uneven distribution of evidence,” Cyrus to Alexander, 586.

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communities in Babylon and Susa were redefined, at least in part, by virtue of their particular geo-political contexts at or near the heart of the empire.94 In this respect, the category of core-periphery may be too self-limiting to do justice to the complexities of how minority communities coped with life under imperial rule. How one defines the core and how one defines the periphery very much depends on one’s time, presuppositions, personal commitments, and specific geo-political context. One’s core may be another’s periphery and vice versa. Over the decades, the expatriate Judean communities within the large urban settings of the East undoubtedly absorbed elements of the mental geography prevalent in the international cultures in which they found themselves and the formation of Ezra-Nehemiah may reflect the influence of such a particular international orientation. Indeed, one may ask whether the core in this particular book has shifted subtly toward the Judean communities of the east and the periphery has shifted to the land of Judah, which repeatedly receives interventions from members of the Eastern Diaspora that catalyze and refocus rebuilding efforts.

94 Indeed, this factor, among others, complicates attempts to define precisely what constitutes identity, Rogers Brubaker and Frederick Cooper, “Beyond ‘Identity,’” Theory and Society 29 (2000): 1–47.

Centers and Peripheries in the Ezra Story Juha Pakkala A. Introduction This contribution seeks to explore what were regarded as the centers and peripheries in the Ezra story, which can be found in Ezra 7–10 and Neh 8. Other parts of Ezra-Nehemiah, especially in relation to the Ezra story, will be considered as well. The main focus is on the centers and peripheries conceptualized by the authors1 of this story. It will also be asked, are there tensions and differences in the different sections of the story? Did later editors imply different centers and peripheries? How do the conceptions in the Ezra story relate to the rest of Ezra-Nehemiah? Answers to these questions provide new perspectives and information about the authors and their contexts as well as about the original context of the Ezra story. Although the conceptions may, at least to some extent, reflect socio-historical realities, this essay does not pursue to reconstruct these realities. Nevertheless, possible contexts for the conceptions on centers and peripheries will be suggested. There are different kinds of centers in Ezra-Nehemiah. The composition is fruitful for looking at ideological centers that can also be called centers of authority. Where do the writers believe the society or community should draw its ideological authority from? Is it Israel’s God, the Torah, the Temple, or another religious authority? The text also reveals the implied and assumed centers of power, religious and political. Clearly, the question of center and periphery is closely connected with power and authority. Power is usually 1

It is very likely that the Ezra story (as well as the rest of the Ezra-Nehemiah) was not written by one author. For discussion, see contributions in The (Dis)unity of EzraNehemiah (ed. Paul Reditt and Mark Boda; Old Testament Monograph Series; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2008), and below. Most scholars have acknowledged that the composition was written by several authors and that is consists of at least two or three sources that were later combined. Nevertheless, there is considerable disagreement concerning the extent of later editors’ contribution. A further disagreement concerns the relationship of the composition to Chronicles. My conceptions concerning the composition and redaction history of Ezra-Nehemiah are based on my monograph Juha Pakkala, Ezra the Scribe, The Development of Ezra 7–10 and Nehemiah 8 (BZAW 347; Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, 2004), which contains more detailed argumentation, discussion of differing views as well as literature.

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demonstrated and concentrated at centers, while periphery is a place where power is often lacking. I will also look at spatial centers. Where does the author situate the events and what does it tell us about his conceptions of centers and peripheries. Connected to spatial conceptions, it can be asked, whom the author regards as the central figure in the story. Are there many central figures, or is the story fixed on one person only? Finally, the Ezra story also provides interesting information about who formed the center of the community and who were peripheral. Since there are several perspectives to look at centers and peripheries,2 it is important to distinguish between different centers, and always define what we are talking about. One should also note what the author’s focus is: If his focus is the community in Yehud, Jerusalem may be a political center, but if the focus is on the Persian Empire, Jerusalem is politically in the periphery. Something that is a center from one perspective may be a periphery from another. For example, Jerusalem may be an ideological center and an economic or political periphery at the same time. A structure or system, implied by a text, may thus consist of several centers and peripheries where they form a complex network of overlapping center-periphery relationships. This network of relationships is conceivably a fundamental structural element in the whole story, as the centers and peripheries function as axes on which the events described in the story take place. When we are aware of these axes, we may better understand the background and context of the author. It should further be noted that centers and peripheries are not necessarily permanent or constant, but may be dynamic and changing. It is certainly possible that they are constant throughout a story, but it is also possible that the change of a periphery to a center, or vice versa, is a significant plot in the story. In fact, change is apparent in the case of some fundamental centerperiphery relationships in Ezra-Nehemiah, as we will see. Although the focus of this contribution is more on centers than peripheries, centers can only exist if there are also peripheries. Center contains some quality – for example, power, wealth, authority or ability – that is lacking or scarce in the periphery. The recognition of a center implies that the author has also a conception of what the peripheries are. The focus on centers also has a practical reason: It is usually easier to identify the centers, because they are often explicitly clear or clearly mentioned in Ezra-Nehemiah, while peripheries may only be implied or perhaps not mentioned at all. Nevertheless, once a center has been identified, it is possible to determine what the author’s periphery concerning the same issue would have been.

2 It is a matter of choice, what kind of centers in the text are we looking for. I will seek here to identify the most central center-periphery axes implied by the authors.

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B. Ezra-Nehemiah as a Composition Essential for understanding the Ezra story and Ezra-Nehemiah is to acknowledge the existence of four separate units within the composition: 3 The first unit is found in Ezra 1–6. These chapters describe the return of the first wave of exiles under the leadership of Joshua and Zerubbabel to Jerusalem and Yehud. The construction of the Temple is the main topic of the story. After this has been accomplished in Ezra 6:13–22, the composition does not come back to the topic. The Ezra story in Ezra 7–10 and Neh 8 describes how, after receiving authorization from King Artaxerxes (Ezra 7), Ezra travels from Babylon to Jerusalem (Ezra 8) in order to (re)introduce the Law to the Jewish community in Yehud. When he has recovered from an initial shock that the people have lived without the Law (Ezra 9), Ezra reads the Law to the people and implements its commandments. As examples for the implementation are given the expulsion of foreign wives (Ezra 10) and the celebration of the Sukkoth (Neh 8), both according to the Law. The story also describes the return of the second wave of exiles in Ezra 7–8, as well as the bringing of gifts to the Temple in Ezra 8:24–34.4 An important compositional issue is the position and original location of Neh 8, the scene describing the reading of the Law to the people. If the passage is understood to be part of the Ezra story in Ezra 7–10, it has considerable impact on how we understand the whole story including the question of what the centers and peripheries were. Without Neh 8, the focus of the story would be on mixed marriages, while the Law would only serve as means to justify the expulsion of foreign wives. However, if we read the story with Neh 8, the focus is on the Law and the mixed marriages are mainly an example (alongside with the celebration of the Sukkoth in Neh 8:13–18) of how 3

Several compositional models for Ezra-Nehemiah have been suggested in research, but in general the existence of three or four clearly separate units is acknowledged by most scholars. It is debated whether these units were originally independent stories written by different authors or not. For example, Hugh G. M. Williamson, “The Composition of Ezra i–vi,” JTS 34 (1983): 1–30, has argued that at least the Ezra story and the Nehemiah story were originally independent. Nonetheless, one can certainly investigate different topics in the composition by only concentrating on the “final” or preserved text (the MT and the two Greek versions), but the observations and conclusions made in this essay show that a more historical perspective, which also distinguishes between sections written in different times and contexts, provides a different perspective with additional information. Since the units of the story contain different conceptions about centers and peripheries, a synchronic approach would thus directly affect our understanding of what the centers and peripheries were assumed to be. 4 It should be noted that the current order of the passages may not be original. This is closely connected to the original position of Neh 8 (see below).

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the Law was implemented. Although the space does not allow a detailed discussion here, I have argued elsewhere that Neh 8 is an integral part of the Ezra story and that it must have been secondarily relocated. Its original location is probably before Ezra 9.5 The Nehemiah memoir, found in Neh 1–7, focuses on the rebuilding of the city wall and restoration of Jerusalem, while the temple and the Law play only a minor role in this story. The perspective is very different from the Ezra story and from the temple construction story in Ezra 1–6. Especially notable is the marginal role of the priests and Levites in comparison with the rest of Ezra-Nehemiah. The rest of the composition is found in Neh 9–13: These chapters do not form a coherent unit by any definition, but are more of an accumulation of later material added by several authors and editors to the end of the composition.6 This also explains the poor connection between the different passages in this section. Nevertheless, priestly, Levitical, and cultic interests are prominent in Neh 9–13. The first three units are originally separate and independent literary works that function well without the other units.7 Each has a different topic and a consistent plot that comes to an end at the end of the unit and does not anticipate any continuation. Even in their late form, after considerable editing, they are self-contained and do not necessitate the other units. In contrast, Neh 9–13 is a later development, whose authors are evidently familiar with the other units. 5 See discussion of different positions in Pakkala, Ezra the Scribe, 167–79. Several scholars, such as Antonius Gunneweg, Nehemia (KAT; Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn, 1987), 109–12, Reinhard Kratz, Die Komposition der erzählenden Bücher des Alten Testaments (UTB 2157; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000), 87–90, and Jacob L. Wright, Rebuilding Identity: The Nehemiah-Memoir and its Earliest Readers (BZAW 348; Berlin and New York, de Gruyter, 2004), 315–30, have argued that Neh 8 was written for its current location. Other scholars, who also assume that Neh 8 is not in its original location, have argued that its original location is after Ezra 10: e.g., Gustav Hölscher, Die Bücher Esra und Nehemia (HAT II; Tübingen: Mohr Paul Siebeck, 1923), 542; Sigmund Mowinckel, Studien zu dem Buche Ezra-Nehemia III: Die Ezrageschichte und das Gesetz Moses (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1965), 7–11; Dieter Böhler, Die Heilige Stadt in Esdras α und Esra-Nehemia: Zwei Konzeptionen zur Wiederherstellung Israels (OBO 158; Freiburg, 1997), 143–306. 6 It is common that the end of a literary work was expanded more often than its other parts, because there usually was some empty space at the end of the manuscript for expansions. Expansions at the end could be made by scribes, who did not copy the entire manuscript, whereas elsewhere in the manuscript one could only write between the lines and in the margins. 7 The original independence of the three sections is not unanimously accepted. For arguments in favor of originally different units, see Juha Pakkala, “The Disunity of EzraNehemiah,” in The (Dis)unity of Ezra-Nehemiah, 200–15.

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After the units were combined to form one composition, several editors made further additions. They tried to harmonize some of the differences, creating secondary links between the units, but the differences and tensions between the units are still clear in the preserved texts. That Ezra-Nehemiah consists of originally independent sources also becomes apparent when we look at the centers and peripheries.

C. Centers and Peripheries in the Ezra Story The Ezra story begins with Ezra’s departure from Babylonia (Ezra 7:1–10). The emphasis is on going away from Babylonia to Yehud and Jerusalem, which is one of the leading ideas in all of Ezra-Nehemiah, and perhaps one of the main uniting factors that eventually led to the separate stories being merged into a single composition. A central underlying message to the Jewish readers may have been that the center of Judaism is or should be Jerusalem and Yehud. This may be obvious when we are dealing with the Hebrew Bible, but the emphasis on this throughout the composition implies that this was not self-evident for the intended audiences. In fact, the implicit setting at the beginning of each of the three stories in Ezra-Nehemiah is that Jerusalem is somehow peripheral and that this should be changed, is now about to change, or that it has changed as a consequence of Zerubbabel’s, Jeshua’s, Ezra’s, or Nehemiah’s activity. At the end of each story Jerusalem is the unquestioned center. The starting point in the Ezra story is that the people in Jerusalem and Yehud, unaware of the Law, live in a lawless state, in the periphery of the Law. The Law is in Babylon, and therefore someone from Babylon is needed to bring it back to Jerusalem so that it can be the center again. At the beginning of the story Babylonia is the implicit center in many respects and even in matters concerning the Law, but it has shifted to Jerusalem at the end of the story. This also reveals that Jerusalem would not be regarded as the center just because it is Jerusalem, but because of other reasons, such as the Law being there. In other words, Jerusalem without the Law (or the Temple or other central institutions) could also be regarded as a peripheral location in early Judaism.8

8 A similar notion of change can found in Ezra 1–6: At the beginning of the story Jerusalem is, at least implicitly, empty of Jews and otherwise unimportant, but it becomes the center after the Temple has been built (Ezra 6:15–22). The same pattern can also be found in the Nehemiah memoir. At the beginning of the memoir Jerusalem is described as being in ruins and its inhabitants to be in trouble and shame (Neh 1:3; 2:3), thus peripheral in power and glory. This was changed in the course of the story. Nehemiah restored Jerusa-

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The implied assumption in the story is that Babylonia was the de facto center at the time of writing. To portray Babylonia in the Hebrew Bible as the center of the Jews makes sense only if it, at least on some level, corresponded to socio-historical realities, that Jerusalem was, in fact, peripheral during this time. Babylonia as the place of forced exile 9 would fit poorly as the goal where the center of Jews should be. It is thus likely that the authors wanted to convey to the readers that Jerusalem should be the center of the Jews and not Babylon, which by many standards, it probably was.10 Although Babylonia and Jerusalem are the large scale spatial centers, the relationship of which forms a significant center-periphery axis in narrative, the authors also imply other spatial centers. Very notable in the Ezra story is the spatial centrality of Ezra himself; he is at the center of all scenes throughout the narrative. This is obvious in Ezra 9–10, since these chapters are written in the first person – like a memoir – but the centrality of Ezra is extended to parts of the story that use the third person as well. This also applies to Neh 8, although Nehemiah is also mentioned in this chapter.11 Similarly, in the Nehemiah memoir, Nehemiah is at the center of all the action throughout the narrative. 12 In contrast, despite the prominence of some figures such as Zerubbabel and Jeshua, the stories in Ezra 1–6 as well as in Neh 9–13 are hardly at all centered on single figures.13 lem’s central position by rebuilding the city and its walls. At the end of all three stories the centrality of Jerusalem is unquestioned. 9 It is another question whether Jews in the Second Temple Period actually regarded their Babylonian contexts as forced exile, but much of the fiction in the Hebrew Bible seeks to convey this conception. 10 An alternative, although perhaps a less probable explanation, is that these texts really describe the actual shift of the center from Mesopotamia to Jerusalem and Yehud. This would imply a somewhat historical interest in the events, but this is unlikely among biblical authors. 11 It is very probable that the reference to Nehemiah in Neh 8:9 is a secondary addition. The verb in the singular implies that the verse originally only referred to one person, who, considering the context, can only be Ezra. The sudden appearance of Nehemiah as the speaker to the community would also be surprising. Thus, for example, Joseph Blenkinsopp, Ezra-Nehemiah (OLT; Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1988), 284, 288–89. See further discussion in Pakkala, Ezra the Scribe, 149–50. 12 This is important for the discussion about the position of Neh 8. In addition to several other arguments, it is difficult to see why the alleged editor would continue with such Ezra-centrality if he primarily intended the text as an addition for its current location after the Nehemiah Memoir. It seems more likely that the same authors and editors who wrote in Ezra 7–10 continued in Neh 8 and that Neh 8 was displaced at a later stage. Thus many scholars, for example, Blenkinsopp, Ezra-Nehemiah, 44–46. 13 For example, in the concluding passage in Ezra 6:13–22, which describes the final construction and dedication of the Temple, no named leaders of the community are mentioned. The lack of prominent Jews is highlighted by the fact that the Persian authorities are mentioned by name (Ezra 6:13).

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The centrality of a single figure in the Ezra story calls for an explanation. It is not a necessity to connect the bringing of the Law so closely with one person as it is done in the Ezra story. Why not the community? Why not a group of scribes, for example? In comparison, the rebuilding of the Temple in Ezra 1–6 is a much more communal event than the reintroduction of the Law in the Ezra story or even the building of the wall in the Nehemiah memoir, although Nehemiah is the unquestioned leader.14 Is there an implicit message that one person holds the authoritative Law and that the others are peripheral or perhaps not authoritative? Ezra’s centrality is all the more surprising since he is not mentioned elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible. He is not an otherwise known great figure whose authority would be needed to legitimize the reintroduction of the Law. It is the story itself that made him central, and it is unlikely that the Ezra story would be based on another, unknown story or lost tradition. Even in the rest of Ezra-Nehemiah he is only mentioned in the late chapters Neh 9–13 (Neh 9:6; 12:1, 13, 26, 33, 36). He is also completely missing in Ben Sira, while all other main figures of Israel’s history, including Nehemiah, are mentioned in this second century B.C.E. document. It is only in later Jewish literature that Ezra increases in importance.15 In other words, the Ezra story makes Ezra a central figure, but on the basis of other contemporary Jewish literature he remains peripheral until the Common Era. The question of Ezra’s centrality is all the more important if much of the Ezra story is fictional, as assumed by many scholars. 16 What explains the late success and eventual centrality of such a figure that from the perspective of the Hebrew Bible as a whole is a peripheral figure? One possibility is that there was a conscious attempt to connect the reintroduction of the Law with a figure who is like Moses. Although the text does 14

Clearly, Jeshua and Zerubbabel are prominent in the story, but many of the events take place without any reference to these figures. Most notably, the dedication of the Temple in Ezra 6:13–18 took place without them being mentioned. Anonymous priests and Levites seem to be the most prominent figures in charge of the events in this scene. 15 Ezra’s later importance becomes especially evident in the vivid pseudepigraphic literature ascribed to Ezra, such as First Esdras, Fourth Ezra and its additions, Fifth Ezra and Sixth Ezra, the Revelation of Ezra (Revelatio Esdrae), the Vision of Ezra (visio beati Esdrae), and the Apocalypse of Ezra. In the Rabbinic literature Ezra became one of the central figures in Judaism, who was closely connected and a leading figure of the so called Great Assembly that, according to the tradition, would have been central in the final canonization of the Hebrew Bible and in the establishment of central Jewish institutions of the Second Temple Period. 16 For example, Kratz, Komposition der erzählenden Bücher; Wright, Rebuilding Identity; Pakkala, Ezra the Scribe. Nonetheless, many scholars have assumed that the story is based on actual events. Blenkinsopp, Ezra-Nehemiah, 60–69, assumes that the story contains considerable amount of historical information, although he stresses that one has to be critical in each individual matter.

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not explicitly make the connection between Ezra and Moses, the parallels suggest that the author, at least subconsciously, made a connection: Both introduce the Law to the people. Like Moses (for example, Exod 32:19–20), Ezra is enraged that the people have been disobedient (Ezra 9). Like Moses (Exod 32:25–35), Ezra expels the sinners from the community (Ezra 10). Like Moses (passim), Ezra also speaks out loud the commandments to the whole nation (Neh 8:1–12). The connections with Moses could have been made in order to increase the story’s legitimacy. 17 The author would have intended to give the impression that the authoritative voice of Moses is resonating at the background, which would give more credibility, authority, and legitimacy to Ezra.18 The centrality of Ezra – and the absence of other important figures in the same story – may also be looked from the perspective of collective memory. It is well possible that one figure who would symbolize the reintroduction of the Law was an outcome of how collective memory works. There is a tendency to connect a broader issue, discourse or topos with a figure, who becomes to symbolize the issue, or in whose person the issue becomes crystallized.19 For example, in the Late Persian or Early Hellenistic period Abraham became to be associated with central issues that were needed for the selfunderstanding of the Jewish community. As noted by Ehud Ben Zvi: The process leading to the construction of Abraham as a central node in the collective memory network involved a positive feedback loop: the more central a figure was, the more it became a ‘magnet’ for issues and images at the community’s core (including selfcharacterization, identity, and ideology). Conversely, the more such matters and images were associated with Abraham, the more central he became. The same feedback was at work in relation to a few other core figures in ancient Israelite discourse, such as Jacob, Moses, and in a different way, David and Solomon. 17

One should also note the parallels between King Josiah and Ezra: Both reintroduce the Law and read it out loud to the community from a raised platform (cf. 2 Kgs 23:2–3 and Neh 8:3–4), both are shocked and tear their clothes (cf. 2 Kgs 22:11 and Ezra 9:3), both initiate a covenant between Yahweh and the people (cf. 2 Kgs 23:3 and Ezra 10:3), both implement laws concerning the purity of the Jewish community (cf. 2 Kgs 23:4–20; Ezra 10), and both celebrate a feast according to the Law (Passover in 2 Kgs 23:21–23 and the Sukkoth in Neh 8:13–18). It is unlikely that so many parallels can be accidental. 18 This does not mean that Ezra would be a purely fictional figure but his portrayal would only have been influenced by Moses. 19 See discussion and examples in Ehud Ben Zvi, “The Memory of Abraham in Late Persian/Early Hellenistic Yehud/Judah,” in Remembering Biblical Figures in the Late Persian & Early Hellenistic Periods: Social Memory and Imagination (ed. Diana Edelman and Ehud Ben Zvi, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 3–37, “Exploring the Memory of Moses ‘The Prophet’ in Late Persian/Early Hellenistic Yehud/Judah,” in Remembering Biblical Figures, 335–64, and “Isaiah, a Memorable Prophet: Why was Isaiah so Memorable in the Late Persian/Early Hellenistic Periods? Some Observations” in Remembering Biblical Figures, 365–83.

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To this list, one can add Ezra, who became to be associated with the reintroduction of the Law after the exile, and gradually also other related issues were associated with him. In the rabbinic literature, Ezra was regarded as the key figure in the establishment of several institutions, including the canon of the Hebrew Bible, the Jewish calendar, parts of the synagogue service, and the Sabbath. Although it is highly probable that the introduction of the Law was a much more complicated process than what is described in the Ezra story, its core issues relevant for the Jewish community are conveyed in a concise form and tied to one figure, who symbolized these issues. From the perspective of collective memory, the story was shaped into a form that preserved “in an abbreviated but memorable form” the core points relevant for the issue that is being transmitted,20 in this case, the reintroduction of the Law after the exile. This could also explain why many other developments in the Hebrew Bible, and elsewhere, are led by one person, who is given overproportioned credit for his establishments, while the contribution of others is neglected or completely forgotten. Not unlike the role of Ezra in the Ezra story, the Nehemiah memoir gives the impression that rebuilding of the city wall and the restoration of the city was completely dependent on Nehemiah. Regardless of the historicity of the Nehemiah memoir, it is unlikely that restoration of Jerusalem and its city wall could have been a one-time event brought about by one person. Although not completely impossible, it is much more likely that at the background is a very complicated and slow development that was influenced by many actors and powerful people. From the perspective of social memory, a faithful and detailed description of an event would have led to a very complicated story that risked being forgotten. In comparison, a story tied with one person, who symbolizes the building process, would have had better chances of being remembered and thus transmitted to the next generations. The transmission process – essentially an evolutionary process – thus gives precedence to oneness, so that other actors, possibly mentioned in an early stage of transmission, would have been forgotten and eventually lost in favor of the one who was the most important. This could be compared with the Matthew Effect. As noted by Barry Schwartz: Condensation (a cognitive heuristic) and the Matthew Effect (a social process) work together, transforming fourness into oneness (nature into culture) by deliberately simplifying complexity, distinguishing one contributor to a project and forgetting others, thus symbolizing the ideals these contributors and this project pursue. The power of oneness is in this sense overdetermined: however weak the Matthew Effect in promoting any one reputation, human memory limits recognition --- sometimes to one person or event, always toward one. Even if man’s working and longterm memory capacities were greater, the Matthew Effect’s positive feedback process would limit recognition --- sometimes to one person or

20

Ben Zvi, “The Memory of Abraham,” 6.

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event, always toward one. Cognitive deficit, thus, reinforces rather than creates society’s need to represent its ideals with unique symbols.21

In other words, collective memory may have a tendency to increase the importance of central figures and to marginalize and perhaps even completely forget figures that – even if originally important or even essential for an event or process – are not the most important ones. Clearly, this is only one perspective to explain the centrality of one figure, Ezra, in the Ezra story, and certainly other reasons may be connected to the poorly known original context of transmission. However, in view of a similar tendency towards oneness in other parts of the Hebrew Bible, it certainly has contributed to the centrality of Ezra.

D. Political Centers Shifting the perspective to political power, Persia appears to be the center in the whole composition, although in some parts it recedes to the background in the course of the plot. In the Ezra story, Persia’s political and administrative centrality is highlighted by Artaxerxes’s rescript. After Ezra has been introduced in 7:1–10, the whole story starts with the Persian authorization of Ezra’s undertaking in the form of the rescript in Ezra 7:(11)12–26. Although Ezra is given all the powers to act that he asked for (7:6), the rescript’s author regarded it self-evident that Ezra, and the Jews, needed an authorization from the Persians and especially from the Persian king to go to Jerusalem. Nothing in the text seems to question the centrality of the Persian king in having the ultimate authority. It is only in First Esdras, which is generally a later text,22 that the authority of the Persian king vis-à-vis Ezra and Yahweh is occasionally, but not essentially, relativized.23 After the beginning, however, the Persian king or authorities play no role in the Ezra story. Ezra arrives to Jerusalem and seems to have full authority to act as he pleases. One should note the absence of any Persian authorities in Yehud or Jerusalem.24 On the one hand,

21 Barry Schwartz, “Collective Forgetting And The Symbolic Power Of Oneness: The Strange Apotheosis Of Rosa Parks,” Social Psychology Quarterly 72/2 (2009): 123–42, here p. 139. 22 See contributions in Was 1 Esdras First? (ed. Lisbeth S. Fried; SBL Symposium Series; Atlanta, Ga.: SBL, 2011). 23 For example, in 1 Esd 8:3–4 the Persian king honors Ezra and therefore gives him all that he needs for the journey to Jerusalem, while in the parallel, and probably older text in the Masoretic Ezra 7:6 the king gives Ezra all he needs, because the hand of God is on Ezra so that he receives the king’s favor. 24 For example, in Ezra 1–6 local officials of the province seem to have been actively involved in the events (Ezra 4:7, 23; 5:3, 6).

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the rescript has already given Ezra the authority, but on the other hand, the ensuing context and the events do not necessitate any Persian involvement. There are good reasons to assume that the rescript and Ezra 8:36, which is closely connected with the rescript, are later additions to the Ezra story.25 The rescript may have been formed by using similar documents in Ezra 1–6 as models. If we assume that the Ezra story did not include the rescript from the beginning, Persia would be absent from the whole story, with the only exception of the chronological time frame of the story in Ezra 7:1 and the brief reference in Ezra 7:6. In other words, the centrality of Persian power may have been secondarily introduced to the story. This would have shifted the story’s implied political power structures. Who would have the political power without the Persians? There has been some scholarly discussion about how Yehud was governed when Ezra arrived,26 and this question is all the more important if the rescript and Ezra 8:36, which mentions Persian administrators,27 are regarded as secondary to the story. Leaving aside the question of historical Ezra, it is perhaps more secure to ask, what kind of political structures does the author imply in Jerusalem? The text offers no clear indication that Ezra had any administrative functions. He has some executive and administrative powers, but this falls short of any political power, and these powers are mainly connected to his position as the implementer of the Law. The community in Jerusalem also seems to be without any clear central administration. Ezra 9–10 refer to princes (‫)שׂרים‬, which is a rather general term for leaders.28 The context does not provide much additional information on their administrative role. Besides reporting the sin (9:1) and helping Ezra to implement the expulsion of foreign women (Ezra 10), the text only implies that they were leaders of the community. The spokesperson representing the people in Ezra 10 is “Shechaniah the

See discussion in Pakkala, Ezra the Scribe, 40–45. Jon L. Berquist, Judaism in Persia’s Shadow: A Social and Historical Approach (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995), 110–12, has suggested that Ezra had a political function and was a governor during the reign of Artaxerxes I. Nonetheless, he does not distinguish between the different authors within Ezra-Nehemiah and he assumes that the composition, including the rescript, is a fairly reliable witness of the late fifth century B.C.E. Kenneth G. Hoglund, Achaemenid Imperial Administration in Syria-Palestine and the Missions of Ezra and Nehemiah (SBL Dissertation Series 125; Atlanta, Ga.: SBL, 1992), chapter 5 and summary in chapter 6, on the other hand, has suggested that Ezra’s mission served an Achamenid political attempt to integrate the area closer to the Persian Empire. 27 The fantastic character of Ezra 8:36 is seen in the way the author assumes that the satraps ( ֶ‫ ) ֲא ַח ְשׁ ַדּ ְר ְפּנֵ י ַה ֶמּל‬and the governors of the entire province (‫ ) ַפּ ֲחווֹת ֵ ֶבר ַהנָּ ָהר‬all had their residence in Jerusalem. The author wants to give the impression that the entire provincial administration was disposed to serve the Jewish cause. 28 See HALOT, ‫שׂר‬. Ezra 8:24 refers to the ‫ שׂרים‬of the priests, but this does not seem to have been the intention in Ezra 9:1. 25

26

306

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son of Jehiel, one of the sons of Elam.” Although he is given no title, the text may imply that he was one of the princes. 29 At any rate, no clear picture emerges on the leadership of the province. It seems that prior to the addition of the rescript in Ezra 7, the authors of the Ezra story were not concerned about the political setting and the political center, or they were not relevant for the story to be mentioned. The lack of any reference to political structures may have been one of the reasons why a later editor added the rescript and Ezra 8:36, thereby making Persia the clear political center.30 The conviction that the Persian king is the center of power is especially prominent in Ezra 1–6, where all important actions need a royal authorization. The king’s power is demonstrated already at the beginning of the story. In Cyrus’s edict (Ezra 1:1–4) the king declares that God has given him all the kingdoms of the earth. In the dispute about the building of the temple, the rivalling parties always ask for the king’s judgement in crucial issues (e.g., Ezra 3:7; 4:3). From the perspective of power and political authority the Persian king is the unquestioned center, around whom all the parties revolve. Although God is implicitly the ultimate authority (Ezra 1:1–2; 6:22), he only remains in the background, while the Persian kings act as those who have the real executive power. It would certainly be an exaggeration to say that Yahweh is in the periphery in Ezra-Nehemiah, but the authors seem to give a rather realistic impression about the centrality of Persia in important decisions. The Jewish community or the returnees, on the other hand, are portrayed as somewhat powerless. Their building plan can only begin and proceed only if they can win the king to their side. This highlights the peripheral power position of the Jewish community. This is not only implied in the text, but becomes explicitly clear. In comparison, some parts of the Hebrew Bible contain much more idealistic conceptions about how central and powerful were the Jewish community and their God Yahweh.31 Ezra 1–6 portrays at least certain realism as to who has the real power and who does not.

29 Scholars have discussed whether there is a connection between Jehiel, father of Shechania and Jehiel who had taken a foreign wife according to Ezra 10:26. 30 Ezra 1–6, with its letters and documents, may have functioned as the model for this concept. 31 In many parts of the Hebrew Bible, adverse events are interpreted as a sign that the Israelites have sinned against Yahweh (this is the case throughout the historical books). In Ezra 1–6, this is not the case. For example, when the building process was stopped after the adversaries of the builders had succeeded in convincing the king, the text does not refer to any sins that would have caused it (Ezra 4). The writer only refers to the process being stopped until another king, Darius, comes to power (Ezra 4:24). The author clearly implies that everything depends on the Persian king, who happens to be in power. Cyrus and Darius are assumed to be favorable to the Jews, while Xerxes is presented as favoring their adversaries.

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E. Ideological Centers More information about the center-periphery axes of Ezra-Nehemiah is gained when we turn to the ideological centers. Looking at the whole composition two such centers emerge: the Law and the Temple. Although they can certainly coexist as ideological authorities, as much of the Second Temple Jewish literature shows, there seems to be tension throughout Ezra-Nehemiah as to which is more prominent and that could be regarded as the ideological center.32 In some sections the Temple is clearly more central than the Law, while in other sections the opposite in the case. Roughly speaking, the Temple is the ideological center in Ezra 1–6, whereas it is the Law in the Ezra story. This is not only because of different topics, the construction of the Temple in Ezra 1–6 and the reintroduction of the Law in Ezra 7–10 and Neh 8. But also because both the Temple and the Law have a clearly lesser role in the Nehemiah memoir. It should be added that difference can also be seen within the larger units. Divergent origins and authorship are probable reasons behind the variety of ideological in Ezra-Nehemiah. The centrality of the Temple is closely connected to the centrality of the priests and Levites in the events. The core actors in Ezra 1–6 are the priests and the Levites, which corresponds with the centrality of the Temple in this section. In comparison, in the Ezra story, the priests appear to have a secondary role and when they are mentioned, it is mostly, perhaps always, a later addition. Later editors with a strongly priestly perspective seem to have added the involvement of priests and Levites in various events. That we are dealing with later additions becomes apparent when we look at the texts in detail. Some examples will suffice. According to Ezra 7:6, Ezra left Babylon, and there is no reference to anyone going with him. However, the following verse adds that some Israelites as well as different temple personnel came with him.

32 Certain tension between the Law and the Temple can be detected in many other parts of the Hebrew Bible as well. For example, Deuteronomy is largely centered on the Law, whereas the Temple, its personnel, and the content of the cult plays only a marginal role. Certainly, there does not necessarily need to be any tension between the Temple and the Law, but it is only after a rather long development that the Temple and the Law form harmonious centers of authority.

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Ezra 7:6

this Ezra went up from Babylonia. He was a scribe skilled in the Law of Moses that the LORD the God of Israel had given; and the king granted him all that he asked, for the hand of the LORD his God was upon him. 7 Some of the people of Israel, and some of the priests and Levites, the singers and gatekeepers, and the temple servants also went up to Jerusalem, in the seventh year of King Artaxerxes. 8 He came to Jerusalem in the fifth month, which was in the seventh year of the king.

‫תוֹרת מ ֶֹשׁה‬ ַ ‫ הוּא ֶ זְ ָרא ָ לָ ה ִמ ָבּ ֶבל וְ הוּא־ס ֵֹפר ָמ ִהיר ְבּ‬6 ‫הי ִי ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬: ֵ ‫ֲא ֶשׁר־נָ ַתן ְיהוָ ה ֱא‬ ‫היו ָ לָ יו כּ ֹל ַבּ ָקּ ָשׁתוֹ‬: ָ ‫וַ יִּ ֶתּן־לוֹ ַה ֶמּלֶ ְכּ ַיד־ ְיהוָ ה ֱא‬ ‫ן־הכּ ֲֹהנִ ים וְ ַהלְ וִ יִּ ם‬ ַ ‫וּמ‬ ִ ‫ וַ יַּ ֲ לוּ ִמ ְבּנֵ י־ ִי ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬7 < ָ‫רוּשׁל‬ ָ ְ‫וְ ַה ְמשׁ ְֹר ִר ים וְ ַהשּׁ ֹ ֲ ִר ים וְ ַהנְּ ִתינִ ים ֶאל־י‬ ֶ‫ת־שׁ ַבע לְ ַא ְר ַתּ ְח ַשׁ ְס ְתּא ַה ֶמּל‬ ֶ ַ‫ִבּ ְשׁנ‬ ֶ‫ישׁי ִהיא ְשׁנַ ת ַה ְשּׁ ִבי ִ ית לַ ֶמּל‬ ִ ‫רוּשׁלַ < ַבּח ֶֹדשׁ ַה ֲח ִמ‬ ָ ‫ וַ יָּב ֹא ְי‬8

That we are dealing with a later addition in v. 7 is seen in the way v. 8 continues using the third person singular of v. 6 in reference to Ezra (‫> ָ לָ ה‬ ‫)וַ יָּב ֹא‬, whereas v. 7 uses the plural (‫)וַ יַּ ֲ לוּ‬. The author of v. 8 (as well as of v. 9, which also uses the singular) was unaware of other people coming with Ezra. Verse 7 and 8 also contain a double reference to the seventh year of the king. It is very unlikely that the year would be mentioned in adjacent verse if both derived from the same author. It should further be noted that the coming to Jerusalem is also mentioned twice (< ָ‫רוּשׁל‬ ָ ְ‫ ֶאל־י‬... ‫ וַ יַּ ֲ לוּ‬in v. 7 and ‫וַ יָּב ֹא‬ ַהיּוֹם לַ ֲאד ֹנֵ ינוּ וְ ַא‬ ֵ ‫) ִכּי ַהיּוֹם ָקד ֹשׁ וְ ַא‬. It is unlikely that the same author would be behind both v. 10 and 11, as there is no apparent reason for the redundancy, unless it was added later. An original author would most probably have combined the involvement of Ezra and the Levites in the same sentence rather than leave a puzzling repetition.34 The reason for these and other related editorial changes is the peripheral position of the Temple personnel in the older story, which later editors sought to correct. This took place in a later context, where the priest and Levites had a more prominent role in the society, and/or where the text was transmitted in a context where the priests were assumed to be more important. A development to the same effect is also seen in the way Ezra – originally only called a scribe (e.g., Ezra 7:6; Neh 8:1) in accordance with his main task to reinstate the Law – was later made a priest by later editors (thus e.g., Ezra 10:10; Neh 8:2, 9). A further step was taken in First Esdras, where he was made the high priest (1 Esd 9:39, 40, 49: ὁ ἀρχιερεὺς), which is very probably a secondary change, but it also shows the direction of development to increase the priestly character of the whole story. It appears that the peripheral position of the Temple and its personnel was so disturbing to many later editors that they tried to correct it by making the priests and Levites more central in the story. On the other hand, the priests may have been left out intentionally in the older Ezra story. Not only is Ezra not a priest – before he was made one – but he also acted without any involvement of the priestly authorities. The Law was given directly to the people as if priests would be irrelevant (Neh 8:1– 12). The main events in Jerusalem take place in public places: The expulsion of the people in front of the Temple, and the reading of the Law in Neh 8 in front of the Water gate (v. 1). It may not be a coincidence that Ezra acts in front of the Temple without any priests being mentioned. One would perhaps expect a priest to come forward and represent the community or mediate between Ezra and the people, but the speaker and apparent leader of the community is an otherwise unknown Shecaniah son of Jehiel, of the descendants of Elam.35 The later priestly editors were unsatisfied by the lack of priests in this scene and several editors attempted to bring them to the center of action. This is illustrated by the literary history of Ezra 10:4–10:

For further discussion, see Pakkala, Ezra the Scribe, 150–51. Since he is said to be of the descendants of Elam, it seems that the author did not assume him to be a priest. Elam, an ancestor of returning exiles, is mentioned in Ezra 2:7 and 2:31 – apparently two different ancestors called Elam – while the list in Ezra 2 mentions priests, Levites and other temple personnel in verses 36–61. 34

35

310

Juha Pakkala

(2 Shecaniah, son of Jehiel, of the descendants of Elam said to Ezra …): 4 “Take action, for it is your duty, and we are with you; be strong, and do it.” 5 Then Ezra stood up and made the leading priests, the Levites, and all Israel swear that they would do as had been said. So they swore. 6 Then Ezra stood up … and went to the chamber of Jehohanan son of Eliashib, where he spent the night … 10 Then Ezra 36 stood up and said to them, “You have trespassed and married foreign women, and so increased the guilt of Israel.”

‫ קוּם ִכּי־ ָ לֶ י? ַה ָדּ ָבר וַ ֲאנַ ְחנוּ ִ ָמּך ֲחזַ ק וַ ֲ ֵשׂה‬4 ‫ת־שׂ ֵר י ַהכּ ֲֹהנִ ים ַהלְ וִ יִּ ם‬ ָ ‫ וַ יָּ ָקם ֶ זְ ָרא וַ יַּ ְשׁ ַבּע ֶא‬5 ‫וְ ָכל־ ִי ְשׂ ָר ֵאל לַ ֲ שׂוֹת ַכּ ָדּ ָבר ַהזֶּ ה וַ יִּ ָשּׁ ֵבעוּ‬ ‫הים‬: ִ ‫ וַ יָּ ָקם ֶ זְ ָרא ִמלִּ ְפנֵ י ֵבּית ָה ֱא‬6 … ‫ן־אלְ ָי ִשׁיב וַ יֵּ לֶ ָשׁם‬ ֶ ‫הוֹחנָ ן ֶבּ‬ ָ ְ‫וַ יֵּ לֶ ֶאל־לִ ְשׁ ַכּת י‬ ‫ֹאמר ֲאלֵ ֶהם ַא ֶתּם ְמ ַ לְ ֶתּם‬ ֶ ‫)הכּ ֵֹהן( וַ יּ‬ ַ ‫ וַ יָּ ָקם ֶ זְ ָרא‬10 ‫ל־א ְשׁ ַמת ִי ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬ ַ ַ ‫הוֹסיף‬ ִ ְ‫וַ תּ ִֹשׁיבוּ נָ ִשׁים נָ ְכ ִריּוֹת ל‬

It is very unlikely that the standing up (‫ )וַ יָּ ָקם‬of Ezra three times is original. There are also other reasons to assume that verses 6–9 were first added between v. 4 and 10,37 followed later by the addition of v. 5.38 Especially the addition of v. 5 made the priests and Levites the clear leaders of the community and intermediaries between Ezra and the people,39 whereas the older text assumed a more direct relationship between Ezra and the people. From the perspective of centers and peripheries, the later editors changed the peripheral position of the priests in the older text and made them the center.

F. Who Formed (the Center of) the Jewish Community? In addition to the tensions concerning priests, there is another area of tension, and it concerns the following question: who should belong to the community in the first place? Especially in Ezra 1–6, the returnees are regarded as the unquestioned center of the community, while the others are not inherently part of the community at all. The problem concerns the people in the land. In some passages they are regarded as peripheral – in a way, second class Jews –

36 The MT and the LXX adds here “the priest,” but First Esdras is probably original in lacking the title. This is one of the many examples where the priestly involvement was increased by later additions, and here we also have documented evidence for it. 37 Because of the emphasis on the returning exiles (note ‫ ְבּנֵ י ַהגּוֹלָ ה‬in v. 7), it is probable that these verses were added by a Golah oriented editor. 38 For a detailed discussion and arguments in favor of this hypothesis, see Pakkala, Ezra the Scribe, 96–98. 39 Albeit not so clearly, verses 6–9 have also a priestly twist, as Jehohanan son of Eliashib probably is an intentional link with the high priest Eliashib, who is mentioned in Neh 3:1, 20–21; 12:10.

Centers and Peripheries in the Ezra Story

311

but in other passages they are clearly outsides. The book of Ezra seems to bear witness to a debate of where one should draw the line between the peripheries of the community and those fully outside of it. In other words, who is a peripheral Jew, but still a Jew, and who is not a Jew at all? Much of Ezra 1–6 seeks to exclude all people of the land from the Jewish community and identify the Golah as the only Jewish community. This position is implied in the conflict between the returnees and others who also want to participate in the building of the Temple, apparently also followers of Yahweh.40 However, some later editors were not satisfied with such a strict attitude towards the non-exilic followers of Yahweh, and thus there have been some attempts to include other people to the community as well. An addition in Ezra 6:21aβb is a case in point. Ezra 6:19

On the fourteenth day of the first month the returned exiles kept the Passover. For (the priests and) the Levites had purified themselves; all of them were clean. So they killed the Passover lamb for all the returned exiles, for their fellow priests, and for themselves. 21 It was eaten by the people of Israel who had returned from exile, and also by all who had joined them and separated themselves from the pollutions of the nations of the land to worship the LORD, the God of Israel. 22 With joy they celebrated the festival of unleavened bread seven days; for the LORD had made them joyful, and had turned the heart of the king of Assyria to them, so that he aided them in the work on the house of God, the God of Israel. 20

‫הוֹר ים‬ ִ ‫ ִכּי ִה ַטּ ֲהרוּ ַהכּ ֲֹהנִ ים וְ ַהלְ וִ יִּ ם ְכּ ֶא ָחד ֻכּלָּ ם ְט‬20 ‫יהם ַהכּ ֲֹהנִ ים וְ לָ ֶהם‬ ֶ ‫ל־בּנֵ י ַהגּוֹלָ ה וְ לַ ֲא ֵח‬ ְ ‫וַ יִּ ְשׁ ֲחטוּ ַה ֶפּ ַסח לְ ָכ‬ ‫ֹאכלוּ ְבנֵ י־ ִי ְשׂ ָר ֵאל ַה ָשּׁ ִבים ֵמ ַהגּוֹלָ ה‬ ְ ‫ וַ יּ‬21 ָ ‫וְ כ ֹל ַהנִּ ְב ָדּל ִמ ֻטּ ְמ ַאת גּוֹ ֵי‬ ‫־ה ָא ֶרץ ֲאלֵ ֶהם‬ ‫הי ִי ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬: ֵ ‫לִ ְדר ֹשׁ לַ יהוָ ה ֱא‬ ‫ג־מצּוֹת ִשׁ ְב ַ ת ָי ִמים ְבּ ִשׂ ְמ ָחה‬ ַ ‫ וַ יַּ ֲ שׂוּ ַח‬22 ‫יהם‬ ֶ ‫יהם לְ ַחזֵּ ק ְי ֵד‬ ֶ ֵ‫־אשּׁוּר ֲ ל‬ ַ ֶ‫ִכּי ִשׂ ְמּ ָחם ְיהוָ ה וְ ֵה ֵסב לֵ ב ֶמל‬

That we are dealing with an addition is seen in the way the older text only refers to the exiles as forming the community of Jews, whereas in Ezra 6:21aβb the door is opened to others who have separated themselves from the 40 The text refers to the people, who want to participate in the building process, as enemies (Ezra 4:1: ‫וּבנְ ָי ִמן‬ ִ ‫הוּדה‬ ָ ‫ ) ָצ ֵר י ְי‬and as people of the land (4:4: ‫ם־ה ָא ֶרץ‬ ָ ַ ). The text avoids referring to them as Jews, but Ezra 4:2 implies that they, like the returning exiles, also follow Yahweh (note especially: ‫יכם‬ ֶ ‫ה‬:‫א‬ ֵ ֵ‫)נִ ְבנֶ ה ִ ָמּ ֶכם ִכּי ָכ ֶכם נִ ְדרוֹשׁ ל‬. Clearly, the text tries to connect these people with the mixed population brought to the land by the Assyrians (Ezra 4:2: “Let us build with you, for we worship your God as you do, and we have been sacrificing to him ever since the days of King Esarhaddon of Assyria who brought us here.”). There is an evident connection, perhaps a literary one, to 2 Kgs 17:24–40. If the text contains any kernel of history, at the background may be a conflict between the Samaritan and the Judean communities during the Second Temple Period, as implied by the explicit reference to the enemies of Yehud/Judah and Benjamin (‫וּבנְ ָי ִמן‬ ִ ‫הוּדה‬ ָ ‫) ָצ ֵרי ְי‬.

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pollutions of the people of the land (‫־ה ָא ֶרץ‬ ָ ֵ‫) ֻט ְמ ַאת גּוֹי‬. For example, according to v. 20, the Passover sacrifice was only prepared for the sons of the Golah (‫) ְבּנֵ י ַהגּוֹלָ ה‬. It would also make little sense to emphasize the Golah again in v. 21 (‫ ) ַה ָשּׁ ִבים ֵמ ַהגּוֹלָ ה‬if in fact all who have separated themselves from the people’s pollution could also join the Passover feast and the community. It appears that in Ezra 1–6 the Golah was assumed to form the Israelite community and the people of the land were clearly outside of it, although their willingness to participate in the building of Yahweh’s Temple seems to imply that they were, in fact, followers of Yahweh. At any rate, the Golah is the unquestioned center and the Jews of the land are peripheral, if they were Jews at all. It is only in some later additions that this setting was slightly relativized.41 In evident contrast with Ezra 1–6, in the Ezra story the Jewish community of the land are regarded as the core community. This is the case even if they had been living without the Law and breaking it. Without a community in the land, the whole idea of the story, the introduction of the Law from Babylonia to the Israelites living in the country without the Law, would not work. Nevertheless, some later authors were not satisfied with the original idea and they tried to change the picture also in the Ezra story. There are several additions that try to give the impression that it was the Golah that formed the center of the community, but in many cases these additions only disturb the story. An example from Ezra 9 illustrates the development.42 Ezra 9:3

When I heard this, I tore my garment and my mantle, and pulled hair from my head and beard, and sat appalled. 4 Then all who trembled at the words of the God of Israel, because of the faithlessness of the returned exiles, gathered around me while I sat appalled until the evening sacrifice. 5 At the evening sacrifice I got up from my fasting, with my garments and my mantle torn, and fell on my knees, spread out my hands to the Lord my God.

‫וּמ ִ ילִ י‬ ְ ‫ת־בּגְ ִדי‬ ִ ‫ת־ה ָדּ ָבר ַהזֶּ ה ָק ַר ְ ִתּי ֶא‬ ַ ‫וּכ ָשׁ ְמ ִ י ֶא‬ ְ 3 ‫שׁוֹמם‬ ֵ ‫ֹאשׁי וּזְ ָקנִ י וָ ֵא ְשׁ ָבה ְמ‬ ִ ‫וָ ֶא ְמ ְר ָטה ִמ ְשּׂ ַ ר ר‬ ‫הי־ ִי ְשׂ ָר ֵאל ַ ל ַמ ַ ל ַהגּוֹלָ ה‬: ֵ ‫ וְ ֵאלַ י ֵי ָא ְספוּ כּ ֹל ָח ֵרד ְבּ ִד ְב ֵרי ֱא‬4 ‫שׁוֹמם ַ ד לְ ִמנְ ַחת ָה ָ ֶרב‬ ֵ ‫וַ ֲאנִ י י ֵֹשׁב ְמ‬ ‫וּמ ִ ילִ י‬ ְ ‫וּב ָק ְר ִ י ִבגְ ִדי‬ ְ ‫יתי‬ ִ ִ‫וּב ִמנְ ַחת ָה ֶ ֶרב ַק ְמ ִתּי ִמ ַתּ ֲ נ‬ ְ 5 ‫הי‬: ָ ‫ל־בּ ְר ַכּי וָ ֶא ְפ ְר ָשׂה ַכ ַפּי ֶאל־יְ הוָ ה ֱא‬ ִ ַ ‫וָ ֶא ְכ ְר ָ ה‬

41 The tensions between v. 21 and the surrounding text has been generally acknowledged in research. See discussion, for example, in Antonius Gunneweg, Esra (KAT; Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn, 1987), 116. 42 The addition in Ezra 10:6–9, discussed above, is another example of an addition where the returnees are seen as forming the community.

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313

That we are dealing with an addition is seen in the way v. 4 repeats words from the surrounding text: ‫שׁוֹמם‬ ֵ ‫… וָ ֵא ְשׁ ָבה ְמ‬ ‫שׁוֹמם ַ ד לְ ִמנְ ַחת ָה ָ ֶר‬ ֵ ‫… וַ ֲאנִ י י ֵֹשׁב ְמ‬ … ‫וּב ִמנְ ַחת ָה ֶ ֶרב‬ ְ

v. 3 v. 4 v. 5

One should also note that the following text implies Ezra to be alone, while according to v. 4 the fearers of God’s words (‫הי־יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬: ֵ ‫)כּ ֹל ָח ֵרד ְבּ ִד ְב ֵרי ֱא‬ have joined him. With the addition, the text brings the exiles to the center of the community, thus marginalizing, perhaps even excluding, all others. The text shows several examples of a debate, probably within the Jewish community in the Persian period, concerning who forms the center of the community and who is allowed to join it in the first place.

G. Concluding Remarks In addition to the evident differences concerning centers and peripheries between the different parts of the composition, a diachronic approach reveals that the centers and peripheries did not remain constant even within the same story. In many cases, later editors have changed the center, often intentionally. For example, the priests and Levites were made the center of the community in some later additions (thus e.g., Ezra 7:7; 10:5; Neh 8:11), while they had been peripheral, at best, in the earlier stages of the text’s history. We may also detect a shift of centers within stories in Ezra-Nehemiah. It seems to have been a major plot in all three stories of the composition to describe the development of Jerusalem to a center. At the beginning of each story, Jerusalem is implied to be or described to be peripheral at the beginning of the story, with each story ending with the centrality of the city being established. For example, in the Ezra story, Ezra’s activity essentially contributes to this development. It is another question, however, concerning what the authors wanted to say by conveying a change in the position of Jerusalem. Rather than a purely historical interest to describe a situation in the past where Jerusalem had been peripheral, it is more probable that during the time of writing Jerusalem was peripheral, at least in the eyes of the authors, and that they wanted to change it. The message to the readers may have been that Jerusalem should be central and that it is the center of Jewish nation, religion and state. We know that after 586 B.C.E. Jerusalem never became the sole center of Judaism. In matters concerning Jewish religion, it was challenged and even overshadowed by Mesopotamia and Egypt for much of the Persian, Hellenistic and Roman periods. The Ezra story contains various centers and peripheries that do not contradict each other. Rather, they form a complicated web of center-periphery

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relationships in which the story essentially unfolds. The center-periphery axes disclose some of the central motifs of the authors. This is especially evident in the case of the priestly additions that make priests more central. It is probable that the priestly circles who transmitted the story found it to contradict their own conceptions of who should form the center of the community. They changed the story accordingly so that it would better correspond with their own social context.

The King on the Throne of God The Concept of World Dominion in Chronicles and Psalm 21 Friedhelm Hartenstein A. Point of Departure: The Particularity of Psalm 2:6 In Ps 2:6, a divine sentence is announced to the rebellious kings and nations of the world. Apparently, the authors considered this sentence suitable enough to break the resistance against “YHWH and his Anointed” (v. 2), maybe even to change it into a renewed loyalty towards the one “who is enthroned in heaven” (v. 4). The wrathful YHWH will speak: “I have appointed my king on Zion, my holy mountain” (v. 6). The usual assumption within traditio-historical studies is that this verse reflects an ancient viewpoint that goes back to the times of the Kingdom of Judah and which is integral to the so-called Jerusalem royal ideology. A second glance, and due consideration to the evidence provided by the precise terminology and grammatical structures shows, however, that we are dealing with a text that is singular in many respects.2 The expression “my king” (‫ )מלכי‬with the suffix of the divine first person for the worldly ruler can be found only here in the entire OT. Moreover, this is the only verse that talks about a direct installation of the king by God on Mount Zion. (This is not the place to enter the debate concerning the verb form ‫נסכתי‬, literally “to pour out.” I assume here, with many others, that the translation “to appoint/install somebody” is accurate; see e.g., NRSV, NAB, NJPSV). Whatever position one takes on the current debates about Zion theology within the Zion tradition, so much is absolutely clear: Zion is always YHWH’s residence in the relevant texts of Psalms and Prophecy. The concept of the city of God and the mountain of God with its cosmic dimension are associated with Zion as YHWH’s residence. Both of them are aspects of the 1 The footnotes offer, in addition to the direct references, only a highly selective bibliography. 2 Cf. Friedhelm Hartenstein and Bernd Janowski, Psalmen (BKAT 15/1–2; NeukirchenVluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2012, 2015), 55–128 (Friedhelm Hartenstein: commentary on Ps 2).

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residence of the Jerusalem YHWH, who displays here features of both ancient Syrian weather gods and Levantine city gods. The rare connection established between Zion and the human king that occurs in Ps 2:6 is attested elsewhere in Psalms only in two other royal psalms: Ps 110:2 and Ps 132:13, 17. From a psalm-theological perspective, the kings (and their kingship) are in both cases integrated in and subordinated to the kingship of God. There is an increasing “theocratic” overall perspective from Ps 90 on, in the 4th and 5th book of Psalms3 and concerning Pss 110 and 132 in particular one may notice: a) In Ps 110:2 it is YHWH who will wield the king’s “sceptre of power from Zion,” whereby it is assumed – which is again singular – that the king sits on the right of the king god like in the Egyptian New Kingdom. (This Psalm raises issues as difficult as those raised by Ps 2, but these are not relevant to the matters discussed here.4) b) Ps 132 has in mind an idealised David, for whom the centre of his endeavours is the sanctuary. The choice of Zion by YHWH as “his dwelling” (v. 13) is here connected to the promise of an empowerment of the king/his dynasty “there” (‫ שם‬v. 17, “there” i.e., Zion; see “I will make a horn grow for David and set up a lamp for my anointed one”). These three passages bear the burden of the question of whether there is an old connection between the Jerusalem king and YHWH, who is enthroned on Mount Zion. The context within the Psalms and many details of their complex theologies rather point in the direction of a later formulation and a post-exilic theologumenon (I assume, however, that the royal psalms contain older cores from pre-exilic times, e.g. Ps 2:7–9; maybe also in Ps 110 but not in Ps 1325). There is another aspect that comes out of the striking shortness and density in Ps 2:6. Since YHWH himself has appointed the king beside Him, he partakes directly in God’s rule over the world. This is made clear by the cosmological and eschatological aspects of the expression “my holy mountain.” Traditionally, this mountain is associated with images of extreme elevation and the centrality (cf. Ps 93) as well as – against the backdrop of numerous late evidence from prophetic books6 – those of the place where the relation3 Cf. Martin Leuenberger, Konzeptionen des Königtums Gottes im Psalter: Untersuchungen zu Komposition und Redaktion der theokratischen Bücher IV–V im Psalter (AThANT 83; Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2004). 4 Cf. Miriam von Nordheim, Geboren von der Morgenröte? Psalm 110 in Tradition, Redaktion und Rezeption (WMANT 117; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2008); Frank-Lothar Hossfeld and Erich Zenger, Psalmen 101–150 (HThK.AT; Freiburg, Basel, Wien: Herder, 2008), 195–216 (Erich Zenger: commentary on Ps 110). 5 Cf. Hartenstein and Janowski, Psalmen, 69–74. 6 Nearly all the occurrences of the expression “holy mountain” with the suffix of the 1st divine person are connected with eschatological events where the nations are involved (judgment and purification, integration into the community of an eschatological Israel).

The King on the Throne of God

317

ship between YHWH, Israel, and the world of nations is determined. Thus it is not surprising that Raymond Jacques Tournay considers the concept of “kingship” expressed in Ps 2:6 to be analogous to that of Chronicles: “The oracle especially directs us to the period of Chronicles. Mount Zion and the rulermessiah belong to YHWH, the celestial ruler: the mountain, the throne, the ruler, the messiah all belong to God.”7

The usual assumption within traditio-historical studies is that this verse reflects an ancient viewpoint that goes back to the times of the Kingdom of Judah and which is integral to the so-called Jerusalem royal ideology. A second glance, and due consideration to the evidence provided by the precise terminology and grammatical structures shows, however, that we are dealing with a text that is singular in many respects.8

B. On the Concept of World Empire in Chronicles in the Light of the Persian Political Thought and its Representations I will begin with a few introductory remarks about Chronicles. As recent studies show, Chronicles is interesting first and foremost on its own, not as an epigonic aspect of a historically worthless narrative. The way in which the authors of this book re-crafted the history of Israel shows that they were engaged in an intensive theological quest that involved their own concept of self. This is clear not only from the manner in which they went beyond the adapted source material, whether from the Torah or the so-called Deuteronomistic History, but also by their reception and compilation of psalms and parts of psalms – a phenomenon of deliberate selection and theological intention.

They are limited to the late literary strata of prophetic books: Isa 11:9; 65:11.25; 66:20 (see further Isa 56:7; 57:13); Ezek 20:40; Joel 2:1; 4:17; Obad 16; Zeph 3:11 (here with ‫אז‬ “then” as in Ps 2:5). The same is true for the cases without a suffix (Isa 27:13; Jer 31:23; Zech 8:3; Dan 9:20, with the possible exception of Ezek 28:14). All these texts show expectations of future restitution and salvation. The occurrences with suffixes of the 2nd and 3rd divine person (mostly in Psalms) show primarily present expectations of protection and rescue (Ps 3:5; 15:1; 43:3; 48:2; 99:9, and Dan 9:16). 7 Raymond Jacques Tournay, Seeing, and Hearing God with the Psalms: The Prophetic Liturgy of the Second Temple in Jerusalem (JSOTSup 118; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991), 218. 8 Cf. Hartenstein and Janowski, Psalmen, 55–128 (Friedhelm Hartenstein: commentary on Ps 2).

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Friedhelm Hartenstein

Thomas Willi, one of the foremost scholars on Chronicles, has worked on the concept of a world empire and the related image of David and the nations on Chronicles. I am following here his lead and building upon his work.9 I am also beginning with some basic assumptions/positions about Chronicles. Inevitably in our discipline, these positions have been open to debate, but I would argue that they represent a reasonable point of departure for my analysis: a) The Book of Chronicles is a separate literary work and not part of a/the Chronistic History that included also Ezra and Nehemiah. This position – established first of all by Sara Japhet, 10 does not preclude that these texts were closely related to each other. Chronologically, Chronicles already presupposes Ezra and Nehemiah and offers a prologue to it, and thus is later than Ezra and Nehemiah. b) Chronicles likely dates to the late Persian period (perhaps the 4th century B.C.E.11) and thus it is reasonable to examine it along with an approximately contemporaneous “messianic Psalter,” which ranged from Ps 2 to Ps 89*.12 Since, at least in my opinion, Ps 2 was composed as an introduction (earlier than Ps 1) and a hermeneutical reading instruction for this “Messianic Psalter,”13 it makes much sense to compare Ps 2 with Chronicles. c) Moreover, whether Chronicles is to be dated to the late Persian or, as some argue, only at the (early) Hellenistic period, there is still widespread agreement in recent research that the Achaemenid idea of a world empire, if one may use this general term, has strongly influenced Chronicles’ under9 Cf. Thomas Willi, Die Chronik als Auslegung: Untersuchungen zur literarischen Gestaltung der historischen Überlieferung Israels (FRLANT 106; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1972); idem, Chronik. 1. Teilband: 1. Chronik 1,1–10,14 (BKAT 24/1, Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2009); idem, Israel und die Völker: Studien zur Literatur und Geschichte Israels in der Perserzeit (ed. Michael Pietsch; SBAB 55; Stuttgart: Verlag Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2012), 82–100 (“Der Weltreichsgedanke im Frühjudentum: Israel, Menschheit und Weltherrschaft in den biblischen Chronikbüchern” [2001]); 136–152 (“Das davididische Königtum in der Chronik” [2005]); 245–262 (“Die Völkerwelt in den Chronikbüchern” [2009]); 277–297 (“Das Weltkönigtum – seine Residenz und seine Regeln: Ein kritischer Blick auf die Diskussion zur biblischen Literatur der persischen Epoche” [2010]). 10 Cf. Sara Japhet, “The Supposed Common Authorship of Chronicles and EzraNehemia Investigated Anew,” VT 18 (1968): 330–371. 11 For a discussion of the different opinions with regard to the date of Chronicles, cf. Georg Steins, “Die Bücher der Chronik,” in Einleitung in das Alte Testament (ed. Erich Zenger and Christian Frevel; 9th ed.; Studienbücher Theologie 1.1; Stuttgart: Verlag W. Kohlhammer, 2016), 312–330, esp. 325–327. 12 Cf. Christoph Rösel, Die messianische Redaktion des Psalters: Studien zu Entstehung und Theologie der Sammlung Psalm 2–89* (Calwer Theologische Monographien 19; Stuttgart: Calwer Verlag, 1999). 13 For a comprehensive explanation, cf. Hartenstein and Janowski, Psalmen, 55–128.

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standing on matters of kingship. At any rate, contextualizing Chronicles within the world of textual and visual representations of the Achaemenids, some of which widely appeared on coins and seals in the west of the empire, contributes much to a better understanding of this book.14 Following especially Klaus Koch,15 I will summarize briefly the most important aspects of the Persian concept of a world empire in the next section. 1. The Achaemenid Concept of World Empire – An Outline Darius the Great and his successors claim in written inscriptions that their kingship was given to them by Ahura Mazda, a “great god,” who was understood as the creator of heaven and earth. 16 Their kingship appears to be a global kingship since the entire inhabited world of the nations in its diversity is under its control – however, unlike in the former empires of the ancient Near East, Ahura Mazda wanted the original order of the world of nations to be restored and afterwards maintained by the great kings. Each nation has its place in accordance with creation (gathu-), and the ending of the existing confusion of nations aims at a relatively harmonious peace order.17 Of course, this has to do with legitimation and enforcement of power. Thus, the main statement of Darius I’s Bisutun Inscription and the Bisutun relief (about 522/21 B.C.E., fig. 3) concerns the establishment of his own kingship in view of a series of rebellions by various nations and related attempts of insurrection.18 An end must be put to this “deception” (drauga-) so that the true and stable order can be established. Later, the “law” (datu-) of the great king will

14 Cf. John Boardman, Die Perser und der Westen: Eine archäologische Untersuchung zur Entwicklung der Achämenidischen Kunst (Kulturgeschichte der Antiken Welt 96, Mainz: Verlag Philipp von Zabern 2003); cf. further the essays in the section “Seals and Coins” in The World of Achaemenid Persia: History, Art and Society in Iran and the Ancient Near East, ed. John Curtis and St John Simpson (London, New York: I. B. Taurus 2010), 321–394. 15 Klaus Koch, “Weltordnung und Reichsidee im alten Iran und ihre Auswirkungen auf die Provinz Jehud,” in Reichsidee und Reichsorganisation im Perserreich (ed. Peter Frei and Klaus Koch; 2nd ed.; OBO 55; Freiburg, Schweiz: Universitätsverlag, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht 1996), 133–317. 16 Cf. Albert de Jong, “Ahura Mazdā the Creator,” in The World of Achaemenid Persia, 85–89; Heidemarie Koch, Iran in Volkert Haas and Heidemarie Koch, Religionen des Alten Orients: Hethiter und Iran (GAT 1,1; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011),” 17–144, esp. 98–107. 17 Cf. Koch, “Weltordnung und Reichsidee, 308–316 (“Das Weltbild der Perser”). 18 New translations with philological/editorial notes: Amélie Kuhrt, The Persian Empire: A Corpus of Sources from the Achaemenid Empire (London, New York: Routledge, 2007), 141–158; Rüdiger Schmitt, Die altpersischen Inschriften der Achaimeniden: Editio Minor mit deutscher Übersetzung (Wiesbaden: Dr. Ludwig Reichert Verlag, 2009), 36–91.

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also be part of it. Allegiance to the sovereign was essential, also in the Persian Empire. The iconographic condensation of such an allegiance in the Apadana relief in Persepolis (audience scenery of the nations of the empire before the great king who sits enthroned, fig. 2a) or the throne platforms supported by members of the nations (fig. 1) is particularly noteworthy. In both cases, the nations, which are depicted according to a certain system of order that applies to the whole empire, following ancient Near Eastern examples, appear even armed and bring their gifts voluntarily. On the other hand, scenes of a victory over an enemy exist also in the iconography of the Persians (e.g., the king’s combat with monsters; images of defeated, bound enemies [cf. again the Bisutun relief fig. 3, and the seal impression fig. 4]). On the whole, the close relationship of the ruler of the world with the universal Creator God is ever-present in the official royal inscriptions. It is also widely attested in iconography. On the monuments mentioned above (and often recurring on seals and coins), the relation between the king and a winged sun with an inner male torso with regalia (like diadem and ring / measuring cord) is very often depicted (fig. 1, 2b, 3). Following Shabazi and due to the close resemblance between the king and “the man in the winged sun,” some scholars have argued that the latter is not the god (i.e., Ahura Mazda) but the “shining fortune” (chvarna) of the king, which is documented in inscriptions. Debate on these matters continues, but in either case, the image communicates a close connection between Ahura Mazda and the king.19 There are additional indications that the close unity of action between the great king and Ahura Mazda, which is constantly emphasised in inscriptional material, was reproduced iconographically in the relation king-man in the winged sun. The uranian (and solar) connotations of the winged sun associate Ahura Mazda to a heavenly aspect which otherwise can be deduced only indirectly. This aspect seems to be obvious because of the universality of his initial and current acts of creation (“who has created this earth, who has created that heaven, who has created man”20). This universality is also associated with the king.

19 Cf. for the state of the debate Kuhrt, The Persian Empire, 556 (Fig. 11.45); H. Koch, Iran, 105–107; cf. further the important monograph by Margaret Cool Root, The King and Kingship in Achaemenid Art: Essays on the Creation of Empire (Acta Iranica 19; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1979), 169–176. 20 Schmitt, Die altpersischen Inschriften der Achaimeniden, 123 (Darius DSe, § 1, A–C; transl. FH).

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2. The Concept of the World Kingdom in Chronicles in its Temporal and Territorial Particularity These main features of the Achaemenid concept of the world kingdom are comparable to the corresponding concept in Chronicles and Ps 2. I would argue that the authors of Chronicles and Ps 2 might have adapted the Achaemenid concept for their established local Judean traditions. I will follow two main lines of argumentation to support this claim. a) Chronology / Prototypic Order Since the Sumerian king list, the ancient Near East conceptualized kingship as a time-transcending gift which progresses with changing political conditions. 21 The Achaemenids understood the translatio imperii as a historical fact. The translatio imperii formed the backbone of the overall historical view of Chronicles as well – as Reinhard Gregor Kratz has shown, the same holds true for other early Jewish texts like the Aramaic Daniel narratives Daniel 1–6.22 At first, Saul holds the “kingship” (‫המלוכה‬, 1 Chr 10:14), but YHWH immediately “transfers” it to David because of Saul’s disloyalty. The shift of kingship from David to Solomon occupies the major part of the narrative in Chronicles (1 Chr 10 to 2 Chr 9) and becomes the climax of the history of Israel. This is so because the story deals with the first construction of YHWH’s residence in the world and thereby with the visible appearance of the kingship of this God, which he exercises through his “mandataries” in Israel and (implicitly) the whole world. Solomon in particular is characterized as the person who built the temple and as the king of peace (see the interpretation of his name in 1 Chr 22:9, namely “man of peace and rest”). In a precise variation of the Nathan prophecy in 2 Sam 7:16,23 YHWH announces in 1 Chr 17:14, “I will appoint/establish him (= Solomon) in my house” (‫ עמד‬hiph.) and “in my kingdom” (‫)במלכותי‬. Thus the kingship of Solomon comes from YHWH and is at God’s disposal. The presumably original end of Chronicles in 2 Chr 36:20 opens up a new perspective for the future: “He (i.e., Nebuchadnezzar) took into exile in Babylon those who had 21 Cf. e.g. Claus Wilcke, “Die sumerische Königsliste und erzählte Vergangenheit,” in Vergangenheit in mündlicher Überlieferung, (ed. Jürgen von Ungern-Sternberg and Hansjörg Reinau; Colloquium Rauricum 1; Stuttgart: B. G. Teubner 1988), 113–140. 22 Reinhard Gregor Kratz, Translatio imperii. Untersuchungen zu den aramäischen Danielerzählungen und ihrem theologiegeschichtlichen Umfeld (WMANT 63; NeukirchenVluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1991). 23 For the reconstruction, redaction and reception history of the Nathan oracle cf. the comprehensive monograph by Michael Pietsch, “Dieser ist der Sproß Davids…”: Studien zur Rezeptionsgeschichte der Nathanverheißung im alttestamentlichen, zwischentestamentlichen und neutestamentlichen Schrifttum (WMANT 100; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2003).

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escaped from the sword, and they became servants to him and to his sons until the establishment of the kingdom of Persia.” After Solomon, the “kingdom of YHWH” remained “in the hands of David’s sons” (2 Chr 13:8) for many centuries, but was eventually taken over by Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon (cf. Jer 27:6). The shift meant servitude for the exiles. However, in the course of a comprehensive historical thinking formed by the prophetic canon, and according to 2 Chr 36:20, this is going to last only “until the reign of the kingdom of Persia.” By means of a transfer of power from the Babylonian to the Persian kingdom, the world kingdom of YHWH regains its salvific form for “the whole of Israel” (!) (cf. Deutero-Isaiah and Jeremiah and the 70 years to which 2 Chr 36:20 explicitly refers24). Solomon, who has completed the “house of YHWH” appears in this wide narrative arc as the prefiguration of the second character who orders the building of the temple, Cyrus, who is saying about himself in the so-called Edict of Cyrus in Ezra 1:2 (= 2 Chr 36:23): “So said Cyrus, the king of Persia; all the kingdoms of the earth gave to me YHWH, God of heaven, and he commanded me to build him a house in Jerusalem, which is in Judea.” According to Thomas Willi, this prototypic function of David’s dynasty is to be described as follows: “Precisely because the Chronicler imagines the Achaemenid kings to be the holders of ‫מלכות יהוה‬, God’s very own rule granted by him, David and his dynasty in his view are their predecessors. The Persian kings, therefore, too, are recognized as the legal earthly rulers over Israel. ‫( מלכות יהוה‬1 Chr 28:5) has manifested itself first and prototypically in the kingdom of David and his descendants.”25

This observation leads directly to my second line of argumentation that addresses the spatial structuring of the hidden world kingdom of Israel (cf. fig. 5), and which, in turn, leads to considerations of centre and periphery, the main theme of this volume as a whole. b) Spatial structure / implicit world view To describe the implicit spatial structure outwards from the centre, the following threefold assertion, which only occurs in relation to Solomon in Chronicles, is particularly worth noting: he “sits upon the throne of the kingdom of YHWH” (1 Chr 28:5; David’s last orders); “on the throne of YHWH” (1 Chr 29:23; report on Solomon’s succession and his anointment) and “on

24 For the motif of the 70 years in Biblical and Assyrian Sources cf. Matthias Albani, “Die 70-Jahr-Dauer des babylonischen Exils (Jer 25,11f; 29,10) und die Babylon-Inschrift Asarhaddons,” Mitteilungen und Beiträge der Forschungsstelle Judentum an der Theologischen Fakultät Leipzig 17 (1999): 4–20; Georg Fischer, “Symbolik der 70 Jahre” in idem, Jeremia 1–25 (HThK.AT; Freiburg, Basel, Wien, 2005), 741–742. 25 Willi, “Das davididische Königtum in der Chronik,” 145–146 (transl. FH).

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his (i.e. YHWH’s) throne appointed by him (i.e., YHWH)” (2 Chr 9:8, placed in the mouth of the Queen of Sheba). Studies on Chronicles have intensively considered these “strange” assertions. In fact, nothing of the sort appears anywhere else in the OT and they had already been modified in the LXX and by the rabbis. Sarah Japhet has argued that these assertions should not be understood literally, in their “plain sense,” but in light of the context within which these assertions are made and within which they function as major statements. 26 About 1 Chr 29:23, she states the following: “Yet the continuation of 1 Chr 29:23 clarifies what is meant by Solomon’s sitting on ‘the throne of the Lord’: he sat ‘instead of David his father.’ The very fact that Solomon succeeds David places him on YHWH’s throne; in another passage we read that Solomon sits on the throne ‘as king for the Lord your God’ (2 Chr 9:8: see also 1 Chr 29:22). ‘The throne of the Lord’ constitutes an abstract expression referring to YHWH’s dominion over Israel, which is put into concrete political practice by means of David and Solomon.”27

This restriction is important, as well as Japhet’s consideration of the metaphorical character of the expression, 28 which I think is more probable. In other words, “to sit on the throne of YHWH” is the virtual iconic condensation of what it means to be appointed “in my [YHWH’s] house” and “in my [YHWH’s] kingdom” (as per the main passage from the Nathan oracle in 1 Chr 17:14). The expression aims at the “metaphysical character of this world kingdom.”29 My suggestion is to read it in light of the concrete imagery that appears in many OT texts and as part of an implicit system of spatial references and symbols, as it has been the case in Jerusalem temple theology for a long time (cf. esp. in the psalms, e.g. Pss 46, 48, 9330) and as it is the case with symbols of power of Achaemenid kings. In fig. 5, I advance schematically a reconstruction of the (implied) spatial structure of Chronicles. Solomon is sitting on the “throne of YHWH” and he is appointed “in his house,” i.e., he is achieving “right and justice” from the centre of the residence of YHWH, as the Queen of Sheba explicitly characterises his rule (2 Chr 9:8). She recognises this entire pattern as an external observer, considering that everything happens “for the love of your god for Israel.” This said, as Thomas Willi has demonstrated, the expression of ‫ברכה‬ Sara Japhet, The Ideology of the Book of Chronicles and Its Place in Biblical Thought (Winona Lake, Indiana: Eisenbrauns, 2009 [1977/1989]), 311–312. 27 Japhet, The Ideology of the Book of Chronicles, 311–312. 28 Cf. Japhet, The Ideology of the Book of Chronicles, 312. 29 Willi, “Das davididische Königtum,” 146 (transl. FH). 30 Cf. for this implicit spatial system e.g. Martin Ravndal Hauge, Between Sheol and Temple: Motif Structure and Function in the I-Psalms (JSOTSup 178; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995); Friedhelm Hartenstein, “Iconicity of the Psalms” (forthcoming in HeBAI, 2016). 26

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for “YHWH, your god,” which the queen from this remote part of the world uses to express her appreciation, includes the whole world of the nations under YHWH’s kingship. It is not without good reason that she brings voluntarily copious gifts with her (from v. 9 onward) to the centre.31 Here (as is the case with the report about Huram of Tyre) one finds implicitly the Achaemenid concept of a world kingdom, as it becomes clear, inter alia, from the reference to the tribute of the nations and their loyalty. Solomon’s divine throne is the destination to which people flow not only beyond the borders of “Israel,” but also from far-reaching corners of the world because it is YHWH’s throne. Solomon is also the exemplary ruler of peace. The conceptual pattern is directly comparable to that of a world which is steadied because it is put in order according to creation in the “kingdom of Persia” (see 2.1). It is worth noting that the opposite situation, namely that being characterised by disloyalty and rebellion from the near nations and from those from afar is also an extensive thematic concern of Chronicles. In war reports with no parallels in Kings, such as 2 Chr 13:3–20; 14:8–14, and 20:1–30 (cf. also 2 Chr 26:4–8; 27:5f), the Book of Chronicles does not follow earlier patterns of a description of a (holy) “war of YHWH,” but it depicts three paradigmatic threats to the “kingdom” of YHWH and its ruler: In spatial terms, there are concentric circles from the near and from the far; each time a “big crowd/horde” (‫המון רב‬, 2 Chr 13:8; 14:10; 20:2.12.15.24, cf. 32:7) comes towards and against the king (and implicitly towards and against YHWH): 1. The first threat, reported in 2 Chr 13, comes from within the territory of Israel and its near surroundings: the northerner Jeroboam falls away by ignoring the cult of Jerusalem (polemics against Gerizim?), while the southerner Abijah tries to re-establish order by military means, and is soon confronted with the superior power of his adversaries. 2. The next event, reported in 2 Chr 14, concerns a threat against king Asa from the far away country of Ethiopia (Kush, Egypt). The Chronicler depicts the latter’s army in unrealistically large numbers: a million men and 300 chariots. This army comes from the far South, in the (very) general cardinal direction from where the queen of Sheba once visited Solomon. Obviously the inhabitants of the periphery may be depicted as loyal but also as rebellious. 3. The third paradigmatic event, reported in 2 Chr 20, concerns a threat whose origin, in terms of a general construction of space, stands in the middle between the other two. It involves a coalition, unlike the other two. The allies were the eastern neighbours of Israel, Ammon and Moab, nations which were once spared by order of YHWH during the conquest, but now disregard the do ut des and try to expel Israel “from your (that is YHWH’s) property” (‫ גרשׁ‬2 Chr 2:10–11).

31

Willi, “Die Völkerwelt in den Chronikbüchern,“ 437–453, 449.

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These three reported events share several topoi and their narrative structures are comparable (cf. the monograph by Andreas Ruffing32). For the present purposes, two observations are particularly relevant: a) First, the extensive prayers to YHWH.33 They contribute an element of self-reflection upon the course of events by the threatened Davidic kings. These kings realize that they are unable to defend themselves, and thus they call upon YHWH. The prayer of Jehoshaphat in 2 Chr 20:6–12 emphasises that “nobody is able to stand against” (‫ יצב‬Hitp.) the “God in heaven” (v. 6), who rules “over all the kingdoms of the nations” (cf. 2 Chr 14:10: “No man [‫ ]אנושׁ‬prevails against you”). These Davidic kings praise the unshakeable divine world dominion with the hope of seeing it realized once again, for example through “the fear of god” (‫“ )פחד אלהים‬coming on all the kingdoms of the countries” 2 Chr 20:29.34 b) Second, all these war reports, and especially the one in 2 Chr 20, show an underlying spatial symbolism. They focus on the temple, the palace of world dominion, which at the same time is the sanctuary and the (only proper) cultic place. Battlefields and temple seem to be connected closely, they become mutually transparent to each other. What was invoked in the prayer in the temple happens “outside” at once (2 Chr 20:16f. and 20ff). Thereby the “battlefield,” where no real fights take place, transforms itself into a place of worship: Singers proleptically thank YHWH and simultaneously the enemies get confused (2 Chr 20:21f). The whole scenery is static: Israel “stands,” either “before YHWH” in the temple (‫עמד‬, 2 Chr 20:13) or in the field (‫ יצב‬Hitp., ‫)עמד‬, only to “see” (‫ )ראה‬what God is doing. Finally, it is God’s “heavenly dwelling” what establishes the bond between the sanctuary and the world dominion. (God’s “heavenly dwelling” is not often mentioned in the passages in Chronicles without a parallel in Kings, but in their sources [cf. 2 Chr 6, depending on 1 Kings 8]). YHWH hears his people from his superior position in heaven and is able to react all over the earth. It is no coincidence that this is very clearly expressed when facing the challenge created by the enemy forces of Ammon and Moab (2 Chr 20:5–6): “5 And Jehoshaphat stood (‫ )עמד‬in the assembly of Judah and Jerusalem, in the house of YHWH, before the new court, 6 and said, ‘O YHWH, God of our fathers, are you not God in heaven (‫ ?)אלהים בשׁמים‬And you rule over all the kingdoms of the nations ( ‫מושׁל בכל‬

Andreas Ruffing, Jahwekrieg als Weltmetapher. Studien zu Jahwekriegstexten des chronistischen Sondergutes (SBB 24; Stuttgart: Verlag Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1992). 33 In addition to Ruffing, cf. Stefan Royar, “Denn der HERR, euer Gott, ist gnädig und barmherzig…” Die Gebete in den Chronikbüchern und ihre Bedeutung für die chronistische Theologie (Beiträge zum Verstehen der Bibel 10; Münster: LIT Verlag, 2005), esp. 153–163 (war prayer of Jehoshaphat in 2 Chron 20:6–12). 34 Cf. for this motif Willi, “Die Völkerwelt in den Chronikbüchern,” 255–257. 32

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‫)ממלכות הגוים‬. In your hand are power and might, so that none is able to stand against you/rise up against you (‫ יצב‬Hitp.) […].’”

C. Psalm 2 and Chronicles: A Synopsis in the Light of 2 Chronicles 20 1. Short Outline on the Structure and Content of Psalm 2 When one reads Ps 2 with an awareness of the aforementioned features of Chronicles, one can easily notice a connection between these two texts. I discussed Ps 2 at length elsewhere;35 but a short outline of the structure and content of Ps 2 suffices for the present purposes. As mentioned above (1.), I think that Ps 2 dates to the post-exilic period and was created to introduce the readers into a “messianic” psalter, encompassing Pss 2–89. The text contains a kind of compendium of all decisive elements of the (former and later) Jerusalem temple theology (e.g., concepts of YHWH’s kingship, of Zion, and kingship). Ps 2 incorporates them into one complex image. Is it possible to provide a more exact date for the composition of Ps 2? The common features with Chronicles provide an additional hint. One would not be mistaken to date Ps 2 into the late Persian or early Hellenistic period (4th century B.C.E.). The place where such texts were written/composed must have been connected to the second temple, especially its archives where I suppose old traditional fragments like Ps 2:7–9 could have been stored. The scribes would have composed their new interpretation of YHWH’s world dominion in Ps 2:1–6 and 10–12 around the older coronation oracle in v. 7–9 – which is not unlike the way in which the Chronicler handled his older sources. Ps 2 can be divided into two main sections (v. 1–6, v. 7–12), consisting each of two strophes (I: v. 1–3, 4–6, II: 7–9, 10–12). The psalm has no explicitly marked speakers, but is characterized by speeches/quotations assigned to the enemies (v. 3), YHWH (v. 6, 7–9), the king (v. 7–9), and, finally, the narrator’s voice, which presumably is identical in v. 1–6 and 10–12a. The Psalm follows a didactic (sapiential and prophetical) sequence. First we hear in section 1 (strophes 1 and 2, v. 1–6) of a rebellion of the nations, which is in vain and should be judged theologically from the perspective of the coming together of YHWH and his king (cf. v. 6). Their bond is firmly established as the reminder of v. 7–9 clearly stresses. So, having realized this, the rulers of the earth are requested to draw the necessary conclusions and join in praise of YHWH and his appointed ruler.

35

Hartenstein and Janowski, Psalmen, 55–128 (Psalm 2).

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In what follows I will look into the implicit worldview (the spatial symbolism) underlying the scenery of Ps 2 – in the light of the preceding study of Chronicles (cf. fig. 5–6). 2. The Implicit Worldview/Concept of World dominion of Psalm 2 in Comparison with that of Chronicles The beginning of Ps 2 (v. 1–3) offers no locations, but the term “kings of the earth” (cf. v. 10: “judges of the earth”) evokes the whole world as the scenery. The text understood as stating that the princes “set themselves against YHWH and his Anointed” is actually ambigous. This is so, because ‫ על‬also means “before” and together with the verb ‫ יצב‬Hitp. as in Ps 2:2, it is often associated with the standing before a king or God to serve or to praise (topos of the throne assembly, cf. Zech 6:5; Job 1:6; 2:1; 1 Kgs 22). The expression occurs in this sense in 2 Chr 11:13, where priests and Levites “in all Israel” and “from all regions” stand before YHWH to serve him. I mentioned above that in the war report in 2 Chr 20, the impossibility to withstand YHWH (again ‫ יצב‬Hitp.) is explained by God’s rule from heaven. As “God in heaven” (‫ אלהים בשׁמים‬2 Chr 20:6), he overlooks all kingdoms of the nations (‫ )כל ממלכות הגוים‬and can act and react in whichever way he wants. The unrest and plotting of the nations in Ps 2:1, which at the outset one has to locate primarily in the periphery, is “in vain” (‫ – )ריק‬the same is true for the “great mass/horde” (‫ )המון רב‬in the chronistic war reports. The uprising of the nations in Ps 2 is sketched as happening “before” YHWH and his Anointed, that is, before their royal seat. This is implied in the vertical cosmic axis “YHWH, enthroned in heaven (v. 4) – Zion, my holy mountain (v. 6) – Jerusalem as seat of the earthly king (v. 7–9).” Horizontally we have the distinction between centre and periphery that is much emphasised in the so-called Zion psalms (46; 4836). But even closer – so it seems to me – is the spatial order of Chronicles, namely “my house” (i.e., the temple) is characterized there as an acropolis or “fortress” (‫ בירה‬1 Chr 29:1, 19). This is the place where the “kingdom of YHWH” is effectuated by the davidic king appointed by God (2 Chr 17:14). This king sits – attested for Solomon as mentioned above – “on the throne of YHWH,” which does signify nothing but the strong closeness between God and king expressed as well in Ps 2. The 36 For the implicit worldview of the Zion Psalms and contemporary texts from the book of Isaiah cf. Friedhelm Hartenstein, “‘Wehe, ein Tosen vieler Völker…’ (Jesaja 17,12): Beobachtungen zur Entstehung der Zionstradition vor dem Hintergrund des judäischassyrischen Kulturkontakts,” in idem, Das Archiv des verborgenen Gottes: Studien zur Unheilsprophetie Jesajas und zur Zionstheologie der Psalmen in assyrischer Zeit (BThSt 74; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2011), 127–174; Michael Lichtenstein, Von der Mitte der Gottesstadt bis ans Ende der Welt: Psalm 46 und die Kosmologie der Zionstradition (WMANT 139; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2014).

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fact that Ps 2 associates the installation of the king with Mount Zion, the residence of YHWH (see above 1.) fits well within this pattern. Chronicles, which avoids the traditional Zion terminology, expresses the same concept when referring to Solomon as “confirmed/set in my [YHWH’s] house // in my [YHWH’s] kingdom” (1 Chr 17:14, cf. 2. b)). Not only the king of Judah (Ps 2:7–9) but also the rulers of the earth (Ps 2:10–12) seem to be situated “before” Zion, the centre of the earth. The scenery evokes a kind of an universal audience before the king and his heavenly counterpart/overlord (cf. again the Achaemenid throne pedestal, fig. 1). Other texts within the OT refer specifically to the nations’ movements from the periphery to the centre (negatively in Isa 28:14–22; Ps 48; cf. Isa 17:12– 14 and positively in Isa 2//Mic 4; Isa 60; 66 et al.). Not so in Ps 2. The nations are in unrest, but remain static (v. 1–2). They stand firm, and in v. 11 they should start to praise (‫ )גיל‬from their place and serve the two kings in proskynesis (see Ezek 20:40; in Ps 99:9, it is “in direction of the holy mountain”). In sum, Ps 2:10–12 (and in this light also Ps 2:1–6) seem to render the world as a temple/palace with cosmic dimensions (like in Ps 96; 104; 138 et al.), which is characteristic also of Chronicles. As mentioned above, the relevant war reports in Chronicles stress the static element in the scenery as well. Verbs of “standing” dominate (cf. 2 Chr 20). The stage of the events shifts between temple and world – one remembers the prayers and the cultic worship on the field of battle with singers who intone psalms of thanks. Even with the concluding macarism in Ps 2:12b, which represents a secondary addition due to the addition of Ps 1, the whole spatial order comes into mind again: The connotations of the place where everyone “who takes refuge in him (YHWH)” finds shelter is the divine throne sphere, which is the symbolic centre not only of the temple but of the whole world (cf. Ps 57; 61 et al.).37

37

Cf. for this conception of shelter and its imagery in light of ANE sources Friedhelm Hartenstein, Das Angesicht JHWHs: Studien zu seinem höfischen und kultischen Bedeutungshintergrund in den Psalmen und in Exodus 32-34 (FAT 55; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 142–209; for Ps 2:12b Hartenstein and Janowski, Psalmen, 119.

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D. Figures

Fig. 1: Relief (Persepolis, southern door of the Hall of One Hundred Columns, AchaemeAchaem nid period, 5th century B.C.E.): Great king and servant (frond-bearer) (frond bearer) above the throne base carried by members of the nations and under a throne canopy with two friezes (lions and bulls) and central winged sun. Above it, the so so-called called “man in the winged sun” (probably a symbol of the god Ahura Mazda). – Source: Friedhelm Hartenstein, Das Angesicht JHWHs. Studien zu seinem höfischen und kultischen Bedeutungshintergrund in den PsalPsa men und in Exodus 32 32– –34 (FAT 55; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 309 (Tf. 15).

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Fig. 2a: So-called called “Treasury “Treasury Relief” (Persepolis, Achaemenid period, probably time of Darius I, beginning of the 5th century B.C.E.): Audience scene (originally in the centre of the eastern staircase of the Apadana). The king is seated seated on a throne, in front of which are two incense stands, below the canopy with the winged sun. Behind (or be be-side) side) the king, the crown prince stands on a dais. The majordomo announces the representatives of the empire’s peoples to the king. Behind the thr throne, one, the lord chamberlain (head of the harem) and the treasurer (weapon-carrier) (weapon carrier) stand, and at each side two bodyguards. – Source: Friedhelm Hartenstein, Das Angesicht JHWHs (cf. Fig. 1), 308 (Tf. 14.1).

Fig. 2b 2b:: Relief, part (Persepolis, southern lintel of the eastern gate of the tripylon; AchaeAcha menid period, 6th to 5th century B.C.E.): Throne canopy with the symbol showing the soso called “man in the winged sun” affixed above it. Under the canopy (not shown): The great king and behind (or beside) him the crown prince on a throne base which is carried by the people. – Source: Friedhelm Hartenstein, Das Angesicht JHWHs (cf. Fig. 1), 308 (Tf. 14.2).

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Fig. 3: Rock Relief (south side of the mountain of Bisutun/Behistun Bisutun/Behistun, at the way from Baghdad to Hama Hamadan/Ekbatana; dan/Ekbatana; Achaemenid period, time of Darius I, after 522/521 B.C.E.): In the relief the content of the inscrip inscriptions tions is summarized in one iconographical concept: the king wears a crown and has his foot on the defeated rebel Gaumata. In one hand he holds a bow, the other is raised towards the “man “man in the winged disc” (presumably (presuma Ahura Mazda). In front of the king is the long row of the defeated and bound “kings of lie”. – Source: Rüdiger Schmitt, The Bisutun Inscriptions of Darius the Great: Old Persian Text (Corpus Inscriptionum Iranicarum. Part I: Inscriptions of Ancient Iran, Vol. I: The Old Persian Inscriptions, Texts I; London: School of Oriental and African Studies, 1991), Plate 5.

Fig. 4: Seal Impression (cylinder (cylinder seal, blue chalcedon, Southern Russia, Achaemenid period, time of Artaxerxes III, 359–338 359 338 B.C.E.,, St Petersburg): The great king spears an enemy and leads a group of bound rebels with a rope – Source: John Boardman, Die Perser und der Westen: Eine archäologische archäologische Untersuchung zur Entwicklung der Achämenidischen Kunst (Kulturgeschichte der Antiken Welt 96, Mainz: Verlag Philipp von Zabern 2003), 190 (Abb. 5.6).

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Friedhelm Hartenstein

Fig. 5: Implicit worldview (spatial structure) of Chronicles. – Source: Friedhelm Harte Hartenstein.

Fig. 6: Implicit worldview (spatial structure) of Psalm 2. – Source: Friedhelm Hartenstein. Hartenstein

Jerusalem and the Nations “Center and Periphery” in the Zion Tradition Beate Ego A. The Zion Tradition – Introductory Remarks Hebrew Bible studies employ the term “Zion tradition” to mark a conceptual complex constructed from a variety of individual texts – especially from Psalms, the Prophets, and Lamentations.1 The core of the idea lies in the conception of God as a royal ruler, residing in his temple palace on Zion, the holy mountain in Jerusalem. Zion is, therefore, the location of divine indwelling. Because God lives on Zion, divine blessing flows into the world. This blessed power is manifested in the provision of water for the city and the land, in nature’s fertility, and in the security of the city’s residence from internal and external enemies.2 As Martin Metzger has shown, this cluster of “God,” “mountain,” and “fertility/water” was widespread in the worldview of 1 This article is a revised version of an earlier essay published in German; cf. Beate Ego, “Vom Völkerchaos zum Völkerkosmos: Zu einem Aspekt der Jerusalemer Kultkonzeption,” in Ich will dir danken unter den Völkern: Studien zur israelitischen und altorientalischen Gebetsliteratur (ed. Alexandra Grund, Annette Krüger, and Florian Lippke; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2013), 123–41. Thanks to Peter Altmann for translating my lecture and to Teresa Gehrs for editing this essay. 2 Cf. Odil Hannes Steck, Friedensvorstellungen im alten Jerusalem: Psalmen, Jesaja, Deuterojesaja (ThSt 111; Zurich: Theologischer Verlag, 1972); Gerhard von Rad, Die Theologie der prophetischen Überlieferung Israels (vol. 2 of Theologie des Alten Testaments; ed. Gerhard von Rad; 6th ed.; München: Kaiser, 1975); for more recent research, refer to Friedhelm Hartenstein, “‘Wehe, ein Tosen vieler Völker’ (Jesaja 17,12): Beobachtungen zur Entstehung der Zionstradition vor dem Hintergrund des judäisch-assyrischen Kulturkontakts,” in Das Archiv des verborgenen Gottes: Studien zur Unheilsprophetie Jesajas und zur Zionstheologie der Psalmen in assyrischer Zeit (ed. Friedhelm Hartenstein; Biblisch-Theologische Studien 74; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2011), 127– 74; Bernd Janowski, “Die heilige Wohnung des Höchsten: Kosmologische Implikationen der Jerusalemer Tempeltheologie,” in Gottesstadt und Gottesgarten: Zu Geschichte und Theologie des Jerusalemer Tempels (ed. Othmar Keel and Erich Zenger; QD 191; Freiburg: Herder, 2002), 24–68; repr. in Der Gott des Lebens (vol. 3 of Beiträge zur Theologie des Alten Testaments; ed. Bernd Janowski; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2003), 27–71.

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the ancient Near East. More information and many iconographic examples can be found in Martin Metzger’s important contribution “Gottheit, Berg und Vegetation in der vorderorientalischen Bildtradition,” published in 1983.3 Scholars have repeatedly emphasized that the Zion tradition is not a static entity that appeared as a closed, self-contained formulation from its very beginning. Instead, the early form of this temple theology went through various transformation and developments over time. For example, through contact with the Assyrian ideology of domination in the Assyrian period, the earlier conceptions of the divine mountain also known from other ancient Near Eastern sources became connected to the tradition of the war of the nations.4 After the destruction of the Jerusalem temple in the year 587 B.C.E., the notion arose that God was enthroned in the heavenly world, quasi above the location of the destroyed temple, which was the center of the conceived world.5 Moreover, as it will be shown in this publication, in the Persian period, a hopeful image emerged, depicting the nations bearing gifts in peaceful procession to Zion. Finally, Hellenistic-period sketches, such as those found in e.g. Trito-Zechariah, Tobith and Jesus ben Sira, adopt individual elements from the larger complex and develop them further. Zech 14, to give one example, combines the “war of the nations” with the motif of the people’s pilgrimage to Zion. The aim of this contribution is to investigate the various configurations of the Zion tradition, identifying the way they structure the relationship between center and periphery and locating these relationships in their broader tradition-historical and cultural-historical frameworks. Since it is virtually impossible to address all the texts pertinent to such an investigation in this essay, I will proceed in exemplary fashion and focus on select psalms.

B. “Center and Periphery” in the Time of the Monarchy If we begin with a glance at the traditions from the period of the monarchy, then Ps 46 appears especially instructive. Here we can read according to the translation of the NRSV:

3

Martin Metzger, “Gottheit, Berg und Vegetation in der vorderorientalischen Bildtradition,” ZDPV 99 (1983): 54–94. 4 Hartenstein, “Tosen,” 132. 5 Cf. among others Beate Ego, “‘Der Herr blickt herab von der Höhe seines Heiligtums’: Gottes himmlisches Thronen in alttestamentlichen Texten aus exilischnachexilischer Zeit,” ZAW 110 (1998): 556–69 (containing references to additional research literature).

Jerusalem and the Nations 1 God is our refuge and strength (‫) ַמ ֲח ֶסה וָ עֹז‬ a very present help in trouble. 2 Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change (‫) ְבּ ָה ִמיר ָא ֶרץ‬, 3 though the mountains shake (‫וּבמוֹט ָה ִר ים‬ ְ ) in the heart of the sea; though its waters roar and foam (‫)יֶ ֱהמוּ יֶ ְח ְמרוּ‬, though the mountains tremble (‫שׁוּ־ה ִר ים‬ ָ ֲ ‫ )יִ ְר‬with its tumult. 4 There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy habitation of the Most High. 5 God is in the midst of the city; it shall not be moved (‫ל־תּמּוֹט‬ ִ ‫) ַבּ‬, God will help it when the morning dawns. 6 The nations are in an uproar (‫)הָמוּ ג ֹוי ִם‬, the kingdoms totter (‫;) ָמטוּ ַמ ְמלָכ ֹות‬ he utters his voice, the earth melts (‫אָרץ‬ ֶ ‫) ָתּמוּג‬. 7 The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge.

335 A B

C

B’

A’

As I have already demonstrated at length in an earlier discussion on the symbolism of water in the Jerusalem cultic tradition, vv. 5 and 6 are located at the center of this psalm. The city of God, with its dwelling place for the Most High, is depicted as a static and ideal entity (C). It is especially important in this context to note the motif of the divine stream gladdening the city, as well as the proclamation that the city does not totter. The verses that frame this centerpiece are, on the one hand, the thunderous waters causing the mountains to quake (in v. 4 – B), and on the other, the raging people (v. 7 – B’). As a result of the divine protection that is accorded the city, these dangers are in fact prevented from unfolding their destructive dimensions. Significant in this outline is the correlation between the thunderous waters and the stampeding nations. The powers of chaos in the first section appear as the waters, while these chaotic powers are represented by enemies in the second part. The close relationship between the natural world and the social world is explained through the broad spectrum of meaning for chaos. Everything that threatens the stability of the domain of communal life is chaos, so the enemy nations outside that besiege the “social world” of a nation seem like a power of death in the same way the water that liquidates and nullifies everything.6 As a result, center and periphery form an opposition in which the world “outside,” the periphery, does not represent an absolute negative entity, but instead – as the statements about God’s support and help at the beginning and end of this textual entity (A and A’) make clear – a controlling chaos whose power is restricted and limited by the power of God. This limitation modifies the op6

Beate Ego, “Die Wasser der Gottesstadt: Zu einem Motiv der Zionstradition und seinen kosmologischen Implikationen,” in Das biblische Weltbild und seine altorientalischen Kontexte (ed. Bernd Janowski and Beate Ego; FAT 32; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 361–89, here: 363–68.

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position between creation and chaos such that the sphere “outside” is also subordinate to divine power. God’s “real presence” is limited to the city, the dwelling place of the Most High; his activity can naturally be found in every sphere. The presence of God shines quasi from “inside” to “outside” and binds chaos. This conception also appears in Ps 48, where numerous enemies advance against Jerusalem and attempt to conquer the city, but without success. Because God is in her midst, they are unable to capture the city. According to Friedhelm Hartenstein, this motif dates to the Assyrian period. Psalms 46 and 48, the clearest evidence for the notion of the tumult of the nations, exhibit intriguing and surprising parallels to the proclamations of Neo-Assyrian traditions on dominion. The title “melekh rav, great king,” in Ps 48, appearing only this one time in the Hebrew Bible, has an exact pendent in the Akkadian šarru rabbu, the prevalent royal title that is found for Sennacherib in the public inscriptions, on the especially visible bull colossus at the entrances to his throne room in the Southwest Palace. In the annals of the campaigns of Sennacherib, the topos recurs almoststereotypically for the emperor in contrast to the kings who flee before him to inaccessible regions.7 I do not need to carry coals to Newcastle – these matters need not be repeated in detail here, it is instead sufficient to conclude from these striking connections that the Zion psalms of Ps 46 and 48 arise as adoptions of, and disputations with, the Assyrian proclamations of domination, especially from the time of Sennacherib. In any case, it is obvious that center and periphery are related to each other in an antagonistic manner; however, the center can be described as being stronger than the power at the periphery.

C. “Center and Periphery” in the Exilic and Persian Periods In the next part of this contribution, I turn to the relationship between center and periphery found in the texts of the exilic and Persian periods. As Ps 2, which probably dates back to the Persian period, clearly shows, there is also evidence of a distinct antagonism between center and periphery in the postmonarchic period. The people direct their aggression against Zion; but because God supports his anointed ones, He will ultimately be able to conquer them.8 However, in this epoch, we can also find a completely different formu7

Hartenstein, “Tosen,” 141–44. Cf. Friedhelm Hartenstein, “‘Der im Himmel thront, lacht’ (Ps 2,4): Psalm 2 im Wandel religions- und theologiegeschichtlicher Kontexte,” in Gottessohn und Menschensohn: Exegetische Studien zu zwei Paradigmen biblischer Intertextualität (ed. Dieter Sänger; BThSt 67; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2004), 158–88. 8

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lation of the relationship between center and periphery. In this context, we should refer to the motif of the pilgrimage of the nations, in which the nations stream to Zion in Jerusalem in order to offer up gifts and to praise God. Gerhard von Rad in his Theologie des Alten Testaments has already gathered the relevant themes for the motif of the pilgrimage of the nations. Therefore, Mic 4:1–5 (and naturally the parallel in Isa 2:2–4) demonstrates a wonderful change in spatial relations, such that the mountain of the house of YHWH will finally be raised above all other mountains, and the nations will come to Zion in order to be taught by God and his Torah. According to Isa 45:14–15 as well as Isa 60, the traditions in which the completest formulation of this tradition appears, the nations come with their gifts to Zion; lawbreaking and war will cease. A modification of this motif appears in Isa 49:22–23, according to which YHWH himself gives the nations the sign to depart; as their gifts, they transport nothing other than the sons and daughters of Zion, namely the exiles, who return to the Holy City. Finally, von Rad also refers to Hag 2:6–9 in this context, which emphasizes the element of this motif of this celebratory transfer of the treasures of the nations to YHWH. 9 A very similar compilation is given by W. H. Schmidt in his essay “Alttestamentlicher Glaube in seiner Geschichte.” He also offers Isa 66:20; Zech 8:22; and Ps 68:32 as evidence for this conception.10 Here, the relationship between center and periphery is best described as complementary and harmonious. Only a couple of examples will be singled out here from the multitude of these texts. The motif of the gathering of the nations appears initially in Ps 102:12–22 (MT 102:13–23), which states, as rendered by the NRSV: 12 (13) 13 (14)

14 (15) 15 (16) 16 (17)

But you, O Lord, are enthroned forever; your name endures to all generations. You will rise up and have compassion on Zion, for it is time to favor it; the appointed time has come.11 For your servants hold its stones dear, and have pity on its dust. The nations will fear the name of the Lord, and all the kings of the earth your glory. For the Lord will build up Zion; he will appear in his glory.

Von Rad, Theologie, 305–308. Werner H. Schmidt, Alttestamentlicher Glaube (9th ed.; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2004), 296. 11 Verse 13bβ seems to be secondary; cf. the apparatus in BHS; see also Renate Brandscheidt, “Psalm 102: Literarische Gestalt und theologische Aussage,” TTZ 96 (1987): 51– 75, here: 52–53. Klaus Seybold, Die Psalmen (HAT 1/15; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996), 397. 9

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338 17 (18) 18 (19) 19 (20) 20 (21) 21(22) 22 (23)

He will regard the prayer of the destitute, and will not despise their prayer. Let this be recorded for a generation to come, so that a people yet unborn may praise the Lord: that he looked down from his holy height, from heaven the Lord looked at the earth, to hear the groans of the prisoners, to set free those who were doomed to die; so that the name of the Lord may be declared in Zion, and his praise in Jerusalem, when peoples gather together, and kingdoms, to worship the Lord.

The historical setting of this psalm is clear cut: the temple lies in ruins (v. 14, MT: 15), while God remains untouched on his heavenly throne, unaffected by all earthly events. God’s supposed distance in the heavenly world is bridged by his attention to his suffering people on account of his concern for his people (here expressed through the image of “looking” [v. 19; MT: 20] and hearing the prayers of his people [vv. 17, 20; MT 18, 21]). As vv. 18, 21 (MT: 19, 22) clearly show, the goal of the divine deliverance is praise of God on Zion in Jerusalem, the location of the newly established temple. The references to the nations in vv. 15 and 22 (MT: 16 and 23) are important for this theme because they both indicate clearly that the nations participate in praising God. This participation is especially apparent in v. 22 (MT: 23), where the infinitive construct introduced by ‫ב‬, “‫בהקבץ‬, when being gathered,” is depicted in parallel to the praise of the delivered Israelites. The nations become witnesses to God’s salvific action for his people and their exultation. Through the mention of the “gathering” of the nations, it becomes evident that the nations are also oriented toward Jerusalem and – in some way or another – worship YHWH (Heb. ‫)עבד‬. In any case, it becomes clear that the nations, who were traditionally an element on the periphery saddled with negative connotations, are now described in positive terms. In addition, they now participate in the central sphere.12 In Ps 68:31 (MT: 32), the motif of the gathering of the nations in Jerusalem is combined with the presentation of freewill offerings and the exultation of the nations in the statement: 31 32

Let bronze be brought from Egypt; let Ethiopia hasten to stretch out its hands to God. Sing to God, O kingdoms of the earth; sing praises to the Lord! (translation according to NRSV)

12 For a detailed analysis of this psalm, see Ego, “Gottes himmlisches Thronen,” 558– 60; Corinna Körting, Zion in den Psalmen (FAT 48; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 32–48.

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These textual examples arising from different centuries demonstrate a completely different conception with regard to the center and the periphery. While the older traditions from the period of the monarchy exhibit antagonism between inner and outer, these entities are placed in harmonious connection in the later texts from the Persian period. Moreover – they even go so far as to integrate these nations, who actually belong to the periphery, into the central sphere. In Hag 2:7, this offering of gifts appears to be seen in the context of the rebuilding of the temple.13 After placing these traditions in context, it is quite surprising that Israel painted the nations in such a positive light, given its experiences with foreign rulers in the destruction of the Jerusalem temple and in the exile. As far as I can tell, there have only been a few attempts by scholars to explain this phenomenon. Both Volker Haarmann and Ulrich Berges understand this development within the context of changes in the conception of God. Volker Haarmann speaks of a paradigm shift taking place with the breakthrough of the monotheistic conception during the exilic period. This shift leads to the insight that the nations could also appear as YHWH worshipers.14 Ulrich Berges points to the growing importance of the theological doctrine of God’s creational power. He concludes that the recognition of Israel’s God as the sole creator of heaven and earth leads to the logical consequence that all

13

For detailed information about this text, see Rüdiger Lux, “‘Wir wollen mit euch gehen …’: Überlegungen zur Völkertheologie Haggais und Sacharjas,” in Prophetie und Zweiter Tempel: Studien zu Haggai und Sacharja (ed. Rüdiger Lux; FAT 65; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 241–65; cf. in this context Avigdor (Viktor) Hurowitz, I have built you an exalted House: Temple Building in the Bible in Light of Mesopotamian and Northwest Semitic Writings (JSOT/ASOR Monographs Series 5 / JSOTSup 115; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992), 207–10. A. Hurowitz has shown that the conception that the people bring freewill offerings for the building of the temple represents an element of the “building accounts” that can be traced back to the time of Gudea of Lagash and that can also be found in the description of the building of Darius I’s palace in Susa. In contrast, Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian texts point out “that the kings of foreign lands [especially to the west of Mesopotamia] brought wood to the Kings of Mesopotamia, but they also state explicitly that these kings were subjects, conquered by the king of Assyria or Babylon” (209). For our correlations, it is crucial that the motif in the tradition of the Bible can really only be grasped clearly in the Persian period. 14 Volker Haarmann, JHWH-Verehrer der Völker: Die Hinwendung von Nichtisraeliten zum Gott Israels in alttestamentlichen Überlieferungen (ATANT 91; Zurich: Theologischer Verlag, 2008), 281–84. In this context, see also Antonin Causse, “La Vision de la Nouvelle Jérusalem (Esaïe LX) et la signification sociologique des assemblées de fête et des pèlerinages dans l’Orient sémitique,” in Mélanges syriens (vol. 2; ed. René Dussaud; Bibliothèque archéologique et historique 30; Paris: Librairie orientaliste Paul Geuthner, 1939), 739–50, here 748–49, who refers very generally to the monotheistic and syncretistic tendencies of the Persian period.

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humans are his creations and are connected to their creator. 15 Corinna Körting’s “Zion in den Psalmen” takes a different approach, connecting the motif of the pilgrimage of the nations to the religious-political climate of the Persian Empire, allowing the nations to be viewed from a new perspective.16 These individual observations can now be supplemented with a more precise contextualization in terms of cultural history by casting a glance at Achaemenid royal ideology. As Margaret Cool Root demonstrated in her 1979 study “The King and Kingship in Achaemenid Art: Essays on the Creation of an Iconography of Empire” the Persian king operated as ruler over each individual people of the world. This relationship is characteristically depicted in such a way that the subjected nations voluntarily offer the king their allegiance. Here too, the center of power and the periphery, the subjugated nations, exist in a harmonious and complementary relationship. Considerable evidence for these relations appear in Achaemenid iconography. For our purposes, a look at the East Stairs of the Apadana in Persepolis is especially illuminating. On the left side there is a massive train of nations, which likely originally marched towards an image of the king in the center of the flights of stairs. There is a total of 23 messengers from various nations of the empire, each consisting of between three and nine men under the direction of an attendant who holds a staff in either Median or Persian garb and leads them in. They all offer gifts that are representative of their land.17 Margaret Cool Root and Gerold Walser demonstrate convincingly that the images of the nations present an ideal vision of Achaemenid royal ideology. While older depictions of the presentation of tribute from Egypt and Mesopotamia intend to show military subjugation, 18 the Achaemenid scene foregrounds the voluntary nature of the procession of tribute bearers. According to Margaret Cool Root, the voluntary presentation of gifts and the particularly positive atmosphere of the images of the nations is especially apparent Ulrich Berges, “Die Zionstheologie des Buches Jesaja,” EstBib 58 (2000): 167–98, here: 180. 16 Cf. Körting, Zion, 228. Concerning the motif of Israel and the nations in the Psalms in general, see Corinna Körting, “Israel und die Völker im Lobpreis: Ein Beitrag zur Theologie der Hebräischen Bibel und zur Biblischen Theologie,” in Beyond Biblical Theologies (ed. Heinrich Assel, Stefan Beyerle, and Christfried Böttrich; WUNT 295; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 303–20. 17 See the depictions by Gerold Walser, Die Völkerschaften auf den Reliefs von Persepolis: Historische Studien über den sogenannten Tributzug an der Apadanatreppe (Berlin: Mann, 1966), 26–46. Concerning the whole piece, see also Lux, “Völkertheologie,” 246. 18 This difference becomes clear, for example, when we look at the scene of submission on the Black Obelisk of the Assyrian Shalmaneser III. (858–824 B.C.E.). The individual registers of this almost 2 m high stele contain a long procession of people bearing gifts, bringing their tribute to the king. In this connection, the foreign ruler demonstrates his submission by prostrating before the Assyrian king. 15

Jerrusalem usalem and the Nations

341

through the so so-called called “handholding image.” A herald takes the first man of each tribute del delegation gation and leads him to the king. 19

Fig. 1: From: Heidemarie Koch, Es kündet kündet Dareios der König … Vom Leben im persischen Großreich (Kulturgeschichte der Antiken Welt 55; Darmstadt: Verlag Philip von Zabern, 1992), 112 112.

As Margaret Cool Root has shown, a motif is included here that has a very long tradition of history in the Ne Near ar East and for which there is evidence from the Early Dynastic Period into the 9th century B .C.E. in Babylonia. In Egypt, evidence stretches from the Old Kingdom period through to the Roman Per Period. od. In Mesopotamia as well as in Egypt, this element belongs to religious settings, where the worshiper is taken by the hand by another person and led before a seated deity. 20 The following seal impression (ca. 2050 B.C.E.;; BM 89126) can serve as an example:

Fig. 2: From: Othmar Keel, Die Welt der altorientalisch altorientalischen en Bildsymbolik und das Alte Testament: Am Beispiel der Psalmen (5th ed.; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996), 179..

19 Margaret C. Root, The King and Kingship in Achaemenid A Art: rt: Essays on the Creation of an Iconography of Empire (Acta Iranica 19: Leiden: Brill, 1979), 267. 20 See Root, King and Kingship, Kingship, 267–72. 267

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Beate Ego

This motif is contextualized in a new manner in the Achaemenid depictions of the offering of tribute by the nations. While the Persian king was not worshiped as a deity, the scene still retains a religious imprint. The presentation of gifts to the king ultimately means entering into a religiously charged room.21 On the whole, the harmony of the Persian Empire is illustrated such that center and periphery appear complementary to one another. When we view the conceptions of the Jerusalem cult from this background, we initially discover that the evidence from the Achaemenid royal ideology offers an intriguing analogy to the motif of the pilgrimage of the nations that we encounter in the context of Zion theology.22 In the same manner that tribute is presented to the Persian Emperor in the reliefs of the nations in Persepolis, YHWH, the royal God enthroned on Zion, receives the presents and the exultation of the nations in the imagery of Zion theology. From this perspective, it is a short step to inferring that Persian royal ideology inspired the biblical conception of the pilgrimage of the nations that place the center and the periphery in harmonious relations.23 Of course it cannot be assumed at this point that the authors of our traditions saw the reliefs of Persepolis with their own eyes. Instead, it can be assumed that the Persian royal ideology – in keeping with Christoph Uehlinger’s term – was generally present and tangible in the sense of a “public policy,” at least in Achaemenid heartland.24 In this context, Rüdiger Lux, who referred to correlations between Persian iconography and the prophecy of Zechariah and Haggai, but who did not extend this to Zion theology as a whole, refers to the manifold contacts between the Babylonian Golah, the returned exiles and those who had remained in Judah.25 At this point, one can certainly conclude that the increasing universalization of YHWH worship, his relationship to creation, and the Persian policy of toleration should not be seen as the only important factors framing the development of the motif of the pilgrimage of the nations. The concrete form of the nations’ role as part of the complementary relationship between center and periphery feeds off Persian royal ideology and its conception of the voluntary tribute and exultation of the nations. In this regard, it is very important to emphasize: If the Jerusalem conception of the cult draws on images from Root, King and Kingship, 270. Cf. with regard to these contexts also the study by Brent A. Strawn, “‘A World under Control’: Isaiah 60 and the Apadana Reliefs from Persepolis,” in Approaching Yehud: New Approaches to the Study of the Persian Period (ed. Jon L. Berquist; SemeiaSt 50; Atlanta, Ga.: SBL, 2007), 85–116. Strawn draws direct connecting lines between Isa 60 and the Persian Empire ideology, and also includes visual material from Persepolis in his analysis. 23 Lux, “Völkertheologie,” 248. 24 Cf. Christoph Uehlinger, “Figurative Policy, Propaganda und Prophetie,” in Congress Volume: Cambridge 1995 (ed. John A. Emerton; VTSup 66; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 297–349. Lux points to these references in “Völkertheologie,” 249. 25 Lux, “Völkertheologie,” 248. 21 22

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Persian royal ideology, then it naturally includes an utterly anti-imperial impetus. Instead of the Persian Emperor, the true ruler of the world is the God of Israel!

D. Outlook: “Center and Periphery” in the Hellenistic Period In conclusion, it can be stated that a comprehensive study on the topic of “center and periphery in the Zion tradition” would naturally need to go into greater detail and investigate further texts in order to arrive at an allembracing perspective. In view of a more fully differentiated description of the relationships between center and periphery, the next step would be to identify the differences found in the depictions of the Hellenistic period. Only three general observations will be made here: 1. One portion of the tradition adopts the hopeful image of the pilgrimage of the nations to Zion and develops it further. A significant example in this context is the Tobit tradition, in which the aged Tobit mentions both the pilgrimage of the nations and the return of the exiles to Jerusalem in his hymn to Jerusalem. 13:10 … May he cheer all those within you who are captives, and love all those within you who are distressed, to all generations for ever. 11 A bright light will shine to all the ends of the earth; many nations will come to you from far away, the inhabitants of the remotest parts of the earth to your holy name, bearing gifts in their hands for the King of heaven. Generation after generation will give joyful praise in you; the name of the chosen city will endure for ever (G II, according to NRSV).

However, these blessings only can be fulfilled when Israel turn towards God and accepts his will. 13:5 He will afflict you for your iniquities, but he will again show mercy on all of you. He will gather you from all the nations among whom you have been scattered. 6 If you turn to him with all your heart and with all your soul, to do what is true before him, then he will turn to you and will no longer hide his face from you. So now see what he has done for you; acknowledge him at the top of your voice. Bless the Lord of righteousness, and exalt the King of the ages (G II, according to NRSV).

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Thus, it becomes obvious that the motif of the pilgrimage of the nations and the return to Zion is connected to the basic ideas of Deuteronomic-deuteronomistic theology with its emphasis on the Tun-Ergehen-Zusammenhang, the act-consequence relationship.26 2. The structure of the complementary relationship between center and periphery takes on a further form, in which the result may not only be – as it is in the motif of the pilgrimage of the nations – the harmonious and peaceful movement from outside in, but also the reverse process. This close connection appears already early on in Persian times in the context of Mic 4:1–5 (Isa 2:2–4), where the Torah goes out from Zion instead of the nations streaming peacefully to Jerusalem.27 This idea, according to which the center is the location from which the medium of Torah develops its ability to broadcast forth into the world, is especially unfurled in the proclamation of the great Jerusalem wisdom teacher Jesus ben Sira. His hymn to wisdom describes how the Torah causes a stream flowing out into the world. This Torah is in turn described as an embodiment of wisdom whose current stretches out from Zion in Jerusalem into the entire world. 24:23

25 26 27 28 29

All this is the book of the covenant of the Most High God, the law that Moses commanded us as an inheritance for the congregations of Jacob. It overflows, like the Pishon, with wisdom, and like the Tigris at the time of the first fruits. It runs over, like the Euphrates, with understanding, and like the Jordan at harvest time. It pours forth instruction like the Nile, like the Gihon at the time of vintage. The first man did not know wisdom fully, nor will the last one fathom her. For her thoughts are more abundant than the sea, and her counsel deeper than the great abyss (quoted according to NRSV).

After this beautiful and poetic praise of wisdom, Ben Sira changes his perspective and speaks in the first person, comparing himself, the teacher, with a canal from a river, who waters his garden and drenches his flower-beds. The metaphor that lies behind his words becomes clear when he continues with the following words: 26

A more detailed study of this important passage can be found in a study published recently by Ruth Henderson, Second Temple Songs of Zion: A Literary and Generic Analysis of Apostrophe to Zion (11QPsa XXII 1-15), Tobit 13:9-18 and 1 Baruch 4:30–5:9 (Deuterocanonical and Cognate Literature Studies 17; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2014), 114–75. 27 Cf. Ludger Schwienhorst-Schönberger, “Zion – Ort der Tora: Überlegungen zu Mi 4,1–5,” in Zion: Ort der Begegnung (ed. Ferdinand Hahn, Frank-Lothar Hossfeld, and Angelika Neuwirth; BBB 90; Bodenheim: Athenäum Hain Hanstein, 1993), 107–25.

Jerusalem and the Nations 24:32 33 34

345

I will again make instruction shine forth like the dawn, and I will make it clear from far away. I will again pour out teaching like prophecy, and leave it to all future generations. Observe that I have not laboured for myself alone, but for all who seek wisdom (quoted according to NRSV).

Thus, it becomes obvious that the tradition of the motif of the fertile water of the Zion tradition have been transformed into a metaphor and integrated into wisdom and Torah theology. In this context, the Torah teacher has the function of building a bridge between center and periphery and of transporting the positive and life-giving powers of the center to the edges of the world.28 3. Nonetheless, it would be wrong to conclude that antagonistic moments were completely eliminated from the Persian period onward. As the tradition of the war of the nations in Zech 14 shows rather markedly, the apocalyptic motifs of the tumult of the nations and of their pilgrimage could be thoroughly combined with one another and brought into a chronological sequence. God would destroy the nations that advance against Jerusalem in order to capture it, and the remaining nations would then go up to Jerusalem annually to worship YHWH and to celebrate the Feast of Sukkot.29 In this tradition, the antagonism between center and periphery are ultimately resolved into a complementary and harmonious relationship. To summarize: Whereas in the time of the Monarchy the prevalent pattern for the relationship between center and periphery can be described as “antagonistic,” in later times during the Exile and in the Persian period a harmonistious relationship plays a prominent role. In this framework, I would like to stress the dynamics of this relationship. On the one hand, elements of the periphery, namely the nations (and those scattered among the nations), are moving towards the center, and on the other hand – elements of the center and their

For Sir 24, cf. Bernd Janowski, “Einwohnung Gottes in Israel,” in Das Geheimnis der Gegenwart Gottes: Zur Schechina-Vorstellung in Judentum und Christentum (ed. Bernd Janowski and Enno Edzard Popkes; WUNT 318; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 3–40; Johannes Marböck, “Die Einwohnung der Weisheit und das Hauptgebot: Schöpferischer Umgang mit Traditionen im Sirachbuch,” BN 154 (2012): 69–81; Johannes Marböck, “Gottes Weisheit unter uns: Sirach 24 als Beitrag zur biblischen Theologie,” in Gottes Weisheit unter uns: Zur Theologie des Buches Sirach (ed. Johannes Marböck and Irmtraud Fischer; Herders Biblische Studien 6; Freiburg: Herder, 1995), 73–87. 29 See Judith Gärtner, “Jerusalem und die Völker in Mi 4/5 und Sach 14,” in Die Stadt im Zwölfprophetenbuch (ed. Aaron Schart and Jutta Krispenz; BZAW 428; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2012), 339–58, here: 341–43; Paul L. Redditt, Sacharja 9–14 (Internationaler exegetischer Kommentar zum Alten Testament; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2014), 139–64. 28

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inherent power – God’s wisdom and the Torah – are flowing into the realm of the periphery. The tradition-historical development that we are able to grasp with regard to the relationship between center and periphery in the Zion tradition can be described very generally and somewhat strikingly as the movement from antagonism between center and periphery to their complementarity and harmony. In any case, even in the older concept, the center as the symbol of God’s presence and power, dominates the chaotic periphery; however, during the course of the development of the traditions – the positive powers of the center are getting stronger and – finally – are able to transform the chaotic edges of the world.

Centre and Periphery in Psalm 137 Kathrin Liess “God is in the midst of the city” – this verse in the structural centre of Ps 46, which is a Zion psalm and reflects a main topic of the Zion tradition: the presence of the deity in the centre of Jerusalem.1 Whereas beyond the city walls “nations and kingdoms may move,” Jerusalem “will not move” (Ps 46:6–7). The implicit worldview of this pre-exilic psalm of Zion, as well as of Ps 48 or the Zion texts in the book of Isaiah, is centred on Jerusalem and the Jerusalemite Temple, which is regarded as the point of intersection between two axes: the horizontal axis and the vertical axis of the world (see figure 1). 2 The horizontal worldview is characterized by the opposition between centre and periphery. Jerusalem, perceived as the centre of the world, is the city of God’s protecting presence; he has elected the city and the sanctuary on the holy mountain Zion as his dwelling place (Ps 46:6; 48:2–4), and the Temple is considered as the source of life (Ps 36:10), and joy and gladness (Ps 45:6; 48:3). The periphery, i.e., outside the city, is perceived as a realm of chaos and death inhabited by foreign nations and enemies which try to attack the city (Ps 46:7; 48:5–8). In contrast to the centre which is watered by rivers (Ps 46:6), the periphery is depicted as an unfertile land and dry desert (Ps 63:1–2). 1

For Ps 46 cf. Bernd Janowski, “Die heilige Wohnung des Höchsten: Kosmologische Implikationen der Jerusalemer Tempeltheologie,” in Der Gott des Lebens: Beiträge zur Theologie des Alten Testaments 3 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2003), 23–71, 45–60; Beate Ego, “Die Wasser der Gottesstadt: Zu einem Motiv der Zionstradition und seinen kosmologischen Implikationen,” in Das biblische Weltbild und seine altorientalischen Kontexte (ed. Bernd Janowski and Beate Ego; FAT 32; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 361–89, 363–69; Michael Lichtenstein, Von der Mitte der Gottesstadt bis ans Ende der Welt: Psalm 46 und die Kosmologie der Zionstradition (WMANT 139; NeukirchenVluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2014). For the Zion tradition as a part of the Jerusalem Temple theology, see Martin Leuenberger, “Großkönig und Völkerkampf in Ps 48: Zur historischen, religions- und theologiegeschichtlichen Verortung zweier zionstheologischer Motive,” in Ich will dir danken unter den Völkern: Studien zur israelitischen und altorientalischen Gebetsliteratur: Festschrift für Bernd Janowski (ed. Alexandra Grund, Annette Krüger, and Florian Lippke; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2013), 142–56, 143. I would like to thank Ehud Ben Zvi for his advice and for proofreading the English version of my essay. 2 Cf. Janowski, “Wohnung,” 40.

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The vertical worldview, on the other hand, is characterized by the opposition between height and depth. Regarding the prophetic vision of God in his sanctuary in Isa 6:1–5, which is dominated by a vertical worldview,3 we can imagine a vertical axis between the lofty divine throne in the height and the Temple thresholds in the depth.4 According to Ps 48:2–3, Zion is the highest mountain, and the cosmic and political centre of the world. 5 Analogous to the cosmologic foundation of the earth, expressed in Biblical Hebrew by the root ‫יסד‬, Zion and the Temple are founded by God in the depth.6 Divine Throne HEIGHT

PERIPHERY Mountains/Desert

CENTRE Temple

PERIPHERY Desert/Mountains

DEPTH Temple Tresholds Fig. 1: The implicit worldview of the Jerusalem Temple theology (according to Isa 6:1–5).7

One of the central topics of the Zion tradition concerns the invincibility and invulnerability of the city. Since God is protecting Jerusalem, it is impossible for foreign nations to capture or conquer the city (Ps 46:7–12; 48:5–8). As the 3

Beside the vertical axis, Isa 6 alludes to the horizontal axis (v. 3). For Isa 6 see Friedhelm Hartenstein, Die Unzugänglichkeit Gottes im Heiligtum: Jesaja 6 und der Wohnort JHWHs (WMANT 75; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1997); Janowski, “Wohnung,” 35–41, 44–45. 5 Cf. Leuenberger, “Großkönig,” 148. However, the vision of the height does not correspond with the real topography of Jerusalem; cf. Friedhelm Hartenstein, “‘Wehe, ein Tosen vieler Völker …’ (Jesaja 17,12): Beobachtungen zur Entstehung der Zionstradition vor dem Hintergrund des judäisch-assyrischen Kulturkontakts,” in Das Archiv des verborgenen Gottes: Studien zur Unheilsprophetie Jesajas und zur Zionstheologie der Psalmen in assyrischer Zeit (BThSt 74; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2011), 127–74, 140. 6 For the foundation of the earth cf. Pss 24:2; 89:12; 102:26; 104:5; Job 38:4; Prov 3:19; Isa 40:21; 48:13; 51:13, 16; Zech 12:1. For the foundation of the city and the temple, expressed in Biblical Hebrew by the root ‫יסד‬, cf. Pss 78:68–69; 87:1 (cf. ‫ כון‬Pss 48:9; 87:5). For the foundation of the Temple cf. 1 Kgs 6:37; 7:10; Hag 2:18; Zech 8:9; 2 Chr 24:27. 7 For this figure see Bernd Janowski, Arguing with God: A Theological Anthropology of the Psalms (trans. Armin Siedlecki; Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox Press, 2013), 26. 4

Centre and Periphery in Psalm 137

349

dwelling place of God, Jerusalem and Zion are considered as a symbol of refuge, safety and security. From this point of view, the year 587 B.C.E. was a turning point for the Zion tradition. The destruction of the city and the sanctuary along with the deportation of its inhabitants was a challenge for the mentioned Jerusalem Temple theology. Many people have now to live in the periphery, far away from their homeland. This is the situation portrayed in Ps 137, a text that looks back in its opening verses: “On the rivers of Babylon – there we were dwelling ….” This essay will examine the topic of centre and periphery in Ps 137. In section A, the reader will find my English translation of the text, followed by a brief discussion on the structure of the psalm. This section provides the ground for my study of the Psalm from the perspective of periphery and centre in section B, in which I will address questions such as which view on centre and periphery does Ps 137 offer? I will also discuss the images that this psalm uses to construe and portray centre and periphery. The third section (C) concludes the essay with some remarks on the historical setting of Ps 137.

A. Translation and Structure of Psalm 137 RETROSPECT TO LIFE IN THE PERIPHERY (vv. 1–4) 1 On (‫ ) ַ ל‬the rivers of Babylon – there we were dwelling, and we were weeping, when we remembered Zion. 2 On (‫ ) ַ ל‬the poplars in its midst, we had hung up our lyres. 3 For there, those who led us captive requested from us words of a song and those who led us into slavery,8 joy: “Sing for us one of the songs of Zion!”9

8 ‫ תּוֹלָ לֵ ינוּ‬is a hapax legomenon with an uncertain meaning. Often ‫ תּוֹלָ לֵ ינוּ‬is rendered by “our mockers” (cf. σˊ: οἱ καταλαζονευόµενοι ἡµῶν), cf. Leslie C. Allen, Psalms 101–150 (WBC 21; Waco, Tex.: Word Books Publisher, 1983), 235; John Goldingay, Psalms, vol. 3: Psalms 90–150 (Baker Commentary on the Old Testament; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker Academic, 2008), 599. Others propose “our tormentors” (causative derivation from the verb ‫“ ילל‬to howl, lament”), cf. Bob Becking, “Does Exile Equal Suffering? A Fresh Look at Psalm 137,” in Exile and Suffering: A Selection of Papers Read at the 50th Anniversary Meeting of the Old Testament Meeting Society of South Africa; OTWSA/OTSSA, Pretoria, August 2007 (ed. Bob Becking and Dirk Human; OtSt 50; Leiden: Brill, 2009), 183–202, 193; Hans-Joachim Kraus, Psalmen 60–150 (BKAT XV/2; 6th ed.; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1989), 1082. My translation follows Ges18, 1429 s.v. ‫*תּוֹלָ ל‬, assuming a derivation from the root ‫הלל‬3, cf. ar. talla “to tie someone, to led into slavery,” cf. Vulg qui abduxerunt nos; LXX οἱ ἀπαγαγόντες ἡµᾶς.

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4 How could we have sung the song of YHWH on (‫ ) ַ ל‬foreign soil?10

LOYALTY TO THE CENTRE (vv. 5–6) 5 If I forget you, Jerusalem, may my right hand forget.11 6 May my tongue cling to my palate, if I do not remember you, if I do not heighten Jerusalem above / to (‫ ) ַ ל‬the height of my joy.

IMPRECATIONS AGAINST THE PERIPHERY (vv. 7–9) 7 Remember, YHWH, the sons of Edom the day of Jerusalem, who said: “Expose, expose unto the foundation in it!”12 8 Daughter Babylon, to be destroyed,13 9 For the partitive meaning of the preposition ‫ ִמן‬see Frank-Lothar Hossfeld and Erich Zenger, Psalms 3: A Commentary on Psalms 101–150 (trans. Linda M. Maloney; Hermeneia; Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress Press, 2011), 515 (“from the collection of songs of Zion”); Corinna Körting, Zion in den Psalmen (FAT 48; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 74 n. 327. 10 For the translation of this verse (yiqtol) see Hossfeld and Zenger, Psalms, 515–16 who discuss two possibilities: “how can/shall we sing …” (as a quotation of the direct answer given by the deportees) or “how could we have sung …” (“as a question addressed to those who hear the psalm, or to those who pray it in later time”); cf. Thomas Krüger, “‘An den Strömen von Babylon …’: Erwägungen zu Zeitbezug und Sachverhalt in Psalm 137,” in Sachverhalt und Zeitbezug: Semitistische und alttestamentliche Studien; Adolf Denz zum 65. Geburtstag (ed. Rüdiger Bartelmus and Norbert Nebes; Jenaer Beiträge zum Vorderen Orient 4; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2001), 79–84, 81. 11 For the textcritical discussion and the meaning of v. 5b see below ch. 2. a), and Norbert Rabe, “Des Beters vergessende rechte Hand: Zur Textkritik und Übersetzung von Ps 137,5,” UF 27 (1995): 429–53. 12 For the meaning of the preposition ‫ ב‬in this context, see Ernst Jenni, Die hebräischen Präposition, vol. 1: Die Präposition Beth (Stuttgart, Berlin, and Köln: Kohlhammer 1992), 180–81. 13 MT reads ‫דוּדה‬ ָ ‫( ַה ְשּׁ‬cf. LXX). The translation of ‫דוּדה‬ ָ ‫ ַה ְשּׁ‬has been much debated, since according to the common usage of the passive participle, it is often rendered by “the destroyed, the devastated.” This perfect-tense-understanding seems to contradict the context vv. 7–9 expecting a future devastation of Babylon. With respect to the temporal value of the participle, we have to take into account the advice given by Paul Joüon and Takamitsu Muraoka, A Grammar of Biblical Hebrew (SubBi 14/1–2; Rom: Editrice Pontificio Istituto Biblica, 1996) § 121i: “the attributive participle, contrary to the predicative participle, in itself expresses neither time nor aspect: the time and the aspect can only be deduced from the context.” The translation above retains MT and assumes a future-understanding of the participle following the proposal of Kellermann, Hossfeld and Zenger et al., who translate the participle as a gerund: “the one who is condemned to devastation,” or “who will be devastated” (cf. Hossfeld and Zenger, Psalms, 512, 519; Ulrich Kellermann, “Psalm 137,” ZAW 90 (1978): 43–58, 44–45; Oswald Loretz, “‘An den

Centre and Periphery in Psalm 137

351

blessed is the one who will pay you back your deed that you have done to us. 9 Blessed is the one who will seize and dash your children against (‫ )אֵ ֶל‬the rock.

As often remarked, Ps 137 14 can be divided into three sections: vv. 1–4, vv. 5–6 and vv. 7–9.15 The main arguments for this division are the following:

Wassern Babels’ – Psalm 137: Ein Gespräch mit B. Duhm und H. Gunkel über textologische Vorurteile,” in “Wer ist wie du, Herr, unter den Göttern?”: Studien zur Theologie und Religionsgeschichte Israels für Otto Kaiser zum 70. Geburtstag (ed. Ingo Kottsieper et al.; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994), 402–15, 408; Goldingay, Psalms, 600). Others, like Emmendörffer, propose a future understanding of the passive participle as a “prophetic anticipation” of an expected destruction (Michael Emmendörffer, Der ferne Gott: Eine Untersuchung der alttestamentlichen Volksklagelieder vor dem Hintergrund der mesopotamischen Literatur (FAT 21; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998), 184; cf. David Noel Freedman and A. Welch, ‫שׁדד‬, ThWAT 7:1072–78, 1077). Other commentators construe an active participle ‫שּׁוֹד ָדה‬ ְ ‫ ַה‬or ‫דוֹד‬ ָ ‫“ ַה ְשּׁ‬destroyer” (following σˊ, Targum and Peschitta), see Hermann Gunkel, Die Psalmen (6th ed.; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1986), 582; Becking, “Exile,” 193; Kraus, Psalmen, 1082; Allen, Psalms, 235, 237. For a detailed discussion, see Norbert Rabe, “‘Tochter Babel, die verwüstete!’ (Psalm 137,8) – textkritisch betrachtet,” BN 78 (1995): 84–103. See also the remarks of Körting, Zion, 81. 14 The question of genre has been much debated among interpreters. The following views are predominant: “Communal lament” (cf. Leonhard P. Maré, “Psalm 137: Exile – Not the Time for Singing the Lord’s Song,” OTE 23 [2010]: 116–28, 118), “Jerusalem lament” (Adele Berlin, “Psalms and the Literature of Exile: Psalms 137, 44, 69, and 78,” in The Book of Psalms: Composition and Reception [ed. Peter W. Flint and Patrick D. Miller, Jr.; VTSup 99; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2005], 65–86, 71), “modified song of Zion” (cf. Allen, Psalms, 241; see also Bob Becking, “Memory and Forgetting in and on the Exile: Remarks on Psalm 137,” in Remembering and Forgetting in Early Second Temple Judah [ed. Ehud Ben Zvi and Christoph Levin; FAT 85; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012], 279–99, 285 who reads vv. 5–6 and vv. 7–9 “as contents of a Hymn on Zion, albeit in a different tone than expected;” cf. Goldingay, Psalms, 601–602), “political prayer” (Angelika Berlejung, “Wider die Freuden und Vergeßlichkeiten des Exils: Überlegungen zu Psalm 137,” in Ich will dir danken unter den Völkern: Studien zur israelitischen und altorientalischen Gebetsliteratur; Festschrift für Bernd Janowski [ed. Alexandra Grund, Annette Krüger, and Florian Lippke; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2013], 265–87, 267). Obviously, Ps 137 is a mixture of genres containing elements of a lament, narrative elements, elements of a Zion psalm and a plea for vengeance. Therefore, it is difficult to classify this psalm according to the conventional categories. Finally, it is a “Gattung sui generis.” 15 Cf. Körting, Zion, 76–77; Hossfeld and Zenger, Psalms, 513. Other scholars subdivide Ps 137 into vv. 1–3, 4–6, 7–9, see Hermann Spieckermann, Heilsgegenwart: Eine Theologie der Psalmen (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1989), 117; Becking, “Exile,” 191–92.

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1) Time reference: past (qatal) in vv. 1–4, present (iterative yiqtol/yiqtol used in an iterative and habitual sense) in vv. 5–6, future (yiqtol) in vv. 7–9. 2) Shift in person: “we-group” in vv. 1–4, “I” as an individual speaker in vv. 5–6 with a direct address to Jerusalem, “I” bound together with the “wegroup” in vv. 7–9 with a direct address to YHWH and to “daughter Babylon.” 3) Reference to space: Babylon and Zion in vv. 1–4, Jerusalem in vv. 5–6, Jerusalem and Babylon and Edom in vv. 7–9. 4) Inclusion and concatenation: framing inclusion for the adverbial phrases of space with the preposition ‫( ַ ל‬v. 1, 4, and v. 1, 6), framing inclusion ‫רוּשׁ ַל‬ ָ ְ‫ י‬in vv. 5a, 6b, inclusion by means of the opposites “weeping” (v. 1) – “joy” (v. 6, cf. v. 3), and concatenation of the three sections by the keyword ‫( זכר‬V. 1, 6, 7). Apart from the leitmotif “remembrance” expressed by the key-term ‫זכר‬ (vv. 1, 6, 7), the central topic that ties together the three parts of the psalm is the opposition between Babylon and Jerusalem (Zion). The whole psalm is shaped around the contrast between these two locations. The framing inclusion between the reference to Babylon at the beginning and at the end of the psalm (vv. 1, 8) envelopes Jerusalem in the middle section (vv. 5–6). Babylon is, so to speak, located in the peripheral verses of the psalm; Jerusalem, however, is situated at the centre. The opposition shaped around these two counterparts is interweaved with the leitmotif “remembrance” in each unit of Ps 137. The first section is dominated by the opposition between Babylon and Zion. This section is framed by the parallelism of two adverbial phrases of space (v. 1 ‫ַ ל נַ ֲהרוֹת‬ ‫ ָבּ ֶבל‬// v. 4 ‫) ַ ל ַא ְד ַמת נֵ ָכר‬. Since the opening adverbial phrase ‫ַ ל נַ ֲהרוֹת ָבּ ֶבל‬ constitutes another inclusion with the beginning of v. 2, i.e., ‫ַ ל־ ֲ ָר ִבים‬ ‫תוֹכהּ‬ ָ ‫ ְבּ‬, the theme of the “remembrance of Zion” is at the centre of vv. 1–2. The second section (vv. 5–6) is dedicated exclusively to the remembrance of Jerusalem (with the inclusion ‫רוּשׁ ַל‬ ָ ְ‫ י‬in vv. 5a, 6b). The third section (vv. 7– 9) concentrates again on Jerusalem and Babylon (and Edom). Remembering the destruction of Jerusalem (“the day of Jerusalem,” v. 7) leads to the anticipation of the same fate for Babylon (vv. 8–9).16

16 Due to various arguments (the topic of vengeance, the shift in language, the allusions to Jer 51) vv. 7–9 are often regarded as an addition; cf. Hossfeld and Zenger, Psalms, 514; Berlejung, “Wider die Freuden,” 271 n. 22; Klaus Seybold, Die Psalmen (HAT I/15; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996), 510; Andreas Michel, Gott und Gewalt gegen Kinder im Alten Testament (FAT 37; Mohr Siebeck: Tübingen, 2003), 172–73, 176 (he assumes two layers: v. 7 and vv. 8–9).

Centre and Periphery in Psalm 137

353

B. Images of Periphery and Centre in Psalm 137 1. Living in the Periphery: Babylon (vv. 1–4) Vv. 1–4 are a retrospect on the situation of the exiled Judeans in Babylon. A “we-group” looks back at the time of the exile (qatal); the distance from their former dwelling place is marked by the double particle ‫“ ָשׁם‬there” (v. 1, 3). This section can be subdivided into two units: vv. 1–2 constitute an introduction with a narrative description of the exilic environment, poetically bound together by the parallelism of two initial adverbial phrases of space (v. 1a ‫ ַ ל נַ ֲהרוֹת ָבּ ֶבל‬// v. 2a ‫תוֹכהּ‬ ָ ‫) ַ ל־ ֲ ָר ִבים ְבּ‬. Vv. 3–4 quote the request of the captors (“sing for us one of the songs of Zion”) and the reaction of the exiled in form of a rhetorical question (“how could we have sung the song of YHWH?”). These two verses are closely linked by the quintuple repetition of the root ‫ ִשׁיר‬. a) The Periphery as a Watered City From the beginning of the psalm there is a strong emphasis on space: the initial position of the adverbial phrase of space ‫ ַ ל נַ ֲהרוֹת ָבּ ֶבל‬is resumed by means of the retrospective particle ‫ ָשׁם‬. It indicates emphasis on Babylon (casus pendens construction). 17 Whereas the Babylonian capital is only labelled by the name ‫ ָבּ ֶבל‬,18 the Judean capital city, Jerusalem, is also referred to by its theological designation “Zion.” Thus, the religious centre of the city of Jerusalem, Zion, gains centre stage already at the beginning of Ps 137. Moreover, the double reference to “Zion,” the opposite pole of Babylon, in the opening section (vv. 1, 3) evokes also a wealth of traditional imagery for the listener and/or reader of this psalm: the Zion tradition and the Zion psalms. The following verses should be read and heard against this theological background. The Hebrew ‫ ָבּ ֶבל‬can refer both to city and country, but since the psalm is dominated by the contrast between “Babylon” and “Jerusalem/Zion” it seems more likely that ‫ ָבּ ֶבל‬is predominantly referring to the capital city. 19 Thus, from a poetical point of view, in Ps 137 the juxtaposition of periphery and centre is sharpened by the contrast between these two capital cities. Nevertheless, the term ‫ ָבּ ֶבל‬may also refer to the country,20 if we consider the corresponding adverbial phrase in v. 4b referring to ‫ ָבּ ֶבל‬as “foreign soil,” perhaps expanding the view. In addition, from a historical point of view, we 17 See Walter Groß, Die Pendenskonstruktion im Biblischen Hebräisch: Studien zum althebräischen Satz I (ATSAT 27; St. Ottilien: EOS Verlag, 1987), 80. 18 For the expression ‫ת־בּ ֶבל‬ ָ ‫ ; ַבּ‬see n. 93. 19 Cf. Hossfeld and Zenger, Psalms, 512. 20 Cf. Gunkel, Psalmen, 581.

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know – thanks to epigraphic evidence – that the Judean exiles were settled in different locations in the vicinity of URU ša pna-šar “the City of Nashar,” “Eagleton” or āl Yā-ḫū-du “the city of Judah.”21 As a result, both might be intended, city and country, but from a poetical point of view the contrast between the two cities comes to the fore. Since ‫ ָבּ ֶבל‬labels primarily the capital city, ‫“ נַ ֲהרוֹת‬streams, rivers, canals” (Akk. nāru) refers to the Euphrates and its canal system flowing through the city22 (and possibly, in a wider, additional sense, ‫ נַ ֲהרוֹת‬may refer also to the rivers in the country23). Much has been written about water in this context. Often a cultic setting was assumed. For instance, it has been proposed that the exiles in Babylon sat by the waters for prayer and held a worship service of lament to commemorate the destruction of Jerusalem, involving presumably the use of water for cultic ablutions and the like.24 Other proposals, however, have been advanced and among them that after their day’s work, the exiles went to the waterside to sit and relax, as e.g., Bernhard Duhm suggested.25 One may add also that according to Robert Couffignal, the rivers are images of human mortality and the netherworld and thus “the streams of Babylon are, for the Israelites, fatal, quasi infernal.”26 In my opinion, two ways of interpreting the image of water in v. 1 must be taken into consideration: 1) Concrete meaning: The term ‫ נַ ֲהרוֹת‬describes the dwelling place of the exiled Judeans on rivers or canals in Babylon.27 Furthermore, ‫ נַ ֲהרוֹת‬may be, as B. Becking assumed, a hint to the conditions of life in the Babylonian exile, since the deported were settled on rivers or canals in the vicinity of URU

21

Cf. Becking, “Memory,” 290–93; idem, “Exile,” 187–90; Laurie E. Pearce, “New Evidence for Judeans in Babylonia,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period (ed. Manfred Oeming and Oded Lipschits; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 399–411; Berlejung, “Wider die Freuden,” 277–82. 22 Cf. Hossfeld and Zenger, Psalms, 512; Körting, Zion, 77. 23 See Becking, “Exile,” 196. 24 Cf. Kraus, Psalmen, 1084. 25 Cf. Bernhard Duhm, Die Psalmen (KHC XIV; Freiburg, Leipzig, and Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1899), 283. 26 Robert Couffignal, “Approches nouvelles du Psaume 137,” ZAW 119 (2007): 59–74, 64. This interpretation is not very convincing, since water and trees constitute a constellation of positive connotated motifs in the OT. 27 The verb ‫ ישׁב‬has two meanings: “to sit” and “to dwell.” Taking into account the prophetic texts describing the residence of the exiled Judeans (cf. Ezek 3:15; Jer 29:5) ‫ישׁב‬ should first of all be rendered by “to dwell.” Nevertheless, even the meaning “to sit” may be implied, if we compare other texts describing mourning with the elements “sitting” and “weeping” (cf. Neh 1:4); see n. 38.

Centre and Periphery in Psalm 137

355

ša pna-šar “the City of Nashar,” “Eagleton” or āl Yā-ḫū-du “the city of Judah.”28 2) Metaphorical meaning: In the metaphorical language of the OT “water” is, among others, an image of life (cf. the life-giving and life-preserving aspects of water). 29 This metaphorical connotation of water shapes a sharp contrast between living on the waterside and weeping (which in itself involves “water”) and mourning in Ps 137.30 Moreover, the reference to “Zion” (vv. 1, 3) evokes the image of a city abundant with water as described, for instance, in Ps 46: There is a river (‫ )נהר‬whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy habitation of the Most High. (Ps 46:5)

According to this psalm of Zion, the city of God has a river whose streams/canals are a source of life and joy.31 The motif of a well-watered city with streams and canals that exists within the Zion tradition of the OT may be compared to depictions of Mesopotamian gardens. The neo-Assyrian relief (see figure 2) depicts a royal garden with a temple and with streams of water and lots of trees. It is a symbol of the fertility of the land and a symbol of the Assyrian royal power.32

28

See Becking, “Memory,” 196. Cf. Berlejung, “Wider die Freuden,” 278. John Ahn, “Psalm 137: Complex Communal Laments,” JBL 127 (2008): 267–89, 277, assumes that the deportees were forced to work on “irrigation canals” (but his proposed translation “irrigation canals” unnecessarily restricts the meaning of ‫)נַ ֲהרוֹת‬. 29 Cf. Lambertus A. Snijders, ‫נָ ָהר‬, ThWAT 5:281–91, 286–87. 30 Weeping and mourning are associated with and evoke “death” in the OT and in multiple cultures. 31 For Ps 46, see Lichtenstein, Mitte; Janowski, “Wohnung,” 45–60; cf. Ps 36:9; 65:10, and Ego, “Wasser.” 32 Cf. Janowski, “Wohnung,” 54; Othmar Keel, Die Welt der altorientalischen Bildsymbolik und das Alte Testament: Am Beispiel der Psalmen (5th ed., Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996), 131–33 (figure 2: see p. 132).

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Fig. 2: Relief from the palace of Ashurbanipal.

In Ps 137 trees are planted on the riverside. As a symbol of life, trees and water belong together constituting a characteristic constellation of motifs also in the OT. Compare for example Ps 1:3: 33 He will be like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields his fruit in its season, and his leaves will not wither, and in all that he does, he will prosper.

The positive image of a watered city in the opening verses of Ps 137, which in the Zion tradition is associated with the centre, namely Jerusalem, is used in 137:1–2 to depict a city which, from a Jerusalem centred view, is located in the periphery. Water and trees instead of waters of chaos or images of dryness characterize the periphery in this psalm. 34 Yet the streams of the city and its trees are a place of weeping, of tears and silence for the exiles in Babylon portrayed in Ps 137. The positive image of Babylon is thus 33 For Ps 1:3 see Friedhelm Hartenstein and Bernd Janowski, Psalmen (BKAT XV/1; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2012), 34–40 (Janowski). For the connection between trees and life-giving water cf. Ezek 47:12. Ps 1:3 has probably, as Janowski supposes, a Temple theological background; see Psalmen, 37. 34 For these negative images cf. Ps 42:2–3, 7–8; 63,1–3. Remarkably the announcement of the fall of Babylon in Jer 51:13 also assumes a positive image of a watered city: “you who dwell by many waters, rich in treasures, your end has come.” The watered city will be turned to a desert (Jer 51:43; cf. 50:38; 51:36).

Centre and Periphery in Psalm 137

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associated solely with the external circumstances of life of that group and stands in opposition to its inner situation. b) The Periphery as a Place of Suffering The emotional situation of the exiled Judeans in Babylon is depicted in terms of weeping (v. 1), silence of music (v. 2), and captivity and humiliation by mockery (vv. 3–4). V. 1: weeping: Living in the centre is associated with joy in the Zion psalms.35 “Weeping” (‫ )בכה‬characterizes life in the periphery in contrast to the former life full of joy in and nearby Zion.36 Moreover, if we consider the double meaning of ‫ישב‬, which carries the broad sense of “dwelling,” but also, the narrower of “sitting,” 37 “sitting” and “weeping” might be a sign of mourning and lament for the (dead) Jerusalem lying in ruins.38 V. 2: silence of music: V. 2 contains a unique expression. Considering each term of the phrase “hanging up our lyres on the poplars in its midst” describes an action which has the following symbolic dimensions: ‫ ִכּנּוֹר‬: Hanging up the ‫ ִכּנּוֹר‬, “lyre,” can be considered as an image of deep sadness and grief since this musical instrument usually is mentioned in context of joy, gladness and praise, particularly so in the psalms.39 Thus, in the periphery, the symbol of joy and praise turns to a symbol of silence. ‫תוֹכהּ‬ ָ ‫ ַ ל־ ֲ ָר ִבים ְבּ‬: Hanging up the lyre on trees ‫תוֹכהּ‬ ָ ‫ ְבּ‬, “in its midst,” i.e., in the centre of the city of Babylon, implies that everyone can see it, since the lyre is visible – in the height (‫ ) ַ ל‬and in the centre (‫)ב‬. This action symbolizes publicly that they have given up praise in the periphery.40 ‫תלה‬: The lyre may be considered as an image of death, because the verb ‫ תלה‬is primarily referred to death by “hanging” on a tree a human person or to postmortem impalement in the OT.41 In Ps 137 the verb refers to an object, 35

Cf. Ps 46:5; 48:3, 12. Cf. Ps 42:4. 37 Cf. n. 27. 38 Zenger supposes “that there were services of mourning … also in the Babylonian gulag,” but at the same time, he admits: “Perhaps, however, no cultic context at all is intended, but ‘only’ lament for the dead, for Zion and for Jerusalem” (Hossfeld and Zenger, Psalms, 515). Sitting on the ground is a usual posture for mourning and deep distress: see Gen 23:2–3; Isa 3:26; 47:1; Ezek 26:16; Job 2:8; Lam 2:10 et al. For weeping as an element of lamentation for the dead cf. Gen 21:16; 23:2–3; 50:3; Deut 34:8; Isa 22:12; Ezek 27:31; Ps 78:64 et al. 39 Cf. Ps 92:4; 98:5; 108:3; 147:7; 149:3; 150:3. 40 Cf. Maré, “Psalm 137,” 120. 41 Cf. Gen 40:19, 22; 41:13; Deut 21:22; Josh 8:29; 10:26; 2 Sam 4:12; 21:12; Lam 5:12; Esth 2:23; 5:14; 6:4; 7:9, 10; 9:13, 14; see Martin J. Mulder, ‫ ָתּלָ ה‬, ThWAT 8:657–62; George Savran, “‘How Can We Sing a song of the Lord?’: The Strategy of Lament in Psalm 137,” ZAW 112 (2000): 43–58, 46. 36

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which is less often documented in the OT.42 But in the context of mourning and weeping as is in Ps 137, the image of hanging up the lyre on trees brings up associations with violent death and demise.43 The connotation “death” may be intended in Ps 137, especially if we take into consideration that in the psalms breaking off the praise of God is characteristic for the dead. 44 Therefore, the lyre is a symbol of dead silence in the periphery. Not a sound was to be heard, the silence was absolute.45 Vv. 3–4: captivity and humiliation: The Babylonians are described by two participles, ‫שׁוֹבינוּ‬ ֵ (“those who led us captive” / “our captors”) and ‫תּוֹלָ לֵ ינוּ‬ (“those who led us into slavery” / “our tormentors”) characterizing their behavior towards the exiled Judeans in a negative way. Both participles indicate “an emotional qualification of the exile. The author of the Psalm experiences the exile as some sort of captivity.”46 Whereas the root ‫ שׁבה‬is often mentioned in prophetic texts describing the exile,47 the second participle ‫ תּוֹלָ לֵ ינוּ‬is a hapax legomenon which reinforces the negative view of the Babylonians. It is worth noting that nothing is said about violence or hard physical work. Instead, the conquerors cause internal distress for the deported by requesting a song of the city they destroyed. If the Babylonians are well aware of the content of the songs of Zion, then their request for a song about the invulnerability and inviolability of the city of God they destroyed would be tantamount to a chilling mockery. This is why, the exiled reply to the request with a rhetorical question: “How could we have sung the song of YHWH on foreign soil?” The answer is obvious: It is impossible to sing a song of Zion, or rather a song of YHWH, in a foreign land. The internal world of the Judeans living in the periphery depicted in vv. 1– 4 shapes thus a twofold contrast to the Zion psalms: firstly, joy, music and praise turn to weeping and silence, and secondly, the motif of the enemies being impressed by the strength of the city of Jerusalem and Zion48 turns to mockery towards the city. c) The Periphery as “Foreign Soil” At the end of first section the impossibility of singing a song of Zion is reasoned by living “on foreign soil” (‫) ַ ל ַא ְד ַמת נֵ ָכר‬. Insofar as it concerns

Cf. with ‫על‬: Ezek 15:3; 27:11; Ps 137:2; Job 26:7; Cant 4:4. Cf. Savran, “How can we sing,” 46. 44 Cf. Ps 6:6; 30:10; 88:11–13; Isa 38:18–19. See the remarks below on 137:6. 45 For silence of music as part of an announcement of judgment cf. Ezek 26:13. 46 Becking, “Exile,” 197. 47 Jer 13:17; 50:33; Ezek 12:11; Ps 106:46; cf. Jer 15:2; 20:6; 22:22. 48 Cf. for instance Ps 48:5–9, 13–15. 42

43

Centre and Periphery in Psalm 137

359

the characterization of the periphery in this section, the meaning of two terms describing Babylon(ia) bear notice: ‫ נֵ ָכר‬means “foreign” in contrast to “native.” But read in the light of the request for a song of YHWH in Babylon, we must notice that the noun is primarily used in the OT to designate “foreign gods” (‫) ֱא ֵהי ַהנֵּ ָכר‬. 49 This implies that the “soil” “is not merely a ‘foreign’ place but also the ‘soil’ of foreign gods.”50 Furthermore, it is remarkable that, along with the negative qualification of the land as ‫“( נֵ ָכר‬foreign”), the noun ‫ ֲא ָד ָמה‬is employed here, instead of the more generic term ‫“( ֶא ֶרץ‬land, earth”). The term ‫ ֲא ָד ָמה‬has different meanings, “cultivated land, soil, farmland,” “ground,” and “land.” 51 Often ‫ ֲא ָד ָמה‬is connected with positive connotations such as “fertile land” or “cultivable land” in contrast to “waste land” and “desert.”52 Therefore, in the context of the opening verses 1–2, the term ‫ ֲא ָד ָמה‬fits in with the depiction of the watered city with trees. The term ‫ ֲא ָד ָמה‬may characterize Babylon(ia) as a cultivated and fertile land.53 Thus, the expression ‫ ַא ְד ַמת נֵ ָכר‬is ambivalent: on the one hand, the connotation “fertile land” may be implied, on the other hand, it is a foreign land, a land of foreign gods. With regard to the framing inclusion formed by the two corresponding adverbial phrases of space (v. 1 ‫ ַ ל נַ ֲהרוֹת ָבּ ֶבל‬// v. 4 ‫) ַ ל ַא ְד ַמת נֵ ָכר‬, it is remarkable that in the first section vv. 1–4 there is a certain change in describing Babylon. The opening verses draw a positive picture of the external environment (landscape) depicting Babylon(ia) as an almost idyllic place of water and trees. But the experiences of the exiled such as weeping, silence, longing for Zion, and mockery turn this city to a place of foreignness. Therefore, the first section shows clearly the ambiguity of the exile.

49

Cf. Gen 35:2, 4; Deut 31:16; 32:12; Josh 24:20, 23; Judg 10:16; 1 Sam 7:3; 2 Chr 33:15; Jer 5:19; Mal 2:11 et al. Cf. the akk. equivalent nak(a)ru “foreign, enemy” and nakāru “to be foreign, to be hostile” (see AHw 2:718–20, 723) which has negative connotations. 50 Hossfeld and Zenger, Psalms, 526; Bernhard Lang, ‫נכר‬, ThWAT 5:454–63, 461. 51 See Hans Heinrich Schmid, ‫ ֲא ָד ָמה‬, THAT I:57–60; Josef G. Plöger, ‫ ֲא ָד ָמה‬, ThWAT 1:95–105, 96–98. 52 Cf. Schmid, ‫ ֲא ָד ָמה‬, 58. 53 This fits well with the cuneiform documents which provide evidence of an agricultural setting of the deportees in the fertile land of Babylonia. For an overview of the historical informations about the conditions of life in the Babylonian exile, see Becking, “Exile,” 185–90; idem, “In Babylon: The Exile as Historical (Re)Construction,” in From Babylon to Eternity: The Exile Remembered and Constructed in Text and Tradition (ed. Bob Becking et al. London: Equinox, 2009), 4–33, 17–21; Pearce, “New Evidence;” Berlejung, “Wider die Freuden,” 277–83 and Laurie E. Pearce and Cornelia Wunsch, Documents of Judean Exiles and West Semites in Babylonia in the Collection of David Sofer (CUSAS 28; Bethesda, Md.: CDL Press, 2014).

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Remarkably in Ps 137 there is a discrepancy between the emotions of the speaker and the description of the external circumstances, or more precisely the landscape. This discrepancy distinguishes Ps 137 clearly from other psalms describing life in the periphery. Often in the psalms emotions are reflected in the landscape. Suffering changes the perception of the world. The suffering psalmist depicts his environment from his emotional point of view. A psalmist longing for God far away from the Temple describes the periphery analogous to his feelings. In other words, the world in the psalms often is perceived from a perspective informed by the feelings of the psalmist. Compare, for instance, the images of dryness and wilderness in Ps 63:1–3: A Psalm of David, when he was in the Wilderness of Judah. O God, you are my God, I seek you, my soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you, as in a dry and weary land where there is no water. So I have looked upon you in the sanctuary, beholding your power and glory. (Ps 63,1–3, NRSV)

Or the images of the dryness in Ps 42:2–3 as well as the dangerous lifethreatening waters of chaos in Ps 42:7–8:54 As a deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, o God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When shall I come and behold the face of God? (Ps 42:2–3) My soul is cast down within me; therefore, I remember you from the land of Jordan and of Hermon, from Mount Mizar. Deep calls to deep at the thunder of your cataracts; all your waves and your billows have gone over me. (Ps 42:7–8)

On the one hand, emotions are reflected in the landscape, but on the other, images of the landscape such as the dry desert, barren land or life-threatening water floods serve to express emotions. Living in the periphery far away from the religious centre alters the perception of the environment and affects the body, according to the texts cited above. 2. Loyalty to the Centre: Jerusalem (vv. 5–6) Psalm 137 uses body-centred images in the middle section vv. 5–6. This section takes up again from v. 1 the topic of remembering Zion and enlarges on this theme. At the centre of the psalm, one encounters the speaker pronouncing a self-imprecation against forgetting Jerusalem. He now directly addresses the city of Jerusalem and utters an oath not to forget it. An individual voice is heard now, but the “I” speaks as a representative of the community (“we-

54 NRSV 42:6–7; translation according to NRSV. Cf. Jonah 2:3–5; see Ego, “Wasser,” 374–75.

Centre and Periphery in Psalm 137

361

group”).55 This shift to the first person singular is chosen deliberately. Speaking in the first person singular, instead of the first person plural, gives importance to the commitment: individuals have to decide by themselves whether they want to adhere to Jerusalem or to the comfortable life in the watered city of Babylon. Vv. 5–6 are closely linked together by the contrasting word-pair ‫“ שׁכח‬to forget” – ‫“ זכר‬to remember” and by body-centred images (‫“ יָ ִמין‬my right [hand],” ‫“ ָלשׁוֹן‬tongue,” '‫“ ֵח‬palate,” and ‫“ ר ֹאשׁ‬head”). The conditional selfdamnation is structured by a chiastic parallelism in an A B B’ A’ A’’ order with a remarkable climax at the end of the cola:56 V. 5 V. 6

A B B’ A’ A’’

Protasis (condition) Apodosis (consequence) Apodosis (consequence) Protasis (condition) Protasis (condition)

if … forget Jerusalem part of body: right hand – forget part of body: tongue – cling to palate if … not remember Jerusalem if … not heighten Jerusalem

Whereas in the first pair of conditional clauses the second colon repeats the verb from the first (v. 5: ‫“ שׁכח‬to forget”), the second pair varies the terms (v. 6: ‫“ דבק‬to cling, stick” – ‫“ לא זכר‬not to remember”). The first pair uses ‫אם‬, ִ a positive form; the second pair formulates in a negative way, ‫ ִאם־ל ֹא‬. The first and the second section of the psalm (vv. 1– 4 and vv. 5–6) are tied not only by the repetition of ‫“ זכר‬remember” (vv. 1, 6), but also by the noun ‫“ ִשׂ ְמ ָחה‬joy” (vv. 3, 6, cf. the notable climax in v. 6: not just “joy” but “the height of joy”) and by the preposition ‫( ַ ל‬vv. 1, 2, 4, 6).

Vv. 5–6 focus on the relationship between the “I” and the centre Jerusalem. Forgetting the centre concerns, as explicitly stated in the apodosis in the middle of the section, the body of the speaker, and remembering can – see the climactic last protasis – elevate the city of Jerusalem in his emotions. a) Apodosis: Forgetting the Centre Concerns the Body and the Human Being as a Whole The apodosis includes two parallel body-centred images ‫“ ִתּ ְשׁ ַכּח יְ ִמינִ י‬may my right hand forget” // ‫“ ִתּ ְד ַבּק־לְ שׁוֹנִ י ְל ִח ִכּי‬may my tongue cling to my palate.” What is the meaning of these bodily images? The first expression ‫ ִתּ ְשׁ ַכּח ְי ִמינִ י‬has especially been much debated. The MT reading ‫ִתּ ְשׁ ַכּח‬ ‫ ְי ִמינִ י‬seems to call for an object that is not stated, and consequently several proposals have been advanced.57 Thus, for instance, some add the missing object,58 while others, in the

55

Cf. Becking, “Memory,” 288. Cf. Becking, “Memory,” 287. 57 For an overview of the different interpretations see Rabe, “Hand.” 58 Cf. Ges18, 1352 s.v. ‫ ;שׁכח‬Michael D. Goulder, The Psalms of the Return (Book V, Psalm 107–150): Studies in the Psalter, IV (JSOTSup 258; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 225: “let my right hand forget her cunning.” 56

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light of the LXX, propose to vocalize ‫ תשׁכח‬as a niphal-form and regard it as passivum divinum. 59 A third group of scholars, e.g., H. Gunkel and H.-J. Kraus propose an emendation to the text; according to them, the original term was ‫ ִתּ ְכ ַחשׁ‬or ‫(“ ְתּ ַכ ֵחשׁ‬my right hand) may wither.”60 My own position is that it seems preferable to retain here the elliptic MT as lectio difficilior. The emendation ‫ ְתּ ַכ ֵחשׁ‬is not supported by the old versions; it seems to be a simplifying adaption to the image of dryness in the following semi-colon v. 6a. Moreover, the term ‫“ זכר‬remember” tends to “activate” its usual pair term, namely ‫שׁכח‬, and the pair as a whole fits well in the contexts of the verse. Furthermore, an active form of the verb ‫ שׁכח‬with the body term ‫ ָי ִמין‬as the subject seems more likely, due to parallelism in v. 5b and v. 6a. As a result, one may assume that the phrase ‫ ִתּ ְשׁ ַכּח ְי ִמינִ י‬is a deliberately chosen ellipsis (aposiopesis)61 meant to enable multiple interpretations.

Any study of body-centred images in the metaphorical language of the Psalter, or for that matter, in the OT, must take into consideration the accepted correlation between a certain part of body and its vital function.62 For example, ‫“ לֵ ב‬heart” is correlated predominantly with noetic functions such as thinking, remembering, and knowing, but similarly with emotions; in other words the term refers to the cognitive side of human beings, but also, if secondarily, to their emotional side.63 The connotations evoked by a reference to a body part are part and parcel of the message conveyed by such a reference. 1) ‫ יָ ִמין‬the right hand: Generally speaking, the right hand represents human action and power. By his right hand, a human being is acting energetically.64 Concerning the relationship with God, the right hand symbolizes closeness to God. In OT anthropology the right hand is the one God uses to interact with people. God takes the right hand of a human being in order to guide, to help, to save, or to accompany him during his life. Compare for example Ps 16:8; 73:23–24a, or Isa 41:13 and 45:1:65 I keep YHWH always before me; because he is at my right hand, I shall not be moved. (Ps 16:8) Nevertheless, I am continually with you; you hold my right hand. You guide me with your counsel … (Ps 73:23–24a)

Cf. Emmendörffer, Gott, 184; Spieckermann, Heilsgegenwart, 115–16 n. 3. See Kraus, Psalmen, 1082 (‫ ;) ְתּ ַכ ֵחשׁ‬Gunkel, Psalmen, 582. 61 Cf. Ges18, 1352 s.v. ‫שׁכח‬. 62 Cf. Bernd Janowski, “Das Herz – ein Beziehungsorgan: Zum Personverständnis des Alten Testaments,” in Dimensionen der Leiblichkeit: Theologische Zugänge (ed. Bernd Janowski and Christoph Schwöbel; Theologie Interdisziplinär 16; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag 2015), 1–45, 4–5. 63 Cf. Janowski, “Herz,” 12–18. 64 Cf. Alberto Soggin and Heinz-Josef Fabry, ‫ ָי ִמין‬, ThWAT 3:658–63, 660. 65 Translation according to NRSV. 59

60

Centre and Periphery in Psalm 137

363

For I, YHWH your God, hold your right hand; it is I who say to you, “Fear not, I will help you.” (Isa 41:13) Thus says YHWH to his anointed, to Cyrus, whose right hand I have grasped to subdue nations before him and strip kings of their robes, to open doors before him – and the gates shall not be closed. (Isa 45:1)

2) ‫ ָלשׁוֹן‬the tongue: In OT anthropology the tongue is the organ for speech66 and singing. 67 The tongue symbolizes also the medium of communication with God.68 Thus, according to the psalms of thanksgiving, the tongue is the organ for praise; compare, for instance, Ps 35:28: “Then my tongue shall tell of your righteousness and of your praise all the day long.”69 Against this background, the relevant (body-centred) expressions in Ps 137, namely ‫“ ִתּ ְשׁ ַכּח יְ ִמינִ י‬may my right hand forget” and ‫ִתּ ְד ַבּק־לְ שׁוֹנִ י לְ ִח ִכּי‬ “may my tongue cling to my palate,” may be interpreted in the following way: 1) In a strict sense both, right hand and tongue, refer – within the context of Ps 137:1–4 – to playing the lyre and singing a song, as often assumed. “The right hand forgets” means the hands of the speaker are no longer able to play the musical instrument, and “his tongue clings to his palate” means, he is unable to speak or sing at all, even unable to praise God.70 2) Within the general context of OT anthropology, the parallelism may also be understood in a more generic sense: his right hand and his tongue are metonyms for action and for speech, two fundamental aspects of human life. By forgetting Jerusalem, the psalmist will be unable to sing and play the lyre, but in addition, he will be unable to speak and act at all, and that means he will be unable to live. Since acting and speaking are two complementary aspects of human life, the psalmist expresses that his whole human being is affected. His whole life is in question, and he nears his death. 3) The body-centred images of vv. 5–6 may also be understood in a metaphorical sense, as images and metaphors of death, from a complementary perspective. “The hand forgets” indicates not only that the hand forgets to play the lyre or how to act, but also of her relationship to God, since the right hand, as shown before, represents a symbol of closeness to God and of God’s lifelong help (cf. Ps 16:8), with the result that the life of the psalmist is at stake.

66

Ps 12:4, Job 33:2. Isa 35:6. 68 Cf. Benjamin Kedar-Kopfstein, ‫לָ שׁוֹן‬, ThWAT 4:595–605, 605. 69 Cf. Ps 51:16; 71:24; 126:2. 70 Cf. Gunkel, Psalmen, 579; Rabe, “Hand,” 448; Körting, Zion, 79; Becking, “Exile,” 193, 199. 67

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The expression ‫“ ִתּ ְד ַבּק־לְ שׁוֹנִ י לְ ִח ִכּי‬may my tongue cling to my palate” represents an image of death, as well. This motif occurs five times in the OT.71 First, in the proper sense this expression is an image of thirst. Compare for example the lament in view of the destruction of Jerusalem in Lam 4:4: The tongue of the nursling clings to the roof of its mouth for thirst; the children beg for food, but no one gives to them. (Lam 4:4)

Second, “the tongue clings to the palate” represents an image of becoming silent. Compare for example Ezek 3:26 and Job 29:10: And I will make your tongue cling to your palate, so that you shall be dumb and unable to reprove them; for they are a rebellious house. (Ezek 3:26) The voice of the nobles was hushed, and their tongue clung to their palate. (Job 29:10)

As announced in these two verses, the prophet Ezekiel as well as the nobles will no longer be able to speak. Third, in Ps 22 this body-centred image describes in a metaphorical sense the death of the individual and thus serves as an image of death:72 My mouth is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue clings to my palate; you lay me in the dust of death. (Ps 22:16)

In Ps 137:6 the motif “the tongue clings to the palate” evokes first dryness, and thereby a sharp contrast to the watered city in v. 1 is created.73 It also serves as an image of becoming silent, since the speaker is no longer able to praise God. Finally, it is also an image of death, since life is among other things characterized by praising God. Death is, however, a realm of silence. The dead are no longer able to praise God (cf. Ps 6:6). Consequently, being no longer able to praise God, the speaker of Ps 137 approaches death in the periphery. In sum, the body-centred images in vv. 5–6 show that by forgetting Jerusalem, which is the centre, and Zion, which is a source of life, the speaker comes near death. Or, in other words, forgetting the centre in the periphery, even if the environment of periphery is pictured as a centre, brings the speaker of the psalm near death.

71

Lam 4:4; Ezek 3:26; Job 29:10; Ps 22:16; 137:5. Cf. Dörte Bester, Körperbilder in den Psalmen: Studien zu Psalm 22 und verwandten Texten (FAT II/24; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 211. 73 In this respect Ps 137:6 could be compared to other images of dryness describing life far away from God, cf. Ps 42:3; 63:2–3. 72

Centre and Periphery in Psalm 137

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b) Protasis: Remembering the Centre Elevates Jerusalem Each protasis consists of the particle ‫ ִאם‬or ‫ ִאם־לֹא‬with the paralleled verbs from the roots ‫“ שׁכח‬forget,” ‫“ זכר‬remember,” and ‫ עלה‬hif. “to heighten (Jerusalem).” It is remarkable that the section vv. 5–6 leads to its heightened conclusion with ‫רוּשׁלַ ִם ַ ל ר ֹאשׁ ִשׂ ְמ ָח ִתי‬ ָ ְ‫ ִאם־ל ֹא ַא ֲ ֶלה ֶאת־י‬. The expression ‫ ַ ל ר ֹאשׁ ִשׂ ְמ ָח ִתי‬is often translated freely as “the highest joy,”74 but it might be better to render it closer to the Hebrew syntax, namely “if I do not heighten Jerusalem above / to the height of my joy.”75 This translation makes the pointed correspondence of verb (‫ עלה‬hif.) and preposition (‫) ַ ל‬ noticeable. (It is worth noting in this context that ‫“ ר ֹאשׁ‬head,” which obviously belongs to the category of body-centred terms discussed above, is used here in a [geographical] meaning of “highest point,” “height,” “summit.”) But what does it mean “to heighten Jerusalem above / to the height of my joy?” ‫ עלה‬in the hiphil is a verb of movement. Human beings may be brought up (e.g. the people of Israel from Egypt, 76 or the dead from the netherworld77), but also sacrifices are brought up, to the altar,78 and objects like the ark of the covenant may be brought up as well.79 The combination of the verb ‫ עלה‬in the hiphil (with causative meaning) with a city as an object is very unusual. This personification of the city of Jerusalem finds a parallel in Jer 51:50: You that have escaped from the sword, go, do not linger! Remember (‫ )זכר‬the Lord from afar, and Jerusalem heightens to (‫ )עלה ַ ל‬your heart!

Jer 51:50 offers a comparable parallelism of ‫ זכר‬and ‫עלה ַ ל‬, but, in contrast to Ps 137:6, with an active meaning of ‫( עלה‬qal + subj. ‫רוּשׁלַ ִם‬ ָ ְ‫ )י‬and with ‫ַ ל־‬ ‫ ;לֵ ב‬instead of ‫ ַ ל ר ֹאשׁ ִשׂ ְמ ָח ִתי‬. The returnees are requested to remember Jerusalem and to heighten it to their heart, that is, to the centre of their person. ‫ל־לב‬ ֵ ַ ‫ עלה‬means to devote oneself intensively to Jerusalem. Remembering the city of Jerusalem shall dominate their whole person, their mind as well as their emotions. The request to elevate Jerusalem to the heart serves in the context of Jer 51:50 as an appeal to return from the periphery (‫“ ֵמ ָרחוֹק‬from afar”) to the centre. Cf., for instance, the translation of Allen, Psalms, 235: “if I not set Jerusalem above my highest joy.” 75 Cf. Becking, “Exile,” 192. 76 Cf. Gen 46:4; 50:24; Exod 3:8, 17; 33:12, 15; Josh 24:17; Judg 2:1 et al. 77 Cf. 1 Sam 2:6; Ps 30:4; 40:3; 71:20; Jonah 2:7. 78 Cf. Exod 24:5; 30:9; 32:6; 40:29; Lev 14:20; Deut 27:6 et al. 79 Cf. 2 Sam 6:2, 12; 1 Kgs 8:1, 4; 1 Chr 13:6 et al. 74

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In Ps 137 there is a slight difference speaking of ‫עלה ַ ל ר ֹאשׁ ִשׂ ְמ ָח ִתי‬ instead of ‫עלה ַ ל־לֵ ב‬. In addition to the noetic aspect of the relationship with Jerusalem (expressed by the contrastive word-pair ‫“ זכר‬to remember, to remind” versus ‫“ שׁכח‬to forget”), vv. 5–6 emphasize the emotional relationship to the city (‫) ִשׂ ְמ ָחה‬. This difference between Jer 51:50 and Ps 137:6 is due to the context of Ps 137 contrasting by means of emotions periphery (“weeping,” v. 1) and centre (“joy,” v. 6). Regarding the root ‫ עלה‬in combination with the city of Jerusalem we furthermore have to focus on two other text corpora, or, more specifically, on two collections of psalms: 1) The psalms of Zion: Fitting the implicit worldview of the Jerusalem Temple theology, the verb ‫ עלה‬hiphil in this case “heighten” communicates a sense of a vertical axis. This being the case, additionally, “to heighten Jerusalem” may shape also as an allusion to one of the central motifs of the Zion tradition: the height of the holy mountain Zion praised as the source of joy in Ps 48. It bears mentioning that, in addition to this veiled reference to the height of Jerusalem, Ps 48 and Ps 137 share the motif of delighting in the city (see ‫ ָמשׂוֹשׂ‬which is a synonym of ‫ ִשׂ ְמ ָחה‬in Ps 48:3 and cf. Ps 137:6): The mountain of his sanctuary, a beautiful height, [is] the joy of the whole world. (Ps 48:2–3)80

2) The psalms of Ascent (Pss 120–134): In the context of the Psalter, the root ‫ עלה‬carries an allusion to the psalms of Ascent, in which ‫ עלה‬often refers to “going up” to Jerusalem, or rather to the sanctuary on the mountain Zion. See, for example Ps 122:4–5: Jerusalem – built as a city that is bound firmly together. To it the tribes go up (‫)עלה‬, the tribes of YHWH, as was decreed for Israel, to give thanks to the name of the YHWH. (Ps 122:4–5 NRSV)

This type of utterance is inverted in Ps 137. While in the Psalms of Ascents, the psalmist is ascending (‫ )עלה‬to Jerusalem, in Ps 137 he himself heightens (‫ עלה‬hiphil “causes to ascend”) Jerusalem in his mind and emotions by remem-bering his former centre of life from afar. Beyond these references to the psalms of Zion and the psalms of Ascent, another allusion is noteworthy: Given the context of weeping and mourning (v. 1) as well as in the context of mentioning the destruction of Jerusalem in v. 7 (“day of Jerusalem”), the occurrence of ‫ עלה‬in the hiphil in Ps 137 could presumably also allude to a special range of meanings within the conceptual realm of death. ‫ עלה‬in the hiphil may be used in the sense of “to let a dead person go up from the netherworld.” Being mindful of Jerusalem “brings” the city “up,” i.e., “activates” its image in the mind and in the emotional world of 80

For Ps 48 cf. Leuenberger, “Großkönig,” 143–48.

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the speaker. Thus the psalmist establishes an emotional relationship between him and the city of Jerusalem. Even if the city is far away, in his mind she is nearby. Even if the city is destroyed, lying down in ruins like a dead person, in his mind she is, by remembering her, “brought up” and revived. To sum up vv. 5–6, on the one side, the psalmist himself stays alive by remembering Jerusalem, which is the source of life according to Zion theology, and on the other side, the destroyed Jerusalem is revived in his mind by being remembered. Turning now to the relation between the two units in Ps 137:1–6, vv. 1–4 (Babylon/ia-centred) and vv. 5–6 (Jerusalem-centred), the following observations show how the texts shapes a main contrast between these two sections, and thus between, periphery and centre, via concatenation. 1) The preposition ‫ ַ ל‬in v. 6b takes up the adverbial phrases of place in vv. 1, 2, 4 (Babylon), whereby the contrast between the first two units as well as between the two locations, i.e., the two cities of the psalm is sharpened:81 The rivers of Babylon are the place of weeping (v. 1), Jerusalem is connected with joy (v. 6). 2) The concatenation between vv. 3 and 6, which are bound together by the shared occurrence of ‫ ִשׂ ְמ ָחה‬, leads to a climax in v. 6, in which the text refers not just to “joy” but to “the highest joy.” In contrast to the debasing cynic and mocking “joy” of the captors,82 the “joy” of the psalmist consists in elevating the destroyed city in his mind up “to the height of joy.” 3. Curse for the Periphery: Babylon (vv. 7–9) After his personal commitment to Jerusalem, by which the identity of the community is (re-)established, the “I” in the world portrayed in the text can now rejoin the “we-group.”83 Vv. 7–9 are directly addressed to YHWH and to Cf. Hossfeld and Zenger, Psalms, 516. The captors would have had “joy” in a song of Zion (v. 3). Since Zion and Jerusalem are destroyed, a song about this city, which traditionally praises their invulnerability and invincibility, would cause “joy” for those who had conquered and destroyed her. 83 Since the individual speaker of vv. 5–6 promised not to forget Jerusalem, his tongue is further able to speak the following verses 7–9, now together with the “we-group.” The shift in person from “I” to “we” throws new light on vv. 5–6. Losing the ability to act and to speak at all means not only the end of the relationship with God, but also social isolation which is, according to OT anthropology, a kind of ‘social death,’ because, a human being “does not exist as an isolated ‘I’ but involved within the social constellations in which one lives and acts (constellatory understanding of the human person)” (Janowski, Arguing, 42). By being able to speak and to pronounce his commitment to Jerusalem the speaker stays within the “we-group,” since the identity of the group is constituted by this oath of allegiance to the centre Jerusalem. And even more, after the commitment, the “we-group” becomes in a certain sense, as Becking pointed out, more active: there is a movement from 81 82

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“daughter Babylon.” Based on the strong commitment to his centre, Jerusalem, the speaker now vehemently opposes the periphery.84 With regard to the topic “centre and periphery” two aspects of these closing verses should be considered. One concerns the centre, namely the matter of its foundation and destruction (v. 7), and the other, the periphery, namely the destruction of two peripheral locations, Edom and Babylon. a) The Foundation and Destruction of the Centre: Jerusalem V. 7 is a directly addressed speech to YHWH requesting him to “remember”85 what the Edomites did on the “day of Jerusalem.” 86 On this day, when Jerusalem was conquered by the Babylonians, the Edomites encouraged them to destroy the city “to its ground.” Ps 137 quotes the Edomites: “Expose her, expose unto the foundations in it (‫) ַ ד ַהיְ סוֹד ָבּהּ‬.” Two aspects of the latter expression, i.e., ‫ ַ ד ַהיְ סוֹד ָבּהּ‬deserve particular attention. First, ‫ יְ סוֹד‬reflects the implicit worldview of Ps 137. A sharp contrast between height and depth is marked by the use of this term. After the commitment to elevate Jerusalem (v. 6b: ‫ ר ֹאשׁ‬/ height), the following verse looks down to the other end of the vertical axis, to the ground of the city (v. 7: ‫ יְ סוֹד‬/ depth).87 Secondly, the term ‫ יְ סוֹד‬alludes to the Zion tradition, as it refers to the foundation of the city and describes, as well as its Akkadian equivalent išdu, the imperturbable ground of the city. 88 Since God has founded the city, the reaction of mourning (first section) to a cry for revenge (third section); cf. Becking, “Exile,” 201. 84 The third unit of the psalm has been much discussed among interpreters because of the cruel images of violence. This topic goes beyond the scope of this contribution. For the violent language and the desires of retaliation in vv. 7–9 see, e.g., Michel, Gott und Gewalt, 163–99; Ulrich Berges, “‘Wie können wir singen das Lied JHWHs auf dem Boden der Fremde?’ (Ps 137:4): Zum Spannungsfeld von Gewalt und Gotteslob,” in Fragen wider die Antworten (ed. Kerstin Schiffner et al., Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus 2010), 356–68; Ruth Scoralick, “‘An den Strömen Babels …’ (Ps 137:1),” forum mission 5 (2009): 68–88; Hossfeld and Zenger, Psalms, 520, 522–23. 85 In this section the meaning of the key word ‫ זכר‬differs from v. 1, 5; cf. Becking, “Exile,” 200; Ahn, “Psalm 137,” 285–86. 86 For the meaning of this expression see Becking, “Exile,” 199. 87 For the opposition between ‫ ר ֹאשׁ‬and ‫ ; ְיסוֹד‬cf. Hab 3:13. 88 Cf. AHw I:393–94, see Rudolf Mosis, ‫יסד‬, ThWAT 3:668–82, 669. For the ancient Near Eastern iconographic background of the idea of God resp. the king founding the city or the temple compare the foundation figurines representing the founder of a building; cf. figure 2.2. and 2.3. in Friedhelm Hartenstein, “Tempelgründung als ‘fremdes Werk’: Beobachtungen zum ‘Ecksteinwort’ Jesaja 28,16–17,” in Das Archiv des verborgenen Gottes: Studien zur Unheilsprophetie Jesajas und zur Zionstheologie der Psalmen in assyrischer Zeit (BThSt 74; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2011), 31–61, 57– 58. See, e.g., the foundation figurine from the time of Gudea of Lagasch showing a

Centre and Periphery in Psalm 137

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stability and perpetuity of Jerusalem and of the sanctuary are guaranteed forever. Written within the pre-exilic Zion tradition, Ps 48 describes this stability with the root ‫ כון‬as a synonym of ‫יסד‬: As we have heard, so have we seen in the city of YHWH Zebaoth, in the city of our God, which God establishes (‫ )כון‬forever. (Ps 48:9)

This motif was adopted by a post-exilic Zion Psalm, namely Ps 87, which describes foreign people as children of the city and thus “presents a postexilic new version of the preexilic Zion theology.” 89 Nevertheless, insofar as it concerns the foundation of the city, Ps 87 offers a traditional view. Vv.1, 5 are closely related together by the corresponding synonymic roots ‫ יסד‬and ‫כון‬: His foundation (‫ )יְ סוֹד‬on holy mountains, YHWH loves the gates of Zion … (Ps 87:1–2) Zion … he who establishes (‫ כון‬pol.) her is the Most High. (Ps 87:5)

Describing the “foundation on holy mountains,” Ps 87:1–2 adopts a motif from the pre-exilic section of Ps 48 (vv. 2–3) referring to the former foundation of the city and the Temple on the holy mountain of God, whereas its synonym ‫ כון‬occurs in Ps 87:5 as well as in Ps 48:9 and describes the perpetual preservation of the city and Zion (iterative yiqtol). It is worth noting that the last verse Ps 87:7 relates delight in Zion (‫“ ִשׁיר‬to sing”) with the motif of water, “And they sing while dancing: ‘All my springs are in you!’”90 The phrase alludes to the image of the city watered by a river and its canals (see Ps 46:5). In the periphery, on the contrast, it is impossible to sing songs, even though living on the banks of the rivers of a well-watered city (Ps 137). Further parallels to the motif of a Zion founded and established by God appear in texts that communicate this Zion tradition in the book of Isaiah. Isa 28:16 is presumably the older text in this regard:91

kneeling god holding a huge peg symbolizing his participation in the foundation of the temple. 89 Frank-Lothar Hossfeld and Erich Zenger, Psalms 2: A Commentary on Psalms 51– 100 (trans. Linda M. Maloney; Hermeneia; Minneapolis, Minn., Fortress Press, 2005), 382; cf. Christl M. Maier, “Psalm 87 as a Reappraisal of the Zion Tradition and Its Reception in Galatians 4:26,” CBQ 69 (2007): 473–86, 477. 90 For the translation see Maier, “Psalm 87,” 475. 91 For the interpretation and date of Isa 28:16–17, see Hartenstein, “Tempelgründung,” 42–51, 55–56; Jaap Dekker, Zion’s Rock – Solid Foundations: An Exegetical Study of the Zion Text in Isaiah 28:16 (OtSt 54; Leiden et al.: Brill, 2007).

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Therefore, thus says the Lord YHWH, “Behold, I am laying in Zion a foundation stone, a tested stone, a precious cornerstone, of a sure foundation: ‘He who believes will not be in haste.’” (Isa 28:16 NRSV)

The foundation of Zion is portrayed as the necessary ground for the safety and security of the poor and afflicted people in Isa 14:32.92 The root ‫חסה‬ belongs to the semantic field of the Jerusalem Temple theology and refers to the refuge in the Temple: What will one answer the messengers of the nation? “YHWH has founded Zion, and the needy among his people will find refuge in her.” (Isa 14:32 NRSV)

Psalm 137 adopts from the Zion tradition the motif of the foundation of the city and the Temple. As it does so, it sharpens the contrast between past and present and shapes also a contrast between itself (Ps 137) and the songs of Zion. While the psalms of Zion celebrate the sure foundation of the city and the Temple (‫ )יסד‬and praise YHWH stabilizing the city forever (‫)כון‬, Ps 137:7 refers to its destruction “unto its foundation.” By resuming this central motif of the Zion tradition, Ps 137 depicts the fall of Jerusalem, and even the fall of a central theologoumenon of the Zion tradition: Jerusalem, once founded and since then permanently stabilized by YHWH, but now completely destroyed. The city of Jerusalem was destroyed in such a way that its foundation underneath was “exposed” (‫)ערה‬. The motif of exposing the foundations has parallels in prophetic announcements, using either ‫“ ערה‬expose” or ‫“ גלה‬lay bare, uncover;” see Hab 3:13 (foundation of a house); Ezek 13:14 (foundation of walls); Ezek 30:4 (foundation of the land of Egypt); Mic 1:6 (foundation of the city of Samaria). Lam 4:11 depicts not only the uncovering, but also the destruction of the foundations themselves, when the wrath of God kindles a fire in Zion which consumed (‫ )אכל‬the foundations of Zion. Even though “the kings of the earth did not believe, nor did any of the inhabitants of the world, that foe or enemy could enter the gates of Jerusalem” (Lam 4:12 NRSV), the foundations of Jerusalem were indeed destroyed. Texts such as Lam 4:11–12 and Ps 137:7 communicate that the theologoumenon of the invulnerability and inviolability of the city of God taken for granted in the Zion psalms has lost its credibility: The city exposed and destroyed down to the foundations cannot but be imagined as vulnerable, defenseless and unprotected. Remembering the destruction of Jerusalem and its significance, the speaker pleas for the destruction of the periphery.

92 For the date of Isa 14:32 see Hartenstein, “Tempelgründung,” 53; Willem A. M. Beuken, Jesaja 13–27 (HThKAT; Freiburg, Basel, and Wien: Herder, 2007), 27, 113.

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b) The Destruction of the Periphery: Edom and Babylon It is remarkable that in the closing verses 7–9 the periphery becomes more differentiated. Whereas the first two sections concentrate only on the opposition between the centre (i.e. Jerusalem/Zion) and the periphery (i.e., Babylon/ia), the perspective is now widened. Psalm 137 distinguishes between the periphery situated nearby Jerusalem and Judah, i.e. Edom, and the far distant periphery, i.e. Babylon(ia). These two locations in the periphery are poetically correlated by family-centred terms such as “sons of Edom,” “daughter Babylon”93 and “children of Babylon.” Psalm 137 turns first against the “nearby periphery,” i.e., Edom, the immediate neighbor. YHWH shall “remember” the behavior of the Edomites during the siege and destruction of Jerusalem.94 ‫ זכר‬is used in negative sense and is associated with ‫ שׁלם‬in the piel “repay, retaliate” (cf. v. 8). Remarkably, and unlike the case of Babylon(ia), there is no explicit description of the revenge against the “nearby periphery,” Edom. Secondly, Ps 137 turns against the “far distant periphery,” i.e., Babylon(ia), which is directly addressed in v. 8 in contrast to the neighbors of the “nearby periphery.” Vv. 8–9 are two beatitude formulas used in a perverted form by their combination with curses against the city. While v. 8 formulates in a more general way on the basis of the ius talionis (with ‫ שׁלם‬in the piel “repay, retaliate” as terminus technicus and with the repetition of the root ‫)גמל‬, v. 9 concentrates on a particular case, that is, the brutal action against the children. In contrast to the preceding Psalms of Ascent the speaker of Ps 137 does not express his wishes concerning the welfare of the centre (contrast with, e.g., Ps 122). He does not even request the rebuilding of the destroyed centre. It seems more important for him that the same harsh fate overtakes the city of Babylon. But he requests even more than the devastation of the city of Babylon “to its ground.” The children of the Babylonians should be killed (v. 9). Since the youngest generation represents the future of a nation, this means finally the death of the Babylonian nation as a whole. The city of Babylon abundant with water, described at the beginning of the psalm with the water and trees as images of life, is at the end confronted with the death of all its inhabitants. Unlike the future fate of the “nearby periphery” Edom, that of the “distant periphery” Babylon is described in a more elaborated and harsh way.

The combination of the familiar term ‫ ַבּת‬with a city or nation represents a personification, ususally related to Zion, but also to other cities and nations. In Ps 137 this expression is shaped analogous to ‫ ; ַבּת ִציּוֹן‬cf. Emmendörffer, Gott, 191 n. 450. 94 Cf. Obad 10–16; Ezek 25:12–14; 35:5–7; Lam 4:21–22. 93

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The choice of words and motifs describing the peripheral Babylon and its fate in the last two verses of the psalm indicates an important shift in language. The motifs and terms of vv. 7–9 derive primarily from prophetic language, and not, as in the preceding verses, from the psalms, especially the psalms of Zion. In fact, the curse against Babylon shows certain parallels to Jer 51:95 1) Destruction of Babylon: The verb ‫“ שׁדד‬to destroy” (Ps 137:8) is primarily used in prophetic literature. Interestingly, half of the instances of this verb appear in the book of Jeremiah, cumulated in Jer 4 (against Jerusalem), 48 (against Moab) and particularly in Jer 51, announcing the destruction of Babylon in vv. 48, 53, 55, 56 (in each case with an active participle). 96 If we render the passive participle ‫דוּדה‬ ָ ‫ ְשׁ‬in Ps 137:8, as proposed above, by “to be destroyed,” the hope for future destruction in Ps 137:8 corresponds to the prophetic announcement against Babylon in Jer 51. 2) Retaliation against Babylon: ‫( שׁלם‬piel) “to repay, requite” (Ps 137:8) serves as a terminus technicus for retaliation (ius talionis), and is used in this sense in different contexts and in various OT books.97 Whereas Ps 137:8 uses a beatitude formula (with no explicit reference to God and/or to human beings: “blessed is the one who will repay…”),98 Jer 51 repeats in various ways that God himself will repay Babylon (Jer 51:6, 24, 56). 3) Dashing the children of Babylon: Ps 137:9 shapes a particularly harsh image of killing human beings, through the use of ‫( נפק‬piel) “to dash” (cf. Ps 2:9; Jer 51:20, 21, 22, 23). Killing children was not uncommon in ancient Near Eastern warfare, and in other areas/periods. In this context other prophetic texts use the term ‫( רטשׁ‬see Nah 3:1; Isa 13:16; Hos 10:14; 14:1, cf. 2 Kgs 8:12). A ius talionis correlation exists between Jer 51:23 and Ps 137:9: Babylon dashed, among others, children and, as a consequence, Babylon’s children shall be dashed. 4) The “rock” of Babylon: The closing word within Ps 137 is ‫“ ֶסלַ ע‬rock.” Since the term does not fit well the geographical location of the city of Babylon, much debate has ensued on ‫ ֶס ַלע‬. U. Kellermann, for example, proposed that the last two verses of Ps 137 refer to Edom, which is explicitly mentioned in v. 7, since rocks are characteristic of the topography of Edom, but not of Babylon(ia).99 Other interpreters point to the cruelty of the image 95

For the discussion about the literary historical relationship between Jer 51 and Ps 137 see Hossfeld and Zenger, Psalms, 520; Michel, Gott und Gewalt, 186–87; Berlejung, “Wider die Freuden,” 271. 96 For the usage of the verb ‫ שׁדד‬in Jeremiah see Freedman and Welch, ‫ ָשׁ ַדד‬, 1073–74. 97 For an overview see Karl-Johan Illman, ‫ ָשׁלֵ ם‬, ThWAT 8:93–101, 96–97. 98 The reference of the beatitude formula has been much debated, cf. Hossfeld and Zenger, Psalms, 521; Spieckermann, Heilsgegenwart, 121; Körting, Zion, 81 n. 362. 99 See Kellermann, “Psalm 137,” 47–48; cf. Loretz, “An den Wassern Babels,” 409, 412 (vv. 7–9 as “song of Edom”).

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and thus dislodge it from the particular geography of Babylon(ia). In this case, the rock represents the fatal harshness of the vengeance.100 The reference to the rock here probably alludes to prophetic announcements of judgment against foreign nations in prophetic literature (see esp. Jer 51:25). The “rock” appears, in some cases, in the form of figurative language not intended to depict a real landscape or the location. In Jer 51:25, for instance, the references to mountains and rocks shape an image of a strong and invincible city101 and accordingly, serve to heighten the prophetic announcement of destruction. Babylon, the fortified city/mountain will be rolled down from her rocks: Behold, I am against you, O destroying mountain, says YHWH, which destroys the whole earth; I will stretch out my hand against you, and roll you down from the rocks, and make you a burnt mountain. No stone shall be taken from you for a corner and no stone for a foundation (‫מוֹסדוֹת‬ ָ ְ‫) ֶא ֶבן ל‬, but you shall be a perpetual waste, says YHWH. (Jer 51,25–26)

There are additional intertextual connections between Ps 137 and Jer 51 (cf. the root ‫)יסד‬. Both deal with the fall of a city: the fall of Jerusalem (Ps 137:7) and the fall of Babylon (Jer 51:26; Ps 137:8–9). Whereas the former is destroyed up “to its foundation (‫( ”)יְ סוֹד‬Ps 137:7), the latter is completely destroyed, because the stones of the destroyed Babylonian capital are not even suitable as foundation stones (‫מוֹס ָדה‬ ָ , Jer 51:26). Babylon will be a “perpetual waste,” unlike Jerusalem. But ‫“ ֶסלַ ע‬rock” may be used also within prophetic figurative language to depict the outcome of destruction, and thus provide an image for a city that exists no more, e.g., for Tyre in Ezek 26:4–5, 14: They shall destroy the walls of Tyre, and break down its towers; and I will scrape its soil from it, and make it a bare rock (‫) ֶסלַ ע‬. It shall become, in the midst of the sea, a place for the spreading nets; I have spoken, says the Lord YHWH. (Ezek 26:4–5 NRSV) I will make you a bare rock (‫ ;) ֶסלַ ע‬you shall be a place for spreading nets. You shall never again be rebuilt, for I YHWH have spoken, says the Lord YHWH. (Ezek 26:14 NRSV)

The “bare rock” is now imagined as a place for drying fishing nets and consequently, dryness may be associated with the “rock.” For that reason, S. Bar-Efrat suggests with regard to Ps 137, that the “rock” serves to indicate dry and infertile land: “The rock at the end of the psalm thus functions as an antithesis to the waters at the beginning. The psalm begins and ends with

100 101

Cf. Ernst Haag, ‫ ֶסלַ ע‬, ThWAT 5:872–80, 878. Cf. Haag, ‫ ֶסלַ ע‬, 878.

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Babylon, but, whereas at the beginning Babylon was characterized by abundance of water, at the end it has become dry and barren.”102 The image of a drained Babylon appears also in Jer 51: Therefore thus says YHWH: Behold, I am going to defend your cause and take vengeance for you. I will dry up her sea and make her fountain dry; and Babylon shall become a heap of ruins, a den of jackals, an object of horror and of hissing, without inhabitant. (Jer 51:36–37 NRSV)

Clearly, Jer 51:36–37 pictures the former watered city as ruins and wasteland. The motif of the rock in Ps 137:9 might then allude to dryness, as Bar-Efrat assumes, but becomes relevant in terms of Ps 137 only when it is read in a way informed by Jer 51:36–37. The motif of the rock as a figurative marker for strength is more general. In addition to the previously mentioned general prophetic images of dryness, strength and destruction, ‫ ֶסלַ ע‬occurs in relation to Edom and its landscape in the OT.103 The appearance of the term ‫ ֶסלַ ע‬within a literary context that refers to both Edom and Babylon (Ps 137:7–9), draws the attention to the Neo-Babylonian rock relief at Selaʿ (“Rock”) in northern Edom as a potential resource that may shed historical light on the matter. The Nabonid Chronicle reports the campaign of Nabonid to Edom (553 B.C.E.) and the siege and conquest of Edom.104 The rock relief at Selaʿ shows a standing figure of a Babylonian king, presumably Nabonid,105 with three divine symbols (moon disk, winged disk, and a sun or star disk). It is an important witness of the powerful presence of the Babylonians in Edom, even though the cuneiform

102 Simon Bar-Efrat, “Love of Zion: A Literary Interpretation of Psalm 137,” in Tehillah le-moshe: Biblical and Judaic Studies in Honor of Moshe Greenberg (ed. Mordechai Cogan et al.; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1997), 3–11, 10. The contrastive relation between the first and the last verse of the psalm is sharpened by a wordplay with an inversion of the consonants ‫ ע‬and ‫ל‬: ‫( על‬v. 1) and ‫( ֶסלַ ע‬v. 6). 103 Cf. Haag, ‫ ֶסלַ ע‬, 875–76. 104 See Manfred Weippert, Historisches Textbuch zum Alten Testament (GAT 10; Göttingen and Oakville: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht 2010), 434. 105 Cf. Stephanie Dalley and Anne Goguel, “The Selaʿ Sculpture: A Neo-Babylonian Rock Relief in Southern Jordan,” ADAJ 41 (1997): 169–76, 172–76; Alexander A. Fischer, “Der Edom-Spruch in Jesaja 21: Sein literaturgeschichtlicher und sein zeitgeschichtlicher Kontext,” in Gott und Mensch im Dialog: Festschrift für Otto Kaiser zum 80. Geburtstag (ed. Markus Witte; BZAW 345; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004), 471–90, 485–87; Othmar Keel, Die Geschichte Jerusalems und die Entstehung des Monotheismus (OLB IV,1; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007), 848; Piotr Bienkowski, “New Evidence on Edom in the Neo-Babylonian and Persian Periods,” in The Land I Will Show You: Essays on the History and Archaeology of the Ancient Near East in Honor of J. Maxwell Miller (ed. J. Andrew Dearman and M. Patrick Graham; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001) 198–213, 207–208.

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inscription is widely unreadable. The rock relief implies that Edom was subjugated by Nabonid and possibly destroyed. 106 Through the placing of the figure of the king and the inscription on the rock, the rock itself became a symbolic and impressive witness of the Babylonian power, clearly visible for every Edomite. From a historical point of view, the Jerusalem-centred perspective of Ps 137 is, to some extent, turned upside down: Babylon was the powerful political centre in the 6th century B.C.E., while Edom and Jerusalem were in the periphery, both conquered by the Babylonians. But, from the perspective of Ps 137, Edom is not the only polity/periphery whose power has collapsed; the political centre Babylon was doomed as well. Historically, of course, we know that Babylon actually lost its political power with the emergence of the Persians. Nabonid and his city were also doomed. In sum, the following observations about the imagery used in Ps 137 to characterize centre and periphery may be advanced: 1) Psalm 137 is, to some extent, a witness of the ambiguous conditions of life in the periphery, pictured with both images of life and death, even though the negative side stands at the core. On the one hand, the emotional/subjective situation described in Ps 137 is characterized by suffering and longing for Jerusalem, the centre of joy and life. Distress is mainly caused by being in a foreign land, far away from the centre. Therefore, life in the periphery is, by definition, construed as akin to ‘death’ and, accordingly, depicted through motifs and terms belonging to a large conceptual and imaginative realm at whose centre stands death (e.g., ‫“ תלה‬hanging up,” silence of music and praise, and body-centred images which could, among other things, be associated with death). From this point of view, Ps 137 draws a picture of the exile as a time of distress, which was so rhetorically powerful that for a long time it became the predominant view of the Babylonian Exile, including among scholars.107 But, significantly, on the other hand, in the opening verses of Ps 137 the topographical environment of the periphery is pictured graphically with images of life: The exiled Judeans live in a city (or country) rich in water and fertile with trees growing near the water (and probably even the term ‫ֲא ָד ָמה‬ implies, as mentioned earlier, “fertile land”). This abundance of water and fertility of the land may have made an impression on deportees who came from a land not characterized by its richness in either.108 It is noteworthy that the view of the peripheral city/country as abundant in water and fertility does not fit well with typical descriptions of the periphery 106

Cf. the destruction levels at Busayra, Tawilān and Tall al-Khalayfi; see Dalley and Goguel, “Sculpture,” 175. 107 Cf. Becking, “Exile,” 183–84; Berlejung, “Wider die Freuden,” 265. 108 Cf. Bar-Efrat, “Love,” 5.

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in the psalms that tend to evoke images of threatening water floods, desert, wasteland, barren land, chaos, and realm of death. Instead, it is consistent with the historical information provided by cuneiform documents about the relatively comfortable external conditions of life in the Judean communities in Babylonia. 109 The exiled Judeans seemed to have “shared the relatively wealth produced by the economic upheaval in sixth century BCE Mesopotamia.”110 2) Psalm 137 serves as a witness to a struggle about loyalty to the Zion tradition and the associated centrality of Jerusalem/Zion. Psalm 137 has to cope with the destruction of the centre. Although central theologoumena of the Zion tradition such as the invulnerability and invincibility of the city are broken, and the periphery, on the other side, seems to be a comfortable environment watered and fruitful, pictured in Ps 137:1–2 like a centre, the psalmist furthermore is convinced that Zion remains the source of his life even in the periphery. But a song of Zion can no longer be sung, an oath of loyalty to Jerusalem (vv. 5–6) takes its place. The form of an oath in vv. 5–6 shows, in a certain way, that it was not self-evident to adhere to Jerusalem in the periphery. This interpretation of vv. 5–6 leads to the question about the historical setting of Ps 137.

C. From Periphery to Centre: Some Remarks on the Historical Setting The date and historical setting of Ps 137 have been much debated in recent years.111 Some commentators propose an exilic date, assuming, for instance, that Ps 137 reflects an exilic worship service of lament.112 Others, however, favor a post-exilic date. 113 The main argument for dating the psalm in the 109

Cf. Becking, “Memory,” 292; idem, “Exile,” 185; Berlejung, “Wider die Freuden,” 279–83; Pearce and Wunsch, Documents of Judean Exiles, passim. 110 Becking, “Exile,” 185. 111 For an overview see Birgit Hartberger, “An den Wassern von Babylon …”: Psalm 137 auf dem Hintergrund von Jeremia 51, der biblischen Edom-Traditionen und babylonischer Originalquellen (BBB 63; Frankfurt a. M. et al.: Peter Hanstein Verlag, 1986), 4–7; Emmendörffer, Gott, 185–86 n. 431; Berlejung, “Wider die Freuden,” 264–65 n. 6. 112 See Kraus, Psalmen, 1083–84. For an exilic date of Psalm 137 cf. Spieckermann, Heilsgegenwart, 116; Ahn, “Psalm 137,” 270–74; idem, Exile as Forced Migrations: A Sociological, Literary, and Theological Approach on the Displacement and Resettlement of the Southern Kingdom of Judah (BZAW 417; Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, 2011), 80; Duhm, Psalmen, 284; Seybold, Psalmen, 509. 113 See Allen, Psalms, 239; Hossfeld and Zenger, Psalms, 514; Körting, Zion, 82; Berlejung, “Wider die Freuden,” 283; Keel, Geschichte, 833, 835.

Centre and Periphery in Psalm 137

377

post-exilic period is the retrospect on the situation of the exiled Judeans in Babylonia in vv. 1–4. Written in past tense and with the double particle ‫שׁם‬ ָ “there,” these verses are marking a temporal and geographical distance from the former dwelling place of the deported. Even though Ps 137 is likely a post-exilic composition, it contains a retrospect on the exilic situation.114 Thus it is possible to read Ps 137 as a psalm about life in the periphery (i.e., Babylon/ia) and similarly as a psalm about life in the centre (in Jerusalem, after returning from the exile). At this point I am taking up an idea advanced by B. Becking, who proposes a double reading of Ps 137 in an exilic and in a post-exilic context.115 1. Psalm 137 as a Psalm for those Living in the Periphery Reading Ps 137 as a psalm uttered by and for those who live far away from the centre, in exilic times, or even in the diaspora in the post-exilic period, would have fulfilled a identity-establishing function. 116 Living in the periphery separated from the former centre of life and religion, the exiled, as well as the inhabitants of later settlements in the diaspora, run the risk of acculturating and assimilating. Since the cuneiform documents prove that the exiled lived under relatively good conditions of life,117 it is imaginable that they came to terms with their new life in exile, so much that their exilic dwelling place might have become their “new centre.” This being so, it is also imaginable that they would be liable to forget their former centre Jerusalem and their own religious traditions, especially in the succeeding generations born in the periphery. In other words, they run the risk of losing their group identity. Psalm 137 turns virulently against the powerful danger of acculturation and forgetting by means of a vehement appeal not to forget Jerusalem (cf. the self-imprecation in vv. 5–6).118 Remembering the centre, while living in the periphery, serves to re-affirm (and construct) the identity of the group. One group that shares the same origin, the same fate, the same history, the same religious traditions, and a particular centre embodying all the above that is not shared with other groups.119 Collective memory serves to

114 With regard to the post-exilic period Becking, “Memory,” 298 takes into account two possibilities: “Ps 137 as a text from the exile period reapplied in a new context or as a deliberate post-exilic composition written upon return to Jerusalem.” Concerning the retrospect on the exilic situation, Berlejung, “Wider die Freuden,” 266 speaks of “constructed memory.” 115 See Becking, “Memory,” 297–98. 116 Cf. Berlejung, “Wider die Freuden,” 277 (with reference to post-exilic times); Becking, “Memory,” 297. 117 Cf. Becking, “Memory,” 295; Berlejung, “Wider die Freuden,” 278–83. 118 Cf. Berlejung, “Wider die Freuden,” 268. 119 Cf. Becking, “Memory,” 293–94.

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establish solidarity and social cohesion within the “we-group,” in the periphery, both in exilic and post-exilic times, whether in “exile” or living in the “diaspora.” 2. Psalm 137 as a Psalm for those Living in the Centre Reading Ps 137 as a psalm uttered by and for those who returned from the periphery carries also an identity-establishing function.120 Remembering the now by-gone times of the Babylonian exile meant reminding their collective experience of living far away from the centre, as well as their lasting loyalty to Jerusalem, contributed much to the development of a collective memory and sets of images that play a crucial role for the construction of “we-group” identity. In addition, reciting Ps 137 might have served to place Jerusalem at the centre of their minds.121 As they look back to the exile from which they “just” returned, they remembered that even there, Jerusalem was at their emotional centre (v. 6b) and thus shall now further remain in the centre of their mind. In other words, Ps 137 has a persuasive function. Psalm 137 may have served to strengthen the spirit of those who returned, and who although live now at the centre, still see it lying in ruins. Within the historical context of the early years of return,122 the Psalm may have served to encourage those “returning” to go, not linger; to remember YHWH, and let Jerusalem come into their mind, paraphrasing, of course, Jer 51:50. Thus, it is possible to read Ps 137 also as a psalm on the way from periphery to centre. Furthermore, recent studies on Ps 137 have pointed out its apologetic function within the context of a post-exilic conflict in Jerusalem and Yehud involving on the one hand, those who remained in the land and, on those other, those who returned from the exile.123 The Jerusalemites (and Judeans) might have, as Th. Krüger assumed, reproached the returners for forgetting Jerusalem in the periphery. But the returnees might have, as B. Becking assumed, seen themselves “as the best among all Israel” since they survived life in the periphery and did not betray Zion or YHWH. 124 According to Krüger, Ps 137 might have served to refute the reproach against the returnees by underlining their loyalty to the centre, even in the periphery.125 This might 120

Cf. Berlejung, “Wider die Freuden,” 267, 283. Cf. Berlejung, “Wider die Freuden,” 267, 283. 122 For a dating shortly after the return see Allen, Psalms, 239, cf. Maré, “Psalm 137,” 119. 123 Cf. Becking, “Memory,” 294–96; Krüger, “An den Strömen,” 82; Berges, “Wie können wir singen,” 362; Keel, Geschichte, 833, 835, 935; Berlejung, “Wider die Freuden,” 267, 275. 124 Becking, “Memory,” 298. 125 Cf. Krüger, “An den Strömen,” 82; Berlejung, “Wider die Freuden,” 275. 121

Centre and Periphery in Psalm 137

379

be a possible historical setting, but we must concede, as A. Berlejung pointed out, that at this point – as often in historical analyses – we cannot get beyond hypotheses and assumptions.126 In summary, Ps 137 may have been read against the background of different historical and geographical settings, involving both periphery and centre. At every location this psalm admonishes and persuades his readers and listeners by means of impressive images set prominently in the central section of the psalm to remember, not to forget Jerusalem, Israel’s centre and source of life.

126

Cf. Berlejung, “Wider die Freuden,” 275.

The Edition of the Psalms of Ascents Christoph Levin A. Centre and Periphery In the course of the Persian era, and still more during the Hellenistic period, Judaism gradually developed into one of the world religions of the ancient world. Its adherents lived as an ethnic and religious group in the central cities of the ancient world, constituting a significant cultural and religious group of their own. The worldwide spread of Judaism caused the question of commonality in the face of dispersion to be raised increasingly. What did the people have in common, and what connected them? How could a particular identity be developed and retained in spite of assimilation with the environment? The contribution made by Diaspora Judaism to the formation of a Jewish identity is still undervalued. One of the reasons for this is that the biblical writings tend to have their eyes turned towards Palestine and, especially, Jerusalem. But Jerusalem’s central position is itself a result of the development of the diaspora. In the Hellenistic period, in the framework of the power struggles between the Seleucids and Ptolemies, Jerusalem acquired a key role on the Levantine land bridge. At the same time, it became a religious centre of worldwide importance. The latter development is a mechanism which we also see at work in the case of other world religions which developed a central site. The greater the periphery, the more pronounced is the need for a centre. Philo of Alexandria describes Jerusalem as a metropolis in the literal sense, just as the Greek metropolises were considered to be the “mother cities” of their colonies.1 The fundamental difference is that Jerusalem was not a “mother” with whom her daughter cities traded or from which they took over a constitution and a legal system, but that it acted as a religious metropolis for worldwide Judaism. In Jerusalem, the normative body of Judaism’s writings was developed, interpreted, and its further transmission secured. It was to Jerusalem that pilgrimages were made at the great cultic festivals. Devout Jews viewed the 1 Philo Alexandrinus, Legatio ad Gaium, §§ 281–282, in Philo, vol. 10: The Embassy to Gaius. Indices to volumes I–X (ed. and trans. Francis H. Colson and George H. Whitaker; LCL 379; London: Heinemann, 1962).

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periphery of the Temple as the appropriate place for them to live. There were literary works such as the Priestly Code which promoted the relocation and castigated the Jews who did not give up their life among “the fleshpots” of Egypt (Exod 16:3), or – worse – wanted to return to them (Num 14:3). It is generally agreed that the collection of Psalms of Ascents, Ps 120–134, belongs to this historical context. On the basis of the identical heading to these fifteen psalms, the aspect under which they have been gathered together is usually connected with the regular pilgrimages to Jerusalem. 2 In the arrangement of the collection, a sequence has been recognized which proceeds from the departure from the foreign land to the journey, arrival, sojourn at the Temple, and finally the return.3 My thesis is that this collection of psalms does not envisage a return to the Diaspora. The motif that binds them together is not the regularly repeated pilgrimage; it is a single journey. The traditional interpretation that these are “pilgrimage hymns” is a misunderstanding. Rather, these psalms are promoting the move from the Diaspora to the proximity of the Temple, because “it is good and pleasant when brothers dwell in unity” (Ps 133:1). Those who follow the appeal and depart from the places where they presently live do so “from this time forth and for evermore” (Ps 121:8; 131:3). To put it in modern terms, these psalms constitute the accompanying music for the ʿAliyah of Judaism to the promised land. A first piece of supporting evidence is that the term ‫ ַמ ֲ ָלה‬, which occurs in the headings for these psalms, is used in Ezra 7:9 to describe the move of a group of Babylonian Jews who are supposed to have come to Jerusalem under Ezra’s leadership. It would not, however, be appropriate to relate the Psalms of Ascents to the return from the exile in the narrower sense, as earlier research has done,4 “an interpretation […] which is not sufficiently justified

2 This interpretation was most influentially supported by Johann Gottfried Herder, Vom Geist der Ebräischen Poesie (1782/83), in Schriften zum Alten Testament (ed. Rudolf Smend; Frankfurt a. M.: Deutscher Klassiker Verlag, 1993), 1234. 3 See Klaus Seybold, Die Wallfahrtspsalmen: Studien zur Entstehungsgeschichte von Psalm 120–134 (BThSt 3; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1978), 69–73. 4 This was already considered by David Kimchi, The Commentary of Rabbi David Kimḥi on Psalms CXX–CL (ed. Joshua Baker and Ernest W. Nicholson; Cambridge: University Press, 1973), 3: “It is also possible to interpret the meaning of hamma‘aloth as being ma‘aloth haggaluth – the ascents from the exile – that is, the ascents whereby Israel will at some future time go up from the lands of the exile to the land of Israel.” See also Richard Preß, “Der zeitgeschichtliche Hintergrund der Wallfahrtspsalmen,” TZ 14 (1958): 401–15. Preß notes that the Psalms of Ascents look back to the exile from some distance (409).

The Edition of the Psalms of Ascents

383

by the tenor of the poems.”5 This has rightly been rejected on the grounds that the Psalms of Ascents depict the Temple as already rebuilt and life in the land of Judah as well settled. We should not rely on the historical picture as it is drawn in the books of Ezra and Nehemiah, whose details are not historically reliable. The plural ‫ ַה ַמּ ֲ לוֹת‬is used because the move was not a unique historical act affecting only the Babylonian exilic community; it was a religious programme affecting the entire Diaspora in all parts of the world.

B. Ps 120–134 as Part of the Book of Psalms Among the former collections of psalms which later found a place in the Book of Psalms, the fifteen Psalms of Ascents are the most easily recognizable. Marked by the heading ‫“ ִשׁיר ַה ַמּ ֲ לוֹת‬song of ascents,” and ending with Ps 134 as a concluding doxology, the collection forms an easily identifiable group which in all probability originally constituted a separate writing. With the sole exception of Ps 132, all these psalms are noticeably short.6 There is a wide variety of genres. Side by side with regular prayers such as hymns, songs of lament, and songs of thanksgiving, there are wisdom sayings and more than a few benedictory wishes. These genres are somewhat foreign to the rest of the Psalter, and they give the collection a character of its own. In order to deduce the intention behind this collection, we have to distinguish between the individual psalms as they were composed and transmitted, and the work of the editor who chose and arranged them under a particular aspect and, we must suppose, commented on them through literary additions. Earlier research has already begun with this task. 7 The investigations that have been made up to now are, however, confined to the simple distinction between transmitted text and editorial additions. This is hardly sufficient, for it is only possible to form a reliable judgement about the editing process of the Psalms of Ascents if we view the collection in the form it took when it was still outside the context in which we have it today.

Justus Olshausen, Die Psalmen (KEH 14; Leipzig: Hirzel, 1853), 29; Engl. translation based on Julius Wellhausen, The Book of Psalms: Critical Edition of the Hebrew Text (trans. J. D. Prince; SBOT 14; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1895), 95. 6 It is possible that Ps 132 was not added to the collection until later, see (among others) Bernhard Duhm, Die Psalmen (KHC 14; 2nd ed.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1922), 428. 7 See esp. Klaus Seybold, “Die Redaktion der Wallfahrtspsalmen,” ZAW 91 (1979): 247–68. A redactional-critical inquiry has also been undertaken by Loren D. Crow, The Songs of Ascents (Psalms 120–134): Their Place in Israelite History and Religion (SBLDS 148; Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1996). 5

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Consequently, the stratum of changes made while editing the collection itself must be distinguished from additions which served to incorporate the collection into the larger book of Psalms, or which were added when the collection had already become part of the Psalter, and which therefore are a part of the literary development of the book of Psalms as a whole. We can still see how the collection came to be incorporated in today’s Psalter. The point of departure is the great antiphonal prayer Ps 136, which begins with the familiar words: “Give thanks to Yahweh, for he is good, his steadfast love endures for ever.” This particular psalm once formed the conclusion to the whole Psalter.8 The evidence for this is to be found in Ps 118. This psalm begins with the same words as Ps 136: “Give thanks to Yahweh, for he is good, his steadfast love endures for ever,” followed in vv. 2–4 by what may be called a “liturgical instruction”: “Let Israel say (‫ֹאמר־נָ א יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬ ַ ‫)י‬, His steadfast love endures for ever. Let the house of Aaron say, His steadfast love endures for ever. Let those who fear Yahweh say, His steadfast love endures for ever.” The speakers are named who are expected to respond. This instruction is clearly to be applied to Ps 136, where the antiphon “His steadfast love endures for ever” occurs no less than 26 times. In the sequence of the Psalter as we have it today, Ps 118:1–4 and Ps 136 stand far apart from one another. The reason is that other psalms were later added to the collection. Because these additions were not to be allowed to push Ps 136 out of its key position at the end of the collection, they were inserted between Ps 118:1–4 and Ps 136. This applies to several individual psalms which today are incorporated in Ps 118: a song of thanksgiving (vv. 5, 14, 17–19, 21, 28), a song of trust (vv. 6–7, 10–13), a hymn (vv. 15–16), and the fragment of a festival psalm (vv. 22–27). The original sequence is resumed at the end of Ps 118 by way of v. 29 as a “catching line” which repeats the first line of Ps 118 and Ps 136, respectively. The collection Ps 120–134 has been inserted in a similar way. In this case, the redactional changes can be detected on the basis of Ps 135. In its original form, which can be found in vv. 1–4 and 19–21, Ps 135 provided a synthesis of the liturgical instruction of Ps 118:2–4 and of Ps 134, the doxology which ends the Psalms of Ascents. By way of this synthesis, the liturgical-functional connection between Ps 118:1–4 and Ps 136 is preserved, although the collection of Ps 120–134 now intervenes. Ps 119, which completely upsets the proportions with its 176 verses, belongs to a later literary stratum. It is hard to believe that each individual psalm was headed ‫ִשׁיר ַה ַמּ ֲ לוֹת‬ whilst the Psalms of Ascents still constituted an independent collection. It is easier to imagine “that there was probably originally one general heading for 8 See Christoph Levin, “Ps 136 als zeitweilige Schlußdoxologie des Psalters,” SJOT 14 (2000): 16–25; also in Fortschreibungen (BZAW 316; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2003), 314–21.

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385

the collection, from which the present individual titles developed when the collection was added to the larger whole of the Psalter.”9 An indication that this was indeed the case is that, as a result, several psalms have two headings: Ps 122; 124; 131 and 133 have ‫“ ְל ָדוִ ד‬of David,” and Ps 127 ‫“ ִל ְשׁ מֹה‬of Solomon.” 10 We can therefore ascribe all fifteen headings to the redaction which incorporated the collection in the larger Psalter.

C. Incorporation The subsequent incorporation between Ps 118 and Ps 136 did not affect only the headings; it also left traces in the individual psalms of the collection. At the beginning of Ps 124, there is an obvious doublet which is clearly secondary: “If it had not been Yahweh who was on our side – let Israel say (‫ֹאמר־נָ א יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬ ַ ‫ – )י‬if it had not been Yahweh who was on our side, when men rose up against us.” The first line of the psalm is repeated in quick succession and is joined with an instruction for Israel to say it. “This phrase is no part of the psalm itself.”11 This incipit stands as abbreviation for the psalm as a whole, (which originally began in v. 2) and puts it in Israel’s mouth. That it should be interpreted in this and no other way is shown by Ps 129:1, where the same speech pattern is used: “Sorely have they afflicted me from my youth – let Israel say (‫ֹאמר־נָ א יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬ ַ ‫ – )י‬sorely have they afflicted me from my youth, yet they have not prevailed against me.” The agreement between Ps 124 and 129 cannot be a matter of chance. “What is clear from both psalms is that this is a revision of individual texts with the aim of making them of use to the whole community of Israel.”12 Did this revision take place at the time when the collection was still independent, or does it presuppose the context to which it belongs today? The question can be answered on the basis of Ps 118:2. The liturgical direction there, which puts the antiphon of Ps 136 on Israel’s lips – “Let Israel say (‫ֹאמר־נָ א יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬ ַ ‫)י‬, His steadfast love endures for ever” – was quite clearly the model. “The background for the expression probably lies in Ps 118:2a where 9 Seybold, Wallfahrtspsalmen, 73 (my translation). See already Heinrich Ewald, Die Dichter des Alten Bundes (vol. 1; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1839), 196, who assumes that the collection originally had one common heading: ‫ ִשׁ ֵירי ַה ַמּ ֲ לוֹת‬. The assumption was later shared by Hermann Hupfeld, Die Psalmen (vol. 3; Gotha: Perthes, 1860), 250, and others. 10 In the double headings there is understandably a certain deviation in the transmission of the text. 11 Frank Crüsemann, Studien zur Formgeschichte von Hymnus und Danklied in Israel (WMANT 32; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1969), 167 (my translation). 12 Seybold, Wallfahrtspsalmen, 27 (my translation); see also Crüsemann, Studien zur Formgeschichte, 173.

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the same phrase occurs.”13 This means that, just as Israel is to recite Ps 136, it is now also to pray the Psalms of Ascents, which are interpolated between Ps 118 and Ps 136. It is very probable that this revision is the work of the redactor who inserted the collection into the larger Psalter and thereby gave to it the place which it occupies today. The alignment towards Israel can also be found at other points. Both Ps 125 and Ps 128 close with the wish: “Peace be upon Israel!” ( ‫ָשׁלוֹם ַ ל־‬ ‫)יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬. In both cases, the sentence has been added subsequently. Ps 125 affirms the enduring character of Zion and Jerusalem. City and sanctuary are under Yahweh’s protection. If the psalm’s wish for peace relates it to Israel, then this can only be a foreign element. “The Ps. concludes with the additional gloss of congratulation.”14 Ps 128 is similar, being essentially an individual benediction which wishes the recipient’s family prosperity. This blessing is given a collective reference by the final wish for peace. “The whole concludes with a still later gloss, as 125:5: Peace be upon Israel.”15 The two identical sentences most likely derive from one and the same editor. The same may be true of the two identical sentences in Ps 130:7 and 131:3: “O Israel, wait for Yahweh!” (‫)יַ ֵחל יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל ֶאל־יהוה‬. In both cases the admonition is out of place in the context. Ps 130:5–7* constitutes the “confession of trust” of the individual lament: “I wait for Yahweh, my soul waits […]16 more than watchmen for the morning ‫) ִמשּׁ ְֺמ ִרים לַ בּ ֶֹקר‬. […] For with Yahweh there is steadfast love, and with him is plenteous redemption.” With the insertion of the exhortation “O Israel, wait for Yahweh,” this individual confession is related to Israel as a whole, and at the same time it becomes an appeal. “A glossator appends an exhortation […] which has no place in the measure of the Ps.” 17 The exhortation is preceded by ‫שׁ ְֹמ ִרים‬ ‫לַ בּ ֶֹקר‬, which is obviously a doublet to ‫ ִמשּׁ ְֹמ ִרים לַ בּ ֶֹקר‬.18 The doublet looks as if it derives from a catchword which stood in the margin together with the gloss in order to mark its connection to the text. A later copyist moved the catchword together with the gloss to stand in the lines next to the word to which it refers. Marko Marttila, Collective Reinterpretation in the Psalms (FAT II/13; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 170. 14 Charles A. Briggs and Emilie G. Briggs, The Book of Psalms (vol. 2; ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1907), 455; see also Walter Baumgartner, Die Klagegedichte des Jeremia (BZAW 32; Gießen: Töpelmann, 1917), 82; Friedrich Baethgen, Die Psalmen (HKAT II.2; 3rd ed.; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1904), 381; and others. 15 Briggs and Briggs, Psalms, 2:461. 16 For Ps 130:5b–6a see below p. 389. 17 Briggs and Briggs, Psalms, 2:465. See also Werner H. Schmidt, “Gott und Mensch in Ps. 130: Formgeschichtliche Erwägungen,” TZ 22 (1966): 241–53, esp. 251. 18 Hermann Gunkel, Die Psalmen (HKAT II.2; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1926), 563. 13

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In Ps 131:2–3, we find the same method. Here, too, the context is an individual confession of trust: “I have calmed and quieted my soul; like a child at its mother’s breast (‫ ]…[ ) ְכּגָ ֻמל ֲ לֵ י ִאמּוֹ‬is my soul […] from this time forth and for evermore.” Once again, the statement is no longer related to the individual in the present text, but to Israel, and once again the statement changes from an affirmation of faith to the adjuration: “O Israel, wait for Yahweh!” And again this is preceded by an awkward doublet: ‫ ַכּגָּ ֻמל ָ לַ י‬. The Masoretes have helped themselves by determining ‫ גָּ ֻמל‬and by adding the suffix of the first singular to the preposition ‫ ֲ לֵ י‬: “like the child on me (‫) ָ לַ י‬.” Here as well, the phrase was in fact probably a catchword, most likely “like a child at,” and not a complete sentence, and here, too, it serves to incorporate the sentence ‫ יַ ֵחל יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל ֶאל־יהוה‬which has strayed into the text from the margin. “It is very likely that the collective supplements in Pss 130 and 131 date back to the same period and the same redactor(s).”19 Yet a third example of this way of working can be found. In Ps 122:4 “a glossator, probably at first on the margin, inserted: It is a testimony to Israel], using the term of P for the Law.”20 In this case the original psalm probably read: “Jerusalem, built as a city which is bound firmly together, to which the tribes (‫ ) ְשׁ ָב ִטים‬go up […], to give thanks to the name of Yahweh.” Again the psalm is related to Israel by way of an addition.21 The words ‫ ֵ דוּת ְליִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬, “a testimony to Israel,” emphasize that, according to the Torah, Israel is enjoined to go to Jerusalem and to give thanks there to Yahweh. “The meaning of ‫ עדות‬is the same as in 19:8.”22 The gloss is again preceded by a doublet: ‫“ ִשׁ ְב ֵטי־יָ הּ‬the tribes of Yah.” The combination ‫ ִשׁ ְב ֵטי־יָ הּ‬, “the tribes of Yah,” with the abbreviated form of the divine name (for which this is the sole evidence within the collection), is possibly a mistaken reading for ‫ ְשׁ ָב ִטים‬. Again we can assume that this catchword stood in the margin of the column in order to incorporate ‫ ֵ דוּת ְליִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬. A further Israel-addition is Ps 121:4: “Behold, he who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.”23 The sentence repeats what is said in v. 3, but changes it from a wish to an affirmation. “May he who keeps you not slumber” (7‫ )אַל־יָ נוּם שׁ ְֹמ ֶר‬becomes “behold, he does not slumber, he who keeps Israel, Yahweh” (‫שׁוֹמר יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬ ֵ … ‫)לֹא־יָ נוּם‬. The change from the jussive to the indicative is not random. It is emphasized by the addition of a

19 Marttila, Collective Reinterpretation, 173. See already Sigmund Mowinckel, Psalmenstudien I.: Åwän und die individuellen Klagepsalmen (SVSK.HF 1921:4; Kristiania: Dybwad, 1921), 164–65. 20 Briggs and Briggs, Psalms, 2:449. 21 See Seybold, Wallfahrtspsalmen, 24, and idem, Die Psalmen (HAT I/15; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996), 479. 22 Baethgen, Die Psalmen, 377 (my translation). 23 See Seybold, Die Psalmen, 478.

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second verb: “nor does he sleep” (‫ישׁן‬ ָ ִ‫)וְ לֹא י‬. This addition deeply disturbs the benedictory form which determines the rest of the psalm. 24 Again the emphasis in on Israel. The benediction addressed to a single individual is secured to God’s people as a whole. A final Israel-addition of this kind is added in Ps 130:8: “And he will redeem (‫ )וְ הוּא יִ ְפ ֶדּה‬Israel from all his iniquities.” It is again easy to see that this application and interpretation has been added later. It picks up the utterance in v. 7: “for with Yahweh there is steadfast love, and with him is plenteous redemption (‫) ְפדוּת‬,” in order to relate the statement to Israel. The lines which complete the psalm as it stands today closely resemble the final line of Ps 25, which also proves itself to be an addition by going beyond the acrostic form: “Redeem Israel, O God, out of all his troubles” (v. 22).25 It would seem obvious to assume that the nine Israel-additions are connected with each other. If they do not all derive from one and the same editor, then at least most of them do. The fact that Ps 124:1 and 129:1 imitate the liturgical instruction Ps 118:2–4 suggests that they were added when the collection entered the context of the current Psalter. It means that the Psalms of Ascents were fitted into the liturgical speech pattern which determined the sequence of Ps 118 and 136. For the profile of the collection itself, the Israel revision must be disregarded.

D. Further Additions: The Righteousness Revision After Ps 120–134 had been interpolated in the Psalter, the collection was submitted to the sequence of revisions which the whole book underwent during the late period. These additions must be identified as well, since they are insignificant for the edition of the collection. This applies, first of all, to the righteousness revision. Traces of the revision are, as a rule, easy to detect. A typical example can be found in Ps 128:1, 4. The wish for blessing on which this psalm is based is initially directed to the God-fearing in v. 1: “Blessed is (‫אַשׁ ֵרי‬ ְ ) every one who fears Yahweh (‫) ָכּל־יְ ֵרא יהוה‬, who walks in his ways.” 26 The makarism closely resembles Ps 1:1, which forms the overture to the righteousness 24

The first word of v. 5 is probably also part of the addition. It disturbs the five-stress metre that is predominant in vv. 5–7. 25 See Baethgen, Die Psalmen, 73; Charles A. Briggs and Emilie G. Briggs, The Book of Psalms (vol. 1; ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1906), 226; Duhm, Die Psalmen, 79; Gunkel, Die Psalmen, 108; Seybold, Die Psalmen, 108; and others. 26 Seybold, Wallfahrtspsalmen, 33, and idem, Die Psalmen, 490, recognizes Ps 128:1 as a later addition.

The Edition of the Psalms of Ascents

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revision of the Psalter.27 The change to an address from v. 2 onwards shows that the introduction has been made to precede this psalm at a later point. In the same way, v. 4 falls out of the address: “Behold, thus shall the man be blessed who fears Yahweh (‫)גָּ ֶבר יְ ֵרא יהוה‬.” The wishes for blessing are once more applied especially to those who fear God. The two utterances evidently belong together.28 Ps 130 has also been revised from the angle of the God-fearers: “If you, Yahweh, shall mark iniquities, Lord, who could stand? But there is forgiveness (‫יחה‬ ָ ִ‫ ) ַה ְסּל‬with you, that you may be feared” (vv. 3–4). This statement has crept in between the address in vv. 1–2 and the expression of trust in v. 5. It is reminiscent of the way Ps 103, the great psalm of thanksgiving, has been related to the God-fearing under the motif of forgiveness (‫סלח‬, v. 3), see Ps 103:11, 13, 17 [only ‫] ַ ל־יְ ֵר ָאיו‬, 18. An expansion in 130:5b–6a probably goes together with vv. 3–4 which has upset the sentence structure there: “and in his word 29 my soul.” The bond of obedience to God’s word is characteristic of the God-fearers. Ps 125:3–5a obviously derives from the righteousness revision: “For the sceptre of wickedness (‫ ) ָה ֶר ַשׁע‬shall not rest upon the land allotted to the righteous (‫) ַה ַצּ ִדּ ִקים‬, lest the righteous (‫ ) ַה ַצּ ִדּ ִקים‬put forth their hands to do wrong. Do good, Yahweh, to those who are good (‫טּוֹבים‬ ִ ַ‫)ל‬, and to those who are upright (‫ישׁ ִרים‬ ָ ִ‫ )וְ ל‬in their hearts! But those who turn aside upon their crooked ways Yahweh will lead away with evildoers (‫פּ ֲ לֵ י ָה ָאוֶ ן‬ ֹ )!” The three statements were probably not made at the same time, but instead added after one another, as they are dissimilar in their speech forms. The first and the last are predictions, whereas the one in between is a wish directed to Yahweh. What is more, v. 5 forms a contrasting pair with v. 1a: “those who trust in Yahweh (‫ ”) ַהבּ ְֹט ִחים ְבּיהוה‬versus “those who turn aside.” This suggests that the first two words of the psalm also derive from the righteousness revision, and that the promise of salvation for Zion and Jerusalem was only subsequently applied to the devout in the narrower sense.30 In that case, the psalm originally began: “ Zion shall never be moved, but abides for ever.” The closing wish, added by the Israel revision, 31 would then have

27 See Christoph Levin, “Das Gebetbuch der Gerechten,” ZTK 90 (1993), 355–81; repr. in Fortschreibungen (see above n. 8), 291–313. See also Ps 2:12; 34:9; 40:5; 84:13; 94:12; 106:3; 112:1; 119:1; and 25:12. 28 See, among others, Oswald Loretz, Die Psalmen II (AOAT 207/2; Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker, 1979), 270. 29 Reading 3.sg.f. with the Septuagint. 30 See the considerations of Seybold, Die Psalmen, 485, on the composite nature of Ps 125. Loretz, Die Psalmen II, 259, turns the literary-historical sequence of the promise for Zion (vv. 1b–2) and the righteousness-revisions (vv. 3–5a) on its head. 31 See above p. 386.

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followed v. 2: “Yahweh is round about his people, from this time forth and for evermore. Peace be upon Israel!” The righteousness revision can be very easily traced in 129:4: “Yahweh is righteous (‫ ;) ַצ ִדּיק‬he has cut the cords of the wicked (‫) ְר ָשׁ ִ ים‬.” This assertion has been interpolated between the lament over the oppression of the petitioner in vv. 2–3 and his desire for the punishment of his opponents in vv. 5–8, and clearly constitutes an alien element here.32

E. The Edition of the Psalms of Ascents In what is left, we are struck by a number of recurring phrases. 33 The acknowledgement ‫ ֶ זְ ִרי ֵמ ִ ם יהוה ע ֵֹשׂה ָשׁ ַמיִ ם וָ ָא ֶרץ‬, “My help comes from Yahweh, who made heaven and earth,” in 121:2 is repeated in similar words at 124:8 ‫“ ֶ זְ ֵרנוּ ְבּ ֵשׁם יהוה ע ֵֹשׂה ָשׁ ַמיִ ם וָ ָא ֶרץ‬Our help is in the name of Yahweh, who made heaven and earth.” The attribute of Yahweh as Creator ‫ע ֵֹשׂה ָשׁ ַמיִ ם וָ ָא ֶרץ‬, “who made heaven and earth,” recurs again in 134:3;34 the benediction ‫ יהוה ִמ ִצּיּוֹן‬7‫יְב ֶר ְכ‬ ָ , “May Yahweh bless you from Zion,” is to be found twice (128:5; 134:3); the time determination ‫ ֵמ ַ ָתּה וְ ַ ד־עוֹלָ ם‬, “from this time forth and for evermore,” is repeated in 121:8; 125:2; 131:3.35 The gesture ‫ ֶא ָשּׂא ֵ ינַ י ֶאל־ ֶה ָה ִרים‬, “I lift up my eyes to the mountains” (121:1), recurs again in 123:1: ‫אתי ֶאת־ ֵ ינַ י‬ ִ ‫ נָ ָשׂ‬7‫ ֵא ֶלי‬, “To you I lift up my eyes” (123:1), as well as the complaint 120:6: ‫ ַר ַבּת ָשׁ ְכנָ ה־לָּ הּ נַ ְפ ִשׁי‬, “Too long have I had my dwelling,” in 123:4: ‫ ַר ַבּת ָשׂ ְב ָ ה־לָּ הּ נַ ְפ ֵשׁנוּ‬, “Too long our soul has been sated.” It would seem that these expressions belong to a literary stratum which extends beyond the individual psalms. Since these turns of phrase are essentially confined to the Psalms of Ascents and are characteristic of them, it is very probable that this distinguishing linguistic feature of the collection can allow us to trace down the collector and his intention. “These formulae are best explained as resulting from redactional activity.”36

See Loretz, Die Psalmen II, 274. Hendrik Viviers, “The Coherence of the macalôt Psalms (Pss 120–134),” ZAW 106 (1994): 275–89, esp. 279–83, presents an extensive list of “corresponding expressions, syntax and figures of speech.” Crow, The Songs of Ascents, 131, on the other hand identifies six “repeated formulae.” 34 The two other instances for ‫ ע ֵֹשׂה ָשׁ ַמיִ ם וָ ָא ֶרץ‬in Ps 115:15; 146:6 depend on the Psalms of Ascents. 35 Other instances are Isa 9:6; 59:21; Mic 4:7; Ps 113:2; 115:18. The two instances from the psalms again presuppose the Psalms of Ascents. 36 Crow, The Songs of Ascents, 130. 32 33

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391

F. The Reworking of the Individual Psalms This can be verified in several cases where the phraseology of the editor deviates from the essential form of the psalm in question. In the course of our investigation, a particular concept will emerge. It is to be expected that the editor left traces of his work in Ps 120, with which the collection begins. In my distress I cried to Yahweh, and he answered me. Yahweh, deliver me […]37 from a deceitful tongue, […]38 sharpened arrows of a warrior with glowing broom-coals. Woe is me, that I sojourn in Meshech, that I dwell among the tents of Kedar! Too long have I had my dwelling with one who hates peace. I am for peace; but when I speak, they are for war!

(1) 2 4 5 6 7

In v. 2, the lament of an individual begins with an address to Yahweh and a cry for help. The reason for the complaint is a false accusation delivered by a “deceitful tongue” (‫)לָ שׁוֹן ְר ִמיָּ ה‬. The person praying uses customary imagery and describes these tongues as sharp arrows 39 and as glowing coals of the broom tree. It is with weapons of this kind that fire is carried into a besieged city. By contrast, the speaker stresses his desire for peace in v. 7 and accuses his opponents of not looking for a peaceful settlement (‫) ָשׁלוֹם‬, but instead responding to his plea only to dispute it. The brief prayer had its Sitz im Leben in cultic jurisdiction. The “site” of the psalm we are looking at is not, however, the Temple. In vv. 5–6, the person who is praying laments that he has to live as a stranger in Meschek and among the tents of Kedar – that is to say, far from the sanctuary and among the desert-dwellers. There, the opponent who rejects peace (‫שׂוֹנֵ א‬ ‫ ) ָשׁלוֹם‬holds power. The complaint made in v. 7 to a particular end is here generalized. The speaker declares his discontent at having to live among people like this: “Too long have I had my dwelling among those” ( ‫ַר ַבּת‬ ‫) ָשׁ ְכנָ ה־לָּ הּ נַ ְפ ִשׁי‬. Since the phrase recurs in similar form in Ps 123:4, we probably have before us in vv. 5–6 the edition of the Psalms of Ascents. That could also apply to what is now the first verse, a phrase typical of the song of thanksgiving which can also be found in Jonah 2:3 with a different sequence The doublet ‫ת־שׁ ֶקר ִמ ָלּשׁוֹן ְר ִמיָּ ה‬ ֶ ‫ ִמ ְשּׂ ַפ‬, “from lying lips, from a deceitful tongue,” which has upset the metre 3+2, probably rests on a later addition; see Seybold, Wallfahrtspsalmen, 33. Verse 3 refers only to ‫ ָלשׁוֹן ְר ִמיָּ ה‬. 38 In the structure of the psalm as it has been transmitted, the arrangement is disturbed by an addition in v. 3 of a condemnation of the deceitful tongue: “What shall be given to you? And what more shall be done to you ('‫ ”!)יּ ִֹסיף ָל‬For this, a modification of the oath formula was used, cf. 1 Sam 3:17; 14:44; 20:13; 25:22; 2 Sam 3:9, 35; 19:14; 1 Kgs 2:23; 19:2; 20:10; 2 Kgs 6:31; Ruth 1:17. 39 Cf. Ps 64:4; 140:4; Prov 25:18. 37

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of words. This opening declares that the complaint has been heard and that the occasion for it has been eliminated. The praying person has left behind him the enemies of peace and departed on his journey. Ps 121 is concerned with the help the speaker expects at the end of his travel. The familiar psalm is an extended wish for blessing, parts of which are reminiscent of the Aaronic benediction. Here, however, the alternation between the writer’s own confession of faith and the wish for the blessing of the other person appears incongruous: I lift up my eyes to the mountains. Whence comes my help? My help comes from Yahweh, maker of heaven and earth. May he not let your foot be moved, may he who keeps you not slumber. […]40 Your keeper is Yahweh, your shade on your right hand. The sun shall not smite you by day, nor the moon by night. Yahweh may keep you from all evil; he may keep your life. Yahweh may keep your going out and your coming in from this time forth and for evermore.

(1) 2 3 (5) 6 7 8

Since the psalm contains several phrases which are also found in other Psalms of Ascents, it would again be reasonable to think of the revision of a core text. This core is constituted by vv. 5–7. These verses begin with the confession: ‫ יהוה‬7‫שׁ ְֹמ ֶר‬, “Your keeper is Yahweh,” and end with the wish 7‫)יהוה( יִ ְשׁמֹר ֶאת־נַ ְפ ֶשׁ‬, “may Yahweh keep your life.” It is unclear whether the wish which now precedes in v. 3 always constituted the beginning, since the subject, Yahweh, is not named, but only presupposed. At all events, there is a clear caesura between v. 2 and v. 3, for v. 2 is an affirmation of faith, not a wish. The one who is praying is not referring to another, but to himself: “My help comes from Yahweh, maker of heaven and earth.” This affirmation agrees with the final sentence in Ps 124, where it is the utterance of a group. It is highly probable that the corresponding sentences derive from the redaction of the Psalms of Ascents. The first verse of the psalm cannot be separated from this affirmation due to the anaphora ‫ ֵמאַיִ ן יָבֹא ֶ זְ ִרי ֶ זְ ִרי ֵמ ִ ם יהוה‬, “Whence comes my help? My help comes from Yahweh.” Furthermore, the very first sentence ‫ֶא ָשּׂא ֵ ינַ י‬ ‫ל־ה ָה ִרים‬ ֶ ‫ ֶא‬, “I lift up my eyes to the mountains,” has a parallel in the opening sentence of Ps 123, which suggests that the beginning of Ps 121 as it stands today is probably the work of the editor. The same may be said of v. 8, which concludes the psalm. It takes up the wish in v. 7 7‫יהוה יִ ְשׁ ָמ ְר‬, “may Yahweh keep you,” – again anaphorically – and relates it to the occasion of a journey: 7‫וּבוֹא‬ ֶ 7‫את‬ ְ ‫ר־צ‬ ֵ ‫יהוה יִ ְשׁ ָמ‬, “may Yahweh keep your going out and your coming in.” This journey leads towards a final goal: ‫ ֵמ ַ ָתּה וְ ַ ד־עוֹלָ ם‬, “from this time forth and for

40

For v. 4 and the beginning of v. 5, see above pp. 387–88.

The Edition of the Psalms of Ascents

393

evermore.” The comparison with Ps 125:2 and 131:3 shows that the editor of the Psalms of Ascents was at work here as well. At the centre of Ps 122 stands a group of verses in praise of Jerusalem. These are followed by a prayer for peace (‫ ) ָשׁלוֹם‬which is based on a play of words with the name of the city. This is a well shaped poetic unity of two and two lines: (1) 2 3 4 6 7 8 9

I was glad when they said to me, Let us go to the house of Yahweh! Our feet have been standing within your gates, O Jerusalem! Jerusalem, built as a city which is bound firmly together,41 to which the tribes go up, […]42 to give thanks to the name of Yahweh. […]43 Pray for the peace of Jerusalem! May they prosper who love you! Peace be within your walls, and security within your towers! For the sake of my brethren and companions, I will say, Peace be within you! For the sake of the house of Yahweh our God, I will seek your good.

In the present version of the psalm, the praise of Jerusalem is preceded and followed by a first person speech (vv. 1–2, 8–9). There is a sudden shift from the address “O Jerusalem” in v. 2 to the description of Jerusalem in v. 3. “Raising doubt about this close linkage of v. 3 to v. 2 is the fact that vv. 3–5 are a coherent set of statements […] and the fact that Jerusalem is not addressed as ‘you’ in vv. 3b–5.” 44 At the beginning, the speaker confesses that he is glad to have been invited to come to the Temple in Jerusalem. At the end, the wish for the city’s peace is resumed and extended to the speaker’s companions, who are to settle near the house of their God. “The scenery of this section corresponds to that of vv. 1–2.”45 Finally, in v. 9 the wishes are applied to the Temple itself.46 As has already been remarked, the opening of Ps 123 resembles that of Ps 121:

41 The reading is difficult. It may well be that the description of the city was changed and overwritten by the idea of uniting together (‫ )חבר ַי ְח ָדּו‬in accordance with the general theme of the Psalms of Ascents, see esp. v. 8. 42 For the addition in v. 4 see above p. 387. 43 Briggs and Briggs, Psalms, 2:449: “Another glossator, careless of the measure, inserts a historical statement, making the line too long: 5. For there sat they on thrones of judgment, thrones of the house of David.” “Thrones of the house of David” may be a further clarification. 44 Erich Zenger, in idem and Frank-Lothar Hossfeld, Psalms 3: A Commentary on Psalms 101–150 (trans. Linda M. Maloney; Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2011), 335. 45 Zenger, loc. cit. 46 This verse was already seen as an addition by Seybold, Wallfahrtspsalmen, 24–5, and idem, Die Psalmen, 479.

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(1) To you I lift up my eyes, O you who are enthroned in the heavens! 2 Behold, as the eyes of servants look to the hand of their master, as the eyes of a maid to the hand of her mistress, so our eyes look to Yahweh our God, till he have mercy upon us. 3 Have mercy upon us, Yahweh, have mercy upon us, for we have had more than enough of contempt. 4 Too long our soul has been sated with the scorn of those who are at ease, the contempt of the proud.

The main part of this psalm is the affirmation of trust by a group who compare their relationship with God to the relationship of servants to their master and of a maid to her mistress (v. 2). This is followed in v. 3 by the plea for grace (cf. Ps 57:2) in the face of the contempt that has been suffered. This prayer is taken up in v. 4 and developed in a form which is a direct reminiscence of 120:6: ‫ ַר ַבּת ָשׂ ְב ָ ה־לָּ הּ נַ ְפ ֵשׁנוּ‬, “Too long our soul has been sated.” As in Ps 120, those uttering the prayer wish to escape from their present situation. The goal they have in front of them is named in v. 1, which 121:1 closely resembles. Since it is in the singular, it clearly deviates from the rest of the psalm: ‫אתי ֶאת־ ֵ ינַ י ַהיּ ְֹשׁ ִבי ַבּ ָשּׁ ָמיִ ם‬ ִ ‫ נָ ָשׂ‬7‫ ֵאלֶ י‬, “To you I lift up my eyes, O you who are enthroned in the heavens!” This phrase is frequently used in the Psalter with the object ‫נַ ְפ ִשׁי‬, “my soul,” instead of ‫ ֵ ינַ י‬, “my eyes” (25:1; 86:4; 143:8). The variation of “eyes” instead of “soul” may be due to the influence of 121:1. In view of this, the reference is probably not only to Yahweh’s heavenly dwelling, but also to its earthly counterpart, the Temple on Mount Zion. Ps 124 is a collective song of thanksgiving. Those who are praying describe their escape with hunting imagery. Although, like beasts of pray, men lay in wait for them, Yahweh gave them support. A second image draws on the practice of hunting of birds with the help of snares. Yahweh has destroyed the snares and freed those caught in them, who now give thanks: (2) If it had not been Yahweh who was on our side, when men rose up against us, 3 then they would have swallowed us up alive, when their anger was kindled against us; […]47 6 Blessed be Yahweh, who has not given us as prey to their teeth! 7 Our soul has escaped as a bird from the snare of the fowlers; the snare is broken, and we have escaped! 8 Our help is in the name of Yahweh, who made heaven and earth.

The psalm concludes by responding to this experience with an acknowledgment already familiar from 121:2. The experience becomes a statement about Yahweh, who as Creator of the world is the helper of his people. 47 In vv. 4–5, the comparison is repeated twice in varied forms and supplemented by the reference to violent waters.

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The nucleus of Ps 128 is formed by a wish for family blessings: the fruits of one’s labour, the wellbeing of one’s wife and children, and a life long enough to see the next two generations grow up: […]48 You shall eat the fruit of the labour of your hands; you shall be happy, and it shall be well with you. Your wife will be like a fruitful vine within your house; your children will be like olive shoots around your table. […] May Yahweh bless you from Zion, and may you see the prosperity of Jerusalem all the days of your life! And may you see your children’s children! […]

2 3 5

6

Surprisingly enough, the wish 7‫ה־בנִ ים לְ ָבנֶ י‬ ָ ‫ ְוּר ֵא‬, “and may you see your children’s children,” from v. 6 is anticipated in v. 5, where it is expanded and applied to the fate of Jerusalem: ‫רוּשׁ ָל ִם‬ ָ ְ‫ ְוּר ֵאה ְבּטוּב י‬, “and may you see the prosperity of Jerusalem.” This change of perspective is connected with the mention of Zion immediately before. The phrase ‫ יהוה ִמ ִצּיּוֹן‬7‫יְב ֶר ְכ‬ ָ , “May Yahweh bless you from Zion,” occurs with the same wording in 134:3. The entire sentence is probably not secondary, though, for it finds an appropriate follow-up at the end of the verse: 7‫ יהוה כּ ֹל יְ ֵמי ַחיֶּ י‬7‫יְב ֶר ְכ‬ ָ , “may Yahweh bless you all the days of your life.” In Ps 129, the one who is praying adopts the image of ploughing and harvesting in order to tell of the torment which he has long had to endure at the hands of his opponents, whom he then curses. He hopes that they will perish like wilting grass and empty straw: […]49 Sorely have they afflicted me from my youth, yet they have not prevailed against me. The ploughers ploughed upon my back; they made long their furrows. […] May all who hate Zion be put to shame and turned backward! Let them be like the grass on the housetops, which withers before it grows up, with which the reaper does not fill his hand or the binder of sheaves his bosom, while those who pass by do not say, The blessing of Yahweh be upon you! We bless you in the name of Yahweh!

2 3 5 6 7 8

48

The additions of the Israel-revision as well as of the righteousness-revision have been omitted from the translation. See above pp. 386, 388–89 49 The additions of the Israel-revision as well as of the righteousness-revision are skipped from the translation. See above pp. 385, 390.

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In v. 5, “the oppressors and exploiters of the individual psalmist are apostrophized as ‘Zion’s’ enemies […] without any specific reason being given for this in the context.”50 Here, the edition of the Psalms of Ascents has left its mark. At the end, in v. 8, the psalm unexpectedly changes into the reported speech of passers-by, and the agricultural imagery is abandoned. Those who are not offered a blessing are those who hate Zion. In a countermove, blessing is conferred on Zion and its inhabitants: “We bless you in the name of Yahweh!” The short Ps 131 is a prayerful acknowledgment in the form of a cleansing oath. The person offering the prayer asserts that he is not arrogant but humble. The ethical ideal of humilitas may have had its Sitz im Leben at court, in the vicinity of the king. (1) Yahweh, my heart is not lifted up, my eyes are not raised too high; I do not occupy myself with things too great and too marvellous for me. 2 But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a child quieted at its mother’s breast […] is my soul […]51 (3) from this time forth and for evermore.

Brief though it is, this psalm too has been expanded. The cleansing oath has been transformed into an acknowledgment of trust. To express this, an impressive image has been chosen of a weaned child in its mother’s arms. The reason for the trustful confidence is not explicitly stated, but it is suggested by the concluding temporal determination: the person praying dwells in the protecting presence of Yahweh ‫ ֵמ ַ ָתּה וְ ַ ד־עוֹלָ ם‬, “from this time forth and for evermore” (cf. 121:8), i.e. on Mount Zion or in its immediate vicinity (cf. 125:2). Ps 133 has as its motif life in the presence of God and in the community of fellows who share one and the same religious conviction. This forms the climax of the collection, immediately before the concluding doxology: (1) Behold, how good and pleasant it is when brothers dwell in unity! 2 It is like the precious oil upon the head, running down upon the beard. […]52 3 It is like the dew of Hermon, which falls on the mountains of Zion! For there Yahweh has commanded the blessing, life for evermore.

Seybold, Wallfahrtspsalmen, 28 (my translation). For the additions in vv. 2–3 see above p. 387. 52 There follows a reference to the anointing of Aaron, an “obvious addition” (Seybold, Die Psalmen, 500), cf. Exod 29:7; 30:30; Lev 18:12. On Aaron’s beard, cf. Lev 21:5. 50 51

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At the basis of this short psalm is a sentence referring to the harmonious life of (presumably biological) brothers (see Deut 25:5). It connotes a peaceful life within the greater family and its positive effect on the population of the settlement. It consists of an exclamation in the form of a rhetorical question, which is then answered by image of precious perfume used for anointment at important occasions (cf. Ps 23:5).53 While it runs from the head down into the beard, its fragrance permeates the surrounding environment. This simile was applied to Zion in the edition of the Psalms of Ascents where the anointing oil being poured upon on the head is replaced by the dew on mount Hermon, the mountain that towers above the land from the north. It is the head of the land, so to speak. We should not ask how the abundance of water may come from Galilee to the mountains of Zion; practical reality is not decisive for the theological programme. 54 The point of the image is to depict Zion as the place where Yahweh has poured forth his blessings. At this place is to be found a life full of blessing and peace “for all time,” ‫ַחיִּ ים ַ ד־‬ ‫ ָהעוֹלָ ם‬. Ps 134 is the collection’s concluding doxology. The basic form consists of a call to praise in three lines, with four or five metrical stresses. It is addressed to the cultic servants who watch over the sanctuary during the night. They are to raise their hands in the direction of the Temple and praise Yahweh. Framed by the imperative ‫ ָבּ ֲרכוּ ֶאת־יהוה‬, “bless Yahweh,” in v. 1aα and v. 2b, it forms a self-contained unit: (1) Behold, bless Yahweh, all you servants of Yahweh, who stand by night in the house of Yahweh! 2 Lift up your hands to the holy place, and bless Yahweh! 3 May Yahweh bless you from Zion, he who made heaven and earth!

The final line, which unites two of the recurring phrases of the Psalms of Ascents, deviates from this form. It is a promise of blessing addressed to an individual person. The verb '‫ בר‬pi. is repeated, but it is used in a different sense than before. The blessing is addressed to an unspecified recipient; the sentence sounds as if it were a generally used formulary. It is emphasised that Zion, being Yahweh’s abode, is a source of blessing, and that the God of Zion is the sole Creator of heaven and earth.

53

We also find evidence for this custom in Egyptian paintings: see Hossfeld and Zenger, Psalms, 3:480. 54 The suggestion that the word “Zion” should be replaced by Ijjon (‫ ) ִ יּוֹן‬in Galilee (see Gunkel, Die Psalmen, 571) misses the point.

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G. The Other Psalms of the Collection The collection also includes psalms in which no definite traces of the editor can be discerned. Among these are Ps 126, with its prospect of a turn in Zion’s fortunes; Ps 127, which describes how Yahweh allows households and families to prosper, and, finally, the De profundis psalm, Ps 130. Conversely, in Ps 125, whose brief central section concentrates on praise of Zion, it is impossible to detect any traces of an older transmission: (1) […] 55 Zion shall never be moved, but abides for ever. 2 As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so Yahweh is round about his people, from this time forth and for evermore. […]

The comparison of Zion with Israel’s protective God himself may have been composed entirely by the editor. The royal Ps 132 has a special role. The psalm is unique in the collection for its unparalleled length. Although it is not impossible that this psalm was added only later, it fits into the composition. At its centre stands the election of Zion, where Yahweh desires to have his dwelling. There are clear allusions to the promise in 2 Sam 7. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 13

Remember, Yahweh, in David’s favour, all the hardships he endured; how he swore to Yahweh and vowed to the Mighty One of Jacob, I will not enter my house or get into my bed; I will not give sleep to my eyes or slumber to my eyelids, until I find a place for Yahweh, a dwelling place for the Mighty One of Jacob. Lo, we heard of it in Ephrathah, we found it in the fields of Jaar. Let us go to his dwelling place; let us worship at his footstool! Arise, Yahweh, and go to your resting place, you and the ark of your might. […] For Yahweh has chosen Zion; he has desired it for his habitation. […]

Verse 8 is a play on the Song of the Ark in Num 10:35: Yahweh is asked to take up his dwelling on the sanctuary which David is going to build for him. The psalm has later been expanded in vv. 9–12 by a promise to David’s dynasty. But earlier to this, in v. 13, it has been added that Yahweh has agreed to this request, and indeed does dwell on Zion. Consequently, his followers can and should now come there as well and “worship at his footstool” (vv. 6–7; cf. Ps 99:5).

55 The original psalm may have begun with ‫ר־ציּוֹן‬ ִ ‫ ַה‬. The present text goes back to the addition of ‫ ַהבּ ְֹט ִחים ְבּיהוה‬, “those who trust in Yahweh.” See above p. 389.

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H. The Arrangement of the Collection Taken together, the thematic editing of the individual psalms and the selection and arrangement of the collection allow us to make out a clear editorial profile. As has often been observed, two theme groups dominate the collection: blessing and the presence of God on Zion. The way in which these two themes are related to each other is of essential importance for understanding the intention behind the editorial changes. Again and again, the short psalms return to the theme of blessing. Ps 121, one of the most beautiful benedictions in the Old Testament, occupies the second place in the collection. The blessing focuses on what is of immediate importance in life: the household and the well-being of the family. The farmer hopes for the fruits of his labour (128:2) and a good harvest (126:5–6). His happiness in a capable wife (128:3), numerous sons (127:4–5; 128:3) and even grandsons (128:6) is apparent. Peaceful times and public order provide the necessary premises for this good fortune. Any further-reaching political goal is not evident. At present, the person praying is admittedly living among those who hate peace (120:6), and he asks where his help is to come from (121:1). He lifts his eyes to Yahweh (121:1; 123:1), for he suffers mockery and contempt (123:4). He expects Yahweh to help him, for Yahweh is not just one God among others. He is the Creator of heaven and earth (121:2; 124:8, 134:3). He has the power to preserve the security of his people, and to guarantee their well-being. This God has, or takes up, his dwelling place on Zion, the place he has chosen (132:13). Consequently, Zion does not waver but stands fast in the midst of all the storms of chaos (125:1). Its enemies will be put to shame (129:5). Zion is the place of blessing per se (133:3). From there, Yahweh disseminates his blessing (128:5; 134:3). Consequently, the prayers focus not on the complaint, but on the experience of help and the triumphant account of that help. The first verse of the whole collection sounds this counterpoint: “In my distress I cried to Yahweh, and he answered me” (120:1). Just as Mount Zion is never shaken, so Yahweh protects his people “from this time forth and for evermore” (125:2). The author of the prayer knows that with Yahweh he is in safekeeping “like a child quieted at his mother’s breast […] from this time forth and for evermore” (131:2–3). The lasting duration of the blessings, which is repeatedly stressed in these psalms, speaks emphatically against their being interpreted as songs for regular pilgrimages. The author of these prayers does not intend to leave Zion ever again. He is convinced that it is “good and pleasant when brothers dwell in unity” (133:1), and do so “for evermore” (133:3), as we read towards the end of the collection. The Psalms of Ascents strive to convince the followers

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of Judaism, scattered as they are throughout the world, that the place to settle is in proximity to Zion. The programme of the collection is not the pilgrimage, but the complete relocation to the land in which God is near. The dramaturgy for this is provided by the sequence of the individual psalms. The beginning is characterised by weariness with life in a foreign land (Ps 120). The departure begins with a blessing for the journey: “Yahweh will keep your going out and your coming in from this time forth and for evermore” (121:8). The goal of the journey is final: it is a journey without any return to the previous misery. Ps 122 describes the arrival in Jerusalem, and Ps 123 the arrival at the Temple. This is accompanied by a look back at the misery which the author of the prayer has left behind. Ps 124 describes the act of liberation which the arrival in Zion signifies. The author of the prayer feels like the bird who has escaped from the hunter’s snare. Now he is in Zion, in the place of safety (Ps 125), where he can resume a normal life, one blessed by Yahweh, who has given Israel’s destiny a fresh turn (Ps 126). Houses can be built and families established (Ps 127), and Yahweh’s blessing, emanating from Zion, may be enjoyed in this new setting (Ps 128). Once more, there is a glance back to the wretched situation which has been surmounted, and to the opponents who hate Zion (Ps 129). The psalmist’s deep past distress is remembered, but his hope in Yahweh has not been in vain (Ps 130). Now the author of the prayer has reached his goal and rejoices at being in safe keeping in the proximity of God (Ps 131). The reason is given in Ps 132: Yahweh, God the Creator, has chosen Zion to be his dwelling place. Hence whoever makes his own dwelling place in the proximity of Zion will forever enjoy the blessing of the unsurpassable nearness of God (Ps 133). The last line summarizes once more the message of the collection: “Yahweh bless you from Zion, he who made heaven and earth!” (Ps 134:3).

“As far as the east is from the west, so far does he remove our transgressions from us” (Psalm 103:12) Mercy as the Centre of Psalm 103 Ann-Cathrin Fiß “YHWH is compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in mercy.” The so-called “mercy formula” is likely the most prominent proclamation of the merciful God in the Old Testament.1 According to Hermann Spieckermann, it can even be called a theological centre.2 Readers encounters it in a multitude of different texts and contexts, and as such it repeatedly gives them the task of asking how the concept of mercy is presented anew in each context, and what it actually means.3 Therefore I will ask how the concept of mercy is defined in Psalm 103 and how important this concept is for the theology within the entire psalm. I would like to note in advance that I consider Ps 103 to be a consistent text, and that it dates back to the beginning of the Hellenistic period as a whole. My reasons for considering it complete and stating that it dates back to such a late time period will become apparent during the course of my contribution, so I will not expound upon them here.

1 Cf., e.g., Matthias Franz, Der barmherzige und gnädige Gott: Die Gnadenrede vom Sinai (Ex 34,6–7) und ihre Parallelen im Alten Testament und seiner Umwelt (BWANT 160; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2003); Ruth Scoralick, Gottes Güte und Gottes Zorn: Die Gottesprädikationen in Ex 34,6 und ihre intertextuellen Beziehungen zum Zwölfprophetenbuch (HBS 33; Freiburg: Herder, 2002). 2 See Hermann Spieckermann, “Barmherzig und gnädig ist der Herr …,” ZAW 102 (1990): 1–18, 18. 3 Because of the broad range of meanings that the word ‫ חסד‬evokes, it is very difficult to translate it in an appropriate manner. Here the translation “mercy” is chosen, but it can merely serve as a kind of shell, which has to be filled. See Katharine Doob Sakenfield, The meaning of hesed in the Hebrew Bible (HSM 17; Montana: Scholars Press, 1978), 1–21.

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A. Psalm 103: Structure and Content4 Ps 103 is framed by vv. 1–2 and 19–22, which contain the call to worship YHWH, an invitation made both to individual worshipers and all other creatures, including the celestial beings. The central part of the Psalm, vv. 3–18, can be divided into several sections. The connection between these sections is primarily established using specific words in the semantic field of mercy, creating a motif to guide the reader through the entire midsection. Vv. 3–5 illustrate the benevolence of YHWH through participles within the text. The first encounter we have with the key words compassion and mercy is in v. 4, in the middle parallelism. Vv. 6–7 are also descriptions of benefactions, however the object of benevolence has changed. Here the oppressed, Moses and Israel, are named. Precisely through the Moses-Israel context a bridge to v. 8 is built, the socalled mercy formula. The message to be found in the centre of the middle section is elucidated in the following verses, whereby in vv. 9–10 a fourfold negative declaration delineates the limits of YHWHs wrath, and vv. 11–13 show the power of compassion and mercy. A link is created in v. 13, through the motif of paternal compassion for children, to vv. 14–16 in which the transience of beings and reflection on the Creator are made a theme. The finite nature of man is linked with infinite mercy in vv. 17–18, intertwined with covenant theological themes. The word ‫“( זכר‬remembrance” in vv. 14, 18) creates a relationship between both of these sections of the psalm. V. 19 brings in the concluding portion, heavenly and earthly liturgy of praise, through the motif of YHWH enthroned in heaven.

B. Mercy as the Theological Centre of the Psalm 1. Mercy as the Foundation of Anthropology In v. 4 we find the crowning of compassion and mercy as the centre of the sequence of participials found in vv. 3–5. How should we define the phrase “compassion and mercy” in this close context reading? The first parallelismus membrorum in v. 3 is the promise of forgiveness of sins and healing of disease. I would like to clarify how profound this commitment is, and the context in which it can be read, by expounding on the term ‫“( תחלאים‬disease”) in v. 3b. The root word, found within it, is ‫“( חלא‬be 4

A very detailled structural analysis is done by Martin Metzger, “Lobpreis der Gnade: Erwägungen zu Struktur und Inhalt von Psalm 103,” in Meilenstein: Festgabe für Herbert Donner zum 16. Februar 1995 (ed. Manfred Weippert and Stefan Timm; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1995), 121–33.

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sick”). But ‫ תחלאים‬in this form only appears in the Old Testament four times in the sense of a disease that is sent from YHWH as punishment for apostasy from him and leads to death (Deut 29:21; Jer 14:18; 16:4; 2 Chr 21:19). In Deut 29:21, a disease strikes the whole land, tantamount to creation being taken back. The reason given for the disease is the behavior of Israel, which has forsaken the covenant and served other gods. In Jer 14:18 and 16:4 the population of Jerusalem is struck by disease sent by YHWH, because they put their trust in false prophets. The disease leads to people being found lying dead in the streets and fields. They are not buried and their corpses are left as food to be devoured by wild beasts. The disease that YHWH sends the people of Israel is therefore not only a punishment of death, but continues even beyond death and as a result can be considered particularly harsh. In 2 Chr 21:19 King Joram is punished by YHWH with a bowel disease, because he led the people on a false path to idolatry. The inner parts which in Ps 103 are responsible for the praise of God, burst out of Joram, who dies a painful death in the form of his intestines. Although he is buried, it is not in a manner befitting a king (2 Chr 21:20). These four cases of ‫ תחלאים‬recall punishment of the whole people. This punishment cannot be averted, always leads to death, and acts beyond death. While the motif of the disease is used in most Old Testament texts to recognize YHWH as a doctor and thereby forge a new relationship,5 ‫ תחלאים‬is explicit vocabulary for a termination of relationship. By establishing a connection between forgiveness of sins and healing of disease in v. 3, Ps 103 describes a contrast to punishing acts of YHWH, which could not be stronger. The release from the pit (v. 4a), satisfaction with good (v. 5a) and the renewal of life force (v. 5b) are also extreme counterpoints to the aforementioned texts. With this background in mind, the mentioned crowning with compassion and mercy describes a change of inordinate magnitude, which will determine the life of the worshipper. Without the benefactions that YHWH provides them, worshipers are fated to the insuppressible anthropological constants of the human condition: sin, sickness and mortality. YHWH’s mercy however disrupts these constants. It is an expression of the revocation of his wrath, and in that a new opportunity for life for the worshiper. 5

Cf., e.g., Exod 15:22–27; Isa 19:22; Hos 6:1–2. See also: Norbert Lohfink, “‘Ich bin Jahwe, dein Arzt’ (Ex 15:26): Gott, Gesellschaft und menschliche Gesundheit in einer nachexilischen Pentateuchbearbeitung (Ex 15:25b, 26),” in “Ich will euer Gott werden:” Beispiele biblischen Redens von Gott (ed. Norbert Lohfink et al.; SBS 100; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1981), 13–73, 41–57. The connection between guilt and disease is described in Bernd Janowski, “‘Heile mich, denn ich habe an dir gesündigt!’ (Ps 31,5): Zum Konzept von Krankheit und Heilung im Alten Testament,” in Krankheitsdeutung in der postsäkularen Gesellschaft: Theologische Ansätze im interdisziplinären Gespräch (ed. Günter Thomas and Isolde Karle; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2009), 47–66.

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The image of crowning a human, albeit not with compassion and mercy, but with honor and glory is also used in Ps 8 in the context of the fundamental anthropological question “What is man that you are mindful of him.” In Ps 103, this fundamental question is addressed more specifically. It has a different focus through the use of the notion of mercy. For one, Ps 103 does not seem to revolve around the individual person. This is supported by the fact that ‫ תחלאים‬is not a concept of individual guilt, but rather is used when describing Israel specifically, and the mercy formula conveys the context of the whole people of Israel in Exod 34 as well. It can therefore be assumed that the promises of mercy in vv. 3–5, although individually formulated, refer to a collective, Israel. How exactly the Israel is defined will be discussed below. Secondly, Ps 103 does not seem to revolve around the fundamentals of human existence as such, but on the way in which they are transformed through the mercy of YHWH. The question we might therefore ask of Ps 103 could be: “What is an Israel that lives through YHWH’s mercy and is aware of its state of being?” 2. Mercy and Creation Theology6 From Ps 103, it can be clearly determined what Israel is not. It is not a new creation in the sense that the fundamental constants of life would change in it. This Israel remains sinful and mortal in its human condition, despite its crowning with compassion and mercy. It is precisely these two themes that fall into view while looking at the second half of the psalm from the mercy formula in v. 8. The intensity with which the boundary of God’s wrath and the expanse of the remission of sins are described in vv. 9–13 only makes sense if a general culpability of the people is present. Unlike Ps 51, which also emanates from a comprehensive culpability qua human nature,7 in Ps 103 Israel is not renewed with a pure heart and a right spirit, but YHWH removes its guilt and stores it at the peripheries (v. 12) so that they cannot exert any more control over him. For this reason, YHWH’s mercy is described as extremely powerful, becoming an active subject itself, being of heroic strength (v. 11 ‫“ גבר חסדו‬his grace is powerful”). The reason for the overall culpability of man is also found within Ps 103 in his transience. Because he is created from dust (v. 14) 6 Ps 103 is not an explicit creation hymn, but an underlying implicit creation theology can be found throughout the whole psalm and leads to the great creation hymn Ps 104. See Frank-Lothar Hossfeld and Erich Zenger, Psalmen 101–150 (HThKAT; Freiburg: Herder, 2008), 62f. 7 See Friedhelm Hartenstein, “Gott als Horizont des Menschen: Nachprophetische Anthropologie in Psalm 51 und 139,” in Die unwiderstehliche Wahrheit: Studien zur alttestamentlichen Prophetie (ed. Rüdiger Lux and Ernst-Joachim Waschke; Arbeiten zur Bibel und ihrer Geschichte 23; Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2006), 491–512, 504.

“As far as the east is from the west” (Psalm 103)

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and his existence is as a consequence a fleeting and trivial matter, man remains removed from himself and therefore imperfect as a being. The discourse about transience in Ps 103 is framed by statements about YHWHs compassion (‫ )רחמים‬in v. 13 and mercy (‫ )חסד‬in v. 17. Both verses fulfill a kind of joint function, since through them different traditions are related to each other. For one, the compassion in v. 13 belongs to an interpretation of the mercy formula in v. 8. Moreover, the verse makes a bridge to the relationship between creator and created using the terms father and children. As a father over his children YHWH is aware of the nature of humans and has mercy on those. Vv. 11–14, 15b, 16 begin with ‫כ‬-sounds, and in their linguistic onomatopoeia show that the verses should be read in conjunction with one another. The logical combination of mercy formula with creation theology or rather the laments of transience leads to the notion that YHWH has mercy on his creatures because he made them mortal. The function of mercy at this point is a form of compensation. Israel will be forgiven for its iniquities, because it has a short lifespan. As in the case of culpability, transience will not be done away with, but through YHWH’s reliable acts of mercy, a way to overcome them is brought to light. The stability of YHWH’s mercy is underlined in v. 17; its effects are felt everlasting times to everlasting times. In my opinion, this is not an expression which highlights the distance between the shorter lifespans of the created and the timelessness of YHWH, but on the contrary, serves to strengthen faith in everlasting mercy. At this point I would like to draw attention to parallels between Ps 103 and the priestly flood story, bound by the self-same concept of ‫“( זכר‬remember”).8 Likewise, the concept of humans within the flood story has no illusions and is marked with violence both before and after the flood. After the flood, there is a fresh start, but this does not affect the anthropological constitution of humans, rather the conditions under which they live and are able to survive. The fact that it was even possible to come to a new beginning, is due only to YHWH’s will to save. The turning point from destruction to rescue is illustrated by the remembrance of YHWH: “And God thought (‫ )זכר‬Noah, and all the wild animals and all the cattle that were with him in the ark. And God made a wind blow over the earth, so that the water sank.” (Gen 8:1) Janowski makes it clear that this decision-making process does not lack proper motivation, it is brought on by the covenant, a bond which YHWH 8 Bernd Janowski has worked out the central importance of the concept of ‫ זכר‬for the priestly flood story. I follow his remarks in: Bernd Janowski, “Das Zeichen des Bundes: Gen 9:8–17 als Schlussstein der priesterlichen Fluterzählung,” in Für immer verbündet: Studien zur Bundestheologie der Bibel (ed. Christoph Dohmen and Christian Frevel; SBS 211; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2007), 113–22, 121f.

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announced in Gen 6:18. In Gen 9:15–16 the covenant ensures that YHWH will never again send a flood, which could destroy the earth.9 Significantly, this eternal covenant has been made with all flesh (‫ – )כל־בשׂר‬as such it is chosen as a term for all living things, conspicuously placing transience and culpability in the foreground. The use of ‫ זכר‬in Ps 103 ties into this theology tightly, because the remembrance that takes place in Ps 103:14 connotes a radical turning point for Israel. This being conscious of human transience leads to the previously forgiven sins and thus saves Israel from YHWH’s wrath. YHWH’s remembrance is at his mercy alone, it is not motivated by human behavior. But it has an effect on behavior, because Israel itself becomes a subject of remembrance. 3. Mercy and Fulfillment of the Commandments In v. 18, which forms a synonymous parallelism with v. 17,10 it is stated that the mercy of YHWH is to those who keep his covenant and remember his regulations to do them. For the Priestly Writings, the term “remember the regulations” is unusual, since the act of this remembrance is primarily attributed to YHWH (of eight occurrences of the verb ‫זכר‬, seven have YHWH as the subject. Only in Num 11:15 does it refer to a remembrance by the people).11 ‫ זכר‬as human action in the context of compliance with the commandments, derives from the language found in Deuteronomy. Here 13 occurrences of ‫ זכר‬refer to Israel and one to YHWH (in Deut 9:27 YHWH is invited to remember). 12 11 out of the 13 occurrences of remembrance are associated with the deliverance from Egypt – the term “regulations” ‫ פקדים‬is not used in Deuteronomy. It should be noted that the noun ‫ פקדים‬only occurs in the psalms, in the meaning of the commandments – in Ps 19; 111; 119 (21 occurences) and 103. The centrality of Torah-Wisdom in connection with YHWH-fearing generally shape all these post-exilic Psalms,13 but the combination ‫ זכר פקדים‬is unique in Ps 103. It could have been used to understand the remembrance of the regulations explicitly in the light of YHWH’s remembrance and deeds of rescue. Israel can fully comply with neither the

9

Janowski, “Das Zeichen des Bundes,” 120. A careful analysis of the parallelism is shown in Johannes Schnocks, Vergänglichkeit und Gottesherrschaft: Studien zu Psalm 90 und dem vierten Psalmbuch (BBB 140; Berlin and Wien: Philo, 2002), 153f. 11 See Barat Ellmann, Memory and Covenant: The Role of Israel’s and God’s Memory in Sustaining the Deuteronomic and Priestly Covenants (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2013), 55. 12 Ellmann, Memory and Covenant, 55. 13 See Alexandra Grund, “Die Himmel erzählen die Herrlichkeit Gottes:” Psalm 19 im Kontext der nachexilischen Toraweisheit (WMANT 103; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2004), 220–22. 10

“As far as the east is from the west” (Psalm 103)

407

covenant nor the regulations, given Israel’s anthropological condition. It is precisely this knowledge that explains why YHWH’s mercy of forgiveness serves as the system’s strongest factor. In this passage, those who fear YHWH seem to be those who reach this form of self-awareness and the knowledge of God and who confess themselves to the gracious God. Due to the terms YHWH-fearing, keeping the covenant and remembrance, the regulations of Ps 103 follow both priestly and deuteronomic paths, but Ps 103 dares one additional step. This can lucidly be seen in the last section of the psalm, the heavenly worship of the angels, to which we are led through the root ‫עשׂה‬. It is a key word in the vv. 18, 20, 21 and describes the implementation of YHWH’s commandments in three forms (doing the regulations, doing his word and doing his will). However, in vv. 20–21 it is the celestial beings who are responsible for this doing. Therefore the angels’ acts of doing require a closer look, and then I will come back to the question of the fulfillment of the regulations in v. 18. 4. The Celestial Beings Obedience to the Commandments The angels are described with unusual diversity for the Old Testament in vv. 20–22. In just three verses, five different names can be found for them. Some of the titles such as the combination ‫ גברי כח‬and the designation ‫משׁרת‬ for heavenly servants only occur in the Old Testament in Ps 103/104, can however be found in the multi-layer, complex angelology of early Jewish mysticism, for example, in the Sabbath Sacrifice Songs,14 the Role of War and the Hodayot (Thanksgiving Psalms). Although it is likely that Ps 103 was a donor text for some of these texts, I do not perceive it merely in a context of reception history as much as a product of a common imagination which springs forth from both Ps 103 and the angelology of early Jewish mysticism. My investigation into the titles of the angels has shown that their arrangement in Ps 103 is not random, but is due to their specific functions. The title messengers and heroes of force both have an affinity for Torahwisdom: the priests are referred to as messengers who pass on and enforce the divine commandments in Qoh 5:5 and Mal 2:6–7. The heroes of force are the guardians of Torah-mysteries (1QH XVI 12) in the Hodayot.15 Their function as referred to in Ps 103 “do his word, by listening to the voice of his word” reflects the concentration on the fulfillment of the Torah. The title army and servants is closely linked to the kingship of YHWH. He is commander and 14 An overview of the Sabath Sacrifice Songs can be found in Beate Ego, “Vom Gottesdienst der Engel in den biblischen Psalmen zur jüdischen Mystik: Traditionskritische Überlegungen zu den Sabbatopferliedern von Qumran,” ThLZ 140 (2015): 2–9. 15 Eileen Schuller and Carol Newsom, The Hodayot (Thanksgiving Psalms): A Study Edition Of 1QHa (SBLEJL 36; Atlanta, Ga.: SBL, 2012), 51.

408

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employer who leads his “staff” with a special responsibility. In the Sabbath Sacrifice Songs, the servants are the angels who carry out their duties before YHWH directly in the Holy of Holies (in 4Q400 1 i 416 and 4Q400 1 i 817). The function called “do his will” refers both to the obedient and effective implementation of YHWH’s word. The term work refers to the heavenly and the earthly beings and emphasizes on the one hand, the subordination to the Creator, and on the other hand, his special attention to and participation in the divine quality of life. It is striking that the works serve no other function in Ps 103 than the praise, in that we see that the description of a specific action seems to be reserved for the heavenly hosts in the final part of the Psalm. The actual hearing and doing of the word of YHWH lay in the sky. This is particularly surprising since this celestial doing is meant to be a mirror image of the earthly deeds that are commanded, as we know, mainly from Deuteronomy. The use of ‫ עשׂה‬as a participle in Ps 103:20f creates an impression of a continuous, reliable execution of the orders and commandments. In summary, the heavenly worship of the angels fulfills two basic functions. First, it ensures the stability of the kingdom of YHWH because through angel-obedience the order set up by YHWH is guaranteed to be maintained. While Israel repeatedly fails to fulfill the requirements of the commandments, the angels maintain a continuous course of action in pleasing YHWH, and through their actions they contribute to the fact that YHWH may himself act in compassion and mercy. Furthermore, the angels are also responsible for praise. They recognize the good order YHWH has created and respond appropriately through praise to God. At this point Ps 103 creates the connection to the earthly creatures, because in the imperative “praise YHWH” all creations are addressed. Through common worship, Israel is able to participate in the divine presence of the heavenly beings.18 Israel also takes up the continuous heavenly song of praise and this allows it to participate in the textbook successful relationship between God and the angels. Blessing and participating are embedded in reciprocal actions19 and – thinking in a spatial manner – may be construed as a shaping a process that draws a clear centre. YHWH as creator and king grants his mercy to his creatures and they give him their blessing. Through

16 Carol Newsom, Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice: A Critical Edition (HSS 27; Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1985), 8. 17 Newsom, Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice, 8. 18 Cf., e.g., Philip Alexander, The Mystical Texts (Library Of Second Temple Studies 61; London and New York: T&T Clark, 2006), 96; Newsom, Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice, 19. 19 See Jan Assmann, Ma’at: Gerechtigkeit und Unsterblichkeit im Alten Ägypten (Beck’sche Reihe 1403; München: C. H. Beck, 2001), 60–73.

“As far as the east is from the west” (Psalm 103)

409

this interchange YHWH becomes the centre of every praising soul and every praising soul gets in the centre of YHWH’s kingship, before his heavenly throne.

C. To Whom Does Mercy Apply? At this point I would like to explicitly ask once more to whom this mercy applies? In Ps 103, different target groups are named. It begins with the “I,” the recipient of the blessings in the suffix of the first person singular, which occurs in the first five verses. In vv. 10, 12, 14 a “we-group” occurs as a suffix of the first person plural and in vv. 11, 13, 17 a group of YHWHfearers. The “I” found in the beginning and the concentration on the created world in its array of heaven and earth in the final part can be explained quite reasonably if we consider that Ps 103 does not stand on its own, rather it is the centre of a triptych, where Ps 102 and Ps 104 represent the side wings.The reader is familiar with the plaintive “I” orientated by Ps 102. The “I” of Ps 103 could be a conscious connection to this, especially since the radical shift in worship sentiment typically experienced in a Psalm of lamentation is absent in Ps 102 and only completed in conjunction with Ps 103.The final part of Ps 103 creates the perfect transition to Ps 104, the creation hymn, which gives insight into YHWH’s effective work leads to praise. At the same time, it appears that precisely this praise, the result of insight into YHWH’s blessings, seems to lead to a kind of confessional community. The commitment to YHWH, the compassion and merciful God of Israel, inheres that the believers in their own iniquities and in their own inability to set aside these iniquities, are fully aware and thus fully see the need for and expect YHWH. This logic can very clearly be shown in Qumran texts such as the Community Role 1QS which is led by the practitioners’ yearly repetition of their obligation to the covenant in Column I,21–II,120 preceded by a confession of sins and the remembrance of God’s mercy. The priest recalls the saving acts of God, which he had done to Israel and Israel’s history of guilt. This is followed by a collective confession of sin by the current community, which sees itself in solidarity with its ancestors and the insight into the merciful actions of God, which does not account for iniquities. An act of selfawareness and the knowledge of God occurs, and because of this the practitioner is able to enter into the covenant. The Hodayot also argues in this direction by repeatedly emphasizing that the insight into the lowliness of humans in the face of the greatness of God 20 Florentino García Martínez and Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar, The Dead Sea Scrolls: Study Edition, vol. 1, IQI–4Q273 (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 1997), 70–73.

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Ann-Cathrin Fiß

leads to a behavior in humans of expectation in the action of God through the understanding of their own lowliness. Humans are only just put on the level of being able to worship God through the act of forgiveness by God (cf. e.g., 3:1–39 [SE] / 11:2–40 [DJD]21). If we take this opportunity to look back on Ps 103 from here, I would characterize the YHWH-fearing group as those who have accepted that forgiveness to its fullest extent, that is, in what it says about God and about humans, and have understood and accepted this. From this, the YHWH-fearing group constitutes a kind of confessional community to the merciful God, which at the same time is the “we-group” within the Psalm. The relationship between the YHWH-fearing group and the “we” can also be found in the linguistic entanglement that the rhythm of the remission of sins and acts of mercy takes on (v. 10 we – the forgiveness of sins; v. 11 mercy – YHWHfearing; v. 12 we – forgiveness; v. 13 compassion – YHWH-fearing; v. 14(– 16) we – transience; v. 17 mercy – YHWH-fearing). The term “confessional community” should not be understood as a referring to the thesis of Wellhausen and Donner defining post-exilic Israel exclusively as a confessional community.22 Especially the “I” in the Psalm, as I elucidated at the beginning of this essay, is not an individual “I,” but rather one that only becomes transparent through the context of the people. Thus Ps 103 presents a very complex comprehension of what Israel means; both ethnos and confession play an important role. But if YHWH-fearing arises from the experience of mercy and leads to blessing, the theological concept of Ps 103 will show an opening for the peripheries, the nations, too.23

Schuller and Newsom, The Hodayot, 37f. See as an overview of this discussion Volker Haarmann, JHWH-Verehrer der Völker: Die Hinwendung von Nichtisraeliten zum Gott Israels in alttestamentlichen Überlieferungen (ATANT 91; Zürich: TVZ, 2008), 22–25. 23 In this regard Ps 103 is comparable with the book of Jonah. 21

22

Qinah Meter From Genre Periphery to Theological Center – A Sketch Urmas Nõmmik A specific form of ancient Hebrew verse, a bicolon with a longer colon at the beginning and a shorter colon at the end, is being denoted qinah.1 The reason for this is the appearance of the verse type in texts often called or interpreted as qinot – the lamentations. The amount of such texts in the Hebrew Bible is not large but noticeable enough.2 A number of other texts can be added to this corpus, since they use the specific metrical structure but do not qualify as lamentations. The following is a presentation of a working hypothesis how those formally similar texts and textual particles with sometimes very different content could be related to each other. My specific perspective will be diachronic, and the aim is to demonstrate a shift in the use of the qinah meter. But as a matter of fact, the perspective also involves potential to touch the larger phenomenon of genre shift, i.e., genres having a very specific and even peripheral Sitz im Leben in older layers of the Hebrew Bible can be used in younger texts belonging to the theological center of the Hebrew Bible. In this way, a development from genre periphery to theological center can be drawn. But again, as our question calls upon an analysis probably in the format of at least a monograph, this contribution presents only a working hypothesis preparing substantial discussion on the diachronic perspective of the study of qinah-texts in the Hebrew Bible.

1

The research on which this work is based was supported by the Academy of Finland’s Centre of Excellence “Changes in Sacred Texts and Traditions” (CSTT) hosted by the Faculty of Theology, University of Helsinki, and by the Estonian Science Foundation / Estonian Research Council Grant no. ETF 9279. 2 The word ‫ קינה‬itself occurs in 2 Sam 1:17; 2 Chr 35:25; Jer 7:29; 9:9, 19; Ezek 2:10; 19:1, 14; 26:17; 27:2, 32; 28:12; 32:2, 16; Am 5:1; 8:10; in most of them, the word marks a lament or lamentation song.

412

Urmas Nõmmik

A. The first studies on qinah meter go back as far as the end of the 19th century. Karl Budde has written two classical inquiries in 1882 and 1883, both published in Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft. He followed the discussion on accentuative metrical system, according to Julius Ley and Eduard Sievers. In those, the system of describing verse types in terms of accents 3+3, 3+2, etc., originates.3 Budde formulated the basic structure of the verse pattern as: Das Verhältnis von 3 : 2 ist also das erste, welches der Absicht, ein kürzeres Versglied dem ersten längeren folgen zu lassen, entspricht; doch sind damit andere Verhältnisse und längere Verse, wie 4 : 2, 4 : 3 u.s.w. keineswegs ausgeschlossen.4

Qinah is traditionally understood as 3+2 stresses per bicolon, or in most cases 3+2 words in a bicolon. 5 Others after Budde have used different metrical criteria and considered qinah as bicola of 4+3.6 Regardless of the meter, the qinah meter can also be defined as a bicolon whose second colon, the B-colon is shorter than the first colon, the A-colon.7 The second aspect of the definition should regard either the belonging to a series of similar bicola, for a single qinah verse can seldom be considered as solid proof, or a clear content of lament. In the following examples, the accentuative and alternative models of the Hebrew meter will not be taken into account; instead, colometry is used. According to it, the number of consonants in cola, bicola and tricola is counted and compared to neighboring verses; thereby, the parsing of texts into bi- and tricola seconds to a careful analysis of parallelism and other characteristics.8 According to many analysis drafts of the present author, the 3 Luis Alonso Schökel, A Manual of Hebrew Poetics (Subsidia biblica 11; Rome: Editrice Pontificio Istituto Biblico, 2000), 37; Ulrich Berges, Klagelieder (HThKAT; Freiburg, Basel, and Wien: Herder, 2002), 78f; Klaus Seybold, Die Poetik der Psalmen (PSAT 1; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2003), 102. 4 Karl Budde, “Das hebräische Klagelied,” ZAW 2 (1882): 1–52, 6. 5 Wilfred G. E. Watson, Classical Hebrew Poetry: A Guide to Its Techniques (JSOTSup 26; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1984), 98; Seybold, Poesie der Psalmen, 125. 6 Sigmund Mowinckel, The Psalms in Israel’s Worship (vol. 2; transl. D. R. ApThomas; Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1962), 165. 7 Marc Wischnowsky, Tochter Zion: Aufnahme und Überwindung der Stadtklage in den Prophetenschriften des Alten Testaments (WMANT 89; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2001), 54, n. 233. 8 As for the method, see Oswald Loretz and Ingo Kottsieper, Colometry in Ugaritic and Biblical Poetry: Introduction, Illustrations and Topical Bibliography (UBL 5; Altenberge: CIS-Verlag, 1987); Martti Nissinen, Prophetie, Redaktion und Fortschreibung im Hoseabuch: Studien zum Werdegang eines Prophetenbuches im Lichte von Hos 4 und 11 (AOAT 231; Kevelaer: Verlag Butzon & Bercker; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1991), 50–54, 57–72.

Qinah Meter

413

ideal relation of consonants in a qinah verse is 12:8. But of course, depending on the circumstances, noticeable variation such as 15:7 or 11:6 is possible. However, it always is the given exact context and form which define the assignment of one or another verse to the qinah pattern. Since Budde, Lamentations are often being considered as classical examples of qinah. Without discussing in detail how Lamentations came into being and how complex its/their literary history is, it is worth mentioning that by and large, this small collection is almost unanimously set in the Babylonian and Persian periods in the 6th–4th century B.C. Particularly the oldest, second song Lam 2, has been dated after 587 by many scholars.9 To a considerable degree, Lamentations represent the qinah meter – the intention of their authors has certainly been to shorten the second colon. As can be realized in example 1, the second colon is always 1–4 consonants shorter, the only exception being the bicolon 12a. Example 1: Lamentations 2:11–12, the ‫כ‬- and ‫ל‬-strophes (NRS, modified) klw bdmcwt cyny ḥmrmrw mcy

13 9

My eyes are spent with weeping; my stomach churns;

c

nšpk l’rṣ kbdy l šbr bt cmy

12 10

my bile is poured out on the ground because of the destruction of my people,

11c

bcṭp cwll wywnq brḥbwt qryh

13 10

because infants and babes faint in the streets of the city.

12a

l’mtm y’mrw ’yh dgn wyyn

10 10

They cry to their mothers, “Where is bread and wine?”

12b

bhtcṭpm kḥll brḥbwt cyr

11 9

as they faint like the wounded in the streets of the city,

12c

bhštpk npšm ’l ḥyq ’mtm

10 9

as their life is poured out on their mothers’ bosom.

11a 11b

However, since Budde there has been a considerable scholarly discussion concerning the genre, style, meter, content and literary history of Lamentations. Even if the initial phase of the collection is still often dated to the beginning of the Persian period, many considerations have arisen that make the “classical” nature of Lamentations debatable. For this reason, it is appropriate to seek other instances of qinah poems, and many have done this, mostly in 9 E.g. Otto Kaiser, “Die Klagelieder,” in Sprüche, Prediger, Das Hohelied, Klagelieder, Das Buch Esther (ed. Helmer Ringgren, Walther Zimmerli, and Otto Kaiser, 3rd ed.; ATD 16; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1962), 300–302 and Markus Witte, “Schriften (Ketubim),” in Grundinformation Altes Testament (ed. Jan Christian Gertz; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2006), 404–508, 466–68.

Urmas Nõmmik

414

the studies on prophetic literature. For example, the book of Ezekiel delivers several examples of qinah poems. In the view of the present author, this book has preserved some qinah texts noticeably closer to the archaic form of qinah. The most impressive chapter for us is 19, with a frame of verses 1–2aα and 14b clearly assigning the poem in between to the genre of qinah. However, the text has considerably grown during its transmission period. 10 Whether several reconstructions are open to debate or not, the qinah pattern is certain. With variations at the beginning and end, the second colon is always 2–8 consonants shorter (example 2). Example 2: Ezekiel 19:2–9* (NRS, modified; reconstruction according to Karl-Friedrich Pohlmann) 2aβ

mh ’mk lby’ byn ’rywt

2b

rbṣh btwk kprym rbth gwryh

13 9

She lay down among young lions, rearing her cubs.

5b

wtqḥ ’ḥd mgryh kpyr śmthw

12 9

Then she took another of her cubs, made him a young lion.

6a

wythlk btwk ’rywt kpyr hyh

15 7

He prowled among the lions; he became a young lion,

6b

wylmd lṭrp ṭrp ’dm ’kl

12

and he learned to catch prey; 6 he devoured people.

7b

wtšm ’rṣ wml’h mqwl š’gtw

12 9

The land was appalled, and all in it, at the sound of his roaring.

8a

wytnw clyw gwym sbyb mmdynwt

13 11

The nations set upon him from the provinces all around;

8b

wyprśw clyw rštm bšḥtm ntpś

14 9

they spread their net over him; he was caught in their pit.

9a

wytnhw bswgr bḥḥym wyb’hw […] bmṣdwt

16 12

With hooks they put him in a cage, and brought him […] into custody.

9b

lmcn l’ yšmc qwlw …

14

so that his voice should not be heard …

9 8

What a lioness was your mother among lions!

10 The reconstruction is based on Karl-Friedrich Pohlmann (Der Prophet Hesekiel/ Ezechiel: Kapitel 1–19 [ATD 22/1; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996], 276–97).

Qinah Meter

415

Presumably older qinah examples can be found in Ezek 26:17b–18a; 27:3b– 36;11 32:18b–27.12 Before we start with a generic study of the journeys of the form of qinah in the Second temple period, it is worth discussing the nature of qinah. The handicapped structure of a bicolon in the form of qinah has given reason to ask whether the abrupt ending of the B-colon is connected to a specific pause in presenting the text orally, as Klaus Seybold has suggested. 13 Hedwig Jahnow has had the idea that the cadence of 3:2 “sounds as if the wailing woman was unable to complete regularly the second part of the line because of her emotional involvement.” 14 Marjo C.A. Korpel and Johannes C. de Moor have maintained that in qinah verse, “the lack of symmetry is an expression of strong emotion, usually grief.”15 Additionally, de Moor maintains to have found examples of qinah in Ugaritic literature as well.16 W. Randall Garr has provided a substantial study on the relation between the qinah meter, syntax and style, maintaining exactly this hierarchy of composition principles.17 Regarding content, the main aspects of the genre of qinah have been described as follows: a) an opposition of then and now, of the glorious past and the miserable now; b) the addressing of the dead person; c) negation of normal circumstances.18 Formally, there are indications that rhetorical questions have belonged to the stock of poetic devices. In addition to this, already the two examples mentioned above represent a strong female aspect: in Ezek 19, 11 The text has been heavily edited and extrapolated, even the accentuation in MT marks differences in poetry and prose additions, the earliest layer has to be looked for in verses 3b–10, 25b–26, 28–32, 34–36. 12 The text has suffered a lot and has been extrapolated. 13 Seybold, Poesie der Psalmen, 127: “Die Pause könnte zuweilen eine längere sein – wie möglicherweise beim Klagevers der Qina.” 14 Hedwig Jahnow, Das hebräische Leichenlied im Rahmen der Völkerdichtung (BZAW 36; Gießen: Alfred Töpelmann, 1923), 92. Translation according to Erhard S. Gerstenberger, Psalms, Part 2, and Lamentations (FOTL XV; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2001), 471. 15 Marjo C. A. Korpel and Johannes C. de Moor, “Fundamentals of Ugaritic and Hebrew Poetry,” UF 18 (1986): 173–212, 182. 16 Korpel and de Moor, “Fundamentals,” 182f in KTU 1.3:V.38f with parallels and 1.6:VI.10f (grief); Johannes C. de Moor, “The Art of Verification in Ugarit and Israel I: The Rhythmic Structure,” in Studies in the Bible and the Ancient Near East: Presented to Samuel E. Loewenstamm on His Seventieth Birthday (ed. Yitschak Avishur and Joshua Blau; Jerusalem: E. Rubinstein’s Publishing House, 1978), 119–39, 136–38 in CTA 14:I.12–25 and 19:II.64–74. 17 W. Randall Garr, “The Qinah: A Study of Poetic Meter, Syntax and Style,” ZAW 95 (1983): 54–75, esp. p. 74. 18 Jahnow, Das hebräische Leichenlied, 202–10; Pohlmann, Der Prophet Hesekiel/Ezechiel, 282f.

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the first figurative character is a lioness, in Lam 2, all the words for the city are feminine, not to mention the keyword ‫“ אם‬mother” used as inclusio around the strophe of verse 12a–12c. This, in turn, brings us to the roots of the qinah – in the context of family or clan, dirges were probably delivered by females, whether professional singers or not. Funerary and mourning rites in traditional cultures often attest to this fact, complemented by the statistical observation that those who have to mourn are more often women than men. On the level of a whole society, the ancient Near Eastern literature provides examples of the city lament close to qinah which certainly has influenced biblical prophetic texts – the city itself is feminine and its deity is also often feminine.19

B. Several problems exist with qinah. Budde’s studies have been criticized because of their tendency to squeeze everything into the mold of qinah.20 Indeed, Lamentations raise not only the problem of variation or inconsistency in the use of the qinah form, but also that of its synthesis with an acrostic form that against the backdrop of the contents of late acrostic psalms seems to be an anachronism. In addition, there is the matter of the rather broadly attested phenomenon of the qinah meter in texts outside Lamentations, especially texts whose contents are other than lament.21 The variety of content is considerable. One of the most striking examples is Ps 19. The text includes sections that belong to many different literary levels. Verses 8–11, but also 12–14, technically show the qinah meter (example 3).22 Verses 8–11 always have the second colon shorter (1–7 consonants); the last strophe in verses 12– 14 differs slightly in form and content, and might be of different scribal origin. An instance of a stylistic punchline at the end of a poem, such as the inverted qinah, is provided in verse 14b.

Cf. Wischnowsky, Tochter Zion, 13–45; Berges, Klagelieder, 46–52. Cf. Garr, “The Qinah,” 61–63; William H. Shea, “Qînāh Meter and Strophic Structure in Psalm 137,” HAR 38 (1984): 199–214, 199f. 21 See particularly Garr, “The Qinah,” 62 but already Jahnow, Das hebräische Leichenlied, 92. 22 Qinah in Ps 19 has been noticed also by Budde, “Das hebräische Klagelied,” 39–41; further, Oswald Loretz and Ingo Kottsieper (Colometry in Ugaritic and Biblical Poetry, 48f) bring 19:8 as an example of qinah, and Garr (“The Qinah,” 62) denotes the whole passage beside Isa 14:4–21 and Lam 1:9ff as an example of non-elegiac qinah. 19

20

Qinah Meter

417

Example 3: Psalm 19:8–14 (NRS, verses 7–13, modified) 8a

twrt yhwh tmymh mšybt npš

13 8

The law of Yhwh is perfect, reviving the soul;

8b

c

dwt yhwh n’mnh mḥkymt pty

13 9

the decrees of Yhwh are sure, making wise the simple;

9a

pqwdy yhwh yšrym mśmḥy lb

14 7

the precepts of Yhwh are right, rejoicing the heart;

9b

mṣwt yhwh brh m’yrt cynym

11 10

the commandment of Yhwh is clear, enlightening the eyes.

c

’mrt yhwh ṭhwrh wmdt lcd

13 8

The sayings23 of Yhwh are pure, enduring forever;

10b

mšpṭy yhwh ’mt ṣdqw yḥdw

12 8

the ordinances of Yhwh are true, righteous altogether.

11a

hnḥmdym mzhb wmpz rb

10 6

More to be desired are they than gold, even much fine gold;

11b

wmtwqym mdbš wnpt ṣwpym

11 9

sweeter also than honey, and drippings of the honeycomb.

12a b

gm cbdk nzhr bhm bšmrm cqb rb

13 10

Moreover by them is your servant warned; in keeping them there is great reward.

13a b

šgy’wt my ybyn mnstrwt nqny

12 11

But who can detect their errors? Clear me from hidden faults.

14a

gm mzdym hśk cbdk ’l ymšlw by

14 9

Keep back your servant also from the insolent; do not let them have dominion over me.

14b

’z ’ytm wnqyty mpšc rb

6 12

Then I shall be blameless,24 and innocent of great transgression.

10a

One does not have to be particularly well schooled in ancient Hebrew poetry to understand that the content of this text goes far beyond the lamentation. Instead of a lament, we meet an admonition, a calm and didactic attestation to Torah-piety. The qinah meter, at least with this notion, seems inappropriate here. A methodological question arises concerning whether verses 8–11 in Ps 19 provide a 3:2 pattern of qinah, or a 5:5 pattern of parallel and balanced bicola

23 ‫ יראת יהוה‬in MT is emended into ‫ אמרת יהוה‬because of the idea of the whole strophe; the scribal error can be explained with the influence of v. 9bβ; cf. Ps 119:38 and BHS. 24 ‫ איתם‬should be understood as the imperfect form of ‫ ;תמם‬see Wilhelm Gesenius, Hebräisches und Aramäisches Handwörterbuch über das Alte Testament (18th ed; Heidelberg: Springer, 2013), 1444.

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(hence, four instead of eight bicola). The general question is how to distinguish a qinah verse from its surroundings. Or in other words, how can we decide if a certain text has the qinah form? For instance, in Amos 5:2 we read the famous lament for Israel (example 4); also in verse 3 traces of a qinah connected to the city lament are recognizable. Example 4: Amos 5:2–3 (NRS; modified) 2a

nplh l’ twsyp qwm btwlt yśr’l

14 10

Fallen, no more to rise, is maiden Israel;

2b

nṭšh cl ’dmth ’yn mqymh … hcyr hyṣ’t ’lp tš’yr m’h

11 8

she is forsaken on her land, no one raises her up.

12 8

The city that marched out a thousand shall have a hundred left,

25 whywṣ’t m’h tš’yr cśrh

10 9

and that which marched out a hundred shall have ten left.

3bα 3bβ1

The passage attests to the most crucial methodological problem facing us, that is, finding uncomplicated examples for a study on the development of the qinah texts. On the one hand, in order to gain confidence in the existence of the qinah meter, it makes sense to work with passages of at least four successive qinah bicola devoid of text critical problems. Chapter 5 in Amos is introduced as ‫( קינה‬v. 1), although it is not clear whether the word addresses only verse 2 or more, and whether verses 1–3, especially verses 2 and 3, belong to the same literary layer.26 Two couplets of the qinah bicola are separated by the ‫ כה אמר יהוה‬formula in verse 3a that reinforces the suspicion of different scribal hands. Furthermore, no qinah verse follows in subsequent verses and verse 3 itself has some textual uncertainties.27 Hence, we cannot be sure in having a definite case of a qinah genre in Amos 5:2f – although the existence of qinah meter is rather obvious, both couplets might be quotations, or paraphrases of qinah. On the other hand, verse 1 clearly uses the notion ‫ קינה‬and stresses the qinah meter in verses 2 and 3 as such. The conclusion is likely that we deal with two examples of qinah verses of separate origin but not as examples of pure qinah but as prophetic paraphrases of qinah.28 Amos 5:2–3 A need to emend to ‫ והעיר היו‬is not excluded; see BHS. For the literary critical problems, see Wischnowsky, Tochter Zion, 53f; Reinhard Müller, “Der finstere Tag Jahwes: Zum kultischen Hintergrund von Am 5,18–20,” ZAW 122 (2010): 576–92, 579. 27 The last colon ‫ לבית ישׂראל‬is either a gloss or a misplaced phrase; see BHS and the previous note. Wischnowsky, Tochter Zion, 54, n. 233, does not agree with the qinah form in verse 3. 28 Thereby, verse 3 can be dependent on verse 2. 25

26

Qinah Meter

419

is close to the example from Ezek 19 – the prophetic context dominates the qinah.29 Coming back to Ps 19 and the question of 3:2 bicola versus 5:5 bicola, we can admit that similarly to Ps 19:8–11, Amos 5:2 could possibly also be read as a 5:5 bicolon (colometrically 24:19). However, the syntax and content rather support a division of verse 2 into four cola, particularly because of the ‫ אין מקימה‬in 2bβ that operates as an independent phrasal unit; bicolon 2a is complex as well, since the first colon has two verbal units, and the subject of both of them stands in the second colon. Because of the participle forms dominated by imperfect forms, the two bicola of verse 3b could also be read as one long bicolon, but in both cases the content clearly indicates the antithesis of a mighty city in the first colon and its drastic downfall in the second. The same applies for Ps 19: despite participle forms in verses 8–10 which do not require placing the phrases into separate cola, copulas in both bicola of verse 11 give a clear hint that the second part of the bicola should be understood as a more or less separate phrasal unit. This said, it is likely that the B-cola in Ps 19:8–11 always tend to be separate elliptic phrasal units, complementing the noun clause in the A-colon.30 A colometrical argument also belongs to the debate. If one parses Ps 19:8– 11 into 5:5 bicola, then the colometrical result would be 21:22, 21:21, 21:20 and 16:20, in the case of Amos 5:2+3b it would be 24:19 and 20:19. Several poetological studies of ancient Hebrew verses with two parallel cola have shown that the normal length of the cola does not exceed 17–18, in ideal case even 15 consonants per colon.31 Thus, our conclusion is that the form of the qinah verse (in other words, 3:2) in Ps 19 and Amos 5:2+3b is more than likely.

29 This is one of the assumptions of Jahnow, Das hebräische Leichenlied, 162–231, that in prophetic books, qinah is used figuratively and fades stylistically away. 30 Cf. Garr’s (“The Qinah,” 57–59, and note 25) remarks on syntax and (p. 72f) on enjambment (= “unsegmented poetic line”), and Frederick W. Dobbs-Allsopp, On Biblical Poetry (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 79–81, 101f, on qinah couplets, particularly in Ps 19:8–10. 31 Cf. Loretz and Kottsieper, Colometry in Ugaritic and Biblical Poetry, 39f; Nissinen, Prophetie, Redaktion und Fortschreibung, 29, 52; Urmas Nõmmik, Die Freundesreden des ursprünglichen Hiobdialogs: Eine form- und traditionsgeschichtliche Studie (BZAW 410; Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, 2010), 89.

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C. Based on those and other observations, a hypothetical generic relationship among texts using the qinah meter can be suggested (see figure). In the following, the term qinah is used only as a technical marker of the certain verse structure, no more, no less. The notion meter will be used as simply hinting to the length of the cola in terms of consonants, no accents will be counted. Texts under discussion are assembled into clusters, in order to enable a general overview. Genre periphery Cluster 1: Real qinah (and city lament) – ruin of someone (also city as female person)

Cluster 5: Wisdom imagery – ruin of the wicked Cluster 2: Prophetic literature – ruin of Jerusalem or Israel

Then and now

Cluster 3: Re-working of the city lament in Lam – ruin of Jerusalem

Cluster 6: Individual prayers – claim of the godly and ruin of the godless

Now and then

Cluster 4: Zion-theology, eschatological literature – claim of Israel

Theological Center Fading out of the qinah meter

Fig.: Generic scheme of texts using the qinah meter.

Cluster 7: (Torah-)Piety – claim of the godly

Qinah Meter

421

1. Cluster 1 First of all, we do not have exact knowledge how the qinah tradition looked like in the first half of the first millennium B.C. Personal lamentation texts either do not represent the qinah meter, or they attest to additional poetic features or variations in content that do not allow an assignment to the genre. As maintained by several scholars, the likely earliest examples of qinah are already remarkably creative in approaching the genre of lament with qinah meter. Hence, we probably do not have any instances of the so-called real qinah in the sense of a dirge in the Hebrew Bible, and neither those of a city lament in some very ancient fashion. On the other hand, the tradition of oral qinah must have once existed, since the word ‫ קינה‬and the verb ‫ קין‬and their contexts in the Hebrew Bible attest to that.32 The same holds true for the specific meter, because it cannot be simply explained as a scribal invention. Furthermore, the use of parallelism and sound-play in qinah verses support the theory of oral roots.33 On the grounds of some of our examples and on the model of a wisdom speech, it is likely that qinot had once rhetorical questions at important positions, such as the beginning of the text, and this, once more, attests to oral roots. The development of the use of the qinah meter goes two separate ways. The focus of one of them is the city Jerusalem as a symbol of Judah, and then of all Israel. Prophetic texts in, for instance, Ezekiel, Jeremiah and Isaiah, use qinah in order to tell the sad story of the city/kingdom and to lament the actual situation. The second way is represented by texts that concentrate on individuals as such and their fate. Passages using wisdom imagery and at the same time the qinah meter belong here. 2. Cluster 2 Texts in cluster 2 should be seen as representatives of the first line of development just described. They depict the ruin of Jerusalem and its king. The figurative language dominates, in Ezek 19 (example 2) even to a degree that the addressee itself is not mentioned. The song of the unfruitful vineyard in Isa 5 (verses 1b–4 as qinah) is a similar case34, so is also Amos 5:2–3 (example 4). As mentioned already, texts using the qinah meter tend to have some feminine imagery: in Ezekiel, it is the mother lioness which starts the series of metaphors, in Amos 5, it is the “maiden Israel.” Metaphors in the texts of cluster 2 are followed by word-plays and sound-plays. Textual dynamics is 32

See Garr, “The Qinah,” 60f. Cf. especially Dobbs-Allsopp, On Biblical Poetry, 318–25. 34 Four bicola in verses 3–4 might be a Fortschreibung of four qinah bicola and one introductory balanced bicolon in verses 1–2, making also the oldest part of the song highly figurative. 33

422

Urmas Nõmmik

achieved by the opposition of then and now, a glorious past is overruled by present-day sadness. Hence, a narrative element occurs. The latter is particularly stressed in Ezek 19, because of a series of wayyiqtol verbs at initial position of bicola.35 Although Amos 5:2 is a short saying, the narrative “then and now” is represented rather emphatically there too. Even if qinah tends to loosen the parallelism by enjambments and other features, in Ezek 19 most bicola are parallel, the verb occurs also in the B-colon. As to the date of these texts, one may claim that these represent the relatively earliest texts in qinah format in the Hebrew Bible (not real qinah), but this does not mean that all those texts originate in the monarchic time. Ezek 19 certainly is, but Isa 5:1– 4, most likely, is post-monarchic.36 3. Cluster 3 Lamentations, with their crucial importance in qinah studies, should be considered as a separate cluster of texts, cluster 3 (example 1). The reason not to treat them together with the previous cluster of prophetic texts is the acrostic form of the first four songs in Lamentations. In the book of Psalms, acrostic poems are of relatively younger origin than most of the other psalms – if so, should we consider Lamentations or some of them to be relatively early texts? Five songs of Lamentations show comparatively few traces of editing, and they are noticeably long texts in order to date them into the 6th century. Additionally, in Lamentations we deal with a complex picture involving verse types, the qinah meter itself and grammatical issues, e.g., Lamentations do not provide a consequent series of parallel verses, or verses with ellipsis; instead, the overall picture is mixed, and enjambment is often a case there. In terms of its contents, the opposition between then and now in Lamentations shows a clear tilt towards now – the actual situation of Jerusalem is miserable and this is a reason to mourn. But the miserable now cannot be there without a different past, thus, then and now are still at work. Unlike the case in the previous cluster, a reflective and explanative aspect is present: this theological dimension is a novelty – the fall of Jerusalem is reflected theologically, even the direct appeal to Yhwh occurs. This goes hand in hand with the reduction of purely figurative speech in favor of metaphors and comparisons which need to be constantly mentioned.

35

See Garr, “The Qinah,” 64–67 on the dominant prosodic pattern in the qinah syntax. See Pohlmann, Der Prophet Hesekiel/Ezechiel, 292–97 for earliest texts in Ezekiel and Otto Kaiser, Isaiah 1–12: A Commentary (2nd ed.; OTL; London: SCM, 1983), 93f for Isa 5:1–7. 36

Qinah Meter

423

Lamentations are one way to adapt and rework the tradition of a city lament, likely also using elements from the real qinah. But they themselves cannot be considered as representatives of the genre of real qinah, or regarded as relatively early texts. They belong, in the main, to the wave of texts mirroring the ruin of Jerusalem, but they do not have to be the earliest ones among them. 4. Cluster 5 Before we follow the path to the most crucial cluster 4, a glance at another branch of qinah texts is in order. Cluster 5 represents texts where qinah is intermingled with wisdom imagery. In these cases, it is not the ruin of the city but that of wicked individuals/the “the wicked” that stands at the center. A major difference towards the real qinah is given by the missing emotional attitude – the imagery itself can still be rather pretentious or colorful, but the overall impression is that of an unemotional depiction of the facts. Several cases of the fate of the wicked assure the universal principle of their fall. The opposition between then and now is also distinctively present – the wicked who were once prosperous and mighty, or seductive in the case of a strange woman in Prov 5, face harsh disaster. In Prov 5 (example 5) one would hardly expect the qinah meter, but significantly, Oswald Loretz and Ingo Kottsieper reconstruct it there,37 and add that it “eloquently depicts the end of the strange woman in the style of a funerary lament,” thus “reminiscent of a lament.”38 Similar to the prophetic texts, the real qinah is adapted and reworked here.

37 38

Loretz and Kottsieper, Colometry in Ugaritic and Biblical Poetry, 96–113. Loretz and Kottsieper, Colometry in Ugaritic and Biblical Poetry, 106.

Urmas Nõmmik

424

Example 5: Proverbs 5:20 + 3–6*39 20

lmh tšgh bny bzrh wtḥbq ḥq nkryh

14 12

3

ky npt tṭpnh śptyh40 wḥlq mšmn ḥkh

15 11

4

w’ḥryth mrh klcnh ḥdh kḥrb pywt

15 11

5

rglyh yrdwt [’l] 41 mwt 42 ṣcdyh ytmkw

[15] (13) 10

6

’rḥ ḥyym l’43 tpls ncw[t] 44 mcgltyh

13 [11]

20

why would you be enticed by a strange woman, my Son, and take another into your arms?

3

For her lips may drip honey, and her gums be smoother than oil;

4

But in the end she is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword.

5

Her feet descend [to] death, her strides are held back, .

6

She doesn’t prepare the way of life. Her paths waver .

Once one is fully cognizant of the possibility that qinah is used in the texts usually ascribed to the wisdom genre, some other passages call one’s attention. For instance, the case of Ps 57:5–7* (example 6) has the potential to seriously influence one’s considerations about the absolute chronology of the development of qinah texts.

39 Reconstruction and translation according to Loretz and Kottsieper, Colometry in Ugaritic and Biblical Poetry, 96–113. 40 The emendation is explained by Loretz and Kottsieper, Colometry in Ugaritic and Biblical Poetry, 102f with the help of ‫ זרה‬in v. 20 which does not need to be repeated here. 41 See BHS. 42 Younger explanation for ‫ מות‬in the first colon according to Loretz and Kottsieper, Colometry in Ugaritic and Biblical Poetry, 104. 43 The Syntax with ‫ פן‬in MT is impossible and needs to be emended, possibly into ‫;לא‬ see BHS and Loretz and Kottsieper, Colometry in Ugaritic and Biblical Poetry, 104f. 44 Participle instead of perfect according to Loretz and Kottsieper, Colometry in Ugaritic and Biblical Poetry, 104; cf. LXX and Targum.

Qinah Meter

425

Example 6: Psalm 57:5–7* (NRS, verses 4–6*, modified): 5a

45 btwk lb’m ’škbh13 lhṭym bny ’dm 11

I lie down among lions, devours are humans;

5b

šnyhm ḥnyt wḥṣym wlšwnm ḥrb ḥdh … ršt hkynw lpcmy kpp[w]46 npšy

their teeth are spears and arrows, their tongues sharp swords.

7a 7b

krw lpny šyḥh 47 nplw btwkh

14 12 13 [8] (7) 11 9

They set a net for my steps; my soul [they] bowed down. They dug a pit in my path, (but) they have fallen into it themselves.

These two strophes once belonged together, before they were separated by the refrain verse 6.48 The short narrative with a punchline in the last colon illustrates in a nutshell the principle of “whoever digs a pit for others falls into it.” It appears in a manner common to the wisdom discourse (cf. the friends’ speeches in the book of Job49). One might say that the opposition between then and now is relativized in this and other similar texts, since a universal principle is described. But clearly this small narrative is still about then and now. The qinah meter underlines the effect of certainty – the villains always fall; even if they have not yet fallen, they will for sure, and that is why we can already sing a dirge over the wicked. The earlier layer of Ps 57 involving verses 5 and 7 probably belongs to the literature from the monarchic time,50 and this means that the scribes were able to creatively paraphrase the real qinah, even to a higher degree than in the prophetic tradition. The qinah meter was freed from its unique association with a distinct genre and Sitz im Leben, but, at the same time, the aspects of 45 Verse 5 has serious textual problems, see Reinhard Müller, “Das befestigte Herz: Psalm 57 und die kosmologische Dimension der althebräischen Anthropologie,” in Die kleine Biblia: Beiträge zur Theologie der Psalmen und des Psalters (ed. Markus Saur; BThSt 148; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2014), 59–82, 63–67; here we follow the solution offered by Bernhard Duhm, Die Psalmen (KHC 14; Tübingen: Mohr, 1922), 226f that ‫ נפשׁי‬belongs to v. 4, similarly Klaus Seybold, Die Psalmen (HAT I/15; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996), 229f; but also if Müller (“Das befestigte Herz,” 66f) is right in reconstructing ‫ אשׁכבה להטים‬/ ‫נפשׁי בתוך לבאם‬, the colometry 12:10 is that of a qinah. 46 Plural suits the context better, see LXX and BHS; Müller (“Das befestigte Herz,” 60f) vocalizes as “Zustandspartizip” ‫ ָכּ ֻפף‬. 47 A copula at the beginning of the colon is possible according to LXX and Peshitta. 48 So Duhm, Die Psalmen, 227; Seybold, Die Psalmen, 230; Müller, “Das befestigte Herz,” 67f and others. 49 Nõmmik, Die Freundesreden, 159–92. 50 E.g., Müller (“Das befestigte Herz”) regards verses 2+5+7–9+12 as a pre-exilic layer of the psalm.

Urmas Nõmmik

426

“lament” and then and now narrative were maintained. The door was opened to the paraphrases of the genre in new contexts, and the adaptions in texts close to the theological center of the Hebrew Bible were made possible. One example from Isa 24 illustrates the synthesis of qinah with the wisdom literature in the prophetic tradition, as late as the proto-apocalyptic literature (example 7). Example 7: Isaiah 24:16bβ–18a (NRS, modified) 16bβ

’wy lbgdym51 bgdw wbgd bwgdym bgdw

17a b

pḥd wpḥt wpḥ clyk ywšb h’rṣ

14 8

18aα

whyh hns mqwl hpḥd ypl ’l hpḥt

15 9

aβ

whcwlh mtwk hpḥt ylkd bpḥ

14 7

16bβ

Woe to the treacherous dealing treacherously, the treacherous deal very treacherously.

17a b

Terror, and the pit, and the snare are upon you, O inhabitant of the earth!

18aα

Whoever flees at the sound of the terror shall fall into the pit;

aβ

and whoever climbs out of the pit shall be caught in the snare.

13 14

This text marks the hermeneutical space opened by the synthesis of universal wisdom with qinah, the latter tending to support the narrative aspect, but the plot of then and now is transformed into one of now and then. The now is miserable and needs a change, or the now is open for several solutions but one of them is the path of apocalyptic destruction. In the first two examples, 5 and 6, one can certainly observe the higher percentage of parallelism, a phenomenon partly supported by the influence of the normal mashal verses from the wisdom literature.52 Rhetorical questions or other thematic statements at the beginning of such texts are also to be ex51 According to LXX, BHS suggests to read ‫לבגדים‬, the erroneous ‫ לי‬may have been caused by the previous colon, see also Otto Kaiser, Der Prophet Jesaja: Kapitel 13–39 (3rd ed.; ATD 18; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1983), 153. 52 To the mashal see Urmas Nõmmik, “The Idea of Ancient Hebrew Verse,” ZAW 124 (2012): 400–408, 402–404.

Qinah Meter

427

plained by the growing influence of wisdom literature. Example 7 is stylistically different; synonymous parallelism is missing, the difference between the lengths of the cola is mostly larger than in examples 5 and 6, up to 7 consonants – these observations could support certain late poetical tendencies, but should be analyzed carefully in further studies. 5. Cluster 6 The wisdom and particularly its corresponding imagery in the form of qinah have had an effect on the large corpus of individual prayers in the Psalter. Those psalm passages using the qinah meter are addressed with cluster 6. At first glance, wisdom dealing with universal matters on the one hand, and prayers looking for a way out of deep distress on the other hand, might not seem to be related. But some qinah characteristics help to detect relations. First of all, both clusters 5 and 6 are connected by the focus on the individual, as we could already perceive from the instance of Ps 57 (example 6). This individual dimension becomes particularly obvious once one notices the emphasis on the “I” in the psalm, sometimes communicated by a rhetorically weighty ‫( ואני‬examples 8 and 9). It will become even more obvious through the ‫ אתה‬of the God (example 9). Perhaps for this reason the synthesis of qinah, prayer and wisdom is well suited for the self-confident confessions of the ‫ענוים‬, ‫ אביונים‬and ‫( צדיקים‬not so much ‫ – )חסידים‬a development that certainly belongs to the phase of intensive reshaping of whole psalm collections and the structure of the Psalter (examples 8 and 9). Example 8: Psalm 52:8–10 (NRS, verses 6–8, modified) 8a b

wyr’w ṣdyqym wyyr’w53 wclyw yśḥqw

17 10

The righteous will see, and fear, and will laugh at him (the evildoer),

9a

hnh hgbr l’ yśym ’lhym mcwzw

13 10

“See the one who would not take refuge in God,

b

wybṭḥ brb cšrw ycz bhwnw54

12 8

but trusted in abundant riches, and sought refuge in wealth!”

10a

w’ny kzyt rcnn bbyt ’lhym

12 9

But I am like a green olive tree in the house of God.

b

bṭḥty bḥsd ’lhym c wlm wcd

14 7

I trust in the steadfast love of God forever and ever.

53 54

The verse has suffered; variations are possible; especially such as ‫וישׂמחו‬. The word is emended according to Peshitta and Targum; see BHS.

Urmas Nõmmik

428

Example 9: Psalm 40:13–18 (NRS, verses 12–17, modified)55 ky ’ppw cly rcwt d ’yn mspr

13 9

c

c

14 9

14a b

rṣh yhwh lhṣylny 56 lczrty ḥwšh

14 10

15a

ybšw wyḥprw 57 mbqšy npšy 58

10 9

b

ysgw ’ḥwr wyklmw ḥpṣy rcty

16a b

yšmw cl cqb bštm h’mrym 59 h’ḥ

17a

yśyśw wyśmḥw bk kl mbqšyk

13 8

b

y’mrw tmyd ygdl yhwh ’hby tšwctk

17 10

18a

w’ny cny w’bywn ’dny yḥšb ly

13 10

b

c

14 10

13a

For evils have encompassed me without number;

c

they are more than the hairs of my head, and my heart fails me.

14a b

Be pleased, O Yhwh, to deliver me; make haste to help me.

15a

Let those be put to shame and confusion who seek my life;

13a

c

ṣmw mścrwt r’šy wlby czbny

14 8 13 9

zrty wmplṭy ’th ’lhy ’l t’ḥr

The bicolon 13b is a younger commentary on surrounding verses; see Seybold, Die Psalmen, 167, 169. 56 There is no need for a doublet; BHS would like to delete metri causa. 57 The word is missing in Ps 70:3 and is likely secondary here. 58 See previous note. 59 ‫ לי‬is missing in Ps 70:4 and in Cairo geniza fragment; one of the ‫ האח‬is suspicious and missing in one Hebrew manuscript (BHS); BHS suggests an omission. 55

Qinah Meter b

let those be turned back and brought to dishonor who desire my hurt.

16a b

Let those be appalled because of their shame who say “ Aha!”

17a

But may all rejoice and be glad in you who seek you;

b

may those say continually, “Great is Yhwh!” who love your salvation.

18a

As for me, I am poor and needy, but the Lord takes thought for me.

b

You are my help and my deliverer; do not delay, O my God.

429

Beside the qinah meter, the narrative aspect of some passages worth notice. Both oppositions the then and now, and the now and then are represented. The exact nature of the opposition is defined by the position of the qinah verses in the psalm structure, whether they are shaping a prayer, a depiction of distress situation, or a longer passage on the glorious future claimed by the righteous and the godly people. Even if the Hebrew text of many individual prayers has undergone editorial editions, one is able to detect longer qinah passages. However, the difference between the numbers of consonants in A- and B-colon in examples 8 and 9 is significant (respectively 3–7 and 1–7)60, the impression is that the shortening of the B-colon is consistent, but varies more than in examples 4, 5 and 6. The poetic picture in this cluster is rather dynamic: parallelism steps back, enjambment steps forward, there is more ellipsis, more chiasm, but it is not rare that nominal clauses and extrapolative, synthetic bicola61 color the overall picture. 6. Cluster 7 The phenomenon of individual prayers using the qinah meter can be regarded as one of the turning points from the then and now plot to the now and then one (cf. cluster 4). Focus is on the happy future that must come, because of the trustful relationship between the righteous and the God. For this reason, one is able to understand younger developments leading to the qinah texts in cluster 7. Those texts address piety, to be more exact, the Torah piety. We already had a look at the qinah section in Ps 19 (example 3) – a preliminary 60

See, e.g., also Ps 43:1–4 where originally 1–6 consonants make the difference between two cola. 61 For the extrapolative verses, see Nõmmik, “The Idea of Ancient Hebrew Verse,” 405–407.

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Urmas Nõmmik

suggestion can be made that the qinah meter was adapted by the pious authors because of its relation to the ambition of the godly, pious people in individual prayers. The use of wisdom language can be explained by the generic relation also to the wisdom-like texts describing the ruin of the wicked in cluster 5. Moreover, as noticed previously, some feminine imagery is used in the qinah texts. It might be speculative to claim, but there is a strong impression that Torah as a feminine word can easily be adjusted to the qinah form. Needless to say, we are close to the era when wisdom ‫ חכמה‬was personalized as a feminine figure. It is also worth mentioning that the Torah of Psalm 119 has sections using the qinah meter, and that the end of Ps 1 tends to do this as well (see verses 5–6). The whole instructive model for a sovereign in Ps 101 is formulated using qinah. This poetic feature belonged rather firmly to the stock of literary devices used by the authors of pious literature. Another question is whether they saw a connection to the real qinah anymore. A noticeably relaxed attitude towards the difference between the lengths of A- and B-cola as well as the successive proliferation of the so-called inverted qinah in late texts would support a negative answer – e.g., the last bicolon 14b in Ps 19 attests to the inverted qinah (example 3). 7. Cluster 4 As we turn back to the left branch of the development, and we notice a similar development. The main keywords, numerous and sometimes very long texts belonging to cluster 4 can be depicted as representing the Zion theology and the ambition of the group, Israel or the righteous. Eschatological, prophetical, apocalyptical passages as well as some psalm texts belong here. One is particularly struck by many instances of the qinah texts in the Deutero- and Trito-Isaianic tradition: a preliminary survey results in Isa 40:9–11; 41:11– 13; 47:1–9; 49:14–21; 51:17–23; 56:9–57:18; 62:6–12; 63:7–14; 65:17– 23(?); 66:6–12. The number and expansion of the qinah texts over the whole collection in Isa 40–66* indicates their predominant role in the Isaianic tradition. A certain sequence of the qinah texts reflects the main theological claims of the collection: cf. texts demonstratively lamenting over the downfall of Babylon, such as 47:1–9, the assurance drawn from the downfall of Israel’s enemies in one of the central passages in Deutero-Isaiah,62 41:11–13 (example 10), and Zion texts, such as 40:9–11.

62 Claus Westermann, Das Buch Jesaja: Kapitel 40–66 (ATD 19; Göttingen and Zurich: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1986), 62.

Qinah Meter

431

Example 10: Isaiah 41:11–13 (NRS, modified) 11a

hn ybšw wyklmw kl hnḥrym bk

12 10

Yes, all who are incensed against you shall be ashamed and disgraced;

b

yhyw k’yn wy’bdw ’nšy rybk

14 8

those who strive against you shall be as nothing and shall perish.

12a

tbqšm wl’ tmṣ’m ’nšy mṣtk

13 8

You shall seek those who contend with you, but you shall not find them;

b

yhyw k’yn wk’ps ’nšy mlḥmtk

13 10

those who war against you shall be as nothing at all.

13a

ky ’ny yhwh ’lhyk mḥzyq ymynk

14 10

For I, Yhwh your God, hold your right hand;

b

h’mr lk ’l tyr’ ’ny czrtyk

12 9

it is I who say to you, ‘Do not fear, I will help you.’

Perhaps this turn in the Deutero- and Trito-Isaianic tradition has strongly influenced collections constituting Proto-Isaiah. One text noticed already in the first studies on qinah, is the song of the downfall of the king of Babylon in Isa 14:3–2363, which, in fact, is preceded by another text in the qinah meter, namely the beginning of the proclamation against Babylon in Isa 13:2, 4– 5. Both, the song of the downfall and the first strophes in Isa 13 probably belong to the overall conception of the Isaianic redactors to use the qinah meter in strategic positions; in this case in the beginning of the collection of oracles against the nations, Isa 13–23. One might further take a look at the beginning of Isa 5 which opens the great woes, and Isaiah’s “memoirs” in 5:8–10:4, and some crucial qinah verses in Isa 1 (v. 8, 18–20a, 21a, 26b– 29*), right at the beginning of the whole book. Another instance from the psalm literature, Ps 48 (example 11) shows that parallel to the Isaianic texts, older hymns and particularly when they address the Temple Mount and have been later reworked in order to emphasize eschatological aspects.

63

Budde,“Das hebräische Klagelied,” 12–15 has noticed the qinah meter, and already Jahnow, Das hebräische Leichenlied, 239–53 (cf. Kaiser, Der Prophet Jesaja, 29f) holds Isa 14 for a parody of qinah. In Isa 14, see esp. v. 3b+4a, 7a.b.8a but also v. 10a.b, 11a, 12a, 13aα.β, 14b, 15–18, 19*, 20b, 21a.b*.

Urmas Nõmmik

432

Example 11: Psalm 48:5–8 (NRS, verses 4–7, modified)64 5a b

c

ky hnh hmlkym nwcdw brw yḥdw

16 8

Then the kings assembled, they came on together.

6a b

hmh r’w kn tmhw nbhlw nḥpzw

12 10

As soon as they saw it, they were astounded; they were in panic, they took to flight;

7a b

rcdh ’ḥztm šm ḥyl kywldh

11 9

trembling took hold of them there, pains as of a woman in labor,

8a b

krwḥ65 qdym tšbr ’nywt tršyš

12 10

as when an east wind shatters the ships of Tarshish.

Once more, a later development in the prophetic and psalm literature is the proto-apocalyptic and apocalyptic tradition which has also adapted qinah. The openly eschatological “narrative” in Isa 25 (example 12) depicts Yhwh’s great deeds which begin on the holy mountain. Example 12: Isaiah 25:7–8a (NRS, modified)66 7a

wblc bhr hzh

10

And he will destroy on this mountain

b

pny hlwṭ hlwṭ c l kl hcmym

11 9

the shroud that is cast over all peoples,

whmskh hnswkh c l kl hgwym … wmḥh ’dny yhwh dmch

12 9

the sheet that is spread over all nations.

16

Then the Lord Yhwh will wipe away the tears from all faces,

8aβ1

mcl kl pnym β2

c

wḥrpt mw ysyr mcl kl h’rṣ

9 12 9

and the disgrace of his people he will take away from all the earth.

Similar to cluster 6, at the end of this pericope, the poor and the righteous that have a specific relation to the God, will be switched into the eschatological play; the ‫עני‬, the ‫ דלים‬and the ‫ צדיק‬assure their particular role in this play (example 13).

64 See Reinhard Müller, Jahwe als Wettergott: Studien zur althebräischen Kultlyrik anhand ausgewählter Psalmen (BZAW 387; Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, 2008), 181– 87 that old hymnic verses 2–4 have been complemented by the third redactional step in verses 5–7 and by the fourth in verse 8. 65 The preposition ‫ ב‬is to be emended into ‫ ;כ‬see BHS. 66 Verse 8aα is likely a later addition.

Qinah Meter

433

Example 13: Isaiah 26:4–9a (NRS, modified) 4a b

bṭḥw byhwh cdy cd ky 67 yhwh ṣwr cwlmym

5a

hšḥ yšby mrwm qryh nśgbh

b

yšpylnh 68 cd ’rṣ ygycnh cd cpr

12 11

6a b

trmsnh 69 rgly cny pcmy dlym

13 8

7a b

’rḥ lṣdyq myšrym 70 mcgl ṣdyq tpls

14 12

8a

’p ’rḥ mšpṭyk yhwh qwynwk

11 10

b

lšmk wlzkrk t’wt npš

10 7

9a

npšy ’wytyk blylh ’p rwḥy bbqr71 ’šḥrk

15 15

4a b

Trust in Yhwh forever, for in Yhwh you have an everlasting rock.

5a

For he has brought low the inhabitants of the height; the lofty city he lays low.

b

He lays it low to the ground, casts it to the dust.

6a b

The feet of the poor trample it, the steps of the needy.

7a b

The way of the righteous is level; you make smooth the path of the righteous.

8a

In the path of your judgments, O Yhwh, we wait for you;

b

your name and your renown are the soul’s desire.

67

14 15 11 9

There is no need for a double divine name, see LXX and BHS. Miswriting; the translations and Qumran Isaa do not attest the doublet. 69 Once more a doublet; see BHS. 70 The word is not attested in LXX and is likely a miswriting of the previous word; cf. BHS. 71 An emendation according to BHS; in MT has ‫“ בקרבי‬within me.” 68

434 9a

Urmas Nõmmik My soul yearns for you in the night, my spirit in the morning seeks you.

Similar to cluster 7, those texts in cluster 4 have completely changed the then and now plot to the now and then one. But contrary to the individual aspect in clusters 5, 6 and 7, a larger group makes the claim in cluster 4. The glorious future of Israel or of the righteous people is depicted in a series of miniature narratives. (Notice the intensive use of verbs in qatal or wəqatal.) These texts likely attest to the possibility that the transfer of qinah from dirge into texts with assertive sayings about the downfall of Israel’s enemies and God’s assistance must have oral roots. The paradox of the qinah meter with the help of which the glorious outcome of eschatological events for Israel is being assured most likely must be heard at first, and then be written down. Because of groups, such as ‫ צדיקים‬that have specific connection to the texts which focus on individuals and their fate, we have to accept the possibility that clusters 5 and 6 have influenced texts in cluster 4, at least in later phases. But in general, we have arrived at the theological center of the Hebrew Bible. Mount Zion and Israel are the center of history that is turned from then and miserable now to the now and glorious future. With the help of cluster 7, the readers of the Hebrew Bible can be sure that Torah is the ultimate measure and help for all who understand themselves as pious people. As for the poetic shape in cluster 4, we stand at the end of the development of the biblical qinah texts, since the qinah meter is rather loose in cluster 4. It is often combined with other verse types, parallelism is underrepresented, and enjambment is often to be noticed. Sometimes, the inversed ellipsis occurs, the verb dominating the whole bicolon is situated at the end of the verse. The qinah meter is fading out.

D. As said previously, observations and suggestions regarding the development of the qinah texts in the Hebrew Bible presented here serve as a working hypothesis, and need to be supported and modified by further studies. One instance would suffice in order to illustrate the challenges that remain to be answered. If we follow the redaction critical reconstructions of some preexilic layers in psalm literature, we are confronted with the possibility that qinah was used in hymnic context already in monarchic times. For instance, the passages that Reinhard Müller has found to be pre-exilic include Ps 65:7– 8a and 93:1b–2, a participial hymns and the hymnic opening of the en-

Qinah Meter

435

thronement song.72 Parts of Ps 27 perhaps also belong to this series.73 Since in Ps 65 and 93 we are dealing with a couple of qinah bicola, the question of whether or not the qinah meter is similar to the prophetic literature in cluster 2, even if creatively adapted, arises. However, the hymnic context calls for an elaborate discussion about how to address the issue of the then and now plot in this framework; perhaps we should consider some further aspects of the qinah texts, such as the description of fundamental (historical) events in which God is (or gods are) involved and which crucially change the actual situation or its understanding.

E. To summarize the outcome of this small survey and set of suggestions, some characteristics of the qinah texts in the Hebrew Bible can be listed. 1. The main characteristic is the qinah meter itself. However, a possibility of a diachronic shift in the exact form should be taken into account. There are texts with more balanced differences of one third between the lengths of the cola, and texts with qinah bicola of a very varying relative length; the tendency seems to be that of a complete fading out at the end of the historical process. Furthermore, at the beginning qinah is related to the precise function of the genre, at the end it disappears because of the loss of the genre; and the loss of the genre is related to the dealing with important theological matters – the content will dominate over style. Hand in hand with this goes the gradual stepping back of the synonymous parallelism. 2. In the qinah texts, a narrative element is often involved; the dynamic opposition between then and now is crucial for understanding the nature of qinah texts. But a change takes place from a then and now plot to a now and then one; this change goes hand in hand with the development of the qinah forms from oral stages into the written forms and then to the reflective theological texts, in which poetic devices useful for oral presentation do not play such a role any more. 3. In some texts directly and in others indirectly, the identity of the writers makes an appearance; in individual laments it is the pious prayer, in communal texts it is Israel or the group of the righteous or the poor. But it is important to understand that the small “narrative” told in the qinah texts functions only within the particular viewpoint of the authors who understood themselves as part and parcel of the universal play. Müller, Jahwe als Wettergott, 75f, 135, 143f; cf. also Seybold, Die Psalmen, 253f; Frank-Lothar Hossfeld and Erich Zenger, Psalmen 51–100 (2nd ed.; HThKAT; Freiburg, Basel, and Wien: Herder, 2000), 214, 645. 73 Personal communication with Reinhard Müller. 72

436

Urmas Nõmmik

4. Not always, but often enough, a tendency towards feminine imagery is evident. It may relate to the metaphor or the addressee of the text, such as a lioness, a city, Torah, etc. In what precedes I have traced a development of genres with a very distinct function from the periphery to the theological center of the Hebrew Bible. This observation has broader implications for our understanding of the developments in the Hebrew Bible. Younger texts are making use of several kinds of styles and genres which once had a concrete Sitz im Leben. Through a process of synthesis of genres and gradual stepping back before the theological reflection, several stylistic features have been brought from their narrow peripheral function to the theological center. Paradoxically, this leads to the fading out of classical forms.

“Center” and “Periphery” in the Apocalyptic Imagination The Vision of the Ephah (Zechariah 5:5–11) and the Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch as Case Study1 Peter Juhás A. Introduction “Apocalypse and Post-Politics: The Romance of the End” is the title of a book by Mary Manjikian, Professor in the Robertson School of Government (Regent University), whose research focused in this case on the so-called apocalyptic novel.2 Although the studied works show different scenarios, they have a common denominator, namely, the “death” of the United States in some form. In geographic terms, the apocalyptic novels “essentially rewrite our understanding of the world’s map, since they reverse the situation of the center and the periphery. In the apocalyptic novel, the first world essentially becomes the periphery – an object of charity and foreign aid in some situations, or a place to be conquered and exploited in others.”3 It is obvious that the works of the mentioned apocalyptic novel differ significantly from the apocalyptic writings of the Second Temple and Roman Period. However, it can still be asked whether the observation for the modern apocalyptic novel applies for the apocalyptic, either canonical or not, works, too. Or, how the concepts concerned (“center” and “periphery”) function there in general.

B. The Texts Studied As a textual base, the Book of Zechariah, particularly the so-called protoZecharianic texts, and the Syriac apocalypse of Baruch (2 Bar.) were chosen. 1 I would like to thank Christoph Levin and Ehud Ben Zvi for their invitation to join the workshop in Munich and the participants of the workshop for their comments. Nathan Marsch was kind to proofread the English in the first version of this contribution. 2 Mary Manjikian, Apocalypse and Post-Politics: The Romance of the End (Lanham, Md.: Lexington Books, 2012). 3 Manjikian, Apocalypse, 286.

438

Peter Juhás

This choice has an advantage to cover a broad period of time, stretching from the Persian to the Roman Period. Moreover, the Syriac Baruch uses the destruction of the Temple and the Babylonian exile as an historical setting to deal with the destruction by the Romans. From the formal and diachronic view, the Book of Zechariah has been traditionally divided into three parts (1–8; 9–11; 12–14), in a certain analogy to the Book of Isaiah.4 However, the latter two have the same superscript (‫) ַמ ָשּׂא‬ and, their compositional character indicates more likely a complex redactional process.5 For the present purposes, my focus is on the mentioned protozecharianic texts (Zech 1–8). This part of the book consists mostly from the so-called “night visions” (Zech 1–6), connected – at least the Grundstock – with the person of the prophet Zechariah, or dated to the period before the rebuilding of the Temple.6 Of course, one might always raise the issue of why to use the Book of Zechariah in an essay about apocalyptic literature. But, it all depends on the criteria. In his 1973 article, H. Gese argued – referring among other things to the characteristics collected by J. Schreiner7 – that the book of Zechariah is the oldest apocalypse, actually the “Anfang der Apokalyptik.”8 In his famous study, P. Hanson saw “the dawn of apocalyptic” in the postexilic prophecy (the late sixth century B.C.E.).9 Many scholars, however, consider the Enochic compositions (The Book of the Watchers and the Astronomical Book) to be the earliest apocalypses10 The reason for such a conclusion is a different definition.11 Whether the Book of Zechariah is an apocalypse or not, the presence of an angelus interpres (who functions in a similar way as the heavenly mediators in Dan, 4 Ezra and 2 Bar.12) and its content13 does clearly distinguish 4 See Konrad Schmid, “Hintere Propheten (Nebiim),” in Grundinformation Altes Testament (ed. Jan Chr. Gertz; 4th ed.; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2010), 408. 5 Schmid, “Hintere Propheten,” 408–409; Erich Zenger, “Das Zwölfprophetenbuch,” in Einleitung in das Alte Testament (ed. Christian Frevel; 8th ed.; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2011), 692–94. 6 See Othmar Keel, Die Geschichte Jerusalems und die Entstehung des Monotheismus (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007), 2:1009. 7 See Josef Schreiner, Alttestamentlich-jüdische Apokalyptik (München: Kösel, 1969). 8 See Hartmut Gese, “Anfang und Ende der Apokalyptik, dargestellt am Sacharjabuch,” ZThK 70 (1973): 20–49. 9 See Paul D. Hanson, The Dawn of Apocalyptic (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1975). 10 See John J. Collins, The Apocalyptic Imagination: An Introduction to Jewish Apocalyptic Literature (2nd ed.; Grand Rapids, Mich. and Cambridge, U.K.: Eerdmans, 1998), 25–26. 11 See John J. Collins, ed., Apocalypse: Morphology of a Genre (Semeia 14; Missoula, Mont.: Scholars Press, 1979). 12 For the various heavenly mediators, see Benjamin E. Reynolds, “The Otherworldly Mediators in 4Ezra and 2Baruch: A Comparison with Angelic Mediators in Ascent Apocalypses and in Daniel, Ezekiel, and Zechariah,” in Fourth Ezra and Second Baruch: Recon-

“Center” and “Periphery” in the Apocalyptic Imagination

439

it from the older prophetic/visionary traditions. In my (current) view, although the Book of Zechariah is not an apocalyptic work of the same level as, e.g., Enochic compositions or some later apocalypses,14 it can be seen, however, as an inchoate apocalyptic text.15 The Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch is one of the latest Jewish apocalypses, dated mostly to the end of 1st century C.E. and attempts to answer questions which are inherent to the destruction of the Temple by the Romans. 16 The designation “Syriac” is due to the language in which this apocalyptic work has been preserved. However, its original language is still a topic of debate,17 as well as its relation to 4 Ezra.18

C. The Proto-Zechariah – The Vision of the Ephah The political map and prosopography of the Early Persian period do not seem to play very important roles in the text of these chapters. Darius I is only mentioned – thanks to a redactional insertion – in the chronological frame to date the prophetical activity (1:1; 7:1). There are only two geographical entities having a literary function in the Proto-Zechariah: Babylon and, of course,

struction after the Fall (ed. Matthias Henze and Gabriele Boccaccini; Leiden: Brill, 2013), 175–93. 13 Cf. Keel, Geschichte Jerusalems, 2:1027: “[In den Texten wie etwa Ezek 47, Zech 2:5–9, Dan 2] unterscheiden sich diese Vorstellungen doch qualitativ von den gängigen prophetischen Vorstellungen innerweltlicher Entwicklungen. Die Gottheit greift nicht mehr nur ins irdische Geschehen ein. Sie setzt diesem ein Ende und ersetzt es durch radikal neue geologisch-geographische Gegebenheiten und Herrschaftsstrukturen, durch eine neue Schöpfung, die von der bestehenden grundsätzlich verschieden ist.” 14 Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar, Prophets of Old and the Day of the End (OtSt 35; Leiden, New York, and Köln: Brill, 1996) tries very attentively to categorize various zecharianic texts. So, taking for example the notion of dimensionality into consideration, he states: “Zechariah’s ʻnight visionsʼ are a forerunner of the apocalyptic literature, in as much as the spatial dimensions are introduced in the literary form. Only the dimensionality of Zech 14 can be compared to that of the Book of Watchers.” (p. 262). 15 See Michael A. Knibb, “Prophecy and the Emergence of the Jewish Apocalypses,” in Israel’s Prophetic Tradition: Essays in Honour of Peter Ackroyd (ed. Richard Coggins, Anthony Philips, and Michael Knibb; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 175. 16 For an extensive introduction, see Matthias Henze, Jewish Apocalypticism in Late First Century Israel (TSAJ 142; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 16–70. 17 In the current stage of our knowledge, it is probably unsolvable. See Daniel M. Gurtner, Second Baruch: A Critical Edition of the Syriac Text (New York and London: T&T Clark, 2009), 12–13. 18 See Matthias Henze, “4Ezra and 2Baruch: The Status Quaestionis,” in Fourth Ezra and Second Baruch: Reconstruction after the Fall (ed. Matthias Henze and Gabriele Boccaccini; Leiden: Brill, 2013), 3–27.

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Jerusalem, which is presented by the author as some kind of omphalos mundi. The city which is elected again by his God (1:17; 2:16) will become a place with paradisiac conditions, and a desired destination for the nations (see particularly ch. 8). In this study, however, attention will be paid more to the absolutely “peripheral” status of Babylon. Babylon in Zech 2; 619 and Shinar in Zech 5 are the only instances of this geographical entity mentioned in this part of the Book. For the purpose of this essay, the seventh vision, or the vision of the ephah (5:5–11), should be looked upon in some detail. The prophet sees the ephah coming out, which is identified as “their guilt” (according to a proposed emendation by many commentators: ‫ ֲ וֹנָ ם‬, not ‫ ֵ ינָ ם‬MT; v. 6)20 by the angelus interpres. Later on, he sees a woman in the ephah, being closed up therein by a lead cover and carried away from Jerusalem by two winged women. The woman is identified as “iniquity; wickedness” (‫ ָה ִר ְשׁ ָ ה‬, v. 8) and her destination is Shinar, where a house is to be built for her. 1. Redaction-Critical Observations The vision contains a multitude of different elements and motifs which are not simple to interpret. Moreover, some redactional intervention can be uncovered in these verses, although scholarly reconstructions may differ in some instances.21 Besides several small details, the mentioned occurrence of ‫ ֲ וֹנָ ם‬on the one hand and of ‫ ָה ִר ְשׁ ָ ה‬on the other is to be emphasized. There is probably no opinio communis in regard to the question, what element, i.e. ‫ ֲ וֹנָ ם‬or ‫ ָה ִר ְשׁ ָ ה‬, is the original one and which one belongs to a later redactional level. Similarly, the spontaneous appearance of the woman (‫ ) ִא ָשּׁה‬in the ephah is problematic for some scholars. As an example of this approach, the recent study by M. Hallaschka can be quoted: “[…] fällt auf, daß die Frau im Efa, die in V 7 geschickt durch das Öffnen eines Bleideckels eingeführt wird, außer in den Versen 7 und 8 keine weitere Bedeutung für die Vision hat bzw. keine Erwähnung mehr findet, so daß die Vision sehr gut auch ohne diese beiden Verse in sich sinnvoll ist. Zudem variiert die personifizierte ‫ רשׁעה‬das Thema des ‫( עון‬V 6). Demgemäß ist V 7f als Nachtrag anzusprechen.”22

There are two instances of ‫ ֶא ֶרץ ָצפוֹן‬in Zech 6:6, 8. For an overview of the debate, see Lena-Sofia Tiemeyer, Zechariah and his Visions: An Exegetical Study of Zechariah’s Vision Report (LHBOTS 605; London: Bloomsbury, 2015), 212–19. For some text-critical arguments, see Robert Hanhart, Sacharja 1–8 (BKAT XIV/7.1; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1998), 353. 21 For the recent redactional-critical studies, see especially Corinna Körting, “Sach 5,5– 11 – Die Unrechtmäßigkeit wird an ihren Ort verwiesen,” Bib. 87 (2006): 477–92 and Martin Hallaschka, Haggai und Sacharja 1–8: Eine redaktionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung (BZAW 411; Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, 2011). 22 Hallaschka, Haggai und Sacharja 1–8, 247. 19

20

“Center” and “Periphery” in the Apocalyptic Imagination

441

However, the last argument can be turned over (see below). The preceding argument, that the woman is not mentioned later and has no significance for the vision is not fully convincing. The woman could be simply introduced as an original rhetorical device to personify the wickedness. Moreover, the ephah (‫יפה‬ ָ ‫ ) ָה ֵא‬as a lexeme unites the whole vision, because it occurs in almost every verse (except for the introductory v. 5 and the final one, v. 11) of the vision.23 However, I leave such a reconstruction of the original version (i.e. without the woman) as a possibility. An analysis by C. Körting, seeing an original connection between the ephah and ‫( ָה ִר ְשׁ ָ ה‬i.e. it is interpreted as ‫ ) ִר ְשׁ ָ ה‬and accepting a later reworking (particularly by means of addition of the woman) into account, could be, in my view, acceptable.24 Regarding v. 6, in which ‫ ֲ וֹנָ ם‬occurs, the twofold speech introduction is to be taken into consideration. After the prophet had been asked by the angel what he was seeing (v. 5), a dialogue follows, and a more detailed description of the ephah (v. 6–8), introduced by ‫וְ ִהנֵּ ה‬. ֑ ִ ‫ וָ א ַ ֹ֖מ ר ַמ‬6 6 And I said: “What is it?” And he said: ‫יּוֹצ את‬ ֵ֔ ‫יפ ֙ה ַה‬ ָ ‫אמר ֤ז ֹאת ָ ֽה ֵא‬ ֶ ֹ ‫ה־היא וַ ֗יּ‬ ‫ל־ה ָ ֽא ֶרץ׃‬ ָ ‫אמר ֥ז ֹאת ֵ ָינ֖ם ְבּ ָכ‬ ֶ ֹ ‫“ וַ ֕יּ‬This is an ephah coming out.” And he said: “This is their guilt (‫ ) ֲ וֹנָ ם‬in all the land.” ‫שּׁ ה ַא ַ֔חת‬ ֣ ָ ‫את ִא‬ ֙ ֹ ‫שּׂ את וְ ז‬ ֑ ֵ ִ‫ וְ ִה ֵנּ֛ה ִכּ ַ ֥כּר ע ֶ ֹ֖פ ֶרת נ‬7 7 And behold, a leaden disc was lifted and ‫יפ ה׃‬ ֽ ָ ‫יוֹשׁ ֶבת ְבּ ֥תוֹ' ָה ֵא‬ ֶ֖ there was a woman sitting in the ephah. ֶ ‫ ֙ ַו יּ‬8 8 And he said: “This is the wickedness.” And '‫ל־תּוֹ‬ ֣ ‫ֹאמ ֙ר ֣ז ֹאת ָה ִר ְשׁ ֔ ָ ה וַ יַּ ְשׁ ֵ ֥ל ' א ָ ֹ֖תהּ ֶא‬ ‫יה׃‬ ָ ‫ל־פּ‬ ֽ ִ ‫ת־א ֶבן ָהע ֶ ֹ֖פ ֶרת ֶא‬ ֥ ֶ ‫יפה וַ יַּ ְשׁ ֵל֛' ֶא‬ ֑ ָ ‫ ָ ֽה ֵא‬he threw her (back) into the ephah and he threw a leaden weight upon its mouth.

It seems to be more plausible to see the interpretative identification, which follows the second speech introduction (v. 6), as a redactional insertion in order to bind both visions of the ch. 5 together;25 i.e. “their guilt” recalls the deplorable state of affairs, described in the vision of the Flying Scroll (vv. 5:1–4). If the woman belonged to the original version, the sentence, which is introduced by the second ' ֵ‫וַ יַּ ְשׁל‬, might be also a later redactional insertion. It would explain the different terminology in the case of leaden cover, namely ‫ ִכּ ַכּר ע ֶֹפ ֶרת‬in in v. 7 and ‫ ֶא ֶבן ָהע ֶֹפ ֶרת‬in v. 8.

23

In the final verse (v. 11) there is a reference to it by means of a prepositional expres-

sion. 24 It makes possible to see in the woman, so in ‫ ָה ִר ְשׁ ָ ה‬, a goddess – of course secondarily. However, Körting, “Unrechtmäßigkeit,” 485 states: “Ob es sich bei der Frau tatsächlich um eine in Israel verehrte Göttin handelt, oder um das personifizierte Schlechte, das nun in Sinear wie eine Göttin verehrt werden soll, läßt sich auch mit Blick auf v. 11 kaum sagen.” 25 And/or, as Körting, “Unrechtmäßigkeit,” 479 states: “mit der späteren Vision von der Einsetzung Josuas.”

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2. The Ephah and the Winged Women From a quantitative point of view, the ephah is the most important element in the text. Scholars have tried to deal with the meaning of ephah through innerbiblical or ancient Near Eastern references, proposing sometimes ingenious, but somewhat improbable, connections, 26 e.g. with Hittite parallels, where bronze cauldrons/kettles (sealed with a lid of lead) have an important role for disposing evil;27 or the connection with the Sumerian É.PA, that refers to the ziggurat of Ningirsu at Lagash (the Ephah represents the temple and the woman a figurine of the goddess).28 Very interesting is the interpretation of the ephah as a coffin for dead Asherah.29 More likely, however, might be the link to inner-biblical evidence, in which the ephah is a grain measure, sometimes used as a tool for social injustice (see Deut 25:14–15; Amos 8:5; Mic 6:10; Prov 20:10). On the basis of these instances, however, it is unclear why Zechariah chose the ephah as a main object of this vision, dealing with the “wickedness.” If there is an implied connection between the ephah and social injustice, it is more plausible after the redactional insertion of ‫ ֲ וֹנָ ם‬. For the original form of the vision I would reckon only with the basic meaning of the ephah, i.e. as a grain measure, or a grain vessel. Some kind of opinio communis is that the “wickedness” is being eliminated from Jerusalem and Babylonia, or the land of Shinar, is an appropriate place for deposing her/it there. The current proposal looks for the reason for the choice of this specific imagery in the intentional scorn of Babylon(ia), and particularly in the desire to characterize it as a place unsuitable to live. To advance further the proposal, the function for the wings is to be taken into consideration. The text shows an extraordinary combination of different elements. Therefore, an explanation of every element or a possibility to find a concrete iconographical background for these winged women is very unlikely. There are many winged beings in ancient Near Eastern iconography (particularly, female ones), 30 including 26 For an overview see Michael R. Stead, The Intertextuality of Zechariah 1–8 (LHBOTS 506; London: T&T Clark, 2009), 204–205 and Tiemeyer, Zechariah and his Visions, 208–12. 27 See Mathias Delcor, “La Vision de la Femme dans l’Epha de Zach 5:5–11 à la Lumière de la Litterature Hittite,” Revue de l’Histoire des Religions 187 (1975): 137–45; David P. Wright, The Disposal of Impurity: Elimination Rites in the Bible and in Hittite and Mesopotamian Literature (Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1987). 28 See Shlomo Marenof, “Note Concerning the Meaning of the Word ‘Epha’, Zechariah 5:5–11,” The American Journal of Semitic Languages and Literatures 48 (1932): 246–67. 29 See Diana Edelman, “Proving Yahweh killed his wife,” Biblical Interpretation 11 (2003): 337. For the woman in the ephah as a goddess, see especially Christoph Uehlinger, “Die Frau im Efa (Sach 5,5–11): Eine Programmvision von der Abschiebung der Göttin,” BiKi 49 (1994): 93–103. 30 See Tigchelaar, Prophets, 62; Keel, Geschichte Jerusalems, 2:1021.

“Center” and “Periphery” in the Apocalyptic Imagination

443

those symbolizing the winds. The flying creatures in Zech 5 are feminine, simply because the “wickedness” is feminine. 31 Their wings are compared with the wings of a ‫ ֲח ִס ָידה‬. Most translators choose “stork” as the appropriate equivalent in their translations. However, this word is pretty rare and can designate “likely a wading bird of the Ciconiidae or Ardeidae families.” 32 Hence, it may mean a “stork” but also a “heron.”33 The ancient translations differ in this matter and offer their own solutions, LXX ἔποψ “hoopoe,”34 αʹ, σʹ, θʹ ἐρωδιός “heron”35 [for ‫ ֲח ִס ָידה‬also in Ps 103:17LXX], Tg ‫שׁרא‬ ָ ִ‫“ נ‬eagle,” P ‫“ ܪ‬stork,”36 and Vg milvus “a bird of prey, the kite.”37 Why has the prophetic author chosen to compare the wings of the women to those of a ‫ ? ֲח ִס ָידה‬The reason has probably nothing to do with the fact that the ‫ ֲח ִס ָידה‬was considered to be an impure bird (Lev 11:19; Deut 14:18).38 Rather, the natural characteristics, either of the stork or of the heron, were decisive. Both are migratory birds, capable of flying great distances.39 There is another, even preferable possibility: both species have broad and long wings, which are visible for an observer even from distance and could be read, in antiquity, as an omen. Although bird divination in Mesopotamia did not have as important a role as an extispicy, there were several tablets on bird divination in the collection šumma ālu. Unfortunately, only few have been preserved, dealing mostly with a falcon or an eagle. However, there are some Old Babylonian tablets on bird divination – characterized as a forerunner of See Wilhelm Rudolph, Haggai – Sacharja 1–8 – Sacharja 9–14 – Maleachi (KAT 13/4; Gütersloh: Mohn, 1976), 120. 32 James Swanson, A Dictionary of Biblical Languages – Hebrew (2nd ed.; Logos Research Systems, Inc., 2001), 2884. 33 Wilhelm Gesenius, Hebräisches und Aramäisches Handwörterbuch über das Alte Testament (18th ed.; Heidelberg: Springer, 2013), 377: “Storch (?) od. Reiher.” For an overview of the equivalents, see Peter Riede, Im Spiegel der Tiere: Studien zum Verhältnis von Mensch und Tier im alten Israel (OBO 187; Freiburg, Schweiz and Göttingen: Universitätsverlag and Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2002), 276. 34 Takamitsu Muraoka, A Greek-English Lexicon of the Septuagint (Louvain, Paris, and Walpole, Mass.: Peeters, 2009), 288. 35 Muraoka, A Greek-English Lexicon, 293. 36 Michael Sokoloff, A Syriac Lexicon (Winona Lake, Ind. and Piscataway, N.J.: Eisenbrauns and Gorgias Press, 2009), 433. 37 Peter G. W. Glare, ed., Oxford Latin Dictionary (2nd ed.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 2:1221, s. v. miluus 1. 38 Similarly Holger Delkurt, Sacharjas Nachtgesichte (BZAW 302; Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, 2000), 270. Pace Dominic Rudman, “Zechariah 5 and the Priestly Law,” SJOT 14/2 (2000): 204–205. 39 For “stork,” see H. Graf Reventlow, Die Propheten Haggai, Sacharja und Maleachi (ATD 25/2; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1993), 66; Hinckley G. Mitchell, John M. Powis Smith, and Julius A. Bewer, Haggai, Zechariah, Malachi, Jonah (ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1912), 174. 31

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the šumma ālu by their editor – which start with two omens induced by herons.40 Such omens (i 1–10) can be positive as well as negative.41 At first, the flying ephah can be understood from a Babylonian perspective as a positive omen. But the reader already knows that there is no grain within, only ‫ ָה ִר ְשׁ ָ ה‬, which is exactly what stands at the core of the scorn for Babylon. The prophet could easily evoke the famine period in Babylonia, a few years before his prophetic activity started, which his addressees must have remembered.42 Administrative documents and letters from the Eanna archive elucidate this period of hardship. In her study, of which the edition of some texts from the British museum, Kristin Kleber describes the situation eloquently: “The workers of Eanna, the temple of Ishtar at Uruk, who rebuilt the city wall of Babylon in the years 528–526 B.C. must have felt as though they were in the antechamber of hell, where ‘dust was their food and clay their rations.’ Nothing but anger smouldered in the guts of other temple dependents who dug canals in southern Babylonia at the same time. For months their temple had not sent any food rations. The workers perished; their overseers resorted to swearing, but the temple had nothing to distribute. The reason was a shortage of barley whose effects afflicted the whole of Babylonia.”43

The letters of Innin-aḫḫē-iddin, the supervisor of the temple dependents (rab širkī), whose discontent with the amount of rations delivered by Eanna is their general topic, illustrate the dynamics of the tense situation.44 In the third year of Cambyses, i.e. 527/526 B.C.E., the crisis reached its peak, because the deliveries of staple food had ceased entirely.45

40 See David B. Weisberg, “An Old Babylonian Forerunner to ‘Šumma ālu’,” HUCA 40–41 (1969–1970): 87–104. 41 Weisberg, “An Old Babylonian Forerunner,” 88, 93–94. 42 Cf. the interpretation in Leonhard Rost, “Erwägungen zur Sacharjas 7. Nachtgesicht,” ZAW 58 (1941): 223–28, who connects the ephah and the ‫ ִר ְשׁ ָ ה‬with the infertility of the Land and states: “Das leere Getreidemaß, in dem nun der personifizierte Schuldspruch Platz genommen hat, räumt das Land. […] Statt Israels, dem [JHWH] bisher gezürnt hat, will er nunmehr den selbstsicheren Völkern zürnen, die den geringen Zorn Jahwes im Übermaß ausgenützt haben. Demgemäß wird nun der Verdammungsspruch in dem den Mißwuchs charakterisierenden leeren Epha nach Babel, dem Sitz der Bedrückermacht, verbracht und zwar zu dauerndem Aufenthalt […].” (p. 227). 43 Kristin Kleber, “Famine in Babylonia: A Microhistorical Approach to an Agricultural Crisis in 528–526 BC,” ZA 102/2 (2012): 219–44, 219. 44 Kleber, “Famine in Babylonia,” 220–35. Similarly, the letters of Nabû-aḫu-iddin, royal courtier (and) supervisor of Eanna, “contain frequent admonitions that the other temple officials should not neglect the deliveries to Abanu while he himself was absent.” (p. 221–22). 45 Kleber, “Famine in Babylonia,” 232.

“Center” and “Periphery” in the Apocalyptic Imagination

445

3. A Temple or a Safe Storage House? In this context, the building of a house for the ephah, which is mentioned toward the end of the vision (v. 11), is particularly interesting. For some interpreters this “house” is a kind of “anti-temple.” One of the important arguments for it is the semantics of the words ‫ ַבּיִ ת‬and ‫ ְמכוֹנָ ה‬. In the former case, there is a connection made with 1:16 and 4:9, where this word refers to the temple of Jerusalem. Similarly, the word ‫ ְמכוֹנָ ה‬often occurs in a cultic context.46 Although this interpretation may remain as a possibility, it is not compelling. The word ‫ ַבּיִ ת‬occurs with its basic meaning in the fifth chapter itself (v. 4) three times. In comparison, the word ‫יכל‬ ָ ‫ ֵה‬is used in ch. 6. As for ‫ ְמכוֹנָ ה‬, there are some instances, in which it “may also mean quite matter-offactly a human dwelling” (Sir 41:6; 44:1).47 Although, it probably refers to some kind of structure here, a cultic interpretation, along with a reference tothe presence of a goddess in the ephah is possible, but, as stated before, if the redactional insertion of the woman is accepted. The ‫ ַבּיִ ת‬and, particularly, ‫ ְמכוֹנָ ה‬in Shinar will simply serve as a deposit for ‫ ָה ִר ְשׁ ָ ה‬, which is being removed away from Jerusalem. The Hebrew text of v. 11 does not clarify who should be overlooking the building activity. On the one hand, the answer of the angel begins with an infinitival construction (‫)לִ ְבנוֹת־לָ ה‬48 and later, at the other, contains only two internal passives (‫הוּכן‬ ַ ְ‫ ו‬and ‫יחה‬ ָ ִ‫)וְ ֻהנּ‬. The morphologically problematic form ‫יחה‬ ָ ִ‫ ֻהנּ‬could be explained as an isolated passive on the analogy of the Aramaic ‫ימת‬ ַ ‫( ֳה ִק‬Dan 7:4),49 or read with the BHS apparatus as ‫יח ָה‬ ֻ ִ‫( וְ ִהנּ‬and with LXX: θήσουσιν). In addition, there is the matter of the difference in grammatical gender between both passive forms. Beside the fact that there is a change in grammatical gender in other verses, the simplest solution would be to connect ‫הוּכן‬ ַ ְ‫ ו‬with ‫ ַבּיִ ת‬on the one hand and ‫יחה‬ ָ ִ‫ וְ ֻהנּ‬with ‫יפה‬ ָ ‫ ָה ֵא‬on the other.50

46 For the critique, see Delkurt, Nachtgesichte, 263–64: “[…] neben Sach 5,11 noch 24 Mal im Alten Testament. 23 Mal bezeichnet [der Begriff] die sog. ‘Kesselwagen’ im salomonischen Tempel.” 47 Johannes Schnocks, “An Ephah between Earth and Heaven: Reading Zechariah 5:5– 11,” in Tradition in Transition (ed. Mark J. Boda and Michael Floyd; LHBOTS 475; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2008), 252–70, 261. See also Gesenius, Handwörterbuch, 671: the meaning “Stelle, Stätte, Platz” for both Sir-instances and for Zech 5:11. 48 The final ‫ ה‬is written in the BHS with a rafe. 49 GKC § 72ee. In Gesenius, Handwörterbuch, 794, the form is categorized as a hofal B. 50 See Carol L. Meyers and Eric M. Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8 (AB 25C; New Haven, Conn. and London: Yale University Press, 2008 [First published in 1974 by Doubleday]), 308.

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This, however, does not answer the question of who is the builder. The Hebrew and particularly the Greek text 51 hint that the winged women are responsible for the mentioned building activity. The answer, introduced by the quoted infinitive, follows the Zechariah’s question (v. 10: ‫ָאנָ ה ֵה ָמּה‬ ‫יפה‬ ָ ‫ת־ה ֵא‬ ָ ‫“ מוֹלִ כוֹת ֶא‬Where are they bringing the ephah?”), referring to the winged women. Thus, “the impression that the writer is maintaining that the Babylonians will fix and venerate this new cultic object”52 is very unlikely. Rather, those winged creatures, as the servants of God,53 are responsible for a secure and definite elimination of the “wickedness.”54 Babylonia becomes, then, a place unsuitable for living. Instead of the expected grain in the ephah, there is a personified “wickedness” in it, and it is to be definitely deposited in Babylonia. The central territory in the past is going to change to an outer rim of the “new world,” of which the center is Jerusalem. Consequently, there is a motivation for those who remained in Babylon to return and so to follow a demand from 2:11: ‫הוֹי ִציּוֹן ִה ָמּ ְל ִטי יוֹ ֶשׁ ֶבת‬ ‫ת־בּ ֶבל‬ ָ ‫“( ַבּ‬Woe! Save yourself, Zion, (who) dwells with the daughter Babylon!,” or “[…] Escape to Zion, you that […]!”55). The concepts of “center” and “periphery” have a role in the Book of Zechariah. However, in the Zecharian theological framework, their use in terms of historical reality is reversed.

D. The Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch Similar to the Zecharian opposition between Jerusalem and Babylon, both cities are the only dominant geographical entities mentioned in this late apocalyptic work.56 There are some instances of the micro-geography in it (Hebron in 47:1; and several times the Kidron Valley), having mostly a narrative function. Because the apocalypse reflects on the catastrophe in 70 C.E., the 51 V. 11LXX: … οἰκοδοµῆσαι αὐτῷ οἰκίαν ἐν γῇ Βαβυλῶνος καὶ ἑτοιµάσαι καὶ θήσουσιν αὐτὸ ἐκεῖ ἐπὶ τὴν ἑτοιµασίαν αὐτοῦ. 52 David L. Petersen, Haggai & Zechariah 1–8 (OTL; London: SCM Press, 1985), 262. 53 Pace Stead, who sees in them “anti-cherubim,” and so the servants of iniquity personified. Idem., Intertextuality, 198. 54 Although, one must admit that it is pretty difficult to imagine the winged creatures building a house. However, all the imagery and the combination of elements in this vision are pretty bizarre. 55 Cf. NRSV. 56 This contribution deals with 2 Bar. specifically under the aspect of the categories “center” and “periphery.” For a detailed study on this apocalyptic work, approaching to the spatiality of the text, see Liv I. Lied, The Other Lands of Israel: Imaginations of the Land in 2 Baruch (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2008), who distinguishes several versions of the land, or several lands in 2 Bar.

“Center” and “Periphery” in the Apocalyptic Imagination

447

relation between Jerusalem and Babylon is, in comparison to the ProtoZechariah, different. Now, it is Jerusalem, which is reduced to the absolute periphery. The most moving example, describing this reduction is the Baruch’s Lament. The extent of the catastrophe, the object of Baruch’s lament, may already be imagined on the ground of a multitude of the various creatures Baruch calls to be his associates in the lament. Almost at its beginning, he proclaims (10:8): ‫̈ܬ‬ .‫̈ܐ‬ % ‫ ܘ‬. ‫ ܕܬ‬$

‫ܘܐ‬ ‫ܣ‬ ‫ܐܩ̇ܪ‬ ‫ ܘ ̈ܕ ܘ ̈ܘܪ‬: ̈‫ܐܬ‬ ‫ ܢ‬# ̈! ‫ܐܬܬ ܘ ܘܐ ܪܘ‬ 57 . ̇‫ ܘ‬$‫ܘܐܪ‬ ̈‫ܐܘ‬

I shall call the Sirens from the sea. And you, Liliths, from the desert and (you), demons and jackals, from the forests come! Wake up and gird up your loins for the lament. And sing (lit. give) with me the lamentations and mourn with me!

This is one of a few instances in 2 Bar. in which some mythological creatures occur. This apocalyptic work shows a certain soberness in regard to such creatures.58 The Sirens are demonic-semi-divine, mixed beings, well known from the Mediterranean realm. The literary and iconographical sources witness their complex character, which incorporates various aspects. 59 For the present purposes, the most relevant is their connection with the realm of death. Sirens are associated with lament in some pseudepigraphic works.60 It is they who weep over the fate of Phoenicia in the Sibylline oracles (5:456–457): “Phoenicia, terrible wrath awaits you, until you fall a bad fall so that the Sirens may truly weep.”61 Although the text of 1 En. 96:2 is problematic, the Sirens are also here connected with lament and weeping.62 The Liliths are the other companions of Baruch in his lament. From the viewpoint of Comparative Religion, like in the case of the Sirens, there are some aspects that connect the Liliths with the realm of death. Together with other elements, their presence in 2 Bar. 10 mark the text of Isa 34, especially The Syriac text is from the edition by Gurtner, Second Baruch, 40. See Peter Juhás and Róbert Lapko, “Aspis und draqōnē und die mythologischen Wesen der Syrischen Baruch-Apokalypse,” ETL 91/1 (2015): 131–44. 59 See Matthias Egeler, Walküren, Bodbs, Sirenen: Gedanken zur religionsgeschichtlichen Anbindung Nordwesteuropas an den mediterranen Raum (Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, 2011), especially 351–451. 60 See Pierre Maurice Bogaert, L’Apocalypse Syriaque de Baruq (SC 144–45; Paris: Cerf, 1969), 2:28; Juhás and Lapko, “Aspis und draqōnē,” 133. 61 The translation by John J. Collins, “Sibylline Oracles,” in Old Testament Pseudepigrapha (ed. James H. Charlesworth; New York: Doubleday, 1983), 1:404. 62 See Bogaert, Apocalypse Syriaque, 2:28; George W. E. Nickelsburg, 1 Enoch 1 (Hermeneia; Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 2001), 465. 57

58

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that of vv. 11, 13–15, as a proper “inter-text.” This prophetic passage is the only instance in the Hebrew Bible, where the word Lilith occurs. The chapter deals with the judgment over Edom, using drastic and horrific images. Edom is about to become a ruined place, in which only animals shall dwell (their semantics is not in every case clear). Among them, there is a being designated as Lilith. Although Lilith’s identity is by no means a settled matter despite much research, it is probable that in this context, it refers to an animal, and not necessarily a daemon. “All these creatures are real animals and birds who inhabit desert and ruined places, some of them scavengers who feast on dead bodies. In Isaiah 34, after the complete destruction of Edom and all its people and livestock, only these wild scavengers would be able to survive.”63

Taking the seyame over the word and the fact that Liliths are named among the Sirens and the daemons, the author of 2 Bar. most probably had an individual figure (here in the plural) in his mind. However, the Liliths are nothing more than peripheral spirits, called to mourn with Baruch. There are no daemonic connotations, such as those of the later traditions, visible in the text.64 More shocking is an association with the horrible Edom’s fate, to which the clear intertextual connection alluded. Concerning the Edom’s fate in Isa 34, by a “set of references to Zeph 2:14, Isa 13:21f and Deut 14:13–17 the redaction has been able to achieve an equation of Edom with Nineveh and Babylon and to portray the desolate land after the judgement as the most abominable place because all the unclean and ominous animals which are forbidden by the relevant canon in the Law will dwell there.”65 Besides this shocking association, Baruch, furthermore, intensifies the grief and the horrible image of desolate Jerusalem by means of a direct comparison between both cities – Babylon and Jerusalem (11:1–2): “… If you were prosperous and Zion dwelled in her glory, it would be a great pain for us, because you would be equal to Zion. (2) But now, behold, the pain, which does not come to an end, and sighs, which have no limits (lit. measuring). Because you, behold, are prosperous and Zion (lays) desolate.”

In 2 Bar., Babylon serves more as a representation, or as a concretization of a greater adversary, inimical power. At several places, there are instances in

63 Judit M. Blair, De-Demonising the Old Testament (FAT II/37; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 95. 64 See Juhás and Lapko, “Aspis und draqōnē,” 134. For Lilith in Isa 34 cf. Henrike Frey-Anthes, Unheilsmächte und Schutzgenien, Antiwesen und Grenzgänger: Vorstellungen von “Dämonen” im alten Israel (OBO 227; Freiburg, Schweiz and Göttingen: Universitätsverlag and Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007), 200: “… [sie agiert] nicht als Dämonin, sondern ist wie die anderen Trümmerbewohner lediglich ein peripherer Geist.” 65 Willem A. M. Beuken, Isaiah II/2 (HCOT; Leuven: Peeters, 2000), 300–301.

“Center” and “Periphery” in the Apocalyptic Imagination

449

this apocalyptic work referring to the whole earth. Still in the same context, Baruch directs his speech to & ! ‫ܕ‬ ‫ܐܪ‬, the “land, which prospers” (12:1). On the ground of the similar mode of expression in 11:1, it may be Babylon which is meant by this designation and as such be an object of Baruch’s warning. However, it may also have a transitory function. What is meant may be the whole earth, because the perspective widens. Just in the following chapters, there are “prosperous cities” (13:4) and nations mentioned, against which the retribution will come upon (14:1). Beside this, there are “many who have sinned and lived in prosperity ( ‫( ”) ! & ܬ‬14:2). A universal dimension is seen in the chapters dealing with the eschatological events. Thus, for instance, God confirms, on the one hand, that the described tribulations (ch. 25–28) concern the whole earth (29:1), but on the other, that divine protection will be conferred only on those, who “are found in those very days in this land,” i.e. Israel, (29:2). The universal significance of Jerusalem, even though desolate, shimmers already trough in the lament itself. So, for instance, there is no purpose, not only in an agricultural activity, but in the rain itself (10:11).66 The light of the sun and of the moon is directly connected with that of Zion (10:12): “And you, sun, hold (back) the light of your rays! And you, moon, spent the multitude of your light! Namely, why the light should rise again (there), where the light of Zion darkened?” To summarize, despite its universal importance, Jerusalem is ruined, reduced to a dwelling of the animals and peripheral ghosts. The relation between both cities according to the proto-Zecharianic view has been reversed. Still, the question emerges: is Jerusalem, once omphalos mundi, to remain an absolute periphery of the civilized world and Babylon to endure as a political and economic power par excellence. The distinction between the “central” Babylon and the totally “peripheral” Jerusalem plays an important role in what is the main issue of 2 Bar., i.e. what is the future of God’s people, but only as a starting point. The main key to interpret the horrible actual situation of Jerusalem and God’s people is eschatology, the core of the whole work. The mentioned distinction is still valid, however, though only for a short period of time. By means of the periodization of history (e.g. four kingdoms; the Vision of the Cloud and the Dark and Bright Waters), the remnant community is informed that it is living in the end; “this world is about to be consumed, […] and a new Godly time and reality will soon break in.”67 There has already been a complementary approach visible at almost the very begin66 See Peter Juhás, Sýrska Baruchova apokalypsa 1–21: Preklad a komentár (Košice: Vienala, 2011), 79; idem, “Dew in the Enochic Literature,” in Thinking of Water in the Early Second Temple Period (ed. Ehud Ben Zvi and Christoph Levin; BZAW 461; Berlin and Boston: de Gruyter, 2014), 370. 67 Henze, Jewish Apocalypticism, 318.

450

Peter Juhás

ning of the book. God informs Baruch in the second dialogue that this Jerusalem is not the one that had been engraved on the palms of God’s hands and shall be revealed; this Jerusalem is not the preexistent one, which had already been shown to Adam, Abraham and Moses (4:2–6). The aforementioned distinction, or opposition, between Babylon and Jerusalem is relativized from the very beginning. In this case, due to the concept of the Heavenly Jerusalem the horizontal axis becomes secondary and the attention is drawn to the vertical axis. Although the author’s image of the Heavenly Jerusalem has its own features, it is only a reworking of a well-established motif. In addition, its application in 2 Bar. is not throughout consistent (cf. 6:9; 32:2–6).68 More consistent, however, is the eschatological hope that the actual horror will end soon and the new reality will break in. A protagonist of the eschatological process is the Messiah, who “will reside in Jerusalem, where he will summon, vindicate, and execute the last wicked ruler (who is the Roman emperor) and establish a temporary messianic kingdom that will last until the end of time.”69 From the text of 2 Bar., it is clear that Jerusalem-Zion plays an important role in the messianic events. However, a more elaborate look it is necessary, because the image of the Messiah and the messianic time(s) is exceptionally complex.70 It seems that the author of 2 Bar. either knows two different messianic stages (cf. especially ch. 29–30), or tries simply to incorporate various messianic traditions. In the second messianic passage (39:7–40:4), JerusalemZion appears as a center of an eschatological event, namely, that of the mentioned judgment over the last wicked ruler. In addition, the Messiah will protect the rest of the God’s people who will be found in the place that God has chosen (cf. 40:2). Thus one may observe observe the trajectory of the status of Jerusalem in 2 Bar. At first, it is a political center of the world. This idealistic view is explicitly stated in the rewritten version of the DavidicSolomonic times (ch. 61), which is a part of the Vision of the Dark and Bright Waters (ch. 53–74): “[…] And Zion, the city, ruled then over all lands and places (61:7).” In this case, the idealistic view of the deuteronomistic history is even further developed. As stated above, Jerusalem is later reduced to an absolute periphery. In the messianic times, however, it is promised to become a residence of the Messiah and a safe-place for his community.71 Schematically, it could be expressed as follows: political center > absolute periphery > messianic center. In the third messianic passage (70:8–74:4), there is another See Juhás, Sýrska Baruchova apokalypsa, 55. Henze, Jewish Apocalypticism, 319. 70 For the Messianism, see Henze, Jewish Apocalypticism, 293–305 with the bibliography in n. 146. 71 On the land as a redemptive category, see Lied, Other Lands, 309–311. 68

69

“Center” and “Periphery” in the Apocalyptic Imagination

451

judgment mentioned, of which the Messiah is a protagonist. This judgment does not concern a concrete hostile ruler, but the nations. However, there is no explicit mentioning of Zion in this context. It can only be deduced that the Messiah fulfills his judicial function from there. Moreover, according to 2 Bar., the messianic time(s) does/do mean a transition period, inauguration, or a part of the eschaton, in which the Messiah acts as God’s representative,72 but the only Master of time is God,73 who will renew his creation (32:6: ‫ܐ ܝ‬ ‫ܕ& ܬ‬ ‫ ;]…[ ܕ‬cf. 82:2; 83:6–7). Although the text of 2 Bar. gives only scarce information on this, from such a universalistic perspective, or taking the second messianic phase into account, there seems to be not much left for the distinction between “center” and “periphery.”74

72

There is a debate on whether the Messiah has an important role in this world, so in historical time, or in the new eon. If the concept of the “zweistufige Messianologie” by Klaus Koch (“Messias und Menschensohn: Die zweistufige Messianologie der jüngeren Apokalyptik,” JBTh 8 [1993]: 73–102) is followed, then it can be stated, with Henze, Jewish Apocalypticism, 298: “[…] Koch’s observation that 2Bar presupposes the belief of two distinct phases in Messiah’s visitation – an initial phase during historical time that will be felt in Israel only and a second phase that will inaugurate the world to come and fundamentally change human life and the world at large – presents the most plausible interpretation of 2Bar’s messianic passages.” 73 See Henze, Jewish Apocalypticism, 279–93. According to his analysis, the language relating to time and its end is characterized by the variety of eschatological expressions, which “effectively rules out the possibility that behind the text of 2Bar we can find a fixed timetable for the eschaton that we can uncover […]. There are some terms in 2Bar that can have a technical meaning […] but there is no one term that designates a ‘decisive turning point’ in the end time.” (p. 290–91). 74 Although one must admit that the renewed Temple has an important role in the context of the quoted ch. 32.

List of Contributors Erik Aurelius, Lund Bob Becking, University of Utrecht Ehud Ben Zvi, University of Alberta Kåre Berge, NLA University College, Bergen Diana V. Edelman, University of Oslo Beate Ego, University of Bochum Ann-Cathrin Fiß, University of Munich Friedhelm Hartenstein, University of Munich Sylvie Honigman, Tel Aviv University Louis C. Jonker, University of Stellenbosch Peter Juhás, University of Münster Magnar Kartveit, School of Mission & Theology, Stavanger Gary N. Knoppers, University of Notre Dame Francis Landy, University of Alberta Christoph Levin, University of Munich Kathrin Liess, University of Munich Reinhard Müller, University of Münster Urmas Nõmmik, University of Tartu Juha Pakkala, University of Helsinki Laurie E. Pearce, University of California-Berkeley Hermann-Josef Stipp, University of Munich

Source Index Genesis 1 2:4 5 6:1 6:18 8:1 9:15–16 10 12:6–8 13:10, 14–15 14:18–20 15:18 17:8 19 23 28:10–21 31:47 35:6 35:18, 20 38 48:3

234, 240 194 232, 234 156 405 405 405 232 182 194 34 181 181 144, 156 260 186 123 181 159 139 181

Exodus 12 12:10 20:24–25 23:31 30:17–20 32:19–20, 25–35 34 34:33–35 40:34–38

76 69 211 181 187 302 160, 404 187 186

Leviticus 11:19 11:25 18:3 19 23:6–8 24–28 24:10

443 186 155 156 69 155 39

26:34–35

239

Numbers 10:35 13–14 28:17

398 176 69

Deuteronomy 1:5 1:7 4:6 4:35, 39 5:23–31 6:3–12 6:7–8 7:2 7:3 7:5 7:6 7:9 8:7 11:8–9 11:18–21 11:24 11:29 12:3 12:7 14:13–17 14:18 14:22–29 14:27 15:19–20 16:16 17:8–13 18:1–8 20:26–17 25:2 25:14–15 26:1–11 26:2 26:4 26:17–18

207, 209 181 38 227 204 189 193 190, 193 288 201 188 227 192 204–205 189 181 189, 202, 214 201 212 449 443 185 154 185 184 185 185 190 397 442 203 185 186 203

Source Index

456 26:18–20 27:1–8 27:4 27:12–13 28:1, 15 28:5 29:21 31:9 31:11–12 32:49 34:1–3 34:5–6

188 182, 197–214 199–202 189, 202 203 192 401 204 192 181 181, 194 197

Joshua 1:4 4:3–8 8:30–35 15:8 15:63 18:16

181 206 201, 211 34 34, 157 34

Judges 1–2 1:2 4 8:27 11:2 9:7 9:28 9:37 14 17–18 19–21 20:18

136 137 161 145, 150 145 213 137 240 139 148–51 142–61 137

1 Samuel 10:2

158

2 Samuel 5:1–9 6:19–23 7:16 24:18–25

34 262 321 34

1 Kings 8:44, 48 11:1–11 12:1–24 17–18

239 287 237 216–20

22

327

2 Kings 1:3, 6, 16 4:1–7, 8–37 5 17 18 21:7 23 24:14–16 25:11–12, 21

226 219 220–27 235–36, 241 124 239 182, 185 164 165

Isaiah 2:2–4 5:2–3 6:1–5 11:9 13:2, 4–5 13:21–22 14:3–23 14:32 17:12–14 19:19–22 22:16 24:16–18 25:7–8 26:4–9 28:14–22 28:16 34:11, 13–15 35:28 41:11–13 41:13 43:14 45:1 45:4 45:14–15 49:22–23 56:1–6 60:21 65:17–23 68:31–32

38, 240, 328, 337, 344 421 348 160 431 448 431 370 328 226 364 426 432 433 328 369 447–48 363 431 363 31 363 31 337 337 38 38 240 338

Jeremiah 8:3 9:15 10:11

171 171 123–25

Source Index 13:9–10 14:18 15:19 16:4 16:13 21:1–10 22:1–9 22:24–30 23:3–4, 5–6, 7–8 24 25:1–10 29:2 29:16–20 31:33–34 39:9 40:1 40:2–3 40:4, 7 40:11–12 51 51:13 51:50 52:15, 27c, 29 52:30

171 403 218 403 171 172, 179 171 179 179 163–79 171 164 172 40 165 165 38 165 173 372–74 356 365, 378 165 165, 177

Ezekiel 3:26 11:14–16 11:19 19:2–9 20:40 26:4–5, 14 26:13 26:17–18 27:3–36 32:18–27 33:23–29 36:26–27 38:12 47:12

364 175 40 414, 421 328 373 358 415 415 415 175 40 240 356

Hosea 2:21–22 2:22 9:9

40 160 160

Amos 5:2–3 7:17

418–19 225

457

8:5 9:11

442 165

Jonah 1:16

226

Micah 4:1–5 6:10

38, 240, 328, 337, 344 442

Habakkuk 2:2

207, 209

Zephaniah 2:14

448

Haggai 2:3 2:6–9

177 337, 339

Zechariah 5:4–11 5:6–8 6:5 7:2–3 14

440–46 441 327 176 345

Malachi 2:6–7 3

407 215

Psalms 1:3 2 2:6 6:6 8 16:8 19 19:8–14 23:5 27 40:13–18 42:2–3, 7–8 42:4 46 46:5

356 326–28 315–16 364 404 362 40 416–19 397 435 428–29 360 357 327, 335–36, 347 355, 357

458 48 48:3, 12 48:5–8 48:9 52:8–10 57:2 57:5–7 63:1–3 65:7–8 73:23–24 87:1–2, 5 93:1–2 99:5 99:9 101 102:12–22 103 103:17 110:2 110:4 118:1–4 119:5–6 120–134 120 120:6 121 121:4 122 122:4–5 123 124 125 125:3–5 128 128:1, 4 128:6 129 129:1 129:4 130 130:7 131 131:3 132 133 134 136 137

Source Index 327, 336, 347, 358, 366 357 432 369 427 394 425 360, 364 434 362 369 434 398 328 430 337–38 401–10 443 316 34 384, 388 430 383–400 391 394 392 387 393 366, 387 394 394 386, 398 389 395 388 386 395 385 390 389 386 396 386–87, 393 214, 316, 398 396 397 383 349–79

137:1–4 137:5–6 137:7–9

353–60 360–67 367–73

Job 1:6; 2:1 26:7 29:10

327 232 364

Proverbs 5:20 + 3–6 20:10

423–24 442

Qohelet 5:5

407

Lamentations 2:11–12 4:4 4:11–12

413–16 364 370

Daniel 2:4–7:28 7:4

128–30 445

Ezra 1 1:1–4 3:12 4 4:8–6:18 6:13–22 6:21 7:6 7:9 7:11–26 8:15–20 8:26–34 9:1–2 9:3–5 10:4–10 10:8, 12–16 10:15–16 10:18–19

270–71 306, 322 177 241 125–28 297, 299–301 311 305, 307–309 382 125–28, 271, 304 283–84 271, 297 281–82 312–13 310 280 289 282

Nehemiah 1 8:1–12 8:10–11

271 302 308

Source Index 11:4, 13–19 13 13:1 13:31

236 286–88 280 272

1 Chronicles 1 2–9 2:34–41 5:29–41 9 9:3 10–2 Chr 36 10:14 11:1–9 16:37–43 16:39 17:14 21:1, 19 21:18–22:1 21:22–25 21:29 22:3, 14 28:5 28:19 29:4, 7 29:23

232–34 235–37 30 282 250 34 237–41 263, 321 34 262–63 259 321, 323, 328 328 34, 264 260 259 254 322 260 254 323

2 Chronicles 1:3, 13 9:8 10 11:13–16 13:3–20; 14 17:7–9 17:14 20

259, 263 323 237–38 34 324 39 327 234, 324–28

459

21:8, 10 21:19 28 29:1, 19 30 33:17 35 36:6,10 36:20–21 36:23

234 403 37 253, 327 259 259 259 178 178, 321 250

Tobit 13

343

1 Esdras 9:39

309

2 Esdras 1:38

178

2 Maccabees 4:7–15 4:23–24, 28

84, 88–89 101

Sirach 24:23–29, 32–34 41:6 44:1 48:1–11, 12–14 50:25–26

344–45 445 445 215 201

Matthew 8:10 15:28

227 227

Luke 4:24–27

215

Author Index Abraham, K. 48, 282–83, 290 Achenbach, R. 214 Ackerman, S. 135, 153 Ackroyd, P. R. 233, 271, 283 Adamson, B. 111 Ahlström, G. W. 175 Ahn, J. 355, 376 Aitken, J. K. 106 Albani, M. 322 Albertz, R. 52, 285, 287 Alexander, Ph. 408 Algaze, G. 23 Allen, L. C. 349, 351, 376, 378 Alter, R. 156 Altmann, P. 286 Ameling, W. 87 Amit, Y. 134, 135, 142 Anbar, M. 206, 210 Andressen, B. 24 Aneziri, S. 86 Anheier, H. K. 23 Antonaccio, C. M. 276 Ap-Thomas, D. R. 412 Arnold, W. R. 69 Assmann, J. 192, 408 Auer, P. 115 Aurelius, E. 228 Austin, M. M. 85 Baethgen, F. 386–88 Bagnall, R. S. 87 Baker, H. D. 60 Bakhtin, M. 138 Bal, M. 136, 139–40, 144, 146, 148, 151 Bar-Efrat, S. 374–75 Baumgart, N. C. 226 Baumgartner, W. 386 Beaulieu, P.-A. 47, 55, 60, 101–102, 104, 290–92

Becking, B. 67, 176, 256–57, 259, 269, 286, 349, 351, 354–55, 358, 359, 361, 363, 365, 368, 375–78 Bedford, P. R. 265, 281 Beentjes, P. C. 249 Behrens, A. 170 Ben Zvi, E. 29, 32, 34, 37, 39, 40, 65, 70, 121–22, 137, 152, 157, 238, 279–80, 302–303 Benzinger, I. 216 Bérard, J. 272 Berge, K. 190 Bergen, W. J. 223, 226 Berges, U. 340, 368, 378, 412, 416 Berlejung, A. 28, 77, 351–52, 354–55, 359, 372, 375–79 Berlin, A. 351 Berman, J. 126–27 Berquist, J. L. 23, 305 Bester, D. 364 Beuken, W. A. M. 370, 448 Bewer, J. A. 443 Bickerman, E. J. 47 Bienkowski, P. 374 Blair, J. M. 448 Blenkinsopp, J. 195, 279–80, 289, 300– 301 Bloch, Y. 47, 54–58 Blommaert, J. 113 Blom, J. P. 115 Blum, E. 205, 217, 219–20 Boardman, J. 272, 319 Boccaccini, G. 439 Boda, M. 295 Bogaert, P. M. 447 Bohak, G. 103 Böhler, D. 298 Boiy, T. 292 Boling, R. G. 144 Botterweck, G. J. 166 Boucharlat, R. 290, 292–93 Brandscheidt, R. 337

462 Braulik, G. 200, 207 Braun, R. L. 234 Brentjes, B. 291 Brett, M. G. 276 Brettler, M. 134–35, 156 Briant, P. 52, 290–91, 293 Briggs, C. A. 386–87 Briggs, E. G. 387–88, 393 Bringmann, K. 87 Brosius, M. 27, 251, 253 Brown, St. 45 Brubaker, R. 270, 294 Buber, M. 134 Bucholtz, M. 110, 120 Buckler, J. A. 33 Budde, K. 412, 416, 431 Burkert, W. 98 Burstein, S. M. 101 Burt, S. 286 Cagni, L. 52 Carasik, M. 202 Carden, M. 154–55 Carroll, R. P. 123, 174 Carsana, C. 105 Carter, C. E. 175 Causse, A. 339 Champion, T. C. 21, 24 Chaniotis, A. 84 Chankowski, A. S. 84, 87 Charlesworth, J. H. 200–201 Chassy, Ph. 111 Chipman, J. 142 Chong, J. H. 284 Clancier, Ph. 97 Clarysse, W. 90–91 Clay, A. T. 46, 51, 58 Clendenen, E. R. 124–25 Clifford, J. 278, 284 Clyne, M. 113 Cogan, M. 216, 220 Cohen, M. 269 Cohn, R. L. 222, 225, 227 Coldstream, J. N. 276 Collins, J. J. 128, 438, 447 Connerton, P. 189 Coogan, M. D. 47, 51–52, 59 Cool Root, M. 252, 320 Cooper, F. 294

Author Index Coqueugniot, G. 86 Cornelius, I. 258 Couffignal, R. 354 Cowley, A. E. 75 Craigie, P. C. 123 Crawford, D. J. 94 Cribiore, R. 88, 91 Crow, L. D. 383, 390 Crowell, B. L. 245–46, 248 Crüsemann, F. 385 Curtis, J. 270 Da Riva, R. 48–49 Daiches, S. 47 Dalley, St. 374–75 Dalman, G. 219 Damaskos, D. 86 Dandamaev, M. A. 51, 290–92 Dassow, E. von 46 Davidson, J. 278 Davies, Ph. R. 122, 190, 194–95 de Jong, A. 319 de Moor, J. C. 415 de Troyer, K. 209–10 Dekker, J. 369 Delcor, M. 442 Delkurt, H. 443, 445 Dennett, D. C. 141 Dhorme, E. 51 Dillmann, A. 202, 211 Di Luzio, A. 115 Dirksen, P. B. 263 Dobbs-Allsopp, F. W. 419, 421 Domínguez, A. J. 276 Donbaz, V. 46 Doniger, W. 139 Doob Sakenfield, K. 401 Doran, R. 88 Dougherty, C. 276 Drinkard, J. F. 123 Driver, S. R. 202–203 Duhm, B. 124, 354, 376, 383, 388, 425 Dunbabin, Th. J. 272 Dušek, J. 198, 200–201, 213–14 Eckhardt, B. 89 Edelman, D. V. 29, 123, 208, 255, 260– 61, 271, 279, 287, 442 Edenburg, C. 143

Author Index Edwards, J. 110 Egeler, M. 447 Ego, B. 333–35, 338, 347, 355, 360, 407 Eilers, W. 59 Elayi, J. 67 Ellmann, B. 406 Emmendörffer, M. 351, 362, 371, 376 Ephʿal, I. 52, 290 Erisman, A. R. 194 Eshel, E. 256 Eskenazi, T. C. 262, 287 Ewald, H. 385 Exum, J. C. 136, 138, 140, 143–46, 149 Fabian, J. 187 Fabry, H.-J. 202, 214, 362 Fales, F. M. 52 Fasano Guarini, E. 21 Fasold, R. 125, 127, 130 Felman, Sh. 141 Feng, A. 111 Figueira, Th. 275 Finkel, I. L. 270 Finkelstein, I. 27, 176 Finley, M. I. 98 Fisch, H. 156 Fischer, A. A. 374 Fischer, G. 322 Fishbane, M. 210–11 Fohrer, G. 216, 219 Fokkelman, J. P. 153 Folmer, M. L. 68 Forster, B. 24 Foster, B. R. 291 Franz, M. 401 Freedman, D. N. 351, 372 Frei, P. 74 Freud, S. 148 Frevel, Ch. 176, 281 Frey, J. 257 Frey-Anthes, H. 448 Fried, L. S. 71, 281, 285, 304 Gabba, E. 106 Gafaranga, J. 115–16 Gal, S. 114–15 Gall, A. von 128 Gangloff, F. 175

463

García Martínez, F. 409 Gardner-Chloros, P. 112, 114 Garr, W. R. 415–16, 421–22 Gärtner, J. 345 Gasche, H. 291 Gass, E. 69, 75–76 Gauthier, Ph. 80, 84–85 Gehman, H. S. 217 Geller, M. 103 Geltner, G. 24 Gerhards, J. 23 Gerstenberger, E. S. 415 Gese, H. 438 Gesenius, W. 202, 207, 417, 443, 445 Gill, Ch. 141 Gillmayr-Bucher, S. 133, 135, 138 Ginsberg, L. 128 Glare, P. G. W. 443 Glassner, J.-J. 48 Goguel, A. 374–75 Gorre, G. 81–83, 93 Goulder, M. D. 361 Grabbe, L. L. 69, 71, 175, 261, 287 Graham, A. J. 272 Granerød, G. 72 Grätz, S. 281 Grayson, A. K. 48 Greenblatt, St. 133 Greenfield, J. C. 72, 121 Grelot, P. 68, 69, 71 Gressmann, H. 221 Groß, W. 167, 217, 353 Groß-Albenhausen, K. 80, 87, 89 Gruen, E. S. 251, 277 Grund, A. 406 Gumperz, J. J. 114–15, 123–125 Gunkel, H. 221, 351, 353, 363, 386, 388, 397 Gunneweg, A. 298, 312 Gurtner, D. M. 439, 447 Haag, E. 373 Haarmann, V. 223, 225–27, 339, 410 Habermann, W. 88 Habicht, Ch. 105 Hall, J. M. 275, 277 Hall, K. 110, 120 Hall, St. 110, 117 Hallaschka M. 440

464

Author Index

Hanhart, R. 440 Hansen, M. H. 272, 274 Hanson, P. D. 438 Hartberger, B. 376 Hartenstein, F. 315, 317–18, 323, 327– 28, 333–34, 336, 348, 356, 368–70, 404 Harvey, P. D. A. 65 Hatzopoulos, M. B. 84–85 Havrelock, R. 133, 138 Hawkins, D. J. 205 Hauge, M. R. 323 Heckl, R. 179, 206, 211 Helzer, M. 290 Henderson, R. 344 Hengel, M. 79 Hentschel, G. 221 Henze, M. 439, 449–51 Herder, J. G. 382 Herrmann, S. 170 Hilprecht, H. 46 Hobson, J. M. 65 Hodos, T. 276 Hofstadter, D. 141 Hoglund, K. G. 305 Holladay, J. S. 273 Hölscher, G. 202, 206, 209, 298 Honigman, S. 81, 83, 88–89, 104, 106 Horden, P. 183 Horsley, R. A. 81 Hossfeld, F.-L. 316, 350, 352, 354, 357, 367–69, 372, 376, 404, 435 Hübner, U. 157 Hulster, I. de 252 Huntington, S. P. 110–11 Hurowitz, A. (V.) 339 Hurwitz, A. 121 Hyatt, J. Ph. 170 Illman, K.-J. 372 Irwin, B. P. 135 Jahnow, H. 415–16, 419 Jameson, F. 191–92 Janowski, B. 315, 317–18, 333, 345, 347–48, 355–56, 362, 367, 403, 405– 406 Jansen, K. L. 24 Japhet, S. 231, 263, 279, 318, 323

Jarick, J. 249, 260 Jenni, E. 350 Joannès, F. 48, 50, 283, 290–91 Jobling, D. 133–34, 136, 138, 140, 142 Johnson, J. H. 73 Johnson, W. M. 281 Johnston, A. 159 Joisten-Pruschke, A. 69, 75 Jonker, L. C. 248, 251, 260, 262, 264– 65, 277 Jonnes, L. 87 Joseph, J. E. 111 Joshi, A. K. 112 Josipovici, G. 136, 139–40, 155, 161 Jost, R. 149, 151 Juhás, P. 447– 50 Jursa, M. 43, 45–46, 54, 56–57, 60 Kaestli, J.-D. 97 Kaiser, O. 413, 422, 426, 431 Kaniel Kara-Ivanov, R. 144–45, 158 Kaplan, Ph. 73 Karrer, Ch. 270 Kartveit, M. 199, 201–202, 232, 234, 238–39, 241, 257 Kedar-Kopfstein, B. 363 Keel, O. 176, 355, 374, 376, 378, 438– 39 Keil, C. F. 202 Kellermann, U. 350, 372 Kelley, P. H. 123 Kelly-Holmes, H. 24, 43 Kennell, N. 88 Kent, R. G. 293 Kessler, J. 177, 277, 280 Killebrew, A. E. 23 Kimchi, D. 382 Kipling, R. 275 Kippenberg, H. G. 285 Klavans, J. L. 112 Kleber, K 61, 444 Klein, L. R. 135, 143, 147, 150 Klein, M. 150 Klein, R. 232, 234, 238 Kline, N. R. 65 Knibb, M. A. 439 Knoppers, G. N. 38–39, 153, 201, 214, 232, 249–50, 257–58, 261, 263–64, 271, 273, 282–83, 285

Author Index Knowles, M. D. 250 Koch, H. 319 Koch, K. 319, 451 Köckert, M. 217–20, 226 Koenen, L. 102 Konstan, D. 275 Korpel, M. C. A. 415 Körting, C. 338, 340, 351, 363, 372, 376, 440–41 Kosmin, P. J. 101, 106 Kottsieper, I. 32, 70, 75–76, 288, 412, 419, 423–24 Kratz, R. G. 71, 298, 301, 321 Kraus, H.-J. 351, 354, 362, 376 Kristeva, J. 141, 161 Kristiansen, K. 24 Kroskrity, P. V. 118–20 Krückmann, O. 46 Krüger, Th. 350, 378 Kuhrt, A. 24, 71–72, 81, 105, 251, 270, 290, 292, 319 Kümmel, H. M. 60 Kurke, L. 276 Ladiray, D. 290 Landy, F. 147, 153, 156–57 Lang, B. 200, 359 Lange, A. 200 Langin-Hooper, St. 55 Lapko, R. 447–48 Larsen, M. 24 Lasine, St. 138, 145 Leene, H. 168 Lemaire, A. 48, 50, 97, 256, 283, 290 Lester, A. E. 24 Leuchter, M. 136, 143, 164, 283 Leuenberger, M. 316, 347–48, 366 Levin, Ch. 138, 143, 210, 218, 384, 389 Levin, Y. 137 Levine, B. A. 284 Levitas, R. 191–92 Lichtenstein, M. 327, 347, 355 Lichtheim, M. 90 Lidov, A. 186 Lied, Liv I. 446, 450 Lincoln, B. 71, 292–93 Lindenberger, J. M. 71 Lipiński, E. 232 Lipschits, O. 45, 176, 261

465

Liverani, M. 175–76 Llewellyn-Jones, L. 292 Lohfink, N. 200, 203–204, 207, 403 Long, B. O. 170, 227 Loretz, O. 150, 350, 372, 389–90, 412, 419, 423–24 Lundbom, J. R. 164, 182 Lust, J. 175 Lutz, H. F. 46 Lux, R. 339–40, 342 Lynch, M. 249, 252–55 Ma, J. 86 Macchi, J.-D. 177 Maehler, H. 91 Magen, Y. 200, 258–59 Maier, Ch. M. 369 Malkin, I. 269, 272, 274–78 Maloney, L. M. 369, 393 Manjikian, M. 437 Mannheim, K. 191 Marböck, J. 345 Marcus, D. 149 Maré, L. P. 351, 378 Marenof, Sh. 442 Marrou, J.-I. 79 Martin, Th. R. 281 Martinez-Sève, L. 292 Marttila, M. 386–87 Maschler, Y. 113 Mayes, A. D. H. 134, 143, 210 McCarthy, C. 198–99, 202, 204, 210 McKenzie, L. 105 McKenzie, St. L. 262 McLoughlin, J. B. 24 McMillion, Ph. 149–50 Meeuwis, M. 113 Meisel, J. M. 113 Mendoza-Denton, N. 113, 115–16 Metzger, M. 334, 402 Meyers, C. L. 445 Meyers, E. M. 445 Michel, A. 352, 368, 372 Milevski, I. 261 Millard, A. R. 52 Miller, M. C. 103 Minnen, P. van 96 Mitchell, H. G. 443 Monerie, J. 97

466 Montgomery, J. A. 217, 224 Moore, St. 133 Môr, M. 257 Morel, J.-P. 276 Morris, I. 23 Mosis, R. 368 Mowinckel, S. 286, 298, 387, 412 Moyer, I. 98, 101, 104–105 Mulder, M. J. 357 Müller, R. 136, 182, 214, 418, 425, 432, 435 Muraoka, T. 68, 350, 443 Murphy, P. E. 24 Muysken, P. 113 Myers, J. M. 233, 280 Myers-Scotton, C. 112, 115–16, 126– 27 Naveh, J. 121 Neef, H.-D. 149 Nelson, R. D. 210–11 Newsom, C. 407–408 Nickelsburg, G. W. E. 447 Nicolai, R. 86 Niditch, S. 134–35, 144 Niehr, H. 72–73 Nielsen J. P. 56 Nielsen, Th. H. 272 Nihan, Ch. 177, 206, 210 Nimchuk, C. 49 Nissinen, M. 27, 412, 419 Nõmmik, U. 425–26, 429 Noonan, B. J. 287 Noort, Ed 199 Nordheim, M. von 316 Noth, M. 230 Nutkowicz, H. 71 O’Connell, R. H. 135, 138 Oelsner, J. 52, 60 Oeming, M. 230 Olsen, B. 188–89 Olshausen, J. 383 Osborne, D. 113, 115–16 Otto, E. 181, 188, 190, 194, 208 Otto, S. 217, 226 Overholt, Th. W. 123–24 Padgen, A. 275

Author Index Pakkala, J. 281, 298, 300–301, 305, 310 Pardes, I. 140, 153 Pearce, L. E. 48, 55, 283, 290, 354, 359, 376 Perlitt, L. 207, 209 Perrot, J. 293 Petersen, D. L. 446 Pfeiffer, H. 143–44, 154, 157 Pietikäinen, S. 24, 43 Pietsch, M. 321 Plant, R. J. R. 164 Plöger, J. G. 359 Plöger, O. 130 Pohlmann, K.-F. 172–73, 414–15, 422 Polinger Foster, K. 291 Polzin, R. 138 Porten, B. 52, 66, 68, 70–72, 74–77 Portier-Young, A. E. 106, 125, 129–30 Powis Smith, J. M. 443 Pratt, M. L. 100 Preß, R., 382 Prudovsky, G. 35 Pschibille, J. 164 Pummer, R. 198 Punt, J. 245 Purcell, N. 183 Purvis, J. D. 200 Quaegebeur, J. 81 Rabe, N. 350–51, 361, 363 Rad, G. von 222, 225, 227, 337 Rajak, T. 104 Ray, J. D. 101 Redditt, P. L. 295, 298, 345 Reinmuth, T. 286 Reiterer, F. V. 257 Rendsburg, G. A. 121–22 Reventlow, H. Graf 443 Reynolds, B. E. 438 Richter, W. 165 Ricl, M. 87 Ridgeway, D. 276 Riede, P. 443 Rivera Rivera, M. 247 Römer, Th. C. 38, 170 Rösel, Ch. 318 Rösel, H. N. 206, 211

Author Index Rofé, A. 219, 222–23, 225 Rohrmoser, A. 68–69, 75, 77 Romo, F. P. 23 Rom-Shiloni, D. 172 Rooke, D. W. 156 Root, M. C. 253, 341–42 Rost, L. 444 Roth, M. T. 55–56 Rowlands, M. 21, 24 Rowley, H. H. 128 Royar, St. 325 Rudolph, W. 286, 443 Ruffing, A. 325 Rüterswörden, U. 198, 207 Ruzicka, St. 74 Ryan, E. B. 111 Ryholt, K. 106 Sachau, E. 69 Safran, W. 277–78, 284 Salvesen, A. 120 Samuel, H. 200, 210 Sancisi-Weerdenburg, H. 24 Sasson, J. 137, 144 Satterthwaite, Ph. 147 Sauerwein, R. 221–22, 227 Savalli-Lestrade, I. 87 Savran, G. 357–58 Scatolini Apóstolo, S. S. 279 Schattner-Rieser, U. 200, 257 Schaudig, H. 270 Schendl, H. 112 Schenker, A. 198–99 Schmid, H. 359 Schmid, K. 172, 257, 438 Schmidt, W. H. 164, 170, 337, 386 Schmitt, H.-Ch. 219, 221 Schmitt, R. 319 Schneider, T. J. 134–35, 143, 146, 149– 51 Schniedewind, W. M. 121 Schnocks, J. 406, 445 Schökel, A. 412 Scholz, P. 85 Schöpflin, K. 223 Schorch, St. 198 Schreiner, J. 438 Schuller, E. 407 Schüssler Fiorenza, E. 244

467

Schwartz, B. 304 Schweitzer, St. J. 249, 259 Schwiderski, D. 69 Schwienhorst-Schönberger, L. 344 Scoralick, R. 268, 401 Sebba, M. 114, 130 Seitz, Ch. 172 Seybold, K. 337, 352, 376, 382–83, 385, 387, 389, 391, 393, 396, 412, 415, 425, 428, 435 Shea, W. H. 416 Sherwin-White, S. 105, 292 Shils, E. 24 Sigrist, M. 52 Skinner, J. 217 Smelik, K. A. D. 38, 224 Smend, R. 217, 218 Smith, A. T. 182–85, 193–94 Smith, D. L. 175 Smith, J. Z. 187 Snell, D. C. 130 Snijders, L. A. 355 Snodgrass, A. M. 272 Soggin, A. 362 Sokoloff, M. 443 Sonnet, J.-P. 205, 208 Southwood, K. 281 Spar, I. 46 Sparks, K. L. 276 Spieckermann, H. 351, 362, 372, 376, 401 Stadel, Ch. 24 Stager, L. E. 137 Staples, P. 24 Stavrakopoulou, F. 150, 159, 162 Stead, M. R. 442, 446 Steck, O. H. 216, 333 Stein, G. 318 Stein, R. 23 Steiner, R. C. 71 Stephens, S. S. 102 Stern, E. 121, 258 Stern, I. 256 Steuernagel, C. 202, 206, 210, 212 Stipp, H.-J. 143–44, 146, 154, 167, 171, 175, 217, 222 Stocking, G. W. 118 Stolper, M. W. 46–47, 60, 62, 291 Stone, K. 154–55

468 Stott, K. 191 Strawn, B. A. 342 Strootman, R. 99–100, 105 Sugirtharaja, R. S. 245–46 Sunuodula, M. 111 Swanson, J. 443 Swanson, K. A. 135, 138, 143 Tal, O. 176, 258 Talshir, Z. 280 Tassier, E. 91 Thames, J. T. 280 Thiel, W. 216, 226 Thompson, D. J. 90–91, 94, 96 Tiemeyer, L.-S. 440 Tigchelaar, E. J. C. 409, 439, 442 Tiller, P. 81 Timm, St. 52 Tiňo, J. 254 Tolini, G. 50, 52 Tollington, J. 135, 143 Torrey, C. C. 229, 242 Tötösy de Zepetnek, St. 24 Tov, E. 198–99 Trible, Ph. 142, 146 Tseskhaladze, G. R. 274–75 Tso, M. K. M. 107 Tsumura, D. T. 207 Tuplin, Ch. 291 Uehlinger, Ch. 342, 442 Ulrich, E. 199–201, 209 van der Spek, R. J. 251, 270 van der Toorn, K. 150 Vanderhooft, D. S. 48–49, 283 VanderKam, J. 269, 282 Vansina, J. 119 Veijola, T. 207, 214 Vermeylen, J. 174–75 Vincent, A. 75 Viviers, H. 390 Waerzeggers, C. 27, 46, 52–53, 59 Wagenaar, J. A. 69, 77 Wallerstein, I. 22, 44 Walser, G. 340 Warczok, T. 23 Waters, M. 251

Author Index Watson, W. G. E. 412 Webb, B. G. 135 Wei, Li 116 Weidner, E. 48, 50 Weigl, M. 73 Weippert, M. 71, 374 Weisberg, D. B. 444 Weitzman, St. 152 Welch, A. 351, 372 Wellhausen, J. 203, 216, 383 Wesselius, J.-W. 130 Westermann, C. 430 White, H. 133 Wiesehöfer, J. 72, 292 Wilcke, K. 321 Wilcken, U. 93 Willi, Th. 77, 233, 235, 279, 318, 322, 325 Williamson, H. G. M. 122, 177, 230– 31, 249, 260, 279, 285–86, 297 Williamson Jr., R. 160 Wills, L. M. 81 Willy C. 92 Wilson, Ian D. 133–34, 157 Wilson, R. R. 226 Winkler, W. 257 Wischnowsky, M. 412, 416, 418 Witte, M. 413 Wootton, T. 114, 130 Wright III, B. G. 81 Wright, D. P. 442 Wright, J. L. 148, 153, 298, 301 Wright, J. W. 262 Wunsch, C. 48, 55, 57–58, 283, 290, 359, 376 Würthwein, E. 216, 218, 220–21, 225 Wyatt, N. 162 Yates, F. A. 187 Yeates, M. 24 Yee, G. A. 143, 245–46, 255 Yiftachel, O. 24 Young, I. 121–22 Zaccagnini, C. 98 Zadok, R. 47, 50–52, 54, 57–58 Zakovitch, Y. 144 Zarycki, T. 23–24, 30

Author Index Zenger, E. 316, 350, 352, 354, 357, 367–69, 372, 376, 393, 404, 435, 438 Zerubavel, E. 40

Ziegler, J. 166 Zimmerli, W. 240–41 Zornberg, A. G. 140–41, 160 Zsengellér, J. 257

469