The Lure of Transcendence and the Audacity of Prayer: Selected Essays 3161611039, 9783161611032, 9783161617553

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Forschungen zum Alten Testament Herausgegeben von Konrad Schmid (Zürich) · Mark S. Smith (Princeton) Hermann Spieckermann (Göttingen) · Andrew Teeter (Harvard)

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Samuel E. Balentine

The Lure of Transcendence and the Audacity of Prayer Selected Essays

Mohr Siebeck

Samuel E. Balentine, born 1950; Professor of Old Testament Emeritus at Union Presbyterian Seminary in Richmond, VA.

ISBN 978-3-16-161103-2 / eISBN 978-3-16-161755-3 DOI 10.1628/978-3-16-161755-3 ISSN 0940-4155 / eISSN 2568-8359 (Forschungen zum Alten Testament) The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data are available at http://dnb.dnb.de. ©  2022 Mohr Siebeck Tübingen, Germany.  www.mohrsiebeck.com This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (beyond that permitted by copyright law) without the publisher’s written permission. This applies particularly to reproductions, translations and storage and processing in electronic systems. The book was typeset by Martin Fischer in Tübingen using Minion typeface, printed on nonaging paper and bound by Hubert & Co in Göttingen. Printed in Germany.

For Walter Brueggemann, with gratitude for decades of extraordinary friendship

Preface The title of this book derives from the last essay in the collection (“Prayer in the Hebrew Bible: Retrospectives and Prospectives”). A paragraph from the end of that essay provides context: The discourse of prayer responds to the abiding lure of transcendence. From Gilgamesh to the primordial human beings in Eden to Odysseus, the quest for ultimate truths has summoned forth all manner of human effort  – courageous, desperate, pious, impious, successful, failed, invited, forbidden – and like all such lures, one can never be certain whether the glimmer of transcendence is that of a bright and shining star that illuminates the shadows or only a shiny object that seduces one into an inescapable darkness (e. g., a fishing lure). Prayer’s invocation of God transgresses the limits of human beings. Inviting, let alone commanding, God to speak may be the “acme of bardic pretention,”1 but in the ancient world such transgression characterizes the audacity of prayer.

As I reflect on my work on prayer over the last four decades, I recognize that I have been nudging closer and closer to clarity on two fundamental observations: 1) in the ancient world a deeply rooted pessimism – both ontological and epistemological – accentuates an essentially unbridgeable divide between the divine and the human; and 2) embedded within this pessimistic perspective there is a persistent hope, indeed, expectation, that mortal minded human beings can close this gap. The two ideas represent centrifugal forces that pull in different directions, one toward sustaining boundaries, the other toward breaching them. At the same time, however, these are centripetal forces that depend on each other for their definition. As Jenny Straus Clay notes, “There exists a line, invisible and shifting, but nonetheless absolute, which separates gods from men. Only the moment of transgression reveals its presence.”2 Clay focuses on the Heroic Age in classical Greek literature, principally Homer and Hesiod, when she concludes the following: “By definition, the Greek hero exists on the margins of this boundary.”3 If we replace the words “Greek hero” with “the one who prays,” I believe Clay’s conclusion would still be accurate. In the ancient world, the person

1  I appropriate the language of Jonathan Culler, Theory of the Lyric (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2015), 231. Culler uses the expression with respect to Alphonse de Lamartine’s poem, “Le Lac:” “Eternity, nothingness, dark abyss, / What do you do with the days you engulf ? / Speak, will you give us back these sublime ecstasies / That you ravish from us?” 2  J. S. Clay, The Wrath of Athena: Gods and Men in the Odyssey (New York; London: Rowman & Littlefield, 1997 [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983]), 181. 3  Ibid.

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who prays seeks to close the gap between heaven and earth, to come as close to divinity as it is humanly possible to do. It is a truism to say that we no longer live in the ancient world where divinity is presupposed. Our world is “a place of disaffection,” as T. S. Eliot says, a world where there is “neither plenitude nor vacancy,” a world shadowed by “destitution” and “desiccation,” a “twittering” world where all discourse about the divine amounts to nothing more than the “eructation of unhealthy souls.”4 Another poet provides additional descriptors. Once the ladder to heaven is removed, we can climb no farther than “the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.”5 And yet, even in a secular age like ours, there remains an “ineradicable bent to respond to something beyond life,” as Charles Taylor puts it, “intimations of transcendence” that beckon us to the edge of what we can comprehend about the God who is ultimately incomprehensible.6 In a world that seems impervious to plausible reflection on God’s presence, George Steiner argues for a “wager on transcendence.” The wager is not only that God is, for that would amount to little more than a thin philosophical proposition. Steiner’s bet is deeply theological. He reckons that the God who is is “capable of all speech-acts except that of monologue.”7 If human beings are to bear God’s image, as Genesis asserts, then there must be some means of dialogue with God, some means of discourse not circumscribed by mortal limitations or rational analysis. To use the language of Coleridge, there must be some possibility, however incomprehensible or anarchic, for “a repetition in the finite mind of the eternal act of creation in the infinite I AM.”8 The modern world offers various surrogate forms of transcendence.9 Art, music, and poetry enlarge our conceptual constructs of beauty and splendor. Science and reason penetrate the mysterious and the unknown. Prayer may enlarge and enlighten in similar ways, but its ontology is different; its epistemological presuppositions are more capacious. Prayer is an asylum for the imagination of what is, what can be, what should be the relationship between God, world, and humankind. It is the wager that God is vulnerable to human

4 Citations from “Burnt Norton III,” in T. S. Eliot: Collected Poems 1909–1962 (New York: Harcourt, Brace, and World, 1970), 178, 179. 5  W. B. Yeats, “The Circus Animals’ Desertion,” in The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats (Revised second edition; ed. R. J. Finneran; New York: Simon & Schuster, 1996), 348. 6  C. Taylor, A Secular Age (Cambridge, MS; London, UK: The Belknap Press of Harvard University, 2007), 638, 595. 7  G. Steiner, Real Presences (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), 4, 225. 8 S. T. Coleridge, Biographia Literaria I in The Collected Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge: Biographia Literaria, edited by J. Engell and W. J. Bate (Bollingen Series LXXV; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983), 304. 9 Cf. T. Eagleton, Culture and the Death of God (New Haven; London: Yale University Press, 2014), e. g. ix, 175–208.

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thinking. It is the audacity to believe that belief itself has a performative force unbounded by status quo certainties. The essays that follow reflect my reading of ancient Israel’s adventure in prayer. They are arranged thematically, which I hope will help readers identify the generative center of each essay, but the ordering is not meant to suggest a tidy sequencing of motifs. The what, when, how, and why of prayer in the ancient world ebbs and flows with the mutations of life, sometimes overfull with praise and thanksgiving, at other times (and more often, when the numbers are tallied) beleaguered by lament and protest. I have tried to regularize the style and format of the essays, but otherwise they appear here in their original form; even though my exegetical perspective on certain issues has changed over the years (e.g., on the historicity of Jeremiah [essay no. 5]), I have resisted the temptation to revise them. Three of the essays (nos. 4, 9, and 10) were subsequently modified and incorporated into a monograph (Prayer in the Hebrew Bible: The Drama of Divine-Human Dialogue, Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1993). Part I contains three essays that do not explicitly address the topic of “prayer;” nonetheless, they exegete important aspects of the nature and character of the God to whom prayer is addressed that are foundational for what follows. I am grateful to Mark Smith and the editorial board of “Forschungen zum Alten Testament” for including the book in this series, and to Markus Kirchner and his colleagues at the press, who facilitated the project from beginning to end. Finally, I dedicate this book to Walter Brueggemann, a valued conversation partner and an unwavering friend in all my endeavors. Richmond, VA, July 19, 2021

Samuel E. Balentine

Table of Contents Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . VII List of Figures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . XIII Abbreviations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . XV

I. The God of Prayer: “I Am Not a Human Being” 1. Isaiah 45: God’s “I Am,” Israel’s “You Are” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 2. “I Am a god and Not a Human Being”: The Divine Dilemma in Hosea . 17 3. Written on the Heart, Erased from the Mind: Rewriting Moral Agency in Jeremiah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32

II. Enthroned on the Praises, Penitence, and Laments of Israel 4. Enthroned on the Praises and Laments of Israel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 5. Jeremiah, Prophet of Prayer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 6. The Prophet as Intercessor: A Reassessment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 7. “My Servant Job Shall Pray for You” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 8. “I Was Ready To Be Sought Out By Those Who Did Not Ask” . . . . . . . . . 113

III. Prayer as a Vehicle for Theodicy 9. Prayer in the Wilderness Traditions: In Pursuit of Divine Justice . . . . . . . 139 10. Prayers for Justice in the Old Testament: Theodicy and Theology . . . . . 157 11. “You Can’t Pray a Lie:” Truth and Fiction in the Prayers of Chronicles 176

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IV. Preaching and Praying the Prayers of the Hebrew Bible 12. Preaching the Prayers of the Old Testament . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 197 13. “Turn, O Lord! How Long?” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 205 14. Praying East of Eden . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 218

V. Retrospectives and Prospectives 15. Prayer in the Hebrew Bible: Retrospective and Prospective . . . . . . . . . . . 233 List of First Publications . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 247 General Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 249 Index of Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267 Index of Scripture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 272

List of Figures Figure 1: Taddeo Gaddi (1300–1366) “Job Intercedes for His Friend,” (1355). Fresco Camposanto Monumentale di Pisa Archiva Fotografico Opera Primaziale Pisana. Credit: Samuel E. Balentine, personal photograph Figure 2: “Job Prepares to Fight with God.” 9th c. Illumination. Saint John Monastery, Patmos. Credit: Bibiotheque du Monastere St. Jean le Theologien, Patmos Figure 3: “Job Interrupts God.” Vatican Museum, Rome. © Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana. Gr 1231, fol 19v/Wikimedia Commons

Abbreviations AB ABRL BEATAJ BJS BKAT BWANT BZAW CBET CBR CBQ CBQMS EvT FAT FOTL FRLANT HAR HAT HBT HeBAI HSM HTR HUCA JBL JJS JQR JR JSOT JSOTSup JSS JTS KD LHBOTS LNTS LS NCB NICOT OBO OBT OIS OR OTL

Anchor Bible Anchor Bible Reference Library Beiträge zur Erforschung des Alten Testaments und des antiken Judentum Brown Judaic Studies Biblischer Kommentar, Altes Testament. Edited by M. Noth and H. W. Wolff Beiträge zur Wissenschaft vom Alten (und Neuen) Testament Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentlische Wissenschaft Contributions to Biblical Exegesis & Theology Currents in Biblical Research Catholic Biblical Quarterly Catholic Biblical Quarterly Monograph Series Evangelische Theologie Forschungen zum Alten Testament Forms of the Old Testament Literature Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments Harvard Annual Review Handbuch zum Alten Testament Horizons in Biblical Theology Hebrew Bible and Ancient Israel Harvard Semitic Monographs Harvard Theological Review Hebrew Union College Annual Journal of Biblical Literature Journal of Jewish Studies Jewish Quarterly Review Journal of Religion Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Journal for the Study of the Old Testament, Supplement Journal of Semitic Studies Journal of Theological Studies Kerygma und Dogma Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies Library of New Testament Studies Louvain Studies New Century Bible New International Bible Commentary on the Old Testament Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis Overtures to Biblical Theology Oriental Institute Seminars Orientalia Old Testament Library

XVI OTS OtSt RevQ ResQ RevExp SBLDS SBLSP STDJ SJOT SJT TDOT THAT TynBul USQR VT VTSup WBC WMANT WUNT ZAW ZDPV ZTK

Abbreviations

Old Testament Studies Oudtestamentische Studiën Revue de Qumran Restoration Quarterly Review and Expositor Society of Biblical Literature Dissertation Series Society of Biblical Literature Seminar Papers Studies on the Texts of the Desert of Judah Scandinavian Journal of Theology Scottish Journal of Theology Theological Dictionary of the Old Testament. Edited by G. J. Botterweck and H. Ringgren. Translated by J. T. Willis, G. W. Bromily, and D. E. Green. 8 vols. (Grand Rapids, 1974) Theologisches Handwörterbuch zum Alten Testament. Edited by E. Jenni, with assistance from C. Westermann. 2 vols. Stuttgart, 1971–1976 Tyndale Bulletin Union Seminary Quarterly Review Vetus Testamentum Vetus Testamentum Supplements Word Biblical Commentary Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen Testament Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Zeitschrift des deutschen Palästina-Vereins Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche

I. The God of Prayer: “I Am Not a Human Being”

1. Isaiah 45: God’s “I Am,” Israel’s “You Are” The locus classicus of the expression Deus absconditus “the hidden God ,” is Isaiah 45:15: “Truly, you are a God who hides himself, O God of Israel, the Savior” (NRSV ). At least since the time of the Reformation, this verse has been adapted in both Jewish and Christian communities for a variety of theological assertions about God’s hiddenness. Blaise Pascal observed that God is always Deus abscon­ ditus, hence the proposition set forth in his Pensees: “any religion which does not affirm that God is hidden is not true.”1 Martin Buber suggests that the Old Testament assertion of God as a self-concealing God invites people of faith to reflect positively on the apparent “eclipse of God” in the modern world.2 In familiar fashion, Kornelis Miskotte sees in Isa 45:15 a positive rejoinder to an overly tragic nihilism. To declare the hiddenness of God, he argues, is to offer a confession of faith in the God who surrounds us with the “presence of an absence.”3 For Samuel Terrien, God’s “presence-in-absence,” or as he so elegantly puts it, God’s “elusive presence,” is the central theological assertion of both Old and New Testaments.4 And to this list, we would be remiss if we did not add the name of Karl Barth, for clearly his assertion that all true knowledge of God begins with the knowledge of God’s hiddenness remains an influential argument in contemporary theological discourse.5 Typical of much of this discussion, however, has been a tendency to isolate Isa 45:15 from its biblical context and to relocate it within various theological or religious systems of thought.6 Pascal, for example, appropriated this one verse,  B. Pascal, Pensees (New York: Penguin Classics, 1996), 103, no. 242.  M. Buber, Eclipse of God: Studies in the Relation Between Religion and Philosophy (New York: Harper, 1957), 66. 3  K. Miskotte, When the Gods Are Silent (London: Collins, 1967), 51. 4  S. Terrien, The Elusive Presence: Towards a New Biblical Theology (New York: Harper and Row, 1978), xxvii, 6. 5  K. Barth, Church Dogmatics II/1 (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1957), 183. Barth is quoted favorably by a host of others, e. g., G. von Rad, Old Testament Theology, Volume II (New York: Harper and Row, 1965), 377. 6  R. Carroll has recently addressed this issue in a general way in his book The Bible As a Problem for Christianity (Philadelphia: Trinity Press, 1991). In a chapter titled “God the Hidden Problematic” Carroll explores how the hiddenness of God theme is a problem for theology (53–61). It is fair to say that biblical writers were aware that God’s presence was not necessarily an unproblematic matter. Indeed, the metaphor of divine hiddenness, though perhaps only a counter-theme or a subtext in the Hebrew Bible, is nevertheless, persistent and recurring. And it is precisely this counter-witness to who and how God is that is problematic for the effort to fit the Bible neatly into creeds, confessions, and theological systems of thinking. Although I do 1 2

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with no commentary, as a proposition of evangelical Christian theology (by way of Jansenism). For him the basis of God’s hiddenness had little or nothing to do with Isaiah or the exile. It derived instead from the Augustinian notion of humanity’s total depravity. God is hidden because sin has separated humankind from God. Religion’s task is to teach that God hides from those who sin and is revealed to those who seek God. Any religion that forsakes this assertion and its instruction is, therefore, not true. Barth also appropriates this text into a Christian theological system, again with little attention to its context in Isaiah. In ­Isaiah the issue to be resolved is whether verse 15 is a continuation of the confession of the nations (begun in verse 14), or a reflection of the prophet on the mystery involved in such a confession, or, as I shall argue, a confession/assertion of the Israelites themselves. Of these options there is no creditable way to see Isa 45:15 as an announcement by the deity. Yet, in a real sense, this is the gist of what Barth seems to be saying. All true know ledge of God begins with knowledge of God’s hiddenness; i. e., hiddenness is part of a divine revelatory plan designed to lead to faith in God. What I propose to do here is to reexamine Isa 45:15 within its biblical context. I do so not to remove the Hebraic witness to God’s hiddenness from theological discussion, but rather to restore to the theological discourse something of both the surprise and the anguish that seem to me to inform this biblical assertion. I begin with an overview of the structure and primary rhetorical features of Isa 44:24–45:25. I will then attempt to clarify the assertion that God hides himself within the context of this particular literary unit, and then within the larger context of the metaphor of divine hiddenness in the Book of Isaiah and elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible.

I. Isaiah 44:24–45:25: God’s (Modified) Resume The text presents three reasonably distinct divine speeches (44:24–45:7; 45:9– 13; and 45:20–25), addressed respectively to Cyrus, Israel, and the nations. Only in 45:14–19 is the identity of the speaker less clear. And even here, the standard formula kōh ʾāmar yhwh identifies God as speaker in v. 14 and in vv. 18–19. The problem lies in vv. 15–17, verses which I will address in more detail in the pages to follow. The general theme of all of the speeches is the uniqueness of God, especially as manifest in God’s decision to call Cyrus as the agent of Israel’s deliverance not share Carroll’s general skepticism with respect to the Bible’s importance for the community of faith, I do think he is right to call attention to ways in which theology (as practiced both by biblical scholars and theologians) often co-opts biblical texts for its own purposes. Isaiah 45:15 is but one case in point.

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from Babylon. The entire unit has the appearance of a quasi-dialogue between God, on the one hand, and the nations and Israel, on the other. In the first speech (44:24–45:7), God speaks of God’s unlimited capacities as Creator of the world and of all its inhabitants, including Cyrus. In this speech, divine claims extend to the farthest dimensions imaginable – the creation of both weal (šālom) and woe (rāʿ; 45:7), following which God summons heaven and earth to a response of praise (45:8). In a second speech, God refutes those who would contend with the Creator of the world (45:9–13), and then announces that the nations will make the appropriate response concerning the superiority of God (45:14, [16, 17]). And finally, the unit concludes with a trial speech (45:20–25) in which God summons both the nations and Israel to acknowledge the divine superiority. Throughout this unit the most striking rhetorical feature of the divine speeches is the repeated use of the self-predication formula “I am YHWH /I am God” (10x: ʾănî / ʾănōkî yhwh, 44:24; 45:3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 18, 19, 21, 22). This self-asseveration introduces and sustains a rather lengthy presentation of God’s resume. The rhetorical purpose of these “I am” declarations is to establish God’s relationship with humanity and to elicit from Israel (and the nations) the affirmative response, “You are.” In this unit, heaven and earth respond to God affirmatively (45:8); the nations are presented as responding affirmatively (45:14); but the only direct “You are” response is in verse 15. I submit that this is Israel’s response to God ’s self-presentation, albeit a response that even God finds it necessary to examine and address. 1. Isaiah 44:24–45:7. Against the backdrop of these general comments, I turn now to the individual components within this literary unit. Although it is common to distinguish 44:24–28 and 45:1–7 as two independent units, the first addressed to Israel, the second ostensibly addressed to Cyrus, a common divine asseveration links these verses together: 44:24: “I am the LORD who makes all” (ʾănōkî yhwh ʿōśeh kōl); 45:7: “I am the LORD who makes all these things” (ʾǎnî yhwh ʿōśeh ʾēlleh). As a rhetorical unit, these verses assert God’s unparalleled superiority, both in heaven and earth. Whether stretching out the heavens (44:24) or controlling the mission of Cyrus on earth (44:28), God’s actions on behalf of Israel attest that YHWH and YHWH alone is God (cf. 45:5,6: ʾănî yhwh wĕʾên ʿōd). Two rhetorical features buttress this assertion: 1) the repeated use of the asseverative formula “I am YHWH” (5x: 44:24; 45:3,5,6,7), a formula that functions to establish an intimate I-Thou relationship between God and humankind;7 and 2) the use of a chain of bi-polar contrasts that asserts that God’s superiority ex7 Cf. Y. Gitay, Prophecy and Persuasion. A Study of Isaiah 40–48 (Bonn: Linguistica Biblica, 1981), 183; T. Collins, Line-Forms in Hebrew Poetry (Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1978), 248. Collins includes the ʾănî yhwh formula as an important element within “semantic sets,” i. e., lines with more or less identical structuring and ordering that carry virtually the same meaning (cf. 240).

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tends to the farthest boundaries imaginable, and even beyond: v. 6: east-west (mizraḥ, literally, “the place of sunrise,”, maʿărābâ, literally, “from its setting place”); v. 7a: “light-darkness” (ʾôr-ḥōšek); and v. 7b: “weal-woe” (šālôm-rāʿ). This last pair of opposites extends to the limits the claim that all things belong to God. In this bald assertion that God creates both good and evil, God’s selfpredication goes further than anywhere else in the Hebrew Bible.8 What kind of God is this, one might be expected to ask, who can do all these things, raise up a foreigner like Cyrus, create both light and darkness, both good and evil? In this connection, Westermann notes wryly: “It is hard to see why this verse does not bother commentators more than it seems to do.”9 2. Isaiah 45:8. 45:8 represents a hymnic interlude, comparable to that which precedes the Cyrus oracle in 44:23. It is a summons for heaven and earth to respond to God’s self-assertions by letting “righteousness” (ṣedeq,2x) and “salvation” (yešaʿ) rain down and spring up among them. Moreover, God summons forth this response with divine imperative (“Shower, O heavens;” harʿîpû šāmayim). Heaven and earth are addressed as passive and obedient respondents to God’s initiatives. To this point in the rhetorical unit, God has declared decisively “I am God ,” in heaven as on earth, and in matters of good and evil “there is no other beside me” (45:5,6). And God has summoned forth praise as the desired response to divine initiatives. In the dialogue between God and creation, all is in order. God is in full control, not only of the farthest dimensions of divine activity, but also of the response of praise that is expected from creation. 3. Isaiah 45:9–13. If heaven and earth acquiesce in glad praise to God’s selfdeclarations of superiority, others do not comply as readily. Verses 9–13 constitute the only incentive in Deutero-Isaiah.10 The object of concern is those who rebel (rāb) against their Maker (yōṣrô; cf. 44:24) by questioning divine initiatives. Although, the identity of the addressees is uncertain, I am inclined to side with those scholars who see Israel as the intended audience.11 Following two expressions of woe (hôy; vv. 9,10), God’s speech turns once again to rhetorical questioning (v. 11: “Will you question me … command me …;” cf. 44:24: “Who is with me?”). As there is no adequate response to these implicit charges, God returns to the same asseverative style of asserting control over all creation (kol [2x]; vv. 12,13; cf. 44:24; 45:7): earth and humankind, the heavens and all their hosts. The triple repetition of the first person pronoun in  C. Westermann, Isaiah 40–66 (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1969), 161–162.  Ibid., 161. 10  Cf. J. Muilenburg, “Isaiah 40–66,” The Interpreter’s Bible, Vol. 5, ed., G. A. Buttrick, et al. (New York: Abingdon, 1956), 526. 11  Muilenburg, “Isaiah 40–66,” 526; C. Stuhlmueller, Creative Redemption in Deutero-Isaiah (Rome: Biblical Institute, 1970), 204; R. Melugin, The Formation of Isaiah 40–55 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1976), 121.  8  9

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verses 12–13 (’ănî  / ’ănôkî) offers a good example of anaphora, and once again puts the rhetorical emphasis on God’s intended “I–Thou” relationship with the created order.12 4. Isaiah 45:14–19. These verses clearly constitute the most difficult part of Isaiah 45, and a wide range of form-critical assessments have been offered.13 In my view, verses 14–19 constitute a pivotal unit, framed at the beginning and the end with the assertion that YHWH and YHWH alone is God. In verse 14 the assertion is placed on the lips of the nations who come to Israel in order to acknowledge that “God is with you alone, and there is no other (wĕʾên ʿôd); in verse 18 the assertion is once more in the form of divine self-declaration: “I am the LORD, and there is no other (wĕʾên ʿōd). This assertion serves both to recall the previous addresses in which God has announced (44:24–45:7) and defended (45:9–13) divine claims to superiority, and to prepare for the trial speech that follows in verses 29–25. The trial speech, then, serves as the logical climax of God’s claims to superiority in verse 18 (cf. 45:21: hǎlôʾ ʾănî yhwh wĕʾên ʿōd; 45:22: kî ʾănî ʾēl wĕʾên ʿōd). The critical issues to be resolved occur in verses 15–17. Whereas verses 14 and 18 f, are clearly identified as divine speech (kōh ʾāmar yhwh), verses 15–17 are more ambiguous. Verse 16 consists of third person plural verbs that appear to continue the divine speech begun in verse 14 with reference to the nations, although the change from imperfect to perfect verbs may suggest a different time framework.14 Verse 17 uses a passive verb to speak of Israel’s salvation by God (nôšaʿ) and second person plural verbs that address Israel directly. The speaker in verse 17 is ambiguous. Some suggest the prophet; others see this as a continuation of the divine speech in verses 14 and 16. The latter option strikes me as more likely, although for the purpose of this investigation a decision one way or the other is not crucial. Verse 15 is the crux of the unit, for here the occurrence of the second person pronoun ’attâ, “you,” suggests a shift in both speaker and addressee. Two proposals have generally controlled the explanation of this shift. First, Duhm’s proposal to emend ʾattâ to ʾittāk, “with you ,” has drawn considerable support from those who interpret verse 15 as a continuation of God’s announcement of the nations’ confession in verse 14. By this interpretation, the nations will come to Israel and declare “Surely, God is with you, and there is no other…” (v. 14), and 12 Cf.

Gitay, Prophecy and Persuasion, 177. find here two distinct oracles: vv. 14–17, addressed to Zion; vv. 18–20, addressed to the nations, e. g., Westermann, Isaiah 40–66, 168–171; A. Schoors, I am God your Saviour: A Form Critical Study of the Main Genres in Is. XL-LV (Leiden: Brill, 1973), 30. Others incorporate vv. 14–19 into vv. 20–25 as a part of an extended trial speech addressed to the nations, e. g., A. Wilson, The Nations in Deutero-Isaiah. A Study on Composition and Structure (Lewiston: Edwin Mellen, 1986), 88–113. 14  Cf. M. Dijkstra, “Zur Deutung von Jesaja 45:15 ff,” ZAW 89 (1977), 216. 13 Some

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“Surely with you God is a hidden God …” (v. 15).15 The difficulty with this proposal is that there is no textual or semantic justification for the emendation, other than the assumption that verse 15 is better understood as a continuation of verse 14. A second approach has been to retain the text as is, and to interpret the speaker of the pronoun “you” to be either the prophet himself, or an anonymous and subsequent reader of the Cyrus oracle who, as Westermann puts it, offers an “Amen gloss” in affirmation of God’s mysterious ways.16 Although this latter approach has the advantage of taking the text more seriously, there is nothing to suggest that we are dealing with a conscious gloss here, and no compelling reason to see this as a kind of theological reflection of the prophet on God’s mysterious ways. The structure of Isaiah 44:24 ff. invites us, I believe, to see verse 15 as Israel’s own response to God’s repeated self-presentations in the preceding verses. The asseverative style of divine speech functions as rhetoric of persuasion. It works at securing a public recognition of God’s supremacy, as the responses offered by heaven and earth (45:8) and the nations (45:14) confirm. But as Gitay has seen, the concern of Deutero-Isaiah is not so much with the public’s recognition of God, as with Israel’s own recognition of God.17 God’s “I am” declarations address Israel and seek to persuade Israel that YHWH is fully capable of being God in exile. In exile both YHWH and Babylon are making claims for themselves (cf. Isa 47:8), claims that are mutually exclusive. Israel must decide between them. In this connection, it is instructive to note that here in verse 15, the text records the only “You are” response from Israel to God in the whole of Deutero-Isaiah.18 The critical interpretive question then, in my view, is: What is the substance of Israel’s response to God? Several poetic and stylistic features in verse 15 deserve attention. The adverb ʾākēn is contrastive rather than asseverative, and functions to restrict or qualify what has immediately preceded. That is, in contrast to the nations’ confession that God is uniquely with Israel, Israel responds here with a statement that begins with something like the words, “Yes, but ….”19 The second word in the verse, the pronoun ʾattâ, directs Israel’s qualifying assertion to God: “Yes, but you (God) ….” The deliberate use of this pronoun serves as a structural signal calling attention to God as the subject of this address (i. e. the one to whom the address is 15  Cf. B. Duhm, Das Buch Jesaia (Handkommentar zum Alten Testament; Second edition; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1902), 311. 16  Westermann, Isaiah 40–66, 170. 17  Gitay, Prophecy and Persuasion, 191–192. 18 Cf. P. Hamer. Grace and Law in Second Isaiah: “I Am the Lord” (Lewiston: Edwin Mellin, 1988), 68. Hamer, however, interprets this as a response from the prophet rather than the Israelite exiles (176, n. 176). 19  Cf. B. Waltke, M. O’Connor, An Introduction to Biblical Hebrew Syntax (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1990, 670), who suggests that ʾākēn conveys “a sudden recognition in contrast to what was theretofore assumed.”

1. Isaiah 45: God’s “I Am,” Israel’s “ You Are”

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directed). Moreover, with ʾākēn, ʾattâ at the beginning of the verse effectively disrupts the poetic line form.20 There is clearly a parallelism at work in what follows, ʾēl mistattēr and ʾĕlōhê yiśrāʾēl môšiaʿ but with these two fronting words,21 the line is unbalanced towards the beginning, a feature that further calls attention to the sudden shift in speaker and addressee that has occurred. The parallelism in the two phrases ʾēl mistattēr and ʾĕlōhê yiśrāʾēl môšîaʿ is intriguing. The correspondence between ʾēl and ʾělōhê is clear enough. Perhaps this is an example of poetic intensification or seconding, with ʾĕlōhê yiśrāʾēl as a specification of the more generic term ʾēl.22 But the use of ʾēl elsewhere in this unit, particularly in verse 21 where the divine assertion is that God is ʾēl ṣaddîq ûmôšîaʿ argues against making of this parallelism anything other than a straightforward semantic equivalence. The more important issue concerns the linkage between mistattēr and môšîaʿ. What kind of parallelism is intended here? In terms of grammatical structure, two verbal forms are placed in association with each other, one a hitpaʿel participle, the other a hipʿil participle, here perhaps functioning as an “agent noun.”23 Both verbal roots are used in the Hebrew Bible with special reference to divine activity. Sātar is more common in the hipʿil stem, and in the collocation histtîr pānîm, it becomes the center of the language in the Hebrew Bible that is used to refer exclusively to God’s hiddenness. Isaiah 45:15 represents the only occurrence of the root sātar in the hitpaʿel participial form with reference to God, although its meaning here cannot be very different than that which informs the collocation histtîr pānîm.24 All references are assertions about divine hiddenness. Yāšaʿ is also used in more than half of its occurrences in the hipʿil stem, some 33x times in participial form. In prophetic literature hôšia‘ always occurs with God as the subject of the verbal action.25 More than one-third of its occurrences in the prophets are in Deutero – Isaiah where the term môšîa‘ becomes a special title for God and conveys the sense that God, and God alone, is the “champion of justice” for the oppressed and downtrodden (cf. 43̀:3, 11; 45:15,21; 49:26; 60:16).26 In short, both sātar and yāša‘ are special words in a vocabulary that is reserved almost exclusively for God. Their occurrence with reference to divine activity  Cf. Collins, Line Forms in Hebrew Poetry, 235. P. D. Miller, “The Theological Significance of Poetry,” in S. E. Balentine, J. Barton, eds., Language, Bible, and Theology: Essays in Honour of James Barr (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), 222–223. 22 Cf. R. Alter, The Art of Biblical Poetry (New York: Basic Books, 1985), 62–84; J. Kugel, The Idea of Biblical Poetry: Parallelism and Its History (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1981), 51. 23  J. Sawyer, “yšʿ,” TDOT VI, 447. 24 Three occurrences of the hitpaʿel participial mistattēr are used in a rather nondescript way with reference to David’s hiding from Saul (1 Sam. 23:19 [= Ps. 54:2]; 1 Sam 26:1). 25  For examples and discussion see Sawyer, “ys‘,” 455–459; cf. P. E. Bonnard. Le Second Isaïe (Paris: J. Gabalda, 1972), 526–536. 26  Cf. J. Sawyer, “What Was a Mošiaʿ,” VT 15 (1965), 475–486. 20

21 Cf.

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I. The God of Prayer: “I Am Not a Human Being”

is therefore not uncommon from either a grammatical standpoint or a lexical one. What is distinctive, however, is that Isa 45:15 is the only place in the Hebrew Bible where the two terms are used in the same verse with respect to divine activity. The critical issue, then, is not grammatical, but semantic: in what sense can God’s hiding/hiddenness be parallel with God’s saving/delivering? It is in the nature of parallelism to set up semantic relationships of both equivalency and contrast. Relationships of equivalency serve in the interest of “disambiguation,” that is, they clarify the meaning of words or phrases through a variety of poetic means such as paraphrase, progression, or metaphor. Relationships of contrasts, on the other hand, create ambiguity, not disambiguity; they offer polysemic, often ambiguous, interpretations that provide alternate views of things. As A. Berlin has argued with considerable force, the mix of equivalence and contrast, sameness and difference, is at the heart of biblical parallelism.27 The result of the parallelism in Isa 45:15 is a complex parataxis which brings into conjunction assertions of both equivalence (ʾēl / ʾĕlōhê yiśrāʾēl and contrast (mistattēr  / môšîa‘). There are no syntactical indicators to suggest that one assertion is subordinate to the other. The two verbal actions, hiding and saving, are joined in asserting a paradox of divine activity: God is both hidden from Israel and saving Israel. The language is assertive without being explanatory. It declares, but does not clarify. Of such poetic speech, Berlin comments that “The lines, by virtue of their contiguity, are perceived as connected, while the exact relationship between them is left unspecified.”28 The only thing that is clear in this parataxis is that the assertion is completed or closed only with the second statement. The two statements of God’s hiding and God’s saving, together, comprise the one assertion. Coupled with the contrastive adverb ’ākēn, Israel’s assertion both responds positively to God’s self-declarations in preceding verses, and at the same time, asserts that God is hidden in ways that confound Israel’s expectations. On the one hand, Israel joins with creation (45:8) and the nations (45:14) in recognizing God ’s unparalleled superiority in heaven and on earth. On the other, whereas God effectively controls the responses of creation and the nations by placing the words of affirmation on their lips, Israel’s assertion is not so managed. Israel speaks for itself. As previously noted, it is the only occasion in Deutero-Isaiah where Israel addresses God directly with the second person pronoun, “You, O Lord.” 27 A. Berlin, The Dynamics of Biblical Parallelism (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1985), 96–99; cf. Alter, The Art of Biblical Poetry; Kugel, The Idea of Biblical Poetry. For examples of “deliberate ambiguity” see P. Raabe, “Deliberate Ambiguity in the Psalter,” JBL 116 (1991), 213–227. 28  Berlin, The Dynamics of Biblical Parallelism, 6. See further L. A. Schökel (A Manual of Hebrew Poetics [Rome: Editrice Pontifico Instituto Bíblico, 1988], 91–94, 131), who cites Isa 45:15 as an example of “polarized expression.”

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Verses 18–19 return this unit to divine speech. The nations have responded to God’s claims; Israel has responded. Now God offers a hymn of self-praise, similar to the divine asseverations in vv. 11–13. In both cases God’s speech begins with the traditional formula kōh ʾāmar yhwh, and in both cases divine speech concludes with the asseverative formula ’ănî / ’ănōkî yhwh. Here, as in verses 11–13, God’s speech serves both to affirm and dispute the assertions that have been offered. First, God accepts the confession of the nations that God, and God alone, is God: v. 18: ʾănî yhwh wĕʾēn ʿōd; cf. 45:14: ʾak bāk ʾēl wěʾēn ʿōd). To this assertion, however, God now adds the declaration that the divine work in creation is purposeful, not ineffectual. God creates so that the world might be inhabited (lāšēbet yiṣrâ), not so that the world might remain a primordial chaos (lōʾ tōhû). Secondly, God addresses Israel’s assertion of divine hiddenness. The divine counter-assertion is that God works not in “secrecy” (bassēter, literally “hidingplaces”), here equated with both “darkness” (ḥōšek) and “chaos” (ṭōhû), but in ṣedeq, “righteousness.” Although the language is similar (sētter / histtatēr), God’s self-declaration offers a reinterpretation of Israel’s assertion. For God, the norm defining divine activity is ṣedeq , not sēter. God’s assertion is in keeping with previous declarations that insist on a place for ṣedeq in God’s resume (cf. vv. 8,13). With assertions and counter-assertions now fully articulated by all parties to this dialogue, the stage is set for the trial speech of verses 20–25. Now God will summon both Israel and the nations to the desired affirmation concerning God’s superiority in heaven and on earth. Isaiah 45:20–25. God’s final speech summons not only the “survivors of the nations” (v. 20), but also “all the ends of the earth” (v. 22), including “all the offspring of Israel”(v. 25), to final decisions concerning what has preceded. In typical trial speech format, God proceeds to examine key assertions in the preceding dialogue. In keeping with the divine speech thus far, the asseverative formula repeats twice more in this unit, both times in association with the assertion of God’s unparalleled status in creation: ʾănî yhwh  / ʾēl; wĕʾēn ʿōd (vv. 21,22; cf. 45:5,6,18). To this central assertion about God’s superiority, there is added the other divine character trait that has emerged as a primary concern in this dialogue, viz., the assertion that God is “savior” (v. 21: môšîaʿ). The root yāšaʿ repeats in vv. 20, 21, and 22, each occurrence affirming that salvation is attained through God and God alone. The repeated emphasis on yāšaʿ calls attention to another stylistic device that shapes this final speech. Gitay has noted the repetitive alliteration of the sounds ś and š, which brings to the fore the association of the words yāŝa‘ and ṣedeq.29 In this connection it is important to note that the divine concern for ṣedeq has steadily increased throughout this speech. To the previous occurrences of ṣedeq  Gitay, Prophecy and Persuasion, 20–201.

29

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in vv. 8, 13, and 19, a further four occurrences are now added in vv. 21–25. Of these, none is more important in its rhetorical effect than that which occurs in verse 21. Following a series of rhetorical questions (“Who told this from long ago …? [Who] declared this of old? Was it not I, the Lord?), v. 21b moves to the assertion that this trial is expected to affirm: ʾēl ṣaddîq ûmôšîaʿ, God is “a righteous God and a Savior.” This divine assertion recalls the response of Israel in 45:15 that God is mistattēr and môšîa‘. Israel’s response is carried by a poetry of contrast, two contiguous but contrasting assertions that offer an alternative view of divine activity. In God’s assertion, however, Israel’s statement about divine hiddenness is omitted. Echoing the response of praise offered by heaven and earth in 45:8, God asserts that the work of being “savior” is defined by righteousness and justice, not hiddenness. In poetic terms, God’s assertion conveys a parallelism of equivalence. The first epithet stresses God’s faithfulness and reliability; the second, God’s active involvement in Israel as “savior.” Whereas Israel’s response in 45:15 brings into one statement two assertions about God that occur nowhere else in the Hebrew Bible, in Deutero-Isaiah, the association between God’s “saving” and God’s “righteousness” is common, indeed, the terms ṣedeq (ṣĕdāqâ) and yāšaʿ / yěšûaʿah are virtually synonymous.30 In Deutero-Isaiah, God is ṣaddiq, and God is môšîʿa. It is assent to this assertion that God summons from the nations (v. 24; cf. v. 14) and from “the offspring of Israel” (v. 25) in this concluding trial speech. To summarize the discussion thus far, Isa 44:24–45:25 comprises an extended quasi-dialogue between God, the nations, and Israel. In several speeches carried by the asseverative formula, ʾănî / ʾănokî yhwh, God asserts unlimited capacities as creator of heaven and earth. These self-predications extend God’s claim to unparalleled limits in the Hebrew Bible, especially with regard to God’s responsibility for both good and evil (45:7). God’s assertions seek an affirmative “You are” response from the audience. Although God decrees an affirmative response from heaven and earth (45:8) and from the nations (45:14), the only direct and unmanaged “you are” response belongs to Israel in 45:15. Israel’s response, however, is a tensive assertion that offers an alternate view of God’s status as “savior:” God is both hidden and saving. With trial speech language God solicits recognition from both Israel and the nations of the resume of the “savior,” a resume now modified by God’s counter-assertion of divine righteousness:

30  Cf. Isa 45:8; 46:13; 51:5 (yišʿî); 56:1; 61:10. See further, F. Stolz, “yšʿ,” THAT I, col. 788; J. Sawyer, “yšʿ,́ ” TDOT VI, 458–459.

1. Isaiah 45: God’s “I Am,” Israel’s “ You Are”

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God’s “I am”   vv. 5,6: (cf.v. 18): I am YHWH, and there is no other (ʾănî yhwh wĕʾēn ʿōd)   Israel’s “You are”   v. 15: You are a God who hides himself, O God of Israel the Savior   (ʾăttâ ʾēl mistattēr ʾĕlōhê yiśrāʿēl môšîʿa) God’s “I am”   v. 21: I am YHWH, and there is no other (ʾănî yhwh wĕʾēn ʿôd),   a righteous God and a Savior (’ēl ṣaddîq ûmōšîa‘)   v. 22: I am God, and there is no other (’ănî ’ēl wĕʾēn ʿōd)

II. Divine Hiddenness in Deutero-Isaiah and Beyond The use of the verb sātar in Isa 45:15 connects with the broader use of this verb throughout the Hebrew Bible. Both lexically and semantically, sātar is the preferred verb in biblical Hebrew for the expression of divine hiddenness.31 With 81 total occurrences, sātar is by far the most frequent word in the semantic field of Hebrew words for “hide.” Further, with respect to the semantic category of divine hiddenness, that is, when God is the logical subject of the hiding, e. g., God hiding himself, sātar is again the most frequently employed verb within the semantic field, with approximately half (31x or 47 %) of its total occurrences belonging to this category. Although there is considerable semantic overlap in some areas between sātar and other verbs in the semantic field, when God is the subject of the hiding action, especially in the key collocation histîr pānîm, the hiding of God’s face, sātar is semantically unique. No other verb in the semantic field of Hebrew words for “hide” ever takes pānîm as its object.32 The phrase “hide the face” (histîr pānîm) is the heart of the language of divine hiddenness in the Hebrew Bible. Other words and phrases contribute to the stock of vocabulary that addresses this theme, e. g., questions directed to God, language relating to God’s rejecting, forgetting, forsaking, and the like, but it is the reference to God’s hiding the face that provides the nucleus around which other expressions are gathered.33 There are a total of 26 occurrences of God’s hiding the face in the Hebrew Bible. The phrase is used primarily in poetry, principally in the Psalms (12x) and in the prophets (11x) . Of the twelve occurrences of the phrase in the Psalms, ten

31  See S. E. Balentine, The Hidden God. The Hiding of the Face of God in the Old Testament (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983). 32  Ibid., 1–21. 33  Ibid., 115–163.

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are in the context of Israel’s lament to God.34 The most prominent feature in these laments is Israel’s complaint that God is inexplicably hidden, absent from the community of faith without cause. There is little mention, if any, of Israel’s sin as the causal link to God’s hiding. Instead there is a preponderance of questions, accompanied by protests of innocence, which serve to implore God to reverse an unjust situation. The backdrop for the question in Ps. 44 :25 – “Why (lāmmâ) do you hide your face?” – will suffice as a representative example: All this has come upon us,    though we have not forgotten you,    or been false to your covenant. Our heart has not turned back,    nor have our feet departed from your way, yet you have broken us in the haunt of jackals,    and covered us with deep darkness. (vv. 17–19)

In prophetic texts the phrase histîr pānîm with reference to God occurs more than once only in Isaiah (8:17; 54:8; 59:2; 64:6) and Ezekiel (39:23,24,29). Micah and Jeremiah contain but one reference each (Mi 3:4; Jer 33:5). In other prophetic books the phrase does not occur at all.35 If in the Psalms the cause of God’s hiding is usually not specified, in the prophets the situation is quite different. Without exception the prophets assert that God’s hiding is a direct response to Israel’s sin. This causal link between God’s hiddenness and Israel’s disobedience is established both from the general judgment context into which the expression histîr pānîm is set (e. g., Isa 8:17), and from the specific references to sin, iniquity, transgression, etc ., with which the phrase is collocated (e. g., Isa 59:2: “your sins have hidden his face from you”). In short, in the Psalms the community of faith laments God’s hiddenness as an inexplicable and undeserved act of divine abandonment. In the prophets, divine spokespersons assert God’s hiddenness as just punishment for Israel’s sin. A shift in the prophetic usage of the language about divine hiddenness, however, is discernable. In Mic 3:4, one of the earliest of the prophetic passages, the context for God’s hiding is clearly judgment oriented, with no hint of subsequent restoration or forgiveness. Yet in Isaiah, Jeremiah and Ezekiel, references to God’s hiding are typically offset by accompanying promises of deliverance and restoration. I suggest that the transition that comes to define the prophetic understanding of divine hiddenness begins to take shape with Deutero-Isaiah.

34 Nine passages occur as part of an individual lament: Pss 10:11; 13:2; 22:25; 27:9; 51:11; 69:18; 88:15; 102:3; 143:7. One occurrence is in community lament: Ps 44:25. 35  Of the eleven occurrences of the phrase in the prophets, two (Isa 50:6; 53:3) refer to the “suffering servant,” and these along with Exod 3:6, represent the only occurrences in the Hebrew Bible where the phrase is used of anyone other than God.

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It is clear that lament is a defining context for the understanding of God’s hiddenness in Isaiah.36 But it is also the case that in Isaiah the language of divine hiddenness comes increasingly to be associated with language of hope and promise. In Isa 8:17 the prophet announces he will “wait” (hikkîtǐ) and “hope” (qiwwêtî) on the God who is hiding from Israel. In Isa 54:7–8 a prophetic summons to sing and rejoice (vv. 1–3) provides the introduction to God’s announcement that divine abandonment (ʿăṣbtîk) and hiding (histtartî) will be replaced by compassion (raḥamîm) and unfailing love (ḥesed). And in the communal lament of Isa 63:15–64:12, the community itself begins to make the transition from the father who has abandoned them (63:16: “For you are our father” [kî ʾattâ ʾābînû]; 64:7: “you have hidden your face from us …”) to the hope for renewed relationship (64:8 f: “Yet, O LORD, you are our father … we are all your people”). I submit that Isa 45:15 represents the pivotal juncture in Israel’s journey with ʾēl mistattēr, the God “who hides himself.” It is the place where lament and hope converge in Israel’s confession. Although the prophetic exhortation to hope in the unparalleled capacities of God, even in exile, is persistent and effective, the anguish of Israel’s lament about divine abandonment continues to echo in each occurrence of the hiddenness language in Isaiah. It is this persistent lament that invites the response of prophets and other spokespersons of God whose religious sensibilities understandably summon Israel to recognize that God’s hiddenness is not a matter of divine caprice. There is a causal link, the prophets insist, between sin and judgment, and thus necessarily between God ’s hiding and Israel’s disobedience. Indeed, in Isaiah 45, God presents a sustained argument in defense of an unparalleled sovereignty which, in matters of weal and woe, good and evil, saving and judging, is always defined by the commitment to righteousness (45:21). In the midst of Israel’s truth about God’s hiddenness and the truth of the prophetic/divine summons to hope, Isa 45:15 is the one place in DeuteroIsaiah where Israel addresses God directly. It is a direct address to God as the acknowledged “savior” of Israel, and it is an address that insists that the assertion about God’s hiddenness is appropriate in the litany of responses that the community of faith may offer to God. It is the only place in the Hebrew Bible that brings into one confession the daring assertion that God is both a hiding God and a saving God. To reduce the response of faith to one of these confessions 36  In Isa 8:17 the prophet’s assertion that he is “hoping” (qiwwêtî) in YHWH who is “hiding his face from the house of “Jacob” echoes the lament about God’s hiddenness in Psalm 69 (cf. v. 6: “Do not let those who hope (qōwekâ) in you be put to shame”); the description of God’s hiding as a “moment” (šeṣep) in Isa 54:8 recalls the memory of lament in Ps 30:5: “for his anger is but for a moment (rega‘).” Isaiah 59:2 makes the same correlation between God’s hiding the face and God’s “not hearing” that occurs frequently in psalms of lament (cf. Pss 88:3; 102:2–3; 143:1); and the occurrence in Isa 64:6 is part of a rhetorical unit (63:15–64:12) that in form and substance presents a typical community lament about divine hiddenness (cf. Ps 45).

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without the other is to offer less than the truth of Israel’s experience. Although I do not think Pascal had this Hebraic truth in mind, his comment on Isa 45:15, restored now to its proper biblical setting, is perhaps even more appropriate and compelling than he intended: Surely, God is Deus abscondititus, and “any religion that does not affirm that God is hidden is not true.”

2. “I Am a god and Not a Human Being”: The Divine Dilemma in Hosea “What indeed has Athens to do with Jerusalem?” The question posed by Tertullian (ca. 155–240 ce) marks a longstanding divide between reason and faith, theology and philosophy. To look toward Greece for philosophical insight into the nature and character of God, Tertullian argued, leads to heresy.1 A number of recent works, including some by biblical scholars, have mounted a new (renewed) challenge to Tertullian’s supposition.2 Perhaps inadvertently, these emerging philosophical approaches to the Hebrew Bible have intersected with a growing number of studies that explore lexical and thematic connections between the Old Testament and Greek literature during what Walter Burkert describes as the “orientalizing period” (ca. 750–650 bce), the “formative epoch of Greek civilization.”3 1 The context for Tertullian’s question is instructive: “Unhappy Aristotle! Who invented for these men dialectics, the art of building up [arguments] and pulling [them] down; an art so evasive in its propositions, … so productive of contentions – embarrassing even itself, retracting everything, and really treating of nothing! … [W]hen the apostle would restrain us, he expressly names philosophy as that which he would have us be on our guard against. Writing to the Colossians, he says: ‘See that no one beguile you through philosophy and deceit after the tradition of men’ .… He had been at Athens, and had in his interviews [with the philosophers] become acquainted with that wisdom which pretends to know the truth, while it only corrupts it …. What indeed has Athens to do with Jerusalem? What concord can there be between the Academy and the Church? What between heretics and Christians?”(Prescriptions Against Heretics, 7.15–22). 2  For the purposes of this essay, see especially, J. Gericke, The Hebrew Bible and Philosophy of Religion (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2012); Y. Hazony, The Philosophy of Hebrew Scripture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012); J. Barton, Ethics in Israel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014); S. Sekine, Philosophical Interpretations of the Old Testament (BZAW 458; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2014). 3 W. Burkert, Die orientalisierende Epoche in der griechischen Religion und Literatur (Heidelberg: Carl Winter, 1984); ET: The Orientalizing Revolution: Near Eastern Influence on Greek Culture in the Early Archaic Age, transl. M. Pinder, W. Burkert (Cambridge, MS; London: Harvard University Press, 1992). The literature on this “orientalizing period” is extensive. In addition to multiple works by Burkert, see especially B. Janowski, K. Koch, G. Wilhelm, eds., Religionsgeschichtliche Beziehungen zwischen Kleinasien, Nordsyrien und dem Alten Testament (OBO 129; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1993); M. L.  West, The East Face of Helicon: West Asiatic Elements in Greek Poetry and Myth (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997). Burkert notes that reading the Hebrew Bible alongside the Greek classics was commonplace well into the eighteenth century. For a variety of reasons – philological, ideological, and theological – it was thought important to sever the link between Indo-European languages and Semitic languages, and more fundamentally between East and West (The Orientalizing Revolution, 1–6). For a critique of essentialist arguments about racial

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This essay seeks to contribute to this larger conversation about Athens and Jerusalem. My focus on Hos 11:9 relocates Tertullian’s question: What does Hosea have to do with Homer (or Hesiod)? More specifically, I invert the logic of the question. If Hos 11:9 is the answer to some sort of divine dilemma – “I am God [or ‘a god,’ ʾēl] and not a human,” that is, “I am this kind of god but not that kind of god”  – then what were the presenting metatheistic and metaethical questions about divinity that shaped the world of this text? My exploration comprises three parts: 1) a god’s “El-ness”; 2) transcultural distinctions between divine and human portfolios; and 3) the interface between divine moralizing and moralizing about the divine.

I. A god’s “El-ness” The Book of Hosea comprises a metanarrative of Israel’s history from an eighth century Judean perspective.4 Beginning with a review of the exodus from Egypt and the covenant between God and Israel, it tracks major episodes of Israel’s violation of covenant demands, God’s punishment, focused in the fall of the state, and the promise of restoration at some future but undefined time. From a structural standpoint, chapter 11 occupies the space between punishment and restoration. It begins with a rehearsal of the past, when God called the people out of Egypt, led them with bonds of love through the wilderness and into the land of Canaan, but was spurned by their decision to love other gods (vv. 1–4). It then summarizes God’s consequent and immanent judgment, manifest in Israel’s subjugation by Assyria (vv. 5–7), which, however, will not be the end, for as the last verses of the chapter announce, God resolves to rescind the judgment and restore the relationship (vv. 10–11). Verses 8–9 are the pivot between judgment and restoration. Why does God decide to move from “burning anger” (hărôn ‘appî) to burning “compassion” (nikmĕrû nihûmā’)? The answer has something to do with God’s El-ness: “Because I am a god (ʾēl) not a mortal (ʾîš). The standard approach to understanding the Hebrew word ʾel (and ʾeloah) and its two plural forms, ʾlim and ʾelohim, uses cognate forms in other Semitic languages (Akkadian ilu/ilanu; Ugaritic ʾil/’ilm) to construct what Mark Smith distinctions between Greek and Semitic languages and cultures, see S. Arvidson, Aryan Idols. Indo-European Mythology as Ideology and Science (Chicago; London: University of Chicago Press, 2006); C. López-Ruiz, When the Gods Were Born: Greek Cosmogonies and the Near East (Cambridge, MA; London: Harvard University Press, 2010), 1–22. 4  E. Ben Zvi, Hosea (FOTL 21A/1; Grand Rapids; Cambridge, MA: Eerdmans, 2005), 228. Cf. J. M. Bos, who argues for a date in the late sixth or early fifth century bce but does not address Hos 11:8–9 (J. M. Bos, Reconsidering the Date and Provenance of the Book of Hosea: The Case for a Persian-Period Yehud [LHBOTS 580; New York; London; New Delhi; Sydney: Bloomsbury], 2013).

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calls the “historiography about divinity” in the ancient Near East.5 The basic contours of the history that moves from notions of multiple gods in ancient Near Eastern literatures to one-god theism in ancient Israel, from conceptualizing El and YHWH as different deities to collapsing them into a single divine figure, are well known and need not be rehearsed here.6 It is sufficient for my purposes to note that Hosea scholars have long understood the message of this book to revolve around the prophet’s indictment of the northern kingdom for worshipping the Canaanite deities El and Baal.7 Scott Chalmers succinctly states this position: “Just as Hosea proclaims that it was Yahweh, not Baal, that lavished grain and wine and oil on Israel in 2.10, in Hosea 11–13 the prophet insists that it was Yahweh, not El, who appeared to Jacob and who brought Israel up from Egypt.”8 Hosea’s insistence that YHWH alone is the true God,9 that is, the true El, has usually been understood to reflect Israel’s movement toward one-god theism during the eighth to the sixth centuries, when vassalage to Assyria required absolute loyalty to the Assyrian king, who embodied the will of the imperial Assyrian god.10 To subvert Assyrian hegemony,11 so the argument goes, Israel sep M. S. Smith, God in Translation: Deities in Cross-Cultural Discourse in the Biblical World (Grand Rapids; Cambridge, UK: Eerdmans, 2008), 149; cf. idem, The Early History of God: Yahweh and the Other Deities in Ancient Israel (Second edition; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002); idem, The Memoirs of God: History, Memory, and the Experience of the Divine in Ancient Israel (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2004).  6 Recent studies describe a three-step process in Israel’s movement toward monotheism: convergence, differentiation, and accommodation. For a summary of the discussion, see R. P. Bonfiglio, “God and Gods,” The Oxford Encyclopedia of Bible and Theology, Vol I, ed., S. E. Balentine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 412–426.  7  In Hosea 1–3, the focus is on Baal; in 4–11 on El. For a concise overview, see J. A. Dearman, The Book of Hosea (NICOT; Grand Rapids; Cambridge, UK: Eerdmans, 2010), “Appendix 1: Baal in Hosea,” 349–351. For a dissenting view, see B. Kelle, Hosea 2: Metaphor and Rhetoric in Historical Perspective (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2005), 137–152.  8  R. S. Chalmers, The Struggle of Yahweh and El for Hosea’s Israel (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2008), 241–242 (emphasis original). Chalmers argues (87–91) that Hosea’s “El polemic” is directed not toward past sins of Baal worship at Baal-peor (Numbers 25) but instead at present apostasy in Bethel, where Hosea’s opponents misidentify YHWH’s compassion as that of “the kindly one, El, the compassionate” (ltpn ‘il dp’id; e. g., KTU 1.4.IV.58; 1.6.III.4, 10,14; 1.16.V. 23).  9  Chalmers notes the importance of the repeating personal pronoun “I” (ʾānōkî; 11:3, 9; 12:10–11; 13:4–5), which is strategically located at places where there is potential confusion about the identity (or agency) of the deity, thus his translation of 11:8: “For I and I alone am ʾēl and not a mortal, the Holy One in your midst” (ibid., 78). 10 M. S. Smith, The Origins of Biblical Monotheism: Israel’s Polytheistic Background and the Ugaritic Texts (New York; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). On the same issue considered from the perspective of both the ancient Near East and the Greco-Roman period, see M. L. West, “Toward Monotheism,” in P. Athanassiadi, M. Frede, eds., Pagan Monotheism in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 21–40. 11  On the important contrast between cross-cultural exchange that unintentionally diffuses shared motifs and ideologies and that which intentionally subverts them, see E. Otto, “Assyrian and Judean Identity: Beyond the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule,” in: D. S. Vanderhooft,  5

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arated itself not only from the gods of its overlord but also from its own polytheistic heritage, what Patrick Miller has called the “the gods in Yahweh”.12 From this perspective, God’s El-ness emerges out of and responds to transcultural godtalk in Mesopotamia and Canaan. Another way of understanding God’s El-ness is more philosophically oriented.13 One may frame the issue so as to clarify the essential (as opposed to accidental or contingent) characteristics of a god. In other words, rather than asking “who is a god?”, which focuses on the matter of identity, we may ask “what is a god?”, or to use the language of divinity in the Hebrew Bible and other ancient Near Eastern texts, “what is an ʾēl ?”14 Baal, Hadad, Shamash, and YHWH may each be Els, but what essential qualities do they share that distinguish them conceptually from other entities in the ancient world? Gericke proposes a philosophical formulation of the issue: “For any entity x, x is an ʾēl if and only if a, b, c, and so on.”15 No attempt to formulate a definitive list of the essential properties of El-ness is likely to go unchallenged. If only because of the limitations imposed by this essay, I will not risk the effort here (but see below, section II). Nonetheless, let me extrapolate from the work of those who have explored the “what is a god?” question one important consideration that has thus far been missing from the standard commentaries on Hos 11:9. If one looks for a fully “generic concept of godhood” that has bearing on Israel’s religious and cultural development in the eighth to the sixth centuries, then the arc of transcultural cultural discourse should include Mesopotamia, the Levant, and Greece. There is now an abundance of evidence for the traffic of commerce and ideas between the ancient Near East and Greek cultures during the Mycenaean and Minoan periods, roughly 1450–1050 bce.16 Moreover, we know that the expansion of A. Winitzer , eds., Literature as Politics, Politics as Literature. Essays on the Ancient Near East in Honor of Peter Machinist (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2013), 339–347. Cf. P. Machinist on the “inversion” of Assyrian royal inscriptions in First Isaiah (“Assyria and Its Image in the First Isaiah,” JAOS 103 [1983]), 221–226; idem, “Final Response: On the Study of the Ancients, Language, and the State,” in S. Sanders, ed., Margins of Writing, Origin of Cultures [OIS 2; Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 2006], 291–300). 12  P. D. Miller, The Religion of Ancient Israel (London; Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2000), 25–28. 13 In the following paragraphs, I draw upon the work of Gericke, The Hebrew Bible and Philosophy of Religion, especially chapters 10–11. 14 Cf. Smith, Origins of Monotheism, 102–103; idem, “Like Deities, Like Temples (Like People),” in J. Day, ed., Temple and Worship in Biblical Israel (JSOTSup 422; London; New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2005), 3–27; M. S. Smith, W. T. Pitard, The Ugaritic Baal Cycle. Vol. II. Introduction with Text, Translation and Commentary of KTU/CAT 1.3–1.4 (Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2009), 66–67. 15  Gericke, Hebrew Bible and Philosophy of Religion, 265. 16  For an early but frequently neglected assessment by Cyrus Gordon, see “Homer and the Ancient Near East,” in C. H. Gordon, G. Rendsburg, The Bible and the Ancient Near East (Fourth edition; New York; London: W. W. Norton and Company, 1997); originally published

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the Neo-Assyrian Empire, especially from the time of Tiglath-Pileser III, put not only Israel and Judah at risk, but also Greek cities in Asia Minor.17 If the Gilgamesh Epic can justifiably be called the “Odyssey of the Babylonians,”18 then we should at least allow for a similar interface between Hosea’s El-God and Homer’s Zeus-god, especially because we know that at least by the time of Philo (first- or second-century ce), El-god traditions were explicitly identified with Kronos-Zeus traditions.19 In short, we may suppose that in the cultural koiné20 of the Late Bronze-Early Iron period generic god-talk, arcing from West to East, provided a common conceptualization of what it meant to equate Baal, YHWH, and Zeus with divinity.

in 1965. Since the 1980s, study of the interconnectedness of Mesopotamian, Northwest Semitic, and Greek mythologies and religious systems has steadily increased. The following may be singled out: M. Bernal, Black Athena: the Afroasiatic Roots of Classical Civilization. Vol. 1: The Fabrication of Ancient Greece: 1785–1985 (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1987); idem, Black Athena: the Afroasiatic Roots of Classical Civilization. Vol. 2: the Archaeological and Documentary Evidence (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1991); W. Burkert, Babylon, Memphis, Persepolis: Eastern Contexts of Greek Culture (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004); West, The East of Helicon; C. López-Ruiz, Gods, Heroes, and Monsters: A Sourcebook of Greek, Roman, and Near Eastern Myths (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013). 17  On the dynamics of the Mesopotamian expansion to the East and the Greek expansion to the West in the Late Bronze period, see West, The East Face of Helicon, 606–630. 18  A. Heidel, The Gilgamesh Epic and Old Testament Parallels (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1949). On the influence of the intellectual history of the ancient Near East, see now M. Van De Mieroop, Philosophy Before the Greeks: The Pursuit of Truth in Ancient Babylonia (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2015). 19 Eusiebius, Praeparatio evangelica, 1.10.44. For text and translation, see H. W. Attridge, R. A.  Oden, Jr., Philo of Byblos. The Phoenician History: Introduction, Critical Text, Translation, Notes (CBQMS 9; Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association, 1981), 62–63. Herodotus, the putative fifth century “father of history,” concluded that nations identify the same gods by different names. For example, the Egyptians call Zeus Ammon (Histories, 2.42) and the Scythians call Zeus Papaios (Histories, 4.59). 20  C. López-Ruiz uses the phrase “cultural koiné” to describe “the common cultural features both in broad categories and in specific details … [that] existed in the ancient Mediterranean during the Bronze Age” (When the Gods Were Born, 179); cf. M. Finkelberg, Greeks and PreGreeks: Aegean Prehistory and Greek Heroic Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005). The use of this language identifies my approach as an intertextual one. I suggest Hosea and Homer draw on a common stream of traditions (written or unwritten) about divinity. It is virtually impossible to know for certain whether one text is clearly earlier than the other, therefore I posit only a synchronic relationship between Hosean and Homeric concepts of divinity. (Although, see B. Louden [Homer’s Odyssey and the Near East (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 12–13] on the likelihood that Old Testament writers were influenced by Greek culture, at least by the middle of the sixth century, rather than the other way around.) For a survey of the current impasse between diachronic and synchronic approaches to intertextuality, see G. D. Miller, “Intertextuality in Old Testament Research,” CBR 9 (2010), 283–309.

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II. Transcultural Distinctions Between Divine and Human Portfolios21 Hosea 11 presupposes a generic distinction between an ʾēl and an ʾîš, but it does not make explicit what properties differentiate one from the other. Presumably, there were certain assumptions about what constitutes divinity in the ancient Near East, and no doubt we could compile a reasonable list of these assumptions if that were the objective.22 Whatever essential properties of divinity may be on that list, they would necessarily derive from observable human characteristics that have been conceptualized as supra-human, which is to say, supernatural, transcendent. Human beings are mortal, gods are immortal; human power is limited; divine power is (or seems to be) unlimited; humans do not have all wisdom, gods do, and so on. In a fundamental sense, all gods, insofar as humans can conceive of them, are human constructions. They are imagined anthropomorphic perfections. Conversely, humans at their very best are but theomorphic imperfections.23 There is, however, a curious tension between gods and humans at just this point. Humans seem inevitably to aspire to divinity. They want to live forever, to know everything, control everything, in essence, to transcend all human limitations. Indeed, such aspirations, which are always thwarted by the gods, are at the heart of most cosmogonies in the ancient world, including the creation stories in Genesis. Gods, on the other hand, do not typically aspire to be more like humans. They do not yearn to die or to be vulnerable to any of the instabilities that afflict humans, such as age, illness, or fatigue. Because their power knows no limits, they have no need for courage. Because they have all knowledge, 21  I borrow the term “portfolio” from J. K. Davies, who argues that the “tidiness and convenience” of names for god, such as Zeus, Siva, or Yahweh, is best understood as “shorthand for portfolios or packages of attributed imagined powers, but they, and especially the overwhelmingly anthropomorphic way in which the Greeks [and the Hebrews] visualized their gods, can all too easily tempt us to speak and think of them as ‘persons’ in ways which, if adopted incautiously, send ontologically misleading messages. We have therefore to reach round the name to the portfolio, and to the men and women in whose minds that portfolio had a meaning if we are to be able to trace the ways in which the ‘profile’, or ‘person’, or imputed personality of this or that god, or set of gods, changes in the course of generations” (“The Moral Dimension of Pythian Apollo,” in A. B. Lloyd, ed., What is a God? Studies in Greek Divinity [London: Duckworth, 1997], 44). 22  M. Smith, for example, discusses a number of possible ways to address the question “What is an ilu [god]?” (The Origins of Biblical Monotheism, 6–9). Numerous studies of Greek literature pursue the same question, although they are rarely referenced by biblical scholars. In addition to the standard introductions to Greek religion, which typically discuss the nature of Greek divinity, see, for example, E. Ehnmark, The Idea of God in Homer (Stockholm: Uppsala University Press, 1935); K. Hack, God in Greek Philosophy to the Time of Socrates (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1931), and the collection of essays in Lloyd (ed.), What Is a God? 23  So, for example, Ralph Waldo Emerson: “A man is a god in ruins,” Nature (Boston; Cambridge: James Monroe and Company, 1849).

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it is pointless for them to seek wisdom. Gods do whatever they do without constraint or assessment, therefore human concepts like right and wrong, just and unjust, are irrelevant to their world. Nothing about the nature of human life, therefore, would be attractive to a god. They might admire one human virtue or another, but only because they found it entertaining from a spectator’s perspective. As long as the spectacle held their attention they might watch, but they would not be tempted to give up their place in the divine audience.24 Within the Near Eastern nexus of this fundamental distinction between the divine and the human, there is nothing unusual or special about Hosea’s YHWH-god saying, “I am not a mortal (ʾîš).”25 Presumably, no one hearing these words in an eighth century world would have thought otherwise. It is not the denial of mortality that is curious. It is instead the implicit affirmation that because YHWH is a certain kind of ʾēl-god, which necessarily means he is not human, he will not come against in Israel in wrath.26 What are the metatheistic assumptions behind such an assertion?27 Two considerations merit attention. 1. Perhaps the rhetorical strategy of this verse, like that of the chapter as a whole, is to utilize anthropomorphic language, which is always a necessary conduit for god-talk, to emphasize that this YHWH-god loves, feels anger, and grieves like any normal parent, but is not bound by parental norms when it comes to deciding whether to forgive or to punish.28 This is a reasonable read24  On the activity of humans on earth as “ein Schauspiel für die Götter,” see H. Fränkel, Die homerischen Gleichnisse (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1977), 32–33. 25  Hosea 11:9 is often compared with other texts that contrast God with some aspect of humanity, principally Num 23:19, 1 Sam 15:29; and Ezek 28:2 (cf. Isa 31:3). The texts in Numbers and 1 Samuel contrast God’s reliability or consistency with that of a mortal: God will not change his mind or deceive. (Numbers 22–24 indicates that YHWH was readily identified as El inside and outside Israel, at least as early as the ninth century.) The Ezekiel text reports YHWH’s rebuke of the King of Tyre, whose pride leads him to claim divinity: “You have said” I am a god (ʾēl) … but you are a mortal (ʾādām) and not a god (ʾēl; 28:2; cf. v. 9). 26  The waw affixed to the negative particle lō’ in v. 9b is ambiguous and can be read either conjunctively or disjunctively. MT, LXX, and Vulgate read wĕlō’ ‘ābô’ bĕ’îr, “I will not come into the city,” which contextually would seem to mean, “I will not come into the city to execute my anger” (but see F. I. Anderson, D. N. Freedman, Hosea (AB 24), Garden City: Doubleday, 1983), 589). Alternatively, ʿir may be from the root ʿir II, “inflame,” thus, “I will not become enraged” (H. W.  Wolff, Hosea [Hermeneia], Philadelphia: Fortress, 1974), 193). 27  Gericke defines metatheistic assumptions as “presuppositions regarding the divine condition, a term that encompasses the totality of the experience of being divine” (The Hebrew Bible and Philosophy of Religion, 276; cf. idem, “What’s a God? Preliminary Thoughts on Meta-theistic Assumptions in Old Testament Yahwism(s),” Verbum et Ecclesia 27 [2006], 856–857). 28 The issue of anthropomorphic language to describe divinity in the ancient world is too complex to be addressed in this context. In a forthcoming essay, I will contrast anthropomorphic language used in the Hebrew Bible with that applied to Zeus and the gods in Homeric literature. One striking difference may be noted preliminarily. Hosea is a prime example of what is overall a positive embrace of YHWH’s fundamental humanness. That God loves like a parent or a spouse is considered a good illustration of divine tenderness and compassion. Homer

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ing of the verse, and some version of it has characterized much of Hosea commentary at least since the Patristic period.29 Such a reading, however, does not explain why God should be indecisive about how to deal with Israel (see Hos 6:4), or why God experiences such a tumult of conflicting emotions,30 or why, whatever action God may be considering, the decision has anything to with being an ʾēl. The conventional explanation would be that Hosea’s author intends to draw a sharp contrast between two different gods, the Canaanite god El and the Israelite God YHWH. But would such a contrast have been necessary? That there was temptation toward Baal worship in Israel during the eighth century seems plausible.31 But was there reason to beand to a lesser degree Hesiod use similar anthropomorphic language to describe Zeus, and while their intentions may have been positive, they were roundly criticized and condemned by their readers, especially Xenophanes, Plato, and Aristotle. See, for example, Longinus, who strongly criticized Homer for making “the men in the Iliad gods and the gods men.” What is necessary, Longinus countered, was to represent the gods as “pure and truly great and unalloyed [with anthropormorphism]” (On the Sublime, 9.8–9). To the degree that such consternation was not likely limited to Aegean cultures in the eighth to sixth centuries, we may speculate that something similar lies in the background of Hosea’s attempt to assure his readers that, on the one hand, God is like a mortal (e. g., Hos 11:1–4), and on the other, that God is not like a mortal (11:9). 29 E. g., Jerome: “I will not act according to the passion of my anger, nor will I be charged entirely from my compassion in order to ruin Ephraim. For I do not smite to destroy for good, but rather to correct. My cruelty is an opportunity for penitence and piety. For ‘I am God and not man.’ Whereas a man punishes to destroy, God reproaches to emend” (PL 25, 920). Cf. Cyril of Alexander: “I will not destroy Ephraim entirely even though he became wicked. For what reason? Did they not deserve to suffer this? Yes, he says, but I am God, not a man, that is to say, good, not one conceding victory to the angry emotions, for such passion is merely human” (PG 71, 273 A). On Patristic interpretations, see E. J. Pentuic, Long-Suffering Love. A Commentary on Hosea with Patristic Annotations (Brookline: Holy Cross Orthodox Press, 2008). Dearman represents the continuation of this line of interpretation: “YHWH will not … carry out a judgment that from a human point of view is expected and deemed necessary. He is divine, not human, and thus free to act in ways that transcend human limitations (and also human points of view).” (The Book of Hosea, 290; cf. J. P. Kakkanattu, God’s Enduring Love in the Book of Hosea (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006). 30  The interrogative ʾêk in Hos 11:8 (2x) connotes self-accusation. The verb hāpak, “turn over, overthrow” signals that God’s heart is at war with itself. The same verb, used with reference to the question whether God should treat Israel like Admah and Zeboiim, occurs in Gen 19:25, 29 to describe God’s treatment of sinful Sodom and Gomorrah. Critical analysis of Genesis 18–19 confirms, however, that an original report of God’s decision to punish was complexified by the insertion of the report that Moses insisted God think more carefully about divine intentions (Gen 18:22–31). The net result of this addition to the text is the suggestion that God was not internally conflicted about the decision but should have been. For a recent effort to reclaim Genesis 18–19 as the hermeneutic lens for interpreting Hos. 11:8–9, see F. Lindström, “‘I am God and not Human’ (Hos 11,9): Can Divine Compassion Overcome our Anthropomorphisms?’,” SJOT 29 (2015), 135–161. 31  But see Kelle, who argues that there is no evidence, biblical or extra-biblical, to support the conventional assumption of widespread Baal worship in the eighth century. In his view, it is more likely that the infrequent references to the term “baal, overlord” in Hosea (7x total, four of which are in Hosea 2) are metaphors signaling Israel’s unwise and disloyal political al-

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lieve that the gods of Canaan were typically internally conflicted when it came to executing punishment? Was there some Canaanite tradition known to Hosea’s audience in which El or Baal would be described as saying to himself, “Should I do X or should I do Y?” Was it supposed that a Canaanite El would feel internal constraint before exercising divine power in the human world? I see no evidence that such internal musing, let alone internal conflict, was in any way characteristic of Canaanite deities. Indeed, quite to the contrary, Ugaritic texts typically focus on conversations between the gods, not between the gods and humans, and while El may on occasion ask for the help or cooperation of other gods, there are no indications that El or Baal lacks either sufficient wisdom or resolve when it comes to exercising divine power.32 2. If, however, we expand the horizons of transcultural god-talk in the eighth to the sixth century beyond Israel’s eastern and northern neighbors, then we may look to the west and to notions of divinity in Homeric Greece.33 The El-god in Greece is Kronos; Zeus, his son, is generically analogous to Baal.34 Zeus’s portfolio includes superior power – in ancient Greece as in all cultures a powerless god is a contradiction35 – but not unlimited power. He may dispense both good and evil without constraint, capriciously so if he wants, but his power is always subordinate to fate or destiny (moira). The one thing the gods cannot do is to protect the living from death.36 Athena spells out her limitation in conversation with liances (Hosea 2, 137–152). If, as Kelle maintains, there was no reason in Hosea’s world to confuse YHWH’s El-ness with Baal’s El-ness, then we have another reason to look elsewhere for the context of the god-talk in Hos 11:9. 32  The machinations of the deities in the Baal Cycle, especially of Baal and Mot, are perhaps most representative of the gods’ “typical” behavior. The questions posed by El in the story of Kirta (CTA 14–16 = KTU 1.14–16; cf. the similar situation of Dan’il in the Aqhat Epic), “Who among the gods will heal Kirta,” is somewhat different, but in this instance the issue is who will execute El’s decision that Kirta be healed, not whether the healing should be executed. 33 An increasing number of biblical scholars are examining textual and thematic connections between biblical texts of various genres and pre-Socratic Greek texts, e. g., J. Van Seters, In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983); S. Mandell, D. N. Freedman, The Relationship between Herodotus’ History and Primary History (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 1993); F. A. J. Nielsen, The Tragedy in History: Herodotus and the Deuteronomistic History (JSOTSup 251; Sheffield: Bloomsbury Academic, 1997); J. W. Wesselius, The Origin of the History of Israel: Herodotus’s Histories as Blueprint for the First Books of the Bible (JSOTSup 345; Sheffield: Bloomsbury Academic, 2002); P. Niskanen, The Human and Divine in History: Herodotus and the Book of Daniel (JSOTSup 396; London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2004); Louden, Homer’s Odyssey and the Near East, with essays on connections between Odyssey and Genesis 18–19 (30–56), Jonah (164–179), and I Samuel 28 (197–221), for example. 34  For the equivalence of Canaanite El to Greek Kronos traditions in different sources throughout antiquity, see López-Ruiz, When the Gods Were Born, 158–167. 35  Cf. J. K. Davies, “The Moral Dimension of Pythian Apollo,” in A. B. Lloyd, ed., What is a God?, 43–64. 36 In Hesiod’s genealogy of the gods, Night begets both “black Fate” (Moron, mēlainan) and “Death” (Kēra) (Theogony, 211).

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Telemachus: “Death that is common to all not even the gods themselves can ward off even from a man they love, whenever the fell fate (moira) of pitiless death strikes him down” (Odyssey, 3.239). The gods have the advantage over mortals of knowing in advance what Moira has determined. They may exercise their power to protect mortals from a premature death, as when Poseidon counsels Aeneas to walk away from the fight with Peleus, lest his death move him beyond what fate has decreed (Iliad, 20.336: hyper moirav), but once the end has come, the gods must give way as fate takes its course. At this pivotal moment between a mortal’s life and death, Homer describes the Greek gods as facing a dilemma not unlike that which Hosea imagines for YHWH. The moment when Zeus must decide whether he might save Hector from death at the hand of Achilles provides apt illustration. Seeing that the end is near, Zeus is filled with sorrow (Iliad, 22.168–169), because Hector had always served him loyally. Zeus asks the other gods if there is any way they can change the outcome. Athena answers for all: “A mortal man, doomed long since by fate (aisē), are you minded to free from dolorous death? Do it; but be sure we other gods do not at all assent to it” (22.178–179). Conceding the inevitable, Zeus pretends that he was only joking. He lifts up the “golden scales” (chruseia talanta) of justice, the balance for Hector sinks down toward the realm of death, and Apollo leaves him to his defeat (22.209–210).37 The thematic similarities between Homer’s Zeus-god and Hosea’s YHWH/Elgod make at least one difference between the two stand out. Zeus is a spectator, looking on from a distance as judgment decreed becomes judgment enacted. He may (or may not) grieve the situation, but he has no power to change the outcome.38 YHWH looks on as his own judgment against Israel becomes too grievous to enact. Israel’s sin is clear and its judgment is in order, but on YHWH’s scales of justice divine compassion outweighs divine anger.39 Hosea identifies YHWH as an El-god, but in this particular case there is reason to wonder if his primary objective is to differentiate YHWH from Zeus rather than Baal.

 For similar references to the “(golden) scales” of the gods’ justice, see Iliad, 8.69; 16.659. Iliad, 20.20–22, which describes Zeus as contently looking on from Olympus as the Greeks and Trojans slaughter each other: “I care for them, even though they die. Yet for myself I will remain here sitting in a fold of Olympus, from which I gaze and give my mind enjoyment (enth oroōn phrena terpsomai).” 39  Dearman usefully connects the description of YHWH’s (com)passion in Hosea 11 to Exod 34:6–7, which he describes as “one of Hosea’s base texts” (Hosea, 291). 37

38 Cf.

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III. Divine Moralizing, Moralizing about the Divine “I am a god and not a mortal, and therefore I exercise justice in this way, not that way.”

The context for this affirmation is Hosea’s certainty that the fall of the northern state of Israel is immanent. Israel was not of course the first nation state in the ancient world to collapse. Sumer, Babylon, Ugarit, and Troy are but some of the most obvious examples, each disappearing from the historical map long before Israel. How does one account for such momentous historical events? Hosea is a prophet, a spokesperson for divinity, and so we should expect him to view the fall of Israel from a religious perspective. Homer and Hesiod are poets, not religious specialists; we should not be surprised that they have little or no interest in analyzing the gods’ involvement in the fall of Troy. Even so, when it comes to thinking about how an eighth century prophet tries to explain divine justice, I suggest reading Hosea alongside pre-Socratic literature can be instructive. The preface to Hesiod’s Theogony celebrates the birth, powers, and prerogatives of the gods. The Muses invite Hesiod to join them in praising the gods for their contributions to two specific areas of human life, law and ethics: “they [the Muses] glorify all the laws (nomous) and cherished ethics (ēthea kedna) of the immortals” (Theogony, 66).40 What Hesiod meant by the use of the terms nomoi and ēthea is open to question. It is likely that the former refers to ordinances, written or (more likely) oral, which provide external norms for public behavior. Éthea, by contrast, which ultimately develops into the Aristotelian concept of “ethics,” refers principally to the personal norms that guide life in more private settings, such as the household and family.41 Hesiod was certainly not the first to use the theogonic genre to tie together the origin of the world and the birth of the gods, but he may well have been the first to single out explicitly “law” and “ethics” as the essential divine responsibilities to which all others are subordinate. Moreover, the Proem introduces “law” and “ethics” before the genealogy of gods, thus suggesting, albeit obliquely, that the gods did not create the moral order of the cosmos but instead received and sustained it. Here we may have the earliest iteration of the Euthyphro Dilemma: is something moral because the gods command it, or do the gods command something because it is moral?42 Nevertheless, having introduced law and ethics, public ordinances and personal values, as essential to Greek notions of divinity, Hesiod devotes very little attention to either in any of his work. The same holds true for Homeric  Theogony, 66: pantōn te nomous kai ēthea kedna athanatōn kleiousin. Preface to Plato (Cambridge, MA; London: Belknap Press, 1963), 62–63; M. L.West, Hesiod: Theogony, Edited with Prolegomena and Commentary (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1966), 178. 42  On the Euthyphro Dilemma as a hermeneutic for assessing ancient Israel’s pre-Socratic moral philosophy, see Barton, Ethics in Ancient Israel, 12, 94, 260. 40

41 E. A. Havelock,

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writings.43 Homer does however use soliloquy as a form of divine speech, although only of Zeus and only in two places (Iliad,17.201–208, 443–455). The infrequency of these soliloquys may signal Homer’s reluctance to talk about the private thoughts of the gods,44 which in itself would differentiate him from Hosea, but even when Homer permits himself to characterize the divine thought process, his Zeus appears to think very differently from Hosea’s YHWH. When Zeus “spoke to his own heart” (de káre)  – about Hector’s immanent death (17.201–208), about Achilles’s horses, who mourn the death of Patroclus, their charioteer (17.443–455)  – he expresses regret about unfolding events, but he has no desire to change the outcome.45 By contrast, Hosea’s God seems caught between what his own divine “law” requires and what his heart demands (“my heart revolts against me,” 11:8), between the execution of public justice and fidelity to private or personal values.46 Unlike Homer, Hosea does not shrink from describing God’s moment of emotional turmoil; he exploits it.47 In doing so, he provides readers with an education in divine moralizing. Presumably all El-gods superintend law and ethics, but none do so, Hosea insists, like Israel’s El-god. We may suppose that at least two models for divine moralizing (and moralizing about the divine) were well known in Hosea’s world. The dominant model followed by Hosea’s pre-exilic prophetic contemporaries (Amos, Micah, First Isaiah) was based on a quid pro quo principle deeply engrained in Deuteronomic law: if X is the crime, then Y is the punishment. The more egregious the offense, the more severe is the punishment. Hosea clearly recognizes the usefulness of this model and appropriates it for explaining God’s judgment  For the discussion, see West, Hesiod, 178.  Homer shows no such reluctance in constructing soliloquies for human characters (e. g., Iliad 11.404–410 (Odysseus); 17:91–105 (Hector); 18:6–14 (Antiolochus); 20.344–352 (Achilles); 21.54–63 (Achilles); 22.98–130 (Hector); 22.297–305. See E. Minchin, “The Words of God: Divine Discourse in Homer’s Iliad,” in A. Lardinois, J. Blok, M. G. M. van der Poel, eds., Sacred Words: Orality, Literacy and Religion (Orality and Literacy in the Ancient World, Vol. 8; Leiden: Brill, 2011), 17–36. 45  Minchin, “The Words of God: Divine Discourse in Homer’s Iliad,” 27–28. 46  In what has become the standard work on Old Testament ethics, E. Otto describes the development from Recht, explicit or actual laws that are subject to the legal process, and Ethos, the ethical ideals or principles that guide individual behavior (Theologische Ethik des Alten Testaments [Stuttgart; Berlin; Cologne: Kohlhammer, 1994]). Barton has demonstrated why Otto’s focus on legal and (to a lesser extent) wisdom materials to the exclusion of narrative, prophetic, psalmic, and other biblical genres is an insufficient basis for assessing ethics in Israel (Ethics in Israel, e. g., 14–40). 47 Lindström argues that interpretations accenting a “God against God” understanding of this text run the risk of “transforming the pain of God into an internal transaction, with which it is difficult to sympathize and to feel involved” (“‘I am God and Not Human’ (Hos 11,9),” 139). Perhaps so, but if the generative cultural context was the importance of distinguishing between generic conceptualizations of divinity in the eighth to the sixth century bce, then the existential difficulty may be more modern (note the “our” in the title of Lindström’s article) than ancient. 43 44

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of Israel, which he conveys in places with such violent language that the “stench of death” permeates the entirety of his message, the words of compassion in 11:8–9 notwithstanding.48 Homeric literature exemplifies a second model for understanding the moral character of divinity that would also have been well known in Hosea’s world. Israel’s eastern and western neighbors lived in multi-god cultures, where primary El-gods oversee justice without being credited or criticized for its execution, which is the responsibility of other, lower ranking, deities. In Hesiod’s genealogy of the gods, Dike is the personification of justice and the daughter of Zeus and Themes (Theogony, 901). Her assignment is to confront and overcome injustice, Adikia, the daughter of Eris.49 Zeus remains above the fray of any collateral damage that mortals may experience in the process. Human suffering is irrelevant to divine sublimity. Hosea does not embrace this model as such, although he would almost certainly have been aware of its appeal, especially as evidenced in wisdom traditions both inside and outside Israel.50 The presenting metaethical question is which of the two models for divine moralizing, the Deuteronomic or the Homeric, provides the better hermeneutic for reading Hosea? We should begin by refusing to eliminate the complexity of this issue by settling for either-or choices. Dilemmas are dilemmas precisely because choices between multiple options are difficult to make. A god’s dilemma, if we may put it this way, will not likely be resolved by any mortal’s solution. Conversely, any attempt at moralizing about divinity will reflect the unavoidable limitations of human thought. Let me simply stipulate that the author of Hosea knows and likely engages both these models in various ways. Why will Israel fall? A part of Hosea’s answer is that Israel has sinned and God has justly punished; divine moralizing is an exercise in quid pro quo thinking. Why will Israel fall? A part of Hosea’s answer is that God has punished because neither God’s justice nor God’s righteousness will be compromised; divine moralizing does not render human suffering meaningless or irrelevant, but it does relativize it. I suggest that Hosea draws upon transcultural portfolios of generic divinity, including available paradigms for divine moralizing, to construct an alternative approach to thinking about what the El-god known as YHWH is doing in his world. Hosea looks inside the god’s mind, examines a thought process, i­ magines a cognitive connection between an immortal’s mind and his heart. What or where in 48 For examples of violent divine punishment, see Hos 2:3 [MT v. 5], 4:5; 5:12, 14; 6:5; 9:12,16; 10:14; 11:6; 13:7–8. 49 As depicted in the sixth century amphora in the Kunsthistorische Museum, Vienna, where Dike beats Adikia with a mallet; cf. Pausanias, Description of Greece 5.18.2. 50  A prime example is Job 38–42, where divine majesty and mystery appears invulnerable to human misery. On Job and the sublime, see C. Newsom, The Book of Job: a Contest of Moral Imaginations (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 234–258; S. E. Balentine, Job (Smyth and Helwys Bible Commentary; Macon, GA: Smyth and Helwys, 2006), 625–706.

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Hosea’s world is the template for doing such a thing? The God for whom Hosea speaks is an El-god like others known to him, possessed of immortality, superior power, and unequalled wisdom, but when Hosea looks inside YHWH’s mind to find the key to understanding why he acts as he does, he does not focus on any of these generic attributes of divinity. Instead he speaks of YHWH’s compassion.51 On the one hand, Hosea anthropomorphizes this compassion in order to stress God’s freedom to transcend all human limitations.52 In doing so, he follows common practice. How can one think about divinity without the aid of anthropological moorings? On the other, Hosea imagines that this YHWHGod can transcend even divine limitations, a kind of self-transcendence, which Hosea depicts as divine compassion exceeding divine anger. YHWH is both more than human-like and more than God-like. In Hosea’s world, we might say that YHWH is not only more El than any other El but also more YHWH than YHWH. My attempt to understand what Hosea seems to be doing exhausts itself in redundancy, but in my defense how exactly does one describe a God who is able to transcend divinity without forsaking divinity?53 Divine dilemmas can only exacerbate human dilemmas. We may extend this intellectual exercise one step farther. In providing his audience an education in divine moralizing, Hosea himself is at the same time moralizing about the divine. He moralizes about divine behavior by showing how divinity, peculiarly manifest in YHWH, moralizes about itself. In a pre-Socratic world, where the formal conceptualization of philosophy (love of learning) is as yet unarticulated, Hosea’s author is already doing pre-moral, philosophical work. What does Athens have to do with Jerusalem? Almost certainly the question is more ours than Hosea’s. On the one hand, we may feel constrained to dismiss the question, not because we agree with Tertullian that it is the height of heresy 51  For an additional indication of how deeply (pre)philosophical Hosea’s thinking is at this point, see the nineteenth century debate between Kant and Schopenhauer concerning whether natural law or moral law is the better foundation for ethics. Criticizing the Kantian notion of moral imperatives, Schopenhauer argued instead that the only genuine moral incentive for ethical behavior is compassion: “It is the everyday phenomenon of compassion, of the immediate participation, independent of all ulterior considerations, primarily in the suffering of another, and thus in the prevention or elimination of it: for all satisfaction and all well-being and happiness exist in this. It is simply and solely this compassion that is the real basis of all voluntary justice and genuine loving-kindness.” In introducing his argument for the importance of compassion, Schopenhauer notes that “philosophers of every age and land … and all gods, Oriental and Occidental, owe their existence” to a careful consideration of this most fundamental human virtue (A. Schopenhauer, On the Basis of Morality, trans. E. F. J. Payne, with an Introduction by D. E. Cartwright [Indianapolis; Cambridge: Hackett, 1995], 38, 144). 52 Cf. Otto, Theologische Ethik, 111. 53 It is worth pondering whether the Greek ranking of mortals and immortals – highest gods, ordinary gods, heroes, ordinary mortals (who proceed though similar stages, gold to silver to iron; e. g., Hesiod, Works and Days, 106–201) – may in some way bespeak a sort of divine transcendence. If so, the transition from ordinary gods to ordinary mortals via a heroic age seems more a lessening or loss of divinity than a heightening of divinity.

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to ask it, but because we regard it as simply irrelevant in the modern world. On the other hand, we may know all too well that bridging theology and philosophy pushes us to the farthest limits of what is humanly possible. But even here, we may find that Athens and Jerusalem are joined in common cause: My child, you have gone your way To the outermost limits of daring And have stumbled against Law enthroned.

The words are from Sophocles (Antigone), but if we did not already know the attribution, we might well think they were biblical.

3. Written on the Heart, Erased from the Mind: Rewriting Moral Agency in Jeremiah The covenant between God and Israel presupposes both divine and human agency. A paradigmatic formulation serves as the introduction to the Ten Commandments. God initiates the covenant by asserting both authority and power: “I am the Lord your God who brought you out of the land of Egypt … You shall …” (Exod 20:2–3; Deut 5:6–7). Implicit in the imperative is the presumption that Israel has both the freedom to consider the merits of the commandments and the capacity to choose and enact a response. After due deliberation, Israel announces the decision to obey with a first-person intentionality that mirrors God’s own: “All the words the Lord has spoken, we will do … we will be obedient” (Exod 24:3, 7; cf. Deut 5:27: “we will listen and do it”). Divine and human agency are not equated in covenantal relationship – God is the greater force, Israel the lesser – but a rough correlation of agency is fundamental for the identity of both parties. The covenantal agency described in Jer 31:31–34 is different. In this iteration, God is the sole actor: “I will make a new covenant … I will make … I will put … I will write … I will be … I will forgive” (vv. 31, 33, 34). Israel is acted upon, a silent recipient of God’s intentions. God inscribes the commandments on Israel’s heart (lēb), the locus of thinking and decision making, thus effectively bypassing the deliberative process. There will be no opportunity and no need for Israel’s independent discernment, no option to consider alternative possibilities, and because God has predetermined the outcome, no risk of ultimate failure. God makes a unilateral decision – “They shall all know me” – then announces, without consultation and in advance of any request from the other party in this relationship, that transgressions will be forgiven without penalty or consequence. Commentary on this text typically exegetes divine initiative as a measure of God’s unmerited grace, an undeserved gift that enables obedience that would otherwise be impossible. With good reason, this reading has provided crucial context for interpreting the “new covenant” that Jesus announces in the liturgy of the Last Supper (Luke 22:20 // Mark 14:24 // Matt 26:28; cf. I Cor 11:25).1 In this essay, I want to explore a different issue, one that seems to me to have received insufficient attention. The presenting question is this: Can there be moral 1  Among Jeremiah commentators, see for example, J. Lundbom, Jeremiah 21–36. A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 21B; New York: Doubleday, 2004), 472– 482.

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agency without autonomy? Absent the freedom to deliberate, to make a choice, and enact a decision, does the covenantal relationship described in Jeremiah 31 understand fidelity to God to be anything more than involuntary obedience? Put differently, if both the covenantal requirements and the decision to obey them are externally inscribed on the human heart, if like computer software they are programmed into the operating system, do humans automatically surrender their freedom for thinking about moral decisions?

I. The Thinking Heart and the Virtuous Moral Self Michael Carasik has aptly used the phrase “thinking heart” to describe the function of the word lēb in the lexicon of Old Testament anthropology.2 More than a term for the physical organ that pumps blood through the body, lēb designates the thinking process we normally associate with the “mind.” Within the framework of the moral grammar of the Old Testament, lēb has been variously described as a person’s “moral control and guidance system,”3 the locus of a person’s “moral will,”4 and, with specific reference to its function in the book of Jeremiah, as a designation for “the host of faculties, powers, and capacities that constitute people as responsible selves.”5 Jeremiah 4:1–4 introduces key aspects of Jeremiah’s conception of the thinking heart. God’s address in 4:1–2 employs “if-then” rhetoric that presupposes Israel’s capacity to choose the path to repentance that God offers: “If you return (tāšûb) … and if you remove your abominations … then you can swear ‘By YHWH’s life’ in truth, justice, and righteousness.”6 Agency is also implicit in the command “to circumcise yourselves to the Lord, remove the foreskins of your hearts [’arĕlôt 2 M. Carasik, Theologies of the Mind in Biblical Israel (Studies in Biblical Literature 85; New York: Peter Lang, 2006), 104–124. See further, H. W. Wolff, Anthropology of the Old Testament (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1974), 40–58; R. A. de Vito, “Alttestamentliche Anthropologie und die Konstruktion personaler Identität,” in B. Janowski, K. Liess, eds., Der Mensch im Alten Israel: Neue Forschungen zur alttestamentlichen Anthropologie (Freiburg: Herder, 2009), 213– 241; T. Krüger, “Das ‘Herz’ in der alttestamentlichen Anthropologie,” in A. Wagner, ed., Anthropologische Aufbrüche: Alttestamentliche und interdisziplinäre Zugänge historischen Anthropologie (FRLANT 232; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2009), 103–118. 3  T. Krüger, “Das ‘Herz’ in der alttestamentlichen Anthropologie,” 109 [“moralische Kontrollund Lenkungsinstanz”]. 4 C. Newsom, “Models of the Moral Self: Hebrew Bible and Second Temple Judaism,” JBL 131 (2012), 10. 5 T. Polk, The Prophetic Persona: Jeremiah and the Language of Self (JSOTSup 32; Sheffield: University of Sheffield, 1984), 44. 6 I follow here Lundbom’s rendering (J. Lundbom, Jeremiah 1–20: A New Translation with Commentary [New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999], 324), but the division between protasis and apodosis in vv. 1–2 may also be located after the third bicolon instead of the second, thus, “If you return … and if you remove … and if you swear … then nations shall be blessed” (e. g., NRSV, NIV, CEB).

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lĕbabĕkem]” (4:4; cf. Deut 10:16; 30:6), an implied and elusive metaphor that can be glossed as “open your closed mind.”7 Israel fails to respond to the summons to repentance (9:25–26). They “stubbornly follow their own evil hearts” (3:17, šĕrirût libbām hārāʿ; cf. 7:24; 9:13 [English 9:14]; 11:8; 13:10; 16:12; 18:12; 23:17), but this is their choice. They decide for themselves not to do what God wants them to do; they are not “programmed” to fail. They are capable moral agents, they can choose good over evil, but “they have developed a disposition, a willful purpose, and a preferred course of action that are all contrary to the will of YHWH.” And as D. Knight has noted, “These are associated with choice, decision, and planning, parts of the process of moral acting.”8 Moral agency has emerged as an important area of research in Old Testament studies.9 Space does not permit a full review and assessment of the work to date, but a brief overview will provide context for what the book of Jeremiah contributes to the discussion. Because there is no clear and systematic discussion of moral agency or moral selfhood in the Hebrew Bible, it has been helpful to look to other disciplines  Lundbom, Jeremiah 1–20, 330; cf. L. C. Allen, Jeremiah: A Commentary (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2008), 62: “openness to Yahweh’s influence.” On the use of this language in Deut 10:16 and 30:6, see below. 8 D. Knight, “Jeremiah and the Dimensions of the Moral Life,” in J. L. Crenshaw, S. Sandmel, eds., The Divine Helmsman: Studies on God’s Control of Human Events, Presented to Lou H. Silberman (New York: KTAV, 1980), 92; cf. A. Stewart, “Moral Agency in the Hebrew Bible,” in J. Barton, ed., Oxford Research Encyclopedia of Religion (Oxford: Oxford University, Press, 2016). Accessed July 24, 2019 from https://oxfordre.com/religion/view/10.1093/ acrefore/9780199340378.001.0001/acrefore-9780199340378-e-92. J. E. Lapsley makes the same point by distinguishing between the capacity for moral-decision making and the will: “Refusal to orient one’s will to do the right thing constitutes a failure in the proper use of one’s moral equipment, not a defect in the equipment itself ” (Can These Bones Live? The Problem of the Moral Self in the Book of Ezekiel [BZAW 301; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2000], 10; italics original). 9  The following works have been especially important for this essay: Knight, “Jeremiah and the Dimensions of the Moral Life,” 87–105; Polk, The Prophetic Persona; Lapsley, Can These Bones Live?; J. M. Barclay, S. Gathercole, eds., Divine and Human Agency in Paul and His Cultural Environment (LNTS 335; New York, T & T Clark, 2006); Newsom, “Models of the Moral Self,” 5–24; idem, “The ‘Righteous Mind’ and Judean Moral Culture: A Conversation Between Biblical Studies and Moral Psychology,” in J. J. Collins, T. M. Lemos, eds., Worship, Women, and War. Essays in Honor of Susan Niditch (BJS 357; Providence: Brown Judaic Studies, 2015), 117–133; idem, “Moral ‘Recipes’ in Deuteronomy and Ezekiel,” HeBAI 6 (2017), 488– 509; idem; “Predeterminism and Moral Agency in the Hodayot,” in R. A. Clements, M. Kister, M. Segal, eds., The Religious World Views Reflected in the Dead Sea Scrolls. Proceedings of the Fourteenth International Symposium of the Orion Center for the Study of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Associated Literature, 28–30 May 2013 (STDJ 127; Leiden: Brill, 2018), 193–211; J. Matson, Divine and Human Agency in Second Temple Judaism and Paul (WUNT 297; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010); B. Breed, D. Hankins, R. Williamson, Jr., eds., “Writing the Moral Self: Essays in Honor of Carol Newsom,” JSOT 40 (2015), 3–135; Stewart, “Moral Agency in the Hebrew Bible;” K. Kaplan, “Jonah and Moral Agency,” JSOT 43 (2019), 146–192; N. Chambers, “Divine and Creaturely Agency in Genesis 1,” SJT 72 (2019), 1–19. 7

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where the subject has been vigorously explored, especially moral psychology, cognitive science, and neurobiology, to find criteria that may be appropriated and modified as necessary. Carol Newsom’s appropriation of insights drawn from ethnopsychology is exemplary; she provides a definition that points the way forward. When I speak of moral agent, I mean a self who has 1) personal awareness and knowledge, coupled with 2) emotional investment (desire/aversion), which can be directed toward 3) intentional, purposeful action. Agency is ‘moral’ in that the person is held accountable for his or her understanding, affect, and action.10

The critical aspect of this definition for this essay is the accent on intentionality, purposeful action, or, more pointedly, choice, as J. Lapsley has emphasized: “Moral selfhood is the ability to choose to act one way or another, while being held accountable by others (in the Bible usually by God) for the choice.”11 A consensus is forming around the thesis that the default model of moral agency in the Hebrew Bible is what Lapsley has called “virtuous moral selfhood,” which presumes that the human moral self “is inherently capable of making reasoned choices and of acting freely based on those choices in accordance with the good.”12 This model occurs across the Old Testament, in narrative, priestly, prophetic, and wisdom traditions, but for contextualizing Jeremiah’s understanding of the “thinking heart” and moral selfhood, Deuteronomic traditions are especially important.13 The template for virtuous moral selfhood in Deuteronomy can be discerned in the summons to covenantal obedience, which is explicitly framed in terms of what is required of the thinking heart: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart (bĕkol lĕbābĕkā), and with all your being, and with all your might” (Deut 6:5; cf. 4:29; 10:12; 11:13; 13:4; 26:16–18; 30:2, 6, 10). The rhetoric is hortatory and hopeful. The right decision is not too difficult, it is not out of reach: “The word is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart (bilbābĕkā), to do it” (Deut 30:14). But the decision is not automatic; the heart exercises its own agency, it is in control of its own actions. It may choose to be mean instead of kind (15:10: wĕlō ͗ yēra’ lĕbābĕkā; literally, “let your heart not be evil”); it may choose to burn hot with rage against an adversary (19:6: yēham lĕbābô; literally, “his heart is hot”) or to be timid and afraid in battle (20:3: ‘al-yērak lĕbabbĕkem;  Newsom, “Predeterminism and Moral Agency in the Hodayot,” 194. Can These Bones Live?, 8 (emphasis added). Cf. Knight, who includes choice or “moral freedom” as one of six fundamental conditions of the moral agent in Jeremiah: rationality, volition, affectivity, sociality, temporality and historicality, and moral freedom (“Jeremiah and the Moral Life,” 88–101). 12  Lapsley, Can These Bones Live?, 8. 13  For an overview, see Stewart, “Moral Agency in the Hebrew Bible;” on Deuteronomy, see Carasik, Theologies of the Mind, 177–215, and Newsom, “Moral ‘Recipes’ in Deuteronomy and Ezekiel,” 494–502. 10

11 Lapsley,

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literally, “do not let your heart be soft/weak;” cf. 20:8). Most detrimental to the covenantal relationship, the heart may choose not to obey God but instead to turn to other gods in defiance (11:16: yipteh lĕbabkem; literally, “your heart will be enticed;” cf. 29:17; 30:17). As Carasik observes, “the heart may be a particular locus of rivalry between God and humanity.”14 Deuteronomy builds various incentives into its expectations for obedience in the hope of influencing the right decision: the intimation of divine holiness evokes fear and awe (4:9–14; 5:2–5, 19–24); the threat of punishment discourages disobedience (4:3, 25–28; 6:15; 7:10; 8:20; 9:7–21;11:6,17); the portent of curses reinforces all warnings (27:15– 26; 28:16–46).15 Assuming the incentives are effective, the Deuteronomic ideal of covenantal relationship will produce and be sustained by persons characterized by virtuous moral selfhood. There are however tell-tale signs of the worry that the Deuteronomic ideal for moral agency may not withstand reality. The fractures of suspicion can be discerned in the juxtaposition of two particular texts – Deut 10:16 and 30:6 – that have direct bearing on Jeremiah. Included among the things Israel must do in order to love God wholeheartedly, that is, with “all of the heart” (bĕkol lēb), is to circumcise the foreskins of their hearts (Deut 10:16), an imperative repeated in Jer 4:4, as noted above. Both iterations of this circumcision command presuppose that Israel has the moral capacity to open their hearts fulsomely to God when they choose to do so. Obedience is not beyond their reach. Deuteronomy 30:6 echoes Deut 10:16, but with one important difference. The imperative that Israel perform the act of circumcision voluntarily is recast as a declaration that transfers agency from Israel to God. God will circumcise the hearts of the people, and as a result they will respond with the love God requires. Covenantal obedience from this perspective is not the product of thoughtful and deliberate decision. There is no indication that the people have considered all options, thought deeply about the pros and cons of various decisions, and then purposefully chosen one course of action over another. Voluntary obedience has become a fait accompli. The different views of agency in Deut 10:16 and 30:6 are likely the result of editorial layering. There are strong reasons for regarding 30:1–10 as a postexilic rereading of an earlier aspirational ideal of moral agency that had undeniably failed. Further, syntactical issues permit a less deterministic reading. One may, for example, read 30:1–2 as a protasis and verse 6 as its apodosis, thus: If/when the people return to God with all of their heart as God has commanded them to do, then God will restore their fortunes and transform their hearts. On this reading, God’s circumcision of the heart does not negate Israel’s agency; the people must and can repent, which then triggers a reciprocal action from God. 14 Carasik,

Theologies of the Mind, 123.  Cf. Newsom, “‘Moral Recipes’,” 500–501.

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However one resolves these issues, Deut 30:6 betrays a reflection on the fragility of the Deuteronomic ideal of virtuous moral selfhood.16 The thinking heart is a heart free to make bad decisions, and such freedom cannot easily, if ever, be fully restrained. In a perfect society like the one imagined by the Deuteronomists, there is ultimately no need to be anxious about transgressions, because moral autonomy will naturally coincide with divine intentions. Perfection is however a delusory objective, and one detects in the editorial layering of Deuteronomy the need to revise and correct the naivete of earlier thinking. A first step is to rewrite the grammar of moral selfhood by minimizing or erasing altogether human agency. The Deuteronomic admonition to love God with all of the heart, as Carasik notes, would seem to “preclude any selfgenerated thought.”17 Jeremiah 31:31–34 moves still farther in this direction.

II. Rewriting the Grammar of Moral Agency Deuteronomy’s description of the virtuous moral self may be the dominant model of human agency in the Hebrew Bible, but it achieves this distinction by comparison with two others: neutral moral selfhood and educated moral selfhood.18 The latter, which focuses on how a person may be disciplined into moral selfhood, occurs with variations throughout wisdom literature and is thematic in the book of Proverbs (e. g., 15:32: “Those who refuse discipline despise themselves, but those who listen to correction acquire understanding [qôneh lēb; literally, “acquire a heart”]”). Discussion of this model is beyond the purview of this essay.19 I focus here on the neutral or negative model of selfhood, which provides important context for understanding Jer 31:31–34. The virtuous moral selfhood model posits a strong view of agency that presumes humans have an innate capacity to discern what is good and to choose to do it. Neutral moral selfhood assumes weak agency. Humans may make their own decisions, but the decisions are at best morally neutral; because humans have no innate understanding of what distinguishes good from bad, they choose 16  For discussion of the issues, see M. Brettler, “Predestination in Deuteronomy 30:1–10,” in L. S. Schearing, S. L. McKenzie, eds., Those Elusive Deuteronomists: The Phenomenon of PanDeuteronomism (JSOTSup 268; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 171–188. 17 Carasik, Theologies of the Mind, 214. Carasik concludes: “Deuteronomy provides a complete epistemological system to create a just society. Once set in motion, it would perpetuate itself forever. Unfortunately, the circumstances of its being set in motion according to Deuteronomy – complete acceptance by the whole people at the very moment when it was to begin independent existence in its own land – was a myth. ‫[ שׁר’רות לב‬Carasik: “dictates of the heart”] was not a quarantineable disease but, as it has always been, an epidemic” (214–215). 18  Stewart, “Moral Agency in the Hebrew Bible.” 19  See A. Stewart, Poetic Ethics in Proverbs: Wisdom Literature and the Shaping of the Moral Self (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), especially Part II, 71–200.

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the good only accidentally, not intentionally. A stronger expression of this model assumes that humans are fundamentally flawed from birth and are therefore genetically incapable of constructive thinking at any level (e. g., Ps 51:5; Job 4:17– 19; 11:12; 15:14–16). Both these nuances of neutral moral selfhood are present in Jeremiah. Jeremiah stands at a crucial reflection point in the trajectory of thinking about moral agency in the Hebrew Bible. We see the beginnings of a shift away from the optimism rooted in the belief that humans have within themselves the capacity to make moral decisions and to engage in moral actions and a step toward a more pessimistic understanding of human nature as hopelessly incapable of choosing the good without divine intervention. There was a time, Jeremiah recalls, before the entry into Canaan, when “Israel was holy to the Lord.” Fidelity was organic, like the love that grows naturally between persons who freely join themselves in marriage (Jer 2:2–3a). When life in Canaan presents other choices, however, Israel decides fidelity in marriage imposes an unacceptable sacrifice of freedom. Instead of drinking from a “fountain of living waters” they did not create and therefore cannot control, they build for themselves cisterns that provide independent, if imperfect, resources for what they need (2:13). Autonomy breeds self-reliance; human agency strives for liberation from unwanted restrictions. Jeremiah’s summation is an indictment of virtuous moral selfhood: “You broke your yoke … you pulled away from your restraints … you said, ‘I will not serve’” (2:20). Through the first half of the book the indictment lingers, the final verdict abated, while Jeremiah holds out hope that those who “walked by their own counsels, in the stubbornness of their own evil hearts” (7:24), will eventually decide to return to covenantal fidelity. But, as Knight observes, “As events moved closer to the fall of Jerusalem, the people’s intransigence in the face of his calls for repentance evoked from Jeremiah an increasingly pessimistic evaluation of their capability for moral rectitude.”20 By the time Jeremiah’s public career as a prophet ends, the verdict is clear. With the “work of your own hands,” God declares to the people of Judah, “you have provoked me to anger” and brought evil on yourselves (25:6–7). The punishment for failed moral agency will be a loss of agency altogether, a loss that will be experienced in two different ways. First, when exiled to Babylon, the Judeans will perforce comply with decisions imposed on them by authorities they have not chosen (25:8–12). Secondly, on the other side of exile, the returnees will submit to the decisions of the God they formerly decided not to obey. A first step into this neutral or negative moral selfhood is the reestablishment of unilateral divine agency, specifically targeted at the transformation of the human decision-making process, the thinking heart. Three texts that point in  Knight, “Jeremiah and the Moral Life,” 88.

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this direction can be singled out. Although redactional issues are complex, each of these texts offers a retrospective on the fall of Jerusalem in 586 bce and its consequent impact on established ideas about moral agency. I list the texts in the order in which they will be discussed: Jer 24:5–7; 32:36–41; and 31:31–34. 1. There are two vision reports in Jeremiah, 1:11–14 and 24:1–10. Implicit in both is an understanding of divine and human agency that signals the transition from virtuous moral selfhood in the first half of the book to neutral or negative moral selfhood in the second half. Chapter 1 introduces the vision of the almond tree (vv. 11–12) and the boiling pot (v. 13–14), images that prepare Jeremiah to receive and comprehend an oracle of impending judgment against Judah (vv. 15– 19). In two exchanges, God takes the initiative by asking Jeremiah the same question: “What do you see?” (vv. 11a, 13a: mâ ʾāttâ rōʾeh). To both questions, Jeremiah responds with the same answer: “I see …” (vv. 11b, 13b: ănî rōʾeh; cf. Amos 8:1–2). The vision in 24:1–10 also uses images – two bags of figs (vv. 1–2) – to prepare Jeremiah to understand an oracle of judgment, this time a judgment in favor of the Judean exiles in Babylon and against the remnant in Jerusalem (vv. 4–10). In this account, God begins by showing the prophet what God intends him to see (v. 1a: hirʾanî yhwh, literally, “YHWH caused me to see”) before asking the question, “What do you see?” (v. 3: mâ ʾāttâ rōʾeh). When Jeremiah responds (v. 3b), he affirms he has seen what he has been instructed to see. Primary agency has shifted away from Jeremiah. God decides what Jeremiah should see; Jeremiah does not see for himself. God also provides an assessment of what Jeremiah sees. One bag of figs, which represents the exiles in Babylon, is “very good” (v. 2, ṭōbôt mĕʾōd; cf. v. 5); the other, which represents the Judeans remaining in Jerusalem, is “very bad, so bad that they cannot be eaten” (rāʿôt mĕʾōd ʾăšer lōʾ tēʾākalnâ mērōaʿ; cf. v. 8). Without question or deliberation, Jeremiah agrees with God’s assessment and uses God’s words, not his own, to confirm that God’s thoughts are his thoughts. The good figs are “very good” (v. 3, ṭōbôt mĕʾōd), Jeremiah says, and the bad figs are “very bad, so bad that they cannot be eaten” (rāʿôt mĕʾōd ʾăŝer lōʾ tēʾākalnâ mērōaʿ).21 Jeremiah does not speak again in this exchange. God’s “I” controls every action: “I will set my eyes upon them for good … I will bring them back … I will build … I will plant” (vv. 5–6). The latter two acts, building and planting, recall the exchange between God and Jeremiah that launched his prophetic career, but with one important difference. What had been a commission that assumed Jeremiah’s agency – “I [God] appoint you [Jeremiah] … to build and to plant” (1:10)  – has now been placed exclusively in God’s hands: “I [God] will build 21 The adjectives “good” and “bad” in 24:1–10 do not refer to moral qualities (a good/ bad fig is not an analogy for a morally good/bad person), as L. Allen has noted (Jeremiah: A Commentary [OTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2008], 276), and so should not be automatically equated with virtuous or neutral moral selfhood. Even so, the point I am making here remains the same. Primary agency belongs to God, not Jeremiah.

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them up … I [God] will plant them” (v. 6b).22 The last of God’s first-person declarations (v. 7) brings the interpretation of the vision to its appointed end, the (re)establishment of a covenant between God (“I will be their God”) and Israel (“they shall be my people”). A crucial requirement is that the people return to God with “their whole heart” (v. 7b, bĕkol libbām; cf. Deut 30:6), which thus far they have failed to do (Jer 3:10), initially by willful intention but now because of a powerlessness that only God can transform. Once again, God takes control of the thinking process: “I will give them a heart to know me (v. 7a, nātattî lāhem lēb lādaʿat ʾōtî; cf. 32:39).23 2. The oracle concerning the eternal covenant in 32:36–41 also exposes a presumption of neutral moral selfhood that requires a transformation of the heart. The judgment oracle against Jerusalem (32:26–35) points to the city’s persistent refusal to learn from God’s instruction (v. 33, mûsār)24 as the cause for their punishment by the Babylonians. The remedy for the people’s failed moral selfhood is divine initiative: “I [YHWH] am going to gather them … I will bring them back … I will settle them … I will be their God … I will give them one heart and one way … I will make an everlasting covenant with them … I will rejoice … I will plant” (vv. 37–41). The rhetoric is spliced with stock covenantal terms, with the notable addition of the phrase “everlasting covenant” (v. 40, bĕrît ʿôlām), which is widely regarded as synonymous with the “new covenant” described in Jer 31:31–34 (see below), but of particular interest are three occurrences of lēb (vv. 39, 40, 41). How can a covenant that has proved to be so vulnerable to the moral failures of its signatories become a covenant that endures “for all the days” (v. 39, kol hayyāmîm; cf. Deut 4:10; 6:2; 14:23; 31:13; and elsewhere in Jeremiah: 31:36; 33:18; 35:19)? A covenant in which God does not “turn away from doing good” to the people (v. 40, lōʾ ʾāšûb mēʾaḥărêhem lĕhêṭîbʾôtām), indeed, takes great pleasure in doing them good (v. 41, śaśtî ʿălêhem lĕhēṭîb ʾôtām), and they in turn do not turn away from God (v. 40, lĕbiltî sûr mēʿālāʾ)? The answer to such questions depends on God’s agency. God will do what is necessary to accomplish God’s intentions. God will give to the people “one heart and one way” (v. 39,

22 The theme of “building and planting” occurs repeatedly in Jeremiah, but the subject of the action varies. God exercises agency in 24:6; 42:10; and 45:5; Jeremiah and others in 1:10; 29:5, 28; 31:4–5; and 35:7. 23 The same language occurs in Deut 29:3 [English 29:4] as part of Moses’ complaint that God has not given the people a heart to understand (lōʾ nātan yhwh lākem lēb lādaʿat). Given the likely proximity in time (postexilic) of this text to Jer 24:1–10, the inference is that divine agency, like human agency, waxes and wanes. 24  The word mûsār, which occurs frequently in Jeremiah (2:30; 5:3; 7:28; 17:23; 32:33; 35:13) and predominantly in wisdom literature, signifies learning that produces “moral insight” or “corrects a moral fault” (M. Fox, Proverbs 1–9. A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [AB18A; New Haven: Yale University Press, 34]).

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nātattî lāhem lēb ʾeḥād wĕderek ʾeḥād),25 an analogy for “singleness of mind and purpose.”26 The heart’s purpose is twice defined as the “fear” of God (vv. 39,40: yirʾāh), which in the context of the covenant God extends in Jeremiah 32 means to obey the commandments and not turn away from God. Under normal circumstances, people must be intentional about learning the commandments and intentional about practicing them: “Assemble the people and I will let them hear my words, so that they may learn to fear me as long as they live on the earth, and may teach their children so” (Deut 4:10; cf. 14:23; 17:19; 31:12,13).27 Jeremiah 32 does not imagine that ordinary circumstances will suffice for the “everlasting covenant.” For this covenant to come into being, God must not only “give them a heart to know” (Jer 24:7), and a singleness of mind and purpose (“one heart and one way”); God must also “put the fear of me into their hearts” (v. 40). Deuteronomy uses the same language to imagine a hypothetical situation in which Israel’s disobedience will one day require divine attention: “If only they had such a mind as this, to fear me (mî yittēn wehāyâ lĕbābā zeh lĕyirʾâ ʾōtî) and to keep all my commandments so that it might go well with them and with their children forever” (5:29). The announcement of an eternal covenant eliminates hypothetical worries. God will embed into Israel’s thinking process the very intention to learn and obey that they cannot summon on their own accord. The third reference to lēb may be the most intriguing. The series of divine “I” statements culminates in v. 41b with a reference to the effects of this eternal covenant on God’s heart: “I will plant them in this land faithfully, with all my heart and all my being” (bĕkol libbî ûbĕkol napšî). Elsewhere the rhetoric of wholehearted commitment is used to describe the covenant fidelity required of Israel, a fidelity they consistently fail to exhibit. Only here does the Hebrew Bible use this language to describe God’s commitment to the covenant. Within the span of three verses the rhetoric of heart transformation shifts, and the distinction between human agency and divine agency effectively collapses. The “one heart” (v. 39) God gives people will become “their heart” (v. 40), and covenant fidelity will therefore be secured, God declares, by decisions conceived and enacted in “my heart” (v. 41). 3. Commentary on the “new covenant” described in Jer 31:31–34 is extensive and there is no need to repeat here conventional assessments. The focus instead will be on salient but often overlooked details that offer additional insight into the fraying of presuppositions about virtuous moral selfhood in Jeremiah’s world. 25 LXX

39:39 [MT 32:39]: “another (eteran) way and another (eteran) heart.”  Lundbom, Jeremiah 21–36, 519. 27  On rationality and intentionality as integral to ʾry and its derivatives see, P. Lasater, “ ‘The Emotions’ in Biblical Anthropology? A Genealogy and Case Study with ‫ ’רא‬,” HTR 110 (2017), 536–538. 26

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The oracle in 31:31–34 draws a distinction between the former days, when assumptions about the human capacity for moral decision-making provided a reasonable basis upon which to build a relationship between God and people, and the “coming days” (v. 31; cf. vv. 27,38) when these assumptions are “no longer” (v. 34 [2x], lōʾ ʿôd; literally, “not again;” cf. vv. 29, 40) adequate for the task. In former days, Deuteronomic aspirations for covenantal obedience were rooted in the belief that Israel could and would keep the commandments in their hearts (Deut 6:6, wĕhāyû … ʿal lĕbābekā; cf. 11:18), that having penetrated the heart, the torah would provide the moral compass that directed Israel toward obedience to God. In Jeremiah’s world, such aspirations are no longer sustainable. Israel has chosen to inscribe sin on the tablets of their hearts (Jer 17:1, ḥaṭṭʾt kĕtûbâ ʿal lûaḥ libbām), and as a consequence the heart has become unthinkably deceitful and irreparably fractured (17:9). God asserts executive privilege – “I alone can probe the heart and test the conscience” (17:10, ʾănî yhwh ḥōqer lēb bōḥēn kĕlāyôt, literally, “test the kidneys”)  – and forecloses on the possibility that humans are capable self-reflection. Torah written on stone tablets (Exod 24:12; 31:18) is no antidote for hearts overwritten with sin. The remedy for failed human agency is a strengthening of divine agency. Formerly, Israel’s ancestors exercised strong human agency to “break” (v. 32) God’s covenant; in the days to come, God promises a “new covenant” that will be invulnerable to the whims of the human heart. “I will put my torah within them,” God announces, “I will write it on their hearts” (wĕʿal libbām ʾektăbennâ). Israel has no “I” in this new covenant. They are not subjects who control their own actions; their agency recedes behind third-person address: “I will be their God and they shall be my people.”28 “No longer” will there be any need for teaching and learning, for a thinking process that requires seeking, acquiring, and understanding. All that needs to be known about life in relation to God and others will reside in the human heart; acquisition and enactment will be instinctive. Covenant fidelity will be, as it were, mindless. Should sin seep back into the heart’s transformed way of thinking, divine forgiveness will also be instinctive. Sins God once remembered and held Israel accountable for will be forgotten (cf. Jer 14:10), erased from God’s memory. The transformation of the heart described in Jeremiah occurs in similar terms in Ezekiel, as has often been noted. Lapsley has argued, for example, that when Jeremiah and Ezekiel are placed side by side, the more consequential shift from virtuous moral selfhood to neutral moral selfhood occurs in Ezekiel’s understanding of the “new heart” (lēb ḥādāš) and “new spirit” (rûaḥ ḥădāša) that God gives Israel to replace the “heart of stone” (lēb hāʾeben), which was responsible for their moral failure (Ezek 11:19–20; 36:26–27; cf. 18:31). Whereas Jeremiah en28  This covenantal rhetoric occurs 7x in Jeremiah, with variations: 7:23; 11:4; 30:22 (“I … you”); 24:7; 31:1, 33; 32:38 (“I … they”).

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visions only a modification of the old moral self, a transformed heart, Ezekiel understands that the crisis in moral selfhood became so acute after the fall of Jerusalem that nothing less than a wholly new heart infused with the very spirit of God was required.29 I do not dispute this assessment of Ezekiel’s contribution to understanding the problem of moral agency in the Hebrew Bible. I do suggest, however, that Jeremiah’s understanding of the new covenant may be more far reaching and thus more consequential than has been realized. The compositional history of the Book of Consolation suggests that at one point in the expansion of the poetic core (Jer 30:5–31:22) the oracle announcing the new covenant was added as the climax or conclusion of the prediction of new beginnings after the exile.30 From this perspective, a new covenant written on the human heart represents the apex of divine intentions. However, subsequent poetic expansions in 31:35–37 and prose expansions in 31:38–40 and in chapters 32 and 33 position the new covenant oracle not as the conclusion but as the center, as the very heart, of the imaginations about a transformation in human agency. Of particular importance is the creation imagery that comes to the fore in 31:35–37. The editorial process rhetorically identifies the God who “puts” (nātan, 31:33) torah in the heart with the God who “gives [natān] the sun for light by day” and the “statutes [ḥuqqōt] of the moon and stars for light by night” (v. 35). These “statutes” (v. 36, ḥuqqîm) speak to the orderly regulation of the universe (Gen 1:16–17), which God has unilaterally decreed as fixed and unwavering (cf. 33:25, “statutes [ḥuqqōt] of heaven and earth”). The implicit analogy between torah in the heart and eternal cosmic statues envisions a rewriting of the grammar of creation in which divine initiative supplants the problematic autonomy of human agency. Jeremiah would have known that primeval traditions were suspicious of the human capacity to choose the good, in accord with God’s expectations. Multiple examples – man and woman in the garden (Genesis 2–3), Cain and Abel (Gen 4:1–16), Lamech (Gen 4:23–24), the machinations of the human heart that cause God to be sorry for having created humans (Gen 6:5; 8:21)  – corroborate the problem with the idea of the thinking heart and the

29  Lapsley, Can These Bones Live?, 58–65, 103–107; cf. P. Joyce, Divine Initiative and Human Response in Ezekiel (JSOTSup 51; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1989), 107–124. 30  Both the “everlasting covenant” described in Jer 32:36–40 and the “new covenant” in Jer 31:31–34 are part of the larger compositional unit conventionally called the Book of Consolation (Jeremiah 30–33). Dating the larger unit and the individual pericopes that comprise it continues to be a complex and uncertain endeavor. For the purpose of this essay, I accept the view that 30:5–31:22 constitutes the poetic core of the Book, which was brought together after the fall of Jerusalem (586 bce). Jeremiah 31:23–40 is a (mostly) prose unit that expands on major themes in the poetic center. Jeremiah 32 and 33 are originally independent prose narratives that constitute a further expansion of the core (see, for example, Lundbom, Jeremiah 1–20, 97–98; idem, Jeremiah 21–36, 368–371).

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virtuous moral self.31 Jeremiah 31:35–36 addresses the problem by vesting the future of God and Israel not in the caprice of human moral agency, but instead in the firm and fixed divine dictates that govern the cosmos. To underscore the point, Jer 31:36–37 (cf. 33:25–26) uses the if-then rhetoric of moral agency first encountered in 4:1–2, but reverses its logic. In 4:1–2, the protasis – “if you return … and if you remove your abominations” – presumes Israel’s capacity to do what God wants. Israel has a choice; they can decide to repent and then do so, or not. Nothing is predetermined. In 31:36–37, the protasis presumes that what God imagines is purely hypothetical; under no circumstances would anyone have the capacity to do it: “If these statutes were removed from my presence” (v. 36) – and they cannot ever be removed – “then the offspring of Israel would cease to be a nation before me forever” (31:36); “If the heavens above can be measured” – and they cannot ever be measured – “then I will reject all the seed of Israel” (31:37). The world God imagines is free from all such contingencies; the statutes that govern reality are fixed by divine decree. In this world, human agency resides not in the intrinsic freedom to obey or disobey these statutes but instead in presumed praise for the “Lord of Hosts” who divinely ordains them.32

III. Exile, Trauma, and the Wounding of the Mind The book of Jeremiah contains substantial material that pre-dates the fall of Jerusalem, especially warnings and exhortations to repentance clustered in chapters 1–24, but the perspective of the book as a whole is oriented toward the experience of the exile (586–538 bce).33 This is particularly evident in the focal texts examined above (Jer 24:5–7; 32:36–41; and 31:31–34), which contrast the former days of the broken covenant, when Israel turned away from God’s instruction to follow after the “stubbornness of their own heart” (šĕrirût libbām, 9:13), with the coming days of the new covenant, when God will restore the fortunes of Israel and Judah, bring them back to the land of their ancestors, and accomplish the “purposes of his heart” (mĕzimmôt libbô, 30:24). Jeremiah (and the Hebrew Bible as a whole) is largely silent about life during the time between the old and new covenants. 31 On the negative anthropology in the Primeval History, see Lapsley, Can These Bones Live?, 54–57; on “biblical thinking about thinking” more broadly, see Carasik, Theologies of the Mind, 1–14. 32 Verses 35 and 36 have the form of a participial hymn of praise, which often climaxes with the phrase “Lord of Hosts is his name,” as also in Jer 10:16 (cf. Exod 15:3; Amos 4:13; 5:27). 33  Cf. G. Fischer, “Don’t Forget Jerusalem’s Destruction! The Perspective of the Book of Jeremiah,” in P. Dubovský, D. Markl, J.-P. Sonnet, eds., The Fall of Jerusalem and the Rise of Torah (FAT 107; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 291–313.

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Jeremiah reports the destruction of Jerusalem in 586 bce (Jer 39:1–10 // II Kgs 25:1–21; Jer 52:4–30 // II Chr 36:17–21) and the collapse of Gedaliah’s provisional government in Mizpah in 582 bce (Jer 40:7–41:18; cf. II Kgs 25:22–26). With a final postscript, the book extends the timeline to 562 bce, when Evil-merodach released Jehoiachin, the exiled king of Judah, from prison (Jer 52:31–34 // II Kgs 25:27–30). But there is a gap in the narrative about life in exile. In recent years, biblical scholars have found trauma theory to be a constructive hermeneutical lens for reflecting on this black hole of speechlessness.34 Cathy Caruth, a prominent literary theorist whose approach to psychic trauma has been influential for biblical scholars, frames the issue in terms that are directly relevant to the concerns of this essay: “Trauma is understood as a wound inflicted not upon the body but upon the mind … [a] breach in the mind’s experience of time, self, and the world.”35 How would reading the new covenant texts through the lens of a traumatic wounding of the mind inform our understanding of Jeremiah’s grammar of moral agency? Traumatic experiences, both individual and collective, expose a pathology of agency that is instructive when considering the impact of the exile.36 At the individual level, traumas are existential experiences of extreme suffering that psychologically shatter a person’s understanding of self. Their taken-for-granted world is no longer kind or safe; a systemic meaninglessness capriciously distributes good and bad outcomes; self-worth collapses under the weight of terrorized fragility.37 They are defenseless before the forces that invade and injure them. Because they have no agency to change what victimizes them, they react with repression and denial, adaptation and coping. At the individual level, Jeremiah  E. g., D. Smith-Christopher, A Biblical Theology of Exile (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2002), 74–102; D. Carr, The Formation of the Hebrew Bible: A New Reconstruction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 225–251; idem, Holy Resilience: The Bible’s Traumatic Origins (New Haven; London: Yale University Press, 2014), 67–90; D. Janzen, The Violent Gift: Trauma’s Subversion of the Deuteronomistic History’s Narrative (LHBOTS 561; New York: Bloomsbury, 2012); E.-M. Becker, J. Dochhorn, E. K. Holt, eds., Trauma and Traumatization in Individual and Collective Dimensions: Insights from Biblical Studies and Beyond (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014); E. G. Boase, C. G. Frechette, eds., Bible Through the Lens of Trauma (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2016). With respect to prophetic literature, especially Jeremiah and Ezekiel, see D. Garber, “Traumatizing Ezekiel: Psychoanalytic Approaches to the Biblical Prophet,” in J. H.  Ellens, W. G.  Rollins, eds., Psychology and the Bible: A New Way to Read the Scriptures (Westport: Praeger Press, 2004), 215–235; B. E. Kelle, “Dealing with the Trauma of Defeat: The Rhetoric of Devastation and Rejuvenation of Nature in Ezekiel,” JBL 128 (2009), 469–490; K. O’Connor, Jeremiah: Pain and Promise (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2011); R. Poser, Das Ezechielbuch als Trauma-Literatur (VTSup 154; Leiden: Brill, 2012). 35  C. Caruth, Unclaimed Experience: Trauma, Narrative, and History (Baltimore; London: The John Hopkins University Press, 1996), 3–4. 36  P. Sztompka, “Cultural Trauma: The Other Face of Social Change,” European Journal of Social Theory 34 (2000), 452. 37  R. Janoff-Bulman, Shattered Assumptions: Towards a New Psychology of Trauma (New York: Free Press, 1992), 3–25, 49–69. 34

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speaks for the traumatized when he concedes that he has no say in what happens to him: “I know … that human beings do not control their own lives, that the one walking does not choose his own steps” (Jer 10:23). Individual traumas, however, do not automatically penetrate into the core of a community’s identity. For personal catastrophe to have collective significance it must translate into an assault that damages core cultural values. Collective trauma, as Jeffrey Alexander explains, is a “socially mediated attribution” that requires a particular kind of agency. [E]vents do not, in and of themselves, create collective trauma. Events are not inherently traumatic …. Only if the patterned meanings of the collectivity are abruptly dislodged is traumatic status attributed to an event. It is the challenge to meaning that provides the sense of shock and fear, not the events themselves. Whether or not the structures of meaning are destabilized and shocked is not the result of an event but the effect of a sociocultural process. It is the result of an exercise of human agency, of the successful imposition of a new system of cultural classification. This cultural process is deeply affected by power structures and by the contingent skills of reflexive social agents.38

The social agents Alexander references are not themselves the victims of trauma. They are instead the onlookers, the ones who have observed from a safe distance what has happened and now must decide how to mediate the gap between the event and its cultural representation. Inside this gap, they look back on the lessons learned, and they project forward a new master narrative that becomes a resource for those who must live in trauma’s shadow. They are the cultural meaning makers, the political, intellectual, religious leaders whose access to institutional and cultural resources enables them to write a script for the moral economy of the new “we” that emerges out of the catastrophe.39 In constructing the script for cultural trauma, social agents engage in a contested process. Different agents will propose different scripts, depending on the institutional arenas in which they stand and their hierarchical access to power. For example, if the agents derive their influence from the judicial arena, their proposals for reconstructing collective understanding will emphasize legally binding responsibilities with distributive punishments and reparations. But the social theorist of cultural trauma will ask if the courts have independent status, if they are free from external machinations. If the agents are located within the state bureaucracy, their representations of the traumatic experience will appeal to the government’s authority to create a citizenry that advances the collective good. But who controls the levers of governmental power? If the agents are religious leaders, they will construct a theodicy that links trauma to divine punishment and the way forward to repentance and obedience to divine command.  J. C. Alexander, Trauma: A Social Theory (Cambridge, UK: Polity Press, 2012), 13, 15. R. Rechtman, The Empire of Trauma: An Inquiry into the Condition of Victimhood (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009), 275–276. 38

39 D. Fassin,

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But which religious leaders determine what is orthodox and what is not? Who draws the line between autocracy and dissent?40 The social agents who mediate collective trauma are not disinterested participants in the process of constructing meaning. Their success in persuading others to embrace their views depends on hewing closely to the values of their own cultural support systems. It is instructive to think of Jeremiah’s new covenant texts as reflecting the social agency of those seeking to rewrite the grammar of moral selfhood in the wake of the collective trauma of the exile. Individuals who experienced firsthand the devastation wrought by the Babylonian assault on Jerusalem, such as the prophet Jeremiah himself, would have felt like lambs led to the slaughter (Jer 11:19). Any concept they may have had of autonomous agency would have collapsed under the weight of their progressive and irreversible loss of control over their lives. Their innocence or guilt notwithstanding, they were destined to be swept away by military might they had no power to alter or escape. Their brokenness and loss has serious personal import, but it does not automatically constitute a threat to the community’s identity. For individual trauma to seep into collective consciousness, the agency lost at the personal level must be regained and refigured by those who aspire to construct a new, post-trauma narrative that is corporately convincing. The social agents espousing the post-trauma narrative seeded by the new covenant seek to provide compelling answers to three critical questions, each one of which is concerned with moral agency and moral responsibility.41 1. Who was responsible for the traumatizing experience? Primary responsibility for the fall of Jerusalem rests with those who chose to turn away from God, thus breaking the “covenant which I [God] made with their ancestors when I took them by the hand to bring them out of the land of Egypt” (Jer 31:32). Secondary responsibility belongs to God, who chooses and executes the punishment that triggers the community’s downfall. Historical retrospect confirms that Jerusalem has been “given (nittĕnâ) into the hand of the king of Babylon by the sword, by famine, and by pestilence” (32:36), but there is a clear and identifiable agent behind the passive verb: “I [God] scattered them in my anger and in my wrath and in great fury” (32:37; cf. 25:9–11). Both the people and God have agency, and both bear responsibility for what has happened, but the lesson to be learned in the aftermath of this clash of wills is that God’s sovereignty over human autonomy has been decisively established. 2. Who were the victims? Who has been traumatized by the broken covenant? Here again social agents must navigate between two ways of reflecting on the 40  Alexander, Trauma: A Social Theory, 19–28; cf. N. J. Smelser, “Psychological Trauma and Cultural Trauma,” in J. C. Alexander, R. Eyerman, B. Giesen, N. J. Smelser, P. Sztompka, Cultural Trauma and Collective Identity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004), 37–39. 41  Cf. Alexander, Trauma: A Social Theory, 37; Janoff-Bulman, Shattered Assumptions, 117–118.

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question. Those killed by the Babylonians clearly suffered trauma’s heaviest blow; those who survived physical death only to be deported to a foreign land where life’s hopes and aspirations expired were also trauma’s victims. But God is also victimized by a broken covenant. The decision to execute a punishment that includes the decimation, death, and mass deportation of a people because it is morally necessary may be understood to exact a heavy toll on God’s own sense of virtuous moral selfhood. Anticipating the coming judgment, God summons the heavens that will look over the devastation to be shocked and appalled, to be so utterly desolate and dried up they can longer give water (2:12). God, too, seems to be so psychically shocked by what divine judgment exacts, so heart-sick (libbî dawwāʾ, 8:18), that tears will not come: “I wish my head were water and my eye a fountain of tears so I could weep day and night for the slain of my dear people” (9:1 [Heb 8:23]).42 Both God’s and the people’s minds have been wounded by exile in ways that exceed comprehension. Both heaven and earth have suffered such extreme disorientation that the future has been suspended in the psychic numbness of present shock. But the lesson to be learned in the wake of this breach in time, according to the social agents constructing the promises of a new covenant, is that God has instituted a fixed order that binds sun and moon, light and darkness, creatures and Creator (Jer 31:35–37), in a communion that survives traumatic wounding. What Jeremiah could not build and plant (1:10), God has done (24:6), and what God has built up and planted will not be uprooted or overthrown for all time (31:40). 3. What can be done to remediate the damages and prevent a recurrence of the problem? On one level, the answer to this question would seem to be straightforward. In view of the irreparable failure of their “thinking heart,” their persistent inability to choose the good that conforms with God’s will, there is nothing the people who have broken covenant with God can do to undo the wreckage they have made of their lives. Until and unless some moral will greater than their own eliminates the possibility of wrong choices, they will continue to think themselves into confusion and chaos. The only one who has agency to address the situation is God, who acts unilaterally to institute a new covenant that will not be vulnerable to the caprice of human wisdom. On another level, however, a covenant that normalizes the subordination of human autonomy to divine prerogative would itself seem susceptible to abuse. On one hand, it would provide hope by removing the burden of moral responsibility for those dispirited by failure. Their well-being is secure in the hands of a gracious, forgiving God who does for them what they cannot do for

42  On the “weeping God” in Jeremiah, see O’Connor, Pain and Promise, 61–67; D. Bosworth, “The Tears of God in the Book of Jeremiah,” Biblica 94 (2013), 24–46.

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themselves.43 On the other hand, when the powers that be decide that human autonomy is a menace to society, does not the absence of the freedom to question, dissent, and disobey encourage an ethics of fatalism, where moral accountability is the victim of inscrutable authoritarianism? What is the lesson to be learned about a new covenant that secures a future relationship with God by divine fiat rather than human choice? The social agents advocating such a solution presume their audience will have learned the lessons exile has taught them: submission to God’s authority, internalized as reflexive rather than reflective obedience, is the only way forward. We may further imagine that the social agents constructing both the questions and the answers that will provide a compelling new moral identity for those traumatized by exile have a vested interest in the solutions they propose. Whose interest is served by a cultural script that advocates divine sovereignty over human autonomy? Torah commands that have the same claim on moral selfhood as the fixed order of the sun and moon has on creation? Reflexive obedience to external authority over thoughtful reasoning? We may assume that the process of appeal and persuasion was contested. Multiple agents would be competing for a receptive audience, and their power to persuade would have been linked to the resources they could access to authorize, enact, and enforce their particular scripts.44 The agents responsible for the new covenant texts are anonymous, but the tenor of the text suggests they understand their audience to be asking the same questions and receptive to the same answers as those proposed by the Deuteronomistic historiographers who sought to provide an etiology of exile.45 They likely belong to the class of intellectuals in Judean society whose power and influence derived from the way they positioned themselves within the new geopolitical context of Babylonian (and perhaps Persian) hegemony. As those whose status depended on their own submission to (or at least willing cooperation with) the empire’s authority, they are both the mediators of this authority and the benefactors of its successful implementation.46 “The days are surely coming” when survivors of the fall of Jerusalem will no longer need a group of intellectuals to teach them how to make autonomous decisions that naturally conform with divine intentions, but until those days come, at some as yet unknown future time,  Cf. Lapsley, Can These Bones Live?, 188.  See, for example, T. Römer’s discussion of the responses of the priests, the prophets, and the mandarins or historiographers (“The Hebrew Bible as Crisis Literature,” in A. Berlejung, ed., Disaster and Relief Management/Katastrophen und ihre Bewältigung [FAT 81; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012, 159–177]; cf. R. L. Cohn, Biblical Responses to Catastrophe,” Judaism 15 (1986), 263–286. 45  On the possible redactional connections between Jer 31:31–34 and Deut 30:1–10, for example, see P. Buis, “La nouvelle alliance,” VT 18 (1968), 1–15. 46  A thick description of the social location of the agents behind the Deuteronomistic tradition is beyond the scope of this essay. For focused discussion on how trauma intersects with – and subverts – the Deuteronomistic narrative, see Janzen, The Violent Gift, especially 26–63. 43 44

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they will need to follow the cultural script that cedes moral agency and moral responsibility to higher powers.

IV. Unfinished Thoughts on Thinking About the Thinking Heart Can there be moral agency without autonomy? Do the new covenant texts in Jeremiah rewrite the grammar of moral selfhood in order to correct flawed understandings of human freedom and independence? This essay suggests that in the aftermath of the exile’s trauma, wounded minds, both divine and human, vacillate between vexed “Yes” and “No” answers to these questions. Jeremiah stands at the intersection between a weakening confidence in the human capacity to choose the good and an emerging conviction that every human attempt to do so is doomed to failure. As the loss of moral agency is the necessary consequence of covenantal disobedience, so the retrieval and recalibration of moral agency is the necessary first step in creating a cultural script for a new covenantal partnership with God. The “thinking heart” that fails becomes the “unthinking heart” that is inscribed and programmed for obedience by divine directive. God, too, stand at an intersection of divine rumination on moral agency and moral responsibility. By divine decree, the punishment of sin is the moral consequence of covenantal disobedience, but with such agency there comes psychic anguish that traumatizes the Judge along with the judged. The new covenant is the imposition of God’s “I” on a people who have proven themselves incapable of being a faithful, autonomous partner. This new covenant is by God’s admission “not like the covenant I made with their ancestors” (Jer 31:32), in which the people’s decision to obey was voluntary and intentional. The new covenant partnership depends solely on God’s responsibility. It is God’s gift, and it will be transformative, but the people are not depicted as possessing the freedom to choose or refuse the gift. The people are not presented as either receptive or unreceptive to the gift of the new covenant; it simply happens to them. As Lapsley observes, “The absence of human freedom that such a view implies poses potentially serious problems.”47 Would the argument for a covenant relationship in which involuntary obedience becomes the sine qua non of moral identity be compelling for a people whose self-worth has already been traumatized by Babylonian imperialism? Perhaps it is impossible to imagine that the God of Jeremiah’s new covenant would feel it necessary to think about such things as moral agency and moral re47  Lapsley, Can These Bones Live?, 188. Lapsley describes the implications of Ezekiel’s depiction of God’s replacement of the people’s “heart of stone” with a “new heart” and a “new spirit” (Ezek 11:19–20; 36:27). The description applies equally as well, I believe, to Jeremiah’s depiction of the new covenant.

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sponsibility. Consider, for example, Giacomo Sartori’s depiction of a God who describes what it is like to think for the first time: I am God, and I have no need to think. Up to now I’ve never thought, and I’ve never felt the need, not the slightest. The reason human beings are in such a bad way is because they think; thought is by definition sketchy and imperfect – and misleading. To any thought one can oppose another, obverse thought, and to that yet another, and so forth and so on; and this inane cerebral yakety-yak is about as far from divine as you can get. Every thought is destined to expire from the moment it’s hatched, just like the mind that hatched it. A god does not think – that’s the last thing we need.48

Sartori’s God is comical, a silly, fictionalized parody meant to entertain and amuse. Jeremiah’s God, and Jeremiah’s depiction of the people with whom God seeks relationship, is different. Thinking about the thinking heart, thinking about thinking, runs like a thread through the book from beginning to end. Writing and rewriting the grammar of moral agency makes for a complicated script; on this point, Sartori is surely correct: one thought leads to another and that to yet another. “The days are coming,” God says, when the thinking will end and the hearts and minds of God and humans will be completely consonant. But until that day comes, the yakety-yak of covenantal discourse will continue.

 G. Sartori, I Am God (Brooklyn: Restless Books, 2019), 12.

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4. Enthroned on the Praises and Laments of Israel Writing about prayer in the Hebrew Bible is a rather daunting assignment. Typically, discussions of Hebraic prayer have concentrated on the Psalms, a collection of poetic “prayer texts” traditionally associated with the ritual and worship of ancient Israel. In recent studies we have been urged to expand our horizons beyond the Psalms to include a significant number of other prayers that are embedded within the narrative contexts of the Hebrew scriptures. To cite but one example, M. Greenberg has identified some 97 prose texts where the words of prayers are recorded.1 When we include texts where the act of prayer is mentioned, but the words are not recorded, then the number of references swells considerably. And if we think of prayer as communication with God not only in words but also through acts, then we should recognize that also to be included among our resources is a variety of non-verbal approaches to God, e. g., sacrifice, dance, ritual gestures with the body, any one of which may impart, through the performative act, information to the deity.2 In this essay I focus on prayer as words, more specifically on the texts that record this special speech directed from people to God. As an introduction to prayer in this restricted sense, we may understand that the words of prayer preserved in the Hebrew Bible fall generally into two broad categories: praise and lament. As C. Westermann has observed, “In Israel all speaking to God moves between these two poles.”3 In the Hebrew Bible both praise and lament are authentic and necessary expressions of faith. Both responses are directed to God as offerings of trust and commitment. Even in suffering, when God may seem more absent than present, prayer is addressed to the elusive God. So it is that even in lamentation, the affirmation may go forth that God remains “enthroned on the praises of Israel” (Ps 22:3).

1 M. Greenberg, Biblical Prose Prayer As a Window to the Popular Religion of Ancient Israel (Berkeley; Los Angeles; London: University of California Press, 1983). For the list of these texts see 59–60. 2 On the distinction between prayer as text and prayer as act, sec the helpful discussion of S. D. Gill, “Prayer,” in The Encyclopedia of Religion, ed. M. Eliade (New York: Macmillan, 1989), 10–11. 3  C. Westermann, Praise and Lament in the Psalms (Atlanta: John Knox Press, 1981), 154. See further his Elements of Old Testament Theology (Atlanta: John Knox Press 1982), 156; The Living Psalms (Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans, 1989), 101–111.

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In the pages that follow I propose to track Hebrew prayers of praise and lament in both their psalmic and narrative contexts. It is my contention that both these contexts are informative and essential for understanding the form as well as the function of such prayers in the faith of ancient Israel. I will conclude with some theological observations concerning the legacy of Hebraic prayer for the contemporary community of faith. As preface to our investigation of these matters, however, I turn first to an important issue that I believe necessarily shapes our ultimate understanding of prayer in the Hebrew Bible. As communication that offers to God both praise and lament, prayer is inherently a human activity. Yet such communication, we must remember, is always directed explicitly to God. It is appropriate therefore to begin our exploration of these human words by reflecting on the nature of the God to whom they are directed. What is it about the nature and character of God that both summons forth and enables the response of prayer?

I. The God of Prayer “In the beginning God” – with these words the Hebrew Bible presents a confessional perspective that shapes all that follows. By whatever criteria prayer is defined, it also, perhaps especially, is shaped by this confession. All prayer is directed to God. When speaking of God, the Hebrew Bible almost always resorts to the language of metaphor, principally to metaphors drawn from the human sphere that serve to anchor the image of God in human experience. Specific to our focus here are those metaphors that promote an understanding of the divine-human relationship as dialogic.4 God is portrayed as speaking and acting toward humanity, and listening for, hence inviting human response. People listen and receive a word from God, and offer speech and action in response. While such metaphors are clearly not to be taken literally, they do serve, nevertheless, to depict a reality about God and God’s preferred model of relationship with humanity.5 In Hebrew scripture these are “controlling” metaphors.6 Wherever God is being God and humanity is acting in full accord with divine intentions, God and people are in dialogue one with another. In the beginning God,” and from the beginning God is portrayed as desiring not only to speak and act and control, but also to listen and consider and respond. 4 On the importance of metaphorical language for the Bible’s portrait of God, see especially, T. Fretheim, The Suffering of God (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1984), chaps. 1–3. 5  On “reality depiction” as a function of religious metaphorical language see J. M. Soskice, Metaphor and Religious Language (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985), 97–117. 6  Cf. Fretheim, Suffering of God, 11–12.

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This dialogue between God and humanity involves a genuine partnership. The Hebrew Bible presents this partnership as a covenant relationship. God is committed to Israel and requires moral conduct befitting the divine intention for a holy people. The people of Israel are committed to the one God Adonai and pledge obedience to divine instructions for life and worship. In return for their covenant faithfulness, the people expect reciprocal fidelity from the holy, sovereign One. Certainly this covenant partnership involves an unequal distribution of power. God is the initiator of the covenant, not Israel. Even so, both parties commit themselves to responsibility for the maintenance of the partnership. It cannot be sustained in its fullest form by either party alone. The central point is that covenant partnership is fundamentally dialogical. Two parties are mutually bound to one another in a relationship that is desirable and important for both. Both parties have a voice and a role to play, and neither can disregard the appeals of the other and maintain the relationship as it is intended to be. If either God or Israel does not lend its voice to the dialogue, then communication fails and the relationship is impoverished by distance and silence.7 Let me sharpen this point with respect to the discourse of prayer. Covenant partnership means that God chooses not to utilize the divine prerogatives of power to reduce Israel’s response to submission or silence or monotones of praise. Such limitations on human response would effectively eviscerate genuine relationship, substituting instead enforced obedience or passive devotion. Covenant partnership also means that Israel cannot and does not withhold from God the full range of human experience. Joy and suffering, prosperity and deprivation, communion and confrontation, all characterize life in covenant relationship with God. Without the sharing of this full range of human experience, what I have referred to broadly as praise and lament, partnership risks becoming only a veneer for tacit understandings that have no real claim on either party.

II. Prayer in the Context of the Psalms What then are the words of praise and lament that are directed toward this responsive God? Here I focus on the forms of praise and lament prayers in the Hebrew Bible with a view towards understanding their function in the faith of Israel. In this essay I cannot give a full survey of the history of the discussion. Let me begin simply by acknowledging that for the better part of this century, the study of biblical prayer has been hardly distinguishable from the study of the Psalms. 7  See especially T. Fretheim, “Prayer in the Old Testament: Creating Space in the World for God,” in P. Sponheim, ed., A Primer on Prayer (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988), 51–62.

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With the pioneering work of H. Gunkel and S. Mowinckel on the Psalms, form criticism began to play the lead role methodologically in identifying psalms/ prayers of praise and lament.8 So influential has their work been that in the ensuing years most of our efforts have been directed towards refining their proposals in two areas, namely the forms of these prayers and their settings. With respect to the forms of praise and lament no one has contributed more significantly to this discussion than C. Westermann. Westermann has proposed a distinction between what he terms “descriptive” and “narrative” praise.9 Both types of praise exhibit in essence a similar structure: 1) an introduction/ summons to praise; 2) a main body setting forth the reasons for praise; and 3)  a concluding word of praise. What distinguishes these two types of praise is the reason for praise. “Narrative” praise typically recounts God’s past acts of deliverance, usually in concrete and specific terms. Thus praise is offered in response to what God has done (e. g., Ps 30:4–10). “Descriptive” praise, on the other hand, is the praise appropriate to worship where the reason for praising God is more liturgically expressed, that is, more abstractly expressed, in terms of God’s inherent majesty and goodness (e. g., Ps. 146:5–10a). Concerning lament psalms, Westermann has emphasized a typical structure consisting of three essential components: invocation, lament, petition.10 Especially influential has been Westermann’s suggestion that these structural features evidence a sequenced movement within the prayer from lament to appeal, that is, from suffering to confidence that a reversal of fortunes can be forthcoming (e. g., Ps 13:5). Such a movement indicates that lament’s concern is not primarily with the portrayal of suffering, but with its removal or alleviation. In Westermann’s words, “lamentation has no meaning in and of itself.” So it is that “there is not a single Psalm of lament that stops with lamentation.”11 Rather every lament functions as an appeal.12 With respect to the life settings of psalmic prayers, Gunkel and Mowinckel both stressed a “cultic” or worship setting, though they differed in important ways on how they understood this. Since their work, considerable attention has focused on clarifying what should be understood by the term “cultic.” The most stimulating and provocative suggestions have come from E. Gerstenberger. Gerstenberger has argued that the settings of the Psalms can be more adequately  8  The seminal works are H. Gunkel and J. Begrich, Einleitung in die Psalmen (Third edition; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1966); S. Mowinckel, Psalmenstudien, 6 vols. (Kristiania: Jacob Dybwad, 1921–1924); cf. S. Mowinckel, The Psalms in Israel’s Worship, 2 vols. (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1962).  9  Westermann, Praise and Lament, 52–162. 10  Ibid., 165–213. 11  Ibid., 266; cf. Elements of Old Testament Theology, 169. 12  As E. S. Gerstenberger has observed, laments are complaints in the fullest sense of the word, Anklagen not Klagen, that is, statements of protest, not of resignation or submission. See “Jeremiah’s Complaints: Observations on Jer. 15:10–21,” JBL 82 (1963), 393–408.

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defined from a sociological perspective.13 Specifically, he has identified two main social settings within which religious rituals are normally used: 1) small, primary groups of family, neighborhood, or community, where ritual patterns are largely spontaneous; and 2) larger, secondary organizations where membership is anonymous and administration is bureaucratic, e. g., the temple. In these secondary, institutional settings ritual patterns are formalized and centralized in accordance with the needs and interests of the nation or state. Broadly speaking, Gerstenberger locates psalms of lamentation in the small, primary group settings, where ad hoc services are occasioned by specific circumstances, e. g., draught, military defeat. Psalms of praise he situates in the larger, secondary, institutional setting where seasonal and life-span rituals are regularly celebrated.14 My interest is not in detailing the history of Psalm research, whose scope and complexity the above survey hardly does justice. Rather, I want only to suggest two things. First, with respect to the Psalms, biblical scholarship has only seldom moved beyond the fundamental questions of form and setting posed originally by Gunkel and Mowinckel. There have been some notable exceptions, particularly in the work of Westermann15 and W. Brueggemann,16 but in the main we have yet to address in any comprehensive way the function of the psalms as prayers in the life and worship of ancient Israel. Secondly, we may note that the study of prayer, in the context of the Psalms, has largely been defined by form-critical concerns, particularly the question of form. The enduring influence of the form-critical approach ·on biblical prayer is evident in what are arguably the three most important books on “prayer in the Old Testament” published in the last 60 years. In the work of A. Wendel (1931), L. Krinetzki (1965), and H. G. Reventlow (1986) biblical prayer is defined and interpreted primarily in relation to the Psalms.17 Krinetzki and Reventlow both employ form-critical distinctions to 13 E. S. Gerstenberger, Der bittende Mensch (Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1980), 30–34.

14 Gerstenberger, Psalms, 9–19. See further R. Albertz (Persönliche Frömmigkeit und offizielle Religion [Stuttgart: Calwer Verlag, 1978], 23–96), who has followed Gerstenberger by contrasting the personal piety emerging out of the Kleinkult, the small group setting, with the official religion of secondary, institutionalized piety. 15  Particularly helpful has been Westermann’s discussion of the theological importance of blessing (Blessing in the Bible and the Life of the Church [Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1978] and lament (“The Role of Lament in the Theology of the Old Testament,” Interpretation 28 [1974], 20–38 = Praise and Lament, pp. 259–280]). For an idea of how such themes contribute to the larger picture of the theology of the Hebrew Bible see Westermann, Elements of Old Testament Theology, 153–216. 16 Note especially “Psalms and the Life of Faith: A Suggested Typology of Function,” JSOT 17 (1980): 3–32; The Message of the Psalms (Minneapolis: Augsburg Press, 1984); Abiding Astonishment: Psalms, Modernity, and the Making of History (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1991). 17  A. Wendel, Das freie Laiengebet im vorexilischen Israel (Leipzig: Verlag von Eduard Pfeiffer, 1931); L. Krinetzki, Israels Gebet im Alten Testament (Aschaffenburg: Paul Pattloch Ver-

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identify and isolate prayers of praise and prayers of lament, and in both cases their examples of such prayers are drawn almost exclusively from the Psalter.18 Wendel concentrates on the prose prayers of Genesis–2 Kings, prayers he determines to be “free” from the cultic sphere of institutionalized worship. Even so, the prose prayers he isolates are defined in accordance with the form-critical designations of Psalms’ Gattungen. In essence Wendel treats these prose prayers like the Psalms, as if their narrative context were non-existent, or as if such a context did not seriously affect their meaning. We may conclude that the form-critical approach to biblical prayer has been both productive and non-productive. On the positive side, discussion of the form and general setting of psalm prayers has progressed to a level of sophistication and discernment heretofore unparalleled. This represents solid achievement and is not to be undervalued. Yet, negatively, we have given inadequate attention to a significant number of other prayer texts, namely those in prose contexts. On the one hand, to speak of prayer has become virtually synonymous with speaking of the Psalms. On the other hand, prose prayers that have been addressed solely through the lens of form criticism, with its inherent tendency to standardize and categorize, have been robbed of the one element of their literary setting that distinguishes them from the Psalms – their narrative context.

III. Prayer in the Context of Narrative Interestingly, it has been Westermann’s own form-critical clarifications concerning praise and lament psalms that have provided a foundation for a new stage in the study of biblical prayer. Westermann has recognized that psalmic prayers have both a historical antecedent and a sequel in the prose prayers of the Hebrew Bible. In his proposed outline of the development of prayer, the Psalms are understood to be representative of the historical mid-point. To be specific, Westermann distinguishes three stages in the history of prayer.19 In the earliest stage he identifies brief addresses to God that arise directly and naturally from situations in daily life. Such prayers, expressing lament (e. g., Judg lag, 1965); H. G. Reventlow, Gebet im Alten Testament (Stuttgart; Berlin; Köln; Mainz: W. Kohlhammer, 1986). 18  Reventlow addresses the prose prayers that occur outside the Psalter, for example, the intercessory prayers of the prophets, or the post-exilic prayers of penitence in Ezra 9, Nehemiah 9, and Daniel 9. But in his judgment such prayers derive from and remain dependent on the cultic tradition of prayer represented in the Psalms. 19 Westermann’s initial delineation of these stages appears in “Gebet II: Im AT,” in Die Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart, ed. K. Galling (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, Paul Siebeck, 1958), vol. 2, 1213–1217. In Westermann’s subsequent discussions of the history of prayer, his position remains essentially unchanged. Cf. Elements of Old Testament Theology, 154–156; Living Psalms,13–16.

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15:18; 21:3), petition (e. g., II Sam 15:31), or praise (e. g., Exod 18:10) typically occur in narrative or prose contexts and are presented as constitutive parts of the recounted course of events. The occasion for these prayers requires no cultic framework, the prayer no liturgical assistance. In the second or middle stage of prayer’s development, these short calls to God come together in the formal structures of psalms. Units of once independent, brief prayers come together in poetic compositions which then become vehicles for worship. In this poeticized form, a psalm takes up the real experiences of specific individuals and transforms them into prayers for the worshiping congregation that are suitable for transmission from one generation to the next. The undergirding societal structure that makes such worship possible and such prayer desirable is the settled life secured by the monarchy and the state. With the temple as the central religious center for the state, psalms encourage a worship orientation that Westermann suggests is characterized by a “double movement.” Worshipers are summoned from their own homes to the “house of God,” and then from the worship service back into their own homes and work.20 With the dissolution of the monarchy and the end of worship in the temple, prayer enters a third stage in its developmental process. In the long prose prayers of I Kings 8, Ezra 9, and Nehemiah 9, prayer undergoes a transformation with respect to both style and content. Stylistically there is a shift from poetry to prose, commensurate, in Westermann’s opinion, with the loss of the self-evident membership in the community of faith that the temple had nurtured, and its replacement by a “conscious and reflected belonging.”21 With respect to content, Westermann observes that praise and lament prayers gradually lose their distinctives as independent addresses to God. In their place emerges a new form of prayer in which, for the first time, praise serves as the preface to expressions of penitence and petitions for divine forgiveness. This new combination of praise preceding petition represents a fundamental change in the understanding of prayer in the late biblical period.22 It is a change that Westermann associates with the trauma of the post-exilic period when concern for the righteousness of God emerges as such a predominant issue that the lament or the complaint against God recedes more and more into the background.23 I should pause here for a moment to offer one further observation that will be important for our focus on the Lord’s Prayer in this symposium. The practice of praise preceding petition, which emerges in Israel after the exile, has a long and important history. This way of praying can be traced through a variety of late biblical and post-biblical texts. It is even more pronounced in the statutory 20 Westermann,

Elements of Old Testament Theology, 155.  Ibid., 156. 22  Cf. Westermann, Living Psalms,15–16. 23  On the “late history of lament” see especially Westermann, Praise and Lament, 201–212. 21

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prayers of the synagogue that take shape between the first and fifth centuries c.e.24 Here we may refer to the Talmudic dictum: “Let a man always declare the praise of God and afterwards present his petition” (B. Berakhot 32a). The prayer par excellence that displays this praise-petition pattern is, of course, the “Prayer of Eighteen Benedictions.” We will explore in this symposium, I am sure, the linkage between the form of Jesus’ model prayer and the genre of Jewish statutory prayer. Both follow a basic pattern of praise plus petition. While there are important differences between Jesus’ prayer and synagogue prayer, with respect to form, the Lord’s Prayer appears to be modelled on its Jewish antecedent.25 Westermann’s analysis of the development of biblical prayer enables us to see more clearly that this pattern of praise and petition has roots in the later stages of ancient Israel’s history. To return to our present focus, Westermann’s survey of the development of biblical prayer calls attention to the deficiency of previous studies, which have offered a simplistic equation of prayer and the Psalms. A one-sided preoccupation with the Psalms affords at best an understanding of but one stage of prayer’s development. For a more comprehensive picture, we must address that significant other collection of prayers that are preserved for us in the Hebrew Bible, namely the prayers embedded in narrative contexts. In recent years we have begun to explore the structure and function of nonpsalmic prayers and hence to broaden our theological discernment concerning Hebraic prayer.26 Particularly instructive has been M. Greenberg’s suggestion that it is the nonpsalmic prayers of the Hebrew Bible, i. e., prayers embedded in narrative contexts, that provide a unique understanding of Israel’s religious life. He contends that the Psalms are inadequate for this task precisely because they reveal so little concrete information about the speaker of the prayer, the situation in which the 24  E. g., Qumran psalms, Psalms of Solomon (e. g., 18:1–5), and 4 Ezra. For discussion of these and other texts see Westermann, Praise and Lament, 204–212. 25  Cf. J. Heinemann, Prayer in the Talmud (Berlin; New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1977), 191. See further Heinemann’s more general discussion in “The Background of Jesus’ Prayer in the Jewish Liturgical Tradition,” in J. J. Petuchowski, M. Brocke, eds., TheLord’s Prayer and Jewish Liturgy (New York: Seabury Press, 1978), 81–92. 26  A number of studies have called attention to the genetic connection between intrahuman speech patterns and the ritual patterns of psalmic speech. See Gerstenberger, Der bittende Mensch, 17–63; Greenberg, Biblical Prose Prayer, 19–37; A. Aejmelaeus, The Traditional Prayer in the Psalms (New York; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1986), 88–91. There are basic modes of speech between humans that inform the special discourse of prayer. We may note, for example, the similarities between petitionary prayer and petitionary speech to a king. Cf. Greenberg, Biblical Prose Prayer, 22–24; R. N.  Boyce, The Cry to God in the Old Testament (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 27–40. Such studies make it clear that prayer is not an invention of the cult or ritual experts, to which people must adjust upon entering the sphere of worship. Rather, common speech patterns expressing joy and distress grow out of everyday life and, as such, precede and inform cultic language.

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prayer is delivered, or the outcome for the prayer. It is just here that “embedded” prayers have an advantage. Prose prayers are set within particular life situations where putative authors/speakers are supplied by the narrative context. Embedded within a narrative context, prayer plays an integral role in delineating character, in unfolding the drama of a sequence of events, and in influencing the outcome of the narrative circumstances in which it is used.27 Let me illustrate the advantage of this new emphasis on prayer within narrative contexts with two brief examples. The first is a piece of poetic praise, framed by a surrounding narrative in such a way that its generalized liturgical rhetoric is in effect concretized by the particularities of its literary setting. The second example is a prose prayer of lament, reminiscent of lament psalms, which in its context serves to shape the surrounding narrative in intentional ways. The first example is the well-known Song of Hannah in I Sam 2:1–10.28 A general consensus has long held that this song is secondary in its present context. The arguments in support of this judgment are well known and need not be reviewed here. We may note simply that the language of the song is highly metaphorical and figurative and in many respects would appear to have little or no concrete relevance for the particular circumstances of the Hannah narrative.29 If, for example, the song is excerpted from its narrative setting, its form and content would identify it as a typical song of thanksgiving from an anonymous prayer. Like other thanksgiving songs in the Psalter, this song could be appropriated by a number of different persons, in a variety of situations, for different reasons. The psalm with which it is most often compared is Psalm 113.30 In its narrative context, however, this general song of thanks is particularized by identification specifically with the circumstances of Hannah. No longer is it the prayer of just anyone, it is in this setting specifically the prayer of Hannah, 27  Greenberg, Biblical Prose Prayer, 1–18. Greenberg recognizes that the tendency has been to treat prose prayers as mere literary creations, i. e., as literary artifacts that do not provide direct or immediate witness to what actually happened. While he grants that all prayer texts have been shaped by authors and narrators, he argues that this does not automatically consign them to the ranks of the inauthentic. In his words, “even if it is granted that the prayers are not veridical, that does not foreclose their being verisimilar” (8). 28  For other examples of poetic praise within narrative contexts see Exod 15:1–18, Judg 5:1–31, II Sam 22:2–31, Deut 32:1–43, Isa 38:9–20, Jonah 2:1–9. 29  E. g., it is not clear how the reference to the “bows of the mighty” bears directly on the life of the barren and plaintive Hannah. On the other hand, where stereotypical language does make connection with Hannah’s situation, it is clear that the song cannot be taken simply as a literal representation of the facts. For example, the song refers to the barren woman “who has borne seven” (v: 5), but according to the narrative Hannah had only six children (cf. 2:21). 30 E. g. J. T. Willis, “The Song of Hannah and Psalm 113,” CBQ 35 (1973), 139–154. See further R. Polzin’s analysis of the similarities to Psalm 18 [ = 2 Samuel 22]. In his view, Hannah’s song is an artful abbreviation of David’s final hymn of praise, the two poems forming a poetic inclusio for the Deuteronomist’s history of kingship (Samuel and the Deuteronomist: A Literary Study of the Deuteronomic History, Part Two: I Samuel [San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1989], 31–36).

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wife of Elkanah of the city of Ramathaim. Now it is not a prayer of general thanksgiving, unattached to the specifics that call it forth; it is a prayer of gratitude offered on the specific occasion of once-barren Hannah’s conception of the child for whom she had petitioned (cf. 1:10–11). Now the otherwise general references in vv. 4–10 to the reversal of fortunes experienced by the feeble and the hungry, the barren and the poor, become focused on the particular change in Hannah’s status occasioned by the birth of the boy Samuel. In sum, the narrative context serves to “literalize” poetic metaphor.31 In so doing, the narrative has preserved – perhaps we should say restored – the essential connection between praise and the reason for praise that characterizes the simplest and earliest forms of praise in the Hebrew Bible.32 A second example of prayer within a narrative context I take from a collection of prose prayers that focus on the petition for divine justice: Gen 18:22–33; Exod 32:7–14; Num 11:4–34; Num 14:11–25; Josh 7:7–9; I Kgs 17:17–24.33 These texts in all likelihood derive from different historical settings. Nevertheless, we may discern in them a common rhetorical pattern. Each of these texts functions within a literary context that has three essential features: 1) some crisis in the relationship between prayer and God; 2) a response to the crisis in the form of a prayer that raises questions about divine justice and/or divine intentions; 3) some resolution or at least explanation of the crisis which, within the narrative context, is presented as the result of the pray-er’s discourse with God. Simply stated, these texts all revolve around the themes of crisis, prayer, resolution of crisis. We may illustrate further by looking specifically at Num 14:11–25. The literary context of Moses’ prayer in Numbers 14 is complicated. We note simply that a Priestly framework provides the themes of sin (vv. 1–10) and divine judgment (vv. 26–38). It is striking, however, that this Priestly frame is “interrupted” precisely at the point where one would expect the judgment to be announced. The judgment is in fact delayed to allow for the unfolding of a rather lengthy address from Moses to God that has been inserted in vv. 11–25.34 In this address fundamental questions concerning God’s intentions are raised, a petition for God’s forgiveness is presented, and an assurance of God’s forgiveness is received. As noted above, the components of this prayer – lament, petition, assurance – are typical in lament psalms. When the narrative returns to report the 31  Cf. P. Miller’s observations concerning the “literalization” of poetic laments that have been embedded within narrative contexts, “Trouble and Woe: Interpreting the Biblical Laments,” Interpretation 37 (1983), 32–45. 32  Westermann has argued that in its “most original and immediate form,” Israel’s praise follows a basic structure of praise plus reason for praise. See Praise and Lament, 87–90. 33  I have discussed these texts in more detail in “Prayer in the Wilderness Traditions: In Pursuit of Divine Justice,” HAR 9 (1985), 53–74 and “Prayers for Justice in the Old Testament: Theodicy and Theology,” CBQ 51 (1989), 597–616. 34  These verses are commonly taken as supplementary material, though opinion is divided as to their origin. See my discussion in “Prayer in the Wilderness Traditions,” 66–71.

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expected word of judgment from God, the reader/hearer has been prepared to receive it as a judgment tempered with divine compassion and limited by divine commitment to justice and fairness. This literary sequencing of the events may be illustrated as follows. vv. 1–10 The congregation’s rebellion against the leadership of Moses and Aaron. They move to stone them … and the glory of the LORD appears at the tent of meeting. vv. 11–25 Moses’ intervention with petition for forgiveness (slḥ); God forgives (slḥ) according to Moses’ request and punishes. vv. 26–38 “And the LORD said to Moses and Aaron ……” Divine judgment pronounced.

To summarize, the composite narrative of Numbers 14 is in agreement that disloyal behavior in the wilderness resulted in God’s punishment. But in its final form the text attributes this judgment to a God who both judges and forgives, a God who can be addressed and moved to show mercy to a guilty people. In its final form the narrative assigns to Moses’ prayer a position of major importance. Positioned between the announcement of punishment and the execution of that punishment, the prayer occurs at precisely the point of literary climax and from this point determines the final outcome of the situation. What is particularly noteworthy about the prayers in I Sam 2:1–10 and Num 14:11–25 is that both appear to have been edited into a literary context. In both cases the result is a portrait of God and humanity dialoguing with one another over matters that count. Both praise and petition, both thankfulness and lamentation are presented as authentic responses to concrete experiences in life. As these texts help us to understand, such responses to God are not found only in the formal context of temple worship.

IV. The Legacy of Hebrew Prayer I have suggested that the prayers of the Hebrew Bible present both praise and lament as authentic expressions of faith. In the combined witness of narrative and psalmic prayers we are invited to understand something of the “double movement” in the dialogue between God and humanity of which Westermann has spoken.35 On the one hand worshipers are summoned from the particularities of daily situations to the house of God, where liturgical discourse gathers up individual responses into collective offerings of the community of faith. On the other hand, liturgical discourse offers “patterned prayer-speech”36 that may be 35 See

Westermann, Elements of Old Testament Theology, 155.  Cf. Greenberg, Biblical Prose Prayer, 45.

36

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freely fitted to specific circumstances. In other words, in the narrative of life as in the liturgy of the temple, prayers of praise and lament represent the two-way traffic between heaven and earth. Such discourse, I submit, is the quintessential dialogue of faith where God and humanity work in partnership to maintain covenant relationship. I suggest that both the church and the synagogue are summoned to a ministry that promotes and enables this dialogue. Let me comment briefly on but two responsibilities bequeathed to us all by this legacy of praise and lament. First, one important ministry of the practice of praise is the affirmation that in all of life’s experiences there is a transcendent reality.37 To praise God is to acknowledge that life is a gift from God. It is to affirm that we cannot create of our own resources the real joys of life. We cannot will them into existence either by our faith or our technology. Life and the joy that fills it are gifts from the creator. It is the ministry of praise to keep us in God, that is, to keep the community mindful of the transcendent dimension in life. When all of life is received as a gift, then we submit willingly to the requirement to live with a deep sense of gratitude, genuine honesty, and profound responsibility. The church and the synagogue must be at work in the world through the ministry of praise to shape the future of people and institutions in accordance with this transcendent reality and its demands. To put the edge on this point, we might ask what would be the loss for church and synagogue, for all communities of faith, for the world in which we live, if we do not practice the ministry of praise? I suggest two “costly losses”38 should we neglect this ministry. 1. Without the summons to praise, it is likely that our natural bent towards narcissism will turn us inward rather than upward. We languish in a stupor of self-intoxication. The realization of the transcendent God will fade. In its place will be the gods we have made with our own hands, and they will look like us. Our lives and our institutions (including our religious institutions), our communities and our world, will be one step closer to yielding to the ultimate idolatry, viz., self-deification. In this sense, the summons to praise is a summons to obedience to the first commandment. It is a summons to love God and God alone. It is therefore a summons radically subversive of self-love or mindless allegiance to other persons or institutions.39 2. If the church and the synagogue do not practice the ministry of praise, they will forfeit the role of celebrating, and hence proclaiming, the freedom and 37  On prayer as a vital link between everyday life and the transcendent realm, see Greenberg, Biblical Prose Prayer, 51–52. 38  W. Brueggemann has used this term with respect to prayers of lament in “The Costly Loss of Lament,” JSOT 36 (1986), 57–71. The term is no less appropriate, I submit, with reference to the importance of praise prayer. 39  Cf. P. Miller, “In Praise and Thanksgiving,” Theology Today 45 (1988),187–188.

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power of God to overturn the status quo. The specific referent here is Hannah’s prayer in 1 Samuel 2. However, the point I make is also generally applicable to the larger collection of praise prayers in the Hebrew Bible, where praise is typically anchored in the acknowledgment of who God is and how God has cared for the world and its inhabitants. In Hannah’s prayer, the praise offered to God echoes with the remembrance of the reversal of suffering. To participate in such praise is to remain ever mindful that in God’s world human impossibilities must yield to the wonderful possibilities of divine reversal.40 It is to remember, and give thanks, with Hannah that the lowly can be lifted up, the powerful can be brought down. Without the summons to praise both the lowly and the powerful will be tempted to the conclusion that the status is quo, that possibilities unseen are inauthentic and unlikely, that the world’s power to define reality is ultimate and unchallenged.41 Not only in life’s joys and successes but also in its sorrows and failures must the church and the synagogue practice the ministry of prayer. Thus I point to a second responsibility that derives from the legacy of Hebraic lament. I suggest that to follow the Hebraic practice of lamentation is to engage in a radical act of faith that seeks to shape the future of God. In essence, one important ministry of the practice of lament is to keep God in the community and in the world. We may think of this along the lines proposed by A. Heschel: “To pray means to bring God back into the world to expand His presence.” Such a task is not only possible, but necessary, for, as Heschel continues, “His being immanent in the world depends on us.”42 My particular referent here is Moses’ prayer in Numbers 14, though again I would submit that the point I make is also valid for prayers of lamentation generally. Moses’ address in Numbers 14 illustrates specifically the daring work of intercession. The context for his address, as noted above, follows a basic pattern of crisis, prayer, resolution of crisis, so that a crucial role is suggested for prayer in determining the final outcome of the situation. In short, Moses’ prayer is portrayed as having made a difference, not only for the people, but also for God. In this and other such accounts of intercessory prayer, the text invites us to consider the question, “What if Moses (and others) had not prayed?” Would God have stayed in the world, in Moses’ case, in covenant relationship with such disobedient followers, if there had been no petition for forgiveness? Of course, we may be inclined to rush quickly past this intercession to answer that God always intended to forgive and relent. And yet, 40  On praise as a basic, yet irrational, trust in the endless power of God to surprise, see W. Brueggemann, “The Psalms as Prayer,” Reformed Liturgy and Music 2.3 (1989), 19–20. 41  On praise as a constitutive, transforming act that resists domestication by status quo powers, see W. Brueggemann, Israel’s Praise: Doxology against Idolatry and Ideology (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988). 42  A. Heschel, The Insecurity of Freedom (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1966), 258.

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we must remember that this prayer has been edited into a narrative context, as if to force a suspension in our final evaluation until we have considered the dialogue between God and Moses. We may go on to make one further observation about the ministry of lament. The standard process of lamentation – invocation, lament, petition – serves for Moses and a host of others in the Hebrew Bible to bring before God serious questions concerning suffering and injustice. With thundering questions like “Why?” (e. g., Num 11:14) and “How long O Lord” (e. g., Ps 13:1, 2) these prayers rail against the inequities of life and the God who allows them … or causes them. In this regard, prayers of lament serve as a vehicle for addressing theodicean issues, i. e., issues about God and justice. It is the task of lament not simply to complain to God about injustice, but to move God to be just. These are prayers offered in the certain conviction that God must stay in the world as a God of justice. As Abraham’s question puts the issue so sharply in Gen 18:25: “Shall not the Judge of all the earth do justice?” Again we may address the importance of the ministry of lament with a question. What is to be lost if such praying is neglected or denied? The question may be answered in a variety of ways.43 Let me offer just one response. It is the very nature of lamentation to resist resignation and to press for change. Where there is lament, there is life, and even in the midst of suffering, this life will be vital and expectant. When the lament ceases to function and all questions are silenced, then what is, is accepted as what will be, in religion, in society, in the political and economic structures of life. Here we need to be reminded that the denial of suffering is not only a spiritual loss. When lamentation over oppression and suffering, failure and disappointment are forfeited, it is likely that the issues of social and political injustice will also be silenced. The church and the synagogue must know themselves forever constrained by the witness of these lament prayers to promote both piety and justice, both on earth and in heaven. As Brueggemann has suggested, if there is silence on justice issues in the sanctuary, eventually these issues are muffled outside the sanctuary as well.44 If religious institutions acquiesce in this silence, they will cease to minister to the broken and downtrodden. Of greater consequence, when faith is stripped of lament, then the concession is made that suffering and injustice are not only real and hurtful, they are also final. But we need not make this concession. Indeed we must not. The Hebraic legacy of prayer summons us toward a different, more radical notion of covenant partnership with God that holds in tension the discourse of praise and lament. This legacy is clearly nurtured and sustained, though not without modification,  Cf. Brueggemann, “Costly Loss,” 60–64. 63–64. See further W. Brueggemann, “Theodicy in a Social Dimension,” JSOT 33 (1985), 3–25. 43

44 Ibid.,

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in the traumatic experience of exile, the re-articulation of Jewish faith in the nascent synagogue, and the emergence of the early church. The details of this long historical development I must now leave to my colleagues in this symposium. For my part I wish to conclude by reaffirming, with the Hebrew Bible, that from the beginning there is God, and from the very beginning, God has been enthroned on the praises and laments of Israel.

5. Jeremiah, Prophet of Prayer Prayer is, above all else, dialogue with God. It is dialogue directed from human beings to God, dialogue initiated for the purpose of laying before God praise and thanksgiving, petition and intercession, lament and complaint. Prophets in ancient Israel were specialists in prayer,1 and among the prophets Jeremiah was a “prophet of prayer” par excellance. Indeed, the “confessional prayers” of Jeremiah that will be examined below represent a collection of “prophetic prayers” without parallel in the prophetic literature of the Old Testament. In the pages to follow we will examine Jeremiah as a prophet of prayer from two vantage points: 1) Jeremiah as an intercessor, and 2) Jeremiah as a suppliant in lament. Although these two areas in no way allow for a comprehensive discussion of the many and varied nuances of prayer in the book of Jeremiah, they do provide a framework within which we may examine representative examples of Jeremiah’s prayers. Moreover, a collection of information along these lines will contribute to our effort to understand Jeremiah the “pray-er.”

I. Jeremiah as Intercessor2 The prophet’s role in ancient Israel was twofold. On the one hand, he delivered God’s word to people; on the other hand, he delivered the people’s word to God.3 In the one role the prophet spoke (and acted) as God’s representative, the “man of God” commissioned to deliver God’s word (not his own) to particular 1  A. R. Johnson, The Cultic Prophet in Ancient Israel (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1962), 59–62. 2 By “intercessor” we mean here simply one who “intercedes in behalf of ” or who “prays for” another person. A more precise definition is difficult, and in fact the issue seems to be quite confused in scholarly literature where the label “intercession” is used with respect to widely divergent phenomena. In this article we make a distinction between the act of “praying for” and the act of “delivering an oracle from God.” Both acts are performed by prophets in ancient Israel; however, whereas “praying for” someone may involve giving an oracle, the giving of an oracle does not necessarily imply that one had interceded for another. Within this proposed differentiation the major words constituting the semantic field of “intercede” are pālal, pāgaʿ, ʿātar, nasa těpillâ, ša’al and dāraš. See further the interesting suggestions of B. O. Long (“Two Question and Answer Schemata in the Prophets,” JBL 90 [1971], 135), and G. C. Macholz (“Jeremia in der Kontinuität der Prophetie,” in H. W. Wolff, ed., Probleme biblischer Theologie [Munich: C. Kaiser, 1971], 318, n. 44), that in Jeremiah the prophetic functions of interceding and giving an oracle have been linked together. 3  Johnson, The Cultic Prophet, 59.

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situations. So, for example, we observe the prophets introducing their messages with “Thus says the Lord …” or “Hear the word of the Lord.” In his other role the prophet spoke as the people’s representative. He articulated their response to God, whether in the form of praise or petition, thanksgiving or protest. On such occasions the prophet assumed the role of “pray-er,” one praying the prayers of his people, on their behalf and for the purpose of securing their well-being. In short, the prophet would serve as intercessor for his people, a role for which he was peculiarly qualified due to his privileged position within the council of God (cf. Jer 23:18, 22). That intercession was in fact a prophetic function is confirmed at several points in the Old Testament. Abraham is described as a prophet (nābî) only once in the Old Testament (Gen 20:7, cf. v. 17) and this on an occasion when he is also referred to as a prophet who “will pray for you” (cf. Gen 18:22–23). In Numbers 21:7 Moses is described as praying or interceding for Israel with the purpose of asking God to desist from judgment (cf. Num 11:2; Deut 9:20). In I Samuel 7:5 the role of intercessor is attributed to Samuel, who instructs the house of Israel: “Gather all Israel at Mizpah, and I will pray for you” (cf. I Sam 12:19, 23). In point of fact, from the eighth century on the conception of a “true prophet” was one who functioned “like Moses” (Deut 18:15), a conception suggesting that intercession was one of the functions of the true prophet.4 Jeremiah may well have seen himself as an intercessor after the manner of Moses and Samuel.5 On at least two occasions various delegations approached the prophet with a request that he pray to the Lord on their behalf (Jer 37:3; 42:2; cf. 42:20). Elsewhere Jeremiah questions the authority of those pretending to deliver a word from God by challenging them to demonstrate an ability to intercede (27:18, here with the verb pāgaʿ). The clear implication is that because they are not authentic messengers of God, as Jeremiah is, they will not have the capacity to intercede and so will be shown up for what they are: false prophets. More instructive still for understanding Jeremiah’s role as an intercessor are the references to the prayers of intercession that he is prohibited from praying. On three occasions he is instructed not to pray for his people because God will not hear the prayer or respond to the petition for help that it conveys (Jer 7:16; 11:14; 14:11). The prohibition seems to be rooted in the assumption that under 4  Cf. R. Wilson, Prophecy and Society in Ancient Israel (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1980), 165, 196–197, 203. Wilson is here espousing the general view of the prophet as intercessor as set forth by A. R. Johnson and others. This position seems to have been accepted and maintained by the majority of scholars who have worked in this area, despite the fact that specific references to the prophets as intercessors are quite limited. Such a lack of evidence suggests that the traditional understanding of the prophet as intercessor merits reassessment. 5  William L. Holladay, “The Background of Jeremiah’s Self-Understanding – Moses, Samuel, and Psalm 22,” JBL 83 (1964), 153–164; idem, “Jeremiah and Moses: Further Observations,” JBL 85 (1966), 17–27; cf. Macholz, “Jeremia in der Kontinuität,” 327; Wilson, Prophecy and Society, 240.

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other circumstances Jeremiah would normally have interceded for his people. Even after these prohibitions Jeremiah could not easily let go his role as intercessor, for twice more he reminds God that he has interceded on the people’s behalf, divine prohibitions notwithstanding (Jer 15:11; 18:20).6 If, in fact, it can be substantiated that Jeremiah did intercede for his people, we may go on to ask about the nature of such intercession. What did Jeremiah, or any prophet, pray for when he stood before God on behalf of the people? Specific details are in many cases lacking; nevertheless, it is possible to suggest in broad terms something about the nature of prophetic intercession. It would appear that one of the major prophetic tasks was the responsibility to intercede for and promote the welfare (šālōm) of the people.7 In Jeremiah’s day there were any number of so-called prophets prophesying peace for the people (cf. 6:14; 8:11). Hananiah, for example, prophesies that within two years God will deliver Israel from the yoke of Babylonian oppression (Jer 28:l-11). There will come a time of restoration, restoration of people and land, a future time of peace and prosperity. Hananiah clearly understands his role to involve promoting belief and trust in this ultimate deliverance. That Jeremiah, too, understood his responsibility to promote the welfare of his people is clear from passages such as 15:11 and 18:20. Nevertheless, Jeremiah does not support Hananiah’s prediction of imminent prosperity. He accuses Hananiah of prophesying falsely and in so doing of causing the people to trust in a lie (Jer 28:15). There will be no restoration, Jeremiah challenges. Israel’s prosperity will be found not in her return to her own land, but rather in accepting her exile and in seeking the welfare of her captors (29:7). In point of fact, the prayer for shalom, so central to the prophet’s role as the people’s representative, is denied Jeremiah, and as a result his role as an intercessor recedes into the background (cf. 7:16; 11:14; 14:11). Intercession, then, appears to have been one of the responsibilities of the prophet as pray-er. Nevertheless, it is interesting to observe that there is little firm evidence to corroborate the view that prophets actually performed this intercessory role. Excluding the prophetic figures mentioned above – Abraham, Moses, Samuel, and Jeremiah – the language of intercession appears rarely if at all with reference to other prophets in ancient Israel.8 It would appear that there was 6 Note further that Jeremiah is venerated in Jewish tradition as a great intercessor, cf. II Macc 15:14. 7 S. Mowinckel argued this position on the basis of his understanding of cult prophecy, Psalmenstudien III: Kultprophetie und prophetische Psalmen (Oslo: SNVAO, 1923). In recent years the argument has been taken up and expanded by A. R. Johnson, op. cit., and more recently in The Cultic Prophet and Israel’s Psalmody (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1979). 8  There are examples of prophetic intercession in Amos 7:2–3, 5–6 and in II Kgs 19:4 (with reference to Isaiah), though neither incident is exactly similar to the intercession of Abraham, Moses, Samuel, or Jeremiah. Cf. Wilson, Prophecy and Society, 215–217, 266–268. Precisely be-

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a gradual disintegration of the prophet’s role as intercessor, and as such as the people’s spokesman, and a shift of emphasis toward his role as God’s spokesman.9 The shift of focus is first clearly discernible in Jeremiah where the prohibition of his intercessory function is said to be justified by Israel’s sin. Israel has failed to maintain the posture of obedience necessary for continuing in the divine-human dialogue (cf. 15:6); hence the rejection of the prophet’s intercession indicates God’s refusal to communicate with his people, a refusal clearly understood as an indication of God’s judgment. Subsequently, the word of divine judgment comes more and more to characterize the message of other prophetic figures as the shift away from the prophet as intercessor becomes more complete.10

II. Jeremiah as Suppliant in Lament When first summoned to the prophetic ministry, Jeremiah was promised God’s sustaining, equipping presence (1:8). The promise of God’s presence was reaffirmed throughout his ministry (15:20; 30:11; 42:11; but cf. 20:11). Even so, Jeremiah’s was a lonely existence, precisely because of his response to God’s call and his faithfulness to God’s commission (cf. 15:17). His message of the coming judgment on Israel’s sin set him apart from others of his profession who, like Hananiah, clung to the hope of eventual restoration and prosperity. His message won him little support among his own family (e. g., 12:6), not to mention the court (e. g., 36:20–26) and the temple (e. g., 20:1–3). Jeremiah was by necessity dependent, then, on the sustenance of God’s presence. All other forms of support were denied him. Yet there were times in Jeremiah’s ministry when God’s presence seemed very much in question, when the promise of God’s sustaining power seemed ineffectual in the midst of abandonment by friends and family, when God’s presence seemed hidden by Jeremiah’s own feelings of doubt and despair. Such times provide the backdrop for those prayers in which Jeremiah prays for himself after the manner of a suppliant (that is, a petitioner) in prayers of lament. The prayers to which we have reference have traditionally been called the “confessions” of Jeremiah. They appear in the Book of Jeremiah as follows: 11:18– 23; 12:1–6; 15:10–21; 17:12–18; 18:18–23; 20:7–13; and 20:14–18. The term “confession,” however, is only partially appropriate, for in both form and content these prayers closely resemble the prayers of lament so frequent in the Psalms.11 They cause the examples of prophetic intercessors are so few, one must wonder whether in fact intercession was as fundamental to the prophet’s role as has generally been assumed.  9  Cf. Wilson, Prophecy and Society, 241. 10  Wilson suggests that the divine prohibition of prophetic intercession remained in effect until the fall of Jerusalem, after which the prophets are permitted to resume their role as intercessors (Ibid., 284). 11  The basic treatment of the similarities between Jeremiah’s prayers and psalms of lamen­

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are both confession and lament, and as such they present a profile of a prophet at prayer that is without parallel elsewhere in the Old Testament. Before examining the fundamental characteristics of Jeremiah’s prayers, it is necessary to emphasize one point by way of introduction. These prayers are the prayers of Jeremiah, a specific prophet in ancient Israel about whose life and ministry we have considerable information. In point of fact, the amount of biographical data in the Book of Jeremiah concerning both the prophet and his adversaries makes it very unlikely that the individual in these prayers is anyone other than Jeremiah.12 Furthermore, we should think of these as the personal (private) prayers of Jeremiah, prayed by him for himself. They are prayers of confession and lament born out of Jeremiah’s own situation, prayed with the fervent hope that God’s intervention (response) will be both immediate and specific. It is true that in the individual psalms of lamentation, after which Jeremiah’s prayers are modeled, biographical information concerning the suppliant who is praying is lacking. Hence a precise identification of the “I” of these prayers is not possible, and in view of this it is being argued in studies of the Psalms with increasing enthusiasm that the speaker in these prayers is not a private individual speaking on his own behalf, but rather a king or some other person of official status who speaks as a representative of the larger community.13 A similar position has been taken in recent years with regard to the prayers of Jeremiah. Though the details of the arguments favoring this position vary from scholar to scholar, the end result of such an interpretation is ultimately to dissolve the prophet Jeremiah into anonymity, either by attributing his prayers to a later editor or by subordinating the role of Jeremiah the individual suppliant to that of Jeremiah the cultic prophet who prays not for himself but for the community at large.14. Neither position in my opinion, can be substantiated.15 tation remains that of W. Baumgartner, Die Klagegedichte des Jeremias (BZAW; Giessen: Alfred Töpelmann, 1917), cf. P. E. Bonnard, Le Psautier selon Jeremie (Paris: Les Editions du Cerf, 1960). For a thorough discussion in English that closely follows Baumgartner’s thesis see John M. Berridge, Prophet, People, and the Word of God (Zurich: EVZ-Verlag, 1970). 12  See, for example, the discussion of J. P. Hyatt, “Jeremiah”, in The Interpreters Bible (Nashville: Abingdon, 1956), V: 778–780, and J. Bright, Jeremiah (AB; Garden City, N. Y.: Doubleday & Co., 1965), lxxxvi–lxxxviii. 13  For a rather extreme example of this position see J. H. Eaton, Kingship and the Psalms (London: SCM Press, 1976). 14  Cf. E. Gerstenberger, “Jeremiah’s Complaints: Observations on Jeremiah 15:10–21,” JBL 82 (1963), 393–408; H. Graf Reventlow, Liturgie und prophetisches Ich bei Jeremia (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1963). See further the argument put forward by A. H. J. Gunneweg that the confessions of Jeremiah are the product of a later editor whose intention it was to portray Jeremiah as an “exemplary righteous sufferer,” “Konfession oder Interpretation im Jeremiabuch,” ZTK 67 (1970), 395–416. 15  For an extensive criticism of the position taken by Reventlow, see J. Bright, “Jeremiah’s Complaints: Liturgy or Expressions of Personal Distress?,” in J. I Durham, J. R. Porter, eds., Proclamation and Presence (Richmond: John Knox Press, 1970), 189–214; cf. idem, “A Prophet’s Lament and Its Answer: Jeremiah 15:10–21,” Interpretation 27 (1974), 60.

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Jeremiah is a confessing, complaining pray-er. His prayers reflect both the confession of God’s presence in his life and the complaint or lament that God is for some reason not present, or at least that his presence is so sufficiently hidden or disguised that Jeremiah cannot discern it. In form his prayers are modeled after psalms of lamentation, more precisely after individual psalms of lamentation. Although we must be careful not to impose the form too rigidly, in general terms both Jeremiah’s prayers and the individual laments of the psalms contain an address to God, a lament or complaint in which the suppliant may offer a defense of personal conduct or a deprecation of the conduct of adversaries, a petition for deliverance or relief, and sometimes an expression of confidence or a statement of gratitude for divine intervention. Thus Jeremiah prayed as he had been taught to pray. When he felt himself driven to the edge of despair by his own situation, he found in the individual psalms of lament a ready-made form with which to voice these feelings before God. The form of his prayer is important, and we will benefit from paying close attention to it. But more important is the content of Jeremiah’s prayers  – the words with which he filled out the form, the ideas that these words express, the convictions about humanity and about God and about humanity and God in dialogue with each other that these prayers reveal. In the content of his prayers, even as in their form, Jeremiah is indebted to the psalmists. He does not simply imitate his predecessors, however. Rather, he infuses old and conventional forms and ideas with his own interests. He borrows and molds the prayers he has learned, and he makes them his own. In the paragraphs to follow we will focus on Jeremiah as a suppliant in lament. We will examine the fundamental characteristics of his prayers with regard to form and content and with regard to what is borrowed and what is new. Of fundamental importance for understanding Jeremiah as a pray-er is the recognition that he directs his prayers to God. As the psalmists had done before him, Jeremiah begins his prayer by addressing God. The address serves a dual function: it is both confession and invocation. By beginning his prayers with expressions like “O Lord” (17:13; 20:7; cf. 12:1; 18:19), Jeremiah not only petitions God to be present and attentive to his prayer (e. g., 18:19), he also confesses his belief and confidence in God’s presence. It has previously been mentioned that at his calling Jeremiah had received a promise of God’s presence (1:8), a commitment from God that he would accompany him and sustain him through every phase of his ministry. It is this promise that Jeremiah invokes in these prayers, and it is his confidence in, indeed his assumption of, God’s faithfulness to this promise that he confesses when he begins his prayers with the simple expression “O Lord.” Not only does he confess his trust in God’s presence with this address, he also confesses his understanding that it is God (and not a human being) who is responsible for hearing and responding to his prayer. Thus when the promise of

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God’s presence seemed overshadowed by the immediate circumstances of the day, Jeremiah did not hesitate to raise that thunderous question “ Why?”16 “Why does the way of the guilty prosper? Why do all who are treacherous survive?” (12:1) Had not God promised that he would be with Jeremiah (cf. 1:8)? Had not this promise been reiterated with a further promise to provide fortification for the prophet sufficient to withstand the charges of his adversaries (15:20)? Jeremiah was to prosper so that none could prevail against him. Yet as the questions in 12:1 imply, prosperity was not his privilege. It was instead the wicked who prosper, those whose “way” is contrary to God’s. The irony of the situation is more apparent when this verse is compared with Psalm 1:3–4: “He (that is, ‘the righteous man’) is like a tree planted by streams of water … in all that he does he prospers. The wicked are not so ….” Jeremiah charges that his experience has been just the opposite of the psalmist’s, and he is left to ask “Why?” and “How long?” (12:4). Time and again Jeremiah brings his questions to God. In 15:18 (cf. 18:20) Jeremiah’s own situation of distress compels him to ask, “Why is my pain unending, why is my wound without healing … ?”17 This is not merely a rhetorical question, one which anticipates no answer; rather, the answer is supplied by the following assertion: “Truly, you are to me like a deceitful brook, like waters that fail” (15:18b). Jeremiah’s anguish is without relief because God has failed him. The assertion functions as an accusation, more specifically an accusation directed toward God. Both the question and the countering assertion are compelled by the very promise of God’s presence which Jeremiah feels entitled to expect. Is God’s presence to be manifest in his steadfast salvation and deliverance in times of stress, as has been promised (1:8; 15:20), or is the promise of God’s presence merely a disappointing deception, a promise that cannot be trusted? It is significant that in both 12:l-4 and 15:18 Jeremiah’s questions occur within the framework of prayer, and as such are directed, ever so pointedly and accusingly, toward God. In late portions of the Old Testament similar questions are raised, though not within the context of prayer. Usually they come within the context of philosophical musings, and to the degree that an answer is sought at all, the context implies that it is within the wise person’s capacity to provide it.18 In a real sense the burden of responsibility for the answer to the question 16 On the form and purpose of this type of question in Jeremiah see Walter A. Brueggemann, “Jeremiah’s Use of Rhetorical Questions,” JBL 92 (1973), 358–374. Note, however, that these questions are for Jeremiah anything but “rhetorical.” 17 A. von Jepsen suggests that all “Why?” questions that employ the interrogative word lāmâ, as here in Jer 15:18, carry within them a nuance of reproach, “Warum? – Eine lexicalische und Theologische Studie,” Das Ferne und Nahe Wort: Festschrift für Leonard Rost (Berlin: Alfred Töpelmann, 1960), 106–113. 18  Questions directed from a person to God are noticeably infrequent in books belonging to the field of wisdom literature, i. e., Proverbs, Ecclesiastes. Questions raised in these books do not

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then shifts from God to the individual. Jeremiah, however, remains within the tradition of the psalmists who so boldly came before God with their praises, thanksgiving, petitions, laments, and questions (e. g., Pss 13:1–2; 22:1; 44:23; 89:46). One further observation concerning the way in which Jeremiah addresses God deserves our attention. The simple introduction to Jeremiah’s prayers – “O Lord” – is often amplified with additional expressions setting forth various attributes of God, the very naming of which form part of Jeremiah’s confession. For example, in the prayer recorded at Jer 17:12–18, Jeremiah refers to God as “the hope (miqvēh) of Israel” (v. 13), the only time in the prophetic writings that God is so identified; in the latter part of the same verse God is described as “the fountain of living water”; in verse 14 God is “my praise”; and in verse 17 Jeremiah pleads that God not be “a terror/ruin” to him but rather “a refuge.” The cataloguing of God’s attributes in this manner mirrors the tendency of the psalmists to multiply quality upon quality, attribute upon attribute, confession upon confession, all for the purpose of singing the inestimable praises of God Almighty (e. g., Ps 18:1–2). Jeremiah shows himself to be well acquainted with this manner of addressing God. The overall thrust of Jeremiah’s address to God, however, is somewhat different from that of the psalmists. Whereas the setting forth of God’s attributes in the Psalms may serve to augment one’s praise of God, Jeremiah’s descriptions, when cast against the tenor of the Book of Jeremiah, serve to reveal something of the conflicting perceptions that characterize his understanding of God’s nature. Although God is addressed in 17:13 as “the hope of Israel,” elsewhere Jeremiah employs the same word in verbal form to describe Israel’s “disappointed hope.”19 Similarly, the description of God as a “fountain of living water” (cf. Jer 2:13) ought to be set against a previous accusation that God can seem at times no more than “waters that fail” (15:18). The tension between the various aspects of God’s nature is also apparent in Jer 17:17, where within the same breath Jeremiah attributes to God the potentiality to be for him both a force of destruction and a place of refuge from destruction. If Jeremiah’s perceptions of God could fluctuate so, little wonder then that those whose relation with God was less intimate could ask, “Where is the word of the Lord?” (17:15). We may ask further how they could be expected to recognize the word should it be revealed to them. Would it be a “terror” or a “refuge from terror?” Would it be light or darkness? Would it bring peace and prosperity or punishment? serve principally as questions of divine activity. They are instead questions concerned almost wholly with activity carried out in the realm of ordinary, everyday life (e. g., Prov. 6:9, 25:8). 19 E. g., Jer 8:15; cf. 13:16c; 14:19c. See further Walter E. Rast, “Disappointed Expectation in the Old Testament,” Perspective 12 (1971), 135–153, especially 136–138.

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How would God manifest himself ? It is precisely this uncertainty that may be seen to underlie Jeremiah’s prayer. God had promised his presence: of this Jeremiah was certain. But the way in which God would be present is not given. God’s presence could not be manipulated: it could only be expected. The way in which Jeremiah addresses God suggests that he understood this fundamental characteristic of God even if, at times, it was an understanding painfully hard to live with (e. g., 4:19; 10:19; 12:1-3; 15:10; 20:14–18). Jeremiah’s address to God thus serves both to invoke God’s presence and also to confess God’s presence. The invocation may be simply the calling out of God’s name – “O Lord” – or it may be amplified by a litany of divine attributes, the accumulation of which is offered as praise to God. The invocation is also confession – confession of Jeremiah’s confidence in God’s abiding presence; confession of his trust in God as the one to whom he must direct not only his praise and thanksgiving but also his questions and complaints; confession that God alone is responsible for the circumstances in which he must live out his prophetic commission, that God alone is able to respond to each crisis situation these circumstances create. But it is also an invocation and a confession tempered by an awareness that God’s presence can neither be manufactured nor guaranteed in any specific way. Everything that follows in Jeremiah’s prayers is predicated upon this address to God. Following the introductory address, Jeremiah brings before God in prayer his own lament. Here too we may see a dual perspective. On the one hand, Jeremiah complains that he is an innocent target of unjustified and un-warranted persecution from his peers; at the same time, he charges that it is God himself who is his assailant, again, without justification. Within these two perspectives Jeremiah’s prayers assume the tone both of lament and accusation. Consider, for example, the prayer recorded in Jer 18:18–23. There is here the suggestion of a plot against Jeremiah’s life, the details of which are not provided (cf. Jer l l:18–20). It would appear that the plot was initiated by religious leaders who felt themselves and their special prerogatives (see v. 18) threatened by Jeremiah’s message. We know from other references in the Book of Jeremiah that the prophet did not hesitate to criticize the religious establishment (cf. 2:8; 8:8–9; 14:13–16; 23:9–40; 26:1–24). In view of such criticism we may understand verse 18 as the establishment’s response to Jeremiah’s charges. Against this backdrop of scheming persecution, Jeremiah prays a prayer for vengeance in verses 21–23 that is both harsh and bitter (cf. similar prayers in Jer 11:20; 12:3; 15:15; 17:18).20 Such a condemnation of his enemies, however unsettling it may be to us of a different culture, must be accepted for what it is. Jeremiah does not ask for a judgment against persons who have abused him 20  Jeremiah’s prayers for vengeance may be compared with the curses in the psalms, e. g., Pss 69:22–28; 109:6–20; cf. 137:7–9.

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personally. Rather, because Jeremiah understands himself to be God’s spokesman and the message he has delivered to be God’s message, so also he understands these plots to be directed not against him personally but against God. As W. Holladay has put it: “the scoffers who want to do away with Jeremiah want to do away with God’s mouthpiece; they are challenging God’s sovereignty over these people.”21 This is not, as J. P. Hyatt claims, “a defect in the religion of one who had not learned to pray for his enemies.”22 It is rather an example of an honest prayer that reflects the seriousness with which Jeremiah understood not only his own commission, but also God’s promise to deliver him (1:8). Elsewhere Jeremiah charges that God himself is his tormentor. His prayer in 20:7–13 is particularly clear at this point. The theme of the lament is determined by verse 7. Jeremiah charges that God has “deceived” him. The Hebrew text is embarrassingly plain: the word for “deceived” (pātâ) is that which is used elsewhere to describe the seduction of a virgin for the purpose of having sexual relations with her (Exod 22:16; cf. Judg 16:5; Job 31:9; Hos 2:14). The idea of seduction is made all the more explicit by the expression that follows in which Jeremiah charges, “You have overpowered me, and you have prevailed.” The language employed here refers in other places to sexual assault, more particularly to the force exercised by a man in seducing a young woman (cf. Deut 22:25; II Sam 13:11).23 The reference in verse 8 to Jeremiah’s cry, “Violence and destruction,” may also carry a sexual connotation, perhaps suggesting the cry of one who has been sexually violated (cf. Deut 22:27).24 It is a truly shattering accusation that Jeremiah makes here. It would have been harsh directed toward anyone, this charge that amounts to a cry of “Rape!”, but here it is directed against none other than God himself. This same God, whom Jeremiah has previously described as the “hope of Israel,” “the fountain of living water,” “my praise,” now stands accused of having fooled Jeremiah, of having seduced him by force, of having used him for his own selfish gratification, of having cast him aside. In light of such a charge we can understand how Jeremiah could feel that the word of the Lord, on other occasions his “joy” and “delight” (cf. 15:16), has now become for him “a reproach and derision” (20:8). Along with our comments above concerning the address and the lament, we need to give attention to one further important dimension of Jeremiah’s prayers, namely, the response they receive from God. Actually it is more accurate to  W. Holladay, Jeremiah: Spokesman Out of Time (Philadelphia: Pilgrim Press, 1974), 91.  Hyatt, “Jeremiah,” 914. 23 The verbs in these passages are employed, however, in a different stem, as Berridge correctly observes (Prophet, People, and the Word of God, 152, n. 205). 24  Berridge, Prophet, People, and the Word of God,152. See further the suggestion of D. J. A. Clines and D. M. Gunn that the primary theme in this passage is not God’s “deception” or his seduction” of the prophet, but rather his domination over the prophet (“‘You Tried to Persuade Me’ and ‘Violence! Outrage!’ in Jeremiah 20:7–8,” VT 28 [1978], 20–27). 21 22

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speak of God’s lack of response or perhaps of his unexpected response, for to a number of Jeremiah’s prayers no answer from God is recorded. Where responses do follow they are often not the ones Jeremiah anticipated. Only in the prayer at Jer 11:18–23 does the prophet receive a clear, straightforward response to his cry of lamentation. Here he pleads for vengeance against those who unjustly plot against him, and God responds affirmatively: “Behold, I will punish them …” (vv. 22–23). Elsewhere, however, God’s response offers little comfort to Jeremiah. To Jeremiah’s questions in 12:1–6 about why the wicked prosper (v. 1) and how long such a situation so contrary to God’s way must be endured (v. 4), God responds (v. 5), ironically, with a question of his own. A paraphrase might be: “If your faith has already been found wanting, how will you fare later when the test will be much greater?”25 Whereas the response to the prayer in 11:18–23 clearly serves to quieten Jeremiah’s questions, here the response serves not as a resolution but as a challenge to deeper trust and faith. A similarly unexpected response from God occurs following Jeremiah’s prayer in 15:10–18. Jeremiah’s lament concerning the abuse he had borne on God’s behalf had reached accusatory proportions. Why should he suffer so? Has God deceived him with the promise of his presence? At no point in Jeremiah’s prayer does he suggest that his own obedience to God’s commission has wavered. In fact he reaffirms his calling (v. 16), his faithfulness to that calling (vv. 11, 16, 17a), and his suffering because of his faithfulness (vv. 15, 17b). Yet in God’s response (vv. 19–21) Jeremiah is called to repentance: “If you turn back(tāšûb), I will take you back (ʾăšîbĕkâ), and you shall stand before me.” This latter phrase recalls 15:1, where the same expression refers to the intercessory roles of Moses and Samuel. God here promises a restoration in terms both of the prophetic task that Jeremiah is to exercise (that is, intercession) and of the promise of God’s sustaining presence in the carrying out of this task (vv. 20, 21). But such restoration is conditional upon Jeremiah’s repentance. In this admonition to repent Jeremiah is charged with the same message that he had himself been proclaiming to the people of Judah (cf. 3:12, 22; 4:1). Perhaps more revealing than the divine responses mentioned just above is the complete lack of response with which Jeremiah must contend following other of his prayers. In 17:12–18 Jeremiah pleads with God to speed his vindication, to put to shame those who unjustly stalked him, to shatter them (and not him) in the coming day of judgment. But as if to underline the uncertainty that prevails throughout the prayer, this plea remains unanswered. Unlike the “confessions” examined thus far, there is no response to Jeremiah’s prayer, no resolution of the situation of distress out of which the prayer was born (cf. Jer 20:7–13). The lack of response to Jeremiah’s prayers is particularly problematic in 20:14– 18, where a new level of despair is evident. Here there is no invocation of God,  Cf. Berridge, Prophet, People, and the Word of God,165; Holladay, Jeremiah: Spokesman, 94.

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no petition for deliverance, no protestation of innocence. There is only lament, lament building to despair, despair ending with the agonizing cry “Why?” There is no indication of a resolution, no promise, not even a hint that deliverance is forthcoming, and no answer to the question “Why?” At most Jeremiah longs for the ultimate relief found only in the grave (vv. 14, 17, 18), but in reality he receives nothing more than a painful silence.

III. Conclusions As a “prophet of prayer” Jeremiah is unique among prophets of the Old Testament. As an intercessor he follows in the footsteps of Moses and Samuel, who in an earlier age understood their roles to include not only delivering God’s word to humanity but also delivering humanity’s word to God. The role of the prophet as intercessor seems, however, to have diminished in importance after the time of Jeremiah as more and more the emphasis shifted to the word from God to humanity that the prophet was commissioned to deliver. Even Jeremiah’s intercessions are not recorded, only the fact that on occasion he did “stand before God” on behalf of his people. As a suppliant in lament Jeremiah assumes the position of a confessing, complaining pray-er. Modeling his prayers on the psalms of lamentation, Jeremiah brings before God his confession of trust in God’s abiding presence and his complaint that God’s presence seems at times too hidden or obscured to justify such a confession. On the basis of our analysis of these prayers the following observations deserve special attention: 1) Jeremiah’s confessions/complaints are directed toward God; therefore they constitute “prayers,” not philosophical musings or speculations. 2) In view of the point just made, it is important to observe the fundamental honesty with which God is addressed. As the addressee in these prayers, God is the recipient not only of Jeremiah’s praise but also of his most candid accusations and complaints. In short, Jeremiah approached God with what he really felt, not with what he thought God wanted to hear. This should not be understood as a flaw in his character or a defect in his piety. 3) Admirable though his honesty may have been, we cannot fail to notice that it did not guarantee a response from God. Unanswered prayer is particularly problematic when, as for Jeremiah, the prayer involves a petition for deliverance. Under these circumstances God’s silence can but create in the suppliant a sense of doubt, a feeling of uncertainty. Is God present or not? Once we see Jeremiah’s prayers from this perspective, then we begin to develop some sensitivity to the deafening silence with which on occasion he was confronted.26 26  A good deal of the commentary on Jeremiah’s prayers tends to emphasize a pattern of prayer/answer to prayer that may be detected at various points, e. g., S. Blank, “The Confes-

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In view of these observations about the prayers of Jeremiah, we may go on to consider what they tell us about Jeremiah the prayer. Jeremiah uses prayer as a form for articulating his feelings of doubt and despair about God’s presence in his life. The articulation of his experience we have discussed in some detail. It was honest and candid; it involved laments and petitions and questions directed toward God concerning what Jeremiah felt to be unfair and undeserved treatment. Yet prayer for Jeremiah provided far more than just the articulation of his feelings. It provided a way to cope with the circumstances, a way to reorient himself towards the presence of God in times of crisis.27 We observed that Jeremiah’s prayers, and the accusatory questions contained within them, are directed toward God. Hence they present before God matters which, in Jeremiah’s eyes, only God can handle. To be sure the prayers are tinged with doubt and uncertainty about whether and how God will handle these problems. Nevertheless, the responsibility for handling them remains God’s, not Jeremiah’s. In this way doubt and uncertainty, always the breeding ground for skepticism, recede into the petition for God’s intervention. Elsewhere in the Old Testament, when questions about the enigmas of life are no longer directed toward God in prayer, as for example in the Book of Ecclesiastes, there are no checks on the limits to which despair may go.28 Jeremiah, unlike “The Preacher,” copes with his situation by bringing it before God in prayer. One final observation is in order. Since these are the private, personal prayers of Jeremiah, reflecting his own questions and his own efforts at coping with these questions, why then are they included in a prophetic book that otherwise concerns itself, as do all prophetic books, with preserving the record of God’s word to human beings? What was their value to those in Jeremiah’s immediate community? More importantly, what may be their value to us of a much more distant community? Although we may understand these are the personal prayers of Jeremiah, they nevertheless have more than merely a “private validity.”29 The most stimulating suggestion along these lines comes from Sheldon Blank, who proposes that we see the prophet Jeremiah as a paradigm;30 that is, in sions of Jeremiah and the Meaning of Prayer,” HUCA 21 (1948), 331–354; idem, Jeremiah: Man and Prophet (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 1961), 105–128. Yet it is wise to avoid the assumption that “response” is integral to prayer, or that prayer is somehow incomplete if there is no response (see, for example, Blank, “The Confessions,” 331). Some questions, indeed some prayers, are simply not answered, and the dilemma this poses is no less real for Jeremiah than for us. 27  Cf. W. Brueggemann, “The Formfulness of Grief,” Interpretation 31 (1977), 288–876; idem, “Psalms and the Life of Faith: A Suggested Typology of Function,” JSOT 17 (1980), 3–32. 28  Cf. the comments of A. Lauha, Kohelet (Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1978), 17. 29   E. g. Berridge, Prophet, People, and Word of God, 158; cf. G. von Rad, Old Testament Theology, ed. and trans. D. M. G. Stalker (New York: Harper and Row, 1965), II: 204–206; H. J. Stoebe, “Seelsorge und Mitleiden bei Jeremia,” Wort und Dienst IV (1955), 131. 30  S. H. Blank, “The Prophet As Paradigm,” in James L. Crenshaw, J. T. Willis, eds., Essays in Old Testament Ethics (New York: KTAV, 1974), 122.

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Jeremiah we have someone who models for us the way our prayers ought to be. In this way the private prayers of Jeremiah have broad implications. Thus Jeremiah’s isolation and aloneness are our isolation and aloneness; his complaints and protests are our complaints and protests; his questions prompt our questions, his doubt and uncertainty mirror our own; the silence that confronts him, we have heard; and his prayers can become the model of our prayers. In the words of William Holladay, we need to “eavesdrop” on Jeremiah’s dialogue with God in order that we may more securely “embark upon our own dialogue with God in our own day.”31

 Holladay, Jeremiah: Spokesman, 145.

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6. The Prophet as Intercessor: A Reassessment In a previous article examining Jeremiah as a “prophet of prayer,” I called attention to the fact that biblical evidence in support of the idea that intercession was a prophetic responsibility is strikingly scarce.1 Indeed, the evidence examined to that point seemed less than fully supportive of the prevailing scholarly understanding that Israel’s prophets were in fact intercessors.2 Subsequent research into this area has reaffirmed my earlier suspicions: the conventional view of the prophet as intercessor merits reexamination. Before the biblical evidence itself is presented, it will be useful if the object of the inquiry can be clarified. In much of the literature that addresses the subject, the term “intercession” is used with a broad and comprehensive meaning. A. Rhodes, for example, refers to imprecation as “a form of intercession;”3 at another point he gives attention to Habakkuk’s “lamenting intercession;”4 and yet again he describes Isaiah’s question, “How long, O Lord?” (Isa 6:11), as an “outburst that comes close to intercession.”5 Other discussions use the term “intercession” as virtually a synonym for “prayer.”6 While intercession is obviously one form of prayer, it is certainly not true that all prayer is intercession. Nor does it illuminate the issue to suggest that intercession is somehow analogous to imprecations or laments or questions directed toward God. For the purpose of this investigation I wish to suggest a more restricted understanding of “intercession.” Intercession is essentially prayer on behalf of someone else. That is to say, an intercessor is one who “intercedes for” or “prays for” another person(s). The key element is the idea of praying “for.” By this definition one does not assume the role of intercessor simply by addressing God, whether in lament, confession,  S. Balentine, “Jeremiah, Prophet of Prayer,” RevExp 78 (1981), 331–344.  F. Hesse, “Die Fürbitte im Alten Testament” (dissertation, Erlangen, 1949); A. S. Herbert, “The Prophet as Intercessor,” Baptist Quarterly 13 (1949), 76–80; H. Graf Reventlow, Liturgie und prophetisches Ich bei Jeremia (Gütersloh: Mohn, 1963), 140–205; J. Jeremias, “Die Vollmacht des Propheten im Alten Testament,” EvT 31 (1971), 305–322; A. B. Rhodes, “Israel’s Prophets as Intercessors,” in A. L. Merrill, T. W. Overholt, eds., Scripture in History and Theology: Essays in Honor of J. Coert Rylaarsdam (Pittsburgh: Pickwick Press, 1977), 107–128. For a minority opinion see H. W. Hertzberg, “Sind die Propheten Fürbitter?” in E. Wurthwein, O. Kaiser, eds., Tradition und Situation: Studien zur alttestamentlichen Prophetie (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1963), 63–74. 3 Rhodes, “Israel’s Prophets,” 116, 119. 4  Ibid., 118. 5  Ibid., 117. 6  E. g., A. R.  Johnson, The Cultic Prophet in Ancient Israel (Second edition; Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1962), 58–60. 1 2

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imprecation, or any other form of general prayer. Intercession begins at the point when one addresses God on behalf of the concerns of someone else. The language of intercession, in the sense of prayer for someone else, consists primarily of the verbs pālal, ʿātar, and pāgaʿ (hipʿil). Other expressions serve as more general terms for prayer, and they too will contribute to the overall picture of intercession. For example, the expressions nāśaʾ tĕpilâ, qārāʾ bĕšēm yhwh, and ʿāmad lipnê yhwh may describe an act of addressing God on behalf of another. Similarly, verbs belonging to the semantic field of “ask, inquire, seek,” for example, šaʾal, dāraš, bāqaš, may sometimes be used to convey an intercessory prayer, and so they too will be included, where appropriate, in the discussion. Obviously a survey of this nature cannot pretend to account for all passages that might justifiably be included under the subject “intercession.” Some examples of intercessory prayer clearly do not involve introductory words such as “and he prayed” or “and he called upon YHWH.”7 Nevertheless, it is important as a first step in the attempt to evaluate intercessory prayer to restrict the discussion to those texts that utilize the specific language of intercession. In the pages to follow the goal will be to determine whether the prophets actually functioned as intercessors in the sense suggested above and, if they did so function, to establish to what extent intercession was a typical or routine activity for them.

I. The Language of Intercession Although three verbs – pālal, ʿātar, and pāgaʿ – may be used to convey the sense of “interceding” or “praying for” another person, it is clearly pālal that is used most frequently in this way. Of seventy-nine total occurrences, pālal is used some sixteen times with the specific meaning “pray, intercede for.”8 Each of these sixteen occurrences involves the hitpaʿel form of pālal followed by the preposition bĕʿad (“about, on behalf of, for”).9 In addition, there are three occurrences of this verb in the hitpaʿel followed by some form of the preposition ʿal, and these too convey the same general nuance of “praying for.”10 For the purpose of this study it is of particular significance to observe who has the responsibility for interceding in these cases using the verb pālal. An overview of the passages involved reveals that the role of intercessor is assumed by the following persons: Abraham (Gen 20:7), “man of God” (I Kgs 13:6), Nehemiah  E. g., Gen 18:22–23; Amos 7:2, 5; Joel 2:17.  On pālal, see further E. A. Speiser, “The Stem PLL in Hebrew,” JBL 82 (1963), 301–6; H. P.  Stähli, “pālal,” THAT 2: cols. 427–432; P. A. H. de Boer, De Voorbede In Het Oude Testament, OTS 3 (1943), 120–136.  9  Gen 20:7; Num 21:7; Deut 9:20; I Sam 7:5; 12:19, 23; I Kgs 13:6; Jer 7:16; 11:14; 14:11; 29:7; 37:3; 42:2, 20; Ps 72:15; Job 42:10. 10  Job 42:8; Neh 1:6; 2 Chr 30:18.  7  8

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(Neh 1:6), Hezekiah (II Chr 30:18), people (Jer 29:7; Ps 72:15), Moses (Num 21:7; Deut 9:20), Job (Job 42:8, 10), Samuel (I Sam 7:5; 12:19, 23), Jeremiah (Jer 7:16; 11:14; 14:11; 37:3; 42:4; cf. 42:2; 42:20). This tabulation suggests that of the major prophets in the OT only Jeremiah is described with any real consistency as one who intercedes. Abraham is described as a prophet (nābî) only once in the OT, and on this occasion he is described as one “who will pray for you” (Gen 20:7). Moses and Samuel, men who on occasion exercised prophetic functions, also intercede on behalf of others. But clearly it is only for Jeremiah that the responsibility of “praying for” approaches anything like a regular or routine function. The use of the verbs ʿātar and pagaʿ does not radically alter the picture described above. ʿātar, which occurs some twenty times in the OT, may describe an act of intercession similar to that conveyed by pālal.11 Thus, Isaac “prayed to the Lord for his wife” (Gen 25:21, wayyētar yiṣḥaq layhwh). In several passages ʿātar occurs in the nipʿal form to indicate that God has been interceded with, and often these passages contain the further nuance that God has heeded the intercession (e. g., Gen 25:21; II Sam 21:14; 24:25; Isa 19:22). The most frequent use of ʿātar however, occurs in the J account of the plague narratives in Exodus, where Pharaoh requests that Moses “pray” to the Lord on his behalf to remove the plagues (Exod 8:4 [ET 8:8], 24; 9:28; 10:17), and Moses responds accordingly by “entreating YHWH” (Exod 8:5 [ET 8:9], 25, 26; 10:18). Apart from these occurrences with reference to Moses and Isaac, the verb ʿātar is not used to describe any other person as an intercessor. Indeed, apart from its one occurrence in Isa 19:22, ʿātar is not used at all in the prophetic books. Pāgaʿ occurs approximately forty-four times in the OT, and in the majority of these cases it has the basic meaning “meet, encounter, reach.” However, in three instances, all with reference to the prophet Jeremiah, this verb is used to describe an act of “praying/interceding for” similar to that expressed by the verbs pālal and ʿātar (Jer 7:16; 15:11 [hipʿil]; 27:18). Apart from these references to Jeremiah, the only other occurrence of pāgaʿ in a prophetic book with the meaning “intercede” is in Isa 53:12 (cf. Isa 59:16). Here the reference is to the Servant, whose task it will be to intercede for transgressors (lappōšʿîm yapgîaʿ).12 References in other prophetic books or to other prophetic figures are completely lacking. To summarize, if the verbs pālal, ʿātar, and pāgaʿ represent the major linguistic possibilities for expressing the idea “pray for” or “intercede for,” then it must be observed that these verbs are not used at all frequently or consistently with any prophetic figure other than Jeremiah. Abraham, Moses, and Samuel, men 11  On ʿātar, see further R. Albertz, “ʿtr,” THAT 2:385–386; D. R. Ap-Thomas, “Notes on Some Terms Relating to Prayer,” VT 6 (1956), 240–241. 12 It should be noted, however, that the Servant’s “intercession” is accomplished not by prayer per se but rather by suffering.

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who on occasion perform prophetic functions, are described as interceding with God on behalf of others; however, with the possible exception of Samuel, there is no clear indication that intercession was a typical or routine activity for them. Furthermore, it ought not to be overlooked that the vocabulary of intercession is not restricted to prophets or prophet-like figures: In Neh 1:6 it is Nehemiah who asks God to be attentive to his intercession (pālal) for his people; and in II Chr 30:18, it is King Hezekiah who is said to have interceded (pālal) for his people. References to other “occasional intercessors” (e. g., Isaac, Job, the worshiping community as a whole, the Servant) suggest that intercession was not the exclusive prerogative of the prophet. In fact, on the basis of the use of this particular language, the prophet is perhaps more accurately described as simply one figure among several who from time to time exercises the privilege of “praying for” another person.13 Two further observations may be offered at this point. First, it is noteworthy that the language of intercession as a whole is itself relatively infrequent in the OT. To be sure, the more general vocabulary of prayer often serves to express something close to the idea of intercession, as will be shown below. Even so, the most frequent expression for “intercede,” pālal, occurs with this meaning fewer than twenty times in the OT. Second, although the responsibility for intercession appears to be relatively widely distributed among lay persons, kings, and prophets, the responsibility does not fall, according to the language examined thus far, to the priests.

II. Prayer Language It is always true that a particular idea may be expressed or implied by the association in a given sentence of a number of words, no one of which may be technically related to the idea. This is no less so for the idea of “intercession.” Although the technical language of intercession has been surveyed above, the discussion is not complete until a broader sample of vocabulary relating to prayer in general has been analyzed. At this point, however, one must sacrifice comprehensiveness for a general survey of representative words and expressions that appear to be especially related to prayer, that is, language directed from a human to God, and that at the same time contribute to our understanding of the role of the prophet as a pray-er.14 To this end various expressions involving the verb qārāʾ (“call”) will be examined, together with the phrases naśāʾ těpilâ, and ʿamād

 See further de Boer, De Voorbede, 157–170.

13

14 It is a curious fact that the subject of prayer in the OT has been virtually unexplored by bib-

lical scholars. In a subsequent study I hope to address this topic in some detail.

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lipnê yhwh. Also, verbs belonging to the semantic field of “ask, inquire, seek,” šāʾal, dāraš, bāqaš, will be included in the discussion where appropriate. In his 1962 edition of The Cultic Prophet in Ancient Israel, A. R.  Johnson suggested that the prophet was a “cultic specialist” with particular abilities in the realm of prayer. Whereas the priest was a specialist in sacrifice, the prophet was a specialist in prayer.15 A large portion of Johnson’s argument was based on his understanding of the prophet’s unique privilege to “call upon the name” (qārāʾ běšēm) of YHWH. Both prophet and priest have oracular functions, that is, speaking in the name of YHWH, but it is the prophet, according to Johnson, who is peculiarly qualified to act as intercessor because of his unique ability to “call upon the name” of God. Unfortunately, Johnson supplied only a few references to support his position. Thus it has been necessary to make a more complete survey of the use of the verb qārāʾ, particularly as it is used in association with šēm, and especially as this and other related expressions come to be employed with reference to prophetic activity. The verb qāraʾ (“call, proclaim, read”) occurs well over seven hundred times in the OT. However, the particular expression qārāʾ běšēm yhwh occurs fewer than twenty-five times.16 A survey of these passages does not automatically lead to the conclusion that calling upon the name of God was a typical prophetic function. Various persons – identified and anonymous, professional and nonprofessional – are described with this language: Abraham (Gen 12:8; 13:4; 21:33), Isaac (Gen 26:25), Elijah (I Kgs 18:24), Elisha (II Kgs 5:11), Israelites in general (Isa 12:4; 64:6; Jer 10:25; Joel 3:5; Zeph 3:9; Zech 13:9); and frequently in the Psalms (e. g., 79:6; 80:19; 105:l; 116:4, 13, 17). Even persons outside the community of faith have the ability to call on the name of YHWH (Isa 41:25). There is no clear indication that the prophet had a unique ability in this regard. Indeed, there is no single reference, apart from those that apply to Elijah and Elisha, to the prophets exercising this function at all. Furthermore, it is not clear that the expression qārāʾ běšēm yhwh refers to intercessory prayer as it has been described in this article. Rather, this language would appear to suggest nothing more specific than a general prayer or address to a deity; even Baal is approached by “calling on the name” (I Kgs 18:24, 25, 26). In other passages “to call upon the name of YHWH” seems to indicate something like a general confession of faithfulness (e. g., Isa 12:4; 64:6; Pss 80:19; 116:13; 17) or perhaps a general call to worship (Ps 105:l; II Chr 16:8).

15 Johnson, Cultic Prophet, 59. Johnson reiterates this position in his more recent treatment, The Cultic Prophet and Israel’s Psalmody (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1979), 3, 68, and passim. 16  Gen 4:26; 12:8; 13:4; 21:33; 26:25; Exod 34:5; I Kgs 18:24, 25, 26; II Kgs 5:11; Isa 12:4; 41:25; 64:6; Jer 10:25; Joel 3:5; Zeph 3:9; Zech 13:9; Pss 79:6; 80:19; 105:l; 116:4, 12, 17 (omitted in LXX); I Chr 16:8.

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More frequent is the expression qārāʾ yhwh or qārāʾ ʾal yhwh, which occurs approximately seventy times. But here too there is no sure sign that calling (to) YHWH was a special prerogative of the prophet. So, for example, Deut 15:9 and 24:15 describe the impoverished members of the community, who may, if not treated justly, call out to the Lord against their oppressors; in Judg 15:18 and 16:28 it is Samson who calls out to YHWH in a time of personal crisis; in I Sam 12:17, 18 it is Samuel; in II Sam 22:7, David; in Job 12:4, Job; and so on. Prophets do in fact call to YHWH, but even here specific references to intercession per se are too infrequent to support the view that this was a routine activity for all or even most of the prophets.17 In point of fact, most of the references to calling (to) YHWH (approximately forty cases) occur in Psalms as a general expression of prayer, either personal or corporate (e. g., Pss 3:5; 4:4; 18:4; 20:10). The expression “to lift up a prayer” (nāśaʾ tĕpilâ) occurs twice in the book of Jeremiah (7:16 and 11:14), and in both cases it is used in association with other expressions specifically designating intercessory prayer (i. e. pālal, pāgaʾ). Elsewhere this particular expression occurs only in II Kgs 19:4 (= Isa 37:4), where it is used with reference to Isaiah. “Lifting up a prayer” thus does not emerge as a prophetic activity. One other expression may be mentioned. By virtue of its use in Jer 15:1 and 18:20, the expression “to stand before YHWH” (ʿāmad lipnê yhwh) emerges as a potentially relevant term for prophetic prayer. Nevertheless, this expression, like those examined above, does not occur frequently in the prophetic books. In fact, apart from these cases in Jeremiah, the expression does not appear to be used regularly as a term for prayer at all, intercessory or otherwise.18 The more frequent application is to the priests who “stand to minister” to the people on behalf of YHWH (e. g., Num 16:9; Deut 10:8; 17:12; 18:5, 7; Ezek 44:11, 15) The verbs šāʾal, dāraš, and bāqaš belong to the semantic field of “ask, inquire, seek.”19 On occasion each takes a word for “God” (or a related expression) as object, and thus these words may contribute indirectly to the present discussion. Šāʾal is used with reference to inquiring of God approximately 30 times of a total 171 occurrences. In these cases, a variety of persons are described as directing their inquiries toward God, for example, Hannah (I Sam 1:20), Saul (I Sam 14:37; 28:6), David (I Sam 23:2, 4; 30:8; II Sam 2:1; 5:19, 23), Doeg (I Sam 22:10), and Agur (Prov 30:7). It is significant, however, that no prophet is described as making such an inquiry. To the extent that šāʾal is used to represent a request of God of a more technical nature it would appear to refer to the request for an 17 Cf.

Elijah (I Kgs 17:20, 21), Isaiah (II Kgs 20:11), Joel (Joel 1:19), Jonah (Jonah 1:6; 2:3).  Cf. the expression “stand in the breach” (ʿāmad lipnê bĕpereṣ), which appears to refer to a more general act of prophetic mediation (Ezek 22:30, cf. 13:5; Ps 106:23). 19  See further C. Westermann, “Die Begriffe für Fragen und Suchen im Alten Testament,” KD 6 (1960), 2–16. 18

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oracle that is mediated by the priest and administered by means of the sacred lot (e. g., Num 27:21; cf. I Sam 22:13, 15).20 Dāraš also may be used to mean “seek God” or “inquire of God.” Indeed, of 165 total occurrences, approximately 100 cases describe such an action. While a good number of these cases refer to “seeking God” with the general sense of demonstrating faithfulness (e. g., Isa 55:6; 58:2; 65:10; Amos 5:4, 5, 6; and frequently in Psalms), in about twenty instances, particularly in the books of Kings, Chronicles, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel, it is a prophet who is approached with a request to “inquire of God.”21 In these cases the prophet is asked to deliver God’s word for the particular situation involved. For example, Jehoshaphat asks for a word concerning whether he and the king of Israel should go into battle (I Kgs 22:7, 8; cf. II Kgs 3:11; 8:8); Josiah sends a group of official representatives (among them Hilkiah the priest!) to inquire from Huldah concerning the meaning of the recently discovered law book (II Kgs 22:13, 18); the elders of Israel come to Ezekiel to inquire about the fate of the exiles (Ezek 20:1, 3; cf. Exod 14:7). In keeping with the present focus on the prophet as intercessor, two observations may be offered concerning these “prophetic inquiries” with dāraš. First, the prophets who are approached with a petition to “inquire of the Lord” are primarily those who are active in the tenth to the ninth century – Ahijah, Micaiah, Elisha. Of the major prophetic figures active during the so-called classical period of prophecy, from the eighth to the fifth century, apart from Jeremiah and Ezekiel, none is described as engaging in this activity. Even for Jeremiah and Ezekiel the occasions of inquiry are mentioned too infrequently to suggest that such a role was part of their routine responsibilities. Second, it should be noted that in these cases of prophetic inquiry, the prophet assumes the role of the spokesman of God. The prophet is asked to inquire of God, and he responds by delivering a word from God. To deliver a word of God does not necessarily imply that intercession has occurred. Indeed two different actions are involved in these processes. In the former, the prophet delivers God’s words to humanity; in the latter, he offers humanity’s petitions to God. In the one instance the prophet serves as God’s representative to humanity; in the other he serves as humanity’s representative before God. Finally, baqaš, which occurs some 220 times, takes God (or a related expression) as object approximately 40 times. In the majority of these cases “seeking God” suggests a general act of worship, perhaps involving a cultic rite of some kind.22 For example, several references to “seek the face of God” (II Sam 21:l; Hos 5:15; Pss 24:6; 27:8 [2x]) suggest a general act of coming before God, and 20 Westermann,

“Fragen und Suchen,” 10.  Exod 18:15; I Sam 9:9; II Kgs 14:5; 22:7, 8; cf. II Chr 18:4, 6, 7; II Kgs 3:8; 8:8; 22:13,18; cf. II Chr 34:21, 26; Jer 21:2; 37:7; Ezek 14:7; 20:1, 3; I Chr 21:30. See further S. Wagner, “drš,” TDOT 3:302–303. 22  See S. Wagner, “bqš,” TDOT 2: 236–239. 21

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Hos 5:6 explicitly mentions “going with flocks and herds” “to seek YHWH,” thus indicating that an act of sacrifice is to be performed. There is only one clear reference to seeking God with the sense of intercession, and this occurs with reference to David, who seeks God on behalf of (bĕʿad) the son born to Bathsheba (II Sam 12:16). To summarize the findings thus far, the use of language relating to the more general dimensions of prayer does not indicate that the prophet assumed any special privilege in this area. Despite A. R. Johnson’s suggestion that the prophet had unique responsibilities as an intercessor because of his ability to call upon (the name of ) God, an examination of the relevant expressions at this point reveals (1) that “calling upon God” is often indicative of a general act of worship or a general statement of faithfulness, utilized by a variety of persons, including the prophets; and (2) that specific instances involving a prophet who calls upon God do not suggest that an act of intercession per se has occurred. Other terms such as “to lift up a prayer” and “to stand before Yahweh” may more nearly suggest intercession; however, these expressions are considerably more limited in scope, occurring primarily only with reference to Jeremiah. They therefore do not clearly substantiate the position that intercession was a routine prophetic function. Similarly, prophetic inquiry as may be conveyed by the verb dāraš appears to be limited, apart from occurrences in Jeremiah and Ezekiel, to early prophetic figures; and most cases seem to involve a request, mediated by the prophet, for a word from God. Hence, the prophet functions primarily not as one who intercedes with God on behalf of others, but rather as God’s spokesman, charged with the responsibility of delivering God’s word to a specific audience in a specific situation.

III. The Prophet as Intercessor: A Reassessment The language examined above, both the specific language of intercession and the more general language of prayer, suggests that Jeremiah, more than any other prophet, functioned as an intercessor. Six of the nineteen cases of intercession using pālal occur with reference to Jeremiah; three of the four occurrences of pāgaʿ with the meaning “intercede” attribute this function, either directly or indirectly, to Jeremiah;23 and the two more general and decidedly less frequent references to an act of intercession – namely “to lift up a prayer” and “to stand before YHWH” – occur, with but one exception (II Kgs 19:4), with reference only to Jeremiah. If we allow the language of intercession to suggest the focus of the attempt to understand the prophet as intercessor, then we may justifiably begin by examining Jeremiah’s role as intercessor.  Jer 27:18 is an indirect reference to Jeremiah as an intercessor.

23

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Of primary importance for understanding Jeremiah as an intercessor are two observations: (1) Jeremiah clearly understood intercession to be one of his responsibilities as a prophet. Moreover, by his own admission, he understood himself in some way to have inherited this responsibility from his predecessors, particularly Moses and Samuel. (2) It is equally clear, however, that Jeremiah, unlike his predecessors, was repeatedly instructed by God not to intercede for his people. There are clear references to occasions when Jeremiah assumed the role of intercessor. In Jer 37:3 (cf. 21:2 with dāraš) Zedekiah is said to have sent a delegation to Jeremiah asking that he pray to YHWH concerning the fate of those currently under siege in Jerusalem. Although the prayer is not recorded, it is clear that the response to Zedekiah’s request took the form of an oracle from God, conveyed by Jeremiah (vv. 6–10). In Jeremiah 42 a delegation seeking to know the proper course of action to take in the aftermath of Gedaliah’s assassination comes to the prophet with the request that he pray to YHWH on their behalf (42:2; cf. vv. 4, 20). Although here too the prayer is not recorded, the reader is informed that after ten days (of interceding?) the word of the Lord came to Jeremiah (v. 7), and he delivered it accordingly.24 Two other passages in the book of Jeremiah allude to the practice of “standing before YHWH” on behalf of others (Jer 15:l; 18:20). In In these cases Jeremiah would appear to be identified with a tradition of intercession that goes back to Moses and Samuel. Indeed the language of intercession suggests that Moses and Samuel and Jeremiah were three intercessors par excellence in the OT. On two occasions Moses is specifically described as interceding with God on behalf of others (Num 21:7; Deut 9:20), and in several other cases intercession is rather clearly implied though the technical vocabulary that usually introduces intercession is missing (e. g., Exod 32:11–14, 31–34; Num 14:13–19; cf. Jer 15:1). Similarly, Samuel is described in three passages specifically as praying to YHWH on behalf of others (I Sam 7:5; 12:19, 23). The references to Moses and Samuel as intercessors raise the question of the origin of the practice of intercession in ancient Israel. It is indeed significant that all three personalities noted above – Moses, Samuel, Jeremiah – reflect a northern Israelite perspective.25 To this list of northern intercessors may be added 24  It is significant to note here the similarity between asking for a prophet to intercede on one’s behalf and asking for an oracle. The suggestion has been made that in Jeremiah the prophetic functions of interceding and delivering an oracle have been joined together; see B. O. Long, “Two Questions and Answer Schemata in the Prophets,” JBL 90 (1971), 135; G. C. Macholz, “Jeremia in der Kontinuität der Prophetie,” in H. W. Wolff, ed., Probleme biblischer Theologie: Gerhard von Rad zum 70. Geburtstag (Munich: C. Kaiser, 1971), 318 n. 44. 25  For Jeremiah’s links with Moses and Samuel and the northern traditions see W. L. Holladay, “The Background of Jeremiah’s Self-Understanding-Moses, Samuel, and Psalm 22,” JBL 83 (1964), 152–164; idem, “Jeremiah and Moses: Further Observations,” JBL 85 (1966), 17–27.

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the name of Abraham, who is described only once in the OT as a prophet and this on an occasion when he performs the function of intercession (Gen 20:7). Indeed, the reference to Abraham as an intercessor, in a text of decidedly Elohistic origin, provides the earliest mention of prophetic intercession in the OT. Thus a tradition begins to emerge among persons operating out of a northern provenance which suggests that intercession may have been considered a normal part of a prophet’s characteristic behavior.26 In contrast, it is just as important to recognize that among prophets coming after Jeremiah, who operate out of a southern, Judean provenance, there are no clear examples of prophetic intercession.27 Perhaps the shift away from the role of intercessor already begins with Jeremiah. In fact on three occasions Jeremiah is specifically prohibited from interceding for his people, because, as is stated repeatedly, God will not heed his prayers (Jer 7:16; 11:14; 14:11). In Jeremiah this prohibition is usually understood as part of God’s judgment on a faithless people who no longer deserve the privilege of divine-human dialogue. In place of dialogue there is now to be only monologue, God’s word to his people, a monologue of judgment.28 By this view, intercession is only temporarily prohibited until after the judgment threatened has become reality. In the case of Jeremiah and for those who come after him this interpretation would imply that after the judgment manifest in the destruction of Jerusalem in 587/586 b.c., YHWH would permit the resumption of the prophet’s intercessory role.29 The flaw in this interpretation presented lies in the suggestion that intercession was a characteristic function of prophetic figures, not only those operating out of the Ephraimite tradition but also those operating subsequent to the fall of Jerusalem. In other words, intercession is described as a routine activity of (all) prophets, interrupted only temporarily during the days of Jeremiah because of

26  It has frequently been suggested that the northern provenance for passages that describe prophetic figures as intercessors is to be attributed to Deuteronomistic influence. In particular this has been proposed for passages that describe Jeremiah as an intercessor. See, for example, the recent discussion by R. Carroll, From Chaos to Covenant: Prophecy in the Book of Jeremiah (London: SCM, 1981), 114–115. For the purpose of the present essay it is not necessary to enter into the debate about the historical Jeremiah versus the Jeremiah of tradition. To the extent that Carroll is right to argue that “it is the deuteronomists who operate with a paradigm of the prophet as intercessor” (p. 115), it must also be further acknowledged that even from the Deuteronomistic perspective the image of the prophet as intercessor is somewhat overshadowed by other emphases. See further below. 27 Cf. Amos (Amos 7:2–3, 5–6) and Isaiah (II Kgs 19:4). 28  So R. Wilson, Prophecy and Society in Ancient Israel (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1980), 240; Jeremias, “Die Vollmacht des Propheten,” 309–310. 29  Wilson, Prophecy, 284; Jeremias, “Die Vollmacht des Propheten,” 311; Reventlow, Liturgie, 165.

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the extreme nature of the people’s disobedience. However, if this view is to be persuasive, there needs to be some supporting evidence to confirm that prophets after the fall of Jerusalem did in fact continue to intercede for their people on a regular basis. If the language that has been surveyed in the present article is an accurate guideline to any extent for understanding the prophet as intercessor, then there is no certain indication that any prophet subsequent to Jeremiah carried out the function of intercession. Moreover, it may be questioned whether intercession, even among prophetic figures of the Ephraimite tradition, was ever understood to be anything like a routine or regular activity. Perhaps intercession, though a legitimate prophetic function, did not quite achieve the importance (or perhaps the frequency) of other activities. In point of fact the most detailed statement of the Ephraimite model of prophecy comes from the Deuteronomistic literature, in particular from the regulations set forth in Deut 18:9–22, and here the emphasis is clearly not on the intercessory responsibilities of the prophet.30 In these verses Israel is instructed not to tolerate certain kinds of intermediaries in the land they are about to inhabit. Specifically prohibited are the diviner, the soothsayer, the charmer, the wizard, and the necromancer (v. 11). In place of these abominable channels of communication with the supernatural world, YHWH promises to raise up for the nation a prophet like Moses (v. 15). The prophet then is presented, according to the Deuteronomic perspective, as the only legitimate channel of communication between YHWH and his people.31 But it is important to note that the “communication” that takes place between YHWH and his people is described as primarily one-dimensional. YHWH will put his words in the mouth of the prophet, and the prophet will deliver them as commanded (v. 18). Although Moses is described elsewhere clearly as one who performs as an intercessor, as previously noted, here there is no indication that intercession is to be a regular function of the prophets who will follow Moses. Instead the emphasis is clearly placed on the prophet’s role as spokesman for God. This role of speaking on behalf of God is in fact the one common and dominant responsibility of almost every prophet in the OT.32 The emphasis on the prophet as God’s spokesman has of course not gone unnoticed.33  See Wilson, Prophecy, 157–166.  Ibid., 162. 32  The prophet as primarily a spokesman is also well attested outside the OT, e. g., H. B. Huffmon, “The Origins of Prophecy,” in F. M. Cross, et al., eds., Magnalia Dei, The Mighty Acts of God: Essays on the Bible and Archaeology in Memory of G. Ernest Wright (Garden City: Doubleday, 1976), 171–186. 33 See especially C. Westermann’s emphasis on the prophet as a “messenger” to the exclusion of what he labels “human speeches toward God” (Basic Forms of Prophetic Speech (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1967). I agree with R. Wilson’s exhortation to give further attention to these “human speeches.” I do not agree, however, that intercession qualifies in this area of human speech as “integrally involved in some way in the basic nature of the prophetic task” (R. Wilson, 30 31

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If the observations of the present study prove accurate, then it is apparent that the conventional understanding of the prophet as intercessor, as espoused for example by A. R. Johnson, stands in need of revaluation. To the extent that intercession is to be viewed in any sense as a prophetic activity, it would seem necessary to allow several factors to influence our understanding: (1) Intercession involves specifically an act of interceding or praying to God on behalf of another person; hence general prayers or addresses to God do not necessarily constitute intercession. (2) The language relating specifically to intercession is in fact quite limited in the OT and does not occur exclusively with reference to the prophets. (3) To the extent that prophets are described as intercessors, the only clear references apply to northern figures, specifically Abraham, Moses, Samuel, and Jeremiah. Indeed, among these prophets there well may have existed something like a tradition of intercession. (4) It is perhaps unwise to suggest that intercession was a routine or regular function of general prophetic activity. Although it does appear to have been a legitimate prophetic activity, at least at an early stage of prophecy, it seems to have been consistently overshadowed by the prophet’s responsibility to receive and communicate the true word of God.

IV. Postscript: The Prophet as Mediator One further suggestion may be offered tentatively until additional research can be completed and more precise conclusions substantiated. If in fact the investigation were to be broadened beyond a specific focus on the prophet as an intercessory pray-er to include a more general focus on the role of the mediator between the deity and individuals, it is possible that a different perspective on the role of the prophet would emerge. Indeed, a preliminary investigation along this line suggests a rather long history for the mediator which develops both prior to and subsequent to the period of biblical prophecy examined in this article. For example, it has long been recognized that in Mesopotamian circles one’s “personal god” served as intercessor and mediator before the assembly of the leading deities of the pantheon.34 A similar understanding is evident in Canaanite circles where on occasion Baal may serve as intercessor between El and the divine council and the individual suppliant.35 In the OT the prophet seems eventually to have replaced these “heavenly intercessors” as the one privileged to stand “Form-Critical Investigation of the Prophetic Literature: The Present Situation,” SBLSP 1973 [ed. G. MacRae], 1. 115). 34 E. g., H. Vorländer, Mein Gott: Die Vorstellung von persönlichen Gott im Alten Orient und im Alten Testament (Neukirchen: Neukirchener, 1975), 87–90. 35  E. g., CTA 17, I 1–34; CTA 14, I 35–11 56. See further E. T. Mullen, Jr., The Assembly of the Gods: The Divine Council in Canaanite and Hebrew Literature (HSM 24; Missoula: Scholars Press, 1980), 245–255.

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in the council of God and therefore the one charged with the responsibility to mediate the decrees of God. However, the prophet’s role as mediator is of limited duration for in late biblical texts there would appear to be renewed interest in a heavenly intercessor (e. g., Job 33:23; cf. 9:33; 16:19–21; 19:25).36 In postbiblical texts it is even more apparent that the role of mediator has fallen to heavenly representatives, for there emerges a rather developed understanding of the angel as the primary intermediary between God and humanity.37 Clearly the idea of a mediator between the divine and the human continues to play a role in the NT, especially as manifest in the paráklētos of the Gospel of John.38 Set against this broader backdrop the prophet may be understood to have served in a long line of mediators (and intercessors), both human and divine in character, who provided channels of communication between God and humanity.

36  S. Mowinckel, “Hiob’s go’el und Zeugnis im Himmel,” Vom Alten Testament. Karl Marti, zum siebzigsten Geburtstage gewidmet (BZAW 41; Giessen: Töpelmann, 1925), 207–212; W. A. Irwin, “Job’s Redeemer,” JBL 81 (1962), 217–229; M. Pope, Job (AB 15; Garden City: Doubleday, 1965), 219. 37 E. g., Tob 12:12–15; T. Levi 3:5; 5:6; T. Dan 6:2; 1 Enoch 9:1–11; 15:2; 39:5; 40:6; 47:2. See further N. Johansson, Parakletoi. Vorstellungen von Fürsprechern für die Menschen vor Gott in der alttestamentlichen Religion, im Spätjudentum und Urchristentum (Lund: Gleerup, 1940), 65–178. 38  It is notable that the mĕlîṣ of Job 16:20 and 33:23 is rendered in the targum with paraklit. For further discussion of the role of the paraclete/mediator in primitive Christianity see Jo­ hansson, Parakletoi, 181–308.

7. “My Servant Job Shall Pray for You” After forty-two chapters and 1,059 verses, the epilogue brings the Book of Job to a vexed and vexing conclusion with these words: After the Lord had spoken these words to Job, the Lord said to Eliphaz the Temanite: “My wrath is kindled against you and your two friends; for you have not spoken of me what is right, as my servant Job has. Now therefore take seven bulls and seven rams, and go to my servant Job, and offer for yourselves a burnt offering; and my servant Job shall pray for you, for I will accept his prayer not to deal with you according to your folly; for you have not spoken of me what is right, as my servant Job has done.” So Eliphaz the Temanite and Bildad the Shuhite and Zophar the Naamathite went and did what the Lord had told them; and the Lord accepted Job’s prayer. And the Lord restored the fortunes of Job when he had prayed for his friends; and the Lord gave Job twice as much as he had before. (Job 42:7–10)

“My servant Job shall pray for you.” The question I wish to pose for this essay is this: What does Job say when he prays? The text does not record the words of Job’s prayer. Instead, it leads up to the edge of the prayer then skips over it to report that “when he had prayed” the Lord restores Job’s fortunes. My objective is to go inside the gaps of this report and reflect on what the narrator has not provided. When Job addresses the Almighty in prayer, what does he say? At first blush, this question may seem unnecessary, even unworthy. The epilogue actually seems pretty straightforward. The friends have not spoken the truth about God, and God is angry. Job has spoken the truth about God, and it will take Job’s prayer to make things right for the friends with God. All the signs indicate that Job prays a conventional prayer of intercession for his friends, perhaps something like this: “O Lord, forgive the friends, do not deal with them according to their foolishness.”1 I find this conventional interpretation plausible, even instructive, but ultimately unsatisfying. For the last several years, I have been writing a commentary on the book of Job, hence I have been living in Job’s world. The longer I sit with Job on the ash heap, the more difficult it becomes for me to believe that there is anything conventional about what he thinks and says about God. I share the suspicions of Virginia Wolff, who wrote in 1922 to her friend Lady Robert Cecil saying, “I read the Book of Job last night. I don’t think God comes well out of it.” Even if Job prayed for the forgiveness of his friends, and even if God accepted 1  See, for example, J. Gerald Janzen, Job (Atlanta: John Knox, 1985), 266; James A. Wharton, Job (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1999), 179.

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Job’s prayer, I am not sure this offers an unqualified commendation of the One who targeted Job for destruction “for no reason” (Job 2:3; compare 1:9). I find myself wondering if Job’s prayer has more than a conventional meaning in the book of Job. Could it be that, in his role as intercessor, Job might be praying for God as much as for the friends? From Job’s perspective-at least as presented through much of the book we now have-both the friends and God seem to need someone to pray for them, for none of them seems able or willing to understand what Job is saying. Perhaps when Job stands in the gap between God and these misguided comforters he is implicitly modeling for them all the fundamental prerequisite of loyal companionship that he has relentlessly sought but not found for himself. As Job puts it in his first response to Eliphaz, “The despairing need loyalty from a friend, even if they forsake the fear of the Almighty” (6:14). Could it be that both God and the friends need the loyalty of one like Job if they are to live fully into their true identities? The epilogue suggests that if Job does not pray, the friends will be doomed. And if Job does not pray, the epilogue hints that God might exact a judgment that is incongruent with divine justice and mercy. In short, the friends are wrong, but they are worth praying for. God is angry, but God can be persuaded to check the anger, if someone like Job prays. God, too, it seems is worth praying for. To make my case, I begin with the conventional view of Job’s intercession, which I judge to be both true to the text and heuristic for the community of faith. Indeed, it is only when we take this reading seriously that we begin to sense that Job’s prayer may invite different possibilities. It is these other, nonconventional possibilities that I examine in the second part of the essay. By juxtaposing the conventional and the nonconventional, we may be able to draw some tentative conclusions about what it means when this vexing text ends by saying, “My servant Job shall pray for you.”

I. The Conventional and Salutary View of Job as Intercessor The epilogue (Job 42:7–17) clearly intends to return us to the prologue (Job 1–2) and to the idyllic, pre-holocaust world of Uz described by the narrator of the book. In that world, Job is an unparalleled exemplar of virtue and faith. By God’s own assessment, “there is no one like him in all the earth” (1:8). This assessment is justified by the threefold affirmation of Job (once by the narrator [1:1] and twice by God [1:8; 2:3]) as a “blameless and upright man who fears God and turns away from evil.” Job’s exemplary status is confirmed by his full family and his contingent of servants and possessions (1:2–3). Moreover, we learn that it was Job’s custom to offer preemptory sacrifices on behalf of his children, just in case they had unwittingly sinned and “cursed God in their hearts” (1:4–5). In all these ways, the prologue depicts Job as a unique human being. Not since Adam has

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there been one who has so fully received and so fully realized the creational commission to “be fruitful and multiply” and to have “dominion” over that which has been entrusted to him (compare Gen 1:22, 28). When the bottom falls out of Job’s world, and he suffers the loss of his wealth, his possessions, and his family, Job heroically maintains his devotion to God. He raises no questions; he offers no resistance or protest; he admits no doubt or uncertainty. Instead, he remains persistently reverent before and submissive to the inscrutable will of God. He appropriates a traditional theological assertion – “The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord” (1:21)  – and when urged by his wife to curse God, he dismisses her and her suggestion as foolish and unworthy of him and his God (2:9–10). In the prologue’s last frame (2:11–13), the three friends come to “comfort and console” Job. In the original folktale, what the friends say has been displaced by what now constitutes the poetic dialogues in Chapters 3–27. God’s rebuke of the friends in the epilogue – “[Y ]ou have not spoken of me what is right” (42:7, 8) – suggests that the friends spoke disparagingly of God and urged Job to curse God, counsel that Job steadfastly refused to follow. The epilogue provides a reasonable and faith-affirming conclusion. Once again, the narrator invites us to focus on Job, now identified no less than four times as God’s “servant” (42:7–9; compare 1:8; 2:3). Once again, we see Job acting out his piety on behalf of others. Whereas in the prologue Job offers preemptory sacrifices that spare his children from the consequences of inadvertent sin, now he offers a preemptory prayer upon the receipt of his friends’ sacrifice (42:8) that spares them from God’s judgment. In the aftermath of his prayer, Job is restored and blessed by God. He leaves the ash heap (2:8) and returns to his “house” (42:11). He leaves behind the alienation imposed by suffering and resumes the joyful fellowship with family and acquaintances (42:11). His possessions are returned to him twofold (42:12; compare 1:3). His family is restored with the birth of ten children, seven sons, and three daughters (42:13–15). Job’s doubly blessed life enables him to see four generations of his progeny. After 140 years of post-catastrophe life (42:16), twice the normal lifespan (compare Ps 90:10), Job dies “old and full of days” (42:17), an epitaph that links him with the memory of some of Israel’s revered ancestors, most notably Abraham (Gen 25:8) and Isaac (Gen 25:29; compare I Chr 29:28 [David] and II Chr 24:15 [Jehoiada the priest]). There can be little doubt that the Job of the prologue and epilogue – the selfless intercessor who prays for the forgiveness of those who wrongfully abuse him – is deeply rooted in both Jewish and Christian piety.2 Moreover, we may suppose 2  For a brief survey of the interpretation of the Johan folk tale in Jewish, Christian, and Muslim literary traditions, see Nahum N. Glatzer, ed., The Dimensions of Job (New York: Schocken, 1969), 12–16.

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that this portrait of Job has played a (largely) positive role both socially and religiously in societies that tell this story.3 On religious grounds, the conventional view of the saintly Job endorses a simple piety, an unquestioning belief in God’s control of the world, and, by extension, a satisfying and full participation in the religious establishment that promotes itself as the institutional incarnation of God’s will on earth. For Christians, the image of the saintly Job has the added attraction of positioning Job as a forerunner of Christ, whose prayer from the cross – “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing” (Luke 23:34; compare Stephen’s prayer in Acts 7:60) offers the ultimate Joban model for how to be faithful and forgiving in the midst of undeserved adversity. On social grounds, the saintly Job promotes obedience over rebellion, conformity over agitation, tolerance over rigid adherence to nonnegotiable principles of justice. In short, this story promotes and encourages a stable society, where God is in the heavens and all is well, or at least tolerable, on earth. The governing principle behind this theology/ideology is famously articulated in the interchange between Shakespeare’s widow of Florence and Helena: Widow: Lord, how we lose our pains! Helena: All’s well that ends well yet,   Though time seem so adverse and means unfit.  (All’s Well That Ends Well, Act 5, Scene 1, 24–26)

We may also note that artists have added their own imaginative “exegesis” to this portrait of Job as a saintly, Christlike intercessor. By way of example, I offer one image for consideration. Taddeo Gaddi (1300–1366) was perhaps the most distinguished pupil of the Florentine painter Giotto. This fresco of Job praying for his friends, painted circa 1355, is one of a dozen panels depicting scenes from the book of Job that once adorned the peristyle of the Camposanto in Pisa.4 Gaddi depicts a restored Job, kneeling in prayer before his friends. Consonant with the account in the Testament of Job, which identifies the biblical hero with Jobab, “the king of all Egypt” (28:7; compare Job, which identifies the biblical 3  Cf. David Penchansky, The Betrayal of God: Ideological Conflict in Job (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 1990), 30–34. 4  The Camposanto Monumentale (Monumental Churchyard), along with the Cathedral, the Baptistry, and the Bell Tower (more popularly known as the “Leaning Tower”) comprise the four grand structures of the famous cathedral square in Pisa. Begun in 1278 under the direction of Giovanni di Simoni, the Camposanto was designed to gather in one place all the graves scattered around the cathedral. Until it was badly damaged in the bombing raids of 1944, it also provided one of Italy’s richest galleries of medieval painting and sculpture. Of Gaddi’s Johan frescoes, this one, now partially restored and relocated, is one of three still available for viewing. For discussion, see Samuel L. Terrien, The Iconography of Job Through the Centuries: Artists as Biblical Interpreters (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1996), 92–96, Figures 45–48. See further, Mario Bucci, “Storie di Giobbe: Taddeo Gaddi,” in Camposanto monumentale di Pisa (Pisa: Opera della Primaziale, 1970), 93–102, Plates 85–98.

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Figure 1: Taddeo Gaddi (1300–1366) “Job Intercedes for His Friends,” (1355). Fresco Camposanto Monumentale di Pisa. Credit: Samuel E. Balentine, personal photograph.

hero with Jobab, “the king of all Egypt” (28:7; compare LXX Job 42:17b–e), Gaddi paints Job as a royal figure. Behind him is an ornate chair, canopied with a palatial edifice that calls to mind a royal chamber. At the base of the throne, to Job’s right, is his royal crown. But for Gaddi, as for many artists of the Middle Ages, Job is no ordinary king, and his righteousness is far from commonplace. Painted into this scene are a number of symbols that link Job to the royalty and righteousness of Christ. To Job’s left, resting on the folds of his garment, is a skull, an allegorical reminder of the skull of Adam, which, according to medieval legend, was buried at the foot of the cross of Christ. In front of Job is a crown of thorns alongside what appears to be an instrument of torture, both symbols of Jesus in his passion. Combining sacred Scripture and artistic imagination, Gaddi has created a Job who is no longer defined solely by the words of holy writ. When this Job prays for his friends, he steps off the pages of Scripture and into the lives of those who now stand before his uplifted hands.

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When Gaddi painted this Job in the fourteenth century, the world of Pisa and Tuscany had been turned upside down.5 In its own way, Pisa was an analogue for Uz, the setting for the biblical Job’s story. In the first half of the century, Pisa and the cities of Tuscany had enjoyed unprecedented prosperity. But in 1346 and 1347, bad weather conditions began to reduce harvest and produce famines. In 1348, a bubonic plague known as the Black Death arrived in Sicily and quickly spread inland, ultimately killing between a third and a half of the population in many urban areas, including the Tuscany cities of Florence and Siena. As personal incomes plummeted and tax revenues grew increasingly scarce, marauding mercenaries began to harass survivors by raiding their homes and destroying their families. In such a world as this, where prosperity had vanished for reasons beyond control and the graveyards were full of righteous victims, Gaddi saw Job’s Christlike intercession as reason to hope that the future might be redeemed.

II. The Nonconventional and Salutary View of Job as Intercessor Athalya Brenner speaks for many commentators when she observes that although the Job of the prologue and epilogue is “positively saintly,” his conduct forces us to wonder if he is altogether “human.”6 Once Job loses everything “for no reason,” we would expect a normal person, regardless of piety and devotion, to protest and complain, to despair and grow weary of faith affirmations that seem so utterly disconnected to life’s experiences. The Job of the prologue and epilogue does none of these things. The Job who speaks from the ash heap in Chapters 3–31 models a very different kind of piety. This Job curses and laments. He protests the injustice of his plight and the injustice of the God who sanctions and sustains it “for no reason.” He rejects his friends’ suggestion that he is guilty, insisting instead that his innocence shifts the burden of guilt to God. If we take the portrait of this Job seriously, we might well restate Brenner’s concern by saying that he is indeed fully human, but is he saintly? It is, of course, this portrait of Job as rebel that the epilogue seems to dismiss or correct. Or does it? I submit that a number of clues invite a different understanding. First, the epilogue begins by referring not to Job’s but to God’s last words.7 No matter who has supplied this epilogue, whether it is the same author of the poet5  For discussion of the relationship between Italian art produced between 1350 and 1500 and the religious, political, and social culture, see Evelyn S. Welch, Art and Society in Italy, 1350–1500 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997). 6  Athalya Brenner, “Job the Pious? The Characterization of Job in the Narrative Framework of the Book,” JSOT 43 (1989), 44. 7  So also Edwin M. Good, In Turns of Tempest: A Reading of Job, with a Translation (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1990), 380.

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ic dialogues or a different one, the statement “After the Lord had spoken these words to Job” (42:7) directs us not to Job’s so-called confession in 42:1–6 but instead to God’s beguiling revelation in 38:1–40:34. In the whirlwind speeches, God twice challenges Job to gird up his loins like a geber (38:3; 40:7), to prepare himself, like a “mighty man” or “warrior,” for a valiant encounter with a strong opponent. In the first speech, God offers Job a vision of the cosmic boundaries of creation (38:4–18: earth, sea, heaven, underworld), coupled with a discourse on five groups of paired animals (38:39–39:30). God makes no reference in this survey of the animals to human beings, a telling omission that may be interpreted as a strategic subversion of Job’s presumptive claim to a special place of importance in creation’s order. When Job initially responds by placing his hand over his mouth and withdrawing in silence (40:3–5), it appears that God’s speech has accomplished its objective. Job will not continue to contest the God whose creational design renders his personal misfortune comparatively insignificant. When God presses on with a second speech (40:6–41:34; MT 40:6–41: 26), however, and again challenges Job to act like a geber, it appears that God desires something more than silence from his servant. God now challenges Job to act like a king. He is to put on the regalia of “glory and honor” (40:10: hôd wĕhādār) and participate in a governance of the world that joins him by commitment and practice to a dominion that images God’s own.8 On the heels of this challenge, God summons Job to focus specifically on a sixth and final pair of animals: Behemoth and Leviathan. The presentation here is intricate and finely nuanced.9 For my purposes, it is sufficient simply to note that from God’s perspective Behemoth and Leviathan are figures of strength, pride, and dominion. They are celebrated – not condemned – as creatures that are the near equals of God. Both are subject to confrontation and assault, and both are vulnerable to God’s control, but neither will relinquish its identity or abandon its creaturely responsibilities. If the river Jordan should burst forth against Behemoth, it will trust that its own resources are sufficient to withstand the assault (40:23). If Leviathan should ever be captured and forcibly domesticated, it would not make a “covenant” with 8 Compare the similar and suggestive celebration by the psalmist of being “crowned with glory and honor” that enables a dominion comparable to God’s own: Yet you have made them [human beings] a little lower than God, and crowned them with glory and honor (kābôd wĕhādār). You have given them dominion of the works of your hand; you have put all things under their feet. (Ps 8:5–6; MT 8:6–7) On the rhetorical links between Job and Psalm 8, see M. Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel (Oxford: Clarendon, 1985), 285–286; idem, “The Book of Job and Inner-biblical Discourse,” in L. G. Perdue, W. Clark Gilpin, eds., The Voice from the Whirlwind: Interpreting the Book of Job (Nashville: Abingdon, 1992), 87–90. I have explored these connections in more depth in “‘What Are Human Beings, That You Make So Much of Them?’ Divine Disclosure From the Whirlwind: ‘Look at Behemoth,”’ in T. Linafelt, K. Beal, eds., God in the Fray: A Tribute to Walter Brueggemann (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998), 259–278. 9  For further discussion, see Balentine, ‘”What Are Human Beings?”’ especially 264–274.

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Figure 2: “Job Prepares to Fight with God.” 9th c. Illumination. Saint John Monastery, Patmos. Credit: Bibliotheque du Monastere St. Jean le Theologien, Patmos.

its master that required it to plead for mercy or speak “soft words” (41:3–4; MT 40:27–28). In short, Behemoth and Leviathan show Job something important about God’s design for creaturely existence. The “poetic logic” of the book hints that Job is to gird his loins with the strength, pride, and fearless dominion of a Behemoth and Leviathan. I seem to have at least one kindred spirit in the artist who painted this suggestive miniature for an eighth-century Greek codex of the book of Job, which has been preserved in the Saint John Monastery on Patmos.10 Dressed in ceremonial robes, Job takes his stand before the God who has twice before summoned him to “gird up his loins.” The force with which God confronts Job is symbolized by the cords of his belt and the drapes of his robe, both blown sideways by the hurricane-like speech of God. Job’s head and neck are twisted backward, and the profile of his face, which has been partially damaged, signals that he is contemplating either a voluntary or forced retreat. But we may also note a hint of defiance in his posture. His feet are firmly planted. His knees are flexed, as if he is bracing himself to lean into the very power that threatens to blow him away. His hands are clasped firmly on his belt. This dramatic rendering nicely captures the  For discussion, see Terrien, Iconography of Job, 37–40.

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moment of decision for Job at the end of God’s second speech. Will Job advance or retreat? Will he contend with God or submit to God? This Job contemplates both alternatives, but his posture invites us to imagine that with his next move he will take a combative and dangerous step in God’s direction. Second, the epilogue suggests that God instructs Job to act as an intercessor for his friends, that is, he is to stand between them and God and arbitrate the different perspectives they represent. Because intercessors are third-party mediators, God’s instructions to Job invite reflection on other places in the Johan drama where the idea of intercession or mediation occurs. Four such occurrences merit consideration. In 9:33, Job, recognizing that God is no ordinary litigant who can be summoned to trial by a mere mortal (v. 32), imagines that there might be an impartial “arbiter” (môkîah; NRSV: “umpire”) who can negate the inequalities between him and God.11 At this point in the drama, Job despairs that there is no such môkîaḥ for him, and he dismisses the idea as impossible. In 16:19, Job hopes for a heavenly “witness” (ʿēd) who would take his side in God’s court and give testimony to the truth of his claim.12 On this occasion, Job summons the earth not to cover up the evidence of his blood, which cries out for justice with the same claim on God as Abel’s blood after his murder by Cain (Job 16:18; compare Gen 4:8–10), and he states emphatically his purchase on that claim, “[E]ven now, in fact, my witness is in heaven.” Yet here, too, Job despairs that there is no such witness for him. In 19:25, Job returns for a third time to the idea that someone, a “redeemer,” a gōʾēl, will come to his defense against God and the friends. Job “knows” that his redeemer lives, and he knows that at some future time “he will stand upon the earth.” Job’s defense attorney is no more precisely defined than is the satan who serves as God’s prosecutor in the prologue. What is clear, however, is that for the first time Job does not dismiss the idea out of hand or express it with caution. What is of most concern to Job is when his gōʾēl will appear. He lives in the tensive interim between the present, when he concedes that “there is no justice” (19:7), and some undisclosed future time, when “at the last” (19:25) “there is a judgment” (19:29). In between what is and what must be, Job clings to the desperate belief that someday, somebody will stand in the breach between him and God and be his redeemer.13 11 Elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible, the môkîaḥ is often a third-party mediator who listens to disputes between two persons and offers a judgment that both accept as appropriate (compare Gen 31:37). For the full range of usage, see The Dictionary of Classical Hebrew, ed. David J. A. Clines and John Elwolde (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 4: 209–210. 12 Compare the similar figure in Zech 3:1, described as the “angel of the Lord,” who stands at the side of Joshua, the high priest, and successfully defends him before the heavenly court against the baseless charges of the satan (haśāṭān). 13  For further discussion of this famously vexed passage, see Samuel E. Balentine, “Who Will Be Job’s Redeemer?” Perspectives in Religious Studies 26 (1999), 269–289.

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A fourth occurrence, in 40:2, may be the most telling of all, for here God applies the term môkîaḥ, “arbiter,” the same word that Job uses in 9:33, to Job himself.14 Stephen Mitchell deftly captures the sense of God’s query to Job: “Has God’s accuser resigned? Has my critic [that is, my môkîaḥ] swallowed his tongue?”15 It is common to interpret God’s question as a rebuke of Job, but the logic of the divine speeches argues against this.16 If God seeks to dismiss Job’s role as môkîaḥ and to compel him to submissive silence instead, then why does God press on past Job’s apparent concession in 40:3–5? Moreover, if all God wants Job to understand is that creation’s design is too complex and too mysterious for any mortal to contest, then why does God proceed to single out and celebrate Behemoth and Leviathan as creatures who proudly stand their ground against creation’s forces? Could it be that God actually invites Job to be a môkîaḥ? Could it be that God is challenging Job to be for himself and for others the môkîaḥ, the witness, the gōʾēl, that he has longed for but despaired of finding? I return to the first curiosity that the epilogue presents to us: The narrator hints that it is God’s questions to Job, not Job’s answers to God, that deserve a response. There remains, of course, the thorny question of what to do with Job’s second response in 42:6, which virtually all commentators understand as the crux of the book. If, as the conventional interpretation goes, Job ends up saying, “I despise myself, and repent in dust and ashes” (NRSV ), how can this possibly be construed as consonant with the model for the môkîah that God has invited? Conversely, if Job does not repent and conform himself to God’s inscrutable will, how can he be a pray-er whose petitions God will hear and accept? I believe the key to his conundrum lies in 42:6b.17 The syntax of the Hebrew is relatively clear: Job “repents” or “changes his mind concerning” dust and ashes. Job’s repentance signifies a reversal or a retraction of a previous decision or position. It is the meaning of the phrase “dust and ashes” that discloses the object of Job’s changed mind. The phrase “dust and ashes” occurs only three times in biblical Hebrew: Gen 18:27; Job 30:19; and Job 42:6. In each case, it signifies something about the human condition in relation to God. In Job 30:19, Job laments that being “dust and ashes” means that afflicted human beings are consigned to live in a world where they cry out to God for justice, and God does not answer (30:20). In Gen 18:27, Abraham, who dares to argue with God concerning justice in Sodom and Gomorrah, concedes that as a mere creature of “dust and ashes” he has embarked on a dangerous 14  Compare Good, In Tums of Tempest, 349; J. William Whedbee, The Bible and the Comic Vision (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 240–241. 15  The Book of Job (New York: Harper Collins, 1992), 84. 16  For an example of such an interpretation, see the translation proposed by Marvin H. Pope: “Will the contender with Shaddai yield? He who reproves God, let him answer for it” (Job [Garden City: Doubleday, 1965], 316 [emphasis added]). 17  For a fuller treatment of this passage, see Balentine, ‘”What Are Human Beings?”’ 274–278.

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mission. Abraham’s recognition of his status before God is not dissimilar to Job’s, except that Abraham persists in questioning God, and God answers.18 These two images of “dust and ashes” lay the foundation for understanding the third occurrence of the phrase in 42:6. Job has previously concluded that innocent suffering rendered him mute and submissive before a God who permits neither question nor confrontation. God’s disclosures, however, require of Job a new understanding of “dust and ashes.” While creaturely existence may entail undeserved suffering, it does not mandate silence and submission. By instructing Job to learn from Behemoth and Leviathan, God discloses that human beings are divinely endowed with power and responsibility for their domains. They are and must be fierce, unbridled contenders for justice, sometimes with God and sometimes against God. As near equals of God, they live in the dangerous intersection between the merely human and the supremely divine. When humans dare to stand with and against God as “dust and ashes,” they claim their heritage as faithful descendants of Abraham. Like Abraham, everyone who risks pressing the “Judge of all the earth to do justice” (Gen 18:25) may know that God will not be indifferent to their pleas. In 42:5, the verse just before his last words in the book, Job says to God, “[N]ow my eye sees you.” I suggest that Job’s new vision is informed by a new understanding of what it means to be fully and dangerously human. He has learned that human beings may image God not by acquiescing to innocent suffering but by protesting it, contending with the powers that permit or sustain it, and, when necessary, by taking the fight directly to God. Job has learned well the lessons that God gave him in Behemoth and Leviathan. He has despaired that he has no môkîaḥ, God has challenged him to act like a môkîaḥ,. Now he becomes what God has already declared he is. He has found his môkîaḥ, and his name is Job. Artists are often less reticent to defy conventional interpretations than biblical scholars. One example is this twelfth-century illumination from another Greek codex of the book of Job.19 Job is standing face-to-face with God. His head is not turned away; instead he fixes his eyes on God’s, and the two square 18 On the postexilic provenance of Gen 18:22–33 and its connections with Job, see Ludwig Schmidt, “De Deo”: Studien zur Literarkritik und Theologie des Buches Jona, des Gesprächs zwischen Abraham und Jahwe in Gen 18, 22 ff. und von Hi 1 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1976), 131–164. See further, Joseph Blenkinsopp, who notes that these connections were already noticed by medieval Jewish commentators (“Abraham and the Righteous of Sodom,” JJS 33 [1982], 126– 127; idem, “The Judge of All the Earth: Theodicy in the Midrash on Genesis 18:22–33,” JJS 41 [1990], 1–12). 19 Gr. 1231, fol. 419v. Library, Biblioteca Vaticana, Rome. A copy of this manuscript is preserved in the Index of Christian Art. There are four complete copies of the Index: in the Dumbarton Oaks Research Library, Washington, DC (established 1940); in the Biblioteca Vaticana, Rome (established 1951); in the Kunsthistorisch Institut of the Rijksuniversisteit, Utrecht (established 1962); and in the University of California, Los Angeles (established 1964). I am grateful to Dr. Natalia Teteriatnikov of the Dumbarton Oaks Research Library for her conversations with me concerning this manuscript.

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Figure 3: “Job Interrupts God.” Vatican Museum, Rome. © Bibiloteca Apostolica Vaticana. Gr 1231, fol 19v/Wikimedia Commons.

off before each other. Job’s hands are not raised in the traditional gesture of prayer; instead he raises his right hand and gestures in God’s direction with an upturned index finger. Regrettably, the illumination is damaged and does not allow us to see whether Job’s mouth is closed or open, but all the signs indicate that he is in the act of speaking directly to God. Job’s posture invites reflection on the observation by the Hasidic teacher Rabbi Bunam: “A man should carry two stones in his pocket. On one should be inscribed ‘I am but dust and ashes.’ On the other, ‘For my sake the world was created.’ And he should use each stone as needed.”20 Job’s gestures suggest that he has chosen his stone, and he is prepared now to use it (or hurl it) in a confrontation with God about the justice on which the world depends. After Job prays, the epilogue turns to the matter of restoration. Job’s prayer is the key to discerning who and what is restored and why. First, it is apparent that Job’s prayer restores the friends. They have been wrong in what they have said about God, and presumably about Job as well. After they bring their sacrifices to Job, and after he prays for them, the threat of judgment that hangs over their

20  Cited in Robert Gordis, The Book of God and Man: A Study of Job (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1965), 131.

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heads is lifted. Although the text provides no details, it leads us to think that the friends’ relationship with God is different after Job prays.21 The text also daringly invites us to think that, after Job prays, God’s relationship with the friends is different. Before Job prays, God is angry and, according to the text, intent on doing “foolishness” (nĕbālâ) with the friends (42:8). The word nĕbālâ normally refers to reprehensible acts of shame that subvert accepted ethical norms and bring dishonor and judgment on the perpetrator.22 The occurrence in 42:8 is the only time in the Old Testament where God is said to be the one doing nĕbālâ. The conventional view (for example, in the NRSV ) is that the friends’ foolishness, not God’s, needs changing or forgiving. A straightforward reading, however, suggests that Job may be praying words like these: “O Lord, do not do anything foolish when you deal with the friends.”23 To judge the friends according to the conventional standards of retributive justice would, in Job’s view, subvert and dishonor God’s commitment to and passion for forgiveness. Job prays, at God’s invitation, and on the other side of his prayer God does not deal foolishly with the friends. In sum, Job’s intercession restores both the friends and God to a relationship that is different than that which existed before Job stepped into the breach between them.24 21  Compare Testament of Job 42: 8, “And I took them [the friends’ sacrifices] and made an offering on their behalf, and the Lord received it favorably and forgave their sin. “ 22  Compare Magne Sæbø, “nabal fool,” in Theological Lexicon of the Old Testament, ed., Ernst Jenni and Claus Westermann (Peabody MS: MA Hendrickson, 1997), 2:712. See further the comments of S. R. Driver and G. B. Gray “[T]he fault of the nabhal was not weakness of reason, but moral and religious insensibility, an invincible lack of sense or perception, for the claims of either God or man” (A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Book of Job [Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1977], 26). 23 Compare Pope, Job, 347, 350–351; Janzen, Job, 266; Good, In Tums of Tempest, 383. There is a suggestive echo here of Job’s rebuke of his wife in 2:10 for “talking like a shameless fool (hannĕbālôt)” by urging him to curse God. Just as Job dismisses his wife’s counsel as foolishness, so now he appears to be unwilling to accept God’s “foolish anger” toward the friends. 24  Robert Frost (“A Masque of Reason,” in The Poetry of Robert Frost, ed. Edward Connery Lathem [New York: Henry Holt, 1969], 475–476) has imagined that if there had been a post-epilogue Chapter 43 to the book of Job, God might have thanked Job for saving God from “moral bondage” to bad theology: My thanks are to you for releasing me From moral bondage to the human race. The only free will there was at first was man’s, Who could do good or evil as he chose. I had no choice but I must follow him With forfeits and rewards he understood – Unless I liked to suffer the loss of worship. I had to prosper good and punish evil. You changed all that. You set me free to reign, You are the Emancipator of your God, And as such, I promote you to saint.

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Second, after Job prays, he and his family are also restored, but here too there are at least two subtle clues that Job’s restoration is more than simply a return to the status quo for either him or God. Job’s possessions are not only restored, they are doubled: “[T]he Lord gave Job twice as much as he had before” (v. 10; compare v. 12). Perhaps the doubling is only a rhetorical flourish designed to bring the epilogue into conformity with the prologue, which lists Job’s possessions as evidence for his unparalleled wealth and his exemplary character. But it is hard to overlook the connection elsewhere in the Old Testament between double compensation and (at least) a tacit admission of guilt. As Francis I. Andersen observes, calling attention to the legislation in Exod 22:4, “It is a wry touch that the Lord, like any thief who has been found out (Ex. 22:4), repays Job double what He took from him.”25 We may think of Job’s restoration, then, as coinciding with, if not effecting, God’s restoration. Job is also given a new family of seven sons and three daughters (42:13–15). Again, we might simply take this as another example of the way the epilogue returns the drama to its beginnings. However, the narrator names the daughters, not the sons, and informs us that Job gave them an inheritance along with their brothers. In the conventional world of biblical patriarchy, daughters inherited only when there was no son (Num 26:33; compare 27:1–11; 36:1–12). In the aftermath of his prayer, Job’s legacy to his daughters hints that social conventions in the world of Uz will be turned on their end.26

25  Job: An Introduction and Commentary (Downers Grove: InterVarsity, 1976), 293; compare Roland E. Murphy, The Book of Job: A Short Reading (New York: Paulist, 1999), 102. 26  On the biblical world of patriarchy, which the book of Job assumes and tests, see Carol A. Newsom, “Job,” in The Women’s Bible Commentary, ed. Carol A. Newsom and Sharon H. Ringe (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 1992), 133–135. Scholars are divided on whether the inheritance of Job’s daughters is truly subversive of patriarchal convention or merely representative of it. See, for example, the contrasting viewpoints on Job 42:10–17 of Dianne Bergant, Israel’s Wisdom Literature: A Liberation-Critical Reading (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1997); Joan Chittister, Job’s Daughters: Women and Power (New York: Paulist, 1990); and Ilana Pardes, Countertraditions in the Bible: A Feminist Approach (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1994). I am particularly indebted to the cogent observations of Peter Machinist concerning the prominence given the inheritance of Job’s daughters in the Testament of Job (Chapters 46–53). He concludes that the Testament’s explication of the biblical concept of inheritance is an example of the “scripturalization” that characterized concerted efforts made during the Second Temple and later rabbinic periods “to meet the demands of changing social preferences” (“Job’s Daughters and Their Inheritance in the Testament of Job and Its Biblical Congeners,” in W. G. Dever, J. E. Wright, eds., The Echoes of Many Texts: Reflections on Jewish and Christian Traditions: Essays in Honor of Lou H. Silberman, [Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997], 67–80; the quotation is from p. 80).

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III. Concluding Discernments: To Pray (“As My Servant Job Has”) or Not to Pray? If the conventional view of Job’s prayer invites the Shakespearean motto “All’s well that ends well,” the nonconventional view might well resonate with a paraphrase of Hamlet’s famous soliloquy: To [pray] or not to [pray]. That is the question: Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? (Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1, 56–60)

I have suggested that the conventional view of Job’s intercession is deeply rooted and positively instructive in Jewish and Christian piety. The question that must be addressed now is: Can the same be said for the nonconventional view? Is there some gain for the community of faith and for the world in which it bears its witness of modeling a Joban way of contending with God on matters of justice? I suggest that there is something not only important but perhaps imperative – for the world and for God – in having someone like Job who risks praying like a môkîaḥ for a restoration of the afflicted that transforms heaven and earth. In this connection, I have been mulling over the observation by Jack Miles that after God directs Job’s attention to Behemoth and Leviathan, God never again speaks directly to anyone in book of Job.27 Indeed, after this, God never again speaks directly to anyone in the Tanakh.28 Why does God not speak again after Job? Might it be that after Job rises up to pray for his friends and for a restoration that goes beyond all the conventional limitations of justice, God is free not to speak, not to intervene? Might it be that God finds in Job someone who images the best of God’s hopes and expectations, even when, for whatever inexplicable reasons, God does not or cannot actualize them directly? Might it be that God has in effect staked God’s own reputation for justice and righteousness on the possibility that Job will pray as the môkîaḥ that God has challenged him to be?29 27  Jack Miles, God: A Biography (New York: Knopf, 1995), 314. Miles neither justifies nor defends this assessment. He presumably regards God’s speaking to Eliphaz in the epilogue (42:7–9) as a third-person-narrated report of what God said. In any event, the observation that God speaks for the last time in Job is a provocative beginning point for reflection. 28 Miles draws a fairly negative conclusion from this observation. In his judgment, God does not speak again, because Job has exposed God’s own ambiguity, God’s “fiend-susceptible side.” In his words, “the world still seems more just than unjust, and God still seems more good than bad; yet the pervasive mood, as this extraordinary work ends, is one not of redemption but of [God’s] reprieve” (ibid., 328). 29  Compare Wharton, Job, 182: “If God’s justice, righteousness, and compassion are evident nowhere else in a morally formless universe, God’s own reputation is staked on the possibility that they will nevertheless come to expression in the outraged speech of God’s servant Job.”

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In the wake of Job’s prayer, the epilogue invites the reader to return to the prologue, thus to reenter the land of Uz. The landscape is now no longer so idyllic, and the world of Johan faith can now no longer be so simply expressed in the conventional language of piety. With a second-level naïevté, we hear again God’s freighted question: “Have you considered my servant Job?” Now we hear words that we may not have been ready for at the beginning: “My servant Job shall pray for you.” Now we may dare to imagine that when Job prays everything changesfor all the Jobs of the world, for all the misguided “friends” of Job, and for God, who started the whole drama in the first place. Elie Wiesel concludes his essay “Job: Our Contemporary” by suggesting that the ending of the book is only an invitation to a new beginning. His way of reading between the lines of this ancient text to find a way to its present claim on us offers a fitting conclusion to this essay: Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there lived a legendary man, a just and righteous man who, in his solitude and despair, found the courage to stand up to God. And to force Him to look at His creation. And to speak to those men who sometimes succeed, in spite of Him and of themselves, in achieving triumphs over Him, triumphs that are grave and disquieting. What remains of Job? A fable? A shadow? Not even a shadow of a shadow. An example, perhaps?30

An example. Perhaps? Much depends on whether we are willing to pray with Job and with Job-honed poets like Emily Dickinson, who dare to stand before God and say, “We thank thee, Father, for these strange minds that enamor us against thee.”31 Of course, I could be wrong about Job’s prayer. Nevertheless, I take encouragement from T. S. Eliot who, in appraising the incomparable Shakespeare, concluded, “About anyone so great it is probable that we can never be right; and if we are never right, it is better from time to time that we should change our way of being wrong.”32

From a different perspective, Miles makes a similar probe: “Job turns out to be a more perfect self-image of the Lord than the Lord had planned” (God, 404). 30  In Messengers of God: Biblical Portraits and Legends (New York: Touchstone, 1976), 235. 31 For this quotation, along with discussion of its reflection of Dickinson’s poetic penchant for wrestling with God, see Alfred Kazin, God and the American Writer (New York: Knopf, 1997), 142–160. The quotation (emphasis added) is from p. 153. 32  Cited in Tryggve N. D. Mettinger, “The God of Job: Avenger, Tyrant, or Victor?” in The Voice from the Whirlwind: Interpreting the Book of Job, ed., Leo G. Perdue and W. Clark Gilpin (Nashville: Abingdon), 39.

8. “I Was Ready To Be Sought Out By Those Who Did Not Ask” The title for this essay comes from the opening words of Isaiah 65. I confess that I chose these words without much forethought; there was a deadline for sending in the abstract, and this seemed as good a place to target for a beginning as any other! In retrospect, perhaps the muses were at work in ways I did not recognize at the time. Ten years ago, these were the words I used to close my book, Prayer in the Hebrew Bible.1 I offered nothing more than a citation; there was no discussion of the relation of these words to the preceding communal lament in Isa 63:7–64:11, no exploration of how the confession of sin in this lament may have signaled a transformation in the genre of communal lament that required further attention. Prayers of penitence were on my radar then, but my assessment was limited to texts that had long been tagged with this label (Ezra 9:6–15; Neh 1:5–11; 9:6– 37; Dan 9:4–19) and mostly followed the conventional thinking of the time. The work of the scholars at this table, along with others whose contributions justify this new program unit on Penitential Prayer, is ample witness that the conventional assessments of prayer by previous generations are no longer adequate. A new generation of scholarship has now moved texts and traditions that had been of rather marginal interest front and center, and as a result the landscape of our understanding about the “conventions” of prayer has changed in significant ways. My assignment is to review the new work on penitential prayer and to place it in the context of previous research. Toward this end the comments that follow address three primary matters: 1) previous scholarship on the role and function of penitential prayer within the context of biblical prayer; 2) the contributions of current research on prayer, especially its attention to the origin, development, and impact of penitential prayer within the broader context of Second Temple Judaism; and 3) an assessment of what remains to be done.

1  S. E. Balentine, Prayer in the Hebrew Bible: The Drama of Divine-Human Dialogue (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993).

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I. Previous Scholarship on Penitential Prayer The long interpretive history of penitential prayer begins with a rather loose identification of the seven penitential psalms (Psalms 6, 32, 38, 51, 102, 130, 143). The sixth century Latin father Cassiodorus (Expositio Psalmorum) may have the distinction of being the first to treat these psalms as a distinct group focused on repentance, but he appears to have relied on a previously established tradition, most likely originating with Augustine.2 The reasons why these psalms first attained this label are elusive, but it is reasonable to suggest that a connection (largely confessional in nature) was made between the references to the wrath of God in certain of these psalms and Paul’s use of these psalms in Romans to support the argument that God’s wrath is occasioned by a failure to repent of sin.3 A close inspection of the content of these psalms, however, suggests that the label “penitential” is more prescriptive than descriptive. Four of the seven (Psalms 32, 51, 130, 143) contain no mention of God’s anger; of the three that do, only Psalm 38 (v. 19 [MT]) develops the connection between divine wrath and a confession of sinfulness on the part of the psalmist. We may suppose that Romans provides the hermeneutic for uniting the seven psalms under one thematic emphasis, eliding dissimilarities that might otherwise call their connection into question. Interpretation of the penitential psalms in the medieval and Reformation periods extended this understanding, with slight modifications. For catechetical purposes, medieval commentators linked the seven penitential psalms to the “seven deadly sins,” which were associated not with original sin but with specific temptations that plague everyday life (wrath [Psalm 6], pride [Psalm 32]; gluttony [Psalm 38]; lechery [Psalm 51]; avarice [Psalm 102]; envy [Psalm 130], sloth [Psalm 143]). In this way, these psalms were incorporated into a sacramental system that promoted contrition as a realizable and perfectible virtue, which moved the penitent closer to the ideal: imitation of the humility of Christ. The Reformation’s use of these psalms, perhaps best exemplified by Luther, who called them the “Pauline psalms,” essentially returned to the Pauline side of Augustine’s interpretation. Two hermeneutical shifts may be noted, both rooted more in the distinctive emphases of Reformation theology than in any critical assessment of the psalms themselves. First, the reformers eschewed the allegorical interpretation preferred by medieval commentators in favor of a metaphorical model that spiritualized the “sins” confessed by the psalmists as indicators of a conscience stricken by the guilt of human failure. Second, the reformers accented the impossibility, not the possibility, of humans to imitate Christ, be2 See the brief survey of these matters in H. P. Nasuti, Defining the Sacred Songs: Genre, Tradition and the Post-Critical Interpretation of the Psalms (JSOTSup 218; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 30–56. 3 Rom 3:4 cites Ps 51:4, Rom 3:20 refers to Ps 143:2, Rom 3:24 refers to Ps 130:7, and Rom 4:7–8 cites Ps 32:1–2.

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cause of their sinful nature. Confession requires faith not works; forgiveness is a promise sustained by God’s grace, not God’s reward. The only model it is possible to imitate is David – and by extension the Jewish community of faith – not Christ, who showed the way to live by faith in the promises of God that Christians may follow.4 Three observations may be teased out from this all too brief survey of the traditional classification of the penitential psalms. First, from at least the sixth century through the medieval and Reformation periods, the penitential psalms remained a vital part of the spiritual life of the church. Second, the reason for labeling these psalms penitential had less to do with the literary characteristics of the psalms themselves than with a certain theological perspective. Third, this theological perspective was at best only loosely linked to ancient Israelite or Jewish ways of thinking; instead, it was primarily tethered to an Augustinian reading of the Pauline emphasis on the sinful nature of humanity that was and remains enormously influential, specifically for western Christianity. The form-critical approach to the Psalms pioneered by Hermann Gunkel in the nineteenth century marked a decisive change in the study of penitential prayer. Two new perspectives have particular bearing on the issues at hand. First, Gunkel’s focus on form led him to conclude that the penitential psalms were no more than a subcategory of the larger genre of the lament. He argued that the lament psalms typically accent complaint and protest, not penitence. They insist that the burden for acknowledging and resolving whatever has gone wrong mandates God’s justice and righteousness, not human contrition. Although lament psalms, especially the corporate laments, may include penitential motifs, Gunkel objected to the traditional understanding that penitence was a major characteristic of psalmic prayers. Of the seven so-called penitential psalms, he conceded the label without reservation only to Psalm 51, which departs from the norm by grounding its appeal for God’s intervention in the psalmist’s confession and the appeal for forgiveness.5 Second, Gunkel’s concern to connect the psalms’ literary forms to the social setting (Sitz im Leben) in which they functioned shifted the focus away from searching for the psalmist’s personal reasons for prayer – for example, the desire to confess and be forgiven for specific sins – toward institutional settings in the ongoing life of the community. Gunkel, and to a still larger degree his student Sigmund Mowinckel,6 advocated a cultic 4 On these hermeneutical shifts in Reformation theology, see J. S. Preus, From Shadow to Promise: Old Testament Interpretation from Augustine to the Young Luther (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1969). 5 H. Gunkel, Einleitung in die Psalmen: Die Gattungen der religösen Lyrik Israels (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1933), 131–132, 251–252. Of the remaining seven penitential psalms, Gunkel included Psalm 130, with reservation, and the Prayer of Manasseh. 6  S. Mowinckel, Psalmenstudien. 6 Volumes (Kristiana: J. Dybwad, 1921–1924); The Psalms in Israel’s Worship (Nashville: Abingdon, 1962).

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setting for what soon came to be regarded (with modifications and refinements) as the five major types of psalms: hymns of praise, communal laments, individual laments, individual thanksgiving songs, and royal psalms. A significant impact of the form-critical approach to the psalms was the dislodging of the penitential psalms from their previous place of importance. Praise, lament, and thanksgiving could be firmly anchored to the traditions and conventions of ancient Israel’s cultic worship, but not penitence, at least, so Gunkel and Mowinckel hypothesized, not in any way that merited understanding it as a defining and recurring aspect of corporate piety. Claus Westermann represents another and still more consequential shift in the study of penitential prayer. Although he continued the form-critical approach of Gunkel and Mowinckel, Westermann focused not on the institutional/cultic settings of the psalms in ancient Israel but instead on the distinctive theology the psalms conveyed and on its abiding importance for the contemporary community of faith. Two types of prayer were of principal importance, praise and lament, for “In Israel,” Westermann argued, “all speaking to God moved between these two poles.”7 Westermann traced the historical development of both these genres of prayer, but it is his survey of the history of lament that provided the base line for the assessment of penitential prayers for approximately the next fifty years.8 Westermann tracked the historical development of lament through three stages. The first and earliest stage consists of short appeals to God that arise directly and naturally from situations in daily life. The occasion requires no cultic framework, the prayers no cultic mediator. These early laments are typically embedded within narrative contexts and are presented as integral and formative parts of a recounted course of events (e. g., Exod 18:10; Judg 15:18; II Sam 15:31). Of the formal elements that characterize the genre (address to God, lament, and petition), the lament or complaint against God, most often introduced with the question “Why?” dominates this early stage (e. g., Exod 5:22–23; 17:3; Josh 7:7–9; Judg 6:13, 22; 21:3; Num 11:11). Both individuals and the community may raise the question, but the lament of the individual is more common. In the second or middle stage, these once brief, independent appeals are fused into poetic/psalmic forms. The Sitz im Leben is the settled community, where both the temple, which provides the center for worship, and the state, which provides political stability and social structure, create a self-evident corporate consciousness of belonging to God. The formal elements of lament are more clearly delineated in the psalms than in early prose prayers, and Westermann discerns differences in both structure and tone. The complaint against God is dominant 7 C. Westermann, Praise and Lament in the Psalms (Atlanta: John Knox, 1981), 154; cf. Elements of Old Testament Theology (Atlanta: John Knox, 1978), 156. 8  C. Westermann, “Struktur und Geschichte der Klage im Alten Testament,” ZAW 66 (1954), 44–80 (“The Structure and History of Lament in the Old Testament,” in Praise and Lament, 165–213).

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in corporate laments, especially in the reproaching questions “Why?” and “How long?”9 and in accusatory statements.10 The complaint against God is present in individual laments, but the dominant means for expressing it shifts from accusatory questions and direct statements to subtly muted negative petitions addressed to God, for example, “Do not hide,” “Do not be silent,” ‘Do not be far from me.”11 Confession of sin seldom occurs in this second stage of lament;12 instead, psalmists typically couple the complaint against God with a protest of innocence. Westermann underscores the importance of the relation between lament and confession of sin during this second stage of prayer’s development as follows: The lamentations of the Psalter show here a conscious distinction between suffering which is apparently caused by guilt and that for which no such guilt can be ascertained …. This distinction brings to expression the opinion that the suffering person has the right to pour out his heart before God, aside from the question of guilt. Not every suffering person must come before God as a guilty person …. The lament is thus not bound to the confession of the sin, just as this confession is not bound to the lament.13

The third or late stage in the history of lament coincides with the defeat of the state and the destruction of the temple, a calamitous political and religious loss for Israel that dramatically changed the way it prays. The self-evident consciousness of belonging to a viable community of God that defined the laments of the Psalter is replaced by a “conscious and reflected belonging”14 imposed by the trauma of exile. Absent the cult and its rituals, the language of prayer shifts from poetry to prose. The content of prayer shifts from lament and complaint that raise questions about God’s justice to confession of sin that exonerates God by acknowledging human guilt. The exemplar of these transformations is the “prayer of penitence,” which first appears, in Westermann’s judgment, in the prose prayers of Nehemiah 9 and Daniel 9, then in the post-canonical prayers of I Esdras (3 Ezra) 8:73–90, the Prayer of Manasses, Psalm of Solomon 9, and Baruch 1:15–3:18.15

 9  For “Why?” questions, see for example, Pss 44:23–24; 74:1. For “How long?” questions, see for example, Pss 79:5; 80:4; 89:46; cf. Hab 1:13; Jer 14:8,19; Isa 58:3. 10 E. g., Pss 44:9; 60:10; 89:38; 108:11; cf. Lam 3:42–45; Isa 64:12. 11  Westermann cites the following examples (“The Structure and History of Lament,” 185, n. 53): “Do not hide” (Pss 27:9; 55:1; 69:17; 102:2; 143:7); “Be not silent” (Pss 28:1; 39:12; 109:1); “Be not silent” (Pss 28:1; 39:12; 109:1); “Forsake me not” (Pss 27:9, 12; 38:21; 71:9); “Chasten, strike me not” (Pss 6:1; 38:1; 39:10–11); “Rebuke me not” (Pss 6:1; 38:1; 39:11); and “Cast me not off ” (Pss 27:9; 51:11). 12 Westermann, cites only Psalm 51 as an example; “The Structure and History of Lament,” 206. 13  C. Westermann, Elements of Old Testament Theology (Atlanta: Kohn Knox, 1982), 173. 14  Ibid., 156. 15  Westermann, Praise and Lament, 206.

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Westermann understood the shift to penitential prayer to signal the dissolution of the lament psalm as a fixed prayer form in ancient Israel. From the beginning, Israel’s prayers had always held in viable tension the complaint against God and the petition for redress. After the exile, the lament “was gradually pushed more and more into the background” until it was “finally excluded altogether from the prayer.”16 Praise of God becomes the norm, and this redefines the context for lament, in effect shifting the reason for addressing God from complaint about what God had not done to confession of sins that justifies what God had done. Why does the lament recede from prayer in the later stages? Westermann’s explanation deserves to be quoted in full, because it is the compass by which a good deal of the current work on penitential prayer plots its course: How and why it [the lament] becomes silent can easily be observed. The theology of the Deuteronomic school – which declared the history of the wilderness sojourn (esp. Deut. 9:7 ff.) and even more the history of established Israel, to be a history of disobedience, and which sought to prove that political annihilation was the righteous judgment of God – began to formulate a way of thinking in which complaint against God was absolutely disallowed. The guilt of the Patriarchs was so earnestly and consciously taken over that, in place of the complaint against God formerly found in laments concerned with the fate of the nation, now the exact opposite appeared, viz., the justification of God’s righteousness or simply praise of the righteousness of God.17

Westermann’s explanation of the shift in Israel’s prayers from lament to penitence is important; indeed, his discernments fund the new work we have met to discuss, because he places penitential prayer as a literary type on a firm formcritical foundation. But before tracking this further, it is instructive to linger for a moment in order to consider the theological accents he adds to the discussion. Westermann effectively dismissed the third stage of the history of lament, which foregrounds penitence rather than complaint, as “merely a late form of the Psalm of lament (at least in Israel).”18 In his judgment, the prayer of penitence was the source of a “post-history” that represents a significant theological loss, not only for ancient Israel but also for the contemporary community of faith. For ancient Israel, once “complaint against God is disallowed, there can be no lament in the strict sense of the word.” Suffering, whatever its nature or impact, is interpreted within the nexus of sin and punishment, which means, “perforce,” that the “doctrine of the righteousness of God” defines every prayer.19 The polarity between praise and lament, which had been a staple of Israel’s prayers, collapsed. In its place emerged a “kind of self-conscious piety” that is “forced to justify God’s actions.” As a result, “what heretofore had been an occasion for lament now becomes an occasion for praising the righteous God.” The loss of 16 Ibid.,

206–207.  Ibid., 171–172. 18  Ibid., 206, n. 99. 19  Ibid., 203. 17

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lament from ancient Israel’s prayers funded a similar loss for the contemporary Christian community. With Gunkel, Westermann argued, that this “doctrine of the righteousness of God” reinforces Paul’s contention that every lamenter, every sufferer, “appears before God as one who is guilty.” The result, he concluded, was the elimination of lament from Christian prayer. In his words, We can say that in a certain sense the confession of sin has become the Christianized form of the lament: “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!” The result of this is that both in Christian dogmatics and in Christian worship suffering as opposed to sin has receded far into the background. Jesus Christ’s work of salvation has to do with the forgiveness of sin and with eternal life; it does not deal, however, with ending human suffering. Here we see the real reason why the lament has been dropped from Christian prayer. The believing Christian should bear suffering patiently and not complain about it to God. The “sufferings of the world” are unimportant and insignificant. What is important is the guilt of sin. The impression thus given is that although Jesus of Nazareth actively cared for those who suffered and took pity on those who mourned, the crucified and resurrected Lord in contrast was concerned with sin and not at all with suffering.20

Westermann interpreted the loss of lament as a thinning of both the Old and New Testament’s witness to lament’s authentic and abiding importance. The Old Testament’s lament psalms affirm that the confession of guilt can be a constituent part of prayer, but “it is not true that every lamenter eo ipso … would have to confess sins.”21 With respect to the New Testament, we must ask whether Pauline theology is not also a one-sided understanding of the work of Christ. “There is no passage in the Gospels,” Westermann says, “which suggests that Jesus saw his task to be one of convincing the sufferer that one must bear suffering patiently … no narratives in which Jesus puts the forgiveness of sins in place of healing.”22 In view of these observations, Westermann suggests that a correction is in order: the lament, which is fundamental to the language of suffering in the worship of the Old Testament, should be restored to its legitimate place in Christian worship.23 With respect to the study of the Psalms, no one has taken up Westermann’s challenge with more passion and influence than Walter Brueggemann. Brueggemann has argued that the psalms of lament are not only structurally central for the entire Psalter, they are also theologically and existentially central to the life of faith. The “anatomy of the lament psalm,” he suggests, is a window onto the “anatomy of the soul.”24 Lament is important because it invites and enables the articulation of the universal human experience of suffering.

 Ibid., 274. 273–274 (emphasis added). 22  Ibid., 275. 23  Ibid. 24 W. Brueggemann, The Message of the Psalms: A Theological Commentary (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1984), 19. 20

21 Ibid.,

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Brueggemann goes further, however, to argue that lament is of vital importance, because it keeps alive the possibility that status quo political and religious systems, as well as the divine authority that may be presumed to sustain them, can be effectively questioned and changed. Prayers of praise typically affirm the moral order of the world God has created and invite individuals and community to accept and conform to it. Prayers of penitence acknowledge disorder in God’s world and typically recognize that humans bear the brunt of responsibility for what has gone wrong. While both responses to God are important and necessary, the lament is peculiarly suited to raise the unsettling questions that hold religious and political systems accountable to non-negotiable aspirations for justice and righteousness. The loss of lament is therefore exceedingly “costly,” Brueggemann argues, because if legitimate questions about the moral order of the world are silenced in the sanctuary, it is likely that challenges to social and political injustice will be muted outside the sanctuary as well.25 A final observation may suffice as a summarizing accent on Brueggemann’s contribution to our discussion.26 Prayers of penitence yearn for a restoration to a religious, social, and political order that has been lost, but they avoid direct challenge to systemic problems that may require correction. Prayers of lament raise questions that may threaten regnant religious and political systems. That such prayers have largely lost their place in faith communities, Brueggemann suggests, is likely due to the fact that they portend an unacceptable subversion of religion’s carefully monitored calculus concerning suffering and sin. Westermann and Brueggemann move the discussion of lament’s relationship to penitence beyond Gunkel’s form-critical analysis. Both are less concerned with the Sitz im Leben of prayer in ancient Israel’s cultic institutions than with the effort to discern the theological function of prayer in contemporary faith and practice. Both understand genre analysis as more than merely a descriptive task; it is also an evaluative and constructive task, which invites interpreters to judge a genre’s theological importance and to conceptualize its function in the modern world. Both, especially Brueggemann, privilege lament over penitence in large measure because of its distinctive function in raising questions about the social order. As Nasuti has suggested, it is likely that Westermann and Brueggemann’s valuation of lament has less to do with refinements in the methodology of form-

25 W. Brueggemann,

“The Costly Loss of Lament,” JSOT 36 (1984), 64. pursues the theology of lament in numerous publications, e. g., “From Hurt to Joy, from Death to Life,” Interpretation 28 (1974), 3–19; “The Formfulness of Grief,” Interpretation 31 (1977), 263–275; “A Shape for Old Testament Theology, II: Embrace of Pain,” CBQ 47 (1985), 395–415; “Theodicy in a Social Dimension,” JSOT 33 (1985), 3–25. For further discussion of lament within the context of Old Testament theology, see Theology of the Old Testament: Testimony, Dispute, Advocacy (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1977). 26 Brueggemann

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criticism than with changes in their own historical contexts as interpreters.27 On this side of the Holocaust, to cite but one of the most obvious contributing factors, experiences of extreme suffering make it increasingly difficult, if not impossible, for biblical interpreters to remain within the conventional theological framework of sin and punishment, whatever its merits may be. What sin can possibly explain or justify the killing of six million Jews as the punishment of a just and righteous God? Both the extent and the inexplicability of the death and destruction that the modern world has witnessed, Nasuti plausibly suggests, invites and perhaps requires that theologians of prayer place the accent on lament and complaint, not contrition and confession. In my judgment, Nasuti’s suspicion that our assessment of lament and penitence has had as much to do with the shifting context for interpretation as with ancient literary forms is correct. But it also seems to me that this observation both clarifies and complicates our assessment of penitential prayer. Westermann surmised, as noted above, that the historical catalyst for the replacement of lament with penitence in ancient Israel’s prayers was the trauma of the exile. That experience, he argued, was so devastating that Israel had no choice but to yield to the Deuteronomistic theologians, who insisted it could only be interpreted as a divine judgment on disobedience so definitive that it muted any conceivable protest of innocence. Westermann’s assessment, however, only begs a further question. Do calamitous experiences for faith communities, whenever they impose themselves on the consciousness of the ancient or the modern world, invite and/or require only penitence, never complaint? In short, if Nasuti is correct in suggesting that the historical context of interpreters has a decisive bearing on the assessment of lament and penitence, why and how is what the community of faith suffered in 586 b.c.e. qualitatively different from what it faced in the aftermath of 1933–1945? How are we to understand that in one context penitence was advocated, and presumably widely accepted, as the only legitimate response to God, in the other lament? The sociology of penitence and lament requires further inspection. I will return to this issue below. Given the enormous influence of Westermann and Brueggemann, it is perhaps not surprising that in their wake the work on Israel’s “penitential prayers” was mostly conducted on the margins, just beyond the radar of what they argued was of vital theological importance. In the main, four such penitential prayers continued to claim some attention: Ezra 9:6–15; Neh 1: 5–11; 9:6–37; and Dan 9:4–19. Following Westermann’s lead, a number of scholars noted that these late prose prayers, while similar to lament, are distinct with respect to their form and content. Their distinctiveness was summarized by W. S. Towner, who may

 Nasuti, Defining the Sacred Songs.

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be taken as representative of others who were mining the same fields:28 1) Of all prose prayers in the Old Testament, these alone contain the key word lehitwadaddeh, “to make confession” (Ezra 10:1; Neh 1:6; 9:3; Dan 9:4, 20). The hitpaʿel form of the verb yādâ occurs just ten times in the Hebrew Bible with the meaning “confess,” and of these, six occur in these four prayers; 2) These prayers are considerably more elaborate than earlier prose prayers and are eclectic in their language, borrowing from earlier traditions, especially Deuteronomistic, and combining the various elements into a formal structure that moves from praise of God to confession to petition for forgiveness; 3) Each prayer is decisively penitential in character, and in this respect can be linked to the penitential emphases in Solomon’s temple prayer (cf. I Kgs 8:46–47, 49), which is a prime exemplar of the Deuteronomistic perspective. Thus in Dan 9:5 the confession “We have sinned and acted perversely and wickedly” is virtually a verbatim of I Kgs 8:47. Similar confessions occur in the prayers of Ezra and Nehemiah (Neh 1:6–7; 9:16–18; cf. Ezra 9:6,7, 13, 15); and 4) The penitence motif is accented with a complimentary emphasis on God’s sovereignty, mercy, and justice. A repeating affirmation – “the great and awesome God who keeps covenant and steadfast love to those who love you and keep your commandments” (Dan 9:4; Neh 1:5; 9:32) – undergirds the summons to contrition as the only appropriate response to God, whose “righteousness” (ṣĕdaqâ; 3x in Dan 9: vv. 7, 14, 16; cf. v. 18) is tempered with “mercy” (rāhûm; 6x in Neh 9: vv. 17, 19, 27, 28, 31 [twice]).29 It is fair to say that these four characteristics of penitential prayers were generally agreed upon. Other critical issues, however, continued to be debated. The following may be singled out for brief mention, for in different ways they anticipated the work that was to come. – While there was general agreement that the five texts listed above belonged to the genre of “prose prayers of penitence,” a number of additional possibilities were suggested. Gunkel associated confession of sin primarily with the communal psalms of lament, where he found the motif present but not prominent. For more fully developed examples of the Bussleider, he looked to the prophets (e. g., Isa 59:12; 64:4,68; Jer 14:7, 20; Ezek 14:23), through whose influence, he argued, the confession of sin first came to prominence at the time of the exile. Although he did not pursue these prophetic examples in any detail, he opened the door for others who would. In a similar way, Westermann had noted, but 28 W. S. Towner, “Retributional Theology in the Apocalyptic Setting,” USQR 26 (1971), 210– 211; cf. O. Plöger, “Reden und Gebete im deuteronomistichen und chronistischen Geschichtswerk,” in W. Schneemelcher, ed., Festschrift für Günther Dehn, (Neukirchen: Kreis Moers, 1957), 39–44; M. Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School (Oxford: Clarendon, 1972), 39–43; H. G.  Reventlow, Gebet im Alten Testament (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1986), 277–284; Balentine, Prayer in the Hebrew Bible, 103–117; P. D. Miller, They Cried to the Lord: The Form and Theology of Biblical Prayer (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1994), 244–261. 29  Balentine, Prayer in the Hebrew Bible, 104, 116.

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did not explore, that the penitential motif, which first appeared in Nehemiah 9 and Daniel 9, was also present in post-canonical prayers. He cited as examples I Esdras (3 Ezra) 8:73–90, the Prayer of Manasses, Psalm of Solomon 9, and Baruch 1:15–3:8. Following Westermann, those who turned to the canonical prayers of penitence noted that a wider range of intertestamental texts might be included, e. g., Tob 3:1–6; the “Words of the Luminaries” (4QdibHam) 1:8– 7:2; I QS 1:24–2:1; CD 20:28-30; the Prayer of Azariah; LXX prayer of Esther; and 3 Macc 2:1–20.30 – The recognition that the penitential genre extended into the intertestamental period invited the suggestion that it may have influence for understanding the development of prayer in the synagogue. The prayer in Nehemiah 9 was singled out for special attention. L. Liebreich, who viewed Nehemiah 9 as an early exemplar of the synagogue liturgy, made the most forceful argument.31 Lieb­ reich’s argument was not persuasive for all, but in view of the work that was to follow, we can say that he was not wrong to pursue the connections between penitential prayer in the biblical period and post-biblical Jewish liturgy. – Gunkel and Mowinckel set in motion a search for the cultic setting of Israel’s prayers. Mowinckel’s suggestion that many of the psalms had their setting in an annual fall covenant renewal ceremony was particularly attractive to many, and a group of scholars emerged who argued that this was also the original setting for the penitential prayers.32 O. Steck recognized that these penitential prayers drew upon a lively homilectic tradition that embodied the Deuteronomic view of history, and he extended the discussion by arguing that this tradition was kept alive in post-exilic covenant renewal ceremonies by Levitical circles.33 E. Lipinski added to this suggestion by proposing a structure for a post-exilic “penitential liturgy,” in which prayers of confession, along with silence, fasting, and the use of sackcloth and ashes, were ritual acts for repairing covenantal breaches.34 – A consistent and primary claim with respect to penitential prayers was that they drew heavily upon the sin-punishment-repentance theology of the Deuteronomistic tradition. Alongside this claim, some scholars, as evidenced by the work  E. g., J. Collins, The Apocalyptic Vision of Daniel (Missoula: Scholars Press, 1977), 185–187.  L. Liebreich, “The Impact of Nehemiah 9:5–37 on the Liturgy of the Synagogue,” HUCA 32 (1961), 227–237; cf. Y. Kaufmann, The Religion of Israel (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1960), 210. 32 E. g., G. von Rad, “The Form of the Hexateuch,” The Problem of the Hexateuch and Other Essays (Edinburgh: Oliver and Boyd, 1963), 1–78; idem, Old Testament Theology, Vol. 1 (New York: Harper and Row, 1962), 18–19, 88–89; A. Alt, “The Origins of Israelite Law,” Essays on the Old Testament and Religion (Oxford: Blackwell, 1966), 79–132; K. Baltzer, The Covenant Formulary: In Old Testament, Jewish, and Early Christian Writings (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1971). 33  O. Steck, Israel und das gewaltsame Geschick im Alten Testament (Neukirchen: Neu­ kirchener, 1967), e. g., 134–135. 34  E. Lipinski, La Liturgie Pénitentielle dans la Bible (Paris: Cerf, 1969), e. g., 37–38. 30 31

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of Steck and Lipinski, noted that the literary genre of penitence that emerged in the Second Temple period was a hybrid comprised of traditions rooted in both prophetic and priestly circles. Although six of the ten occurrences of the verb “to confess” (yādâ, hitpaʿel) occur in prayers conventionally identified as “penitential” (Ezra 10:1; Neh 1:6; 9:3; Dan 9:4, 20), three of the remaining four belong to the Priestly stratum of the Pentateuch (Lev 5:5; 16:21; 26:40; Num 5:5; the fourth is II Chr 30:22). These references, only marginally explored in the previous generation of scholarship,35 seed the necessary discussion that has now emerged on the priestly contribution to penitential prayer.

II. The Contributions of Current Research on Penitential Prayer In the last decade a new generation of scholars has focused its attention on the development of penitential prayer in Second Temple Judaism. The books of Werline, Falk, Newman, Boda, and Bautch, plus others who have contributed doctoral dissertations, articles, and essays to a steadily expanding bibliography on the subject distinguish the new research.36 Although these works were researched in relative isolation from one another, they display a number of shared concerns, which signal several new emphases. If I may limit myself to the book length discussions, the following points of intersection between them strike me as especially significant. 1). The definition of penitential prayer is a less vexing task than that which perplexed a previous generation, which struggled for clarity and precision on what constituted prayer more broadly conceived. Werline reasonably proposes a simple but effective working definition: “A penitential prayer is a direct address to God in which an individual or group confesses sins and petitions for forgiveness.”37 Bautch extends the definition by identifying five distinctive features of such prayers: functional efficacy (repentance effects God’s forgiveness), communal dimension (individual penitence is addressed in solidarity with a national consciousness of moral failure), structuring conventions (selfconscious use of the lament genre), ceremonial context (related, but not redu35 E. g.,

A. Lacocque, “The Liturgical Prayer in Daniel 9,” HUCA 47 (1976), 119–142.  R. Werline, Penitential Prayer in Second Temple Judaism: The Development of a Religious Institution (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1998); D. Falk, Daily, Sabbath, and Festival Prayers in the Dead Sea Scrolls (Leiden: Brill, 1998); J. Newman, Praying by the Book: The Scripturalization of Prayer in Second Temple Judaism (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1999); M. Boda, Praying the Tradition: The Origin and Use of Tradition in Nehemiah 9 (Berlin; New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1999); R. Bautch, Developments in Genre between Post-exilic Penitential Prayers and the Psalms of Communal Lament (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003). For additional bibliography, see the web page for the SBL Penitential Prayer Consultation 2003–2004: http:// divinity.mcmaster.ca/boda/prayer/Consultation.html. 37  Werline, Penitential Prayer in Second Temple Judaism, 2. 36

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cible to the cult), and intertextual character (the reuse of religious thought from earlier generations).38 With some variations, each of the authors works within these definitional parameters. 2). With respect to methodology, the new work sustains the previous generation’s form-critical interest in genre analysis but shifts to an increasing reliance on traditio-historical investigation. Tracking the appropriation and transformation of antecedent literary and theological traditions in penitential prayers has resulted in an emerging consensus concerning what Newman has identified as the “scripturalization” of prayer. This scripturalization process, she argues, appears prominently first in Solomon’s prayer in I Kgs 8:23–53, then develops in Second Temple prayer in three major ways: the “retelling of history” (e. g., the prayer in Nehemiah 9), the typological use of earlier traditions to legitimate a contemporary situation (e. g., the prayer in Judith 9:2–14), and the use of biblical citations, allusions, and interpretations to exemplify good and bad behavior (e. g., the prayer in 3 Macc 2:2–20). With the exception of Boda’s detailed traditio-historical analysis of the prayer in Nehemiah 9, most of the recent work has been content with broad generalizations concerning the scripturalization of prayer. It may be further noted that most of the recent work largely foregoes the constructive (prescriptive) genre analysis that characterized the work of Westermann and Brueggemann. Apart from summations addressing theological issues for ancient communities and observations concerning the importance of penitential prayer in the development of early Jewish and Christian liturgy, questions about the setting, function, and theological appropriation of penitential prayer in contemporary faith and practice have thus far received little or no attention. 3). With respect to the development or trajectory of the traditions that contribute to the emergence of penitential prayer as a religious institution in the exilic period and beyond, the new work displays some broad agreements. Most target Solomon’s prayer in I Kings 8 as being at or near the beginning point of the emergence of confession as a major motif in prayer. Similarly, there is consensus that the post-exilic prayers in Ezra 9, Nehemiah 9, and Daniel 9 represent the first fully developed examples of the genre. Tracing the institutionalization of penitential prayer in the intertestamental period and in Rabbinic literature has proved more difficult.39 Bautch’s conclusion, it seems to me, is an accurate 38 Bautch,

Developments in Genre, 1–5. E. G. Chazon, “A Liturgical Document from Qumran and Its Implications: ‘Words of the Luminaries’ (4QDibHam),” (PhD Dissertation: Hebrew University, 1991); idem, “Prayers from Qumran: Issues and Methods,” Society of Biblical Literature 1993 Seminar Papers, ed., E. H. Lovering (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1993), 762–764; idem, “Prayers from Qumran and Their Historical Implications,” Dead Sea Discoveries I (1994), 265–284; idem, “4Q DibHam: Liturgy or Literature,” RevQ 15 (1992), 447–456; B. Nitzan, Qumran Prayer and Religious Poetry (Leiden: Brill, 1994); E. Fleischer, “On the Beginnings of Obligatory Jewish Prayer,” Tarbiz 59 (1990), 39 Cf.

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assessment of where we are: although the confession of sin dominates in the Persian period, its predominance “waxes and wanes” in the Hellenistic and Roman eras.40 There are also some significant differences in how the new work tracks the development of penitential prayer, especially in the critical transformative period between I Kings 8 and the prose prayers of Ezra, Nehemiah, and Daniel. Werline and Bautch continue to stress the influence of Deuteronomic traditions on I Kings 8, grounded for example in Deuteronomy 4 and 30, and the prophetic development of these traditions in texts such as Jer 29:10–14 and Isa 63:7–64:11. The latter text is especially critical for Bautsch, who sees Third Isaiah’s transformation of the communal lament psalm, specifically by highlighting confession of sin, as the crucial link in the move toward more fully developed penitential prayer forms. Boda agrees with the importance of the Deuteronomistic link, but he has argued that Deuteronomistic idioms have been decisively transformed in the early Persian period by Priestly and Ezekielian traditions. With respect to the prayer in Nehemiah 9, he points specifically to the shaping influence of Joshua 7, Leviticus 26, and Ezekiel 18, along with Psalm 106.41 4). The search for the missing links that explain the transition from I Kings 8 to the prayers in Ezra, Nehemiah, and Daniel brings into focus another issue: the Sitz im Leben of penitential prayer. A critical question, as Westermann noted, is when and how did an emphasis on confession of sin come to replace lament? Westermann suggested the transition was rooted in Deuteronomic theology. This theology was kept alive, Steck argued, in post-exilic covenant renewal ceremonies, which he associated with Levitical circles. Both aspects of this discernment have come under review. Much of the new work continues to posit a covenant-renewal setting in which penitential prayer would have played an important role. The difficulty with this proposal, as often noted, is that there is little or no firm evidence that confession of sin was a characteristic component in covenant ceremonies. Werline and Bautch sustain the argument for the covenant setting by suggesting that prophetic circles transformed the Deuteronomic idiom by recasting its emphasis on sin and divine judgment in casuistic terms that explained how repentance could repair covenantal failures and reverse God’s judgment. Both recognize the 397–444 [Hebrew]; S. Reif, Judaism and Hebrew Prayer: New Perspectives on Jewish Liturgical History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993); M. Weinfeld, “Prayer and Liturgical Practice in the Qumran Sect,” The Dead Sea Scrolls: Forty Years of Research, eds. D. Dimant, U. Rappaport (Leiden: Brill, 1992), 241–258; idem, “The Prayers for Knowledge, Repentance and Forgiveness in the ‘Eighteen Benedictions’ – Qumran Parallels, Biblical Antecedents and Basic Characteristics,” Tarbiz 48 (1979), 186–200 [Hebrew]. 40  Bautch, Developments in Genre. 41  Cf. V. Pröbstl, Nehemia 9, Psalm 106 und Psalm 136 und die Rezeption des Pentateuchs (Göttingen: Cuviller, 1997).

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transformation involves the appropriation of idioms of penitence that resemble those typically associated with the Priestly tradition, but neither sees the Levitical circles that Steck pointed to as primarily responsible for the emergence of this new prayer genre. Bautch, for example, recognizes that the thematic combination of “law and liturgy” in Ezra 9 has form-critical relationships to both the communal laments and the Levitical sermon, but he concludes that at most this confirms only that the text is a mixed genre. In terms of both content and contextual features, Ezra’s “penitential preaching” draws more heavily on the prophecies of misfortune in Amos, Micah, and Ezekiel.42 Boda has offered a detailed critique of the covenant ceremony setting and has argued that its transformation betrays close affinities with the Priestly tradition. He has shown that the only example of a Rib-Gerichtsdoxologie in which praise of God combined with confession of sin functions explicitly to silence lament is Joshua 7, a text which has important links to Ezra 9–10. Although there may be Deuteronomistic influence on Joshua 7, Boda recognizes that its literary setting and a decisive number of specific linguistic features confirm that it was either preserved in priestly circles before being incorporated by Deuteronomistic editors or that a priestly redactor incorporated it into the Deuteronomistic History.43 He traces the emphasis on the declaration of God’s righteousness (sadiq atta), another prominent feature of penitential prayer (Ezra 9:15; Dan 9:14, 16, 18; Neh 9:8, 33), to Ezekiel’s concept of righteousness and guilt (e. g., Ezekiel 18).44 Here too, he argues that priestly tradents have transformed classic deuteronomisms. As further evidence of this transformation, he underlines various links between the prayer in Nehemiah 9 and prophetic texts from the early restoration period (Zech 1:1–6, 7:1–8:23, and Haggai), which also draw upon the Priestly tradition. The evidence as a whole suggests to Boda that penitential prayer emerged in Yehud in the early Persian period, before the completion of the temple and most likely just prior to the missions of Haggai and Zechariah, during a time when the lament Gattung was being transformed by both priestly and prophetic circles. In short, Boda has proposes a different answer to Westermann’s fundamental question about how and why confession of sin came to replace lament. His conclusion deserves to be quoted in full, for it opens the door on a significant shift in the ongoing debate about who is responsible for the emergence of penitential prayer in Second Temple Judaism: What tradent circles have been responsible for the transformation from lament to Penitential Prayer in the later period of Israel’s worship? This investigation has affirmed previous scholarship’s focus on the Dtr movement. Dtr vocabulary present in Penitential Prayers reveals their indebtedness to Dtr theology. It is essential to the justification of God  Bautch, Developments in Genre, 80–85.  For a list of Priestly terms in Joshua 7, see Boda, Praying the Tradition, 61. 44  Ibid., 62–66. 42 43

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and his blamelessness and forms the theological foundation for the silencing of lament. However, Priestly and Ezekielian influence cannot be overlooked, as shown by the use of vocabulary from these tradent circles. These closely related tradent circles take the Dtr call for justification of God and repentance of the people and express them in practical terms, showing the implications of Dtr theology for the Gattung of lament: i. e. a particular style of confession, a silencing of lament and a new mode of renewing covenant.45

5). Finally, the new work has brought back to the fore the question concerning when and how penitential prayer was “institutionalized,” that is, how was it transformed from a recommended way of addressing personal or collective experiences of distress to a required observance with fixed times, rites, and liturgical ceremony? Werline targets the question with introductory comments concerning “the development of penitential prayer as a religious institution for dealing with sin.” The move toward institutionalization, he argues, is indicated by four factors: 1) formulaic declarations for confession of sin and God’s righteousness; 2) the establishment of specific or prescribed prayer times, either daily, sabbath, or festival; 3) an endorsement of penitential prayer as a means for removing sin that is the functional equivalent of sacrifice; and 4) a generalized and accepted use of vocabulary and motifs that defines a community’s origins and distinguishes its adherents as members of a “penitential reform movement.”46 Based on these criteria, Werline suggests that the move towards penitence as an institutionalized response to history begins with I Kings 8, a Deuteronomistic text that defines the Temple primarily in terms of prayer rather than sacrifice. It then becomes firmly established in the penitential prayers of Ezra-Nehemiah during the Persian period, is adapted to new historical and political circumstances in the prayers of Daniel 9 (Antiochus IV ) and Bar 1:15–3:8 (Antiochus V ), and is instrumental for penitential movements that produce texts like Jubilees (1, 23), I Enoch (the “Animal Apocalypse” [I Enoch 85–90] and the “Apocalypse of Weeks” [I Enoch 93:1–10; 91:11–17), The Testament of Moses (3–4, 5, 7) and the Qumran scrolls. Werline accepts the conventional understanding that the destruction of the temple precipitated, if not required, the institutionalization of prayer as a substitute for the temple cult, particularly in relationship to sacrifice. Daniel Falk has challenged this view with a careful reassessment of the provenance, liturgical function, and “prayer practices” in key texts from Qumran. Two pieces of his argument may be singled out as especially relevant for the topic here. First, four fragmentary manuscripts (IQ34a, 4Q507, 4Q508, 4Q505 + 509) contain “festival prayers,” which were prescribed for liturgical use on appointed times like the Day of Atonement and the Feast of Weeks. Because the Festival Prayers at Qumran display similarities with festival prayers both in the Second Temple period and in later synagogue liturgy, especially a shared emphasis on 45 Ibid.,

73.  Werline, Penitential Prayer in Second Temple Judaism, 3–4.

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prayer as an acceptable sacrifice, it has been argued that Qumran marks a decisive stage in the move toward institutionalization. Falk interprets these similarities differently. He suggests that they are part of a “common currency,” which indicates that liturgical prayer at Qumran was not a newly created institution to replace sacrifice.47 The evidence supports the conclusion that Qumran adopted and adapted elements already established with the Temple cult as customary institutions, and shaped from them a coherent liturgy, making it natural to apply sacrificial language to them. He summarizes the implications for the debate concerning the origin of institutionalized prayer as follows: In the first instance, its origins seem to lie in the attraction of prayer to the Temple cult, rather than the need to provide a replacement for the sacrificial system. One can speculate further. Loss of the temple would then seem to have given impetus to the development and broadening of such prayer and to its systematization. In the Temple, the prayers of the priests, the songs of the Temple singers, and the popular prayers of the people remained disparate, brought into proximity only by their somewhat loose connection with the Temple service. When the Yahad adopted and adapted these elements for communal use away from the Temple, and thus without sacrifice as a centre, they combined these for the first time in a comprehensive and coherent liturgy of their own. A similar process can be suggested for the synagogue. Finally, the importance of the Temple as a focus for public and corporate prayer coincides with the picture in Luke and Acts that the early Christians in Jerusalem prayed regularly at the Temple and maintained a distinctive presence there.48

Second, within the “common currency” of liturgical prayer at Qumran, Falk gives attention to one particular modification: the incorporation of confession in the annual covenant ceremony, which likely occurred during the Feast of Weeks. The most complete description is preserved in the Community Rule (1QS 1:18– 2:18), which describes a ceremony comprising blessing, historical recital of God’s merciful acts and the iniquities of the people, confession of sin, acknowledgment of God’s just sentence, and blessings and curses. The structure and the language of the ceremony, as often noted, is comparable both to the covenant formulary of Deuteronomy 27 and to the penitential prayers of Nehemiah 9, Daniel 9, and Bar 1:15–3:8. Falk refines this judgment by noting three important dissimilarities that suggest the covenant ceremony in the Community Rule is unique: it contains no mention of forgiveness and renewal of covenant; it contains no petition for mercy; and instead of the petition for mercy, it includes blessing and curse.49 Each of these distinctives, especially the last, Falk suggests, has important implications for understanding the role of penitence in Qumran prayers that have not been sufficiently recognized. He proposes that the covenant ceremony in I QS adopts and adapts both Deuteronomic and priestly biblical precedents for exclusivistic reasons that have broad atoning consequences. The confession of  Falk, Daily, Sabbath, and Festival Prayers, 187.  Ibid., 254–255. 49  Ibid., 222. 47 48

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sin functions as a self-conscious affirmation of the community’s status as God’s elect. As a “priestly-oriented society,” they regard themselves as the faithful remnant that is justified in invoking the covenant curses of Deuteronomy on its opponents. They also understand that confession of sin sustains the promise that God will remove the curses from the land (Lev 26:40–45). Thus, covenant renewal by the faithful has an atoning efficacy for the wider community. Falk suggests that a distinctive feature of the confession of sin in 1 QS is the priestlyoriented “scripturalization” of Deuteronomic emphases. If I have understood him correctly, his assessment suggestively extends Boda’s conclusion concerning the priestly transformation of Deuteronomic idioms in the early Persian period.

III. An Assessment of the Work That Remains Space permits little more than a few general discernments concerning where our future work on the penitential prayers may lead. 1). The shift from form-critical to traditio-historical analysis has been productive and merits further development, especially if we are to capitalize on the distinctive characteristic of “retelling history” or the “scripturalization” of prayer in the Second Temple period. Boda’s work on Nehemiah 9, aptly titled Praying the Tradition, demonstrates the rewards. His careful analysis of the traditions in play in this prayer (creation, Abraham, exodus, wilderness, law, conquest, Sabbath) invites similar analyses of the other biblical exemplars of penitential prayers (Ezra 9, Nehemiah 1, Daniel 9). The broader range of texts investigated by Newman, Werline, Bautch, and Falk effectively maps the terrain that is yet to be covered, but what they gain by extending the range of Second Temple prayers that merit investigation, they have perforce limited to suggestive generalizations that await more detailed scrutiny, text by text. 2). Both form criticism, especially as practiced by Westermann, and traditiohistorical analysis as utilized by previous scholars  – one thinks immediately of Gerhard von Rad – had a definite theological component. This theological component is largely missing in the work under review here. Westermann’s question concerning why lament receded from the later stages of biblical prayers and why it came to be replaced by confession of sin remains critical. His answer involved a theological judgment: under the influence of Deteronomistic theology, which interpreted all of history within a sin-punishment nexus, lament lost whatever authenticity it enjoyed. A theology of personal and corporate guilt trumped a theology that previously reserved a role for faithful protest and complaint against divine injustice. Westermann, Brueggemann, and others considered the substitution of penitence for lament a theological loss, not only for ancient Israel but also for the contemporary community of faith. As Nasuti has argued, their exegesis may be criticized as being prescriptive rather than descriptive.

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Their theological preference for lament over penitence may be more attuned to their own historical and cultural contexts as interpreters than to the ancient texts they examined. That said, they were clearly reaching for an understanding of the ideology, sociology, and especially the theology of lament and penitence. In my judgment, this remains a task worth our investment. The issue that requires exploration may be framed with a brief reference to two contrasting perspectives on the “theology of exile,” one from within the discipline of biblical studies, the other from outside. Daniel Smith-Christopher’s A Biblical Theology of Exile draws upon the post-exilic prayers of penitence (Ezra 9, Nehemiah 9, Daniel 9) in order to explicate the social function of shame.50 He concludes that the Deuteronomistic “politics of penitence” advocates both a sociology and a theology of shame. From the sociological perspective, it summons exilic communities to examine and reject the abuse of power exemplified by their forebears during the period of the monarchy. From the theological perspective, the theology of shame encourages exilic (diaspora) communities to “confess the sins of their ancestors.” The objective should not be to seek a return to the “fantasy of power”51 but instead to ask the question, “What must I do to be saved?” (Acts 16).52 The only legitimate answer, according to the Deuteronomistic theologians, is repentance. “Like the Deuteronomistic editors,” Christopher-Smith says, “it is part of our task as modern Christians to rethink our history and thus to engage in the critical historiography that will condemn the ‘sins of our ancestors’ (and relegate their advocates to lesser roles in courses in Christian history).”53 From another perspective, Edward Said’s seminal essay, “Reflections on Exile,” invites questions concerning the Deuteronomistic theology of shame. Does exile mandate a politics of penitence because an exiled community’s leaders have abused power, or a politics of resistance in the face of abusive powers that impose exile on a people, thereby forcing them into a world that recognizes no transcendent court of appeal? “Exile is not, after all,” Said reminds us, “a matter of choice: you are born into it or it happens to you.” Then these words, on behalf of the Palestinians, for whom Said speaks, “But, provided that the exile refuses to sit on the sidelines nursing a wound, there are things to be learned: he or she must cultivate a scrupulous (not indulgent or sulky) subjectivity.”54 Elsewhere in the same collection Said sheds some light on what he means. Drawing upon lessons he says he learned from the German-Jewish philosopher and critic Theodor 50  D. Smith-Christopher, A Biblical Theology of Exile (OBT; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2002), 105–123. 51 Ibid., 122. 52  Ibid., 200. 53  Ibid. 54 E. Said, “Reflections on Exile,” in Reflections on Exile and Other Essays (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2000), 184.

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Adorno, “perhaps the most rigorous example of such subjectivity,” Said offers the following counsel to diaspora communities: “reconciliation under duress is both cowardly and inauthentic: better a lost cause than a triumphant one, more satisfying a sense of the provisional and contingent – a rented house, for example, than the proprietary solidity of permanent ownership.”55 If, as Said suggests, exile is fundamentally a summons to “scrupulous subjectivity,” does this find expression in penitence or protest, in a theology/ideology of shame or one of resistance? Are we correct to pose the question in either/or terms? Perhaps we should think of lament and penitence as shifting accents within a common response to historical calamities.56 Perhaps scholars select from these shifting accents, valuing one more than the other (lament over penitence or vice versa), in response to their own interpretive contexts. In any event, we need more attention to the attendant ideological, sociological, and theological roles of lament and penitence, within both ancient and modern cultures, if we are to have clarity about the “institutionalization” of prayer. 3). Boda has sharpened our understanding of the lively intersection between prophetic and priestly traditions in the development of penitential prayer. Westermann’s suggestion of a more or less straight line of influence from the Deuteronomistic theologians must now be judged, I believe, as insufficient. The intersection between prophetic and priestly understandings of the role of penitence vis-à-vis lament merits further investigation, especially in view of J. Milgrom’s discernments concerning the “priestly doctrine of repentance.”57 In Milgrom’s view, the priests postulated, for the first time in history, that repentance is both desired and required by God for the mitigation of divine retribution. In support of this argument, he notes that four Priestly texts (Lev 5:5; 16:21; 26:40; Num 5:7) explicitly require confession, presumably before bringing sacrifice, as the only possible remedy for transforming advertent sins into inadvertent sins, thus making them eligible for expiation. Of these four texts, only Leviticus 26, from the Holiness Code, which Milgrom considers to be a product of the Hezekian period, dispenses with the requirement of sacrifice. Thus, Leviticus 26 “approximates, and perhaps influences, the prophetic doctrine of repentance, which not only suspends the sacrificial requirement, but eliminates it entirely.”58 In sum, Milgrom argues that although the doc E. Said, “Between Worlds,” Reflections on Exile, 567. Bautch’s instructive observation that “penitence is no way univocal” in the prayers of the Second Temple period. Its predominance in prayers like Ezra 9 and Nehemiah 9 is rooted, he suggests, in the “theological pessimism” that begins in the Persian period, when Jews were confronted with the loss of Israel’s important religious institutions, such as the monarchy and the Solomonic temple (Developments in Genre, Chapter 5 [section 5.4]). 57  For a concise summary of Milgrom’s view, see Leviticus 1–16 (AB; New York: Doubleday, 1991), 373–378. 58  J. Milgrom, Leviticus 23–27 (AB; New York: Doubleday, 2001), 23–30. 55

56 Cf.

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trine of repentance informs the teaching of all of the prophets, “it is not their innovation.”59 Boda has followed up the arguments in his book for a strong Priestly/Ezekielian influence with an article that examines the connections between Leviticus 26 and the prophetic liturgy in Jer 14:1–15:4.60 He concludes that Jeremiah was cognizant of Leviticus 26, which he accepts as a pre-exilic priestly agenda for reversing covenant curses with confession of sin. Jeremiah’s rejection of the priestly agenda (Jer 15:1–4) raises for Boda a critical question: who among Israel’s tradents would have the ability to discern when a particular historical moment requires lament or penitence? Boda hypothesizes that it was the prophets, with their access to the council of God, who were uniquely positioned to make the call.61 This is a plausible hypothesis, but given the priestly roots of prophets like Jeremiah and Ezekiel, not to mention the importance of the “priestly-oriented society” at Qumran that Falk suggests continues to exercise its interpretive influence on prophetic emphases, is it not equally plausible that it is the priests who play the decisive role in deciding whether the experiences of history require lament or penitence? If this question has merit, then another follows in its wake. Is there any evidence from the priestly tradition that lament and protest could be a legitimate response to suffering? The conventional answer to the question has been “No.” But in view of the lively dialogue that seems to have occurred between priestly and prophetic circles concerning the meaning of penitence, is it not at least possible that the interaction also included discussion of the meaning and value of lament? 4). This last question may be pursued a step further. Bautch has invited attention to the significance of the Book of Job for understanding the trajectory of penitential prayer. Noting points of contact between “penitential preaching” in Ezra and Nehemiah and prophetic warnings in Amos, Ezekiel, and Micah, he suggests Job 29, a post-exilic lament with literary connections to the prophetic corpus, may provide a “missing link.” He singles out three features that suggest Job is shaped by the prophetic warning in ways that broadly parallel the penitential prayers: 1) Job’s orientation to the righteous and the wicked (e. g., Job 29:14–16, 17) sheds light on both the communal lament in Isa 63:7–64:11 and the confession of sin in Nehemiah 9; 2) Job’s understanding of the binding relationship between justice and faith (Job 29:24–25) is comparable to both Neh. 9:33 and to the Qumran covenanters (4Q 504); and 3) The structure of Job 29–31 has affinities with the communal lament psalm. It is this genre, Bautch argues, that

 Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16, 375.  M. Boda, “From Complaint to Contrition: Peering Through the Liturgical Window of Jer 14,1–15,4,” ZAW 113 (2001), 186–197. 61  Ibid., 196. 59 60

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was transformed in the post-exilic period by the emerging dominance of the confession of sin.62 Bautch summarizes as follows: In summation, Job 29 is a link between the prophetic function of warning and the postexilic prayers of penitence. On the one hand, the prophetic function of warning is attested explicitly in Job 29:22. On the other hand, despite the substantial differences between Job 29 and the Isa 63:7–64:11, Ezra 9:6–15, and Neh 9:6–37, the latter three laments contain thematic and structural aspects of Job 29. That is to say, they have received the same prophetic deposit as has Job, but they employ it for their own purposes ….63

I second Bautch’s invitation to include Job in the discussion of penitential prayer, and I suggest that it might be strengthened with an additional observation. Perhaps Job is also a missing link to what may have been an internal priestly debate concerning the appropriateness and/or requirement of repentance. To use Bautch’s language, perhaps Job also received the same priestly deposit as Ezra and Nehemiah. Given the uncertainties in dating the book, it is unwise to suggest any straight-line connection between Job and the Priestly literature.64 Nevertheless, a number of intriguing clues indicate that some sort of connection merits further investigation. First, two prominent recent studies of Priestly literature invite reflection. Mary Douglas has noted, almost in passing, that the treatment of the law of talion in Leviticus 24, and more broadly its general reflections on God’s justice, makes an “opening … for the complex view of retribution celebrated in the Book of Job.” In her judgment, Leviticus “reaches forward to the book of Job.”65 Israel Knohl has called attention to a similar trajectory in Job and the “Priestly Torah.” In his judgment, both texts depict a “dynamic process” that moves from the level of elementary faith, which places humanity at the center of the universe, where piety is securely grounded in moral laws of reward and punishment, to an “exalted faith consciousness” grounded in the centrality of God, whose justice is necessarily beyond the grasp of human wisdom.66 Whether Leviticus (and Priestly literature) “reaches forward” to Job, as Douglas suggests, or priestly tradents and the tradents of Job only draw from a common deposit, as Knohl proposes, must for now remain an open question. In any case, the connections should be explored. To these suggestions, a third may be added. The Prologue and Epilogue of Job (Job 1–2 and 42:7–17) use priestly imagery to convey Job’s profile. The Pro Bautch, Developments in Genre, 161–164.  Ibid. 64  The Book of Job is notoriously difficult to date. Absent any explicit chronological markers within the book itself, scholars have proposed a wide-spectrum of possibilities, ranging from the early seventh century to fourth-third centuries, that is, deep into the Second Temple period. 65  M. Douglas, Leviticus as Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 212, 250. 66  I. Knohl, The Sanctuary of Silence: The Priestly Torah and the Holiness School (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), 165–167. 62 63

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logue identifies him as “blameless and righteous,” then explains these virtues with reference not only to Job’s moral and ethical character but also to his faithful practice of sacrificial rituals. Job 1:5 describes his presentation of “burnt offerings” as preemptive propitiation for any inadvertent sins his children may have committed. The Epilogue reinforces this description by reporting that Job receives the “burnt offering” presented by the friends, who require his intercession if God is to forgive their wrongdoings (42:8). To be sure, these accounts do not envision Job as a cultic official in a formal ritual setting; he likely acts simply as head of the family, in accord with conventional patriarchal practice (cf. Gen 8:20; 22:2, 13; 31:54; 46:1). The Prologue and Epilogue do intimate, however, that Job’s priestly profile is a structural and perhaps theological frame for interpreting the internal debate with the friends concerning the applicability of the doctrine of retribution to Job’s case. The image of Job as priest suggests that the Priestly tradition’s advocacy for the effectiveness of the ritual system on trial. The priestly Job who diligently and effectively performs the rituals of sacrifice for his family and friends in the book’s frame, becomes in the dialogues the one who stands in need of the rituals that other ministrants may offer him. Simply put, the priest becomes the layperson. The question placed under review by the final form of the book is, will the priestly system pass muster for a “righteous and blameless” person like Job, whose afflictions have come, by God’s own admission “for no reason” (Job 2:3)? By returning the focus to Job’s sacrifices, the Epilogue may be interpreted as a reaffirmation of the priestly system. But if so, it also seems to suggest that Job has significantly stretched conventional priestly understandings with his laments and protests. Two further observations concerning the post-biblical interpretation of Job may be factored into this possibility. The Prologue sets Job’s story on “one day” when the “heavenly beings came to present themselves before the Lord” (Job 1:6; 2:1). The reference is nonspecific, like most all the chronological markers in the book. It is worth noting, however, that the Targum of Job from Qumran (11QtgJob) associates the reference to “one day” with the Day of Atonement, hence with Leviticus 16 and the rituals the high priest must perform on the annual day of purgation. The instructions in Leviticus 16 appear primarily intended to inform the laity. They omit important details, for example, any instructions concerning the priest’s own preparation for administering the rituals, which would seem necessary if they were meant to be a complete guide for the priests. The Talmud, however, embellishes the biblical account by stipulating a seven-day period of preparation for the priest before the rituals for the Day of Atonement begin. Included among the required exercises during this period are readings from the biblical books of Job, Daniel, Ezra, and Nehemiah (m. Yoma 1:6). The Talmud offers no explanation for this selection of texts. We may speculate that Daniel, Ezra, and Nehemiah are included because they model the prayers of per-

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sonal and corporate repentance the priest will require from a sinful people. The reading from Job may be for a similar reason, since Job was highly revered as one whose intercessory prayers were effective. But we may be permitted to wonder if Job might have been considered important for other reasons as well. Perhaps the priestly tradition knew and valued the legacy of Job’s refusal to relinquish lament for rituals of penitence that may be too inflexible to countenance a legitimate protest of innocence.67

67  For a preliminary exploration of these matters, see further S. E. Balentine, “Job as Priest to the Priests,” Ex Auditu 18 (2003), 29–52.

III. Prayer as a Vehicle for Theodicy

9. Prayer in the Wilderness Traditions: In Pursuit of Divine Justice The primary focus of this study is on prayer, its form and function in narrative texts. The wilderness traditions have been chosen as the particular setting essentially because they afford different perspectives on prayer – from J and P and Dtr – within the same context, thus providing different angles of vision on the same subject. Two preliminary qualifications are in order, one major, a second, relatively minor. First, how does one define prayer? By what essential characteristics can it be isolated and identified as distinct from other forms of human communication with the deity, such as oaths or vows or even simple dialogue? It must be acknowledged at the outset that the question is more easily articulated than answered. Primarily this is because exploration of this subject plunges the investigator into a kind of Catch-22 situation. On the one hand the “prayers” of the Old Testament cannot be isolated without some presuppositions about their distinctive features or characteristics. One must be looking for something which, defined by certain qualities, can be recognized as prayer. Thus, at the front end of the investigation there must be some working definition that will allow texts to be isolated and examined. On the other hand, as more texts are brought into the discussion, the working definition by which these texts have been isolated requires modification. When a variety of texts are available for comparison, then, and only then, can the boundaries of definition be drawn with some agreed upon precision. In the meanwhile the investigator must proceed with caution. But without risking the investigation the research cannot proceed. With respect to the issue at hand, there is as yet nothing approaching a comprehensive, critical investigation of the form and function of prayer in the Old Testament. Thus the problem of an agreed upon definition of prayer. In this essay we cannot examine the reason for this apparent neglect of such an important subject. Fortunately, several studies in recent years have begun to probe the edges of this topic and so have initiated the process of compiling a body of texts which will enable us to proceed in working out the definition of prayer. Three discussions have been especially instructive in my own research. In an investigation of prose prayers within the historical narratives, J. Corvin suggests that prayers be isolated according to one criterion: if the communication

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is addressed to God in the second person, it is prayer.68 With this broad definition he then distinguishes between “conversational prayers,” in which God and his human counterpart simply converse in the normal language of human dialogue, and “formal prayers,” which are more liturgical in tone and less intimately dependent on the literary context in which they occur. Though this approach brings into the discussion some very interesting and obvious texts, e. g., Gen 18:22–33 and I Kgs 8:22–61, it includes others that simply do not seem very much like prayer. Is the conversation with God in the garden (Gen 3:9–13) or the dialogue between God and Cain (Gen 4:9–15) really prayer in the sense that most would think of prayer? Others have recognized the problems that arise when the definition of prayer is too broad and have therefore suggested more specific criteria be utilized. E. Staudt, for example, concludes that prayers in the Deuteronomistic literature are distinguished as communication that is 1) explicitly directed to God; 2) initiated by the individual or the community as a whole; and 3) effective, that is, it brings response from God.69 M. Greenberg’s recent discussion of “biblical prose prayer” has been a most welcome addition to the field of inquiry, especially so because he has rightly seen that in these literary forms we have access to a kind of popular theology in a way heretofore largely ignored. However, though the discussion is unique and highly instructive, it does not, unfortunately, particularly address the problem of defining prayer. Greenberg describes prose prayer rather generally as “nonpsalmic speech to God-less often about God-expressing dependence, subjugation, or obligation.”70 It is far easier to point out the deficiencies of the above approaches than to improve upon them. In my own research I have found Staudt’s emphasis on the intentionality of the text to be most helpful. To isolate prayers embedded in narrative contexts, such as the wilderness traditions, it is of fundamental importance to inquire whether communication is explicitly and intentionally directed to God. Casual conversation between God and people, like that which takes place in the garden of Eden and frequently throughout narrative literature, ought not therefore be counted as prayer. I have attempted to locate intentionality in texts in two ways, one specific and concrete and easily verifiable, the other less specific, more a matter of interpretation and judgment, and therefore less verifiable. Specifically, prayer may be readily identified by the use of certain key Hebraic words and phrases like hitpallēl, “pray,” or qārāʾ bĕšem “call on the name,” 68  J. W. Corvin, “A Stylistic and Functional Study of the Prose Prayers in the Historical Narratives of the Old Testament,” unpublished Ph.D. Dissertation, Emory University (1972), 23. 69  E. Staudt, “Prayer and the People in the Deuteronomist,” unpublished Ph.D. Dissertation, Vanderbilt University (1980), 58. 70  M. Greenberg, Biblical Prose Prayer as a Window to the Popular Religion of Ancient Israel (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), 7.

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which constitute a part of the vocabulary of prayer, or by specific introductory expressions such as “and X prayed saying.” In addition to these clearly identified prayers, I have also counted as prayer those texts which, though lacking specific prayer language or clear introductions, do nevertheless, in my judgment, convey intentional address to God. Some texts, for example, begin with the simple statement “and X said (ʾāmar) to God,” and with this introduction a dialogue is begun between God and a human counterpart that may be understood along the lines of the “conversational prayers” identified by Corvin. These “conversations” usually contain rather specific questions about some facet of the divinehuman relationship which, from the pray-er’s perspective, has gone awry or at least requires some clarification. Petition often accompanies these questions as the prayer seeks to move God to make response by word or deed or both. Both these kinds of prayers – those explicitly designated and those lacking specific linguistic markings – occur in the wilderness traditions. The two primary texts to be discussed below, Num 11:4–34 and Num 14:11–23, represent the second type of prayer. Let me add one further word on the problem of defining prayer. My own working definition of prayer, like those I have critiqued above, will no doubt require clarification and revision as more texts are brought into the discussion. This represents a vulnerability in the argument of the present article that I readily acknowledge. In other words, it may not be as clear to the readers of this article as it is at this point to me as author that the texts discussed here are obviously prayers. For the sake of the discussion I ask those who are as yet unpersuaded only to consider whether understanding these texts as prayers has any merit. Subsequent reflection may of course require that we understand them differently. But the risk of having to make revision in the light of the further work on this subject that I hope will emerge in due course, in part in response to those who would criticize this position, does not, it seems to me, cancel out the desirability of pressing forward with a reasonable approach. A second qualification that deserves attention has to do with the delineation of sources in the wilderness traditions. This particular corpus of texts especially lends itself to our investigation precisely because different sources are involved. But I wish to emphasize at the outset that I do not propose to offer a fresh source analysis of these narratives or even a critique of the traditional views. Rather I have endeavored to determine, where possible, what is simply the consensus opinion and to begin from that point. The discussion that follows will not be seriously affected if it is argued that a text ought to be attributed to a different source. The historical origin or setting of a particular perspective on prayer may have to be reevaluated, but the fact that there are different views on the way prayer functions within the same context will remain, I believe, a consideration worth our attention.

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I. The primary texts of the wilderness traditions occur in two blocks, Exodus 15– 18 and Numbers 10–21, traditionally assigned to two major sources, J or JE and P, with some Deuteronomistic materials included. The texts may be further categorized as either pre-Sinai or post-Sinai, depending on whether they occur before the Sinai traditions of law and covenant or after them. The following chart shows the general distribution according to the primary sources involved.71 J/JE

P

Pre-Sinai

Exod 15:22–27 17:1–17

Exod 16:1–36

Post-Sinai

Num 11:1–3

Num 14:1–10, 26–38 17:6–15 20:1–13

11:4–34 12:1–16 21:4–9

Dtr.

Num 14:11–23

Placing the texts within these categorizations helps to make clear several important differences between the two major blocks. For example, texts in the pre-Sinai position suggest that God responded to the complaints of the people with a positive and miraculous demonstration of divine presence. Those set after Sinai, that is, after the stipulations of covenant relationship have been agreed upon, suggest that Israel’s complaints provoked God’s anger, were understood as evidence of faithlessness, disobedience, and rebellion, and were met therefore with divine punishment. Further, it may be observed that the basis of the people’s complaint varies in the two groups of texts. Complaints coming before Sinai are usually related to some specific physical need, e. g., the need for drinking water (Exod 15:22–25; 17:1–17), whereas those occurring after Sinai are described as complaints without foundation. The people grow impatient with God (Num 21:4–9), or they protest against Moses’ leadership (Num 12:1– 16), or they simply complain in general terms, nothing specific being given as the cause (Num 11:1–3). These and other differences have been highlighted by Childs’ delineation of two distinct patterns within the wilderness traditions. Pattern I, represented mostly by the pre-Sinaitic material, consists of an initial 71 This chart seeks to illustrate only the general distribution according to the primary sources involved. For more detailed analysis of specific verses or portions of verses the standard discussions may be consulted (e. g., G. Coats, Rebellion in the Wilderness: The Murmuring Motif in the Wilderness Traditions of the Old Testament [Nashville: Abingdon, 1968]; A. Tunyogi, The Rebellions of Israel [Richmond: John Knox, 1969]; V. Fritz, Israel in der Wüste: Traditionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung der Wüstenüberlieferung des Jahwisten [Marburg: N. G.  Elwert, 1970]; M. Noth, Exodus [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1962, 1968, 1972]; B. Childs, Exodus [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1974]).

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need, followed by complaint, Moses’ intercession, and God’s miraculous intervention. Pattern II, represented in the Numbers texts, differs in that the initial complaint is followed by God’s anger and punishment, then by Moses’ intercession and a consequent lifting of the punishment.72 Childs’ analysis has brought a fresh reexamination of some of the complicated form-critical and traditio-historical problems of these wilderness narratives. On one particular issue, however, I hope to offer a further clarification. It may be noted that he finds intercession to be present in both the patterns above, and, by his selection of texts, he suggests that it occurs in both the J and P materials.73 I will propose in the pages to follow that the Priestly accounts do not describe Moses as a prayer and do not attribute any role to prayer, intercessory or otherwise, in the wilderness experiences. It is only in the J tradition and more clearly in the one Deuteronomistic version that prayer is present. It is precisely this use and non-use of prayer in texts that purport to describe similar events that prompts our interest in the different roles given to this type of discourse in Old Testament narrative. We will pursue the question in the pages below by focusing on two parallel texts from J and P: Num 11:4–34 and Exod 16:1–36. With the role of prayer in these traditions before us, we will extend the discussion to consider the Deuteronomistic perspective represented in Num 14:11–23.

II. Source analyses of Num 11:4 ff. show some variation, but there is a general consensus that the bulk of the narrative, excepting vv. 7–9, 14–17, and 24b–30, belongs to J.74 The basic lines of the J account then develop as follows: The people complain; God’s anger is provoked (vv. 4–6, 10; wayyiḥar ʾap yhyh)    Moses’ dialogue with God    (1) vv. 11–13, 18–20    (2) vv. 21–24 The complaint is resolved with a miraculous provision of quail, which at the same time is a manifestation of divine anger (vv. 31–34; cf. v. 33: weʾap yhyh ḥārâ).  Childs, Exodus, 258–264. specifically his inclusion of Num 20:6 (=P) among texts describing Moses’ intercession (Childs, Exodus, 258). 74  Cf. Fritz, Israel in der Wüste, 16–17; Coats Rebellion in the Wilderness, 96–98; M. Noth, Numbers (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1968), 83. See further, H. Seebass, “Num. XI, XIII und die Hypothese des Jahwisten,” VT 28 (1978), 214–223. 72

73 Note

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The outline above illustrates that the framework of the narrative hinges on the peoples’ complaint that provokes God’s anger. Between the first statement of divine wrath in v. 10 and the final manifestation of this wrath in v. 33, Moses engages God in two dialogues that raise questions concerning God’s intentions, questions which provide interpretive guides for understanding the overall narrative. The function of these divine-human dialogues will be clarified by a closer inspection of the narrative. The narrative moves between three major themes: complaint, prayer, and resolution of complaint. The complaint, described in vv. 4–6 and 10, provides an important and necessary preface to Moses’ prayer. In specific terms, the complaint involves the people’s lack of meat, a concern that is accompanied by weeping (bkh) and a strong craving (hitʾawwû tăwâ). Though not as explicit as the parallel account in Exodus 16,75 this complaint is no less serious, for as v. 20 makes clear these “weepers” have rejected (māʾās) God. It should be noted that although the people’s behavior is rather clearly described as complaint, the present text leaves some question about whether the complaint is directed against Moses or against God. Verse 10 suggests that Moses certainly heard the complaint and responded to it, but the text is curiously ambiguous just at this juncture: Moses heard (wayyišmaʿ) the people weeping … and the Lord became very angry (wayyiḥar ʾap yhyh) and in the eyes of Moses it was evil (ûbĕʿēnê mošeh rāʿ).

With waw consecutives linking the verbs šmʿ and ḥrh together, one might well have expected to read that Moses heard and Moses was angry and in Moses’ eyes76 it was evil. But rather abruptly the subject of the second verb changes to YHWH. With this shift in the focus of the narrative the intent of the last phrase now becomes uncertain. What is it that is rāʿ, “evil,” in the eyes of Moses? Is it the people’s crying that is deemed evil and wrong? Or is it God’s anger that seems misplaced to Moses? The dialogue that follows between Moses and God leaves little doubt that from Moses’ perspective the only legitimate target of this complaint is God. It is God’s reputation that is, or ought to be, at stake here, not Moses’. Thus Moses turns to God with an address designed not simply to direct the complaint in the proper direction, but also to raise serious questions about divine intentions. Moses’ address to God in v. 11 is introduced simply with wayyʾomer, “and he said,” the language Corvin designates as characteristic of “conversational prayers.” Such prayers, he maintains, are typically dominated by “question-centered dia75 The P account in Exodus 16 uses the verbal expression “to murmur against” (lwn + ʿl), which Coats suggests ought to be understood as “rebel against” in the sense of a hostile, face to face confrontation (Rebellion in the Wilderness, 24). 76 Perhaps this is the thinking behind the proposed emendation in BHS to “in his [God’s] eyes” (běʿênāw).

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logue,” often initiated by the human partner for the purpose of raising some issue of “a theologico-philosophical nature” such as innocent suffering or proof of God’s presence. These general observations hold true for Num 11:11–15. Moses’ prayer is initiated with a bold question that immediately focuses on the issue of rāʿ, “evil,” which v. 10 has introduced: (v. 10) … and in the eyes of Moses it was evil    (ûběʿênê mošeh rāʿ) (v. 11) and Moses said: Why have you done evil to your servant?   (lāmâ hărēʿotā lěʿabdekâ) Indeed this lead question introduces a series of questions put to God that substantiate the description of this engagement as truly “question-centered “: Why (lāmâ) have I not found favor in your eyes … ? Did I (heʾonokî), I conceive all these people, or did I (ʾim ʾanokî), I birth them? Where (mēʾayin) will I get meat to give to all this people … ?

These questions serve individually and collectively, both in the specificity of their language and in their general context, to place before YHWH a strong note of protest. Twice Moses’ questions are prefaced with the word lāmâ, “Why?” Of the stock of Hebrew interrogative words available, none features more prominently in questions directed from people to God than lāmâ.77 This “Why?” question is especially frequent in, though not limited to, contexts of lament and complaint where a suppliant raises hard questions about something in the relationship with God that seems very wrong.78 Thus frequently in psalms of lament questions about God’s hiddenness will be framed with lāmâ (e. g., Pss 10: 1; 22:2; 44:24). In other cases, the question may raise the issue of innocent suffering (e. g., Jer 15:18; 20:18; Job 7:20) or the perversion of justice (e. g., Hab 1:3, 13). Though the questions are certainly more frequent in psalms of lament and in lament contexts like those that characterize Job, Habakkuk, and Jeremiah, they are not lacking in the narrative literature, especially on the lips of Moses who, more than any other major character, so interrogates God.79 In Num 11:11 Moses queries God about divine conduct that must have seemed, at least to Moses, to be contrary to God’s character. Why is there rāʿ , “evil,” to your servant (lĕʿabdekâ) rather than favor (hēn)? Do not “your servants” merit more than this? Is not rāʿ to be the punishment reserved for the one who refuses to serve? It is after all the people, not Moses, who have done the crying and the petitioning. Why is YHWH’s anger directed against Moses rather than them? 77  S. E. Balentine, The Hidden God: The Hiding of the Face of God in the Old Testament (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983), 118–119. 78  J. Barr, “Why? In Biblical Hebrew,” JTS 36 (1985), 8. 79  Cf. Balentine, The Hidden God, 118–119; Barr, “Why?” 18.

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The whole idea of God doing evil to one of his own must have seemed incongruous. Why?80 The note of protest carried in these two “Why?” questions is heightened by a third question which follows in v. 12, this one expressed with the form ha . . .ʾim̀: “Did I (heʾānōki), I conceive all this people, or did I (ʾim ʾānōkî), I birth them, that you should say to me, ‘Carry them in your bosom . .’?” The form of the question, used in wisdom circles for pedagogical purposes and by prophets as a rhetorical means of disputing commonly held assumptions is here used clearly with the expectation of a negative response.81 The accusation in Moses’ question has a double edge. On the one hand Moses charges that the responsibility for these people properly belongs to God; Moses did not birth them, God did. And secondly, to the extent that Moses does bear some responsibility as God’s specially appointed liaison with the people, his abilities are limited. He is no match as one man for “all this people.” This latter phrase repeats several times throughout the narrative as Moses presses his complaint that “I am not able, I alone, to carry all this people for they are too heavy for me” (v. 14; cf. vv. 11, 12, 13). It is not just the form of these questions, however, that conveys the note of protest in Moses’ prayer. The questions themselves strike at the very heart of common assumptions about God’s character. Two key ideas combine in vv. 10 and 11 to focus the major concerns: the burning anger of God (ḥrh + ʾ p) and God doing evil (rʿʿ, Hipʿil). Both these ideas, divine anger and divinely initiated evil, are most frequently attested in Deuteronomistic literature and in the judgment speeches of the prophets, especially Jeremiah. In both settings God’s behavior is described typically as a justified reaction to a sinful people. Westermann has recently evaluated the prophets as “messengers of anger” (Boten des Zorns), concluding that in Jeremiah, for example, where 56 words for divine anger occur in some 30 places (none more frequently than ʾap with 24 occurrences), in all cases where the anger of God is directed against Israel it is the consequence of the guilt of Israel.82 Similar conclusions may be drawn with respect to rʿʿ and the noun derivatives rʿ and rʿh. There are 12 occurrences of rʿʿ Hipʿil , with God as subject, with about half of these connecting God’s intention to do evil specifically with 80  The Masoretes may also have found this idea troublesome, for the Tiqqune in v. 15 suggests an emendation away from the attribution of evil to YHWH in this case. The present text reads: “If this is the way you are going to treat me, put me to death at once – if I have found favor in your sight – and do not let me see my evil (NRSV: “misery”; wěʾal ʾerʾeh bĕrāʿātîi).” The original text, however, before emendation, read “that I may not look on your evil (běrāʿatekā).” The uncorrected version makes no attempt to disguise the problem as seen from Moses’ perspective. If God is to act in such a manner, to bring evil on a faithful (and undeserving) servant, then Moses does not wish to live to witness it. 81  Cf. W. Brueggemann, “Jeremiah’s Use of Rhetorical Questions,” JBL 92 (1973), 358–374. 82  C. Westermann, “Boten des Zorns. Der Begriff des Zornes Gottes in der Prophetie,” in J. Jeremias, L. Perlitt, eds., Die Botschaft und die Boten (Neukirchen: Neukirchener, 1981), 151– 154.

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the evil designs of the people.83 The nouns rʿ and rʿh combine with a number of verbs, again primarily in Deuteronomistic and prophetic texts, to describe God’s “bringing evil” (bôʾ, Hipʿil, some 31x; 17x in Jeremiah); “planning evil” (ḥšb, 5x; zmm, 1x), “pronouncing evil upon” (dbr, 13x); “doing evil” (ʿśh, 4x), “requitting/ returning evil” (šlm, 3x; swb, Hipʿil, 2x), and so on. Here too God’s actions are most frequently set in the context of just and expected punishment for “evil” behavior.84 With respect to these ideas there is then something akin to a “party-line” view, at least as early as the Deuteronomistic editors if not considerably before. That is, the outbreaking of divine anger and divinely ordained evil is primarily retributive in nature, the just reaction of a just God to specific manifestations of human sinfulness. In the course of Israel’s history there would of course arise various challenges to the party-line, various “rumblings” of discontent as Crenshaw has suggested, designed to test theological maxims against the realities of life.85 Traditionally these challenges have been understood to have emerged principally in the exilic era when the demise of stabilizing institutions is thought to have encouraged rampant skepticism amongst the general populace.86 The J text of Num 11:11 ff. now suggests an important supplement to these traditional views concerning the questioning of divine justice. Of the 12 cases where God is the subject of rʿʿ Hipʿil, 3 put the issue in question form, all three in direct address to God that may be understood as prayer (Exod 5:22; Num 11:11; I Kgs 17:20). Two of these are especially important for our discussion.87 Exodus 5:22 and Num 11:11 both consist of prayers placed on the lips of Moses, both in texts usually attributed to J. The former is set in the context of Moses’ initial failure with Pharaoh after which he raises with God the double question, “Why (lāmâ) have you done evil to the people (hărēōtâ lāʿām hazzeh), why (lāmmâ) did you send me?” The rhetoric of the address makes 83 Exod 5:22; Num 11:11; Josh 24:20; I Kgs 17:20; Jer 25:6, 29; 31:28; Mic 4:6; Zeph 1:12; Zech 8:14; Ps 44:3; Ruth I :21. See further H. J. Stoebe, “rʿʿ,” in THAT 3: cols. 794–803. 84  Cf. E. Noort, “JHWH und das Böse. Bemerkungen zu einer Verhältnisbestimmung,” OTS 23 (1984), 120–136. 85  J. L. Crenshaw, “Popular Questioning of the Justice of God in Ancient Israel,” ZAW 82 (1970), 380–395. 86  Cf. my discussion and critique of the traditional view (Balentine, The Hidden God, 169– 176). Hard questions about divine justice are especially frequent in Deuteronomistic texts, but it is typical of their perspective that these texts also seek to provide answers that reaffirm traditional views. With respect to the issue under consideration here, divinely initiated evil, Jer 16:10–13 may be taken as but one example of the Deuteronomistic perspective: Question: And when you tell these people all these words and they say to you, Why (ʿal-meh) has YHWH pronounced all this great evil against us (kol-hārāʿâ haggĕdôlâ) … Answer: Then you shall say: Because your ancestors have forsaken me … and you. You have done more evil than your ancestors (wĕʾattem hărēʿōtem laʿăśôt mēʾăbôtêkem) 87  The third text, I Kgs 17:20, sets forth a typical Deuteronomistic use of prayer which receives an immediate response from God.

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clear the nature of the complaint. Moses charges that the evil he perceives in YHWH is no different than the evil that the people now experience at the hands of Pharaoh: “For since I came to Pharaoh to speak in your name he has done evil to this people (hēraʿ lāʿām hazzeh) …” (v. 23). This challenge to God, though in a different historical setting, is fundamentally similar to Moses’ protest in Numbers 11. Of especial significance for our analysis is that here in the J source, if the traditional dating to the 9th-10th century can be retained, we have an early questioning of the party-line view that not only anticipates the Deuteronomistic ruminations but is paradigmatic for them.88 Verses 18–20 provide YHWH’s response to Moses’ complaint. Moses is instructed to inform the people of the requirement for consecration in preparation for receipt of the meat they had been craving. Their complaint will be resolved. Moses’ question – “Where am I to get the meat?” – will be answered. Now they will eat, because God will provide. Indeed they will eat not one day or two days or five, ten, even twenty days, but a whole month of days until their gift becomes a burden, a punishment rather than a blessing. God himself supplies the reason for the judgment: 1) because you have rejected (mʾs) YHWH ; 2) you have wept (bkh) before him; and 3) you have complained, saying “Why (lāmâ) did we come out of Egypt?” This latter quotation of the Israelites’ complaint shows a subtle shift in rhetoric that reveals, along with the other reasons already given, God’s interpretation of the people’s behavior. As reported in vv. 4 ff. and again in v. 18, the substance of their complaint revolved around dietary concerns (bāśār, “meat,” vv. 4, 18). In God’s review of the complaint, however, the people are quoted as questioning not only their diet, but also the whole of their exodus deliverance. Taken as a whole, God’s response in vv. 18–20 explains the divine reaction as a justified punishment for their rejection of God’s leadership and their doubt about God’s ability to provide for them. The response does not address as such Moses’ question about God’s evil intents. Nevertheless the questions have been raised and given a rather full articulation. From a literary perspective they provide a distraction to the blazing anger of God introduced in v. 10 and so shift the focus of the reader/ hearer, if only temporarily, away from the divine concern for punishment to a very human concern for clarity and understanding. The second dialogue between Moses and God (vv. 21–24) takes up where the first one leaves off, with Moses pressing for further clarification about his responsibility in providing the meat God has promised. One of Moses’ concerns, repeated several times in his first discourse with God, has to do with his 88 Others have seen in the wilderness narratives an early form of the quest for divine justice so prominent later in Deuteronomistic texts (e. g., R. P. Carroll, “Rebellion and Dissent in Ancient Israelite Society,” ZAW 89 (1979), 176–204; R. Adamiak, Justice and History in the Old Testament: The Evolution of Divine Retribution in the Historiographies of the Wilderness Generation [Cleveland: John T. Zubal, 1982], e. g., 84–89), but without recognizing the importance of prayer as a literary vehicle for introducing the concern.

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individual responsibility for “all this people” (kol hāʾām hazzeh; vv. 11, 12, 13, 14). In this second address Moses raises the same issue by contrasting in stark terms the impossible statistics involved in the fulfilling of God’s promise. A rather literal translation can best illustrate the emphasis the Hebrew syntax gives to the numbers Moses faces: “Six hundred thousand on foot, the people, (among whom) I am in their midst” (v. 21). Here too Moses sounds a note of protest. Is Moses alone to provide for all this people? Is Moses “in their midst” now to replace YHWH “in their midst” (cf. v. 20), and so to fulfill as proxy a rejected God’s promise of sustenance? God’s response (v. 23) is couched in language almost identical to that which occurs in Exod 6:1 where, as noted above, a similar prayer of protest from Moses is recorded: “Is the hand of the Lord shortened …? Now you will see …” Once again the divine response makes little attempt to address Moses’ questions directly. Rather God’s rhetorical counter-question calls attention to divine power and, by so doing, prepares Moses for the final manifestation of this power in the miraculous provision of quails (vv. 31–34). We may summarize the role and function of Moses’ prayers in the J tradition of Numbers 11 by comparing this narrative with its Priestly counterpart in Exodus 16. A number of differences in these two accounts are readily apparent and often discussed. We may simply note them as follows: whereas Numbers 11 is set in the post-Sinai period, in route from Sinai to Canaan, Exodus 16 is located in the pre-Sinai period, in route from Egypt to Sinai; in Numbers 11 Moses is the primary and only intermediary, but in Exodus 16, Moses and Aaron share jointly this responsibility; in Numbers 11 the people’s complaint is judged as disobedience and is punished as such, but in Exodus 16 there is no mention of divine anger, and the people’s murmuring is met with a miraculous provision of quails that is received as a wholly positive response from God. There are, in addition, a number of details unique to Exodus 16 that can be attributed to the special interests of the Priestly tradition, e. g., the reference to the people as a “congregation” (ʿēd), the description of Presence with the term “glory of the Lord” (vv. 7, 10), and the concern to relate the gathering of the quail to instructions for Sabbath observance. For the purpose of this study, however, the most important difference between these two traditions lies in an area that has not as yet received sufficient notice. In the J account, as we have shown, Moses addresses God directly in two places with “conversational prayer.” By way of these prayers Moses engages God in close discussion of issues relating to the overall context, issues that, from Moses’ perspective at least, need clarification. Moses questions God, God responds, and the narrative moves on to its conclusion, which is presented as having emerged out of their joint deliberations. In the Priestly narrative there is no such interchange between God and his earthly minions. Moses and Aaron do not engage in prayer. In fact, they do not once address God, directly or indirectly. They are addressed by God, and they relay messages from God to the people, but they do

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not themselves engage in dialogue with God. The point can be illustrated by isolating the narrative introductions to dialogue: v. 2 The people murmured against Moses and Aaron … and said to them … v. 4 Then the Lord said to Moses … v. 6 So Moses and Aaron said to the congregation … v. 9 And Moses said to Aaron … v. 10 And Aaron spoke to the whole of the congregation …

These references are not exhaustive, for the same pattern runs throughout this Priestly account. Moses and Aaron are consistently pictured as keeping a certain distance from God. They do not come into immediate contact with God. They do not question God. They do not seek clarification about divine plans. They do not protest or express concern over God’s behavior. Unlike the J account, the Priestly version sees no issues to be resolved, and therefore assigns to Moses and Aaron no role in the narrative other than that of divine message runner. The contrast suggested above between the J and P perspectives on prayer in Numbers 11 and Exodus 16 finds further support from a survey of the remaining J and P wilderness traditions. J texts routinely cast Moses, and Moses alone, in the role of pray-er, in both the pre- and post-Sinai situations. In Numbers 11, as we have seen, the prayer is introduced with conversational language that is addressed directly to God. In other texts introductions are drawn from the standard stock of prayer vocabulary such as pll, “pray,” (Num 11:2; 21:7) or ṣʿq, “cry out” (Exod 15:25; Num 12:13). Sometimes the prayers are offered on Moses’ initiation (Exod 15:22–25; 17:1–17); on other occasions the prayer is offered in response to a specific request (Num 21:4–9). Some of the prayers are recorded (Exod 17:4; Num 11:11–13, 21; 12:13), others are only mentioned, omitting the actual words (Exod 15:22–25, Num 11:1–3; 21:4–9). We may conclude, then, that J consistently gives to Moses the high responsibility of prayer. In the wilderness traditions this prayer appears to function in two ways: 1) to procure divine forgiveness and release from punishment (Num 11:2; 12:13);89 and 2) to question the justice of divine plans (Num 11:11–13). That is to say, J assigns to Moses the work of both intercessor and interrogator in prayer. Both these roles demand of the pray-er a high level of participation with God in the accomplishing of the divine will. In Priestly wilderness traditions the situation is described quite differently, as is illustrated by the discussion above of Exodus 16. Priestly texts characteristically describe the “congregation” murmuring against “Moses and Aaron” (Exod 16:2; Num 14:2; 20:2). The complaint that repeats most often begins, “Would that we had died in Egypt …” (Exod 16:3; Num 14:2; 20:3). This is followed by an encounter with “glory of the Lord” at the tent of meeting, in response to which Moses and Aaron “fall on their face” (Num 14:5; 20:6). The Priestly scenario 89  For discussion of the role of Moses in securing forgiveness in Num 12:1–15, see Coats (Rebellion in the Wilderness).

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describes a judgment setting in which YHWH summons the people to hear and receive divine punishment. Throughout Moses and Aaron function to receive and communicate God’s plans. They do not pray or attempt to dissuade God from his stated intentions.90 At only one place does there appear to be any intervention on their part, and in this case it is not prayer that they offer but rather a ritual atonement (Num 16:46 f.). The implication seems to be that ritual activity, not prayer, is the way to respond to the crisis. Such an understanding would in fact be consonant with the typical Priestly emphasis on ritual and sacrifice and its seeming disinterest in the practice of prayer.91

III. With the J and P traditions above we may now compare Num 14:11–23, a Deuteronomistic perspective on Moses’ role as a prayer during the wilderness period. The literary context of Moses’ prayer is complicated, but most would understand Numbers 14 as consisting of a basic Priestly framework setting forth the congregation’s rebellion against Moses and Aaron and Yahweh (vv. 1–10) and the pronouncement and execution of divine judgment (vv. 26–38). This framework is supplemented by material from J (vv. 1b, 4, 11a, 23b–24) and the Deuteronomistic editors (vv. 11b–23). The development of the narrative in each of the three layers may be illustrated as follows: J

P

Dtr

vv. 1b, 4 The people complained …

vv. 11b–12 God’s complaint vv. 1a, 2–3 All the congregation raised their voice and statement of intent to punish and murmured against Moses and Aaron

v. 11a And YHWH said to Moses “How long will this people despise (nʾṣ) me?”

vv. 5–10 Moses and Aaron vv. 13–19 Moses’ interfall on their faces …. The vention wth prayer for “glory of the Lord” appears ­forgiveness (slḥ) at the tent of meeting

90  Childs cites Num 20:6 as illustration of intercession in a Priestly text, though he offers no discussion on the issue (Exodus, 258). Two ideas may lend support to Childs’ suggestion: 1) the tent of meeting as a place of theophany and therefore communication with the deity (e. g., Haran suggests, on the basis of comparison with Exod 34:5–9, that perhaps prayer would have been part of the rite for anyone who sought the Lord in the solitude of a tent like ʾohel mo’ed; Exodus, 268–269); and 2) the gesture of falling on the face (npl + pnm) may suggest obeisance in preparation for prayer. While both these ideas may be related to intercession, the evidence is far from conclusive, and in the present text do not seem to justify the conclusion that Moses and Aaron serve as intercessors. See further, S. E. Balentine, “The Prophet as Intercessor: A Reassessment,” JBL 103 (1984), 161–173. 91 M. Haran, “Priesthood, Temple, Divine Service: Some Observations on Institutions and Practices of Worship,” HAR 7 (1984), 129–131.

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J

P

Dtr

vv. 23b–24 All the ones despising (nʾṣ) me will not see the land

vv. 26–38 Divine punishment is announced

vv. 20–23a God forgives (slḥ) according to to Moses’ word, and punishes

All three traditions agree that the people’s behavior in the wilderness provokes God’s intent to punish. They agree further that the punishment announced is in fact to become reality. What is noticeably different is that in the Deuteronomistic version, and in this version alone, Moses intervenes with a prayer that seeks to persuade God to reconsider his plans. And, significantly, it is only in the Deuteronomistic version that the judgment announced is accompanied by a statement of divine pardon. In the paragraphs that follow I will seek to demonstrate that here, as in the J account of Numbers 11, Moses’ prayer for divine reconsideration introduces a concern about God’s justice that serves as a guide for understanding the larger narrative. Within its immediate literary context this Deuteronomistic account is shaped by three major issues: God’s complaint (vv. l lb-12); Moses’ prayer for forgiveness (vv. 13–19), and God’s response (vv. 20–23). The divine complaint and response are rhetorically linked by the accusation and punishment of all those who have not believed in “the signs which I did” (haʾōtôt ʾăšer ʿāśtî; vv. 11, 22). Taken together, the complaint and response describe God’s punishment as typically quid pro quo: a guilty people receive a just punishment. The structure of the narrative, however, will not allow a direct linkage between complaint and response, for wedged between the two is the lengthy dialogue between Moses and God. This dialogue, couched in the form of a prayer for forgiveness, creates a literary break between the introduction and the conclusion and thus an interruption in the cause-consequence sequence. The consequence is to be understood as emerging out of and in response to the intervention of Moses. Simply put, Moses’ prayer influences the outcome of the story. Moses’ prayer, addressed directly to God and introduced with conversational language (wayyōmer), seeks from God a reconsideration of his plans to punish. In support of his petition Moses offers three arguments, each of which reflects the concerns of the exilic audience the Deuteronomistic writers are addressing. (1) First, Moses argues that God’s reputation as a powerful, delivering God is at stake. The Egyptians will hear of the punishment of this people and will draw the wrong conclusions. They will spread the rumor that this God, who formerly led them out of Egypt “by his power” (v. 13) and who led them by pillar of cloud and fire through the Red Sea (v. 14; cf. Exod 13:21), is now unable to bring the people into the land which he has sworn to them (v. 16). The status of God’s reputation among the nations is a concern expressed frequently in Deuteronomic and Deuteronomistic texts (e. g., Deut 9:28; Exod 32:12; cf. Ezek

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20:14). It was during the exilic era that Yahweh’s reputation was most in question, at least from the perspective of those who had to endure the exile. Ruled over by Babylonian powers whose very presence cast a pall over YHWH’s abilities to protect and defend his own, and faced with a distant, silent, seemingly defeated God, an exilic audience would be eager to know if YHWH could be persuaded to intervene to protect his standing among the nations and among his own. (2) Moses’ second argument questions the justice of God’s apparent intent to “kill this people as one man” (v. 15). The question echoes the concern for justice with respect to the individual that is addressed in other texts of the exilic period. It is the question of Abraham in Gen 18:22–33 as he presses God to discriminate between the righteous and the wicked in the judgment of Sodom. From Abraham the issue is clearly stated: “Shall not the judge (špṭ) of all the earth do justice (mišpāṭ)?” (Gen 18:25). It is the same concern reported by Ezekiel to have been circulating among the exiles: “The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge” (Ezek 18: 1). Both Abraham and Ezekiel argue for a divine justice that distinguishes between the righteous and the wicked at every level, whether between individuals and communities or children and parents.92 An exilic audience, reeling under the judgment of Babylonian oppression, would be relieved to hear that in the execution of divine judgment YHWH is ever mindful to discriminate between the innocent and the guilty. As long as this is so the hope for ultimate justice does not die, not even in exile. (3) Finally, Moses contends that God’s own nature requires that he be guided as much by grace as by the need for justice. The text has Moses quoting God to God, reminding God of the promise to be “slow to anger, abounding in loyalty (ḥesed) and a forgiver of iniquity.”93 This formula appears in various contexts throughout the Old Testament and with different functions. It clearly does not represent an idea that is restricted to the exilic period, but there can be little doubt that for an exilic audience the description of a God who is characterized by loyal love as well as just punishment would be particularly welcome.94 In the progression of Moses’ prayer these three arguments provide the introduction to and support for the petition for forgiveness. The petition is carried by the verb slḥ, “forgive,” a verb that is used in two primary literary contexts in the 92 L. Schmidt, “De Deo.” Studien zur Literarkritik und Theologie des Buches Jona, des Gesprächs zwischen Abraham und Jahwe in Gen. 18:22 ff und von Hi. 1 (BZAW 43; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1976), 131–133; cf. J. Blenkinsopp, “Abraham and the Righteous of Sodom,” JJS 33 (1982), 119–132. 93 K. Sakenfeld, “The Problem of Divine Forgiveness in Numbers 14,” CBQ 37 (1975), 323– 325; idem, Faithfulness in Action: Loyalty in Biblical Perspective (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985). 94 For form-critical and traditio-historical analyses of the formula see J. Scharbert, “Formgeschichte und Exegese von Ex 34, 6 f und seiner Parallelism,” Biblica 38 (1957), 130–150; R. C. Dentan, “The Literary Affinities of Exodus XXXIV 6 f,” VT 13 (1963), 34–51; Sakenfeld, “The Problem of Divine Forgiveness in Numbers 14,” 317–330; idem, Faithfulness in Action, 47–52.

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Old Testament, always with God as the stated or implied subject of the action. First, it is frequent in Priestly texts where the priest offers a sin offering that will atone (kpr) for sins and result in the forgiveness of the guilty (e. g., Lev 4:20, 26, 31, 35). Second, slḥ occurs with notable regularity as a petition for forgiveness in prayer. It occurs in a wide assortment of texts and contexts: in poetry (e. g., Pss 25:11; 86:5; 103:3; 130:4) and in narrative, as here in Numbers 14; in “conversational prayers” (e. g., Exod 34:9; Num 14:19) and in “formal” prayers (e. g., 1 Kgs 8:30, 35, 36; Neh 9:17; Dan 9:19).95 In some instances the petition is specifically linked to further actions on God’s part, e. g., Exod 34:9: “forgive our sin and take us for your inheritance”; 1 Kgs 8:34: “forgive … and bring them again to the land …” In other cases the petition for forgiveness stands alone, though further divine involvement is implied, e. g., Num 14:19: “forgive …” (and do not punish). In some prayers forgiveness is requested on the strength of confession of sin (e. g., 1 Kgs 8:50; Dan 9:19), while in other prayers the petition is supported in other ways. It is to be noted that in Numbers 14, Moses petitions God’s forgiveness not on the basis of repentance but rather based on the fact that God is a loving God who ought to forgive if he is to act in a way consistent with divine character. Thus Moses’ petition states the matter clearly, gathering together in summary fashion the crux of his request: “Forgive … according to the greatness of your steadfast love, and according as you have forgiven this people from Egypt even until now” (v. 19). It is a prayer for forgiveness not deserved yet expected. God’s initial response, recorded in v. 20, is immediate, brief, and positive: “I have pardoned (slḥ).” The accompanying expression, “according to your word” (kidbārekâ), links the response directly to Moses’ petition. It is not, however, a blanket forgiveness, as vv. 20–23 go on to make clear. The pardon will involve judgment, albeit in a modified form. God’s intention as expressed in v. 11 f. had been to disinherit this people as a whole and start all over with Moses. Now, in the aftermath of Moses’ prayer, God relents. The judgment is to be restricted to those who had seen the miraculous acts of deliverance and sustenance in Egypt and in the wilderness and yet had not heeded them. God would not punish his people without discrimination, “like one man.” Moses’ prayer would achieve its goal. Thus, within its immediate literary setting in vv. 11b–23, the Deuteronomistic account suggests a narrative that moves from an announcement of divine judgment to an execution of divine judgment, with a very significant prayer for forgiveness sandwiched in between. It is primarily this prayer that informs the Deuteronomistic image of a God who not only tolerates but invites participation 95  The terminology is Corvin’s, who describes some fifteen prayers in the Old Testament as somewhat more “liturgical” and “formal” in tone than conversational prayers, and therefore not as closely related to their immediate narrative context. For further stylistic peculiarities see Corvin, “A Stylistic and Functional Study of the Prose Prayers,” 206–211.

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in the accomplishing of divine will. It is an optimistic image both of humanity’s potential to influence divine intentions and of God’s openness to dialogue, counsel, and persuasion. To an audience in exile this image promotes prayer as a legitimate and effective response to the concerns that erupt in Babylon about the availability of divine forgiveness, the justice of divine judgments, and the reliability of divine character. To complete our investigation we may now return briefly to examine the contribution of this particular tradition to the larger composite narrative in Numbers 14. The Priestly framework of the narrative, from a literary perspective, provides the themes of sin and punishment, which may be illustrated by the chart below. The Prayer of Moses in Numbers 14 vv. 1–10 The congregation’s rebellion against the leadership of Moses and Aaron. They move to stone them … and the glory of the Lord appears at the tent of meeting v. 11a And YHWH said to Moses, “How long will this people despise (nʾṣ) me?” vv. 11b–23 Moses’ intervention with prayer for forgiveness (slḥ). God forgives (slḥ) according to Moses’ word, and punishes vv. 23b–24 All the ones despising (nʾṣ) will not see the land vv. 26–38 “And the Lord said to Moses and Aaron … Divine judgment announced

If the basic source analysis of Numbers 14 outlined above is reliable, then it is striking that this Priestly frame is “interrupted” precisely at the point where the glory of the Lord appears at the tent of meeting (v. 11). The divine word that one expects to follow in this situation is in fact delayed until vv. 26 ff. This literary delay allows for the development of a rather lengthy address from Moses to God in which fundamental questions concerning God’s intentions are raised and ultimately resolved with an assurance of divine forgiveness. When the narrative returns to report the expected word of judgment from God, the reader/hearer has been prepared to receive it as a judgment now tempered with divine love and limited by divine commitment to justice and fair play. The composite narrative is in agreement that disloyal behavior in the wilderness period resulted in God’s punishment. But in its final form this judgment is attributed to a God who both judges and forgives, a God who can be addressed and moved to show mercy to a guilty people. In its final form, the narrative assigns to Moses’ prayer a position of major importance. Positioned between the announcement of punishment and the execution of the punishment, the prayer occurs at precisely the point of literary climax and from this point determines the outcome of the story.

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IV. To summarize, prayer plays a rather important role in the wilderness traditions, especially in the Yahwist and Deuteronomistic narratives. J texts repeatedly portray Moses as a pray-er who addresses God directly with petitions for divine reconsideration and with questions concerning divine justice. In this role Moses is presented as a dialogue partner who has immediate and personal access to the deity almost as a peer. By the same token God is portrayed as one who entertains such dialogue, even if he does not always respond directly to it. The Priestly narrative, by contrast, never makes use of the prayer motif, preferring instead to describe Moses and Aaron as conveyers but not influencers or interrogators of divine intentions. And God, according to the Priestly view, is portrayed as one who responds swiftly and without interruption to the disobedience of the people. In the one Deuteronomistic wilderness narrative, prayer also plays an important role. In fact, both literarily and theologically, Moses’ prayer in Num 14:11b–23 dominates the account. It is especially significant that the prayer functions to introduce into the narrative questions about divine intentions, particularly the justice of divine intentions, and thereby to persuade God to alter or modify these intentions. We are not surprised to find such issues addressed in Deuteronomistic texts, or even that prayer is utilized in this literature as a literary vehicle for their articulation.96 What does emerge as significant is that the questioning of divine justice and the prayer forms that give expression to these questions are anticipated as early as J, if not before.97 It would appear that divine intentions are the subject of rather constant scrutiny, interrogation, and evaluation, frequently within the literary framework of prayer which seeks to influence the deity’s final decision. In this respect prayer emerges as an important resource, heretofore little appropriated, for understanding the various concerns relating to theodicy in the Old Testament.

96  M. Noth raised the suggestion in his publication analyzing the Deuteronomistic History (Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Studien [Tübingen: M. Niemeyer, 1943], e. g., 5], though for the most part he did not pursue the implications of his own observations. Others have advanced the discussion in ways both general (e. g., M. Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1972) and specific (e. g., Staudt, “Prayer and the People in the Deuteronomist;” however, a comprehensive investigation has yet to be offered. 97  As W. von Soden (“Das Fragen nach der Gerechtigkeit Gottes im Alten Testament,” Mitteilungen der Deutschen Orient Gesellschaft 96 [1965], 41–59), H. H. Schmid, Wesen und Geschichte der Weisheit [Berlin: Töpelmann, 1966]), and others have recognized, the social, cultural, and historical situations that produce crises of faith for Israel existed in Mesopotamia at least as early as the second millennium.

10. Prayers for Justice in the Old Testament: Theodicy and Theology Recent publications have addressed three subjects that taken together provide the focus for this essay. First, biblical prayer has resurfaced for serious discussion following a rather long period of scholarly disinterest. I note here especially the works by M. Greenberg, R. Clements, and H. G. Reventlow.1 Second, the subject of theodicy has been reviewed and reevaluated and certain shifts of emphasis and focus are being suggested. J. Crenshaw has recognized a shift from theodicy to anthropodicy,2 and W. Brueggemann has offered a new perspective that stresses the social dimension of theodicy.3 Finally, in addition to this interest in prayer and theodicy, a number of recent publications have addressed other OT themes that have been neglected for far too long, e. g., doubt,4 tragedy,5 divine suffering,6 divine absence,7 divine oppression;8 and it would appear now that at long last the discipline of OT theology is ready to embrace contributions from these areas. S. Terrien, for example, has focused on the “elusive presence” of the God of the OT.9 More recently still Brueggemann has called for a theology that will address responsibly the OT’s “embrace of pain.”10 The focus of this essay has emerged out of my sense that all three of the above mentioned areas – prayer , theodicy, and OT theology – are integrally related. My original investigation began with a study of the prayers of the OT, and this is still my primary concern. However, I have come increasingly to understand that one of the principal functions of OT prayer is to address, clarify, and sometimes resolve theodicean issues. In this sense both the problem of divine justice and the  1  M. Greenberg, Biblical Prose Prayer As a Window to the Popular Religion of Ancient Israel (Berkeley: University of California, 1983); R. Clements, In Spirit and in Truth (Atlanta: John Knox, 1985); H. G. Reventlow, Gebet im Alten Testament (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1986).  2  J. Crenshaw, “Introduction: The Shift from Theodicy to Anthropodicy,” in J. L. Crenshaw, ed., Theodicy in the Old Testament (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983), 1–16.  3  W. Brueggemann, “Theodicy in a Social Dimension,” JSOT 33 (1985), 3–25.  4  R. Davidson, The Courage to Doubt (London: SCM, 1983).  5  W. L. Humphreys, The Tragic Vision and the Hebrew Tradition (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985).  6  T. Fretheim, The Suffering of God (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984).  7  S. Balentine, The Hidden God; The Hiding of the Face of God in the Old Testament (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983).  8  J. Crenshaw, A Whirlpool of Torment (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984).  9  S. Terrien, The Elusive Presence (New York: Harper and Row, 1978). 10 W. Brueggemann, “A Shape for Old Testament Theology. II: Embrace of Pain,” CBQ 47 (1985), 395–415.

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context of prayer that brings it to expression offer an important resource for any OT theology that would give attention to the darker realities of the life of faith.11 What follows is a preliminary investigation along these lines.

I. Defining Prayer: The Criterion of “Intentionality” We begin with a very thorny problem. How does one define prayer?12 By what criteria can it be isolated and identified as distinct from other forms of human communication with the deity, such as vows, or oaths, or even simple dialogue? Our particular interest in the subject of theodicy suggests certain general characteristics pertaining to content that we should be alert to. For example, in identifying the texts for this essay I have paid particular attention to the use of interrogative words addressed to God, especially the question “Why?” (lāmâ). Further, questions whose content focuses on YHWH as judge (šōpēṭ) or on the justice (mišpaṭ)  / righteousness (ṣedeq)/ truth (ʾemet) of God, or evil (raʿ) that may be attributed to God have seemed to me to be particularly appropriate for inclusion here. Nevertheless, even with these general guidelines the isolation of “prayers for justice” is beset with real difficulties. Given a text that records some questioning or discussion of the broad range of issues related to divine justice, how then may one determine this text to be prayer? Even when it can be determined that the discussion is directed to God, how may we be certain that it is to be understood as prayer rather than as a simple instance of divine-human conversational interchange, such as is so typical in the early narratives of the OT? In Num 11:1–3, for example, within the context of the people’s complaining in the wilderness, the text reports that the anger of the Lord was kindled (wayyiḥar ʾappô), and a fire was sent to consume the outlying parts of the camp. Moses’ address to God in this instance is specifically identified as prayer: “and Moses prayed (wayyitpallēl) to God” (v. 2). However, in Num 11:4–34, a text set within the same context of the people’s complaining and the response of divine wrath (v. 10: wayyiḥar ʾap yhwh), Moses’ address to God is introduced simply with the phrase wayyōmer mōšeh ʾel yhwh (v. 11), “and Moses said to the Lord …” In one case we are informed that Moses engaged in prayer, though the words of this prayer are not recorded. In the other we are given the words of a rather substantive address to God, though the words are not identified as prayer. Or to take another example, Exod 32:11–13 reports that on the occasion of the golden calf debacle Moses 11 Among contemporary contributors to OT theology to date, only C. Westermann has suggested a significant role for prayer (Elements of Old Testament Theology [Atlanta: Knox, 1978], 153–216). 12 For a preliminary discussion of this question see S. Balentine, “Prayer in the Wilderness Traditions: In Pursuit of Divine Justice,” HAR 9 (1985), 53–56.

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“implored the Lord” (v. 11: wayyěḥal mōšeh ʾet pĕnê yhwh) with a series of questions and petitions designed to secure divine repentance. The content of Moses’ speech to God certainly raises theodicean issues, but the text does not explicitly identify the speech as prayer. Yet in the paraphrase of this scene recorded in Deut 9:25–29, Moses’ address to God, now void of questions and consisting entirely of petitions for divine mercy, is explicitly introduced as prayer: wāʾetpallēl … ʾel yhwh wāʾōmār (v. 26). Examples such as these could easily be multiplied, but perhaps these few will serve to alert us to the problems of defining and isolating prayers. All communication directed to God is not explicitly identified as prayer. Sometimes specific introductions make the identification easy, though in many instances the content of the prayer will not be recorded. But perhaps just as often these specific introductions are lacking so that one has to find other reasons for treating the text as prayer. In making these decisions concerning what is and is not prayer I have found the criterion of intentionality to be quite helpful.13 It seems to me important when examining texts in all genres, particularly those in narrative contexts, to inquire whether communication is explicitly and intentionally directed to God. In many cases the communication that passes between God and people seems entirely casual and often dispassionate, as if nothing really crucial were at stake (e. g., Gen 3:9–13; 4:9–15). In other cases the communication seems to engage the participants at a different level. In these instances the approach is initiated by the human speech partner not casually, but purposefully, intentionally. The subject of that which is communicated to God is not peripheral or insignificant. Rather it is a subject of some concern to the one who brings it, a subject that requires divine attention, a subject which, if left unaddressed, leaves one at best without adequate understanding, at worst in a state of uncertainty that threatens to undermine trust in God. What is at stake in the prayers for justice to be examined below, for example, is the pray-er’s sense of the trustworthiness of God in the face of defeat and hurt and pain that seems unjustified.14 In my own research I have attempted to locate intentionality in texts in two ways, one specific and concrete and easily verifiable, the other less specific, more a matter of interpretation and judgment, and therefore less verifiable. Specifically, prayer may be readily identified by the use of certain key Hebrew words and phrases like htpll, “pray,” or qrʾ bšm, “call on the name,” which constitute part of the vocabulary of prayer, or by specific introductory expressions such as “and X prayed, saying.” In addition to these clearly defined prayers, I have also counted as prayer those texts which, though lacking specific prayer language or clear 13  For this suggestion I am indebted to the work of E. Staudt, “Prayer and the People in the Deuteronomist” (unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Vanderbilt University, 1980, 58–59). 14  I use the participial form “pray-er” to refer to the speaker of the prayer.

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introductions, do nevertheless, in my judgment, convey intentional and weighty address to God. Some texts, for example, begin with the simple statement “and X said (ʾmr) to God,” and with this introduction a dialogue is begun between God and a human counterpart that may be understood along the lines of the “conversational prayers” suggested by Corvin.15 These conversations, particularly when they concern issues of divine justice, usually contain questions about some facet of the divine-human relationship that has gone awry or at least requires some clarification. Petition often accompanies these questions as the pray-er seeks to move God to make response by word or deed or both. Recorded prayers identified by this criterion of intentionality occur throughout the OT – in early narratives, in the deuteronomistic history, in the Psalms, the prophets, and in the later postexilic narratives. In keeping with the focus of this essay I am here particularly interested in recorded prayers that address the question of divine justice. Clearly a great many texts could legitimately be included in such a study. One could certainly focus with profit on prayers anchored in the lament traditions, preeminently displayed, for example, in the “confessions” of Jeremiah, in Job, Habakkuk, and, of course, the Psalms. Such prayers represent an important witness to the type of divine-human engagement that I am concerned with here, and in a subsequent study I hope to capitalize on their specific contributions to the subject of prayer in the OT. In this presentation, however, I have intentionally limited my investigation to prose prayers. I do so essentially for two reasons, one rather critical in its orientation, the other, I trust, more constructive. First, wherever OT prayer has been treated as a subject for serious discussion, invariably it has been the prayers represented in the poetic traditions, especially the Psalms, that have received primary attention.16 Within this framework rigorous analysis of the principal forms of prayer (e. g., lament, praise, thanksgiving) and the corresponding life situations out of which they emerge has helped to secure a much clearer understanding of the role and function of liturgy in Israel’s worship. In this regard we are especially indebted to the pioneering work of H. Gunkel and S. Mowinckel and in the present generation above all to C. Westermann.17 Yet in one respect this preoccupation with psalmodic type prayers has had at least one side effect that I would judge to be less positive, namely the neglect of the great number 15  J. Corvin, “A Stylistic and Functional Study of the Prose Prayers in the Historical Narratives of the Old Testament” (unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Emory University, 1972, 156–179). 16 E. g., L. Krinetzki, Israels Gebet im Alten Testament (Aschaffenburg: Pattloch, 1965); Reventlow, Gebet. Even in A. Wendel’s influential study of prose prayers (Das freie Laiengebet im vorexilischen Israel [Leipzig: Pfeiffer, 1931] narrative contexts are largely disregarded in favor of defining prayer in accordance with the form-critical designations of Psalms’ Gattungen. 17  H. Gunkel, J. Begrich, Einleitung in die Psalmen (Third edition; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1966); S. Mowinckel, Psalmenstudien, I–VI (Kristiania: Dybwad, 1921–24); idem, The Psalms in Israel’s Worship (2 vols.; Oxford: Blackwell, 1962); C. Westermann, Praise and Lament in the Psalms (Atlanta: Knox, 1981).

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of prose prayers embedded within narrative contexts.18 It is this neglect that provides the second incentive to focus this article on the texts treated below. I suggest that prose prayers and the narrative contexts that embrace them provide an important opportunity to view the literary and theological function of prayer, an opportunity not generally afforded in the poetic traditions where the relation of text to context is so often inherently ambiguous. Let me sharpen this suggestion with respect to the topic of divine justice by observing that it is precisely the narrative context of certain prayers that allows us to see how rigorous interchange with God at critical moments of stress can effect the outcome of a pray-er’s experience. In this connection it has been especially revealing to note that a substantial number of prose prayers whose subject is divine justice occur in deuteronomistic texts or deuteronomistically influenced texts. Of course it is not a new idea to suggest that the deuteronomistic theologians were concerned with the problems of theodicy, nor even that prayer served the deuteronomistic tradition as a favorite literary device.19 But what has yet to be appreciated fully is the deuteronomistic use of prayer as a means of articulating theodicean concerns. To illustrate this, we now turn to specific examples of deuteronomistic prayers for justice.

II. Recurring Themes in Prose Prayers for Justice In a previous study of the wilderness wandering narratives in Numbers 10–21 I suggested that Num 14:11b–23, usually reckoned to be a deuteronomistic text, functioned as a “prayer for divine justice.”20 What was striking to me was the way in which the prayer was intruded into a larger narrative context at a point of crisis to provide a literary hiatus appropriate for raising crucial concerns about divine intentions. In Numbers 14 the literary framework is provided by the Priestly tradition, which sets forth the congregation’s rebellion against Moses and Aaron and YHWH (vv. 1–10) and concludes with the pronouncement and execution of divine judgment (vv. 26–28). Yet, this Priestly frame is “interrupted” precisely at the point where one would expect to find the execution of divine justice by this deuteronomistic account of a rather lengthy address from Moses to 18 To cite but one statistical estimation, Greenberg identifies ninety-seven prose texts in which recorded prayer occurs (Biblical Prose Prayer, 1; see n. 3 [pp. 59–60] where the texts are listed). 19 E. g., M. Noth, Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Studien (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1957), 5–6; O. Plöger, “Reden und Gebete im deuteronomisticben und chronistischen Geschichtswerk,” in W. Schneemelcher, ed., Festschrift für Gunther Dehn (Neukirchen: Neukirchener, 1957), 35–49; M. Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School (Oxford: Clarendon, 1972), 307–319; Staudt, “Prayer and the People,” 30–66. 20  Balentine, “Prayer in the Wilderness Traditions,” 66–71.

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God (vv. 11b–23). Within this “interruption” fundamental questions concerning divine intentions are raised and ultimately resolved with an assurance of God’s forgiveness. Following on the heels of this prayer the narrative then returns to the expected word of divine judgment with the reader now prepared to understand it as a judgment tempered with divine love and limited by divine commitment to justice and fair play. Within this framework then Moses questions God, God responds, and the narrative moves on to its conclusion, a conclusion that is presented as having emerged out of their joint deliberations. In the present essay I want to follow up this earlier probe by testing this one example against a wider body of evidence. Towards this end I have selected four narrative texts – Gen 18:22–33, Exod 32:7–14, Josh 7:7–9, and I Kgs 17:17–24 – that seem to display basically the same form as Num 14:11b–23 and to function in basically the same way to raise questions of divine justice within a context of prayer. Despite some differences in the details of their presentation each of these texts functions within a literary context that has three essential features: (1) some crisis in the relationship between pray-er and God; (2) a response to this crisis in the form of a prayer that raises questions about divine justice and/or divine intentions; and (3) some resolution or at least explanation of the crisis which, within the narrative context, is seen as the result of the pray-er’s engagement with God. Simply put, these texts all revolve around the themes of crisis, prayer, resolution of crisis. Taken together they represent a significant witness to the biblical recommendation of prayer as an appropriate response for those who would stand in “loyal opposition”21 to God and to God’s ways of executing justice. A further word is in order concerning the always difficult question of authorship and redaction. Three of these texts, Exod 32:7–14, Josh 7:7–9, I Kgs 17:17–24, can in my judgment be attributed with reasonable certainty to the deuteronomistic tradition. Here I simply follow what I judge to be a majority opinion, without attempting to defend the claim with detailed exegetical analysis. Certainly their historical provenance can be challenged, and I am fully aware that any reliance on majority or consensus opinion is directly related to a subjective decision to credit some judgments as authoritative, and not others. On balance I am not overly concerned to assign prayer texts to a fixed place within a linear time sequence. In the case of these particular texts, however, it would seem that perhaps the question of historical context is somewhat less uncertain than might be true elsewhere. The origin of the fourth text, Gen 18:22–23, can be traced with less confidence. Generally it is reckoned to derive from the exilic or postexilic period and from this point to have been inserted back into the Abraham tradition

21  I take the phrase from G. Coats, “The King’s Loyal Opposition: Obedience and Authority in Exodus 32–34,” in G. Coats, B. O. Long, eds., Canon and Authority (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1977), 91–109.

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as part of its Nachgeschichte.22 As such it may be understood to have emerged out of a historical setting similar to that generally assumed for the deuteronomistic tradition. In the pages that follow I propose to address the themes noted above – crisis, prayer, resolution – first in a rather general way with the hope of providing some overview of their presence in these four texts as a whole. In section III I will then seek to bring the discussion into sharper focus with a more concentrated analysis of Exod 32:7–14. Finally, section IV will address the broader issue of the contribution of such prayers to OT theology, here especially with the aid of certain sociological observations concerning the importance of maintaining a dialectical relationship between God and humanity. 1. Crisis. The crises described in these texts are not identical in their details, but they are similar in their effect. They present situations in which some serious breach in the relationship with God has occurred or threatens to occur. This breach, which, if left unaddressed, will result either in divine judgment, which may mean the destruction of the people, or in human doubt, suspicion, or misunderstanding about God’s character and/or God’s intentions, which may mean that the level of trust in the divine-human relationship is seriously impaired. In either case the problems are serious and the stakes are high. Both the quality and the duration of the relationship with God hang in the balance. In Exodus 32 and Genesis 18, for example, the crisis involves God’s announced intentions to judge and/or annihilate a whole people, in the first instance the people of Israel who have substituted a golden calf for a holy God, in the latter instance the people of Sodom and Gomorrah whose sin is very great. In Josh 7:7–8 and I Kgs 17:17–24 the crisis is born out of confusion concerning God’s intentions. In the aftermath of the defeat at Ai, Joshua questions a divine wrath that threatens not only to deny Israel’s possession of the promised land, but also to undermine confidence in the God who stood behind this promise.23 Does God deliver only to destroy? Or, as Joshua puts it, “Why have you so certainly caused the people to cross over the Jordan to give us into the hands of the Amorites, to cause our destruction?” (Josh 7:7). For Elijah the crisis has ostensibly to do with the illness of the widow of Zarephath’s son. The son is innocent, and though the mother presumes the illness to be related to some unwitting sin on her part, Elijah apparently does not share the assumption, or if he does he does not let it go unchallenged: “Have you brought evil (hǎrēʿôtā) upon the widow with whom I am staying, by killing her son?” (I Kgs 17:20). Such behavior on the part of God runs contrary to fundamental notions of divine justice and fair play.  So C. Westermann, Genesis (BKAT 1/2; Neukirchen: Neukirchener, 1979), 356.  J. A. Soggin sees here two originally independent narratives, 7:1, 5b–26, the Achan narrative, and 7:2–5a, the Ai narrative, now woven together with the former providing interpretation of the latter (Joshua [OTL; Philadelphia, Westminster, 1972], 96–105). 22 23

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2. The Response of Prayer. The response to each of the crisis situations described in these four texts is a direct and intentional address to God which, in my judgment, can be legitimately understood as prayer. Though the content of each of the prayers differs, they share a number of similarities in form. (1) They are explicitly directed to God. In three of the texts this is carried by the invocation of God’s name (e. g., “Lord”[yhwh] Exod 32:11; “O Lord My God” [yhwh ʾlhy] I Kgs 17:20). Only Gen 18:22–23 lacks a clearly articulated invocation. In this instance Abraham’s approach to God is begun simply with second person direct address: “Will you indeed sweep away (tispeh) the righteous with the wicked?” (v. 23). (2) Following on the heels of the invocation/ direct address are questions put to God, and it is significant for our purpose here to note that in every case the questions take issue with some dimension of divinely initiated evil or divine injustice. In two of the texts, for example, there is an explicit description of God’s action as “evil” (rāʿâʿ: Exod 32:12 [2x], 14; I Kgs 17:20). And in Gen 18:22–23, the issue of divine justice as it is worked out in the differentiation of the ṣaddiqîm from the rĕšāʿîm at Sodom is addressed in a way without parallel in the OT. Nowhere is the concern stated more sharply than in Abraham’s question of v. 25: “Shall not the Judge (šōpēṭ) of all the earth do justice (mišpāṭ)?” (3) Finally, each of the prayers in context receives some response from God, provided either by means of first-person reply direct from God (e. g., Gen 18:26, 28; Josh 7:10–15) or by third-person report supplied by the narrator (e. g., Exod 32:14; I Kgs 17:22). This last characteristic gives to these prayers the sense of having been part of a divinehuman dialogue in which two partners participate as near equals in the discussion and resolution of some issue of mutual concern. This dialogic framework for prayer is suggestive of a fundamental hebraic understanding about the degree of reciprocity between creator and creature. These “conversational prayers,” to use Corvin’s terminology, both permit and require of the pray-er a high level of participation with God in the accomplishing of the divine will. It is this feature of prayer, I shall argue, that recommends it as an important vehicle for addressing theodicean concerns. 3. Resolution/ Explanation of the Crisis. The texts under investigation contain within themselves some resolution or explanation of the crisis and/or they function within the context of a larger narrative whose rhetorical structure serves this purpose. For example, the prayers of Joshua, Elijah, and Moses occur within single narrative units that provide in themselves the notice that some resolution of the crisis has emerged. In the Elijah text (I Kgs 17:17–24) the crisis is introduced and resolved by the widow’s transition from the question, “What have you against me, O man of God (ʾ îš hāʾělōhîm)?” to her final affirmation, “Now I know that you are a man of God … (v. 24: ʾ îš ʾělōhîm). All that is reported in between, the prayer of Elijah and the healing of her son, derives from this concern and leads toward its resolution. Similarly, Joshua’s prayer (Josh 7:7–9) questioning why God has given them over to defeat is set within a larger unit that in-

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troduces the crisis with the notice that the anger of the Lord burned hot against Israel (v. 1: wayyiḥar ʾap yhwh) and concludes with the notice that subsequent to Joshua’s prayer the Lord turned away from this divine anger (v. 26: wayyāšob yhwh mēḥǎrôn ʾappô). In Exodus 32 Moses petitions God to “repent concerning the evil …” (v. 12: wěhināḥēm ʿal hārāʿâ lěʿammekâ) and the response provided is, “God repented of the evil …” (v. 14: wayyinnāḥem yhwh ʿal hārāʿâ). In contrast to these three texts, the resolution of Abraham’s concern over the impending judgment of Sodom is provided in as lightly different way. Here it is rather clear that Abraham’s conversation with God has been inserted into a larger literary narrative in Genesis 18–19,24 and though there is clearly some easing of Abraham’s concern that God be attentive to the righteous in Sodom by the end of this conversation, it is not until Gen 19:27–29 that one is really clear just how effective Abraham’s prayer has been.

III. Exodus 32:7–14 In order to sharpen our focus on these prayers for justice, I shall now confine detailed discussion to the prayer of Moses in Exod 32:11–14. I take this as a good example of a deuteronomistic prayer for justice which follows the pattern outlined above, viz., crisis, prayer, resolution of crisis. The prayer of Moses functions with a myriad of ever-expanding contexts which, despite the many obvious literary non sequiturs, reflects a thematic unity revolving around Israel’s sin in the making of the golden calf (Exod 32:1–6) and YHWH’s response (Exodus 34). Taken as a unit then, Exodus 32–34 begins with a notice of Israel’s sin, which puts the divine-human covenant in jeopardy, and ends with the reissuing of the commandments and the renewal of the covenant relationship. How this transition from Israel’s disobedience to Yahweh’s forgiveness takes place is the focus of the intervening texts. To be more specific, the immediate context for Moses’ prayer is provided by God’s instructions in vv. 7–10. These instructions are introduced with the divine imperative “Go down”(lek rēd) which, given the present shaping of the Exodus narrative, signals an abrupt ending to a lengthy divine address concerning the construction of the tabernacle that began with Exod 25:1 and has continued uninterrupted to this point. Now God orders Moses to return to the people below, whose behavior in the making of an unholy golden calf has made instructions for a holy tabernacle both impossible and unnecessary. 24 For a discussion of the literary history of these texts see the standard commentaries, in addition to which note especially L. Schmidt, “De Deo.” Studien zur Literarkritik und Theologie des Buches Jona, des Gesprächs zwischen Abraham und Jahwe in Gen. 18:22 ff. und von Hi 1 (BZAW 143; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1975), 131–164; J. Blenkinsopp, “Abraham and the Righteous of Sodom,” JSS 33 (1982), 119–132.

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Their disobedience is clear; so too is God’s intent to punish: “Now therefore leave me alone so that my anger may burn against them (wěyiḥar ʾappî bāhem) and so that I may consume them (waʾǎkallēm)” (v. 10). Though the general sense of God’s intention to punish is clear enough, the use of the particular phrase “let me alone” (literally: “give me rest”) provides a most interesting introduction. So far as I can determine, this is the only instance of its use with God as subject of the action.25 Because of its limited use it is probably impossible to retrieve completely what is intended here; nevertheless, there is at least the implication that God perhaps needs Moses’ permission, at least his silent consent, to carry through with these divine plans to destroy. In this sense the phrase is not unlike the sort of negative command that often calls forth the very action that ostensibly it seeks to prohibit. That is, God demands to be left alone, and what Moses is prompted to do is exactly the opposite, not to leave God alone. It is a form of invitation by prohibition, and in this instance, given what follows in Moses’ address to God in vv. 11–14, it is perhaps legitimate to understand it as an invitation to prayer. Such at any rate is the view offered in the paraphrase of Tg. Onqelos: “Refrain from thy prayer.”26 Seen from this perspective, the narrative alerts the reader to the drama of the moment. If Moses heeds these instructions by leaving God alone or by refraining from prayer, divine destruction would presumably be executed without interruption. However, if Moses does not follow orders, but rather engages God by means of response to these announced intentions, perhaps the crisis can be averted. What follows in vv. 11–14 leaves the clear impression that from Moses’ perspective God’s announced intentions are both incomprehensible and unacceptable, and Moses does not let them go unchallenged. Rather, with words freighted with both accusation and petition, Moses seeks to tum God away from these divine plans. Following an invocation, Moses introduces his complaint with a double repetition of the question “Why?” (lāmâ): Why does your wrath burn hot against your people … ? (v. 11) Why should the Egyptians say, “It was with evil intent that he brought them out … to kill them … and to consume them…” ? (v. 12)

As I have argued elsewhere, the particular interrogative lāmâ features more prominently than any other in questions directed from people to God.27 Especially frequent in lament contexts, these questions almost always carry a note of protest, suggesting in their interrogation of God that something in the

25 The only other instance where this exact form occurs is in Judg 16:26 where Samson instructs the lad who has led him into Dagon’s temple to leave him alone so that he might feel the pillars of the house. 26  Quoted from B. S. Childs, Exodus (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1974), 556. 27  Balentine, Hidden God, 118–119; “Prayer in the Wilderness Tradition,” 60–61.

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divine-human relationship has gone terribly wrong.28 Two of the key areas of concern frequently addressed by these questions are innocent suffering (e. g., Jer 15:18; 10:18; Job 7:20) and the perversion of justice (e. g., Hab 1:3,13; Num 11:11). Moses’ questions reflect dimensions of both these concerns. The implicit protest of Moses’ questions is strengthened dramatically by the explicit, thrice repeated description of God’s intentions as “evil” (rʿ h).29 In the first instance Moses attributes the charge to the Egyptians: “Why should the Egyptians say, ‘With evil intent (běrāʿâ) God led them out to kill them … and to consume them .. .’?” (v. 12). But then Moses takes up the charge himself, for it is not only the foreigners who, witnessing this display of divine anger, will come to the conclusion that YHWH is acting for evil rather than good. “Turn from your fierce wrath,” Moses petitions, “and repent concerning the evil towards your people (v. 12: wĕhinnāḥēm).” And finally, in response to Moses’ petition, the narrative supplies a third-person perception confirming the charges of both the Egyptians and Moses: “And the Lord repented of the evil (wayyinnāḥem yhwh ʿal hārā) which he thought to do to his people” (v. 14). Given this perception of divinely initiated evil, Moses’ questions may be understood not only as statements of protest, but also as arguments intended to persuade a God for whom evil is not/should not be characteristic to relent and to change. As the narrative itself introduces the prayer, its intended purpose is to “soften the face of YHWH” (v. 11: wayěḥal mōšeh ʾet pěnê yhwh).30 Moses’ questions flow directly into petition which here consists of three appeals, each directed to God in the same imperatival tone which earlier in the narrative had characterized God’s instructions to Moses (v. 7). The one formerly commanded by Yahweh now responds with commands of his own that the Almighty (1) turn away from (šûb) the burning wrath (v. 12a); (2) repent (hinnāḥēm), i. e., be moved to pity, compassion concerning the evil to be directed toward the people (v. 12b); and (3) remember (zěkōr) Abraham and the patriarchal ancestors and the divine promise to give them and their children an inheritance in the land of Canaan (v. 13). Taken together, Moses’ questions and petitions mount three reasons why God should reconsider the announced plan of judgment. First, Moses argues that despite their disobedience, these people are nevertheless God’s people whom God has brought out from Egypt (v. 11). Secondly, Moses argues that should God follow through with the announced plans for judgment, it will provide an opportunity for some, notably the Egyptians, to misinterpret divine punishment as  J. Barr, “Why? In Biblical Hebrew,” JTS 36 (1985), 8. I Kgs 17:20 where a similar description of God’s acts as “evil” (rʿh) is given. 30  Cf. J. Reindl (Das Angesicht Gottes im Sprachgebrauch des Alten Testaments [Leipzig: St. Benno, 1970], 176–183), who presents this as a typical deuteronomistic phrase used in contexts where a set pattern is at work: (I) YHWH’s anger is kindled and punishment is threatened; (2) An intercessor “softens” YHWH’s face; (3) Punishment is withdrawn. 28

29 Cf.

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in reality a divine failure to complete the goal of the exodus from Egypt (v. 12). Thirdly, Moses appeals to God’s own character by reminding God that God had already taken an oath (v. 13: nišbaʿtâ lāhem bāk, “you have sworn to them by yourself ”), the violation of which would jeopardize trust in the divine character. It is interesting to note that a number of deuteronomistic or deuteronomistically influenced texts share one or more of these arguments. The same reasons given by Moses in Exodus 32 are also cited in Deut 9:25–29, though in different order. Similar arguments concerning God’s reputation among the nations are used in Josh 7:9 and in Num 14:13–19, the latter text offering additional arguments based on common notions about divine justice and divine character.31 Perhaps we may detect here something like a fixed stock of legitimate reasons that could be called upon in prayers which sought to persuade God to modify or depart from plans for divine judgment. Finally, we may note that the success of Moses’ prayer is indicated in several ways. First, as mentioned above, within the self-contained narrative of vv. 7–14, it is clear that Moses’ prayer has secured its desired end. Simply put, Moses petitions God to repent of the evil (hinnāhēm ʿal hārāʿâ) that was to be directed toward the people (v. 12), and according to the narrative’s conclusion God does just that (wayyinnāḥem … ʿal hārāʿâ) Within the larger context of Exodus 32–34 this divine repentance takes on additional meaning, especially in light of the subsequent restoration of the covenant relationship in Exodus 34. We may note further perhaps a more subtle indication of Moses’ success reflected in the writer’s narrative style. In God’s initial address to Moses (vv. 7–10), the narrator has God refer repeatedly to the people in nonpersonal terms. The instructions to Moses are: “Go down, for your people (ʿammekâ) whom you brought out (heʿělētâ) from the land of Egypt have acted perversely” (v. 7). Subsequently God responds, “I have seen this people (v. 9: hāʿām hazzeh) and behold it is a stiff-necked people (wěhinnēh ʿam qesēh ʿōrep).” It is a speech rather cleverly crafted to allow God to disavow any ownership of “this people.” Yet it is precisely at this point that Moses takes issue with God: Why does your anger (ʾappĕkâ) burn hot against your people (bĕʿammekâ) whom you brought out (hôṣēʾtâ) from the land of Egypt … (v. 11). Repent of the evil toward your people (lĕʿmmekâ) (v. 12). Remember Abraham, Isaac, and Israel, your servants (ʿăbādekâ), how you swore to them by your own self (nišbʿatâ lāhem bāk) … (v. 13).

At least one purpose of Moses’ prayer, it would appear, was to remind YHWH that these people were indeed God’s responsibility, not Moses’.32 And, if the brief 31  For further discussion of Num 14:13–19, see Balentine, “Prayer in the Wilderness Tradition,” 66–71. 32  Cf. Num 11:4–15 traditionally assigned to J, where Moses’ complaint is quite similar.

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notice given in v. 14 can be taken as a clue, Moses did persuade God to reclaim these wayward people: “And the Lord repented of the evil which he thought to do to his people (lěʿammô).” With the discussion of the function of prayers in these specific texts before us, I now turn to probe how such prayers in general may contribute to the larger area of OT theology. To begin we may consider prayer as a means of maintaining a dialectical relationship between God and humanity. In this respect the sociological observations of P. Berger are quite instructive.

IV. Prayer’s Role in the Maintenance of Divine-Human Dialogue “All socially constructed worlds are inherently precarious.”33 They are precarious because the socially managed consensus concerning right and wrong, good and evil, actions and activities that are acceptable and those that exceed tolerable limits is constantly threatened by chaos. Suffering, evil, and especially death, all conditions endemic to the human situation, represent the most serious forms of this chaos, any one of which if not adequately explained will weaken and ultimately destroy the sense of order necessary for the maintenance of society. In sociological terms these threats must not only be lived through, but also explained in terms of the nomos established in society.34 Efforts at explanation or, to use Berger’s term, legitimation, occur on a variety of levels, but historically the most widespread and the most effective have been the efforts mounted by religion.35 Typically, religion seeks to legitimate or explain the precarious nature of life in this world by locating anomy, disorder, and chaos within a sacred and cosmic frame of reference.36 We have traditionally defined these attempts at religious legitimation as theodicy. It is clear that theodicean efforts surface repeatedly in the OT in a variety of genres and theological traditions. In the narratives of the Torah it is Abraham (e. g., Genesis 18) and especially Moses (e. g., in the wilderness wandering narratives, Exodus 15–18, Numbers 10–21) who confront head on the chaos of life in relationship to God with hard questions about divine justice; in the Prophets scholarly attention has most often focused on Isaiah’s suffering servant poems and Jeremiah’s “confessions”; and in the Writings, of course, it has been the lament psalms and the Book of Job that have most informed our discussions. And cutting across these canonical divisions are theological probes that offer a variety of perspectives on and responses to Israel’s struggle to maintain faith 33 P. Berger,

 Ibid., 53. 35  Ibid., 32. 36  Ibid., 33. 34

The Sacred Canopy (Garden City, New York: Doubleday, 1969), 29.

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amidst the triadic tensions between pain and suffering and the justice of God. The theological focus on God as creator, for example, functions at least in part, and especially in Job, as a defense of divine sovereignty against the assaults of those who would challenge God’s control of good and evil.37 From another perspective, apocalyptic theology is also engaged in a quest for justice and, depending on the degree of evil’s intrusion into life and the perception of God’s sanction of it, advocates either rebellion or withdrawal.38 While it is not my intent here to explore in any comprehensive way these various efforts at theodicy in the OT, I would like to join with several others who have noticed that there is one fundamental characteristic common to almost all of them. It is what Berger calls the “surrender of self ”39 and what Crenshaw describes as “self-abnegation.”40 Both descriptions focus on the same fact, viz., that in most theodicies the intent is to explain disorder by defending God’s integrity, i. e., God’s innocence, at the expense of human integrity and innocence. As Crenshaw summarizes it, theodicy is an attempt to pronounce God “not guilty.”41 All such efforts, Berger maintains, are rooted in a masochistic attitude which finds meaning in suffering through self-abasement, self-surrender, and ultimately selfabsorption into a higher order or a transcendent power.42 For those with a religious orientation, masochism is sanctioned as submission to a sovereign God, whose ways are beyond human comprehension and whose justice can ultimately be neither challenged nor questioned. Such a perspective encourages an understanding of God as one who is “above the fray,”43 not completely indifferent to the pain of those “in the fray,” but ultimately inaccessible to them as a means of real comfort. For those in the fray, suffering forces questions not about God’s justice but rather about humanity’s sinfulness. In this sense, as both Berger and Crenshaw have noted, the issue is no longer theodicy but anthropodicy.44 37  See J. Crenshaw, “Studies in Ancient Israelite Wisdom: Prolegomenon,” in J. L. Crenshaw, ed., Studies in Ancient Israelite Wisdom (New York: Ktav, 1976), 26–35; H. H. Schmid, Wesen und Geschichte der Weisheit (BZAW 101; Berlin: Töpelmann, 1966), 144–201; idem, “Schöpfung, Gerechtigkeit und Heil: Schöpfungstheologie als Gesamthorizont biblischer Theologie,” ZTK 10 (1973), 11–19. 38  See P. Hanson, “The Dawn of Apocalyptic (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1975), 1–31. See further Hanson’s more recent discussion in “The People Called: The Growth of Community in the Bible (San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1986), 269–90. 39  Berger, Sacred Canopy, 54. 40  Crenshaw, “Introduction,” 6. 41  Ibid., l. 42  Berger, Sacred Canopy, 54–51. 43 The phrase is W. Brueggemann’s, to describe those aspects of OT faith held in common with the “common theology” of the ancient Near East. (“A Shape for Old Testament Theology, I: Structure Legitimation,” CBQ 47 [1985], 30). One of the tenets of the common theology, according to Brueggemann, is the emphasis on the orderliness of life that is secured by the sovereignty of God, beyond the reach of historical circumstance. 44  Berger, Sacred Canopy, 74; Crenshaw, “Introduction.”

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Theodicies in the OT clearly embrace the notion of human sinfulness as explanation of and legitimation for pain and suffering. In fact it is rather widely assumed that this explanation is nowhere more clearly exemplified than in the deuteronomistic tradition. The comments of Crenshaw are representative of a general consensus: Such salvaging of God’s honor at the expense of human integrity eventuated in a grandiose interpretation of history that amounts to a monumental theodicy. This Deuteronomistic theology justifies national setbacks and political oppression as divine punishment for sin. The portrayal of Israel and Judah as corrupt to the core suffices to justify divine abandonment of the chosen people, but such rescuing of God’s sovereignty and freedom was purchased at a high price, the self-esteem of humans.45

Of course Crenshaw and others who have come to similar conclusions are correct. The deuteronomistic tradition clearly does interpret defeat and failure as the justified response of a holy God to humanity’s unholiness. Yet, it is striking that it is precisely within this same deuteronomistic tradition that one so frequently encounters prayers for divine justice of the type we have been discussing in this essay. To be sure, some of these prayers function as little more than opportunities for affirming the standard deuteronomistic view concerning suffering and sin. For example, when Joshua questions why God should give the Israelites over into the hands of the Canaanites, the narrative has God respond with the standard deuteronomistic explanation: “Israel has sinned; they have transgressed my covenant …” (Josh 7:11). The remainder of God’s response specifies instructions for removing the sin and the sinner from Israel’s midst, and it is ultimately in response to the fulfillment of these instructions that Yahweh then turns away from divine anger (v. 26). Thus while the prayer itself raises questions about God’s behavior, it functions really as little more than an introduction to an extended speech in support of divine justice.46 And yet in other cases the prayers clearly do raise questions which not only challenge the party-line view; they change it. The people falling down in worship before a golden calf clearly are deserving of judgment. The covenant calls for it and God would be entirely justified in executing it. But somehow (the narrative suggests that it is through Moses’ intercession) God decides to depart from the plan. The sin of Sodom is great; the system of retribution sanctioned by God clearly warrants punishment in this instance. Yet Abraham raises questions that turn God’s focus steadily from the righteous to the wicked, and to new notions of what it should mean for the Judge of all the earth to do justice. Though Sodom is still judged, Abraham has had his say.

 Crenshaw, “Introduction,” 7. is not unlike the question-answer schema that is rather common in the deuteronomistic tradition, e. g., Jer 16:10–13. 45

46 This

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It is just here, in people having their say before God, that these prayers for divine justice call into question Crenshaw’s suggestion about the loss of self-esteem in deuteronomistic theodicy. It would be hard to imagine a higher role for humanity than that which is portrayed by Moses and Elijah and Joshua. Where else in the OT does one find such bold presentations of individuals standing tête à tête with God, challenging, interrogating, petitioning and being taken seriously? Not only do they assault God; at times they even prevail. If there is merit in the idea that deuteronomistic influence extends even further to shape the portraits of other well-known pray-ers, e. g., Abraham, Samuel, Jeremiah, and perhaps even Habakkuk,47 then perhaps we ought to modify our traditional assessment of deuteronomistic theodicy. The frequency with which this tradition utilizes prayer as a literary vehicle does not require that we give any less attention to its emphasis on the linkage between suffering and sin. But the presence of these prayers does suggest that in the deuteronomistic perspective the maintenance of justice is the product of joint divine-human deliberations. This perspective does not result in a loss of self-esteem. Rather, in a tradition where prayer is advocated as both meaningful and effective, one’s self-esteem is lifted to new levels, for to pray is to become a partner with God. We may perhaps try to focus the theological importance of prayer as a theodicean vehicle with a question: what would be the loss if prayer was not possible and/or effective and if theodicean concerns could not be addressed in prayer?48 Berger argues on sociological grounds that there must be a healthy dialectical relationship between individuals and their worlds, a relationship in which individuals participate as co-producers with the forces and powers that produce them. Without this dialectical relationship, actors become only the acted upon and the producer is apprehended only as the product.49 The result is what Berger calls alienation, where one loses all sense of mutuality and reciprocity with the shaping powers of the world.50 All activity is replaced by notions of destiny and fate. With the loss of the dialectical relationship there is, to quote Berger, an “imposition of a fictitious inexorability upon the humanly constructed world.”51 Berger observes that religion may indeed be an agent of alienation or dealienation.52 It may further the rupture of the dialectic by stressing the mysteries of the sacred order of the cosmos which guard against the penetration of any and all human wisdom. Men and women simply live in a world they do not 47  For possible deuteronomistic influence on Habakkuk see M. D. Johnson, “The Paralysis of Torah in Habakkuk I 4,” VT 35 (1985), 257–266. 48  Brueggemann asks the same question with respect to the broader issue of lament (“The Costly Loss of Lament,” JSOT 36 [1986], 59–64). 49 Berger, Sacred Canopy, 86. 50  Ibid., 80–101. 51 Ibid., 95. 52  Ibid., 80–101.

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control, a world created and governed by a God they can never fully know or even partially influence. They are fated to receive whatever comes their way. On the other hand, religion may serve as an agent of dealienation by withdrawing the status of the sacred from some institution or theory, thereby relativizing it as ordinary and accessible for routine inspection.53 With the aid of these sociological observations, it seems to me useful to think of prayer as an important means of maintaining a dialectical relationship with God and the world. The kind of prayer modelled in the four texts we have examined recommends a dialogic relationship between God and humanity. That is to say, God speaks and people respond; people address God and God listens … and responds, and the topic of the conversation is shaped and molded in the process. To put it simply, prayer implies and encourages dialogue, not monologue, the mutual participation of two partners in the deliberative process, not the domination of one over the other. In this sense, as Brueggemann has observed, prayer becomes a means of maintaining a balance of power in the divinehuman relationship and, if necessary, a means of redistributing power so that the human partner is not squeezed out of the process.54 Each of the prayers we have examined portrays such a dialogic role for the human partner in the faith enterprise. What is particularly striking is the way in which some of these narratives appear to have been edited into a literary context which, without these prayers, would have suggested a very different portrayal of both God and humanity. 53  It should be noted that for Berger it is alienation, not dealienation, that marks religion’s essential function in society. In this respect he concedes that alienation is not only positive but also “anthropologically necessary” (Sacred Canopy, 85) for the creation and maintenance of social equilibrium. In other words, without religion’s sacred legitimation of social reality, humanity would not possess the necessary compulsion to continue participating in societal processes. But as G. Baum has commented, such a position entails anthropological assumptions that may skew both sociological and theological observations concerning religion’s role in society. Baum, for example, rejects the idea of alienation as anthropologically necessary, preferring instead to stress that it is humanity’s freedom (not burden) to participate in social responsibilities. Baum is also critical of Berger’s analysis of religion’s role as an agent of dealienation. In Baum’s view, to the extent that religion is critical and dealienating, withdrawing sacred legitimation from social structures, then it at the same time paves the way for secular symbols of legitimation to replace sacred norms. A world without sacred norms is thus secularized, and religion’s function as an agent of dealienation has thereby contributed ironically to its own demise. For Baum’s critique of Berger see G. Baum, Religion and Alienation: A Theological Reading of Sociology (New York;Paramus;Toronto: Paulist, 1975), 108–111; idem, “Peter Berger’s Unfinished Symphony,” Sociology and Human Destiny: Essays on Sociology, Religion, and Society (ed. G. Baum; New York: Seabury, 1980), 110–129. Baum’s criticisms, though cogent, do not seriously change the essential truth of what I most want to capitalize on in Berger’s argument. That is, religion may either contribute toward or hinder a vital dialectic between sacred order and humanity. To the extent that religion promotes this dialectic, as for example in maintaining a role for humanity in prayer, then God and God’s order become the subject not only of praise and wonder, but also of scrutiny and challenge. 54  Brueggemann, “Costly Loss,” 59.

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Exodus 32, for example, is assigned in the main to one literary source, J, by a majority of commentators.55 If one were to excerpt the story line of this one source, usually reckoned to be present in vv. 1–6, 15–20, 35, then the narrative reports that Moses returned from Sinai to find the calf, grew angry at the people’s disobedience and subjected them to a “trial by ordeal,” and, finally, the Lord sent a plague upon the people. As it stands in this form the narrative simply reports disobedience and judgment. God has very little involvement in the story actually, other than to add divine reprisals to those already initiated by Moses. The intrusion of vv. 7–14 into this context, however, changes the complexion of the narrative considerably. Now, between the announcement of the sin and the judgment it warrants, the narrative permits us a glimpse of the deliberative process which precedes the judgment and informs us how it came about. It was not an automatic verdict of “guilty” that was simply handed down from on high. The people were represented, and represented well by Moses before the divine judge. A similar scenario is portrayed in Genesis 18, though even more dramatically. In the present arrangement of Genesis 18–19 there is a literary hiatus between the announcement of the visit to Sodom (vv. 16–21) and the execution of this visit (19:1–20). In theological terms there is a break between the announcement of God’s word and its fulfillment. Execution of the divine intention is not automatic. Clearly it would have been possible for the narrator to report the fate of Sodom in a more direct way by stating simply that Sodom was a sinful city that God punished. Indeed, from a strict textual standpoint it seems highly likely that the “original” report was characterized by a more matter-of-fact account. But the structure of the received composite narrative suggests a different understanding. Here God speaks, Abraham prays, and then there is the execution of God’s word. Abraham is portrayed as having participated with God at a crucial point, between proclamation and fulfillment. God is portrayed as sharing divine intentions with a human partner. Human response is portrayed as the conduit for divine fulfillment. Given the apparent deliberate “intrusion” of these verses into this strategic position, the reader is quite naturally prompted to consider the narrative from another perspective. What if Abraham had not prayed? What if he had not initiated this conversation with the judge of all the world? If he had not, and if Moses and Elijah and Jeremiah and all the others had not so engaged God in what Coats has referred to as “loyal opposition,” or if having these testimonies of divine-human engagement, the final editors of our text had considered them inappropriate for inclusion with the other records of faith, then we would have a very different OT and, I believe, a different faith perspective derived from it. Just how different both the text and our appropriation of its message would be, I doubt we have yet begun to realize. But the prayers of the OT summon our attention, for in them we find a resource yet untapped for the “em E. g., Childs, Exodus, 538.

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brace of pain” in the life of faith that Brueggemann has pressed us to incorporate into OT theology. If such an embrace is and must remain only a minority voice, as Brueggemann has suggested, it is nevertheless a crucial voice.56 Without these prayers and the model they encourage for engaging God authentically in the struggle for meaning in the midst of chaos, we would be confronted with an intolerable inexorability that imposes on us monologue without dialogue, revelation without response, destiny and fate without hope.

 Brueggemann, “A Shape for Old Testament Theology, II,” 339.

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11. “You Can’t Pray a Lie:” Truth and Fiction in the Prayers of Chronicles The citation in the title of this essay is from Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. In the midst of their wondrous journey down the Mississippi, Huck Finn and Jim, the runaway slave, had once again fallen into trouble. Jim had been captured, and his captors were preparing to claim the reward that had been placed on his head by returning him to slavery, in accordance with the laws of the land, unless Huck intervened to save him. The situation created a dilemma for Huck. Should he accede to the law, admit that he had been wrong to steal a slave, and so betray the friend who needed him most? Or should he violate the law, remain true to his deeper loyalties to his friend, and come to Jim’s rescue? In a paroxysm of guilt, Huck decided to pray. He would confess to God his miserable ways and promise to reform, the first evidence of which would be his complicity in the plan to return Jim to slavery. Having knelt to pray, however, Huck discovered that the words would not come. With a moment’s reflection, he knew why. It was because he was “playing double,” trying to make his mouth say words that his heart could not accept as true. He could not tell God that he was giving up on sin by returning his friend to slavery, because Huck knew, and he knew that God knew, that a trumped-up prayer is the biggest sin of all. In his moment of decision, Huck saw the matter very clearly: “Deep down in me I knowed it was a lie, and He knowed it. You can’t pray a lie – I found that out.”1 In Huck Finn’s simple discovery, Mark Twain has proposed a truth about the nature of prayer that captures nicely one of the critical issues that this article has been commissioned to consider. To state the general question in its simplest form: Are the prayers recorded in Chronicles to be evaluated as statements of truth or fiction? Do they preserve verifiable experiences of heart-felt piety, or are they only trumped-up words that convey someone’s imaginative ideas about what might have been or should have been prayed in a given situation? I have admittedly stated the issue in rather stark terms, positioning the interpretation of prayers in Chronicles between the two extremes of truth and fiction. I have done so because until relatively recently, the scholarly assessment of the Chronicler’s prayers has by and large settled for just these kinds of choices. In the main, the prayers in Chronicles have been regarded as either unthinking,  M. Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (New York: Signet Classic, 1959), 209.

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verbatim copies of source material in Samuel-Kings or tendentious compositions of Chr himself. In either case, faced with the regnant choices between evaluating these prayers as truth or fiction, most scholars settled for the latter. Happily, the assessment of these prayers has now begun to enlarge. In light of recent studies, the simple evaluation of a prayer text as either truth or fiction can no longer do justice to the sophisticated historiographic skills of Chr. In the pages that follow, I will pursue these matters by addressing: (1) the use of prayer within the genre of historiography, (2) the recorded prayers in Chronicles and Chr’s exegetical techniques, and (3) the function of prayer in presenting both the history and the theology of these books. Finally, I will offer some concluding reflections on Mark Twain’s proposal.

I. Prayer and the Genre of Historiography It is not necessary to review here the history of the general debate concerning Chronicles as a historical source. That discussion will be center stage in other essays in this volume. It is pertinent to note, however, that from the outset of the debate the rhetorical passages interspersed throughout Chronicles – especially the various prayers, speeches, and sermons – have presented a major challenge to its credibility as a reliable historical source. At one extreme, some who found Chronicles to be little more than a “mass of fictions” argued that “made-up” prayers provided corroborating evidence that Chr had twisted Israel’s authentic history into nothing more than “lies spoken in the name of the Lord.”2 At the other extreme, some conceded that Chr’s primary purpose was not historical documentation but theological reflection.3 Within this perspective, G. von Rad,4 M. Noth,5 and O. Plöger6 argued that Chr 2 J. W. Colenso, Lectures on the Pentateuch and the Moabite Stone (London: Longmans, Green, 1873), 344. The description of prayer as “made-up” refers to I Chr 16:8–22, the prayer of David that has been composed from “pieces of later psalms” (p. 341). Colenso’s general evaluation of Chr’s work is evident in the title to the chapter in which this description occurs, “The Fictions of the Chronicler” (pp. 333–346), a chapter that concludes with the citation from Zech. 13.3, “lies spoken in the name of the Lord”(p. 346). 3  Cf. G. von Rad, Das Geschichtsbild des chronistischen Werkes (BWANT 54; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1930). See, for example, von Rad’s concluding comments on pp. 133–134. 4  G. von Rad, “Die Levitische Predigt in den Büchern der Chronik,” Festschrift Otto Proksch (Leipzig: Deichert, 1934), 113–124 (= Gesammelte Studien zum Alten Testament [Munich: Chr. Kaiser, 1958], 248–261). The English translation is “The Levitical Sermon in the Books of Chronicles,” in The Form Critical Problem of the Hexateuch and Other Essays (London: Oliver & Boyd, 1966), 267–280. 5  M. Noth, Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Studien I (Halle: Niemeyer, 1943). The second part of this monograph deals with Chr and has been translated as The Chronicler’s History (JSOTSup 50; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987). For Noth’s discussion of the speeches and prayers, see The Chronicler’s History, 75–81. 6  O. Plöger, “Reden und Gebete im deuteronomistischen und chronistischen Geschichts-

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had effectively inserted speeches and prayers at strategic points in order to construe the presentation in accordance with his own theological views. In sum, if the prayers could not be appreciated as history, they might at least be salvaged as theology. In recent years, increasing attention to the sophisticated historiographic traditions in both biblical and non-biblical literature has provided a new orientation to the prayers in Chronicles. Two aspects of this matter are of particular importance. The first concerns prayer as a regular feature in biblical and non-biblical historiography, and the second is the question whether recorded prayer is merely a literary convention or an accurate reflection of actual practice. As for the first aspect, Noth and Plöger demonstrated  – albeit in different ways  – that prayers and speeches played a significant role in the two most prominent examples of Israelite historiography: DtrH and Chr’s history. Subsequent studies have confirmed that in their use of such rhetoric biblical writers were in fact operating well within the normal boundaries of ancient historiography. The most extensive evidence has been collected by J. Van Seters, who has argued that neither in the ancient Near East nor in Israel was the tradition of history writing meant to be judged solely in terms of historical reliability.7 To the contrary, throughout the ancient Near East and in early Greece, speeches were routinely used in historiographic traditions to introduce, summarize, and reflect on historical events and experiences.8 The fact that biblical writers imparted their own perspectives on historical events through composed speeches and prayers is therefore insufficient ground to dismiss their work as poor history. In view of the standard historiographic practices throughout the ancient world, it should not be considered remarkable to discover that “All Hebrew historiography … is written from a theological perspective.”9 If prayer was a regular feature of both biblical and non-biblical historiography, a second issue may be raised: What did prayer, as a distinct literary form, contribute to the enterprise of writing history? Was the inclusion of a recorded werk,” in W. Schneemelcher, ed., Festschrift für Gunther Dehn (Neukirchen: Kreis Moers, 1957), 35–49 (= Aus der Spätzeit des Alten Testaments: Studien [Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1971], 50–66). All references in this essay are to the essay as published in Festschrift.  7 J. Van Seters, In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983). See further M. Cogan, who has shown that even “historical” information (e. g., dates, chronologies) is typically ‘malleable’ in biblical and non-biblical history writing (“The Chronicler’s Use of Chronology as Illuminated by Neo-Assyrian Royal Inscriptions,” in J. H. Tigay, ed., Empirical Models for Biblical Criticism [Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1985], 197–210).  8  Van Seters deals with “speeches” as a designation for the general literary genre that includes prayers. See, for example, the discussion of royal inscriptions and prayers in Mesopotamian historiography on pp. 60–61. For his discussion of such rhetoric specifically in DtrH see 230, 358–359. 9  Van Seters, In Search of History, 361.

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prayer in a historical presentation merely a literary convention for theologizing, or did the prayer as reported correlate with actual practice? A number of recent studies on prayer bring important information to bear on this issue. At the outset it should be conceded that all prayer texts are literary productions. The literary formulation of a prayer, as well as the decision to position it at a certain place in the presentation, clearly reflects the conscious choice of authors and editors. But as M. Greenberg has shown, the fact that a prayer is part of a literary enterprise does not mean that it is therefore inauthentic. In his words, “Even if it is granted that prayers are not veridical, that does not foreclose their being verisimilar.”10 Indeed, in Scripture the latter may be of more value than the former, for as Greenberg notes, recalling the observation of Aristotle, artistic creation has the capacity to present “something more philosophic and of graver import than history.”11 Both Greenberg and Gerstenberger12 have probed the verisimilitude of prayers in the Hebrew Bible by demonstrating that there is a genetic affinity between the religious language of prayer and the social language of interhuman discourse. All major types of prayer – prayers of petition, confession, and thanksgiving – utilize patterns of speech that are analogous to the common forms of speech between humans.13 Such congruence between the language and circumstances of prayer and the discourse of everyday experience does not suggest that biblical narrators freely invented prayers that had no correlation with actual practice. Indeed, Greenberg concludes that in such prayers “We have as faithful a correspondence as we might wish to the form and practice of everyday, nonprofessional, extemporaneous verbal worship in ancient Israel.”14 To summarize, recent advances in understanding the genres of historiography and of prayer have laid the foundation for a new approach to Chr’s presentation. It is no longer adequate either to dismiss Chr’s prayers as merely fictional or to embrace them as purely theological. Recorded prayers are a regular feature in 10  M. Greenberg, Biblical Prose Prayer as a Window to the Popular Religion of Ancient Israel (Taubman Lectures in Jewish Studies, 6th series; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), 8. 11  Biblical Prose Prayer, 8. Greenberg takes the reference to Aristotle from Poetics, 9. 12  E. S. Gerstenberger, Der bittende Mensch: Bittritual und Klagelied des Einzelnen im Alten Testament (WMANT 51; Neukirchen: Neukirchener, 1980). 13  Gerstenberger focuses primarily on petitionary prayer (Der bittende Mensch, 17–63; on interhuman petitions and petitions to God, see especially pp. 18–20). For Greenberg’s analysis of the analogy between social language and the language of prayer, see Biblical Prose Prayer, 19– 37. See further R. N. Boyce, The Cry to God in the Old Testament (SBLDS 103; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 27–40. 14 Greenberg, Biblical Prose Prayer, 37. Greenberg’s focus is on prose prayers, which he regards as providing a more direct access to actual piety than psalmic prayers. But it is also plausible to suggest that psalmic prayers, no less than prose ones, are genetically connected to traditional expressions of piety grounded in actual practice. See further A. Aejmelaeus, The Traditional Prayer in the Psalms (BZAW 167; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1986), 90–91.

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biblical and non-biblical historiography. It is certainly the case that prayers are particularly suitable rhetorical means for theologizing on history. However, if prayer is a means for theological reflection, this does not mean that what is communicated in a prayer text bears no correlation with actual practice. Rather, both the speech and the practice conveyed through literary prayers are congruent with the social conventions of normal interhuman discourse.

II. The Recorded Prayers and the Chronicler’s Exegetical Technique The focus in this essay is on recorded prayers, that is, on the texts where the words of a prayer are reported. There are 17 such prayers in I and II Chronicles, and the following table illustrates their distribution.15 It will be seen from the table that the total is made up of one ancestral prayer (I Chr 4:10), ten royal prayers, and six psalmic prayers. Distribution of Recorded Prayers in Chronicles I Chr 1–9 (Genealogies)

I Chr 10 – II Chr 9 (David – Solomon)

II Chr 10–36 (Post-Solomon)

4:10 (Jabez) 1 Chr 10–29 (David)

II Chr 1–9 (Solomon)

14:10 [= II Sam 5:19] 16:8–36* [= Pss 105; 96; 106]

1:8–10 [=1 Kgs 3:6–9] 5:13*

17:16–27 [= II Sam 7:18–29]

6:14–42 [=1 Kgs 8:22–53] [vv. 40–42*= Ps 132:8–10]

21:8 [= II Sam 24:10]

7:3*

21:17 [= II Sam 24:17] 29:10–19

14:11 (Asa) 20:6–12 (Jehoshaphat) 20:21* 30:18–19 (Hezekiah)

*psalmic prayers

15 In addition to the recorded prayers, there are numerous cases where the text indicates that a prayer or an address to God that may be likened to prayer (e. g. a “cry” [ṣʿq]) or a “call” [qrʾ]) has occurred, but the words have not been provided (cf. 1 Chr 5:20 [ṣʿq]; 14:14 [šʾl]; 21:26 [qrʾ]; II Chr 13:14̀-15 [ṣʿq]; 18:31 [ṣʿq]; 20:26 [brk]; 31:8 [brk]; 32:20, 24 [pll]; 33:12 [ḥlh pnʾ] 33:13 [pll]. Although these texts indicate something of Chr’s general interest in prayer, they offer comparatively little in the way of substantive information. For present purposes these unrecorded prayers may be omitted from the discussion.

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Several general observations may be offered concerning these recorded prayers. First, the prayers are distributed unevenly throughout Chronicles, with a proportionately heavier concentration (11 of 17, approximately 65 %) occurring in the chapters devoted to David and Solomon. Second, ten of the 17 prayers (approximately 59 %) are “royal prayers,” that is prayers articulated by kings. Of these ten, five prayers are assigned to David (I Chr 14:10; 17:17–29; 21:8; 21:17; 29:10–29), two to Solomon (II Chr 1:8–10; 6:14–42), and three to post-Solomonic kings (Asa, Jehoshaphat, and Hezekiah). Third, in addition to the royal prayers, one prayer is assigned to an ancestor of Judah (Jabez), and five are presented as hymnic praise sung by specially appointed levitical priests and/or the people in general (I Chr 16:8–36; II Chr 5:13; 7:3, 6; 20:21). Fourth, of the 17 prayers, six correlate with synoptic material in Samuel-Kings, six utilize hymnic language found in the Psalter, and five are without parallel in their present form outside Chronicles. Beyond these general observations, it is useful to focus on the different techniques that Chr utilizes in handling these prayers. Four general methodologies may be identified, along with the respective prayers to which they apply.16 It is important to acknowledge here that a full discussion of the issues involved in these exegetical techniques goes far beyond the scope of this essay. For present purposes I limit myself simply to describing Chr’s methods. Later in this article I will explore further how these exegetical tactics serve Chr’s interests in the overall presentation. The Chronicler as Editor Chr’s technique as editor is manifest in two basic ways of handling prayers that have been taken over from source materials. This editorial work is directed broadly towards modification of the source text and modification of the source context. First, in two cases (I Chr 17:16–27; II Chr 6:14–42) Chr faithfully transfers an existing prayer from its source context to the same context in Chr’s own account, but he alters the text of the prayer in significant ways to achieve a distinct presentation. In II Chr 6:14–22, for example, Chr’s version of Solomon’s prayer at the dedication of the temple substantially replicates both the context and the wording of I Kgs 8:22–53. In vv. 40–42, however, Chr introduces an important alteration in the prayer by replacing I Kgs 8:50–53 with his own version of Ps 132:8–10. The issues involved in this change are complex and cannot

16  I had already worked out these categories in their essentials, when I discovered a similar effort by H. N. Bream (“Manasseh and his Prayer,” Lutheran Theological Seminary Bulletin 66 (1986], 10). Although Bream’s schematization serves different objectives than mine, I am indebted to him for clarifying my own thinking on this matter.

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be pursued here.17 We may simply note that the net effect of Chr’s editing is to change the basis for Solomon’s appeal to God. In Kings, Solomon petitions God to be attentive to the prayers of the people because of the memories of divine election and compassion invoked by the exodus traditions (vv. 51, 53). In Chronicles, Solomon’s appeal is that God’s “remember the steadfast love of David your servant.”18 A second area in which Chr’s work as editor may be discerned is in the (re)­ contextualizing of a source prayer. In three of the recorded prayers (I Chr 14:10; 21:8, 17; II Chr 1:8–10) Chr has made relatively insignificant changes in the wording of an existing prayer but has nonetheless achieved a distinctive presentation by positioning the prayer in a new context. Brief comments on two of these texts must suffice as illustration. In I Chr 14:10 David’s inquiry of God is substantially a verbatim account of the prayer recorded in II Sam 5:19. In Chr’s presentation, however, the prayer has been dislodged from its original context in the narratives concerning David’s capture of Jerusalem (II Sam 5:1–25) and has been relocated in the interval between the first, failed effort to transfer the ark from Kiriath-jearim (I Chronicles 13) and the second, successful effort to transfer the ark (I Chronicles 15– 16). In this new position the prayer serves not only to report David’s successful military campaign against the Philistines, but to call attention to David’s act of piety as one of the catalysts for the transition from a failed effort to establish Jerusalem as the residence of God to a successful one. II Chronicles 1:8–10, an abbreviated version of the source prayer in I Kgs 3:6–9,19 has also been significantly recontextualized. In Kings, Solomon’s prayer for wisdom follows the candid description of his complicity in the murders of Adonijah, Joab, and Shemei (I Kgs 2:12–46) and precedes his judicious handling of the situation presented him by the two prostitutes (I Kgs 3:16–28). In this con17  Virtually every line of Ps 132:8–10 has been altered in some way in Chr’s presentation. Chr’s alterations are conveniently laid out in S. Japhet, I and II Chronicles (OTL; Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox, 1993), p. 602; and in M. Throntveit, When Kings Speak: Royal Speech and Prayer in Chronicles (SBLDS, 93; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987), 60–61. 18  A critical issue in the text is whether the phrase lĕḥsdê dawîd should be rendered as an objective genitive (i. e. “steadfast love for David;” so NRSV ) or as a subjective genitive (i. e. “steadfast love of David;” so REB, JPS). Williamson argues for the former interpretation, based among other things on the use of the same phrase in Isa 55:3 (“The Sure Mercies of David: Subjective or Objective Genitive?” JSS 23 [1978], 31–49). In my judgment, however, a stronger case can be made for the latter rendering (cf. R. B. Dillard, 2 Chronicles [WBC 15; Waco: Word Books, 1987], 51–52; Japhet, I and II Chronicles, 604–605). Irrespective of the relative strengths of either of these arguments, it remains the case that in Chr’s version of Solomon’s prayer an emphasis on the exodus traditions has been replaced with an emphasis on David. 19  Most of Chr’s omissions represent only minor orthographic or stylistic alterations. The textual differences in the prayer as presented in Kings and Chronicles are conveniently laid out by Throntveit, When Kings Speak, 55. For further discussion, see Japhet, I and II Chronicles, 530–531.

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text, the prayer affords an opportunity to reappraise Solomon’s qualifications for ruling his people.20 In Chronicles the events reported in I Kings 1–2 are omitted; so also the account of the two prostitutes. Solomon’s prayer for wisdom is now presented as the first public act of the king’s reign. In Chr’s arrangement of the events, the wisdom to rule, which God grants to Solomon, along with his wealth and prosperity, are directly linked not to the administration of justice but to the building of the temple (II Chronicles 2–8). The Chronicler as Collator There are a number of psalmic inserts in Chr’s narrative,21 but of primary interest for the task at hand is the psalmic medley in I Chr 16:8–36. Throughout this text there are signs that Chr has edited his source materials, much as in the texts discussed above to bring them into conformity with his own purposes. But the principal exegetical work of Chr in this text focuses more on the technique of collation than editing. The sources for the prayer in I Chr 16:8–36 are three different canonical psalms: Ps 105:1–15 for vv. 8–22; Ps 96:1–13 for vv. 23–33; and Ps 106:1, 47–48 for vv. 34–36. In Chr’s presentation these three psalms have been collated and structured into one unified prayer, which has in turn been fully integrated into a new literary context.22 Verses 8–14 (cf. Ps 105:1–7) provide an introduction by bringing to the fore three principal celebratory activities that Chr associates with the return of the ark to Jerusalem: “give thanks” (ydh, v. 8), “praise” (hll, v. 10), and “remember” (zkr, v. 12). This language provides a “connective echo”23 of the activities ascribed to the Levites in v. 4, thus firmly anchoring this psalmic insert to its immediate narrative context. Moreover, the same three activities correlate with the three major structural divisions that define the remainder of the prayer.24 Verses 15– 22, a recitation from Ps 105:8–15 of God’s covenantal commitments to the ances20  Cf. S. E. Balentine, Prayer in the Hebrew Bible: The Drama of Divine-Human Dialogue (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1993), 56–60. 21 I have already mentioned Chr’s use of Ps 132:8–10 at the end of Solomon’s prayer in II Chr 6:40–42. Note further the repeated insertion of the doxological refrain “(for he is good,) for his steadfast love endures forever” (1 Chr 16:34, 41; II Chr 5:13; 7:3, 6; 20:21), a refrain that is frequent in the Psalms (cf. Pss 100:5; 106:1; 107:1; 118:1, 2, 3, 4, 29; 136:1–26 [26x]; 138:8). In addition to the standard commentaries, see the recent discussions of this refrain by R. M. Shipp, “‘Remember His Covenant Forever’: A Study of the Chronicler’s Use of the Psalms,” ResQ 35 (1993), 30–32; and J. W. Watts, Psalm and Story: Inset Hymns in Hebrew in Hebrew Narrative (JSOTSup, 139; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992), 157–158, 197. 22  On the prayer’s structural coherence and narrative relations, see T. C. Butler, “A Forgotten Passage from a Forgotten Era (1 Chr XVI 8–36),” VT 28 (1978), 142–150; A. D. Hill, “Patchwork Poetry or Reasoned Verse? Connective Structure in 1 Chronicles XVI,” VT 33 (1983), 97–101; Shipp, “Remember His Covenant Forever,” 29–39; Watts, Psalm and Story, 155–168. 23  Hill, “Patchwork Poetry or Reasoned Verse?”, 9. 24 See especially Shipp, “Remember His Covenant Forever,” 35–37.

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tors, serves as the “remember” section of the prayer (cf. v. 15: “remember [zkr] his covenant forever…”). Verses 23–33, a hymn celebrating God’s kingship taken from Psalm 96, constitutes the “praise” section of the prayer (cf. v. 25: “praised” [mĕhulāl]). Finally, vv. 34–36, introduced with the refrain from Ps 106:1 (“give thanks [ydh] to the Lord”), concludes the prayer with a “give thanks” section. The practice of collating several existing psalms into a single new composition is not unique to Chronicles, nor is the technique of inserting psalmic texts into narrative settings in order to advance compositional goals. Both practices occur elsewhere in biblical and non-biblical material.25 Moreover, Fishbane has noted that in historiographic traditions it is not uncommon for a tradent to make an “exegetically derived” connection between a historical event and an appropriate prayer.26 In this respect, the collation that produces the prayer in I Chronicles 16 is more than just a technical procedure.27 It is a means for exercising important theological and historical judgments. We will return to these issues in the next section. The Chronicler as Author Five prayers in Chronicles are not found in other canonical sources (I Chr 4:10; 29:10–19; II Chr 14:11; 20:6–12; 30:18–19). Although these prayers make use of earlier Scriptures, they generally appear to be Chr’s own creations or at least to reflect a practice of prayer or a tradition about prayer that was current in Chr’s own time. For example, the anecdotal reference to the prayer of Jabez (I Chr 4:10) conceivably derives from some ancient source, but there is insufficient evidence to decide finally on its historicity.28 It can be demonstrated, however, that the prayer’s sentiment accords with Chr’s overall concern to show the importance of prayer for the descendants of Judah. Similarly, the prayers of Asa (II Chr 14:11) and Jehoshaphat (II Chr 20:6–12) are both situated in the context of war accounts. In both cases Chr has provided tidbits of geographical and chronological information that have in turn invited numerous efforts to link these accounts to historical episodes. Jehoshaphat’s prayer, for example, has been associated with 25  Cf. Japhet (I and II Chronicles, 312), who notes that the practice of synthetic psalm composition is evidenced already in the book of Psalms itself as well as in the Psalms scroll from Qumran. On psalmic inserts in narrative contexts, see especially, Watts, Psalm and Story. 26 M. A. Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1984), 400. Fishbane refers to the aggadic technique of exegesis by “conjunction”, a practice whereby received materials are recontextualized and recombined to yield new exegetical correlations. Although he does not connect this practice specifically to the prayers in Chronicles, Fishbane does point to the historical superscriptions in the Psalms (403–407), where the technique of connecting historical narrative and prayer is clearly similar to that in 1 Chronicles 16. See further Watts, Psalm and Story, 182–185. 27  Cf. Japhet, I and II Chronicles, 312–313. 28  Japhet, I and II Chronicles,105–106.

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events either in the time of the monarchy29 or in Chr’s own time.30 But whatever evidence may be garnered in support of the historicity of these wars, in Chr’s presentation the victories turn not on military strategy or historical happenstance, but on a decisive act of piety: the king’s prayer. The view that war can be averted or won only with God’s help is also consonant with Chr’s overall views.31 Much the same situation applies to the prayers of David (I Chr 29:10–19) and Hezekiah (II Chr 30:18–19). Both make use of language and traditions that locate these prayers in the cultic situations of temple dedication and Passover respectively, although there is no record of these prayers in the source materials from Samuel-Kings. The intent may be to fill in the existing record concerning the actual practices of David and Hezekiah. It is more likely, however, that Chr is simply reflecting the liturgical traditions that were current in his time.32 In either case, as the following section will show, Chr has composed and positioned these prayers within the larger presentation so as to communicate something of both historical and theological significance. The Chronicler as Excisor In addition to editing, collating, and ‘authoring’ prayers, it should not go unnoticed that in at least two instances Chr omits prayers contained in the parallel texts from Kings. Such is the case in Chr’s presentation of Hezekiah where the synoptic passage records the words of two prayers for Hezekiah (II Kgs 19:15–19; 20:3) that are not reproduced by Chr (cf. II Chr 32:20, 24). Whether Chr’s excision of these prayers is merely part of an overall desire to create a simpler, more unified account33 or a specific effort to bring the existing record into line with his own perspectives is difficult to decide.34 In view of Chr’s 29 Cf. W. Rudolph, Chronikbücher (HAT, 21; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1955), 258–259; H. G. M. Williamson, 1 and 2 Chronicles (NCB; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1982), 291–293; Dillard, 2 Chronicles, 153–155. 30  M. Noth, “Eine palästinische Lokalüberlieferung in 2 Chr 20,” ZDPV 67 (1943), 45–71. 31  Cf. P. Welten, who has linked the prayers of Asa and Jehoshaphat to a quintet of successful war stories (II Chr 13:3–20; 14:8–14; 20:1–30; 26:6–8; 2:5–6) that convey Chr’s theological message to the community of his own day (Geschichte und Geschichtsdarstellung in den Chronikbüchern [WMANT, 42; Neukirchen: Neukirchener, 1973], 115–172). 32  For example, Hezekiah’s petition that God pardon “all who set their hearts to seek God”, even though they may have violated the laws of purity, may be an attempt to reconcile disparate views in the post-exilic community concerning the proper celebration of Passover. See further Williamson, 1 and 2 Chronicles, 360–373, 403–408; J. R. Shaver, Torah and the Chronicler’s History Work: An Inquiry into the Chronicler’s References to Laws, Festivals and Cultic Institutions in Relation to Pentateuchal Legislation (BJS 196; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989), 110–118; T. L. Eves, “The Role of Passover in the Book of Chronicles: A Study of 2 Chronicles 30 and 35” (PhD dissertation, Annenberg Research Institute [formerly Dropsie College], 1992), 243–255. 33  Cf. Japhet, I and II Chronicles, 989. 34 It is widely recognized that in the portrait of Hezekiah Chr reverses the emphases of the synoptic texts. In Chronicles the emphasis is on Hezekiah’s reform efforts (II Chr 29–31; cf.

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use of prayer throughout his presentation, however, including the addition of a prayer for Hezekiah in II Chr 30:18–19, it is difficult to believe that the omissions here are intended to convey a negative assessment of prayer’s importance.

III. Prayer in the Chronicler’s Presentation of History and Theology The preceding description of Chr’s exegetical techniques demonstrates that the prayers can no longer be judged merely as verbatim copies of source material or tendentious compositions of pure fiction. As editor, collator, “author,” and excisor, Chr engages in a number of important literary decisions: What prayers will be included, added, or omitted in the presentation? Where will they be located? How will they be integrated into the narrative? Such issues are necessarily linked to other considerations that are both historical and theological in nature: What is the purpose of the presentation? If all Hebrew historiography is theological, as Van Seters argues, then we may conclude that Chr intends not only to impart the facts of history (who, what, when, where), but also the meaning of history (why), that is, what history says about the way the world works.35 The question for this article is then: how do the recorded prayers serve Chr’s larger compositional goals? The subject here is a complex one. At present, there is no hypothesis that claims majority support. In general, the salient issues were brought into focus in the seminal studies of Noth and Plöger. The former recognized that prayers were important rhetorical devices to “enliven and develop the details” of Chr’s story, but he discerned no structural significance in their overall distribution within the composition.36 Plöger disagreed, and suggested that in at least some cases Chr had strategically placed prayers at certain points in order to structure the presentation in intentional ways.37

II Kgs 18:1–6), not on the confrontation with Sennacherib (II Chr 32; cf. II Kgs 18:13–20:21). In this context, perhaps the omission of the recorded prayers marks Chr’s desire to minimize the mediatorial role accorded to the prophet Isaiah in the source texts (cf. Dillard, 2 Chronicles, 255–256; Japhet, I and II Chronicles, 989). 35 On the function of historical narratives in presenting and promoting a world-view, see R. K. Duke, “A Model for a Theology of Biblical Historical Narratives: Proposed and Demonstrated with the Books of Chronicles,” in M. P. Graham, W. P. Brown, and J. K. Kuan, eds., History and Interpretation: Essays in Honour of John H. Hayes (JSOTSup, 173; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993), 65–73; cf. Van Seters, In Search of History, 4–5. 36  Noth, The Chronicler’s History, 76. See further, 80–81. 37  Although he did not pursue the matter in detail, Plöger noted that the prayers in I Chr 17:17–29 and I Chr 29:10–19 served as a structural frame for Chr’s presentation of David’s participation in the building of the temple (“Reden und Gebete,” 45).

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Recent efforts have generally followed the leads of Noth and Plöger. Some have viewed prayers as important literary and/or theological devices, but find no governing strategy behind their placement within the composition.38 Others have seen prayers not only as rhetorical devices but also as important structuring vehicles within the overall presentation.39 Although these studies do not result in a consensus about Chr’s use of prayer, they do suggest important avenues for exploration. I will seek to incorporate these into several observations that reflect the emphases of this study and that may in turn invite further reflection. First, the distribution of prayers in Chronicles follows the general compositional priorities that define the books as a whole. Chronicles presents the story of Israel from Adam to the edict of Cyrus in 65 chapters. The presentation is divided unequally into three major sections: I Chronicles 1–9, the genealogies from Adam to Saul, comprises roughly 14 percent of the whole; I Chronicles 10–II Chronicles 9, the reigns of David and Solomon, roughly 43 percent of the whole; and II Chronicles 10–36, post-Solomonic kings, 40 percent of the total composition. Thus, in the account of the history of Israel from the beginnings of humankind to roughly 538 bce, Chr singles out the reigns of David and Solomon for particular emphasis. Moreover, within the focus on David–Solomon, Chr is keenly concerned with the preparation and building of the temple: 11 of the 19 chapters about David (I Chronicles 13–16; 21–29) and approximately six of the nine chapters about Solomon (II Chr 2:1–7:22) are focused on just this concern.40 Chr’s arrangement reinforces the impression that everything prior to DavidSolomon and the temple is prolegomena; everything that follows is the result or the continuation of this critical period in Israel’s history. The recorded prayers in Chronicles are distributed in keeping with these compositional priorities. As previously noted, 11 of the 17 prayers (roughly 65 percent) occur in the chapters dealing with David-Solomon. David receives particular emphasis by being allotted five prayers, more than any other person in Chronicles. Outside the David–Solomon account, there is one prayer recorded in the genealogy section and four (including one psalmic refrain) in the post-Solomonic period. Chr thus locates prayer as one especially important feature in what for 38  Cf. Throntveit, When Kings Speak, 51–75; Japhet, I and II Chronicles, 36–38; R. K.  Duke, The Persuasive Appeal of the Chronicler: A Rhetorical Analysis (JSOTSup, 88; Sheffield: Almond Press, 1990), 50. 39  R. L. Pratt has argued that royal prayers are a structural key to Chr’s concern for the Jerusalem cult, and specifically with Zerubbabel’s program to rebuild the temple (“Royal Prayer and the Chronicler’s Program” [ThD dissertation, Harvard University, 1987], 271–327). Pratt’s thesis will not likely gain widespread support, if only because most will not adopt such an early dating of Chronicles to a period before the completion of the second temple. In this connection W. Riley, with a majority of scholars, situates Chr’s work in the late Persian period and also notes the role of prayer in relation to Chr’s concern for cultic faithfulness (King and Cultus: Worship and the Reinterpretation of History [JSOTSup, 160; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993]). 40  Cf. Riley, King and Cultus, 54–66, 76–87.

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him is the most critical period in Israel’s history, the period singularly defined by David and Solomon and the building of the temple. Chr’s decision to prioritize the events of Israel’s history around David– Solomon and the temple recalls the similar priorities in the final arrangement of the Pentateuch. In this account of Israel’s story from creation to the plains of Moab, roughly 42 percent of the total is allotted to the Sinai pericope (Exodus 19–Numbers 10).41 From the Torah’s perspective, the 11-month sojourn at Sinai under the leadership of Moses is constitutive for Israel’s formation as both a covenant community (Exodus 19–24) and a worshipping community (Exodus 25–31; 35–40; Leviticus 1–27). Everything that precedes Sinai is important preparation for this formative encounter with God. Everything that follows Sinai focuses on the community’s successes and failures in realizing its charter commission to become a “priestly kingdom and a holy nation” (Exod 19:6). In sum, the priorities of Chr and of the Pentateuch invite readers to understand that the temple and worship are at the center of Israel’s most formative experiences in history.42 Second, if the distribution of prayers in Chronicles accords with a general emphasis on David-Solomon and the temple, then we may probe further to see if there is special significance in the placement of these prayers within the compositional whole. We may begin by observing that the prayers are located at the beginning (genealogy), middle (David-Solomon), and end (post-Solomon) of Chr’s history. From a structural standpoint, these prayers function in their respective contexts (1) to establish the vision of the world in which Chr’s history has meaning; (2) to facilitate the description of how this vision is implemented in the concrete world of David and Solomon; and (3) to suggest how this vision may be sustained in the period after Solomon. Each of these functions may be elaborated briefly as follows. The genealogies in I Chronicles 1–9 serve as the “genesis” of Chr’s history. Much as in the book of Genesis, these lists trace the story of Israel from Adam to the present (post-exilic) community in Jerusalem. Woven into these genealogical lists, however, are a number of statements that assert that Israel’s history cannot be recorded simply as a matter of biological procreation. In this history God is an active participant, intervening on behalf of those who call out in trust (e. g., I Chr 5:20), delivering up to punishment or death those who are unfaithful (for example, 2:3; 5:25–26; 9:1). 41 Cf. R. P. Knierim, “The Composition of the Pentateuch,” in K. H. Richards, ed., Society of Biblical Literature 1985 Seminar Papers (SBLSP, 24; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1985), 396. 42  On this point, see J. Blenkinsopp’s observations concerning the structural emphases in the Pentateuch. In the pentadic arrangement of the final composition, it is Leviticus that stands as the central panel, thus emphasizing worship as the goal of creation. The Pentateuch: An Introduction to the First Five Books of the Bible (ABRL; New York: Doubleday, 1992), 47,221, et passim.

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Among these evaluative insertions into the genealogies is the recorded prayer in I Chr. 4:10. An ancestor of Judah, named Jabez (v. 9: yaʿbēṣ) because his mother bore him in pain (bĕʿōṣeb), prays to God that the destiny portended in his name might be averted (v. 10: “so as not to hurt me [ʿoṣbî’]”). God responds positively. Whether this account about Jabez, who is otherwise unknown in the Judean genealogy, derives from some historical source or is the creation of Chr, it serves Chr’s larger interests well. The story of Jabez asserts that one who felt doomed to misery reversed his fortunes by praying to God. It is the world of Jabez, the world where prayer connects one to God in ways that change life against all odds, that is the subject of Chr’s history.43 The world in which prayer plays such a vital role takes on concrete shape for Chr in the history of David and Solomon. An underlying unity in the DavidSolomon materials has often been noted, especially with respect to their common focus on the construction of the temple in Jerusalem.44 Within this context, it may be noted further that Chr has surrounded the Davidic-Solomonic concern for the temple with the most concentrated collection of prayers in the entire composition. The diagram below illustrates this more clearly. David Solomon I Chr 14:10

II Chr 1:8–10

16:8–36 (psalmic) 5:13 (psalmic) Temple 17:16–27 (cf. 7:3,6) (II Chr 2:1–5:1) 21:8,17 1 Chr 29:10–19

II Chr 6:14–42

In the placement of these prayers Chr has drawn a parallel between David’s preparations to build the temple and Solomon’s faithful completion of David’s initiatives. David’s first act after his accession is to initiate the retrieval of the ark (I Chr 13:1–14), the successful completion of which comes only after his 43  Cf. Duke, Persuasive Appeal, 54–56. See further W. L. Osborne, who suggests that Chr’s purpose in 1 Chronicles 4 is to present the whole tribe of Judah in a series of concentric circles, such that the innermost assume first responsibilities for the protection of the whole. Such an arrangement, he suggests, is like a tribal “alarm system” (“The Genealogies of 1 Chronicles 1–9” [PhD dissertation, Dropsie University, 1979], 245–247). It is interesting that in such an arrangement, the clan of Hur (Jabez) is the second group mentioned. 44 Cf. R. L. Braun, “Solomonic Apologetic in Chronicles,” JBL 92 (1973), 503–516; idem, “Solomon, the Chosen Temple Builder: The Significance of 1 Chronicles 22, 28, and 29 for the Theology of Chronicles,” JBL 95 (1976), 581–590. See further P. Welten, who has suggested that Chr’s presentation of David-Solomon may be viewed in essence as a theological elaboration of Ps. 132:1 (“Lade-Temple-Jerusalem: Zur Theologie der Chronikbücher,” in A. H.J, Gunneweg and O. Kaiser, eds., Textgemäss: Aufsätze und Beiträge zur Hermeneutik des Alten Testament. Eine Festschrift für E. Würthwein [Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1979], 181).

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first recorded prayer for divine assistance (I Chr 14:10). David’s final act of preparation for the temple is the prayer of blessing and benediction in I Chr 29:10–19. Similarly, Solomon’s first act as king is to seek the tent of meeting (II Chr 1:2–6), in association with which his first prayer petitions God for divine assistance in accomplishing the task at hand. Following the completion of the temple, Solomon brings his official duties to a close, like his father David before him, with a prayer of doxology and petition (II Chr 6:14–42). It may be recalled from the review of Chr’s exegetical techniques that these prayers appear to be intentionally positioned and shaped for these strategic places in the narrative. Through recontextualizing (I Chr 14:10; II Chr 1:8–10), editing (II Chr 6:14–42), and composing (I Chr 29:10–19), Chr has assigned a series of royal prayers a major role in the successful completion of the temple. Inasmuch as the reigns of David and Solomon are defined by their commitment to rebuilding the temple, their record of faithful prayer emerges as a principal factor in their success.45 If the prayer of Jabez articulates the primordial vision for the world the Chr wishes to impart, and the prayers of David-Solomon concretize this vision in the building of the temple, then it remains for those in the post-Solomonic period to sustain the vision and insure its legacy to subsequent generations. From Chr’s perspective the kings who follow Solomon succeed or fail in direct proportion to their faithfulness to God. Such faithfulness is recorded in a variety of ways, but particularly in relation to the king’s responsibility to seek God. Indeed, the only kings in the post-Solomonic era who are granted prosperity and success are those who faithfully seek (drš) God: Asa (II Chr 14:6), Uzziah (II Chr 26:5), Jehoshaphat (II Chr 20:3), and Hezekiah (II Chr 31:21).46 Within this context the prayers assigned to Asa, Jehoshaphat, and Hezekiah underscore the piety of these kings, which Chr has woven into their overall portraits. They become models of faithfulness for the community, and their prayers, like those of David and Solomon before them, a testimony to the royal task par excellence.47 45 It is also likely that Chr’s handling of these prayers is designed to do more than simply mark the beginning and ending of the temple’s construction. It is interesting to speculate on the significance of the several psalmic pieces woven into this pericope. Japhet suggests that the association of psalmody with levitical singers and prayers with lay people (including the king) reflects the liturgical practice in the Second Temple(I and II Chronicles, e. g., 504, 601). Beyond this, Chr may also be addressing a dispute about the relationship between the sacrificial cult, music, and prayer. By incorporating aspects of all three liturgical practices in the Davidic-Solomonic temple, Chr may be seeking to resolve and/or authorize the contemporary practice. On these matters, see further Watts, Psalm and Story, 164–168. 46 On the connection between “seeking God” and prosperity and success (ṣlḥ) see Welten (Geschichte und Geschichtsdarstellung, 17–18, 50–51, et passim). On the theme “seeking God” generally, see G. E. Schaefer, “The Significance of Seeking God in the Purpose of the Chronicler” (ThD dissertation, Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, 1972); C. T. Begg, “‘Seeking Yahweh’ and the Purpose of Chronicles,” LS 9 (1982), 128–141. 47  Cf. Riley (King and Cultus,167), who conceives the king’s primary task as cultic faithfulness.

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Finally, we may compare Chr’s compositional priorities with the emphases of the source material in Samuel-Kings. DtrH assigns a variety of responsibilities to the king in the general areas of political, economic, and religious administration. This same range of responsibilities is present in Chronicles, but with a decided emphasis on the king’s religious duties, as is widely recognized.48 This is particularly clear in Chr’s emphasis on the king’s role in establishing and maintaining temple worship. The construction and maintenance of the temple is clearly important in DtrH also, but it is presented with a surrounding hue of polemic. David desires to build a temple but is forbidden to do so by Nathan the prophet, herald of the prophetic opposition to the monarchy that repeatedly surfaces in this account. Solomon builds the temple, but the construction is viewed as an exceedingly costly enterprise, both economically and politically. On the one hand it leaves Solomon with such debt he must hand over to Hiram twenty cities in Galilee as payment (I Kgs 9:10–11). On the other, harsh labor practices in the construction of the temple plant the seeds for a rebellion against Solomon’s successor, which ultimately fractures the kingdom (I Kgs 12:1–19). Add to these notes the fact that the Kings account provides comparatively little information about the structural details of the temple or the worship that takes place there, and one is tempted to conclude that DtrH has exercised a measure of self-imposed censorship in limiting the monarchy’s role in relation to the temple.49 In Chronicles the picture is very different. Not only does Chr structure the presentation of David-Solomon to focus on the temple, he also provides a wealth of new information that expands upon the monarchy’s important role in the maintenance of religious life. Like Moses, David receives a plan (tabnît) from God for the design of the holy place and its furnishings (I Chr 28:11–19; cf. Exod 25:9). Moreover, David oversees the collection of the building materials, recruits the workers (cf. I Chronicles 22), and organizes the temple personnel (cf. I Chronicles. 23–26). As Joshua succeeds Moses and completes what he had initiated, so  – Chr suggests  – Solomon succeeds David50 and places the construction of the temple at the center of his royal responsibilities.51

48  For the general discussion, see Riley (King and Cultus,157–168), who notes in this connection that Chr’s portrayal of kingship as “cultic vocation” is consonant with ancient Near Eastern ideology. See further A. S. Kapelrud, “Temple Building, a Task for Gods and Kings,” Or 32 (1963), 56–62. 49  Cf. M. Barker, The Gate of Heaven: The History and Symbolism of the Temple in Jerusalem (London: SPCK, 1991), 20–22. 50  On Moses-Joshua as a paradigm for David-Solomon, see Braun, “Solomon, the Chosen Builder,” 586–588; H. G. M. Williamson, “The Accession of Solomon in the Books of Chronicles,” VT 26 (1976), 351–356; idem, 1 and 2 Chronicles, 155–156; Dillard, 2 Chronicles, 3–4. 51  For the chiastic arrangement of 2 Chronicles 1–9 that places the temple at the center of the Solomon materials, see Dillard, 2 Chronicles, 5–7.

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From a theological perspective, the books of Chronicles suggest that some­ thing was lacking in the Samuel-Kings account of Israel’s royal history. To recall the LXX’s title for these books, without the negative connotations often associated with this designation, Chronicles is a record of the “things left out” (paralipomena). From Chr’s perspective, what was omitted, but has now been provided, has to do principally with God’s ‘plan’ for worship as the center of Israel’s identity and mission. The plan was present with Moses, whose leadership at Sinai made it the central platform in the constitution of a covenant people. And the plan was present in Zion, with David and Solomon who centered the kingdom on the temple and its constant summons to seek God with wholehearted devotion.52 In this view of Israel’s story, Chr proposes that it is God’s plan, not mere historical contingency, that calls Israel into meaningful existence. It is God’s plan that determines history, not vice versa.53 From this perspective, Chr assigns an important role to prayer as one of the principal acts of piety that secures and sustains God’s vision of Israel’s destiny. Chr articulates the charter for Israel’s future most succinctly in II Chron. 7.14: “If my people who are called by my name humble themselves, pray, seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin and heal their land.”54 With the assurance of such a vision, sustained and enlivened with such fervent prayer, Chr’s history, like all good histories, promotes a truth that transcends historical data: “Israel may yet be what it is.”55

IV. Prayer as Truth and Fiction I conclude with a brief reflection on Mark Twain’s proposal that in real life “you can’t pray a lie.” For Huck Finn the truth of this observation is clear. One cannot mouth words to God that feign truth but harbor lies. Huck will not return Jim to slavery, no matter the laws of the land. Pray as he might, he cannot pray against his heart’s convictions. Biblical narrators share Twain’s sense of propriety where prayers are concerned, for by and large they show no interest in inventing prayers that could not or would not be comprehended as both appropriate and true to the circum52  Cf. S. Japhet, The Ideology of the Book of Chronicles and its Place in Biblical Thought (BEATAJ, 9; Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 1989), 247–265. 53  Japhet, Ideology, 230–232. 54 On the importance of this text for Chr’s theology, particularly with respect to the theme of retribution, see H. G. M. Williamson, “Eschatology in Chronicles,” TynBul 28 (1977), 149–154; idem, 1 and 2 Chronicles, 30–33, 225–226; Dillard, 2 Chronicles, 76–81. 55  I take this suggestive quote from S. J. De Vries, who applies it to Chronicles in a somewhat different, though not unrelated, way than I have done: 1 and 2 Chronicles (FOTL 11; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1989), 20.

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stances they report.56 But they do report prayers, and there is no measure of historical sophistication that can verify beyond a doubt that the words they have recorded are precisely the words as they were uttered. They do create prayers, sometimes, so far as our sources allow us to see, out of whole cloth. But the prayers of the Bible are not designed to mislead or distort. Instead, they are modeled on language and practice that faithfully mirror the actual experience of people. As such they are designed to communicate a truth about what can and should transpire in the discourse between heaven and earth. This truth is consistent with historical occurrence, but beyond the reach of historical verification. It may be fiction, but it is no lie. If Chr felt compelled to defend himself against Twain’s observation, he might well respond with something like the following, “Yes, you can’t pray a lie, and you can’t tell the truth about history without (sometimes composing) a prayer.”

56  For cases where biblical narrators use prayer to caricature or parody a person’s status, see Balentine, Prayer in the Hebrew Bible, 64–79. In such cases it is the very incongruity between the piety expressed in the prayer and the actions of the prayer to which the narrator wishes to call attention.

IV. Preaching and Praying the Prayers of the Hebrew Bible

12. Preaching the Prayers of the Old Testament When the community of faith gathers for worship, the sanctuary fills with persons who bring a myriad of hurts and hopes before the altar. The strong and the weak are there, each bearing their victories and their defeats; the lovely and the lonely are there, each seeking a place in the fellowship of God; those brimming with faith are there, sharing a pew with someone broken by doubts and fears. The preacher who commits to sharing fully in life of the congregation will commit, therefore, to a ministry of proclamation that invites the whole body to hear their names being called.1 To each and all the message will regularly extend both permission and invitation: permission to be fully human before God; invitation to yield both the celebration and the sorrow of life to the transforming graces of God. This message is especially appropriate for the Lenten season as Christians gather to reflect on the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. The passion narratives of course provide the distinctive Christian emphases for the Lenten season. But close attention to the Gospels’ presentation of Jesus makes clear that Jesus himself understood his passion in the context of a larger story which is indispensable for the church’s message. Jesus’ cry from the cross – “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” – is a quotation from Psalm 22 (Mark 15:34; Matt 27:46). It is a quotation that signals more than simply Jesus’ knowledge of a particular psalm. With his use of a typical prayer from the Old Testament lament tradition, Jesus enters fully into both the life and liturgy of his Jewish forebears. Jesus’ entry into this world, especially as modelled by his appropriation of Psalm 22, may serve as an important paradigm for preaching the prayers of the Old Testament during the Lenten season.2

1  On preaching that seeks to gather and name the whole congregation, especially the wounded, see Paul D. Duke, “The Pastoral-Liturgical Context of Preaching to Pain: The Preacher as Shepherd,” in David Nelson Duke, Paul D. Duke, Anguish and the Word. Preaching That Touches Pain (Greenville: Smyth and Helwys, 1992), 3–20. 2  A number of very helpful studies explore the importance of Psalm 22 as hermeneutical context for the passion of Jesus. Particularly instructive are J. Reumann, “Psalm 22 at the Cross: Lament and Thanksgiving for Jesus Christ,” Interpretation 28 (1074), 39–58; J. L. Mays, “Prayer and Christology: Psalm 22 as Perspective on the Passion,” Theology Today 42 (1985), 322–331; P. D. Miller, Jr., Interpreting the Psalms (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986), 100–111.

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I. Psalm 22 as Paradigm for the Lenten Journey Lent summons the church to a special season of reflection and proclamation. It is a summons to prepare not only for Easter but also for Holy Week; to appropriate not only the “Hallelujah!” that reverberates off the walls of an empty tomb, but also the anguished cry “My God, my God why?” that sunders the darkness of Golgotha. During Lent a primary responsibility of the church is to proclaim the truth that both the celebration and the cry are authentic and faithful responses to life in the shadows of the cross. The prayers of the Old Testament represent an important, though much neglected, resource for both the theology and the proclamation of Lent.3 Perhaps the most cultivated biblical resources for our preaching during this season, the prophets and the evangelists, convey God’s intentions for humanity through authoritative exhortations and admonitions. Prayers offer a different vantage point. As human discourse directed to God, prayers are revealing of what it means to be in relationship with God from the human perspective. Particularly during the Lenten season, when liturgical emphases encourage reflection on the place of suffering and joy in the life of faith, Old Testament prayers of lament and praise, the two principal types of prayer attested in the Old Testament, can play a vital role in gathering the community. These prayers assert that both the blessed and the broken have a voice before God. One entry into these prayers is through Psalm 22, a psalm that combines in one prayer an extended lamentation (vv. 1–21) and a song of praise (vv. 22–31). Although the psalm’s opening cry of distress, quoted by Jesus on the cross, is traditionally included in the lectionary readings for Good Friday, the structure of the psalm suggests that the language of lament and praise are not to be understood apart from one another. This joining of lament and praise in a single offering of public worship is a peculiarly appropriate paradigm for proclamation that seeks to gather both the broken and the blessed in a common celebration. The preacher searching for a textual focal point for a series of Lenten sermons could do no better than to return again and again to the shrill question that introduces and informs the lamentation of Ps 22:1–21: “My God, my God why…?” At the outset a word about the psalm’s movement towards praise in vv. 22–31 will be instructive, for this will help orient listeners to the truth that lamentation is a journey towards God, not a final destination. But it can be equally comforting to proclaim that lamentation is important in itself as part of the dialogue with God. A suggestive signal of lament’s importance is the fact that the cry of distress in Psalm 22 is sustained through 21 verses. This portrait of suffering in extremis 3   On the theology of Old Testament prayer and its importance for the church see S. E.  Balentine, Prayer in the Hebrew Bible: The Drama of Divine Human Dialogue (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1993), 260–295.

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invites both preacher and parish to reflect on the truth that the root causes of lamentation can rarely, if ever, be easily dismissed or glibly resolved. Some life experiences simply do not permit a quick move to praise: their disruption of our stability is too extensive; their assault on what is precious to us is too threatening; the doubt and the anger that follows in their wake is too overwhelming. Neither life nor liturgy can continue with business as usual. Psalm 22 explores this deep and threatening realm of suffering, in typical Hebraic fashion, by linking the suppliant’s cry for help to three interrelated causes: God is negligent (vv. 1–2); others have ridiculed and attacked without mercy (vv. 6–8, 12–13, 16–18); and the suffering one, in the face of God’s abandonment and public humiliation, disintegrates from life to death (vv. 14–15).4 Each of these sources of despair for the community of faith – God’s absence, society’s abuse and abandonment, and personal anguish – may invite a sermon in itself, each one prefaced by the relentless question of the psalmist, “My God, my God, why?” Indeed, the preacher may find it instructive to show that the cry for help in Psalm 22 is but one example of the larger genre of lament in the Old Testament. A great number of prayers in the Old Testament proclaim the truth that even the worst in life can be held up to God. One might turn to the numerous prayers that raise hard questions about God’s absence from the community of faith (e. g., Exod 32:11–14; Jer 14:7–9; Job 23:1–17; Psalm 74; Lamentation 1; especially vv. 2, 7, 17, 21; 5:20–24).5 One might explore the sense of persecution and alienation that finds expression in prayers such as Num 11:11–15, Jer 11:18–21, 15:15–18, Job 10:1–22, or Psalms 69 and 109. Or one might track the ebb and flow of human anguish before God with commentary provided by prayers such as Psalms 9–10, 42–43, and 88. Each of these extended probes into the “Why?” questions generated by Psalm 22 needs to be mindful of two things. First, such laments are typically interlaced with petitions.6 The cry of distress that sustains Ps 22:1–21, for example, contains two petitions, v. 11 and vv. 19–21, both reiterating the suppliant’s need of and trust in God’s abiding presence. In the midst of proclaiming the truth of lamentation, the minister will strive not to plunge either the weak or the strong recklessly into despair. It is the petition that links lament with the resolute hope that God will hear and act. The preacher who stays closest to the biblical witness is the one who 4  C. Westermann, Praise and Lament in the Psalms (Atlanta: John Knox, 1981), 169–172, has shown that in the Old Testament the act of lamentation is characterized typically by three subjects: God, others, and self. 5 On God’s absence and its consequences for faith see S. Terrien, The Elusive Presence (New York: Harper and Row, 1978), S. E. Balentine, The Hidden God: The Hiding of the Face of God in the Old Testament (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983), G. T. Milazzo, The Protest and the Silence. Suffering, Death, and Biblical Theology (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992). 6  For the structural and theological significance of petition in the movement from lament to praise see especially the seminal work of C. Westermann, Praise and Lament in the Psalms (Atlanta: John Knox, 1981), 259–280.

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guides the congregation gathered in lament to pray without ceasing “O Lord, do not be far away! O my help, come quickly to my aid!” (Ps 22:19). At the same time, if our proclamation of lament is to be true to the biblical pattern, we must resist the easy exit from sorrow to joy. Again Psalm 22 is instructive. Lament persists throughout vv. 1–21. Praise sounds forth in vv. 22–31. It is suggestive to consider, however, that at the critical juncture between v. 21 and v. 227 lament enters into what E. Davis has aptly called “a space empty of meaningful language.”8 Petitions have been laid at the altar, the cry of pain has gone forth. Will there be new words or only sustained silence?9 The season of Lent is a time for pondering the interval represented in the space between v. 21 and v. 22. We should not glibly proclaim that the transition from lament to praise is either automatic or immediate. As part of the preparation for Good Friday, the minister may find it instructive to lead the congregation more deeply into the dark recesses of the passage from lament to praise. Psalm 88, a lament that focuses unrelentingly on the silence of God and the darkness of the journey of faith, is a good text for inviting entry fully into the anguish of Golgotha. It insists that the world of faith can be a world where there are no answers; that sometimes life feels more like death, and God seems more absent than present. Those who have cried out to God (v. 1), only to be enveloped in darkness (v. 18), will need little more to hear their names being called than the vivid description that comes in Ps 88:4–5: I am counted among those who go down to the pit;    I am like those who have no help, like those forsaken among the dead,    like the slain that lie in the grave, like those whom you remember no more,    for they are cut off from your hand.

7 The shift from lament to praise likely begins in the second half of v. 21, which in the Hebrew text (v. 22) finishes with a verb that normally means “you have answered me.” This text suggests that a change has occurred in the suppliant’s condition as a result of having received (or having been assured of receiving) an answer from God. Most modem translations, however, follow the Septuagint and emend the Hebrew verb to a noun form meaning “my poor afflicted being” (e. g., REB: “Save me from the lion’s mouth, this poor body from the horns of the wild ox”). 8  E. Davis, “Exploring the Limits: Form and Function in Psalm 22,” JSOT 53 (1992), 99. 9 It is both commonplace and judicious to focus on repentance during the season of Lent. Although I would not wish to minimize the importance of the confession of sin for this or any other season, it is instructive to note that in Psalm 22 there is no mention of sin as being the cause of distress. Instead of confession, this prayer shifts responsibility for suffering to God: “you (God) have laid me in the dust of death” (v. 15). The occasion for the lament is the question “Why?” (v. 1, lāmâ), a question that in the Old Testament is characteristically loaded with protest and accusation. If indeed we are to know Jesus as one who enters fully into the human experience, then Jesus’ use of lament should not be regarded by us as inappropriate.

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Those who may be gathered up by this lamentation, however, will also be able to identify with this pray-er’s insistence that at even in the depths of silence and darkness, the cry for help is a resolute act of faith (cf. vv. 1–2, 9, 13).10 Psalm 22 is good text for Lent because it insists that lament is a persistent and necessary practice of faith in the journey with God. But this prayer is equally important as a paradigm for our preaching because it does not end with lament. Verses 22–31 trace the transition out of lament into praise. The movement is accomplished in two stages. First the afflicted one celebrates deliverance by offering thanksgiving in the midst of the community of faith (vv. 22–26). This one has travelled the hard path that moves from the silence of God (v. 2) to dialogue with God (v. 24); from public scorn and humiliation (v. 6) to fellowship and fraternity in the body of faith (v. 22); and from the fear of death (vv. 14–18) to the hope for an enduring life (v. 26). Verses 27–31 signal a second move in the journey from lament to praise. Thanksgiving is never a private affair, never a celebration restricted to the “brothers and sisters in the midst of the congregation” (v. 22). Rather, it is an assertion of faith in the abiding presence of God that provides the basis and the substance for praise that extends to the “ends of the earth” (v. 27). Such praise serves as proclamation, not only for those who have directly experienced its antecedent causes, but also for future generations yet unborn (v. 30), for whom memory will serve as testimony. To all who are tempted by the hard realities of life to end their journey in lamentation, Psalm 22 marshals the case for the most important confession and the most fervent hope of all: “the Lord has acted” (v. 31). Just as it is useful to show that the cry for help in Ps. 22:1–21 is an example of the larger genre of lament in the Old Testament, so it can be instructive to relate vv. 22–31 to the wider context of Old Testament thanksgiving and praise. Verses 22–26 comprise a typical thanksgiving prayer. These verses assume a setting in which an individual or a community comes to the sanctuary to offer thanks because God has answered a cry for help. A number of thanksgiving psalms expand on the poetic imagery of Psalm 22 (e. g., Psalms 30, 34, 65). It is helpful to remember, however, that in Israel thanksgiving is almost always particularized in a human face and a specific life situation. Thus in providing commentary on Ps 22:22–26, the preacher may wish to refer to texts which illustrate how this standard liturgical rhetoric can be appropriated by specific individuals in their own life circumstances. For example, for Hannah (I Sam 2:1–10) the fulfillment of motherhood is cause to give thanks; for Hezekiah (Isa 38:9–20; cf. II Kings 20) it is the restoration of health; for Jonah (Jonah 2:1–9) it is deliverance from the snares of death. When the minister summons the congregation to offer thanks for God’s gracious acts, these Old Testament models  Cf. W. Brueggemann, The Message of the Psalms (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1984), 78–81.

10

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can constructively shape the worship experience by inviting the community to search their own stories for concrete reasons to rejoice.11 While verses 22–26 comprise a typical song of thanksgiving, verses 27–31 expand to a hymn of praise that is also typical in Hebraic prayer. Praise may begin with thanksgiving for specific experiences of God’s grace, but in the Old Testament praise can rarely, if ever, be contained by such limited preoccupations. Praise is adoration of God. It is occasioned not by the satisfaction of human needs but by the recognition of divine character. It is a response to God that can neither be confined by a set liturgical practice nor fully expressed by a standardized rhetoric. In Psalm 22, the compulsion to praise is portrayed as being so great as to extend even to the realm of the dead (v. 29). Although such a statement flies in the face of most Hebrew thinking about life after death, it is nevertheless a splendid example of the exuberance of praise that inevitably explodes all traditional boundaries. Outside Psalm 22 such extravagance informs the poetic vision of a number of prayers of praise. In Psalm 136, for example, Israel’s narration of world history from creation to settlement in Canaan is interrupted 26 times by the repeating doxology “for his steadfast love endures forever,” as if to suggest that not one incident can be reported without pausing to offer praise to God; in Psalm 146 a series of participial clauses (vv. 6–9) heap divine attribute upon attribute in explication of the single summons “Hallelujah!” that governs the beginning and the ending of the prayer; in Psalm 150 the summons to shout “Hallelujah!” which repeats 12 times in the space of six verses, proclaims in itself the preoccupation of “everything that breathes” (v. 6). I have suggested that Psalm 22 may serve as an important paradigm for our Lenten preaching. It bears witness to both the persistence and necessity of lament (v. 1: “My God, my God, why?”) and the authentic basis for thanksgiving (v. 24: “he did not hide his face from me, but heard when I cried to him”). It summons the community beyond private gratitude to the proclamation of praise that invites all the world to “tum to the Lord,” not only with the adoration of worship (v. 27), but also with a ministry of service (v. 30). The pedagogical dividend of focusing on Psalm 22 is this prayer’s assertion, in keeping with the larger biblical story which it reflects, that both lament and praise define the journey towards God. The journey is not marked exclusively either by the one or the other, but rather reaches its most critical and important juncture at the pained yet expectant intersection of lament and praise. Neither lamentation that cannot persist in hope, nor hope that is uninformed by despair sufficiently embody the biblical witness to life in relationship with God. 11  On the importance of the link between praise and human story see Balentine, Prayer in the Hebrew Bible, 199–224; cf. W. Brueggemann, Israel’s Praise: Doxology Against Idolatry and Ideology (Atlanta: John Knox, 1988).

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II. Proclaiming the Truth of Lament and Praise Jesus’ self-identification with the words of Psalm 22 invites us to view the Hebraic tradition of prayer as the context for interpreting his life and death. By entering fully into Israel’s world of lament and praise, Jesus shows anew that God knows the human experiences of joy and suffering from the inside. As J. Barton has put it in his Lenten meditations, God knows what it is like to hang between these two poles, and to experience joy not as infinite serenity but as a fierce happiness snatched from the jaws of darkness and despair.12

Faith’s suspension between the two poles of suffering and joy is both the summons and the celebration of the Lenten proclamation. It is a proclamation rooted in the life and faith of Israel, a proclamation embodied in the life and ministry of Jesus. I know of no more compelling commentary on the central truth of this proclamation than that construed by Wallace Stegner in Crossing to Safety. In a scene from near the end of the book, Sally is in the tiny chapel in Borgo San Sepolcro, staring at Piero della Francesca’s painting of the resurrected Christ. On the left the painting depicts a barren landscape with naked trees reaching toward a darkening sky. To the right the landscape is alive with foliage, human dwellings, and bursts of sunlight. Between these scenes of life and death della Francesca places the resurrected Christ, with one foot still in the tomb, as if still in the act of stepping out. In Christ’s right hand is a staff holding a flag of victory. On his left hand and left foot are the stigmata. His side shows the wound from the soldier’s spear, still dripping drops of blood. Sally’s husband and the friends with whom they are sharing their Italian vacation, have looked casually at the painting and moved on. Sally, however, lingers behind, transfixed by the face of della Francesca’s Christ. Despite the golden halo over Christ’s head and the flag of victory in his hand, his eyes stare into the foreground with a memory of pain, as if to suggest that “if resurrection had taken place, it had not yet been comprehended.”13 Sally’s husband wondered at first what it was about this painting that claimed his wife’s attention. Gazing at her, probed up before this painting on the crutches that had supported her since the childhood bout with polio, his eyes returned again to this face of Christ. Gradually, but with increasing clarity, he saw with Sally the truth that stared at them both in the eyes of this one who until moments ago had been horribly dead. The truth and the promise of the resurrected Christ, he now could see, is that

12  J. Barton, Love Unknown. Meditations on the Death and Resurrection of Jesus (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 1990), 5. 13  W. Stegner, Crossing to Safety (New York: Random House, 1987), 221.

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“those who have been dead understand things that will never be understood by those who have only lived.”14 Such is the substance and the summons of Lenten preaching, the truth about joy and suffering in the life of faith. Only those who have died can understand the fullest dimensions of living. In the life and liturgy of Israel and in the passion of Jesus, the cry of distress and the doxology of praise constitute both the worship of God and the proclamation that extends to the ends of the earth.

 Ibid., 222.

14

13. “Turn, O Lord! How Long?” In an editorial written in the aftermath of yet another Palestinian suicide bomber who had killed innocent people in Jerusalem, S. Boteach strains to find meaning in the conventional observance of Yom Kippur (“Day of Atonement”). As he contemplates the personal and corporate rituals of repentance the Jewish High Holy Days require, he cannot silence questions that the liturgy does not seem prepared to ask. “Is G-d watching all this?” “Can’t G-d prevent it”? “How can He be so silent?” Boteach then recalls the story of the Hasidic master, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev. On the eve of Yom Kippur, as hundreds of people waited for him to begin the Kol Nidre prayer, Rabbi Yitzchak stood silently facing the holy ark, his back to the congregation, for more than two hours. When the people began to grow restless, the rabbi turned to his congregation and explained: I want to bring you into the conversation I was having with G-d. I said to G-d, “I come here before you on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement to ask that You atone for my sins.” But then it suddenly struck me that in the past year, I haven’t brought any plagues upon any part of the world. Nor have I made any woman a widow. Nor have I made any child an orphan. Nor have I caused anyone to go bankrupt and thereby not be able to sustain and support their children. Yet, G-d has done all these things. And then it struck me, why isn’t He coming to ask us for forgiveness. So I said to G-d, “In the past year, I have caused no death. I have brought no plagues upon the world, no earthquakes, no floods. I have made no women widows, no children orphans. G-d, you have done these things, not me! You should be asking forgiveness from me. So I’ll make a deal. You forgive us, we’ll forgive you, and we’ll call it even.”1

“You forgive us, we’ll forgive you, and we’ll call it even.” It is only a story, of course, one of the many delightful, if unsettling, legends of the rabbis. “People of the book,” both Jews and Christians, may easily discount it. At best it is irrelevant; at worst, blasphemous. Either way, we need not bother with it for very long. Or should we? Near the middle of Psalm 90, at the critical turning point between a lament about the sinful and sorry predicament of human beings and a supplication for God’s favor, Moses, the putative speaker of the prayer, speaks these words: “Turn, O Lord! How long? Have compassion on your servants!” (v. 13). The words are jolting. Given the confessed sinfulness of the human condition, there seems no justification for either the imperative or the question. And yet, the words linger as 1  S. Boteach, “Is It Time For God to do Teshuvah?” Tikkun (September-October, 2002), 68–69.

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sacred scripture, as if awaiting, perhaps even inviting, the ruminations of Rabbi Yitzchak. No less a luminary of Israel’s faith than Moses plants the seed for the thought that God may legitimately be questioned, then challenged to turn away from divine decisions that deny future possibilities. Psalm 90 invites the community of faith to ponder its stewardship of Moses’ prayer.

I. Praying Like Moses, “the Man of God” Psalm 90 is the only psalm that is ascribed to Moses. The ascription does not indicate Mosaic authorship, but it is as an important clue for reading this prayer in the context of the stories about Moses in the Pentateuch. Against this interpretive backdrop, the psalm offers an imaginative example of how Moses might have prayed as he endeavored to be faithful to God’s command to lead the people from the bonds of Egyptian oppression to the freedom that awaited them in the land of Canaan. Israel came to understand this deliverance story as torah, the foundational instruction that constantly teaches them who God is and who they are to be as a people entrusted with God’s hopes and expectations. Moses’ prayer belongs to this torah; in essence, Moses’ words to God become God’s words to successive generations of faithful travelers on the road from slavery to freedom. The psalm is a corporate prayer for help, which is composed in three parts. It begins with an assertion of trust in the God whose presence in the world, conveyed through the images of God’s “place” and “time,” is beyond the limits of all human calculation (vv. 1–2). The affirmation signals at the outset that there would be no prayer, no expectation of a hearing, no reason to hope for help, if people did not believe and trust that “God is Lord of the universe.”2 The chiasmus that frames the beginning and ending of these verses underscores this abiding confidence: “Lord, you …(v. 1) … you are God” (v. 2). The second part (vv. 3–12) shifts the focus from the limitless presence and power of God to the transience and tragic vulnerability of mortal human beings. The radical gulf between God and human beings occasions both awe and anxiety. Praise is the joyful response to the God whose “place” in creation is at the beginning point, “before” the mountains, the earth, the world ever existed, the God whose “time” can barely be conceptualized with the words “from everlasting to everlasting.” Praise bleeds into distress at the thought that the gap between Creator and creature may be too great to bridge. The “place” of human beings is ephemeral; we are like a “dream,” a fleeting sensation the mind cannot retrieve; like “grass” that flourishes for a moment, then withers away without a trace. Our “time” is measured in segments of days – “morning” and “evening” (vv. 5–6) – and “years” (v. 9). The number, at best, is seventy or eighty years; whatever the  J. L. Mays, Psalms (Louisville: John Knox Press, 1994), 291.

2

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total, the end comes with a “sigh.” A thousand years may be nothing in God’s time (v. 4); for human beings, a mere fraction of that time seems like endless “toil and trouble” (v. 10). Two aspects of the human condition aggravate the distress. First, the speaker imagines that it is God who “turns humankind back to dust” (v. 3). The Hebrew word for “dust” (dakka’) likely carries a double meaning. It refers to something that has been “crushed” or “pounded,” perhaps painfully so, as in the crushing of testicles (Deut 23:1 [MT 23:2]). Given the imagery in this psalm, the reference may connote the painful weight of time upon human existence.3 Dakka’ also means “contrition,” in which case there may be an echo here of God’s post-Eden disappointment concerning the human experiment (Gen 3:19: “dust [’apar] you are and to dust [’apar] you shall return;” cf. Isa 53:5,10; 57:15). The two meanings may convey a distinction without a difference. In either case, the speaker seems to suggest that turning human beings to dust or contrition through suffering is part of God’s plan.4 Second, the speaker discerns that God equates the toil and trouble of human existence with sin, sin that results in God’s wrath and anger (vv. 7–8,11) and ultimately, death. By the end of the second section of the prayer, the convergence of trust and fear, praise and awe-filled respect, in the presence of God has reached critical mass. Should human beings cling resolutely to hope or yield in despair to lament? The speaker ponders the situation with a question that strains to remain merely rhetorical: “Who can know the power of your anger?” (v. 11). A single petition follows, suspended in the lingering wonderment about what wisdom is available to human beings, given the undeniable limitations of our time and place in this world: “Teach us how to count our days” (v. 12). The final section of the prayer (vv. 13–17) makes a decisive turn toward hope. The initial petition of verse 12 is buttressed with a string of additional supplications: “turn,” “have compassion,” “satisfy us,” “make us glad,” “let your work (and glory) be manifest,” “let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us,” “establish the work of our hands.” Each petition is now invested in the hope that God will transform the days and years of life, however limited they may be, with new possibilities for joy, fulfillment, and most importantly, God’s abiding and sustaining love. Of these supplications, the first two, interrupted by a freighted question – “How long?” (v. 13) – are the most crucial. If God will not hear and respond positively to these pleas, then all that follows is “work without hope,” as Coleridge puts it, like “draw[ing] nectar in a sieve.” The effort, and the faith that endeavors to undergird it, is pointless, for “Hope without an object cannot live.”5 3 J. Clinton McCann, Jr., “The Book of Psalms,” The New Interpreter’s Bible, Vol. IV (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1996), 1042. 4  R. Alter, The Art of Biblical Poetry (New York: Basic Books, 1985), 127. 5  Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “Work Without Hope,” Selected Poems, ed. R. Holmes (London, New York: Penguin Books, 1996), 25.

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There are several places in Psalm 90 where rhetoric and thematic focus invite us to hear this prayer with one ear cocked toward the stories about Moses in the Pentateuch. None is more important than the reverberations between Ps 90:13 and Moses’ prayer in Exod 32:7–14. The prayer occurs at the critical intersection between Israel’s sin in the making of the golden calf (vv. 1–6), which violates the covenant and jeopardizes the future with God, and God’s ultimate, and surprising, decision to renew the covenant (Exodus 34). The sequence of events in Exodus 32–34 represents therefore a moment of high drama in Israel’s journey with God. The people have gathered at Sinai to receive instructions that will enable them to become “a priestly kingdom and a holy nation” (Exod 19:6). Those instructions take the form of covenant commandments for moral and ethical fidelity to God (Exod 20:1–17) and for worship that demonstrates this fidelity, both inside the holy sanctuary (Exodus 25–31, 35–40; Leviticus 1–16) and in the common world outside the sanctuary, where everyday actions must be consonant with the rites and rituals of faith (Leviticus 17–27). In the Torah’s vision of who Israel is to become, all these commandments and instructions are presented as a grand Sabbath-day liturgy, some eleven months long (!), that prepares them for the journey to the promised land of Canaan (Exodus 19-Numbers 10).6 This liturgy, which embodies all the hopes and promises of Israel’s journey in covenant partnership with God, now hangs in the balance. Israel’s future, if it has one, depends in large measure on what Moses will say or do in the tensive interim between sin and judgment … and on how God will respond.7 On first reading, the report in Exodus 32 suggests Moses’ options are severely limited. Israel’s disobedience is clear; so too is God’s decision to punish: “Now let me alone, so that my wrath may burn against them and I may consume them” (v. 10). And yet, the words “let me alone” seem a curious way for God to introduce what by all accounts sounds like a final verdict.8 6  See further, S. E. Balentine, The Torah’s Vision of Worship (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1999), e. g., 59–77. 7  Space permits no more than a note to add that Psalm 90’s position in the canonical arrangement of the Psalter corresponds both structurally and theologically to the tensive interim suggested in Exodus 32. As the editorial center of the Psalms, Psalm 90 stands at the introduction to Book IV (Psalms 90–106). It follows the sustained lament that concludes Book III (Ps 89:38–51), which climaxes in the pained question, “Lord, where is your steadfast love (ḥesed) of old?” (v. 49). Following Moses’ petition in Ps. 90:14, “Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love (ḥesed),” Books IV (Psalms 90–106) and V (107–150) of the Psalter, which contain more than sixty references to God’s ḥesed (see especially Psalm 136, with twenty-six occurrences), suggest that Moses’ appeals to God have been successful. The literature addressing the theological significance of the Psalter’s canonical arrangement is extensive. For a general and accessible introduction, see J. C. McCann, Jr., A Theological Introduction to the Book of Psalms: The Psalms as Torah (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1993). 8  The only other exact occurrence of the phrase is in Judg 16:26, where Samson asks the lad who has led him into Dagon’s temple to leave him alone so that he may feel the pillars of the house. The boy does so, and Samson proceeds to pull down the temple, thus executing his plan

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Why should God need to be left alone? Might Moses say something that changes the decision? If so, why should God resist such input? Would changing the decision compromise God’s character or freedom? Would it compromise God’s justice? And if Moses can contribute nothing that changes the decision, then why should it matter to God what he says or does? The questions become more difficult, not less, if we suspend our knowledge of the end of the story and, for a moment, imagine ourselves to be in Moses’ place. How could we know what God means by the words “let me alone”? To return to the imagery of Psalm 90, if God’s power to mold the world in accord with divine purposes is “from everlasting to everlasting,” and if we are mere mortals whose capacity is for little more than brief lives of “only toil and trouble,” then should we yield to God’s directive, or not? Once more the plaintive question: “Who can know the power of God’s anger?” Moses does not yield to God’s directive. He does not leave God alone. Israel’s future is at stake, so Moses prays for them. Moses believes that the decision God has announced will have important consequences for God, so Moses also prays, in a very real sense, for God. His prayer comprises a number of questions and petitions, two of which repeat in the poetic version of Moses’ prayer in Psalm 90. He implores God to “turn away from” the wrath that fuels God’s assessment of Israel’s failures (swb; Exod 32:12a; Ps 90:13a). And he implores God to “change the mind,” that is, reverse the decision to punish (hinnahem; Exod 32:12b; Ps 90:13b [NRSV translates “have compassion”]). Both petitions employ rhetoric commonly used, especially in prophetic literature, to summon human beings to repent, that is, to turn away from sin and towards God (swb), and to do so with such emotional intensity that the repentance is sustained by both mind and heart (the niphal form of the verb nhm, which is used in Exodus 32 and Psalm 90, means “to feel pain/regret” about something). And both petitions, explicitly so in the Exodus account, make no less a claim on God than on Israel. God has promised a future for these people, a promise that rests on the integrity of God’s own character (Exod 32:13: “you have sworn to them by your own self ”). If God is to be true to God’s own self, then repentance must be an option not only for Israel, but also for God.9 By addressing the language of repentance to God, Moses bets on the possibility that God’s decision to punish Israel is not irrevocable, that God is still open to consider other possibilities, that God will welcome and respond to suggestions from ordinary mortals like Moses. Moses dares to believe that in the moment for revenge against the Philistines. Since the data is so slim, we must be cautious in assuming that the phrase applied to God in Exod 32:10 necessarily means the same thing. Still, the parallels are suggestive: the boy leaves Samson alone, and Samson executes his plan; if Moses leaves God alone, God will presumably execute the planned punishment.  9  On this and other examples of prayers that argue God’s character is part of the calculus of repentance, see further S. E. Balentine, Prayer in the Hebrew Bible: The Drama of DivineHuman Dialogue (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1993), 118–145.

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of decision, when God assesses Israel’s failures and how to respond to them, God does not want to be left alone. In sum, Moses invests in the hope that God’s invitation to covenant relationship means that “God is not the only one who has something important to say.”10 When Moses steps into the breach of brokenness and implores God to change, he risks believing that God prefers the partnership of honest dialogue to the proprietary isolation of making decisions by divine fiat. God’s response to Moses’ prayer indicates that Moses was right: “And the Lord changed his mind about (wayyinnahem) the disaster that he planned to bring on the people” (Exod 32:14). What such a decision means for God is stated clearly by T. Fretheim: In the Old Testament, God never repents of sin; all of God’s actions are considered appropriate and justifiable. Rather, divine repentance is the reversal of a direction or a decision made. But God does repent … of anything in life that makes for less than total well-being, including divine judgment and its effects (cf. Jer. 18:7–10; 26:3, 19).11

Gwendolyn Brooks, another poet who wonders whether God ever “tires of being great in solitude,” offers a suggestive invitation to preachers who may wish to step into the breach and pray like Moses. The question in the last stanza – “who knows?” – like that of the psalmist (v. 11), remains rhetorical … until one risks betting on the answer. I think it must be lonely to be God. Nobody loves a master. No. Despite The bright hosannas, bright clear dear-Lords, and bright Determined reverence of Sunday eyes. Picture Jehovah striding through the hall Of His importance, creatures running out From servant-corners to acclaim, to shout Appreciation of His merit’s glare. But who walks with Him? – dares to take His arm, To slap Him on the shoulder, tweak his ear, Buy Him a Coca-Cola or a beer, Pooh-pooh His politics, call Him a fool? Perhaps – who knows? – He tires of looking down. Those eyes are never lifted. Never straight. Perhaps sometimes He tires of being great In solitude. Without a hand to hold.12  T. Fretheim, Exodus (Louisville: John Knox Press, 1991), 284. 286 (emphasis added). On the theological significance of God’s repentance, see further, T. Fretheim, “The Repentance of God: A Key to Evaluating Old Testament God-Talk,” HBT 10 (1988), 47–70; D. N. Freedman, “Who Asks (or Tells) God to Repent?” Bible Review 1 (Winter, 1985), 56–59. 12 G. Brooks, “The Preacher Ruminates Behind the Sermon,” Selected Poems (New York: Harper and Row, 1944), 8. 10

11 Ibid.,

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II. Living As Mortals, Praying as Servants In his commentary on Psalm 90, Mays offers two observations that deserve careful consideration, if we are to take seriously our stewardship of Moses’ prayer. The first is particular and relates to the ministry of faithful exegesis. Psalm 90 asks to be interpreted as a whole. This means the exegete must work inside the tension between its affirmations of both awe and anxiety, of both its summons to praise the God who is eternal and its candid acknowledgment of the huge gap between God’s eternality and human finitude. In this connection, Mays notes that the congregation in Psalm 90 approaches God with two identities. They pray as “mortals” (vv. 3–12) and as “servants of God” (vv. 13–17; see especially v. 16).13 Praying as mortals is of course simply a fact of the human condition. Our mortality means necessarily that we stand naked and exposed before the Creator of the world; however fervent the piety we profess, it will not and cannot cover the frailties, the failures, and the myriad of fears that define who we are. The meditations of our hearts and the words of our speech are an irremediable mixture of belief and doubt, of trust and bewilderment. Psalm 90 does not ignore this truth. If it did, it would be dishonest. Nor does it concede that this is the whole truth about the human condition. If it did, it would offer little more than a counsel to despair. Instead, it boldly ponders the meaning of this truth in light of a still larger one that broadens the horizon of its full meaning. We pray, by God’s invitation, as servants, which means we pray believing, trusting, and expecting that God’s ultimate will is to fill us each morning, full to over-flowing, as the Hebrew verb suggests, with “steadfast love” (ḥesed; v. 14) that opens new possibilities for mortal existence. The tension between who God is and who we are, between God’s hopes and expectations for our fidelity and our aspirations to be more faithful than we are, is nowhere so great as when we implore God to make changes in order to be true to God’s unchangeable love.14 The second observation Mays offers is more general. It is in fact the first sentence in his treatment of Psalm 90, and as such it targets an important  Mays, Psalms, 291.  On this way of conceptualizing God’s openness to change as consonant with God’s unchangeable objectives, see Fretheim’s lucid statement (Exodus, 287): … human prayer … is honored by God as a contribution to a conversation that has the capacity to change the future directions for God, people, and world. God may well adjust modes and directions (though not ultimate goals) in view of such human responsiveness. This means that there is genuine openness to the future on God’s part, fundamentally in order that God’s salvific will for all might be realized as fully as possible. It is this openness to change that reveals what it is about God that is unchangeable: God’s steadfastness has to do with God’s love; God’s faithfulness has to do with God’s promises; God’s will is for the salvation of all. God will always act, even make changes, in order to be true to these unchangeable ways and to accomplish these unchangeable goals. 13 14

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objective of faithful biblical exegesis: the ministry of theological reflection that issues a summons to appropriation. “Psalm 90,” Mays writes, “has unusual liturgical and theological significance.”15 Mays calls particular attention to the appropriation of this psalm at funerals, when it traditionally comprises one of the biblical readings that ministers use to offer a context for reflecting on the stark and often grievous reality of our inescapable finitude. Other commentators, with an eye toward similar evidence for the relevance of these words, cite the appropriation of Psalm 90 by Isaac Watts (1674–1748) in the familiar hymn “O God, Our Help In Ages Past.” Both examples are instructive, not only for their confirmation of the liturgical and theological significance of these ancient words, but also because they shed light on the selective ways we exegete and appropriate scripture. Standing over the grave of a loved one is clearly a time for taking stock of our mortality. Death is no respecter of persons. Whether it stakes it claim at the end of a long life or intrudes prematurely, its purchase on our existence is undeniable. People of faith are indeed comforted by Psalm 90’s affirmation that death, while common to us all, does not separate us from the love of God who is “from everlasting to everlasting.” To be reminded that we must both “count our days” and “make our days count” is a summons to believe that God desires to “prosper the work of our hands” with sustaining mercies unbound by ordinary time. It is understandable, perhaps, that readings from Psalm 90 at funeral services typically do not include the petitions in verse 13. Still, it should give us pause that most lectionaries turn to this psalm, or portions of it, only at funeral services. The ministries of biblical exegesis and theological reflection should at least invite us to consider praying these words with Moses “inside the claims of time and sorrow,” as Wendell Berry puts it, where spiritual truths must vie for our trust against the hard realities of life. Our use of the psalm, however, suggests that its truths have more influence on our thinking about death than life. We seem to have settled, like Berry’s fictional preacher, Brother Preston, for truths that connect us to the “hereafter” but sever us from the grief and despair of the “here and now.” Sadly, such ministry leaves far too many unaddressed, uncomforted. Berry’s assessment of the choices ministers make is haunting: “This [emphasis on the ‘hereafter’] is the preacher’s hope, and he has moved to it alone.”16 Watts’ paraphrase of Psalm 90 might at first thought appear to offer a counter to the observations above. Surely the wide usage of this great hymn confirms that diverse ecclesiastical communities have long treasured core sentiments in the psalm. It is instructive nonetheless that Watts drew upon only the first five verses of the psalm. His focus on the assurance of God’s presence, in some ways equal in hymnic beauty to the sacred words that inspires it, achieves its impact by omit15 Mays,

Psalms, 289.  W. Berry, A Place on Earth (San Francisco: North Point, 1983), 94.

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ting almost every hint of the psalm’s witness to life’s troubled fragility. Further, apart from the single address in the last line – “Be Thou our guard while life shall last, and our eternal home” – Watts finds no place for any of the petitions to God in third part of the psalm, including the daring imperatives for divine repentance in verse 13 that stand at the top of the list. Perhaps the omission of these verses is nothing more than benign neglect; it might well be evidence of nothing more than the composer’s creative adaptation of ancient Israel’s psalmody. Still, it is hard to discount the likelihood that Watts had theological reasons for selecting some verses of the psalm and ignoring others. In the preface to his 1707 hymnal, Watts concedes that he has no tolerance for “the Jewish and cloudy ideas” of some of the Psalms. He elaborated on this elsewhere by saying that his intention was not to exegete the psalmists but to Christianize them.17 His hope was that “the Jewish Psalmist may plainly appear, and yet leave Judaism behind.” He believed that the “brighter discoveries” of Christianity, exemplified in Christ’s redemption, permitted, indeed required, that he lead “the Psalmist of Israel into the Church of Christ without anything of a Jew about him.”18 To question Watts’ assumptions about what is and is not appropriate for Christian worship implies no denigration of his important contributions to hymnody. It is to say, however, that the theology we sing deserves and requires a ministry of faithful exegesis and faithful appropriation no less critical than that of the sacred scripture that is its source and inspiration. It has for some time now been common in academic circles to criticize the neglect of Israel’s vigorous lament tradition, nowhere so forcefully present as in the Psalms.19 If our use of Psalm 90 is any guide, the impact of these scholarly critiques on the faith community has been minimal, at best. Mays and others may argue that the psalm has “unusual liturgical and theological importance,” but the way we read and sing the psalm’s truths has deviated little from Watts’ eighteenth century interpretation. “Critical” appropriations of the psalm are not much different than non-critical ones. We return again and again to the same affirmation that we should pray as mortals, submissive to God’s eternality, the same neglect

17  “O God, Our Help In Ages Past,” written in 1714, was first published in 1719 in The Psalms of David Imitated in the Language of the New Testament. Watts revised all but 12 of the 150 psalms in order “to make David speak like a Christian.” The twelve psalms omitted (28, 43, 52, 54, 59, 64, 70, 79, 88, 108, 137, 140) include imprecatory psalms and a number of lament psalms. 18 Each of these quotes I take from D. N. Duke’s article, “Giving Voice To Suffering in Worship: A Study in the Theodicies of Hymnody,” Encounter 52 (1991), 265. Duke documents the sources for the citations and provides astute discussion of the assumptions about Christian worship that governed Watts’ hymnody. 19  E. g., C. Westermann, “The Structure and History of the Lament in the Old Testament,” Praise and Lament in the Psalms (Atlanta: John Knox Press, 1981), 165–213; W. Brueggemann, “The Costly Loss of Lament,” JSOT 36 (1986), 57–71; Balentine, Prayer in the Hebrew Bible, 272–295.

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of the invitation to pray as servants, with imperatives and questions that dare to believe God never wants eternality to be inscrutable. Our reluctance to change conventional ways of appropriating the Psalms, to risk praying (and singing) imperatives and questions as servants, has not gone unnoticed by those who sit in the pews. Kathleen Norris speaks for many when she concedes that as a little girl, Church basically meant two things: “dressing up and singing.” The singing came naturally; the dressing up seemed more a formal requirement, “a matter of wearing ‘Sunday best’ and sitting up straight.” She yielded to the Church’s expectations for a while, but as she matured, she found them more and more unsatisfactory. I have lately realized that what went wrong for me in my Christian upbringing is centered in the belief that one had to be dressed up, both outwardly and inwardly, to meet God, the insidious notion that I need to be a firm and even cheerful believer before I dare show my face in ‘His” church. Such a God was of little use to me in adolescence, and like many women of my generation I simply stopped going to church when I could no longer be “good,” which for girls especially meant not breaking rules, not giving voice to anger or resentment, and not complaining.20

It was not until she spent two nine-month sojourns with the Benedictine community of Saint John’s, immersed in the monastic tradition of reading and singing through all of the Psalms every three or four weeks, that she discovered what she had not been permitted to see as a girl. She learned that not only does “God behave differently in the psalms” than the ways Church conventionally allows; God’s servants also behave differently in the Psalms. Doubt, anger, and “bold and incessant questioning of God” were all part of the faith they offered God. She learned of a God and a faith that the creeds and the liturgies of her church had tried, but failed, to censor out of her experience. Once she found permission to stand before the holy ark and speak what she felt, not what she ought to say, as the Duke of Albany puts it in the poignant last lines of King Lear, she rediscovered a longing to remain in the presence of God, which has stayed with her ever since.21

III. Who Can Know the Power of God’s Anger? How should servants of God respond to those who yearn for liturgies that provide a place for their questions and petitions, however unorthodox they may be? Affirmations about God’s transcendence are expected and vitally important. 20 K. Norris, “The Paradox of the Psalms,” The Cloister Walk (New York: Riverhead Books, 1996), 90–91. 21  Norris ends her essay by citing, and embracing, the confession of a Benedictine sister who wrote to her about what she had learned from immersing herself in Psalm 42: “The longing for God expressed at the beginning of Psalm 42, ‘Like the deer that yearns / for running streams, / so my soul is yearning / for you, My God,’ has stayed with me ever since” (Ibid., 107).

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Confessions of sin, incarnate in human finitude, are necessary and redemptive. But what of the hard questions, like “Why?” “How long, O Lord?” What of the petitions, like “Turn, O Lord!” “Repent!” Dare we interrupt our generically calm litanies with discordant words such as these, however earnest they may be? Who knows whether it is faithful, let alone wise, to do so? Who knows how God will respond? The wonderment is authentic. It is echoed by biblical servants like Moses, by “ordinary” servants like Gwendolyn Brooks, Kathleen Norris, and no doubt by a host of others unnamed. On the eve of Yom Kippur, Rabbi Yitzchak stood before the holy ark and wondered if he should not summon God to repentance. Should he demand that God pay attention to innocent suffering? Should he dare to hold God accountable for injustice that constantly exceeds any plausible justification as punishment for sin? In reflecting on Yitzchak’s ruminations, Boteach, a rabbi himself, notes that the idea of summoning God to repentance has a long, if largely neglected, history in Jewish tradition. In addition to Moses, he singles out Abraham, who when faced with God’s decision to punish the righteous in Sodom along with the wicked, asked, “Shall not the Judge of all the earth do what is just?” (Gen 18:25); Isaiah, who in the aftermath of the destruction of the temple, asked, “After all this, will you restrain yourself, O Lord? Will you stand idly by and let us suffer so greatly?” (Isa 64:12); the psalmist, who complained of suffering despite fidelity to the covenant, and asked God, “Why do you hide your face? Why do you forget our affliction and oppression?” (Ps 44:24); and Job, the prime exemplar of the faithful servant who demands a hearing from God, betting his life on the promise that God will not remain forever indifferent to the prayers of the righteous: “As God lives, who has denied my justice and made my soul bitter, as long as my breath is in me … my lips will not speak falsehood …. Far be it from me to say that you are right; until I die I will not put away my integrity” (Job 27:2–5). In view of this legacy of faith, Boteach wonders, Where are the modern day servants who pray like Moses, Abraham, and Job?22 Once again, the rabbis may provide a way to think about this question. The instructions for the Day of Atonement in Leviticus 16 detail the rituals by which the high priest is to purge the sanctuary and the people of the sins that have violated the holy and compromised God’s presence in Israel. The instructions curiously omit any mention of the high priest’s own preparation for the liturgy of penitence. On this point, however, the Talmud offers an additional word. Before the rituals for the Day of Atonement begin, the priest must observe a sevenday period of contemplation. During this time the priest is to immerse himself in readings from the books of Job, Daniel, Ezra, and Nehemiah (m. Yoma 1:6). The rabbis do not explain their selection of these texts. We might suppose that Daniel, Ezra, and Nehemiah are included because they each contain models for  Boteach, “Is It Time For God to do Teshuvah?” 68–69.

22

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the prayers of personal and corporate repentance the priest will require from a sinful people (Dan 9:4–19; Ezra 9:6–15; Neh 1:5–11; 9:6–37). The readings from Job may be for the same reason, since Job is highly revered as one whose intercessory prayers for his misdirected friends make a difference with God (Job 42:7– 9). But we may wonder if reading Job might also prepare the priest for other responsibilities.23 Might Job’s resolve to lay his case before God, his determination to fill his mouth with arguments, questions, and petitions that God should hear and address, be part of the priest’s preparation for the Day of Atonement? When the priest ponders for himself Job’s version of the weighted question in Psalm 90:11 – “Would he [God] contend with me in the greatness of his power?” (Job 23:6) – how will he respond? Rabbi Boteach’s wonderment lingers. Where will we find modern day servants who will pray like Moses, Abraham, and Job? Who will stand before God and say, “Turn, O Lord! How long?” Such questions, of course, only beg another; who knows how God will respond to those who dare to do so? I close with words from another priest, R. S. Thomas, a Welsh clergyman, who understands clearly what it means to minister at the “threshold,” between the eternal God and the supplications of frail human beings. I emerge from the mind’s cave into the worse darkness outside, where things pass and the Lord is in none of them. I have heard the still small voice and it was that of the bacteria demolishing my cosmos. I have lingered too long on this threshold, but where can I go? To look back is to lose the soul I was leading upwards towards the light. To look forward? Ah, what balance is needed at the edges of such an abyss. I am alone on the surface of a turning planet. What to do but, like Michelangelo’s Adam, put my hand out into unknown space, hoping for the reciprocating touch?24  See further, S. E. Balentine, “Job as Priest to the Priests,” Ex Auditu 18 (2003), 29–52. “Threshold,” Poems of R. S. Thomas (Fayetteville: University of Arkansas Press, 1985), 149–150. 23

24 R. S. Thomas,

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Postscript The grammar of the question “Who can know (mi yodea’) the power of God’s anger?” indicates not only anxiety but also tentative confidence.25 The question remains rhetorical, but it is still actionable. Moses’ petitions, both in Exodus 32 and in Psalm 90, show how and why. Who can know? The answer, already validated by servants of God like Abraham, Moses, and Job, is “we can.” If we reach out, there will be a reciprocating touch. Thus says the Lord, I was ready to be ready to be sought out, by those who did not ask,    to be found by those who did not seek me. I said, “Here I am, here I am,”    to a nation that did not call on my name. (Isa 65:1)

25  J. L. Crenshaw, “The Expression mi yodea’ in the Hebrew Bible,” VT 36 (1986), 274–288. Crenshaw notes that the expression mi yodea’, “Who knows?” occurs ten times in the Hebrew Bible. Of these, five “leave a door open to possible response that will change the situation for human good” (II Sam 12:22; Joel 2:14; Jonah 3:9; Esth 4:14; Ps 90:11). Five, all but one in Ecclesiastes, “seem to assume a closed door to any redeeming action” (Prov 24:22; Eccl 2:19; 3:21; 6:12; 8:1). The occurrence in Ps. 90:11 appears to stand with one foot in both categories; as Crenshaw puts it, “The sorry human predicament almost has a sense of inevitability – although not entirely, for appeal does eventually form on the lips of the poet” (278; emphasis added).

14. Praying East of Eden The creation account in Genesis 1 records no prayers in the Garden of Eden. The only words spoken come from God, whose seven-fold repetition of the phrase “Let there be” (1:3, 6, 9, 11, 14, 20, 24) speaks into existence a world that is not only “good” (1:4, 10, 12, 18, 21, 25) but also “very good” (1:31). Creation’s silent conformity to God’s hopes and expectations signals a world in happy accord. God has provided everything necessary for life that is full and promising. The distribution of God’s blessing leaves nothing and no one wanting more. We might imagine the first couple, Adam and Eve, responding with the wide-eyed praise of the psalmist: O Lord, our Sovereign,    how majestic is your name in all the earth! … When I look at your heavens,    the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars that you   have established; what are human beings that you    are mindful of them, mortals that you care for them? (Ps 8:1, 3–4)

We might imagine creation itself – sun, moon, stars, wild animals, even creeping things (like snails!) – joining in such a chorus of praise: The heavens are telling the glory of God;    and the firmament proclaims his handiwork …. (Ps 19:1) Mountains and all hills,    fruit trees and all cedars! wild animals and all cattle,    creeping things and flying birds! … Let them (all) praise the name of the Lord,    for his name alone is exalted;    his glory is above earth and heaven. (Ps 148:9–10, 13; cf. Ps 150)

We might imagine such words, but it is striking that Genesis 1 does not record them, however appropriate we might imagine them to be as the first words creation offers in response to God. In a “very good” world, even praise is redundant, Genesis 1 suggests. It resounds implicitly in the primordial symphony that God is conducting: “Let there be … and it was so … day one;” “Let there be

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… and it was so … day two,” and so on. Nothing more is needed in a world that is all it is created to be. The Bible’s first recorded dialogue between God and human beings occurs “East of Eden,” to use John Steinbeck’s evocative phrase.1 On the far side of the sin that pushes human beings beyond Eden’s harmony, God initiates the dialogue with Adam and Eve with a question, which bespeaks rebuke vexed by disappointment. “Where are you?” (Gen 3:10a), God asks. The answer is a harbinger of what now must be a conversation about what both God and human beings have lost: “I was afraid … I hid myself ” (Gen 3:10b), the man says. Barbara Brown Taylor captures the import of this first exchange between God and humans with her observations about what God risked when God decided to speak the words, “Let us make humankind in our image … and let them have dominion” (Gen 1:26): [T]he most dangerous word God ever says is Adam. All by itself it is no more than a pile of dust – nothing to be concerned about, really – but by following it with the words for image and dominion [Gen 1:26], God shifts divinity into that dust, endowing it with things that belong to God alone. When God is through with it, this dust will bear the divine likeness. When God is through with it, this dust will exercise God’s own dominion – not by flexing its muscles but by using its tongue. Up to this point in the story, God has owned the monopoly on speech. Only God has had the power to make something out of nothing by saying it is so. Now, in this act of shocking generosity, God’s stock goes public. “So, God created humankind in his image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them” – human beings endowed with the power of the Word.2

“Endowed with the power of the Word,” as Brown Taylor puts it, human beings pray. Why? Because “east of Eden” human beings created in the image of God yearn for the world that once was, and still may be, “very good.” Prayer is the arena in which both God and humans work out their differences, the place where they strive to bridge the gap between heaven and earth, the place where the divine-human dialogue invests its hopes in the promise of a mutual commitment, failing which neither party to the discourse can ever be all that they can be. Simply put, without prayer neither God nor people nor the world can be all they want to be, all they are supposed to be. As Terry Fretheim has put it, prayer creates more space in the world for God to be God and for people to be formed and reformed in God’s image.3 The importance of prayer’s role in binding together heaven and earth east of Eden is deeply rooted in both Judaism and Christianity. The Torah envisions the 1 J. Steinbeck,

East of Eden (New York: Viking Press, 1952).  B. Brown Taylor, When God is Silent (The 1997 Lyman Beecher Lectures on Preaching; Cambridge, Boston: Cowley Publications, 1998), 4. 3  T. Fretheim, “Prayer in the Old Testament: Creating Space in the World for God,” in P. Sponheim, ed., A Primer on Prayer (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988), 51–52. 2

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construction of the tabernacle at Sinai (the blueprint for which is given in Exod 25–31 and 35–40) as the completion of the work God began at creation. Indeed, a number of verbal and thematic parallels between the Sinai pericope (Exodus 19-Numbers 10) and Genesis 1–3 suggest that the 11-month sojourn at Sinai echoes the creation-fall-re-creation paradigm that governs Israel’s partnership with God. The theophany in which God gives Moses the instructions for building the tabernacle begins on the seventh day, following six days of preparation for entering into the cloud of divine presence on Mt. Sinai (Exod 24:16). God then delivers the building plans to Moses in seven speeches (25:1; 30:11, 17, 22, 34; 31:1, 12), a suggestive echo of God’s seven “Let there be” instructions in Genesis 1 and 2. Before the tabernacle can be erected, however, God’s plans seem to dead-end in the debacle of the golden-calf episode in Exodus 32–34, which thematically reprises the subversion of God’s creational designs in Genesis 3–6. The failures of Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, and the descendants of Noah, which prompted a grieving God to say “I will blot out from the earth the human beings I have created … I am sorry that I made them” (Gen 6:7; cf. v. 13), are now writ large in the people’s decision at Sinai to break covenant with God by worshipping an object of their own making. Once again, the people’s failure creates a crisis in the very heart of God, who now abruptly breaks off the conversations with Moses by saying, “Leave me alone, so that my wrath may burn hot against them and I may consume them” (Exod 32:10). The Targum captures the drama of the moment with its paraphrase of God’s words to Moses: “Refrain from your prayer.” Moses does not leave God alone. Instead, he steps into the breach between the people’s sin and God’s announced intentions to “consume them” with a daring demand that God reconsider what God is doing. Note well the threefold imperative that Moses, the creature, addresses to God, the Creator: Turn away from your fierce wrath; change your mind (hinnāḥēm; literally, “repent”) and do not bring disaster on your people. Remember Abraham, Isaac, and Israel, your servants, how you swore to them by your own self, saying to them, “I will multiply your descendants like the stars of heaven, and all this land that I promised I will give to your descendants, and they shall inherit it forever.” (Exod 32:12–13)

The narrator reports the outcome, without commentary: “And the Lord changed his mind about the disaster that he planned to bring on the people” (Exod 32:14). On the heels of Moses’ prayer, God restores the broken covenant (Exodus 34) and resumes the instructions for the tabernacle (Exodus 35–40). When it is completed, the tabernacle becomes the only specific place on earth that is said to be “filled up” with the glory of God’s presence (Exod 40:34–35). On the heels of Moses’ prayer, the story of God’s journey with God’s people continues. Perhaps God would have acted to renew the covenant and resume the journey without Moses’ contribution. God can, of course, do whatever God chooses. The

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Torah, however, invites a different reflection. What if Moses had left God alone? What if he did not pray? As we ponder these questions, it is instructive to consider what the rabbis have to say about the efficacy of prayer. For them, the question is not, “Does God pray?” That God does pray they take for granted. Instead, they wonder, “What does God pray?” (B. Ber. 7a). In reflecting on this question, Rabbi Yohanan comments as follows: The Almighty Himself prays: May it be My will that My compassion may conquer My anger, and that My compassion may prevail over My other attributes, so that I may deal mercifully with My children and act toward them with charity that goes beyond the strict requirements of the law. (B. Ber. 7a)

Imagine that – God praying “May it be My Will”! Imagine human prayers intersecting with, reinforcing, and influencing divine prayers. The rabbis dared to imagine that when people pray, they somehow enter into the very heart and mind of God, there to lend their voices to the Almighty’s vexed and ever vexing deliberations about what do with this world that, by its own decision, limps along east of Eden. This understanding of prayer, I submit, will likely require a radical readjustment of our thinking. In a modern, scientifically oriented, technologically sophisticated world, we are conditioned to adjust our prayers, if indeed we pray at all, to anemic words that do not really ask anything, expect anything, effect anything, save, perhaps, a self-referential catharsis that makes us feel better.4 Here again scripture should itch at our ears until we dare to live into the witness it bequeaths us. The text is from the prophet Isaiah; the words are God’s: I was ready to respond, but no one asked,    ready to be found, but no one sought me. I said, “Here I am, here I am,”    to a nation that did not call my name. (Isa 65:1)

Let me press the Torah’s vision of prayer’s importance a step further. I fast forward, past the instructions for the portable tabernacle constructed at Sinai, to the temple Solomon constructed in Jerusalem, which concretizes the tabernacle’s promise of God’s presence on earth (I Kings 6–8). I fast forward again, this time past the Babylonian destruction of the temple in 586 bce, past the rebuilding of the temple in 521 bce, past the Romans’ destruction of this second temple in 70 ce, past the suppression of the Bar Kochba rebellion in 135 ce, to the days when it became undeniably clear that the temple would not be rebuilt for an indefinite time, perhaps only in a messianic era at the end of history. If Judaism is to survive, it will have to do so without the Temple’s rites and rituals. Absent a holy place, the world becomes inhospitable to a holy God. The words of the prophet 4  Cf. W. Brueggemann, “Prayer,” in Reverberations of Faith: A Theological Handbook of Old Testament Themes (Louisville, London: Westminster John Knox, 2002), 149.

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Ezekiel linger; they sustain a despair over the loss of the single most important connection between heaven and earth that now seems beyond repair: “The days are long,” the prophet mourns, “and every vision has perished” (Ezek 12:22). In the wake of the temple’s loss, the rabbis turned once again to prayer, to what they called “the service of the heart,” which they declared to be wholly adequate for keeping God and world connected in times of spiritual emergency. Until the messiah comes, it is prayer, ordered (I use the word literally, for the Jewish term for the prayer book is Siddur, “the ordering”) by the times once prescribed for the sacrifices offered in the Temple, that keeps God in the world and the world in God. Morning, mid-day, evening, whenever a sacrifice was to be offered, a prayer is to be spoken – a verbal bridge suspended over the chasm between what has been lost and what might yet be recovered. As a rule, these prayers begin with the words, “Remember, O Lord” and conclude with the words “Blessed are You, the God of Israel.” In between the invocation that God remember and the affirmation that God is always worthy of blessing, the prayers of our Jewish sisters and brothers have kept alive the promise that one day, God willing, this world may yet become the “very good” world that God envisioned “in the beginning.” I have to this point focused on prayer in the Old Testament and by extension its formative influence on Judaism. I have done so, in part, instinctively, which I suppose requires a confession – a good prayer word, in and of itself. I have taught and written about the Old Testament for three decades, which means, truth be told, that I find my bearings as a Christian by immersing myself in Hebrew scriptures. That said, it is also the case that the Old Testament simply has a much deeper reservoir of prayers to consider: the Old Testament preserves more than 250 recorded prayers, the New Testament but eleven.5 The infrequency of recorded prayers in the New Testament is however largely a distinction without a difference.6 The Gospels, particularly Luke, make it clear 5  The most important of these is clearly the “The Lord’s Prayer,” the “model prayer” Jesus taught his disciples (Matt 6:9–13 // Luke 11:2–4). Beyond this prayer, the New Testament records seven of Jesus’ prayers: two from the cross (Matt 26:46// Mark 15:34: “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?”; Luke 23:34, 46: “Father, forgive them …; Father, into your hands I commend my spirit”); plus five additional prayers (Matt 11:25–27 // Luke 10:21–22; Matt 26:39 // Mark 14:36 // Luke 22:42; John 11:41–42; 12:27–28; and 17:1–26). Three prayers by others are recorded: one by Peter and the assembly upon the selection of an apostle to succeed Judas (Acts 1:24–25; one by Peter and John in the Jerusalem prison (Acts 4:24–30); and one by Stephen at his stoning (Acts 7:59–60). It should also be noted that prayer is prominent in Paul’s letters to the churches, especially in the introductory thanksgivings (e. g., Rom 1:7–8; I Cor 1:3–4; II Cor 1:2; Gal 1:3; Phil 1:2–3; Col 1:2) and the benedictory blessings (e. g., Rom 16:25–27; I Cor 16:23; II Cor 13:13; Gal 6:18; Eph 6:23; Phil 4:23; Col 4:18); otherwise, the actual words of Paul’s prayers are not recorded. 6  What follows reprises my overview of prayer in the New Testament: “Pray, Prayer, Intercede,” in D. Gowan, ed., The Westminster Theological Wordbook of the Bible (Louisville, London: Westminster John Knox, 2003), 384–386.

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that Jesus prayed at the critical junctures of his life: for example, at baptism (Luke 3:21); in the choosing of the disciples (Luke 6:21); at the transfiguration (Luke 9:28–29); and in Gethsemane (Luke 22:32). Moreover, Acts depicts Jesus’ followers as “constantly devoting themselves to prayer” (Acts 1:14; cf. 1:24; 6:6; 9:11; 10:9; 12:5; 13:3; 14:23; 16:25; 22:17). They were to infuse every dimension of their lives with prayer. In suffering and joy, in sickness and in health, the church is to pray “without ceasing” (I Thess 5:17; cf. Rom 12:12; Eph 6:18; Col 4:2). On this point, the letter of James is particularly instructive: Are any among you suffering? They should pray. Are any cheerful? They should sing songs of praise. Are any among you sick? They should call for the elders of the church and have them pray over them, anointing them with oil in the name of the Lord. The prayer of faith will save the sick, and the Lord will raise them up; and anyone who has committed sins will be forgiven. Therefore, confess your sins to one another, and pray for one another, so that you may be healed. The prayer of the righteous is powerful and effective. (Jas 5:13–16; emphasis added)

There is one difference between the Old Testament and the New that deserves special mention. The Old Testament contains an abundance of recorded prayers, but it offers surprisingly little specific instruction on when or how to pray.7 The New Testament, by contrast, contains few recorded prayers but considerable instruction about prayer. Luke’s Gospel records two parables of Jesus that are especially instructive. The first, Luke 11:5–8, is the story of someone who goes to a friend in the middle of the night and asks for bread. At first, the friend refuses to get up: “Do not bother me,” he says, “the door is already locked, and my children are already in bed with me; I cannot get up and give you anything.” But, Jesus says, if this person keeps banging on the door, then the friend will eventually give him what he needs, if only because the noise threatens to wake up the neighborhood! The second parable, Luke 18:1–8, shifts the focus from the request for bread to the need for justice. A widow with a grievance comes to a judge saying, “Grant me justice against my opponent.” Initially, the judge refuses to hear her case, but then, because she “keeps bothering” him (18:5; cf. 11:7), he finally grants her request. The latter half of this verse (18:5) adds a suggestive second reason. The conventional rendering – “so that she may not wear me out by continually coming” (NRSV ) – may be translated literally, “so that in the end she may not come and strike me under the eye” (cf. NAB).

7 It is interesting that what little the Old Testament offers in this regard is presented as counter-models, examples that illustrate how people may use or commend prayer in ways that should not be followed. Job’s friends are case in point. They urge him to pray for forgiveness of sins he did not commit, assuming that confession is the only recourse God provides for those who suffer innocently (cf. Job 8:5–6; 11:13; 22:23–27). The Epilogue to the book provides God’s assessment of the friends’ understanding of prayer: “My wrath is kindled against you … for you have not spoken of me what is right, as my servant Job has done” (Job 42:7, 9).

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Both parables illustrate Jesus’ teaching about the importance of being persistent in prayer. Commentators often use the word “importunate” to describe this way of praying. A less elegant characterization is likely closer to the truth about what Jesus is saying. Both the person banging on the door for food and the widow demanding justice demonstrate that prayer can be, indeed often must be, annoyingly urgent and troublesome. Langston Hughes (1902–1967), the AfricanAmerican writer whose poems gave voice to the demands of suffering during the Harlem Renaissance in the 1920s and 1930s, provides apt commentary: Looks like what drive me crazy Don’t have no effect on you – But I’m gonna keep on at it ‘Till it drives you crazy, too.8

It may see odd, even blasphemous, to think of prayer as an invitation to be annoyingly troublesome when we address God, to keep at until what drives us crazy makes God crazy too. Perhaps this is precisely why Jesus uses these two parables to respond to one of his disciples who, having witnessed how Jesus himself prayed, said, “Lord, teach us to pray” (Luke 11:1). Following the parable in Luke 11:5–8, Jesus himself provides exegesis that anchors Langston Hughes’s poem in the truth of scripture: So I say to you. Ask and it will be given you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened. (Luke 11:9–10; cf. Luke 18:7)

Ask, search, knock; it will be given, you will find, it will be opened. Jesus’ instructions about prayer in the parable of Luke 11:5–8 assume that his followers have learned how to pray the model prayer he has taught them in Luke 11:2–4 (paralleled in Matt 6:9–13). Here again, the New Testament’s instructions concerning prayer are rooted in Jewish antecedents (cf. especially the ’Amidah or “The Prayer of Eighteen Benedictions”). The “Lord’s Prayer” begins with two (or three) petitions that tune the heart first and foremost to God’s will (“hallowed be your name,” “Your kingdom come,” “Your will be done” [Matt 6:10]), which in turn invite and inform three (or four) petitions that address human needs within the context of God’s purposive plan for the world (“give us each day our daily bread,” “forgive us our sins/debts,” “do not bring us to the time of trial,” “rescue us from the evil one”). Each of these petitions requires more attention that time permits, so let me single out one aspect of this model prayer for special attention. The prayer begins with and is grounded in (according to the Matthean version) the petition that God’s will be done “on earth as it is in heaven.” When you pray, Jesus says, 8  L. Hughes, “Evil,” in The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes, ed. A. Rampersad (New York: Vintage Classics, 1994), 227.

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pray like this – pray that the hopes and expectations of earth and heaven will one day be joined in perfect harmony. As the rabbis I have already cited say, pray that when God in heaven says, “May it be My will,” our prayers on earth, “Your will be done,” will be a worthy echo of God’s decision to risk entrusting the stewardship of creation to human beings who have been formed and reformed “in the image of God.” God’s decision “in the beginning” to incarnate the Word in the flesh and blood of Jesus, who lived among us,” as John’s Gospel puts it (John 1:1, 14) is both the promise and burden of scripture’s summon to prayer. On the one hand, while he was on earth Jesus both models prayer and teaches us how to pray in ways that keep heaven and earth connected. On the other, when Jesus dies, then we, his disciples, must follow him into what George Steiner calls “the long day’s journey of the Saturday,”9 the tensive gap between Friday’s crucifixion of God’s hopes – and ours – for this “very good” world” and Sunday’s lingering promise that these hopes can and will be resurrected. The Gospel of John reports that when the hour for his death came, Jesus prayed (John 17:1–26), not only for his own needs (vv. 1–8) but also for the welfare of his disciples, who in the aftermath of his death will suffer persecution and so may be tempted to lose faith (vv. 9–19). He prays also for the long-term future of those who will yet believe in and exemplify the unity between Father and son, between heaven and earth, between the Word that is vulnerable to death and the Word that no grave can contain. In between the “now” of this world and the “not yet” of the world to come, Jesus promises his followers that when he departs he will not leave them as orphans (John 14:18). “In a little while,” “on that day” (John 14:19, 20), Jesus will send them an Advocate, the Holy Spirit. This one, Jesus says, “will teach you everything, and remind you of all that I have said to you” (John 14:26). Paul expands upon Jesus’ promise with words that speak directly to our concerns here. Returning to the imagery of Genesis 3, Paul describes creation itself “waiting with eager longing,” “groaning in labor pains” (Rom 8:19, 22) for the birth of the world that will yet be the world God envisioned from the beginning. As we wait and hope for what we do not yet see, Paul assures us that the Holy Spirit teaches us how to pray God’s promises into the present. “When we do not know how to pray as we ought,” Paul says, “the Spirit intercedes [for us] with sighs too deep for words” (Rom 8:26; cf. v. 27). The vision of a new heaven and a new earth is announced in advance by the prophet Isaiah: Look, I am about to create new heavens and a new earth;    the former things will not be remembered;    they shall not even come to mind. (Isa 65:17; cf. 66:22)

 G. Steiner, Real Presences (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), 232.

9

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The same vision is punctuated by Scripture’s last canonical word  – the final “Amen” recorded in Rev 22:20–21: The one who testifies to these things says, “Surely I am coming soon.” Amen. Come Lord Jesus! The grace of the Lord Jesus be with all the saints. Amen. (cf. Rev 1:6, 7; 3:14; 5:14; 7:12; 19:4)

Until this final “Amen” is sounded, creation continues to groan, the Spirit continues to help us pray for the realization of God’s hopes and expectations, and Paul’s promise abides: Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? … No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Rom 8:35, 37–39)

Let me collect these various thoughts by returning one more time to the thesis I have been trying to establish. Prayer is the dialogue between God and human beings that keeps heaven and earth bound together in mutual commitment. I have intentionally not spoken of the specific kinds of prayers that constitute the work we do in this regard – the prayers of praise and lament, confession and petition, trust and thanksgiving that give voice to our work “in the trenches.” I have addressed these various ways of praying in some detail in my book on prayer,10 which I am told you will be using as a resource during this Colloquy, so I trust that in your discussions you will put some meat on these bones. At the risk of throwing a wrench into those discussions, let me conclude with a brief reflection on what one reviewer of my book said some fifteen years ago. At the end of a generally positive assessment of what I had written, this person noted that my description of prayer as a dialogue begs a very large question. How do we know that prayer is in fact a dialogue? That when we pray, God hears and responds to what we say? It is an important question. It is one thing to read in – or to infer from – an ancient text that God answers prayer. It is quite another to pray and to hear only silence in response, which by any reasonable way of thinking does not sound much like a true dialogue. As my reviewer quipped, “We await a book on prayer as a monologue.”11 East of Eden monologue is in a real sense the burden of faith. In fact, scripture is quite candid about this, in essence setting before us a story in which God gradually appears less and less, speaks less and less, and is less and less directly involved in the affairs of the world and of humankind. Consider these Old Testament mileposts: 10  S. E. Balentine, Prayer in the Hebrew Bible: The Drama of Divine-Human Dialogue (OBT; Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1993). 11  P. R. Davies, in JSOT 64 (1994), 125.

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– The last person to whom God is said to have been “revealed” is Samuel (I Sam 3:21). – The last person to whom God is said to have “appeared” is Solomon (I Kgs 3:5; 9:2; 11:9). – YHWH speaks to David and Solomon, but the words “And YHWH said to X” are never used with reference to any of the thirty-eight kings who come after them. – The last visible representation of God’s presence is the temple in Jerusalem, and it is destroyed by the Babylonians in 586 bce. – The last public miracle occurs in the story of Elijah at Mt. Carmel (I Kings 18), which leaves a prophet in the midst of a “dialogue” with God that does not go as expected (I Kings 19).12 We should pause in considering this last marker. Elijah is alone on the mountain, in communication with God. God’s first words to the prophet – “What are you doing here?” (I Kgs 19:9) – recall God’s first words to Adam (cf. Gen 3:10). Elijah responds by expressing his frustration at finding God and asks to die (I Kgs 19:10). God responds by instructing Elijah to stand on the mountain, “for the Lord is about to pass by,” accompanied by three extraordinary phenomena: a great wind, an earthquake, and then a fire (I Kgs 19:11–12a). In the biblical narrative to this point, each of these phenomena has signaled an extraordinary occasion of God’s palpable presence on earth. This time it is different. God is not present in any of these expected ways. Now, the only identifiable marker of God’s presence on earth is “a sound of thin hush,”13 or, as Simon and Garfunkel put it in the popular 1960s song, “a sound of silence.” Elijah sees what God wants him to see, but God is not present in anything his eyes can see. He listens for what God has to say to him, but he hears only silence. And then these more ordinary words from the narrator, “Then the Lord said to him, ‘Go, return on your way to the wilderness of Damascus’” (I Kgs 19:15). It is the “last time in the Hebrew Bible’s narrative that the text says “And YHWH said” anything to anyone.14 The silence that follows Elijah into the wilderness of Damascus is the silence that is present at Jesus’ transfiguration when he withdraws to the mountain to pray. Moses and Elijah appear miraculously and talk to him about the mission God has in store for him (Luke 9:28–36 // Matt 17:1–8; Mark 9:2–8), but we cannot hear what they say. It is also the silence that hangs over Jesus’ prayer from the cross, “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?” when some thought he 12  For these and other such examples of God’s steady retreat, see R. Friedman, The Disappearance of God: A Divine Mystery (Boston, New York, Toronto, London: Little Brown and Company, 1995), 19–26. I have discussed the theological importance of these texts in S. E.  Balentine, The Torah’s Vision of Worship (OBT; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1999), 219–227. 13  Friedman, The Disappearance of God, 23. 14  Ibid., 24.

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was asking Elijah to come and save him (Matt 27:45–50 //Mark 15:33–39). Elijah did not come, and God did not take this cup from him. And, I submit, it is this silence, ever pregnant with the response we believe will come but may not yet hear, that sustains our monologue with heaven until, by the grace of God, it becomes the dialogue we call prayer. For the duration of my remarks, I invite you to listen to words about prayer while reflecting on Michelangelo’s famous depiction of the “Creation of Adam” (1508–12) on the ceiling of the Sistine chapel. On the left is Adam, leaning in a pose of trust, left arm outstretched, as he waits for God to infuse him with life. On the right is God, who is moving towards Adam, with intent pictorially concentrated in the reach of God’s right index finger. The compositional and symbolic center of the scene is the gap between the two fingers, less than an eighth of an inch, if we measure by the ruler. Inside this space, which God is already moving to close, is where the prayer that binds the hopes and expectations of heaven and earth takes place. Michelangelo could no more imagine depicting half of this scene, either Adam without God or God without Adam, than scripture can imagine a world without prayer. As it is in this visual, so it remains this side of Eden: until the fingers touch, until the gap between heaven and earth is closed completely, the work of prayer is not over, and the “Amen” that closes scripture’s “Revelation” remains penultimate. I leave you with this commentary from R. S. Thomas (1913–2000), the Welsh priest and poet. His words are not scripture, but they may be sacred nonetheless. …I have lingered too long on this threshold, but where can I go? To look back is to lose the soul I was leading upwards towards the light. To look forward? Ah, what balance is needed at the edge of such an abyss. I am alone on the surface of a turning planet. What to do but, like Michelangelo’s Adam, put my hand out into unknown space, hoping for the reciprocating touch?15 15 R. S. Thomas, “Threshold,” in Poems of R. S. Thomas (Fayetteville: The University of Arkansas Press, 1985), 149–150. See also Thomas’s poem, “The Other” (especially the words italicized below), which is inscribed on slate in the village church of St. Hywyn, Aberdaron in north Wales, where Thomas served as parish priest for eleven years (R. S. Thomas; Everyman’s Poetry; selected and edited by A. White; Everyman: J. M. Dent, 1996, 109):

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So it is. So may it be. Let us “pray without ceasing” in the sure conviction that when we reach out into those unknown spaces that make life what it is east of Eden, there will be a reciprocating touch. In advance of the reality, let all God’s people say, “Amen.”

There are nights that are so still that I can hear the small owl calling far off and a fox barking miles away. It is then that I lie in the lean hours awake listening to the swell born somewhere in the Atlantic rising and falling, rising and falling wave on wave on the long shore by the village, that is without light and companionless. And the thought comes of that other being who is awake, too, letting our prayers break on him, not like this for a few hours, but for days, years, for eternity.

V. Retrospectives and Prospectives

15. Prayer in the Hebrew Bible: Retrospective and Prospective It is a difficult and even formidable thing to write on prayer, and one fears to touch the Ark. P. T.  Forsyth, The Soul of Prayer (1915)

It has been twenty-five years since I used these words from Scottish theologian P. T. Forsyth to introduce my book, Prayer in the Hebrew Bible: The Drama of Divine-Human Dialogue (Fortress, 1993). Writing under the death clouds of World War I, Forsyth understood that any attempt to analyze the soul of prayer – language that clearly demarcates an interior spirituality that should leave prayer untouched by scholarly critique1 – was bound to meet with resistance, if not outright rejection. With the benefit of 1993 hindsight, I noted that Forsyth’s judgment had been prescient. For most of the first part of the twentieth century scholars focused on the phenomenology of prayer, especially Friedrich Heiler’s distinction between prayer that emerges out of the free and “spontaneous utterings of the soul,” which Heiler judged to be “genuine prayer,” and formal, literary prayers, which he considered to be only “faint reflections” of the genuine article.2 Biblical scholars largely accepted this distinction, but they conceptualized it as a distinction between cultic, prosodic prayers and non-cultic, prosaic prayers. With Hermann Gunkel and Sigmund Mowinckel, the Psalms emerged as the primary deposit of biblical prayer,3 and with Claus Westermann, Walter Brueggemann, and others, two particular kinds of psalmic prayer, lament and praise, provided the dominant perspective for understanding the function of prayer in ancient

1 I appropriate the language of William James, who argued that because prayer is the movement of the soul that puts one in personal relationship with the mysterious power of God, “we can easily see that scientific criticism leaves it untouched” (Varieties of Religious Experience. Introduction and Notes by Wayne Proudfoot [New York: Barnes & Noble Classics, 2004 (originally published 1902)], 400). See further below. 2 F. Heiler, Prayer: A Study in the History and Psychology of Religion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1932 [1918]), xvii–xviii. 3  H. Gunkel and J. Begrich, Einleitung in den Psalmen (Third edition; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1966 [1933]); ET: An Introduction to the Psalms (trans. M. Biddle; Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1998); S. Mowinckel, Psalmenstudien (6 vols; Kristiania: J. Dybwad, 1921–1924); ET: Psalm Studies (trans. M. Biddle; 2 vols; Atlanta: SBL Press, 2014).

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Israel’s cultic worship.4 Prose prayers embedded in narrative contexts, by way of contrast, were largely regarded as merely literary creations and were therefore mostly neglected, until Moshe Greenberg’s short but seminal study demonstrated that they reflected authentic interhuman discourse that provided a resource for understanding the “unmediated, direct forms of popular piety.”5 My own work built upon Greenberg’s discernments by offering a more expansive discussion of prose prayers as literary vehicles for the depiction of both divine and human character, for addressing theodic issues, and for conceptualizing a divine-human dialogic relationship that may be theologically constructive in the modern world. By the end of the twentieth century, after decades of scholarly neglect, study of the prayers of the Old Testament, both psalmic and non-psalmic, had moved from the periphery of our work to a place more centrally connected to our primary interests. To return to Forsyth’s pithy language, biblical scholars had dared to touch the Ark. My assignment is to offer a retrospective on where our work on the prayers of the Old Testament has gone during the course of the last twenty-five years and a prospective of where it might be going in the future.6 Like the Roman god Janus – but without any claim to divinity – I am to stand between past and future and look in both directions at the same time. Sometimes “what’s past is prologue,” as Shakespeare puts it (The Tempest, 2.1), and thus it sets the table for what comes next. Sometimes what’s past is simply past; an insight, an observation that once seemed new and promising looks now, in retrospect, more like an artifact. And sometimes the lines between what has been and what will be are unclear. To appropriate the words of one of Hawthorne’s characters in The Scarlet Letter, when it comes to writing prospectives and retrospectives, I find myself standing in 4  C. Westermann, The Praise of God in the Psalms (Richmond: John Knox, 1965); idem, Praise and Lament in the Psalms (Atlanta: John Knox, 1981); idem, Elements of Old Testament Theology (Atlanta: John Knox, 1982; W. Brueggemann, see for example, The Message of the Psalms: A Theological Commentary (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1984); Israel’s Praise: Doxology Against Idolatry and Ideology (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988); Theology of the Old Testament: Testimony, Dispute, Advocacy (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1997); cf. L. Krinetzki, Israels Gebet im Alten Testament (Aschaffenburg: Paul Pattloch, 1965); E. Gerstenberger, Der bittende Mensch (Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1980); H. G. Reventlow, Gebet im Alten Testament (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1986). 5  M. Greenberg, Biblical Prose Prayer As a Window to the Popular Religion of Ancient Israel (Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press, 1983); cf. A. Wendel, Das freie Laingebet im vorexilischen Israel (Leipzig: Eduard Pfeiffer, 1931). 6 For overviews of the history of biblical scholarship on prayer, see, e. g., S. Balentine, Prayer in the Hebrew Bible: The Drama of Divine-Human Dialogue (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1993), 13–32, 225–259; Reventlow, Das Gebet, 9–80; M. Widmer, Moses, God, and the Dynamics of Intercessory Prayer (FAT, second series, 8; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 9–56; S. Gill, “Prayer,” in M. Eliade, ed., Encyclopedia of Religion (16 vols; New York: Macmillan; London: Collier Macmillan, 1987), 11.489–493. For a recent overview of prose prayer, see Suk-il Ahn, The Persuasive Portrayal of David and Solomon in Chronicles: A Rhetorical Analysis of the Speeches and Prayers in the David-Solomon Narrative (Eugene: Pickwick, 2018).

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“neutral territory, somewhere between the real world and fairyland, where the actual and the imaginary can meet, and each imparts its nature to the other.”7

I. Retrospectives and Prospectives In what follows, I identify four areas of our work that seem to me important for the task before us: 1) the genealogy of lament and penitence;8 2) prayer as religious practice and experience; 3) cross-cultural perspectives on prayer; and 4) prayer’s intellectual vulnerability. The sequencing does not imply a hierarchical order, and I make no attempt to allocate equal space to each topic. As closing thoughts (not conclusions) I will offer brief comments on a meta issue that might provide context for thinking about underlying and lingering theological issues: the lure of transcendence and the audacity of prayer. 1. The Genealogy of Lament and Penitence. Westermann identified praise and lament as the two primary types of prayer in ancient Israel, and he provided substantive analysis and theological commentary on both these genres. Although praise prayer has continued to receive attention in the wake of his work,9 the lament genre, especially the evolution of lament into penitence, has emerged as a primary concern for contemporary scholars. We are indebted to Richard Bautch, Mark Boda, Daniel Falk, Judith Newman, and Rodney Werline for organizing the SBL Penitential Prayer consultation group, which focused on this topic over a three year period (2003–2005), and especially for their leadership in publishing three volumes setting forth new perspectives on the origin, development, and impact of penitential prayer in and beyond Second Temple Judaism.10 I need not repeat this good work here, but I will highlight several of the important findings. Following Westermann, discussion of penitential prayer had been limited primarily to four paradigmatic prose texts that were judged to be exemplars of a post exilic shift away from prayers of lament and complaint to prayers that accented confession of sin and petition for forgiveness: Ezra 9:6–15; Neh 1:5–11,  N. Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter (New York: Vintage, 2014 [1850]), 38.  I appropriate the idea of a “genealogy” of penitence from D. Lambert, How Repentance Became Biblical: Judaism, Christianity, and the Interpretation of Scripture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015). See further the discussion below.  9  E. g., F. Crüsemann, Studien zur Formgeschichte von Hymnus und Danklied in Israel (Neukirchen: Neukirchener, 1969); W. Brueggemann, Israel’s Praise: Doxology against Idolatry and Ideology (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1988). 10 M. Boda, D. Falk, R. Werline, eds., Seeking the Favor of God. Volume 1, The Origins of Penitential Prayer in Second Temple Judaism (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2006); idem, Seeking the Favor of God. Volume 2, The Development of Penitential Prayer in Second Temple Judaism (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2007); idem, Seeking the Face of God. Volume 3, The Impact of Penitential Prayer beyond Second Temple Judaism (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2008).  7  8

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9:6–37; and Dan 9:4–19. The shift from lament to penitence was typically explained as the consequence of the historical trauma of the exile, which necessitated heavy reliance on the sin-punishment-repentance theology embedded in the Deuteronomic tradition. The Penitential Prayer group analyzed a larger corpus of texts from across the wider history of Judaism and Christianity (including late antiquity and medieval periods). This more expansive diachronic trajectory problematized the narrowly focused form-critical perspective of previous work by identifying multiple contexts (liturgical, psychological, social-cultural) that shaped these prayers and the more complex ways in which they reused and reinterpreted biblical penitential traditions. It also problematized the rather simplistic theological interpretation of these prayers that Westermann and others had offered. If petitionary prayers (and prayer texts) with penitential elements are trans-historical and adaptable to diverse social and cultural contexts, then interpreting them as only or primarily theological vehicles expressing moral contrition is insufficient. On this latter point, David Lambert’s recent analysis of repentance as a cultural construction for shaping communal discipline and defining communal boundaries has pointed us in new and promising directions.11 Lambert’s argument is complex, and I cannot do it justice in this context, but I do want to single out several aspects of his hermeneutics of repentance that are pertinent for our future work on prayer. He contends that our continuing use of the form-critical designation “penitential prayer” has had the effect of nominalizing repentance in ancient Israel as a specialized form of religious speech. We have tended to import into these texts a spiritualized piety that they do not presuppose. Lambert’s alternative approach is to examine the “logic of appeal” that is an intuitive part of everyday speech, especially in situations where pain and suffering threaten a diminishment of self. Viewed from this perspective, petitions for divine intervention presuppose a double agency: for the individual or community in distress, the petition is an autonomous, self-generated cry for help that is effective in calling an otherwise uninvolved God into action; for God, human appeal affirms that God is an agent empowered to relieve distress, if not always for altruistic reasons then at least out of self-interest.12 The appeal is therefore essentially non-penitential; it is instead part of a natural behavioral pattern that is mutually beneficial for both parties in the relationship.13 With his attention to 11 D. Lambert, How Repentance Became Biblical: Judaism, Christianity, and the Interpretation of Scripture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015). Lambert was a participant in the 2005 Penitential Prayer consultation, but his paper (“Reconsidering the ‘Penitence’ in Penitential Prayers”) was not included in the published volume. 12  Ibid., 35. 13  Ibid., 54. As Lambert puts it, “Each party acts according to the dictates of its nature (expressing pain and relieving pain, respectively). Quite apart from any discourse around morality, from these natural, social elements, a moral system emerges” (36).

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the agency of petition, Lambert anticipates what I think should be an important focus for our future work. I will return to this point below. 2. Prayer as Religious Experience and Practice. In his seminal work published in 1903, The Varieties of Religious Experience, William James argued that prayer is the movement of the soul that puts one in personal relationship with the mysterious power of God. James understood this interior, intimate, unmediated communion with God to be definitively non-rational. For him, the experience and practice of prayer was effectively sequestered in subjectivity; as he put it, “we can easily see that scientific criticism leaves it untouched.”14 James’s work had little impact on biblical studies, but it was enormously influential in identifying the phenomenon of prayer as an object for study within the History of Religions school (e. g., E. B. Tylor, Robertson Smith, James Frazier, Mircea Eliade). A significant development in our work over the last twenty-five years has been the effort by biblical scholars to pry open this black box of subjectivity and reclaim the religious experience of prayer as a subject for constructive critical analysis.15 For this work we are especially indebted to the SBL group on “Religious Experience in Early Christianity and Judaism” (organized in 2005), which has thus far published two volumes of essays.16 One of the strengths of this group has been its wide-angled approach to the study of religious experience. I single out two aspects of their work that I think will continue to merit close attention: the summons for a more nuanced cultural-anthropological approach to prayer, and the call for a more rigorous integration of the work being done in the field of the Cognitive Science of Religion. (a). More sophisticated cultural-anthropological approaches to the study of religion have expanded our understanding of what constitutes religious experience. Whereas James focused on intensely personal encounters with the divine that were primarily mystical in nature, we now have a clearer understanding of how religious rites and practices in and of themselves become religious experiences, experiences that in turn both shape and are shaped by culturally constructed givens. Ongoing work in social and cultural anthropology provides a theoretical framework for analyzing prayer as an embodiment of cultural values deemed authoritative and necessary for the maintenance of the community.17 Both individual and corporate prayers may be culturally constrained by regnant 14  W. James, Varieties of Religious Experience. Introduction and Notes by Wayne Proudfoot (New York: Barnes and Noble Classics, 2004 [1902], 400. 15 C. Shantz, “Opening the Black Box: New Prospects for Analyzing Religious Experience,” in C. Shantz, R. Werline, eds., Experientia, Volume 2: Linking Text and Experience (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2012), 1–16. 16  F. Flannery, C. Shantz, R. Werline, eds., Experientia, Volume 1: Inquiry into Religious Experience in Early Judaism and Early Christianity (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2008); Shantz, Werline, eds., Experientia: Volume 2. 17  E. g., C. Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures (New York: Basic Books, 1977); P. Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practices (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977).

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expectations of what is to be affirmed with praise and thanksgiving or scrutinized with lament and protest, what is to be confessed and judged as sin and what may be forgiven by divine grace. For biblical scholars, the cultural anatomy of prayer invites analysis of its use and function within the shifting political dynamics of ancient Israel and Second Temple Judaism. One objective for future research should be a comprehensive examination of the politics of prayer. On the other hand, ritual theorists have demonstrated that religious rites and practices, including prayer, enable participants to construct alternatives to present realties that can be actualized by living “as if ” they can happen in historical time.18 Biblical scholars have constructively harvested the work of ritual theorists, especially in the examination of ritual texts and cultic practices like sacrifices and offerings, but thus far prayer has been an outlier in this approach.19 Some attention has been given to prayer as “performative speech,” following the work of John Austin and John Searle, but thus far this work does not seem to have gained much traction.20 More promising, I think, is the work on prayer as a mode of constructing identity and human agency that Carol Newsom and others have begun.21 Of particular interest is Newsom’s examination of the Qumran prayer texts known as the Hodayot or Thanksgiving Psalms and the kinds of religious experiences they induce. She focuses on the use of the first-person singular language in these prayers, which both linguistically and ideationally establishes the speaker’s role 18  E. g., V. Turner, The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure (Chicago: Aldine, 1966); A. van Gennep, The Rites of Passage (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1960 [1909]; R. Rappa­ port, Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999); C. Bell, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999). 19 E. g., R. Gane, Cult and Character: Purification Offerings, Day of Atonement, and Theodicy (Winona Lake,: Eisenbrauns, 2005); G. Klingbeil, Bridging the Gap: Ritual and Ritual Texts in the Bible (Winona Lake,: Eisenbrauns, 2007); I. Gruenwald, Rituals and Ritual Theory in Ancient Israel (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003). 20  E. g., J. C. Hogewood, “The Speech Act of Confession: Priestly Performative Utterance in Leviticus 16 and Ezra 9–10,” in Boda, Falk, Werline, eds., Seeking the Face of God. Volume 1, 69–82. 21  E. g., C. Newsom, “Religious Experience in the Dead Sea Scrolls: Two Case Studies,” in Shantz, Werline, eds., Experientia, Volume 2, 205–222; cf. idem, The Self as Symbolic Space: Constructing Identity and Community at Qumran (Leiden: Brill, 2004; repr., Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2007). For further reading on the general issue of moral agency, see C. Newsom, “Models of the Moral Self: Hebrew Bible and Second Temple Judaism,” JBL 131 (2012): 5–25; idem., “Moral Recipes in Deuteronomy and Ezekiel: Divine Authority and Human Agency,” HeBAI 6 (2017): 488–509; J. Lapsley, Can These Bones Live? The Problem of the Moral Self in the Book of Ezekiel (BZAW 301; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2000); B. Breed, D. Hankins, R. Williamson Jr., eds., “Writing the Moral Self: Essays in Honor of Carol A. Newsom,” JSOT 40 (2015): 3–135; A. Stewart, Poetic Ethics in Proverbs; Wisdom Literature and the Shaping of the Moral Self (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016); idem, “Models of Moral Agency in the Hebrew Bible,” in J. Barton, ed., Oxford Research Encyclopedia of the Bible. Online Publication; November 2016; religion.oxfordre.com; Y. Feder, ed., “Moral Norm Formation and Transformation in Ancient Israel,” HeBAI 6 (2017): 383–526.

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as an active subject – not merely a passive object – in a “figured” or “imagined” world.22 The “I” of the prayer constructs his own identity, claims his own experiences, and declares his own capacity for purposive action.23 In the community at Qumran, these once-oral-now-textualized prayers provide a model for other members of the community who will recite them; they will step into the speaking self of the prayer, re-experience its thinking from the inside, and thus recalibrate their capacity to alter their circumstances. After immersing themselves in the “society of the text,” community members step back into their everyday lives, now imaginatively recreated by their apprehension of alternative and transcendent realties.24 In the Hodayot prayers, a critical aspect of this transformation of self is a paradoxical construction of the speaker’s knowledge and moral capacity.25 On the one hand, the speaker acknowledges that his capacity for knowledge is a gift from God;26 on the other, the speaker simultaneously recognizes that in the act of praying, he has experienced a “distinctive dynamic within his own psyche” that calls forth and intensifies his capacity not only to know about the world of God’s design but also to act upon it meaningfully and reflectively. Although it is not Newsom’s primary objective, I suggest that her work will seed future efforts to analyze the epistemological assumptions underlying models of moral agency in the prayers of Hebrew Bible (see further below). (b). A second area of research into religious experience is located in the field of the cognitive science of religion (CSR). Since the 1980s CSR has emerged as a subdiscipline of religious studies and has developed an increasingly sophisticated approach to understanding the neurobiology of religious ideation. Neuroscience provides models for understanding that prayer is not only culturally constructed and socially enacted in accord with prevailing norms and values; it is also connected in some causal way to the neural architecture of the brain, which predisposes human beings, in whatever cultural or social situation they may in-

22  On “figured worlds,” see D. Holland, et al., Identity and Agency in Cultural Worlds (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1998), 49–63. 23  On the rhetorical “I” and embodied subjectivity in the Hodayot psalms, see A. K. Harkins, Reading with an “I” to the Heavens: Looking at the Qumran Hodayot through the Lens of Visionary Traditions (Berlin, Boston: Walter de Gruyter, 2012). For further discussion of prayers from the postexilic and Hellenistic periods as a vehicle for shaping identity, see S. Gillmayer-Bucher, M. Häusl, eds., Prayers and the Construction of Israelite Identity (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2019). 24  For this way of describing the “uniquely re-utterable” aspect of ritually oriented prayers, I have appropriated the language of F. W. Dobbs-Allsopp in On Biblical Poetry (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 206. 25  Newsom, “Religious Experience in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” 212. 26  E. g., “you [God] have caused me to know” (1QH XII, 28); “I know by means of the spirit that you have placed in me” (1QH V, 6); for these and other references, see ibid., 212–214.

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habit, to conceptualize a supernatural dimension to life.27 Simply put, our brains are prewired for prayer.28 Until quite recently, Biblical scholars have seldom transgressed their own methodologies to avail themselves of this research, and when they have, their focus has been on the neuroscience of religious experience in a more general way, not specifically on the practice of prayer.29 The recent work by Judith Newman is a welcomed sign that this situation may be about to change.30 Newman has intentionally adopted an intradisciplinary approach that draws upon anthropology, ritual theory, and neuroscience to examine the growing importance of prayer and liturgical activity in the post-exilic period. She argues that prayer provides a critical link between the engagement of scripture and an ensuing revelation from God. Before one prays there is a text to be understood, e. g., Daniel’s need to decipher Jeremiah’s prophecy about the length of the exile (Dan 9:1–2). After Daniel prays (9:4–19), he receives “wisdom and understanding” through divine revelation (9:22–27; cf. Bar 1:15–3:18). The practice of prayer is therefore at the center of an intellectual endeavor. It may be viewed through the lens of neuroscience as part of a cognitive process in which a person’s natural self is decentered and then suspended – via a prayer addressed to a supernatural agent – in a suppositional space of possible thoughts and behaviors that will better match the needs of the moment. Ultimately, the natural self is integrated into a new self, a new self-identity, and a transformed consciousness of agency.31 As I noted above, moral agency is a theme addressed by David Lambert and Carol Newsom as well. 27  E. g., B. J. Scholl, P. D. Tremoulet, “Perceptual Causality and Animacy,” Trends in Cognitive Science 4 (2000): 299–308; J. L. Barrett, Cognitive Science, Religion, and Theology: From Human Minds to Divine Minds (West Conshohocken,: Templeton Press, 2012), 96–112. For recent discussion, see, for example, N. Van Leeuwen, M. van Elk, “Seeking the Supernatural: The Interactive Religious Experience” in Religion, Brain, and Behavior. Online publication, 05 June, 2018. 28  Cognitive scientists distinguish between “hardwiring,” which connotes fixed and nonmalleable neural circuitry, and “pre-wiring,” which allows for social and cultural influence on the cognitive process. 29 E. g., I. Czachesz, “The Emergence of Early Christian Religion: A Naturalistic Approach,” in P. Luomanen, et al., eds., Explaining Christian Origins and Early Judaism (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 73–94; idem, “Filled with New Wine? Religious Experience and Social Dynamics in the Corinthian Church,” in Shantz, Werline, eds., Experientia, Volume 2, 71–90; I. Czachesz, T. Biro, “Introduction,” in I. Czachesz, T. Biro, eds., Changing Minds: Religion and Cognition through the Ages (Leuven: Peeters, 2011), ix–xvi; I. Czachesz, R. Uro, ed., Mind, Morality and Magic: Cognitive Science Approaches in Biblical Studies (New York, London: Routledge, 2013); C. Shantz, Paul in Ecstasy: The Neurobiology of the Apostle’s Life and Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). 30 J. Newman, Before the Bible: The Liturgical Body and the Formation of Scripture in Early Judaism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018). 31  For the neuroscience of the “decentering” process, Newman draws upon the work of P. McNamara, The Neuroscience of Religious Experience (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). McNamara refers to the “suppositional space” opened up by religious practices like prayer as the “possible worlds box” (50, et passim).

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Newman identifies this decentering process with the scripturalization of prayer and prayer texts that takes place in the Hellenistic-Roman period (e. g., Daniel, Ben Sira, Baruch, the Qumran Hodayot), but I would argue that something of the same cognitive process along with its impact on one’s understanding of moral agency is at work in the prayers of the Hebrew Bible as well. Newman has demonstrated the benefit of a cross-disciplinary approach to this matter, and we may hope that future studies will follow her lead and build upon her insights. 3. Cross cultural perspectives. During the early decades of the twentieth century, when the phenomenology of prayer was a prominent subject for investigation in the History of Religion school, cross cultural comparisons were common. When biblical scholars effectively siloed prayer inside their own methodologies, cross cultural perspectives were largely sidelined. On the Old Testament (and deuterocanonical) side of our discipline, we contextualize the study of prayer within the cultures of the Levant; on the New Testament side, we typically expand that context to include the Greco-Roman world. In neither case have we typically placed biblical prayer in critical conversation with prayers, meditations, chants, psychic musings, or other forms of spiritual discourse that occur outside monotheistic religions or in a-theistic cultures. An important exception has been the work of the SBL group on Lament in Sacred Texts and Cultures, especially the multiple publications by Nancy Lee, a cofounder of this group.32 Lee has connected lament in Abrahamic sacred texts (Jewish, Christian, and Muslim) with motifs across cultures that reflect a common concern with suffering. Her objective is to examine how diverse cultures create space for lamentation in public expression or in ritual/liturgical performance. She finds that people not only participate in and conserve spiritual practices embedded in local sacred texts; they also innovate these practices by addressing suffering through contemporary poems, songs, and other lyrics of distress. From this cross-cultural perspective it becomes clear that the composition and performance of lament is a global practice. Whether in Asia, Africa, or the Americas, lamentation provides a constructive means for addressing the sociopolitical and religious challenges of the day. Lee’s work is at its core a theological summons to the community of faith to participate in a global discourse of empowerment in the face of violence and injustice in its many forms. Beyond this, however, it is also an important reminder to biblical scholars that biblical texts are not the only sacred texts in the world and that, when it comes to a critical analysis of prayer, a cross cultural 32 N. Lee, The Singers of Lamentations: Cities Under Siege from Ur to Jerusalem to Sarajevo (Leiden: Brill, 2002); N. Lee, C. Mandolfo, Lamentations in Ancient and Contemporary Cultural Contexts (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2008); N. Lee, Lyrics of Lament; From Tragedy to Transformation (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2010); cf. N. Lee, Hannev’ah and Hannah: Hearing Women Biblical Prophets in a Woman’s Lyrical Tradition (Eugene: Cascade, 2015).

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perspective will likely complexify settled (Western) assessments and open them up to new and generative scrutiny. 4. Prayer’s Intellectual Vulnerability. Underlying all of the work referenced above is what Gerhard Ebeling calls prayer’s “intellectual vulnerability.”33 Ebeling refers to the essential subjectivity of prayer that places it in a category of human experience that can neither be empirically verified nor logically falsified. But it seems to me that his description of prayer can be interpreted in different ways. For those who view prayer as the quintessential encounter of the human soul with the divine, its invulnerability to intellectual scrutiny is a comfort not a burden. An aphorism from the German romantic poet Novalis is apt: “Praying is to religion what thinking is to philosophy.”34 William James puts the same perspective in a slightly different way: without prayer, he says, “religion is only a philosophy.” Suffice it to say that for James the equation of religion and philosophy was not a good thing.35 However, for those who wish to examine the intellectual world in which prayer is meaningful and efficacious, its vulnerability to critical investigation is what makes it an interesting subject. Our work to date on more nuanced ways of understanding religious experience, including its neurocognitive aspects, has gone a long way towards opening up the “black box” of prayer’s subjectivity, as my comments above have noted. But I suggest there is more to be discovered in this area, especially by assessing the epistemic map of prayer. A number of recent studies have focused on biblical epistemology, but thus far prayer has not been a primary object of the investigation.36 As we look to

 G. Ebeling, Dogmatik des christlichen Glaubens I (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1979), 209. For this reference, I am indebted to Widmer, Moses, God, and the Dynamics of Intercessory Prayer, 4. 34  Novalis, Blüthenstaube (1798); cited in Heiler, Prayer, xiii. 35  James, Varieties of Religious Experience, 400: “Born at epochs of rationalism, of critical investigations, it [philosophy] was never anything but an abstraction. An artificial and dead creation, it reveals to its examiner hardly one of the characters proper to religion.” 36  E. g., Y. Avrahami, Senses of Scripture: Sensory Perceptions in the Hebrew Bible (New York: T & T Clark, 2013); M. Carasik, Theologies of the Mind in Biblical Israel (New York: Peter Lang, 2006); J. Gericke, The Hebrew Bible and Philosophy of Religion (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2012); Y. Hazony, The Philosophy of Hebrew Scripture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012); M. Healy, R. Parry, eds., The Bible and Epistemology (Colorado Springs: Paternoster, 2007); D. Johnson, Biblical Knowing : A Scriptural Epistemology of Error (Eugene: Cascade, 2013); idem, Knowledge by Ritual: A Biblical Prolegomenon to Sacramental Theology (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2016); idem, Epistemology and Biblical Theology: From the Pentateuch to the Gospel of Mark (New York: Routledge, 2017); R. O’Dowd, The Wisdom of Torah: Epistemology in Deuteronomy and the Wisdom Literature (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2009); I. W. Scott, Paul’s Way of Knowing: Story, Experience, and the Spirit (Grand Rapids: Baker, 2008); cf. R. Kawashima, “Conclusion: Toward an Archaeology of Ancient Israelite Knowledge,” in Biblical Narrative and the Death of the Rhapsode (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004), 190–214; M. Van De Mieroop, Philosophy Before the Greeks: The Pursuit of Truth in Ancient Babylonia (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2016). 33

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this as one of our future areas of work, I suggest the following questions will be pertinent:37 What were assumed to be the necessary and sufficient conditions for prayer, that is, what were the epistemological assumptions in the world of the text about the nature and character of God? The nature and character of human beings? The moral order of the cosmos? Why, according to the text, is prayer possible, desirable, necessary, efficacious? What, according to the text, is prayer expected to do? What, according to the text, can prayer not be expected to do? What access to knowledge do people have in the world of the text? Is there access to knowledge apart from God?

II. Closing Thoughts: The Lure of Transcendence and the Audacity of Prayer I close with a few words about a meta theological issue that should not be lost in our thinking about prayer as both a spiritual practice and an object of theoretical reflection. Prayer may comprise ordinary words from everyday language, but it does not aspire to conventional intrahuman discourse. Prayer is a proximate means to an ultimate end. Its volitional mode transports speakers from their natural habitus to a suppositional supernatural world where the finite may be transformed by the infinite. In the ancient world, such a move was almost certainly instinctive, or as our neuroscience colleagues would say, it was driven by a kind of neural automaticity.38 The discourse of prayer responds to the abiding lure of transcendence. From Gilgamesh to the primordial human beings in Eden to Odysseus, the quest for ultimate truths has summoned forth all manner of human effort – courageous, desperate, pious, impious, successful, failed, invited, forbidden – and like all such lures, one can never be certain whether the glimmer of transcendence is that of a bright and shining star that illuminates the shadows or only a shiny object that seduces one into an inescapable darkness (e. g., a fishing lure). Prayer’s invocation of God transgresses the limits of human beings. Inviting, let alone

37 I have appropriated and reformulated questions from Gericke, Hebrew Bible and Philosophy of Religion, 313–316. 38  Note, for example, the discussion of “the mind’s machinery of transcendence” in A. Newberg, E. D’Aquili, V. Rause, Why God Won’t Go Away: Brain Science and the Biology of Belief (New York: Ballantine Books, 2001), 140–141.

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commanding, God to speak may be the “acme of bardic pretention,”39 but in the ancient world such transgression characterizes the audacity of prayer. It is a truism to say that we no longer live in the enchanted world of the ancients, where mortals praying to God/gods was woven into the very fabric of human existence. In that world, prayer was an audacious and ubiquitous human practice. Ours is a disenchanted world where theorizing about such things as transcendence and prayer is virtually the default position. Our scholarly work on prayer during the last century reflects this changing ethos. Focus on the phenomenology of prayer by psychologists and historians of religion at the beginning of the twentieth century yielded to a concentrated exegesis of the forms and theological functions of prayer by biblical scholars, which has in turn now morphed into a multi-disciplinary and cross-cultural approach to the practice and experience of prayer. In the first decades of the twenty-first century, the theoretical and the theological have been joined, although depending on your disciplinary location you may regard this as either a healthy merger or a hostile take-over. And yet, for all these shifts and changes, we remain “language animals,” as Charles Taylor reminds us in his latest work.40 To crib together a sentence out of the titles of his seminal works: we live in a “secular age” where the “sources of the self ” are to be found in the generative language of dialogue, not the descriptive language of monologue. In his words, “Language doesn’t just develop inside individuals, to be then communicated to others. It evolves always in the interspace of joint attention, or communion.”41 Taylor calls upon the Romantic poets, especially their attention to the constitutive role of imagination, to develop his understanding of what is necessary if this dialogic communion is to produce a transformed self. To conclude this essay, I want to suggest that as we ponder our future work on prayer, we might focus on the “interspace of joint attention” where the human and the divine meet, where the rational and the non-rational are joined, where the theoretical and the theological are intertwined. For work in this place, the cultivation of our imagination will be a premium. On this point, I too want to call on the Romantic poets for help. Wordsworth, who was both the center and the circumference of eighteenth-century Romanticism, describes imagination 39  I appropriate the language of J. Culler, Theory of the Lyric (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2015), 231. Culler uses the expression with respect to Alphonse de Lamartine’s poem, “Le Lac:” “Eternity, nothingness, dark abyss, / What do you do with the days you engulf ? / Speak, will you give us back these sublime ecstasies / That you ravish from us?” 40 C. Taylor, The Language Animal: The Full Shape of the Human Linguistic Capacity (Cambridge; London.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2016). See further, idem, Sources of the Self: The Making of the Modern Identity (Cambridge, MS: Harvard University Press, 1989); idem, A Secular Age (Cambridge, MS; London, U. K.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2007). 41  Taylor, Language Animal, 50.

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as “Reason in her most exalted mood” (“The Prelude,” Book 14, 190). We might consider a rephrasing of this discernment without compromising Wordsworth’s fundamental insight: Prayer is reason in her most exalted mood.

List of First Publications “Isaiah 45: God’s ‘I Am,’ Israel’s ‘You Are’,” HBT 16 (1994), 103–120 “‘I Am a god and Not a Human Being’: The Divine Dilemma in Hosea,” in Torah and Tradition: Papers Read at the Sixteenth Joint Meeting of the Society for Old Testament Study and the Oudtestamentisch Werkgezelschap, Edinburgh, 2015. K. Spronk, H.Barstad, eds., OtSt 70 (Leiden: Brill, 2017), 54–69 “Written on the Heart, Erased from the Mind: Rewriting Moral Agency in Jeremiah,” in L. Stulman, ed., The Oxford Handbook of Jeremiah (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2021), 447–465 “Enthroned on the Praises and Laments of Israel,” The Princeton Seminary Bulletin 13 (1992), 20–35 “Jeremiah, Prophet of Prayer,” Review and Expositor 78 (1981), 331–344 “The Prophet as Intercessor: A Reassessment,” JBL 103 (1984), 161–173 “My Servant Job Will Pray for You,” Theology Today 58 (2002), 502–518 “I Was Ready to be Sought Out by Those Who Did Not Ask,” in Seeking the Favor of God: Volume 1 – The Origin of Penitential Prayer in Second Temple Judaism, Mark J. Boda, Daniel K. Falk, Rodney A. Werline, eds., (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2006), 1–20 “Prayer in the Wilderness Traditions: In Pursuit of Divine Justice,” Hebrew Annual Review 9 (1985), 53–74 “Prayers for Justice in the Old Testament: Theodicy and Theology,” CBQ 51 (1989), 597–616 “‘You Can’t Pray a Lie’, Truth and Fiction in the Prayers of Chronicles,” in The Chronicler as Historian, M. Patrick Graham, Kenneth G. Hoglund, Steven L. McKenzie, eds. (LHBOTS 238; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 246–267 “Preaching the Prayers of the Old Testament,” Journal for Preachers 17 (1994), 12–17 “Turn O Lord! How Long?” Review and Expositor 100 (2003), 465–481 “Praying East of Eden” (unpublished)

“Prayer in the Hebrew Bible: Retrospectives and Prospectives,” in Selected Studies on Deuterocanonical Prayers, A. K. Harkins, B. Schmitz, eds. (CBET 103; Leuven: Peeters, 2021), 9–26

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Index of Authors Adamiak, R. ​148 Adorno, T. ​131–32 Aejmelaeus, A. ​62, 179 Ahn, Suk-il ​234 Albertz, R. ​59, 86 Alexander, J. ​46, 47 Allen, L. ​39 Alt, A. ​123 Alter, R. ​9, 10, 207 Anderson, F. I. ​23, 110 Ap-Thomas, D.  R. ​86 Arvidson, S. ​18 Attridge, H.  W. ​21 Austin, J. ​238 Avrahami, Y. ​242 Balentine, S. E. ​13, 19, 29, 84, 103, 105–106, 113, 122, 136, 145, 147, 151, 157–58, 166, 168, 183, 193, 198–99, 161, 208–209, 213, 216, 222, 226–27, 234 Baltzer, K. ​123 Barclay, J.  M. ​34 Barker, M. ​191 Barr, J. ​145, 167 Barrett, J.  L. ​240 Barth, K. ​3, 4 Barton, J. ​17, 27, 203 Baum, G. ​173 Baumgartner, W. ​74 Bautch, R. ​124–27, 130, 132–34, 235 Becker, E.-M. ​45 Begg, C.  T. ​190 Begrich, J. ​58, 160, 233 Bell, C. ​238 Ben Zvi, E. ​18 Bergant, D. ​110 Berger, P. ​169–70, 172–73 Berlin, A. ​10 Bernal, M. ​21 Berridge, J. M. ​74, 79–80, 82

Berry, W. ​212 Blank, S. ​81–83 Blenkinsopp, J. ​107, 153, 165, 188 Blok, J. ​28 Boase, E.  G. ​45 Boda, M. ​124, 126–27, 130, 132–33, 235 Bonfiglio, R.  P. ​19 Bonnard, P. E. ​9, 74 Bos, J.  M. ​18 Bosworth, D. ​48 Boteach, S. ​205, 215 Bourdieu, P. ​237 Boyce, R. N. ​62, 179 Braun, R. L. ​189, 191 Bream, H.  N. ​181 Breed, B. ​34, 238 Brenner, A. ​102 Brettler, M. ​37 Bright, J. ​74 Brooks, G. ​210, 215 Brueggemann, W. ​59, 66–68, 76, 82, 119–21, 125, 146, 157, 170, 172–73, 175, 201–202, 213, 221, 233–35 Buber, M. ​3 Bucci, M. ​100 Buis, P. ​49 Burkert, W. ​17, 21 Butler, T.  C. ​183 Carasik, M. ​33, 35–37, 44, 242 Carr, D. ​45 Carroll, R. P. ​3, 93, 148 Caruth, C. ​45 Chalmers, R.  S. ​19 Chambers, N. ​34 Chazon, E.  G. ​125 Childs, B. S. ​142–43, 151, 166, 174 Chittister, J. ​110 Clay, J.  S. ​VII Clements, R. ​157

268

Index of Authors

Clines, D. J. A. ​79, 105 Coats, G. ​142, 144, 150, 162 Cogan, M. ​178 Cohn, R.  L. ​49 Colenso, J.  W. ​177 Coleridge, S. T. ​VIII, 207 Collins, J. ​123 Collins, T. ​5, 9 Corvin, J. ​139–41, 154, 160, 164 Crenshaw, J. L. ​147, 157, 170–72, 217 Crüsemann, F. ​235 Culler, J. ​VII, 244 Cyril of Alexander ​24 Czachesz, I. ​240 D’Aquili, E. ​243 Davidson, R. ​157 Davies, J. K. ​22, 25 Davies, P.  R. ​226 Davis, E. ​200 Day, J. ​20 de Boer, P. A. H. ​85, 87 de Vito, R. A. ​33 De Vries, S. J. ​192 Dearman ​19, 26 Dentan, R.  C. ​153 Dickinson, E. ​112 Dijkstra, M. ​7 Dillard, R. B. ​182, 185–86, 191–92 Dobbs-Allsopp, F.  W. ​239 Dochhorn, J. ​45 Douglas, M. ​134 Driver, S.  R. ​109 Duhm, B. ​7, 8 Duke, D.  N. ​213 Duke, P.  D. ​197 Duke, R. K. ​186, 187, 189 Eagleton, T. ​VIII Eaton, J.  H. ​74 Ebeling, G. ​242 Ehnmark, E. ​22 Eliade, M. ​237 Eliot, T. S. ​VIII, 112 Elwolde, J. ​105 Emerson, R.  W. ​22 Eusebius, 21 Eves, T.  L. ​185

Falk, D. ​124, 129–30, 133, 235 Fassin, D. ​46 Feder, Y. ​238 Finkelberg, M. ​21 Fischer, G. ​44 Fishbane, M. A. ​103, 184 Flannery, F. ​237 Fleischer, E. ​125 Forsyth, P. T. ​233, 234 Fox, M. ​40 Fränkel, H. ​23 Frazier, J. ​237 Frechette, C.  G. ​45 Freedman, D. N. ​23, 25, 210 Fretheim, T. ​56–57, 157, 210–11, 219 Friedman, R. ​227 Fritz, V. ​142–43 Frost, R. ​109 Gane, R. ​238 Garber, D. ​45 Gathercole, S. ​34 Geertz, C. ​237 Gericke, J. ​17, 20, 23, 242–43 Gerstenberger, E. S. ​58, 59, 62, 74, 179, 234 Gill, S. D. ​55, 234 Gillmayer-Bucher, S. ​239 Gitay, Y. ​5, 7, 8, 11 Glatzer, N.  N. ​99 Good, E. M. ​102, 106, 109 Gordis, R. ​108 Gordon, C.  H. ​20 Gray, G.  B. ​109 Greenberg, M. ​55, 62–63, 65–66, 140, 157, 161, 179, 234, 238 Gunkel, H. ​58–59, 115–16, 119–20, 122–23, 160, 233 Gunn, D.  M. ​79 Gunneweg, A. H. J. ​74 Hack, K. ​22 Hamer, P. ​8 Hankins, D. ​34, 238 Hanson, P. ​170 Haran, M. ​151 Harkins, A.  K. ​239 Häusl, M. ​239

Index of Authors

Havelock, E.  A. ​27 Hawthorne, N. ​235 Hazony, Y. ​17, 242 Healy, M. ​242 Heidel, A. ​21 Heiler, F. ​233, 242 Heinemann, J. ​62 Herbert, A.  S. ​84 Herodotus, 21 Hertzberg, H.  W. ​84 Heschel, A. ​67 Hesiod ​24–25, 27, 29–30 Hesse, F. ​84 Hill, A.  D. ​183 Hogewood, J.  C. ​238 Holladay, W. L. ​71, 79, 83, 92 Holland, D. ​239 Holt, E.  K. ​45 Homer ​21, 23, 26–28 Huffmon, H.  B. ​94 Hughes, L. ​224 Humphreys, W.  L. ​157 Hyatt, J. P. ​74, 79 Irwin, W.  A. ​96 James, W. ​233, 237, 242 Janoff-Bulman, R. ​45, 47 Janowski, B. ​17 Janzen, D. ​45, 49 Janzen, J. G. ​97, 109 Japhet, S. ​182, 184, 186, 190, 192 Jeremias, J. ​84, 93 Jerome ​24 Johansson, N. ​96 Johnson, A. R. ​70–72, 84, 88, 91, 95 Johnson, D. ​242 Johnson, M.  D. ​172 Kakkanattu, J.  P. ​24 Kant ​30 Kapelrud, A.  S. ​191 Kaplan, K. ​34 Kaufmann, Y. ​123 Kawashima, R. ​242 Kazin, A. ​112 Kelle, B. E. ​19, 24, 45 Klingbeil, G. ​238

269

Knierim, R.  P. ​188 Knight, D. ​34, 38 Knohl, I. ​134 Koch, K. ​17 Krinetzki, L. ​59, 160, 234 Krüger, T. ​33 Kugel, J. ​9, 10 Lacocque, A. ​124 Lambert, D. ​235–37, 240 Lapsley, J. E. ​34–35, 43–44, 49–50, 238 Lardinois, A. ​28 Lasater, P. ​41 Lauha, A. ​82 Lee, N. ​241 Liebreich, L. ​123 Lindström ​28 Lipinski, E. ​123, 124 Lloyd, A.  B. ​22 Long, B. O. ​70, 92 Longinus ​24 López-Ruiz, C. ​18, 21, 25 Louden, B. ​21, 25 Lundbom, J. ​32, 33, 34, 41, 43 Machinist, P. ​20, 110 Macholz, G. C. ​70–71, 92 Mandell, S. ​25 Mandolfo, C. ​241 Matson, J. ​34 Mays, J. L. ​197, 206, 211–12 McCann, J. C., Jr. ​207–208 McNamara, P. ​240 Melugin, R. ​6 Mettinger, T. N. D. ​112 Milazzo, G.  T. ​199 Miles, J. ​111–112 Milgrom, J. ​132–133 Miller, G.  D. ​21 Miller, P. D. ​9, 20, 64, 66, 122, 197 Minchin, E. ​28 Miskotte, K. ​3 Mitchell, S. ​106 Mowinckel, S. ​58–59, 72, 96, 115, 116, 123, 160, 233 Muilenburg, J. ​6 Mullen, E. T., Jr. ​95 Murphy, R.  E. ​110

270

Index of Authors

Nasuti, H. P. ​114, 120–21, 130 Newberg, A. ​243 Newman, J. ​124–25, 130, 235, 240–41 Newsom, C. ​29, 33–36, 110, 238–40 Nielsen, F. A. J. ​25 Niskanen, P. ​25 Nitzan, B. ​125 Noort, E. ​147 Norris, K. ​214, 215 Noth ​142–43, 156, 161, 177–78, 185–87 Novalis ​242 O’ Connor, M. ​8 O’Connor, K. ​45, 48 O’Dowd, R. ​242 Oden, R. A., Jr. ​21 Osborne, W.  L. ​189 Otto, E. ​19, 28, 30 Pardes, I. ​110 Parry, R. ​242 Pascal, B. ​3, 16 Penchansky, D. ​100 Pentuic, E.  J. ​24 Pitard, W.  T. ​20 Plöger, O. ​122, 161, 177–78, 186–87 Polk, T. ​33, 34 Polzin, R. ​63 Pope, M. ​96, 106, 109 Poser, R. ​45 Pratt, R.  L. ​187 Preus, J.  S. ​115 Pröbstl, V. ​126 Rappaport, R. ​238 Rast, W.  E. ​77 Rause, V. ​243 Rechtman, R. ​47 Reif, S. ​126 Reindl, J. ​167 Rendsburg, G. ​20 Reumann, J. ​197 Reventlow, H. G. ​59–60, 74, 84, 93, 122, 157, 234 Rhodes, A.  B. ​84 Riley, W. ​187, 190–91 Römer, T. ​49 Rudolph, W. ​185

Sæbø, M. ​109 Said, E. ​131, 132 Sakenfeld, K. ​153 Sartori, G. ​51 Sawyer, J. ​9, 12 Schaefer, G.  E. ​190 Scharbert, J. ​153 Schmid, H. H. ​156, 170 Schmidt, L. ​107, 153, 165 Schökel, L.  A. ​10 Scholl, B.  J. ​240 Schoors, A. ​7 Schopenhauer, A. ​30 Scott, I.  W. ​242 Searle, J. ​238 Seebass, H. ​143 Sekine, S. ​17 Shakespeare, W. ​100, 111, 234 Shantz, C. ​237, 240 Shaver, J.  R. ​185 Shipp, R.  M. ​183 Smelser, N.  J. ​47 Smith-Christopher, D. ​45, 131 Smith, M. S. ​19–20, 22 Smith, R. ​237 Soggin, J.  A. ​163 Sophocles ​31 Soskice, J.  M. ​56 Speiser, E.  A. ​85 Stähli, H.  P. ​85 Staudt, E. ​140, 156, 159, 161 Steck, O. ​123, 124 Stegner, W. ​203 Steinbeck, J. ​219 Steiner, G. ​VIII, 225 Stewart, A. ​34–35, 37, 238 Stoebe, H. J. ​82, 147 Stolz, F. ​12 Stuhlmueller, C. ​6 Sztompka, P. ​45 Taylor, B.  B. ​219 Taylor, C. ​VIII, 244 Taylor, E.  B. ​237 Terrien, S. L. ​3, 100, 104, 157, 199 Tertullian ​17, 30 Thomas, R. S. ​216, 228 Throntveit, M. ​182, 187

Index of Authors

Towner, W.  S. ​121–22 Tremoulet, P.  D. ​240 Tunyogi, A. ​142 Turner, V. ​238 Twain, M. ​176, 192–93 Uro, R. ​240 Van De Mieroop, M. ​21, 242 van der Poel, M. G. M. ​28 van Elk, M. ​240 van Gennep, A. ​238 Van Leeuwen, N. ​240 Van Seters, J. ​25, 178, 186 Vanderhooft, D.  S. ​19 von Jepsen, A. ​76 von Rad, G. ​82, 123, 130, 177 von Soden, W. ​156 Vorländer, H. ​95 Wagner, S. ​90 Waltke, B. ​8 Watts, I. ​212–13 Watts, J. W. ​183, 190 Weinfeld, M. ​122, 126, 156, 161

271

Welch, E.  S. ​102 Welten, P. ​185, 189–90 Wendel, A. ​59–60, 160, 234 Werline, R. ​124, 126, 128, 130, 235, 237 Wesselius, J.  W. ​25 West, M. L. ​17, 19, 21, 27–28 Westermann, C. ​6–8, 55, 58–62, 64–65, 89, 94, 116–22, 125–26, 130, 146, 158, 160, 163, 199, 213, 233–36 Wharton, J. A. ​97, 111 Whedbee, J.  W. ​106 Widmer, M. ​234, 242 Wiesel, E. ​112 Wilhelm, G. ​17 Williamson, H. G. M. ​182, 185, 191–92 Williamson, R., Jr. ​34, 238 Willis, J.  T. ​63 Wilson, A. ​7 Wilson, R. ​71–73, 93–94 Winitzer, A. ​20 Wolff, H. W. ​23, 33 Wolff, V. ​97 Wordsworth, W. ​244–45 Yeats, W.  B. ​VIII

Scripture Index Old Testament/Hebrew Bible Genesis 1–3 220 1–2 220 1 218 1:3, 6, 9, 11, 14, 20, 24 218 1:4, 10, 12, 18, 21, 25 218 1:16–17 43 1:22, 28 99 1:26 219 1:31 218 2–3 43 3–6 220 3 225 3:9–13 140, 159 3:10 227 3:10a 219 3:10b 219 3:19 207 4:1–16 43 4:8–10 105 4:9–15 140, 159 4:23–24 43 4:26 88 6:5 43 6:7 220 6:13 220 8:20 135 8:21 43 12:8 88 13:4 88 18–19 24, 165, 174 18 163, 169, 174 18:16–21 174 18:22–33 64, 140, 153 18:22–31 24 18:22–23 71, 85, 107, 162, 164 18:25 68, 107, 153, 215

18:26, 28 164 18:27 106 19:1–20 174 19:25, 29 24 20:7 85–86, 93 20:7, 17 71 21:33 88 22:2, 13 135 25:8 99 25:21 86 25:29 99 26:25 88 31:37 105 31:54 135 46:1 135 Exodus 3:6 14 5:22–23 116 5:22 147 5:23 148 6:1 149 8:4, 24 86 8:5, 25, 26 86 9:28 86 10:17 86 10:18 86 13:21 152 14:7 90 15–18 142, 169 15:1–18 63 15:3 44 15:22–27 142 15:22–25 142, 150 15:25 150 16 144, 149–50 16:1–36 142–43 16:2 150 16:2, 4, 6, 9, 10 150

Scripture Index

16:3 150 16:7, 10 149 17:1–17 142, 150 17:3 116 17:4 150 18:10 61, 116 18:15 90 19–24 188 19:6 188, 208 20:1–17 208 20:2–3 32 22:4 110 22:16 79 24:3, 7 32 24:12 42 24:16 220 25–31 188, 220 25–31, 35–40 208 25:1 165, 220 25:9 191 30:11, 17, 22, 34 220 31:1, 12 220 31:18 42 32 163, 165, 168, 174, 208–209, 217 32–34 165, 168, 208, 220 32:1–6 165, 208 32:1–6, 15–20, 35 174 32:7–14 64, 162–63, 165, 168, 174, 208 32:7–10 165, 168 32:7 167 32:10 166, 208–209, 220 32:11–14 165–66, 199 32:11–14, 31–34 92 32:11–13 158 32:11 159, 164, 167 32:12–13 220 32:12 152, 164–65, 167–68 32:12a 167, 209 32:12b 167, 209 32:13 167–68, 209 32:14 164–65, 167, 169, 210, 220 34 165, 208, 220 34:5–9 151 34:5 88 34:6–7 26

34:9 154 35–40 188, 220 40:34–35 220 Leviticus 1–27 188 1–16 208 4:20, 26, 31, 35 154 5:5 124, 132 16 135, 215 16:21 124, 132 17–27 208 24 134 26 126, 132, 133 26:40–45 130 26:40 124, 132 Numbers 5:5 124 5:7 132 10–21 142, 161, 169 11 148–50 11 152 11:1–3 142, 158 11:4–34 64, 141–43, 158 11:4–15 168 11:4–6 144 11:4–6, 10 143 11:4 143 11:4, 18 148 11:7–9, 14–17, 24b–30 143 11:10 144, 148 11:10, 11, 12, 13 146 11:11–13 150 11:11–13, 18–20 143 11:11–13, 21 150 11:11–15 145, 199 11:11 116, 145, 147, 167 11:11, 12, 13, 14 149 11:12 146 11:14 68, 146 11:18–20 148 11:2 71, 150 11:20 149 11:21–24 143, 148 11:21 149 11:23 149

273

274

Scripture Index

11:31–34 143, 149 11:33 144 12:1–16 142 12:13 150 14 64–65, 67, 154–55, 161 14:1–10 64–65, 151, 155, 161 14:1–10, 26–38 142 14:1a, 2–3 151 14:1b, 4, 11a, 23b–24 151 14:2 150 14:5 150 14:11–25 64–65 14:11–23 141–43, 151 14:11a 151, 155 14:11b–23 151, 154–56, 161–62 14:11b–12 151–52 14:11 154 14:13–19 92, 151–52, 168 14:13 152 14:14 152 14:15 153 14:16 152 14:19 154 14:20–23 152, 154 14:20–23a 152 14:20 154 14:23b–24 152, 155 14:26–38 64–65151–52, 155 14:26–28 161 15:5–10 151 16:9 89 16:46f 151 17:6–15 142 20:1–13 142 20:2 150 20:3 150 20:6 143, 150–51 21:4–9 142, 150 21:7 71, 85–86, 92, 150 22–24 23 23:19 23 25 19 26:33 110 27:1–11 110 27:21 90 36:1–12 110 44:24 145

Deuteronomy 4 126 4:3, 25–28 36 4:9–14 36 4:10 40–41 4:29 35 5:2–5, 19–24 36 5:6–7 32 5:27 32 5:29 41 6:2 40 6:5 35 6:6 42 6:15 36 7:10 36 8:20 36 9:7–21 36 9:7 118 9:20 71, 85–86, 92 9:25–29 159, 168 9:28 152 10:8 89 10:12 35 10:16 34, 36 11:6, 17 36 11:13 35 11:18 42 13:4 35 14:23 40–41 15:9 89 15:10 35 17:12 89 17:19 41 18:5, 7 89 18:9–22 94 18:15 71 19:6 35 20:3 35 20:8 36 22:25 79 22:27 79 23:1 207 24:15 89 26:16–18 35 27 129 27:15–26 36 28:16–46 36 29:3 40

Scripture Index

29:17 36 30 126 30:1–10 36 30:1–2 36 30:2, 6, 10 35 30:6 34, 36–37, 40 30:14 35 30:17 36 31:12, 13 41 31:13 40 32:1–43 63 Joshua 24:20 147 7 126–27 7:1 165 7:7–9 64, 116, 162, 164 7:7–8 163 7:7 163 7:9 168 7:10–15 164 7:11 171 7:26 165, 171 Judges 5:1–31 63 6:13, 22 116 15:18 61, 89, 116 16:5 79 16:26 166, 208 16:28 89 21:3 61, 116 Ruth 1:21 147 I Samuel 1:10–11 64 1:20 89 2 67 2:1–10 63, 65, 201 2:4–10 64 2:21 63 3:21 227 7:5 71, 85–86, 92 9:9 90 12:17, 18 89 12:19, 23 71, 85–86, 92

14:37 89 15:29 23 22:10 89 22:13, 15 90 23:2, 4 89 23:19 9 26:1 9 28:6 89 30:8 89 II Samuel 2:1 89 5:1–25 182 5:19 180, 182 5:19, 23 89 7:18–29 180 12:16 91 12:22 217 13:11 79 15:31 61, 116 21:1 90 21:14 86 22:2–31 63 22:7 89 24:10 180 24:17 180 24:25 86 I Kings 1–2 183 2:12–46 182 3:5 227 3:6–9 180, 182 3:16–28 182 6–8 221 8 61, 125–26, 128 8:22–61 140 8:22–53 180–81 8:23–53 125 8:30, 35, 36 154 8:34 154 8:46–47, 49 122 8:50–53 181 8:50 154 8:51, 53 182 9:2 227 9:10–11 191 11:9 227

275

276 12:1–19 191 13:6 85 17:17–24 64, 162–64 17:20 147, 163–64, 167 17:20, 21 89 17:22 164 18 227 18:24 88 18:24, 25, 26 88 19 227 19:9 227 19:10 227 19:11–12a 227 19:15 227 22:7, 8 90 II Kings 3:8 90 3:11 90 5:11 88 8:8 90 15:5 90 18:1–6 186 18:13–20:21 186 19:15–19 185 19:4 72, 89, 91, 93 20 201 20:3 185 20:11 89 22:7, 8 90 22:13, 18 90 25:1–21 45 25:22–26 45 25:27–30 45 I Chronicles 1–9 180, 187–88 2:3 188 4:9 189 4:10 180, 184, 189 5:20 180, 188 5:25–26 188 9:1 188 10–29 180 13–16 187 13 182 13:1–14 189 14:10 180–82, 189–90

Scripture Index

14:14 180 15–16 182 16 184 16:15–22 183 16:15 184 16:23–33 183–84 16:25 184 16:34–36 183–84 16:34, 41 183 16:8–36 180–81, 183, 189 16:8–22 183 16:8–14 183 16:8 88 17:16–27 180–81, 189 17:17–29 181, 186 21–29 187 21:8 180–81 21:8, 17 182, 189 21:17 180–81 21:26 180 21:30 90 22 191 29:10–19 180–81, 184–86, 189–90 29:11–19 191 29:28 99 II Chronicles 1–9 180 1:2–6 190 1:8–10 181–82, 189–90 1:9–10 180 6:14–42 190 2–8 183 2:1–7:22 187 2:1–5:1 189 2:5–6 185 5:13 180–81, 183, 189 6:14–42 180–81, 189–90 6:40–42 180–81, 183 7:14 192 7:3 180 7:3, 6 181, 183, 189 10–36 180, 187 13:3–20 185 13:14–15 180 14:6 190 14:8–14 185

Scripture Index

14:11 180, 184 16:8 88 18:4, 6, 7 90 18:31 180 20:1–30 185 20:3 190 20:6–12 180, 184 20:21 180–81, 183 20:26 180 23–26 191 24:15 99 26:5 190 26:6–8 185 29–31 185 30:18–19 180, 184–86 30:18 85–86 30:22 124 31:8 180 31:21 190 32 186 32:20, 24 180, 185 33:12 180 33:13 180 34:21, 26 90 36:17–21 45 Ezra 9–10 127 9 60–61, 125, 127, 130–31 9:6–15 113, 121, 134, 216, 235 9:6, 7, 13, 15 122 9:15 127 10:1 122, 124 Nehemiah 1 130 1:5–11 113, 121, 216, 235 1:5 122 1:6–7 122 1:6 85–87, 122, 124 7:1–8:23 127 9 60–61, 117, 123, 125–27, 129–31, 133 9:3 122, 124 9:6–37 113, 121, 134, 216, 236 9:8, 33 127 9:16–18 122

9:17 154 9:17, 19, 27, 28, 31 122 9:32 122 9:33 133 Esther 4:14 217 Job 1–2 98, 134 1:2–3 98 1:3 99 1:4–5 98 1:5 135 1:6 135 1:8 98–99 1:9 98 1:21 99 2:1 135 2:3 98–99, 135 2:8 99 2:9–10 99 2:11–13 99 3–31 102 3–27 99 4:17–19 38 6:14 98 7:20 145, 167 8:5–6 223 9:32 105 9:33 96, 105–106 10:1–22 199 11:12 38 11:13 223 12:4 89 15:14–16 38 16:19–21 96 16:19 105 16:20 96 19:7 105 19:25 96, 105 19:29 105 22:23–27 223 23:1–17 199 23:6 216 27:2–5 215 28:7 100, 101 29–31 133

277

278 29 133–34 29:14–16, 17 133 29:22 134 29:24–25 133 30:19 106 30:20 106 31:9 79 33:23 96 38–42 29 38:1–40:34 103 38:3 103 38:4–18 103 38:39–39:30 103 40:2 106 40:3–5 103, 106 40:6–41:34 103 40:7 103 40:10 103 40:23 103 41:3–4 104 42:1–6 103 42:5 107 42:6 106–107 42:7–17 98, 134 42:7–10 97 42:7–9 99, 216 42:7 103 42:7, 8 99 42:7, 9 223 42:8 85, 99, 109, 135 42:8, 10 86 42:10–17 110 42:10 85 42:10, 12 110 42:11 99 42:12 99 42:13–15 99, 110 42:16 99 42:17 99, 101 Psalms 1:3–4 76 3:5 89 4:4 89 6 114 6:1 117 8 103 8:1, 3–4 218

Scripture Index

8:5–6 103 9–10, 42–43, 88 199 10:1 145 10:11 14 13:1–2 77 13:1, 2 68 13:2 14 13:5 58 18:1–2 77 18:4 89 19:1 218 20:10 89 22 197–99, 200–203 22:1–21 198, 200–201 22:1 77, 202 22:2 145, 201 22:3 55 22:6–8, 12–13, 16–18 199 22:6 201 22:11 199 22:14–18 201 22:14–15 199 22:19–21 199 22:19 200 22:22–31 198, 200–201 22:22–26 201–202 22:22 201 22:24 201–202 22:25 14 22:26 201 22:27–31 201, 202 22:27 201–202 22:29 202 22:30 201–202 22:31 201 24:6 90 25:11 154 27:8 90 27:9 14, 117 27:9, 12 117 28:1 117 30 201 30:4–10 58 30:5 15 32 114 32:1–2 114 34 201

Scripture Index

38 114 38:1 117 38:21 117 39:10–11 117 39:11 117 39:12 117 42 214 44:3 147 44:9 117 44:23–24 117 44:23 77 44:24 215 44:25 14 45 15 51 114–15, 117 51:4 114 51:5 38 51:11 14 54:2 9 55:1 117 60:10 117 65 201 69 15, 199 69:17 117 69:18 14 69:22–28 78 71:9 117 72:15 85–86 74 199 74:1 117 79:5 117 79:6 88 80:4 117 80:19 88 86:5 154 88:1–2, 9, 13 201 88:1 200 88:3 15 88:4–5 200 88:15 14 88:18 200 89:38–51 208 89:38 117 89:46 77, 117 89:49 208 90–106 208 90 205–206, 208–209, 211–13, 217

90:1–2 206 90:3 207 90:3–12 206, 211 90:4 207 90:5–6 206 90:7–8, 11 207 90:9 206 90:10 99, 207 90:11 207, 210, 216–17 90:12 207 90:13–17 207, 211 90:13 205, 208, 212, 213 90:13a 209 90:13b 209 90:14 208, 211 96 180, 184 96:1–13 183 100:5 183 102 114 102:2–3 15 102:2 117 102:3 14 103:3 154 105 180 105:1–15 183 105:1–7 183 105:1 88 105:8–15 183 106 126, 180 106:1 183–84 106:1, 47–48 183 106:23 89 107–150 208 107:1 183 108:11 117 109 199 109:1 117 109:6–20 78 113 63 116:4, 12, 17 88 116:4, 13, 17 88 116:13, 17 88 118:1, 2, 3, 4, 29 183 130 114–15 130:4 154 130:7 114 132:1 189 132:8–10 180–83

279

280 136 202, 208 136:1–26 183 137:7–9 78 143 114 143:1 15 143:2 114 143:7 14, 117 146:5–10a 58 146:6–9 202 148:9–10, 13 218 150 218 150:6 202 Proverbs 6:9 76 15:32 37 24:22 217 25:8 76 30:7 89 Ecclesiastes 2:19 217 3:21 217 6:12 217 8:1 217 Isaiah 6:11 84 8:17 14–15 12:4 88 19:22 86 31:3 23 37:4 89 38:9–20 63, 201 41:25 88 43:3, 11 9 44:23 6 44:24–45:25 4, 12 44:24–45:7 4–5, 7 44:24–28 5 44:24 5–6, 8 44:28 5 45:1–7 5 45:3, 5, 6, 7 5 45:3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 18, 19, 21, 22 5 45:5, 6 5–6 45:5, 6, 18 11, 13

Scripture Index

45:7 5–6, 12 45:8 5–6, 8, 10, 12 45:8, 13 11 45:8, 13, 19 12 45:9–13 4–7 45:9, 10 6 45:11–13 11 45:12–13 6–7 45:14–19 7 45:14 8, 10–11 45:14 [16, 17] 5 45:14, 18f 7 45:14 12 45:15–17 7 45:15 3–4, 8–10, 12–13, 15–16 45:15, 21 9 45:17–19 14 45:18–19 11 45:20–25 4–5, 11 45:21–25 12 45:21 13 45:21 7, 9, 15 45:21, 22 11 45:22 7, 11, 13 45:24 12 46:13 12 47:8 8 49:26 9 50:6 14 51:5 12 53:3 14 53:5, 10 207 53:12 86 54:7–8 15 54:8 14–15 55:3 182 55:6 90 57:15 207 58:2 90 58:3 117 59:2 14–15 59:12 122 59:16 86 60:16 9 63:7–64:11 113, 126, 133–34 63:15–64:12 15 63:16 15

Scripture Index

64:4, 68 122 64:6 14–15, 88 64:7 15 64:8 15 64:12 117, 215 65 113 65:1 217, 221 65:10 90 65:17 225 66:22 225 Jeremiah 1–24 44 1:8 73, 75–76, 79 1:10 40, 48 1:11–14 39 1:11–12 39 1:13–14 39 1:15–19 39 2:2–3a 38 2:8 78 2:12 48 2:13 38, 77 2:20 38 2:30 40 3:10 40 3:12, 22 80 3:17 34 4:1–4 33 4:1–2 44 4:1 80 4:4 34, 36 4:19 78 5:3 40 6:14 72 7:16 71–72, 85–86, 89, 93 7:23 42 7:24 34, 38 7:28 40 8:8–9 78 8:11 72 8:15 77 8:18 48 9:1 48 9:13 34, 44 9:25–26 34 10:16 44 10:18 167

281

10:19 78 10:23 46 10:25 88 11:4 42 11:8 34 11:14 71–72, 85–86, 89, 93 11:18–23 73, 80 11:18–21 199 11:18–20 78 11:19 47 11:20 78 12:1–6 73, 80 12:1–4 76 12:1–3 78 12:1 75–76 12:3 78 12:4 76 12:6 73 13:10 34 13:16c 77 14:1–15:4 133 14:10 42 14:7–9 199 14:7, 20 122 14:8, 19 117 14:11 71–72, 85–86, 93 14:13–16 78 14:19c 77 15:1–4 133 15:1 80, 89, 92 15:6 73 15:10–21 73 15:10–18 80 15:10 78 15:11 72, 86 15:15–18 199 15:15 78 15:16 79 15:17 73 15:18 76–77, 145, 167 15:19–21 80 15:20 73, 76 16:10–13 147, 171 16:12 34 17:1 42 17:9 42 17:10 42 17:12–18 73, 77, 80

282 17:13 75, 77 17:15 77 17:17 77 17:18 78 17:23 40 18:7–10 210 18:12 34 18:18–23 73, 78 18:19 75 18:20 72, 76, 89, 92 20:1–3 73 20:7–13 73, 79–80 20:7 75 20:8 79 20:11 73 20:14–18 73, 78, 80 20:14, 17, 18 81 20:18 145 21:2 90, 92 23:9–40 78 23:17 34 23:18, 22 71 24:1–10 39, 40 24:1–2 39 24:4–10 39 24:5–7 39, 44 24:5–6 39 24:6 40 24:6 48 24:6b 40 24:7 40–42 25:6–7 38 25:6, 29 147 25:8–12 38 25:9–11 47 26:1–24 78 26:3, 19 210 27:18 71, 86, 91 28:1–11 72 28:15 72 29:5, 28 40 29:7 85–86 29:10–14 126 30–33 43 30:5–31:22 43 30:11 73 30:22 42 30:24 44

Scripture Index

31:1, 33 42 31:4–5 40 31:23–40 43 31:27, 38 42 31:28 147 31:29, 40 42 31:31–34 32, 37, 39–44 31:31 42 31:32 47, 50 31:33 43 31:34 42 31:35–37 43, 48 31:35–36 44 31:35 43 31:36–37 44 31:36 40, 44 31:37 44 31:38–40 42 31:40 48 32 41, 43 32:26–35 40 32:33 40 32:36–41 39–40, 44 32:36–40 43 32:36 47 32:37–41 40 32:37 47 32:38 42 32:39 40 32:39, 40 41 32:41 41 33 42–43 33:5 14 33:18 40 33:25–26 44 33:25 43 35:13 40 35:19 40 35:7 40 36:20–26 73 37:3 71, 85–86, 92 37:6–10 92 37:7 90 39:1–10 45 40:7–41:18 45 42 92 42:2 71, 86 42:2, 20 85

Scripture Index

42:2, 4, 20 92 42:4 86 42:7 92 42:10 40 42:11 73 42:20 71, 86 45:5 40 52:31–34 45 52:4–30 45 Lamentations 1 199 1:2, 7, 17, 21 199 3:42–45 117 5:20–24 199 Ezekiel 11:19–20 42, 50 12:22 222 13:5 89 14:7 90 14:23 122 18 126–27 18:1 153 18:31 42 20:1, 3 90 20:14 152–53 22:30 89 28:2 23 36:26–27 42 36:27 50 39:23, 24, 29 14 44:1, 15 89 Daniel 9

60, 117, 123, 125, 128–31 9:1–2 240 9:4–19 113, 121, 216, 236, 240 9:4 122 9:4, 20 122, 124 9:5 122 9:7, 14, 16 122 9:14, 16, 18 127 9:18 122 9:19 154 9:22–27 240

Hosea 1–3 19 2 24 2:3 29 2:14 79 4–11 19 4:5 29 5:6 91 5:12, 14 29 5:15 90 6:4 24 6:5 29 9:12, 16 29 10:14 29 11–13 19 11 22, 26 11:1–4 18, 24 11:3, 9 19 11:5–7 18 11:6 29 11:8–9 18, 24, 29 11:8 19, 24, 28 11:9 18, 20, 23–25 11:10–11 18 12:10–11 19 13:4–5 19 13:7–8 29 Joel 1:19 89 2:14 217 2:17 85 3:5 88 Amos 4:13 44 5:4, 5, 6 90 5:27 44 7:2–3, 5–6 72, 93 7:2, 5 85 8:1–2 39 Jonah 1:6 89 2:1–9 63 2:3 89 3:9 217

283

284

Scripture Index

Micah 3:4 14 4:6 147

Zephaniah 1:12 147 3:9 88

Habakkuk 1:3, 13 145, 167 1:13 117

Zechariah 1:1–6 127 3:1 105 8:14 147 13:9 88

New Testament Matthew 6:10 224 6:9–13 222, 224 11:25–27 222 17:1–8 227 26:28 32 26:39 222 26:46 222 27:45–50 228 27:46 197 Mark 9:2–8 227 14:24 32 14:36 222 15:33–39 228 15:34 197, 222 Luke 3:21 223 6:21 223 9:28–36 227 9:28–29 223 10:21–22 222 11:1 224 11:2–4 222, 224 11:5–8 223–24 11:7 223 11:9–10 224 18:1–8 223 18:5 223 18:7 224 22:20 32 22:32 223

22:42 222 23:34 100 23:34, 46 222 John 1:1, 14 225 11:41–42 222 12:27–28 222 14:18 225 14:19, 20 225 14:26 225 17:1–26 222, 225 17:1–8 225 17:9–19 225 Acts 1:14 223 1:24–25 222 1:24 223 4:24–30 222 6:6 223 7:59–60 222 7:60 100 9:11 223 10:9 223 12:5 223 13:3 223 14:23 223 16 131 16:25 223 22:17 223 Romans 1:7–8 222

285

Scripture Index

Philippians 1:2–3 222 4:23 222

3:4 114 3:20 114 3:24 114 4:7–8 114 8:19, 22 225 8:26, 27 225 8:35, 37–39 226 12:12 223 16:25–27 222

Colossians 1:2 222 4:2 223 4:18 222 I Thessalonians 5:17 223

I Corinthians 1:3–4 222 11:25 32 16:23 222

James 5:13–16 223 Revelation 1:6, 7 226 3:14 226 5:14 226 7:12 226 19:4 226 22:20–21 226

II Corinthians 1:2 222 13:13 222 30:18 87 Galatians 1:3 222 6:18 222 Ephesians 6:18 223 6:23 222

Apocryphal/Deuterocanonical Tobit 12:12–15 96 3:1–6 123 Judith 9:2–14 125 Baruch 1:15–3:18 1:15–3:8

117, 240 123, 128–29

2 Maccabees 15:14 72 3 Maccabees 2:1–20 123 2:2–20 125 1 Esdras 8:73–90

117, 123

Pseudepigrapha 1 Enoch 9:1–11 96

15:2 96 39:5 96

286 40:6 96 47:2 96 91:11–17 128 93:1–10 128 Psalms of Solomon 9 117, 123 18:1–5 62 Testament of Dan 6:2 96

Scripture Index

Testament of Job 42:8 109 46–53 110 Testament of Levi 3:5 96 5:6 96