Perspectives on Hebrew Scriptures IX: Comprising the Contents of Journal of Hebrew Scriptures, Vol. 12 9781463204204, 1463204205

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Perspectives on Hebrew Scriptures IX

Perspectives on Hebrew Scriptures and its Contexts 22

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

Perspectives on Hebrew Scriptures IX

Comprising the Contents of Journal of Hebrew Scriptures, vol. 12

Edited by

Ehud Ben Zvi Christophe Nihan

9

34 2014

Gorgias Press LLC, 954 River Road, Piscataway, NJ, 08854, USA www.gorgiaspress.com Copyright © 2014 by Gorgias Press LLC

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise without the prior written permission of Gorgias Press LLC. 2014

‫ܛ‬

9

ISBN 978-1-4632-0420-4

Printed in the United States of America

ISSN 1935-6897

TABLE OF CONTENTS

VOL. 12 (2012) The Meaning of Ṣantĕrôt (Zech 4:12) Al Wolters ........................................................................................................ 1 Female Slave vs Female Slave: ‫ ָא ָמה‬and ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬in the HB Edward J. Bridge........................................................................................... 19 Literacy, Utopia and Memory: Is There a Public Teaching in Deuteronomy? Kåre Berge ..................................................................................................... 43 Archaeological Facts, Historical Speculations and the Date of the lmlk Storage Jars: A Rejoinder to David Ussishkin Oded Lipschits .............................................................................................. 65 History in the Eye of the Beholder? Social Location & Allegations of Racial/Colonial Biases in Reconstructions of Sennacherib’s Invasion of Judah Paul S. Evans ................................................................................................. 81 Foreign Marriages and Citizenship in Persian Period Judah Wolfgang Oswald .......................................................................................107 “Oh that you were like a brother to me, one who had nursed at my mother’s breasts” Breast Milk as a Kinship-Forging Substance Cynthia R. Chapman ..................................................................................125 Making It Sound—The Performative Qatal and its Explanation Alexander Andrason ..................................................................................169 The Morphology of the tG-Stem in Hebrew and Tirgaltî in Hos 11:3 Jeremy M. Hutton and Safwat Marzouk .................................................231 v

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

The Fallacy of ‘True and False’ in Prophecy Illustrated by Jer 28:8–9 Matthijs J. de Jong ......................................................................................277 Micah’s Teraphim Benjamin D. Cox and Susan Ackerman .................................................309 The Structure of Zechariah 8 and Its Meaning Elie Assis......................................................................................................351 The “Spring of the Year” (2 Chronicles 36:10) and the Chronicler’s Sources Michael Avioz ............................................................................................. 371 Medieval Jewish Exegesis on Dual Incipits Issac B. Gottlieb .........................................................................................381 Psalm 68: Structure Compostion and Geography Israel Knohl .................................................................................................413 Keeping the Faithful : Persuasive Strategies in Psalms 4 and 62 Davida Charney ..........................................................................................437 Stones on Display in Joshua 6: The Linguistic Tree Constructor as a “PLOT” Tool Nicolai Winther-Nielsen............................................................................451 God and the Sea in Job 38 Collin R. Cornell .........................................................................................485

REVIEWS Rüdiger Schmitt, DER “HEILIGE KRIEG” IM PENTATEUCH UND IM DEUTERONOMISTISCHEN GESCHICHTSWERK: STUDIEN ZUR FORSCHUNGS-, REZEPTIONS- UND RELIGIONSGESCHICHTE VON KRIEG UND BANN IM ALTEN TESTAMENT Reviewed by Jacob L. Wright. ............................................................. 503 Anne Moore, MOVING BEYOND SYMBOL AND MYTH: UNDERSTANDING THE KINGSHIP OF GOD OF THE HEBREW BIBLE THROUGH METAPHOR Reviewed by Beth M. Stovell............................................................... 511

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vii

Adolfo D. Roitman, BIBLIA, EXÉGESIS Y RELIGIÓN: UNA LECTURA CRÍTICO-HISTÓRICA DEL JUDAÍSMO Reviewed by Natalio Fernández Marcos ........................................... 516 Rachelle Gilmour, REPRESENTING THE PAST: A LITERARY ANALYSIS OF NARRATIVE HISTORIOGRAPHY IN THE BOOK OF SAMUEL; Reviewed by Dan Pioske..................................................................... 519 Kristin M. Saxegaard, CHARACTER COMPLEXITY IN THE BOOK OF RUTH Reviewd by Peter Lau. .......................................................................... 527 Michael W. Duggan, THE CONSUMING FIRE: A CHRISTIAN GUIDE TO THE OLD TESTAMENT Reviewed by Sonya Kostamo .............................................................. 532 Jeremy Hutton, THE TRANSJORDANIAN PALIMPSEST: THE OVERWRITTEN TEXTS OF PERSONAL EXILE AND TRANSFORMATION IN THE DEUTERONOMISITIC HISTORY Reviewed by Klaus-Peter Adam. ........................................................ 535 Stephanie Dalley, ESTHER’S REVENGE AT SUSA: FROM SENNACHERIB TO AHASUERUS Reviewed by Maria Brosius.................................................................. 540 Harmut N. Rösel, JOSHUA Reviewed by Phillippe Guillaume ....................................................... 543 Luke Gärtner-Brereton, THE ONTOLOGY OF SPACE IN BIBLICAL HEBREW NARRATIVE: THE DETERMINATE FUNCTION OF NARRATIVE “SPACE” WITHIN THE BIBLICAL HEBREW AESTHETIC Reviewed by Robert C. Kashow ......................................................... 545 Thomas B. Dozeman, EXODUS Reviewed by William Morrow. ............................................................ 550 Jo Ann Hackett, A BASIC INTRODUCTION TO BIBLICAL HEBREW Reviewed by Jason Jackson.................................................................. 554 Anselm C. Hagedorn and Andrew Mein, (eds.), ASPECTS OF AMOS:

EXEGESIS AND INTERPRETATION

Reviewed by M. Daniel Carroll ........................................................... 558 Molly M. Zahn, RETHINKING REWRITTEN SCRIPTURE: COMPOSITION AND EXEGESIS IN THE 4QREWORKED PENTATEUCH MANUSCRIPTS Reviewed by William Tooman ............................................................ 561 John J. Ahn, EXILE AS FORCED MIGRATIONS: A SOCIOLOGICAL, LITERARY, AND THEOLOGICAL APPROACH ON THE DISPLACEMENT AND RESETTLEMENT OF THE SOUTHERN KINGDOM OF JUDAH Reviewed by Bob Becking ................................................................... 566

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

John H. Walton, GENESIS 1 AS ANCIENT COSMOLOGY Reviewed by Izaak J. de Hulster ......................................................... 570 Takayoshi Oshima, BABYLONIAN PRAYERS TO MARDUK Reviewed by Scott C. Jones ................................................................. 581 Reinhard Kratz, PROPHETENSTUDIEN: KLEINE SCHRIFTEN II Reviewed by Jakob Wöhrle.................................................................. 588 Magnar Kartveit, THE ORIGIN OF THE SAMARITANS Reviewed by Reinhard Pummer.......................................................... 592 Leigh M. Trevaskis, HOLINESS, ETHICS AND RITUAL IN LEVITICUS Reviewed by Roy E. Gane. .................................................................. 599 Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò, ORIGIN MYTHS AND HOLY PLACES IN THE OLD TESTAMENT: A STUDY OF AETIOLOGICAL NARRATIVES Reviewed by Eric Ortlund ................................................................... 604 Fiona Black, THE ARTIFICE OF LOVE: GROTESQUE BODIES AND THE SONG OF SONGS Reviewed by Julia M. O’Brien ............................................................. 607 Christopher R. Seitz, THE GOODLY FELLOWSHIP OF THE PROPHETS: THE ACHIEVEMENT OF ASSOCIATION IN CANON FORMATION Reviewed by Mark E. Biddle ............................................................... 610 Michael V. Fox, PROVERBS 10-31: A NEW TRANSLATION WITH INTRODUCTION AND COMMENTARY Reviewed by Christine Roy Yoder...................................................... 613 Gordon K. Oeste, LEGITIMACY, ILLEGITIMACY, AND THE RIGHT TO RULE: WINDOWS ON ABIMELECH’S RISE AND DEMISE IN JUDGES 9 Reviewed by Lissa M. Wray Beal ........................................................ 616 Tamara Cohn Eskenazi and Tikva Frymer-Kensky, RUTH Reviewed by Timothy Stone ................................................................ 619 Christian Frevel, (ed.), MIXED MARRIAGES: INTERMARRIAGES AND GROUP IDENTITY IN THE SECOND TEMPLE PERIOD Reviewed by Steven J. Schweitzer ...................................................... 623 Tod Linafelt, Claudia V. Camp, and Timothy Beal, (eds.), THE FATE OF KING DAVID: THE PAST AND PRESENT OF A BIBLICAL ICON Reviewed by David B. Schreiner......................................................... 628 Andrew J. Dearman, THE BOOK OF HOSEA Reviewed by Anna Sieges..................................................................... 633 Jacob Stromberg, ISAIAH AFTER EXILE: THE AUTHOR OF THIRD ISAIAH AS READER AND REDACTOR OF THE BOOK Reviewed by Lena-Sofia Tiemeyer ..................................................... 636 Alice Wood, OF WINGS AND WHEELS: A SYNTHETIC STUDY OF THE BIBLICAL CHERUBIM

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ix

Reviewed by Michael Hundley. ........................................................... 641 Alberdina Houtman and Harry Sysling, ALTERNATIVE TARGUM TRADITIONS: THE USE OF VARIANT READINGS FOR THE STUDY IN ORIGIN AND HISTORY OF TARGUM JONATHAN Reviewed by William Tooman ............................................................ 646 Christian Kupfer, MIT ISRAEL AUF DEM WEG DURCH DIE WÜSTE: EINE LESEORIENTIERTE EXEGESE DER REBELLIONSTEXTE IN EXODUS 15:22–17:7 UND NUMERI 11:1–20:13 Reviewed by Nathan MacDonald. ...................................................... 650 Micahel B. Hundley, KEEPING HEAVEN ON EARTH: SAFEGUARDING THE DIVINE PRESENCE IN THE PRIESTLY TABERNACLE Reviewed by Mark George................................................................... 653 Kenneth C. Way, DONKEYS IN THE BIBLICAL WORLD: CEREMONY AND SYMBOL Reviewed by Gerald A. Klingbeil ....................................................... 657 Bruce J. Harvey, YHWH ELOHIM: A SURVEY OF OCCURRENCES IN THE LENINGRAD CODEX AND THEIR CORRESPONDING SEPTUAGINTAL RENDERINGS Reviewed by Michael P. Knowles....................................................... 661 Isaac Kalimi, (ed.), NEW PERSPECTIVES ON EZRA-NEHEMIAH: HISTORY AND HISTORIOGRAPHY, TEXT, LITERATURE, AND INTERPRETATION Reviewed by Steven J. Schweitzer ...................................................... 665 James C. VanderKam, THE DEAD SEA SCROLLS AND THE BIBLE Reviewed by Robert C. Kashow ......................................................... 658 Matthew J. M. Coomber, (ed.), BIBLE AND JUSTICE: ANCIENT TEXTS, MODERN CHALLENGES Reviewed by Shannon Baines.............................................................. 672 Christopher B. Hay, DEATH IN THE IRON AGE II AND IN FIRST ISAIAH Reviewed by Konrad Schmid .............................................................. 677 Kyong-Jin Lee, THE AUTHORITY AND AUTHORIZATION OF TORAH IN THE PERSIAN PERIOD Reviewed by James Watts .................................................................... 681 David M. Carr, THE FORMATION OF THE HEBREW BIBLE: A NEW RECONSTRUCTION Reviewed by Timothy Stone ................................................................ 684 John Van Seters, THE BIBLICAL SAGA OF KING DAVID Reviewed by David B. Schreiner......................................................... 692 Michael R. Stead, THE INTERTEXTUALITY OF ZECHARIAH 1–8 Reviewed by Garrick Allen .................................................................. 698

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Ehud Ben Zvi and Diana V. Edelman, (eds.), WHAT WAS AUTHORITATIVE FOR CHRONICLES? Reviewed by Paul L. Redditt................................................................ 701 Isaac Kalimi (ed.), JEWISH BIBLE THEOLOGY: PERSPECTIVES AND CASE STUDIES Reviewed by Joseph Ryan Kelly.......................................................... 705 Elie Assis, FLASHES OF FIRE: A LITERARY ANALYSIS OF THE SONG OF SONGS Reviewed by Richard Hess................................................................... 708 Roger S. Nam, PORTRAYALS OF ECONOMIC EXCHANGE IN THE BOOK OF KINGS Reviewed by Oded Lipschits and Ido Koch ..................................... 711 M. E. Stone, ANCIENT JUDAISM: NEW VISIONS AND VIEWS Reviewed by Anthony Meyer .............................................................. 719 Hallvard Hagelia, THREE OLD TESTAMENT THEOLOGIES FOR TODAY: HELGE S. KVANVIG, WALTER BRUEGGEMANN AND ERHARD GERSTENBERGER Reviewed by James Mead..................................................................... 723 Teresa J. Hornsby, and Ken Stone, (eds.), BIBLE TROUBLE: QUEER READINGS AT THE BOUNDARIES OF BIBLICAL SCHOLARSHIP Reviewed by Steven J. Schweitzer ...................................................... 726 Eugene Ulrich and Peter W. Flint, with a contribution by Martin G. Abegg, Jr., Qumran QUMRAN CAVE 1, II: THE ISAIAH SCROLLS. PART 1: PLATES AND TRANSCRIPTIONS; PART 2: INTRODUCTIONS, COMMENTARY, AND TEXTUAL VARIANTS Reviewed by Robert D. Holmstedt. .......................................................... John Goldingay and Pamela J. Scalise, MINOR PROPHETS II Reviewed by Robert C. Kashow ......................................................... 736 Matthew A. Thomas, THESE ARE THE GENERATIONS: IDENTITY, COVENANT AND THE ‘TOLEDOT’ FORMULA Reviewed by Carol Kamiski ................................................................. 739 Timothy H Lim and John J. Collins, (eds.), THE OXFORD HANDBOOK OF THE DEAD SEA SCROLLS Reviewed by Eileen M. Schuller.......................................................... 743 Paul M. Joyce and Andrew Mein, (eds.), AFTER EZEKIEL: ESSAYS ON THE RECEPTION OF A DIFFICULT PROPHET Reviewed by Risa Levitt Kohn ............................................................ 748 Megan Bishop Moore and Brad E. Kelle, BIBLICAL HISTORY AND ISRAEL’S PAST: THE CHANGING STUDY OF THE BIBLE AND HISTORY Reviewed by John Van Seters.............................................................. 750

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xi

Chris Franke and Julia M. O’Brien, (eds.), THE AESTHETICS OF VIOLENCE IN THE PROPHETS Reviewed by Joel Barker....................................................................... 754 Myrto Theocharous, LEXICAL DEPENDENCE AND INTERTEXTUAL ALLUSION IN THE SEPTUAGINT OF THE TWELVE PROPHETS: STUDIES IN HOSEA, AMOS AND MICAH Reviewed by W. Edward Glenny ........................................................ 758 Joel S. Baden, THE COMPOSITION OF THE PENTATEUCH. RENEWING THE DOCUMENTARY HYPOTHESIS Mark A. O’Brien. ................................................................................... 761 Bo H. Lim, THE ‘WAY OF THE LORD’ IN THE BOOK OF ISAIAH Reveiwed by Kevin Chau ..................................................................... 765 Assnat Bartor, READING LAW AS NARRATIVE: A STUDY IN THE CASUISTIC LAWS OF THE PENTATEUCH Reviewed by Jonathan Vroom ............................................................ 768 Antonios Finitsis, VISIONS AND ESCHATOLOGY: A SOCIO-HISTORICAL ANALYSIS OF ZECHARIAH 1–6 .................................................................. Reviewed by Walter H. Rose ............................................................... 771 Index ..................................................................................................................... 777

PREFACE The present publication includes all the articles and reviews published electronically in the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures vol. 12 (2012), all of which are accessible online at http://www.jhsonline.org. The Journal of Hebrew Scriptures provides freely available, peerreviewed articles related to the history of ancient Israel and its literature. By doing so, the Journal fulfills important academic needs, particularly in relation to the production and dissemination of scholarly contributions that are well-researched, original, have high academic standards, and are likely to open new avenues in the field. JHS’s authors and readers come from different countries and, as such, the Journal contributes to a scholarly conversation that is not restricted by geographical boundaries. Given that the Journal is open access, this scholarly conversation is also not restricted to those with certain levels of income or who can access excellent (and wellfunded) research libraries. In addition, it is the policy of the Journal to promote not only contributions of established scholars, but also appropriate contributions of scholars in their first stages in the field. The Journal has grown substantially in the number of published contributions through the years, but it is still run in the main by volunteers. Peter Altmann and Konrad Schmid are the Review Editors for books published in “continental” Europe in any language except Spanish. Mark J. Boda serves as Review Editor for books published in North America or anywhere in the English speaking world. Maria-Teresa Ortega Monasterio is the Review Editor for books published in Spanish, whether in Spain or anywhere in the world. We thank the three review editors for all their work, which represents a major contribution to JHS. The editorial board of the Journal consists of Peter Altmann, Ehud Ben Zvi, Adele Berlin, Mark J. Boda, Philip R. Davies, Michael V. Fox, William K. Gilders, Gary N. Knoppers, Robert A. Kugler, Francis Landy, Niels Peter Lemche, Mark Leuchter, Oded Lipschits, Hanna Liss, John L. McLaughlin, Reinhard Müller, Hindy Najman, Christophe Nihan, Scott B. Noegel, Saul M. Olyan, Maria-Teresa Ortega Monasterio, Gary A. Rendsburg, Konrad Schmid, Gene M. Tucker and Jacob L. Wright. We xiii

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

thank them all for their continuous work with, and support, this Journal. We also thank the many occasional reviewers of submissions who have similarly contributed to keep the high standards of the journal, and often improved essays with their well-thought suggestions and comments. The regular publication of the Journal is supported by a grant of the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada (SSHRC) and is made possible by the work of many volunteers in different areas. It is impossible to name them all here, but in terms of technical production the contribution of Melanie Marvin (Dept. of History and Classics, Univ. of Alberta) is so prominent that she deserves a specific mention. Among her many other contributions, she prepared the present manuscript. Finally, we would like to thank George Kiraz for publishing the printed version of JHS through Gorgias Press, for understanding the importance of maintaining the freely available electronic version of the journal, and for his own role in the development of open-access electronic academic journals. As we complete this preface and go over the many explicit thanks—and in our mind also over those that are implicit here, or minimally mentioned—we can only think of how well they reflect the basic fact that the continuous existence of this open access journal and its present publication in hard copy are the result of a work of love carried out by and through so many willing hands. Ehud Ben Zvi University of Alberta General Editor (2012), Journal of Hebrew Scriptures Christophe Nihan University of Lausanne Associate General Editor (2012), Journal of Hebrew Scriptures

ABBREVIATIONS AASF AASOR

ABRL

Annales Academiae scientiarum fennicae Annual of the American Schools of Oriental Research American Academy of Religion Anchor Bible Anchor Bible Dictionary. Edited by David Noel Freedman. 6 vols. New York, 1992 Anchor Bible Reference Library

AnBib

Princeton, 1969 Analecta biblica

AAR AB

ABD

ACJS AcOr ADPV AJBI AJSR ANES ANET

Annual of the College of Jewish Studies Acta orientalia Abhandlungen des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins Annual of the Japanese Biblical Institute Association for Jewish Studies Review Ancient Near Eastern Studies Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament. Edited by J. B. Pritchard. 3d ed.;

AnOr

Analecta orientalia

AS ASOR ASV

Assyriological Studies American School of Oriental Research American Standard Version

AuOr AUSS BA

Aula orientalis Andrews University Seminary Studies Biblical Archaeologist

AOAT AOS AOT AOTC ArBib

ATD

Alter Orient und Altes Testament American Oriental Series Apollos Old Testament Commentaries Abingdon Old Testament Commentaries The Aramaic Bible

Das Alte Testament Deutsch

xv

xvi

BAR BASOR BBB BBET

BBR BDB

BEATAJ BETL BH

BHS

Bib BibInt BibOr BJRL BJS

BS

BKAT

BN BR BSOAS B.T.

BWANT

BZ

BZAR BZAW

CAD

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Biblical Archaeology Review Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research Bonner biblische Beiträge Beiträge zur biblischen Exegese und Theologie

Bulletin for Biblical Research

F. Brown, S. R. Driver, and C. A. Briggs. A

Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament (Oxford, 1907

Beiträge zur Erforschung des Alten Testaments und des antiken Judentum Bibliotheca ephemeridum theologicarum lovaniensium Biblical Hebrew Biblia Hebraica Stuttgartensia. Edited by K. Elliger and W. Rudolph. Stuttgart, 1983

Biblica Biblical Interpretation Biblica et orientalia Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester Brown Judaic Studies

Bibliotheca Sacra

Biblischer Kommentar, Altes Testament. Edited by M. Noth and H. W. Wolff

Biblische Notizen Biblical Research Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies Babylonian Talmud Beitrage zur Wissenschaft vom Alten und Neuen Testament

Biblische Zeitschrift

Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft

The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Chicago, 1956–

ABBREVIATIONS

CANE CBC CBOTS

CBQ

CBQMS CNEB

xvii

Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by J. Sasson. 4 vols. New York, 1995 Cambridge Bible Commentary Coniectanea Biblica Old Testament Series

Catholic Biblical Quarterly

Catholic Biblical Quarterly Monograph Series Cambridge Commentary on the New English Bible

CHANE

Culture and History of the Ancient Near East

COS DCH

Context of Scripture Dictionary of Classical Hebrew. Edited by D. J. A.

ConBNT

DDD2

Coniectanea neotestamentica biblica: New Testament Series

or

Coniectanea

Clines. Sheffield, 1993–

Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible.

DJD DPV

Edited by K. van der Toorn, B. Becking, and P. W. van der Horst. Second Extensively Revised Edition; Leiden/Grand Rapids, 1999. Sheffield, 1993– Discoveries in the Judaean Desert Deutsch Verein zur Erforschung Palsätinas

EBH

Early Biblical Hebrew

DSD EI EEF ESV ETL

FAT FB FOTL FRLANT FZPT GAT

GKG GTJ

Dead Sea Discoveries

Eretz Israel Egypt Exploration Fund English Standard Version Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses

Forschungen zum Alten Testament Forschung zur Bibel Forms of the Old Testament Literature Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments Freiburger Zeitshrift für Philosophie und Theologie Gundrisse zum Alten Testament Gesenius’ Hebrew Grammar. Edited by E. Kautzsch. Translated by A. E. Cowley. 2d. ed. Oxford, 1910

Grace Theological Journal

xviii

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

HAHAT

W. Gesenius, F. Buhl, Hebräisches und aramäisches Handwörterbuch über das Alte Testament. Leipzig, 1915

HALOT

Koehler, L., W. Baumgartner, and J. J. Stamm.

The Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament. Translated and edited under the supervision of M. E. J. Richardson. 4 vols. Leiden, 1994–1999

HAR

Hebrew Annual Review

HBS HCSB HeyJ HS

Herder’s Biblical Studies Holman Christian Standard Bible Heythrop Journal Hebrew Studies

HTR

Harvard Theological Review

HUCA

Hebrew Union College Annual

HAT

HSS HSM HTS

IAA IBC ICC IDAM

IEJ

Handbuch zum Alten Testament

Harvard Semitic Studies Harvard Semitic Monographs Harvard Theological Studies

Israel Antiquities Authority International Bible Commentary International Critical Commentary Israel Department of Antiquities and Museums

Israel Exploration Journal

IES

Israel Exploration Society

IOSCS

International Organization for Septuagint and Cognate Studies

Int

JAAR JANES JANESCU JAOS JB JBL JBQ JCS

Interpretation

Journal of the American Academy of the Religion Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society of Columbia University Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society of Columbia University Journal of the American Oriental Society Jerusalem Bible Journal of Biblical Literature Jewish Bible Quarterly Journal of Cuneiform Studies

ABBREVIATIONS

JESHO

xix

JETS JHS JJS JNES JNSL JOTT JPS JQR JR JSem

Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient Journal of the Evangelical Theological Society Journal of Hebrew Scriptures Journal of Jewish Studies Journal of Near Eastern Studies Journal of Northwest Semitic Languages Journal of Translation and Textlinguistics Jewish Publication Society Jewish Quarterly Review Journal of Religion Journal of Semitics

JSOT

Journal for the Study of the Old Testament

JSJSup JSOTSup

JSPSup

JSS JTS KAI KAT

KBL

KHC

KJV KTU

Journal for the Study of Judaism Supplement Series

Journal for the Study of the Old Testament, Supplement Series Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha Supplement Series

Journal of Semitic Studies Journal of Theological Studies Kanaanäishe und aramäische Inschriften. H.

Donner and W. Röllig. 2d ed. Wiesbaden, 1966– 1969 Kommentar zum Alten Testament Koehler, L. and W. Baumgartner, Lexicon in Veteris Testamenti libros. 2d ed. Leiden, 1958 Kurzer Hand-Commentar zum Alten Testament

King James Version Die keilalphabetischen Texte aus Ugarit. Edited by

M. Dietrich, O. Loretz, and J. Sanmartín. AOAT 24/1. Neukirchen-Vluyn, 1976. 2d enlarged edition of KTU: The Cuneiform Alphabet Texts

from Ugarit, Ras Ibn Hani, and Other Places.

LBH LCL LHBOTS LXX

Edited by M. Dietrich, O. Loretz, and J. Sanmartín. Münster, 1996 (= CTU) Late Biblical Hebrew Loeb Classical Library Library of Hebrew Bible / Old Testament Studies Septuagint

xx MH MSIA MT NAC

NEAEHL

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES Mishnaic Hebrew Monograph Series of the Institute of Archaeology of Tel Aviv University Masoretic Text New American Commentary

The New Encyclopedia of Archaeological Excavations in the Holy Land. Edited by E. Stern.

NEchtB

4 vols. Jerusalem, 1993 NeueEchterBibel

NCBC

New Century Bible Commentary

NIBCOT

New International Commentary on the Old Testament New International Commentary on the Old Testament

NCB NIB

NICOT

New Century Bible

The New Interpreter’s Bible

NIDOTTE

New International Dictionary of Old Testament Theology and Exegesis. Edited by W. A.

NIV NIVI

NJPSV NLT NRSV

New International Version New International Version, Inclusive Language Edition New Jerusalem Bible Tanakh: The Holy Scriptures: The New JPS Translation According to the Traditional Hebrew Text New Jewish Publication Society Translation New Living Translation New Revised Standard Version

OIP

Oriental Institute Publications

NJB NJPS

OBO ÖBS OG OL OLA

OLZ Or OTE

OTG OTL

VanGemeren. 5 vols. Grand Rapids, 1997

Orbis biblicus et orientalis Österreichische biblische Studien Old Greek Old Latin Orientalia lovaniensia analecta

Orientalistische Literaturzeitung Orientalia Old Testament Essays

Old Testament Guides Old Testament Library

ABBREVIATIONS

xxi

OTS

Oudtestamentische Studiën

PEQ PEF Proof

Palestine Exploration Quarterly Palestine Exploration Fund Prooftexts

RA RB REB RevExp RevQ RGG RIBLA RBL RSV

Revue d’assyriologie et d’archéologie orientale Revue biblique Revised English Bible Review and Expositor Revue de Qumran Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart Revista de interpretación bíblica latino-americana Review of Biblical Literature Revised Standard Version

OTS OtSt

QH

SAAS SBAB SBL SBLDS SBLEJL SBLSCS SBLSP SBLSymS SBLWAW SBT SemeiaSt SHCANE

SJOT SSN SubBi STDJ

TA

TBC

Old Testament Studies Oudtestamentische Studiën

Qumran Hebrew

State Archives of Assyria Studies Stuttgarter biblische Aufsatzbände Society of Biblical Literature Society of Biblical Literature Dissertation Series Society of Biblical Literature Early Judaism and Its Literature Society of Biblical Literature Septuagint and Cognate Studies Society of Biblical Literature Seminar Papers Society of Biblical Literature Symposium Series Society of Biblical Literature Writings from the Ancient World Studies in Biblical Theology Semeia Studies Studies in the History and Culture of the Ancient Near East

Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament Studia semitica neerlandica Subsidia biblica

Studies on the Texts of the Desert of Judah

Tel Aviv

Torch Bible Commentary

xxii

TDOT

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Theological Dictionary of the Old Testament.

ThStKr

Edited by G. J. Botterweck and H. Ringgren. Grand Rapids, 1974– Theologische Studien und Kritiken

TLZ

Ringgren. Stuttgart, 1970– Theologische Literaturzeitung

TOTC

Tyndale Old Testament Commentaries

TU

Texte und Untersuchungen

ThWAT

TNIV TRE TRev

Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Alten Testamentum. Edited by G. Botterweck and H. Today’s NewInternational Version

Theologische Realenzyklopädie Theological Review

TynBul UF VT

Tyndale Bulletin Ugarit-Forschungen Vetus Testamentum

WTJ ZA ZABR ZAH ZAW

Westminster Theological Journal Zeitschrift für Assyriologie Zeitschrift für altorientalische und biblische Rechtgeschichte Zeitschrift für Althebraistik Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft

ZDVP ZThK

Zeitschrift desdeutschen Palästina-Vereins Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche

VTSup WBC WMANT

ZBK

Vetus Testamentum Supplements Word Biblical Commentary Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen Testament

Zürucher Bibelkommentare

THE MEANING OF ṢANTĔRÔT (ZECH 4:12) AL WOLTERS

REDEEMER UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, ANCASTER, ONTARIO, CANADA Zechariah 4 describes the fifth of the eight night visions of Zechariah. What the prophet sees is a menorah which is flanked on either side by an olive tree. Verse 12 of the chapter seems to describe a kind of double-take on the part of the prophet, calling attention—in the form of a question addressed to the angelic commentator of the night visions—to a feature of the fifth vision that had not been part of the preceding description. The question reads as follows in the MT and NRSV: ‫יקים‬ ִ ‫יתים ֲא ֶשׁר ְבּיַ ד ְשׁנֵ י ַצנְ ְתּרוֹת ַהזָּ ָהב ַה ְמּ ִר‬ ִ ֵ‫ה־שׁ ֵתּי ִשׁ ֲבּ ֵלי ַהזּ‬ ְ ‫ַמ‬ ‫יהם ַהזָּ ָהב‬ ֶ ‫ֵמ ֲﬠ ֵל‬ “What are these two branches of the olive trees, which pour out the oil through the two golden pipes?”

The branches in question are subsequently identified by the angel as “the two anointed ones (literally, “the two sons of oil”) who stand by the Lord of the whole earth” (verse 14). This verse and its immediate context are bristling with exegetical difficulties. The vision of the menorah is itself interrupted by an oracle addressed to Zerubbabel (widely declared since Wellhausen to be a later interpolation), which interprets the vision as a divine message to this Davidide governor of the Jewish returnees. Verse 12 seems like an interruption as well, since it asks a question about something not previously mentioned in the text, and it is therefore almost universally declared by the diachronically-minded to be secondary as well. To make matters worse, the Hebrew of the verse in question is considered so desperately difficult that at least one interpreter has declared that it was made deliberately obscure, to prevent the reader from understanding the vision’s religiously subversive 1

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message.1 One difficulty in verse 12 is that the two “branches” which catch the prophet’s eye are actually not branches at all in the Hebrew, but šibbālîm, a word which in all other contexts in the Hebrew Bible designates either “spikes” (of grain) or “streams.” 2 Most interpreters take the word here to be “spikes” as a metaphorical designation of the olive-laden branch-ends of an olive tree, although the context also allows a reference to the “streams” of oil which fuel the lamps of the menorah. 3 Another problem in this verse is that what is said to be poured out is actually not oil at all in the MT, but gold (Hebrew zāhāb)—a problem which the NRSV solves by simply replacing the offending word with a word for oil. A third difficulty (to mention no more) is the meaning of ṣantĕrôt, an enigmatic hapax legomenon without any known cognates. 4 It is this difficulty which will be the subject of the present essay. To begin with, it will be useful to take a look at the history of interpretation of this obscure word. In an Appendix I have drawn up a list of the thirty-odd proposed interpretations that are known to me, running from the LXX to the recent English translation of Koehler-Baumgartner’s lexicon. In each case I have tried to identify the first occurrence of a given interpretation; I have not listed other scholars or versions that may have subsequently adopted it. It will be observed that a good number of the 1 D.L. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8 (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1984), 215 (note e), 236–237. 2 See HAL s.v. 3 That both meanings of šibbolet are in play is suggested by M.G. Kline, Glory

in our Midst. A Biblical-Theological Reading of Zechariah’s Night Visions

(Overland Park, Kans.: Two Age Press, 2001), 163. The meaning “spikes” (metaphorically for branches) is favored by BDB and HAL s.v. (Olivenbaumähren), JB, NIV, NRSV, and many others. The meaning “streams” is favored by J. Calvin,

A Commentary on the Twelve Minor Prophets. Vol. 5: Zechariah and Malachi

(Edinburgh: Banner of Truth Trust, 1986), 122, Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1– 8, 215, 235, R.B. Chisholm Jr., Handbook on the Prophets (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2002), 462, M. Boda, Haggai, Zechariah (NIV Application Commentary; Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2004), 272, and A.R. Petterson, Behold Your King: The Hope for the House of David in the Book of Zechariah (NewYork/London: T & T Clark International, 2009), 77. 4 The single exception is the Aramaic cognate ṣntryn found in some manuscripts of the medieval Targum Sheni to Esther (1:2), but this is clearly based on ṣantĕrôt in Zech 4:12, and thus has no independent value. See B. Grossfeld, The Targum

Sheni to the Book of Esther. A critical edition based on MS. Sassoon 282 with critical apparatus (New York: Sepher-Hermon Press, 1994), 29. Note that

Grossfeld emends ṣntryn to ṣnwwryn, “hooks” (p. 159).

MEANING OF ṢANTĔRÔT (ZECH 4:12)

3

proposed translations are themselves debated as to their meaning, notably the Targum. In my judgment the other three main ancient versions (LXX, Peshitta, Vulgate) are all to be understood as referring metaphorically to lamp spouts (that is, “wick-niches”)—but that too is debated. The ancient renderings do not allow us to conclude that they are based on a Vorlage different from the MT. One option I have not listed is that chosen by Wellhausen in 1892,5 and Tigchelaar in 1996.6 It is the option of docta ignorantia, the admission that we simply do not know what the word means, and therefore cannot translate it. This was essentially already the position of Luther, who wrote the following about his own rendering of ṣantĕrôt as schneutzen or “snuffers”: What the two snuffers are, however, and what form they took, I really do not know, and I am open to anyone’s advice on the matter. It is beyond my competence, nor do I find anyone who can give us certainty. I have translated it into German as follows: “the two snuffers, with which one trims [the lamps]”—but only to avoid leaving a gap in the text. And I have taken as my model Moses’ lampstand in Exodus [25:]38, which also had snuffers.7

The list of suggested interpretations shows the wide range of divergent exegetical proposals, but it obscures the fact that one of them has dominated all others in modern Hebrew lexicography, namely that ṣantĕrôt means “pipes,” “conduits,” “tubes,” or the like. This is the interpretation that is found in almost all contemporary Bible versions, commentaries and J. Wellhausen, Die kleinen Propheten übersetzt und erklärt (4. unveränderte Auflage; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1963 [orig. 1892]), 42, 182–83. 6 E.J.C. Tigchelaar, Prophets of Old and the Day of the End. Zechariah, the Book of Watchers and Apocalyptic (OTS, 35; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 41. 7 D. Martin Luthers Werke: kritische Gesammtausgabe (120 vols.; Weimar: Böhlau, 1883–2009) 23.565: “Was aber die zwei gülden schneutzen sind und wie sie sind gestalt gewest, weis ich warlich nicht und lasse hie raten, wer da kan. Es ist uber meine kunst, finde auch niemand, der uns darynn gewis mache. Ich habs verdeudscht also: ‘zwo schneutzen, damit man abbricht’, alleine das ich nicht ein fenster muste ym text lassen und habe dem leuchter Mose nach geomet Exo. 38., der auch schneutzen hatte.” For the meaning of schneutzen and abbrechen in this passage, see the “Worterklärungen zur Lutherbibel von 1545,” in H. Volz (ed.), D. 5

Martin Luther, Die gantze Heilige Schrift Deudsch 1545 / Auffs new zugericht. Anhang und Dokumente (Munich: Rogner & Bernhard, 1972), 299*–397*. The English translation of this passage in H.C. Oswald (ed.), Luther’s Works. Vol. 20: Lectures on the Minor Prophets III. Zechariah (Saint Louis: Concordia, 1973), 230, is unreliable.

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lexica.8 Many Hebrew reference works do not even acknowledge that other meanings have been suggested.9 In the Hebrew spoken in Israel today it has acquired the technical meaning “catheter,” clearly based on this lexicographical consensus. 10 An apparent exception to the consensus is found in the English translation of Koehler-Baumgartner’s lexicon (no. 30 in the Appendix), but this exception turns out to be based on a mistranslation of the German original, which actually continues to give the meaning as Röhren, “pipes.” Widespread though it may be, this interpretation of ṣantĕrôt is far from assured, because it appears to go back to a sixteenth-century guess, and is based on a highly dubious etymological connection with the word ṣinnôr, also understood to mean “pipe.” As far as I have been able to discover, the earliest example of the “pipe” interpretation is found in the HebrewAramaic Vocabularium by Alfonso de Zamora that was included in the Complutensian Polyglot (no. 11 in the Appendix). It is there found under the entry for ṣinnôr, and both words are given the meaning canalis.11 This unprecedented semantic guess, as well as the assumed connection with ṣinnôr, have been repeated in dictionaries ever since. Yet it is a hypothesis built on sand. For one thing, the meaning of ṣinnôr (which occurs only twice in the MT) is itself almost as debated as that of ṣantĕrôt. 12 For another, the suggested etymological connection between 8 So for example NAB (“channels”), TEV (“pipes”), NIV (“pipes”), NJPS (“tubes”), the New Living Translation (“tubes”); W. Rudolph, Haggai—Sacharja 1– 8—Sacharja 9–14—Maleachi (KAT; Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn, 1976), 103 (“Röhren”), C.L. Meyers and E.M. Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8 (AB, 25B; New York: Doubleday, 1987), 257 (“conduits”), R. Hanhart, Sacharja (BKAT, XIV/7; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1990–1998), 253 (“Röhren”), I. WilliPlein, Haggai, Sacharja, Maleachi (ZBK, 24.4; Zurich: Theologischer Verlag, 2007), 91 (“Goldröhren”); BDB (“pipes”), HAL s.v. (“Röhren”), and L. Alonso Schökel, Diccionario bíblico hebreo-español (Madrid: Editorial Trotta, 1994) s.v. (“tubos”). 9 So for example BDB, HAL, and Alonso Schökel, Diccionario. 10 See R. Alcalay, The Complete Hebrew-English Dictionary (4 vols.; Tel-Aviv: Massadah, 1963) s.v. 11 See Vocabularium hebraicum atque chaldaicum totius veteris testamenti in Volume 6 of Biblia polyglotta complutensia (1514–1517; repr., Rome: Typographia Polyglotta Pontificiae Universitatis Gregorianae, 1983–1984) s.v. (folio cxxxvii, recto). 12 See HAL s.v. and T. Kleven, “The Use of ṢNR in Ugaritic and 2 Samuel V 8: Hebrew Usage and Comparative Philology,” VT 44 (1994), 195–204. Some of the proposed meanings of ṣinnôr surveyed by Kleven are “throat,” “penis,” “joint,” and “hook.”

MEANING OF ṢANTĔRÔT (ZECH 4:12)

5

the two words assumes that ṣantĕrôt contains an infixed taw after the second radical of the assumed trilateral root—something that otherwise never happens in Hebrew. 13 As Friedrich Delitzsch put it in 1886, ṣantĕrôt construed as a derivative of a root ‫ צנר‬constitutes a “monstrous nominal form.” 14 In short, the traditional appeal to ṣinnôr to justify translating ṣantĕrôt as “pipes” has very little to commend it. My own alternative proposal is based on two assumptions. The first is that the phrase bĕyad, which comes immediately before ṣantĕrôt, should be taken in its usual sense, and therefore most likely introduces personal agents. The second is that ṣantĕrôt has to do with the processing of olives to produce oil. Once these two points are admitted, I would submit that the suggestion that ṣantĕrôt means “oil-pressers” is a plausible one. Let me elaborate briefly on each of these two assumptions. Although bĕyad is a common Hebrew phrase, meaning literally “in the hand of,” and then generally “by” or “through,” it has been given some strained alternative interpretation in this verse, presumably because of the difficulty of the immediately following noun ṣantĕrôt. The most common of these interpretations of bĕyad is that it means “beside,” a view which is first found in Jerome’s Vulgate (iuxta),15 and which has been adopted by a host of subsequent interpreters, from Rashi to contemporary lexica.16 However, it has often been pointed out that it is difficult to find bĕyad used in this sense elsewhere, 17 and Jerome himself abandoned the Vulgate rendering in 12F

13F

14F

15F

16F

13 See Tigchelaar, Prophets of Old, 26, note 42. The infixed letters which are occasionally found in Hebrew do not include taw; see GKC §85w. An infixed taw does occur in Akkadian nouns, but never after the second radical; see GAG §56n. 14 F. Delitzsch, Prolegomena eines neuen hebräisch-aramäischen Wörterbuchs zum Alten Testament (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1886), 115, note 1 (“monströse Nominalform”). 15 Here Jerome was perhaps influenced by Symmachus’ more literal rendering ἀνὰ χεîρα, “close by”; see J. Ziegler, Duodecim prophetae (Septuaginta. Vetus Testamentum Graecum Auctoritate Societatis Litterarum Gottingensis editum, XIII; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1943), 299. 16 For Rashi, see A.J. Rosenberg, The Book of the Twelve Prophets. A New English Translation of the Text, Rashi and a Commentary Digest (2 vols.; New York: The Judaica Press, 1988), 336. Similarly BDB s.v. ‫יד‬, 5d, Alonso Schökel, Diccionario s.v. yād, 1b., E. Jenni, Die hebräischen Präpositionen. Band I: Die Präposition Beth (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1992), 224. Among recent English Bible versions the NEB, NIV, and TEV have “beside.” 17 See E.W. Hengstenberg, Christology of the Old Testament and a Commentary on Messianic Predictions (1847; repr., Grand Rapids: Kregel, 1970), 283, note 2, E.B. Pusey, The Minor Prophets with a Commentary Explanatory and

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his commentary on Zechariah, substituting super for iuxta. 18 Ironically, the opinion that bĕyad must here mean “beside” is so entrenched that Kahana suggested emending it to bĕṣad, which does have the required meaning.19 Another common interpretation is that bĕyad means “through,” which is indeed a well-attested meaning of the phrase, but which here runs into a grammatical difficulty. Interpreters who adopt the meaning “through” generally construe the participle hammĕrîqîm (with the article) as the predicate of the clause, yielding a translation like that of the NRSV: “which pour out the oil through the two golden pipes.” 20 The problem with this construal is that the article is incompatible with such a predicate use of the participle. 21 The many commentators and translators who read the clause in this way appear to have overlooked this grammatical difficulty.22 We can Practical and Introductions to the Several Books (2 vols.; New York: Funk & Wagnalls, 1885), 2.363, note 11, E. Sellin, Das Zwölfprophetenbuch übersetzt und erklärt (Zweite und dritte umgearbeitete Auflage; 2 vols.; Leipzig: Scholl, 1929– 1930), 510, O. Keel, Jahwe-Visionen und Siegelkunst. Eine neue Deutung der Majestätsschilderungen in Jes 6, Ez 1 und 10 und Sach 4 (SBS, 84/85; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1977), 309, D. Barthélemy, Critique textuelle de l’Ancien Testament. Tome 3: Ézékiel, Daniel et les 12 Prophètes (OBO, 50/3; Fribourg: Éditions Universitaires/Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1992), 955. 18 See S. Hieronymi Presbyteri Opera. Pars I: Opera Exegetica 6: Commentarii in Prophetas Minores (CCSL; Turnholt: Brepols, 1970), 783 (line 225), 784 (line 243). 19 A. Kahana, “Haggai, Zechariah” in The Book of the Twelve (Tel Aviv: Mekorot, 1930), 150 [Hebrew]. 20 Another construal is that of W.H. Rose, Zemah and Zerubbabel. Messianic Expectations in the Early Postexilic Period (JSOTSup, 304; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 184, who translates: “What are the two tops of the olive trees which [are] through the golden pipes which empty the gold from them.” This is grammatically possible, but evokes the improbable image of pipes emptying golden oil from treetops that are inserted lengthwise inside them. 21 On the absence of the article with participles used predicatively, see C.L. Seow, A Grammar for Biblical Hebrew (Nashville: Abingdon, 1987), 49: “When the participle is used as a predicative adjective, it comes after the noun and agrees with the noun in gender and number, but it never takes the definite article.” Cf. GKC §116q, B.K. Waltke and M. O’Connor, An Introduction to Biblical Hebrew Syntax (Eisenbrauns: Winona Lake, Ind., 1990), §37.5b, P. Joüon and T. Muraoka, A Grammar of Biblical Hebrew (2 vols.; Rome: Editrice Pontificio Istituto Biblico, 2003), §137l, and B.T. Arnold and J.H. Choi, A Guide to Biblical Hebrew Syntax (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 79. 22 Some recent examples are Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 215, 236, Meyers and Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8 (AB, 25B; New York: Doubleday,

MEANING OF ṢANTĔRÔT (ZECH 4:12)

7

save this construal only by deleting the offending article, as is done by Sellin and Rudolph. 23 Other attempts to make sense of bĕyad here are those of the NKJV, which translates “into the receptacles of,” and Keel, who takes it to mean “in the power of.” 24 However, all of these more or less far-fetched interpretations are unnecessary if we understand the following noun ṣantĕrôt to refer, not to physical objects, but to personal agents. As Pusey pointed out long ago in his comments on this passage, bĕyad in the Hebrew Bible is almost always used of personal agents. He calculated that, out of the 277 places where the phrase occurs, only three are an exception to this general rule.25 The text here is therefore most naturally translated “in the hands of the two ṣantĕrôt,” with the suggestion that the latter are personal beings. Note that the phrase bĕyad was already translated this way in the LXX (ἐν ταῖς χερσí), and that an interpretation of the ṣantĕrôt as personal beings has been previously proposed by Zer-Kavod. 26 The second assumption undergirding my proposal is that the two ṣantĕrôt have to do with the processing of olives so produce oil. This is a reasonable assumption given the context of the fifth vision. It is clear that 1987), 228, 257, T. Pola, Das Priestertum bei Sacharja (Forschungen zum Alten Testament, 35; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 63, and Boda, Haggai, Zechariah, 272. In English versions this construal goes back to the Geneva Bible, and is found also in the KJV, RSV, JB, NAB, NJPSV, and the New Living Translation. Among the few commentaries to point out the grammatical difficulty is that of the Cambridge Hebraist W.H. Lowe, The Hebrew Student’s Commentary on Zechariah (London: MacMillan and Co., 1892), 47. 23 See Sellin, Zwölfprophetenbuch, 510 and Rudolph, Haggai...Maleachi, 104. The difficulty was also felt by P. Haupt, who proposed reading the article as the interrogative particle instead, and then deleting the first letter of ‫ ;מעליהם‬see his “The Visions of Zechariah,” JBL 32 (1913), 107–122, here 117 n. 43. A further unnoticed difficulty of the NRSV construal is that in strict grammar one would expect the participle to have the feminine form ‫מריקות‬, to agree with the feminine noun ‫שׁבלים‬, “spikes.” 24 Keel, Jahwe-Visionen, 309. He is followed by Barthélemy, Critique textuelle 3, 955 and J. Voss, Die Menorah. Gestalt und Funktion des Leuchters im Tempel zu Jerusalem (OBO, 128; Freiburg Schweiz: Universitäts-verlag/Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1993), 45. 25 Pusey, Minor Prophets, 363–64. Pusey takes the three exceptions (Job 8:4; Prov 18:21; Isa 64:6) to refer to personifications. Oddly enough, he does not draw the conclusion that the ṣantĕrôt are therefore personal. 26 M. Zer-Kavod, Haggai, Zechariah, Malachi (Jerusalem: Kiryat Sepher, 1968), 83 [Hebrew]; cf. Appendix, no. 26. Similarly Haupt, “Visions,” 122, who inserts šēdîm, “genii,” after bĕyad šĕnê. Note that the distributive singular of the Hebrew is appropriately translated “in the hands” (plural) in English, as it is in the LXX.

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the two olive trees are related to the menorah as the suppliers of olive oil to its lamps, but there is no mention of how the olive oil is produced. We can of course imagine that the transfer of oil from the trees to the lamps occurs of its own accord, without any personal agency by which oil is extracted from olives, but that is not the most plausible scenario. It is telling that three of the four medieval Jewish interpretations of ṣantĕrôt (nos. 7, 8 and 19 in the Appendix), followed by the early modern exegetes Oecolampadius and Coccejus (nos. 12 and 17), assumed that it had to do with the equipment that was normally used to press out olive oil. Our proposal is therefore as follows. If the ṣantĕrôt were personal beings, and if they were involved in the production of olive oil, then they are most likely “oil-pressers,” especially since the presumably olive-bearing spikes of the olive trees are “in the hands” of these individuals.27 Admittedly, at this stage of our argument this proposal can be no more than a reasonable conjecture. However, if we adopt it as a working hypothesis we discover that a number of other features of this enigmatic text fall into place. I have in mind in particular three illuminating effects which this hypothesis produces: (1) the first zāhāb, “gold,” now functions as an objective genitive, (2) the clause after ṣantĕrôt now functions as an explanatory gloss defining its meaning, and (3) this verse now turns out to contain an intertextual echo of the cupbearer’s dream in Genesis 40. Let me say a few words about each. It has been universally assumed by exegetes that the zāhāb of the construct chain ṣantĕrôt hazzāhāb refers to the material from which the ṣantĕrôt are made, typically yielding the translation “the two golden pipes,” as in the NRSV. Yet its second occurrence in this verse (at least in the unemended MT) seems to use zāhāb as a bold metaphor for oil; what is poured forth from the olive branches is said to be gold. However, this would mean that the same word zāhāb is being used in two quite different senses in the same verse, first referring literally to a precious metal, and then metaphorically as an agricultural product. 28 This apparent incongruity has

The apparently feminine ending may seem to count against this conclusion, but we need to remember, given the numeral šĕnê which precedes it, that ṣantĕrôt is grammatically masculine, and that many masculine nouns have plurals in -ôt (for example ʾābôt, “fathers,” and paḥôt, “governors”). 28 See A.S. van der Woude, “Die beiden Söhne des Öls (Sach. 4:14): Messianische Gestalten?,” M.S.H.G. Heerma van Voss et al. (eds.), Travels in the World of the Old Testament. Studies Presented to Professor M. A. Beek (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1974), 262–268, here 266. 27

MEANING OF ṢANTĔRÔT (ZECH 4:12)

9

led many scholars, including the translators of the NRSV, to emend the second instance of zāhāb to a Hebrew word for “oil.” 29 However, if ṣantĕrôt means “oil-pressers,” then ṣantĕrôt hazzāhāb means “pressers of ‘gold’,” with zāhāb functioning grammatically as an objective genitive, referring to the metaphorical “gold” which oil-pressers squeeze out of olives. In that case both occurrences of zāhāb in this verse are a metaphor for olive oil (just as we today speak of another kind of oil as “black gold” 30), and there is no need for emendation. Secondly, if ṣantĕrôt means “oil-pressers,” it turns out that the participial construction which follows it is an explanatory gloss telling us ֶ ‫יקים ֵמ ֲﬠ ֵל‬ ִ ‫ ַה ְמּ ִר‬, literally “the ones what it means. The Hebrew text is ‫יהם ַהזָּ ָהב‬ who empty out the ‘gold’ from on them” (i.e. from the olives on the spikes).31 For readers who might have difficulty understanding the phrase “the two ṣantĕrôt of gold,” with its objective genitive and its bold metaphor, the three following words (to be understood grammatically as standing in apposition to the phrase in question) make it unmistakably clear what the meaning is: the ṣantĕrôt are the ones who empty out the golden oil from (‫)מ־‬ ֵ the olives on (‫)ﬠל‬ ַ the spikes.32 The explanatory nature of these words becomes even clearer if we vocalize the participle as ‫יקים‬ ִ ‫( ַהמּ ִֹר‬hammōrîqîm) rather than ‫יקים‬ ִ ‫( ַה ְמּ ִר‬hammĕrîqîm), thus understanding it as the Hiphil of ‫ירק‬, “spit out,” not of ‫ריק‬, “be empty.” 33 In that case the mysterious workers are 30F

31F

32F

29 Usually ‫יצהר‬, sometimes ‫שׁמן‬. See D. Barthélemy, Critique textuelle 3, 954. The proposal to read ‫ יצהר‬goes back at least to Archbishop Thomas Secker in the eighteenth century; see W. Newcome, An Attempt Towards an Improved Version, A Metrical Arrangement, and An Explanation of the Twelve Minor Prophets (2nd ed.; London: Pontefract, 1809), 286. 30 See Merriam Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary. Tenth Edition (Markham, Ont.: Thomas Allen & Son, 1999), s.v. “black gold.” 31 The pronominal suffix ‫ ־הם‬here functions as a third-person common pronoun (cf. GKC §135o) referring to the feminine noun ‫( שׁבלים‬as it does in Gen 41:23). The same suffix refers to feminine nouns also in Zech 5:9 and 11:5. 32 The force of the compound preposition in ‫ מעליהם‬is not captured in most versions, which generally take it to mean simply “from” (so the NASB) or “out of” (so the KJV), or omit the phrase altogether (so the NRSV). On the usage of ‫מעל‬ see GKC §119b, d, BDB s.v. ‫על‬, IV,2, HAL s.v. ‫על‬, 8. 33 This vocalization is attested in the history of the text; Abravanel quotes the participle in the plene spelling ‫המוריקים‬. See Nakh: Mikra’ot Gedolot “Orim Gedolim” (8 vols.; Jerusalem: Even Israel Institute, 1993), 8.638 [Hebrew]. Tigchelaar has also suggested this vocalization (Prophets of Old, 41), but takes it to be a form of the other root ‫ירק‬, “be green, yellow.” The fact that the Hiphil of this root in the sense “spit out” is not attested is probably mere coincidence.

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AL WOLTERS

said to express—squeeze out—the golden oil (literally: cause it to be spit out 34) from the olives. But even if we retain the vocalization of the MT, the meaning is essentially the same. For our third point, we need to visualize the action depicted in our verse if ṣantĕrôt does mean “oil-pressers.” We see two previously unnoticed workers, the ṣantĕrôt, each holding in his hand one of the olive-laden branch-ends of the olive trees, who “express the gold [i.e. the oil] from [the olives] on them.” This is certainly an unusual way of producing oil, but it has a striking parallel in the grape-pressing of the cupbearer’s dream in the Joseph story. The cupbearer describes his dream as follows: 9 In my dream there was a vine before me, 10 and on the vine there were three branches. As soon as it budded, its blossoms came out and the clusters ripened into grapes. 11 Pharaoh’s cup was in my hand; and I took the grapes and pressed them into Pharaoh’s cup, and placed the cup in Pharaoh’s hand (Gen 40:9–11, NRSV).

In both the vision of Zechariah 4 and the dream of Genesis 40 the berries (olives in the vision, grapes in the dream) are taken in hand as they grow on the branches, and are manually pressed on the spot to deliver the liquid product (oil in the vision, wine in the dream) directly to its intended recipient (menorah in the vision, cup in the dream), thus bypassing the laborious procedure by which the juice of these fruits was normally processed for human use. These remarkable parallels between the vision on Zechariah and the dream in Genesis come into focus only if ṣantĕrôt refers to the workers who press out the oil from the olives. I take it that these three exegetical clarifications have the effect of further supporting my working hypothesis. In the light of this, it is significant that there may be previously unsuspected support for our proposed translation in a bit of evidence recorded in the Syro-Hexapla, the Syriac translation of the LXX done by Paul of Tella circa 617 CE. This literal Syriac translation often has marginal notes recording alternative renderings from the so-called Minor Greek versions (Aquila, Theodotion, and Symmachus). On Zech 4:12 there is a note to the effect that “Theodotion” has an alternative to the LXX rendering of ṣantĕrôt.35 The On this construction (a causative Hiphil with a single non-personal object), see Waltke-O’Connor, Hebrew Syntax, §27.3(c); cf. M. Ben-Asher, “Causative Hipʿîl Verbs with Double Objects in Biblical Hebrew,” HAR 2 (1978), 11–19, esp. 15–16, and T.O. Lambdin, Introduction to Biblical Hebrew (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1971) 211 (§157a). 35 See A.M. Ceriani, Codex Syro-Hexaplaris Ambrosianus photographice editus 34

MEANING OF ṢANTĔRÔT (ZECH 4:12)

11

note does not tell us what Theodotion’s Greek was, but gives its Syriac equivalent, namely dʿṭmtʾ, that is, “of the thighs” (see no. 4 of the Appendix). This reading has been duly retroverted into Greek in the apparatus of Ziegler’s Göttingen edition of the Minor Prophets as μηρῶν.36 However, it makes little sense in the context. What could it mean that the olive branches are in the hands of the two thighs of gold? I would suggest that the dʿṭmtʾ of the Syro-Hexapla can be plausibly interpreted in another way. The root ʿṭm may be a variant of the root ʿṭn, which is well-attested in Hebrew as referring to the pressing of olives.37 It is possible that this root also exists in Syriac, since it occurs in at least one other branch of Aramaic. 38 In that case, the Syriac rendering of Theodotion’s interpretation of ṣantĕrôt might well mean “oil-pressers” (perhaps reflecting Greek ἐλαιουργῶν), and removes the difficulty of the anomalous “thighs.” If this interpretation of the Syro-Hexapla is correct, then we have explicit support from one of the ancient versions for the meaning I am proposing. I turn now to a final proposal. Since it can be made plausible on other grounds that ṣantĕrôt means “oil-pressers,” it is significant that the Hiphil of the verb ṣāhar is generally understood to mean “to press out oil,” a denominative verb from the noun yiṣhār, “fresh oil.” 39 It is widely agreed that this use of the verb is found in Job 24:11, where it stands in parallelism to the verb dārak, and where it also seems to refer, as here, to the pressing of olives “on the spot,” i.e. in the immediate proximity of the olive trees themselves. Given the analogy with agent nouns like dārôkôt, “winepressers” (a class of nouns which is well-attested in Mishnaic Hebrew 40), it (Milan: Bibliotheca Ambrosiana, 1874), ad locum (folio 110, verso). 36 Ziegler, Duodecim prophetae, 299. The retroversion μηρῶν is found also in F. Field, Origenis Hexaplorum Quae Supersunt sive Veterum Interpretum

Graecorum in Totum Vetus Testamentum Fragmenta. Tomus II: Jobus-Malachias, Auctarium et Indices (1875; repr., Hildesheim: Olms, 1964), 1020. 37 See HAL s.vv. ‫ עטם‬and ‫עטן‬, and M. Moreshet, A Lexicon of the New Verbs in Tannaitic Hebrew (Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1980), 260 [Hebrew]. See also F. Goldmann, Der Ölbau in Palästina zur Zeit der Mišnâh (Pressburg:

Adolf Alkalay & Sohn, 1907), 34, note 6: “In übertragenem Sinne steht ‫ עטן‬auch für den ganzen Prozess des Pressens. T. Scheb. 4,19 (67) (parallel zu ‫ דרך‬von Trauben).” See also E.A. Knauf, “Zum Text von Hi 21, 23–26,” BN 7 (1978), 22– 24, who argues that the ‫ ֲﬠ ִטין‬of Job 21:24 means “olive.” 38 See the entry ‫מעטן‬, “olive vat,” in M. Sokoloff, A Dictionary of Jewish Palestinian Aramaic (Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1990). 39 See BDB, HAL and Alonso Shökel, Diccionario, s.v. 40 On dārôkôt and the nominal pattern it illustrates, see M.H. Segal, A Grammar

12

AL WOLTERS

is an attractive hypothesis to suppose that the intractable ‫ ַצנְ ְתרוֹת‬of our verse was originally ‫*צהוֹרוֹת‬ ָ (ṣāhôrôt), which would have precisely the meaning we have been proposing, namely “oil-pressers.” This form would exemplify the Hebrew nominal pattern qātōl, which yields such agent nouns as bāḥôn, “assayer,” ḥāmôṣ, “oppressor,” and ʿāšôq, “oppressor.” 41 Although the plural of these nouns is not attested elsewhere in the MT, 42 we know from post-biblical Hebrew that, though masculine, they regularly form their plural in -ôt. 43 Since ṣantĕrôt is also a masculine noun with a plural in -ôt, and since our argument above has established that it is likely an agent noun having to do with oil-pressing, which in Hebrew is very likely designated by the root ṢHR, it may well be that ṣantĕrôt is the corruption of an original *ṣāhōrōt. There may even be a trace of this postulated form in the transliteration of our word which Jerome gives, namely sinthoroth (note the second vowel). 44 If this hypothesis is correct, then two further points follow. In the first place, ṣantĕrôt turns out to be a vox nihili or “ghost-word,” a lexeme which never actually existed in the Hebrew language. It would be the result of reading the letters ‫ נת‬instead of ‫הו‬. 45 Although this particular confusion has not been noticed elsewhere, we know that scribal mistakes of this sort are not uncommon in the history of the biblical text. 46 In the second place, 40F

41F

42F

43F

4F

45F

of Mishnaic Hebrew (Oxford: Clarendon, 1927), 106 (§235). Segal takes this form to be based on the nominal pattern qâtūl. 41 See GKC §84ak. Since the initial vowel is not reduced in the plural, it may be based on Aramaic actant nouns of the pattern qātol; see J. Fox, Semitic Noun Patterns (HSS, 52; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2003), 184 and 242. 42 Note that yāqûš, “fowler,” plural yĕqûšîm (Jer 5:26), represents another nominal pattern; see GKC §84am. 43 See Segal, Mishnaic Hebrew, 106 (§235) and 130–31 (§288), A. Bendavid, Biblical Hebrew and Mishnaic Hebrew (2 vols.; Tel Aviv: Devir, 1967), 2.445 [Hebrew], and A. Sáenz-Badillos, A History of the Hebrew Language (trans. J. Elwolde; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 187. The pattern is still common in Modern Hebrew; see L. Glinert, The Grammar of Modern Hebrew (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 454. 44 Jerome, In Prophetas Minores, 784 (line 244). 45 Or just ‫ ה‬if the original spelling was defective. 46 See E. Tov, Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible (Minneapolis: Fortress/Assen: Van Gorcum, 1992), 249. The postulated confusion of nun-taw with he-waw would not be surprising, given the presence in each of these pairs (at least in the standard square script) of three vertical strokes. If the tops of the letters were missing or obscured, the one sequence of letters could be easily mistaken for

MEANING OF ṢANTĔRÔT (ZECH 4:12)

13

the postulated form *ṣāhōrōt would now find an echo in verse 14, where we read that the two olive-bearing spikes in the hands of these *ṣāhōrōt are identified as “the two sons of yiṣhār.” The connection established by this repetition of the root ‫ צהר‬would embed verse 12 more firmly in its context, and further support the view that the “sons of oil” are not “anointed ones” which the spikes symbolize (so the NRSV), but are simply an idiomatic way of referring to the oil-rich spikes themselves.47 What is in the hands of the oil-pressers is these physical branch-ends of the olive trees, not anointed persons. There is much more that could be said about Zech 4:12, especially its intricate and largely unnoticed wordplay. 48 But enough has been said to make the case that ṣantĕrôt, whether or not it is a corruption of an earlier *ṣāhōrōt, means “oil-pressers.” 49 In the light of our entire preceding discussion, I would propose that the question in Zech 4:12 be translated as follows: What are the two spikes of the olive trees, which are in the hands of the two pressers of ‘gold’—the ones who express the ‘gold’ from (the olives) on them? 46F

47F

48F

APPENDIX PREVIOUSLY PROPOSED INTERPRETATIONS OF ṢANTĔRÔT (ZECH 4:12)

the other. 47 For the idiom with bēn, see BDB s.v., 8 and GKC §128v. Compare Isa 5:1, where ‫ קרן בן־שׁמן‬is rendered “a very fertile hill” in the NRSV. That the “sons of oil,” in the context of the vision of the menorah and olive trees, refer to the “spikes” or branch-ends of the latter, is pointed out by R.H. Kennett, “Zechariah,” in A.S. Peake (ed.), A Commentary on the Bible (London: T. C. and E.C. Jack, 1929), 575–87, here 577. Note that already the Geneva Bible of 1560 translated ‫בני‬ ‫ היצהר‬here simply as “olive branches.” However, the words which follow (“who stand by the Lord of the whole earth”) suggest that “sons of oil” has a secondary level of meaning as well. 48 See A. Wolters, “Word Play in Zechariah,” S.B. Noegel (ed.), Puns and

Pundits. Word Play in the Hebrew Bible and Ancient Near Eastern Literature

(Bethesda, Md.: CDL Press, 2000), 223–30, here 227–30. 49 Note that the argument for the meaning “oil-pressers” stands on its own merits; it is independent of this proposed emendation. In fact, in my own research the semantic conclusion preceded the text-critical conjecture.

14

AL WOLTERS 1. LXX: μυξωτῆρες, 50 “nostrils,” i.e. “lamp spouts.” 51 2. Peshitta: ‫נחירין‬, 52 “noses,” i.e. “lamp spouts.” 53 3. Targum: ‫אסקריטון‬, 54 “pourers’?55 “lamp-nozzles”?56 “bowls”?57 4. Theodotion teste Syro-Hcxapla: ʿṭmtʾ,58 “thighs.” 5. Symmachus: ἐπιχυτῆρες,59 “beakers.” 6. Jerome [ca. 400]: rostra, 60 “snouts,” i.e. “lamp spouts.” 61 7. Rashi [11th c.]: ‫כמין עריבות ועדשׁים שׁל בית הבד‬, 62 “like the 51F

52F

53F

54F

5F

56F

57F

58F

59F

60F

61F

Ziegler, Duodecim prophetae, 299 (μυξωτήρων). See PGL s.v. μυξωτήρ; cf. LSJ s.vv. μυκτήρ (“metaph., of a lamp-nozzle”), μύξα (“lamp-wick”), δίμυξος (“with two wicks”). 52 A. Gelston and T. Sprey (eds.), The Old Testament in Syriac according to the Peshitta Version. Part III,4: Dodekapropheton—Daniel-Bel-Draco (Leiden: Brill, 1980), 78. 53 See J. Payne Smith, Compendious Syriac Dictionary (Oxford: Clarendon, 1903) s.v. nḥîrā (“nozzle of a lamp”). 54 A. Sperber, The Bible in Aramaic. Vol. III: The Latter Prophets According to Targum Jonathan (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1992), 483. Notice that the words ‫דביד תרין‬ ‫ אסקריטון דדהב‬are not printed in Sperber’s text, but are listed in his second critical apparatus as a variant found in some manuscripts of the Targum. His third apparatus also records the variant reading ‫אסקיטירון‬. 55 So S. Krauss, Griechische und lateinische Lehnwörter im Talmud, Midrasch und Targum (2 vols.; 1898–1899; repr., Hildesheim: Olms, 1964), 2.97, reading ‫אסקירטווב‬, and taking this as the equivalent of Greek χυτήρων. 56 So M. Jastrow, A Dictionary of the Targumim, the Talmud Babli and Yerushalmi, and the Midrashic Literature (1943; repr., New York: Judaica Press, 1996) s.v. ‫יטוָ ן‬ ָ ‫א ְס ְק ִר‬, ִ taking this to be a corruption of ‫סוֹט ִירן‬ ֵ ‫ = ִמ ְק‬μυξωτῆρες. 57 So R.P. Gordon in K.J. Cathcart and R.P. Gordon (eds.), The Targum of the Minor Prophets (ArBib, 14; Wilmington, Del.: Michael Glazier, 1989), 195, assuming that the Aramaic word in question reflects the Greek ἐσχαρίς, “brazier,” “fire-pan.” 58 Ceriani, Codex Syro-Hexaplaris, ad locum (folio 110, verso). 59 Field, Origenis Hexaplorum, 1020; Ziegler, Duodecim prophetae, 299. 60 R. Weber (ed.), Biblia Sacra iuxta Vulgatam Versionem (2 vols.; Editio altera emendata; Stuttgart: Württembergische Bibelanstalt, 1975), ad locum. 61 P.G.W. Glare (ed.), Oxford Latin Dictionary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983) s.v. rostrum, 2a (“applied to the nozzle of a lamp”). 62 I. Maarsen (ed.), Parschandatha. The Commentary of Raschi on the Prophets and Hagiographs. Part I: The Minor Prophets (Amsterdam: Hertzberger, 1930), ad locum. See also Rosenberg, Twelve Prophets, 333. 50 51

MEANING OF ṢANTĔRÔT (ZECH 4:12)

15

vats and troughs of the oil-press.” 8. Ibn Ezra [12th c.]: ‫צנתרות שׁנדרכו בהם זיתים‬, 63 “ṣantĕrôt in which olives are pressed.” 9. David Kimchi [13th c.]: ‫כלים כמין צפחת‬, 64 “vessels like a jar.” 10. Abravanel [15th c.]: ‫הכלים שׁהשׁמן נעשׂה בהם‬, 65 “the vessels in which oil is made.” 11. de Zamora [1517]: canalis,66 “pipe.” 12. Oecolampadius [1527]: rostra = torcularcula,67 “little (olive) presses.” 13. Luther [1532]: Schneutzen, 68 “(lamp) snuffers,” i.e. “trimmers.” 14. Ribera [1571]: unci,69 “hooks.” 15. Montanus [1571]: canthari, 70 “tankards.” 16. à Castro [1650]: fistulae aduncae,71 “curved pipes.” 62F

63F

64F

65F

6F

67F

68F

69F

70F

Rosenberg, Twelve Prophets, 336. Cf. T. Muraoka and Z. Shavitsky, “Abraham Ibn Ezra’s Biblical Hebrew Lexicon: The Minor Prophets II,” AbrNahrain 29 (1991), 106–28 (117). 64 Rosenberg, Twelve Prophets, 336. Cf. A.M. M‘Caul, Rabbi David Kimchi’s Commentary upon the Prophecies of Zechariah (London: James Duncan, 1837), 45 (“vessels of the cruse-species”). 65 Mikra’ot Gedolot, 8.638. 66 Vocabularium hebraicum atque chaldaicum, folio cxxxvii, recto. 67 I. Oecolampadius, In minores quos vocant prophetas (Geneva: Typographia Crispiniana, 1558), 185 (“duorum aureorum torcularculorum, quae hîc rostra nominantur”). 68 Luther, Die gantze Heilige Schrift Deudsch, 1654. See also D. Martin Luthers 63

Werke: kritische Gesammtausgabe. Die Deutsche Bibel. 11. Band, Zweite Hälfte

(Weimar: Hermann Böhlaus Nachfolger, 1960), 338–39. 69 As reported by C. à Lapide, Commentaria in duodecim prophetas minores (Antwerp: Verdussen, 1720), 678D: “Ribera censet duo rostra fuisse duos uncos, ex quibus suspenderentur infusoria, id est, vasa quibus oleum infunderetur in lucernas” (“Ribera thinks that the two ‘beaks’ were two hooks, from which were hung the beakers, that is, the vessels by which oil was poured into the lamps”). 70 As reported by à Lapide, Commentaria, 678B: “santerot quod Arias Latinâ voce Hebrææ affini vertit cantharos” (“ṣantĕrôt, which Arias [Montanus] translates canthari, a Latin word related to the Hebrew”). 71 As reported by à Lapide, Commentaria, 678B: “à Castro & alij censent hæc rostra fuisse fistulas aduncas, in quas ex olivis supernè imminentibus distillaret oleum, ut per eas influeret in lampadem, & ex ea in lucernas, ad fovendum perenne earum lumen” (“à Castro and others think that these ‘beaks’ were curved pipes, into which the oil dripped down from the overhanging olives above, in order that it might flow through them into the bowl, and from the latter into the lamps, to fuel the perpetual light”).

16

AL WOLTERS 17. Coccejus [1667]: instrumenta comprimentia oleas & oleum

exprimentia, 72 “tools which squeeze olives and express oil.”

18. Blayney [1797]: “spouts.” 73 19. Rosenmüller [1828]: epistomia, 74 “spigots.” 20. Pressel [1870]: Behälter, 75 “containers.” 21. Lange [1876]: Dornrinnen, 76 “thorn-channels.” 22. Bredenkamp [1849]: Handhaben [Schnauzen] (des Oelkrugs),77 “handles [spouts] (of the oil jug).” 23. von Orelli [1896]: Trichter, 78 “funnels.” 24. Rignell [1950]: Nachfüllgefässe, 79 “refilling vessels.” 25. Uffenheimer [1961]: cultic utensils. 80 26. Zer-Kavod [1968]: ‫דמויות כעין כרובים‬, 81 “figures like cherubim.” 27. North [1969]: trou, 82 “hole.” 28. van der Woude [1974]: Berge, 83 “mountains.” 80F

81F

82F

72 J. Coccejus, Opera omnia theologica, exegetica, didactica, polemica, philologica. Tomus decimus: Lexicon et commentarius sermonis Hebraici et Chaldaici Veteris Testamenti (Editio tertia; Amsterdam: Typographia Blaeu, 1706),

357.

73 B. Blayney, Zechariah; A New Translation, with Notes Critical, Philological, and Explanatory (Oxford: Cooke, 1797), p. 6 (of the translation) and p. 20 (of the

notes). 74 E.F.C. Rosenmüller, Scholia in Vetus Testamentum in compendium redacta.

Post auctoris obitum edidit Jo. Chr. Sigism. Lechner. Volumen sextum, scholia in prophetas minores continens (Leipzig: Barthius, 1836), 657. 75 W. Pressel, Commentar zu den Schriften der Propheten Haggai, Sacharja und Maleachi (Gotha: Schloessmann, 1870), 192, 197–98. 76 J.P. Lange, Die Propheten Haggai, Sacharja, Maleachi (Theologischhomiletisches Bibelwerk; Bielefeld und Leipzig: Velhagen und Klasing, 1876), 45. 77 C.J. Bredenkamp, Der Prophet Sacharja (Erlangen: Deichert, 1879), 36–37. 78 C. von Orelli, Die zwölf kleinen Propheten (Kurzgefasster Kommentar zu den Heiligen Schriften; dritte neubearbeitete Auflage; Munich: Beck, 1908), 191. Cf. the English translation: The Twelve Minor Prophets (trans. J. S. Banks; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1897), 330. 79 L.G. Rignell, Die Nachtgesichte des Sacharja. Eine exegetische Studie (Lund: Gleerup, 1950), 169. 80 B. Uffenheimer, The Visions of Zechariah. From Prophecy to Apocalyptic (Jerusalem: Kiryat Sepher, 1961), 55 [Hebrew]; the text there reads: ‫ מחתות או מלקחים‬,‫ יהיו אלה מזלגות‬,‫כלי עזר כאלה‬, “auxiliary utensils like these, be they forks, censers or snuffers.” 81 Zer-Kavod, Haggai, Zechariah, Malachi, 83. 82 R. North, Exégèse pratique des petits prophètes postexiliens (Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1969), 46.

MEANING OF ṢANTĔRÔT (ZECH 4:12)

17

29. van der Woude [1984]: onderdelen, 84 “component parts.” 30. HALOT [2002]: “reeds” (sic, mistaking Röhren, “pipes,” for

Rohre).

Van der Woude, “Söhne des Öls,” 267. A.S. van der Woude, Zacharia (De Prediking van het Oude Testament; Nijkerk: Callenbach, 1984), 94. 83 84

FEMALE SLAVE VS FEMALE SLAVE: ‫ ָא ָמה‬AND

‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬IN THE HB EDWARD J. BRIDGE,

MACQUARIE UNIVERSITY, NSW, AUSTRALIA INTRODUCTION The Hebrew Bible has two terms to designate female slaves: ‫ ָא ָמה‬and ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬. A matter that is frequently revisited is whether there is a distinction between these terms. It is clear that ‫ ָא ָמה‬and ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬are used as synonyms. This is shown by the use of both terms to designate female slaves in general (e.g., ‫ ָא ָמה‬in Nah 2:8[7] and Lev 25:44; and ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬in 1 Sam 8:16 and Deut 28:68), and the interchanging of the terms for Hagar in Gen 16:2–5 (‫ ) ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬and 21:10– 13 (‫ ) ָא ָמה‬and for Bilhah and Zilpah in 31:33 (‫ ) ָא ָמה‬and 33:1, 6 (‫) ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬. A clear synonymous use of the two terms is found in Gen 30:3–4: ֲ Bilhah! Go in to Then she [Rachel] said, “See! My female slave [‫]א ָמ ִתי‬ her so she may bear children on my knees and I also may have children ִ as a through her.” So she gave to him Bilhah her female slave [‫]שׁ ְפ ָח ָתהּ‬ wife; and Jacob went into her. (Gen 30:3–4)1 84F

A similar synonymous use occurs in 1 Sam 25:27–28 in which Abigail uses both terms interchangeably when speaking to David in deference: “… And now, this gift that your servant [�‫ ] ִשׁ ְפ ָח ְת‬has brought to my lord, let it be given to the young men who follow in the footsteps of my lord. Please forgive the transgression of your servant [�‫( ”… ] ֲא ָמ ֶת‬1 Sam 25:27–28)

1

English translations are mine unless indicated otherwise.

19

20

EDWARD J. BRIDGE

It is to be expected that ‫ ָא ָמה‬and ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬should have distinct meanings, but as yet no agreement has been reached on what these meanings are despite continuing efforts to determine them. In addition, there is only one, full-length, comprehensive study on the matter, Cohen’s 1979 article.2 Short articles by Jepsen and Fensham give some discussion of these two terms and have proved influential.3 Dictionaries and lexica obviously discuss the terms, but cannot be expected to provide detailed argument for distinctions between the terms, 4 though larger lexical works do give some discussion. 5 As the Dictionary of the North-West Semitic Inscriptions comments, “Unfortunately a dictionary does not give the opportunity to present arguments for one’s preferences.” 6 The matter is often discussed incidentally, and though useful, lacks the advantage of a full discussion and tends to follow previous scholarship. 7 Younger and Marsman provide short reviews of existing scholarship.8 85F

86F

87F

8F

89F

90F

91F

C. (H.R.) Cohen, “Studies in Extra-biblical Hebrew Inscriptions I: The Semantic Range and Usage of the Terms ‫ אמה‬and ‫שפחה‬,” Shnaton 5–6 (1979), XXV–LIII. 3 A. Jepsen, “Amah und Schiphchah,” VT 8 (1958), 293–97; F. Charles Fensham, “The Son of a Handmaid in Northwest Semitic,” VT 19 (1969), 312–21. 4 E.g., F. Brown, S.R. Driver, C.A. Briggs, W. Gesenius, The New Brown-DriverBriggs-Gesenius Hebrew-English Lexicon (Peabody: Hendrickson, 1979 [1907]), 51, 1046; D.J.A. Clines, Dictionary of Classical Hebrew (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993) 1:309–10. 5 E.g., E. Reuter, “‫שׁ ְפ ָחה‬ ִ šipḥâ,” TDOT 15:405-10; Richard Schultz, “‫אָמָה‬, ʾāmâ,” NIDOTTE 1:419; idem, “‫שׁ ְפ ָחה‬, ִ Šípḥâ,” NIDOTTE 4:212 (provides a chart of three views). Surprisingly, TDOT does not have an entry for ‫אמה‬. 6 J. Hoftijzer, K. Jongeling, Dictionary of the North-West Semitic Inscriptions (Leiden, New York, Köln: Brill, 1995), xiv. 7 See, e.g. E.J. Revell, The Designation of the Individual: Expressive Usage in Biblical Narrative (CBET 14; Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1996), 38; Édouard Lipiński, “Kinship Terminology in 1 Sam 25.40–42,” ZAH 7 (1994), 12–16 (15); Hans W. Wolff, Anthropology of the Old Testament (trans. M. Kohl; London: SCM, 1974), 199; N. Avigad, Bullae and Seals from a Post-exilic Judean Archive (Qedem 4; Monographs of the Institute of Archaeology, Hebrew University; Jerusalem: Hebrew University, 1976), 11–12; Ingrid Riesener, Der Stamm ʿbd in Alten 2

Testament. Eine Wortuntersuchung unter Berücksichtigung neuerer sprachwissenschaft-licher Methoden (BZAW, 149; Berlin/New York: De Gruyter, 1979), 83; E. Neufeld, Ancient Hebrew Marriage Laws (London: Longmans,

Green, 1944), 121–24. 8 K. Lawson Younger, “Two Comparative Notes on the Book of Ruth,” Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society 26 (1998), 121–32 (126); Hennie J. Marsman, Women in Ugarit and Israel: Their Social and Religious Position in the

‫ ָא ָמה‬AND ‫ ִש ְפ ָחה‬IN THE HB

21

My contribution to the discussion on ‫ ָא ָמה‬and ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬is to argue that there are patterns of use of ‫ ָא ָמה‬and ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬that intersect, and that such patterns and their intersections lie behind proposals for distinct meanings between the two terms. My argument has two parts. First, I critically review the main proposals for distinctions in meaning between ‫ ָא ָמה‬and ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬. Secondly, I discuss the terms and the contexts of their use in the Hebrew Bible where I discern patterns of use of the two terms. I also distinguish between the descriptive use of the terms and their use as deference in discourse. Previous proposals have failed to take fully into account these two uses, which I argue impact on the proposed meanings for the terms.

PROPOSED DISTINCTIONS IN MEANING BETWEEN ‫ ָא ָמה‬AND ‫ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬ My review of proposals for distinctions in meaning between ‫ ָא ָמה‬and ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬covers publications in the last century which have proved influential. It starts with BDB, because of its continuing influence in philological studies in the Hebrew Bible. This review groups those publications that argue that there is a status difference between the terms (with ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬always thought to be the lower status term), those that argue ‫ ָא ָמה‬has a wider meaning than ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬, and those that argue the two terms are completely synonymous. The earliest publication I covered in the first group is BDB. In its two brief listings for ‫ ָא ָמה‬and ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬, BDB shows the two terms are essentially synonymous. 9 However, it also argues that ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬is distinct from ‫ ָא ָמה‬in two ways. The first is that ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬denotes a “maid, maid-servant, as belonging to a mistress.” Many occurrences of ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬are cited in support. No similar claim is made for ‫ ָא ָמה‬, though it is noted when it is also used in relation to the mistress (Gen 30:3; Exod 2:5) and when ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬is used in relation to the master (Gen 29:24, 29; 33:23[22]; Ruth 2:13). Secondly, BDB claims that ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬is more servile than ‫ ָא ָמה‬, citing Exod 11:5; 1 Sam 25:41 and 2 Sam 17:17, noting that ‫ ָא ָמה‬is never used in such contexts. They also make the observation that ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬is rarely found in legislation (only in Lev 19:20) or in texts assigned to P (only in Gen 16:2, 5; 35:25-26), whereas ‫ ָא ָמה‬is found in both cases. They also observe that, when ‫ ָא ָמה‬and ‫ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬ are used for deference, they are synonymous (both are used “in token of humility”) except that only ‫ ָא ָמה‬is used toward God (1 Sam 11:1). To summarize, BDB views the terms as essentially synonymous, yet maintains some distinction that ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬being more servile than ‫ ָא ָמה‬. These arguments and observations have merit, but BDB may have overstated its 92F

Context of the Ancient Near East (OTS, 49; Leiden, Boston: Brill, 2003), 447–49. 9 BDB, 51, 1046.

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EDWARD J. BRIDGE

case in regard to ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬being more servile than ‫ ָא ָמה‬. Three references are not enough to build a strong case, and the role of the ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬in 2 Sam 17:17 (a messenger) is not necessarily servile. The use of ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬in relation to the master also works against BDB’s argument that ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬denotes a maidservant who belongs to a mistress. In a similar manner to BDB, Neufeld proposed that that ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬refers to status, namely, a female slave of the lowest possible status.10 This proposal is advocated by Fensham, Engelken and TDOT and is accepted by Avigad.11 Neufeld, like BDB, cites Exod 11:5; 1 Sam 25:41 and 2 Sam 17:17 as indicating menial tasks. 12 TDOT also argues that the status difference in the two terms carries into deference in the following manner: the use of ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬in deference represents submissiveness on the part of the speaker and the use of ‫ ָא ָמה‬represents “a heightened sense of selfawareness.” 13 Against this argument stand some of the passages that TDOT discusses (1 Sam 1:13–18; 1 Sam 25; 2 Sam 14) which show that ‫ ָא ָמה‬and ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬are interchangeable as terms of deference. 14 In a similar vein that ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬is more servile than ‫ ָא ָמה‬is Riesener’s proposal that ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬emphasizes a slave as a possession or laborer and that ‫ ָא ָמה‬emphasizes a slave’s feminine qualities.15 This proposal is accepted by NIDOTTE and Younger. Younger also argues that the distinction carries into deference. 16 Noteworthy is Riesener’s observation of a frequent use of 93F

94F

95F

96F

97F

98F

9F

10 11

Neufeld, Marriage Laws, 121–24. Fensham, “The Son,” 314; TDOT 15:408–9; K. Engelken, Frauen im alten

Israel: Eine begriffsgeschichtliche und sozialrechtliche Studie zur Stellung der Frau im Alten Testament (BWANT, 130; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1990), 131–132; Avigad, Bullae, 11–12. 12 Cf. TDOT 15:408–409: grinding flour (Exod 11:5) is considered to be particularly degrading, given that elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible it is a topos for

work done by prisoners (Judg 16:21; Isa 47:1–2; Job 31:10). 13 Neufeld, Marriage Laws, 121–24; TDOT 15:408–409. Neufeld is more circumspect than Fensham cites him: on the one hand, Neufeld dismisses the idea that ‫ ָא ָמה‬outranks ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬, but on the other hand concedes that it did, citing 1 Sam 25:41. Fensham’s interpretation of Neufeld has proved influential. 14 Noted also by Neufeld, Marriage Laws, 122, 123; Cohen, “Studies,” xxxviii– xl; and Marsman, Women, 448. 15 Riesener, Der Stamm, 83. See also Diana V. Edelman, King Saul in the Historiography of Judah (JSOTSup, 121; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), 216, who argues that Abigail’s use of ‫ ָא ָמה‬in 1 Sam 25:41 emphasizes her sexuality. 16 NIDOTTE 1:419; 4:212; and Younger, “Comparative,” 127: ‫“ ָא ָמה‬expresses ִ implies subservience the speaker’s need for protection and help …, while [‫]שׁ ְפ ָחה‬ and readiness to serve.” Cf. TDOT’s view of ‫ ָא ָמה‬and ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬in deference.

23

‫ ָא ָמה‬AND ‫ ִש ְפ ָחה‬IN THE HB

‫ ָא ָמה‬in conjugal contexts (Gen 20:17; Exod 21:7–11; Judg 9:18;19:19; and 2 Sam 6:20–22). This association with conjugality is also evidenced in the occurrences in, for instance, Exod 23:12, Ps 86:12 and Ps 116:12, in which the phrase ‫“( בן־אמתך‬son of your female slave/servant”) refers to children born in slavery. The appearance of ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬in this context in Gen 31:33, 33:1–6 and Lev 19:20, however, shows that Riesener’s proposal may be too strong. 17 The second group of publications argues that ‫ ָא ָמה‬has a wider meaning than ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬. Jepsen, for example, proposes that ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬primarily refers to an unmarried woman who gives personal service to a mistress (cf. BDB) whereas ‫ ָא ָמה‬is a broader term, covering also a slave wife (thus anticipating Riesener). Over time this distinction was lost. 18 This proposal has proved influential, being accepted by Wolff, a number of commentaries, the Theological Wordbook of the Old Testament (TWOT) and the Hebräisches und aramäishces Lexikon zum Alten Testament (HAL). 19 Westermann and Wenham also interpret Jepsen as saying that ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬is usually used when a female slave is answerable to a mistress, whereas ‫ ָא ָמה‬is used when a female slave is answerable to the master. 20 Prov 30:23b (and a female slave [‫ ]וְ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬when she supplants her mistress) and Isa 24:2c (as with the female slave [‫] ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬, so with her mistress21) are frequently cited in support, though Gen 16 and 29–30 are also used. In critique, it is only by arguing that the two terms later lost their distinctions that it would be possible to understand ‫ ָא ָמה‬and ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬as synonyms, an idea that the scholarship reviewed so far does not accept. Furthermore, as noted above 10F

10F

102F

103F

104F

17

Noted also by Marsman, Women, 448, n. 63. Jepsen, “Amah,” 293. 19 Wolff, Anthropology, 199; Claus Westermann, Genesis 12–36: A Commentary (trans. J. J. Scullion; Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1985), 238; Gordon J. Wenham, Genesis 16–50 (WBC 2; Waco: Word, 1994), 6; Hermann J. Austel, “Shipḥâ. Maidservant, Maid,” TWOT 946–947; Jack B. Scott, “‫’( ָא ָמה‬āmâ),” TWOT, 49; and Ludwig Koehler, Walter Baumgartner, et al., The Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament (4 vols; Leiden/New York, Köln: Brill, 1994+), 1621. 20 Wenham, Genesis 16–50, 6; Westermann, Genesis, 238. TDOT 15:408, also interprets Jepsen similarly. 21 The phrase is ‫ ַכּ ִשּׁ ְפ ָחה ַכּגְּ ִב ְר ָתּהּ‬, and comes in the midst of a list of paired status-related terms, all beginning with the inseparable form of ‫כי‬. ִ The exact nuances of ‫ ִכי‬are difficult to translate; however, Isa 24:2 intends that social status does not spare a person from God’s apocalyptic judgment on the land. 18

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and by BDB, ‫ ָא ָמה‬is also used in relation to the mistress (Gen 30:3; Exod 2:5; Nah 2:8[7]). The idea that ‫ ָא ָמה‬is a broader term than ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬and also covers a slave wife is extended by Lipiński, who argues that that ‫ ָא ָמה‬can designate the status of a wife, whereas ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬does not. Recent scholars such as Younger and Jackson argue similarly. 22 To assist their argument, both Lipiński and Younger appeal to epigraphic remains from the Levant and elsewhere. In two Hebrew inscriptions, ‫ אמה‬is used to refer to women associated with men: 105F

‫[ יהו אשר על הבית אין פה כסף וזהב ]כי[ אם‬... ‫זאת ]קברת‬ ‫]עצמתו[ ועצמת אמתה אתה ארור האדם אשר יפתח את זאת‬ This is [the sepulchre of …]yahu who is over the house. There is no silver and no gold here but [his bones] and the bones of his slave-wife [‫ ]אמתה‬with him. Cursed be the man who will open this! (Royal Steward Tomb inscription of Silwan; KAI 191 = TSSI 3.191)

. .‫לשלמית אמת אלנתן פח‬ Belonging to Shelimoth maidservant of Elnathan (Shelimoth seal inscription)

What ‫ אמה‬means in these two inscriptions is debatable. Avigad argues ‫ אמה‬in the tomb inscription means “slave-wife,” 23 but ‫ אמה‬in the Shelimoth inscription means “official,” on analogy with the frequent use of ‫ עבד‬in both the Hebrew Bible and in seal inscriptions taking this meaning.24 Younger assumes ‫ אמה‬in both inscriptions means “wife,” 25 but does not indicate whether ‫ אמה‬could refer to a free wife. Lipiński argues that ‫אמה‬ could refer to a free woman as a wife. To do so, he cites two Semitic language inscriptions, which use the cognate of ‫א ָמה‬, ָ ʾmt: 106F

107F

108F

22 Lipiński, “Kinship,” 15; Younger, “Comparative,” 127–28; Bernard S. Jackson, “The ‘Institution’ of Marriage and Divorce in the Hebrew Bible,” JSS 56 (2011), 221–51 (227–28, 235). 23 Avigad, Bullae and Seals, 12–13. This affirms a proposal given by Albright for two Ammonite ’mh seal inscriptions (’lyh ’mt hnn'l, and ’nmwt ’mt dblbs); see W.F. Albright, “Notes on Ammonite History,” Miscellanea Biblica B. Ubach (Monserrat, 1954), 134 (cited in Avigad, Bullae and Seals, 13). 24 N. Avigad, “A Seal of a Slave-wife (amah),” PEQ (1946), 125–32; idem, “The Epitaph of a Royal Steward from Siloam Village,” IEJ 3 (1953), 137–52; and idem, Bullae and Seals, 12, 30–31. This interpretation is accepted by DCH, 310. 25 Younger, “Comparative,” 127.

25

‫ ָא ָמה‬AND ‫ ִש ְפ ָחה‬IN THE HB [This ivo]ry casket (’rn.[z.š]n), Amatbaal, daughter of Paṭesi, ’amat of Idnān, has given (it) as a gift to Astarte, her Lady. May you bless her in her days! Idnan [the engrav]er ([br]’?) has constructed the base. (Phoenician inscription, Ur Box; KAI 29 = TSSI 3.20)

[Queen Gaḥimat] ’amat of the mukarrib of Saba, Yilamar Bayyin, son of Šumhu hodiernal (the same day or one day’s past) hesternal (yesterday’s past) > recent > general (a person life’s past) and remote (historical and ancient) past. The other includes a transformation of the anterior into a perfective past and next into a simple past. This change is facultative and occurs in determined types of verbal systems. In shall be noted that there is no precise stage-to-stage equivalence between the stages which link the indefinite past and various subcategories of the definite past on the one hand, and the development of the perfective past into its aspectually neutral variant. The vertical arrows in this figure symbolize the diachronic progression of resultative inputs. 25 Within the Reichenbachian framework employed by Dahl (2008), the concept of taxis is labeled as ‘anterior aspect’ and is understood as an anteriority relation between event time and reference time. This means that event time precedes reference time. The label “aspect constraint” (employed by Dahl) fails to be entirely adequate since the concept of anteriority, as well as that of simultaneity and posteriority, is related to the idea of taxis and not aspect (Maslov 1988). 26 Dahl assumes that these constraints are universal and together with five elemental factors introduced in section 2.2, ensure that a sentence may be highly located at the performativity lattice providing the performative meaning in an explicit manner.

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2003:272). The method has its origin in the universality of functional paths which presupposes that the evolution of formations that, from the synchronic perspective, seem to be functionally similar, should also be equally similar. This means that it is possible to compare static grammatical objects and rank them in a series which represents a gradual linguistic change (Croft 2003:233 and 272). Consequently, synchronic evidence may be employed to extrapolate or substantiate diachronic processes. Since different languages may reflect different phases of a typologically identical process, functional and structural properties of typologically similar formations in several, related or unrelated, tongues may be interpreted as reflecting consecutive stages on the same evolutionary functional trajectory. In some languages, a determined gram corresponds to original phases of a universal development. However in others, typologically analogous formations either equal intermediate stages of that progress or, even, match its highly advanced portion(s). 27 We are convinced that the subsequent linguistic excursus is necessary to understand and empirically substantiate the—still commonly ignored— connection between performatives and resultatives (or their historical successors) and thus to comprehend the compatibility of the performative qatal with other meanings displayed by the gram. 2.2.2 INITIAL STAGES—RESULTATIVE PROPER GRAMS The original resultative expressions—grams that correspond to the initial stage of the anterior path—quite regularly provide a performative sense. Their use in performative utterances appears to be productive and unrestricted given that all verbs are virtually acceptable in performative acts. The only constraint is the fulfillment of felicity conditions and the existence of an appropriate procedure. For instance, in English, various performative utterances have a shape of the resultative proper passive (labeled also as ‘statal passive’, cf. Maslov 1988 and Nedjalkov 2001:930), formed by the auxiliary verb be and the passive resultative participle, such as the expression It is done (cf. already Austin 1962:57). This periphrasis is an exemplary resultative gram at an early stage of its development. As a prototypical resultative proper, it introduces a situation viewed as compounded by two elements: the prior action and its posterior result (i.e. a state that is simultaneous to the main reference time). In particular, it cannot be employed in senses that 27 This possibility clearly stems from the previously explained fact that meanings that are synchronically provided by a single construction reflect wellordered successive diachronic segments of typologically universal processes (cf. Heine, Claudi & Hünnemeyer 1991:251).

MAKING IT SOUND: THE PERFORMATIVE QATAL

193

correspond to advanced stages on the anterior path, e.g. as an experiential perfect or a definite past tense. It is important to note that this English construction conveys performative nuances with relative frequency. The locution is productive and admits a wide range of predicates, both prototypical performatives (e.g. verb dicendi) as well as other verbs—it is thus not limited to a closed set of verbs (4): (5)

a. Objection is overruled28 b. This meeting is now adjourned c. It is decided! d. He is condemned to death! e. You are hereby authorized to pay… (Austin 1962:57) h. You are ordered to… (Austin 1962:59) f. Passengers are warned to cross the track by the bridge only (Austin 1962:57) g. A notice is hereby given that trespassers will be prosecuted (Austin 1962:57) h. Sir, you are arrested! In a similar vein, the Polish resultative expression built on the perfective passive resultative participle and the auxiliary być ‘be’ (as in the phrase jest napisany ‘[it] is written’) is extensively used in performative environments. As its English homologue, the locution is an exemplary resultative proper gram: a semantically bipolar construct that connotes two pieces of information (viz. the previously performed activity and a static condition that results from it). Being a non-advanced resultative diachrony, the periphrasis cannot appear in explicit past contexts, for instance, with past adverbs nor can it be employed with the experiential perfect force. Yet similar to the English participial expression, the construction in Polish is productive in the performative function, admitting a broad range of predicates, both verba dicendi and other less prototypical verbs:

28 In this typological section of the paper, the relevant constructions that convey performative meaning or can be employed in prototypical performative situations with a performative force will be highlighted with a bold type font.

194 (6)

ALEXANDER ANDRASON a. b. c. d.

Ochrzczony jesteś imieniem Aleksander! 29 baptized you.are (with.)name Alexander You are baptized by the name of Alexander! Jest zadecydowane, idziemy do kina is decided we-go to cinema It is decided, we are going to the cinema Jest Pan zatrzymany / zaaresztowany! is sir detained / arrested You are arrested Zebranie jest otwarte! meeting is open The meeting is inaugurated!

A comparable pattern may be found in Spanish. Spanish possesses a prototypical resultative periphrasis that consists of the static verb quedar ‘remain, keep on being’ and a passive (resultative) participle, e.g. Su obra queda olvidada ‘His work is/remains forgotten’. In addition to the resultative proper meaning (which always accompanies the expression), this periphrasis is highly productive in performative situations—it may be employed with both utterance-verbs as well as other types of predicates in order to perform speech acts: (7) a. ¡Así queda decidido! (when taking a decision) like.this remains decided It is decided! b. ¡El juicio queda visto para sentencia! the trial remains ready for verdict The trial is ready for the verdict c. ¡Usted queda arrestado! sir remains arrested You are arrested! 2.2.3 INTERMEDIATE STAGE—YOUNG PERFECTS Also constructions defined as prototypical anteriors or young perfects 30— i.e. grams that match intermediate stages on the anterior path, usually

29 All examples will be glossed following the so-called word-by-word alignment although respective perfect, perfective past and (simple) past formations will be indicated by employing the abbreviation PERF, PF.PAST and PAST, respectively. 30 On so-called ‘old anteriors’, see section 2.2.4, below.

MAKING IT SOUND: THE PERFORMATIVE QATAL

195

spanning from the resultative to the experiential perfect segments 31—may be employed with a performative force. However, the use of such formations with a performative sense is more limited than it was in those cases of resultative proper expressions. Namely, the application of the gram in performative utterances is reserved for more prototypically performative verbs, such as predicates of giving and endowing as well as verba dicendi. The remaining verbal roots, on the contrary, regularly provide descriptive (constative) perfect meanings instead of performing acts and modifying the enunciator’s reality. Let us consider the following example of the Spanish construction built on the possessive verb tener ‘have, possess’ and a passive (resultative) participle, e.g. lo tengo hecho ‘I have it done / I have done it’. The gram is a prototypical young anterior used in several perfect functions. It also maintains its original resultative proper force. Unsurprisingly, the formation can frequently be employed in order to perform acts. Nevertheless, one may detect certain restrictions on the performative use which is most common and least awkward in cases where exemplary performative verbs are used (8.a and 8.b). However, less typical predicates are sometimes admissible (8.c). (8)

a. b. c.

Te tengo dicho que no! to.you I.have said that no I say you no! (lit. I have [it] said) Te lo tengo prometido! to.you it I.have promised I promise it to you (lit. I have it promised) Te tengo detenido! you I.have arrested I arrest you (lit. I have you arrested)

Another example may be found in Akkadian. This language includes in its verbal system a gram—labeled frequently ‘perfect’ (Huehnergard 2005:157)—which, given its morphological structure 32, we will refer to as iptaras (cf. Andrason 2011a:153). The formation is a prototypical young anterior of current relevance employed in a wide range of perfect senses (resultative, inclusive, frequentative, experiential and indefinite, cf. Maloney 31 Sometimes, the indefinite or immediate past value may also be included in the semantics of young perfects (e.g. cf. Spanish perfect he hecho ‘I have done’ which can be used as a one-day past). 32 I.e. the infixed morpheme t and the lack of reduplication of the second radical.

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1982:33, Leong 1994, Streck 1995 y 1999, Bubenik 1998:44-55 and Huehnergard 2005:157-160). Very infrequently, the category appears in explicit past environments and especially in past narrative fragments. On the other hand, the resultative proper value is normally conveyed by another Akkadian construction, i.e. the parsāku. This means that the iptaras itself is less extensively employed to express such an original resultative value; it thus lost the meaning that matches the initial stage of the anterior path. Among all the values provided by the gram, scholars determine one— known as “announcement Perfect”—which corresponds to the performative value (Cancik-Kirschbaum 1996, Huehnergard 2005 and Loesov 2004 and 2005). In this usage, the construction expresses the realization of the very act conveyed by the verb—it is employed in order to perform an act. It should be observed that the productivity of the performative iptaras is significantly more restricted in comparison to resultative proper expressions, studied in the previous section. Namely, the use of the gram in performative utterances is reserved for verbs of giving and endowing as well as predicates of utterance (verba dicendi). All remaining verbs, when employed in the iptaras, provide prototypical perfect meanings rather than introduce performative acts. (9) a. Nabi-Sîn ana maḫrika aṭṭardam (Huehnergard 2005:157) Nabi-Sîn to your.face sent-PERF.1sg I have now sent Nabi-Sîn to you’ or ‘I send you Nabi-Sîn b. a-nu-um-ma KU3.BABBAR u2-te-ra-kum (Loesov 2004:133) hereby silver return-PERF.1.sg Hereby, I have returned you the silver / Hereby, I return you the silver

On the other hand, one may not ignore a group of languages where young anteriors are normally incompatible with performative utterances. For instance, the Icelandic perfect hef gert ‘I have done’– a compound of the verb hafa ‘have’ and a resultative participle—is employed in all typical perfect senses (Jónsson 1992). Nevertheless, it fails to be used with a performative force. Similarly, the Spanish present perfect he hecho ‘I have done’ (an analytical construction derived from the auxiliary haber ‘have’ and a passive or resultative participle) is not found in explicit performative utterances. It shall be observed that in both cases, the anterior does not preserve the original resultative proper value—the grams are thus more advanced than the previously mentioned form in Spanish (i.e. tengo hecho)

MAKING IT SOUND: THE PERFORMATIVE QATAL

197

as well as the Akkadian expression. In addition, the Spanish locution is not employed with the inclusive perfect sense. This loss of original senses may consequently be viewed as a motivation or justification for the “nonperformativeness” of the two perfects. 33 2.2.4 ADVANCED STAGE—OLD PERFECTS Advanced, originally resultative, constructions (so-called ‘old perfects’)— grams that function as prototypical perfects and as definite past tenses as well (in other words, past tenses which have not been reduced yet to solely past functions)—may also provide the performative value. Nevertheless, in a similar manner to what we have observed in the previous section, the performative use of such expressions appears to be restricted to a fixed set of verbs of speaking or those that convey the ideas of giving, sending or assigning. Furthermore, in the case of still more advanced old perfects, which—even though acceptable in certain perfect environments— principally function as prototypical pasts, admitting remote and narrative contexts, the gram displays a further weakening of the performative force, in some instances failing to be used in explicit performative utterances. It shall be noted that virtually old perfects are most commonly bereaved of the initial resultative proper sense. For instance, in Mandinka, the so-called YE gram (Andrason 2012b) can express both prototypical present perfect situations as well as definite past events. Additionally, it is sometimes employed in order to provide the performative force. In those instances, the action is seen as performed by being stated. It should be noted that the YE perfect-past normally appears in the performative sense only with utterance and communicative verbs (i.e. with predicates which lean themselves for performative acts), which means that the productivity of the expression is profoundly limited. Remaining dynamic verbs normally have constative perfect or past readings.

(10)

a. b.

33 These

Ŋa n kali! I-PERF myself swear I swear! Ŋa i daani I-PERF you pray I pray you / I beseech you

facts suggest that the location of the performative state shall be after the resultative proper and inclusive perfect phases.

198

ALEXANDER ANDRASON

Another example may be found in the Arabic language. The Classical Arabic qatala construction—an old anterior—is entirely compatible with the semantic domain of perfect as well as with that covered by a discursive and narrative past. On the other hand, the formation is not used with the original resultative proper force; when derived from dynamic fientive roots, the meaning almost invariably corresponds either to a perfect or to a past (Wright 1964:1-5, Haywood & Nahmad 1965:96, Corriente 1988:148-151, Owens 1988:316 and 2006:73, Danecki 1994:153, Kozłowska 1996:57, Bubenik 1998:49, Kienast 2001:332 and Versteegh 2001:84). As in Mandinka, the gram may function as a performative expression, indicating that an action is being performed at the very moment of speaking. This reading, however, is subject to multiple restrictions and seems to only be possible with verbs of utterance (11.a and 11.b) or endowing (11.c; Wright 1964:1, Danecki 1994 and Kienast 2001:332). ‫( ﺍﻧﺸﺪﺗﻚ ﷲ‬Wright 1964:1) ’anšadtu-ka llāha conjure-PERF.1.sg+you by.god I conjure thee by God b. ‫( ﺑﻌﺘﻚ ﻫﺬﺍ‬Wright 1964:1) bi‘tu-ka hādâ sell-PERF.1.sg.+you this I sell you this c. ‫( ﺣﻠﻔﺖ‬Kienast 2001:332) ḥalaftu swear-PERF.1.sg I swear (cf. translation in Kienast 2001:331 Hiermit schwöre ich) (11)

a.

A different instructive case may be found in Classical Latin. Namely, the Latin Perfectum is an exemplary old perfect—it may function either as a present perfect or as a perfective and simple narrative past (Francis & Tatum 1919). However, various, typically performative verbs (in particular, utterance verbs: e.g. dixi or juravi, verbs of endowing: e.g. dedi or missi, and verbs of appointing, e.g. unxi, etc.) are commonly employed with a performative force (Greenough et al. 1903/1983:301 and Francis & Tatum 1919:52): (12)

a. b.

Unxi te annoint-PERF.1.sg you I anoint you king (2 Kgs 9:3) Ecce dedi vobis

regem king omnem herbam

MAKING IT SOUND: THE PERFORMATIVE QATAL

c.

199

so give-PERF.1.sg you every plant So I give you every plant (Gen 1:29) Ecce ego iuravi in nomine meo magno behold I swear-PERF.1.sg in name my great Behold, I swear by my great name (Jer 44:26)

Also the Akkadian gram iprus—an advanced resultative diachrony which function as an anterior and, most commonly, a definite past category (cf. Huehnergard 2005 and Andrason 2010c:338-340)—can be employed with a performative force. In those instances, it expresses an action achieved by the very act of uttering the words in question (Loesov 2005:115-117). The performative iprus appears frequently only in epistolary gender, in particular in certain fixed expressions of sending, assigning or writing—especially with the verb šapārum ‘write and send’—and with a limited set of certain exemplary utterance predicates. Consequently, in accordance with all the cases of the performative use offered by old anteriors (presented thus far), the acceptability of the gram in the performative sense is restricted to a closed class of prototypically performative verbs. (13)

a.

atma (Loesov 2005:117) swear-PERF.1.sg

I swear! b. ú-na-ḫi-i-id-ka (Loesov 2005:117) order-PERF.1.sg+you I order you c. ana šulmika ašpur-am (Sallaberger 1999:87–92) to health.your wish-PERF.1.sg.VENT34 I wish you well-being Finally, in Polish, the old perfect, so-called ‘past tense’, is never used in prototypical performative situations (14.a and 14.b). It should be noted that the Polish gram—despite its name—is not an exclusive past. Quite the contrary, it may still provide certain residual perfect uses. Namely, although it cannot be used in the sense of a resultative proper or an inclusive perfect, it is frequently employed as a resultative and experiential anterior. On the other hand, it must be emphasized that this formation constitutes the principal means to convey definite past meaning in Polish, both in discourse and narration. Consequently, taking into account a profound advancement of the Polish old perfect on the anterior cline—with a simultaneous 34

VENT stands for ‘ventive’, a special verbal morpheme (e.g. am).

200

ALEXANDER ANDRASON

reduction of the path’s original domains –, it is not surprising that it has lost the ability of appearing in performative utterances. (14)

a. b.

** Niniejszym otworzyłem zebranie hereby open-PF.PAST1sg meeting (Intended meaning) Hereby, I open the meeting ** Niniejszym ogłosiłem hereby declare-PF.PAST.1.sg was męzem i żoną you husband and wife (Intended meaning) Hereby, I declare you husband and wife

2.2.5 TERMINAL STAGE—DEFINITE PASTS As a final point in our discussion of post-resultative formations and their relation to the performative value, we may take constructions that have reached highly advanced or terminal stages of the development. They function as archetypical definite past tenses, having, at the same time, lost any resultative and perfect values. Such formations, regularly fail to be employed with a performative force. For instance, in Icelandic, the simple past—itself, being a gram that is never employed in the resultative proper or perfect sense—cannot act as a performative. Thus, for example, the use of the sentence (17) is impossible during the ceremony of baptizing (in this case, one expects to employ the present tense or a less advanced resultative expression):

(17) **Hér með skirði ég þig Alexander Here with baptize-PAST.1.sg I you Alexander (Intended meaning) Hereby, I baptize you by the name Alexander As an additional exemplary case, one may quote the French passé simple, an old perfect which nowadays has been reduced to an exclusive narrative past function (Greviss 1975 and Mauger 1968)—the ultimate phase of the anterior cline. This means that the gram never appears in discourse or in personal narratives, nor is it able to convey meanings that correspond to initial or intermediate stages of the mentioned path: it does not function as a resultative proper or an anterior. In harmony with this panchronic advancement and reduction of the more archaic senses, the formation absolutely fails to be employed with a performative force: it is never used as an explicit vehicle of the performative value nor does it appear in performative utterances, in general (18). In fact, this incompatibility with

MAKING IT SOUND: THE PERFORMATIVE QATAL

201

the performative force is tautological: the construction—being restricted to literary narrative genders35—is never pronounced or used in direct quotations (spoken or written). Thus, by definition, it cannot be used to perform an activity. In such instances, one employs the present tense or less advanced resultative expressions. (18) **Je vous déclarai mari et femme I you declare-PAST.1.sg husband and wife (Intended meaning) I declare you husband and wife 36

3. Performative QATAL Having explained synchronic and diachronic properties of performatives and, subsequently, having established the relation between the performative function and grams that develop along the anterior path, specifying the exact location of the performative sense-stage on this evolutionary scenario, we may proceed to the analysis of the nature of the BH performative qatal. First, various—as diverse as possible—examples of the qatal in the performative utterances will be presented (section 3.1). Afterwards, the panchronic explanation of the performative sense provided by the BH gram will be offered, conciliating this usage with the remaining components of the semantic network of the construction (section 3.2). Finally, bearing in main the characteristics of the performative qatal introduced in part 3.1, we will demonstrate that these properties fully harmonize with the qatal defined as an advanced portion of the anterior path, i.e. as an intermediate-old perfect (cf. section 3.3).

3.1. EVIDENCE The performative use of the qatal, although certainly much less common than other perfect or past meanings offered by the BH suffix conjugation, is 35

In discourse, it appears (although still very sporadically) only in some fixed expressions and idioms, such as il fut un temps, s’il en fut or ce fut pour moi un honneur. 36 The present list of linguistic samples is of course far from being exhaustive. For instance, as old perfects are concerned we did not include the Greek aorist or the Hausa completive—post-resultative grams that may be employed with a performative force. Our examples are designed to illustrate the proposed evolutionary principle and the relation of the performative meaning-stage to the anterior path and to formations which develop along this evolutionary trajectory. Further research on a broader sample of idioms is inevitable in order to sharpen this tendency and improve its understanding.

202

ALEXANDER ANDRASON

not—contrary to the widespread opinion—exceptionally rare or odd. This statement derives from the following facts: first, the performative qatal can be detected in various books of the Hebrew Bible. Second, it is represented by, at least, nineteen different verbs or roots. Third, it provides examples of all five of the main categories of prototypical performative verbs, i.e. expositives, exercitives, commissives, behabitives and verdictives. And finally fourth, in limited cases, other non-exemplary performative predicates are used in order to perform performative speech acts in Biblical Hebrew. To demonstrate this relative non-eccentricity of the gram let us introduce the most relevant instances where it is employed. Following the taxonomy proposed by Austin (1962), these cases will be divided into five classes of archetypal performatives. 3.1.1 E XPOSITIVE TYPE Expositives are predicates that by telling, affirming, stating, agreeing or denying, asking and answering, specify how the performative utterance fits into the conversation. They expound views, conduct arguments, clarify usages and stipulate how the utterance is related to the course of argumentation. In Biblical Hebrew, one may find four prototypically expositive verbs which in the qatal form display a clear performative value: ‫‘ ִהגִּ יד‬declare’ (19.a and 19.b), ‫‘ ָא ַמר‬say’ (20.a, 20.b and 20.c), ‫‘ ֵה ִﬠ)י(ד‬call (to witness)’ (21.a and 21.b) and ‫‘ ִס ֵפּר‬narrate, recount’ (22): For instance, in the following examples, the qatal form derived from the predicate ‫‘ ִהגִּ יד‬declare’ does not suggest any prior—perfect or past— action, but refers to the activity that is being performed at the very moment of speaking. In other words, the verb ‫‘ ִה ַגּ ְ֤ ד ִתּי‬I declare’ introduces the expositive act of announcing, being a necessary component to its felicitous performance:

(19)

a. Deut 26:3

‫ל־ה ָא ֶר ץ‬ ָ ‫אתי ֶא‬ ִ ‫י־ב‬ ָ ‫�הי� ִכּ‬ ֶ ‫ִהגַּ ְד ִתּי ַהיּוֹם ַליהוה ֱא‬ I declare today to the Lord your God that I have come into the land b. Deut 30:18

‫אבדוּ‬ ֵ ֹ ‫ִהגַּ ְד ִתּי לָ ֶכם ַהיּוֹם ִכּי ָאבֹד תּ‬ I declare to you today, that you shall surely perish

The verb ‫‘ ָא ַמר‬say’ in the performative function may receive two readings, one properly expositive (20.a and 20.b), introducing a message that is being uttered and the other exercitive (cf. the section 3.1.2 below), whereby the

MAKING IT SOUND: THE PERFORMATIVE QATAL

203

enunciator exerts his power over people taking a decision and determining a given situation (20.c) (20)

a. Job 9:22

‫ל־כּן ָא ַמ ְר ִתּי ָתּם וְ ָר ָשׁע הוּא ְמ ַכ ֶלּה‬ ֵ ‫ַא ַחת ִהיא ַﬠ‬ It is all one; therefore I say: He destroys both the blameless and the wicked b. Job 32:10

‫ף־אנִ י׃‬ ֽ ָ ‫ה־לּי ֲא ַחֶוּ֖ה ֵדּ ִ ֣ﬠי ַא‬ ֑ ִ ‫ָל ֵכ֣ן ָ ֭א ַמ ְר ִתּי ִשׁ ְמ ָﬠ‬ Therefore I say: Listen to me; let me also declare my opinion c. 2 Sam 19:30

‫יבא‬ ָ ‫אמר לוֹ ַה ֶמּ ֶל� ָל ָמּה ְתּ ַד ֵבּר עוֹד ְדּ ָב ֶרי� ָא ַמ ְר ִתּי ַא ָתּה וְ ִצ‬ ֶ ֹ ‫וַ יּ‬ ‫ת־ה ָשּׂ ֶדה‬ ַ ‫ַתּ ְח ְלקוּ ֶא‬ And the king said to him: Why do you speak any more of your affairs? I say (i.e. I decide): you and Ziba shall divide the land Another typical expositive predicate is ‫‘ ֵה ִﬠ)י(ד‬call (for to witness)’ that in the suffix conjugation may introduce invocations. Nevertheless, although a typical member of the expositive class, it may also alternatively be understood as accompanied by a behabitive force of a prayer. In both cases, its use is a compulsory component in order to accomplish the act of invocating heaven and earth (on the exercitive function of this verb see the next section). (21)

a. Deut 4:26

‫ת־ה ָא ֶר ץ‬ ָ ‫ת־ה ָשּׁ ַמיִם וְ ֶא‬ ַ ‫ַה ִﬠיד ִֹתי ָב ֶכם ַהיּוֹם ֶא‬ I call heaven and earth to witness against you today b. Deut 30:19

‫ת־ה ָא ֶר ץ‬ ָ ‫ת־ה ָשּׁ ַמיִם וְ ֶא‬ ַ ‫ַה ִﬠיד ִֹתי ָב ֶכם ַהיּוֹם ֶא‬ I call heaven and earth to witness against you today

Similarly, the verb ‫‘ ִס ֵפּר‬narrate, recount’ may be employed in the qatal form in order to perform expositive acts:

204

(22)

ALEXANDER ANDRASON

Ps 75:2

�‫אוֹתי‬ ֶ ‫הוֹדינוּ וְ ָקרוֹב ְשׁ ֶמ� ִס ְפּרוּ נִ ְפ ְל‬ ִ ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫הוֹדינוּ ְלּ� ֱא‬ ִ We give thanks to you, o God, we give thanks, for your name is near; they narrate your marvelous deeds

3.1.2 E XERCITIVE TYPE The exercitive category of performatives is used to assert influence or exercise rights and power. Exercitives give a decision that something should be so (Austin 1962:154). Such predicates usually express the ideas of warning, advising, urging, prohibiting, ordering and commanding on the one hand (subclass a) and the concepts of appointing, nominating, naming, annulling and repealing, on the other (subclass b). It shall be noted that verbs of giving and endowing belong to this category of performatives (subclass c; Austin 1962:155). The first group—class a—is represented in Biblical Hebrew by three predicates: ‫‘ ֵה ִﬠ)י(ד‬warn’ (23.a), ‫יָﬠץ‬ ַ ‘advise, counsel’ (23.b) and �‫ִה ְשׁ ִבּ ַי‬ ‘adjure, urge’ (23.c). It shall be noted that the verb ‫‘ ֵה ִﬠ)י(ד‬warn’, beside being employed in order to caution or advise, may also introduce the exercitive act as demonstrated previously in examples (21.a and 21.b) above.

(23)

a. Deut 8:19 ‫�הים ֲא ֵח ִרים‬ ִ ‫�הי� וְ ָה ַל ְכ ָתּ ַא ֲח ֵרי ֱא‬ ֶ ‫ם־שׁכ ַֹ� ִתּ ְשׁ ַכּח ֶאת־יהוה ֱא‬ ָ ‫וְ ָהיָה ִא‬ ‫אבדוּן‬ ֵ ֹ ‫ית ָל ֶהם ַה ִﬠד ִֹתי ָב ֶכם ַהיּוֹם ִכּי ָאבֹד תּ‬ ָ ִ‫וַ ֲﬠ ַב ְד ָתּם וְ ִה ְשׁ ַתּ ֲחו‬ If you forget the Lord your God and follow other gods to serve and worship them, I warn you today that you shall surely perish b. 2 Sam 17:11

‫יֵא ֵסף ָﬠ ֶלי� ָכל־יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬ ָ ‫ִכּי יָ ַﬠ ְצ ִתּי ֵה ָאסֹף‬ But I advise that all Israel shall be gathered to you 37 c. Song 2:7; 3:5; 5:8 and 8:4 ‫רוּשׁ ַל ִם‬ ָ ְ‫ִה ְשׁ ַבּ ְﬠ ִתּי ֶא ְת ֶכם ְבּנוֹת י‬ I adjure you, O daughters of Jerusalem 620F

The second class of exercitives, which roughly speaking contains verbs of nominating, is represented by two archetypical predicates: ‫‘ ִצוָּ ה‬appoint, order’ and ‫‘ ָמ ַשׁ ח‬anoint’. Their use in the qatal form—as required—is a

37

One may also quote another possible case of the exercitive in Jer 42:19.

MAKING IT SOUND: THE PERFORMATIVE QATAL

205

necessary component of the felicitous performance of the act of nomination: (24) a. 1 Kgs 1:35 ‫ל־יְהוּדה‬ ָ ‫יתי ִל ְהיוֹת נָ גִ יד ַﬠל־יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל וְ ַﬠ‬ ִ ִ‫וְ אֹתוֹ ִצוּ‬ And I appoint him to be ruler over Israel and over Judah b. 2 Kgs 9:3

‫ֹה־א ַמר יהוה ְמ ַשׁ ְח ִתּי� ְל ֶמ ֶל� ֶאל־יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬ ָ ‫וְ ָא ַמ ְר ָתּ כּ‬ Thus says the Lord, I anoint you king over Israel

Finally, the third subcategory of exercitive verbs (viz. the class c of verbs of endowing) is documented by two predicates: ‫‘ נָ ַתן‬give’ (26.a-e) and ‫ָשׁלַ ח‬ ‘send’ (26.a-b). Both verbs are quite common in the performative qatal usage in the biblical material. It must be emphasized that these nonutterance-verbs are to be regarded as typical performative predicates within Austin’s (1962; as well as Searl’s 1971/1976) scheme. The enunciator, exercising his or her power, expresses the decision that something is to be so. This means that the so-called epistolary perfect is a regular manifestation of the exercitive act—the speaker endows others with something and/or takes a decision that a state of affairs shall be such and such. (25)

a. Gen 23:11

‫א־אד ֹנִ י ְשׁ ָמ ֵﬠנִ י ַה ָשּׂ ֶדה נָ ַת ִתּי ָל� וְ ַה ְמּ ָﬠ ָרה ֲא ֶשׁר־בּוֹ‬ ֲ ֹ‫ל‬ No, my lord, hear me; I give you the field and the cave that is in it b. Gen 23:11

‫יה ָ ֖לּ� ְק ֥בֹר ֵמ ֶ ֽת�׃‬ ָ ‫י־ﬠ ִ ֛מּי נְ ַת ִ ֥תּ‬ ַ ֵ‫יה ְל ֵﬠ ֵינ֧י ְבנ‬ ָ ‫ְל�֣ נְ ַת ִ ֑תּ‬ In the presence of my people I give it to you; bury your dead

c. Gen 15:18 To your descendants I give this land

‫ת־ה ָא ֶרץ ַהזֹּאת‬ ָ ‫ְלזַ ְר ֲﬠ� נָ ַת ִתּי ֶא‬

d. Gen 1:29 ‫ל־ה ֵﬠץ‬ ָ ‫ת־כּ‬ ָ ‫ל־ה ָא ֶרץ וְ ֶא‬ ָ ‫ל־פּנֵ י ָכ‬ ְ ‫ל־ﬠ ֶשׂב ז ֵֹר ַ� זֶ ַרע ֲא ֶשׁר ַﬠ‬ ֵ ‫ת־כּ‬ ָ ‫ִהנֵּ ה נָ ַת ִתּי ָל ֶכם ֶא‬ ‫יִהיֶה ְל ָא ְכ ָלה‬ ְ ‫י־ﬠץ ז ֵֹר ַ� זָ ַרע ָל ֶכם‬ ֵ ‫ֲא ֶשׁר־בּוֹ ְפ ִר‬ And God said: Behold, I give you every plant yielding seed that is on the face of all the earth, and every tree with seed in its fruit. You shall have them for food

206

ALEXANDER ANDRASON e. 1 Kgs 3:13 I give you also what you have not asked

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a. 1 Kgs 15:19 I send you a present of silver and gold b. 2 Chr 2:12 And now, I send a skilled artisan

�‫א־שׁ ַא ְל ָתּ נָ ַת ִתּי ָל‬ ָ ֹ ‫וְ גַ ם ֲא ֶשׁר ל‬

‫ִהנֵּ ה ָשׁ ַל ְח ִתּי ְל� שׁ ַֹחד ֶכּ ֶסף וְ זָ ָהב‬

‫ישׁ־ח ָכם‬ ָ ‫וְ ַﬠ ָתּה ָשׁ ַל ְח ִתּי ִא‬

3.1.3 COMMISSIVE TYPE By using commissives, the enunciator assumes an obligation or declares an intention: he or she undertakes something by promising, swearing, vowing, proposing, agreeing and consenting. Put differently, commissives commit the speaker to a certain course of action (Austin 1962:156). In the biblical text, one may find a single prototypical commissive verb employed in the qatal with a performative force, namely ‫‘ נִ ְשׁ ַבּע‬swear’. In all of the following examples, the form ‫ נִ ְשׁ ַבּ ְﬠ ִתּי‬introduces the exact message of a current oath, being a necessary component of the act of a vow:

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a. Jer 22:5 ‫ִבּי נִ ְשׁ ַבּ ְﬠ ִתּי‬ ‫ָה ֵא ֶלּה‬ ‫ת־ה ְדּ ָב ִרים‬ ַ ‫ֶא‬ ‫ִת ְשׁ ְמעוּ‬ ‫וְ ִאם לֹא‬ ‫י־ל ָח ְר ָבּה יִ ְהיֶ ה ַה ַבּיִת ַהזֶּ ה‬ ְ ‫נְ ֻאם־יהוה ִכּ‬ But if you will not obey these words, I swear by myself, declares the Lord, that this house shall become a desolation b. 2 Sam 19:8 ‫ַביהוה נִ ְשׁ ַבּ ְﬠ ִתּי ִכּי‬ For I swear by God that… c. Gen 22:16 ‫ת־ה ָדּ ָבר ַהזֶּ ה‬ ַ ‫ית ֶא‬ ָ ‫אמר ִבּי נִ ְשׁ ַבּ ְﬠ ִתּי נְ ֻאם־יהוה ִכּי יַ ַﬠן ֲא ֶשׁר ָﬠ ִשׂ‬ ֶ ֹ ‫וַ יּ‬ �‫ת־בּנְ � ֶאת־יְ ִח ֶיד‬ ִ ‫וְ לֹא ָח ַשׂ ְכ ָתּ ֶא‬ And he said: By myself I swear—declares the Lord—because you have done this and have not withheld your son, your only son d. Jer 44:26

MAKING IT SOUND: THE PERFORMATIVE QATAL

207

‫ִהנְ נִ י נִ ְשׁ ַבּ ְﬠ ִתּי ִבּ ְשׁ ִמי ַהגָּ דוֹל‬ Behold, I swear by my great name It is highly important to note that an act of vowing or swearing may likewise be introduced by non-prototypical commissive verbs, such as ‫ֵה ִרים‬ ‘lift up’ (28.a) and ‫‘ נָ ָשׂא‬lift, raise’ (28.b), as illustrated by the following fragment: (28)

a. Gen 14:22 ‫ל־מ ֶל� ְסד ֹם ֲה ִרימ ִֹתי יָ ִדי ֶאל־יהוה ֵאל ֶﬠלְ יוֹן קֹנֵ ה‬ ֶ ‫אמר ַא ְב ָרם ֶא‬ ֶ ֹ ‫וַ יּ‬ ‫ָשׁ ַמיִם וָ ָא ֶר ץ‬ But Abram said to the king of Sodom: I swear (lit. lift my hand [in ratifying an oath]) to the Lord, God Most High, Possessor of heaven and earth b. Ezek 36:7 ‫אתי ֶאת־יָ ִדי ִאם־לֹא ַהגּוֹיִם ֲא ֶשׁר ָל ֶכם ִמ ָסּ ִביב ֵה ָמּה ְכּ ִל ָמּ ָתם‬ ִ ‫ֲאנִ י נָ ָשׂ‬ ‫יִ ָשּׂאוּ‬ I swear (raise my hand [in ratifying an oath]) that the nations that are all around you shall themselves suffer reproach

3.1.4 BEHABITIVE TYPE Behabitives are predicates related to a certain attitude adopted by the speaker and to various types of social behavior, such as welcoming, thanking, congratulating, apologizing, condoling, cursing, blessing, challenging, daring, favoring, deploring and blaming. This category of performatives is primordially represented by three verbs in the Hebrew Bible: �‫‘ ֵבּ ֵר‬bless’ (29.a-c), ‫הוֹדה‬ ָ ‘praise, give thanks’ (30) and ‫‘ ֵח ֵרף‬defy’ (31). In all of the provided examples—in contrast to cases where it is used as an archetypical constative –, the qatal form does not describe anterior (perfect), past, presents or even future events and situations. Quite the reverse, it is employed in order to perform determined creative acts, such as blessing, thanking and challenging. Put differently, by uttering these sentences, the speaker does not state how reality was, is or will be, but imposes an immediate modification in the adjacent world.

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ALEXANDER ANDRASON a. Ps 129:8 We bless you in the name of God

‫ֵבּ ַר ְכנוּ ֶא ְת ֶכם ְבּ ֵשׁם יהוה‬

b. Ps 118:26

‫יְהוֽה׃‬ ָ ‫נוּכם ִמ ֵ ֥בּית‬ ֶ֗ ‫יְהו֑ה ֵ֝בּ ַ ֽר ְכ‬ ָ ‫שׁם‬ ֣ ֵ ‫ָבּ ֣רוּ� ַ ֭ה ָבּא ְבּ‬ Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! We bless you from the house of the Lord c. Gen 17:20

‫יתי אֹתוֹ‬ ִ ‫וּלְ יִ ְשׁ ָמ ֵﬠאל ְשׁ ַמ ְﬠ ִתּי� ִהנֵּ ה ֵבּ ַר ְכ ִתּי אֹתוֹ וְ ִה ְפ ֵר‬ As for Ishmael, I have heard you; behold, I bless him and will make him fruitful (30)

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Ps 75:2

�‫הוֹדינוּ וְ ָקרוֹב ְשׁ ֶמ‬ ִ ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫הוֹדינוּ ְלּ� ֱא‬ ִ We praise you God, we praise you / We give thanks to you, O God, we give thanks, for your name is near 1 Sam 17:10

‫ת־מ ַﬠ ְרכוֹת יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל ַהיּוֹם ַהזֶּ ה‬ ַ ‫אמר ַה ְפּ ִל ְשׁ ִתּי ֲאנִ י ֵח ַר ְפ ִתּי ֶא‬ ֶ ֹ ‫וַ יּ‬ And the Philistine said: I defy the ranks of Israel this day

Also, the following sentence provides a case of a behabitive act although the predicate, employed in order to introduce the intended type of social behavior,—i.e. ‫‘ ִה ְשׁ ַתּ ֲחוָ ה‬bow down deeply, do obeisance’—is not a prototypical behabitive verb: (32)

2 Sam 16:4

�‫א־חן ְבּ ֵﬠינֶ י� ֲאד ֹנִ י ַה ֶמּ ֶל‬ ֵ ‫יתי ֶא ְמ ָצ‬ ִ ֵ‫ִה ְשׁ ַתּ ֲחו‬ I pay homage; let me ever find favor in your sight, my lord the king

3.1.5 VERDICTIVE TYPE The last subcategory of prototypical performatives consists of verdictive verbs. By means of these predicates, the enunciator exercises a judgment, gives a verdict, approves, estimates, reckons, appraises or rules. In the Hebrew Bible, this group is represented by the verb ‫ָסלַ ח‬ ‘pardon, practice forbearance, forgive’. As it is evident from the following example (cf. 33 below), the qatal form ‫ ָס ַל ְח ִתּי‬does not express a perfect or past value, but, on the contrary, is an indispensable component in order to perform the ongoing act of grace:

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209

Num 14:20

�‫אמר יהוה ָס ַל ְח ִתּי כִּ ְד ָב ֶר‬ ֶ ֹ ‫וַ יּ‬ Then the Lord said: I pardon in accordance with your word

Besides this exemplary performative utterance-predicate, another typical verb—but certainly not an utterance-root—may introduce the enactment of a verdict, viz. �ַ ‫‘ ִפּ ֵתּ‬loosen, release’: (34)

Jer 40:4

�‫ן־האזִ ִקּים ֲא ֶשׁר ַﬠל־יָ ֶד‬ ָ ‫וְ ַﬠ ָתּה ִהנֵּ ה ִפ ַתּ ְח ִתּי� ַהיּוֹם ִמ‬ Now, behold, I release you today from the chains on your hands

3.2. PERFORMATIVE QATAL AS A STAGE WITHIN THE ANTERIOR-PATH QATAL 3.2.1 ACCOMMODATING THE PERFORMATIVE QATAL IN THE NETWORK OF SENSES As already mentioned, the qatal has been recently defined as a manifestation of the anterior path. First, Andersen (2000:31) and Cook (2002:209-219) have shown that the formation has evolved following the anterior trajectory, having originated in a resultative construction (cf. also Lipiński 2001:336-337 and Kienast 2001; on the history of the qatal see below in this section) and acquired stages of a perfect and perfective past. More recently, Andrason (2010b:610 and 2011a:281, 305-307) has demonstrated that the semantic potential of the category—with all its superficial heterogeneity and inconsistency—may be grasped in its integrity and viewed as a homogeneous and harmonious whole, if we define it as a portion of the anterior track. In this manner, present perfect (inclusive, resultative, frequentative and experiential), indefinite and definite past, as well as perfective and simple past functions may be made compatible and congruent—all of them may be matched with consecutive stages on the anterior path. 38 621F

38 Andrason (2011a:305-307) has shown that further senses conveyed by the qatal may be mapped and explained as manifestations of two remaining paths that, jointly with the anterior track, constitute the resultative trajectory—i.e. a comprehensive evolutionary scenario governing the grammatical life of all resultative constructions. In particular, the resultative-stative, stative and present temporal value has been unified and explained employing a network of the

210

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Consequently, the qatal is synchronically defined as an advanced portion of the anterior trajectory—a fragment of the path that covers the stages from the dynamic inclusive perfect to the simple past (although only in discourse and personal narration; this means that the narrative past tense value is still unavailable at the biblical period). Grosso modo, we could state, that the dynamically pictured state of the formation (or more correctly speaking, of a group of senses that can be mapped employing the network of the anterior cline) approximates the grammatical category of an old or “relatively”-old perfect where both perfect and past (exclusively in discourse and personal narration) are prominent. 39 This panchronic networking of the values of the qatal has been spatially mapped in the following manner, matching the historical progression of the anterior path: Since the semantic load of the qatal is portrayed as matching the anterior path, being classified as a prototypical anterior diachrony at an advanced, though still not terminal, stage of development, the performative value of the gram immediately receives its place and explanation. Not only is it fully rational and justified—it corresponds to one of the segments of the anterior trajectory –, but also almost expected, given the fact that old perfects, which preserve their perfect uses, likewise tend to maintain the performative function, a sense that corresponds to one of the initial stages on the cline. Indeed, the fact that the qatal is still employed in the functions of an inclusive perfect—a stage that theoretically precedes the phases of the performative, necessitates that it would, at least to a certain extent, be compatible with the performative use.

simultaneous path (cf. Andrason 2011a:282-283, 305-307 and 2011b:42) while rare case where the qatal offers an evidential sense has been rationalized as an expression of the evidential path (cf. Andrason 2010b:623-624 and 2011a:282; on the evidential path see Aikhenvald 2004 and Andrason 2010b:604-609). Finally, certain modal functions of the gram have been classified as a manifestation of the modal contamination path of the original resultative input (cf. Andrason 2011a:300304; cf. also Andrason 2011c:7-8). 39 This “relative” oldness or grammatical maturity of the qatal is justified by two facts: it is still commonly used as a perfect and it is not employed as a past tense in narratives.

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SENSES OF THE QATAL

211

S TAGES OF THE ANTERIOR PATH 40

Perfect

Definite past

Aspect

Inclusive Resultative Frequentative Experiential Indefinite Immediate Hodiernal / hesternal Recent General Remote Perfective Simple

Figure 3: Senses of the BH qatal mapped as stages of the anterior path (Andrason 2011a:281)

In this article, the BH qatal is treated as if its semantic potential has been “measured” at a single time t0. This means that we consider Biblical Hebrew to be a historically static language—a synchronically consistent phenomenon. This is of course an approximation given the fact that the biblical text had been composed during various centuries, and thus different books may represent distinct diachronic stages of the language (see, Andrason 2011d:24, 49; furthermore, it can also include certain dialectical variations). 40

212

ALEXANDER ANDRASON

SENSES OF THE QATAL

S TAGES OF THE ANTERIOR PATH 41

Perfect

Definite past

Aspect

Inclusive Performative Resultative Frequentative Experiential Indefinite Immediate Hodiernal / hesternal Recent General Remote Perfective Simple

Figure 4: Performative sense of the BH qatal mapped as a stage of the anterior path

3.2.2 DIACHRONIC EVIDENCE Our explanation has thus far been derived from typological universals and certain synchronically based properties, viz. values offered by the gram at the biblical époque. However, as required by the panchronic methodology (cf. Andrason 2010a:20-21, 2011b:33 and 2011d:20), a proposal of a dynamic elucidation of a sense, or of an entire category, must always be supported by diachronic data. Let us present such concrete historical facts that would corroborate our thesis whereby the performative sense, matching one of the initial stages on the anterior cline, reflects original— and hence available at the Proto-Semitic (PS) period—properties of the BH qatal. The BH qatal is a built on the Proto-Semitic verbal adjective *qatVl (i.e. *qatal, *qatil and *qatul) that from the beginning conveyed a resultative proper or stative value (Huehnergard 1987:221-223, Andersen 2000:31, Lambdin & Huehnergard 1998, Lipiński 2001:336-337 and 341, and Cook 2002:209-219). The BH qatal form itself reflects an original predicative use of this verbal adjective, i.e. a situation where it was used in order to describe a state of the nominal subject to which it was directly linked without any auxiliary verb. However, it could also be found with personal pronouns— This is an adapted version of the model of the anterior path that has previously been posited in Figure 2 and 3. 41

MAKING IT SOUND: THE PERFORMATIVE QATAL

213

and this was the foundation of the BH qatal flexional markers. To this predicative analytical input expression shaped during the Proto-Semitic époque, we will refer to as a *qatal-. The resultative value of this input periphrasis (i.e. of the PS *qatal-) —as still preserved in Akkadian—clearly stems from the resultative-stative sense of the verbal adjective itself (Huehnergard 1987:223). It shall be observed that resultative verbal adjectives and periphrases built with them—such as the PS *qatVl- and *qatal-—not only constitute a common departure point of the anterior path and thus a basis for resultatives, perfects and later on, for perfective and simple past tenses (cf. Bybee, Perkins & Pagliuca 1994, Dahl 2000b and Andrason 2011a:286-287), but also are regularly employed in performative utterances (cf. already Austin 1962). We have previously seen similar formations—i.e. resultative adjectives or participles introduced by auxiliary verbs of predication—used as performatives in English and Polish (cf. 5.a-i, 6.a-d). Below, we offer further illustrative cases from the two idioms and from Spanish: (36) a. You are ordered to… (Austin 1962:59) b. Zebranie jest otwarte! meeting is open The meeting is inaugurated! c. ¡Usted está detenido! sir is arrested Sir, you are arrested! Also bare resultative participles (i.e. verbal adjectives employed with no auxiliary verb)—entities that are typological matrixes for the PS *qatVl and its use in the *qatal- construction –, commonly appear in performative utterances as demonstrated by the following English (37.a-b), Polish (37.cd) and Spanish (37.e-f) examples: (37) a. Promised! making a promise) b. Overruled! (when a motion) c. Obiecane! (when promise) Promised! d. Uzgodnione! (when agreement) Agreed!

(when pronounced at the moment of pronounced at the moment of disregarding pronounced at the moment of making a pronounced at the moment of making an

214

ALEXANDER ANDRASON

e. Prometido! (when pronounced at the moment of making a promise) Promised! Consequently, since the BH qatal is a successor of the PS resultative predicative periphrasis built on the verbal adjective (or using an alternative label, on the resultative participle), the ability to convey the performative force was “innate” from the origin. This sense was simply preserved at the biblical period as one of the components of the semantic network of the gram. One may also identify another original property of the PS *qatVl and *qatal- that justifies the use of its BH successor with a performative force. According to typological studies, resultative verbal adjectives and resultatives built on such entities commonly display a non-agentive character and a de-transitive effect on the underlying verbs (Nedjalkov 2001:928). First, they regularly describe the state acquired by an entity which has suffered or experienced a given action. Second, depending on the argument structure offered by the underlying verb (i.e. by the verb from which the participle has been derived), this receptor-element may function as either an intransitive “patientive” or intransitive non-agentive subject (Haspelmath 1994:159). Put differently, when resultative adjectives or resultative proper grams are derived from underlying transitive verbs, the argument structured is rearranged and they usually offer a passive value. When they derive from intransitive predicates, no valency (or argument structure) 42 changes are involved and the form shows an active character in accordance with the underlying verb. In both cases, however, the ensuing locution is prototypically intransitive. Such a de-transitive force is what links resultatives to present passives. This relationship may also be perceived in the fact that in certain languages, resultatives and passives of transitive verbs display the same form or that a passive is employed to express the resultative meaning (socalled ‘statal passive’; Maslov 1988 and Nedjalkov 2001:937). Present passives, in turn, statal or actional, may quite commonly provide performative values with no restriction as concerning the verbal root. In other words, the present passive is a productive performative category. All verbs are virtually acceptable and the only constraints correspond to the felicity conditions and existence of the procedure. Of course, the PS *qatalis not a systematic passive; but, on the other hand, as a prototypical passive, 42

More technically, the concept of valency makes reference to the number of arguments controlled by a verbal predicate.

MAKING IT SOUND: THE PERFORMATIVE QATAL

215

it does show a de-transitive force (cf. Huenergard 2005:26-27 and 221-222). This archaic property may still be observed in the Akkadian parsāku (labelled also ‘permansive’ or ‘stative’), a panchronically earlier cognate of the BH qatal (Bergsträsser-Daniels 1983:13, Lipinski 2001, Kienast 2001 and Andrason 2011a:199-205 and 287-288). Namely, the gram was almost invariably an intransitive category—a passive when derived from transitive stems and active when derived from intransitive verbs. Consequently, we may state the following: the fact that the qatal is a successor of the PS *qatal- formation built on a formally analogical verbal adjective (i.e. on the *qatVl employed in the predicative function) implies that as any exemplary resultative derived from verbal adjectives, it could originally “lean itself” for an unrestricted performative use. Namely, the locution of the type of (it is) gone or (it is) done may with an equal propensity be employed to state that something is concluded (it describes an acquired state of an entity) and to perform acts (for instance, by saying it, the enunciator certifies that something becomes finished—my words equal the accomplishment of the activity). Furthermore, in cases of underlying transitive verbs, the gram shows a de-transitive force approximating the statal present passive—a category that may extensively be used for performative purposes. As a result, the diachronic evidence confirms our typologically and synchronically based proposal: the performative value of the BH qatal may be rationalized as a logical component of the meaning displayed by the qatal, viz. when the gram’s semantic potential is spatially networked in accordance with the anterior path representation the performative sense corresponds to one of the cline’s original segments.

3.3. PROPERTIES OF THE PERFORMATIVE QATAL AND ITS PANCHRONIC INTERPRETATION 3.3.1 PROPERTIES OF THE PERFORMATIVE QATAL AS AN INDICATOR OF A GRAMMATICAL ADVANCEMENT In the previous section, we have demonstrated that the performative function of the BH qatal may be harmonized with the total meaning of the gram, making use of the panchronically charted network of senses. Since various values of the qatal can be spatially portrayed as stages of the anterior path, and since this path presupposes a segment reserved for the performative sense, the performative use of the BH suffix conjugation might also be logically accommodated within the same type of geometrical mapping, i.e. within the anterior trajectory. Thus, the fact that the qatal is able to be employed with a performative force has received its explanation and solid justification.

216

ALEXANDER ANDRASON

It shall be noted that the above-explained natural and, as supported by diachronic data, original property of the qatal to be used with a performative sense is weakened in Biblical Hebrew. It is certainly not employed in the performative function with normality, typical for resultative proper grams. Quite the reverse, the use of the BH suffix conjugation with a performative force is subjected to several restrictions. However, in section 3.1 we have demonstrated that although the use of the performative qatal is limited, being one of the least frequent senses the gram can convey, it is not extremely rare and odd. We have detected the following facts that prove only a partial accomplishment of the process that leads to a total restriction of the performative function (as in old perfects) and to its subsequent elimination (as in past tenses; cf. section 2.2). First, the performative qatal may be found in various biblical books. Second, it admits at least nineteen distinct verbs or roots. Third, it provides examples of verbs that belong to the five major groups of prototypical performatives. Put differently, one may encounter instances where expositive, exercitive, commissive, behabitive and verdictive predicates are used in the qatal forms with a corresponding performative force. This indicates, in turn, that the qatal is thus compatible with the entire variety of the performative speech act. Fourth, likewise non-prototypical performative verbs—i.e. predicates that do not belong to the previously mentioned classes—may be employed in the qatal form in order to perform activities and modify reality. Certainly, such cases are highly uncommon. Nevertheless, the sole fact that they do exist is worth noticing, for it shows that the performative ability of the gram has not been limited to exemplary performative verbs only. Consequently, we are empowered to affirm that the performative value of the qatal is neither unrestricted as it could be at the initial resultative proper stage, nor is it profoundly limited and anomalous; albeit seldom met with nonperformative predicates, it is still quite regular with performative verbs displaying examples of all five performative classes. Having stated this, a question arises of whether and how this partial weakening of the performative function of the BH qatal can be conciliated with the panchronic definition of the gram in terms of an advanced postresultative formation? The answer may again be provided by making use of the dynamic analysis. Namely, the synchronically attested deterioration of the availability to and propensity for being used in performative utterances stems from a profound grammaticalization of the construction and its advancement on the anterior path. Let us explain this statement in a detailed manner, first discussing the structural and subsequently semantic progression of the gram.

MAKING IT SOUND: THE PERFORMATIVE QATAL

217

3.3.1 PANCHRONIC ADVANCEMENT OF THE QATAL AND ITS IMPLICATION FOR THE PERFORMATIVE VALUE

Formal advancement As mentioned above, the original predicative resultative built upon the verbal adjective *qatVl—as still documented by the Akkadian parsāku—was an intransitive and, in the case of underlying transitive verbs, de-transitive formation. Namely, when the locution was derived from transitive verbs, the value was almost constantly passive. In such cases, the direct object of an underlying verb became the subject (patient) of the predicate while the transitive subject of the underlying verbal form was removed. Thus, the formation diverged from other conjugations such as the iprus, iparras or iptaras rejecting transitive uses and converging active transitive constructions into intransitive passive ones (on this universal behavior of resultatives in respect to valency, see again Nedjalkov 2001:929; cf. also section 3.2.2 above). In Biblical Hebrew, the qatal form, due to its profound grammaticalization and fientivization, ceased being a “divergent”—as the arrangement of verbal arguments is involved—verbal conjugation. In the Hebrew Bible, subjects and objects of the qatal coincide with subjects and objects expressed by other grams, such as the yiqtol, wayyiqtol or qotel. This means that the originally passive type of the archaic predicative resultative locution has been leveled to an active one, in accordance with the dominant verbal pattern. At this moment, the structure of arguments or the valency of a verb is identical to that which is displayed by all the remaining central verbal constructions. Put differently, the qatal lost its invariably intransitive and especially (when derived from transitive verbs) passive character. When this happened, the formation was likewise bereaved of the ability to be employed in an unrestricted manner with a performative force: it was no longer a predicative verbal resultative proper—an archetypal intransitive and, if possible, passive form. Thus, the readings such as (it is) overruled, done, arrested etc. ceased being possible. Now the gram meant he has overruled, he has done and he has arrested. The qatal acquired a dynamic (present) perfect function—it became an anterior gram. The beginnings of this change may already be observed in Akkadian where certain verbs derived the so-called transitive parsāku form. In such cases, a given underlying transitive verb offered two alternative formations, one intransitive passive (more original and still more typical) and another transitive in accordance with the argument structure encountered in the basic verb and in the remaining conjugations (Huehnergard 2005). It shall be noted that the phenomenon of leveling of the argument arrangement in original resultative grams is not typologically rare. Quite the reverse, it is

218

ALEXANDER ANDRASON

one of the most common changes that occur during the transformation of the resultative proper into a perfect (Nedjalkov 2001:928-929, 932, 937938). 43 Semantic advancement Also the regular, semantic advancement of the qatal harmonizes with a partial reduction of its performative sense. As previously stated, at the time of the biblical text, the qatal has reached the stage of a prototypical advanced anterior gram. It may be employed as a present perfect (including all of its subtypes such as inclusive, resultative, frequentative and experiential anterior) although the inclusive perfect meaning is significantly less prominent. It is also used as an indefinite and definite (in discourse and personal narration) past, as well as perfective and simple past. Thus, the meaning of the gram spanned almost the entire trajectory up to the simple past tense. Two spatial lacunae must however be noted: first, the qatal has not reached the stage of the narrative past tense (it is not used as a narrative past tense—a preterite) and second, the initial resultative proper value has been lost. Consequently, the stages on the anterior cline that correspond to these senses are not included in the semantic network of the gram. Typological studies teach us that in advanced anteriors—such as the BH qatal –, the ability to express a performative sense is greatly weakened, being usually restricted to verba dicendi and other prototypical performative predicates (cf. section 2.2 and especially 2.2.4 above). This is precisely what occurs in Biblical Hebrew. As a result, the weakening of the performative value of the qatal agrees with the typological nature of old perfects and in particular, the fact that the BH gram has lost its ability to convey resultative proper meaning. Consequently, as the majority of advanced perfects, the BH qatal ceased being a productive performative construction. The performative use is almost invariably limited to exemplary performative verbs. On the other hand, since the inclusive perfect value is still—although not very commonly—perceivable in the Hebrew Bible, it is not surprising that the performative sense remains quite regular within the class of such prototypically performative verbs, being even occasionally encountered with non-performative predicates.

It may, for instance, be encountered in certain Italian dialects or in Macedonian (Dahl 2000). 43

MAKING IT SOUND: THE PERFORMATIVE QATAL

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3.3.2 POSTERIOR INCREASE IN THE ADVANCEMENT AND ITS IMPLICATION FOR THE PERFORMATIVE QATAL Posterior diachronic development of the suffix conjugation in Rabbinic and Modern Hebrew and particularly the fate of the performative function itself confirm our rationalization of the performative qatal and its properties. In Rabbinic Hebrew (RH), the qatal form greatly advanced on the anterior path. It became a narrative past form, although still preserving various perfect uses. As a profoundly advanced anterior—a very old perfect—the ability to convey a performative sense has been importantly weakened. The performative qatal may only be found in a few doubtful cases and always with prototypical performative predicates (cf. Mishor 1983:36 and Pérez 1992:186). As correctly observed by Rogland (2002:128), the performative qatal has almost disappeared in the Mishnaic period.

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m. B. Qam. 1.2

‫כל שחבתי בשמירתו הכשרתי את נזקו‬ De todo lo que me he obligado a custodiar, me responsabilizo de su daño (Pérez 1992:183) This loss is even more evident in Modern Hebrew (MH), 44 where the gram does not convey the performative value at all, even with prototypically performative roots. In Modern Hebrew, the qatal form is employed either as a dynamic perfect or as a past. According to Glinert (2005:35) and Amir Coffin & Bolozky (2005:38), it can function as a present perfect (I have got up), a perfective past (I got up), an imperfective (i.e. progressive and continuous) past (I was getting up) and a pluperfect (I had got up). It is a narrative past tense per excellence. Moreover, as far as the perfect taxis 627F

Although Modern Hebrew is historically and sociologically disconnected from Biblical and Rabbinic varieties, in the present paper, it treated as a linguistic object that systematically reflects more advanced stages of processes which have been identified in these two older languages. In fact, even though some consider Modern Hebrew a creolized language with Slavic and Germanic substrates (Blanc 1968 and Wexler 1991), its validity for the panchronic view remains solid and untouched. In general terms, pidgins, creoles and koinés commonly display a more advanced and more drastic functional development than their superstrate inputs (Croft 2003 y Holm 1988) and thus, may be employed to demonstrate the soundness of the explanation proposed for their original linguistic source (Andrason 2008:121-140, 2010a:47-49). The genetic relation of the Modern Hebrew with the Semitic family has been defended by Rosen (1977:24) and SáenzBadillos (1996:277). 44

220

ALEXANDER ANDRASON

domain is concerned, it shall be noted that the value of an inclusive anterior is expressed in Modern Hebrew by the present tense qotel rather than by the qatal. Inversely, this signifies that the MH qatal’s semantic map does not include any more the space reserved for the inclusive perfect. Consequently, it is not surprising that the qatal has lost any performative capacity: being a profoundly advanced old perfect with the inclusive perfect domain removed from its semantics, it would indeed be typologically implausible if the gram could be employed to overtly perform speech acts.

4. CONCLUSION 4.1. PRINCIPAL RESULTS OF THE STUDY In the previous sections, we have demonstrated that the enigma of the performative qatal may be successfully solved. Namely, in accordance with our research objectives, we have shown that this function is fully compatible with the remaining components of the semantic load offered by the suffix conjugation. First, having admitted that the meaning of a verbal gram equals a network of senses the construction can display; that such senses are obligatory related; and finally that mapping which links the network’s constituents reflects a diachronic progression codified in a model of linear paths, we assumed that a certain path-network shall likewise account for the qatal and its performative value. Since the qatal had been defined as a manifestation of a prototypical anterior trajectory—and thus its semantic potential spatially portrayed as a portion of the anterior path –, we have hypothesized that the anterior cline must per definitione accommodate the performative sense. We have begun the corroboration of this postulate by demonstrating that the performative meaning is related to grams classified as manifestations of the anterior path. Most importantly, we have specified the exact location of the performative value-stage on the trajectory: it is situated following the resultative proper stage and preceding the resultative perfect phase, right after the inclusive perfect phase. We have also observed that with the progress along the anterior path, the capacity of an originally resultative gram to convey the performative meaning diminishes: it is unrestricted and productive in resultative proper grams, non-productive and limited to prototypical performative verbs in young and, especially, old perfects, and finally missing in past tenses. Once the location of the performative sense-stage has been determined within the panchronic network of values displayed by resultatives and their descendants (i.e. on the anterior path), we have

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introduced the most relevant examples of the performative qatal in the Hebrew Bible. This inventory of cases has shown that the performative use of the qatal, although certainly less common than other senses (e.g. perfect and past values), is not extremely odd or rare. It can be detected in various books of the Bible being represented by at least nineteen different verbs or roots. Moreover, our evidence has demonstrated that the five main categories of prototypical performative verbs (i.e. expositives, exercitive, commissive, behabitive and verdictive) may still be found in the biblical material. Additionally, in very few cases, other non-exemplary performative predicates appear in the qatal form with a performative force. Next, employing the previously established linear representation for the polysemy of resultatives and their successors, and thus keeping in mind the exact location of the performative value on the anterior path, we have demonstrated that the performative qatal may be fully harmonized with the remaining semantic potential of the gram. Since several values of the qatal can be spatially portrayed as stages of the anterior path, and since this path presupposes a segment reserved for the performative sense, likewise the performative use of the BH suffix conjugation may logically be accommodated within the same type of spatial mapping, i.e. within the anterior trajectory. Consequently, the performative value receives its “place” in the meaning of the gram or in the network of senses displayed by the formation and connected by the panchronic mapping. This rationalization of the performative value of the qatal has furthermore been substantiated by certain diachronic facts and their typological interpretations. First, we have observed that the BH suffix conjugation is a descendant of the PS *qatal- formation, which itself was built on a formally analogical verbal adjective *qatVl employed in the predicative function. Such locutions naturally favor an unrestricted performative use. Second, in cases of underlying transitive verbs, the PS gram originally showed a de-transitive force approximating the statal present passive. Again, this category is extensively used for performative purposes in the world’s languages. Furthermore, we have shown that the properties of the performative qatal entirely harmonize with the qatal defined as an advanced portion of the anterior path. Being an old perfect, the gram displays a regular weakening of the performative sense. This phenomenon has its roots in a profound grammaticalization of the construction and advancement on the anterior trajectory. As for the former growth, the formation modified its argument structure losing an invariably intransitive and (when derived from transitive verbs) passive character. This change eliminated an unrestrictive ability of the qatal —now an active and (when possible) transitive construction—to

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appear in a performative function. The gram ceased being a predicative verbal resultative proper—a category similar to the statal-passive, highly productive for performatives—and became a dynamic perfect. As for the latter development, the semantic advancement of the qatal triggered further limitations in its performative use. At the biblical time, the formation reached the stage of a prototypical old anterior, being even admissible as a definite discursive past. Thus, its meaning spanned almost the entire trajectory with the exception of the initial resultative proper value and the terminal narrative past stages. In accordance with the typological universal tendency, whereby advanced perfects cease being productive performative constructions, the performative use of the qatal is almost invariably limited to exemplary performative verbs. However, we have emphasized that the performative qatal remains relatively regular with such prototypically performative predicates (all the five performative classes are represented), being even found with non-performative verbs. We affirmed that this nontotal rareness of the performative qatal stems from the fact that the inclusive perfect sense (typologically linked to the performative value) is still—although not very frequently—available in Biblical Hebrew. Finally, posterior diachronic development of the qatal in Rabbinic and Modern Hebrew confirmed the above-formulated statements. As the qatal progressed on the anterior path, the performative use became extremely sporadic in the Rabbinic variety, entirely disappearing in Modern Hebrew. Summa summarum, we have demonstrated that the performative qatal is a logical well-balanced and, even, expected component of the meaning of the qatal. It may be fully rationalized and harmonized with the remaining senses of the gram, if we use the anterior path model as an instrument for charting of senses displayed by the suffix conjugation.

4.2. “BYPRODUCTS” OF THE RESEARCH Our study has not only provided a harmonization of the entire semantic potential of the qatal, conciliating the performative use with other values, but also offers valuable typological discoveries—or confirmation and further refinement of certain typological principles already observed –, presenting rules that govern the emergence, distribution and development of the performative sense in originally resultative grams and their successors. First, our research confirmed the relation between resultatives and perfects, on the one hand, and the performative sense on the other. However, we have greatly improved the explanatory model for this wellknown typological fact, showing that the performative force is gradually weakened with advancement on the anterior path and that it corresponds to

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one of the original stages of the anterior path. As for the former statement, we have detect the following tendency: resultatives proper grams are common and productive in performative utterances; young perfects cease being productive (viz. the performative function is limited to prototypical performative verbs); old perfects, entirely unproductive, display further reduction in the performative use (sometimes to the degree that the performative value vanishes); and finally, exclusive past tenses systematically fail to be used in performative utterances. This evolutionary trend has also been corroborated by the nature of the performative qatal —as expected for advanced old perfects the performative use is generally restricted to prototypical performative verbs. As for the former proposition, we have located the performative segment on the anterior path immediately after the resultative proper and inclusive perfect stages and right before the resultative perfect phase. Second, we have introduced new data suggesting that the loss or weakening of the performative value may likewise be connected to the availability of the inclusive perfect value. In accordance with this tendency, although the resultative proper sense is lost, a gram may still express a performative value (even quite commonly when derived from prototypical performative verbs) under the condition that the inclusive perfect sense remains preserved. Again, this typological propensity is supported by the characteristics offered by the qatal: at the biblical period, the gram conserved the inclusive perfect value and thus maintained a limited (but not extremely rare) performative sense. Later, when the inclusive meaning was deteriorated and lost—as in Rabbinic and Modern Hebrew –, the performative perfect qatal similarly dwindled and finally vanished. And third, we have introduced further evidence confirming the connection between the ability to convey the performative value and the intransitive or de-transitive (in case of underlying transitive verbs) nature of original resultative proper grams. In accordance with this principle, we have observed that the re-modification of the argument structure of the qatal has led to the situation where the gram was inadmissible in the function of a statal passive. When this happened, equaling a dynamic perfect, the formation lost the capacity to be employed in an unrestricted manner with a performative force, as is typically observed with statal passives.

4.3. LOOKING TOWARDS FUTURE Although the objectives of our research have been achieved, this article did not respond to all questions related to the performative qatal. Most importantly, a comprehensive empirical study must be undertaken whereby—using the canonical understanding of performatives as

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established by Austin (1962) and confirmed by Dahl (2008)—all possible cases of the performative qatal would be detected. This means that a complete review of all instances where the qatal appears with the performative force in the Hebrew Bible—thus, examples that greatly surpass the “classical” set of verba dicendi—must be compiled. This empirical study is crucial not only because of its obvious benefit—i.e. it will bestow grammarians and translators with a comprehensive inventory of the performative qatal forms –, but also due to its relevance for solving other, still uncertain, issues. First, it will show the precise weight (i.e. frequency) of the performative qatal as compared to other senses conveyed by the suffix conjugation as well as in relation to the overall semantic potential of the gram. Second, it will determine the exact incidence of different performative subtypes (expositive, exercitive, commissive, behabitive and verdictive), specifying those uses that are typical (frequent) and those that are rare (infrequent). Third, it will profile the distribution of the performative sense of the suffix conjugation in different books of the Bible, demonstrating its—similar or dissimilar—behavior in Early Biblical Hebrew, Biblical Hebrew and Late Biblical Hebrew. Additionally, a comprehensive research endeavor shall be undertaken in respect to the relations between cognates of the BH qatal in other Semitic languages and the performative function. All of these research imperatives will necessarily constitute priorities in the forthcoming academic activities of the author.

REFERENCES Aikhenvald, A. 2004. Evidentiality. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Andersen, D. 2000. The Evolution of the Hebrew Verbal System.Zeitschrift fur Althebraistik 13: 1-66. Andrason, A. 2008. The BÚNA construction in Pidgin Icelandic. Íslenskt mál 30: 121-140. . 2010a. The panchronic yiqtol. Functionally consistent and cognitively plausible. Journal of Hebrew Scriptures, 10/10: 1-63. . 2010b. The “guessing” QATAL—the BH suffix conjugation as a manifestation of the evidential trajectory. Journal for Semitics 19/2: 603-627. . 2010c. The Akkadian Iprus from the unidirectional perspective. Journal of Semitic Studies 55/2: 325-345. . 2011a. Qatal, yiqtol, weqatal y wayyiqtol. Modelo pancrónico del sistema verbal de la lengua hebrea bíblica con el análisis adicional de los sistemas verbales de las lenguas acadia y árabe. Madrid: Publicaciones de Universidad Complutense.

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. 2011b. The Biblical Hebrew verbal system in light of grammaticalization—the second generation. Hebrew Studies 52: 19-51. . 2011c. The BH weqatal. A homogenous form with no haphazard functions. Part 1. Journal of Northwest Semitic Languages 37/2: 1-25. . 2011d. The Biblical Hebrew Wayyiqtol—a dynamic definition. Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 11/7: 1-50. . 2012a. The BH weqatal. A homogenous form with no haphazard functions. Part 2. Journal of Northwest Semitic Languages 38/1: 1-30. . 2012b (in review). The meaning of the YE constructions in Basse Mandinka. . forthcoming. Thermodynamic model of the Biblical Hebrew verbal system. In Grammaticalisation in Semitic. Journal of Semitic Studies Supplement Series, ed. D. Eades. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Austin, J. L. 1962. How to Do Things with Words Oxford: Clarendon Press. Bergstrasser, G.—P. T. Daniels. 1983. Introduction to the Semitic languages: text specimens and grammatical sketches (Transl. with notes and bibliography and an appendix on the scripts by Peter T. Daniels). Winona Lake, Indiana: Eisenbrauns. Bibzin, H. 1974. Die ‘Tempora’ im Hiobdialog. (PhD dissertation. PhilippsUniversität Marburg) Marburg, Lahn: Görich & Weiershäuser. Blanc, H. 1968. The Israeli Koiné as an Emergent National Standard. Pp. 237-252 in Language Problems in Developing Nations, eds. J. A. Fishman et al. New York: Willey & Sons. Bubenik, V. 1998. Grammatical and lexical aspect in Akkadian and ProtoSemitic. Pp. 41-56 in Historical Linguistics 1997, eds. M. Schmid, J. Austin, & D. Stein. Amsterdam, Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Bublitz, W. 2009. Englische Pragmatik—Eine Einführung. Berlin: Erich Schmidt. Bybee, J., R. Perkins, & W. Pagliuca. 1994. The Evolution of Grammar. Chicago, London: The University of Chicago Press. Cancik-Kirschbaum, E. C. 1996. Die mittelassyrischen Briefe aus Tall Šēḫ Ḥamad. BATSH 4, Texte 1. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer Verlag. Coffin, E. A. & S. Bolozky. 2005. A Reference Grammar of Modern Hebrew. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cook, J. 2002. The Biblical Hebrew Verbal System: A Grammaticalization Approach. (PhD dissertation. Department of Hebrew and Semitic Studies, University of Wisconsin-Madison) Corriente, F. 1988. Gramática árabe. Barcelona: Editorial Herder. Croft, W. 2003. Typology and Universals. 2nd ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Dahl, E. 2008. Performative Sentences and the Morphosyntax-Semantics Interface in Archaic Vedic. Journal of South Asian Literature 1/1: 727. Dahl, Ö. 2000a. The Tense and Aspect Systems of European Languages in a Typological Perspective. Pp. 3.–25 in Tense and Aspect in the Languages of Europe, ed. Ö. Dahl. Berlin, New York: Mouton de Gruyter. (ed.). 2000b. Tense and Aspect in the Languages of Europe. Berlin, New York: Mouton de Gruyter. Danecki, J. 1994. Gramatyka języka arabskiego. Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Akademickie Dialog. Davidson, A. B. 1902. Hebrew Syntax. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. Denz, A. 1982-1992. Die Struktur des Klassischen Arabisch. Pp. 58-82 in Grundriß der Arabischen Philologie. Band 1, ed. W. Fischer. Wiesbaden: Reichert. Driver, S. R. 1892. A treatise on the use of the tenses in Hebrew and some other syntactical problems. Oxford: Clarendon. Eskhult, M. 1990. Studies in Verbal Aspect and qarrative Technique in Biblical Hebrew Prose. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell. Evans, V. & M. Green. 2006. Cognitive linguistics: an introduction. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Francis, A. L. & H. F. Tatum. 1919. An Advanced Latin Syntax. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gentry, J. 1998. The System of the Finite Verb in Classical Biblical Hebrew. Hebrew Studies 39: 7-39. Gesenius, W., E. Kautsch, & A. Cowley. 1909. Gesenius’ Hebrew Grammar. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Glinert, L. 2005. The Grammar of Modern Hebrew. New York & London: Routledge. Greenberg, J. 1978. Diachrony, synchrony and language universals. Pp. 6192 in Universals of human language, eds. J. Greenberg, C. Ferguson, & E. Moravcsik. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Greenough, J. B. et al. 1903/1983. Allen and Greenough’s New Latin Grammar. New Rochelle, New York: Aristide D. Caratzas Publisher. Grevisse, M. 1975. Le bon usage. Gembloux: Duculot. Haspelmath, M. 1994. Passive Participles across Languages. Pp. 151-177 in Voice: Form and Function, eds. B. A. Fox & P. J. Hopper. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Haywood, J. A. & H. M. Nahmad. 1965. A new Arabic grammar. London: Lund Humphries.

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Heine, B., Claudi, U., & Hünnemeyer, F. 1991. Grammaticalization. A Conceptual Framework. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Heine, B. & T. Kuteva. 2007. The Genesis of Grammar: a Reconstruction. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hendel, R. S. 1996. In the Margins of the Hebrew Verbal System: Situation, Tense, Aspect, Mood. Zeitschrift für Althebraistik 9: 152–81. Hillers D. R. 1995. Some Performative Utterances in the Bible. Pp. 757-766 in Pomegranates and Golden Bells: Studies in Biblical, Jewish, and Near Eastern Ritual, Law, and Literature in Honor of Jacob Milgrom, eds. Wright, Freedman and Hurvitz. WinonaLake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Holm, J. 1988. Pidgins and Creoles. Vol. 1. Theory and Structure. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hopper, P. & E. Traugott. 2003. Grammaticalization. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Huehnergard, J. 1987. Stative, Predicative Form, Pseudo-Verb. Journal of Near Eastern Studies 46/3: 215-232. . 2005. A Grammar of Akkadian. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Isaksson, B. 1987. Studies in the Language of Qoholeth, with Special Emphasis on the Verbal System. Uppsala: Uppsala University. Jenni, E. 1978, Lehrbuch der hebräischen Sprache des Alten Testaments. Basel, Stuttgart: Helbing & Lichtenhavn. Jónsson, J. G. 1992. The Two Perfects of Icelandic. Íslenskt mál 14: 129145. Joosten, J. 1989. The Predicative Participle in Biblical Hebrew. Zeitschrift fur Althebraistik 2: 128-159. Joüon, P. 1923. Grammaire de l’hébreu biblique. Roma: Institute Biblique Pontifical. Joüon, P.—T. Muraoka. 2009. A Grammar of Biblical Hebrew. Roma: Gregorian & Biblical Press. Kienast, B. 2001. Historische Semitische Sprachwissenschaft. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag. Kozłowska, J. 1996. Gramatyka języka arabskiego. Ćwiczenia. Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Akademickie Dialog. Lakoff, G. 1987. Women, fire, and dangerous things: What categories reveal about the mind. Chicago: University of Chicago. Lambdin, T. O. & J. Huehnergard. 1998. The Historical Grammar of Classical Hebrew: An Outline (Cambridge: Unpublished course handout). Leong, T. F. 1994. Tense, Mood and Aspect in Old Babylonian. (PhD dissertation. University of California, Los Angeles)

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THE MORPHOLOGY OF THE TG-STEM IN HEBREW AND T IRGALTÎ IN HOS 11:3* JEREMY M. HUTTON

UNIV. OF WISCONSIN MADISON

SAFWAT MARZOUK

ASSOCIATED MENNONITE BIBLICAL SEMINARY

*This paper is a thorough revision and elaboration of a paper originally submitted by Dr. Marzouk as partial fulfillment of coursework under Dr. Hutton at Princeton Theological Seminary. The authors are indebted to several individuals, all of whom provided assistance of some sort: Professors Aaron Rubin and Gary Rendsburg provided a number of helpful comments; Rubin also allowed access to his library. Professor John Huehnergard graciously provided access to his personal bibliography of articles on the t-stems in Semitic, of which we hope to have made good—but judicious!—use. Two research assistants from two different institutions (Princeton Theological Seminary and the University of Wisconsin-Madison) collected and sifted relevant data; these are Dr. Robin McCall (PTS) and Mr. Kevin Mattison (UW). This paper is one of three related studies. Hutton has recently published a morphological study, with which much of the text of section II.c here overlaps, as: Jeremy M. Hutton, “A Morphosyntactic Explanation of təpôṣôtîkem (Jer 25:34),” in R. Hasselbach and N. Pat-El (eds.), Language and Nature: Papers Presented to John Huehnergard on the Occasion of His 60th Birthday (Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization, 67; Chicago: The Oriental Institute, 2012), 151–69. It is with the permission of the Oriental Institute (especially the managing editor of the publication unit, Thomas G. Urban) that text originally published there has been reused. Additionally, Hutton plans to publish a semantic investigation of the lexeme under investigation here under the title “The Meaning of tirgaltî in Hos 11:3: A Cognitive Grammar Approach.”

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JEREMY M. HUTTON AND SAFWAT MARZOUK

The Masoretic Text (MT) of Hos 11:3a reads ‫וְ ָאנ ִֹכי ִת ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי ְל ֶא ְפ ַריִ ם ָק ָחם‬ ‫ﬠל־זְ רוֹע ָֹתיו‬. ַ Although the entire verse is difficult, the form and meaning of the word ‫( ִתּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬tirgaltî) has been especially problematic for interpreters from the beginning of attempts to translate the passage.1 These difficulties emerge from the morphological peculiarities of the word, as well as from the lexicographic difficulties it presents. The present article proceeds from the conviction that an adequate solution to the second problem— lexicography—requires a sufficiently comprehensive answer to the first problem—morphology. Unfortunately, although we remain optimistic that a lexicological answer to the questionable semantic field of the word ‫ִתּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬ may eventually be given, such an explanation cannot be made without significant exegetical elaboration, space for which is unavailable in the confines of the present article. Therefore, the explicit goal of the present article is to propose a solution to the former problem—the morphology of ‫תּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬.ִ In the present study, we will clarify the morphological development undergone by the form ‫תּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬.ִ The peculiarities of the word’s development will lead to several conclusions concerning the linguistic context in which Hos 11:3 was written. We trace the word to a tG-stem form, comparable to the Aramaic hitpeʿel or itpeʿel. We argue that the form has been conditioned by its morphosyntactic environment and therefore does not exhibit some of the expected hallmarks of such forms, such as the prefixed ‫ה‬. This analysis provides some degree of confirmation that northern (i.e., Israelian) Hebrew (IH) 2 contained a semi-productive tG-stem. 3 Yet before the morphological 629F

630F

631F

A.A. Macintosh provides a valuable survey of the literature, presented here in abbreviated form (A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Hosea [ICC, 28B; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1997], 442–43, 445). 2 For the concept of “Israelian Hebrew” as distinct from the Judahite Hebrew that later became the predominant dialect represented in the Hebrew Bible, see, e.g., G.A. Rendsburg, Israelian Hebrew in the Book of Kings (Occasional Publications of the Department of Near Eastern Studies and the Program of Jewish Studies, Cornell University, 5; Bethesda, Md.: CDL, 2002), 17. Concerning IH, Rendsburg states: “this is most likely a dialect cluster, incorporating a variety of dialects such as Ephraimite Hebrew, Transjordanian Hebrew, and Galilean Hebrew. In general, we do not possess the quantity of data necessary to make such small distinctions, so we content ourselves with the umbrella term IH, recognizing it as the polar contrast to JH [Judahite Hebrew]” (ibid.). 3 By “semi-productive” we intend to indicate a grammatical form that, when analyzed synchronically, is used in new formulations and compositions (i.e., is productive), while at the same time, when viewed diachronically, is in the process of becoming vestigial. Because the tG-stem was used in a variety of forms and with at least five different verbal roots (see below, section II.c), it seems as though the 1

MORPHOLOGY OF THE TG STEM IN HEBREW & TIRGALTÎ

233

analysis of ‫ ִתּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬may begin, a brief preliminary discussion of traditional interpretations of Hos 11:3 is necessary.

I. EARLIER INTERPRETATIONS The LXXB offers the apparently enigmatic συνεπόδισα, “I bound the feet [of Ephraim]” in its rendering of Hos 11:3a. Similarly, the Syro-Hexapla renders wʾnʾ pkrt lʾprym “I bound Ephraim.” The Greek verb συμποδίζω renders several Hebrew and Aramaic verbs throughout the LXX. In LXX Ps 17:40; 19:9; 77:31 [=MT 18:40; 20:9; 78:31], συμποδίζω is a translation of the Hebrew verb ‫“ כרע‬to bow down.” In Prov 20:11, it is a translation of the hitpaʿel of the Hebrew verb ‫נכר‬, meaning “to make oneself known” or “to be recognized.” In Zech 13:3, this same verb translates the Hebrew verb ‫“ דקר‬to pierce”; here the LXX translation has the effect of mitigating the punishment of the false prophet. None of these glosses provide an overwhelmingly sensible translation of Hos 11:3. However, in two clear cases συμποδίζω renders Hebrew or Aramaic words meaning “to bind”: the Aramaic ‫ כפת‬in Dan 3:20, 21, 23 (and in the LXX plus in v. 22), and the Hebrew verb ‫“ עקד‬to bind” in the LXXB of Gen 22:9. Other ancient witnesses translate the word much differently. For example, the Vulgate renders et ego quasi nutritius ephraim “and I was like a nurse/tutor to Ephraim.” Along similar lines, Symmachus rendered ‫ ִתּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬with ἐπαιδαγώγουν “I trained, nurtured,” which seems to have been a rather liberal way of translating within the same semantic field utilized by Jerome. It is not entirely clear, however, what the semantic field “to bind” might have to do with “being a nurse.” Early in the religious tradition’s transmission history, interpretive attempts were made to unite these two glosses, “to bind” and “to be a nurse.” For example, St. Cyril of Alexandria (early-5th century CE) argued that [t]he comparison comes from what is done in the case of children: people picking up small babies in their hands bind them together [συμποδίζουσιν αὐτὰ], as it were, by holding their feet together. As I see it, everyone sitting down has to close their thighs and knees, which is the meaning of I bound together [συνεπόδισα], as is also recorded of stem was productive in northern Hebrew for at least part of the biblical period (until ca. 600 BCE). However, the rarity of the stem as it may be traced in Biblical Hebrew, combined with the clear indications that the stem was not recognized by the Masoretes as independent of the hitpaʿel, suggests that the tG-stem was already becoming vestigial—if not entirely so—by the time of the closure of the Hebrew canon.

234

JEREMY M. HUTTON AND SAFWAT MARZOUK Abraham, that he bound together [συνεπόδισεν] his son Isaac when he was expecting to sacrifice him to God. Now, you should know that the Hebrews and even the other translators do not have the word bound together [συνεπόδισα], saying instead, “I was like a nurse to Ephraim.” 4

While this is a noble attempt to bridge the gaps between the competing interpretations, and one with much to recommend it, it does not provide an adequately sophisticated rationale for its lexicographic interpretation, translating instead on the basis of context. In the twentieth century, N.H. Tur-Sinai sought to bolster this combined “binding-nursing” interpretation by adducing Akk. tarkullu as a cognate of ‫תּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬.ִ 5 This cross-Semitic comparison, he argued, suggested that Heb. ‫ ִתּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬indicated the binding of a baby in diapers. Unfortunately, the comparison is not compelling, because both AHw and CAD analyze the word tarkullu as a Sumerian loan, glossing “mooring post.” 6 Without the strong Semitic etymology based on the root √‫רגל‬, LXX’s translation with a specific type of “foot-” or “leg-binding” falls through, and the comparison loses its persuasiveness. 7 The other ancient witnesses are equally interpretive to those already mentioned. Theodotian renders κατὰ πόδας “I was at the heels of [Ephraim],” but this reading is exegetically difficult, and does not provide especially good sense in a context of parental care. Tg. Jon. reads ‫ַו ֲאנָא‬ ‫אוֹרח ָת ְקנָ א יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬ ַ ‫לאך ְשׁ ִליַ ח ִמן ֳק ָד ַמי ַד ַב ִרית ְב‬ ַ ‫“ ְב ַמ‬and I, with a messenger whom I sent, led Israel on the right path.” 8 The Peshiṭta glosses more mundanely, wʾnʾ dbrt lʾprym “I led Ephraim.” While all three translations preserve the self-evidently podiatric connotations of the verbal root √‫—רגל‬ if only implicitly—none provide a clear and overwhelming interpretation of the word ‫תּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬.ִ 63F

634F

635F

63F

4 St. Cyril, Comm. XII Proph (PG 71:158b); for this translation, see R.C. Hill, St. Cyril of Alexandria: Commentary on the Twelve Prophets. Vol. 1 (FC;

Washington D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 2007), 212; we have inserted the original Greek ourselves. Compare especially the use of συμποδίζω to render Heb. ‫עקד‬, a translation equivalent mentioned above. 5 N.H. Tur-Sinai, The Plain Meaning of the Bible (Jerusalem: Kiryath Sepher, 1967), 3/2:431 (Hebrew); see also E. Ben Yehuda, Thesaurus totius hebraitatis et veteris et recentioris (Berlin: Langenscheidt, 1908–59), 7897 n. 2. 6 CAD 18[T]:236; cf. “Haltepflock” given in AHw, 1330. 7 Compare also Macintosh, Hosea, 443. 8 Here and below we cite the Aramaic translation of Tg. Jon. from A. Sperber, The Bible in Aramaic (3 vols. in one; Leiden: Brill, 2004), replacing the Babylonian pointing of the original with their Tiberian equivalents for ease of recognition.

MORPHOLOGY OF THE TG STEM IN HEBREW & TIRGALTÎ

235

Subsequent scholarship has fared little better in its interpretation of the passage. Ibn Janāḥ, a Medieval Jewish grammarian (early 11th century CE), provided two different meanings for the word, both proceeding from the assumption that the form was used in place of the causative ‫הרגלתי‬: “to be accustomed to” and “to lift up.” 9 With respect to the first, “this expression is in accordance with the ancestors’ description of the one who is accustomed to things as ‫ ;רגיל‬therefore, the translation of the phrase is ‘I made ‫ אפרים‬accustomed [to the fact that] I would take them on my arm’.” 10 However, after an explanation of the reading ‫זְ רוֹע ַֹתי‬, rather than MT’s ‫זְ רוֹע ָֹתיו‬, ibn Janāḥ suggested, 637F

638F

perhaps the meaning of ‫ תרגלתי‬is “I lifted up”; thus its translation is “I lifted up ‫אפרים‬, taking them upon my arm,” that is to say, “I lifted their feet up off the ground,” in the sense of [Exod. 19:4] ‫על־כנפי נשרים‬ ‫ואשא אתכם‬. This harmonizes with the expression of the Arabs tarajjala an-nahar, that is, means “[the daylight] has advanced”; the taʾ in both cases is used in place of haʾ, therefore, the form is tantamount to ‫הרגלתי‬.

Earlier, Jerome had made a similar observation with reference to Deut 1:31 and 32:11, probably leading to the Vulgate’s translation. 11 Ibn Janāḥ was joined in his assessment that ‫ ִתּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬was used in place of a hipʿil form by Rashi and ibn Ezra, each of whom advocated a translation of ‫ ִתּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬as “I 639F

Abu ’l-Walîd Marwân ibn Janāḥ, The Book of Hebrew Roots (ed. A. Neubauer; Oxford: Clarendon, 1875), 664. 10 We provide here Marzouk’s translation from the Arabic. See J. Buxtorf, Lexicon hebraicum et chaldaicum (Basil: König, 1663), 713: Assuefeci Ephraimum; and A. Schultens, Institutiones ad fundamenta linguae hebraeae (2nd ed.; Leiden: Luzac, 1756), 313. More recently, M. Jastrow has offered the translations: nipʿal “to be wont to”; hipʿil 2 “to make familiar, to accustom”; hipʿil 3 “to lead, to persuade”; and ‫ רגל‬afʿel “to lead, to accustom”; ithpaʿal “to accustom one’s self, make it a habit” (A Dictionary of the Targumim, the Talmud Babli and Yerushalmi, and the Midrashic Literature [New York: Judaica Press, 1971], 1448–49, s.v. ‫)רגל‬. Macintosh followed this understanding of ‫( ִתּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬Hosea, 441–42): “I applied myself assiduously”; but contrast the alternate explanation of the root’s development given by M.A. Zipor, “Talebearers, Peddlers, Spies, and Converts: The Adventures of the Biblical and Post-biblical Roots ‫ רג״ל‬and ‫רכ״ל‬,” HS 46 (2005), 138–144. Professor Gary Rendsburg has suggested to us (personal communication) that the semantic development of the root ‫ רגל‬in Mishnaic and later forms of Hebrew was most likely influenced by the Latin regula, and would therefore not be pertinent to the present investigation. 11 Macintosh, Hosea, 442. 9

236

JEREMY M. HUTTON AND SAFWAT MARZOUK

taught to walk.” 12 Modern translators and commentators have generally followed the suggestions of these Medieval grammarians. 13 A survey of modern English translations shows that this causative sense of the word has become pervasive,14 and indeed most modern commentators gloss the verb along similar lines.15 These early and modern interpreters have in common For Rashi’s work, see H. Englander, “A Commentary on Rashi’s Grammatical Comments,” HUCA 17 (1942–1943), 427–98 (473). For ibn Ezra, see Macintosh, Hosea, 442. Cf. David Kimchi, who, with his brother Moses, preferred to interpret the word as a noun on analogy with ‫“ ִתּ ְפ ַא ְר ִתּי‬my beauty”; W. Chomsky, David Ḳimḥi’s Hebrew Grammar (Mikhlol) (Philadelphia: Dropsie College for Hebrew and Cognate Learning, 1933), 90 §25e. 12

Cf., however, M.D. Goldman’s proposal that the verb is a “rare causative” form with a root cognate to Arab. √RĞL “to allow to suck its mother,” compared (speciously) to Num 11:12, and meaning “to suckle” (“The Real Interpretation of Os 11,3,” AusBR 4 [1954–1955], 91–92; also see ThWAT, 7:343). Contrast Rudolph and Macintosh, who argue against this proposal, in light of the verb’s primary usage for animals, and only improbably for humans; W. Rudolph, Hosea (KAT; Stuttgart: Mohn, 1966), 209 n. 3; Macintosh, Hosea, 443. 13

14 See, e.g., KJV: “I taught Ephraim also to go”; ASV: “Yet I taught Ephraim to walk”; NIV: “It was I who taught Ephraim to walk”; NJB: “I myself taught Ephraim to walk”; RSV: “Yet it was I who taught Ephraim to walk”; NRSV: “Yet it was I who taught Ephraim to walk”; JPS: “And I, I taught Ephraim to walk”; cf. the anomalous TNK: “I have pampered Ephraim.” 15 See, e.g., Schultens, Institutiones, 314; GKC, 153 §55h; J. Olshausen, Lehrbuch der hebräischen Sprache (Braunschweig: Friedrich Vieweg & Sohn, 1861), 556 §255a; H. Ewald, Ausführliches Lehrbuch der Hebräischen Sprache des alten Bundes (Göttingen: Dieterich, 1870), 320 §122; B. Stade, Lehrbuch der hebräischen Grammatik (Leipzig: Vogel, 1879), 122 §159b; W.H. Green, A Grammar of the Hebrew Language (rev. ed., New York: Wiley & Sons, 1889), 129 §94a; E. König, Lehrgebäude der hebräischen Sprache (3 vols.; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1881–1897), 3:380; BDB, 920a, s.v. ‫ רגל‬tipʿel; Englander, “Commentary,” 473; Rudolph, Hosea, 208; L.M. Kuriakos, Non-Paradigmatic Forms of Weak Verbs in Masoretic Hebrew (Quilon, Kerala State, India: Assisi Press, 1973), 121; H.W. Wolff, Hosea. A Commentary on the Book of the Prophet Hosea (trans. G. Stansell; Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1974), 191; W. Kuhnigk, Nordwestsemitische Studien zum Hoseabuch (Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1974), 126; A. Szabó, “Textual Problems in Amos and Hosea,” VT 25 (1975), 500– 24 (524); J.L.R. Melnyk, “When Israel Was a Child: Ancient Near Eastern Adoption Formulas and the Relationship Between God and Israel,” in M.P. Graham, W.P. Brown, and J.K. Kuan (eds.), History and Interpretation: Essays in Honor of John

MORPHOLOGY OF THE TG STEM IN HEBREW & TIRGALTÎ

237

their understanding of ‫ ִתּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬as a verbal form derived from some sort of oddly affixed stem tipʿel. Despite the overwhelming number of commentators who hold to this consensus view, several other interpreters have dissented, calling the verbal form a denominative verb, that is, a verb derived secondarily (i.e., verbalized) from an established nominal form. 16 English examples of denominative verbs would include “to chair (a meeting),” “to table (a resolution),” and “to critique (a paper).” These scholars may be divided roughly into two groups, distinguished by the respective semantic fields they attribute to the verb. The first group, led by J. Barth, apparently continues to gloss the verb causatively (which occasions his proposed translation “ich habe gegängelt?” [“I treated like a child”]), but apparently draws that connotation from the context rather than from any particular semantic addition occasioned by the t-prefix. 17 Here and elsewhere, Barth accounts for this word as a denominative verb formed from a t-preformative noun, claiming that the divergent semantic values of the proposed t-prefixed verbal root as indicating both reflexive and causative modulations of the verbal root negates the possibility of that verbal proposal.18 The second group, which includes many Hebrew grammarians, argues for a denominative origin of the word ‫ ִתּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬having to do with “leading.” 19 Prominent within this group are F.I. Andersen and D.N. 64F

645F

64F

647F

H. Hayes (JSOTSup, 173; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993), 245–59 (253); D.A. Smith, “Kinship and Covenant in Hosea 11:1–4,” HBT 16 (June 1994), 41–51 (44); Y.J.

Yoo, “Israelian Hebrew in the Book of Hosea” (Ph.D. Diss.; Cornell University, 1999), 136; cf. R. Meyer, Hebräische Grammatik (4 vols.; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1966– 1972), 2:126 §72.1c; HALOT, 1184a, s.v. ‫ רגל‬tipʿel, which describes the existence of the tipʿel as “uncertain.” 16 For denominalization and its complementary process verbalization, see, e.g., T.E. Payne, Describing Morphosyntax. A Guide for Fieldlinguists (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 94–96 §5.2. 17 J. Barth, Die Nominalbilding in den Semitischen Sprachen (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1889), 278–279 §180a, and 279 n. 2. For this translation, see also F. Böttcher, Ausführliches Lehrbuch der Hebräischen Sprache (Leipzig: Barth, 1868), 2:281 §1015; and HALOT, 1184a, s.v. ‫ רגל‬tipʿel: “spoon-feed.” 18 J. Barth, “Zur Vergleichenden semitischen Grammatik,” ZDMG 48 (1894), 1–21 (19–20); cf. F.W.M. Philippi, Review of J. Barth, Die Nominalbildung in den

semitischen Sprachen. II: Die Nomina mit äusserer Vermehrung: Die gebrochenen Plurale, ZDMG 46 (1892), 149–72 (156–59). 19 E.g., GKC, 153 §55h (tentatively); Joüon, 1:169 §59e; HALOT, 1184a, s.v.

238

JEREMY M. HUTTON AND SAFWAT MARZOUK

Freedman, who raise significant contextual and grammatical issues in opposition to the traditional (causative) translation of ‫תּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬.ִ 20 They argue that the causative interpretation “I taught to walk” is mistakenly founded on the persistent parental imagery throughout Hosea 11. Although this criticism is perhaps sensible, Andersen and Freedman go on to argue that 648F

[t]he denominative of rgl is the Pi‘el, which has the highly technical meaning “to spy, reconnoiter.” The need for another denominative verb for a different kind of walking could have evoked the Tip‘el, meaning “to lead, walk in front of.” The preformative is a morph which makes a quadriliteral root with a specialized meaning, here in a noun form. The action described is correlative with walking behind, the usual expression for loyal following of Yahweh. Such leadership was in evidence in the wilderness journey, and especially in entering the promised land. 21 649F

Andersen and Freedman therefore prefer to translate v. 3aα as “I was a guide for Ephraim,” 22 presumably on the basis of the Targum and Peshiṭta. Yet, several aspects of this solution are problematic: 1. The characterization of the t-preformative form as creating a “quadriliteral root” is dubious, since the lexical root remains √‫רגל‬, and is merely augmented by a putatively nominal preformative prefix. The verbal “root” is quadriliteral only insofar as the verb utilizes a (hypothesized, but unattested) noun ‫*תּ ְרגֵּ ל‬ ַ or the like as its verbal base. 2. The interpretive jump from the debated meaning of this root in the piʿel “to spy” to the “denominative” tipʿel meaning “to guide” is left without support or explanation. 23 Although it remains plausible that 650F

651F

‫ רגל‬tipʿel. See also H. Bauer and P. Leander, Historische Grammatik der hebräischen Sprache (Olms Paperbacks, 19; Halle: Niemeyer, 1922; repr., Hildesheim: Olms, 1991), 424 §57t″, s.v. ‫ ;חרה‬and Yoo, “Israelian Hebrew,” 136. 20 F.I. Andersen, and D.N. Freedman, Hosea: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB, 24; Garden City: Doubleday, 1980), 579. 21 Ibid. 22 Ibid., 574. 23 As N.J.C. Kouwenberg (Gemination in the Akkadian Verb [Studia Semitica Neerlandica, 33; Assen: Van Gorcum, 1997], 307–8, cited in M.P. Streck, Die akkadischen Verbalstämme mit ta-Infix [AOAT, 303; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2003], 72) has pointed out, The meaning of a denominative verb is closely associated with that of the source noun. Generally speaking, if X is the basic noun, the verb will mean… “to make X”, “to produce X”… if it is transitive… . An important criterion, then, for identifying denominative verbs and distinguishing them from ordinary verbs is whether the meaning of the source noun and the denominative verb are rather

MORPHOLOGY OF THE TG STEM IN HEBREW & TIRGALTÎ

239

Andersen and Freedman are correct in their assessment that “neither this [i.e., the reflexive] sense nor a causative (‘I made walk’) seems appropriate here,” 24 their argument is based only on the premise that the reflexive meaning is not suitable in this context, a supposition open to hermeneutical question because it is made on the basis of the interpreters’ desire to draw a specific meaning from the passage. The gloss is no less arbitrary a proposal than the traditional causative translation “I taught to walk.” 3. Finally, it is unclear how the “need for another denominative verb” could have “evoked” the tipʿel. This explanation makes it sound as though Andersen and Freedman believe the author of Hos 11:3 arbitrarily used an unproductive form to denote an invented concept. This supposition seems highly unlikely. Moreover, most clearly denominative verbs in Hebrew fall within the normal range of stems, and particularly the piʿel (e.g., ‫“ ִכּ ֵהן‬to serve as priest,” etc.). 25 Purportedly denominative forms in Hebrew falling outside of the normal range of stems are truly rare: possible forms alongside ‫ִתּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬ (Hos 11:3) would be those Gesenius lists under his tipʿel: 26 (a) ‫ְתּ ַת ֲח ֶרה‬ and ‫מ ַת ֲח ֶרה‬, ְ respectively “you contend with” and “one contending with” (Jer 12:5; 22:15), and (b) ‫( ְמ ֻת ְרגָּ ם‬Ezr 4:7), which Brown, Driver, and Briggs derive from the root ‫תּ ְרגֵּ ם‬. ִ 27 Presumably, they have done so on analogy with the purported verb ‫תּ ְרגֵּ ל‬, ִ although they subsequently describe ‫ ִתּ ְרגֵּ ם‬as a quadriliteral root. Y.J. Yoo, citing L.M. Kuriakos, adduces a third form: (c) ‫יכם‬ ֶ ‫פוֹצוֹת‬ ִ ‫( ְתּ‬Jer 25:34), from the root ‫פוץ‬. 28 In opposition to the claims of Andersen and Freedman, a broad category of t-preformative nouns being used as denominative verbal base forms remains elusive. Only ‫ ְתּ ַת ֲח ֶרה‬and ‫ ְמ ַת ֲח ֶרה‬may be definitively linked with a 653F

654F

65F

65F

specific and closely similar, in the sense that they form the nominal and the verbal expression of a single action… . The more specialized this meaning is, the more certain we can be about the denominative character of the verb in question.

The close association required by Kouwenberg’s analysis is simply not manifested in Andersen and Freedman’s reconstruction. 24 Andersen and Freedman, Hosea, 579. 25 E.g., J. Blau, Phonology and Morphology of Biblical Hebrew (LSAWS, 2; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2010), 229 §4.3.5.4.1. See also IHBS, 410–14 §24.4 (for the piʿel; cf. p. 373 §22.5 for the qal and p. 391 §23.5 for the nipʿal). 26 GKC, 153 §55h. 27 BDB, 1076a, s.v. ‫תרגם‬. 28 Yoo, “Israelian Hebrew,” 136; but cf. Kuriakos, Non-Paradigmatic Forms, 120–21.

240

JEREMY M. HUTTON AND SAFWAT MARZOUK

corresponding t-preformative noun attested in Classical Hebrew: Joüon points to the nominal form ‫תחרה‬, representing the underlying phonology taḥărâ, in Sir 31:29; 40:5.29 Unfortunately, the manuscript evidence is not entirely unequivocal. The full reading appears only in MS B at 31:29, although MS F contains the initial ‫ת‬. MS B provides the only extant text of 40:5, where it reads […]‫ תהר‬instead of the expected […]‫תחר‬. Although a marginal note to the left reads ‫מ׳ תח׳ וריב‬, correcting the hê to ḥêt here, 30 the LXX translates differently in both places: at MT 31:29 (=LXX 34:29), LXXB renders with ἐρεθισμός, but with μηνίαμα at 40:5 (cf. μήνιμα in LXXA‫)א‬. Moreover, although the single full appearance in MS B at 31:29 and the corrected appearance of the word in the same manuscript at 40:5 are sufficient to demonstrate that there was at some point in Hebrew a word taḥărâ related to Mishnaic Hebrew (MH) ‫ ַתּ ֲחרוּת‬and Aram. ‫ ַתּ ֲחרוּ‬and ‫רוּתא‬ ָ ‫תּ ֲח‬,ַ 31 the attestations are too late to serve as conclusive proof of the verb’s being a denominalization of the nouns. In each case, there is another, more probable explanation for the respective morphologies of these verbal forms, all relating to the commonly attested Semitic tG/Gt-stem. Handled in an order different from that given above, the following observations on each word can be made: (a) ‫ ְמ ֻת ְרגָּ ם‬is plausibly analyzed as showing direct influence from Aramaic, with its verbs ‫“ ִתּ ְרגֵּ ם‬to deliver, proclaim,” and ‫“ ַתּ ְרגֵּ ם‬to interpret, translate, explain,” 32 themselves attributed to Akkadian 657F

658F

659F

60F

29 30

Joüon, 1:169 §59e; see also BDB, 354a, s.v. ‫ חרה‬hitpaʿel. For text, see P.C. Beentjes, The Book of Ben Sira in Hebrew. A Text Edition

of All Extant Hebrew Manuscripts and a Synopsis of All Parallel Hebrew Ben Sira Texts (VTSup, 68; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 57, 69, 109, 147. 31 E.g., Avot d’Rabbi Natan A28:10–11 (ed. Schechter, p. 85); b. Berakhot 17a; Tg. Jon. Hab. 1:3 (‫רוּתא‬ ָ ‫;)תּ ֲח‬ ַ and Tg. Jon. Isa. 58:4 (‫)תּ ֲחרוּ‬. ַ Contrast, however, M. Sokoloff, who lists neither of these lexemes (A Dictionary of Jewish Babylonian Aramaic [=DJBA] [Ramat-Gan: Bar Ilan University Press, 2002]; idem, A Dictionary of Jewish Palestinian Aramaic [=DJPA] [2nd ed.; Ramat-Gan: Bar Ilan

University Press, 2002]). The lexeme does not seem to have been preserved in Syriac, judging from the fact that there is no corresponding entry in R. Payne Smith (ed.), Thesaurus Syriacus (2 vols.; Oxford: Clarendon, 1901); see similarly, J. Payne Smith, A Compendious Syriac Dictionary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1902; repr., Ancient Language Resources; Eugene, Or.: Wipf & Stock, 1999); and M. Sokoloff, A Syriac Lexicon. A Translation from the Latin, Correction, Expansion, and Update of C. Brockelmann’s Lexicon Syriacum [Winona Lake, Ind./Piscataway, N.J.: Eisenbrauns/Gorgias Press, 2009]. 32 Jastrow, Dictionary, 1695–96, s.v. ‫;תּ ְרגֵּ ם‬ ִ Sokoloff, DJBA, 1231b–32a; idem,

MORPHOLOGY OF THE TG STEM IN HEBREW & TIRGALTÎ

241

influence (cf. the verb ragāmu, found in the Gt-stem in Old Assyrian, with the meaning “raise claims against each other,” 33 and in the more common Assyrian and Babylonian nominal form targumannu “interpreter, dragoman” 34). Although the root is undoubtedly native to pan-Semitic (see, e.g., Ug. √RGM), the distribution of the word as a quadriliteral verb in Aramaic (‫ )תרגם‬and Ethiopic (targwama) 35 would suggest that the word had already taken shape as a quadriliteral verb before it spread through several languages. Irrespective of whether the Hebrew form is a borrowing directly from Akkadian or indirectly from Akkadian through Aramaic, the form may be removed from discussion as a foreign loan. (b) Although ‫יכם‬ ֶ ‫פוֹצוֹת‬ ִ ‫ ְתּ‬is regularly taken to be either a product of textual corruption or a conflation of ‫ ָתּפוּצוּ‬and ‫יכם‬ ֶ ‫יצוֹת‬ ִ ‫ה ִפ‬,ֲ 36 the verb shows every indication of being a morphosyntactically conditioned 1.c.sg. suffix-conjugation with a prefixed ‫ת‬, showing regular development. 37 (c) Similarly, ‫ ְתּ ַת ֲח ֶרה‬and ‫ ְמ ַת ֲח ֶרה‬show indications of being a regularly affixed prefix-conjugation and participle, respectively, of a verbal stem containing a prefixed ‫ ת‬before the base. As previously mentioned, the Hebrew nominal forms ‫ תחרה‬and ‫ ַתּ ֲחרוּת‬have an Aramaic cognate in the word ‫רוּתא‬ ָ ‫תּ ֲח‬,ַ attested in Targumic Aramaic, but it would seem that this noun is itself a nominal form built from the same root as the ethpeʿel stem of Syriac (compare the common Aramaic hitpeʿel or ithpeʿel [see section II]), which seems to have been productive in this root: R. Payne Smith lists several examples—encompassing a number of different nuances—of the verb ʾeṯḥrā.38 61F

62F

63F

64F

65F

6F

These last two observations provide us with an alternative etymology of ‫ ִתּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬to be explored. Consideration of ‫ ִתּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬as a denominalizationverbalization of a supposed noun ‫ ִתּ ְרגֵּ ל‬is an inadequate understanding of DJPA, 591a. 33 AHw, 942a; CDA, 295a; CAD 14[R], 63b–64a. 34 AHw, 1329b; CDA, 400a; CAD 18[T], 229a–30a. 35 Wolf Leslau, Comparative Dictionary of Geʿez (Classical Ethiopic)

(Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1987), 579b–80a, and especially the discussion of the root’s origins there. 36 E.g., GKC, 258 §91l. 37 Hutton, “Morphosyntactic Explanation,” 151–69. 38 R. Payne Smith, Thesaurus, 1:1359a–b; see also J. Payne Smith, Dictionary, 155a–b; and Sokoloff, Syriac Lexicon, 490a. But cf. the discussion below in n. 99.

242

JEREMY M. HUTTON AND SAFWAT MARZOUK

the verbal form under discussion. Instead, we propose that sensitivity to the three caveats raised above occasions a more philologically sound and contextually meaningful understanding of the verb ‫תּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬.ִ In the following argument, we suggest the author of Hos 11:3 used a productive—albeit rare—verbal stem that is the Hebrew remnant of the common Semitic tG/Gt-stem. A survey of cognate stems, of both tG- and Gt-form, in the other Semitic languages (sections II.a–b) provides the foundational principles whereby we explain the morphological development of ‫ִתּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬ (rendered throughout the following discussion in Latin characters as tirgaltî). Although the tG-stem was rarely used in Classical Hebrew, a survey of its apparent occurrences (section II.c) will demonstrate its historical existence in at least one dialectal variant of this language, namely, Israelian Hebrew (IH). 39 In section II.c, we argue that the word does not take the normally expected form of a Hebrew tG-stem. Although the prefix ti- and the assumed original *i theme vowel (reduced to a in tirgaltî through the purported operation of Philippi’s law 40) have lent to the form tirgaltî the common stem name tipʿel, 41 the verb tirgaltî in fact displays an allomorph of the slightly more common Hebrew retention of the Proto-Semitic [PS] tGstem. 42 As will be demonstrated below, the expected form of the verb 67F

68F

69F

670F

39

136.

See, e.g., Böttcher, Lehrbuch, 2:281 §1015; and Yoo, “Israelian Hebrew,”

40 For which see T.O. Lambdin, “Philippi’s Law Reconsidered,” in Ann Kort and Scott Morschauser (eds.), Biblical and Related Studies Presented to Samuel Iwry (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1985), 135–45. 41 It is unclear why GKC (153 §55h) states that the stem’s name is “properly Taphʿēl,” an assessment apparently followed by Yoo (“Israelian Hebrew,” 134). 42 In this paper, we distinguish between the Semitic tG- and Gt-stems, in which the siglum “tG” designates the form with a prefixed *t and “Gt” the form with an infixed *-t-, only insofar as they occur in attested languages (for the convention, see W.R. Garr, Dialect Geography of Syria-Palestine, 1000–586 BCE. [Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1985], 120). As is generally recognized, all occurrences of the tG- and Gt- in the various Semitic languages can be traced back to a single Proto-Semitic tG-stem; see, e.g., W. Diem, “Die Entwicklung des Derivationsmorphems der t-Stämme im Semitischen,” ZDMG 132 (1982), 29–84; W.R. Garr, “The Niphal Derivational Prefix,” Orientalia 62 (1993), 142–62; D. Testen, “Arabic Evidence for the Formation of the Verbal Noun of the Semitic GtStem,” JSS 44 (1999), 1–16; cf. Joüon, 1:74 §17b, who considered the metathesized forms of Biblical Hebrew (e.g., hištammēr) “a conditioned residue of an earlier tinfixed conjugation.” For the presence (and putative originality) of an infixed-t stem, see also M.L. Boyle, “Infix-T Forms in Biblical Hebrew” (Ph.D. Diss., Boston University, 1969), esp. 95–97; and J. Tropper, “Die T-Verbalstämme des

MORPHOLOGY OF THE TG STEM IN HEBREW & TIRGALTÎ

243

under examination, independent of any conditioning environment, would probably have been the (unattested) form **hitrāgaltî. This reanalysis of the verbal form tirgaltî disposes with any need to reconstruct a relic Hebrew tipʿel stem; therefore, that siglum will be abandoned in favor of the more appropriate “tG” in the remainder of this study. By extension, a few of the other verbal forms discussed above (specifically, ‫יכם‬ ֶ ‫פוֹצוֹת‬ ִ ‫תּ‬, ְ ‫תּ ַת ֲח ֶרה‬, ְ and ‫ =[ ְמ ַת ֲח ֶרה‬tĕpôṣôtîkem, tĕtaḥăreh, and mĕtaḥăreh]) are likely to be similar remnants of an original tG-stem in Hebrew.

II. MORPHOLOGICAL ANALYSIS II.A. THE DISTRIBUTION OF THE TG- AND GT-STEMS IN OTHER SEMITIC LANGUAGES There can be no question that the affixed-*t (tG/Gt) complement of the simple qatala-form G-stem is traceable to Proto-Semitic, as it can be found in both East and West Semitic language families. Instead, the major inquiries underlying study of the affixed-*t stems center on the original form of the verb in each stem (tG/Gt, tD/Dt, etc.). Observation shows that the purely formal division between tG- and Gt- stems does not follow linguistic familial lines: consider, for example, the tG-stem forms from Hebrew (presented below, section II.c), Deir ʿAllā (Pref.: ytqtl[?]; Suff.: ʾtqtl[?]), 43 and Ethiopic (Pref.: yətqat[t]al; Suff.: taqat[a]la; Imptv.: taqatal; Inf. taqatəlo[t]) 44; over against the Gt-stem verbal forms found in, among others, Akkadian (Inf.: pitrusum; Dur.: iptarras; Perf.: iptatras; Pret.: iptaras; Imptv.: pitras; Part.: muptarsum; Verb. Adj.: pitrus-), 45 Ugaritic (Pref.: yiqtatVl-; Suff.: 671F

672F

673F

Biblisch-Hebräischen,” in B. Burtea, J. Tropper, and H. Younansardaroud (eds.),

Studia Semitica et Semitohamitica. Festschrift für Rainer Voigt anlässlich seines 60. Geburtstages am 17. Januar 2004 (AOAT, 317; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2005), 417–

24, esp. 419 and 421. Although we do not reject the possibility of a Hebrew Gtstem outright, we consider uncompelling the explanation of infixed-t as primordial to Proto-Semitic when viewed against the background of more recent literature. 43 See appendix A.1, below. 44 A. Dillmann, Ethiopic Grammar (2nd ed.; ed. C. Bezold; trans. J.A. Crichton; London: Williams & Norgate, 1907; repr., Ancient Language Resources; Eugene, Or.: Wipf & Stock, 2005), 151–53 §80 [stem III, 1]; T.O. Lambdin, Introduction to Classical Ethiopic (Geʿez) (HSS, 24; Missoula, Mont.: Scholars Press, 1978), 205 [Gt]; J. Tropper, Altäthiopisch. Grammatik des Geʿez mit Übungstexten und Glossar (ELO, 2; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2002), 103–4, esp. §44.442 [stem T1]; for a slightly fuller discussion of weak forms, see Streck, Die akkadischen Verbalstämme, 104–5. 45 A.H. Sayce, An Assyrian Grammar for Comparative Purposes (London:

244

JEREMY M. HUTTON AND SAFWAT MARZOUK

ʾiqtatVl-; Imptv.: (ʾi)qtatVl-), 46 Byblian Phoenician (Pref.: yqttl) 47, Moabite,48 and Arabic (Pref.: yaqtatilu; Suff.: (ʾi)qtatala; Imptv.: (ʾi)qtatil; Inf.: (ʾi)qtitālun; Trübner, 1872), 74–76; F. Delitzsch, Assyrische Grammatik mit Übungsstücken und kurzer Literatur-Übersicht, (2nd ed; Berlin: von Reuther & Reichard, 1906), 236 §112 [I, 2]; A. Ungnad, Babylonisch-Assyrisch Grammatik mit Übungsbuch (in Transskription) (Munich: Beck, 1906), 38–39 §38; B. Meißner, Kurtzgefaßte Assyrische Grammatik (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1907), 43–44 §59 [I, 2]; I.J. Gelb, Old Akkadian Writing and Grammar (Materials for the Assyrian Dictionary, 2; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1952), 222; W. von Soden, Grundriss der akkadischen Grammatik (=GAG) (3rd ed.; AnOr, 33; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1995), 120–21 §92; K. Hecker, Grammatik der Kültepe-Texte (AnOr, 44; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1968), 146 §88a–b; J. Huehnergard, A Grammar of Akkadian (HSS, 45; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997), 390–93; S. Seminara, L’accadico di Emar (Materiali per il vocabolario Sumerico, 6; Rome: La Sapienza, 1998), 410. However, Neo-Assyrian lost its stems infixed with a single *-t-; see, e.g., von Soden, GAG, 122 §93e; J. Hämeen-Antilla, A Sketch of Neo-Assyrian Grammar

(SAA, 13; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project of the University of Helsinki, 2000), 88. 46 See Appendix A.2, below. 47 Only the prefix-conjugation of the Gt-stem is attested in Byblian Phoenician; Z.S. Harris, A Grammar of the Phoenician Language (AOS, 8; New Haven: American Oriental Society, 1936), 43 §13.7; J. Friedrich and W. Röllig, PhönizischPunische Grammatik (3rd ed.; AnOr, 55; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1999), 94 §150; C.R. Krahmalkov, A Phoenician-Punic Grammar (HdO, 54; Leiden: Brill, 2001), 157). In the Ahirom inscription (KAI 1), this form is used twice: tḥtsp “may it be removed” and thtpk “may it be overturned” (see also Friedrich and Röllig, Grammatik, 94 §150). Commentators generally vocalize the strong verb as yiptaʿal, but the absence of vocalization in the texts renders this reconstruction tentative, and is most likely to be traced back to comparison with Ugaritic (see Appendix A.2, below). The Gt-stem is to be distinguished from the tD-stem in Punic, in which no metathesis has occurred; cf. the hitpaʿel in Harris, Grammar, 42 §13.6; Friedrich and Röllig, Grammatik, 94 §149; Krahmalkov, Grammar, 156). Z.S. Harris adduces a tstem reflexive in Phoenician, comparing the extant forms of those of Ugaritic and Amarna Canaanite, as well as Canaanite place names preserved in Hebrew (see below, §3), but earlier had called the Gt-stem a “middle” (Development of the Canaanite Dialects: An Investigation in Linguistic History [AOS, 16; New Haven: American Oriental Society, 1939], 62; cf. idem, Grammar, 43). Compare also Krahmalkov’s translations and description of the stem as expressing “the intransitive of a transitive verb” (Grammar, 157). In opposition, it is possible to translate the Phoenician Gt-stem passively as well; e.g., Garr, Dialect Geography, 119. 48 Although the Gt-stem occurs in Moabite in only one verbal root (√LḤM), it is found in three different forms. The prefix-conjugation is attested twice as wʾltḥm

MORPHOLOGY OF THE TG STEM IN HEBREW & TIRGALTÎ

245

Part.: muqtatilun) 49; and the coincidence of the tG- and Gt- stems in Aramaic (albeit in different dialects).50 Despite the variation of the Semitic languages exhibiting a tG-stem and a Gt-stem, it is possible to reconstruct a plausible development whereby this variation occurred. The earliest situation in Semitic seems to have been the form prefixed with a *t- (i.e., the tG-stem). 51 As is clear from the distribution of languages exhibiting the secondary Gt-stem, the metathesis of the derivational prefix *t- with the first radical [R1] cannot be a genetic development, but should rather be understood as the effect of convergent development among the many languages exhibiting that stem.52 S.J. Lieberman has plausibly linked this metathesis to analogical development occasioned by the relative frequency of the Št-stems in Semitic (which appears even in those languages featuring a causative C-stem exhibiting the lenition of the original *š > h or ʾ 53). Accordingly, “under the “and I fought” (KAI 181 [=Mesha Inscr.]:11, 15), once in the imperative hltḥm “fight!” (line 32) and once as an affixed infinitive construct bhltḥmh “when he fought” (line 19). For a relatively brief discussion, see K.P. Jackson, “The Language of the Mesha Inscription,” in Andrew Dearman (ed.), Studies in the Mesha Inscription and Moab (Archaeology and Biblical Studies, 2; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989), 111, 117, 121. Although F.M. Cross argued for the existence of the Gt-stem in the closely related dialect of Ammonite (“Epigraphic Notes on the Ammān Citadel Inscription,” BASOR 193 [1969], 13–19 [19 n. 16]), that language shows no sure signs of possessing such a stem (P.-E. Dion, “Notes d’épigraphie ammonite,” RB 82 [1975], 24–33 [30]; K.P. Jackson, The Ammonite Language of the Iron Age [HSM, 27; Chico, Calif.: Scholars Press, 1983]; Garr, Dialect Geography, 119). 49 In the system applied by grammarians of Classical Arabic, the infixed-t stem is called the VIII form; see, e.g., charts in W. Fischer, A Grammar of Classical Arabic (3rd ed.; trans. Jonathan Rodgers; New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002), 240; and P.R. Bennett, Comparative Semitic Linguistics. A Manual (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1998), 104. 50 See Appendix A.3, below. 51 E.g., S.J. Lieberman, “The Afro-Asiatic Background of the Semitic N-Stem: Towards the Origins of the Stem-Afformatives of the Semitic and Afro-Asiatic Verb,” BiOr 43 (1986), 577–628 (610–19); Garr, “Niphal,” 147–53; Testen, “Arabic Evidence,” 10–12. 52 Contra Diem, “Entwicklung,” 40–47 §§11–16. 53 Lieberman cites the Arabic IV form (ʾafʿala) and the X form (istafʿala), the Ethiopic II, 1 [= Lambdin’s CG] stem (ʾaqtala) and IV, 1 [= Lambdin’s CGt] stem (ʾastaq[a]tala), the unproductive—but common—Hebrew relic hištapʿel stem ‫ ִה ְשׁ ַתּ ֲחוָ ה‬from the root √ḤWY, and the corresponding Aramaic relic found in the verbal form ‫( יִ ְשׁ ַתּכְ ְללוּן‬Ezra 4:13, 16) from √KLL (“Afro-Asiatic Background,” 615, 616 n. 217).

246

JEREMY M. HUTTON AND SAFWAT MARZOUK

analogical influence of the st stems the sequence /ts/ was changed to /st/, whenever the two were contiguous.”54 In some languages, argues Lieberman, this metathesis was extended to some or all *t-preformative stems, and not only to those roots beginning with a sibilant. 55 Because Lieberman’s proposal relies on the particular ordering of the derivational *št prefix, we should not expect any further metathesis between the *t and R1 in the Št-stem itself (i.e., yielding **š=q=t=atal56 or the like), nor should we expect any such metathesis in the N-stem, where the derivational prefix was of a different articulation. 57 Moreover, Lieberman recognizes that the metathesis of the derivational *t prefix with R1 was inconsistently applied in many languages exhibiting productive tG/Gt- and tD/Dt-stems. On one hand, this rationale explains the situation of Akkadian, for example, which contrasts the infixed Gt-stem (pitrusum) and Dt-stem (putarrusum) over against the prefixed N-stem (naprusum) and Štstem (šutaprusum). According to Lieberman, in Akkadian, “the t-affix was Lieberman, “Afro-Asiatic Background,” 615. For a more precise account, see Lieberman, “Afro-Asiatic Background,” 615– 16. This thesis is generally in line with a number of preceding theories, including those of, e.g., C. Brockelmann, Grundriss der vergleichenden Grammatik der semitischen Sprachen (=GVG) (Berlin: Reuter & Richard, 1908), 1:528–30 §257.H; G. Bergsträsser, Einführung in die semitischen Sprachen: Sprachproben und grammatische Skizzen (Munich: Hueber, 1928), 13; S. Moscati, Introduction to the 54 55

Comparative Grammar of the Semitic Languages. Phonology and Morphology

(PLO, N.S. 6; 2nd printing; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1964), 127–29. Further sources holding this position may be found in Boyle, “Infix-T Forms,” 44–50. For theoretical linguistic models in line with this view, see J.J. McCarthy, “A Prosodic Theory of Nonconcatenative Morphology,” Linguistic Inquiry 12 (1981), 373–418 (esp. 388–90: the “eighth binyan flop rule”); and J.C.E. Watson, The Phonology and Morphology of Arabic (Phonology of the World’s Languages; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 140. 56 We follow here Garr’s convention of indicating a morphemic boundary with the siglum “=”. In its usage, Garr’s notation differs only slightly from the conventions established by Noam Chomsky and Morris Halle (The Sound Pattern of English [Studies in Language; New York: Harper & Row, 1968], 364–71), whereby “+” indicates formative boundaries allowing the operation of phonological rules across the morphemic boundary and “=” disallows many of the same rules. 57 The ubiquitous affixation of the *n derivational prefix in the N-stem of Semitic languages moreover confirms that the *t was similarly originally prefixed (e.g., Lieberman, “Afro-Asiatic Background,” 610–19; cf. J. Grand’henry, “Le verbe réfléchi-passif à préfixé de la forme simple dans les dialectes arabes,” Mus 88 [1975], 441–47).

MORPHOLOGY OF THE TG STEM IN HEBREW & TIRGALTÎ

247

put after the radical of the verb without other augmentation, and that ‘infixing’ was presumably subsequently generalized to other stems.” 58 On the other hand, Lieberman’s proposal is also able to account for Arabic’s metathesis of the derivational *t with the first radical in the VIII (Gt) form (iftaʿala) but not in the V (tD) or VI (tL) forms (tafaʿʿala and tafāʿala, respectively): Arabic, he argues, “took the infixing of /t/ to be a distinguishing mark of the t-form of a verb without other augmentation, and kept the /t/ in front of the first radical for the otherwise augmented stems.” 59 Thus, neither the X (Št) form (istafʿala) nor the VII (N) form (infaʿala) undergoes metathesis. Similarly, despite the fact that Ugaritic had a tD-stem (with prefixed *t), the derivational *t of the corresponding G-stem form was infixed (Gt). 60 In essence, Lieberman argues that this metathesis must be traced to a large number of convergent analogical developments within Proto-Semitic’s daughter languages, and specifically to those that still retain a productive Štstem. His proposal goes a long way towards understanding the causes for the distribution of tG and Gt stems in the Semitic languages. 61 Moreover, for the purposes of the present argument, it may be considered as ancillary to the developments proposed below. 62 The metathesis of R1 and derivational *t in the Gt- and Dt-stems described here is best considered as a rule internal to the various languages exhibiting such stems with an infixed derivational *t:63 Lieberman, “Afro-Asiatic Background,” 615. Ibid. 60 See E. Verreet, “Beobachtungen zum ugaritischen Verbalsystem,” UF 16 (1984), 307–21; J. Huehnergard, “A Dt Stem in Ugaritic?” UF 17 (1985), 402. 61 See also Diem, “Entwicklung,” 40–47 §§11–16. 62 Garr has shown decisively that the *hi- prefix of the nipʿal infinitive and imperative (and consequently of the hitpaʿel suff.-conj., pref.-conj., and imperative forms) does not share the same morphological origin of the hipʿil prefix, which is to be derived from an original *š-. Instead, the former is an analogical extension of the latter (see below, section II.b). 63 This discussion is not meant to describe the phonologically conditioned metathesis occurring in Hebrew and Aramaic roots beginning with sibilants, although a relation between the two environments of metathesis cannot be ruled out at this point (see Lieberman, “Afro-Asiatic Background,” 616). For Aramaic, see the verb *hitšakaḥ > hištăkaḥ or hištĕkaḥ in Dan 2:35; 6:24; and Ezra 6:2; cf. the related forms in Dan 5:11, 12, 14, 27; and 6:5, 23. For Hebrew, see examples in GKC, 70 §19n, 149 §54b; Bauer and Leander, Historische Grammatik, 217 §23a; Joüon, 1:158 §53e). Akkadian reverses (or, more precisely, did not undergo) the metathetical rule in unprefixed forms from roots containing a sibilant or voiced dental R1 (e.g., the infinitive tiṣbutum [rather than **ṣitbutum]). In many respects, this 58 59

248

JEREMY M. HUTTON AND SAFWAT MARZOUK (1) *tR1 > R1t {in certain stem-conditioned environments}

II.B. THE MORPHOLOGY OF THE TG-STEM’S DERIVATIONAL PREFIX/INFIX Insofar as it is possible to reconstruct the Proto-Semitic antecedents of the derived stems, the development of the tG/Gt-stem in the Northwest Semitic languages may be reconstructed with some degree of confidence. Although Diem reconstructs an original *ta morpheme that diverged into the allomorphic set {/ta/, /t/}, depending on its morphophonemic environment, 64 this reconstruction is overly complicated and predicated on the specious assertion of the primacy of the system found in Ethiopic. Instead, it is much more likely that the derivational prefix, consisting only of the single phonemic segment *t, was appended directly to the verbal base. 65 Dealing primarily with the Hebrew nipʿal, Garr plausibly and convincingly reconstructs a pre-Proto-Semitic derivational N-stem prefix *n, which, when affixed directly to a verbal base *-qtal66 (found, for example, in the Akkadian verbal noun, imperative, and infinitive, as well as the Hebrew suffix-conjugation, participle, and infinitive absolute) creates a word-initial triconsonantal cluster (**n=qtal). Although such clusters were permissible in pre-Proto-Semitic (and in contexts in PS where one of the consonants was an inflectional ending, such as *bnt “daughter” 67), they were not generally permissible in Proto-Semitic. In East and Northwest Semitic, this form inserted an anaptyctic vowel *a “between the monoconsonantal derivational prefix and consonant cluster-initial base,” 68 yielding *na=qtal:

failure of metathesis to operate consistently may be attributed to the fact that Gtstem forms from such roots assimilate the derivational *t when they contain prefixes (e.g., durative iṣṣabbat, perfect iṣṣatbat, etc.; Huehnergard, Grammar of Akkadian, 390–91 §33.1; see also, e.g., Brockelmann, GVG, 1:157 §56a, 171 §60bγ; von Soden, GAG, 35 §29e. 64 Diem, “Entwicklung,” 35–36 §§7–8; see similarly Bergsträsser, Einführung, 12–13; and Blau, Phonology and Morphology, 229 §4.3.5.3.2n, and 233 §4.3.5.6.3. Blau relies on the principle of archaic heterogeneity to sustain this argument. 65 Garr, “Niphal,” 147–53; Testen, “Arabic Evidence,” 10–12. 66 Alongside the development of the derivational prefix/infix, it is possible and necessary to trace the verbal base onto which the derivational prefix/affix was appended. 67 Garr, “Niphal,” 147–48 n. 27. 68 Ibid., 148.

MORPHOLOGY OF THE TG STEM IN HEBREW & TIRGALTÎ

249

(2) *ø > a / #n__=CC {where n is the derivational morpheme on the verbal base *-qtal}69

This innovation is paralleled in the causative Š-stem (cf. Heb. hipʿil) suffixconjugation (*š=qtal > *ša=qtal [ > *ha=qtil in many daughter languages] 70). Thus, the nipʿal suffix-conjugation in Hebrew has acquired the form niqtal < *niqtal < PNWS *naqtal < PS *n=qtal. A different situation gave rise to the N-stem prefix and infinitive forms. In prefixed forms, the verbal base naturally becomes medial, postposited as it is after the inflectional pronominal prefixes. Cross-Semitic comparison demonstrates that the verbal base of these forms was not *-qtal, as was that of the suffix-conjugation, 71 but rather *-qatil. 72 The affixation of the pronominal prefix with its vowel therefore not only avoids a triconsonantal cluster (**n=qtal), but it also alleviates any problematic wordinitial biconsonantal clusters (*yi=n=qatal). In the infinitive forms, which lack inflectional pronoun prefixes, the biconsonantal cluster remained unalleviated in word-initial position (*n=qatil) in Proto-Semitic. Although such clusters were tolerated in Proto-Semitic, most of the daughter languages did not permit word-initial biconsonantal clusters and therefore developed a syllable to alleviate this cluster. The syllable was formed from two phonological segments, namely, an initial prothetic glottal stop (usually realized as ʾālep) and an accompanying prefix vowel. For example, this prefix syllable is preserved in both Arabic and Ethiopic, albeit in slightly different forms, and has evolved into the hi- prefix in Hebrew and Aramaic, as will be demonstrated below. Despite its overall similarities with the other Central Semitic languages, Arabic presents a special case of morphosyntactically-constrained phonological developments. Various dialect-groups of Arabic have handled word-initial epenthesis differently. Non-classical Arabic (NCArab. 73) Ibid. Ibid., 148–49. 71 However, cf. the Arabic VII form infaʿala. 72 The verbal base in the Heb. nipʿal prefix-conjugation and infinitive can be traced to an original form *-qatil (i.e., Heb. yiqqātēl < *yi=n=qatil; see also Akk. preterite tapparis < *ta=n=qatil; Arab. prefix-conjugation tanqatil < *ta=n=qatil; and Ethiopic tānqalqəl < *ta=n=qalqil); see Garr, “Niphal,” 150. If David Yellin’s theory is correct (“The Hippaʿel-Nifʿal Conjugation in Hebrew and Aramaic, and the assimilation of ‫ ת‬in the Hitpaʿel Conjugation,” JPOS 4 [1924], 85–106), then Hebrew and Aramaic may each display a form of the N-stem suffix-conjugation which is to be derived from an original PS *n=qatil base (but see below, n. 86). 73 We have taken the terminology “non-classical Arabic” from Fischer, 69 70

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represented the presence of the developed glottal stop by using an alif in its orthographic system (e.g., {ʾSM} /ʾism/ “name”). Classical Arabic (CArab.), however, does not pronounce the glottal stop when it adds the prothetic vowel, so the orthography inherited from NCArab. is pointed accordingly to reflect the presence of a word-initial vowel with no glottal stop (i.e., no hamza). 74 This omission of the glottal stop sign on words exhibiting the non-classical orthography with alif is indicative of CArab.’s lenition or quiescence of the glottal stop. For example, we may point to the NCArab. consonantal structure {ʾSM} (indicating a ubiquitous pronunciation /ʾismu/ [lacking nunation as well]), which is adjusted in CArab. to reflect a pronunciation /smun/, except in certain morphosyntactic environments, wherein the vowel is reinserted (or more accurately, preserved) 75. The morphosyntactic environments conditioning the insertion (or rather, preservation) of this vowel may be found when “*CC-initial words…are in either sentence-initial position or pause; otherwise the vowel does not appear.” 76 In many cases, of course, the consonant cluster was already alleviated naturally, since it followed a word ending in a vowel (e.g., qāla stamiʿ “He said, ‘Listen!”). These are the cases in which the vowel does not appear. In cases where the word-initial consonant-cluster is sentence-initial or follows pause, however, a vowel is inserted. This epenthetic vowel is written on the prothetic alif of the *CC-initial word (thus, orthographic {ʾSM} is augmented to reflect the pronunciation ʾismun “name”; see also ʾistamiʿ “Listen!” 77). This epenthetic insertion was simultaneously represented in the orthography through the addition of the glottal stop marker hamza. Grammar, 12 §19.

74 A similar orthographic phenomenon is encountered in Biblical Hebrew’s graphic preservation of quiescent ʾālep, e.g., in words such as ‫רֹאשׁ‬, preserving the pronunciation /rōš/. This pronunciation was itself the product of normal development from an earlier *raʾš (through the Canaanite shift), which provided the orthography before operation of the shift. 75 Fischer, Grammar, 12 §19; see earlier M. Lambert, “L’élif wesla,” JA 9/5 (1895), 224–34 (225–26). 76 Garr, “Niphal,” 147. See also F. Philippi, “Das Alifu’l Waṣli,” ZDMG 49 (1895), 187–92 (contra Barth, “Grammatik,” 7–10; idem, “Zur Frage der Nominalbildung,” ZDMG 44 [1890], 679–98 [695]); Lambert, “L’élif wesla,” 227– 28; J. Hämeen-Antilla, “The Prothetic Vowel (waṣla) in Classical Arabic,” in Studia Orientalia Memoriae Jussi Aro Dedicata (StOr, 55; Helsinki: Societas Orientalis Fennica, 1984), 305–13. 77 All Arabic examples of verbal forms except qālati stamiʿ (below, attested by Safwat Marzouk) were drawn from P.F. Abboud and E.N. McCarus, Elementary

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Further conditioning environments eliciting the insertion of a vowel include cases in which a word ending in a consonant precedes the *CCinitial word. Here, sandhi operates in order to alleviate the tri-consonantal cluster. 78 In these cases, the inserted vowel is appended graphically to the preceding word, and the elision (or, synchronically, non-pronunciation) of the prothetic alif inherited from NCArab. is marked orthographically through the addition of the diacritic mark waṣla. Thus, the purely graphic prothetic alif is named alif waṣli or alif al-waṣl. For example, on the consonantal structure {MN ʾBNH}, rendering non-classical Arabic /min ʾibnihi/ “from his son,” classical Arabic inserts vowels on the end of the preposition to render the pronunciation mini bnihi 79; see also {QLT ʾSTMʿ}, pronounced qālati stamiʿ < *qālat stamiʿ “She said, ‘Listen!’” 80 Stated plainly then, the insertion in CArab. of the waṣla vowel on words originally beginning with two consonants is alleviated through either Modern Standard Arabic, Part 1 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 58.

R. Lass describes sandhi as “syntactically conditioned allomorphy, with rules operating on the termini of the peripheral morphemes of words of any internal structure” (Phonology: An Introduction to Basic Concepts [Cambridge Textbooks in Linguistics; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984], 70), that is, variation in morphology conditioned by the syntactic environment and manifested at word boundaries; cf. the distinction made by H.H. Hock between external sandhi (occurring at word boundaries) and internal sandhi (occurring word-internally with the addition or deletion of morphemes; Principles of Historical Linguistics [2nd ed.; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1991], 246). Insofar as the Semitic languages rely heavily on inseparable prepositions and affixed personal morphemes to augment their nominal and verbal systems, it is difficult to make a hard distinction between Hock’s “internal” and “external” sandhi. For studies of sandhi in Northwest Semitic languages, see D.T. Tsumura, “Vowel sandhi in Ugaritic,” in Near Eastern Studies: 78

Dedicated to H. I. H. Prince Takahito Mikasa on the Occasion of His SeventyFifth Birthday (Bulletin of the Middle Eastern Culture Center in Japan, 5;

Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1991), 427–35; idem, “Vowel sandhi in Biblical Hebrew,” ZAW 109 (1997), 575–88, and sources cited there. For sandhi more generally, see W.S. Allen, Sandhi. The Theoretical, Phonetic, and Historical Bases of Word-Junction in Sanscrit (Janua Linguarum, 17; The Hague: Mouton, 1962); and H. Anderson (ed.), Sandhi Phenomena in the Languages of Europe (Trends in Linguistics Studies and Monographs, 33; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1986). 79 Fischer, Grammar, 12 §20; although contrast the alternate explanation of this form in Hämeen-Antilla, “Prothetic Vowel,” 5–6. 80 For further discussion, see Philippi, “Alifu’l Waṣli,” 188–92; Lambert, “L’élif wesla,” 225–28; Hämeen-Antilla, “Prothetic Vowel,” 305–13; but cf. Barth, “Grammatik,” 7–10; idem, “Zur Frage der Nominalbildung,” 695.

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(a) word-initial epenthesis when in sentence-initial position; (b) epenthetic insertion of a vowel on the previous word when following a word ending in a consonant; or (c) through simple juxtaposition when following a word ending naturally in a vowel. But it is evident that CArab. demonstrates only one of many possible systems whereby word-initial consonant clusters could be alleviated. The graphic insertion of prothetic alif in NCArab. (and preserved graphically in the traditional spellings of CArab.) demonstrates that this dialect (or dialect-bundle) partook in the same epenthetic insertion of *ʾV- before a word-initial consonant cluster. Particularly important for the present study is the fact that this insertion occurred before consonant clusters comprised of -tR1-/-R1t-, as occurred in the other Central Semitic languages. If this epenthetic insertion may be generalized to Proto-Arabic, then CArab. has lost this insertion in all environments except sentenceinitial position and pause. Thus, the rule for NCArab. (=Proto-Arabic?), applicable to the Northwest Semitic languages as well, may be schematized as: (3) *ø > ʾi / #__C=C(=)V81 But it is also possible that this rule should be limited in its earliest application to situations in which the word occurred in sentence-initial or post-pausal position. In this case, CArab. would preserve the original system, in which the operation of sandhi could force the insertion of a vowel between a consonant-final word and a *CC-initial word, but in which the operation of sandhi in the form of rule (3) could also be blocked if a vowel preceded the word-initial *CC-cluster. Similarly to CArab., the epenthetic syllable resulting from rule (3) is preserved in Ugaritic (e.g., ʾištmʿ [/ʾištamaʿ/ < *štamaʿ] “listen!” [m.sg.] [KTU 1.16 VI 42]). 82 However, when connected by sandhi to a preceding conjunction, the imperative in Ugaritic is realized without the epenthetic prefix as the following imperative form makes clear: ištmʿ wtqġ /ʾištamaʿ Garr, “Niphal,” 153; rule (5). This development covers both the tG, in which the conditioning environment #tR1V (i.e., #__t=R1V) obtains, and the Gt, in which the infixed-t slightly alters the system of morphemic boundaries, yielding the environment #R1tV (i.e., #__R1=t[=]V). Strictly speaking, the rule operates in Arabic without the first morphemic boundary as well (i.e., #__CCV); but cf. the following note. 82 The same epenthetic insertion is seen already in the linguistic (Canaanite?) antecedents of the biblical GN’s ʾeštāʾōl, ʾeštĕmōaʿ, and so on (all apparently derived from an earlier *ʾitqatVl). 81

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wa[t]taqaġ/ “give heed and attune your ear”; KTU 1.16.VI.29–30, 42.83 As Garr notes, in Ugaritic specifically “[t]he prothetic syllable…is sensitive to the derivational boundary separating the initial two consonants,” in that its insertion occurs only when this boundary is present. 84 Thus, the evidence from Ugaritic indicates that the phenomenon obtained in Northwest Semitic as well, at least in limited environments or under sporadically operating constraints; it is only the conditioning environment that comprises the primary distinction between Arabic and Northwest Semitic. In fact, CArab. seems to be the outlier among the Central Semitic languages in its non-operation of sandhi or the loss of epenthetic insertion preceding the consonant cluster occasioned by the addition of derivational *t. The Ethiopic N-stem suffix-conjugation (ʾanqalqala < *n=qalqala) and imperative (ʾanqalqəl < *n=qalqil) exhibited nearly identical insertions to those made in Central Semitic, with the difference that the inserted vowel is an *a-vowel instead of an *i-vowel: (4) *ø > ʾa / #__C=C(=)V However, South Semitic appears to have alleviated the initial consonant cluster of the tG-stem differently from Central Semitic. Here, too, we find the insertion of an epenthetic vowel *a in Ethiopic, but that insertion follows—rather than precedes—the derivational prefix *t-. See, for

See D. Sivan, A Grammar of the Ugaritic Language (HdO, 28; Leiden: Brill, 2001), 131; cf. M. Krebernik, “Gt- und tD-Stämme im Ugaritischen,” in W. Gross, H. Irsigler, and T. Seidl (eds.), Texte, Methode und Grammatik: Wolfgang Richter zum 65. Geburtstag (St. Ottilien: EOS Verlag, 1991), 227–70 (231 §2.1.4); J. Tropper, Ugaritische Grammatik (=UG) (AOAT, 273; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2000), 527–28 §74.233). The verbal noun exhibits a variety of forms (e.g., J. Huehnergard, Ugaritic Vocabulary in Syllabic Transcription [=UVST] [HSS, 32; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987], 321; Krebernik, “Gt- und tD-Stämme,” 231–32 §2.1.5; Tropper, UG, 530–31 §74.236). For additional cases of sandhi in Ugaritic, see Tsumura, “Vowel sandhi in Ugaritic”; idem, “Vowel sandhi in Biblical Hebrew,” esp. 579–81; and Sivan, Grammar, 32, 138. 84 Garr, “Niphal,” 153. We might generalize this principle to Northwest Semitic as a whole, citing the alleviation of the biconsonantal, mono-morphemic ProtoSemitic cluster *bn “son” in Hebrew and Aramaic through the insertion of a medial anaptyctic vowel (PS *bn > Heb. ben, Aram. bar; D. Testen, “The Significance of Aramaic r < *n,” JNES 44 [1985], 143–46). In contrast, Arabic usually alleviates an initial consonant cluster through sandhi or with the insertion of alif al-waṣl, regardless of whether the cluster spans a morphemic boundary (PS *bn > Arab. [ʾi]bn). 83

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example, the Ethiopic suffix-conjugation (taqat[a]la), imperative (taqatal), and infinitive (taqatəlo[t]), all of which can be described with rule (5): (5) *ø > a / #t__=C In this regard, the development of the tG-stem in Ethiopic as described by rule (5) is somewhat convergent with the rule in Akkadian and Northwest Semitic whereby the word-initial consonant cluster in the N-stem infinitive, etc., was similarly alleviated by the insertion of *a (see rule [2] above). South Semitic thus demonstrates a slightly different development from that of Central Semitic’s tG-stem and rules (4) and (5) may therefore be excluded from the remainder of the discussion. In contrast, the Hebrew hitpaʿel suffix-conjugation (hitqattēl < *t=qattil 85) and the unprefixed Arabic VIII form suffix-conjugation (iqtatala < *q=t=atal), not to mention imperative and infinitive forms as well, all exhibit the same prefixation of the initial epenthetic vowel described above as rule (3). 86 As noted above, this insertion is unnecessary in prefixed forms J. Huehnergard adduces the original vocalization of the D-stem verbal base as *-qattil, although he suggests the tD-stem base to have been *-qattal, “as elsewhere in Semitic” (“Historical Phonology and the Hebrew Piel,” in W. Bodine (ed.), Linguistics and Biblical Hebrew [Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1992], 209–29 [224, 228–29]; cf. Aram. hitpaʿal and Akk. uptarras). However, one wonders whether the proto-Canaanite tD-stem might not have acquired the *-qattil form already as a result of analogy with the still productive tG-stem: qatal (G): t=qatal (tG): qattil (D): t=qattil (tD). 86 Arabic behaves normally here, since it attaches the epenthetic vowel to the same verbal base in the suffix-conjugation (iqtatala < *q=t=atal) and prefixconjugation (yaqtatilu < *yi=q=t=atil=u). As Garr has noted (“Niphal,” 144–45), Hebrew displays two different bases for its formation of the nipʿal suffixconjugation (niqtal < *n=qtal) and prefix-conjugation, etc. (yiqqatēl < *yi=n=qatil). However, in 1924 D. Yellin put forth an argument that we should recognize an allomorph of the typical nipʿal suffix-conjugation which has been misanalyzed as a tG-stem wherein the derivational *n-prefix has assimilated to R1 (“Hippaʿel-Nifʿal,” 85–106). A similar argument had been advanced earlier by I. Eitan, “Light on the History of the Hebrew Verb,” JQR 12 (1921–1922), 25–32; see also W.F. Albright, “The Hebrew nippaʿʿel in the Light of Comparative Philology,” JQR 13 (1923), 503–5; cf. H. Distenfeld, “Was There a Form ‫ נִ ַפּ ֵﬠל‬in Early Hebrew?” JQR 13 (1923), 337–42. But a more reasonable derivation of, for example, the anomalous suffix-conjugation verb ‫אתי‬ ִ ‫( ִהנַּ ֵבּ‬Ezek 37:10) is from a hitpaʿel stem (e.g., Bauer and Leander, Historische Grammatik, 198 §15g; and recently J.S. Baden, “Hithpael and Niphal in Biblical Hebrew: Semantic and Morphological Overlap,” VT 60 [2010], 33–44). This explanation posits the development *hitnabbiʾtī > hinnabbē(ʾ)tî, in which 85

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255

such as the Hebrew hitpaʿel prefix-conjugation (yitqattēl < *yi=t=qattil), in which the inflectional pronominal prefix naturally alleviates the word-initial consonant cluster. However, Hebrew and some forms of Aramaic have clearly undergone an additional phonological development, namely the analogical development of *ʾ > h. Garr plausibly suggests that in those languages exhibiting the lenition *š > h in the causative stem, 87 “[t]he overt, consonantal marker of the derived, causative stem—h—is borrowed by the t-stems.” 88 Although not a sound-rule, per se, since its operation occurs in an ad hoc manner through analogical extension, this development may be schematized as: (6) *ʾi → hi / #__C=C(=)V89

the derivational *t assimilated unpredictably to R1 (thus, *t > n). These phonemes’ common feature as dental-alveolars may help to explain cases of unexpected assimilation; for further argumentation, see J.M. Hutton, “Total or Partial Assimilation of Derivational-*T (‫ )ת‬in the Biblical Hebrew Hitpaʿel?” JNSL 37.2 (2011), 27–48. It should not go unnoticed, as Rendsburg has pointed out to us (personal communication), that three nipʿal forms commencing in hinna- can be found in the immediately preceding verses (Ezek 37:7, 9 [2x]). Yellin’s theory would posit that the mispointed hinnabē(ʾ)tî (notice omission of gemination in R2) had developed instead from an original *hinnabiʾtī < PNWS *innabiʾtī < PS *n=nabiʾ=tī. In either case, the preservation of this and similar forms in Biblical Hebrew has two benefits for the present paper. First, it allows us to recognize that the verbal base of this allomorph could originally have been *-qatil (or *-qatal; cf. the Aramaic ippeʿal, as adduced by Yellin, “Hippaʿel-Nifʿal,” 97–98; see also below, section III). Second, it provides the identical pattern for the Hebrew N-stem verbs (or perhaps more appropriately nG-stem?) to that of the tG-stem verbs presented below. 87 For this development, see, e.g., W. Leslau, “Le rapport entre š et h en semitique,” Annuaire de l’Institut de Philologie et d’Histoire Orientales et Slaves 7 (New York: Éditions de l’Institut, 1944), 265–72; M.M. Bravmann, “The Semitic Causative-Prefix š/sa,” Mus 82 (1969), 517–22; R.M. Voigt, “Der Lautwandel s1 > h in wurzellosen Morphemen des Alt- und Neusüdarabischen,” in G. Goldenberg and S. Raz (eds.), Semitic and Cushitic Studies (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1994), 19–28; and idem, “Akkadisch šumma ‘wenn’ und die Konditionalpartikeln des Westsemitischen,” in M. Dietrich and O. Loretz (eds.), Vom Alten Orient zum

Alten Testament. Festschrift für Wolfram Freiherrn von Soden zum 85. Geburtstag am 19. Juni 1993 (AOAT, 240; Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker; Neukirchen-Vluyn:

Neukirchener Verlag, 1995), 517–28. 88 Garr, “Niphal,” 154; see earlier, e.g., Moscati, Introduction, 128. 89 Garr, “Niphal,” 154, rule (6). We use here an arrow (→) to signify the analogical development rather than the sign of the sound change used by Garr (>). The development is, strictly speaking, not a sound change, because it does not

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By this analogical development, then, the Hebrew hipʿil has lent its initial segment to the hitpaʿel and, most likely, to any remnants of the archaic tGstem (see, e.g., the Hebrew verb hitpāqĕdû, discussed below in section II.c). It is the sporadic operation of this analogical shift that is to be credited with the variety of forms of the Aramaic tG-, tD-, and related stems. Biblical Aramaic exhibits both hit- and ʾit- forms, as demonstrated by the pairings: hitpeʿel ‫“ ְל ִה ְת ְק ָט ָלה‬to be killed” (Dan 2:9) vs. ʾitpeʿel: ‫“ ֶא ְת ֲﬠ ַקרוּ‬they were plucked up” (Dan 7:8) and hitpaʿal: ‫“ ִה ְתנַ ַדּבוּ‬they offered freely” (Ezra 7:15) vs.ʾitpaʿal: ‫“ ִא ְתיָ ַﬠטוּ‬they have consulted” (Dan 6:8) The hi-prefixed forms uninflected by pronominal prefixes are not infrequent in Biblical Aramaic, comprising twenty occurrences of these diagnostic forms: ‫“ ְל ִה ְת ְק ָט ָלה‬to be killed” (Dan 2:9); ‫“ ְבּ ִה ְת ְבּ ָה ָלה‬with hurrying” (Dan 2:25; 3:24; 6:20); ‫“ ִה ְתגְּ זֶ ֶרת‬it was cut out” (Dan 2:34, but cf. ‫ ִא ְתגְּ זֶ ֶרת‬in Dan 2:45); ‫)ה ְשׁ ְתּ ַכח( ִה ְשׁ ֲתּ ַכח‬ ִ or ‫“ ִה ְשׁ ְתּ ַכ ַחת‬it was found” (Dan 2:35; 5:11, 12, 14, 27; 6:5, 23, 24; Ezra 6:2); ‫“ ִה ְת ְמ ִלי‬he was full” (Dan 3:19); �‫“ ִה ְת ָח ַר‬it was singed” (Dan 3:27); ‫“ ִה ְת ְר ִחצוּ‬they trusted (i.e., were washed clean)” (Dan 3:28); ‫רוֹמ ְמ ָתּ‬ ַ ‫“ ִה ְת‬you were astonished” (Dan 5:23, but cf. ‫תּוֹמם‬ ַ ‫“ ֶא ְשׁ‬he was astonished” in 4:16); ‫“ ִה ְתנַ ִבּי‬he prophesied” (Ezra 5:1); and ‫“ ִה ְתנַ ַדּבוּ‬they offered freely” (Ezra 7:15) or ‫“ ִה ְתנַ ָדּבוּת‬what is offered freely” (Ezra 7:16). Diagnostic forms with the ʾi-prefix are limited to six occurrences: ‫“ ִא ְתגְּ זֶ ֶרת‬it was cut out” (Dan 2:35); ‫( ֶא ְשׁ ַתּנּוּ‬Q ‫)א ְשׁ ַתּנִּ י‬ ֶ “it was changed” (Dan 3:19); ‫תּוֹמם‬ ַ ‫“ ֶא ְשׁ‬he was astonished” (Dan 4:16); ‫ִא ְתיָ ַﬠטוּ‬ “they have consulted” (Dan 6:8); ‫( ֶא ְת ֲﬠ ַקרוּ‬Q ‫)א ְת ֲﬠ ַק ָרה‬ ֶ “they were plucked up” (Dan 7:8); and ‫“ ֶא ְת ְכּ ִריַּ ת‬it was grieved” (Dan 7:15). That this variation is to be assigned to diachronic development in a single branch of Aramaic is doubtful. Far more likely, we believe, is that it exhibits signs of Aramaic’s dialectal variation. 90 718F

occur in all cases of word-initial *ʾiC=C(=)V, only those cases where word-initial *ʾi has developed by the prothetic rule (3), above. Technically, Garr’s formulation of the rule as *ʾi > hi / #__C=C(=)V would include cases of the tG/Gt-stem prefix-conjugation in the 1.c.sg. as well; i.e., *ʾiltaḥam “I (will) fight with” (cf. KAI 181:11, 15) would have become **hiltaḥam. Shift (6) did operate in Moabite, as suggested by the infinitival form (b)hltḥm(h) in KAI 181:19, 32. 90 See already A. Hurvitz, “The Chronological Significance of ‘Aramaisms’ in Biblical Hebrew,” IEJ 18 (1968), 234–40; and, more recently, N. Pat-El, “Traces of Dialectal Variation in Late Biblical Hebrew,” VT 58 (2008), 650–55. Thus, because a Hebrew retention of the derivational prefix as ʾit- is unlikely, an explanation of

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257

No matter the eventual realization of the derivational morpheme’s initial consonant, the preceding argument has shown that the origin of both Hebrew derivational affixes */hit-/ (in suffix-forms) and */-t-/ (in prefixforms) of the derived t-stems, as well as the Aramaic prefix */ʾit-/, is most compellingly traced to a single original (and monoconsonantal) prefix *t-. 91 This evidence best explains the distribution and variant forms of the prefixed and infixed derivational *t throughout the Semitic languages, and may be traced as far back as an indefinite reflexive pronoun in AfroAsiatic.92

Aramaic influence may be given for the anomalous Hebrew suffix-conjugation forms ‫“ ֶאגְ ָא ְל ִתּי‬I have stained” (Isa 63:3) and ‫“ ֶה ֶאזְ נִ יחוּ‬they became foul” (Isa 19:6), infinitive absolute ‫“ ַא ְשׁ ֵכּים‬persistently” (Jer 25:3), and imperative �‫“ ַא ְב ֵר‬kneel down!” (Gen 41:43; see Böttcher, Lehrbuch, 2:281 §1015; but cf. the alternative explanations given by T.O. Lambdin, “Egyptian Loan Words in the Old Testament,” JAOS 73 [1953], 145–55 [146]; and J.M.A. Janssen, “Egyptological Remarks on the Story of Joseph in Genesis,” Jaarbericht van het VooraziatischEgyptisch Genootschap: Ex Oriente Lux 14 [1955–1956], 63–72 [68]; HALOT, 10, s.v. �‫)א ְב ֵר‬, ַ although ‫ ֶה ֶאזְ נִ יחוּ‬is supposed to have acquired the hê-prefix as a result of hypercorrection. 91 Garr, “Niphal,” 151–55. 92 Lieberman, “Afro-Asiatic Background,” 610–19; H.-P. Müller, “Die Bedeutungspotential der Afformativkonjugation,” ZAH 1 (1988), 159–90 (179); Garr, “Niphal,” 152–53. Incidentally, the developmental variation between the hiprefix of the Hebrew hipʿil (< PS *š) and the hi(t)- prefix of the Hebrew hitpaʿel and Aramaic hitpeʿel and hitpaʿal (< *ʾi[t]- lt and is therefore implausible). 96 G. Bergsträsser, Hebräische Grammatik (2 vols.; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1929), 2:100 §18i; H. Yalon, “Hithpāʿelformen im Hebräischen,” ZAW 50 (1932), 217–20 (220); E.A. Speiser, “The Durative Hithpa‘el: A tan-Form,” JAOS 75 (1955), 118– 21; J. Blau, “Über die t-Form des hifʿil im Bibelhebräisch,” VT 7 (1957), 385–88; B.W.W. Dombrowski, “Some Remarks on the Hebrew Hithpa‘el and Inversative 93

MORPHOLOGY OF THE TG STEM IN HEBREW & TIRGALTÎ

259

the roots √RGL (the verb at hand), √PQD, 97 √ŠYN, 98 and possibly √ḤRH and √PWṢ. 99 Yet even operating with the recognition that Hebrew at one t- in the Semitic Languages,” JNES 21 (1962), 220–23; Boyle, “Infix-T Forms,” 98– 141 (although other assertions complicate Boyle’s inclusion here); S.B. Wheeler, “The Infixed -t- in Biblical Hebrew,” JANES 3 (1970–1971), 20–31, esp. 22; P.A. Siebesma, The Function of the Niph’al in Biblical Hebrew (Studia Semitica Neerlandica, 28; Assen: Van Gorcum, 1991), 167, 169; Blau, Phonology and Morphology, 232 §4.3.5.6.1; cf. U. Ornan, “Two Types of Hitpaʿel,” in M. GoshenGottstein, S. Morag, and S. Kogut (eds.), Studies on Hebrew and Other Semitic Languages (Jerusalem: Academon, 1990), 1–3 (Hebrew, with English summary on p. vii); and A.F. Bean, “A Phenomenological Study of the Hithpa‘el Verbal Stem in the Hebrew Old Testament” (Ph.D. Diss., Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, 1976), 17–19. Evidence of this collapse of the tG and tD in Hebrew may be preserved in the anomalous “northern” use of the hitpaʿel with a passive sense; see hištammēr “be observed” (Mic 6:16); tithallāl “she is to be praised” (Prov 31:30); and yištakkĕḥû “they are forgotten” (Eccl 8:10). We might also point here to the etpoʿel form ʾeštôlĕlû “they were despoiled” (Ps 76:6). Gary Rendsburg connects the odd passive sense of the hitpaʿel to the “two different T-stem formations” of Aramaic, but does not explicitly argue for any Masoretic reanalysis (“A Comprehensive Guide to Israelian Hebrew: Grammar and Lexicon,” Orient 38 [2003], 5–35 [18– 19]); Rendsburg’s position was challenged by D. Talshir (“The Habitat and History of Hebrew during the Second Temple Period,” in I. Young [ed.], Biblical Hebrew. Studies in Chronology and Typology [JSOTSup 369; London: T & T Clark, 2003], 251–75 [275]), but cf. Clinton Moyer, who has subsequently defended Rendsburg’s position (“Literary and Linguistic Studies in Sefer Bilʿam [Numbers 22–24],” [Ph.D. Diss., Cornell University, 2009], 103–5). One could also cite the contradiction posed to Rendsburg’s position by Baden, who, similarly to Talshir, challenges the passive nature of the verb in Prov 31:30 (“Hithpael and Niphal,” 34–35). Also worthy of further consideration are the supposed hitpaʿel verbal forms with theme vowel a adduced by A.F. Rainey (“Observations on Ugaritic Grammar,” UF 3 [1971], 151–72 [167]): ʾetʾappaq “I forced myself” (1 Sam 13:2; see also Gen 43:31; Isa 42:14; 63:15; 64:11; Esth 5:10); titḥakkan “you shall deal wisely” (Eccl 7:16; also Exod 1:10); and yitgāʾal “he [would not] defile himself” (Dan 1:8). Although Rainey seems to take these as passive tD-stem forms, they may simply be reanalyzed tG forms. A similar reanalysis to the one assumed here occurred with the Gp (qalpassive) stem; see R.J. Williams, “The Passive Qal Theme in Hebrew,” in J.W. Wevers and D.B. Redford (eds.), Essays on the Ancient Semitic World (Toronto Semitic Texts and Studies, 1; Toronto: Toronto University Press, 1970), 43–50. 97 Several commentators adduce hitpāqēd as “the sole surviving Hebrew Gt-stem verb”; Testen, “Arabic Evidence,” 5; see also T. Nöldeke, “Kleine Beiträge zur hebräischen Grammatik: 2) Das Reflexiv des Qal,” in Archiv für wissenschaftliche Erforschung des alten Testaments 1 (1867–1869), 458–60; Brockelmann, GVG,

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1:529–30 §257.H.a.δ; Bauer and Leander, Historische Grammatik, 281 §38f; Bergsträsser, Grammatik, 2:100 §18i; Yalon, “Hithpāʿelformen,” 217; Blau, “Über die t-Form,” 386; Boyle, “Infix-T Forms,” 104; W. Schottroff, “‫ פקד‬pqd heimsuchen,” THAT 2:466–86 (468); Garr, Dialect Geography, 120; IHBS, 360 §21.2.3b; J.H. Walton, “The Place of the hutqaṭṭēl within the D-Stem Group and Its Implications in Deuteronomy 24:4,” HS 32 (1991), 7–17 (9); M.A. Arnold, “Categorization of the Hitpaʿēl of Classical Hebrew” (Ph.D. Diss., Harvard University, 2005), 143 G1; S. Creason, “PQD Revisited,” in C.L. Miller (ed.), Studies in Semitic and Afroasiatic Linguistics Presented to Gene B. Gragg (Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization, 60; Chicago: Oriental Institute of Chicago University, 2007), 40. Although one might argue that the prefix-form (way-)yitpāqĕdû (Judg 20:15) and the suffix-form hitpāqĕdû (Judg 20:15, 17) are simply examples of a tD-stem in which the ad hoc rule of degemination of qôp before vocalic šəwăʾ has operated, followed by the lengthening of the *a vowel to a long ā vowel under pause (see, e.g., GKC, 151 §54 l, which describes the gemination of the middle radical as “abnormally omitted”; Bean, “Phenomenological Study,” 17; and Walton, “The hutqaṭṭēl,” 10), only the suffixed inflection of this verb appears in contexts that might be pausal, and even those are marginal (Judg 20:15 with zaqeph qaton; Judg 20:17 with rebia). Moreover, the prefix-form (way-)yitpāqēd (Judg 21:9) cannot possibly display degemination of the q, because a full vowel follows; the form must therefore be regarded as a legitimate tG-stem form. Finally, one must recognize the verb’s passive counterpart, hotpāqĕdû (Num 1:47; 2:33; 26:62; 1 Kgs 20:27), which demonstrates a similar confusion between those forms without gemination of the second radical, and those with gemination (e.g., hukkabbēs [?]: Lev 13:55, 56; huṭṭammāʾâ: Deut 24:4; huddašnâ: Isa 34:6); see also W. Gesenius, Lehrgebäude der hebräischen Sprache (Leipzig: Christian & Vogel, 1817), 249 §71.4; I. Nordheimer, Critical Grammar of the Hebrew Language (2nd ed.; 2 vols.; New York: Wiley & Putnam, 1842), 137 §250; GKC, 150–51 §§54h, l; Bauer and Leander, Historische Grammatik, 285 §38j′; Joüon, 1:158–59 §53g; Bergsträsser, Grammatik, 2:100 §18i; Meyer, Grammatik, 2:125–26 §72.1a; Walton, “The hutqaṭṭēl,” 7–17; Arnold, “Categorization,” 9, 143 G1, 144 M1–2; but cf. Yellin, who categorizes the geminated forms as a passivized D-stem (which we might call an nD-stem) analogous to his *n-prefixed G-stem suffix-conjugation hippaʿel (an nG-stem, so to speak; “Hippaʿel-Nifʿal,” 96). Samaritan Hebrew manifests a cognate tG-stem in the verbs itfāqādu (cognate to hitpāqĕdû) and titgādēdu; cf. Biblical Hebrew √GDD, appearing in the hitpolal in Deut 14:1; Jer 5:7; 16:6; Z. Ben-Ḥayyim, A Grammar of Samaritan Hebrew. Based on the Recitation of the Law in Comparison with the Tiberian and Other Jewish Traditions (rev. ed.; Jerusalem: Hebrew University; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2000), 119; cf. R. Macuch, who adduces the etpeʿel form as a “fully indubitable [völlig unzweifelhaftes]

MORPHOLOGY OF THE TG STEM IN HEBREW & TIRGALTÎ

261

time contained a tG-stem that was subsequently lost, the variety of preserved forms causes some confusion. Most problematically, the suffixed inflection occurs in at least two different forms:

example of the Aramaic influence on Samaritan Hebrew” (our translation), rather than shared retention: “Die [samaritanische] Unterscheide von den [MT] Verbalformen sind fast insgesamt ein Zeugnis für die Abweichung vom ursprünglichen Geist der althebräischen Sprache und für den Verlust des echt hebräischen Sprachgefühls” (Grammatik des Samaritanischen Hebräisch [Studia Samaritana, 1; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1969], 260). 98 Perhaps the one clearly recognized example of the tG-form in Hebrew, the participial form maštîn (1 Sam 25:22, 34; 1 Kgs 14:10; 16:11; 21:21; 9:8) is to be derived from a Hebrew root √ŠYN (Brockelmann, GVG, 1:530 §257.H.a.δ; Bauer and Leander, Historische Grammatik, 405 §56u″; HALOT 1479, s.v. ‫“[ שׁין‬qal with reflexive -t-”]; Krebernik, “Gt- und tD-Stämme,” 238 §3.1.7; Streck, Die akkadischen Verbalstämme, 72–73 no. 189; IBHS, 425 n. 1; cf. BDB, 1010a, s.v. ‫שׁין‬, which lists hipʿil occurrences of the purported “secondary root” ‫ שׁתן‬under the root ‫שׁין‬, a nominal form of which, ‫שׁיִ ן‬, ַ means “urine”). This root is cognate to the Ugaritic verb √ṮYN (UT, 502 §19:2669; J. Aistleitner, Wörterbuch der Ugaritischen Sprache [Berichte über die Verhandlungen der Sächsischen Akademie der Wissenschaftern zu Leipzig, 106/3; Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1963], 339 §2895; L.R. Fisher, Ras Shamra Parallels. The Texts from Ugarit and the Hebrew Bible (AnOr, 49; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1972–1981), 1:187 no. 201; DUL, 2:918, s.v. /ṯ-n/; I.K.H. Halayqa, A Comparative Lexicon of Ugaritic and Canaanite [AOAT, 340; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2008], 355), to Syriac tān, ton, tūnēʾ, tyānēʾ, tyāntāʾ, etc. (R. Payne Smith, Thesaurus, 4410; J. Payne Smith, Dictionary, 608a, 611; Brockelmann, GVG, 1:530 §257.H.a.δ; Sokoloff, Syriac Lexicon, 1631b), and to Akkadian šiānum and šânu (AHw, 1225b–1226a; CAD, 17/1[Š/1]: 409b), as well as a number of other languages listed in HALOT. In Ugaritic and Akkadian, the root is found in the Gt-stem with the lexicalized meaning “to urinate.” The metathesis of the first root letter and the derivational prefixed *t is analogous to that of hitpaʿel (tD) forms beginning with sibilants, including šîn (GKC, 70 §19n, 149 §54b; Bauer and Leander, Historische Grammatik, 217 §23a; Joüon, 1:158 §53e), and the vowel patterning may be attributed to misanalysis of the verb as a hipʿil participle in the pre-Masoretic tradition (cf. Meyer, Grammatik, 2:151 §80.3k). 99 Cf. GKC, 151 §54l. Blau has argued that √ḤRH, along with a few other roots, actually manifests a tC-stem form (“Über die t-Form,” 387–88; but cf. the refutation of this position in Tropper, “T-Verbalstämme,” 419–21, esp. 421).

262

JEREMY M. HUTTON AND SAFWAT MARZOUK (i) suff.-conj. *tiqtVl (possibly *tiqtil, in which Philippi’s Law operates in the inflections with endings beginning with consonants, e.g., 1.c.sg.100): tirgaltî: Hos 11:3; and tĕpôṣôtîkem: Jer 25:34. (ii) suff.-conj. *hitqatVl- (theme vowel indeterminate): hitpāqĕdû: Judg 20:15, 17.

Any serious attempt to understand the tG-stem in Hebrew must (a) provide an adequate explanation of this divergence of morphological forms in which the stem appears; (b) come to grips with the fact that the tirgaltî form is anomalous, even within the sparsely attested tG in Hebrew; and (c) explain the relationship of these two morphological biforms to the apparently related toponyms 101—which provide yet a third enigmatic morphology—and the prefix-conjugation inflections: (iii) inf. abs. *ʾitqatāl: ʾeštāʾōl: Josh 15:33; Judg 13:25; ʾeštĕmōaʿ: Josh 21:14; ʾeltĕqōn: Josh 15:59; and ʾeltĕqē: Josh 19:44; 21:23. (iv) pref.-conj. *yitqatil: wayyitpāqĕdû: Judg 20:15; wayyitpāqēd: Judg 21:9.

From these four preserved forms of the Hebrew tG, it is clear that our solution must account for the following: (1) the three-fold variation of the prefix displaying an epenthetic vowel alternatively before (i.e., hit-, ʾit-102) and after (ti-) the derivational *t; (2) the presence (in non-Hebrew [?] Canaanite) or absence (in Hebrew) of metathesis between the affixed derivational tāw and the first radical (ʾeltĕqōn 103 vs. hitpāqĕdû); and Lambdin, “Philippi’s Law Reconsidered,” 135–45. Following Testen, “Arabic Evidence,” 5. 102 Compare also ʾeštôlĕlû “they were despoiled” (Ps 76:6). Although this word’s vowel pointing diverges from the tG/Gt-stem forms adduced here, and may be compared more favorably to the tL-stem (Arabic VI-form, Diem’s t3 [“Entwicklung”]), the prefix ʾe- < *ʾi- displays a similar stage of the development. 103 W. Borée argued that this category of toponym should be traced to the common Hebrew tD (hitpaʿel), and displayed the normal metathesis of sibilants with the derivational tāw (e.g., *ʾitšammVʿ > ʾeštĕmōaʿ). He argued that the lāmed in ʾeltĕqē and ʾeltĕqōn and Mesha Inscription ʾltḥm acted like a sibilant in some dialects (Die alten Ortsnamen Palästinas [Leipzig: Pfeiffer, 1930], 70). However, Elitzur suggests a more reasonable approach: the absence of any gemination of the second radical and the conformity of the toponyms to the Arabic VIII maṣdar, or verbal noun, 100 101

MORPHOLOGY OF THE TG STEM IN HEBREW & TIRGALTÎ

263

(3) the form of the verbal base to which the affixed tāw was attached (suff.-conj. *-qtVl or *-qatVl-104; inf. *-qatāl; pref.-conj. *-qatil).105

Because criterion (2) involves two different language groups (non-Hebrew Canaanite with metathesis of the tG-stem derivational prefix vs. Hebrew), it can remain undiscussed in the following presentation, which proceeds from a Hebrew-language-internal standpoint. (Criterion [2] is thus assumed to be inoperative in the following discussion). We handle criteria (1) and (3) here in reverse order. VERBAL BASE OF THE HEBREW TG-STEM Before the original form of the derivational prefix may isolated and the conditions of its development described, we must reckon with the verbal base of the tG/Gt-stem. The verbal base of the tG-stem suffix-conjugation and prefix-conjugation in Hebrew is difficult to isolate with any certainty, since it requires first of all the supposition that the tG was, in fact, productive and secondly the assumption that it can be traced through crossSemitic comparison. Unfortunately, such comparison proves to be inconclusive with respect to the vowel pattern of the tG-stem verbal base(s). In Arabic, the base of the Gt- (VIII)-stem suffix-conjugation was *qatal (e.g., [i]qtatal; cf. Akk. perf. iptatras, pret. iptaras; Eth. impf. yəqat[t]al, suff.-conj. taqat[a]la, imptv. taqatal). However, the other forms are formed on a *-qatil base (Arab. pref.-conj. yiqtatilu, imptv. [i]qtatil, part. muqtatil; cf. Eth. inf. taqatəlot[?]) or a *-qitāl base (verb. noun [i]qtitālun). 106 Aramaic evidence would support a *-qatil base in the suffix-conjugation (BA [h/ʾ]itqətēl < */hitqatil/ [e.g., hitrəḥīṣû, 107 Dan 3:28], cf. Syr. ʾētqətēl / ʾētqətīl), suggest a derivation from the tG/Gt-stem (Ancient Place Names, 150 §31.3; see also Testen, “Arabic Evidence,” 5). Lieberman points out that these place names are not necessarily Hebrew in origin (“Afro-Asiatic Background,” 613 n. 205; cf. Bauer, “Kanaanäische Miszellen,” 410). 104 Diem reconstructs the suffix-conjugation base as *-qatal, which then became *-qtal in some forms through syncope (“Entwicklung,” 37 §9, 45–47 §§15–16). 105 The reduction of the vowel between the first and second radicals leads Testen (“Arabic Evidence,” 5) to posit two possible verbal bases: *(ʾi)štaʾāl > ʾeštāʾōl but *(ʾi)štimāʿ > ʾeštĕmōaʿ. Although this differentiation is a possibility, the nature of this first vowel will not be further discussed here. 106 For these forms, see the charts in Fischer, Grammar, 240; and Bennett, Comparative Semitic Linguistics, 104. 107 The long *ī thematic vowel presumably developed here as a response to the open syllable formed by the suffixation of the 3.m.pl. morpheme. However, Bauer and Leander (Historische Grammatik, 108 §34h–j) derive the suffix-conjugation

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JEREMY M. HUTTON AND SAFWAT MARZOUK

prefix-conjugation (BA yitqətēl [e.g., yitʿăbēd, Dan 3:29], cf. Syr. nētqətēl / nētqətīl), and participle (BA mitqətēl [e.g., mityəhēb, Ezra 4:20], cf. Syr. mētqətēl / mētqətīl). The verbal base of the infinitive, however, was most likely *-qatāl (BA hitqətālâ [e.g., lǝ-hitqəṭālâ, Dan 2:13]; cf. the Canaanite toponyms mentioned above with form ʾeqtətōl). 108 The evidence from Ugaritic is sparse, thanks to its general orthographic lack of vowels, combined with complications occasioned by the possibility of syncope of the theme vowel.109 Thus, while there is not much explicit evidence for the verbal base of the tG-stem suffix-conjugation and prefix-conjugation forms in Hebrew, the language’s closest relatives demonstrate verbal bases in the *-qatal or *qatil categories, perhaps with passive and active semantic values, respectively. Hebrew-internal evidence is ambiguous as well. Because it provides evidence of a *t-prefixed verbal stem in which the middle radical lacked gemination, the verbal root √PQD may be the most secure root on which to base our judgment. Unfortunately, this root does not appear frequently enough to provide incontrovertible evidence concerning the vowels in the stem’s paradigmatic verbal base. The thematic vowel has been reduced in each exemplar because of the addition of 3.m/c.pl. suffixes (cf. the prefixform [way-]yitpāqĕdû [Judg 20:15] and the suffix-form hitpāqĕdû [Judg 20:15, 17]), allowing us to posit at best an original *-qatVl base. Neither does the verbal form tirgaltî allow us to make a definitive judgment concerning the verbal base of the tG-stem suffix-conjugation, since it too can be derived either from *-qtVl or *-qVtVl (see below). However, comparing the two verbal forms hitpāqĕdû and tirgaltî side-by-side may prove instructive. The former verb corroborates a vowel *a between R1 and R2, as was suggested by cross-Semitic comparison. 110 Evidence from the latter verbal exemplar verbal base originally from *-qatal. Since none of the Biblical Aramaic 3.m.sg. suffix-conjugations are formed from a strong root, it is quite difficult to validate this assertion and *-qatil is not precluded. 108 For the Aramaic forms, see Bauer and Leander, Historische Grammatik, 106–9 §34. 109 E.g., J. Tropper, “Zur Vokalisierung des ugaritischen Gt-Stammes,” UF 22 (1990), 371–73; idem, UG 518–19 §74.232.1, 528 §74.234.1; idem, “Die TVerbalstämme,” 421; cf. Krebernik, “Gt- und tD-Stämme,” 229–31 §2.1.3; Huehnergard, UVST, 320–21; D. Sivan, Grammatical Analysis and Glossary of the

Northwest Semitic Vocables in Akkadian Texts of the 15th–13th Century BC from Canaan and Syria (Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener

Verlag, 1984), 172–73. 110 Although see below for an alternative explanation of tirgaltî’s development

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265

would limit the thematic vowel to *a or *i (> a by Philippi’s law111), also corroborating the cross-Semitic data summarized above. Finally, we may find some Hebrew-internal confirmation for a tG-verbal base *-qatil—albeit derived from a later vocal tradition—in the single case of Babylonian pointing reading ‫( ִה ְתנַ ֵשּׂא‬Ezek 17:14). 112 Thus, despite ambiguity concerning the quality of the thematic vowel between R2 and R3, enough evidence exists to suggest that we are dealing with a *-qatVl base, in which V = a or i, and in which the middle radical is singleton (i.e., not geminate). Furthermore, the spirantization of gîmel in the word under discussion supports the reconstruction of a verbal base with a reduced vowel between R1 and R2. 739F

740F

THE PREFIX OF THE HEBREW TG-STEM The morphology of the prefix is more difficult to reconstruct. Under normal circumstances, the usual Canaanite (and specifically Hebrew) developments would have yielded the expected form *ʾanōkī hitragaltī, which would presumably have obtained in the Masoretic vocalization as ʾānōkî hitrāgaltî, were the tG-stem a recognizable and productive formation. Even if the consonantal structure ‫ התרגלתי‬were to have been reanalyzed as a tDstem (i.e., hitpaʿel) verb, as seems to have occurred broadly in Hebrew, 113 the phrase should still have appeared with the prefixal hê as hitraggaltî, through the operation of rule (3) and analogy (6), given above. So why did this “normal” development not occur in the case at hand? We suggest that the answer to this question lies in the morphosyntactic environment established with the irregular (although not uncommon) prepositioning of the independent pronoun serving as the verb’s subject. As noted above, Ugaritic and Arabic normally affix this epenthetic prefix to otherwise unprefixed t-stem forms (section II.b). But in fact a third Semitic language—Hebrew—demonstrates the loss of the epenthetic vowel on a t-stem form in a definable morphosyntactic environment in later recorded dialects of the language. In Mishnaic Hebrew the nipʿal infinitive lost the consonant *h- of its epenthetic prefix when following an 741F

from a *-qtal base. 111 Lambdin, “Philippi’s Law Reconsidered,” 135–45. 112 For the pointed text, see P. Kahle, Masoreten des Ostens. Die ältesten punktierten Handschriften des Alten Testaments und der Targume (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1913), 195; cited by Bergsträsser, Grammatik, 2:100 §18i. 113 Bergsträsser, Grammatik, 2:100 §18i; Yalon, “Hithpāʿelformen,” 220; Speiser, “Durative Hithpa‘el,” 118–21; Dombrowski, “Some Remarks,” 220–23; Siebesma, Function, 167, 169; Blau, Phonology and Morphology, 232 §4.3.5.6.1; and n. 96 above.

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inseparable preposition (e.g., ‫ ליבטל‬/l-ibbaṭēl/ < *lə-hibbaṭēl < *l-hinbaṭil114). Typically, this apocope of *h- is presumed to occur as a function of the elision of intervocalic hê, known from elsewhere in Hebrew. We may wonder, in light of the discussion of sandhi in Arabic and Ugaritic given above in section II.c, whether it was not an alternative way in some dialects of Hebrew of forming the nipʿal infinitive when it stood in close contact with a preceding vowel-final word (i.e., *n=qatil > inqatil / -V# __). More accurately stated, we propose that the development of the epenthetic prefix consonant may have been blocked in environments already involving the operation of sandhi. Indeed, this morphological phenomenon is not unknown in Biblical Hebrew, where we find in MT the forms ‫וּב ָכּ ְשׁלוֹ‬ ִ ûbikkāšəlô (< *û-bə-hikkāšəlô, literally “and in his being tripped,” Prov 24:17), ‫ ֵבּ ָה ֵרג‬bēhārēg (< *bǝ-hēhārēg, “in the killing of,” Ezek 26:15), and ‫ ֵבּ ָﬠ ֵטף‬bēʿāṭēp (< *bə-hēʿāṭēp, “in the faintness of,” Lam 2:11; cf. Ps 61:3) and others. 115 Clearly, this was not the form that became generalized throughout Biblical Hebrew; nonetheless, its existence in both BH and MH is noteworthy. An additional piece of evidence comes from Samaritan Hebrew. Grammarians that dialect regularly describe the “collapse” of the epenthetic syllable in the suffix-conjugation of the hitpaʿel stem(s) (see above) when the verbal exemplar follows the conjunction wa-. In the Samaritan recitation tradition, we find forms “such as wētqaddeštimma ‫והתקדשתם‬, wētmakkertimma ‫והתמכרתם‬, wētbårråk ‫והתברך‬, [and] wētbårrå̄ku ‫ ”והתברכו‬116 as well as ētāllak and ētāttanu. 117 According to Ben-Ḥayyim, 742F

743F

74F

745F

M.H. Segal, A Grammar of Mishnaic Hebrew (Oxford: Clarendon; repr.; Ancient Language Resources; Eugene, Or.: Wipf & Stock, 1927), 58 §115; M. Pérez Fernández, An Introductory Grammar of Rabbinic Hebrew (trans. John Elwolde; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 146 §20.5. The yôd here marks the short *i epenthetic vowel. Aaron Rubin has drawn to our attention (personal communication) the fact that the form of the infinitive in Mishnaic Hebrew may have come about by anology with the prefix-conjugation (for this argument, see G.A. Rendsburg, Diglossia in Ancient Hebrew [American Oriental Studies, 72; New Haven: American Oriental Society, 1990], 97–102 §§56–59, esp. p. 100); if this argument stands, then the apocope of *h discussed here would no longer be able to serve as evidence for the phonetic development we are proposing. 115 Cf. GKC, §51l; BDB, 742, s.v. ‫ עטף‬III; Bauer and Leander, Historische Grammatik, 228 §25z; Joüon, 1:150 §51b; also G.A. Rendsburg, “Laqṭîl Infinitives: Yiph‘il or Hiph‘il?” Or 51 (1982), 231–38; Tsumura, “Vowel sandhi in Biblical Hebrew.” 116 Ben-Ḥayyim, Grammar, 119 §2.1.5.1. 117 Arnold, “Categorization,” 9; see also Macuch, Grammatik des 114

MORPHOLOGY OF THE TG STEM IN HEBREW & TIRGALTÎ

267

A feature to be noted especially is the length of the vowel ē in the syllable wēt- in the perfect, for as a rule waw conjunctive attaches itself directly to the vowel of a word beginning with an original guttural consonant, such as ‫ועשרון‬: wišron, ‫ואת‬: wit. Thus, *wit- and not wēt, is to be expected. This would seem to indicate that what we have here is a different origin, as if it were *wahit > *wa’it … > wēt, i.e., that the vowel a of the waw conjunctive was not elided here as in the other combinations…. 118 746F

Although it is currently impossible to describe fully the developmental changes that yielded the Samaritan Hebrew forms, 119 it is clear that one of two processes is at work in this dialect of Hebrew: either (a) the *h of the hitpaʿel prefix has elided in environments involving the prefixation of the conjunction, or (b) the regular development of the t-stems’ epenthetic syllable (*ø > *ʾV- → hV- / #__tq(V)tal) was arrested or blocked entirely in those same environments, so that the epenthetic syllable never fully developed as it did in the remainder of the paradigm, but instead allowed the present pronunciation to obtain. Orthographically, the first option is preferable, since it would explain the presence of hê in the written forms. Phonologically, however, the second option is more consistent with the forms of the proposed Biblical Hebrew tG-stem we have been examining, as the following discussion will show. If this latter solution is the case, the 74F

samaritanischen Hebräisch, 291 §aα. Professors Na’ama Pat-El and Gary Rendsburg have independently brought to our attention the argument presented by Y. Kutscher (and recently addressed by U. Mor) explaining the loss of *ʾ in the direct object marker in some forms of Hebrew and Aramaic (Y. Kutscher, “The Language of the Hebrew and Aramaic Letters of Bar Kochbah and Those of His Generation. Part 1: The Hebrew Letters,” Leš 26 [1962], 7-23, here 18-19 [Hebrew]; U. Mor, “The Grammar of the Epigraphic Hebrew Documents from Judaea between the First and the Second Revolts” [Ph.D. Diss., Ben-Gurion University, 2009], 242–43 §5.22 [Hebrew]). The process is not entirely identical to the one presented here, since, from cursory inspection of these sources, neither Kutscher nor Mor relates this syncope to a vowel-final preceding word. In fact, Mor provides several instances in which the direct object marker comprises the first morpheme of the cited text. The problem deserves further study, and would benefit from a more thorough analysis of the surrounding phonetic environment than can be accomplished in this paper. 118 Ben-Ḥayyim, Grammar, 119 §2.1.5.2. 119 Ben-Ḥayyim states that the problem “requires further study” (Grammar, 92– 93 §1.5.3.4).

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JEREMY M. HUTTON AND SAFWAT MARZOUK

presence of hê in the Samaritan Hebrew forms may be explained as a case of orthographic leveling: on this model, it was never pronounced.

II.D. THE MORPHOLOGY OF TIRGALTÎ IN LIGHT OF THE HEBREW TGSTEM

Upon reconsideration of the form tirgaltî, it is necessary to note that, although it is normally handled extra-contextually, 120 it appears in a linguistic environment replicating the same conditions governing the elision or non-development of hê in the Mishnaic and Samaritan Hebrew examples described immediately above. To be specific, the form tirgaltî appears immediately after the 1.c.sg. independent pronoun ʾānōkî. If we accept the general applicability of the morphosyntactic explanation proposed here, two avenues are then open to us to describe the morphology of tirgaltî more precisely. Each of the following solutions assumes that, when following words or proclitic morphemes ending naturally in vowels, the Hebrew tGstem suffix-conjugation did not need to insert an epenthetic vowel to alleviate its word-initial consonant-cluster. Instead, it preferred to allow the two words to stand in close juncture, blocking the expected development of the epenthetic syllable. Thus, although development of an epenthetic syllable *hi- broadly obtained, the operation of sandhi between a vowel-final word and an immediately following *CC-initial word optionally prevented this development. (Solution 1): Positing an original verbal base *-rgal (see above) allows us to reconstruct an analogical process whereby the proto-Masoretic reading tradition substituted a known vowel pattern on an unfamiliar derived stem’s consonantal structure (‫)תרגלתי‬. The form was clearly comprised of two elements: a derivational prefix ‫ת‬, recognizable from the hitpaʿel, and the verbal root ‫רגל‬. This composite derived form stood over against the expected development of the form **hitrgaltî (with its analogically anticipated orthographic realization **‫התרגלתי‬, not to mention its violation of rules of syllabification in Hebrew) and instead paralleled that of the nipʿal suffix-conjugation. This analogue allowed the pre-Masoretic vocal tradition to insert the same vowels into the new form’s consonantal structure, yielding *niR1R2aR3- → *tirgal-. (Solution 2): It is possible to obtain the same form tirgaltî by reconstructing the direct affixation of derivational *t to the verbal base 120

§91l.

See, e.g., GKC, 153 §55h, cf. the similar handling of ‫יכם‬ ֶ ‫פוֹצוֹת‬ ִ ‫ ְתּ‬on p. 258

MORPHOLOGY OF THE TG STEM IN HEBREW & TIRGALTÎ

269

*-ragVl. On this model, we postulate the form’s morphological development in the following manner. We begin by positing the (optional?) blocking of the normal development of the epenthetic syllable when immediately following a vowel-final word: (7) *ʾanōkī t=ragVltī > *ʾanōkī tragVltī This form was presumably stable throughout the era of spoken Biblical Hebrew. But with the reduction of unstressed short vowels in open, unaccented syllables, a morphologically unstable form developed: (8) *ʾanōkī tragVltī > **ʾanōkī trəgVltī No longer recognizing the effect of the sandhi, the pre-Masoretic tradition inserted an anaptyctic vowel of indeterminate quality between the derivational prefix and the verbal base, which quickly reduced to vocalic šəwăʾ and then became ḥîreq by the rule of šəwăʾ. Concomitantly, the thematic vowel developed into a, either by virtue of its origin as *a (hence, *-rəgaltī > -r[ə]galtî) or by the operation of Philippi’s law (*í > á / __CCV#, hence, *-rəgíltī > -r[ə]gáltî 121), and any spirantization of the *g following a vowel was neutralized through misanalysis of the underlying verbal base: (9) **ʾanōkī trəgVltī > *ʾanōkī tərəgVltī > ʾānōkî tirgaltî In either of these reconstructed scenarios—i.e., analogical extension from the nipʿal or natural development followed by misanalysis—the morphogenesis of tirgaltî may plausibly be traced to its morphosyntactic environment, in which the form followed a vowel-final word and was thus eligible for the operation of sandhi. 122

III. PRELIMINARY CONCLUSIONS REGARDING THE HEBREW tG-STEM AND TIRGALTÎ IN HOS 11:3 In summary, cross-Semitic comparison provides us with a set of principles guiding our interpretation of the putative tipʿel stem, a stem to which Hebrew ‫( ִתּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬Hos 11:3) is often assigned. In short, there is no tipʿel stem. Instead, our investigation here has suggested that the verbal form tirgaltî should be analyzed as a tG-stem suffix-conjugation in the 1.c.sg. inflection of a verbal root √RGL, phonologically conditioned by an environment in which the preceding word ended in a (long) vowel. This assessment is made all the more plausible by the close conjunction of ‫ וְ ָאנ ִֹכי ִת ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬signaled by the accent mehuppak under the first word. Our tG-stem analysis is more plausible than is the earlier suggestion by Barth that the form developed E.g., Lambdin, “Philippi’s Law Reconsidered,” 135–45. As Hutton has shown elsewhere, a similar solution is possible to account for the verbal form təpôṣôtîkem (Jer 25:34; “Morphosyntactic Explanation,” 151–69). 121 122

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JEREMY M. HUTTON AND SAFWAT MARZOUK

internally to Hebrew and was derived from t-preformative nouns.123 Because of the possibility of environmental conditioning, the original Hebrew tG-stem may occasionally take the form tipʿel under the correct circumstances. Moreover, this study suggests that the Heb. tG-stem is plausibly reconstructed as a semi-productive stem in some varieties of Hebrew; the unrecognized exemplars of this stem were subsequently conflated with—and pointed as—the hitpaʿel. 124 In particular, this seems to be the case for the bundle of dialects commonly known as “Israelian Hebrew,” in which can be found plausibly reconstructed tG-stem forms of other Hebrew verbal roots. 125 If this analysis is correct, the productive or semi-productive use of the tG-stem would potentially serve as an element of distinction between Israelian (Northern) and Judahite (Southern) Hebrew dialects. With respect to the semantic value of the word ‫תּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬,ִ we hope to have shown that the lexeme’s meaning should be related to the various functions of the tG/Gt-stems in the various Semitic languages rather than to any perceived origin in a nominal for which we have no evidence. Although the various semantic functions of the tG-stem are quite difficult to pin down with any certainty, we can say with some degree of assurance that the word ‫ ִתּ ְרגַּ ְל ִתּי‬is unlikely to denote causative verbal action. Through this recognition, we would therefore recommend that the two predominant ways of translating the word causatively (i.e., “I taught to walk” and “I led”) be given up. Only through a more linguistically sophisticated exegesis of the text of Hosea 11:1–4 will this word yield its semantic secrets.

APPENDIX A: BIBLIOGRAPHIC EXCURSUS OF SEMITIC tSTEM FORMS 1. DEIR ʿALLĀ

The early argument over the ambivalent nature of the dialect from Deir ʿAllā as either (a) most similar to Aramaic, and possibly a very conservative form of early Aramaic, much like Samʾalian Aramaic, or (b) most similar to Canaanite, is increasingly being jettisoned as a meaningful dichotomy in favor of a model that understands the language as an entirely separate dialect of Northwest Semitic. Those holding the first opinion include J. Hoftijzer and G. van der Kooij, P.K. McCarter (early work), A. Wolters, A. Barth, Nominalbilding, 278–81 §180a, esp. 279; idem, “Grammatik,” 19–21. See above, n. 96. 125 E.g., Rendsburg, Israelian Hebrew, esp. 17–26; Yoo, “Israelian Hebrew,” esp. 12–17. 123 124

MORPHOLOGY OF THE TG STEM IN HEBREW & TIRGALTÎ

271

Lemaire, and D. Pardee. 126 Among those holding the second, we may list the works of J.A. Hackett, and B.A. Levine, 127 although Hackett, at least, has backed off this position in light of more recent discoveries calling into question such a rigid dichotomy. 128 For the third opinion, see the more recent works of P.K. McCarter and the position endorsed by J. Huehnergard. 129 G.A. Rendsburg has offered his own typological analysis of the inscription, suggesting a close correspondence to Israelian Hebrew. 130 Regardless of the dialect’s proper categorization, Hoftijzer distinguished four different verbal forms that displayed a prefixed *t: ʾtyḥdw (“they assembled”; I 7 [= line 5 in McCarter, “Balaam Texts”; and Hackett, Balaam Text]); ytʿṣ (“he will seek advice”; II 9); ytmlk (“he will seek counsel”; II 9); and ʾtntq (“he pulled, tore down”; V). 131 However, of these, several commentators have raised questions concerning the verbs’ stems: Garr, citing Hackett’s dissertation, suggests that ʾtyḥdw and ʾtntq are more J. Hoftijzer and G. van der Kooij (eds.), Aramaic Texts from Deir ʿAlla (Documenta et Monumenta Orientis Antiqui, 19; Leiden: Brill, 1976), 300; P.K. McCarter, “The Balaam Texts from Deir ʿAllā: The First Combination,” BASOR 222 (1980), 49–60 (50–51); A. Wolters, “The Balaamites of Deir ʿAllā as Aramean Deportees,” HUCA 59 (1988), 101–13 (110–11); A. Lemaire, “Les inscriptions sur plâtre de Deir ʿAlla et leur signification histoirique et culturelle,” in J. Hoftijzer and G. van der Kooij (eds.), The Balaam Text from Deir ʿAlla Re-Evaluated: Proceedings of the International Symposium Held at Leiden 21–24 August 1989 [= BTDARE] (Leiden: Brill, 1991), 33–57 (50); D. Pardee, “The Linguistic Classification of the Deir ʿAlla Text Written on Plaster,” in BTDARE, 100–105 (104–5). 127 J. Naveh, Review of J. Hoftijzer and G. van der Kooij (eds.), Aramaic Texts from Deir ʿAlla, IEJ 29 (1979), 133–36 (135–36); J.C. Greenfield, Review of J. Hoftijzer and G. van der Kooij (eds.), Aramaic Texts from Deir ʿAlla, JSS 25 (1980), 248–52 (250–51); Hackett, Balaam Text, 123–24; B.A. Levine, “The Balaam Inscription from Deir ʿAlla: Historical Aspects,” in Biblical Archaeology Today. 126

Proceedings of the International Congress on Biblical Archaeology, Jerusalem, April 1984 (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1985), 326–39 (329–30). J.A. Hackett, personal communication. P.K. McCarter, “The Dialect of the Deir ʿAlla Texts,” in BTDARE, 87–99 (97); and J. Huehnergard, “Remarks on the Classification of the Northwest Semitic Languages,” in BTDARE, 282–93 (282). 130 G.A. Rendsburg, “The Dialect of the Deir ʿAlla Inscription,” BiOr 50 (1993), 309–28. 131 Hoftijzer and van der Kooij, Aramaic Texts, 192, 228–29, 256–57, 292; see also B.A. Levine, “The Deir ʿAlla Plaster Inscriptions,” JAOS 101 (1981), 195–205 (201). 128 129

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JEREMY M. HUTTON AND SAFWAT MARZOUK

plausibly analyzed as tD-stem forms. 132 The evidence Hackett mustered for a tD of ytʿṣ was much more equivocal, given the confusion over the verb’s root, 133 and although she categorized the verb as tG in her grammatical summary, 134 Garr removes the form from consideration as “unexplained.” 135

2. UGARITIC For the Gt-stem in Ugaritic generally, see the works of E. Hammerschaimb, F. Gröndahl, E.D. Mallon, S. Segert, M. Krebernik, J. Tropper, D. Sivan, and D. Pardee. 136 Because Ugaritic used a primarily consonantal alphabet, determining the vocalization of the various forms is difficult. yqtl: The prefix form tštil “you will ask(?)” (KTU 2.17:15) would suggest an i-class vowel.137 But yštal “let him ask” or “he asked” (KTU 2.42:23; 2.70:12; 2.71:10) would suggest an a-class vowel.138 M. Dijkstra Garr, Dialect Geography, 119–20; Hackett, Balaam Text, 40, 64, 96, 97. Hackett, Balaam Text, 64. 134 Ibid., 96, 97. 135 Garr, Dialect Geography, 120. 136 E. Hammerschaimb, Das Verbum im Dialekt von Ras Schamra (Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1941), 42–49; C. H. Gordon, Ugaritic Textbook (Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1965), 1:81 §9.33; F. Gröndahl, Die Personennamen der Texte aus Ugarit (Studia Pohl Dissertationes Scientificae de Rebus Orientis Antiqui, 1; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1967), 59–60 §97; E.D. Mallon, “The Ugaritic Verb in the Letters and Administrative Documents” (Ph.D. Diss., The Catholic University of America, 1982), 10 §1.3.2, 11–12 §1.4.2, 29–30 n. 19; S. Segert, A Basic Grammar of the Ugaritic Language (Los Angeles/Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), 66 §54.32; M. Krebernik, “Gt- und tD-Stämme,” 227–70; Tropper, UG, 518–32 §74.23; D. Sivan, Grammar, 128–31; D. Pardee, Review of J. Tropper, Ugaritische Grammatik, AfO (2003– 2004), 263–66 [online version, ca. 2004; we have been unable to find the original version available during the writing of this article]. 137 D. Marcus, “The Three Alephs in Ugaritic,” JANES 1 (1968–1969), 50–60 (59 and n. 167); Mallon, “Ugaritic Verb,” 10 §1.3.2; D. Pardee, “Will the Dragon Never Be Muzzled?” UF 16 (1984), 251–55 (252 n. 7); idem, Review of Tropper, UG, 264; Verreet, “Beobachtungen,” 319–20; Huehnergard, UVST, 320–21. 138 J. Blau, “Zur Lautlehre und Vokalismus des Ugaritischen,” UF 11 (1979), 55–62 (61–62); Segert, Basic Grammar, 66 §54.32; D. Sivan, “Tštʾil and yštʾal in Ugaritic: Problems in Methodology,” UF 22 (1990), 311–12; J.M. Hutton, “Ugaritic */š/ and the Roots šbm and šm[d] in KTU 1.3.III.40,” Maarav 13 (2006), 75–83 (81 and n. 28). 132 133

MORPHOLOGY OF THE TG STEM IN HEBREW & TIRGALTÎ

273

suggested the “orthographical nature” of the distinction, 139 and A.F. Rainey proposed that the a-theme vowel indicates a passive.140 However, Tropper has argued convincingly that the problem can be solved by postulating syncope of the theme vowel in long yaqtulu forms (*tištaʾalu > /tištaʾlu/, written tštil), but retention of the theme vowel in the short yaqtul preterite and jussive forms (/yištaʾal/, written yštal). 141 Although Tropper does not dismiss the possibility of verbs with i- and u-class thematic vowels,142 all known instances of Gt-prefix-conjugations can be accounted for by positing a form *yiqtatal-. qtl: The vocalization of the Ugaritic Gt-stem suffix form seems to be preserved in the word ištir (KTU 1.18.IV.15; 4.290:3; and possibly 2.32:10; 2.72:42), typically taken to preserve an original i-vowel, hence /ʾištaʾira/. 143 However, by the same logic as in the prefix form, the grapheme i may indicate /Vʾ/, so that ištir actually indicates /ʾištaʾra/ < *ʾištaʾara.144

3. ARAMAIC (AND ITS CONGENERS) For the tG-stem in Aramaic, see especially the works of Garr and, more recently, S.E. Fassberg. 145 For the most part, in Official Aramaic, the derivational *t was prefixed to the verbal base, as seen in the Sefire inscriptions, which contain three or four putative examples of the stem. 146 M. Dijkstra, “Marginalia to the Ugaritic Letters in KTU (I),” UF 19 (1987), 37–48 (37 n. 5). 140 Rainey, “Observations,” 167; idem, “A New Grammar of Ugaritic,” Or 56 (1987), 391–402 (395). 141 Tropper, “Vokalisierung,” 371–73; cf. idem, UG, 518–19 §74.232.1; cf. Krebernik, “Gt- und tD-Stämme,” 229–31 §2.1.3; see also examples in Huehnergard, UVST, 320–21; Sivan, Grammatical Analysis and Glossary, 172–73. 142 Tropper, “Vokalisierung,” 373. 143 Sivan, Grammar, 128–29, following J. Hoftijzer, “A Note on G 10833: ʾištʾir and Related Matters,” UF 3 (1971), 361–64; and Tropper, “Vokalisierung,” 373; also Krebernik, “Gt- und tD-Stämme,” 229 §2.1.2. 144 Tropper, UG, 528 §74.234.1; cf. Pardee, Review of Tropper, UG, 264. 145 Garr, Dialect Geography, 119; and S.E. Fassberg, “t-Stem Verbs without Metathesis in Aramaic and Hebrew Documents from the Judean Desert,” in R. Hasselbach and N. Pat-El (eds.), Language and Nature: Papers Presented to John Huehnergard on the Occasion of His 60th Birthday (Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization, 67; Chicago: The Oriental Institute, 2012), 27–38. Fassberg provides an impressive overview of the realization of the tG/Gt-stem in various Middle and Late Aramaic dialects. 146 See, e.g., J.A. Fitzmyer, The Aramaic Inscriptions of Sefire (rev. ed.; BibOr, 19A; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1995), 195. 139

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We find in these inscriptions the following forms: (a) ytšmʿ “may be heard” (Sf I A 29); and (b) wlytḥzh “so that it will not be seen” (Sf I A 28); although, cf. the suggested emendations wlyt ḥzh and wly[šgh] by, respectively, A. Dupont-Sommer and J. Starcky, and J.C. Greenfield.147 Dupont-Sommer plausibly reconstructed two more forms: ytšmʿn “let them be heard” (Sf I B [9]) and ttʿbd “may it be done” (Sf I C [7]). 148 Finally, Dupont-Sommer reconstructed a Dt-stem form [yš]tḥṭ “may it be destroyed” (I A 32), 149 but contrast the subsequent interpretation of J.C. Greenfield, who separates the roots √ŠḤṬ and √ŠḤT. 150 In Nerab 2.4, we find the form ʾtʾḥz “it was closed”151 and ltgmrw in KAI 214:30, which C. Sarauw and P.-E. Dion interpreted as indicating the precative particle /lV-/ prefixed to an apocopated 3.m.pl. prefix form, hence, something like /lVtgamVrū/ < *lVyitgamVrū (compare Akkadian liprus). 152 In the Old (or Peripheral?) Aramaic inscription from Tell elFakheriyah (KAI 309), we find an example of a Gt form (ygtzr “may it be cut off/cut itself off”; line 23). The editors of the editio princeps classify the form as an etpeʿel stem verb, arguing that ygtzr displays metathesis between the *g and the now-infixed *t, and comparing this form to ltgmrw in the Hadad Inscription of Panammuwa I (KAI 214:30). 153 But S.A. Kaufman argues that metathesis is an unnecessary assumption, since Semitic always A. Dupont-Sommer with J. Starcky, “Les inscriptions araméennes de Sfiré (Stèles I et II),” Mémoires présentés pars divers savants à l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 15 (Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1958), 197–351 (214, 241); and J.C. Greenfield, “Linguistic Matters in the Sfire Inscriptions,” Leš 27–28 (1964), 303–13 (308) (Hebrew). 148 For further discussion of these forms, see Fitzmyer, Aramaic Inscriptions, 86, 87, 103. 149 Dupont-Sommer, “Inscriptions,” 214, 243; see also Fitzmyer, Aramaic Inscriptions, 89, 195. 150 J.C. Greenfield, Review of J.A. Fitzmyer, The Aramaic Inscriptions of Sefîre, JBL 87 (1968): 240–41 (241). 151 For discussion, see, e.g., J.C.L. Gibson, Syrian Semitic Inscriptions. Vol. 2: Aramaic Inscriptions (Oxford: Clarendon, 1975), 98. 152 C. Sarauw, “Zu den Inschriften von Sendschirli,” ZA 20 (1907), 59–67 (60– 61); P.-E. Dion, La langue de Ya’udi: Description et classement de l’ancien parler de Zencirli dans le cadre des langues sémitiques du nord-ouest (n.p.: Éditions SR, 1974), 167. For discussion of the particle, see Dion, Langue, 166–70; T. Muraoka, “The Tell-Fekherye Bilingual Inscription and Early Aramaic,” AbrN 22 (1983– 1984), 79–117 (95–98 §§11–12). 153 A. Abou-Assaf, P. Bordreuil, and A.R. Millard, La Statue de Tell Fekherye et son inscription bilingue assyro-araméenne (Études Assyriologiques; Paris: Éditions Recherche sur les civilizations, 1982), 37, 46. 147

MORPHOLOGY OF THE TG STEM IN HEBREW & TIRGALTÎ

275

had a Gt stem. 154 Similarly, in response to J. Tropper, who claims that the Fakhariyah inscription exemplified the ancestral Northeast Syrian/Mespotamian Old Aramaic from which Official Aramaic descended, 155 J. Huehnergard cautions that “the dialect of the Fakhariya text cannot itself be the ancestor of Official Aramaic, exhibiting as it does the infixed Gt form rather than the inherited, common Aramaic prefixed tG form, which is also found in Official and later forms of Aramaic.” 156 The discrepancy between the tG and Gt-stems in the Aramaic and protoAramaic dialects suggests that caution is in order when dealing with the evidence presented by these linguistic variants.

154 S.A. Kaufman, “Reflections on the Assyrian-Aramaic Bilingual from Tell Fakhariyeh,” Maarav 3 (1982), 137–75 (173); see also Muraoka, “Tell-Fekherye,” 95 §10. 155 J. Tropper, Die Inschriften von Zincirli (ALASP, 6; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 1993), 311. 156 J. Huehnergard, “What Is Aramaic?” Aram 7 (1995), 261–82 (274 n. 35).

THE FALLACY OF ‘TRUE AND FALSE’ IN PROPHECY ILLUSTRATED BY JER 28:8–9 MATTHIJS J. DE JONG

THE NETHERLANDS BIBLE SOCIETY 1. INTRODUCTION The study of ancient Near Eastern prophecy has shown that a principal distinction between ‘prophecy of salvation’ and ‘prophecy of judgement’ is questionable.1 The prophets in the ancient Near East did much more than just speaking pleasant words to those who paid them. 2 Encouragement, although taking a prominent position in ancient Near Eastern prophecy, was accompanied by divine claims. Both in Mari and in Assyria, we see that if such claims were not granted or if a king had otherwise not fulfilled his duties, the gods, through their prophets, could reproach him. More drastically, prophecy of encouragement could be turned upside down. Whereas normally the gods encouraged the king and announced the annihilation of his enemies, announcements of annihilation could also be directed against the king as part of a declaration of divine support to his adversary.3 The same prophetic voice that encouraged and legitimized the king, could also formulate demands on him, or even choose the side of his adversaries. The fact that prophets functioned within the existing order did not mean that they always agreed with the king and his politics. The interest In particular the various contributions by Martti Nissinen, mentioned below. M. Nissinen, “Das kritische Potential in der altorientalischen Prophetie,” in M. Köckert and M. Nissinen (eds.), Propheten in Mari, Assyrien und Israel (FRLANT, 201; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2003), 1–32 . 3 M. Nissinen, References to Prophecy in Neo-Assyrian Sources (SAAS, 7; Helsinki: University Press, 1998), 108–162. Although kings tried to forbid this kind of prophecy, it was nevertheless possible, see Nissinen, “Das kritische Potential,” 24–25. 1 2

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of the cosmic and social-political order could well transcend the interests of an individual king.4 Prophets functioned as part of the broader system of divination.5 Prophets were part of this system, which means that they spoke and acted for the benefit of social and cosmic stability.6 So, in the ancient Near East, prophecy could include many aspects—both supportive, cautionary, and critical. In all cases, its intent was to support the collective well-being and to serve the political and cosmic order. The categories of Heilsprophetie and Unheilsprophetie are as such not applicable to prophecy in the ancient Near East. 7 The concept of ‘true versus false prophecy’ does not play a role in ancient Near Eastern sources either. Letters from the Mari archives refer to a procedure of checking reported prophetic oracles by extispicy; this was to check whether the oracle and its interpretation were trustworthy. 8 The idea that certain kinds of prophetic messages were ‘false’, and others ‘true’, however, is lacking. Two passages from the Neo-Assyrian period have been discussed by Martti Nissinen as examples of ‘false prophecy’, 9 but this label does not fit these texts. The first example comes from the so-called Succession Treaty of Esarhaddon. 10 This lengthy treaty contains a section 4 For the prophetic function, see M.J. de Jong, Isaiah among the Ancient Near Eastern Prophets. A Comparative Study of the Earliest Stages of the Isaiah Tradition and the Neo-Assyrian Prophecies (VTSup, 117; Leiden: E.J. Brill, 2007),

294–318. 5 M. Nissinen, “Prophecy and Omen Divination: Two Sides of the Same Coin,” in A. Annus (ed.), Divination and Interpretation of Signs in the Ancient World (Chicago: University of Chicago, 2010), 341–51; A.M. Kitz, “Prophecy as Divination,” CBQ 65 (2003), 22–42. 6 M. Nissinen, “The Socioreligious Role of the Neo-Assyrian Prophets,” in M. Nissinen (ed.), Prophecy in its Ancient Near Eastern Context. Mesopotamian, Biblical and Arabian Perspectives (SBLSS, 13; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2000), 110–111. 7 Cf. also the description of ancient Near Eastern prophecy in M.J. de Jong, “Biblical Prophecy – A Scribal Enterprise. The Old Testament Prophecy of Unconditional Judgement considered as a Literary Phenomenon,” VT 61 (2011), 48–51. 8 Nissinen, Prophets and Prophecies, 16. See J.M. Sasson, “About ‘Mari and the Bible’,” RA 92 (1998), 97–123, here 116–117. 9 M. Nissinen, “Falsche Prophetie in neuassyrischer und deuteronomistischer Darstellung,” in T. Veijola (ed.), Das Deuteronomium und seine Querbeziehungen (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996), 172–195. 10 S. Parpola and K. Watanabe, Neo-Assyrian Treaties and Loyalty Oaths (SAA, 2; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1988), text 6. Nissinen, “Falsche Prophetie,” 176–182.

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that deals with potential propagators of malevolence against Assurbanipal, the crown prince. This stipulation obliges the oath-takers to inform Assurbanipal, if they hear any “evil, ill, and ugly word that is mendacious and harmful to Assurbanipal” be it “from the mouth of his enemy, from the mouth of his ally (...), or from the mouth of a raggimu, a maḫḫû, or an inquirer of divine words (šā’ilu amat ili), or from the mouth of any human being at all.” 11 This text reckons with the possibility that prophecy can be used against the king. 12 That is, however, not a case of ‘false prophecy’, but prophecy that might be harmful to the crown prince or king. 13 Nissinen’s second example is a case of such a prophecy against the king, reported by Nabû-reḫtu-uṣur. 14 This official informs king Esarhaddon about a conspiracy in the city of Harran in which a certain Sasî was involved.15 Nabû-reḫtu-uṣur reports to the king a prophetic oracle that was delivered in favour of Sasî, “This is the word of Nusku: the kingship is for Sasî; I will destroy the name and the seed of Sennacherib”. 16 This is an example of a prophecy against the king, in favour of his adversaries.17 Nabû-reḫtu-uṣur does not picture it as a false prophecy, but as something potentially harmful. He takes the prophecy of Nusku very seriously, for he adds in his letter several other oracles supportive of Esarhaddon, in order to counter the harmful prophecy from Nusku.18 In both cases discussed by Nissinen, the point is not that the prophecies are false, but that they pose a threat to the king. Such prophecy SAA 2 6, lines 108–118. Translation from Nissinen, Prophets and Prophecies, 150–151. The terms raggimu, maḫḫû, and šā’ilu amat ili, denote prophetic 11

figures. 12 So also Nissinen, Prophets and Prophecies, 135. Furthermore, Nissinen, “Falsche Prophetie,” 178, “Die Propheten waren in der Lage, gegen den König im Namen einer göttlichen Autorität Aufruhr stiften zu können.” Since the king did not fully control the prophets, he needed to be informed about their words in order to root out any sign of disloyalty. 13 Contra Nissinen, “Falsche Prophetie,” 180. 14 Nissinen, “Falsche Prophetie,” 182–193. 15 M. Luuko and G. Van Buylaere, The Political Correspondence of Esarhaddon (SAA, 16; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 2002), texts 59–61; Nissinen, Prophets and Prophecies, 170–175. For the historical background, see Nissinen, References to Prophecy in Neo-Assyrian Sources, 108–153. 16 Nissinen, Prophets and Prophecies, 171 (SAA 16 59 [ABL 1217 rev. 2’–5’]). 17 A similar case of a prophecy against the king is found in 2 Kgs 9:1–13, where a prophet proclaims to the military commander Jehu: “Thus says the LORD, the God of Israel: I anoint you king over the people of the LORD, over Israel. You shall strike down the house of your master Ahab” (2 Kgs 9:6b–7a, NRSV). 18 See De Jong, Isaiah among the Ancient Near Eastern Prophets, 271–275.

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was unwelcome from the perspective of the king, but the label ‘false prophecy’ was not used. People being in the midst of the events were simply not in the position to declare a prophecy false. People knew of course what they hoped for and what they wanted to hear, but they did not know for sure what the gods had in store. Human beings did not control the gods, and the king was no exception to this. 19 Therefore, instead of declaring unwanted prophecies false, the king obliged his officials to report whatever potentially harmful oracles they might hear of, so that the king could effectively deal with the matter. 20 When dealing with prophecy in Israel and Judah, one needs to distinguish between prophecy as a socio-historical phenomenon on the one hand, and the scribal depiction of prophecy in the biblical literature on the other. 21 It is likely that in monarchic Israel and Judah the prophetic repertoire included similar aspects as in the rest of the Near East, such as encouragement of king and people, announcements of the annihilation of 19 Note the words of Adad of Kallassu addressed to the king, in one of the prophecies reported in the Mari letters, “I – the Lord of the throne, territory and city – can take away what I have given!”; Nissinen, Prophets and Prophecies, 19. 20 There is one example of a diviner disqualifying his own performance of extispicy as a ‘fraud’ in a letter to king Esarhaddon (SAA 10 179). Kudurru, an expert in divination, writes how he against his will was involved in a conspiracy against the king. He was forced to perform a divination on the question “Will the rab ša rēšē take over the kingship?” Kudurru performed the divination, with a positive outcome. Since this – both the outcome and the query as such – was unacceptable to the king, Kudurru claims: “The extispicy [which I performed was] but a colossal fraud! (The only thing) [I was th]inking of (was), “May he not kill me.” [Now th]en I am writing to the king, lest [the king my lord] hear about it and kill me.” Translation from Parpola, Letters from Assyrian and Babylonian Scholars (SAA, 10; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1993),143, text 179 rev. 19’–23’. For the historical background, see Nissinen, References to Prophecy in Neo-Assyrian Sources, 133–135. The phrase ‘but a colossal fraud’ is a rendering of alla šāru meḫû, ‘nothing but wind and storm’. This terminology corresponds with the biblical qualification ‫שׁ ֶקר‬, ֶ ‘lie, trick, falsehood, false’. Kudurru, however, disqualifies his own performance as a fraud: he assures the king he formulated a positive answer to the query in order to save his life. 21 M. Nissinen, “How Prophecy became Literature,” SJOT 19 (2005), 156–157; M. Nissinen, “What is Prophecy? An Ancient Near Eastern Perspective,” in J. Kaltner and L. Stulman (eds.), Inspired Speech: Prophecy in the Ancient Near East, Essays in Honor of H.B. Huffmon (JSOTSup, 378; London: T&T Clark International, 2004), 31; R.G. Kratz, Die Propheten Israels (München: C.H. Beck, 2003), 50.

THE FALLACY OF ‘TRUE AND FALSE’ IN PROPHECY

281

the enemies, criticism of the king or the political leaders, and political direction. Furthermore, when prophets announced a disaster, they did not stand in opposition to the state, but functioned as guardians of the collective well-being: such predictions were revealed in order to be averted. If the threatening disaster foretold by a prophet was successfully averted, this did not make the prophecy ‘false’. Instead, the prophet had done a good job protecting the well-being of society. 22 The biblical prophetic books portray the (true) prophets as oppositional figures, who predicted the irrevocable downfall of their society. This portrayal is a product of later reflection on the disasters that befell Israel and Judah, as this article will argue. The biblical contrast between the prophets falsely prophesying peace and the figures truly prophesying Yahweh’s judgement, belongs to what may be called the afterward, to a later, scribal depiction of prophecy, and not to prophecy as a historical phenomenon. With regard to prophecy as a historical phenomenon, the dichotomy between true and false prophets is based on a fallacy. 23 This insight should play a role in the exegesis of biblical prophetic literature. The present article gives an illustration of this by focusing on Jer 28:8–9. That text is commonly interpreted from the dichotomy between (true) prophecy of judgement and (false) prophecy of salvation. The first part of this article (section 2) argues that this implies a forced reading of Jer 28:8–9, and that a more coherent reading is possible. The second part of this article (section 3) shows that Jer 28:8–9 plays a role in the early development of the traditions concerning the words and deeds of Jeremiah. The common view is that ‘irrevocable judgement on Judah’ was part of the original message of Jeremiah. However, there are good reasons for adopting the more critical view that these ‘prophecies’ originated after the downfall of Jerusalem as a kind of reflection on the past. 24 Within the book of Jeremiah, one can L.S. Tiemeyer, “Prophecy as a Way of Cancelling Prophecy – The Strategic Uses of Foreknowledge,” ZAW 117 (2005), 329–350; De Jong, “Biblical Prophecy – A Scribal Enterprise,” 49–50. For similar dealings with negative omens, see S. Maul, “How the Babylonians Protected Themselves against Calamities Announced by Omens,” in T. Abusch and K. van der Toorn (eds.), Mesopotamian Magic. Textual, Historical, and Interpretative Perspective (Styx: Groningen, 1999), 123– 129. 23 See M. Nissinen, “Die Relevanz der neuassyrischen Prophetie für das Studium des Alten Testaments,” in M. Dietrich and O. Loretz (eds.), Mesopotamica – Ugaritica – Biblica (AOAT, 232; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1993), 251, and De Jong, “Biblical Prophecy – A Scribal Enterprise,” 66. 24 For this view, e.g. Kratz, Die Propheten Israels, 53–86; K.-F. Pohlmann, 22

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detect early traditions that must have preceded the framework of sin and punishment that at a later stage became dominant. The earliest traditions found within the narrative materials relate to the issue how to deal with Babylonia (e.g. in Jeremiah 27–29* and 37–38*). Jeremiah, as we will see, played a role compatible to other ancient Near Eastern prophets. The later revision of the early traditions decisively re-shaped the ‘prophecies’ of Jeremiah, by interpreting the disasters as Yahweh’s punishment of the sins of Judah. Jer 28:8–9, as I will argue, belongs to an earlier stage of the traditions concerning Jeremiah, preceding the revision. It is an early commentary on the original message of Jeremiah, claiming that Jeremiah’s position, ‘submit to Babylonia in order to survive’, had been right. The article concludes with the general issue of ‘true versus false prophecy’ (section 4).

2. A NEW INTERPRETATION OF JER 28:8–9 2.1 THE STANDARD INTERPRETATION I will first describe the standard interpretation of Jer 28:8–9. In these verses, Jeremiah replies to the prophet Hananiah, according to the NIV: 8 From early times the prophets who preceded you and me have prophesied war, disaster and plague against many countries and great kingdoms. 9 But the prophet who prophesies peace will be recognized as one truly sent by the LORD only if his prediction comes true. 25

According to a full scholarly consensus,26 v. 8 refers to prophets who prophesy ‘doom’ and v. 9 to prophets who prophesy ‘peace’. Jeremiah, it is “Religion in der Krise – Krise einer Religion. Die Zerstörung des Jerusalemer Tempels 587 v. Chr.”, in J. Hahn (ed.), Zerstörungen des Jerusalemer Tempels. Geschehen – Wahrnehmung – Bewältigung (WUNT, 147; Tübingen: MohrSiebeck, 2002), 40–60; U. Becker, “Die Wiederentdeckung des Prophetenbuches. Tendenzen und Aufgaben der gegenwärtigen Prophetenforschung,” BTZ 21 (2004), 30–60; De Jong, “Biblical Prophecy – A Scribal Enterprise,” 39–70. 25 In the course of the discussion, I will criticize this rendering on two points, see notes 47 and 49. 26 The following titles are meant to be illustrative; many more could be mentioned. E.g. L.C. Allen, Jeremiah. A Commentary (OTL; Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1989), 316–317, R.P. Carroll, Jeremiah: A Commentary (OTL; London: SCM Press, 1986), 544–45; W. McKane, A Critical

and Exegetical Commentary on Jeremiah, Volume II. Commentary on Jeremiah

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283

held, belongs to the first category, whereas his opponent Hananiah belongs to the second. The passage authenticates prophecy of the first type and warns against prophecy of the second type. The argument for authenticating prophecy of doom in v. 8 is based on precedent: from time immemorial prophets have delivered this type of prophecy. As a prophet of doom, Jeremiah belongs to this reliable tradition. The argument against prophecy of peace in v. 9 is cast in the form of a warning against wishful thinking. Peaceful messages are attractive, but also deceptive. Therefore, people should wait and see whether the peace predicted really happens. If not, it was just another example of wishful thinking. Thus, Jeremiah claims authority for his own message of doom and warns the people of Judah against the message of peace delivered by Hananiah. Various scholars have expressed discomfort with this interpretation. 27 They point out that 28:8–9, as it is interpreted, is a rather poor argument on Jeremiah’s part. The claim that ‘prophecy of doom’ is supported by a tradition of centuries and therefore to be accepted on its own merit seems dubious. By Jeremiah’s time this type of prophecy did not have such a long tradition at all.28 And there is a further reason for scholarly unease: v. 8 refers to prophets of doom speaking ‘against many countries and great XXVI-LII (ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996), 718–719, 723–725; G. Fischer, Jeremia 26–52 (HTKAT; Freiburg: Herder, 2005), 73–74; W.L. Holladay, A Commentary on the Book of the Prophet Jeremiah 2: Chapters 26–52 (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1989), 127–129; J.R. Lundbom, Jeremiah 21–36 (AB, 21B; New York: Doubleday, 2004), 334–335; J. Blenkinsopp, A History of Prophecy in Israel (2nd ed; Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 1996), 137;

H.-J. Hermisson, “Kriterien “wahrer” und “falscher” Prophetie im Alten Testament. Zur Auslegung von Jeremia 23,16-22 und Jeremia 28,8-9,” ZTK 92 (1995), 134–137; F.L. Hossfeld and I. Meyer, Prophet gegen Prophet. Eine Analyse der alttestamentlichen Texte zum Thema: Wahre und falsche Prophetie (Biblische Beiträge, 9; Fribourg:Schweizerisches Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1973), 96–99; G. Münderlein, Kriterien wahrer und falscher Prophetie. Entstehung und Bedeutung im Alten Testament (Europäische Hochschulschriften, series XXIII, Theology vol. 33; Frankfurt/M./Bern: Lang, 1974), 111; M. Leuchter, The Polemics of Exile in Jeremiah 26-45 (Cambridge: University Press, 2008), 44–46; J.T. Hibbard, “True and False Prophecy: Jeremiah’s Revision of Deuteronomy,” JSOT 35 (2011), 348. 27 Recently by R.W.L. Moberly, Prophecy and Discernment (Cambridge: University Press, 2006), 100–109. 28 Hermisson, “Kriterien,” 134–137, and McKane, Jeremiah II, 723–725, aim to solve this by taking v. 8–9 as a theological reflection from the exilic period. From this exilic point of view, all true prophecy of the past was prophecy of doom and none of the prophecies of peace had come true. However, this exegetical judgement does not solve the difficulties mentioned.

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kingdoms’. If this were taken literally, some scholars admit, Hananiah would be part of this tradition, since he predicts doom for Babylonia! 29 In my view, there is every reason to take verse 8 literally in this respect. Although scholars have admitted that the argument voiced by Jeremiah is strange, unexpected, and unconvincing, no one, as far as I see, has really questioned the common interpretation. This should be done, for Jer 28:8–9 does not say what the consensus assumes it to say.

2.2 TEXTUAL REMARKS ON JER 28:8–9 Several differences between the Hebrew text of MT and the Greek of the LXX (Göttingen Edition) of Jer 28:8–9 need to be briefly addressed. (1) In v. 8, the LXX has a plural πρότεροι ὑμῶν, ‘preceding [all of] you (pl.)’, but the singular of MT (�‫)וּל ָפנֶי‬ ְ probably is the more original reading.30 (2) For Hebrew ‫א ָרצוֹת ַרבּוֹת‬, ֲ ‘many/mighty countries’, the Greek has γῆς πολλῆς, ‘much land’, an unexpected phrase which ruins the parallel with ‘great kingdoms’. This is best explained as part of a wider (secondary) tendency in the Greek text to represent Hebrew ‫ ַרבּוֹת‬with the singular γῆ. MT represents the more original text. 31 (3) For LXX εἰς πόλεμον, ‘war’, MT has a longer reading ‫ְל ִמלְ ָח ָמה‬ ‫וּל ָר ָﬠה וּלְ ָד ֶבר‬, ְ ‘war, disaster, plague’. The reading of LXX is likely to be the original one. 32 The shorter reading ‘war’ better serves the contrast with ‘peace’ in v. 9, but the main argument is that in MT Jeremiah shorter depictions of terror are often extended to a threefold depiction, the common triad being ‘sword, hunger, plague’. By contrast, there are no other examples in LXX Jeremiah that can be explained as the reduction of a 814F

815F

816F

29 Münderlein, Kriterien wahrer und falscher Prophetie, 111, note 3. A. Graupner, Auftrag und Geschick des Propheten Jeremia. Literarische Eigenart, Herkunft und Intention vordeuteronomistischer Prosa im Jeremiabuch (BiblischTheologische Studien, 15; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1991), 74. 30 The plural forms, starting in v. 7, are likely to be an adaption ad sensum influenced by the reference to ‘all the people’ (v. 7). Instead of αὐτὸν in v. 9b part of the Greek tradition reads αὐτοῖς (Rahlfs’ Edition). This is not likely to be original (cf. Göttingen Edition). If the Vorlage had ‫יהם‬ ֶ ֵ‫( ֲﬠל‬to them, LXX Jeremiah would probably have rendered πρὸς αὐτούς, as elsewhere. Hebrew ‫ ְשׁ ָלחוֹ‬in Jeremiah is elsewhere rendered as ἀπέστειλεν αὐτὸν (19:14; 43:1 [LXX 50:1]), the reading αὐτοῖς is due to a later change. 31 H.-J. Stipp, Das masoretische und alexandrinische Sondergut des Jeremiabuches. Textgeschichtlicher Rang, Eigenarten, Triebkräfte (OBO, 136; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994), 54–55. 32 See Stipp, Sondergut, 101; McKane, Jeremiah II, 712.

THE FALLACY OF ‘TRUE AND FALSE’ IN PROPHECY

285

threefold image to a single one. In other words, the longer reading in v. 8 MT looks similar to other extended passages, and the triad, ‘war, disaster, plague’, can be seen as a variant on the triad, ‘sword, hunger, plague’.33 This triad occurs fifteen times in MT Jeremiah, only four times in LXX Jeremiah. In some of the extra cases, ‘plague’ has been added, in order to extend the twofold depiction, ‘sword and hunger’, to the preferred triad. In other cases, the triad is part of later additions, not found in the edition as represented in LXX Jeremiah. 34 The original ‫ל ִמ ְל ָח ָמה‬,ְ in the mind of the editors invoked their favourite motif ‘sword, hunger, plague’, which they applied in a variant way. In what follows I will deal with this shorter, in my view original, reading. However, all that will be said applies to the longer reading just as well. (4) The difference in v. 9 between ‫‘ ְבּבֹא ְדּ ַבר ַהנָּ ִביא‬when the word of the prophet comes true’, and ἐλθόντος τοῦ λόγου ‘when his word comes true’, is not of great importance, as the sense is similar. One may either explain ‫ ַהנָּ ִביא‬as another expansion in the text of MT, 35 or judge it as a case of accidental omission in the version represented in LXX. The text can be translated as follows: “The prophets who preceded you and me from early times, prophesied war against mighty countries and great kingdoms. The prophet who prophesies peace —when his word comes true, it will be known that Yahweh truly sent that prophet.” 817F

81F

819F

2.3 INNER COHERENCE OF JER 28:8–9 The phrase ‫ל־מ ְמ ָלכוֹת גְּ ד ֹלוֹת‬ ַ ‫ל־א ָרצוֹת ַרבּוֹת וְ ַﬠ‬ ֲ ‫א‬,ֶ ‘against mighty countries and great kingdoms’ is a parallelism consisting of synonymous parts. 36 The combination ‫ ֲא ָרצוֹת ַרבּוֹת‬does not occur elsewhere. The usual collocation is ‫גּוֹיִם ַר ִבּים‬, which occurs often, both as ‘many nations’ (e.g. Mic 4:2; Hab 2:8) and ‘mighty nations’ (e.g. Ps 135:10; Jer 25:14; 27:7). The parallel between ‫ ַרבּוֹת‬and ‫ גְּ ד ֹלוֹת‬suggests that ‫ ֲא ָרצוֹת ַרבּוֹת‬may be read as ‘mighty countries’. The plural ‫ ֲא ָרצוֹת‬indicates an international scene, the world of the nations, 820F

For this argument I am indebted to Raymond de Hoop. Stipp, Sondergut, 101. 35 J.G. Janzen, Studies in the Text of Jeremiah (HSM, 6; Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University, 1973), 103, argues that since the expanded edition of MT in ch. 28 has added the word ‫ ַהנָּ ִביא‬11 times, this could well be the twelfth time. For the use of the term ‫ ַהנָּ ִביא‬in the respective versions of the book of Jeremiah, see M.J. de Jong, “Why Jeremiah is Not Among the Prophets: An Analysis of the Terms ‫ נָ ִביא‬and ‫יאים‬ ִ ‫ נְ ִב‬in the Book of Jeremiah,” JSOT 35 (2011), 483–510, here 488–490. 36 The prepositions ‫ ֶאל‬and ‫ ַﬠל‬in Jeremiah are used interchangeably and synonymously; G. Fischer, Jeremia 1–25 (HTKAT; Freiburg: Herder, 2005), 51. 33 34

286

MATTHIJS J. DE JONG

and points to foreign countries. The combination ‫ ַמ ְמ ָלכוֹת גְּ ד ֹלוֹת‬does not occur elsewhere either, but its meaning is clear: ‘great kingdoms’. The whole phrase refers to the mighty countries and kingdoms that exist in the world. Important to note, the subject in v. 8 is a plural, ‘the prophets’. The verse gives a summarizing view of the prophecies that have been delivered from time immemorial, and presents the prophets as prophesying against many countries and kingdoms. This does not imply that each prophet individually prophesied against many foreign nations, but it gives an overview, the sum of a long history of prophetic activity, during which prophets prophesied against lands and kingdoms that were powerful in a particular period. Individual prophets prophesied against particular powerful countries or kingdoms. The prophecies against the many foreign countries and kingdoms are summarized by the word ‫מ ְל ָח ָמה‬, ִ war: ‘they prophesied (‫ נבא‬ni.) war (‫’)ל ִמ ְל ָח ָמה‬. ְ The preposition ‫ ְל‬is used to refer to the content of their prophecies without actually citing them. 37 Here ‫ ִמ ְל ָח ָמה‬functions as the shortest possible description of bad fortune, disaster, destruction, loss of power, military defeat, etc. 38 Prophesying ‘war’ against a mighty country of kingdom is not a neutral forecast of future events, but reveals a divine decision that will be carried out by divine force. 39 To prophesy ‘war’ against a mighty kingdom is to declare that God has decided to ruin that kingdom. The implication in v. 8 is ‘and so it happened’. Not only did prophets prophesy against mighty kingdoms, but the ‘war’ they predicted really occurred. In the past, many countries and powerful nations have been ruined by Yahweh’s intervention. 40 Verse 9 is phrased as a parallel to v. 8, but the use of the singular ‫ ַהנָּ ִביא‬shows that it is not an exact parallel. The connection between the two sentences is not one of two parallel cases, but after v. 8 has described the ‘norm’, the way it has gone for centuries, v. 9 presents the exception. The fact that the same term is used for ‘the prophet(s)’ in v. 8 and v. 9 without any mark of distinction, warns against a strong contrastive reading of these two verses. The passage does not deal with two different 821F

82F

823F

824F

37 For the phrase with ‫ל‬, ְ cf. 2 Chr 18:17, with ‫( נבא‬hitp.) with ‫ל ָרע‬,ְ ‘to prophesy evil’ ( ְ‫ ל‬as indicator of the direct object). 38 The choice of the longer reading in v. 8, ‘war, disaster, plague’ does not alter the picture. 39 Nissinen, “Prophecy and Omen Divination” 345. 40 A similar overview is implied in 1 Sam 10:18, “I delivered you from the power of Egypt and all the kingdoms that oppressed you.” For the motif of the foreign nations as enemies to be saved from by Yahweh, see e.g. Ps 46:7, 79:6, Jer 51:20, Hag 2:22, and see section 3.2 below.

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types of prophets, but it deals with the diverse content of the prophetic message. In contrast to ‫ ְל ִמ ְל ָח ָמה‬in v. 8 is ‫ ְל ָשׁלוֹם‬in v. 9; the prophet pictured in v. 9 prophesies ‘peace’ instead of ‘war’. Just as in v. 8, ‫ְל ָשׁלוֹם‬ depicts the content of the prophecy without actually citing it. But peace for whom? The answer is implied by v. 8, which refers to ‘mighty countries and great kingdoms’. One difference between the two verses however must be taken into account. Whereas v. 8 presents an overview of a long history of prophecy, v. 9 brings in the example of a single prophet. His message of peace does not relate to countries and kingdoms in general, but specifically to a particular country or kingdom. Just as the prophets of v. 8 did, the prophet of v. 9 deals with a particular nation or kingdom, but instead of ‘war’ he proclaims ‘peace’ for that kingdom. The logic of verses 8–9 is clear: For centuries there have been prophets proclaiming the violent downfall of many great countries and powerful kingdoms, and it happened as they proclaimed. Now suppose a prophet comes along who proclaims something different with regard to a powerful kingdom: not its downfall, but its great success. Verse 9b states how to deal with that (apparently exceptional) situation: ‘when his word comes true, it will be known that Yahweh truly sent that prophet.’ The Hebrew ‫ ְבּבֹא‬must not be taken as a condition, as is almost always done. Instead, it introduces a temporal clause, ‘when it comes true’. 41 This means that the phrase does not denote a criterion to be fulfilled, but introduces a hypothetical case: ‘Suppose there is the prophet who prophesies peace (for a certain powerful kingdom), when his word comes true …’. The emphasis of the sentence is on what follows: ‘then it will be known that Yahweh truly sent that prophet.’ The final clause forms the climax. This leads to the following interpretation: Prophets, when dealing with foreign powers, usually predicted their bad fortune. Suppose, however, the case of a prophet proclaiming good fortune for a certain foreign kingdom. When the prediction comes true, it is clear that this prophet truly has been divinely commissioned. The passage first depicts the normal prophetic practice, and then introduces an exceptional case. The exception does not have to do with an unusual type of prophet, but with a prophet delivering an unusual message. When the prediction comes true, it must be acknowledged that this prophet truly delivered a divine message. 825F

41 E.g. P. Joüon, S.J. and T. Muraoka, A Grammar of Biblical Hebrew. Vol. II (Subsidia Biblica, 14/II; Rome: Editrice Pontificio Istituto Biblico, 1991), §166 l; E.S. Jenni, Die Präposition Beth (Die hebräische Präpositionen, 1; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1992), 316–327.

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2.4 NO DEPENDENCE ON DEUT 18:21–22 It is often assumed that Jer 28:9 is dependent on Deut 18:21–22, 42 an assumption triggered by the standard interpretation of Jer 28:9. Read as a reference to (false) prophecy of peace and the criterion to falsify it, it is attractive to connect this verse with the criterion given in Deut 18:21–22 on how to identify false prophecies. However, as argued above, v. 9 does not deal with false prophecy, nor with a criterion for judging whether or not a prophet has been divinely commissioned. The parallel with Deut 18:21–22 is therefore much less evident than usually assumed.43 The number of words shared by Deut 18:20–21 and Jer 28:9 is not so impressive (‫ ַהנָּ ִביא‬the prophet; ‫ ָדּ ָבר‬the word, i.e., the oracle; ‫ בוא‬to happen, come true; ‫ ידע‬to know), and, more importantly, these words are used in profoundly different ways. In Deut 18:21–22, ‫ ָדּ ָבר‬is the keyword used three times with the definite article and in an absolute sense. Its importance is supported by the use of the verb ‫( דבר‬pi.) occurring four times. In Jer 28:9 ‫ ָדּ ָבר‬is not used in an absolute sense and it is not a key term. For the act of prophesying not ‫( דבר‬pi.) is used, but ‫( נבא‬ni.), a term not found in Deuteronomy. In Deut 18:22, the conclusion of non-fulfilment is stated strongly with a double phrase (‫א־יִהיֶה ַה ָדּ ָבר וְ לֹא יָבוֹא‬ ְ ֹ ‫ )וְ ל‬because it is the essence of the answer to the question of v. 21. In Jer 28:9, the formulation is more casual, and, importantly, positively stated: ‘when the word of the prophet comes true’ (‫)בּבֹא ְדּ ַבר ַהנָּ ִביא‬. ְ This is neither a conclusion of non-fulfilment, as in Deut 18:22, nor part of a criterion to identify a false prophecy. In 28:9, the phrase ‘when the word of the prophet comes true’, prepares for the climax of the sentence: then that prophet must be recognized as having been truly sent by Yahweh. Deut 18:21–22 deals with a criterion on how to recognize a prophecy not spoken by Yahweh, but Jer 28:9 deals with a case in which a certain prophet is, in the end, known to be truly divinely commissioned. The shared terms are used in profoundly different ways. A further difference must be taken into account. In the climax of 28:9, ‘that Yahweh has truly sent him’ (‫)שׁלָ חוֹ יהוה ֶבּ ֱא ֶמת‬, ְ the term ‫ שׁלח‬is used for the divine commissioning of a prophet. The term is not used in this way in Deuteronomy, nor is divine commissioning an issue in Deuteronomy 18. The same holds for the qualification ‫בּ ֱא ֶמת‬, ֶ ‘truly’, which E.g. Hibbard, “True and False Prophecy,” 339–358, esp. 346–347. Various scholars have doubted the alleged dependence of Jer 28:9 on Deut 18:20–22, e.g. C.J. Sharp, Prophecy and Ideology in Jeremiah: Struggles for Authority in the Deutero-Jeremianic Prose (Old Testament Studies; London / New York: T&T Clark, 2003), 152–153; Graupner, Auftrag und Geschick, 66–67. 42 43

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does not occur in Deuteronomy. In Jer 28:9 it plays an important role: a prophet apparently treated with disbelief is in the end to be acknowledged to have been truly sent by Yahweh. The issue in Deut 18:21–22 is how to recognize words spoken in the name of Yahweh that nevertheless have not been spoken by him. Such words ‘do not come true’, and thus they are recognized to be spoken ‘presumptuously’; the prophet who spoke them must not be feared or revered. 44 Jer 28:9 deals with a completely different issue. It presents a hypothetic scenario of a prophet who delivers a surprising, perhaps unwelcome, message. When his message does come true, it must be admitted that Yahweh truly sent him. The two texts deal with different issues and their resemblance is only superficial.45 There is no support for the assumption that Jer 28:9 is dependent on Deut 28:21–22. The assumption is merely based on the (wrong) application of the concept of ‘true versus false prophecy’ to Jer 28:8–9.

2.5 REFUTATION OF THE STANDARD INTERPRETATION Scholars usually summarize v. 8 as ‘prophesying doom’ and v. 9 as ‘prophesying peace’, and interpret these verses through the stereotypes of ‘true’ (prophecy of doom) and ‘false’ (prophecy of peace), thereby neglecting the question, ‘doom and peace for whom?’ Building on the 44 Some have argued that Deut 18:21–22 only deals with prophecies of doom, since only prophecy of doom is something to be ‘feared’, and that Jer 28:9 then reapplies, or broadens, the criterion of Deut 18:21–22 to ‘prophecy of peace’ (so e.g. Hibbard, “True and False Prophecy,” 348–349; Hossfeld and Meyer, Prophet gegen Prophet, 97). However, the phrase ‘do not fear him’ does not imply that the criterion only deals with prophecy of doom. The verb ‫ גוּר‬denotes the right attitude towards God and to persons speaking divine words (‘to fear, to revere, to stand in awe’). The phrase is to be taken as ‘do not be afraid of him’, i.e., the prophet, rather than ‘do not be frightened by it’, i.e., the word the prophet spoke. The combination of ‫ גוּר‬with preposition ‫ ִמן‬and object suffix also occurs in Ps 22:24 and 33:8, where, applied to God, it means ‘revere him’, ‘stand in awe of him’. 45 The punishment of Hananiah in 28:15–17 does not invoke the criterion of Deut 18:21–22. The punishment, death within some months, is not compatible with the wait-and-see criterion which would have required two years of waiting; so rightly Hibbart, “True and False Prophecy,” 347; McKane Jeremiah II, 719–720. Jer 28:16 (and 29:32) MT contains a phrase taken from Deut 13:6, but that does not draw 28:8–9 any closer to Deut 18:21–22. This phrase, missing in LXX, is part of the late expansions to the text of Jeremiah as found in MT Jeremiah, see Stipp, Sondergut, 105–106.

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preceding sections, I will list six arguments to show that the standard interpretation cannot be right. (1) 28:8–9 does not present a contrast between two types of prophets: ‫ ַהנָּ ִביא‬in v. 9 is a representative of the category of ‫יאים‬ ִ ‫ ַהנְּ ִב‬of v. 8. 46 Furthermore, the text does not deal with a criterion for distinguishing between true and false prophecy. It does not refer to false prophecy at all. V. 8 claims that the prophets from time immemorial have proclaimed ‘war’ against foreign powers, suggesting that such prophetic messages were common practice. The implication is that such messages of ‘war’ against foreign powers have come true. V. 9 deals with the proper reaction in the (apparently unexpected) case a message of ‘peace’ concerning a foreign power coming true. When this would happen, it had to be accepted that Yahweh had truly sent that prophet. (2) V. 8 speaks of ‘prophesying war against mighty countries and great kingdoms’. This is not how Jeremiah is depicted in chs. 27–28. In ch. 28, he is rebuked by Hananiah for warning the people that Babylonia will prosper and remain powerful (see ch. 27). (3) V. 8 cannot be a depiction of true prophets of judgement, for this kind of prophecy did not exist ‘from time immemorial’. This type of prophecy, according to the traditional view, originated in the eighth century BCE. (According to a more critical view, it originated after the downfall of Samaria and Jerusalem as a kind of reflection on the past). 47 It did not exist ‘from time immemorial’. Moreover, the ‘war’ here relates to foreign nations. Usually, this problem is ‘solved’ by pointing to the ‘oracles against the nations’ that are part of the prophetic collections ascribed to the classical prophets. However, these oracles are not what characterizes the ‘classical prophets’ in the first place, and certainly not what characterizes them in contrast to the ‘false prophets of peace’. To read v. 8 as a depiction of the ‘true prophets of judgement’, is a forced reading. (4) To identify the ‫ ָשׁלוֹם‬of 28:9 with the ‫ ָשׁלוֹם‬proclaimed by the lying prophets referred to in Jer 14:13 (cf. 6:14, 8:11, 23:17), is against the logic of ch. 28. The parallel with v. 8 strongly suggests that the message of peace here relates to a foreign nation (see section 2.3). Furthermore, v. 9 prescribes the proper reaction should the message of peace come true. By contrast, the texts dealing with the deceptive prophets simply state that they were not sent by Yahweh and that their messages were lies. 830F

831F

46 The rendering of the NIV, cited above, enforces this (wrong) interpretation by commencing v. 9 with ‘But’. 47 See literature mentioned in note 24.

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(5) V. 9 is not a condition that is not fulfilled. Although it is often rendered that way, this is not warranted by the Hebrew clause. 48 Of course, the alleged dependence of Jer 28:9 on Deut 18:20–22, ostensibly sanctifies this reading, but dependence on Deut 18:21–22 is quite unlikely (section 2.4). There is nothing that justifies reading v. 9 as a condition that is not fulfilled. (6) The final clause of v. 9 once more shows that the common view cannot be right. What is known about the prophet is, in the end, ‘that Yahweh truly sent him’. The end-result is formulated explicitly by ‫בּ ֱא ֶמת‬, ֶ ‘truly’ sent. 49 It is highly unlikely that the whole verse is meant negatively, i.e., that in the end this prophet is unmasked as a deceiver, who is not sent by Yahweh. The qualification ‫ ֶבּ ֱא ֶמת‬implies that the verse unfolds a positive scenario: in the end it must be conceded that this prophet was truly sent. There is a clear difference between the concessive statement ‘Yahweh truly sent him’, and the frequently attested motif with regard to the deceiving prophets, ‘I have not sent them’, in Jer 14:14–15, 23:21, 32, 27:15, 28:15, 29:9, 31. Jer 28:8–9, to conclude, does not deal with the stereotype of true prophecy of judgement and false prophecy of peace. The proclamation that a foreign kingdom will collapse or be destroyed (the kind of proclamation referred to in 28:8) is not what is usually understood by ‘prophecy of judgement’; and the proclamation that a foreign kingdom will enjoy a peaceful time (the kind of proclamation referred to in 28:9) is not what is usually understood by ‘prophecy of peace’. 83F

3. JER 28:8–9 AS PART OF THE DEVELOPING JEREMIAH TRADITION 3.1 JER 28:8–9 IN THE CONTEXT OF JER 27–29 This section shows that my interpretation of 28:8–9 fits the wider context of Jeremiah 27–29. V. 8 claims that prophetic predictions of war against foreign powers were a common practice. 50 Examples of such prophecies can be found, for instance, in the earliest parts of Isaiah. Isaiah delivered 834F

48 See note 41. The NIV, cited above, enforces this (wrong) interpretation, by rendering Hebrew ‫‘( ְבּבֹא‬when it comes true’), as ‘only if (his prediction) comes true’. 49 For the adverbial use of ‫ב‬, ְ Jenni, Die Präposition Beth, 335. 50 Section 3.2 will show that such messages were part of the prophetic repertoire from time immemorial.

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messages in which the imminent downfall of Judah’s enemies, Israel and Aram, was foretold (e.g. Isa 7:4–9a, 7:14b.16, 8:1–4), and he furthermore proclaimed that the power of Assyria would be broken (e.g. Isa 10:5–15).51 Besides, various prophecies attributed to Isaiah (probably creations from the late seventh century, when the decline of Assyria took place) proclaim the downfall of the great kingdom of Assyria (e.g. Isa 10:16–19, 14:24–25, 30:27–33, 31:8–9). 52 For example, Assyria’s violent destruction is proclaimed in Isa 14:24–25: The LORD Almighty has sworn, “Surely, as I have planned, so it will be, and as I have purposed, so it will stand. 25 I will crush the Assyrian in my land; on my mountains I will trample him down. His yoke will be taken from my people, and his burden removed from their shoulders.” 53

24

These prophecies of ‘war’ against Assyria—some of them genuine oracles, others being later, literary imitations—were popular during the time of Assyria’s decline and fall. The oracle of Hananiah, dealing with the downfall of Babylonia (28:2–4,11), looks remarkably similar to these prophecies. It proclaims Judah’s good fortune by foretelling the misfortune of Babylonia. Hananiah announces that Yahweh will cause the downfall of Babylonia and break its power: “Thus says the LORD of hosts, the God of Israel: I have broken the yoke of the king of Babylon.” This is a clear example of a prophecy of ‘war’ against a mighty kingdom. The phenomenon described in 28:8 thus matches Hananiah as he is depicted in the same chapter. Jer 28:9 deals with a prophet predicting peace with regard to a foreign kingdom. This does not apply to any of the so-called false prophets as pictured in the book of Jeremiah. None of them prophesies peace with regard to a foreign power. The only one who does so is Jeremiah himself, at first in his message as recorded in chs. 27–28*, e.g. 27:11: “Any nation that will bring its neck under the yoke of the king of Babylon and serve him, I will leave on its own land, says the LORD, to till it and live there.” This message points out that survival depends on accepting Babylonia’s supremacy, which implies that Babylonia will prosper and remain in power. Furthermore, Jeremiah deals with the good fortune of Babylonia in his letter to the Judeans in Babylonia, 29:5–7: 51 De Jong, Isaiah among the Ancient Near Eastern Prophets, 58–73, 126–136, 193–210, 217–219. 52 De Jong, Isaiah among the Ancient Near Eastern Prophets, 160–170, 375– 378. 53 Quotation from NIV.

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Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat what they produce. Take wives and have sons and daughters; take wives for your sons, and give your daughters in marriage.54 Multiply there, and do not decrease. Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the LORD on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare (‫לוֹמהּ יִ ְהיֶ ה ָל ֶכם ָשׁלוֹם‬ ָ ‫) ִכּי ִב ְשׁ‬. 83F

Considering how Jeremiah is depicted in chs. 27–29, the description of 28:9 clearly applies to him. Hananiah and other prophets proclaiming the imminent downfall of Babylonia, propagated rebellion against Babylonia and announced the return of the Judeans from their exile. Jeremiah prophesied the opposite. He prophesied that Babylonia’s hegemony would not end soon and that the survival of Judah and her neighbour states depended on accepting the Babylonian yoke. Furthermore he admonished the Judean exiles to seek Babylonia’s welfare, for ‘in her ‫ ָשׁלוֹם‬will be for you ‫’שׁלוֹם‬ ָ (29:7).

3.2 THE AGE-OLD PHENOMENON DESCRIBED IN JER 28:8 Jer 28:8 defines a common practice of prophets proclaiming the downfall of foreign powers. Generally speaking, this is indeed what prophets had done from time immemorial. The earliest prophetic oracles that we know of, found in the Mari letters from the 18th century BCE, contain predictions of ‘war’ against other nations and kingdoms. For instance, in a letter addressed to king Zimri-Lim comes the prophecy: “Hammurabi, king of Kurdâ (…). Your hand will [capture him] and in [his] land you will promu[lgate] an edict of restoration.” 55 Another letter to Zimri-Lim reports a prophecy concerning Babylon: “Babylon, what are you constantly doing? I will gather you into a net and … The dwellings of the seven accomplices and all their wealth I give into the hand of Zimri-L[im].” 56 These predictions concerning other countries and kingdoms serve to benefit the recipient of the oracles, in this case, king Zimri-Lim of Mari. The oracles deal with the enemies of the recipient. This kind of divine announcement—‘I will defeat your enemy’—has been part of the prophetic repertoire from time immemorial. Such announcements are an important motif in the oracles for the Assyrian kings Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal too. The promise of the god(ess) to annihilate the enemies of the king is found in many of the extant 839F

840F

54 The phrase “that they may bear sons and daughters” (missing in Jeremiah LXX) is likely to be an expansion of MT Jeremiah; see Graupner, Auftrag und Geschick, 80. 55 Nissinen, Prophets and Prophecies, 24–25 (ARM 26 194). 56 Nissinen, Prophets and Prophecies, 44 (ARM 26 209).

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oracles, and a series of countries and kingdoms are mentioned by name, such as Elam, Egypt, Mannea, Melid, the Cimmerians, and the land of Ellipi. 57 This same kind of prophetic announcement—‘I will defeat your enemies’, or ‘I will protect you against your enemies’—was well-known in ancient Israel and Judah, in particular in the monarchic period. Examples from the book of Isaiah, mentioned above (section 3.1), deal with the imminent downfall of Judah’s enemies Israel and Aram, and proclaim that Assyria’s rule will be broken. The biblical tradition contains many examples of military defeat of enemies and of Yahweh’s saving intervention, and in several of these texts we find prophetic announcements, or at least prophetic involvement (e.g. Exod 15:20–21, Judg 5, 1 Kgs 20:13, 22:6, 12, 2 Kgs 3:16–19, 14:25–28, 19:6–7). 58 Moreover, texts with a royal outlook, such as 2 Samuel 7 (v. 9) and Psalms 2 and 110, contain clear echoes of this kind of prophetic announcements. 59 The divine promise of ‘war’ against foreign nations was part of what is usually called ‘cultic prophecy’. 60 Instead of using the term cultic prophecy, I would simply call it prophecy, since in historical terms prophecy was always someway related to cult. Acting as the mouthpiece of a deity implies taking on a cultic role, although this role could be very well performed outside the temple. 61 An example of the same kind of prophetic announcement, from a later period, is found in Hag 2:20–22: 20 The word of the LORD came to Haggai …: 21 “Tell Zerubbabel governor of Judah that I will shake the heavens and the earth. 22 I will overturn royal thrones and shatter the power of the foreign kingdoms. I will overthrow chariots and their drivers; horses and their riders will fall, each by the sword of his brother.

57

The materials from seventh-century Assyria are brought together in Nissinen,

Prophets and Prophecy, 97–177. See also Nissinen, “Das kritische Potential,” 23– 24.

58 See further De Jong, Isaiah among the Ancient Near Eastern Prophets, 334– 335, with note 253 (for Exod 15:20–21 and Judg 5) and 343, with note 313 (for the passages from 1 en 2 Kings). 59 See J.W. Hilber, Cultic Prophecy in the Psalms (BZAW, 352; Berlin / New York: De Gruyter, 2005), 43, 76–101. 60 For a recent survey on ‘cultic prophecy’, see Hilber, Cultic Prophecy in the Psalms. 61 Cf. De Jong, Isaiah among the Ancient Near Eastern Prophets, 294–298, 334–337.

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To sum up, these oracles had a long tradition in Israel and Judah, as they had in the rest of the ancient Near East. 62 They were mostly addressed to the king, but the people were involved as well, not only because the oracles usually were publicly delivered, but also because the whole nation shared in the good fortune announced to the king. The prophets referred to in Jer 28:8 are thus prophets such as Isaiah,63 the anonymous figures behind the ‘cultic prophecy’ in the Psalms, and the prophets that occasionally appear in the historical books in the context of wars and conflicts. The nations against which they announced ‘war’, were enemy nations—Aram, Moab, Israel, Assyria, etc.—that at those particular moments posed a threat against the recipient(s) of the oracle. The encouraging, supportive prophecy in which the announcement of destruction of the enemy occupied a natural place, was in accordance with the state ideology of monarchic Judah. It was strongly believed that Yahweh would protect the king of his choice, his abode, and his people, against the threat of any foreign nation. For this reason, oracles proclaiming the good fortune of the king and the people often contained predictions of bad fortune, ‘war’, for any foreign nation that happened to threaten Yahweh’s abode. Prophecy of doom and prophecy of salvation were not two different phenomena. 64 Proclamations of the destruction of the enemy—messages of ‘war’ against enemy nations—were a common element in oracles of encouragement. Yahweh’s promises of good fortune for the Davidic king and the people of Judah went hand in hand with his promises to destroy nations or kingdoms threatening them. The misfortune of the one implied good fortune for the other. This is the case in Jer 28 as well: the misfortune of Babylonia, foretold by Hananiah, implies a turn for the good for the people of Judah. Proclamations of war and destruction simply were part of (encouraging) prophecy. This furthermore shows that the term ‘peace prophecy’ is not an adequate label. The vital question is peace (or war) for whom? The case of 28:8 is clear: announcing the misfortune and destruction of enemy countries and kingdoms was part of the common prophetic practice. Such prophetic statements were part of oracles that supported king and nation by M. Weippert, “‘Ich bin Jahwe’ – ‘Ich bin Ishtar von Arbela’: Deuterojesaja im Lichte der neuassyrischen Prophetie,” in B. Huwyler et al. (eds.), Prophetie und Psalmen: Festschrift für K. Seybold (AOAT, 280; Münster: Ugarit Verlag, 2001), 31–59. 63 For a view on the historical Isaiah, see De Jong, Isaiah among the Ancient Near Eastern Prophets, 345–351. 64 De Jong, Isaiah among the Ancient Near Eastern Prophets, 311–313. 62

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promising divine help against the enemies. This was the kind of oracle Hananiah delivered in 28:2–4, 11.

3.3 TWO LAYERS IN JER 27–29 It has been observed that Jeremiah’s reaction to Hananiah in 28:6–9 is profoundly different from the assault on Hananiah as prophesying falsely in 28:15–17. This observation will be worked out in the present section. Jeremiah’s reaction to Hananiah’s oracle in 28:6–9 is surprisingly mild and subtle. First, he declares his hope that Yahweh makes Hananiah’s words come true, “Amen! May the LORD do so!” (v. 6), after which he apparently sheds doubt on whether this hope will be realized: “Listen however to this word …” (v. 7). Then follow the two verses we have analyzed. By introducing the ‘common practice’ in v. 8, applying to Hananiah’s oracle, Jeremiah concedes that what Hananiah proclaimed is neither unusual nor unacceptable. It would be the best thing to happen! V. 9 however makes clear why this will nevertheless not happen, by pointing to the exception: this time, the unwelcome message is the one that will come true. Babylonia will not fall down, but remain powerful. Babylonia will prosper, and Judah’s well-being depends on accepting this. Jeremiah’s answer to Hananiah can be paraphrased in this way: Of course, the best thing to happen would be the violent downfall of Babylonia, the return of the temple vessels and the exiled Judeans, and the regaining of political autonomy. True, the prophets of old have often proclaimed Judah’s salvation in similar terms, and Yahweh has often rescued his people from the hands of powerful enemies. But our situation is different, for Yahweh has decided for Babylonia not its downfall but its good fortune. The defence of Jeremiah’s prophecy in 28:6–9 does not present a simple picture. It is conceded that Hananiah’s prophecy accords with normal practice and that the ruination of Babylonia would indeed be the best thing to happen. Only, as v. 9 adds, the situation is different, and in the end this will be known to all. In the final part of chapter 28, by contrast, Hananiah is simply accused of prophesying falsely without being divinely commissioned. He will be punished for this by dying within a few months’ time, which is what happens (28:15–17). This assault on Hananiah, presenting a simple, black-and-white picture, is incompatible with 28:6–9.65 It leaves far behind the subtle argument of 28:8–9, and presents another, much more rigorous, criticism. This motif of the deceiving prophets— prophets who without being divinely commissioned prophesy falsely and make the people trust in lies, and who will therefore be punished by 65

Noticed by McKane, Jeremiah II, 719–720.

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Yahweh—occurs throughout chs. 27–29, in 27:9–10, 14–17; 28:15–17, 29:8–9, 15, 21–23, 31–32 (cf. 20:6). Scholars have pointed out that these passages on the motif of false prophecy belong to a later literary layer that elaborated on the earlier traditions in these chapters. 66 In ch. 28, the later motif overrules the more subtle argument of 28:8–9. It presents a blackand-white picture of Jeremiah speaking the truth and of Hananiah as a deceiver who is rightly punished for his lies. It is clear, therefore, that 28:8– 9 must have preceded 28:15–17. It must have been part of a nucleus of ch. 28 to which v. 15–17 was added at a later stage.67 This suggestion will be worked out in sections 3.4 and 3.5.

3.4 THE MESSAGE OF JEREMIAH Verse 9 introduces in hypothetical terms the case of a prophet who predicts the opposite of what prophets usually proclaim. Suppose his message were to come true, then people must acknowledge that this prophet was sent by Yahweh. This refers to Jeremiah and it intends to argue that Jeremiah was truly sent by Yahweh. Jeremiah announced not Babylonia’s downfall but its prosperity. Prophetic oracles revealed divine decisions which implied that the deity had taken sides. The proclamation of ‫ ָשׁלוֹם‬for Babylonia was thus presented as Yahweh’s decision, revealed by Jeremiah. Jeremiah announced Yahweh’s decision that Babylonia would stay in power, would enjoy ‘peace’, and that Judah’s well-being would depend on accepting Babylonia’s supremacy. An oracle in which Yahweh proclaimed Babylonia’s well-being and success, probably was not what the people of Judah expected. Babylonia formed a threat to Judah’s political existence. It had taken away much of Judah’s autonomy; it had exiled its king and part of the upper class in 598 BCE, and remained a severe military threat. Although not everyone in Judah considered revolt a good strategy, the promise of well-being of this superpower was an unwelcome message. From the perspective of many Judeans, Babylonia was the enemy. Yet, however unwelcome this message may have been, from a divinatory point of view, it served the same goal as that of Hananiah’s competing message: to secure Judah’s prosperity and well-being. Whereas Hananiah propagated ‘survival through resistance’, Graupner, Auftrag und Geschick, 73–75, 82–83; McKane, Jeremiah II, 702– 703, 724–725. 67 Cf. McKane, Jeremiah II, 723–725. I do not argue that 28:6–7 was part of this nucleus too. It seems more likely that these verses originated during a later stage of development, when the polemics against the deceiving prophets and the motif of the temple vessels became part of chs. 27–29. They function as a bridge between the earlier and the later material. 66

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Jeremiah propagated ‘survival through submission’. Both of them did what divination generally aimed at: to reveal the divine decrees in order to provide those in charge with the information needed to make the right decision for the benefit of all. 68 Although many Judeans at that time hoped that Yahweh would plan evil for Babylonia, Jeremiah revealed a different scenario: Babylonia would flourish. This may have been unwelcome news, especially for those Judeans favouring rebellion, but it certainly was not meant as ‘doom’ for Judah. On the contrary, the revelation of Babylonia’s good fortune aimed to provide the Judean people, the political leaders in particular, with the information needed to take the right decision: to submit to Babylonia’s hegemony. Jeremiah’s message implied that Judah’s survival and well-being depended on accepting Babylonia’s rule. Moreover, it implied that submission to Babylonia was in accordance with Yahweh’s will. The announcement of Babylonia’s good fortune was not a prophecy of doom for Judah, but aimed to serve Judah’s well-being. It pointed out how Judah was to survive. Sacrificing political autonomy and accepting the terms of a foreign kingdom clashed with the beliefs of the state ideology. To take such a step required Yahweh’s consent, and this is what Jeremiah’s oracles gave. Prophetic announcements were relevant for a particular situation. The announcement of Babylonia’s good fortune, delivered by Jeremiah, did not intend to express that Babylonia’s power would last forever. However, whether the Babylonians would prosper for five years, or ten, or still more, was not the point of the prophecy. The point was that at that particular time, Yahweh wanted Judah to accept Babylonia’s rule and not to reject it and start a revolt. It was not the number of years Babylonia prospered that proved Jeremiah’s message right, but the failure of Zedekiah’s politics of resistance. The earliest traditions concerning Jeremiah, found in e.g. chs. 27–29* and 37–38*,69 indicate that Jeremiah’s oracles aimed to secure Judah’s wellbeing. 70 The early traditions in chs. 27–29 contain the message of Jeremiah and the reaction to this by his contemporaries; a nucleus of these chapters 68 J. Sweek, “Inquiring for the State in the Ancient Near East: Delineating Political Location,” in L. Ciraolo and J. Seidel (eds.), Magic and Divination in the Ancient World (Ancient Magic and Divination, II; Leiden: E.J. Brill, 2002), 44. 69 For a survey of the early Jeremiah traditions, see C.R. Seitz, Theology in Conflict: Reactions to the Exile in the Book of Jeremiah (BZAW, 176; Berlin: De Gruyter, 1989), 208–214, 238–241, 272–273. 70 I deal with the early Jeremiah traditions more comprehensively in M.J. de Jong, “Prophecy in Politics and Literature. Examples from The Royal Archives of Assyria, Herodotus, and the Book of Jeremiah,” forthcoming.

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may have consisted of 27:2–4.11, 28:2–4*.11, 13–15* and 29:1.3–7*, 25– 28*.71 First, we hear Jeremiah’s message not to revolt against Babylonia, symbolically acted out by the yoke he put on himself (27:2–4, 11). After this follows a violent reaction by Hananiah, who delivers a message sharply opposing that of Jeremiah, supporting this by breaking the yoke Jeremiah is bearing. To this, Jeremiah presents a counter-message (28:2–4*.11; 28:13– 15*). Next, we hear about Jeremiah’s message to the exiles in Babylonia, followed by a furious reaction from Shemaiah (29:1.3–7, 25–28*). These early traditions form a coherent whole. Jeremiah, in word and deed, announces that Babylonia will prosper and stay in power, that the chances of survival for Judah depend on accepting Babylonia’s supremacy, and that the well-being of the exiles depends on Babylonia’s well-being. The reaction to his message is a hostile one: Hananiah violently breaks his yoke and presents a counter-message and Shemaiah writes a furious response. The traditions in chs. 27–29* match with those preserved within chs. 37–38*. The earliest parts, 37:11–21 and 38:14–28,72 dealing with the final stage of Judah’s monarchy, depict Jeremiah announcing that surrender to the Babylonians would lead to survival. During the revolt of Zedekiah, Jeremiah once more urged the king and the political leaders to surrender to the Babylonians in order to stay alive. Again, his message was rejected. Significantly, 37:11–21 contains a depiction of the prophetic scene that is very similar to that of 28:8–9. In 37:19, Jeremiah critically addresses Zedekiah, “Where are your prophets who prophesied to you, saying: ‘The king of Babylon will not come against you and against this land.’?” The plural form, ‘your prophets’, matches the plural in 28:8, and their message exactly matches that of Hananiah in ch. 28. Again, the point is not that these prophets are ‘false’, but that, this time, their message happens to be wrong. It is Jeremiah whose message is right: the revolt will fail, only surrender will lead to survival (cf. 38:17). The early traditions present a coherent picture of Jeremiah’s message: Judah’s political survival depends on submission to the Babylonians. This message can be understood in terms of ancient Near Eastern divination and the normal function of prophecy: to reveal divine decrees in order to supply See McKane, Jeremiah II, 695–708, 716–25, 735–48; Graupner, Auftrag und Geschick, 61–97; Hossfeld and Meyer, Prophet gegen Prophet, 90–111; Seitz, Theology in Conflict, 208–214. 72 For this reconstruction, see McKane, Jeremiah II, 932–945, 962–971; O. Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem: Judah Under Babylonian Rule (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2005), 76–77, 93–94, 316–325; Seitz, Theology in Conflict, 238– 71

241, 272–273.

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the decision-makers with the information needed to make the right decisions to secure the collective well-being. The fact that Jeremiah’s message was rejected by the political leadership of Judah, is not surprising, as 28:8 points out. The Judeans in charge did not accept the advice coming from Jeremiah’s revelations. They preferred the other scenario, namely that Yahweh in due course would severely punish the Babylonians for their display of aggression against Jerusalem. The preferred scenario was that Yahweh would rescue his people from the hands of the enemy. For centuries, Yahweh had protected his people, his city Jerusalem and the dynasty of his servant David; he had always saved them from the hands of their enemies. This time too Yahweh would crush the Babylonian power, and from this perspective, resistance to the enemy was a sensible policy to adopt. This rival scenario was equally supported by prophetic oracles, such as that of Hananiah mentioned in ch 28*. This scenario and this political position prevailed in Judah during the reign of Zedekiah. In cases of ‘prophecy against prophecy’, only afterwards is it clear which message was right and which was wrong. This was a fact of life (not yet a Deuteronomistic criterion). The Judean people and their political leaders had to deal with competing divine messages. Both messages were immediately relevant to the political situation; both gave divine consent to a certain political action. Both messages were prophetic and belonged to the sphere of divination. The only difference between them was that the Judeans in charge in Jerusalem embraced the one and rejected the other. Jeremiah’s message of survival through submission came off worst in the rhetoric of revolt during the years of Zedekiah. After the capture and destruction of Jerusalem in 586 BCE, the outcome was clear: the message of Jeremiah’s opponents had been shown to be false, and Jeremiah’s message had come true. Yahweh’s decision had been not the downfall but the well-being of Babylonia, and Judah would have fared better if its politics had been those of submission. This is wisdom that comes with hindsight. It was too late to choose for the right course of action, but it was not too late to embrace the message that had been proven right. This was what happened afterwards: the ‘words and deeds’ of Jeremiah were collected and transmitted and held in great esteem, because, it was believed, Jeremiah had been right and had been truly sent by Yahweh. 73 73 Jeremiah’s message is also echoed in the Gedaliah story (Jer 40:7–41:18). Shortly after the disasters of 586 BCE, Gedaliah repeats Jeremiah’s message, as part of an oath to the Judeans that remained in the land (40:9), “Do not be afraid to serve the Babylonians. Stay in the land and serve the king of Babylon, and it shall

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Jer 28:8–9 can be read as an early commentary on the message of Jeremiah and his fate, and implicitly also on the terrible fate of Judah. It does not constitute a message from the historical Jeremiah, nor does it deal with events before 586 BCE, but it argues that the historical events permit but one conclusion: Jeremiah’s message had been the right one. The claim that Jeremiah had been right provided the ground for the collection and transmission of the sayings, stories and other traditions associated with the prophet after 586 BCE. 28:8–9 is a rehabilitation of Jeremiah put in the mouth of the prophet himself. These verses demand credit for Jeremiah. He was truly sent by Yahweh. As a stamp of approval of Jeremiah’s message, 28:8–9 marks the first stage of the collection and transmission of a ‘Jeremiah tradition’.

3.5 THE EARLY JEREMIAH TRADITION AND ITS LATER DEVELOPMENT The first stage of collection and transmission of a ‘Jeremiah tradition’, to which Jer 28:8–9 belongs, sharply differed from the expanded and thoroughly revised ‘Jeremiah corpus’ that was developed later during the (post)exilic period. The main difference is, that the Jeremiah tradition in its early stages was not yet marked by the framework of sin and punishment that decisively shapes the ‘prophecies’ of Jeremiah as we have them. As argued above (section 3.3), Jer 28:8–9 must have preceded the polemical depiction of the prophets (‫יאים‬ ִ ‫)הנְּ ִב‬ ַ as deceivers who were not sent by Yahweh (e.g. 28:15–17). This polemical depiction is part of a later revision of the Jeremiah traditions. The early traditions, including 28:8–9 and 37:19, do not yet make a distinction between Jeremiah and the false prophets. It is still a matter of competing messages: survival through submission versus survival through resistance. Of course, the reason of collecting and transmitting the Jeremiah traditions was, as 28:8–9 makes explicit, to underscore that Jeremiah’s message had come true, but the qualifications ‘falsehood’ and ‘lies’ for Jeremiah’s opponents do not belong to the earliest stage. A fundamental revision of the Jeremiah tradition gave the earlier materials a decisive new twist. It is in this revision that a new depiction of ‘the prophets’ (‫יאים‬ ִ ‫)הנְּ ִב‬ ַ originated: they are now portrayed as Jeremiah’s opponents, false and deceptive smooth-talkers, that were not sent by Yahweh (e.g. 27:9–10, 14–15, 28:15–17, 29:8–9, 29:31–32).74 Whereas the early traditions, including 28:8–9, do not relate the disasters that befell 85F

go well with you.” 74 De Jong, “Why Jeremiah is Not Among the Prophets,” 495–503.

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Judah and Jerusalem to Judah’s sins and Yahweh’s anger, this is the dominant perspective introduced by the later reworking. The early traditions do not contain ‘prophecy of judgement’. 75 Judah is not doomed, rather Jeremiah’s messages serve the collective well-being, aiming to achieve ‘survival through submission’. In the later revision, however, the downfall of Judah is explained as Yahweh’s rightful punishment of the sins of his people. This later reflection reframed the ‘prophecies’ of Jeremiah. This is how the ‘prophecy of doom’ originated, and how Jeremiah became a ‘prophet of judgement’. 76 The message of doom for Judah is often regarded as being part of the earliest stages of the Jeremiah tradition, but there are good reasons for siding with the more critical view that the message of doom for Judah is the product of a fundamental revision of an earlier, prophetic legacy. First of all, as a revision dating from the exilic period, it can be understood as a normal ancient Near Eastern explanation for the disasters that befell Judah, as being ‘due to divine wrath’. 77 By contrast, understood as genuine prophecy, it creates the anomaly of a prophet rejecting his own society.78 Moreover, as this article indicates, underneath the sin-andpunishment perspective, i.e., the rejecting of the prophets as liars and the irrevocable doom predicted by Jeremiah, lies an earlier tradition, a prophetic legacy. Here, Jeremiah appears as a prophet in ancient Near Eastern guise. His messages supporting Judah’s survival by submission to Babylonia are incompatible with the message of ‘doom’. The most reasonable explanation is that the original messages have been re-written from a later, exilic, perspective. An earlier prophetic legacy was revised: Jeremiah, as the mouthpiece of Yahweh’s anger, now foretold doom for his own people, because they had not heeded Yahweh’s words spoken by Jeremiah.

Various scholars have argued that this applies to the earliest parts of the sayings material of Jeremiah 4–23* as well, e.g. Kratz, Die Propheten Israels, 77; K.-F. Pohlmann, Die Ferne Gottes: Studien zum Jeremiabuch. Beiträge zu den 75

‘Konfessionen’ im Jeremiabuch und ein Versuch zur Frage nach den Anfängen der Jeremiatradition (BZAW, 179; Berlin: De Gruyter, 1989); K. Schmid, Buchgestalten des Jeremiabuches. Untersuchungen zur Redaktions- und Rezeptionsgeschichte von Jer 30-33 im Kontext des Buches (WMANT, 72; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1996), 330–340. 76 Kratz, Die Propheten Israels, 52–86, esp. 77. 77 De Jong, “Biblical Prophecy – A Scribal Enterprise,” 41–54. 78 Nissinen, “Das kritische Potential,” 30, points out that no ancient Near Eastern prophet ever rejected the institution of kingship or announced the collapse of the society or state he was part of.

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At a still later stage of development, probably in the Persian period, a further dimension was added to the ‘prophecies of Jeremiah’. The period of Judah’s punishment was now limited to three generations or to seventy years, after which for Judah a new time of restoration would come. As a result of this development, ‘Jeremiah’s prophecies’ now encompassed a wide perspective in time, viz., Babylonia’s rule and ultimate fall, and in space, viz. the world of the nations at large. 79 Within chs. 27–29 this further redactional development is represented by 27:5–7 and 29:10–14. The redactional character of such passages, dealing with the time set for Babylonia’s hegemony and Judah’s punishment, has been widely recognized. 80 Importantly however before these, presumably post-exilic, redaction(s), the image of Jeremiah and his prophecies and the image of the prophets opposing Jeremiah, had already been decisively reshaped by a scribal revision. Underneath the dominant perspective of sin and punishment that was produced by this revision, a prophetic legacy is still visible. Before Jeremiah was turned into a preacher of doom for Judah, a ‘Jeremiah tradition’ existed. During its earliest stages, traditions concerning Jeremiah’s words and deeds were preserved, collected and transmitted. According to these early traditions, Jeremiah was not a preacher of doom but a prophet whose message happened to come true, and his opponents were not false prophets but prophets whose message happened to be wrong (e.g. 37:19). Jeremiah 28:8–9 claims that it must therefore be acknowledged that Jeremiah was truly sent by Yahweh. This claim lies at the basis of the Jeremiah tradition, and Jeremiah 28:8–9 is thus to be seen as an early commentary to Jeremiah’s prophetic activity.

4. THE CONCEPT OF TRUE VERSUS FALSE PROPHECY The idea that prophecy of judgement and prophecy of salvation were two completely different types of prophecy has been a huge impediment for an adequate view of prophecy as a historical phenomenon. This idea should be abandoned. Instead, prophecy is to be seen as a multifaceted phenomenon

79 For this later, post-exilic, perspective, see De Jong, “Why Jeremiah is Not Among the Prophets,” 490–495. 80 These texts have been related to the Deuteronomistic redactions of the Jeremiah corpus. See R. Albertz, Israel in Exile. The History and Literature of the Sixth Century BCE. (trans. David Green; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature), 312–327, esp. 316.

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which could include messages of encouragement, support, warning, criticism and reproach. The biblical prophetic books certainly present a contrast between the true message of punishment and destruction on the one hand and the falsehood of the prophets claiming that all will be fine on the other. This contrast belongs to the prophetic books as scribal artefacts and does not correspond directly with the historical practices of prophecy. There is however something more to say in this regard. The biblical contrast between the true message of judgement and the false message of peace, is not adequately described by the terms ‘true versus false prophecy’. Take for instance the harangues against ‘the prophets’ in Jer 23:9–40, Ezek 13:1–16, and Mic 3:5–8. These texts are commonly referred to as dealing with the ‘false prophets’, but instead they deal with ‘the prophets’ (‫יאים‬ ִ ‫)הנְּ ִב‬ ַ in general. The prophets in general are denounced as deceivers of the people, and the figure addressing them is not presented as a prophet (‫)נָ ִביא‬, but instead described in other words as the true spokesman of Yahweh’s message of judgement. 81 In these three cases, the picture is that Yahweh has put his words of judgement ‘in’ his mouthpiece and forces him to speak them out. A similar picture of such a ‘mouthpiece of Yahweh’s anger’ versus the ‘normal’ prophets, is found in Amos 7:10–17 (esp. 7:14–15). What we see in various prophetic books is a depiction of a true spokesman of Yahweh’s words, positioned outside the range of prophecy and divination, and standing in opposition to the religious establishment, which as a whole—including ‘the prophets’ as such—is condemned. 82 Elsewhere I have argued that the Book of Jeremiah is built on a tradition complex in which Jeremiah is deliberately not referred to as a ‫נָ ִביא‬ in order to distinguish him from ‘the prophets’ in general.83 This tradition complex depicts the Judean establishment, that is, the leaders, the priests, and the prophets, as being sinful altogether. If this is correct, what we encounter in the biblical prophetic books is in many cases not ‘true against false prophecy’ but rather a denunciation of ‘the prophets’ as such, as part of a denunciation of the political and religious establishment as a whole. This is a scribal, ex eventu, perspective, and the spokesmen of this perspective are often depicted as ‘containers’ of Yahweh’s angry words, but deliberately not as ‘prophets’. 84 865F

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81 See the depiction of Jeremiah in Jer 23:9, that of Micah in Mic 3:8, and that of Ezekiel in Ezek 2:7–3:4. 82 See on this De Jong, Isaiah among the Ancient Near Eastern Prophets, 323– 333. 83 De Jong, “Why Jeremiah is Not Among the Prophets,” 483–510. 84 In the later, redactional, development, this distinction was not always

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The Former Prophets do not contain many examples of ‘false prophets’ presented in direct opposition with one or more ‘true prophet(s)’ either. There is, of course, the example of Elijah versus the prophets of Baal (1 Kings 18). The story of 1 Kings 22 may at first sight seem to be another example. However, on a closer look, it is not, since the four hundred prophets are not depicted as ‘false prophets’, but simply as ‘prophets’ that, for a particular reason, are deliberately misinformed by Yahweh. 85 An interesting element here is the ‘spirit’ becoming “a deceiving spirit in the mouth of all his prophets” (v. 22). This element functions as an explanation for the fact that all the prophets (including Micaiah himself, in v. 15!) have delivered an illusory and deceptive message to the king (v. 6, 11–12, 15).86 So the question of reliability is at stake—the issue whether a prophetic message can be relied upon, or, in case of several, conflicting messages, which one is most trustworthy—but there is not the issue of ‘true versus false prophecy’. The Hebrew Bible presents two different characterizations of ‘the prophets’ (‫יאים‬ ִ ‫)הנְּ ִב‬ ַ in general. 87 First, there is the characterization of the prophets as ‘deceivers of the people’, prominent in some of the prophetic books. Second, there is the characterization of ‘Yahweh’s servants, the prophets’, that were sent to the people time and again in order to urge them to amend their ways, but in vain. These two characterizations originally were unrelated, they belonged to very different tradition complexes. In the 871F

maintained, and sometimes the term ‫ נָ ִביא‬was used again in a positive way, mostly in the expression ‘Yahweh’s servants, the prophets’ (e.g. Amos 3:7; Jer 7:25, etc). See on this below. 85 See E. Ben Zvi, “A Contribution to the Intellectual History of Yehud: The Story of Micaiah and Its Function within the Discourse of Persian-Period Literati, in Ph.R. Davies and D.V. Edelman, The Historian and the Bible. Essays in Honour of Lester L. Grabbe (LHBOTS, 530; London and New York: T&T Clark , 2010), 89–102, here 96–98. 86 See for this element, E.J. Hamori, “The Spirit of Falsehood,” in CBQ 72 (2010), 15–30. Hamori’s claim that the spirit of falsehood “affects people viewed as being already in the wrong” (p. 28) may be justified with regard to king Ahab as the target of this deceptive message, but is not justified with regard to the four hundred prophets. According to Hamori, “Ahab’s prophets are already giving false prophecy” (p. 28), but this is not the case. The group of prophets gives a uniform and univocally encouraging prophecy, and it is only in retrospect that it is explained by Micaiah how this unisonous message originated (1 Kgs 22:19–23). By referring to the spirit of falsehood, Micaiah explains how the prophets – unknowingly! – delivered a deceptive message. 87 See De Jong, Isaiah among the Ancient Near Eastern Prophets, 330–332; De Jong, “Why Jeremiah is Not Among the Prophets,” 495–500.

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course of the redactional development of the biblical literature, they began to emerge side by side in some books. 88 In Deut 18:15–22 different characterizations of the prophets are purposefully brought together. This passage introduces a distinction between ‘the prophet like Moses’ (vv 15–19), that is prophets that are true spokesmen of Yahweh on the one hand, and prophets speaking in the name of other deities or speaking presumptuously in Yahweh’s name on the other (vv 20–22). Here we may see a deliberate contrast between ‘true and false’, although even here these terms are not used. In relation with other texts dealing with the prophets, such as in the book of Jeremiah, Deut 18:15–22 stands on the receiving end of the tradition rather than on the giving.89 It builds on various strands of tradition, such as the characterization of the prophets as loyal servants of Yahweh (‘my servants, the prophets’) and the characterization of the prophets as deceivers, at home in the prophetic books. In Deut 18:15–22, these are brought together and rephrased from a deuteronomistic point of view. It was now defined that ‘true prophets’ had nothing to do with divinatory practices at all (see Deut 18:9–18), and these, from a historical point of view very unprophetic, ‘prophets’, were designated as ‫נָ ִביא‬. The concept of ‘true versus false prophecy’ does not relate to historical prophetic practice, and is, as I have argued, not at the heart of the biblical prophetic literature either. Yet it became a reality in the scholarly mind. Following the footsteps of Deut 18:15–22, but going beyond what this text claims, interpreters blended the various images (‘the prophets as deceivers of the people’; ‘the prophets as Yahweh’s loyal servants’), thereby creating the cocktail of ‘true versus false’.90 Among the victims of this 873F

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88 For this phenomenon in the book of Jeremiah, see De Jong, “Why Jeremiah is Not Among the Prophets,” 496–497. 89 For the dependence of Deut 18:9–22 on the Jeremiah traditions, see W.H. Schmidt, “Das Prophetengesetz Dtn 18,9–22 im Kontext erzählender Literatur,” in M. Vervenne and J. Lust (eds.), Deuteronomy and Deuteronomistic Literature: Festschrift C.H Brekelmans (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1997), 55–69 and M. Köckert, “Zum literargeschichtlichen Ort des Prophetengesetzes Dtn 18 zwischen dem Jeremiabuch und Dtn 13,” in R.G. Kratz and H. Spieckermann (eds.), Liebe und Gebot: Studien zum Deuteronomium (FRLANT, 190; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000), 80–100. 90 The Septuagint translators of the books of Jeremiah and Zechariah were among the first who did this. They introduced the term οἱ ψευδοπροφῆται (‘the false prophets’) as a rendering of Hebrew ‫יאים‬ ִ ‫( ַהנְּ ִב‬nine cases in Jeremiah, one in Zechariah) in order to show the principal distinction between ‘the prophets’ as deceivers of the people on the one hand, and ‘true prophets’ such as Jeremiah on

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thinking was Jer 28:8–9. V. 8 was connected with ‘true prophecy of judgement’ and v. 9 with ‘false prophecy of peace’, since the text simply had to fit to the schema, even though it was clear that v. 8 describes what Hananiah says in v. 2–4 and v. 9 describes what Jeremiah says in 29:7.

the other.

MICAH’S TERAPHIM BENJAMIN D. COX

UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS AT AUSTIN

SUSAN ACKERMAN

DARTMOUTH COLLEGE Determining the proper interpretation of the eight passages in the Hebrew Bible in which the term ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬occurs (Gen 31:19–35; Judges 17–18; 1 Sam 15:23; 19:11–17; 2 Kgs 23:24; Ezek 21:26 [in most of the Bible’s English versions, 21:21]; Hos 3:4; and Zech 10:2) has proven to be, in many respects, a vexing problem for scholars. For example, as well documented by K. van der Toorn and T.J. Lewis in their jointly authored “‫”תּ ָר ִפים‬ ְ entry in the Theological Dictionary of the Old Testament, and in addition by van der Toorn in a 1990 article that appeared in the Catholic Biblical Quarterly, no consensus has been reached regarding the etymology of ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ 1 2 although many suggestions have been put forward. How exactly to 875F

876F

K. van der Toorn and T.J. Lewis, “‫תּ ָר ִפים‬,” ְ in G.J. Botterweck, H. Ringgren, and H.-J. Fabry (eds.), TDOT, 15 (Grand Rapids, MI/Cambridge, UK: Eerdmans, 2006), 777–89 (778–79); K. van der Toorn, “The Nature of the Biblical Teraphim in the Light of the Cuneiform Evidence,” CBQ 52 (1990), 203–22 (203–4). See further, in van der Toorn and Lewis, “‫תּ ָר ִפים‬,” ְ n. 1 on p. 778, which refers readers to the extensive etymological discussion found in HALOT, 4, 1794–96. Also see Lewis’s etymological discussion in “Teraphim,” in K. van der Toorn, B. Becking, and P.W. van der Horst (eds.), DDD (Leiden/New York/Köln: E.J. Brill, 1995), 1588–1601 (1588–90), and that of A. Jeffers, in her Magic and Divination in Ancient Palestine and Syria (Studies in the History and Culture of the Ancient Near East, 8; Leiden/New York/Köln: E.J. Brill, 1996), 223–25. 2 Even in those cases, moreover, where a certain etymology has gained a modicum of support—most notably, H.A. Hoffner’s suggestion, building on the work of B. Landsberger, that Hebrew ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬might be related to the Hittite-Luwian word tarpi(š), meaning some sort of otherworldly spirit (H.A. Hoffner, Jr., “The 1

309

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envision the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬has also been an issue that has resisted resolution, as the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬of Gen 31:34 atop which Rachel sits seem as though they must be markedly different in size than the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬that Michal puts in David’s bed in 1 Sam 19:13 as a doppelgänger for her fugitive husband. 3 These two passages also illustrate the ambiguity that the term ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬can manifest in terms of number, referring both to plural ‫( ְתּ ָר ִפים‬as in the story of the multiple ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬on which Rachel sits) and to ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬in the singular (as in the story of the lone ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬that Michal uses to impersonate David). Even here, though, the matter is confused, since the seemingly singular ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬of the David-Michal story has a wig of netted goat hair (‫)כּ ִביר ָה ִﬠזִּ ים‬ ְ placed ‫מ ַר ֲאשׁ ָֹתיו‬, ְ literally “at its heads” (1 Sam 19:13, 16).4 Still, as again has been well documented by van der Toorn in his CBQ article, by van der Toorn and Lewis in the TDOT, and in addition by both van der Toorn and Lewis in other publications, 5 some things are clear. 87F

87F

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Linguistic Origins of Teraphim,” BSac 124 [1967], 230–38; idem, “Hittite Tarpiš and Hebrew Terāpîm,” JNES 27 [1968], 61–68)—the proposed derivation “hardly advances our understanding of the role of the teraphim in ancient Israelite religion” (van der Toorn, “Nature of the Biblical Teraphim,” 204). Similar sentiments are expressed by J.S. Bray, Sacred Dan: Religious Tradition and Cultic Practice in Judges 17–18 (Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies, 449; New York/London: T & T Clark, 2006), 119; Lewis, “Teraphim,” 1588; and van der Toorn and Lewis, “‫תּ ָר ִפים‬,” ְ 779. 3 Although cf. R. Albertz, A History of Israelite Religion in the Old Testament Period, 1: From the Beginnings to the End of the Monarchy (OTL; Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox, 1992), 254, n. 53, who argues—based on the work of H. Rouillard and J. Tropper (“Trpym, rituels de guérison et culte des ancêtres d’après 1 Samuel XIX 11–17 et les textes parallèles d’Assur et de Nuzi,” VT 37 [1987], 340– 61)—that the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬of 1 Samuel 19 need not be life-size. 4 On the phrase ‫מ ַר ֲאשׁ ָֹתיו‬, ְ see K. van der Toorn, Family Religion in Babylonia, Syria and Israel: Continuity and Change in the Forms of Religious Life (Studies in the History and Culture of the Ancient Near East, 7; Leiden/New York/Köln: E.J. Brill, 1996), 219, n. 59. On the interpretation of the rather enigmatic phrase ‫ְכּ ִביר‬ ‫ ָה ִﬠזִּ ים‬in 1 Sam 19:13, see, among others, P.K. McCarter, 1 Samuel: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB, 8; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1980), 326, and van der Toorn, Family Religion, 220, and the references there. 5 T.J. Lewis, Cults of the Dead in Ancient Israel and Ugarit (HSM, 39; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989), 178 and n. 12 on that page; idem, “Teraphim,” 1588–1601; and idem, “Divine Images and Aniconism in Ancient Israel” (Review article of Tryggve Mettinger, No Graven Image? Israelite Aniconism in Its Ancient Near Eastern Context [ConBOT, 42; Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International,

MICAH’S TERAPHIM

311

First, as demonstrated in Gen 31:19–35 and 1 Sam 19:11–17, as well as in Judg 17:5, where the Ephraimite Micah is said to have “made” (‫)ﬠ ָשׂה‬ ָ ‫ֵאפו ֺד‬ ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬, ְ ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬are some sort of concrete objects. The witness of 1 Samuel 19 also suggests that because that story’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬has a human-like head and can be used to impersonate David, ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬are anthropoid in form. It further seems certain, based on texts such as Ezek 21:26 and Zech 10:2, that ‫ְתּ ָר ִפים‬ were used for purposes of divination. 6 In Ezek 21:26, for example, “consulting the ‫”תּ ָר ִפים‬ ְ is listed alongside two other well-known divination rites from the ancient Near East, belomancy and hepatoscopy. The terms “divination” (‫)ק ֶסם‬ ֶ and ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬arguably stand paralleled in 1 Sam 15:23 as well.7 Both van der Toorn and Lewis further propose that the specific divinatory practice with which the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬are to be associated is necromancy. They suggest this, first, because the particular term used for divination in the three passages just cited (1 Sam 15:23; Ezek 21:26; and Zech 10:2), ‫ק ֶסם‬,ֶ can be used elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible in texts that refer specifically to the calling up of dead spirits (Deut 18:10–14 and, according to van der Toorn’s and Lewis’s interpretation, Mic 3:6, 11). 8 In 80F

81F

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1995]), JAOS 118 (1998), 36–53 (43–44). K. van der Toorn, From Her Cradle to Her Grave: The Role of Religion in the Life of the Israelite and the Babylonian Woman (The Biblical Seminar, 23; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994), 39–40; idem,

“Ancestors and Anthroponyms: Kinship Terms as Theophoric Elements in Hebrew Names,” ZAW 108 (1996), 1–11 (9); idem, Family Religion, 218–25, translated with minor changes in “Ein verborgenes Erbe: Totencult im frühen Israel,” TQ 177 (1997), 105–20 (114–18); idem, “Israelite Figurines: A View from the Texts,” in B.M. Gittlin (ed.), Sacred Time, Sacred Place: Archaeology and the Religion of Israel (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2002), 45–62 (54–56); and idem, “Recent Trends in the Study of Israelite Religion,” in G. Wiegers (ed.), in association with J. Platvoet, Modern Societies and the Science of Religion: Studies in Honor of Lammert Leertouwer (SHR, 95; London/Boston/Köln: E.J. Brill, 2002), 223–43 (228–29). 6 Although cf. Rouillard and Tropper, “Trpym, rituels de guérison et culte des ancêtres,” 340–61, and especially 346–51, who, while agreeing that ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬have a divinatory function, argue that 1 Samuel 19 presumes another use for ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬in healing rituals, with a ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬functioning as a substitute image of an invalid onto which his or her illness is passed. 7 H.C. Brichto, “Kin, Cult, Land and Afterlife—A Biblical Complex,” HUCA 44 (1973), 1–54 (46); Lewis, “Teraphim,” 1598; van der Toorn, “Nature of the Biblical Teraphim,” 214; idem, Family Religion, 223–24; and van der Toorn and Lewis, “‫תּ ָר ִפים‬,” ְ 787. 8 Van der Toorn, “Nature of the Biblical Teraphim,” 215; idem, Family

312

BENJAMIN D. COX & SUSAN ACKERMAN

addition, van der Toorn and Lewis posit there is a relationship between King Josiah’s putting away of the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬in 2 Kgs 23:24, as part of his massive project of religious reformation, and the condemnation of the consulting of the dead in Deut 18:11, so much so that “Deut 18:11,” according to van der Toorn and Lewis, “appears to be the program behind Josiah’s actions.” 9 Indeed, the central point of van der Toorn’s 1990 CBQ article, which he and Lewis re-affirmed in the TDOT, was to argue in support of a proposal that went back to F. Schwally, writing in 1892, and that had recently been revived—in 1987—by H. Rouillard and J. Tropper: 10 that the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬themselves are not household god figurines, as many twentiethcentury biblical scholars had assumed,11 but representations of deceased spirits. More specifically (so this proposal goes), ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬are representations of a family’s deceased ancestors. 12 As such, the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬are especially able 83F

84F

85F

86F

Religion, 224; and van der Toorn and Lewis, “‫תּ ָר ִפים‬,” ְ 787, in all three cases citing F. Stolz, “Der Streit um die Wirklichkeit in der Südreichsprophetie des 8. Jahrhunderts,” WD 12 (1973), 9–30 (22–25). 9 Van der Toorn and Lewis, “‫תּ ָר ִפים‬,” ְ 788; see similarly J. Blenkinsopp, “Deuteronomy and the Politics of Post-Mortem Existence,” VT 45 (1995), 1–16, especially 11–12; van der Toorn, “Nature of the Biblical Teraphim,” 215; and idem, Family Religion, 224. 10 F. Schwally, Das Leben nach dem Tode nach den Vorstellungen des alten Israel und des Judentums einschliesslich des Volksglaubens im Zeitalter Christi

(Giessen: J. Ricker, 1892), 35–37; Rouillard and Tropper, “Trpym, rituels de guérison et culte des ancêtres,” 351–57. Rouillard and Tropper (ibid, 357, n. 44) and van der Toorn, (“Nature of the Biblical Teraphim,” 204, n. 8; idem, Family Religion, 224, n. 83) also cite, among older scholars who promoted this same view: A. Lods, La croyance à la vie future et les culte des morts dans l’antiquité israélite (Paris: Fischbacher, 1906), 236; R.H. Charles, Eschatology: The Doctrine of a Future Life in Israel, Judaism and Christianity (2nd ed. [1913]; reprinted New York: Schocken, 1963), 21–23; H. Wohlstein, “Zu den altisraelitischen Vorstellungen von Toten- und Ahnengeistern,” BZ 5 (1961), 30–38 (37–38); and J. Lust, “On Wizards and Prophets,” Studies on Prophecy (VTSup, 26; Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1974), 133–42 (138). For a catalog of more recent adherents, see n. 12. 11 As van der Toorn (in “Nature of the Biblical Teraphim,” 204, and Family Religion, 222) and Lewis (in “Teraphim,” 1589) point out, this suggestion goes back to S. Smith, writing in 1926 (apud C.J. Gadd, “Tablets from Kirkuk,” RA 23 [1926], 49–161 [127]) and again in 1931 (“What Were the Teraphim?” JTS 33, 33– 36). The premier presentation is A.E. Draffkorn (Kilmer), “ILĀNI/ELOHIM,” JBL 76 (1957), 216–24. 12 Van der Toorn, “Nature of the Biblical Teraphim,” 204 and 215–17; van der

MICAH’S TERAPHIM

313

and, in fact, perfectly suited to perform the necromantic function of transmitting oracular messages from the realm of the dead to their families’ living descendants. To be sure, in Gen 31:19, 30, 32, 34, and 35, the synonymous use of the terms ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬and ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫( ֱא‬treated as a plural form, “gods”; see 31:32, 34) might suggest that the older identification of the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬as household gods is correct, and multiple texts from Nuzi have also been used to argue that the cognate term for ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֱא‬that is used within them, ilānu, means “household gods.” Yet at Nuzi, ilānu, because it is often coupled with eṭemmū, meaning “spirits of the dead,” is better interpreted as meaning deceased spirits in general and a household’s deceased ancestors in particular,13 and recently discovered texts from Emar, where ilānu is paralleled by mētū, “the dead,” indicate this as well.14 In the Hebrew Bible 87F

8F

Toorn and Lewis, “‫תּ ָר ִפים‬,” ְ 783, 787–88. See similarly Albertz, History of Israelite Religion, 1, 38; Blenkinsopp, “Deuteronomy and the Politics of Post-Mortem Existence,” 12; M. Dijkstra, “Women and Religion in the Old Testament,” in B. Becking et al., Only One God? Monotheism in Ancient Israel and the Veneration of the Goddess Asherah (The Biblical Seminar, 77; London/New York: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 164–88 (168); Lewis, Cults of the Dead, 178; idem, “The Ancestral Estate (‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ )נַ ֲח ַלת ֱא‬in 2 Samuel 14:16,” JBL 110 (1991), 597–612 (603); idem, “Teraphim,” 1598–99; idem, “Divine Images and Aniconism in Ancient Israel,” 43; O. Loretz, “Die Teraphim als ‘Ahnen-Götter-Figur(in)en’ im Lichte der Texte aus Nuzi, Emar und Ugarit,” UF 24 (1992), 134–78, especially 152–68; van der Toorn, Family Religion, 223–25; idem, “Israelite Figurines,” 54; and idem, “Recent Trends,” 228–29. 13 Although cf. B.B. Schmidt, Israel’s Beneficent Dead: Ancestor Cult and Necromancy in Ancient Israelite Religion and Tradition (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1996), 123–25, who rejects both the identification of the ilānu with the eṭemmū at Nuzi and their identification as deified ancestors. Also cf. Rouillard and Tropper, “Trpym, rituels de guérison et culte des ancêtres,” 354, who follow A. Tsukimoto, Untersuchungen zur Totenplege (kispum) im altern Mesopotamien (AOAT, 216; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1985), 104–5, to suggest a somewhat more complex relationship between the terms ilānu and eṭemmū at Nuzi: that the eṭemmū were a family’s recent ancestors who, after a certain period of time, passed on to join a more ancient and deified set of ancestors, the ilānu. 14 D. Fleming, “Nābû and Munabbiātu: Two New Syrian Religious Personnel,” JAOS 113 (1993), 175–83 (176–77); Loretz, “Die Teraphim als ‘Ahnen-GötterFigur(in)en,’” 166–67; K. van der Toorn, “Gods and Ancestors in Emar and Nuzi,” ZA 84 (1994), 38–59; idem, “Nature of the Biblical Teraphim,” 221–22; idem, “Ancestors and Anthroponyms,” 6; idem, Family Religion, 55–56, 222–23; and Tsukimoto, Untersuchungen zur Totenplege (kispum), 9–11. See also the summary

314

BENJAMIN D. COX & SUSAN ACKERMAN

too, ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֱא‬can refer to deceased spirits: in 1 Sam 28:13; Isa 8:19; Num 25:2, as quoted in Ps 106:28; and probably Exod 21:6.15 This in turn suggests an Israelite understanding of the ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֱא‬cum ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬of Gen 31:19, 30, 32, 34, and 35 and elsewhere as representations of deceased spirits or, just as van der Toorn and Lewis have proposed, as ancestor figurines. In this paper, it is our intention, first, to look closely at the story of Micah’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬in Judges 17–18 in the light of this proposal in order to argue that the identification of ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬as ancestor figurines is well supported by the Micah account. Indeed, we maintain that this identification actually clarifies certain details of the Micah narrative, especially the heretofore unanswered question of what prompted Micah, in Judg 17:5, to make his ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬in the first place. After presenting our explanation of this and a related matter—regarding an ambiguity in the interpretation of the term ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬in Judg 18:14, 17, 18, and 20—we will turn, in Section 2 of our paper, to engage another potential enigma in the Micah story: why Micah, upon the occasion of the Danites’ theft of all his household’s religious treasures (a significant compendium, as we will discuss further below), focuses exclusively on the loss of the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬that he had previously made (Judg 18:24). Our account regarding this issue will illuminate, we will argue in Section 3, the Bible’s other story of the stealing of ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ Rachel’s theft of her father Laban’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬in Gen 31:19–35. Finally, in our concluding remarks, we will return to the story of the thieving Danites in Judges 17–18 to ask if there are some last subtleties at play regarding their absconding with Micah’s ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ which concern the value of the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬not just to Micah, which we will have discussed in Section 2, but the potential appeal of the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬to the tribesmen of Dan as well. Before beginning this exposition, though, we must raise two cautions. The first concerns the difficulty that attends any analysis of Judges 17–18, 89F

of the Emar data provided by van der Toorn and Lewis, in “‫תּ ָר ִפים‬,” ְ 780, and by Lewis, in “The Ancestral Estate,” 600, and in “Teraphim,” 1590–92, 1598–99. Cf. Schmidt, Israel’s Beneficent Dead, 125–30, who, as in his analysis the Nuzi ilānu (n. 13 above), rejects the identification of the ilānu with mētū at Emar. 15 On this interpretation of Exod 21:6, see van der Toorn and Lewis, “‫תּ ָר ִפים‬,” ְ 783, and, as cited there, Schwally, Das Leben nach dem Tode, 37–39; H. Niehr, “Ein unerkannter Text zur Nekromantie in Israel: Bemerkungen zum religionsgeschichtlichen Hintergrund von 2 Sam 12,16a,” UF 23 (1991), 301–6; and A. Cooper and B.F. Goldstein, “The Cult of the Dead and the Theme of Entry into the Land,” BibInt 1 (1994), 285–303, especially 294 and n. 23 on that page. On Num 25:2 as quoted in Ps 106:28, see Lewis, Cults of the Dead, 167, and idem, “The Ancestral Estate,” 602.

MICAH’S TERAPHIM

315

given this text’s well known polemical intent. 16 More specifically, Judges 17–18 polemicizes against the Danite priesthood by ridiculing the integrity of its levitical founder, who was easily persuaded to abandon his contractual obligations to serve as Micah’s household priest in order to take up a post among the Danites that carried greater power and prestige; 17 the text derides as well the sanctuary at Dan that this levitical priest came to serve, by portraying it as centered upon a cult image with a copiously suspect heritage. The image had been cast from silver stolen from Micah’s mother, for example, as well as having come to the plundering Danites by illicit means. In addition, the designating of this cult image using the phrase ‫ֶפּ ֶסל‬ ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ (in Judg 17:3, 4; and 18:14) or (in 18:20, 30, and 31) ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬alone (more on this grammatical ambiguity below) carries negative connotations, given that ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬is deployed pejoratively in Deut 27:15 and Nah 1:14 (cf. also Isa 42:17; Hab 2:18) and that the making of a ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬is condemned in the second commandment as articulated in Exod 20:4 and Deut 5:18. M.Z. Brettler moreover argues, following M. Noth, that the story implies a negative attitude about the Danites as a people, because of the way in which they “conquer the unsuspecting peaceful residents of Laish.” 18 890F

891F

892F

16 Our characterization of the polemic in Judges 17–18 that follows is taken primarily from van der Toorn, Family Religion, 247–48; see somewhat similarly, regarding the story as a polemic against the levitical priesthood, M.Z. Brettler, “The Book of Judges: Literature as Politics,” JBL 108 (1989), 395–418 (409), following M. Noth, “The Background of Judges 17–18,” in B.W. Anderson and W. Harrelson (eds.), Israel’s Prophetic Heritage: Essays in Honor of James Muilenburg (New York: Harper and Row, 1962), 68–85. Also, regarding the story as a polemic against the sanctuary at Dan, see J.D. Martin, The Book of Judges (CBC; Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1975), 182–83, 187; A. Rofé, “‘No Ephod or Teraphim’—oude hierateias oude dēlōn: Hosea 3:4 in the LXX and in the Paraphrases of Chronicles and the Damascus Document,” in C. Cohen, A. Hurvitz, and S.M. Paul (eds.), Sefer Moshe: The Moshe Weinfeld Jubilee Volume: Studies in the Bible and the Ancient Near East, Qumran, and Post-Biblical Judaism (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2004), 135–49 (148); and J.A. Soggin, Judges: A Commentary (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1981), 268–69, 277–78. 17 As Brettler somewhat colloquially but aptly states (in “The Book of Judges,” 409), the Levite opts “to become a ‘big shot’ in Dan rather than remain a ‘hick’ priest” in Ephraim. 18 Brettler, “The Book of Judges,” 409; see similarly J.C. McCann, Judges (Interpretation; Louisville: John Knox Press, 2002), 123–24. Cf. however, R.G. Boling, Judges: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB, 6A; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1975), who, while he also sees the story as polemical, takes the thrust of the polemic to be directed against the “cultically selfish” (p. 255) and “delinquent” (p. 258) Micah, whose corruption of the “hero of the story” (p.

316

BENJAMIN D. COX & SUSAN ACKERMAN

Such a polemically charged account cannot, of course, be treated as a straightforward depiction of Israelite cult. Nevertheless, we maintain that the text’s polemics still must, in terms of their underlying portrayal of Israelite religious practice, present a picture that was generally believable to their ancient Israelite audience. This is because, like any polemic, the polemics of Judges 17–18 were generated in an attempt to persuade their listeners to take the side of the polemicists in very real and live arguments that were taking place within the Israelite community at the time of these polemics’ production. Or, to put the matter somewhat more colloquially: polemics aren’t about beating a dead horse. It therefore follows that while there is certainly room for exaggeration in Judges 17–18, and even parody and caricature that can be over the top, the polemics of this text would have needed to “ring true” to their audience in at least their broad outlines, regarding, for example, the possibility that a household such as Micah’s might have employed its own levitical priest and that a female member of Micah’s household (his mother) might have commissioned the fabrication of a cult figurine. More important for our purposes: the account in Judg 17:5 of Micah’s making ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬must point to what an ancient Israelite audience thought was possible within Israelite household cult. Yet herein lies the issue that is at the heart of our second caution: that what the ancient Israelite audience of Judges 17–18 thought was possible within Israelite household cult, and thus what they understood and assumed regarding this text’s cultic resonances, is not necessarily information that Judges 17–18 explicitly articulates. As we have already noted, for example, Judges 17–18, like the seven other biblical passages that 255), the Levite, is made right only by the Danites, who “execute Yahweh’s judgment against the proud Ephraimite” (p. 259). V.H. Matthews, Judges and Ruth (NCBC; Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 169, similarly finds Micah to be characterized as “self-centered” and “unruly”; see too L. Klein, The Triumph of Irony in the Book of Judges (JSOTSup, 68; Bible and Literature Series, 14; Sheffield: Almond, 1988), 147–49, 151. Other scholars have described the story’s polemical character in different terms still: e.g., Y. Amit, “Hidden Polemic in the Conquest of Dan: Judges XVII–XVIII,” VT 40 (1990), 4–20 (7–10); McCann, Judges, 120–25, especially 124; and P.E. McMillion, “Worship in Judges 17–18,” in M.P. Graham, R.R. Marrs, and S.L. McKenzie (eds.), Worship and the Hebrew Bible: Essays in Honour of John T. Willis (JSOTSup, 284; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 225–43 (234), citing D.R. Davis, “Comic Literature— Tragic Theology: A Study of Judges 17–18,” WTJ 46 (1984), 156–63. E.A. Mueller, The Micah Story: A Morality Tale in the Book of Judges (Studies in Biblical Literature, 34; New York: Peter Lang, 2001), 26–35, surveys various interpretations and then turns, in pp. 51–128, to offer her own analysis.

MICAH’S TERAPHIM

317

speak of the ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ assumes its audience knows what ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬are, even though we today must resort to hypotheses developed from reasonable conjecture to determine the nature of the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬and their significance. Likewise, and more germane for our purposes, the text leaves us in ignorance regarding the several matters (such as what prompts Micah to make his ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬in the first place) that we have identified above as our primary interest. Our explanations of these matters will thus by necessity be based on hypotheses and (we hope) reasonable conjecture, regarding, for example, the nuances we will propose ancient Israelite audiences would have heard in the Judges 17–18 account (and also in Genesis 31) and the ways in which these audiences would have filled in details that these stories tend to gloss over. Still, we must admit our inferences will become less secure as our essay progresses; indeed, our concluding comments, about the potential value of the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬to the tribesmen of Dan who stole them, are the product of considerable supposition. Nevertheless, we have judged this matter to be worth considering, if for no other reason than the fact that, as we have mentioned briefly in the preceding paragraphs, biblical scholarship has generally focused its analysis of the Danites’ thievery only on their taking of the cult figurine Micah’s mother had commissioned. Indeed, it is our contention that despite a degree of speculation, our discussion of the Danites’ stealing of Micah’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬provides a more coherent interpretation of this theft than is otherwise available in the literature. Similarly, we aim, in discussing the other aspects of the ‫ְתּ ָר ִפים‬ accounts of Judges 17–18 and Genesis 31 that we will consider, to illuminate details of these stories that scholars have heretofore been unable adequately to explain.

1. “AND MICAH MADE ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫” ֵאפו ֺד‬ In Judg 17:5, after an initial notice (to which we will return) that Micah had a ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫בּית ֱא‬, ֵ or a shrine, we are told ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫וַ יַּ ַﬠשׂ ֵאפוֹד‬, “and he made ‫ֵאפו ֺד‬ ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬.” ְ At one level, this seems a fairly simple and straightforward statement, almost as basic a declarative sentence as one can construct, in fact, according to the norms of Hebrew grammar. At another level, however, this declaration is rife with ambiguity. As is suggested, for example, by our having left the phrase ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫ ֵאפוֹד‬untranslated, scholars disagree, and markedly, on how to render this expression. For some, ‫ֵאפו ֺד‬ ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ is to be understood as a hendiadys and thus refers to only a single ֵ object, 19 perhaps a ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬image that was covered with an overlay, or ‫אפו ֺד‬, 893F

See, for example, van der Toorn, Family Religion, 250. See also C.A. Faraone, B. Garnand, and C. López-Ruiz, “Micah’s Mother (Judg. 17:1–4) and a 19

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BENJAMIN D. COX & SUSAN ACKERMAN

of silver or gold (the term ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬is used in precisely this way—to describe the gold plating that covers an image—in Isa 30:22, where we read of the ‫) ֲא ֻפ ַדּת ַמ ֵסּ ַכת זָ ָהב‬. According to most commentators, however, ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬refers to an object other than Micah’s ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬. ְ But what?20 The overgarment, or ‫אפו ֺד‬, ֵ that is a part of the priestly vestments? Or a divine image of some sort, as the term ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬might mean elsewhere in Judges (Judg 8:27)? Or is ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬in Judg 17:5, and also in Hos 3:4 and several passages in 1 Samuel, a synonym for the term ‫ארו ֺן‬, ֲ “ark,” as van der Toorn in CBQ and van der 894F

Curse from Carthage (KAI 89): Canaanite Precedents for Greek and Latin Curses against Thieves?” JNES 64 (2005), 161–86 (164, n. 13), who argue not only that the phrase ‫ ֵאפוֺד וּ ְת ָר ִפים‬is to be understood as a hendiadys but that it should be taken as referring to the ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬of 17:4 (which they also interpret as a hendiadys; see further below, n. 23), with ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬referring specifically to the ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬proper and ‫ֵאפו ֺד‬ to its molten plating or ‫מ ֵסּ ָכה‬. ַ Other commentators similarly take ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬and ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬to be equivalent, with ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬stemming from one stratum in the history of Judges 17–18’s textual development and the variant ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬from another. See, for example, C.F. Burney, The Book of Judges, with Introduction and Notes (2d ed.; London: Rivington’s, 1920), 409; E.C. LaRocca-Pitts, “Of Wood and

Stone”: The Significance of Israelite Cultic Items in the Bible and Its Early Interpreters (HSM, 61; Winona Lane, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2001), 60; and G.F. Moore, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Judges (2nd ed.; ICC; Edinburgh: T & T

Clark, 1903), 378. However, while Judges 17–18 no doubt has a multi-layered redactional history (see n. 22 below), it seems to us that the plainest meaning of the text—and the one embraced by the final redactor of Judges 17–18, in 18:17, 18, and 20 (although we admit, as we will note at several points in this paper, that these verses are grammatically confused and thus less than clear)—is to see the ‫ֶפּ ֶסל‬ ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ and the ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬as distinct objects. See further Albertz, History of Israelite Religion, 1, 37: “the teraphim [...] are here [in Judges 17–18] distinguished clearly from a cultic image of the god proper [i.e., the ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫]פּ ֶסל‬.” ֶ 20 For discussions of the term ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬that go beyond the brief comments we offer here, see Bray, Sacred Dan, 112–18; S. Rudnig-Zelt, “Vom Propheten und seiner Frau, einem Ephod und einem Teraphim—Anmerkungen zu Hos 3:1–4, 5,” VT 60 (2010), 373–99 (385–87); M. Haran, Temples and Temple-Service in Ancient

Israel: An Inquiry into the Character of Cult Phenomena and the Historical Setting of the Priestly School (Oxford: Clarendon, 1978), 166–68; P.J. King and L.E. Stager, Life in Biblical Israel (Library of Ancient Israel; Louisville/London:

Westminster/John Knox, 2001), 10; C. Meyers, “Ephod,” in D.N. Freedman (ed.),

ABD, 2 (New York: Doubleday, 1992), 550; and P.D. Miller, The Religion of Ancient Israel (Library of Ancient Israel; London: SPCK; Louisville, KY:

Westminster/John Knox, 2000), 56.

MICAH’S TERAPHIM

319

Toorn and Lewis in the TDOT have argued, meaning that ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬in Judg 17:5 designates a wooden box, like the ark, in which, van der Toorn and Lewis further propose, ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬were kept?21 Fortunately for our purposes, it is not necessary that we resolve—or even attempt to resolve—this debate, since all of these interpretations agree that whether the ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬of Judg 17:5 overlaid Micah’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬or was independent, Micah did make the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬on which it is our intention, as we noted above, to focus. More specifically, as we have also noted above, it is our attention to focus, at least initially, on a further point of ambiguity that we find in Judg 17:5: the question of what motivated Micah, at this particular point in the narrative, to make his ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬. ְ The text’s silence on this issue does seem to us curious, given that we are told in some detail in the preceding verses exactly what motivated a different member of Micah’s family, Micah’s mother, to consecrate two hundred pieces of silver to Yahweh and commission a metallurgist to fabricate from these ‫ֶפּ ֶסל‬ ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬. ַ 22 This is, incidentally, another ambiguous phrase within Judges 17, which is perhaps to be taken, as is perhaps ‫וּת ָר ִפם‬ ְ ‫אפוֹד‬, ֵ as a hendiadys, meaning a “cast-metal figurine” (the grammar of 17:4, which refers to the 895F

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Van der Toorn, “Nature of the Biblical Teraphim,” 211–13; van der Toorn and Lewis, “‫תּ ָר ִפים‬,” ְ 784–87. See also K. van der Toorn and C. Houtman, “David and the Ark,” JBL 113 (1994), 209–31 (212–19, 230). But cf. Lewis, “Teraphim,” 1598, who writes, “the full picture of the ephod [...] remains somewhat murky,” and van der Toorn, Family Religion, 250, who states that “an ephod refers to an image of the god.” 22 To be sure, some scholars have proposed that Judg 17:1–4 was an originally separate tale from the next major episode that follows in Judges 17, Judg 17:7–13 (as is indicated by the fact that Micah’s name is rendered as ‫יכיְ הוּ‬ ָ ‫ ִמ‬in Judg 17:1–4 and as ‫יכה‬ ָ ‫ ִמ‬in Judg 17:7–13). Verses 5–6, according to this reconstruction, were added by a redactor to unite the two pericopes. See, e.g., Boling, Judges, 258–59; van der Toorn, Family Religion, 247; also the somewhat similar proposal advanced by Matthews, Judges and Ruth, 168, 170. If these scholars are correct, one could perhaps argue that the contrast we seek to draw here between the description of the mother’s motivations for making her ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬in 17:1–4 and the absence of any discussion of Micah’s motivations for making his ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬in 17:5 is the result only of authorial idiosyncrasy: one author chose to articulate his subject’s motivation, another did not. But one might more readily maintain—as is our preference—that even if a redactor did add 17:5–6, he would have shaped these verses according to the model of 17:1–4 and thus would seek to intimate a motivation for Micah’s craftsmanship. This motivation we will propose presently. 21

320

BENJAMIN D. COX & SUSAN ACKERMAN

‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬using a singular verb, ‫יְהי‬ ִ ַ‫ו‬, argues for this interpretation). 23 Or the phrase ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬might be understood, as might ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫אפו ֺד‬, ֵ as referring to two separate objects, “an image,” ‫פּ ֶסל‬, ֶ and “a molten image,” ‫( ַמ ֵסּ ָכה‬the wording of Judg 18:17 and 18, and perhaps of 18:20, 30, and 31, where the term ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬appears independent of ‫מ ֵסּ ָכה‬, ַ argues for this).24 Yet whatever the ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫פּ ֶסל‬,ֶ it is clear what has motivated its/their fabrication: after the mother has had stolen from her a cache of eleven hundred pieces of silver, she utters a curse that seemingly condemns the thief but that she seeks to reverse on discovering that the miscreant was her own son. To effect this reversal, she blesses the son in the name of Yahweh and then consecrates a part of the silver to Yahweh as she seeks to evoke the deity’s favor (Judg 17:2–3).25 Conversely and curiously, as we have previously suggested, no explanation is given for Micah’s fabrication of his ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬. ְ Note also another curious feature of—and yet another ambiguity we find in—the Judg 17:1–5 pericope: that although this tale of family drama is filled with Micah’s kin (Micah himself, his mother, and the son whom Micah is said to appoint to 897F

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23 Scholars who read this phrase as a hendiadys include Boling, Judges, 256; Martin, Judges, 185; Rudnig-Zelt, “Vom Propheten und seiner Frau,” 377, 382; Soggin, Judges, 265; van der Toorn, “Nature of the Biblical Teraphim,” 211; and idem, “Israelite Figurines,” 49, n. 16, with additional references. 24 Scholars who interpret in this way include D.M. Gunn, Judges (Blackwell Bible Commentaries; Oxford, UK: Blackwell Publishing, 2005), 231; LaRocca-Pitts, “Of Wood and Stone,” 60–61; S. Niditch, Judges: A Commentary (OTL; Louisville/London: Westminster/John Knox, 2008), 172, n. g on p. 177, 181; Rofé, “‘No Ephod or Teraphim’,” 148; and T.J. Schneider, Judges (Berit Olam: Studies in Hebrew Narrative and Poetry; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2000), 233. See also Bray, Sacred Dan, 64, who revives an old suggestion made by Moore, Judges, 375–76, and by Burney, Judges, 409, 419, by reconstructing an original account in which only the term ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬appeared, supplemented later by a glossator who added ‫מ ֵסּ ָכה‬. ַ 25 On the general nature of this sort of ‫ ָא ָלה‬curse and its ability to be reversed through blessing, see Sheldon H. Blank, “The Curse, Blasphemy, the Spell, and the Oath,” HUCA 23 (1950/51), 73–95 (87–92), and Josef Scharbert, “‫א ָלה‬,” ָ in G.J. Botterweck and H. Ringgren (eds.), TDOT, 1 (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1974), 261–66. On Micah’s mother’s curse more specifically, see Faraone, Garnand, and López-Ruiz, “Micah’s Mother (Judg. 17:1–4) and a Curse from Carthage,” 161– 86, and C. Meyers, “Judg 17:1–4, Mother of Micah,” in C. Meyers (ed.), with T. Craven and R.S. Kraemer, Women in Scripture: A Dictionary of Named and

Unnamed Women in the Hebrew Bible, the Apocryphal/Deuterocanonical Books, and the New Testament (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2000), 248.

MICAH’S TERAPHIM

321

serve his household as priest at the end of 17:5), nowhere in this text, nor anywhere else in the longer Judges 17–18 narrative, is any reference made to Micah’s father. Our hypothesis is that this is because the story presumes the father to be dead and, moreover, quite recently dead. We further suggest, inspired by the proposition that the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬are to be identified as ancestor figurines, that the father’s recent death explains why Micah felt prompted, according to the narrative’s conceit, to make his ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬in Judg 17:5: that shortly after his father’s demise, Micah is appropriately depicted as fabricating a ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬as a representation of this newly deceased ancestor. To be sure, Judges 17–18 never explicitly claims that Micah’s father is dead. Nevertheless, we propose that the story has within it several hints that point in this direction. We note first that our narrative consistently and repeatedly refers to Micah, and not his father, as the head of his household. Indeed, eleven times within Judges 17–18—in Judg 17:4, 8, 12; 18:2, 3, 13, 15, 18, 22, 25, and 26—we find the household in question referred to as the ‫יכה‬ ָ ‫בּית ִמ‬, ֵ the “house of Micah,” or the “house of ‫יכיְהוּ‬ ָ ‫”מ‬ ִ (a longer form of the same name). Perhaps one could argue that the reason the household is always assigned to Micah, and that the father is never mentioned, is a narrative assumption that Micah, after he came of age, moved away from his father’s house and established a homestead separate from his father’s. But this hypothesis is highly unlikely: first, because such a scenario contradicts the model of ancient Israelite family life best indicated by both our archaeological and textual evidence, in which sons do continue to reside, even upon reaching adulthood, within their father’s households; 26 second, because such a scenario cannot explain the presence of Micah’s mother in her son’s home. Were her husband still alive, she should be resident with him in his household. Or, if her husband had divorced her, she would have returned from his household to resume living in her father’s 90F

The premier presentation of this reconstruction of ancient Israelite household and family structure is L.E. Stager, “The Archaeology of the Family in Ancient Israel,” BASOR 260 (1985), 1–35. Other helpful discussions include O. Borowski, Daily Life in Biblical Times (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 13–21; W.G. Dever, Who Were the Early Israelites and Where Did They Come From? (Grand Rapids, MI/Cambridge, UK: Eerdmans, 2003), 102–7; idem, Did God Have a Wife? Archaeology and Folk Religion in Ancient Israel (Grand Rapids, MI/Cambridge, UK: Eerdmans, 2005), 18–29; King and Stager, Life in Biblical Israel, 9–19, 28–43; C. Meyers, Discovering Eve: Ancient Israelite Women in Context (New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 128–38; J.D. Schloen, The House of the Father as Fact and Symbol: Patrimonialism in Ugarit and the Ancient Near East (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2001), 135–83; and van der Toorn, Family Religion, 194–99. 26

322

BENJAMIN D. COX & SUSAN ACKERMAN

house. The fact that she instead lives with her son could only suggest to an ancient Israelite audience that the father had died and that Micah had succeeded him as the household’s paterfamilias. That the father is dead is additionally suggested by the fact that, as we have already seen, the mother, as our story opens, lays claim to the ownership of eleven hundred pieces of silver. Unfortunately, because our story begins in medias res, we are not told how the mother came into possession of her silver riches. We can, however, be sure of some ways in which she did not. For example, because it was overwhelmingly the norm in Iron Age Israelite tradition for marriages to be contracted not by the bride’s family bestowing a dowry upon her, but through the groom’s family transferring bridewealth (‫מ ַֹהר‬, usually translated as either “marriage present” or “marriage fee”) to the bride’s father, 27 it cannot be supposed that Micah’s mother’s eleven hundred pieces of silver were brought by her into her marriage. Nor does it make sense to suppose that Micah’s mother came to possess her eleven hundred pieces of silver during the course of her married life, given that typically within an Iron Age Israelite household, property would have been held by a woman’s spouse.28 Yet if Micah’s mother could not have come into possession of her cache of silver pieces during her marriage, and if the norms of Israelite marital practice dictate that she did not bring this silver with her to her nuptials, then it necessarily follows that the mother could have only acquired the silver after her marriage to Micah’s father had come to an end: that is, she has taken over possession from the silver’s previous owner, the father, because he is, as we have suggested, dead. 29 The father, we have further proposed, must be understood not only as dead but also as recently dead. Again, we must be clear that this is nowhere indicated explicitly in the text. Yet the evidence that points to the father’s recent death is again, we maintain, promoted by several hints found within the Judges 17–18 account. Some of these hints, indeed, seem to us even more forceful than those that pointed to the supposition that the father was no longer living. 901F

902F

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27 T.M. Lemos, Marriage Gifts and Social Change in Ancient Palestine, 1200 BCE to 200 CE (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2010). 28 B. Levine, Numbers 21–36 (AB, 4A; New York: Doubleday, 2000), 435.

29 This interpretation is also urged by G.I. Emmerson, “Women in Ancient Israel,” in R.E. Clements (ed.), The World of Ancient Israel: Sociological,

Anthropological and Political Perspectives: Essays by Members of the Society for Old Testament Study (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 371–94 (381).

MICAH’S TERAPHIM

323

We begin by noting the fact that others among the father’s generation are still alive (the mother). This suggests the father’s death is at least somewhat recent, given that, on average, men outlived women in ancient Israel. 30 That the father’s death, moreover, is not just somewhat, but instead quite recent is suggested by the several details in our story that present Micah’s family in the state of household upheaval that a new death would entail. Striking in this regard is the insistence of Judg 17:5 that once the mother’s ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬and Micah’s ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬are made, Micah installs one of his sons to serve his household as priest. 31 This seems yet another curiosity within our story, given that Judg 17:5 begins, as we have previously mentioned, by noting that “the man Micah had a shrine” ( ֺ ‫יכה לו‬ ָ ‫וְ ָה ִאישׁ ִמ‬ ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫)בּית ֱא‬. ֵ So why is this already extant shrine only now, at the end of 17:5, getting a priest? Some scholars explain by comparing Gen 28:22 to suggest that Micah’s ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֵבּית ֱא‬or “shrine” was a simple ‫מ ֵצּ ָבה‬, ַ or standing stone, which would not have required a priest to attend it; 32 the presence of a priest, whose primary function in our story is to serve as an oracular specialist (Judg 18:5),33 only becomes necessary, according to this account, 904F

905F

906F

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30 C. Meyers estimates, for example, that the average life expectancy for women in ancient Israel was about thirty years of age, as opposed to forty for men; see her Discovering Eve, 112–13; eadem, “The Family in Early Israel,” in L.G. Perdue et al., Families in Ancient Israel (The Family, Religion, and Culture; Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox, 1997), 1–47 (28). 31 Boling argues that the identification in 17:5 of one of Micah’s sons as the family’s priest is meant to be read metaphorically and also as foreshadowing (Judges, 259). It is metaphorical, as Boling sees it, in that “son” refers not to a biological son at all but to “son” as an unrelated affiliate of Micah’s family. More specifically, the reference to “son,” according to Boling (and here is the foreshadowing), anticipates the story of the levitical priest who becomes “like a son to Micah” in 17:7–13. The priest referred to in 17:5, that is, is the Levite who is not actually installed until 17:12. This interpretation seems, though, unnecessarily to override the plain meaning of the text, which we, along all other commentators, would take to mean that Micah’s original priest was his biological son who was then replaced by a priestly specialist of the levitical guild. See likewise Albertz, A History of Israelite Religion, 1, 100; J. Gray, Joshua, Judges, Ruth (NCB Commentary; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans; Basingstoke, UK: Marshall Morgan and Scott, 1986), 341; Gunn, Judges, 231; Martin, Judges, 186; Matthews, Judges and Ruth, 169; McCann, Judges, 120; Niditch, Judges, 182; and Soggin, Judges, 270. 32 T.N.D. Mettinger, No Graven Image: Israelite Aniconism in Its Ancient Near Eastern Context (ConBOT, 42; Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International, 1995), 141, citing A. de Pury, Promesse divine et légende cultuelle dans le cycle de Jacob. Genèse 28 et les traditions patriarcales (Paris: J. Gabalda, 1975), 427–28. 33 Bray, Sacred Dan, 89, 95, 126, 138; M.S. Moore, “Role Pre-Emption in the

324

BENJAMIN D. COX & SUSAN ACKERMAN

after the fabrication of Micah’s ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫אפו ֺד‬, ֵ when a divinatory expert, or priest, would be required to make inquiries using this (or these) item(s). 34 As we will discuss further below, however, we do think our text indicates that Micah’s ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֵבּית ֱא‬or “shrine” is better understood as an actual shrine building, or at least a dedicated sacred space. We also think it most logical to presume that this sort of dedicated building or space must have had furnishings in it that would have called for the services of a divinatory specialist prior to the making of either the ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬or the ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫אפו ֺד‬. ֵ So again we ask: why, in Judg 17:5, is Micah’s previously extant shrine only now getting a priest? Our suggestion is that the shrine is not getting a priest in 17:5 for the first time; rather, we propose the shrine is getting a new priest in 17:5 because the previous priest had somehow been separated from his post. More specifically, we suggest that just as Micah appointed his son to serve as priest of his household’s shrine in 17:5, the man who preceded Micah in the role of paterfamilias had previously appointed his son to serve as the shrine’s priest. More simply put: we suggest that Micah’s father appointed Micah to serve as priest of the shrine while the father was still alive. But among the transitions that ensue upon the occasion of the father’s death, Micah, according to our story’s logic, was required to assume leadership over the family and thus to pass the priestly role onto a son of the next generation. 35 The implication that follows is crucial for our argument regarding timing: that it is the recent death of Micah’s father and the change in Micah’s household role that stems from that death that drives the change in the priestly office. Still, there is an event that precedes even the changes in household leadership that Judg 17:5 presumes: Micah’s theft of his mother’s silver, her curse of the thief, the silver’s restoration, and the fabrication of the ‫ֶפּ ֶסל‬ ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ that results. Unlike the leadership transitions of Judg 17:5, this incident can hardly be said to be normative upon the occasion of a paterfamilias’s death. Nevertheless, we argue that the silver’s theft too is best explained as a consequence of the father’s just prior demise. More specifically, the father’s just prior demise could explain why Micah, at this particular point in his life, is said to try to take the silver to which his father, we have argued above, had previously laid claim. Perhaps, for example, we are meant to reason that as the household’s new paterfamilias, Micah felt 908F

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Israelite Priesthood,” VT 46 (1996), 316–29 (326). 34 Such an argument is put forward by Rofé, “‘No Ephod or Teraphim’,” 148. 35 See similarly Brichto, “Kin, Cult, Land and Afterlife,” 46, who writes—citing Judg 17:5—that “there is ample evidence that the role of priest in the Israelite family had at one time been filled by the firstborn.”

MICAH’S TERAPHIM

325

that the silver should by rights belong to him rather than his mother. Alternatively, we may be meant to think that Micah perceived that an opportunity to seize the silver more easily became available when its guardianship passed from his father and into female hands. In either case, however, it is the presumption of the father’s quite recent death and the transitions and even turmoil that ensue that explain most convincingly why Micah is said in 17:2 to have made a play for his mother’s silver hoard. This brings us back to the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬that Micah is said to have made in 17:5, an action that we propose is part and parcel with all the other acts that we have just argued follow closely on the heels of Micah’s father’s death: the mother’s taking possession of her husband’s silver hoard; Micah’s attempting to claim that silver hoard for himself; Micah’s appointing his son to replace him, as we interpret, as the family’s priest; and, we now add, Micah fabricating of a ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬image to serve as a representation of his recently dead father. To put the matter another way: understanding ‫ְתּ ָר ִפים‬ in general as representations of a family’s deceased ancestors, as van der Toorn and Lewis have most recently argued, and understanding Micah’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬in particular as a representation of his lately deceased father, elucidates in a compelling way an otherwise unexplained detail of Judges 17—what prompts Micah in 17:5 to make a ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬in the first place? According to our interpretation: on the occasion of his father’s demise, Micah fabricated a ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬as a representation of his newly deceased ancestor. 36 We might even suggest that Micah fabricated this ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬as the transitional period that his father’s death had occasioned comes to a close: first, after the initial turmoil entailed by the silver’s theft had been resolved, but more important, after the initial rites of burial and mourning prescribed by Israelite ritual had come to an end and the dead father is finally ready to be enshrined as one of his family’s deceased ancestors. This leads us to consider the issue of Micah’s shrine. We suggest, first, that Judges 17–18 means us to envision Micah as placing the ‫ְתּ ָר ִפים‬ that he made of his recently deceased father in his ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫בּית ֱא‬, ֵ or shrine, that is mentioned in Judg 17:5 and that the ‫אפו ֺד‬, ֵ if it is a separate object from the ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ was placed in this shrine as well. In addition, we propose that the shrine should be taken to hold Micah’s mother’s ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫פּ ֶסל‬. ֶ All this is 910F

But cf. van der Toorn, “Nature of the Biblical Teraphim,” 212, and van der Toorn and Lewis, “‫תּ ָר ִפים‬,” ְ 787, who offer a different account of Micah’s motivation: that since Hos 3:4 intimates that ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬are among the “standard furnishings of an ancient Palestinian temple,” Micah’s desire was to set up a “real” shrine as opposed to the more modest “family chapel” already extant in his household. 36

326

BENJAMIN D. COX & SUSAN ACKERMAN

somewhat indicated by the fact that the account of Micah’s mother’s commissioning of her ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬in 17:4 and the account of Micah’s making of his ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬in Judg 17:5b bracket the phrase ֺ ‫יכה לו‬ ָ ‫וְ ָה ִאישׁ ִמ‬ ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֵבּית ֱא‬in 17:5a, a juxtaposition that could readily suggest that all of these cultic appurtenances—the ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫פּ ֶסל‬, ֶ the ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫בּית ֱא‬, ֵ and the ‫ֵאפו ֺד‬ ‫—וּת ָר ִפים‬are ְ to be associated in terms of physical location. Likewise, in Judg 18:14, 17, 18, and 20, the terms ‫פּ ֶסל‬, ֶ ‫מ ֵסּ ָכה‬, ַ ‫אפו ֺד‬, ֵ and ‫( ְתּ ָר ִפים‬once rendered in their composite forms, ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬and ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫[ ֵאפו ֺד‬18:14] and otherwise as up to four seemingly independent items [18:17, 18, and 20]) appear together, which again could readily suggest that they were envisioned as housed together: more specifically, in the ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫בּית ֱא‬, ֵ which, as we suggested briefly above, we would take to be a dedicated shrine room or shrine building that was within Micah’s household compound. To be sure, and as we have also already mentioned, some scholars have argued, based on Gen 28:22, that Micah’s ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֵבּית ֱא‬is to be understood as a ‫ ַמ ֵצּ ָבה‬or standing stone—and consequently as a sacred object in and of itself, rather than being a repository for other sanctified items. 37 But this argument has not found much support in the literature, and it makes no sense if we are to understand Micah’s ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫בּית ֱא‬, ֵ as we have just proposed, as housing at least two and up to four items. Nor is it really plausible to think that Micah’s ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫בּית ֱא‬, ֵ or shrine, might refer to the sorts of small pottery shrines known from Syro-Palestinian archaeological excavations, such as the small, box-shaped pottery shrines that were meant to represent, in miniature, shrine buildings,38 or the small, cylinder-shaped 91F

912F

37 38

Above, n. 32. For exemplars and discussion, see, preeminently, J. Bretschneider,

Architekturmodelle in Vorderasien und der östlichen Ägäis vom Neolithikum bis in das 1. Jahrtausend: Phänomene in der Kleinkunst an Beispielen aus Mesopotamien, dem Iran, Anatolien, Syrien, der Levante und dem ägäischen Raum unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der bau- und der religionsgeschichtlichen Aspekte

(AOAT, 229; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag; Kevelaer: Butzon and Bercker, 1991), and B. Muller, Les “maquettes architecturales” du Proche-Orient Ancien: Mésopotamie, Syrie, Palestine du IIIe au Ier millénaire av. J.-C (2 vols.; Bibliothèque Archéologique et Historique, 160; Beirut: Institut Français d’Archéologique du Proche-Orient, 2002); also O. Keel, Symbolism of the Biblical World: Ancient Near Eastern Iconography and the Book of Psalms (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1997), 162 and Figs. 221 and 222; idem and C. Uehlinger, Gods, Goddesses, and Images of God in Ancient Israel (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998), 162–63 and Figs. 188a–b; and Z. Zevit, The Religions of Ancient Israel: A Synthesis of Parallactic Approaches (London/New York: Continuum, 2001), 328– 43.

MICAH’S TERAPHIM

327

pottery shrine such as was found among the remains of Middle Bronze Age Ashkelon. 39 The scale of these pottery shrines argues against identifying Micah’s ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֵבּית ֱא‬with these artifacts. For example, a tenth-eighth century BCE exemplar of the box-shaped pottery shrines that represent miniature shrine buildings that comes from Tell el-Far‘ah North stands only 20.8 cm high and is only 12.5–13.9 cm wide and 10.5 cm deep. 40 The cylindershaped pottery shrine found at Ashkelon is likewise quite small—it stands 25.2 cm tall and is 13.8 cm wide at its greatest diameter. 41 But this small size seems a problem if Micah’s shrine is to hold, as we have suggested above, 913F

914F

915F

39 L.E. Stager, “The House of the Silver Calf of Ashkelon,” in E. Czerny, I. Hein, H. Hunger, D. Melman, and A. Schwab (eds.), Timelines: Studies in Honour of Manfred Bietak, 2 (OLA, 149; Leuven/Paris/Dudley, MA: Uitgeverij Peeters en Departement Oosterse Studies, 2006), 403–10 (404–9); see also idem, “The Canaanite Silver Calf,” in L.E. Stager, J.D. Schloen, and D.M. Master (eds.), Ashkelon, 1: Introduction and Overview (1985–2006) (Harvard Semitic Museum Publications: Final Reports of the Leon Levy Expedition to Ashkelon; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2008), 577–80 (577), and idem, “When Canaanites and Philistines Ruled Ashkelon,” BAR 17/2 (Mar/Apr 1991), 24–37, 40–43. The shrine is illustrated as well in King and Stager, Life in Biblical Israel, 173 (Ill. 84). 40 This shrine was originally published by A. Chambon, Tell el-Far‘ah 1: L’âge du fer (Paris: Éditions Recherche sur les Civilisations, 1984), 77–78 and Pl. 66:1; the measurements given here are taken from Muller, Les “maquettes architecturales” du Proche-Orient Ancien, 1, 53, 341. For further discussion (with drawings and/or photographs), see Bretschneider, Architekturmodelle in Vorderasien und der östlichen Ägäis, 129, 233, and Plate 90 (Fig. 79a–b); Dever, Did God Have a Wife? 114–15, 117; idem, “A Temple Built for Two: Did Yahweh Share a Throne with His Consort Asherah?” BAR 34/2 (March/April 2008), 54–62, 85 (62); Keel and Uehlinger, God, Goddesses, and Images of God, 162 and Figs. 188a–b; Muller, Les “maquettes architecturales” du Proche-Orient Ancien, 1, 53–54, 339–42, and also 2, Fig. 142–44; E.A. Willett, “Women and Household Shrines in Ancient Israel” (Ph.D. diss., University of Arizona, 1999), 123, 127; and Zevit, The Religions of Ancient Israel, 337–38. The date of the shrine is debated in these sources: Dever, Did God Have a Wife?, 115, gives a tenth-century BCE date, as does Willett, “Women and Household Shrines in Ancient Israel,” 118. Keel and Uehlinger, Gods, Goddesses, and Images of Gods, 162, assign the shrine to the late tenth century BCE. Muller, Les “maquettes architecturales” du Proche-Orient Ancien, 1, 53, proposes the tenth to ninth century BCE; Bretschneider, Architekturmodelle in Vorderasien und der östlichen Ägäis, 233, suggests a date of c. 900 BCE; Zevit, The Religions of Ancient Israel, 337, dates the shrine to the ninth or eighth century BCE. 41 These dimensions are taken from Stager, “The House of the Silver Calf of Ashkelon,” 405.

328

BENJAMIN D. COX & SUSAN ACKERMAN

multiple objects, including Micah’s mother’s ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬and Micah’s ‫ֵאפו ֺד‬ ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬. ְ Of course, just how significant this problem might be depends on how one interprets the ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬and ‫ות ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫אפו ֺד‬: ֵ as two, three, or four items. Still, we note that the Ashkelon shrine was specifically manufactured to hold only one piece, 42 an 11 cm long and 10.5 cm high cast-metal figurine of a bull-calf.43 The small size of the pottery shrines known from archaeological excavations also signals them as portable. Were Micah’s‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֵבּית ֱא‬portable, however, we would have expected this shrine to have been included among the list of religious treasures that the men of Dan are said to have stolen from Micah in Judges 18. Yet, although the list of Micah’s religious treasures is confused across its multiple iterations (and so, for example, as we have already mentioned, ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬and ‫ ַמ ֵסּ ָכה‬are treated as separate objects in Judg 18:17 and 18 while seemingly as a single figurine in Judg 17:4 and 18:14), in none of the four lists of Micah’s stolen treasures (18:14, 17, 18, and 20) is the ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֵבּית ֱא‬included. This suggests again that Micah’s ‫ֵבּית‬ ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֱא‬was not a small and thus easily heisted pottery shrine—and in addition suggests yet again that the ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֵבּית ֱא‬was not a ‫מ ֵצּ ָבה‬, ַ or at least not the sort of small-scale (pillow-sized) ‫ ַמ ֵצּ ָבה‬that the phrase ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֵבּית ֱא‬is used to describe in Gen 28:22. Rather, Micah’s ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֵבּית ֱא‬is better interpreted as a fixed, dedicated, sanctified space. This is, in fact, precisely how ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֵבּית ֱא‬is used in every biblical text other than Gen 28:22 in which the term appears, including a verse that is almost immediately antecedent to ָ Gen 28:22, Gen 28:17. There, Jacob specifically describes the place (‫)מקו ֺם‬ of Bethel as a ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫בּית ֱא‬. ֵ Likewise in Ps 55:15 (in most of the Bible’s ְ a ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫בּית ֱא‬, ֵ English versions, 55:14), the Psalmist is said to walk into (‫)בּ‬ and in 2 Chr 34:9, ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֵבּית ֱא‬is used as a synonym for the Jerusalem temple. As to the specific nature of Micah’s dedicated and sanctified shrine space: we could perhaps think of a “cult corner” or “cult niche,” a “part of a room or courtyard” within a house that was designated for religious purposes and that thus contained a constellation of religious objects and ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬and ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬of Judg 17:4–5. furnishings44—such as, say, the ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ These “cult corners” or “cult niches” have been identified within the 916F

917F

918F

42 Stager, “The House of the Silver Calf of Ashkelon,” 405, writes, “a doorway cut into the side of the cylinder [...] is just large enough for the calf to pass through” (emphasis ours). See similarly idem, “The Canaanite Silver Calf,” 577. 43 These dimensions are taken from Stager, “The House of the Silver Calf of Ashkelon,” 405; idem, “The Canaanite Silver Calf,” 579. 44 This definition of “cult corner” or “cult niche” is taken from Zevit, The Religions of Ancient Israel, 123.

MICAH’S TERAPHIM

329

archaeological remains of several ancient Israelite houses. 45 Yet while it is certainly possible that Judg 17:4–5 means for us to envision that Micah’s 45 A fragment of a second model house shrine from Tell el-Far‘ah North, for example, was discovered in that site’s House 440 (see Muller, Les “maquettes architecturales” du Proche-Orient Ancien, 1, 53, 339–40, and 2, Fig. 142; Zevit, The Religions of Ancient Israel, 337), in conjunction with several arguably cultic artifacts that belonged to that household’s “cult corner,” which was located in the house’s central courtyard (Loci 440 and 460). These artifacts included a figurine body of a nursing woman, the head of a horse figurine, and a figurine of the “woman holding a disk” type (Zevit, The Religions of Ancient Israel, 241). The date of these domestic cult remains is debated: they are from the tenth century BCE according to Dever, Did God Have a Wife? 115, 117; to Muller, Les “maquettes architecturales” du Proche-Orient Ancien, 1, 53–54 (with regard to the model-shrine fragment); and to Willett, “Women and Household Shrines in Ancient Israel,” 118. But they date from the ninth century BCE according to Zevit, The Religions of Ancient Israel, 241. Similar materials from household “cult corners” or “cult niches” were also found in other houses at Tell el-Far‘ah North (B. Alpert Nakhai, “Varieties of Religious Expression in the Domestic Setting,” in A. Yasur-Landau, J.R. Ebeling, and L.B. Mazow [eds.], Household Archaeology in Ancient Israel and Beyond [Culture and History of the Ancient Near East, 50; Leiden/Boston: E.J. Brill, 2011], 347–60 [354]), and remains from household “cult corners” or “cult niches” have been found as well at other sites, for example: (1) the twelfth- and eleventh-century BCE village of Khirbet Raddana (Dever, Did God Have a Wife? 115; B. Alpert Nakhai, Archaeology and the Religions of Canaan and Israel [ASOR Books, 7; Boston: American Schools of Oriental Research, 2001], 173–74); (2) tenth-century BCE Megiddo (Nakhai, Archaeology and the Religions of Canaan and Israel, 177, citing Y. Shiloh, “Iron Age Sanctuaries and Cult Elements in Palestine,” in F.M. Cross [ed.], Symposia Celebrating the Seventy-Fifth Anniversary of the Founding of the American Schools of Oriental Research (1900–1975) [Zion Research Foundation Occasional Publications, 1–2; Cambridge, MA: American Schools of Oriental Research, 1979], 147–57 [149]); (3) ninth- and eighth-century BCE Beersheba (Willett, “Women and Household Shrines in Ancient Israel,” 142, 150; Zevit, The Religions of Ancient Israel, 175–76); (4) Level A (ninth- to seventhcentury BCE) at Tell Beit Mirsim (J.S. Holladay, Jr., “Religion in Israel and Judah Under the Monarchy: An Explicitly Archaeological Approach,” in P.D. Miller, P.D. Hanson, and S.D. McBride [eds.], Ancient Israelite Religion: Essays in Honor of Frank Moore Cross [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987], 249–99 [276]); (5) eighth-century BCE Tel Halif (J.W. Hardin, “Understanding Domestic Space: An Example from Iron Age Tel Halif,” NEA 67 [2004], 71–83 [76–77, 79]); and (6) eighth-century BCE Hazor (Holladay, “Religion in Israel and Judah Under the Monarchy,” 278– 79). A short but very good summary of the most recent discussions of these various data can be found in L.A. Hitchcock, “Cult Corners in the Aegean and the

330

BENJAMIN D. COX & SUSAN ACKERMAN

mother’s ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬and Micah’s ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬were stationed in this sort of “shrine corner” or “shrine niche,” we believe a close reading of the larger Judges 17–18 pericope suggests Micah’s ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫בּית ֱא‬, ֵ or shrine, was actually a designated shrine room or shrine building, separate from Micah’s house proper. Two aspects of the Micah story in particular indicate this to us. The first is that the entity that our Judges text calls “the house of Micah,” or ‫ֵבּית‬ ‫יכה‬ ָ ‫מ‬/‫הוּ‬ ִ ְ‫יכי‬ ָ ‫בּית ִמ‬, ֵ was undoubtedly made up of more than just Micah’s personal domicile. This is indicated in Judg 18:13–14, for example, in which we are told that the six hundred members of the tribe of Dan who are passing by ‫יכה‬ ָ ‫( ֵבּית ִמ‬v 13), or “the house of Micah,” on their way to conquer and take as their tribal fiefdom the northern city of Laish, are urged by the five advance scouts who journey with them—and who in their previous scouting journey had stayed with Micah—to steal the ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫ֵאפו ֺד‬ ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫וּפ ֶסל‬ ֶ located ‫( ַבּ ָבּ ִתּים ָה ֵא ֶלּה‬v 14), literally “in these houses” (plural), or, more idiomatically, at least as we (along with several other commentators) would interpret, “in these buildings” that make up an extended household compound that comprises “the house of Micah.” After the Danites do indeed steal this household’s religious treasures, moreover, they are pursued (unsuccessfully) by “the men who were in the houses that were with the house of Micah” (‫יכה‬ ָ ‫ם־בּית ִמ‬ ֵ ‫ ָ;ה ֲאנָ ִשׁים ֲא ֶשׁר ַבּ ָבּ ִתּים ֲא ֶשׁר ִﬠ‬Judg 18:22), or, more idiomatically (at least, again, as we and several other commentators would interpret), “the men whose homes were within the extended household compound of Micah.” 46 These men we take to be Micah’s sons, possibly his grandsons, and possibly unrelated servants, slaves, and other sojourners—although not the Levite whom Micah is said to have appointed in Judg 17:7–13 to replace his son as his family’s priest. Rather, this Levite flees with the Danites in 18:20, having been persuaded by them that it would profit him more to serve as priest for an entire tribe than it has serving as priest for only one household. We further propose that there are indications within our story that among the multiple buildings that comprise Micah’s household compound is a dedicated shrine room or shrine building—Micah’s ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫—בּית ֱא‬ ֵ although we must admit that the text is not definitive in this regard. Still, we argue that this makes the best sense of several otherwise enigmatic verses 920F

Levant,” in A. Yasur-Landau, J.R. Ebeling, and L.B. Mazow (eds.), Household Archaeology in Ancient Israel and Beyond (Culture and History of the Ancient

Near East, 50; Leiden/Boston: E.J. Brill, 2011), 321–45 (321–22). 46 See similarly Meyers, “The Family in Early Israel,” 17; Stager, “The Archaeology of the Family,” 22; van der Toorn, Family Religion, 197–98; and Zevit, The Religions of Ancient Israel, 626.

MICAH’S TERAPHIM

331

within Judges 17–18. In Judg 18:3, for example, we are told that the five advance scouts who were passing through Ephraim during their journey to the far north to seek land for the Danites were in “the house of Micah,” ‫ֵבּית‬ ‫יכה‬ ָ ‫מ‬, ִ when they heard the voice of the Levite who had become Micah’s priest in 17:7–13 and recognized it—probably because the Levite is said to have come to Ephraim from Bethlehem and so spoke, like the Danites, with the accent and speech patterns of the South rather than those of the North. 47 The five Danite scouts then “turn aside” (‫ )וַ יָּ סוּרוּ‬to speak to the Levite “there” (‫)שׁם‬. ָ But where is “there,” or to where, specifically, would the Danites have turned, given that the Levite is said in Judg 17:12 to have been, like them, in “the house of Micah” (‫יכה‬ ָ ‫?)בּית ִמ‬ ֵ Our suggestion is that the Levite was indeed in “the house of Micah” in the sense that he was resident in one of the several buildings that made up Micah’s household compound and that it was there that Micah’s Danite visitors encountered him when they turned aside from the actual “house of Micah”—meaning Micah’s personal domicile—to speak to him. We interpret similarly the grammatically difficult passage found in 18:15, in which the company of the six hundred Danite men on their way to capture Laish follows the advice of the original scouts to detour toward the ‫יכה‬ ָ ‫ית־הנַּ ַﬠר ַה ֵלּוִ י ֵבּית ִמ‬ ַ ‫בּ‬, ֵ literally “the house of the Levite youth, the house of Micah.” Because this phrase approaches the nonsensical, some commentators delete the second half of it, the reference to “the house of Micah,” as an extraneous gloss.48 But we might better imagine a point in the scribal transmission of this verse in which a ‫בּ‬, ְ meaning “in,” that preceded the phrase ‫יכה‬ ָ ‫בּית ִמ‬, ֵ or “the house of Micah,” was mistakenly dropped. 49 If so, then the original text would be rendered ‫יכה‬ ָ ‫ ֵבּית־ ַהנַּ ַﬠר ַה ֵלּוִ י ְבּ ֵבּית ִמ‬, “the house of the Levite youth that was in the house of Micah,” or, as we interpret, the house of the Levite youth that was one of the buildings that made up the multi-building household compound of Micah.50 921F

92F

923F

924F

G.A. Rendsburg, Linguistic Evidence for the Northern Origin of Selected Psalms (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1990); idem, Israelian Hebrew in the Book of Kings (Bethesda, MD: CDL Press, 2002). 48 So, e.g., the editors of the BHS, note on Judg 18:15; Martin, Judges, 193; and Moore, Judges, 397. 49 This emendation is also suggested by Boling, Judges, 264; Niditch, Judges, 47

175, seems to embrace such a reading as well. However, Boling’s overall understanding of what is meant by ‫יכה‬ ָ ‫ ֵבּית ִמ‬differs significantly from ours. 50 See likewise J. Blenkinsopp, “The Family in First Temple Israel,” in L.G. Perdue et al., Families in Ancient Israel (The Family, Religion, and Culture; Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox, 1997), 48–103 (52), and L.G. Perdue, “The Israelite and Early Jewish Family,” in ibid, 163–222 (175). See also M.W.

332

BENJAMIN D. COX & SUSAN ACKERMAN

When this verse in Judges 18:15 is read in conjunction with 18:17, moreover, what is implied is that it was the “house of the Levite youth” that the Danites entered in order to steal the compound’s religious treasures. Yet we have already suggested, based on the juxtapositions of the phrases ‫ֶפּ ֶסל‬ ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬, ַ ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫בּית ֱא‬, ֵ and ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬in 17:4–5 and based on the occurrence of the terms ‫פּ ֶסל‬, ֶ ‫מ ֵסּ ָכה‬, ַ ‫אפו ֺד‬, ֵ and ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬in conjunction in 18:14, 17, 18, and 20, that Micah’s household’s religious treasures were housed within Micah’s ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫בּית ֱא‬, ֵ or “shrine.” Therefore, we now propose that Judg 18:15’s “house of the Levite youth” and Micah’s ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֵבּית ֱא‬were one and the same: that Micah’s ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֵבּית ֱא‬where the ‫וּמ ֵסּכָ ה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬and ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫ֵאפו ֺד‬ were kept was a dedicated shrine room or shrine building that was the Levite’s domain within Micah’s larger household compound. 51 Indeed, from at least one premonarchic Israelite village, early twelfth- through mideleventh-century BCE Ai (et-Tell), we have archaeological evidence of precisely this sort of dedicated shrine room—a space that was, like Micah’s ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫בּית ֱא‬, ֵ or shrine, associated with a multi-building household compound and that held religiously precious objects.52 Among the Iron Age II remains of Tell en-Naṣbeh (Stratum III), A.J. Brody has somewhat similarly identified a room—Room 513—that, although it was also used as a storeroom, held a shrine that Brody theorizes would have served the members of its extended family’s five-building household compound. 53 925F

926F

927F

Bartusch, Understanding Dan: An Exegetical Study of a Biblical City, Tribe and Ancestor (JSOTSup, 379; London/New York: Sheffield Academic Press, 2003),

175 (note on v. 15), who suggests that “it may also be possible to understand ‘Levite’ as a construct form” and thus to read “to the house of the young man, the Levite of the house of Micah.” This rendering would seemingly suggest, as we do here, a separate “house” for the Levite within the household compound of Micah. 51 See similarly Bray, Sacred Dan, 63; Miller, The Religion of Ancient Israel, 68; and especially Soggin, Judges, 272, 274. 52 Although excavated by the French archaeologist J. Marquet-Krause in the 1930s and labeled by her as “un lieu saint” or a cult room (Les fouilles de ͑Ay (etTell), 1933–35 [Bibliothèque Archéologique et Historique, 45; Paris: Geuthner, 1949], 23), this room’s religious character has only recently been thoroughly analyzed, especially by Zevit, in his The Religions of Ancient Israel, 153–56. See also the brief discussions of Dever, Did God Have a Wife? 113, and Nakhai, Archaeology and the Religions of Canaan and Israel, 173 (Nakhai is in addition responsible for bringing to our attention the quote from Marquet-Krause cited above). 53 A.J. Brody, “The Archaeology of the Extended Family: A Household Compound from Iron II Tell en-Naṣbeh,” in A. Yasur-Landau, J.R. Ebeling, and L.B. Mazow (eds.), Household Archaeology in Ancient Israel and Beyond (Culture and History of the Ancient Near East, 50; Leiden/Boston: E.J. Brill, 2011), 237–54,

MICAH’S TERAPHIM

333

But to suggest this answer to the interpretive question of how, exactly, we are to understand the nature of Micah’s ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫בּית ֱא‬, ֵ or shrine, is to raise immediately another interpretive problem, one that is somewhat analogous to the interpretive problem we discussed above regarding Micah’s appointing his son as priest at the end of Judg 17:5. Recall that in considering that issue, we noted the need to identify who had served as Micah’s household’s priest prior to the son’s installation, since the statement that begins Judg 17:5, “the man Micah had a shrine” ( ‫וְ ָה ִאישׁ ִמי ָכה‬ ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫)לו ֺ ֵבּית ֱא‬, supposes an extant shrine that, as we have now demonstrated, was an actual dedicated space to which some priestly attendant must have been assigned preceding the son’s appointment. It seems in turn logical to presume that this already existent shrine must have had something already in it—and more specifically, we have proposed, extant furnishings that required this previous priest’s ministrations. Yet, if Judg 17:4–5 intimate that the only furnishings of Micah’s ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫בּית ֱא‬, ֵ or shrine, were the ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬that Micah’s mother had commissioned according to Judg 17:4 and the ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬that Micah made according to 17:5, then what was in this shrine building before the fabrication of these objects? The most plausible answer, we submit, rests on the grammatical ambiguity of the term ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬that we noted already in our opening remarks: the fact that ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬can have both a singular and plural meaning. In Judges 17–18, we suggest, both are used, at different points in the story. 54 In Judg 17:5, as we would interpret, Micah makes a single ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬and an associated ‫( ֵאפו ֺד‬however one wants to interpret that term), which he places in his household shrine, alongside his mother’s ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫פּ ֶסל‬. ֶ In Judges 18, the Danites abscond not only with this single ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ its associated ‫אפו ֺד‬, ֵ and the ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫פּ ֶסל‬, ֶ but also with several other ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬that stood, as we would interpret, in Micah’s shrine prior to Micah’s making of his single ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬in Judg 17:5. These other ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬we take to be representations of Micah’s previously deceased ancestors, including, presumably, individuals such as Micah’s great-grandfather, his grandfather, perhaps some great-grand-uncles and grand-uncles. In fact, because Judg 18:14, 17, 18, and 20, in listing the treasures that the Danites stole from Micah’s shrine, invoke nothing other than the terms ‫פּ ֶסל‬,ֶ ‫מ ֵסּ ָכה‬, ַ ‫אפו ֺד‬, ֵ and ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ we cannot help but conclude— assuming we accept that the shrine must have had furnishings antecedent to 928 F

especially 252–54. 54 Somewhat analogous is the way ‫ ַבּיִת‬in the Judges 17–18 story carries both a singular and plural meaning, as the personal “house” or domicile of Micah that stands within the multi-building, “house of Micah” compound. See van der Toorn, Family Religion, 197–98.

334

BENJAMIN D. COX & SUSAN ACKERMAN

its becoming the repository for the mother’s ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬and Micah’s ‫ֵאפו ֺד‬ ‫—וּת ָר ִפים‬that ְ ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬in 18:14, 17, 18, and 20 has a plural referent. Such a suggestion, moreover, could plausibly explain why, in at least 18:17, 18, and 20, the terms ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬and ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬are rendered separately, as opposed to the composite phrase ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬that is found in 17:5, for while ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫ֵאפו ֺד‬ in 17:5 refers, as we have interpreted, to the single ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬Micah appropriately made upon the death of his father, along with its associated ‫אפו ֺד‬, ֵ 18:17, 18, and 20 refer to that or perhaps some other ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬in conjunction with ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬with which it is not as directly associated. These are the multiple ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬that represent Micah’s previously deceased ancestors. Note, however, that Micah’s making of a ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬in 17:5 to augment the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬that, according to our interpretation, are already extant in the shrine only makes sense if we are to understand the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬as ancestor figurines and not as household gods. After all, why, in a household already in possession of a collection of gods, would Micah need to fabricate another? Only if we interpret Micah’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬to be the latest in a series of ancestor figurines, each produced upon the occasion of a household patriarch’s death, can we elucidate in a compelling way that the contents of Micah’s ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫בּית ֱא‬, ֵ or shrine, prior to the addition of the items Micah and his mother made in Judg 17:4–5, would have been: the ancestor figurines of the household’s past patriarchs. Indeed, it may be that while, above, we have consistently translated ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֵבּית ֱא‬as “shrine,” a better translation would be the “house [‫]בּית‬ ֵ of the ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫א‬,” ֱ with ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֱא‬serving here, as elsewhere in the Bible (preeminently in Gen 31:19, 30, 32, 34, and 35), as a synonym for ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬and denoting a family’s representations of its deceased ancestors. Interesting to note in this regard are the comments of E. BlochSmith, who has drawn on the work of B. Halevi to suggest that Jacob’s ‫ֵבּית‬ ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֱא‬in Gen 28:22 might not be consecrated to God/Elohim, as commentators usually assume, but rather a marker for Jacob’s deified ִ ‫ ֵבּית ֱא‬of Micah’s ancestors, located on his family’s ground.55 The ‫�הים‬ household, as we interpret, might be similarly understood: as a repository for (among other things) several generations of Micah’s household’s 92F

E. Bloch-Smith, “The Cult of the Dead in Judah: Interpreting the Material Remains,” JBL 111 (1992), 213–24 (220), citing B. Halevi, “ ‫עקבות נוספים לפולהן‬ ‫אבות‬,” Beth Mikra 64 (1975), 101–17 (114); see also E. Bloch-Smith, Judahite Burial Practices and Beliefs about the Dead (JSOTSup, 123; JSOT/ASOR Monograph Series, 7; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1992), 122. BlochSmith’s comments become even more interesting were one to follow B. Halpern (“Levitic Participation in the Reform Cult of Jeroboam I,” JBL 95 [1976], 31–42 [36–37]) and identify Bethel as the location of Micah’s ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫בּית ֱא‬. ֵ 55

MICAH’S TERAPHIM

335

ancestor figurines, to which Micah—upon the death of his father—added that paterfamilias’s image.

2. “YOU HAVE TAKEN MY ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫” ֱא‬ Yet as we have seen, Micah’s housing of his paterfamilias’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬in his household’s ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫בּית ֱא‬, ֵ along with his mother’s ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬and his family’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬of past generations, is, by Judg 18:16–17, disrupted, as the men from Dan who pass through Micah’s Ephraimite homestead on their way to take Laish plunder Micah’s household shrine and take its treasures. Of these, the most precious from the Danites’ point of view is surely the ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫פּ ֶסל‬. ֶ After all, it is this object (if we interpret ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬in the singular) or one of these two objects (if we interpret ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬in the plural) that becomes the focus of the sanctuary that the Danites, once they have taken Laish, establish for themselves (presuming here, with almost all commentators, that the ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬the Danites enshrine for themselves according to Judg 18:30– 31 is somehow equivalent to what is described elsewhere in Judges 17–18 using the compounded phrase ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫)פּ ֶסל‬. ֶ Indeed, if for no other reason than material worth, the ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬would seem to be by far the most valuable of the objects that the Danites purloined (as metals like silver were relatively scarce in ancient Israel and hence remarkably precious). Nevertheless, as Micah and his household entourage pursue the thieving Danites, he does not challenge them regarding the ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬that his mother had commissioned. Instead, Micah accuses the Danites of stealing “my ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֱא‬that I made” (Judg 18:24). Most logically this is a reference to the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬of his deceased father that Micah manufactured in 17:5 after the father’s demise (and perhaps the associated ‫אפו ֺד‬, ֵ depending on how one understands that term), given, we can once more note, the way in which ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫א‬, ֱ arguably with the meaning deceased spirits in general and a family’s deceased ancestors in particular, is used elsewhere in the Bible as a synonym of ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬. ְ Note moreover that the term ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫א‬, ֱ like ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ can have either a singular or plural referent. Thus, while ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֱא‬as a synonym of ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬in Gen 31:19, 30, 32, 34, and 35 refers to multiple ‫( ְתּ ָר ִפים‬the grammar of 31:32, 34 requires this), ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֱא‬in Judg 18:24 can just as readily refer to the single ‫( ְתּ ָר ִפים‬according to our interpretation) that Micah fabricated in Judg 17:5. Indeed, the verb used for Micah’s manufacture of the ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬in Judg 17:5 and the ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֱא‬about which he speaks in Judg 18:24 is the same, ‫ﬠ ָשׂה‬, ָ “to make.” Of course, ‫ ָﬠ ָשׂה‬is a very common Hebrew lexeme. Nevertheless, within the context of Judges 17–18, an audience hearing of Micah’s “making” an ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֱא‬in 18:24 would most readily think, we maintain, of the ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬that Micah “made” in Judg 17:5.

336

BENJAMIN D. COX & SUSAN ACKERMAN

But why is it the loss of his father’s ‫( ְתּ ָר ִפים‬and perhaps the associated ‫)אפו ֺד‬ ֵ that is so devastating for Micah, and not, say, the theft of the more valuable ‫וּמ ֵסּכה‬ ַ ‫?פּ ֶסל‬ ֶ One answer might be that since Micah’s mother has used only two hundred of her eleven hundred pieces of silver to make her cast-metal figurine(s), Micah imagines that he can easily replicate the lost ‫וּמ ֵסּכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬and so need not give priority to its/their theft. But we suggest something more is at play here. More specifically: although we have heretofore considered only the role of the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬and the deceased ancestors that they represent in rituals of divination, we propose now to take into account deceased ancestors’ function in cementing their descendants’ claim to their families’ ‫נַ ֲח ָלה‬. This term is commonly translated as “inheritance,” but as is well attested in the scholarly literature, its meaning is in fact much more multivalent and complex. Indeed, so multivalent and complex is the term ‫נַ ֲח ָלה‬, as well as the concepts associated with it, that no one definition can adequately gloss every occurrence of the word in the Hebrew Bible, much less the use of the cognates of ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬elsewhere in ancient Near Eastern literature. Still, it is clear that in several instances in the Bible, ‫נַ ֲח ָלה‬ does refer to inheritance in the specific sense of the land each Israelite family claimed perpetually to hold as its inalienable patrimony. 56 The biblical witness speaks clearly, moreover, to the need to bury a family’s ancestors together in a tomb associated with this ‫נַ ֲח ָלה‬, even if this required extraordinary measures at the time of death or long after. The premier case is the imperative that the Israelites of the Exodus generation feel, according to the biblical account, to move the body of the long-dead Joseph out of Egypt so that he might be interred “in the portion of the field that Jacob had purchased from the sons of Hamor, the father of Shechem,” which “belonged to the descendants of Joseph as a ‫( ”נַ ֲח ָלה‬Josh 24:32). Likewise, David is said to go to significant effort to exhume the bones of the dead King Saul and his son Jonathan from their original tomb in Jabesh-Gilead so that they might be reburied in the territory of Saul’s tribe, Benjamin. More specifically, they are reburied in the tomb of Saul’s father Kish in Zela (2 Sam 21:13–14), a town which we can take, based on Josh 18:28, to be the ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬assigned to the Saulides within the Benjaminites’ tribal 930F

In addition to the standard lexica, dictionaries, and encyclopedias, we have found especially helpful the discussions of G. Gerleman, “Nutzrecht und Wohnrecht: Zur Bedeutung von ‫ אחזה‬and ‫נחלה‬,” ZAW 89 (1977), 313–25; N.C. Habel, The Land is Mine: Six Biblical Land Ideologies (OBT; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), passim, but especially 33–35; P.D. Hanson, The People Called: The Growth of Community in the Bible (San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1986), 63–65; and Lewis, “The Ancestral Estate,” 598–99, 605–7, with extensive references. 56

MICAH’S TERAPHIM

337

allotment. Passages such as Josh 24:30 and Judg 2:9 similarly attest to the necessity for burial within one’s family’s ‫נַ ֲח ָלה‬. 57 But why is burial within the family ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬so important? As BlochSmith has argued, “ancestral tombs served to reinforce the family claim to the patrimony, the ‫נַ ֲח ָלה‬.” That is, Bloch-Smith goes on to say, “the existence of the tomb constituted a physical, perpetual witness to ownership of the land,” or, more simply put, “the tomb [...] constituted a physical claim to the patrimony.” 58 Likewise, H.C. Brichto, in a seminal article whose very title, “Kin, Cult, Land and Afterlife—A Biblical Complex,” captures perfectly the intricate interrelationship that existed between an Israelite family, its deceased ancestors, and the family’s land, claims that “the burial place as the ancestral home” attaches the family “to the soil.” 59 “The land represented the family,” van der Toorn affirms, “joining the ancestors with their progeny,” and he adds, “an important reason why the family land was inalienable was the fact that the ancestors were buried there.” 60 A family’s tomb, in short, inexorably tied that family to its patrimony, co-mingling the ancestors’ remains with the very earth of their descendants’ homestead. Indeed, so tied are the ancestors’ remains to their family’s homestead that, according to Lewis, in a brilliant reading of 2 Sam 14:16, the ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬itself can be described as the ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫נַ ֲח ַלת ֱא‬, literally (interpreting ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֱא‬here as deceased spirits in general and a family’s deceased ancestors in particular) “the patrimony of the ancestors” or “the ancestral estate.” 61 Yet just as a family’s forebears, or ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫א‬, ֱ safeguarded their descendants’ possession of their ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫נַ ֲח ַלת ֱא‬, or their ancestral estate, through the interring of their bones in the family’s tomb, so too did the figurative representations of these deceased ancestors, the ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ also called the ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫א‬, ֱ participate in the safeguarding of the familial patrimony through their presence in their descendants’ homes or extended household compounds. Indeed, this association of the ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬/‫ים‬ ְ ‫�ה‬ ִ ‫ ֱא‬with the safeguarding of a family’s patrimony was long ago argued by those who 931F

932F

93F

934F

935F

57

These latter two references were brought to our attention by Bloch-Smith,

Judahite Burial Practices, 111; see similarly eadem, “The Cult of the Dead in

Judah,” 222, and Lewis, “The Ancestral Estate,” 608. Cf. as well Josh 24:33; Judg 8:32; 16:31; and 2 Sam 2:32 (as cited by Bloch-Smith, Judahite Burial Practices, 115) and, as Bloch-Smith elsewhere points out (“Resurrecting the Iron I Dead,” IEJ 54 [2004], 77–91 [87]), Judg 12:7 and 1 Kgs 11:43 (// 2 Chr 9:31). In addition see, as noted by Lewis (“The Ancestral Estate,” 608), 1 Sam 25:1 and 1 Kgs 2:34. 58 Bloch-Smith, “Cult of the Dead in Judah,” 222. 59 Brichto, “Kin, Cult, Land and Afterlife,” 5. 60 Van der Toorn, Family Religion, 199. 61 Lewis, “The Ancestral Estate.”

338

BENJAMIN D. COX & SUSAN ACKERMAN

used Nuzi texts concerning the ilānu to argue that the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬were household gods. To be sure, the specific interpretation of the Nuzi texts that took the ilānu and kindred ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬to be emblems, and even jural guarantors, of inheritance rights within a family, particularly in the case of property that was being passed to an otherwise irregular heir, 62 has been discounted, most pointedly by M. Greenberg in 1962.63 Yet Greenberg still admits that the Nuzi ilānu pertained to issues of family continuity (concerning, especially, the designation of each generation’s paterfamilias). In this, he has been followed by M.A. Morrison, who has similarly affirmed that the ilānu were important markers of family continuity, “passed down from a father to his heir.” More important for our purposes though, Morrison, while like Greenberg eschewing any hypothesis that relates the Nuzi ilānu explicitly to inheritance rights, argues that the ilānu nevertheless were, in some fundamental way, “linked to the immovable property of the family.” Morrison continues: “[Their] transmission [...] from one generation to another represented the continuity of the family line [...] [they] were not only the tie between the family unit and its property but also the very heart of the family.”64 Of course, Morrison, who wrote in 1983, still understood the ilānu to be household gods. Yet despite the revised understanding of the ilānu as ancestor figurines that we have followed here, Morrison’s observations regarding their tie to the family’s property should still hold. Indeed, given the analysis of a family’s ancestors that we have discussed above—that one of the ancestors’ key roles within the network of reciprocity that ties them to their living descendants was to help safeguard those descendants’ claim to their property or ‫—נַ ֲח ָלה‬an interpretation of the ilānu as ancestor figurines helps to explain why these images should be associated with a family’s property in a way that interpreting the ilānu (or in Israelite tradition, the ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫א‬/‫ים‬ ֱ ‫)תּ ָר ִפ‬ ְ as household gods never made clear. We therefore 936F

937F

938F

62 See, e.g., Smith, writing in 1931 (“What Were the Teraphim?” 34): the “house gods had a legal significance; the possessor of them had a claim de iure to property.” 63 M. Greenberg, “Another Look at Rachel’s Theft of the Teraphim,” JBL 81 (1962), 239–48, especially 241–46. 64 M.A. Morrison, “The Jacob and Laban Narrative in Light of Near Eastern Sources,” BA 46 (1983), 155–64 (161); see similarly van der Toorn, “Gods and Ancestors in Emar and Nuzi,” 38, who writes of the ilānu both that “the heir in possession of these gods was, in title and in fact, the head of the household” and that the ilānu “represented the identity of the family.” Likewise at Emar, van der Toorn writes (p. 43), “the main heir [...] will obtain the main house, and with the main house also the gods.”

MICAH’S TERAPHIM

339

conclude that the ilānu/‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֱא‬/‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ as “symbolic representations of the human dead,” 65 served not only the divinatory function within their descendants’ households on which we have heretofore focused. In addition, these ilānu/‫�הים‬ ִ ‫א‬/ ֱ ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬helped bind their family to its ‫נַ ֲח ָלה‬. Van der Toorn concurs: “The possession of the teraphim may indeed be regarded as a kind of legitimization [...] by keeping the cult of its ancestors, the family proclaimed its right to the land.” 66 This understanding of the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬and the deceased ancestors they represent as guarantors of the ‫נַ ֲח ָלה‬, moreover, compellingly addresses the question we posed at the beginning of this part of our discussion: why Micah, in 18:24, accuses the Danites of stealing only—as we have interpreted—his ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬and perhaps the associated ‫ ֵאפו ֺד‬and why he does not make note, again at least as we have interpreted, of the theft of the ‫ֶפּ ֶסל‬ ַ ‫פּ ֶסל‬, ֶ as we have seen, is (are) ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬. ַ 67 The answer is that while the ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ surely very precious, it is (or they are) replaceable. The warrant to Micah’s ְ however, is not so easily ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬that is safeguarded by his father’s ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, restored. 93F

940F

941F

3. “AND RACHEL STOLE HER FATHER’S ‫” ְתּ ָר ִפים‬ We suggest in addition that this understanding of the role the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬play in legitimating a family’s claim to its ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬can help explain the story of Rachel’s theft of her father Laban’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬in Gen 31:19–35. In that story, as is well known, Jacob, after many long years in Paddan-Aram laboring on behalf of his maternal uncle and father-in-law Laban, has finally resolved to return, along with his two wives and many children, to his family’s homestead in Canaan. Before departing, though, Rachel steals her father ְ Laban’s ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬. No reason is given in the Genesis account for this theft, although suggestions among commentators have been numerous. 68 According to the 942F

Van der Toorn, “Nature of the Biblical Teraphim,” 216. Van der Toorn, Family Religion, 235. 67 This contra van der Toorn, “Nature of the Biblical Teraphim,” 211, who sees the ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֱא‬of Judg 18:24 as the “costly” ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬and who writes that “in comparison to the theft of this image, the ephod and the teraphim were the lesser loss.” 68 In addition to the opinions listed here, see the catalogs assembled by Greenberg, “Another Look at Rachel’s Theft,” 239–40; A.-M. Korte, “Significance Obscured: Rachel’s Theft of the Teraphim: Divinity and Corporeality in Gen. 31,” in J. Bekkenkamp and M. de Haardt (eds.), Begin with the Body: Corporeality, Religion and Gender (Leuven: Peeters, 1998), 157–82 (161–63); and K. Spanier, 65 66

340

BENJAMIN D. COX & SUSAN ACKERMAN

Genesis Rabbah, Rachel stole Laban’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬with a good end in mind—to

bring to an end her father’s worship of worthless idols. A less generous midrashic interpretation, found in the Tanḥuma, takes Rachel’s motivation to be selfish: she feared that the ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ given their divinatory function, could be used to reveal to her father her family’s flight and their route and so abet Laban in his pursuit. 69 Among moderns, some argue that Rachel steals the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬because Laban has otherwise not furnished his daughters with a dowry, which Gen 31:14–16 might suggest that they are owed. 70 Others somewhat similarly suggest that Rachel, in stealing Laban’s ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ “attempts to retain some stake [...] in her father’s household” and “in addition [...] seeks their [the tĕrāpîm’s] apotropaic protection, since she is most likely pregnant at the time of her departure from Haran.” 71 For others still, Jacob has essentially become an adopted son of Laban during his long sojourn in Paddan-Aram and he therefore has a right—that Rachel exercises on his behalf—to Laban’s ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ 72 just as the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬generally were “passed down from a father to his heir” (to quote Morrison once 943F

94F

945F

946F

“Rachel’s Theft of the Teraphim: Her Struggle for Family Primacy,” VT 42 (1992), 404–12 (405). 69 J. Dan, “Teraphim: From Popular Belief to a Folktale,” in J. Heinemann and S. Werses (eds., on behalf of the Institute of Jewish Studies), Studies in Hebrew Narrative Art throughout the Ages (ScrHier, 27; Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1978), 99–106 (99–100). 70 M. Heltzer, “New Light from Emar on Genesis 31: The Theft of the Teraphim,” in M. Dietrich and I. Kottsieper (eds.),“Und Mose schrieb dieses Lied

auf”: Studien zum Alten Testament und zum alten Orient (Festschrift für Oswald Loretz zur Vollendung seines 70. Lebensjahres mit Beiträgen von Freunden, Schülern und Kollegen) (AOAT, 250; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 1998), 357–62 (362);

Morrison, “The Jacob and Laban Narrative,” 162. Although dowries, as we have noted above, are not the norm within Iron Age Israelite marriages, they are described occasionally within the Bible as a component within marriages that Israelite men contract with non-Israelite women (e.g., 1 Kgs 9:16). 71 Cooper and Goldstein, “Cult of the Dead and Entry into the Land,” 295. 72 Proponents of this view are catalogued in Greenberg, “Another Look at Rachel’s Theft,” 240, and also Lewis, “Teraphim,” 1597, although note that neither Greenberg nor Lewis concurs with this position. Rather, in Greenberg’s opinion, Rachel steals her father’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬because (in the words of Korte, “Significance Obscured,” 163), “it was customary for women to take familiar household or family gods along on journeys or when moving house”; according to Lewis (“Teraphim,” 1599), Rachel steals Laban’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬for reasons having to do with their divinatory function, perhaps—as indicated in the Tanḥuma long ago—to prevent her father Laban “from using them [...] to detect Jacob’s escape.”

MICAH’S TERAPHIM

341

more). 73 Yet another explanation proposes that Rachel steals the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬to preserve her own matrilineage in the face of the overwhelmingly patriarchal Israelite society into which she has married. 74 Rachel’s theft has also been interpreted as “part of her continuing struggle for primacy within Jacob’s household,” as she sought to “prevail over her sister” and secure “the appointment of her son as his father’s chief heir.” 75 While all of these explanations are of interest, we feel they suffer by grounding their analyses only in the story of Jacob and his marriages and not considering the larger Genesis narrative in which the Jacob-RachelLeah story is embedded: the story of the multiple generations of the Abrahamic family tree, beginning already in Gen 11:26 with the genealogical notices regarding Abram’s/Abraham’s father Terah and Abram’s/ Abraham’s two brothers Nahor and Haran. Interestingly, we are not told in this text which of Terah’s three sons is the oldest and thus which is his father’s presumptive heir, but the son Haran, according to Gen 11:28, predeceased his father Terah and so at any rate was removed from his father’s line of inheritance. Abram/Abraham presumably also inherits nothing from his father as—according, at least, to the biblical chronology (see Gen 11:26, 32; 12:4)—he leaves Haran while his father is still alive to follow Yahweh’s command that he go to Canaan and settle there. Nahor, who remains resident with Terah in Haran, would thus seem to stand as the sole heir to his father’s role as family paterfamilias and also as sole heir to his family’s Haran estate. This paterfamilias position and the family’s property in Haran should next pass on to Nahor’s heir, and although one might presume from the list of Nahor’s sons in Gen 22:20–24 that this would be Nahor’s firstborn, Uz, the Genesis story in fact focuses on the son who is apparently Nahor’s youngest, Bethuel, and then on Bethuel’s son and heir, Laban. Indeed, recall that Jacob, when he is sent by his father to Paddan-Aram many years later, is specifically sent to the house of Bethuel, Rebekah’s father, and of Laban, Rebekah’s brother (Gen 28:2), a clear indication of how that family’s leadership and inheritance was being passed from the household’s father to the son. The ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ we have now repeatedly suggested, are likewise transmitted as a part of the inheritance passed from a household’s father to a son; Laban’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬that Rachel steals, that is, should be taken as the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬that have been passed down from Terah through Nahor to the Bethuelite family line. In addition, they should be seen, like all ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ as 947 F

948F

94F

Morrison, “The Jacob and Laban Narrative,” 161. Korte, “Significance Obscured,” 170. 75 Spanier, “Rachel’s Theft of the Teraphim,” 405. 73 74

342

BENJAMIN D. COX & SUSAN ACKERMAN

supernatural safeguards that bind Terah’s descendants to their family’s patrimony in Haran. In Gen 31:14, however, Rachel and Leah declare themselves no longer bound to the Terahite family’s patrimony in Haran; indeed, they quite specifically state that they no longer have a ‫ נַ ֲחלָ ה‬in their paternal home. Yet what guarantee of a ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬do Rachel and Leah have in the land of Canaan to which they are relocating? More important, what guarantees a ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬to the family of Terahite descendants who already live in the land of Canaan—and, perhaps most important from Rachel’s perspective, what will guarantee a ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬to her two sons, one as yet unborn? To be sure, Genesis posits a grant to a ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬in Canaan that is quite potent—a promise from Yahweh—but a promise that has been delivered only in private visions to the chosen members of Abraham’s line (Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob) and that, moreover, involves a long delay until its realization (400 years according to Gen 15:13; 430 years according to Exod 12:40). Might the text thus imagine that Rachel would seek a more immediate assurance that the Abrahamic branch of Terah’s family tree is guaranteed a patrimony? Laban’s ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ we suggest, were stolen to fulfill this function. To be sure, Laban’s ‫—תּ ָר ִפים‬guarantors ְ of Terah’s descendants’ land grant in Haran—can only fictionally serve as safeguards of Abraham’s descendants’ claims to the land of Canaan. But just as today, cases abound around the world of individuals who use fake land deeds to assert ownership of a piece of property to which they otherwise have no legitimate title,76 so too, we suggest, does our text imagine that Laban’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬can be used to assert their possessors’ ownership of a piece of property that is otherwise only tenuously denoted as theirs. Indeed, because the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬Rachel stole were at least tied to Abraham’s family—if not to the 950F

76 See, e.g., K. Allen, “Kenya Faces Resettlement Problem,” BBC News, Nairobi, April 24, 2008, available on-line at http://news.bbc. co.uk/2/hi/africa/7366037.stm; S.A. Ferguson and T.C. King, “Taking Up Our Elders’ Burdens as Our Own: African American Women against Elder Financial Fraud,” National Women’s Studies Association Journal 18 (2006), 148–69, especially 158; M. Hatcher, “Dirty Deeds: Criminals Have a New Way to Steal Homes,” The Miami Herald, State and Regional News, August 18, 2006, available on-line at http://www.lexisnexis.com/ us/lnacademic; L. Namubiru, “Is Your Land Title Genuine?” originally published in New Vision (Kampala, Uganda), November 2, 2007, and available on-line at http://allafrica.com/stories/200711030012.html; and “Hawk’s Eye on Land Deals,” The Hindu Business Line, August 22, 2008, available on-line at http://www.thehindubusinessline.com/life/2008/ 08/22/stories/2008082250080300.htm.

MICAH’S TERAPHIM

343

land in Canaan that family had settled—they may have seemed to an ancient Israelite audience to be more legitimate safeguards for binding the Abrahamic line to their Canaanite patrimony than something like the fake land deeds used fraudulently today. One might even argue that the story of Rachel stealing the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬of the descendants of Nahor and housing them with the descendants of Abraham is used by the biblical writers to put forward one of their prime assertions about Abraham: that despite the narrative arc that has the family’s inheritance handed down through Nahor, Bethuel, and Laban after Terah’s death, Abraham’s descendants are the lineage’s true heirs. Under the terms of this interpretation, the authors of Genesis use the story of Rachel’s theft to demonstrate how the Terahite patrimony, in the form of its ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ comes to be restored to its true owners. One might immediately object, of course: what of Gen 35:2–4, where, “under the terebinth that was near Shechem,” Jacob is said to dispose of all the ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֱא‬that are in the possession of his household and others of his entourage? If, as many commentators propose, these ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ֱא‬ were, or included, the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬Rachel had stolen from Laban, 77 then is not our thesis that these ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬serve in the biblical tradition as safeguards of the Abrahamic family’s claim to the land of Canaan utterly undermined? We admit the answer to this question would have to be yes. But we must point out that it is not necessarily the case that the ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֱא‬of Gen 35:2–4 were, or included, Rachel’s ‫;תּ ָר ִפים‬ ְ some commentators have suggested rather that these ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֱא‬might be divine figurines taken as spoil by the Jacobites after their defeat of Shechem. 78 Editorially, the immediate juxtaposition of the 951F

952F

77 Brichto, “Kin, Cult, Land and Afterlife,” 46, n. 74; Cooper and Goldstein, “Cult of the Dead and Entry into the Land,” 295; V.P. Hamilton, The Book of Genesis, Chapters 18–50 (NICOT; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1995), 375; Korte, “Significance Obscured,” 175; G. von Rad, Genesis: A Commentary (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1961), 332; B. Vawter, On Genesis: A New Reading (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1977), 362; and C. Westermann, Genesis 12–36: A Commentary (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1981), 551. J. Skinner, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Genesis (ICC; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1910), 423, and E.A. Speiser, Genesis: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB, 1; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1983), 270, also seem inclined toward this position (although they do not state so clearly); R. Alter, Genesis: Translation and Commentary (New York/London: W.W. Norton, 1996), 195, similarly equivocates. 78 G.J. Wenham, Genesis 16–50 (Word Bible Commentary, 2; Dallas, TX: Word Books, 1994), 324; see also N. Sarna, Genesis: The Traditional Hebrew Text with the New JPS Translation (The JPS Torah Commentary; Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1989), 240, who writes that “the idols are probably household

344

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Shechem story in Genesis 34 with the story of the Jacobites’ putting aside their ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫( ֱא‬at least in the Bible as it has come down to us) might suggest this. Even more of note is that the ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֱא‬of Gen 35:2–4 are exclusively referred to as ‫�הי ַהנֵּ ָכר‬ ֵ ‫א‬, ֱ “foreign ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫א‬.” ֱ And while the adjective “foreign” might possibly allude to the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬Rachel took from PaddanAram, the fact of the matter is that nowhere else in the Bible is the phrase ‫�הי ַהנֵּ ָכר‬ ֵ ‫ ֱא‬or its variants (see Deut 31:16; 32:12; Josh 24:20, 23; Judg 10:16; 1 Sam 7:3; 2 Chr 33:15; Ps 81:10 [in most of the Bible’s English versions, 81:9]; Jer 5:19; Mal 2:11) used to refer to ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬. ְ More important, nowhere else in the Bible are ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬described as “foreign.” Only once, indeed, are they associated with “foreignness” in any way (in Ezek 21:26, where they are used by the king of Babylon along with other divinatory practices). Instead, even in passages where their use is condemned (e.g., 2 Kgs 23:24), the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬are treated as Israelite. This, for us, throws the argument regarding Gen 35:2–4 somewhat more in favor of those scholars who see the ‫�הי ַהנֵּ ָכר‬ ֵ ‫ ֱא‬as something other than Rachel’s ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬. ְ Her ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ we continue to suggest, are brought to Canaan and used by the biblical writers to fulfill one of the standard functions of the ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ serving as otherworldly safeguards of Abraham’s family’s claim to its ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫נַ ֲח ַלת ֱא‬. Yet other objections might still persist. For example, if Rachel’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬did in fact serve, in the conceit of the biblical writers, as such important safeguards of the Abrahamic family’s claim to its ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫נַ ֲח ַלת ֱא‬, then why do they never again appear in Genesis (or elsewhere in the biblical text)? In response, we note, first, that it is not just Rachel’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬that never again appear in the biblical text; once the Jacob and Laban narrative ends, Genesis’s “Haran connection” also draws to a close. Yet until this point in the Genesis narrative, Nahor’s descendants have played an extremely important role, especially by serving as a source for wives for Isaac and Jacob. Why should they so suddenly disappear? The answer is that as a result of Rachel’s theft of the Terahite ancestor figurines, the complex of elements Brichto identified for us in his article’s title—kin, cult, land, and afterlife—are all united in the “promised land.” Thereby, the story line of a divided lineage—as represented both by competing descriptions of the legitimate Terahite ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬and by dueling claims to Terah’s ‫—תּ ָר ִפים‬comes ְ to an end. More simply put, the dramatic tension that kept Abraham’s family tied to Haran, so to speak, is resolved, and so the story’s Haran-based characters—whether the living relatives still resident in Haran or the deceased ancestors embodied in the ‫—תּ ָר ִפים‬can ְ exit the stage. Thereby they give way to what is, from the Bible’s perspective, the next great act that gods found among the spoils of Shechem or carried by the captives,” yet adds, “the phrase may also include the terafim that Rachel stole.”

MICAH’S TERAPHIM

345

the unification of ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ ‫נַ ֲח ָלה‬, and the Abrahamic family line has made possible: the story of Jacob’s twelve sons and the lineage and ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬that through them and their descendants is eventually established for Israel’s twelve tribes.

4. CONCLUDING REFLECTIONS These conclusions about the role of the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬in Genesis 31 as guarantors, in a fictional sense, of Jacob’s family’s claim to the ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬of Canaan prompt us, finally, to return to Judges 17–18 and ponder whether there are some last nuances that are played out in that text concerning the role of the ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬. ְ For example, are there intimations that even though the object(s) of primary value to the Danite thieves who plundered Micah’s ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ֵבּית ֱא‬ was/were the mother’s ‫וּמ ֵסּ ָכה‬ ַ ‫פּ ֶסל‬, ֶ Micah’s ‫—תּ ָר ִפים‬both ְ the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬that Micah had made and the other ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬of his household shrine—were of appeal to the Danites as well, in order that these ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬might serve the Danites as fictional guarantors of the land they took for themselves in Laish? Crucial to note here is the reason why, according to Judg 18:1, the Danites were attempting to lay claim to Laish in the first place: because at that point in Israelite history, no ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬had come to the Danites “among the tribes of Israel.” Why that is, Judg 18:1 does not say, but the text seems to reflect the same (or at least a similar) presumption as that found in Judg 1:34: that the ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬of the Danites should have been, as in Josh 19:40–46, territory in the southwestern part of Israel, but that the Danites either failed to take this land (so Judg 1:34) or lost it (so Josh 19:47), because, according to Judg 1:34, of the resistance put forward by the Canaanite population already settled in those parts. In this respect, Judg 18:1 differs from other Danite tales in Judges, most notably the tale of the Danite Samson in Judges 13–16, which does speak of Samson’s clan, at least, as having established a family burial place (and so, presumably, a ‫ )נַ ֲח ָלה‬within a Danite patrimony in Israel’s southwest. Indeed, commentators frequently acknowledge that Judg 1:1–2:5 and Judges 17–18, 19–21 seem to belong to a different redactional stratum than Judg 2:6–16:31.79 Whereas 2:6–16:31, for example, and especially 3:7–16:31, “explore Israel’s early history by tracing the careers of heroic and charismatic individuals,” using a “recurring, covenantally oriented frame,” Judg 1:1–2:5 and Judges 17–18, 19–21 “tend not to feature 953F

79 See, for example, Boling, Judges, 29–38; Gray, Joshua, Judges, Ruth, 188–94; Martin, Judges, 5–9; Matthews, Judges and Ruth, 6–11; Niditch, Judges, 8–13; Soggin, Judges, 4–5 (albeit all with slightly different divisions of the book’s main parts).

346

BENJAMIN D. COX & SUSAN ACKERMAN

heroic individuals” and “themes concerning the transience of power are especially strong.” 80 Thus, writes S. Niditch, we find in Judges 18, “a tale characterized by an aggressive, conqueror’s demeanor.” 81 Which is to say, as we have already intimated: we find in Judges 18 an aggressive account of the Danites’ efforts to conquer a ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬that was not theirs and to which, according to the logic of the text, they had little grant, this as opposed, in our text’s conceit, to the territory associated with the Danites in the southwest. This ‫נַ ֲח ָלה‬, Judg 1:34 and especially Josh 19:40–46 imply, was given to the Danites by Joshua, acting on behalf of Yahweh, as part of the distribution of all the lands of Canaan to the tribes of Israel. We might even say that in the view of Josh 19:40–46 and Judg 1:34, Yahweh, as the “god of the fathers,” or the ancestral god, stood as the supernatural guardian who legitimated the Danites’ claim to their ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬in the south. 82 But within our narrative’s framework, no otherworldly agent links the Danites as emphatically to the ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬that they sought to capture in the north; there is only the Levite priest’s assurance to the five spies sent by the Danites to seek territory for the tribe’s habitation that “your way is under the watch of Yahweh” (‫ ;נ ַֹכח יהוה ַדּ ְרכְּ ֶכם‬Judg 18:6). The Levite’s assurance, moreover, might be said to have given the Danite spies only a minimum of comfort, for as C. van Dam points out, such a secondhand endorsement is a far cry from the more typical language used to report Yahweh’s response to an oracular inquiry: the much more emphatic claim that “Yahweh answered” or “Yahweh said” (Judg 1:2; 20:18, 23, 28; 1 Sam 10:22; 23:2, 4, 11, 12; 30:8; 2 Sam 2:1; 5:19, 23).83 It is thus easy to understand why, from the Danites’ point of view, a more authoritative land grant is desirable. Micah’s ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ we might suppose, were stolen to fulfill this function. But why, one might immediately ask, would the Danites need to make use of representations of Micah’s Ephraimite ancestors who are tied to Ephraimite land, rather than use their own tribal ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬, who at least— like Laban’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬as we described Rachel’s use of them in Section 3 of our paper above—would have been tied to Danite lineages, even as these lineages’ members sought to use their ancestors’ ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬disingenuously to safeguard their claims to land other than those ancestors’ ‫ ?נַ ֲח ָלה‬The answer 956F

957F

Niditch, Judges, 12, 180. Niditch, Judges, 180. 82 Note in this regard Lewis’s provocative suggestion that the concept of the “god of the fathers” might be productively rethought in the light of the notion of ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ ֱא‬designating “spirits of the dead.” See Lewis, Cults of the Dead, 178–79. 83 C. van Dam, The Urim and the Thummim: A Means of Revelation in Ancient Israel (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1997), 216. 80 81

MICAH’S TERAPHIM

347

to this question is to recall that according to the narrative stratum of which Judges 18 is a part, the Danites, unlike Terah’s family, had not been able to take possession of their original ‫נַ ֲח ָלה‬: their need, that is, was not to replace the ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬of Haran with the ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬of Canaan, but to establish a ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬where none had existed before. But without a pre-existent ‫נַ ֲחלָ ה‬, the complex of interlocking elements of “kin,” “cult,” “land,” and “afterlife” on which the potency and even the presence of the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬depends collapses. If there is no “land,” or ‫נַ ֲח ָלה‬, for example, there is no tomb of the ancestral “kin” that lies within it. Consequently, there are no forebears properly ensconced in the “afterlife” who are able to be made present through the “cult” of the ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬. ְ Without, however, ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ and when in addition there is no ancestral tomb, there is no agency for legitimating land-grant claims, nor the ability to access necromantic oracles. Indeed, we should remember in this regard that the five original Danite scouts, when they passed through Ephraim during their search for a Danite home, asked Micah’s Levite priest to deliver on their behalf an oracle regarding their mission’s potential success. Why had they not asked this, though, of their own ‫?תּ ָר ִפים‬ ְ For the same reason, we suggest, that they ended up stealing Micah’s family’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬to serve as fraudulent safeguards of the Danites’ claim to their northern fief: due to their lack of a pre-existing ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬and an associated ancestral tomb, the Danites were without the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬that were their entombed ancestors’ counterparts. Thus, they had to make do with Micah’s Ephraimite ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ both as divinatory revelators and guarantors of their ‫נַ ֲחלָ ה‬-to-be, no matter how less than desirable these Ephraimite ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬might have been. Or, to put the matter another way: if the analysis of the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬as a “tie between the family unit and its property” (to quote yet again Morrison) ְ fraudulent ‫—תּ ָר ִפים‬were ְ something the is correct, 84 then ‫—תּ ָר ִפים‬even Danite clans, in order to lay claim to new land in Laish, would feel the need to possess. Indeed, the text of Judg 18:27, in which the account of the Danites’ conquering Laish comes just after the notice that these Danites stole “that which Micah made,” could well suggest an association between the Danites’ taking possession of Laish and their possessing Micah’s ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬. ְ Note in this regard that the verb used in 18:27 for “to make” is, as in 18:24, ‫ﬠ ָשׂה‬, ָ and thus again, as in 18:24, the image of the ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬that Micah “made” in 17:5 is evoked. 85 958F

95F

Morrison, “The Jacob and Laban Narrative,” 161. Although note two medieval Hebrew manuscripts, which identify—under the influence of Judg 18:31?—the object that Micah made according to 18:27 as the ‫ ֶפּ ֶסל‬of 17:4. See Bartusch, Understanding Dan, 176, note on v. 27. 84 85

348

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That said, it pushes credulity to suppose that an ancient Israelite audience would grant that Ephraimite ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬could have been used by the Danites to help secure a patrimony to which they could otherwise only tenuously lay claim. But in this regard we must recall the polemical nature of the Judges 17–18 story that we noted in our opening remarks and in particular Brettler’s contention that the story’s polemic is not directed just against the Danite sanctuary and its priesthood, but also against the tribe of Dan itself: in Brettler’s reading (following M. Noth), because of the Danites’ violent conquest of the peaceful residents of Laish. 86 The Danites are thereby derided for their generally cutthroat and callow dispositions; indeed, in 18:25, the text describes them in practically these terms: as ‫ֲאנָ ִשׁים ָמ ֵרי‬ ‫נֶ ֶפשׁ‬, “bitter-souled men.” Based on the Danites’ illogical appropriation of Ephraimite ‫תּ ָר ִפים‬, ְ we might in addition characterize these boorish cads by using R. Alter’s description of their fellow Danite Samson as depicted in the redactional stratum found in Judg 2:6–16:31: as men whose “formidable brawn will not be matched by brain, or even by a saving modicum of common sense.” 87 Under the terms of this interpretation, the incredulity that an ancient Israelite audience might well express regarding the text’s subplot that we have proposed—whereby the Danites irrationally attempt to use Micah’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬to secure a ‫—נַ ֲח ָלה‬would become testament to the text’s success at discrediting the Danites’ acumen, which is itself part and parcel of the text’s larger goal of discrediting the Danites in general. If this is the case, then one last nuance in Judges 17–18 has come into play, as the story of the Danites’ misguided taking of Micah’s family’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬is used in conjunction with Judges 17–18’s other attacks on Dan to promote even further the text’s polemical assault on Dan’s sanctuary and Dan’s people. Still, we must be clear that there is no definite reference to the ‫ְתּ ָר ִפים‬ in the account of the Danites’ conquest of Laish in 18:27 and thus no firm link drawn in the text between the Danites’ taking of Laish and an attempt to use Micah’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬as guarantors of this newly claimed ‫נַ ֲח ָלה‬. Hence the caution that we expressed in our introductory remarks: that our concluding comments about the potential appeal of Micah’s ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬to the tribesmen of Dan would be the product of considerable speculation. Nevertheless, we cannot help but wonder whether the Judges 17–18 account of Dan’s laying 960F

961F

Above, n. 18. R. Alter, “How Convention Helps Us Read: The Case of the Bible’s Annunciation Type-Scene,” Prooftexts 3 (1983), 115–30 (124); see also the catalogue of other scholars’ unflattering descriptions of Samson collected by D.M. Gunn, “Samson of Sorrows: An Isaianic Gloss on Judges 13–16,” in D.N. Fewell (ed.), Reading Between Texts: Intertextuality and the Hebrew Bible (Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox, 1992), 225–53 (225). 86 87

MICAH’S TERAPHIM

349

claim to a ‫ נַ ֲח ָלה‬in Laish draws on ancient Israel’s closely interwoven complex of “kin,” “cult,” “land,” and “afterlife” in order to portray the Danites as guilty—among other things—of loutishly seeking to manipulate their culture’s venerable ‫ ְתּ ָר ִפים‬traditions.

THE STRUCTURE OF ZECHARIAH 8 AND ITS MEANING ELIE ASSIS,

BAR ILAN UNIVERSITY Chapters 1–8 and 9–14 of Zechariah are considered by most scholars today to be two separate prophetic books; only chs. 1–8 are attributed to the postexilic time of the beginning of the 5th century BCE. 1 Most scholars believe that Zech 7–8 should be regarded as one unit. This conviction is based mainly on the fact that 8:19 is the prophet’s answer to the people’s question in 7:1–3 as to whether fasting for the destruction of the Temple should be continued even after its construction had begun. 2 This approach is based on two main arguments, the first of which is formal, and the second of which concerns content. The formal argument is that 7:1 opens with a new formula that includes a date, as do 1:1 and 1:7. The second argument is that the people’s question to the priests in 7:3 is answered in 8:19. However, these arguments are not decisive. First, the formal opening in 7:1 can relate 1 According to most scholars, Zech 9–14 and Zech 1–8 were composed by different authors at different times. Today there is an increasing tendency to see thematic connections between the two parts. For a detailed survey on this topic, see: M. J. Boda, “From Fasts to Feasts: A Literary Function of Zechariah 7–8,” CBQ 65 (2003), 390–407. 2 See F. Horst, Die Zwölf kleine Propheten (HAT, Tübingen: Mohr, 1938), 232–233; J.G. Baldwin, Haggai, Zechariah, Malachi (Tyndale Old Testament Commentaries; London: Tyndale Press, 1972), 85, 140; R. Hanhart, Sacharja (BKAT, XIV/7,6; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener 1975), 452–456; W. Rudolph, Haggai-Sacharja 1–8 - Sacharja 9–14 - Maleachi (KAT, 13; Gütersloh: Mohn, 1976), 62, 151; D. L. Petersen, Haggai, and Zechariah 1–8, A Commentary (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster), 1984, 122; M. Butterworth, Structure and the Book of Zechariah (JSOTSup, 130; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1992), 70–72; M. H. Floyd, Minor Prophets, (Part 2; FOTL; Grand Rapids and Cambridge: Eerdmans, 2000), 412; Boda, “From Fasts to Feasts: A Literary Function of Zechariah 7–8,” 393–395.

351

352

ELIE ASSIS

to ch. 7 alone. Second, of all the diverse material of ch. 8, only one verse (v. 19) relates closely to ch. 7. Only in a limited way can all of ch. 8 be related to the topic of the fasts in ch. 7. It is probable that the topic of fasting in ch. 7 received additional notice in 8:19 but the rest of the chapter does not deal with this topic. Moreover, 8:19 does not answer the question of the people in 7:3 as to whether they should continue to fast; it merely promises that in the future, the days of fasting will become days of feasts. It does not specify whether or not the people should now fast.3 I agree with those who understand that the question about continuing to observe the fast days in 7:1–3 is answered in 7:4–14.4 In a recent article I suggested that God is indifferent to the question of whether the people should continue to fast or not, instead God wants the people to pay attention to social justice, as the prophet spells out in 7:8–14. In that article I claimed that Zech 8 concludes the previous chapters of the book, and that its role is to summarize the main contents of the prophecies of chs. 1–7.5 Indeed, Zech 8 exhibits unique formal and thematic features. 6 There are different opinions regarding the composition of ch. 8. Some argue that Zech 8 is a unified work,7 while others claim that it is a 3 For a survey of the various opinions regarding the relationship between chs. 7 and 8, see E. Assis, “Zechariah 8 As Revision and Digest of Zechariah 1–7,” JHS 10 (2010), 1–26, article 15, esp. 1–8. http://www.arts.ualberta.ca/JHS/Articles/ article_143.pdf, repr. in E. Ben Zvi (ed.), Perspectives in Hebrew Scriptures VII: Comprising the Contents of Journal of Hebrew Scriptures, vol. 10 (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2011), 421–445. 4 With some variations the following scholars believe that answer to the question is given within ch. 7. See C. L. Meyers and E. M. Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8 (AB; New York: Doubleday, 1987), 389–394; M. A. Sweeney, The Twelve Prophets (vol. 2; Berit Olam; Collegeville: The Liturgical Press, 2000), 642; and Baldwin, Haggai, Zechariah, Malachi, 144. 5 See Assis, “Zechariah 8 As Revision and Digest of Zechariah 1–7.” 6 According to Horst, ch. 8 is an independent unit that includes independent prophetic elements. See Horst, Die Zwölf kleine Propheten, 205. 7 This approach was proposed by A. Petitjean, Les oracles du Proto-Zacharie: un programme de restauration pour la communauté juive après l’exil (Études bibliques; Paris: Gabalda, 1969), 365–383. He believes that the time of the chapter is prior to 538 BCE. Others who believed that the chapter is a unified entity are R. A. Mason, “The Prophets of Restoration,” in R. Coggins, A Phillips, and M. Knibb (eds.), Israel’s Prophetic Tradition: Essays in Honour of Peter R. Ackroyd (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 148–149; E. W. Conrad, Zechariah (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 131–150; and B. G. Curtis, Up the

Steep and Stony Road: The Book Zechariah in Social Location Trajectory Analysis (SBLAB, 25; Atlanta: SBL, 2006), 151. Mittmann views 8:1–8 as one unit. See S.

THE STRUCTURE OF ZECHARIAH 8 AND ITS MEANING

353

collection of different prophecies, perhaps even from different dates. 8 Our task here concerns the order and structure of the prophecies of ch. 8. Is the chapter a collection of ten different prophecies, or are these prophecies part of a well planned composition? Is the order of the prophecies arbitrary or do the prophecies form a structure, in which their order is deliberate and meaningful? Chapter 8 opens with a new introduction by way of formulaic phrase: “The word of the Lord of hosts came to me, saying” (v. 1). This opening, with minor variations, appears several times in earlier chapters: 1:1, 4:8, 6:9, 7:4, and 8:1. Later in this chapter are ten short, separate prophecies, each of which opens with the formulaic phrase “Thus says the Lord of Hosts,” with the exception of the second prophecy in v. 3, which begins with an abbreviated version: “Thus says the Lord.” 9 The ten prophecies are, therefore: 1) 8:2; 2) 8:3; 3) 8:4–5; 4) 8:6; 5) 8:7–8; 6) 8:9–13; 7) 8:14–17; 8) 8:19; 9) 8:20–22, and 10) 8:23. The ten prophecies are divided into three parts by formulaic openings and closings. The seventh prophecy, in v. 17, concludes with “says the Lord,” after which v. 18 begins with an opening phrase corresponding to the beginning of the chapter (8:1): “And the word of the Lord of hosts came to me, saying.” 10 The fourth prophecy, in v. 6, contains another Mittmann, “Die Einheit von Sacharja 8:1–8,” in W. Claassen (ed.), Text and Context: Old Testament and Semitic Studies for F. C. Fensham (JSOTSup. 48; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1988), 269–282. 8 Horst, Die Zwölf kleine Propheten, 205, 233–237; W.A.M. Beuken, Haggai – Sacharja 1–8, Studien zur Überlieferungsgeschichte der frühnachexilischen Prophetie (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1967), 156–183; Baldwin, Haggai, Zechariah, Malachi, 14; Rudolph, Haggai-Sacharja 1–8 - Sacharja 9–14 – Maleachi, 143–152; Petersen, Haggai, and Zechariah 1–8, A Commentary, 297; Y. Hoffman, “The Issue of the Fasts in the Book of Zechariah (7:1–6; 8:19) and the Formation of National Memory, ” in Z. Talshir, S. Yona, and D. Sivan (eds.), Homage to Shmuel: Studies in the World of the Bible (Jerusalem: Ben Gurion University Press and Mosad Bialik, 2001), 112–145; J. D. Nogalski, Literary precursors to the Book of the Twelve (BZAW, 217; Berlin, de Gruyter, 1993), 239–240; For a discussion on the composition of Zechariah 7–8, see Boda, “From Fasts to Feasts: A Literary Function of Zechariah 7–8,” 390–407. 9 This opinion is held by Meyers and Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 428–433, 442–445; P. L. Redditt, Haggai, Zechariah, Malachi (New Century Bible; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995), 84. 10 This division into two is adopted by many, see e.g. Rudolph, Haggai-Sacharja 1–8 - Sacharja 9–14 – Maleachi, 150–151; Meyers and Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 428–429; Petersen, Haggai, and Zechariah 1–8, A Commentary, 296–297; S. Amsler, A. Lacocque, R. Vuilleumier, Aggee, Zacharie 1–8, Zacharie 9–14,

354

ELIE ASSIS

concluding phrase: “says the Lord of hosts.” 11 These formulaic phrases demarcate the three main sections of the collection of prophecies. The first section contains the first four prophecies (vv. 2–6), the second contains the fifth, sixth, and seventh prophecies (vv. 7–17), and the third is comprised of the eighth, ninth, and tenth prophecies (vv. 18–23). 12

THE PROPHECIES OF THE FIRST PART: THE FIRST, SECOND, THIRD, AND FOURTH PROPHECIES

THE FIRST PROPHECY (V. 2) ‫דוֹלה‬ ָ ְ‫דוֹלה וְ ֵח ָמה ג‬ ָ ְ‫אתי ְל ִציּוֹן ִקנְ ָאה ג‬ ִ ֵ‫כֹּה ָא ַמר יהוה ְצ ָבאוֹת ִקנּ‬ ‫אתי ָלהּ׃‬ ִ ֵ‫ִקנּ‬ “Thus says the Lord of hosts: I am jealous for Zion with great jealousy, and I am jealous for her with great wrath.”

The first prophecy indicates God's great jealousy and anger towards the nations, and implies their punishment for their actions against Zion. Although the verse does not make explicit the object of God’s anger, clearly His wrath is directed against the nations. 13 This is also the case in the parallel verse in 1:14–15: “I am jealous for Jerusalem and for Zion with a 974F

Malachie (CAT, 11; Genève: Labor et Fides, 1988), 121, 124; Sweeney, The Twelve Prophets, vol. 2, 646, 653. 11 For “says the Lord of hosts,” as a closing formula, see S. A. Meier, Speaking of Speaking: Marking Direct Discourse in the Hebrew Bible (VTsup, 46; Leiden:

Brill, 1992), 225. This formula is found in v. 11 as well, but it is found in the middle of the prophecy, and should be regarded there as a quotation formula, that is, to emphasize that these are the words of the prophet. This conclusion stands against Clark’s opinion that it should be regarded here as a closing formula. See D. J. Clark, “Discourse Structure in Zechariah 7:1–8:23,” The Bible Translator, 36 (1985), 329. Against Clark, see also Meier, op. cit. 12 For dividing the chapter according to formal formulae, see Clark, “Discourse Structure in Zechariah 7:1–8:23,” 328–335. Mitchell offers the following division: 8:1–8, 9–17, 18–23; H. G. Mitchell, Haggai, Zechariah (ICC; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1912), 206–215. It should be noted that no explanation is provided for his decision. 13 Mitchell, Haggai, Zechariah, 206; Meyers and Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 411; Redditt, Haggai, Zechariah, Malachi, 84; Mason has raised doubts regarding the explanation of this verse, Mason, “The Prophets of Restoration,” 222.

THE STRUCTURE OF ZECHARIAH 8 AND ITS MEANING

355

great jealousy; and I am very displeased with the nations that are at ease; for I was but a little displeased, and they helped for evil.”14

THE SECOND PROPHECY (V. 3) ‫יר־ה ֱא ֶמת‬ ָ ‫רוּשׁ ָל ִם וְ נִ ְק ְר ָאה ִﬠ‬ ָ ְ‫ל־ציּוֹן וְ ָשׁ ַכנְ ִתּי ְבּתוֹ� י‬ ִ ‫כֹה ָא ַמר יהוה ַשׁ ְב ִתּי ֶא‬ ‫יר־ה ֱא ֶמת וְ ַהר־יהוה ְצ ָבאוֹת ַהר ַהקּ ֶֹדשׁ׃‬ ָ ‫רוּשׁ ַל ִם ִﬠ‬ ָ ְ‫י‬ “Thus says the Lord: I will return to Zion, and will dwell in the midst of Jerusalem; Jerusalem shall be called the faithful city; and the mountain of the Lord of hosts shall be called the holy mountain.”

The second prophecy describes the return of the Lord to His dwelling place in Jerusalem. Following the establishment of God’s presence in Jerusalem, the city’s status changes and it is once again called the “faithful city,” while the mountain of God will be called the “holy mountain.” The appellation “holy mountain” for the house of God is found in many places, such as Isa 11:9, 27:13, 56:7, 57:13, 65:11, 66:20; Jer 31:22; Ezek 20:40; Joel 2:1 and 4:17; Obad 16; Zeph 3:14; Pss 2:6, 3:5, and others. 15 The term “faithful city” for Jerusalem evokes Isaiah’s epithet—prostitute—after Jerusalem had been called the “faithful city” (Isa 1:21, 26). 16 An analogous expression also appears in Jer 31:22: “Habitation of Righteousness” (‫)נוה צדק‬. In referring to Jerusalem as the “faithful city,” the prophet maintains that those sins of the past that Isaiah had laid out before the people no longer exist, and that Jeremiah’s promises concerning Jerusalem’s transformation into the “Habitation of Righteousness” during the time of the redemption are still valid and will come to pass. The second prophecy continues the first: After God is jealous for Jerusalem and removes the nations from its midst, He can dwell within the city. 976F

97F

For the correlations between the two sources, see Rudolph, Haggai-Sacharja 1–8 - Sacharja 9–14 – Maleachi, 147; Meyers and Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 411; R. L. Smith, Micah-Malachi (WBC; Waco: Word,1984), 231; Redditt, Haggai, Zechariah, Malachi, 84; R. Mason, Preaching the Tradition: Homily and Hermeneutics After Exile (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 221– 14

222.

15 For this term in Isaiah, see: W.A.M. Beuken, “Isa 56:9–57:13 – An Example of Isaianic Legacy of Trito-Isaiah,” in J.W. Van Henten, et al. (eds.), Tradition and Reinterpretation in Jewish and Early Christian Literature (Leiden: Brill, 1986), 48– 64. 16 For the meaning of this term in Isaiah and Zechariah, see Mitchell, Haggai, Zechariah, 206–207.

356

ELIE ASSIS

THE THIRD PROPHECY (VV. 4–5) ‫רוּשׁ ָל ִם ִמ ְשׁ ַﬠנְ תּוֹ‬ ָ ְ‫ה ָא ַמר יהוה ְצ ָבאוֹת עֹד יֵ ְשׁבוּ זְ ֵקנִ ים וּזְ ֵקנוֹת ִבּ ְרחֹבוֹת י‬ ‫יָמים׃‬ ִ ‫וְ ִאישׁ ִמ ְשׁ ַﬠנְ תּוֹ ְבּיָ דוֹ ֵמר ֹב‬ ‫יה׃‬ ָ ‫יִמּ ְלאוּ יְ ָל ִדים וִ ילָ דוֹת ְמ ַשׂ ֲח ִקים ִבּ ְרחֹב ֶֹת‬ ָ ‫ְוּרחֹבוֹת ָה ִﬠיר‬ “Thus says the Lord of hosts: Old men and old women shall again sit in the streets of Jerusalem, each with staff in hand because of their great age. And the streets of the city shall be full of boys and girls playing in its streets.”

The third prophecy describes the longevity of men and women in Jerusalem in the future and how the streets of the city will be filled with children at play. 17 This prophecy is the result of the previous one. God’s presence in Jerusalem symbolizes its transfer from the hands of its foreign conquerors to the Judeans. With God residing in the city, a blessing rests upon those people who returned to reside in the city after having been exiled from it. 978F

THE FOURTH PROPHECY (V. 6) ‫יָּמים‬ ִ ‫יִפּ ֵלא ְבּ ֵﬠינֵ י ְשׁ ֵא ִרית ָה ָﬠם ַהזֶּ ה ַבּ‬ ָ ‫כֹּה ָא ַמר יהוה ְצ ָבאוֹת ִכּי‬ ‫יִפּ ֵלא נְ ֻאם יהוה ְצ ָבאוֹת׃‬ ָ ‫ם־בּ ֵﬠינַי‬ ְ ַ‫ָה ֵהם גּ‬ “Thus says the LORD of hosts: Even though it seems impossible to the remnant of this people in these days, should it also seem impossible to me, says the LORD of hosts?”

The fourth prophecy expresses the people’s wonderment about the realization of the redemptive promises that were made in the first prophecies of the chapter. According to this verse, these promises were marvelous not only in the eyes of the people but also in the eyes of God. 18 This prophecy, which concludes the first section, shows the people’s lack of trust in the prophet’s descriptions of the future. The prophet speaks these words of God in order to show that even though the promises are 97F

17 For an analysis of the pericope, see Y. Zakovitch, “A Garden of Eden in the Squares of Jerusalem: Zechariah 8:4–6,” Gregorianum, 87 (2006), 301–310. 18 See Ibn Ezra and NJPS translation.

THE STRUCTURE OF ZECHARIAH 8 AND ITS MEANING

357

incredible, they will indeed occur. The verse also highlights the gap between the current reality and the promises predicted for the future. Its goal is to strengthen the people’s faith in the validity of the prophet’s promises, although they seem disconnected from reality. 19 Thus we see thematic development between the first four prophecies of ch. 8: After the declaration of God’s jealousy for Jerusalem, signifying the punishment of the nations and their removal from Jerusalem, God will come to dwell in Jerusalem. 20 When that happens, the lives of the people of Jerusalem will be long and happy. 21 These messages are concluded with an expression of wonder at these promises that is designed to strengthen the people’s trust in their fulfillment.

THE PROPHECIES OF THE THIRD SECTION: THE EIGHTH, NINTH, AND TENTH PROPHECIES AND THEIR CONTINUITY THE EIGHTH PROPHECY (V. 19) ‫יﬠי ָה ֲﬠ ִשׂ ִירי י‬ ִ ‫ישׁי וְ צוֹם ַה ְשּׁ ִב‬ ִ ‫יﬠי וְ צוֹם ַה ֲח ִמ‬ ִ ‫ֹה־א ַמר יהוה ְצ ָבאוֹת צוֹם ָה ְר ִב‬ ָ ‫כּ‬ ‫וּלמ ֲֹﬠ ִדים‬ ְ ‫וּל ִשׂ ְמ ָחה‬ ְ ‫ית־יְהוּדה ְל ָשׂשׂוֹן‬ ָ ‫יִהיֶה ְל ֵב‬ ְ ‫וְ צוֹם ָה ֲﬠ ִשׂ ִירי‬ ‫טוֹבים וְ ָה ֱא ֶמת וְ ַה ָשּׁלוֹם ֱא ָהבוּ׃‬ ִ “Thus says the LORD of hosts: The fast of the fourth month, and the fast of the fifth, and the fast of the seventh, and the fast of the tenth, shall be seasons of joy and gladness, and cheerful festivals for the house of Judah: therefore love truth and peace.”

Zechariah predicts in the eighth prophecy that the days of fasting and mourning for the destruction of the Temple and the land will become days of happiness and holidays: “Thus says the Lord of hosts: The fast of the fourth month, and the fast of the fifth, and the fast of the seventh, and the fast of the tenth, shall be seasons of joy and gladness, and cheerful festivals for the house of Judah; therefore love truth and peace” (v. 19). In this prophecy the prophet refers again to the subject of fasts raised in ch. 7, and 19 Petersen, Haggai, and Zechariah 1–8, A Commentary, 301; Redditt, Haggai, Zechariah, Malachi, 85. 20

For a different connection between the first two prophecies, see Petersen,

Haggai, and Zechariah 1–8, A Commentary, 299. 21 Petersen, Haggai, and Zechariah 1–8, A Commentary, 300.

358

ELIE ASSIS

again he does not directly answer the people’s question. There, instead of answering the question directly, he turns to the people with his own query: “When you fasted and mourned in the fifth and in the seventh month these seventy years, did you at all fast for Me, even to Me? And when you eat, and when you drink, are you not they that eat, and they that drink?” (7:5–6). Later, the prophet admonishes the people, criticizing their societal relations (7:8–14), but his words still contain no direct answer to the question as to whether to fast or not. I am in agreement with those who believe that the prophet’s reproach to the people comprises his answer to their question. 22 The prophet is dismayed that the people concern themselves with an external matter like fasting; he maintains that fasting is not the main issue with which they should be involved. Mourning the destruction of the Temple, Zechariah claims, is an area under the people’s jurisdiction, not God’s. What God expects from the people is that they focus on that which might have prevented the destruction in the first place: doing justice.23 In 8:19, the prophet returns to the same topic, and, yet again, he does not address the question of whether to fast, notwithstanding the prevailing opinion of scholars to the contrary. Nonetheless, the prophet comes to strengthen the people, reminding them that in the future their days of mourning will be turned to days of joy. 24

THE NINTH PROPHECY (VV. 20–22) 20 ‫כֹּה ָא ַמר יהוה ְצ ָבאוֹת עֹד ֲא ֶשׁר יָ בֹאוּ ַﬠ ִמּים וְ י ְֹשׁ ֵבי ָﬠ ִרים ַרבּוֹת׃‬ 21 ‫ת־פּנֵ י יהוה‬ ְ ‫ל־א ַחת ֵלאמֹר נֵ ְל ָכה ָהלוֹ� ְל ַחלּוֹת ֶא‬ ַ ‫וְ ָה ְלכוּ י ְֹשׁ ֵבי ַא ַחת ֶא‬

‫ם־אנִ י׃‬ ָ ַ‫וּל ַב ֵקּשׁ ֶאת־יהוה ְצ ָבאוֹת ֵא ְל ָכה גּ‬ ְ

Mitchell, Haggai, Zechariah, 199. Others, too, have adopted this interpretation with some variations. See, e.g. Mason, Preaching the Tradition, 215– 218; Petersen, Haggai, and Zechariah 1–8, A Commentary, 288. 23 Sweeney, The Twelve Prophets, vol. 2, 642–643. 24 Many believe that 8:19 is the prophet’s answer to the people’s question in 7:3. See, e.g., Ibn Ezra; Horst, Die Zwölf kleine Propheten, 232–233; Baldwin, Haggai, Zechariah, Malachi, 85; Rudolph, Haggai-Sacharja 1–8 - Sacharja 9–14 – Maleachi, 151; Petersen, Haggai, and Zechariah 1–8, A Commentary, 312; Meyers and Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 334–442; Butterworth, Structure and the Book of Zechariah, 70–71; Redditt, Haggai, Zechariah, Malachi, 79; Conrad, Zechariah, 131–150; and Boda, “From Fasts to Feasts: A Literary Function of Zechariah 7–8,” 398–401. 22

THE STRUCTURE OF ZECHARIAH 8 AND ITS MEANING

359

22 ‫ירוּשׁ ָל ִם‬ ָ ‫צוּמים ְל ַב ֵקּשׁ ֶאת־יהוה ְצ ָבאוֹת ִבּ‬ ִ ‫וּבאוּ ַﬠ ִמּים ַר ִבּים וְ גוֹיִם ֲﬠ‬ ָ

‫ת־פּנֵ י יהוה׃‬ ְ ‫וּלְ ַחלּוֹת ֶא‬

20 “Thus

says the LORD of hosts: Peoples shall yet come, the inhabitants of many cities; 21 the inhabitants of one city shall go to another, saying, Come, let us go to entreat the favor of the LORD, and to seek the LORD of hosts; I myself am going. 22 Many peoples and strong nations shall come to seek the LORD of hosts in Jerusalem, and to entreat the favor of the LORD.”

In the ninth prophecy, Zechariah describes the nations’ intention to come to Jerusalem in order to seek favor with God. After he speaks in the eighth prophecy about the days of mourning becoming days of joy for Judah and for the people who dwell in Zion, the prophet then addresses the meaning of these events on the universal plane—how the redemption of Israel will also influence the nations to receive God as their Lord and will cause them to entreat His favor. It is possible that the fact that a Jerusalemite society embracing the values of loving truth and peace (8:19) is the reason why Jerusalem will eventually be the center of the nations. 25 986F

THE TENTH PROPHECY (V. 23) ‫יָּמים ָה ֵה ָמּה ֲא ֶשׁר יַ ֲחזִ יקוּ ֲﬠ ָשׂ ָרה ֲאנָ ִשׁים ְלשׁ ֹנוֹת‬ ִ ‫כֹּה ָא ַמר יהוה ְצ ָבאוֹת ַבּ‬ ‫יְהוּדי ֵלאמֹר נֵ ְל ָכה ִﬠ ָמּ ֶכם‬ ִ ‫ִמכֹּל ְלשׁ ֹנוֹת ַהגּוֹיִ ם וְ ֶה ֱחזִ יקוּ ִבּ ְכנַ ף ִאישׁ‬ ‫�הים ִﬠ ָמּ ֶכם׃‬ ִ ‫ִכּי ָשׁ ַמ ְﬠנוּ ֱא‬ “Thus says the LORD of hosts: In those days ten men from nations of every language shall take hold of a Jew, grasping his garment and saying, Let us go with you, for we have heard that God is with you.”

The tenth prophecy (v. 23) expands on the theme of the ninth. While in the ninth prophecy the nations aspire to seek God’s favor, their goal in the tenth is to join the Jews and accompany them to Jerusalem, galvanized by the recognition that God dwells in their midst. This aspiration is one part in the series of events in Jerusalem that were explicated in previous prophecies. Thus we can see a clear development between the three prophecies in the third part of the chapter.

25

For the universalistic tendencies in these verses, see Mitchell, Haggai,

Zechariah, 215–216; Mason, “The Prophets of Restoration,” 149.

360

ELIE ASSIS

THE THREE FINAL PROPHECIES AS A REVERSE ANALOGY OF THE FIRST THREE The last three prophecies parallel the first three but in the reverse order: The eighth prophecy (8:19) parallels the third in 8:4–5. In the eighth prophecy, the prophet speaks about the days of mourning turning to days of joy. In the third prophecy, he speaks about how the streets of Jerusalem will be filled with children at “play,” which is comparable to “joy.” Indeed, the roots ‫( שמח‬joy) and ‫( שחק‬play) appear as synonyms elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible, for example, in Prov 14:13 and Eccl 2:2 and 10:19. The ninth prophecy (8:20–22) describes how foreigners will come to seek God in Jerusalem because they recognize His divinity: “Thus says the Lord of hosts: People shall yet come, the inhabitants of many cities; and the inhabitants of one city shall go to another, saying: ‘Let us go to entreat the favor of the Lord of hosts; I myself am going.’ Many peoples and strong nations shall come to seek the Lord of hosts in Jerusalem, and to entreat the favor of the Lord.” This prophecy corresponds to and contrasts with the second prophecy (8:3). On the foundation of the second prophecy’s mention of God’s return to Jerusalem, the ninth prophecy adds that the nations wish to come to Jerusalem to entreat the favor of God’s name. The tenth prophecy (8:23) discusses the desire of the nations, who recognize that God dwells in the midst of Judah, to join those Jews who have returned to the land of Judah: “Thus says the Lord of hosts: In those days ten men from nations of every language shall take hold of a Jew, grasping his garment and saying, ‘Let us go with you, for we have heard that God is with you.’” This prophecy corresponds to the first prophecy in

8:2, which declares the divine jealousy towards the nations that attacked Jerusalem. The tenth prophecy depicts the reverse situation in which foreigners want to participate in the renewed Jewish ascent to Jerusalem.

THE STRUCTURE OF ZECHARIAH 8 AND ITS MEANING

361

These are the three themes of the first and last prophecies: First part First prophecy: The nations’ punishment from God’s jealousy for Jerusalem. Second prophecy: The Divine presence in Jerusalem Third prophecy: Increased lifespan, and the overflowing of Jerusalem with children at play

Third part Tenth prophecy: The nations join the Jews’ ascent to Jerusalem Ninth prophecy: The nations’ desire to entreat favor of God Eighth prophecy: The reversal of the days of fasting to days of joy and festivals.

THE PROPHECIES OF THE SECOND PART: THE FIFTH, SIXTH, SEVENTH PROPHECIES, AND THEIR PROGRESSION We will now turn to the middle part of the chapter, which includes the fifth, sixth, and seventh prophecies.

THE FIFTH PROPHECY (8:7–8) 7 ‫ת־ﬠ ִמּי ֵמ ֶא ֶרץ ִמזְ ָרח‬ ַ ‫מוֹשׁ ַי� ֶא‬ ִ ‫כֹּה ָא ַמר יהוה ְצ ָבאוֹת ִהנְ נִ י‬

‫וּמ ֶא ֶרץ ְמבוֹא ַה ָשּׁ ֶמשׁ׃‬ ֵ

8

‫יוּ־לי ְל ָﬠם וַ ֲאנִ י ֶא ְהיֶ ה ָל ֶהם‬ ִ ‫רוּשׁ ָל ִם וְ ָה‬ ָ ְ‫אתי א ָֹתם וְ ָשׁ ְכנוּ ְבּתוֹ� י‬ ִ ‫וְ ֵה ֵב‬ ‫וּב ְצ ָד ָקה׃‬ ִ ‫א�הים ֶבּ ֱא ֶמת‬ ִ ‫ֵל‬

7 “Thus

says the LORD of hosts: I will save my people from the east country and from the west country; 8 and I will bring them to live in Jerusalem. They shall be my people and I will be their God, in faithfulness and in righteousness.”

In the fifth prophecy, Zechariah describes the ingathering of the exiles of Judah, who come with God from the corners of the earth to Jerusalem. The prophecy is not only about the salvation of the people, but about the theological significance of the exiles’ arrival in Jerusalem as well. The prophecy emphasizes that the people are the nation of God, and that God

362

ELIE ASSIS

will bring them to Jerusalem, and with the renewal of their covenant with God: “They shall be My people, and I will be their God, in truth and in righteousness.”

THE SIXTH PROPHECY 9 ‫יָּמים ָה ֵא ֶלּה ֵאת‬ ִ ‫יכם ַהשּׁ ְֹמ ִﬠים ַבּ‬ ֶ ‫ֹה־א ַמר יהוה ְצ ָבאוֹת ֶתּ ֱחזַ ְקנָ ה יְ ֵד‬ ָ ‫כּ‬ ‫יכל‬ ָ ‫יאים ֲא ֶשׁר ְבּיוֹם יֻ ַסּד ֵבּית־יהוה ְצ ָבאוֹת ַה ֵה‬ ִ ‫ַה ְדּ ָב ִרים ָה ֵא ֶלּה ִמ ִפּי ַהנְּ ִב‬ ‫ְל ִה ָבּנוֹת׃‬ 10 ‫וּשׂ ַכר ַה ְבּ ֵה ָמה ֵאינֶ נָּ ה‬ ְ ‫יָּמים ָה ֵהם ְשׂ ַכר ָה ָא ָדם לֹא נִ ְהיָה‬ ִ ‫ִכּי ִל ְפנֵ י ַה‬ ‫ל־ה ָא ָדם ִאישׁ ְבּ ֵר ֵﬠהוּ׃‬ ָ ‫ת־כּ‬ ָ ‫ן־ה ָצּר וַ ֲא ַשׁ ַלּח ֶא‬ ַ ‫ין־שׁלוֹם ִמ‬ ָ ‫יּוֹצא וְ ַל ָבּא ֵא‬ ֵ ‫וְ ַל‬ 11 ‫יָּמים ָה ִראשׁ ֹנִ ים ֲאנִ י ִל ְשׁ ֵא ִרית ָה ָﬠם ַהזֶּ ה נְ ֻאם יהוה ְצ ָבאוֹת׃‬ ִ ‫וְ ַﬠ ָתּה לֹא ַכ‬ 12 ‫יִתּנוּ‬ ְ ‫ִכּי־זֶ ַרע ַה ָשּׁלוֹם ַהגֶּ ֶפן ִתּ ֵתּן ִפּ ְריָ הּ וְ ָה ָא ֶרץ ִתּ ֵתּן ֶאת־יְבוּלָ הּ וְ ַה ָשּׁ ַמיִם‬

‫ל־א ֶלּה׃‬ ֵ ‫ת־כּ‬ ָ ‫ת־שׁ ֵא ִרית ָה ָﬠם ַהזֶּ ה ֶא‬ ְ ‫ַט ָלּם וְ ִהנְ ַח ְל ִתּי ֶא‬

13 �‫אוֹשׁ ַי‬ ִ ‫וּבית יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל ֵכּן‬ ֵ ‫יְהוּדה‬ ָ ‫יתם ְק ָל ָלה ַבּגּוֹיִם ֵבּית‬ ֶ ִ‫וְ ָהיָה ַכּ ֲא ֶשׁר ֱהי‬

‫יכם׃‬ ֶ ‫ל־תּ ָיראוּ ֶתּ ֱחזַ ְקנָ ה יְ ֵד‬ ִ ‫יתם ְבּ ָר ָכה ַא‬ ֶ ִ‫ֶא ְת ֶכם וִ ְהי‬

9 “Thus

says the LORD of hosts: Let your hands be strong—you that have recently been hearing these words from the mouths of the prophets who were present when the foundation was laid for the rebuilding of the temple, the house of the LORD of hosts. 10 For before those days there were no wages for people or for animals, nor was there any safety from the foe for those who went out or came in, and I set them all against one other. 11 But now I will not deal with the remnant of this people as in the former days, says the LORD of hosts. 12 For there shall be a sowing of peace; the vine shall yield its fruit, the ground shall give its produce, and the skies shall give their dew; and I will cause the remnant of this people to possess all these things. 13 Just as you have been a cursing among the nations, O house of Judah and house of Israel, so I will save you and you shall be a blessing. Do not be afraid, but let your hands be strong.”

The sixth prophecy is the longest of the prophecies in this chapter. 26 Its purpose is to strengthen the listeners, as indicated by the words of 987F

26 Sweeney believes that this prophecy’s length is explained by the fact that it conveys the chapter’s main purpose, namely, the demand to build the Temple. Sweeney, The Twelve Prophets, vol. 2, 649. However, it should be noted that this

THE STRUCTURE OF ZECHARIAH 8 AND ITS MEANING

363

encouragement—“Let your hands be strong”—that appear at the beginning and end of the section, thereby creating a framework. 27 The prophecy describes the economic situation after the founding of the Temple compared to how it was beforehand, when people could not earn a living, and when there was no peace—probably indicating a lack of economic security. This situation also led to unstable social relations: “for I set all men every one against his neighbor” (v. 10). God declares, however, that after the founding of the Temple, the land will release its harvest and the sky its rain (v. 12). This economic situation reflects God’s intention to bequeath to the people their land: “I will cause the remnant of this people to inherit all these things” (v. 12). The situation described here does not express the realization of all the longed-for predictions, and so the prophet assures the people in v. 13: “And it shall come to pass that, as you were a curse among the nations, O house of Judah and house of Israel, so will I save you, and you shall be a blessing; fear not, but let your hands be strong.” According to this verse, the future salvation has yet to occur. This prophecy reflects the people’s sense of fragility, and therefore the words of encouragement are repeated twice, at the beginning of the prophecy and at the end—“Let your hands be strong”—and the prophet further encourages the people, saying “Fear not” (v. 13).28 The prophet maintains that the future will be good, and to bolster this claim, he points to the economic transformation between the time before the founding of the Temple and after it. This prophecy brings to mind the words of Haggai that the people’s difficult economic situation is the result of not building the Temple; the prophet promises that after construction of the Temple, the situation will reversed. According to the reality that this prophecy describes, it seems that the Temple was established and Zechariah promises that Haggai’s words will be realized (1:7–11 and 2:15–19). 29 text does not contain a demand to build the Temple. Rather, it assures the people that the economic situation will be improved once the Temple is built. 27 See Petersen, Haggai, and Zechariah 1–8, A Commentary, 304; Amsler, Aggee, Zacharie 1–8, 122; Redditt, Haggai, Zechariah, Malachi, 86. 28 Similar words of encouragement are found in Haggai 2:4–5. For the people’s concerns and the prophet’s response see E. Assis, “To Build or Not to Build: A Dispute between Haggai and His People (Hag 1),” ZAW, 119 (2007), 514–527; E. Assis, “Composition, Rhetoric and Theology in Haggai 1:1–15,” JHS, 7 (2007) 1– 14 http://www.arts.ualberta.ca/JHS/Articles/article_72.pdf. 29 For the relationship between this prophecy and the work of Haggai, see e.g. Mitchell, Haggai, Zechariah, 210–211; J. E. Tollington, Tradition and Innovation in Haggai and Zechariah 1–8 (JSOTSup, 150; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993), 30.

364

ELIE ASSIS

After the prophet speaks in the fifth prophecy about the return of the people to Jerusalem and of the renewal of covenantal relations between God and the people, the sixth prophecy (8: 9–13) takes those concepts as the basis for its own central idea and expands them. The construction of the Temple signifies the renewal of the relationship between people and God following the exile of the people and the destruction of the Temple. The improving economic situation is the result of this renewal, as we see in many sources that predicate the economic situation on the people’s religious state (for example, Lev 26:3–5, Deut 7:12–16 and 11:13–17). Moreover, this prophecy, which promises a blessing to the people instead of the curse of being dispersed among the nations, augments the fifth prophecy’s promise to gather in the people from the corners of the earth.

THE SEVENTH PROPHECY (VV. 14–17) 14 ‫ִכּי כֹה ָא ַמר יהוה ְצ ָבאוֹת ַכּ ֲא ֶשׁר זָ ַמ ְמ ִתּי ְל ָה ַרע ָל ֶכם ְבּ ַה ְק ִציף‬

‫יכם א ִֹתי ָא ַמר יהוה ְצ ָבאוֹת וְ לֹא נִ ָח ְמ ִתּי׃‬ ֶ ‫ֲאב ֵֹת‬

15 ‫ת־בּית‬ ֵ ‫רוּשׁ ַל ִם וְ ֶא‬ ָ ְ‫יטיב ֶאת־י‬ ִ ‫יָּמים ָה ֵא ֶלּה ְל ֵה‬ ִ ‫ֵכּן ַשׁ ְב ִתּי זָ ַמ ְמ ִתּי ַבּ‬

‫ל־תּ ָיראוּ׃‬ ִ ‫יְהוּדה ַא‬ ָ

16 ‫ת־ר ֵﬠהוּ ֱא ֶמת‬ ֵ ‫ֵא ֶלּה ַה ְדּ ָב ִרים ֲא ֶשׁר ַתּ ֲﬠשׂוּ ַדּ ְבּרוּ ֱא ֶמת ִאישׁ ֶא‬

‫יכם׃‬ ֶ ‫וּמ ְשׁ ַפּט ָשׁלוֹם ִשׁ ְפטוּ ְבּ ַשׁ ֲﬠ ֵר‬ ִ

17 ‫וּשׁ ֻב ַﬠת ֶשׁ ֶקר‬ ְ ‫ל־תּ ְח ְשׁבוּ ִבּ ְל ַב ְב ֶכם‬ ַ ‫ת־ר ַﬠת ֵר ֵﬠהוּ ַא‬ ָ ‫וְ ִאישׁ ֶא‬

‫אתי נְ ֻאם־יהוה׃‬ ִ ֵ‫ל־א ֶלּה ֲא ֶשׁר ָשׂנ‬ ֵ ‫ת־כּ‬ ָ ‫ל־תּ ֱא ָהבוּ ִכּי ֶא‬ ֶ ‫ַא‬

“For thus says the LORD of hosts: Just as I purposed to bring disaster upon you, when your ancestors provoked me to wrath, and I did not relent, says the LORD of hosts,15 so again I have purposed in these days to do good to Jerusalem and to the house of Judah; do not be afraid.16 These are the things that you shall do: Speak the truth to one another, render in your gates judgments that are true and make for peace,17 do not devise evil in your hearts against one another, and love no false oath; for all these are things that I hate, says the LORD.” 14

The seventh prophecy advances the idea of the sixth prophecy, as is already made evident by the addition of the word “For” (‫ )כי‬to the standard opening formula. Like the rest of the prophecies in this chapter, this one also opens with words of encouragement, vv. 14–15: “For thus says the Lord of hosts: As I purposed to bring disaster upon you, when your ancestors provoked Me to wrath, and I did not relent, says the Lord of

THE STRUCTURE OF ZECHARIAH 8 AND ITS MEANING

365

hosts, so again have I purposed in these days to do good to Jerusalem and to the house of Judah; do not be afraid.” The people were living with the consequences of the destruction that God had brought on them, and the prophet affirms that just as God said He would punish them, so too would He do goodness to them as He promised. However, this prophecy presents the opposite idea to the former one, and is different from all other prophecies in the chapter. It begins by recalling the people’s sin and God’s angry response: “When your ancestors provoked Me to wrath” (v. 14). This threatening component continues to hover during the prophet’s presentation of the conditions for the realization of all the promises for good that appear in the remaining prophecies: “These are the things that you shall do: Speak the truth to one another, render in your gates judgments that are true and make for peace, do not devise evil in your hearts against one another, and love no false oath; for all these are things that I hate, says the Lord” (vv. 16–17). This prophecy stipulates the condition under which the favorable prophecies will be fulfilled: the rectification of social conduct. The prophet requires that people speak the truth to each other and make righteous judgments, and that they abstain from thinking evil of one another and from swearing false oaths. All these sins are hated by God. The contrast between this prophecy and the previous one is reflected in the opening and closing of the two prophecies. The sixth prophecy opens and closes with words of encouragement: “Let your hands be strong . . . Do not be afraid, but let your hands be strong.” Though the seventh prophecy also encourages, and also contains the formula of encouragement “do not be afraid” (v. 15), its threatening nuance is apparent in the harsh, negative words of its opening and closing phrases: “As I purposed to bring disaster upon you” (v. 14), and “All these are things that I hate” (v. 17). 30 This prophecy also constitutes a direct continuation of the previous prophecy. Although the seventh prophecy, unlike the sixth, introduces an element of threat, it shares with the previous prophecy the same role of encouragement, conveyed through the same expression: “do not be afraid” (vv. 13, 15). The continuity between the seventh and the sixth prophecies is also manifested in the common structure of the concluding sentence of the sixth prophecy and of the opening sentence of the seventh, which connote similar concepts in reverse forms: v 13 at the end of the sixth prophecy:

30

Petersen, Haggai, and Zechariah 1–8, A Commentary, 309, 311–312.

366

ELIE ASSIS

And it shall come to pass that, as you were a curse among the nations, O house of Judah and house of Israel, So will I save you, and you shall be a blessing; do not be afraid, but let your hands be strong.

and vv 14–15 in the seventh prophecy: As I purposed to bring disaster upon you, when your ancestors provoked Me to wrath, and I did not relent, says the Lord of hosts, So again I have purposed in these days to do good to Jerusalem and to the house of Judah; do not be afraid.

The structure of the second part of the chapter (the fifth, sixth, and seventh prophecies) is, therefore: • Fifth prophecy: The people return to dwell in Jerusalem. The covenant between God and the people is renewed. • Sixth prophecy: The prophecy of peace, abundance, and blessing. • Seventh prophecy: That good that God designated for the people in Jerusalem depends on their deeds in the social realm.

PROPHECIES IN THE SECOND SECTION IN PARALLEL TO THE FIRST AND THIRD SECTIONS In the fifth prophecy (8:7–8), Zechariah predicts the ingathering of the exiles of Judah and the arrival of the dispersed people in Jerusalem, and also the renewal of the covenant between the people and God. This prophecy corresponds to the first and second prophecies (in the first section) and the tenth and ninth prophecies (in the third section). The first prophecy recounts God’s jealousy for Jerusalem and the punishment of the nations, and the second describes the return of God to dwell in Jerusalem after His anger against the nations. Indeed, the verb “dwell” (‫ )שכן‬appears both in the second and the fifth prophecies: In the second, the reference is to God, who will dwell in Jerusalem, and in the fifth it is the people who will return to dwell there. After depicting this return, the fifth prophecy discusses the renewal of covenantal relations between God and the people. The ninth prophecy expresses the desire of the nations to cling to God following their punishment at His hands, as is related in the first prophecy, and following the renewal of covenantal relations between God and the people in Jerusalem, as the fifth prophecy relates. These relations are, in turn, based on the concept of God entering Jerusalem, which is described in the second

THE STRUCTURE OF ZECHARIAH 8 AND ITS MEANING

367

prophecy. In the tenth prophecy, the nations intend to align themselves with the Jews because God is in their midst, a concept that is based on the covenant between God and Judah described in the fifth prophecy. The sixth prophecy (8:9–13) describes the amelioration of the economic situation following the establishment of the Temple. 31 The prophet describes the produce of the land, in particular the yield of the vine and the dew of the heavens. This prophecy corresponds to the third and eighth prophecies, which speak of the days of joy and the increased longevity that are based on the sound economic situation described in the sixth prophecy. Indeed, associations between agricultural prosperity and joy are found elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible, such as the concept underlying the joy of the harvest festival (Lev 23:39–41) and the motif of joy at the time of eating in the Temple and the blessings of material prosperity that God gives in Deut 17:5–7 and Deut 26:11. This connection between economic prosperity and happiness is also apparent in the description of the idyllic days of Solomon’s reign in 1 Kgs 4:20: “Judah and Israel were many, as the sand which is by the sea in multitude, eating and drinking and making merry.” This verse connects the various elements that appear in the third and sixth prophecies. The situation described in the days of Solomon refers to the increase in population, as did the third prophecy of Zechariah; eating and drinking are mentioned in the sixth and eighth prophecies, and joy is mentioned in the third and eighth. It seems, therefore, that the combination of ideas that arises in the third, sixth, and eighth prophecies are based on the archetypal description of the days of Solomon. 32 For other sources that append economic prosperity to joy, see Isa 9:2, 16:10, 24:7, and Joel 1:16, 2:23. The establishment of peace in the eighth prophecy (v. 19) is based on the vision of peace described in the sixth prophecy (v. 12). The seventh prophecy (8:14–17) is an extension of the sixth, but has no parallel in either the first or last parts of the chapter. It contains implicit warnings of the misfortune that may befall the people if they do not treat each other fairly. The structure of the prophecies in the chapter as a whole is: A B C

Prophecy 1 (8:2): Jealousy for Jerusalem—punishment for the nations. Prophecy 2 (8:3): Dwelling of God in Jerusalem. Prophecy 3 (8:4–5): Good life in Jerusalem.

31 For the connection between the establishment of the Temple and economic abundance within the post-exilic prophecy, see Assis, “The Temple in the Book of Haggai,” 1–10. 32 See Assis, op. cit., 3.

368

ELIE ASSIS D

Prophecy 4 (8:6): The wonder of the people and God about what the prophet prophesied above. A + B Prophecy 5 (8:7–8): The salvation of people, the ingathering of the exiles in Jerusalem, and the renewal of covenantal relations between God and the people. C Prophecy 6 (8:9–13): With the construction of the Temple, the promises of a good life and agricultural abundance in the land. D Prophecy 7 (8:14–17): The condition for good is the establishment of equitable social relations C Prophecy 8 (8:19): The days of mourning will become days of joy. B Prophecy 9 (8:20–22): The nations will desire to entreat God’s favor in Jerusalem. A Prophecy 10 (8:23): The nations’ participation in the Jews’ ascent to Jerusalem.

SUMMARY AND CONCLUSIONS In this article I attempted to show that the arrangement of the collection of prophecies in Zechariah ch. 8 is not random but is a well-designed structure intended to be read as one meaningful sequence, notwithstanding the fact that each component has significance even when considered independent of the other prophecies. I based this claim on the internal structure of the arrangement of the prophecies, in which each prophecy is an additional tier of the one adjoining it, particularly within each one of the three main chapter sections. The first part of the collection, which includes prophecies one through four, reflects the first stage of the process of redemption: the removal of the nations from Jerusalem, the return of God and the people to Jerusalem, and the length and quality of life in Jerusalem. The prophet assures the people of their longevity and of the many children who will play in Jerusalem’s streets. While the second section maintains the positive description, it places increased emphasis on the theological meaning of the redemption. After the description of the return of God and the people to Jerusalem, and of the good, ordinary life in the city, the second section turns in the fifth prophecy to the renewal of covenantal relations between God and the people. The sixth prophecy focuses on the theological realm as well, discussing first the founding of the Temple and then the economic good that will result from this. The seventh prophecy, the conclusion and climax of the second part, ends with a closing formula (“says the Lord”), immediately after which is a new opening phrase, similar to the opening of the entire chapter: “And the

THE STRUCTURE OF ZECHARIAH 8 AND ITS MEANING

369

word of the Lord came to me, saying.” The fact that this is the seventh prophecy also marks this prophecy as the culmination of the prophecies thus far. This prophecy also focuses on the theological aspects of the prophecies, and promises that the good conditions will continue as long as equitable social relations are maintained. This prophecy evokes past sins, and hints at the possibility of new punishments if the people return to their former sins. The prophet placed this prophecy, with its implicit warning to the people, as the climax of the theological section of the chapter. But the prophet chose not to conclude this collection of prophecies with a threatening tone, and perhaps this is why three prophecies, all positive, follow the seventh. In this section, the prophet opens with a promise that the days of mourning will become days of joy, after which he turns to the universal aspect of the redemption, unmentioned until now. While in the first and second parts the prophet deals with the people, God, and Jerusalem, in the third part-- in the ninth and tenth prophecies--the prophet shows how the nations will express their faith in God, their recognition of the Jews as God’s people, and their understanding that Jerusalem is a city in which they can join the Jews and seek God’s favor. In the first prophecy, the nations are the object of God’s anger; in the ninth and tenth prophecies, the nations seek closeness with God. We can thus see that the chapter contains two focal points. The first prophecies lead primarily to the first focal point of the seventh prophecy, a prophecy that hints at the dangerous possibility that the people will return to the sins of their ancestors. The second focal point is found at the conclusion of the entire collection. There, united together, are the central concepts of the connections between God, Judah, and Jerusalem, and the world’s recognition of the status of the city, the people, and God.

370

THE “SPRING OF THE YEAR” (2 CHRONICLES 36:10) AND THE CHRONICLER’S SOURCES MICHAEL AVIOZ

BAR-ILAN UNIVERSITY The matter of the extra-biblical sources that were available to the Chronicler, as well as of the historical reliability of the book, remain much debated. 1 The main questions are, as Peltonen puts it: “What were his sources? What was their historical nature and value? How did Chronicles use them?”2 In the following paper, I will discuss a text that may possibly bear on such issues, namely, the record of Jehoiachin’s deportation to Babylon (2 Chr 36:10). 3 In 2 Chr 36:10 we read: “In the spring of the year (Heb. ‫ולתשובת‬ ‫ )השנה‬King Nebuchadnezzar sent and brought him [i.e. Jehoiachin] to The most thorough study of this issue was done by Macy. See H. Macy, The Sources of the Books of Chronicles: A Reassessment (unpublished PhD diss., Harvard University, 1975). See also S. Japhet, I & II Chronicles: A Commentary (OTL; Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 1993), 14–23; G. N. Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9 (AB, 12; New York: Doubleday, 2004), 118–20 and the literature 1

cited therein. See further G. Galil, “The Historical Reliability of the Book of Chronicles,” in Y. Avishur and R. Deutsch (eds.), Michael: Historical, Epigraphical and Biblical Studies in Honor of Prof. Michael Heltzer (Tel Aviv/Jaffa: Archaeological Center Publications, 1999), 55*–62* (Hebrew). 2 K. Peltonen, “Function, Explanation and Literary Phenomena: Aspects of Source Criticism as Theory and Method in the History of Chronicles Research,” in M. P. Graham and S. L. McKenzie (eds.), The Chronicler as Author: Studies in Text and Texture (JSOTSup, 263; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 18– 69 (69). 3 Scholars also debate the year in which this deportation took place (598 or 597 BCE.). See the literature cited in O. Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem: Judah under Babylonian Rule (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2005), 55–61.

371

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Babylon, along with the precious vessels of the house of the LORD, and made his brother Zedekiah king over Judah and Jerusalem” (NRSV). The parallel account in 2 Kgs 24:10–17 is much more elaborate, and there are several key differences between the two texts. 4 For our purposes, we will focus on one such divergence between the two accounts. Unlike the phrase in the Chronicles account shown above, the version in 2 Kgs 24:10 states: “At that time (Heb. ‫)בעת ההיא‬, the servants of King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon came up to Jerusalem, and the city was besieged.” Some commentators ignore this difference entirely 5, while others refer to it only briefly. 6 The difference between the two parallel texts has been previously explained as an interpretation by the Chronicler in order to clarify the obscure datum appearing in Kings—‫בעת ההיא‬. 7 97F

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4 Other differences are as follows: In contrast to Kings, in Chronicles Nebuchadnezzar is not present in Jerusalem; Chronicles does not mention the treasures taken from both the palace and the temple; Chronicles views Zedekiah as Jehoiachin’s brother while in Kings he is his cousin; in Chronicles Jehoiachin ruled for three months and ten days, while in Kings he ruled for only three months. The representation of Zedekiah is very complex. See the different views on this question of Klein, 1 Chronicles (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006), 11; Japhet, I & II Chronicles, 1069–70; and Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 327. According to McKenzie, “Where C [= Chronicles] contains different or additional information from SK [=Samuel-Kings] that does not derive from textual variation or from Chr’s bias, it is certainly reasonable to propose that Chr has used a source unknown to us.” See S. L. McKenzie, The Chronicler’s Use of the Deuteronomistic History (HSM, 33; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1984), 28 and cf. p. 186. Cf. also Macy, Sources, 115–65, 169–72. McKenzie’s hypothesis was generally refuted. See, e.g., H. G. M. Williamson’s review of this work in VT 37 (1987), 107– 14. 5 E. L. Curtis and A. A. Madsen, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Books of Chronicles (ICC; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1910), 522; Japhet, I & II Chronicles, 1067; I. Kalimi, The Reshaping of Ancient Israelite History in Chronicles (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2005). This topic is also missing from J. Hughes, Secrets of the Times: Myth and History in Biblical Chronology (JSOTSup, 66; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990). 6 H. G. M. Williamson, 1 and 2 Chronicles (NCBC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1982), 414. He writes that the term “in the spring of the year” was supplied by the Chronicler “to indicate that a military campaign was involved.” However, what does it mean that the Chronicler “supplied” this piece of data? 7 Concerning the formula ‫בעת ההיא‬, “at that time,” see M. Cogan and H. Tadmor, II Kings: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB, 11; Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1988), 186; T. Kronholm, “‘ēt, ‫עת‬,” in G. J.

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373

What was the Chronicler’s source for the version ‫ ?לתשובת השנה‬This term appears in two additional places: 2 Sam 11:1 (// 1 Chr 20:1) and 1 Kgs 20:22.8 Theoretically, these texts could have been his source for replacing ‫ בעת ההיא‬with ‫לתשובת השנה‬. However, the difficulty with this option is that the Chronicler left the term ‫ בעת ההיא‬in both the synoptic 9 and non-synoptic 10 texts. If this term was considered indefinite, why did he not replace it in all of these instances? 11 Since he failed to do so, these narratives cannot be the basis for his comments on Jehoiachin’s deportation. Accordingly, another possibility needs to be considered. The Chronicler’s version is consistent with the Babylonian Chronicles, and it is surprising to discover that this similarity is usually not mentioned by most commentaries on 2 Chronicles.12 In the Babylonian Chronicle, we read: 10F

102F

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104F

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Botterweck et al. (eds.), Theological Dictionary of the Old Testament Vol. 11 (Grand Rapids/Cambridge: Eerdmans, 2001), 434–51, esp. 439–40; G. Brin, The Concept of Time in the Bible and the Dead Sea Scrolls (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 39–45. Regarding the change in 2 Chr 36:10, Brin writes on p. 41: “We either find here a difference in the information given in the two passages, or, on the other hand, this indicates the artificial nature of the use of this formula.” 8 The Septuagint translates similarly in all three places: ἐπιστρέφοντος τοῦ ἐνιαυτοῦ (“after the year had turned”). In 4QSama, verse 1 in 2 Sam 11 is missing. There is no textual evidence from Qumran regarding the verses from Kings and Chronicles. 9 2 Chr 7:8 (//1 Kgs 8:65); 2 Chr 28:16 (//2 Kgs 16:6); 2 Chr 21:10 (//2 Kgs 9:22). 10 1 Chr 21:28–29 (unparalleled in 2 Sam 24:17); 2 Chr 13:18; 2 Chr 15:5 (in plural form); 2 Chr 16:7, 10. 11 It seems probable that the Chronicler was familiar with the David-Bathsheba narrative. See H. G. M. Williamson, “A Response to A. G. Auld,” JSOT 27 (1983), 33–39 (36); G. N. Knoppers, I Chronicles 10–29 (AB, 12A; New York: Doubleday, 2004), 737–40; Idem, “Changing History: Nathan’s Dynastic Oracle and the Structure of the Davidic Monarchy in Chronicles,” in M. Bar-Asher et al. (eds.), Shai le-Sara Japhet: Studies in the Bible, Its Exegesis, and Its Language (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 2007), 99*–123* (Hebrew). Regarding the story of the battle of Ahab (1 Kgs 20), although it is not paralleled in Chronicles, it seems that the Chronicler had knowledge of it. On Ahab in Chronicles, see E. Ben Zvi, “The House of Omri/Ahab in Chronicles,” in L. L. Grabbe (ed.), Ahab Agonistes. The Rise and Fall of the Omri Dynasty (LHBOTS, 421/ESHM, 6; London/New York: T & T Clark, 2007), 41–53. 12 Exceptions are: J. Myers, II Chronicles (AB, 13; New York: Doubleday, 1965), 220; R. B. Dillard, 2 Chronicles (WBC, 15; Dallas: Word, 1987), 300. Both mention the Babylonian chronicle briefly but do not develop this point.

374

MICHAEL AVIOZ Year 7: in Kislev the king of Babylonia BCE called out his army and marched to Hattu. He set his camp against the city of Judah [Ya-a-hudu] and on 2nd Adar he took the city and captured the king. He appointed a king of his choosing there, took heavy tribute and returned to Babylon.13 106F

The month of Adar mentioned in this chronicle corresponds to the Hebrew phrase “in the spring of the year” (‫ )ולתשובת השנה‬because if the year started in Nisan, then Adar is the last month of the preceding year. If this is the case, then the Babylonian Chronicle confirms the testimony of the Chronicler, and we may add this case to those in which the Chronicler is historically trustworthy. 14 We may further deduce that the Chronicler had access to sources that were not available to the authors of Kings, who did not know exactly when Jehoiachin was sent into exile. Although we do not know whether the Chronicler had access to the Babylonian Chronicle itself, it would not be sound to merely postulate intuition or luck; the Chronicler may have based his assertions on some other oral or written source.15 This incident is not the only one where the Chronicler appears to have had additional information about Jehoiachin. The list of Jehoiachin’s heirs 107F

108F

Galil thinks that there is no correspondence between the date Adar 2 appearing in the Babylonian chronicle and the Judean calendar where it was already Nisan. See G. Galil, The Chronology of the Kings of Israel and Judah (SHCANE, 9; Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1996), 113–14. 13 Chronicle BM 21946. See A. Millard, “The Babylonian Chronicle (1.137),” in W. W. Hallo (ed.), COS 1. Canonical Compositions from the Biblical World (Leiden: Brill, 2003), p. 467. 14 Other known examples are Hezekiah’s tunnel (2 Chr 32:30), Manasseh’s deportation by the Assyrians (2 Chr 33:11), and Manasseh’s wall (2 Chr 33:14). See N. S. Fox, In the Service of the King: Officialdom in Ancient Israel and Judah (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 2000), 18–23; A. F. Rainey, “The Chronicler and His Sources—Historical and Geographical,” in M. P. Graham et al. (eds.), The Chronicler as Historian (JSOTSup, 238; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 30–72 (52–53); G. N. Knoppers, “Historiography and History: The Royal Reforms,” in The Chronicler as Historian, 178–203; B.E. Kelly, “Manasseh in the Books of Kings and Chronicles (2 Kings 21:1–18; 2 Chron 33:1–20),” in V. P. Long et al. (eds.), Windows into Old Testament History: Evidence, Argument, and the Crisis of “Biblical Israel” (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), 131–46. 15 For the view that the Chronicler had extra-biblical sources, see Japhet, I & II Chronicles, 18, 23 and passim.

THE “SPRING OF THE YEAR” (2 CHRONICLES 36:10)

375

in 1 Chr 3:17–24 is another instance in which the Babylonian records support the Chronicler’s additions.16

A DIFFERENT VORLAGE? Another possibility to explain the deviations of the Chronicler from his sources is that the Chronicler had a different Vorlage for the books of Samuel-Kings.17 This means that the Chronicler did not alter the text of Samuel-Kings tendentiously, but rather used a divergent copy of SamuelKings. Lemke thus concludes, “The text which he utilized was an Old Palestinian text type from which also the Greek translation of Samuel was made.” 18 Although I do believe that such a possibility should be considered in certain cases, I do not think that 2 Chr 36:10 is among them. One cannot account for all the differences between the Chronicler’s work and his sources on the basis of that line of explanation, 19 especially in the case of parallel passages in Chronicles and Kings. Although in the case of Samuel, the Vorlage of Chronicles appears to have represented a type of text which was not identical with the MT and was closer to the Hebrew Vorlage of Samuel LXX (see also 4QSama), in the case of Kings it is generally admitted that Chronicle’s Vorlage was close to Kings MT, as demonstrated by McKenzie and others. 20

See Japhet, I & II Chronicles, 100. W.E. Lemke, “The Synoptic Problem in the Chronicler’s History,” HTR 58 (1965), 349–63. Cf. Japhet, I & II Chronicles, 28–29; R.W. Klein, 1 Chronicles, 28– 30; Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 69–71; H.G.M. Williamson “The Death of Josiah and the Continuing Development of the Deuteronomic History,” VT 32 (1982), 242–48. Five years later, Begg has written a response to Williamson’s paper, to which Williamson replied: see C. T. Begg, “The Death of Josiah in Chronicles: Another View,” VT 37 (1987), 1–8; Williamson, “Reliving the Death of Josiah: A Reply to C. T. Begg,” VT 37, 9–15. See also Williamson, 1 and 2 Chronicles, 408–9. 18 Lemke, “Synoptic Problem,” 362. 19 Cf. B.E. Kelly, Retribution and Eschatology in Chronicles (JSOTSup, 211; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 217; M. Avioz, “Nathan’s Prophecy in II Samuel 7 and 1 Chr 17: Text, Context, and Meaning,” ZAW 116 (2004), 542–54. 20 See McKenzie, Chronicler’s Use of the Deuteronomistic History, 55; Knoppers, 1 Chronicles 1–9, 70. It is true that in the case of 2 Kgs 24–25, McKenzie argued that Chr’s Vorlage of 2 Kgs 24–25 was truncated. However, McKenzie has usually not been followed on this point. 16 17

376

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A CASE OF INTERPRETATION? Several scholars hold that the Chronicler should be defined as an interpreter, 21 but this view is criticized by other scholars. Among the main counter-arguments are: (a) if we define the book of Chronicles as an interpretation or exegesis, why would the Chronicler add unparalleled material? (b) where there are differences between Chronicles and its sources, many of the changes do not appear to be exegetical ones. 22 To be sure, one cannot deny that there are cases in Chronicles in which there is evidence for an interpretive process. However, we need not deduce from such cases that the genre of Chronicles is interpretation, and that every single difference should be explained as exegetical.23

THE MEANING OF ‫לתשובת השנה‬ Scholars have disputed the exact meaning of ‫לתשובת השנה‬. Morgenstern 24 suggests that it is an astronomical term designating the equinox that occurs twice a year, in spring and autumn. The Babylonian calendar begins the year with the spring equinox, i.e. the month of Nisan. 107F

T. Willi, Die Chronik als Auslegung. Untersuchungen zur literarischen Gestaltung der historischen Überlieferung Israels (FRLANT, 106; Göttingen: 21

Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1972); W. M. Schniedewind, “The Chronicler As An Interpreter of Scripture,” in M. P. Graham and S. L. McKenzie (eds.), The Chronicler as Author: Studies in Text and Texture (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 158–80 and the literature cited therein. 22 For a critique of Willi and his followers, see P. R. Ackroyd, “The Chronicler as Exegete,” JSOT 2 (1977), 2–32 (= The Chronicler in His Age [JSOTSup, 101; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991], 311–43); P. C. Beentjes, Tradition and Transformation in the Book of Chronicles (SSN, 52; Leiden: Brill, 2008), 5; I. Kalimi, “The Characterization of the Chronicler and His Writing,” in idem, An

Ancient Israelite Historian: Studies in the Chronicler, His Time, Place and Writing

(Assen: Van Gorcum, 2005), 19–39. Kalimi raises seven criticisms of Willi, but I do not share all of them. For a definition of exegesis, see S. B. Porter and K. D. Clarke, “What is Exegesis? An Analysis of Various Definitions,” in S. B. Porter (ed.), Handbook to the Exegesis of the New Testament (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 3–21. 23 For a similar assessment, see Knoppers, “Historiography and History,” 183– 4. The problem of defining interrelations between biblical texts and labeling them with various sorts of misleading terms is beyond the scope of this paper. See, most recently, J. D. Smoak, “Building Houses and Planting Vineyards: The Early InnerBiblical Discourse on an Ancient Israelite Wartime Curse,” JBL 127 (2008), 19–35. 24 J. Morgenstern, “Additional Notes on ‘The Three Calendars of Ancient Israel’,” HUCA 3 (1926), 77–107 (78).

THE “SPRING OF THE YEAR” (2 CHRONICLES 36:10)

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According to Anderson, ‫ לתשובת השנה‬indicates the period between the heavy winter rains and the harvest, i.e. the spring, an appropriate time for military exploits.25 Garsiel, however, rejects this view, reasoning that “it is improbable that all the local kings made a practice of fighting then…we cannot say that there was a fixed time when kings went out to war.” 26 Alternatively, Thiele and Finegan 27 maintain that the term means a time at or after Nisan 1, since that is the date of the Babylonian New Year and thus, most naturally, the beginning of the spring of the year. These authors connect our verse with Ezek 40:1 (“at the beginning of the year, on the tenth day of the month”) and conclude that Nisan 10 (Apr 22, 597) is the probable date of the actual deportation of Jehoiachin. Two separate questions should be asked: (a) In what time of the year did armies prefer to wage war? and (b) What is the meaning of ‫תשובת‬ ‫ ?השנה‬The answer to the first question is that armies throughout the ages initiated wars in the spring,28 and we have no reason to presume that the season of warfare was any different than is described in the Hebrew Bible. This question is not necessarily connected to the meaning of the term “‫לתשובת השנה‬,” however, which may refer to the beginning, 29 the middle,30 or the end of the year. 108F

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A. A. Anderson, 2 Samuel (WBC, 11; Dallas: Word, 1989), 152. Cf. R. P. Gordon, 1 & 2 Samuel: A Commentary (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1986), 252; D. J. A. Clines, On the Way to the Postmodern: Old Testament Essays 1967–1998, vol. 1 (JSOTSup, 292; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 371–82; J. A. Wagenaar, “Post-exilic Calendar Innovations: The First Month of the Year and the Date of Passover and the Festival of Unleavened Bread,” ZAW 115 (2003), 3–24. 26 M. Garsiel, “The Story of David and Bathsheba: A Different Approach,” CBQ 55 (1993), 251. Cf. P. K. McCarter Jr., II Samuel (AB; New York: Doubleday, 1984), 285. 27 E. R. Thiele, “The Chronology of the Kings of Judah and Israel,” JNES 3 (1944), 137–86 (182); J. Finegan, Handbook of Biblical Chronology: Principles of 25

Time Reckoning in the Ancient World and Problems of Chronology in the Bible

(2nd ed., Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 1998), 257. 28 A. K. Grayson, “Assyrian Civilization,” in J Boardman et al. (eds.), The

Cambridge Ancient History III/2: The Assyrian and Babylonian Empires and other States of the Near East, from the Eighth to the Sixth Centuries BC. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 194–228 (219); S. E. Phang, Roman Military Service: Ideologies of Discipline in the Late Republic and Early Principate

(Cambridge/New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 89. 29 H. Tadmor, “Chronology,” Encyclopaedia Biblica 4 (Hebrew; Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1962), 245–310 (276); A. Malamat, History of Biblical Israel: Major Problems and Minor Issues (CHANE, 7; Leiden: Brill, 2001), 310. 30 See J. Begrich, Die Chronologie der Könige von Israel und Juda und die

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While the first question may be answered by referring to statistics, the second question involves philology. 31 Apparently, whenever biblical records are involved, the term “‫ ”לתשובת השנה‬is connected to military expeditions. In 2 Sam 11:1, it is equated with ‫ ;לעת צאת המלאכים‬32 1 Kgs 20: 22, 26 tells about the war between Aram and Israel; and finally in 2 Chr 36:10, Jehoaichin is taken into exile during that season of the year. 33 1024F

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WHY DID THE CHRONICLER NOT USE THE MONTH NAME ADAR? We might have expected the Chronicler to use the month name Adar to designate the month, as cited in the Babylonian Chronicle, thereby avoiding any ambiguity concerning the month in which Jehoiachin was deported. Why did he not do so? In the pre-exilic books, dates are designated according to an ordinal system, or numbered months. 34 This system is replaced in the post-exilic period by the Babylonian month names, as we see in the books of Zechariah, Ezra-Nehemiah and Esther. However, the book of Chronicles uses the older system of the ordinal designation: the first month (1 Chr 12:16; 27:2), the second month (1 Chr 3:2); and the seventh 1027F

Quellen des Rahmens der Königsbücher (Tubingen: Mohr, 1929), 88; C. Körting, Der Schall des Schofar. Israels Feste im Herbst (BZAW, 285; Berlin: de Gruyter,

1999), 61. 31 Galil points out that it is unclear whether the Chronicler meant the day on which Jehoiachin surrendered, a day after the New Year, or the day on which Jehoiachin was deported. See G. Galil, “A New Look at the Chronology of the Last Kings of Judah,” Zion 56 (1991), 15 n. 44 (Hebrew). 32 On this term, see McCarter, II Samuel, 279. 33 Cf. Clines, On the Way. The term is also found in Greek in the supplement to LXX in 3 Reigns 12:24x. See, most recently, the discussion relating to the originality of this text in E. Tov, “3 Kingdoms Compared with Similar Rewritten Compositions,” in A. Hilhorst et al. (eds.), Flores Florentino: Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Early Jewish Studies in Honour of Florentino García Martínez (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 345–66. 34 See J. C. VanderKam, Calendars in the Dead Sea Scrolls: Measuring Time (London and New York: Routledge, 1998), 6. VanderKam omits the book of Chronicles from his list. Sacha Stern suggests that, “The exclusive use of Biblical, numbered months in some earlier post-exilic Biblical works […] can be dismissed as literary archaism.” See his Calendar and Community: A History of the Jewish Calendar, 2nd cent. BCE–10th cent. CE. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 29, n. 130. However, it is unlikely that such a discrepancy can be explained in this way. D. Miano (Shadow on the Steps: Time Measurement in Ancient Israel [Atlanta: SBL, 2010], 7–48) ignores the testimony of the post-exilic books with regard to the month names.

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month (2 Chr 5:3). Talmon 35 notes that the dates in post-exilic books are not recorded consistently. There are places where months are identified by numerals only (Hag 1:1), others where the Babylonian system is used exclusively (Esth 9:15, 17, 19, 21; Neh 1:1; 2:1), and still others in which a double date appears (Zech 1:7). Even in the Pseudepigrapha, the numeral system still prevails.36 Because of the considerable ambiguity regarding the period when the system for numbering the months in Israel was changed, 37 it remains difficult to establish with certainty the reason for which the Chronicler abstained from using the Babylonian calendar.

CONCLUSION The divergence between 2 Chr 36:10 and 2 Kgs 24:10 can be explained as having resulted from new information that was available to the Chronicler, but apparently not to the author of Kings, 38 a situation that is not unique within the biblical literature. However, my analysis of this one passage of Chronicles does not support unquestioning acceptance of either the book’s historical validity, nor of the assumption that its unparalleled material was consistently taken from extra-biblical sources. Rather, it corroborates the basic rule that Hugh Williamson laid out some thirty years ago in his commentary on Chronicles: “Sound method demands that each passage be examined in its own right first of all.”39 35 S. Talmon, J. Ben-Dov and U. Glessmer, Calendrical Texts. Qumran Cave 4 XVI (Discoveries in the Judaean Desert, XXI; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2001), 136

n. 5. See also A. D. Friedberg, “A New Clue in the Dating of the Composition of the Book of Esther,” VT 50 (2000), 561–65. However, Friedberg does not mention the Book of Chronicles, a point for which he was criticized by Larsson. See G. Larsson, “Is the Book of Esther Older Than Has Been Believed?,” VT 52 (2002), 130–31. Larsson notes that “The Book of Chronicles, which is also certainly later than 400 BCE, does only use ordinals and demonstrates no influence from the Babylonian calendar” (p. 130). 36 J. C. VanderKam, “Calendars, Ancient Israelite and Early Jewish,” ABD 1:814–20. 37 De Vaux states that the change in the use of dates occurred long after the exile. See R. de Vaux, Ancient Israel, Its Life and Institutions (trans. J. McHugh; London: Darton, Longman and Todd, 1961), 185. 38 In this I differ from Rainey (“The Chronicler and His Sources”), who supposed that both the Dtr and Chr had access to an extended version of the Samuel-Kings texts, but that each author had reasons to use or not to use this material. 39 Williamson, 1 and 2 Chronicles, 19. Cf. also Galil, “The Historical

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Reliability.” For a positive stance towards the possibility that the Chronicler did have access to extra-biblical sources, see Klein, 1 Chronicles, 30–44. I wish to express my gratitude to the anonymous referees of a first draft of this paper for their valuable suggestions which significantly improved the present article.

MEDIEVAL JEWISH EXEGESIS ON DUAL INCIPITS ISAAC B. GOTTLIEB

BAR-ILAN UNIVERSITY INTRODUCTION In this paper, I propose to look at several examples of specific passages in the Pentateuch which have multiple opening formulae through the eyes of medieval Jewish exegesis. This body of work, with its attendant dictionaries and grammars, is sometimes cited by contemporary scholars in discussions about the meaning of a word or its Semitic (Arabic, Aramaic) cognates. However, medieval Jewish scholars between the 10th and the 12th centuries in Iraq (Babylonia), Palestine, and Spain did more than systematize the language of Biblical Hebrew; their philology, lexicography, and grammatical research was but one aspect of a new mode of interpretation called the peshaṭ, which replaced the way the Bible had been interpreted by Jews for a thousand years. The change began in the East, presumably as a result of the interpretations of the Karaites, who rejected the Rabbanite interpretations of the Bible as found in midrash and the Talmud. 1 Midrash in Hebrew and 103F

Daniel Frank writes that “the hallmark of early Karaite interpretation is an anti-traditional rationalism. Investigating the Bible without rabbinic preconceptions became an intellectual and religious imperative” (D. Frank, Search Scripture Well: 1

Karaite Exegesis and the Origins of the Jewish Bible Commentary in the Islamic East [Leiden: Brill, 2004], x, xi), while Meira Polliack thinks that “the linguistic-

contextual (or ‘literal’) orientation of Karaite biblical exegesis relied on technical Hebrew terms and hermeneutic principles also known from rabbinic and masoretic sources… This suggests that the Karaites did not necessarily revolutionize Jewish biblical study… ” (M. Polliack, “Major Trends in Karaite Biblical Exegesis in the Tenth and Eleventh Centuries,” in M. Polliack [ed.], Karaite Judaism, A Guide to its History and Literary Sources [Leiden: Brill, 2003], 365). Of interest is Miriam Goldstein’s idea that “the adoption of new methods of commentary provided the

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Aramaic can be understood as a noun describing the literature itself (“midrashic literature”) and as a verbal form (e.g., “midrashic exegesis”) denoting homiletical interpretation. Midrash interprets the Bible by expanding the biblical story, seeking additional meaning in wordplays and analogies, and employing an intertextuality that takes no account of context. Thus a verse in Genesis can be illuminated by a passage from Chronicles if the same word or expression is found in both. Midrashic technique is oblivious to history: the aim of midrashic homily is not explication de texte but rather the derivation of ethical and religious messages and normative observances of Judaism. The former are derived from the narratives, the latter, called Halakha, from the legal portions. 2 Both types of midrash, the legal (or Halakhic) and the narrative (or Aggadic), were developed in the Second Temple period and practiced through the first seven centuries of the common era. 3 The legal interpretations were the result of scholastic efforts in the Pharisaic or rabbinic study hall, while the Aggadic homilies originated in sermons delivered in the synagogue on Sabbaths and holidays by the Palestinian Rabbis. These sermons were later given literary shape and called midrashic literature. The Karaites rejected the authority of the Rabbis and the validity of their biblical interpretations, preferring to explain the Bible according to its context, grammar, and syntax. The Karaite scholar Yefet ben ‘Eli (Basra, Karaites a means of distinguishing themselves from their Rabbanite opponents… The new methods of commentary were integral to their identity as a movement, for they ridiculed the interpretations of Rabbinic literature as deviations from the plain sense of the text” (“The Beginnings of the Transition from Derash to Peshat as Exemplified in Yefet Ben ‘Eli’s Comment on Psa. 44:24,” in G. Khan [ed.], Exegesis and Grammar in Medieval Karaite Texts [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001], 41– 64, here 43). 2 The classic study of midrashic techniques is I. Heinemann, Darkhei HaAggadah (The Methods of the Aggadah; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1954 [Hebrew]). A comprehensive précis in English of Heinemann’s book by Marc Bregman can be found at http://www.uncg.edu/rel/contacts/ faculty/Heinemann.htm. 3 As to the origins of midrash, S.D. Fraade, “Rabbinic Midrash and Ancient Jewish Biblical Interpretation,” in C.E. Fonrobert and M.S. Jaffee (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to the Talmud and Rabbinic Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 102, describes a current scholarly approach “in which ‘midrash’ denoted scriptural interpretation in general… dating all the way back, not just to the closing of the Hebrew scriptural canon but inner-biblically into the later books of the Bible…” G. Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash (trans. M. Bockmuehl; 2nd ed.; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996), 237, notes that “an extended prehistory of the midrash before the rabbinic period is in any case undeniable.”

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Iraq, mid-10th century) moved to Jerusalem and wrote Judeo-Arabic commentaries on every book of the Bible. 4 At about the same time, David ben Abraham al-Fasi, also a Karaite, wrote a Hebrew-Arabic dictionary of the Bible. In Iraq, the Rabbanite scholar Saadyah Gaon responded to the Karaites in kind, stressing in his introductions to his translations and commentaries on biblical books that the Bible must be interpreted in its simple, plain, or external sense (ẓāhir) unless the five senses, reason, tradition, or a contradictory verse dictated otherwise. 5 Saadya understood that in his arguments with the Karaites over the meaning of this or that verse, he had to prove that the simple meaning of a verse was not as they interpreted it, but rather in accord with rabbinic understanding. Polemics between Rabbanites and Karaites thus contributed to Bible exegesis that was rooted in grammar, context, and a rational approach to the text. In Spain, grammatical studies of Hebrew and biblical dictionaries began to appear in 950 CE under the influence of the surrounding Arabic culture and its development of Arab grammar (especially Arabic grammar in the context of the Koran). 6 The ongoing polemic with the Karaites also contributed to the development of reference materials. Grammars and Frank, Search Scripture Well, 230; Goldstein, “Beginnings.” H. Ben Shammai, “The Tension Between Literal Interpretation and Exegetical Freedom: Comparative Observations on Saadia’s Method,” in J.D. McAuliffe et. al., 4 5

With Reverence for the Word; Medieval Scriptural Exegesis in Judaism ,Christianity, and Islam (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 33–50.

For the history of Spanish interpretation, see N.M. Sarna, “Hebrew and Biblical Studies in Medieval Spain,” in R.D. Barnett (ed.), The Sephardi Heritage: 6

Essays on the History and Cultural Contribution of the Jews of Spain and Portugal. Vol. 1: The Jews in Spain and Portugal before and after the Expulsion of 1492 (New York: Ktav, 1971), 323–65 (= N.M. Sarna, Studies in Biblical Interpretation

[Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 2000], 81–125). More recent introductions to medieval exegesis can be found in the HBOT volumes: M. Saebø (ed.), Hebrew Bible/Old Testament: The History of Its Interpretation. Vol. I/2: The Middle Ages (Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000), chapters 25, 31, 32, 33, 37; Hebrew Bible/Old Testament: The History of Its Interpretation. Vol. II: From the Renaissance to the Enlightenment (Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2008), chapters 2, 8. A most readable introduction to medieval exegesis, both Ashkenazi and Sephardic, is E.L. Greenstein, “Medieval Bible Commentaries,” in B.W. Holtz (ed.), Back to the Sources: Reading the Classic Jewish Texts (New York: Summit Books, 1984), 213–59, which includes an English bibliography. J. Kalman, “Medieval Jewish Biblical Commentaries and the State of Parshanut Studies,” Religion Compass 2/5 (2008), 819–43, lists printed editions of medieval Jewish commentary and provides a review of recent scholarship.

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dictionaries written in Arabic enabled an exegesis based upon the straightforward meaning of the verse. While the zenith of Spanish exegesis is to be found in the writings of Ibn Ezra (1089–1165) and Moses Nahmanides (1273), “the hallmarks of the Sefardic Bible commentary can be traced back to Rabbanite and Karaite works composed in Iraq and the Land of Israel as far back as the tenth century.” 7 In France, several 12th century commentators, earliest among them Rashi (1040–1105), began to engage in grammatical and contextual interpretations of the Bible and to limit their use of midrashic explanations. Because the conditions for the rise of peshaṭ interpretation which we enumerated above did not exist in medieval France, 8 scholars have agreed on three possible reasons for the turn to peshaṭ: first, there were some contacts with Spanish Bible interpretation. The Spanish influence on Ashkenaz (medieval France and Germany) increased greatly with the Almohade invasion of Spain from North Africa in the mid-12th century and the subsequent flight of Spanish Jewish scholars northward to Italy, Provence, and France. Many of these refugees, such as the Kimhis, ibn Tibbons, and Ibn Ezra undertook to translate Spanish Jewish grammatical and philosophical tracts from Arabic into Hebrew, enriching the world of Western Jewry and laying the ground for peshaṭ exegesis.9 A second motivation for peshaṭ interpretation of the Bible was la petite renaissance in 12th century France, a movement that showed interest in secular study, reason, and a return to the classics of Greece in the original language. Among the Jews, it inspired a return to the original Hebrew text of the Bible, unadorned by midrashic interpretation. 10 The third spur toward peshaṭ interpretation was the Christian-Jewish religious polemic. These factors meant that during the 12th century, commentators in Spain and France were all searching for peshaṭ, instead of the associative, inferential, and homiletic methods and teachings of the classic midrash.11 7

Frank, Search Scripture Well, 249. Frank counts David Kimhi as a Sefardic

parshan, even though he was actually born in Provence.

8 The French scholars did not read Arabic and hence were not familiar with the grammatical treatises produced in the East and in Spain. In addition, there were no Karaites in the lands of Ashkenaz. 9 I.M. Ta-Shma has raised the novel idea that peshaṭ interpretation in northern France was preceded by peshaṭ interpretation in Byzantium; idem, “HebrewByzantine Bible Exegesis ca. 1000, from the Cairo Geniza,” Tarbiz 69/2 (2000), 247–56 (Hebrew). 10 E. Touitou, Exegesis in Perpetual Motion: Studies in the Pentateuchal Commentary of Rabbi Samuel Ben Meir (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2003 [Hebrew]), 29. 11 Strictly speaking, Rashi used the Talmudic form of the word, peshuto shel miqra,

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The changes in exegesis brought about original interpretations not only of individual words and grammatical forms but of entire verses and chapters, since a realistic and rational context was established for the biblical narratives and the laws as well. The medieval interpreters were attempting to read the Bible in light of its grammar and syntax, and its relation to reality and rationality, but were bound by their axiomatic belief in the divine origins of the biblical text and its unity. These constrictions led to creative attempts to explain away difficulties by means of insights into biblical language and style, or by establishing a different context or background for a particular verse One such problem was the perception that biblical units sometimes have more than one opening verse, the subject of this paper. There are modern studies of the Bible whose premises, sans the ideology, are quite similar. Wilfried Warning has posited the following for his study of Leviticus: Because this study focuses exclusively on the extant text, it neither follows nor claims nor attempts any source-critical or redaction-critical hypotheses. Its sole focus is to better comprehend the means by which the extant text has been artistically arranged, that is, to detect the distinct literary devices, deliberate terminological patterns which have been created by the writer(s) of the present text.12

In critical thought, dual beginnings for a single pericope (dual incipits) are overwhelmingly ascribed to multiple sources which were conflated or to the hand of a redactor who appended his own opening to the original text. 13 By contrast, when the classical exegetes sensed that there were two opening “the simple meaning of the verse,” while his grandson Rashbam (R. Samuel ben Meir) used the unadorned form peshaṭ. In addition to the three reasons we listed, H. Liss, Creating Fictional Worlds: Peshat-Exegesis and Narrativity in Rashbam’s Commentary on the Torah (Leiden: Brill, 2011), claims that peshaṭ in France was influenced by courtly literature, which brought about an awareness of literary and narrative exegesis. 12 W. Warning, Literary Artistry in Leviticus (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 6. 13 Both explanations are to be found in the scholarly literature. A. Rofé, Introduction to the Literature of the Hebrew Bible (Jerusalem: Carmel, 2006 [Hebrew]), 116: “The members of the priestly school “took over” the literature termed JE and edited it extensively, by means of short additions to the beginnings of stories or their endings.” M. Haran, The Bible and its World (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2009 [Hebrew]), 266: “The authors of the Torah were no more than editors; they limited themselves to light touches of the pen and some chapter headings, in addition to the headings that were already present in the material in front of them.”

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formulations, they sought to account for the phenomenon by seeing it as a feature of biblical form and style and by having a particular understanding of the two formulations. In these cases, the medieval authors went well beyond commenting on grammar and syntax. I shall cite four examples of dual beginnings and the medieval commentaries that dealt with them. 14 Readers endowed with critical acumen may be able to see that, despite his presuppositions, the medieval interpreter was sometimes beset with the same problem as the modern commentator. Though medieval and modern scholars have entirely different perspectives on the Bible and indeed on the nature and goals of exegesis, there is a narrow bridge which links the old and the new, as I hope these examples will show.

1. EXODUS 19:1–2 15 ‫ָבּאוּ‬

‫ַבּיּוֹם ַהזֶּ ה‬

‫יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬

‫יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל ֵמ ֶא ֶרץ ִמ ְצ ָריִם‬-‫ְבּנֵי‬

‫ ָשׁם‬-‫ַבּ ִמּ ְד ָבּר וַ יִּ ַחן‬

‫ִסינַ י וַ יַּ ֲחנוּ‬

‫ישׁי ְל ֵצאת‬ ִ ‫ ַבּח ֶֹדשׁ ַה ְשּׁ ִל‬.1 ‫ִמ ְד ַבּר ִסינָ י׃‬ ‫ וַ יִּ ְסעוּ ֵמ ְר ִפ ִידים וַ יָּ בֹאוּ ִמ ְד ַבּר‬.2 ‫נֶ גֶ ד ָה ָהר׃‬

1. On the third new moon after the Israelites had gone forth from the land of Egypt, on that very day, they entered the wilderness of Sinai. 2. Having journeyed from Rephidim, they entered the wilderness of Sinai and encamped in the wilderness. Israel encamped there in front of the mountain. I have dealt previously with opening and closing formulations in the following papers: I.B Gottlieb, “Introductory Formulae in the Pentateuch,” Mehqarim Belashon 11–12 (2008), 35–50 (Hebrew); “From Formula to Expression in Some Hebrew and Aramaic Texts,” Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society 31/2 (2008), 47–61; “Sof Davar: Biblical Endings,” Prooftexts 11 (1991), 213–24; “Biblical Beginnings: The Openings of the Five Torah Books,” in M. Avioz et al. (eds.), Zer Rimonim: Studies in Biblical Literature and Jewish Exegesis Presented to Professor Rimon Kasher (Atlanta: SBL, forthcoming). 15 The English Bible translations are taken from NJPS; Rashi (1040–1105) from A.M. Silbermann and M. Rosenbaum, Chumash with Targum Onkelos, Haphtaroth, and Rashi’s Commentary (London: Shapiro Valentine & Co., 1934); Rashbam (France, 1080–1160) from M.I. Lockshin, Rashbam’s Commentary on Exodus (Brown Judaic Studies, 310; Atlanta, Georgia: Scholars Press, 1997); Nahmanides (Spain, 1194–1270) from C.B. Chavel, Ramban (Nachmanides) Commentary on the Torah (New York: Shilo Publishing House, 1974). Translations of passages from Ibn Ezra (Spain, 1089–1150) and Sforno (Italy, 1475–1550) are my own. Bracketed words in Rashi, Nahmanides, and Rashbam appear in the editions I used; some bracketed verse references were added by me. 14

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MEDIEVAL COMMENTARIES Rashi (19:2): And they journeyed from Rephidim—What does Scripture teach us by again expressly stating from where they set forth on the journey, for is it not already written (Ex.17:1) that they had encamped at Rephidim and it is therefore evident that they set forth from there?! But Scripture repeats it in order to make a comparison with the character of their journey from Rephidim to that of their arrival in the wilderness of Sinai! How was it in the case of their arrival in the wilderness of Sinai? They were in a state of penitence [as shown by the unanimity with which they encamped before the mountain: cf. Rashi on the end of this verse]! Thus, too, their setting forth from Rephidim was in a state of repentance for the sin they had committed there (see 17:2).16 Nahmanides (19:1): … Now Rashi wrote: “And they journeyed from Rephidim… so also was their departure [from Rephidim] with repentance.” Thus Rashi’s language. But I have not understood this. It says in connection with all journeys: and they pitched [camp] in Elim;

And they took their journey from Elim… and they came unto the wilderness of Sin (16:1); and they journeyed from the wilderness of Sin… and encamped in Rephidim (17:1); and so the entire section of Mas’ei [Num. 33] is written.

COMMENT Rashi wants to know why this pericope mentions that the Israelites journeyed from Rephidim. A priori it would seem that there is no basis for Rashi’s question, for the language “and they journeyed”—“and they encamped” is the regular formula used for the travels of the Israelites in the wilderness. This is precisely Nahmanides’ question. In fact, in the verse to which Rashi was referring when he said, “for is it not already written that they had encamped at Rephidim,” we find the exact same style: “From the

16 As stated in the previous note, I relied on the English translation of Rashi by Silbermann and Rosenbaum. They, however, do not note in their introduction which text of Rashi they used. A critical edition of Rashi on the Pentateuch was produced by A. Berliner in 1866 and again in 1905. C. Chavel’s edition of Rashi is based on Berliner. Currently, a new critical edition of the Rabbinic Bible (Miqraot Gedolot) has been prepared by M. Cohen of Bar-Ilan University, under the title Miqraot Gedolot HaKeter, and it is this edition of the text that I have consulted for the commentaries referred to in this paper.

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wilderness of Sin the whole Israelite community journeyed 17 by stages as the Lord would command. They encamped at Rephidim, and there was no water for the people to drink” (Exod 17:1). Rashi could have asked at that point as well, “Why did the verse state, ‘From the wilderness of Sin the whole Israelite community journeyed,’ when it already had stated in the previous chapter that they had encamped in the wilderness of Sin (16:1), and so certainly they would now be journeying forth from there?” Yet Rashi asked that question only about our text, Exod 19:2. It would seem therefore that Rashi’s question, “What does Scripture teach us by again expressly stating from where they set forth on the journey,” stems from a sense of repetition and redundancy. Having already said in 19:1, “On that very day, they entered the wilderness of Sinai,” it was entirely superfluous to write in v. 2, “Having journeyed from Rephidim,” for they had already reached their destination. Perhaps Rashi had in mind another repetition in these verses, though he did not state it: “they entered the wilderness of Sinai” in 19:2 is a needless repetition of the phrase “they entered the wilderness of Sinai” in the previous verse. Nahmanides was well aware of the stylistic pair “they journeyed”— “they encamped,” found over and over again in Num. 33, and hence he expressed his wonder at Rashi’s question. However, a closer look shows that our two verses do not really follow the established pattern that Nahmanides cited. In Numbers, we find the pattern consisting of “they journeyed from A, encamped in B; they journeyed from B and encamped at C.” 18 Here, however, the order is completely reversed: “They entered the wilderness of Sinai—[they] journeyed from Rephidim—they entered the wilderness of Sinai—[they] encamped in the wilderness.” The encampment at Sinai (“they entered”) is stated before the departure from Rephidim. Therefore Rashi felt that there was no point in mentioning their departure from Rephidim, which should have been stated prior to entering the wilderness at Sinai. Of course, had ch. 19 begun at v. 2, Rashi would have had no problem, for then the accepted pattern would have been preserved: “Having journeyed from Rephidim, they entered the wilderness of Sinai and encamped in the wilderness.”19 Similarly, had the chapter begun with v. 1 alone, no problem would have arisen. We may conclude that the real

NJPS: “continued.” The Hebrew reads, “‫ויסעו‬.” In the NJPS translation: “They set out from Succoth and encamped at Eitha… They set out from Eitha… (Num 33:6–7). 19 In Hebrew, ‫ ויסעו… ויחנו‬. 17 18

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problem which lay behind Rashi’s question was the double incipit that he sensed in the first two verses of ch. 19. The sense of a dual opening bothered Nahmanides no less, as may be seen in his opening remark to Exod 19:1: In the third month (Ex. 19:1)—Scripture should have said, “And they journeyed from Rephidim and they encamped in the wilderness of Sinai,

in the third month after their going forth from the land of Egypt,” just as it said above concerning the wilderness of Sin [17:1]. But [Scripture’s manner of expression here is] due to the fact that their coming into the wilderness of Sinai was an occasion for joy and a festival to them, and that since they left Egypt they had been yearning for it… For this reason, Scripture begins this section with the statement that in the third month… the same day that the month began, they came there [as they had eagerly anticipated]. Following this opening, Scripture reverts [to the usual style] as in the other journeys: And they journeyed from Rephidim [19:2].

Ramban had expected to find the usual style, “they journeyed, they encamped.” He therefore attributed the wording of the first verse in Exod 19 to its heightened poetic style, as a way to express the great enthusiasm of the people upon their arrival at Mount Sinai. Like most biblical poetry, this verse is composed of two parallel stichs; the first limb gives the date as, “On the third new moon,” whereas the second reiterates and reinforces the first: “on that very day.” A previous chapter in the Torah (Gen 21:1–2) seems to be similarly structured:

‫ ָשׂ ָרה ַכּ ֲא ֶשׁר ָא ָמר וַ יַּ ַﬠשׂ ה' לְ ָשׂ ָרה ַכּ ֲא ֶשׁר ִדּ ֵבּר׃‬-‫וַ ה' ָפּ ַקד ֶאת‬ ‫�הים׃‬ ִ ‫ ִדּ ֶבּר אֹתוֹ ֱא‬-‫מּוֹﬠד ֲא ֶשׁר‬ ֵ ַ‫וַ ַתּ ַהר וַ ֵתּלֶ ד ָשׂ ָרה לְ ַא ְב ָר ָהם ֵבּן לִ זְ ֻקנָ יו ל‬

1. The Lord took note of Sarah as He had promised, and the Lord did for Sarah as He had spoken. 2. Sarah conceived and bore a son to Abraham in his old age, at the set time of which God had spoken.

On the face of it, this too is a dual incipit, the first verse poetic, the second rendered in prose. 20 The poetic cadence and parallelism of the first verse did not, however, make an impression on E.A. Speiser, who notes of v. 1 that “the second half of the verse duplicates the first. It appears to stem from P, with a secondary change of Elohim to Yahweh, induced by the 1052F

It is of interest to note that in both texts the continuation is also rendered in poetic form: see Gen 21:7; Exod 19:3–6. 20

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ISAAC B. GOTTLIEB

preceding clause.” 21 He also parses v. 2 as stemming from J (2a) and P (2b), because the name Elohim is used in the second half. 22 I am in agreement with Speiser on one point: he says nothing about a redundancy between the two verses, and rightly so. Even if one verse or the other might have sufficed to begin the chapter, in my opinion both verses together are not mere repetition, because Sarah giving birth in v. 2 was the outcome of the Lord taking note of her plight in the first verse. In Exod 19, however, the almost identical wording in both verses, “they entered the wilderness of Sinai,” is clearly repetitious and at odds with the usual formula for listing journeys.

CRITICAL SCHOLARSHIP M. Noth assigns Exod 19:1–2a to P, and 2b to JE. Regarding a sense of duplication in the incipit, Noth says: “The repetition in v. 2b of the remark about this encamping in v. 2ab indicates a fragment from the introductory phrases of one of the older sources which has in other respects fallen out in favour of P.”23 B. Childs makes no mention of any duality between Exod 19:1 and 2.24 In W.H.C. Propp’s source analysis of the Horeb-Sinai narrative, he indeed raises the question of a dual incipit: To begin with, 19:1–2 is somewhat awkward. … Why are we told twice that Israel “came to the Sinai Wilderness” and twice that they “camped”? On the one hand, this might be the composition of a single writer, who began his story with a kind of heading and then backtracked to explain whence the people had come (Houtman 1996: 439). In other words, “And they set forth from Rephidim” could be a digression framed by Wiederaufnahme (cf. Kuhl 1952). On the other hand… I am more inclined to see a supplemented text. The redactor deliberately placed the words “And they set forth from 21 E.A. Speiser, Genesis (AB, 1; Garden City: Doubleday, 1964), 154. However, in his marking of the sources on p. 153, he marks vv. 1–2 as J, noting that “it did not seem practical to reflect such a possibility [that v. 1b stems from P] in the translation” (ibid., 154). 22 Ibid., 154, n. 2b. 23 M. Noth, Exodus: A Commentary (trans. J.S. Bowden; OTL, Westminster Press: Philadelphia, 1962), 157. 24 B.S. Childs, The Book of Exodus: A Critical, Theological Commentary (OTL; Westminster Press: Philadelphia, 1974), 342. Nor could I find any reference to 19:1–2 in E. Blum, Studien zur Komposition des Pentateuch (BZAW, 189; Walter de Gruyter: Berlin, 1990).

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Rephidim and came to the Sinai Wilderness and camped in the wilderness” inside a preexisting “In the third month of Israel’s Sons going out… And Israel camped there, opposite the mountain.”… One might have rather expected, given the editor’s procedure elsewhere, “and they set forth from Rephidim and came to the Sinai Wilderness. In the third month of Israel’s Sons going out from the land of Egypt, on this day, they came to the Sinai Wilderness. And Israel camped there opposite the mountain.” Apparently, the redactor wished instead to emphasize the month of Israel’s arrival.25

I quoted Propp at length because his idea that ‫ ויבואו מדבר סיני‬is a resumptive repetition, following ‫ באו מדבר סיני‬in the previous verse, could have been taken right out of Nahmanides’ commentary on Exod 19:1, as cited above. 26 So, too, the verse reconstructed as Propp might have wished to see it is exactly the same as Nahmanides posited in his commentary, and the redactor’s presumed emphasis, “on the third month, on that day,” is just as Ramban had explained. In fact, in his notes on these verses, Propp names Nahmanides as the source for the meaning of the phrase “on that day:” “The arrival at Sinai is the culmination of all the preceding chapters of Exodus. In other words, ‘this day’ implies, ‘This was, at last, the day’ (Ramban).” 27 This is not to say that the medieval exegetes were always on the mark. Because they were not of a critical mind regarding the biblical text, they did not always identify a repetitious incipit. Furthermore, they were not rigorously systematic; the northern French exegetes recognized certain elements of biblical style to be derekh ha-miqra’ot, “the way of Scripture,” but they did not compile lists of incipits, endings, or connecting terms. 28 The 1058F

1059F

106F

25 W.H.C. Propp, Exodus 19–40 (AB, 2A; New York: Doubleday, 2006), 141. References quoted by Propp are to C. Houtman, Exodus. Vol. 2 (HCOT; trans. S. Woudstra; Kampen: Kok Publishing House, 1996), as well as C. Kuhl, “Die ‘Wiederaufnahme’—ein literarkritisches Prinzip?,” ZAW 64 (1952), 1–11. 26 See Nahmanides’ commentary on Exod 19:1: “Following this opening, Scripture reverts [to the usual style] as in the other journeys: And they journeyed from Rephidim [19:2]”.This is an instance of a resumptive repetition. 27 Propp, Exodus, 154. Blum, Studien, 154, uses the phrase “on this day” to maintain that ch. 18 does not precede ch. 19 chronologically: “Geradezu einen offenen Widerspruch bewirkt die Lokalisierung des Jethro-Besuchs am Gotttesberg (v. 5) gegenüber der unmissverstandlichen und betonten Angabe von Ex 19, 1f., wonach Israel erst hier an ‘den Berg’ gelangte.” 28 However, they made a start. See Rashbam at Gen 22:1 on occurrences of the expression “some time afterward,” in M.I. Lockshin, Rabbi Samuel Ben Meir’s Commentary on Genesis: An Annotated Translation (New York: Mellen, 1989).

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next example illustrates this absence. Most of the traditional commentators see only one opening formula. Had they thought in terms of fixed formulae, they might have seen two separate incipits here. However, their explanations of the text, differences of opinion, and silence where one might expect comment, all alert the modern reader to the possibility that there are actually two beginnings here. I shall try to show that each formula serves to introduce a separate pericope, which the medieval commentators have melded into a single unit by their interpretation.

2. EXODUS 35:1–5 ‫אמר ֲא ֵל ֶהם ֵא ֶלּה ַה ְדּ ָב ִרים‬ ֶ ֹ ‫ וַ יַּ ְק ֵהל מ ֶֹשׁה ֶאת ָכּל ֲﬠ ַדת ְבּנֵ י יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל וַ יּ‬.1 ‫וּביּוֹם‬ ַ ‫אכה‬ ָ ‫יָמים ֵתּ ָﬠ ֶשׂה ְמ ָל‬ ִ ‫ ֵשׁ ֶשׁת‬.2 .‫ֲא ֶשׁר ִצוָּ ה ה' ַל ֲﬠשׂ ֹת א ָֹתם‬ ‫אכה‬ ָ ‫יִהיֶה לָ ֶכם ק ֶֹדשׁ ַשׁ ַבּת ַשׁ ָבּתוֹן ַלה' ָכּל ָהע ֶֹשׂה בוֹ ְמ ָל‬ ְ ‫יﬠי‬ ִ ‫ַה ְשּׁ ִב‬ ָ ‫י‬ ‫אמר‬ ֶ ֹ ‫ וַ יּ‬.4 (‫ )פ‬.‫יכם ְבּיוֹם ַה ַשּׁ ָבּת‬ ֶ ‫ לֹא ְת ַב ֲﬠרוּ ֵאשׁ ְבּכֹל מ ְֹשׁב ֵֹת‬.3 .‫וּמת‬ .‫מ ֶֹשׁה ֶאל ָכּל ֲﬠ ַדת ְבּנֵ י יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל ֵלאמֹר זֶ ה ַה ָדּ ָבר ֲא ֶשׁר ִצוָּ ה ה' ֵלאמֹר‬ ‫רוּמת ה' זָ ָהב‬ ַ ‫יא ָה ֵאת ְתּ‬ ֶ ‫יְב‬ ִ ‫רוּמה ַלה' כֹּל נְ ִדיב ִלבּוֹ‬ ָ ‫ ְקחוּ ֵמ ִא ְתּ ֶכם ְתּ‬.5 ‫וָ ֶכ ֶסף וּנְ ח ֶֹשׁת‬ 1. Moses then convoked the whole Israelite community and said to them: “These are the things that the Lord has commanded you to do: 2. On six days work may be done, but on the seventh day you shall have a Sabbath of complete rest, holy to the Lord; whoever does any work on it shall be put to death. 3. You shall kindle no fire throughout your settlements on the Sabbath day. 4. Moses said further to the whole community of Israelites: This is what the Lord has commanded: 5. Take from among you gifts to the Lord; everyone whose heart so moves him shall bring them—gifts for the Lord: gold, silver, and copper.”

COMMENT With two exceptions, all the commentaries (cited below) saw in the clause “Moses then convoked” ‫ ויקהל משה‬the opening formula for the entire chapter that followed, which describes the collection of goods to be used in the construction of the Sanctuary. No doubt they were influenced by the Nahmanides makes frequent reference to resumptive repetitions, and R. Joseph Qara and Rashbam identified a type of foreshadowing (haqdamot). On this style in Torah literature, See N.M. Sarna, “The Anticipatory Use of Information as a Literary Feature of the Genesis Narratives,” in R.E. Friedman (ed.), The Creation of Sacred Literature (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981), 76–82 (= Sarna, Studies, 211–20); Liss, Creating Fictional Worlds, 96–9, calls this style “literary anticipation.”

MEDIEVAL JEWISH EXEGESIS ON DUAL INCIPITS

393

fact that ‫ ויקהל משה‬stood at the beginning of a weekly Torah reading, Parashat Vayakhel, whose entire subject (Exod 35:1–38:20) was the tabernacle. Perhaps these exegetes also wondered why the usual introductory formulation for legal portions, “And the Lord spoke to Moses, saying, Speak to the sons of Israel,” 29 was not used. In their comments, Rashbam and Ibn Ezra imply that the usual formula would have been inadequate, for it was not just a question of passing on a command; the people had to be physically gathered together in order that they might hand over the goods which they were donating to the Sanctuary, as is made clear in Exod 35:5, “Take from among you gifts to the Lord.” Vayaqhel meant that Moses actually assembled the entire community. Further, both Rashbam and Ibn Ezra in his short commentary to Exodus 30 note that the people had to be summoned for the additional purpose of collecting the half-shekel that each male had to donate for the Sanctuary (Exod 30:13). 31 This amount is called a terumah, or gift (ibid.), the same word used for the materials donated to the sanctuary in 35:5. Ibn Ezra pointed to the plural forms, “these are the things” (35:1) ‫“ ;אלה הדברים‬to do [them]” (ibid.) ‫לעשת אתם‬, as proof that the people had to be assembled for both purposes, to donate goods to the Sanctuary and to pay the halfshekel.32 Like Rashbam and Ibn Ezra, Nahmanides was also of the opinion that the words “Moses then convoked” opened the pericope about the sanctuary. He too explained the plural forms “these are the things” and “to do them” as referring to “the work of the Sanctuary and all its implements.” In Nahmanides’ view, vv. 2–3, which speak of the Sabbath, were inserted in order to convey a midrash halakha, or rabbinic ruling: work necessary to build the sanctuary and its implements may not be performed on the Sabbath. This teaching was conveyed through the juxtaposition of the prohibition to toil on the Sabbath (35:2–3) with the order to gather donations for the tabernacle (35:1). In sum, Rashbam, Ibn Ezra in both his 106F

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‫וַ יְ ַד ֵבּר ה' ֶאל מ ֶֹשׁה ֵלּאמֹר ַדּ ֵבּר ֶאל ָכּל ֲﬠ ַדת ְבּנֵ י יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל וְ ָא ַמ ְר ָתּ ֲא ֵל ֶהם‬ Ibn Ezra wrote two commentaries to Exodus: the shorter version he completed in Lucca, Italy (1142–1145) and the longer one in Rouen, France (1153). 31 The similarity between Rashbam and Ibn Ezra raises the possibility that one saw the commentary of the other. On this question, see M.I. Lockshin, “Tradition or Context: Two Exegetes Struggle with Peshat,” in J. Neusner et al. (eds.), From Ancient Israel to Modern Judaism, Essays in Honor of Marvin Fox. Vol. 2 (Brown Judaic Studies, 173; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989), 173–86, here 174 n. 5 and 6. 32 In both versions of his commentary, Ibn Ezra stresses that “the tabernacle and its vessels” are the plural objects of the words “these are the things,” “to do them.” 29 30

394

ISAAC B. GOTTLIEB

long and short commentaries, and Nahmanides all considered “Moses then convoked” to be the opening formula for the subject of the sanctuary. None of them paid heed to the fact that the Masoretes had marked the beginning of a new parasha or paragraph at 35:4 with the symbol (‫)פ‬, which would be entirely out of place if 35:1 were indeed the opening for all that followed. Ibn Ezra’s remarks in his short commentary came as an explicit retort to Saadyah Gaon, as cited by Ibn Ezra, who insisted that “these are the things” and “to do them” in 35:1 referred to the Sabbath, whose details followed in vv. 2–3, and not to the sanctuary. According to Saadyah, the plural objects referred to the 39 types of work which the Israelites were commanded to refrain from doing on the Sabbath (35:2–3). 33 In other words, the opening formula “Moses then convoked” introduced the law of the Sabbath and not the construction of the sanctuary. The other medieval commentator who seems to agree with Saadyah is Rashi. Rashi did not deal explicitly with the object of the phrases “these are the things” and “to do them,” as did Saadyah. However, I sense his agreement with Saadyah based on his comment at 35:2: “He intentionally mentioned to them the prohibition in reference to the Sabbath before the command about the building of the Tabernacle” [emphasis mine, I.G.]. This means that Rashi did not see ‫ ויקהל משה‬as the opening formula for the subject of the Sanctuary, which only comes later, at 35:4. For both Saadyah and Rashi, the command about the tabernacle begins at that verse with the words, “Moses said further to the whole community of Israelites: This is what the Lord has commanded,” ‫זה הדבר‬. Here are the comments of the medieval exegetes themselves: 1065F

MEDIEVAL COMMENTARIES Rashi (35:1): “And Moses assembled”— … It (the word ‫ ) ויקהל‬is used in the verbal form that expresses the idea of causing a thing to be done, because one does not actually assemble people with one’s hands, but they are assembled by his command. (35:2) “Six days may work be done” —He intentionally mentioned to them the prohibition in reference to the Sabbath before the command 33 The number of prohibited actions on the Sabbath (39) is a rabbinic concept (Mishnah Shabbat 7,2). Ibn Ezra in his retort (short version) rejects Saadyah’s explanation on the grounds that “to do them” refers to taking positive action, such as gathering items for the sanctuary, and not to refraining from action or prohibited work on the Sabbath.

MEDIEVAL JEWISH EXEGESIS ON DUAL INCIPITS

395

about the building of the tabernacle in order to intimate that it does not set aside (supersede) the Sabbath. Rashbam: “Moses convoked [the whole Israelite community]”: In order to take from each of them half a shekel, and in order to instruct them34 about the construction of the Tabernacle. Ibn Ezra, short version: And the reason for [the choice of the word] Vayaqhel, because all of the community 35 was required to pay a ransom for themselves [a reference to the half-shekel in Exod 30:12]. The Gaon [Saadyah] said, that the words “these are the things” ‫ אלה הדברים‬refer to the commandment of the Sabbath, which is equated to all the other commandments by virtue of the chief works [avot melakhot—39 activities prohibited on the Sabbath]. But the correct explanation in my opinion is that “these are the things” refers to the items necessary for the tabernacle and its vessels, therefore the verse says, “to do them [in the plural].” 1067F

Ibn Ezra, long version: And the reason for [the choice of the word] Vayaqhel, that everyone hear from his [Moses] mouth about the Tabernacle, so that they all donate. And the meaning of “these are the things”—the Tabernacle and it vessels, which must be constructed; therefore it says, “to do them.” Nahmanides: “These are the things which the Eternal hath commanded, that ye should do them. Six days shall work be done.” The expression, these are the things which the Eternal hath commanded refers to the construction of the Tabernacle, all its vessels and all its various works. He preceded [the explanation of the construction of the Tabernacle] with the law of the Sabbath, meaning to say that the work of these things should be done during the six days, but not on the seventh day which is holy to G-d. It is from here that we learn the principle that the work of the tabernacle does not set aside the Sabbath.

Both Rashi and Nahmanides cited the halakhic midrash that the Sanctuary may not be built on the Sabbath. As I pointed out above, this ruling was based on the juxtaposition of the Sabbath and the Sanctuary, which occurs

34 35

Lehazhiram can also mean “to warn them,” see further.

Ibn Ezra uses Heb. Qahal, a play on the opening word Vayaqhel.

396

ISAAC B. GOTTLIEB

several times in the Pentateuch, and on which the Rabbis commented that one may not construct the tabernacle on the Sabbath. 36 Nahmanides was relatively brief in his comments on Exod 35:1. However, upon reaching Lev 23:1–4, he realized that the text clearly contained two opening formulae, “These are my fixed times,” “These are the set times of the Lord.” They were not continuous but were separated by one verse. Further, the Masoretes had marked a new paragraph (parasha) before the second incipit. This was remarkably similar to the case of Exod 35:1–2: two opening formulae in vv. 1 and 4; two verses separating them which dealt with a different subject; the Masoretic sign of a new parasha (‫)פ‬ after the “interruption” and before the second incipit. Here is the text of Leviticus and the comments of Rashi, Ibn Ezra, and Nahmanides:

3. LEVITICUS 23:1–4 ‫ְבּנֵ י יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל וְ ָא ַמ ְר ָתּ ֲא ֵל ֶהם‬ ‫ ֵשׁ ֶשׁת‬.3 .‫מוֹﬠ ָדי‬ ֲ ‫ֵא ֶלּה ֵהם‬ ‫ַשׁ ָבּתוֹן ִמ ְק ָרא ק ֶֹדשׁ ָכּל‬ ‫ ֵא ֶלּה‬.4 (‫ )פ‬.‫מוֹשׁב ֵֹתיכֶ ם‬ ְ

‫ ַדּ ֵבּר ֶאל‬.2 .‫ וַ יְ ַד ֵבּר ה’ ֶאל מ ֶֹשׁה ֵלּאמֹר‬.1 ֲ ‫מוֹﬠ ֵדי ה’ ֲא ֶשׁר ִתּ ְק ְראוּ א ָֹתם ִמ ְק ָר ֵאי ק ֶֹדשׁ‬ ‫יﬠי ַשׁ ַבּת‬ ִ ‫וּביּוֹם ַה ְשּׁ ִב‬ ַ ‫אכה‬ ָ ‫יָמים ֵתּ ָﬠ ֶשׂה ְמ ָל‬ ִ ‫אכה לֹא ַת ֲﬠשׂוּ ַשׁ ָבּת ִהוא ַלה’ ְבּכֹל‬ ָ ‫ְמ ָל‬ ‫מוֹﬠ ָדם‬ ֲ ‫מוֹﬠ ֵדי ה’ ִמ ְק ָר ֵאי ק ֶֹדשׁ ֲא ֶשׁר ִתּ ְק ְראוּ א ָֹתם ְבּ‬ ֲ

1. The Lord spoke to Moses, saying: Speak to the Israelite people and say to them: 2. “These are my fixed times, the fixed times of the Lord, which you shall proclaim as sacred occasions. 3. On six days work may be done, but on the seventh day there shall be a Sabbath of compete rest, a sacred occasion. You shall do no work; it shall be a Sabbath of the Lord throughout your settlements. 4. These are the set times of the Lord, the sacred occasions, which you shall celebrate each at its appointed time.”

MEDIEVAL COMMENTARIES Rashi (23:3): Six days [may work be done but the seventh day is the Sabbath of strict rest]—What relation is there between the Sabbath and the festive seasons? But by putting both into juxtaposition Scripture intends to teach you that he who desecrates the festivals is regarded as 36 For example, BT Yebamot 6a: “For it was taught: Since it might have been assumed that the building of the sanctuary should supersede the Sabbath, it was explicitly stated, Ye shall keep My Sabbaths, and reverence My Sanctuary (Lev. 19:30); it is the duty of all of you to honor Me.” I did not find such a teaching for our verse, but Rashi’s language attests to a derasha based on adjacent passages.

MEDIEVAL JEWISH EXEGESIS ON DUAL INCIPITS though he has desecrated the Sabbath, and that he who keeps the festivals is regarded as though he had kept the Sabbath (Siphra). (23:4): These are the appointed festivals of the Lord—Above (v. 2), where similar words are used, Scripture is speaking of proclaiming the year to be a leap-year, here it is speaking of the ‫קדוש החדש‬, sanctification of the month. Ibn Ezra (23:2): … and the reason to say, “These are My fixed times” [in the plural] because there are many Sabbaths in a year. Nahmanides (23:2): The correct interpretation appears to me to be that the meaning of the verse the appointed seasons of the Eternal, which ye

shall proclaim to be holy convocations, even these are My appointed seasons, is that it refers [only] to the festivals mentioned further on in the sections: In the first month etc. [but it does not refer to the Sabbath]. It is for this reason that He states there once again, These are the appointed seasons of the Eternal, because He had interrupted with the subject of the Sabbath. Thus He states, the appointed seasons of the Eternal, which ye shall proclaim to be holy convocations, even these are My appointed seasons, meaning that no manner of servile work be done on them, but the Sabbath you are to keep, making it a Sabbath of solemn rest from all manner of work whatsoever, for He admonishes concerning the Sabbath many times. He further alludes here [to the law that even] when the Sabbath falls on one of the days of the festivals, we must not suspend [the law of the Sabbath] so that the preparation of food be permitted on it [as it is when it falls on a weekday, but instead it is prohibited].

A similar case [where the phrase these are refers to the continuation of a subject which had previously been mentioned, because in the middle Scripture interrupts with another subject], is the verse, These are the words which the Eternal hath commanded, that ye should do them [Ex. 35:1], which refers to the tabernacle and its vessels which he [Moses] will mention in the second section, and [in the next verses] he interrupts with the Sabbath: Six days shall work be done, and on the seventh day there shall be to you a holy day etc.; and then he again says, This is the thing which the eternal commanded… Take ye from among you an offering, this being the [same] command that Scripture had mentioned at the beginning, but because it was interrupted with another subject, Scripture had to start from the beginning again.

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ISAAC B. GOTTLIEB

COMMENT Rashi refers to the juxtaposition of the Sabbath and the festivals and derives from it a moral, as cited in Sifra, the tannaitic midrash on Leviticus. His comment on v. 4, “These are the set times of the Lord,” takes notice of the earlier opening sentence, “These are my fixed times” (23:2), but explains, in the fashion of rabbinic interpretation, that each opening comes to teach a different law. He makes no mention of the fact that the Sabbath is not a festival and hence cannot be included under the rubric of “sacred occasions” (23:2) nor does he note that these two opening formulae that introduce a single topic are practically identical. Both of his comments are in the midrashic mode; the first is derived from juxtaposition and the second isolates each verse in order to teach a separate lesson. There is absolutely no attention paid to the entire context. Ibn Ezra, as opposed to Rashi, thinks that the opening verse, “These are My fixed times,” introduces the Sabbath or Sabbaths of the year, hence the plural “times.” Presumably, he thinks that the second incipit in v. 4 is the introduction to the festivals that follow. Despite their differences, Ibn Ezra, like Rashi, is not bothered by a sense of duplication or repetition in vv. 2 and 4. Neither is he troubled by the interpretive crux: How can the Sabbath be included among festive days which have to be declared by the people (“which you shall proclaim as sacred occasions,” Lev 23:2) if the Sabbath is divinely ordained and not at all dependent on the lunar calendar? Nahmanides (Ramban) stands far apart from them in his reading of the text. Ramban understood that the subject of the entire chapter was the holy days, not the Sabbath. The two introductory formulae, “These are My fixed times” (Lev 23:2), “These are the set times of the Lord” (23:4) are separated by a single verse about the Sabbath (Lev23:3). The Sabbath must therefore be seen as an interpolation and interruption. Because the subject of the holy days was abruptly ceased, biblical style called for a resumption of the main subject, worded as closely as possible to the original opening. That is why vv. 2 and 4 are practically identical. In the twentieth century, this style was termed resumptive repetition or Wiederaufnahme. 37 The similarity of Lev 23 to our case, noted Nahmanides, is striking. In Exod 35, after the introductory “Moses then convoked,” the subject of the Sanctuary is interrupted, as it were, by two verses about the Sabbath, 35:2–3.38 In v. 4, the text returns to deal with the Sanctuary. Like Lev 23:4, 37 Nahmanides was partial to this phenomenon and made frequent use of it in his commentary. See S. Talmon, “The Presentation of Synchroneity and Simultaneity in Biblical Narrative,” Scripta Hierosolymitana 27 (1978), 9–26. 38 In both pericopes, the Sabbath interrupts the main subject. On this issue, see

MEDIEVAL JEWISH EXEGESIS ON DUAL INCIPITS

399

Exod 35:4 is also marked as a new parasha or pericope. If so, we should be looking for two formulaic openings in the four verses of Exod 35:1–4 as well. This is exactly what Nahmanides proceeds to do. In his comments on Lev 23, Nahmanides identifies the opening formula for the tabernacle and its implements in Exod 35 not with the phrase “Moses then convoked,” but rather with the remainder of that verse: “These are the words ‫אלה הדברים‬ which the Eternal hath commanded, that ye should do them” (Exod 35:1). He then uses the words for ‘interruption’ (hifsiq) and ‘resumption’ (ḥazar ve‘amar) several times in this passage. He notes that resuming the subject of the tabernacle after an interruption about the Sabbath requires a return to the opening formula or as close to it as possible (ḥazar, laḥazor u-lehatḥil barishona). The resumptive repetition took the form of a second incipit, ‫זה‬ ‫הדבר‬, “This is what the Lord has commanded: Take from among you gifts to the Lord” (35:4–5). Nahmanides’ ear for biblical style was perfectly tuned; the two phrases, ‫“ אלה הדברים‬these are the words” and ‫“ זה הדבר‬this is the thing (which the Lord has commanded),” are indeed, as we shall soon see, standard introductory formulae. In both Exod 35 and Lev 23, Nahmanides saw the need for a resumptive repetition following an interruption; this was his explanation for what appeared to be, in each case, two introductory formulae for a single subject. 39 We might say that Nahmanides raised resumptive repetitions to the status of a rule that he applied equally to both cases. The application of such a rule, rather than offering an ad hoc solution for each problem, lent the interpretation a sense of universal validity. This was a feature of the peshaṭ approach that Nahmanides advocated. 40 To sum up, Rashbam, Ibn Ezra, and even Nahmanides at Exod 3541 all saw in the phrase “Moses convoked” an opening formula to a single 107F

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below. 39 In Leviticus, Nahmanides realized that in each case we were dealing with two separate parashot, for so they are marked by the Masoretes. Nonetheless, he viewed each case as a single subject that had been interrupted and then resumed, albeit in a new chapter. 40 Nahmanides’ exegetical approach is quite complex; see B. Septimus, “‘Open Rebuke and Concealed Love’: Nahmanides and the Andalusian Tradition,” in I. Twersky (ed.), Rabbi Moses Nahmanides (Ramban): Explorations in His Religious and Literary Virtuosity (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 1983), 17–23; Y. Elman, “Moses ben Nahman/Nahmanides (Ramban),” in M. Saebø (ed.), Hebrew Bible/Old Testament: The History of Its Interpretation. Vol. I/2, 416–32. 41 Nahmanides changed his mind at Lev 23, as explained above. For Nahmanides’ use of resumptive repetition, see I.B. Gottlieb, Order in the Bible

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subject, the tabernacle. In contrast, Rashi and Saadyah both saw the first three verses (35:1–3) as an independent parasha dealing with the Sabbath. Saadyah’s opinion was related by Ibn Ezra in his short commentary: “The Gaon [Saadyah] said, that the words ‘these are the things’ ‫ אלה הדברים‬refer to the commandment of the Sabbath, which is equated to all the other commandments by virtue of the chief works [avot melakhot—39 activities prohibited on the Sabbath].” Saadyah mentioned the 39 activities to justify the plural form, “these are the things.” It is possible that Saadyah, like Nahmanides, identified “these are the things” (35:1) as the introductory phrase (incipit) to the Sabbath, rather than “Moses convoked,” but this is not certain. 42 Is the phrase “Moses convoked” (vayaqhel Moshe) a formulaic opening? To judge by its various appearances, vayaqhel does not qualify as an opening formula. 43 However, both ‫ אלה הדברים‬and ‫ זה הדבר‬are exclusively formulaic.44 These are the very phrases respectively cited by Nahmanides (Lev 23:2) as the opening formula and its resumptive repetition in Exod 35. In his view, what we actually have in Exod 35 are two separate sections, one on the Sabbath (35:1–3) and the other about the tabernacle and its vessels (35:4–40:38), each headed up by separate but related introductory phrases. 1074F

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(Jerusalem: Magnes Press/Bar-Ilan Press, 2009 [Hebrew]), 331. 42 We actually have Saadyah’s commentary to Exodus as preserved in Geniza manuscripts, chief among them an MS in St. Petersburg (Leningrad) containing his comments on Exod 27–40. These were published by Y. Ratzaby, Rav Saadya’s Commentary on Exodus (Jerusalem: Mossad Harav Kook, 1998 [Hebrew]). On p. 241, commenting on our verse, Saadyah writes: “And so far as the phrase ‘these are the things,’ ‫ אלה הדברים‬we think it would have been more appropriate to write ‘this is the thing’ ‫ זה הדבר‬since we are speaking of the (single) commandment of the Sabbath. But it was not written thus because the Sabbath has many matters, many prohibitions and many positive customs…” 43 Vayaqhel appears seven times in the Bible, twice in the Pentateuch. Of the latter, one incidence is our case, while the second is actually an expression of closure: “Korah gathered (vayaqhel) the whole community against them at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting. Then the Presence of the Lord appeared to the whole community” (Num 16:19). Of the remaining five cases, two are in the middle of a story, one stands at the beginning of a chapter but not necessarily as an opening word, another is a beginning but does not stand at the beginning of a chapter, while only in 1Chr 28:1 vayaqhel is definitely an opening phrase. 44 See Gottlieb, “Introductory Formulae,” 37–9; idem, Order in the Bible, 37–9, 39–41. In the case of elle ha-devarim, it is a closing formula as well.

MEDIEVAL JEWISH EXEGESIS ON DUAL INCIPITS

401

Why was the parasha on the Sabbath inserted prior to the chapter about the tabernacle? We have already noted that the Sabbath and the tabernacle are mentioned together several times in the Pentateuch, even in the same verse. 45 Israel Knohl has noted that the rabbinic midrash prohibiting work on the tabernacle on the Sabbath day may be the simple and straightforward message carried by the juxtaposition of these passages. 46 Exod 35 may be another example of this tendency.

CRITICAL SCHOLARSHIP Nahum Sarna notes at Exod 31:12: “The concluding—and, appropriately, the seventh—literary unit within the pericope of the instructions for the tabernacle is devoted to the observance of the law of the Sabbath. Correspondingly, the resumption of the tabernacle narrative in ch. 35 commences with the Sabbath law.” 47 At 35:1, he writes: “Just as the divine instructions about the Tabernacle concluded with the law of the Sabbath rest, so the narrative about its construction commences on the same theme—to the same purpose,” sending his readers back to his comment on 31:12–17.48 The connection he draws between the two parashot supports a relation of resumption between them, as he himself says. While Sarna speaks of resumption, not of resumptive repetition, it appears that the thematic resumption in Exod 35:2 is repetitive in language as well.49 Baruch Levine outlines the subject matter of Lev 23 and comments: “The above outline, especially the two superscriptions, shows the composite character of chapter 23. The Sabbath law has been appended to E.g., Exod 31:11–13; 35:1–5; Lev 19:30 (same verse); 26:2 (same verse). I. Knohl, The Sanctuary of Silence (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995), 16; J. Milgrom, Leviticus (AB, 3B; New York: Doubleday, 2000), 1955. Y. Zakovitch, An Introduction to Inner-Biblical Interpretation (Even-Yehuda: Reches Publishing House, 1992 [Hebrew]) has made the point that most midrashic methods, such as learning from adjacency, were already employed in the Bible itself. 47 N.M Sarna, The JPS Torah Commentary: Exodus ‫( שמות‬Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 1991), 201. 48 Ibid., 222. Presumably, Sarna meant to relate the tabernacle and the Sabbath through the theme of holiness in space and time. 49 I would contend that Exod 35:2 opens with a resumptive repetition on the subject of the Sabbath: “On six days work may be done, but on the seventh day you shall have a sabbath of complete rest, holy to the LORD; whoever does any work on it shall be put to death.” Compare this with 31:15, the verse it is resuming: “Six days work may be done; but on the seventh day there shall be a sabbath of complete rest, holy to the LORD; whoever does work on the sabbath day shall be put to death.” This is practically a literal repetition, a sure sign of Wiederaufnahme. 45 46

402

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the beginning of the calendar proper, and verses 39–43 have been similarly added at the end, after it seemed that the calendar was complete.” 50 If however the Sabbath is a later addition, then the opening superscriptions never had the Sabbath in mind, only the festivals. If so, why does Levine have difficulty (in his commentary) with the use of the word mo‘ed in v. 2 to include the Sabbath? Nahmanides’ idea that the superscription in v. 4 resumes the subject of the festivals after an interruption avoids this problem; indeed, both superscriptions in vv. 2 and 4 never had the Sabbath in mind. Bernard Levinson sees “editorial devices as cues to textual reformation.” 51 Two devices in particular which provide evidence of editorial activity are the resumptive repetition (Levinson prefers “repetitive resumption”) and Seidel’s law, which may come together or separately. One of his examples is Lev 23. The inclusion of the Sabbath within the festival calendar … is disruptive both on topical and formal grounds. That secondary inclusion, which aims at a greater comprehensiveness, is marked by a repetitive resumption. The editor frames Lev 23:3 with v. 4, which repeats the verse before the interpolation (Lev 23:2) according to Seidel’s law. 52

However, citing Talmon, Levinson notes that repetitive resumption may function as a compositional device and need not necessarily point to editorial activity or textual reworking. This would have been a particularly good case in which to cite Nahmanides’ understanding of resumptive repetition. Milgrom discusses the introductory formula in Lev 23 at length. He cites Levinson as saying that v. 1 was the heading of the original calendar and v. 4 was a resumptive repetition “in order to form the introverted structure of vv. 1–4.” 53 Milgrom himself rejects this argument and thinks that the Sabbath in Lev 23 is an interpolation. He further cites David Hoffman, who tries to counter these arguments by pointing to Exod 35:1–3, which begins elleh haddebarim ašer-ṣiwwa YHYH la‘asot ’otam, literally, ‘these are B. Levine, The JPS Torah Commentary: Leviticus ‫( ויקרא‬Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 1989), 154. 51 This is actually the title of a division in the first chapter of B.M. Levinson, Deuteronomy and the Hermeneutics of Legal Innovation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 17. 52 Ibid., 19–20. 53 Milgrom, Leviticus, 1954. 50

MEDIEVAL JEWISH EXEGESIS ON DUAL INCIPITS

403

the things that YWYH commanded to do them.’ This heading cannot refer to the Sabbath, the subject that immediately follows (vv. 2–3), because on the Sabbath one does not ‘do’ anything. Rather, it applies to the following subject, the construction of the Tabernacle (vv. 4ff.).

Milgrom concurs that “he is absolutely correct regarding Exod 35:1 as the true heading for the long story of the construction of the sanctuary (Exod 35:4–39:43)” but this is because Milgrom, unlike Hoffman, thinks that the Sabbath at Exod 35:2–3 is also an interpolation. Milgrom’s idea that Exod 35:1 does not refer exclusively to the Sabbath but rather to the construction of the tabernacle, as we have seen, was the subject of discussion also among the medieval exegetes. I would like to point out that despite Milgrom’s comment that “on the Sabbath one does not ‘do’ anything,” the verb “to do” ‫ לעשות‬does indeed appear frequently in reference to the Sabbath: In the Sabbath parasha (Exod 31:12–17), it appears five times. Perhaps the most memorable reference is Gen 2:3, ‫ אשר ברא אלהים לעשות‬, “all the work of creation that He had done.” It is then found in Exod 35:1, “These are the things that the Lord has commanded you to do”‫ לעשות‬and may indeed be the incipit for the Sabbath, as Saadyah and Rashi maintained. Propp seems to have accepted the view of the exegetes that Exod 35:1 introduces both the Sabbath and the tabernacle. “One might think that the ‘words’ [‫ ]הדברים‬in 35:1 are the Sabbath commands alone. In the larger context, however, Moses is actually introducing all his discourse in 35:2– 36:1 concerning both the Sabbath and the Tabernacle.” 54 In light of the critical view which sees vv. 2–3 as an interpolation, Propp’s silence on this issue is surprising. In his case, we might say that the medieval interpretation was adopted in toto by one proponent of the historical-critical school. My final example, like the first, is a case of the most basic form of dual superscription: two initial verses in one pericope. Unlike the previous examples, however, this occurrence went unnoticed by the classic medieval exegetes. It was a Renaissance scholar who first hinted at the possibility of a composite opening in this text. Initially, Rabbi Obadiah Sforno of Italy (1475–1550) seems to have adopted the same approach as Nahmanides, relying on resumptive repetition to explain the duplication. However, he then proceeds to suggest a more original solution. Scholars have connected the stress on peshaṭ interpretation in Northern France with the “small renaissance” (petite renaissance) in 12th century France. Can we ascribe Sforno’s critical perception to the major renaissance of 15th century Italy?55 1086F

1087F

Propp, Exodus, 659. Z. Gottlieb, the editor of R. Obadiah Sforno’s Torah Commentary (Jerusalem: Mossad Harav Kook, 1980 [Hebrew]), 28, thought so: “Sforno was typical of the 54 55

404

ISAAC B. GOTTLIEB

If I understand his remarks correctly, his explanation in fact points in the direction of a dual superscription.

4. LEVITICUS 16:1–2 '‫ה‬-‫מ ֶֹשׁה ַא ֲח ֵרי מוֹת ְשׁנֵ י ְבּנֵ י ַא ֲהר ֹן ְבּ ָק ְר ָב ָתם ִל ְפנֵ י‬-‫ וַ יְ ַד ֵבּר ה' ֶאל‬.1 ‫ ֵﬠת‬-‫יָבֹא ְבכָ ל‬-‫ ַא ֲהר ֹן ָא ִחי� וְ ַאל‬-‫מ ֶֹשׁה ַדּ ֵבּר ֶאל‬-‫אמר ה' ֶאל‬ ֶ ֹ ‫ וַ יּ‬.2 ‫יָּמתוּ׃‬ ֻ ַ‫ו‬ ‫ ָה ָאר ֹן וְ לֹא יָמוּת‬-‫ ְפּנֵ י ַה ַכּפּ ֶֹרת ֲא ֶשׁר ַﬠל‬-‫ ַהקּ ֶֹדשׁ ִמ ֵבּית ַל ָפּר ֶֹכת ֶאל‬-‫ֶאל‬ ‫ ַה ַכּפּ ֶֹרת׃‬-‫ִכּי ֶבּ ָﬠנָ ן ֵא ָר ֶאה ַﬠל‬ 1. The Lord spoke to Moses after the death of the two sons of Aaron who died when they drew too close to the presence of the Lord. 2. The Lord said to Moses: Tell your brother Aaron that he is not to come at will not the Shrine behind the curtain, in front of the cover that is upon the ark, lest he die; for I appear in the cloud over the cover. R. Obadiah Sforno (16:1): The word “and he spoke” (‫ )וידבר‬does not generally introduce the contents of speech but rather the general act of speaking. Therefore it is often followed by the verb “saying” (‫ )לאמר‬to indicate the particular message. Likewise the text here reads, “The Lord spoke to Moses after the death… and He said to him.” But because Scripture took the time to tell that it was after the death of the two sons, it did not write [in the second verse] “and He said to him” (‫)ויאמר אליו‬ but repeated that the Lord was the speaker and the listener was Moses (‫משה‬-‫“—)ויאמר ה' אל‬The Lord said to Moses.”56 108F

time and place in which he lived—the renaissance in Italy. He was a synthesis of Torah and wisdom, deep faith together with a desire to know things as they really were, to the point where reason could reach.” A sign of his open mindedness may be seen in the fact that the Christian Hebraist Johannes Reuchlin studied with him sometime after 1498; see S. Kessler Mesguich, “Early Christian Hebraists,” in M. Saebø (ed.), Hebrew Bible/Old Testament: The History of Its Interpretation. Vol. II, 258. 56 ‫קּדשׁ לא ִתפּל‬ ֶ ‫יבת "וַ ְי ַד ֵבּר" ִבּ ְלשׁון ַה‬ ַ ‫ ִהנֵּ ה ֵתּ‬.‫משׁה ַא ֲח ֵרי מות‬ ֶ ‫וַ ְי ַד ֵבּר ה' ֶאל‬ ‫ וְ ָל ֵכן ַא ַחר ָלשׁון ַה ִדּבּוּר‬.‫ ֲא ָבל ִתּפּל ַﬠל ֶמ ֶשׁ� ַה ִדּבּוּר ִבּ ְכ ָללו‬,‫ָבּרב ַﬠל ֶח ְל ֵקי ַה ִדּבּוּר‬ ..‫משׁה ַא ֲח ֵרי מות‬ ֶ ‫ "וַ י ְַד ֵבּר ה' ֶאל‬,‫ ִאם ֵכּן‬,‫ ָא ַמר‬.‫יָ בא ָבּרב ָלשׁון ָה ֲא ִמ ָירה ַה ְפּ ָר ִטית‬ ‫"א ֲח ֵרי מות" לא ָכּ ַתב‬ ַ ‫וּמ ְפּנֵ י ֶשׁ ֶה ֱא ִרי� ְבּ ִספּוּר‬ ִ ."�‫ ַדּ ֵבּר ֶאל ַא ֲהרן ָא ִחי‬..‫יּאמר‬ ֶ ַ‫ו‬ .�ַ ‫שּׁומ‬ ֵ ‫וּמשׁה ַה‬ ֶ ‫אומר‬ ֵ ‫יִת ָבּ ַר� ָה‬ ְ ‫ ֲא ָבל ָחזַ ר וְ ִהזְ ִכּיר ָה ֵאל‬,'‫יּאמר ֵא ָליו‬ ֶ ַ‫'ו‬

MEDIEVAL JEWISH EXEGESIS ON DUAL INCIPITS

405

COMMENT Sforno’s use of the term “repeated” (ḥazar we-hizkir) is reminiscent of Nahmanides’ use of the same words for Wiederaufnahme or resumptive repetition. 57 However, as we are dealing with two adjacent verses, what need is there for a resumption? Do the nine intervening words in v. 1, “after the death of the two sons of Aaron who died when they drew too close to the presence of the Lord,” constitute such a lengthening that the text now requires a return to the original topic? Evidently Sforno saw in 16:1 a variation on the standard opening formula, “And the Lord spoke to Moses, saying.”58 The variant opening left out the word “saying” and added two adverbial phrases, “after the death of,” “when they drew too close to the presence of the Lord.” In Sforno’s opinion, this deviation from the standard opening demanded a resumptive repetition in the next verse. 59 While I find Sforno’s explanation forced, his insight into Biblical style is invaluable. In effect, he was asking why we need two opening formulae, wayyedabber Adonay el Moshe (16:1), and wayyomer Adonay el Moshe (16:2). Perhaps he himself sensed that resumptive repetition was not the proper explanation in this case. He therefore proceeded to a second idea which, though based on rabbinic sources, is quite radical in its implications: According to some of our rabbis, of blessed memory, there were two separate dictates; the import of the verses would then be as follows: “The Lord spoke to Moses and said to him to speak with Aaron that he is not to come […] lest he die.” And after the death of Aaron’s two sons, He said to Moses: “Speak with Aaron that he is not to come [to the sanctuary] more than he is commanded lest he die the way his sons died, because they were zealous to offer more incense than they were commanded. And this second dictate was to chasten him more than the first.60

57 Above, Lev 23:2, Nahmanides wrote ḥazar ve-amar, translated as “and then he again says.” The words ḥazar we-hizkir are to be found in Nahmanides’ commentary, Exod 20:14; Deut 9:4; and with a slight variation (ḥazar le-hazkir), Lev 21:17. 58 This formula is used in Leviticus alone 35 times and in the Priestly code over 70 times. 59 Note this parallel: “The narrative introduction to the divine speech in 16:1aα is resumed in v. 2 aα, except that the verb ‫ אמר‬has now replaced ‫( ”דבר‬C. Nihan, From Priestly Torah to Pentateuch: A Study in the Composition of the Book of Leviticus [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007], 97 n. 112). 60 ‫שׁעוּר ַה ָכּתוּב "וַ ְי ַד ֵבּר‬ ִ ‫ וְ יִ ְהיֶ ה‬,‫בּוּרים‬ ִ ‫בּותינוּ ז"ל ָהיוּ ְשׁנֵ י ִדּ‬ ֵ ‫ֲא ָבל ְל ִד ְב ֵרי ְק ָצת ֵמ ַר‬ ‫"א ֲח ֵרי מות ְשׁנֵ י‬ ַ ְ‫ ו‬."‫ וְ לא יָמוּת‬..‫ וְ ַאל יָ בא‬..‫"דּ ֵבּר ֶאל ַא ֲהרן‬ ַ ‫יּאמר ֵא ָליו‬ ֶ ַ‫משׁה" ו‬ ֶ ‫ה' ֶאל‬

406

ISAAC B. GOTTLIEB

Sforno is suggesting that our text is conflated. The original chapter was addressed to Aaron before the incident on the eighth day of inauguration, and had one opening formula. It was then repeated to Aaron with a different opening, this time making reference to the death of his sons. As novel as this proposition is, Sforno actually relies on rabbinic statements in Talmud and Midrash for support. Thus, the final sentence in Sforno’s comment, “And this second dictate was to chasten him more than the first,” is reminiscent of the midrash which Rashi cites in his comment on this verse: Rashi (16:1): —And the Lord spake unto Moses after the death of the two sons of Aaron etc.—What is this statement intended to tell us? Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah illustrated this by a parable: It may be compared to the case of a sick person whom the physician visited. He (the physician) came and said to him: “Do not eat cold things, nor sleep in a damp place!” Another physician came and said to him: “Do not eat cold things, nor sleep in a damp place so that thou mayest not die as Mr. So-and-so died!” Certainly this (the latter) put him on his guard more than the former; that is why Scripture states “after the death of the two sons of Aaron” (Siphra). (16:2): —The Lord said to Moses: Tell your brother Aaron that he is not to come—that he die not as his sons have died.

Ostensibly the midrash is responding to the phrase “after the death of the two sons of Aaron.” What is the connection between the deaths of Nadab and Abihu and this parasha that deals with the ritual of atonement on Yom Kippur and the purification of the Sanctuary? To answer this question, the midrash converted the adverbial phrase of time spoken by the narrator, “after the death of the two sons of Aaron,” into part of the Lord’s message to Moses. God’s words to Moses were as follows: “The Lord spoke to Moses: ‘After the death of the two sons of Aaron who died when they drew too close to the presence of the Lord, tell your brother Aaron that he is not to come at will to the Shrine behind the curtain, in front of the cover that is upon the ark, lest he die; for I appear in the cloud over the cover.’” The death of Aaron’s sons is thus the reason that Aaron should not approach the Sanctuary at will.

‫יותר ִמ ַמּה ֶשׁ ֻצּוָּ ה‬ ֵ ‫ וְ ַאל יָ בא" ֶשׁלּא יִ ָכּנֵ ס‬..‫"דּ ֵבּר ֶאל ַא ֲהרן‬ ַ ‫משׁה‬ ֶ ‫רן"א ַמר ְל‬ ָ ‫ְבּנֵ י ַא ֲה‬ .‫יותר ִמ ַמּה ֶשׁ ֻצּוּוּ‬ ֵ ‫טרת‬ ֶ ‫הור ִסים ַל ֲﬠשׂות ְק‬ ְ ‫יותם‬ ָ ‫ ְכּ ֶד ֶר� ֶשׁ ֵמּתוּ ָבּנָ יו ִבּ ְה‬,"‫"וְ לא יָמוּת‬ .'‫יותר ִמן ָה ִראשׁון‬ ֵ ‫וְ זֶ ה ְ'לזַ ְרזו‬

MEDIEVAL JEWISH EXEGESIS ON DUAL INCIPITS

407

Sforno did not interpret the midrashic parable as Rashi did. Where Rashi spoke of two doctors, the second making his warning more personal than the first, Sforno understood the parable to speak of one doctor who gave two different warnings. In this way, Sforno used the parable to answer his own question—why were there two superscriptions to this chapter? 61 Sforno’s answer is that each opening formula was said at a different occasion. The first opened with the words “vayyedabber, vayyomer,” and was used to head the chapter on the atonement ritual which Moses relayed to Aaron before the incident of Nadab and Abihu. Later on, after the incident, the chapter was repeated to Aaron, this time with the incipit, “Tell (dabber) your brother Aaron that he is not to come at will to the Shrine behind the curtain, in front of the cover that is upon the ark,” and with the added warning, “lest he die the way his sons died.” Sforno relies on a Talmudic discussion to claim that the chapter was recounted before the incident of Nadab and Abihu as well as afterward.62

CRITICAL SCHOLARSHIP Christophe Nihan notes that “the discussion on the genesis of Lev 16 is remarkably complex, so much so that it is even difficult to summarize.”63 The uniqueness of the introductory formula(e) in Lev 16:1–2 was noted by many scholars, and this observation led to many hypotheses. Wilfried Warning devoted a mini-chapter to Lev 16:1–2; in his count of “divine speeches” in Leviticus, he finds 16:1 to be “a distinct DS.” 64 He also viewed Lev 16:1 as a repetitive resumption that harkened back to Lev 10, the story of Nadab and Abihu.65 Nihan himself thinks that the introduction in 16:1, with its reference to the death of Nadab and Abihu, was a late interpolation inserted when Lev 10 was added. In this respect, the classical view that the introduction to the ritual in v. 1–2 is Sforno does not actually cite the parable, save for the closing sentence, “to chasten him more than the first,” which shows that he was basing his reasoning on it. 62 b. Yoma 53a. 63 Nihan, Priestly Torah, 340. 64 Warning, Literary Artistry, 42–6. In his view, it actually holds a central position in Leviticus, being speech 17 out of 35. 65 For this he cites Blum, Studien, 318, note 119: “Im übrigen deutet der Rückgriff auf Lev 10 (den Tod der beiden Aaron-Sohne im Heiligtum) in Lev 16,1 keineswegs, wie gern argumentiert wird, auf einen ursprünglich unmittelbaren Anshluss an Lev 10, sondern gewinnt gerade als Wiederaufnahme uber die Reinheitstorot in 11-15 hinweg seinen Sinn.” 61

408

ISAAC B. GOTTLIEB not from one hand, and that v. 1 is manifestly later than v. 2, may be accepted.66

In light of both parts of Sforno’s comments, I would venture to say that v. 2 alone was the original opening of ch. 16, introducing an annual ceremony to cleanse the temple of impurities and to achieve atonement for those sins relating to the Sanctuary. On the ordained day of the ritual, the tenth of the first month, Aaron was to enter and offer up incense on the altar of gold. Verse 2 is thus aligned with the closing of the parasha, “This shall be to you a law for all time: to make atonement for the Israelites for all their sins once a year” (Lev 16:34). The prohibition to enter the sanctuary in v. 2 had nothing to do with the deaths of Nadab and Abihu; it prohibited even the High Priest to enter the Holy of Holies under penalty of death, save for this annual ceremony. However, several chapters earlier, the sons of Aaron had entered the Sanctuary’s premises on the eighth day of the ordination period, offered incense without being commanded to do so, and were immediately stricken. It thus seemed the perfect illustration for what Aaron was now being warned not to do. 67 In order to relate this chapter to that incident, a second superscription was formulated; v. 1 served to link ritual law with the earlier narrative. I offer two proofs for this thesis: First, v. 1 uses the expression “when they drew too close to the presence of the Lord” ('‫)בקרבתם לפני ה‬. The root qrb “to draw near” appears eleven times in the story of Nadab and Abihu (Lev 9). Yet in the present chapter, with the exception of v. 1, the root does not appear at all. If indeed this pericope followed on the heels of the incident, in place of “let him not come close to the sanctuary,” ( ‫ואל‬ ‫ )יבא בכל עת אל הקדש‬one would have expected “let him not draw near,” ‫ואל יקרב‬. In fact we find exactly this phrase in Num 17:5, “so that no outsider—one not of Aaron’s offspring—should presume to offer incense,” using the phrase yiqrab (‫)למען אשר לא יקרב איש זר‬. Second, throughout the books of Leviticus and Numbers, the standard opening formula is: “The Lord spoke to Moses, saying,” '‫וידבר ה‬ ‫אל משה לאמר‬. It appears as such over 70 times. Outside the Priestly literature, however, the formula drops the word “saying.” 68 Within the 10F

Nihan, Priestly Torah, 346. Namely, he was being warned not to enter the sanctuary unless commanded; likewise Nadab and Abihu did that “which He had not enjoined upon them” (Lev 10:1). 68 M. Paran, Forms of the Priestly Style in the Pentateuch (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1989 [Hebrew]), 223. 66 67

MEDIEVAL JEWISH EXEGESIS ON DUAL INCIPITS

409

Priestly literature, this superscription appears without the word “saying” (‫ )לאמר‬only once—in our verse, 16:1. 69 This would seem to indicate that the verse differs in style from all the other chapter openings in Leviticus. My contention is that this verse was secondary. The idea that this chapter originally had no connection with the earlier incident of Nadab and Abihu could also explain why it was not placed adjacent to ch. 9. For as Ibn Ezra already noted, ch. 16 follows directly from the preceding chapters, 11–15, all of which deal with laws of ritual uncleanliness, tum’ah, and the possibility that those who were ritually unclean had entered the sacred precincts; it was for them that the atonement and purification ritual of ch. 16 was ordained.70 This supposition can also provide an answer to the following question raised by Knohl: 10F

102F

According to the simple meaning of Lev 10:1, it seems that their sin was that they did not take from the holy fire burning upon the altar, as we find written in the Targumim and in the writings of the sages…Lev 16:1–2, on the other hand, seems to indicate that the sin was in the very approach to the holy.71 103F

Warning, Literary Artistry, 42–3, connects the absence of ‫ לאמר‬in Lev. 16:1, 2, and 21:1, but in my opinion these passages need to be distinguished. 70 Ibn Ezra on Lev 16:1: “After the death—After warning the Israelites that they shall not die [a reference to Lev 15:31, “You shall put the Israelites on guard against their uncleanness, lest they die through their uncleanness by defiling My tabernacle”], the Lord told Moses to warn Aaron as well lest he die as did his sons.” I would omit the final words “lest he die as did his sons” and concur with Ibn Ezra that the warning to Aaron was identical to the earlier warning to the people: both were warned against entering the tabernacle, either in a state of uncleanness or uncommanded. S.R Driver, An Introduction to the Literature of the Old Testament (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1913), 46, citing Kuenen and Wellhausen, similarly justifies the order of chapters 8–16: “They come after the consecration of the priests, whose functions concerning the ‘clean’ and ‘unclean’ they regulate, and before the law of the Day of Atonement, on which the sanctuary is cleansed from the pollutions caused by involuntary uncleanness of priests and people.” J. Milgrom, Leviticus (AB, 3; New York: Doubleday, 1991), 639, adds: “Finally, it is hardly an accident that the story of Nadab and Abihu is followed by the laws of impurity (chaps. 11–15). To be sure, this story adds the impurity of corpse contamination to those in the subsequent impurity collection which must be purged on Yom Kippur (see 16:1).” According to all these explanations, the place of chapter 16 is where it should be, following the laws of ritual defilement. 71 Knohl, The Sanctuary of Silence, 150 n. 108. 69

410

ISAAC B. GOTTLIEB

Indeed there is a difference in the formulation of the sin between 10:1 and 16:1. 72 Chapter 10 describes the actual sin: bringing a strange fire with incense onto the altar. This, however, would not bring the sin into the rubric of ch. 16, entering the precincts of the Sanctuary unless commanded (16:2). Therefore 16:1 connects their sin to the general prohibition against entering the sanctuary without summons by formulating it in more general terms—“when they drew near to the sanctuary and died.” 73 To conclude, the adoption of the idea of dual incipits for this text can resolve several problems and Sforno’s comments seem to point in this direction.

CONCLUSION In this paper I examined four cases of dual superscriptions. In all of them, I found some reference to the concept of “opening formulae” among one or more of the traditional exegetes. Some commentators found duplication in the opening phrases, others explained the text in a way that did away with dual incipits. Nahmanides explained two cases (Exod 35, Lev 23) as the result of resumptive repetition. Sforno, the latest of the commentators cited, suggested that the dual incipit in Lev 16 was the result of what we would call a conflate text. Overall, these comments of medieval Jewish 72

Pace Knohl, Lev 16:2 makes no reference to Nadab and Abihu.

B.J. Schwartz, The Holiness Legislation: Studies in the Priestly Code (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1999 [Hebrew]), 19 n. 23: “The superscription of Lev 16, ‘after the death of,’ teaches that according to the narrator, the command of the annual atonement ritual was given after the deaths of Nadab and Abihu (ch. 10)… The very title, ‘after the death of,’ bears witness that the present arrangement [of the chapters], with its chronological deviation, is the original order. If chapter 16 were the original continuation of chapter 10 from the literary viewpoint, there would be no room for such a title as we find in chapter 16.” This argument—that adverbial clauses of time and place that seem to indicate chronological deviation are really proof that the Torah is concerned about chronology—was already made by Nahmanides, on Lev 25:1, and independently by M. Sternberg, “Time and Space in Biblical (Hi)story Telling: The Grand Chronology,” in R.M. Schwartz (ed.), The Book and the Text: the Bible and Literary Theory (Oxford: Blackwell, 1990), 14–81. However, in my opinion, Lev 16 is not one of those cases. As explained above, quite the opposite is true: the superscription “after the death of the two sons of Aaron who died when they drew too close to the presence of the Lord” is a secondary attempt to create adjacency for two portions, Lev 10 and Lev 16, that were never intrinsically connected, thus creating an artificial case of en muqdam umeuhar ba-torah, “there is no earlier or later in the Torah.” See Nihan’s view in note 66 above. 73

MEDIEVAL JEWISH EXEGESIS ON DUAL INCIPITS

411

exegetes and those who followed in their wake show an awareness of literary problems, although they did not formulate their comments as such. 74

74 I want to thank Eric Lawee for reading this paper and for his helpful suggestions, as well as the referees of JHS who commented on a former version of this article.

PSALM 68: STRUCTURE, COMPOSITION AND GEOGRAPHY ISRAEL KNOHL

HEBREW UNIVERSITY OF JERUSALEM

Psalm 68 is presumably one of the most difficult texts in the book of Psalms. Scholars are divided on its structure, its meaning, and its date. The following article addresses some key aspects of the psalm’s composition; it includes a discussion of its structure—in which I argue that it is possible to identify a numerical pattern—as well as a discussion of its distinctive geography. The discussion will mostly be based on the Masoretic Text (MT); no version of this psalm was found in Qumran, and the LXX, while presenting its own difficulties, does not appear to point to a different Hebrew base text than the one preserved in MT. 1 107F

1. THE STRUCTURE OF PSALM 68 1.1. NUMERICAL STRUCTURE AND COMPOSITION 2 108F

The significance of numerical structures in the study of the book of Psalms has been noted by Caspar Labuschagne in a recent article (Labuschagne The use of the Greek text of Ps 68 is complicated by the fact that the Greek translator interpreted difficult words and expressions in the MT on the basis of their graphic similarity with other, more common Hebrew words. For instance, he interpreted ‫ בערבות‬in 68:5 as ‫( מערב‬δυσμων), and ‫ ידדון‬in 68:13 in the sense of ‫ידיד‬ (αγαπητος). 2 Unless otherwise specified, the English translation used here follows the NRSV. The verse numbering follows the MT; the English numbering is different because the first verse is not counted. 1

413

414

ISRAEL KNOHL

2009). Labuschagne pointed out several structures of word numbers in different psalms which appear to have symbolic meaning. This notion, applied here to the number of cola, may help us understanding the structure of one of the most difficult psalms, Psalm 68. It may also help us to differentiate between the original nucleolus of this psalm and later additions. Let us start by presenting this psalm, divided into its cola.3 ‫וְ יָ נוּסוּ ְמ ַשׂנְ ָאיו ִמ ָפּנָ יו‬ ‫דּוֹנַ ג ִמ ְפּנֵ י ֵאשׁ‬ ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫יַ ַﬠ ְלצוּ ִל ְפנֵ י ֱא‬ ‫סֹלּוּ ָלר ֵֹכב ָבּ ֲﬠ ָרבוֹת‬ ‫�הים ִבּ ְמעוֹן ָק ְדשׁוֹ‬ ִ ‫ֱא‬ ‫כּוֹשׁרוֹת‬ ָ ‫מוֹציא ֲא ִס ִירים ַבּ‬ ִ ‫ישׁימוֹן ֶס ָלה‬ ִ ‫ְבּצַ ְﬠ ְדּ� ִב‬ ‫�הים זֶ ה ִסינַ י‬ ִ ‫ִמ ְפּנֵ י ֱא‬ ‫נַ ֲח ָל ְת� וְ נִ ְל ָאה ַא ָתּה כוֹנַ נְ ָתּהּ‬ ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫טוֹב ְת� לֶ ָﬠנִ י ֱא‬ ָ ‫ָתּ ִכין ְבּ‬ ‫ַה ְמ ַב ְשּׂרוֹת ָצ ָבא ָרב‬ ‫וּנְ וַ ת ַבּיִת ְתּ ַח ֵלּק ָשׁ ָלל‬ ‫ַכּנְ ֵפי יוֹנָ ה נֶ ְח ָפּה ַב ֶכּ ֶסף‬ ‫ַתּ ְשׁ ֵלג ְבּצַ ְלמוֹן‬ ‫ַהר גַּ ְבנֻ נִּ ים ַהר ָבּ ָשׁן‬ ‫�הים ְל ִשׁ ְבתּוֹ‬ ִ ‫ָה ָהר ָח ַמד ֱא‬

‫א ַל ְמנַ ֵצּ ַ� ְל ָדוִ ד ִמזְ מוֹר ִשׁיר‬

‫אוֹיְביו‬ ָ ‫�הים יָפוּצוּ‬ ִ ‫ב יָ קוּם ֱא‬ ‫ג ְכּ ִהנְ דּ ֹף ָﬠ ָשׁן ִתּנְ דּ ֹף ְכּ ִה ֵמּס‬ ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫אבדוּ ְר ָשׁ ִﬠים ִמ ְפּנֵ י ֱא‬ ְ ֹ‫י‬ ‫יִשׂ ְמחוּ‬ ְ ‫יקים‬ ִ ‫ד וְ ַצ ִדּ‬ ‫וְ יָ ִשׂישׂוּ ְב ִשׂ ְמ ָחה‬ ‫א�הים זַ ְמּרוּ ְשׁמוּ‬ ִ ‫ה ִשׁירוּ ֵל‬ ‫ְבּיָ הּ ְשׁמוֹ וְ ִﬠ ְלזוּ ְל ָפנָ יו‬ ‫יְתוֹמים וְ ַדיַּ ן ַא ְל ָמנוֹת‬ ִ ‫ו ֲא ִבי‬ ‫יְח ִידים ַבּי ְָתה‬ ִ ‫מוֹשׁיב‬ ִ ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ז ֱא‬ ‫יחה‬ ָ ‫סוֹר ִרים ָשׁ ְכנוּ ְצ ִח‬ ְ �‫ַא‬ �‫את� ִל ְפנֵ י ַﬠ ֶמּ‬ ְ ‫�הים ְבּ ֵצ‬ ִ ‫ח ֱא‬ ‫ט ֶא ֶרץ ָר ָﬠ ָשׁה ַאף ָשׁ ַמיִם נָ ְטפוּ‬ ‫�הי יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬ ֵ ‫�הים ֱא‬ ִ ‫ִמ ְפּנֵ י ֱא‬ ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫י גֶּ ֶשׁם נְ ָדבוֹת ָתּנִ יף ֱא‬ ‫יָּת� יָ ְשׁבוּ ָבהּ‬ ְ ‫יא ַח‬ ‫יִתּן א ֶֹמר‬ ֶ ‫יב ֲאד ֹנָ י‬ ‫יג ַמ ְל ֵכי ְצ ָבאוֹת ִידּ ֹדוּן ִידּ ֹדוּן‬ ‫יד ִאם ִתּ ְשׁ ְכּבוּן ֵבּין ְשׁ ַפ ָתּיִם‬ ‫יה ִבּ ַיר ְק ַרק ָחרוּץ‬ ָ ‫רוֹת‬ ֶ ‫וְ ֶא ְב‬ ‫טו ְבּ ָפ ֵרשׂ ַשׁ ַדּי ְמ ָל ִכים ָבּהּ‬ ‫�הים ַהר ָבּ ָשׁן‬ ִ ‫טז ַהר ֱא‬ ‫יז ָל ָמּה ְתּ ַרצְּ דוּן ָה ִרים גַּ ְבנֻ נִּ ים‬ ‫יְ הוָ ה יִ ְשׁכֹּן ָלנֶ ַצח‬-‫ַאף‬

The cola division follows Fokkelman 1990:74, except in the case of v. 9. Fokkelman divides this verse into four cola, in keeping with his understanding of the structure of vv. 8–9 as consisting of two tricola. In his view, the words ‫ארץ‬ ‫ רעשה‬conclude the first sentence, while the parallel expression ‫ אף שמים נטפו‬opens the next one. I find this interpretation problematic. My own division treats v. 9 as an independent tricola, which corresponds to my view of the central position of the words ‫ מפני אלהים זה סיני‬in the middle of this verse. 3

‫‪415‬‬

‫‪PSALM 68: STRUCTURE, COMPOSITION AND GEOGRAPHY‬‬ ‫ַא ְל ֵפי ִשׁנְ ָאן‬

‫�הים ִרבּ ַֹתיִם‬ ‫יח ֶר ֶכב ֱא ִ‬ ‫ֲאד ֹנָ י ָבם ִסינַ י ַבּקּ ֶֹדשׁ‬ ‫ָל ַק ְח ָתּ ַמ ָתּנוֹת ָבּ ָא ָדם‬ ‫ית ֶשּׁ ִבי‬ ‫ית ַל ָמּרוֹם ָשׁ ִב ָ‬ ‫יט ָﬠ ִל ָ‬ ‫�הים‬ ‫סוֹר ִרים ִל ְשׁכֹּן יָ הּ ֱא ִ‬ ‫וְ ַאף ְ‬ ‫שׁוּﬠ ֵתנוּ ֶס ָלה‬ ‫יַ ֲﬠ ָמס ָלנוּ ָה ֵאל יְ ָ‬ ‫כ ָבּרוּ� ֲאד ֹנָ י יוֹם יוֹם‬ ‫וְ ֵליהוִ ה ֲאד ֹנָ י ַל ָמּוֶ ת תּ ָֹצאוֹת‬ ‫מוֹשׁעוֹת‬ ‫כא ָה ֵאל ָלנוּ ֵאל ְל ָ‬ ‫ָק ְדקֹד ֵשׂ ָﬠר ִמ ְת ַה ֵלּ� ַבּ ֲא ָשׁ ָמיו‬ ‫יִמ ַחץ רֹאשׁ אֹיְ ָביו‬ ‫�הים ְ‬ ‫כב ַא� ֱא ִ‬ ‫ָא ִשׁיב ִמ ְמּ ֻצלוֹת יָם‬ ‫כג ָא ַמר ֲאד ֹנָ י ִמ ָבּ ָשׁן ָא ִשׁיב‬ ‫ְלשׁוֹן ְכּ ָל ֶבי� ֵמאֹיְ ִבים ִמנֵּ הוּ‬ ‫כד ְל ַמ ַﬠן ִתּ ְמ ַחץ ַרגְ ְל� ְבּ ָדם‬ ‫ֲה ִליכוֹת ֵא ִלי ַמ ְלכִּ י ַבקּ ֶֹדשׁ‬ ‫�הים‬ ‫יכוֹתי� ֱא ִ‬ ‫כה ָראוּ ֲה ִל ֶ‬ ‫תּוֹפפוֹת‬ ‫ְבּתוֹ� ֲﬠ ָלמוֹת ֵ‬ ‫כו ִק ְדּמוּ ָשׁ ִרים ַא ַחר נֹגְ נִ ים‬ ‫ֲאד ֹנָ י ִמ ְמּקוֹר יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬ ‫�הים‬ ‫כז ְבּ ַמ ְק ֵהלוֹת ָבּ ְרכוּ ֱא ִ‬ ‫הוּדה ִרגְ ָמ ָתם‬ ‫ָשׂ ֵרי יְ ָ‬ ‫יָמן ָצ ִﬠיר ר ֵֹדם‬ ‫כח ָשׁם ִבּנְ ִ‬ ‫ָשׂ ֵרי זְ ֻבלוּן ָשׂ ֵרי נַ ְפ ָתּ ִלי‬ ‫�הים זוּ ָפּ ַﬠ ְל ָתּ ָלּנוּ‬ ‫עוּזָּ ה ֱא ִ‬ ‫�הי� ֻﬠזֶּ �‬ ‫כט ִצוָּ ה ֱא ֶ‬ ‫יוֹבילוּ ְמ ָל ִכים ָשׁי‬ ‫ְל� ִ‬ ‫רוּשׁ ָל�‬ ‫יכ ֶל� ַﬠל יְ ָ‬ ‫ל ֵמ ֵה ָ‬ ‫ֲﬠ ַדת ַא ִבּ ִירים ְבּ ֶﬠגְלֵ י ַﬠ ִמּים‬ ‫לא גְּ ַﬠר ַחיַּת ָקנֶ ה‬ ‫יֶח ָפּצוּ‬ ‫ִבּזַּ ר ַﬠ ִמּים ְק ָרבוֹת ְ‬ ‫ִמ ְת ַר ֵפּס ְבּ ַרצֵּ י ָכ ֶסף‬ ‫א�הים‬ ‫כּוּשׁ ָתּ ִריץ יָ ָדיו ֵל ִ‬ ‫לב יֶ ֱא ָתיוּ ַח ְשׁ ַמנִּ ים ִמנִּ י ִמ ְצ ָריִם‬ ‫זַ ְמּרוּ ֲאד ֹנָ י ֶס ָלה‬ ‫א�הים‬ ‫לג ַמ ְמ ְלכוֹת ָה ָא ֶרץ ִשׁירוּ ֵל ִ‬ ‫יִתּן ְבּקוֹלוֹ קוֹל עֹז‬ ‫ֵהן ֵ‬ ‫לד ָלר ֵֹכב ִבּ ְשׁ ֵמי ְשׁ ֵמי ֶק ֶדם‬ ‫ַﬠל יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל גַּ ֲאוָ תוֹ‬ ‫א�הים‬ ‫לה ְתּנוּ עֹז ֵל ִ‬ ‫וְ ֻﬠזּוֹ ַבּ ְשּׁ ָח ִקים‬ ‫ֵאל יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל הוּא נ ֵֹתן עֹז וְ ַת ֲﬠ ֻצמוֹת לָ ָﬠם‬ ‫�הים ִמ ִמּ ְק ָדּ ֶשׁי�‬ ‫נוֹרא ֱא ִ‬ ‫לו ָ‬ ‫�הים‬ ‫ָבּרוּ� ֱא ִ‬

‫‪Psalm 68 contains several unique words and expressions, 4 a feature which‬‬ ‫‪makes its interpretation very difficult. Furthermore, scholars also disagree‬‬ ‫‪regarding the integrity of this psalm. Some regard it as a homogeneous‬‬ ‫‪composition, while others emphasize its apparent disunity. 5‬‬ ‫‪10F‬‬

‫‪1F‬‬

‫‪4 I list here the unique words and expressions with the numbers of the different‬‬ ‫‪verses where they appear:‬‬ ‫יתן ‪ (11),‬חיתך ‪ (10),‬גשם נדבות תניף ‪ (7),‬בכושרות ‪ (5),‬סלו לרכב בערבות ביה שמו‬ ‫‪ (16),‬הר גבננים ‪ (15),‬תשלג ‪ (14),‬בירקרק חרוץ ‪,‬שפתים ‪ (13),‬ידדון ידדון ‪ (12),‬אמר‬ ‫קדקד שער מתהלך ‪ (21),‬תוצאות למות ‪ (19),‬מתנות באדם ‪ (18),‬שנאן ‪ (17),‬תרצדון‬ ‫‪ (28),‬רגמתם ‪ (27),‬במקהלות ‪ (25),‬הליכותיך אלהים הליכות אלי ‪ (24),‬מנהו ‪ (22),‬באשמיו‬ ‫‪ (34).‬לרכב בשמי שמי קדם ‪ (32),‬יאתיו חשמנים‪ ,‬תריץ ידיו ‪ (31),‬מתרפס ברצי כסף‪ ,‬בזר‬ ‫‪5 Thus, e.g., Albright 1950–1951, who described it as “a catalogue of early Hebrew‬‬ ‫”‪lyric poems.‬‬

416

ISRAEL KNOHL

As was noted by several scholars,6 v. 5 is similar to vv. 33–34, and together they form an inclusio. Many scholars 7 see the words ‫ רכב בערבות‬in v. 5 as a parallel to the Ugaritic title of Baal ‫“—רכב ערפת‬the rider of the clouds.” In this case, there is a clear parallel between the call to praise God “who rides upon the clouds” in v. 5 and the call to sing to the “the rider in the heavens” in vv. 33–34.8 The assumption that our author was familiar with the descriptions of Baal can be further supported by the description of God in v. 34—“O rider in the heavens, the ancient heavens; listen, he sends out his voice, his mighty voice.” These words should be compared to the description of Baal in the opening of Amarna Letter 147. The sender of this letter, Abimilki King of Tyre, flatters the Egyptian monarch (probably Akhenaten) 9 by comparing him to Baal, who sends forth his voice in heaven while all the earth trembles when that voice is heard. 10 This Baal image—the image of the god of clouds, thunder, and rain—is further reflected in 68:10: “Rain in abundance, O God, you showered abroad.” I agree with Fokkelman that the inclusio between vv. 5 and 33–34 points toward the unity of Ps 68.11 In my view, however, this notion is only valid with regard to the verses that are found within the inclusio, namely, 68:5–34. The rest of the verses—vv. 1–4 and 35–36—are presumably a late editorial addition. Other indications appear to support such division between 68:5–34 and the rest of the psalm. First, the unique words and expressions to which I have already referred 12 are all to be found within the section comprised by vv. 5–34. Second, our psalm evinces several connections with Ugaritic literature, as various scholars have pointed out, 13 but such connections are likewise restricted to vv. 5–34. 14 Finally, as was remarked by Goldingay (2007:309), the current opening of the psalm in v. 2 departs significantly from the usual openings of psalms of praise. The original opening is probably preserved in v. 5, which introduces the psalm 12F

13F

14F

15F

16F

17F

18F

19F

120F

See, e.g., Fokkelman 1990:75; Hossfeld and Zenger 2005:162. See the references listed by Day 2002:92–93. 8 Even John Day (2002:93), who claims that the words ‫ בערבות רכב‬should be translated “rider through the deserts,” agrees that “it is still likely that Yahweh is here conceived as riding on a cloud.” 9 See Albright 1937; Campbell 1964:68–77; Grave 1980, 1982. 10 See also the reference to II AB iii 30–37 in Cassuto 1973:278 note 88. 11 Ibid. 12 See above, note 4. 13 For a comprehensive list, see especially Gray 1977:8–20. 14 Dahood 1986:35 argues that 68:3 reflects Ugaritic morphology; however, this argument was already rejected by Gray (ibid.:15). 6

7

PSALM 68: STRUCTURE, COMPOSITION AND GEOGRAPHY

417

with an exhortation to praise God that fits well the traditional pattern that characterizes psalms of praise. This finding is consistent with the recent interpretation of Hossfeld and Zenger (2005:163), who likewise agree that 68:1–4, 35–36 form a later addition to this psalm, presumably from the hand of the psalm’s final editor. However, they also argue that 68:5–7, 33–36 are secondary and stem from an earlier editor. In their view, therefore, the “core” section of the psalm is contained in vv. 8–32. They raise two arguments for this claim (ibid.). (1) First, in verses 8–11 we have a description of the theophany of God, which is reminiscent of similar depictions found at the opening of other poems: the blessing of Moses in Deut 33, Deborah’s song in Judg 5, and the poem in Hab 3. (2) Moreover, they point to what they perceive to be a tension between vv. 5–7 and 8–32: In 68:7, “the rebellious are put outside God’s care and banished to the wilderness, but at God’s enthronement, described in v. 19, where God as a king brings captive in train… They [i.e., the rebellious, I. K.], again take part… and… are introduced into the rank of those who owe tribute.” The first argument appears to be based on problematic evidence. Out of the three poems mentioned, it is only the blessing of Moses which opens with the description of the theophany. In the two other cases we have a short introduction before this depiction (cf. Judg 5:2–3; Hab 3:2). Actually, the call to bless God and the appeal to the foreign kings to sing to God which opens the song of Deborah should be compared with the function of 68:5. I regard the second argument as being equally unconvincing. Verse 7 does not say that “the rebellious are banished to the wilderness,” but rather that they dwell in a parched land. Hence, I do not see any contradiction between this statement and the later inclusion, in v. 19, of the rebellious among those who owe tribute or service to God after his victory. If we conclude that the original psalm is included in 68:5–34 we have to look for the reasons that led to the editorial additions found in vv. 1–4, 35–36. As is well known, Ps 68 is part of the “Elohistic Collection” or “Elohistic Psalter” (Pss 42–68). The name ‫ אלהים‬is the dominant divine name used in this collection. Only rarely do the names ‫ יהוה‬or ‫ יה‬appear within this collection. 15 The inclusion of Ps 68 within the “Elohistic Collection” seems problematic: While it is true that the name “Elohim” is the dominant name in this psalm, a variety of other divine names also appear here. This phenomenon already led Fokkelman (1990:75–76) to dispute the presence of an Elohistic redaction in this psalm. I can partially agree with 12F

15

For a recent discussion of the use of the divine names in this collection, see Joffe 2001, as well as Hossfeld and Zenger (2003).

418

ISRAEL KNOHL

him, in the sense that there is no evidence, in my view, for an Elohistic redaction in the original nucleus of this psalm (68:5–34). However, the supplementary material identified in 68:1–4, 35–36 should be assigned, in my opinion, to such an Elohistic redaction. The Elohistic redactors were apparently troubled by the variety of the divine names within this psalm. For some reason, they refrained from changing the divine names in the original nucleus of this psalm (68:5–34). However, they sought to reinforce the “Elohistic” tone of the psalm by framing the psalm with additional verses in which the name “Elohim” appears six times, while there is no mention of the divine names ‫ יהוה‬or ‫יה‬. I also agree with Fokkelman (ibid.) that this psalm should be divided into three sections and that the central section, in 68:12–24, “is the full report of the war of liberation fought by God himself.” Finally, I agree with his view that the psalm is built of eight stanzas (see ibid.:73). However, I cannot accept all the details of his stanza division. Fokkelman sees the whole psalm as one original unit and divides it into eight stanzas. As stated above, in my view, the original nucleus of this psalm is contained in 68:5– 34, and I suggest that this original nucleus itself is built of eight stanzas.16 The transition from one stanza to another is usually marked either by a change of the grammatical person or by the introduction of a new divine name. Thus, the variety of the divine names in this psalm is also part of its stanza building. Below is the division of the original nucleus (68:5–34) into three sections and eight stanzas, with a detailed discussion of that division. 12F

Section One: 68:5–11 Stanza 1 (68:5–7) ‫סֹלּוּ ָלר ֵֹכב ָבּ ֲﬠ ָרבוֹת‬ ‫�הים ִבּ ְמעוֹן ָק ְדשׁוֹ‬ ִ ‫ֱא‬ ‫כּוֹשׁרוֹת‬ ָ ‫מוֹציא ֲא ִס ִירים ַבּ‬ ִ

‫א�הים זַ ְמּרוּ ְשׁמוֹ‬ ִ ‫ה ִשׁירוּ ֵל‬ ‫ְבּיָ הּ ְשׁמוֹ וְ ִﬠ ְלזוּ ְל ָפנָ יו‬ ‫יְתוֹמים וְ ַדיַּ ן ַא ְל ָמנוֹת‬ ִ ‫ו ֲא ִבי‬ ‫יְתה‬ ָ ‫מוֹשׁיב יְ ִח ִידים ַבּ‬ ִ ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫ז ֱא‬ ‫יחה‬ ָ ‫סוֹר ִרים ָשׁ ְכנוּ ְצ ִח‬ ְ �‫ַא‬

After the opening verse, which gives an exhortation to sing to God (Elohim), the stanza contains a description of God’s protection and just judgment. As was noted by Kraus (1993:51), this description is “stated in very general terms” and “corresponds to the typical ancient Near Eastern picture of an ideal king.” God is described here as the father and advocate 16

In several cases I followed the stanza division of Hossfeld and Zenger (2003:161).

PSALM 68: STRUCTURE, COMPOSITION AND GEOGRAPHY

419

for the personae miserae of all humanity. 17 There is no mention of a special relationship between God and Israel in this paragraph. As was mentioned above, the opening verse seems to refer to God with the title of “the rider of the clouds,” which is taken from Baal, the rain god. The last words of the stanza, “but the rebellious live in a parched land,” refer to the rebellious people who do not get the blessing of rain but dwell in arid land. The identity of these rebellious people will be explored elsewhere. Stanza 2 (68:8–11) ‫ישׁימוֹן ֶס ָלה‬ ִ ‫ְבּ ַצ ְﬠ ְדּ� ִב‬ �‫את� ִל ְפנֵ י ַﬠ ֶמּ‬ ְ ‫�הים ְבּ ֵצ‬ ִ ‫ח ֱא‬ ‫�הים זֶ ה ִסינַ י‬ ִ ‫ִמ ְפּנֵ י ֱא‬ ‫ט ֶא ֶרץ ָר ָﬠ ָשׁה ַאף ָשׁ ַמיִם נָ ְטפוּ‬ ‫�הי יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬ ֵ ‫�הים ֱא‬ ִ ‫ִמ ְפּנֵ י ֱא‬ ‫נַ ֲח ָל ְת� וְ נִ ְל ָאה ַא ָתּה כוֹנַ נְ ָתּ הּ‬ ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫י גֶּ ֶשׁם נְ ָדבוֹת ָתּנִ יף ֱא‬ ‫תָּ כִין בְּטוֹבָתְ� ֶל ָענִי אֱ�הִים‬ ‫יא ַחיּ ָתְ� יָשְׁבוּ בָהּ‬ The transition to the following stanza is marked by a change in the person used to address the deity: In the previous stanza, the third person was used in reference to the universal god. Here the poet comes to the description of God’s help to Israel. The tone is more intimate, and the speech about God (Elohim) is given in the second person. The first two verses of this stanza describe the march of God before Israel in the desert. Unlike the parallel verses in Judg 5:4–5, the point of departure of the march is not indicated here. 18 Within the description of the march, there is a reference to the raining heavens—“the heavens poured down rain” (68:9). This reference supports the connection with the following verses that also deal with rain. The following two verses (68:10–11) refer to the benefits that God gave to Israel after the march, namely, a land watered with rain. 19 As a result, a clear distinction is established between the “rebellious who dwell in a parched land,” mentioned at the end of the first stanza (68:7), and the people of Israel who are supplied with “rain in abundance” (68:10). 124F

125F

Section Two: 68:12–24 The description of God’s help and salvation to all humankind and to Israel in the first two stanzas serves as an introduction to the central section, which describes God’s salvation during the war. See Hossfeld and Zenger 2005:164. I intend to deal with the question of the chronological and literary relationship between theses verses elsewhere. 19 The exact meaning of the term ‫ חיתך‬used at the beginning of v. 11 to refer to the people will be explained below. 17 18

420

ISRAEL KNOHL Stanza 3 (68:12–14) ‫ַה ְמ ַב ְשּׂרוֹת ָצ ָבא ָרב‬ ‫וּנְ וַ ת ַבּיִת ְתּ ַח ֵלּק ָשׁ ָלל‬ ‫ַכּנְ ֵפי יוֹנָ ה נֶ ְח ָפּה ַב ֶכּ ֶסף‬

‫יִתּן א ֶֹמר‬ ֶ ‫יב ֲאד ֹנָ י‬ ‫יג ַמ ְל ֵכי ְצ ָבאוֹת יִ דּ ֹדוּן ִידּ ֹדוּן‬ ‫יד ִאם ִתּ ְשׁ ְכּבוּן ֵבּין ְשׁ ַפ ָתּיִם‬ ‫יה ִבּ ַיר ְק ַרק ָחרוּץ‬ ָ ‫רוֹת‬ ֶ ‫וְ ֶא ְב‬

The transition to a new stanza is again marked by a change in the person used to address the deity, this time from the second person to the third. Another mark of the new stanza is the use of the divine name “Adonai” for the first time in the psalm (68:12). This stanza, which opens the central section, refers first to an oracle or a war prophecy, 20 indicated by the phrase ‫אדני יתן אמר‬. The next verses cite God’s words, which are announced by the heralding women. The message tells of the coming defeat, the dispersion of the enemy kings, and the division of their spoil. 21 The fact that we have here an announcement which predicts the results of the battle before the war is reflected in the use of the future tense: ‫ידדון ידדון‬, ‫תחלק‬, ‫תשכבון‬. This device can be compared with the past tense used by the heralding women after the victory of David (see 1 Sam 18:7): ‫הכה שאול באלפיו ודוד ברבבותיו‬. This pre-war announcement ends with the description of the precious object in the second part of v. 14, an object that is part of the war booty. 126F

127F

Stanza 4 (68:15–19) ‫ַתּ ְשׁ ֵלג ְבּ ַצ ְלמוֹן‬ ‫טו ְבּ ָפ ֵרשׂ ַשׁ ַדּי ְמ ָל ִכים ָבּהּ‬ ‫ַהר גַּ ְבנֻ נִּ ים ַהר ָבּ ָשׁן‬ ‫�הים ַהר ָבּ ָשׁן‬ ִ ‫טז ַהר ֱא‬ ‫�הים ְל ִשׁ ְבתּוֹ‬ ִ ‫ָה ָהר ָח ַמד ֱא‬ ‫יז ָל ָמּה ְתּ ַר ְצּדוּן ָה ִרים גַּ ְבנֻ נִּ ים‬ ‫ַאף יְהוָ ה יִ ְשׁכֹּן ָלנֶ ַצח‬ ‫ַא ְל ֵפי ִשׁנְ ָאן‬ ‫�הים ִרבּ ַֹתיִם‬ ִ ‫יח ֶר ֶכב ֱא‬ ‫ֲאד ֹנָ י ָבם ִסינַי ַבּקּ ֶֹדשׁ‬ ‫ָל ַק ְח ָתּ ַמ ָתּנוֹת ָבּ ָא ָדם‬ ‫ית ֶשּׁ ִבי‬ ָ ‫ית ַל ָמּרוֹם ָשׁ ִב‬ ָ ‫יט ָﬠ ִל‬ ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫סוֹר ִרים ִל ְשׁכֹּן יָ הּ ֱא‬ ְ ‫וְ ַאף‬ This stanza tells of the fulfillment of the oracle announcing the defeat of the enemy kings and their dispersion, which are now reported in the present tense: ‫בפרש שדי מלכים בה‬. The beginning of a new stanza is marked not only by the transition from future to present tense but also by the introduction of a new divine name, this time the name “Shaddai” (68:15). The last two verses of the stanza, 68:18–19, describe the divine army and 20 21

Compare, e.g., Hossfeld and Zenger 2005:165. See Hossfeld and Zenger 2005:165; Tate 1990:178.

PSALM 68: STRUCTURE, COMPOSITION AND GEOGRAPHY

421

mention the prisoners of war that were taken by God. 22 The meaning of the central verses 68:16–17 and their connection to the rest of the stanza will be discussed below. It should be noted that, at the end of the stanza, there is a reference to the rebellious ones who are mentioned after the prisoners of war: ‫סוררים‬ ‫שבית שבי … ואף לשכן יה אלהים‬. This echoes the reference to prisoners and rebellious ones at the end of the first stanza: ‫אך סוררים שכנו צחיחה‬. Finally, one may also note that the same verb, ‫שכן‬, is used in both cases after the reference to the rebellious ones. This may be regarded as a further indication of the integrity of the different stanzas of this psalm. Stanza 5 (68:20–21) ‫שׁוּﬠ ֵתנוּ ֶס ָלה‬ ָ ְ‫יַ ֲﬠ ָמס ָלנוּ ָה ֵאל י‬ ‫וְ ֵליהוִ ה ֲאד ֹנָ י ַל ָמּוֶ ת תּ ָֹצאוֹת‬

‫כ ָבּרוּ� ֲאד ֹנָ י יוֹם יוֹם‬ ‫מוֹשׁעוֹת‬ ָ ‫כא ָה ֵאל ָלנוּ ֵאל ְל‬

The fifth stanza is the shortest one; it is also unique in its content, as it contains a blessing formula for Elohim as “savior.” This blessing is said by the entire community in the first person plural; this is the first time that we see this form of speech within this psalm. In addition, the blessing presents a chiastic structure: ‫ תוצאות‬... ‫ האל לנו אל למושעות‬... ‫ האל ישועתנו סלה‬... ‫ברוך‬ The element of God’s salvation is emphasized by the repetition: “God is our salvation… Our God is a God of salvation.” In the context of the central section, presumably the reference is primarily to salvation in war. Stanza 6 (68:22–24) ‫ָק ְדקֹד ֵשׂ ָﬠר ִמ ְת ַה ֵלּ� ַבּ ֲא ָשׁ ָמיו‬ ‫ֹיְביו‬ ָ ‫יִמ ַחץ רֹאשׁ א‬ ְ ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫כב ַא� ֱא‬ ‫ָא ִשׁיב ִמ ְמּ ֻצלוֹת יָ ם‬ ‫כג ָא ַמר ֲאד ֹנָ י ִמ ָבּ ָשׁן ָא ִשׁיב‬ ‫ֹיְבים ִמנֵּ הוּ‬ ִ ‫ְלשׁוֹן ְכּ ָל ֶבי� ֵמא‬ ‫כד ְל ַמ ַﬠן ִתּ ְמ ַחץ ַרגְ ְל� ְבּ ָדם‬ As was noted by Fokkelman (1990:77), the sixth stanza is the “twin” of stanza 3 (68:12–14). Whereas stanza 3 quoted the words of God before the battle, stanza 6 now quotes the words of God following the battle and the fulfillment of the previous oracle. The connection is highlighted by the chiastic format; compare ‫( אדני יתן אמר‬68:12) and ‫( אמר אדני‬68:23). Another, more subtle device that reflects the connection between the two stanzas is the duplication of verbs in both verses: compare ‫ידדון ידדון‬ (68:13) and ‫( אשיב אשיב‬68:23). The strong linguistic and thematic connections between stanzas 3 and 6 create a frame that holds together the various elements within the central section of Ps 68, which consists of 22

See Kraus 1993:54.

422

ISRAEL KNOHL

stanzas 3–6 (68:12–24). Fokkelman notes that the central section “is the full report of the war of liberation fought by God himself” (ibid.:76). Even though we do not have any term for liberation in this poem, the content of v. 30, which will be discussed below, appears to justify Fokkelman’s designation of this war as a war of “liberation.”

Section Three: 68:25–34 The third section looks back at the war that was described in section two. Stanza 7 (68:25–29) ‫ֲה ִליכוֹת ֵא ִלי ַמ ְל ִכּי ַבקּ ֶֹדשׁ‬ ‫תּוֹפפוֹת‬ ֵ ‫ְבּתוֹ� ֲﬠ ָלמוֹת‬ ‫ ִמ ְמּקוֹר יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬23 ‫ֲאד ֹנָי‬ ‫יְהוּדה ִרגְ ָמ ָתם‬ ָ ‫ָשׂ ֵרי‬ F 129

‫�הים זוּ ָפּ ַﬠ ְל ָתּ ָלּנוּ‬ ִ ‫עוּזָּ ה ֱא‬

‫�הים‬ ִ ‫יכוֹתי� ֱא‬ ֶ ‫כה ָראוּ ֲה ִל‬ ‫כו ִק ְדּמוּ ָשׁ ִרים ַא ַחר נֹגְ נִ ים‬ ‫�הים‬ ִ ‫כז ְבּ ַמ ְק ֵהלוֹת ָבּ ְרכוּ ֱא‬ ‫יָמן ָצ ִﬠיר ר ֵֹדם‬ ִ ְ‫כח ָשׁם ִבּנ‬ ‫ָשׂ ֵרי זְ ֻבלוּן ָשׂ ֵרי נַ ְפ ָתּ ִלי‬ � ֶ‫�הי� ֻﬠזּ‬ ֶ ‫כט ִצוָּ ה ֱא‬

This stanza opens the third and last section of the original poem. Stanza 7 mainly describes the procession and celebration after the victory. As in the case of stanzas 1 and 2, the transition to a new stanza is marked by the form of address to the deity: it changes from the third person in the sixth stanza to the second person in the seventh stanza. The stanza starts by mentioning the procession of God. I agree with Cassuto (1973:270) that the reference here is to “God who returns… to the Temple… after the defeat of the foe.” In addition, the imagery used in v. 25 binds together the description of God’s return to his sanctuary with the depiction of him as king (“the processions of my God, my King, into the sanctuary”). This is then followed by a detailed description of the procession of the people who celebrate the victory (vv. 26–29). The stanza ends aptly with a quotation of the words that were uttered by the people during the procession (v. 29). Stanza 8 (68:30–34) ‫יוֹבילוּ ְמ ָל ִכים ָשׁי‬ ִ �‫ְל‬ �‫רוּשׁ ָל‬ ָ ְ‫יכ ֶל� ַﬠל י‬ ָ ‫ל ֵמ ֵה‬ ‫ֲﬠ ַדת ַא ִבּ ִירים ְבּ ֶﬠגְ לֵ י ַﬠ ִמּים‬ ‫לא גְּ ַﬠר ַחיַּת ָקנֶ ה‬ ‫יֶח ָפּצוּ‬ ְ ‫ִבּזַּ ר ַﬠ ִמּים ְק ָרבוֹת‬ ‫ִמ ְת ַר ֵפּס ְבּ ַר ֵצּי ָכ ֶסף‬ ‫א�הים‬ ִ ‫כּוּשׁ ָתּ ִריץ ָיָדיו ֵל‬ ‫יֶא ָתיוּ ַח ְשׁ ַמנִּ ים ִמנִּ י ִמ ְצ ָריִ ם‬ ֱ ‫לב‬ The version ‫ אדני‬is supported by several Hebrew manuscripts, including the Aleppo Codex. The Leningrad Codex and other Hebrew manuscripts have the Tetragrammaton here. 23

PSALM 68: STRUCTURE, COMPOSITION AND GEOGRAPHY ‫זַ ְמּרוּ ֲאד ֹנָ י ֶס ָלה‬ ‫הֵן יִתֵּן בְּקוֹלוֹ קוֹל ע ֹז‬

423

‫א�הים‬ ִ ‫לג ַמ ְמ ְלכוֹת ָה ָא ֶרץ ִשׁירוּ ֵל‬ ‫שׁמֵי קֶדֶ ם‬ ְ ‫שׁמֵי‬ ְ ‫לד לָרֹכֵב ִבּ‬

Stanza 8 changes the focus: we no longer observe the Israelites celebrating their victory but rather the fate of the nations and their kings. Following God’s victory over the enemy, they are supposed to bring tribute to God as an acknowledgment of his superiority. Two nations are mentioned explicitly within this context: Egypt and Kush (68:32). As discussed above, the two final verses of this stanza (68:33–34) create an inclusio with v. 5. In these two final verses the nations are exhorted to sing to God .

2.2. THE CONCENTRIC STRUCTURE OF PSALM 68 As was already remarked by Hossfeld and Zenger (2005:161–62), Ps 68 is built according to a concentric structure: 24 The outer ring is formed by stanzas 1 and 8, both of which discuss the relationship between God and humankind. The first stanza describes the deity’s righteous rule over humanity, whereas in the last stanza we find a call to all kingdoms of earth to accept and proclaim his sovereignty. These two stanzas are further connected by the above mentioned inclusio. The next ring is formed by stanzas 2 and 7. Both of these stanzas describe the “walking” of God in connection with the walking of the Israelites. In the second stanza, we read about the march of God and Israel in the desert: “O God, when you went out before your people, when you marched through the wilderness” (68:8). In the seventh stanza, we see the procession of God and Israel after the victory: 130F

Your solemn processions are seen, O God, the processions of my God, my King, into the sanctuary, the singers in front, the musicians last, between them girls playing tambourines(68:26–27).

The next ring is formed by stanzas 3 and 6. The strong linguistic and thematic connections between stanzas 3 and 6 were noted above. The inner nucleus of the concentric structure is formed by the fourth and fifth stanzas. Here, we have the description of the enemy’s defeat by

24 However, Hossfeld and Zenger claim that this structure is restricted to the two outer rings only, while the core of the psalm (vv. 12–32) would be structured differently, mainly on a narrative principle. In my view, this latter part of their interpretation is problematic, and a concentric pattern can likewise be identified in the central section of the poem. The arguments for this claim are listed below.

424

ISRAEL KNOHL

the divine army, as well as of the blessing of the people after their salvation by God. Below is a graphic description of the concentric structure of this psalm: Outer ring Stanzas 1, 8 Ps 68:5–7, 30–34 First medial ring

Stanzas 2,7

Ps 68:8–11, 25–29

Second medial ring

Stanzas 3, 6

Ps 68:12–14, 22–24

Central ring

Stanzas 4–5

Ps 68:15–21

Let us now add the number of cola in each of these rings to this diagram. The numbers are based on the cola division that was presented at the beginning of this chapter. Outer ring Stanzas 1, 8 20 cola First medial ring

Stanzas 2,7

20 cola

Second medial ring

Stanzas 3, 6

13 cola

Central ring

Stanzas 4–5

17 cola

As was noted above, the central section of this psalm includes stanzas 3–6. The frame of this section is clearly marked by the linguistic and thematic affinities that are shared by the two outer stanzas, numbers 3 and 6. In this way, therefore, we can also regard this entire section as forming the inner ring of the psalm’s overall concentric structure. Let us now take the total number of cola of the central section and apply it to our diagram: Outer ring Stanzas 1, 8 20 cola Medial ring

Stanzas 2, 7

20 cola

Central Section

Stanzas 3–6

30 cola

All rings

Stanzas All

70 cola

We see here an elaborate numerical structure: The three rings together form the sacred number of 70 cola. Each of these rings contains a “full” number of cola, either 20 or 30. The number 17, which is the total number of cola of the two stanzas that stand at the center of the psalm (stanzas 4–5) has already been noted as a key number in the structure of several psalms and

PSALM 68: STRUCTURE, COMPOSITION AND GEOGRAPHY

425

probably has a symbolic meaning.25 The careful and elaborate numerical structure of the original nucleolus of this psalm (i.e., 68:5–34) is impressive. This numerical structure is based on the concentric structure of the different stanzas, a structure which has also thematic aspects. As we have seen, there are thematic connections between the two stanzas in each of the rings. Overall, these findings are consistent with the assumption made above that the earlier core of this psalm, the poem identified in vv. 5–34, is a homogenous composition. In this regard, the study of the structure of Ps 68 confirms our observation about the separation between the original psalm (68:5–34) and the secondary editorial addition in vv. 1–4, 35–36. As was noted above, within the original psalm a variety of divine names are used. Furthermore, in several cases, the transition from one stanza to another is marked by the use of a new divine name. In sharp contrast, the additional verses use only the names “Elohim” and “El.” Hence, it seems that these verses were added to enable the inclusion of this psalm within the “Elohistic Collection” or “Elohistic Psalter.”

2. THE GEOGRAPHICAL CONTEXT OF PSALM 68 2.1. “MOUNT BASHAN” IN PSALM 68 Various earlier scholars, such as Mowinckel, Weiser, Kraus and Gray, have argued for the northern origins of Ps 68. Identifying “Mount Bashan” in 68:16 with Mount Hermon and relying on the mention of “Tabor and Hermon” in Ps 89:13, they have suggested connecting Ps 68 with a temple on Mount Tabor. 26 While I fully agree with the notion of the northern origin of Ps 68, the connection with a temple on Mount Tabor is problematic in my view, especially considering the fact that Mount Tabor is not mentioned at all in our psalm.27 From a methodological perspective, the 25 See Labuschagne 2009:586, who suggested two possible interpretations for this prominence of the number 17: Either (1) this number is the numerical value of the word ‫טוב‬, or (2) the number 17 is the “small” numerical value of the Tetragrammaton. I tend to agree with the second explanation; as I have argued elsewhere (Knohl 2012), various biblical poems, both inside and outside the book of Psalms, contain literary units representing the numerical value of the Tetragrammaton. 26 See Gray 1977:4–5 for a convenient summary of earlier scholarly references. 27 The reference to Zebulon and the princes of Naphtali in v. 28 is not sufficient here, since Benjamin and Judah are also mentioned in this verse.

426

ISRAEL KNOHL

search for the geographical context of this psalm should be strictly based on the sole locations that are explicitly mentioned in the text. As was noted above, the central section of Ps 68, vv. 12–24, is mainly devoted to the description of war and victory. In v. 13, we read: “The kings of the armies, they flee, they flee,” and the fleeing enemy kings are mentioned again in v. 15: “When the Almighty scattered kings there, snow fell on Zalmon.” Mount Zalmon is mentioned once in the Hebrew Bible, as being in the area of Shechem (Judg 9:48). Since we have no other reference in this psalm to this area, however, this identification is not entirely satisfactory and we may look at other possibilities. In his commentary, Ibn Ezra refers to this verse, citing Zalmon as a known mountain in Transjordan. Indeed, in Ptolemy’s Geography (5:14:12),28 from the second century CE, we learn that the mountain known today as Jabel el-Druze was called Zalmon in his time. 29 This mountain is located in the land which in the Hebrew Bible is referred to as the land of “Bashan.” Thus, this location for Zalmon fits well with the reference to “Mount Bashan” in the next verse of the psalm. Hence, we should prefer the identification of Zalmon as being in the northern part of the Transjordan rather than in the area of Shechem. Following the mention of the snow on Zalmon, the poet addresses Mount Bashan: ‫ַהר גַּ ְבנֻ נִּ ים ַהר ָבּ ָשׁן‬ ‫�הים ַהר ָבּ ָשׁן‬ ִ ‫טז ַהר ֱא‬ ‫�הים ְל ִשׁ ְבתּוֹ‬ ִ ‫ָה ָהר ָח ַמד ֱא‬ ‫יז ָל ָמּה ְתּ ַר ְצּדוּן ָה ִרים גַּ ְבנֻ נִּ ים‬ ‫ַאף יְהוָ ה יִ ְשׁכֹּן ָלנֶ ַצח‬ ‫ַא ְל ֵפי ִשׁנְ ָאן‬ ‫�הים ִרבּ ַֹתיִם‬ ִ ‫יח ֶר ֶכב ֱא‬ ‫ֲאד ֹנָ י ָבם ִסינַי ַבּקּ ֶֹדשׁ‬ Many ancient and modern interpreters have seen here a description of the rivalry between Mount Bashan and Mount Sinai. However, in my view this interpretation is based on an incorrect understanding of the verb ‫תרצדו‬. Various manuals or dictionaries, such as BDB, render the meaning of this verb as “[to] watch stealthily, or with envious hostility.” In addition, BDB points to the parallel verb in Arabic, which means “[to] watch or wait (often lie in wait).”30 However, as was noted by J. A. Emerton, 31 the Arabic 136F

137 F

See Muller 1883:964. The connection between Ptolemy’s words and our psalm was first noted by Wetzstein (1884). His argument has been accepted since by several scholars. 30 See BDB, 952–53. 31 See Emerton 1993:28. See also Emerton’s rejection of the suggestion made by Cassuto (1973:264), who proposed rendering ‫ תרצדון‬as “yearning for a favorable opportunity.” 28 29

PSALM 68: STRUCTURE, COMPOSITION AND GEOGRAPHY

427

verb does not include the notion of “envy.” The occurrence of this verb in Ben Sira 14:22, ‫ירצד‬, likewise has no sense of envy, and its plain meaning is “to watch” or to “watch stealthily.” Thus, as was already noted by de Moor (1995:229), the “envious hostility” advanced by BDB and many commentators has no solid basis. Instead, we should understand 68:17 as a reference to the fact that the “many-peaked mountain” is watching stealthily but not with envy. This description connotes military ambush, which fits very well with the context of the central section of Ps 68. As was mentioned above, this section deals mainly with the battle. In Judg 9:25 we read that the men of Shechem ambushed men on the mountain tops. Similarly, here the high mountain is described as taking part in the ambush. This should be compared to the role played by the heavens and stars in the Song of Deborah (cf. Judg 5:20). Another possible interpretation is to follow the translation of the Targum ‫ תרקדון‬and to see here a question addressed to the mountains: “Why are you dancing?” As was noted by several scholars, this interpretation can be supported by the comparison with the dancing mountains mentioned in Ps 29:6, as well as with the question addressed to the mountains and hills in Ps 114:4. I am not persuaded by Cassuto’s arguments (1973:264 note 63); he rejects this comparison on the basis of the argument that in Ps 29:6 and 114:4, “the meaning is that the mountains skip on account of the fear of the Lord and because the majesty of his glory,” whereas this would not be the case in our verse. One could argue, though, that in Ps 68 also, the mountains are dancing because of their fear due to the arrival of God and his armies, which is described in the following verse (see 68:18). In any event, even if we adopt this alternative interpretation, there is no ground for assuming the presence of a notion of envy and rivalry between the mountains mentioned in the psalm. This, however, raises the question of the identity of the mountain mentioned as “Mountain of Bashan… many-peaked mountain” in 68:16– 17. The name “Bashan” appears in the Amarna letters, in the name of the city “Siri-basani” (see EA 201). This city was probably located in the region of Naveh, north of the Yarmuk River.32 Several biblical verses mention Mount Hermon as the northern border of the Bashan (cf. Deut 3:1–10; 4:47–48; Josh 12:4–5). For this reason, many scholars have identified “Mount Bashan” with Mount Hermon. 33 In support of this view, it should be noted that Mount Hermon has many peaks and thus fits well with the 138F

139 F

For this identification, see Ahituv 1984:181. See, for instance, Gray 1977:5; Emerton 1993:27; Kraus 1993:50; Goldingay 2007:323. 32 33

428

ISRAEL KNOHL

title ‫—הרים גבנונים‬the “many-peaked mountain,” referred to in v. 17. This image is also reflected in the plural form, ‫חרמונים‬, in Ps 42:7. As was correctly noted by Hossfeld and Zenger (2005:68), it seems that the battle that is described in the main section of this psalm took place in the area close to Mount Bashan, i.e., in the region of Mount Hermon. This notion is supported, in particular, by the formulation of v. 15: “When the Almighty scattered kings there, snow fell on Zalmon.” As was stated above, the location of Zalmon is probably in the same region. Thus, we may conclude that the battle probably took place somewhere in the Golan Heights, between Mount Bashan—(i.e., Mount Hermon), and Zalmon (i.e., Jabel-el-Druze). In our psalm, the poet approaches the many peaks of the Hermon and asks them: “Why are you watching stealthily?”—or, alternatively, “Why are you dancing?” (v. 17). The answer is given in the next verse (v. 18a), which refers to the thousands of chariots and bowmen of the divine army (cf., e.g., Albright 1950–1951:25). ‫ַא ְל ֵפי ִשׁנְ ָאן‬ ‫�הים ִרבּ ַֹתיִם‬ ִ ‫ֶר ֶכב ֱא‬ This interpretation of 68:16–18a has one significant implication. As noted above, no rivalry of mountains is involved here. Instead, both vv. 16 and 17 are dealing with the “many peaked mountain,” which should be identified with Mount Hermon. Therefore, the words of v. 17—“the mount that God desired for his abode, where the Lord will reside forever”—describe neither Mount Sinai nor Mount Zion, but Mount Hermon. This interpretation means that for the author of Ps 68, Mount Hermon was apparently considered to be like “Mount Olympus,” i.e., the location of God’s eternal residence. 34 This finding also suggests one should take a new look at the expression ‫ הר אלהים‬in v. 16. Day and Emerton have rightly rejected the interpretation of the word ‫ אלהים‬as a superlative here (Day 1985:116; Emerton 1993:29). In addition, Emerton also rejects the idea of a reference to a pagan sanctuary on Mount Bashan, correctly arguing that, “verse 17 speaks of the mountain where Elohim has been pleased to dwell; and if verse 16 means ‘Mount Bashan is a mountain of Elohim’ it is natural to suppose that Elohim in verse 17 is used in the same sense” (ibid.:34). 35 As 140F

14F

34

The possibility that Mount Hermon was considered to be Zaphon or Mount Olympus in early Israel was also suggested by Kraus 1993:50. Compare similarly Emerton 1993:33. 35 Since I do not see any rivalry between mountains here, for the reasons argued above, I cannot follow Emerton’s interpretation (ibid.:36–37), according to which

PSALM 68: STRUCTURE, COMPOSITION AND GEOGRAPHY

429

was noted by de Moor (1995:230), the simple meaning of this expression is that the Mountain of Bashan is the Mountain of God. This interpretation fits well with the next verse, which also speaks of Mount Bashan with its many peaks, and describes it as the eternal residence of YHWH. 36 This conception of Mount Bashan/Hermon probably has its roots in the Canaanite and Mesopotamian traditions, which see this area as the habitation of the gods. 37

2.3. “SINAI” IN PSALM 68:18 In the previous discussion, we noted the religious significance of Mount Bashan in Ps 68. However, it is remarkable that the reference in vv. 16–17 to Mount Bashan as God’s Mountain and the eternal residence of YHWH is followed in the next verse by a reference to the name “Sinai” (68:18). ‫ֲאד ֹנָ י ָבם ִסינַי ַבּקּ ֶֹדשׁ‬ ‫ַא ְל ֵפי ִשׁנְ ָאן‬ ‫�הים ִרבּ ַֹתיִם‬ ִ ‫ֶר ֶכב ֱא‬ As we have seen above, the first five words of this verse describe the divine army: thousands of chariots and bowmen. The question is, however, how the last four words should be understood, and how they relate to what precedes. ‫ִסינַ י ַבּקּ ֶֹדשׁ‬ ‫ֲאד ֹנָ י ָבם‬ Many scholars suggest emending the text and reading it as: ‫מסינַ י ַבּקּ ֶֹדשׁ‬ ִ ‫ֲאד ֹנָ י ָבא‬ This emendation is supported by the opening words of the Blessing of Moses, which describes God coming down from Sinai (Deut 33:2). As was already noted by Tate (1990:166 and 181), however, it is possible that there is really no need for this emendation; the words have a simple and clear meaning as they are, once “Sinai” is regarded not as the name of a mountain but rather as a divine name. 38 This interpretation is suggested, in particular, by the parallel between “Adonai” and “Sinai,” which is similar to the parallel between ‫ רכב אלהים רבתים‬and‫ אלפי שנאן‬in the first part of this 14F

v. 16 should be read as a question, while v. 17 would refer to the “envy” of the mountains. 36 This was noted already by Ibn Ezra, who writes in his commentary to this verse:‫ לא תשפל הר בשן כי אתה הר שחמדו המלאכים לשבת בו אף השכינה תשכן שם‬. 37 See Gilgamesh 5:6. For the possibility of locating El’s abode on Mount Hermon, see Lipinski 1971; Day 2002:31 note 51. 38 The suggestion proposed by several scholars, about the possible connection between “Sinai” and the name of the Mesopotamian moon god, Sin, is relevant in this context; see below, with note 45.

430

ISRAEL KNOHL

verse. 39 The poet says that “Adonai” is among them, 40 that is, among the angelic warriors who were described in the first part of the verse. He continues and says that “Sinai” is ‫בקדש‬, i.e., “among the holy ones.” 41 The two parts of the phrase say the same thing: the deity, who is called here “Adonai” and “Sinai,” stands in the midst of his divine army. In this regard, there is no tension between the reference to “Sinai” in 68:18 and the statement about the eternal residence of YHWH on Mount Bashan in the two previous verses. Indeed, even if we adopt the emendation ‫בא מסיני בקדש‬, there is no real contradiction between the mention of “Sinai” in this verse as the original place of “Adonai” and the statement in the previous verses that Mount Bashan is the eternal residence of God. It is possible to depict God as coming from his abode at Mount Sinai in order to assist his people in the war (see Judg 5 and Hab 3), and moreover, as deciding to reside on Mount Bashan and to make this mountain into His eternal abode. 145F

146F

147F

2.3. “SINAI” IN PSALM 68:8 The other mention of the name “Sinai” in our psalm is in v. 8: ‫ארץ רעשה אף שמים נטפו מפני אלהים זה סיני מפני אלהים‬ ‫אלהי ישראל‬ Scholars have suggested various meanings for the words ‫ זה סיני‬in this verse. 42 Some see them as a description of God—“the God of Sinai”—on the basis of its resemblance with similar expressions in other Semitic languages (e.g., Albright 1950–1951:20, and the references to other scholars holding this view in Dahood 1986:139). However, as others have pointed out (Birkeland 1948; Kraus 1993:46), this interpretation is somewhat problematic inasmuch as it is based on linguistic constructions that exist in other Semitic languages but are not documented in the Hebrew Bible.43 I 148F

149F

39 For another case of parallelism that consists of only four words, see 68:31: ‫ עדת אבירים‬and ‫בעגלי עמים‬. 40 For the construction ‫ אדני בם‬compare ‫( אך בך אל‬Isa 55:14) and ‫ה אין‬- ‫היהו‬ ‫( בציון‬Jer 8:19). 41 Tate 1990:166, cf. Exod 15:11; Ps 68:25; 77:14; 89:6–8. 42 As is well known, this phrase also appears in the Song of Deborah (Judg 5:5). The relation between Ps 68 and the Song of Deborah deserves a fuller discussion, which I intend to address elsewhere. 43 Other scholars have interpreted the phrase ‫ זה סיני‬as an editorial addition to connect the awe of nature before God with the event of the divine revelation at Sinai. See already Moore 1895:142, and more recently for instance Fishbane

PSALM 68: STRUCTURE, COMPOSITION AND GEOGRAPHY

431

think that the understanding that was gained above with regard to the meaning of the construct ‫אדני בם סיני בקדש‬, by interpreting the words ‫אדני‬ ‫ בם‬and ‫ סיני בקדש‬as parallel expressions referring to the deity, also makes it possible to interpret the expression ‫ זה סיני‬in a new light. We have seen that the parallelism shows that the writer of the psalm understood the word “Sinai,” like its parallel “Adonai,” as one of the names of God. In light of this, the words ‫ מפני אלהים זה סיני‬in v. 9 can be understood literally, in the sense that the writer of the psalm identifies “Elohim,” before whom the earth quakes and the heavens pour down rain, with “Sinai.” In this understanding, the verse should be rendered as follows: “The earth quaked, the heavens poured down rain, before Elohim—that is, Sinai.” The merit of this interpretation is that it is based on the usual meaning of the word ‫ זה‬in Biblical Hebrew, and does not depend on linguistic parallels with other Semitic languages.44 At the same time, this interpretation also raises a further question as to why the god of Israel is called “Sinai” here. One cannot maintain that this is because Mount Sinai is the place where that deity is revealed or where he dwells. As noted above, Ps 68:16–18 says nothing about the revelation of God on Mount Sinai or his presence on this mountain. On the contrary: according to the writer of this psalm, God dwells and is present on Mount Bashan. In my opinion, naming God as “Sinai” in this psalm is best explained as a way of connecting the god of Israel and the Mesopotamian moon god, “Sin,” or “Si-i-na.” 45 The god Sin was the chief god of the city of Haran, from where, 150F

15F

1985:54–55, 75. This understanding can explain the formulation of Judg 5:4–5, where the phrase ‫ זה סיני‬appears after the words ’‫הרים נזלו מפני ה‬. It is possible, in this sequence, to understand the phrase ‫ זה סיני‬as an editorial addition denoting the identity of the specific mountain to “melt down from before YHWH.” But the formulation of the reference to Sinai in Ps 68 is quite distinct, and the parallel with Judg 5 is not much help here. To be sure, assuming that Ps 68 is later than the Song of Deborah, one could argue the phrase ‫ זה סיני‬was mistakenly copied into the psalm. But this argument is not a likely one, as one would have to assume that the adapter omitted, for some reason, the significant words ’‫הרים נזלו מפני ה‬, even though he left the disconnected phrase ‫זה סיני‬. It is also difficult to accept Fishbane’s argument (ibid.:55) that the words ‫ זה סיני‬in Ps 68 were inserted by a later scribe in order to explain that the earthquake and downpour occurred at the time of the divine revelation at Sinai. If that were the reason for the addition, we would expect the phrase ‫( בסיני‬at Sinai), as opposed to ‫( זה סיני‬this is Sinai)! 44 For a similar usage of the word ‫זה‬, compare for instance Isa 23:13: ‫הן ארץ‬ ‫כשדים זה העם לא היה‬. 45 For the spelling “Si-i-na” see, e.g., Haas and Prechel 1993:361; the name is

432

ISRAEL KNOHL

according to the biblical tradition, the ancestors of the Israelite nation immigrated to Canaan. 46 It appears that the form of the Hebrew name “Sinai” was created after forms of the divine names ‫( אדני‬Adonai) and ‫( שדי‬Shaddai), which also figure in this psalm. 47 Divine names ending with a similar diphthong were current in Canaanite literature, 48 and it seems that Israelite divine names such as “Adonai,” “Shaddai” and “Sinai” were also formed in this way. In addition, the interpretation of Ps 68 offered here also suggests that the theological tendency reflected in this consists of taking divine names and attributes found in various cultural traditions and of merging them into a single divine entity whose name is “Elohim.” 49 Another example of this process can be found in the formulation of v. 5: ‫שירו לאלהים זמרו שמו סלו לרכב בערבות ביה שמו ועלזו לפניו‬ 153F

154F

15F

(“Sing to Elohim, sing praises to his name; lift up a song to him who rides upon the clouds—his name is Yah—be exultant before him.”) As noted above, many scholars consider that the Hebrew epithet ‫ רכב בערבות‬is based on the epithet of the Canaanite god Baal, ‫רכב ערפת‬, “he who rides on the clouds.” 50 But what is the meaning of the expression ‫ ביה שמו‬that comes after ‫ ?רכב בערבות‬Here, as it appears, 51 the author of the psalm is implying that this epithet, which was originally applied to the god Baal, has now been transferred to the god of Israel.52 Similarly, the same writer is stating that 156F

157F

158F

frequently spelt “Suen.” The possible connection between the name “Sinai” and the god “Sin” was already pointed out by some earlier scholars, see inter alia Lewy 1945–1946:441–445; Key 1965. 46 See Gen 12:4–5, 28:10. 47 See Ps 68:12, 15, 18, 20, 21, 23, 27, 33. On the possible connection between the names “Sinai” and “El Shaddai,” see Lewy ibid.:431 and note 138, as well as Key ibid.:24 and note 18. 48 See the discussion in Cross 1973:56. He links the form of the names “Artzai,” “Talai,” “Padrai,” and “Rahmai” to the name “Shaddai.” 49 For the meaning of “Elohim” as a name that contains the identity of many gods, and the Mesopotamian customs of identifying several divine names with one god, see Machinist 2011:230–232. 50 See above note 8. Even Day (2002) admits that the reference to God as rider in the sky in 68:34 implies a connection between Baal’s title and the reference to Israel’s deity in 68:5. 51 In the opinion of Arnold and Strawn (2003) the words ‫ ביה שמו‬are a gloss added by an editor. I believe that these words are a genuine part of the verse, expressing the poet’s theological purpose of identifying many divine entities as one. 52 According to Arnold and Strawn (ibid.: 431), the letter ‫ ב‬heading the word

PSALM 68: STRUCTURE, COMPOSITION AND GEOGRAPHY

433

“Sinai,” i.e. Sin, the Mesopotamian moon god, has now become one of the names of the god of Israel.53 Apparently, the exceptional meaning of “Sinai” as a divine name in Ps 68 was the earlier, original meaning. One can understand why later writers wanted to obscure the original meaning of “Sinai,” as well as the affinity between the god of Israel and the Mesopotamian god Sin. 54 The earliest effort in this direction was given, in my view, by the author of the Song of Deborah. As I plan to argue in detail elsewhere, the corresponding passage in Judg 5:4–5 represents an expanded and reworked version of Ps 68:8–9. The central aim of this reworked version was to shift the word “Sinai” from its original meaning as a divine name to the name of a mountain. It seems much more difficult to assume the opposite process. If the name Sinai originally referred to a geographical site, one can hardly understand why the author of Ps 68 would have changed it to a divine name.

2.4. “JERUSALEM” IN PSALM 68:30 The conception of Mount Bashan as the eternal residence of God stands in sharp contrast with the common ideology of the Hebrew Bible, which sees Jerusalem as God’s Eternal Mountain. This common observation is also reflected in verse 30 of our psalm: ‫יוֹבילוּ ְמ ָל ִכים ָשׁי‬ ִ �‫ְל‬ �‫רוּשׁ ָל‬ ָ ְ‫יכ ֶל� ַﬠל י‬ ָ ‫ֵמ ֵה‬ However, as was noted by several commentators, the syntax of the sentence is difficult; the tribute should be brought to God’s Temple, not “from Your Temple”—�‫יכ ֶל‬ ָ ‫מ ֵה‬. ֵ Because of this difficulty, some have suggested adding the problematic word �‫יכ ֶל‬ ָ ‫ ֵמ ֵה‬to the end of the previous verse, so that verses 29–30 read in the following way:55 16F

‫ ביה‬is used as an identifier. Goldingay (2007) claims that this letter is used for emphasis. 53 On the phenomenon of identifying and unifying divine entities in antiquity, see Smith 2010. 54 In principle, this is comparable to the Rabbinic neutralizing of the theological meaning of ‫עזזאל‬/‫ עזאזל‬by altering it to a geographical indicator of a severe and

harsh (‫עז‬, ‛az) place in the mountains (Babylonian Talmud, Sotah 67b). Possibly, the fact that the Elohistic and Deuteronomic sources of the Pentateuch do not use the name “Sinai,” but rather other geographical indicators (‫הר האלהים‬, ‫)חורב‬, indicates an attempt to further distance the connection with the god Sin. 55 See, e.g., Goldingay 2007:330; a similar assumption is made by various other scholars.

434

ISRAEL KNOHL �‫יכ ֶל‬ ָ ‫�הים זוּ ָפּ ַﬠ ְל ָתּ ָלּנוּ ֵמ ֵה‬ ִ ‫עוּזָּ ה ֱא‬

� ֶ‫�הי� ֻﬠזּ‬ ֶ ‫כט ִצוָּ ה ֱא‬

‫יוֹבילוּ ְמ ָל ִכים ָשׁי‬ ִ �‫ְל‬

�‫רוּשׁ ָל‬ ָ ְ‫ל ַﬠל י‬

The difficulty with this suggestion is that it does not explain what led to the separation of the word �‫יכ ֶל‬ ָ ‫ ֵמ ֵה‬from its original place in v. 29 and caused the current problematic syntax of v. 30. A more compelling solution, in my opinion, is to follow those scholars who have assumed that the syntax of v. 30 was indicative of the editorial reworking of this verse.56 I assume that the original reading of this verse contained a reference to the cultic center at Mount Bashan. A possible restoration should be: ‫מהיכל)ם אל הר בשן( לך יובילו מלכים שי‬ 162F

The editors wanted to adapt this psalm to the widespread belief about God’s residence in Jerusalem. It seems to me that these editors are the same editors who added the verses at the beginning and the end of the psalm in order to adapt it to the “Elohistic Psalter.” The “Elohistic” edition of the psalm probably took place during the Persian period, as is commonly accepted. At this time, the view of Jerusalem as the chosen place for God’s residence, as well as the only legitimate cultic place, was establishing itself in Yehud; accordingly, this led in turn to the emendation of references to other cultic settings.

2.5. THE GEOGRAPHY OF PSALM 68: CONCLUSIONS We may now summarize the results of the discussion of the geographical sections of this article. Contrary to the prevalent view, Ps 68 does not speak of the rivalry between mountains, and “Sinai” is not the name of a mountain in this psalm. The writer of Ps 68 perceived Mount Bashan as the eternal residence of YHWH. In addition to the religious significance of the Bashan, there is another dimension to this reference. The battle that is described in the heart of this psalm probably took place in the area between Mount Bashan-Hermon and Mount Zalmon, i.e., in the Golan Heights. The identification of this battle is connected with the broader question of the date of this psalm. I intend to explore this question elsewhere. REFERENCES

Ahituv, S. 1984. Canaanite Toponyms in Ancient Egyptian Documents. Jerusalem: Magnes. Compare, e.g., Mowinckel 1953:63; Gray 1977:5; Kraus 1993: 49–50, 55, and others. 56

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Albright, W. F. 1937. The Egyptian Correspondence of Abi Milki, Prince of Tyre. JEA 23:190–203. __. 1950–1951. A Catalogue of Early Hebrew Lyric Poems (Psalm LXVIII). HUCA 23:1–39. Arnold, B.T. and B.A. Strawn. 2003. A Hebrew Gloss to an Ugaritic Epithet? ZAW 115:428–432. Birkeland, H. 1948. Hebrew zae and Arabic du. Studia Theologica 2:201–202. Campbell, E. F. 1964. The Chronology of the Amarna Letters. Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press. Cassuto, M. D. 1973. Biblical and Oriental Studies. Vol. 1. Jerusalem: Magnes Press. Cross, F. M. 1973. Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic: Essays in the History of the Religion of Israel. Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press. Dahood, M. 1986. Psalms II, 51–100. New York, NY: Doubleday. Day, J. 1985. God’s Conflict with the Dragon and the Sea. Cambridge: University Press. __. 2002. Yahweh and the Gods and Goddesses of Canaan. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. de Moor, J. C. 1995. Ugarit and Israelite Origins. Pp. 205–38 in Congress Volume Paris 1992, ed. Emerton. Leiden: Brill. Emerton, J. A. 1993. The ‘Mountain of God’ in Psalm 68:16. Pp. 24–37 in History and Traditions of Early Israel, eds. A. Lemaire & B. Otzen. Leiden: Brill. Fishbane, M. 1985. Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Fokkelman, J. P. 1990. The Structure of Psalm LXVIII. Pp. 72–83 in In Quest of the Past: Studies on Israelite Religion, Literature, and Prophetism: Papers Read at the Joint British-Dutch Old Testament Conference, Held at Elspeet, 1988, ed. van der Woude. Leiden: Brill. Goldingay, J. 2007. Psalms 42–89. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic. Grave, C. 1980. On the Use of an Egyptian Idiom in an Amarna Letter from Tyre and in Hymn to the Aten. OA 19:205–18. __. 1982. Northwest Semitic Sapanu in a Break-up of an Egyptian Stereotype Phrase in EA 147. Orientalia n.s. 51:161–82. Gray, J. 1977. A Cantata of the Autumn Festival. JSS 22:2–26. Haas, V. and D. Prechel. 1993. Mondgott. Pp. 360–371 in Reallexikon der Assyriologie. Vol. 8. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Hossfeld, F. L. and E. Zenger. 2003. The So-Called Elohistic Psalter. Pp. 35–51 in A God so Near, Old Testament Theology in Honor of Patrick D. Miller, eds. B. A. Strawn & N. R. Bowen. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns.

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__. 2005. Psalms, 2. Minneapolis: Augsburg-Fortress Press. Joffe, L. 2001. The Elohistic Psalter: What, How and Why? SJOT 15:142– 69. Key, A. F. 1965. Traces of the Worship of the Moon God Sîn among the Early Israelites. JBL 84:20–26. Knohl, I. 2012. Sacred Architecture: The Numerical Dimensions of Biblical Poems. VT 62:189–197. Kraus, H.-J. 1993. Psalms 60–150. Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Labuschagne, C. J. 2009. Significant Compositional Techniques in the Psalms: Evidence for the Use of Number as an Organizing Principle. VT 59:583–605. Lewy, J. 1945–1946. The Late Assyro-Babylonian Cult of the Moon. HUCA 19:405–489. Lipinski, E. 1971. El’s Abode. OLP 2:13–69. Machinist, P. 2011. How Gods Die, Biblically and Otherwise. A Problem of Cosmic Restructuring. Pp. 189–240 in Reconsidering the Concept of Revolutionary Monotheism, ed. Pongratz-Leisten. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011. Moore, G. F. 1895. Judges. Edinburgh: T.&T. Clark. Mowinckel, S. 1953. Der achtundsechzigste Psalm. Oslo: Jacob Bydwad. Müller, C. (ed.). 1883. CLAUDII PTOLEMAEI Geographia. Paris: FirminDidot. Smith, M. S. 2010. God in Translation: Deities in Cross-Cultural Discourse in the Biblical World. Grand Rapids, MI/Cambridge, UK: Eerdmans. Tate, M. E. 1990. Psalm 51–100. Dallas: Word Books. Wetzstein, J. G. 1884. Das batanaische Giebelgebirge. Leipzig: Drosling & Franke.

KEEPING THE FAITHFUL: PERSUASIVE STRATEGIES IN PSALMS 4 AND 62 DAVIDA CHARNEY

THE UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS AT AUSTIN Interest in viewing the psalms as arguments has been growing. In a 2008 volume devoted to the rhetoric of the psalms, Dale Patrick and Ken Diable argue that Israelites adopted a distinctive approach within the ancient Near East when attempting to persuade God to intervene in their personal troubles. 1 In his 2006 book, William S. Morrow describes a development from informal to formal argumentative prayers in pre-exilic Israel and their eventual eclipse by theological developments in the late Second Temple period. 2 My goal in this article is to introduce elements of contemporary rhetorical theory that can uncover sophisticated argumentative strategies in the psalms, providing additional evidence for addressing long-standing scholarly disputes over setting and interpretation. For this purpose, I will focus on two psalms, Ps 4 and Ps 62. The setting for Psalm 4 has generated some debate: Has the speaker come to the Temple seeking vindication against the false accusations of assembled opponents? Or is the speaker primarily a Temple functionary giving a wisdom-like speech against apostasy? The false accusation reading is the standard, adopted by Hans-Joachim Kraus and Richard Clifford, among others. 3 Anti-apostasy readings have been offered by Steven Croft, Craig D. Patrick and K. Diable, “Persuading the One and Only God to Intervene,” in R. Foster and D.M. Howard Jr. (eds.), My Words are Lovely. Studies in the Rhetoric of the Psalms (London/New York: T & T Clark, 2008), 19–32. 2 W.S. Morrow, Protest Against God. The Eclipse of a Biblical Tradition (Sheffield: Phoenix, 2006). 3 H.-J. Kraus, Psalms 1-59 (trans. H.C. Oswald; CC; Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1988). R. Clifford, Psalms 1-72 (AOTC; Nashville: Abdingdon, 2002), 52– 1

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Broyles, and John Goldingay. 4 In reviewing the debate, Rolf Jacobson shows that both readings plausibly account for some but not all the contentious points of translation and interpretation. 5 No one takes the two readings as mutually exclusive; as Jacobson argues, there is no “altar of certitude” on which to decide among historical, theological, and canonical readings. However, seeking evidence for competing interpretations often highlights important elements within and across psalms. In this case, the debate on Ps 4 has thus far overlooked its similarity to Psalm 62. The setting for Ps 62 has not seemed controversial; it is generally taken as a call from an individual for vindication or rescue. Kraus and Carleen Mandolfo see the speaker as an ordinary individual, one facing persecution and seeking judicial or divine protection at the sanctuary. 6 Croft and Dave Bland see the speaker as an embattled king seeking an oracle of safety when facing treachery or a military siege. 7 However, on closer examination, the case for seeing the speaker as a petitioner is actually quite weak. In only five psalms does a speaker directly address opponents at any length: Ps 52 and Ps 58, Ps 4 and Ps 62, and Ps 82. In Ps 52 and Ps 58, the direct address takes the form of “shock and awe”: The opponents are rebuked, reminded of God’s might, and threatened with complete destruction. However, Ps 4 and Ps 62 both move beyond rebuking opponents to offering advice for returning to faithful or moral practice. Psalm 82 is unique not only because the speaker is God addressing opposing deities, but also because God both offers advice and threatens destruction. By employing two pieces of contemporary rhetorical theory, I will argue for viewing both Ps 62 and Ps 4 as public efforts by a confident speaker to persuade skeptical or immoral hearers to return to faithfulness.

55.

4 S.J.L. Croft, The Identity of the Individual in the Psalms (JSOTSup, 44; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987). C.C. Broyles, Psalms (Peabody: Hendrickson, 1999). J. Goldingay, “Psalm 4. Ambiguity and Resolution,” TynBul 57 (2006), 161–72. 5 R. Jacobson, “The Altar of Certitude,” in R. Foster and D. M. Howard, Jr. (eds.), My Words Are Lovely: Studies in the Rhetoric of the Psalms (New York: T&T. Clark, 2008), 3–18. 6 C. Mandolfo, God in the Dock: Dialogic Tension in the Psalms of Lament (JSOTSup, 357; London: Sheffield, 2002), 18. H.-J. Kraus, Psalms 60-150 (trans. H.C. Oswald; CC; Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1989). 7 Croft, The Identity of the Individual, 127. D. Bland, “Exegesis of Psalm 62,” ResQ 23 (1980), 82–95.

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TWO PIECES OF RHETORICAL THEORY: AMPLITUDE AND IDENTIFICATION In modern times, the scope of rhetorical theory has broadened beyond the classical venues of courts, legislatures, sanctuaries, and civic ceremonials to all situations and settings for public or professional discourse. In order for a situation to be a rhetorical situation, a speaker has to experience a sense of exigence or urgency that can be productively addressed with language.8 The speaker fashions language into a spoken or written text and delivers it in such a way as to influence a set of hearers/readers who have some ability to affect the situation and perhaps ameliorate the urgency. Much of rhetorical theory focuses on the challenges of addressing diverse audiences, a topic raised by two of the most important 20th century theorists, the Belgians Chaïm Perelman and Lucie Olbrechts-Tyteca and the American Kenneth Burke. 9 Both recognized that agreement is a volatile matter of degrees, not absolutes. In any public situation, the people in an assembly are likely to represent a wide spectrum of viewpoints. A few agree on most or all points with the speaker, some are opposed on one or two points, some are somewhat negatively disposed, and a few are outright hostile. In any given crowd, all types of hearers will be present in greater or lesser proportions, so speakers adjust their strategies accordingly. To move the preponderance of a crowd in his/her direction, a speaker may well focus on winning over a 8 For discussions of whether rhetorical situations simply arise or are constructed, see L. Bitzer, “The Rhetorical Situation,” Philosophy & Rhetoric 1 (1968), 1–14 and S. Consigny, “Rhetoric and Its Situations,” Philosophy & Rhetoric 7 (1974), 175–186. 9 Ch. Perelman and L. Olbrechts-Tyteca, The New Rhetoric: A Treatise on Argumentation (trans. J. Wilkinson & P. Weaver; Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1969). While Chaïm Perelman and Lucie Olbrechts-Tyteca were partners in researching and writing The New Rhetoric, for convenience, I will use Perelman’s name hereafter. K. Burke, A Rhetoric of Motives (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1969). For a discussion of how Burke and Perelman fit into the history of rhetorical theory from classical Athens to modern times, see S.M. Halloran, “Tradition and Theory in Rhetoric,” Quarterly Journal of Speech 62.3 (1976), 234–241. For a review of recent theory and research on audience—and Burke and Perelman’s centrality to these debates, see C. Miller and D. Charney, “Audience, Persuasion, and Argument,” in C. Bazerman (ed.), Handbook of Research on Writing: History, Society, School, Individual, Text (New York: Routledge, 2007), 583–598.

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swath of those opposed on a few points rather than trying to convert the small group of hostile listeners. By standing up to opponents in public, of course, the speaker also encourages those who already agree to remain steadfast. One useful strategy for diverse audiences is the allocation of material in a text, what Perelman calls “amplitude” and Burke calls “amplification.” 10 While warning against unnecessary repetition, Perelman notes that repeating a point and elaborating on it increases its presence or salience in the hearers’ minds. When addressing a mainly supportive crowd, a speaker’s main goal may be to strengthen the hearers’ adherence by vividly rehearsing points they all agree on and emphasizing their significance. But when the goal is to move hearers, to change their beliefs, attitudes, or behaviors, the speaker must also anticipate points of disagreement. Perelman suggests accumulating many different arguments that all lead to the same conclusion, because each hearer may be susceptible to different reasons and appeals. Most theorists have discussed amplitude in terms of the patterns with which a point can be developed and elaborated, overlooking its usefulness as an important clue for rhetorical analysis. In particular, as I have shown elsewhere, writers of public policy arguments regularly allocate the greatest proportion of total textual space to the most important and controversial points. In this article, I will show how identifying the points of greatest amplitude in each psalm helps to disambiguate the setting. A second important persuasive strategy is creating psychological connections between the speaker and the hearers, a strategy that Perelman calls “association” and that Burke (for whom this concept is far more central) calls “identification.” Identification can be positive or negative. In the positive form, the speaker heightens the interests that he/she holds in common with the hearers. In the negative form, a speaker works to turn hearers away from a rival’s arguments by emphasizing conflicts between the hearers’ and the rival’s interests. Burke calls this “identification by antithesis” which creates “union by some opposition shared in common.” 11 Apart from explicitly criticizing rivals, a speaker may also create dissociation by challenging the meaning of a concept, distinguishing some aspect of it as true or good and disparaging the other. In some cases, as M.A. van Rees

10 Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca, 474. Burke, 69. For a discussion and history of amplification, see J. Fahnestock, Rhetorical Style: The Uses of Language in Persuasion (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 2011). 11 K. Burke, “The Rhetorical Situation,” in L. Thayer (ed.), Communication: Ethical and Moral Issues (New York: Routledge, 1973), 263–274.

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notes, the speaker puts two seemingly similar concepts side by side, assigning positive value to one and negative value to the other. 12 In the readings that follow, I will show the similar ways in which identification is deployed in Ps 4 and Ps 62. In both cases, the strategies aim to turn strayers back to faithful moral behavior.

PSALM 4 Ps 4 can be divided by addressee into three sections. The speaker addresses God in the frame (v. 2 and vv. 8–9) but addresses opponents in the central section, as sketched below. Clearly, the preponderance of space is devoted to the opponents. As I will show below, even the final two verses can be read as a rejoinder to opponents. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Allocation of Space in Psalm 4

Superscription Plea to God for attention Rebuke to opponents for apostasy/false accusation Advice to opponents Advice to opponents Advice to opponents Citation of opponents’ response/Expression of trust Rejoinder/Expression of trust Rejoinder/Expression of trust

The opening verse, v. 2, is a fairly standard invocation of God, establishing the speaker as a faithful Israelite who calls on God in times of trouble and expects to be answered. In contrast to the opening of most laments, the speaker makes no additional calls for God’s attention and gives no description of the current situation. So it is plausible that the verse is setting up a charge of false accusation, but it also sets up a dramatic reversal. The assembled hearers are led to expect a lament, but the speaker instead turns and rebukes them.

12 M. A. van Rees, “Indicators of Dissociation,” in F. H. van Eemeren and P. Houtlosser (eds.), Argumentation in Practice (Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 2005), 53–67. Paul Krugman created this kind of dissociation in a recent op-ed article, “Boring Cruel Romantics,” in the New York Times (20 Nov. 2011), A29. Krugman, who considers himself a “technocrat,” challenges the application of the term to new leaders in Europe who implement fiscal austerity. Krugman argues that these leaders “are not technocrats. They are, instead, deeply impractical romantics.”

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The rebuke that opens the lengthy central section (vv. 3–7) comes in the form of a rhetorical question: “how long will my glory be mocked?”13 A strict false accusation reading depends heavily on taking ‫“ כבודי‬my glory” as pertaining to the speaker’s own honor or reputation because nothing else in the psalm refers to attacks on the speaker. Such attacks are described quite explicitly in other psalms assigned to the false accusation category. 14 In contrast, the anti-apostasy reading may read ‫“ כבודי‬my glory” as referring to Israel’s glorious God. 15 The speaker follows the rebuke with an extended effort to persuade opponents to return to faithful observance and a specific process for doing so. The first step of this process, in v. 4, is reminiscent of contemporary self-help programs: asking hearers to admit that they have a problem in lacking God’s favor. The next steps are spelled out in vv. 5–6 with three pairs of imperative verbs that proceed in a logical progression: quake and refrain, speak and be still, offer and trust. The first verb in each pair is an action and the second inaction. The first pair, “tremble, sin no more,” refers to getting out of the habit of apostasy. The verb ‫“ רגזו‬quake” is found four other times in the psalms (Pss 18:9, 77:17; 19, 99:1), all of which describe the physical world exhibiting awe of God—the hills, the water, the earth. If awe of God can inspire nature to quake, then apostates can find it in their nature to do the same. Paired with quaking is the inaction of not sinning; that is, the apostate is urged to intentionally refrain from inappropriate action. The first pair, then, refers to externally manifested behavior. The next pair are psychological steps: speaking and being still in bed, where, as Michael Barré has noted, a person is most sincere. 16 The image of overcoming internal debate while in bed also occurs in Ps 16:7 in which the speaker is helped by God’s counsel after being lashed by his conscience (or 175F

176F

17F

178F

Unless otherwise indicated, translations are from JPS Hebrew-English Tanakh, (2nd ed. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1999). 13

14 For a close discussion of the criteria that should be applied to this category, see W.H. Bellinger, Jr., “Psalms of the Falsely Accused: A Reassessment,” SBLSP 25 (1986), 463–469. Bellinger distinguishes between false-accusation psalms where the context of a judicial proceeding seems justified (Pss 7, 17, and 27) from apparent cases where opponents seem merely to be engaging in malicious gossip (Pss 31, 64, and 28). Only the former include uses of legal language and forms: selfimprecation, appeals for acquittal, and oaths; references to a “just cause”; and verbs of testing and trying. 15 See references in fns. 4– 5 for a detailed review of these options. 16 M. Barré reviews Biblical images of conscience-stricken insomnia in “Hearts, Beds, and Repentance in Psalm 4, 5 and Hosea 7, 14,” Bib 76 (1995), 53–62.

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kidneys). The speaker in Ps 4:5 is instructed to engage in this internal struggle. Pairing this struggle with an effort to become still is far from contradictory. In fact, the sense of ‫“ דומם‬stilling” as a recovery from agitation is also posited in Ps 131:2 by P. J. Botha and H. Stephen Shoemaker. 17 Achieving stillness after struggling with temptation would be quite an accomplishment for apostates. The final pair of imperative verbs, in Ps 4:6, is “offer and trust.” After feeling awe, refraining from sin, struggling with temptation, and achieving stillness, the strayer is ready to make a positive action to serve God. The emphasis on making “righteous” sacrifices may be needed for people who are partially assimilated; apostates may well have been combining practices appropriate for YHWH with those distinctly associated with foreign gods. Only purely appropriate sacrifice can lead to a final state of trust in God. The ordering of sacrifice before trust implies that practice may precede belief, a positioning that echoes Exod 24:7, “we will do and we will hear.” Thus the greatest amplitude in Ps 4, the bulk of the space, is devoted to addressing opponents with a rebuke followed by a persuasive and poetic sequence of steps that strayers can follow to return to faithfulness. While it is still possible to view the speaker as a troubled petitioner, his attention is almost exclusively devoted to the future behavior of the opponents, rather than to securing rescue or vindication. Returning to faithfulness is also promoted through the strategy of identification. The speaker uses positive identification in the framing sections by modeling appropriate behavior and referring to first-hand experiences. While v. 2 is addressed to God, it also establishes the speaker as someone ‫“ בצר‬in dire straits,” who has suffered “distress” and who calls out to God. This is not someone whose life has gone altogether smoothly—a history that hearers of all degrees of faithfulness are likely to share. While the speaker may have been unusually successful when he has called to God (v. 2 and v. 4), being answered or relieved in times of trouble is a shared goal that they all aspire to. More shared goals are set out in vv. 8–9. The speaker is able to sleep soundly and quietly at night, in contrast to the quaking hearers in v. 5 and achieves joy in his relationship with God, a joy that may match or exceed “the good” that the hearers are seeking in v. 179F

17 P. J. Botha, “To Honour Yahweh in the Face of Adversity: A Socio-Critical Analysis of Psalm 131,” Skrif En Kerk 19 (1998), 525–33. H. S. Shoemaker, “Psalm 13,” Review & Expositor 85 (1988), 89–94. In contrast, Barré (“Hearts, Beds,” 5860) translates this pair of verbs as “quake” and “wail.” P. Raabe gives a helpful suggestion that the resonance of stilling and wailing enriches the effect in “Deliberate Ambiguity in the Psalter,” JBL 110 (1991), 213–227.

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7. These positive forms of identification set up the speaker as someone who is enough like the hearers that they may feel motivated to reconnect with God. Thus the frame of the psalm strengthens the force of the process for returning in the central verses. The most powerful strategy in Ps 4, however, is the use of disidentification in vv. 7–9 where the speaker pulls receptive opponents away from extremists who are characterized as greedy and irreverent. The dissociation is accomplished in part by a change in voice. Up until now, in vv. 4–6, the speaker has addressed the opponents directly using second person. He has accused all those assembled of seeking vain things and lies. But in v. 7, the voice shifts. In v. 7, the speaker figuratively points at ‫רבים‬ “the many” who are only interested in “the good(s).” The effect of the indefinite expression “many say” is like that of a school principal at an assembly announcing that many students have been sassing teachers or writing graffiti on the walls. The implication is that the culprits are present and well known to the crowd, as if the principal had said “all of you know very well who you/they are.” By referring to the worst culprits in third person, the speaker is inviting the lesser offenders to distance themselves from the habitual or extreme offenders. Then the speaker reports what the offenders are saying. The quote should be read as extending to the end of v. 7. The extremists are not seriously asking to be shown what’s good or for the favor of God’s face but are mockingly asserting that they do not need it; apparently, they are worshipping other gods because they have prospered materially by doing so. The indirect reference to the lifting of God’s face from the Priestly Blessing (Num 6:24–26) is then an especially cheeky bit of mockery. 18 The key to interpreting v. 7 is that it is the speaker who is reporting the putative words of the offenders. The bolder and more irreverent the quote, the better for the speaker’s goals. Hearers who have not strayed quite so far may be shocked by the mockery at the same moment as they are pushed by the pronouns to take sides, to identify with the “us” of the extremists or to see the extremists as “them” along with the upright speaker. In the concluding two verses, Ps 4:8–9, the speaker returns to addressing God, providing the usual closing expression of praise and trust. Goldingay sees this move as the speaker, having failed to reach people with 180F

18 In addition to reading this phrase as mockery, Goldingay also allows a translation of it as an assertion of estrangement: “the light of your face has fled from over us” (“Psalm 4,” 167). In this, he follows J. H. Eaton, “Psalm 4:7,” Theology 67 (1964), 355–357.

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a “bad attitude,” moving on to his or her own concerns, simply hoping “that God may change these people.” 19 But it is also possible to interpret vv. 8–9 as a rejoinder to the extremists’ view. The speaker concedes in v. 8 that the apostates have gained material rewards by referring to ‫“ דגנם ותירושם‬their grain and their drink.” But the speaker trumps these rewards with the greater joy he receives from communion with God. Goldingay sees the speaker’s joy occurring ‫ מעת‬at the same time that the opponents’ grain and wine become abundant, emphasizing that the speaker feels joy even when the others seem to be rewarded. Jacobson translates ‫ מעת‬not as “at the time of” but as a comparative “more than when,” implying that the speaker’s joy is greater than the joy coming from material rewards. Either way, the speaker is challenging the value of the apostates’ goods. The final verse, v. 9, with its reference to sleeping well and having peace, contrasts directly with the state prescribed for the strayers in v. 5. The reference to peace, Goldingay suggests, harkens back to the final part of the Priestly Blessing, which conveys a state of physical completeness or well-being. The speaker is not joyful in the face of deprivation, but in the expectation that God also provides sufficient material sustenance. In sum, the speaker’s persuasive power derives from the considerable space devoted to addressing and referring to the strayers, the choice and sequence of imperative verbs used to address them, as well as the use of both positive and negative strategies of identification to draw the strayers toward the speaker and away from more extreme rivals.

PSALM 62 The speaker of Psalm 62 is generally seen as an ordinary person or an embattled king, seeking protection in a religious or judicial setting. 20 In this view, it is the speaker who is the subject of the attacks of the crowd, who at times feels safe in God’s refuge and at times feels as weak as a tottering fence, who shifts between complaining and expressing trust. Having reached safety by the end, the speaker can indulge in a hortatory impulse to advise the opponents to give up their bad ways. But the case for seeing the speaker as a conflicted petitioner is weak. Unlike the usual lament, Ps 62 lacks any direct second-person plea to God for rescue. While the plot in vv. 4–5 is familiar from laments in which enemies try to trap or trip up the speaker (e.g., Pss 35, 64, 140), unlike these 182F

Goldingay, “Psalm 4,” 170. Mandolfo, God in the Dock, 18; Kraus, Psalms 60–150; Croft, Identity of the Individual, 127; Bland, “Exegesis of Psalm 62.” 19 20

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psalms, the threat in Ps 62 lacks any first person reference—the victim is described in third person as ‫“ אישׁ‬a man.” While ‫ אישׁ‬might refer to the speaker, the word is not used as a self-reference in any of the 35 other psalms where it occurs. Recognizing the victim as an unnamed third party allows an alternative view that Ps 62, like Ps 4, is a public effort to persuade hearers to return to faithful, moral behavior. Rather than oscillating between trust and doubt, the speaker is consistent in modeling a sense of security while trying to protect the weak-willed from the bad influence of the opponents. To support this reading, I will again examine both the amplitude of points and the use of identification. Space in Ps 62, as sketched below, is dominated by the speaker’s expressions of trust in God as a personal refuge and rescuer at the opening, center, and closing of the psalm. The phrasing in vv. 2–3 is reformulated in vv. 6–8 to create a memorable refrain. The closing in vv. 12–13 turns from personal trust to trust that God's actions towards all are fitting. Repetition is the classic form of amplitude; here it emphasizes and re-emphasizes the speaker’s security and contrasts it to the doubts and weaknesses of the others. Allocation of Space in Psalm 62 1 Superscription 2 ‫אך‬ God as refuge 3 ‫אך‬ God as refuge 4 ‫ עד אנה‬Direct rebuke 5 ‫אך‬ Indirect rebuke. Selah. 6 ‫אך‬ God as refuge 7 ‫אך‬ God as refuge 8 ‫על‬ God as refuge 9 ‫בטחו‬ Process: Trust and pour out. Selah. 10 ‫אך‬ Human strength/value as illusory 11 ‫אל‬ Process: Reject violence; reject robbery; reject ill-gotten gains. 12 ‫אחת‬ God’s might 13 ‫ולך‬ God’s faithfulness; God’s fairness. The seven verses that express security are balanced by five verses that address opponents, with direct and indirect rebukes in vv. 4–5 and a sequence of prescriptions in vv. 9–11. As in Ps 4, the rebuke in Ps 62:4–5 opens with questions addressed to all the hearers challenging their misdeeds. Rather than apostasy, however, the hearers seem to be attacking members of the community and leading them astray. The opponents are seeking to tempt the weak-minded into unfaithful or unlawful activity—in

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effect pulling them down like a wall that is already leaning or fence that is already tottering. As in Ps 4, the prescribed actions for recovery in vv. 9–11 follow a logical order. The first steps, in v. 9, are for the opponents to trust in God and pour out their hearts to God. The series of imperatives is interrupted in v. 10 with a reminder that humans lack strength, endurance, and value—the very qualities repeatedly attributed to God in the three-part frame. Gaining security from relying on God rather than humans enables the opponents to reorder their values. Accordingly, in v. 11, they are told to renounce violence, robbery, and ill-gotten gains. As in Ps 4, the underlying motive for straying turns out to be greed, an attraction to material reward. So the wisdom-like pronouncements in vv. 12–13 serve as a rebuttal. In the greater scheme of things, material gain is immaterial because God balances the accounts. A special form of amplitude in Ps 62 is the sound pattern of the verse-initial Hebrew words, a pattern that usually goes unrepresented in translation but must have been quite striking in oral performance. The initial words of all but one verse begin with a guttural (either ‫ א‬or ‫—ע‬the latter only twice) followed by a pataḥ, with �‫ ַא‬at the head of six verses.21 These verse-initial words are remarkable in several ways. First is their sound. A skillful speaker may draw out or cut short such sonorous openings in attention-getting ways, playing them out with drama or humor. Second the repetition sets up expectations that the speaker can and does break just at the most important moment. The string of gutturals+pataḥ breaks in v. 9 with the imperative ‫“ בטחו‬trust” that begins with a voiced stop or plosive consonant. The break occurs at the very point instructions for returning to faithfulness begin, where the speaker commands the hearers to follow his own example by trusting in God. Third is their sense. Norman Snaith argues that the exclamation ‫ אך‬always carries a restrictive or adversative meaning.22 He translates it as “yes but on the contrary” or “despite” or “whatever may be said to the contrary.” So while this speaker does not go as far as the speaker in Ps 4 in anticipating and responding to the opponents’ objections, the repetitions of ‫ אך‬suggest that he sees his claims as sufficient response to whatever they might say. 183F

184F

Bland, “Exegesis of Psalm 62” is one of the few commentators who note the alliteration of the vowel-initial words in the first half of the psalm as well as the adversative meaning of ‫אך‬. Jin H. Han in his recent talk “Lists with Wit in Proverbs” at the SBL meeting in Chicago (17 Nov 2012) noted similar aural uses of wit outside the psalms. 22 N. H. Snaith, “The Meaning of the Hebrew ʾk,” VT 14 (1964), 221–225. 21

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Identification also plays an important role in Ps 62. Viewing the psalm as a public argument against greed-induced bad behavior changes the speaker from an aggrieved victim into moral agent. The speaker also comes across as a skillful performer, by virtue of the careful balance of space, the refrains, and the sound pattern of the verses. These qualities set the speaker somewhat apart from the crowd, as someone to be admired. Yet the speaker makes many of the same gestures of positive identification as the speaker in Ps 4. The repeated declarations of security show the speaker to be successful in calling on God in times of trouble. In v. 2, the speaker alludes to previous struggles from which ‫ דומיה נפשי‬he has achieved stillness and been rescued. He even qualifies his stability in v. 3: ‫אמוט רבה‬ ‫“ לא‬I won’t be moved much.” The speaker remains approachable. The speaker’s attitude to the hearers, however, is more complex than in Ps 4. The initial rebuke for plotting against the victim is aimed at ‫כלכם‬ the entire crowd. The speaker does not single out the weak-willed victim for direct address in vv. 4–5; he is referred to only in third person. The victim may be a specific person, well-known to the crowd or a general type of person, some of whom may be present. But as in Ps 4, the speaker shifts to talking about the offenders in third person in Ps 62:5, again allowing for a dissociation of the worst offenders from the merely wavering. In this case, however, the most vivid and shocking charge is addressed to everyone, while the more common charges of evil intentions, lying, and hypocrisy are attributed to “them.” The dissociative effect remains the same: anyone guilty of minor charges feels singled out—but can still feel superior to others in the crowd who may be guilty of the worse offenses. The advice for recovering stability and moral values in vv. 9–11 is useful for everyone, waverers and offenders alike. Overall, taking the speaker of Ps 62 as a confident and secure individual aiming to persuade an unruly crowd produces a coherent reading that accounts for the careful balancing of space between expressing security and addressing opponents, the contrast between God’s power and the human instability and evanescence, and the carefully designed sound pattern that heightens attention to the command to “trust in God.” The psalm presents a unified and striking statement of communal values. As Jeffrey Walker notes in his analysis of oral poetic argument in archaic Greece, “the successful poem will offer its audience an elegant, memorable, aesthetically satisfying representation of situations and attitudes with which they more or less identify already: the audience sees itself, or its values, reflected strikingly.” 23 185F

J. S. Walker, Rhetoric and Poetics in Antiquity (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 2000), 268. 23

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CONCLUSION In this paper, I have promoted anti-apostasy readings of Pss 4 and 62. In both cases, the speakers deploy an array of persuasive strategies to persuade strayers to return to faithful behavior, a mission that the speaker in Ps 51:15 also subscribes to: “I will teach transgressors your ways that sinners may return to you.” But if the strayers are the intended hearers and the targets of the speakers’ persuasive strategies, why do Pss 4 and 62 look so much like other individual psalms, whether psalms of lament, thanksgiving or trust, where both the underlying and ostensible addressee is God? Psalm 4 both opens and closes by calling on God’s protection, as in many laments. Psalm 62 opens by expressing trust in God and closes by declaring God’s power, as in many psalms of trust. If we assume that many first-person psalms were performed in public places by talented poets and musicians, then they may have attracted audiences of many stripes. It is possible that the speakers of these psalms used the usual setting as bait to attract crowds that included many strayers, but then switched tack to address the strayers directly. In supporting the anti-apostasy readings, I’m not intending to offer them up on the altar of certainty that Rolf Jacobson has rightly rejected. Every psalm can support a variety of readings, even those that seem mutually exclusive. My goal here rather has been to raise attention to the value of contemporary rhetorical theory for recognizing additional aspects of a psalm that should be considered when weighing the plausibility of alternative readings. My larger project is to show the relationship of many first-person psalms to deliberative arguments in which a speaker/author attempts to persuade others to take action concerning an urgent problem. I have identified a small number of recurring stances that speakers in the psalms take vis-à-vis God and the rest of the community. These stances include: maintaining the status quo, establishing an innocent’s right of redress, 24 denouncing others, appealing to God’s self-interest, acting as a model for others, and convincing one’s self. From a rhetorical perspective, it becomes clear that the speakers of the psalms experience a full range of emotions from satisfaction to smugness, from despair to vindictiveness. For these Israelites, the covenant is a two-way street; they are partners with God in an on-going relationship. In good times, they constantly remind themselves and God of the terms of this relationship. In times of trouble, they 24 See D. Charney, “Maintaining Innocence Before a Divine Hearer: Deliberative Rhetoric in Ps. 22, Ps. 17, and Ps. 7.” BibInt 21 (2013).

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passionately challenge God for tolerating injustice and allowing the innocent to suffer. Overall, the speakers portray themselves as actively and critically engaged in religious practice, rather than promoting blind obedience, quietism, or complacency.

STONES ON DISPLAY IN JOSHUA 6: THE LINGUISTIC TREE CONSTRUCTOR AS A “PLOT” 1 TOOL NICOLAI WINTHER-NIELSEN

FJELLHAUG INTERNATIONAL UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, DENMARK The analogy of masonry can illustrate how natural stones of different sizes and shapes are joined together so as to form a new surface and structure, much in the same way as an author constructs a text. Just like it is necessary to perceive the overall design in order to understand an architectural masterpiece, no interpreter can understand the structure of a text without explaining how units are joined into a holistic pattern, shaping the intent and impact of that text. To succeed in this task, however, the interpreter requires appropriate tools, and this is also the case for the texts of the Hebrew Bible. So, we may ask, what tools can (ad)dress these architectural formations that are biblical texts? This is the issue raised by a new dissertation from the Vrije Universiteit in Amsterdam by Marieke den Braber, Built from Many Stones (2010). In her study, den Braber demonstrates how any selection of data for the analysis of biblical texts will necessarily influence the methods used as 1 The following list presents the main abbreviations used in this article: 3ET = Ezer Emdros-based Exercise Tool (http://ezer.dk/3et/index.php?lang=en [accessed 12/28/2012]), LTC = Linguistic Tree Constructor (http://sourceforge.net/projects/ltc/); PLOT = Persuasive Learning Objects and Technologies (cf. EuroPLOT: www.eplot.eu); RST = Rhetorical Structure Theory; WIVU = Werkgroep Informatica at Vrije Universiteit (https://easy.dans.knaw.nl/ui/datasets/id/easy-dataset:48490 is currently the best link to the database according to Dirk Roorda, personal communication). Excerpts from WIVU reproduced in this article, including excerpts from WIVU in the open-source LTC, are used with permission. See below note 5.

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well as the expected results. More specifically, den Braber uses the account of Jericho’s conquest in Joshua 5–6 for a methodological investigation of two neglected exegetical approaches to the book of Joshua. The first approach is that of Graeme Auld, who has crowned 25 years of research on Joshua with a commentary on the Greek Vaticanus edition of the book (Auld 2005). The second approach is from the dissertation written by the author of this article, A Functional Discourse Grammar of Joshua (Winther-Nielsen 1995). Both contributions are treated by den Braber as examples of scholarly approaches to the text of Joshua that go against the grain of mainstream diachronic scholarship (Braber 2010:3), but which might be helpful when taken into account by diachronically oriented scholars. In her dissertation, den Braber uses the complete text edition of the Book of Joshua in Winther-Nielsen and Talstra (1995), and she asks to what extent this sort of display of the text can guide the exegete through the individual stones of the final construct of the Hebrew text. In the end, she concludes that such displays are “too complicated for easy access to the results” (den Braber 2010:222). Due to their complexity, interpreters so far have not used the displays, maybe not so much because of a “certain amount of ‘academic laziness’” (159), as den Braber suggests, but more likely because the text was not always presented in the simplest instructive way, which could give the interpreter easy access to the complex linguistic data of the Hebrew Bible. However, the situation has significantly changed in the past years, not least because of the various possibilities now offered by the digitalization of biblical texts. Therefore, the recent dissertation by den Braber provides an excellent opportunity for me to suggest the ways in which new digital solutions may improve on the printed edition we published more than 15 years ago. My contribution will revisit this aspect of my former dissertation (Winther-Nielsen 1995), and trace the potential of new technologies for analyzing biblical texts, as well as for developing methods and models for learning Biblical Hebrew. More specifically, I will be using the database developed by Eep Talstra and fellow members of the Werkgroep Informatica at the Vrije Universiteit (WIVU) in Amsterdam. Accordingly, I will first introduce the database and the tree constructor tool that I am going to use, and I will explain my use of the term “PLOT” and the theoretical framework that it implies. I will then discuss the WIVU displays of the Book of Joshua, and offer a “relational” interpretation of Josh 6:5. After a discussion of the problems related to the Rhetorical Structure Theory (RST), I will introduce the Connectivity Model proposed by Renkema (2009), a new helpful discourse-based model of relations in texts, and I will exemplify its merits in

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an analysis of Josh 6:15–20. I will suggest that the constructor tool, as it stands, can be taken as a first step toward the direction that educational technology could take in order to develop new tools for the analysis of biblical texts. In this sense, this paper is the seminal presentation for a new online site at 3BMoodle presenting projects on the construction of interpretations for learning languages.

1. THE “PLOT”: PERSUASIVE TECHNOLOGY FOR EMDROS The first stones that we will select in order to lay a foundation for a new construct will be the raw data of the WIVU database. Once we understand the structure of the data, we will be in a better position to understand how the database can operate as a resource for new instructional technology. The PLOT, short for “Persuasive Learning Objects and Technologies,” is inspired by a new theory called “persuasive technology” (Fogg 2003), which seeks to take into account the ways in which the computer can act in the role of a human persuader. The aim of this new theory is to understand how technology changes what we think about computers and how we use computers in various contexts to motivate users and to simplify their tasks. This theory about Human-Computer Interaction explains how information and communication technology can serve in various roles as a tool, simulation, and social actor. The theory seeks to optimize “persuasive” elements that enhance behavior change and motivational influence. The first step to apply this theory to corpus-driven, technology-enhanced learning took place at a mini-conference at Aalborg University held on March 30, 2009.2 The initial idea of the PLOT was to explore to what extent we could use a database with tools that were developed by Sandborg-Petersen (2008). In his dissertation, he analyzed the structure of the WIVU database for the Hebrew Bible and developed the “Emdros” database management system for storing and retrieving annotated text. 3 Sandborg-Petersen has applied Emdros for the corpus of the writings of the Danish poet, playwright, and vicar Kaj Munk. For this project, he also created a database manager, a browser, a website for collaborative annotation, and an algorithm for automated detection of quotations from other sources. We started exploring the potential of Emdros to support new applications for learning and research based on text corpora. 2 Except for Tøndering (2009) and Wilson (2009), the other papers given at this conference have not been published. 3 The dissertation by Sandborg-Petersen (2008) is an in-depth description of this system. Information and download are available at http://emdros.org (accessed 12/28/2012).

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For the period between November 2010 and October 2013, we are benefitting from a grant from the Europe Union Lifelong Learning Programme in order to further develop persuasive technology in the EuroPLOT project (www.eplot.eu). In this project, a tool called “PLOTLearner” is now being tested, at the stage of prototype, as we develop the technology into a corpus-driven learner-controlled tool which simplifies and motivates the training of skills for Hebrew language learning in a self-tutoring system. 4 In this discussion, I will provide an interpretation of the Hebrew lexeme ‫ ַרק‬raq in Josh 6:18a as a case in point. To this end, I will introduce the layout of the Emdros data (below, Table 1). In the particular Emdros database that we use in our project, the WIVU database, the category called “object” has a unique number which is called a monad (368869–75 in the following Table). An Emdros object can be a word, a sequence of monads such as a phrase or a clause, as illustrated in Table 1, but it can also be an archive, a collection of texts, a book, a chapter, a segment, a quotation, or any other unit requiring annotation for a corpus. Each object can have any number of defining features: for instance, a word may have a feature called “surface” which differs from the feature called “lexeme.” Also, monads can combine to one object with a new function as in our case where the three monads min ha=ḥērem group together to form the prepositional phrase. There are no limits to the annotations that researchers can attach to the different hierarchical objects created for the database, which range from the smallest morpheme to the highest level of the corpus.

4 See the information on the PLOTLearner site http://eplot. 3bmoodle.dk/ (accessed 12/28/2012) as well as the special seminar on Hebrew language learning at SBL International in London, published at http://www.youtube.com/user/nicolaiwn (accessed 12/28/2012).

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Table 1. EMdF-Model of Josh 6:18a from the WIVU Database 5

“Word” objects Monad Surface Part of speech Lexeme Transliteration Gloss

368869 368870 368871 368872 368873 368874 368875 ְ‫ו‬ ‫ַרק־‬ ‫ַא ֶתּם‬ ‫ִשׁ ְמ ֣רוּ‬ ‫ִמן‬ ‫ַה‬ ‫ֵ֔ח ֶרם‬ Conjun PronPreposAdverb Verb Article Noun ction oun ition ְ‫ו‬ ‫ַרק‬ ‫ַא ֶתּם‬ ‫שׁמר‬ ‫ִמן‬ ‫ַה‬ ‫ֵח ֶרם‬ wə=

And

raq

only?

ʔattem šimr-û

You

guard

ha=

min from

the

ḥērem

ban

Phrase objects Monad 368869 368870 368871 368872 368873–75 Phrase type CP AdvP PPrP VP PP

Clause objects Monad 368869–75 Clause type Impv

Using the WIVU Emdros database, Winther-Nielsen (2008, 2009) and Wilson (2009) worked within Role and Reference Grammar, as formulated by Van Valin (2005), and applied this grammar to their Role-Lexical Module for parsing, lexicon building, and representation. 6 This project shows how we could exploit the database in a web application for displaying Hebrew in the linguistic format as illustrated in example (1) below. 7 Skovenborg (2011) 192F

193F

All excerpts from the WIVU database in this article are used with permission from Eep Talstra, Director of the Werkgroep Informatica, and the German Bible Society. This also applies to excerpts from WIVU used in the open-source LTC which are reproduced in this article. 6 I coordinated this project with Chris Wilson as designer and programmer between 2005 and 2009. The text of Genesis 1–3 is available for online inspection at http://lex.qwirx.com/lex/clause.jsp (accessed 12/28/2012). Den Braber (2010:13 n. 3) refers to this new work, but does not discuss it. 7 The standard conventions for grammatical terms in these glossing displays are CLM = clause linkage marker, ADV = adverb, PRON = Pronoun, IMP = Imperative, Qa = Qal, the most frequent Hebrew stem form, M = masculine, pl = plural, CLT = Clitic, P = Preposition, ART = definite article, u = unknown, sg = 5

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has recently proposed a new design for a learner-centered use of a curriculum with a top-down approach to the text which displays the Role and Reference Grammar and the text interpretation, but there is currently no funding for the implementation of this particular system. Meanwhile, and as a result of constructing the Role-Lexical Module, the database was used at the core of a self-tutoring technology called 3ET, short for the Ezer’s Emdros-based Exercise Tool (Tøndering 2009), following the proposal in Winther-Nielsen (2009:14, 49). This tool was developed in order to help learners improve their morphological skills of Biblical Hebrew by means of persuasive exercise technology (Winther-Nielsen 2011). It is this tool that we are now redesigning as the PLOTLearner tool, using the WIVU Emdros database for Biblical Hebrew language learning in the EuroPLOT EU project. (1)

Display of Josh 6:18 in the Role-Lexical Module

The basic linguistic data of the WIVU database was from 2003 and was marketed by the Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft in a commercial software product known as the Stuttgart Electronic Study Bible, or SESB singular, AB = Absolute, the final, unmodified form of the noun in Hebrew. In the Role-Lexical Module we used the King James translation, because it was one of the free digital versions without copyright (for details see Winther-Nielsen 2009:19).

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(Hardmeier, Talstra, and Salzmann 2009), but as of 2012 it is only available as a new software bundle for Logos 5.8 Because it is a Logos resource, it is integrated with thousands of high-quality digital resources for scholars and serious learners. From both personal experience and feedback from students, I can confirm that the former SESB 3.0 served as a very useful tool for teaching and learning. Students reacted well to the high academic standards of the information and to the user-friendly interface, but some complained about the high cost of the software when compared to other Logos resources. Fortunately, however, for schools in the Majority World there are multiple user-friendly solutions available for computer labs, and for countries with a low average gross domestic product (GDP) per capita, the German Bible Society is setting a commendable example by donating software. 9 Unfortunately, the Logos software architecture does not allow for the adaptation of data to new learning tasks in the program interface. Morphological tags and syntactic trees cannot be changed according to personal preferences. In this regard, Logos 5 is no different from other Bible software programs that are built on the concept of Just-press-thisbutton-and-get-THE-solution. However, we believe that adaptability could enhance constructive and interactive learning, and should be offered by learner-controlled software. This problem is pointed out in the conclusion of a major review of information systems for the Hebrew Bible: Systems that integrate the results of divergent computational linguistic projects in Biblical Hebrew could promote the use of electronic data and analyses, providing a solution for the under-utilization of existing tools. New developments that tend to make use of more flexible functionalities and user-friendly visualizations may facilitate the creation and use of advanced Biblical Hebrew information systems in the next decade (Kroeze, Matthee and Bothma forthcoming).

Therefore, developers and users of new tools need to address the objection of den Braber and others who suggest that the data should be displayed in a 8 See the German Bible Society Bundle (= http://www.logos. com/product/18617/german-bible-society-bundle [accessed 12/28/2012]) and Logos Bible Software (www.logos.com). 9 The funding would be arranged through the scholarly Editions Grant by contact to Ilona Raiser (so Markus Hartmann, private com-munication). For GDP, see also: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_countries_by_future_GDP_%28PPP%29_p er_capita_estimates.

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more useful fashion for biblical interpreters. Unfortunately, however, the development of digital resources for academic biblical studies is costly, and new technology can only be developed by individual researchers working without payment or by funded academic projects like the Werkgroep Informatica. Successful businesses like Logos Bible Software are an exception to the rule, but even they can rarely finance large-scale scientific research projects. With decreasing access to multi-million dollar funding, new technology can therefore often only be developed by dedicated, selfsupported developers who produce digital resources under an open source license. The PLOT therefore depends heavily on open source development. The WIVU database of Biblical Hebrew supports research cooperation for the creation of more effective theory, tools, and training. This database is already available commercially in Logos, and new digital applications could enhance the use of this database as support for learning and interpretation. The EuroPLOT project is designed to contribute to a wider usage of Emdros. On this foundation stone for theory and design of persuasive technology, I will now lay the next stone, which is the adaptation of a tool for text construction.

2. THE TOOL: THE LINGUISTIC TREE CONSTRUCTOR By using stone imagery in the previous section, I have already emphasized the multifaceted nature of text. The cornerstone of my argument rests on the fact that elements of texts can be compared with “stones” requiring new tools that can be manipulated through technology, replacing the static display of printed text, as targeted in the critique of den Braber. I am now going to introduce a new tool that will help the interpreter shape the structure of the stones of the Hebrew Bible and rearrange the surface structure.

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Fig. 1. Josh 6:18a displayed with WIVU tags in the LTC In order to make a quick start, I will use and adapt an existing program which I believe enhances learning from Logos with the WIVU database. The Linguistic Tree Constructor (LTC) commends itself for this purpose as a free, flexible, and functional tool to retrieve word, phrase, clause, and sentence from the WIVU database in the format illustrated in Figure 1.10 For our database example from Josh 6 in Table 1, the tool can display the linguistic data for the learner who can expand or collapse the nodes and inspect the text at the appropriate level of sentence, clause, phrase, or word. For the first Hebrew lexeme ‫ ו‬in this figure, the user of the LTC can see the Hebrew form in the first line and in the second line the Hebrew Bible reference “Joshua 6:18.” Below is a third line which specifies that the lexical category of the lexeme ‫ ו‬is “conjunction” and “CP” is used in the WIVU database as a label for a conjunctional phrase. The fourth line displays the form of the lemma, or dictionary word, which in this case is identical with the text form. At the bottom of the screen, the user can choose which of these lines he or she wants to display. Furthermore, the program has a feature called “Open horizontal tree,” which displays any node or sentence 196F

10 The Linguistic Tree Constructor (LTC) is an open source program which can be downloaded at www.ltc.sourceforge.net. The texts discussed and illustrated in the displays can be downloaded as data files from 3BMoodle (http://3bmoodle.dk/) on the language project platform Connectivity Model Resources - Guest Access (=http://3bmoodle.dk/course/view.php?id=9 [accessed 12/28/2012]).

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as a tree with constituent projection as illustrated in Figure 2. This kind of display is similar to a conventional linguistic tree drawing. The constructor program can also display complex sentences, and thus larger segments of texts. This supports the ability to engage with the text through the interactive interface, zooming in and out of the nodes (cf. Winther-Nielsen 2009:6–7).

Fig. 2. Josh 6:18a displayed as horizontal tree with WIVU tags in the LTC As already illustrated in Figure 1, the LTC program can show a sidebar for labeling texts with grammatical and rhetorical terms. A text can be analyzed with these labels, and the text can then be exported to other users of the LTC in order to allow the user to share his preferred interpretation with instructors or fellow learners. Furthermore, and crucial for the solution proposed here, the user can customize the labels in the sidebar and adapt them to his or her preferred model of interpretation, discourse analysis, or poetics. 11 Other interested users can download the customized interface, explore it, and improve the labels. In a learning process, the learner uses the tree construction program to import its linguistic information from the database, giving him or her access to the text in the same constituent projection as the one available as a Logos resource. Instructors or learners In 2010, Daniel Lundsgaard Skovenborg developed a forked version of the LTC displaying the relations suggested in this paper as tips. On November 1 2011, Ulrik Sandborg-Petersen released LTC 3.1.0 with this tool tips function and this author’s definition of relations in the Connectivity Model (cf. https://sourceforge.net/p/ltc/news/2011/10/linguistic-tree-constructor-310released [accessed 12/28/2012]). Also, this version included the interclausal node type “Relation” (“R”). 11

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can import a file with the text information from the WIVU database and then inspect existing interpretations, and subsequently edit them or create their own brand new interpretation. 12 Another option is to use a feature available in the Role-Lexical Module allowing one to export clauses with glossing and then use the Hebrew or glossed text for instructional purposes in the LTC (Winther-Nielsen 2009:39–41), or in the RRGBuilder (Skovenborg 2011). This flexible and creative interaction with the text is an example of the kind of tools that we had in mind when we proposed persuasive technology as PLOT exemplars for learning and teaching. Persuasive Technology was originally formulated as a broad framework to employ technology under the three functional aspects of tool, medium, and social actor (see Fogg 2003:32). The tree constructor is a tool to simplify the task of interpretation, but some features are similar to how a medium can simulate the cause-and-effect when the interpreter proposes a certain interpretation, helping him or her to visualize his or her understanding and improve his or her analytic skills. The LTC as a social actor also offers the possibility for peers, coaches, and fellow learners to exchange interpretations in an open learning environment, but this aspect of the tool is not prominent. Above all, it is a tool motivating the student to engage in deep learning by rearranging the “stones” to illustrate the construction of a new interpretation of the text. With this background, the LTC may help us experiment with the ways in which PLOT technology can enable and motivate textual analysis, interpretation, and sharing. Interpretation will be more effective with an interactive and adaptable tool like the LTC, because it can be customized to solve particular technological tasks that enhance the interpretive faculty of learners, while also supporting instructors. When the interpretative task is simplified, it enhances the motivational attitude of learners and removes the cumbersome cut-and-paste task of reproducing a text, hand-coding, and sharing it with teachers or fellow learners. The core idea of this proposal is that data that are commercially available for Logos can be reused and repurposed in an open educational resource tool for text analysis. To sum up, I have introduced this LTC tool to display the WIVU database and draw syntax trees. I have also argued that it is a simple exemplar of a tool with some PLOT qualities as well as limited simulation 12 The Bible software company 3BM (http://3bmoodle.dk/) funded Ulrik Sandborg-Petersen to develop an extraction program to export from the WIVU database to .ltxc-files which can be loaded into LTC. 3BM has permission from Eep Talstra and the German Bible Society to use the Amsterdam database for restricted text selections.

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features and support for interaction. LTC will enable a user to interact with the WIVU database, any other imported database, or data built from scratch, and it will encourage the learner to construe creative interpretations and simulate trial and error experimentation in text analysis.

3. THE RST: A CONSTRUCTOR OF RHETORICAL STRUCTURE ANALYSIS Having so far explained the structure of the WIVU database and the LTC in relation with persuasive technology, we can now apply it to the theory and practice of interpretation. In terms of our stone imagery, the main issue is how to decode the structure that was applied when the stones were laid, and how we can display them through educational technology. In other words, the issue is whether the new tools available to us can overcome the problems of a printed edition which, as pointed out by den Braber, “will not be frequently consulted by occasional readers of Joshua” (den Braber 2010:68). The case in point is the new condensed displays used for the Book of Joshua. My dissertation (Winther-Nielsen 1995) discussed the full text of Joshua 2 at length. For the rest of the Book of Joshua, the dissertation only quoted selected texts, but Winther-Nielsen and Talstra (1995) published the complete analysis in a companion volume. Each individual clause unit was associated with columns incorporating several levels of discourse-pragmatic analysis. One column presented the Amsterdam database codes for syntactic clause linkage, specifying the coreference between verbs and conjunctions in clauses which were related as pairs. An adjoining annotated column contained grammatical and interpretive labels.13 For this interpretive column, den Braber (2010) discusses the exegetical relevance of the Rhetorical Structure Theory (RST) which was proposed by prominent linguists in the latter part of the 1980s (Mann and Thompson 1987; Mann, Matthiessen and Thompson 1992). The RST theory is a pragmatic approach to discourse structure, offering a valuable and realistic explanation of how writers and readers construe texts to communicate (Winther-Nielsen 1995:20). Computer specialists also wanted to explore discourse connectivity in texts beyond morpho-syntactic and propositional semantic analysis (Winther-Nielsen 1995:31). Later versions 13 The column used Role and Reference Grammar (RRG) labels to interpret the syntactic linking, and Rhetorical Structure Analysis (RST) labels to explain interclausal relations beyond the level of grammatical linkage of clauses. Other labels covered discourse analysis, but labels for narrative analysis like setting, episode, and climax were not used.

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of the RST theory are discussed in Toboada and Mann (2006) and in the textbook of Taboada (2009). Recently, studies have focused on the role of implicit marking of coherence (Taboada 2004; 2009) and on formulating a new cognitive framework (Sanders and Spooren 2009). Originally, a number of 25 RST relations were applied in the complete analysis of the Book of Joshua in Winther-Nielsen and Talstra (1995). In later studies of rhetorical structure, the number of relations has ranged from only two to a total of some 400 relations (Renkema 2009:114). Mann and Taboada (2007) give online access to vast material on 187 relations. Only a few Hebrew Bible scholars have used the RST-theory since Winther-Nielsen (1995, 2005). However, an excellent recent study by Lyavdansky (2010) uses the RST framework to explain the difference between a temporal adverbial use and a “discursive” textual use of the ‫וְ ַﬠ ָ֗תּה‬ wᵊ=ʕattāʰ, “and now,” in Biblical Hebrew, Egyptian Aramaic and Old Babylonian. Lyavdansky takes the RST framework as point of departure for his discussion of comparative linguistic data. Den Braber (2010:63) questions whether displays with columns for RST interpretation as elaborate as those published by Winther-Nielsen and Talstra (1995) for Joshua are really necessary for the synchronic reading.14 Part of the problem is the complexity of the displays, since they combine and condense two kinds of approaches into one. In Winther-Nielsen and Talstra (1995:17–21), the phrase structure analysis practiced by Talstra and his team and encoded in the WIVU database was listed in one column, and an adjoining column listed the functional interpretation of relations by this author. Thus, it was possible to compare the structural description stored in the database with a reader-oriented interpretation which uses RST-relations in order to explain connections in the texts regardless of genre and scope. This approach made it possible to explore the structure and function of the text beyond the more syntactic focus of Talstra, as carefully explained in the preface to the text edition (Winther-Nielsen and Talstra 1995:vi). These displays therefore offered a consistently database-independent proposal next to, and com-plementary with, the computer-assisted description. As such, they provided a user-centered and independent interpretation of what this author believed the writer of Joshua intended to communicate to his readers in the text. 15 120F

120F

14 Due to the technical notations in the Amsterdam database, the display can be misunderstood, such as when den Braber (2010:177, 209) misinterpreted brackets used to mark appositional constituents as if this author used them for text-critical purposes. 15 This solution intended to “balance the inherently formal data obtained by computational procedures” (Winther-Nielsen 1995:26), and RST served as “an

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In passing, it should be noted that the main critique of den Braber is that these text displays leave out a text’s “diachronic progression” (68). However, to add both the full witness from the history of the textual transmission as well as all the emendations and interpretations of modern critical scholars would have made the displays even more complex and far beyond the task of displaying a simple reading of the extant text. This kind of historical-critical annotation would therefore present a challenge for textual display of still a different sort.

Fig. 3. The WIVU text of Josh 6:5 in the LTC, with RST relations and hierarchy Another problem raised by den Braber is how to convey a computerassisted interpretation of inter-clausal relations which can simultaneously display a representation of syntax, semantics, pragmatics, and discourse structure (Hardmeier 2003:15; Renkema 2009:87; Wardlaw 2010). It requires a strategy for analysis that, by definition, will not identify grammatical codes with rhetorical labels, but rather will keep the grammatical codes distinct from the RST and other functional labels, because this is the only way to avoid a simplified assumption of one-formto-one-function. 16 An additional issue is whether rhetorical relations really independent, user-oriented and descriptive basis for the analysis of clause combining and textual coherence” (88). 16 Contrast den Braber (2010:38), who objects to interpretations without grammatical marking (ibid.:173–4) and jumps from linguistics to rhetoric (ibid.:63), though she fortunately agrees that relations are helpful for synchronic labelling when they are assigned independently of syntax (ibid.:187).

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are “far more subjective than the analysis of the grammatical hierarchy and cannot be consistently deduced from the syntax,” as argued by den Braber (2010:186). In our approach, we will assume that the regularities of discourse-pragmatic features can be accounted for in part by the syntaxsemantics-pragmatics interface (Winther-Nielsen 1995: 101). We will furthermore introduce an alternative theory of relations in a given text that addresses the issue of the ambiguity in discourse, and seeks to offer an answer to this problem. However, as a first step toward a solution, we will explore how the interpreter can use the LTC to add RST labels for any structural unit in the text, including the levels beyond the sentence. In Figure 3 below, I will first illustrate how I reproduced the text-analysis of Josh 6:5 from WintherNielsen (1995:205) or Winther-Nielsen and Talstra (1995:38–9). 17 The point of providing this particular figure is not to argue in detail for the way the displays were set up in the dissertation, nor in any way to discuss how den Braber critically analyzes the displays produced for print in 1995. My goal is only to show to the users of the Joshua display that the displays could be reproduced for print with the use of the LTC. For this particular display, I removed all sentence nodes from the WIVU database, and then tagged all clauses with the labels suggested in 1995. I copied-and-pasted this analysis as a screen-shot into a word processing document, and then manually added a graphical representation. The most illustrative solution was to hand-code a connectivity graph similar to Renkema (2009:136–40), and to place this graphical representation of the text structure next to the labels of the text display at the left side. This experiment proved that a learner can load the WIVU text and tag it in LTC, and then manually indicate the relative scope and depth of the relations visually by arrows pointing to the clauses for which they serve as relations. An illustration of connections by arrows is arguably a graphically better visual solution than the computergenerated nodes used in the printed displays of the book of Joshua. Unfortunately, inserting arrows by hand-coding is only of limited interest, as long as we do not have a program which can insert them into displays of the text. The next step was to explore the full potential of the hierarchical labelling system of the tree constructor program. I used the customized labels to construe a complete rhetorical analysis for all relations above the syntactic level in Josh 6:5, as illustrated in Figure 4 below. In this analysis, I combined two adjacent clauses or segments by labelling the node as a 17 I have not used the RSTTool of Mick O’Donnell (http://www. wagsoft.com/RSTTool [accessed 12/28/2012]), because I wanted to explore the integration of the WIVU corpus with the LTC tool.

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relation with the label “R.” A relation consists in most cases of a main part and a modifying part, the nucleus and the satellite, and it is crucially the modifying member which determines the function of the relation (WintherNielsen 1995:88). I therefore opened this modifying node and inserted the RST relation name as a label on the satellite branch. In this way, I could indicate that any unlabeled “R” branch would be dominant in the structure of the text and modified by a rhetorical relation. Following the dissertation, the main text element in 6:2b–4 leads up to a Volitional Result relation (VRes) in 5a, describing how the Israelite groups are to circumvent the city in order to shout and ascend into it.

Fig. 4: RST analysis of Josh 6:5 in LTC The dissertation of den Braber (2010:177–8) discusses Josh 6:5 at some length. In her interpretation of rhetorical relations, she considers it problematic that the same form which is annotated as a WQtl form in the database has different relation labels in the two occurrences of 5d and 5e. However, this is really a point in favor of doing RST analysis, because relations help the learner to distinguish between multiple functions of a single grammatical form, as in this case when a WQtl form can have both a predictive and a hortatory function. Rhetorical analysis assists the interpreter in clarifying the conditions under which there are two different outcomes of the people’s shouting: the intended result of the collapse of the wall (5d) as against the intentional purpose for the people to act and ascend into the city (5e). As such, RST analysis helps the interpreter to label multifunctional grammatical items, and also to perceive similar cases elsewhere. This example has illustrated how a user of the LTC can have access to a morpho-syntactic display of phrase, clause, and sentence information. Moreover, it shows how the displays in Winther-Nielsen and Talstra (1995)

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can now be technologically implemented through an existing open source tool. The new solution automatically lists labels like WQtl (see v. 5a in Figure 4), which the user may know from his or her work with the WIVU database for the Logos Bible software. However, we have still not answered another objection of den Braber and others: Namely, why bother to display so much information in the first place? To what extent is it relevant for interpreting the text, and how useful can it be for researchers and learners? Addressing such issues will be the next stone to pick up along our path.

4. THE CONNECTIVITY MODEL: THE GRANULATION OF THE STONES To return to the stone imagery, we still need to look at how we can best use the tools for our work on the stones in order to optimize the display of surface structure. To this end, I am now going to explore the assumptions, layout, and practice in Renkema’s (2009) new “Connectivity Model,” as a potential contemporary framework to be implemented in the LTC. Renkema gives several good reasons why we need a newer and more adequate framework. For one, the old canonical version of RST defines all relations as interpersonal (Renkema 2009:95–6), and intention is specified in the definition of every relation (ibid.:106); however, such information is not always accessible or even relevant. Another more serious point is that the RST relations were cognitively defined, but “[t]he status of nucleus and satellite can better be accounted for by looking at the discourse context” (ibid.:110). Finally, RST does not handle the degree of relative importance of segments well because it does not take nested and parenthetical information into account (ibid.:132). To solve these problems, Renkema proposes a new model with a well-structured taxonomy, which he designates as “Connectivity Model” (ibid.:114). He brings new precision to the stone imagery by viewing discourse as masonry rather than uniform bricks (ibid.:34). Discourse is made up by building segments of different sizes which come in two varieties (ibid.:20): adjunctive relations are about how stones of different material are linked in the wall, while Interjunction is about how stones project to form an artistic composition of the wall. The first type is the informative linking which must always be present in a text, but some linkings also serve an additional in-formational role by means of their interactional qualities (ibid.:60). 18 Adjunction links text units (“stones”) of relative size and nature (Renkema 2009:51), in contrast to Interjunction which is “the images that are outlined on the 18

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Table 2: General Structure of the “Connectivity Model” (Based on Renkema 2009)19 ADJUNCTION Family Category: Type Sub type 1 Specification ELAB Elaboration: 1 Quality 1.1 Object-Attribute 1. ELAB 2 Quantity 2 Part-Whole 2.1 Set-Member 2.2 Process-Step EXT Sequence: 1 Time Sequence 1 Time 1.1 Narration 2. SEQU 2 Interactional Pair 1.2 Continuation 3 List 1.3 Reverted Sequence 3. CONT Contrast 4. DISJ Disjunction ENH Place: 5. PLAC 1 Spot 2 Distance 6. TIME Time: 1 Absolute 4.1 Terminus ad quem 2 Relative 4.2 Terminus post quem 3 Simultaneous 4 Duration 5 Frequency 7. MANN Manner: 1.1 Instead 1 Circumstance 2.1 Analogy wall by the composition of the stones, in order to express something which has a certain impression on the person who looks at the wall” (ibid.:60). 19 See the overview in Renkema (2009:65–6), which is also available for download at http://www.benjamins.com/jbp/series/Z/151/study-aid.pdf (accessed 12/28/2012). The abbreviations used in the table and in the text are ACCP = Acceptance; ACTN = Action; ATTN = Attention; CAUS = Cause; COMM = Commentary; CONT = Contrast; DISJ = Disjunction; ELAB = ELABORATION; ENH = ENHANCEMENT; EXPL = Explanation; EXPR = EXPRES-SING; EXT = EXTENSION; IMPR = IMPRESSING; MANN = Manner; META = Metatext; PRES = Presentational; PROC = PROCESSING; QUOT = Quote; SEQU = Sequence.

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8. CAUS

Causation: 1 Cause 2 Reason 3 Means 4 Condition 5 Concessive

INTERJUNCTION Family Category: Type EXPR Presentation: 9. PRES 1 Solutionhood [2 Instruction] 10. COMM Comment: 1 Interpretation 2 Evaluation 3 Conclusion PROC Explanation: 11. EXPL 1 Background 2 Clarification 12. META Metatext: 1 Restatement 2 Organizer

13. QUOT

3 Summary Quote (Attribute): 1 Source 2 Thought Incorporation

2.2 Proportion 2.3 Degree 2.31 Degree Indicating Cause 3.1 Exception

4.1 Negative Condition 4.1.1 Otherwise

Sub type

1.1 Generalization

2.1 Exemplification 2.2 Illustration 1.1 Correction 1.2 Definition 2.1 Advanced Organizer 2.2 Heading 2.3 Orientation 2.3 Digression Indicator

1.1 Indirect Citation 1.2 Anonymous 1.3 General Source

469

470 IMPR 14. ATTN 15. ACCP

16. ACTN

NICOLAI WINTHER-NIELSEN Attention 1 Climax 2 Antithesis Acceptance 1 Evidence 2 Justification Action 1 Enablement 2 Motivation

The general structure of the Connectivity Model is set out in Table 2. In this model, the two main levels of Adjunction and Interjunction are subdivided into increasingly finer granulated relations of six families, 16 main categories, and more specialized types and sub types. The families constitute three functions for each of the two levels and they are conceptually major distinctions within the informational segments or intentional interaction. The 16 categories, on the other hand, are the finergrained distinctions that the analyst will often need in order to label the text with a specific interpretation. In our implementation of the Connectivity Model, we propose to use four letter abbreviations in capital letters because of the difficulty involved in handling long names inserted as labels in the text display. Only the names for types and sub types are given in full because it will be difficult to remember a large number of abbreviations. The informational level of Adjunction has the ELABORATION family (ELAB) as a single broad group of functions within the general category of Elaboration (ELAB), linking a segment into a concept which is expressed in the preceding segment. The second family of EXTENSION (EXTN) is a link which adds a new event to the preceding segment and thus extends this segment with a new predication. It is divided into categories for (2) Sequence (SEQU), (3) Contrast (CONT) and (4) Disjunction (DISJ). The final adjunction family ENHANCEMENT (ENHN) has the four members of (5) Place (PLAC), (6) Time (TIME), (7) Manner (MANN), and (8) Cause (CAUS). Enhancements all frame an event structure with new setting information. The Interjunction level is often built from Adjunction categories, but their hallmark is that they serve an interactional function. The first family of EXPRESSING (EXPR) conveys the intention of the writer through the categories (9) Presentation (PRES) or (10) Comment (COMM). The second interactional family of PROCESSING (PROC) is meant to guide the reader or listener through the communication in the text which is processed in

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relation to the three categories of (11) Explanation (EXPL), (12) Metatext (META), and (13) Quotation (QUOT). The third and final family is EXPRESSING (EXPR), aiming specifically to influence the addressee through the three categories of either (14) Attention (ATTN), (15) Acceptance (ACCP) or (16) Action (ACTN). Renkema offers his taxonomy as a “starting point” to illustrate “the overwhelming variety of possibilities in discourse continuation” (2009:99), but the Connectivity model has the advantage of a clear architecture and straightforward criteria (comp. ibid.:117, 121). Renkema assumes that there will be ambiguity in texts, because “different categories and types can simultaneously play a role in interpreting a segment combination” (2009:78), but he proposes procedures for disambiguation of multiple interpretations (ibid.:150–62). The two relational levels of Adjunction and Interjunction are tied into a basic line of textual connectivity which is called the Conjunction level. Relations are formed by segments of different shapes and forms according to three different criteria. The first is about what stone is cemented to which one, and at which part; this corresponds to the “Location” of the relation. The second is the relative size and sequence of the stones, which is called the “Ordination.” The third is the different kinds of mortar, which is the “Combination.” An interesting feature of Renkema’s proposal is that he also uses the stone imagery to explain the textual features at this third level: referential cohesion is like pin-hole or screw connections, relational coherence like mortar, and an additional unmarked type is like stapling (2009:29). Even if relations are by nature formulated independently of any particular grammar, Renkema claims that “the Connectivity Model is the only model that is based so heavily on a broad range of grammatically and semantically based discourse phenomena” (93). In our view, it would not be difficult to tie the Role and Reference Grammar of Van Valin (2005) and Winther-Nielsen (2008; 2009) into the Conjunction level with its anchoring point, direction of flow and kind of linkage (Renkema 2009:24–34). The Connectivity Model includes Elaboration, Extension, and Enhancement in much the same way as Systemic Functional Grammar. For Biblical Hebrew, it would therefore be possible to compare this approach with Bandstra’s (2008:23–6) Systemic Functional Grammar analyses of Genesis 1–11. In addition, we expect that the Connectivity Model may help us in avoiding an artificial distinction between textual, experiential, and interpersonal levels (Renkema 2009:88). Finally, as a case for the use of the Linguistic Tree Constructor, Daniel Lundsgaard Skovenborg developed a function with tool tips, and this function has now been implemented by Ulrik Sandborg-Petersen in his

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release of LTC 3.1 (November 1, 2011). 20 The following is a list of the most general relations, as defined in the tool tips from the Connectivity Model: Table 3: The Six Families as Defined in Tool Tips. ELABORATION adds information for CONCEPT from encyclopaedic knowledge (constituent~ argument focus?) – First family of Adjunction EXTENSION supplements the information on EVENT (core level proposition~predicate focus) – Second family of Adjunction ENHANCEMENT expands the information in FRAME (periphery adjunct~sentence focus) – Third family of Adjunction (in ADJUNCTION) EXPRESSING of addresser influence: Speaker-originating personal communication of intention – First family of Interjunction PROCESSING in the structure of discourse: Texture-based structural packaging for cognitive processing – Second family of Interjunction IMPRESSING for the addressee persuasion: Hearer-targeted attempt to change attitude or action – Third family of Interjunction

I have slightly revised these definitions to tailor them to a theory of functional grammar, even though this is not the intention of Renkema. In this way, the taxonomy can form a bridge between annotations on the output of linguistic parsing and representation from a database and literary and philological interpretations. 21 The list also illustrates the granularity in the system. The interpreter can work on this general level when constructing his or her interpretation of the text, or s/he can choose the finer-grained relational distinctions which are more revealing, and they will

20 For more details on the history of the development of the LTC 3.1 with Renkema’s labels see http://3bmoodle.dk/mod/page/view.php?id=55 (login “som gæst”/as guest [accessed 12/28/2012]). 21 We offer this suggestion for the project “Data and Tradition. The Hebrew Bible as a linguistic corpus and as a literary composition” (http://www.poac.nl/projecten.nsf/pages/2300159387_Eng [accessed 12/28/2012]). The PLOT framework is relevant, as “the PC3 tries to put the bridge into use” and applies them “into systems of retrieval and presentation.”

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be illustrated in the following interpretation of Joshua 6:15–20 which exemplifies this approach. In conclusion, the Connectivity Model appears to be a viable contemporary framework for analysis of discourse relations. The model appears to be an improvement over the canonical RST model because it has a more satisfactory information architecture in its hierarchical theory of text, supporting granularity in the analysis of level, family, category, and type. Relations are defined in terms of concepts and events as well as in terms of interpersonal relationships.

5. JOSHUA 6:15–20: CONSTRUCTING DISCOURSE RELATIONS My final move in response to Built From Many Stones by den Braber

(2010) is to give an interpretation of Joshua 6:15a–20b in order to show how the LTC can use the Connectivity Model. In this analysis, I will not link relations at the clause level (Renkema 2009:8), nor will I link relations for every non-embedded clause (Winther-Nielsen 1995:62). Instead, I will display sentences as they are imported from the WIVU database, and evaluate in the course of this process the pros and cons of that database. In contrast to Renkema, I will consistently mark a relation on the dependent or the parallel modifying branch. The following list quotes the tool tips for the relations that will be discussed in the interpretation: Table 4: Sorted List of Tool Tips of Categories and Types Used in the Analysis. Absolute is a specific dating (type < category Time) Acceptance (ACCP) convinces the hearer by argument to increase belief (15th category < family IMPRESSING) Action (ACTN) motivates the hearer to do something despite the lack of ability or of specific trigger to perform action (16th category < family IMPRESSING) Advance Organizer: Heading is a preview of the content (subtype < type Organizer < category Metatext) Background improves understanding by known content (type < category Explanation) Causation (CAUS) is all subtypes of P implies Q (8th category < family ENHANCEMENT)

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NICOLAI WINTHER-NIELSEN Cause is force without will and cannot be prevented, it is the source of an effect (~why etc.) (type < category Causation) Circumstance covers all sorts of non-temporal, non-locational, and noncausational adverbial manners (type < category Manner) Citation is the source for reported dialogue or printed matter (type < category Quote) Clarification improves understanding by new content (type < category Explanation) Climax focuses on the last part in list (type < category Attention) Comment (COMM) expresses the speaker’s own thinking about a topic (10th category < family EXPRESSION) Conclusion is a final, closing subjective reasoning after a set of arguments or observations (type < category Comment) Elaboration (ELAB) expands quality or quantity of nominal constituent, e.g. aspects, details, features or properties (1st category < family ELABORATION) Evidence is objective support for a statement or to increase belief in a claim (type < category Acceptance) Exception is always a quantitative part-whole restriction between two states of affairs, not a contrast for concepts (subtype < type Restriction < category Manner) Explanation (EXPL) facilitates the content in order to improve understanding (11th category < family PRCOCESSING) Manner (MANN) is pace, speed, and similar adverbial mode that is not place, time, and cause (~how etc.) (7th category < family ENHANCEMENT) Metatext (META) guides how the wording of the message is understood (~how) (12th category < family PROCESSING)

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Motivation triggers the desire to perform an action (type < category Action) Narration is the time sequence in story or report (subtype < type Time Sequence < category Sequence) Process-Step, e.g. do – do x (subtype < subtype Part-Whole < category Elaboration) Quote (QUOT) is an attribution of the source of the message (~who) (13th category < family PROCESSING) Sequence (SEQU) adds a state of affair as new event (~and etc.) (2nd category < family EXTENSION) Simultaneous marks a second event occurring at the same time (type < category Time) Time (TIME) is a temporal adverbial expansion of a constituent (~when etc.) (6th category < family ENHANCEMENT)

The full interpretation of the text is displayed in Figures 5A and B. The Sequence (SEQU: v. 20a) after the Quote (QUOT: v. 16c) is the most important relation in the text, but there is another dominant Sequence relation (SEQU: v. 16b) within the first part of the narrative segment in 6:15a–16c. The reader can follow the most central sentence in the entire text through the nuclear R sentences which are not modifying branches, and thus trace the central element all the way down to the unmodified terminal branch (S: v. 15c). This sentence is the foundation stone of the text which narrates that the Israelites walked around the city seven times on the seventh day. The next most important corner stone in the structure of the text is the account of the trumpeting of the priests at the seventh round in the Sequence sentence (SEQU: v. 16b). Dramatically, two more corner stones are added to the structure. The first is the Quote with the Citation of Joshua’s order for the people to shout (S: v. 16d). Right away follows the immediate execution of this order in a Sequence (SEQU: v. 20a). For the sake of coherence, the writer has added a modifying Elaboration (ELAB: v. 20b). The elaborative nature of this sentence is marked by its repetition of the reference to the process of continued trumpeting and by a pronominal reference to the activated noun phrase, the priests (S: v. 16b). A new text segment will often open with temporal and other circumstantial information. In this narrative, the nuclear

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branch (S: v. 15c) is preceded by an Absolute dating in (Time: v. 15a) because we are approaching the climax of shouting followed by the miraculous collapse of the walls. Functional grammarians would probably analyze this “Sentence” differently, as a discourse marker wayəhî followed by a prepositional phrase, i.e., “and then, on the seventh day, they…” The following sentence is a description of the people getting up early in the morning, and therefore corresponds to a Circumstance which, in a preparatory Manner, explains what is occurring prior to the real action of walking around the city this day (MANN: v. 15a). Arising in the morning is temporal adverbial setting information. These relations are all informative Adjunctions.

Fig. 5A. Josh 6:15–16c.20a–b Narration, from the LTC

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Fig. 5B. Josh 6:16c–19 Quote, from the LTC

With this background, we can explain the embedded Citation (6:16–19). We will expect to find Interjunctions addressing both the listeners and the readers of the story. The central nuclear element is the command to shout (S: v. 16d). It is followed by a clause that could be interpreted as a Cause, but we suggest that the clause is intended to impress the listeners, forcing

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them to an Acceptance of the order (ACCP: v. 16e). If this pragmatic function is granted, the writer is promising the listeners future objective Evidence to assure them that they will conquer the city. The next sentence is even more difficult to interpret. The least controversial interpretation is perhaps that the process of communication is an Explanation for the listeners (EXPL: v. 17a). If so, this sentence is predictive information. However, if the sentence impresses a future action on the listeners, the clause would have a directive speech function and serve as a Motivation relation, despite the total absence of grammatical features for a second person address. It is now possible to investigate relations marked by the particle ‫ַרק‬ raq “only” in Josh 6:15–20. In Winther-Nielsen (1995:208), raq is interpreted as a focus-particle with the restrictive force only on this day (v. 15d). It then refers to seven rounds on the seventh day instead of once only on the previous days. The same force is claimed for raq in only Rahab (v. 17c), because the group of survivors are now restricted to Rahab and her family. Den Braber (2010:181) objects to the use of the RST relation name Concession in both cases. However, these labels can be defended by canonical RST definitions. Both clauses express an incompatibility about only going around the city once a day, and about killing everyone. If the reader accepts that there are restrictions for the seventh day and for the killing of Rahab and her family, both relations fulfill the intention of the writer to remove an incompatibility in the interpretation. The first case is straightforward within an analysis based on the Connectivity Model because a Manner Relation is added in order to explain the Exception for the seventh day (MANN: v. 15d). This could also be argued for the second instance, and Rahab is then mentioned with Restrictive Focus. However, because the text is now expressed as an Interjunction, it can be argued that Joshua in his interaction with the people is expressing an important Comment just as in his final Conclusion (COMM: v. 17b). This ambiguity in interpretation is resolved by the Connectivity Model by assuming that an interpersonal address always supersedes Adjunction. Accordingly, the function is to address the Israelites and make sure that they spare Rahab and her family. The third and final case of raq in (v. 18a), presented in Example 1 above, is much more difficult. The restrictive focus interpretation is in agreement with van der Merwe et al. (1999:314), who define the force of the particle as limiting something in relation to the preceding. They suggest a second function as a modal word referring to a speaker’s understanding of the utterance (ibid.:309), and in this case raq expresses “conviction as to the correctness of an observation” (ibid.:311). The display of the book of

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Joshua used the label Evaluation (Eval) for this occurrence, but how can this be argued? First we need to observe that this wə=raq in Example 1 is used in front of the second plural person pronoun ʔattem, fronted for focus. The imperative form of the verb šimr-û combined with the preposition min has the sense of “keep yourselves (away) from.” However, the connective wə=raq does not seem to be used in the same way as the preceding instances of raq without the Clause Linkage Marker wə=, because it shifts to a new address, and the restrictive force on ʔattem seems implausible in the discourse context. The story at this point is not at all about any kind of exception or restriction for an argument as in the preceding two cases of the focus particle, because now the point is that everyone in Israel, without restriction, must refrain from looting the ḥērem lest they receive death, and they all must dedicate spoils to the treasury at the shrine of Yahweh. Some translations apparently sense a special meaning for raq, as in the case of the rendering “As for you” offered by the New Revised Standard Version, which would mean that the fronting was used as a Left-Detached Position. It appears that raq sometimes introduces hortatory segments which focus on tasks to be performed first and foremost (e.g., Deut 4:9; Josh 1:7, 18, 13:6). 22 How often the 108 occurrences of raq have this non-restrictive discourse function is not my point, but rather that its precise interpretation arguably can only be decided on the basis of a careful investigation of discourse relations. In terms of the Connectivity Model, this interpretation would be labeled as a Motivation for Action (ACTN: v. 18a). Hence we can formulate as our working hypothesis that when the particle raq is used within a direct address, it may have the force of a Motivation and it can be classified as a discourse marker rather than a focus particle. To sum up, this case shows how the constructor tool is useful for a linguistic interpretation that takes discourse relations into account. A text Alexey Lyavdansky has very kindly pointed out to me (private communication) that “the clause after raq looks like an emphatic restatement of the previous order ‘the city shall be devoted.’ The example of Josh 1:7 supports it: Josh 1:6, ‘be strong and stand firm,’ in 1:7 there is an emphasized restatement of the same injunction.” The strength of the Connectivity Theory is that it can analyze this clause first within the three families of Adjunction, and more precisely the Elaboration category. But then, in addition to this, the theory offers one of the Interjunction family relations as an option, e.g., a Processing function to clarify the text for the addressee, or an Impressing function to motivate the addressee to engage in action. In the Connectivity Model it is even permissible to choose both interpretations, if the interpreter believes the data warrant this solution. The ability to incorporate several possible interpretations is an advantage of this theory over the old RST framework. 22

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imported from the WIVU database enables the interpreter to interact with the data, and to explain them in a more satisfactory way than when merely resorting to a syntactic concordance resource for Logos. The LTC simplifies the construction of interpretations by reducing some of the tedious work of manual handling and display of data for discourse analysis. In my view, a tool supporting these basic skills for analysis of discourse relations, or for other analytic frameworks, is important to use in order to cultivate interpretative skills among learners.

6. CONCLUSIONS The point of departure for this stony path leading into the construct of a text was den Braber’s (2010) new discussion of rhetorical relations. I recommended a new and updated way to use the Emdros database and the corpus of the Hebrew Bible built by the Werkgroep Informatica at the Vrije Universiteit in Amsterdam. In response to den Braber’s call to improve the modes of display for Biblical exegesis, I offered the linguistic constructor tool LTC as a useful technology. I illustrated how a scholar can manually produce the RST analyses in Winther-Nielsen (1995), but then argued that the new Connectivity Model proposed by Renkema (2009) has a better display of information architecture, and improves the definitions of relations through granulation and context. This was demonstrated in analyses of Josh 6:5, 15–20. This discussion has illustrated how an existing open source tool like the Linguistic Tree Constructor can display relations in texts. The constructor tool can manipulate texts for interpretative purposes and it supports the ability to exchange displays between fellow readers. Using an adaptable tool will allow researchers, teachers, and learners to construct interpretations from texts. Learners and their instructors can use this tool to include interpretative tasks into educational frameworks and digital technology for display that will be very useful both for online courses and for collaboration in networks. This discussion is offered as the seminal launch paper for other projects at Connectivity Model Resources - Guest Access (= http://3bmoodle.dk/course/view.php?id=9 [accessed 12/28/ 2012]) which explore how this new theory of connectivity in text can be used for computational linguistics and applied linguistics focusing on language learning. With this background, I believe that experimentation with the LTC can tell us something about what next generation persuasive learning technology should look like. To be sure, I do not claim that this tagging of the text is user-friendly, but it is the best open source solution available at the moment. Nor do I claim that the Connectivity Model is the only

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solution, because there are many other ways to tag a text for interpretation, but I do contend that this model is a very helpful improvement over RST, and that it answers some of the recent critique raised by den Braber. We are currently exploring how this tool may help researchers to make further progress in computer-assisted text display and what the requirements are on the development of new technology. One of the goals of the new EuroPLOT project is to build better technology for learning and interpretation from texts, and the LTC is a first step to help us experiment with new learning environments and persuasive engagement in the text for deep learning, enabling and motivating learners and their instructors to explore interactive simulation and creative construction.

REFERENCES

Auld, A. G. 2005. Joshua: Jesus Son of Naue in Codex Vaticanus. Leiden: Brill. Bandstra, B. L. 2008. Genesis 1–11: A Handbook on the Hebrew Text. Waco Texas: Baylor Press. Braber, M. E. J. den. 2010. Built from Many Stones: An Analysis of N. Winther-Nielsen and A. G. Auld on Joshua with Focus on Joshua 5:1– 6:26. Amsterdam: 2VM. Fogg, B. J. 2003. Persuasive Technology. Using Computers to Change What We Think and Do. San Francisco: Morgan Kaufman. Hardmeier, C. 2003. Textwelten der Bibel entdecken: Grundlagen und Verfahren einer textpragmatischen Literaturwissenschaft der Bibel. Vol 1. Gütersloher: Gütersloher Verlagshaus. Hardmeier, C., E. Talstra and B. Salzman. 2009. SESB: Stuttgart Electronic Study Bible 3.0. Stuttgart/Haarlem: the German and Dutch Bible Societies. Kroeze, J. H., M. C. Matthee and T. J. D. Bothma. Forthcoming. Computational Information Systems (Biblical Hebrew). In Encyclopedia of Hebrew Language and Linguistics, ed. Khan. Leiden: Brill. Lyavdansky, A. 2010. Temporal Deictic Adverbs as Discourse Markers in Hebrew, Aramaic and Akkadian. Journal of Language Relationship 3:22–42. Mann, W. C. and M. Taboada. 2007. RST Website (2007). (htpp://sfu.ca/rst).

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Mann, W. C., and S. A. Thompson. 1987. Rhetorical Structure Theory: A Theory of Text Organization. Marina del Ray: Information Sciences Institute. Mann, W. C., C. M. I. M. Matthiessen and S. A. Thompson. 1992. Rhetorical Structure Theory and Text Analysis. Pp. 39–78 in Discourse Description: Diverse Linguistic Analyses of a Fund-Raising Text, eds. Mann and Thompson. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Marshall, G, and M. J. Cox. 2008. Research Methods: Their Design, Applicability and Reliability. Pp. 983–1002 in International Handbook of Information Technology in Primary and Secondary Education, eds. Voogt and Knezek. Berlin/Heidelberg/New York: Springer Science and Business Media LLC. Merwe, C. H. J. van der, J. A. Naudé and J. H. Kroeze. 1999. A Biblical Hebrew Reference Grammar. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Renkema, J. 2009. The Texture of Discourse. Towards an Outline of Connectivity Theory. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Sandborg-Petersen, U. 2008. Annotated Text Databases in the Context of the Kaj Munk Archive: One Database Model, One Query Language, and Several Applications. PhD diss., Aalborg University (available at http://www.hum.aau.dk/~ulrikp/ PhD/ [accessed 12/28/2012]). Sanders, T. and W. Spooren. 2009. The Cognition of Discourse Coherence. Pp. 197–212 in Discourse, of Course: An Overview of Research in Discourse Studies, ed. Renkema. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Skovenborg, D. L. 2011. A New PLOT for Biblical Hebrew Learning. MA Thesis Aalborg University (available at http://waldeinburg.dk/upload/Skovenborg%20-%20A% 20new%20PLOT%20for%20Biblical%20Hebrew%20learning.pdf [accessed 12/28/2012]). Taboada, M. 2004. Building Coherence and Cohesion: Task-oriented dialogue in English and Spanish. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. —. 2009. Implicit and Explicit Coherence Relations. Pp. 127–40 in Discourse, of Course: An Overview of Research in Discourse Studies, ed. Renkema. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Taboada, M. and W. C. Mann. 2006. Rhetorical Structure Theory: Looking Back and Moving Ahead. Discourse Studies 8:423–59. Tøndering, C. 2009. 3ET – An Automatic Tool for Grammar Training. Technical Reports Hiphil 6:1–19 (http://www.see-

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j.net/index.php/hiphil/article/view/61 [accessed 12/28/ 2012]). Van Valin, R. 2005. Exploring the Syntax-Semantics Interface. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wardlaw, T. R. 2010. The Priority of Synchronic Text-analysis: Cognitive Text Comprehension and Interpreting Deuteronomy 4:1–40. Hiphil 7:1–42 (http://hiphil.org/ index.php/hiphil/article/view/41 [accessed 12/28/ 2012]). Wilson, C. 2009. Lex: a Software Project for Linguists. Technical Reports 6:1–33 (http://hiphil.org/index.php/ Hiphil hiphil/article/view/ [accessed 12/28/2012]). Winther-Nielsen, N. 1995. A Functional Discourse Grammar of Joshua: A Computer-assisted Rhetorical Structure Analysis. Uppsala: Almquist and Wiksell. —. 2005. Towards the Peak of Mount Sinai: A Discourse-Pragmatic SEE-J Hiphil 2:1–19 Analysis of Exodus 19. (http://hiphil.org/index.php/hiphil/article/view/18 [accessed 12/28/2012]). —. 2008. A Role-Lexical Module (RLM) for Biblical Hebrew: A mapping tool for RRG and WordNet. Pp. 455–78 in Investigations of the Syntax-Semantics-Pragmatics Interface, ed. Van Valin, Jr. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. —. 2009. Biblical Hebrew Parsing on Display: The Role-Lexical Module (RLM) as a Tool for Role and Reference Grammar. SEE-J Hiphil 6:1– 51 (http://hiphil.org/index.php/ hiphil/article/view/43 [accessed 12/28/2012]). —. 2011. Persuasive Hebrew Exercises: The Wit of Technology-Enhanced Language Learning. Pp. 277–98 in Tradition and Innovation in Biblical Interpretation. Studies Presented to Professor Eep Talstra on the Occasion of his Sixty-Fifth Birthday, eds. van Peursen and Dyk. Leiden: Brill. Winther-Nielsen, N., C. Tøndering and C. Wilson. 2009. Transliteration of Biblical Hebrew for the Role-Lexical Module. Technical Reports 6:1–17 (http://hiphil.org/ Hiphil index.php/hiphil/article/view/46 [accessed 12/28/2012]) Winther-Nielsen, N. and E. Talstra. 1995. A Computational Display of Joshua; A Computer-assisted Analysis and Textual Interpretation. Amsterdam: VU University Press.

GOD AND THE SEA IN JOB 38 COLLIN R. CORNELL PRINCETON, NJ

The book of Job is about God’s relation to suffering and chaos. In any reading, the divine speeches play a crucial role in posing this vis-à-vis. After the dialogues in which Job has pled repeatedly to God for an audience (13:15, 20, 22; 31:35–37), God finally responds, beginning in chapter 38. The poetic addresses that follow brim with pictures of God’s actions towards the primordial, weird, and wild components of the cosmos. Carol Newsom has written that “the key interpretive question for understanding the significance of the divine speeches has to do with the nature of the relationship established in these images between God and the symbols of the chaotic.” 1 Scholarly interpretations of the divine speeches envision two overall possibilities for this relationship: God opposes chaos and claims victory over it, or God identifies with chaos as its designer and advocate. 2 This article explores one poetic stanza within the first divine speech: Job 38:8–11.3 Verses 8–11 play off the common biblical and ancient Near 1 Carol Newsom, Book of Job: a Contest of Moral Imaginations (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 243. 2 Tryggve Mettinger, “The God of Job: Avenger, Tyrant, or Victor?” in Leo G. Perdue and W. Clark Gilpin (eds.), The Voice from the Whirlwind (Nashville: Abingdon, 1992), 39. Mettinger formulates the difference as between monistic and dualistic readings, i.e., between a God who includes both good and evil and a God who hypostatizes only the one and opposes the other. 3 The use of the poetic term “stanza” is not justified by graphic demarcation in manuscripts of Job 38, either the Aleppo or Leningrad Codices. However, most scholars agree that smaller, subordinate units are discernible within the larger whole of biblical poems on the basis of key words, distinct openings and closings, and other formulae. Cf. Wilfred G. Wilson, Classical Hebrew Poetry: A Guide to its Techniques (London: T&T Clark International, 2005 [orig. JSOT Press, 1984]), 160–168.

485

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Eastern trope of God’s cosmogonic battle with the Sea. 4 Consequently, the stanza occupies an important place in the initial divine speech because it is the first to collocate God and a symbol of chaos. As with the speeches at large, scholarly opinion is divided over whether this stanza frames God as the controlling antagonist or caring proponent of the Sea. I will argue that, in continuity with the preceding stanza (vv 4–7) showcasing God’s singular power, Job 38:8–11 primarily emphasizes God’s control over the Sea. However, vv 8–11 also subtly destabilize this theme by evoking God’s care for the Sea. The stanza begins to unsteady and reimagine God’s conventional opposition to the forces of chaos, anticipating the content of the following stanzas and the second divine speech.

SHUTTING IN THE SEA (V 8) Verse 8a highlights God’s power over and opposition to the Sea. This thesis counts the following features in its favor: a verb of constraint heads the line, the line loops thematically and grammatically into the preceding stanza about God’s unique power, and the line reverses Job’s call for chaos in chapter 3. 5 The verb �‫ וַ יָּ ֶס‬of 8a fronts the theme of God’s containment of the Sea: most translations render this verb as “cover” or “shut up.” The verb may derive from either of two Hebrew roots, which both occur in forms identical to that of 8a elsewhere in the Bible. On the one hand, �‫וַ יָּ ֶס‬ could be the qal waw-consecutive6 of ‫סכך‬, “to cover” or “overshadow,” as 123F

124F

E.g., Babylonian Enuma Elish, Ugaritic Baal and Yām, Pss 74, 89. This article will consistently use the term “line” to refer to the smallest poetic units within the poem. The Leningrad Codex separates the stanza’s verses by making a gap in the middle of its column but it gives no graphic recognition to linedivisions, wrapping verses around columnar ends indiscriminately. However, excepting the last verse of the stanza that puts ûpō yišbōt (textual emendation, see p 14; MT ‫“ )וּפֹא־ יָ ִשׂית‬here shall be stopped,” 38:11b) together with �‫יָּמי‬ ֶ ‫“( ֲה ִמ‬from your days,” 38:12a) on the line succeeding from ‫“( וְ לֹא ת ִֹסיף‬and no further,” 38:11a), the Aleppo Codex lineates 38:8–11 as in BHS, dividing each half–verse with the columnar gap. This graphemic evidence coincides with the syntactic divisions of 38:8–11, as shown, for example, by the nearly-consistent use of ‫ ו‬at the start of each half-verse, thereby justifying my use of “line” for these sentential groupings. Cf. F.W. Dobbs-Allsopp, “‘Verse, Properly So Called’: The Line in Biblical Poetry” (in preparation). 6 Terminologically, “waw-consecutive” is not wholly satisfactory, since this form does not always follow another verb sequentially. Some have opted recently to call it simply the “wayyiqtol form” (Seow) or the “consecutive preterite” (Hackett) instead of the more traditional (and misleading) “converted imperfect.” It is now 4 5

GOD AND THE SEA IN JOB 38

487

at Exod 40:21 (or cf. imperfect at Ps 91:4). The root ‫ סכך‬is related to the substantive �‫מ ָס‬, ָ a word meaning “screen” and used in the Priestly materials for the curtains in the tabernacle (Exod 27, 35). This verb also occurs in hiphil participle form in Judges 3:24 as a euphemism used by the servants of Eglon king of Moab to describe his relieving himself (i.e., “covering his feet”). The combination of ‫ סכך‬with ‫ ב‬preposition is well attested, in which case the preposition modifies the object that does the covering (e.g., the cherubim’s wings in Exod 25:20, 37:9; anger in Lam 3:43; a cloud, Job 3:44). On the other hand, �‫ וַ יָּ ֶס‬could also be the hiphil waw-consecutive of ‫סוך‬ (also ‫“ )שׂוך‬to hedge about” or “close in,” as in Job 1:10 (‫ ֲה ֽל ֹא ַא ָתּה ַ ֣שׂ ְכ ָת‬, “have you not hedged him in,” i.e., protectively) and 3:23 (�‫וַ יָּ ֶס� ֱאל֣ ַוֹ‬, “God has hedged him in,” i.e., obstructively). This verb occurs also with the preposition ‫ ב‬in Hos 2:8 (‫ ִהנְ נִ י־ ָשׂ� ֶאת־ ַדּ ְר ֵכּ� ַבּ ִסּ ִירים‬, “I will hedge your way in with thorns”). The root is related to words meaning “hedge” (‫סוּכה‬ ָ ‫)מ‬ ְ and “branch” (�‫)שׂוֹ‬. The evidence of the versions is ambiguous, but perhaps favors the second option; only the rabbinic Targum offers a minority report (‫טלל‬, to “cover” or “shade”; cf. Gen 19:8; Exod 25:20; Num 10:34, etc.). 7 In either case, God’s control is the titular subject of the first line in the new stanza: God shuts in the Sea with doors. The thematic and grammatical continuity of 8a with the preceding stanza also emboldens the concept of God’s control over the Sea in this verse. Verses 4–7 directly before 8a address a train of questions to Job, in fulfilment of YHWH’s programmatic statement in 3b (�‫)וְ ֶא ְשׁ ָא ְל‬. The verbal actions of each clause follow one another sequentially in describing God’s primordial building of the world (‫ יסד‬in 4a, ‫ שׂים‬5a, ‫ נטה‬in 5b, ‫ ירה‬in 6b). The vocabulary used for these deeds occurs together elsewhere, notably in 125F

widely recognized that the form derives from a *yaqtul preterite (Anson Rainey, “The Ancient Hebrew Prefix Conjugation in the Light of Amarna Canaanite,” Hebrew Studies 27 [1986], 4–19). I have chosen “waw-consecutive” because of its wide currency. 7 Henceforward RtgJob, whose base text is MS Vatican, Biblioteca Apostolica Urbinas I= ‫( ט‬David M. Stec, The Text of the Targum of Job : An Introduction and Critical Editio [AGJU, Leiden/New York: E.J. Brill, 1994]). RtgJob also includes the verb ‫סגר‬, to shut, in the same line (‫)וסגר וטלל‬. OG features φράσσω, “to shut, close, stop,” which translates ‫ סוּך‬in Hos 2:8. Nonetheless, OG renders the identical form �‫ וַ יָּ ֶס‬in Job 3:23 by συγκλείω, to “shut or enclose,” which it also uses for Hebrew ‫ סגר‬in Job 3:10. OG’s translation of all the finite verbs in the stanza with 1cs represents a harmonization rather than a different Vorlage. 11Q10 uses the verb ‫סוג‬, “hold back,” in 2ms + interrogative ‫ה‬. Vulgate features conclusit, “he closed.”

488

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Second Isaiah, where it also celebrates YHWH’s unique power. 8 Here the rhetorical emphasis falls not only on YHWH’s singular power but also on Job’s absence from and incapacity for such acts. That vv 8–11 function as a unit distinct from vv 4–7 is shown by the introduction of a new word in 8a (‫יָם‬, Sea) which acts as object in all the following lines until 12a. The semantic range of the verbs shift from those of construction in vv 4–7 to restraint and birth in vv 8–11. Also, both lines of verse 11 feature actions of cessation (‫“ וְ לֹא ת ִֹסיף‬and no further”; ‫וּפֹא־‬ ‫“ יִ ְשׁבֹּת‬here shall stop”), a closural clue common in Job, e.g., 3:10, 5:16, 7:10, 39:4.9 Nonetheless, despite its separate integrity as a poetic unit, the verbal action of 8a continues the description from vv 4–7 of YHWH’s uniquely powerful deeds at the beginning of creation. The verbal ideas of each stanza differ: the movement of 4–7 is positive (building) and that of 8a, prohibitive (containment). Nonetheless, whereas subsequent stanzas in chapter 38 describe regular or gnomic aspects of the world (e.g., morning and dawn, death and the deep, weather and the constellations, etc.), the first two both attest unique, punctiliar actions at the world’s beginning. These two actions, of construction and constraint, are also often associated in the creation traditions of the Bible and the ancient Near East (cf. Prov 8:29 and Ps 104:9, where verbs for establishment and constraint occur within verses of each other; cf. also Enuma Elish). The thematic coincidence of creation and containment here in Job 38 as elsewhere strengthens the rhetorical continuity of 8a with the previous stanza: 8a, too, declaims God’s extreme and singular power, to which Job is wholly incommensurate. The grammar of 8a also links it with the preceding stanza, as a continuation of the question asked in 6b (‫) ִמי־יָ ָרה‬. In MT, the 3ms form of �‫ וַ יָּ ֶס‬has no clear grammatical antecedent; the previous verb in 7b is also in third person, but plural. Many commentators resolve this lack of a subject by emending MT towards the Vulgate’s interrogative, quis conclusit, “who closed,” correcting the Hebrew to �‫מי ָס‬, ִ “who shut.” 10 On this hypothesis, 127F

128F

8 Second Isaiah counts a total of four clustered words in common with Job 38: Isa 48:13, 51:13, 16 all have forms of the paired roots ‫ ;יסד־ארץ‬also note the occurrence of verb + noun phrases for stretching out or establishing “the heavens” (‫)שׁ ַמיִם‬ ָ in each of these verses (‫ טפח‬in Isa 48:13; ‫ נטה‬in 51:13; ‫ נטע‬in 51:16). The verb ‫נטה‬, “to stretch out,” in Job 38:5b also occurs in these places, Isa 44:24, 45:12, 51:13. Isa 44:13 features the conjunction of ‫ נטה‬with ‫קו‬,ַ “line,” as in Job 38:5b. Cf. also Prov 3:19 when YHWH in “wisdom” (‫ ָח ְכ ָמה‬, synonym of ‫ ִבינָ ה‬as in Job 38:4b) “established the earth” (‫יָ ַסד־ ָא ֶרץ‬, also in 38:4a). 9 C.L. Seow, “Poetic Closure in Job: the First Cycle,” JSOT 34 (2010), 433–446. 10 E.g., Edouard Dhorme, A Commentary on the Book of Job (trans. Harold Knight; Nashville: T. Nelson, 1984 [orig. Paris: V. Lecoffre, 1926]), 577.

GOD AND THE SEA IN JOB 38

489

the ‫ מ‬of the original ‫ ִמי‬at the head of 8a was omitted by haplography with the ‫ מ‬closing 7b (‫�הים‬ ִ ‫)א‬. ֱ The ‫ ו‬of MT �‫ וַ יָּ ֶס‬is then either a mistaken transcription of the ‫ י‬in ‫ ִמי‬or a compensatory addition made after the ‫מ‬ from the original ‫ ִמי‬had already dropped out. This text-critical reconstruction conforms 8a to the previous stanza’s pattern of interrogative + perfect verb + adverbial clause (vv 4a, 5a, 5b, 6a, 6b). Such grammatical echoing would reinforce the close connection of 8a with the preceding stanza. But the relation of 8a with vv 4–7 is even more direct than syntactic repetition: a better solution to the problem of the 3ms verb leaves MT unchanged, and understands �‫ וַ יָּ ֶס‬as referring back to the interrogative 3ms subject of 6b (‫) ִמי־יָ ָרה‬. This hypothesis explains the presence of the simple 3ms verbs in RtgJob, which are difficult to derive given an original ‫ ִמי‬in 8a. On this explanation, the Vulgate’s interrogative is a coordinating insertion rather than a sign of a different Vorlage. 11 Leaving MT intact avoids the convolution of supposing that the ‫ ו‬of MT is an addition or misreading. Moreover, the pattern of interrogative + perfect verb + adverbial clause is not even throughout the poem to this point (e.g., 7b, which is a waw-consecutive related to the preceding clause, but nonetheless finite, unlike the two infinitives of 8b and 9a below), giving space to this exception. Ehrlich and Dhorme suppose that the intervening lines of 7a and 7b prevent �‫ וַ יָּ ֶס‬from referring back to ‫ ִמי־יָ ָרה‬, 12 but some precedent exists for waw-consecutives referring back to ‫ ִמי‬as their subject after intervening material, e.g., Jer 23:8. Thematically and grammatically, then, 8a relates closely to the first stanza in the chapter, whose preeminent purpose is to show God’s unique power and Job’s incommensurability. Some scholars have proposed emendations to the MT of 8a that make the line describe only the Sea’s birth rather than God’s constraint of it. Literarily, such a text-critical reconstruction removes the theme of God’s antagonism towards the Sea from the stanza’s important opening line, 129F

120F

OG “I closed/fenced in” (ἔφραξα) does not represent a real variant, but a translator’s pass at a smoother reading: not only is OG periphrastic in this chapter at large (e.g., v 14), but there are other instances of changing the person from second or third to first (e.g., vv 12, 21). 8a is a case of assimilation to the series of first person verbs that closely follow (vv 9, 10, 11). Chrysostom (εφραξας) and 11Q10 (‫ )התסוג‬testify to a 2ms verb here in 8a; 11Q10 has an interrogative ‫ה‬ prefix, and Chrysostom should probably be understood as a question as well. These forms also represent editorial smoothing, a conformation to the second-person question pattern of earlier in the chapter. 12 Arnold Ehrlich, Randglossen zur Hebraï schen Bibel (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1908). Dhorme, A Commentary, 577. 11

490

COLLIN R. CORNELL

leaving this opposition only perhaps in the last two verses (10, 11). Because this text-critical move makes God’s caring and advocatory role lead the stanza, defending my thesis that vv 8–11 primarily emphasize God’s control over the Sea necessitates a detailed rebuttal. Amending 8a so that it depicts the Sea’s birth has the following attractions: making 8a about birthing rather than restraining the Sea creates parallelism between 8a and 8b, which relationship between lines has been consistent in the poem up to this point (and after it, e.g., the additive parallelism of vv 5, 6, 7, 9, 10, 11). The proposed emendations keep the two themes of birth and control separate and sequential in the stanza rather than curiously intermingled as in MT. These proposals have the additional virtue of giving the verb of 8a a proximate third person subject, namely, the Sea. Specifically, Driver suggests a corruption of the first word (�‫)וַ יָּ ֶס‬, and reads the rest of the line as ‫ ְבּ ֻה ֶלּ ֶדת‬or ‫בּלֶּ ֶדת‬, ֻ hophal infinitive construct from ‫ילד‬, “when the sea was born.” 13 In favor of this reading, he posits the awkwardness of making “doors” the complement of the verb ‫סוך‬, “hedge about,” as well as the stylistic offensiveness of repeating ‫ ְד ָל ָתיִם‬again in 10b. Blommerde leaves the consonantal text intact, but reads the finite verb as ‫וַ יֻּ ַסּך‬, hophal or passive qal from ‫נסך‬, to “pour out,” and the preposition ‫ ב‬on ‫ ִבּ ְד ָל ַתיִם‬as “ablatival”: “when the sea poured out of the two doors,” 14 i.e., from the vulva.15 But the above proposals suffer from two major faults: the evidence of the ancient versions and the principle of lectio difficilior. The ancient translations all appear to read either Hebrew ‫ סוך‬or ‫( סכך‬see above). Driver and Blommerde thus require that the corruption in the text have occurred not only before the consolidation of MT but before the development of the Hebrew textual traditions underlying the versions. This claims too much on the basis of only stylistic evidences. Secondly, the juxtaposition of the Sea’s containment (8a) with its exit (8b) in the same verse is a more complex reading than a verse whose two halves describe the same event of the Sea’s proruption, especially given the poem’s precedent of additive parallelism. 12F

12F

123F

13 G. Driver, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Book of Job (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1921), 299. Cf. also H. Bauer and P. Leander, Historische Grammatik der Hebräischen Sprache des Alten Testaments (Halle an der Saale: Niemeyer, 1922), 379. 14 A. Blommerde, Northwest Semitic Grammar and Job (Rome: Pontifical Bible Institute, 1969), 133. 15 As in Fuchs’ translation, “aus den Toren (des Mutterleibes).” Gisela Fuchs,

Mythos und Hiobdichtung: Aufnahme und Umdeutung Altorientalischer Vorstellungen (Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer, 1993), 194.

GOD AND THE SEA IN JOB 38

491

Other more specific problems discredit these emendations: Driver leaves the corruption of �‫ וַ יָּ ֶס‬at the head of the clause unexplained. His substitution of ‫ ְבּ ֻה ֶלּ ֶדת‬or ‫ ֻבּ ֶלּ ֶדת‬for ‫ ִבּ ְדלָ ַתיִם‬requires metathesis as well as an implausible scribal deletion of ‫ ה‬or an unattested collapse of the causative ‫ה‬ into the ‫ ב‬preposition. 16 He alleges that repetition such as that of ‫ְד ָל ָתיִם‬ both in 8a and in 10b is stylistically offensive, but this is untrue of Job and this chapter (cf. repetition of ‫ ְר ָשׁ ִﬠים‬in 13b and 15; of ‫ ַשׁ ֲﬠ ֵרי‬in 17; �‫ ֶד ֶר‬in 24, 25). As for Blommerde’s case, the verb ‫ נסך‬that Blommerde reads for �‫וַ יָּ ֶס‬ typically describes sacrificial offerings, libations, or metallic artwork and never birth as here. 17 Furthermore, Blommerde’s reading requires “ablatival” ‫“( ב‬from the double doors”). Ugaritic literature helped scholars to see the presence of this usage in biblical Hebrew, 18 and it is possibly attested, if rarely, in Job. 19 Nonetheless, “ablatival” ‫ ב‬is never used with ‫ד ֶלת‬,ֶ but, in all other biblical cases, the meaning of this preposition with this noun is instrumental or locative (e.g., Deut 15:17; Judg 16:3; 2 Kgs 6:32, 12:9). On the other hand, the two verses in which ‫ ִמן‬occurs before the dual of doors (‫ ַ)דּ ְל ֵתי‬and in concert with the verb ‫( יצא‬Josh 2:19; Judg 11:31) show that the sense Blommerde proposes for v. 8a (“went out from the doors”) was grammatically available to the Joban poet in more conventional Hebrew. In the end, the most plausible reading of 8a shows God shutting in the Sea and not the Sea’s birth. 8a highlights God’s power over and opposition to the Sea by fronting a verb of containment, by linking thematically and grammatically into the preceding stanza about God’s primordial strength, and, lastly, by countering Job’s curse in chapter 3. A web of lexemes holds Job 3 and 38 together, indicating that the first divine speech should be read intentionally against the first unit of the dialogues. Where Job calls for darkness (forms of ‫חשׁך‬ in 3:4, 5, 9) to seize the day of his birth, God accuses Job of causing darkness himself (‫ חשׁך‬in 38:2). Where Job wishes that the “stars of its morning” (‫כּוֹכ ֵבי נִ ְשׁפּוֹ‬, ְ 3:9) would blacken out, God points to their celebration over God’s work of establishing the cosmos (‫כּוֹכ ֵבי ב ֶֹקר‬, ְ 38:7). Where Job curses the night of his conception for not shutting the doors of his womb (‫ ַ)דּ ְל ֵתי ִב ְטנִי‬but releasing him to trouble, 124F

125F

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Hebrew verbs whose infinitive construct forms begin with ‫( ה‬niphal, hiphil, hophal, and hithpael) do not syncopate after the ‫ ב‬preposition. Cf. Lev 26:43 for the only (other) example in the Hebrew Bible of a hophal infinitive construct with the ‫ב‬ preposition—where the ‫ ה‬does not drop out. 17 G. Fuchs, Mythos, 195. 18 Dennis Pardee, “The Preposition in Ugaritic,” UF 8 (1976), 215–322. 19 Nahum Sarna proposes 4:21, 7:14, 20:20. “Interchange of Prepositions Beth and Min,” JBL 78 (1959), 315. 16

492

COLLIN R. CORNELL

God claims to have shut in the Sea with doors (‫בּ ְד ָל ַתיִם‬,ִ 38:8a). Job in ch 3 assumes the Sea as God’s foe: he calls for those who curse the Sea to curse also this night (3:8a). 20 The Sea is, by default, a monstrous chaos-being, and Job directs some of the opposition and horror due it towards the night of his birth. In 7:12 he also presumes the Sea as the object of God’s opposition. 21 While different verbs describe the night “shutting” (‫ )סגר‬the doors of the womb in 3:10a and God “shutting in” (‫ סכך‬or ‫ )סוך‬the Sea with doors in 38:8a, their range of meaning is so similar that OG translates with the same verb (συγκλείω) both in 3:10 and also in 3:23, which latter verse features the exact same Hebrew verb form as in 38:8a (�‫)וַ יָּ ֶס‬. God in 38:8a thus rebuts Job by showing God’s decisive power over the uncontrolled forces of chaos and death. Though the stanza as a whole (and even the following line) will subtly reframe God’s relation to chaos, at least for this first line the poem upholds the conventional antagonism of God and Sea. Verse 8b describes the Sea’s gushing forth from the womb. This line is important for this article’s thesis about God’s control (and care for) the Sea because it introduces the Sea’s birth: God’s shutting in the Sea with doors (8a) occurs not in its adulthood but at the time of its emergence from the womb (8b). This line constitutes the beginning of the poem’s reimagination of God’s relation to chaos and a radical reformulation of the Chaoskampf tradition: the Sea is no powerful opponent and rival, but a newborn infant, a quintessentially dependent and helpless being. By introducing the Sea’s birth, 8b sets up for the next and even more subversive event of verse 9 (God’s swaddling). However, casting the Sea as an infant does not straightforwardly empty the Sea of its usual dramatic or threatening ambience, because the Sea “gushes forth” (‫)גיח‬, a verb implying 128F

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20 C.L. Seow, “Orthography, Textual Criticism, and the Poetry of Job,” JBL 130 (2011), 74. 21 On Blommerde’s hypothesis, explained above, the double doors in 38:8a, as in 3:10a, refer to the vulva from which the Sea emerged. Blommerde then imagines that God responds to Job by saying, in effect, “not only did I not shut the doors of your womb, but when my chaos-opponent the Sea emerged from the doors of its womb, I was present to care for it (v 9).” God does not reverse Job’s curse, but strangely confirms Job’s request for the ascendancy of chaos by disclosing God’s collusion with the wild, unholy powers that Job invokes. However, literary considerations tell against this reading: introducing God’s solidarity with the Sea so soon after God’s confrontative first address (38:2, 3) and speech about establishing the ordered world (vv 4–7) would be both sudden and radical. This article proposes a more graded and subtle movement away from the conventional opposition of God and chaos.

GOD AND THE SEA IN JOB 38

493

sudden and aggressive expulsion, and for which both natal and mythical parallels exist.22 Besides recasting the Sea as an infant, 8b also subtly undercuts the dynamic of God’s antagonistic control over the Sea in 8a by juxtaposing it against one of breaching (8b). The verse stages one action and then subtly defuses it by describing its contrary: God fences in the Sea – when it gushes out! The contrast in vowel quality (at least in the MT’s Tiberian Hebrew) of the stressed syllables reinforces the semantic transition between the lines: open vowels punctuate God’s shutting in the Sea in 8a and i/e sounds the Sea’s rushing forth from the womb in 8b. 23 However, the contrast between the two lines is only on the thematic level: neither envisioning the Sea as a newborn nor describing its breaching alongside its containment overtly correct the first, fronted motif of God’s powerful control over chaos. Confinement and breaching in 8b do not grammatically contrast with one another: rather, the syntax of 8b indicates concomitance, and the juxtaposition between lines is only conceptual. A few Greek versions read infinitive ‫ ְבּגִ יחוֹ‬and ‫ יֵ ֵצא‬sequentially. OG translates ‫ ְבּגִ יחוֹ‬with ἐμαιμασσεν, a verb which could describe the actual bursting forth (as in Hebrew) as well as the “quivering with eagerness” before birth (which ‫ יֵ ֵצא‬at the end of the line then describes). Aquila renders ‫ ְבּגִ יחוֹ‬with ἐν τᾠ παλαίειν, “wrestling,” perhaps referring to prenatal sloshing around (cf. Mic 4:10). However, it is more likely that, as in verse 7a, the infinitive frames the time of the clause before it: “he shut in the Sea with doors, when it gushed out.” As in 7b, the subsequent finite verb ‫ יֵ ֵצא‬describes the same action as the preceding infinitive (cf. Job 6:17 for a similar construction). 24 In sum, 8b contrasts against God’s powerful control over the Sea in 8a by casting the Sea as a newborn infant and by showing the Sea rushing out. Nonetheless, the Sea does not wholly lose its threatening aspect, as the verb for its expulsion marks. Finally, the undetermined nature of the womb from which the Sea came adds an enigmatic or ominous dimension to the 123 F

Although Masora parva marks ‫ ְבּגִ יחוֹ‬as a hapax legomenon, its meaning as a qal infinitive construct + 3ms (subject) suffix from the verb ‫גיח‬, to “burst forth,” is clear (cf. hiphil in Judg 20:33 to describe ambush). The same verb occurs in qal in Ezek 32:2, where its subject is compared with ‫ ַתּנִּ ים‬, “dragons,” which burst forth �‫רוֹתי‬ ֶ ‫בּנַ ֲה‬, ְ “in your rivers.” Dan 7:2 also associate this verb with waters, and Ps 22:10 links it with birth: ‫מ ָבּ ֶטן‬, ִ “from the womb,” occurs directly after the verb. 23 As such, the line also echoes the contrasting but paired movements of Job 1:10, where the satan observes how God has Job “fenced in” (‫שׂ ְכ ָתּ‬, ַ same verb as in 8a) but his wealth (‫)מ ְק ֵנ֖הוּ‬ ִ overflows (‫)פּ ַרץ‬. ָ 24 Ernst Jenni, Die Hebraï schen Prap ̈ ositionen, Bd 1 (Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer, 1992), 316–327. 22

494

COLLIN R. CORNELL

spare scene the line renders of its birth. The versions expand Hebrew ‫מ ֶר ֶחם‬, ֵ “from the womb,” seeking to give it some bearings: OG κοιλίας μητρός, “from the mother’s womb,” RtgJob ‫מן תהומא ממן רחמא‬, “from the deep, from the the womb,” 11Q10 ‫מן רחם תהומא‬, “from the womb of the deep.” 25 However, the MT’s lack of specificity regarding from whose womb the Sea emerges echoes the indeterminacy of Job’s own in 3:10 (“my womb”). The omission of “mother” in both passages connects them, and perhaps serves to point up the conflict at the book’s center over who is responsible for the world’s moral morass. Who (metaphorically) “gives birth” to the sufferer and to chaos?26 123F

1234F

SWADDLING THE SEA (V 9) Verse 9 is pivotal in the first divine speech. Describing the Sea as a newborn and thematically contrasting confinement with breaching in verse 8 subtly reconstitute the relation between God and the Sea. The imagery of verse 9 sharpens and heightens this reframing, posing God not as an opponent of the Sea but as caretaker to its newborn infancy. If God’s relation to the baby Sea still remained ambiguous in v 8, v 9 depicts God exercising an unmistakably maternal role towards the Sea by giving it clothing. Although ‫ ִשׂים‬and ‫ ְלבוֹשׁ‬do not occur together elsewhere in the Bible, their meaning here is clear and the versions translate the first line consistently. 27 Similarly, ‫ ֲח ֻת ָלּה‬in 9b is a hapax legomenon, but its meaning here (“swaddling band”) is transparent because the same verbal root occurs in a similar context in Ezekiel28 and a similar register obtains in postbiblical Hebrew. 29 1235F

1236F

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25 Joseph Ziegler, Job, Septuaginta (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1982). David Shepherd, Targum and Translation: A Reconsideration of the Qumran Aramaic Version of Job, Studia Semitica Neerlandica, (Assen: Royal Van Gorcum, 2004). Michael Sokoloff, The Targum to Job from Qumran Cave XI (Jerusalem: Bar-Ilan Univ., 1974). 26 Incidentally, the word “mother” occurs infrequently in Job, and its connotation is ambiguous; it is associated with death (1:21, 17:14) or punishment (24:20). 27 11Q10 has ‫בשות עננין לבושׁ‬, “when [I] set clouds for its clothing.” OG ἐθέμην, “I place/put,” and ἀμφίασιν, “garments”; RtgJob ‫בשוואותי עננין כסותיה‬, “when I appointed clouds its covering”; Vulgate ponerem nubem vestimentum, “I made a cloud the garment.” 28 Ezekiel uses the same root in pual and hophal in 16:4 to describe the scene of an infant’s care; in 30:21 he uses the root substantively to describe a bandage applied to a wound of war. 29 G. Fuchs, Mythos, 194. But cf. Aquila and Theodotion who translate by

GOD AND THE SEA IN JOB 38

495

Some scholars have used comparative evidence to interpret v 9 as a restatement of God’s restraint of the Sea in 8a by a different trope. Swaddling, they argue, is in v 9 an act of control over a violent, monstrous infant, as in KTU 1.1230 and in Mandaean Right Ginza. 31 However, the Ugaritic text is far too fragmentary to cite as good evidence for this case. 32 Besides the late date of the Ginza that makes comparison against Job tenuous, 33 this interpretation of the swaddling, repeated since Gunkel, has misconstrued the Mandaean text. 34 The wrapping of the monstrous infant Ur-Ziwa by his mother Ruha is not antagonistic. Ruha is also a kind of

Greek πλάνησιν, “wanderer,” apparently misreading for Hebrew ‫מ ֲה ַתלּוֹת‬, ַ which OG translates by the same Greek word πλάνησιν in Isa 30:10. 30 Found in 1930, beige terre. Andree Herdner, Corpus des Tablettes en Cuneí formes Alphabet́ iques Deć ouvertes à Ras Shamra-Ugarit de 1929 à 1939 (Paris Imprimerie Nationale, 1963). In this Ugaritic fragment, El invents a plan to defeat his enemy Baal: he sends two divine handmaidens out into the wilderness to give birth to creatures called Eaters (aklm) and Devourers (‘qmm) which have humps like buffalo and horns like bulls. El instructs these maidens to take ḥtlk, “your swaddling” (cognate root with Job 38:9). 31 In this esoteric text, the first person speaker is a god of light, Hibil-Ziwa, who describes the birth of Ur, a Lord of Darkness, to his mother Ruha. After Ur’s birth, Ruha swaddles Ur for three hundred and sixty thousand years; afterwards, Ur falls into the (cosmic) dark waters. Hibil-Ziwa sees that Ur will grow into a giant “more than the greatest of giants,” and so contains him inside of seven golden walls. W. Brandt (ed.) Ginzā, Mandaï sche Schriften (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1893). 32 Both Pope and Fuchs draw on this text while discussing the motif of restraining a violent infant, but hesitate to invoke it directly to support their reading of swaddling as restraint in v 9 because of its fragmentary character. Marvin H. Pope, Job, 3d ed. (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1965), 293; G. Fuchs, Mythos, 198; Dirk Kinet, Ugarit, Geschichte und Kultur Einer Stadt in der Umwelt Des Alten Testamentes, Stuttgarter Bibelstudien (Stuttgart: Verlag Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1981), 84. 33 Fuchs herself admits the chronological problems with using the Mandaean scriptures for reading Job (Mythos, 49). The Right Ginza was collected in the second half of the 7th c. BCE, though its traditions may date from much longer before its literary codification. Sinasi Gunduz, The Knowledge of Life: the Origins and Early History of the Mandaeans and their Relation to the Sabians of the Qur’ān and to the Harranians (Oxford: Oxford, 1994), 55. 34 H. Gunkel, Schöpfung und Chaos: Eine Religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung über Gen 1 und Ap Joh 12 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1895), 92.

496

COLLIN R. CORNELL

monster, and she has eagerly anticipated the birth of her son. 35 Ur-Ziwa’s restraint is effected later by another party, namely, the Ginza’s narrator. God’s act of swaddling the Sea in v 9 retains its caring, maternal aspect and its contrast against God’s powerful control in v 8. Some scholars have used comparative evidence to interpret v 9 as a restatement of God’s restraint of the Sea in 8a by a different trope. Swaddling, they argue, is in v 9 an act of control over a violent, monstrous infant, as in KTU 1.12 36 and in Mandaean Right Ginza. 37 However, the Ugaritic text is far too fragmentary to cite as good evidence for this case. 38 Besides the late date of the Ginza that makes comparison against Job tenuous, 39 this interpretation of the swaddling, repeated since Gunkel, has misconstrued the Mandaean text. 40 The wrapping of the monstrous infant W. Brandt, Ginzā, 168. Found in 1930, beige terre. Andree Herdner, Corpus des Tablettes en Cunéiformes Alphabet́ iques Découvertes à Ras Shamra-Ugarit de 1929 à 1939 (Paris Imprimerie Nationale, 1963). In this Ugaritic fragment, El invents a plan to defeat his enemy Baal: he sends two divine handmaidens out into the wilderness to give birth to creatures called Eaters (aklm) and Devourers (‘qmm) which have humps like buffalo and horns like bulls. El instructs these maidens to take ḥtlk, “your swaddling” (cognate root with Job 38:9). 37 In this esoteric text, the first person speaker is a god of light, Hibil-Ziwa, who describes the birth of Ur, a Lord of Darkness, to his mother Ruha. After Ur’s birth, Ruha swaddles Ur for three hundred and sixty thousand years; afterwards, Ur falls into the (cosmic) dark waters. Hibil-Ziwa sees that Ur will grow into a giant “more than the greatest of giants,” and so contains him inside of seven golden walls. W. Brandt (ed.) Ginzā, Mandaï sche Schriften (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1893). 38 Both Pope and Fuchs draw on this text while discussing the motif of restraining a violent infant, but hesitate to invoke it directly to support their reading of swaddling as restraint in v 9 because of its fragmentary character. Marvin H. Pope, Job, 3d ed. (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1965), 293; G. Fuchs, Mythos, 198; Dirk Kinet, Ugarit, Geschichte und Kultur Einer Stadt in der Umwelt Des Alten Testamentes, Stuttgarter Bibelstudien (Stuttgart: Verlag Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1981), 84. 39 Fuchs herself admits the chronological problems with using the Mandaean scriptures for reading Job (Mythos, 49). The Right Ginza was collected in the second half of the 7th c. BCE, though its traditions may date from much longer before its literary codification. Sinasi Gunduz, The Knowledge of Life: the Origins and Early History of the Mandaeans and their Relation to the Sabians of the Qur’ān and to the Harranians (Oxford: Oxford, 1994), 55. 40 H. Gunkel, Schöpfung und Chaos: Eine Religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung über Gen 1 und Ap Joh 12 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 35 36

GOD AND THE SEA IN JOB 38

497

Ur-Ziwa by his mother Ruha is not antagonistic. Ruha is also a kind of monster, and she has eagerly anticipated the birth of her son. 41 Ur-Ziwa’s restraint is effected later by another party, namely, the Ginza’s narrator. God’s act of swaddling the Sea in v 9 retains its caring, maternal aspect and its contrast against God’s powerful control in v 8. Other scholars have argued that v 9 represents an ironic radicalization and not a subversion of the traditional Chaoskampf motif. The point of the swaddling imagery is not to communicate God’s advocacy for the Sea, God’s traditional opponent, but to abase and diminish the Sea in comparison with God’s superabundant power. 42 Not only is the Sea unequal to God in martial combat; to God it is only a helpless baby! 43 However, this interpretation overlooks the important datum of the material constituting the swaddling clothes. The scene is not one of straightforward maternal care with the swaddling as a neutral set piece. Rather, the clothing given to the infant Sea is of a numinous nature: “cloud” (‫)ﬠנָ ן‬ ָ and “thick darkness” (‫)ﬠ ָר ֶפל‬. ֲ These words (‫ ָﬠנָ ן‬and ‫)ﬠ ָר ֶפל‬ ֲ occur elsewhere in Job: in 26:8, Job appeals to the way God binds up water inside the clouds (‫)ﬠנָ ן‬ ָ as one in a litany of terrifying mysteries characteristic of God, Job’s overweening adversary (cf. similarly in 37:11, 15). ‫ ֲﬠ ָר ֶפל‬occurs in 22:13, when Eliphaz describes the deep darkness and thick cloud surrounding God in God’s transcendence. Elsewhere in the Bible, these two words occur directly together, theophanically in Deuteronomy (4:11, 5:22; cf. also Ps 97:2) or in reference to a day of judgment in some prophets (Ezek 34:12; Joel 2:2; Zeph 1:15). Another word for cloud, ‫ﬠב‬, ָ features in different ways throughout Job to evoke God’s might and mystery (20:6, 22:14, 36:29, 37:16). Verse 9 thus not only stages God as the Sea’s caretaker rather than its jailer – but the clothing within which God wraps the Sea adds a further subversive dimension to the scene. God shrouds the Sea in numinous cloud, which elsewhere accompanies God’s own presence and arrival. In this way, v 9 anticipates the odd communicatio idiomatum that characterizes the great creatures of the second divine speech, e.g., God’s exultation over their power and greatness which otherwise only God possesses (40:16, 41:7a, 34). 44 Verse 9 gives a charged and ambivalent scene: God caring for the newborn Sea by clothing it in numinous cloud. 1250F

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1895), 92. 41 W. Brandt, Ginzā, 168. 42 T. Mettinger, “God,” 41. 43 Cf. Ps 104:26 where Leviathan is portrayed as God’s plaything. 44 C. Newsom, Book of Job, 248.

498

COLLIN R. CORNELL

SETTING LIMITS (VV 10 AND 11) The last two verses of the stanza belong together: by different ways they both enunciate the same theme, namely, God’s containment of the Sea. In the first line, God, now speaking in first person, 45 claims, “I have set my boundary 46 on it (the Sea) / and I have placed a bar and doors (on it).” The meaning of the second line also clearly comprises God’s direct address of the Sea to command its limitation. The MT verb ‫ וָ ֶא ְשׁבֹּר‬at the head of v 10 has been variously emended, because the usual denotation of ‫שׁבר‬, “to break,” does not make sense here. 47 Over against such text-critical alternatives, the versions understood the line in roughly similar ways, all pertaining to God’s constraint of the Sea: OG ἐθέμην, “I placed bounds for it,” Vulgate circumdedi “I set my bounds,” RtgJob ‫פשקת‬, “I placed bounds upon it.” Notably, the Arabic cognate tabara, “to destroy, ruin,” is also used in the sense of “to limit, confine.” 48 Apparently then ‫ שׁבר חק‬is an idiom for setting a boundary, parallel to the expression in Prov 8:29, also applied to the Sea (‫) ִשׂים חֹק‬. 49 Verse 10b also and more concretely bespeaks God’s restraint of the Sea, repeating the double doors from 8a. Scholars often compare the bar and door of Job 38:10b with a passage from the Babylonian creation epic, Enuma Elish, in which Marduk sets a bar and guard over the cloven body of Tiamat, the primordial monster goddess of the ocean, lest “her waters 1253F

1254F

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1256F

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11Q10 has ‫“ ותשׁוה‬and do you (2ms) place boundaries on it.” However, this is explicable in terms of its general conformation of all the lines in the stanza to the 2ms interrogative form (“will you hold back the Sea,” v. 8; “do you place boundaries,” v. 10, “did you say,” v. 11). 46 The versions go slightly different directions regarding the number and pronominal possessive of ‫חֹק‬, “boundary,” which elsewhere in Job means “decree” (23:4) or “limit” (14:5, 13; 28:26). OG has ὅρια, boundaries; Vulgate terminis meis, “my boundaries”; RtgJob ‫גזירתי‬, “my decree(s),” and 11Q10 ‫תחומין‬, “boundaries.” The mixed evidence for plural or singular is explicable in terms of an unpointed Vorlage. I understand the MT’s suffix here as 1cs subjective, rather than a 3ms as Blommerde, Fohrer, et al. 47 Instead of MT ‫שׁבֹּר‬ ְ ‫וָ ֶא‬, critics posit ‫“ ֶא ִשׂית‬I placed” (Merx, Wright), ‫ֶא ְס ָכר‬ “I closed” (Hoffman), ‫“ ֶא ְסגֹר‬I closed” (Fohrer), ‫“ ֶא ְס ָטר‬I inscribed” (Beer), and ‫“ ֶא ְשׁ ָמר‬I kept” (Ehrlich), among others. 48 Edward Lane, An Arabic-English Lexicon (London Edinburgh, Williams and Norgate, 1863–93), 330. 49 Gerhard Liedke, Gestalt und Bezeichnung Alttestamentlicher Rechtssätze: Eine Formsgeschichtlich-terminologische Studien (WMANT 39 Neukirnen–Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1971), 163. 45

GOD AND THE SEA IN JOB 38

499

escape.” 50 These verses also represent a different form of a motif present elsewhere in the Bible, namely, that of God’s powerful circumscription of the waters at creation (Jer 5:22; Prov 8:29; Ps 104:9; even Gen 1). Verse 11 changes to direct speech, addressed to the Sea. This rhetorical move anticipates the (presumably verbal) “command” of the following verse (12a) and also echoes traditions of God’s powerful voice found elsewhere in the Bible (cf. Gen 1; also Ps 24, 46:6). Ending the stanza with direct speech points up God’s power: over against the Chaoskampf tradition, God’s words suffice where other gods toil. The two lines of the verse feature significant symmetry, both cascading from the prominently fronted ‫פֹּה‬, “here,” at the start of each clause. At least in the Tiberian Hebrew of the MT, a strong assonance characterizes the whole verse. The repeated ō/ô lends the verse a driving forward movement, and perhaps also onomatopoeically evokes the sound of the Sea’s own waves (�‫)גַּ ֶלּי‬, whose reach God here determines. Verse 11 thus ends the stanza by demonstrating God’s power over the Sea, but the tone of the line is not monochromatic. Its direct speech and its use of “pride”-language subtly continue the reframing of the relationship between God and Sea that verse 9 more vividly effected. The direct speech of v 11 is unique within the divine speeches. The divine speeches themselves in 38–41 constitute protracted direct speeches to Job, but they do not elsewhere feature a smaller, embedded address as here. Excepting the prose prologue in which YHWH speaks with the satan (1:7, 8, 12, 2:2, 3, 6) and 11:5 where Job wishes that God would speak, the book of Job is otherwise conspicuously empty of divine speech. Notably, then, God’s few speeches in Job are directed towards personal beings: the satan and Job. Over against the stanza’s other lines in which the Sea is an object of God’s constraint, the direct speech in v 11 perpetuates the Sea’s personal aspect, which v 8b began with the idea of birth and v 9 emphasized by the action of swaddling. This personal note complicates and softens the dynamic of God’s containment. Some scholars cite the personal color of the direct speech as a warrant for construing the last two verses of the stanza as an extension of the parental tropes begun in 8b and continued in v 9. This interpretation also adduces the temporal linearity of the poem: just as the first stanza follows a sequence, so also in vv 8–11, birth (v 8b) precedes swaddling (v 9). The next life-stage event in the growth of the Sea would be toddlerhood or perhaps young adulthood, described in vv 10 and 11. So Dhorme: “the sea has been depicted as a new-borne babe issuing from the maternal womb and covered with swaddling bands. It is going to become an adult capable 50

ANET, 67, line 140.

500

COLLIN R. CORNELL

of receiving commands and of becoming subject to a law.”51 Habel follows a similar tack: “this violent chaos monster is but an infant…wrapped in baby clothes, placed in a playpen [sic], and told to stay in its place.”52 However, these interpretations overstate the effect of the line’s personal tonality and defy the syntax of the stanza, which is not sequential: rather, after the subordinate interlude of vv 8b–9 describing the time of the action in 8a, vv 10, 11 by their finite verbs resume the main action of the Sea’s restraint. The second line (11b) of the stanza’s last verse commands the Sea’s “proud waves” to stop. This “pride” language, as will be seen, destabilizes the emphasis on God’s opposition to the Sea. This line as it stands in MT is hardly coherent, though two versions support the verb ‫שׁית‬, ִ to place. One manuscript [‫ ]ב‬of RtgJob translates ‫תשוי‬, “you will place,” 53 and Symmachus with τετάχθω τό ἔπαρμα “the height (of your waves) will be set” (cf. Symmachus Job 24:25 and 37:15, translating the semantically similar ‫)שׂים‬. ִ Other versions indicate a different Vorlage: OG reads συντριβήσεται “it will be broken,” and Vulgate confringes, “you will break.” Some commentators propose prefixed or infixed forms of ‫שׁבר‬, “to break,” to accommodate the latter data, and then must assert that the final ‫ר‬ dropped out, perhaps because of its visual similarity to the following ‫ ב‬in Paleo-Hebrew script. But a simpler hypothesis posits the qal or niphal of ‫שׁבת‬, “to stop,” which OG also renders with συντρίβω (Ezek 6:6). ‫גָּ אוֹן‬, “pride,” is the subject of niphal ‫ שׁבת‬in Ezek 30:18 (cf. also Ezek 7:24 and Isa 11:13). This emendation assumes only a metathesis of final ‫ ת‬and the initial ‫ ב‬on ‫גָּ אוֹן‬. 54 The word ‫ גָּ אוֹן‬literally pertains to height, and some commentators take it in this straightforward sense: God commands the restraint of the Sea’s physically towering, threatening surf.55 Others understand the noun in its common metaphorical meaning of exaltation, majesty. When the word is attributed to God in the Bible, its connotation is positive (cf. Exod 15:7; Isa 24:14; Mic 5:4). But as used with humans, peoples, cities, ‫ גָּ אוֹן‬often refers to 126F

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E. Dhorme, Commentary, 578. Norman C. Habel, The Book of Job: A Commentary (Philadelphia : Westminster Press, 1985), 538. 53 Sally L. Gold, “Understanding the Book of Job: 11Q10, the Peshitta and the Rabbinic Targum: Illustrations From a Synoptic Analysis of Job 37-39.” (DPhil. diss., University of Oxford 2007), 151. 54 RtgJob ‫יתייבשׁ‬, “will dry up,” misreads for some form of Hebrew ‫יבשׁ‬, “to dry up.” 55 E.g., G. Fuchs, Mythos, 200; G. Fohrer, Das Buch Hiob (Güttersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus G. Mohn, 1963), 487. 51 52

GOD AND THE SEA IN JOB 38

501

inordinate glory, unlawful power, and arrogance (cf. Lev 26:19; Jer 13:9; Ezek 16:56; Zech 9:6, etc.). Interpreters usually understand the “pride” of the Sea’s waves in 11b in this second way: in keeping with the Chaoskampf tradition, God checks and names the illegitimate and rival strength of the Sea. However, the weight of ‫ גָּ אוֹן‬in 11b is far more ambiguous, anticipating the ambiguity of God’s attitude towards the two great creatures of the second divine speech. Assuming that ‫ גָּ אוֹן‬bears a penumbra of haughtiness would make it unique in the stanza. Although I have argued that the stanza primarily describes God’s containment of the Sea, nowhere else in vv 8–11 does the poem attribute any moral shortcomings to the Sea – or to any other creatures in the first divine speech. In fact, over against the usual Chaoskampf motif of the Sea as a villainous power, this stanza has pictured it as a newborn infant, effectively neutralizing its moral status. Moreover, the bearing of “pride/height” vocabulary is far from obvious in the divine speeches at large: God does not necessarily condemn the grandness of other beings. 56 The first stanza after the introductory formula in the second divine speech shows God customarily assuming majesty (‫)גָּ אוֹן‬ but abasing the “proud” amongst humankind (‫גֵּ ֶאה‬, 40:11b, 12a). But then the remainder of the second divine speech defies this basic dynamic of God’s opposition to the strength and excellence of possible challengers: the rest of the poem does not portray God humiliating competitors, but celebrating the vast power (even perhaps “pride,” ‫גַּ ֲאוָ ה‬, in 41:7a) of two mythical creatures. In view of this, God’s use of ‫ גָּ אוֹן‬to describe the Sea’s waves probably encompasses their physical greatness – but without a clearly condemnatory tone. In sum, I have argued that the stanza of Job 38:8–11 primarily emphasizes God’s powerful control over the Sea, in continuity with the preceding poetic unit whose theme is God’s singular power and Job’s incommensurability. However, vv 8–11 also begin subtly reframing God’s conventional antagonism towards the Sea, preliminary to the following stanzas and the second divine speech that realize this reimagination more vividly. The stanza affirms God’s antagonistic power over the Sea by fronting a verb of constraint in its first line, looping thematically and grammatically into the previous stanza, and ending with God physically establishing and verbally commanding the Sea’s limitation. The stanza reframes God’s relation to the Sea by recasting the Sea as a helpless newborn, contrasting its rushing out with its containment, depicting God swaddling it, addressing it personally, and anticipating the ambiguous “pride”-language of the second divine speech. 1264F

56 C.

Newsom, Book of Job, 248.

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Jacob Rüdiger Schmitt, DER “HEILIGE KRIEG” IM PENTATEUCH UND IM DEUTERONOMISTISCHEN GESCHICHTSWERK: STUDIEN ZUR FORSCHUNGS-, REZEPTIONS- UND RELIGIONSGESCHICHTE VON KRIEG UND BANN IM ALTEN TESTAMENT (AOAT, 381; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2011). Pp. xii + 248. Hardback. €65.00. ISBN 978-3-86835-048-7.

Reviewed by Jacob L. Wright Emory University An established tradition of scholarship, bolstered by an influential study of Gerhard von Rad, assumes “holy war” to be a real institution that was firmly anchored in Israel's earliest history. Although most scholars today would reject this assumption, along with the conservative view of Israel’s history upon which it rests, the field has lacked a comprehensive study of the texts that are usually cited in its favor. This is now no longer the case. Rüdiger Schmitt’s monograph examines each of these texts and argues that they owe their commonalities to late redactional activities (Deuteronomistic or post-Deuteronomistic). With M. Weippert, he discards the language of “holy war,” opting to speak instead of the “sacralization of war” in various kinds of texts. The relatively concise study consists of 50 pages of research history and 120 pages treating the war texts from the Enneateuch, followed by 40 pages of reception history and a 10-page conclusion (see the simplified 503

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version of the Table of Contents reproduced below). That the book favors questions of a theological and ethical nature is undoubtedly related to its origins in a collaborative research project in the theological faculties at Munster, Germany (The research project bore the title “Divine Violence: Analyses of the Images of God in the Hebrew Bible from the Perspective of the History of Religions and Reception History”). In his lengthy research history from the period before WWI to post9/11, Schmitt provides a comprehensive, if also necessarily compendious, overview of studies that either treat “holy war” in the Hebrew Bible or develop alternatives to it. For the period prior to WWI, Schmitt treats the work of Wellhausen, W. R. Smith, Schwally, and Caspari, while for the period between the wars, he discusses the work of Bertholet, Fredriksson, Pedersen, and Weber. This period of scholarship is characterized, according to Schmitt, by a focus on pre-state Israel and views Yhwh as a war-god. In keeping with a predilection for evolutionary constructions, scholarship up to WWII tended to view “holy war” as an archaic mysterious conception that was transcended by the moral universalism of the prophets before it became ossified in Jewish legalism and finally surmounted by the teaching of Jesus. That writings on “holy war” multiplied after WWII is due to the influential work of von Rad. In Der heiliger Krieg im alten Israel,1 one of the most popular books of the early post-war period (it continues to be published today), von Rad transformed the conception of “holy war,” making it compatible with conservative theological developments (Barth and “Neo-orthodoxy”) that emphasized divine revelation and the “word of God.” Schmitt reviews the studies of de Vaux, Smend, Kang, Craigie, Lind, Fohrer, Stolz, Weippert, Jones, and Donner, each of which problematize von Rad’s thesis in different ways and to varying degrees. More recent research has taken various directions. Under the rubric of “sociological models,” Schmitt treats Mendenhall, Gottwald, and Albertz. “Comparative studies” include P. Miller, Weinfeld, Otto, Chapman, Crouch, Baudler, and Flaig. Among the “exegetical and historyof-religions approaches,” Schmitt considers Weimar, Lohfink, Niditch, Lang, and Scherer. With respect to numerous other war studies, Schmitt separates them into biblical-theology oriented works, hermeneutical approaches, studies of religion and violence, and treatments of “holy war” in the ancient Near East and Egypt. The research review is, however, by no means exhaustive, omitting several important studies in French, Hebrew, and English. The heart of the study treats the major war texts of the Enneateuch. Schmitt examines these texts under three general rubrics: Deuteronomistic, Priestly, and others (Gen 14, Exod 15, Num 21:21–32, and 2 Chr 20).

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Because it covers the entire Enneateuch, the treatment of each war text is on average no more than a page in length. Schmitt begins his discussion with the war laws of Deuteronomy. He denies that they are rooted in actual practice and claims that they function to demonstrate the principle of obedience. They should also be appreciated as “counterfactual” or “contra-presentic,” as they offer a hopeful perspective for those in exile. (The term “contra-presentic” is borrowed from Gerd Theissen and Jan Assmann to describe a type of utopian memory as a reaction to the present.) One can debate the merits of this approach, but Schmitt inexplicably does not tell us why the biblical authors developed these particular kinds of counterfactual laws. How do, e.g., laws related to the mustering of a militia (Deut 20:5–8) give hope to the postexilic community? Admittedly, such laws cannot be applied when Israel no longer had the possibility of engaging in its own wars, but what is the distinct intent of the counterfactual character of Deuteronomy’s laws of war in comparison to its other “utopian” laws? Schmitt tends to argue for an exilic or postexilic dating of texts, while also taking issue with those who see any humanizing intentions behind the laws. For example, he views the law of the female captive (Deut 21:10–14) as a supplement to the laws in chap. 20 and dates it to the postexilic period. The law lacks any humanism, as it does not forbid sexual exploitation or enslavement of the captive (One would like to know how Schmitt interprets 20:14!). Finally, because it was not possible in the postexilic period to go to war and take captives, the law is said to be about the integration of female slaves. Schmitt leaves unanswered the question as to why the biblical authors needed to disguise their instructions under a war law. With respect to Deut 1–3, Schmitt describes this text as a counterfactual fiction that emerged in the postexilic period. Its demand for the creation of a tabula rasa has nothing to do with Josianic politics; instead, it reflects postexilic conflicts with Arab (!) neighbors. The contra-presentic construction of military conquest is an expression of hope for the end of the exile and compensation for powerlessness. The Deuteronomistic war speeches (7:1–26; 9:1–8, 22–24; 11:22–25; 20:2–4; 31:1–8; Josh 1:1–9) articulate the importance of strict Law observance as the basis for possession of the land. The waging of war and the execution of the ḥērem is thereby “merely a metaphor” for obedience to the Law. Turning to the Deuteronomistic texts elsewhere in the Pentateuch, Schmitt discusses the non-Priestly layer of Exod 14 as well as Exod 17:8– 16, 23:20–33; Num 13–14, 21:1–3, 33–35, most of which he dates to the exilic or postexilic period. While each of these texts has its individual accent, they all have a common character: they are primarily

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Gesetzestheologie (theology of the Law) and not Kriegstheologie (war theology). Observance of the Law is the precondition for possession of the land, and execution of the ḥērem is the decisive criterion. The same applies for the war texts in Josh 6–12. They are all essentially about obedience to the Law. War serves primarily as a way of conceptualizing the principle of absolute fidelity to the Law, with the situations in which ḥērem must be executed as a status confessionis. If war is incidental, serving as background or a stage for the main actors, it follows that Yhwh could give Israel its land without any human involvement. Not surprisingly, Schmitt addresses this issue at many points in his discussion. Joshua 6–12, like many other Deuteronomistic battle accounts, sets forth a synergistic theology by depicting Israel fighting with Yhwh. In contrast, the episode with the “captain of Yhwh’s host” in 5:13–15 (see also his discussion of 2 Chr 20) relativizes this synergism, attributing the victories depicted in the following narratives not to Joshua’s military prowess but rather to the power of the heavenly hosts (as R. Nelson argues2). This claim is however difficult to accept since Joshua still does the fighting in the narrative; a more tenable conclusion is that the supplement affirms the participation of the divine host. With respect to Judges, Samuel, and Kings, Schmitt argues that these books comprise with Joshua pieces of the Deuteronomistic History. However, their authors could no longer use ḥērem as the “measuring rod” because it was confined to the period of the conquest under the leadership of Joshua. Hence, they replaced it with other criteria. Yet one of the biggest problems for the Deuteronomistic History thesis is not the relationship of Judges to Joshua but rather Judges to Samuel–Kings: As I have argued elsewhere, war in Judges occurs as punishment for the people’s sin, while the narratives of Samuel portray war erupting naturally until the Saul and David bring peace.[3] Accordingly, Judges stands in sharp contrast to Samuel–Kings. Schmitt discusses my study that formulates this argument but does not offer a response to its central argument. Nevertheless, he does seem to allow for the possibility of “a small Deuteronomistic History” in Samuel–Kings (see the section title on p. 146). Turning to the Priestly texts, Schmitt discusses Exod 14, Num 31 (at length), and some texts in Joshua. What these texts have in common is a “hierarchical conceptualization of war with special emphasis on the role of priests” as well as a concern with matters of ritual purity. The paucity of Priestly war texts is due not to the putative pacifism of the Priestly circles (as Lohfink and others have argued with respect to the emphasis on the P miracle in Ex 14) but rather to their interest in questions of cult and ritual authority.

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By claiming that the primary purpose of the Bible’s war texts is to articulate theological principles, Schmitt stands in direct continuity with early Christian writings (see e.g. Jas 2:25). This approach may serve the needs of some theological constructions, but in my view it fails to account fully for the centrality of war in these biblical texts. Political communities tend to negotiate belonging vis-à-vis war memories. The fact that war figures prominently in the Hebrew Bible while appearing only on the periphery of the New Testament must be related to the very different collective identities these literatures seek to construct: in the former, a territorially oriented people, and in the latter, a transnational deterritorialized religious community. In many cases, one has the impression that Schmitt’s focus on the “sacral” aspects of war in the texts he studies may have caused him to miss more basic meanings. Thus, Abraham’s victory in Gen 14 is said to be the confirmation of the divine approbation in Gen 13 that then culminates in the reward of the covenant in Gen 15. By focusing on the “indirect sacralization of war” in this text, he overlooks the primary theme of Abraham’s solidarity with the inhabitants of the land—a primary theme of Genesis that distinguishes it from Exodus–Kings. Just as Abraham allows Lot to choose the best land and argues with the deity over the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah, he goes to war for these neighbors and later waives his right to the war spoils. In return for his goodness, Yhwh promises to be his great reward (Gen 15:1). In the rest of the book, Schmitt treats various witnesses to the reception history of the biblical war traditions. For the period of the Crusades, he examines the writings of Bernhard of Clairvaux and William of Tyre as well as works of Middle Latin poetry. For the Reformation and Peasants’ War, he treats the polemic works of Martin Luther, Ulrich Zwingli, Jean Calvin, and Thomas Müntzer. For the post-Reformation period, he focuses on Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden, who led his nation to supremacy during the Thirty Years War and presented himself as Gideon reincarnate. From here Schmitt moves to the WWI and the works of Gunkel, Eißfeldt, and Bertholet, before finally treating the case of Johannes Hempel from the Third Reich. He helpfully identifies seven ways in which the biblical texts were interpreted in these writings: 1) prefiguration; 2) allegory of spiritual warfare; 3) literal instructions for warfare; 4) identification with biblical figures; 5) identification with biblical Israel; 6) identification with historical Israel; and 7) emphasis of differences to Israel. An overview of “holy war” in European history would have been valuable for readers of Schmitt’s study. In Greece a number of “holy wars” were fought by amphictyonies in defense of Delphi (600–590, 448, 355– 346, 339–338 BCE). While the Roman Empire conducted their wars with

508

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

many religious rituals and cultic aspects, most scholars would not apply the term “holy war” to them. This changed with Constantine the Great, as war became a means to spread Christianity. Drawing on Christian writings from the time of Constantine, theologies of “holy war” continued into Late Antiquity and the early Middle Ages. Their authors paved the way theologically for the Crusades and the wars of religion in the Early Modern period. The ideology and rhetoric of “holy war” subsided considerably after the Peace of Westphalia and through the humanistic influence of writers like Hugo Grotius. War became now a controlled and rational game. This period ended abruptly in the Romantic period—specifically, in reaction to Napoleon’s conquests. In Russia among representatives of the Orthodox Church and especially in Germany among nationalistic thinkers such Jahn and Arndt, the wars of liberation were identified explicitly as “holy wars.” During WWI, “holy war” assumed even greater significance. Ideologies expressed in the popular genre of war-sermons identified everything as “holy”—blood, time, earth, nation, weapons, and war. This rhetoric shifted in many ways after WWI, but it remained a constant in religious circles of the Third Reich. Even though the history that I have presented here may need revision on certain points, it reveals how the rhetoric and ideology of “holy war” re-emerged in 19th and early 20th century Germany, precisely at the time the leading German scholars of Old Testament were writing their most influential works. In selecting cases to study in his reception history, Schmitt appears to have looked for European rulers and thinkers who used the biblical texts to sanction excessive violence. While this aspect undoubtedly deserves attention, one should not forget that the biblical war texts were often used for more salutary purposes, namely as the basis for reflection on political organization and monarchic authority. Indeed, Hobbes, Rousseau, and many other great European thinkers produced their most influential works by deeply engaging key war texts from the Bible. Their findings beckon to be studied not only by political theorists but also by biblical scholars, especially as they have shaped the intellectual contexts in which critical biblical scholarship emerged. That such has yet happen to any appreciable extent is understandable, given that much of Old Testament research has been and continues to be conducted in schools of theology and departments of religion, where matters of violence and ethics receive much more attention than questions of political organization. But even within these institutional contexts, biblical scholars can profitably contribute to and benefit from more engagement with political theory. Schmitt’s study does the field a great service by bringing together a range of interesting material on a tradition that has endured for more than three millennia. While I often found myself disagreeing with his

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interpretations, I—and many others who work on war in ancient Israel— will want to keep this book nearby for frequent consultation.

APPENDIX: TABLE OF CONTENTS - CHAPTERS AND SECTIONS Kapitel 1—Forschungsgeschichte: Die Konzeptionen von “Heiligem Krieg” und “Jahwe-Krieg” in der alttestamentlichen Forschung • Die Theoriebildung bis zum Ersten Weltkrieg • Der Gang der Diskussion bis zum Ende des Zweiten Weltkriegs • Die Theoriebildung in der Zeit nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg • Neuere Theoriebildungen zum Heiligen Krieg • Der “heilige” bzw. sakrale Krieg in der Altorientalistik • Der “heilige” bzw. sakrale Krieg in der Ägyptologie • Zum Ansatz der vorliegenden Arbeit Kapitel 2—Sakralisierung des Krieges in der deuteronomistischen Traditionsbildung • Sakralisierung des Krieges im Buch Deuteronomium • Sakralisierung des Krieges in der deuteronomistischen Traditionsbildung in den Büchern Exodus und Numeri • Sakralisierung des Krieges in den Landnahmeerzählungen des Buches Josua (Jos 1–12) • Sakralisierung des Krieges im Buch der Richter • Sakralisierung des Krieges in Büchern Samuelis und der Könige • Zusammenfassend zur sakralisierung des Krieges im “kleinen” Deuteronomistischen Geschichtswerk (1 Sam–2 Kön) Kapitel 3—Sakralisierung des Krieges in der priesterschriftlichen Traditionsbildung • Ex 14: Die priesterschriftliche Meerwundererzählung • Num 31: Der Midianiterkrieg

510

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES • •

Das priesterliche Material im Josuabuch Zusammenfassend zu den priesterschriftlichen Kriegstexten Kapitel 4—Sakralisierung des Krieges außerhalb der deuteronomischdeuteronomistischen und priesterlichen Traditionsbildung • Gen 14: Abrahams Sieg über Kedor-Leomer • Ex 15,1–21: Das Schilfmeerlied • Num 21,21–31: Sieg über Sihon von Heschbon und über Jahas Num 21,32 • Ausblick: Sakralisierung des Krieges im Buch der Chronik anhand von 2 Chr 20 Kapitel 5—Die Rezeption der biblischen Exodus- und Landnahmetraditionen in kriegerischen Auseinandersetzungen vom Mittelalter bis zur Neuzeit • Die Zeit der Kreuzzüge • Reformation und Bauernkriege • “Verzage nicht, du Häuflein klein!”—Gustav II. Adolf als neuer Gideon • Der Erste Weltkrieg: Der “Heilige Krieg” in Arbeiten deutscher Alttestamentler im Ersten Weltkrieg-Hermann Gunkel, Otto Eißfeldt und Alfred Bertholet • Umkehrung der Vorzeichen: Johannes Hempel und das Alte Testament • Zusammenfassung: Rezeptionsmuster des “Heiligen Krieges” vom Mittelalter bis zum Dritten Reich Kapitel 6—Zusammenfassung und abschließende Überlegungen • Die biblischen Kriegstexte, ihre religionsgeschichtliche Einordnung und ihre Rezeption • Zur Terminologie: Jahwe-Krieg, Heiliger Krieg, Sakralisierung des Krieges • Zum Gewaltpotential des Monotheismus ATANT, 20; Zurich: Zwingli-Verlag, 1951. R.D. Nelson, Joshua: A Commentary (OTL; Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 1997), 83. 3 “Military Valor and Kingship: A Book-Oriented Approach to the Study of a 1 2

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Major War Theme,” in Writing and Reading War: Rhetoric, Gender, and Ethics in Biblical and Modern Contexts (ed. B.E. Kelle and F.R. Ames; SBLSymS, 42; Atlanta: SBL, 2008), 33–56.

Anne Moore, MOVING BEYOND SYMBOL AND MYTH: UNDERSTANDING THE KINGSHIP OF GOD OF THE HEBREW BIBLE THROUGH METAPHOR (Studies in Biblical Literature, 99; New York: Peter Lang, 2009). Pp. xiv + 332. Hardcover. €54.10. US$83.95. ISBN 978-0-8204-8661-1.

Reviewed by Beth M. Stovell St. Thomas University, Miami Gardens FL Moving Beyond Symbol and Myth: Understanding the Kingship of God of the Hebrew Bible through Metaphor is a revision of Moore’s dissertation at

the Claremont Graduate University School of Religion, originally written in 2004. As Moore’s title suggests, the goal of this work is to rethink the conceptualization of the metaphor of the kingship of God as depicted in the Hebrew Bible. While Moore primarily examines the Hebrew Bible and its interpretations in the Second Temple period, the goals for her study are more centred on the discovery of Christian origins, specifically unearthing the foundations for the depiction of the kingdom of God in Jesus’ teaching. Moore’s work challenges prior classifications and explanations of the kingdom of God in New Testament scholarship by scholars such as Johannes Weiss, C. H. Dodd, Gustaf Dalman, and Norman Perrin among others.1 She chiefly deconstructs the work of Perrin, critiquing specifically Perrin’s misuse of scholarship concerning the metaphor of “God is king” in the Hebrew Bible in terms of his methodology, his use of sources, and his understanding of metaphor. Using a cognitive theory of metaphor developed along the lines of George Lakoff and Mark Johnson,2 Moore asserts that “the ‘God is King’ metaphor is a relational metaphor within the Hebrew Bible” that is “produced by the different interactions of the semantic fields of God and kingship” (p. 4). She sees this Divine kingship metaphor as having “three relational spheres: God as covenantal sovereign of Israel, God as universal suzerain over the world, and God as monarch of the disadvantaged” (p. 4). She then traces these three metaphorical

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relational spheres as they are re-interpreted in the literature of the Second Temple period and, then, specifically in “the sayings of the historical Jesus” (p. 5). In the first chapter Moore begins her book in the typical fashion of a dissertation thesis by examining the past research in the field. After discussing the currents of scholarship regarding the kingdom of God, Moore points to the continuing legacy of Perrin, identifies five problems associated with Perrin's classification of the kingdom of God as a symbol and suggests possible solutions.3 First, Perrin’s argument that the kingdom of God underwent a shift from a myth-evoking symbol prior to the Second Temple period to a static symbol referencing a final eschatological event is countered by Moore through an identification of the diversity of descriptions of the kingdom of God in the literature of the Second Temple period. Second, Perrin’s inadequate methodology based on Wheelright and Ricoeur causes Perrin to misunderstand how the metaphor of God’s kingship works in a wide diversity of texts, which Moore counters with her use of conceptual metaphor theory in the tradition of Lakoff and Johnson to provide greater methodological clarity.4 Third, Moore critiques Perrin’s collapse of all of God’s activity under the symbol of God’s kingship as “obscur[ing] the diversity of expression within Judaism” (p. 3). Instead Moore provides a careful examination of the metaphor of “God is king” that moves diachronically from pre-exilic to post-exilic texts, identifying both the commonality of these depictions and their distinctions. Fourth, Perrin’s use of “literary-critical” analysis follows a history of religion school’s theory about the evolution of Judaism rather than a diachronic analysis of the history of the texts that considers literary elements such as “genre, form, and technique” (p. 3). Moore’s approach aims to correct this through a more-careful literary analysis of the individual texts with a diachronic awareness. Fifth, Moore traces the recent developments of cognitive theory since Perrin’s work. This discussion leads to Moore’s second chapter. Chapter two of Moore’s work provides both a brief history of metaphor theory and establishes her methodology for the remainder of her book. Moore uses the conceptual metaphor theory of Lakoff and Johnson as a means of providing greater methodological clarity to the metaphor of “God is king.” Moore’s work builds on the work of Marc Zvi Brettler on the kingship of God,5 which creates “an initial database for consideration” for Moore’s work (p. 64). However, following Gary V. Smith, Moore criticises the lack of clarity and helpfulness of Brettler’s section on “The King and Domestic Affairs,” and the lack of thorough analysis of particular texts (pp. 63–64).6 Moore corrects this problem through her own textual analysis of individual texts throughout her study. Chapters 3–6 follow the

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development of the metaphor diachronically from the pre-exilic text of Isaiah 6 in chapter three to the exilic texts (Exodus 15, 19, Numbers 23, and 1 Samuel 8, 12) in chapter four, to exilic and post-exilic prophetic texts in chapters five and six. Due to the complicated issues of dating the psalms, in chapter seven Moore studies the “latest redacted layer of the texts,” dating most of the psalms to exilic and post-exilic stages but reading the psalms in relation to one another throughout the chapter and focusing on literary genre as the means of reading the psalms alongside one another. Chapter eight functions as a conclusion, demonstrating Moore’s overarching argument and suggesting what her argument means for the study of Christian Origins. Moore’s work reflects one of the recent trends in biblical studies, namely the rising interest and use of metaphor theories from the field of cognitive linguistics. Those using such cognitive metaphor theories within the studies of the Hebrew Bible include Claudia Bergmann, Sarah Dille, Marc Zvi Brettler, Pierre van Hecke, Elizabeth R. Hayes, William P. Brown, Ellen Van Wolde, Zacharias Kotzé, and Christo van der Merwe,7 and within studies of the New Testament include Nijay K. Gupta, Martin Ramey, Erik Konsmo, Reidar Aasgaard, Jacobus Liebenberg, Bonnie Howe, Jesper Tang Nielsen, and Ruben Zimmermann.8 Moore’s use of conceptual metaphor theory in her work allows for methodological clarity and precision in determining the extent and diversity of the metaphor of God’s kingship in the Hebrew Bible. This analysis also leads to new insight, including the awareness of the relational quality of God’s kingship as it is depicted in the Hebrew Bible. Another example of insight is Moore’s awareness of the often-overlooked depiction of God’s role as king of the disadvantaged. As Moore explains, “Yahweh [is] the compassionate and just monarch upon whom the disadvantaged and the oppressed may depend for their needs and for the resolution of their situation” (p. 270). Moore suggests that Psalm 146 “acts almost as a summary for the various understandings of the “God is king” metaphor” and provides Psalms 5, 22, 68, 102, 103, 145, and 146 as examples of the image of Yahweh as “compassionate monarch of the disadvantaged” (pp. 268–70). However, while Moore’s work follows this growing trend through her use of the conceptual metaphor theory of Lakoff and Johnson, she does not appear to be aware herself of the advances upon this model since the original publication of Lakoff and Johnson’s Metaphors We Live By in 1980 or of the recent developments of cognitive blending theories of metaphor developed by scholars like Mark Turner and Gilles Fauconnier that build on Lakoff and Johnson’s theories.9 Nor does Moore appear to be aware of Lakoff’s continuing use of his metaphorical theory in the political

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realm.10 Examination and use of all three of these developments might prove helpful for clarifying and extending Moore’s own examination and for future examinations of the metaphor of God’s kingship by other scholars building on Moore’s analysis. Because Moore’s work does not reflect the advancements of conceptual blending theories of metaphor, her work often lacks an evaluation of the blending of the metaphorical entailments of kingship. While in comparison to Brettler’s individualisation of each entailment of kingship, Moore’s work examines how these metaphors work in whole passages (pp. 61–64). Yet Moore’s work at times also struggles with the interplay of metaphors, assuming for example, that one metaphor must supersede another or that the kingship metaphor must be non-existent because another potentially competing metaphor exists. For example, Moore sees the Divine Shepherd metaphor when used with the Divine King to be at odds with Divine Warrior metaphor, yet this overlooks the power of conceptual blending through the use of “mixed” metaphors (pp. 122–123).11 These weaknesses aside, Moore’s work provides a helpful introduction to the metaphor of God’s kingship in the Hebrew Bible and suggests an important and potentially revolutionary change to the way the kingdom of God is understood within New Testament studies. While Moore’s work could be more encompassing in its awareness of the interweaving of metaphors, her analysis of the metaphor of God as king is both thorough and helpful to the novice and scholar alike. While Moore’s metaphorical theory could provide an initial reworking of many scholars’ understandings of how metaphor functions, Moore’s clear and precise writing style does not make her approach overly taxing to read, but rather often enjoyable and even moving at times. While the cost of this volume may make it difficult for many to include on their shelves, this book is recommended for those who have a scholarly interest in the workings of metaphor in the Hebrew Bible or who have an interest in the metaphor of the kingdom of God in the New Testament. It also marks a necessary advancement upon previous studies in the kingdom of God and its impact on Christian Origins. 1 J. Weiss, Jesus’ Proclamation of the Kingdom of God (trans. R. H. Hiers and D. L. Holland; orig. Die Predigt Jesu vom Reiches Gottes, 1892; repr., Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1971); C. H. Dodd, Parables of the Kingdom (Digswell Place: Nisbet., 1935, repr. 1961); G. Dalman, The Words of Jesus: Considered in Light of Post-Biblical Jewish Writings and Aramaic Language (trans D. M. Kay; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1902); N. Perrin, The Kingdom of God in the Teaching of Jesus (NTL; Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1963).

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2 G. Lakoff and M. Johnson, Metaphors We Live By (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980). 3 Perrin, The Kingdom of God. 4 P. Wheelwright, Metaphor and Reality (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1962); P. Ricoeur, The Symbolism of Evil (trans. E. Buchanan; New York: Harper and Row, 1967); Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By. 5 M. Z. Brettler, God Is King: Understanding an Israelite Metaphor (JSOTSup, 76; Sheffield, England: JSOT Press, 1989). 6 For Smith’s critique, see G. V. Smith, “God Is King: Understanding an Israelite Metaphor,” HS 32 (1991), 81. 7 C. D. Bergmann, Childbirth as a Metaphor for Crisis: Evidence from the Ancient Near East, the Hebrew Bible, and 1QH XI 1–18 (BZAW, 382; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2008); S. Dille, Mixing Metaphors: God as Mother and Father in Deutero-Isaiah (London: T & T Clark, 2004); Brettler, God Is King; P. van Hecke, Metaphor in the Hebrew Bible (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2005); E. R. Hayes, The Pragmatics of Perception and Cognition in MT Jeremiah 1:1–6:30: A Cognitive Linguistics Approach (BZAW, 380; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2008); W. P. Brown, Seeing the Psalms: A Theology of Metaphor (Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002); E. J. van Wolde, Job 28: Cognition in Context (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2003); E. J. van Wolde, Reframing Biblical Studies: When Language and Text Meet Culture, Cognition, and Context (Winona Lake, Ill.: Eisenbrauns, 2009); Z. Kotzé, “A Cognitive Linguistic Approach to the Emotion of Anger in the Old Testament,” HvTSt 60 (2004), 843863; Z. Kotzé, “Metaphors and Metonymies for Anger in the Old Testament: A Cognitive Linguistic Approach,” Scriptura 88 (2005), 18-25; C. H. J. van der Merwe, “A Cognitive Linguistic Perspective on Hinneh in the Pentateuch, Joshua, Judges, and Ruth,” HS 48 (2007), 101-140; C. H. J. van der Merwe, “Biblical Exegesis, Cognitive Linguistics and Hypertext,” A. Lemaire (ed.), Congress Volume Leiden 2004 (VTSup, 109; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2006), 255–280. 8 N. K. Gupta, Worship That Makes Sense to Paul: A New Approach to the Theology and Ethics of Paul's Cultic Metaphors (BZNW, 175; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2010); J. Liebenberg, The Language of the Kingdom and Jesus: Parable, Aphorism, and Metaphor in the Sayings Material Common to the Synoptic Tradition and the Gospel of Thomas (BZNW, 102; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2001); B. Howe, Because You Bear This Name: Conceptual Metaphor and the Moral Meaning of 1 Peter (Biblical Interpretation Studies, 81; Leiden: Brill, 2006); J. T. Nielsen, “The Lamb of God: The Cognitive Structure of Johannine Metaphor,” J. Frey, J. G. Van der Watt, G. Kern, and R. Zimmerman (eds.), Imagery in the Gospel of John: Terms, Forms, Themes, and Theology of Johannine Figurative Language (WUNT, 200; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006); R. Zimmermann, “‘Du Wirst noch Größeres Sehen…’ (Joh 1,50). Zur Ästhetik und Hermeneutik der Christusbilder im Johannesevangelium—Eine Skizze,” Metaphorik und Christologie (Theologische Bibliothek Töpelmann, 120; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2003); R. Zimmermann, “Paradigmen Einer Metaphorischen Christologie.

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Eine Leseanleitung,” J. Frey, J. Rohls, and R. Zimmerman (eds.), Metaphorik und Christologie (Theologische Bibliothek Töpelmann, 120; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2003); R. Zimmermann, Christologie der Bilder im Johannesevangelium: Die Christopoetik des Vierten Evangeliums unter Besonderer Berücksichtigung von Joh 10 (WUNT, 171; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004). 9 For example, G. Fauconnier and M. Turner, The Way We Think (New York: Basic Books, 2002). 10 Lakoff's political works include G. Lakoff, Moral Politics: How Liberals and Conservatives Think (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002); G. Lakoff, Don’t Think of an Elephant!: Know Your Values and Frame the Debate: The Essential Guide for Progressives (White River Junction, Vt.: Chelsea Green, 2004); G. Lakoff, Whose Freedom?: The Battle over America’s Most Important Idea (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2006); G. Lakoff, The Political Mind: Why You Can't Understand 21st-Century Politics with an 18th-Century Brain (New York: Viking, 2008). 11 The lack of integration and explanation of the Divine Warrior in relationship to the Divine King is a critique that P. Miller also levels against Brettler. See P. D. Miller, “God Is King: Understanding an Israelite Metaphor,” JBL 111 (1992), 120122 (122).

Adolfo D. Roitman, BIBLIA, EXÉGESIS Y RELIGIÓN: UNA LECTURA CRÍTICO-HISTÓRICA DEL JUDAÍSMO (Estella, Navarra: Editorial Verbo Divino, 2010). Pp. 308. Hardback. ISBN 978-84-9945-100-8. € 24.50. 1.

Reviewed by Natalio Fernández Marcos Centro de Ciencias Humanas y Sociales. CSIC, Madrid Adolfo Roitman is a well-known biblical scholar born in Buenos Aires who earned a doctorate in ancient Jewish Literature and Thought by the Hebrew University; since 1994 he has been Curator and Director of the Shrine of the Book at the Israel Museum of Jerusalem. This book collects a series of revised articles published in the Israeli weekly magazine Aurora between 2007 and 2009 that serves as a kind of commentary to the sections of the Torah read weekly in the synagogue. Roitman’s aim in this book is to introduce the readers to the complex world of the Hebrew Bible by means of a thorough analysis of the social,

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politic, and religious reality of Israel in antiquity and to do so in a colloquial and current Spanish. The book is addressed to both Jews and Christians who are not experts in biblical studies, and it furthers free thinking among the readers, discovery and tolerance of the “Other,” and interreligious dialogue. The volume is divided into three sections. The first is devoted to prominent biblical figures or personalities emphasizing the reception of such figures in the Judaeo-Christian tradition. This part reminds me of the reflections on Adam, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, or Job in Elie Wiesel’s Messengers of God 1. The second section is devoted to various questions concerning the Pentateuch. It takes into account historical-critical methods and explores the diffuse boundaries between history and myth. The third section is devoted to the religious revolution of Deuteronomy. Roitman’s main text is accompanied by some footnotes that clarify and support his statements, seven illustrations, a brief epilogue, a glossary of concepts and technical terms, and a full bibliography. The book is written in fluent Spanish and offers a pleasant reading. The book has been carefully prepared and I have found no egregious errors or printer’s mistakes. I heartily congratulate both the author and Verbo Divino press. Roitman is highly attuned to both the texts of the Hebrew Bible and the last discoveries of the Judaean Desert. His critical approach prevents fundamentalist and anachronistic readings of the Bible. The historical dimension of his study helps the reader discover the ability of biblical figures to be transformed in new contexts. Jews and Christians for centuries have not only tried to solve textual and interpretative problems, but they also engaged in their exegesis to construct their own religious identities. In many cases Jewish and Christian traditions intertwined and illuminated each other, as they shared a common origin. The publication of this book by a Jewish author by a Catholic publishing house is the best witness that the “brothers” can attain many common goals through their different identities and traditions. However, in this conversation, I miss the Septuagint, which might function as a further link to build a bridge between the traditions. Taking the figure of Abraham as an example, Roitman describes the features of his personality as presented in Genesis; he then traces the improvement and idealization of his figure in Genesis Apocryphon and Jubilees. He notes how Abraham was transformed by Hellenistic writers from a biblical patriarch and pious man of faith into a Greek philosopher. I miss here references to Jewish-Hellenistic writers other than Josephus (Jewish Antiquities), such as Demetrius, Eupolemus, and Artapanus.2 In spite of being preserved only in fragments, the latter attest to a new rewriting of the history of Israel in the Hellenistic period. Several recent

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studies have been published on Moses, Joseph, and the patriarchs in this period as well. I agree with Roitman that, in contrast with the heroes of other ancient literatures, the nobility of biblical figures consists in their being normal persons who struggle to overcome their own weaknesses and limitations. The human side of these figures was a constant source of inspiration for future generations who reread these ancestral texts. Only two women are included in the list of biblical figures studied by Roitman: Rachel the matriarch and Jacob’s daughter Dinah. The various chapters constitute a kind of critical sacred history followed by its survival in Judaism. They attest to the dynamism and richness of the Bible not only in its text but also in its characters, archetypes, and narratives, which were constantly rewritten and reinterpreted as prototypes for the successive generations. Roitman presents the biblical paradoxes or the most embarrassing scenes of violence and cruelty, and examines afterwards how these passages have been received and interpreted in the Jewish postbiblical tradition, occasionally until the present time. The second section of the volume deals with matters such as the Flood, Isaac’s sacrifice, the Exodus and its wonders, the giants, and sacred war. Roitman reviews the different scholarly positions ranging from minimalists to maximalists and pronounces a balanced judgement on the different hypotheses. He emphasizes that already in antiquity there were multiple positions and differences between the literal interpretation of the pious men (midrash) and the rationalistic explanation of Flavius Josephus (p.143). The third section addresses the spiritual revolution of Deuteronomy. Roitman deals with some controversial themes such as Israel’s monotheism or monolatry, Jewish aniconism, the goddess Asherah as possible consort of Yahweh, the centralization of the cult, the institution of the book in Israel, and the problem of the ethnocentric ideology in Deuteronomy. However, the final commentary (p. 265) does not clarify the dangers associated with considering oneself the elected people among the other nations. In brief it is a serious and readable book, written for a wide range of educated readers who desire a better understanding of the roots common both to Jews and Christians that are among the roots of Western civilization. New York: Random House, 1976. Cf. N. Fernández Marcos, “Interpretaciones helenísticas del pasado de Israel,” Cuadernos de Filología Clásica 8 (1975), 157–86. 1 2

Rachelle Gilmour, REPRESENTING THE PAST: A LITERARY ANALYSIS OF NARRATIVE HISTORIOGRAPHY IN THE BOOK OF SAMUEL (VTSup, 143; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2011). Pp. xii + 333. Hardback. €121.00. $166.00. ISBN 978-90-04-20340-2.

Reviewed by Dan Pioske Princeton Theological Seminary Representing the Past comprises a revision of Rachelle Gilmour’s dissertation presented to the University of Sydney in 2010. Written under the supervision of Ian Young and Noel Weeks, the express intent of the work is to investigate “how to read the text of Samuel as ancient historiography” (p. 4) through an approach that is attentive to “literary devices that convey the characteristics of history writing” (p. 3) within the Masoretic Text of the ancient book. Accordingly, the aim of Gilmour’s study is not to enter into debates surrounding the historicity of those events recorded in Samuel, but rather to provide a literary analysis of the work that is sensitive to its techniques for depicting the past and communicating its significance. Gilmour’s investigation runs six chapters, with an introduction, conclusion, and four chapters devoted to certain aspects of Samue’'s narrative that, Gilmour contends, parallel important features of modern history writing: the attribution of causation in history, discussion of the past’s meaning and significance, the ideological evaluation of events by the storyteller, and the coherence of a work. Along with a bibliography, Gilmour’s study is concluded by helpful author, scripture, and subject indices. The introductory chapter to Gilmour’s investigation provides the theoretical foundation for her subsequent literary analysis. Announcing a prominent theme that will run throughout her investigation, Gilmour argues that the book of Samuel provides a form of narrative historiography that is both similar and dissimilar to “modern” efforts at history writing. Though Samuel’s historiography contains “literary devices and embellishments unimaginable in a modern work” (p. 1), Samuel’s utilization of narrative to portray, analyze, and explain a past finds accord, Gilmour 519

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notes, with the turn among historical theorists in the last decades of the twentieth century toward the significance of narrative for historical analysis. This emphasis on narrative storytelling among contemporary historians compels Gilmour to offer her own “poetics of narrative” in Samuel that builds on the work of Robert Alter, Meir Sternberg, and Adele Berlin— among many other more recent contributions—in order to understand better the sophisticated narrative devices exploited by the author(s) of Samuel for their portrayal of Israel and Judah’s past. The payoff for this manner of literary analysis, Gilmour contends, is a more nuanced appreciation of the “‘rules’ of representing and interpreting the past” at work in Samuel that are closely wed to its “conception of the characteristics of history and its use of literary devices” (p. 7). A key question at the outset of Gilmour’s analysis is her understanding of what constitutes historiography and how the book of Samuel relates to it.1 For the author, historiography is any written “representation of the past” (p. 9, italics original), a definition that Gilmour places in contrast to “the common idea that historiography must be an objective account of what happened and the criticism that texts with overt ideological intentions do not fit this category” (p. 9). Citing “postmodern” theorists at odds with a positivistic, scientific understanding of history,2 Gilmour asserts that a broader understanding of historiography as a “representation of the past” embraces the ideological and subjective character of all history writing, ancient and modern. As such, this definition “points to the fundamental similarity between texts from both modern and ancient cultures: these texts represent an interpretation of people, places and events in the past” (p. 24). A genre of historiography, Gilmour further argues, should thus be defined by its “function” rather than by its “form” so as to avoid excluding “all pre-enlightenment cultures from engaging in fully-fledged historiography” (p. 21). Since a definition of historiography dependent on formal characteristics “gives priority” to Western, contemporary methods of historiography that “may soon become outdated,” the reader is cautioned to resist any “definitively correct set of conventions” (p. 21) for an understanding of what may or may not be history writing. The function of historiography is simply to represent the past; a formal distinction between “historical fiction and historiography is not necessary” (p. 24) for distinguishing the historiographical enterprise. Neither is the historian’s quest for accuracy regarding what once occurred, as the very notion of accuracy implies “impossible and subjective ideals” dependent on “arbitrary and changing cultural conventions” (p. 24). Historiography is, in the end, a “subjective discipline in which different people will value different methods of interpretation based on their ideology” (p. 21).

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Chapter two of Gilmour’s study takes up the manner in which historical causation is portrayed within the narrative of Samuel. Though Samuel “is often thought to contain very limited variation in causation” (p. 41), Gilmour proposes that the ancient authors behind the work explored multiple types of causation linked not only to the workings of the divine, but also to the spheres of the social and the political. Whether in the story of Samuel’s birth (1 Sam 1), Saul’s rise to kingship (1 Sam 9–11), or the absence of temple-building during David’s reign (2 Sam 7), the book of Samuel “contains a complex web of causation” surrounding these events that “encourages the reader to draw his/her own connections based on the evidence presented” (p. 47). Though YHWH may be the primum movens behind the events of history, the book of Samuel weaves personal and public motivations behind these events as well. The result is a narrative that “exploits discontinuity” between possible historical agents in order to “create complexity in the situations” portrayed (p. 89). Eschewing explicit causal explanations common to modern historiography, the narrative historiography of Samuel invites its audience to make these causal connections themselves. Since the works of Herodotus and Thucydides an important facet of composing narratives about the past has been an author’s assessment of this past’s meaning and significance.3 Yet with the anonymity of the biblical scribes who composed Samuel and their reticence to expound explicitly on the meaning of a story told,4 frank statements guiding the audience’s understanding of the significance of certain events are, Gilmour maintains, muted and mostly absent from Samuel’s narrative. The focus of Gilmour’s third chapter is therefore to explore Samuel’s “greater reliance on narrative techniques than on explicit statements for conveying meaning and significance” (p. 92). Gilmour traces two primary literary devices used for this purpose: the repetition of prominent themes (e.g. the anointing of a leader by YHWH) and the creation of “structures of meaning” (p. 98). The latter technique is the focus of the great majority of the chapter, with these structures of meaning appearing in the connections Gilmour highlights between the beginning and end of the book of Samuel (pp. 99–116), the similar patterns present within stories depicting the rise and fall of various leaders (pp. 116–30), and comparative analogies between the character of particular individuals (pp. 130–50). Gilmour’s fourth and fifth chapters are devoted to the book of Samuel’s techniques of evaluating the past and the coherence of that past represented within the work. Regarding the former, Gilmour adapts fifteen different methods of evaluation developed by M. Sternberg5 and applies these evaluative modes to the narratives of 1 Sam 8–12 (pp. 168–98) and 2 Sam 13–19 (pp. 198–221). The result of Samuel’s various means of

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evaluation, Gilmour concludes, is a complex narrative perspective that is able to voice moral, theological, and political viewpoints that, because of the tension and contradictions between them, “achieves complexity and sophistication” (p. 222) regarding the book’s appraisal of the past. Despite the plurality of voices present in the narrative, Gilmour observes that “only the viewpoint of the narrator, and not of the characters, has authority.” Consequently, the task of the reader is to be “sensitive to the narrator’s explicit and implicit promptings” regarding the value of each viewpoint (p. 222). The question of coherence, or rather “the conventions of accuracy, coherence and contradiction in the historiography of Samuel” (p. 227), poses the greatest sense of disjunction, according to Gilmour, between the narrative historiography of Samuel and that of modern works of history. In order to assess the potential inconsistencies and contradictions within the historiography of Samuel, Gilmour explores the MT and LXX versions of 1 Sam 17. The conclusions reached from this analysis touch on a number of important points. First, descriptive details in these versions of the DavidGoliath story—such as time designations or the location of events— contain “a high level of fluidity” in comparison to modern works of historiography and were “unlikely to have been considered important for their own sake; rather they are significant for the effect they produce” (p. 288). Second, a consistent chronology of events is absent from both versions of the tale. The authors of the MT and LXX were thus “indifferent to, and possibly even free to invent the chronology of events” (p. 293). Such observations suggest to Gilmour that among these ancient narratives there was a “very different attitude from modern historiography towards ‘facts.’” Whereas modern historians employ facts “to prove a particular interpretation, in the historiography of Samuel they are used to express the interpretation” (p. 299, italics original). In consideration of what Gilmour deems a significant divide between the authors of Samuel (both MT and LXX) and modern historians, she concludes that the ancient writers at the center of her study “were free to use literary techniques that invented or altered facts provided they conveyed coherent causation, critical evaluation and meaning.” The reason for this was straightforward: these ancient authors “were aware of the complexity of the past and understood that contradictions could arise where sufficient context was either not known or otherwise irrelevant” (p. 299). In concluding her study, Gilmour reviews the similarities and differences she has highlighted between the narrative historiography of Samuel and that of modern historical works. The implications of this research, Gilmour claims, bear directly on the use of Samuel as a source for writing the history of Israel (p. 304). On the one hand, “the nature of its

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[Samuel’s] historiography dictates that use of this text alone will be insufficient for a satisfactory modern historiography” (p. 304). At the same time, however, the “significant overlap and other similarities … point to the indispensability of the book of Samuel as a source” (pp. 304-5). Lastly, the value of Samuel's historiography is that it can “persuade us to broaden our own conception of history in the modern day" by challenging "modern conventions for straightforward explanation” (p. 307). A strength of Gilmour’s study is her close readings of a number of important stories within Samuel that are particularly attuned to sophisticated features of narrative storytelling within the ancient work. Perceptive observations pertaining to the multiple narrative perspectives of the rise of Saul (pp. 63–73) or disparate evaluations of David’s character during his reign in Jerusalem (pp. 198–221) provide nuanced, subtle commentary on Samuel indebted to the rise of literary approaches in biblical studies that began to flourish in the last decades of the twentieth century. Indeed, Gilmour’s most important conversation partners throughout her analysis of Samuel are R. Alter, S. Bar-Efrat, J.P. Fokkelman, and R. Polzin. Also noteworthy about Gilmour’s study is her endeavor to bring literary approaches to bear on questions all too often restricted to the domain of historians. The very attempt to place literary methods of biblical interpretation in service to larger historical questions is one of the most significant contributions of Gilmour's work.6 While Gilmour’s commitment to engage both literary and historical questions is most welcome, some difficulties emerge in the precision of her analysis and the depth of her conclusions. My misgivings stem in part from an absence of rigorous engagement with key terms and topics in her discussion. Asserting that—to cite a few examples—there is a “perceived conflict between the use of narrative in historiography and the goal of ‘what actually happened’” (p. 16), that “‘[s]cientific history’ is valued by our modern Western society …” (p. 26), or that recent efforts at writing history have benefited from “feminist historiographies” (p. 12) without any citations of the vast historical scholarship or contemporary discussions surrounding these critical issues leave such observations underdeveloped. The persistent reference in Gilmour’s work to “modern historiography” without discussion of the manifold differences in epistemology and methodology undergirding very different approaches toward historiography among contemporary historians further exacerbated a tendency toward simplistic reduction of important theoretical debates. And, while a handful of historical theorists are cited in Gilmour’s analysis, engagement with a number of literary theorists outside the domain of biblical studies might have strengthened her investigation further, particularly given its explicit commitment to a literary analysis of Samuel. The importance of Alter,

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Berlin, or Sternberg for an understanding of the poetics of biblical narrative could have been enhanced, for example, by turning to the works Mieke Bal, Gérard Gennette, Roland Barthes, or Northrop Frye on narrative theory more broadly. Paul Ricoeur’s substantial publications devoted precisely to the relationship between the poetics of narrative and the writing of history—including his magisterial three volume Time and Narrative7—does not receive a single citation in Gilmour’s investigation. A lack of precision also surrounds Gilmour’s understanding of historiography. Defining historiography as a “representation of the past” is not necessarily problematic, but such a broad understanding of the term— as Gilmour herself notes (p. 22, 25)—is problematized by the awareness “that any text that has even the slightest connection to the past can be considered historiography” (p. 22). While Gilmour cites postmodern influences for her refusal to provide a more meticulous understanding of historiography beyond her definition above, the dilemma opened up through Gilmour’s definition is that the very different literature of “modern historiography, many modern works of historical fiction, ancient propaganda, and ancient Greek historiography” (p. 27) are collapsed beneath this single definition of “historiography.” The difficulty with this interpretive approach, in part, is that it struggles to register the very different obligations of the historian and the novelist8 and the very different relationship toward the past that separates modernity from the historical works of antiquity.9 On Gilmour’s definition of historiography, there would reside no formal distinctions between the work of a Theodor Mommsen and Berossus, or a Fernand Braudel and Xenophon, making the significant developments toward writing about the past in modernity—both epistemologically and methodologically—mostly inconsequential. D. Edelman’s attempt, in contrast, to maintain a division between “ancient” and “modern” historiography is, in this sense, crucial.[10] The question that remains open, and one that must be pursued, is if the narrative of Samuel should be grouped with the “ancient historiography” of Herodotus, Thucydides, and Arrian. That Gilmour does not provide a comparative discussion of the poetics of Samuel with any other ancient work of literature leaves this question unaddressed. Gilmour’s study remains focused on a synchronic literary analysis of the poetics of Samuel’s narrative, and this is where its contribution can be found. This focus is unfortunately more limited than the stated purpose of “how to read the text of Samuel as ancient historiography,” an aim that necessarily includes the requirement of a thoughtful and careful reflection on what, in the end, constitutes historiography—whether ancient or modern. To suggest that it is “problematic to include … a modern idea of ‘historical accuracy’” (p. 13) within a definition of historiography because it

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is “ideological” and shortly thereafter to propose that “there are still texts that represent the past with greater or lesser accuracy” and that the former need to be “identified” (p. 25) for the historian’s purposes creates more confusion than it dispels. Similarly, stating that modern historians are guided by the impulse to prove a particular interpretation through facts while the authors of Samuel used facts to express their ideas (p. 299) only raises the question as to what constitutes historical “facts” for Gilmour and what distinction resides between proving a point and expressing it. Troubling about these observations are not necessarily their imprecision, but rather the lack of attentiveness toward the motivations present in the historian’s quest for representing the past authentically in spite of the profound epistemological problems that work against such efforts. Perhaps the desire for accuracy and rigorous attention to evidence in historical research is a modern, Western convention. Yet a few moments turning through the works of Holocaust historiography and the arguments surrounding the Historikerstreit in late 1980s Germany illustrates that the quest for accuracy, authenticity, and judiciousness toward what once was cannot be dismissed as easily as Gilmour proposes for a contemporary understanding of what is and what is not historiography. In the end, Gilmour’s reflection on these points appear to be connected to her manifest desire to emphasize the similarities between the narrative of Samuel and modern works of history in order to preserve an understanding of Samuel's narrative as “ancient historiography.” The return to the value of narrative within contemporary historical theory, of the recognition of the importance of shedding light on the past by reciting a story about it, prevents the narrative of Samuel and historiography from ever being fully uncoupled. That ideological influences, fictional discourse, and the utilization of literary tropes contribute toward both the composition of biblical narrative and the richest works of historiography only further buttresses Gilmour’s connection between the two. Yet important differences remain between the historiography of modernity and antiquity, particularly regarding access to and knowledge of the past. Gilmour’s analysis would benefit by addressing these differences more thoroughly. The question that remains unaddressed in the absence of such a discussion is precisely the relationship between the narrative of Samuel and the efforts of modern critical historiography. Citing similarities between the two along the lines of a poetics of narrative only illustrates that both Samuel’s narratives about the past and contemporary historiography remain dependent on the formal strictures of narrative storytelling; it does not confirm that Samuel has any concern with what we today understand as history.

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Thus, with no analysis of the relationship between Samuel’s narrative and actual historical evidence it is difficult for this reviewer to perceive on what grounds Gilmour can make the claim for Samuel to be “indispensable” as a source for Israel’s history (p. 305). Though I do find Samuel to be an important, but difficult, historical source, this assessment can only be made, I would contend, through a comparison of Samuel’s narrative with features of an Iron Age past known through other evidence. The misgivings noted here are centered primarily along historical concerns, and such observations do not take away from the close reading of Samuel that Gilmour often provides in her discussion of the ancient work’s “poetics of narrative.” In bringing to the fore Samuel’s rich array of sophisticated literary devices, the historian benefits not only from Gilmour’s care toward the text of Samuel itself, but can also utilize her significant insights into the poetics at work within ancient Hebrew narrative to think further about that scribal culture in ancient Israel that produced such a complex, narrative prose account of the past so uncommon to the eastern Mediterranean world of its time. 1 Gilmour resists an understanding of historiography as a literary genre. Instead, historiography “is better considered a description that can be applied to many different genres of texts, rather than constituting a genre of its own. For example, it incorporates modern historiography, many modern works of historical fiction, ancient propaganda texts and ancient Greek historiography” (p. 27). How these different historical genres or sub-genres may and or may not appertain to one another is not discussed. 2 Gilmour appears particularly indebted to two works in this section: D. Lowenthal’s The Past is a Foreign Country (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985); and R. F. Berkhofer, Beyond the Great Story: History as Text and Discourse (Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1995). 3 In a manner utterly distinct from the biblical scribes, both Herodotus and Thucydides begin their histories with the use of the first person, and through this authoritative “I” provide explicit statements on the meaning and significance of events throughout their works. See, e.g., the introductory sections of Herodotus, Histories, 1.1–1.2.; and Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War, 1.1. 4 On the differences between Greek and biblical writers regarding authorial voice, see especially P. Machinist, “The Voice of the Historian in the Ancient Near Eastern and Mediterranean World,” Interpretation 57 (2003), 117–37. 5 M. Sternberg, The Poetics of Biblical Narrative: Ideological Literature and the Drama of Reading (Bloomington, Ind.: Indiana University Press, 1985). 6 On this point, Gilmour follows the important admonitions of J. Barton, “Historical Criticism and Literary Interpretation: Is There Any Common Ground?” in Crossing the Boundaries: Essays in Biblical Studies in Honour of Michael D. Goulder (ed. S.E. Porter et al.; Leiden: Brill, 1994), 3–15.

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7 P. Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, Vols. I–III (trans. K. McLaughlin and D. Pellauer; Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1984–88). 8 So Ricoeur remarks: “A novel, even a realist novel, is something other than a history book. They are distinguished from each other by the nature of the implicit contract between the writer and the reader. Even when not clearly stated, this contract sets up different expectations on the side of the reader and different promises on that of the author. In opening a novel, the reader is prepared to enter an unreal universe concerning which the question where and when these things took place is incongruous … In opening a history book, the reader expects, under the guidance of a mass of archives, to reenter a world of events that actually occurred. What is more, in crossing the threshold of what is written, he stands on guard, casts a critical eye, and demands if not a true discourse comparable to that of a physics text, at least a plausible one, one that is admissible, probable, and in any case honest and truthful. Having been taught to look out for falsehoods, he does not want to have to deal with a liar” (Memory, History, Forgetting [trans. K. Blamey and D. Pellauer; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004], 261). 9 On this points, see especially the philosophical reflection in R. Kosselleck, Futures Past: On the Semantics of Historical Time (trans. K. Tribe; Cambridge: MIT Press, 1985); and the methodological analysis by A. Grafton, What Was the Past? The Art of History in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007). 10 D. Edelman, “Clio’s Dilemma: The Changing Face of Historiography,” in Congress Volume, 1998 (ed. A Lemaire and M. Saebo; VTSup, 80; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 247–55.

Kristin M. Saxegaard, CHARACTER COMPLEXITY IN THE BOOK OF RUTH (FAT II, 47; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010). Pp. XV + 240. Sewn paper. €59.00. ISBN 978-3-16-150385-6.

Reviewed by Peter Lau Seminari Theolohi Malaysia This book is a slightly revised version of Saxegaard’s doctoral dissertation, completed in 2008 under Karl William Weyde and Kåre Berge (Norwegian School of Theology). Saxegaard views the text of Ruth through the lens of narratology, focusing on characterization so as to “show how complexity might be read into” the characters in Ruth (p. 4). The second focus of the

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book is to demonstrate how such a close reading of the characters “generates theological themes” (p. 6). The book is divided into three parts: (1) Introduction; (2) Character Analysis; (3) Conclusion. The first chapter outlines the problem, in Saxegaard's judgment, of the one-dimensional reading of OT characters. The next chapter outlines her methodological approach. Saxegaard’s approach to character analysis builds on Adele Berlin's classification of characters into types, agents, and full-fledged characters (p. 18). Saxegaard then outlines her understanding of the naming of characters, and its importance for characterization: names not only describe a character, they “also place and evaluate a character’s role in the narrative” (p. 28). Saxegaard identifies three parallel plots in Ruth. The first two plots are closely intertwined and share the theme of famine and fertility: in the land and in the family. Also connected is the third plot, focusing on God’s presence. After an outline of relevant social and political structures, Saxegaard then makes an interesting contribution to the dating debate: she considers Ruth to be contemporaneous with genealogy of 1 Chr 2, judging the genealogy as earlier, not later than the narrative, in contrast to what most scholars propose (pp. 36–38). Regarding genre, Saxegaard eschews identifying a single genre for Ruth in favor of a combination: novella— “historicized fiction” (after Alter), family narrative, and polemic narrative (pp. 47–52). The second section is the heart of the book. It contains analyses of the main characters (chs. 4–7), which are preceded by those of the minor characters in the book (ch. 3). Saxegaard examines Elimelech, Mahlon, Chilion, Orpah, Mr. So-and-So, and Obed, and finds that these minor characters, or “agents,” are important not only for the plot but also serve to enrich a reader's understanding of the main characters. Chapter 4 deals with Naomi, whom Saxegaard rightly views as the primary main character, as well as the most complex. Naomi’s complexity is reflected in her names (personal names and names describing family roles), and her actions in the narrative. Naomi’s silences are understood to be syntactically ambiguous, placed intentionally by the narrator to confirm the complexity of Naomi’s character, and to invite the reader to consider possible reasons for her silence (p. 86). Saxegaard herself views Naomi’s silence as an expression of sorrow (Ruth 1) and relative contentment (Ruth 4), although whether Naomi returns to her former “pleasantness” is left as an open question, according to Saxegaard (p. 103). Naomi’s similarities with Job, “the OT prototype of the sufferer” (p. 93), are examined. Naomi is found to be unlike Job, for she is not alone, does not address God, and does not explicitly state any understanding of God (p. 95).

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In Chapter 5 Saxegaard examines Ruth and finds her identity unclear. Consistent with the difficulty of interpreting her personal name is the difficulty of interpreting Ruth’s character, particularly since her inner life is not revealed (p. 105). Saxegaard discusses the ten different designations for Ruth (e.g., “the Moabitess,” “daughter-in-law,” “foreigner,” etc.) that appear in the narrative, and suggests that these designations reinforce the sense of difficulty in pinning down a unified description of Ruth’s identity (p. 128). The three times Ruth is asked for her identity in the narrative add to this sense of uncertainty about her identity (p. 128). Saxegaard concludes that in examining Ruth’s designations, her identity is multifaceted: “She is simultaneously a foreign Moabite and a faithful daughter-in-law, a seductive handmaid, and a worthy woman” (p. 128). In the second part of the chapter, Saxegaard analyzes Ruth’s actions. Especially prominent is Saxegaard’s discussion of foreignness and the issue of her possible conversion. For Saxegaard, talk of conversion or even assimilation is not apt because Ruth retains the descriptor “the Moabitess” throughout the narrative (p. 133). On this point I do not find Saxegaard’s reading convincing. Even though “the Moabitess” label remains with Ruth through most of the narrative, it is not used by the end of the narrative. Ruth is named at least four times after 4:10, never with the identified “the Moabitess.” Also, a more precise definition of “assimilation” would have helped in the discussion, as well as reference to relevant anthropological or social-scientific insights into this type of phenomenon. Saxegaard goes on to highlight the surprising nature of a foreigner being involved in building up the house of Israel (p. 138) and also discusses the unclear nature of Ruth’s proposal to Boaz on the threshing floor (p. 140). Perhaps a consideration of Paul Kruger’s article might have shed some light on the latter issue.1 Saxegaard concludes the chapter by classifying Ruth’s character as full-fledged, with “traits of the type” (p. 142). Boaz, the only other full-fledged character, is analyzed in chapter 6. His designations and descriptions are found to be consistent with his actions in Ruth: he is a steady pillar of society. He is also called a “redeemer,” and in this chapter Saxegaard outlines how the three characters (Naomi, Ruth, and Boaz) refer to ‫ לאג‬differently. Saxegaard views the threshing floor scene as another example of ambiguity, leaving the question of what exactly happened open to the reader (p. 157). She also discussed the crux interpretum of Ruth 4:5, preferring the ketib reading, “I acquire,” which presents Boaz as “eager, stressed and clever” (p. 161). Consistent with this reading and interpretation, Saxegaard also considers Boaz to have traits of a “trickster” in his dealings with Mr So-and-So (p. 163). Although the Levirate law of Deut 25 is considered by Saxegaard to be irrelevant to the situation in Ruth, Boaz applies this law for his benefit (p. 160). Boaz’s

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motivation for marrying Ruth is identified as personal dedication and procuring an heir for himself, not his stated aim of preserving Mahlon’s name (p. 164). Saxegaard closes the chapter by drawing attention to the Boaz’s role as “spokesman of Yahweh” (p. 167) and one who takes the place of Yahweh (p. 169). I find this too strong a demarcation; instead of either God or Boaz, does the textual evidence not more clearly point to a ‘both and’ situation? Perhaps even God is acting through Boaz (cf. Ruth 2:12 with 3:9). Saxegaard briefly admits this possibility (p. 169), but reasoned arguments against it would have strengthened her own stance. After rightly pointing out that God is often ignored in analyses of biblical characters, Saxegaard proceeds with an analysis of God’s designations and actions, following the same pattern of the previous two chapters. Saxegaard adjudges God to be a character in Ruth, but a silent character. The narrative description of his direct action in granting conception to Ruth (4:13) is downplayed by Saxegaard; thus, although God is silently present, he also leaves the characters to their own devices (p. 194). Saxegaard views God as being unaffected by the other characters; indeed, “there is no interaction between God and the other characters” (p. 195). This seems, I think, to be an overstatement since one could identify a pattern of prayers by the characters throughout the narrative being answered by God as the narrative develops. Much of this, however, turns on how the character’s speech to/about God is interpreted—whether as “prayers” or as “address of God” (p. 193 n. 112). Further, Saxegaard seems too quick to dismiss the possibility of God working in the narrative (1:6; 4:13). Yet Saxegaard does not consider God to be completely absent, being present through the acts of hesed performed by Orpah and Ruth, Boaz, then Ruth again (p. 190). As for character typology, God is considered a type (p. 195). Finally, in chapter 8 Saxegaard summaries the traits of the main characters and draws together her conclusions about two theological themes: foreign identity and God’s silence. Regarding foreigners and mixed marriages, Saxegaard argues that the narrative does not present a unified answer (p. 204). The view derived from the character of Naomi is negative, while Boaz’s view is positive. Similarly, through an examination of the characters, Saxegaard finds a complexity of views of God: “to Boaz, God blesses; to Naomi, God has become distant; and to Ruth, he seems of less importance” (p. 206). There is ambiguity to God regarding his presence, whether he blesses or not, and to whom Yahweh is God (p. 206). The chapter concludes with some short reflections on the flexibility of application of the law in Ruth and with how readers can identify, to some extent, with all three main characters—Boaz, Ruth and Naomi.

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A focus on theological themes deriving from a narratological analysis is welcome, rather than just a free-standing narratological study. Yet I wonder if, instead of, or in addition to focusing on the differing voices of each character regarding theological themes, a stronger theological thrust for each theme can be derived from an overall reading of the narrative. Certainly, in her initial methodological reflections Saxegaard outlines the ambiguity inherent in using an implied reader, but she also highlights the importance of following the nuances of the plot and the “artistic qualities of the narrative” (pp. 11–12). While Saxegaard has fruitfully applied especially the “character” aspect of narratology, perhaps more consideration of the overall “plot” and the judgments of the narrator might have been helpful in finding the overarching viewpoint of the implied author, and hence in reducing some of the ambiguity that Saxegaard identifies. For instance, in regards to foreign presence in Israel, I do not consider the book of Ruth so ambiguous. Read as a whole, the Ruth narrative presents the case that foreigners (especially those who are virtuous, in the mold of Ruth) can build up the house of Israel and can be accepted into the community of faith. Boaz’s acceptance of Ruth then performs an exemplary function. The typographical errors were a distraction at times. Without consciously seeking them, I spotted 44 typographical errors in the main text and footnotes of the book. The Index of Modern Authors similarly contains errors and is incomplete. Nonetheless, this is a welcome contribution to Ruth studies. It deserves consideration by both those interested in the book of Ruth and those interested in narratological approaches. 1 P. A. Kruger, “The Hem of Garment in Marriage: The Meaning of the Symbolic Gesture in Ruth 3:9 and Ezek 16:8,” JNSL 12 (1984), 79–86.

Michael W. Duggan, THE CONSUMING FIRE: A CHRISTIAN GUIDE TO THE OLD TESTAMENT (rev. ed.; Huntington, Ind.: Our Sunday Visitor Press, 2010). Pp. 686. Softcover. US$29.95. ISBN 978-1592765973.AT II, 47; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010). Pp. XV + 240. Sewn paper. €59.00. ISBN 978-3-16-1503856.

Reviewed by Sonya Kostamo University of Alberta This updated and revised version of Duggan’s 1991 book under the same title, The Consuming Fire: A Christian Guide to the Old Testament, is a helpful introductory companion to the study of the Catholic canon of the Old Testament. Duggan notes in the introduction that his book is directed for those who “have never undertaken a systematic study of the Scriptures” (p. 22). He states that new information in articles of the latest edition of The Anchor Bible Dictionary1 are a significant source of the updated material in the new edition and events and figures are dated in accordance with the most recent relevant articles from this source. The work of Richard Elliot Friedman2 is singularly mentioned as the basis of Duggan’s current analysis of the Pentateuchal sources. The greatest alterations in this new edition are within the chapters covering: compositional chronology (ch. 3), the Pentateuch (chs. 4–11), the Deuteronomistic History (chs. 12–15), 1–2 Chronicles (ch. 16), and Ezra-Nehemiah (ch. 17). Each chapter in Duggan’s text begins with a short section that suggests possible contemporary parallels to the ancient historical contexts or prominent themes within the biblical text. This is followed by background information regarding the historical setting, composition, and structure of the book. Within the large scope of this book, Duggan gives only cursory information regarding the original author and/or subsequent compilers, editors, and redactors, while giving greater attention to organizing and relating the content of each book mainly through discussing prominent themes or patterns in the book(s) contents. As an introductory text there are no footnotes and limited attention to extrabiblical evidence, text-critical issues, or scholarly debates. Following the discussion on 532

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‘content,’ each chapter has a section entitled “New Testament Perspectives” in which Duggan explores quotations, allusions, or similarity to texts in the New Testament. At the end of each chapter a section entitled “Meditative Reading” lists and contains questions related to passages within the book(s), which highlight elements discussed in the chapter. The questions deal with issues such as: characterization, literary aspects, evidence of sources, and contemporary theological significance. Finally, Dugan rounds out each chapter with an outline of the book(s) with references for units and subunits of content. After introductory chapters devoted to canonical issues (ch. 1) and an overview of the history and geography of the ancient Near East (3000 BCE–135 CE), the remaining chapters are organized within larger categories (Pentateuch, Historical Books, Prophets, Writings, and the Deuterocanonical Books) subdivided further into chapters devoted to the individual books. Duggan notes that in addition to presenting the books of the Old Testament chronologically, there is also a blending of the Hebrew canon and Greek canon order. Ruth, Esther, and Lamentations are presented within the section on Wisdom Literature, and Ezra, Nehemiah, and 1–2 Chronicles appear after the Deuteronomistic History section. Deuterocanonical texts are covered in the last chapters of the book as the latest compositions. The order of biblical texts is based upon the chronological progression of periods narrated within the biblical texts as well as Duggan’s historical reconstruction of each book’s composition from earliest to latest. The section on the Prophets (Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and the Twelve Minor Prophets), is organized chronologically, mostly centered upon pre-exilic through post-exilic settings but noting the presence and role of prophecy from pre-1100 BCE to 250 BCE. According to Duggan’s reconstruction, he presents the books of the prophets in the following chronological order: Amos and Hosea (ch. 19), Isaiah and Micah (ch. 20), Zephaniah, Nahum, and Habakkuk (ch. 21), Jeremiah (ch. 22), Ezekiel (ch. 23), Second Isaiah (ch. 24), Haggai and First Zechariah (ch. 25), Third Isaiah and Malachi (ch. 26), Obadiah and Joel (ch. 27), Second Zechariah and Jonah (ch. 28). A chapter on Wisdom Literature (ch. 29) introduces sections devoted to the books of Psalms, Proverbs, Job, Ruth, Esther, Lamentations, Song of Songs, Qoheleth, and Daniel. Duggan organizes and presents these books, along with the deuterocanonical texts, in different ways. First, he discusses Psalms (ch. 30) according to the various thematic categories while noting a long compositional period. The chapter on Proverbs (ch. 31) explores possible origins and historical settings that go back to ancient Near Eastern parallels from the 26th century BCE and wisdom traditions in Israel from

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the Solomonic era (10th century BCE) through to the Alexandrian wisdom tradition behind the Wisdom of Solomon (1st century BCE). Duggan treats Ruth and Esther (ch. 33), Lamentations, Song of Songs, and Qoheleth (ch. 34) according to their place within the Hebrew Megilloth. The deuterocanonical texts have no introductory chapter and are presented as the latest group of texts (2nd century BCE–2nd century CE) in the following progression: 1–2 Maccabees (ch. 36), Sirach (ch. 37), Tobit, Judith, Baruch (ch. 38), and the Wisdom of Solomon (ch. 39). Some of the strength’s of Duggan’s book are the accessibility of the writing, thoroughness with regard to thematic overviews of each text, and the sections devoted to relationships between these Old Testament texts to those of the New Testament. Duggan offers a traditional presentation of the composition and transmission of the Pentateuch (J, E, D, P with final priestly redaction ca. 400 BCE) and Deuteronomistic History (Josianic revision Dtr1, exilic revision Dtr2). His presentation of the texts of the Prophets functions within the paradigm of prophetic schools that preserved and added to the earliest material associated with the historical prophetic figure. This position lends towards the division of books like Isaiah and Zechariah into portions Duggan assigns to different periods. While this approach seeks to explain the distinctiveness of units within books by subsequent historical contexts, such attribution leaves out discussion regarding textual unity. Duggan’s introduction is less helpful for exploring scholarly debates or theories regarding compositional history, textual criticism (e.g., evidence from the Dead Sea Scrolls), or extrabiblical evidence that challenges the dating and description of events in the biblical texts. The topical organization of the general bibliography (pp. 657–686) that lists short bibliographies for general subjects and each biblical book (including the New Testament books) is helpful for those seeking to read further. The interactive aspect of each chapter, entitled “Meditative Reading,” is a useful resource for summarizing and discussing each chapter’s main points. Beyond this section, however, there are no outside resources such as websites, or other electronic resources integrated into the book, but there is significant space devoted to referential aids, such as a series of maps (pp. 339–347), charts organizing historical periods (pp. 50–54) and dates of composition for the biblical texts (pp. 65–68), as well as helpful outlines of the content of Pentateuchal sources (ch. 5). Duggan covers an admirably large body of material, making brevity in some areas necessary and understandable. As a companion text for beginning systematic study of the Catholic canon of the Old Testament, The Consuming Fire provides a helpful framework and foundation for general historical backgrounds along with good overviews of the thematic content of each biblical book and their

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literary and chronological relationship to each other. The revised and updated version of The Consuming Fire would be a valuable text for introductory courses within theological settings for seminarians, undergraduates, and interested lay people. 1 David N. Freedman, ed., Anchor Bible Dictionary (6 vols.; New York: Doubleday, 1992). 2 Richard Elliott Friedman, The Bible with Sources Revealed (New York: HarperCollins, 2003); Commentary on the Torah with a New English Translation (New York: HarperCollins, 2001); The Exile and Biblical Narrative: The Formation of the Deuteronomistic and Priestly Works (HSM 22; Chico, Cal.: Scholars, 1981); The Hidden Book in the Bible (New York: HarperCollins, 1998); “Torah (Pentateuch),” ABD 6:605–22; Who Wrote the Bible? (New York: HarperCollins, 1997).

Jeremy M. Hutton, THE TRANSJORDANIAN PALIMPSEST: THE OVERWRITTEN TEXTS OF PERSONAL EXILE AND TRANSFORMATION IN THE DEUTERONOMISITIC HISTORY (BZAW, 396; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2009). Pp. xvii + 449. Hardback. €110.00. $167.00. ISBN 978-3-11-021276-1.

Reviewed by Klaus-Peter Adam Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago In this thoroughly argued monograph (377 pages; plus bibliography and index of scriptural citations), J. Hutton puts the results of major recent exegeses of smaller textual units of Samuel into a perspective within an overarching pre-Dtr redaction theory. While in current controversies about Deuteronomism in 1 Sam 9–1 Kgs 2 most pieces of the tradition are dated increasingly later, Hutton hypothesizes three pre-Dtr stages of Sam–Kings. First, tenth-century primary core units; then, at the end of the tenth century a combination and elaboration of those documents; and, finally, a late ninth, early eighth-century “Prophetic Record” that ultimately wandered south. Hutton attempts to trace five strands of traditions back into a pre-Dtr, tenth-century literary stage: two distinct forms of narratives about Saul’s rise

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(a deliverer-type narrative in 1 Sam 11:1–15; cf. Judg 3, 8, 11 and see p. 31; and another Narrative of Saul’s Rise), the Ark Narrative, the First History of David’s Rise, the Second History of David’s Rise, and a Report of a Battle against Absalom. Second, Hutton suggests a phase of combination in the pre-Dtr edition of Samuel shortly after the traditions have been written, no later than the end of the tenth century. In this phase the various exiles in the Transjordan take on ambivalent meanings. First, different from the stories of the Judges, Transjordanian exile is transformative: It is an “incubation [that] is illusory at best” (p. 373) for Ishbosheth in Mahanaim, 2 Sam 2:8–9 (cf. for Mephibosheth in Lo-Debar 9:3–5; geographically different is Sheba in 20:7, 13–22 in Abel Beth-Maacah; Absalom in Geshur 13:38); while for David, the Transjordanian exile is a renewal and a foundation for a “lasting political legitimacy” (p. 373). For David, the Transjordan is a pragmatic place to flee that, notwithstanding this, has at the same time a truly incubative aspect to it. Third, Hutton assumes a central hub of prophetic redaction in the ninth/early eighth century BCE that added individual legends (p. 374). This pre-Deuteronomistic prophetic redaction of the late ninth or early eighth century, is “one of the three major systems of representation of the Transjordanian landscape” (p. 371). Hutton relates the three pre-Dtr editions of the entirety of Sam–Kings to a number of redactional theories on Samuel and Kings (among others, Weippert, Barrick, Campbell, Lemaire; Birch, McCarter, Mayes, O’Brien; the prophetic tradition especially with Dietrich, Vermeylen, Campbell, M. C. White; pp. 79–156). The sources of the ninth /early eighth-century Prophetic Record serve as a “medial node” (p. 155) within a network of three major tradition complexes of the Dtr History: a Narrative of Saul’s Rise in 1 Sam 7–15*, a History of David’s Rise in 1 Sam 15–2 Sam 5* and, the Succession Narrative in 2 Sam 2–1 Kgs 2*. For the sake of clarity, the main results are rendered separately for 1 and 2 Samuel. A central methodological insight of Hutton’s detailed discussions of the source-critical models of 2 Samuel is the rejection of Rost’s source critical conclusions of the Succession Narrative with a proSolomonic bias (Tendenz). The Succession Narrative in its current form is the product of the development of 2 Samuel in 5 stages (pp. 177–221; summary p. 222): 1. A concise battle report 13:1–29, 34a, 37aβ, 38b–39; 14:33aβγb; 15:1–16:13; 18:1–2a, 4b, 6–9, 15b–18bα. 2. The Transjordanian exile traditions 15:1–37*; 16:15– 19:16*; 20*. 3. The Solomonic apology 11:1–27* and 12:15b–25*; 1 Kgs 1–2*.

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4. The Benjaminite episodes 2 Sam 2–4*; 9*; 16:1–14*, and 19:17–41*, but not including 2 Sam 21. 5. The prophetic addition in 2 Sam 12:1–15a*, the Jonathan narratives in 1 Samuel, the anti-Joab insertions and, possibly, passages about YHWH's anointed 2 Sam 1:10–11a; 4:10–11a; 1 Kgs 1:29b; 2:31b–33. In a similar way, pre-Dtr units form the core of 1 Samuel, which Hutton shows in detail in the independent source-critical patchwork of the History of David’s Rise (p. 78). Hutton rejects ideas of a single, reworked source of HDR (contra Weiser, Grønbaek, Nuebel); a 3-level-model of redactional development (contra Humphreys: old Saul tradition within 1 Sam 9–15* with a threefold reworking by a northern prophetic school, a Judahite proDavidic group, especially in 1 Sam 16–31 and a seventh-century antimonarchic Dtr; p. 233); pre-Dtr redactional bridges built between earlier Saul-traditions in 1 Sam 1–14* in passages like 1 Sam 14:52; 16:14– 23+18:17–27+19:9–10,11–12+21–31 etc. (contra Kratz, and others); as well as a composite Court History 2 Sam 11–1 Kgs 2* that was later taken up and supplemented by Dtr (p. 234). Instead, Hutton adopts a classical model of two independent sources of 1 Samuel combined by a redactor. In discussion with other explanations of the doublets in the HDR (Halpern, Langlamet, Willi-Plein, Kaiser) all of whom assume a basic layer that was combined with a second layer. Hutton suggests a “more historical” HDR 1 who presents shorter and earlier traditions and whose author was familiar with many persons at Saul’s court. On the backdrop of HDR 1 he carves out a “more intentionally sculpted form” of a HDR 2 (p. 228) that was combined and integrated into the present account by a redactor. Main characteristics of the respective plots are also the family lines, namely the two children Michal (HDR 1) and Jonathan (HDR 2, pp. 269–73), who both function as vehicles to transfer the Israelite kingdom and bring it into Judaean rule. As to the traditions about Saul in 1 Samuel, Hutton suggests a similar, twofold development on two independent documents: first, for the Saulide traditions, a combination of two originally independent “Narratives of Saul’s Rise”: a “deliverer narrative” (p. 364), called NSR A, 1 Sam 11:1–11* (pp. 322, 364) developed in the predominantly oral, text-supported milieu of the early to mid-tenth century BCE, which was augmented by NSR B, a complete literary unit, comprising the folktale of 1 Sam 9:1–10:16 that ended in Saul’s and his naʿar taking over a Philistine garrison in Gibeah 14:6–16 (p. 328). The reference to Saul’s uncle in 14:51 concluded this fairytale like story (pp. 342–49).

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Furthermore, Hutton suggests a comparable development for a Shiloh-related Ark narrative that originated in its basic scope during the tenth century BCE and can be called the core of 1 Sam 4:1–7:1*. Likewise, an old report of the battle against Absalom existed (2 Sam [13:1–29, 34a, 37ab, 38b–39; 14:33aβγb; 15:1–6,13]; 18:1–2a, 4b, 6–9, 15b–18) that had initially contained a battle in Cisjordan, on which soon after a Transjordanian location was imposed (2 Sam 15:7–12*, 14–37*+16:15– 17:29* + 18:19–19:16*). These earliest stages of narratives were combined: NSR A and B already merged with HDR 1 in the late tenth century, the report of the battle against Absalom underwent a series of revisions and of reframing; the apology of Solomon (SA) was added, comprising 2 Sam 11:1–27*; 12:(15b–23), 24–25*; 1 Kgs 1–2* which transformed an already pro-Davidic Court History (CH) into a political document that supported Solomon (p. 367). The Benjaminite episodes (2 Sam 2–4*; 9*; 16:1–14*; 19:17–41*) were introduced at this second stage of the combination of the earliest sources in the late tenth century and became a part of an authentic Court History that continued to grow around the Apology of Solomon, among others 2 Sam 13–14*, which provide further cause for revolution, and Sheba’s ending 2 Sam 20*. Borrowing from C. Levi-Strauss’ terminology, Hutton refers to the pre-Deuteronomistic editors/writers as bricoleurs who reuse traditions for their own purposes. The Transjordanian landscape is understood as a palimpsest (p. 371) that features three distinct systems of the representation of the Transjordan in the narratives: the individual deliverer narratives, the Court History, and Transjordan individual prophetic records (pp. 371–76). Hutton’s contribution synthesizes a broad range of detailed sourcecritical investigations of Samuel, and he offers for many parts an interesting outline of its development. As with all composition-critical work, any relative dating of the layers can be agreed upon easier than absolute dates. As a consequence, Hutton’s support of early source-critical material and the ninth-century “prophetic” circles who combined early and late tenthcentury sources requires careful evaluation, which cannot be given here. Among the relative dates, the reconstructions of the Narrative of Saul’s Rise is probably the most hypothetical passage: following form-critical insights on the development of traditions of a hero’s youth, histories of origins in biographic settings are likely to be projections into the past rather than source-based narratives from the oldest parts of a biography. The reconstruction of a tenth-century folktale layer of a narrative of Saul’s Rise that existed independently from the narrative of David’s Rise seems, for that matter, relatively daring. In the narratives about his rise, Saul seems to be—to a large extent—a foil to the successful David.

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Another remark concerns the doubled and tripled episodes of 1 Samuel in which Hutton’s analysis similarly begs the methodological question of whether the repetitions in 1 Samuel indeed reflect separate, secondarily combined sources. Generally speaking, the parallels of the episodes in HDR 2 likewise could possibly have emerged from a reworking of a strand of HDR 1. The motifs of the History of David’s Rise, such as the escape stories in 1 Sam 26 and 1 Sam 24, are strikingly similar. It seems equally plausible to assume that one of the versions was (at least partly) rewritten on the basis of an older one (Fortschreibung). Naturally, a documentary hypothesis of two independent sources as suggested by Hutton explains the similarities between both strands with two different origins of the same traditions. The main emphasis of this monograph is on the literary-historical discussion, and some other theoretical assumptions seem to be of rather tangential relevance for Hutton’s overall result. The framing theory about the Transjordan is loosely attached to Hutton’s core concerns. Reading the “ritualistic aspects” of the final text of the Absalom revolt (p. 7) on the backdrop of van Gennep’s ritual theory leads Hutton to an “incubational” understanding (pp. 14, 374) of the transition from the West Jordan to the East Jordan in 2 Sam 15:37b–16:13 and the retreat from there in 19:41a. David’s geographical journey in chs. 15–19 (p. 16) provides, from Hutton’s point of view, essential structuring moments in the arrangement of the Absalom revolt. In the application of the ritual theory of rites de passage on the physical transition of place (p. 13), Hutton explains elements of van Gennep’s model of the rites of passage in the separation from the community (p. 17). The understanding even of short episodes of the narratives on the backdrop of a rite of passage within the movements of “disenfranchisement and re-empowerment” (p. 19) seems as application of ritual aspects in only a relatively loose manner, and this experimental heuristic model bears less explanatory potential for the literary-historical reconstruction of the Absalom revolt than possibly for the understanding of the characters of the narratives, which may require further investigation. The suggestion of a ritual reading and Hutton’s main contributions to the literary development of Samuel will certainly be discussed and reflected in future scholarly contributions.

Stephanie Dalley, ESTHER’S REVENGE AT SUSA: FROM SENNACHERIB TO AHASUERUS (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2007). Pp. xv+260. Hardcover. US$99.00. ISBN 978-0-19-921663-5.

Reviewed by Maria Brosius Newcastle University Esther’s Revenge at Susa: From Sennacherib to Ahasuerus aims to show that the story of the Book of Esther is based on religious and cultural issues of the Late Assyrian period, which survived through the centuries down to the Hellenistic period, when the story was written down and placed in an Achaemenid context, more specifically, during the reign of Artaxerxes I. To achieve this, Dalley divides the task into two parts. Part I focuses on the historical background, describing and analysing issues related to Assyrian history (chs. 1–4), Assyrian literature (ch. 5) and the goddess Isthar-ofNineveh (ch. 6). This is done in order to demonstrate the identification of Ishtar with Esther, and Mordechai with Marduk, ultimately to show that the actions attributed to the deities have been transferred to humans. Part II discusses the appearance of Assyrian words, phrases and customs in the Hebrew Book of Esther (ch. 7), provides the seventh century BC historical background of the story (ch. 8), and finally, in chapter 9, presents the argument as to how the story evolved from history to myth. The book features an extensive list of figures, a family tree of Assyrian kings, a bibliography, a glossary, a general index, and an index of Akkadian, Hebrew, Greek and Aramaic words. As Dalley states in her introduction, her study builds on previous work which makes the connection between 7th century Assyria and the events described in the Book of Esther. For example, calendar references in the Book of Esther can be related to the cultic calendar of Ishtar-ofNineveh (p. 6), which in turn suggests that the figure of Esther ought to be identified with this particular goddess. Additionally, links between Assyrian and Israelite cultures are readily found in Upper Egypt, with other, comparable adaptations being found in the story of Tobit and Ahiqar, thus confirming the Egyptian link. According to this view, the Persian 540

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connection with the Book of Esther diminishes considerably, but Dalley proposes that this merely shows the extent of the Assyrian influence on Persian culture (p. 7). This argument, however, is not pursued any further by Dalley, who emphasises that the focus of her study lies in the Assyrian connection. Dalley delves deep into Assyrian history and culture to achieve the aims she set herself in the book, to the extent that the first four chapters take up almost half of the volume. After the discussion of the cultural links between Israel and Egypt and the discussion of the literary genre, not much space remains to discuss the transmission of the Assyrian traits into the Hebrew story. For the reader, this can be trying at times since not all the information provided for the history of the reigns of Sennacherib, Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal seems immediately relevant to the discussion. As much as the author needs to provide the reader with a background which enables him or her to place the Esther story into a possible context, its extent seems imbalanced. Of course, understanding the narrative of Assyrian history is valuable for Dalley’s discussion, but the weight she gives to this discussion threatens to distract from her overall argumentation. Of more concern is the way Dalley makes her case. Repeatedly, she makes assertions about possible parallels, without providing arguments for them. For example, the destruction of Susa by the Assyrians in 647 BC is seen as a direct parallel to the two massacres described in the Hebrew Book of Esther (p. 52). Additionally, revenge taken by an Assyrian king is equalled to the revenge motif in the Book of Esther (p. 53). At the beginning of Chapter 5 Dalley identifies Esther with Ishtar-of-Nineveh and Mordechai with Marduk, without ever offering a discussion of this assumption. It was mentioned in the introduction, but this identification at no point receives any critical discussion. Instead, the whole argument of the book is based on the unquestioned acceptance of this identification. Yet, all the historical background provided does not replace a thorough argument as to why the reader should accept this identification. This is not a view upon which scholarship is unanimously agreed. Therein lies the central problem with the book. It presents a view to the reader without sufficient evidence to support it. Assertions replace argument, and as a result, the strength of the view expressed here, is weakened. To give an example, on p. 135 Dalley writes: “The Assyrian occupation was at a time when Egyptian artistic traditions would have become more widely known in Assyria. In literature too the rise of the royal heroine may possibly be due to influence from Egypt, but coming at an earlier period via Anatolia and North Syria. The Assyrian examples, commemorated in public descriptions, dating between about 800 and 670 BC, show the beginning of the tradition of heroines to which Esther belongs.” Apart from the assumption made here

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about Assyrian literature and its Egyptian influence, Esther’s place within that “tradition” is stated as fact, rather than argued. On pp. 147–148 a story about the religious ceremony involving Ishtar-of-Arbela is paralleled with the union between the Persian king and Esther. This is simply not sufficient to convince the readership of the identification of Ishtar with Esther. On p. 160 we read about lot-casting performed by Ishtar-of Nineveh, and, without further discussion, this is paralleled with the casting of lots in the Book of Esther. Statement replaces argument here, and this cannot result in convincing scholarship. As very little scholarly criticism appears in the footnotes, the reader is not alerted to other points of view, scholarly opposition, or alternative forms of interpretation of the evidence. In addition, nowhere is an explanation given as to how an Assyrian story about divinities could have been transferred to humans. Nobody would dispute the existence of literary traditions and the adoption and adaptations of literary motifs, of cultural and religious elements from one culture into another. There may be variants in the way stories are being written down over the centuries, from Gilgamesh to Dionysus, but the identity of the figures, be they humans or gods, always remain the same. Thus, what seems out of place and, ultimately, remains unconvincing in the book, is the reason why a story which relates to Ishtar and Marduk—and only to the divine figures themselves, as there is no parallel Assyrian story line to the one narrated in the Hebrew story—was altered so much that the dramatis personae became human beings. Individual story elements taken from a variety of Assyrian textual evidence from myth, religion, and historical chronicles cannot suffice to explain the story of the Book of Esther as originating in Assyrian tradition. This does not dispute the existence of an Assyrian connection obvious in the use of Assyrian words and elements of the Babylonian calendar. But their presence does not amount to placing stories about Ishtar-of Arbela and Ishtar-of-Nineveh, actions of revenge by Assyrian kings or elements of the sacred marriage ceremony as evidence for the story we find in the Hebrew Book of Esther. Recent scholarship has looked successfully into the question of Greek sources for the book of Esther and into story variants from Greek historical sources. This aspect is not covered in the present book, but does deserve discussion, as it has implications for the claims made here. The Persian court also does not receive much mention. As Dalley states in her introduction, this is not her concern here, yet the reader ought to know at least that there is a debate as to whether the king in the Book of Esther is Xerxes or Artaxerxes (opinion is still divided), why the story is set in a Persian context and what that means for its understanding. By omitting

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the Persian context from the discussion, the overall quality of the work is not served well. A final note: The book is amply illustrated, but the reader will fail, for the most part, to find any direct references to these figures in the text. Presumably they are incorporated in order to illustrate a point or illuminate the reader on aspects of Assyrian culture, but this opportunity gets lost in the lack of context provided for these images in the text.

Harmut N. Rösel, JOSHUA (Historical Commentary on the Old Testament; Leuven: Peeters, 2011). Pp. xxx + 386. Hardback. €45.00. ISBN 978-90-429-2592-2.

Reviewed by Philippe Guillaume Grub, Switzerland As required by the series Historical Commentaries of the Old Testament, each chapter of Harmut Rösel’s Joshua provides a fresh translation, a short bibliography, and a section called “Essentials and Perspectives” that in a few lines provides a very informative overview of the main issues. The verse-by-verse exposition that follows makes abundant reference to German and Israeli exegetes, which makes this volume a valuable tool for readers who do not master these languages. The volume opens with a 10-page general bibliography and a 20-page introduction that discusses the place of the Book of Joshua in the Bible, the emergence of the book, and its theological significance—in particular the ban and how Calvin dealt with it. Also addressed are the historicity of the Conquest (“Israel emerged within its country, not before its country”), etiological stories, the figure of Joshua, Joshua in Judaism, and the textcritical issues in Joshua. A map of the geography of Joshua 1–13 appears here as well. Although the commentary focuses on the final text, Rösel does not shy away from diachronic issues. He refrains, however, from mentioning specific historical contexts and only assigns early, late, or very late dates to the different pericopes. On the one hand, this approach saves on endless speculations concerning when and why each section of Joshua arose. On

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the other hand, stating that a passage is late or very late begs the historical question without revealing the intricate scaffolding that supports it. This results from the paradox of this series of commentaries, which uses the term “historical” in its title while assigning priority to the final stage of the text. This issue is a faithful reflection of the present dilemma of the exegesis of the Hebrew Scriptures, stuck between the excesses of redaction criticism and the impossibility of dealing with a book like Joshua without taking into account its development in stages. In this sense, Rösel has managed the impossible, and the volume is a case study for the current situation. Taking a post-Noth stance, Rösel insists on the presence of very late post-Deuteronomistic stages often shaped under Priestly influence, and thus ignores the hypothesis according to which Josh 5:10–12; 18:1 constitute the conclusion of the Priestly Document (a hypothesis that does not imply the existence of a Hexateuch). In line with his earlier work demonstrating the lack of a comprehensive leitmotiv in the Deuteronomistic History,1 Rösel drops the notion of “Deuteronomistic History” and reveals the weaknesses of Noth’s celebrated hypothesis in regard to the Book of Joshua. This is probably one of the major contributions of the volume, an important read at a time when it is fashionable to save oneself the trouble of drawing the full consequences of the current state of research by adding the words “so-called” in front of the designation “Deuteronomistic History.” Rösel’s excellent command of the literature enables him to offer several options to various issues with clear explanations of which solution seems more probable. The volume closes with a six-page index of site identifications that lists the Arabic name of its likely location, the map coordinates, and the references in the Book of Joshua. The realization of this long-time dream by a student of Martin Noth and Rudolph Smend is a remarkable accomplishment thanks to the breadth of knowledge written in such concise fashion. At 45 Euros, it is an excellent deal, and the crown of a fruitful career. 1 “Does a Comprehensive ‘Leitmotiv’ exist in the Deuteronomistic History?” T. Römer (ed.), The Future of the Deuteronomistic History (BETL, 147; Leuven: Peeters 2000), 195–211.

Luke Gärtner-Brereton, THE ONTOLOGY OF SPACE IN BIBLICAL HEBREW NARRATIVE: THE DETERMINATE FUNCTION OF NARRATIVE “SPACE” WITHIN THE BIBLICAL HEBREW AESTHETIC (BibleWorld; Oakville, CT; Equinox, 2008). Pp. 128. Paperback. US$28.95. ISBN 9781845533144.

Reviewed by Robert C. Kashow Dallas Theological Seminary The reader of The Ontology of Space in Biblical Hebrew Narrative will no doubt find its author, Luke Gärtner-Brereton, conflating his knowledge and insight of philosophy, literary studies, biblical studies, and kindred disciplines into this one book. With that said, if the goal of this work is to prove, as the subtitle suggests, that “‘space’ itself acts as a ‘determining’ factor within the Hebrew aesthetic,” then the book will ultimately disappoint (p. 25). Let that not deter the reader, however, for GärtnerBrereton has offered to us a very suggestive work which contributes to the area of narratology in refreshing and unique ways. In the Introduction and Chapter 1, Gärtner-Brereton begins by suggesting that in the world of “narratological” and “literary” approaches to the Hebrew Bible, the “dominant presumption [is] that the mode of character representation in the HB is highly sophisticated” (pp. 1–2). Such a presumption in many ways anticipates our own aesthetic/cinematic tastes and thus is an anachronistic enterprise (pp. 1–2; contra Robert Alter et al.; emphasis mine).1 Moreover, recent literary approaches fixate on “the technique behind Hebrew narrative; the interrelations and functions of the rhetorical, authorial devices which give the text its depth and colour” (p. 2). But what of those literary elements outside of the rhetorical authorial devices? Here Gärtner-Brereton turns to Vladimir Propp, who “offers a particularly cogent counterpoint” to modern scholars (p. 2). Specifically, Propp “granted primacy to structure rather than content as such” (p. 3), an approach which on the surface seems to offer promise (emphasis mine). Gärtner-Brereton quickly notes, however, the deficiencies in applying 545

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Propp’s method to the Hebrew Bible, namely, that Propp based his theory upon Slavic fairy tales—it too then, with other modern literary approaches to the Bible in its focus on the characters of the story, is an anachronistic enterprise and “doomed to failure” (p. 3).2 One either applies Propp’s model to the Hebrew Bible with no regard for the lack of transferability, or misconstrues “the aesthetic texture of the narrative in question (forcing a particular biblical narrative to fit within the folktale/fairy tale genre)” (p. 3; unpacked in more detail on pp. 6–24). Realizing these potential pit-falls, Gärtner-Brereton turns to an alternative approach, which applies Propp’s method to the Hebrew Bible in order to see where the method is deficient. That is, since the Hebrew Bible is qualitatively different than Slavic fairy tale, an application of Propp’s method to the Hebrew Bible will force the reader to “recognize the unique nature of the Hebrew aesthetic itself” (p. 4; italics original). Specifically, one observes that whereas the integral factor of Propp's method focused on a hero’s “journeying,” something “typified in modern cinema,” the Hebrew Bible is structured into “smaller episodic narrative units,” thereby granting “primacy to space…[operating] under similar mechanical constraints to those of a traditional stage-play—where space is central, characters are fluid, and objects tend to take on deep significance”—an overlooked dimension in modern biblical studies (p. 4–5). That the Hebrew Bible is more episodic rather than focused on a hero’s journey is illustrated in Chapter 2 which compares two of Alfred Hitchcock’s movies, Rope and North by Northwest, with the Hebrew aesthetic only to conclude that Rope is much more like Hebrew narrative as both exhibit a sort of “stage-play… a fact which is most apparent in the primacy biblical Hebrew narrative typically grants to ‘space’” (p. 25). Indeed, the Hebrew Bible is not entirely without a journeying vector—the editor of the Hebrew texts piecing together the smaller episodes to communicate a grander narrative—but for Gärtner-Brereton such a journey is not integral to the story itself (p. 26). It is within these smaller units that one can discern the presence and function of space. The typical pattern observed for these episodes is that (1) the location in which the episode takes place is announced (e.g. Luz/Bethel in Gen 35.6), (2) a character arrives at this location (e.g. “Jacob came to Luz…that is Bethel” [Gen 35.6]), (3) the act occurs, and (4) the character leaves the location when the smaller episode is finished (e.g., “They set out from Bethel” [Gen 35.16]; see pp. 29–30). Chapters 4–5 provide a construct for spatial prominence throughout the Hebrew narratives, building on but modifying a theory of “scarcity.” This theory suggests that the narratives exhibit a common theme of exclusion, whereby there is never enough substance to go around. There can only be one God, one chosen nation, one person who receives the

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blessing (Abel not Cain; Jacob not Esau), etc. Identifying such as the theme for Hebrew narrative, Gärtner-Brereton proposes that space is what dictates who is in and who is out: “It is in their capacity as either ‘in’ or ‘out,’ so to speak, that such spaces influence characters and objects within a given narrative.” Justification for this spatial reading of the text comes from Genesis 1–4. Gärtner-Brereton focuses on these chapters not for diachronic reasons, but for their location as front matter in the Tanak. Here, the argument is made that YHWH, when ordering the primordial chaos, created a place which is “in,” i.e. the “legal” and safe space of the Garden, and that which is “out,” namely, the “field” which is outside of the garden. Gärtner-Brereton then traces this idea of the “field” in Genesis, particularly highlighting Genesis 4 and 25, in order to demonstrate that space anticipates the actions and outcome of characters. Cain and Esau being those of the “field”—an “illegal” space—naturally arrive at a corresponding consequence, whereas Abel and Jacob, being those inhabiting “legal” space, arrive at blessing. Gärtner-Brereton here anticipates the objection that many spaces in the HB are merely “neutral” and concedes this point (p. 73), but in turn seems to ignore such a concession and pushes the thesis too far: “If then we take the function of narrative space seriously, in terms of its influence upon characters (whether individual or an entire nation), objects and plot movement within a given narrative; we are presented with a fresh way of reading biblical narratives, which focuses specifically on the underlying structures of the text” (p. 83). Positively, though, Gärtner-Brereton has shown that these particular spaces are theologically significant (at least in the texts discussed), and thus one would be remiss not to ask the spatial question in discourse analysis. In an attempt to provide a grander test case, Chapter 6 turns to the book of Ruth (Chapter 3 also offers a short test case of Gen 28.10–22, but length restrictions allow only an assessment of the larger example). Here, Gärtner-Brereton offers a construct where the book of Ruth moves structurally from illegality to legality, the impetus behind this movement being the spatial function of the story, amongst other factors. Contra the typical offstage role the field plays in Genesis, however, the book of Ruth relegates such illegal space to onstage. This is seen in two prominent places in Ruth chapters 2–3, namely, Boaz’s “field” and the threshing floor (cf. Hos 9.1 for the threshing floor's illegal ontological value). It is here where Boaz and Ruth develop what results in a seemingly “illegal” marital relationship, by any normal standard of Deuteronomic law. Bethlehem on the contrary, albeit offstage, serves as the spatial norm—this is where Naomi ought to be, and so also Ruth (after all without Ruth, there is no David [cf. the genealogy in Ruth 4]). The problem in the book of Ruth thus becomes spatially driven, moving illegal Ruth “the Moabite” to the status of

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a legal resident in Bethlehem. The space of the “city gate” is where such transformation occurs. The gate itself is neither illegal nor legal, but it “determines what is ‘legal’ and ‘illegal’…[a] spatial go-between for ‘the field(s)’ and ‘Bethlehem,’ a means of moving from an illegal space, to a legal space” (p. 96). This is an interesting proposal, but some objections may be raised. For example, should one accept a priori that Boaz’s field is illegal because field elsewhere can be theologically negative? Indeed, such a place could be dangerous for Ruth (the very command of Boaz not to touch Ruth to his servants implies this), but to assign “illegality” is dubious at best. Further, what evidence is there to suggest that the value of the city-gate is a “judicial space” in any “ontological” sense? Is not the cultural context here key? The city gate was a highly populated area, the place where Boaz might encounter the kinsman redeemer first in line and also legalize any marriage with Ruth (whether with him or with Ploni Almoni). In addition, the public scene of chapter 4 may simply find its significance by contrasting with the private encounter of chapter 3.3 At most it seems this larger test case as a whole really only extends the discussion of the ontological value of “field” in Genesis (see discussion of chapters 4–5 above) to other parts of the Hebrew Bible, and highlights Bethlehem as an additional theologically significant place (this of course is not surprising given its central status in the Tanak). Space is not found “determinate” but can be important and sometimes even possess ontological value. Again Gärtner-Brereton himself appears to concede this point: “My contention here is not that ‘space’ itself functions as the sole determinate within the Hebrew aesthetic, but rather that key ‘spaces’ act as determinate factors (among other factors) within Hebrew narratives such as the book of Ruth” (p. 104; emphasis mine). The problem though is that Gärtner-Brereton seems to belie such concessions throughout with statements that take the thesis too far (an example is provided above in the discussion of chapters 4–5, but readers will find more). In short, I recommend Gärtner-Brereton’ work to all those interested in narratology and kindred disciplines, for he has successfully shown through a negative use of Propp that the Hebrew Bible is quite different than our modern cinematic tastes (which includes a focus on the “journeying vector” amongst other things) and any such anachronistic assessment should be avoided. Yet the journeying vector is still important and must not be ignored, for the Hebrew Bible as edited possesses plots which transcend episodes. The resolution of one episode’s problem may not find resolution until several episodes later (e.g., Ruth 1 not finding ultimate resolution until Ruth 4). Still, it is an ancient text and should be studied according to the rules of ancient narrative and rhetoric. For this

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reason, however, one might wonder: why apply Propp at all rather than improving discourse analysis of the Hebrew narratives descriptively through scientific investigation of how ancient texts worked? Further, insofar as Gärtner-Brereton concedes that space is not always determinative— something contrary to the book’s title, but a point conceded within by Gärtner-Brereton himself—then his work is suggestive and a helpful contribution. Space is not always (nor mostly?) central, but can possess “ontological” value. Such value is highlighted explicitly upon a character’s recognition of such (e.g. Jacob’s eventual realization: “How awesome is this place” in Gen 28, for example), and/or as the reader of the text becomes attuned to a location’s theological significance in the reading and re-reading of the biblical narrative in its final form. A more proper subtitle for what this work accomplishes would perhaps be “theologies of space in the Hebrew aesthetic,” an endeavor within narratology which seeks to discover if spaces within plots and scenes are of any biblical theological (ontological) value. Here one would not be locked in to any “law of scarcity,” opening up spatial discussions to those who are not convinced by such a construct. More work needs to be done, specifically an exhaustive theology of space in the Hebrew Bible which identifies all those places which seemingly exhibit some ontological value (e.g. “the sea,” “east,” “west,” “Babel” or “Babylon,” “the watch tower,” to name a few). 1 Gärtner-Brereton is arguing against and has in mind Robert Alter and kindred authors. See for example, Robert Alter, The Art of Biblical Narrative (New York: Basic Books, 1981). 2 See V. Propp, Morphology of the Folktale, (1st English Edition; ed. S. Pirkova-Jakobson; trans. L. Scott; Indiana University Research Centre in Anthropology, Folklore, and Linguistics, Publication 10; Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1968). 3 On this see, e.g., E. F. Campbell, Ruth (ABC; Garden City, NJ: Doubleday, 1975), 154–57.

Thomas B. Dozeman, EXODUS (ECC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2009). Pp. xix+868. Paperback. US$55.00. ISBN 9780802826176.

Reviewed by William Morrow Queen’s School of Religion Thomas Dozeman’s commentary on Exodus offers perspectives on the identification of the major narrative voices in the book of Exodus, the date of their composition, and their interrelationships that will be of interest to specialists and non-specialists alike. The commentary begins with a concise and well-written presentation of the author’s operating assumptions. Dozeman identifies a primary and cohesive narrative in Exodus in a body of literature for which he employs the term the “non-P History” (following the lead of David Carr).1 In his opinion, this narrative ranges beyond Exodus to form the earliest continuous history of Israel in the Pentateuch and likely extends into the Deuteronomistic History. In fact, the non-P History shares many of the perspectives of Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic History, although each body of literature underwent a distinct history of composition. While a firm date is not necessary for interpreting Exodus, Dozeman favours dating the non-P History to the post-exilic era, since in many places it appears to be post-Deuteronomistic (e.g., the story of the Golden Calf in Exod 32 is regarded as later than the parallel narratives in either Deut 9–10 or 1 Kgs 12). Besides the non-P History, Dozeman identifies a second major literary narrative related to the Priestly school. The source called the “P History” is considered to be a supplement to the prior non-P History. For the most part, distinctions between non-P and P material follow generally accepted divisions in contemporary scholarship (the contents of the two corpora are summarized in chart form on pp. 48–51). One exception appears in his treatment of the Decalogue, in which Dozeman resists proposals that the entire text of the Ten Commandments is a P insertion into the Sinai narrative. The commentary is separated into two major sections: “The Power of Yahweh in Egypt” (Exod 1:1–15:21) and “The Presence of Yahweh in 550

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the Wilderness” (Exod 15:22–40:38). Each is divided into subsections in which attention is given to identifying the non-P and P elements and describing their respective interests and interrelationships. These subsections are provided with interpretative remarks that include translation, textual notes, discussions of source and authorship, and observations regarding themes and narrative perspectives. While Dozeman acknowledges ongoing debates about multiple levels of authorship in P and non-P literature, the focus of interpretation stays at a more general level, considering both narrative strands in their canonical form. For the most part, Dozeman declines to reconstruct the literary history of the non-P and P Histories. One consequence of Dozeman’s methodology, therefore, is a certain flattening in historical perspective when accounting for the origins of the book. For some readers this will stand out as a weakness in the commentary. Dozeman does an excellent job of describing the status of source critical debates on various segments of the text, but these concerns are subordinate to the author’s stated aims, which are focused on mapping the dimensions of the non-P and P Histories and explaining their viewpoints and relationships. A good example of his approach is found in the discussion about the altar law in Exod 20:24–26. While he recognizes its associations with centralization ideas in Deuteronomy, ultimately he leaves the question open as to whether the law is an older expression of a theological perspective appropriated by Deuteronomy or derivative of Deuteronomic thinking. What the reader is presented with is a description of the function of the altar law within the final form of the non-P History. A particular bias emerges with discussions of proposals regarding post-Priestly redaction(s) of Exodus. While he acknowledges this hypothesis, Dozeman does not appeal to it in his interpretative comments. By implication, this means that post-P insertions or authorial activity are negligible and, for all practical purposes, either nonexistent or non-identifiable. In his introduction, the reader is alerted to the fact that Dozeman finds the documentary hypothesis unhelpful for explaining the origins of the book of Exodus, but no overarching scheme of composition is put in its place. In this regard, it is worth noting that many source critical questions may be incapable of receiving the kinds of precise answers that earlier generations of biblical scholars have wanted to give them; the necessary evidence is often ambiguous or lacking. An example of his approach can be seen in his discussion of the non-P History in Exod 3–7. Criteria such as variants in the use of the divine name and other repetitions in the story about Moses’ call in the non-P History show that it is a compilation of stories, providing distinct points of view on the narrated events; but Dozeman rightly notes that the complexity of these chapters

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makes all literary judgments tentative and open to revision (p. 98). By the same token, the dominant theme of the theophany of God on the mountain in the second half of Exodus becomes a context for the inclusion of a variety of traditions that may have circulated independently of each other. But, in Dozeman’s opinion, it is not particularly helpful to find a single temporally organized strand to make sense of Moses’s repeated trips up the mountain. The various scenes in Exod 19–24 constitute a composite narrative “in which temporal sequence is replaced by a more circular movement around the central core subject” (p. 434). This is a useful perspective to bring to a section of the book in which the action often appears to be confusing and contradictory. With respect to the non-P history, the commentary is informed by Dozeman’s view of the origins of Israelite historiography. He rules out both the Hellenistic period and the early monarchical period as viable candidates for dating the rise of ancient Israelite history writing. Placing this phenomenon in the exilic and postexilic periods suggests that, like its Greek counterpart, Israelite history writing developed during a time of social subjugation (under Neo-Babylonian and Persian rule). In this matter, Dozeman is following the lead of a number of recent studies about the origins of biblical historiography; but by implication the commentary also communicates a certain pessimism about reconstructing antecedents to the final form of the non-P History. It is clear that the non-P History has appropriated various narrative fragments or individual stories and adapted them into a cohesive narrative. So, e.g., Dozeman regards the stories about the midwives now found in Exod 1 and the account of the visit of Jethro in Exod 18—both once attributed to the E-source—as independent narratives integrated into the non-P history. But the presence of such stories means that the Exodus theme had been preoccupying Israel’s storytellers for some time. It is difficult to believe that there was no overall plot or narrative to which these various tales were connected before the final form of the nonP History. But this is the kind of speculation about the prehistory of the narrative that Dozeman declines to weigh into. The commentary is particularly rich in its discussions of the innerrelationships of the non-P and P Histories. Dozeman is at his best in describing their differing emphases while also showing how they are connected. A few illustrations will serve to make this point: In commenting on Exod 1:1–7, Dozeman shows how explicit literary ties to the creation story accentuate the triumph of life over death in the P History, providing a contrapuntal voice to the non-P History with its more tragic vision of salvation history as a process whereby humans forget the past and act violently in the present. In the subsection dubbed, “Defeat of Pharaoh” (Exod 10:21–14:31), the non-P and P Histories differ in their

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interpretations on a variety of issues including the purpose of Yahweh’s interventions in Egypt, the timing of Passover, and the place in which the saving event at the Red Sea took place. The commentary does a good job of explaining how these differing perspectives are related to the theological interests of each narrative strand. In the Sinai narrative, it is observed that the non-P and P Histories share a common view of the origins of holiness and its dangers to human beings; they disagree, however, on how holiness becomes transferred to them, with the P perspective depicting a less direct process. One of Dozeman’s assumptions is that “Exodus contains a range of authoritative interpretations of salvation history, which force the reader to relate historically divergent traditions in the formation of the canon” (p. 42). This is an interest that has obviously animated the commentary but it also indicates a program of interpretation that goes beyond the present volume. This book lays the groundwork for a thorough synthesis of the characteristics of the non-P and P Histories and the meaning of their canonical relationship. That is, there are the raw materials here for an important study in biblical theology. One might hope that Dozeman will make some effort in this direction, if not in a second edition of this commentary then in another publication. In summary, there are a number of reasons this commentary makes a useful contribution to contemporary scholarship. Students of Exodus will want to pay careful attention to the arguments Dozeman brings to ongoing debates about distinctions between P and non-P narratives. The book is also a valuable resource for reviewing the history of scholarship on a range of source critical issues. A variety of readers will find its focus on describing and comparing the non-P and P Histories in their canonical form informative and helpful. 1 David M. Carr, Reading the Fractures of Genesis: Historical and Literary Approaches (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1996), 44–45.

Jo Ann Hackett, A BASIC INTRODUCTION TO BIBLICAL HEBREW (Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 2010). Pp. xxv+302. Hardcover. US$39.95. ISBN 9781598560282.

Reviewed by Jason Jackson Asbury Theological Seminary Jo Ann Hackett, Professor of Middle Eastern Studies at the University of Texas in Austin, has taught Biblical Hebrew for more than thirty years. Her experience and expertise are evident in her 2010 publication: A Basic Introduction to Biblical Hebrew. This well-produced grammar consists of thirty lessons and correlated exercises. The lessons progress from history (1) and phonology (2–6) into morphology and syntax beginning with pronouns, adjectives, nouns and prepositions (7–11) and concluding with verbs. She concentrates on strong verbs1 in the Qal (12–18), Niphal (19– 20), Hiphil/Hophal (21–22), Piel/Pual (23) and Hitpael (24) before she covers weak verbs (25–28), middle weak stems (29) and geminates (30). The exercises emphasize modern Israeli pronunciation and Hebrew-to-English translation. Most of the translations are non-biblical phrases and sentences, though isolated biblical verses increasingly appear in lessons 13–30. Hackett organized the lessons to be evenly distributed across a 15week semester or 10-week term. However, as she qualifies, “Any instructor will find…that the last 6 lessons are more challenging than the first 24, so the ideal division into two or three lessons per week will probably never be followed” (p. xix). I estimate an undergraduate class could complete the grammar within an academic year, and graduate students could finish in a rigorous semester by combining the first six lessons and then proceeding at the recommended pace. Each lesson is 3–7 pages in length, including its vocabulary and exercises, and resourcefully implements outlined boxes to highlight information and fashion ample white space for easy reading and note taking. Single line boxes contain “information that is interesting for the student to know but not necessary for learning the language,” whereas double line boxes encompass “something that is essential to the language” 554

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(p. xix). Hackett frequently specifies students should memorize or be able to recognize boxed material. Confusingly (perhaps typesetting errors), some boxes designated for memorization are single lined2 as are other critical paradigms such as the nominal inflections (pp. 28 and 32) and the Qal participles (pp. 110–11). Additional boxes incorporating the construct inflections (pp. 50–51) and her effective clues for identifying derived stems (pp. 123–24, 135 and 143) would be helpful. The vocabulary lists are classified by parts of speech and arranged alphabetically. Entries include English glosses, variant word formations, and appropriate parsing or semantic information. Hackett integrates simple pronunciation exercises into her extended and interwoven lessons on consonants and vowels. In lessons 6–24, she utilizes Gen 22:1–19, which she has divided into short sense units for additional reading practice (Appendix C). Her other exercises entail alphabet, vocabulary and paradigm reproduction; syllable, accent and weak verb recognition; parsing; and an ample amount of Hebrew composition. Beyond this basic design, the most noteworthy aspects of the grammar relate to Hackett’s verb treatments. First, the verb paradigms begin with the first-person forms.3 Hackett chose this arrangement to avoid the confusion caused by presenting verbs and pronouns in reverse orders and by students’ familiarity with first-to-third-person ordering in modern languages (p. xix). However, inverting the pronoun sequence seems to be a more natural resolution given the relative morphological simplicity of the third-person verbal forms.4 Second, Hackett proposes alternative terminology for the verb conjugations in an effort to avoid “complete misinformation (‘converted’) or old-fashioned methods… (‘perfect’ and ‘imperfect’)” (p. xx). She replaces “perfect” with “suffix cnjugation,” “imperfect” with “prefix conjugation” and the various designations for weqatal and wayyiqtol with “və-qatal” and “consecutive preterite.” I am sympathetic to Hackett’s terminology concerns. Nevertheless, I am not persuaded by this mix of historical, descriptive and transliterated terms, nor I am certain that she deviated enough from the traditional nomenclature to accomplish her goal.5 Furthermore, she preserves the designation “converted perfect” alongside və-qatal after properly characterizing it as incorrect (p. 98). Third, the prefix conjugation, volitives, and consecutive preterite are presented before the suffix conjugation, və-qatal, infinitives and participles in order “to get to the consecutive preterite as quickly as possible” (p. xx). Within this commendable objective, Hackett associates the imperative with the prefix conjugation two lessons before the other volitive forms, even though subsequent paradigms combine the imperative, jussive and cohortative under the heading “volitives.” Hackett also states:

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES “[The imperative] is formed by removing the preformative from the second-person prefix conjugation forms” (p. 68). While many imperatives appear in this manner, the imperative is more accurately formed by removing the performative from the second-person jussive form.6

Finally, Hackett approaches the conjugations functionally rather than analyzing aspect and mood. For example, she indicates the prefix conjugation (i.e., yiqtol) may communicate simple future, ongoing action in any tense, habitual action in any tense, or a modal nuance (p. 66). Hackett’s stem analysis is likewise functional in nature. For example, she lists the meaning of the Piel under the categories intensive, transitive, denominative, and unclassified (pp. 142–43). These pragmatic descriptions may be intentional due to the scope of the work and her target audience. A few potentially desirable topics are absent or receive limited attention. Verb sequences and pausal forms are noted in single line boxes or footnotes.7 Complete paradigms for the Hophal and Pual are conspicuously unavailable, though these stems are introduced alongside the Hiphil (p. 135) and Piel (p. 143). The grammar also lacks clear guidelines for distinguishing the dagesh types in begadkepat letters.8 Hackett has enclosed a supplemental multi-platform CD-ROM with interactive PDF files. The CD-ROM features high quality, cursor-activated recordings of Hackett and Prof. John Huehnergard, for the paradigms, vocabulary and numerous exercises and of Prof. David Levenson for Gen 22. Cleverly, the reading rate gradually increases without becoming too rapid for a novice. Printable versions of the eight appendices and a strategically placed answer key (i.e. it is less accessible than a bound appendix) are also provided. Appendix A is a fantastic alphabet reference with step-by-step writing guides and transliterations. The second addendum summarizes vowel transliterations under the length categories: short, long, irreducibly long, diphthongs and reduced. Surprisingly, given the vast amount of linguistic and historical information found elsewhere, Hackett does not systematically discuss vowel classes or changes. She sprinkles remarks about vowel changes in relevant lessons, but a more formal discussion would enhance this work. Appendix D comprises two innovative aids for determining the triconsonantal root of a 3ms consecutive preterite. Hackett’s excellent introduction to the primary Masoretic accents is expanded in Appendix E. Appendices F and G are English to Hebrew and Hebrew to English glossaries with convenient cross references to the lessons. Lastly, Hackett supplies color-coded charts for the Qal strong verb and some weak verbs. Her coloring system requires elucidation due to its variable application (p.

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288), and the supplement would be strengthened significantly by including a complete set of paradigms and by adding an inflection column. In conclusion, Hackett’s work is well-formulated for instructors who want a coherent, deductive introduction to biblical Hebrew grammar to use in a traditional classroom or an online course as well as for first-year students who choose independent learning. Her distinct approaches to key pedagogical issues are worth scholarly consideration, and her articulate descriptions and creative supplements make this book a valuable resource for any library. 1 Hackett integrates guttural and I-alef verbs as strong verb variations since unlike weak verbs every root consonant remains evident. 2 These include the suffixed pronouns (pp. 41 and 43), the Qal prefix and suffix conjugations (pp. 67 and 96) and the absolute forms of the cardinal numbers that modify feminine nouns (p. 136). 3 I am aware of two other grammars that adopt this approach: Russell Fuller and Kyoungwon Choi, Invitation to Biblical Hebrew: A Beginning Grammar (Invitation to Theological Studies; Grand Rapids: Kregel, 2006) and Brian L. Webster, The Cambridge Introduction to Biblical Hebrew with CD-ROM (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). Despite this inversion, Hackett continues to use the 3ms perfect in the vocabulary lists. 4 I am aware of the following grammars that adopt this approach: John A. Cook and Robert D. Holmstedt, Biblical Hebrew: An Illustrated Introduction and Biblical Hebrew: A Student Grammar (Online: http://ancienthebrewgrammar.wordpress.com /bh-textbook); Mark Futato, Beginning Biblical Hebrew (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2003); Duane A. Garrett and Jason S. DeRouchie, A Modern Grammar for Biblical Hebrew (Nashville: B&H Publishing, 2009); C. L. Seow, A Grammar for Biblical Hebrew (2d ed., Nashville: Abingdon, 1995); and Arthur Walker-Jones, Hebrew for Biblical Interpretation (Atlanta: Society for Biblical Literature, 2003). 5 However, she does accomplish her goal to utilize terms that are currently “part of the scholarly literature” which will certainly enable students to comfortably consult other resources. 6 The Hiphil prefix conjugation (i.e. imperfect) 2ms of ‫ ךלשׁ‬is �‫שׁלִ י‬ ְ ‫תּ‬, ַ but the jussive is �‫ ַתּ ְשׁ ֵל‬and the imperative, which follows, is �‫ה ְשׁ ֵל‬.ַ 7 For verb sequencing see (pp. 132 n.15, 153, 179, 180 n.30, 191 n.23 and 204 n.9); for pausal forms see (pp. 121 n.12 and 146 n.5). 8 Hackett treats the dagesh lene and dagesh forte on pp. 6 and 21.

Anselm C. Hagedorn and Andrew Mein, eds., ASPECTS OF AMOS: EXEGESIS AND INTERPRETATION (LHBOTS, 536; New York/London: T&T Clark, 2011). Pp. xii + 178. Hardback. US$110.00. ISBN 9780567245373.

Reviewed by M. Daniel Carroll Denver Seminary Aspects of Amos: Exegesis and Interpretation gathers essays that were presented originally at a symposium in Oxford in June 2008 to commemorate Professor John Barton’s sixtieth birthday. The eight contributors are former students of his. In the Preface the editors explain that the choice to concentrate on Amos was based on Barton’s important work in that prophetic book, the impact of receiving classes from him on Amos, and the usefulness of Amos for exploring diverse methodological approaches. There is no thematic thread that holds the chapters together. Their focus is quite diverse, and that fact makes the volume an interesting read. The order of the contributions, however, does exhibit a certain logic. The first five examine passages in Amos, and these chapters follow in textual sequence. The last three are topical studies. In the opening chapter Katherine Dell surveys the verses that could refer to the earthquake, which is first mentioned in 1:1. The purpose of looking at these passages (9:1–4, 5–6; 8:8; 7:4; 6:9, 11; 5:6–7, 8–9; 3:14–15) is to ascertain the significance of earthquake imagery for the theology and moral vision of the prophet. On the one hand, it is clear that the earthquake substantiates the incomparable power of God’s sovereignty over against Israel’s misplaced sense of security. The foundations of the nation’s confidence—the Temple and the land—will be overturned. She touches briefly on the questions of the relationship between the divine punishment of humans and its impact on creation and the theological conundrum concerning the suffering of the innocent in natural disasters. This fine chapter ends with these profound questions that may have merited a more in-depth treatment. 558

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In the next chapter Daniel Smith-Christopher looks at the horrific statement in 1:13 about the ripping open of pregnant women by the Ammonites to expand their territory. After carefully examining the terminology, he proposes that a look at the cultural implications of the verse can open up a different appreciation of its thrust. His thesis is that Israel looked at that Transjordanian people with suspicion and revulsion. The brutalizing of women in war can serve to eliminate what is considered to be a threat to one’s identity by attacking the fertility of the enemy. What is not clear is whether Smith-Christopher believes that 1:13 depicts an actual atrocity suffered by Israel or whether the verse is instead a projection by Israel onto Ammon to demonize that neighbour. In chapter three, Anselm Hagedorn examines the appearance of Edom in the book of Amos, beginning with its mention in the Oracles against the Nations (OAN, chs. 1–2). He relies heavily on recent redaction studies to reconstruct the history of the composition of the prophetic book, and this perspective determines the direction of his study of the OAN and 9:12. Hagedorn contends that a more negative attitude toward Edom is reflected in the later additions to the text. His argument will find agreement to the extent that one concurs with his critical stance. The fourth chapter offers a novel interpretation of the classic interpretive crux in 2:6–8 about the nature of the activity of the father and son. Sharon Moughtin-Mumby discounts the common understanding that 2:7b has sexual connotations, which she attributes to the LXX translation. She proposes that what is in view throughout 2:6–8 is a patronal marzeaḥ feast (cf. 6:4–7) and that the enigmatic ‫ ַהנַּ ֲﬠ ָרה‬does not refer to a young woman but is rather a place name. She translates the line, “For a man and his father got to Naarah in order to profane my holy name!” The last chapter to deal with a specific passage is Aulikki Nahkola’s discussion of the animal imagery in 5:19. Applying social science theory, Nahkola helpfully distinguished three dimensions of the imagery: the biological (the probable population of these animals in ancient Israel), the psychological (how people perceived them), and the conceptual (the representations of these animals in literature and artifacts). Of the three creatures listed in this verse, the lion is by far the most mentioned in the Hebrew Bible and can portray humans or the deity. The characteristic feature shared among the biblical references to all three is that of threatening, wild power. Her interesting conclusion is that the actual numbers of lion, bear, and snake would not have been large, but the symbolic power of imagined encounters with them would have been great. In the sixth chapter Paul Joyce is interested in a psychological interpretation of Amos. While there is not enough material in the book to get at the prophet’s inner life, he suggests that there are motifs that can

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generate psychological reflection. These include, for example, the rhetoric of cognitive dissonance that puts into question the assumptions of the nation’s traditions and raises the possibility of an inherent racism in the statement about Ethiopians in 9:7. Joyce closes by underscoring the value of recognizing the impact of the reader’s psychology in interpretation. In the seventh chapter Andrew Mein goes to late fifteenth century Florence and the sermons of Girolamo Savonarola. This Dominican preached 27 sermons on the book of Amos in February and March 1496 after the ouster of the House of Medici from power. Empowered by his conviction that he was a prophet, Savonarola used Amos to condemn the sexual and social transgressions of political leaders and the clergy. This chapter offers a glimpse into the pre-critical interpretive methods of the day and demonstrates that appropriation of this prophetic text for social commentary has a long history. The eighth and final chapter of Aspects of Amos reviews Julius Wellhausen’s use of Amos. Hywel Clifford assesses his treatment of the book as an historical source in the formulation of his hypothesis concerning the historical development of the religion of Israel and his views about the impact of the ethical priorities of the prophet on that religion. He places these ideas against the background of the anti-institutionalist sentiments of nineteenth-century German Protestantism and Wellhausen’s professional setbacks to counter the notion that his presentation was motivated by antiSemitism. The volume closes with a bibliography and indices both of scripture and other ancient sources and of cited authors. Strangely, these indices are not comprehensive. All in all, Aspects of Amos is a valuable resource for Amos research. There are several fresh interpretations and new insights here, and the addition of social science and historical material make it a unique work. For those of us involved in Amos research, John Barton has been an important voice. We are grateful that some of his students have continued his legacy.

Molly M. Zahn, RETHINKING REWRITTEN SCRIPTURE: COMPOSITION AND EXEGESIS IN THE 4QREWORKED PENTATEUCH MANUSCRIPTS (STDJ, 95; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2011). Pp. xiv + 280. Hardback. €108.00.$ 153.00 ISBN 978-90-04-19390-1.

Reviewed by William A. Tooman University of St. Andrews This rigorous volume is a revised version of the author’s 2009 University of Notre Dame dissertation supervised by James VanderKam. It appears, as the subtitle indicates, to be a re-evaluation of compositional technique and exegesis in 4QReworked Pentateuch (4QRP). In fact, it reaches beyond 4QRP to engage open questions on the nature of rewritten scripture and Second Temple scribal composition. It is a work in two parts. Chapters 2–3 address the 4QRP fragments themselves (4Q158, 4Q364–67). Chapters 4–5 compare the results with the Samaritan Pentateuch (SP) and with the Temple Scroll (TS). The introduction (chap 1) provides much more than the obligatory literature review and digest of methodology. Having clarified the need for a thorough reassessment of 4QRP, Zahn illuminates its implications for the relationship of “rewritten scripture” to scripture itself, the status of pentateuchal texts in the late Second Temple period, and scribal activity in the period. In this discussion, two things stand out. First, she frames the analysis of 4QRP within the broader debate about the genre “rewritten bible/scripture.” Zahn raises doubts about the utility of the “continuum” of rewriting that dominates much of the literature, having unadorned scriptural texts on one end (“scripture”) and extensively re-worked forms of scriptural story or law on the other (“rewritten scripture”). She asks pointed questions about quantitative versus qualitative ways of measuring the degree of rewriting in a particular case, and she raises questions about how much this truly reveals about the scriptural status of a text, particularly when there is no literary or formal difference between expansionist elements and biblical 561

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elements. Second, Zahn introduces a typology of scribal composition and reworking (17–19), by which she organizes chapters 2–5:

1. Additions

a. “addition of new material”: insertion of material not attested elsewhere b. “addition of material from elsewhere”: addition that derives its content from another scriptural text.

2. Omissions 3. Alterations

a. “minor alterations”: small graphic/morphological changes, or substitution of one or two words b. “rearrangement”: the sequence of elements (words, phrases, clauses) in the source text is changed in the target text (4QRP) c. “paraphrase”: “saying the same thing in different words” (18) d. “replacement with material from elsewhere”: insertion of material from elsewhere in scripture that displaces some material in the base text.

Zahn is careful to distinguish between these techniques of reworking, which she calls “compositional techniques,” and the interpretive decisions that led to those changes, “exegesis.” This distinction has not always been carefully maintained in prior research, which has sometimes resulted in significant misunderstanding and imprecision. In chapter 2, Zahn turns her attention to the details of composition and exegesis in 4QRP. She begins with 4Q158 (chap 2) before addressing 4Q364–367 (chap 3). 4Q158 is an ideal starting point, she argues, for two reasons: it contains a limited amount of text (15 fragments comprising 104 lines in various states of preservation), yet it represents a wide variety of compositional techniques. She arranges her data by technique, addressing, in turn, cases of addition, omission, and alteration. I will restrict my comments to chap 2, in order to engage Zahn’s results more fully. 4Q158 is a rewritten version of Exodus or, possibly, Genesis and Exodus based on a pre-Samaritan Vorlage. (It is very like 4QpaleoExodm.) Zahn begins with an examination of “additions of new material.” Of these, only three are longer than single word. In frag 1–2, ll. 7–10, the scribe supplied the blessing that is missing from Gen 32:30b. In frag 6, l. 6, the scribe added a transition between two additions in the Vorlage (Deut 5:29 and 18:18–22), and in frag 7–9, l. 3, the scribe added a quotation formula, also creating a more smooth transition between the context (Exod 20) and an addition (Deut 5:30). There is a very helpful discussion on the relationship of 4Q158 to the pre-Samaritan version of Exodus 20. An

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analysis of eight one-word additions follows this discussion. These serve, mainly, to smooth the syntax or logic of the text. Zahn then moves on to discuss six cases in which material from elsewhere in the Torah is added into the storyline of 4Q158. “This technique is especially well attested in 4Q158 and, to my mind, constitutes one of its distinctive features” (37). She examines six cases. Some fill gaps in the biblical story (e.g., Deut 5:30 integrated into Exod 20:21–23). Others draw additional material into the biblical story based upon thematic similarities (e.g., Exod 6:3–7 + Gen 17:7–8). In these examples, Zahn detects the editor’s “expectations regarding the completeness and selfsufficiency of the Torah.” Further, “the repeated use of this technique actually embeds in the text itself an interest in reading the Torah in light of itself” (56). Other techniques, she will argue, betray the same expectations and impulses. It is not surprising, then, that she finds similar results in her examination of paraphrases in 4Q158, “instances where the substance or basic content of a passage has been retained, but is expressed in different words” (58). The only extensive example is in frag 14. It combines elements from Exod 6:3–8, a prediction of deliverance, and Exod 15, its fulfillment. Zahn concludes as follows: “[b]y rephrasing the promise of liberation in Exodus 6 so that it contains more of the specific details of the account in Exodus 15, prediction and execution are brought into closer alignment with one another” (62). There is only one example of rearrangement in 4Q158. Fragment 7 preserves a portion of the Decalogue that rearranges the elements found in the proto-SP tradition, 4Q158’s Vorlage. In this case, Zahn follows Michael Segal who suggested that 4Q158, when intact, represented an early exemplar of the tradition that God only spoke the first two commandments.1 The other eight were mediated through Moses. This would account for the rearrangement of the material and the relationship of frag 6, the account of God granting the people a mediator, to frag 7. These examples reveal two difficulties created by Zahn’s configuration of her data. Before introducing them, it is important to note that these are not problems per se. They are—I imagine—unintended effects created by Zahn’s choice to organize her evidence as a catalogue of compositional techniques. The first difficulty is that authors seldom work by means of a single technique. In the “paraphrase” identified in frag 14, for example, there are at least two techniques at work. To use Zahn’s nomenclature, it represents “addition of material from elsewhere” and “paraphrase.” The second difficulty is the catalogue of techniques itself. Zahn is wise to restrict her typology to mechanical techniques alone, scrupulously barring hermeneutical assumptions and exegetical decisions

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from view. However, to continue with the example of “paraphrase” in frag 14, one wonders how the category “paraphrase” relates to possible alternatives like “conflation” or “allusion?” Both conflation and allusion could be accounted for under her current typology (as “additions of material from elsewhere”), but they are not addressed as such. Further, how one categorizes the case will affect how one conceives the ultimate exegetical effect. An allusion is a fundamentally different thing from a paraphrase. It seems that assignment of cases to a particular compositional technique, careful as it is, veils as much as it clarifies. To reiterate, these are structural difficulties that are common to studies like this one. No choice would be perfect, and every choice would obscure the results of the analysis in different ways. In this chapter, it becomes clear that “the majority of changes in 4Q158 [to its Vorlage] serve to relate two passages in some way or strengthen the connection between them” (71). Furthermore, “… nearly all the changes in 4Q158 reflect a broad concern for the coherence, unity, and self-referentiality of Scripture” (73). This unified perspective suggests that the scholarly tendency to speak of a single author for 4QRP may be correct. Nonetheless, Zahn rightly observes that this conviction was widespread, evident in many Second Temple texts. Thus, while it suggests a single author, the deduction is far from conclusive. Zahn maintains doubt that 4QRP is the product of a single scribe. Chapters 4–5 compare techniques and purposes of scribal reworking in 4QRP with those in the SP tradition (chap 4) and in TS (chap 5). The purpose of these comparisons is not immediately evident. They become clear in the final chapter of the book (chap 6, conclusions). This evidence proves to be important when Zahn attempts to adjudicate the debate about the generic status of 4QRP, as an edition of the Pentateuch or as rewritten scripture. In chapter 4, Zahn compares reworking in 4QRP with proto-SP. The SP tradition is particularly suitable as a comparison. The so-called “sectarian” revisions in SP are relatively minor. The SP base text, proto-SP, is preserved in several mss from Qumran (4QpaleoExodm, 4QNumb,4QExod–Levf) and differs significantly from the MT. Still, its differences are, in most cases, exegetical and later than the readings in other witnesses. Thus, the nature of reworking in proto-SP makes it particularly suitable as a text for comparison. Regarding technique, Zahn finds remarkable overlap between the two texts. Proto-SP does not manifest any use of paraphrase, and it uses an additional technique: replacement with material from elsewhere. All the other compositional techniques identified in 4QRP are also manifest in proto-SP, though they are consistently quite limited in scope. Changes seldom exceed a word or two. The purposes to

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which these changes are put are also remarkably similar. Here, proto-SP and 4QRP only differ in two respects: proto-SP does not show the same willingness to alter the text to provide a more logical sequence, and it manifests a greater propensity toward harmonistic changes, though perhaps this is more restrained than is sometimes claimed. In chapter 5, she discusses reworking in TS. After close examination of several columns (63.1–8; 52.1–21; 17.6–16; 66.11–16; 21.12–23.01), Zahn concludes that although TS goes far beyond 4QRP in the extent of its reworking, its compositional techniques are fundamentally the same. The techniques, then, did not originate with the author(s) of TS or 4QRP. What separates TS from 4QRP and proto-SP is that its structure clearly obviates the possibility that TS “evolved” from a form of the Torah. It is not a reediting of the Torah. It is a unique and separate work. Following the four chapters of close, textual analysis, the conclusion (chap 6) clarifies the implications and achievements of the study. In the first two chapters, regarding 4QRP itself, Zahn has provided much needed precision, both in terms of her analytic tools and her scrutiny of the fragments’ features. From the perspective of the study of rewritten scripture as a whole, Zahn calls into question the accuracy and utility of maintaining the notion of a continuum of rewriting. She raises a number of salient questions. “[G]iven that the text to which changes were being made was constantly in flux in this period, how could we ever determine with the necessary precision what constitutes a change”? (240). “[E]ven if it were possible to quantify precisely the number of words retained vs. words changed or added in a given rewritten text, how are changes like rearrangement counted?” (240) Most telling, “Does quantity of rewriting have any connection to the status of a rewritten text as a copy of a biblical book or a new composition?” (239). Zahn’s study also has implications for the study of Second Temple texts as a whole. She begins an inquiry into the relationship between desired exegetical effect and choice of compositional technique, observing that certain textual changes cannot be associated with a given exegetical purpose, whereas others are used for particular objectives. These are, as she admits, preliminary reflections, but they encourage further exploration. Zahn has successfully accomplished her disparate objectives, and she has done so with care and conviction. Her study can be added to a growing body of literature on Second Temple texts that profitably inform our knowledge of inner-biblical interpretation, reuse of scripture, scribal composition, rewritten bible, and scripturalization. In light of the careful, sensible, rigorous analysis found here, it is worth noting that Zahn is working with Moshe Bernstein in the preparation of a much needed new

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edition of 4QRP for DJD, a fitting continuation of the work represented here. 1 M. Segal, “Biblical Exegesis in 4Q158: Techniches and Genre,” Textus 19 (1998), 45–62 (56).

John J. Ahn, EXILE AS FORCED MIGRATIONS: A SOCIOLOGICAL, LITERARY, AND THEOLOGICAL APPROACH ON THE DISPLACEMENT AND RESETTLEMENT OF THE SOUTHERN KINGDOM OF JUDAH (BZAW, 417; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2011). Pp. xviii + 306. Hardback. €89.95. $135.00. ISBN 978-3-11-924095-5.

Reviewed by Bob Becking Department of Religios Studies and Theology, Utrecht University In yet another book on the displacement of people during the NeoBabylonian hegemony, John Ahn applies a fresh approach to old problems and well-known texts. His proposal is grounded on the notion that three quite different displacements of inhabitants took place in the sixth century from the area around Jerusalem to Mesopotamia. He strongly argues for three waves: 597, 587, and 582. In doing so, he reproves Old Testament scholars that have an inclination to focus only or primarily on the exile of 587. In his view this was not the paramount event of exile, but was rather just another wave of displacement of persons. After a review of scholarship, Ahn turns to the field of social sciences and especially to the discipline of refugee studies. Here he elaborates on two types of distinctions. First, he points to the fact that refugee studies distinguish three forms of forced migrations: (1) Derivative Forced Migrations are the result of geopolitical and cartographic rearrangements. For example, because the border between Belgium and Germany shifted several times, the eastern Belgian villages of Eupen and Malmédy and their villagers changed nationalities from Belgian to German and then back to Belgian without ever moving; (2) Responsive Forced Migrations are to a

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high degree voluntary movements of people who are transported away from zones of fear: war, oppressions, and effects of the forces of nature; (3) Purposive Forced Migrations refer to displacements of persons who resettle under direct military threat. Contemporary newspapers too often report all three types of migrations. Parallel to these distinctions, three types of displaced persons can be identified: (1) Those who are on the move as a result of “DevelopmentInduced Displacement or Resettlement.” Workers from Mediterranean countries who were invited to work in the industries of Western Europe provide a clear example; (2) “Internally Displaced Persons” are those who move within the borders of their own country. Farmers whose lands were claimed for industrial projects such as building dams or constructing harbours, and were therefore moved to other plots of land are a good example of this category; (3) Finally, “Refugees” are those people seeking safety elsewhere. Ahn gives some illustrations of these categories by referring to scholarship on displacement from six modern developed states, arriving at the not very surprising conclusion that all types of migration and displacement are, in the end, based on changing economic factors. Since he also refers to my own country in connection to studies on the migrant workers and their offspring, I would like to mention a different example from the Netherlands. After the reclamation of greater part of the former Zuiderzee, new land was created that was distributed by the government to farmers from all corners of the country, aiming at a mixture of a cross section of Dutch society around 1950. Subsequently, when parts of the area became urban, this policy was abandoned. Ahn then applies these categories to the three waves of displacements from Judah to Mesopotamia. The exile of 597 is, in his view, an example of a Derivative Forced Migration since it resulted from the remapping occurring after the Babylonian conquest of Jerusalem. The “exiles” can be labelled as Development-Induced Displaced Persons, since the Babylonians did not bring them to the urban areas but forced them to work on the “irrigation canals” of Babylonia. The events of 587 are to be seen as a Purposive Forced Migration. The members of this wave can be construed—according to Ahn—as Internally Displaced Persons, since their move to Mesopotamia did not cross an internationally recognized border. Persons fleeing to Egypt and other regions in 582 were part of a Responsive Forced Migration and are also seen by Ahn as Internally Displaced Persons. Several critical remarks of Ahn’s historical reconstruction and classifications are in order at this point. Ahn interprets the “rivers of Babylon” as the “irrigation canals” of Babylonia, thus solving the riddle of the plural noun in Psalm 137. His contention, if I understand it correctly, is

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that the Judahites of 597 were put to work on these canals in order to beat back their salinization. As far as I can see, there is no evidence for this position. Ahn refers to a set of canals that are mentioned in the Murašu documents. These texts are, however, written almost two centuries after 597 and do not refer to forced labour on the canals. Unfortunately, Ahn has overlooked the publication of a set of texts that are part of a larger corpus of Neo-Babylonian administrative inscriptions to be edited by Laurie Pearce and Claudia Wunsch.1 In these texts descendants of the Judahite migrations appear in contexts that clearly show them to have worked in relative freedom in agricultural areas in Southern Mesopotamia. A further difficulty is Ahn’s classification of the migrants of 587 and 582 as Internally Displaced Persons, since in moving to Mesopotamia they did not cross an internationally recognized border. This is a severe anachronism for the situation of the sixth century. First of all, the concept of internationally recognized borders did not exist in those days, so this conclusion requires much more caution. Besides, Ahn’s classification could only be true from a Babylonian perspective, for to them Judah and Egypt belong to the empire. From the point of view of the displaced persons themselves, however, his classification is inappropriate since in their mental map they crossed a border to a foreign land. Ahn’s quite simple applications of modern concepts to features of the sixth century are problematic. He does not adequately take into account the hypothetical character of such concepts that can even function as procrustean beds in describing and understanding modern states of affairs. Besides, many of his remarks on the sixth century are based on theoryladen observations. The biggest problem historians of the ancient Near East have in describing and understanding exile, displacements, and forced migrations in that distant era arises from by the mere fact that evidence on the period is very scarce. Ahn then moves to readings of the parts of the Hebrew Bible that he construes as reflections of the various waves of displacement. He starts out with Psalm 137. The first six verses of the hymn are related to the first generation of displaced Judahites. It is only in the later addition, vv. 7–9, that the voice of the 587 group that experienced the destruction is heard. Although he makes some interesting exegetical remarks, I do not fully agree with his analysis, especially since I think Psalm 137 is not a lament, but an early example of a “topical song” and that in vv. 5–9 the migrants offer their “song of Zion.” He connects Jer 29 with what he calls Generation 1.5. From research into the succession of generations, it is clear that after a considerable time in a completely new situation, a new generation with its own view of reality emerges. He quite ingeniously combines the date given in Jer 28:1—the

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fourth year of Zedekiah, 595/94—with an internal rebellion in Babylon mentioned in a rather late Babylonian chronicle, viewing them as supplying the backdrop for the exchange of letters in Jer 29. Although this chapter is to be seen as the result of a long process of redaction, Ahn isolates remarks from it as the prophet Jeremiah’s directives to Generation 1.5 in Babylon, whose loyalties are twisted. Ahn then turns his attention to Isaiah 43. In this chapter a distinction between a majority and a minority group is apparent. The majority is well on its way to assimilation into the Babylonian way of life, while the minority—labelled Jacob—resists this development. This move to maintain a traditional identity is paralleled by numerous observations on migrant communities where the third generation—or parts of it—show a tendency towards fundamentalism. In Ahn’s view the prophetic summons to turn and return to Jerusalem should be construed as some sort of solution for this minority group. This is an interesting point of view, and while reading I was wondering whether such an interpretation would make sense for other parts of Deutero-Isaiah or Jeremiah’s Book of Consolation (Jer 30–33). The final text he discusses is Num 32. He construes this chapter as a narrative foil for Ezra 8:21 and the “mixed marriage crises.” I must confess that in my view this intertextual connection is not prima vista apparent. Nevertheless, I agree with Ahn that issues of intergenerational solidarity— and the loss of it—are at stake. Ahn has written an interesting book on the “exilic” period that, however, invites further research, since his arguments are not as solid as he might hope. 1 L. Pearce, “New Evidence for Judaeans in Babylonia,” O. Lipschits and M. Oeming (eds.), Judah and the Judaeans in the Persian Period (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 399–411; eadem, “‘Judean’: A Special Status in NeoBabylonian and Achemenid Babylonia?,” O. Lipschits, G.N. Knoppers, and M. Oeming (eds.), Judah and the Judaeans in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identities in an International Context (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 267–77.

John H. Walton, GENESIS 1 AS ANCIENT COSMOLOGY (Winona Lake, Ind.; Eisenbrauns, 2011). Pp. 214. Cloth. $34.50. ISBN 9781-57506-216-7.

Reviewed by Izaak J. de Hulster University of Göttingen

1. STRUCTURE AND THESIS This book builds on three of Walton’s earlier publications—Ancient Near Eastern Thought and the Old Testament (Baker 2006), his article on Chaoskampf and functional ontology,1 and The Lost World of Genesis One: Ancient Cosmology and the Origins Debate (IVP 2009). The book has a clear structure. After his mainly methodological introduction (1–16), Walton outlines creation and cosmology for the ancient Near East in chapters 2 and 3 (17–121). In chapter 4 he discusses Gen 1 in light of the previous two chapters (122–192), and the concluding chapter 5 provides an overview of the comparison (193–199). In the preface, he underlines his approach and his two main theses. For an intelligible approach to ancient texts, one needs an understanding of the cognitive environment. As Gen 1 shares the cognitive environment of the ancient Near East, he highlights two elements Gen 1 has in common with the cosmology of its cognitive environment: functional ontology and “the close connection between temples and the functioning cosmos” (x). The following sections discuss the comparative method and Gen 1’s ancient Near Eastern background, as well as Walton's conclusions concerning what Gen 1 shared with its ancient cognitive environment. Then the two main theses are presented: functional ontology (see below, §2) and the connection between cosmos and temple (see below, §3). These two sections integrate material from the ancient Near East with Gen 1. Walton employs the same method in his fourth chapter because an understanding of the ancient Near Eastern cognitive environment (presented in chapters 2 and 3) is needed to understand Gen 1. A review of these main points of Walton’s book will show that there are problems with 570

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Walton’s conclusions about the presence of God in the cosmos, for which I briefly suggest an alternative (§4). This leads to the concluding section, which briefly addresses the theological uniqueness of Gen 1 (cf. ix) and the various contexts that play a role in such a study (§5). For a number of scholars the textual and theological context of Gen 1 is the Priesterschrift, but Walton completely ignores this context. The focus of this book is on cosmology as a part of the cognitive environment. In the first chapter Walton outlines some of the differences between “our” modern conceptions and ancient ones. The book compares Gen 1 with its cognitive environment—especially Mesopotamian and Egyptian thought, with minimal reference to ancient Syria, Ugarit, and Hittite Anatolia. Walton outlines a scale of six categories between resemblance and distinctiveness: 1) Views from the ancient Near East that the Hebrew Bible “ignores”;2 2) “Hazy familiarity”; 3) Conscious rejection; 4) Disagreement; 5) Transforming adaptation; and 6) Subconsciously shared cognitive environment. He argues that all such comparison (regardless of type) is not necessarily a matter of consciousness or a historical relationship. Thus resemblances as well as distinctions may be due to a shared cognitive environment, but it is also possible that different cultures independently (without interaction with other cultures) developed their own ideas, regardless of cross-cultural resemblances. Walton points out that the interpretation of ancient sources (he names both text and iconography) is crucial for a comparative study and should be done accurately, each source in its own context, in order to avoid comparison of categorically different entities or easy conclusions of shared cultural ideas. It is striking, that while he makes references to iconographic material (e.g., in chapter 3, footnotes 237 and 255), he does not show any of the images. In fact, the only image in the book is on the cover, and this image is not addressed. Discussion of this image representing an Egyptian view of the cosmos, however, could have led to a more balanced understanding of cosmography and God’s presence in the cosmos (see below). Already the first chapter gives a broad delineation of “the basic elements of the cognitive environment that are present throughout the ancient Near East with regard to cosmology” (8), which are important for reading Gen 1: • • •

Ontology is not, like our modern understanding, about matter. Cosmological literature is primarily concerned with order and control. Meta-divine functions, such as Mesopotamian me,

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• • • • • •

underline the importance of rule and correspond to the metaphor of the cosmos as kingdom. Deities are usually inside the cosmic system, and there may be realms beyond divine control. “Theogony and cosmogony are deeply intertwined” (10). Theomachy is mainly an Akkadian phenomenon and mostly absent from creation accounts. Cosmic geography reveals the organization of the cosmos and its functionality rather than its material shape. The relationship between cosmos, temple, and divine rest is important. Humanity is central in the cosmos

His second chapter enumerates these “basic elements of the shared ANE cosmology” (8) and provides a helpful schematic comparative overview of “features” and “elements” of creation in ancient Near Eastern cosmological accounts (18–21). Implicitly, Walton chooses to broaden creation as cosmogony to cosmology. The third chapter elaborates on all of the aforementioned elements, while slightly modifying them: Ontology is diversification which establishes “functions, roles [identity], order, jurisdiction, organization, and stability” (34). The world was made into humanity's Lebensraum. He claims that Israel's theology desacralized the world without objectifying it (45). Although there are differences between Mesopotamia and Egypt regarding the “cosmic governing principles,” for both of them order and function are central to their thinking. One might compare the Mesopotamian me with the Egyptian “eternal sameness” as static elements in the cosmos; next to these there is an awareness of the contingency of life which is limited by decrees in Mesopotamia and directed towards the achievement of Ma’at in Egypt. Deities were inside the cosmos, except in Egypt with regard to the god who is responsible for creation (and who subsequently dissipates into the cosmos). The deities can come into conflict (theomachy) with each other, with humans, or with personified macrocosmic disorder (this last category is Chaoskampf). However, theomachy is never part of initial cosmogony.

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Although Egypt and Mesopotamia show little commonality regarding

humanity, both express its place in terms of the matter from which it is

made—clay and sometimes divine tears or blood. Human beings serve the gods and rule creation on their behalf. Gods and humans cooperate to sustain cosmic order. Walton mentions details characteristic of the shared ancient Near Eastern cosmic geography (much of which is found in his 2006 monograph plus some further Egyptian material). There was a three-tiered cosmos, comprising heaven, earth, and netherworld. The solid “sky” separated heaven (where deities live) and earth, while simultaneously keeping apart the waters above and below the sky. The celestial bodies hung in the air below the sky. The center of the cosmos was located in the temple (underlining the rule of the gods) and could be represented with a “world tree” or a mountain. This mountain, with its roots in the underworld and reaching into the heavens, was therefore an appropriate portrayal for the divine dwelling places. Walton calls the ancient Near Eastern cosmic geography “predominantly metaphysical and only secondarily physical and material: the roles and manifestations of the gods in the cosmic geography were primary” (89). He strengthens the link between temple and cosmos with the observation that “creation texts do follow the model of templebuilding texts” (110). In preparation for his chapter on Gen 1, he claims that “seven days is an appropriate period of time for temple building or inauguration” (117), based on the Gudea cylinder inscriptions. The fourth chapter gives Walton’s interpretation of Gen 1, and the fifth chapter summarizes his reading of Gen 1 in relation to its ancient Near Eastern background. He points to a number of ideas shared within the broader cognitive environment, such as the functions of the cosmos, divine rule, human care (especially for creation), the “close association between temple and cosmos” (194; although one might question the context Walton uses to reach this conclusion; see below, §5), and even creation by speech. Walton sees the pre-cosmic state described in (Gen 1:1–2) as closely resembling Egyptian myth, whereas the creation account proper has closer parallels with Mesopotamian concepts arising from the “seven-day temple inauguration” (196) paradigm, which he bases on the “intrinsic relation between cosmos and temple.” Walton tones down this last observation, however, in his concluding chapter (see §3). Israel was conscious of the following differences with the rest of the ancient Near East: In Gen 1 all humans are created in God’s image, not only royals, and God blesses the people rather than claiming them for His own needs. Further, the Hebrew Bible does not have a theogony, and Gen 1 does not have a divine bureaucracy because the Israelite divine council is construed “somewhat differently” (198 n. 3). He concludes, “The greatest

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differences in both degree and number pertain to the divine world. Israelite thinking has no element of theogony, for the Creator-God of Israel has no beginning, and there are no other gods whose existence needs to be explained” (198). Yet Walton still deems it necessary to deal with the divine council in the context of the ‫( עיקר‬see below, §4). In sum: “Far from being a borrowed text, Genesis 1 offers a unique theology (italics mine; see §4), even while it speaks from the platform of its contemporaneous cognitive environment” (ix). In his concluding chapter, he tones this down stating that Israel does not offer any new ideas or new questions, but only several innovative answers (197). In general, his concluding chapter is much more cautious than his more detailed elaborations (and some of his earlier publications).

2. FUNCTIONAL ONTOLOGY The most important thesis in Walton’s book is that Gen 1 presents a functional ontology. He draws on the distinction made by Heidel between material and functional ontology. Heidel argues that Gen 1 was different from the ancient Near Eastern accounts of creation in presenting a material and not a functional ontology.3 Walton argues instead that the focus of Gen 1 is on functionality, like other ancient Near Eastern accounts of creation, rather than on matter, like modern cosmic ontology. Based on this observation, his reading of Gen 1 can be summarized in terms of the creation of functions on the first three days and the creation of functionaries on days four through six. However, at different points in his discussion Walton variously assigns the third day with one of three functions; (cf. 155, 161, 163). A division into two three-day periods and the seventh day is common for Gen 1.4 Walton’s unique addition is that he distinguishes three days for functions and three days for functionaries. This distinction plays a role within Walton’s overarching concept of reading the seven-day creation account of Gen 1 against the Mesopotamian model of a temple inauguration ritual (152–184).

3. THE COSMOS’S TEMPLE IMAGERY AND REST Walton’s idea that the cosmos was created as a temple (e.g., 189) is linked with his view that, in the Hebrew Bible, the temple is the entire cosmos (e.g., 192). Within Gen 1, he further elaborates on this in conversation with

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the classics of Weinfeld and Levenson. The latter has argued this to be “the main point of the old priestly theology,”5 but Walton presents the Mesopotamian “seven days” model as the key to this comparison and the foundation for the temple imagery of the cosmos (179). His strongest argument seems to be Gudea’s “seven-day dedication ceremony” (118), but it would have been helpful to provide quotations from a substantial number of lines to underpin this point, much like Walton does for many other comparative texts. His understanding of the literary structure undergirds his reading of temple imagery. He observes that Mesopotamian temple inauguration usually took seven days, beginning with bringing in the furniture and ending with the inauguration of its functionaries. The final step was rest on the seventh day when the god entered into the sanctuary, and “the temple came into existence” (183), that is, became functional. God’s rest (rest functions as a metaphor for ruling) in the Hebrew Bible is always associated with the temple (180). “Creation takes place when the cosmos/temple is made functional for its human inhabitant [!] by means of the presence of God” (183). This similarity with other ancient Near Eastern thought goes hand-inhand with an important difference between Gen 1 and the rest of the ancient Near East (as has often been observed): humanity is not created to work for the gods, but God focuses creation to support life for the people (e.g., 189), as God does not have any needs for humanity to satisfy. Following from Walton’s approach to Gen 1 as the first chapter of the Hebrew Bible (and the Christian Bible) rather than the start of a smaller unit, he does not discuss the chapter’s importance within, for instance, the Priesterschrift. This position allows him to support his case for the cosmos as temple in Gen 1 through discussion of the Garden of Eden as a temple. One gets the impression that he hopes to substantiate the essential connection between cosmos and temple (and vice versa; cf. 109 n. 327; 187) without viewing the Priesterschrift as an essential context for Gen 1, and he attempts to do this by turning instead to the number seven.6 In his conclusion he remains more cautious concerning temple and cosmos, putting his earlier elaborations into perspective with the paradoxical observation that: Despite the intrinsic relationship that existed between cosmos and temple in the ancient world, the concept never seems to have been extended so far as to consider the entire cosmos a temple. It is also uncertain that Genesis contains this picture, though the evidence points in the direction that it did. (196)

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His reading of the model of “temple inauguration” leads to the question of whether the comparison with the inauguration leads to the conclusion that God entered the cosmos on the seventh day in order to bring it into existence with his presence. This might be an anomaly within Walton’s proposal, as he also states several times that God is not present in the cosmos, according to Gen 1.

4. FROM COSMIC GEOGRAPHY TO GENESIS 1’S UNIQUE THEOLOGY Walton’s account of the cosmic geography of Gen 1 is much closer to the Mesopotamian perspective. A slightly different conclusion could have arisen with a more thorough study of the Egyptian material: elaboration on the cover image itself could have initiated such a nuance.7 Walton argues, “Genesis 1 does not provide a revised Cosmic Geography for Israel to adopt in contradistinction to the perception and belief systems of the rest of the ancient world” (161). It seems that in this case, however, he reduces this “rest” to merely Mesopotamia. But even with his presentation of the Mesopotamian material problems arise. For example, he employs the iconography of the “Sun-God Tablet” for his argument on the structure of the heavens, and refers only to Woods in support of his argument. However, his interpretation follows Keel rather than Woods.8 A distinct problem arises with Walton’s interpretation of ‫ עיקר‬that distorts Gen 1’s cosmic geography and perhaps even Walton’s own interpretation of the divine in Gen 1. When discussing the cosmic geography of Gen 1, he reaches his conclusions only after including information from other biblical passages, such as Ezek 1:22–26, Job 37:18, and Psalm 89:6–7. Thus Walton suggests a solution to problems brought to the text of Gen 1 by introducing different texts with possibly different concepts. Attempting to understand the ‫ עיקר‬within the logic of Gen 1 might avoid some of these problems. Although Walton notes, “Hebrew style does not hesitate to use a verb and a direct object of the same root” (156 n. 101), his application of this principle to Job 37:18 is problematic: Job uses the verb ‫ עקר‬in conjunction with ‫םיקחש‬. When dealing with only Gen 1 and its statement that the ‫ עיקר‬is called ‫( םימש‬in 1:8), it may well be that the ‫ עיקר‬denotes the solid expanse or firmament with the waters above—and that the name ‫ םימש‬was applied to the “space” where (‫ )ב‬sun, moon, and stars were placed. With Van Wolde, one could point out that the ‫עיקר‬, also in terms of its etymology, could refer to a solid (metal) entity and that the birds do not fly within, but rather ‫ינפ־לע‬, “across it.”9 Walton’s combined interpretation of several biblical texts leads to the conclusion that God (and the heavenly council) would have a place within the cosmos.

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Walton’s interpretation of the ‫עיקר‬, his emphasis on functional ontology, and his understanding of the cosmos’s temple imagery (which implies God’s entrance into the cosmos as if it were a temple in order to get the cosmos functioning; see §3) are at odds with other statements in his book, such as: “In Genesis Yahweh is outside the cosmic system” (167). And: “In Genesis, God is outside the cosmos, not inside or part of it, and he has no origin” (177). First of all, he seems to generalize his observations on Gen 1 to the whole book of Genesis, and secondly, in the former quote, he underlines this generalization by seemingly equating God (‫םיהלא‬, in Gen 1:1–2:3) with Yhwh in Genesis (maybe especially Gen 2–3). He contrasts this observation with the ancient Near Eastern deities who are inside the cosmic system. The discussion of ‫ עיקר‬and his idea of “God’s entrance” on the seventh day show how even Walton seems to reserve a place for God within the cosmos. It might therefore be better either to drop the thesis that God is only outside the cosmos or to revise the cosmic geography—or do both. Such conclusions could foster the awareness that the Hebrew Bible contains different views, and that one cannot combine different verses as if they were propositions spread over the canon waiting to be combined to a new whole. This may hold for the Hebrew Bible’s view(s) on cosmic geography as well. Moreover, turning to the discussion of the ‫עיקר‬, it appears that “heaven(s)” do not refer to a divine dwelling place, but only evince meteorological and other “inner-worldly” characteristics. Therefore, God cannot be assigned a dwelling place above the ‫ עיקר‬and thus have his presence located there. Moreover, Gen 1 does not reflect the Mesopotamian idea of multiple (three) heavens and might conform instead to Egyptian cosmology, which is without evidence for different heavens.10 In sum, Walton’s view of Gen 1’s cosmic geography seems to be based on other biblical texts, but also strongly informed by Mesopotamian cosmic geography. He envisions heaven as God’s dwelling place, located somewhere above the expanse/ firmament. But Gen 1 (purposely) does not provide us with this information. Based on what we can read, we are left with a heaven that is the water storage above, and the earth amidst the sea below—not the three heavens found in Mesopotamian myth. Likewise, even though Gen 1 speaks about the sea, the sea cannot be simply tagged as the netherworld for sake of a tripartite cosmos. From the observations above, it seems apt to distinguish between God’s place and God’s presence and heuristically draw some more terminological distinctions into the debate. When Walton states that “God is outside the cosmos, not inside or part of it, and he has no origin” (177), is this intended as an affirmation of transcendence or a denial of immanence?

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Although phrased as a “yes or no” question, God’s presence in creation according to Gen 1 need not be understood in binary fashion. One can compare this understanding of the issue of God’s place and presence in the cosmos with other scholarly positions. Resembling Walton’s interpretation is Mark Smith’s reading of Gen 1 as a model of creation through presence.11 Smith reasons with the context of the Priesterschrift and concludes, like Walton, the “cosmos as temple” view. Speaking from another “mode of presence,” one might instead argue for a categorical difference between God and creation like Konrad Schmid.12 In order to bring Smith, Schmid, and the different positions within Walton’s book together, one might differentiate modes of presence and phenomenologically different concepts of “space.” Schmid and Walton seem right in their acknowledgement that God, the Creator, is not part of creation. He did not create a heaven for Himself, not even a ‫קחש‬. Still, God is present in the creation—even during the first six days. The relevant question is: how? It is not necessary to link this presence with the possible temple imagery of the cosmos in Gen 1. The Spirit of God,13 God’s words and acts of creation (such as making, naming, and blessing), and humankind point to modes of God’s presence. This study expresses various contradictory statements and implications concerning God’s presence and location within the cosmos. It seems better to conclude that in Gen 1 God acts (thus emphasizing functionality rather than ontology) in the space of creation and can be present in different ways, such as through his Spirit. The focus of Gen 1 is not beyond the cosmos; like a functional ontology, it is less interested in the question of God’s whereabouts, although in ancient Near Eastern thought the deities have locations inside the cosmos. The broader field of theology can provide insight into God’s relation to the cosmos such as different “modes of presence.”

5. CONCLUSIONS Walton states that Gen 1 offers a desacralized view of the world (without personified divine creations, such as sun or moon) and lacks adversarial powers. He deems it misleading to interpret chaos as a term describing the pre-cosmic situation: the cosmic waters are neutral and without function (144–145).14 A desacralized world without theomachy also fits an understanding of Gen 1 as Wissenschaftsprosa.15 In the context of the high level of abstraction for God’s acts of creation and the lack of an analogy in human activity, Gertz argues, thus “enthebt das Verb [‫ ]ארב‬das Schöpfungshandeln jeder Vorstellbarkeit.”16 This is in line with Walton’s

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rendering: “In the initial period, God brought cosmic functions into existence” (133). Above, a few elements have been discussed that are unique to Gen 1, such as the role of humanity in God’s image. It might have been helpful for Walton to go a step further, perhaps interacting with a model like that Janowski, who formulates the interrelatedness between cosmology and theology with the triplet: “Weltauffassung–religiöses Symbolsystem– Lebensstil.”17 Such a model could have invited Walton to articulate the unicity of Gen 1’s theology. This might lead to conclusions such as that Gen 1 attempts to show that God is in control, He is near, and He provides and cares—whatever the answers to the questions of “whether,” “where,” and “where else” God is or needs to be present. The book gives the impression of being a thorough study of the ancient Near East; nonetheless I tend to disagree with some of Walton’s assessments, mainly due to issues of context. Walton might draw too much on Mesopotamian cosmography, and he is unclear about his textual context. The unspoken textual context may be Gen 1 as part of the Priesterschrift, leading to his conclusions about the cosmos as temple, corroborated with a “creation account” in the first chapters of Genesis. However, his book gives the impression that he prefers to support the cosmos-temple connection with Mesopotamian sources, rather than with Priestly theology. This textual context may be Genesis, to which he refers in order to deny God’s presence in the cosmos (167, 177). At other points his textual context seems to be the Hebrew Scriptures in order to level the cosmography of Gen 1 with his exegetical conclusions from the Psalms. Walton has imprecisely combined different contexts and thus comes to conflicting conclusions for Gen 1. This difficulty underlines how important it is to be aware of one’s context: the cognitive context employed for comparison to give the text relief, the iconographic context (though undervalued here), the textual context of the text itself to make inferences and reach broader exegetical conclusions, and the context of the scholar. In reviewing Walton’s book, some of these contexts are mentioned, but others remain unaddressed. Despite the weaknesses pointed out here, the book makes an important contribution to the understanding of Gen 1 in its ancient Near Eastern context and makes some provisional steps towards “a more vital biblical theology of creation” (199).

1 J.H. Walton, “Creation in Genesis 1:1–2:3 and the Ancient Near East: Order out of Disorder after Chaoskampf,” CTJ 43 (2008), 48–63. 2 The word “ignores” seems to imply awareness coupled with a conscious act of disregard, whereas this category actually addresses those elements absent due to a lack of knowledge. 3 A. Heidel, The Babylonian Genesis (2nd ed.; Chicago, Chicago University

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Press, 1951; Phoenix Books, 1963) mainly draws on Enuma Elish, but then compares this with both other Mesopotamian creation accounts and finally with Gen 1. 4 Others conclude such a division from their hermeneutical framework of Priestly theology, e.g., M. Bauks, “Genesis 1 als Programmschrift der Priesterschrift,” A. Wénin (ed.), Studies in the Book of Genesis. Literature, Redaction and History (BETL 155; Leuven: Peeters, 2001), 333–345 (334). 5 J.D. Levenson, “The Temple and the World,” JR 64/3 (1984), 275–298 (296). 6 While Walton rightly focuses his search on seven days, the number seven as such offers many various interpretive directions, as shown by, e.g., G.G.G. Reinhold (ed.), Die Zahl Sieben im alten Orient: Studien zur Zahlensymbolik in der Bibel und ihrer altorientalischen Umwelt (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 2008). 7 Cf. E. Hornung, “Himmelsvorstellungen,” LÄ, II:1215–1218. 8 See C.E. Woods, “The Sun-God Tablet of Nabû-apla-iddina,” JCS 56 (2004), 23–103, (76–80); and O. Keel, The Symbolism of the Biblical World. Ancient Near Eastern Iconography and the Book of Psalms (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1997), 173–75. 9 E.J. van Wolde, Reframing Biblical Studies (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2009), 163–165. 10 When Egyptian literature speaks about different heavens, this usually implies different regions in heaven. 11 M.S. Smith, Priestly Vision of Genesis 1 (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2010), 11–37. 12 Cf. K. Schmid, “Schöpfung im Alten Testament,” K. Schmid (ed.), Schöpfung (Themen der Theologie 4; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 71–120 (89). 13 The interpretation of ‫ םיהלא חור‬as “spirit of God,” as “immanent manifestation of God the Creator” should be boldly acknowledged here (as Walton does on 151) because of the Hebrew Bible context within which this verse is read. This is contrary to Walton’s indecisiveness concerning the interpretation of ‫חור‬ ‫ םיהלא‬in the concluding chapter (195): “The text of Genesis leaves both the identity and the role of the spirit/wind unclarified.” 14 It seems that, like Smith (Priestly Vision, 64), Walton views Gen 1 as ignoring the reality of evil. 15 Similarly, J.C. Gertz, “Antibabylonische Polemik im priesterlichen Schöpfungsbericht,” ZTK 106 (2009), 137–155 (148). 16 Gertz, “Antibabylonische Polemik,” 154. 17 B. Janowski, “Das biblische Weltbild. Eine methodische Skizze,” B. Janowski and B. Ego (eds.), Das biblische Weltbild und seine altorientalischen Kontexte (FAT 32; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck 2001), 3–26, (15–18). Walton refers to this volume (87 n. 225), but does not seem to interact with it, nor with any of Janowski’s other works.

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Takayoshi Oshima, BABYLONIAN PRAYERS TO MARDUK (Orientalische Religionen in der Antike, 7; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011). Pp. xviii + 483. Cloth. €119.00; ISBN 978-3-16-150831-8.

Reviewed by Scott C. Jones Covenant College This work is a revision of the author’s Ph.D. thesis, which was supervised by Wayne Horowitz at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem in 2003 (then entitled “Hymns and Prayers to Marduk and his Divine Aspects in these Texts”). In his systematic study of prayers to Marduk and related texts, Oshima's work advances the century-old work of Johannes Hehn, whose corpus was one-third the size.1 Oshima accounts for 79 prayers to Marduk and other related texts, 31 of which are presented in an up-to-date edition. The author’s aim, however, is more than textual; he hopes to contribute to a better understanding of the Marduk theology: how Marduk acquired the role of divine savior, and how this role contributed to his rise to the head of the pantheon. In chapter 1, entitled “General Discussion of Akkadian Prayers,” Oshima aims to outline what Akkadian prayers meant to the ancients who prayed them (pp. 8–9). After a brief introduction, he examines ancient terms for Mesopotamian prayers, in both Sumerian and Akkadian, and he divides these into four types. With Lambert and van der Toorn, he suggests that the rubric ŠU.ÍL.LÁ is not so much a generic category as it is an indication of the manner in which the prayer was to be recited. He states, however, that “despite certain differences at the semantic level, the ancients took most of these words more or less as synonyms, just as the words like ‘invocation’, ‘devotion’, ’supplication’, and ‘benediction’ are used as synonyms of ‘prayer’ in English“ (p. 12).2 Oshima defines Akkadian prayers as “praise to a god followed by requests” and then outlines their typical structure in four parts: (1) hymnic introduction, (2) lament, (3) pleas, and (4) thanksgiving (p. 14). He notes that sin was understood vaguely as just about

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anything which offended the gods, and that while the supplicants often seem ignorant of the nature of their offense, they commonly assumed that the god’s wrath was linked to their negligence of cultic duties. Oshima also notes that the hymnic introduction “was meant to help conceptualize the divine quality of a deity which was relevant to their needs and wishes” (p. 15). This is not a new position, and Oshima cites Widengren and Hallo to the same effect. However, this fact should perhaps have been taken into account more fully in his sketch of the character of Marduk in light of the prayers addressed to him (more below). Finally, Oshima notes three principal roles of Akkadian prayers: (1) formulae for offering personal requests, (2) verbal offerings of praise in place of sacrifices, and (3) religious texts by which scribes learned about the character of the gods. Even while Akkadian prayers generally reflect personal, rather than national, interests, he stresses that these prayers are not the private expression of faith in a particular deity, but a general consensus about the nature of the gods: “[M]ost of the Akkadian prayers can be used in order to study a general consensus on different gods in ancient times but not the faith of a private person in a particular deity” (p. 26). The fact that Šuilas and Namburbis are commonly constructed with a fill-in-the-blank section in which the supplicant includes his or her name is further evidence of that fact. After a brief discussion of the relationship between hymns and prayers, Oshima summarizes the main points of the chapter. In chapter two, entitled “Marduk the God of Deliverance and Punishment,” Oshima outlines his view on how and why Marduk became the divine savior par excellence, drawing extensively throughout his discussion from the prayers edited in the final chapter of the monograph and on Ludlul bēl nēmeqi. According to Oshima, Marduk’s original role was to impose suffering upon humans as an executor of divine punishments. However, by the Old Babylonian period (if not before), Marduk became identified with Asalluḫi, who was the son of Enki/Ea and Damgalnuna and who was associated with the magical knowledge of exorcism and healing. Through this syncretism, Marduk also became Ea/Enki’s son, and he gradually took over the roles of exorcism and healing. Added now to Marduk’s “original” role an executor of punishments was his role as savior. Marduk thus became a dialectical deity of both wrath and mercy. This dialecticism is what Oshima refers to as Marduk’s “older personality,” and he draws especially on Ludlul bēl nēmeqi, the Prayer to Marduk no. 1 (bēlum šezuzu linuḫ libbu[k], see Foster, BTM3, 611–616), and Ugaritica V, no. 162 (RS 25.460; see Foster, BTM3, 410–411) to illustrate this personality. In these texts, both wrath and mercy are essential for understanding the nature of Marduk. However, Oshima asserts that one pole of Marduk’s personality began to take over in the Kassite period—his role as savior. He calls this

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Marduk’s “new personality” and he points to the lengthy Prayer to Marduk no. 2 (bēlum apkal igigî adallala siqarka; see Foster, BTM3, 617–620) as the text

which best illustrates this personality. Oshima summarizes, “In later Akkadian prayers, his aspects as the god of redemption and the divine healer become more evident than his harmful and destructive power” (p. 61). With the recession of Marduk’s wrath, says Oshima, came his rise to supremacy over personal gods and to the highest position in the pantheon. This is, indeed, the closest thing to a thesis in this study: that Marduk’s role as savior (acquired through the Asalluḫi-syncretism) is the reason for his great popularity and perhaps also for his rise to the head of the pantheon (see p. 1). Several things in this sketch seem to me questionable. First, was Marduk really only a god who imposed suffering before his assimilation to Asalluḫi? Walter Sommerfeld has suggested that Marduk’s function as exorcist was original,3 and Tzvi Abusch notes Marduk’s early association with the fructifying elements of rain clouds and water.4 But perhaps more importantly, it makes little sense that anyone would worship a god whose role was only to punish. Second, in chapter one, Oshima underscores that Akkadian prayers often emphasize the aspects of the deities that were relevant to the needs of the supplicant (p. 15), but here he tends to draw on divine descriptions in these prayers as if they were the only or primary aspects of the deity’s character. Third, Oshima’s sketch makes no mention of Marduk’s rise being related to the gradual rise of Babylon in political prominence, or to the crisis under Nebuchadnezzar I, whose recovery of Marduk’s statue from the Elamites was likely the catalyst for solidifying Marduk’s position as “the king of the gods” (šār ilāni) in official religion.5 This is all the more curious, given that elsewhere Oshima has brought these facts into the discussion. In his chapter on Marduk in a recent reference work on the Babylonian world, he states, “The god Marduk was the patron deity of the city of Babylon, and therefore the history of Marduk is intimately related to the history of Babylon. Just as political power of Babylon grew, so did the position of its national god, Marduk, who was also gradually elevated within the polytheistic religious system of Babylonia.”6 Because this focus is completely lacking from the present study, it gives the strong impression that Oshima believes that Marduk’s supremacy was tied to his sanguine personality traits taken over from Asalluḫi. I must confess that I am still confused as to whether or not this is what Oshima wishes to communicate in this monograph. Chapter three is a “Catalogue of Akkadian Prayers to Marduk.” After a brief introduction, Oshima explains his use and arrangement of the materials which follow in chapter four. The texts are presented in roughly chronological order within three main genres: prayers (P), incantation-

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prayers (IP), and incantations (In). An exception to this is the Šuila-prayers, which are basically contemporaneous. Oshima assigns a name to each entry in the catalogue, followed by its incipit, the catchline, the manuscripts, previous text editions (if any), translations, and major studies. Chapter four presents the corpus. The texts are arranged in the same order as in chapter three, and Oshima generally provides both a Partitur and a composite text of each work, as well as translation and commentary. Oshima introduces each work before presenting it. Scattered throughout are sketches, plates, autograph copies, and tables relevant to the discussion. The format of this portion of the book is exemplary; it is logical, and the opposing-page layout of text edition and translation for the longer texts makes them easy to study. In reading through this corpus, Marduk’s character as reviver of the dead stands out above all. He redeems from the pit, raises the dead, and shows the sufferer light in his death (Prayer to Marduk no. 1). He snatches from the mouth of death and lifts the supplicant up from the netherworld (Ugaritica V, no. 162). Marduk brings back the one who slumbers from inside the grave, and he wipes away the tears shed by the father and mother over their dead child (Prayer to Marduk no. 2). He “hold[s] the hand of the one who is cast into the bed of Namtar and … raise[s] (him) up,” and he releases the sufferer from death, which is like a dark prison (BMS 12, 17– 95). Among the gods, Marduk is the one who “loves to give life” (DT 119+152: Šigû-Prayer to the Lord), and his “incantation is life” (Prayer to Marduk no. 2). In the incantation-prayers, Marduk is called “the one who protects life” and “the one who provides health” [KAR 69, 1–25 (=BMS 9 obverse); AOAT 34, 28(+)29], and in KAR 26 obv. 11–rev. 6, the supplicant entreats the god: “Daily, may a favorable thing and the wellbeing of my healthy life follow me” (cf. Ps 23:6). For with Marduk, says JAOS 88, 131, “there are reviving of life and (being) full of life.” Much of this overlaps with biblical metaphors, especially in the Psalms, where YHWH redeems life from the pit (Pss 103:4; 40:3) which is likened to a prison (Ps 107:10), and who illuminates the sufferer’s darkness to save from death (Pss 13:3; 18:8; 49:19). As in the biblical Psalms, the supplicant likens tears to food (Ugaritica V, no. 162; IVR2, 59/2; cf. Ps 42:3) and appeals to Marduk’s desire for praise as a motivator to keep him alive: “What can dead dust add to the god?” (Prayer to Marduk no. 1; cf. Ps 30:6). And if Marduk does show mercy, the supplicant promises to proclaim Marduk’s greatness to the whole world (Prayer to Marduk no. 1; cf. Pss 9:14–15; 22:23 et al.). As Annette Zgoll puts it, the sufferer is an “advertising medium” (Werbeträger) who promises to be an instrument of the god’s “public relations work” (Öffentlichkeitsarbeit).7 The focus on Marduk’s responsiveness to the suffering and his ability to reverse death must be taken into account in the

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ongoing discussion of the development of the doctrine of resurrection in ancient Israel.8 Closely related to this is Marduk’s compassionate nature. It is clear from reading this corpus that YHWH was not alone in being thought of as a gracious and compassionate god. In IVR2 59/2, the supplicant calls Marduk “my compassionate and merciful lord,” and the Šigû-Prayer to Marduk mentions his “gratifying leniency, [his] great compassion, (and) [his] honorable generosity.” One of the more interesting prayers in the collection is BMS 12, 17–95, which likens Marduk to a father and mother and extolls him for caring for orphans and widows and those in distress. Lines 18–25 run: 18. The lord, you are like a father and mother, you exist in the mouths of people. 19. You are like the sun, you illuminate their darkness. 20. Daily, you establish justice for the wronged and oppressed. 21. You straighten out the orphans and widows, the wretched and the distressed. … 24. You are merciful, O lord, in difficulties and adversity, you save the weak. 25. [You look] with favor on the tired and weary whose god punished him. Similar themes are found in the Prayer to Marduk no. 2 , and also in KAR 26 obv. 11–rev. 6, where Marduk is portrayed as the only hope of the

orphans, the widows, and the childless. Nevertheless, Marduk is commonly extolled as heroic warrior whose force is like a flood or a destroying wind (meḫu or imḫullu). While Marduk is associated with an entourage of Mischwesen (see VS 24, 97 and table on p. 203), he himself is called “the Ušumgallu-dragon of the great heavens” (AMT 93/3). The most lengthy description of Marduk as warrior in these texts is in STC 1, p. 205, lines 7–11:

7. [The ba]ttle line and warfare are in the hand of the sage of the gods, Marduk, 8. [At hi]s attack the heavens trembled, 9. At his roar, the Apsû became muddled, 10. At the blade of his weapon, the gods turned back, 11. Against his furious onslaught, there is no one who can stand up.

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KAR 25 ii 3–26 also celebrates Marduk’s fury in battle: “Your furious arrow is a [m]erci[less] 
 li[o]n/the honorable lord, the one who tramples all the enemies, the one who staves off battle.” This same text is also remarkable for calling Marduk’s abstract qualities (e.g., sovereignty, lordship, understanding, strength, etc.) the names of other gods. So, for example, the incipit of this syncretistic hymn reads: “Sîn is your divinity, Anu is your sovereignty.” The text is of obvious importance for discussion of henotheism or monotheism in the ancient Near East. In this connection, note also the slightly weaker formulation in KAR 26 obv. 11–rev. 6, which states that the function of every other deity is reliant upon Marduk; without Marduk, neither the sun nor the moon would rise. Quite often, Marduk’s qualities of wrath and mercy accompany one another, and each is one part of a whole. This is clearly the case in Ug. V, no. 162, which may have been a source for similar dialectical characterization of YHWH in the Hebrew Bible (Job 5:18–19; Deut 32:39; Hos 6:1; Isa 30:26).[9] It is also evident in ABRT 1, p. 59, where Marduk is both the Ušumgallu-dragon of the heavens and the earth” and “the one who revives the dead.” It is, indeed, the very fact that Marduk is a warrior, a dragon, and a potentate, which gives him the ability to release supplicants from illness and demons. The opening lines of the incantation-prayer BMS 11 also capture this duality nicely: “Warrior, Marduk, he whose anger is a deluge, (But) his forgiveness is (that of) a merciful father.” The volume concludes with a bibliography, a very useful listing of epithets of Marduk in Akkadian prayers, several indices, and a section of hand copies and plates of cuneiform texts. The book is unfortunately riddled with typographical errors, some of which are fairly egregious, and it contains confusing formulations which make it difficult to tell whether it the author’s asserted position or if it is mere speculation. I am not convinced by the author’s attempt to use this corpus to support his thesis that Marduk developed from destroyer to savior; it seems to me better to view these characteristics as matters of emphasis by supplicants with different needs. Even the corpus gathered here contains enough variety of characterizations over a long period of time to render it dubious. Nevertheless, Oshima has done both Assyriologists and biblical scholars a great service by gathering these texts together in new editions so that they can be studied with a view to answering the question which he himself poses: “What did the prayers composed in Akkadian as a whole signify to the ancient people?” (pp. 8–9). 1 Hymnen und Gebete an Marduk (Beiträge zur Assyriologie 5; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1905); now reprinted in Analecta Gorgiana 105; Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2010.

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2 In the summary at the end of the chapter, however, Oshima emphasizes not the synonymity of the terms, but the difficulty of our perceiving differences between the terms which would likely have been self-evident to the ancients: “Probably, these terms indicated different purposes and usages of Akkadian prayers within the reality of the ancient world, but it is not always possible today to appreciate the exact semantic connection between some of the words and the notion of praying” (p. 37). 3 “Einige altbab[ylonische] Beispiele zeigen M[arduk] in der Funktion als Beschwörungsgott…, die für M[arduk] wohl ursprünglich war…” (W. Sommerfeld, “Marduk A. I.” RlA 7 [1987–1990]: 368). See also Sommerfeld’s monograph on the rise of Marduk (Der Aufstieg Marduks. Die Stellung Marduks in der babylonischen Religion des zweiten Jahrtausends v. Chr. [AOAT, 213; Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1982]), as well as his brief essay in English, “The Rise of Marduk – Some Aspects of Divine Exaltation,” Sumer 41 (1985): 97–100. 4 T. Abusch, “Marduk,” DDD (2d, rev. ed.; ed. K. van der Toorn et al.; Leiden and Boston: Brill; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), 544. This article is the best brief discussion of Marduk and his rise of which I am aware. 5 On the latter, see W. G. Lambert, “The Reign of Nebuchadnezzar I. A Turning Point in the History of Ancient Mesopotamian Religion,” in The Seed of Wisdom. Essays in Honour of T. J. Meek (ed. W. S. McCullough; Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1964), 3–13; and J. J. M. Roberts, “Nebuchadnezzar I’s Elamite Crisis in Theological Perspective,” in Essays on the Ancient Near East in Memory of Jacob Joel Finkelstein (ed. M. de Jong Ellis; Memoirs of the Connecticut Academy of Arts and Sciences, 19; Hamden, Conn.: Archon, 1977), 83–87. 6 Oshima, “The Babylonian God Marduk,” in The Babylonian World (ed. G. Leick; New York and London: Routledge, 2007), 348. 7 A. Zgoll, “Der betende Mensch. Zur Anthropologie in Mesopotamien,” in

Der Mensch im alten Israel. Neue Forschungen zur alttestamentlichen Anthropologie (ed. B. Janowski and K. Liess; HBS, 59; Freiburg im Breisgau,

2009), 124. See also p. 128 and similar language in prayers to Ištar in note 44. 8 The imagery of resurrection from death in these prayers would have fit very nicely in Jon Levenson’s treatment of similar imagery in biblical psalms in his

Resurrection and the Restoration of Israel. The Ultimate Victory of the God of Life (New Haven and London: Yale, 2006), 35–66. 9 J. J. M. Roberts, “Job and the Israelite Religious Tradition,” ZAW 89 (1977), 109 n. 14.

Reinhard Kratz, PROPHETENSTUDIEN: KLEINE SCHRIFTEN II (FAT, 74; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011). Pp. x + 420. Hardback. €99.00; ISBN 978-3-16-150713-7.

Reviewed by Jakob Wöhrle University of Münster Reinhard G. Kratz, Professor of Old Testament Studies at the University of Göttingen, is one of the most renowned experts on the prophetic literature of the Old Testament. His earlier works have especially considered the redactional development of the prophetic books from the early oracles to the final form of the books as well as the theological discourses detectable behind this redactional development. This volume presents 16 essays on Old Testament prophecy, ten previously published and six written for this new volume. The book is divided in three parts. The first part, “Altorientalische und biblische Prophetie,” focuses upon the phenomenon of prophecy and the emergence of prophetic writing in general. The second part comprises several articles about the book of Isaiah. The articles of the third section treat the books of Hosea and Amos. Each part of the book begins with a more general introduction to the following set of articles, and, notably, each part ends with an article on the reception of prophecy and the individual prophetic writings in the Qumran community. The first part of the anthology starts with the introductory essay, “Probleme der Prophetenforschung” (3–17). Kratz describes the paradigm shift that has taken place in contemporary Old Testament research, for which the main field of interest is not—and can no longer be—the historical prophet but the prophetic book. Based upon this development, Kratz identifies some open issues for further research such as the relationship between prophet and book, the relationship between ancient Near Eastern and biblical prophecy, the emergence of judgment prophecy, the circles responsible for the prophetic literature, and the extra-biblical reception of prophecy. 588

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In the next three articles, “‘Siehe ich lege meine Worte in deinen Mund’: Die Propheten des Alten Testaments” (18–31), “Die Redaktion der Prophetenbücher” (32–48), and “Das Neue in der Prophetie des Alten Testaments” (49–70), Kratz presents his view of the development from the early oracles of the prophets themselves to the prophetic books. He argues that the prophets of Israel and Judah, like the prophets of the surrounding nations, offered oral salvation oracles as well as oral oracles responding to desolate situations of the society or to an impending disaster. They did not, however, pronounce judgment oracles presenting Yhwh as the source of such disasters. Kratz argues that judgment prophecy in the form appearing in the prophetic books of the Old Testament is the—written, rather than oral—product of a later time that presupposes the downfall of the northern kingdom and then of the southern kingdom. These judgment oracles are the result of later theological reflection that attempts to understand Yhwh’s involvement in these events. His article “Der Zorn Kamoschs und das Nein Jhwhs: Vorstellungen vom Zorn Gottes in Moab und Israel” (71–98) further elaborates this thesis. He shows how the Mesha inscription reflects on a previous period of decline and depicts this distress as the result of the wrath of the deity Chemosh. This portrayal serves as a contrast to highlight the period of blessing that follows. Kratz similarly understands Old Testament judgment prophecy as the ex eventu reinterpretation of past disasters. Portraying disaster as the result of divine wrath then makes space for the creation of a new basis for the divine-human relationship because the deity can then also be accorded responsibility for the subsequent deliverance and blessing. The last article of the first section, “Der Pescher Nahum und seine biblische Vorlage” (99–145), traces the reception of Old Testament prophecy in the writings of Qumran by way of the Nahum Pesher (4QpNah). Kratz argues that the extra-biblical interpretation of the book of Nahum in the Nahum Pesher demonstrates continuity with the innerbiblical interpretation of this book in the late stages of its own redactional development. These late stages of the book of Nahum broadened the purview of the earlier layers, which focus upon the city of Nineveh, to address all humanity (cf. especially Nah 1:2–8). Similarly, the Nahum Pesher furthers this redactional development by taking Nineveh to refer to internal opponents rather than to a foreign power. The subsequent two parts of the anthology present articles addressing individual issues from Isaiah, Hosea, and Amos. These articles elaborate the general assumptions given in the first part of the book. The second part of the volume, dealing with the book of Isaiah, begins with “Jesaja im Corpus propheticum” (149–59), in which Kratz presents his model for the book’s formation. According to Kratz, the oldest

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part of this book can be detected in Isa 7:7–9 or 8:1–4. Thus, in his view the historical prophet Isaiah should be understood as a prophet of salvation. After the downfall of the Northern kingdom, the original message of the prophet was reworked and reinterpreted into a message of judgment. “Israel im Jesajabuch” (160–176) traces the development in the usage of the term “Israel” in the different redactional levels of Isaiah, showing how its meaning changes from political to theological. The next article, “Jesaja 28– 31 als Fortschreibung” (177–197), argues that Isa 28–31 is not, as often supposed, a second collection of oracles by the historical prophet Isaiah in his later years, but a much later reinterpretation (Fortschreibung) of the message given in Isa 5–10. The next two articles, “Der Anfang des zweiten Jesaja in Jes 40,1f und seine literarischen Horizonte” (198–215) and “Der Anfang des zweiten Jesaja in Jes 40,1f und das Jeremiabuch” (216–232), address the opening section of the book of Deutero-Isaiah. Kratz argues that this section takes up both the closing section of the Joseph story in Gen 50, in which Joseph comforts his brothers, and Jer 50–51, which announces the downfall of Babylon, in order to develop its message of impending salvation. The article “Tritojesaja” (232–242), a revised version of an article written for the Theologische Realenzyklopädie, describes the formation and intention of Trito-Isaiah. In the last article of the second part, “Jesaja in den Schriften vom Toten Meer” (243–271), Kratz describes the reception of the book of Isaiah in the Qumran community, again concluding that this reception of the earlier text displays similarity to the late redactional development of the book. The third and final part of the anthology addresses the books of Hosea and Amos. “Hosea und Amos im Zwölfprophetenbuch” (275-286) provides an overview of the redactional development of the Book of the Twelve as a whole. The next article, “Erkenntnis Gottes im Hoseabuch” (287–309), considers the usage of the term “knowledge” in the different redactional levels of the book, ranging from a political to a theological and to a specifically scribal meaning. “Die Worte des Amos von Tekoa” (310– 343) presents his view on the earliest oracles of the book of Amos, which provide some insights about the historical prophet. According to Kratz, the earliest oracles comprise Am 1:1a(bβ); 3:1aα, 3–6(, 8), 12, 15; 4:1aαb, 2(–3); 5:1aα, 2, 3, 7, 10–12*, 16–17*, 18a, 20; 6:1–7*, 13–14*. Thus, the historical Amos was not a prophet of judgment like the prophet found in the later versions of the book, but an observer of his times who describes more than the prophecies. The subsequent article, “Die Kultpolemik der Propheten im Alten Testament” (344–358), deals with the redactional setting and the development of oracles against the cult. Kratz argues that all these oracles are the product of later redactional development of the prophetic books. The last article, “Hosea und Amos in den Schriften vom Toten Meer” (359-

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379), again analyzes the reception of the prophetic books in the Qumran scrolls and comes to the conclusion that the extra-biblical interpretation continues innerbiblical developments. Kratz’ Prophetenstudien is without doubt an important and valuable book. It is remarkable, if not astonishing, how Kratz succeeds in arranging his articles, which were written at different times and for different purposes, into a coherent whole. Also impressive are the comprehensible insights into Kratz’ understanding of prophecy and the prophetic literature of the Old Testament. His approach is convincing in that it recognizes the gap between the historical prophets and the prophetic books without giving up the search for the historical prophets. He does not simply identify the prophetic books with the prophets themselves like earlier scholarship. However, he also avoids understanding the prophetic books as a mere literary phenomenon without any connection to historical prophets, as parts of contemporary research do. Further scholarship will need to show to what degree Kratz’ concrete analyses will endure. For the moment, the author of this review remains unconvinced by Kratz’ view of judgment prophecy as a purely literary phenomenon offering ex eventu reinterpretations of earlier historical events. For example, even Kratz considers the announcement of the day of Yhwh in Amos 5:18–20* to be part of the primary layer of this book. Yet could it be that this points to the fact that prophecy in the prophetic books of the Old Testament was from the beginning—at least in part—judgment prophecy? Thus, Kratz’ anthology leaves room for further discussion and research. Without question, all further research will profit from this insightful book.

Magnar Kartveit, THE ORIGIN OF THE SAMARITANS (VTSup, 128; Leiden: Brill, 2009). Pp. xiv + 405. Hardcover. US$185.00. ISBN 978-90-04-1-78199-9.

Reviewed by Reinhard Pummer University of Ottawa One of the most intractable problems concerning the Samaritans is the question of their origin. Much has been written about this subject from antiquity to modern times. As in other areas, however, old certainties based on a traditional reading of the Bible and of Flavius Josephus have tenaciously persisted into the twenty-first century despite a relative plethora of new vistas opened up by recent discoveries and renewed research into the history of this community. Moreover, the Samaritans present us with a double persona: on the one hand, they appear in many respects like an offshoot of Judaism, on the other, they are closely related to the former Northern Kingdom of Israel. Kartveit has shown great courage to address this complex question in a book. However, he was well prepared for the task since his involvement in Samaritan research spans many years, publishing articles and presenting papers at learned conferences on a variety of topics. Mutatis mutandis, i.e. adapted to the new context, these studies became part of this book. In chapter one, “Introduction,” Kartveit discusses the question of the definition of “Samaritans.” For various reasons (see below), he does not want to follow the current convention of distinguishing between “Samarians,” i.e., the inhabitants of Samaria regardless of their religion, and “Samaritans,” i.e., the community whose worship is centered on Mount Gerizim. Rather, he uses “Samaritans” in a broad way, meaning by it the group described by Josephus, attacked in the second century BCE texts, and emerging in an earlier period. Anticipating the last chapter, he states that from the moment the temple on Mt. Gerizim was erected, “we have the Samaritans” (p. 10). In chapter two, “The Legacy from Josephus,” Kartveit discusses what the Church Fathers have to say about the origin of the Samaritans, and how the Samaritans explain the beginnings of the Jews. Origen, 592

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Eusebius of Caesarea, and Epiphanius were all influenced by Josephus’ interpretation of 2 Kgs 17:24–41, adding some explanations of their own. In the Samaritan “historical” sources, the Chronicles compiled in the Middle Ages, it is the origin of the Jews which is described since the Samaritans consider themselves to be descendants of the original Israelites. Being devoid of historical value for the biblical period, these sources cannot be used to reconstruct the origin of the Samaritans. Rather, these texts “were developed as polemics or self-defence, created from older texts in order to substantiate contemporary self-understanding” in mid-fourteenth and late nineteenth/early twentieth centuries (p. 43). Chapter three, “State of the Question,” in turn, discusses the influence which the Samaritan version and Josephus had on modern scholarship, but also examines theories that are not founded on either the Samaritan chronicles or on Josephus. The next chapter, “Josephus on the Origin of the Samaritans,” examines in detail Josephus’ War and Antiquities to ascertain his views on the question. After a discussion of terminology, rejecting any a priori definitions of Samaritans, Kartveit discusses Josephus’ Tendenz, identifying opportunism as the “most conspicuous trait in Josephus’ picture of the Samaritans” (p. 82). He then proceeds to outline one by one what he sees as Josephus’ three versions of their origins: “they were brought in from the east; they were expelled from Jerusalem; and they were Sidonians” (p. 85). The three versions are incompatible and confusing, but they serve Josephus’ purpose to paint a negative picture of the Samaritans. Chapter five, “Josephus’ Predecessors,” comprising almost one hundred pages, is by far the longest and most intricate of the whole book. Kartveit deals here with a number of writings from the third and second centuries BCE that foreshadow Josephus’ polemics: The Septuagint version of Genesis 34, Demetrius the Exegete and Chronographer, Theodotus, Ben Sira 50:25–26, Jubilees 30, 4QNarrative and Poetic Compositiona-c, the Aramaic Levi Document, the Testament of Levi, Judith, Joseph and Aseneth, Philo, Pseudo-Philo, and the Samaritan Pentateuch. Most of these texts make Gen 34, the rape of Dinah and the slaughter of the Shechemites, a subject of discussion, although they do so in different ways due to their distinctive overall goals. In general, however, they carry further the more negative attitude towards the Shechemites expressed in the Septuagint as compared to the Masoretic text of this passage. The following are Kartveit’s conclusions for each of the works discussed: Demetrius contains no polemics against the citizens of Shechem in his time. Theodotus’ poem would have been offensive to the Samaritans because their holy mountain is not even named, but mentioned together with Mount Ebal, and “their city Shechem is considered Jewish territory” (p. 140). Ben Sira 50:25–26 clearly

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uses Gen 34 in an anti-Samaritan sense, in fact, the Hebrew text of 50:24– 26 is a prayer for the killing of the Shechemites. Jubilees 30 does not present a direct polemic against Shechemites, but by its concentration on Jerusalem and the “pure” people it implicitly is unfriendly or hostile to other peoples. 4QNarrative and Poetic Compositiona-c is a “direct attack on contemporary Shechemites” in the line of Ben Sira 50:25–26 (p. 160). The three fragments of the Aramaic Testament of Levi which have preserved parts of the Dinah story exhibit “no specific edge against the contemporary dwellers in the area around Shechem” (p. 177). The Greek Testament of Levi, a Christian document discussed by Kartveit after the Aramaic Testament of Levi, clearly uses Gen 34 to polemicize against the Shechemites, calling the city of Shechem a city of fools. In the book of Judith, Gen 34 is given a prominent place and the assault on Jerusalem is seen as a re-enactment of the rape of Dinah; Shechem, with its Yahwistic cult so close to Jerusalem, is dangerous for the latter. Joseph and Aseneth “is not a figurative text for the Jerusalem-Shechem conflict”; instead, the “message of the book seems to lie in virtues to be emulated by the Jews of Alexandria” (p. 192). Genesis 34 was used in this work not against the Samaritans, but against the Egyptian fool, i.e., the son of the Pharaoh. Philo portrays Shechem and Hamor very negatively and Dinah and the sons of Jacob positively, but he does not attack the contemporary inhabitants of the city, at least not directly. Pseudo-Philo’s Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum shows no negative attitude in its short account of the events in Gen 34, but other passages depict Samaritan sites in a negative light. Since all extant manuscripts of the Samaritan Pentateuch are later than the works discussed in this chapter, Kartveit considers it last. Contrary to his expectations that the Samaritans would have eliminated any traits that could be used polemically against them, Kartveit notes that the Samaritan Pentateuch does not defend the Shechemites and does not alter the chapter “into something which would be based on a defence against attacks” (p. 195). But its reading of Gen 49:5–7 results in an identification of the Samaritans with Simeon and Levi against the Shechemites. Kartveit finds thus an indirect confirmation of antagonism against the Samaritans insofar as the latter “felt the weight of polemics from the second century BCE when the SP developed” and used the identification with the Jewish heroes to extract themselves from it (p. 198). There were, Kartveit concludes, continued polemics against the Samaritans from the second century BCE to Josephus in the first century CE. Chapter six, “Samaritan Inscriptions and Related Texts,” reviews recent archaeological excavations at Shechem (Tell Balatah), Tell er-Ras, and Mount Gerizim (Jabal at-Tur) as well as the inscriptions uncovered on Mount Gerizim and on the Greek island of Delos. Next, Kartveit discusses

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texts in which the Greek term Argarizein (with variants) occurs, i.e. a contracted and transliterated rendition of the Hebrew words ‫רה‬, “mountain,” and ‫םיזירג‬, “Gerizim,” whose spelling as one word has become a hallmark of Samaritan writings. Some non-Samaritan texts, however, also exhibit this form. It must therefore be asked “if these texts reveal a Samaritan source or Samaritan allegiance through the expression” (p. 230). Contentious cases are, according to Kartveit, 2 Macc 5:23 and 6:2; Josephus, War 1.63; the Masada Fragment 10; and Pseudo-Eupolemos. Kartveit sees 2 Macc 5:23 and 6:2 as highly critical of the Samaritans which proves that “Argarizim” was used in Jewish anti-Samaritan texts in the second century BCE and similarly in Josephus, War 1.63. In all other occurrences Josephus uses simply “Garizein,” possibly in order to “avoid any recognition of Samaritan claims to legitimacy” (p. 241). Masada Fragment 10 also is seen as a Jewish text in which the contracted form is used in a curse on the Samaritans. Pseudo-Eupolemos was probably authored by a Hellenized Jew and adopted by a Jewish, Samaritan or Christian author who added “Argarizin” and explained its meaning. What these texts show is that “Argarizim” was a Samaritan technical term for the temple-mount Gerizim in the second century BCE Jews and Christians could use it in a polemical sense against the Samaritans. In chapter seven, “The Pentateuch that the Samaritans Chose,” Kartveit presents his view of the origin of the Samaritan Scripture, viz. the Samaritans selected for themselves one of the versions circulating in Palestine and later adapted it in accordance with their theology. In analysing the major additions and transpositions in the Samaritan Pentateuch, he aims to show that they chose a version which emphasizes Moses’ position as the prophet; the authority of all other prophets was merely derivative of Moses’. The type of text that the Samaritans made their own was produced from the middle of the third century BCE and remained in use until the turn of the eras, that is, during the period in which the prophetic writings assumed more and more importance. Chapter eight examines therefore “The Samaritan Attitude to the Prophets.” From the Church Fathers we know that the Samaritans’ Scripture of the second and third centuries CE consisted only of the Pentateuch. Since no earlier direct evidence is available, Kartveit draws on the Ascension of Isaiah and its depiction of a prophet from Samaria, named variously Belkira or Melcheira or derivatives thereof, who reproaches Isaiah for disagreeing with Moses, possibly a parody of a Samaritan position. Taken together with 4Q339, a list of false prophets compiled before the turn of the eras, and certain Talmudic passages, above all b. Yebamot 49b where Isaiah is again depicted as being in conflict with Moses, the oldest part of Ascension of Isaiah (probably dating from the first century CE or

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earlier) may have preserved a record of Jewish polemics about the prophetic corpus going back to the first or second century BCE. This inner-Jewish discussion continued until the turn of the eras and ended with the acknowledgement of Moses as the greatest prophet at the price of including the prophetic writings in the canon. The rejection of the prophets continued only among the Samaritans who, later, disapproved also of the prophets’ preference for Zion and reproached them for their inaccurate predictions of the future. From his detailed study of the Ascension of Isaiah and related texts, Kartveit concludes that the “story of the false prophet from Samaria who accuses Isaiah, and occasions his death … may be another case of Jerusalem polemics against the Samaritans” (p. 348). It also shows the Samaritan opposition to the prophets due to the Samaritan elevation of Moses to the position of the supreme prophet. The first sentence of the last chapter, “The Origin of the Samaritans,” states: “The moment of birth of the Samaritans was the construction of the temple on Mount Gerizim,” most likely in the Persian period (p. 351). Both the Delos inscriptions and Josephus’ narratives of the disputes in Egypt about the temples in Jerusalem and on Mt. Gerizim not only show that the Samaritans’ identity was derived from their temple, but also that it had “developed long enough before the early second century BCE to have spread into the diaspora by then” (p. 353). Kartveit then asks: “Why was the temple built on Mt. Gerizim and not in Shechem?” He believes the only reason was Moses’ command in Deut 27:4–7, ordering the Israelites to set up large stones on Mount Gerizim (original reading), build an altar there, and offer sacrifices on it. Kartveit concludes: “The fatal division between Jerusalem and Samaria was motivated by one specific commandment in the Pentateuch” (p. 357). The erection of the Gerizim temple and the rejection of the Northerners by Jerusalem went hand in hand. Although the Northerners were YHWH worshipers, the fact that they had not been exiled was possibly their “basic flaw” (p. 370). It was the returnees who brought about a split by not accepting the people of the land. Eventually, the returnees became the Jews of Jerusalem and elements of the people of the land came to be the Jews of Samaria, i.e. the Samaritans. Kartveit’s book is well structured and well written, and the documentation is extensive and up-to-date. It is so rich in details that it is impossible to address all the material in a review. In the following I will therefore highlight salient issues. But before taking up these issues, some corrigenda should be noted: The Samaritan Aramaic term for “the period of Divine Favour” is transcribed in the book as Rawuta instead of Rḥwth or Rahuta (from ‫ ;התוחר‬Samaritan pronunciation: rūta). The Samaritan Arabic Book of Joshua in its earliest part is based on a (inferred) text going back to the

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13th, not the 14th, century CE (p. 34–35). And, still on the subject of chronicles, the reference to “Tolidah and Chronicle Neubauer” (p. 41) must be a slip of the pen since Tolidah and Chronicle Neubauer are two names for the same work. Scholars will differ in the assessment of some of the texts understood by Kartveit in an anti-Samaritan sense, such as 2 Macc 5:23 and 6:2, or disagree with Kartveit’s view that Josephus presents three different versions of the origin of the Samaritans, and that Masada Fragment 10 is a curse on the Samaritans. Similarly, Abū l-Fatḥ’s statement that he cut down on Greek expressions in compiling his chronicle more likely refers to individual words, or even to Greek proper names, than it does to abbreviations of Greek sources. Then there is the question of terminology. As mentioned above, the distinction observed by most contemporary researchers between “Samarians” and “Samaritans” is dismissed by Kartveit because it is “based on modern, and therefore anachronistic, criteria” (p. 9). But in many cases we use terms for antique phenomena for which the ancients did not have an expression or used designations which now have different connotations. Such terms as “Presocratic Philosophers” or “Deuteronomistic History,” for instance, are also based on modern scholarly criteria and we still employ them. The point after which the Samaritans went their own ways is believed by the majority of scholars today to be in the second century BCE when, from all we can discern, the Samaritans, most likely provoked by the destruction of their temple by John Hyrcanus, rejected Jerusalem and began to see Mt. Gerizim as the only legitimate sanctuary. It seems now probable that the erection of a temple on the mountain took place in the fifth century BCE (Kartveit thinks it was in the first part of the fourth century BCE [p. 359]). The building of the sanctuary alone, however, cannot have been decisive for the formation of a separate community of Israelites. Kartveit himself notes that there were other Israelite groups who had temples outside of Jerusalem in such places as Elephantine, Leontopolis, and ʿAraq el-Emir (whereby the edifice in ʿAraq el-Emir was most likely not a temple; on the other hand, Khirbet el-Qom should probably be added to the list). But he discounts this fact because the Samaritans “constitute the only community with a continued existence down to our own age” and “were more important in the eyes of the NT and Josephus” (p. 352). While this continued existence may be a cause why they have held the interest of later generations of Jews and Christians, it is no reason to ignore the fact that the other temples did not lead to separate communities. In other words, there must have been more than the building of a temple outside Jerusalem that brought about a distinct group within Israelite religion.

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Scholars believe that the separation was a gradual process, not a sudden breach, and to indicate this, they use such terms as “protoSamaritan” or “pre-Samaritan.” Samarians who worshiped at Mt. Gerizim but did not yet reject Jerusalem are called proto-Samaritans. These terms, too, are rejected by Kartveit because they imply a “teleological understanding of history” and are “suggestive of a somewhat linear development in one specific direction” (p. 7). On the other hand, he has no qualms to use the term “pre-Samaritan” in connection with Pentateuchal texts from Qumran (pp. 263–265: “The Predecessor of the Samaritan Pentateuch in Qumran”). After all, we look back at other phenomena too and express in our own terminology that we recognize that some of them display traits that are shared by a later form of these earlier entities and can thus be considered precursors of them. Examples are the development of scripts and languages (“proto-Canaanite,” “proto-Indo-European”), and the development of humans (“proto-humans”). In reading and interpreting early texts in view of determining whether they contain anti-Samaritan polemics the dangers of Scylla and Charybdis are ever present: either we read too much into the evidence or we overlook possible clues. Kartveit is aware of this (p. 110), but then goes on to ignore his own warning, especially in chapter five. He speaks of “heavy criticism [of the Samaritans] from Jerusalem in the second century BCE” (p. 352), and the discussions in that chapter create the impression that the works treated in it use Gen 34 as anti-Samaritan ammunition when much, or at least, some of the evidence is only “possibly” or “probably” directed against the Samaritans and some are free of any anti-Samaritan animus, as pointed out above when discussing chapter five. It is true, if the antagonism between Jews and Samaritans began at an early date, that even slight hints can have an easily-understood meaning in a hot polemic situation. The problem is that we deduce the existence of a hot polemic situation from the writings whose hints we interpret as proof for the polemic situation. We thus get caught in a circulus vitiosus. A corollary of painting a picture that consists of a mosaic of hypotheses is that the result can take on the appearance of a secured foundation on which others in turn build further hypotheses. The catch-phrase “Shechem” serves as the identifier of passages that relate in some way to the Samaritans, particularly in chapter five. Behind this association stands Josephus who claimed that Shechem was the Samaritans’ μητρόπολις (Ant. 11.340) and who used the terms Shechemites and Samaritans interchangeably. However, the recent archaeological excavations have proven the existence of a city on the highest peak of Mt. Gerizim which must have been the main city of the Samaritans. Kartveit himself casts doubt on the theory of the Samaritans fleeing to Shechem

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after Alexander had punished them for killing his governor of Samaria, Andromachus (pp. 62–63, 204, 359). And in reference to Theodotus’ poem he writes: “In a text from the Hellenistic period, the focus on Shechem instead of on Mount Gerizim is conspicuous, and even anti-Samaritan” (p. 128; cf. also pp. 139–140). Josephus’ statement about Shechem can apply only to the time after the destruction of the Gerizim temple and the city around it at the end of the second century BCE. In any event, it is questionable whether every mention of Shechem in Jewish writings of the period under discussion can be taken to refer to the Samaritans. One final point: after the presentation of the evidence for antiSamaritan polemics dating exclusively from the second century BCE and the first century CE, the conclusion that the Samaritans originated with the construction of the temple in the early fourth century BCE comes as a surprise despite the anticipation of this result at the beginning of the book. The evidence marshalled by Kartveit up to this point in the book seems to suggest precisely the time in which most scholars now place the parting of the ways, i.e. the second century BCE. The above remarks, however, do not detract from the fact that the work under review, the first book-length study devoted to the origin of the Samaritans in thirty-five years, is a well-informed and perceptive treatment of a difficult question. Anybody studying the issues related to the origin of the Samaritans will have to consult it.

Leigh M. Trevaskis, HOLINESS, ETHICS AND RITUAL IN LEVITICUS (HBM, 29; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2011). Pp. 300. Hardcover. US$120.00. ISBN 978-1-906-05598-1.

Reviewed by Roy E. Gane Andrews University In his monograph, Holiness, Ethics and Ritual in Leviticus, Leigh Trevaskis challenges the view that holiness in the so-called “priestly” (P) segment of Leviticus (chs. 1–16) lacks the kind of ethical dimension that characterizes the concept in the “holiness” (H) portions of the book (mainly chs. 17–26).

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He contends that P and H agree that holiness must include ethics; the difference is that in P the requirement is implicit, but in H it becomes explicit. This proposal carries profound implications for the worldview and compositional history of Leviticus. For instance, if he is right, the ethical dimension of holiness did not originate with H as the response of a priestly circle to a prophetic critique of P (contra Israel Knohl).1 Prior scholarship demonstrated ethical concern in Lev 1–16, and Jacob Milgrom has suggested that in the dietary laws of chapter 11 holiness includes an ethical aspect of reverence for life.2 The essential task of Trevaskis is to ascertain whether at least some ritual laws of Lev 1–16 imply a broader ethical component of holiness on a secondary, symbolic level of meaning. To accomplish this he carries out detailed exegesis of selected laws, including thorough semantic, cognitive linguistic, and rhetorical analysis, in order to identify subsurface meanings and allusions to other pentateuchal passages. Following his overall Introduction (chapter 1), in chapter 2 Trevaskis outlines methodological controls for uncovering symbolic meanings in ritual texts. First, he identifies primary meanings of key terms in their contexts by examining their paradigmatic and syntagmatic relations. Then he employs cognitive linguistics to explore the possibility that the audience would access secondary domains of meaning, some of which may involve symbolism. Literary features, such as rhetorical progression, can also enhance comprehension of meaning. Chapter 3 applies the approach just described to Lev 11, where dietary regulations in vv. 1–42, regarded as P, are followed by an explicit call to personal holiness in vv. 43–45, which scholars now attribute to H.3 In vv. 1–42, Trevaskis finds a rhetorical progression from food prohibitions to the consequence of eating unclean food: incurring impurity that temporarily excludes one from God’s immediate presence at the sanctuary. This directs the audience to the corresponding progression in Gen 1–3 from the divine command regarding forbidden fruit to the mortal punishment of exclusion from God’s presence for rebellious disobedience. Through this allusion, exclusion in Lev 11 assumes more serious underlying significance by symbolizing exile as punishment for rebellion against God’s will, which is concerned with personal cultic and ethical integrity, in harmony with H’s view of holiness. So vv. 43–45 are not just “tacked on,” but draw out the implicit meaning of vv. 1–42. Chapter 4 reinforces the idea that a person’s impurity symbolizes banishment from the Lord’s immediate presence to the realm of death. Impurities in Lev 12–15 are connected to negative associations of “flesh,” which symbolizes rebellious humanity (cf. Gen 6–9). In Lev 13, skin disease involves exposure of flesh, resulting in impurity that excludes one from the

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holy domain. In terms of primary meaning, this consequence is not punishment for specific sin or sinfulness. Nevertheless, by accessing the secondary, symbolic meaning of “flesh,” Israel is taught that the outcome of impurity symbolizes divine judgment on sinful humanity, which then can only re-enter the Lord's presence through sacrificial “atonement” (ch. 14). As in Lev 11, the legislation has the effect of persuading Israel to avoid the negative consequence symbolized by impurity (i.e., exile) by complying with his will in regard to cultic and ethical matters. In chapter 5, Trevaskis examines the prescription for the burnt offering (Lev 1), which implicitly belongs to the “most holy” category, to see whether the text implies that its lay offerer should be holy. He finds that behind the primary meaning of the requirement that the victim be “without defect” (‫)תּ ִמים‬ ָ there is a symbolic reference to human “integrity” (‫)תּ ִמים‬ ָ shown in the life of Noah (Gen 6) and commanded of Abraham (Gen 17), both of whom offered burnt offerings. Because the offerer of a burnt offering is human, his appearance in God’s presence requires ransom from divine wrath through an animal that represents a life of integrity, implying that human integrity is part of holiness. Chapter 6 strengthens this connection by pointing out that in the parallel lists of priestly and animal defects in Lev 21–22 (part of H, but using cultic terminology like P), priests are “holy” and sacrificial victims are “without defect.” Their physical appearance represents God’s holiness, which the people are to emulate, including the area of ethics. Following his conclusion (chapter 7), Trevaskis includes two appendices. The first explores the rationale for selection of clean and unclean animals in Lev 11, proposing that the former are associated with life and the latter with death. The second presents evidence that the burnt offering belongs to the most holy category. The book ends with a bibliography and indexes of biblical references, authors, and subjects. Trevaskis’s work is instructive, especially with regard to identification of possible secondary meanings in ritual prescriptions. He is sensitive to details of the biblical text, draws on rich knowledge of the Israelite cult, and engages in penetrating and often convincing critiques of many scholarly interpretations. The trajectory of his argumentation is complex, but he constructs and presents it in a logical and effective manner, with clear writing, transitions, and summaries. Trevaskis recognizes that his proposal is to be tested. He credibly demonstrates that Leviticus 1–16 shares some elements with Genesis, but the question arises: If the author of Leviticus was intentionally alluding to the primeval narratives, what did he intend his audience to derive from this connection? Does this mean that “‘uncleanness’ should not be considered as the cause of a person’s exclusion from Yahweh’s immediate presence,

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but as the result of an action that symbolizes rebellion (e.g. the ingestion of unclean food)” (p. 109 n. 3)? This seems problematic for reasons that I state in the following paragraphs. Trevaskis builds his case for a symbolic meaning of physical ritual impurity on a selected sample of passages, rather than the comprehensive corpus of purity legislation in Leviticus and Numbers. A broader view would have given more weight to the fact that some impurities are permitted or automatic and therefore unavoidable (e.g., menstruation, nocturnal emission). Incurring permitted impurities can be necessary and commendable. For example, sexual reproduction by married couples (involving impurities of intercourse and childbirth) continues the nation, in harmony with the divine blessing of Gen 1:28 (cf. Gen 9:1), and burying one’s parents (resulting in corpse contamination) is part of the ethical obligation to honor them. It appears difficult to associate permitted or unavoidable cases, and therefore impurity in general, with rebellion on a symbolic level as closely as Trevaskis does. Granted that secondary symbolic meanings can go beyond primary meanings, is it likely that the two levels are out of sync to this extent? Impure animals are born that way. Impure garments and dwellings belonging to humans lack volition, and their condition is not tied to moral faults of their owners. So it is hard to see how such impurities can be regarded as stemming from action that symbolizes rebellion, unless it is assumed that the “rebellion,” here, is the “sin” of Adam and Eve, which has resulted in an imperfect state of things. An allusion is instructive, but it does not override other contextual factors. While exclusion of Adam and Eve was construed as the result of rebellious action, an allusion to this in Leviticus does not necessarily infer the same dynamic on a symbolic level. After the exclusion from Eden, humans are born into the consequent state of mortality, which is represented by the range of impurities that cause exclusion from the Lord’s immediate presence.4 This explains why impurities can be automatic or permitted. It is true that wilfully incurring a prohibited impurity is rebellious action, but this is because it violates a divine commandment, not because of the nature of the impurity. If symbolism in Leviticus were more tightly linked to Genesis, we would expect the penalty for breaking commandments in general to be exclusion from God’s presence, but this is not the case. An allusion to Adam and Eve can serve to remind Israelites that their mortality and impurity result from rebellion by their original parents, implying the warning that this sin should not be repeated. But the exclusion associated with impurity now comes to humans even when they do not rebel. If the allusion uncovers ethical holiness in Lev 1–16, this implication is weaker than Trevaskis indicates.

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Following are comments on some details. First, Trevaskis interprets the location of Lev 13:47–59 concerning fabrics—between sections concerned with skin disease in humans (vv. 1–46) and then their purification (14:1–32)—to support the idea that the fabrics likely symbolize humans, i.e., “flesh” (p. 157). But this literary position is better explained by the fact that the unit on fabrics contains little regarding purification. The section regarding houses (14:33–53), on the other hand, naturally follows instructions for purification of humans because it involves a similar ritual remedy utilizing birds. Second, on Lev 12, Trevaskis downplays the importance of postpartum blood in order to highlight the “flesh” of a male infant (v. 3; pp. 162–166). But blood is central here: the mother’s impurity is likened to that of menstruation (v. 2), she undergoes blood purification (vv. 4–5), and sacrificial expiation results in purification from her flow of blood (v. 7). Third, Trevaskis speculates that in Lev 1 it is the acceptable “male without defect” aspect of a burnt offering victim, rather than the ritual itself as a whole, that ransoms the human who offers it (vv. 3–4; pp. 191, 203). But there are problems with limiting the instrument of atonement like this: acceptability also requires offering the animal at the proper location (v. 3); divine acceptance depends on proper performance of all ritual aspects and is not completed until the smoke ascends as a soothing aroma to the Lord (v. 9); and “without defect” also applies to purification offerings, which emphasize the role of blood as essential for atonement (Lev 4). Fourth, Trevaskis suggests that Lev 21–22 refrains from referring to ethics of priests in order to restrict the attention of the audience to the significance of their physical appearance (pp. 215–216). But this omission could be due to the fact that priests simply do not have a higher ethical standard than laity, unless choice of a wife (21:7, 13–15) could be regarded as involving an ethical aspect. It was not ethics that distinguished priests from other Israelites. Finally, there are only a few typos or infelicities in the book, e.g., “the violation of cultic violations” (p. 53, line 10) and “Gane, Cult and Conscience” (sic, actually Cult and Character; cf. p. 179 n. 39; 191 n. 96; also note that “Gane” is omitted from the Index of Authors on p. 283). To conclude this review, while some of Trevaskis’s conclusions transcend solid evidence and balanced assessment of the comprehensive range of relevant data, he has made an important contribution indicating that the respective emphases of “P” and “H” texts regarding holiness are more complementary than scholars have recognized. 1 Israel Knohl, The Sanctuary of Silence: The Priestly Torah and the Holiness School (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 1995), especially 214–16.

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Jacob Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16 (AB 3; New York: Doubleday, 1991), 729–33. See, e.g., Knohl, Sanctuary, 69, 105; Milgrom, Leviticus, 694, 679; idem, Leviticus 17–22 (AB, 3A; New York: Doubleday, 2000), 1333, 1371. 4 Hyam Maccoby, Ritual and Morality: The Ritual Purity System and Its Place in Judaism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 31–32, 48–50, 207–208. 2 3

Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò, ORIGIN MYTHS AND HOLY PLACES IN THE OLD TESTAMENT: A STUDY OF AETIOLOGICAL NARRATIVES (Translated by Jacek Laskowski; Copenhagen International Seminar; London & Oakville: Equinox, 2011). Pp. xii + 299. US $95.00. Hardcover. ISBN 978-1-845-53334-2.

Reviewed by Eric Ortlund Briercrest College and Seminary This study of aetiologies in the Hebrew Bible focuses on the mythic elements in these texts, the probable date of their inclusion in the Bible, and the circumstances which prompted their being written (pp. 1, 13–14). While noting the thorny issues involved in the study of myth in the Bible, Niesiołowski-Spanò’s interest lies in the social function of these myths— namely, what role the stories of the naming of these holy places would have had in the society for which they were written (pp. 1–2). The author covers a variety of theoretical issues in his relatively brief introductory chapter, including the complex matter of defining myth in the Bible (pp. 2–3), the definition of the term “holy place” (p. 5), and issues involved with biblical historiography (pp. 7–11). Separate chapters then examine the aetiologies for Beer-sheba, Bethel, Dan, Hebron and Mamre, Ophrah, Shechem and Gilgal, as well as holy places beyond the Jordan (Galeed, Mahanaim, and Penuel). Each chapter lays out archaeological data for the site in question, surveys biblical references to the site, and then discusses the myth concerning the naming of the holy place. Niesiołowski-Spanò’s efforts are impressive on a number of fronts. His discussions of different holy places are densely packed with references to all parts of the Hebrew Bible, as well as the ancient versions, Second

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Temple Jewish literature, archaeological finds, and ancient historians. The author spares himself no pains in searching for every possible tradition concerning a sacred site. Niesiołowski-Spanò’s conclusions about these myths are, however, not always convincing, and one is left with the suspicion that he has not successfully achieved his aim of analyzing the social function of these myths with sufficient nuance. An example will help to flesh this out. Concerning Beersheba (pp. 16–57), after summarizing the archaeological data and other biblical references (pp. 16–19), NiesiołowskiSpanò quotes Gen 21:22–33 and 26:23–33 in full. The similarity of the aetiologies suggests to the author that the stories are duplicates (p. 20); evidence from Genesis and Jubilees is taken to imply that the story of Beersheba was originally associated with Abraham, and only secondarily with Isaac (pp. 21–22). Furthermore, the presence of “YHWH El Olam” (Gen 21:33), “a name…which is alien to Yahwism,” suggests the “derivative” character of the alliance between Abimelech and Abraham (p. 22). Despite these issues, the author thinks the importance of the well is beyond dispute (p. 23). The names for the well in Josephus, the LXX, the Vulgate, and SP are laid out next (pp. 23–26). The author then examines the larger symbolic connotations of wells elsewhere in the OT, both as places of shelter and life in the desert (p. 27) and as openings to the underworld where sacrifices could be made to chthonic deities (pp. 27–32). While this second association may seem counter-intuitive, an impressive amount of data from the OT, the LXX, and archaeological sources is presented in its favor. The “chthonic and funeral symbolism” of the tamarisk tree in Gen 21:33 is then discussed (e.g., the burial of Saul’s remains under this kind of tree in 1 Sam 31:13; pp. 33–37). Niesiołowski-Spanò proceeds to argue for links to a ritual for a chthonic deity in the animals used in the treaty between Abraham and Abimelech; this is because the sheep and cattle (21:27) were used in the ritual for making the covenant, while the lambs were apparently excluded from the ritual and used for a different purpose (p. 39). While lambs are used in a variety of ways in Leviticus and Numbers, Nathan’s parable about the slaughtered lamb in 1 Sam 12:1–6 makes it “possible” that it is an echo of a sacrifice in which the lamb took the place of a human (pp. 41–42). The author suspects the lamb was offered “to the god whose presence was symbolized by the well—the gate of Sheol” (p. 43). Niesiołowski-Spanò thus concludes that the “grave” connotations of the well “initiated the whole story about the beginnings of the holy place in Beer-sheba” (p. 43)—they are the original elements of this myth. The covenant with Abimelech is “of later provenance” (p. 43). But how much later? Understanding the claim of Beer-sheba as a holy place “to refer to the times when the town played some important role” (p. 55), the divided

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monarchy is a possibility. But this is rejected in favor of the Hasmonean period, during the time of “Judah’s territorial expansion,” when “the land of the Jews stretched ‘from Dan to Beer-sheba’” (p. 56). The covenant between Abraham and Abimelech “could” mirror the desire of “the Jewish elites to make political alliances with the neighboring peoples” (p. 56). In other words, the aetiology as we now have it was introduced “in the second half of the second century BCE, for it was then that the territories of northern Negeb become of interest to the Jews of Judah and their vital interests demanded that they regulate relations with the subject people” (p. 56). The aetiology describes “the reality of the second century BCE symbolically” (p. 57). A number of questions come to mind concerning this argument. For instance, it is not clear to me that the two stories in Genesis about Beersheba are duplicates—such a conclusion necessitates importing foreign literary criteria, giving insufficient attention to the role of repetition and similarity in ancient Semitic texts. Niesiołowski-Spanò actually has some harsh words for the classical documentary hypothesis: without rejecting the presence of a variety of editorial layers to the Hebrew Bible, he describes it as “arbitrary” (p. 8). One cannot help but wonder, however, if his repetition of a familiar exegetical move from that tradition is any less arbitrary. In fact, since two of the key elements which the author focuses on—the lamb and the tamarisk—are absent from the putative “duplicate” story in Gen 26, giving more weight to the second Genesis text may have altered the results significantly. Why “YHWH El Olam,” in a book full of different names for the deity, is “alien” to Yahwism is also not clear to me. The penumbra of associations of wells and pits with the underworld is both interesting and valuable evidence—but in itself does not necessitate one to conclude that the well at Beer-sheba had this meaning. Why could it not have been understood as a place of life and nourishment? The chthonic connotations of sacrificial lambs are, furthermore, tenuous. Finally, Niesiołowski-Spanò draws a false inference in tying the religious significance of Beer-sheba to the times when the town “played some important role” (p. 55). There is no reason why a myth about a certain place must have developed when the town played a politically significant role. The two need not necessarily coincide. Later chapters contain a similar wealth of detail, together with interesting and important discussions of various elements within aetiological myths. The larger conclusion toward which the author moves— that these stories originate from the turmoil of the Hasmonean period (or, at least, were edited then; pp. 250–52, 255, 262)—is, however, unconvincing. According to the author, such stories served “propaganda purposes” so that “traditions of competing centres were exploited as tools

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in political machinations” in the second century BCE (p. 263). As one reads, it becomes clear that “analysis” of a myth in this book means separating stories which were “freely shaped… with little attention to fidelity to reality” (p. 11) from mythic elements in them which function in ways indistinguishable from pre-Israelite Palestinian religion. Whatever else one might make of this conclusion, it does not fit very well with the book’s stated aim of examining the social function of these aetiologies. Niesiołowski-Spanò takes these stories to be thinly veiled, fictive allegories for political struggles. But surely this is only one possible way for myths to function in a larger society? Surely the social function of myth is subject to a wide variety of permutations? One supposes it is possible that fictions about figures important to Jewish religious consciousness (p. 253) could have wielded such great power that they were canonized and their fictive origin forgotten (despite the fact that this presumes a degree of credulity in ancient peoples I find hard to accept). But is it not equally possible that a myth (aetiological or otherwise) was recorded because it already had gripped the religious consciousness of a group? Perhaps more thorough study of the work of Malinowksi, the seminal figure in this kind of interpretation of myth, might have provided for a more nuanced discussion. (Is it insignificant that the archaic—and incorrect—distinction between myth and history is asserted on p. 243?) I appreciate the author’s labors, and found some elements in its argumentation to be convincing; but the overall account of the origin and function of aetiologies in the Hebrew Bible is not handled well.

Fiona Black, THE ARTIFICE OF LOVE: GROTESQUE BODIES AND THE SONG OF SONGS (LHBOTS, 392; New York/London: T&T Clark, 2009). Pp. 304. Hardcover. US$125.00. ISBN 978-0-826-46985-4.

Reviewed by Julia M. O’Brien Lancaster Theological Seminary In this revision of her Sheffield University doctoral thesis, Black (1) demonstrates the ways in which scholarship on the Song of Songs has been

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governed by the interpretative frameworks of its readers and (2) explores the grotesque as an alternative heuristic from which to experience the text. Artfully interweaving history of interpretation, critical theory, close reading, and varied literary and visual intertexts, she seeks not to solve the enigmas of the Song but to foreground them as key to its meaning. Chapter 1 introduces Black’s project by contrasting two different approaches to love poetry. One approach embraces strangeness. Exemplified by Den Hart’s (in)famous 1978 Wittenburg Door cartoon literalizing the Song’s female protagonist in a bizarre image (complete with a tower of a neck and sheep for teeth), this approach finds analogues in the poetry of Jeanette Winterson, Monique Wittig, and André Breton; all describe lovers’ bodies in absurd and indeterminate ways. In contrast, most biblical scholars have approached the Song assuming that the poems must flatter the lovers’ bodies, especially the female. Black’s survey of Songs interpretation underscores just how controlling this “hermeneutic of compliment” (p. 25) has been, as scholars have tried to soothe their interpretative anxiety with linguistic/etymological redefinitions and crosscultural parallels to the Arabic waṣfs. Following Hart’s lead, Black takes seriously the oddness of the poems and offers the genre of the grotesque as an alternative interpretative framework. In chapter 2 Black defines and explores the features of the grotesque. In conversation with Renaissance art and literature, Mikhail Bakhtin’s analysis of François Rabelais, and Julia Kristeva’s understanding of the “abject,” she highlights two key aspects: the grotesque’s fascination with bodily functions—its “earthiness”—and its ability to be both liberating and sinister. Chapter 3 applies Black’s interpretative framework to the text of the Song, covering much ground in a single chapter: (1) a defense of her reading strategy against charges of anachronism; (2) a close reading of four “body” poems (4:1–5; 6:4–7; 7:1–10; and 5:10–16); (3) application of key themes of the grotesque to the book as a whole; and (4) an exploration of the writings of Teresa of Avila. In the course of her discussion, Black demonstrates how, as the body poems progress, characterization of the woman’s eyes shifts from beautiful to disturbing. Moreover, she shows how bodily descriptions differ by gender: the male’s speech addresses the woman herself, depicting her in organic terms and merging her features with the landscape, food, and liquid, while the woman addresses her friends, describing the man’s body as solid, static, hard. Her discussion of Teresa traces the dynamics of desire in the mystic’s language and in human experience: a lover is at once intimate and close and also remote and inaccessible. In times of absence, speaking the lover's body makes it present.

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In Chapter 4 Black engages debate about the gender ideology of the Song and explains how the grotesque and the erotic conspire to lure the reader. In contrast to many interpreters, she refuses to deem the text as either monolithically patriarchal or gynocentric; while the gender differences in the body descriptions reflect patriarchal assumptions, comparisons with other literature by and about women offer the possibility that the woman’s voice is more active than detractors allow. In this and other ways the text of the Song suspends climax and closure, teasing and titillating the reader. Attracted by the erotic, repelled by the grotesque, and unsure of the dividing line between the two, readers become like lovers: “desire can be perpetuated because it is never satiated, in that readers are never fully satisfied by full and consistent knowledge of the text” (p. 213). The seductive nature of this text, claims Black, helps explain why interpreters go to such lengths to defend its honor and why so many wax autobiographical in their discourse about it. In her conclusion Black teasingly approaches the autobiographical herself, if in fictional form. The final pages imagine a conversation between a biblical scholar in sunglasses, Teresa of Avila, and a Nova Scotian giant named Anna Swan, an historical personage depicted in the novel The Biggest Modern Woman of the World.[1] Over the course of the conversation, the women share a drink and wind up discussing their bodies—but not really. Like the text she interprets, Black’s own book leaves the reader wanting more. She engages the reader in a fascinating topic only to retreat, one discussion left hanging as another begins. In chapter 3, for example, her close readings of the poems are insightful, even entertaining, but before they are fully explored the chapter gives way to discussion of theory. In chapter 4 the role of female agency in the book is made plausible but not really argued. The actual body of the Song of Songs, like the bodies of the text’s characters, is not on view for long. But most of what we do see is attractive. Black offers insightful close readings and thoughtful gender analysis. Most powerfully, however, she explains the affective dimensions of the book’s distinctive style, how it seduces readers. She herself is not immune to its charms, as seen in the way her focus on the repulsiveness of the images in the early chapters yields to more appreciation of its attraction at the end. As her volume concludes, the images of the Song are described less as grotesque and more as flirtatious. The broad range of Black’s discussion partners—biblical scholars, artists, theorists, novels, poetry, and a Medieval mystic—may challenge the casual reader; this is not an undergraduate text. But with Black as the facilitator, the resulting dialogue offers intriguing new ways to think about—and experience—the Song of Songs. This is an engaging and

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paradigm-shifting book, one that honors rather than resists the distinctive style of Song of Songs. 1 Susan Swan, The Biggest Modern Woman of the World (Toronto: Key Porter Books, 2001).

Christopher R. Seitz, THE GOODLY FELLOWSHIP OF THE PROPHETS: THE ACHIEVEMENT OF ASSOCIATION IN CANON FORMATION (Acadia Studies in Bible and Theology; Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2009). Pp. 136. Paperback. US$20.00. ISBN 978-0-8010-3883-9.

Reviewed by Mark E. Biddle Baptist Theological Seminary at Richmond This study consists of the 2007 Haywood Lectures at Acadia Divinity College, which were a revised version of lectures given at Golden Gate Baptist Theological Seminary earlier in the same year, adapted for publication and supplemented with an introduction. Dedicated to Ann Childs and the memory of Brevard S. Childs, the author's mentor and friend, the book functions, in essence, as an extended defense of Childs’ canonical approach to the entire Christian Bible and, specifically, to the Old Testament in its Hebrew order (cf. p. 125). In the supplemental introduction, Seitz argues that the existence of an Old Testament canon contributed to the generation of the New Testament canon. Pointing to the fixed collections of the Torah and, as evidenced in recent work on the book of the Twelve minor prophets, the painstaking integration of Isaiah, as well as the careful cross-linkages established between the major and minor prophets and the “Prophetic History” (= the Deuteronomistic History; hereafter, DtrH; p. 28), Seitz argues that a process of “association” tied the Twelve and the three major prophets to the DtrH in “a conception of prophecy…integrally related to Torah” (p. 29). This “association” (p. 30) produced a “grammar” (rule and syntax; p. 33) of Law and Prophets. Seitz helpfully adumbrates his entire argument at the beginning of chapter 1, “Starting Points” (the first lecture). He challenges popular

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interpretations of NT texts such as Luke 16:31, which refers to “Moses and the Prophets.” These interpretations argue either that, by Luke’s day, “the Writings” was not yet a stable collection or that the Law of Moses was stable, but all other books could be loosely denoted as “prophetic.” In other words, the tripartite division of the Hebrew Bible into Torah, Prophets, and Writings postdates the NT era. Seitz’s objections are fourfold: first, the popular interpretation misapprehends the cohesion of the prophetic division of the canon—i. e., in Seitz’s view, circumstances do not involve “a coherent Mosaic grouping” (p. 32) over against an unstructured set of individual writings. Second, closure need not be the primary criterion of canonical authority. Instead, Seitz proposes to illuminate the interrelationship between Torah and Prophets as a grammar “by which the language of Israel’s scriptures makes its voice most fundamentally heard” (p. 33). Third, since the numbers and order of individual books in the “Writings” vary, they relate to the Law/Prophets grammar, not as a collection, but in individual fashions. Finally, the Law/Prophets grammar, already fixed by the NT period, played a key role in the foundation of the NT canon in two respects: (1) “the grouping of the Law and Prophets, in its ordered form, provides key categories of hermeneutics and re-application, of affiliation and association, critical for the formation of the NT” (pp. 33– 34), and (2) during the period of the formation of the NT canon, the established OT canon provided the “stable witness against which the claims of the gospel were tested and shown to have been established from of old” (p. 35). Seitz substantiates and elaborates on these claims in the subsequent two chapters, first by examining the history and implications of the alternative arrangements of the books of the OT. Materially, what constitutes the OT canon? Seitz sees the recent work demonstrating that the book of the Twelve has been painstakingly and intentionally formed as a coherent whole as evidence of the importance of arrangement and closure for canon. Noting the tendency of scholarly OT introductions to opt for chronological or other ordering principles, Seitz concludes chapter two by observing that the OT prophetic division apparently underwent a process marked by the increasingly fixed order of the Twelve, the consolidation of the Twelve with the Three (and the omission of Daniel in the order), and the combination of the narratives books of Joshua through 2 Kings with this prophetic collection. Chapter 3, “The Achievement of Association in the Prophetic Canon,” explores this process in detail, leading to the summary, “What Childs saw in Hosea as an effort of association via editorial expansions aimed at future generations, subsequent scholarship in the Twelve has identified within, across, and comprehensively throughout the Twelve as a

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whole” (pp. 87–88). Seitz calls attention to similar editorial efforts that associate the three major prophets with the Twelve (cf. Isa 2:2–6 || Mic 4:1–5) and the Latter with the Former Prophets (cf. 2 Kgs 18–20 || Isa 36– 39 and 2 Kgs 25 || Jer 52). The final chapter, corresponding to the third lecture, turns attention to the “Writings,” the final section in a tripartite division of the OT canon. Seitz argues that this section took formal and material shape quite late, as evidenced by the great variety in the arrangement of its components manifest in ancient manuscripts. Further, order never played the key role in this section that it did in the Law and Prophets. Finally and consequently, this section does not stand in relation to the previous two collections in the same way that the Prophets relate to the Torah. Torah, the revelation of God’s will through the prophet Moses, requires interpretation and application by Moses’ successors. In contrast, “the internal logic of the Writings is not associative but serial” (p. 107). Seitz develops strong arguments for the aggregation of the prophetic literature as a distinct and intentional corpus: the collection and careful editing of the book of the Twelve; the linkages between books within the latter prophets; and the association of the latter prophets with the former by various means, including the incorporation of sections of 2 Kings in Isaiah and Jeremiah. Since, for the most part, these connections and cross references do not seem to have arisen in the period after translation into Greek, the four-part division of the canon only obscures the latter circumstance, in particular. Similarly, Seitz’s concept of a “grammar” of Torah-Prophets constitutes a helpful and potentially productive hermeneutical lens. Seitz’s assertions concerning the significance of the Torah/Prophets “grammar” for the development of the New Testament coupled with observations concerning the late date at which the Writings attained a somewhat stable order raise the specter of a canon within the canon. If the Writings, in contrast to the Prophets, were not yet “totally stabilized (and closed)” (p. 119) during the period of the formation of the NT, can they be considered part of the canon assumed by NT authors and the early church? If the Writings relates to the other two sections of the canon of the Hebrew Bible in a “serial” fashion, how do they relate to the New Testament or to a Christian canon, as a whole? Readers of this book will no doubt be eager for its sequel.1 1 This is now available as Christopher R. Seitz, The Character of Christian Scripture: The Significance of a Two Testament Bible (Studies in Theological

Interpretation; Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2011).

Michael V. Fox, PROVERBS 10-31: A NEW TRANSLATION WITH INTRODUCTION AND COMMENTARY (A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB, 18B; New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2009). Pp. xix + 728. US $60.00. Hardcover. ISBN 978-0-300-14209-9.

Reviewed by Christine Roy Yoder Columbia Theological Seminary Eagerly awaited has been the second volume of Fox’s commentary on the book of Proverbs.1 Like the first, this study showcases Fox’s rigorous scholarship—his attention to detail, compelling argumentation, and thorough knowledge of the field. The volume also appeals to a range of potential readers. Whereas the exegesis is accessible and does not require knowledge of Hebrew, anyone interested in philological and other technical matters may delve into embedded notes that are set apart in a smaller font, or consider Fox’s textual notes which comprise a lengthy appendix (pp. 979–1068). Fuller discussions of certain matters, such as the relationship between Prov 22:17–24:22 and non-Israelite wisdom literature (pp. 753– 769) or various interpretations of the “woman of strength” in Prov 31:10– 31 (pp. 899–917), are found in excurses throughout the commentary. Fox concludes with four longer essays that explore aspects and implications of wisdom. The result is a magisterial study that is now a standard for the interpretation of Proverbs. The volume opens at a critical juncture in Proverbs, namely, the threshold between the longer instructions of chapters 1–9 and the largely independent proverbs of chapters 10–29. The new literary landscape can be disorienting, prompting some interpreters to posit that larger intentional structures—about which there is yet no consensus—function to organize the proverbs. Fox argues against the existence of such elaborate patterns, although proverbs may form groupings like proverb pairs and, more commonly, thematic clusters wherein two or more proverbs engage the same topic or share catchwords (e.g., 16:1–9, 10–15; 19:11–14). He observes pointedly, “[a] proverb is like a jewel, and the book of Proverbs is 613

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like a heap of jewels. Indeed, it is a heap of different kinds of jewels. Is it really such a loss if they are not all laid out in pretty, symmetric designs or divided into neat little piles? The heap itself has the lushness of profusion and the charm of a ‘sweet disorder in the dress’” (p. 481, emphasis original). Given this “lushness of profusion,” Fox devotes more attention to how one reads a proverb. Especially helpful is his attention to processes at work in and between the proverbs of the book that train readers to think like sages. A proverb “template,” for example, is a recurring pattern of wording or syntax that serves as a mold for generating new proverbs (e.g., “better A than B”). The resulting proverb permutations are significant not only for the fresh insights they afford, but for the “creative dialectic of the old and new” (p. 489) they reveal in how wisdom works. Similarly, a disjointed proverb, or one in which the parallelism of the two lines is noncongruent or disrupted, invites readers to fill the rhetorical gap. Should they supply the missing premise or conclusion successfully, the proverb snaps into place much like the “ah-ha” moment when one solves a riddle. Readers thereby learn habits of a wise person—to consider a proverb’s assumptions, participate in its reasoning, and propose a compelling solution. Fox’s analysis of each proverb is the heart of the volume. He turns proverbs like the jewels to which he compares them, calling attention to their many facets. Consistently insightful are Fox’s analyses of key images and metaphors and his careful adjudication of possible meanings. He regularly draws in comparable proverbs from the ancient Near East, especially from Egypt, to inform his interpretation. And he pays particular attention to medieval Jewish commentators on Proverbs, setting their observations in conversation with his own and those of other modern interpreters. This sustained engagement of medieval Jewish peshaṭ readings is distinctive to Fox’s commentary and suggests the benefits to be gained through even wider engagement of the reception history of Proverbs. Fox notes, for example, that he tends less frequently to midrashic interpretations and mostly sets aside patristic and medieval Christian exegesis. The final four essays advance the discussion of various aspects of wisdom. Fox first traces the history of the concept of wisdom within Proverbs from a pragmatic capacity and disposition with no inherently religious or ethical connotation (Prov 10–29), to an intellectualized moral virtue rooted in “the fear of Yahweh” (Prov 1–9), to a faculty that transcends the human mind and permeates space and time (the interludes of Prov 1–9). At stake for him is appreciation for the dynamism and diversity of wisdom thought—that the sages of different historical periods studied the ideas of their predecessors and construed wisdom anew. In the second essay, Fox argues that the foundational axiom of Proverbs’ ethics is analogous to the Socratic principle that virtue is knowledge. Emphasis on

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human intellect enables Proverbs to function as a guide to human flourishing without invoking the Torah, prophetic revelation, or other divine communication. The third essay then explores this absence of divine revelation in the book and how ancient authors wrestled with the relative status of wisdom and Torah until Ben Sira identified the two with each other; subsequently, Wisdom of Solomon elevated wisdom over Torah while the rabbis essentially subsumed wisdom in Torah (e.g., Gen. Rab. 1.2). And in the final essay, Fox argues that wisdom’s epistemology is not empiricism, as the majority of scholars assume, but a coherence theory of truth whereby a proverb is reliable if it coheres with an underlying and integrated system of assumptions. I expect this essay in particular will generate significant and fruitful debate. Fox’s commentary on Proverbs is a remarkable achievement. Readers will find plenty to contemplate about the nature and worldview of wisdom, the complexities of proverbs, and how processes integral to them and to the book train readers to think like sages. With regard to this last point, I would welcome from Fox further consideration as to how the arrangement of the major units of the book may also participate in the formation of its readers. Fox’s introductions to the major units are relatively brief and tend principally to matters of genre. Thematic continuities and discontinuities between the main units must be gleaned from Fox’s discussion of particular proverbs therein. As such, readers interested in reading Proverbs as a whole may lose sight of developments or disjunctions across the book and thereby miss some of the very dynamism and diversity of wisdom thought that Fox rightly highlights. That said, we are indebted to Fox for this important contribution. 1 Cf. his earlier Proverbs 1–9 (AB, 18A; New York: Doubleday; reprint New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000).

Gordon K. Oeste, LEGITIMACY, ILLEGITIMACY, AND THE RIGHT TO RULE: WINDOWS ON ABIMELECH’S RISE AND DEMISE IN JUDGES 9 (LHBOTS, 546; New York: T&T Clark, 2011). Pp. 288. Hardcover. US $140.00. ISBN 978-0-567-23783-5.

Reviewed by Lissa M. Wray Beal Providence Theological Seminary This volume in the LHBOT series is a revision of Dr. Gordon Oeste’s 2008 doctoral dissertation for the University of St. Michael’s College. In it, Oeste applies multi-disciplinary approaches to Judges 9 and argues that, although the narrative delegitimizes Abimelech’s regional rule, it works within the overall strategy of the book of Judges to legitimize centralized monarchy. He argues his thesis, largely convincingly, through five chapters and a summation. In addition to an extensive bibliography, the volume provides indexes of references and authors cited. In his first chapter, Oeste introduces the “multiple sight lines” (p. 2) he applies which, when combined, provide a fuller appreciation of the narrative’s thrust and rhetorical power. These sight lines include narrative, rhetorical, and social-scientific methodologies; in this chapter, Oeste interacts with the literature to delineate their application. He explores the complementary relationship of rhetoric to narrative form (p. 10), and in the core chapters of his monograph consistently demonstrates this relationship. Furthermore, arguing that rhetoric works best within a social world shared by the implied author and audience, he selects two primary social-scientific models (applied in chapter five) as a means to reveal that world. He argues that the three methodologies build upon one another to reveal the narrative’s shape and persuasive power, and suggests that the social location that best supports such a narrative is the early monarchic period (pp. 29– 30). In his second chapter, Oeste engages several studies concerned with two types of tension within the narrative. The first tension arises from narrative “bumpiness” (pp. 4, 31) produced by abrupt transitions, variant 616

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descriptions, and chronological discrepancies. Rather than working through diachronic models to address this “bumpiness,” he argues for the application of narrative methods. The second tension concerns how to read the negative portrayal of kingship in Judg 9 with the more positive portrayal of kingship in the rest of the book of Judges. From a review of key redactional, social-scientific, ideological, and literary-holistic studies, Oeste notes areas of continuing debate around the issues; these become the subject of his own study. These areas are particularly “the articulation between issues of kinship and monarchic interests,” and “the question of the role of political ideology in the shaping of Judg 9 and the book of Judges” (p. 52). Throughout the remainder of his argument, kinship, kingship, and political ideology form connective tissues as the three “sight lines” are applied. The core of Oeste’s argument is contained in chapters three through five. Each chapter applies one of the three sight lines to Judg 9. In applying the narrative method, Oeste first investigates Judg 9 within the context of the Gideon narrative, querying the different attitudes to kingship forwarded in each and uncovering a motif of retribution which resurfaces through the narrative study. Then, after outlining the narrative structure (Exposition [9:1–6], Complication [9:7–15], Change [9:23–24], Unraveling [9:22–55], and Ending [9:56–57]), he explores the chapter’s narrative art. He interacts well with relevant literature through the notes, and is particularly cognisant of the need to illuminate the story-world of the implied audience through extra-textual resources (for instance, pp. 74–75 regarding the import of Baal Berith; p. 83 on the value of olive trees). This diachronic attention to the social world of the implied audience is shown as being both compatible with a synchronic reading, and necessary toward an attempt to hear the text with that implied audience (pp. 5–9). The narrative study repeatedly notes themes of retribution, kinship, and kingship, each of which reappears in the exploration of rhetoric and social-scientific structures. The chapter’s summation draws together the various themes and notes that Abimelech’s portrayal is not exclusively critical, nor leads to a “facile antimonarchicalism” (p. 117). Suggesting that such a complex depiction arises from calculated intentions, Oeste thus opens the door to the exploration of rhetoric to discern those intentions. Chapter four works with the New Rhetoric developed by Chaim Perelman and others that was introduced in chapter one (pp. 12–15).1 Oeste works a second time through the narrative structure in order to show how the rhetoric builds upon the narrative art. Generally, although not always, repetition of narrative material is avoided by referencing the prior discussion through notes. Oeste again makes judicious use of secondary material to support his rhetorical conclusions; for instance, having noted a

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three-and-four part structure in the narrative analysis, he now cites Yairah Amit’s2 work showing the structure used as a persuasive rhetorical literary device (p. 139). A particular strength of this chapter is its collation of analogies (summarized in a chart on pp. 171–72), many dealing with figures from the early monarchy, by which the implied narrator subtly compares Abimelech’s kingship to other leaders within the history. Criteria (introduced in chapter one, pp. 14–15) are applied to measure the likely intentionality of such analogies: according to these criteria, some of these analogies are allowed, while others are not. Together, the various rhetorical devices explored reveal a complex characterization of Abimelech; and returning to themes of retribution, kingship, and kinship, Oeste shows the rhetoric supporting his thesis. In a final section that bridges to the chapter on social-scientific models and methods, Oeste summarizes the assumptions, shared by the implied author and audience, which enable the narrative’s rhetoric and posits the social world in which such assumptions best fit. As noted above, that world is the early monarchic period, when the institution of divinely appointed kingship is familiar, yet local election of leaders remains a real possibility. The narrative’s rhetoric thus warns against such “choices at a local level [that] could have a detrimental impact at the national level” (p. 173). Testing the social world construed from the rhetoric, chapter five applies two sociological models extensively, relying in a more passing manner on several others. The narrative is examined once more, now through the dual lens of Max Weber’s model of patrimonialism and David Beetham’s model of power legitimation.3 This third review enlivens the previously explored narrative and rhetorical worlds and provides an ideological context for the threads of kingship, kinship, and retribution previously noted. As Oeste sums up his work in the concluding chapter, he returns again to the benefit of combining the three sight lines. In the use of kinship language, the narrative structure that stresses the culpability of Abimelech and Shechem, the narrative’s delegitimation of Abimelech’s rule, and the negative portrayal of his kingship, Oeste illustrates key ways in which the findings of each sight line support and reinforce themselves mutually. From the discussion of these examples, Oeste shows how the narrative, delegitimizing wrongly acquired and localized kingship, fits well with the book of Judges’ legitimation of centralized, divinely appointed monarchy. Oeste’s work is a careful application of multi-disciplinary approaches. He selects methods that have an inherent complementarity, and applies them thoughtfully while demonstrating a good grounding in the secondary literature in each. Whether one agrees with the social location of the narrative for which Oeste argues, he cogently wrestles with the tensions of

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the text. His conclusions attend to the narrative’s placement in the book of Judges and the larger history, and also provide a plausible setting against which to place the implied audience and author. 1 Chaim Perelman and L. Olbrechts-Tyteca, The New Rhetoric: A Treatise on Argumentation (trans. J. Wilkinson and P. Weaver; Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1969); Chaim Perelman, The Realm of Rhetoric (trans. W.

Kluback; Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1982). 2 Yairah Amit, Reading Biblical Narratives: Literary Criticism and the Hebrew Bible (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001). 3 Max Weber, Economy and Society: An Outline of Interpretive Sociology (ed. Guenther Roth and Claus Wittich; trans. Ephraim Fischoff et al.; 2 vols.; Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1978); David Beetham, The Legitimation of Power (London: Macmillan, 1991).

Tamara Cohn Eskenaz and Tikva Frymer-Kensky, RUTH (JPS Bible Commentary; Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 2011). Pp. lxxv + 103. Hardcover. US$40.00. ISBN 0-8276-07744-6.

Reviewed by Timothy J. Stone Zomba Theological College, Malawi The JPS Bible Commentary on Ruth is the most substantial scholarly commentary in English to come out on the book of Ruth in over ten years. The death of Tikva Frymer-Kensky early on in the project left most of the research and, it appears, all of the writing to Tamara Cohn Eskenazi. When possible, Eskenazi included the insights of Frymer-Kensky who left “extensive notes” on chapters 1 and 2, but also makes it clear that she takes “fully responsibility for chapters 3 and 4” (p. xi). Throughout the introduction and commentary, Eskenazi is careful to indicate FrymerKensky’s contribution and records her perspective on several occasions even though Eskenazi ultimately disagrees with her position. I will first summarize the introduction and make a few remarks on the commentary, then end with a brief evaluation of the work. The introduction and notes (pp. xv–lxxv) take up the first 75 pages and offer a wealth of clearly presented information that is both thorough

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and concise. According to Eskenazi, it is unclear who the author of Ruth might be since the book does not disclose the author’s identity, although it does offer a “strong female perspective” in an “otherwise more androcentric Bible” (p. xvii). Five issues factor into the book’s date: language, socio-legal institutions, the relationship to other biblical traditions, socio-political matrix (esp. attitudes towards Moabites), and the role of King David. Without offering a definitive conclusion on Ruth’s date, Eskenazi argues in favor of a postexilic/Persian period date, due to the linguistic and legal features of Ruth, which are supported by a social context for Ruth as a challenge to the exclusive political dynamics of Israel portrayed in Ezra-Nehemiah (p. xix). This is followed by short discussions on Ruth’s genre and place in the canon, each of which follow well-trodden ground. Then, Eskenazi explores Ruth’s relationship to Genesis, Leviticus, Deuteronomy, Judges, Samuel, Isa 56 and Ezra-Nehemiah, Esther, and non-Israelite biblical heroes. The intertextual connections with Genesis, for instance, right previous wrongs by indicating that Ruth’s inclusion into Boaz’s family “repairs the breach between Abraham and his nephew Lot” and the midnight encounter with Boaz at the threshing floor is the “antithesis” to Lot’s seduction by his daughters (p. xxi). Giving individual sections to examine Ruth’s links to other biblical books reveals the extensive intertextual relationship Ruth has with the biblical tradition. Each of these sections could have been expanded and possibly Proverbs and Chronicles could each have been discussed. Finally, the authors list Ruth’s tenuous connections to Shavuot, then briefly discuss the background issues of family, inheritance, marriage, and widowhood (pp. xxvi–xxxii). From these more general topics, Eskenazi moves to the more central issue of levirate marriage. After discussing Ruth’s relationship to Gen 38 and Deut 25:5–10, she offers seven reasons (to which I will return in the evaluative portion of this review) as “compelling evidence against interpreting Ruth 3 and 4 as a levirate marriage” despite a long tradition, which, she admits, has effectively interpreted Ruth’s marriage in this way (p. xxxvii). Instead, Boaz, who is under no legal obligation to do so, marries Ruth because he is “captivated” by her virtue (p. xxxviii). In order to avoid the legal injunction against Moabites (Deut 23:4–7), Boaz extends the responsibilities of a redeemer “beyond the expected practice” (p. xxxviii). Eskenazi then surveys the different perspectives on intermarriage in the biblical tradition where Ruth and Ezra-Nehemiah appear to stand as polar opposites (pp. xxxix–xlii). She also surveys the idea of conversion in the biblical tradition and the Rabbinic view (not held by all) that Ruth is an outstanding example of one who converts to become a Jew (pp. xlii–xlvi). This is all the more amazing since Ruth is a Moabite. The biblical portrait of Moabites is largely negative and, even though there is nothing negative in

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the book itself about Moabites, her status would have been familiar to ancient readers and thus forms a vital backdrop to how the story unfolds (p. xlviii). From here Eskenazi explores the meaning of ḥesed in the Hebrew Bible and then in Ruth. In Ruth it entails acts of kindness, generosity, and loyalty that go “beyond the call of duty” (p. l). Ḥesed plays a key role in the theology of the book since it “illustrates the power of blessing and ḥesed to transform futility into fertility and despair into hope” (p. l). Since God’s direct action is only mentioned once in Ruth, the theology of the book is not so much about God’s providence as it is about human beings bringing God into the world through their own acts of ḥesed (pp. lii–liii). Eskenazi surveys the concept of redemption in the biblical tradition and concludes “that the overriding notion of redemption” is “responsibility for a needy relative” (p. liv). This principle of responsibility is behind Boaz’s actions towards Ruth in chs. 3 and 4 (p. lv). The introduction concludes with a look at pre-modern Rabbinic and later Jewish interpretations, as well as contemporary readings of Ruth. The commentary section is 100 pages (pp. 3–103) and contains short introductory essays to each major and minor section as well as brief comments on sentences, phrases, and words (following the standard JPS style). This section of the work is judicious, precise, and clear. Very few, if any, novel interpretations are presented, but the argumentation is cautious, cogent, and often convincing. Throughout the commentary, Eskenazi interacts with a wealth of Jewish readings, both ancient and modern. The commentary is of extremely high quality, as readers of the JPS series have come to expect. It fills a gap of about ten years in which scholarship on Ruth has continued without the helpful synthesis that a commentary can provide. Two major things separate this commentary from previous ones: (1) it is concise and clearly written so that one can easily understand the author’s perspective; and (2) it interacts more fully with Jewish sources than previous works. The format of the commentary section makes it easy for one to quickly examine key issues in the text; however, this format sacrifices a more synthetic approach that is better equipped at handling more comprehensive topics that span the entire book or issues, such as for instance intertextual connections with Genesis, which warrant a more extended discussion. Two more issues deserve comment. First, I am not persuaded that Ruth is unrelated to levirate marriage. Of course, as Eskenazi has pointed out, levirate marriage as envisioned in Gen 38 and/or Deut 25:5–10 is, strictly speaking, impossible in Ruth. She lists seven objections to levirate marriage playing a role in Ruth 3 and 4, which, as was noted above, she Frevelconsiders compelling. Point one is that the key words levir or levirate marriage is not used in Ruth. In point five Eskenazi says, “Neither the

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narrator, Naomi, or Boaz refer to Boaz as a levir” (p. xxxvi). Despite the fact that a word does not need to be present for a concept to be present, these two points are the same. Point six argues that the meaning of Boaz’s words in Ruth 4:5 are “uncertain” (p. xxxvi), but highlighting this uncertainty should not be used as an argument against levirate marriage in Ruth since it neither proves nor disproves this interpretive option. The remaining points make it abundantly clear that whatever is taking place in Ruth it is not exactly the same as levirate marriage, and that redemption— not levirate marriage—is the word used to describe Boaz’s actions. Yet as Eskenazi has argued, even the concept of redemption is not strictly applied. In her own words she says that Boaz moves “beyond the expected practice” (p. xxxviii) and follows the “overriding notion of redemption” in his actions for Ruth (p. liv). If levirate marriage is not in view because the practice is not strictly followed in the book, it would seem that redemption should suffer the same fate. What if, however, the same strategy of moving beyond the expectations of a practice in accordance with all that ḥesed stands for is also true of levirate marriage in Ruth? Eskenazi says that Obed is not “regard[ed] as the child of levirate marriage and he does not perpetuate the name of the deceased” since Boaz’s, not Mahlon’s name appears in the genealogy (p. xxxvi). Boaz’s name does appear in the genealogy instead of Mahlon, but Boaz expresses his actions in terms of perpetuating the name of the dead, Mahlon, on his inheritance (Ruth 4:10) in a manner that seems directly connected to the practice of levirate marriage in Deut 25:5–10. Do Boaz’s actions in Ruth 4:10 really stand in “tension” (p. 81) with his promise to Ruth on the threshing floor? Unconvincing also is Eskenazi’s argument that Boaz understands Ruth’s last kindness (Ruth 3:10) as a reference to himself (p. 61), rather than to another kindness to Naomi (beyond returning with her from Moab to care for her), which makes good sense if the principles of levirate marriage are in view. Of course, Ruth 3:10 is a highly debated crux in the discussion over levirate marriage. Eskenazi has successfully argued that the approach that sees a kind of levirate marriage in Ruth is unlikely unless it is more carefully nuanced. Eskenazi’s view that levirate marriage plays no role in the book at all, however, also seems unlikely. To me at least, it seems that ḥesed functions in the book in such a way that the underlying principles of redemption and levirate marriage are combined to apply to a situation, which, the book is at pains to prove, lays clearly beyond their legal domain. How can Ruth be redeemed since she is not a piece of land, and how can a brother raise up a son to continue the family since he is clearly dead (this eliminates Deut 25:5–10) and Naomi cannot have another son (this eliminates Gen 38)? Yes, Ruth and Boaz are not legally bound to marry each other; however, it does not

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follow that their actions are not carefully bound to those laws. Perhaps the distance that ḥesed covers between the law and its application is the point. Second, though not the fault of the authors, the timing of the commentary was unfortunate. Eskenazi finished writing the commentary on November 15, 2010, but in 2010 and 2011 there has been a considerable amount of scholarly work published on Ruth (e.g. from studies on character, identity, and ethics in Ruth to a detailed study of the Hebrew of the book). More fundamentally, with the exception of a few works in Modern Hebrew, the commentary relies on secondary literature in English. One will probably have to wait for the commentary of Shimon Gesundheit on Ruth in the IECOT series for substantial engagement outside of the Anglo-American context.1 For now, Eskenazi and Frymer-Kensky’s book fills a key need in commentaries on Ruth. Their work is clear, precise, and an outstanding example of commentary writing. It deserves to be read with care. 1

See www.iekat.de/appEN/nav_home.php

Christian Frevel (ed)., MIXED MARRIAGES: INTERMARRIAGE AND GROUP IDENTITY IN THE SECOND TEMPLE PERIOD (LHBOTS, 547; New York: T&T Clark International, 2011). Pp. xi + 337. Hardcover. US$150.00. ISBN 978-0-567-31050-7.

Reviewed by Steven J. Schweitzer Bethany Theological Seminary Mixed Marriages: Intermarriage and Group Identity in the Second Temple Period consists of an introduction and fifteen essays, mostly growing out of

presentations made at international conferences since 2008 by North American and European scholars of the Hebrew Bible and Dead Sea Scrolls on issues of identity formation and intermarriage in various texts. All fifteen essays and the introduction are well-written and footnoted, use data judiciously, and present coherent—though not always persuasive— arguments. Some essays forge new ground and connections, while others

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seem to articulate what many, if not most, scholars working in the area would affirm and what the various texts themselves are advocating. In that sense, the volume represents a helpful compendium of current thinking on a complex issue. Each essay will be addressed below. Readers interested in the topic of intermarriage, whether in the Hebrew Bible or Second Temple period, have many quality essays to consult in this valuable collection. Christian Frevel (“Introduction: The Discourse on Intermarriage in the Hebrew Bible,” pp. 1–14) concisely and clearly presents “the state of the question” on three main points related to intermarriage: definitions of relevant terminology (particularly helpful for those new to this area of research), a summary of the main biblical texts cited as examples against the practice and some of the questions they raise from both diachronic and synchronic perspectives, and the value of multiple approaches to the topic—which also serves as a very short overview of the essays in the volume. The first two parts provide an extremely accessible entry-point into this complicated scholarly subject. Christian Frevel and Benedikt Conczorowski (“Deepening the Water: First Steps to a Diachronic Approach on Intermarriage in the Hebrew Bible,” pp. 15–45) discuss the view of intermarriage in three distinct sections of the essay. In the first and largest part, they examine the view present in Neh 13 in a detailed comparison and contrast to the view in Ezra 9–10. They suggest a diachronic development from Neh 13 to Ezra 9–10, particularly in expanding the ideal of holiness from priests to the entire people. In the second section, an earlier tradition contained in Num 25 is added to the trajectory with the development from Num 25 to Neh 13 sketched out. The third section briefly names developments after Ezra 9–10 in Second Temple literature and identifies the roots of those views in the biblical material already examined. The essay focuses on diachronic developments, as contained in these representative texts, and what they suggest about the shifts in context over the late Persian and early Hellenistic eras. Katherine Southwood (“An Ethnic Affair?: Ezra’s Intermarriage Crisis against a Context of ‘Self-Ascription’ and ‘Ascription of Others,’” pp. 46–59) uses categories of boundary markers and who has authority to assign them from ethnicity studies as a means to explicate texts, such as Ezra 9, invested in defining and labeling. The analysis reinforces commonly-held readings of the chapter and highlights the role of power struggles and structures within the postexilic community over such perceived identity markers. Ralf Rothenbusch (“The Question of Mixed Marriages between the Poles of Diaspora and Homeland: Observations in Ezra-Nehemiah,” pp. 60–77) distinguishes two views of the foreigner in postexilic texts, which

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typically align with whether a text originates from those in the Diaspora or those in the “homeland.” The simple, but appropriately nuanced, conclusion is that texts from the perspective of those in Diaspora, as expressed in Ezra-Nehemiah, tend to be more exclusive while those from the homeland, such as Ruth, tend to be more inclusive of foreigners and less concerned about the dangers of intermarriage. Juha Pakkala (“Intermarriage and Group Identity in the Ezra Tradition [Ezra 7–10 and Neh 8],” pp. 78–88) examines the various layers, as he understands their redactional sequence, that are contained in the traditions around Ezra regarding intermarriage. With each new addition, the view of intermarriage is adjusted, from rejecting those in the land who had intermarried to the problem of the exiles intermarrying, as well as the minimal attention paid to the practice by later Levitical editors. Pakkala suggests these shifts reveal something about the views of the editors, though not necessarily their individual historical contexts. Whether one accepts Pakkala’s view of the expansion of the Ezra traditions or not, there are good details identified that should be considered in constructing any diachronic understanding of this book and its multiple views on intermarriage. Benedikt Conczorowski (“All the Same as Ezra?: Conceptual Differences between the Texts of Intermarriage in Genesis, Deuteronomy 7, and Ezra,” pp. 89–108) examines the rationale for the prohibition against intermarriage in selected texts. In his view, there are two main reasons: a diffuse moral and an explicit religious argument. A text such as Gen 34 reflects the former, while Deut 7 is typical of the latter. Ezra 9–10 builds on the religious nature of Deut 7 while merging it with the absolutism of Gen 34. The essay helpfully identifies differences between these texts, demonstrating they are not presenting the same restriction for the same reason in each case. Jan Clauss (“Understanding the Mixed Marriages of Ezra-Nehemiah in the Light of Temple-Building and the Book’s Concept of Jerusalem,” pp. 109–31) takes a synchronic approach to the issue of intermarriage in EzraNehemiah, with attention to how the restrictions align with concerns about the temple as sanctuary and Jerusalem as sacred space in the book. Clauss argues from this analysis, somewhat persuasively, though not entirely, that this view points to the rejection of intermarriage being based on ethical requirements related to Israel’s unique relationship to God rather than any particular intrinsic or ethnic state of holiness. While this essay focuses almost entirely on Ezra-Nehemiah, parallels and differences regarding the view of the temple and Jerusalem in Chronicles are incorporated to illustrate various points and conclusions.

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Karen S. Winslow (“Mixed Marriages in Torah Narratives,” pp. 132– 49) provides a brief overview of intermarriage texts outside of the Pentateuch before focusing on key texts in several chapters of Genesis involving intermarriage and Moses’ marriages to Zipporah (Exod 2 and 4) and to a Cushite (Num 12) that seem to be “pro-exogamy.” Winslow contends that these texts provide a polemic against those opposing all forms of intermarriage in the Second Temple period. Yonina Dor (“From the Well in Midian to the Baal of Peor: Different Attitudes to Marriage of Israelites to Midianite Women,” pp. 150–69) offers two main elements in this careful essay. First, the views of marriage to Midianite women found in Exod 2 concerning Moses and Zipporah and in Num 25 and 31 concerning the incident at Baal of Peor are compared and contrasted. Second, scholarly attempts to explain the different views presented in these texts are rehearsed and shown to have insufficiently analyzed the data. Instead, ambiguity points to another example of ongoing dialogue and debate within the Hebrew Bible. Gary Knoppers (“‘Married into Moab’: The Exogamy Practiced by Judah and his Descendants in the Judahite Lineages,” pp. 170–91) examines with his typical meticulous care the complex presentation of mixed marriage in the genealogies of 1 Chr 1–9, with special focus on the place of Moab in the material. Knoppers briefly compares the Chronicler’s view of intermarriage with that expressed in Ezra-Nehemiah, concluding that these texts, along with so many others, reveal a diversity of views in the Persian and Hellenistic eras. Readers familiar with Knoppers’s earlier publications will find clear echoes in this probing of the Chronicler’s genealogy of Judah. Sebastian Grätz (“The Question of ‘Mixed Marriages’ [Intermarriage]: The Extra-Biblical Evidence,” pp. 192–204) briefly outlines the views of intermarriage in the Hebrew Bible before turning to the evidence on the topic provided by selected extrabiblical sources: the Elephantine papyri, Greek papyri from Ptolemaic Egypt, and (very briefly) the inscriptions from Idumea. The treatment of the two sets of papyri brings a welcome addition to the perspectives on intermarriage during the Second Temple period. Armin Lange (“Mixed Marriages and the Hellenistic Religious Reforms,” pp. 205–19) surveys the reactions to intermarriage in various texts composed in the context of the rise of Hellenism: 1 Maccabees, selected Qumran texts, 1 En. 84, and Jub. 30. Lange contends, perhaps surprisingly, that only 1 Maccabees addresses this perceived problem, while the other texts deal with “more pressing issues” in their rejection of Hellenistic culture and rejection of those Jews who had already apostatized before they subsequently engaged in intermarriage. Christian Frevel (“‘Separate Yourself from the Gentiles’ [Jub. 22:16]: Intermarriage in the Book of Jubilees,” pp. 220–50) examines the view of

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intermarriage in Jubilees, with particular focus on ch. 30 and how it adapts the story in Gen 34. Frevel makes a suggestion that Jubilees has possibly related its view of intermarriage to the detestable worship of Molech in Lev 20, concluding that the authors took this restriction of the practice to its extreme. Hannah Harrington (“Intermarriage in Qumran Texts: The Legacy of Ezra-Nehemiah,” pp. 251–79) identifies the cultic terminology used in Ezra-Nehemiah to describe the practice of intermarriage. The concept of intermarriage and especially as it appears with these words and phrases in several Dead Sea Scrolls (MMT, the Temple Scroll, the Damascus Document, the Genesis Apocryphon, and miscellaneous Cave 4 fragments) are surveyed and the reasons given for the prohibitions are named. The texts employ these terms to different degrees, but point to some influence on a conceptual level between Ezra-Nehemiah and the Scrolls. Karen S. Winslow (“Moses’ Cushite Marriage: Torah, Artapanus, and Josephus,” pp. 280–302) examines the various traditions surrounding Moses’ marriage to the Cushite and associations with Cush that are known from the Second Temple period, particularly those in Artapanus and Josephus. Rather than seeing these two versions as expansions of the brief notice in Num 12, Winslow argues that they were the basis for the odd report in Numbers, and shows how concerns over intermarriage in the Persian period are being added to the Torah by redactors familiar with other legends. While Winslow’s argument is partially one from silence and somewhat speculative, the detailed examination of the accounts in Artapanus and Josephus adds other voices to the debate over intermarriage that are worth hearing. Claudia V. Camp (“Feminist- and Gender-Critical Perspectives on the Biblical Ideology of Intermarriage,” pp. 303–15) engages the depiction of intermarriage and the responses to it in Ezra-Nehemiah from a feminist lens, and regards with suspicion the historicity of the “crisis” at the time of Ezra. Instead, Camp argues that a later historical event at the time of Nehemiah has been enhanced by an ideological agenda to stress the danger of the practice. Camp correctly notes the various historical contexts that must be present to account for the variegated views contained in EzraNehemiah, and the probability that much of its content is a literary construct rather than historical.

Tod Linafelt, Claudia V. Camp, and Timothy Beal, (eds.), THE FATE OF KING DAVID: THE PAST AND PRESENT OF A BIBLICAL ICON (LHBOTS, 500; New York/London: T&T Clark, 2010). Pp. xxxi + 352. US $170.00. Hardcover. ISBN: 978-0-567-51546-9.

Reviewed by David B. Schreiner Wesley Biblical Seminary This volume celebrates David M. Gunn, who is championed as a pioneer of three movements within biblical studies: narrative criticism, ideological criticism (particularly feminist and gender criticisms), as well as cultural studies and reception history. Each of the 19 essays in this Festschrift employs a methodology rooted in one of these movements. Thus, this work exhibits “a relatively high degree of thematic coherence,” which according to the editors is somewhat unique amongst Festschriften (pp. xvi–xvii). A bibliography of Gunn’s published work concludes the introduction (pp. xxvii–xxxi). The essays of Part I, “Relating to David,” explore the literary characterization of David. In “King David and Tidings of Death,”1 Jan Jaynes Quesada analyzes the seven (type) scenes in 1 and 2 Samuel where David responds to the news of death to “gain fresh insight into the text’s multifaceted vision of the Lord’s anointed” (p. 5). Unpretentiously analyzing the individual responses of David to news of death, Quesada concludes that these scenes operate symmetrically to espouse the rewardretribution logic of the Deuteronomistic History (p. 18). Francis Landy contributes “David and Ittai,” which considers David’s interactions with Ittai and Zadok during his flight from Jerusalem during Absalom’s insurrection. Through a meticulous and provocative study, which unfortunately becomes convoluted at times, Landy proposes that the text’s rhetoric and symbolism present David as one who is confronted by his past while pondering his future. Via “echoes” and “resonations,” Mary Shields reads the David/Abigail narrative in light of the Wise Woman of Prov 1–9 in “A Feast Fit for a King.” Shields believes the text encourages such a 628

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study: “The very name of Nabal, ‘fool,’ and Abigail’s characterization as a woman of ‘good insight’ (v. 3) provide the invitation” (p. 40).2 David Penchansky, who imaginatively fills in lacunae of certain scenes in Samuel, contributes “Four Vignettes from the Life of David.” While entertaining at times, those who value grammatically and syntactically focused exegesis for reflection will struggle appropriating this essay. In what will undoubtedly be the most controversial essay for many, “Reading Backwards,” Randall C. Bailey passionately targets a perceived hegemonic interpretive construct of hetero-normativity by reading the Samuel narrative with a queer hermeneutic via a technique that “withholds data from the reader until a strategic point” in order to encourage backtracking and rereading (p. 71). For Bailey, 1 Samuel 19 is that crucial juncture (p. 72). However, his method of interpretation seems to me problematic, especially as he appears too involved in his own method. The first five pages of his article, for instance, recount his experiences defending his hermeneutic; moreover, these recollections present him as having the final word that exposes his opponents as rigid ideologues. While his accusations may have merit, Bailey’s introduction may cause some readers to activate their own hermeneutic of suspicion, this time against Bailey’s arguments. On the whole, Bailey’s methodological position should be respected; but in my opinion, in this case he stretches the text to its semantic limits and discusses certain passages in relative isolation. One wonders whether the semantic possibilities, which Bailey exploits, are actually narrower than what he argues here, once one considers the larger and canonical contexts of the text he has analyzed for this volume. Walter Brueggemann opens Part II, “Canonizing David,” which discusses the imprint of David outside of 1 and 2 Samuel. In “Heir and Land,” Brueggemann interprets 2 Kgs 25:27–30 in light of 2 Kgs 2:1–4. Jehoiachin is used as a cipher for questions regarding the continuation of the Davidic throne. When particular prophetic passages are brought into the equation, Jehoiachin, as represented at the conclusion of 2 Kings, embodies the community’s question(s) of dynasty, land, and landless heir. Danna Nolan Fewell in “A Broken Hallelujah” discusses the Davidic narratives in the context of the Primary History as a “constitutive” narrative for the post-exilic community (p. 105). According to Fewell, these narratives constitute “true mourning”3 while representing the Second Temple community’s external and internal threats as well as questions of theodicy that plague them. Philip Davies integrates intertextual and psychological analyses in “Son of David and Son of Saul.” Davies offers a typological comparison between Saul/David and Jesus/Paul in Acts, which may have also been in the mind of Saul of Tarsus (cf. Acts 13:13–41). Davies offers some intriguing thoughts, namely that Acts mentions Saul of

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Kish in the context of Saul’s name change to signify continuity between “old” and “new” kingdoms (p. 126).4 Yet, his particular method fosters only tentative conclusions, as Davies himself admits in the end. Part III is entitled “Singing David” and loosely discusses David’s association with the Psalter. In “The Sharper Harper (1 Samuel 16:14–23),” Carole R. Fontaine provides the volume’s best essay. She surveys harping iconography in the ancient Near East, highlighting the political connotations. She concludes that 1 Sam 16:14–23 exhibits such a connotation, which has been missed by previous scholars. Furthermore, Fontaine suggests that this scene is the literary mechanism whereby the author recounts how shepherd-David learned the tools that would allow him to become a cunning politician. Stemming from the superscriptions, Robert Culley, in “David and the Psalms,” considers the interplay between certain complaint psalms (Pss 54; 56–57; 59; 142) and episodes of David’s life that recount particularly dangerous situations. Culley ultimately states, “Because of common, traditional language, the set of poems and the set of stories represent two different ways of talking about the problems of a person in danger or difficulty and in need of rescue or escape” representing “a rather rich network of possibilities that explore the theme of danger and rescue” (pp. 161–62). In “Penitent to a Fault,” R. Christopher Heard characterizes David negatively when he misdirects and employs “confession as damage control and penitence as public relations” (p. 173). Heard roots his conclusions in his reader-oriented approach to intertextuality and his willingness to take seriously the psalm’s superscription as the hermeneutical lens, which contextualizes the psalm against 2 Sam 11–12. “Psalm 23 and Method” displays the interpretive arsenal of D. J. A. Clines, who puts his finger on the pulse of trends in contemporary scholarship by reading Ps 23 successively through rhetorical, deconstructive, gender, materialistic, postcolonial, and psychoanalytical criticisms. Yvonne Sherwood begins Part IV, “Receiving David,” a section devoted to essays on reception history and cultural studies. In her erudite essay “Scenes of Textual Repentance and Critique/Confession,” Sherwood utilizes commentary on Ps 51 and 2 Sam 11–12 by certain Reformers and Renaissance and Enlightenment thinkers to refute the stereo-typical dichotomies regarding the “religious” and “secular” (p. 188). While discussing the impact of Ps 51 on Theodore Beza’s work before and after his conversion to Calvinism, Sherwood notes continuity between the Reformers, namely their preference for the eloquent voice of the Psalms to the voice of the prose narrative. Thus, the Reformers create a hierarchy for theological reflection. Sherwood brings Enlightenment thinkers into the intellectual continuum by suggesting that their work is a logical extension of the Reformers. Key is Sherwood’s understanding of “criticism,” which she

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understands as krino (to separate, decide, judge, or accuse; p. 204). As the Reformers “criticized” (i.e. separated) corpora, establishing a hierarchy of usefulness, the Enlightenment thinkers “criticized” (i.e. separated) the text, particularly the corpora that had already been deemed less useful. Biblical testimony substantiates this progression. Because humanity is fallen, it stands to reason that the text would be fallen in certain respects. In light of this logic, Sherwood ultimately states, “[T]he effects that we call, retrospectively, ‘secularization,’ seem to come about first through the extension of the Bible’s own critique, which is also God’s critique of the inadequacy and sinfulness of the human” (p. 205). “From Babylon to David and Back Again” offers Burke Long’s discussion of the reception history of Simeon Solomon’s Babylon. This painting exhibits a history of title change that corresponds to the intellectual movements of the early 20th century onward. Thus, the history of the painting’s reception exists as a “cipher to some of the cultural issues in play” (p. 228). David is relevant because the painting was entitled King David, David Playing to King Saul, and then David Playing Before Saul, all of which stem from the painting’s musical component, sexuality, and sexual ambiguity. David Jobling analyzes extant fragments of an unrealized play David by Bertolt Brecht, a 20th century German playwright and poet. Jobling concludes that Brecht’s David helped him mature, and Jobling speculates that this may explain why the play was abandoned. Furthermore, according to Jobling, Brecht exemplifies “how the Bible, for an artist in the Western tradition, is both an elephant in the room, which he or she must come to some sort of terms with, and an artistic world to inhabit: immense, comprehensive, inviting being viewed in an endless variety of ways” (p. 239; emphasis original). J. Cheryl Exum, in “A King Fit for a Child,” examines how certain children’s Bible stories recount David. She focuses upon 1) if the works give a sense of David’s complex character and ambiguous motives and 2) how the works deal with the “hard” material. Ultimately, Exum concludes that the David of the children’s stories is less interesting and less appealing. By extension, Exum believes that such portrayals render God less interesting (p. 257). Athalaya Brenner, discusses the David/Michal relationship through a hermeneutical lens derived from a 1950 Akiva Kurosawa film Rashomon, which presents four versions of a sexual assault and murder. While having no concern for the “Truth” or “omniscient accuracy” of the relationship, Brenner seeks to tease the biblical fragments to obtain a more comprehensive understanding of the entire picture (pp. 262–63). Part V opens with Judith E. McKinlay’s “Through a Window.”6 Inspired by Musa Dube, who suggests that reading contemporary and ancient texts side by side illuminates ideology and use of gender in domination discourse, McKinlay reads 2 Sam 6:12b–23 in conjunction with

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Fiona Kidman’s House of Secrets (pp. 281–82). She asserts that her reading “brings hope that dominating powers do not have the last word” (p. 287). In the volume’s final essay, “David W[E]aves,” Jione Haeva displays his creativity by offering an imaginative play of the David/Bathsheba narrative, holding in tension a tendency to develop beyond the control of the text with a desire to remember the flow of the narrative. The editors accomplish their goal, to offer a compilation of essays that celebrate the legacy of David Gunn by being organized around the interpretive movements that he helped drive. Scholars or students who have been inspired by Gunn’s work in the past will most likely experience similar feelings upon reading this volume. However, for those who disagree with the interpretive principles of the movements he pioneered, they will likely have little use for this volume. Incidentally, the editors have also produced a volume that functions as an alternative to the historical studies of David that have been reinvigorated over the past few years in the wake of Khirbet Qeiyafa.7 Thus, the fate of King David is sealed. Despite one’s area of expertise or interest, historical, literary, or theological, this biblical icon will continue to engender discussion, reflection, and creativity. Subtitles for each essay have been excluded due to essay limitations. It is worth pondering if, and if so, how, Nancy Nam Hoon Tan’s work advances Shield’s discussion. Tan has studied the “Foreign Woman” motif in Prov 1–9 and has suggested that its roots exist in the Deuteronomistic History with its denouncement of foreign women. See Nancy Nam Hoon Tan, The ‘Foreignness’ 1 2

of the Foreign Woman in Proverb 1–9: A Study of the Origin and Development of a Biblical Motif (BZAW, 381; Walter de Gruyter: Berlin, 2008). Could it be that the

Deuteronomistic History offers a contrast between David's “wise wife” and Solomon’s “foreign wives?” Is this a contrast that the writer of Prov 1–9 was aware of? 3 Versus “successful mourning” (e.g. the presentation of 1 and 2 Chronicles) which intentionally mitigates past hardship and suffering (p. 108). 4 For further discussion on Saul’s name change to Paul and its significance for Paul’s identity and role as the Apostle to the Gentiles, see David Wenkel, “From Saul to Paul: The Apostle’s Name Change and Narrative Identity in Acts 13:9,” AsTJ 66.2 (2011), 67–76. 5 Davies himself admits as much in his final paragraphs. 6 McKinlay is remarkably candid methodologically. This has a salutary effect on the readers of her essay, as it encourages them to reflect on their preferred method(s). 7 However, the comments periodically leveled against historical-critical studies by the volume’s contributors were distracting. Such comments incidentally testify to the methodological one-upmanship still present. For irenic debate to truly succeed, the absence of such comments may have been more profitable.

Andrew J. Dearman, THE BOOK OF HOSEA (NICOT; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2010). Pp. xiv + 408. Hardcover. US $45.00. ISBN 978-0802-82539-1.

Reviewed by Anna E. Sieges Baylor Univeristy J. Andrew Dearman offers his readers a thorough and holistic analysis of the book of Hosea, a decidedly difficult task in regard to syntax, lexemes, and metaphors. This addition to the NICOT commentary series is well researched and thoughtful. It is a solid mid to upper-level commentary that will benefit students, pastors, and scholars alike. Dearman’s approach is largely historical, though he also engages with the poetry, rhetoric, and structure of Hosea. In regard to history, Dearman attributes the majority of Hosea to the eighth-century prophet by the same name and the remainder to anonymous Hoseanic disciples who continued Hosea’s work after his death (p. 3). Dearman understands the book of Hosea primarily as a theological response to the Assyrian threat posed by the Syro-Ephaimite rebellion and the subsequent destruction of Samaria by Assyrian forces in 722 BCE (pp. 3, 179–83). He tentatively proposes that Hosea’s prophecies were preserved in written form by the time of the destruction of Samaria (p. 19). He asserts that even if this were not the case, the writing as a whole should be interpreted in light of that time period (p. 31). He does, however, allow for the possibility of editorial updates throughout the book, positing the scenario that the book developed into its current state through the work of pre-exilic editors living in Judah. Although Dearman proposes a date for the original composition no later than the end of the eighth century, his commitment to this view is open to consideration, and he claims to hold it “undogmatically” (p. 6). In addition to Dearman’s historical orientation, he offers readers a “root metaphor” or interpretive lens for understanding Hosea (p. 11). Shifting images in Hosea often become problematic for interpreters (i.e. husband, wife, children, land). As Dearman explores the images in Hosea, he proposes that the root metaphor is that of the “household.” For Dearman, God as head of the household is the unifying motif of the entire 633

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book. In this way, whether the image of God is husband, father, shepherd, cultivator, or king—and whether the image of Israel is wife, child, animal, land, or inheritance—the overarching metaphor of a household head and subordinates is present throughout Hosea. Dearman finds this method more helpful than the common approach of using the husband/wife relationship as the root metaphor because the household model has the flexibility to incorporate most or all of the images used in Hosea. Dearman divides the text of Hosea into two larger sections. The first is chapters 1–3, which explore Hosea’s family. Hosea’s relationship to his wife, Gomer, and three children is the dominant metaphor for YHWH’s interaction with Israel in this section. Dearman understands Hos 1–3 as an edited unity that conveys the larger theme of Israel’s rejection and subsequent restoration rather than a chronological rehashing of events that coincide with Israel’s history. Dearman conceptualizes Hosea’s marriage to a “prostitute” as a prophetic sign act similar to those carried out by Isaiah (children’s names) and Ezekiel (lying on his side for many days) (pp. 45, 83). In addition to these larger interpretive claims, Dearman asks questions of the text which he hopes will be helpful to interpreters such as, “Would a moral God require an immoral union between Hosea and a prostitute” (p. 82)? To answer this difficult question, Dearman provides a series of options and concludes that it is plausible that Gomer was not yet a prostitute when Hosea married her and became one only after the marriage (p. 84). It becomes clear that Dearman conceives of Hosea, Gomer, and their children as historical individuals and their activities (i.e. prostitution, name changes, and marriage/remarriage) as historical events. For Dearman, God used the sign act of Hosea’s marriage to a prostitute to describe Israel’s cultic sins metaphorically. Hosea himself was a prophet who belonged to an “opposition party” that contested the religious practices that took place in Israel (p. 30). Dearman holds that Hosea’s accusations and sign acts were primarily aimed at Israel’s religious transgressions but that they also expressed condemnation of alliances with foreign nations (pp. 48–49). Dearman continues the household “root metaphor” in the second major section of Hosea, chapters 4–14. In addition, he conceptualizes these chapters as an extended dispute in which God brings a rîb (case) against God’s people. Dearman divides the extended dispute of chapters 4–14 into several smaller subunits. The poetry of 4:4–11:11 “circles around” the declaration of Israel’s culpability (p. 18). However, 11:8–11 conveys YHWH’s compassion for Israel and foresees Israel's return to the land. Hosea 11:12 (MT 12:1) returns to the theme of culpability, which carries through 13:6. Finally, chapter 14 offers another chance for renewal. Dearman recognizes the composite character of chapters 4–14 and acknowledges the frequent change in speaker and the oscillation between

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judgment and hope. He concedes the likelihood that the composite nature of this section is indicative of editorial work (he grants the same in his comments on chapters 1–3 and also asserts the likelihood that these primary units were combined by a later editor, p. 19). As he considers the possibility of editorial activity, Dearman willingly entertains several alternatives: perhaps Hosea was the main editor of the work, perhaps there was some updating during the reform of Josiah, and perhaps there was even editorial work done in the post-exilic period. In the end, Dearman leaves the question open-ended, saying, “If one can affirm that God worked through Hosea… then one can give that same affirmation to editors of his work, whatever their role” (p. 20). However, Dearman makes clear throughout his commentary that his inclination is to minimize later editorial activity, consistently suggesting that texts, which scholars often deem secondary, could have just as easily been the work of the eighth century prophet. Dearman’s work exhibits several strengths. He is dedicated to locating and interpreting Hosea in an eighth century context (i.e., the context that the book itself claims). As a result, his approach is an original voice in the larger scholarly conversation that tends to place Hosea’s composition much later. In addition, Dearman pays careful attention to the poetic use of puns throughout Hosea, drawing the reader’s attention to poetic devices that would otherwise be hidden in the Hebrew text. Dearman also makes good use of excursuses. Nearly every chapter contains one such excursus in which he provides extensive comments on a significant aspect of the text. For example, in Hos 3:5 the reference to “David their King” receives about a page and a half of specialized commentary in which Dearman explores several possibilities for how such a phrase was included in a northern prophet’s writing (p. 142). Though Dearman’s analysis is helpful, his parameter of the eighth century proves quite precarious at times. For instance, Dearman relies on several intertextual relationships between Hosea and Deuteronomy to support this interpretive stance. This causes him some trouble because he acknowledges that many scholars date Deuteronomy to the time of the Josianic reform, an historical conclusion that he neither confirms nor denies (pp. 52, 218). He seeks to solve this problem by speaking in terms of a “covenant ethos” that would have governed authorial mentalities long before the Josianic reform and would have informed both Hosea and Deuteronomy (pp. 49, 174, etc.). In a similar way, when Dearman alludes to the wilderness tradition that informs Hosea, he maintains that the traditions in the canonical book of Exodus may not have been standardized by the eighth century and that perhaps Hosea drew on a different, though not conflicting, tradition like the one found in Psalm 106 (pp. 36, 151). This is

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an astute observation, but Dearman lacks a robust articulation of his understanding of the wilderness tradition that informs Hosea. Finally, Dearman often entertains several scholarly options for interpreting difficult texts simultaneously. In so doing he demonstrates that he knows and understands the larger scholarly conversation, but he rarely defends one option over the others. In spite of these shortcomings, Dearman has produced a well researched volume that aptly navigates the difficult text of Hosea.

Jacob Stromberg, ISAIAH AFTER EXILE: THE AUTHOR OF THIRD ISAIAH AS READER AND REDACTOR OF THE BOOK (OTM; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). Pp. 322. Hardcover. US$125.00. ISBN 978-0-199-59391-0.

Reviewed by Lena-Sofia Tieymeyer Univeristy of Aberdeen Isaiah After Exile, Jacob Stromberg’s revised doctoral thesis, belongs in the growing corpus of studies that look at the text-historical development of the book of Isaiah. Stromberg explores the role of the author of the final layer of Isa 56–66 (referred to by Stromberg as Trito-Isaiah [hereafter TI]) in shaping the book of Isaiah. Stromberg argues that this author, responsible for Isa 56:1–8; 65–66, has shaped his own material in conscious continuity with and development of the existing Isaianic material in Isa 1– 39* and 40–55, as can be detected by numerous textual similarities and allusions. As such, he is an “author” of his own material, as well as a “reader” of the existing Isaianic material in Isa 1–55*. Moreover, he is a “redactor” insofar as he has added editorial comments at key places in the existing Isaianic material. Stromberg identifies the author of these editorial comments with TI because (1) the comments share the same theology as TI’s writing in Isa 56; 65–66* and (2) they develop the material in Isa 1–55* in the same way as does this writing. In the brief introduction, Stromberg sets the stage for the following investigation and outlines his methodology. He points out that both reading

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and redacting are hermeneutical enterprises. We can expect the work of a redactor to reflect his reading of his sources, and we can expect his additions to earlier material to reflect his own writing. Part I of the book focuses on the material in Isa 56–66. Chapter one contains a detailed overview of the various theories pertaining to the formation of Isa 56–66. Stromberg accepts the common view that the material in Isa 60–62, as well as that in Isa 63:1–6 and Isa 63:7–64:11, forms the earliest parts of Isa 56–66. In dialogue with previous scholarship, Stromberg also accepts the prevalent view that Isa 56:1–8 and 65–66 constitute the latest material in Isa 56–66 and form a framework around the earlier texts. He further argues that this later material presupposes and further develops the earlier texts. As to Isa 56:9–59:21, Stromberg tentatively agrees with P. A. Smith’s view that it was written by the author of Isa 65–66 but he chooses not to investigate that issue further. Chapter 2 asks whether Isa 56:1–8; 65–66 are original compositions or “redactional assemblages of some sort.” Expressed differently, is the unity of these texts on an authorial or a redactional level? Stromberg begins by looking at Isa 56:1–8 and argues, following especially G. Polan and P. A. Smith, that it is an authorial unity.1 Turning to Isa 65:1–66:17, he contends, against the views of especially Sekine and Koenen, that the structure of the material, its use of unique vocabulary, and its single purpose to serve as a response to the preceding lament (Isa 63:7–64:11), together suggest that it constitutes an authorial unity.2 Finally, Stromberg examines the textual relationship between Isa 56:1–8 and 66:18–24, often understood as an editorial framework owing to the many parallels between the two texts. He demonstrates that, rather than distinguishing Isa 66:18–24 from the preceding material in Isa 65:1–66:17, it is preferable to view all of Isa 56:1– 8; 65–66 as composed by the same author, “Trito-Isaiah.” Part II looks at TI as the reader of the existing Isaianic material assumed to be at his disposal, i.e. Isa 1–39*; 40–55; and 60:1–64:11. Which passages (intertexts) does TI allude to and what does he do with them? Stromberg does not suggest new intertexts but builds upon previous scholars’ insights and aims to strengthen their arguments. The relatively short chapter 3 looks at the intertexts that TI used to shape the material in Isa 56:1–8. Stromberg argues, following primarily R. Rendtorff, that Isa 56:1 is a synthesis of the theme of ‫ הקדצ‬and ‫ טפשמ‬in Isa 1–39 and the theme of ‫ הקדצ‬and ‫ העושי‬in Isa 40–55.3 As such, Isa 56:1 declares that the call in Isa 1–39 to righteousness is still in force and should be understood as the basis for the enjoyment of God’s promise of salvation as proclaimed in Isa 40–55. Stromberg then turns to the issue of the textual relationship between Isa 55 and 56 and concludes, in line especially with Beuken’s research, that

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Isa 56:1–8 was written as a conscious development of Isa 55, a finding that explains the many similarities between the two passages.4 Again, this shows that TI regarded the existing material in Isa 40–55 as still relevant to his own post-exilic audience, yet it was changed insofar as it now concerned (only) ethical individuals, including foreigners who wished to attach themselves to the God of Israel. Stromberg also looks at the notion of the singular “servant” in Isa 40–55 and the plural “servants” in Isa 56:1–8 and 65–66. He argues that, as in the preceding case, TI moved away from the collective understanding of God’s salvation in Isa 40–55 and instead advocated a more narrow definition restricted to ethical individuals. Stromberg finally demonstrates that Isa 56:8 alludes to Isa 11:12 rather than, as often argued, to Ps 147:2. His case is supported by, among other issues, Sweeney’s claim that Isa 56:7 alludes to Isa 11:9.5 The fact that TI used Isa 11 as an intertext in 56:7 renders it likely that he used it again in an adjacent verse. Stromberg concludes that Isa 56:1–8 reinterprets the ingathering in Isa 11:12 to include also non-Israelites. The substantial chapter 4 looks in a similar manner at the intertexts of Isa 65–66. Through close studies of shared syntax, themes, and vocabulary, and building on previous scholars’ insights, Stromberg argues convincingly that the author of Isa 65–66 depended upon and reworked substantial amounts of material from Isa 1–39*; 40–55; and 60–62. Stromberg’s analysis focuses on how TI read the earlier material as well as on the specific selection of texts that influenced him. According to Stromberg, TI sought in particular to redefine the identity of the recipients of God’s salvation by excluding the wicked and sometimes including people from outside of Israel. Throughout the chapter, Stromberg discusses: 1. the use of 55:6–9 in 65:1–2; 2. the allusion to the “former” and “latter” things in 40–48 in 65:16b–18; 3. the allusion to 37:3 in 66:9, and the allusion to 37:30b in 65:21b; 4. the use of 11:6–9 in 65:25; 5. the echo of Isa 54:1, 11 in 66:7–14; 6. the reuse of 40:1–11 and 45:20–25 in 66:15–24 (40:5/66:18–19; 40:10/66:15); 7. the allusions to 11:11–16; 49:22–23; and 62:10–12 in 66:18–24.

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In Part III, Stromberg argues that TI redacted Isa 1–55*. At the time of TI’s activity, a near final form of Isa 1–39* existed, with the likely exclusion of the so-called Isaiah apocalypse (Isa 24–27). As to Isa 40–55, Stromberg highlights that, regardless of whether we consider it as an authorial unity or as a gradually composed body of literature, it is likely that by the time of TI the material in Isa 40–55 existed in its (near) final form. Chapter 5 focuses on TI’s redactional additions to select material in Isa 1–39. Stromberg limits his investigation to passages that many scholars recognize as editorial additions. Stromberg’s decision is reasonable, given the limitations of a doctoral thesis, yet this selection means that other passages not discussed may also stem from TI’s pen. In each instance, Stromberg begins by arguing that a verse is redactional. He then defines the manner in which the redactional verse refocuses the surrounding earlier material. If this manner is reminiscent of the manner in which TI, in his own writing in Isa 56:1–8 and 65–66, refocused the material in Isa 1–55*, then Stromberg concludes that the redactor is TI. Stromberg argues that the following passages were composed by TI: Isa 1:27–31; 6:13bβ; 4:2–6; 11:10; 7:15. He also suggests that TI was responsible for editing the material in Isa 36–39. As an example of Stromberg’s argumentation, he notes that many scholars detect a strong affinity between Isa 6:13 and 65:9. He also notes that (other) scholars argue for the redactional origin of parts of this verse (v. 13bβ). He then evaluates and corroborates the claim that v. 13bβ is redactional, and shows how this quarter-verse refocuses the corporate tone of the surrounding material (where everyone will be destroyed) to a more individual tone (where the wicked will be destroyed but a righteous remnant will be saved). In the light of the observation that such a division—between a wicked majority and a righteous minority—brings to mind the theology evinced in Isa 56:1–8 and 65–66, Stromberg concludes that TI is responsible for v. 13bβ. The much shorter chapter 6 examines Isa 40–55 in a similar manner. Stromberg investigates Isa 48:22 (nearly identical to Isa 57:21); 48:1 (sharing key vocabulary with Isa 59:14–15); and 48:19b (reminiscent of Isa 66:22). Building upon previous scholarship, Stromberg confirms that (1) these three verses have a redactional character and (2) they introduce a distinction between the many wicked and the righteous few, not present in the surrounding verses. For example, the addition in Isa 48:22 functions as a conclusion to all of Isa 40–48 and seeks to qualify the offer of salvation found in these chapters by excluding the wicked. Finally, Stromberg looks at the many textual similarities between the material in Isa 54 and 56–66. In particular, he shows that while Isa 54:17a contains a general offer of salvation, v. 17b, with its reference to the

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“servants of the Lord,” restricts the offer to a few righteous ones. This restriction of salvation is in line with the thinking found in Isa 66:7–14. A link between the two texts is further established by the affinity between Isa 54:11 and 66:13 and their shared use of the root ‫“( םחנ‬comfort”). This is a very fine and well-researched monograph which can be highly recommended. The book is densely written, which means that it is not light reading, yet it is ultimately rewarding to be in the company of such a well-read and erudite author. Although many of the arguments in the book have been phrased before by different scholars in individual publications, Stromberg is the first to collect them, systematize them, and synthesize them into one coherent redactional theory. One minor aspect open to critique is Stromberg’s use of the term “Trito-Isaiah.” Most scholars have used that term to refer to either the author of Isa 60–62*, understood to be the kernel of Isa 56–66, or the material in Isa 56–66 as a whole. Stromberg’s use of the term as referring to the author of the final layer of texts in Isa 56–66 is therefore difficult to get used to, and potentially confusing. The confusion is heightened by the fact that Stromberg also uses, for example in the title of his book, the phrase “the author of Third Isaiah,” which indicates that he takes the term TI to signify not only the author of the latest layer but also the layer itself. 1 G. Polan, In the Way of Justice towards Salvation: A Rhetorical Analysis of Isaiah 56–59 (AUS, 7/17; New York: Peter Lang, 1986); P. A. Smith, Rhetoric and Redaction in Trito-Isaiah (VTSup, 62; Leiden: Brill, 1995). 2 S. Sekine, Die Tritojesajanische Sammlung (Jes 56–66) redaktionsgeschichtlich untersucht (BZAW, 157; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1989); K. Koenen, Ethik und Eschatologie im Tritojesajabuch. Eine literarkritische und redaktionsgeschichtliche Studie (WMANT, 62; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchern Verlag, 1990). 3 R. Rendtorff, “Isaiah 56:1 as a Key to the Formation of the book of Isaiah,” in Canon and Theology (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 1993), 181–189. 4 W. A. M. Beuken, “Isaiah 56.9–57.13: An Example of the Isaianic Legacy of Trito-Isaiah,” in J. W. van Henten, H. J. de Jonge, P. T. van Rooden, and J. W. Wesselius (eds.), Tradition and Re-Interpretation in Jewish and Early Christian Literature: Essays in Honour of Jürgen C.H. Lebram (Leiden: Brill, 1986), 48–64. 5 M. A. Sweeney, “The Reconceptualization of the Davidic Covenant in Isaiah,” in J. van Ruiten and M. Vervenne (eds.), Studies in the Book of Isaiah: Festshrift for Willem A. M. Beuken (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1997), 41–62.

Alice Wood, OF WINGS AND WHEELS: A SYNTHETIC STUDY OF THE BIBLICAL (BZAW, 385; Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, 2008). Pp. xi + 253. Hardcover. US$105.00. ISBN 978-3-11-020528-2.

Reviewed by Michael B. Hundley Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität München Alice Wood’s helpful study of the biblical cherubim, Of Wings and Wheels, is divided into three parts: the biblical texts, comparative Semitic material, and archaeological evidence. Since the cherubim are primarily a biblical phenomenon, she prioritizes the biblical evidence, using it to set the parameters for what cherubim may or may not be, before appealing to extrabiblical sources to enhance and confirm her conclusions. While acknowledging that they have been much maligned in recent scholarship, she nonetheless employs historical and literary approaches because the cherubim are a historical and literary phenomenon. However, rather than adopting a rigid methodology, her approach varies according to the specific parameters of each text. Wood avoids any assessment of the historicity of the cherubim and dates her texts using a relative chronology that generally follows the scholarly consensus. Wood subdivides her biblical analysis according to the general categories of cherubim in the Hebrew Bible: cherubim in the divine epithet ‫םיברכה בשי‬, as images in the temple or tabernacle, and as animate heavenly beings. She begins her examination of the cherubim formula ‫םיברכה בשי‬ (pp. 9–22) with a critique of the standard positions. Wood rejects the classic rendering, “he who dwells with/between the cherubim,” since it relies too heavily on the synonymy of ‫ בשי‬and ‫ ןכש‬as well as on the understanding of ‫ בשי‬as “to dwell.” She likewise rejects the alternate and generally agreed upon translation of Haran and Mettinger,1 “enthroned upon the cherubim,” because of its heavy reliance on archaeology and its implied insertion of the preposition ‫ לע‬between the two words following the LXX rendering, which she suggests is reliant on the emerging ‫ הבכרמ‬tradition. Instead, Wood understands ‫ םיברכה‬and ‫ בשי‬to be in construct relationship, yielding a 641

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probable translation of “dweller of the cherubim,” with “ruler of the cherubim” as an alternate possibility (pp. 12–14). Here, it seems that Wood’s alternative translations overlap conceptually, as YHWH who dwells with the cherubim is also the one who rules over them, evidenced in the text and by comparison with ANE texts and artifacts. Thus, the title may simultaneously evoke both meanings. Next, Wood examines the cherubim as cultic images (pp. 22–50) in Exodus, Kings, Chronicles, and Ezekiel. She contends that the tabernacle texts present the cherubim as each having two wings spreading upward covering the ‫תרפכ‬, interpreting this covering apotropaically, and insightfully notes that they serve to screen off the space above the ‫ תרפכ‬where YHWH will manifest himself (Exod 25:20–22). She also identifies the other cherubim figures on the tabernacle curtains as possible guardian figures that protect the sacred space from contamination. Regarding the temple texts, Wood argues that the cherubim in the Kings account are connected with the most holy space of the sanctuary and feature at thresholds and on walls, suggesting an apotropaic function. In many ways, the Chronicles account accords with that of 1 Kings, yet diverges by identifying YHWH as the chief architect of the temple in place of Hiram and Solomon, using the term ‫“( הבכרמ‬chariot”) and referring to a veil, embroidered with cherubim. Wood also suggests that the authors of Chronicles harmonize the three sanctuaries—the tabernacle, the one in Kings, and the second temple—and likewise borrow from the Ezekiel tradition “in order to accentuate the divine plan underlying each of them” (p. 48). Ezekiel 41:18–25 provides a much fuller account of the form and position of the cherubim, who appear in pairs with a palm tree between them and have two faces, one human and the other leonine (which may in fact be four, dependent on Ezek 1–11, since only two faces could be reasonably represented in profile). Wood’s analysis then progresses to the depiction of cherubim as heavenly beings (pp. 51–138), the bulk of which is taken up with the complicated portrayals of cherubim in Ezekiel’s visions. In Gen 3:24, she contends that the cherubim, along with the seemingly animate and independent divine weapon, serve as boundary markers of the garden sanctuary as well as protectors of the sanctuary and the possibility of eternal life therein. In Ezek 28:11–19, although the king of Tyre claims to be a god, the text reminds him that he is merely a cherub, whose failure to protect the sanctuary, by blurring the boundaries between human and divine, warrants his expulsion from it. In the Song of David (2 Sam 22, Ps 18), a lone cherub appears as part of a storm theophany, ostensibly serving as YHWH’s mount, upon which he returns to earth to rescue the speaker. Wood argues that together the cherub and the natural elements protect the deity when he leaves his heavenly abode, forming a moving tabernacle enabling YHWH to

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come to the rescue (though it is perhaps more likely that the natural elements are simply signs of divine power, rather than necessary for divine protection). In her examination of Ezekiel’s visions, Wood commendably argues for both a diachronic and synchronic reading of chs. 9–11. After a critique of previous approaches and a close reading of the Hebrew text that highlights its complexity and likely compositeness, she sets forth her criteria for identifying editorial activity: internal problems and the text’s relationship to Ezek 1 and the LXX. Rather than trying to precisely identify each editorial layer (cf. Zimmerli),2 Wood more modestly aims to isolate general patterns of editorial activity. She suggests that originally in Ezek 10 the cherub mentioned in v. 2 was an architectural feature of the temple, while all references to the cherubim and wheels under the throne are later insertions as is the association of the cherubim with the ‫“( תויח‬beasts”) in Ezek 1. These insertions are designed to integrate the vehicle of Ezek 1 into the original narrative of the divine abandonment of the temple and to connect the ‫ תויח‬with the cherubim, in order to “organize originally independent visions into a unified collection” (p. 135). Synchronically, the text either uses “cherubim” as a label for different types of supernatural beings or suggests that these enigmatic creatures could transmogrify their appearances. The cherubim also serve both apotropaic and locomotive functions, protecting the divine sphere, serving as YHWH’s throne bearers, and stressing universality and omnipotence as their four heads represent the four domains of YHWH’s rule: humanity, wild animals, domestic animals, and birds. In addition, the cherubim vehicle becomes animated with heads, wings, and eyes. Here Wood is to be especially applauded for her methodological restraint, her clever and plausible reconstruction of this difficult text, and her complementary use of both diachronic and synchronic approaches. In Part II (pp. 141–155), Wood examines the etymological data by surveying the sparse West Semitic evidence for potential cognates before turning to the more substantial Akkadian material and to Dhorme’s 1926 article that suggests an intercessory role.3 Wood offers a potential association with the substantive kurību, which functions as an apotropaic being and has non-human features. She suggests that the verb kārabu, connoting “to pray or to bless,” and the adjective kāribu, referring generically “to any statue fashioned in a position of prayer” (p. 152), are more dimly related. While noting the tenuousness of etymological arguments, she concludes that, if anything, comparative Semitics supports her apotropaic interpretation. Wood begins Part III (pp. 157–204) by delimiting the archaeological survey. In the process, she makes the important point that foreign symbols

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

and iconography may conjure up different associations when viewed from an Israelite perspective than when viewed by a native one (pp. 159–160). She is also careful not to read too much into the archaeological data, allowing it to answer such modest questions as: what are the possible physical appearances and cultic contexts of the cherub image? Wood identifies the cherubim as being originally quadrupedal winged supernatural beings who often occur in pairs on cultic appurtenances, temple walls and doors and with sacred vegetation, lions, and oxen. She limits her survey spatially to Israel and Judah because they are “by far the safest geographical boundaries” for comparative purposes (p. 164), and temporally from the tenth to the fourth centuries BCE, i.e., the earliest possible date for the Song of David and the probable date of Chronicles. After surveying the earlier Megiddo ivories in dialogue with Mettinger and Haran, she provides an overview (largely dependent on Keel and Uehlinger)4 of the data from the Iron II to the Persian period, in which she identifies several different types of creatures that could qualify as cherubim, while dismissing winged human figures, who seem to be deities rather than tutelary beings. Neither figures resembling the creatures in Ezekiel’s visions nor a cherubim throne are found in the extant iconography, outside of two early Megiddo ivories. Of the four types of winged quadrupeds—ram-headed winged lions, human-headed winged bulls, human-headed winged lions, and aquilineheaded winged lions—the latter two most closely conform to the biblical pattern. Appealing to Egyptian solar symbolism, in which human and eagle heads were interchangeable, Wood suggests that these two types may be “essentially the same type of creature” (p. 202), which in the final form of Ezekiel could “transcend their manufactured reality” and “transform into creatures whose physical form is difficult for the author to describe and almost impossible for readers to envision” (p. 204).5 Her archaeological survey is cautious, helpful, and generally even-handed, though it could have benefitted from a survey of images resembling the divine throne in Ezek 1, even if that text is a composite creation. Of Wings and Wheels is a fine piece of work, yet, like all works, is not entirely problem-free. At times more substantial scholarly references would have been helpful. For example, Wood occasionally makes general claims without supporting evidence (e.g., on p. 39 she makes an unsupported statement about the presence of lion figures at gateways). In addition, although her translations of the cherubim formula are indeed likely, she too quickly dismisses the alternate approaches, especially the traditional approach—which resembles her primary proposal, since “dweller of the cherubim” seems to be simply a more literal way of saying “he who dwells with the cherubim.” Her proposal in Part II that the šedu and lamassu are anthropomorphically presented, in response to Dhorme’s

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identification of these figures with winged bulls, is problematic. While often presented anthropomorphically in an intercessory capacity, the šedu and lamassu are also presented in mixed forms as door guardians in NeoAssyrian palaces and temples.6 As supernatural bouncers, they may retain their intercessory function, since visitors must often go through them to get to the king or god. Despite these minor shortcomings, Wood’s methodological modesty and restraint are laudable, even exemplary, and her careful and insightful work will be beneficial to all scholars interested in cherubim. 1 M. Haran, Temples and Temple Service in Ancient Israel (Oxford: Clarendon, 1978), 247–9; T. N. D. Mettinger, “Yhwh Sabaoth: The Heavenly King on the Cherubim Throne,” in T. Ishida (ed.), Studies in the Period of David and Solomon and other Essays: International Symposium for Biblical Studies, Tokyo (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1982), 112. 2 W. Zimmerli, Ezekiel 1 (trans. R. Clements; Hermenia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1979). 3 É. Dhorme, “Les Chérubins. I: Le Nom,” Revue Biblique 35 (1926), 328–39. 4 O. Keel and C. Uehlinger, Gods, Goddesses and Images of God in Ancient Israel (trans. T. H. Trapp; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998). 5 Cf. regarding Mesopotamia, the depiction of Ninurta in the Ninurta hymn (VAT 9739 and 11586) and of Marduk in Enuma Elish (I 94–95). 6 See, e.g., D. Foxvog, W. Heimpel and D. Kilmer, “Lamma/Lamassu A. I. Mesopotamien. Philologisch.,” RlA 6 (1980–1983), 446–453.

Alberdina Houtman and Harry Sysling, ALTERNATIVE TARGUM TRADITIONS: THE USE OF VARIANT READINGS FOR THE STUDY IN ORIGIN AND HISTORY OF TARGUM JONATHAN (Studies in the Aramaic Interpretation of Scripture, 9; Leiden: Brill, 2009). Pp. xiii + 304. Hardcover. €112.00; $156.00. ISBN 978-90-04-17842-7.

Reviewed by William A. Tooman University of St. Andrews This study, conducted by two prominent Targum scholars, Alberdina Houtman and Harry Sysling, attempts to fill a significant lacuna in Targum studies. It is generally recognised that a new edition of Targum Jonathan to the Prophets (TJ) is needed, but such a project is not yet possible. The origin and history of its text have not yet been sufficiently explored nor has its language been systematically described. Though Targum Jonathan (TJ) experienced centuries of redaction, the period before its so-called “official” recension is veiled in mist. This project prepares the ground for such a new edition of TJ by examining two sets of data that have potential for clearing the fog: the Targumic Toseftot to TJ (additions or supplements to TJ), and alternative readings found in early quotations of TJ.1 The first chapter is a prolegomena, a whistle-stop tour of preliminary issues related to the character and background of the Targumim. The ground has been covered many times. Houtman and Sysling, however, give more sustained attention to the history of scholarship than is typical, especially from Zunz onward.2 The one inventive part of the chapter is the authors’ attempt to provide an original definition of “Targum.” A survey of definitions, ancient and modern, is followed by a new offering. They begin with a definition from Alexander Samely: “Targum is an Aramaic narrative paraphrase of the biblical text in exegetical dependence on its wording.”3 They revise this definition several times, with the following result: “Targum is a Jewish-Aramaic interpretive word-by-word translation of the biblical text in exegetical dependence on its wording” (p. 18). This definition and the following attempt to schematize “targum types” highlight the fact that 646

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Houtman and Sysling consider the Targumim to be, first and foremost, translations. They are only secondarily interpretations. In chapter 2, “Tosefta Targums and other Targumic Traditions to the Books of Samuel,” the authors turn their attention to the so-called Targumic Toseftot (literally, “targumic additions”). Targumic Toseftot occupy a special niche within Targum research. The toseftot are extraneous readings or supplements to the complete Targumim. Some are small marginal glosses a few words in length. Others are complex compositions in their own right. The toseftot are not demonstrably homogeneous in origin, purpose, content, or language. The origins of the various types of toseftot and their relationships to TJ are still largely unexplained. Should there be enough evidence to suggest that the toseftot preserve remnants of an ancient Palestinian Targum to the Prophets or alternative translations to TJ, they would provide important evidence regarding the textual history of TJ. The toseftot are numerous, forcing the authors to focus their attention on a selection of the data. Following a useful, brief summary of prior research and a pair of excurses on Aramaic poems, the authors restrict their focus to the toseftot to TJ-Samuel. The chapter is a comprehensive survey of the relevant manuscripts, and the toseftot to Samuel, catalogued by their self-designations: ‫׳חא ׳פס‬, “another book”; ‫׳א ׳ל‬, “another version”; ‫ ׳שורי‬or ‫׳ורי‬, “Targum Yerushalmi”; ‫אתפסות לש ׳וגרת‬, “tosefta targum”; and those with no designation. Houtman and Sysling conclude that the toseftot are not homogeneous. Certain toseftot, those labelled ‫ ׳חא ׳פס‬and ‫׳א ׳ל‬, represent substitutions rather than additions, many of which should be thought of as variants to TJ. Those labelled “Yerushalmi” or “Targum Yerushalmi” are atomistic and fragmentary. Some clarify individual vocabulary words, whereas others offer paraphrastic renderings of phrases or clauses. These toseftot are incoherent apart from TJ, and their language almost always conforms to that of TJ. They too appear to be alternative renderings rather than additions. Those additions categorised as “tosefta” do indeed appear to be supplemental materials to TJ, influenced by Babylonian tradition if not composed in Babylon. These, Houtman and Sysling argue, are true toseftot, in the sense that they are additions to TJ. The unlabeled cases comprise Aramaic poems and midrashic compilations, which are far enough removed from TJ, thematically and ideologically, that the authors do not consider them to be part of the corpus of targumic toseftot. In sum, Houtman and Sysling find few commonalities within the body of so-called “toseftot.” Their origins and purposes, in most cases, remain opaque. Though a valuable body of literature in their own right, they offer only a little assistance in the quest to uncover TJ’s pre-history.

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Chapter 3, “Quotations of Targumic Passages from the Prophets in Rabbinic and Medieval Sources,” focuses on quotations of TJ within other Targumim, the Talmudim and Midrashim, medieval commentaries and dictionaries, magical and mystical texts, and liturgical manuscripts. (Admittedly, an analysis of medieval sources, especially the commentaries, is needed to make this survey complete.) Many of these quotations betray variances with the extant Targumim and have been a central datum in academic debates about the pre-history of TJ. Following a review of scholarship on the subject, Houtman and Sysling begin by schematizing quotations on purely formal grounds, based on their self-presentation and literary form. They divide the cases into the following categories: 1. Explicit quotations (quotations with citation formulae) 1. Quotations that are indicated by an introductory formula and refer to a specific biblical verse or part of a verse 2. Quotations indicated by an introductory formula that are not followed by a specific biblical verse but by an allusion to a certain biblical passage, a free rendering of biblical texts, or a combination of several scriptural passages 2. Implicit quotations (quotations not introduced formally) 1. Quotations without introductory formula [sic] that refer to a specific biblical verse or part of a verse 2. Quotations without introductory formula that seem to allude to well-known texts, current sayings, or that are based on stereotype renderings 3. Quotations without introductory formula that consist of free renderings of biblical texts 4. Quotations without introductory formula that are based on analogy of words or expressions in the Hebrew text 3. Philological interpretation of biblical words (alternative Aramaic renderings of a Hebrew word) This is a significant improvement over alternative systems that blend issues of content, form and provenance in their schematization of the evidence.4 The schema is followed by a detailed examination of the evidence, working methodically through the quotations, source by source. Following 78 pages of detailed analysis, Houtman and Sysling sum up their findings. (1) There are only 47 cases of explicit quotations in the works under discussion, a much lower number than one might anticipate, and the formulae for introducing those quotations are unique to each body of literature. (2) Within the Palestinian Targumim, quotations are most often found in the midrashic introductions to the Sabbath and festival readings. (3) Some quotations differ from TJ; some agree. Of those that disagree,

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some are more interpretive and some less. There is not enough evidence to conclude that a more verbatim Palestinian Targum of the Prophets existed. (4) The majority of quotations in the Bavli are attributed to Rav Joseph bar Ḥiyya, who must have played a role in the propagation, if not redaction, of TJ. (5) The quotations in the Bavli are, as expected, largely aligned with TJ, though minor variants appear. (6) Quotations on magic bowls indicate that TJ was already an authoritative document by the 4th century, and suggest that it was translated in Palestine in the 3rd century CE. Slight differences between TJ and the quotations found on incantation bowls testify to the instability of TJ in the period. (7) The oldest quotations are those in the Palestinian Targumim. These quotations are rarely aligned with TJ, manifesting a wide array of linguistic and exegetical variants. (8) The Palestinian Targum tradition as a whole appears to have been unstable and fluctuating. Though they favour the notion that a complete Targum of the prophets was produced in Palestine, Houtman and Sysling conclude, based on the diverse forms that quotations take, that it was never subjected to systematic editing. That task was only endorsed and undertaken by the Babylonian sages. In the concluding chapter, “Summary and Conclusions,” Houtman and Sysling revisit and sum up the results achieved in the first three chapters. The work concludes with two very helpful appendices: “Targumic Quotations from the Prophets in the Order of the Works in which They Appear,” and “Targumic Quotations from the Prophets in Biblical Order.” The principal value of this work is the foundation it lays for a critical edition of TJ. Most of the Targumic Toseftot, Houtman and Sysling conclude, properly belong to the domain of reception. Their utility in this enterprise is limited. However, those marginal toseftot that record variant readings are important. Quotations are even more important. From these two lines of evidence, Houtman and Sysling are able to provide a rough sketch of the evolution, official redaction, and subsequent supplementation and adaptation of the Targum to the Prophets. The authors’ close analysis of the toseftot of Samuel and quotations of TJ will also allow these bits of data to be located within a comprehensive stemmatology of TJ. Though narrow in focus and aim, Alternative Targum Traditions casts light on neglected dimensions of Aramaic studies and will be warmly received by Targum scholars everywhere. 1 The Targum research group in Kampen, led by Prof. Jan Wesselius, has been working toward a new edition of TJ for several years. The project, “Origin and History of Targum Jonathan to the Prophets: Towards a Critical Edition,” is funded by the Netherlands Organization for Scientific Research. The first fruit of the group’s work was R. J. Kuty’s Studies in the Syntax of Targum Jonathan to

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Samuel (Ph.D. diss., Universiteit Leiden. 2008; published by Peeters). The book

under review is the second. 2 L. Zunz, Die gottesdienstlichen Vorträge der Juden historisch entwickelt (2d ed.; Frankfurt am Main: Kauffmann, 1892). 3 A. Samely, The Interpretation of Speech in the Pentateuch Targums (Texte und Studien zum antiken Judentum, 27; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992), 180. This choice seems curious, in as much as Samely offered a more precise definition two years later: a Targum is a “dedicated exegetical rewording of Scripture on the basis of rabbinic reading assumptions, by way of synonymous or non-synonymous substitution or addition, with the help of the lexicon of a second language, Aramaic, and in conformity with the genre of the biblical original(s)” (“Is Targumic Aramaic Rabbinic Hebrew? A Reflection on Midrashic and Targumic Rewording of Scripture,” JJS 45 [1994]:, 92–100 [98–99]). 4 Most notably, M. Goshen-Gottstein (with Rimon Kasher), ‫ימוגרתמ םיעיקש‬ ‫( םיימראה ארקמה‬Fragments of Lost Targumim) (Ramat-Gan: Bar Ilan University Press, 1983).

Christina Kupfer, MIT ISRAEL AUF DEM WEG DURCH DIE WÜSTE: EINE LESEORIENTIERTE EXEGESE DER REBELLIONSTEXTE IN EXODUS 15:22–17:7 UND NUMERI 11:1–20:13 (OTS, 61; Leiden: Brill, 2012). Pp. ix + 290. Hardcover. US$129.00 €94.00; ISBN 978-90-04-20919-0.

Reviewed by Nathan MacDonald University of Göttingen How might an informed reader make sense of the wilderness stories in Exodus and Numbers? The many difficulties that trouble a reader as they encounter this part of the Hebrew Bible are well known. Within critical scholarship various attempts have been made to explain the present form of the Hebrew text by appeal to source-critical and redaction-critical solutions. Without denying the diachronic dimension, Christian Kupfer’s book tackles the same problems from the perspective of reception theory. How might

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the text and a co-operative reader work together to produce a coherent reading of the wilderness stories? In the introductory chapter (pp. 1–43), Kupfer sets out his methodological approach giving particular attention to the works of readerresponse critics such as Barthes, Fish, Eco, Jauss and Iser. His own approach sees meaning as a joint achievement of text and reader. He adopts a narratival approach that reads the text through the eyes of a competent and co-operative reader. Such a reader attempts to produce a coherent reading despite the occasional gaps, contradictions, and disturbances in the text. Kupfer’s work is largely an attempt to show what problems might disturb an intelligent reader and how such a reader might construct a coherent story as they work their way through the wilderness narratives sequentially. The central part of the book is a narrative by narrative examination of the wilderness stories in Exod 15:22–17:7 (pp. 45–84) and Numbers 11:1–20:13 (pp. 85–216). In most cases Kupfer gives the structure of the pericope and describes the main features that would disturb an attentive reader. There follows a detailed reading of the pericope, section by section, with attention to narrative features and how the cooperative reader might understand the pericope as she progresses through it. Kupfer concludes the analysis of each narrative by summarizing his main findings. Two final chapters consider the narratives as a whole. The first (pp. 217–51) examines the various narrative features that guide the reader. These include narrative patterns, perspectives of the characters, repetitions, leitmotifs, chiasms and other structural features. Perhaps Kupfer’s most helpful contribution is his examination of the various ideas about the patterns of the murmuring narratives, and his reminder that a reader working through them sequentially would recognize certain similarities to earlier stories, but also significant variations. A simple pre- and post-Sinai distinction will not work. The second (pp. 253–69) considers the wilderness stories in the context of Exodus and Numbers. Issues such as the echoes of Exod 32–34 in the book of Numbers, the hoary question of the structure of Numbers, and the place of the legal texts that interrupt the wilderness stories are addressed. The book includes a bibliography and author index; unfortunately, a close examination reveals that some texts and authors that Kupfer cites have been accidentally omitted. Kupfer’s analysis of the wilderness stories in Exodus and Numbers began as a doctoral thesis completed under Cornelius Houtman at Kampen University in the Netherlands some twelve years prior to its publication. It is deeply regrettable that there has only been very light revision to take account of recent scholarship. This is especially the case in the discussion of the book of Numbers where the scholarly discussion has moved on considerably since 2000. Indeed, Numbers has moved from the margins

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into the centre of the discussion of the composition of the Ppentateuchal theory. The attentive reader will observe only a few brief references to Reinhard Achenbach’s exhaustive redaction-critical analysis of Numbers, David Frankel’s work on the Priestly murmuring stories, Michael Widmer’s dissertation on intercessory prayer, and these are usually no more than a brief bibliographical reference. Significant absences include Achenbach’s ZAR article on Num 13–14, Eckart Otto’s discussion of the same chapters in Das Deuteronomium im Pentateuch und Hexateuch, Won Lee’s Punishment and Forgiveness, the proceedings from the 2006 Colloquium Biblicum Lovaniense edited by Thomas Römer, Adriane Leveen’s Memory and Tradition, the commentaries by Ludwig Schmidt and Rolf Knierim, and the fascicles from Seebass’ commentary published after 2000. There are numerous other articles from 2000 that are likewise ignored. Kupfer’s reader-response methodology with its focus on the ideal reader and the interaction between reader and text also betrays the book’s origins over a decade ago. The methodological commitments now look a little dated; the ground Kupfer covers has been well worked over. Within biblical studies, the centre of intellectual interest, especially in Europe, has shifted to reception history and to renewed engagement with diachronic questions, enriched with the insights of synchronic studies. In the case of the books of Exodus and Numbers, it is this latter approach that is proving especially productive. Of course, keeping step with the latest trends should not be the judge of a work’s worth. It is true, however, that the textual disturbances that attract Kupfer’s attention are being considered by scholars conscious of both diachronic and synchronic perspectives, and how these two perspectives might be mutually informing. In this respect Kupfer approach to the text is considerably narrower, focusing on only one of these poles. This is not to say that Kupfer’s book is without virtues. This is a disciplined reading of the wilderness narratives with a strong methodological rigor, and occasionally enlightening for showing how readers might make sense of the canonical text. When read with this perspective in mind, the volume proves helpful.

Michael B. Hundley, KEEPING HEAVEN ON EARTH: SAFEGUARDING THE DIVINE PRESENCE IN THE PRIESTLY TABERNACLE (FAT II, 50; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011). Pp. xvi + 250. Cloth. €59.00; ISBN 978-3-16-150697-0.

Reviewed by Mark K. George Iliff School of Theology In this study, Michael B. Hundley argues scholars have given insufficient attention to the question of how the Priestly writers sought to obtain and preserve the divine presence on earth in the midst of human imperfection and impurity. The book, a revision of his dissertation, addresses that situation through an analysis of the Priestly texts in Exod 25–Lev 16 and a comparison of them with relevant ancient Near Eastern texts. He concludes the Priestly writers seek to create a suitable earthly environment for a transcendent deity, YHWH, by means of their ritual system, which they portray as a divinely authored, effective, and integrated system inclusive of both individuals and the sanctuary. Only through strict, careful observance of this system could Israel hope to keep the deity, and therefore heaven, on earth. The book consists of an introduction, seven chapters, a conclusion, bibliography, and three indices (sources, authors, and subjects). Hundley addresses several preliminary matters in the Introduction, including his textual focus, previous scholarship on P, interpretive issues involved in reading ritual texts, the challenge of speaking of the ineffable, and the importance of comparisons with other ancient Near Eastern materials. The seven chapters of his argument address theoretical and linguistic matters (Chapters One and Two), obtaining and attending to the divine presence on earth (Chapters Three and Four), and mitigating human imperfection (Chapters Five, Six, and Seven). The Conclusion summarizes Hundley’s major arguments and findings. As this brief outline suggests, Hundley takes a comprehensive approach to the materials. 653

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Chapter One begins with a discussion of competing ways ritual theory is conceptualized and used in religious and biblical studies. After acknowledging certain problems and limitations with the use of ritual theory (ranging from definitional concerns to their theoretical underpinnings), Hundley reviews prominent theories of ritual in religious and biblical scholarship, including those of Catherine Bell, Jonathan Klawans, William Gilders, Martin Modéus, and Roy Gane. This review permits him to articulate his own “cumulative approach,” which is a combination of all these theories. Hundley argues, in two brief paragraphs (34–35), that such a combination overcomes the shortcomings of each, but given his concerns about them, a fuller justification of his approach is needed. The second chapter discusses the circumspect language used by the Priestly writers to describe the divine presence in the tabernacle. This is achieved primarily by P’s use of “glory,” kābôd, to describe that presence. Paradoxically, this terminology simultaneously clarifies and obscures understandings of the deity. It clarifies because P sharpens the distinction between the deity and the ark, the object most closely associated with the deity in the tabernacle, by removing any possibility that the deity is embodied in it. That association is unnecessary since the glory is an unmistakable sign of YHWH’s presence. At the same time, it obscures because the Priestly writers are vague about what stands behind that “glory” and refuse to define it. Hundley argues this rhetorical paradox results in the exaltation of YHWH over other ancient Near Eastern deities. YHWH is beyond description, whereas ancient Near Eastern gods are represented visually by images and idols. Having addressed these theoretical and linguistic matters, Hundley turns to the initiation of the cult (Chapters Three and Four) and mitigating human imperfection so as to keep the divine presence on earth (Chapters Five, Six, and Seven). Hundley uses his ritual theory here to provide organization and consistency in his interpretations, examining structure (what relationships are established in the ritual between persons, places, and actions), use (the textually verifiable interpretation of the participant’s view of why actions are taken), and ideology (the theoretical logic and rhetorical effects of the actions for the text’s author). The dedication and inauguration of the tabernacle is the focus of Chapter Three. Hundley briefly discusses the dedication of Solomon’s temple (1 Kgs 8) and analogous ancient Near Eastern ceremonies before taking up P’s account of the tabernacle. Comparison of these different accounts makes it clear that, unlike other divine dwellings, the dedication of the tabernacle is combined by P with that of its personnel, the priests (Exod 29). This combination creates an integrated system of space and people.

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During the tabernacle dedication and inauguration ceremony (Lev 8), ritual actions are repeated in order to ensure the tabernacle and priests attain the maximal level of purity necessary for service of the transcendent deity. In the Priestly texts, however, the deity inhabits the tabernacle (Exod 40) before this ceremony occurs. Hundley explains this textual sequence as signifying that, for P, ritual consecration and purification of the divine dwelling cannot be effective without the deity already being present in the tabernacle since the deity alone “can suitably consecrate his house” (92). Entry of the divine glory into the tabernacle (Exod 40) provides the primary consecration and prepares it for the formal dedication to come (Lev 8). Once operational, the tabernacle and cult require daily maintenance and service in order to keep the deity on earth. Chapter Four reviews the various elements of the tabernacle’s daily service (the Bread of the Presence, light, incense, and the burnt, grain, and drink offerings), comparing each to ancient Near Eastern practices and elements. That comparison makes clear YHWH is more transcendent and elusive than other ancient Near Eastern gods—one of the rhetorical effects of the texts, which seek to persuade the audience of YHWH’s superiority. Hundley next turns his attention to how an imperfect people maintain the divine presence in their midst. Human failings, sins, and imperfections threaten that divine presence, and thus must be removed. Chapter Five reviews ancient Near Eastern mitigation and removal practices. Chapter Six examines the Priestly system, articulated in Lev 4–5, 12–15, and 16. Just as the tabernacle and priests are part of an integrated system, so too is removal of individual and corporate pollution integrated with removal of sanctuary pollution. Leviticus 4–5 and 12–15 describe the removal of individual and communal sins and impurities. Because those sins also pollute the sanctuary, Lev 16 describes how to remove them annually on “Clearing Day” (the Day of Atonement). Hundley evaluates this removal system (Chapter Seven) in terms of its rhetorical effect, key terms, and comparisons with ancient Near Eastern practices. The complexities of keeping the divine presence on earth are resolved through the ritual system if Israel follows its precepts carefully. The Conclusion then summarizes Hundley’s arguments. Hundley’s comprehensive approach to the Priestly ritual system is ambitious. He attempts to examine the entire system and compare it with the systems of surrounding cultures in their entirety. This approach is a strength and a weakness. Hundley rightly reminds scholars of the larger socio-cultural system within which offerings, sacrifices, and other ritual practices are performed and have their meaning. Yet trying to describe ritual practice in a comprehensive way is difficult if not impossible. Hundley himself cannot manage it, conceding (10) he must be selective in his

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presentation of ancient Near Eastern material (he suggests “an extensive analysis of each [ancient Near Eastern] system in its own right and context” [10] is a project currently in preparation). Additionally, given the dynamic nature of rituals, any attempt to examine an entire system, Israelite or otherwise, presumably will do so for one moment in time, in one location. Hundley’s focus on the Priestly texts is a step in this direction, but he does not take a firm position on their date. He reviews arguments about their compositional history, but chooses to base his arguments on their “final” redacted form, the date of which he does not specify. While I understand why he avoids engaging all the compositional issues, his arguments would be strengthened by taking a clear position on the date and location of the redacted texts. The ambitious nature of the book has other consequences. Because he is dealing with so much information, arguments tend to to be underdeveloped. For example, Hundley argues (92; cf. 44) the divine glory consecrates the tabernacle when it enters it (Exod 40), but does not explain how this occurs. The text only says the glory of YHWH fills the tabernacle (Exod 40:34–35), so a fuller explanation of how the tabernacle is consecrated by the glory is warranted. Later, when discussing the reasons why Clearing Day is required (159–72), he states that human sins and impurities affect the sanctuary, but again does not sufficiently explain how this happens, beyond suggesting a relationship is established because the sacrifices expunging human sins and impurities take place in the tabernacle (160). This is a point in the argument where ritual theory could help. If Hundley used his ritual theory for more than categorical purposes (structure, use, ideology), answers might be forthcoming, both in these examples and throughout the book. Despite devoting a chapter to ritual theory and his own theoretical approach (which is supposed to help “ensure fuller and more balanced results” [5] than those provided by other scholars), Hundley underutilizes ritual theory. This is unfortunate since ritual theory and other theoretical frameworks could help him gain more critical distance on the texts, clarify the parameters of his argument, engage in more robust analysis, and thus make stronger arguments about his source materials. Although its ambitious goals hamper its arguments in various ways, Keeping Heaven on Earth contributes to research on Priestly rituals by underscoring their systematic nature, the ways in which the Priestly writers created an integrated ritual system, and the differences in that system from those of surrounding cultures

Kenneth C. Way, DONKEYS IN THE BIBLICAL WORLD: CEREMONY AND SYMBOL (History, Archaeology, and Culture of the Levant, 2; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011). Pp. xvi + 272. Hardcover. US $49.50. ISBN 978-157506-213-6.

Reviewed by Gerald A. Klingbeil Andrews University This revised Hebrew Union College dissertation (supervised by Nili S. Fox who also wrote a brief foreword, pp. ix–x) represents a comprehensive discussion of donkeys in the biblical world (defined within the limits of the Bronze and Iron ages, p. 2) and seeks to integrate both textual and archaeological data. It is the second volume of a new Eisenbrauns series edited by Jeffrey A. Blakely and K. Lawson Younger, and it follows a volume dealing with horses and chariotry in monarchic Israel.1 As the title suggests, Way is primarily interested in understanding the role of donkeys in the religious and symbolic universe of people living in the first two millennia BCE. The study is divided into five parts that deal with methodology, ancient Near Eastern texts, Near Eastern archaeology, biblical literature, and a synthesis regarding the symbolic significance of donkeys. The volume also includes a helpful appendix discussing equid terminology in seven ancient languages (pp. 205–207); it concludes with an extensive bibliography (pp. 208–259) as well as two indices (modern authors and biblical references). Each chapter begins with a detailed and helpful table of contents, as in the case of lexica or dictionary entries. For the reader, this provides quick access to more specific information contained in the chapter and keeps the initial table of contents concise and manageable. Way’s introductory chapter contains some features that are characteristic of dissertations. Besides discussing the focus and contribution of the study, the chapter also reviews the history of scholarship, focusing particularly on donkeys in the Mari texts and on equid burials, and highlighting specific problems and prospects. The author laments the lack 657

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of focused studies of donkeys that pay attention to their ceremonial and symbolic functions. He mentions overlooked texts that provide relevant information (pp. 9–10) and decries the common lack of interaction between scholars focusing on the texts and scholars focusing on the material culture—an issue that is largely caused by the increasing scholarly specialization and the relatively compartmentalized nature of our disciplines (e.g., while ASOR and SBL usually meet in the same city, they normally do not provide intentional cooperation between working sections or consultations going beyond personal initiatives). Way’s methodology seeks to elaborate an “integrated and balanced approach” (p. 17) that takes into consideration multiple strands of data, including textual, iconographical, archaeological, and comparative. Surprisingly, as can already be seen from the main table of contents, Way includes iconography within the field of archaeology. While this is an option, it may not represent the best decision, inasmuch as recent publications dealing with iconography have made a strong case for its relative independence. Iconography is probably better considered an equal partner to texts and archaeology, especially as it combines aspects from the material culture with deliberate communication strategies.2 In the last section of the first chapter, the author introduces the roles of animals in ancient Israel and biblical literature, including their role in religion. Way profiles a number of animals that also involve symbolic or ceremonial aspects, including the camel, dog, lion, and serpent, and notes the literary characterization of animals—particularly in prophetic texts.3 Chapter 2 discusses the donkey in ANE texts, including Egyptian, Ugaritic, Aramaic, Hittite, Akkadian, and Sumerian sources. Way underlines the selectiveness of the texts (p. 28); he also includes at times other equids or even other animals, especially when they occur in close association with the donkey. This long chapter is a treasure trove for those looking for a convenient collection of comparative textual data referring to equids and, like the rest of the volume, is well documented. The author summarizes his findings in 21 affirmations and qualifies each according to its use and occurrence in different languages and contexts. The broad spectrum of the donkey’s standing in different regions and at different times is inevitable. For instance, while the donkey functions as the bearer of impurity in Hittite ritual (pp. 100–101), in an Egyptian text (and possibly also in one text from Ugarit) it can function as a divine equine (p. 101). While this is a great collection of relevant data, its systemic usefulness for Way’s specific interest is questionable considering the wide range of meanings associated with donkeys. Furthermore, I have been wondering about Way’s rather broad definition of donkey, which—at times—seems to include hybrids such as the mule or the hinney (see, e.g., Way’s discussion on pp. 82–86), while at

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other times the texts refer only to donkeys in the technical sense. This wide angle lens tends to blur differences. Chapter 3 represents a significant investment of time by the author. Way reviews relevant archaeological data that suggest the deliberate deposition of donkey remains in Egypt (8 sites), the Levant (11 sites), Syria (5 sites), Mesopotamia (9 sites), as well as brief references to burials outside the Fertile Crescent (even though most of these burials actually involved equids in general, rather than donkeys in particular). The majority of the archaeological remains are dated to the Bronze Age, with some overlap of IA I material from Syria-Palestine. Way classifies the data in five general categories based on geography (e.g., association with human graves or with walls), and concludes that there is “no question that the donkey held a special status in the ceremonial practices of the ancient Near East” (p. 158). Chapter 4 discusses the donkey in biblical literature, which in Way’s case involves predominantly the Hebrew Bible. After an introduction about issues of terminology, the author revisits ten of the categories already described in the summary of chapter 2. He discusses in more detail the Shechem tradition (Gen 33:18–34:31; Josh 24:32; Judg 8:33–9:57) involving an individual named ‫חמוֹר‬. ֲ Way suggests that the name may simultaneously indicate a personal name and also allude to treaty or covenant activity (p. 176). I would resonate with this “less-assured” interpretation. Other biblical passages dealt with in some detail include the redemption of the firstborn male donkey (Exod 13:13; 34:20), Balaam’s donkey episode (Num 22:22– 35), the anonymous man of God from Judah (1 Kgs 13), and the reference to donkey burials in Jer 22:19. Way’s lexical analysis focuses upon the semantic domain of the donkey and represents a helpful contribution to biblical semantics. The limited list of biblical passages employing the donkey in a ceremonial or symbolical way underlines the significantly distinct use of the animal within the worldview and religion of Israel as compared to its neighbors. However, one must also take into account that both the extrabiblical textual data as well as the archaeological data cover two millennia and, thus, involve a significantly longer period than the biblical textual data. Way’s final chapter contains a summary and synthesis. Regarding the symbolic significance of donkeys, the author isolates three key parameters: characterizations, associations, and functions. While the donkey was used in scapegoat rituals in Hittite religion and appeared in sacrificial contexts in other ANE texts, it never functions in these ways within the biblical texts. Way has provided an extremely useful summary of relevant data that will provide a matrix for future studies looking at specific animals and their relations to humans in the biblical world. While the author spends some time in his introduction highlighting the importance of iconography (as part

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of the larger material culture), he does not include significant discussion of ANE images bearing on the topic. Presumably, this is a limitation that should be rectified in future studies of the topic. A brief look at larger monumental and miniature art will highlight the abundance of images for the topic.4 Further material can be found in the standard collection of stamp seals and elsewhere. However, notwithstanding these critical observations, Way’s contribution to the relationship between humans and animals within the context of culture and religion is significant and deserves a careful read. I am looking forward to similar future contributions that are truly comparative and multi-disciplinary. 1 Deborah O’Daniel Cantrell, The Horsemen of Israel: Horses and Chariotry in Monarchic Israel (Ninth-Eighth Centuries BCE) (History, Archaeology, and

Culture, 1; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011). 2 Cf. the case I made for paying equal attention to texts, images, and archaeology in “Methods and Daily Life: Understanding the Use of Animals in Daily Life in a Multi-Disciplinary Framework,” in R. Averbeck, D. B. Weisberg, and M. W. Chavalas (eds.), Life and Culture in the Ancient Near East (Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2003), 401–13. 3 Cf. similar observations in my forthcoming “Animal Imagery,” in J. G. McConville and M. J. Boda (eds.), Dictionary of the Old Testament: Prophets (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 2012). 4 As can already be seen, for instance, from a quick search of the BODO database at www.bible-orient.museum.ch/bodo.

Bruce J. Harvey, YHWH ELOHIM: A SURVEY OF OCCURRENCES IN THE LENINGRAD CODEX AND THEIR CORRESPONDING SEPTUAGINTAL RENDERINGS (LHBOTS 537; Hebrew Bible and its Versions 6; London/New York: T&T Clark, 2011). Pp. xx + 252. Hardcover. US$120.00. ISBN 978-0567-207487.

Reviewed by Michael P. Knowles McMaster Divinity College This study is a “slightly revised version” of a doctoral dissertation completed in 2008 under the direction of Robert P. Gordon, Regius Professor of Hebrew at Cambridge University. Harvey’s initial purpose seems deceptively simple: to account for variations or inconsistencies in the way that the Septuagint translates some 887 instances of ‫ םיהלא הוהי‬found in the MT. The LXX typically renders ‫ הוהי‬as κυριος, ‫ םיהלא‬as θεος, and the combined title as κυριος ὁ θεος, although there are numerous exceptions to this rule. Harvey organizes the history of debate in methodological terms, reviewing previous lexical, grammatical, and theological/narrative approaches, several of which concern a particular passage or book rather than the corpus as a whole. His own proposal is to offer a comprehensive survey of the relevant data, although he acknowledges that detailed examination of every occurrence is not possible within the confines of a single book. As a basis for comparison, Harvey takes the Leningrad Codex of BHS (which he designates “MST,” or “Masoretic Survey Text,” as representative of the Masoretic text type) and “the best available critical texts” for the LXX—whether the Göttingen editions, Margolis, or Rahlfs. The latter “are collectively referred to as the Septuagint Survey Texts (GST)” (p. 12; not, as might be expected from the previous example, SST). After describing in detail his method of data collection, subset selection, and analysis (chapter 2), Harvey provides exhaustive tabulations of occurrences of ‫ םיהלא הוהי‬in each book of the MT, whether in relation to 661

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total occurrences of ‫ הוהי‬or in terms of types of appositive (articles, constructs, suffixes, nomina recta), syntactic function (subject, object, construct, complement, direct address), identity of the speaker, and variants in synoptic parallels (chapter 3). Also listed are variant readings from the Samaritan Pentateuch, Dead Sea Scrolls, and the collection of medieval manuscripts collated by Kennicott. To choose examples at random, we learn for instance that “the use of ‫ םיהלא הוהי‬as an address is rare. Psalms accounts for 30.4% (17/56) of the occurrences, 1–2 Chronicles for 28.6% (16/56) and 1 Kings for 12.5% (7/56)” (p. 45). Similarly, “undetermined and construct forms followed by ‫ תואבצ‬also occur more frequently as subjects. Fifty-eight per cent (22/38) of the undetermined cases and 61.1% (11/18) of the construct forms followed by ‫ תואבצ‬are subjects. These figures are noticeably higher than the 40.8% (362/887) overall average” (p. 48). Patience is required as the reader waits to discover the relevance of such meticulous detail to the main thesis of the study. Comparative data is plotted on bar graphs, with fuller information recorded in separate appendices (as is also the case in subsequent chapters). The graphs, incidentally, prove difficult to decipher due to their use of different black and white patterns (light/dark print, dots, vertical/diagonal bars, etc.) to designate different sets of data. At a list price of US $120.00, the volume is already prohibitively expensive, but this material would nonetheless have been much clearer in colour (as it appears to have been originally). Moreover, whereas for the majority of bar graphs differences in line height indicate proportional variations of numerical frequency or percentage of occurrences, in Figure 23 (p. 123) differences in height correspond rather (and without explanation of the fact) to instances of ‫ םיהלא‬,‫הוהי‬, and ‫הוהי‬ ‫םיהלא‬, respectively. Notwithstanding the author’s claim that “different bar heights were used to aid legibility” (p. 122 n. 9), they instead prove confusing. This is equally the case with Figure 24 (p. 126), which endeavours within a single graph to represent translation variants between 195 occurrences of ‫םיהלא‬/‫ הוהי‬and κυριος/θεος in the MT and LXX (cf. Figure 28, p. 166). Yet a third style of graph (a single bar for each book, subdivided proportionally into different patterns) appears in Figures 26, 29, 32, and 33. Finally, one cannot help but notice that rotating a bar graph 90° counterclockwise to make it fit onto a standard 6” x 9” book page renders explanatory text that has already been rotated 90° within the graph upside down on the printed page (Figures 2, 8, 10–12, 14–19, 22–23, 25–26, etc.). This is, at the very least, visually infelicitous. A fourth chapter addresses questions of context in the target language. Harvey enumerates a wide range of variations in Greek translation: instances of ‫ םיהלא הוהי‬that the LXX renders simply as κυριος;

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instances of κυριος θεος without a corresponding ‫ םיהלא הוהי‬in the MT (he reports 189 of these); various renderings of ‫ תואבצ‬and other additional elements; the presence or absence of definite articles or pronominal suffixes. The data he provides is again highly specific: we learn, for example (p. 81), that among 59 cases in which the Greek translation does not correspond precisely to a pronominal suffix in the MT, there is one instance each of ‫ךיהלא הוהי‬, ‫יהלא הוהי‬, and ‫ וניהלא הוהי‬that lack a corresponding possessive pronoun in the LXX (Num 22:18; 1 Kgdm 25:29; and 4 Kgdm 18:22, respectively, although Harvey does not provide the references). Further complicating the picture is evidence from non-Septuagintal Greek traditions, more specifically where the readings in question differ from the LXX in regard to one or both of κυριος and θεος, with or without the presence of additional elements in either language (pp. 88–99). Points of note include instances in which the Old Greek, against the LXX, lacks possessive pronouns anticipated by the MT; the transposed use of θεος for ‫ הוהי‬and κυριος for ‫ ;םיהלא‬or the observation that Old Greek not infrequently renders MT ‫ הוהי ינדא‬as κυριος θεος where the LXX has κυριος alone. Accounting for degrees of correlation between ‫ תואבצ‬and παντοκράτωρ, δυνάμεων, or σαβαωθ, etc., in the three traditions is especially complex, but thankfully there are somewhat fewer instances of these. Harvey speculates that since in seven specific cases the LXX renders MT ‫ הוהי ינדא‬as κυριος ὁ θεος, perhaps elsewhere as well (in Isaiah, for instance) the same Greek sequence reflects an original ‫ הוהי ינדא‬against MT ‫( םיהלא הוהי‬pp. 83, 85). He makes a similar suggestion with regard to ‫ינדא‬ ‫ הוהי‬and ‫ תואבצ הוהי ינדא‬in relation to κυριος θεος in non-LXX traditions (pp. 95, 99). Once more, readers may be forgiven if they find it difficult navigating through the overwhelming amount of detail contained in these chapters. The author’s ultimate purpose emerges more clearly in his fifth and sixth chapters, which examine 34 instances of ‫“ םיהלא הוהי‬where ‫ םיהלא‬is undetermined and not followed by ‫( ”תואבצ‬p. 100) and 22 occurrences of ‫תואבצ]ה[ ]ם[יהלא הוהי‬. The former task occupies some 32 pages, the latter a full 59. Here it becomes clear that this study intends not to survey translation variants so much as to propose alternative “original” readings in Hebrew on the basis of the LXX. In Exod 9:30, for example, “it seems likely” (p. 106) that the original reading was ‫ הוהי‬rather than ‫םיהלא הוהי‬ (following LXX τον κυριον). In 2 Sam 7:25 Harvey proposes replacing ‫הוהי‬ ‫ םיהלא‬with ‫ הוהי ינדא‬on the basis of LXX evidence; he draws the same conclusion for several texts in 1 and 2 Chronicles, Psalms, and Jonah, but in these cases on the basis of stylistic considerations, or else as a result of apparent harmonization and conflation in the process of textual transmission. Genesis offers a particularly challenging example: between 2:4

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and 10:9 there is no consistency in the LXX translation of ‫הוהי‬, ‫םיהלא‬, or ‫ םיהלא הוהי‬other than the fact that ‫ םיהלא‬and ‫ םיהלא הוהי‬are never rendered as κυριος. Accordingly, a particular Hebrew Vorlage cannot be inferred from specific instances of LXX κυριος θεος. Yet assuming the validity of the Graf-Wellhausen model, “Since texts attributed to the Yahwist are generally characterized by the use of ‫הוהי‬, it is more likely that all 20 occurrences of ‫ םיהלא הוהי‬in Gen. 2.4b–3.24 read ‫ הוהי‬prior to being combined with the narrative in 1.1–2.4a,” where the name ‫םיהלא‬ predominates (p. 131). This is an important methodological departure. Having initially proposed to review translation variants on the basis of a single diplomatic exemplar (Leningradensis), the author next proposes improvements to an eclectic text on the basis of both Septuagintal and internal or contextual evidence. Here, however, he moves behind the “canonical” text (in whatever form) to reconstruct a pre-redactional source. How these different projects relate is not explained. Analysis of ‫ תואבצ]ה[ ]ם[יהלא הוהי‬is, of necessity, no less complex. Harvey recounts the history of debate regarding the grammatical function and meaning of ‫תואבצ‬, then lists all variants of the divine name that employ ‫ תואבצ‬and their Greek translations (with further breakdown according to syntactic function, varieties of attendant expression, and textual variants; pp. 133–50). He finds evidence for transposition of elements, recensional additions, and the progressive expansion of translation formulas over time. As to conclusions, Harvey proposes that “all five instances of ‫ יהלא‬that precede ‫ תואבצ‬in Jeremiah could be secondary” (p. 165); this “could be” the case likewise in 2 Samuel and 1 Kings. After an especially detailed review, he concludes, “it is … possible that every occurrence of ‫ יהלא‬that is followed by ‫ ]תואבצ]ה‬in Amos is secondary” (p. 186); similar conclusions for Hosea and the book of Psalms either “could be” or are “possible.” In contrast to previous examples, however, none of the last three proposals appeal to Septuagintal evidence. A brief final chapter summarizes the preceding argument, then observes (p. 201), “The main conclusion arising from this study is that ‫הוהי‬ ‫ םיהלא‬is an artificial compound designation. This assessment is based on the irregular distribution of the 38 occurrences, the questionable usefulness of undetermined ‫ םיהלא‬as an appositive after ‫ הוהי‬and the possibility of providing a viable explanation of how each of these designations could have been introduced into the Hebrew Bible.” However confidently asserted, this conclusion is undermined to some extent by the overwhelming complexity of the evidence: given a) not inconsiderable variations in both Hebrew and Greek textual traditions, b) evidence for stylistic variations, transpositions, and translation variants even within individual books and specific text families, and c) the difficulty of

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establishing reliable developmental trajectories, at what point is the probability of a proposed reconstruction reduced beyond statistical usefulness? Notwithstanding the occasionally diffuse aims of this study, it will be of interest primarily to specialists in Septuagintal and Hebrew textual traditions. The published text reflects the same remarkable attention to detail that is evident throughout the study itself: I was able to find only a single typographical error in more than 250 pages.

Isaac Kalimi (ed.), NEW PERSPECTIVES ON EZRANEHEMIAH: HISTORY AND HISTORIOGRAPHY, TEXT, LITERATURE, AND INTERPRETATION (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2012). Pp. xv + 296. Hardcover. US$49.50. ISBN 978-1-57506-233-4.

Reviewed by Steven J. Schweitzer Bethany Theolgoical College New Perspectives on Ezra-Nehemiah consists of a brief introduction and

thirteen essays, representing a range of approaches and concerns in EzraNehemiah. The essays illustrate current debates and questions being asked of a text with a complex compositional development. All of these essays are scholarly, detailed, and engaging. The volume contains an index of authors and index of Scripture. Each essay will be addressed below. Readers interested in current scholarly approaches to this biblical text topic will find many useful essays in this collection. Anyone working on Ezra-Nehemiah or in the Persian or early Hellenistic eras will benefit from the scope of this contribution. Isaac Kalimi (“In the Persian Period: New Perspectives on EzraNehemiah. An Introduction,” pp. 1–8) briefly introduces the perspectives and content of the volume, highlighting the basic arguments of each essay, and suggests that readers will find additional research topics growing out of

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these contributions. Given the usefulness and breadth of the approaches taken, this hope will assuredly become reality. Lisbeth S. Fried (“Ezra’s Use of Documents in the Context of Hellenistic Rules of Rhetoric,” pp. 11–26) compares ancient rules for writing historiography, especially as evidenced in Aristotle on the rhetoric of different genres, with the ways in which Ezra 1–6 has incorporated external documents in its presentation. While the historical reliability of these documents (and this biblical material itself) has been scrutinized, Fried’s perspective attempts to place the debate in an ancient context, using ancient perceptions about how one was expected to write in a historical manner. She identifies four components to a historiographic text: prologue, narration, proofs, and epilogue. The essay demonstrates how Ezra 1–6 follows this same model and the rhetorical strategy that is employed, much like the Hellenistic parallels. Lester L. Grabbe (“What Was Nehemiah Up To?: Looking for Models for Nehemiah’s Polity,” pp. 27–36) addresses the concern of finding appropriate parallels for understanding biblical narratives, in this case, the actions of Nehemiah. Grabbe summarizes the alleged connections to Solon and Pericles, and discusses very briefly the ideal of the righteous king from the ancient Near East. Grabbe concludes that while the Greek parallels reveal some points of similarity, the more generic conceptions around the ideal ruler play a significant part in the creation of the Nehemiah narrative. Don Polaski (“Nehemiah: Subject of the Empire, Subject of Writing,” pp. 37–59) explores the relationship between Nehemiah and the Persian imperial system as it can be understood from the Nehemiah Memoir’s use of writing, both as a means of alignment with and distancing from empire by the subject, namely, Nehemiah. Polaski suggests that Nehemiah’s use of writing—the “essential technology” of the empire (p. 59)—subtly locates the author as both loyal colonial subject and dissident. Klaas A. D. Smelik (“Nehemiah as a ‘Court Jew’,” pp. 61–72) draws on an insight into seventeenth- and eighteenth-century CE life of Jews who served the royal courts in the German Empire, noting their stance both as insider and marginalized, of powerful and powerless, and how this duality manifested itself. This insight is brought to the figure of Nehemiah, a Jew in the Persian court, and his own struggle with dual loyalty. Smelik helpfully summarizes the main issues as found in the book of Nehemiah and highlights the inability of someone with such conflicted loyalties to work to change the status quo in significant ways. Oded Lipschits (“Nehemiah 3: Sources, Composition, and Purpose,” pp. 73–99) examines in detail the list of wall builders in Neh 3, focusing on the verb ‫( קיזחה‬traditionally translated as “build, rebuild”) that Lipschits contends may be better translated “financed” or “supported” (p. 73). Thus,

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these “wall-builders” are those invested in the construction of the wall as leaders of the community, and this action forms an agreement—at least in the view of the redactor of the book—between these financiers and Nehemiah, whose status is enhanced as a result of this relationship as well as of his leadership in the project. David Ussishkin (“On Nehemiah’s City Wall and the Size of Jerusalem during the Persian Period: An Archaeologist's View,” pp. 101–30) reviews the archaeological and biblical data on the location of the wall surrounding Jerusalem during the Persian period, highlighting the two main views represented by the “maximalist” and “minimalist” positions on the inclusion of the South-West Hill, and the possibility that what is described is actually a Hellenistic (rather than Persian) era wall. Ussishkin concludes that while the population was centered in the City of David and the Temple Mount, the walls extended to include the South-West Hill, following the maximalist reconstruction. Manfred Oeming (“The Real History: The Theological Ideas behind Nehemiah’s Wall,” pp. 131–49) explores the ideological and theological importance of the construction of Nehemiah’s wall, beginning with typical scholarly rationales (anti-Samaritan defense, political function, economic framework) and arguing for additional concerns to be considered, such as connections between the wall and the memory of past divine interventions, ethics and cultic matters, the presence of God (or God’s name), and the necessity of a wall around the temple. Ran Zadok (“Some Issues in Ezra-Nehemiah,” pp. 151–81) examines the lists in Ezra-Nehemiah in comparison with those contained in the book of Chronicles, attempting to identify the various supposed literary strata and their relative dates of composition on the basis of careful and detailed prosopographical analysis. David Marcus (“Hidden Treasure: The Unpublished Doublet Catchwords in Ezra-Nehemiah,” pp. 185–96) notes that in his preparation of the Ezra-Nehemiah fascicle for the new Biblia Hebraica Quinta (BHQ) some materials in the Masorah parva of the Leningrad Codex were not previously published. Many of these are the identification of “catchword doublets”—where one word or phrase is found only in two places, and those two contexts are used to interpret each other and illuminate the biblical text. Marcus’s essay provides examples of this type of exegesis and argues that scholars can gain useful insights into biblical texts by paying attention to these treasures that have been hidden in these marginal notes. Deirdre N. Fulton (“Where Did the Judahites, Benjaminites, and Levites Settle?: Revisiting the Text of Nehemiah 11:25–36 MT and LXX,” pp. 197–222) draws on her recent dissertation research in this detailed analysis of these two texts that exist in a complex relationship. Fulton

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concludes that the LXX version is “an earlier editorial stage of the text” with the later MT version coming from the later Hellenistic era rather than the Persian period (p. 221). This logically suggests, Fulton contends, that this comparison serves as a “good case study for understanding the stages of the redaction of Ezra-Nehemiah” (p. 221). Certainly, this careful discussion opens another approach for research into the complex literary development of what eventually becomes Ezra-Nehemiah. Paul L. Redditt (“The Census List in Ezra 2 and Nehemiah 7: A Suggestion,” pp. 223–40) notes that the total number of individuals in the two census lists agrees despite the differences in individual amounts recorded. He then offers an intriguing argument based on some of the particular numbers and names and their place within the complex redactional history of the book, arguing that this use of the lists was one method employed by the redactor to contend that not everyone in the postexilic community should be counted among those identified as the “true Israel” (p. 224). Joseph Fleishman (“Nehemiah’s Request on Behalf of Jerusalem,” pp. 241–66) examines the depiction of Nehemiah’s actions and request to the Persian ruler in Neh 1–2 in light of Zoroastrian beliefs related to the calendar, water, fire, burial of the dead, and one’s public disposition, to help explain the details given in these chapters. These oddities suggest intentionality on the part of Nehemiah, for some unspecified reason, to take particular actions at a particular time with particular words, all connected by principles in Zoroastrian belief. Mark J. Boda (“Prayer as Rhetoric in the Book of Nehemiah,” pp. 267–84) examines the function of prayer in Nehemiah, both its rhetorical relationship to the surrounding narratives in which the prayers are situated and the content of the prayers themselves, which emphasize “piety, community, and worship, rather than wall building” (p. 284). As a result, Boda concludes with the suggestion that this analysis of prayer “may bring into question the necessity or even validity of reading Nehemiah in light of Ezra 1–10” (p. 284). With a growing number of scholars arguing just this point of separation, perhaps a comparison of prayer in Ezra with that in Nehemiah would be a logical avenue of research to investigate.investigate.

James C. VanderKam, THE DEAD SEA SCROLLS AND THE BIBLE (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2012). Pp. 188 + xiv. Paperback. US$25.00. ISBN 978-0-8028-6679-0.

Reviewed by Robert C. Kashow Yale University The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Bible, with the exception of chapter four, is a

compilation of James VanderKam’s lectures given at Oxford University in 2009, and consists of essays intended to provide an up-to-date assessment of how the Dead Sea Scrolls can inform one’s understanding of the Jewish and Christian Bible. Chapter one focuses solely on the biblical scrolls. There were over 900 manuscripts discovered at Qumran and just over 200 of the manuscripts are copies of biblical books. Except for Esther, every book of the Hebrew Bible is accounted for, the most represented being the five books of the Torah, Isaiah, and Psalms. While many of these manuscripts are fragmentary, the amount of biblical quotations in the non-biblical manuscripts provides a great deal of additional material for reconstructing the Hebrew text(s) used in the Qumran community. VanderKam closes the chapter with a discussion of how the manuscripts at Qumran differ from one another and from the MT, SP, and LXX—orthographical differences, omissions, minor insertions, and/or expanded editions of biblical books— and gives a few examples as to how the new textual information ascertained by the Scrolls reopens old text-critical questions, as well as illumines the fluidity used in scribal practice before the first century CE. Chapter two turns to rewritten Scripture and assesses the various ways in which the Hebrew Bible was interpreted by the Qumran community. VanderKam demonstrates that those at Qumran did not think and interpret in a vacuum, but that their exegesis was influenced by their predecessors as well as by contemporary culture. He provides an 669

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assessment of the way in which new biblical texts of the Hebrew Bible appropriate and reinterpret the older (cf., e.g., Dan 9; Jer 25; Lev 25–26), and how such a hermeneutics also occurs outside of the Hebrew Bible (e.g., Enoch, Aramaic Levi, Jubilees). This explains the interpretive techniques used at Qumran, where biblical texts are applied directly to the people of that day, often in an eschatological way, since they (like the emerging Christian communities) thought they were living in the last days. Mention is also made of how kindred biblical texts were often associated with one another, and at times collated together, in the interpretive process. Chapter three addresses the question of the relation between the Qumran scrolls and the Jewish canon, namely, whether the scrolls indicate a clear scriptural status for certain works. After a generous delineation of the canon debate, it is shown that the scrolls attest to a two-category collection of “the Law” and “the Prophets”—the dubious reference to a tri-partite collection in 4QMMT is refuted—although it is not entirely clear which books the Prophets contained. Works that are said to contain the words of God, are introduced with the phrase “as it is written,” and/or exist in pesher form, give some indication as to the specific books that were considered authoritative (see pp. 67–70 for specifics). Some surprises emerge, notably a Psalter consisting of more than 150 psalms (p. 68). Chapter four presents textual data and significant insights for the copies of texts found at Qumran not included in the Hebrew Bible as we now know it: Jubilees; Aramaic Levi; The Book of Giants; Sirach; Tobit; Enoch; Epistle of Jeremiah; Psalms 151, 154, 155. Each work discussed in this chapter was previously known before the discovery of the scrolls, but discovery of the scrolls yielded a significantly older copy of each work, often in its original language (e.g., Sirach was written in Hebrew, but the Hebrew text was considered lost until it was discovered at Qumran). Chapter five delves into the information the scrolls reveal about major groups in ancient Judaism and their relationship to one another during the last centuries of the Second Temple period, namely, the Pharisees, Sadducees, and Essenes. Those who lived at Qumran were likely the Essenes, or at least a branch/part of a broader Essene group. It is unknown whether the Sadducees were referred to in the scrolls, but VanderKam shows how the author(s) of the scrolls at least share commonality with the Sadducees in their legal approach (though it is clear the authors of the scrolls are not Sadducees). The greatest opponent to the Qumran community is likely the Pharisees, who should be understood as “those seeking interpretations” (‫)תוקלחה ישרוד‬. Though much was known about these groups prior to the discovery of the scrolls, the scrolls now allow for a more robust analysis.

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Chapters six and seven discuss the relevance of the scrolls for New Testament studies. Chapter six selects certain topics which, when analyzed vis-à-vis the scrolls, illuminate the Gospels in various ways. The scrolls anticipated the arrival of two Messiahs, a Davidite and a priest, not unlike the New Testament, where Jesus the Messiah is found as a Davidite and priest. In Luke 7, it is odd that the Messiah raises the dead when compared with what the Messiah does in the Hebrew Bible, yet this is precisely what the Messiah does in 4Q521. Scriptural interpretation too is similar (cf. Matt 3:3//Mark 1:3//Luke 3:4//John 1:23 and 1QS8 with Isa 40:3), as is the obsession with debating over cultic legal matters (cf. Matt 12:9–14//Mark 3:1–6; Luke 6:6–11 with 4Q265 6:6–8 where the Qumran community is more in agreement with the Pharisees than Jesus), and the act of rebuking (cf. Matt 18:15–17 with 1QS 5:24–6:1). Chapter seven reveals how the scrolls can inform exegesis of Acts and of the letters of Paul. Qumran, like the community in Acts 1–4, is a sharing community. Acts also understands the Festival of Weeks in a similar manner to the scrolls at Qumran (and Jubilees). As for Paul, Scriptural interpretation and theology figure prominently into the relationship with the scrolls: “faith in” a person, dualism, people as the temple of God, and a strong opinion about works of the law (even though opinions differ). This is an excellent, clear, well-written, and practical updated introduction to the scrolls by one of the foremost authorities in the field. It is not exhaustive by any means, but it will greatly serve students beginning study in the Dead Sea Scrolls, especially those wanting to know what relevance the scrolls have for study of the Bible. Knowledge of Hebrew is presupposed throughout the book, and discussion can be tedious in places, especially with discussion of text-critical matters (e.g., pp. 17–24), so I only (highly) recommend the book for graduate and upper-level college courses where students are likely to have facility with the ancient languages and a basic understanding of the discipline of textual criticism. Those already acquainted with the scrolls will also benefit from citations of more recent works on the scrolls in the footnotes, and an occasional update on the state of a question.

Matthew J. M. Coomber (ed.), BIBLE AND JUSTICE: ANCIENT TEXTS, MODERN CHALLENGES (London: Equinox, 2011). Pp. ix + 247. Softcover. US$29.95. ISBN 978-1845-55327-8.

Reviewed by Shannon E. Baines McMaster Divintiy College This edited volume is based on papers presented at the 2008 Bible and Justice conference held at the University of Sheffield, which was organized by the editor, Matthew Coomber. The volume is divided into three sections: 1) Challenges and Understandings of Bible and Justice, 2) Uses and Approaches to Bible and Justice, and 3) Prospects for Applications of Bible and Justice. The first section is comprised of papers written by Yvonne Sherwood, Philip Davies, John Sandys-Wunsch, and Stanley Hauerwas. Sherwood’s paper, “On the Genesis of the Alliance between the Bible and Rights,” examines four main political-theological visions (or Bibles, as she refers to them) which were present in the seventeenth century, namely, the Active Revolutionary Bible, the Passive Bible, the Monarchial Bible (characterized by Robert Filmer), and the Liberal Bible (characterized by John Locke). These visions represented different ways the Bible was interpreted and applied to the context of the Civil War. Ultimately, the Liberal Bible, with its focus on the rights of all people to equally share dominion over the earth emerged dominant and provides the background for the modern use of the Bible in the public arena. Sherwood provides this historical account to illustrate that the Liberal Bible provides the backbone for the diversified opinions on whether the Bible can be applied to topics of justice. At the conclusion of the chapter, Sherwood suggests that the Bible can be used in this discussion and application but that it is not the only source (or force). In the second essay, “Rough Justice?,” Philip Davies illustrates that contrary to the modern separation of philosophy and religion, 672

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“philosophical reasoning” exists in the Bible on topics such as justice, and that dialogues and debates exist within the canon itself (p. 43). Davies explores the notion of collective punishment alongside the opposition to collective punishment in biblical texts. Though smooth justice would entail only guilty individuals being punished, it is not possible for this type of justice to be implemented entirely in our society and so, rough justice exists where, for example, the guilty are sometimes not punished accordingly. Davies believes that the biblical texts can help us understand justice, but do not define justice nor provide us guidance for applying it. In the third chapter, “Is the Belief in Human Rights Either Biblical or Useful?,” Sandys-Wunsch presents the following three proposals for the origin of inalienable rights: 1) during the Civil War in the seventeenth century, John Locke developed a counter argument on the issue of rights by arguing against Robert Filmer’s notion that kings had the divine right to rule; 2) the Bible has a strong concern for justice and in the Old Testament, in particular, it is God who provides and upholds the rights of people; and 3) the influence of Jeremy Bentham’s questioning of inalienable rights can be detected in present day scholars' objections, while his critical examination of biblical texts in relation to social matters set a high standard of analysis which is similar to today's exegesis. In the final essay of this section, “Jesus, The Justice of God,” Hauerwas begins by presenting unsatisfactory theories of justice where either Christians become involved in the pursuit of secular justice, thereby relegating Christianity to the sidelines, or where salvation of the individual becomes the priority and justice is placed as a secondary issue. Hauerwas discusses Daniel Bell’s Christocentric approach to justice, which understands Jesus as embodying the justice of God, with the implication that justified people in Christ should do the same. He also critiques Nicolas Wolterstorff’s philosophical and theological proposal of justice which places individual rights at its centre based on scriptural analysis. Hauerwas concludes that “what we need is not a theory of justice capable of universal application…” but “rather what we need is what we have…” which is “…a people learning again to live in diaspora” (p. 84). This means, in the words of Bell, that the church is on a pilgrimage in the world “seeking reconciliation through the works of mercy” (p. 84). This represents, according to Bell and Hauerwas, the justice of God. The second section of this edited volume, “Uses and Approaches to Bible and Justice,” includes papers written by Walter Houston, Louise Lawrence, and Gerald West. Houston’s paper, “Justice and Violence in the Priestly Utopia,” provides an exegesis of Gen 1:28–30 and Gen 9 which highlights humanity’s role of ruling over creation in a caring/protective, non-violent, and non-exploitive manner. Houston further notes some

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difficulties with applying these texts to today’s context in his brief hermeneutical section of the paper, but points out that given the violent nature of our world, justice as viewed by the “priestly writer” in Gen 1 is possible. He does not believe that this task of reducing violence within creation has been “seriously undertaken” as yet (p. 104). In Lawrence’s essay, “A Signs Source: Approaching Deaf Biblical Interpretation,” she describes how the deaf community has been marginalized and oppressed in society by the hearing population in “educational, religious, and academic contexts” through, for example, past opposition to the implementation of British Sign Language and lack of access to biblical texts (p. 108). Lawrence associates the marginalization and oppression of the deaf community with colonization. The paper also examines the deaf community’s interpretation of Scripture, which consists of filling in gaps in biblical stories when they are retold and displays a midrashic approach when applying the stories to a contemporary context. West’s essay, “From a Reconstruction and Development Programme (RDP) of the Economy to the RDP of the Soul: Public Realm Biblical Interpretation in Postcolonial South Africa,” examines former South African President Thabo Mbeki’s speech in 2006 at the Fourth Annual Nelson Mandela Lecture. This speech represented a change in philosophy within South African governance from a focus on economic transformation to that of soul or moral transformation of the nation. Mbeki frequently referenced biblical texts in this revived transformation which Mandela first propagated. West points out that a transformation of the economy needs to be recaptured and implemented and that the Bible can be used, albeit, carefully, in economic policies that have been cast aside by Mbeki in favour of moral transformation. The third and final section of the volume, “Prospects for Applications of Bible and Justice,” comprises papers written by J. W. Rogerson, David Horrell, Simon Woodman, Diana Lipton, and Matthew Coomber. In the first chapter, “The Old Testament and the Environment,” Rogerson presents two main approaches that may shed light on how to deal with environmental problems facing the world today. He first examines the strategies of Ragnor Kinzelbach, a German environmentalist/scientist, which entail reducing over-population and over-production to reconcile our “economic system with the eco-systems” and developing a “new conception of the nature of humanity and the structure of its society in the world of the future” (pp. 150, 151). Rogerson then examines the Old Testament for environmental insights. The Exodus story is foundational for the gracious treatment of foreigners, but this graciousness extends to the non-human order, including rest for the land in the Sabbath year and the prohibition against destroying fruit trees during military pursuits. Rogerson

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concludes that, even though the Old Testament does not provide solutions to the present environmental crisis, it does contain valuable insights which may be mined separately or alongside Kinzelbach’s strategies. Horrell’s chapter, “Ecojustice in the Bible? Pauline Contributions to an Ecological Theology,” presents three responses to Lynn White Jr.’s 1967 paper which blamed Christianity and, in particular, its supposed interpretation of Gen 1, for the exploitation of the earth and the resulting environmental damage. These diverse Christian responses include a priority on the personal salvation of people, humanity’s responsible stewardship over the earth affirmed by the Bible, and the pursuit of ecojustice by the Earth Bible Team, which has established “ecojustice principles” apart from the Bible and measure the Bible’s teachings, whether consistent or contradictory, against these principles (p. 160). Horrell then presents his own approach to ecojustice derived from Paul’s teaching of reconciliation, where both the human and non-human world are transformed—a new creation in light of Christ’s death and resurrection. Woodman, in his essay, “Can the Book of Revelation Be a Gospel for the Environment?,” views Revelation as containing both negative and positive images about the environment. The book describes environmental destruction which will result from God’s judgment on evil but is limited to Babylon (i.e., Rome). The destruction entails the removal of oppressive systems and liberates all of creation. Woodman believes that the four creatures worshipping at the throne in Rev 4 represent all creation, human and non-human, as only one of the creatures has human facial features. He concludes that the book of Revelation is “good news” in that it “revolve[s] around God’s justice: justice against evil, justice for righteousness, and justice for creation” (p. 191). Diana Lipton’s chapter, “The Kindness of Strangers: Biblical Hospitality and the Politics of Intervention,” examines how Amos 1–2 (oracles against the nations) and Gen 18–19 (Sodom and Gomorrah) can be used to establish principles for military invasions/interventions of other nations in today’s context. For example, she views hospitality, derived from the Genesis account, as a key element which an invading/intervening nation should consider before intervening in the affairs of another country. Hospitality can be shown by ensuring that the recipient nation is prepared to receive the intervention and its resulting effects. In the final paper of this section and volume, “Prophets to Profits: Ancient Judah and Corporate Globalization,” Coomber uses Marvin Chaney and D. N. Premnath’s cultural evolutionary approach to understand the process of land consolidation in eighth century Judah, which prophets such as Micah and Isaiah vehemently opposed, and analyzes a modern day example in the North African country of Tunisia. Coomber illustrates that

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these patterns persist throughout history in his analysis of Tunisia where the process of land consolidation and centralized administrative control occurred, creating poverty through oppression and exploitation. In the introductory chapter, Coomber provides a basic description/definition of justice, noting that notions of justice vary depending on different contexts. He also provides a summary of each of the papers presented in the volume, which is beneficial to the reader. It is interesting that in a volume dedicated to the Bible and justice, none of the papers seeks to establish a definition of justice, nor develops an understanding of justice from either an Old Testament or New Testament perspective. The topics in the second and third sections of the volume—Uses and Approaches to Bible, and Justice Prospects for Applications of Bible and Justice—generally tend to be more larger-scale or global in nature, dealing with South Africa, Tunisia, environmental concerns, military intervention, and globalization. Though these issues are important, people and/or organizations which have considerable power and influence would be more likely to effect changes in these areas. It may be that for the concerned individual reader inquiring into how justice may be done at a local level, the papers presented by Hauerwas and Lawrence would be the most applicable. The third and final section of this volume appears to be heavily weighted towards the application of the Bible to environmental concerns as three out of the five chapters deal explicitly with this topic. This in no way discredits the importance of developing a perspective on ecojustice as it is an important aspect in the discussions about justice and in fact, it is refreshing to see it highlighted in this volume. Though the various papers have been organized into three separate sections in the volume, when the papers are placed side by side within the individual sections, they seem to be topically disconnected from each other. Even though the last section of the volume has grouped together three papers concerning the environment, there still is no discernible flow or progression of thought within these sections. It would have been helpful for the editor to provide a concluding chapter to bring together the various papers and topics by drawing some general conclusions and giving closure to the volume. Overall, this volume or at least portions of it, will appeal to Coomber’s audience, identified as consisting of either scholars, those involved in the practice of social justice, those interested in the volume title, or a combination of all three. Given the different focus of the volume with its varied topics, not all of its contents will appeal to any one of these types of audiences. However, the volume touches on some key aspects of justice ranging from philosophical and theological discussions to practical

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examples of how biblical texts have been or can be applied to contemporary culture. Though the volume is academically oriented and may, as a result, alienate some potential readers, the papers are all insightful and thought-provoking, and incite the reader to further reflect upon various issues relating to the Bible and justice. For those who are involved in the study and pursuit of justice in our world, this volume is a worthwhile read.

Christopher B. Hay, DEATH IN THE IRON AGE II AND IN FIRST ISAIAH (FAT, 79; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011). Pp. 445. Hardcover. €129.00; ISBN 978-3-16-150785-4.

Reviewed by Jacob L. Wright Emory Univeristy This monograph is an important contribution to several fields of biblical studies. First and foremost, it investigates the rhetoric of death in the book of Isaiah, but in terms of method and perspectives, it has a much broader range. To pursue its goal, it includes a rich inquiry into the conceptions and imagery of death in Iron Age II Mesopotamia, Egypt, Syria-Palestine outside Israel, and Israel and Judah. The ruling methodological assumption is that the meaning of biblical texts neither merely corresponds to literary artifacts of neighboring cultures, nor simply opposes them. The biblical literature is deeply embedded in its ancient Near Eastern context, but it also witnesses to several important processes of transformation of traditional ancient Near Eastern thinking. Throughout his book, Hays manages to assess the evidence carefully and to put the biblical texts adequately in context. The first half of the monograph is dedicated to the perception of death in the ancient Near Eastern world, the second half deals with the rhetoric of death in Isaiah 1–39. The discussion of the various cultural realms of the ancient Near East in the first part of the book entails historical sketches, the evaluation of possible mechanisms of cultural transfers, and the presentation and analysis of different burial and mourning practices and, where available,

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texts that are relevant to the topic. Each section is concluded by a helpful, brief summary. Despite the vast historical array of his investigation, Hays succeeds not only in repeating and combining accepted results from previous research, but he also includes innovative and new elements, especially regarding the cultural interdependences of both the great powers and also smaller states like Israel and Judah. Hays starts his historical overview with Mesopotamia. Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian sources show an increased interest in the topic of death in Iron Age II, and there were obvious channels of communication for these ideas into Israel and Judah in the preexilic and exilic periods. Especially the rhetoric of the Sargonids made vast use of death imagery, which was taken over to a considerable degree among their vassals, either coercively or voluntarily. Egypt was traditionally the most elaborate ancient culture regarding the construction of an otherworldly afterlife. Hays convincingly argues against a strictly isolated view of Egyptian notions of death and presents both shared and distinctive traits of Egyptian approaches to death in comparison to Mesopotamia. Despite some strong anti-Egypt texts in the Hebrew Bible, it is clear that Egypt was a major influence on Israel and Judah in the period under discussion, and one has to reckon with the reception and transformation of Egyptian death imagery by Israel and Judah. Especially helpful is Hays’ chapter on Ugarit, which challenges— correctly in my opinion—the scholarly consensus from Claude Schaeffer to Klaas Spronk that the cult and culture of Ugarit was mainly concerned with, or even concentrated upon, the topic of beatific afterlife and revivification. He points out the spotty evidence of Ugaritic texts and offers a contextual interpretation of the relevant findings, which themselves point to the fact that at least the Ugaritic kings anticipated a divinized afterlife. However, as Hays stresses, we are far from a complete picture of conceptions of death in the Levant. The discussion of perceptions of death in ancient Israel and Judah includes both archaeological and textual inquiries. Important is his enlightening reconstruction of the history of scholarship on the topic and its dependence on overall interpretations of the religion of ancient Israel. Hays generally reads widely and discusses most of the relevant titles regarding death and burial; however, the contributions of Robert Wenning unfortunately find no mention in this chapter. The historical investigation of Mesopotamia, Egypt, and the Levant provides the background for the second part of the book, the interpretation of Isaiah 1–39. Here Hays discusses all relevant texts employing death imagery. The selection is accurate, nevertheless also somewhat artificial,

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especially regarding the evaluation of these texts in terms of the formation of the book. With regard to dating texts from Isaiah 1–39, Hays discerns two major periods for the allocations of the passages examined. The first is the time of the prophet himself, comprised of a “darker” set of texts. These employ the imagery of death within the context of oracles of doom. The second is the reign of Josiah, when “brighter” perspectives prevail, announcing Yhwh’s salvation from death. Hays is close to Hermann Barth’s thesis of an “Anti-Assyrian Redaction,” but he defines the contours of that redaction differently (e.g. Hays considers Isa 9:1–6 Isaianic rather than Josianic), and he finds the terminology of a “Life and Death redaction” more appropriate. Hays offers very detailed analyses of the texts relevant to his topic. In historical terms, however, there is a certain bias in his investigation. He considers Iron Age II the period “in which much of Isa 1–39 was composed” (203). To be sure, I think this is basically correct. Nevertheless, this assumption is only one possible result of biblical exegesis, and Hays at times relies upon it as a presupposition. He seems to prefer Isaianic dates for texts whenever possible (357), and he does not shy away from discarding—in a quite undifferentiated manner through a footnote quoting J. J. M. Roberts about “the tendency of some Isaiah scholars to ‘look to late contexts for the work of redaction’” (356–57, n. 4). Hays has, as he states, “ … come away often unconvinced from the work of scholars who find these texts fragmentary and late” (357). In methodological terms, however, the prophet’s own time must neither be privileged nor neglected as a possible date of origin for texts in the book of Isaiah. It is one possibility among others, though it is often probable when a text is not understood better when dated to another period during the formation of the book. Hays even assigns texts like Isa 25:6–8 and 26:11–21 to the seventh century based on their thematic consistency with older ancient Near Eastern texts and the bright, optimistic rhetoric of that time. His own approach regarding Isa 24–27 is based primarily on the critique of the common dating of this complex as a “ … result of intertextual fishing expeditions without adequate methodological controls” (317). This may be true for some scholarly contributions to Isa 24–27, but Hays’ own approach is not without its difficulties either. First, he does not analyze the contextual embeddedness of Isa 25:6–8 and 26:11–19 (+ 26:21) in the overall context of Isa 24–27 (318: “The larger question of the date of chaps. 24–27 would require its own thorough study”). Secondly, he does not discuss major contributions from German-speaking scholarship on these chapters. especially important are Erich Bosshard-Nepustil, who provides detailed analysis of the reception of Gen 6–9 in Isa 24–27,1 and Odil Hannes Steck,

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who provides a detailed portrait of the late redactional stages in the book of Isaiah, attributing Isaiah 24–27 to the early Hellenistic period.2 Thirdly, he neglects the fact that comparable texts from the ancient Near East provide no argument for dating biblical texts per se to the same period. The biblical book of Job is similar to Ludlul bēl nēmeqi and the Babylonian Theodicy, but this does not help us to date Job. The neglect of the context when studying a biblical text is also problematic in his analysis of Isa 38:9–20. Hays offers very detailed and sophisticated exegesis, but he does not take into account the contextual function of this text—for example the parallelism between the fate of the city and the fate of the king. Furthermore, his proposed date again remains somewhat arbitrary. Finally, Hays does not always sufficiently differentiate between the world of the text and the world of the author. For example, he argues that “the prospective nature” of Isa 30:27–33 “strongly suggests that the punishment had not yet happened” (230). Isaiah 30:27–33 should therefore be dated, according to Hays, before the demise of the Assyrian empire. But the syntactical structure of a biblical text corresponds, first of all, to the world of the text and not the world of the author. The latter may, but does not need to be the case. Prophetic texts announcing events in the future may or may not be dated before that event. At any rate, there is a need for more, and more detailed arguments on this point. In sum, Hays presents a very impressive scholarly work that sets a high standard for related investigations in future scholarship. It is very carefully researched and clearly written. His approach to questions of the formation of the book of Isaiah, however, remains somewhat unsatisfying, and the dates he proposes for texts are contestable at some points. His overall position on the formation of the book will be published in the “Isaiah” entry of the Encyclopedia of the Bible (Oxford: Oxford University Press, forthcoming), but it is unfortunately not yet available. 1 Vor uns die Sintflut: Studien zu Text, Kontexten und Rezeption der Fluterzählung Genesis 6–9 (BWANT, 165; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2005), 247–59. 2 Der Abschluß der Prophetie im Alten Testament: Ein Versuch zur Frage der Vorgeschichte des Kanons (Biblisch-theologische Studien, 17; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchner Verlag, 1991).

Kyong-Jin Lee, THE AUTHORITY AND AUTHORIZATION OF TORAH IN THE PERSIAN PERIOD (Contributions to Biblical Exegesis & Theology, 64; Leuven, Peeters, 2011). Pp. x + 296. Paperback. €46.00. ISBN 978-90-429-2578-6.

Reviewed by James W. Watts Syracuse Univeristy This dissertation by Kyong-Jin Lee sets out to re-evaluate the arguments for and against the thesis of Persian authorization of the Torah. The question of whether and to what degree the Persian Empire played a role in authorizing Jewish Torah in the fifth and fourth centuries BCE has attracted much attention from biblical scholars over the last thirty years. Peter Frei stimulated this interest in 1984 by arguing that the Persians authorized local legislation in various parts of their empire to create a “federal” relationship between local authorities and the imperial center.1 His theory was quickly adopted in biblical studies to explain the conditions that led to the formation of the Pentateuch in its present form. Presumably, Persian authorities would only authorize one document, so the theory held that Judean parties put forward a compromise document that included both Deuteronomistic and Priestly traditions. At the end of the last century, more skeptical voices made themselves heard that challenged Frei’s thesis, especially the extent to which Persians authorized local laws and the nature of that authorization. The panelists reviewing the issue at the Society of Biblical Literature meeting in 2000 voiced widely diverging conclusions. The majority doubted the degree to which Frei’s thesis applied to the Jewish situation and the Pentateuch.2 Many others, including this reviewer, concluded that the Persians may have responded ad hoc to local requests to authorize temple laws, but took little interest in the contents of such legal documents so long as they were not subversive to imperial control.3 Therefore, current scholarship tends to view the Pentateuch taking shape at Judean (and Samaritan) initiative within a legal and literary context shaped by Persian norms and power relations, but not as a response to specific Persian policy initiatives.4 681

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Lee’s major conclusion is that the Persians did not systematically authorize local laws across the empire, but did respond positively to local requests from Asia Minor and Egypt to recognize officially some local cult practices and laws. Such requests were usually mediated by officials in the Persian bureaucracy with ethnic ties to the local communities. It is therefore likely that the Persians responded positively to such requests from Judeans like Ezra as well (p. 263). After reviewing the reception of Frei’s theory in biblical studies (chap. 1), Lee devotes two chapters to re-examining the evidence for Persian imperial authorization of local law in Egypt (chap. 2) and Asia Minor (chap. 3). Frei cited three major pieces of evidence for Persian influence on Egyptian laws and cults: Udjahorresnet’s inscription, the claim by Diodorus and the Demotic Chronicle that Darius collected or reformed Egyptian law, and the Aramaic Passover Letter from Elephantine. Lee finds in Udjahorresnet’s inscription a clear example of an Egyptian official in the Persian court who uses his position to gain imperial support for restoring particular temples and cult practices, as well as scribal or medical institutions. The Passover Letter from Elephantine is more ambiguous because of its fragmentary state, but Lee effectively marshals the arguments that local initiative likely prompted these ritual instructions too. The evidence that points most to imperial initiative behind the Persian authorization of Egyptian law is found in Diodorus and the Demotic Chronicle. These Hellenistic-era histories claim that Darius collected or renewed Egyptian law. Like Frei, Lee thinks these accounts do reflect some degree of Persian involvement in Egyptian law. It is disappointing that she reports but does not counter the skepticism of some Egyptologists as to whether the Persians did anything more than gather financial documents for taxation purposes.5 She should have engaged more seriously the argument that historiographical sources (which include Ezra as well as Diodorus and the Demotic Chronicle) tend to emphasize royal initiatives because of their own rhetorical interests. They are therefore less dependable on this issue than the primary sources that emphasize local initiatives to gain imperial authorization (Udjahorresnet, the Elephantine letters, and the Letoon inscription).6 This argument would have bolstered her book’s main thesis. After surveying Persian-Greek relations as reported by Herodotus and Diodorus (pp. 93–104), Lee reviews the evidence that Frei identified for imperial authorization in Asia Minor: an inscription recording a satrap’s resolution of a border dispute between Miletus and Myus, the Letoon inscription at Xanthos recording a satrap’s authorization of that temple’s laws, and the Gadates inscription which records Darius rebuking his officials for not honoring the exemption of a temple’s servants from forced labor. Though the latter is widely regarded as a Roman-era forgery, Lee

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follows several recent studies that defend the possibility that it is a translation of a Persian-period document. That decision complicates the arguments for her thesis that Persians authorized local laws and temples in response to local initiatives. While the other two inscriptions speak of such local initiatives explicitly, the Gadates inscription speaks instead of an intervention by Darius. Lee thinks the king must have been responding to a local complaint, but the inscription itself contains no such indication. Lee then turns to Judea in the Persian period. One chapter surveys Persian-Judean relations, including the role of the Temple in Judea and the importance of Judea to Persian imperial interests. She concludes that Persian interventions in Judean affairs tended to be sporadic responses to specific circumstances, not the product of consistent policies (p. 158). Nevertheless, the claim in Ezra that Persians supported rebuilding the Jerusalem Temple corresponds to their efforts elsewhere and so is historically plausible (p. 210). These conclusions will not surprise scholars who work on this period. Lee’s review of the arguments and evidence for them nevertheless feels underdeveloped, perhaps necessarily so in covering a great deal of material in sixty-five pages. Lee makes up for this by devoting an entire chapter to the decree of Artaxerxes in Ezra 7:12–26. After reviewing in detail the century-long discussion of the historicity of this text, Lee concludes with many others that the decree is the product of a complicated redactional history stretching into the Hellenistic period. She sides, however, with those voices who maintain that core elements of the decree go back to Persian imperial actions. Her previous surveys of Persian practices lead her to suggest that this core involved only the support and provisioning of the Jerusalem temple. Its depiction of Persian concern for legal practice in Judea reflect later Jewish interests, not Persian. And she argues that it was the local populace in Jerusalem who applied for this support from the empire. The view that the Persians provided imperial authorization of local laws and cults in responses to some native requests, but had no policy to do so systematically throughout their empire, has been voiced several times in recent scholarship. Lee’s contribution lies in substantiating it with a thorough review and evaluation of the arguments for and against imperial authorization, not only in biblical scholarship but also in Egyptology and Achaemenid studies. In that sense, this book does not advance new arguments, but it does gather and evaluate the evidence and arguments in a long-running debate in one well-organized package. That will make Lee’s work a valuable springboard for future contributions to this discussion.

1 P. Frei, “Zentralgewalt und Lokalautonomie im Achämenidenreich,” in P. Frei and K. Koch 9eds.), Reichsidee und Reichsorganisation im Perserreich (OBO, 55; Fribourg: Univsritätsverlag, 1984).

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2 Published along with an English translation of Frei’s own summary of his theory in J. W. Watts (ed.), Persia and Torah. The Theory of Imperial Authorization of the Pentateuch (Symposium, 17; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2001). 3 J. W. Watts, Reading Law. the Rhetorical Shaping of the Pentateuch (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 137–43; idem, “Introduction,” in Persia and Torah, 3–4; G. N. Knoppers, “An Achaemenid Imperial Authorization of Torah in Yehud?” in Persia and Torah, 133–34; D. M. Carr, “The Rise of Torah,” in G. N. Knoppers and B. M. Levinson (eds.), The Pentateuch As Torah. New Models for Understanding Its Promulgation and Acceptance (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2007), 54–56. 4 See the essays by K. Schmid, D. Carr, and A. Hagedorn in Pentateuch As Torah, 23–76. 5 So W. Spiegelberg, Die sogenante demotische Chronik des Pap. 215 der Bibliotheque Nationale zu Paris (Leipzig: Hinrichsche, 1914), 31–32; D. Redford, “The so-called ‘codification’ of Egyptian law under Darius I,” in Persia and Torah, 135–59. 6 So U. Rütersworden, “Die persische Reichsautorisation der Thora: Fact or Fiction?” ZAR 1 (1995), 51; Watts, Reading Law, 139.

David M. Carr, THE FORMATION OF THE HEBREW BIBLE: A NEW RECONSTRUCTION (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2011). Pp. vii+524. Hardcover. $74.00. ISBN 978-0-19-974260-8.

Reviewed by Timothy J. Stone Zomba Theological College, Malawi David M. Carr’s The Formation of the Hebrew Bible: A New Reconstruction is a major achievement and exactly what the subtitle claims. Amidst the endless iterations of scholarly work on the formation of the Hebrew Bible that break little new ground, Carr’s reconstruction is a new synthesis that nevertheless is deeply rooted in the global discussion. It builds off of many of his other works, especially Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature with its focus on the role of memorization and education/enculturation in the ancient Near East.

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Memory is central to Carr's methodologically modest proposal in which he claims that scribes often copied and updated earlier text from memory rather than only from written texts. This leads Carr to be cautious about overstating our ability to reconstruct precursor texts with precision since the transmission process is probably more fluid than the scalpel-like expectations of modern methods for digging deeply into the development of the many layers of the Hebrew Bible. The book is broken up into three major sections; I will examine each and then offer a short evaluation at the end. The first section contains methodological essays: the first examines the role of oral-written transmission; the second considers cases of documented transmission history. The third brings together the methodological implications of the previous essays. According to Carr, texts were transmitted, at least in part, through memorization. Taking his cues from studies in psychology, classics, medieval literature, and ancient Near Eastern traditions, Carr notes how information transmitted partly through memory contains “changes in mood, tense, and grammatical construction; synonyms are common; and passages are of different lengths” (25) compared to passages transmitted through “graphic copying,” which reveal a high degree of verbatim repetition. In the Hebrew Bible, parallels in Proverbs offer examples that might suggest that memory played a role in the text’s transmission. After examining several passages in great detail, Carr finds the same kinds of variations that characterize texts recalled through memory (25–34). With this broad interdisciplinary support, Carr claims that the “texts of the Hebrew Bible, whatever their diverse original uses, came down to us through the sorts of transmission processes characteristic of oral-written long-duration literature” (35), which means literature passed from one generation to the next by performance and memory. Earlier layers of the Hebrew Bible are not so much “written in stone,” as scholars sometimes suppose, as they are “written in the shifting sand of memory” (36). Thus the present Bible contains far less information for reconstructing its prehistory than scholars often suppose. Before moving on to examine the prehistory of the Hebrew Bible, Carr explores documented cases of transmission history. The Gilgamesh Epic is a classic case in which the chronology of the recensions is established. Memory is demonstrably the primary vehicle for the transmission of the epic. Even as the text is changed, reformulated, and the order of presentation altered, the meaning remains basically the same. The insertion of the Atrahasis flood narrative into the Gilgamesh Epic clearly demonstrates the incorporation of material that once existed separately and the tendency then to coordinate the combined texts vis-à-vis each other (45–47). In this case the harmonization is only partially successful since

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signs of Atrahasis’s literary history in a different setting remain. The Temple Scroll is another example of the tendency for a later version to expand, conflate, update, and revise precursor texts. This is due to a variety of reasons, but when the Temple Scroll reproduces Deuteronomy it does so with almost no change except for the occasional memory variant or small expansion. Partial preservation and, paradoxically, some expansion are both present. Several more cases are discussed including the divergences between Samuel-Kings and Chronicles, between different editions of the Pentateuch found in the Dead Sea caves, between Chronicles, Ezra-Nehemiah and 1 Esdras, and the Qumran Community Rule. In most of these cases there is a tendency toward expansion in the later text and in coordinating the different texts together even as scribes “rarely appropriated earlier compositions in their entirety” (99). There was a “premium” put on preservation, yet, at the same time, scribes did innovate in the transmission process (101). The first section ends with an extended discussion, built on the previous essays, of the importance of method in the reconstruction of textual growth. Scribes could have better concealed their work, but like the insertion of the flood narrative into the Gilgamesh Epic, they left us some rough edges by which we can discern their activity. At the same time, Carr wants to highlight the fluidity of textual transmission in the ancient Near East, and he is very careful to remind his readers that “all biblical manuscripts … are a product of a centuries-long process of oral-written textual transmission that has blurred the contours of earlier recensions” (102). The transmission process has blurred the textual signs of growth and has, on occasion, led scholars astray. Lacking documented cases, as can sometimes be seen between the MT and the LXX, scholars are better able to reconstruct earlier stages in the text when tradents have “combined originally independent” sources than when they have “expanded” earlier sources (105). On the other hand, “terminological indicators are only minimally useful” (107). The change from YHWH to Elohim or vice versa, for instance, may only indicate, in the process of textual transmission, that these divine designations where treated as equivalents or substitutes (107). By contrast, the different divine names in the P and the non-P flood narrative are supported by the addition of other terminological differences across over ten doublets spanning the narrative (108–109). Due again to the process of oral-written transmission, it is unlikely that prior sources are completely preserved in the current Hebrew Bible. Scholarly attempts to reconstruct a continuous narrative from earlier sources ought, then, to be tempered in their expectations of the success of such efforts. The oralwritten transmission process introduces complexity and fluidity into the ways tradents preserved earlier traditions. Therefore, the kind of textual

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precision found later in the text of the Masoretes can only be applied to the entire formational process of the Hebrew Bible by projecting these same transmission standards anachronistically into earlier stages of growth. What this means, among other things, is that a return to the “simplicity of the documentary hypothesis is no longer possible” (124). Locating J and E sources across the Pentateuch “has proved multiply flawed” according to Carr (124). The fluidity of the transmission process also means that arguments (which have been viewed as relatively objective) based on the development of the Hebrew language are of limited value since it is likely that scribes “updated and contaminated” the linguistic profiles of texts (127). Carr develops the implications of this observation later for the Song of Songs (442–447). Another traditional approach, which Carr deems problematic, is dating texts based on their supposed direction of dependence on other texts (144). Arguments of this kind still have value, but they must be qualified and should generally be considered of limited importance and probability (144). As a result of these deficiencies in source-critical methods, Carr sets some “reachable goals for reconstruction of transmission history” (144). Instead of renouncing attempts to reconstruct transmission history due to the uncertainty built into the transmission process, Carr advocates for a “middle way” that is “methodologically modest” (147). First, Carr moves away from models that focus on analyzing the various redactions/expansion “within biblical texts” to one focused on the “interrelationship between separate scrolls” and larger chunks (148). Second, Carr wants to align texts with “broad periods” like the Persian and neo-Babylonian (149). The best one can achieve is an incomplete profile and a partial reconstruction. Although we know that texts were revised over time, it is a “fantasy” to think that one can obtain precision in charting the development of the Hebrew Bible at every stage (148). The second section of the book explores the formation of the Hebrew Bible from the Hasmonean to the neo-Assyrian periods. Carr chose the Hasmonean period because he, in contrast to the current trend, argues that despite the fact that there is no generally agreed Hebrew Bible in this period, there is nevertheless an “emergent standardization of the Hebrew Bible, both in scope and (textual) form” (153). The Hasmonean monarchy did not sponsor the creation of new works; rather, they played a key role in “defining, circumscribing, and possibly revising” older works (158). Ben Sira’s praise of ancient fathers, 4 Macc 18:10–19, Josephus (C. Ap. 1.38–41), and 4 Ezra 14:38–47 each play a significant role for Carr as he forms this conclusion. The temple in Jerusalem is the primary place the Hasmoneans kept these sacred texts and other Jewish groups (like Qumran) that did not adhere to this delimited corpus opposed the Hasmoneans, and,

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in particular, their control of the Jerusalem temple (163–164). There is evidence of textual fluidity when the Hasmoneans alter texts in their antagonism towards the Samaritans. The proto-MT of Deuteronomy, for example, contains alternations from the Samaritan Pentateuch, Old Latin and Old Greek translations regarding a central place of worship that favors Jerusalem. These changes are best set, according to Carr, “in the context of the destruction of the sanctuary at Mount Gerizim by the Hasmonean John Hyrcanus in 128 BCE.” (168). The next period Carr analyzes is the Hellenistic. During this time, the temple exercised great influence. In this context, the priests were the ones primarily responsible for the copying and composition of ancient texts. These priests are somewhat separate from the political powers, and they focused on traditions that claim pre-Hellenistic antiquity (182). The redacted portion of Qohelet (12:13–14) is a probable candidate to fit the Hellenistic period because its ideology matches that of Hellenistic wisdom texts found at Qumran (189). Other texts located in this period are Chronicles and portions of Daniel and Esther. Two presuppositions emerge in the Hellenistic period: the Torah of Moses is central to Jewish piety, and YHWH rewards individuals for their (Torah) obedience (202–203). From here, Carr moves on to examine Persian-period texts. Of all the empires found in Hebrew Bible, the Persians alone escape without negative criticism, which probably means that the Bible was significantly shaped in this period by scribes with pro-Persian sympathies (206). Carr dates parts of Isaiah 56–66, Zachariah, Haggai, and Ezra-Nehemiah to this period. To take one example, the Nehemiah Memoir and the Rebuilding-Ezra Narrative were probably independent compositions until they were later combined and reformulated into Ezra-Nehemiah. The Nehemiah Memoir probably originated in the fifth century by a Judean of the same name and predates the Rebuilding-Ezra Narrative by at least a century (209), yet both of these are probably examples of scribal writing invested in Persian support for the return since the later combined Ezra-Nehemiah narrative describes Persian rule as slavery (Neh 9:36). Scribal activity in this period is characterized by a focus on rebuilding, particularly as it pertains to the temple, and an emphasis on the importance of priests in Jerusalem (213). The P and non-P Hexateuch, which scholars generally agree on their identification, were likely combined and underwent significant “reconceptualization” due to internal and external forces under Persian sponsorship (219). This stage of the P and non-P sources is the most reconstructable stage in the formation of the Pentateuch (221). Much of the material that is a product of the Persian period is probably not identifiable with any degree of likelihood, but the “major contribution” of this period is in the “ongoing transmission, minor adaptation, and reconstrual of pre-

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Persian-period compositions.” Persian period scribes reread and reshaped old texts to apply them to their present circumstances (223). Probably these same scribes are responsible for the focus on Torah at the beginning of Joshua and the Psalter and the end of Malachi (224). The remainder of this second section offers historical profiles of the Babylonian exile and the Neo-Assyrian domination and then maps out texts that fit these profiles in terms of composition and reshaping. Carr notes that the Hebrew Bible is a “Bible for exiles” (226). He begins with lamentation literature and then examines prophecy and texts associated with the deposed Davidic monarchy. Texts located in the Babylonian exile are not only composed but also reshaped to address present concerns. Genesis 11:1–9 is an example of a preexilic text that was modified in an antiBabylonian direction (245). This portion of the book is dense and heavily footnoted. Some of the major conclusions in the section are that the post-D Hexateuch (embedded in Genesis-Joshua) “combined at least three compositions: non-P Genesis materials …, a pre-D Moses story, and a composition starting with Deuteronomy and including (at least) Joshua” (278). Anthropological studies and clearly exilic traditions “provide indicators that the collection and shaping” of the post-D Hexateuch probably occurred in the exile (281). The Priestly document, which is easily identifiable and extends from the beginning of Genesis to at least Exodus, originated as a “counter-narrative” to the non-P document and is even at points dependent on the non-P material (294–295). Again the P document is probably best understood, not as a brand new work, but as one that combines and expands traditions, so that dating the document depends on discerning the ways in which P connects and frames earlier traditions (296). These areas of P show signs of being composed in light of the exile (297). P and the post-D Hexateuch created a Bible for exiles. In the Neo-Assyrian period, there are indications that earlier traditions were shaped across Deuteronomy through 2 Kings, and it is possible that there are some cases in Genesis through Numbers of similar shaping. Although it is difficult to attain certainty in reconstructing prophetic texts with textual forms from the Hellenistic period, it is likely that portions of Isaiah, Amos, Hosea, Micah (eighth century), Zephaniah and Jeremiah (seventh century) originated in the Neo-Assyrian period (335). The last section of the book examines the shape of literary textuality in the early preexilic period. Although the political centralization under the united monarch of David and Solomon was limited and not as strong as the later Omride dynasty, there is still evidence that a modest political center was formed in Solomon’s time that built on the precedents started by David (374). This last section is full of nuanced conclusions, but three stand out. First, though the task is without a high degree of certainty, Carr thinks that

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it is possible if not likely that some of the royal psalms contain portions of material that dates from the preexilic era. Second, Carr asserts that Proverbs, rather than being indifferent to Israel's salvation history, is instead a product of Israel’s earliest writing-supported education before the Torah of Moses reached preeminence (403–407). The reasons for this are many, but a few are very plausible. Proverbs 22:17–24:34 is probably the “best candidate in Hebrew literature for direct borrowing” from the Egyptian wisdom instruction Amenemope (408). Early in Israel’s history they are more likely to be influenced by other cultures while later this openness is considerably reduced. He also contends that this kind of wisdom literature was used “earliest in [the] ancient educational process,” (409) before they later developed more specific and sophisticated educational models. Against current trends, Carr argues that the attribution of certain portions of Proverbs to Solomon is prima facie evidence that should not be lightly discarded since scholars take the attribution of some prophetic books to prophetic figures as rightly reflecting the origin of at least the core of these books (410). Of course, not all of Proverbs originated with Solomon or his court, as the book itself makes clear. It is also likely that Isa 59:7, Deut 19:14; 8:5, among other texts, are dependent on Proverbs, which is consistent with an early dating of at least portions of Proverbs (413–425). Third, the Song of Songs may date from this period as well since its transmission history is rather fluid, meaning that the language of the book was probably contaminated or updated by scribes so that attempts to date the book late based on assigning its Hebrew a late date are of little value. This early date reconnects the book chronologically with the love poems, particularly Egyptian, to which it closely corresponds (434). Based on the connections with Solomon and the probable dependence of the Song on Hosea and portions of Deuteronomy and the direct historical references in the Song, Carr suggests an early and Northern origin for the Song of Songs. Important to Carr’s methodology is the criterion of “dissimilarity,” which adds support to his contention that Proverbs and the Song of Songs may date much earlier than is often assumed since they not only fit well with this early period, but also do not fit well with literature in the Hebrew Bible from later periods (439–440). Carr even entertains the possibility that the body of Ecclesiastes may be another example of preexilic literature since here, again, language is a far less stable criterion for dating than is often thought. If wisdom books are this early, then it has implications for dating other texts that contain similar wisdom motifs, like the non-P primeval history (Gen 2–9, and possibly 10) according to Carr (465). Carr’s book is an enormous achievement, both as a synthesis of global scholarship and as a work that breaks new and significant ground in

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his modest methodology and in many of his proposals for the formation of the Hebrew Bible. Without question Carr’s hope that the book “may point the way towards progress on central questions around which much of the academic study of the Bible revolves” (9) is surely realized. The methodology continually highlights the limits of our knowledge to discover with precision the many stages of the Hebrew Bible including the latest ones. At every turn the book is well nuanced and arguments are made in proportion to the evidence. It should be kept in mind that many of the nuances or rough edges that Carr has carefully set forth, are, of necessity, in this short review, lost or made smooth. Furthermore, a book of this scope and complexity does not easily lend itself to short evaluations; it is a book that should be interacted with in some depth in all future work on the formation of the Hebrew Bible. A few observations are in order. First, this is a new proposal for a scholarly enterprise that has existed for a significant period of time. Carr wants repeatable results so that scholarly conclusions in this area can gain a high degree of probability, yet his own new proposal, at least, has the affect of undermining further some of the old approaches that where already beginning to erode as well as the hope that the enterprise can achieve long lasting and repeatable results. This step back from claims to high levels of certainty seems necessary in view of the transmission process that Carr describes and in view of the lack of scholarly consensus, at least in some areas (the designation of the P material in the Pentateuch is an obvious exception). Yet even with Carr’s methodologically modest proposal, I cannot help but wonder if he still underestimates the gap between our knowledge that multiple sources stand behind many portions of the Hebrew Bible in its different textual forms on the one hand and our ability to discern and date these sources with enough precision for our conclusions to be meaningful on the other. Carr’s date for large portions of Proverbs and the Song of Songs are a robust challenge to the scholarly consensus and only time will tell if his arguments will hold up under scholarly scrutiny, but the fact that he has made them at all reveals the enormous difficulty of the task. This is a point that Carr makes often. Second, arguments from silence, though often acknowledged, abound. There are certainly occasions when the silence of the source is rather telling, but the explanation that the source did not exist is too often appealed to as the reason for the silence. Alternative explanations should be sought. To take only one example, Carr notes that Ben Sira, in his praise of famous men, does not mention Esther (or Daniel and Ezra), which may mean that the book of Esther was composed late or in a diaspora context (192). There is no discussion of the fact the Ben Sira does not mention Ruth either, which may help provide a rationale for why Esther is also

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missing. Ben Sira is not going to praise any women whether he knows of them or not. Ben Sira’s omission of Ruth and Esther probably tells us nothing about whether or not these books, in some form, were available to him. Third, in a book so meticulously researched, it is surprising that Carr does not mention the possible intertextual relationship between Gen 3 and 4 and Ecclesiastes when he analyzes Ecclesiastes’' other intertextual relationships since it may well have supported his case in dating the two texts to the same period. Finally, it is certainly too early to know, but Carr’s book, especially his astute and modest methodology, may prove to be a watershed in the study of the formation of the Hebrew Bible. It deserves to be read with care and engaged with often

John Van Seters, THE BIBLICAL SAGA OF KING DAVID (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2009). Pp. xiv + 386. Hardcover. $49.50. ISBN 978-1-57506-170-2.

Reviewed by David B. Schreiner Wesley Biblical Seminary The Biblical Saga of King David culminates John Van Seters’s distinguished

research on the Davidic narratives.1 Examining 1 Sam 16–2 Kgs 2, minus 2 Sam 21–24, Van Seters concludes that there are two “extensive and competing traditions” that are “obviously contradictory in the sense that one idealizes David … and the other regards both David’s rise to the throne and the manner of his reign as typical of oriental despots and hardly a fitting model for a just society” (p. 1). Account A is the work of the Deuteronomist, while account B corresponds to what he labels “The Saga of David.”2 The scope of the research and the conclusions offered are quite significant. Van Seters is very well informed and his conclusions are challenging. It is a recommended read for any specialist of biblical literature, but a necessary one for those who specialize in Davidic literature. Van Seters opens his study with an extensive and highly informative literature review that critiques classic and contemporary voices within Davidic studies. Those voices include but are not limited to Wellhausen,

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Gunkel, Gressmann, Rost, von Rad, Whybray, Veijola, McCarter, and Dietrich. Van Seters also discusses the value of synchronic and diachronic studies in his opening chapter. His conviction that both synchronic and diachronic studies have a role within biblical studies becomes clear; such a posture is laudable. Synchronic studies appreciate the artistic quality of the biblical text in ways that diachronic studies often cannot. Synchronic studies are also hesitant to dissect the biblical text into redactional layers, which prevents the over-sharpness that often plagues redaction critical analyses. However, the unavoidable diachronic realities of the Old Testament’s composition cannot be ignored. An interpretive method that preserves the integrity of this dialectic is necessary. Genre is an important issue in Van Seters’s literature review, and he rejects the prevailing view that the Davidic narratives are historiographic texts with an apologetic purpose. There are two main reasons for his rejection (p. 40). First, Van Seters believes that the socio-historical milieu of David’s era was not conducive to such literary creativity, particularly since a capable state did not exist. Second, Van Seters believes that many scholars misunderstand the models and texts to which the Davidic narratives are compared.3 As an alternative, Van Seters advances the work of David Gunn. Account B is classified as a saga in the Icelandic sense.4 Van Seters perceives a sociological and functional equivalency, and his most important reasons are (pp. 40–49): • The Davidic and Icelandic sagas are loosely based on early “historical sources.” The Davidic Saga uses account A, which is Dtr’s pro-Davidic account, merely as a framework. • Both the Davidic and Icelandic sagas are anonymous, a deliberate convention used to convey a sense of realism. • Such sagas are primarily concerned with “serious entertainment.” Thus, the Davidic saga is more of an artistic endeavor than an antiquarian one. • There is a prevailing motif of rivalries and feuds in both the Davidic and Icelandic sagas. In chapters 2–3, Van Seters fleshes out his conviction that much of the Davidic narratives, including what has been traditionally labeled as the Succession Narrative, is not apologetic historiography. Invoking archaeological research from scholars such as Jamieson-Drake and the Tel Aviv school, Van Seters argues that the nuances of the accounts do not accurately mirror what is socio-historically known about tenth century Israel: “The archaeological evidence from Jerusalem and Judah … does

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furnish us with valuable negative evidence in that it strongly confirms that there was no royal monarchy or court, such as the David story suggests, and it is equally unlikely that there was any ‘united kingdom’ of all Israel, let alone an empire” (p. 119). Van Seters also emphasizes the role of mercenaries and the military throughout the Davidic narratives, for he considers it indicative of a Persian Period composition date for the Davidic Saga (see below).5 Chapter 4 addresses the copious literary-critical and textual problems of 1 Sam 16–17, and Van Seters ultimately concludes that a once independent David vs. Goliath narrative was added to a pre-existing account. In this process, 1 Sam 17:55–18:4 was composed in conjunction with the insertion to soften the narrative transitions of the immediate context (pp. 161–2). Chapters 5–7 discuss in detail 1 Sam 18–1 Kgs 2. Van Seters identifies two narrative threads. Account A—Dtr’s account—is overwhelmingly positive and presents David as the divinely chosen successor to Saul, the founder of a divinely sanctioned dynasty, and the heir to the Mosaic traditions. Conversely, account B—the Davidic Saga—is largely negative, sarcastic, and more substantial in length than account A. Furthermore, account B utilized account A as a framework to entertain and undermine its positive attitude. Both chapters 2 and 3 by Van Seters are meticulous. The reader must possess limber fingers and a sharp mind to accommodate the continual cross-referencing and re-reading that is necessary to grasp fully the subtleties of Van Seters’s arguments and commentary. The conclusion of this work synthesizes these arguments and discusses them against the Deuteronomistic History with its royal ideology. Although Van Seters’s terminology can at times be somewhat idiosyncratic, the reader should admire the way in which he masterfully synthesizes the data to provide provocative proposals. Furthermore, much of Van Seters’s proposal is quite reasonable. There is much to agree with in the idea that a more negative, sobering, and satirical account supplements an overwhelmingly positive account of David’s life, rise, and reign. Moreover, Van Seters’s conviction that literary-critical analyses of the Davidic narratives should consider socio-historical data is correct (pp. 89, 120). One may even accept the possibility that a shift in the genre accompanies the separate accounts of David’s life, rise, and reign. However, Van Seters’s view of historiography is open to criticism, namely with regard to the place of historical accuracy. While this issue and more have already been discussed,6 it is important to recall Van Seters’s position that ancient historiography is largely ideological. For Van Seters, it is fundamentally concerned with discussing the origins of nations and states (p. 353, n. 4). Thus, historical accuracy is not a basic concern amongst ancient historians. A saga goes a step further as it is fundamentally concerned with “serious entertainment.” Consequently, if one accepts the posture of Van Seters

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regarding the place of historical accuracy in defining the central tenants of ancient historiography and a saga, one is necessarily hard pressed to find in the Davidic narratives anything more than ideologies and perceptions surrounding the person and legacy of David. The possibility that the text, though largely ideological, may also preserve more accurate memories of David is not really considered, and some readers will probably find Van Seters’s approach unsufficiently differentiated in this respect. Considering the position argued by Van Seters, the reader may regret the absence of a discussion about Khirbet Qeiyafa and its impact for evaluating the Davidic narratives. This is particularly significant because Van Seters emphasizes that a literary-critical analysis must reflect the sociohistorical realities behind the text (pp. 89, 120). The data unearthed at Khirbet Qeiyafa do not validate the traditional notion of a quasiimperialistic Davidic/Solomonic kingdom, but they may invite us to reconsider the question of the existence of a capable governmental entity in this area during the 10th century.7 In this case, the socio-political structures assumed by account B (the Davidic Saga) may not be as anachronistic as Van Seters proposes. To be fair, this book was published in 2009, while the discussion about Qeiyafa is more recent for a large part. Still, future discussions about the relationship between the David traditions in SamuelKings and Iron Age political realities will have to consider the question of the possible implications of the finds at Qeiyafa. The reader may also regret that Van Seters did not tackle the Appendix of Samuel, especially considering the fact that these chapters present their own literary-critical problems (p. 1). It may be asked whether Van Seters is correct in assuming that “there is nothing in the rest of the story of David that depends on or even assumes knowledge of the material contained within the appendix” (p. 1). Scholars have long noted the connection between 2 Sam 5:17–25 and 2 Sam 21:15–22, and it is quite reasonable to postulate that these two passages existed in connection in an early account of David’s exploits.8 Furthermore, the implications of the Appendix may add a third and final phase to the development of the Davidic narratives and its perception surrounding the royal institution. Assuming for the moment Van Seters’s scheme, that account B supplemented and revised account A, the addition of the Appendix would have redeemed the perception of the monarchy. What was initially positive in its assessment of the institution became negative and finally cautiously optimistic.9 One final issue deserves comment, namely, the dating of Van Seters’s proposal. In short, Van Seters proposes that account A was composed in conjunction with the Deuteronomistic History and account B was composed sometime in the fourth century BCE. Again, critical for Van

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Seters is the observation that David functions as a mercenary and militaristic leader throughout account B. In fact, he believes that the portrayal of the military institutions throughout account B provides near certain dating (pp. 118–9). However, such a bold claim is open to question. Much of Van Seters’s conclusion is based on the references to Greek mercenaries in the Davidic narratives, mercenaries whose social context can be securely dated (p. 119). However, Van Seters admits that the use of mercenaries in the ancient Near East began in the Neo-Assyrian period (pp. 100–1). Furthermore, he recognizes the Saite use of Greek mercenaries and even the possibility that the kings of Israel and Judah may have used them (pp. 101–3).10 Indeed, there is an increase in the quantity of literary references to mercenaries and their way of life during the Persian and Hellenistic periods, but one wonders if this phenomenon is linked to the types of texts preserved along with their emphases. As such, Van Seters is not necessarily convincing in his insistence that account B was composed in the late Persian Period. Even taking into consideration the overall message of account B, one could also view it as a product of the exilic/post-exilic period, which would also mean the possibility of dating somewhat earlier account A. In this sense, a case could be made regarding a pre-exilic date of composition for account A followed by an exilic or early post-exilic date for account B, which was later supplemented by the insertion of the Appendix.11 In spite of these criticisms, the value of this work is unquestionable. Anyone who reads this work will be challenged, forced to reconsider many of their presuppositions and ideas surrounding these narratives. I thank Professor Van Seters for a stimulating read. 1 See pp. 372–3. In particular, John Van Seters, In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History (New

Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1983; repr. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1997); idem, “The Court History and DtrH: Conflicting Perspectives on the House of David,” in A. de Pury and T. Römer (eds.), Die sogenannte Thronfolgegeschichte Davids (OBO, 176; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag, 2000), 70– 93. 2 Van Seters includes an appendix that efficiently demarcates accounts A and B. See pp. 361–3. 3 In particular, Van Seters accuses those who assert apologetic parallels of formcritical abuse (p. 59). First, the comparative texts are first person royal inscriptions, and the third person style of the Davidic narratives finds no parallel in the apologetic texts. Second, for an apology to function properly, its composition must be contemporary with the events recounted. For Van Seters, the Davidic narratives are a later composition. However, Alastair Fowler has argued that genres exhibit development whereby they move from a “pure” state to a state of variation that

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preserves only the genre’s main elements (“Life and Death of Literary Forms,” New Literary History 2 [1971], 149–69). Furthermore, Donna Lee Petter has invoked this principle in her analysis of Ezekiel, wherein she argues that Ezekiel’s genre is an adaptation of the Mesopotamian City Lament (The Book of Ezekiel and Mesopotamian City Laments [OBO, 246; Fribourg: Academic/Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011]). Consequently, the criticism of Van Seters that the third person style of the Davidic Saga precludes an apologetic comparison may be tempered. 4 Not to be confused with the German Sagen. 5 For his discussion, see pp. 99–120. 6 In particular, Baruch Halpern, “Review of John Van Seters, In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History,” JBL 104 (1985), 506–9; Lawson Younger Jr., “Review of John Van Seters, In

Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History,” JSOT 40 (1988), 112–7.

On the major facets of the Qeiyafa debate and the site’s importance for biblical studies, see David Schreiner, “What Are They Saying About Khirbet Qeiyafa,” TrinJ 33 (2012), 33–48. 8 See David Schreiner, “For the Sake of Jerusalem the City Which I Have Chosen: On the Lord’s Choice of Zion/Jerusalem and Its Development Within the Old Testament” (Ph.D. diss., Asbury Theological Seminary, 2012), 134–5. 9 Undoubtedly, the Appendix is intrusive, but its chiastic structure alludes to its hermeneutical function. The Appendix focuses upon the psalms (22:1–23:7), which praise the Lord’s salvation of David, his covenant with him, and espouse the need for a monarchy rooted in obedience to the covenant. Furthermore, the lamp symbolism in 2 Sam 21:17 cooperates with 2 Sam 22:29 to voice the belief that while the institution represents the community’s vitality and endurance moving forward, the Lord is to be the source of guidance and vitality. Thus, one can understand a message of qualified legitimacy. Interesting is the observation that these psalms are bracketed by warrior lists and military exploits, issues that are critical for Van Seters’s dating of account B. Could it be that the writer responsible for compiling and inserting the Appendix was aware of this emphasis and utilized it to advance his communicative intention? 10 However, Van Seters quickly qualifies this possibility by emphasizing his belief that it is anachronistic (p. 103). 11 Such a scheme accommodates many positions frequently held amongst biblical scholars: that there was probably a pre-exilic, pro-Davidic edition, or editions, of Israel’s history (whether a Deuteronomistic History or something similar); that pro-Davidic history was tempered in light of the realities of the exile; and that there was a post-exilic resurgence of Davidic hopes, which can be seen in other post-exilic literature (i.e. 1 and 2 Chronicles). 7

Michael R. Stead, THE INTERTEXTUALITY OF ZECHARIAH 1–8 (LHBOTS, 506; London: T&T Clark, 2009). Pp. xiii + 312. Hardcover. GBP£70.00. ISBN 978-0-56729-172-1.

Reviewed by Garrick V. Allen Universtiy of St. Andrews Michael R. Stead’s primary objective in The Intertextuality of Zechariah 1–8 is to argue that intertextual references to antecedent biblical literature in Zech 1–8 largely determine its meaning. As a foundation for his methodology, he argues that Zechariah “is written with reference to the works of the classical prophets” and that “Zech 1–8 engages in an intertextual dialogue with a wide variety of biblical traditions” (p. 2). He describes his thesis in the following way: “I will argue that Zech 1–8 takes up formerly disparate streams of tradition—especially various streams of the prophetic tradition—and creatively combines these traditions in applying them to a post-exilic context” (pp. 2–3). In his introductory chapter, Stead argues that the phrase “the former prophets” (Zech 1:4) alerts the reader to the possibility of intertextual references (p. 2). After outlining the trajectory of Zechariah scholarship, he asks three open questions that guide the remainder of the study: 1) “To which parts of the prophetic tradition does Zech 1–8 allude?” 2) “How are the messages of the ‘former prophets’ applied to the early post-exilic context?” 3) “What is the rhetorical effect and theological significance of the re-use of texts in Zech 1–8?” (p. 11). In chapter 2, Stead presents his methodology as an inductive approach to “contextual intertextuality” (p. 18). He understands Zech 1–8 within the historical context of 520–518 BCE and in the intertextual context of “the former prophets.” His method is both synchronic (intertextuality) and diachronic (inner-biblical exegesis) (p. 19). He succinctly defines intertextual terminology (citation, allusion, etc.) and acknowledges their ambiguity by arguing that the divisions between the 698

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terms are not concrete. They belong on a spectrum because “they blend into one another” (p. 22). Next (Chapter 3), Stead dates Zech 1–8 and its intertexts. He argues that much of the material from the classical prophets was in circulation before Zechariah’s composition (p. 42). For Stead, Zech 1–8 was composed in a “Zecharian milieu,” meaning that “the substance of the book was written in the period of the prophet Zechariah…reflecting the theological outlook of the era” (p. 43). When it comes to direction of dependence, Stead suggests that Zech 1–8 is always the borrowing text. Stead begins his detailed intertextual analysis of Zech 1–2 in chapter 4. He argues that Zech 1–2 helps to answer three questions: 1) “What is Yahweh about to do?” 2) “When will this happen?” 3) “Who will benefit from this?” (p. 74). Furthermore, he identifies two literary features that characterize the use of biblical material by the author of Zechariah: sustained metaphor and composite allusion. He identifies intertextual links to Ezek 2:4; 10–11; 37:26–27; Isa 52:8; Joel 2:13–14, and Jer 24:5–7 in Zech 1:1–6 alone. The construction of this passage with multiple disparate intertexts is “programmatic for the chapters which follow” (p. 86). For example, Zech 1:7–17 is a “composite allusion” to Ps 80, Lam 2, Isa 40–55, and Jer 29 (pp. 92–93). The numerous intertextual connections serve to clarify the message of Zech 1–2: “Yahweh’s return to dwell in Jerusalem is inextricably connected with the restoration of the temple in Jerusalem” (p. 132). In chapter 5, Stead deals with the intertextuality of Zech 3–4; 6:9–15. He argues that these texts are mutually interpretive and that identifying their intertexts is essential to their coherence. He recognizes a number of intertextual references in 6:9–15, including allusions to 2 Sam 7 and Jer 22– 23; 33 (p. 138). Stead uses these intertexts to suggest that Zerubbabel is portrayed as a “messianic” figure because he is undertaking the important role of temple building and is in the Davidic line (p. 143). For Stead, the “Branch” is not a future eschatological figure, but Zerubbabel. The integrating themes of these passages are the restoration of the priesthood, the temple, and the Davidic line (p. 183). In his analysis of Zech 5:1–6:8 (ch. 6), Stead suggests that identifying intertexts limits the possible interpretations of a passage (p. 217). For example, he identifies the winged creature of Zech 5:5–11 as “anti-cherubs” because they mimic the actions of the cherubs in Ezek 1 (pp. 197–8). The intertextual connection with Ezekiel limits the number of possible identities for these creatures. Through the use of antecedent biblical material, Zech 5:1–6:8 explains “what is necessarily going to happen as a consequence of Yahweh’s return” (p. 215).

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In his analysis of Zech 7–8 (ch. 7), Stead argues that these chapters are “crucial for understanding the message of Zech 1–8 as a whole because they provide the link between the ‘cultic’ focus on temple rebuilding and the ‘ethical’ parts of the message” (p. 219). He suggests that Zech 7–8 is a digest of chapters 1–6 and that these intratextual connections bind Zech 1– 8 as a unified literary unit (p. 230). Zechariah 7–8 also provides the context for the return of Yahweh and the rebuilding of the temple: the covenant relationship. Thematic allusions to Deut 28–39 and Jer 30–31 point toward covenant unfaithfulness as the reason for exile and warns the people of their ethical obligation (p. 244). Stead concludes his discussion with a summary of his results and concluding remarks (ch. 8). There are some limitations to Stead’s approach. First, his coupling of the literary (intertextual) context of Zech 1–8 with the historical (ca. 520 BCE) is unnecessary. The historical context often confirms his intertextual readings, but does not independently contribute to the results of his investigation. Also, his discussion on the date of Zech 1–8 and its intertexts suffers from circular logic: Zechariah is most likely the borrowing text, therefore the texts it alludes to must be earlier. I do not necessarily disagree with his results, but his evidence is less than conclusive. Despite this volume’s limitations, it is particularly strong on a number of fronts. First, Stead does an exemplary job describing its compositional features that relate to intertextuality. He identifies grammatical solecisms as an intentional technique that alerts the reader to intertexts (p. 77) and he observes that the author of Zechariah often inverts the order of events from his source texts (p. 138). Additionally, he successfully demonstrates that sustained allusion and composite metaphor are common features of reuse in Zech 1–8. Second, despite the broad nature of the topic, Stead is very precise in his use of terminology. His succinct definitions of terms like citation, quotation, and allusion are helpful, and his visual presentation of this data was much appreciated. His many organized charts of texts and the copious data he has gathered allow the reader to follow his technical argument more easily. Finally, this work is a major contribution to the field because his unique synchronic and diachronic approach to intertextuality allows him to resolve many of the perplexing coherence issues that trouble commentators. For example, his identification of the “Branch” in Zech 6 with Zerubbabel is convincing and does not require a redactional theory. Overall, Stead has produced a valuable contribution to the field of Zechariah studies. His bountiful data, precise methodology, and convincing findings make this volume a mandatory read for anyone working with Zechariah. This book is also instructive for those working with the reuse of scripture generally, and it is a valuable tool for discussions regarding compositional techniques in later biblical material and Second Temple

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literature. For those working in these fields, I strongly recommend this volume.

Ehud Ben Zvi and Diana V. Edelman (eds.), WHAT WAS AUTHORITATIVE FOR CHRONICLES? (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011). Pp. viii + 268. Hardcover. US$39.50. ISBN 978-1-57506-28-1.

Reviewed by Paul L. Redditt Georgetown College and Baptist Seminary of Kentucky This volume reproduces revised versions of ten papers read in 2008 and 2009 in the section devoted to “Israel and the Production and Reception of Authoritative Books in the Persian and Hellenistic Period” at the annual meeting of the European Association of Biblical Studies, plus two other studies. It also contains an insightful introduction by Ben Zvi plus an Index of Authors and an Index of Scripture. Two of the papers append bibliographies; the other ten supply all bibliographical information the first time a source is mentioned in the footnotes. Each article will be addressed briefly in the following remarks. The review will close with comments about the volume in general and one specific article. Ehud Ben Zvi (“One Size Does Not Fit All: Observations on the Different Ways that Chronicles Dealt with the Authoritative Literature of Its Time,” pp. 13–35) focuses on modes of the Chronicler’s reading of “authoritative” literature. His use of such texts (e.g., narratives, laws, prophetic literature, and psalms) serves to inspire confidence in the reader that the Chronicler is a reliable, even godly, writer worthy of being read and trusted. Steven J. Schweitzer (“Judging a Book by Its Citations: Sources and Authority in Chronicles,” pp. 37–65) thinks that the author does not cite by name “authoritative” sources (e.g., Torah, Samuel–Kings, and Psalms), although he does acknowledge external sources when the later are named by his own sources, or when he wishes to enhance the persuasive power of his information. Schweitzer thinks the Chronicler’s use of authoritative texts and his mention of authoritative people are persuasive devices

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employed by him to convince his readers that the utopia he describes as having existed in the past, but which never really existed, can be (re)instituted in the present. David A. Glatt-Gilad (“Chronicles as Consensus Literature,” pp. 67– 75) argues that Chronicles was “designed to promote consensus around…institutions, principles, and holy writ” (p. 75). Its author appeals to the Torah of Moses as an authoritative source, considering it a paradigm for communal consensus. The three pillars of the community emphasized by the Chronicler were the temple, the Davidic monarchy, and the Mosaic Torah. The last of these three was also a precedent for the Chronicler’s quest for widespread acceptance of his own work. Philip R. Davies (“Chronicles and the Definition of ‘Israel,’” pp. 77– 88) argues that there was a scribal community and an archive in Jerusalem (a small but vigorous temple-city; p. 79) during both the Persian and the Hellenistic periods. They account for the survival of most of the biblical literature. He thinks Chronicles’ concept of Israel stands typologically, but not necessarily chronologically, between the Pentateuch and the Deuteronomistic History. It is neither midrash of Samuel–Kings nor a utopian, unrealistic account of the past, but is a creative work with a complex relationship to Samuel–Kings. Joseph Blenkinsopp (“Ideology and Utopia in 1–2 Chronicles,” pp. 89–103) dates 1–2 Chronicles between the last years of the Persian Empire and 301 BCE. He sees it as a utopian work written against the background of warfare during those decades, and posits its social location among the Levitical guilds of musicians at the temple. Ingeborg Löwisch (“Cracks in the Male Mirror: References to Women as Challenges to Patrilineal Authority in the Genealogies of Judah,” pp. 105–132) focuses on the genealogies in 1 Chr 1–9, construing them as a means of establishing a normative past, legitimating hereditary claims, and conceptualizing collective identities. She focuses on two texts in which patriarchal authority is threatened (1 Chr 1:3–4 and 2:24–35), arguing that the authority of patriarchal succession depended on negotiating the memory of Israel’s past by coherently correlating Israel’s past with its present. She explores fissures in the narratives that highlight the difficulties inherent in a male-only genealogy by paying attention to women. Yairah Amit (“A Lesson in Shaping Historical Memory,” pp. 133– 144) focuses on the narrative of David’s purchase of Aruna’s threshing floor (1 Chr 21:18–22:1) that established the view that the Temple Mount was also the site of the binding of Isaac and the divine manifestation to David. In doing so, the Chronicler turned an otherwise marginal note in 2 Sam 24:16 into a key element undergirding the legitimacy of Jerusalem.

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Louis Jonker (“The Chronicler and the Prophets: Who Were His Authoritative Sources?,” pp. 145–164) surveys prophetic activity in Chronicles and argues that the book of Jeremiah showed the Chronicler a way to merge Priestly and Deuteronomistic traditions. This argument shows, in addition, that the Chronicler was an early reader of Jeremiah. Amber K. Warhurst (“The Chronicler’s Use of the Prophets,” pp. 165–181) shows that Chronicles is laden with references to Isaiah and that Isaiah’s anticipation of a full restitution of Jerusalem after the Exile is read back into the account of Hezekiah’s reign. She also notes the Chronicler’s fourfold mention of Jeremiah in his narrative of the fall of Jerusalem. Mark Leuchter (“Rethinking the ‘Jeremiah’ Doublet in EzraNehemiah and Chronicles,” pp. 183–200) argues that one of the Chronicler’s successes lay in showing that external empires (like Persia) rise and fall, and did so according to principles worked out within texts available to him, which also made their way into the Hebrew Bible. David J. Chalcraft (“Sociology and the Book of Chronicles: Risk, Ontological Security, Moral Pains, and Types of Narrative,” pp. 201–227) is formed by studying the “Sociology of Risk.” He argues that the Chronicler valued bureaucratic procedure, including the importance of texts and records. Authoritative actions are recorded in authoritative records that define social order and relationships. Diana Edelman and Lynette Mitchell (“Chronicles and Local Greek Histories,” pp. 229–252) focus on Chronicles as a possible example of the type of Greek local history that began in the seventh century BCE but became popular in the fourth and third centuries BCE. They examine five issues about those histories in relation to the work of the Chronicler. The first four are (1) the simultaneous existence of differing accounts of past events; (2) the prominent use of genealogies to link past and present; (3) the use of speeches to explore ideas, problems, and moral lessons; and (4) the function of local histories to solidify group identity. Their fifth point is a contrast. On the one hand, the Greeks could question the gods as purveyors of truth and wisdom, but still portray someone as a god and a “living law.” On the other hand, the Chronicler very much believed in the involvement of God in human affairs by means of truth and knowledge that can be gained from revealed teachings and through the workings of divine retribution. Overall these articles raise and attempt to answer serious issues in Chronicles, though, obviously, there is no overall understanding of Chronicles tying them together since this work is an anthology, not a monograph. Its contributors include some of the best-known scholars in the study of Chronicles, along with others who are newer to the field. It is

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precisely the kind of collection of essays on a central theme or biblical book that has arisen lately in biblical studies with great benefit to the academy. Finally, without meaning to detract from Leuchter’s essay, I would like briefly to add my voice by responding to him since he contested the findings in an earlier article of mine exploring the relationship between 2 Chr 36:22–23 and Ezra 1:1–3a.1 Leuchter observes that those verses read identically for fifty-three words in the Hebrew text, except that 2 Chronicles writes the name Cyrus twice with a full holem while Ezra omits it, and that 2 Chronicles ends the name Jeremiah with a holem (the overwhelmingly typical spelling in the book of Jeremiah) while Ezra omits it. Beginning with the next word ‫( לעיו‬let him go up), Ezra 1:3 goes its own way. In connection with Leuchter’s point, however, one should note that 2 Chronicles mentions Jeremiah three other times in its description of the last days of Judah (35:25; 36:12; and 36:21), whereas Ezra-Nehemiah never mentions him again. Whatever else one may want to say about the relationship between those two passages, it seems obvious to me that Ezra borrowed from 2 Chronicles (where the mention of the prophet was significant) and added to the verses. For 2 Chronicles the role of Jeremiah was crucial; for Ezra the mention of Jeremiah was incidental. Scholars complain that 2 Chronicles ends abruptly, and that may be so, but that ending offers no grounds for arguing that Ezra 1:1–3a is primary. (See also the comments above about Jonker’s view of Jeremiah’s impact on the Chronicler, not vice versa.) 1 Paul L. Redditt, “The Dependence of Ezra-Nehemiah on 1 and 2 Chronicles,” in Mark J. Boda and Paul L. Redditt (eds.), Unity and Disunity in Ezra-Nehemiah: Redaction, Rhetoric, and Reader (Hebrew Bible Monographs 17; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2008), 216–40.

Isaac Kalimi (ed.), JEWISH BIBLE THEOLOGY: PERSPECTIVES AND CASE STUDIES (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2012). Pp. xii + 276. Hardcover. US$49.50. ISBN 978-1-57506-231-0.

Reviewed by Joseph Ryan Kelly Southern Seminary The publication of Jewish Bible Theology serves as an important directional marker in the academic dialogue surrounding Jewish interest in and influence on the discipline of biblical theology. While the book consists of fifteen essays written by different Jewish authors who do not approach Jewish biblical theology with the same assumptions or perspectives in every respect, the collection as a whole indicates an active interest and influence among Jewish thinkers past and present. In the wake of this book, the familiar maxim that Jews are not interested in biblical theology is a contested if not endangered perspective.1 The book begins with a helpful introductory chapter penned by the editor in which each contributor’s essay is thoroughly summarized. In what follows, I will summarize the contours of the book and assess its value for the ongoing questions concerning Jewish biblical theology, as well as for the more general discipline of biblical theology. The subtitle, Perspectives and Case Studies, essentially captures the two parts of the book. In Part 1, “Jewish Bible Theology,” Frederick E. Greenspahn provides a historical survey of the (Hebrew) Bible’s role and status within the various streams and traditions of Judaism, while Ehud Ben Zvi critically evaluates recent discourses that preclude the possibility or reality of a Jewish biblical theology. Together, these two essays argue that Jewish biblical theology is viable as a perspective for understanding the past and as a posture for engaging the future. The thirteen essays in Part 2, “Case Studies,” provide concrete examples of ways in which Jewish biblical theology has existed and/or might yet be understood.2 A number of common features unite many of these essays and suggest possible contours for Jewish biblical theology. First, Jewish biblical 705

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theology is not merely the exegesis of biblical texts, even though it undoubtedly involves careful and critical exegesis. Most of these essays demonstrate that Jewish biblical theology can be conversant with the expansive corpus of early post-biblical Jewish (and Christian) literature. This conversation can be one in which the Bible is informed by (e.g. Sommer’s essay) and/or informing (e.g. Kaminsky’s essay) post-biblical traditions. I find it peculiar and unfortunate that the volume contains an Index of Scripture listing deuterocanonical literature and New Testament passages but omitting the more frequently cited and arguably more relevant postbiblical Jewish literature. The inclusion of this material in the index of a book on Jewish biblical theology would correspond to the inclusion of New Testament passages in the Scripture index of Christian Old Testament Theologies. This is one area where Jewish biblical theology may yet frame and adapt their own discipline in the light of conventions established in Christian Old Testament theology. As it stands, this index adopts the latter discipline’s conventions without adapting them to a distinctively Jewish perspective on biblical theology that is otherwise characteristic of the general tenor and argument of the book.3 Second, Jewish biblical theology is not limited to bringing the Bible into conversation with early post-biblical literature; rather, contemporary Jewish and/or secular concerns are equally legitimate conversation partners. Once again, influence in this conversation is multi-directional. Just as the biblical text may influence how contemporary and/or secular issues are understood (e.g. Novak’s essay), contemporary and/or secular concerns may impact how the biblical text is understood (e.g. the first of Greenberg’s two essays). In this respect, the relevance of this book is not limited to those interested in the nature of biblical theology and the relationship between Jewish and Christian theology. The book is also relevant to a wide audience of Jewish, Christian, and secular readers and students interested in the intersection of religion, sacred texts, and contemporary society. Third, Jewish biblical theology does not merely engage the Bible in dialogue with post-biblical texts and contemporary issues; rather, it investigates the dialogues that take place within the Bible itself (see pp. 27– 28 and the essays by Sweeney, Brettler, Sommer, and the second essay by Greenberg). As these three observations indicate, this volume contributes to a growing trend in the larger discipline of biblical theology to adopt a dialogical approach to biblical theology. As Brettler observes in the conclusion to his essay, “what I and others believe to be a core element of Jewish biblical theology is not uniquely Jewish, and may indeed reflect the direction in which general biblical theology is moving” (p. 197).4 He goes on to affirm that Jewish biblical theology can retain its distinctiveness

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through its “interest in showing continuity with postbiblical Jewish tradition” (p. 197). Jewish Bible Theology is the first of its kind, a collection of essays written by Jewish biblical scholars self-consciously reflecting on the nature of biblical theology from a Jewish perspective, yet within the framework of biblical theology as a general discipline. The publication of this volume follows the first instance of a Jewish scholar publishing a comprehensive volume on the theology of the Tanak.5 All of this reinforces the argument in Ben Zvi’s essay that “recent efforts have led to the development of a hyper-area of biblical theological discourse in which Christian and Jewish biblical theologies enter into dialogue and shed light on each other” (pp. 39–40). Thus, while Jewish biblical theology betrays the influence of Christian scholarship in biblical theology, this book promises to stimulate and provoke Christian Old and New Testament theological reflection (see especially the essay by Kaminsky). This volume is a constructive contribution to the discipline of biblical theology, a welcome resource which those involved in biblical theology would do well to acquire and engage. 1 I am alluding to the well known article by Jon Levenson, “Why Jews Are Not Interested in Biblical Theology?,” in J. Neusner, B. A. Levine, and E. S. Frerichs (eds.), Judaic Perspectives on Ancient Israel (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987), 281– 307; republished in his collection The Hebrew Bible, the Old Testament and Historical Criticism: Jews and Christians in Biblical Studies (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 1993), 33–61. 2 While the past reality of Jewish biblical theology is a topic of reflection in the first part of the book, the inclusion of two previously published essays by Moshe Greenberg is an instantiation of such a reality. That Greenberg’s essays are no more or less unique to the collection than any other contributor’s suggests that what this book identifies as Jewish biblical theology has existed in the recent past despite certain claims to the contrary. 3 Such adaptation stemming from Jewish engagement with Christian biblical theology is positively endorsed in Ben Zvi’s essay (pp. 39–41). 4 The core element to which Brettler is referring is a “Mitte-less theology,” though this apophatic descriptor is a part of his general argument that “any Jewish biblical theology needs to be attuned to polydoxy or polyphony” (p. 189), terms that otherwise belong to discussions of dialogism. 5 Marvin Sweeney, TANAK: A Theological and Critical Introduction to the Jewish Bible (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2011).

Elie Assis, FLASHES OF FIRE: A LITERARY ANALYSIS OF THE SONG OF SONGS (LHBOTS, 503; London: T&T Clark, 2009). Pp 304. Hardcover. US$130.00. ISBN: 978-0-567-02764-1.

Reviewed by Richard S. Hess Denver Seminary This work represents a careful literary reading of the Song of Songs as a unified composition of love poetry. Assis is deeply conversant with the text and analyzes each verse of poetry as serving the larger purpose of the poem. Recognizing that lyric poetry does not need to conform to narrative plot development, he also rejects an approach to structure based on the refrains (2:6–7; 3:5; 6:3; 8:3–4) as end markers for subdivisions. Assis divides the work into two dozen poems that can be characterized into four categories: Poems of Adoration, Poems of Yearning, Descriptive Poems, and Invitations to a Rendezvous. The last type plays an important part in the structure because the main theme of the poem is a longing for contact. These invitations form the climax of the love poems that precede them. The superscription connects the book with Solomon, according to Assis, but in a manner that is not clear. The king appears in a positive fashion at the beginning but becomes an object of satire by the end. Assis might have developed this to suggest that Solomon is an ideal figure connected with the woman’s vision of the man as her “Solomon,” and viceversa, in terms of the naming of the woman as “the Shulammite.” Thus the woman’s satire of the final verses becomes a rejection of Solomon’s image in favor of the love of the man. The first unit ends with the eighth verse of the poem. In it, Assis sees the woman dreaming about the man and yet not involved with him. The man, on the other hand, pushes the woman away with his answer that she can find him by going out “in the tracks of the flock” (1:8). It is difficult to see how the man’s adulation of the woman as “most beautiful of women” (1:7) fits into this scenario. Does this not suggest a desire for a personal 708

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relationship? Is he indeed sending her away or is he inviting her to meet with him? In what Assis identifies as the second unit (1:9–2:17), both the man and the woman express yearning for one another. However, there is a shyness and hesitancy on the part of the man. Assis is correct in seeing the sense of smell as a key in the degree of intimacy at various points in the poem. Here, however, it does not appear and so the time for their love is not yet ripe. Assis’s third unit (3:1–5:1) begins with the woman’s dream of seeking her lover nightly. This imagining leads to her finding her lover and bringing him to her home for intimacy. The man dreams of his lover coming up from the wilderness. As before, the man becomes hesitant and retreats from intimacy by changing the subject. So 3:7 begins a poem of Solomon’s bed, one begun by the man but finished (vv. 10–11) by the woman. The man, fearful of emotional intimacy, tends to focus on the strength of Solomon, according to Assis. However, the woman redirects the focus of the poem to the bed, the wedding, and the joy it brings. While somewhat speculative, Assis is correct that his reading does fit the context of the larger poem. Oddly, he omits the second verb in 3:11 in his translation. In the previous section (1:9–2:17), the man had acted in a shy manner, by averting his eyes and description of the woman away from her breasts. Here they become the climax of his description of her (4:1–7). It ends at that point, as the man turns to identify his desire for the woman. The final part of this section (4:8–5:1) turns to the man’s aroused interest in the woman, whose unpreparedness is symbolized in the metaphors of the locked garden and sealed fountain. The woman is aroused to invite her lover to her garden (4:16), whither he comes (5:1). This act of love is one that Assis regards as quite real, not a fantasy or dream. It is also in this section that the man repeatedly identifies his lover as “my sister, my bride.” While these terms do indeed describe “a deep sense of closeness and affinity” (p. 134), and while “sister” can be used for a close but not biological relationship, it is difficult to understand how “my bride” can be construed as other than a term referring to the semantic field of marriage. Its use in this climax of the poem deserves discussion regarding the relationship of the lovers. Assis’s fourth unit of the poem includes the drama of the failed entrance of the man, and the woman’s failed search for him that occupies much of ch. 5. He makes a good case for a dream sequence here, where the attempt to do something that one is not able to do forms a common motif in many dreams. The same is true of the irrationality of the guards’ behavior and the sudden transition to address the daughters of Jerusalem. Assis sees in the punishment of the guards a psychological self-punishment by the

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woman for not opening the door to her lover. He attributes the nightmare to physical and emotional fatigue following the woman’s chase after the man and their love making. The woman’s description of her man (5:10–16) corresponds to the man’s description of her in 4:1–7. Here, however, the absence of the man and the distress this creates occupy the poem. Assis thus interprets the response of the daughters of Jerusalem as one of teasing. The fifth and final unit begins with the man’s praise of the woman (6:4–10). Assis finds this a description of how special and impressive the woman is in her beauty. However, he suggests that it is not intimate. Rather, there is a distance when the language is compared to 4:1–7. He renders the difficult text of 6:12b as, “I was in a chariot with a nobleman.” This is understood as recalling their previous lovemaking. It leads the man to a more intimate expression of desire in the following chapter. While Assis is correct in observing how the focus of the descriptive poem in ch. 7 arouses the man, it surely emphasizes the head and breasts of the woman. It does so if one allows the poem to extend to v. 10a (English 9a) rather than cutting it off at v. 6 (English 5). It thus concludes with an emphasis on the man’s desire for the woman’s breasts and mouth, a climax to the poem and to his expression of desire. The desire is expressed by the woman as we move into ch. 8 of the Song. Assis sees this as also unrealized. Thus, the adjuration to the daughters of Jerusalem not to awaken love is due to the woman’s concern that the couple’s love is not yet mature. Yet this seems odd in light of Assis’s argument that the love was mature enough to be consummated in ch. 4 (unit 3). With others, Assis recognizes 8:6–7 to be the high point of the poem. He sees it as a unique eulogy to love, unlike the remainder of the Song that consists of addresses to one another. He follows Exum in seeing the –yāh ending on the last word of v. 6 as a superlative, “an almighty flame,” rather than as a (shortened) form of the divine name.1 Verses 8–10 demonstrate the brothers’ concern to control the woman; to which she responds that she has no need of their hurtful attempts. Thus shalom at the end of v. 10 implies the perfection that the woman finds in herself in contrast to the criticisms of the preceding section. The woman’s contrast of her own vineyard with that of Solomon’s thousand also contrasts her emotions of true love over against Solomon’s concern with financial relationships. For Assis, the Song concludes with the woman sending the man away for a while. Thus the love story does not end, but the poem ends with an emphasis on the desire for one another rather than on the consummation. The author has provided a well-written synthesis of the Song of Songs. Demonstrating its unity and distinguishing the up-and-down

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movement of both the desire and the physical relationship between the man and the woman, he has given us one of the finest studies of this wonderful expression of the poetry of love. 1 J. C. Exum, Song of Songs: A Commentary (OTL; Louisville: John Knox, 2005), 343, 254.

Roger S. Nam, PORTRAYALS OF ECONOMIC EXCHANGE IN THE BOOK OF KINGS (BIS, 112; Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2012). Pp. 222. Hardcover. US$135.00. ISBN 978-9-00422-393-6.

Reviewed by Oded Lipschits and Ido Koch Tel Aviv University Portrayals of Economic Exchange in the Book of Kings is Roger S. Nam’s doctoral dissertation condensed into book form. Its aim is to explore ancient Israel’s economies using an anthropological approach to the biblical text and, through literary descriptions, to investigate the economic life and structure of ancient Israel as well as to reconstruct the social-historical reality of that period. In the opening chapters, Nam surveys the various mechanisms of exchange presented in the book of Kings, using Weippert’s Blockmodel regarding the book’s redactions and historicity, and Polanyi’s paradigm of exchange as a methodological control. In these chapters he injects new, intriguing insight and his methodology is interesting and innovative. He is to be commended for breathing fresh life into a subject that has turned scholarly stale and musty over the years. However, the remainder of the book suffers from a serious lack of up-to-date research, as well as from significant issues with regard to scholarly literature. In “Symmetrical Reciprocity in the Book of Kings” (ch. 3), the author describes Solomon’s character as a great and powerful monarch, based on the reciprocity embedded in the stories of his diplomatic relations with Hiram of Tyre (1 Kgs 5:15–32; 9:11–15) and the Queen of Sheba (1 Kgs 10:1–10). He emphasizes the Solomon stories first and foremost as stories with reciprocity as a diplomatic theme. This view is based on

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parallels from the Late Bronze period (such as the el-Amarna texts, the letter from Aphek, and archaeological and textual finds from Ugarit), and assumes that despite the different social settings and the chronological gap between the two periods—a gap all the more significant when one considers the time when the biblical description was actually written—they reflect nonetheless a palatial economy that shares certain characteristics. Nam also sees reciprocity as a diplomatic theme in the story of Hezekiah and Merodach-Baladan (2 Kgs 20:12–15; Isa 39:1–4). But in this story, reciprocity also appears to symbolize the king’s low status, expressed in prophetic stories with the prophet’s refusal to accept gifts from kings (1 Kgs 13:1–10, 11–32; 2 Kgs 5:8–27; 8:7–11), while accepting gifts from the common people (1 Kgs 17:8–15). Chapter 4 (“Asymmetrical Redistribution in the Book of Kings”) focuses on the mechanism of redistribution of countable material goods in the form of tributes, taxes, or labor sent from the periphery to the center. After reviewing the archaeological evidence of redistribution during the formative periods of Israel from the purported United Monarchy to the time of the Babylonian destruction (the main part of this chapter, pp. 104– 31, and see below), the literary use of descriptions of asymmetrical redistribution is the background for the list of Solomon’s twelve governors (1 Kgs 4:7–20), the described conscription of labor (1 Kgs 5:27–32), the king’s enormous livestock sacrifices brought to the temple (1 Kgs 8:62–63), as well as Solomon’s building projects (1 Kgs 9:15–32). The first three, along with other descriptions, are used to glorify Solomon (pp. 135–6). In contrast, the description of Solomon’s building projects, together with other descriptions in 1 Kgs 9–12, are considered as negative characterizations of the king, resulting in the schism (pp. 138–9). Other descriptions of asymmetrical redistribution are connected to later stages in the book of Kings, usually in order to pay tribute to threatening powers (e.g., 1 Kgs 14:6; 2 Kgs 12:17–19), all described as outcomes of YHWH’s judgment (pp. 147–50). In connection with the previous chapter, dealing with reciprocity, Nam points to the use of redistribution not only to pay tributes, but also to gain surpluses, later used for reciprocity exchange (pp. 150–3). Chapter 5 (“Market Exchange in the Book of Kings”) deals with the third category in Polanyi’s theory—market exchange. The author (p. 163) interestingly shows that the text emphasizes the description of Solomon’s kingdom as an economic empire that needs no market exchange (compared to the descriptions of the kings of Assyria as receiving gifts, but never exchanging commodities). As for the divided monarchy, market exchange is mentioned in the story of the imposing of markets in Damascus (1 Kgs 20:34), the sale of oil by the widow (2 Kgs 4:1–7), the description of prices

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in the story of the siege on Samaria (2 Kgs 6:24), and the possible use of silver to buy products. The major problems of the book begin in Chapter 6 (“A Social Analysis of Exchange in the Book of Kings”), where the author describes the complexity of the exchange in Kings, pointing to the mixed character of the economy of ancient Israel. The author deals with the existence of an informal economy, a local economy, and an international economy, all based on the preceding chapters. Most of this chapter and the remainder of the book are based on archaeological and historical background; unfortunately, these sections involve a simplified reading and dating of the biblical text. In matters of archaeology, the problems originate mainly from the lack of references to recent scholarship. For example, the author has, legitimately, followed A. Mazar’s “Modified Chronology” (p. 106), while rejecting the “Low Chronology” (although referring to the wrong paper; cf. p. 116, n. 54).1 Yet, the discussion completely ignores the advances of the chronology debate and the dozens of papers published over the past eight years. For example, while delineating Iron IIA as 980–840/830 BCE, the entire presentation is misleading; the excavations at Tell es-Safi/Gath have shown that the Iron IIA was at its peak in the second half of the ninth century,2 while the entire period should be divided into two sub-periods: “early Iron IIA” and “late Iron IIA.”3 Moreover, the archaeological overview (pp. 106–31) presents in detail the results of various excavations in Israel, but it is based mainly on Mazar’s 1990 monograph,4 and on articles in the 1993 New Encyclopedia of Archaeological Excavations in the Holy Land; this encyclopedia has been updated since 1993 and it is difficult to understand why the author chose to use the oldest edition, which involves data of no current value to the scientific community. It goes without saying that, even in just two short decades, the archaeological landscape has advanced greatly; and final publications of many sites have sometimes completely overturned several historical conclusions. It is unforgivable for a book published in 2012 to date Arad (pp. 108–9, 125) based on Aharoni’s study,5 which dates Stratum XII to the Iron I and Stratum X to the Iron IIA, overlooking the reports by Herzog and Singer-Avitz in which Strata XII–XI are dated to the Iron IIA and Stratum X to the Iron IIB.6 Nam dates the entire corpus of the Arad ostraca to the eighth century, but we now know it is from Strata VII–VI, dated to the seventh century BCE. Furthermore, Nam gives an eighth century dating for the Lachish Ostraca, Mezad Hashavyahu, Tel Ira, and Horvat Uza (p. 125), completely ignoring any of the final reports of these sites, all of which date the ostraca to the seventh century BCE.7

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This same problem is evident regarding the general description of Iron Age IIB. Indeed, it is a period when the kingdoms of Israel and Judah had developed economies (p. 118), but the picture Nam presents is distorted: for example, the list of fortresses he presents as “forming a chain of defense centered around the Arad fortress” (p. 120) is actually a mixture of several periods combined. It includes the early eighth century unfortified Israelite trading station at Kuntilet Ajrud,8 the late eighth century fortresses of Kadesh-Barnea and Tell el-Kheleifeh,9 and also the late seventh century fortress of Horvat Uza.10 Needless to say, these four were never part of a unified system, and furthermore, only the seventh century Horvat Uza is well accepted as representing the Judahite administration. The lmlk stamped handles, which Nam deals with solely in their role in preparations for the Assyrian assault,11 is another poorly treated issue. Nam’s discussion overlooks the major scholarly debate regarding these stamps, according to which the lmlk system was mainly an administrative and economic enterprise of the Judahite regime.12 By sidestepping this debate, Nam misses important evidence on the economic development of late eighth century Judah. Other important evidence that he misses is the development in Judah during the Iron IIB of the standardization of pottery types,13 the new system of marked weights,14 and the production of storage jars that were larger than those previously used.15 Nam’s treatment of the Iron IIC and his description of the settlement pattern in the seventh century (p. 127–31) is a kind of commingling of errors relying on secondary sources that presents a misleading historical picture of the period. He writes that fortified centers of Judah were “completely rebuilt in the wake of Sennacherib’s destructions,” and designed to concentrate the population “into fewer cities” (p. 128). Among the sites he lists are En-Gedi, Tell Jemmeh, Tell el-Hesi, and Tel Beersheba. But En Gedi (Tel Goren V) was dated by the excavators to the second half of the seventh century;16 Tell Beersheba was not reestablished after the 701 destruction;17 and the Assyrian centers at Tell Jemmeh and Tell el-Hesi, which may have been founded already in the late eighth century, were not part of Judah.18 Furthermore, the following description of the Philistine coast suffers from the same problem, for Ekron is curiously described as “the second largest city in Judah” (p. 129), which runs against all of the excavators’ publications.19 On the other hand, Ashkelon rose to power only during the late seventh century.20 Moreover, other crucial evidence from the late seventh century administration is missing: the vast amount of epigraphic finds from Lachish II, Arad VII–VI, Tel Ira VI, Horvat Uza, and other sites, are all incorrectly dated by the author to the eighth century (see above); and the rosette stamped handle system is absent from the

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discussion regarding the late seventh century (though referred to in the previous discussion regarding the lmlk system). As for the historical implications of the biblical description, a major lacuna is the absence of any discussion, not even a brief overview, of the enormous studies dealing with the concept of the United Monarchy.21 Among the handful of notes regarding this issue, the author deals with it briefly (p. 133), without any reference except to A. Mazar’s paper regarding the chronology debate.22 Nam’s specific historical reconstructions are based on a combination of biblical narratives and archaeological records. His discussion suffers from what turns into an over-generalized view of Iron Age II. Although the term “United Monarchy” is constantly used, the author’s uncritical reading of the biblical texts combined with this broad-spectrum discussion of the archaeological record produces a schematic picture of the economy of Israel and Judah; the picture includes elements from countless periods, although the author notes that Solomon’s days were colored by latemonarchic writers (e.g., p. 153). Prominent among these is the historicity attributed to the contact between Solomon and Hiram, itself based on “various textual sources” that describe the commercial activity of the Phoenicians “surrounding the time of Solomon” (p. 81). Yet these sources span across a period of 500 years or more (from Ugarit to Esarhaddon of Assyria), a period too broad to be used in order to reconstruct a historical background for the short time-frame of the days of Solomon. Furthermore, the assumed “economic expansion of Tyre in the wake of Egyptian and Philistine decline as well as the instability of the Aramaean states” is based solely on the Solomon-Hiram narrative, as well as on studies that are based on this narrative (p. 81, n. 47); archaeological studies (such as radiocarbon dating of the foundation of Kition and Carthage), however, point to the late ninth century as the date of the Phoenician expansion, presumably under Aramaean auspices.23 Elsewhere (p. 157), Nam argues for Solomon’s control over the international trade routes, based on the interpretation of Edom’s hostility regarding this control (1 Kgs 11:14–15), which in turn is supported by the description of the possession of Arabian gold by Solomon (1 Kgs 11:14–22). Needless to say, this is a fine example of circular argument. In light of the above, there is hardly any evidence mentioned in the book to support the historical connection of the Solomonic kingdom within the international trade system; on the contrary—everything points to the mid- to late-ninth century BCE as the earliest date for such activity, while the literature in which it is reflected is itself from a much later period. In contrast, the discussion on the visit of the Queen of Sheba concludes with the notion of its legendary character and argues for a postexilic date (pp. 86–7). Yet, the Arabian trade was stimulated during the late

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eighth century BCE, while Judah was able to participate in it only during the monarchic period (see above). The legendary character of the episode does not date the story, but rather the historical background of the late monarchic period that brought about the birth of the tale.24 On the other hand, other narratives were considered in the book as evidence of the monarchic period, although they were written in the postexilic era. (1) The simplified treatment of the Elijah-Elisha narratives is evident, for it is based solely on studies from the 1970s and early 1980s (pp. 99–100). The entire literature of the last three decades is missing, especially the German scholarship (expect for a general reference to Otto and Achenbach25), although it becomes more and more common among biblical scholars that only a small part of these narratives reflect a monarchic-period reality.26 (2) The discussion of the story of Hezekiah and Merodach-Baladan (pp. 87–88) suffers likewise from insufficient reference to scholarly literature. It omits the various studies that have challenged the historicity of this account,27 viewing it instead as an exilic or post-exilic composition;28 as a matter of fact, language and ideology point to a dating in the Persian period.29 In light of the above and in contrast to the presented reconstruction in the book, the archaeological records show the economic advantage of the Northern Kingdom as early as the ninth century, while the south enters this position only in the eighth century BCE. This was somehow noted also by Nam (p. 179), while in other places he concurs with the problematic thesis of the historicity of Solomon’s kingdom and economy (e.g., p. 84). Instead, the detailed economy described and its literary reflections should be dated to the late eighth century, and project a later reality into the period of Solomon’s reign. To conclude, the book is the first study of its kind addressing through literary descriptions the complexity and diversity of the economic and social structure of monarchic Israel and Judah. Its importance lies in the way in which it illuminates the literary uses of various economic ideas and motifs in order to portray the different narratives; regardless of the historicity of the descriptions and their portrayal of economic ideas and motifs, these stories reflect the daily life of the writers in the late monarchic period. Despite the shortcomings discussed here, this alone makes the book an invaluable resource in reconstructing the economic exchange of late monarchic Israel. 1 A. Mazar, “The Debate over the Chronology of the Iron Age in the Southern Levant: Its History, the Current Situation, and a Suggested Resolution,” in T. E. Levy and T. Higham (eds.), The Bible and Radiocarbon Dating: Archaeology, Text, and Science (London: Equinox, 2005), 15–30.

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2 A. M. Meyer, “The Historical Background and Dating of Amos VI, 2: An Archaeological Perspective from Tell eṣ-Ṣafi/Gath,” VT 54 (2004), 319–34; idem, “Tell eṣ-Ṣafi,” NEAEHL 5:2079–81. 3 Z. Herzog and L. Singer-Avitz, “Redefining the Centre: The Emergence of State in Judah,” Tel Aviv 31 (2004), 209–44. 4 A. Mazar, Archaeology and the Land of the Bible, Volume 1: 10,000–586 BCE (ABRL, 1; New York: Doubleday, 1990). 5 Y. Aharoni, “Arad: The Israelite Citadels,” NEAEHL 1:82–7. 6 Herzog and Singer-Avitz, “Redefining the Centre.” 7 E.g. I. Beit-Arieh, Tel ʿIra: a Stronghold in the Biblical Negev (MSIA, 15; Tel Aviv: Institute of Archaeology, 1999); idem, Horvat ʿUza and Horvat Radum: Two Fortresses in the Biblical Negev (MSIA, 25; Tel Aviv: Institute of Archaeology, 2007); D. Ussishkin, The Renewed Archaeological Excavations at Lachish 1973– 1994 (MSIA, 22; Tel Aviv: Institute of Archaeology, 2004). 8 E. Ayalon, “The Iron Age II Pottery Assemblage from Ḥorvat Teiman (Kuntillet Ajrud),” Tel Aviv 22 (1995), 141–205; N. Naʾaman and N. Lissovsky, “Kuntillet Ajrud: Sacred Trees and the Asherah,” Tel Aviv 35 (2008), 186–208; Z. Meshel, Kuntillet Ajrud (Horvat Teman): An Iron Age II Religious Site on the Judah-Sinai Border (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2012). 9 N. Naʾaman, “The Kingdom of Judah under Josiah,” Tel Aviv 18 (1991), 3– 71; G.D. Pratico and R.A. DiVito, Nelson Glueck’s 1938–1940 Excavations at Tell el-Kheleifeh: A Reappraisal (Atlanta, GA: Scholars, 1983); I. Finkelstein, “Kadesh Barnea: a Reevaluation of its Archaeology and History,” Tel Aviv 37 (2010), 111– 25. 10 Beit-Arieh, Horvat ʿUza and Horvat Radum. 11 Following N. Naʾaman, “Hezekiah's Fortified Cities and the LMLK Stamps,” BASOR 261 (1986), 5–21. 12 See A. G. Vaughn, Theology, History and Archaeology in the Chronicler’s Account of Hezekiah (Atlanta, GA: Scholars, 1999), with further literature. 13 Mazar, Archaeology of the Land of the Bible, 509; O. Zimhoni, Studies in the Iron Age Pottery of Israel: Typological, Archaeological and Chronological Aspects (Tel Aviv Occasional Publications, 2; Tel Aviv: Institute of Archaeology, 1997), 171–2; idem, “The Pottery of Levels III and II” in D. Ussishkin (ed.), The Renewed Archaeological Excavations at Lachish 1973–1994, 1789–899 (1705–7). 14 R. Kletter, Economic Keystones: The Weight System of the Kingdom of Judah (JSOTSup, 276; Sheffield: JSOT, 1998), 145–7. 15 Zimhoni, “The Pottery of Levels III and II,” 1706. 16 B. Mazar, T. Dothan, and I. Dunayevsky, En-Gedi: The First and Second Seasons of Excavations 1961–1962 (ʿAtiqot, 5; Jerusalem: Israel Department of Antiquities and Museums, 1966), 17–38; E. Stern, “Stratum V: The Late Iron Age,” in E. Stern (ed.), En-Gedi Excavations I: Final Report (1961–1965) (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2007), 77–192. 17 L. Singer-Avitz, “Beersheba: A Gateway Community in Southern Arabian Long-Distance Trade in the Eighth Century BCE,” Tel Aviv 26 (1999), 3–74.

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18 N. Naʾaman, “An Assyrian Residence at Ramat Raḥel?” Tel Aviv 28 (2001), 260–80. 19 Cf. S. Gitin, “Tel Miqne-Ekron in the 7th Century BCE: The Impact of the Economic Innovation and Foreign Cultural Influences on a Neo-Assyrian Vassal City-State,” in S. Gitin (ed.), Recent Excavations in Israel: A View to the West: Reports on Kabri, Nami, Miqne-Ekron, Dor, and Ashkelon (Archaeological Institute of America, Colloquia and Conference Papers, 1; Dubuque, IA: Kendall/Hunt, 1995), 61–79. 20 L. E. Stager, “Ashkelon and the Archaeology of Destruction: Kislev 604 BCE,” Eretz-Israel 25 (1996), 61*–74*; D. M. Master, “Trade and Politics: Ashkelon’s Balancing Act in the Seventh Century BCE,” BASOR 330 (2003), 47– 64; L. E. Stager, J. D. Schloen, and D. M. Master, Ashkelon 1: Introduction and Overview (1985–2006) (Final Reports of the Leon Levy Expedition to Ashkelon, 1; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2008). 21 See recently N. Naʾaman (“The Israelite-Judahite Struggle for the Patrimony of Ancient Israel,” Biblica 91 [2010], 1–23), with further literature. 22 A. Mazar, “The Debate over the Chronology of the Iron Age in the Southern Levant.” 23 A. Fantalkin, “Identity in the Making: Greeks in the Eastern Mediterranean during the Iron Age,” in A. Villing and U. Schlotzhauer (eds.), Naukratis: Greek

Diversity in Egypt. Studies on East Greek Pottery and Exchange in the Eastern Mediterranean. Proceedings of the 28th British Museum Classical Colloquium

(BMRP, 162; London: British Museum, 2006), 199–208. 24 I. Finkelstein and N.A. Silberman, David and Solomon: In Search of the Bible’s Sacred Kings and the Roots of the Western Tradition (New York: Free, 2006). 25 E. Otto and R. Achenbach (eds.), Das Deuteronomium zwichen Pentateuch und deuteronomistischen Geschichtswerk (FRLANT, 206; Göttingen: Vandenhoek and Ruprecht, 2004). 26 S. Otto, “The Composition of the Elijah-Elisha Stories and the Deuteronomistic History,” JSOT 27 (2003), 487–508. 27 B. O. Long, “Historical Narrative and the Fictionalizing Image,” VT 35 (1985), 405–16. 28 E.g., N. Naʾaman, “Updating the Messages: Hezekiah’s Second Prophetic Story (2 Kgs 19,9b–35) and the Community of Babylonian Deportees,” in L. L. Grabbe (ed.), ‘Like a Bird in A Cage’: The Invasion of Sennacherib in 701 BCE (JSOTSup, 363; Sheffield: JSOT, 2003), 201–20. 29 A. Rofé, Introduction to the Literature of the Hebrew Bible (JBS, 8; Jerusalem: Carmel, 2006).

M. E. Stone, ANCIENT JUDAISM: NEW VISIONS AND VIEWS (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2011). Pp. xiv + 256. Paperback. US$30.00. ISBN 978-0-80286-363-3.

Reviewed by Anthony R. Meyer McMaster University The context of Ancient Judaism provided the necessary conditions in which many individual scrolls were brought together to form a “Bible.” Thus, scholarship on the Hebrew and Greek Bible(s) must take into account not only the historical background of biblical traditions, but also the socioreligious context in which those traditions found literary expression, circulated together, and were eventually canonized. This socio-religious context is not a given and must itself be constructed. In Ancient Judaism: New Visions and Views, Michael Stone— Professor Emeritus at the Hebrew University—explores the categories of “orthodoxy,” “authoritative literature,” and “canon,” using evidence from sources that originated (or took shape) between 515 BCE and 70 CE. In this volume, Stone updates previously independent works. This composite nature gives the book a broad scope, but sometimes at the expense of cogency (e.g., note the headings in chapter five, “First Conclusions,” “Conclusions 1,” “Conclusions 2,” and “Conclusions”). At any rate, Stone offers an impressive synthesis of independent topics, allowing the reader to enter the book at any point without need of a single thesis. This is particularly valuable for any student or scholar with topical interests concerning the literature of Second Temple Judaism and its subsequent interpretation. In chapter one, “Our Perception of Origins,” Stone articulates an ironic cycle that involves reconstructing the past from a present milieu that has itself been constructed by a past orthodoxy (p. 11). Stone argues that Second Temple writings were preserved and transmitted because, “they were acceptable to the forms of Christianity and Judaism that became dominant” (p. 5). The section titled “Spectacles of Orthodoxy” (pp. 4–16) contains a very accessible outline of Stone’s view. While Stone carefully and clearly articulates the strong influence of “orthodoxy” on our perceptions 719

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of the past, one might leave this chapter with the idea that the Second Temple literature we have is merely the end result of orthodox selectivity. This chapter might be well-complemented by a discussion of other features that may have been determinative for survival and preservation of texts.1 In chapter two, “Adam and Enoch and the State of the World,” Stone considers the texts among the Dead Sea Scrolls that account for “the origin of evil...and the present state of the world…” (p. 31). Stone argues that in ancient Judaism the Enochic tradition (attributing the emergence of sin, suffering, and death to fallen angels, cf. Gen 6:1–4, which is expanded in 1 En. 6–8 and 64–69) competed with the traditional Adam-Eve story. (Note the possible confluence of these two traditions 1 En. 69:6.) He then proposes that the Qumranites sought a priestly answer to the Enochic problem of evil, and thus he posits a connection between Enoch and Noah, termed the Enochic-Noah axis. This connection seems to be somewhat extraneous, especially if the strongest evidence for it is Jub. 10:1–4 (cf. Jub. 10:35, 55). Stone explains how the emergence of priestly texts such as Aramaic Levi Document (ALD), 4Q542 (T. Qahat), and Visions of Amram, functioned as the dominant framework for countering the problem of evil. Stone then returns to address the Adamic tradition, suggesting “[l]egendary Adam texts seem to be rare or nonexistent” (p. 51). While Stone’s argument is sufficiently nuanced, the division of “Enoch-Noah” and “Adam-Eve” may be reductionistic. For example, emphasis is placed on human sinfulness in some “sectarian” texts such as “the glory of Adam/man” (1QHa 4:27 and 1QS 4:23) or “fleshly spirit” (4Q418 frag. 81:1–2; 1QHa 4:37; 5:15, 30; 1QS 11:9–10). No reference is made here to Adam traditions, but nonetheless they convey the origin of sin from within an individual, a logical extension of the Adam and Eve story.2 This is not to say that the Enochic story was not determinative for Qumran, only that the Adam-Eve story should not be downplayed in light of it. In chapter three, “Apocalyptic Historiography,” Stone explores the literary conventions of the apocalyptic genre (i.e., common patterns and important numerical schemes) used “to embrace the whole span of time, to comprehend the overall structure of history…” (p. 60). Stone describes the “exegetical momentum” observable in later traditions gained from the pattern of four kingdoms in Dan 2 and 7, or the 70 years in Jeremiah (Jer 25:11–3, 29:10; Ezek 1:12–3). Stone also discusses the extension of prophetic status to non-prophetic figures such as Daniel (referred to as ‫ איבנה‬in 4Q174 f1_3ii:3). The issue of Iranian influences on Jewish eschatology is reappraised, suggesting that influence is found in patterns rather than specifics. Stone also suggests, “eschatology may serve as a diagnostic tool to discover what it was that the author found problematic in the human and cosmic condition, and we can employ a sort of ‘reverse

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engineering’ in order to penetrate into the aporiae of apocalyptic authors” (p. 81). Stone ends this chapter arguing that an apocalyptic “remythologizing” of the world takes place in the Second Temple period. In chapter four, “Visions and Pseudepigraphy,” Stone presents afresh his argument for a degree of authenticity behind vision experiences described in apocalypses. Stone retraces the journey in which he came to realize that the problem of literary unity in 4 Ezra could be solved when one conceded that “a complex religious experience presented by the agency of the pseudepigraphic author” lay at its heart (p. 95). Methodologically, this experience may be distilled through careful sensitivity to what Stone describes as the “psychological mechanics” expressed in the literature (p. 104). Stone also responds to four propositions against searching for real religious experiences within pseudepigraphic works. In chapter five, “Bible and Apocrypha,” Stone addresses some issues relating to the formation and eventual canonicity of the Hebrew Bible. Stone leads the reader through several stimulating and provocative questions: Were “inspired” works always considered “biblical,” and vice versa (p. 149)? Do the editorial codas or subscriptions found at the end Deuteronomy (34:10–12) and Malachi (4:4–6) function as conclusions to those books, or attest to a “canonical process” and thus function as conclusions to larger compositional collections (i.e., the Torah and Book of the Twelve, p. 131)? Stone also discusses the “canonical” status of Jubilees and Enoch at Qumran, demonstrating that the number of manuscript copies and their different dates may suggest changing beliefs within the Qumran corpus itself (p. 135). Towards the end of this chapter, Stone synthesizes evidence for a third century BCE date for the LXX, and on this basis, suggests the plausibility of the “existence of the Five Books of Moses” at that time (p. 146). Overall, while an accurate and balanced appraisal, it would benefit the reader if Stone engaged more thoroughly recent discussions on the topic.3 In chapter six, “Multiform Transmission and Authorship,” Stone draws on his latest research involving literary trajectories into medieval Judaism. Here he discusses the phenomenon of “textual clusters,” a situation in which multiple versions of the same book or composition are found, yet appear to show no stemmatic or genetic relationship to each other (p. 151). Stone surveys the work of Wells, Halford, Pettorelli, Levinson, Tromp, and Anderson, reflecting on the dynamic between hyparchetypes and subsequent stemmatic, literary, and structural relationships. This chapter is most helpful for those interested in the medieval “afterlife” of Jewish Pseudepigrapha. In chapter seven, “The Transmission of Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha,” Stone explores the dynamics of reception and comments

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on the relative absence of Second Temple literature preserved in the “canonical” traditions of Judaism (p. 173). He writes that “not just Qumran sectarian works or the hidden books of the Essenes remained unknown to the sages and to later Jewish tradition, but also the nonsectarian works found in the Qumran library were absent from the corpus of literature transmitted by the rabbis” (p. 174). In light of this chapter, one might consider the implications of Karaite traditions, coterminous with Pharisaic/Rabbinic traditions, within the milieu of medieval Jewish transmission (especially as they related to texts that evince some fluidity like CD and ALD). Stone concludes with an appeal to expand the time period considered for the study of ancient Judaism. Much like the Scrolls provided a wealth of new data pre-70 CE, so too, later medieval literature of Judaism and Christianity may contain references and allusions to Second Temple traditions left unexplored due to lack of scope. Indeed, careful reflection on such traditions has the additional effect of correcting anachronistic views presently held. To this end, Stone’s volume makes a significant contribution. 1 Cf. David M. Carr, The Formation of the Hebrew Bible: A New Reconstruction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011).

2 Cf. the recent discussion in Andrei Orlov, Gabriele Boccaccini, and Jason M. Zurawski (eds.), New Perspectives on 2 Enoch: No Longer Slavonic Only (Studia Judaeoslavica, 4; Leiden: Brill, 2012). 3 E.g., note frequent references to Schnayer Leiman, The Canonization of Hebrew Scripture: The Talmudic and Midrashic Evidence (Transactions: The Connecticut Academy of Arts and Sciences, 47; Hamden, CT: Archon, 1976).

Hallvard Hagelia, THREE OLD TESTAMENT THEOLOGIES FOR TODAY: HELGE S. KVANVIG, WALTER BRUEGGEMANN AND ERHARD GERSTENBERGER (HBM, 44; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2012). Pp. xvi + 205. Hardcover. US$80.00. ISBN 978-1-907534-02-7.

Reviewed by James K. Mead Northwestern College (Iowa) Professor Hagelia teaches at Norway’s Ansgar College and Seminary and brings a strong publishing record to this current project in Old Testament theology. Having already made his mark with linguistic and historical studies, most notably on the Tel Dan inscription, Hagelia is poised to explore theological approaches to the Hebrew Scriptures with a balanced methodology and hermeneutical sensitivity. Indeed, one of the most important contributions of this volume to the study of the Hebrew Scriptures is its focus on the hermeneutical question of the modernpostmodern impasse in biblical studies. The volume’s five chapters, made accessible by a very detailed table of contents, study three works of Old Testament theology by authors who represent distinct concerns, methods, and global contexts: Helge Kvanvig, Walter Brueggemann, and Erhard Gerstenberger. A short introductory chapter, “What is Old Testament Theology?” aptly draws readers into the complex history and issues of Old Testament theology with admirable restraint, not attempting to rehearse the entire discipline. Chapters two through four treat each theologian on his own terms before exploring scholarly responses and offering Hagelia’s own assessment. The conclusion poses questions and ventures preliminary answers about directions for the discipline in light of these theologians’ contributions. This type of book poses an interesting challenge for a reviewer because a major portion of Hagelia’s study is itself a review of three works of biblical theology; but in this case, the book’s genre does not discount its usefulness or significance. Hagelia brings two scholars with whom readers of this journal are well acquainted (Brueggemann and Gerstenberger) into 723

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conversation with the Scandinavian scholar Kvanvig, whose Theology has not been translated from Norwegian. That being said, it is not necessary to outline the approach and content of each of the three Theologies beyond a brief overview of Kvanvig’s work. Hagelia accurately and succinctly introduces readers to the theological magnum opus of each of these scholars. Avoiding the temptation to provide a full history of modern biblical theology, he turns instead to the way in which these books present the discipline. Along with a more traditional summary of these authors’ content, Hagelia identifies several key issues that clarify their negotiation of modern-postmodern points of tension. For example, he discusses Brueggemann’s emphasis on rhetoric, supersessionism, and theological polyvalence and highlights Gerstenberger’s use of socio-historical methods and the question of whether theology should be a history of Israel’s religion. Each of the three central chapters also reviews the most important critical responses to these theologians, followed by a brief summary of Hagelia’s own evaluation, especially with respect to the interaction between these three theological approaches and postmodernism. Kvanvig’s theology deserves some comment because its approach to Old Testament theology diverges from more traditional approaches, be they historical, canonical, or thematic. Kvanvig’s title, Historical Bible and Biblical History: Old Testament Theology as History and Story (Hagelia’s translation, p. 16), points to his thesis that biblical theology must reckon with the narrative form of the Bible in light of linguistic research, and that this recognition is not a mere prolegomena to the theological task but lies at its heart. In three major sections, Kvanvig considers biblical theology in light of “Patterns of Understanding,” “Ways of Reading,” and “Text Patterns.” Part 1 discusses the main tensions that have faced biblical theology from its beginning as a discipline: first, modernism’s impasse between pre-critical and critical understandings of the Bible’s historical value; and second, postmodernism’s impasse between structuralist and deconstructive approaches to the Bible and its interpretation. In general, Kvanvig tends to seek a middle way, granting the value of modern historical methods while also seeing the value in postmodernism’s critique of historical positivism. Part 2 develops Kvanvig’s development of modern biblical theology in conversation with several key figures from the twentieth century (e.g., Von Rad, Zimmerli, Childs). Focusing on the narrative form of the Old Testament’s depiction of history and the literary hermeneutics of Paul Ricoeur, Kvanvig argues that reading produces meaning through both fiction narrative and historical narrative. Part 3 presents Kvanvig’s application of the above historical and literary insights to poetic and narrative text patterns, to instances of mimesis, and to mythic language.

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Hagelia’s assessment of Kvanvig’s book is mostly positive. He appreciates the author’s serious engagement with both modern and postmodern methods, but he also questions whether the result is a true Old Testament theology; it is rather “more of an introduction to Old Testament hermeneutics” (p. 68). While regarding the book as “a scholarly and pedagogical masterpiece,” he nevertheless would have preferred for Kvanvig to include a discussion of some of the issues and themes traditionally associated with Old Testament theology (pp. 69–70). In contrast to his treatment of Kvanvig, Hagelia goes into less detail describing the contents of Brueggemann’s Theology of the Old Testament: Testimony, Dispute, Advocacy (1997) and Gerstenberger’s Theologies of the Old Testament (2002). For example, Hagelia’s treatment of Brueggemann devotes twice as much space when dealing with the various responses to Brueggemann’s theology as he does when exploring the content of this work. Hagelia affirms the pedagogical role of the trial metaphor that anchors the book, but questions whether “it forms a grid on the presentation that easily restricts it in a reductionist way” (p. 133). Regarding Gerstenberger’s work, Hagelia regards his socio-historical method as valid, but of limited use when applied to biblical theology. In keeping with other scholarly assessments of Gerstenberger’s study, Hagelia considers it to be a work that pertains more to the history of religion than to biblical theology as such. I find Hagelia’s treatment to be fair and judicious. His own study aptly, cautiously, and helpfully suggests how the biblical-theological conversation may continue. Some readers may question why he chose to review these three Theologies, but Hagelia is correct that there would be similar limitations with any other constellation of three contemporary voices. Kvanvig, Brueggemann, and Gerstenberger clearly and cogently present different perspectives for students to consider. For those whose focus is biblical theology, Hagelia’s book is a fine addition to the vast corpus of secondary literature. It introduces the field of Old Testament theology through sustained, in-depth analysis of three significant works.

Teresa J. Hornsby and Ken Stone (eds.), BIBLE TROUBLE: QUEER READINGS AT THE BOUNDARIES OF BIBLICAL SCHOLARSHIP (Semeia Studies, 67; Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2011). Pp. xiv + 355. Paperback. US$46.95. ISBN 978-1-58983-552-8.

Reviewed by Steven J. Schweitzer Bethany Theological Seminary Bible Trouble: Queer Readings at the Boundaries of Biblical Scholarship

consists of an introductory preface, fifteen essays, and a final response to the whole volume. All of these pieces are clear and engaging. Written from a wide range of approaches and analyzing different texts, the volume helpfully adds to the growing area of queer readings in the field of biblical studies. Repeatedly, issues of gender, sexuality, and challenging notions of “normativity” are brought to the forefront. Individual essays include a “works consulted” section at the conclusion. Each essay will be addressed below. Readers interested in the topic of queer readings of Scripture will find many useful essays and thought-provoking questions raised in this collection that deserves serious attention. Teresa J. Hornsby and Ken Stone (“Already Queer: A Preface,” pp. ix–xiv) briefly introduce the perspectives and content of the volume, emphasizing the shifts in meaning and interpretation that naturally flow from queer readings of Scripture. Ellen T. Armour (“Queer Bibles, Queer Scriptures? An Introductory Response,” pp. 1–7) provides an overview response to the rest of the essays in the book, as she highlights the importance of these readings for challenging our oversimplifications and the tendency to idealize characters in the biblical narratives whether we possess a pro-LGBTQ perspective or not. Deryn Guest (“From Gender Reversal to Genderfuck: Reading Jael through a Lesbian Lens,” pp. 9–43) moves from what has become a typical reading of “gender reversal” by scholars—especially feminists—on the Jael narrative and poem in Judg 4–5 to a lesbian reading that builds on this 726

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scholarship, yet challenges its own means of controlling meaning. Guest helpfully and thoughtfully explores both the benefits and costs of such a reading of this character, and how that reading should not too quickly be embraced without considering its effects on the reader, who may or may not identify as queer. Erin Runions (“From Disgust to Humor: Rahab's Queer Affect,” pp. 45–74), in a reprinted article from 2008, explores the story of Rahab in Josh 2 as a tale originally contrasting and critiquing the imperial ideology that would arise in the later editorial production of the Deuteronomistic History. Here, Runions emphasizes how the identity of the Canaanites in many parts of the Hebrew Bible is “nonheteronormative” (p. 45), and how the figure of Rahab operates both to support and to reject the Israelite response of disgust to these individuals and groups labeled as “outsiders.” Runions contends that the story of Rahab, however, cannot present her as an unqualified heroine, but perhaps is best understood as a presentation of the trickster, who also serves to transgress boundaries through humor and subversion. Ken Stone (“Queer Reading between Bible and Film: Paris is Burning and the ‘Legendary Houses’ of David and Saul,” pp. 75–98) builds on a recent book by Erin Runions.1 Specifically, Stone draws on Runion’s comparative analysis in one chapter between the prophet Micah and the documentary film Paris is Burning that discusses drag balls in New York City (released in 1991), and uses that same film in conversation with the biblical narratives of David and the family of Saul as contained in 1–2 Samuel. Stone explores how both this film and the biblical account engage the question of who will “win” or “be victorious” alongside presentations and critiques of gender norms. Rather than attempting to present a singular “queer reading” designed to promote or highlight LGBTQ concerns in the biblical text, Stone argues for queer readings (in the plural) that “take as their point of departure a critical interrogation, or active contestation, of the ways in which the Bible is read to support heteronormative and normalizing configurations of sexual and gender practices and sexual and gender identities” (p. 94). The reader is challenged to engage in this type of interpretation, whatever the method or approach to the text employed might be. Heidi Epstein (“Penderecki’s Iron Maiden: Intimacy and Other Anomalies in the Canticum canticorum Salomonis,” pp. 99–130) uses interpretative approaches from New Musicologists to investigate a queer reading of this twentieth-century musical composition based on the Song of Songs. The movements, sounds, and compositional techniques are explored in relation to the biblical text with particular attention to the elements of sexuality and intimacy that pervade the text. The interplay between text and

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music opens up new questions and new meanings for both the musical composition and the biblical composition. S. Tamar Kamionkowski (“Queer Theory and Historical-Critical Exegesis: Queering Biblicists—A Response,” pp. 131–36) responds to the two essays by Stone and Guest, drawing from her own experience as a lesbian, Jewish, traditionally (that is, historically-critically) trained biblical scholar. She argues that queer readings are best and most effective when they probe new layers of meaning and appreciation of the Bible, reveling in its complexities and its multiple interpretations, just as rabbinic tradition (which she cites) has long advocated. Teresa J. Hornsby (“Capitalism, Masochism, and Biblical Interpretation,” pp. 137–55) explores the interrelationships of capitalism, masochism, and portrayals of suffering and submission—particularly related to Jesus' death and to the depiction of women—in biblical interpretation. In this sobering essay, she concludes that while postmodernism has resulted in more acceptance of queer sexualities it has also produced another means of control over such sexualities and that illusions of liberation need to be challenged. Jione Havea (“Lazarus Troubles,” pp. 157–73) reflects on the experience of reading and interpreting the story of Lazarus from John 11 with inmates from the Pacific Islands in Parklea Prison, New South Wales, Australia in 2007. This intriguing presentation reveals that concerns and connections made by these readers from an “atypical” (whatever this means) social location differ significantly from many “common” approaches and conclusions, thus, “queering” the passage and theological appropriations of it. Sean D. Burke (“Queering Early Christian Discourse: The Ethiopian Eunuch,” pp. 175–89) explores the ambiguities present in the figure of the Ethiopian Eunuch (Acts 8:26–40) in terms of gender, social status, ethnicity, and religious identity. Ancient contexts for understanding masculinity and those identified as eunuchs are helpfully summarized before reading this person, passage, and book as queer examples that subvert unambiguous categories and meanings. Manuel Villalobos (“Bodies Del Otro Lado Finding Life and Hope in the Borderland: Gloria Anzaldúa, the Ethiopian Eunuch of Acts 8:26–40, y Yo,” pp. 191–221) begins with a summary of the visionary work by Gloria Anzaldúa and her description of “crossing borders” into the next life and the alternative reality she witnessed. This construction is put into conversation with the multiple border-crossings identifiable in the narrative of the Ethiopian Eunuch and then finally with the personal experience of the author. The essay contributes an evocative commentary on issues of

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identity and hopeful expectation for another world beyond the confinements of our present. Joseph A. Marchal (“The Corinthian Women Prophets and Trans Activism: Rethinking Canonical Gender Claims,” pp. 223–46) connects Paul's “dominant script” (p. 225) for authority and group construction in 1 Corinthians and the likely experience of the women prophets before and after entering the church at Corinth with the dominant script from our present psychological authorities (such as the DSM-IV) and the experiences of transgendered individuals. This comparative approach opens up new questions and recasts some of the dynamics observed in the biblical text, often simply moving from a static text with “flat” characters to dynamic individuals living out complicated lives under the auspices of external authorities attempting to define and control. Gillian Townsley (“The Straight Mind in Corinth: Problematizing Categories and Ideologies of Gender in 1 Corinthians 11:2–16,” pp. 247– 81) employs the approach advanced by feminist author Monique Wittig to read the stipulations and reasoning in Paul’s discussion of head coverings in 1 Cor 11. With attention to both ancient and modern contexts, the construction of gender for men and women and what she terms “lesbianized men” (pp. 251–258) in 1 Corinthians is followed by a discussion of the hotly-debated term κεφαλἠ (“head”) and how that interpretation has been used to reinforce particular heteronormative frameworks. Jay Twomey (“The Pastor and His Fops: Gender Indeterminacy in the Pastor and His Readers,” pp. 283–300) presents a “reception history” approach to the Pastoral Epistles emphasizing how issues of gender have been articulated or assumed over the centuries, including readers such as Augustine, Chrysostom, and the eighteenth-century commentator Philip Doddridge in his The Family Expositor. Lynn R. Huber (“Gazing at the Whore: Reading Revelation Queerly,” pp. 301–20) advocates reading the book of Revelation through a queerlesbian lens to engage perceptions of gender and its relationship to political and economic structures, a connection explicit in the construction of the Whore of Babylon in the book itself. Rather than arguing that this book has nothing to say for queer readers, Huber promises no easy answers, but a deeper appreciation of the complexities and the multiple layers of meaning evidenced by queer readings of jarring texts such as those found in this apocalyptic work. Jeremy Punt (“Queer Theory, Postcolonial Theory, and Biblical Interpretation: A Preliminary Exploration of Some Intersections,” pp. 321– 41) provides a helpful theoretical essay on the nature of queer theory, especially as it is often associated with postcolonial readings, and how these

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play themselves out in the field of biblical studies, with limited examples from the Gospels and Pauline literature. As a basic introductory piece to establish the terrain of the field, the essay could be used in a classroom setting quite easily and effectively. In terms of structure of the volume, this essay could be read much earlier in the sequence of analyses, providing a clear and concise approach to some methodological questions surrounding queer theory—many of which are implicit or explicit in previous essays— rather than being situated at the end before the final response essay. Michael Joseph Brown (“What Happens When Closets Open Up? A Response,” pp. 343–52) concludes with an essay emphasizing the wide range of approaches in the volume, with particular attention to the contributions by Hornsby, Havea, Burke, and Huber—all of which present a “similar cautionary note: Be careful” (p. 352). Those advocating for the potential of queer readings must be cognizant of political and social mechanisms that would attempt to control these approaches and their practitioners even while providing the illusion of agency. 1 Erin Runions, How Hysterical: Identification and Resistance in the Bible and Film (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003).

Eugene Ulrich and Peter W. Flint, with a contribution by Martin G. Abegg, Jr., QUMRAN CAVE 1, II: THE ISAIAH SCROLLS. PART 1: PLATES AND TRANSCRIPTIONS; PART 2: INTRODUCTIONS, COMMENTARY, AND TEXTUAL VARIANTS (DJD, XXXII; Oxford: Clarendon, 2010). Pp. xxvii + 151; xviii + 260. Hardcover. £168.00. ISBN 978-0-19-926302-8.

Reviewed by Robert D. Holmstedt University of Toronto Primary text editions in the field of biblical studies are a rarity. Barring the discovery of a new trove of manuscripts and aside from the occasional ostracon found in controlled excavations, the well-known dump from the

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Al-Aqsa mosque renovation, or on the antiquities market, we have little new and exciting to anticipate. It is thus understandable that when a text edition does appear, reader expectations are very high. Happily, Ulrich and Flint’s DJD volume on the Isaiah Scrolls meets—indeed, surpasses— almost every possible expectation. This work is a landmark in Scrolls studies. Of the first seven scrolls found in 1947, 1QapGen was the only one of the seven to be presented in the DJD series, and then only partially;1 more was published in 1956 by Nahman Avigad and Yigael Yadin.2 Millar Burrows published the initial editions of the remaining three “St. Mark’s Monastery Scrolls”: 1QpHab and 1QIsaa in 1950 and 1QS in 1951, as monographs from the American Schools of Oriental Research.3 The other three “Hebrew University Scrolls,” 1QHa, 1QM, and 1QIsab, were first published by Eleazar Sukenik (posthumously) in a Hebrew University monograph in 1954 (in Hebrew; the English edition appeared in 1955).4 Thus, with DJD 32, the two biblical texts of the initial Scrolls discovery are added to the authoritative series. Additionally, with appearance of this volume, the DJD series is formally concluded, bringing closure to a publication history marked by drama (including large dramatic pauses!), tales of conspiracy, academic misbehavior, theological biases, and the emergence of digital reconstructions. That this process ends with the magisterial volume produced by Ulrich and Flint serves as a healing salve and signals that the task has now shifted entirely to the synthetic work of contextualizing and interpreting the Scrolls and their implications. The Isaiah Scrolls is in two volumes, which gives it a unique format in the DJD series. In the first volume, Ulrich and Flint present the photos and transcriptions of the two Isaiah texts from Cave 1: 1QIsaa and 1QIsab; in the second, the authors introduce the two manuscripts, comment on various physical and linguistic features, and provide nearly one hundred pages of discussion on the textual variants represented by these Isaiah texts. As the authors note, the two-volume format allows the reader to view a plate and its transcription on facing pages in Volume One and have Volume Two open to the corresponding notes regarding textual variants. Volume One includes a brief preface and then presents the fifty-four plates and transcriptions for the fifty-four columns of 1QIsaa followed by twenty plates and transcriptions for the twenty-six columns of 1QIsab. Volume Two begins with a fifty-six page general introduction and select bibliography. This introduction covers the discovery of Cave 1 and first seven scrolls and the early history of the two Cave 1 Isaiah scrolls after they were found (pp. 1–14), as well as the history of the various sets of photographs (pp. 15–24). The introduction concludes with a contribution

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by Martin Abegg on the linguistic profile of the two Isaiah scrolls (pp. 25– 41). The presentation of both Isaiah scrolls follows the general introduction. For each scroll, Ulrich and Flint provide a specific introduction (pp. 59–95 for 1QIsaa and pp. 197–211 for 1QIsab) in which they cover the physical description and content, the palaeography and date (including tables comparing the orthography of a variety of forms with those in the Masoretic text of the Leningrad codex), sense divisions, and textual character. For the longer text of 1QIsaa, they add sections on scribal marks, the Old Greek translation (which they claim “look[ed] generally like 1QIsaa” [p. 92]), and the scribe(s) behind the text. It is this last addition that reflects most fully the many years the authors have studied the text of 1QIsaa. Rather than subscribing to the view that different scribes copied columns I–XXVII and columns XXVIII–LIV, they conclude that “a single scribe originally copied the entire book, and a series of subsequent hands made a few corrections and inserted expansions” (p. 63). They provide three primary reasons for their conclusion: 1) many of the distinctions between the two halves “could, and probably should, be attributed more to the parent text” (p. 63); 2) the letter forms in both halves are virtually identical; and 3) similar scribal idiosyncrasies are displayed in both halves. Following the introduction to each text is the heart of Volume Two: the Notes and Readings and the list of Textual Variants for each Scroll (pp. 97–118 and 119–93 for 1QIsaa and pp. 214–33 and 235–53 for 1QIsab). This work is at once a pleasure to use and a challenge to review, but for the same reason: it has been done so well that there is pathetically little with which to find fault. The beautiful photographs, the detailed lists of variants, the measured commentary, and the thoughtful layout in two volumes—everything in this work is exemplary. For example, although I have read numerous accounts of the fascinating history of the Scrolls discovery, I learned additional details from this focused account of the Cave 1 Isaiah scrolls. Even the history of the photographs was an interesting read. Similarly, the linguistic profile should be read carefully by anyone interested in historical Hebrew linguistics. I will here mention only two of the many features that caught my attention. First, Abegg states that the “conjunctive waw alone accounts for 349 variations in 1QIsaa and 29 in the smaller 1QIsab; 1QIsaa in and of itself contains 45% of the corpus-wide total of approximately 800 variations involving waw” (p. 36). Abegg notes that nearly half of these variations reflect the addition of a waw to “nearly every verbal form” (p. 37), that there was also a “penchant for adding waw before the particle ‫( אל‬p. 37), and that the issue as a whole requires further study. I agree that the issue is worthy of focused study and I wonder

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whether these patterns reflect the same general phenomenon: the increasing use of the waw as a general phrase-edge marker, whether the highest phrase level (clause) or a lower one (verb phrase).5 The second feature of Abegg’s study that I will mention is the linguistic evidence for a “bifurcation between columns XXVII and XXVIII that corresponds with the end of Isaiah chapter 33” (p. 40). After listing the evidence (for example, differences between the two halves with regard to the use of the longer 2ms clitic pronoun ‫הכ‬-, the particle ‫ יכ‬spelled normally or as ‫איכ‬, and the presence of the paragogic nun), he concludes that “the scroll displays in the second half a higher percentage of spellings and forms [than (RDH)] which are common in the nonbiblical manuscripts from Qumran” (p. 40). It is on this issue that I will offer the first of my two hesitantly critical comments. While Abegg presents linguistic evidence for some sort of textual seam between chapters 33 and 34 (columns XXVII and XXVIII) in the 1QIsaa copy of Isaiah, Flint and Ulrich argue that the scroll is primarily the product of a single scribe, for the three reasons mentioned above. The second (similarity of letter forms) and third (similarity of idiosyncrasies) reasons are compelling, but their first reason, that the parent texts differed, while possible, leaves too much unexplained. It is perplexing that their interaction with Abegg’s linguistic evidence is superficial: “The tendency in the second half of the scroll toward later orthographic and morphological forms may perhaps be attributed to the fact that Second Isaiah was originally a separate work” (p. 63). Moreover, identifying Isa 34 with the beginning of Second Isaiah does not reflect the near consensus critical view that Second Isaiah consists of Isa 40–55.6 It is possible that there is no good recoverable explanation for the linguistic evidence that distinguishes the two halves of the scroll, but rather than admit this or suggest some promising direction for investigating the issue further, Ulrich and Flint have, to put it colloquially, punted on first down. That being said, I must admit that this is the only whiff of a criticism I can muster for Volume Two. I also have no substantive criticism of Volume One, but I will raise an issue involving how readers should use the photographs. There is no doubt that pouring over the photographs in this work is the closest any current or future scholar (excepting the preservation experts in Israel) will get to the actual artifacts. Thankfully, the clarity of the plates is breathtaking—the reader can visually feel the texture of the vellum and the stitches, creases, and tears in the manuscripts. Yet, readers must use these images with caution, even readers who primarily work with the transcriptions and consult the photographs only on specific points to note, for example, a letter shape or a scribal correction. First, the reader must be

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aware that the plates represent digitally re-mastered images from early sets of photographs: for 1QIsaa they use John C. Trever’s 1948 color photographs and Helena Bieberkraut’s 1949 and Najib Albina’s 1952 photographs for 1QIsab.7 The authors acknowledge and specify the precise nature of the digital editing at the outset (Vol 2, pp. 20, 24): the color was lightened to increase the contrast between the leather and ink, the bottom portions of ten columns were cropped (although no text was omitted), the blue background of Trever’s original photographs of 1QIsaa was removed, blemishes produced by air bubbles on the negatives were removed, and an artificial shadow has been added in order to create the perception of depth while the shadows created by Trever’s use of multiple light sources have been removed. All these digital changes produce beautiful images that nearly jump off the page. But this process also creates a potentially disturbing situation: while the unadulterated images would certainly obscure some features of the artifact itself, the digitally enhanced images present something that simply does not exist. Most readers will likely not mind the enhancements, but they should at least be aware that they are not looking either at Trever’s (or Bieberkraut’s or Albina’s) original photographs or at the scrolls themselves. Moreover, for all the intense work that clearly went into the digital re-mastering, a detail by the first word on line 19 of the first column of 1QIsaa should warn the reader that, as outstanding as these images are, they should not be used without recourse to other available visual sources (such as the Israel Museum’s on-line edition or the digital edition of Trever's photographs in Accordance Bible Software).8

DJD 32 Israel (Trever, re-mastered) (Bar-Hama)

Museum

Accordance (Trever, re-mastered)

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First, even from the poor quality digital selections, the color difference is clear, with the Israel Museum copy offering the most realistic coloring, whereas the Trever images in both DJD 32 and the Accordance module present the most legible writing. Second, the blue background of Trever’s photographs is clear in the Accordance image, while it has been erased in the DJD 32 image (and presumably the 2004–2006 Bar-Hama photographs were taken against a white background). Third, an even clearer difference between the three images is the presence of an extra mark on the DJD 32 plate, the black “one-eyed smiley face” below the final two consonants of the word ‫ןואעב‬. Although this was by far the most prominent extra mark I found, there were numerous other small “smudges” (e.g., Column 28, below lines 4, 5, and 8) or “hairs” (e.g., Column 11, bottom right, Column 24, before line 8) throughout the plates. These marks were not on either other set of the photographs and, puzzlingly, sometimes a mark towards the edge of one of the DJD images appears on one plate but not the overlapping section of the next plate (e.g., the dark smudge on Plate 29 at the end of line 16 from Column 28, but not present on Plate 28). All this being the case, let me be crystal clear: none of these marks interfere with reading the text. But they should serve to remind the reader to keep the nature of the photographs always in mind and to check any specific feature of the Scroll against the other available images. In conclusion, Ulrich and Flint should be commended for producing a truly impressive work. Given the work’s scope and quality, my critical comments above are admittedly nit-picky and should be read with that caveat in mind. For anyone interested in the Scrolls, textual criticism of the Hebrew Bible, or Isaiah, consulting these two volumes is a must. Josef Milik, Qumran Cave 1 (DJD, I; Oxford, Clarendon: 1955). Nahman Avigad and Yigael Yadin, A Genesis Apocryphon: A Scroll from the Wilderness of Judaea (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1956). 3 Millar Burrows, The Dead Sea Scrolls of St. Mark’s Monastery, Volume I: The Isaiah Manuscript and Habakkuk Commentary (New Haven, CT: The American Schools of Oriental Research, 1950); idem, The Dead Sea Scrolls of St. Mark’s Monastery, Volume II: Fascicle 2, Plates and Transcription of the Manual of Discipline (New Haven, CT: The American Schools of Oriental Research, 1951). 4 Eleazar Sukenik, The Dead Sea Scrolls of the Hebrew University (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1955 [1954]). 5 See Robert Holmstedt, “Hypotaxis,” in Geoffrey Khan (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Hebrew Language and Linguistics (Boston/Leiden: Brill, forthcoming). 6 See, among many others, Joseph Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 40–55 (AB, 19a; New York: Doubleday, 2002). For the rare example of a scholar who separates Isaiah between chapters 33 and 34, see John D. Watts, Isaiah 34–66 (rev. ed.; WBC, 25; 1 2

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Nashville, TN: Thomas Nelson, 2005). 7 John C. Trever and James E. Trever, Dead Sea Scroll Images (version 1.2; Tulsa, OK: Oaktree Software). 8 DJD 32 (Trever re-mastered): Eugene Ulrich, and Peter W. Flint, with a contribution by Martin G. Abegg, Jr., Qumran Cave 1, II: The Isaiah Scrolls. Part 1: Plates and Transcriptions; Part 2: Introductions, Commentary, and Textual Variants (DJD, XXXII; Oxford: Clarendon, 2010), 1QIsa-a, column 1, line 19, © Oxford University Press, used with permission, http://www.oup.com; Israel Museum (Bar-Hama): http://dss.collections.imj.org.il/isaiah, accessed on May 22, 2012, © The Israel Museum, used with permission; Accordance (Trever, remastered): John C. Trever and James E. Trever, Dead Sea Scroll Images (version 1.2; Tulsa, OK: Oaktree Software), 1QIsa-a, column 1, line 19, © Oaktree Software, used with permission, http://www.accordancebible.com.

John Goldingay and Pamela J. Scalise, MINOR PROPHETS II (NIBCOT; Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 2009). Pp. xiv+392. Paperback. US$19.99. ISBN 9781842276655.

Reviewed by Robert C. Kashow Dallas Theological Seminary John Goldingay and Pamela J. Scalise have written a helpful, albeit partial commentary on the Minor Prophets which is geared towards, as far as I can gather, the pastor and/or college level student. I say this because the discussions within this volume tend to be unassuming, yet there is enough use made of Hebrew to expect some familiarity with the language on the part of the reader. Minor Prophets II is the second and final work on the Minor Prophets in the New International Biblical Commentary series, covering Nahum-Malachi (the first volume, written by the late Elizabeth Achtemeier, covered Hosea through Micah). The work is divided into two major sections, Nahum-Zephaniah and Haggai-Malachi, each beginning with a general introduction by Goldingay. In addition to these general introductions, a more specific introduction also accompanies each book, Goldingay commentating on Nahum, Habakkuk, Zephaniah, and Haggai, and Scalise treating Zechariah and Malachi.

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The contribution of the New International Biblical Commentary, and thus by extension this commentary, is to engage in what the editors (Robert L. Hubbard Jr. and Robert K. Johnston) call “believing criticism.” To use the editors’ words, believing criticism does not “follow a precritical approach that interprets the text without reference to recent scholarly conversations” (p. xi), nor pursues “an anticritical approach whose preoccupation is to defend the Bible against its detractors” (p. xii), but rather seeks an approach which “marries probing, reflective interpretation of the text to loyal biblical devotion and warm Christian affection… [exhibiting] a firm commitment to modern scholarship with a similar commitment to the Bible’s full authority for Christians” (p. xii). Goldingay’s part is well written, easy to understand, and full of historical insight which is often cross-referenced with Jewish history elsewhere in the canonical texts of the Old Testament. Each book is thus treated in sequence as a discrete witness in its own right, making referential associations when necessary. Naturally, however, such an approach rejects more recent attempts at viewing the Minor Prophets as a single unified work, in which the proper context of each witness is not necessarily its historical context, but its location in the book of the Twelve (notwithstanding the variety of orders in the ancient witnesses). Thus, theological discussion treating themes throughout the Twelve, book-tobook linkage, redactional intentionality, etc., is sparse. For example, Jonah has little to no bearing on reading Nahum, and interpretation of Haggai is unaffected by Zechariah (contra, for example, the Meyers schema).1 That Haggai and Zechariah are treated by different authors belies any assertion to the contrary (again, Goldingay treating Haggai and Scalise treating Zechariah). I would not go so far as to say that Goldingay does not acknowledge the suitability of canonical placement, however. In his discussion of Zephaniah, for example, he acknowledges the prophet likely preceded Nahum and Habakkuk chronologically, yet that in light of the subject matter of Zephaniah’s surrounding books in the MT, the book is nonetheless appropriately situated (p. 93). One other point to highlight is Goldingay’s ability to engage higher criticism—which is not surprising for this commentary series since a “believing criticism” approach seeks to do as much. Redactional and kindred issues are often raised, but when a consensus is lacking, Goldingay finds a way to circumnavigate the discussion in order to move forward in interpretation of the text. As for Scalise’s section, she too like Goldingay is attuned to the historical matters at hand. Although her treatment of the background of Zechariah and Malachi is short, she wisely selects subject matter that is most relevant for interpretation. I also received the impression that she appears to be more willing than Goldingay to embrace and interact with

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recent holistic theories on the Twelve. For example, although Zech 9–14 may consist of multiple oracles written by different authors over varying points in time, it is nonetheless intended to be read after Zech 1–8 in light of its canonical placement. The works of Rex Mason and Brevard Childs are called upon here which successfully show the coherence and integrity of all fourteen chapters of Zechariah (pp. 183–84). Noteworthy too is Scalise’s acknowledgement of the function Malachi plays in its position as the last book within not only the Book of the Twelve but also the entire Prophets section of the Tanak, as well as the last book of the Old Testament in the Christian Bible—a juxtaposition which, at least from the New Testament’s perspective, provides a nice transition to John the Baptist as the fulfillment of the promised Elijah (p. 317). However, concerning the appearance of the ‫ אשמ‬in Mal 1:1, which also occurs in Zech 9:1 and 12:1, no interpretive or theological significance is found. Finally, Scalise’s view on the messianic conundrum in Zech 3 is that the forthcoming messianic figure is not Zerubbabel. She avers Zech 3:8–10 in fact suggests that, “The audience of the book knows that messianic hopes had not been fulfilled in Zerubbabel” (p. 221). The implication then is that some future figure is still in view. Discussion here is surprisingly thin, but there are thorough treatments of the varying views on this issue available elsewhere. However, brief mention of interpretive problems here along with bibliographic suggestions for further research would have been helpful, lest an amateur read this commentary without grasping an awareness of the complexities at hand. In short, Goldingay and Scalise’s work, although not ideally divided—I would much rather see Haggai-Malachi treated by one author— ultimately is a helpful work for those needing a concise introduction to the books of Nahum-Malachi. Its background discussions are insightful, and it is not afraid to engage and appropriate critical scholarship. Finally, I would also be remiss to not mention (especially of Goldingay) the fine grasp the authors have on Hebrew poetry and the rhetoric of the prophets, which too will prove to be helpful. Still, those seeking advanced study and an exhaustive treatment of the issues should look elsewhere. 1 Carol Meyers and Eric Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AncB, 25B; Garden City: Doubleday, 1987).

Matthew A. Thomas, THESE ARE THE GENERATIONS: IDENTITY, COVENANT AND THE ‘TOLEDOT’ FORMULA (NIBCOT; Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 2009). Pp. xiv+392. Paperback. US$19.99. ISBN 9781842276655.

Reviewed by Carol Kamiski Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary These are the Generations: Identity, Covenant and the ‘Toledot’ Formula is

the doctoral thesis of Matthew A. Thomas. Thomas examines the organizational structure of the toledot formula in the book of Genesis and in Num 1–3. Building on the work of previous scholars, he argues that the narrowing function of the toledot formula defines the macrostructure of Genesis and the Pentateuch as a whole. He identifies five independent toledot headings in Genesis (2:4; 5:1; 6:9; 11:10; 37:2), marked by the absence of a waw, which effectively narrow the focus from creation to Israel in particular. A further narrowing is seen in the toledot formula in Num 3:1, which focuses on the cultic and civil leadership represented by Aaron and Moses. Thomas explores three key mechanisms in chapters 2–4 (variations in the toledot formula, the genealogies, and divine-human covenants) to ascertain their role in shaping the narrowing effect of the formula in Genesis and the Pentateuch. In the “Introduction,” Thomas surveys various methodological approaches to Genesis, discussing both diachronic and synchronic studies. He adopts a form-critical approach while incorporating insights from rhetorical, aesthetic, and linguistic analysis into his research. With emphasis on the final form of the text, he seeks to examine the surface structure of Genesis and the Pentateuch with the goal of uncovering the organizational framework and trajectory of the narrative. In chapter one, “Defining the Toledot Formula: Syntax, Semantics, and Function,” Thomas examines briefly the syntax and semantics of the toledot formula. He observes that scholarship in the past century has focused on the structure and compositional history of the formula within the priestly material, citing the scholarly works of Budd, von Rad, Eissfeldt, 739

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Cross, Tengström and Renaud. Thomas distinguishes himself from these scholars in his focus on the final form of the text. By drawing upon recent linguistic studies, he argues persuasively that the toledot formula is a heading and that its function is to narrow the focus from a universal context to Israel in particular. The formula provides cohesion and continuity in the narrative, while alerting the reader to new material that is taken up in the ensuing section. In chapter two, “Variations in the Syntax of the Toledot Formula,” Thomas surveys the views of Childs (1979), Tengström (1981), Renaud (1990) and Koch (1999), noting the various ways they define the toledot formula according to two basic categories, narrative (erzählerische or Epochen and narratif) and genealogy (aufzählende or Generationen and énumératif). Scharbert's seminal work on the formula is also examined, particularly his definition of the toledot as either Ausscheidungstoledot (“exclusion-toledot”) or Verheißungstoledot (“promise-toledot”). Croatto and Koch are discussed in detail since both analyze the formula according to the final form. J. S. Croatto argues for a ten-fold structure of Genesis, while affirming the two basic categories of narrative (Gen 2:4; 6:9; 11:27; 25:19; 37:2) and genealogy (5:1; 10:1; 11:10; 25:12; 36:1[9]). K. Koch holds to a five-part division of Genesis (2:4–6:8; 6:9–11:26; 11:27–25:18; 25:19– 37:1; 37:2–50:26), defining each section as either Epochen-Toledot or Generationen-Toledot. Thomas draws further upon the work of Francis I. Anderson and Peter Weimar when exploring syntactical variations in the formula. Both Anderson and Weimar conclude that the presence/absence of the waw is a key aspect of syntactical variation. After much discussion of scholarship in chapters 2–3, this is where the work of Thomas finds particular focus. He observes that the conjunction waw, which is commonly employed with the formula (Gen 10:1; 11:27; 25:12; 25:19; 36:1, 9; Num 3:1; Ruth 4:18), is absent on five occasions (Gen 2:4; 5:1; 6:9; 11:10; 37:2). Thomas draws the interesting conclusion that these five toledot function as five major headings in Genesis, providing the contours for the macrostructure; the remaining coordinate headings are deemed functionally subordinate. This observation sets his work apart from current scholarship, yet by affirming the narrowing focus of the toledot he is able to incorporate the results of previous scholarship into his work. Thomas’s analysis of the syntax extends further to Num 3:1–3: he postulates that the presence of a double introduction (which he compares to Gen 25:13 and 36:10) may indicate that the sons of Aaron are potentially being set aside, giving further authority to Moses. In chapter three, “Genealogies-Role in Shaping the Narrative,” Thomas examines the relationship of genealogies to the toledot structure.

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He observes, as other scholars have done, that linear genealogies move the narrative forward at an accelerated pace, from one key figure to the next, whereas segmented genealogies focus attention on familial relationships within each generation, usually of secondary lines, and the pace is slowed down. Thomas’s discussion of genealogies in Genesis is consistent with current scholarship on the topic. He goes beyond Genesis, however, considering how the list of leaders and the census in Num 1 function in relation to the toledot heading in Num 3:1. He proposes that the list of leaders in Num 1:5–16, which records one name per tribe, is functionally equivalent to the linear genealogy in Gen 11:10–26. Reference to Aaron’s four sons in Num 3:1–4 is seen to be functionally parallel to Terah’s three sons in Gen 11:26–32, and the migration of each group is compared among other possible parallels. The census list in Num 1:20–47 is thought to be analogous to the segmented genealogies in Genesis. Thomas then reasons that the census list preserves the presence of Israel in the story, while at the same time the people of Israel are being set aside to focus attention on their leaders through the linear list in Num 1:5–16 and the toledot in Num 3:1. While it is worthwhile to consider the lists in Num 1 in relation to the toledot formula in 3:1, the cited parallels are not as evident as Thomas suggests. Thomas returns to Genesis and proposes, somewhat tentatively, that Gen 1:1–2:3 similarly functions as a preservation list, which is given prior to the narrowing of the toledot in Gen 2:4. In chapter four, “Covenants Change the Basis for the Narrowing of Focus,” Thomas explores how the divine covenants with Noah, Abraham and Israel affect the narrowing in the toledot structure. He suggests that five major toledot headings form a chiastic structure: heaven and earth (A); Adam (B); Noah (C); Shem (B’); and Jacob/Israel (A’). Evidence for the chiastic structure is assembled, although support seems to be lacking at times. Thomas argues that Noah is at the center of the chiasm, and thus he raises the question concerning the role of the Noahic covenant in shaping the ensuing toledot formula. He suggests that after the flood the narrowing no longer takes place through the death of human beings, but through divine promises which are made to Abraham and to Israel (though Moses). Thomas reasons that Ishmael and Esau are included in the toledot structure because they participate in God’s promise and are thus preserved in the segmented genealogy. The Sinai covenant is another decisive moment affecting the narrowing of focus. While the final toledot in Genesis (preSinai) focuses on the 12 sons of Jacob and the narrowing comes to an end (Gen 37:2–50:26), after the Sinai covenant Israel is preserved as a people who participate in the ongoing narrative, alongside the leadership of Aaron and Moses (Num 1–3).

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In the concluding chapter, Thomas summarizes his findings and suggests possible implications of his work along with topics for further research. Thomas’s detailed analysis of scholarship on the toledot formula is a helpful resource to have in one volume. His interaction with scholarship throughout his work, while covering familiar territory at times, reminds the reader of the variety of opinions espoused by scholars, and thus it provides the impetus and rationale for Thomas’s own research on the topic. His thesis that the syntactical variations of the formula indicate that five major headings form the macrostructure of Genesis is intriguing and worthy of further consideration. He contributes to scholarship through his exploration of the narrowing function of the toledot formula, which he extends beyond Genesis to consider the role of the toledot in the shaping the Pentateuch as a whole. Thomas’s view that the toledot formula in Num 3:1 narrows the focus to the cultic and civil leadership in Israel is an interesting suggestion. Yet his view that the list of leaders and the census list in Num 1 are comparable to the linear and segmented genealogies in Genesis is less convincing at times, particularly since the genealogies in Genesis have a clearly defined genre and context which may not be as analogous to the lists in Num 1 as Thomas suggests. Furthermore, while it is well-established that the toledot formula provides an important literary framework for the book of Genesis, one may well enquire whether the toledot formula has the same function in Numbers (notably occurring without the waw in Num 3:1), and whether it is significant enough to define the macrostructure of the Pentateuch. Thomas is to be commended for examining the toledot formula in the Pentateuch as a whole. Yet given that that the formula is employed in Ruth 4:18, where it introduces a ten-depth linear genealogy comparable to the linear genealogies in Genesis (5:1–32; 11:10–26), the question arises whether Ruth 4:18 ought to be examined in relation to the narrowing focus of the toledot formula. Thomas has examined the trajectory as far as the leadership of Aaron and Moses, but it might be of interest to consider Ruth 4:18 with its focus on the line of Judah and Davidic kingship. Perhaps this is a topic for further discussion, as Thomas himself suggests. There is much to be commended in Thomas’s book, and anyone interested in the macrostructure of Genesis and the Pentateuch will find it a worthwhile read.

Timothy H. Lim, and John J. Collins (eds.), THE OXFORD HANDBOOK OF THE DEAD SEA SCROLLS (OHRT; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). Pp. xx+768. Hardback. US$150.00. ISBN 9780199207237.

Reviewed by Eileen M. Schuller McMaster University Over one hundred volumes have now been published in the prestigious Oxford Handbook series and, not surprisingly, individual editors in the series have understood the goals and purposes of this series in different ways. In the Oxford Handbook of the Dead Sea Scrolls, editors Timothy Lim and John Collins explicitly lay out their objective on page 1: “to probe the main disputed areas in the study of the scrolls.” They acknowledge what has already been accomplished in earlier compendia that focused on broad surveys of new materials and on areas of agreement, in particular, The Dead

Sea Scrolls after Fifty Years: A Comprehensive Assessment and the Encyclopedia of the Dead Sea Scrolls,1 as well as collections that presented

the proceedings of various anniversary conferences (e.g., the 50th anniversary conference in Jerusalem, 1997; the 60th anniversary Jerusalem conference in 2008; the Ljubljana meeting of the IOQS in 2007). In light of what has already been done, Lim and Collins take up a specific challenge in their volume: “to reflect on diverse opinions and viewpoints, highlight the points of disagreement, and point to promising directions for future research” (p. 2). This volume needs to be read in terms of its self-defined goal. It is not an introduction to the scrolls nor is it a history of scholarship, although both elements play a considerable role in at least some of the essays. The volume presupposes an acquaintance with basic issues and controversies, though almost all the essays should be readily accessible to scholars who are non-specialists in a given topic. It is divided into eight sections, each with two to six entries, for a total of thirty essays; for the sake of convenience, the full list is included at the end of this review. Most of the titles are selfexplanatory and so the list gives a good indication of the scope of the 743

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volume. Each essay is followed by a bibliography preceded by a short section entitled “Suggested Reading”; although occasionally this is merely a list of items from the bibliography, in most cases the author makes a judicious selection of key works and adds succinct comments on the specific contribution of each, so that this section proves to be very helpful for the non-specialist reader. There is a text index and a name index but, unfortunately, no topic index. It is always revealing to look over the list of who is invited to write for a volume like this. The breadth of the contributors is wide and representative. The “giants” of the first generation of scrolls scholarship who were still writing for the 50th anniversary volumes (Cross, Sanders, Baumgarten, Fitzmyer) are not to be found here. Many of the essays are by those of the next generation who have established themselves as “the experts” on a given topic (e.g., Collins on Sectarian Communities, Vanderkam on Enoch, Brooke on New Testament, Newsom on Rhetorical Criticism). A few essays come from junior scholars (Zahn, Lambert) who are drawing largely on their doctoral dissertations. On two topics, the editors went outside the Qumran field to invite specialists: Albert de Jong, an expert in Zoroastrianism from Leiden University to write on “Iranian Connections,” and an attorney, Hector MacQueen, an expert in copyright law, for the final essay on “The Scrolls and the Legal Definition of Authorship.” The range of authors is international: England/British Isles is well represented (ten essays by scholars presently teaching there) as is the United States (eleven essays); there are three essays by Israeli scholars (four if Tal Ilan is counted here). Changes in the geography of Qumran scholarship are reflected by the inclusion of a scholar from the Nordic area (Jokiranta) and the fact that there are only two Germans (Lange and Frey, teaching now in Austria and Switzerland respectively) and no French scholar. Views of “the main disputed areas” are often summarized and discussed and the positions of some authors (e.g., Golb, Peleg) are frequently mentioned as being in this category, although such positions are not voiced by these scholars directly. The twenty-page introductory essay by Lim and Collins is insightful and helpful, but also a bit puzzling and at times frustrating. Certainly the Introduction can and should be read on its own as a careful and analytical summary of current research, supplemented by provocative hints about topics and questions that merit further work. Lim and Collins seem sometimes to be summarizing what follows in the rest of the book and sometimes to have a slightly different agenda and to be presenting an alternate survey. For example, they claim that “the fundamental question to be asked about the scrolls” is the question of “the nature of the collection” (p. 2), but there is no essay specifically on that particular topic and their

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discussion makes little reference to what is said about the collection in the volume itself. Often when they refer to a scholar by name, it is difficult to know whether reference is being made to an essay in the volume (since no internal page references are given) or to an article/book that is to be found in their bibliography. As Lim and Collins reflect on the book as a whole, they conclude that the “old consensus” that Qumran was a sectarian site occupied most probably by the Essenes is still held by most scholars, but that the focus of interest has shifted to the broader sectarian movement and its interaction with the Judaism of the day (pp. 15–16); there is less interest now in the implications of the scrolls for Christianity and more attention paid to their relationship with rabbinic Judaism, but still relatively little research on how they fit into the wider Hellenistic-Roman world. Although it is obviously impossible to examine all of the essays individually in this short review, a few can be highlighted as expressing “new” views or at least a more radical turn away from the “old consensus”: Martin Goodman’s proposal that “the Jews who produced the scrolls were indeed as much committed to the Jerusalem cult as other Jews” (p. 86); Michael Wise’s placement of the Teacher and his movement in the first century BCE, not the second century; and Sacha Stern’s claim that the calendar was not a polemical issue and does not appear “to have played a particular role in forging the Qumran community’s sectarian identity” (p. 250). Other essays take up issues that have emerged and become central to scrolls’ discussion over the last decade or so: for example, the presence and role of women in the sectarian community, a topic treated specifically by Tal Ilan but also peripherally by many other authors. Some essays are particularly strong in articulating questions and directions for future study, often in light of perceived inadequacies in present models and conceptualizations: for example, Jonathan Klawans’ proposal of an alternative model of “quasi-purity,” and the many challenging questions that Daniel Falk raises about literary models, historical development, function and ideology in the study of prayer and liturgy. Although ever since the 50th anniversary conferences in 1997 there have been repeated calls for integrating more diverse methodologies and for moving toward an interdisciplinary approach to scrolls research, there are only two relevant essays in the section entitled “New Approaches to the Scrolls,” (Carol Newsom and Maxine Grossman who both deal with literary approaches). Jutta Jokiranta’s article on sociological approaches could perhaps have come in this section as well, and there are brief acknowledgements of new approaches in other essays (e.g. Falk on Ritual Studies), but clearly this is a major area for future developments. While Lim and Collins’s final sentence that “little if anything is definitively settled in the study of the Dead Sea Scrolls” (p. 16) may be

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somewhat hyperbolic, they are certainly justified in their prediction that the scrolls are “likely to remain a source of vibrant debate for generations to come.” This volume will supply much of the framework and resources for this debate, and Lim and Collins along with the authors of individual articles are to be congratulated and thanked for their significant contribution to advancing the discussion.

APPENDIX: TABLE OF CONTENTS PART I: ARCHAEOLOGY OF KHIRBET QUMRAN AND THE JUDAEAN WILDERNESS Eric M. Meyers, “Khirbet Qumran and its Environs”; Rachel Hachili, “The Qumran Cemetery Reassessed.” PART II: THE SCROLLS AND JEWISH HISTORY Martin Goodman, “Constructing Ancient Judaism from the Scrolls”; Michael O. Wise, “The Origins and History of the Teacher's Movement”; Tal Ilan, “Women in Qumran and the Dead Sea Scrolls.” PART III: THE SCROLLS AND SECTARIANISM John J. Collins, “Sectarian Communities in the Dead Sea Scrolls”; Joan E. Taylor, “The Classical Sources on the Essenes and the Scrolls Communities”; Jutta Jokiranta, “Sociological Approaches to Qumran Sectarianism”; Sacha Stern, “Qumran Calendars and Sectarianism”; James C. VanderKam, “The Book of Enoch and the Qumran Scrolls.” PART IV: THE BIBLICAL TEXTS, INTERPRETATION AND LANGUAGES OF THE SCROLLS Ronald S. Hendel, “Assessing the Text-Critical Theories of the Hebrew Bible after Qumran”; Timothy H. Lim, “Authoritative Scriptures and the Dead Sea Scrolls”; Molly Zahn, “Rewritten Scripture”; Bilhah Nitzan, “The Continuity of Biblical Interpretation in the Qumran Scrolls and Rabbinic Literature”; Jan Joosten, “Hebrew, Aramaic and Greek in the Qumran Scrolls.” PART V: RELIGIOUS THEMES IN THE SCROLLS Jonathan Klawans, “Purity in the Dead Sea Scrolls”; Michael A. Knibb, “Apocalypticism and Messianism”; James R. Davila, “Exploring the Mystical Background of the Dead Sea Scrolls”; Armin Lange, “Wisdom Literature and Thought in the Dead Sea Scrolls”; Albert de Jong, “Iranian

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Connections in the Dead Sea Scrolls”; David Lambert, “Was the Dead Sea Sect a Penitential Movement?” PART VI: THE SCROLLS AND EARLY CHRISTIANITY Jörg Frey, “Critical Issues in the Investigation of the Scrolls and the New Testament”; Larry W. Hurtado, “Monotheism, Principal Angels and the Background of Christology”; George J. Brooke, “Shared Exegetical Traditions between the Scrolls and the New Testament.” PART VII: THE SCROLLS AND LATER JUDAISM Aharon Shemesh, “Halakhah between the Dead Sea Scrolls and Rabbinic Literature”; Daniel K. Falk, “The Contribution of the Qumran Scrolls to the Study of Ancient Jewish Liturgy”; Stefan C. Reif, “Reviewing the Links between the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Cairo Genizah.” PART VIII: NEW APPROACHES TO THE SCROLLS Carol. A. Newsom, “Rhetorical Criticism and the Reading of the Qumran Scrolls”; Maxine L. Grossman, “Roland Barthes and the Teacher of Righteousness: The Death of the Author of the Dead Sea Scrolls”; Hector L. MacQueen, “The Scrolls and the Legal Definition of Authorship.” 1 Peter W. Flint and James C. VanderKam, The Dead Sea Scrolls after Fifty Years: A Comprehensive Assessment (2 vols; Leiden: Brill, 1998); Lawrence H. Schiffman and James C. VanderKam, Encyclopedia of the Dead Sea Scrolls

(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000).

Paul M. Joyce and Andrew Mein (eds.), AFTER EZEKIEL: ESSAYS ON THE RECEPTION OF A DIFFICULT PROPHET (LHBOTS, 535; New York: T&T Clark, 2011). Pp. xvi + 282. Hardcover. US$130.00. ISBN 978-0-567-53369-2.

Reviewed by Risa Levitt Kohn San Diego State University This volume is a collection of papers assembled by Paul Joyce and Andrew Mein from the SBL section “Theological Perspectives on the Book of Ezekiel.” It contains fourteen articles that touch upon various aspects of the reception history of the prophetic book of Ezekiel with even-handed representation of Jewish, Christian, traditional, and more modern interpretations. John F. A. Sawyer provides a brief introduction to the place of reception history in the overall study of Ezekiel and the necessity for modern examinations of the prophet to look not just at the writings themselves, but also at the way in which these writings have been adopted, accepted, and interpreted in both Jewish and Christian traditions across time. While brief, his observations set the stage for the essays that follow. Marvin Sweeney examines the way in which authors of the Talmud interpreted the book, noting the well-known accounts that address the difficulty the rabbis reportedly had reconciling the contents of Ezekiel with (often contradictory) information found in the Torah. He also notes the way in which Ezekiel's more mystical issues were interpreted, leading the way—at least in early Judaism—to later mystical interpretations of the text. Gary Manning considers Ezekiel’s images of the dry bones, the shepherd, and the vine evidenced in the Gospel of John. Steve Moyise presents a compelling thesis illustrating the creative appropriation of several of Ezekiel’s key concepts in the book of Revelation. Robert Harris explores twelfth-century French rabbinic exegetical traditions with respect to Ezekiel. He suggests that rabbis from the peshat school, among them the likes of Rashi, Eliezer of Beugency, and Yosef Kara, read Ezekiel contextually and as a historical composition, which 748

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Harris sees as a radical departure from previous rabbinic interpretations of the text. Dalit Rom-Shiloni examines Jewish medieval exegesis of Ezekiel’s prophecies, specifically those lobbied against Jerusalem, suggesting that one can read into these interpretations the cultural milieu of the medieval interpreters themselves who were studying the texts in exile, longing for their own return to Zion. Margaret Odell studies twenty frescoes with motifs from the visions of Ezekiel, all dating to ca. 1151 CE and found in the church of St. Maria and St. Clements in Schwarzrheindorf. Odell sees these images as having been influenced by the commentary on Ezekiel composed at a nearby monastery at about the same time. Far from being simple artistic depictions of biblical scenes from the book, Odell sees in these images subtle support of a pro-Christian and anti-Jewish interpretation of the text. James Lara explores the use of Ezekiel among early missionaries in South America, whom he suggests used the book as a teaching tool to explain concepts important to the church but foreign to Mesoamerican thought. Andrew Mein examines the influence of Ezekiel in the works of Origen, Jerome, John Calvin, and William Greenhill, specifically with respect to Ezek 16 and its stance vis-à-vis women and gender roles. Steven Shawn Tuell looks at Ezek 9 and the story of the marking of the Jerusalemites, illustrating the way in which both the Talmud and the writings of John Calvin understand those who were marked not as those to be spared destruction (following traditional interpretations of the text), but rather as those marked to suffer destruction and remain faithful during their travails. William Tooman examines Cotton Mather’s Biblia Americana. Mather (1663–1778), a Puritan exegete, used various motifs from Ezekiel’s visions to interpret contemporary events, setting the stage for postEnlightenment confessional biblical interpretation. Christopher Rowland looks at the way in which Ezek 1 influenced William Blake’s writings and art. Rowland suggests that Blake saw himself as a modern-day prophet, not unlike Ezekiel, who moved between his own heavenly artistic visions and those he witnessed in his contemporary context. Dale Allison’s essay concludes the collection by exploring the writings of Louis Farrakhan and Elijah Mohammad, who liken Ezekiel’s chariot visions to UFO sightings that would ultimately destroy all whites, thus setting black people free. In all, this is an eclectic and interesting collection of essays that uses a wide variety of methodological approaches to examine the reception of

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Ezekiel from the period of early Judaism and Christianity to the present day. The volume as a whole does much to move forward discussion of the study of Ezekiel and the field of reception/history of interpretation in contemporary biblical studies

Megan Bishop Moore, and Brad E. Kelle, BIBLICAL HISTORY AND ISRAEL’S PAST: THE CHANGING STUDY OF THE BIBLE AND HISTORY (LHBOTS, 535; New York: T&T Clark, 2011). Pp. xvi + 282. Hardcover. US$130.00. ISBN 978-0-567-53369-2.

Reviewed by John Van Seters San Diego State University This book attempts to present recent changes in the understanding of biblical historiography (how the biblical writers constructed and presented their own “Israelite” history) and its relationship to a critical historical understanding of the region of Palestine during biblical times. This task is laid out in the broadest possible terms, so that every literary, archaeological, anthropological, sociological, and even theological aspect of the scholarly discussion is taken into consideration. The primary range for the survey of the modern historiographic changes is from the mid-20th century onwards, with the last few decades receiving the bulk of attention. This makes for a very challenging study, especially for the novice in biblical studies, and the study is equipped with various aids to help fill in gaps in background knowledge, as well as summaries and questions for tutorial discussion at the end of every chapter. Following an introduction outlining the book’s approach, the rest of the chapters are divided into the various periods of biblical history, beginning with the patriarchs and concluding in the post-exilic or Persian period. For each of these periods the major issues are laid out in a brief history of the scholarly debate from both the most critical “minimalist” to the corresponding “maximalist” acceptance of the Bible as a trustworthy source of historical information, as well as the conservative Christian defense of the Bible against all critical scholarship. For every period under

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review, the authors make abundant detailed reference to the archaeological data, its use in the scholarly debates, and the role this discipline has played in the great changes that have come about in biblical studies. This results in a large pool of documented sources, although the suggestions for further reading seem to reflect the authors’ own particular preferences. The book ends with an afterword, which is directed towards the devout student who is rather bewildered by this strange new way of studying the Bible; the book even suggests that perhaps he or she can have both their theologically or ideologically oriented “biblical history” and their secular history of ancient Palestine. This is an impressive volume put together by these two young scholars, and it is therefore hard to be too critical of their well-intentioned efforts. In some parts, such as the period of the two monarchies where the authors are clearly more at home within their own expertise, the text flows very well with little serious interruption in the historical reconstruction of this period and its relationship to the biblical text. It is here that the book best serves as a reference work, but this is also the part of biblical history that is the least controversial. Where the biblical history deals with those periods and personalities that are most tied up with Christian and Jewish faith and identity, such as the patriarchs, Moses and the exodus and wilderness period, and the reigns of David and Solomon, the lines of debate and the divisions have become very sharp and contested between “minimalists” and “maximalists.” It is here that the authors seem to be less helpful, as they mainly lay out a range of options from which the readers may pick and choose as it suits them. The ultimate criterion seems to be that of “plausibility,” which is hardly satisfactory. In this area of the early periods of biblical history, the authors also seem to be significantly weaker in the history of scholarship, closely paring the “Altians” with the “Albrightians,” when in fact there was a great deal of antagonism between the two, particularly from the side of Albright and Bright. The latter characterized Alt and Noth as “nihilists.” The authors also seem unaware of the rather strong stance that was taken against Thompson and me over our attack on the Albright position. Furthermore, the authors, Moore and Kelle, seem to feel under obligation to report in every chapter on the conservative Christian and Jewish “push-back” against current critical scholarship. While admitting that there has been little contribution to historical study of the Bible by this group, they leave the impression that this is a small and rather recent phenomenon, but it in fact has always been there and its effect has often been negative. Many conservative scholars were attracted to the Albright camp because they felt that they could use it as a base against the more liberal and critical European scholarship, and they resisted any change for a

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long time. This lack of perspective also applies to the authors’ remarks about biblical theology and history. They cite von Rad’s theology of 1957, but they fail to mention that the Heilsgeschichte theology came under attack in the late 60s and early 70s (Brevard Childs and H. H. Schmid), and that it has not been a serious factor in theological studies since then.1 In fact, the remarks about the subject of biblical theology and scholarship are rather superficial and hardly helpful. This brings me to another observation. The book tries to cover so many related subjects and issues in a piecemeal fashion that it loses its focus, namely, that of critical historical study. One area that does not receive enough attention is literary criticism and its relationship to historical research. The authors are more concerned about certain forms of literary criticism such as, e.g., “feminist criticism,” which tend to focus on the world beyond the text and have little to do with historical criticism. The few perfunctory remarks about Wellhausen and the Documentary Hypothesis do not seem to be aware of how far scholarship has moved from this classical position. The most glaring omission is the lack of any discussion about the rise of biblical historiography as such. The authors are quite happy to take over terms, such as the Deuteronomistic Historian, from German scholarship without any serious remarks about whether or not historians comparable to those of ancient Greece existed in ancient Israel, and when exactly such historiography arose. This important subject in German scholarship from Hermann Gunkel and Hugo Gressmann to Gerhard von Rad’s seminal articles on the Yahwist as historian in the Pentateuch (1938) and the beginnings of historical writing in ancient Israel (1944, with English translations in 1966), as well as Martin Noth’s two studies on the Pentateuch and Historical Books (both accessible in English), is completely ignored.2 The authors seem to have overlooked the fact that I have dealt at considerable length with this subject in In Search of History:

Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History

(1983), esp. pp. 209–248 and in Prologue to History: The Yahwist as Historian in Genesis (1992), esp. 8–44.3 This debate over the nature of biblical historiography is still basic to the discussion of both the Pentateuch and the historical books for historical study today. There are also some significant issues with presentation and format. Repetition in the book is so great that the number of pages could have been significantly reduced. The principles outlined in the introduction are repeated in slightly different form in virtually every chapter to the point of tedium, with an excessive number of summaries and conclusions within and at the end of every unit. This repetition may be geared to pedagogical use, but it seriously militates against a good read. Furthermore, the book’s narrative is constantly broken up in mid-sentence by great blocks of shaded

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material, which seem to correspond to the sidebars in popular journals. It would be much better to have these as endnotes with clear indicators in the body of the narrative at those points where such additional information would be helpful. The maps also have no clear relationship to the accompanying text and are problematic. For instance, the map of Physical Palestine (p. 97) appears to contain primarily Roman period names, mixed with earlier biblical period designations (e.g. Idumea and Edom). A similar chronological confusion appears in the map of the Assyrian Empire (p. 281) with Sumer in place of Babylonia, a serious anachronism. Likewise, the general index is inadequate for use as a reference work. While the size of the bibliography of works consulted is quite impressive, there are some rather surprising omissions. For instance, there is no reference at all to the excellent and highly acclaimed edited work of Jack M. Sasson, Civilizations of the Ancient Near East, which contains many of the finest articles on topics relevant to those discussed in this book.4 In conclusion, this book seems to be put together as a text for a general undergraduate introduction to Old Testament/Hebrew Bible studies, under the rubric of a biblical history course, but with everything else thrown in as well. It is particularly sensitive to those students coming from a conservative Christian background, with an effort to break them gently into a more critical study of the Bible. Some may find that a textbook such as this works for them in that environment. Others may view it as too unfocused and confusing for students new to the field of historical study. 1 G. von Rad, Theologie des Alten Testaments (2 vols.; Einführung in die evangelische Theologie, 1; München: Kaiser, 1958); B. S. Childs, Biblical Theology in Crisis (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1970); H. H. Schmid, Altorientalische Welt in der alttestamentlichen Theologie (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag, 1974). 2 H. Gunkel, “Die Geschichtsschreibung im A.T.,” RGG 2:1112–15; H. Gressmann, “The Oldest History Writing in Israel,” in D. M. Gunn (ed.), Narrative

and Novella in Samuel: Studies by Hugo Gressmann and Other Scholars 1906–23

(Sheffield: Almond, 1991), 9–58; G. von Rad, “The Beginnings of Historical Writing in Ancient Israel,” The Problem of the Hexateuch and Other Essays (New York: Oliver & Boyd, 1966), 166–204; M. Noth, The Deuteronomistic History (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1981). 3 J. Van Seters, In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History (New Haven: Yale University, 1983); idem, Prologue to History: The Yahwist as Historian in Genesis (Louisville: Westminister John Knox, 1992). 4 J. M. Sasson, ed., Civilizations of the Ancient Near East (4 vols.; New York: Scribner, 1995).

Chris Franke and Julia M. O’Brien (eds.), THE AESTHETICS OF VIOLENCE IN THE PROPHETS (LHBOTS, 517; New York: T&T Clark, 2010). Pp. xii + 187. US$120.00. ISBN 978-0-56754-811-5.

Reviewed by Joel Barker Heritage College and Seminary The Aesthetics of Violence in the Prophets is a collection of essays from

the 2006 meeting of the “Prophetic Texts and their Ancient Contexts” section of the Society of Biblical Literature. The assembled essays treat the theme of the aesthetics of violence in prophetic literature by employing a diverse array of methodologies and interdisciplinary linkages. In nine essays, the individual authors appeal to comparative ancient Near Eastern studies, film criticism, and gender studies, as well as various literary approaches, in their attempt to discuss how the prophetic corpus employs images and metaphors of violence. The editors note in the introduction that the occasioning incident for this study was the terrorist attack of September 11, 2001, which led them to address the question of how contemporary understandings of violence might benefit from the study of violent biblical prophetic texts (p. ix). The interplay of methodologies and approaches makes this volume a challenge to review since there is no unifying argument that underlies the entire book. The individual approaches to the overarching theme, however, are well worth discussing. Consequently, this review will comment on each of the individual essays before evaluating the work as a whole. Cynthia R. Chapman contributes the first essay, “Sculpted Warriors: Sexuality and the Sacred in the Depiction of Warfare in the Assyrian Palace Reliefs and in Ezekiel 23:14–17.” This essay is notable for its use of ancient Near Eastern comparative analysis, bringing Assyrian iconography into conversation with the biblical text. Chapman highlights the highly sexualized nature of violent imagery in the Assyrian context, where the representations attribute highly masculine characteristics to the king as conqueror, including images of how he, his weaponry, and the weapons of 754

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his proxies (Assyrian soldiers) “penetrate” the defeated foes. She uses this to examine Ezekiel’s depiction of the ravishing of Oholibah in Ezek 23, seeing how Jerusalem takes on the female role of the violated, while the controlling gaze sanctioning the attack is that of YHWH through Ezekiel, the prophetic intermediary. This essay effectively demonstrates how sexualized violence can represent power disparities between the parties. It also shows how prophetic metaphors of violence are at home in the social and cultural context of the ancient Near East. Robert D. Haak contributes the second essay, “Mapping Violence in the Prophets: Zephaniah 2.” This essay is notable for Haak’s acknowledgment of the role that his personal perspective plays in presenting the argument. His study reflects on the genre of oracles against nations and includes two ideas worth developing. First, he suggests that images of violence, whether in prophetic rhetoric or in contemporary speech, could actually reduce the level of actual violence by causing the audience to recoil if the image presented is sufficiently evocative. This argument is interesting, but one could easily assert the opposite: violent imagery targeted against a specific group also has the capacity to enflame actual violence. The second idea considers the idea of power more broadly. Haak notes the failure of powerful leaders, including the supposed “proper” king Josiah who seemed to fulfill the prophetic hope of a good locus of authority (p. 32). This leads the author to reflect widely on the history of placing prophetic hope in human leaders, which typically leads to disappointment and oppression. According to Haak, this failure should prompt biblical scholars to speak out against those who want to combine religious expectations with political structures. The following essay by Kathleen M. O’Connor considers the book of Jeremiah through a conversation with Trauma and Disaster Studies. In her essay, “Reclaiming Jeremiah’s Violence,” O’Connor suggests that the violent imagery of Jeremiah is part of a coping mechanism for a community experiencing disaster and dislocation. In effect, by using the most powerful imagery available, the text permits the victims to fully articulate the depths of their trauma and claim ownership over its effects. Texts such as Jer 13:20–27, which portray YHWH’s assault on Zion, allows the community to reclaim its voice by daring to speak the unspeakable back to God. She considers violent imagery as a “momentary stay against confusion” that tries to make sense of a desperate situation (p. 49). Overall, while finding words to utter amidst disaster may be a useful coping mechanism, it would also be important to pursue this insight to the next step to see if it is possible to get beyond violent imagery in the process of healing and recovery. The next essay comes from Carolyn J. Sharp, whose chapter addresses a flashpoint issue from the 2008 American Presidential election.

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Her essay is titled “Hewn by the Prophet: An Analysis of Violence and Sexual Transgression in Hosea with Reference to the Homiletical Aesthetic of Jeremiah Wright.” Sharp’s work brings together prophetic rhetorical technique and Rev. Jeremiah Wright’s now (in)famous “God damn America” sermon. Sharp highlights how the rhetoric of both texts works to dismember their audience’s identity, swept away by the wide array of violent images that cause the hearer to shudder and recoil. Once the hold of these flawed perspectives is broken, the audience can begin to respond in the way that the text suggests. Both Hosea’s portrayal of his implied audience as an adulterous woman or unloved child and Wright’s savage assault of the history of the American government’s attempt to shatter any countervailing myths force the audience to confront their misconceptions. This essay ably interacts with both Rev. Wright and the biblical text and provides some much needed context to Wright’s sermon, which typically is reduced to just its most provocative line. Daniel Smith-Christopher’s essay is entitled “On the Pleasures of Prophetic Judgment: Reading Micah 1:6 and 3:12 with Stokely Carmichael.” He examines Micah’s prophetic rhetoric in conversation with “Black Power” rhetoric and posits a significant level of connection between them. He suggests that Micah’s rhetoric regarding the economic situation has a subversive intent to empower a small group of dispossessed farmers, suggesting that they might rise up against a repressive elite. The power of Micah’s rhetoric corresponds to Stokely Carmichael’s challenge to the established political and social structure, seeking to subvert it and to announce the possibility of radical change. Violent images thus seek to destabilize oppressive power structures and allow competing voices to break through. Smith-Christopher’s argument is provocative and suggests the need for further reflection to see what other support one might find for his construal of the situation informing the rhetoric of Micah. Yvonne Sherwood contributes the next essay, which challenges what she understands is the domestication of the text in contemporary Western thought. Her paper, entitled “‘Tongue-Lashing’ Or a Prophetic Aesthetics of Violation: An Analysis of Prophetic Structures that Reverberate Beyond the Biblical World,” takes aim at what she calls the “Liberal Bible,” which is the notion that the Bible functions primarily as a representation of benign concepts such as justice, ethics, and morality. In this configuration, the violent expressions of the text fade into the background, leaving behind only the vague sense of the Bible as a (or the) good book. She also challenges the “Literary Bible,” which is the notion of the text as a wellconstructed whole that opens up space for responses from its readers and interlocutors. In response, Sherwood suggests paying closer attention to the relationship between prophetic metaphors of violence, especially the

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damage they inflict on the human body, and the identity of God as overwhelming, irresistible force. This permits the interpreter to see that the Bible ought not to be placed into the safe containers of the “Liberal,” or “Literary” Bibles, but instead the interpreter must grapple with the full impact of its images. Julia M. O’Brien’s essay is entitled “Violent Pictures, Violent Cultures? The ‘Aesthetics of Violence’ in Contemporary Film and in Ancient Prophetic Texts.” O’Brien explores the use of violence in movies, suggesting that “realistic” depictions of violence in movies are part of the movie’s persuasive force. She draws interesting comparisons between Saving Private Ryan and the book of Nahum, arguing that one needs to get beyond the initial shock of the violence to discover what message it intends to convey. The discussion of realism as persuasive technique also brings her to imagine how Nahum could operate in a social setting removed from the one that it immediately seems to indicate. She argues against the idea that the “realism” of Nahum’s violence provides a reason to believe that it is a product of the rhetorical situation that it describes. The question she leaves is for interpreters to consider what is the persuasive function of scenes of violence, pushing to go beyond description to engagement with the effect of such imagery. The penultimate paper comes from Corrine Carvalho, entitled “The Beauty of the Bloody God: The Divine Warrior in Prophetic Literature.” Carvalho, like Haak, makes a point of acknowledging personal interest in the topic that helps to shape her interpretation. Carvalho’s essay develops themes surrounding the allure of violent imagery, suggesting that they can possess an aesthetically beautiful quality. Carvalho wants to celebrate the beauty of the violence, suggesting that it does not need to be pushed into the service of some other, more tolerable purpose. This assertion is refreshing, since it effectively moves beyond an easy moralism and grapples with the allure of violent images upon their audiences. Ultimately, she asserts that the beauty of a God who is portrayed through violent images is that of a deity who is engaged in the situation of the world, not an impotent, passive onlooker. God, the Divine Warrior, is a powerful image because of the commitment that God displays when choosing to act. The final essay is that of Mary Mills, entitled “Divine Violence in the Book of Amos.” Mills draws from the horror genre to discuss the ways in which YHWH appears as a violent character within the prophetic presentation. Mills appeals especially to the genre of vampire studies to identify God as monstrous, responding to the monstrous city of Samaria that is draining away the life of its labouring underclass. In this way, Godas-vampire is the appropriate response to the city-as-vampire. This reaches its culmination in the declaration of Amos 7, where the prophet turns from

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being God’s spokesman to challenging God, only to be ultimately rebuffed, so that God stands as predator who will act against sinful Israel. This essay seems to conflate the categories of vampire and monster, which is slightly confusing since God’s predatory activities described here do not necessarily seem to fit the idea of vampiric draining. Overall, however, the dialogue with horror categories yields results worthy of further pursuit. In summary, the nine essays that comprise this book all bring unique perspectives to bear on the rather broad topic of violence in prophetic literature. The methodological multiplicity renders the work rather jarring since the reader has to consistently reorient her perspective and understanding of the authors’ presuppositions. This book is unified, however, by the “interested” stance that the contributors take, allowing the voices of the authors to be heard alongside the words of the biblical text and various interdisciplinary dialogue partners. The audience of this book will be limited to those who have capabilities in multiple disciplines or who are willing to expand the horizon of the approaches they bring to the study of prophetic literature. As a highly technical collection of studies into prophetic imagery, this book does provide a voice for new and engaging studies into the image-world of the biblical prophets.

Myrto Theocharous, LEXICAL DEPENDENCE AND INTERTEXTUAL ALLUSION IN THE SEPTUAGINT OF THE TWELVE PROPHETS: STUDIES IN HOSEA, AMOS AND MICAH (LHBOTS, 570; London: T&T Clark, 2012). Pp. xvi + 292. Hardcover. US$130.00. ISBN 978-0-567-10564-6.

Reviewed by W. Edward Glenny Northwestern College This book was a doctoral dissertation written under the mentorship of Robert Gordon at Cambridge University and examined by Jennifer M. Dines and Sebastian P. Brock. Chapter one is an introduction to intertextuality and the Septuagint Twelve Prophets (LXX TP), with some concluding methodological observations. In this chapter the author is clear

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that the purpose of this intertextual study is not to restore the Hebrew text; rather it focuses on the translator and his intertextual matrix in order to draw conclusions concerning the interpretation of the biblical text in the circles of the translator. Accordingly, the author states, “the aim of this study is to cover the broad intertextual spectrum, examining all manifestations of influence on the Septuagint of the TP, ranging from lexical sourcing to intertextual allusions” (p. 20). Although the emphasis of the study is Hosea, Amos, and Micah, Theocharous believes her findings may have validity for the rest of the LXX TP, since it is generally believed that one translator was responsible for the translation of all twelve books. In chapter two (“Lexical Sourcing: Was the Greek Pentateuch Used as a Lexicon by the Greek Translator of the Twelve Prophets?”), Theocharous focuses on Emanuel Tov’s proposal that the vocabulary of the Greek Pentateuch served as a lexicon for the translators of later books, especially when they could find help there for the translation of difficult words. Tov also proposed that the contents of the Greek Pentateuch influenced the translators’ wording at the exegetical level and in references to the Pentateuch in the books they were translating. Theocharous evaluates the vocabulary of the LXX TP to see if Tov’s theory holds true and if there is a demonstrable influence from the LXX Pentateuch on the LXX TP. She divides the words she studies into four categories: (1) neologisms, (2) Greek words with a “forced meaning,” (3) etymologizing, and (4) suitable Greek equivalents available in a Hellenistic culture (p. 27). She finds that similarities in the Greek of the Pentateuch and TP can generally be explained by the access translators of both corpora had to readily available equivalents in their common Hellenistic milieu. In most cases the Greek vocabulary peculiar to these two bodies of literature had probably appeared in the Jewish community before LXX Pentateuch was written down, and thus the translator of LXX TP probably adopted this vocabulary from oral traditions, not from the written translations. This chapter also demonstrates “the translator’s familiarity with the language and literary conventions of the Hellenistic period” (p. 241). Theocharous explains that chapter three (“Standard Translations”) addresses “pre-existing, familiar, formulaic expressions that have become part of the religious jargon of the Greek translator and have their origin in a text other than the one being translated” (p. 67). In each case that she considers, the translator deviates from his Hebrew Vorlage and uses an expression known from other biblical passages. She has three examples: Hos 4:13, Hos 5:11, and a similar expression in Mic 1:6 and 3:12 describing Samaria and Jerusalem. She argues that in such cases the translator was familiar with the Greek expressions in question and may not have borrowed them from the original text containing the expression. Instead, he may have

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taken these common expressions from a secondary source or from common oral usage. His freedom to bring such stock expressions into his text rather than rendering literally the Hebrew shows he understood there to be a thematic unity between different texts that share similar language. Chapter four (“Catchword Connections”) is the longest chapter in the book; in it Theocharous aims to understand how the translator of LXX TP allowed some significant words to function as catchwords that generated for him a connection with other biblical texts containing the same words or phrases. Such reading of texts is similar to the rabbinic technique of gezerah shavah, which is rooted in the conviction that verses throughout the Tanakh are intrinsically related to each other and can shed interpretive light on each other. The passages that are examined in this chapter indicate that the Greek translator sometimes employed catchwords and their related biblical passages to understand his source text. However, in some other cases his renderings can be explained as arising from his employment of other tools, such as “contextual exegesis, appeal to PostBiblical Hebrew/Aramaic nuances for Classical Hebrew words, appropriation of imagery to Greek literary conventions, or, alternatively, from the existence of a different Hebrew Vorlage” (p. 109). In chapter five (“Non-Catchword Allusions”), Theocharous investigates the intertextual phenomena of allusions to specific biblical stories, events, and characters. These allusions were not triggered by shared catchwords, as the examples in the previous chapter were. But the influence of the intertext is strong enough in these cases for the translator to “manipulate” his Hebrew source text in order to “import” traces of the intertext into his translation (p. 242). Furthermore, the examples in this chapter are important because they give a glimpse of stories and traditions that were of special interest to the translator, and a couple of them “open up a window into the translator’s attitude to prophecy and to eschatological expectations current in his time” (p. 242). At the end of the book, based on her summary of the chapters, Theocharous makes further observations on the translator of LXX TP and his approach to the biblical text. She divides these observations into two sections: (1) “Attitude to the Text” and (2) “Translator’s Intellectual Status.” In the first section, she observes that her study justifies the commonly held assumption that the translator of LXX TP worked from a text that belonged to the same family as the MT. Also, the translator was not tied to the consonantal text and the word order in his source text, but neither did he ignore it. His normal practice was somewhere in the middle, which gave him a degree of freedom. His ingenuity, which is observed where he deviates from his source, does not mean he took the source text lightly; rather such deviation indicates his “concern that the full sense of the

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text be understood by his audience” (p. 242). In the second section of final observations, “Translator’s Intellectual Status,” Theocharous observes that the intertextuality she studied reveals the translator’s broad knowledge of the Hebrew text and various interpretations of it. The majority of new forms of intertextuality the translator introduced can be explained solely on the basis of his familiarity with the Hebrew text, and clear influence from the Greek versions is rarely detectable. Finally, some of the techniques and methods the translator employed are similar to the techniques attested at Alexandria and Qumran and later employed by the rabbis. There is one appendix—“Numbers 24:7 and the Extra-Biblical Gog Tradition”—and the book concludes with a Bibliography, an Index of References, and an Index of Authors. The first four chapters do not have summaries of their contents at the end of them, and the book would be easier to use if they did. There are summaries of all the chapters at the end of the book. This is a valuable book for anyone working in the Twelve Prophets, especially in the Septuagint, and specifically in Hosea, Amos, and Micah. The author’s discussion of the words and verses that she uses for examples is rich and deep. Also, she has contributed to the understanding of the linguistic and literary competence of the translator of the Twelve Prophets, as well as his working methods. As such, Myrto Theocharous has made an important contribution to the study of intertextuality in the Septuagint and especially in the Twelve Prophets. Anyone interested in intertextuality or Septuagint studies should consider reading this book.

Joel S. Baden, THE COMPOSITION OF THE PENTATEUCH. RENEWING THE DOCUMENTARY HYPOTHESIS (New Haven/London: Yale University Press, 2012). Pp. x + 378. Hardcover. US$65.00. ISBN 978-0-300-15263-0.

Reviewed by Mark A. O’Brien McMaster Divinity College Joel Baden’s book on “Renewing the Documentary Hypothesis” is, in a sense, a “return to the sources.” The “sources” in this case are the

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contradictions, doublets, and discontinuities that Reformation scholars discovered in their close reading of the Pentateuchal narrative (pp. 16–19). These contain competing historical claims about events, characters, names, etc. Yet they are part of the Pentateuchal storyline that runs from creation in Genesis to Israel camped on the edge of the land in Deuteronomy. According to Baden, these scholars identified the primary criteria on which a theory of the composition of the Pentateuch should be based: “When the Pentateuch is read with a careful eye toward the narrative inconsistencies and continuities alike, the individual fragments coalesce into four strands or sources, each of which is internally consistent, and markedly distinct, in its historical claims” (p. 20). Subsequent advocates of the Documentary Hypothesis tended to focus on stylistic and terminological differences (e.g. the divine names), theme, and theology, but these are secondary considerations; the primary consideration is the narrative’s plot (p. 29). Those who reject the Documentary Hypothesis on the basis of form-critical and redactional analyses are, according to Baden, putting the cart before the horse in a different way. The “smallest literary unit” identified by form criticism becomes the point of departure for compositional analysis rather than the present text (p. 55). But it is the historical claims of a narrative that are intrinsic to it, whereas the units identified by form criticism are an application of theories of genre and structure—an “abstract construction” (p. 51). According to Baden’s assessment, much subsequent Pentateuchal analysis has lost sight of the fundamental features of the text. Once one accepts these features as fundamental, their most persuasive explanation, according to Baden, is the Documentary Hypothesis. In the “Introduction,” the book commences with a consideration of various attempts to explain the contradictions and inconsistencies in Gen 37:18–36 and their limitations. This constitutes a “case study” and a justification for the analysis that follows. The bulk of the book follows a consistent pattern, in which each chapter is devoted to an aspect of the hypothesis, followed by an appropriate case study. In chapter one, Baden outlines his understanding of the hypothesis and illustrates it by further examination of Gen 37:18–36. Chapter two addresses the criterion of continuity in a source, focusing on J with Num 11 as a case study. Chapter three examines the criterion of coherence as applied to E, with Num 16 as a case study. The focus of chapter four is Deuteronomy; its function in relation to the narrative sources is described by Baden as one of “complementarity.” The criterion of completeness is then tested in chapter five in relation to the Priestly (P) source because of the debate about whether it is a source (complete) or a redactional layer; Exodus 14 is selected as a case study. In chapter six, Baden presents his theory of a single compiler of the four sources and his understanding of how this compiler

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operated. The relevant case study here is Gen 35. The book ends with a conclusion, followed by extensive endnotes, a bibliography, and indexes of authors and biblical texts. This is an impressive and well-argued book, and one can only be grateful to Baden for writing what is sure to stimulate a lively response. It needs to be remembered, of course, that this is his particular understanding of the hypothesis. Namely, the texts that he assigns to the sources are not the same as those identified by other proponents of the Documentary Hypothesis. This is not a criticism, merely an observation about the limitations inherent to this type of scholarly endeavour, of which Baden himself is well aware (p. 67). The questions and criticisms that I would like to briefly outline may not therefore apply to other versions of the hypothesis. Baden is insistent that the analysis of sources must be a literary study; whatever traditions may lie behind each source, the compiler worked exclusively with and on written documents. Consideration of oral traditions continuing alongside the written works and a certain cross fertilization between oral and written is ruled out at the level of sources. However, given the evidence for such interaction that has been assembled recently by scholars such as David Carr, Baden’s stance strikes me as one-sided. This is reflected in his critique of the hypothesis advanced by Campbell and myself that the text preserves variant ways of telling a story in oral performance (p. 11).1 Given the lively relationship between written text and oral tradition uncovered by Carr and others, such variants would not have been a problem for ancient readers and users, even though they may be for modern ones. I also have some questions about Baden’s application of the continuity criterion, especially in the case of two sections of his J text. One is the Sinai theophany and covenant. Baden identifies Exod 33:1–3 as the continuation of J after 24:1–2, 9–11, relating the meal before YHWH on Mount Sinai (pp. 77–78). In 33:1–3 Moses is informed that God will not go up with the “stiff-necked” people, otherwise God would consume them on the way. One could agree with Baden that there is continuity between Exod 33:1–3 and the people’s complaining in Exod 15, 16, and 17, although it necessitates placing a lot of weight on a verse (Exod 17:7) whose meaning he admits is ambiguous (pp. 275–6, n. 124). However it is difficult to accept direct continuity between the very positive scene in 24:1–2, 9–11 and 33:1– 3. The second question concerns the continuation of Baden’s J source beyond its version of the spy story in Num 13–14 (pp. 80–81). In 14:20–24 God swears that the entire exodus generation, with the exception of Caleb, will perish in the wilderness. The next episode in the source is the

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successful war against king Arad in 21:1–3, which is followed by the itinerary in 21:16–20 and Israel’s arrival at Mount Pisgah in Moab. At this point Baden states, “There is nothing left but to enter the land” (p. 81); then Moses blesses Israel (Deut 33, which belongs to J according to Baden) before he dies (Deut 34:1–4*, 5*, 6, which form J’s account of Moses’s death). It must be noted, however, that this rousing end to Baden’s J stands in contradiction with the divine oath in Num 14:20–24. Baden accuses the “European Approach” of circular reasoning in its identification of the smallest literary units (p. 58). But he also seems to engage in circular argumentation in his understanding of the compiler as “a preservationist” (p. 224), rather than a redactor with a theological agenda. He argues that, “Every time we assign a bit of a text to a redactor, we run the risk of having taken part of the literary work of a genuine author, whose words and work are well established, and given it to a considerably more nebulous figure who owes his existence solely to the theory” (p. 215). But the authors of the sources are surely as much constructions of the hypothesis as any redactor or compiler. A final query concerns Baden’s assertion that any indication of theological intention in the compiler’s work needs to be demonstrated, not assumed (p. 227). This is fair enough but, in my judgement, he overlooks the theological implications in the compiler's relocation of Num 11:11–12, 14–17, 24–30 (E) from its original setting at Mount Sinai to a point three days’ journey away (10:33). In this new location it becomes part of a series of murmuring in the wilderness stories. In the present text these combine with the murmuring stories of Exod 15–17 to form a frame—a “before” and “after”—around the Sinai covenant. Whether or not one agrees with Baden’s bold and challenging conclusions, the evidence he assembles and his knowledge of the literature in the field ensures that his book will become a reference point for further debate about the composition of the Pentateuch. 1 David M. Carr, Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005); Antony F. Campbell and Mark

A. O'Brien, Rethinking the Pentateuch. Prolegomena to the Theology of Ancient Israel (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2005).

Bo H. Lim, THE ‘WAY OF THE LORD’ IN THE BOOK OF ISAIAH (LHBOT, 522; London/New York: T & T Clark, 2010). Pp. 224. Hardcover. US$110.00. ISBN 9780567027634.

Reviewed by Kevin Chau University of Free State (South Africa) Bo Lim’s study is an extensive examination of the motif of the way of the LORD (WOL) in the book of Isaiah. Upon re-evaluation of Walther Zimmerli’s proposal that Trito-Isaiah reinterpreted Deutero-Isaiah’s motif of the “way” upon which the exiles returned to Judah (Isa 40:1–11 being the prime example) as an ethical, religious way of living for the LORD, Lim argues that the WOL is semantically homogenous throughout the book of Isaiah. He understands the WOL as a metaphorical way of living obediently to God, a figurative way upon which God’s people reach their ultimate salvation (i.e., eschatological), and the way through the transformed wilderness of the New Exodus. Lim’s methodology incorporates innerbiblical exegesis, aspects of Israelite religion, metaphor and typology, myth, and eschatology. In order to show the homogeneity of the WOL throughout the different compositional phases of Isaiah, he examines the motif as it appears in Deutero-Isaiah, Trito-Isaiah, Isa 34–35, and the New Testament. While Lim’s commanding knowledge of the critical issues for both the book of Isaiah and the motif of the WOL will benefit readers, in this reviewer’s opinion many of his analyses tend nonetheless to be either overstated or unpersuasive. To begin with, most readers will have difficulty with the way in which Lim interprets Isa 40:3–4, his core passage for reading the WOL as a metaphor for obedience (pp. 64–68). For the bicola of vv. 4a–b, Lim decouples the merism of the phrases “let every valley be lifted up” (‫איג לכ‬ ‫ )אשני‬and “let every hill and mountain be laid low” (‫)ולפשי העבגו רה לכ‬. He argues that v. 4a describes the exilic community’s forgiveness by noting that (1) ‫ אשנ‬may denote “to forgive”, (2) the noun ‫ איג‬alludes to the oracle against the Valley of Vision (i.e., Jerusalem; Isa 22:1), and (3) the noun ‫ איג‬is often associated with death (Deut 34:6; Ps 23:4). Since Lim understands the Valley of Vision as a place of death without forgiveness of sin (Isa 22:14), 765

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he proposes that v. 4a is a reversal of Jerusalem’s judgment. In a completely different scenario, he proposes that v. 4b is a metaphor for God humbling the proud. Thus, the call to prepare the way of the LORD (v. 3) in conjunction with v. 4b forms an injunction for the exilic community to walk obediently in God’s commands. Lim’s exegesis is unconvincing due to his insubstantial lexical arguments and somewhat reductionistic analysis of metaphors. The noun ‫ איג‬is hardly associated with death with respect to the Hebrew Bible.1 The use of ‫ איג‬as an allusion to the oracle of the Valley of Vision is tenuous since the raised valleys of the WOL are in the desert whereas the Valley of Vision is equated with Jerusalem. While Lim is correct that mountains and hills frequently serve as symbols for pride in Isaiah, he fails to account for the key difference in the imagery of Isa 40:4, where leveled mountains appear in parallel with lifted valleys. While Lim notes the pervasive metaphor of walking in God’s way/law in the Hebrew Bible, he inaccurately equates Isa 40:3 with this metaphor. The metaphor of walking in God’s way/law portrays the faithful walking on God’s straight way as opposed to Isa 40:3, a passage in which the people construct a straight way for the LORD to return to Zion (Isa 40:10). Many readers will also have difficulty accepting his reading of the metaphor of the “ethical way” in other WOL passages (e.g., Isa 35:8; 57:14; and 62:10–12). While Lim is correct to note that Deutero-Isaiah certainly contains WOL passages that possess this metaphor of the “ethical way” (e.g., Isa 48:17), he unnecessarily reads this metaphor into other passages. Lim identifies two main themes in the imagery of the transformed desert: the desert as primordial foe and the transformed desert as God’s transformed people. Lim builds upon Clifford’s hypothesis according to which the desert of the WOL is portrayed as a primordial foe that God defeats similar to the primordial sea in the tradition of the Egyptian exodus.2 Lim argues that the creation of the way through the desert, which includes the transformation of the desert itself, represents the divine warrior’s victory over the primordial chaos that is represented by the desert (pp. 58–61). While the imagery of God’s creation of a way through the transformed desert can be considered a “victory” over the desert, Lim fails to offer any passages in which the desert, like the primordial sea, is engaged in combat with God, the divine warrior. Ultimately, Lim’s arguments for the desert as a primordial, mythic foe of chaos are unconvincing. The same can generally be said regarding his arguments for interpreting the metaphor of the transformation of the desert wilderness as the people’s transformation. Although this reading may apply to a few passages, such as Isa 44:3, in most instances it seems problematic. In Isa 41:17–20, it is not clear how the people can at once be thirsting in the desert and also be the

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metaphorical desert that God fills with water in order to quench the people (pp. 53–54). For Isa 35:1–7, Lim relies upon the peculiar argument that since the desert cannot literally see God’s glory (v. 2), the desert must be a metaphor for the people (p. 151). Although Lim describes how he incorporates metaphor into his methodology, he curiously makes no allowance for how Isa 35:1–2 may just be a personification of nature (cf. Isa 55:12). Lim’s identification of the WOL as an eschatological way in Isa 35 and 62:10–12 is not debated, but his assessment of the WOL as an eschatological way throughout Deutero-Isaiah is difficult to substantiate. Lim’s argument for how Isa 55 begins a shift toward understanding the WOL as eschatological in Trito-Isaiah is helpful, but he unnecessarily argues that the WOL was intended as eschatological throughout DeuteroIsaiah. Regardless of whether the imagery of Isa 55:12–13 denotes a new creation and/or a reversal of Eden’s curse,3 Lim’s argument for how this imagery substantiates that the New Exodus of the WOL “all along (i.e., Deutero-Isaiah) possessed an eschatological quality” (p. 100) is difficult to evaluate. Lim makes a good case for how this shift toward an eschatological way may cause a re-reading of previous passages in Deutero-Isaiah, but it is an entirely different matter to argue that this eschatological motif was there all along. In his concluding chapter, Lim surveys how the New Testament interprets the WOL as an ethical and eschatological way. He provides a very helpful overview and critique of how the motif of the WOL organizes and structures the gospels and Acts. He argues that the New Testament does not re-interpret the WOL, but rather, its ethical and eschatological understanding of the WOL is consistent with how the WOL was originally portrayed in Isaiah. However, Lim’s arguments fail to explain whether the New Testament utilizes passages like Isa 40:3 because the verse is iconic for the tradition of the WOL, which contains eschatological and metaphorical aspects, or because Isa 40:3 itself has eschatological and metaphorical connotations. While these critiques of Lim’s examples show the major difficulties with Lim’s thesis, he is correct to argue that the WOL as a whole carries sub-themes of eschatology, obedient “walking” with God, and the imagery of the wilderness’s transformation. This is not to say, however, that every usage of the WOL motif in the book of Isaiah must communicate all these sub-themes. Just as the Exodus tradition may be evoked to denote Egyptian oppression, deliverance, Israelite rebellion, or God’s covenant with Israel, not every usage must denote all these elements; similarly, the WOL could be used to denote a selection of its multiple sub-themes. In spite of these issues, Lim has made an important contribution to Isaianic scholarship by

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researching how the motif of the WOL among its different compositional stages is more semantically fluid than what Zimmerli originally proposed. Moreover, Deut 34:6 is hardly a supporting example since it only states that Moses died in a valley. As a result, among the numerous occurrences of ‫איג‬, Lim is left with a sole example. 2 Richard Clifford, “The Unity of the Book of Isaiah and Its Cosmogonic Language,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 55 (1993), 1–17, here p. 8. 3 It is equally possible to argue that the imagery only describes the revivification of the neglected and damaged land that resulted from the Babylonian incursions. 1

Assnat Bartor, READING LAW AS NARRATIVE: A STUDY IN THE CASUISTIC LAWS OF THE PENTATEUCH (SBLAIL, 5; Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature; Leiden: Brill, 2010). Pp. 219. Hardcover. US$138.00. ISBN 978-9-004-17800-7. Paperback. US$27.96. ISBN 978-1-5893-480-4.

Reviewed by Jonathan Vroom University of Toronto This volume, written by a biblical scholar who is also a criminal attorney, presents a novel method for reading the Pentateuch’s legal texts. Although one might expect Assnat Bartor to offer a more legal approach, as other legally trained scholars like Bernard Jackson, Raymond Westbrook, or David Daube have done, this is not the case. Rather, Bartor offers a literary reading that demonstrates the “poetics of biblical law” (pp. 5, 14). Although her approach finds its roots in the “law as literature” trend in legal scholarship (a branch of the more broad “law and literature” school), legal theorists tend to be interested in literary theory only to the extent that it illuminates the role of hermeneutics (deriving meaning from the language of a text) for legal methodology.1 Bartor’s narrative method, on the other hand, is concerned with the “nonlegal terrain in the margins of the laws” (p. 183). By treating the casuistic laws of the Pentateuch as “miniature stories” (pp. 7–9), which are embedded in a larger narrative (ch. 1), she is able to apply categories from the field of narrative criticism to biblical law. In the

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end, her approach is much more in line with studies on the poetics of biblical narrative than it is with any legal methodology: “Many earlier studies have been devoted to the poetics of biblical narrative and poetry. It is now time to deal thoroughly and systematically with the poetics of biblical law” (p. 14). Bartor provides an effective approach for accomplishing this goal. After she lays out her methodology in the introduction and first chapter, the bulk of the book identifies various narrative and rhetorical features employed in a selection of laws among the Pentateuch’s legal corpora. In chapter two, she views the law-giver (of each law she examines) as a narrator by examining them according to two categories that are often applied to narrators. The first category is the law-giver/narrator’s participation in the events described in each law. For example, whenever the law-giver uses a first or second person reference (such as “you shall take him from my altar, that he may die” [Exod 21:14]), he is participating in the “narrative” events being prescribed. The second category is the lawgiver/narrator’s perceptibility in the law. This refers to instances when the law-giver reveals his own thoughts or responses to the law’s contents. For example, the law-giver is perceptible in the concluding statements in the Priestly laws on skin infections (Lev 14:54–57) because it reveals “a guiding hand that teaches us how to process the material” (p. 79). Bartor concludes that all the instances in which the narrator/law-giver is present and perceptible “permit the addressees to experience the presence and engagement of the lawgivers” (p. 84). In the third chapter Bartor focuses on another feature that pentateuchal laws share with narratives: mimesis. Specifically, she examines the manner in which reality is reflected in the depiction of characters’ speeches. For example, in the case of the spurned wife (Deut 22:13–19), Bartor highlights the speeches of the husband (v. 14) and the spurned woman’s father (vv. 16–17). She reasons that since these speeches are not necessary for the legal content of the law (the law-giver could have simply described the situation rather than put words in the characters’ mouths) it can be concluded that their “purpose is to evoke the presence of the reader within the events—to allow the reader to take part in the perspectival colloquium, to hear the different voices, and to become exposed to the different points of view” (p. 105). In the fourth chapter Bartor examines the ways in which the lawgivers depict the inner psychic life of the characters, which “is one of the central tools of literary characterization and, as such, plays an important role in the poetics of narrative” (p. 134). For example, in Deuteronomy’s homicide law (Deut 19:4–13), Bartor notes the significance of the fact that the law-giver includes the blood avenger’s emotional state: he pursues the

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unintentional manslayer in “hot anger” (pp. 138–9). Finally, in chapter five Bartor highlights another narrative feature of the Pentateuch’s casuistic laws: point of view. Here, she notes instances where the law reflects multiple perspectives. For example, in the law of the scorned woman, the narrator took pains to identify her according to the point of view of each character’s “angle of vision.” The husband refers to her as “this woman” (v. 14) and the narrator refers to her as a “woman/wife” in relation to the husband (v. 13). Similarly, the father refers to her as “my daughter” (vv. 16– 17) and the narrator refers to her as “young woman” (v. 15, 16, 19, 21) in relation to the father. Additionally, the narrator refers to her as a “virgin of Israel” in relation to the elders who are accorded the responsibility of punishing the accusing husband (v. 19). Bartor describes such instances of changes in point of view as “a rhetorical device that allows the narrator to paint human experience in different and variable colors” (p. 164). There is much to commend in this book. Bartor effectively highlights many unnoticed (or at least under-noticed) poetic features of pentateuchal law that are important for our understanding of these complicated texts. However, it should be noted that at times Bartor seems over-zealous in her search for “non-legal” poetic features in the laws. For example, she regards a husband’s use of the word “hate” (‫ )אנש‬towards his wife in Deuteronomy’s family laws (Deut 21:15; 22:13; 24:3) as a reflection of the characters’ inner psychic life (pp. 142–3). As reflected in the (non-literary) marriage contracts from Elephantine, however, there is good reason to believe that ‫ אנש‬was a technical term for divorce, not a poetic means of reflecting a character’s emotional state.2 Similarly, she identifies “analogical extensions” (notably discussed by Michael Fishbane)3 as instances where the law-giver/narrator’s response and intervention in the law is perceptible. For example, the law of lost property (Deut 22:1–4) initially applies to sheep and oxen (v. 1), but is “analogically” extended to include donkeys, cloaks, and any lost thing (v. 3). She argues that this extension is an instance when the law-giver responds to a deficiency in the original law, and thus reveals his response to the material (p. 75). One of the essential features of legal language, however, is its need to be both broad on the one hand and precise on the other; legal literature is necessarily filled with broad/vague terms as well as lists of specific items.4 It thus seems more likely that such analogical extensions serve a legal, rather than a poetic function. In fact, generally speaking, since Bartor consistently sought to distinguish the poetic features of the law from its legal content, the book would have benefitted from a discussion on the nature of legal language.5 Despite any over-zeal in finding poetic features in pentateuchal law, however, much of what Bartor discusses is spot-on and very illuminating. The book offers an insightful and innovative approach to these difficult

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texts, an approach which is very productive and will surely continue to be so in future studies on the poetics of biblical literature. 1 See Thomas Morawetz, “Law and Literature,” in Dennis M. Patterson (ed.), A Companion to Philosophy of Law and Legal Theory (Malden: Wiley-Blackwell,

2010), 446–56 (448). 2 See, for example, Bob Becking, Ezra, Nehemiah, and the Construction of Early Jewish Identity (FAT, 80; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 136. 3 Michael A. Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel (Oxford: Clarendon, 1988), 170–98. 4 See, for example, Vijay K. Bhatia et al., “Introduction,” in Vijay K. Bhatia et al. (eds.), Vagueness in Normative Texts (Berlin: Peter Lang, 2005), 9–21 (10); and Peter M. Tiersma, “Categorial Lists in the Law,” in ibid., 109–30 (112–13). 5 The work of Peter Tiersma would have provided a good starting point (Legal Language [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999]).

Antonion Finitsis, VISIONS AND ESCHATOLOGY: A SOCIOHISTORICAL ANALYSIS OF ZECHARIAH 1–6 (LSTS, 79; New York/London: T & T Clark, 2011). Pp. 208. Hardcover. US$110.00. ISBN 978-0-567-43098-4.

Reviewed by Wolter H. Rose Theological University, Kampen, The Netherlands In this book, based upon his Ph.D. thesis (University of Chicago, 2007; supervised by John J. Collins and co-directed by David Schloen), Antonios Finitsis proposes a new category to describe the eschatology of Zech 1–6: “restoration eschatology,” an innovative type of eschatological thinking in which the eschaton is brought to the present. Restoration eschatology is different from both apocalypticism and millennialism. In the introductory chapter Finitsis challenges the assumption of a genetic relationship between prophecy and apocalypticism and introduces both his main conversation partners (Plöger, Hanson, and Cook) and the two areas of interest in the book: the sociological context of Zechariah and the visionary method he uses to express his ideas.

772

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Chapter two deals with the relationship between prophecy and apocalypticism. Finitsis uses a broad definition of the category of “eschatological,” which he defines as “the whole spectrum of ideas that describe ‘the end’; those that regard it as a shift and/or transition that is supposed to take place in the near future and those that consider it a terminal point” (p. 7–8). Within the realm of eschatology he distinguishes between preexilic prophetic eschatology and postexilic prophetic eschatology, contrasting the latter with proto-apocalyptic eschatology and apocalyptic eschatology, the latter notion introducing the notion of a final judgment after the resurrection of the dead. In chapter three Finitsis evaluates the different proposals for the social settings offered by scholars to explain the relationship between prophecy and apocalypticism. Here he engages a critical discussion of the contributions of three scholarly proposals: Plöger’s ideas of the emergence of a theocracy during the Second Temple period and the conflict between the priestly and prophetic tradition; Hanson’s theory of a conflict between visionaries and hierocrats in the postexilic period; and, more briefly, Cook’s argument that proto-apocalyptic texts may be produced by authors or redactors who are in a position of power rather than living on the periphery of a society.1 He concludes that “we cannot lose sight of the particularity of the historical record lest we give up the particularity of the material and end up working with the methodological similarities created by the overriding pattern of the comparisons” (p. 63). This leads to an attempt to reconstruct the postexilic social setting on the basis of the available historical and archaeological sources in chapter four. In the first part of the chapter Finitsis describes how a Persian province relates to the empire. He identifies three strategies of the Persians to promote unity even where there was no uniformity: using propaganda in order to create a sense of dynastic continuity and sanction from local religious traditions, making efforts to secure the loyal cooperation of the local elite, and being benevolent towards local sanctuaries in order to gain both political and material support. In the second part Finitsis discusses the population size of the Persian province Yehud. Here he critiques the proposals of Weinberg and Barstad and sides with the ethnoarchaeological analysis provided by Carter leading to the conclusion of a population size of Jerusalem in the period 539–450 BCE of 1,500 citizens and 13,350 for Yehud.2 In chapter five Finitsis sets out to read Zech 1–6 in its sociohistorical context. Before turning to Zech 1–6, Finitsis first surveys the book of the prophet Haggai. Finitsis describes the Zerubbabel oracle in Hag 2:20–23 as the climax of Haggai’s prophecy. The prophet is able to employ restoration eschatology because of “the presence and suitability of

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Zerubbabel for a messianic role. His [the prophet’s] eschatological viewpoint was successful because it acknowledged the post-exilic socioeconomic reality and found a way to address the people's objections while maintaining a high level of excitement and hope for the future” (p. 125). Finitsis then turns to Zech 1:7–6:15, which shares the eschatological viewpoint of Haggai, and in which contemporary figures are included in the heavenly world, an innovation in the history of messianic ideas and eschatological expression. Zechariah adds another dimension to this picture: the cooperative character of the leadership of king and priest. In doing so he “casts messianic hope into a new form radically different from previous expressions. Whenever the messianic topic comes up, Joshua and Zerubbabel are presented in an intertwined way” (p. 135). In chapter six Finitsis discusses the role of the prophet Zechariah and the way he used the visionary form to communicate his prophetic message. Here he draws on the work of Michael Riffaterre to explain how the prophet uses the visionary medium to enhance his authority.3 The medium at the same time enables a greater participation of the audience in the communication of the message. The restoration eschatology of Zechariah is to be distinguished from apocalypticism. Restoration eschatology and apocalypticism may share the same visionary technique, but the content is different: in restoration eschatology there is no transcendent salvation, and the change which is announced is neither catastrophic nor cosmic. Given Zechariah’s background in priestly circles, his interest in cultic matters is not a surprise, but he presents himself mainly as a prophet. Finitsis considers Zechariah successful as a prophet: he convinced his audience to take his message seriously and to take the action he suggested. His success in the rebuilding of the postexilic community was the reason for being included in the prophetic canon, even when he was less non-conformist than most of the other writing prophets. In the final chapter Finitsis summarizes the argument of the book. Finitsis’s book is an engaging read. He rightly distances the vision material in Zech 1–6 from apocalypticism and millennialism. Chapter four in particular makes an illuminating contribution to the reconstruction of the postexilic social setting of Yehud and the nature of the relationship of the Persian Empire to its provinces. Yet this reader is not persuaded that Finitsis has made a convincing case for “restoration eschatology.” This is due to a number of weaknesses in chapter five where Finitsis discusses the textual material of Haggai and Zech 1–6, which is something like a test-case for his proposal. Here one does not find the rigour which was demonstrated so well in earlier chapters. In a number of cases one finds a return to earlier positions which have been challenged in recent discussions. As an example I mention a

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

subject which is one of the building blocks of Finitsis’s thesis: the idea of a double coronation of both Joshua and Zerubbabel, postulated for an earlier version of Zech 6:12, which was subsequently edited out, because—quoting Collins—“the coronation never took place” (p. 134).4 Finitsis’s adherence to this questionable double coronation hypothesis (which he erroneously attributes to Meyers and Meyers as well as Petersen) raises two questions.5 (1) If failure of prophecy was a reason for correcting the text of Zech 6, why was the supposed failure (pp. 121–2) of Haggai’s prophecy identifying Zerubbabel as the expected messiah not corrected as well? (2) How can both prophets be considered successful if their prophecies contained something which cannot be called a minor error; did their audience not notice that Zerubbabel never became king? Towards the end of the book Finitsis discusses the possibly surprising inclusion of Zechariah in the canon of the writing prophets; unfortunately, however, this failure of prophecy does not play any role in that discussion. Sometimes Finitsis should have been more independent in his adoption of views of earlier scholars, such as Petersen’s argument that Zechariah is using “filial language” to describe the relationship of the two olive trees to God. Petersen rightly stated that the Hebrew word ben has “the sense of denoting a member of a class,” but his following comments are more problematic. Petersen holds that “language of sonship has been used earlier in Israel to describe the relationship of the community’s leader to the community’s deity,” and concludes that “What seems significant about the Zechariah vision is its emphasis on two sons of oil. Earlier one could only speak of one significant son, the king. The import of Zechariah’s vision is that two sons may now be spoken of.”6 Finitsis accepts this case of what Barr would have called an “illegitimate totality transfer” as a serious argument and concludes: “the appropriation of filial language means that these two figures are viewed as community leaders” (p. 133 n. 127).7 At other times one would have expected more discussion of the Hebrew text rather than just following a contemporary Bible translation. In his discussion of Zech 1:16 Finitsis quotes the NRSV: “Therefore, thus says the LORD, I have returned to Jerusalem with compassion; my house shall be built in it […]” (p. 128). The argument in the next paragraph depends on the past tense used in this translation. Finitsis writes: “It is very important to notice the fine balance Zechariah strikes among the past, the present, and the future” (p. 128). If the verse plays such an important role, one would have expected at least some discussion of the translation of the verbal form ‫שׁ ְב ִתּי‬. ַ Some, like the NRSV, render this Qatal form as a past tense (“I have returned”), while others, like the NJPS, prefer a non-past tense: “I graciously return.” Interestingly, the NRSV has a non-past tense

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rendering of the same verbal form in Zech 8:3: “I will return to Zion” (where the NJPS has a past rendering: “I have returned”). In conclusion, this book left me with a somewhat mixed impression. On the one hand there is an engaging discussion of the relationship of Zech 1–6 and (proto-)apocalypticism, as well as an informative reconstruction of the social setting of postexilic Yehud. On the other hand, when Finitsis’s hypothesis of restoration eschatology is put to the test in a reading of Haggai and Zech 1–6, the quality of the argument seems inferior and the author fails to convince at least this reader. Although the typesetting of the book is generally of high quality, there are some minor glitches: some Hebrew words are written from left to right (pp. 133 n. 31, 134 n. 133 [2x]), a Hebrew font should have been used for ‫( ערז‬now it reads “the noun [rz” [p. 120 n. 68]). Additionally, it is not ideal that the same Latin character (s) is used for a šin in some cases (e.g., “smm,” p. 112 n. 37) and for a ṣāḏē in others (“yishar,” p. 132 n. 125). Finally, there is an error when it is claimed (160), “As far as this prophet is concerned, Joshua and Zechariah are ‘the two anointed ones who stand by the LORD of the whole earth’.” Substituting Zerubbabel for Zechariah, as per the conventional interpretation, is not really an improvement in my view, but that is another matter. 1 O. Plöger, Theocracy and Eschatology (trans. S. Rudman; Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1968); P. D. Hanson, The Dawn of Apocalyptic: The Historical and Sociological Roles of Jewish Apocalyptic Eschatology (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1979); S. L. Cook, Prophecy and Apocalypticism: The Postexilic Social Setting (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1997). 2 J. Weinberg, The Citizen-Temple Community (trans. Daniel L. SmithChristopher; JSOTSup, 151; Sheffield: JSOT, 1992); H. M. Barstad, The Myth of the Empty Land: A Study in the History and Archaeology of Judah During the “Exilic” Period (SO, 28; Oslo: Scandinavian University Press, 1996); C. E. Carter, The Emergence of Yehud in the Persian Period: A Social and Demographic Study (JSOTSup, 294; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999). 3 M. Riffaterre, Fictional Truth (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990). 4 J. J. Collins, “The Eschatology of Zechariah,” in L. L. Grabbe and R. D. Haak (eds.), Knowing the End from the Beginning: The Prophetic, the Apocalyptic, and Their Relationship (JSPSup, 46; London/New York: T&T Clark, 2003), 80. 5 C. L. Meyers and E. M. Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8 (AB, 25B; New York: Doubleday, 1987), 349, cf. 353, 363; D. L. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8 (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1984), 279. 6 Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 233. 7 J. Barr, The Semantics of Biblical Language (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1961), 218.

INDEX

INDEX “OH

THAT

YOU

WERE

LIKE

A

BROTHER TO ME, ONE WHO HAD

NURSED

AT

BREASTS”,

125

MY

MOTHER’S

A Basic Introduction to Biblical Hebrew (HACKETT), 554

Abegg, Martin G. Jr., 730 Ackerman, Susan, 309 Adam, Klaus-Peter, 535

After Ezekiel: Essays on the Reception of A Difficult Prophet (JOYCE & MEIN), 748 Ahn, John J., 566 Allen, Garrick V., 698

Alternative Targum Traditions: The Use of Variant Readings for the Study in Origin and History of Targum Jonathan (HOUTMAN), 646

Ancient Judaism: New Visions and Views (STONE), 719

Andrason, Alexander, 169 ARCHAEOLOGICAL FACTS, HISTORICAL SPECULATIONS AND THE DATE OF THE LMLK STORAGE JARS: A REJOINDER TO DAVID USSISHKIN, 65 Aspects of Amos: Exegesis and Interpretation (HAGEDORN & MEIN), 558

777

Assis, Elie, 351, 708 Avioz, Michael, 371

Babylonian

Prayers

to

(OSHIMA), 581 Baden, Joel S., 761 Baines, Shannon E., 672 Barker, Joel, 754 Bartor, Assnat, 768 Beal, Timothy, 628 Becking, Bob, 566 Ben Zvi, Ehud, 701 Berge, Kåre, 43

Marduk

Bible and Justice: Ancient Texts, Modern Challenges (COOMBER), 672

Bible Trouble: Queer Readings at the Boundaries of Biblical Scholarship (HORNSBY & STONE), 726

Biblia, Exégesis y Religión: Una lectura crítico-histórica del judaísmo (ROITMAN), 516 Biblical History and Israel’s Past: The Changing Study of the Bible and History (BISHOP &

MOORE), 750 Biddle, Mark E., 610 Bishop Moore, Megan, 750 Black, Fiona, 607 Bridge, Edward J., 19

778

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Brosius, Maria, 540 Camp, Claudia V., 628 Carr, David M., 684 Carroll, M. Daniel, 558 Chapman, Cynthia R., 125

Character Complexity in the Book of Ruth (SAXEGAARD), 527

Charney, Davida, 437 Chau, Kevin, 765 Cohn Eskenaz, Tamara, 619 Collins, John J., 743 Coomber, Matthew J.M., 672 Cornell, Collin R., 485 Cox, Benjamin D., 309 Dalley, Stephanie, 540 de Hulster, Izaak J., 570 de Jong, Matthijs J., 277 Dearman, Andrew J., 633

Death in the Iron Age II and in First Isaiah (HAY), 677 Der “Heilige Krieg” im Pentateuch und im deuteronomistischen Geschichtswerk: Studien zur Forschungs-, Rezeptions- und Religionsgeschichte von Krieg und Bann im Alten Testament, (SCHMITT), 503

Donkeys in the Biblical World: Ceremony and Symbol (WAY), 657 Dozeman, Thomas B., 550 Duggan, Michael W., 532 Edelman, Diana V., 701

Esther’s Revenge at Susa: From Sennacherib to Ahasuerus

(DALLEY), 540 Evans, Paul S., 81

Exile as Forced Migrations: A Sociological, Literary, and Theological Approach on the

Displacement and Resettlement of the Southern Kingdom of Judah (AHN), 566 Exodus (DOZEMAN), 550

FEMALE SLAVE VS FEMALE SLAVE: ‫ ָא ָמה‬AND ‫ ִשׁ ְפ ָחה‬IN THE HB, 19 Fernández Marcos, Natalio, 516 Finitsis, Antonios, 771

Flashes of Fire: A Literary Analysis of the Song of Songs (ASSIS), 708 Flint, Peter W., 730 FOREIGN MARRIAGES AND CITIZENSHIP IN PERSIAN PERIOD JUDAH, 107 Fox, Michael V., 613 Franke, Chris, 754 Frevel, Christian, 623 Frymer-Kensky, Tikva, 619 Gane, Roy E., 599 Gärtner-Brereton, Luke, 545

Genesis 1 as Ancient Cosmology

(WALTON), 570 George, Mark K., 653 Gilmour, Rachelle, 519 Glenny, W. Edward, 758 GOD AND THE SEA IN JOB 38, 485 Goldingay, John, 736 Gottlieb, Isaac B., 381 Guillaume, Philippe, 543 Hackett, Jo Ann, 554 Hagedorn, Anselm C., 558 Hagelia, Hallvard, 723 Harvey, Bruce J., 661 Hay, Christopher B., 677 Hess, Richard S., 708 HISTORY IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER? SOCIAL LOCATION & ALLEGATIONS OF

INDEX RACIAL/COLONIAL BIASES RECONSTRUCTIONS SENNACHERIB’S INVASION JUDAH, 81

IN OF OF

Holiness, Ethics and Ritual in Leviticus (TREVASKIS), 599

Holmstedt, Robert D., 730 Hornsby, Teresa J., 726 Houtman, Alberdina, 646 Hundley, Michael B., 641, 653 Hutton, Jeremy M., 231, 535

Isaiah After Exile: The Author of Third Isaiah as Reader and Redactor of the Book (STROMBERG), 636 Jackson, Jason, 554

Jewish Bible Theology: Perspectives and Case Studies (KALIMI), 705

Jones, Scott C., 581 Joshua (RÖSEL), 543 Joyce, Paul M., 748 Kalimi, Isaac, 665, 705 Kamiski, Carol, 739 Kartveit, Magnar, 592 Kashow, Robert C., 545, 669, 736

Keeping Heaven on Earth: Safeguarding the Divine Presence in the Priestly Tabernacle

(HUNDLEY), 653 KEEPING THE FAITHFUL: PERSUASIVE STRATEGIES IN PSALMS 4 AND 62, 437 Kelle, Brad E., 750 Kelly, Joseph Ryan, 705 Klingbeil, Gerald A., 657 Knohl , Israel, 413 Knowles, Michael P., 661 Koch, Ido, 711 Kostamo, Sonya, 532 Kratz, Reinhard, 588

779 Kupfer, Christina, 650 Lau, Peter, 527 Lee, Kyong-Jin, 681

Legitimacy, Illegitimacy, and the Right to Rule: Windows on Abimelech’s Rise and Demise in Judges 9 (OESTE), 616

Levitt Kohn, Risa, 748

Lexical Dependence and Intertextual Allusion in the Septuagint of the Twelve Prophets: Studies in Hosea, Amos and Micah

(THEOCHAROUS), 758 Lim, Bo H., 765 Lim, Timothy H., 743 Linafelt, Tod, 628 Lipschits, Oded, 65, 711 LITERACY, UTOPIA AND MEMORY: IS THERE A PUBLIC TEACHING IN DEUTERONOMY, 43 MacDonald, Nathan, 650 MAKING IT SOUND - THE PERFORMATIVE QATAL AND ITS EXPLANATION, 169 Marzouk, Safwat, 231 Mead, James K., 723 MEDIEVAL JEWISH EXEGESIS ON DUAL INCIPITS, 381 Mein, Andrew, 558, 748 Meyer, Anthony R., 719 MICAH’S TERAPHIM, 309 Minor Prophets II (GOLDINGAY & SCALISE), 736

Mit Israel auf dem Weg durch die Wüste: eine leseorientierte Exegese der Rebellionstexte in Exodus 15:22–17:7 und Numeri 11:1–20:13 (KUPFER), 650

780

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Mixed Marriages: Intermarriage and Group Identity in the Second Temple Period (FREVEL), 623 Moore, Anne, 511 Morrow, William, 550

Moving Beyond Symbol and Myth: Understanding the Kingship of God of the Hebrew Bible through Metaphor (MOORE), 511 Nam, Roger S., 711

New Perspectives on EzraNehemiah: History and Historiography, Text, Literature, and Interpretation (KALIMI),

665 Niesiołowski-Spanò, Łukasz, 604 O’Brien, Julia M., 607, 754 O’Brien, Mark A., 761 Oeste, Gordon, K., 616

Of Wings and Wheels: A Synthetic Study of the Biblical (WOOD), 641

Origin Myths and Holy Places in the Old Testament: A Study of Aetiological Narratives (NIESIOŁOWSKI-SPANÒ), 604 Ortlund, Eric, 604 Oshima, Takayoshi, 581 Oswald, Wolfgang, 107 Pioske, Dan, 519

Portrayals of Economic Exchange in the Book of Kings (NAM), 711 Prophetenstudien: Kleine Schriften II (KRATZ), 588 Proverbs 10-31: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (FOX), 613

68: STRUCTURE, PSALM COMPOSITION AND GEOGRAPHY, 413 Pummer, Reinhard, 592

Qumran Cave 1, II: The Isaiah Scrolls. Part 1: Plates and Transcriptions; Part 2: Introductions, Commentary, and Textual Variants (ULRICH, FLINT & ABEGG), 730

Reading Law as Narrative: A Study in the Casuistic Laws of the Pentateuch (BARTOR), 768 Redditt, Paul L., 701 Representing the Past: A Literary Analysis of Narrative Historiography in the Book of Samuel (GILMOUR), 519 Rethinking Rewritten Scripture: Composition and Exegesis in the 4QReworked Pentateuch Manuscripts (ZAHN), 561

Roitman, Adolfo D., 516 Rose, Wolter H., 771 Rösel, Harmut N., 543 Roy Yoder, Christine, 613 Ruth (COHN ESKENAZ & FRYMER-KENSKY), 619 Saxegaard, Kristin M., 527 Scalise, Pamela J., 736 Schmitt, Rüdiger, 503 Schreiner, David B., 628, 692 Schuller, Eileen M., 743 Schweitzer, Steven J., 623, 665, 726 Seitz, Christopher R., 610 Sieges, Anna E., 633 Stead, Michael R., 698 Stone, Ken, 726 Stone, M.E., 719 Stone, Timothy J., 619, 684

INDEX STONES ON DISPLAY IN JOSHUA 6: THE LINGUISTIC TREE CONSTRUCTOR AS A “PLOT” TOOL, 451 Stovell, Beth M., 511 Stromberg, Jacob, 636 Sysling , Harry, 646

The ‘Way of the Lord’ in the Book of Isaiah (LIM), 765

THE “SPRING OF THE YEAR” (2 CHRONICLES 36:10) AND THE CHRONICLER’S SOURCES, 371

The Aesthetics of Violence in the Prophets (FRANKE & O’BRIEN), 754

The Artifice of Love: Grotesque Bodies and the Song of Songs (BLACK), 607

The Authority and Authorization of Torah in the Persian Period (LEE), 681

The Biblical Saga of King David (VAN SETERS), 692 The Book of Hosea (DEARMAN), 633

The Composition of the Pentateuch. Renewing the Documentary Hypothesis (BADEN), 761 The Consuming Fire: A Christian Guide to the Old Testament (DUGGAN), 532

The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Bible (VANDERKAM), 669 THE FALLACY OF ‘TRUE AND FALSE’ IN PROPHECY ILLUSTRATED BY JER 28:8–9, 277

The Fate of King David: The Past and Present of a Biblical Icon

(LINAFELT, CAMP & BEAL), 628

781 The Formation of the Hebrew Bible: A New Reconstruction (CARR), 684

The Goodly Fellowship of the Prophets: The Achievement of Association in Canon Formation (SEITZ), 610

The Intertextuality of Zechariah 1–8

(STEAD), 698 THE MEANING OF ṢANTĔRÔT (Zech 4:12), 1 THE MORPHOLOGY OF THE TG STEM IN HEBREW AND TIRGALTI IN HOS 11:3, 231

The Ontology of Space in Biblical Hebrew Narrative: The Determinate Function of Narrative “Space” within the Biblical Hebrew Aesthetic (GÄRTNER-BRERETON), 545

The Origin of the Samaritans (KARTVEIT), 592

The Oxford Handbook of the Dead Sea Scrolls (LIM & COLLINS), 743 THE STRUCTURE OF ZECHARIAH 8 AND I TS MEANING, 351

The Transjordanian Palimpsest: The Overwritten Texts of Personal Exile and Transformation in the Deuteronomisitic History (HUTTON), 535 Theocharous, Myrto, 758

These are the Generations: Identity, Covenant and the ‘Toledot’ Formula (THOMAS), 739

Thomas, Matthew A., 739

Three Old Testament Theologies for Today: Helge S. Kvanvig, Walter

782

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Brueggemann and Erhard Gerstenberger (HAGELIA), 723

Tieymeyer, Lena-Sofia, 636 Tooman, William A., 561, 646 Trevaskis, Leigh M., 599 Ulrich, Eugene, 730 Van Seters, John, 692, 750 VanderKam, James C., 669

Visions and Eschatology: A SocioHistorical Analysis of Zechariah 1–6 (FINITSIS), 771

Vroom, Jonathan, 768 Walton, John H., 570 Watts, James W., 681 Way, Kenneth C., 657

What Was Authoritative for Chronicles? (BEN ZVI &

EDELMAN), 701 Winther-Nielsen, Nicolai, 451 Wöhrle, Jakob, 588 Wolters, Al, 1 Wood, Alice, 641 Wray Beal, Lisa M., 616 Wright, Jacob L., 503, 677

YHWH Elohim: A Survey of Occurrences in the Leningrad Codex and their Corresponding Septuagintal Renderings

(HARVEY), 661 Zahn, Molly M., 561