Theology from the Beginning: Essays on the Primeval History and its Canonical Context (Forschungen Zum Alten Testament) 9783161539978, 9783161549489, 3161539974

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

113

Andreas Schüle

Theology from the Beginning Essays on the Primeval History and its Canonical Context

Mohr Siebeck

Andreas Schüle, born 1968; studied Theology and Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Heidel­berg; PhD in Semitic Studies (Heidelberg); PhD in Old Testament Studies (Heidel­ berg); Habilitation in Old Testament (Zurich); 2005–2012 Professor of Biblical Exegesis and Old Testament at Union Presbyterian Seminary (Richmond, Virginia); since 2012 Professor for Exegesis and Theology of the Old Testament (Leipzig) and Extraordinary Professor of Biblical Studies at the University of Stellenbosch (South Africa).

e-ISBN PDF 978-3-16-154948-9 ISBN 978-3-16-153997-8 ISSN 0940-4155 (Forschungen zum Alten Testament) Die Deutsche Bibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2017  by Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, Germany. www.mohr.de This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (beyond that permitted by copyright law) without the publisher’s written permission. This applies particularly to reproductions, translations, microfilms and storage and processing in electronic s­ ystems. The book was printed by Gulde Druck in Tübingen on non-aging paper and bound by Buchbinderei Spinner in Ottersweier. Printed in Germany

Preface For nearly two decades the interpretation of the biblical Primeval History has been one of my main research interests. This volume brings together a series of already published as well as unpublished articles on the theology of Genesis 1–11 and related biblical texts. I call myself blessed to have been given the opportunity to teach and pursue my scholarly work in Germany, Switzerland, and the United States. These different academic settings have left their imprint on the essays of this volume. I am particularly indebted to Dawn DeVries and Samuel E. Balentine from Union Presbyterian Seminary (Richmond, VA) for their friendship and collegiality that have impacted my view of the Bible in more ways than they will ever know. Back in Germany, I continue to benefit from the encounter with the work of my new colleagues, Angelika Berlejung, Jan Dietrich, and Rüdiger Lux, to name but a few. I feel honored that I was invited to serve as Extraordinary Professor of Biblical Studies at the University of Stellenbosch and as guest lecturer at Trinity Theological College (Singapore) to discuss my views of Genesis 1–11 in academic and cultural settings that have made me aware of my own limited perceptions of what these texts have to say. I am particularly grateful to Julie Claassens, Hendrik Bosman, Louis Jonker, and Maggie Low for their generous hospitality. Last but certainly not least, I want to mention my assistants from Leipzig without whom the production of this volume would have hardly been possible. Sandy Rogers took on the laborious task of translating into English those articles that were originally published in German, and she made sure that what I wanted to say did not get lost in translation. Philipp Roßteuscher did a wonderful job putting the pieces together and creating the indices. A final thanks goes to the editorial board of “Forschungen zum Alten Testament” for including “Theology from the Beginning” into this series. Second of Advent, 2016 Andreas Schüle

Table of Contents Introduction ................................................................................................... 1

1. The Image of God Made in the “Image of God”: The Concepts of Divine Images in Gen 1–3 ..................................................................................................... 7 The Reluctant Image: Theology and Anthropology in Gen 1–3 ................... 27 The Dignity of the Image: A Re-reading of the Priestly Prehistory .............. 45 The Notion of Life: Nefesh and Ruach in the Anthropological Discourse of the Primeval History ............................................................................... 63 Transformed into the Image of Christ: Identity, Personality, and Resurrection.......................................................................................... 81

2. Evil “And Behold, It Was Very Good … And Behold, the Earth Was Corrupt” (Genesis 1:31, 6:12): The Prehistoric Discourse about Evil ......................... 99 The Divine-Human Marriages: Genesis 6:1–4 and the Greek Framing of the Primeval History ............................................................................. 121 Evil from the Heart: Qoheleth’s Negative Anthropology and its Canonical Context ..................................................................................... 135

3. Law and Forgiveness: Elements of Priestly Theology The “Eternal Covenant” in the Priestly Pentateuch and the Major Prophets .......................................................................................... 155 The Primeval History as an Etiology of Torah ........................................... 171

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At the Border of Sin and Forgiveness: Salaḥ in the Old Testament ............ 183 “On Earth as it is in Heaven”: Eschatology and the Ethics of Forgiveness ........................................................................................... 203

4. God The Challenged God: Reflections on the Motif of God’s Repentance in Job, Jeremiah, Jonah, and the Non-Priestly Flood Narrative .................. 223 “Have you any Right to be angry?”: The Theological Discourse surrounding the Conclusion to the Book of Jonah (Jonah 3:6–4:11) .......... 243 The God who Creates: A Contribution to the Theology of the Old Testament ........................................................................................... 259

5. Ethics The Ethics of Genesis: A Contribution to Biblical Humanism ................... 277 “For He is Like You”: A Translation and Understanding of the Old Testament Commandment to Love in Lev 19:18 ................................. 289 Sharing and Loving: Love, Law and the Ethics of cultural Memory in the Pentateuch ....................................................................................... 307

References ................................................................................................. 323 Biblical Passages ....................................................................................... 325 Authors...................................................................................................... 335 Subject Index............................................................................................. 339

Introduction As every exegete of the Primeval History finds out sooner rather than later, the encounter with these texts is an intellectual experience as well as a theological challenge. Underneath their narrative surface, these chapters reflect on some of the most fundamental questions that can occupy the human mind. What one finds here are not merely mythic tales of an ancient culture that, at some point, happened to materialize in the form of texts and eventually became “biblical” literature. Rather, the Primeval History was composed and transmitted by many authors, whose number and identity we will never know but who must have been among the leading intellectuals of their time and culture. As one might expect, their accounts of the beginning of the world are far from homogeneous, which gives Genesis 1–11 its intriguing, multi-layered character. However, all of these authors seemed to have been well aware that writing about the beginning of the world is a way of prefacing everything that follows in the Pentateuch and the larger canon. The Primeval History is the front portal through which every interpreter of the Pentateuch and also of the Old Testament/the Hebrew Bible as a whole must enter. What one finds here are profound theological statements clothed in images and symbols from the world of antiquity, which every interpretation has to take into account. I have chosen a number of broad categories around which the theological discourse of the Primeval History evolves. As in previous publications, I find the term “discourse” helpful to capture the literary and theological character of biblical literature. I use this term to draw attention to the different “voices” that have shaped Genesis 1–11 and to the level of “responsiveness” between them. Historical criticism has proven to be an invaluable tool to differentiate between what has been called sources or layers within the extant text. However, historical criticism has not always been equally successful in explaining how these sources or layers connect with each other. The truly challenging task is to appreciate the composite nature of biblical texts, such as the Primeval History, without limiting their meaning to their final form (“Endgestalt”) or reducing them to randomly connected literary fragments. Being aware of this task, my goal in this collection of essays is to demonstrate that the many voices, which, over time, have given shape to Genesis 1– 11, ought to be understood as contributions to a focused, albeit controversial, inner-biblical discussion about central theological topics. The list of topics that I have identified as an outline for this volume is certainly not exhaustive but may help to convey a sense of the comprehensive nature of the theological

2

Introduction

discourse of the Primeval History: humankind as the image of God, the origin of evil, the significance of God’s law, God as the creator, and, finally, ethics. The order in which these topics are taken up is not to be understood in any narrow sense and could have been different. However, I have deliberately chosen not to begin this volume with essays on the nature of God. Although it is certainly true that God is the only protagonist who is present in all the different parts of the Primeval History, what one actually learns about God in Genesis 1–11 occurs more or less indirectly. The Primeval History is first and foremost about the world that God made – about its origins and inhabitants, its purposes and promises, its challenges and failures; and it is only through all of this that the divine being comes into focus. While the goal of this volume is to explore the theological discourse of Genesis 1–11, several of the essays elaborate on how it extends beyond the Primeval History to other parts of the Old Testament. As a matter of fact, there are significant thematic connections not only to the Pentateuch but also to the Prophets and the Writings. So it seems safe to say that Genesis 1–11 is a hub with regard to the theology of the Old Testament. This does not mean that the Primeval History contains something like a theology in a nutshell; however, any attempt to delineate a theology of the Old Testament will, at some point, find itself at the crossroads of the Primeval History. The first group of essays focuses on the notion of the imago dei, which is introduced in Gen 1:26–28 and, as I am arguing, thematically continued in Genesis 2–3. As in other creation accounts of the ancient Near East, the meaning and the significance of human life are measured and evaluated against the divine world. It is the similarities and difference between gods and humans that give both groups their distinctive characteristics. What one easily misses, especially as a modern reader of these texts, is that their theological and anthropological views express themselves in relational terms, rather than in analytical categories. So the question is not what the imago dei “means” as an anthropological concept but how “being” an image of God positions a human person in relation to God, to other human beings, and, not to forget, to the animal kingdom. Against this backdrop, the first two essays of this section provide close readings of Genesis 1–3, whereas the third essay examines if and to what extent the imago dei translates into the modern notion of the “dignity” of a human person. The final essay takes the concept of the image of God beyond the context of the Hebrew Bible to the early Christian adaptation of the imago dei as the starting point of a process that eventually leads to the transformation of the believers into the imago Christi. The comparison with the New Testament draws attention to the striking absence of any eschatological trajectory in Genesis 1–11. There is no sense that creation in general or humankind in particular are an unfinished project that God will eventually bring to completion. In my view, the lack of eschatological thinking in the Primeval History is intentional.

Introduction

3

Given that some, if not all of the texts in Genesis 1–11 are roughly contemporaneous with books like Zachariah, Haggai, or Second/Third Isaiah, it is a likely assumption that the authors behind Genesis 1–11 were aware of the prophetic hope for a new world. In contrast to such expectations, the Primeval History in all its different layers appears to be a deliberate attempt at founding theology on a non-eschatological basis. The concern is with the world as is, and the hope that articulates itself in these texts is that this world is organized and ordered in such a way that it will prevail. This leads to the second section, which tackles the problem of evil. It is safe to say that Genesis 1–11 offers no single explanation of where evil comes from but approaches the matter from several different angles: evil is presented as a defect in all living beings (especially in the Priestly Code) or in humankind in particular (the non-priestly account of the flood), or as an external power that seeks to gain control of the human will (as in the Cain and Abel story). The first essay delineates these various approaches to the problem of evil in Genesis 1–11, taking a philosophical cue from Leibniz’ work on theodicy, where he claims that reality, as we experience it, is the best of all possible worlds. So one can ask, as the Primeval History in fact does, why the world that God created is less than perfect and what it means for human life that it is faced with its own proneness to violence and evil. Here in particular a look beyond Genesis 1–11 is in order, since the book of Qoheleth devotes much of its anthropological analysis to the mysteries of the human heart, which, in many ways, is reminiscent of the discourse about the evil heart in Gen 6:5–8 and 8:20–22. The third section examines the theological solutions that Genesis 1–11 and related texts from the Pentateuch offer with regard to the existence of evil. This brings the notions of covenant, law, and forgiveness into sharp relief. In the priestly transmission of the Primeval History in particular the law is presented as a system of regulations that complement the created order. Creation, despite being called “good” and, in its entire ensemble, even “very good”, is viewed as susceptible to violence and chaos – a tendency that the Priestly Code illustrates by drawing on the ancient Near Eastern mythology of the great flood. As such, the primeval narrative is shaped and told in such a way that it offers not only an etiology of the world as is but, more specifically, an etiology of why the world needs God’s law. While the Torah is revealed to Israel at Mount Sinai, the Priestly Code anchors the Torah’s purpose and first beginnings (Gen 9:4–6) in the early days of creation. The final two essays elaborate on yet another aspect of priestly theology, whose rationale relies on the worldview presented in Genesis 1–11. Precisely because creation in general and humankind in particular will always live counter to God’s expectations, they are in need not only of God’s law but also of God’s forgiveness. It is certainly no coincidence that the two verbs that, in priestly language, are reserved exclusively for divine action are ‫ ברא‬and ‫“ – סלח‬create” and “forgive” – as two distinct and yet intrinsically connected theological concepts.

4

Introduction

In the fourth section, God as the prime protagonist of Genesis 1–11 comes into focus. As mentioned above, there is no “doctrine of God” in the Primeval History. Rather, the way in which the narrative portrays God’s actions and God’s character remains within the framework of a mythic tale: God has intentions and emotions, “he” looks at and evaluates the world that he has made, and he has to deal with human behaviors that, apparently, he did not always anticipate. But precisely because the divine character of the primeval narrative is never lifted above the plot, the texts invite the reader to begin to think about the “God above God”, as Paul Tillich puts it. There are two items in particular that inspire the theological discourse about God. One, of course, is the notion that God creates and what this means in comparison with other creation theologies in the Old Testament; the other is God’s repentance as the rationale behind the flood according to Gen 6:5–8. This raises one of the most fundamental theological questions, namely if God is affected by the course of human history and if one should assume that the divine being is open to challenge and change. The priestly and the non-priestly texts hold tangibly different theological positions in this regard, which resurface in the book of Jonah. Even more explicitly than Genesis 6–8*, Jonah reflects on the possible conflict between the concepts of creation and divine repentance. The final section highlights some of the ethical implications of the Primeval History, although ethical topics also permeate most of the essays of parts one and two. Again it is the imago dei that provides an important key in this regard, because it establishes a sense of equality among all of humankind. Since every human being is an image of God whose right to live is inviolable (Gen 9:6), national, racial, or linguistic differences do not justify any ontological or political hierarchies (which, in a nutshell, is the message of the “table of nations” in Genesis 10). The same insight recurs and is in fact taken one step further in the commandment to love one’s neighbor (Lev 19:18.34), which I have rendered along the lines of Martin Buber “Love your neighbor, he is like you!” Read in the context of the love commandment, the sense of equality that the Primeval History instills on its readers becomes a profound ethical imperative. As every reader of these essays will notice, they were written by someone trained in historical exegesis with an interest in exploring what the biblical texts might have meant in their original settings. However, such an interest alone would, at least in my judgment, not justify or even explain the continuous efforts made by the scholarly guild to interpret these texts in always new and different ways. As many other biblical texts, the Primeval History is a religious classic that people from different cultural, ethnic, and religious backgrounds have used as a source of inspiration to shape their own intellectual worlds. The Primeval History has had a tremendous impact on the history of ideas in Western thought – well beyond the ecclesial realm. For this reason, these texts deserve to be read and interpreted in conversation with other religious and philosophical classics, which I have attempted to do throughout this volume.

1. The Image of God

Made in the “Image of God” The Concepts of Divine Images in Gen 1–3 1. Images versus Idols It is well known that at a certain point in time the religion of ancient Israel turned against the worship of images. Especially the first part of DeuteroIsaiah, Isa 40–48, probably written in the period of the Babylonian exile, displays a biting polemic against the “idols.” No material object shaped from “dead” matter such as clay, wood, or metal, so the argument runs, could ever be part of the person of the living God. This criticism was aimed at a cultural environment in which every major temple was primarily the residence of a deity in the shape of his or her image. On a very basic level these temples were the households of divine images with a staff of priests around to take care of their needs.1 It is heavily, sometimes even polemically debated among Biblical scholars when the images/idols disappeared from the official cult of Israel. Some say that there were images of YHWH during the entire period of the first temple.2

1 For comprehensive studies of the role of sacrifice cf. F.A.M. Wiggermann, “Theologies, Priests, and Worship in Ancient Mesopotamia,” in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East III, ed. J.M. Sasson et al. (New York: Scribner, 1995), 1857–1870; and B. Gladigow, “Opfer und komplexe Kulturen,” in Opfer: Theologische und kulturelle Kontexte, ed. B. Janowski and M. Welker (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2000), 86–107. 2 One can summarize that the majority of scholars working in the field of religious history hold that, concerning the use of cultic images, ancient Israel did not differ in principle from its neighboring cultures. There is also consensus that the Babylonian exile marks the turning point toward a religion that rejected divine images not only on the level of the official cult but also with regard to family religion and personal piety. Cf. the contributions of I. Cornelius, A. Berlejung, H. Niehr, and C. Uehlinger, in The Image and the Book: Iconic Cults, Aniconism, and the Rise of Book Religion in Israel and the Ancient Near East, ed. K. Van der Toorn, CBET 21 (Leuven: Peeters Publishing, 1997); Theologie in Israel und in den Nachbarkulturen, ed. K. Schmid and A. Schüle, ATM 9 (Münster: LIT, 2004); O. Keel and C. Uehlinger, Götter, Göttinnen und Gottessymbole. Neue Erkenntnisse zur Religionsgeschichte Kanaans und Israels aufgrund bislang unerschlossener ikonographischer Quellen, QD 134 (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1992); M. Dietrich and O. Loretz, Jahwe und seine Aschera. Anthropomorphes Kultbild in Mesopotamien, Ugarit und Israel. Das biblische Bilderverbot, UBL 9 (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 1992).

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1. The Image of God

Others hold that the religion of ancient Israel was from its very beginning essentially image-less.3 At least this much seems to be clear that, after the deportees came back from Babylon around 525 BCE and restored the Temple, its Holy of Holies remained empty. There was no golden image whatsoever as the Romans learned some centuries later when the Emperor Pompeius had the temple plundered4 and did not find what, among other things, he had probably expected. Yet, the end of these cultic images did not put an end altogether to the idea of the “image of God.” It is remarkable that, at the same time when prophets like Deutero-Isaiah and Ezekiel poured scorn on the idols,5 the idea of the “image of God” was very much alive in another strand of biblical tradition that is probably about contemporaneous with these prophets. According to the priestly telling of creation in Gen 1:1–2:4a it is not lifeless matter, not a man-made statue, but humans as living beings that are envisioned to be indeed the true image of God.6 It is important to see these different approaches as part of the same time and of the same historical discourse, because this gives us some insight into how the biblical authors related in different ways and with different interests to the systems of religious symbols that were part of their cultural environment. Looking at their historical embeddedness, the texts of the Hebrew Bible do not display a closed set of religious propositions, but reflect the manifold and, in themselves, diverse processes in which religious ideas had been developed and were, as such, drawn into the religious discourse of the canonical traditions. According to the reading of Gen 1 that I want to propose, it was not at all an issue taken for granted to conceive of humans as the image of God. It was, rather, to use the term again, an “idea” that entered the religious imagination of Israel within a cultural environment that employed the concept of God as represented by images.

3 T. Mettinger has especially made a strong case that there was a de facto aniconism in ancient Israelite culture that was, however, tolerant toward iconic representation of deities. The explicit prohibition of images in both versions of the Decalogue mirrors a theological development that arises no earlier than the sixth century BCE. Cf. T. Mettinger, No Graven Image, Israelite Aniconism in its Ancient Near Eastern Context, ConB.OT 4 (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International, 1995); and “Israelite Aniconism: Developments and Origins,” in The Image and the Book, 173–204. The opposite view that Israelite aniconism stood from its very beginning in opposition to any kind of image worship is taken by W.H. Schmidt, Alttestamentlicher Glaube in seiner Geschichte (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 71990), 82. 4 Cf. Josephus, Antiquities of the Jews, XIV. 5 Cf. J.F. Kutsko, Between Heaven and Earth. Divine Presence and Absence in the book of Ezekiel, BJS 7 (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2000), 63–70. 6 In the aspect of images as “living” entities cf. A. Angerstorfer, “Hebräisch dmwt und aramäisch dmw(t). Ein Sprachproblem der Imago-Dei-Lehre,” BN 24 (1984), 39.

Made in the “Image of God”

9

Nonetheless, this transformative move was not a common idea shared by all the different schools and traditions that eventually became part of the canon of the Hebrew Bible. The second telling of the creation of humans in Gen 2–3, with its mythical arrangements around Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden, can be read, as I will later suggest, as an implicit commentary and even criticism of Gen 1:26–28.7 So in order to understand the biblical concepts of the “image of God,” we actually have to focus on the intersections of two discourses between the biblical traditions and their contemporary environment on the one hand and among the biblical traditions themselves on the other. The following interpretation of Gen 1–3 will proceed in three steps. First, an outline will be given of the concept of the “image” as it occurs in Gen 1–9. In order to illuminate the background of these texts, we will then turn to some extra-biblical material from Syria-Palestine and from Mesopotamia that might help us understand the function and the making of divine images. This will bring us, finally, to a position to recognize that not only the first but also the second creation story in Gen 2–3 focuses on the concept of the “image of God.” Although the term is never mentioned here, the different stages of the creation of Adam and Eve display some striking resemblances to the stages of the making of a divine image, however, with a critical overtone, as we shall see.

7 Recent studies of the creation reports have called the traditional view into question according to which Gen 2:4b–3:24 marks the opening section of an older literary source (“J”) that precedes the priestly writer. According to J. Blenkinsopp, The Pentateuch: An Introduction to the First Five Books of the Bible, ABRL (New York: Doubleday, 1992), 67, the Eden story is a “sapiental reflection in narrative form on the historical experience of Israel” that presupposes P. Correspondingly, E. Otto, “Die Paradieserzählung Genesis 2–3. Eine nachpriesterliche Lehrerzählung in ihrem religionshistorischen Kontext,” in “Jedes Ding hat seine Zeit...” Studien zur israelitischen und orientalischen Weisheit, FS D. Michel, ed. A.A. Diesel et al. (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1996), 167–192, views Gen 2–3 as a “weisheitliche Lehrerzählung” that combines motives of post-exilic wisdom literature with deuteronomic covenantal theology. A somewhat mediating position is taken by D.M. Carr, R.G. Kratz, and H. Spieckermann. Indebted to Westermann’s analysis these authors assume that there was an older tradition, roughly Gen 2:4b–9:18–24, about the creation of man and woman to which, in post-exilic times, the paradise story was added. This, however, changed the meaning of the myth. Whereas in the older tradition the creation of the woman and the joyful life in the Garden of Eden was highlighted, the later revision gave it a negative turn. Eve trespasses the divine commandment and in so doing she destroys the paradisiacal world (cf. D.M. Carr, “The Politics of Textual Subversion: A Diachronic Perspective on the Garden of Eden Story,” JBL 112 (1993), 577–595; R.G. Kratz and H. Spieckermann, “Schöpfer/Schöpfung II. Altes Testament,” TRE 30 (1999), 258–283.

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1. The Image of God

2. “Image” and “Likeness” It is one of the few shared assumptions of most exegetes that Genesis 1–3 is composed not of one piece but of two different traditions about the origins of the world. To give a famous quotation from the great commentary of Claus Westermann: The narrative of Gen 1 is characterized by its onward, irresistible, and majestic flow that distinguishes it so clearly from the drama narrated in Gen 2–3. No tension is built up in Gen 1, and the steady, onward movement is effected by constantly recurring sentences which begin in 1:3 and end in 2:4a.

Westermann describes the language and style of the “priestly writer” or the “priestly code” as one of the major traditions within the Torah that spans from creation to the stories of the patriarchs, the exodus, Mount Sinai, the wanderings through the wilderness, and finally to the point where Israel is about to enter the promised land.8 According to the priestly code the emergence of the different spheres of life is structured along a six day rhythm that eventually leads into the seventh day that marks the end of creation and is, at the same time, the cornerstone that holds it all together. Humankind, in Hebrew, ‫האדם‬, “Adam,” appears as the creature of the sixth day. Adam – in male and female shape – is the last creature that God makes before resting on the seventh day. Everything has already been done, so that humans find themselves in a world that matches their needs and that is given to them as a space in which they may unfold their own creative powers. While all other creatures are bound to one specific part of the cosmos – the seas, the earth, or the skies, Adam is given dominion over all these spheres and their inhabitants. In vv. 26 and 27, this allencompassing range of human action is traced to its ontological basis. Adam is created in the image of God, and that affirms the exceptional status over all other creatures. We will have to look in some more detail at the meaning of the main terms for “image,” ‫ צלם‬and ‫דמות‬, in as much as they are part of the religious system of symbols of the ancient world. For the moment, we can state that in the priestly code the concept of the image unfolds in four different dimensions. First, the rhetoric of the image focuses on the particular relationship between the person who has an image and the image itself, in Gen 1 between God and Adam. Although there is nothing between heaven and earth that is not created by God, it is only Adam who is, in a particular sense, like God. However one

8 For an overview of the discussion about the ending of the P-Source, see Blenkinsopp, Pentateuch, 237–239; E. Otto, “Forschungen zur Priesterschrift,” ThZ 62 (1997), 1–50; R.G. Kratz, Die Komposition der erzählenden Bücher des Alten Testaments. Grundwissen der Bibelkritik (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000), 226–248, esp. 247.

Made in the “Image of God”

11

understands “image” and “likeness,” it is only Adam whose physical and mental constitution corresponds to God’s own “being.”9 This is affirmed by the fact that only in this particular case God announces10 what God is about to create and that this particular creature will bear the shape of the creator.11 Second, being the image of God determines Adam’s role and place within the cosmos. It is one of the most highlighted aspects of the imago dei that it is linked with the dominium terrae in Gen 1:28.12 Being the image puts Adam in a position that installs Adam as ruler over all other creatures. It has long been realized that this empowerment has a significant parallel in Egyptian and Mesopotamian royal ideologies. In both cultures, it was in the first place the king who was seen to be an image of god and this manifested in his exalted position not only among his people but also in the entire cosmos.13 It is through an image that a god/goddess is present in the created world and executes his/her powers in history and nature, and it is precisely this aspect of divine presence that defines the role of a king. According to most exegetes this rather common understanding of divine images in the ancient world is so transformed in Gen 1 that it is not just the exceptional person of a king but the human species to which the role of the image is attributed.14 It is through human creativity that 9 This has been strongly emphasized by G. von Rad, Das erste Buch Mose. Genesis, ATD 2–4 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 111981), 37. 10 On the interpretation of “let us make” as a pluralis deliberationis, a plural that expresses a specific intention, see the detailed discussion in P.D. Miller, Genesis 1–11, JSOT Sup 8 (Sheffield: Continuum International Publishing Group, 1978), 9–20; furthermore C. Westermann, Genesis 1–11, BK I/1 (Berlin: Evangangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1985), 200; D.T. Williams, “Who will go for us? (Is 6:8). The divine plurals and the image of God,” OTE 12 (1999), 173–190; H.-P. Müller, “Eine neue babylonische Menschenschöpfungserzählung im Licht keilschriftlicher und biblischer Parallelen – Zur Wirklichkeitsauffassung im Mythos,” Or. 58 (1989), 61–85. 11 A good number of exegetes express the “plastic” aspect of the image in Gen 1:26–27 by translating ‫ צלם‬with “statue,” cf. W. Groß, “Gen 1,26.27; 9,6: Statue oder Ebenbild Gottes?,” JBTh 15 (2000), 12; M. Weippert, “Tier und Mensch in einer menschenarmen Welt. Zum sog. dominium terae in Genesis 1,” in Ebenbild Gottes – Herrscher über die Welt. Studien zu Würde und Auftrag des Menschen, ed. H.-P. Mathys (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1998), 41. 12 Cf. B. Janowski, “Gottebenbildlichkeit I. Altes Testament,” RGG 3 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 42000), 1159; E. Zenger, Gottes Bogen in den Wolken. Untersuchungen zu Komposition und Theologie der priesterschriftlichen Urgeschichte, SBS 112 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 21987), 170–175. 13 A particularly helpful summary of the role of the king as a mediating figure between the divine and the human world has been provided by J. Assmann, Ma’at. Gerechtigkeit und Unsterblichkeit im Alten Ägypten (München: C.H. Beck, 1990), 201–212. 14 The literature on this particular aspect is extraordinarily rich. For a general overview on the Egyptian and Mesopotamian material that needs to be considered in this regard cf. Groß, “Statue” 13–18; K. Koch, Imago Dei – Die Würde des Menschen im biblischen Text, Berichte aus den Sitzungen der Joachim Jungius-Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften e.V., 18/4

12

1. The Image of God

God, who is here always called by the technical term Elohim, but not yet by the proper name YHWH, executes God’s own creative powers on all cosmic levels – the seas, the earth, and the skies. The third point that seems crucial for a full-fledged account of the imago dei is its cultic meaning. It has long been noticed that one of the core issues of Ptheology is the linkage between the creation of the cosmos that comes to its fulfillment on the seventh day and the building of the sanctuary that is the place where YHWH dwells among YHWH’s people.15 The cultic image is in fact the medium of manifest divine presence and action in the world and, as such, part of the divine person. It is, to put it pointedly, “god on earth.” According to a common motif of ancient mythology, human beings are destined to serve the gods, who are present in the form of their images. P, however, takes a different approach. Adam, the creature of the sixth day, is not made to fill the role of a servant but is associated with the divine image. image is the issue of gender that comes in through the formulation that God created Adam, the earthling, “male and female.”16 It is important to see that the Hebrew terms do not mean “man” and “woman,” but in fact “male” (‫ )זכר‬and “female” (‫)נקבה‬. As such they mark, first of all, the difference between humankind and all other creatures that are supposed to be fruitful and multiply “according to their own kinds” (‫)למינו‬. So the least one can say is that in P the differentiation of the sexes and the generative character of human sexuality are distinguished by being linked to the imago dei. Whether this implies – in the sense of an analogia entis – that P thinks of the divine nature as containing male and female aspects or that the imago dei introduces the idea of equality between men and women to a thoroughly patriarchal society is hard to decide on the basis of P-texts alone. It is clear, however, that all these issues come up in the interpretation and continuation of P-theology, which starts already within the Old Testament itself.17 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000), 13–24. Koch explicitly talks about the “democratization of political ideology” (“die Demokratisierung einer politischen Ideologie”). T. Mettinger, “Abbild oder Urbild. Imago Dei in traditionsgeschichtlicher Sicht,” ZAW 86 (1974), 414, mentions the connection between “Königsideologie” and the tradition of the “Urmensch” that, according to his reading, Gen 1:26–28 shares with Ps 8 and Ez 28. 15 Cf. M. Noth, Überlieferungsgeschichte des Pentateuch (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1948), 259–264; M. Weinfeld, “Sabbath, Temple and the Enthronment of the Lord – The Problem of the Sitz im Leben of Gen 1:1–2:3,” in Melanges bibliques et orientaux, FS F.M. Cazelles, ed. A. Caquot and M. Delcor, AOAT 212 (Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1981), 503; E. Zenger, Gottes Bogen in den Wolken, 170–175. 16 This aspect has recently been highlighted by O. Keel and S. Schroer, Schöpfung. Biblische Theologien im Kontext altorientalischer Religionen (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2002), 177–181. 17 From a hermeneutical point of view, P. Trible has traced the gender aspect of the imago dei especially into the wisdom literature of the Old Testament, cf. P. Trible, God and the Rhetoric of Sexuality (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1978).

Made in the “Image of God”

13

Having these four aspects in mind as being connected with the symbol of the “image of god,” places us in a position to draw some provisional conclusions. First of all, it becomes clear that the imago dei as the key concept in the anthropology of the Priestly Code is of an all-embracing character. It is not limited to the “religious” aspects of human existence, such as the participation in rituals or the spiritual encounter with God in prayer, but relates to every instance of mental, physical, social, and even sexual life. According to P, there is nothing that could possibly be said about Adam without referring to Adam being created in the image of God. As a second observation, it seems important to note that the imago dei is a thick but nonetheless vague symbol. Although, or maybe because, it combines references to creation, cult, human physiology, and sexuality, the relational logic of all these aspects remains provocatively fuzzy. The symbol of the imago dei is highly suggestive and, as such, invites further interpretation. Precisely this is going on, as we shall see, in Gen 2:4b–3:24, but it is also already within P itself that the imago dei gets further unfolding. Gen 5:1–3 refers back to 1:26 in a varied formulation saying that Adam was created in the “likeness (‫)בדמותו‬ of God, male and female.” In 5:3, the language of the image is then applied to the relationship between a father and his first born son. Adam becomes the father of a son “in his own likeness (‫)בדמותו‬, after his image (‫)כצלמו‬.”18 One can ask whether this has to be understood as an analogia relationis – Adam’s son is the image of this father just as Adam himself is the image of God19 – or whether this is meant to say that the imago dei is handed down from Adam as the prototype of humankind to all future generations.20 Although these two possibilities do not exclude one another, the latter seems to be more important, especially with regard to P’s genealogical thinking. This implies that, as long as there are descendants of Adam on earth, the imago dei will not and cannot be lost, and this is obviously of great significance for the story that is next in P’s outline of Primeval History: Noah and the deluge. 18 It is one of the exegetical quandaries that neither ‫ צלם‬and ‫ דמות‬nor the prepositions ‫כ‬ and ‫ ב‬in Gen 5:1–3 are used and placed according to the syntax of Gen 1:26–28. There has been an extensive debate about whether this indicates a difference in the meaning of these terms (cf. C. Dohmen, “Die Statue von Tell Fecherije und die Gottebenbildlichkeit des Menschen. Ein Beitrag zur Bilderterminologie,” BN 22 (1983), 98–101; M. Weippert, “Tier und Mensch,” 40–43). This does not seem likely as by now most exegetes assume (cf. W. Groß, “Die Gottebenbildlichkeit des Menschen im Kontext der Priesterschrift,” ThQ 161 (1981), 244–264). Since all these elements are used in exactly opposite positions in 5:1–3, this would be better understood as a skillful variation in style that is intended to mark the correlation between these passages. 19 This is possibly what is suggested in LXX by the term ἰδέα which is used in Gen 5:3 only, not in 1:26 (cf. M. Rösel, Übersetzung als Vollendung der Auslegung. Studien zur Genesis-Septuaginta, BZAW 223 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1994), 124. 20 Cf. H. Gunkel, Genesis (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 91977), 134; von Rad, Das erste Buch Mose, 48.

14

1. The Image of God

It is crucial to recognize that within the genealogical continuity between Adam and his first-born son, which is based on the idea of the image, there is obviously no reference to what has happened between Gen 2:3 and 5:1. Adam’s son is called Seth not Cain or Abel, and there is nothing that points to the events of the Garden of Eden.21 The generations from Adam down to Noah are blessed, not cursed as they should be after having been banished from the garden. In other words, there is nothing in the priestly report that points to what the Christian tradition has called the “Story of the Fall.” Things, however, change with the generation of Noah. According to 6:11, the world has become wicked and violent, and, along with humankind, all of creation is involved in this turning away from God. So God decides to make everything that God had created undone and to start anew with Noah and all that he carries with him through the deluge. Remarkably enough, no attempt is made to explain this disastrous failure. There is no rhyme or reason to the fatal development. It is merely stated that creation did not turn out the way God had wanted. In the priestly code, the flood marks, almost literally, the watershed between the initial creation and its partial restoration. Yet, in spite of this major rupture, the narrative displays a strong sense of continuity. God does not really change God’s agenda; God does not create a new human being, a second prototype, but makes another start with Noah, who had remained blameless and, as the text puts it, had “walked with God.” It is part of this sense of continuity that the idea of humanity as the image of God remains valid. It is explicitly taken up again in Gen 9:6 in the context of the covenant with Noah. “Whoever sheds the blood of Adam, by Adam shall his blood be shed. For in the image of God, God made Adam.” “And you: Be fruitful and multiply.” By applying the term, ‫“ צלם‬image” and the two imperatives ‫פרו‬/‫“ רבו‬be fruitful/multiply” to Noah and all future generations, P gives divine dignity to their very lives and clearly relates back to Gen 1:27–28. and so the narrative line comes full circle. 2.1 Statue or Person Having outlined the priestly concept of the “image,” we have to take a closer look at the semantics of the two Hebrew terms, ‫ צלם‬and ‫דמות‬, provisionally translated as “image” and “likeness.”22 One of the problems with these terms 21 This is one of the major arguments against the position taken by P. Volz, Der Elohist als Erzähler, BZAW 63 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1933), 125–142; F.M. Cross, Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1973); and others that P never existed “as an independent narrative document,” but “framed and systematized JE” (Cross, 324–325). 22 There have been extensive debates about whether these two terms could be sufficiently differentiated on the lexicographical level; for an overview of the most important arguments,

Made in the “Image of God”

15

is that only the priestly code in Gen 1–9 uses them in parallel, so that there are no direct cross references to other texts. The more fundamental problem is, however, that it remains uncertain in which respect human beings, as images, actually resemble their divine “model.” Is it their bodily shape, their upright carriage, mental and spiritual characteristics, or is it, rather, that human beings are the images of God, because they are the way God has imagined them to become? For several decades now, we have been in a more fortunate situation to answer these questions, at least on the part of historical research, because archeology has provided some illustrative material. In 1976, excavations in Northern Syria brought to light a royal statue bearing Aramaic and Assyrian inscriptions.23 The statue shows king Hadduyiṯî from Guzana, who was the ruler of his country in the early 8th century BCE. The content of the inscription need not concern us in detail here.24 Important, however, are the two introductory sequences in 1:1–2 and 12–15. There we find, in the Aramaic version, exactly the two notions of Gen 1:26–28. These lines translate as follows: (1.1–2) This is the image (‫ )דמותא‬of Hadduyiṯî, which he has erected in front of HaddadSikannu, the lord of heaven and earth. (1.12–15) (This is) the image/the statue (‫ )צלם‬of Hadduyiṯî, king of Guzana, Sikannu, and Arzan. For the glory and the consolation of this dynasty and for the continuance of his life and for his words to be agreeable to the Gods and to the humans, he has made this image/statue (‫)דמותא‬.

This text is of exceptional value not only because it gives evidence to the combination of the two notions ‫ דמות‬and ‫צלם‬, but it also helps to study the concept of the image itself. First of all it becomes clear that “image” points to a material object, a statue that the king had made on his behalf. It is not a “portrait” – a concept which is hardly known in the ancient world, but it displays the features

which cannot be laid out here in detail, cf. J. Barr, “The Image of God in the Book of Genesis – a Study of Terminology,” BJRL 51 (1968), 11–26; J.M. Miller, “In the ‘Image’ and ‘Likeness’ of God,” JBL 91 (1972), 289–304; Angerstorfer, “Hebräisch dmwt und aramäisch dmw(t),” 30–43; W. Groß, “Die Gottesebenbildlichkeit des Menschen nach Gen 1,26.27 in der Diskussion des letzten Jahrzehnts,” in Lebendige Überlieferung: Prozesse der Annäherung und Auslegung, ed. N. El-Khoury, H. Couzer, and R. Reinhard (Beirut: FriedrichRückert-Verlag, 1992), 118–135; M. Weippert, “Tier und Mensch,” 39–43. The most comprehensive research report available is provided by G.A. Jónsson, The Image of God. Genesis 1:26–28 in a Century of Old Testament Research, OTS 26 (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1988). 23 A. Abou-Assaf, La statue de Tell Fekheriye et son inscription bilingue assyro-araméenne, ed. P. Bordreuil and A.R. Millard (Paris: Association pour la diffusion de la pensée française, 1982). 24 Cf. A. Abou-Assaf, “Die Statue des HDYS’Y, König von Guzana,” MDOG 113 (1981), 3–22; A. Angerstorfer, “Gedanken zur Analyse der Inschrift(en) der Beterstatue vom Tel Fecherije,” BN 24 (1984), 7–11.

16

1. The Image of God

of a king and as such can be identified to be the ‫דמות‬, the “likeness” of Hadduyiṯî. Secondly, it has a specific function. It makes the king present before the face of his god, while he himself might be absent. As such the image establishes communication between the king and the god, which is a necessary prerequisite for the continuation of the king’s own life, for the continuity of his dynasty, and for his words to do justice to both god and humanity. Put in more general terms, the image is part of the person of the king, not just some well-crafted art object that is essentially detached from what it expresses. Rather, in displaying bodily presence, in communicating and acting on the king’s behalf, it adds to his physical and mental constitution, and as such it becomes part of his personality. The ancient concept of the image requires us to think of a person, human or divine, as composed of different types and kinds of mental and physical presences that overlap in different ways, rather than merge into one single entity. Statues such as the one of Hadduyiṯî are well known in the ancient Near East, not only for distinguished human persons such as the king but also for gods. In the Hebrew Bible, the term ‫ צלם‬especially points to such images, mainly of Canaanite deities.25 They were the very focus of the temple cult, the visible side of an otherwise invisible divine reality. Addressing the gods by prayer, worship, or sacrifice was bound to their being present in the shape of images. That never meant that the image encapsulated every aspect, every mental or even bodily feature of a deity, and so there was no reason to assume that by making such images humans were able to manipulate the gods or to possess their powers. Yet the image was in fact that side of the god’s person through which the god entered the sphere of created life, through which the divine was exposed to the course of history, and which made the deity sensitive to the fortunes as well as to the needs, desires, and sufferings of the people. Keeping that in mind, we have strong reason to assume that the idea of humanity as the “image of God” in Gen 1–9 has been developed on the basis of the background of this ancient view of divine presence in the shape of images. This view, however, has been so transformed that not a material object, a statue, but humanity as a living beings took on the role of the image. Now, it is important to see that in P the idea of humanity as the image of God takes on an all-embracing character. It is supposed to give full account of what it means to be a human being. This, it seems to me, marks the point where Gen 2–3. challenges the priestly position. This means that there are, according to the second telling of creation, aspects to human life that are not contained by the concept of the image, at least not in as much as it was defined by ancient Near Eastern theology. These aspects include the relationship between man and woman, the human quest for knowledge, and the ability to defy God’s command. 25

Num 33:52; Ez 16:17; 2 Kings 11:18.

Made in the “Image of God”

17

In order to show how this criticism is developed, we need to turn, once more, to extra-biblical evidence. So far we have highlighted the function of images; and we will now take a closer look at the process of their making. 2.2 The Making of an Image During the last twenty years, major efforts have been made to edit, translate, and interpret a ritual which is called mīs pî pīt pî, the “washing/opening of the mouth.” The ritual describes the making of a divine image, specifically the stages of making a material object, a statue, into the image of a living god. The term used to express this is alādu (N-Stem) which means “being born.” The ritual is delivered in two major versions from the first century BCE, one from Babylon and one from Niniveh.26 Although these two traditions show differences and variations, they obviously share a common ritual pattern. The making of the image takes two days and it proceeds in four stages. The first station is the workshop, which was associated with the temple district like all other locations that follow. There, different craftsmen shaped the material image. Its core was usually made from wood covered by several layers of metal, and precious stones were added on the surface. Finally, it was polished, clothed, and set on a base. The texts reflect the major ideological problem of these procedures as their being carried out by human hands, although only the god or the goddess whose image it was about to become was seen to be the real craftsman. No human being, but only the deity was able to lay his/her features into the statue so that it was really his/her image. It is clear from the very beginning that the statue was not adopted or taken possession of by a god, but in fact “born” through the deity’s own efforts. At a later stage of the ritual the hands of the craftsmen who had worked on it were cut off in a symbolic way, and they had to swear an oath that they had never even touched the image. The second essential act at this stage is the first mouth opening. The 26 A. Berlejung, Die Theologie der Bilder. Herstellung und Einweihung von Kultbildern in Mesopotamien und die alttestamentliche Bilderpolemik, OBO 162 (Freiburg Schweiz/Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998); M. Dietrich, “Der Werkstoff wird Gott. Zum mesopotamischen Ritual der Umwandlung eines leblosen Bilderwerks in einen lebendigen Gott,” MARG 7 (1992), 105–126; M. Dietrich and O. Loretz, Jahwe und seine Aschera. Anthropomorphes Kultbild in Mesopotamien, Ugarit und Israel. Das israelitische Bilderverbot, UBL 9 (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 1992); T. Jacobsen, “The Graven Image,” in Ancient Israel Religion: Essays in Honor of F.M. Cross, ed. P.D. Miller, P.D. Hanson, and S.D. McBride (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1987), 15–32; C. Walker and M.B. Dick, “The Induction of the Cult Image in Ancient Mesopotamia. The Mesopotamian mîs pī Ritual,” in Born in Heaven, Made on Earth: The Creation of the Cult Image (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1999), 55–121. For older editions of (parts of) the ritual texts see H. Zimmern, Das vermutliche babylonische Vorbild des Pehta und Manmbuha der Mandäer (Giessen: Alfred Tö pelmann, 1906), 959–967; E. Ebeling, Tod und Leben nach der Vorstellung der Babylonier (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1931).

18

1. The Image of God

god, in a symbolic act, opens the mouth of the image. From this point on the image has sensory perception and is able to breathe, meaning that it is alive. For the first time, it is now addressed directly and asked to rise. It is alive, but it is not yet completed and so further procedures are required. From the workshop the image is lead down to the river in the second stage. Along this way, it is exposed to an environment which is called ṣēru, “desert land, wilderness,” an unpleasant place full of dangers inhabited, if at all, only by demons. Sometimes in Mesopotamian texts this is taken to be the area where the underworld meets the upper world, so that the term ṣēru stands for what contemporary ethnology calls a paradigmatic border situation. It is an environment through which the image has to pass in order to reach its next station, and that is the garden which is located right next to the river. The different commentaries on the mīs pî pīt pî ritual agree that the garden, the third station, is actually the central place for the completion of the image. Again a series of mouth openings is performed, more than in any other of the preceding locations, which indicates the importance of what follows. The image is set into the garden where it spends the rest of the day, the night, and a good share of the next day. It is now prepared to be accepted by the gods who come into the garden and spend time with it. In the presence of the god it reaches the state of perfect purity which means that it has lost all traces of the human work on it. From now on it belongs entirely to the divine sphere. It has become the bodily appearance of a god, the very medium through which the divine enters the world of created life and, correspondingly, through which the god can be addressed by prayer, worship, and sacrifice. Nonetheless the garden is not the final destination of the image. Although no more work has to be done on it, it is not yet in place. It has still one way ahead and that is the way from the garden to the temple and, more precisely, to the Cella, the holy of holies, the spot where from now on it resides, where it is “at home.” The way out of the garden marks the step into the real life that a god leads on earth in the shape of the image. Looking at the process of the mīs pî pīt pî ritual, one might in fact be reminded of Gen 2–3. Similarities occur in the general pattern – the material shaping of a body, its being brought to life, the change of environment from some desert place to the garden – and also in details like the furnishing of the garden with plants and animals and the fact that God is present there and joins with Adam and Eve in the ‫רוח היום‬, the early evening hours when there is a nice breeze coming in from the Mediterranean sea.

Made in the “Image of God” The making of a divine image in Mesopotamia according to the mīs pī ritual: I. In the workshop: – The material image is made in the workshop by the deity whose living image it is supposed to become; – the deity “opens the mouth” and brings the image to life, which means that from now on it is able to perform vital functions and to communicate with the gods and humans. II. To the River: – The image passes though the desert land (ṣēru), a paradigmatic border situation, and arrives at the river that runs along the garden. III. In the Garden: – The image is set into the garden – a place with plants and animals; – a series of further “mouth openings” completes the making of the image; – in the garden it spends day and night time with the gods who accept it within their circle. IV. To the Temple: – The image leaves the garden and proceeds to its final destination: the Cella of the temple (the “holy of holies”).

19

The creation of Man according to Gen 2–3:

– God (YHWH) forms Adam from the dust of the ground (Adama); – God breathes the breath of life into Adam’s nostrils, so that he becomes a “living being” (‫)נפשׁ חיה‬.

– A river flows out of Eden to water the garden.

– God takes Adam and puts him into the garden; Adam calls animals by their names; – the “woman” is made out of a rib of Adam’s; – God comes into the garden in the “coolness of the day” (‫)רוח היום‬.

– Adam and Eve eat from the tree of wisdom so that they are expelled from the garden; they cultivate the Adama; Eve becomes the “mother of all living.”

Nonetheless, Gen 2–3 does not merely reproduce the Mesopotamian pattern with modification. In two instances the biblical text obviously differs: in the making of the woman and in Adam and Eve taking from the tree of wisdom. These narrative details mark instances where the process of making a human is characteristically different from the making of a divine image. Precisely at the point where the Mesopotamian texts state that the image has been completed, the biblical story inserts that Adam is longing for another human being made of his own flesh and blood, and at the end where the image proceeds to its final destination, the holy of holies, Adam and Eve, on the other side, eat from the forbidden tree which leads to their being expelled from the garden and brings them back to the primordial ground from which Adam has been taken. The understanding of Gen 2–3 very much depends on how one relates the allusions to the making of a divine image with those instances where the biblical text contrasts with this pattern. There are basically two possible readings. Gen 2–3 can either be read as a story that was composed in order to explain

20

1. The Image of God

why human beings, even though they had been created in the image of God, could turn away from their creator, or the second telling of creation aims at explaining why the concept of the image itself is problematic because it does not account for what human beings aspire to, namely the unique relationship between a woman and a man, and the knowledge of good and evil as the most fundamental distinctions, underlying all human judgment and human action. These two readings certainly do not exclude one another because they are located on different levels of explanation. The first one relates to the content of the creation narratives, while the second deals with their conceptual framing. Yet, whereas the first one has become tremendously influential in Christian dogmatics, the second has been considered to a much lesser degree. In the last part of this paper, we will therefore try to develop to some further extent the reading of Gen 2–3 as a critique of the priestly idea of humanity as the image of God.

3. The Image and the Other Like the priestly writer, Gen 2 starts out with the primordial separation of heaven and earth, which is the characteristic way of thinking about “the beginning” in almost all creation myths in the ancient Near East.27 The beginning is not given by something that is materially made, but by the very act of dividing these two spheres from one another and so opening up a space in which living creatures then occur.28 In Gen 2, there is initially nothing more between heaven and earth than an inhospitable field of clay covered by a thin layer of mist that waters the ground and thus renders it moldable for God’s hands. In contrast to Gen 1, Adam is not the last but the first one to gain shape within this primordial vacuum, and unlike Gen 1:26–28, he is not simultaneously made and completed. In fact, the whole story of Gen 2–3 is, in a very narrow sense, about God’s continuous work on Adam. Everything which God makes adds to Adam’s bodily constitution or to the environment to which he is exposed. Eventually, God realizes that Adam is still alone. So God takes again from the moist clay and creates birds and field animals, but although Adam gives them names, he does not find one of them to be, as the text puts it literally, “a help that is facing him.” The Hebrew expression ‫ עזר כנגדו‬is crucial here because ‫כנגדו‬, “in his face,” correlates with ‫בצלמו‬, “in his image,” in Gen 1:27. Both 27 J.B. Pritchard, The Ancient Near East, Vol. I (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1958), 31–85. 28 Cf. A. Schüle, “Schöpfer des Himmels und der Erde. Religionsgeschichtliche und systematische Konzepte zu einer alttestamentlichen Gottesbezeichnung,” in Resonanzen. Theologische Beiträge, FS M. Welker, ed. S. Brandt and B. Oberdorfer (Wuppertal: Foedus, 1997), 297–316.

Made in the “Image of God”

21

terms point to the relationship between man and woman, and both allude to the semantic of “likeness,” although in different ways. ‫ נגד‬points to someone whom one can face because he or she appears as a concrete other. It introduces likeness with a turn of uncontained difference, whereas ‫ בצלמו‬has its emphasis on those characteristics that are added to someone’s personality by their image. ‫ עזר‬points to “help” on a rather large scale.29 A helper can be an “assistant” in a technical sense but also a “friend” and “companion,” a “deliverer,” and even a “savior.” Taken together, ‫ עזר כנגדו‬probably means less some kind of assistant and rather somebody with whom one can share because there is a unique level of correspondence. So far there is no such “corresponding other”30 in the garden of Eden, which means in turn that not even God could take this place. Even God is not the kind of companion for whom Adam is really longing, and we might take that as a first indication that Gen 2 is somewhat suspicious of the idea that humanity as the image of God could possibly cover this special human need. So God makes Adam fall into a ‫תרדמה‬, an extremely deep sleep,31 in order to take one of his bones and shape from it what the text now calls not ‫אדם‬, Adam, but ‫אשׁה‬, woman. In Gen 3, however, the narrative scheme changes. So far everything has been done for the benefit of humanity. Now the focus shifts to the two trees carrying the fruits that give immortality on the one hand and the knowledge of good and evil on the other. Suddenly the reader’s attention is drawn to those elements of the garden which are not meant for the man and the woman and, what is more, that are denied them. There are quite a number of instances for the motif of humanity losing or, more adequately, missing the gift of immortality and eternal life in ancient Near Eastern mythology. The great hero Gilgamesh holds the plant of life in his hands, but then he puts it aside while taking a bath, so that the serpent can steal it from him. Adapa refuses to eat and drink from the bread and the water of life because the god Ea whispers to him that both might be poisoned. For a similar reason, Aqhat rejects the offer of immortality made to him by the goddess Anat. In all these narratives, eternal life was available once to the heroes of the past, but they lost it due to their own deficient behavior. These texts convey that human beings are not suited for immortality. It is recklessness and mistrust as human characteristics that do not go together with eternal life and, therefore, exclude them from becoming like the gods. The biblical story, however, puts a different emphasis on this material. Encouraged, not betrayed, by the serpent, the humans themselves aspire to what 29 For a good survey cf. H.-J. Fabry, “‫”עזר‬, ThWAT 6 (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1989), 14–21. 30 Cf. H.-P. Müller’s notion of a “entsprechendes Gegenüber” (H.-P. Müller, “Mythische Elemente in der jahwistischen Schöpfungserzählung,” ZThK 69 (1972), 28. 31 The Hebrew term occurs rather seldom in the OT. It occurs in particular where God makes people fall into a state of complete faint and in which they, nonetheless, have especially deep revelatory experiences (Gen 15:12; Job 33:15).

22

1. The Image of God

the tree in the middle of the garden has to offer. But in order to receive the knowledge of good end evil they have to defy God’s command, and, in so doing, they drop out of the framework that has been created around them. Consequently, they find themselves in the kind of reality that every reader of the story knows to be their own.32 The Christian tradition has described this life out-of-Eden as the state of fallen existence. The major human weakness is not mistrust or recklessness but a feeling of temptation that Adam and Eve could not resist. This reading of Gen 3 was heavily influenced by Greek mythology that eventually modeled the Garden of Eden into paradeisos, “paradise” (cf. Luke 23:43; Act 2:7), a place filled with the joyous life of the gods that leaves earthly existence far behind. Precisely this division in quality between the paradisiacal world and the down sides of earthly life gave reason to the symbol of the “fall.” To be excluded from paradise was equated with punishment due to human temptation that eventually led to disobedience. If we go back beyond the Greek impact on the story, the interpretation turns out somewhat differently. The Garden of Eden is not paradise; it does not mark an ideal state of existence,33 because in two respects it does not allow for what is essential to human life: the knowledge of good and evil, which means wisdom as a source of human creativity, and the ability to bring forth future generations. The garden is not the kind of environment that allows Adam to become what, according to Gen 1:28, humanity is supposed to be: fruitful and with dominion. These themes also occur in Gen 3, but they belong to the life out of Eden, and they are characterized with their seamy sides. Life means pain, arduous labor, and finitude, and as such it is cursed, but it is, nonetheless, life that is taken care of by God, who makes garments for Adam and Eve and clothes them.34 They drop out of the garden, but they remain within the created 32 Cf. P.A. Bird, “Genesis 3 in der gegenwärtigen biblischen Forschung,” JBTh 9 (1994), 7, 18. 33 A similar interpretation has recently been suggested by K. Schmid, “Die Unteilbarkeit der Weisheit. Überlegungen zur sogenannten Paradieserzählung Gen 2f. und ihrer theologischen Tendenz,” ZAW 114 (2002), 37: “Im Paradies hat der Mensch gerade keine Weisheit, sondern er erlangt sie erst mit der Vertreibung – an derselben Stelle, an der sie der Urmensch von Ez 28 verliert.” According to R. Albertz, “‘Ihr Werdet sein wie Gott’ (Gen 3:5),” in Was ist der Mensch …?, FS H.W. Wolff, ed. F. Crüsemann (München: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1992), 22–23, in order to reach wisdom Adam had no other choice than to trespass the threshold of the divine commandment. If one traces this line of thought, the deeper insight of Gen 2–3 becomes that both life in and out of Eden have a price: naiveté on the one hand and disobedience on the other, and it is, then, the quandary of human existence that it cannot avoid both at the same time. 34 H. Spieckermann, “Ambivalenzen. Ermöglichte und verwirklichte Schöpfung in Genesis 2f.,” in Verbindungslinien, FS W.H. Schmidt, ed. A. Graupner et al. (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2000), 367–369, has rightly emphasized that the ambivalent character of life “out of Eden” is of programmatic value. It characterizes human life beyond the state

Made in the “Image of God”

23

space between heaven and earth, and that eventually becomes the place in which they unfold their wisdom and the very special relationship between man and woman (2:24).35 In both respects, God’s garden turns out not to be a suitable place. To sum up our argument so far, according to Gen 2–3, the creation of man is not yet completed when he is put in the garden (2:19). Rather, the events around the tree of wisdom and finally life out of the garden are part and parcel of creation. Creation starts with the separation of heaven and earth, and it ends with God making garments for Adam and Eve and so granting them a life on the ground from which they have been taken, a life which means pain but also joy in the presence of a “corresponding other,” arduous labor and finally death but which also means wisdom and freedom. This can now be proven by a look at the narrative structure of Gen 2:3–3:24. The narrative pattern displays two major inclusions between 2:4–7 and 3:14– 24. First, 2:5 points to 3:23 in that the ground remains wasteland until humanity comes to till it.36 That finally happens after Adam and Eve have been driven out of the garden. Some exegetes relate 2:5 to 2:15, where the same term ‫עבד‬, “to work on something, to cultivate,” occurs. However, there it is clearly the garden not the ‫אדמה‬, the soil, which Adam is supposed to take care of. Second, it is the theme of “life” and “life giving” in 2:7 and 3:16, 20 that frames the story of the garden.37 So far only Adam, being the first representative of the human species, had received the ‫נשׁמת חיים‬, the breath of life. But this is not life as it grows over time and generations. It is not yet itself a generative principle, and so the manifold features and facets of life do not unfold before Eve has become the “mother of all living” (3:20). These two inclusions indicate that the text does not divide into two separate stories, creation and fall. The task becomes, therefore, to interpret even that part of the narrative in Gen 3 that begins

of “dreaming innocence” (Spieckermann takes up Tillich’s famous phrasing here) that Adam and Eve had to leave behind in order to “grow up.” 35 This, it seems to me, is the very reason why one should not categorize Gen 3 as an antiwisdom story as has been suggested by Blenkinsopp, Pentateuch, 63–67; Carr, “The Politics of Textual Subversion,” 577–595; and Otto, “Paradieserzählung,” 190–192. According to their reading Gen 3 is essentially wisdom critical because wisdom leads to the kind of miserable and violent life that is depicted in subsequent “J-Stories,” such as Cain and Abel or the deluge. An additional problem with this way of looking at Gen 3 is that wisdom is by no means seen to be misguiding. Wherever the terminology of Gen 2:5–7, “knowledge of good and bad,” the “opening of the eyes,” or “becoming wise” (SKL), occurs in wisdom literature, it has positive meaning (cf. Albertz, “Ihr werdet sein wie Gott,” 13). So there is no doubt that wisdom is indeed seen to be of divine character and that by acquiring it humans become like one of the gods (cf. Schmid, “Unteilbarkeit,” 29). 36 Spieckermann, “Ambivalenzen,” 366–367. 37 This has been rightly seen by J. Van Seters, Prologue to history: The Yahwist as a historian in Genesis (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1992), 110.

24

1. The Image of God

with the tree of wisdom and ends with Adam and Eve finding themselves out of the garden as part and parcel of the creation of humankind.

4. More than an Image? This is, however, not the straightforward development, the “irresistible, majestic flow,” of the priestly report that made its impression on Westermann. Here, it is more of a story with twists and turns. Unlike the scheme of Gen 1, in Gen 2–3 God does not only perform a series of creative acts – forming a body, giving life to it, and supplying it with an appropriate environment. Gen 2–3 suggests something else. The creation of humanity requires that God reacts and corresponds to needs and desires that God did not anticipate. From a certain point, the creation of man becomes more than his making. This is to say that, within the space of God’s creating, humans start to respond to their being created. Adam’s longing for a “corresponding other” and their desire for what the tree of wisdom has to offer are such instances of human response that make God change the course of the work on Adam. The dimension of human responsiveness is crucial to the understanding of Gen 2–3 because it indicates a striking difference to Gen 1. The rhetoric around the divine images in ancient texts and in Gen 1 is that of “participation,” “expression,” “representation,” and of “acting” and “communication on behalf” of the deity. The one thing that the image does not do is to respond freely to the god after whose likeness it has been made, but that is precisely what Adam does, what human beings do according to Gen 2–3. To sum up our argument, the allusions of Gen 2–3 to the making of a divine image reflect a critical reading of the priestly concept as displayed in Gen 1:26–28, 5:1–3, and 9:6–7. It is a criticism not so much because applying the status of a divine image to human beings would be an offense against God. It is rather that the concept of the image does not cover everything of what it means to be human or, more precisely, to be created as a human being. This does not necessarily mean that the authors of Gen 2–3 wished to abandon the idea of humanity being created in God’s image altogether. The intention behind these texts might be less to establish an antithesis and more to reconsider the concept of the image itself. As we have tried to show, the priestly writer drew on the ancient Near Eastern theology of the image in order to explicate the unique status of humanity within the created world. This was a bold move indeed, because it meant to apply this theology to an area where it had not been employed before. Yet, it was a move that left the concept of the image itself unchanged. This, it seems to me, marks the point where Gen 2–3 enters the stage. If humanity is the image of God, as one might paraphrase the position of the second telling of creation,

Made in the “Image of God”

25

then we have to conceive of an image that is capable of responding to its creator, an image capable of approaching God in prayer, worship, and sacrifice, all of which come from its own wisdom. In taking up and challenging the priestly idea of humanity as made in the image of God, Gen 2–3 openes up a discourse that is not only of historical significance. It is, rather, a discourse that might be understood as giving orientation to any future reader who picks up on this idea coming from their own cultural background and the concepts of images intrinsic to them.

The Reluctant Image Theology and Anthropology in Gen 1–3 Omnis enim per se divum natura necessest Immortali aevo summa cum pace fruatur Semota ab nostris rebus seiunctaque longe; Nam private dolere omni, privata periclis, Ipsa suis pollens opibus, nil indigo nostri, Nec bene promeritis capitur neque tangitur ira.1

1. Introduction: Aitia and Telos One of the most common approaches to mythic texts, such as the Primeval History (Gen 1–11), is to read them as etiological accounts. Myths were composed to provide meaningful answers to the abiding questions of how the world became what it now is. Myths are meant to provide the aitia, the reason or rationale that explains why the world works the way it does, even if this means that one has to settle for less than a perfect world. The Primeval History addresses etiological matters at a number of different levels: it provides readers with a basic understanding of time and space, with a sense of the inner-architecture of the cosmos and of the inhabitants that fill the created sphere. At the human level, one learns why humans are born and why they die and what it means that they relate to each other as spouses, siblings, and neighbors. But one also learns about more mundane matters, such as the origins of clothing and even of alcohol intoxication. All of this does not occur by chance or through the invisible hand of fate. Rather, all of this is attributed to the deeds of an extremely powerful, albeit largely anonymous deity. As a matter of fact, although God is not depicted as in control of everything, God is portrayed as the only one able to set the conditions for life and existence, as we know them. While humans, and to some extent even animals, are seen as free agents, it is God who creates the conditions of their existence and, for this reason, provides the ultimate aitia of the created order. Hand-in-hand with its etiological dimension, Gen 1–11 also displays a very keen sense of the telos, or purpose, that God gives to almost every single of his 1

Lucretius, De rerum natura II, 646–651.

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1. The Image of God

creatures. As readers of Gen 1 and 2 will notice, these creation accounts tend to be particularly explicit not only about what God creates but also about the purposes that the individual creatures serve within the cosmological order and the tasks that they are given. In Gen 1, the firmament is supposed to shield off the surrounding waters, sun and moon control the light of day and night, the dry land brings forth food for animals and humans, and humankind is charged with dominion over all living things. This continues in Gen 2 with a chain of interlocking purposes: God creates Adam to tend the garden in Eden, then God creates animals as a failed attempt and finally a woman as a successful attempt to end Adam’s solitude. In some cases the texts highlight that the purposes behind God’s actions are actually met. God makes the rāqia‘, the firmament, so that a water-free space can occur, and he commands that the waters on the ground recede so that the dry land becomes visible. God puts celestial bodies in their places to dispense light at the appropriate times. In all these cases, human experience confirms that the teloi that God initially assigned to what he had created were met and therefore give stability to the cosmic order. However, there are also cases where the efficacy of the teloi appears to be questionable and where human experience may not readily confirm that what God had intended did in fact occur. While God creates human beings in order to exercise dominion over the entire animal kingdom, it is not clear at all what this actually means. It cannot mean that humans have power over animal life, simply because, in the world of Gen 1, no killing of any kind is permitted. One might think of domestication, but even that would only apply to a very limited segment of animal life. It is almost as if the text leaves a question mark behind Gen 1:28 because, at this point in the priestly narrative, it remains open how and to what effect humans are supposed to rule their fellow creatures. Something quite similar can be said about the food arrangements that God makes for all “living beings.” Here the case is even more striking because human experience actually disconfirms the notion that animals only eat green grass and humans seeds and fruits (Gen 1:29–30). The real world of the reader is not a world of vegetarians. So it is only later, in the flood narrative, that the reader learns why God eventually changed his system of order and put meat on the menu (Gen 9:3). What we are supposed to understand here is that our world is the result of a compromise, necessitated by a conflict between divine purpose and creaturely behavior. The second account of the creation of humankind further emphasizes the difference between God’s intentions and their actual outcome. God creates Adam, which, as in Gen 1:26–28, results in a charge, namely to tend God’s garden (Gen 2:152). Interestingly, the text never returns to this point, and so the reader does not find out if Adam actually picked up to the task that he was 2

Note that Gen 2:15 seems to add the charge to take care of the garden to Gen 2:8, which could indicate that this charge was not part of the original Eden narrative.

The Reluctant Image

29

given.3 What humankind would really end up doing remains uncertain, at least until they eat from the fruits of the forbidden tree and start a life “east of the Garden Eden” (Gen 3:24). In all these cases the texts show significant gaps between God’s telos and the ways in which created life unfolds – gaps that then set the stage for the unfolding narrative not only of the Primeval History but also of the larger Pentateuch. As a matter of fact, the Primeval History prefaces the following narratives in a way that directs the readers’ attention to the ambiguous relationship between divine intentions and human behaviors as a leitmotif in the Pentateuch.

2. The Dissenting Trajectory: Human Sociality and the Divine Image That origin and purpose are key concepts in the creation mythology of Gen 1– 3 is hardly surprising, since it is precisely the point of a mythic text to provide the reader not just with a plain depiction of the world as is but with an idea of its potencies and potentials, as a different way of phrasing aitia and telos. However, as noted above, divine purposes and intentions do not remain unchallenged, and there are also cases where no purposes are mentioned at all – the most famous example being God creating humankind as male and female (Gen 1:27). Humankind is supposed to “rule”, but there is no apparent link of this charge to gender. It is also very unlikely that the mention of male and female here refers to procreation. Obviously, humankind’s ability to procreate and fill the earth depends on the existence of the two sexes – but the same is of course true for animals, too, for whom the distinction between male and female is never mentioned. Animals procreate according to their respective “kinds” (‫)למינו‬, a phrase that, in turn, is never used for humans. So when Gen 1:26.28 states that humans as images of God are created male and female what is the additional value of this determination? I have argued elsewhere that the priestly stratum of Gen 1–11 appears to be particularly aware of the social bonds that characterize human life.4 It is certainly not mere coincidence that in all three instances in which the Imago Dei is mentioned the priestly authors highlight one particular social relationship: in Gen 1:27 it is the relationship between women and men, in Gen 5:1–3 between parents and children (literally, “father and son”), and in Gen 9:4–6 between any human being and his or her neighbor.

3

It is only in Gen 4:2, with Cain and Abel, that the primeval narrative depicts human labor, which is presented as a response to God’s charge (Gen 3:23) to cultivate the ground from which Adam was taken. 4 See the essay The Dignity of the Image: A Re-Reading of the Priestly Prehistory included in this volume.

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1. The Image of God

The focus on relationships in biblical mythology is of course not surprising at all, given that there are close parallels especially to the Gilgamesh epic, which is essentially a poetic exploration of the many layers that there are to the inter-human sphere.5 While this cannot be pursued further for our purposes, biblical and extra-biblical texts highlight that the human ability to form emotionally deep and meaningful relationships6 is tied to the notion that a god or the gods have bestowed some of their own characteristics on humankind. Even without explicitly calling humans images of God, as Gen 1 does, the idea seems to be that the social trajectory of human life unfolds largely as a consequence of humans being made, at least to some extent, god-like. As we know from Mesopotamian texts, this doesn’t necessarily mean that humans are divinized. As a matter of fact, the gods bestow some of their own capabilities (such as “planning”) on humans only to get rid of the hard work of “carrying the bucket.” However, being god-like means that human life develops in ways that the gods had not anticipated and that even run counter to what the gods had in fact intended. The most striking example in this regard is of course the Mesopotamian version of the flood narrative. There, the flood is depicted as the gods’ somewhat desperate attempt to remove humankind from the world, after previous attempts of keeping human procreation and the corresponding noise levels under control have failed. It is worth noticing that texts like Atrahasis or Gilgamesh are not shy to point to a conflict between gods and humans that was there from the very beginning of the world. While it is clear that the gods created humankind, this does not lead the authors to the conclusion that gods and humans are made for each other. Quite on the contrary, there is an awareness that humans do not necessarily fit into the divine scheme of things. To sum up so far, regarding ancient Near Eastern mythology in general and biblical mythology in particular one needs to distinguish two distinct trajectories. One aims at explaining how the world works as a result of the aitiai and teloi, the principles and purposes that God (or the gods) implemented in creation. Mythology is a way of taking the audience “backstage”, allowing them to get a glimpse of the divine design that provides the world with its “inner architecture”. However, there is another trajectory that seems to challenge the notion that divine principles and purposes are all that matters. This perspective articulates an awareness that human life and especially human relationships have a unique dynamic that potentially runs counter to the divine principles of order. 5 M. Gerhards, Conditio humana. Studien zum Gilgameschepos und zu Texten der biblischen Urgeschichte am Beispiel von Gen 2–3 und 11,1–9, WMANT 137 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2013), 173–180. 6 A. Schellenberg, Der Mensch, das Bild Gottes? Zum Gedanken einer Sonderstellung des Menschen im Alten Testament und in weiteren altorientalischen Quellen, AThANT 101 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2011), 219–230.

The Reluctant Image

31

In other words, here one finds elements of resilience and even expressions of protest against the idea of absolute divine sovereignty.

3. God’s Intention to let the Divine Image rule (Gen 1:1–2:3) As already indicated, the priestly stratum in Gen 1–11 aims at depicting God as the ultimate aitia behind the created world. God brings things into existence and assigns them their respective purposes. However, a closer look reveals that God’s level of involvement varies across the different works of creation. One pattern seems to be that God simply mandates that something occur in the world. The dry land is supposed to bring forth vegetation (Gen 1:11–12). Apparently the assumption is that this does not require any additional effort on God’s part. In other cases, however, God is depicted as a craftsman who devises a design for each of his works and makes them accordingly.7 This is the case with the firmament and the stars as the basic material items relating to time and space (Gen 1:6–7). As far as living beings as the actual focus of creation are concerned there is yet another pattern, which involves a co-working of sorts. First, God commands that the seas bring forth water animals and that the earth produces land animals (Gen 1:20–21.24–25). The idea seems to be that earth and water are vital forces with enough creative power to bring forth certain forms of life. 8 However, while this suffices for plants, it is not quite enough for more complex beings such as fishes, birds, and land animals. So in these cases God, too, is depicted as the one who actively participates in the creation process.9 While 7 O.H. Steck, Der Schöpfungsbericht der Priesterschrift. Studien zur literarkritischen und überlieferungsgeschichtlichen Problematik von Genesis 1,1–2,4a, FRLANT 115 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1975), 246, claims that this is essentially the model for all the acts of creation in Gen 1: God initially announces what is supposed to occur and then executes his plan. While this is true with regard to certain works of creation (the firmament, the celestial bodies, and also human beings), this model does not apply, as I will argue below, when it comes to plants and animals. 8 While this is very clearly so with regard to the earth as the creative power behind plants and land animals, the wording of Gen 1:20 is less unambiguous. The “water” is the grammatical subject of the active verb ‫שרץ‬, which should then be translated literally “Let the waters swarm swarming animals.” This presupposes that the water plays an active role in the emergence of animals, which is different from a more passive understanding (“let the waters be filled with swarming animals”). For birds, the text merely states that they should fly in midair but there is no connection with one of the elements, in this case “air”, for which the Hebrew language lacks a word. 9 As W.H. Schmidt, Die Schöpfungsgeschichte der Priesterschrift. Zur Überlieferungsgeschichte von Gen 1,1–2,4a und 2,4b–3,24, WMANT 17 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 31973), 160–169 has suggested, the different patterns of creation point to two, originally separate traditions; according to one, God creates through his word

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1. The Image of God

the text does not go into any details, read in context, God apparently commissions the elements to bring forth “raw forms” that then, through his own doing, become living creatures. Here, God is not so much a craftsman but rather an artisan who creates not just entities but the wealth of forms, colors, movements, and sounds that everyone readily associates with the animal kingdom. With the creation of humankind the priestly text takes a consequential next step because, unlike with plants and animals, God is now presented as the only creative source responsible for the occurrence of human beings. There is no calling on the primordial elements to assist in the making of humans; rather, God calls upon himself or his heavenly assembly (“Let us make …”, Gen 1:26) to create humankind.10 This is consistent with what we know about the making of divine images in ancient Mesopotamia, since only the gods themselves can create their cultic images and accept them into their midst.11 These distinctions that the priestly text uses for its cosmology establish an ontological hierarchy. The level of involvement on God’s part seems to correlate with the importance that the different entities have. Indirect creation Plants

Co-creation Sea monsters, fishes, birds

God creating alone Humankind

Then God said, “Let the earth put forth vegetation: plants yielding seed, and fruit trees of every kind on earth that bear fruit with the seed in it.” And it was so. The earth brought forth vegetation: plants yielding seed of every kind, and trees of every kind bearing fruit with the seed in it. (Gen 1:11–12).

God said, “Let the waters teem with swarms of living creatures, and birds shall fly above the earth across the expanse of the sky.” So God created the great sea monsters and every living creature that moves, of every kind, with which the waters swarm, and every winged bird of every kind. And God saw that it was good (Gen 1:20–21).

Then God said, “Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness; and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the wild animals of the earth, and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth.” So God created humankind in his image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them (Gen 1:26–27).

(“Wortbericht”), according to the other, God is depicted as a craftsman who literally makes things (“Tatbericht”). As Schmidt himself admits, it is difficult to isolate these two traditions in Gen 1. Assuming, however, that Schmidt’s core insight is essentially correct, the more interesting question is of course how the priestly authors used these different traditions for their particular typology and taxonomy of creation (for an extensive critique of Schmidt’s approach see Steck, Schöpfungsbericht, 15–26). 10 J. Middlemas, The Divine Image. Prophetic Aniconic Rhetoric and Its Contribution to the Aniconism Debate, FAT 2/74 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 128. 11 See the essay Made in the “Image of God”: The Concepts of Divine Images in Gen 1–3 included in this volume.

The Reluctant Image

33

Co-creation Field Animals And God said, “Let the earth bring forth living creatures of every kind: cattle and creeping things and wild animals of the earth of every kind.” And it was so. God made the wild animals of the earth of every kind, and the cattle of every kind, and everything that creeps upon the ground of every kind. And God saw that it was good (Gen 1:24–25).

This hierarchy is not a unique characteristic of Gen 1 but represents the standard pattern of depicting the order of creation, as Ps 104 or the divine speeches in Job 38–41 further illustrate.12 According to this pattern, the deity first creates the material cosmos as a frame, in which then plants, animals, and finally humans occur. However, none of these other texts goes into any detail about the extent to which God is directly involved in the creation of plants and living beings. W.H. Schmidt’s distinction between a “Wortbericht” und a “Tatbericht”13 as two originally separate accounts of creation might help to explain diachronically why, in some cases, there is a hands-on involvement of the deity, whereas in other cases God “only” commands or mandates that something be created. However, this alone my not explain the theological point that P is trying to make here. As the context of Gen 1 indicates, P views the antediluvian creation as a failed attempt to establish a stable system of order. The very good world deteriorates quickly so that, after only ten generations of life, God takes another look at his work and realizes that the world has filled with violence and that “all flesh had corrupted its ways in the world” (Gen 6:12). This raises two questions: Why did this happen? And was God unaware that this could happen? It is quite remarkable that the text leads the reader to ask these questions but offers no immediate explanation, at least not in the form of a meta-narrative that would provide the missing link. And yet, if one keeps in mind the different ways in which plants, animals, and humans are made, there is in fact at least an implicit explanation. Gen 1 does not only talk about creation but about creation over against chaos. There is an assumption that everything related to the primordial tohuwabohu and to 12 13

See the essay The God who Creates included in this volume. Cf. footnote 9.

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1. The Image of God

the elements that were there prior to God’s creative work carries the potential for destruction and chaos. In contrast to the dominant Christian notion of a creatio ex nihilo, Gen 1 presents God’s work as a creatio ex tumultu. God appears to be aware of the inherent threat that surrounds and even permeates that world, and so he establishes forms of protection and rule. The firmament is supposed to protect the created space from the surrounding waters, sun and moon are explicitly charged to rule (MŠL) day and night (Gen 1:16) and thus to ensure that the darkness remains within its limits. And finally humankind as the image of God is supposed to exercise dominion over the fishes, the birds, and the field animals. The latter form of rule only makes sense, if “nature” is a potential force of violence and destruction. Here it becomes hermeneutically significant that animals are depicted as God’s creatures that, nonetheless, “emerge” from those elements – water (fishes) and the primordial ground (birds [?] and field animals) – that God had not created but that belong to the tohuwabohu that was there before God made the world. Put in different terms, animals are “mixed” beings. They would not exist without God’s commanding word; and yet, they also carry the DNA of the world prior to God’s creating. It seems to be precisely this aspect of their existence that, according to P, requires control and, potentially, intervention. And this form of rule is what God assigns to humankind because they are made in God’s image – and in God’s image alone. Of course, they, too, have physical bodies that resemble those of animals. But P never mentions that, at least not in Gen 1.14 So there is no indirect creating, no calling on the seas or the ground to assist in the making of humankind. Human beings are, so to speak, God’s creatures from scratch, which – at least this appears to be God’s initial assumption – should exempt them from any involvement with the forces of destruction. Cosmic element

Firmament

Celestial bodies

Humans

What needs to be controlled

Water

Darkness

Violence

Form of rule/protection

BDL; God makes the firmament so that it shields the dry land from the waters around

MŠL; sun and moon are supposed to keep the recurrence of darkness at bay

RDY/KBŠ; as the flood narrative reveals, “all flesh” is prone to violence

14

Note that the P terminology changes, however, in the flood narrative, where all living beingsare called “flesh” (Gen 6:12.17). It remains uncertain if this terminology belonged to P’s “Vorlage”, which was apparently not the non-priestly text of Gen 6–8, or if P deliberately chose this language. Nonetheless, the notion of “flesh” captures that there is no difference between the living beings in the world with regard to their proneness to violence.

The Reluctant Image

35

While this is not a standard interpretation of the dominium terrae, it does the most justice to the narrative logic of the priestly Primeval History. Typically, the dominium terrae is viewed as the implementation of humans as (benevolent) royal stewards, which is simply a way of saying that humankind is the most advanced of all species, endowed with the power to control others. This theory typically points to the ancient Near Eastern understanding that the king is the image of God and, as such, entitled to rule the human world. In Gen 1, this concept would have been taken to a universal level with humankind as a collective royal entity, charged with controlling the created world. While it is quite likely that the priestly authors were familiar with ancient royal ideology, there is no reason to assume that they felt obligated to use and transform it in such a way that it could be included in their account of the creation of humankind15, especially since the notion of humankind as a royal specie would have very little impact on the overall priestly narrative. It seems crucial to be aware that the priestly text is tightly knit and conveys practically no details that do not also play a role in the unfolding narrative. It is also important to realize that the priestly account of creation is not an isolated text but rather one episode that sets the stage for the larger narrative of the priestly Primeval History. Therefore, the purpose of the dominium terrae becomes clear, if one assumes that it was God’s intention to establish forms of rule and dominion against the abiding danger of chaos. Apparently, there is an underlying awareness on God’s part about the fragility of the created order, which becomes explicit as the narrative turns from the account of creation to the flood narrative: while God succeeds in controlling the danger that comes from water and darkness, there is another chaotic force lingering in “all flesh”, which is mentioned only after it already inflicted irreparable damage to the created world. This threat is what P Calls “violence” (Gen 6:10.13). The idea that humans were created in order to keep violence out of the world explains the forceful language in which the dominium terrae is cast. The meaning of the two verbs that are used here (RDY, KBŠ “subdue, trample”) have been the subject of much discussion, precisely because they do not immediately support the assumption that human rule is meant to be primarily caring and benevolent. There is an aggressive overtone that has often been linked to the competition between humans and field animals for the same habitat. Only humans as the inhabitants of the dry land receive a blessing, whereas the field animals do not. In this perspective, human rule would be mostly a matter of successful self-defense. However, this explanation does not account for the fact that humans are supposed to rule all living beings, even the birds and sea creature, where there is hardly any competition or even contact. Human rule apparently is supposed to extend well beyond the humanly attainable sphere, which 15

For a discussion and critique of the concept of royal anthropology in Gen 1:26–28 cf. Schellenberg, Bild Gottes, 69–72.

36

1. The Image of God

gives the dominium terrae a somewhat surreal edge. And yet, the forceful language as well as the universal scope of human rule make good sense from a text-immanent point view, because what threatens the created world are not just forces like water and darkness but also the potential for violence that resides in “all flesh.” So the point of the dominium terrae is not that humans should or could tell birds how to fly or the sea creatures how to swim; rather, humans are supposed to rule whenever and wherever created life produces violence and destruction. This at least was the initial intention of the God whom the priestly authors portray as the creator. However, as the readers learn in retrospect, God’s plan for the protection of his creation did not work out because violence filled the earth in such a way that God had to destruct what had already self-destructed. The creation and flood narratives together convey the message that God’s good creation requires a system of order that it did not have prior to the flood. It is quite remarkable and frequently overlooked in the interpretation of the priestly narrative that it identifies the emergence of violence as the key problem of the world “in the beginning.” To be sure, the worlds that the Mesopotamian creation epics depict are violent worlds, too. As a matter of fact, the gods themselves are violent and unpredictable, and it seems that they have to learn to control their actions and emotions. So there is an awareness in these creation texts that the primeval world is raw, unfinished, and lacks a stable moral order. Whereas this is an insight that the readers of these myths gain from the unfolding narrative, the priestly authors in Gen 1–9 put God in role of the chief interpreter: God is the one who calls the created world “good” and even “very good” (Gen 1:31), and it is also God who assesses that the world is so incurably perverted that only a clean sweep and a fresh start will do (Gen 6:12–13). This of course also raises the question if God’s initial plan to let humans rule failed. The most striking argument in support of this view is the fact that, while the designation of humans as images of God is repeated after the flood, the dominium terrae is not. Now the relationship between humans and animals is marked by fear and anguish (Gen 9:2) because humans are now allowed to eat animals, which was not included in the vegetarian world of Gen 1. However, what, according to the narrative line in Gen 1–6 (P), makes human rule particularly questionable is the fact that humankind, too, was drawn into the undertow of violence. This suggests that God’s plan to create something in his own image does not yield the desired outcome, at least not with regard to providing the world with safety and peace. So what then is the telos of human life after the flood? There is not doubt that God puts humans at the top of the food chain, but is there anything more to humankind than that? As a matter of fact, at the end of the priestly flood narrative this remains somewhat open. It is not quite clear what human life is about, what it can and cannot accomplish, what it does or does not add to the oikos of creation. Human beings are images of God, this much is clear, and this proprium of humankind is in fact repeated

The Reluctant Image

37

after the flood (Gen 9:6), but how this is going to unfold remains an open question, apparently even for God. It seems to be clear, though, that the meaning of human life is not explained or exhausted by the initial hopes that led God to create humans as divine images. What humankind as women and men, parents and children, and as fellow humans will accomplish is a question that P uses to transition from the primeval period to the history of humankind that begins with the sons of Noah and leads via Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob to Moses and the tribal league of Israel. All of this eventually fills the frame that P establishes with the notion that humankind is God’s image. Thus the imago dei remains an ambiguous symbol because it expresses both God’s purposes and also humankind’s own inclinations. Being made in God’s image elevates humankind to a level of existence that, at the same time, allows them to deviate from what they were created to be, which is of course an indispensable prerequisite for human history in general and Israel’s history in particular to unfold. While the priestly narrative develops this theme in the subtext of Gen 1–9, requiring the reader to understand the thematic connections between creation, flood, and the restoration of the world, the non-priestly texts seem to be much more explicit about humans as reluctant images. This is certainly due to the fact that here, unlike in any of the P materials in Gen 1–11, humans are given a voice. They respond to their created-ness and to the expectations that God imposes on them. There is an explicit prohibition (Gen 2:17), which puts the human protagonists in a place where they have to decide whether they will obey God’s will – or not. By the same token, God, too, is a much more multifaceted entity than in P. The readers are confronted with God’s inner monologs, his emotional reactions, and his strategic acting, especially in the Eden narrative and the Tower of Babel story.

4. The Image in the Garden (Gen 2:4–25) Over the last ten years, there has been a fairly extensive debate about the connections between the two accounts of creation in Gen 1 and 2–3. According to the new documentary hypothesis, these texts ought to be assigned to two different sources that were brought together by way of redaction. Typically, this theory includes a relative chronology with the non-P (or J/E) text as the older and P as the younger stratum. These assumptions have been challenged in more recent studies of Gen 1–3. First of all, there is reason to believe that the coming together of the two creation accounts is not just a technical matter of redaction but of response. There is a level of complementarity that suggests that the two texts should be perceived as a conversation about the creation of humankind,

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1. The Image of God

rather than just as a collection of independent traditions.16 This then raises a second question, namely if the traditional chronology of non-P being older than P is still adequate, given that Gen 2–3 may well be read as a response to Gen 1.17 One should also be aware that the older/younger distinction does not necessarily account for the possibility of a roughly contemporaneous date of P and non-P texts. Of these two open issues the first one is certainly the more pertinent, although especially defendants of the traditional view that non-P (J/E) predates P seem to regard this as an almost doctrinal matter.18 The relationship between texts should be established on the basis of both linguistic analysis and content interpretation, before one turns to the much more speculative task of establishing a diachronic profile. In the case of Gen 1–3 it has been the recent discussion about the symbolism and the religious history of divine images that has furthered our understanding of the intrinsic connections between the priestly and non-priestly texts. As mentioned above, the interpretation of the imago dei in Gen 1:26–28 has been based on the assumption that the language of the image was part of ancient royal ideology, which the priestly authors supposedly “democratized” by applying the “image of God” to all of humankind. Closer to the linguistic evidence, especially with regard to the term ‫( צלם‬Gen 1:26.28), comes a cultic interpretation of humankind as the imago dei. Just as the cultic 16 Obviously, this touches on one of the hot-button-issues in current Pentateuch research. J.C. Gertz aptly summarizes the challenges of any model that seeks to offer a comprehensive explanation of the literary history of the Pentateuch: “Ancient editors or composers oriented themselves toward traditions – this is the truth inherent in the notion of ‘sources.’ However, drawing on texts and traditions did not stop these editors and composers from abridging and restructuring the material – this is the fundamental difficulty of all Quellenscheidung and the truth inherent in the Supplementary Hypotheses” (J.C. Gertz, “Source Criticism in the Primeval History of Genesis: An Outdated Paradigm for the Study of the Pentateuch,” in The Pentateuch: International Perspectives on Current Research, ed. T. Dozeman, K. Schmid, and B. Schwartz, FAT 78 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 180. 17 A. Schüle, Der Prolog der hebräischen Bibel. Der literar- und theologiegeschichtliche Diskurs der Urgeschichte (Gen 1–11), AThANT 86 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2006), 176–177. Since this is a statement about the composition of Gen 1–3, it does of course not preclude the possibility that the traditions behind Gen 2–3 could be older than Gen 1. As W. Bührer, Am Anfang … Untersuchungen zur Textgenese und zur relativ-chronologischen Einordnung von Gen 1–3, FRLANT 256 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014), 371– 372, has rightly observed, Gen 2–3 does not show any obvious relationships with other known literary traditions from the Old Testament. He also surmises that, for the non-P texts to be younger than P, one would expect explicit (terminological?) cross-references to the older text. However, as with any argument from silence, the force of such an argument seems to depend largely on the theological preferences of the exegete. 18 B. Schwartz, “Does Recent Scholarship’s Critique of the Documentary Hypothesis Constitute Grounds for Its Rejection?” in The Pentateuch: International Perspectives on Current Research, ed. T. Dozeman, K. Schmid, B. Schwartz, FAT 78 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 3–16.

The Reluctant Image

39

image in the temple cella represented the deity on earth, humankind was created to represent the creator in the cosmos. There is, however, yet another dimension that needs to be taken into account, namely the making of a divine image. As shown above, according to P, the creation of humankind is presented as categorically different from any other creature. It is God (possibly with his heavenly assembly) who creates the divine image that resides on earth. The very language of Gen 1:26 is reminiscent of how the Mesopotamians viewed the origin of divine images: “Born in Heaven, Made on Earth”.19 There can be hardly any doubt that P was familiar not only with the function of divine images but also with the theology behind the making of such images.20 However, although Gen 1:26–28 alludes to the creation of humankind as the “image of God”, it does not elaborate on any specific details about what a divine image is and how such an image is manufactured. On the other hand, while the second account of the creation of humankind in Gen 2:4–25 never uses the language of the imago dei, the narrative does in fact show some striking parallels to the multi-stage process of the making of a divine statue.21 The fashioning of a material body, the transition from the desert land to the temple garden, the bringing to life through a manipulation of the respiratory tract, and finally the opening of the eyes are some of the commonalities that indicate thematic links 19 Cf. C. Walker and M.B. Dick, “The Induction of the Cult Image in Ancient Mesopotamia: The Mesopotamian Ritual,” in Born in Heaven, Made on Earth: The Making of the Cult Image in the Ancient Near East (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1999), 55–122. 20 As A. Berlejung has shown, the Old Testament alludes to the techniques of producing cultic images in a variety of textual traditions (A. Berlejung, Die Theologie der Bilder. Herstellung und Einwohnung von Kultbildern in Mesopotamien und die alttestamentliche Bilderpolemik, OBO 162 (Freiburg Schweiz: Universitätsverlag Freiburg; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998), 401–411). Deutero-Isaiah in particular seems to have had detailed knowledge of the production process of a cultic image. Berlejung argues convincingly that, without such knowledge, Deutero-Isaiah’s polemic against idols would fall flat (ibid, 386). Given that P, as another voice from the late exilic or, more likely, early post-exilic period, reference the notion of a divine image, it is a likely assumption that the intended audience did not simply read this as a metaphor but had a rather specific understanding of what it means when God “creates” something “in his image.” For a general overview of the embeddedness of image theology in the exilic and post-exilic periods cf. S.L. Herring, Divine Substitution: Humanity as the Manifestation of Deity in the Hebrew Bible and the Ancient Near East, FRLANT 247 (Göttingen: Vandenhoek & Ruprecht, 2013). 21 The complementarity between Gen 1 and 2–3 with regard to the imago dei is a strong argument in favor of meaningful compositional work in Gen 1–3. In a recent critique of this approach Bührer, Am Anfang, 346, submits that Gen 2:7 should be interpreted against the backdrop of Isa 6:6–7; Jer 1:9; Ez 2:8–3:3, or 2 Kings 4:34–35 (the latter, however, has no reference to any mouth-opening). Given that the first three of these passages belong to prophetic call narratives, one wonders if Bührer suggests that these should be seen as a pertinent context for Gen 2. If so, this would actually take care of Bührer’s own objection that the “Word of God theology” in Gen 1 has no parallel in Gen 2–3 (ibid, 353).

40

1. The Image of God

between the description of the creation of Adam in Gen 2 and the prescriptions for the making of a divine statue according to the Mesopotamian mīs pî pīt pî ritual. As with every comparison between biblical and Mesopotamian texts, there is no way of knowing if and to what extent exactly the biblical authors had any direct access to these extra-biblical sources. However, the obvious parallels indicate that the biblical texts emerged from a religious environment, in which the making of divine cult statues was firmly embedded. Most recently, Catherine McDowell, based on her Harvard dissertation from 2009, has provided an extensive comparison of Gen 1–3 and the Mesopotamian mīs pî pīt pî ritual and arrives at the following conclusion: “Does Gen 2:5–3:24 also present humankind as an image of God? To answer this question I examined Gen 2:5–3:24 in light of the Mesopotamian mīs pî pīt pî and the Egyptian wpt-r rituals. I found … that there were a number of common features among them, including a temple garden, the animation of the image and specifically its sensory organs, the installation of the image in sacred space, the feeding of the image, and especially the opening of the eyes as a means of divine-likeness. These parallels suggested that the Eden story did portray Adam as an “image,” but not in terms of a divine manifestation in the way a tsalmu manifested a god in the mīs pî pīt pî. Rather, I concluded that the author incorporated selected features of divine statue animation rituals in order to redefine tselem.”22 (C. McDowell, 207)

McDowell rightly observes that Gen 2 and 3 (and one may well include Gen 1) do not simply apply the making of divine statues to the creation of humankind. The point is actually more nuanced. These texts presuppose the notion that cultic images were an integral part of the earthly representation of a deity. This precisely raises the question of who or what qualifies as such an image. The answer in Gen 1–3 is both iconophile and iconoclastic because it affirms that God has an image but at the same time re-assigns this role from traditional cult statues to humankind as “organic” images.23 Looking at Gen 2–3, the allusions to the making of divine images are employed as components in a narrative about the time when God began to create a world.24 As has been observed before, the idea is that God first creates a single human and then everything else around “him”, which is perfectly consistent with the notion that this single human is God’s image that receives special care and attention. However, whereas the main plot of the narrative follows the steps 22

C.L. McDowell, The Image of God in the Garden of Eden. The Creation of Humankind in Genesis 2:5–3:24 in Light of mīs pî pīt pî and wpt-r Rituals of Mesopotamia and Ancient Egypt, Siphrut 15 (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2015), 207. 23 On the concept of cultic images with regard to Gen 1 cf. N. Lohfink, “Die Gottesstatue. Kreatur und Kunst nach Genesis 1,” in Im Schatten deiner Flügel. Große Bibeltexte neu erschlossen (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2000), 29–48; B. Janowski, “Die lebendige Statue Gottes. Zur Anthropologie der priesterlichen Urgeschichte,” in Die Welt als Schöpfung. Beiträge zur Theologie des Alten Testaments (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2008), 140–171. 24 Schüle, Prolog, 161–164.

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involved in the making of a divine image, there is another story line that focuses on the human being itself as a contingent other over against God.25 This is the case when God decides that the primal human needs a companion. Here one notices that the interaction between God and the primal human is fraught with problems from the very beginning. While God does understand the human desire for companionship (Gen 2:18), he does not know immediately what a suitable companion would look like. As a matter of fact, God needs several attempts before he finally comes up with an acceptable solution. In my reading, there is some subtle irony at work in Gen 2:19–20. The idea seems to be that God creates one animal after the other, brings them to Adam, Adam names them but eventually dismisses them like a child that loses interest in an old toy. Apparently, God actually thought that a pet of sorts would do the trick and put an end to Adam’s solitude. This initial misconception points to certain limits that, according to the narrative logic of Gen 2, God has with regard to the specific needs of his human creature. While God apparently can be alone, his human image cannot. So God eventually resets his plan and fashions another human being, but this time he takes a slightly different approach to the task. The other human being is now made from a piece of bone, taken from Adam’s own body. Only that eventually suffices to bring forth the desired ‫עזר כנגדו‬. It seems safe to say that the narrative in Gen 2 is composed to highlight a certain level of contingency in the interaction between God and Adam. And it is worth noting that these misconceptions occur precisely at points that relate to characteristics of human life, such as companionship, solidarity, and intimacy. While the God of the Eden narrative seems to be aware that humans have specific needs in this regard, these are not necessarily intended or accounted for when he creates the primal human as a divine image. It may not be accidental that the terms used for the divine image and for the Adam’s human companion sound quite similar: Whereas God creates humans bezalmō “in his image”, Adam needs someone kenægdō, which one might render “as his corresponding other.”26

5. Eve as the Reluctant Image Given that Gen 2–3 displays a sense of the tensions between divine and human needs and purposes, it is no surprise that the woman, whose making completes the creation of the primal human, plays a particular role in the divine-human relationship. She is presented as a figure between God and Adam. Her particular way of being created and the fact that she desires what God prohibits give her a unique place in the story. 25 26

Ibid, 167. Ibid, 168.

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1. The Image of God

It has always been observed that fashioning the woman from Adam’s “rib”27 appears to be a somewhat unexpected move on God’s part. Why did God not simply create another human being in the same way he created the first? What is the significance of bone as the material of choice? All of these are pertinent questions, especially because the “gendered” creation of humankind is rather unusual in the world of antiquity. However, there may be a couple of clues from ancient Near Eastern iconography. Christoph Uehlinger was among the first to point to examples of small bone and ivory statuettes from Mesopotamia in the form of nude female bodies as a possible background for Gen 2:21–22.28 These are not cultic objects but appear to be small artifacts. It is not clear if these pieces had any particular function, or if the female body was rather the subject of artistic craft and expression, as Uehlinger suspects. Ivory or bone may have been used because of their pale color, reflecting the ideal of beauty. As we know from the artwork of practically all cultures of the ancient world, the skin of noble women was often shown in light or white hues in contrast to the dark skin of men, the point being of course that women of the upper society did not have to work outdoors and, thus, were not exposed to bright sunlight. If these depictions of women were a relevant background for the biblical narrative, then the creation of the woman, whom Adam will eventually call Eve (Gen 3:20), would have to be considered as God’s attempt to make something beautiful, something aesthetically pleasing for Adam. Apparently, it is not God’s idea that the woman should be a co-worker in everyday life but someone who brings beauty and distraction to Adam’s existence.29 It is almost as if God was trying to add a particular nuance to Adam’s life, something that would be missing otherwise. Obviously, by depicting Eve as God’s artwork, created to fill a void in Adam’s life, the text would make a rather challenging claim about the role of women. However, for the outcome of the narrative it turns out to be rather inconsequential what God had in mind when he “built” the woman, because now, for the first time, Adam gets a voice to express his own perception (and interpretation) of what happens to him: “This one, finally, is bone from my bone and flesh from my flesh” (Gen 2:23). He accepts the woman as his 27 As is commonly known, the terminology here is far from clear. The term ‫ צלע‬never actually refers to “bone” or even more specifically to “rib.” With regard to the human body, the term alludes to “stumbling”, “falling” (Ps 35:13), or “limping” (Mic 4:7; Zeph 3:19), which suggests that ‫ צלע‬has something to do with the skeletal system. It is also used to describe the frame of the tabernacle. Given this overall picture, there is good reason to believe that in Gen 2:21 it is bone material, as it were, that God uses to “build” (BNY) the woman. 28 C. Uehlinger, “Eva als ‘lebendiges Kunstwerk’. Traditionsgeschichtliches zu Gen 2,21–22(23.24) und 3.20,” BN 43 (1988), 90–99. 29 This raises the question if companionship in the Garden of Eden had a sexual component, which God would have acknowledged in giving the primal human a partner. The reference to ivory statuettes and related iconography could be interpreted in this way, since these objects seem to allude to women as sexually desirable beings.

The Reluctant Image

43

equal, which is also emphasized by the name that he gives her: “woman” (‫)אשה‬, as a quasi-feminized form of “man” (‫)איש‬. Whether or not this corresponds with God’s own intentions remains open. This takes us finally to the woman’s own response to her existence. In this respect it is worth noting that the first thing the reader learns about her is that she desires the knowledge of good and evil as that which God had prohibited (Gen 3:6). So Eve, whose divinely assigned role it was to end Adam’s solitude, does in fact something unexpected. She elevates human life to a level that God had not intended for them, namely the life of wisdom as the knowledge of good and evil. Christian doctrine has interpreted this as a transgression of God’s commandment, which inadvertently led to the notion that Gen 3 ought to be read as an etiology of human sin. But leaving dogmatic categories aside, the narrative, taken by itself, appears to be conveying a different sentiment. The primal humans, whom God made in his image, aspire to something that, up to this point, only God possesses. This is to say that there is a difference between how God defines the role of the “image” and how humans fill this role. God, as a mythic character, is only interested in someone to take care of his garden, an employee in the divine household, which is of course reminiscent of the gods’ decision to create humankind in the Atrahasis epic. But God does not appear to be interested in someone who can meet him at eye level. The text in Gen 2 and 3 has no difficulty depicting God as savvy, strategically acting, and even slightly selfish. It seems crucial to realize that the genre of Gen 3 is a mytho-magical tale where snakes can speak and gods walk around in lustrous gardens, enjoying the mild evening breeze (Gen 3:8). And it is precisely in this perspective that one notices how Eve steps out of the limited role that God had assigned her. The desire for what the forbidden tree has to offer makes her a reluctant image of God, which is something quite different from a fallen human, as classical doctrine would have it. The impression that humankind is not exactly the kind of image that God initially had in mind gains further support by looking at the language that is used to describe what happens when Eve and Adam eat from the tree: ‫ותפקחנה‬ ‫“ עיני שניהם‬the eyes of both of them were opened” (Gen 3:7). To the best of my knowledge, this is the only time this phrase occurs in the Hebrew Bible, which makes it somewhat difficult to interpret. The Hebrew Bible does mention the opening of the ears, enabling humans to hear and understand God’s voice and God’s word. In Ps 119:18 one finds the “uncovering” of the eyes, which God is asked to do (‫)גל עיני‬, so that one can see the “miracles of the Torah.” But while there is no direct parallel for the opening of the eyes in the Hebrew Bible, it has a relevant context in the mīs pî pīt pî ritual. The opening of the eyes marks one of the final steps that the ritual prescribes for completing a divine image. The Babylonian version of the ritual explicitly states that the eyes of

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the newly born god be opened (īn ili šuāti tepette30), and the Nineveh version instructs that the image be placed with its eyes towards the sunrise.31 The idea seems to be that only with all its sensory organs properly activated the image comes to full life. Against this backdrop, it is pertinent that, in the biblical story, the opening of the eyes is not something that God performs when he fashions Adam’s body and breathes the breath of life into an initially lifeless body. Rather, in the biblical adaptation of the mīs pî pīt pî ritual, the opening of the eyes occurs when Eve and Adam eat from the tree of knowledge. This gives the notion of the imago dei a subtly subversive twist, because the final step of becoming God’s image requires that humans move past the boundaries that God set them. To summarize, looking at how the narrative in Gen 1–3 unfolds, the imago dei becomes a symbol of conflict. It is, on the one hand, a symbol of the teloi, the expectations and purposes that God places on humankind, especially in the creation account of Gen 1, where humans simply fail to fill this role in the way God had intended. In Gen 2–3, on the other hand, the imago dei is a symbol of humans pursuing their own agenda and of having a life that may or may not be in accordance with the intentions of their creator. Gender and companionship play a crucial role in this regard, which is where humankind as God’s image cannot simply emulate a divine role model. So it seems to be significant for one’s understanding and appreciation of the Torah and the wider canon that they begin by pointing to this unresolved relationship between God and God’s image.

30 31

Cf. McDowell, Image of God, 143. Ibid.

The Dignity of the Image A Re-reading of the Priestly Prehistory 1. Introduction The idea of human dignity is characterized by a fundamental problem, which the notion of the image of God seeks to address. Regardless of the content one chooses to fill the concept of human dignity, we are dealing with a qualitative entity – something which people cannot achieve through their own efforts. Dignity is not conditional, nor can it be subjected to conditions. The converse is also true; human dignity can neither be lost nor stripped from someone. It is not the role of human beings either to grant or deny this particular dignity to one another; rather it is simply the “bare” fact that a human being is human which lends a person a particular dignity. Yet we see here the underlying problem. On what is this dignity actually grounded, and how can people claim it for themselves without exploiting it? A paradox arises because dignity is self-predicated by human beings; yet, at the same time, it is claimed to be something with objective validity. With the claim to dignity, people declare something about themselves, which they are not actually in a position to declare. Thus the question is how one is supposed to deal with this hermeneutical circle. In all likelihood, the appeal to the image of God, as one encounters it in the biblical creation stories, did not expect to break out of this circle, but rather attempted to thematize the idea of human dignity within the framework of a cosmology and theology of creation.1 The advantage of such an approach lies not in just “abstractly” postulating the special status of the human being but rather in unpacking it within the framework of the complex relationships given in creation. Accordingly, the question of the degree to which the human being is an image of God and therefore possesses a particular dignity cannot ignore a reflection on the value of humanity’s co-creatures and their particular relationships to the creator. In more concrete terms, the sentence, “And God created humankind in God’s image,” which is so decisive for human dignity, draws its meaning from the relationship to those statements in the creation narrative about the blessing and the commission to multiply, which human beings share with other creatures, as well as to those claims about God creating a space 1 For a critical discussion on this point, see M. Welker, “Person, Menschenwürde und Gottebenbildlichkeit,” in Menschenwürde, ed. I. Baldermann, JBTh 15 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2001), 250.

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amid a chaotic tohuwabohu that gave rise to a wealth of life forms. The very fact that God’s final appraisal, which honors the whole of creation in a particular way, appears in Gen 1:1–2:3 is an important corrective against the idea that the human being should be understood as the best of them all. The special position of the human being is woven into a network of statements regarding the function and value of creatures, both in and of themselves and as an ensemble. In light of the parallels between human dignity and the concept of the image of God, another point becomes important. The concept of human dignity encompasses and combines two distinct relationships referring on the one hand, as already suggested, to the relationship between human and non-human forms of life, and on the other hand, human dignity is also a regulative for interpersonal relationships between human beings. It applies not only to human beings as a species but also to each individual human being, who not only possesses such dignity but must then also respect it in encounters with every other human being. Dignity characterizes the human being as an individual and functions simultaneously as an imperative in the encounter with others. Dignity defines the human being in such a way that they are not merely identified as a specimen of the species but rather as an individual who not only possesses a right to life but also a right to the formation of that life vis-à-vis other members of the species. Given this accentuation, human dignity proves to be a concept indebted to the very familiar thought patterns of the via moderna, Renaissance, and Enlightenment. It is the individual rather than the species or genus, which is capable of realizing reason and creativity and, as such, possesses particular dignity.2 Michelangelo erected an immortal monument to this idea in his fresco of Adam in the Sistine Chapel and, in an ingenious way, simultaneously linked it with the imago dei. He displays God and Adam separated from one another against a background of differing fields of color. Between them, and against the blue of the heavens, God and Adam’s forefingers approach one another, yet do not touch. God is represented in a dynamic pose, encircled by angels. Every detail of God’s image reveals a liveliness and activity. In contrast, Adam, who is portrayed as a solitary being rather than as man and woman, lies in a slack, contemplative pose on the ground, with his face turned toward God. His left arm is propped up; his hand hangs slightly downward, which brings us to the truly significant detail. Adam only needs to lift his finger or, in the terms of the overall image, he must only shift from stillness and contemplation into action and activity in order to touch his creator. Adam’s ability to reach out to his creator and, in so doing, to become like God distinguishes the human being and confers upon them the dignity of the image of God.

2

Of interest here is L. Dupré, Passage to Modernity. An Essay in the Hermeneutics of Culture (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993), 93–119.

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Thus with Michelangelo we find ourselves already in the reception history of Gen 1:26–28, to which the modern concept of human dignity also belongs.3 This reception history is not only particularly rich, it is also irritatingly heterogeneous; above all, since completely differing views have arisen over the course of various ages and cultures as to what it means to be God’s image. It is both one of the strengths and weaknesses of this statement about the image that it is able to unpack an enormous imaginative potential, which, however, all too easily derails methodologically controlled access. In that respect, it seems sensible to ask what the image of God means at the textual level of the creation narratives. This is not to suggest that exegesis should have the final word over what the image of God means or what it contributes to an understanding of human dignity, but precisely because it was the biblical creation narratives that gave the world the concept of human beings as the image of God, it should at least have the first word in this debate. With these initial considerations behind us, we can now refine the question facing the biblical texts and do so in two ways. (1) To what extent does the image of God provide grounds for elevating human beings to a special position over against other creatures? (2) To what degree does this dignity also determine the way in which human beings deal with one another and, to that extent, confer on the individual person responsibilities and rights?

2. The Royal Dignity of Human Beings as Key to the Image of God? In the prolegomena of each and every discussion of the imago dei, one reads that the human being is described as the image of God only within the creation narratives and, more specifically, only within the priestly creation narrative4 3 A brief and helpful overview of the reception history within the Christian traditions is provided by G. Kruhöffer, Der Mensch – Das Bild Gottes (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999). For the rabbinic interpretation, cf. D. Krochmalnik, Schriftauslegung. Das Buch Genesis im Judentum (Stuttgart: Verlag Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2001), 40–57; it should be noted here that the concept of the image of God is interpreted by Jewish scholars primarily in light of the relationship between man and woman. In contrast, Christians have tended to understand imago dei more as a statement about God’s relationship to humanity or humanity’s relationship to God. 4 Although the debate about the literary history of Gen 1–11 is an open issue, there is a consensus that there is a textual layer here that belongs to the priestly tradition of the Pentateuch. It is only within this layer that there is a discussion of the human as imago dei. However, the limits of the priestly text, especially within the flood narrative, are debatable. For an overview of the history of the research, see A Schüle, Der Prolog der hebräischen Bibel. Der literar- und theologiegeschichtliche Diskurs der Urgeschichte (Gen 1–11), AThANT 86 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2006), 11–40. For our purposes here, the Priestly

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(though Ps 8 is a related text, it does not contain a statement about the image).5 In this respect the imago dei does not belong to those leitmotifs and conceptions which overarch the traditions and, in this case, characterize anthropology in the Old Testament. On the contrary, one could say that the baseness of the human being and their distance from a God who infinitely exceeds human measure is much more “typically Old Testament” than the concept of the image of God. This suggests that the imago dei has a specific function within the mythology of the creation narratives, which would indicate that it needs to be interpreted primarily within that context. For the most part, exegesis has attempted to find an entry point to this mythology through the history of religions. In the world surrounding the biblical creation narratives, the language of the image of God had a firm place, particularly within ancient Near Eastern royal ideology. In Egypt, as in Mesopotamia, the great king was the “image of God” on earth.6 With its various nuances, the “image” concept describes a representative function. The king represents God on earth and, to that extent, has divine power and sovereignty at his disposal. Thus the boundary line here between the concept of the king as “image of god” and the concept of the “divinity” of the king is quite flexible. In various phases of the Egyptian and Mesopotamian religious histories, the king was partially understood as god but also in part as adopted by the gods or as a specially chosen person. Important here is that the representative function of the king as god’s image is directed to a very particular area, namely, the state and, in accordance with ancient oriental conceptions, the peoples gathered around it. The great kings of the ancient Near East understood themselves as the gods’ governors with the task of bringing order to the peoples of the earth, thereby guaranteeing the stability of the entire created world. It is a broadly shared opinion that the imago dei in Gen 1:26–28 is rooted in this royal ideology. Thus the special position of human beings is interpreted in the sense of a royal dignity. The human being is king and ruler over the world, just as the great king of an ancient Near Eastern society was the ruler over the

Code is defined as follows: Gen 1:1–2:3; 5; 6:9–22; 7:6–7.11–12.17b–20; 8:1–2.6–7.15–18; 9:1–17.28–29; 10:1–7.13–32; 11:10–32. 5 For a comparison of both traditions, see U. Neumann-Gorsolke, Herrschen in den Grenzen der Schöpfung. Ein Beitrag zur alttestamentlichen Anthropologie am Beispiel von Psalm 8, Genesis 1 und verwandten Texten, WMANT 101 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2004). 6 E.M. Curtis, Man as the Image of God in Genesis in the Light of Ancient Near Eastern Parallels (PhD Diss., University of Pennsylvania, 1984); B. Ockinga, Die Gottebenbildlichkeit im alten Ägypten und im Alten Testament, ÄAT 7 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1984); U. Rüterswörden, Dominium Terrae. Studien zur Genese einer alttestamentlichen Vorstellung, BZAW 215 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1993).

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state and its surrounding peoples. It is suggested that the priestly authors collectivized this well-known royal ideology7 and at the same time extended its reach. No longer is it merely one person who is the image of God on earth, but rather all humanity, and their jurisdiction is not limited to one partial area within creation but extends to the whole world.8 “Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth and subdue it; and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the air and over every living thing that moves upon the earth.” This conferral of rule on the human being in Gen 1:28 is thus seen as the goal and function of the imago dei. The human being was created to be the image of God in order to “rule” over their fellow creatures. One can hardly deny that structural parallels exist between the concept of the imago dei and ancient Near Eastern royal ideology. However, once examined critically these parallels are revealed to be far too general and even misleading at decisive points. Some of the exegetical difficulties which arise in relation to Gen 1:26–28 likely reflect that this leading model of the “royal dignity of the human being” has only limited compatibility with the concept of the imago dei. At this stage, I would like to name these difficulties in the following points, in order then to pick them up within the framework of a new interpretation of the imago dei. 2.1 Rule – what for? If one chooses the ancient Near Eastern royal ideology as the interpretive framework for the imago dei, then the stress falls particularly upon the notion of human rulership. Accordingly, a good part of the exegetical discussion, primarily of Gen 1:28, has concentrated on the interpretation of those two terms which support the so-called dominium terrae: ‫רדה‬, radā, and ‫כבש‬, kabaš. There is agreement on the problem with these terms, which can be summarized as follows.9 In a general sense, ‫ רדה‬can refer either to the rule of a king (e.g. 1 7 Cf. H. Wildberger, “Das Abbild Gottes,” ThZ 21 (1965), 245–246; W.H. Schmidt, Die Schöpfungsgeschichte der Priesterschrift. Zur Überlieferungsgeschichte von Genesis 1,1– 2,4a und 2,4b–3,24, WMANT 17 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 31973), 143; W. Groß, “Gen 1,26.27; 9,6: Statue oder Ebenbild Gottes?,” JBTh 15 (2000), 17; K. Koch, Imago Dei – Die Würde des Menschen im biblischen Text, Berichte aus den Sitzungen der Joachim Jungius-Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften e.V., 18/4 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000), 22; C. Frevel and O. Wischmeyer, Menschsein, Neue Echter Bibel. Themen 11 (Würzburg: Echter, 2003), 52. 8 Criticism of the hypothesis of collectivization and the derived kingship of humanity is seen in S.D. McBride, “Divine Protocol: Genesis 1:1–2:3 as Prologue to the Pentateuch,” in God Who Creates: Essays in Honor of W. Sibley Towner, ed. W.P Brown and S.D. McBride (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 17: “The divine ‹image› and the commission to ‹rule› (1:28) neither require nor preclude a specifically royal inscription.” 9 For an overview of this, see Groß, “Statue,” 25–26.; B. Janowski, “Die lebendige Statue Gottes. Zur Anthropologie der priesterlichen Urgeschichte,” in Gott und Mensch im Dialog,

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Kings 5:4) or to rule per se (Ez 29:15). However, in other passages the Hebrew root has an unmistakable and distinctly violent undertone. It can refer to the oppression of one’s enemy, and in some passages it even has the character of merciless subjugation (Is 14:6). The violent connotations of the dominium terrae are amplified further if one also takes the root ‫כבש‬, which, without exception, bears the character of pitiless subjugation and a contemptuous trampling underfoot. ‫ כבש‬refers to that which one does to an enemy or, in an abstract sense, that by which one wipes out sin. In this respect, the biblical dominium terrae does not at all fit with the idea of dealing carefully and considerately with creation – a view which has been stressed particularly by ecologically oriented theologies of creation. According to Gen 1:28, the rule of humanity contains something irreducibly aggressive and tyrannical; this is a view which resists the image of a harmoniously integrated world order with humanity as its administrator. Why then is there this aggressive language of “rule” and “subjugation” in the context of humanity’s mission in creation? One could also pose this question from another perspective. Why is “rule” – regardless of its particular forms – something that is even necessary in God’s creation? To what extent is the world of Gen 1:1–2:3 designed to be ruled, and why is this task required of the human being, who, after all, is not the world’s creator? In a certain sense the order to rule seems to resist the very logic of the events of creation. Before the human being even comes into existence, the household of creation already exists in the form in which God wants it. In the first three days, God organizes the world into its set areas – heavens, dry land, and oceans – which God then fills with the corresponding life forms.10 Important to note here is that all these creatures, with the exception of land animals, which must share their environment with human beings, receive both a task and a blessing in creation. The birds are to populate the heavens and the “creeping animals” the ground. This happens without human involvement. Furthermore, one must ask what human beings could do to change this. How are human beings to influence the fact that birds circle in the heavens, that fish swim in the ocean, and that worms burrow through the ground? If one stays with the image of the priestly creation narrative, without immediately superimposing upon it a modern worldview, in which the human being does have FS O. Kaiser zum 80. Geburtstag, ed. M. Witte, BZAW 345 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2004), 197, who distinguishes between an “aggresive” and a “passive” interpretation of the dominium terrae. 10 For the allocation of the works of creation to the days of the week, see C. Westermann, Genesis 1–11, BK I/1 (Berlin: Evangangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1985), 123–126; O.H. Steck, Der Schöpfungsbericht der Priesterschrift. Studien zur literarkritischen und überlieferungsgeschichtlichen Problematik von Genesis 1,1–2,4a, FRLANT 115 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 21981), 202; P. Trible, Gott und Sexualität im Alten Testament (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1993), 32; M. Witte, Die biblische Urgeschichte, BZAW 265 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1998), 110.

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certain advanced possibilities, then the human being is in a particularly limited position to rule over the world. This is also the case if one reinterprets humanity’s task in creation in the sense of a decree of endowment, where the world is given over to humanity for its own uses as the head of the food chain. Here too, the danger is that modern ideas of the way in which humanity deals with its environment might skew the biblical horizon of imagination. The Eden narrative in Gen 3 complements the priestly report of creation precisely by reminding the reader of what human existence on earth also is: namely laborious, sorrowful, and endangered by other creatures, such as the snake. The “grounded” atmosphere in which we find the discussion of the human being in the context of the entirety of the creation narratives, displays preciously little of the radiant power of ancient oriental kings and the ideology of their divine rule. 2.2 Image and Similarity A further question which we could direct at this leading conception of the imago dei as the royal dignity of the human being arises with regard to the very concept of an image in the priestly texts. It is well known that we encounter in the text two distinct terms describing the image of God: ‫( צלם‬tselem) and ‫דמות‬ (demūt). While in the context of Gen 1:26–28, 5:1–3, and 9:4–6 both terms can be used fairly interchangeably, they do still possess distinct nuances of meaning. ‫ צלם‬is the actual term for an image and its recepitonal function. Normally, this refers to a material image, such as a statue. Cultic images, which had their places in the holiest of holies and thus were perceived as the manifest presence of the divinity on earth were described in the Old Testament as ‫ צלם‬and were, as such, also the object of Deutero-Isaiah’s polemic against idols. However, according to Gen 1:26, the human being is such a ‫צלם‬, though not one of stone or wood but rather in the sense of a “living statue” of God. The parallels to the royal ideology of the ancient Near East are a given here, insofar as the king is actually understood as a manifest image of god on earth. However, things are different in the case of ‫דמות‬. The issue here is the physical resemblence of the image to that which it represents. We come across this term quite frequently in the first chapters of the book of Ezekiel. In his vision of a throne, Ezekiel describes what he sees in terms of similarity: And above the firmament that was over their heads was something like (‫ )דמות‬a throne, like sapphire, and over that which was like (‫ )דמות‬a throne, up on top, was something like (‫)דמות‬ the appearance of a human being (Ez 1:26).

This almost exaggerated use of ‫ דמות‬and its synonyms in the throne vision signalizes that Ezekiel was well aware of the difficulties of speaking about God

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in anthropomorphic terms.11 He uses the term ‫ דמות‬in order to openly state that there is a vague similarity between the divine appearance and the human form. Unlike ‫צלם‬, ‫ דמות‬is not a technical term but rather a general, descriptive word. As for Gen 1, this raises the question of where exactly the priestly author saw similarities between God and the human being. One could assume that, as with Ezekiel, we are dealing here with a likeness in outward appearances, that God and the human being share this vague similarity. However, one needs to be careful when arguing by analogy. Unlike Ezekiel’s case, Gen 1 is not dealing with the description of a vision but rather with a likeness that God produces between God and the human being in the act of creation. The priestly text does not provide us with a definite statement about what this likeness refers to; rather it unpacks this statement of likeness with the help of a concrete network of connections, in which, according to the text, the human being is the image of God. These apply to the relationship between wife and husband as well as that between the sexes more generally (Gen 1:27–28); the relationship between parents and their children as well as that between generations (Gen 5:1–3); and finally the relationship between the human being and their neighbor (Gen 9:4– 6). It seems particularly important for an understanding of humanity’s similarity to God that the imago dei is not only an object of the creation narrative, but also runs through the entire biblical prehistory. To summarize the argument thus far, in the context of the biblical prehistory, the concept of the “royal human being” runs up against a series of textual obstacles. The idea that God has made human beings rulers over the world and has thus given them a status that elevates them above all other creatures has no real foundation in the priestly text. In other words, as much as the idea of the royal dignity of human beings offers itself from the perspective of the history of religions, it simply appears curiously foreign within the context of the priestly cosmogony. When the prehistory speaks of human beings as the image of God, it does so by looking at the human being as man and woman, parent and child, and as neighbor and concrete other. The human being is the image of God in those concrete forms, in which human life is shaped and in which it develops. We can now apply these insights to another read through of the biblical prehistory.

3. Personal Formation of the Human Being as the Imago Dei When we examine the creation narratives, we note a series of classificatory terms. God creates the animals and plants according to their “kind” (‫)מין‬. Thus it is not so much the individual specimen as the respective species which plays 11

2

H. Schüngel-Straumann, Die Frau am Anfang. Eva und die Folgen (Münster: LIT, 1997), 104.

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a role in God’s plan for the world and which must populate those spaces under the heavens, upon the earth, and in the seas. Accordingly, the commission to be fruitful and multiply aims at the population of all these areas of life and the reproduction of each initial type of animal and plant. It is primarily the functional criteria that come to bear in the description of humanity’s co-creatures. Yet the case is different for human beings. Adam is not created as a “kind,” but rather as an “image of God;” this is the classificatory term which is applied to him. What is it about the human as God’s image which is so special or peculiar? In this respect, we find the reference to the human as “male and female,” which is closely linked to this image of God. The exceptionally elaborate stylistic figure used here by the text is a chiasmus with concluding paraphrase: (1:27 aa) So God created humankind in his image (1:27ab) In the image of God he created him. (1:27b)

Male and female he created them.

Not only is the statement that God created humankind as male and female linked particularly closely to the statement regarding the image of God, it is practically its goal. Due to its particular tense and syntax, the consecutive imperfect, Gen 1:27aa presents a narrative sentence and, as such, takes its place in the long list of things that God “creates,” “makes,” “sees,” and finds “good.” The chiasmus pushes the statement regarding the image of God in Gen 1:27ab up to the beginning of the sentence, so that it becomes the actual object of the sentence. The accent no longer lies on what God creates or how but rather on who the human being is. Gen 1:27b maintains the syntax from 1:27ab but replaces the expression “image of God” with the characterization of humankind as “male and female.”12 Directed by this parallel structure, 1:27b then explains what it means for the human being to be the image of God. The grammatical analysis is important because it shows that the creation of humankind as the image of God and as male and female are not simply two independent and mutually unrelated characteristics but rather two sides of the same coin. Only in Gen 1:28 does the creation narrative return then, once again with the consecutive imperfect, back to the narrative style to report of the blessing of humankind and their task in creation. Yet this underlines a further question. What is so particularly special about the relationship between man and woman that it should be predicated on the image of God? Surely, the priestly author knew that there are also gender differences in the animal kingdom, but it is precisely here that the point seems to lie. Gender difference, which serves for reproduction, the maintenance of a species, and the occupation of a particular habitat, is not separately thematized in Gen 1:1–2:3 but is rather taken for granted. To turn the argument on its head, 12

Thus alo Schüngel-Straumann, Die Frau am Anfang, 105.

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this means that the relationship between man and woman must extend beyond these functional determinants; it is a form in which human life can develop precisely because it is free of utilitarian bonds. Regardless of the terms one uses to describe this relationship – intimacy, sexuality, familiarity, or partnership – it seems that what concerns the priestly author is that these all express something more than simply the necessity of procreation, the preservation of the species, or the division of labor.13 Without going into details in this respect, the text characterizes the human as a being which can freely and independently shape the network of relationships within which they live. In the cosmology of Gen 1, heavenly bodies, plants, and animals cannot do this; this is reserved only for the human being, and it is precisely here that the human appears similar to God. If we move on from Gen 1:26–28 to the second passage that discusses the image of God, we also notice that in Gen 5:1–3 the focus is on an elementary relationship of human life, namely that between parents and children. Gen 5:1 summarizes the image of God in Adam, used here explicitly as a collective term for man and woman;14 this is paralleled in 5:3 with the statement that Adam conceived a son in his image (‫ )צלם‬and likeness (‫)דמות‬. Here the concept of image is used to portray the individual human being not only as a specimen of the species but rather as a distinct image of their parents and bearer of an individual name. It may not be a very modern idea, but, in the worldview of the biblical prehistory, the human being is counted an individual not by being an “autonomous subject” but by being an “image” of their parents. Again, the priestly text does not offer any further explanation here as to the way in which the concept of image determines the relationship between the generations. Are we dealing primarily with the physical or the psychological or, in modern terms, a “genetically” coded likenesses? It is possible that the text aims to suggest more than just biological similarities between parents and children. Especially due to the central role that naming plays in Gen 5:1–3, it seems reasonable to suggest that parents are seen here as the ones who shape the personality of their children across various levels. Not only do they bring up their children, they also raise them in particular and incredibly diverse ways. In Gen 1:26–28, we already encountered the idea of “likeness” in connection with the relationships, which are either formative or require shaping and in which human life takes on its own individual character. This is also true, albeit in another way, for our third text (Gen 9:4–6), where interpersonal relationships are explicated in terms of the the relationship between a person and their 13 In this sense, see also Trible, Gott und Sexualität, 36: “Furthermore, this particular regard [to the creation as male and female] has no connection with reproduction but rather with the image of God. Humanity shares procreation with the animal world but not sexuality.” 14 See the research on the semantic field of the term “Adam” by D.J.A. Clines, “The Hebrew for ‘Human, Humanity’: a Response to James Barr,” VT 53 (2003), 301–304.

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neighbor. The text returns explicitly here to the view that each and every individual is distinguished as an image of God. This means that in the encounter with their neighbor, a person stands before the image of God. Thus the text presents grounds for an irreducible right to life for each individual, which is guaranteed by God’s own threat of retribution. This simultaneously concedes and validates the idea that human beings deal with each other in non-predictable and contingent ways. However, this guaranteed freedom finds its limits where it impacts upon another person’s right to life.15 There is no reason which could legitimate the removal of this limit, not even an idea of the welfare of the species as some greater good over the welfare of the individual.16 To summarize the argument thus far, the priestly characterization of the human being as the image of God aims primarily at distinguishing the being of a person from that of its co-creatures. Thus the imago dei operates more as a descriptive category rather than as an evaluative one. As man, woman, child, and neighbor, the human being is a concrete individual, a person with individual characteristics. The human being is a concrete individual just as God is a concrete individual.17 It is here that we see the likeness between God and God’s image and here that we find the foundation of the human being’s ability to be God’s representative on earth. However, this does not mean that the priestly text understood human beings as “divine” or “divinized” beings. Even though the Hebrew does not express it conceptually, this position does align with the representation given by the priestly text that the human being, as a concrete individual, has the freedom to shape those relationships that mold them as well as those relationships by which they influence the surrounding world. Human beings are defined by a network of pre-given relationships, out

15 Worth considering on this point are the thoughts of C. Link, “Gottesbild und Menschenrechte,” in Ebenbild Gottes – Herrscher über die Welt. Studien zu Würde und Auftrag des Menschen, ed. H.-P. Mathys, BThS 33 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1998), 155: “Where we cannot help but form humanity according to our perception, where we impress upon it the image of our community, the stamp of our civilization, the standard of our values, there God holds them in the place of humanity, open to a free nature, there God justifies and protects their right against the force and intolerance of socially practiced roles…” 16 Along this line, see J.R. Middleton, The Liberating Image: The Imago Dei in Genesis (Grand Rapids: Brazos Press, 2005), has recently published an overall interpretation of the image of God. 17 See Schüle, Prolog, 92–103.

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of which they cannot extract themselves18 but within which exists a defined formative space19 unlike that of any other creature. Does this lend the individual a particular dignity? Given our discussion thus far, I think that we could agree that it does. This dignity exists in that a human being as a person cannot be reduced to a generic specimen. According to Gen 9:4–6, this is not true of the animals precisely because, in contrast to human beings, they were not seen as individuals but as representatives of their respective species. It is worth mentioning, in this context, that the priestly texts, both within the prehistory as well as beyond it, repeatedly emphasize the distinct, peculiar, and particular manifestations of human life. According to Gen 10, the so-called “Table of Nations,” humanity as a whole is characterized by a wealth of ethnic groups, tribes, territories, and languages. It is in this variety, and not in some form of unified entity, that God desired and created the nations of the world.20 The Tower of Babel narrative (Gen 11:1–9), which immediately follows the Table of Nations, connects with this priestly perspective in that it sees the desire of human beings to live as one folk, in one place, with one language as contrary to the order of creation and, to that extent, in need of correction. The idea of world empires, of de-individualization and standardization, is diametrically opposed to this view of the human being as the image of God. It is not only biological speciesism but also social, cultural, and political homogenization, which in a particular way reduces human beings and allows the image of God in them to fade.21 A critical question could be directed at this prehistorical concept of the imago dei from a modern perspective with regard to life’s network of relationships, which is hinted at in all three texts. The priestly text thematizes the relationship between the sexes, between the generations, and between the individual and their neighbor. Thus the idea is that the human being as a person lives in relation with someone of the opposite sex; is bound within a generational series of grandparents, parents, and children; and, in addition, participates in 18 Cf. A. Feldtkeller, “Grundtypen der Begründung von menschlicher Würde,” in Menschenwürde, ed. W. Härle and R. Preul, MJTh XVII (Marburg: Elwert, 2005), 26–27: “Over their entire lifespan, people remain in constant need of the respect and recognition of their fellow persons. The ‘internal’ relationship of the person to themself is no isolated dimension but rather is oriented in a sensitive manner toward the respect that is shown to them by others.” 19 W.R. Garr, In His Own Image and Likeness: Humanity, Divinity, and Monotheism (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 127. 20 This is rightly emphasized by J. Moltmann, Gott in der Schöpfung: Ökologische Schöpfungslehre (München: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 31987), 230. 21 Thus B. Jacob, Das erste Buch der Tora: Genesis (New York: KTAV, 1974), 301, states beautifully, “In truth gender anxiety and herd mentality are the main features. They do not want to penetrate the heavens but rather to huddle together on the earth, which they are afraid to leave.”

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numerous other social relationships. The question here is whether this “traditional” network of relationships should illustratively develop or normatively determine the personality of an individual as the image of God. What then does this make of the status of so-called “alternative” lifestyles, particularly samesex relationships? Do these fall outside the horizon in which the human being appears as the image of God, or do they push the horizon back beyond those forms of relationship explicitly mentioned in the text? This question currently divides, indeed even splits, churches and communities in Europe and the USA. A reason for this is the lack of agreement on how the biblical texts answer this question, since they do not even primarily address it.22 At this point, we see a classic example of the hermeneutical problem. How does a text with canonical status respond to the questions of those who accept it as canonical? In light of the biblical imago dei theology, one answer would be that the text offers perspectives, which can provide direction when thinking about current issues. This is not to say that the text leads to a unified answer to these questions. The imago dei opens up one such perspective by characterizing the human as a being that must neither be reduced biologically nor simply functionalized. As an image of God, the human being is more than just a “natural creature.” It is precisely because the human being is free not only to fulfill networks of relationships but also to shape them that one must be careful with static definitions of what a person is allowed, or not allowed, to be. The commission given to human beings to be fruitful and multiply would have little to do with being the image of God if it were only a matter of populating the earth. Human life “fills” the earth in a different way than animals and plants do.23 It carries forms of perception, emotion, sensitivity, understanding, and behavior into the world which extend beyond the general measure of the natural and indeed are intended to surpass them.24 That certainly raises the question of whether there is anything which can set limits on human life, and this leads back to the commission to rule and its specific function in the context of the priestly cosmology.

22 Important here are the considerations of R.E. Whitaker, “Creation and Human Sexuality,” in Homosexuality and Christian Community, ed. C.-L. Seow (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1996), 3. 23 To this point, it is still worth considering I. Kant’s statement on the relationship between “morality” and dignity (Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals, 435): “Thus morality and humanity, insofar as it is capable of morality, is that alone which has dignity. Skill and industry in labor have a market price; wit, lively imagination, and moods have an affective price; by contrast, fidelity in promising, benevolence from principle (not from instinct) have an inner worth. Lacking these principles, neither nature nor art contain anything that they could put in the place of them…” 24 L.K. Graham, Discovering Images of God: Narratives of Care among Lesbians and Gays (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1997).

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4. The Endangered World and the Commission to “Rule” The creation narrative mentions rule twice: once in relation to human beings and once previously during the creation of the heavenly lights, the sun and moon, which are to “rule” (‫ )משל‬over day and night (Gen 1:16). If one does not simply write this off as poetic license, then one must ask why the activity of the heavenly bodies is described as “rule, governance.” This becomes clear when one considers that the change of day and night in Gen 1 controls the darkness of chaos that lay over the world in the beginning. Even though it is in the form of “night” still a part of the world, though in such a way that does not carry created life back into that original tohuwabohu. In the case of the heavenly bodies, “rule” encompasses the task of protecting the world from the infiltration of one of those elements which latently threatens it. One should make quite clear that creation in Gen 1:1–2:3 is not creation out of nothing. Rather it is a refuge for life, distinguished from the elements of chaos which God did not create. God’s creative activity “in the beginning” has the character of delimitation, a driving back of water and darkness and the “establishment” of a space in which life can exist and develop. However, precisely because the prehistorical chaos still exists and continues to represent a latent threat, creation needs forms of protection and preservation. On the one hand, the world is protected by the way in which God arranges the world and separates it from the waters of chaos; on the other hand, it is protected by the rule of the heavenly bodies over the darkness, which stands in opposition to the light created by God. If one follows this train of thought, it suggests that that rule that was given to human beings also has a concrete footing in the priestly understanding of the world. This is confirmed when one moves from Gen 1 to the next textual complex within the biblical prehistory, namely the flood narrative. One notes the assumption in the priestly text that God, after the creative work, left the world to run its own course. According to Gen 6:9, it is only at the time of Noah that God “looks again upon the earth” as God repeatedly did during its creation. The suggestion that God looks at the world again in order to see what has become of it is quite clear. According to Gen 5, the list of Adam’s descendants, ten generations lie between creation and the flood, a period in which the creatures were to pursue their commission to multiply and “fill” the earth. God now takes a new look and discovers that after these ten generations creation is already at its end. It is “filled” with violence. In order to describe the perversity of that which has occurred in the world in so short a time, the priestly text uses the same term that was used in the commission given to the animals and human beings at their creation (Gen 6:11–13). 11 And the earth was corrupt (‫ שחת‬N-St.) before God. And the earth was filled with violence (‫ מלא‬N-St.).

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12 And God looked at the world and saw: it was corrupted (‫ שחת‬N-St.), for all flesh had corrupted its way in the world (‫ שחת‬H-St.). 13 And God spoke to Noah: “The end of all flesh has come before my face, for because of it the world has filled with violence. Look I am about to destroy (‫ שחת‬H-St.) it together with the world.”

From the perspective of the flood narrative, we see the fragile character of the world that God created in Gen 1. It is not only threatened from without but also from within. It can degenerate, bringing about its own end. The dynamic which drives this process of degeneration forward is characterized in the priestly text by the term “violence” (‫)חמס‬, which spreads out like a cancer across the world. Talk of violence appears rather suddenly in the priestly texts. How and why the seed of violence sprouted in the new creation, rather than life, in accordance with God’s creative blessing, is never dealt with by the text. However, one does note that it is not just people who have become violent, but rather “all flesh.” Even the animal kingdom – birds, land animals, and those that creep on the ground – is caught up in this spread of violence. Does this then portray the creatures as malicious and evil? Or is the text using “violence” to describe an empirical fact, that all living beings – people and animals – spill blood for the sake of their own survival? The underlying question here is whether the world at the beginning was harsh and brutal in a particular way, or whether we are dealing with the principle of “eat or be eaten,” which is just as valid in the world after the flood as before it. Gen 9:4– 6 gives us at least an implicit answer. The shedding of blood is only allowed for the procurement of food, which excludes the human being as a possible victim. Thus the use of violence is allowed only in this limited form. This suggests that the situation was different in the pre-flood period, that violence and the shedding of blood had no limits, that creaturely coexistence was not subject to any form of sanctioned order. For our interest in the priestly discussion of violence within God’s good creation, it is important to note that something is being described here, which God did not create but which is also in the world and threatens it just like the ancient waters and darkness, those two elements of chaos in Gen 1:1–3. This primordial stuff, this pre-created matter with the potential to threaten life is still hidden, so to speak, deep within creation in the form of these three elements and, therefore, must be held in check. Thus it is reasonable to suspect that the term “rule” does not simply describe the status of “royal human beings” but rather a very concrete task within the universe which the priestly text describes. This also helps us to understand the aggressive language used in the commission to rule. The violence, which is inherent in the world and which threatens it from within, does indeed need to be “suppressed” and “subjugated.” As mentioned above, we encounter the Hebrew roots ‫ כבש‬and ‫ רדה‬in contexts where that which must be ruled is something hostile and threatening. Thus Ps 110:1– 2 presents the following salvific oracle for the davidic King:

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YHWH spoke to my Lord: “Sit at my right hand until I make your enemies a footstool for your feet.” The YHWH will extend your mighty scepter from Zion. Rule (‫ )רדה‬in the midst of your enemies!

The form of rule described here can also relate in a metaphorical sense to nonphysical things, such as sin. We see this in Micah 7:19: He will again have compassion upon us; he will tread (‫ )כבש‬our sins underfoot and throw all our sins into the depths of the sea.

Given the context of these passages, it fits in quite well that the dominium terrae is actually directed at the inherent violence in the world and thus at the world’s own latent threat to itself. But what are people supposed to do here? How exactly does the practice of such rule look? The priestly text is probably not thinking of a particular ethical imperative given to humanity by God but rather the idea that human beings, as God’s image, are to lead their lives with each other and all other creatures in such a way that limits the spread of violence and destructiveness in the world. Precisely because human beings, as the image of God, are not simply born into the world but rather have the freedom to shape and form it, they are also in a position to introduce order into a world threatened by chaos and thus supplement God’s created order. Human beings are not limited to acting in accordance with instinct or natural drives but are instead creatures capable of love, responsibility, care, and respect. These special qualities, which humans bring to creation, are due to their being the image of God, which the priestly text develops with reference to those elemental relationships to partners (Gen 1:27), to children (Gen 5:3), and in general to one’s neighbor (Gen 9:4–6). The priestly text articulates the expectation that with the spread of human life, creation will gain in stability and order. Through the idea of human beings as the imago dei, the history of civilizations becomes an integral part of the history of creation. The image of God “rules” in the world and fills it with a form of life that corresponds to God’s aims for the entire creation. However, we do not yet have the entire picture of the dominium terrae in sight. Despite its widespread literary reputation as a particularly dry text, we see how complex and multilayered the text of the priestly prehistory really is, in that it sets up great expectations around the appearance of human beings in the world only to realistically “break” them. The flood narrative contrasts the creation story as such a realistic fracture, in so far as it notes that even the presence of human beings on earth cannot alter the decline of this new creation. In the context of the priestly prehistory, God’s realization that the earth is corrupt and filled with violence (Gen 6:11), is also an awareness that even the human being, as the image of God and bearer of God’s commission to rule, is caught up in the world’s decay. To that extent, it is logical that after the flood God must step in and set the blood laws of Gen 9:4–6 in order to stop the spread of violence.

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It is important for an understanding of the imago dei to note that the priestly text refuses to idealize the human being. It is not the intention of a mythical narrative, such as we find in the biblical prehistory, to paint an unrealistic picture of humanity, to recast it in a positive or negative light. In the end, the myth attempts to explain to the reader how it came to pass that human beings are as they are now – particularly gifted yet also particularly fallible creatures. The discussion of human beings as the image of God does not attempt to avoid this realism but rather affirms it.

5. Conclusion Having worked our way through the texts of the biblical prehistory, let me return to our opening question. What does the biblical doctrine of the imago dei offer for the discussion of human dignity? First, one must say that grounding human dignity through the help of the imago dei makes certain assumptions that are simply not supported in the biblical texts. From an ontological perspective, it is repeatedly assumed that the imago dei refers to something divine in human beings, something that God endows to God’s image in the act of creation. This is matched then with the ideological conception that the human being, as God’s representative on earth, has been elevated to a position of sovereign rule over the world. The human being is seen as towering over all other creatures due to the conferral of the dominium terrae, which grounds our particular dignity. One cannot avoid the exegetical conclusion that such an ontology and ideology are foreign to the biblical prehistory. It is not the intention of this text to lift out and position a divine human being over against the rest of the world. Further, the discussion of the image of God does not aim either to ground or to argue the claim that the human being is the “king of the world.” Rather it has a much more concrete, and in that respect also limited, horizon. According to the thesis argued here, the imago dei describes the human as that being which can shape the network of relationships in which they live. This is what transforms them into individual persons, and thus the protection of human life is not simply related to the species, as with animals and plants, but rather to individual human beings (Gen 9:6). If one understands the concept of dignity in this way, then it results in two perspectives. The human being has dignity as a person and not just as an example of the species. Accordingly, the concept of dignity is then also directed against anything which would reduce the human being to the level of a collective being. This is certainly not to suggest some form of abstract individualism, since a person only has dignity through those concrete relationships in which they live – in partnerships, in relation to other generations, and generally in the relation with one’s neighbor. Dignity then becomes

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a semantic correlation of other concepts such as love, intimacy, esteem, responsibility, care, and respect.25 As a creature which can shape the world around it, the priestly text understands the human being as capable of ruling in the world. Following the interpretation developed here, this means that human beings are entrusted with the task, in the words of Gen 1:28, of “suppressing” and “subjugating” that inherent potential for violence in the world. Here in particular, the biblical worldview presents certain problems for a modern perspective. The priestly text sees creation as a world that is endangered in various ways. It is continuously under threat from those elements of chaos that existed before God created the world. There is an obvious thread of dualism that runs through the priestly cosmology. Though these chaotic elements have no power of their own and are thus not “anti-gods” over against the creator, the world of Gen 1 is no creatio ex nihilo, in which everything that exists can be traced back to a sovereign creative act of God. Rather it is a creatio ex tumultu, which is still hung upon that primordial chaos. Here human rule has the job of filling the world with that form of life which would provide it with order and a continued existence over against that chaos that manifests, between the heavens and the earth, as violence. The contrast with the modern worldview is clear. Today, we assume that the world exists in an ecological balance which has always been regained and reasserted over the course of evolutionary history. The human being has nothing to contribute here; on the contrary, it appears that humanity, in fact, represents the greatest threat to this balance. Our current problem seems to be too much human rule in creation rather than too little. In this respect, it appears that humanity must once again learn to respect the dignity of its co-creatures rather than subordinating them to its own dignity. Yet even an enlightened, modern worldview cannot detract from the optimistic atmosphere generated by the creation myth of Gen 1. The one hope is that the human being as the image of God might have respect, esteem, responsibility, and care not only for their own but for all their fellow creatures.

25 In Lev 19:18, 34 there is also a thematic relationship between the prehistory’s imagotheology and the commandment to love the neighbor (see the essay “For He is Like You.” A Translation and Understanding of the Old Testament Commandment to Love in Lev 19:18 included in this volume).

The Notion of Life Nefesh and Ruach in the Anthropological Discourse of the Primeval History 1. Introduction Whatever one’s philosophy about human nature and the human condition might be, the non-negotiable starting point, at least in modern times, is the physical reality of human life. We have learned that the material body is more than dumb matter or a primitive vessel for the truly distinctive characteristics of human nature. Across the field of the human sciences one finds a new appreciation of the embodied nature of reality.1 This, in turn, has also triggered new discussion about notions such as “soul” or “spirit,” which, at least in major strands of Western thought, signified a level of reality above or even beyond the material sphere.2 And while the axiom of physical monism has become the baseline in contemporary natural and human science, there is an awareness that our knowledge of the physical world is not – or at least not yet – sufficient to understand and account for higher human functions, such as moral behavior, cultural activity, or religion. While the axiom of physical monism is firmly in place, there is an undeniable gap between the scientific world and the world of human experience. Whether this gap will be closed one day or if it is indicative of systemic issues with modern physicalism3 need not concern us for the purpose of this essay. However, it is interesting that the study of ancient cultures, in our case ancient Israel and early Judaism, reveals a similar quest for comprehensive notions of life that account for both the experienced world and the world as a matter of objective description.4 1 For a comprehensive overview from the viewpoint of natural science cf. Human Nature, ed. M. Jeeves (Edinburgh: The Royal Society of Edinburgh, 2006). 2 Whatever Happened to the Soul? Scientific and Theological Portraits of Human Nature, ed. W. Brown et al. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1998); N. Murphy, Bodies and Souls, or Spirited Bodies? (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006); J. Green, Body, Soul, and Human Life: The Nature of Humanity in the Bible (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2008). 3 On this issue see the essays in The Soul Hypothesis: Investigations into the Existence of the Soul, ed. M.C. Baker and S. Goetz (New York: Continuum, 2011). 4 An instructive example especially of the scientific assumptions behind the Priestly line of tradition in Genesis 1–11 has been provided by J.C. Gertz, “Antibabylonische Polemik im priesterlichen Schöpfungsbericht?,” ZThK 106 (2009), 137–155.

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If one studies the so-called Primeval History (Gen 1–11), one finds a variety of conceptual terms that define what life is, how life manifests itself in certain behaviors and actions, what distinguishes living beings from dead matter, and how and why life ends. The creation account in Gen 1 associates life with the term nefesh chayya, although the meaning of this term is not entirely clear. It can be used as a technical term for a “living being” (Gen 1:20, 21, 24), a category that comprises all animals, including insects and “creeping things,” and humans. However, nefesh chayya can also denote that which dwells in living beings, a life-force that distinguishes them from plants (Gen 1:30). The notion of a life-force also occurs in the divine speech after the flood (Gen 9:1–17): Gen 9:4–6 specifies that animals and humans have a nefesh that resides in the blood and flesh. One finds, however, a different conceptual framework in texts that associate life with the notions of “breath” (neshama) or “spirit” (ruach). This is the case in the second creation account in Gen 2:4–7, where God forms a body and then breathes the nishmat chayyim into the nostrils of the human protoplast, making him a “living being” (nefesh chayya). While Gen 2:7 seems to agree with Gen 1 about the outcome of God’s creative actions – i.e. the existence of living beings – there is a different perception here of what constitutes life versus dead matter. Gen 2 entertains a two-tiered notion of life. Whereas the breath of life is reserved for humans, animals draw their vitality solely from the earth from which their bodies are made. Things get even more diverse and complicated in the flood narrative. The passages that, like Gen 1 and 9:1–17, are generally associated with the Priestly transmission of the Primeval History, do not use the term nefesh anymore but rather ruach chayyim to characterize the living beings that die in the great flood (Gen 6:17; 7:15). Gen 7:22, probably an interpretative note on v. 21, even uses the phrase nishmat ruach chayyim, which combines the language of Gen 2:7 with 6:17 and 7:15. Historical-critical exegetes are in general agreement that the different terminologies represent multiple textual layers or sources that are combined together in the final literary form of the Primeval History. This gives reason to believe that these terminologies represent different schools of thought about the nature of life, which again belong to different periods in the intellectual and religious history of ancient Israel and early Judaism. Taking the texts of the Primeval History as their point of departure, the following observations seek to unfold the meaning specifically of the terms nefesh and ruach in the history of the anthropological discourse of the Hebrew Bible. As we shall see in greater detail, there are complex relationships between scientific insight, religious belief, and political context that inform the biblical understanding of nefesh and ruach as well as their respective conceptual developments.

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2. The Cultic World and the Role of the Nefesh According to the ancient Semitic view, the cosmos had the shape of a disk and dome. The firmament was viewed as a protective shield spanning the surface of the earth. The center of this cosmos was imagined as a mountain with the temple of the highest God at its top.5 It is well known that the famous temple tower of Babylon had a pyramidal form which symbolized a mountain touching the sky, which is also what its original name means: Etemenanki (É-temen-anki), “house, bond of heaven and earth.” This same cosmology shines through in many of the psalms that depict the temple on Mount Zion as the center of the world and as God’s dwelling place on earth: Beautiful in elevation, The joy of the whole earth, is Mount Zion on the sides of the north, the city of the great King (Ps 48:3). Who may ascend into the hill of the LORD? Or who may stand in His holy place? He who has clean hands and a pure heart, who has not lifted up his soul to an idol, nor sworn deceitfully (Ps 24:3–4).

It is quite remarkable that such a cosmology was sustained in ancient Judah, given the fact that there was no temple tower whatsoever, and that Mount Zion was, and still is, a rather unimpressive elevation in the Judean mountain line. However, landscapes do not necessarily matter when it comes to mythic geography. The point here is that God’s dwelling place on earth marks the center around which all of life is organized in concentric circles and towards which all living creatures gravitate. As the dome- or tent-like firmament was imagined to protect the cosmos from the surrounding chaos elements so did the temple, as a focal point, hold the world together from the inside.6 The language of “gravity” is quite appropriate here, because it helps to understand one of the major concerns in the background of this cosmology: it was regarded as essen-

5 S.M. Maul, “Die altorientalische Hauptstadt – Abbild und Nabel der Welt,” in Die Orientalische Stadt: Kontinuität. Wandel. Bruch. 1. Internationales Kolloquium der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft. 9.–10. Mai 1996 in Halle/Saale, ed. G. Wilhelm (Saarbrücken: Saarländische Druckerei und Verlag, 1997), 109–124. 6 P. Weimar, “Sinai und Schöpfung. Komposition und Theologie der priesterschriftlichen Sinaigeschichte,” RB 95 (1988), 337–385; B. Janowski, “Tempel und Schöpfung. Schöpfungstheologische Aspekte der priesterschriftlichen Heiligtumskonzeption,” JBTh 5 (1990), 37–70; E.E. Elnes, “Creation and Tabernacle: The Priestly Writer’s ‘Environmentalism,’” Horizons in Biblical Theology 16 (1994), 144–155.

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tial for every living being to be connected to the place of God and so to participate in life itself. In turn, losing this connection, being cut off from the “fountain of life” (Ps 36:10) equaled dying and being dead. This is the point where the notion of nefesh comes into play. As mentioned above, most Bible translations render nefesh as “soul” but sometimes also as “heart,” “innermost being,” or “spirit.” Whichever rendering one prefers, more important is the concept implied in the term nefesh as it occurs especially in the Psalms. One of the most illustrative passages in this regard is the opening section of Psalm 42: As a deer longs for flowing streams, so my nefesh longs for you, O God. 2 My nefesh thirsts for God, for the living God. When shall I come and behold the face of God? My tears have been my food day and night, while people say to me continually, “Where is your God?” (Ps 42:2–4)

The language of nefesh expresses the neediness of a human being for the enlivening presence of God. The image of the deer that longs for “flowing streams” suggests that, without the experience of the divine presence, a human being “dries out” and wastes away. What betrays a cultic background here is the mention of the “face of God”: “beholding the divine countenance” is not merely a metaphorical way of speaking; more concretely, it relates to the idea that in approaching the temple and the holy of holies, in which the cultic statue of the deity had its dwelling place, the worshiper entered a sphere that conveyed to her the experience of standing before God and, to that extent, of seeing God’s face.7 In many of the psalms the temple area is depicted as a hortus vitae, a garden of life, that, although placed in the center of the cosmos, was detached from the material, earthbound world around it. The nefesh is that part of a human being that enables him or her to connect with the cultic sphere as the place of divine presence. My nefesh longs, indeed it faints for the courts of the LORD; my heart and my flesh sing for joy to the living God (Ps 84:3).

What makes the rendering as “soul” problematic is the fact that this term could suggest that the nefesh is in fact something immortal, something capable of existing apart from the physical body. The idea of an immortal soul, however, is entirely absent from the Hebrew transmission of the Old Testament. Passages 7

F. Nötscher and W.W. Graf von Baudissin, Das Angesicht Gottes Schauen, nach biblischer und babylonischer Auffassung (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1969 [reprint]); F. Hartenstein, Das Angesicht JHWHs. Studien zu seinem höfischen und kultischen Bedeutungshintergrund in den Psalmen und in Exodus 32–34, FAT 2/55 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008).

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from the Sinai Torah provide insight into how the nefesh was regarded as distinct from and yet dependent upon the physical body. The first one is found in the regulations concerning the purity of a Nazirite (Num 6:6): All the days that he separates himself to the LORD he shall not come near to the nefesh of a dead person.

One does not find the rendering “nefesh of a dead person” in any of the major Bible translations. Ordinarily, this passage gets translated simply as “dead person/corpse.” However, as Diethelm Michel has shown, this is not quite what is meant here.8 Although it is true that physical contact with a corpse would cause a Nazirite, as any other person, to become impure, this regulation does not say that the Nazirite is not supposed to touch a dead body. The point is, rather, that he is not even supposed to come close to a recently deceased person because of the nefesh of this person. This suggests that there is something dangerous about the nefesh at the transition from life to death. Num 19:14–15 provides a background for the potential danger that issues from the nefesh of a dead person: This is the law when someone dies in a tent: everyone who comes into the tent, and everyone who is in the tent, shall be unclean seven days. And every open vessel, which has no cover fastened upon it, is unclean.

The key element here is that even an open vessel that happens to be in the same room with a dead body becomes unclean. “This,” as Michel suggests, “explains itself if one assumes that there is something which leaves the corpse and seeks to creep into a vessel. The assumption seems to have been that, after a person had died, the nefesh tried to find a new kind of ‘body’ for itself, even if this was only an open vessel.”9 Eventually, however, also the nefesh dies, though not in the same way as the physical body. It loses its “life power” and, consequently, drifts away into the netherworld, the world of shadows and oblivion, far from the world of the living.10 In contrast to the Platonic concept of an immortal soul, the nefesh is not a self-sustaining entity that continues to exist beyond the life of the body.

8

D. Michel, “Naepaeš als Leichnam?,” ZAH 7 (1994), 81–84. Michel, “Naepaeš”, 83. 10 Of particular interest in this regard is the recently discovered tomb stele of Kuttamuwa, which includes an inscription by Kuttamuwa that his nefesh resides in the tomb stone. For a translation, cf. D. Pardee, “A New Aramaic Inscription from Zincirli,” BASOR 356 (2009), 51–71, as well as the other articles in the same BASOR issue. This confirms Michel’s observation that the nefesh tried to find a “home” for itself in order not to disappear in Sheol. However, the inscription does not suggest that the nefesh continued to live in the stone. The idea seems to be that the funeral stele was a place where the nefesh remained in a sphere close to the living and as such also close to being remembered by future generations. 9

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Different from their Egyptian neighbors, the Hebrews did not entertain a concept of multiple worlds through which the human person, via her soul, successively passes and in which it assumes different kinds of embodiment. In the Hebrew Bible, the cosmos is strictly conceived of as the one creation of God, and everything that exists in it – bodies and “souls”–has a definite and, hence, limited lifespan.11 Nonetheless, this one world divides into two different realms, the earth, the netherworld, and the elevated temple as God’s dwelling place. The fact that a human person was thought of as belonging to these realms made it necessary to think of her as including both a body and a nefesh.

3. The Persian Period and the Loss of “World Certainty”12 With this cultic worldview and its anthropological implications in mind, the major challenge comes into focus that Hebrew culture found itself confronted with when it entered the Persian period. The Persians, unlike their Assyrian and Babylonian predecessors, did not build temple towers symbolizing the midpoint of the cosmos. It is fair to say that the Persians had a concept of the world that was far more universalistic in character than that of the old Semitic empires, largely because their god Ahuramazda was, in the first place, believed to be the creator of the entire cosmos, which included not only the physical world but also the different nations and ethnicities that filled it. Not that the idea of a creator of heaven and earth was new or unique; however, in the Persian belief system, cosmology was not predetermined by the preponderant “location” of the super power in the natural, ethnic, political, and religious cosmos, as had been the case with virtually all empires that ruled the ancient Near Eastern world before.13 Although the Persians certainly maintained that their capital, Persepolis, was the political center of the entire world of nations and therefore also the preferred place to worship Ahuramazda, their religious worldview did not rely anymore on the idea of a cultic midpoint with concentric circles around it. The question of a god’s place in the cosmos could not be answered in any more specific way than by saying “potentially everywhere.”14

11

A. Schüle, “The Divine-Human Marriages (Genesis 6:1–4) and the Greek Framing of the Primeval History,” ThZ 65 (2009), 116–128 (also included in this volume). 12 J. Wiesehöfer, Das antike Persien. Von 550 v. Chr. bis 650 n. Chr. (Düsseldorf: Patmos, 2005), 59–89; G. Ahn, “Toleranz und Reglement. Die Signifikanz achaimenidischer Religionspolitik für den jüdisch-persischen Kulturkontakt”, in Religion und Religionskontakte im Zeitalter der Achämeniden, ed. R.G. Kratz (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2002), 191–209. 13 Wiesehöfer, Persien, 65–71. 14 Wiesehöfer, Persien, 146. For the biblical appropriation of Persian “universalism” see J. Blenkinsopp, “YHVH and other Deities: Conflict and Accomodation in the Religion of

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This shift away from a cultic to a cosmic understanding of the presence of God apparently had a tremendous impact on the biblical traditions of the postexilic period in Israel. To mention only one example: in 1 Kings 8, Solomon’s temple prayer, the temple is envisioned as the place where the worshiping community gathers to pray to the God who resides in heaven (1 Kings 8:27–30): But will God indeed dwell on the earth? Even heaven and the highest heaven cannot contain you, much less this house that I have built! Regard your servant’s prayer and his plea, O LORD my God, heeding the cry and the prayer that your servant prays to you today; that your eyes may be open night and day toward this house, the place of which you said, “My name shall be there,” that you may heed the prayer that your servant prays toward this place. Hear the plea of your servant and of your people Israel when they pray toward this place; O hear in heaven your dwelling place; heed and forgive.

Here, the Jerusalem temple is seen almost as a synagogue, a place for the community to gather and to pray to the God in heaven, but not as a place of cosmological significance.15 Consequently, in this new understanding, the temple is a far cry from the earlier concept that identified it as the axis mundi. The theological implications of the new cosmology of the Persian period were probably even more incisive than one can see on the surface of the Old Testament texts. The fact that in the early post-exilic period the so-called “Priestly code” (usually simply referred to as “P”) was composed gives reason to believe that, with the rise of the Persian empire, there was a need to provide an account of the natural and political cosmos that met the challenges of the new era.16 Most scholars agree that P is one of probably two major traditions responsible for the final redaction and, therefore, the literary and theological character of the Pentateuch/Torah. There is also agreement that most of the final form of the Pentateuch took shape in the late 6th and 5th centuries, a period marked by the return of some of the Judean people from exile but also by the continuing Diaspora of large Jewish groups, especially in Babylon and Egypt. In many ways, the decentered world of the Persian era left its imprint on Judaism as a similarly multi-focal religion. The name “Priestly code” owes itself to the fact that the bulk of the material attributed to this textual layer of the Pentateuch contains building instructions for the tabernacle–the “desert sanctuary”–as well as cult and legal regulations. However, P gives us also a report of the primeval period of the world and, as a part of it, a report of the creation of the cosmos and of humankind (Gen 1:1–

Israel,” in Treasures Old and New: Essays in the Theology of the Pentateuch (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004), 67–84. 15 For the notion of the temple as a “house of prayer” cf. Isa 56:7. 16 For a recent overview of the biblical literature of the Persian era, cf. K. Schmid, Literaturgeschichte des Alten Testaments. Eine Einführung (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2008), 140–174

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2:3).17 While one would assume that the Priestly worldview should be in line with the cultic traditions we have visited above, this is not really the case. The desert sanctuary, pre-figuring the Jerusalem temple, has nothing of the mythic aura of the earlier “mountain of God” tradition. It is a portable device, ready to be packed up and put up again wherever the Israelites settle on their way to the Promised Land. Its sole purpose is to provide a space where YHWH, the God of Israel, and his people “meet.” The rather lengthy instructions of how to build the tabernacle seem to suggest quite deliberately that this sanctuary is no more than a building made from human hands that serves as an earthly vessel for the glory of YHWH. Viewed against the backdrop of the psalmic temple theology, one might call this a rather minimalist account of the function and symbolic meaning of the temple of YHWH. According to ancient Near Eastern ideology, the main sanctuary like the Esagila in Babylon was built by the gods themselves into the foundations of the cosmos,18 which is quite different from a portable tent that hosts the glory of God sporadically.19 Given this new understanding of the cosmos in general and the temple in particular, it is no surprise that the Priestly concept of living beings in general, and humans in particular, differs from the older cultic view of life. P uses the term nefesh both in the creation account and in the great divine speech after the flood. However, the terminology is not entirely consistent in different parts of the Priestly Primeval History. In Gen 1:20, 21, 24; 9:10, 12 nefesh is used as a classificatory term that can be roughly rendered “living being.” Nefesh comprises all animals, including insects and fishes, as well as humans. P establishes a three-tiered taxonomy of created entities. On the lowest level are unanimated items, such as the firmament and the stars. Next come the plants that have the capacity to grow and produce seed. At the top level, one finds all the creatures that are (not have!) nefesh. A slightly different use of the term nefesh occurs 17 A. Schüle, Der Prolog der hebräischen Bibel. Der literar- und theologiegeschichtliche Diskurs der biblischen Urgeschichte, AThANT 86 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2006), 49–82. 18 Cf. Enuma elish, Tablet VI. 19 In some of the recent discussion about Gen 1 the claim has been made that P revised the older temple theology to the effect that all of creation was now considered to be God’s temple; cf. J.H. Walton, The Lost World of Genesis One: Ancient Cosmology and the Origins Debate (Downers Grove: InterVarsity Press, 2009), 72–86; M.S. Smith, The Priestly Vision of Genesis 1 (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2009), 108–116; W.P. Brown, The Seven Pillars of Creation: The Bible, Science, and the Ecology of Wonder (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 37–41. While P certainly uses terminology reminiscent of cultic regulations (“separate,” “times and seasons,” etc.), this simply suggests that God created the world according to some of the same principles that also regulate the cultic world. In other words, it is reasonable to assume that P sees the temple as a microcosm within the larger cosmos, but this does not, conversely, make creation a temple. While the temple is God’s dwelling place on earth, there is no indication in the Priestly texts of Gen 1–11 that God creates the world as his abode.

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in Gen 1:30; 9:4–5, 10, 12, 15–16, where it characterizes the life-force that dwells in the blood or the flesh of animals and humans, which is reminiscent of the cultic use of nefeshoutlined above. While one may notice a certain inconsistency with regard to the use of nefesh here, both ways in which the term is used have a characteristic place in P’s Primeval History. There is an ethical and legal component (Gen 9:4–5) that emphasizes the value of life as something that needs to be respected and protected. According to the creation narrative, the world, at least initially, is ordered in such a way that the blood with its life-force is separated from human or animal consumption (Gen 1:30). However, unlike the older cultic traditions, P does not attach any particular significance to the nefesh as that which establishes a particular and even intimate connection between the creatures and their creator. This somewhat reduced concept of a nefesh may have to do with the fact that P does not entertain a temple-centered cosmology anymore, which, as we have seen, is a prerequisite for the cultic understanding of nefesh. By the same token, it is significant that P employs nefesh, apparently in a new way, as a classificatory term, which is not at all common in the Old Testament. As a matter of fact, apart from the six examples in the Priestly text, the same phrase only occurs in Gen 2:19 and Ezek 47:9. While the somewhat slim textual basis is not sufficient to support far-reaching conclusions about the precise meaning of terms like nefesh, it seems safe to conclude that P does offer a new and, compared with older traditions, revised understanding of the principle and the taxonomy of life in the created world. One of the main differences seems to be that the world and its creatures, to put it in broad terms, have no God-orientation anymore. They are assigned to different spheres and have different purposes. The capacity of the living beings to be fruitful and multiply is seen as a result of divine blessing, but God’s presence is not built into the architecture of the Priestly world in the way it used to be. However, it seems that precisely for this reason, P offers an anthropological category, which is as uncommon in other parts of the Hebrew scriptures as the nefesh chayya, namely the “image of God” (Gen 1:26–28; 5:1–3; 9:4–6).20 It has always been recognized that, while there may be other texts in the Old Testament that hint at the God-likeness of human beings,21 there is no conceptual term for this idea, and even P does not mention the imago dei again after the Primeval History. However, the need for new anthropological categories, like the imago dei, seems consistent with the observation that the

20

For a recent interpretation of the imago dei, cf. A. Schellenberg, Der Mensch, das Bild Gottes? Zum Gedanken einer Sonderstellung im Alten Testament und in weiteren altorientalischen Quellen, AThANT 101 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2011), 19–28, who distinguishes between “horizontal” and “vertical” extension of the imago dei. 21 Schellenberg, Der Mensch, das Bild Gottes?, 231–147.

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“body/nefesh” anthropology did not fit into the de-centered cosmos of the Persian era anymore. The idea that humans are “images” or, in a more literal translation, “statues” of God,22 presented one way for the Priestly school of the early Persian period to redefine the connection between the human and divine spheres. Further work on the notion of life in P in the Primeval History and, equally important, the cultic regulations is needed, but it is clear that P prefaces both its narrative and legal materials by introducing a taxonomy of life that reaches from functional elements, such as the firmament and the celestial elements, to plants, and living being, with particular distinction of humans as images of God.

4. Ruach as Life-force and “Spirit” Not part of the Priestly taxonomy of life in Gen 1:1–2:3 and yet a conceptual notion in the overall account of P’s Primeval History is the ruach, commonly rendered “spirit” or “wind,” which scholars nowadays recognize as a key term in creation texts from the Second Temple period.23 What one finds here is the notion that living beings are surrounded by or filled with the divine ruach, rather than that their nefesh gravitates towards their creator. The advantage of this new approach seems obvious: there is no privileged place in the world to experience divine presence; rather, the notion of a universal ruach allows us to recognize divine presence and efficacy throughout the created sphere. A particularly instructive example in this regard is Psalm 139, which celebrates the inescapable and unavoidable nearness of God’s ruach. This almost reads like a travesty of older psalms, because the issue is not how to find God anymore, but how to escape God (Ps 139:1–10): O LORD, you have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from far away. You search out my path and my lying down, and are acquainted with all my ways. Even before a word is on my tongue, O LORD, you know it completely. You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is so high that I cannot attain it. 22

W. Groß, “Gen 1,26.27; 9,6: Statue oder Ebenbild Gottes,” JBTh 15 (2000), 11–38; B. Janowski, “Die lebendige Statue Gottes. Zur Anthropologie der priesterlichen Urgeschichte,” in Gott und Mensch im Dialog, ed. M. Witte, BZAW 345 (Berlin/New York: De Gruyter, 2004), 183–214. 23 J. Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 56–66, AB 19B (New York: Doubleday, 2003), 221.

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Where can I go from your ruach? Or where can I flee from your presence? If I ascend to heaven, you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there. If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast.

The history and theology of the “spirit” of God in the Second Temple period is still to be written.24 Here we can accentuate only some of its most essential features.25 In order to get an impression of the complexity of the discourse about the divine ruach we will, again, take the Primeval History as our point of departure and then include individual traditions from both the Hebrew and Greek Old Testament that show particularly characteristic views of the nature and function of the ruach. 4.1. Ruach in the “Primeval History” One of the more obvious, yet frequently neglected features of the Primeval History, is that it hosts a rich and equally diverse discourse about the divine “spirit.”26 The quotation marks are necessary here, because the semantic field of the Hebrew term ruach overlaps only to an extent with our common philosophical concepts of spirit that are informed for the most part by the Greek notion of nous. Ruach occurs for the first time already in Gen 1:2. Here it is a divine ruach that moves about above the primordial ground which is covered with water and darkness. Throughout the history of Bible exegesis there have been extensive debates about the meaning of ruach in this verse. There are essentially two positions. According to one, ruach is a wind or spirit that comes from God, although God’s identity and place in the world of the beginning remain undisclosed. According to the other position, ruach does not have anything to do with the creator at all. Rather, it is a powerful (godlike) wind that belongs to the chaos elements that make the primordial world a tohu-wa-bohu. While both interpretations are possible linguistically, the problem with the second is that in all other texts of the Primeval History ruach is either a life-giving “spirit” 24 For an attempt in this direction, see W. Hildebrandt, An Old Testament Theology of the Spirit of God (Peabody: Hendrickson, 1995), and as a systematic contribution, M. Welker, God the Spirit (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1994). 25 Cf. Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 56–66, 261: “In the Hebrew Bible the expression “the Holy Spirit” appears only here [Isa 63:10–11] and in Ps 51:13[11]. …The association of the Spirit with the Presence or the Face of God (also in Ps 139:7) indicates that the Spirit has now become the object of theological reflection, a kind of hypostasis similar in that respect to the Face, the Angel, and, later in the Targum, the Word.” 26 For the following, cf. Schüle, Prolog, 134–137.

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(6:17; 7:15.22) or God’s own breath (6:3), or it is a wind that God controls to push back the waters of the flood to make the dry land reappear (8:1). Gen 6:3 is of particular interest in this regard, since the brief episode of the “angel marriages” appears to be the result of a synthesis of Gen 1:2 and Gen 2:7.27 In this passage, God limits the human lifespan to 120 years. In this mention of the ruach – the second after 1:2–it is clearly attributed to God as his own “breath” or “spirit.” But Gen 6:3 goes even one step further. Here we get to know something that Gen 1:2 does not say or even imply, namely that the ruach of God is a spirit that enlivens and sustains human life, which is of course reminiscent of Gen 2:7, where God breathes the nishmat chayyim into the nostril’s of the human protoplast. One notices that both Gen 2:4–7 and 6:3 employ a taxonomy of life which is characteristically different from the Priestly account of creation. In Gen 2:7 the term nefesh, living being, is reserved only for humans, which separates them from plants and animals. Apparently, the idea is that physical bodies receive their vitality from the adamah), the primordial ground, whereas the divine breath elevates human life to a higher status. It interesting to notice that God breathing the nishmat chayyim into the human being takes the place of the making of humankind in the image of God in Gen 1:26–27. Both are, albeit different ways of explaining how human beings are similar to and at the same time distinct from other forms of life. By the same token, the imago dei and the breath of life in humans are different ways of accounting for how and where the chain of being connects with its creator. As already indicated above, the flood narrative adds yet another layer to the discourse about the ruach as the principle of life.28 According to Gen 6:17; 7:15, 22, everything that has the ruach in them dies in the flood, which undoubtedly includes both humans and animals and thus puts these passages in opposition to Gen 2:7 and 6:3. The diversity and thickness in the discourse of Genesis 1–11 suggests that the notion of ruach and related terms stands at the very heart of an intense and controversial inner-biblical discussion on several theological key issues: what distinguishes living beings from dead matter? Do all creatures have the same kind of life or are there different principles of life that apply to animals and humans respectively? And finally, how does the presence of the creator relate to the emergence and unfolding of life? In the remaining part of this paper we will see that the different views of ruach as a life-force in the Primeval History echo the inner-biblical discourse about the notion of life in major traditions of the Second Temple period.

27 28

Schüle, Prolog, 239–244. Schüle, Prolog, 260–270.292–299.

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4.2. Ruach as the Spirit of Life Going back to Gen 1:1–2:3, a simple question comes to mind: Where in the world as depicted in the creation report is God? What is his place and where is he speaking from? An answer to this may be found in v. 2: the divine ruach is above the waters that fill the space in which heaven and earth will be furnished. Although the Priestly text never explicitly thematizes where God can be found, the mental image that is created here sees God as surrounded by a breath/spirit that indicates his presence. This ruach keeps the chaos elements and their potential for destruction and disorder at bay. In this perspective, the first verses of the Hebrew Bible introduce the boundary line between God and the primordial cosmos, suggesting that wherever the divine ruach moves about there cannot be chaos.29 The term ruach ælohim occurs again in the context of the building of the tabernacle at Mount Sinai, God’s first dwelling place among his people. Here it is now a person, the craftsman Bezalel, whom God endows with his ruach so that he is able to furnish the interior of the tabernacle (Ex 35:30–31).30 The meaning of this seems to be twofold. First, no human being can know or imagine how to design and decorate the place that will later be filled with the divine glory. It has to be God himself who gives inspiration to this work. But whereas Moses is given a miniature model of the building, Bezalel receives with God’s ruach an even greater gift. Secondly, it seems that the place itself, the holy of holies, has a certain affinity with the ruach. Since this is the only place where God touches the ground of the earth, it follows in the Priestly logic that the ruach precedes God’s personal presence. 29 A similar motif occurs in the Priestly flood narrative and in the Exodus story. After the flood, God sends a ruach that pushes back the chaos waters (Gen 8:1), thus allowing life to spread again over the earth. In the book of Exodus, God sends a wind from the East ruach qadim, Ex 14:21) that divides the waters of the Red Sea in order for Israel to walk through it on dry ground. There is no explicit connection between the divine ruach in Gen 1:2; and yet, it seems reasonable to assume that the use of the term ruach in contexts where God directly interferes to restore creation and save his chosen people is not accidental. 30 Interestingly, the mention of the divine spirit here occurs in a context that uses wisdom vocabulary to describe Bezalel’s excellent skills – the craftsmen is depicted here as a “wise” person. On this topic cf. A. Berlejung, “Der Handwerker als Theologe: Zur Mentalitäts- und Traditionsgeschichte eines altorientalischen und alttestamentlichen Berufsstands,” VT 46 (1996), 145–168. While P does not elaborate on the connection between the divine ruach and wisdom, this connection does play a key role in texts and traditions that are influenced by the Priestly Torah (cf. Wis 7:21, where wisdom herself is seen as the bearer of a spirit that, in 9:17, is then identified as the spirit of God). While G. von Rad was essentially right when he stated that the (pre-exilic) “priestly-cultic world allowed no room for activity deriving from inspiration,” the Priestly Code of the Torah seems to represent a development that opened Priestly theology to the idea of divine presence and activity in the world through the ruach (cf. G. von Rad, Old Testament Theology, Vol. I (Lousiville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2001), 99).

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The Priestly texts associate the nearness of God with the presence of God’s ruach. It is this ruach that human beings experience as a powerful presence of order and, as in Bezalel’s case, of inspiration when God approaches their sphere of life. However, in the Priestly tradition God’s ruach is not a creating or life-giving spirit. It surrounds God but it does not issue forth from God to permeate and sustain the created world.31 The step to such an understanding of God’s spirit as a vital principle in all of creation is taken, however, in postexilic poetic and wisdom literature. Among the most prominent examples of this expanded vision is Ps 104:24–30: O LORD, how manifold are your works! In wisdom you have made them all; the earth is full of your creatures. Yonder is the sea, great and wide, creeping things innumerable are there, living things both small and great. There go the ships, and Leviathan that you formed to sport in it. These all look to you to give them their food in due season; when you give to them, they gather it up; when you open your hand, they are filled with good things. When you hide your face, they are dismayed; when you take away their breath, they die and return to their dust. When you send forth your spirit, they are created; and you renew the face of the ground.

The theological connections between Psalm 104 and Genesis 1 have long been recognized,32 although it remains debated whether Psalm 104 is the older text or if the Psalmist here revisits and re-envisions the Priestly cosmology of Genesis 1. While this debate need not concern us here in any detail, it does seem to be the case that Psalm 104 emphasizes the connection between the creator and his creatures beyond the initial act of creation. All creatures depend on the continuing presence of their creator; it is not only their very lives that they receive from God but it is God’s presence through the spirit that nourishes and sustains them. The psalmist also emphasized that human beings, if not all of 31 However, the idea of a life-giving spirit is present in the book of Ezekiel – a book that shows significant theological parallels to P. According to Ezekiel’s famous vision of the dry bones (Ezek 37:1–14), God summons a ruach to “breathe upon the slain, that they may live,” and Ezekiel can even suggest that it is God’s own ruach that has life-giving power: “I will put my spirit within you, and you shall live, and I will place you on your own soil; then you shall know that I, the LORD, have spoken and will act, says the LORD” (v. 14). 32 J.L. Mays, Psalms (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1994), 331; J.D. Levenson, Creation and the Persistence of Evil: The Jewish Drama of Divine Omnipotence (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988), 53–65.

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creation, respond gratefully to their existence as creatures (Ps 104:31–35). In the cosmology of Psalm 104 it is spirit and praise that together fill the earth and make it the “atmosphere” in which creator and creation are joined together. Along the same lines, Psalm 104 elaborates on the rhythm of living and dying and, hence, the emergence of new life. God gives his ruach and he withdraws it, and in so doing God “renews the face of the earth.” The spirit does not simply move about above the world as in Gen 1:2 but rather pulsates in it, linking the living history of the world to the creator’s own vitality. Against the background of this cosmology, wisdom texts reflect on the question whether there is any particular affinity between human life and the creator and whether there is anything that distinguishes humans from the rest of creation. Psalm 104 as well as other texts that we have mentioned above describe any living being as composed around two elliptical poles: their earth-bound, physical side, and their spiritual existence. In this view, ruach is that which forms matter into particular living entities. However, once this connection dissolves, nothing remains. Neither matter nor the ruach continue to carry any individual signature beyond a living being’s temporal existence. Zooming in specifically on the human condition, this basic concept is revisited and reworked in different wisdom traditions. Qoheleth is probably the most explicit among the biblical voices that emphasize that the connection between matter and spirit is of a temporal nature. Qoheleth is adamant in insisting that nothing of a living being, not even the memory of it, continues beyond its limited life-span (Qoh 3:19–21): For the fate of humans and the fate of animals is the same; as one dies, so dies the other. They all have the same breath, and humans have no advantage over the animals; for all is vanity. All go to one place; all are from the dust, and all turn to dust again. Who knows whether the human spirit goes upward and the spirit of animals goes downward to the earth?

Qoheleth rejects any speculation about whether the spirit that dwells in human beings is superior to that in other creatures and therefore has any particular connection with God. Some scholars see this as evidence for Qoheleth’s skeptical or even pessimistic approach to human life. However, Qoheleth’s position seems to be far more subtle than that. In opposing an understanding of the spirit as something that extends human life beyond its natural limits, the author means to emphasize that the material and spiritual constitution of a human being give it space and time within God’s creation. According to Qoheleth, we are made for this world in which God has allotted everything its proper “moment” but not for any other. Both body and spirit are inextricably tied to the rhythm and order of the created world, which is what gives life its particular value and dignity. Nonetheless, within the Greek transmission of the Old Testament, Qoheleth’s position is challenged especially by the Wisdom of Salomon. The opening

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section of this text from the Hellenistic period reads like a direct rejection of Qoheleth and the tradition behind him (e.g. Psalm 104): For they reasoned unsoundly, saying to themselves, “Short and sorrowful is our life, and there is no remedy when a life comes to its end, and no one has been known to return from Hades. For we were born by mere chance, and hereafter we shall be as though we had never been, for the breath in our nostrils is smoke, and reason is a spark kindled by the beating of our hearts; when it is extinguished, the body will turn to ashes, and the spirit will dissolve like empty air. Our name will be forgotten in time, and no one will remember our works; our life will pass away like the traces of a cloud, and be scattered like mist that is chased by the rays of the sun and overcome by its heat. For our allotted time is the passing of a shadow, and there is no return from our death, because it is sealed up and no one turns back. Come, therefore, let us enjoy the good things that exist, and make use of the creation to the full as in youth.” (Wis 2:1–6).

Wisdom of Solomon modifies the scheme that we have outlined above in several significant ways. In addition to its enlivening power, the spirit is also identified with the divine wisdom that permeates all of the created sphere.33 It is not only by his wisdom that God creates and sustains; as part of God’s spirit, wisdom is also woven into the fabric of everything that exists. Even more important for our purposes is the claim that God’s eternal wisdom has a counterpart on the human side: as images of God humans are given an immortal soul (2:23), which puts Wisdom of Solomon in a position to reject Qoheleth’s nonor even anti-eschatological view. The soul of a righteous person will in fact “go upward” and return to God: But the souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and no torment will ever touch them. In the eyes of the foolish they seemed to have died, and their departure was thought to be a disaster, and their going from us to be their destruction; but they are at peace. …

33 “I learned both what is secret and what is manifest, for wisdom, the fashioner of all things, taught me. There is in her a spirit that is intelligent, holy, unique, manifold, subtle, mobile, clear, unpolluted, distinct, invulnerable, loving the good, keen, irresistible” (Wis 7:21–22).

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Like gold in the furnace he [God] tried them, and like a sacrificial burnt offering he accepted them. In the time of their visitation they will shine forth, and will run like sparks through the stubble (Wis 3:1–3, 6–7).

It is not entirely clear if Wisdom of Solomon thinks that God created an immortal soul with every human being or if, in a more Platonist fashion, all souls pre-existed with God before the world was made. The latter appears to be the more likely answer. In the view of Wisdom of Solomon, God is not only surrounded by spirit and wisdom but also by “souls” that in an angelic-like form belong among the primordial elements. This in turn means, however, that the essence of human nature is not of this world but belongs to a reality beyond our knowledge and experience. And this is precisely Wisdom of Solomon’s point: the physical world that holds injustice and pain even for the most faithful and righteous person does not define what is most precious about a human being. The comparison between Qoheleth and Wisdom of Solomon allows one to see differences between a theological anthropology that is essentially based on the concept of spirit and one that, in addition, introduces the immortal soul. One pertinent question in this regard, is whether the concept of an immortal soul is necessarily tied to a Weltanschauung that includes the idea of an uncreated and eternal world that lies beyond the physical universe. Parts of Greek philosophy obviously suggest this.34 The fact that Qoheleth and Wisdom of Solomon respond differently to the concept of an immortal soul indicates that its compatibility with biblical creation theology and its rootedness in a one-world cosmology is a controversial issue already within the Old Testament. It is a very likely assumption that the idea of an immortal soul clearly emerged from the seedbed of the biblical discourse about the ruach as the principle of life. However, one cannot avoid the impression that this development separates the Greek from the Hebrew transmission of the Old Testament. The Hebrew scriptures, with the exception of Dan 12:2–3, defend the finitude of all life in contrast to the idea that there is something in or to human existence that is infinite and immortal. As we have seen throughout this essay, the inner-biblical debate about the notion of life also shaped the theological discourse of the Primeval History. As a matter of fact, Genesis 1–11 represents a condensed version of the many and diverse approaches that the biblical authors took to address some of the “big” questions regarding the nature of life. And while there is considerable disagreement among the different voices about practically every aspect of what constitutes and sustains life – whether plants, animals, and humans share the 34 For an overview of the mulit-faceted discourse about immortatlity in Greek philosophy see M.V. Blischke, Die Eschatologie in der Sapientia Salomonis, FAT 26 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007).

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same kind of vitality and whether the life-force in living beings is or is not God’s own spirit or breath–the common denominator is the conviction that the rhythm of life is endless but that there is no eschatological trajectory for any single manifestation of life, be this a human being or any other of God’s creatures. In this respect, Gen 3:22–24 and Qoh 3:11 aptly summarize the predicament of human existence: human beings may strive for eternal life but they cannot have it. The mythic tale of the two trees in the garden of Eden highlights the discrepancy between knowledge and existence, which humanity can never overcome. Qoheleth makes the same point but views this discrepancy not as a result of humanity’s initial disobedience but assigns it to the way God designed the world and humanity’s role in it: everything has its time under the sun, but God “put eternity” in the mind of humankind, “yet they cannot find out what God has done from beginning to end.” This may well be Qoheleth’s way of saying that humans are images of God indeed – but, at the same time, not more than images.

Transformed into the Image of Christ Identity, Personality, and Resurrection In a public opinion poll in 1997 the German populace was asked, “What comes after death?” From the results it has become quite obvious that the least of what Germans are inclined to believe these days is the Christian doctrine of resurrection. Just about five percent of the people asked accepted the term “resurrection” for what they imagined to come after death. Even most of the people who associated themselves with Christian faith did not choose the term to express their thoughts on this issue.1 Certainly, the plain statistics do not tell what interviewers and interviewees actually understood by “resurrection.” At least they seemed to agree that resurrection offers an answer to the question “What comes after death?” From general experience we have certain ideas of what life and death are, and often others share what we associate with these terms: death terminates life as we know it, that is, having a body, living in company with other human beings, having certain cognitive capacities that allow us to identify ourselves as particular individuals. On the other hand, whether or not there is something beyond death seems to be a “speculative” task on which – in modern Western societies – traditions, religions, and worldviews diverge to a considerable extent. In modern times death is not only what terminates physical and social existence; it also denotes the limits of cultural consensus about what will be after our body has dissolved, after all we once said and did is left to the vanishing memories of others.

1. Modernity’s Loss of Death Awareness Modernity certainly has not restricted speculation about what will be “then.” Looking at recent Hollywood productions – City of Angels, What Dreams May Come, Artificial Intelligence, and many others – quite the opposite holds true. Furnishing the unknown space beyond physical existence has a specific appeal to the modern mind, and it takes on manifold forms. From the viewpoint of cultural studies it is, however, worth noticing that commonly shared beliefs in what life after death could or could not be like do not seem all that essential. 1

Data taken from R. Sachau, Weiterleben nach dem Tod: Warum immer mehr Menschen an Reinkarnation glauben (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1998), 21.

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In ancient and medieval societies, conceiving of the hereafter – as the underworld in Greek antiquity, or as paradiso e inferno in Dante – shaped scientific worldviews as well as aesthetic imagination, moral orientation, and religious beliefs and, therefore, provided a focus for common cultural engagement.2 In its most elaborate forms, imagining life beyond the grave was never, as moderns sometimes tend to assume, the naive, quasi-naturalistic guesswork of the pre-enlightened and prescientific ages. As pieces of art like Michelangelo’s famous Last Judgment on the walls of the Sistine Chapel display, imagining the hereafter was not a “speculative” task in the first place; rather, it combined scientific knowledge about the world with aesthetic and moral ideals, religious truth, and norms of social and political order to depict the ultimate foundations of the cosmos – rather than the “end of the world.” Modernity, on the other hand, has shifted its focus away from the hereafter to “this life.” Bernhard Groethuysen, a student of Wilhelm Dilthey, once made an intriguing comment that pointedly sums up the modern turn: “Der eine glaubt an den Tod, wie er an Gott und an die Hölle glaubt, . . . während für den anderen der Tod aufgehört hat, Gegenstand des Glaubens zu sein. Er ist bloße Tatsache. Der Tod hat seinen religiösen Charakter verloren [Some believe in death as they believe in God or in hell, . . . to others death ceases to be a subject of their beliefs. It has become sheer fact, death has lost its religious character].”3 This statement does not imply that life in the modern world is necessarily biased toward atheism or even nihilism. What it says, however, and where Groethuysen seems to be right on target, is that modernity makes razor sharp distinctions between its view of what precedes death and what might follow it. The one is informed by scientifically affirmed knowledge about the human body and intellect, the other by various types of imagination and feeling.4 There is, however, no domain in modern intellectual life that would provide some common ground for both – what we know about life and how we conceive of existence beyond death. What we have lost – some would prefer to say “overcome”– are, traditionally speaking, religious cosmologies that seek to integrate life, death, and what is beyond within one coherent framework of explanation. Considering the loss of such religious cosmologies, it seems quite consistent that in major strands of contemporary sociology religion takes on a new role. 2

For a recent overview of the cultural coding of death in different religions and cultures cf. C. von Barloewen, Der Tod in den Weltkulturen und Weltreligionen (Frankfurt am Main: Insel, 2000), especially the contributions of Zwi Werblowsky on the Jewish understanding of death and Hortense Reintjens-Anwari on death in Islam. 3 B. Groethuysen, Die Entstehung der bürgerlichen Welt- und Lebensanschauung in Frankreich, Vol. I (Halle an der Saale: Niemeyer, 1927), 134. 4 For a theological reflection on this distinction cf. G.D. Kaufman, In Face of Mystery: A Constructive Theology (Cambridge, Mass./London: Harvard University Press, 1993), 7. It is consistent with his existential approach that Kaufman envisions theology to be an imaginative task in the first place (ibid., 32–44).

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It is no longer an all-encompassing type of human insight and experience but provides perspective and meaning for precisely the assumed part of existence that lies beyond death, that is, that which cannot be sufficiently envisioned by scientific expertise alone. Religion becomes a specialist for the “last questions” at the speculative end of our experience and insight,5 and so to be “religious” becomes crucial at the point where positive knowledge about “life” indicates its own limitations. In this view the term “resurrection” gives the specifically Christian answer to the question: “What comes after death?” It offers one possible way of furnishing the open space beyond death – one that seems, however, not all that attractive to contemporary culture.

2. Resurrection and the Eschatological Validity of Past, Present, and Future Life If we turn from this outside perspective to the account that Christian faith gives of its own understanding of resurrection, things turn out differently. Looking at New Testament texts, especially at the letters of Paul, one does not get the idea that talking about resurrection is primarily concerned with what will be beyond physical existence. It is quite conspicuous how little Paul actually reasons about the possibility that somebody who has died and whose body has fallen apart may return to some state of “life” and how such life could be imagined. Although on various occasions Paul addresses the question “What comes after death?”6 this does not really point to the core of his interest. Resurrection is not a datum at some future point of existence; rather, the term denotes a specific quality: to become resurrected means, according to Paul, to partake in the life of Christ as the risen Lord.

5 For a critique of this notion of religion as incompatible with the character of Christian faith cf. D. Bonhoeffer’s letters from prison, where he sets forth the idea of a “nonreligious” understanding of faith. 6 Especially so in the letters to the Thessalonians, where Paul finds himself confronted with the question of what happens to those who have died before the second coming of Christ. His answer implies that even those who are “presently” dead are related to the living Christ in a way that will keep them in a kind of “waiting pattern” till the day of the parousia, when they will again be reunited with those who are still alive (cf. 1 Th 4:13–18). Regarding the issue of eschatological time it is worth noticing that Paul envisions a state where people, whenever they have lived and died, will arrive at the same point of time that is marked by the second coming of Christ. In contemporary theology, especially J. Moltmann has taken up this position, combining it with Calvin’s idea of a “great waking and watching of the soul after death” (cf. J. Moltmann, “Is There Life after Death?” in The End of the World and the Ends of God, ed. J. Polkinghorne and M. Welker (Harrisburg, Pa.: Trinity Press International, 2000), 252–53.

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The rhetorics of “partaking,” “being in/with Christ” that goes along with Paul’s usage of the term “resurrection” unfolds in an array of images and metaphors: it means to be “covered over” with the life of Christ (Rom 13:14; 1 Cor 15:53, 54; Gal 3:27), to assume the “shape” of Christ (Rom 8:29; Gal 4:19), to be “implanted” (Rom 6:5) into the death and resurrection of Christ, to be “conformed” to the “image of Christ” (Rom 8:29). Especially from Romans 6:5 and 8:29 it becomes apparent that what Paul envisions is a kind of organic process in which two separate entities grow together.7 Speaking in more abstract terms, to become resurrected means to be connected with Christ8 in a sense that includes those who believe in him in the eschatological state of life that he himself has assumed as the first fruits of all creation (1 Cor 15:20, 23). Even from these rather brief remarks on Paul it becomes clear why the Christian understanding of resurrection is not limited to the question of continuity and discontinuity between life before and life beyond physical death. It is not the fact that we have to die that brings resurrection to the theological agenda. Its significance would be reduced to a problem only of natural-scientific credibility if the heuristic model were primarily that of a linear time line with resurrection as what follows life and death9–be it that of an individual being or the rise and decline of the entire universe. Understood as participation in Christ’s own life, resurrection addresses the issue of eschatological validity and as such relates from any point of time to all three temporal dimensions. Speaking in dogmatic language, it qualifies the past in terms of redemption, the present in terms of sanctification, and the future in terms of glorification and fulfillment. To sum up my argument so far: in the symbolism of the Christian faith, resurrection is growing into and partaking in the life of the new creation that is 7

Cf. H.D. Betz, “Transferring a Ritual: Paul’s Interpretation of Baptism in Romans,” in Paulinische Studien (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1994), 264–68. For the interpretation of Romans 6 as the foundation of Paul’s doctrine of baptism cf. U. Wilckens, Der Brief an die Römer, Vol. II, EKK IV/2 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 21987), 48–50. For our concern it is especially important that some of Paul’s most explicit accounts of resurrection are given in the context of baptism theology. This indicates that it is not physical death that early Christianity considered to be a crucial existential datum, but the point where people come to participate in the death and resurrection of Christ that is marked by baptism. This is to say that the borderline between life and death is not accepted as fixed by the physical and mental constitution of human beings, but constituted by genuinely religious experience. This, it seems, is the rationale behind statements such as that of Romans 14:8, where living and dying are equally subordinated to “belonging to Christ.” 8 On Paul’s understanding of the “in-Christ relation” cf. P. Lampe, “Paul’s concept of a spiritual body” in Resurrection: Theological and Scientific Assessments, ed. T. Peters, R.J. Russell, and M. Welker (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), 103–114. 9 With regard to the resurrection of Christ, this kind of reductionism has been rightly criticized by I.U. Dalferth, “Volles Grab, leerer Glaube: Zum Streit um die Auferweckung des Gekreuzigten,” ZThK 95 (1998), 379–409.

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connected with Christ as the risen Lord. As such, resurrection obviously addresses the issue of life beyond physical existence, but it is clearly of much further-reaching significance. Living in the presence of Christ relates not only to our future, but also to our present and even to our past. Therefore, conceiving of resurrection requires us to relate what we are destined to become, as well as what we are at any present moment and what we have been in the past, to the fullness of Christ’s own life. We can make these statements under the influence of the images and metaphors that Paul employs to depict his understanding of resurrection, but a whole series of questions arises as soon as we attempt to put them in more systematic terms. How can we conceive of resurrection as an ultimate state of existence in which we already participate when we are human beings limited by space and time, with a body that is destined to die and with fallible capacities of perception and sensibility?What sense does it make to talk about being part of a new creation if this, obviously, cannot be described in the same way in which we speak of our feeling and thinking, both of which are indispensable for orientation in the world “as it is” and to which we are bound with every fiber of our being? In short, how can we reason about the eschatological validity of our very existence if this goes beyond our daily life experiences?

3. Identity and Resurrection It seems, therefore, right on target for Wolfhart Pannenberg to point to the problem of identity as the crucial issue of a theological account of resurrection. Under the heading “The Inner Problematic of the Idea of Resurrection” he writes: The identity of future with present bodily life is basic if the hope of resurrection is to have any meaning. This hope does also involve a transformation of our present life that will, we hope, mean triumph over its wrongs and hurts and failures. Nevertheless, this corruptible shall put on incorruptibility and this mortal immortality (1 Cor 15:53). . . We are not referring here to an identity of that which is no different but to an identity of that which is different and even antithetical, yet still an identity.10

Although Pannenberg prefers temporal categories to mark the difference between this life and its eschatological destination, it becomes clear from his statement that the issue of identity is not solved by dichotomies such as “now/then,” or “already/not yet.” Rather, the notion of identity introduces a problem that is related to the modern understanding of individuality and personality, discussed above. It is one of the axioms of modern thinking that being

10

W. Pannenberg, Systematic Theology, 3 Vols. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1991–98), 573–574.

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a “person” involves having a particular biography, a defined set of social relations, characteristic bodily features, and the like that come together in what we attribute to ourselves as our “identity.” A good number of scholars – from the natural sciences as well as from the humanities – hold that it is the capacity to establish identity that provides the human person with a sense of continuity, coherence, and stability within ever shifting natural and cultural environments.11 If this were not the case, being an individual could be hardly more than piecemeal, being drawn apart at every point of contact with the “outside world.” More recently, under the influence of “postmodern” thinking, the adequacy of such a Cartesian or Lockean version of identity has been called into question.12 The point has been made that identity as described by enlightened philosophy is not a capacity that characterizes a unique feature of human life but rather a task – something that is never given or fixed but has to be achieved over and over again. Identity, in this view, is not an a priori frame in which our perceptions of reality are embedded; it is something that is created, invented, and reinvented in fragmentary and heterogeneous rather than consistent and stable modes.13 Despite the differences between modern and postmodern accounts of identity, there seems to be a consensus that identity can be described as an activity of the individual human being, directed to the integration of its natural dispositions, its cultural/moral constitution, as well as its subjective cognition and feeling into a framework of experience, regardless of how coherent or fragmented such a framework might eventually be.14 11

Besides the towering work of G.H. Mead and E.H. Erikson cf. more recently A.P. Cohen, Self-Consciousness: An Alternative Anthropology of Identity (London: Routledge, 1994); A. Giddens, Modernity and Self-Identity (Cambridge: Polity, 1991). 12 For a critique especially of Descartes’s approach see A.J. Cascardi, The Subject of Modernity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992); S. Toulmin, Cosmopolis: The Hidden Agenda of Modernity (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990). 13 Cf. P. Wagner, “Fest-Stellungen: Beobachtungen zur sozialwissenschaftlichen Diskussion über Identität,” in Identitäten: Erinnerung, Geschichte, Identität, ed. A. Assmann and H. Friese (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1999), 3:44–72. A comprehensive outline of a postmodern notion of identity is provided by K. Tanner, Theories of Culture: A New Agenda for Theology (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1997), 96–119, 151–55. 14 N. Murphy, “The Resurrection Body and Personal Identity: Possibilities and Limits of Eschatological Knowledge,” in Resurrection: Theological and Scientific Assessments, ed. T. Peters, R.J. Russell, and M. Welker (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), 202–218 mentions body, memory, consciousness, and moral character as crucial elements for personal identity. Drawing on David Wiggins’s idea of “covering concepts,” she investigates on what grounds it could be validated that these components and their interplay are constitutive for the future kind of existence that is expressed by the symbol “new creation.” Consequently, her focus is on the “possibilities and limits of eschatological knowledge” from a philosophical point of view. With a different emphasis my own approach (which presupposes critical accounts of what we can and cannot know about the eschaton) is aimed at how identity as a charac-

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For theologians taking resurrection primarily as a future event, it becomes a crucial issue if in the world to come, a world that will be other than a carbonbased universe,15 there will be “identity” again, that is, if there will be individual entities with a specific kind of self-awareness and if this will imply the capacity to relate back to what will be then their own “past.” Put in more general terms, this is a question about the continuity and discontinuity between “this life” and “resurrection life” and about how both continuities and discontinuities will be recognized from the viewpoint of resurrection. A different approach is required, however, if one attempts to include the future dimension of resurrection in the more comprehensive framework of what I have called above the eschatological validity of created life, and, more to our interests here, the eschatological dignity of the human person. The question is then how we can say both: that individual persons as finite beings are characterized by their efforts to establish identity, but are at the same time, as Paul puts it, “covered over” with the life of the risen Christ. Generally speaking, theological anthropology needs to focus on two different sources of creativity that give shape to a person and to think of the relation between these two sources. To the modern, enlightened mind such an endeavor must seem paradoxical because in its view a person cannot be more than what is contained by its own identity. A Christian account of resurrection, on the other hand, differs at this point in putting forth the somewhat countermodern claim that a person is in fact more than what is contained in his or her own identity. This claim is, more precisely, that the “data” from which identity arises – having body and intellect, being part of particular social networks, and the like – as well as identity itself are involved in a transformative process by which a person becomes “conformed to the image of Christ” (Rom 8:29). If theology seeks to unfold the biblical metaphor of resurrection in contemporary terms, it should be clear by now that it will have to account for the modern concept of identity and, at the same time, include it in a more comprehensive understanding of the human “person.” In the next part of this chapter I shall engage in a dialogue with sociological and philosophical positions that may serve as critical and constructive resources for such an endeavor. This will lead into an examination of the idea of “objective immortality” that has been set forth by Alfred North Whitehead and that has some resemblance to the philosophy of Derek Parfit.

teristic of finite human beings relates to the new kind of person that is defined by its participation in the life of Christ. Paraphrasing Murphy’s subtitle, my essay is, therefore, concerned with a theological critique of the possibilities and limits of concepts of personal identity. 15 Cf. R.J. Russell, “Bodily Resurrection, Eschatology, and Scientific Cosmology,” in Resurrection: Theological and Scientific Assessments, ed. T. Peters, R.J. Russell, and M. Welker (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), 3–31.

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4. Personal Resurrection versus Objective Immortality Let us return for one more time to the results of the opinion poll mentioned above. About 50 percent of the interviewees sympathized with a position that one may describe as “vague belief in immortality.” Death is not considered the end of everything that characterizes human existence. Although there is no concrete idea of how existence is continued beyond death, it seems a realistic perspective that we keep participating in the spheres of life especially through the words, feelings, thoughts, and deeds of other people, of the communities to which we were closely connected in our lifetime. This is not a “strong” notion of immortality as we have it in the ancient Greek idea of an immortal soul, or in the Buddhist concept of reincarnation, for example. The vague form of immortality that seems to have a voice in contemporary culture does not claim that parts of our physical or mental constitution will go on when other functions are ultimately terminated. The idea is, rather, that there are certain patterns – like long-lasting feelings, memories, or certain chains of causes and effects – through which we continue to exist even though we do not experience this continuity of existence in any active mode. To illustrate, let me give an example from a recent movie production. The movie Titanic, a most successful Hollywood blockbuster, features a popular Romeo and Juliet story. On board the Titanic a young, upper-class girl, Rose, meets the streetboy Jack and falls in love with him although she has already been promised to a rich but snobbish member of her own social class. In one of the key romantic scenes Jack draws a portrait of Rose shortly before the ship goes headlong into disaster. In the end Jack saves Rose’s life while he himself freezes to death in the icy water of the North Atlantic. This story is told fromthe perspective of eighty-five years later. Rose, now a hundred-yearold lady, sees the portrait again that archeologists found in the wreck of the Titanic, and, on beholding the image, her memories and feelings come back. She then starts to tell the old story, which is staged in the movie as Jack’s virtual resurrection. Love, memory, and even material objects like an image become the very media that have power to attribute immortality to a person – a kind of immortality that transcends the limitations of bodily existence.

5. Psychological Mechanisms (Peter Berger) Taking an existentialist stand, one may judge that such vague forms of immortality represent one of the contemporary ways of coping with the disturbing fact that all of us have to die, that there is an ultimate borderline that we cannot pass but at which everything that we once were will be definitely terminated. The idea that somehow we will go on in the life of others or of the community

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to which we belong is triggered, in this perspective, by psychological mechanisms that work to give us a hold facing the finally allencompassing reality of death. Psychological explanations play a significant role in many schools of contemporary sociology and philosophy of religion. The following quotation from Peter Berger’s book The Sacred Canopy illustrates this kind of approach: The individual knows that he will die and, consequently, that some of his misfortunes can never be alleviated within his lifetime. If he loses a limb, for instance, it can never be restored to him. The collectivity, on the other hand, can usually be conceived of as immortal. It may suffer misfortunes, but these can be interpreted as only transitory episodes in its overall history. Thus the individual dying on the battlefield at the hand of the foreign conqueror may not look forward to his own resurrection or immortality, but he can do so with regard to his group. To the extent that he subjectively identifies himself with that group, his death will have meaning for him even if it is unembellished with any “individualized” legitimations.16

Due to their mental and bodily limitations immortality and resurrection are unavailable to individuals. The fact, however, that the individual finds himself or herself imbedded in networks of interpersonal and social relations gives him or her a perspective that is not exposed to the same limitations. Berger and others would certainly be prepared to analyze the Christian account of resurrection very much along these lines. That Christians believe that they will be transformed into the body of Christ, which is essentially a communal structure and not just another material body, and that they will not only have mind and intellect but a share in the Spirit of God, are ways of opening a perspective beyond death that is available only in patterns of what one might call “the imagination of collective immortality.” Obviously, the plausibility of a Berger-like approach depends on whether one accepts the categorical distinction between biological facts and cultural imagination. Death and life are viewed as natural/biological givens that confront the solitary individual with the fact that sooner or later his or her mind and body will come to a definite end. Cultural imagination in general, and religious imagination in particular, cannot deny this, but they open up horizons of meaning that reach somehow beyond the plain biological facts.17 Although Berger does not expressly put it this way, it is a clear and logical conclusion that culture and religion compensate for the lack of perspective from which individuals suffer. To uncover cultural strategies and trace existential givens seems to be one of the guiding interests of this approach. Death is taken to be a “fact,” and immortality, as was seen in the movie Titanic, and resurrection, in the Christian sense, are both constructs designed to fit this fact into a wider 16 P.L. Berger, The Sacred Canopy: Elements of a Sociological Theory of Religion (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1967), 61. 17 For similar approaches in contemporary philosophy and sociology of religion cf. D. Pollack, “Was ist Religion? Versuch einer Definition,” ZfR 3 (1995), 163–90; U. Oevermann, “Ein Modell der Struktur von Religiosität,” in Biographie und Religion: Zwischen Ritual und Selbstsuche, ed. M. Wohlrab-Sahr (Frankfurt am Main: Campus, 1995), 27–102.

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spectrum of meaning. Especially in contemporary society where traditional denominational stands have lost ground, a low-profile position such as “vague immortality” seems especially suited to the job. There seems to me, however, to be a worthwhile question here. What if, with regard to the notion of death, the presence of a physical body and a selfaware intellect are in fact not the most decisive criteria for establishing the difference between life and death? Let me put the question a little more provocatively: Could it be that there is a deeper rationale at work within Titanic – besides the fact that the movie was designed to stir emotions? Is it just romantic exuberance when the author of the Song of Songs concludes that “love is strong as death” (Song 8:6)? Is it only skillful rhetoric when the Roman philosopher and poet Gnaeus Naevius writes for his own epitaph, “Do not cry for me at my tomb, for I will live on through the mouth of thousands!” The bondages of interpersonal relationships, love and memory, spoken words and things done, all these instances characterize a person, but they are not subjected to the differentiation of life and death that we usually apply to the physical body or the human intellect. Let me mention two philosophical positions that seem more helpful than the one given by Berger, positions that provide a more differentiated picture that may help us to see the specificity of the Christian understanding of resurrection. I will turn briefly to Alfred North Whitehead and then in more detail to Derek Parfit.

6. Objective Immortality (A.N. Whitehead and D. Parfit) One of Whitehead’s basic ideas is that every actual entity, for example, a human person, introduces, as he puts it, “genuine perspective” to the physical, mental, and social universe. What was once only possible becomes real through apprehension, feeling, thinking, through symbolizing processes of actual entities. Whatever we experience as patterns of order are objective results that arise from these processes, and we constantly participate in them while we develop our own genuine perspective that again exerts influence on the emergence of other real worlds. Every instance of what we may call life is a complex phenomenon composed of such interpenetrating processes of subjective and objectified worlds. It is quite clear that in this setting conventional distinctions between life and death do not apply to the constitution of persons. In this regard Whitehead talks about subjective mortality and objective immortality.18 Our subjective perspective will break up at a certain point, but this is only part of what we actually 18

For a most recent interpretation and critique of Whitehead’s notion of “objective immortality” cf. L.S. Ford, Transforming Process Theism (Albany: State University of New

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are. In the opening section of one of his last essays, “Immortality,” he sums up his basic insight as follows: It will be presupposed that all entities or factors in the universe are essentially relevant to each other’s existence. A complete account lies beyond ur conscious experience. In what follows, this doctrine of essential relevance is applied to the interpretation of those fundamental beliefs concerned with the notion of immortality.19

The rather unspecified term “relevance” gives expression to the idea that there is a level of creative interdependence in the universe that connects its entities/factors in a way that is not dependent on their making conscious experiences. Self-awareness and bodily perception that come together in what modernity calls identity are, in Whitehead’s thinking, necessary for the universe to become concrete or “real.” But if there were only concreteness, the universe could be, in the true sense of the word, hardly more than substantial chaos. In this sense, the notion of “objectivity” serves to relativize the doctrine of Enlightenment thinking that anything that could be said about life, death, and creativity is meaningful only as long as it relates to subjective awareness. More recently, in a book called Reasons and Persons, the British philosopher Derek Parfit made a number of observations that resemble Whitehead’s approach (although Parfit himself is certainly not a process thinker). In a chapter that is given the provocative heading “Why Our Identity Does Not Matter,” Parfit explicitly focuses on the relation between identity, personality, and death. Let me quote from a central passage of this chapter: There will later be some memories about my life. And there may later be thoughts that are influenced by mine, or things done as the result of my advice. My death will break the more direct relations between my present experiences and future experiences, but it will not break various other relations. This is all there is to the fact that there will be no one living who will be me. Now that I have seen this, my death seems to me less bad.20

Parfit analyzes, and subsequently criticizes, a notion of death that is define primarily as a loss of identity. By identity he has very much in mind how Enlightenment modernity has coined the term. In this setting, identity is characterized as experience that becomes conscious. Our bodily and cognitive perceptions are not like lightning flashes that appear and quickly disappear. If that were the case, so the argument runs, we would exist only in a state of affects, of ever shifting and floating impressions, but without any idea of being a definite entity emerging from a particular set of experiences. Rather, it is the case that we have the capacity to connect themultitude of sensual and cognitive perceptions York Press, 2000), 148. On objective immortality as introducing patterns of order into the empirical world cf. M. Welker, Universalität Gottes und Relativität der Welt: Theologische Kosmologie im Dialog mit dem amerikanischen Prozeßdenken nach Whitehead (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 21988), 112. 19 A.N. Whitehead, “Immortality,” Harvard Divinity School Bulletin 7 (1941–42), 5–21. 20 D. Parfit, Reasons and Persons (Oxford: Clarendon, 1984), 281.

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into one comprehensive framework that we attribute to ourselves as our identity. What happens when we die is essentially that we lose the capacity to establish and to keep up such identity: our brain functions stop and our body decays. Parfit’s criticism is essentially that modernity, with its emphasis on identity, has come to look at death as that which terminates everything that matters in the constitution of our personality, the unique shape of our very existence. On the other hand, whatever remains after we die – the memories about our lives, maybe the books and articles we have written – does not really matter. It may comfort those who are left behind or may ensure that our names will live on, but none of that will suffice to qualify us any longer as living beings. The difference between life and death is thus established by drawing a clear-cut distinction between states of identity and non-identity. Most recently, Peter Singer’s ethical writings and the hot-tempered debates around them have brought to light the deficiencies that come with coding life and death with states of identity. Parfit takes his own stand in this discussion. Unlike contemporary postmodern thinkers, he does not seek to abandon the notion of identity altogether. It remains true for him that a good share of what constitutes us as persons is identity in the modern sense. But, and this becomes a crucial supplement to the modern conception, not everything that constitutes a person can or must be contained by identity. Parfit gives two examples: the continuation and transformation of our words and deeds in the lives of others; and the dimension of social memory that he considers not merely some kind of swan song to something that gradually falls back into oblivion, but rather a vital form of shaping personal profiles over time and history. These examples are illustrative in a sense, but they are problematic too in that they tend to merely transform the modern paradigm of identity and nonidentity into other dichotomies such as activity and passivity, cause and effect. “Life” would then be that part of our existence in which we actively generate the events and features that characterize us, whereas death would mean the loss of all creative powers, a state in which all that we once were is left to the hands of others. It is certainly a matter of perspective if, once we have come to see this, we are ready to share Parfit’s comforting conclusion that “our death seems less bad” then. But there is a stronger point in Parfit’s argument that, I believe, is also of theological significance. It concerns his basic insight that our personality is composed of a variety of elements, but not all of them presuppose that they are controlled by a reflective self, or that they are subject to bodily perception. Put in other words, personality, understood as the individual composition of physical, mental, and social characteristics, does not in all its facets depend on the presence of a self-aware “I.”We might think, for example, of our genetic patterns, which, as is more and more revealed to us, condition a good portion of what we are and how we can unfold our capacities, but which are not contained

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by a feeling and thinking “I” We might also think of social relations like the experience of being loved, which is certainly essential to our personal structure but which we can never fully embrace with our mind or body, even though this is what we seek to achieve in various forms of agape and eros. When we take this account of how a person is constituted, it becomes quite clear that the differentiation between life and death does not apply to all the components of a person in the same way. Our genetic codes do not die as the physical body does, and we still participate in the memories, feelings, and actions of others even if we no longer provide them with any fresh impulse. The fact that being a person is actually more than having an identity does not negate the borderline between life and death, but it takes away some of the absoluteness of this distinction. Once we accept that personality is more than what identity encompasses, the distinction between death and life loses the appeal of being a matter of all or nothing. And maybe this is the deeper meaning of Parfit’s statement that death will break “the more direct relations between present experiences and future experiences,” but “it will not break various other relations.”

7. Personhood versus Identity I see theological significance in this way of approaching issues of personality, identity, and death in that theological anthropology in particular draws decisively on the insight that what determines us as persons does not necessarily coincide with what we attribute to ourselves as identity. When theology turns to its crucial anthropological issues, such as justification, sanctification, or life in the presence of the Spirit of God, it points to something that qualifies us as persons but that is not contained by identity in the modern sense. Justification, sanctification, and transformation into the image of Christ are not at our disposal in the same way as are our bodily perceptions and cognitive experiences. Nonetheless, it is a claim of Christian thinking that being conformed to the image of Christ encompasses us both physically and mentally – in short, as finite beings. The theological account of a “person,” therefore, focuses on certain characteristics that we cannot acquire simply because we are alive, having a body and an intellect, and that do not “melt away” once the body and intellect are terminated. It seems, therefore, of utmost consequence that Christianity had to express its understanding of life and death in a way that would correspond to its view of a “person” as that which is destined to be transformed into the image of Christ. This, it seems to me, is the very essence of the idea of

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resurrection that New Testament traditions elaborate in various ways on the basis of their predecessors in the Hebrew Bible.21 There remain, nonetheless, at least two major differences between a Whiteheadian or Parfitian account of personality, identity, life and death, and a Christian understanding of resurrection. The first instance of difference relates back to our initial question, “What comes after physical death?” If I have paraphrased Parfit and Whitehead correctly, they both assume in their different systems that what is ultimately lost with physical death are all forms of subjective awareness, of bodily feelings and impressions, while other characteristics of our personality, which Whitehead calls “objective,” remain intact. In this regard they both offer theories of immortality – explicitly soWhitehead and more implicitly Parfit. The Christian notion of resurrection, however, goes one step further. It is more than simply a variation on the concept of immortality in that it claims that beyond death there are not only certain personal characteristics, but that there will even be identity once more; this means more concretely that there will be subjective thoughts and feelings, there will be a body, there will be a self-aware though transformed “I” that knows itself to participate in the new kind of reality that opens up through resurrection. Whenever biblical traditions depict the reality of future resurrection, they do so not as some ghostly existence essentially devoid of sensuality and bodily perception. Resurrection has to do with thinking, feeling, and socializing entities. This, it seems to me, is precisely the point where the concept of resurrection departs from the concept of objective immortality, where it might open a more specific, more focused, and maybe even more promising perspective, but where it certainly makes claims that will not be readily approved of by the natural sciences. Related to the first aspect is another instance where resurrection markedly differs from the above accounts of immortality. To be, in a Whiteheadian sense, “objectively immortal” means to be part of a creative process that arranges and rearranges personal characteristics in an infinite number of new forms, and it is, according to Whitehead, this objective entry of actual entities into the “real world”22 that provides patterns of natural and cultural order. This means, however, that no single actual entity is in itself subject to this transforming process (or it is subject to this process only insofar as it gives rise to other actual entities). Resurrection, on the other hand, presupposes a type of creativity that does not merely give rise to novelty by rearranging objectively given “data.” Resurrectio, which in the biblical languages denotes a movement of somebody rising 21 Cf. A. Schüle, “Gottes Handeln als Gedächtnis: Auferstehung und kulturtheoretischer und biblisch-theologischer Perspektive,” in Wie wirklich ist die Auferstehung?, ed. H.J. Eckstein and M. Welker (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2002). 22 As opposed to “possible” and “potential” worlds; cf. A.N. Whitehead, Process and Reality: An Essay in Cosmology, ed. D.R. Griffin and D.W. Sherburne (New York: Macmillan, 1978), 45–46, 60–61.

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from the ground, standing up, and getting into an upright position, is not about losing identity but about growing into the kind of identity that already belongs to a person, though it is more ample and rich than what can be contained by any finite entity. To put it pointedly, resurrection requires us to conceive of the relation between contained and uncontained identities. As we noted above, Paul employs the metaphors of organic growth and of a new form that we assume as partakers of the body of Christ. The linear time sequence (life, death, and then resurrection), which is crucial to apocalyptic thinking, is pushed almost entirely into the background when he talks about the presence of the Spirit who raised Christ from the dead and who makes us partakers in the life of the risen Lord (Rom 8:11). The language of “guarantee, earnest money” (2 Cor 1:22; 5:5), or “first fruit” of the Spirit (Rom 8:23), points to something of which we have indeed received and that we have been promised to receive in its fullness and entire glory. Interpreting Paul’s anthropology, New Testament scholar Christoph Burchard compares the time span between the life and death of a human being to a building under construction.23 The building already shows features of what it is destined to become, though most of it might be still hidden under scaffoldings that will later be removed; parts of it are already inhabitable, others remain unfinished and uninhabitable. In this view Paul, unlike Genesis 1 as seen in the Priestly code, does not maintain that God, by an initial act of power, completed the creation of humanity, giving us the full dignity of the divine image. In Paul and the post-Pauline texts of the New Testament, the rhetoric of the image is not so much about traces of our origins as about eschatological shapes into which we are growing. In this sense resurrection as becoming conformed to the image of Christ counts among the key factors of, or is in fact the key symbol to, the Christian understanding of what it means to be a person.

23 C. Burchard, “1 Korinther 15,39–41,” in Studien zur Theologie: Sprache und Umwelt des Neuen Testaments, WUNT 107 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998), 222: “Adam blieb durch seine Sünde eine Kreationsruine. Erst im letzten Adam brachte Gott die Erschaffung des Menschen zu Ende.”

2. Evil

“And Behold, It Was Very Good … And Behold, the Earth Was Corrupt” (Genesis 1:31, 6:12) The Prehistoric Discourse about Evil 1. Introduction In his classical treatment of theodicy, Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz developed the theory that the world in which we live is the “best of all possible worlds.” It is interesting and necessary to begin by discussing the idea of “possible worlds.” Leibniz means that the real world constitutes a realization of one particular possibility among others. This is not an argument about the Theory of Evolution. The assumption is not that the world as it is could have, at least theoretically, developed differently. Instead, Leibniz understands the possible worlds to have been alternative world designs that the Creator had before creating something real.1 Under the influence of the mechanistic cosmology of his time,2 Leibniz represents the view that there were different “building plans” for the world from which God finally chose. The differences between these possible worlds lie not in their material form or their “design” but rather in their moral architecture. According to Leibniz, God decided for the world with the greatest possible happiness for the greatest possible number of people.3 The argument gains clarity when compared to the alternatives: God could have created a world in which the maximum happiness would have been possible for a few or, conversely, in which all people would have a share of happiness, in whatever small measure. So God decided not to optimize either the quality of the happiness or the quantity of the recipients but instead to create the world with the greatest possibility of both. However, a world of maximum happiness for all was not possible. For Leibniz, this is due to the imperfections of the individual elements with which the world is joined together.4 From creation, the world is, in its individual components and, therefore, in their ensemble, not entirely according to the plans of the Creator. This difference is the reason that Leibniz gives for the limitations on happiness in the world and for suffering 1

Leibniz, Theodicee, §§ 41–42 Leibniz, Monadologie, § 64, “So every organic body of living beings is a type of divine machine or natural automaton, infinitely surpassing all artificial automata.” 3 Leibniz, Theodicee, §§ 120, 124, and 241; Monadologie, § 58. 4 Leibniz, Theodicee, §§ 20 and 27–31; Monadologie, § 42. 2

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and evil. Despite these deficits, the world in which we live is morally ordered and, as such, stable and consistent. The proof of the moral foundations, which is the basis of all the best of the possible worlds, forms the core of Leibniz’s teaching on theodicy.5 Undeniably, Leibniz himself understood his argument to be strictly philosophical, insofar as he derived it from the leading scientific depictions of the world of his time: such as Kepler’s astronomy, Newton’s mechanics, and Spinoza’s pantheism. However, with a little distance, one can see that the theory of the best of all possible worlds has all the characteristics of a modern myth. Myths are known to have an etiological core. They try to explain why the world is the way that it is and what are the consequences for human action.6 The myth conveys theoretical knowledge as practical everyday knowledge. The world has meaning and order, which does not, however, mean that the well-being of every individual is the goal or point of this order. Furthermore, myths, as a rule, do not have an eschatological characteristic or, even better, are anti-eschatological. The appeal to the distant past indeed has the sense of providing orientation for the “now” but not of wakening an expectation of an eschatological resolution or transformation of the world. Leibniz very clearly argues that the best of all possible worlds cannot be surpassed by any future world, specifically because no created world can be as perfect as its Creator. Leibniz’s metaphysics proves itself to be an enlightened myth, in that the world is explained through recourse to the original intentions, the thoughts and actions of a single, rational pre-existent deity. The etiological function of the myth here deals above all with the experience of transience and suffering. It is certainly not random that Leibniz frames the fullness of his theory under the heading “theodicy.” Ultimately, the practical plausibility of any explanation of the world must deal with the phenomenon of evil. As mentioned, for Leibniz, the imperfection of the world is the key to the problem of theodicy. In this way, he comes to the conclusion that suffering and evil exist necessarily, but nonetheless are subordinate to the moral structure of the world and, thus, are limited. Consequently, Leibniz avoids the concept of “evil,” presumably because this could suggest the existence of a god of opposing power. Leibniz’s thought of different possible worlds which existed only in view of the Creator before the creation of the world and from which the Creator chose the best possible world is illuminated in several respects through comparison with the Mesopotamian mythology and their influence on the biblical depictions of prehistory. The notion of multiple possible worlds conveys the insight 5

Leibniz, Theodicee, §§ 21–29. See A. LaCocque, The Trial of Innocence, Adam, Eve, and the Yahwist (Eugene: Wipf & Stock, 2006), 42–43, and T. Mettinger, The Eden Narrative: A Literary and Religio-historical Study of Genesis 2–3 (Winona Lake: Eisenbraums, 2007), 58–60. 6

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that, although we do not live in the optimal world, it is the best and most reliable, relative to the alternatives, even when this is not the perspective of those individuals experience suffering. A proper analog can be found among the myths of the ancient Near East. Here one can also find the idea of “possible worlds.” Of course, it is not about the Creator designing and weighing world constructs on the drawing board, so to speak. The idea that alternative worlds exist is primarily portrayed through narrative, and above all, in this context, the myth of the flood plays an important role. The flood, in the most literal sense, a watershed, has a heuristic function. It allows two worlds and world orders to be compared to one another. Through this mythical transformation, the readers are able to perceive their world (the post-flood world) in contrast with its predecessor and to evaluate it through this perspective. Why did the previous world not last,7 and what basis is there to believe that the current world will fare better? What has changed: the order of creation as a whole, the moral disposition of humanity, or the attitude of God toward the created? Does the transition from the pre-flood world indicate on the whole an increase or a decrease in the diversity and intensity of created life? Was a better world lost? Or did humanity come, after the flood, to a not ideal but still relatively better world?

2. The Flood Myth and the Question of Evil If one raises the question of the epistemological differences in the Mesopotamian epics between the time before the flood and the time after, the differences from the biblical prehistory become apparent. The plot is not driven by human activity and behavior. The decision of the gods, first to decimate humanity through plagues and famine and then to destroy completely with a flood, is not founded on what humanity does but rather what humanity is: a quickly reproducing species whose spread is an element of disturbance against the gods’ need for rest.8 Humanity should, daily, lighten the burden of the gods and, apparently, do so as invisibly (and inaudibly) as possible.9 Since this plan did not

7

So, H. Blumenberg, Arbeit am Mythos (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 51990), 22: “It is not in the origins of its contents or in the reservoir of its materials and stories that the historical power of myth lies. Rather the historical power of myth is justified in that it is, according to something else, in its method, its form ‘not more’.” 8 Cf. S.M. Maul, Das Gilgamesh-Epos (München: C.H. Beck, 42008), 184–185. Maul points out that the reason or the decision to annihilate is only given in the Epic of Atrahasis but not in the Epic of Gilgamesh. The later, therefore, has no independent thematic use. However, Maul assumes that this reason (the proliferation and loudness of humanity) is also the problem in Gilgamesh. 9 Atrahasis, Tablet I, 189–260.

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work out to the gods’ satisfaction, especially for the highest god, Enlil, he decides to end the human experiment. Thus the emphasis of the flood myth is two-fold. The first is that the fate of humanity depends on conditions which far surpass humanity’s sphere of influence. Secondly, these conditions are not primarily about human well-being or happiness. One can easily describe the behavior of the gods before the flood as selfish and excessive, and, in a sense, that is the case. However, the deeper insight of the flood narrative lies in the idea that the criteria of the meaning and worth of life cannot be measured according to human terms. Humanity was created by the gods for their own needs and by their own means, subordinate to the world but not preordained. The best possible world, from this perspective, is the one which provides the most pleasant life for the gods. Nevertheless, the necessity of a flood clearly shows the deficits of this design for the world. The gods want a world that is not only relatively good, but a perfect world in which their needs are met without any compromises or restrictions. As the Epic of Atrahasis demonstrates, the creation of humanity as a race of servants is not the first attempt in this direction. Previously, a race of lesser gods was created for this work, which then, however, revolted against the high gods. One can say that in the pre-flood world there was no steady order of coexistence between the gods themselves or between the gods and humanity. It is a world of colliding interests, which, accordingly, culminates in manipulation and even radical measures such as the flood. The very world of the gods themselves is a place of conflict, intrigue, and even murder. For example, the god We-ila is slaughtered in order to use his body as building material for the Lullu-people (I, 223–226). The revolt of the Igigu-gods against Enlil and the conflict between Enlil and Enkidu are described as extremely aggressive. In this respect, the decision to annihilate humanity is noteworthy because of the radical nature of the measure, but it also fits perfectly in the overall picture of a world in which individual interests and their enforcement, through drastic measures, exists without a moral order. With the flood, however, the gods come to a complete change of attitude. The Epic of Gilgamesh emphasizes that the gods themselves are surprised and affected by the extent of the destruction and flee into heaven. It is above all the mother goddesses who step into the foreground and mourn for and repent of the destruction of humanity. Primarily, the goddess Belet-Ili appears in this role: The goddess, screaming like a woman in childbirth, Bēlet-ilī, the sweet-voiced, wailed aloud: “Indeed the past has truly turned to clay, because I spoke evil in the assembly of the gods. How was it I spoke evil in the assembly of the gods, (and) declared a war to destroy my people? It is I that gave birth (to them)! They are my people! (Now) like so many fish they fill the sea.”10 10

Gilgamesh, Tablet XI, 117–124.

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The conversation between Mami/Belet-Ili and Atrahasis is quite similar: In the assembly of the gods, how did I, with them, command total destruction? Enlil has had enough of bringing about an evil command. Like that Tiruru, he uttered abominable evil. As a result of my own choice, and to my own hurt, I have listened to their noise. My offspring – cut off from me – have become like flies! And as for me, like the occupant of a house of lamentation, my cry has died away.11

Here the moral judgment is made clear, that the gods failed regarding the flood. This is, within both epics, the first time that the behavior of the gods (or of humanity) is measured on a moral and not only practical scale. Further, the extent of the ravaging is criticized; the radical destruction of humanity is entirely out of proportion with the “disturbance” humanity caused the gods. Even more important is that, henceforth, the human race is increased in value by the gods. As the mother goddesses emphasize, humans are the creatures of the gods and are at least partially equipped with their attributes. The slaughter of the god We-ila, in order to provide the life-substance of humanity, lifted humanity above a mere clay puppet. This does not raise humans to the level of the gods, but rather, as the mother goddesses recognize, to something like consanguinity or blood relatives.12 With the destruction, the gods are made aware that, in humanity, they did not just create work slaves but also beings that are, to some degree, like themselves. From this, certain parallels to the biblical texts of the primordial history can be recognized, particularly the various accents on the theme of humanity’s similarity with or likeness to God. According to the introduction of this topic in Gen 1:26–28, this refers to both the material creation and the enlivening of humanity through the breath of life from God (Gen 2:7). Even the commandment of Genesis 9:4–6, according to which human blood must never be shed while the killing of animals is allowed for food, is founded on the idea of humanity as the “image of God” (or, perhaps better in this case, the likeness of God). The recognition of the human race as a legitimate component of the cosmic order is one of the innovations which, in Mesopotamian texts, distinguish the post-flood world from the pre-flood world. This is certainly a result of the entirely practical consideration of the gods that the human race remains responsible for supplying the gods, who almost starved during the flood and swarmed “like flies” to the first sacrifice made to them afterwards. Of course, the fact 11

Atrahasis, Tablet III, 36–46. W.G. Lambert and A.R. Millard, Atrahasis: The Babylonian Story of the Flood (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1969), 22–23, emphasize that the anthropology of the Epic of Atrahasis is characteristically different from other Babylonian creation texts in that there is, in addition to the creation of humanity from clay, the breathing into them the breath of life by the gods themselves. In this way, the similarity between humans and gods is particularly stressed and the literary groundwork laid for the lament of the mother goddesses and the wisdom god Ea for the human race. 12

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remains that people, unlike the gods, are a constantly reproducing species. Because of this, the life of a person can not only begin but must also end. In this perspective, the various ways in which this happens – illness, plague, and natural disasters13 – are understood as a necessary evil; however, in the overall picture, they are a part of a stable world order which is willed and protected by the gods.14 As has been mentioned, the mythical world view serves to set individually experienced suffering into an overall context. How comforting this context might be to an individual is an open question. By contrasting the post-flood world with the pre-flood world, the myth claims that the experienced world is better than the previous, precisely because it has an order in which both humanity and the gods are bound, and, thus, extreme measures such as radical destruction are precluded. Furthermore, it is a part of the message of the Mesopotamian myths that, in spite of everything, experienced suffering, especially when it seems senseless and excessive, is not the result of evil intentions or an evil principle. Here the “old” Mesopotamian myth meets the modern myth presented by Leibniz, in that both emphasize that “the evil” is not, as often portrayed, a power within the cosmic order. There is suffering and evil, but their existence is necessary in the interest of the well-being of the “big picture.” This orientation on the big picture is a feature of the myth genre. In this way, the readers are permitted and encouraged to transcend their own life-perspective which is naturally limited and respectively oriented to their own well-being and self-interests. The wisdom-like lesson that the myth teaches is that there is a moral world order, but that it is not oriented toward the well-being of the individual. The myth creates an experience saturated by imagination which serves as a medium15 through which the readers can reflect on the meaning and purpose of human life.

3. The Biblical Flood Myth Turning to the Old Testament prehistory, one can also roughly divide these stories into two parts, descriptions of the world before and after the flood. Likewise, the questions remain of how the two worlds differ and what knowledge 13

Maul, Gilgamesch, 147–148. It is noteworthy that, among the now allowed means of destruction, are not only those which are subject to the connection between action and consequence but also those which happen to individuals through blind fate. These will come, according to Gilgamesh XI, 185– 187, only to those who are blamed, who committed a sin themselves. On the other hand (XI, 188–195), wild animals, famine, and plague shall “keep few” humanity (Maul, Gilgamesch, 148). It also applies the principle that evil also comes against the innocent. 15 For the use of the term “medium” here see N. Luhmann, Die Gesellschaft der Gesellschaft, Vol. I (Franfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1997), 190–202. 14

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comes from the comparison. It is important to note that this approach competes with an interpretation which views the prehistory as a linear narrative. Creation, fall, flood, and finally the dispersion of humanity throughout the world are understood, in this perspective, as individual episodes of an overarching narrative that unfolds successively. The composition of Genesis 1–11 is not, then, a comparison of the pre- and post-flood worlds but rather a contrast between the good creation at the beginning and the perversion of the world by human sin. The main representatives of this line of interpretation e.g. Gerhard von Rad, speak of the “snowballing” of sin since creation.16 Rolf Rendtorff modified this approach by arguing that the turn to renewed blessing is seen not first in Gen 12 but rather with God’s promise to maintain the earth in Gen 8:20– 22. Rendtorff assumes that this commitment rescinds the curses of Gen 3. Many arguments have been made against this interpretation in terms of the drama of salvation history, of the prehistory in general, and the flood narrative in particular.17 Von Rad’s model appears problematic in that the almost total destruction of the world as a reaction of God to the “violence of all flesh” or the “wickedness of the human heart” is hardly less dramatic than then scattering of humanity over the whole of the earth in Gen 11:1–9. The theme of the climactic growth of evil between Gen 3 and 11 continues past this text. However, Rendtorff’s centering on the turning point in the salvation history does not solve this problem, because, as Odil Hannes Steck has shown, the reality of the prehistory curses is not rescinded after the flood.18 Within the interpretations of the prehistory which rely on a narrative and linear understanding, the deeper meaning behind the stories remains superficial. This becomes accessible, however, when the flood narrative is read as the axis of the prehistory in either direction.19 16

G. von Rad, Das Erste Buch Mose. Genesis, ATD 2–4 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 121987), 86. 17 For a discussion of this, see N.C. Baumgart, Die Umkehr des Schöpfergottes. Zu Komposition und religionsgeschichtlichem Hintergund von Gen 5–9, HBS 22 (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1999), 153–154. 18 O.H. Steck, “Genesis 12,1–3 und die Urgeschichte des Jahwisten” in Probleme biblischer Theologie, ed. H.W. Wolff (München: Christian Kaiser Verlag, 1971), 525–553. 19 The question regarding the boundaries of the prehistory remains controversial. In addition to the traditional view that prehistory ends in Gen 11 is the view that the flood narrative is the highpoint and conclusion of the prehistory and that Gen 10 and 11 are later points of connection and transition (cf. Baumgart, Umkehr, 9–37; J.C. Gertz, “Tora und Vordere Propheten” in Grundinformation Altes Testament (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2006), 187–302; S.D. McBride, “Divine Protocol: Gen 1:1–2:3 as Prologue to the Pentateuch,” in God Who Creates, ed. W.P. Brown and S.D. McBride (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 3–22). The difficulty lies in the fact that Gen 11:1–9 must then be separated from Gen 2–3 and viewed as a later addition, which given the tight literary and motif parallels makes little sense without further clarification (see K. Schmid, Literaturgeschiche des Alten Testaments. Eine Einführung (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2008), 155). This

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The independent literary and theological character of the flood narrative is proven by its transmission process. While the composition of Genesis 1–11 is otherwise marked mostly by the juxtaposition of stories of different types and literary origins, within the flood narrative are layers built on earlier layers which indicate that this portion of the prehistory was the subject of continuing intellectual work.20 In contrast to the Mesopotamian epics, the world presented in the biblical prehistory was, in the beginning, stable and based on a conflict-free order. The creation account from Gen 1:1–2:3 describes the sovereign and planned creative activities of a single deity. Also different from the Mesopotamian texts is the fact that the world is judged for its worth and declared “good” and, as a complete ensemble, “very good.” This value judgment is, in several respects, enigmatic. It raises the question of what exactly is meant by this judgment. Is it directed toward the quality of the craftsmanship of creation? Is it the experienced eye of the master crafter that imparts the seal of approval to the work of his own hands? This view particularly fits with those passages of the creation account which present the creation of the cosmos as more of a work of craftsmanship than as a “wordevent.”21 Or does the designation as “good” go further still so that it describes not only the “style” of that which is created but the very nature. “Good” then describes the manner in which the creatures respond to the order given them to be fruitful and to fill the portion of the world assigned to them. When the creation account is read through this latter perspective, the question of how it could come about that “Project Creation” could fail and a new beginning after the flood was needed becomes all the more urgent. One must clarify that even shorter version of the prehistory also stands or falls with the assumption that the source text which runs through the whole is older than the priestly version and was taken up and expanded by it. While this assumption about the prehistory has been around since the Documentary Hypothesis of Wellhausen, in newer research, the thesis that the relationship was reversed and that the P-version of Gen 1–11 was gradually expanded to include non-P parts is discussed (for a history of the research, see A. Schüle, Der Prolog der Hebräischen Bible. Der literar- und theologiegeschichtliche Diskurs der Urgeschichte (Gen 1–11), AThANT 86 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2006), 11–40). 20 The interpretation of the scope and dating of these layers as well as their relationship to other parts of the prehistory is certainly disputed. For newer works which deal with this overall question, see Baumgart, Umkehr, 381–418; E. Bosshard-Nepustil, Vor uns die Sintflut: Studien zu Text, Kontexten und Rezeption der Fluterzählung Genesis 6–9, BWANT 165 (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2005); Schüle, Prolog, 247–257. 21 For distinguishing between word and deed reports, W.H. Schmidt Die Schöpfungsgeschichte der Priesterschrift (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1964), 73–159 is still instructive. A refined differentiation of divine creation among the stronger religio-historical perspectives has been presented by O. Keel and S. Schroer, Schöpfung: Biblische Theologien im Kontext altorientalischer Religionen (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2001), 100– 135.

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after Gen 1:1–2:3, the created world is not the best of all possible worlds. In contrast to both Leibniz’s modern myth and the myths of the ancient world, the cause of the imperfection of the world is not already embedded in the cosmogony. The biblical creation does not derive from strife, conflict, and drama, and it is also not the result of a calculating and planning God who makes the best that is possible out of imperfect pieces. According to Gen 1:1–2:3, God creates the world exactly how God wants it, without coercion and without restraints.22 Against this background, the flood narrative becomes the key text to the question of why evil and suffering are included in the very good creation.23 Given the complex transmission history of Gen 6–9, it is not surprising that there is not one single answer to this question but several. Let us turn first to the layer of Gen 6–9 which, according to the general consensus, is patterned on the creation account of Gen 1:1–2:3. This is technically referred to as the priestly tradition (P) of the prehistory. 3.1 The Violent Temperament of the Creatures In a characteristically direct manner, the priestly tradition offers a concise reason as to why the creation is at an end after only a short time – Gen 5 counts ten generations between the creation and the flood. After the creation of the world, God looks in on it occasionally and notes that it has become “full” of violence (Gen 6:11). The speech is certainly meant to recall the speech of Gen 1 in which the verb ‫ מלא‬is used in the context of the creation mandate to increase and inhabit the world. What has proliferated is not, however, the life wanted and blessed by God but rather “violence.” The term ‫ חמס‬occurs here rather abruptly and, as is usual for the priestly source, has very little context within the narrative. It is all the more striking that the violence is not limited to human behavior, but rather it includes all “flesh,” animal as well as human. The verb ‫שחת‬, “to destroy, damage,” belongs to the same semantic field, which interestingly describes both the creaturely behavior which leads to the flood and to the destructive action of God in the form of the flood. Action and consequence are, in this way, presented as corresponding with each other.24 But 22 This has recently been reemphasized by M.S. Smith, The Priestly Vision of Genesis 1 (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2010), 60–61. 23 It is regrettable that the tendency within the current research on the prehistory is to interpret the priestly creation account separately from the other P-texts within Gen 1–11. Smith, Priestly Vision, 64, says, “Genesis 1 does not deny evil (certainly not in any explicit way), but it simply ignores it and instead elevates a vision of good, perhaps in response to Israel’s experience of trauma and evil during the sixth century BCE.” This can, however, only be claimed by disregarding Gen 6:9–12. For P, this world is the world in which we live, not only the world of Gen 1 but also the world of Gen 9:1–17 in the light of the spread of violence, the restoration by the flood, and with a new world order. Thus Baumgart, Umkehr, 252–260, rightly highlighted. 24 Schüle, Prolog, 263.

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what precisely is meant by violence and destruction? The inclusion of the animal world indicates that this is not the level of ethical reflection presumed by the knowledge of good and evil in Gen 3. Likewise, violence seems to refer to more than a raw state, which a current view might ascribe to an early stage of evolution. The term indicates not only actions that are purely instinctive but also planned, intentional actions. In Ex 23:1 and Dtn 19:16 “false witness” is described as ‫עד חמס‬, applying the term to someone deliberately lying in order to inflict damage upon another. In the context of wisdom literature, ‫ חמס‬can also take on the meaning of “sacrilege” and be parallel to terms such as injustice (‫ )רשע‬and sin (‫( )חטאת‬cf. Prov 8:36; 10:6, 11).25 The creatures of the preflood world, therefore, have a tendency to willingly destroy each other, which stands in direct contrast to the principle of peaceful coexistence with which God organized the world according to Gen 1. How exactly the priestly tradition imagines the pre-flood world is difficult to say due to a lack of narrative illustration. The priestly tradition is also silent on the matter of where the violence which rapidly spread throughout the world came from. However, it is, again, the creation account which offers the relevant background context. According to Gen 1:1–3, the pre-creation world is by no means empty but is on the contrary a place of turbulence. Here the proverbial Tohu Wabohu holds sway, which is inherently without energy that is either friendly or supportive of life. The floodwaters and the primordial darkness are elements which must first be pushed back and then constantly monitored in order that they not endanger creation. Regarding the floodwaters, God creates the firmament which functions as a shield. To subdue the chaos-darkness, God creates the bodies of light, the sun and the moon, which are to “rule” over the day and night (Gen 1:16). When one looks beyond the poetry of this formulation,26 these elements of chaos can be seen clearly as a permanent threat to creation. In this context, it is possible to understand the discussion of violence which, for the priestly text, leads directly to the reason for the flood. Unlike the darkness and flood waters, violence is not an external threat to the world but one from within. Violence is, therefore, something which is inherent to “all flesh” in ways not quite describable. From a current perspective, it might be described as a genetic predisposition for which individuals are not responsible

25 This moral-intentional interpretation of violence continues my considerations in Schüle, Prolog, 309. 26 Earlier research viewed the “dominion” of the stars as a rudimentary element of the struggle of the gods; however, that does not bear any importance upon the creation theology of P (cf. the overview by C. Westermann, Genesis 1–3, BK I/1.1 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 41999), 182–183. Yet, that remains more of a plausible possibility for a text-based interpretation. The fact is that “domination” is a leitmotiv of Gen 1, to which the creation commands to be fruitful, multiply, and fill the earth belong and which points to a planned, theological composition.

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but which, nonetheless, has a significant effect on their actions. Moreover, according to the priestly world view, the violent tendencies of all creatures have an aggressively expansionary characteristic. Violence spreads throughout and fills the world so much that the result is a completely corrupted world. Here again is the correspondence between “to be ruined” as a description of the world and “to ruin” as divine intervention, which suggests the conclusion that the flood obliterates a world which had already brought about its own end.27 God’s very good creation proves in retrospect to be fragile and vulnerable to the destructive forces that existed even before God created the world. Against this background, when one turns back to the question of evil, two things become certain. 1. Although violence is at no point personified in the sense of an intelligent being, it does involve a force or power that spreads indefinitely and without hindrance. While this suggestion of an automatic process which describes violence as evil seems sensible, the priestly tradition does not use such a term (like ‫ )רע‬as the opposite-complementary to “good” in the framework of the prehistory. 2. The discussion of the chaos elements which stand against the created world as a threat is based on a dualistic worldview. For the priestly tradition, the created world is not the relatively best world such as one finds in different variations in other ancient and modern myths. As a result of the sovereign creative activity of God, the world, as it is, is without blemish and without any conceivable alternative. The experience of suffering and evil is not ascribed to the imperfection of the world (Leibniz) nor seen as a result of the prehistoric struggles and conflicts of the gods as is found in the myths of Mesopotamia and Ugarit. Rather the very good creation stands against uncreated powers, which present a constant threat. Accordingly, there is, for the priestly tradition, no “necessary evil” that is a component of the cosmic order. The experience of suffering is rather traced to the presence and efficacy of such powers that God, according to the texts of the priestly tradition, reins in; though God is not able to keep them from the world entirely.28 This cosmological dualism has usually been viewed as evidence of the influence of Zoroastrianism on the priestly tradition. Within more recent discus-

27

Schüle, Prolog, 263. T. Krüger, “Sündenfall? Überlegungen zur theologischen Bedeutung der Paradiesgeschichte,” in Das menschliche Herz und die Weisung Gottes: Studien zur alttestamentlichen Anthropologie und Ethik, AThANT 96 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2009), 37, points to the categorical distinctions which the priestly source makes in which God alone imputes the designation “very good” to the world which humanity and animals then “corrupt.” Krüger notes that such a clear distinction cannot be found in Gen 2–3, but rather here “divine and human activity [are] so entangled with one another that it is difficult to ascribe the described developments clearly to God or to humanity” (37). 28

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sions, this theory has, justifiably, become less important in that there is agreement that the Persian sources are from a considerably later period.29 Nevertheless, the observation stands that the priestly tradition’s contrast between the very good creation and the uncreated powers of chaos does not have its closest parallel within the myths of the ancient Near East but in the cosmological dualism of Zoroastrianism. Within its contemporary context, the interpretation of evil in the world is strikingly isolated. What is different after the flood? To what extent does the “new” world differ from the “old,” particularly regarding the question of evil? The sobering answer is that there is absolutely no correction to creation itself. The reality that violence is inherent to all flesh remains. However, God issues regulations which specifically address this tendency for violence. To this end, God establishes a unilateral covenant that grants the world an unconditional guarantee of existence (Gen 9:9–17). Through this, God imposes self-restraint regarding how God will respond to corruption in the future. As in the Mesopotamian parallels, this rules out global destruction as a response. On the other hand, God establishes a new order after the flood through a prohibition with sanctions (Gen 9:4–6). To the creation command of living things to multiply and fill their respective habitats, new provisions are added about what they must not do – shed blood for purposes other than food. It is generally agreed that, in the view of the creation account, all living beings are to be vegetarian (Gen 1:30). Only after the flood does God change this and allow for a controlled degree of violence. Through this sanction, a mechanism is created to restrain the corrosive spread of violence, which is analogous to the other chaos elements of the chaosdarkness and the floodwaters. More recently, this is referred to as the establishment of the food chain as a part of the created order in which only humans are excluded as possible victims. The narrative presentation of the differences between the pre- and post-flood worlds has a whole series of theological implications. Though rarely considered, the priestly prehistory can be understood as an etiology of covenant and commandment and thus as an etiology of Torah.30 Here is the cosmological reason why it is not enough for the world to simply go its own “natural” way but rather requires a form of order which God must advocate. In this way, the hermeneutical groundwork is laid for the giving of the laws at Sinai.31 From the priestly prehistory, the meaning of the commandment consists in preserving the world from those forces that are counter to God’s creative purpose and lead to destruction. In this way, it is also clear that post-flood world order runs coun-

29 Cf. J. Blenkinsopp, Creation, Un-Creation, Re-Creation: A Discursive Commentary on Genesis 1–11 (London/New York: T&T Clark, 2011), 24–25. 30 See the essay The Primeval History as an Etiology of Torah included in this volume. 31 Schüle, Prolog, 315.

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ter to the original creation and is an expression of God’s unfulfilled expectation. For the priestly tradition, the commandments of Gen 9:4–6 are not progress but are rather intended to preserve that which fell into danger because of the creatures’ tendency to violence. In order for the original creation mandate and blessing to come to fruition, the commandment and intervention of God as the law giver is required. In a way, the perspective of the Mesopotamian myth is reversed. There the transition to the post-flood world occurs at the same time as the transition from conflict and capriciousness to binding order. In contrast, the priestly tradition begins with the presentation of order, which then proves, however, to be endangered by and vulnerable to forces that are adverse to creation and, to an extent, evil. Finally, it should be noted that the post-flood commandments of the priestly tradition are not established to overcome evil but rather to restrict it. The wisdom knowledge of the priestly flood account lies in the idea that evil and suffering are also a part of a world that is under the sign of God’s blessing, God’s covenant, and God’s commandment. These evils are, however, not calculated metaphysically as in Leibniz but are unavoidable insofar as that they have their source in the persistence of evil as an ungodly power. 3.2 The Human Heart The question regarding the defect in the pre-flood world is a theme that more than one layer of the flood story addresses. For our purposes, it is not necessary to deal with the question of whether the non-priestly material in Gen 6–9 belonged to an independent source which forms a continuous layer or is midrashic supplemental material meant to update particular parts of the narrative. In any case, there is a consensus that the discussion of evil thoughts and plans in the human heart provides a different reason for the flood than that of the priestly source. Here it is not “all flesh” but specifically the human heart that is the subject of the discussion of “evil” (‫)רע‬. The priestly source itself does not use the term ‫רע‬, “bad, evil,” either in narrative or legal texts. In this respect, its use in Gen 6:5 and 8:21 as a complement, if not diametrically opposed to the discussion of “good” (‫)טוב‬, runs through the non-priestly creation account as a leitmotiv. According to Gen 6:5 and 8:21, there is something that is not “good” but rather “bad” or “evil” that is literally “the form of the human heart.” One can ask whether ‫ רע‬here means “bad” in the sense of a qualitative lack or “evil” as a moral category. Are the human “thoughts and aspirations” (Luther) thus defective or rather intentionally evil?32 In this context, it has been

32 Although this cannot be specifically discussed here, this question relates to the relationship of the non-priestly passages of the flood narrative to the Eden narrative of Gen 2– 3. If Gen 6:5 and 8:21 presuppose the Eden narrative, then this sets the discussion of the

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pointed out that in 6:5 and 8:21 it is not the human heart itself that is considered bad or evil but rather the thoughts which arise from it.33 Is the idea then that humans are unable to do the good they want to do? In his “stereometric” anthropology of the Old Testament, Hans Walter Wolff describes the heart as the rational center of the human being.34 As such it is materially associated with awareness, intentionality, and considered action. Thus it makes very little sense to differentiate between the heart and its “thought formations.” The heart is the bodily manifestation of thought. So if the discussion is about the evil thoughts of the heart, it is tantamount to claiming that the human heart itself is evil. In this way, the non-priestly flood account localizes evil at a specific point in creation. While the priestly writer understand evil/violence as a power that increasingly “fills” the space of creation, in the non-priestly passages, the understanding is that evil has its origin in the human heart and spreads from there. This is, at least implicitly, a critical evaluation of Gen 1, especially as evil is associated with something that God did in fact create.35 The idea of the evil heart stands out as rather radical in the context of the other traditions of the Old Testament. One finds in Ezekiel the conviction that the heart is portrayed as the “point of vulnerability” which is responsible for the disturbed relationship between God and God’s people. For Ezekiel, this leads to the idea that God will eventually replace the human heart of stone with a heart of flesh (Ez 11:19; 36:26).36 However, Ezekiel does not come anywhere close to saying that the stone heart is, in the sense of Gen 6:5 and 8:21, an evil heart. Furthermore, it is notable that the evil hearts of humanity remain a reality “evil heart” in the thematic context of the knowledge of good and evil (Gen 2:9, 17). However, the relationship among the non-priestly texts of the prehistory is more controversial than ever. With all due caution, one can say that the attribution of this text to a continuous layer (with this being either older or younger than the priestly source) is increasingly in doubt. 33 F. Crüsemann, “Autonomie und Sünde: Genesis 4,7 und die ‘jahwistische’ Urgeschichte,” in Kanon und Sozialgeschichte: Beiträge zum Alten Testament (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2003), 53–54. 34 H.W. Wolff, Anthropologie des Alten Testaments (München: Christian Kaiser Verlag, 5 1990), 25–48; for the continuation of this approach, cf. B. Janowski, Konfliktgespräche mit Gott: Eine Anthropologie der Psalmen (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2009), 166–170. 35 The tendency to relativize the “peak statements” in P can also be observed in other parts of the non-priestly flood narrative. For example, unlike in P, Noah is not a perfect, in every way blameless person but rather the one who finds grace (‫ )חן‬in the eyes of YHWH. This leads to the idea, as suggested by T. Krüger, that Noah is not an absolutely just but a “relatively ‘just’” person compared to the rest of humanity (T. Krüger, “Das menschliche Herz und die Weisung Gottes,” in Das menschliche Herz, 107–136, 109). 36 For an overview of the theme of the heart in Ezekiel, see F. Sedlmeier, “Transformationen: Zur Anthropologie Ezechiels,” in Anthropologische Aufbrüche: Alttestamentliche und interdisziplinäre Zugänge zur historischen Anthropologie, ed. A. Wagner, FRLANT 232 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2009), 203–233.

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in the post-flood world. The new beginning after the flood is similar to that of the priestly text in that there is no change to creation itself. The only difference lies in the idea that, in the face of the continuing reality of evil hearts, God relinquishes the right to drown the world in a flood again. This alone would be a very modest point, unless one reads Gen 6:5–8 and 8:20–22 in light of the commandment, which God establishes in Gen 9:4–6 to protect life. In this perception of the non-priestly texts the commandment not to shed another human’s blodd is specifically directed to the damage caused by the evil hearts – the damage humans willingly inflict upon one another. In other words, humanity must be protected from itself. It is worthwhile, at this point, to emphasize that, within the final form of the prehistory, two extreme anthropological claims chafe against one another. On one hand, humans are described as being in the image of God, and on the other, their “thoughts and aspirations” are said to spring from an evil heart. Humanity is intended to have dominion over the earth while, at the same time, the danger which would throw the world into decline comes from them. Thus, one gets the impression that it is exactly these paradoxical perspectives that significantly advance the reflection on humanity within the prehistory. They are not isolated, lone statements which characterize the image of humanity but rather a discourse which unfolds between the various layers of the text. 3.3 Evil in the Flood Narrative – A Conclusion One of the key insights that the flood narrative conveys to readers is that the experienced world falls short of what it should be. In contrast to Leibniz, the world is not the best of all possibilities but rather one that has not realized its purpose. The consequence of this is not that God repaired the defects of the world or created a new world from scratch. Instead, God established new forms of order – covenant and commandment – that guarantee the continuance of the world.37 Accordingly, the expectation of the prehistory does not point to evil being overcome. Instead, the question is how one can live in a world in which evil remains present and efficacious. In other words, the prehistory is more interested in a wisdom perspective than an eschatological trajectory. However, Jon Levenson maintains that the priestly pre-history includes, at least implicitly, some eschatological expectation. The God to whom this theology bears witness is not the one who continually acts in history, but one whose acts are clustered either in the primordial past or in the eschatological future, or both, that is, the God who will reactivate his mighty deeds and close the horrific parenthesis that is ordinary history.38

37

For this, see also Blenkinsopp, Creation, 145–154. J.D. Levenson, Creation and the Persistence of Evil: The Jewish Drama of Divine Omnipotence (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 50. 38

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Indeed, it is striking that according to the priestly source of Gen 1–11, humanity is released into the historical world in which evil remains at work, a situation which God apparently tolerates. Thus the question arises as to when God will finally act to do what anyone would expect of a truly omnipotent God: to rid the world of evil once and for all. Exactly because of this expectation, it is striking that at no point does the priestly source explicitly pose this question or offer an answer. One eschatological answer which corresponds with the priestly cosmology, as outlined by Levenson, is, however, found in the prophetic tradition. Of particular relevance is the book of Isaiah, which features a wide range of content and linguistic parallels with the creation story of the priestly source. The “Vision of the Peaceful Kingdom” (Is 11:1–9; 65:25) can be seen as a summation of this point with its imagination of the transformation of creation into the peaceful state in which, according to Gen 1, it always should have been. Furthermore, Isaiah’s idea of the new heaven and the new earth, which God will create (‫)ברא‬, contains the vocabulary of creation theology and combines this with the defeat of suffering and need (65:17–25). In the so called “Little Apocalypse of Isaiah,” the similar expectation that God will finally “devour” (‫ )בלע‬death as the last enemy and will wipe away all tears (Is 25:8; see also 65:19) is found. Therefore, the eschatology based in creation theology outlined by Levenson39 is not so much a characteristic of the priestly source itself as it results from a canonical hermeneutic which uses the melding of the prehistory and the prophetic eschatology. For its part, the priestly writing sees in evil something uncreated and inexplicable, something that is as chaotic and threatening as the chaos elements of Gen 1:2. As has been indicated, this view of evil is based on a dualistic world view, which invites, from today’s perspective, a critical analysis of the theology of the priestly prehistory. The mythology of a battle with chaos, the fingerprint of which is found in the prehistory, sees God as a conqueror or tamer of those powers which are hostile to life, but not as the sovereign over all reality. The non-priestly flood tradition, in contrast, sets a different accent by shifting the discussion of evil from outside to inside. Evil is not an arcane power but rather is associated with a created thing – the human heart. God acknowledges this flaw by repenting of having created the human race. Again, the idea of an imperfect world is not to think ahead in the direction of an eschatology of perfection. The wickedness of the human heart is not a temporary blemish. Rather it is viewed as a permanent reality. In a completely different understanding, the prophets pick up where the prehistory stops. So it is promised in the book of Ezekiel that God will finally swap out Israel’s heart of stone for

39 Cf. Levenson’s precise formulation of this eschatology, “The overwhelming tendency of biblical writers as they confront underserved evil is not to explain it away but all upon God to blast it away” (Levenson, Creation, XVII).

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one of flesh,40 which is exactly the opposite of the heart that Israel has had from the beginning and is the one they should have had. And I will give them another heart, and put a new spirit within them;41 I will remove the heart of stone from their flesh and give them a heart of flesh.42 (Ez 11:19)

For both layers of the text, the priestly and the non-priestly, the prophetic tradition proves to be an eschatological extension. This is not meant to be a statement regarding the chronological relationship between these texts. More important is that the question of the defeat of evil in the full sense only stands at the level of the full canon and thus can also only be answered canonically. It requires both components, the cosmological and creation theology of the texts of the prehistory and the prophetic eschatology.

4. Sin at the Doorstep (Gen 4:7) From the perspective of the Christian reception, the locus classicus of the doctrine of evil is not the flood narrative but the grasping of the forbidden fruit of the Tree of Knowledge in Gen 3. This “fall from grace” is the starting point of all evil in the world, because humanity turned away from God and God’s commandment. Here was a fundamental decision which permanently alienated humanity from God. Disobedience to God is the cardinal sin which opens the door to evil. In order to support this primarily dogmatically motivated interpretation, texts which seem to agree with the doctrine of original sin are highlighted while others are pushed to the background. In this case, the aspect of the gain of the knowledge of good and evil is neglected. For the doctrine of original sin, it does not matter what humanity gained or lost with this knowledge. One could

40 For the theme of the “new heart,” see T. Krüger, “Das ‘Herz’ in der alttestamentlichen Anthropologie,” in Anthropologische Aufbrüche: Alttestamentliche und interdisziplinäre Zugänge zur historischen Anthropologie, ed. A. Wagner, FRLANT 232 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2009), 115–118, and for a view of the on the prehistory and the prophetic statements of the human heart, A. Schüle, “Evil from the Heart: Qoheleth’s Negative Anthropology and its Canonical Context”, in The Language of Qohelet in its Context, ed. A. Berlejung and P. Van Hecke (Leuven: Peeters Publishing, 2007), 157–176 (also included in this volume). 41 Text critical emendation, counter MT, “within you.” 42 Here, the repeated use of “flesh” is noteworthy. This emphasizes that the heart of stone is a foreign body. At the very least, it is worth considering whether the repetitive use of the word “flesh” points to Gen 6:12. In this case the new heart would actually stand for a transformation or new creation of “all flesh,” which in the prehistory appears under the sign of violence and corruption.

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say that the fruit had only a “placebo” effect, because the decisive data is that eating the fruit was an act of disobedience.43 Exegetically, the knowledge of good and evil plays at least as important a role as the decision of humanity to transgress the commandment of God. Only here, in the prehistory, does one encounter both the concepts of ‫טוב‬, “good,” and ‫רע‬, “evil,” side by side, as otherwise they are embedded in different contexts. The combination of the two terms under the category of knowledge adds a new perspective to the larger primeval narrative. Whereas in the priestly and non-priestly flood narratives it is God alone who has this knowledge and evaluates the world in the beginning as good and the human heart as bad, in Gen 2 and 3 this becomes a human capacity. In Gen 6–9 it seems that humanity, like all other living things, lives according to its nature – beings of flesh either exposed to the power of violence or which behave according to the drive of their (evil) hearts. Whether and to what extent persons are aware of the existence of evil in their world is not a central theme and plays no decisive role. This is different, however, in Gen 2–4. Here, humans are not pre-determined beings but ones that can assess their thinking and act morally. People know what good and evil are and, in this way, are now like God (Gen 3:22).44 However, this knowledge does not guarantee that people have the tendency to seek the good and shun evil. Rather, the knowledge-enabled person remains subject to influences which cause them, despite and counter to their better knowledge, to do evil.45 This divergence becomes the subject of the Cain and Abel story. Of course Cain knows that he should be his brother’s keeper instead of killing him. This is demonstrated by the fact that he, like his parents in Gen 3:11–13, dodges God’s question and diverts attention from his actions. There is no doubt regarding good and evil. There is no ethical relativism, and Cain is still a murderer. How is it that the person who knows something is evil does evil despite knowing better? This question and its answer is the essence of the brief divine speech in Gen 4:6–7. The LORD said to Cain, “Why are you angry, and why has your countenance fallen? If you do well, will you not be accepted?46 And if you do not do well, sin is lurking at the door; its desire is for you, but you must master it.”

43

Crüsemann, “Autonomie und Sünde,” 51, aptly states that “the text of Gen 3:22 does ascertain that human autonomy does indeed follow the transgression of divine law… but it itself is for them (humanity) not sin but rather a basic reality of human existence with all its ambivalence.” 44 See ibid., 51. 45 For the use of the terminology of “autonomy” and “ambivalence” introduced by Crüsemann, see H. Spieckermann, “Ambivalenzen: Ermöglichte und verwirklichte Schöpfung in Genesis 2f.,” in Verbindungslinien, FS W.H. Schmidt, ed. A. Graupner, H. Delkurt, and A.B. Ernst (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2000), 363–376. 46 Literally, “raised” or “elevated.”

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Somewhat unexpectedly, God acts here as a psychologist, clarifying the emotional situation to Cain. Feelings such as jealousy, anger, and disappointment make people susceptible to the wiles of sin. Strikingly, the dichotomy of good and evil is varied. The good which the human should bring forth is pitted against sin personified. In this way, their own, unique dynamic is attributed to the two variables. While the good only happens when people “produce” it, sin has its own, autonomous efficacy. Part of this line of thought is that doing the good forms a protective shield which keeps sin at a distance. As strange as this view of good and evil may seem at first, it turns out to be, upon closer inspection, a logical continuation of the priestly creation and flood accounts. As Gen 1:16 and 26 emphasize, the continuance of the world created by God requires certain forms of dominion. This idea is repeated in Gen 4:7 by the inclusion of the term ‫( משל‬cf. Gen 1:16). Here the human is not entrusted with dominion over the earth in general but specifically with dominion over sin. The numinous power, the beginning chaos elements associated with violence in the priestly tradition, thus assumes the form of sin, which directs its desire toward humans. In contrast with the non-priestly flood narrative, humans are seen as the “entryway” but not the cause of sin. According to Gen 4:7, humans should and can bring forth good, which stands in direct tension with the evil thought structures of the human heart in Gen 6:5 and 8:21. If one were to ask for an analog to the the non-priestly flood narrative according to the canonical perspective, then this would lead less to the track of prophetical eschatology and more to the instructions of wisdom literature. Precisely because the person is expected and trusted to master evil, the hope one reads between the lines of Gen 2–4 is not for an ultimate elimination of evil through God’s final intervention, as Levenson describes for the priestly source. Rather what is required is the recognition of evil and its “wiles” and the ability of humans to counter evil with good. This is quintessentially the meaning of God’s speech to Cain in Gen 4:6–7. God in the role of a philosopher as psychologist explains to Cain what evil is, how it operates, and how people should respond to it. To put it in terms of the Old Testament, God is here the teacher of wisdom and Cain the student, who cannot grasp the “lesson.” While Gen 3 tells the story of how humanity, certainly by a dubious path, gains wisdom, Gen 4:6–7 explains what humanity needs for life outside of God’s garden. So the myth of the Eden narrative in Gen 2–4 proves to be an etiology of wisdom and prepares the ground for the wisdom texts of the Old Testament.47 47 For the recently reinforced indications of the deeper dimensions of wisdom in the Eden narrative, see, among others, J.C. Gertz, “Beobachtunen zum literarischen Charakter und zum geistesgeschichtlichen Ort der nichtpriesterschriftlichen Sintluterzählung,” in Auf dem Weg zur Endgestalt von Genesis bis II Regum, ed. M. Beck and U. Schorn, BZAW 370 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2006), 56–57; LaCocque, Trial of Innocence, 40–45; Mettinger, Eden Narrative, 1129–1129; K. Schmid, “Die Unteilbarkeit der Weisheit: Überlegungen zur sogenannten Paradieserzählung Gen 2f und ihrer theologischen Tendenz,” ZAW 114 (2002),

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5. Conclusion We began the exploration of the idea of evil with the contemplation of Leibniz’s theodicy, the crux of which is that “evil” does not exist, at least not in the broad sense as an autonomous power or an active principle. While the immediate experience of evil and suffering could lead to the adoption of the idea of evil, a rational contemplation of the world leads to a different conclusion. Negative experiences are the result of the unavoidable imperfection of the world, which is, in the light of all the alternatives, nevertheless the best of all possible worlds. The biblical prehistory, in all its different literary layers and theological perspectives, stands in contrast to this view. Like Leibniz’s modern myth, the prehistory claims that God alone created the world. However, the idea that the creator God calculated and created, with the limitations of the available materials, the best of all possible worlds, is foreign to the prehistory. The evaluation of creation as unconditionally “very good” in Gen 1:31 is the powerful opening chord which sets the tone of the prehistory in all its parts. In contrast, evil is a foreign power whose effectiveness stands counter to God’s intentions and actions. However, the understandings of how evil now exits in the world are quite different in the various text layers of Gen 1–11. Whether evil is a primordial chaos power which is personified as violence lying in wait for humans or is manifested in the human heart, these mythological symbols connect to the different ideas about why the experienced world lags behind what it should have been. A comprehensive synthesis of these ideas is not provided, and thus one cannot speak of a unified “doctrine” of evil within the prehistory. At the level of the final text, which the literary materials serve and are processed here as a medium, different approaches to the topic of evil are played out. The theme was developed and viewed in all of its possible variants, without having raised the claim to have reached a once and for all explanation. Though it could only be implied here, the prehistoric texts refer beyond themselves to other canonical traditions, namely that of the prophets and wisdom literature. The questions as to what humans should do in the face of the persistent reality of evil and for

21–39. Only sporadically does the opinion that the Eden narrative articulates a warning about wisdom arise and then only insofar as it goes along with disobedience to God’s commandment (E. Otto, “Die Paradieserzählung Genesis 2–3: Eine nachpriesterliche Lehrerzählung in ihrem reigionshistorischen Kontext,” in “Jedes Ding hat seine Zeit…” Studien zur israelitischen und orientalischen Weisheit, ed. A.A. Diesel et al., BZAW 241 (Berlin, De Gruyter, 1996), 167–192.

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what they may hope become more central in these references than in the mythical texts themselves. In this respect, in the prophets and wisdom literature the “work on myth,” as expressed by Hans Blumenberg, begins.48

48 One can, with Blumenberg, ask to what degree the myth is a transformational resolution through the course of this working (Blumenberg, Arbeit am Mythos, 679–689). Are the answers of the prophetic and wisdom traditions to the prehistoric myths also its completion? Blumenberg has extensively postulated that the end of myth and its abolition in the Logos is itself generally known to be debunked as a myth. Also, in the context of the Old Testament, the progression from Gen 1 to Is 65–66 should not be understood in the sense of completion. As has been set forth by Gerhard von Rad, the Old Testament shifts its readers precisely between the creation at the beginning and the new heaven and the new earth and leaves open the question about the end of the old world with its ultimate consequences. Evil retains its reality and does not vanish under the omen of its defeat (on von Rad’s dialectic on memory and expectation, see A. Schüle, “Deutung, Reflexion, Überlieferung: Eine Erinnerung an Gerhard von Rads Verständnis alttestamentlicher Theologie,” in Theologie in Israel und in den Nachbarkulturen, ed. M. Oeming, K. Schmid, and A. Schüle, ATM 9 (Münster: LIT, 2004), 7–15).

The Divine-Human Marriages Genesis 6:1–4 and the Greek Framing of the Primeval History1 1. Introduction One genre or form that is never really mentioned in exegetical textbooks but that plays a significant role in the life of every exegete is that of a “stubborn text,” meaning a text that has the nasty habit of outmaneuvering the exegete’s best efforts to classify it properly and incorporate it in an interpretative scheme. Despite their stubbornness, or precisely because of it, these texts are the ones that challenge our favorite theories and sometimes even unhinge them. As such, they play an important role in reminding us that our theories about the biblical texts are never quite as complex and deep as the biblical texts themselves. Looking at Gen 1–11, the episode of the so-called angel marriages in 6:1–4 certainly falls under this rubric of a stubborn text. It has been called a “torso” or “fragment”2 that, for some unknown reason, ended up in the Primeval History. During the reign of the documentary hypothesis, 6:1–4 was usually associated with the J3 source and, as such, aligned with the Eden narratives in chs. 2–4, the non-priestly parts of the flood narrative, and the Tower of Babel story. The assumption was that all these different materials were brought together by the J author because of their focus on human depravity and sin.4 The Primeval History of the J source was seen as a subtle description of the human inability to find their place in creation and to submit to the sovereign will of the creator. Instead, humans aspire to becoming like God as the Garden of Eden and the Tower of Babel stories seem to demonstrate. The key metaphor for this wrongheaded ambition is found in the flood narrative, in which human beings have an “evil heart,” which renders all their thoughts, plans, and desires to be correspondingly wicked. Viewed in this perspective, the limitation of the human lifespan to 120 years in 6:3 appears as a punishment of humankind for their hubris that expresses 1 This is a slightly enlarged version of a paper presented at the 2008 Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in Boston, Massachusetts. 2 H. Gunkel, Genesis (Göttingen: Vandenhoek & Ruprecht, 91977), 59. 3 Ibid. 4 Cf. G. von Rad, Das erste Buch Mose. Genesis, ATD 2–4 (Göttingen: Vandenhoek & Ruprecht, 91972), 85; C. Westermann, Genesis 4–11, BK I/1.2 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 41999), 517.

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itself in the marriages of the daughters of Adam to the sons of god. Here, we find just another attempt of humankind to divinize themselves and eventually to acquire what was denied them in the garden of Eden, namely immortality. The problem with this interpretation seems to be that it is quite eclectic in its perception of the text. It highlights certain aspects, such as the limitation of the human lifespan, but downplays or even ignores others including the fact that 6:1–4 depicts a time when there was not only God and humans but a number of intermediary creatures like the sons of God, the giants, and the heroes. The biggest problem, however, with turning 6:1–4 into an account of human sin is that there is no mention whatsoever of any sinful activity on the part of the daughters of Adam. There is no signal in the text that suggests that they “seduced” the sons of God into having sexual intercourse with them.5 The emphasis is on what the sons of God do: they see (‫ )ראה‬that the human women are beautiful (‫ )טובות‬and they take (‫ )לקח‬them for wives. It is not clear, if one has to think of these liaisons between humans and gods as sexual adventures or as marriage-like relationships. The text does not put any emphasis on this particular aspect. Also, no moral judgment is passed onto the situation. All that the text suggests is that there was a time in the early history of the world and of humankind when the boundaries between the divine and the human spheres were still fluid.6 The result of this mixing and mingling is the emergence of a new generation of beings, the gibborim, or, as the term is usually translated, the “heroes.”7 If one approaches the text without a preconceived notion of what it should say in the context of the Primeval History in general or of a smaller part of it, such the J stratum, it turns out that it gives us an image of the world and its inhabitants that is characteristically different, especially from the one of the creation account in Gen 1. There, the world already has clear-cut boundaries between humankind and their creator. God creates human beings in an initial act that determines what and who human beings are. Also, the world of Gen 1 and also of Gen 2 recognizes one God and one human species, but no other beings that fill the distance between the two, like semi-gods, super-humans, or 5 For a discussion of whether and to what extent the “sin” of the human daughters should be understood as “fate,” cf. M. Oeming, “Sünde als Verhängnis. Gen 6,1–4 im Rahmen der Urgeschichte des Jahwisten,” TThZ 102 (1993) 34–50, and M. Vervenne, “All they need is love. Once more Genesis 6:1–4,” in Words Remembered, Texts Renewed, ed. J. Davies, JSOT Sup 195 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995), 19–40. 6 Cf. W. Schlisske, Gottessöhne und Gottessohn im Alten Testament. Phasen der Entmythologisierung im Alten Testament, BWANT 97 (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1973), 15–32. 7 The question of the identity of the “sons of God” as well as of the “heroes” has triggered much debate among scholars. For a detailed review of the solutions that have been proposed cf. A. Schüle: Der Prolog der hebräischen Bibel. Der literar- und theologiegeschichtliche Diskurs der Urgeschichte (Genesis 1–11), AThANT 86 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2006), 222–225.

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humanoids. What makes 6:1–4 a seemingly awkward and, on the exegetical level, a stubborn text is that it depicts mixing and mingling between gods and humans and the subsequent emergence of new types of beings as characteristics of the primeval world before the flood. This begs the question that should be the starting point for interpreting this text. Why was this peculiar worldview included in the flow of the primeval narratives? To give my answer up front, 6:1–4 appears to be a text that aims at appropriating and, at the same time, critically evaluating elements of Greek mythology. It is a text that gives reason to assume that its original audience was exposed to and familiar with certain themes that one finds primarily in myths originating from the Aegean.8

2. The Text When people began to multiply on the face of the ground, and daughters were born to them, 2 the sons of God saw that they were fair; and they took wives for themselves of all that they chose. 3 Then the LORD said, “My spirit shall not abide in mortals forever, for they are flesh; their days shall be one hundred twenty years.” 4 The Nephilim were on the earth in those days. And when the sons of God went in to the daughters of humans, they bore children to them. These were the heroes that were of old, warriors of renown.

While the text-critical problems of this passage are mostly insignificant, the text presents one translation issue with far-reaching consequences for its interpretation. Verse 4 introduces the Nephilim by mentioning that they were on earth during “those days” (‫)בימים ההם‬. Obviously, this refers back to verse 1, in which “those days” were the time when the sons of God came down to take women for themselves. According to the translation given above, verse 4aα is a complete sentence. Its purpose is to mention yet another group of beings that wandered the earth, in addition to the humans, the sons of God, and eventually the heroes/warriors who emerged from the divine-human encounters. This of course means that there is no explanation for who or what these Nephilim are; they are just thrown into the mix, which is one reason why several Bible translations seek to connect them to the heroes in verse 4b. “Those [i.e. the Nephilim] were the heroes of old ….”9 However, in this case the mention of the children who were born to the sons of God and the human women would seem rather pointless. So the question is whether verses 1–3 should be seen as a closed unit, with verse 4 as an appendix or verses 1–4 should be taken together with verse 4aα as an interlude. The answer, it seems to me, lies in the somewhat 8 Cf. along the same lines especially R.S. Hendel: “Of Demigods and the Deluge. Towards an Interpretation of Genesis 6:1–4,” JBL 106 (1987) 13–26. 9 This line of interpretation goes back to Sir 16:8 and also 1 Enoch, where the Nephilim are identified as the “heroes that were of old.”

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complicated grammar of the phrase ‫וגם אחרי כן‬. Three different analyses have been offered, but only two of them seem sustainable both linguistically and in terms of content. 1. The words ‫ וגם אחרי כן‬should be taken together meaning, “and also afterwards,” with the following ‫ אשר‬introducing an adverbial clause. This, in context, would translate as, “In those days, the Nephilim were on earth, and also afterward, when the sons of God went in to the daughters of Adam and they bore children to them.”10 The problem here is that an adverbial clause referring to ‫ אחר כן‬would strike one as awkward if not impossible in Biblical Hebrew. Also, the timeline of the events would contradict itself. Whereas the first half of the sentence says that the Nephilim were on earth at the time when the sons of God had their liaisons with the human women, the second half would suggest that those liaisons occurred sometime after the Nephilim had set foot on the ground of the earth. 2. In this case, the assumption is that ‫ וגם אחרי כן‬closes the sentence that commences in verse 4a and that ‫ אשר‬opens a sub-clause with the following ‫וילדו‬ ‫ להם‬as a main clause. “In those days, the Nephilim were on earth and also afterwards. When the sons of God went in to the daughters of Adam, they bore them children.”11 This has considerably greater grammatical plausibility than the solution above. Only the content presents a certain problem, since the “also afterwards” suggests that the Nephilim were on earth for a longer period of time, certainly beyond the intermezzo of the divine-human marriages. However, what follows in the storyline of the Primeval History is the flood narrative, which of course suggests that every living being, except for those in Noah’s ark, vanished from the face of the earth. The major difference is that, here, the children that are born to the human women are identified as the “heroes.” 3. Finally, it is possible to see ‫ וגם‬as the beginning of a new clause, “and also,” with ‫ אחרי כן אשר‬as a conjunction that introduces a sub-clause, building up to ‫ וילדו להם‬as the main clause. “The Nephilim were on earth in those days. And also, when the sons of God went in to the daughters of Adam, they bore them children.” This avoids the content issue outlined for solution 2; although it needs to be mentioned that, while ‫ אחרי אשר‬is a common temporal conjunction, ‫ אחרי כן אשר‬would be more unusual in this role. While the linguistic analysis of Gen 6:4 will continue to be debated, it seems safe to assume that in terms of its content this verse sees the children that emerge from the divine-human encounters as the generation of heroes that inhabited the world before the flood. As will be shown below, this assumption 10 Cf. most of the major English Bible translations including the New Revised Standard Version, the New King James, and the English Standard Version. 11 Cf. JPS Tanakh and, among the German translations, the Lutherbibel (1912). Note, however, that the Lutherbibel (1984) identifies the “heroes” as the “giants.”

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receives further support from a religious-historical interpretation of Gen 6:1– 4.

3. The Text in its Literary Context Perhaps the most significant argument against the assumption that 6:1–4 should be seen as some mythic fragment that, for unknown reasons, was washed into the Primeval History is its interconnectedness with some of the preceding texts. In the genealogy of Adam (Gen 5), we are told that the ancestral fathers begot sons and daughters, but while the genealogy of early humankind is traced through the lineage of fathers and sons, there is no mention of whatever happened with the daughters of Adam. The formulaic phrase reads as follows. When Adam had lived one hundred thirty years, he became the father of a son in his likeness, according to his image, and named him Seth. The days of Adam after he became the father of Seth were eight hundred years, and he had sons and daughters.

This is precisely where 6:1–2a picks up the thread from ch. 5: When people began to multiply on the face of the ground, and daughters were born to them, the sons of God saw that they were fair….

So it seems safe to say that we are supposed to understand 6:1–4 as a parallel track to the genealogy of Adam that complements the picture of the early history of humankind. As such, 6:1–4 is not intended to open a new chapter of the Primeval History; we are still in the time of the first ten generations of humankind between Adam and Noah. Another intertextual reference that ties 6:1–4 to its preceding context is the mention of the ‫רוח אלהים‬, the “spirit” or “breath of God.” In verse 3, God decides that God’s spirit shall not abide in human beings for more than 120 years.12 This of course reminds the reader of the scene in Gen 2:7 where God breathes the breath of life into Adam’s nostrils. Whereas the mental image of God’s own breath indwelling in humans connects these texts, the terminology itself is actually different. Gen 2:7 uses the term ‫נשמת חיים‬, “breath of life;” 6:3 on the other hand talks about God’s ‫רוח‬, ruaḥ. The term ruaḥ, however, is no stranger to the reader of the Primeval History. It is introduced right at the outset in Gen 1:3, where the ‫רוח אלהים‬, the “Spirit of God,” moves about above the primordial chaos. By using this particular word ‫ רוח‬and associating it with the image of God breathing the breath of life into Adam, 6:1–4 not only alludes to these previous texts, it offers an exegetical synthesis, suggesting that it was in 12 For an overview of the controversial discussion about this particular detail cf. D.J. Clines, “The Significance of the Sons of God Episode (Genesis 6:1–4) in the Context of the Primeval History (Genesis 1–11),” JSOT 13 (1973), 33–46; D.L. Petersen: “Genesis 6:1–4. Yahweh and the Organization of the Cosmos,” JSOT 13 (1979), 47–64.

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fact this ruaḥ from the beginning that also enlivened Adam and that is the breath of life in all of us. In other words, 6:1–4 participates in the intra-textual exegesis of the Primeval History. Something very similar could be demonstrated for the flood narrative. Gen 7:22 summarizes that everything died that had, literally translated, the “breath of the spirit of life” in their nostrils. This seems to be another way of synthesizing the terminologies of Gen 1:3 and 2:7, suggesting that God’s own spirit is the life force in every living being. Just as an aside, it has not always been recognized that the Primeval History hosts a rich and diverse discourse about the nature of life itself, about what constitutes a living being, and about what distinguishes something that’s alive from something that’s dead. 1:1–3a When God began to create heaven and earth – the earth being unformed and void, with darkness over the surface of the deep and the spirit (‫ )רוח‬of God sweeping over the water – God said … 2:7 Then the LORD God formed Adam from the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life (‫ ;)נשמת חיים‬and Adam became a living being. 6:3 Then the LORD said, “My spirit (‫ )רוחי‬shall not abide in mortals forever, for they are flesh; their days shall be one hundred twenty years.” 7:22 Everything on dry land in whose nostrils was the breath of life (‫ )נשמת רוח חיים‬died.

Our text, Gen 6:1–4, is firmly woven into this discourse, which is why there is no reason to downplay its role for the literary shape as well as the theological message of the Primeval History.

4. The Mythic Elements of Gen 6:1–4 Intertwined with this exegetical discourse about the conditions of life is Gen 6:1–4’s peculiar view that along with humankind there were also other kinds of beings inhabiting the antediluvian world: the sons of God; the heroes; and the even more peculiar Nephilim, sometimes translated as “giants.” When it comes to exploring mythic elements like these, exegetes typically look for parallels in the great Mesopotamian epics, assuming that it was the Babylonian and Assyrian cultures, in the first place, that had a profound impact on the shaping of biblical texts. With regard to Gen 6:1–4, a recent, substantive attempt to interpret this text along the lines of Mesopotamian mythology has been provided by Helge Kvanvig.13 Kvanvig argues that the Mesopotamian myths, especially Atrahasis, depict the early world as one with still uncertain boundaries between the human and the divine spheres. It is only gradually that 13

H.S. Kvanvig, “Genesis 6,1–4 as an Antediluvian Event,” JSOT 16 (2002), 79–112.

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these spheres materialize as strictly separate and that certain rules are established between them. However, as Kvanig himself notices, the most “erratic” details in Gen 6:1–4, the mixing and mingling between humans and gods as a result of sexual intercourse and the emergence of heroes and giants, have no parallels in Mesopotamia. As a matter of fact, one might say these appear rather alien in the ancient Near Eastern context. To add a little anecdote, when I presented the episode of the “Angel Marriages” to a colleague of mine in the ancient Near Eastern Department of the University of Heidelberg and asked him to comment on it from his point of view, he wrinkled his nose, picked up the copy with noticeable distaste, and said to me, “Perhaps you should take this to the Classics department.” As a matter of fact, Gen 6:1–4 looks a lot less “awkward” if one holds this text against the backdrop of Greek mythology. Particularly, the idea of intermarriages between gods and humans from which generations of super-humans or semi-gods emerge has plenty of precedent here. Although in several cases, unlike in Gen 6:1–4, the fathers are actually human and the divine bloodline comes in through the mothers; for example, Achilles, the hero of the Trojan War, is the son of the goddess Thetis and Peleus, king of the Myrmidons. In his Theogony, Hesiod mentions that the goddesses Circe and Calypso had sons with Odysseus and that those sons were called “heroes.” With regard to the combination of divine fathers and human mothers it is Zeus, the highest god, who proves to be the most active and outgoing of all the gods. If one takes the various texts together that mention Zeus’ amorous conquests among mortal women, he is the father of some forty children both sons, for example Heracles and Perseus, and daughters, including Helen of Sparta. If we follow Hesiod’s account in “Works and Days,” it is interesting to note how he synchronizes the development of humankind and the emergence of the semi-divine heroes. Hesiod famously depicts four stages of humankind: first a golden, then a silver, a bronze, and finally an iron age. As the decline in their preciousness suggests, the metals symbolize a process in which humankind loses its original splendor and carefree, paradisiacal life. Thus, in its iron form, humankind finds itself subdued to the necessity of toil, hard work, as well as to mortality and death. Needless to say that it is this iron form that, according to Hesiod, characterizes human life as we know it. Would that I were not then among the fifth men, but either dead earlier or born later! For now it is a race of iron; and they will never cease from toil and misery by day or night, in constant distress, and the gods will give them harsh troubles. Nevertheless, even they shall have good mixed with ill. (Works and Days, 173–178)

By depicting a more glorious past, Hesiod highlights some of the misery of humankind in its iron form. He also admits that, despite their dire fortunes, there is dignity to the existence of humankind and a chance for everyone to receive their share in life as well as a quantum of solace, “the good mixed with

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ill.” “Works and Days” is a wonderful text also to compare with the Eden narrative in Gen 2–3, because in both cases, and one might in fact add some of the Mesopotamian materials as well, the challenge is to understand why hard work and death are humankind’s lot in life and why this is a mixed blessing but, at least to some extent, a blessing after all. Interestingly, Hesiod integrates another age into his scheme, an age that is not associated with any kind of metal and that also doesn’t really fit into the scheme of humankind’s quadruple incarnation. Between the bronze and the iron ages, Hesiod places the time of the great heroes of the past: After the earth covered up this [the bronze] race, too, Zeus son of Kronos made yet a fourth one upon the rich-pastured earth, a more righteous and noble one, the godly race of the heroes who are called demigods, our predecessors on the boundless earth. As for them, ugly war and fearful fighting destroyed them, some below seven-gated Thebes, the Cadmean country, as they battled for Oedipus’ flocks, and others it led in ships over the great abyss of the sea to Troy on account of lovely-haired Helen. There some of them were engulfed by the consummation of death, but to some Zeus, the father, son of Kronos, granted a life and home apart from men and settled them at the ends of the earth. (Works and Days, 158–170)

There seems to be agreement among experts that what Hesiod attempts here is to locate the heroic age as described in Greek mythology, especially in the work of Hesiod’s assumed contemporary Homer, on the timeline of the history of humankind. It also seems safe to assume that the heroes themselves, whom Hesiod describes as “a godly race” and as “demigods,” are men like Achilles, Heracles, and Perseus with both human and divine parents. Now if we return to Gen 6:1–4, a structural parallel becomes immediately apparent. Just as in Hesiod’s account, the biblical text talks about a particular era in the history of humankind in which semi-divine beings inhabited the earth. The Hebrew text calls them gibborim, a term that can be rendered “warrior,” “hero,” “strong one,” or even “man of violence.” This brings us to the question of whether the term gibborim in 6:4 is meant as a translation of, or at least an allusion to, the Greek term “heroes.” I think the answer should be yes, for two reasons in particular. As I have already mentioned, the motif of sexual relationships between gods and humans is not found in Mesopotamian literature but is well attested in Greek sources. Further, it is the way in which the gibborim are introduced that suggests that they were popular mythic figures with whom the originally intended audience was well acquainted. “They are the heroes of old, the men of renown,” (v. 4). Again, apart from Gilgamesh and Enkidu, there are not many traces of mythic tales about heroes in Mesopotamian sources; whereas the heroic age is a key subject in Greek mythology.14 The rhetoric of our text presupposes that its audience was able to associate certain stories and tales with the “renowned heroes of old,” and it seems to be 14

Cf. R. Bartelmus, Heroentum in Israel und seiner Umwelt, AThANT 65 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 1979).

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the very purpose of 6:1–4 to put those characters and their stories on the map of the biblical Primeval History. A similar argument could be made for the identity of the Nephilim, although things seem even more complicated in their case. The fact that the text mentions only in passing that the Nephilim, too, were on earth in those days suggests that the original audience knew mythic tales that included the Nephilim. However, given that, apart from Gen 6:4, there is only little textual evidence for the Nephilim in the Hebrew Bible, one can only guess as to their role in Greek mythology. In Num 13:33, the term is used for the native inhabitants of the land of Canaan. The storyline is revealing. Intimidated by the strength of the Canaanites, the Israelite spies decide to turn around and give a fake report of what they had allegedly seen when they scoured the land. So they describe the Canaanites as giants who also “devoured” their children (Num 13:32). If the latter means cannibalism or if this is a more general reference to violent behaviors among the inhabitants of the land remains open. Num 13:33 goes on to mention that the spies also saw the Nephilim in the land of Canaan and that, next to them, they appeared like grasshoppers. It is conceivable that, as part of their fake report, the spies claim that they had seen the “infamous” Nephilim that their audience knew only from mythic tales. It is conceivable that those were tales about “fallen” divine beings similar to the Titans and Cyclops in Greek mythology, but this must remain speculative. This obviously begs the question of what, beyond the biblical text itself, might suggest that Greek mythology was known in Syria-Palestine and thus on the horizon of the biblical authors. As with most of our assumptions about cultural transfers, hard evidence is oftentimes difficult to come by. However, recent archeology has provided us with a fairly comprehensive picture of Greek presence along the coast of Syria-Palestine long before the age of Hellenism. There seems to be consensus among historians that the Greeks used the infrastructure of the Neo-Assyrian and later especially of the Persian empires for trade in the ancient Near East, with Cyprus and Phoenicia as hubs. As a matter of fact, it seems that under Persian rule the Near East was also integrated into Mediterranean trade and cultural exchange. Thus it is no surprise that one finds elements of Greek mythology on artifacts from Cyprus. Especially the stories of Heracles, who was for some time even identified with the God Melqart, and Perseus assume a prominent role in Cypriot art.15

15 The following illustrations are taken from V. Karageorghis, Ancient Art from Cyprus. The Cesnola Collection in The Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2000).

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Illustration 1: Slab with scene of Heracles stealing the cattle of Geryon, late 6th cent. BCE, catalogue no. 192.

This first image depicts Heracles stealing the cattle of Geryon, one of the tasks Heracles was given after slaying his own children. The next image shows three scenes, located on three shields that are part of a statue of Geryon. In the middle and to the right there are again scenes involving Heracles, whereas the left shield shows Perseus beheading Medusa. Both of these and other artifacts date from the early seventh down to the late fifth centuries BCE, which is no proof but certainly intriguing evidence that elements of Greek mythology were known in the Near East and, again no surprise, that it was the heroic epics in the first place that seem to have found their way into pieces of art well beyond the borders of the Aegean.

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Illustration 2: Statue of Geryon, 2nd half of 6th cent BC, catalogue no. 193

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Illustration 3: Detail of catalogue no. 193

Coming back to Gen 6:1–4, it seems safe to say that historical-archeological evidence does not contradict but rather supports the assumption that the text’s original audience was familiar with the Greek heroes or their respective local incarnations. The question then becomes what might have led the biblical authors to appropriate this material in the context of the Primeval History. There are two answers that I would like to contemplate in concluding this paper. 1. As noted at the outset, Greek mythology challenges the biblical view of creation, since it depicts the early world as one that has no clear boundaries between the human and the divine spheres and thus leads to the mixing and mingling between gods and humans that characterizes the mythic age of the world. The world has not yet materialized in the way we know it and thus allows for the emergence of heroes and other beings that are both human and divine. There is a certain melancholia in both Hesiod and Homer about the end of the heroic age and about the fact that all that is left of its splendor are the mythic tales that open a window for “iron age humans” back into a time long gone. It seems that the biblical account engages this view of the primordial world by putting a critical spin on it. The emergence of heroes as semi-human and semi-divine beings is really more of an episode or an accident that had to be overcome in order for humankind to finally become what the creator wanted it to be. The limitation of the human lifespan to 120 years is not so much a punishment for humans as it is the insurance that no one who is born of a human mother will live beyond the measure of a human lifetime. This means that 6:1– 4 should in fact be counted among the creation texts of the Primeval History, because it adds the final piece to the accounts of the creation of humankind in Gen 1 and Gen 2–3. In this perspective, the way in which the biblical authors appropriated Greek mythology seems to have been no different from how they

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adopted literary traditions from Mesopotamia. Gen 6:1–4 is not just a piece patched into the larger tapestry of the Primeval History. It gives witness to the same kind of critical, as well as creative and inventive, reworking of ancient mythology that one also finds in the creation narratives and the flood story. This just presupposes that the mythic materials to which the biblical authors and their audience had access or to which they were exposed were more diverse and variegated than we sometimes tend to think.16 Even some recent publications on Gen 1–11 still seem to follow the rule of thumb that the Greeks only entered the biblical world with Alexander the Great. 2. The other point, which seems to have triggered the interest and certainly also the suspicion of the biblical authors regarding Greek heroic tales, pertains to the role of God in the mixing and mingling between divine and human beings. As mentioned above, in Greek literature, Zeus himself is heavily involved in numerous liaisons with human women. As a matter of fact, he is the most notorious flirt among all the gods. By contrast, 6:1–4 makes it plain that YHWH, only the Tetragrammaton is used in this text, has nothing to do with the amorous conquests of the “sons of God” (‫)בני האלהים‬. As a matter of fact, YHWH has to interfere in order to correct the “damage” that the sons of God caused by getting involved with human women. The grammar matters here, because the Hebrew definite article does in fact suggest that it wasn’t just some divine beings that entered the human sphere but really the sons of God. So there is the idea of a pantheon with the high god as the father of all the other gods, very much in the same way one finds it throughout the world of antiquity. However, by using the Tetragrammaton instead of Elohim the text dissociates YHWH from the role as head of the pantheon, suggesting that there is no connection whatsoever between the biblical creator God and what goes on between the sons of God and the daughters of Adam. God is just as independent of and sovereign over the created world and its inhabitants as in Gen 1. Gen 6:1–4 is a text that engages Greek mythology precisely to prevent any identification of YHWH with Zeus. This, however, happens not so much by making a dogmatic statement but simply by alluding to Greek heroic tales against the backdrop of the biblical creation narratives.

16

For an important contribution on the impact of Greek mythology on the Primeval History cf. M. Witte, Die biblische Urgeschichte, BZAW 265 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1998).

Evil from the Heart Qoheleth’s Negative Anthropology and its Canonical Context 1. Introduction In his concise, yet very pregnant commentary on Qoheleth, N. Lohfink gives the following evaluation of the current importance of this book for the Christian faith: Qoheleth stands, for some Christians today, as a detestably-loved back door through which they can allow into consciousness those skeptical and melancholic feelings refused entry through the front door where we find written: the praise of virtue and belief in an afterlife.1

We can certainly agree with Lohfink that Qoheleth is often perceived as a book at the limits of the canon, even though it touches upon this boundary-line from within and not from without. This perception is also noticeable on occasion within the academic discourse. One notes in Lohfink, as with D. Michel, how an investigation of the text returns again and again to the question of whether and to what degree that which we read in this book coheres with the rest of the Old Testament canon.2 R. Gordis even goes so far as to argue that Qoheleth’s own claim would have been for anything but canonization. “Qoheleth would have been shocked, even amused, to learn that his notebook was canonized as part of Holy Scripture.”3 Could it also be that Qoheleth thus presents for the academic discourse a “detestably-loved back door” for all those who would prefer not to go through the portal labeled “Law and Prophets”? The current lively interest in Qoheleth, reflected in numerous special monographs and commentaries, leads us to a much different image of this book than that of a fascinating, albeit somehow exotic and eccentric, case. It is becoming increasingly clear that Qoheleth’s particular way of thinking is represented in more Old Testament texts than one might at first glance perceive. For example, Qoheleth’s rejection of any conception of a life after death, much less a resurrection of the flesh, is often viewed as one of the text’s peculiarities. Yet it is also clear that what is being claimed here is not something new and unheard of. The existence of a person 1

N. Lohfink, Kohelet, Die Neue Echter Bibel Lfg. 1 (Würzburg: Echter, 41993), 5. D. Michel, Qohelet, Erträge der Forschung 258 (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1988), 116–127. 3 R. Gordis, Kohelet – The Man and his World (New York: Schocken, 31968), 121. 2

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ends, because dust returns to the earth and the enlivening spirit to God (Qoh 10:7). In neither case does something of the individual personality remain, and there is certainly nothing in the sense of an immortal soul. In essence, as an anthropological statement there is nothing that is said here beyond what we find in such theologically respected texts as Ps 103 and 104. As for man, his days are like grass; he flourishes like a flower of the field; for the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it no more (Ps 103:15–16).

Texts such as Gen 6:3, 6:17, and 7:15, as well as less consulted passages such as Lev 17:14 or Num 16:22 and 27:16, lead us in the same direction. God lends flesh and spirit and does so for a particular length of time, thus setting limits to human existence. It is not what Qoheleth says that is different but rather the moral that he connects to it. For Ps 103 and 104, this reflection upon the mutability of human beings serves to glorify the eternity of God, a view which is directed from humanity toward God. In contrast, Qoheleth directs the statements about finality back upon humanity itself. God remains, but a human being passes away and must, therefore, cope with that before God and, in the end, without God. The example of human finitude shows that, in contrast to the views of some, Qoheleth’s theology is in no way to be understood as an erratic “strange path.” Rather Qoheleth’s distinctive position belongs in a theological discourse that extends over major sections of the Old Testament. One can agree with Gordis that Qoheleth sought no canonical claims or hardly would have thought that his “notebook” would be incorporated into the Tanach. Yet he certainly would not have been shocked or even simply amused that he was understood within the context of the broader canonical traditions, above all that of the law and prophets, since it is essentially upon these traditions that he reflects and with which he grapples in his own critical way. This chapter will seek to unpack the canonical discourse in which Qoheleth is involved. In this case, it will be sensible to pursue a semantic approach and to choose a concept which stands at the center of the reflection upon the nature and being of the human person and is a leitmotif through the Book of Qoheleth – namely, the concept of the heart. First, it would be helpful to present an overview of Qoheleth’s references to the heart.4 Here we are less interested in the respective thematic implications in which such references appear, but rather in the questions of what the heart does, how it perceives, by what it is influenced, and how it is created. In this respect, we can identify four groups of statements.

4

Cf. E.S. Christianson, A Time to Tell: Normative Strategies in Ecclesiastes, JSOT Sup 280 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 193–200; M.V. Fox A Time To Tear Down and A Time to Build Up: A Rereading of Ecclesiastes (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), 78; T. Zimmer, Zwischen Tod und Lebensglück. Eine Untersuchung zur Anthropologie Kohelets, BZAW 286 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1999), 15–19.

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2. Qoheleth’s Assessment of the Human Heart 2.1 What does the Heart desire and by what is it affected? 11:9 O youth, enjoy yourself while you are young. Let your heart lead you in the days of your youth. Follow the desires of your heart and the glances of your eyes. 8:11 Because the sentence for evil deeds is not executed instantly the heart is emboldened to do the wrong. 7:3–4 Vexation is better than revelry, because the heart prospers when the face is sad. The heart of a wise man is drawn to the house of mourning, the heart of the fool to the house of merry-making. 7:7 For cheating spoils the wise man, and bribes bring down the heart.

In 11:9, Qoheleth simultaneously connects what the heart desires with a recommendation for successful living. The heart of a young person obviously and naturally strives for the good life.5 All that a person need do – and what he or she actually can do in these early, carefree days – is to allow oneself to be led by one’s heart. One does not need wisdom for this; on the contrary, the one who thinks too much and occupies their time with things that in the end do not help in life, such as writing books, is in danger of losing this uneducated and carefree entrance into happiness. Yet Qoheleth also knows that with time the carefree life of youth gives way to the experiences that come with maturity, experiences which also influence the heart. Among these is the experience of finitude, which for the mature person increasingly becomes that point of reference from which one’s life is organized. Thus Qoheleth can say that the place where one mourns is the place where the heart grows wiser, much more so than at those places where one seeks after pleasure and diversion. Furthermore, Qoheleth reflectively notes that the heart, despite its natural desire for the good life, is in danger of being led astray and doing wrong. Such is the case, for example, when the heart realizes that evil deeds do not always attract a corresponding punishment. In short, one can also lead a fine life as an “evil person.” Indeed, this is precisely Qoheleth’s bone of contention, which he struggles with for long stretches. Because the heart perceives this fact, it runs the risk of imitating evil. The human heart may strive after the good life, yet it has no moral compass that will lead it infallibly and unwaveringly upon this path. In this way, it is a fallible and susceptible property that requires a moral education and further knowledge. This leads us to the second group of 5

Cf. E. Tamez, When the Horizons Close: Rereading Ecclesiastes (New York: Wipf and Stock, 2000), 133–134. It is worth noticing that Qoheleth’s advice contradicts other strands of tradition, according to which the strivings of the heart are to be watched carefully (Is 57:17, Num 15:19, and Job 31:7). It seems that, in response to Qoh 5:3, Sir 5:2 connects with this position (cf. Fox, A Time to Tear Down, 318).

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statements where Qoheleth brings the heart into relation with the attainment of wisdom. 2.2 The Heart as a Wisdom-seeking and Knowledge-seeking Organ 1:17 And I set my heart to appraise wisdom and to appraise madness and folly. 2:3 With my heart I ventured to tempt my flesh with wine, while my heart concentrated on wisdom, and to grasp folly to the end that I might learn which of the two was better for men to practice in their few days of life under heaven. 2:20 And so I came to let my heart view with despair all the gains I had made under the sun. 2:22–23 What is it a man gets for all the toiling and worrying of his heart that he does under the sun? For all his days are filled with pain, and full of grief is his business. Even at night his heart does not find rest. 8:9 All these things I observed, and directed my heart to all that went on under the sun while men still had authority over men to treat them unjustly. 8:16 For I have set my heart to learn wisdom and to observe the business that goes on in the world..., and I observed all that God brings to pass. 10:2 The heart of a wise man is to his right, the heart of the fool to his left.

What connects several of these statements to each other is their use of idioms, according to which one can transpose the heart into a particular context where it can learn and perceive things. Thus the wise person has her heart upon the “right side,” symbolizing honesty, righteousness, and intelligence, while the fool allows it to sit at her left, her “bad” side. Qoheleth directs his heart toward an examination of wisdom and foolishness. This almost has the characteristic of a self-experiment, aimed at finding out what wisdom and foolishness may add to life.6 According to Qoh 2:3, this experiment is even doubled as Qoheleth directs his heart toward the attainment of wisdom, while allowing his “flesh” to share in sensuous delights. Here, “heart” almost has the meaning of “mind,”7 acquiring knowledge while simultaneously weighing and evaluating it. In a certain sense, it is the cognitive center in distinction to the “flesh” that bestows upon a person manifest joy or pain. However, the heart is not only a symbol of rational thought; it also has an emotional component. What the heart sees can lead it to despondency, to “losing heart,” as exemplified in the recognition that goods and property have no permanence under the sun. The heart can also be restless and lack peace when it fails to find fulfillment in that which it does or 6 M.V. Fox, Qohelet and His Contradictions, JSOT Sup 71 (Sheffield: Almond Press, 1989), 87. 7 For a critical review of the concept of “mind” as applied to Qoheleth’s anthropology, cf. Christianson, A Time to Tell, 200.

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desires. By occupying itself with wisdom, the heart confronts that which moderns call “the burden of existence.” By aiming his heart at the pursuit of wisdom, Qoheleth spirals into a paradoxical constellation. He must ask himself whether it is actually wise to want to be wise, or whether the simple hand-tomouth existence of “the foolish” is not rather the more bearable orientation toward life. This resonates with the almost Nietzschean idea that wisdom can be a danger, and this thought also belongs to those things which can influence the human heart. To summarize our position thus far, we find that Qoheleth’s references to the heart correspond to two things. On the one hand, the heart stands for that healthy human desire for the good life; the heart “knows,” so to speak, by nature what it needs to be happy and, in this respect, refers to something almost instinctive. Yet on the other hand, the heart is also the organ a person uses to look beyond such elementary knowledge and desires toward the conditions and limits of the good life, thus stripping away any illusions. This life possesses nothing permanent; it has no influence beyond itself. In death it literally falls apart as the body returns to the dust of the earth and the breath of life returns to God without so much as a trace of the person remaining, a person who once truly lived and was perhaps even happy. To pursue this metaphor, one can say that the heart knows that it will cease beating and must also bear this knowledge. As mentioned above, Qoheleth unpacks this double knowledge of the heart and its embedded conflict in biographical form. The further a human life progresses, the more it reflects upon its natural striving for happiness. However, Qoheleth is not content with a purely empirical-biographical description. This double knowledge is not simply inherent within a person; rather, God places it in the heart. This leads us to a third group of statements. 2.3 What God lays into the Human Heart 5:18–19 Also, whenever a man is given riches and property by God and he permits him to enjoy them, to take his portion and to get pleasure for his gains – that is a gift of God. Such a man will not worry about the length of his life, because God keeps his heart busy enjoying itself. 3:10–11 I saw the business that God gave to man to be concerned with. He has made everything beautiful at its time, but he has also given eternity into their heart although man will never be able to apprehend the deeds that God does from beginning to end.

For Qoheleth, it is good fortune when God grants a person the ability to enjoy those things that make life comfortable.8 Qoheleth even imagines that the bestcase scenario of the good life is when a person is completely consumed by such 8

Cf. D. Rudman, Determinism in the Book of Ecclesiastes, JSOT Sup 316 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 134.

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things, when that person has, to a certain degree, no time to think about “the length of his days” and to fall into melancholy thoughts. Indeed, God grants such happiness, though not equally to each person, as Qoheleth notes. On the other hand, God has also placed eternity into the heart and with it the knowledge of one’s own finitude and the limitations of knowledge and wisdom. In other words, by making human beings aware of the infinite, God throws them back upon their own limitations and thus robs them of the possibility for a carefree life. From our comments thus far, it is clear that Qoheleth does not develop a unified reflection upon the human heart that represents all the differing facets of the conditions of human existence. Rather, he encompasses the marked ambiguity that the human heart can both lead a person correctly yet also steer that person astray. In a certain sense, the heart is a mirror that places an image of the world before one’s eyes; a person then thinks and acts in accordance with this image, for better or worse. At this point we notice a section within Qoheleth where talk of the human heart is surprisingly clear and not at all ambiguous. In Qoh 9:3, the heart is described as “full of evil.” 2.4 The Evil Heart 9:3 That is the evil thing in everything that is done under the sun: there is one fate for all. Not only that, but men’s heart itself is full of evil, and madness is in their heart when they are alive, afterwards they belong to the dead.

Exegesis has been particularly occupied with this passage since it stands in tension with other statements by Qoheleth. The greatest tensions exist, on the one hand, with Qoh 11:9 where one finds that the heart should be the guider of youth, which is hardly something to be recommended if this heart is in fact full of evil. A tension also exists, on the other hand, in relation to Qoh 8:11. There the accent falls upon the heart’s tendency to be led astray. The realization that not every evil deed results in appropriate punishment can lead a person either to give up any faith in a just world-order or to make the most of this deficiency in justice for his or her own benefit. Yet the idea that the heart is subject to evil distinguishes itself characteristically from the view that it is full of evil. In some cases these tensions have led commentators to view Qoh 9:3b as a secondary addition. However, this may be more a desperate solution aimed at avoiding a problem of interpretation. Another way of making sense of 9:3b is to read it as a consequence of what is stated in 9:3a, so that the problem of the evil heart never even appears within the outlined “extreme” form. In 9:2–3a, talk of “evil hearts” is preceded by a reflection upon fate, which affects all equally: the just as well as the unjust, those who sacrifice as well as those who do not sacrifice, and those who swear rightly as well as those who swear falsely. This equal fate is displayed in its most merciless form in the fact that

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all people die the same death, that is a death followed by nothing, neither reward nor punishment and in which nothing is retained, not even knowledge and wisdom (9:10). According to C.-L. Seow, this is the actual evil about which 9:3b is speaking, “What is meant is not that there is something bad in every act, but that the quality of human deeds does not seem to matter in the end. Whatever is done, the end is the same bad fate: death. The evil is in the injustice of this sameness.”9 This suggests that the God-given fate of death, which awaits all human beings equally, is itself an evil or must at least be perceived as such by human beings. In support of this position, 9:3a explicitly describes this same fate as evil, and this expression returns once again in 9:3b to describe that which fills the human heart. Accordingly, it is not so much that the heart itself is evil but rather that it is confronted, or “filled,” with this evil fate. It cannot escape human finitude. This interpretation operates along the line of the first group of statements examined above regarding those things which influence and determine the heart. Qoh 8:11 would present a particularly strong parallel to this understanding. However, interpretations and translations of Qoh 9:3 get caught upon a small detail, or more precisely a particle, ‫גם‬, “also.” The translation just considered requires that ‫ גם‬bear explicative meaning: “That is the evil thing in everything that is done under the sun: there is one fate for all. And so the heart of men is full of evil.” The problem is that in the multitude of places where the particle ‫ גם‬occurs in Qoheleth, such a usage is not found. A. Schoors also comes to this conclusion in his grammatical examination of ‫ גם‬in Qoheleth and stresses that ‫ גם‬in Qoh 9:3 is to be understood in the same way as the great majority of the other instances.10 According to this view, the particle has an enumerative and amplifying function, “as well as” or “and what is even more.”11 In this case, the passage would result in a different meaning, namely Qoh 9:3a and Qoh 9:3b speak of two forms of evil which weigh upon human beings. The first is the evil that all people share the same fate, and the second is that the human heart itself is “full” of evil.12 This is also confirmed in view of a further passage at Qoh 8:6–7, where Qoheleth creates, as it were, a list of things which the wise person knows: 1) there is time and judgment for all matters, 2) human maliciousness weighs heavily upon each person, and 3) one cannot know what the future holds.

9

C.-L. Seow, Ecclesiastes, AB 18C (New York: Yale University Press, 1997), 304. A. Schoors, The Preacher Sought to Find Pleasing Words: A Study of the Language of Qoheleth, Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 41 (Leuven: Peeters Publishing, 1992), 133, 219; further M. Maussion, Le mal, le bien et le jugement de Dieu dans le livre de Qohélet, OBO 190 (Freiburg Schweiz/Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2003), 38, 53. 11 Cf. among others Eccl 2:1, 7–8, 23–24; 3:11; 4:11; 7:14, 21; 9:1, 12–13; and 10:20. 12 Cf. the translation by T. Krüger, Kohelet, BK XIX (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2000), 297. 10

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Human maliciousness also belongs to the basic facts of the world. In this respect, it is hard to avoid the conclusion that Qoheleth, aside from his statements about the natural human drive toward the good life and its susceptibility to outside influences, promotes a negative anthropology. For all that human beings are, there is something evil in their nature; their hearts are simply “full” of it.

3. Qoheleth’s Reference to the Primeval History (Gen 6–8) At this point, with the whole picture now in view, one might ask how Qoheleth can unify his diverse statements about the human heart. Most contemporary commentators would agree that the Book of Qoheleth bears the character of a discourse between differing voices, more than that of a systematic, theological tractate. C. Uehlinger for example draws upon the image of the ancient symposium as the background for Qoheleth’s development and rhetorical structure.13 Particularly in regards to the “evil heart” one must think on yet another level of interpretation, namely that of targeted intertextual integration. It has long been noted that both 9:3b and 8:6 are likely to be quotations taken from the Primeval History or, to be more precise, from the story of the flood. As is well known, the reflection there upon “evil hearts” forms the paradoxical reasoning behind both YHWH’s sending of the flood and YHWH’s reasoning for never doing it again. (6:5) ‫וירא יהוה כי רבה רעת האדם בארץ וכל־יצר מחשׁבת לבו רק רע כל־היום‬ (8:21) ‫לא־אסף לקלל עוד את־האדמה בעבור האדם כי יצר לב האדם רע מנעריו‬

According to the Urkundenhypothese, these two corresponding texts14 form the framework of an originally separate Jahwistic story of the flood. This view has

13 C. Uehlinger, “Qohelet im Horizont mesopotamischer, levantischer und ägyptischer Weisheitsliteratur der persischen und hellenistischen Zeit,” in Das Buch Kohelet. Studien zur Struktur, Geschichte, Rezeption und Theologie, ed. L. Schwienhorst-Schönberger, BZAW 254 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1997), 243–244. 14 The parallelism of these two texts has been observed from differing literary-critical perspectives, because they are bound within two explanatory networks, which at first sight appear contradictory. In one case, the assessment of the heart makes God call humankind to account for their evilness; in the other God decides to have mercy on them despite their evil hearts. Most exegetes today agree, however, that the tension between Gen 6:5 and 8:21 does not indicate literary incoherence; it rather marks the theological point of the non-priestly position that God is capable of changing God’s approach to the human world, whereas the human world itself is unable to change its moral disposition. Aside from the interpretation which would see here a separation into two source strands, C. Levin, “Gerechtigkeit Gottes in der Genesis,” in Studies in the Book of Genesis. Literature, Redaction and History, ed. A.

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been questioned in more recent publications in favor of a model that distinguishes between a primary text that is part of the Priestly Code (P) and several commentaries that critically complement the priestly text.15 Accordingly, within the composition of the Primeval History as a whole, the description of humanity as “evil” (‫ )רע‬represents a complementary concept to the priestly motto of the “good” (‫)טוב‬.16 As little as P might assume that the real world is perfect, he stresses emphatically that it is “very good” just as God made it. By contrast, in the non-priestly text we find that the human heart is evil, not because people chose this for themselves, but rather because it is their nature. One notes that both Gen 6:5 and 8:21 are observational and not explanatory statements. It is not said that human beings themselves are guilty for their “evil hearts” nor that God created them evil. Indeed the question “why” is never asked. One hardly would have understood this as coincidental but rather as a programmatic omission. No insight or informative power is attributed to this question. Whatever it was that led a person to become evil is irrelevant for the life that that person must lead; it does not change the fact of that person’s evil heart. Behind this omission may lay the concern that such a search for explanation and its possible answers might lead to fruitless, even dangerous speculation. In accordance with this abandonment of explanation and with the shift in perspective toward the future of post-flood humanity, we see a positive horizon now displayed, one which is connected with the concept of justice (Gen 7:1). After realizing that “every imagination of the thoughts of man’s heart” is evil and deciding “to blot them out,” there follows in Gen 6:8 a short note, “but Noah found favor in the eyes of YHWH.” What does this mean? The expression ‫מצא חן‬, if taken alone, is much more unspecific than the commonly used translation, “to find favor.” The spectrum of meaning is particularly broad as it extends from “being granted a favor” (Gen 34:11),17 through “to gain someone’s goodwill” (1 Kings 11:9), “to find sympathy/benevolence” (Gen 39:4), “be protected from danger” (Gen 32:5), to “finding forgiveness” (Gen 33:8, 15; Wénin, Bibliotheca ephemeridum theologicarum lovaniensium 155 (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2001), 353, presumes a continuation within the “J”-Text. According to his thesis 6:5 is the initial text upon which 8:21 is modeled. Levin sees the decisive difference lying in the collective guilt of humanity in 6:5, while 8:21 concentrates upon the sins of individuals. The problem of this position, however, is the issue that in both passages we have “statements of character” being made where there is no decisive differentiation between the individual and the collective. 15 J. Blenkinsopp, The Pentateuch: An Introduction to the First Five Books of the Bible, ABRL (New York: Doubleday, 1992), 74–86; J.-L. Ska, “El relato del diluvio. Un relato sacerdotal y algunas fragmentos redacctionales posteriores,” Estudios Biblicos (1994), 37– 62. 16 See in this respect the semantic investigation by Gordis, Kohelet, 101–107. 17 See in particular the translation from the Zurich Bible.

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34:11).18 Thus, the concrete meaning is to a considerable degree dependent upon the context. Gen 6:5–8 speaks of the evilness of human beings and God’s decision to send the flood. When Noah finds ‫חן‬, “favor,” in the eyes of YHWH, then this means above all that he remains protected from destruction even though he too is a descendent of this ruined humanity. Why an exception should be made for Noah in this way is not yet revealed in 6:8, though it is already clear that the image of Noah here is characteristically different from the ideal person of the priestly text. In 7:1, “righteousness” is predicated to Noah; YHWH regards Noah as “righteous” among his contemporaries. In contrast to the priestly text, there is no talk here of “perfection” or “walking with God.” One could interpret this to mean that there was indeed a small few among humanity whose hearts were not “only evil continually” (6:5). Yet against such a view we have, after the flood, God’s repeated judgment about human evilness precisely in regards to Noah as the only surviving person.19 What characterizes Noah is not his status as something exceptional. He too has an evil heart just like all human beings, yet – and this is the truly amazing statement – this does not rule out a state of relative righteousness.20 Despite the degree to which the “evil heart” is perceived as an anthropological fact, this claim still says far from everything about human beings. Righteousness is possible; people may well be “burdened” by the imagination of the thoughts of their hearts, but they are not completely determined by them. Accordingly, the issue here is not creating an ideal image of a human being but rather first reflecting upon what a person “really” is and those aspects that he or she cannot fundamentally change. The evil imaginings of the heart attach themselves to everything a person thinks and does. Despite this, a person can still reach a level which God views as righteous. Yet what does this righteousness consist of? In connection with the story of the flood, this primarily has to do with “listening to God.” This conferral of righteousness is based upon Noah’s readiness to do what YHWH commands of him. Thus one could conclude from this that following the commands of God is possible even for an “evil heart.” However, equating righteousness only with obedience to God’s command is still too narrow, since Noah already finds “favor” in YHWH’s eyes before the flood. A particular “election” of Noah has also been postulated, according to which there is indeed no objective reason for Noah’s righteousness. What makes Noah righteous is the fact that YHWH perceives him, and only him, as such. Unfortunately, such a position lacks even 18

One also comes across ‫ מצא חן‬as a departing formula in 1 Sam 1:17–18 Noted by T. Krüger, “Das menschliche Herz und die Weisung Gottes,” in Das menschliche Herz und die Weisung Gottes: Studien zur alttestamentlichen Anthropologie und Ethik, AThANT 96 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2009), 66. 20 Krüger, ibid., summarizes this, “Fundamentally, Noah was just as ‘evil’ as all other human beings, but yet still appeared relatively ‘more righteous’ than his contemporaries” (emphasis in original). 19

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partially recognizable textual grounds for the exceptionally weighty presuppositions behind the idea of “double predestination” of the one toward salvation and the other toward destruction. A less-speculative approach can be found when one interprets Gen 6:5 and 7:1 in the broader context of the creation narrative, specifically, in the context of the priestly texts. The content of righteousness is in fact precisely given within the priestly text; it means non-violent and responsible dealings with people and dominion over the earth in accordance with the task given in the creation account of Gen 1:28. The point behind 7:1, however, is that, counter P, this righteousness can only be attained relative to the “imaginings and thoughts” of the human heart and must constantly prove itself in light of this precondition. The way in which one deals with this ever-present and, in the end, insurmountable “evil” also becomes a characteristic of righteousness. By pointing toward Gen 8:6 and 9:3, Qoheleth is not simply plucking individual sentences from the flood narrative and integrating these, like a florilegium, into his own theological discourse. Rather he is referring to a theology that, in its basic concern, is similar to his own.21 Included here is the question of how a human life can succeed despite the reality of evil in the world and indeed within the human heart itself. The answer also belongs here; such a thing is never possible in absolute form but is, rather, only relative to the respective conditions to which a human life is exposed, those things which it can neither choose nor willfully change.

4. The Evil Heart Remains. Qoheleth and Gen 6–8 as a Criticism of the Prophetic Line of Tradition As mentioned above, it has often been noted that Qoheleth draws upon the Primeval History. In order to fully appreciate the canonical weight of Qoheleth’s position, it seems important to be aware that there is an intrinsic closeness to his theology, precisely where one perhaps least expects to find it, in the Primeval History as a “door step” (von Rad) to the Torah and thus to Israel’s legal tradition. Before the reader gets to know the fathers and mothers of Israel, the exodus story, and finally the revelation of the Torah on Mount Sinai, they are confronted with God’s assessment of humankind. Humanity has an inclination toward evilness, which does not result from external influences but is in their very nature from their early days. Even more striking is that God does not promise to remedy this flaw. Rather, God, too, has to find ways of dealing with 21 F.J. Backhaus, “Es gibt nichts Besseres für den Menschen”. Studien zur Komposition und zur Weisheitskritik im Buch Kohelet, Bonner Biblische Beiträge 121 (Bodenheim: Philo Verlagsgesellschaft, 1998), 76, even claims that the non-priestly text assumed an authoritative role in Qoheleth’s own thinking.

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the fact that human living is imperfect and therefore holds the potential of violence and destruction for the created order. There is no perspective in Gen 6– 8 or Qoheleth that God would rectify the evilness of the human heart. It is in particular this aspect where both texts side together against the hope for a “new heart” that is articulated especially in early post-exilic prophecy. There, it is the new covenant between YHWH and Israel that brings about a purged or even newly created heart. In Jer 31:31–33, this hope is expressed through the image of the Torah as inscribed upon the heart of Israel: See, “I am about,” says YHWH, “to make a new covenant with the house of Israel and the house of Judah. It will not be like the covenant that I made with their fathers, when I took them by their hand to lead them out of the land of Egypt; they broke my covenant although I espoused them,” says YHWH. “But this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after these days,” says YHWH, “I will give my Torah in their inmost being, and inscribe it upon their hearts.”

According to this vision, the Torah will no longer be an external law imposed on Israel but something that will shape the desires and strivings of their hearts. The new covenant will be such that God’s will and Israel’s wants will become a perfect match. No more will espousing of desire other than God’s occur once the people of Israel have truly come to realize that YHWH is their God. Although the text uses future tenses to express the reality of the new covenant, it is clear that it does not envision a remote future but rather an instant one22 that is expected to set in after “these days” – obviously the days of exile in Babylon that had just come to a close. It is important to see that Jeremiah does not expect that, having experienced the consequences of breaking the old covenant, Israel itself would be able to enter into a new relationship with YHWH. It is YHWH who is the one to act upon Israel in a way that such a new relationship becomes possible. In an even more drastic way, Ezekiel describes this change in relationship as a creating act. YHWH will take the heart of stone out of Israel’s chest and substitute a heart of flesh for it. And I will give you a new heart, and a new spirit I will put in your inmost being. And I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and will give you a heart of flesh (Ez 36:26).

Surprisingly, only with this the new heart, the heart of flesh, is the creation of Israel as God’s people complete. In this light, the “old” Israel and the former covenant with the Hebrew fathers and mothers appear to have been unfinished and incomplete. Only now, after the exile, can Israel assume the designated shape that enables them to recognize YWHW as their true God and that, in turn, will make them recognized by YHWH as God’s true people. In both lines of tradition, the idea of perfection and ongoing divine creativity is connected with the image of the new heart. Historically, such a view can be 22

Cf. the ‘futurum instans’ in v. 31a, ‫הנּה ימים באים‬.

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well understood as expressing the hopes and expectations of the early Persian period as a time of restoration and recovery after almost a century of economic and cultural numbness. On the other hand, such a view is obviously in danger of expecting too much, of overstepping the mark and so of falling behind the more down to earth realities that would not support the idea of an ultimately perfected and hence unbreakable relationship with God. As has been frequently noted, this is one of the problems that late biblical prophecy struggled with for long stretches and that it eventually could not resolve. It seems to be this point where more critical, and one might well say more realistic, voices like Qoheleth and Gen 6–8 come into play. More concretely, regarding the prophetic vision of a new heart, one could summarize the implicit objections raised by these voices as follows. What if there were no evidence of a new reality? What if the Torah remained a law written on stone plates rather than on hearts of flesh and blood? Finally, what if humans kept doing what was evil in the eyes of YHWH? Obviously, objections like these have a strong footing in daily life and seem to come closer to what human beings are coram deo than the prophetic vision of a new heart does, as it tends to say more than it can actually account for. Against the prophetic background it becomes clear that Qoheleth and Gen 6–8 are not so much skeptical voices signaling a spiritual crisis of the religion of Israel.23 Quite on the contrary, they are both constructively engaged in the pressing theological question of how one can have a worldview that faces the persistence of evil and at the same time deepens an awareness of God as the one who created the world and maintains its order. One needs to be aware that Christian soteriology has been largely influenced by the prophetic heritage of the Hebrew Bible and, therefore, thematizes human evil in terms of the overcoming of evil. It is especially Qoheleth who astutely traces the problems of such an approach,24 and that, in particular, makes him an intriguing and indispensable communication partner in any discourse about evil and the goodness of God.

5. A God of Grace? Similarities and Differences between Gen 6–8 and Qoheleth in their respective Views of God Having explored the common ground of Qoheleth and Gen 6–8, both regarding their specific content related to the language of the “evil heart” and their positions within their canonical context, we also have to take a closer look at their conceptual differences. It has long been suspected that yet another passage in 23 Such a view can be found, for instance, in H.D. Preuss, Einführung in die alttestamentliche Weisheitsliteratur (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1987), 69. 24 See R.E. Murphy, The Tree of Wisdom: An Exploration of Biblical Wisdom Literature (New York: Doubleday, 1990), 59.

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Qoheleth relates directly to the flood narrative. It deals with Qoheleth’s famous meditation upon the “right time” for all things under the sun (Qoh 3:1–9). In its reflection upon the right time for everything, as well as in its rhetorical formation through the use of complementary pairs of concepts, this passage is similar to the meditation upon YHWH’s promise to creation after the flood.25 So long as the earth endures, Seedtime and harvest, Cold and heat, Summer and winter, Day and night Shall not cease. (Gen 8:22)

The world is ordered in a constant way, which Qoheleth then extends beyond the rhythms of nature to the diversity of human life: A time to be born, and a time to die; A time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; A time to break down, and a time to build up. (Qoh 3:2–3)

From the perspective of Gen 8:22, all of this belongs to the order which keeps the world stable, which differentiates it from chaos and is, in this respect, something good. One difference, however, is that while Qoheleth understands this order as given, in contrast to Gen 8:22, he does not connect this with a God of grace. In his description of the world, Qoheleth does without a mythological explanation of why the world is the way it is. Such a mythical explanation is provided by the Primeval History through the flood narrative. Acceptance of the “eternal” course of planting and harvesting, frost and heat, summer and winter, day and night contains the recognition that this worldly course is due to God’s grace (‫ )חן‬in contrast to God’s wrath, which led God to destroy the previous world. After the flood, the world lives, so to speak, in God’s graces. The cosmic rhythms and orders have an eternal guarantee, which is effective despite human deeds or misdeeds. Qoheleth would agree with this conclusion. The structural order of the world is stable, regardless of how humanity behaves within it. However, Qoheleth is much more reserved, if not downright skeptical, about tracing the fact of the world’s order and rhythm back to a God of grace. This leads to a series of similarities and differences between Qoheleth and the flood narrative in regards to how one can lead one’s life “under the sun” and, therefore, in regards to the meaning of ethos and cult. In conclusion, I would like to examine this aspect more closely.

25 Cf. R.N. Whybray, “Qoheleth as a theologian,” in Qohelet in the Context of Wisdom, ed. A. Schoors, Bibliotheca ephemeridum theologicarum lovaniensium 136 (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1998), 249.

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6. Ethos and Cult According to ancient Near Eastern thought, cult and ethos play an essential part in the establishment and existence of justice in the world. Correspondingly, each misdemeanor in these areas has a negative effect upon the viability and existence of the world as a whole. In regards the Egyptian context, J. Assmann provides the following summary of this integration of cosmic balance or justice, cult, and ethos: Through the cult, the cosmos is included in the sphere of legal bonds and responsibilities of connective justice. By binding themselves to the promise of performing sacrifice, people bind the gods to themselves and integrate their communal existence into the paradigmatic “successful functioning” of the cosmic processes.26

According to this view, cult and ethos belong to those orders that preserve the world, orders which are summarized within the concept of justice. Thus, in this context, it is beyond doubt that justice comes down to earth from the gods of heaven or, as was the case in Egypt, that it was itself a god.27 However, that on its own does not yet ensure permanence; rather, its efficacy depends upon human reciprocity28 that it be “given back” to heaven from earth.29 The idea of connective cosmic justice, which is constantly dependent upon preservation and revival from both sides, divine and human, is not only encountered in Israel’s cultural environment but also determines to a large degree the pre-exilic Jerusalem temple theology30 and shapes the view of the world held by the exilic and post-exilic prophets as well as by the priestly text. According to P, the reason for the flood was that creatures destroyed the interrelated order of the world by their own initiative, against which God could not intervene. Furthermore, the post-exilic ideas of a new covenant and a new, or at least reshaped, human heart may be described as an attempt to hold on to this handed-down theology of connective justice. The non-priestly flood narrative differentiates itself from this in that it presupposes a completely different type of thinking about order and introduces this into the Primeval History. Here the central ordering category is not a concept of justice that equally binds both God and humanity, but rather a concept of grace that is granted one-sidedly by God. In a particular way, it is through grace that the order of the world is guaranteed, in which human activity plays 26

J. Assmann, Ma’at: Gerechtigkeit und Unsterblichkeit im Alten Ägypten (München: C.H. Beck, 1990), 285. 27 Ibid., 160–167. 28 Assmann speaks here of “communicative responsibility” (ibid., 187). 29 Ibid., 203–204. 30 B. Janowski, “Richten und Retten: Zur Aktualität der altorientalischen Gerechtigkeitskonzeption,” in Die rettende Gerechtigkeit, Beiträge zur Theologie des Alten Testaments (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1999), 231–239.

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no constitutive role. Unlike the case of connective justice, when ordering life in accordance with the grace of God, one does not ask how one can contribute to its existence and development, but rather how one can lead a life in correspondence with it. Cult and ethos become then forms of “presenting oneself” and of growing familiarity with the world whose ordering is experienced as life-promoting and constant even when, or precisely because, people cannot contribute anything to it. Thus Noah’s offering after the flood has no firm function. It is not for atonement, nor is it explicitly a thank-offering. It does not seek to achieve anything but rather marks the entry of humanity into a world just as it has been created by God, and, precisely in this way, it is an appropriate human act before God. One finds a similar view of sacrifice in Qoheleth. According to Qoh 9:2, sacrifice does not change a person’s fate, which has already been set for her under the sun. Nevertheless, this does not make sacrifice obsolete but, in view of its importance, gains new criteria. “Guard your steps when you go to the house of God; to draw near to listen is better than to offer the sacrifice of fools; for they do not know that they are doing evil” (4:17). In the context of Qoh 4:17–5:6, the command not to go rashly to the temple stands in line with exhortations to earnestness and deliberation before approaching God, “for God is in heaven, and you upon earth” (5:1b). It is this distance and sovereignty that cautions a person to guard against thoughtlessness.31 Thus, it is better to hear, to adopt a receptive, studious stance, than to bring sacrifices in ignorance.32 Yet this statement can also be viewed positively. Sacrifice is then appropriate when it corresponds with what has been heard and learned.33 According to this position, knowledge of the world as God has given it is the precondition for correct sacrifice, which in turn is an activity that allows a person to respond to this knowledge. Gen 8:20–22 and Qoheleth share a similarity here, namely that cultic activity does not have the task, in the sense of ancient Near Eastern theology, to promote the success of the cosmos and to avert its failure.34 In the flood narrative and in Qoheleth, this order is already given by God. Unlike Qoheleth, Gen 8:20–22 supports this fact with a mythical explanation. YHWH “smells” the offering before promising the world eternal existence and decides to never again send another flood. More precisely, the difference with Qoheleth can be seen in Qoheleth’s refusal to fall back upon such mythical knowledge or, in that respect, to the idea of a God of grace. It is because such knowledge of God is missing in Qoheleth that we find not thankfulness, but rather recognition of 31

Zimmer, Zwischen Tod und Lebensglück, 189. Lohfink, Kohelet, 39, has in mind, particularly, the sacrificial festivals that take on the character of a banquet. 33 Whether there was in Qoheleth’s environment a foundational skepticism regarding the meaning of offerings (as Lohfink, ibid., 65, assumes) cannot yet be taken from this text. 34 Assmann, Ma’at, 185. 32

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our distance from God as the appropriate answer to the human condition (5:1). Lohfink speaks here about a “radical God-World metaphysic.”35 Correspondingly, Lohfink characterizes Qoheleth as a “book from work in the field of education, or, more precisely, from the field of revised further education. It presupposes that the addressees listen to the Torah and prophets in the temple, and indeed that they also learned the older wisdom. Otherwise it could not play so clearly upon the opening chapters of Genesis.”36 With this, the law and the prophets slide, so to speak, en bloc onto the side of tradition, which Qoheleth then subjects to a critical re-reading. This critical re-reading of tradition is also a characteristic of the non-priestly flood narrative. However, in a stronger way than Qoheleth, or perhaps even in contrast, this flood narrative attempts to hold on to the traditional forms of religious praxis. The themes of sacrifice and cleanliness are given a great deal of attention here. This leaves us finally with a specific challenge, a question regarding the resources that were available for harmonizing the orientation toward and critique of the tradition. In other words, the problem was how one could stay an orthodox Jew while simultaneously picking up the critical, intellectual position developed by Qoheleth. Obviously, the mythology of the Primeval History could serve as such a resource, reflecting critically on Israel’s traditions of salvation history while at the same time being incorporated within these traditions. Interestingly, Lohfink also asks to what degree a theology, such as Qoheleth’s critique of tradition, can still remain bound to the tradition. His answer reads: Admittedly, it would be wrong if one were on Qoheleth’s account no longer to speak of the work of God in history, of the election of a people, of personal relationships to God, of God’s reliable will and promised future. Yet such speech must at the same time also understand itself, that it does not fall back behind Qoheleth’s radical God-World metaphysic and become mythological.37

However, what Lohfink presents in his theological evaluation as a danger, is in fact the solution for Gen 6–8: the reflexive potential of myth indeed allows for the critical negotiation of and, at the same time, orientation toward tradition.

35

Lohfink, Kohelet, 15. Ibid., 14. 37 Ibid., Emphasis added. 36

3. Law and Forgiveness: Elements of Priestly Theology

The “Eternal Covenant” in the Priestly Pentateuch and the Major Prophets 1. Covenant in the Priestly Code In his seminal essay “Abrahamsbund und Zionsbund: Ein Beitrag zum Verständnis der Priesterschrift,”1 Walther Zimmerli argues that the Priestly transmission in the Pentateuch intentionally disconnects the Sinai events and the Sinai legislation from the notion of covenant. There are a number of observations that Zimmerli offers, in this particular essay and elsewhere, to support his argument. While there are covenants associated with both Noah and Abraham, there is no such covenant with Moses as the hero of the Exodus stories.2 This is particularly striking since the non-priestly text of the latter Sinai pericope does in fact mention a covenant with Moses as a mediating figure (Ex 34:10–27). Even more significant for Zimmerli is that the book of Exodus ends with the image of the glory of God coming down on and settling in the tabernacle (Ex 40:34–38). This final self-revelation of God’s glory among Israel leaves the somewhat static concept of covenant behind. At Sinai, Israel becomes God’s people not because of any kind of legal arrangement but simply because Israel is drawn into the divine sphere, whether they particularly desire it or not. Precisely because other literary traditions such as Deuteronomy (Dtn 5:2; 28:69) and the Holiness Code (Lev 24:8; 26:9, 15, 25, 42–45) did in fact couch the Sinai events in covenantal language, Zimmerli concludes that P consciously and deliberately departed from a long-standing tradition,3 according to which the revelation of God’s Torah on Mount Sinai established a binding legal agreement or, as Josephus would later call it, a politeia4 that tied the existence and the perseverance of Israel to its covenantal loyalty. As others before and after 1

Originially published in ThZ 16 (1960), 268–280; reprinted in W. Zimmerli, Gottes Offenbarung: Gesammelte Aufsätze, ThB 9 (München: Christian Kaiser Verlag, 1963), 205– 216. 2 Zimmerli, Gottes Offenbarung, 205. 3 Zimmerli agrees with S. Mowinckel and G. von Rad that the celebration of the covenant must have been imbedded in Israel’s liturgical calendar, as evidenced in Ps 50 and 81 (Gottes Offenbarung, 206). 4 Josephus, Antiquities of the Jews, IV, 184, 193, 198, 302, 310, 312. See S.D. McBride, “Polity of the Covenantal People: The Book of Deuteronomy,” Interpretation 41 (1987), 229–44.

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him, Zimmerli viewed the downfall of the monarchy in Israel and Judah, the Babylonian exile, and its end as historical experiences that rendered any confidence in Israel’s ability to live up to its covenantal commitments obsolete.5 For this reason, P interprets Sinai as the fulfillment of the covenant6 with Abraham (Gen 17) and so anchors Sinai in the blessings and the promises to the patriarchs, promises that did not stipulate any conditions, with the exception of circumcision, that Israel had to meet in order to remain in the covenant.7 This renaissance or, perhaps more adequately, the discovery of the ancestral traditions surfaces in some of the exilic and post-exilic traditions, apart from P especially in Second Isaiah. However, Second Isaiah does not seem to know anything about a covenant with Abraham. Rather, it is the remembrance of Abraham (Is 41:8; 51:2) that assures Israel of YHWH’s trustworthiness, which becomes the blueprint of Isaiah’s announcement of a covenant that God establishes with Israel now that their time of exile and punishment had finally come to a close. P, on the other hand, pushes the covenant back into Israel’s early history and views the present as a time of fulfillment in which this old covenant would finally come to fruition. This is P’s way of saying that the foundations of Israel’s relationship with YHWH had been laid long ago and that it was time to reconnect with this heritage after the dire experience of a failed monarchy and foreign rule. Zimmerli’s position is intriguing because it offers a genuinely theological interpretation alongside the literary analysis of covenantal traditions in the postexilic period. Zimmerli is quite aware that whatever decision one makes about a particular detail has to fit into the bigger picture, in this case the theological agenda of the Priestly Code. However, one of the details that Zimmerli has to downplay in order for his interpretation of covenant in P to work is the mention of a covenant in Exodus 31:16. Here one finds both the term berit olam (“eternal covenant”) and the notion of a sign of the covenant, which are characteristic of Genesis 9 and 17 as the two signature texts of P’s covenantal theology. However, the eternal covenant of Exodus 31 differs from Genesis 9 and 5

Zimmerli, Gottes Offenbarung, 215. The question where P ends has been a matter of much discussion. Obviously, this question presupposes that, at some point, P was an independent document with a defined beginning and end. Since this is not exactly clear either, a better way of phrasing the question might be: where does one find corresponding elements within the material that is typically assigned to P? While some commentators argue that Genesis 1 and Exodus 40 form an inclusio (the completion of creation and the completion of the tabernacle), others hold that the building and furnishing of the tabernacle alone might not be enough and also require that the sacrificial cult be implemented, which would push the boundaries of P to Lev 9:22–24 or even Lev 16:34. Since there is no way to decide this question with sufficient certainty, this essay suggests a different approach: rather than focus on the beginning and end, one can try to reconstruct the inner-architecture of P, and the notion of covenant might prove to be of prime significance in this regard. 7 Ibid., 215–216. 6

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17 in one particular detail, namely that Sabbath observance imposes a stronger covenantal requirement on Israel which means that the covenant, in spite of its eternal nature, could be broken. This “eternal covenant” imposes a condition on Israel, which seems to contradict P’s alleged understanding of covenant as a unilateral divine promise. Thus Zimmerli concludes that Exodus 31:16 should be seen as a remnant of an older, perhaps deuteronomic, version of the Sinai pericope that P apparently had failed to strip of its contractual eggshells.8 It may be safe to say that Zimmerli’s exclusion of Exodus 31:12–17 from P still represents the majority position of the scholarly guild. However, the reasons for this assumption have changed dramatically. While, for example, Israel Knohl9 and Christophe Nihan10 agree that Exodus 31:12–17 should be considered non-P, they assign this passage to the Holiness School, which in their respective views did not precede but postdated P.11 This would explain why there are ideas such as the eternal covenant and the sign of the covenant combined with concepts and language reminiscent of the Holiness Code (Lev 17–26). However, even this interpretation does not really challenge the traditional assumption that P did not have and could not have any version of a Sinai covenant. Obviously, it is quite conceivable that the concept of covenant shows the same developmental trajectory from universal to specific that is characteristic of P’s theology in general. Initially, there is a covenant with all of creation which only requires that creatures are fruitful and procreate, which they would have done by their very nature anyway. Next is the covenant with the descendants of Abraham with the requirement of circumcision, which is characteristic 8

Ibid., 217. Following Zimmerli, E. Blum, Studien zur Komposition des Pentateuch, BZAW 189 (Berlin/New York: De Gruyter, 1990), 294, argues that what he considers to be pre-priestly mentions of the covenant were eventually employed by the priestly school as instantiations of the already existing covenant with Abraham. In a similar vein, W. Groß, “‘Rezeption’ in Ex 31,12–17 und Lev 26, 39–45. Sprachliche Form und theolgoisch-konzeptionelle Leistung,” in Der ungekündigte Bund: Antworten des Neuen Testaments, ed. H. Frankemölle, QD 172 (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1998), 54–57, reconstructs the reception of the Sinai covenant in the priestly school. In Groß’ interpretation, the priestly author, although somewhat reluctantly, integrated the Sinai covenant with the Sabbath as the second, eternal sign into his overall scheme: “Der priesterliche Autor von Ex 31,12–17 hat den Sinaibund nicht nur, ihn verändernd, rezipiert; er hat ihn zugleich so unsichtbar wie möglich gemacht” (ibid., 57). 9 I. Knohl, The Sanctuary of Silence: The Priestly Torah and the Holiness School (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995), 14–17. 105. 10 C. Nihan, From Priestly Torah to Pentateuch, FAT 25 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 567–568. 11 While Knohl and Nihan agree with respect to relative chronology – with the Holiness School being later than the priestly Torah–they differ considerably with regard to absolute chronology. For Knohl, P and H belong to the monarchic period and were completed no later than the 8th cent. BCE, whereas for Nihan the work of P and H falls into the exilic and postexilic periods.

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of but not limited to “Israel.” Finally, there is a covenant specifically and, apparently, exclusively with those who witness YHWH’s self-revelation at Mount Sinai. This is where the meaning of the mysterious seventh day is finally revealed and where Sabbath and Sabbath observance become the core of Israel’s abiding relationship with YHWH. Thus it comes as no surprise that, in contrast to the assumption that all of Exodus 31:12–17 is a later addition to the P Grundschrift, scholars have also entertained the idea that at least parts of this passage should be assigned to P (or Ps12) and thus be considered as an integral part of its covenantal theology. Saul Olyan has suggested that 31:16–17 belongs to P and was later augmented by the Holiness School that added vv. 12–15.13 He further observers that 31:16– 17, together with Exodus 20:11 and Genesis 2:2–3 form P’s theological matrix about the Sabbath, Exodus 31:17; 20:11; and Genesis 2:2–3 share a number of important characteristics. All three associate the Sabbath with creation, and 31:17 and 20:11 justify Israelite Sabbath observance by citing YHWH’s rest on the seventh day as a model for human rest. They also formulate their justifications using a very similar style, which raises the possibility of intended allusion from one text to the other and even borrowing.14

In a similar vein, Jeffrey Stackert attributes even more text to P. He finds the voice of P also in 31:12aα, and in v. 15, with the exception of the words “completely,” “holy,” and “surely.”15 Leaving the question aside as to whether v. 15 should be attributed to H or, at least in parts, to P, both Olyan and Stackert take seriously that 31:12–17(18) may well be a composite text with both priestly and non-priestly passages.16 Olyan also points out that it is a matter of exegetical honesty to admit that there cannot be any final certainty about whether vv. 15–17 are a part of the P Grundschrift, or whether these verses only sound like P but represent the theology of the Holiness School or of some otherwise unknown redactor of the Sinai pericope.

12 s P (“s” stands for German “Sondergut”) has been used to label later additions to the original Priestly Code. 13 S. Olyan, “Exodus 31:12–17: The Sabbath according to H, or the Sabbath according to P and H,” JBL 142/2 (2005), 202. Olyan also offers an instructive summary of the conversation between Knohl and Milgrom (“Sabbath,” 201–202). For a comprehensive overview also of previous scholarship see A. Ruwe, “Heiligkeitsgesetz” und “Priesterschrift,” FAT 26 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999), 5–35. 14 Olyan, “Exodus”, 208–209. 15 J. Stackert, “Compositional Strata in the Priestly Strata: Exodus 31:12–17 and 35:1– 3,” JHS 11, Article 15 (2011), 11–12. DOI: 10.5508/jhs.2011.v11.a15. 16 However, as S. Van den Eynde, “Keeping God’s Sabbath: Sign and Covenant (Exod 31,12–17),” in Studies in the Book of Exodus, ed. M. Vervenne (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1996) 501–511, has rightly observed, Ex 31:12–17 seems to be well composed and does not show any obvious signs of literary growth.

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Despite this uncertainty, I would follow Olyan’s and Stackert’s proposal that the Sabbath as a sign of the eternal covenant and the requirement of Sabbath observance for Israel fit well into the covenantal theology of P.17 It is certainly reasonable to assume that the notion of covenant is anchored in all three parts of P’s pentateuchal narrative: the primeval period (Gen 9), the ancestral period (Gen 17), and the Sinai events (Ex 31). One the other hand, there is no real reason to assume that P’s concept of covenant is strictly unconditional, which may have been the main reason, especially for Protestant exegetes, to assign Exodus 31:12–17 either to a pre-priestly source or to a post-priestly redactor. Obviously, such a condition is already mentioned in Genesis 17 with the required circumcision of new-born males which is supposed to separate the descendants of Abraham from other ethnicities. As biblical and archeological evidence suggest, circumcision was not a proprium of Israelite culture but it also was not a common practice (see discussion below), so one does get the impression that there is an intended development from the Noahic covenant with the rainbow as a natural phenomenon to the Abrahamic covenant that implements a specific cultural practice as a covenantal sign. It is certainly conceivable that, with the Sabbath, the priestly tradition takes the notion of covenant to yet another level where its purpose is to define the particular relationship between YHWH and the chosen people and, correspondingly, where it requires a particular religious practice that distinguishes Israel from other nations. One might even consider that the priestly concept of covenant remains strangely incomplete until and unless it also includes the “making” of Israel as God’s people at Sinai. As a result, one has to challenge the notion that in P or, put more cautiously, in the priestly line of tradition, the making of covenants is limited to Israel’s ancestral history but does not also extend into the Sinai events.18 Zimmerli, like 17 As Ruwe, Heiligkeitsgesetz, 132–133, has aptly demonstrated, the two mentions of the Sabbath in Ex 31:12–17 and 35:1–3 match the priestly scheme of announcement and fulfillment that one finds in Ex 25:1–31:11 and 35:4–39:43. This observation has been particularly helpful, since it draws attention to the fact that the Sabbath passages in Ex 31 and 35 either form an original transition in the priestly text or represent a secondary frame around the latter (not-priestly) Sinai pericope (Ex 32–34). For a mostly synchronic approach to the significance of the Sabbath frame, cf. D.C. Timmer, Creation, Tabernacle, and Sabbath: The Sabbath Frame of Exodus 31:12–17; 35:1–3 in Exegetical and Theological Perspective, FRLANT 227 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2009). 18 It may be worth mentioning that labels such as P, H, or D, as well as various subcategories thereof, are hardly more than rough categories that capture only certain aspects of the transmission history of complex texts such as Exodus 20–40. In the case of Ex 31:12– 17 a particularly intriguing detail is the interpretation of what distinguishes the seventh day of creation from the other six. Interestingly, while this passage determines that the Sabbath is a holy day (v. 14), it does not mention that God sanctified the Sabbath as one might expect, if the authors (P or H) knew Gen 2:1–3. One the other hand, such knowledge is certainly presupposed in v. 17, where the divine rest of Gen 2:3 is repeated but augmented by what

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many scholars before and after him, sees the inclusio between creation and Sinai, cosmology and cult as characteristics that P shares with ancient Near Eastern mythology. In this perspective, covenant only belongs to that portion of the history of Israel that is sandwiched between creation on the one hand and the implementation of the cult on Mount Sinai on the other. This perception changes, however, if one takes Exodus 31:16–17 to be an integral part of the priestly text. In this case, the concept of covenant is one that develops and unfolds as the narrative moves from the great flood to God’s self-revelation at Mount Sinai.19 Initially, this is a covenant without any participation of created beings and, correspondingly, without any expectations for humans or any other living beings (Gen 6:18; 9:9–17). All that they are supposed to do is procreate and fill the earth. The next step is the covenant with Abraham, which, like the covenant with Noah, includes a particular sign. In this case, however, this sign needs human action. All first-born males are supposed to be circumcised.20 As Saul Olyan has aptly demonstrated, it remains uncertain if and to what extent this sign distinguished the Israelites from their environment. Circumcision would have been somewhat distinctive in Babylon and, therefore, could point to exilic origins.21 However, perhaps the more likely scenario is that the sign of the Abrahamic covenant was not even meant to be particularly distinctive in an environment where many of Israel’s neighbors, including the Egyptians,22 practiced circumcision. However, as we arrive at Sinai, the covenant does take

one might call a mini-midrash, giving us the additional detail that God “caught his breath” (yinnapesh). In other words, as one focuses on smaller textual units, the rules that work in the big picture become fuzzy. Thus, it would seem accurate to state that Ex 31:12–17 stands somewhere between P and H. 19 Cf. A. Dillman, Die Bücher Exodus und Levitikus (Leipzig: Hirzel, 31897), 334. 20 It remains an open question, however, when the circumcision of new-born males on the eighth day (Gen 17:9–1; Lev 12:3) became a religious norm. While this regulation is firmly anchored in the priestly ancestral narratives, it occurs only sporadically in the Exodus tradition (Ex 4:24–26; 12:44). As a matter of fact, the narrator in Jos 5:2–7 feels the need to report that all of the Israelite males were circumcised after the wilderness wanderings, since this had not been done before. 21 S.M. Olyan, “An Eternal Covenant with Circumcision as its Sign: How Useful a Criterion for Dating and Source Analysis?” in The Pentateuch: International Perspectives on Current Research, ed. T.B. Dozeman et al., FAT 78 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 347– 58. 22 As J.F. Quack has shown for ancient Egypt, it is conceivable that even within one and the same religious context, circumcision was not necessarily a general norm but may have applied to particular groups of males, such as priests, only and may have been exercised at different ages; see, J.F. Quack, “Zur Beschneidung im Alten Ägypten,” in Menschenbilder und Körperkonzepte im Alten Israel, in Ägypten und im Alten Orient, ed. A. Berlejung, J. Dietrich, J.F. Quack, ORA 9 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 561–651. In this perspective, it is not so much circumcision as such that distinguishes Israel from its neighbors but the specific regulation that all males were to be circumcised as newborns.

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a very distinctive form with regard to the sign of the covenant and the obligations placed on Israel. As Exodus 31:15 explains, violating the Sabbath is a punishable offense because this contradicts the rhythm of the created order. Just as God rested on the seventh day and was refreshed or, perhaps more literally, “caught his breath,” so shall Israel honor the seventh day. It is interesting to note that Sabbath observance, in Exodus 31:12–17 and 35:1–3, does not seem to be required of non-Israelites as is the case in both versions of the Decalogue (Ex 20:8–10; Dtn 5:12–15). This is worth noticing because in the case of circumcision, according to Genesis 17:12–13, non-Israelite male servants also have to undergo circumcision. If one compares the significance and cultural distinctiveness of circumcision vis-à-vis Sabbath observance, one can conclude that Israel apparently positioned itself in a cultural environment where circumcision was known to be a practice that at least some of Israel’s neighbors used, whereas the Sabbath was a unique feature of emerging Judaism. Looking at how the narrative line of the priestly account unfolds, the level of distinctiveness increases the closer one gets to Sinai. Along the same line, Sabbath observance seems to have been a far more important requirement than circumcision with regard to the inclusion of foreigners in the temple community. As Isaiah 56:6–7 states, Sabbath observance could become a vehicle even for foreigners to be included in the community of Israel: And the foreigners who join themselves to YHWH, to minister to him, to love the name of YHWH, and to be his servants, all who keep the Sabbath, and do not profane it, and hold fast my covenant, I will bring them to my sacred mount and let them rejoice in my house of prayer.

It seems that this passage from Isaiah picks up where P leaves off, namely in assuming that Sabbath observance as a general law could become the access point even for those without Israelite/Jewish descent. As we have seen so far, it seems difficult to anchor the priestly notion of covenant in one particular event or associate it with only one particular stage in the history of Israel in the way Zimmerli suggests. There also seems to be little gain in applying the distinction between conditional and unconditional forms of a covenant to P.23 While this has been a popular way of distinguishing the allegedly completely unconditional covenant in P from the conditional type in D, this rough typology does not capture, as noted above, the particulars of the covenant with Abraham.24 Covenant in P is best understood as a dynamic 23 For an overview especially of the discussion of conditionality and unconditionality with regard to the notion of covenant, cf. R.J. Bautch, Glory and Power, Ritual and Relationship: The Sinai Covenant in the Post-Exilic Period, LHBOTS 471 (New York/London: T&T Clark, 2009), 11–15. 26–32. 24 For this reason Groß, “Rezeption,” 55, combines the distinction between conditional and unconditional with the concept of individualization (Ez 18). This means that, in the case

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concept with a telos, namely the Sinai revelation for Israel as God’s chosen people. As Richard Bautch has helpfully demonstrated, the priestly covenant can be described as the medium through which Israel slowly and gradually becomes a worshipping community.25 There is a liturgical and cultic layer to this understanding of covenant that takes the entire concept to a different level. The Noahic covenant provides the world with the safety and permanent stability for living beings to emerge; the Abrahamic covenant promises that a random group of people will become a nation on their own land; and the Sinai covenant, finally, defines this nation as a cultic community whose purpose it is to serve the God who created heaven and earth. Scholars have always noted P’s dynamic characterization of God, which moves from vagueness and ambiguity to ever-greater clarity.26 Initially, there is only the nameless Elohim who creates the world, although it remains entirely open who this God is. It is a God who speaks and acts but who has no place in the created sphere and whose presence in the world remains somewhat mysterious. Initially, this God calls himself El Shaddai (Gen 17:1), then reveals his secret name to Moses (Ex 6:3), and eventually settles down in the tabernacle that the Israelites had built for him (Ex 40:34). It seems that P’s notion of covenant follows the same development of a deepening relationship between Israel and their God, a relationship in which Israel is actively involved by building and furnishing the tabernacle, by implementing the cult and, as the most integral part of this relationship, by honoring and observing the Sabbath.

2. The “Eternal Covenant” in Exilic/Postexilic Prophecy Assuming that this is an adequate characterization of P’s concept of covenant as it unfolds through the books of Genesis and Exodus, there is still one detail that has received surprisingly little scholarly attention, namely the fact that this covenant is called berit olam, “eternal covenant.” In a recent dissertation on this subject, Steven Mason calls this berit olam an “elusive phrase,”27 and this seems to be a fair representation of how most exegetes approach this issue. The adjective olam is usually taken as a rhetorical device that gives the notion of of Genesis 17 and Exodus 31, the covenant as such stands firm, even though it implies conditions (circumcision, Sabbath observance) that individuals have to meet in order to remain in the covenant. 25 Bautch, Glory and Power, 15–42. 26 E. Zenger, Gottes Bogen in den Wolken: Untersuchungen zu Komposition und Theologie der priesterschriftlichen Urgeschichte., SBS 112 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2 1987), 167–177; B. Janowski, “Tempel und Schöpfung. Schöpfungstheologische Aspekte der priesterschriftlichen Heiligtumskonzeption,” JBTh 5 (1990), 46–60. 27 S. Mason, “Eternal Covenant” in the Pentateuch: The Contours of an Elusive Phrase, LHBOTS 494 (London: T&T Clark, 2008).

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covenant a certain solemnity without, however, adding much conceptual value to it. Nonetheless, it is striking that P, more than any other textual tradition in the Old Testament, is very consistent in its choice of words, because in all three cases of a covenant in P – with Noah, Abraham, and at Sinai – it is called a berit olam. Equally consistently, this phrase never occurs outside the P and H traditions of the Pentateuch. This is particularly noteworthy with regard to Genesis 15, which includes the other covenant with Abraham (Gen 15:18–21). Most scholars currently agree that this might be a later addition that presupposes P but gives the Abrahamic covenant more of a Sinaitic feel – the vision of God coming down in fire and darkness – in order to elevate the promise to Abraham to the same revelatory level as the Sinai events. However, this covenant is not called a berit olam although chances are that the authors of Genesis 15 were familiar with this language. One can make a similar observation with regard to the materials that predate P. If the book of the covenant and the core of Deuteronomy are indicative of the use of the term berit in the monarchic period, then there is reason to believe that the phrase berit olam did not play a significant role prior to the exilic and postexilic periods. The prophetic traditions lend further credibility to this assumption. It has always been noted that the pre-exilic prophets do not seem to be particularly familiar with or interested in the idea that Israel’s relationship with their God should be cast in the form of a covenant.28 This impression changes, however, when one looks at the exilic and postexilic prophets where covenant appears to have become a productive paradigm to conceive of God’s future relationship with Israel. And here, too, one finds that all three major prophets employ the language of a berit olam quite deliberately in key passages of their respective theologies. If we stay with these prophetic texts for a moment, it becomes immediately clear that the berit olam is something that contrasts with the old covenant – a covenant that ended (and ended unsuccessfully) because of Israel’s unfaithfulness. As a matter of fact, in the Major Prophets the antonym of the “old” covenant is not so much the “new” covenant (only in Jer 31:31) but the berit olam, the “eternal” covenant. The key question that all three prophets address is precisely how a covenant that, by its nature, is a fragile construct that lasts only as long as all the parties involved honor it, can be olam – eternal. The prophetic answers to this question offer a variety of solutions that should be summarized here at least briefly. Perhaps the earliest instance of the eternal covenant is found in Ezekiel 16:60: 28

Specifically for the book of Ezekiel, see H.-W. Jüngling, “Eid und Bund in Ez 16–17,” in Der Neue Bund im Alten: Zur Bundestheologie der beiden Testamente, ed. E. Zenger, QD 146 (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1993), 113 (with footnote 2). For the Isaianic tradition, see W. Groß, “Israel und die Völker: Die Krise des YHWH-Volk-Konzepts im Jesajabuch,” in Der Neue Bund im Alten, 149–167.

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Nevertheless, I will remember the covenant I made with you in the days of your youth, and I will establish it with you as an eternal covenant.

This may be the most basic and straightforward account of the need for a covenant that would prevail where the old covenant failed. There is nothing particularly new about this covenant, and there is also nothing new about the fact that this is conditional and, as such, could be broken again. Different, however, is Israel’s approach to it. The expectation appears to be that Israel will finally come to understand how foolish, reckless, and immature they had acted in the days of their youth. Israel will be ashamed of its past ways and simply never want to return to its former state of unfaithfulness. One senses a certain level of confidence and hope here that, through its experience of deportation and exile, Israel has finally left her adolescent phase behind and has become a more mature and reliable partner in the covenant with YHWH. Something very similar can be said for Ezekiel 37:21–26. Here, too, one finds the idea that the exile was a cleansing experience, preparing and enabling Israel for a fully restored relationship with YHWH, which will no longer include worshipping idols and foreign deities. It is particularly significant that Israel will even have a successor to the throne of David again. Thus says the Lord GOD: Behold, I will take the people of Israel from the nations among which they have gone, and will gather them from all around, and bring them to their own land. And I will make them one nation in the land, on the mountains of Israel. And one king shall be king over them all, and they shall be no longer two nations, and no longer divided into two kingdoms. They shall not defile themselves anymore with their idols and their detestable things, or with any of their transgressions. But I will save them from all the backslidings in which they have sinned, and will cleanse them; and they shall be my people, and I will be their God. My servant David shall be king over them, and they shall all have one shepherd. They shall walk in my rules and be careful to obey my statutes. They shall dwell in the land that I gave to my servant Jacob, where your fathers lived. They and their children and their children’s children shall dwell there forever, and David my servant shall be their prince forever. I will make a covenant of peace with them. It shall be an eternal covenant with them. And I will set them in their land and multiply them, and will set my sanctuary in their midst forevermore.

There is a clear political agenda included in this eternal covenant, which Ezekiel also calls a “covenant of peace.” Israel will be a united nation in the midst of all the peoples of the earth. The Davidic king will rule Israel,29 and at the

29 The question remains, however, whether the mention of David suggests more than just the restitution of the monarchy. M. Greenberg, Ezekiel 21–37, AB 22A (New York: Doubleday, 1997), 760, may be right in suggesting that “The text requires no more than a ‘new David’ who is not the old one resurrected or merely one of David’s line, but something in between: a future king who will be the moral (and physical?) duplicate of the David idealized by late biblical writers.”

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same time YHWH will dwell among his people.30 There is a cultic and a monarchic edge to this covenant,31 which is reminiscent of Haggai and Zechariah and, therefore, could point to similar historical circumstances and a similar expectation for Israel’s future. It is an open question, however, if and to what extent the announcement of an eternal covenant was originally linked to the preceding prophecies of the “new heart” and the resurrection of the dry bones. The question is simply if the eternal covenant presupposes that Israel becomes a different people with a new heart and a new spirit, which will finally enable them to become a faithful covenant people. An alternative view is that the “new heart” and the “eternal covenant” are two different and, to some extent, even opposing concepts – one emphasizes the need for fundamental change, whereas the other carries a sense of continuity and fulfillment. The latter view receives support from Isaiah 55:1–5 and 61:8–9 where the eternal covenant emphasizes Israel’s restitution among the nations as a sign of YHWH’s sovereign, universal rule. Come, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and he who has no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price. Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread, and your labor for that which does not satisfy? Listen diligently to me, and eat what is good, and delight yourselves in rich food. Incline your ear, and come to me; hear, that your soul may live; and I will make with you an eternal covenant, my steadfast, sure love for David. Behold, I made him a witness to the peoples, a leader and commander for the peoples. Behold, you shall call a nation that you do not know, and a nation that did not know you shall run to you, because of YHWH your God, and of the Holy One of Israel, for he has glorified you.32

The parallels between Ezekiel 37 and Isaiah 55 also suggest that the prophetic understanding of the eternal covenant included hope for political autonomy. Isaiah 55 is certainly more discreet in this regard than Ezekiel 37, since it does not directly announce the rise of a Davidic king but only talks about God’s love

30 The only text outside the prophetic corpus that associated David with an eternal covenant is 2 Sam 23:5. However, given the uncertain date of the “Last Words of David” it is not clear whether Ezekiel referenced an already existing (deuteronomistic) tradition or if 2 Sam 23:5 includes a retrospective interpretation of the Davidic monarchy. 31 J.F. Kutsko, Between Heaven and Earth: Divine Presence and Absence in the Book of Ezekiel, BJS 7 (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2000), 141, rightly points to the parallel between the eternal covenant and the eternal sanctuary in Ez 37:26–28. In perspective, it is interesting that, while the mention of a Davidic king is part of the covenant, it does not itself carry the predicate “eternal.” Kutsko interprets this as a sign that the monarchy is still an earthly reality, whereas the sanctuary belongs to the divine sphere (ibid., 147). 32 Author’s translation.

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for David. Still, even in this subdued form the messianic overtone of the eternal covenant is loud and clear.33 Things seem to become more difficult with regard to Jeremiah’s notion of the berit olam (Jer 32:39–41). Here, too, the restoration of Israel to their land after a period of foreign rule (Jer 33:25–35) is a dominant theme giving the berit olam a teleological point. However, there is no mention of a new king or any other political or religious form of governance. As a matter of fact, both the eternal covenant in 33:40 and the new covenant in 31:31–33 highlight the unmediated relationship between YHWH and Israel as what is characteristically different between the old and the new/eternal covenant. 34 YHWH will inscribe the law on Israel’s heart (31:33) or, in the idiom of 32:40, put the fear of God in Israel’s heart. It is not Israel that has become a new people, and neither is the law different from the one that Moses announced on Mount Sinai. New, however, is the coming together of Israel’s heart and YHWH’s law and the emphasis on the immediate and intimate relationship between God and the people. It cannot be discussed here whether the Jeremiah passage is meant as a synthesis of the new heart and the eternal covenant in Ezekiel or if, conversely, Ezekiel should be understood as a radicalization of Jeremiah’s position. It has become clear, however, that the notion of a berit olam is an integral part of the prophetic discourse in the exilic and early postexilic periods about the possibility of a permanent and unbreakable relationship between YHWH and Israel. It is also important to note that in all three versions of the berit olam, in Ezekiel, Isaiah, and Jeremiah, a defining moment is the dwelling of YHWH in and among Israel. All three prophets emphasize that because of this berit olam Israel will live securely on the land around Mount Zion and that they will be willing and able to live according to God’s law. This is particularly important with regard to our discussion of the priestly understanding of berit olam. Against the backdrop of these prophetic texts, the connection between the Sinai events and the eternal covenant in Exodus 31:12– 33 Contra J. Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 40–55, AB 19A (New York: Doubleday, 2002), 370: “This language does not, however, imply a commitment to restoring the Davidic dynasty. What is promised is that the hearers will experience the same kind of God’s faithful love... that God performed in former times on behalf of David...” 34 On the development of Jeremiah’s concept of covenant, which eventually builds up to the notion of a new covenant, see H. Weippert, “Negative Anthropologie. Das Wort vom neuen Bund in Jer XXXI 31–34,” VT 29/3 (1979), 336–351, in conversation with H.J. Stoebe, “Jeremia, Prophet und Seelsorger,” ThZ 28 (1964), 385–409. There seems to be general agreement that the new covenant in Jer 31:31–34 is synonymous with the eternal covenant (see the literature report in G. Fischer, Jeremia 26–52, HThKAT (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2005), 212–213). However, D. Rom-Shiloni, “The Prophecy for ‘Everlasting Covenant’ (Jeremiah 32:36–41), An Exilic Addition or a Deuteronomistic Redaction?,” VT 53/2 (2003), 218–221, has pointed out significant conceptual differences between Jeremiah’s language of “eternal” and “new.”

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17 is not entirely surprising. If one assigns at least Exodus 31:16–17 to P, this would simply mean that P participated in the exilic and postexilic conversation about the covenantal significance of the Sinai Torah. On the other hand, if one wanted to argue in favor of Zimmerli’s position, one would have to show why P, in contrast to contemporaneous prophecy, limited the eternal covenant to the primeval and ancestral periods of Israel’s history. This takes us back to our analysis of the P texts, now especially to the divine speeches before and after the flood as two signature texts of P’s theology.

3. The Divine Speeches in the Priestly Flood Narrative (Gen 8:15–17; 9:1–17) As the prophetic references to the berit olam indicate, this term was not merely a rhetorical device but carried conceptual significance. It played a crucial role in the postexilic discussion about if, how, and why there could be such a thing as an unbreakable covenant. I submit that the very same question stands in the background also of the Priestly Code, with its three installments of a berit olam. This, of course, raises the question of what it is, according to P, that gives the covenant the potential of being eternally valid. The answer can be found in the divine speeches in Genesis 8:15–17 and 9:1–17, which introduce and conclude the priestly account of the flood: 1. Genesis 8:15–17; 9:1–3: God tells Noah to leave the ark and bring out with him all the living beings, followed by the blessing that Noah and his family receive. Interestingly, while humans are blessed in the same way that they were in Genesis 1:28 and commissioned to be fruitful and multiply, the dominium terrae is not repeated after the flood. Given the parallels between Genesis 1:26–28 and 9:1–3, it is striking that there is no mention of human “rule” anymore.35 After the flood, humans are seen as a threat to the other living beings because now they are allowed to do what was prohibited before the flood, namely kill animals for food. The status or cosmological significance of human life seems to have changed after the flood. Humans are not primarily rulers or God’s stewards anymore but rather the top of the food chain.

35 P.J. Harland, The Value of Human Life: A Study of the Story of the Flood (Genesis 6– 9), VT Sup 64 (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 206–207; A. Schüle, Der Prolog der hebräischen Bibel: Der literar- und theologiegeschichtliche Diskurs der Urgeschichte (Genesis 1–11), AThANT 86 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2006), 106–116; A. Schellenberg, Der Mensch, das Bild Gottes? Zum Gedanken einer Sonderstellung des Menschen im Alten Testament und in weiteren altorientalischen Quellen, AThANT 101 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2011), 59.

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2. The second part of the divine speech shows even more explicit changes in the world’s system of order. Genesis 9:4–6 includes a set of specific regulations that God implements to protect life. These laws operate at three different levels: 1. killing in general is limited to the acquisition of food; 2. human life is exempted from the mechanisms of the food chain because humans are created in the image of God, which means that even animals will be punished when they kill humans; and 3. the life force, which resides in the blood stream of every living being, must be returned to God when a life is taken. Brief as these regulations are, they implement a completely new system of order that limits violence so that it will not threaten the rhythm and the abundance of life again.36 This is also a system that anticipates cultic regulations as a way of maintaining the cyclical movement of life as something that comes from and returns to its creator. It seems safe to say that what we have here in Genesis 9 is a foreshadowing of the priestly Torah in Leviticus 1–16. As scholars have observed before, P uses the Primeval History as a general framework for the cultic regulations that are revealed to Israel at Mount Sinai. Or put in different terms, P views the cult and its laws as the deep structure of creation.37 3. The third and final piece of the divine speech is the covenant with all flesh. It has a threefold structure: the covenant is first announced, “I am about to establish my covenant,” (Gen 9:9); then implemented, “I, herewith, establish a covenant,” (Gen 9:12); and finally reviewed, “the covenant that I have established,” (Gen 9:17). To my knowledge, this is the only time in the Hebrew Bible that a covenant is implemented step-by-step. The other unique characteristic of this covenant is that it would stand even if the world did not know about it. It is the result of a speech act of God that does not require any response or even awareness on the part of the living beings. This brief survey of the composition of the second divine speech with its careful distinctions between promise, law, and covenant puts us in a position to come back to our initial question about the berit olam. The answer to why, in the Priestly Code, the covenant can be olam (“eternal”) is precisely because P deliberately distinguishes between covenant and law. In P, these have become two different entities with distinct purposes. Textbooks on Genesis typically claim that the world after the flood is safe, because of God’s covenant with Noah, but that is not entirely accurate. While the covenant is essentially God’s promise to refrain from drowning the world in another flood, the reason why the world will never again fill with violence in the way it did before the flood is because, now, there is a legal mechanism that punishes whoever violates the life-protecting laws that God establishes in Genesis 9:4–6. Compared with the berit olam in the three major prophets, P does not share their expectation for any kind of dramatic change that will enable humankind in general or 36 37

Schüle, Prolog, 260–269. Ibid., 74–83.

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Israel in particular to fulfill the law as a covenantal obligation. While the prophets have an eschatological trajectory with the berit olam as the fulfillment of Israel’s covenantal history with God, P insists that God’s covenants have always been “eternal.” P is adamant about the fact that, by definition, every covenant that God establishes is eternal and that it is beyond human reach to alter that. Correspondingly, P takes a somewhat more realistic stance than the prophets regarding the human response to these covenants. For P, it is a reality that humankind in general and Israel in particular will not always be a faithful covenant partner. Post-diluvian humankind is no better than their pre-diluvian ancestors, and there is no indication that Israel stands out from the rest of the crowd. Historically, the priestly and the prophetic versions of a berit olam both seem to be in agreement that, in light of the experience of the Babylonian exile, covenant, understood as a contract with mutual obligations, was not a viable model to conceive of the future relationship between God and Israel. However, while the prophets envision an Israel that will never again have the desire or ability to break God’s law and so violate the covenant, P carefully distinguishes between covenant and law. The reality that human beings shed other human beings’ blood is a punishable offense but this does not invalidate the Noahic covenant.38 P also seems to anticipate that, even after having gone through the Babylonian exile, Israel will break the law again, which, however, will not terminate the covenant. This is now particularly pertinent for those laws that also establish a sign of the covenant – circumcision and Sabbath observance, and here, too, P subtly disentangles covenantal and legal thinking. While there will be severe consequences if the Israelites fail to abide by these two commandments, this will not impact the validity of the covenant. The language in Exodus 31:16 is quite nuanced in this regard. Precisely because the Sabbath is the sign of the covenant, Israel is supposed to observe it.39 As with all three installments of a covenant in P, it is the covenant itself that defines the relationship between God and humankind/Israel and not the human response to it. Without the Sabbath, Israel would not be the worshipping community in whose midst the kavod 38 G.N. Knoppers, “David’s Relation to Moses: The Contexts, Content, and Conditions of the Davidic Promises,” in King and Messiah in Israel and the Ancient Near East. Proceedings of the Oxford Old Testament Seminar, ed. J. Day, JSOT Sup 270 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 99, makes a similar observation with regard to the Davidic covenant in 2 Samuel 7 and Psalm 89. Knoppers notes that, even though God confirms David’s dynasty forever, this does not exempt his successors from obeying YHWH: “The absolute promise of succession within a particular dynasty is a striking feature of the presentation of the Davidic promises in both Nathan’s oracle and in Psalm 89. In neither case, however, are the recipients of the promises devoid of obligations.” 39 It is important to note that berit olam in Ex 31:17 stands in apposition to sabbath. The Sabbath is an eternal covenant. Thus the best rendering here is: “And the Israelites shall observe the Sabbath by keeping it throughout the ages; (it is) an eternal covenant.”

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adonai has its dwelling place on earth (Ex 40). In this perspective, Sabbath observance is not a condition of a bilateral agreement. It is not a matter of give and take. Rather, Sabbath observance is presented here as something that Israel, in spite of its checkered history with God and in spite of its tendency to break the law, can do to hold on to the eternal covenant.

The Primeval History as an Etiology of Torah 1. Introduction: Creation and Flood in the Priestly Primeval History Recent contributions to Genesis 1–11 have highlighted the significance of the priestly account of creation in Gen 1:1–2:3 (Gen 1) as the prologue not only of the Primeval History but also of the entire priestly and, arguably, also nonpriestly Pentateuch.1 There are good reasons why Gen 1 deserves particular attention. It is part of an overarching framework that links the priestly account of creation to the building and the consecration of the tabernacle in Ex 25–31 and 35–40.2 Creation and temple, cosmology and cult3 are the elliptical poles around which P’s theology is organized, although it remains debated whether the priestly version of the Sinai legislation complements, completes, or, as I would prefer to say, deepens the creation account in Gen 1. However, in this perspective, one easily overlooks that the priestly code (P) does not employ the creation narrative to give the reader the depiction of a perfect world. Rather, as P’s Primeval History unfolds, it becomes clear that the world of Gen 1, despite God’s best intentions and the blessings that he bestows on the living beings, does not prosper in the way God had intended. Rather, according to Gen 5, it takes only ten generations for this very good creation to deteriorate and fill with violence (Gen 6:13). P does not give us any graphic details of what had happened but the term ‫ חמס‬suggests that “all flesh” was drowning in violence, bloodshed, and killing. God looks at the world and realizes that it is beyond repair. In P, the flood is not so much a means of divine punishment as it is the unavoidable consequence of the creatures’ proneness to 1

S.D. McBride, “Genesis 1:1–2:3 Prologue to the Pentateuch,” in God Who Creates, ed. W.P. Brown and S.D. McBride (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 3–41; M. Millard, Die Genesis als Eröffnung der Tora. Kompositions- und auslegungsgeschichtliche Annäherungen an das erste Buch Mose, WMANT 90 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2001); A. Schüle, Der Prolog der hebräischen Bibel. Der literar- und theologiegeschichtliche Diskurs der Urgeschichte (Genesis 1–11), AThANT 86 (Zürich: Theologischer Veralg Zürich, 2006), 425–430. 2 E. Zenger, Gottes Bogen in den Wolken. Untersuchungen zu Komposition und Theologie der priesterschriftlichen Urgeschichte, SBS 112 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1983), 170–175; Millard, Genesis, 124–137. 3 B. Janowski, “Tempel und Schöpfung. Schöpfungstheologische Aspekte der priesterschriftlichen Heiligtumskonzeption,” in Gottes Gegenwart in Israel. Beiträge zur Theologie des Alten Testaments (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1993), 222–240.

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violence. Put in different terms, the flood finishes off a world that had already self-destructed.4 This is what P indicates by using the term ‫ שחת‬for both the corruption of „all flesh” (‫ שחת‬hitp. “to become corrupt”) and God’s decision to destroy all flesh (‫ שחת‬hif. “to destroy”).5 If one looks at Gen 1 in the larger context of P’s Primeval History, it becomes clear that it depicts a world that is “very good” as far as God’s own work is concerned. However, this world is also quintessentially flawed; while it can bring forth living beings, it appears to be incapable of sustaining and protecting life. There is a peculiar tension between the language of completion and divine rest at the end of the creation narrative (Gen 2:2–3) and the negative account that one finds at the beginning of the flood narrative (Gen 6:9–13). One might feel reminded of the logic of prophetic parables like Isaiah’s vineyard song (Isa 5:1–7). The vineyard that God made with great care and consideration turns bad for no apparent reason, and so the song seeks to justify that God has no choice but to tear down the vineyard. The fact that there is no explanation for this unfortunate outcome alerts the reader to the fact that there is no guarantee for good intentions to turn into positive outcomes – not even with regard to God’s own work. The priestly flood narrative displays the same logic: there is no apparent reason for why the world fills with violence. Nonetheless, the fact that this evil has occurred calls for God’s intervention, which again is reminiscent of words from the prophetic tradition, more specifically the prophetic message of doom. The expression (literally) “the end of all flesh has come before me” (v. 13) is remarkable. It seems to involve an allusion either to Amos 8:2 and Ezek 7:2–6, directly, or, at least, to the judgment message contained in these texts.6 These parallels are instructive regarding the meaning of the “end” that “has come before God.” Some versions of the Bible translate the gist, “the end of the world is already decided as far as I am concerned.” This translation suggests that the “end” envisions the situation when God will have obliterated the world. In fact, one finds this notion in Ezekiel.7 (Ezek 7:2–6) You, O mortal, thus says the YHWH God to the land of Israel: An end! The end has come upon the four corners of the land. Now the end is upon you, I will let loose my anger upon you; I will judge you according to your ways, I will punish you for all your abominations. 4

A. Schüle, Prolog, 260–268. N.C. Baumgart, Die Umkehr des Schöpfergottes. Zu Komposition und religionsgeschichtlichem Hintergrund von Gen 5–9, HBS 22 (Freiburg im Breisgau et al.: Herder, 199), 210–212. 6 R. Smend, “‘Das Ende ist gekommen’. Ein Amoswort in der Priesterschrift,” in Die Mitte des Alten Testaments. Gesammelte Studien, BEvTh 99 (München: C.H. Beck, 1986), 155–159; R. Oberforcher, Die Flutprologe als Kompositionsschlüssel der biblischen Urgeschichte. Ein Beitrag zur Redaktionskritik, ITS 8 (Innsbruck et al.: Tyrolia, 1981), 438–440; E. Bosshard-Nepustil, Vor uns die Sintflut. Studien zu Text, Kontexten und Rezeption der Fluterzählung Genesis 6–9, BWANT 165 (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2005), 170–173. 7 M. Greenberg, Ezechiel 1–20, HThKAT (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2001), 180. 5

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My eye will not spare you, I will have no pity. I will punish you for your ways, while your abominations are among you. Then you shall know that I am YHWH.

Clearly, the “end” is the punishment that God is about to bring upon Israel for all the abominations that they have committed. And yet, this “end” has a purpose, which is apparently not to erase Israel from the face of the earth altogether, but to force them to finally accept what they had been avoiding all along: “Then you shall know that I am YHWH.” So the purpose of God’s punishment extends even beyond what Ezekiel calls the “end”. The notion seems to be that at point zero Israel will come to recognize YHWH as their God, although, at least at this point in Ezekiel, it is not clear, if there is going to be a new future for Israel as God’s people. The priestly flood narrative, too, suggests that God’s decision to put an end to the world is God’s response to a world that has drowned in violence. However, the Priestly document shifts the emphasis of God’s judgment on “all flesh”: in 6:13, the end receives a dual connotation – as the world filled with violence and, simultaneously, as the world inundated with the floodwaters. It seems as though the Priestly text was interested in demonstrating a parallel between the state of the world and God’s activity. The demise of the world is not so much a punishment as the maturation of a fatal dynamic that is already at work. If one wishes to preserve the Hebrew play on words, one could translate the gist of the matter as follows: God ruins what is already ruined. It is important to realize that the unresolved but intentional tension between Gen 1 and Gen 6 is part and parcel of the priestly view of creation. There is something missing, something incomplete about the world that God made in the beginning. Especially Christian exegetes sometimes overlook or downplay this programmatic tension in the priestly text because, according to traditional Christian doctrine, God’s creation in Gen 1 would have been perfect, had humans not allowed sin to enter the world (Gen 2–4). It is for lack of human moral not of divine design that the created world deteriorates. One can suspect that one of the reasons why traditional historical-critical scholarship viewed Gen 1 as a text that presupposes Gen 2–3(4) has something to do with the centrality of the doctrine of sin in Christian theology. If one reads Gen 2–3 as a story of the “fall”, it becomes clear that the solution to the question of evil in the world is that initial misdeed of humankind and, perhaps even more importantly, the inherent human disposition to disobey God’s command. As the supposedly later text8, P would have presupposed this view and 8 The literary history of the Primeval History has been under much discussion lately, which cannot be reviewed here in any detail. However, it may be worth pointing out one misunderstanding that seems to have muddied that discussion. Proponents of the view that the non-priestly texts of Gen 1–11 are younger than P typically do not claim that this should be a model for the rest of Pentateuch as well (with the exception perhaps of J. Blenkinsopp, The Pentateuch: An Introduction to the First Five Books of The Bible, ABRL (New York:

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built its cosmology to match this negative view of humankind: God’s initial world was perfect; sin, through human doing, came later. The quintessential flaw of this interpretation is that, according to P, evil in the world is not at all a problem of human will, or desire, or their susceptibility to temptation. P locates the origin of evil at a much more basic level. It is the proneness to violence as a genetic defect in all living beings (“all flesh”) that, for reasons that P does not explain, endanger the created world.9 It is quite subtle that P uses the term “good” and even “very good” in Gen 1 as words from God’s mouth, leaving the reader to wonder when and where the opposite of “good” will enter the picture of P’s cosmology. Interestingly, the opposite term is not “evil”, as in the Eden story (Gen 2:17) and the non-priestly evaluation of the human heart in the flood narrative (Gen 6:5; 8:21); rather the opposite of “goodness” is “violence” (Gen 6:11–13) as the most basic danger in the created world.10 It is safe to say that one of P’s main interests with regard to creation is how it was possible that living beings could occur in a world that used to be tohuwabohu; and precisely because of this emphasis on the occurrence of living beings, it is of key significance that P does not consider the world at the stage of Gen 1:1–2:3 ready and able to protect life and, by the same token, to keep the destructive potentials inherent in all flesh at bay.

Doubleday, 1992), 31–53. Given the complexity of the transmission history of the Pentateuch, any one-size-fits-all approach runs the risk of over-simplifying the case. However, if one limits one’s perspective to the Primeval History, it is an agreed-upon fact that only P offers a self-standing narrative. Traditional source criticism, therefore, has to explain why the supposedly older, non-priestly source (“J”) was fragmented at some point, which of course requires a largely hypothetical argument with no direct evidence to support it. The position, however, that the non-priestly texts (independent of when they were written down for the first time) never formed a continuous narrative but were either inserted in the priestly text or written to complement P (“Fortschreibung”) does not have to resort to any fragmentation theories. Thus, even David Carr in an unnecessarily polemical review of contributions in favor of P as the oldest layer in Gen 1–11 has to admit that these theories typically offer more sophisticated interpretations of the layered text than approaches that follow the traditional documentary hypothesis (D.M. Carr, “Strong and Weak Cases and Criteria for Establishing the Post-Priestly Character of Hexateuchal Material” in The Post-Priestly Pentateuch. New Perspectives on its Redactional Development and Theological Profiles, ed. F. Giuntoli and K. Schmid (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2015), 33). 9 For a conversation between evolutionary biology and the Primeval History cf. R.W.L. Moberly, The Theology of the Book of Genesis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 57–65. 10 Bosshard-Nepustil, Sintflut, 266.

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2. The Divine Speech after the Flood (Gen 9:1–17) This takes us to the end of the flood narrative and, more specifically, to the divine speech after the flood, in which God establishes new rules for all life in the post-diluvian world. The flood in the most literal sense is a watershed that separates the world that failed from the one that prevailed, which raises questions such as: what is different in the post-diluvian world? What makes it more stable and less susceptible to self-destruction and decay? Initially, the divine speech picks up where the creation narrative left off: God blesses the survivors of the flood and commissions them to be fruitful and multiply (Gen 9:1). There is no indication, however, that the flood survivors will be any different from their pre-diluvian ancestors, and that they will be less violent or more morally refined than the generations before them. There is no sense of telos in the priestly Primeval History, no expectation that creatures in general and human beings in particular will fundamentally alter their behavioral patterns. What does change, however, is God’s attention to the created world. Interesting in this regard is the motif of God “remembering” in Gen 8:1 and 9:15. This echoes the mythic understanding that God must actually be reminded not to exterminate the world as an oversight. The notion that gods are moody and (sometimes deliberately) forgetful beings, who would rather not be bothered with human concerns, is a motif that pervades the myths of both Greek and Mesopotamian origins. And it seem that, at its surface, the flood narrative, too, depicts God as someone who needs to remind himself to refrain from something that he might have perhaps done otherwise. At least this seems to be the meaning behind Gen 9:13–15. Whenever in the future God will bring about clouds (and rain), the rainbow will appear and stop God from taking things too far, as it were. However, underneath the mythic surface hides a more profound theological insight. The notion that God is “reminded” of the covenant implies that God is not always and everywhere “present,” but approaches the world from a certain distance and then withdraws from it again. Starting with the creation account, the Priestly document develops a worldview in which God has no particular place. To be sure, the world is God’s creation and follows the rhythms and orders that God instituted. This does not also automatically imply, however, the idea of a continuous personal presence in the world. This basic motif of the God who acts from a distance also accompanies the priestly narrative of the post-diluvian period, although with an important alteration: there are events in the world, which, in fact, “automatically” call God to action. These include, for one, uncontrolled bloodshed (the first part of the divine speech; Gen 9:1–7) and, second, the potential destruction of the world by another flood (the second part of the divine speech; Gen 9:8–17). God’s role is, above all, to actively combat and restrain everything that threatens the existence of the world, both internally and externally. Consequently, the commandments and the covenant instituted in this divine speech have the same

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objective. The covenant addresses threats to the world that are not created or influenced by human beings, while the commandments concern the reality lived and shaped by creatures. With commandment and covenant, the Priestly document introduces categories into the Primeval History that gain significance in subsequent portions of the Pentateuch. The covenant with Abraham in Gen 17 follows the Noah covenant11, which includes all living beings. The covenant theme in Priestly tradition finally concludes with the Sinai revelation, which addresses the one people exclusively chosen by God.12 The fact that the Priestly document already anchors the category of covenant in the Primeval History indicates once more that the Primeval History does not intend to be understood alone, but as part of an overall composition that extends an arc from the first day of creation to the encounter between God and Israel at Sinai. Within this narrative arc, God becomes more concretely present in the world13, although God is never “absorbed” in this world. Even at Sinai and the tabernacle consecrated there – in which the glory of God sometimes resides, but from which, however, it also frequently withdraws – there continues to be temporary encounters with God and an immovable boundary between divine and human realities.

3. The Laws to Protect Life (Gen 9:4–6) The Priestly document intentionally draws a contrast between the world at the beginning and the world after the flood. In between lies a phase of uncontrolled and excessive spreading of violence, which P views as the reason for the demise of the world. The theme of violence and dominion deals with the tendency toward destruction and self-destructiveness embodied in the world, and it seems as though the Priestly document associates this tendency with the chaotic state of the world before creation14. Accordingly, the blood commandments that follow in 9:4–6 are not “orders of creation” in the same manner as in Genesis 1.15 One may speak rather of “orders of preservation” that hinder the world from repeatedly ending in self-destruction. To this end, killing and bloodshed are now permissible only under “controlled” conditions. Human life is essentially exempted from this regime because humans stand under the protection of godlikeness. Wherever the blood of God’s image is shed, God will require this blood of the perpetrator. Interestingly, this threat also applies to 11

Millard, Genesis, 107–109. On this aspect see the essay The “Eternal Covenant” in the Priestly Pentateuch and the Prophets included in this volume. 13 W. Zimmerli, Grundriß der alttestamentlichen Theologie (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1972), 12–15. 14 Schüle, Prolog, 260–268. 15 Millard, Genesis, 137–138. 12

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animals as possible perpetrators. Just as is a human being, an animal that attacks and kills a person is subject to divine retribution. Naturally, this situation raises the question of how one should conceive of God’s role in the execution of the ius talionis, life for life. Is the idea that God actually personally intervenes and brings the perpetrator to account through natural or supernatural means? In this regard, one can point to cross-references to the legal corpora of the Pentateuch that follow later and that deal with crimes of manslaughter. Along the lines of Priestly theology, Ex 21:12–32 is especially relevant. With regard to animals as possible “perpetrators,” it deals with the case of a goring ox that kills a human being (21:28). The ox should be stoned. This act surely has the character of a preventative measure to avoid further harm to people. In addition, however, it prohibits the butchering of the animal, which indicates that killing was not understood as slaughter, but, in fact, as retribution (in the sense of Gen 9:5) for the shedding of human blood. The casuistic regulations for homicides among humans are, as might be expected, more nuanced than the simple principle “blood for blood.” Thus, they distinguish between intentional, malicious murder and actions that result in the inadvertent death of a person (Ex 21:12–14). On the other hand, there are also capital crimes that do not necessarily involve bloodshed, such as bodily injury of parents or kidnapping (21:15–16). Even in these cases, however, one can surmise that the integrity of humans as God’s image is fundamentally questioned or negated. The prohibition against harming one’s parents has a direct parallel in Gen 5:1–3, which mentions the likeness of children to their parents in relation to the imago dei. One need not understand the commandments of 9:4–6 too strictly as “casuistic” since more nuanced legal corpora follow in the Pentateuch. They do involve, however, a “foundation” of casuistic law linked in the Priestly document with the imago dei and the protection of life. One should note in this regard that it involves a universal principle. As the Priestly document emphasizes in Gen 10, the Table of Nations, the world consists of many nations, clans and languages. This emphasis may include an awareness that there is a corresponding multiplicity of potentially divergent legal and moral codes. With every caution against the application of modern categories to ancient cultures, one can still say that the Priestly document thinks in “pluralistic” dimensions. For this very reason, the establishment of the inviolability of human life and the respect for life in general as universally normative stands out. Every law and every morality must do justice to this principle. Furthermore, this establishment means that the protection of life does not end at the border of one’s respective cultural realm. The godlikeness of all human beings requires regard not just for

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the life of the near neighbor, but also of the foreigner.16 As varied as “all the others” may be, the Priestly document regards this one legal principle as anchored in the order of the creation of the world, itself. This takes us to another layer of this new legal system that goes beyond the world order of Gen 1. For this system to work individual entities have to be more than just species or “all flesh;” rather, they have to be viewed as moral agents who can be held accountable if they violate the laws that God implements in 9:4–6.

4. Individual Responsibility The principle of individual responsibility is something that scholars typically view as something that occurs only relatively late in the Old Testament history of ideas. It is unclear when exactly this principle assumed theological significance and became a part of texts such as Gen 9. In any case, it appears as though, in the environment of the Priestly document and contemporary traditions such as the books of Ezekiel and Jeremiah, there was an intensified awareness of human beings as irreducible individuals with corresponding legal status and responsibilities. Thus, it is not humanity overall, but every individual human being who is the “image of God,” a notion complemented by the emphasis on the integrity of the life of every individual in Gen 9:4–6. In the book of Ezekiel, one finds an argument related in substance according to which God will no longer call his people to account on the principle of collective liability, but henceforth individuals must bear the consequences (only) for their own transgressions: The word of the YHWH came to me again: What do you mean by repeating this proverb concerning the land of Israel, “The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge”? As I live, says the YHWH God, this proverb shall no more be used by you in Israel. Behold, all souls are mine; the soul of the father as well as the soul of the son is mine: the soul that sins shall die. (Ezek 18:1–9; cf. Jer 31:19–20)

In a substantive analogy to the Priestly document in Gen 9:5, Ezekiel also operates with the notion of the “life substance”, which is not just a characteristic of the species but of every individual human being. This idea means that the life of every individual human being has unconditional integrity; it also means, however, that all individual human beings must bear responsibility for themselves and their deeds. The sometimes significantly older Mesopotamian flood mythology demonstrates that this idea is by no means a peculiarity of the Old Testament. There, too, the resolutions after the end of the flood include the notion that henceforth 16

On this aspect see the essay “For He is Like You.” A Translation and Understanding of the Old Testament Commandment to Love in Lev 19:18 included in this volume.

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the principle will be individual instead of collective retribution. Thus, in the flood account of the Gilgamesh epic, the goddess Ea complains to the god Enlil who was responsible for the flood: “You wisest of the gods, hero! How could you send the flood without deliberating? Lay sins to the account of the sinner, evil to the evil-doer!”17 The intention here is that “only the sinner” or “every individual sinner” must account for his or her transgression. With both the laws concerning the protection of life and the principle of individual responsibility in place, it appears that the post-diluvian world is equipped with a system of order and of divine surveillance that in and of itself is already sufficient to avoid the kind of uncontrolled spreading and accumulation of violence that characterized the world before the flood. This raises a question that surfaces only occasionally in the scholarly debate about Gen 1– 9: whatever happened to the dominium terrae as the idea that humans should rule the world? In place of the commission to exercise dominion, one now finds the formulation that “the fear and dread of you will fall on every beast of the earth” and that the animals have been “given into the hands” of human beings (9:2). One can ask if this is essentially a paraphrase of the dominium terrae. The idea seems likely to the extent that the Hebrew terminology in 1:26, 28, too, has overtones of violent subjugation. However, the perspective in Gen 9 differs from that in the creation account.18 The theme here is not whether human beings have a duty in relation to the animals, and if so, what, but that the presence of humans in the world provokes terror.19 In modern terms, there is now a food chain, with humankind standing at the top. In contrast to the ideal of a world of humans and animals that live as vegetarians (Gen 1:30), after the flood, God legitimates the killing of animals for food. Although this legitimization does not receive separate treatment, one may assume that this statement also implements the food chain within the animal world itself. In other words, God changes the world order after the flood into the state every reader knows: humans eat animals and animals eat animals.

5. Covenant and Law To this point, the divine speech deals with the (altered) conditions under which life in the postdiluvian world is to regenerate, while the commandment of 9:4– 17

TUAT III/4, 374. Baumgart, Umkehr, 358: “Indem Gott nach der Flut dem Menschen die alleinige Antwort auf die menschliche Gewalt aus der Hand nimmt und dabei sich definitiv als die Rechtsinstanz im Falle der Verletzungen des menschlichen Lebens einsetzt, schützt Gott den Menschen vor solchen Menschen, die auf die Gewalt am Menschen antworten.” 19 A. Schellenberg, Der Mensch, das Bild Gottes? Zum Gedanken einer Sonderstellung des Menschen im Alten Testament und in weiteren altorientalischen Quellen, AThANT 101 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2011), 60–68. 18

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6 represents the essential contrast in relation to the antediluvian world. This circumstance raises the question as to the relationship between this commandment and the subsequent covenant with Noah. In essence, the Noah covenant is a guarantee of the continuation of life after the flood. No bilateral components are envisioned. Consequently, God will no more employ the collective eradication of all creatures as a means for restricting the spread of violence. It does not claim nor even expect that the violent disposition of creatures will be less pronounced than before the flood. Postdiluvian creation does not differ and is certainly no better than antediluvian creation. The content of the Noah covenant is essentially twofold: – Vv. 9–11 depict the covenant as an event that includes all living beings. It is no less a covenant with the animals than with humanity as v. 10 confirms by referring back to the taxonomy of living beings from Gen 1: the covenant includes all “living beings” i.e. all the inhabitants of heaven and earth. Neither the totality of creation or the individual species shall ever again be annihilated by a flood or, literally” be “cut off (from life). – In vv. 12–16 God chooses the rainbow as a sing that will function to remind God of his covenant. The significance of the rainbow is self-evident; it traces the heavenly vault that protects the world from the waters of chaos and, thus, serves as a “signal” for God to stop the rain and the floodwaters before they cause damage. While this is called a covenant, it is not immediately clear why. What we have here is essentially God’s sticky note to himself not to destroy the world again. This covenant does not include any particular rights, privileges, or obligations on the part of the living beings. As a matter of fact, they don’t even have to be aware of the existence of this covenant. They are supposed to be fruitful and multiply in the same way as in Gen 1 where there was no covenant. As especially Walther Zimmerli20 has demonstrated, in order to appreciate the priestly notion of covenant one needs to realize how it unfolds, becomes more specific and increasingly also involves human agents as one moves from Gen 9 to Gen 17 and eventually Ex 31. As already mentioned above, while this covenant, at the stage of Gen 9, includes a negative promise of what God will refrain from doing, this is not the reason why creation will be safe from self-destruction and the spreading of violence. To put it pointedly, what the world needs after the flood is certainly God’s covenant but even more so God’s law,21 understood as that which protects and sustains life in the post-diluvian world.22 In this perspective, the priestly Primeval History demonstrates how and why God’s law, 20

W. Zimmerli, Grundriß der alttestamentlichen Theologie (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1986), 45–47. 21 Millard, Genesis, 106–107. 22 Cf. P.D Miller’s assessment of the significance of the Deuteronomic laws: “At every point the existence and effective enactment of these laws is seen as a positive force, what is

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including the notion of divine presence and individual responsibility, are built into the very fabric of life. According to P, we live in a moral universe, precisely because it is anchored in the moral principles and legal mechanisms that God establishes in the early days of the world.23 As mentioned at the outset of this paper, recent work on Gen 1–11 has highlighted the cultic significance of the priestly account of creation and the way in which it anticipates and provides a foundation for the building of the tabernacle in Exodus. While this overarching frame is certainly part of the priestly agenda, I submit that there is yet another etiological layer in the priestly Primeval History, which is equally significant. It is important not to limit one’s perspective too quickly to the account of creation in Gen 1 but to consider the whole drama of creation as it unfolds in Gen 1–9 and culminates in the giving of the first and most elementary laws to the post-diluvian world. In this perspective, it becomes clear that, at its most profound level, the priestly Primeval History presents itself as an etiology of the law or, as might also say with regard to what follows in later parts of the Pentateuch, as an etiology of Torah.

necessary to make human life work. Without these laws operating, the world falls apart and life disintegrates.” (P.D. Miller, “‘That You May Live’: Dimensions of Law in Deuteronomy,” in Concepts of Law in the Sciences, Legal Studies, and Theology, ed. M. Welker and G. Etzelmüller (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 157). 23 H. Gese, “Das Gesetz,” in Zur Biblischen Theologie (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1983), 63–66.

At the Border of Sin and Forgiveness Salaḥ in the Old Testament 1. Introduction One of the “aha-moments” in learning Hebrew is when the students understand that there are two roots in Hebrew which relate exclusively to God and God’s actions: ‫ברא‬, “to create,” and ‫סלח‬, “to forgive.” However, a certain disappointment arises when the teacher has to confess that the explanation of this phenomenon is significantly less clear than the lexical results themselves. That God alone appears, in the Old Testament, as the one who can create and forgive says nothing about whether these terms were used more broadly in other literary contexts or in vernacular Hebrew during the time of the Old Testament. In these cases, as in others, the problem is that we do not know much about the Hebrew of the time,1 between roughly 800 and 300 BCE, and, at best, the Old Testament distorts the information we do have. Nevertheless, the concordance findings from the perspective of the Old Testament remain quite striking. ‫ברא‬ and ‫ סלח‬are frequent, with each having almost fifty occurrences scattered across the various books of the Old Testament, and they are at least so well attested that their being in reference to God alone is truly conspicuous and cannot be explained as mere coincidence. This leads to another problem. Precisely because there is only a single referent for both terms, the question arises, both semantically and contextually, of what is meant when God “does” ‫ ברא‬or ‫סלח‬. The usual method – to assess the grammatical and semantic profile of a word from a comprehensive and wide ranging network of documents – is, in the specific cases of these two terms, less promising because these verbs only have one subject. This calls for a study of these terms that is oriented equally toward grammar, semantics, and theology. A first glance at ‫ ברא‬2 quickly gives the impression that this term, though not exclusively, occurs with a high frequency in the “big” creation texts. From a 1 For an overview of the state of the research, see I. Young, Biblical Hebrew: Studies in Chronology and Typology, JSOT Sup 369 (London/New York: T&T Clark, 2003); also, cf. A. Schüle, “Deutung und Neugestaltung. Althebräische Grammatik in Alttestamentlichen Texten,” ZDPV 116 (2000), 14–25. 2 T. Finley, “Dimensions of the Hebrew Word for ‘Create’ (Bara’),” Bibliotheca Sacra 148 (2001), 409–423.

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total of 48 occurrences, the priestly prehistory and Isaiah 40–66 account for 31. In addition to this, ‫ ברא‬is used in individual books at key or hinge points, particularly when they carry theological or compositional weight. Examples of this can be found at the end of the Messianic Psalter (Ps 89:13, 48), in the final doxologies of the Psalter as a whole (Ps 148:5), at the end of the prologue of Deuteronomy (Dtn 4:32), and in the announcement of a new covenant in Jer 31:22.3 The overall image of ‫ ברא‬appears as the core concept of a creation theology, which was developed in the exilic and early post-exilic periods and is found not only in the individual traditions of these periods (the priestly writings, Deutero- and Trito-Isaiah) but is also written into the redactional layers of various books of the Old Testament.4 Without going into a comprehensive interpretation here, ‫ ברא‬characterizes YHWH as a God whose sovereignty is proven through material creation; assigning that which is created its place and role in the cosmos as a whole; and, finally, in the guarantee of the continuation of this world order against both internal and external dangers. This includes the stars as well as animals and plants, monarchs and nations, and even the individual person. It becomes almost immediately clear that some aspects of the term ‫ סלח‬are more confusing and should be in the foreground of the following reflection. ‫סלח‬, “to forgive” is attested with similar strength as ‫ ברא‬but is more dispersed throughout the Old Testament, which makes the classification of the tradition and theological history of “forgiveness” seem difficult. Nevertheless, again there are clusters, and the root ‫ סלח‬is also found at theological junctures in various Old Testament books. A group of occurrences which clearly stand out from the rest grammatically are 12, from a total of 46, in Lev 4–5 and Num 15:25–28, which refer to the guilt offering within the Sinai Torah.5 Furthermore, ‫ סלח‬occurs with a high frequency in Solomon’s prayer for the dedication of the temple, in the middle of which is a plea for the forgiveness of Israel’s sins.6 In this context, it is noticeable that there are other great intercessors in 3 See A. Angerstorfer, Der Schöpfergott des Alten Testaments: Herkunft und Bedeutungsentwicklung des hebräischen Terminus ‫( ברא‬bara) “Schaffen” (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1979). 4 In my opinion, Angerstorfer’s thesis that the pre-exilic occurrences of ‫( ברא‬qal and nifal) belong in a context of a theology of justice (Angerstorfer, Schöpfergott, 47–48) deserves a review. Angerstorfer refers specifically to Amos 4:13 and Numbers 16:30 (for the latter, see H.E. Hanson, “Num 16:30 and the Meaning of Bara,” VT 22 (1972), 353–359). The thesis here is that ‫ ברא‬is a legal term for creation and order. So God “creates” miracles, according to Num 16:28–33, with which to bring the apostate Israelites – Korah, Dathan, and Abiram – to justice. 5 Thus E. Puëch, “Sur la Racine slh en Hébreu et en Araméen,” Semitica 21 (1971), 5– 19. 6 From the Deuteronomistic version in 1 Kings 8, the Chronicler extended the plea for forgiveness (2 Chr 6:25, 39) by allowing it to flow into a healing word from YHWH (2 Chr 7:13–14): “When I shut up the heavens so that there is no rain, or command the locust to

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the Old Testament alongside Solomon who also use ‫ סלח‬to plea for forgiveness: Moses (Ex 34:9), Amos (7:2), and Daniel (9:19). Interestingly, the request for forgiveness is only sporadically found in the prayer language of the Psalter; in two places, God is referred to as the one who grants forgiveness (Ps 86:5, 103:3) but is only implored to do so once (Ps 25:11). A first pass through the occurrences of ‫ סלח‬ultimately highlights the irregular distribution of the term within the prophetic texts. Amos 7:2 is perhaps the oldest attestation, followed by Jeremiah, in which the term appears six times, making Jeremiah the prophetic book with the highest frequency of ‫סלח‬. Particularly, in the so-called “Book of Consolation” and related texts, it is firmly embedded in Jeremiah’s salvation theology (Jer 31:34, 33:8, 50:20), in which context Jeremiah also uses ‫ברא‬. For the exilic and post-exilic periods, ‫ סלח‬occurs only once, though in a central position in the final sequence of DeuteroIsaiah (Is 55:7), in which YHWH is called the “merciful God” who is “rich in forgiveness” (‫)ירבה לסלח‬. Despite, or perhaps because of, this singular position, this occurrence within Deutero-Isaiah is of particular importance. Here it is not just the discussion of the forgiveness that God grants, but even more so it is presented as a theological claim that describes the very nature of God (cf. Ex 34:9).7 “Rich in forgiveness” is a fundamental characteristic of God from which other features, such as compassion, develop. In this respect, as was shown for ‫ברא‬, the usage suggests that the Old Testament texts imprint the term ‫ סלח‬from the outset with a specific theological function. In other words, “forgiveness” is, in terms of its semantic range, not a general term that can also be applied to God. It is, rather, a term which is determined by its application to God. This raises the question of what exactly is meant by ‫סלח‬, which shall be investigated through a precise analysis of its usage, with a focus on the aspects of grammar and content.

2. The Cultic Function of ‫סלח‬ The cultic function of ‫ סלח‬is found in a clear group of occurrences on the basis of their grammatical form as well as their subject matter. Within the framework of the Torah, ‫ סלח‬occurs at the end of the ritual process for the implementation of sin and guilt sacrifices. An example of this is the communal sin offering. Lev 4:13 is the first mention of the situation in which the community has inadvertently violated a commandment of God and became aware of this after the fact. devour the land, or send pestilence among my people, 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” (NRSV). 7 R.C. Dentan, “The Literary Affinities of Exodus XXXIV 6f.,” VT 13 (1963), 36.

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The sin offering is carried out by the priest through two ritual acts. After the elders of the community lay hands on the sacrificial bull and it is slaughtered, the priest takes some of the blood and sprinkles it with his finger before the curtain in front of the Holy of Holies and on the horns of the altar in the temple. All of the rest of the blood is then poured out at the base of the altar for burnt sacrifices outside of the temple. In addition to this blood rite is the rest of the sacrifice proper; the fatty parts of the bull are offered on the altar as a burnt sacrifice and all the rest burnt outside the temple area. Lev 4:20bα states that with the blood rite and the sacrifice, the priest makes or has made atonement (‫ )וכפר עלהם הכהן‬for the community. For the purposes of this study, the currently controversial question regarding to what degree the atonement event is a sacrifice or a cleansing act must remain unanswered.8 Important, however, is the connected formulation that, as a result of the atonement event, the community is “forgiven.” There are several linguistic details worth noting here. Atonement has an explicit subject, the priest who performs it. In the case of “forgiveness,” however, no subject is named. ‫ סלח‬is in the nif´al followed by the preposition ‫ל‬. The golden rule that ‫ סלח‬always has God as the subject has a certain degree of relativism in this context, since God is not explicitly mentioned as the one who forgives. Of course, the passive phrase “and they will be/are forgiven” (‫ונסלח‬ 8 H. Gese, “Die Sühne,” in Zur biblischen Theologie (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 31989), 97, argues that in the atonement act, or more precisely through the laying on of hands (‫)סמיכה‬, a “subject transmission” takes place. “For the understanding of atonement this means that atonement happens through the giving of life, and through the laying on of hands, the ones making the sacrifice identify with the sacrificial animal.” By sprinkling the Holy of Holies with the blood of the sacrificial animal, the rapprochement of the sinner to God takes place. Thus it relates, accordingly, to atonement not to punishment, retribution, or reparation. The relationship with God disturbed by sin is healed. This line of interpretation following Gese has received further support from B. Janowski, Sühne als Heilsgeschehen. Traditions- und Religionsgeschichtliche Studien zur Sühnetheologie der Priesterschrift (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 22000), who further expanded it (for identification between the sacrificial animal and sinners, see p. 359). Against these, J. Milgrom and many of his students understand atonement primarily as a rite through which the sanctuary, contaminated by sin, is cleansed. Sin is made manifest in the sanctuary and defiles the dwelling place of God on earth, which ultimately means that the temple is uninhabitable for God and thus the contact between God and the nation is broken (J. Milgrom, “Israel’s Sanctuary. The Priestly ‘Picture of Dorian Gray’,” RB 83 (1976), 390–399; R. Gane, Cult and Character. Purification Offerings, Day of Atonement, and Theodicy (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2005), 231). The difference between these two interpretations is primarily in their perception of the problem. For the one side, it is about the alienation of humanity from God, which eventually creates a lifethreatening realm far from God. For the other side, however, humanity, through sin, pushes God out of the world and, in this way, breaks off the relationship with God. Since both of these approaches, undoubtedly, illuminate central aspects of the atonement event, further research is needed to show whether they can both be included in a comprehensive interpretation of atonement.

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‫ )להם‬suggests that God, at least indirectly, is involved in the event. Apparently, however, the characterization of that forgiveness as God’s action does not stand expressly in the foreground of the statement. Further, the syntax of Lev 4:20b is more complicated than the seemingly simple sentence suggests. ‫כפר‬, “to atone,” is in the perfect, which raises the question as to whether ‫ ונסלח‬is thus a coordinated second perfect or the socalled waw-perfect (perfectum consecutivum). Either solution is possible both grammatically and contextually. Assuming two coordinated perfect forms with ‫ו‬, gives a translation of, “Thus the priest makes atonement for them, and thus forgiveness happens for them.” Atonement and forgiveness would, in this translation, be understood as two sides of the same coin, or, more semantically, atonement and forgiveness are used here largely as synonyms. When, however, ‫ ונסלח‬is understood as a waw-perfect, the translation is “Thus the priest makes atonement for them and it shall be forgiven them.” In this interpretation, forgiveness is the result of the atonement rite and thus the fundamental goal of the sin and guilt sacrifices.9 This second interpretation is supported mainly by the fact that ‫ כפר‬is not always found in connection with ‫סלח‬.10 On the contrary, most of the time, this is specifically not the case, the most striking example being the regulations about the Day of Atonement (Lev 16), in which ‫ סלח‬is never mentioned.11 Conversely, “forgiveness” is always connected with atonement in the context of the Sinai Torah and never occurs apart from it in other sacrificial contexts. This leads to the conclusion that there is a group of sacrifices within the atonement rites specifically oriented toward bringing about forgiveness. The observation that not all forms of sacrifice, and especially not all of the atonement rites, have anything to do with forgiveness raises the question then of what this term does mean. Interestingly, within the Sinai Torah, it is never said that this is forgiveness of guilt, though that is the case for the majority of occurrences outside of Leviticus and Numbers. Indeed, the forgiveness formula of the Sinai Torah always says who is forgiven, but much less clear, however, is what is forgiven. This uncertainty is already related to the occasion of the atonement rites in Lev 4–5, which are intended to be rather vague. In Lev 4:2, 13, the reference is to the commandments of YHWH in general. As the illustration in 4:3 shows, this is primarily connected to the cultic legislation, so for example the purity and dietary laws, and not to what would fall under the modern categories of civil or criminal laws. Thus in 4:3, misconduct by a priest brings about guilt on the people and a need for atonement. This may deal with 9

Gane, Cult and Character, 231. Lev 5:16 provides a grammatical argument in favor of the waw-perfect, as ‫ כפר‬is there in the jussive form (‫ )יכפר‬so that the subsequent ‫ ונסלח‬must be a waw-perfect. 11 Gane, Cult and Character, 233. Gane’s conclusion that the omission of ‫ סלח‬is best understood by its intensification, so that it goes far beyond the “normal” measure of forgiveness (“‫ כפר‬beyond forgiveness”), is certainly theologically rich. 10

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the inadequate or faulty performance of priestly duties, perhaps in the sacrificial service – what could be called “malpractice.” Conversely, there are also misdeeds that the laity can commit in the narrow context of the cultic law, such as unknowingly touching something unclean or a thoughtlessly made vow (Lev 5:1–4). All of this requires the atonement rite, at the end of which is forgiveness. It is clear that the term for forgiveness, as measured by this data, is portrayed as potentially heavy artillery. In German, this term generally is used in reference to a significantly moral offense or even a crime, weighty matters which are not easily solved. That is not the case in the relevant passages in the Sinai Torah, in so far as it would be better to speak of being “excused” rather than “forgiven.” As already mentioned, the idea that the act was unintentional is a criterion in the context of the ‫סלח‬-formula. This is especially true in Num 15:22–31, as a retrospective on the entire Sinai Torah, in which there is a firm differentiation between accidental and intentional misdeeds. Only for the former is there the possibility of atonement and forgiveness; in the case of a person intentionally violating the Torah, that person has reviled YHWH, which, according to Num 15:31, should result in that individual being cut off and their guilt (‫ )עונה‬remaining upon them. It is, therefore, a fundamental aspect of atonement and forgiveness that the individual is released from the guilt which was not intentionally incurred, but which is nonetheless associated with the person and is, thus, potentially disastrous. The atonement- and forgiveness-theology of the texts discussed thus far can be summarized by the understanding that the Sinai Torah reflects the recognition that individual persons will violate the laws through the simple living out of life. This is realistically viewed as inevitable. Accordingly, in the Torah itself such regulations are incorporated for dealing with these violations against the Torah. Through this, persons are guaranteed that even when they sin, they will not fall out of the framework of rules set by God for the world, and without this provision the framework would not be viable. When God forgives and excuses, this means that the status of the individual in the world and before God does not change. In the context of the world view of the ancient Near East, the world exists in a dynamic and, therefore, fragile equilibrium,12 which is unbalanced by sin, but which can also be restored through the appropriate “countermeasures,” such as the atonement rite. The fact that God is not explicitly stated as an active subject in all of this suggests that the expected outcome is reliably bound up with the atonement rite itself. The Torah does not only promise that

12 For an example of this in Egyptian culture, see J. Assmann, Ma’at. Gerechtigkeit und Unsterblichkeit im Alten Ägypten (München: C.H. Beck, 1990), 69–91.

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forgiveness is ensured through the implementation of the rite but states that it actually happens.13

3. Forgiveness and Communal Events 3.1 The Prayer for the Dedication of the Temple When this background is applied to other occurrences of ‫סלח‬, the fact that the requirements are diametrically opposed to the priestly tradition becomes strikingly clear. In the vast majority of the uses, it deals with the knowing and willfully committed sins of Israel, through which the people separates themselves from the covenant which binds them to YHWH. Accordingly, in this context, it is not about the constant maintenance of the balance in the relationship between YHWH and Israel but rather the break in the relationship between God and the nation, for which there is no balancing mechanism, such as atonement. This can be examined through the occurrences within Solomon’s prayer for the dedication of the temple. This text suggests itself because the prayer inherently deals with the meaning and function of the cult and because of the difference between its understanding and that of the Sinai Torah. Solomon opens his prayer with an invocation to God, who cannot be contained by all of the heavens and much less by a house made by the work of human hands. The temple is seen here primarily as a place over which God’s eye watches, where the name of God is present, and from where God heeds the prayers of the king and the nation (1 Kings 8:27–29). The temple is the place where the nation on earth calls their God in heaven and by God is heard. The temple is, in accordance with other ancient Near Eastern understandings, the contact point between the earthly and heavenly spheres.14 The first section of Solomon’s prayer flows into the following request (1 Kings 8:30): Hear the plea of your servant and of your people Israel when they pray toward this place; O hear in heaven your dwelling place; (also) heed (‫ )ושמעת‬and forgive (‫( )וסלחת‬NRSV).

It is worth noting, at this point, that there is a semantic word play with the root ‫שמע‬, which is used here to mean both “hear” and “heed.” That God hears a 13 J.J. Stamm, Erlösen und Vergeben im Alten Testament (Bern: Francke, 1940), 129: “That the subject remains undefined should, undoubtedly, refer back to YHWH as the source of the forgiveness. However, since the reality of the accomplished act of atonement has the assurance that it will result in forgiveness, one may speak of the certainty of forgiveness being mediated by the sacrificial cult.” See also, Janowski, Sühne, 251–252. 14 S.M. Maul, “Die altorientalische Hauptstadt – Abbild und Nabel der Welt,” in Die Orientalische Stadt: Kontinuität, Wandel, Bruch. 1. Internationales Colloquium der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft, 9.–10. Mai 1996 in Halle/Saale, ed. G. Wilhelm (Saarbrücken: Saarländische Druckerei und Verlag, 1997), 109–124.

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prayer that is said in the temple is not in question but rather whether God will also heed that prayer. This is tied to the question of what it actually means when God heeds a prayer; the answer to which coincides with the last word of v. 30, God forgives (‫)סלח‬. Surprisingly, there is no mention, at this point, of either what or why God should forgive. That there will be forgiveness has an almost absolute sense in the speech. The whole cult seems to be aligned solely with the fact that God forgives. In the context of the Sinai Torah, ‫ סלח‬occurs only in the specific formulations of sacrifice and in accordance with a limited range of cultic activity; while in the prayer for the dedication of the temple, ‫סלח‬ is integral to the overall meaning of worship. After the introduction, the reason that Israel needs God’s forgiveness is developed in the following passage (1 Kings 8:34, 36, 39, 50). This development is through four examples, each of which ends with the request of the king that God will heed the pleas of the nation and forgive their sins. When one considers these four objectively different sections of the prayer for the dedication of the temple, it becomes noteworthy that both the middle sections refer to a series of punishments with which God will punish the sins Israel has committed against God. In one case, this is drought (8:35) and in the other an entire list of natural disasters other than drought; plagues, and sieges of the enemy are included (8:37). The king then asks that, whenever this should happen and the nation once more returns (‫ שוב‬qal) to YHWH, their sins may be forgiven. When this text is compared with Leviticus, it is striking, first of all, that, in the prayer for the dedication of the temple, the actual sin (‫ )חטאת‬is never stated. What is stated, however, is that it is a sin against YHWH (8:33, 35, 46). Thus it seems unlikely that, in the prayer for the dedication of the temple, these are the same sins referred to in the context of the sin and guilt sacrifices. Rather, this deals with sins in which Israel, apparently, deliberately turned away from God and, correspondingly, calls for an equally deliberate repentance and renewal of devotion to God. The concept of sin in 1 Kings 8, therefore, has a different dynamic from that of Lev 4–5 and thus an entirely differently shaped process, at the end of which still stands forgiveness. In the case of Leviticus, this is characterized as sin, atonement, and forgiveness; in the prayer for the dedication of the temple, as sin, repentance, and forgiveness. In Leviticus, this process is embedded in a ritual, which happens according to predefined rules and includes a reasonable expectation of success. In the prayer for the dedication of the temple, on the other hand, this process is more conditioned in that it depends on the nation truly repenting and YHWH being ready to forgive; neither of which is viewed as a given. The concept of sin behind 1 Kings 8 refers not to a mere imbalance in the relationship between God and the nation but rather to a fundamental break in this relationship, which cannot simply be canceled or healed. The expression of what is the actual expected consequence of Israel’s turning away

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from YHWH is found in Lamentations 3:42. With a simple, parallel statement, Israel’s sin and God’s answer to it in proportion is here set: ‫ אתה לא סלחת‬... ‫“ נחנו פשענו‬We have sinned…you have not forgiven.”

It has long been seen that the prayer for the dedication of the temple in its final form,15 with Solomon asking for forgiveness, was formulated with a very specific historical experience in its background. In 1 Kings 8:34 and 46–50, deportation and exile are recognizable as the harsh reality16 in the face of which the question of forgiveness stands as an existential one for Israel as a nation: When your people Israel, having sinned against you, are defeated before an enemy but turn again to you (‫ שוב‬qal), confess your name, pray and plead with you in this house, then hear in heaven, forgive (‫ )סלח‬the sin of your people Israel, and bring them again (‫ שוב‬hifil) to the land (‫ )אדמה‬that you gave to their ancestors (8:33–34 NRSV).

The exile is a real symbol that the sins of Israel were too severe to maintain the covenant with YHWH. It is implied that Israel’s rejection of YHWH was also manifested in the collapse of the cultic order within which the priestly understanding of forgiveness had its place. This insight is supported by the prayer for the dedication of the temple and Lam 3:42 – Israel has sinned, and YHWH has not forgiven. Interestingly, the theology of the prayer for the dedication of the temple, in the face of the failed covenant between God and the nation, rejects not only a specific connotation of the forgiveness term, ‫סלח‬, but also creates an opposing atonement theology through fundamentally different means. Forgiveness here is not a form of balancing an intact, though sensitive and susceptible to disruption, structure, which was damaged or even shattered before it could be tested. Instead, forgiveness sits exactly where such a structure is broken and where there is no reliability and no bond of trust between the parties. 15 For a discussion of the literary layers of 1 Kings 8, see G.N. Knoppers, “Prayer and Propaganda. Solomon’s Dedication of the Temple and the Deuteronomist’s Program,” CBQ 57 (1995), 229–230. 16 F.M. Cross, Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1973), 274–89. Cross distinguishes between a pre-exilic base layer and an exilic editing, which incorporated the explicit references to deportation and exile into the text. M. O’Brien, Deuteronomistic History. A Reassessment (Göttingen: Vandenhöck & Ruprecht 1989), 151– 189, extended Cross’ analysis to an additional post-exilic layer. The post-exilic atmosphere is worked out in particular by J.D. Levenson, “From Temple to Synagogue: 1 Kings 8,” in Traditions in Transformation: Turning Points in Biblical Faith, FS F.M. Cross, ed. B. Halpern and J.D. Levenson (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1981), 143–166. In contrast, however, an entirely pre-exilic dating of the prayer for the dedication of the temple is represented either in a Josianic phase (so B. Halpern, The First Historians. The Hebrew Bible and History (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1988), 168–171; Knoppers, “Prayer and Propaganda,” 252– 254) or in the phase between the first and second deportation of the people of Judah to Babylon (R. Tomes, “‘Our Holy and Beautiful House,’ When and Why was 1 Kings 6–8 written?” JSOT 70 (1996), 33–50).

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To summarize our reflections thus far, the data suggests that the root ‫ סלח‬is connected to two complementary concepts of forgiveness. This raises questions both of theology and the history of theology about the relationship between the concepts. Are they complementary in the sense of being mutually paired or to be understood as critical contrasts? Are these two different schools of thought with diverging opinions as to why people in general (1 Kings 8:50) and Israel in particular need God’s forgiveness? Was there in the pre-exilic era a cultic, institutionalized prayer for forgiveness for Israel, which coexisted alongside forgiveness through atonement? From a historical perspective, the question is whether older traditional material stands behind the prayer for the dedication of the temple or whether this came about specifically in the context of the Babylonian exile and is concerned, accordingly and primarily, with the treatment of this experience in the cultural memory of Israel. With all the due caution which should be exercised when dating Old Testament texts, it seems that the shape of forgiveness in the context of the exile and return is that of a non-priestly understanding of forgiveness. The texts which contain a confession of sin by the nation all belong to postexilic writings. Nehemiah 9 is arguably the most illustrative occurrence of this type. Through a historical retrospective, Neh 9 shows why Israel has become a servant in its own land. As in 1 Kings 8, foreign dominion is understood as a YHWH’s penalty for Israel’s unfaithfulness. Another penitential prayer, which almost exactly corresponds to the theological program of 1 Kings 8, is Daniel 9:4–19. Although it is not treated as a confession of sin by the nation, it is one in which Daniel speaks on behalf of the exilic community. Here it is held, first of all, that Israel sinned against YHWH but had not repented (‫ שוב‬qal) of this sin. The prayer ends in precisely the same fashion as the request in 1 Kings 8:30, “Oh Lord, heed! Oh Lord, forgive!” (Dan 9:19). The objective correlation between 1 Kings 8, Neh 9, and Dan 9 hardly indicates that a common redactor should be assigned to these texts. Rather, Neh 9 and Dan 9 should be classified among the earliest evidence of the reception history of the prayer for the dedication of the temple. Thus the impression remains that the plea for forgiveness in the prayer for the dedication of the temple came from a later demand with no earlier history in the Old Testament texts upon which to draw. This affirms the theory that this is a theology that grew out of the experience of the exile and return to the land. There is, however, no good reason to assume that it is also meant to be critical of the priestly theology’s concept of forgiveness.17 Even – perhaps especially – in the post-exilic period, the atonement cult was unquestionably in fashion, and there is no indication that the authors of 1 Kings 8, Neh 9, and Dan 9 viewed this as invalid 17

For a representative of the perspective that the prayer for the dedication of the temple is skeptical of the cult, see M. Noth, Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Studien I (Halle an der Saale: Niemeyer, 1943), 104–105.

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or inappropriate. Instead, these texts address a problem that is far beyond the atonement theology, the question of what happens if the sin of Israel grows so much that the relationship with God is so completely broken that even the cult as an intermediary between God and the nation can do nothing to change it. It is exactly this question, sharpened by the experience of the exile with which the forgiveness theology of the prayer for the dedication of the temple is concerned. 3.2 Is there a Specific Deuteronomistic Term for Forgiveness? Within the previous considerations on the prayer for the dedication of the temple, the categorization as “Deuteronomistic” was intentionally avoided.18 There is certainly very little doubt that 1 Kings 8 plays a particular role in the composition of the Deuteronomistic History. However, that does not change the fact that the understanding of forgiveness represented by the prayer for the dedication of the temple is different from that of the other Deuteronomic or Deuteronomistic occurrences. The subtle difference is that the prayer for the dedication of the temple emphasizes that God forgives the one who repents, while the other examples state that God does not forgive the one who turns from God. Beginning with Deuteronomy, ‫ סלח‬occurs in a central location within the closing exhortation. In Dtn 29, Moses binds the nation to the covenant with YHWH, as it is presented within the core text of Deuteronomy itself. In Dtn 29:15–18, Moses warns the Israelites not to turn to the gods of the neighboring nations, because this is a sin that God will not forgive. The LORD will be unwilling to pardon them [the sinner], for the LORD’s anger and passion will smoke against them. All the curses written in this book will descend on them, and the LORD will blot out their names from under heaven (Dtn 29:20 NRSV).

The logic of the explicit warning implicitly presupposes that there are sins that can be forgiven and also some for which there is no forgiveness. This logic also applies to other occurrences such as 2 Kings 24:2. Strikingly, Deuteronomy does not speak about forgivable sins. In a negative sense, ‫ סלח‬marks the limit beyond which there is no more forgiveness, and it seems exactly as though the question is what this limit that forms the background of this statement is. This is also the case of the texts that are usually associated with Deuteronomistic thinking. In the threat of judgment of Jeremiah 5:1–2 and 7–9, it is God who states the reason God cannot forgive Israel. Run to and fro through the streets of Jerusalem, look around and take note! Search its squares and see if you can find one person who acts justly and seeks truth – so that I may pardon 18

For this problem, see J.G. McConville, “1 Kings VIII 46–53 and the Deuteronomic Hope,” VT 42 (1992), 67–79.

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Jerusalem. Although they say, “As the LORD lives,” yet they swear falsely. … How can I pardon you? Your children have forsaken me, and have sworn by those who are no gods. When I fed them to the full, they committed adultery and trooped to the houses of prostitutes. They were well-fed lusty stallions, each neighing for his neighbor’s wife (Jer 5:1–2, 7–8 NRSV).

In a motif parallel to Gen 18:20–33, God is shown to be ready to forgive if only a single righteous person could be found in Jerusalem. In a sense, even the smallest indication of righteousness in the city would be sufficient for God to be merciful. However, this minimum is required for this forgiveness to be possible; without a reason and ground, God will not forgive. The frustrating message of this oracle is that there will not even be a little bit righteousness found any longer in the streets of Jerusalem and that punishment has thus become inevitable. The reason for this total failure lies in the perversion of ritual and cult, in that Israel has turned to other gods, and the perversion of the cult goes along with the decline of ethics. The rhetoric of the image of Israel is extremely artistic, that going after other gods translates into the everyday life of the Israelites. Every man goes after his neighbor’s wife. Cult and ethics are thus in a single way corrupted, in which forgiveness would be frankly absurd – “How could I then forgive you?” Another image of transgressing the boundaries beyond which there is no forgiveness is sketched out in the visions of Amos. In the first two of these visions (Amos 7:1–6), the prophet succeeds in averting the evil represented by locusts and a firestorm which God shows him in a vision through his intercession, “O Lord GOD, forgive, I beg you (‫ !)סלח נא‬How can Jacob stand? He is so small!” (Amos 7:2 NRSV). Amos’ intercession stands in the middle of the image of the threatened devastation and leads to a reversal in God’s eyes that Jacob could not recover from such blows under its own power. It is the scale of the catastrophe which moves God to repentance and away from punishment. In the three following visions (Amos 7:7–8, 8:1–2, 9:1–4), however, there is no more mention of prophetic intercession or of God’s repentance. In these visions, the downfall of the northern kingdom is a decided matter, “The end has come upon my people Israel; I will never again pass them by” (Amos 8:2 NRSV). Considering the composition of the five visions as a whole results in an image of a conscious point at which the measure of Israel’s sin was too full and God’s readiness to repent and forgive was exhausted. Together, Dtn 29, Amos 7–9, and Jer 5 emphasize the boundaries at which forgiveness ends. Another shared theme is in the perception that the renunciation of YHWH, with its fatal consequences for the cult and ethics, forms the cardinal sin through which Israel leaves the sphere of God’s forgiveness. However, there are differences in the respective views of why God’s patience and long-suffering are exhausted at a certain point. The two prophetic positions are reflections on God; God’s very nature is to be kind and patient. God’s readiness

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to forgive extends all the way to the point at which forgiveness becomes absurd, because on Israel’s side the connection is no longer positive. Dtn 29, in contrast, sets a different accent in which forgiveness is integrated into the covenant with Israel and, therefore, in the stipulations which govern the relationship between God and Israel. According to these stipulations, God is not obligated to forgive if Israel violates the statutes established in Deuteronomy. Returning to the prayer for the dedication of the temple, it appears that there, as in Dtn 29, the idea of forgiveness is located in the framework of the covenant between YHWH and Israel, but this framework expands at a decisive point. As was seen, in 1 Kings 8, there is the component of a conditional nexus between repentance and forgiveness. Israel can be forgiven despite the sins committed if it once again reaches out to YHWH. In other words, even beyond the broken covenant, there is the possibility of forgiveness. Thus there is a positive assertion in the concept of forgiveness that is not available in Deuteronomy. Because of the differences between the texts, it is better if one does not speak of a single Deuteronomic concept of forgiveness.19 However, one can say with certainty that within the speech cycles that shape the historical work of Dtn–2 Kings,20 the shape of a covenant form is recognized. That this deals with the historical development of ideas and theology, which should not be assigned to only one particular school of thought, is demonstrated by a text which does not belong to Deuteronomy or the Deuteronomistic History, Is 55:7. As mentioned above, ‫ סלח‬only occurs once in Deutero-Isaiah (as in Deuteronomy) but at an extremely central point. Deutero-Isaiah ends with the announcement of a ‫ברית עולם‬, an “everlasting covenant,” (Is 55:3), which is distinguished by the fact that the sinner who repents will be forgiven. Let the wicked forsake their way, and the unrighteous their thoughts; let them return to the LORD, that he may have mercy on them, and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon (Is 55:7 NRSV).

The conceptual proximity of this to the prayer for the dedication of the temple is almost palpable. The sinner who calls upon God in true repentance will find that God forgives them. In formulating the covenant idea in such a way, Deutero-Isaiah certainly also includes the recognition that, just as Amos 7:2 and Jer 5:1–8 imply in relation to ‫סלח‬, YHWH’s very nature is to forgive, because YHWH is a merciful God. Forgiveness is, therefore, a central concept in the development of a postexilic idea of covenant. In the final section of Deutero-Isaiah and in the prayer for the dedication of the temple, a theology of covenant is articulated which attempts to unite two distinct perspectives: the recognition, ripened through the 19 W. Brueggemann, “The Travail of Pardon. Reflections on slh,” in A God so Near: Essays in Old Testament Theology in Honor of P.D. Miller, ed. B. Strawn and N. Bowe (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2003), 283–297. 20 Noth, Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Studien, 47.

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experience of exile, that God can forgive even beyond the brokenness of the covenant and the expectation that the new covenant still has a bilateral structure, which includes an obligation on the side of Israel to acknowledge their sin and return to YHWH. Behind this lies the recognition of the very specific theological problem that sin, as a falling away from God, is an ongoing reality that is in no way “finished” through the exile and return to the land. Israel will find itself again and again entangled in this reality, which the prayer for the dedication of the temple almost prophetically predicts. On the other hand, the authors of these texts want to hold on to the idea that, as a result of this reality, Israel does not cease to stand in responsibility before God. The relationship between God and the nation is still quite specifically thought of in the terms of a contract with obligations and commitments on both sides. 3.3 Forgiveness and the New Covenant in Jeremiah It would not be surprising if the outlined connection between covenant and forgiveness in 1 Kings 8 and Is 55 were also found in Jeremiah, for whom the return to God unquestionably forms a central theological category. Strikingly, this is precisely not the case.21 Although ‫ סלח‬is inseparably interwoven with the promise of a “new covenant” in Jeremiah, forgiveness has a different function and meaning here.22 According to Jer 33:34, the new covenant is characterized by the Torah being written on Israel’s heart. God’s commandments are, thus, no longer external, but Israel will live out the Torah, henceforth, from within as the established center of their existence. Accordingly, there will be no more need for one to teach or admonish others in the Torah (Jer 31:34a). With the “manipulation of the heart,” God creates a reality in the relationship with Israel that Jeremiah calls a “new covenant.” This is followed in Jer 31:34b by a discussion of forgiveness, but this, however, causes linguistic problems. The verse in total is as follows: No longer shall they teach one another, or say to each other, “Know the LORD,” for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, says the LORD; [verily] (‫ )כי‬I will forgive (‫ )אסלח‬their iniquity, and remember their sin no more (Jer 31:34 NRSV).

21

W. Groß, “Erneuerter oder Neuer Bund? Wortlaut und Aussageintention in Jer 31,31– 34,” in Bund und Tora. Zur Theologischen Begriffsgeschichte in Alttestamentlicher, Frühjüdischer und Urchristlicher Tradition, ed, F. Avemarie and H. Lichtenberger (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996), 59–60. 22 For the literary and theo-historical classification of Jer 31:31–34, see D. Vieweger, “Die Arbeit des Jeremianischen Schülerkreises am Jeremiabuch und deren Rezeption in der Literarischen Überlieferung der Prophetenschrift Ezechiels,” BZ 32 (1988), 24–25; K. Schmid, Buchgestalten des Jeremiabuches. Untersuchungen zur Redaktions- und Rezeptionsgeschichte von Jer 30–33 im Kontext des Buches (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1996), 302–304; W. Groß, “Der Neue Bund in Jer 31 und die Suche nach Übergreifenden Bundeskonzeptionen im Alten Testament,” ThQ 176 (1996), 262.

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The difficulty here is the connecter ‫כי‬. The most frequently chosen causative translation,23 “for I will forgive their sin,” is grammatically difficult in that the previous clause is itself already a causative clause and thus results in content which does not seem to make sense, that the forgiveness of sin would be the basis for the knowledge of God. However, the point of this statement is that it is the inscription of the Torah on the heart that conveys the knowledge of God. Therefore, it is advisable to understand the ‫ כי‬here not as a conjunction but rather as an interjection, “yes, verily.” In the establishment of the new covenant, therefore, two things happen. God writes the Torah on the heart of Israel and forgives the guilt such that God no longer remembers the sins of Israel. The relationship between these two perspectives is clarified in Jer 33:7–8: I will restore the fortunes of Judah and the fortunes of Israel, and rebuild them as they were at first. I will cleanse them from all the guilt of their sin against me, and I will forgive all the guilt of their sin and rebellion against me (Jer 33:7–8 NRSV).

The forgiveness that the new covenant brings refers to the sin in Israel’s past – the sin which Israel brought into exile and which has, since then, burdened the nation as unpunished and unforgiven. Jeremiah shows a remarkable nearness to the priestly conception of ‫סלח‬. As Jer 50:20 shows, an action of purification, to eliminate the contamination of guilt, is required so that there can be a new beginning in the relationship between God and the nation. The inscribing of the Torah on the heart is, for Jeremiah, bound with this preliminary act of purification, which is considered here as the forgiveness from guilt. “And as for the sins of Israel, they will no longer be found, because I forgive those whom I will leave.” Strictly speaking, the new covenant, for Jeremiah, has two components: the forgiveness of past guilt and the establishment of a new covenant relationship though the setting of the Torah in the heart of Israel. This model almost certainly provokes the question that stands in the foreground of the prayer for the dedication of the temple. What happens if Israel sins again, if, “despite everything,” Israel once again turns to other gods? Unlike the forgiveness theology inspired by Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic History, this does not seem to be a particularly hot issue for Jeremiah. The idea that they might turn away from God, that they could live outside the commandments of God as well as the benefits and peace which the Torah brings (Jer 33:9), is for Jeremiah devoid of any basis in reality. Thus forgiveness is not for him, as it is in 1 Kings 8 and Is 55, bound up in God’s self-obligated commitment within the new covenant. The particular feature of Jeremiah’s concept is a unique historical disconnect24 in the development of God’s forgiveness, a disconnect, which in the view of 23

J. Krašovec, “Vergebung und Neuer Bund nach Jer 31,31–34,” ZAW 105 (1993), 437; W. Groß, “Erneuerter oder Neuer Bund,” 42. 24 Groß, “Erneuerter oder Neuer Bund,” 56–57.

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the theology of the book of Jeremiah, is completely surprising in that Israel’s return to YHWH is not a prerequisite. To provisionally summarize, the texts that contain a positive understanding of forgiveness demonstrate characteristic differences. What is forgiven; why forgiveness is even necessary; and how far forgiveness goes in fixing the relationship between YHWH and the nation are all questions answered with different nuances. With respect to the historical classification, 1 Kings 8, Is 55, and the occurrence in Jeremiah suggest that the reflection on God’s forgiveness is concerned with a theological coping strategy about exile and return to the land. This will now be expanded to three texts in which ‫ סלח‬is used in the socalled “grace formula,” Ex 34:6–9, Num 14:18–20, and Neh 9:17. 3.4 Forgiveness and Covenant Faithfulness The “grace formula” occurs in the Old Testament in different variations and contexts, but has as its primary location within the canon the self-revelation of YHWH on Sinai. According to Ex 34:6–7, it is, though spoken in the third person, a self-proclamation of YHWH25 and, in this context, even has the status of a name of God.26 The LORD passed before him, and proclaimed, “The LORD, the LORD, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness, keeping steadfast love for the thousandth generation, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, yet by no means clearing the guilty, but visiting the iniquity of the parents upon the children and the children’s children, to the third and the fourth generation” (Ex 34:6–7 NRSV).

Regarding first the two occurrences within the Pentateuch, it is striking that within the formula, God is described as faithful and forgiving. However, here not ‫ סלח‬but rather the idiomatic phrase ‫נשא עון‬, “taking away guilt,” is used. In both cases, Moses, in the role of intercessor for Israel, ties that self-proclamation of God to the plea that God may forgive stubborn Israel. This is seen in the contexts of Ex 32–34,27 in which they were ready to trade God in for a 25 For the theory that this is treated here initially as a confession which then became attached to God as a name, see Dentan, “Literary Affinities,” 39–40. 26 D.N. Freedman, “The Name of the God of Moses,” JBL 79 (1960), 151–156; N. Walker, “Concerning Ex 34:6,” JBL 79 (1960), 277. 27 R.W.L. Moberly, At the Mountain of God. Story and Thology in Exodus 32–34, JSOT Sup 22 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1983); A. Phillips, “A Fresh Look at the Sinai pericope,” VT 34 (1984), 39–52; J. Vermeylen, “L’affaire du Veau d’or (Ex 32–34). Une Clé pour la Question Deutéronomiste,” ZAW 97 (1985), 1–23; M. Sweeney, “The Wilderness Traditions of the Pentateuch. A reassessment of Their Function and Intent in Relation to Exodus 32–34,” SBLSP 28 (1989), 271–295; M. Meshullam, “The Theology of Exodus 32–34,” Proceedings of the Eleventh World Congress of Jewish Studies, Jerusalem (1994), 43–50; W. Johnstone, “From the Mountain to Kadesh, with Special Reference to Exodus 32,30–34,29,” in Deuteronomy and Deuteronomic Literature, ed. M. Vervenne (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1997) 449–467; J. Van Seters, “Is There Evidence of a Dtr Redaction in the Sinai Pericope

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golden calf, and Num 14, in which they wanted the Exodus from Egypt to be reversed.28 Within each of these intercessions by Moses is ‫סלח‬, which suggests that the accent should be on that which is not included within the grace formula. First it is noteworthy that faithfulness (‫ )חסד‬and punishment are close to each other within the formulation of Ex 34:6–7 (as also in Num 14:18–20). God is both the one who forgives a thousand times and the one who punishes the sins of the fathers as far as the generation of the grandchildren. The logic of the formula cannot exclude that alongside the abundant goodness God bestows on those who love God is the wide spread effect of guilt and punishment over the generations of those who offend.29 More specifically, the grace formula is a covenant formula, because God primarily grants ‫חסד‬, “covenant faithfulness.” “Grace” (‫ )חן‬and forgiveness are classified under this covenant faithfulness, but this means, however, that these are bound to conditions, analogous to the Deuteronomistic idea of covenant, that Israel must fulfill. There are sins which God “takes away,” and there are those which bring about retribution. Where the dividing line between the two lies is not explicitly stated. However, the phrase “sins of the fathers” is a decisive clue. It would seem that this refers to sin committed as a collective and to result in an increasing and lasting estrangement between YHWH and Israel. Sin is thus defined less casuistically than historically. This implies the idea that the relationship between God and the nation is disrupted at a particular point in some fashion that results in a de facto termination of this relationship. The grace formula, as YHWH’s portrayal of self, flows into the announcement in Ex 34:10 of a covenant with Israel. Thus one can say that, with this formula, YHWH presents himself as Israel’s covenant partner and at the same sets the conditions of that covenant. The movement from the grace formula to the announcement of covenant is conspicuously interrupted by the short intercession by Moses:30 He said, “If now I have found favor (‫ )חן‬in your sight, O Lord, I pray, let the Lord go with us. Although (‫)כי‬31 this is a stiff-necked people, pardon (‫ )סלח‬our iniquity and our sin, and take us for your inheritance” (NRSV).

(Exodus 19–24, 32–34)?” in Those Elusive Deuteronomists: the Phenomenon of Pan-Deuteronomism, ed. L.S. Schearing and S.L. McKenzie (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 160–170. 28 K.D. Sakenfeld, “The Problem of Divine Forgiveness in Numbers 14,” CBQ 123 (2003), 317–330. 29 Thus, J. Scharbert, “Formgeschichte und Exegese von Ex 34,6f und seiner Parallelen,” Biblica 38 (1957), 144. 30 For literary criticism, see C. Dohmen, “Der Sinaibund als Neuer Bund nach Ex 19– 34,” in Der Neue Bund im Alten: Zur Bundestheologie der beiden Testamente, ed. E. Zenger, QD 146 (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1993), 78. 31 For the philology of this point, see Moberly, Mountain of God, 89–90.

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At first glance, this intercession seems redundant, because, with forgiveness, Moses is asking for something that YHWH, according to 34:7, is already prepared to grant. This impression, however, changes when one assumes that the forgiveness designated by ‫ סלח‬means something other than the “taking away” of sin in 34:7.32 Indeed, Moses confronts YHWH with the reality that Israel is a “stiff-necked” people, who always turn away from God and thus commit exactly the kind of sin that, according to Ex 34:6–7 brings about punishment and not forgiveness.33 In other words, Moses asks YHWH for a forgiveness which can continue in the face of ongoing sin.34 In contrast to the grace formula, YHWH should forgive even though35 Israel cannot, or more accurately never will, uphold its covenantal obligation.36 Thus a theological problem looms in Moses intercession as in the prayer for the dedication of the temple, which also occurs in Deutero-Isaiah and the exilic/post-exilic texts of Jeremiah. Is there forgiveness even beyond the reality of the broken covenant and in the face of the fact that Israel is not a good match for God as a covenant partner? Ex 34:6–9 thus holds a position that is opposite that of these comparable texts and can be classified as theological realism. As seen in the prayer for the dedication of the temple and Deutero-Isaiah, it is Israel’s repentance that God answers and also through which the broken relationship is healed. In Jeremiah, God changes the relationship between God and the nation through inscribing the Torah on Israel’s heart in such a way as to prevent forgiveness being necessary in the future. Ex 34:6–9 does not share either view, that Israel is capable of lasting repentance or the expectation of the change of Israel’s nature. The way in which Moses represents Israel to YHWH is, in contrast, very sober and without any illusions. To paraphrase, Israel is and will remain a stiff-necked people that only half-heartedly let go of the fleshpots of Egypt and will all too easily succumb to the temptation of other gods. That is the reality in the face of which God must decide whether or not 32

Moberly, Mountain of God, 140, emphasizes the special position of Ex 34:8, “There are no links between these words and the preceding narrative.” See also, for an analysis of layers, J. Vermeylen, “L’affaire du Veau d’or,” ZAW 97 (1985), 11, 15. 33 Cf. Sakenfeld, “Problem”, 327, “The divine response there is the proclamation of a covenant in which the promise of the land is reconfirmed. Despite that confirmation without any explicit conditional language, the possibility of disobedience and punishment is built into the narrative with demand for exclusive worship of YHWH.” 34 This point, however, seems to be blurred in the retelling of the Sinai event in Neh 9:17. Here, the ‫ סלח‬in Moses’ intercession seems to have been copied from the grace formula. This, however, raises the question of the difference between ‫ נשא עון‬and ‫ סלח‬at this point. 35 It is striking that most of the German translations of the preposition ‫ כי‬in 34:9b are not as a concessive but as a causative (cf. the translation of Luther, “So the Lord is in our midst, for it is a stiff-necked people”). However, in the English translations, it is consistently treated as a concessive (eg. the Revised Standard Version, “…go in the midst of us, although it is a stiff-necked people”). 36 Sakenfeld, “Problem”, 329.

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to enter into a covenant with this nation.37 Alternatively, Ex 32:10 conceptualizes the hypothetical understanding that God would reject the old Israel of the fathers and, with Moses, create a new, uncontaminated people, who would be, from the beginning, oriented toward the Torah of God. To clarify, what is here a hypothetical and ultimately rejected scenario is exactly related to the vision of a new Israel as conceptualized by Jeremiah and Ezekiel. The Sinai pericope in its final form stands in contrast as a very low bar. It is not what Israel is or could be that determines the reality of the relationship with God, but rather they are, and probably always will be, a people as fallible as the rest of humanity. Precisely for this reason, forgiveness is not a part of the new covenant but is what makes any covenant possible at all.

4. Conclusion Our considerations assume the perspective that the understanding of forgiveness in the Old Testament connoted by ‫ סלח‬has a concrete Sitz im Leben in the context of the atonement rite. On that basis, it can be shown that, in the preexilic period, ‫ סלח‬is a defining term which delineates the boundary between forgivable and non-forgivable sins. Thus, ‫ סלח‬belongs in the framework of the structure as a whole, which regulates and maintains the relationship between YHWH and Israel. In the post-exilic period, this reflection is re-examined and theologically deepened. It is in the reality of the broken covenant and, therefore, the broken relationship with God that the question of forgiveness is seen from a different perspective. This question will be engaged and answered though the distinct traditions in entirely different ways.38 The prayer for the dedication of the temple and Deutero-Isaiah remain the closest to an understanding of covenant with a bilateral system of obligations like what can be found primarily in Deuteronomy. New, however, and evidence of the influence of the prophetic tradition, is the idea that sin only leads to a break of covenant when there is no repentance and return to God. Here, the fact that people are fallible is taken into account, so that forgiveness must be “built” from the ground up in the architecture of the covenant relationship with God. The Sinai pericope shares the fundamental insight into human fallibility as a “hard,” unchanging reality, but draws different conclusions from the prayer for the dedication of the temple. Precisely because human imperfection is an

37 38

Moberly, Mountain of God, 89. Groß, “Der neue Bund in Jer 31,” 270.

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elementary fact, the answering forgiveness cannot be a part of a covenant relationship. When God forgives, it is because it is a part of God’s nature39 and not because it is God’s role in the give-and-take of a relationship. Finally, Jeremiah’s understanding deviates from the prayer for the dedication of the temple and also the Sinai pericope40 in that he counts on a transformation of Israel, in which the “new” covenant of the Torah will be carried in their hearts. Israel will no longer require forgiveness, because sin will no longer be a reality but a relic of the past. One of the remarkable characteristics of the Old Testament canon is that the controversial discussion of ‫ סלח‬is not decided in favor of a particular position, but rather remains a dynamically open debate.41 It would be worth a separate study to see how this conversation is incorporated into the New Testament. Of particular interest in this respect would be the request for forgiveness in the Lord’s Prayer, because in this context something is claimed which stands in absolute tension with the voices of the Old Testament, namely that people can forgive each other in the same way that God forgives. It is worth serious thought as to whether, had the Sermon on the Mount been written in Hebrew instead of Greek, the “as we forgive our debtors” would have used ‫סלח‬.

39

Dentan, “Literary Affinities,” 48. For a comparison of the Sinai/Horeb covenant with Jer 31, see B.P. Robinson, “Jeremiah’s New Covenant. Jer 31:31–34,” SJOT 15 (2001), 204. 41 Specifically for the theological “range” of the grace formula, see A. Michel, “Ist mit der Gnadenformel von Ex 34,6(+7) der Schlüssel zu einer Theologie des Alten Testaments gefunden?” BN 118 (2003), 110–123. 40

“On Earth as it is in Heaven” Eschatology and the Ethics of Forgiveness 1. Introduction Simple as it may sound at first, the request for forgiveness, “And forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors,” (Mt 6:12), assumes a central role in the Lord’s Prayer both in terms of the literary composition and the theology of the prayer. As Ulrich Luz has shown in a structural analysis, the request for forgiveness is the core element of the Lord’s Prayer, and the Lord’s Prayer assumes the center position of the Sermon on the Mount.1 Thus it is safe to say that the Sermon on the Mount, as Matthew presents it, evolves around the notion of forgiveness. Since the gospel of Matthew has often been charged with “legalism” or “legalist perfectionism,”2 as exemplified in, “For I tell you, if your righteousness does not exceed that of the scribes and Pharisees, you shall never enter the kingdom of heaven,” (Mt 5:20), it is only too easily overlooked that this gospel also reserves a prominent place for the language of forgiveness. This of course begs the question as to what Matthew, here and elsewhere in the gospel, means by “forgiveness” and how it figures into his larger theological scheme.3 The Lord’s Prayer itself does not provide much of a context; it

1

U. Luz, Matthew 1–7 (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2007), 173. For a recent overview of the discussion about Matthew’s relationship to Judaism, see B. Repschinski, “‘For He will Save His People from their Sins’ (Matthew 1:21), A Christology for Christian Jews,” CBQ 68 (2006), 248–250. 3 One problem in this regard is the semantic range of the term ὀφείλημα. It refers to something that is owed, a “debt” (cf. also Rom 4:4). This suggests that the concept of forgiveness in the Lord’s Prayer has a very narrow focus. It is not about “sins” as defined in the law codes of Leviticus and Deuteronomy but rather about “debts” that, for whatever reasons, cannot be repaid but need to be cancelled. As H.D. Betz, The Sermon on the Mount (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995), suggests, Matthew redefines the concept of sin in terms of (legal) obligations: “Remarkably, the fifth petition employs this business language to interpret what otherwise would be called ‘sins’ and ‘forgiveness of sins.’ Accordingly, sins are not treated as transgressions of legal, moral, or ritual codes, the way sins are usually understood. Rather, sins are taken to be instances of injustice in the sense of obligations outstanding and not met. Since human life as a whole consists of an interconnected web of obligations, the totality of all unredeemed obligations constitutes human sinfulness,” (402). This means, by the same token, that Matthew also sees the relationship with God as characterized 2

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simply suggests that forgiveness is something that we need just as much as we need our daily bread and the deliverance from evil. Striking here, and in most other instances in Matthew, is the fact forgiveness comprises two distinct relationships – the one between God and humans and the one amongst human beings themselves. The univocal use of language as well as the propositional phrase, “as we forgive,” suggest that there is some intrinsic nexus between divine and human forgiveness. What exactly is this nexus and how does it affect what Matthew means by forgiveness? A first guess would be that there is a conditional relationship, which is in fact what, immediately following the Lord’s Prayer, Mt 6:14–15 suggests.4 “For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you; but if you do not forgive others, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.” Taken by itself, this passage could support the charge of legalism against Matthew, since it makes God’s inclination to forgive dependent upon humans forgiving each other5 (cf. also Mark 11:25; Lk 6:37).6 However, reading further into the gospel of Matthew, one finds the exact opposite scenario in the parable of the unforgiving servant (Mt 18:24–35). There, it is the experience of God’s unexpected and undeserved forgiveness that is envisioned to shape the ways humans interact – or ought to interact – with one another.7 Consequently, rather than trying to identify the terms and conditions under which God grants forgiveness and whether or not this presupposes any effort in terms of mutual obligations. While Betz’s interpretation highlights an essential characteristic of Matthew’s concept of forgiveness, this should not be limited to the idea of a debt being cancelled. In Mt 6:14, a verse that elaborates on the fifth petition of the Lord’s Prayer (see below), one finds the term παράπτωµα, “transgression,” which is one of the terms that the Septuagint uses for “sin.” Also, when Jesus heals the paralytic (Mt 9:2–7), this can hardly be subsumed under the category of a “debt” needing to be forgiven. 4 For a discussion of the relationship between Mt 6:12 and 6:14–15, cf. Betz, Sermon on the Mount, 425–26. Betz argues that verses 14–15 “precede [verse] 12 logically in that the principle is presupposed in its application. If the petitioners of [verse] 12a expect that their prayers will be answered, their expectation is conditional upon their own readiness to forgive (12b).” 5 Luz, Matthew, 327: “Thus with this statement the evangelist emphasizes precisely the part of the Lord’s Prayer where human activity was most directly involved. In contrast to the logion leading into the Lord’s Prayer (vv. 7–9), which emphasizes god’s nearness, this logion that brings the Lord’s Prayer to a close is designed to secure the relationship between prayer and action.” 6 Mt 6:14–15 has a close parallel in Sirach 28:2: “Forgive your neighbor the wrong he has done, and then your sins will be pardoned when you pray.” (For references to rabbinic texts, see Luz, Matthew, 322). 7 To what extent one should or should not read God into the role of the king in Matthew 18:24–35 has been the subject of controversial debates that cannot be properly reviewed here. On the methodological and theological issues of this parable, cf. especially C. Dietzfelbinger, “Das Gleichnis von der erlassenen Schuld. Eine theologische Untersuchung zu Matthäus 18, 23–35,” EvTh 32 (1972), 437–451.

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on the part of humankind, a more promising approach could be to follow the prayer’s own understanding of how the divine and the human spheres are correlated. As has been frequently noted, Mt 6:12 has a close structural parallel in another verse of the Lord’s Prayer, “Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven,” (Mt 6:10). This is the rendering that one finds in all of the major English translations. However, if one translates this verse closer to the original Greek, the word order is changed and with it the thrust of the argument, “Your will be done – as in heaven so also on earth.” Paraphrasing this to make better sense in English, the verse then reads as follows, “Your will be done – as it already is in heaven, so it shall be on earth.” In Matthew’s cosmology, “heaven” denotes that sphere in which the kingdom of God has already been realized to its fullest extent, whereas this is not the case yet “on earth.” It seems that Matthew employs this cosmological dualism to emphasize the expansive dynamic of God’s kingdom, which eventually is meant to encompass all of reality. If one also applies the cosmological hermeneutic that expresses itself in the opening sequence of the Lord’s Prayer to the petition for forgiveness, its particular thrust becomes clearer. Forgiveness is already at work and shapes life where God reigns and where God’s will is done. For this to become reality also on earth, it is imperative that humans come to forgive each other in the same way God forgives them. This implies a number of crucial insights about the nature of Matthew’s understanding of God’s kingdom. First of all, the symbol of the “kingdom” presupposes that it is God’s very own nature to be forgiving and not just one of God’s possible modes of acting toward humankind. The fact that, as the Lord’s Prayer suggests, the kingdom of God is based on mutual forgiveness among those who live in it would hardly make any sense, if this did not also say something about the king. However, for this kingdom to become reality it is not enough that God is forgiving – as if God’s kingdom was characterized primarily by one-on-one relationships between God and individuals. God’s forgiveness would be solely a matter of individual spiritual experience and potentially devoid of any social impact, if it did not also model and mold the ways in which humans relate to one another. As such, forgiveness seems to figure into Matthew’s larger eschatological vision. In the kingdom of God, people will live fully out lives of justice, mercy, and faith – according to Matthew, the three distinct qualities of the “law” (Mt 23:23).8 This, and not the corrupted forms of how the law is realized in the here and now, will establish the kind of righteousness that characterizes life in the kingdom of God. It seems that Matthew understands forgiveness as that which paves the way for this new righteousness to take its place in human life. Sin, 8 For a systematic account of the law as a dynamic nexus of “justice, mercy, and knowledge of God,” cf. M. Welker in numerous of his publications, esp. God the Spirit (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1994), 108–124, is arguably the most thoughtful and enlightening account of the meaning of the law in contemporary Protestant theology.

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guilt, and indifference toward one’s neighbor are the consequences of human beings, in the here and now, falling short of living up to the eschatological qualities of the law. Interestingly enough, according to Matthew, intensified efforts to improve one’s moral conduct are only one aspect of what this situation calls for. It is not in human power to eliminate sin und suffering from the world. What human beings can do, however, is what the Lord’s Prayer suggests: ask God for forgiveness and forgive one’s neighbor. The kingdom of God has its own momentum and dynamic to permeate the world beyond human influence.9 Nonetheless, forgiveness can be characterized as a form of acknowledging the nearness of this kingdom, as a way of reaching out for it, and also as the readiness to receive it.10 It is worth noticing that Matthew’s ethic is not geared simply towards a top-down implementation of eschatological values. Rather it is an ethic that captures and highlights how human value systems change where the kingdom of God is expected as an imminent reality. If the above conclusions are sound, it becomes clear why forgiveness is an essential key to understanding Matthew’s christology. According to Matthew, Jesus embodies both the kingdom of God in its directedness from “heaven to earth” and the human reality that embraces the coming of this kingdom. Thus Jesus’ ministry is characterized by the forgiveness of sins, which, using Pauline terminology, could be called the first-fruits of the approaching kingdom of God. One crucial text in this regard is Mt 9:2–7 (par. Mark 2:1–12; Lk 5:17– 26), the healing of the paralytic. The scribes take issue with Jesus’ forgiving sins and charge him with blasphemy. Matthew leaves out the explanation that the scribes give in Mark 2:7, “Who can forgive sins but God alone?” As we shall see shortly, this charge has its basis in the fact that in the Old Testament the characteristic term for “forgive” (‫סלח‬, slḥ) occurs exclusively with God as the grammatical subject. In the scribes’ perspective, by claiming that he has the power to forgive sins, Jesus puts himself in the place of God. This should not 9

One of the main exegetical issues with the interpretation of the Lord’s Prayer has been the relationship between its ethical and its eschatological dimensions. Thus the question has been, whether the Lord’s Prayer envisions a future reality or the breakthrough of God’s kingdom into everyday life. A synopsis of the arguments for both lines of interpretation has been provided by G. Theissen and A. Merz, The Historical Jesus: A Comprehensive Guide (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1996), 262–264. I agree with Theissen’s and Merz’s assessment that the two types of exegesis should be combined (ibid, 262), and it seems especially to be the request for forgiveness that calls for such a combination. Human beings should forgive each other in the present; this is, however, more than just an ethical imperative, because the basis for this claim is the eschatological reality of God’s reign. “The end time is seen in the light of the ethical will of God, and everyday life is illuminated by the light of an eschatological liberation from disaster. But both these things happen in a prayer which is addressed to God. In the last resort future and present are combined in the understanding of God,” (ibid, 263). 10 Mt 6:33 uses the language of “longing for”/“striving” with regard to how human beings should relate to the approaching heavenly kingdom.

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be quickly dismissed as a mean-spirited assault against Jesus. On the contrary, the fact that the scribes challenge Jesus proves the point that forgiveness is no small, or as Jesus phrases it, “easy” thing (Mt 9:5). It is a powerful reality that effectively changes the lives of individuals and their social settings. There seems to be agreement between Jesus and the scribes that, wherever this reality occurs, the kingdom of God has arrived on earth. However, this precisely begs the question of Jesus’ role in the arrival of this kingdom. Is he “simply” the messenger or prophet who announces the coming of the kingdom? Or, on the other end of the spectrum, is he the one who, endowed with divine authority, brings this kingdom down from heaven to earth? However one might answer this question, it seems that Jesus’ relationship to the kingdom of God is the key issue that determines his exceptional – eschatological – identity and also the character of his ministry. Put in different terms, for Matthew the kingdom of God – not Jesus’ christological titles – presents itself as the key symbol around which the literary and theological texture of this gospel materializes. In the following part of this chapter, I shall seek to substantiate this tentative characterization of how the language of forgiveness figures into the Gospel of Matthew by looking at some of the literary traditions that precede Matthew. This will include texts first from the Hebrew Bible and also documents from Qumran, especially the hymnic poetry of the Hodayot (1QH). What I want to show is that Matthew’s notion of forgiveness – and for the sake of brevity this chapter will be focused on this gospel in particular – emerges from an intertextual conversation with these other traditions. To be sure, my claim is not – as the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule might have it – that there is a forward-driving development in the intellectual history of the concept of forgiveness that starts in the early Second Temple period and culminates in the New Testament. The claim is, however, that during this period the notion of forgiveness played a productive role in religious discourse of early Judaism and that Matthew’s framing of his account of Jesus’ identity and ministry participates in this discourse.

2. Old Testament Traditions11 In the Old Testament, the Hebrew term sālaḥ (‫)סלח‬, “forgive,” is one of two verbs that is used exclusively with God as the grammatical subject. Only God can “forgive,” just as only God can “create” (bārā, ‫)ברא‬. To be sure, there are 11

For a fuller account of the notion of forgiveness in Old Testament traditions, cf. A. Schüle, “An der Grenze von Schuld und Vergebung: ‫ סלח‬im Alten Testament,” in “… der seine Lust hat am Wort des Herrn!” Festschrift für Ernst Jenni zum 80. Geburtstag, ed. J. Luchsinger, H.-P. Mathys, and M. Saur (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2007), 309–329. An english translation of this essay is provided in this volume.

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words and idioms in Hebrew that give expression to the language of forgiveness among human beings as well. It is striking, however, that the Old Testament reserves one particular word for divine forgiveness, thus setting this concept apart from the human moral sphere. For our purposes, it may suffice to give only a brief summary of how sālaḥ is used in Old Testament traditions. It seems that, originally, sālaḥ was a technical term for “forgiveness” that had its primary setting in life in the temple cult and the sacrificial system. Twelve out of forty-six references for sālaḥ are found in the ritual texts of Lev 4–5 and Num 15:25–28. These texts provide instructions for various types of sin offerings. Important in this respect is that this particular offering becomes necessary to redeem sins that were committed unintentionally. Cases that require a sin offering include incidences such as someone coming in contact with something unclean or someone failing to report a felony that he or she had witnessed. Most of the time, however, the texts put the need for such a sacrifice in rather general terms. If anyone of the ordinary people among you sins unintentionally in doing any one of the things that by the LORD’s commandments ought not to be done and incurs guilt, when the sin which he has committed is made known to him he shall bring for his offering a goat, a female without blemish, for his sin which he has committed. … and the priest shall make atonement for him, and he shall be forgiven (Lev 4:27–31).

Sin offerings, atonement, and forgiveness are not so much part of what we would call civil or criminal law; rather, they are a means to maintain the covenantal relationship between God and God’s people. According to the priestly view, as laid out in Leviticus and related texts of the Pentateuch, human beings constantly and unavoidably transgress the boundaries by which God has established natural and social order. This requires that God provides the means to mend the relationship between God and God’s people whenever it threatens to fall apart. Order, as understood by the priests in ancient Israel, is a dynamic and, at the same time, extremely fragile concept. Once established, it relies on divine as well as human attention to remain stable, which allows one to understand forgiveness as one of God’s ways to keep the world in balance. Looking at the religious history of ancient Israel, it seems that, apart from its cultic setting, the concept of forgiveness played an important role in the exilic and early post-exilic periods, when the biblical authors faced the reality that God’s covenant with Israel was broken and that God had not forgiven the sins of God’s people.12 The books of Jeremiah and Ezekiel, in particular, give us some insight that until the very last years, before the temple was destroyed and parts of the Judean population were exiled, there was still confidence among Judean aristocrats and priests that YHWH would turn the fortune of the people around and rescue them “at the last minute” from the Babylonians. One gets the impression that it was not in the world-view of most pre-exilic Judeans 12

Schüle, “An der Grenze von Schuld und Vergebung,” 315–327.

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to imagine that YHWH would let them fall victim to their own iniquities. During and after the exile, however, this became the single most important theological and political issue with which the biblical authors had to grapple. Lamentations summarizes the issue in simple but poignant words. We have transgressed and rebelled, and you have not forgiven. You have wrapped yourself with anger and pursued us, killing without pity; you have wrapped yourself with a cloud so that no prayer can pass through (Lam 3:42–44).

It is worth noticing that Lamentations expresses the consequences of God’s not-forgiving by using the image of God “screening off” God’s self from God’s people. The language is intriguing here. The Hebrew term ‫( סכך‬sākak), “wrap, cover,” plays an important role in the Sinai pericope, where Moses receives instructions for building the tabernacle (Ex 25:20–22; Ex 26:31–36). There, it is the wings of the Cherubim and the veil put up in front of the holy of holies that separate the Ark of the Covenant, God’s dwelling place on earth, from those parts of the tabernacle to which the priests have access. The idea is that, although YHWH resides in a restricted place, this area is not isolated from the human world. Sacrifices and prayer get through to God, thus allowing for fellowship between God and God’s people. Lamentations seems to refer to this cultic notion of God’s presence, but whereas God remains accessible in Exodus, Lamentations envisions God’s anger as a veil so “thick” that nothing passes through it anymore. As one of their dominant themes, the post-exilic authors of the Old Testament grapple with the reality of the Babylonian exile as a symbol of God’s anger and Israel’s inability to keep the covenant with God. Their answers of what a new relationship between God and Israel might look like – if there were ever going to be such a relationship again – show a great deal of diversity. However, there are a number of “focal points” that center the inner-biblical discussion about the religious identity of post-exilic Judaism, and the notion of forgiveness is certainly one such focal point. In a nutshell, the burning issue at stake was whether or not there could be forgiveness for Israel beyond the reality of the broken covenant. In summarizing a fairly complex picture that presents itself to the reader in texts such as 1 Kings 8:33–34, 46–50; Is 55:3–7; Jer 31:33–34; and Ex 34:6–9, one can distinguish three different approaches. The first is that the notion of forgiveness is woven into Jeremiah’s prophecy of a new covenant.13 According to Jer 31:34, this covenant means two things: that God will forgive the sins of the past and that God will inscribe the Torah on Israel’s heart, so that they will never again fall back into the sinful existence of their past. But this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days, says the LORD: I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their 13

Schüle, “An der Grenze von Schuld und Vergebung,” 322–324.

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God, and they shall be my people. 34 No longer shall they teach one another, or say to each other, “Know the LORD,” for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, says the LORD; for I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more.

The idea of the Torah inscribed on Israel’s heart suggests that Israel’s will and God’s law will be in perfect harmony with each other. By the same token, this means that there will not be a need for forgiveness anymore, because in the world of the new covenant there will no longer be sins that need to be forgiven. Jeremiah’s vision has often, and perhaps rightly, been suspected of a highly charged and overly-optimistic vision of the future relationship between God and God’s people that could hardly ever pass the litmus test of reality. It is interesting, therefore, that other accounts of a new or renewed covenant in the Hebrew Bible take a more realistic stand and, consequently, arrive at a different understanding of the nature and need for divine forgiveness. The second approach is found in Solomon’s temple prayer, which models the genre of post-exilic penitential prayer.14 God listens to the cry of those who approach God with a contrite heart and who are willing to turn away from their sinful ways. If they sin against you – for there is no one who does not sin – and you are angry with them and give them to an enemy, so that they are carried away captive to the land of the enemy, far off or near; 47 yet if they come to their senses in the land to which they have been taken captive, and repent, and plead with you in the land of their captors, saying, 'We have sinned, and have done wrong; we have acted wickedly;' 48 if they repent with all their heart and soul in the land of their enemies, who took them captive, and pray to you toward their land, which you gave to their ancestors, the city that you have chosen, and the house that I have built for your name; 49 then hear in heaven, your dwelling place, their prayer and their plea, maintain their cause 50 and forgive your people who have sinned against you, and all their transgressions that they have committed against you; and grant them compassion in the sight of their captors, so that they may have compassion on them (1 Kings 8:46–50).

Unlike the cultic notion of forgiveness in Leviticus, Solomon’s prayer does not talk about specific kinds or types of sins that require forgiveness; rather, the term sin is used here in the broadest sense possible. Israel will always prove unable to live up to being God’s people. They will always transgress the boundaries of the covenant and thus provoke God’s anger and punishment. The only thing that Israel can do, however, is acknowledge their sin and repent; and this, according to 1 Kings 8, will be sufficient reason for God to have mercy and forgive. The third approach is seen in the Sinai pericope, which shares the kind of “covenantal realism” that lies at the heart of the temple prayer. However, Ex 14

For an overview of current research on penitential prayer, cf. S.E. Balentine, “I was Ready to Be Sought Out by Those Who did Not Ask,” in Seeking the Favor of God, ed. M.J. Boda, D.K. Falk, and R.A. Werline (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2006), 11–16; M.J. Boda, “Form Criticism in Transition: Penitential Prayer and Lament, Sitz im Leben and Form,” in: Seeking the Favor of God, 190.

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34 goes even one step further. God’s forgiveness has to be entirely unconditional, if it is supposed to make a difference in God’s relationship with Israel at all. It cannot even build on Israel’s repentance as 1 Kings 8 suggests. This radicalized view of the covenant in Ex 34:6–9 is presented in the form of a dialogue between God and Moses. God describes God’s nature to Moses with the so called “grace formula.” The LORD passed before him, and proclaimed, “The LORD, the LORD, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness, 7 keeping steadfast love for the thousandth generation, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, yet by no means clearing the guilty, but visiting the iniquity of the parents upon the children and the children’s children, to the third and the fourth generation (Ex 34:6–7).

It has often been observed that the grace formula presents God in almost selfcontradictory terms. God forgives sin but also visits the parents’ sins on their descendants. However, it seems clear that despite its abundance, there are limits to God’s graciousness; God is slow to anger, but once God’s anger has been kindled, God will even hold those responsible who did not themselves commit the sin. Note that when the text speaks of forgiveness here, it does not use the root ‫ סלח‬but rather a different idiom “lifting up (=taking away) sin.” Moses response to God’s self-revelation reads as follows: He said, “If now I have found favor in your sight, O Lord, I pray, let the Lord go with us. Although15 this is a stiff-necked people, pardon (‫ )סלח‬our iniquity and our sin, and take us for your inheritance” (Ex 34:9).

At first glance, Moses’ request seems pointless, because he asks for something, forgiveness, that has already been granted. However, the way this request is phrased suggests that Moses in fact changes the preconditions of the covenant. Israel is a stubborn people; in other words, they will not only be unable to live up to God’s expectations, they will even refuse to do so. That is the reality to which God’s forgiveness and mercy have to respond, if there is to be a “covenant” at all.16 God has to accept Israel despite their imperfections and notorious inclination to resist the divine will. The fact that, in Ex 34:10, God grants the covenant under these terms suggests that the notion of forgiveness that is articulated in Ex 34:9 is the one that the text, in its present form, seeks to highlight. There is no reason and no particular motivation for God’s forgiveness other than God’s will to accept Israel for what they are. Forgiveness, in this view, does not have a rationale behind it. It does not presuppose anything, and it does not expect anything, which means that there is no other reason for God to be forgiving than the fact that this is God’s nature. Consequently, forgiveness is never presented as a pedagogical tool that God uses for the betterment of Israel. 15

For a discussion of ‫כי‬, cf. R.W.L. Moberly, At the Mountain of God. Story and Theology in Ex 32–34, JSOT Sup 22 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1983), 89–90. 16 Schüle, “An der Grenze von Schuld und Vergebung,” 324–237.

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It is one of the remarkable, although not always sufficiently emphasized, peculiarities of the pentateuchal narratives from Genesis to Deuteronomy that they hardly ever idealize God’s people – neither the patriarchs and the matriarchs in Genesis nor the Mosaic Israel in the books that follow. It is never envisioned that the covenant with God will make Israel a better people. As a matter of fact, assuming that the Pentateuch received its final shape, for the most part, under the impression of the Babylonian exile and the restoration after the exile, it is reasonable to conclude that it is precisely the point of the Pentateuch to give a realistic rather than an idealistic account of who Israel is and of who God is. Summarizing our brief walk through some Old Testament traditions, it is evident that these texts feature a multi-layered and controversial discourse. In the Second Temple period, the notion of forgiveness sparked Israel’s thinking about their history and identity and also about God. To risk a value judgment, this inner-biblical discourse displays its most intriguing facets where it describes God’s nature as forgiving, without making this dependent on whether humankind is able or at all willing to reciprocate the experience of being forgiven and where it grapples with the fact that human beings live in the presence of this God but that this will not necessarily change human nature. The tension between texts such as Ex 34:9 and Jer 31:31–34 marks the two poles around which the biblical discourse evolves. Whereas Jer 31 does in fact expect a rather dramatic change in human nature, Ex 34 seems to be thoroughly skeptical of any such expectation. It is important to be aware that the Hebrew Bible does not aim at resolving this tension or finding some sort of a compromise between the different positions. The theological discourse about divine forgiveness and its consequences is essentially open and thus invites further conversation beyond the boundaries of the Hebrew canon. As we shall see in the following, the theological discourse about forgiveness in the texts from Qumran and in the New Testament show a marked eschatological awareness. Building on the understanding of God as unconditionally forgiving, these traditions raise the question of what this means at a time when people thought of themselves as living at the “end of days” or at least at the brink of a dramatic change in the course of human history.

3. The Hodayot of Qumran As one would expect, the Hebrew term sālaḥ occurs with notable frequency in those texts from Qumran that are concerned with cultic and ritual issues. Especially in the “Rule of the Community” (1QS), in the Temple Scroll (11Q19), and in 4QMMT, one finds halakhic discussion about the proper performance and meaning of the sin offering. Just as in Leviticus, the notion of forgiveness figures largely into this discussion. A detailed account of sālaḥ in these texts cannot be provided here; only one characteristic difference from Leviticus may

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be mentioned. The regulations concerning the yom kippur, the great “day of atonement,” in Lev 16 do not include, as one might expect against the backdrop of Lev 4–5, forgiveness as the final piece of the ritual process. The prescriptions of the ritual culminate in a statement that “this is how he (Aaron) shall make atonement for the sanctuary, and he shall make atonement for the tent of meeting and for the altar, and he shall make atonement for the priests and for all the people of the assembly,” (Lev 16:33). If one compares this with the Temple Scroll, the characteristic difference is that in 11Q19 XXVI, 9–10 not only atoning purification but also forgiveness of sins is the purpose the yom kippur ritual. “It is the sin offering for the assembly and he (the High Priest) atones with it for all the people of the assembly, and they shall be forgiven.” Apart from this halakhic discourse where the Qumran texts, although differing in detail, remain within the linguistic framework that the canonical scriptures provide, the language of forgiveness takes a new form in the poetic texts of the Hodayot. The Hodayot are a collection of prayers that have parallels with the biblical psalms, especially the psalms of thanksgiving, confessions of trust, and hymns.17 They present themselves as prayers of a particular individual, the “teacher” or “instructor,” but there is reason to assume that they were prayer literature that circulated in the entire community.18 They present some of the central theological themes and convictions of the Qumran people, such as God’s special election of a small group among Israel, double predestination, and an elaborate concept of God’s Holy Spirit and of all the other created spirits that fill the cosmos. The root sālaḥ occurs fourteen times in the Hodayot: once as a participle (1QHa VI, 23–24: “You are … forgiving those who turn away from offence, and punishing the iniquity of the wicked,”) and thirteen times in the form of the noun ‫( סליחה‬sᵉlīḥā), “forgiveness.” Note that the phrase in which this noun regularly occurs is ‫( רב סליחה‬rob sᵉlīḥā), “abundant in forgiveness” as a characterization of God’s way of acting towards those who have found favor before God: “[For] I [kn]ow that shortly you will raise a survivor among your people, a remnant in your inheritance. You will purify them to cleanse them of guilt. For all their deeds are in your truth and in your kindness you judge them with a multitude of compassion and an abundance of forgiveness” (1QHa XIV, 7–9).

In this passage, the Qumran people reflect on their own status in a time that they understood as facing God’s impending final judgment. It seems clear that

17

Interesting is the fact that one genre that defines the biblical Psalter to a major extent is completely absent from the Hodayot, the songs of lament. 18 The rhetorical function of the “I” of the leader for the shaping of a sectarian identity in Qumran has been analyzed by C.A. Newsom, The Self as Symbolic Space: Constructing Identity and Community at Qumran (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 287–300.

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the “survivor” and “remnant” whom God will cleanse of sins are the Qumranites themselves. In some way, the language is reminiscent of the “grace formula” in Ex 34:6–7. However, it is also different, precisely in that in Ex 34 God is not called “abundant in forgiveness.” This phrase has no direct parallel in the Old Testament and thus seems to be specific to the Qumran texts.19 The Hodayot combine the grace formula with the cultic notion of forgiveness. It is God’s nature to be forgiving and this shows in the ways God cleanses God’s chosen ones from their iniquities. Nonetheless, God’s forgiveness does not seem to eliminate God’s other characteristic as a wrathful God who does not withhold punishment for those who are not included among the elect. As we have seen, this “double” nature of God also plays a controversial role in Ex 34. There, however, the text arrives at the conclusion that only unconditional forgiveness can be the basis for a covenantal relationship with God. The Qumran position, on the other hand, seems intentionally to hold up the tension between divine forgiveness and divine punishment. One reason for this may be found in the different cultural and historical circumstances of both traditions. Ex 34 received its final shape after the Babylonian exile, when the key theological question of the time was how a new beginning between God and Israel was possible at all and how this new covenant could be secured against Israel’s notorious inclination to violate it. The Qumran authors, on the other hand, were no longer interested in the future extension of the covenant. In their view, the world was sinking into moral depravity and impurity. History had arrived at its end, and the end point was marked by a radical separation between light and darkness, good and evil.20 The Qumran people no longer put any hope in this world, and the symbol of God’s wrath seems to give expression to their expectation of the impending end. Nonetheless, in the midst of all the decay, God had granted those who had remained faithful shelter from the world that was falling apart around them. The Hodayot are written from this “inside” perspective of having found the God who is “abundant in forgiveness.” This may explain why these poems combine harsh and even cruel judgments about the wicked with tender and intimate images of a merciful God.21 Your wholesome watch has saved my soul, with my steps there is an abundance of forgiveness and a multitude of [compass]ion when you judge me, until old age you take care of me. For you are father to all the [son]s of your truth. … You rejoice in them like her who loves her child, and like a wet-nurse you take care of all your creatures on your lap (1QHa XVII, 33–36).

19

As a matter of fact, the noun ‫ סליחה‬occurs in the Hebrew Bible only once in Ps 130:4. For the scenario of the “end” at Qumran, cf. J.J. Collins, “The Expectation of the End in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in Eschatology, Messianism, and the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. C.A. Evans and P.W. Flint (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), 74–90. 21 Cf. J.A. Hughes, Scriptural Allusions and Exegesis in the Hodayot (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 105–118. 20

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In the Qumran view, God’s forgiveness is not found by living in this world but by separating oneself from it. It is not always entirely clear whether any human being can actively turn away from their evil paths, as, for example, 1 Kings 8 envisions it, and seek the God of mercy, or if this remains a privilege for those whom God has chosen. Although the Qumran texts show a marked tendency toward predestination, there is no discernable systematic concept of either single or double predestination. This may not even have been a point of concern, since the authors undoubtedly counted themselves among those who had in fact moved beyond the depravity of the world and found the forgiving God. The language of the Hodayot is descriptive rather than prescriptive, thus reflecting on the experience of the Qumran people as those whom God spared. All the sons of your truth you bring to forgiveness in your presence, you purify them from their offences by the greatness of your goodness, and by the abundance of your compassion, to make them stand in your presence for eternity to eternity (1QHa XV, 29–32).

The key word in this passage is “in your presence” or, in a different translation, “before you” (‫)לפנך‬. In a world filled with injustice and impurity, a world at the brink of a cosmic disaster, God’s nearness provided that rescuing island where the faithful could prevail, and the Qumran people certainly considered their community as that space where God was near and where God showed God’s kindness and compassion. In this scenario, the term forgiveness describes all of God’s activity that makes one able and worthy to stand in God’s presence and, consequently, to be elevated above the rest of the world. One can summarize the particular concept of forgiveness in Qumran as driven by an interest to stick to the insight that it is God’s nature to be forgiving, as the Hebrew Bible, especially Ex 34:6–10 and Is 55:7, suggests. However, this conviction had to be held up in a world that did not support the notion that God was present among God’s people at all anymore. As a consequence, finding the forgiving God and understanding God’s intentions with the world is one of the foremost theological tasks that the Qumran authors put before themselves. In another text, 4QInstruction, which seems to draw out some of the theological lines of the Hodayot, one finds the idea that God introduces the faithful to the “mystery of existence.”22 Although it is never really explained what this mystery of existence is, it seems clear that it includes knowledge of God that the ways of the dying world would not reveal.

22

J.J. Collins, “The Mysteries of God: Creation and Eschatology in 4QInstruction and the Wisdom of Solomon,” in Wisdom and Apocalypticism in the Dead Sea Scrolls and in the Biblical Tradition, ed. F.G. Martinez (Leuven: Leuven University Pres, 2003), 287–305.

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4. Returning to Matthew There is consensus among historians and exegetes that some of the closest parallels between Qumran and the New Testament occur in the reports about the mission of John the Baptist.23 Whether John was at some point of his life a member of the Qumran community need not concern us here. Interesting is the fact that, according to Mark and Luke, the purpose of John’s baptism was repentance and the forgiveness of sins. John the baptizer appeared in the wilderness, preaching a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins (Mark 1:4; Luke 3:3).

Note that the Greek here uses the peculiar phrase βάπτισμα μετανοίας εἰς ἄφεσιν ἁμαρτιῶν. The preposition εἰς expresses a sense of direction, a baptism of repentance that is “leading into” the forgiveness of sins. This resonates perfectly with the notion of a “return” (‫ )שוב‬to God as a precondition for forgiveness in Solomon’s temple prayer, and it also concurs with the eschatological reinterpretation of this line of tradition in Qumran. Now, at the end of history, was the moment to find one’s way back to God and seek God’s forgiveness for one’s inequities. Unlike the Qumran way, however, John’s teaching of repentance does not require withdrawal from the world but rather a radical change of one’s moral and religious conduct in the world. Interestingly enough, in Matthew’s expanded report of John’s appearance at the Jordan, the term “forgiveness” is missing. “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” 3 This is the one of whom the prophet Isaiah spoke when he said, “The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: 'Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight'.” … Then the people of Jerusalem and all Judea were going out to him, and all the region along the Jordan, 6 and they were baptized by him in the river Jordan, confessing their sins. 7 But when he saw many Pharisees and Sadducees coming for baptism, he said to them, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? 8 Bear fruit worthy of repentance” (Mt 3:2–8).

Compared with Mark and Luke, it is quite surprising that, on the one hand, Matthew emphasizes John’s message of repentance by reporting that the people did in fact come to confess their sins but that, on the other hand, Matthew does not seem to be equally explicit about the purpose of baptism and repentance with regard to divine forgiveness. However – and this takes us back to our initial observations – Matthew’s interest lies with the transformation of human life that occurs when the kingdom of heaven approaches “life on earth.”24 As a consequence, the effect of 23 Cf. the overview article by J.H. Charlesworth, “John the Baptizer and the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in The Bible and the Dead Sea Scrolls, Vol. III (Waco: Baylor, 2006), 1–35. 24 In his inaugural address at the University of Heidelberg, M. Welker, “The Reign of God,” Theology Today 49 (1993), 500–512, offers a beautiful exploration of transformation

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repentance cannot be limited to the clearing of past sins but needs to result in what Matthew calls the “fruit of repentance.” This again points to the intriguing tension that seems to be so characteristic of Matthew’s theology in general. There is the kingdom of God that will transform life as we know it in an eschatological event that only God can bring about. As such it comes unexpectedly and unpredictably, like a “thief in the night” (Mt 24:43–44; cf. also 1 Th 5:2). Nonetheless, there is a way in which human beings respond to the impending presence of this kingdom by changing or, more adequately, adjusting their lives to this presence.25 If one approaches the Sermon on the Mount from this angle, its instructions can be understood as depicting the “fruit of repentance” that follows from one’s baptismal pledges. This also puts the notion of forgiveness in a perspective, that, as we have outlined above, stands at the center of the Sermon. What distinguishes the notion of forgiveness and makes it a hinge of Matthew’s gospel message is the fact that it can be characterized as both the “fruit of repentance” and, at the same time, as God’s way of interacting with the human sphere. By employing the notion of forgiveness, the Lord’s Prayer creates an intimate nexus between divine and human action. Establishing a connection between the divine and the human spheres by way of univocal language is not uncommon in Matthew. One also finds this with regard to the notion of “righteousness” that leads Matthew to exhort his audience to be “perfect,” because the heavenly Father is perfect (Mt 5:48). This is not unlike the fourth gospel’s notion of love that works in a similar way to highlight a quality of living and acting that unites God and humans. However, the idea that human begins are supposed to be righteous, because God is righteous, and that they ought to love God and their neighbor, because they are also recipients of the same love, is already deeply rooted in the Old Testament. The forgiveness of sins, on the other hand, was reserved for God alone, 26 which explains why Matthew draws language in New Testament tradition. He uses theories of “emergent realities” to describe, from a systematic point of view, what the New Testament expresses in spatial terms when it talks about the “nearness” of God’s kingdom. 25 A number of Matthew’s parables about the Kingdom of Heaven are actually parables about the right way of expecting it or living toward it; for example, the parables of the wedding banquet (Mt 22:1–14) and of the ten bridesmaids (Mt 25:1–13). 26 Luz, Matthew, 322, notes: “The unusual thing about this petition is the subordinate clause. Although the idea that divine forgiveness is associated with human forgiveness is widespread in Judaism, in my opinion there is no case where human action is taken into a central prayer text in this way.” The problem with this assessment is that one needs to distinguish quite carefully between the different ways in which divine and human forgiveness are “associated” with one another. In Sir 28:2, one of the texts that Luz refers to and that shows close parallels with Mt 6:12, human moral behavior is a precondition for receiving the forgiveness of sins that only God can grant. (“Forgive your neighbor the wrong he has done, and then your sins will be pardoned when you pray.”) The issue that this text addresses is how one finds forgiveness with God (cf. Mt 6:14), which is in keeping with practically all

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attention to the strongly negative response that Jesus receives from the religious authorities of his time (Mt 9:2–7). Obviously we cannot know for sure, if Jesus was the first who used the language of forgiveness univocally for God and humans.27 One gets the impression that Matthew, perhaps more so than the other synoptic gospels, seems to have been quite aware that this very sentence, “forgive us our sins as we forgive those who have sinned against us,” crossed a boundary that may not have been crossed before.28 Forgiveness among humans becomes an eschatological value, because here a divine reality is transformed into a human reality – or, to use the Lord’s Prayer’s own language, it means that God’s will is done in heaven and on earth. This also explains Jesus’ counter-intuitive claim that there cannot be limits to forgiveness and that, no matter how many times we or our neighbor are in need of being forgiven, it shall be granted. If forgiveness is a divine attribute, then it is not for humans to put any limits to its efficacy. Yet, Matthew and Luke seem to differ on whether or not there should be any preconditions that have to be met before forgiveness can be granted. According to Luke 17:3– 4, the act of repentance is such a precondition. Be on your guard! If another disciple sins, you must rebuke the offender, and if there is repentance, you must forgive. 4 And if the same person sins against you seven times a day, and turns back to you seven times and says, 'I repent,' you must forgive.

This follows a line of tradition that one can trace from Solomon’s temple prayer all the way down to the Qumran texts. Matthew, on the other hand, puts a characteristically different spin on the same issue (Mt 18:21–22). Then Peter came and said to him, “Lord, if another member of the congregation sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?” 22 Jesus said to him, “Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times.”

Matthew does not spell out the conditions that have to be met, before forgiveness can be granted. What follows in Matthew is the parable of the unforgiving servant, where the bottom line is that human beings should forgive one of the Old Testament references that we have reviewed above. The “unusual thing” about the subordinate clause in Mt 6:12, “as we forgive those who have trespassed against us,” is that it does not specify any such preconditions. Rather, it puts divine and human forgiveness on the same qualitative level. 27 This also points to a linguistic problem. Jesus’ first language was Aramaic and the gospel stories were written in Greek. Thus the question arises to what extent the notion of ‫ סלח‬can be presupposed as a background even in these other languages. At least this much is clear, the standard rendering of ‫ סלח‬in the LXX is ἀφίημι (although there are exceptions, especially where the LXX aims at a more idiomatic Greek), which is also the term that is used in Matthew, including the nominal phrase ἄφεσις ἁμαρτιῶν “forgiveness of sins.” 28 For a comparison between the Lord’s Prayer and Rabbinic texts, cf. J. Massingberd Ford, “The Forgiveness Clause in the Matthean form of the Our Father,” ZNW 59 (1968), 127–131.

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another, because they live out of God’s forgiveness.29 It is not covenantal thinking that guides the theological imagination at this point but rather the idea that human forgiveness follows the divine model and, as such, cannot and must not be limited or withheld.30 One of the major differences between the eschatology of the Hodayot and Matthew seems to lie precisely in the ethical dimension of forgiveness. Whereas the Hodayot depict divine forgiveness as something that shelters the faithful from a decadent and dying world, Matthew understands it as a power that changes the world of those who live in it. This difference may have to do with the fact that Matthew’s eschatology, despite its many facets, depicts the life, death, and resurrection of Christ as a turning point in human history rather than as its endpoint. To be sure, especially the last of Jesus’ five speeches that structure the gospel of Matthew (Mt 23–25) has an unmistakably apocalyptic overtone, envisioning the near end of history as a time of division between the righteous and the wicked (“the sheep and the goats,” Mt 25:32). Here in particular one realizes close parallels with the dualistic worldview also found in Qumran. However, woven into the expectation of the immediate end is an eschatology that focuses on how the present world will be transformed rather than terminated. It is this side of Matthew’s theological scheme in which forgiveness plays a crucial role. The world past the eschatological event of Jesus’ first coming gains a new ethical orientation, because the Kingdom of Heaven now lays its claim upon every aspect of life on earth. Thus it is all the more important that in the Lord’s Prayer, with its emphasis on the expectation of God’s kingdom to arrive on earth (“your kingdom come, your will be done on earth as it already is in heaven”), the one human activity that is mentioned is forgiveness. Matthew was certainly not of the opinion that there was anything that human beings could do to accelerate the arrival of this kingdom or, conversely, to prevent it from coming. This seems to be precisely the reason why Matthew is interested in how humans can and should live toward the arrival of this kingdom. If we now summarize our walk through some of the biblical and extra-biblical traditions that draw on the notion of forgiveness as a source for their respective theologies, we can identify especially two formative stages. In the exilic and post-exilic periods when, after the end of the monarchic history of Israel and the destruction of the first temple, the biblical authors had to re-con-

29 Welker, “Reign of God,” 504, summarizes the experience articulated in Mt 18:23–35 as follows: “Entry into the reign of God is no less marked by experiences of mercy received, of forgiveness or of payment beyond our own expectations.” 30 This does not mean, however, that Matthew would reject the idea of communal discipline. Right before 18:21–35, Matthew addresses the issue of how a member who wronged the community should be properly rebuked and even expelled, if that person remained unreasonable.

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sider all the key concepts of their previous theology: God’s covenant with Israel, God’s presence on earth, and the human inability to live up to this presence in their lives. Here the biblical discourse zeroes in on the limits or unlimited nature of divine forgiveness. Several centuries later and under the influence of an increased eschatological awareness, which characterizes both the Qumran literature and the New Testament, this discourse addresses a new challenge, namely how one is supposed to live a faithful and ethically truthful life at the brink of a new age. Here it is Matthew in particular who, in his version of the Lord’s Prayer, interprets the qualitative difference between God’s kingdom and human reality as a gap that needs to be filled. It has often been observed that this is where the concept of “superior righteousness” (Mt 5:20) figures into Matthew’s theological scheme. This chapter has attempted to show that an account of Matthew’s concept of righteousness would not be complete without the notion that stands at the very center of the Sermon on the Mount and the Lord’s Prayer, namely forgiveness.

4. God

The Challenged God Reflections on the Motif of God’s Repentance in Job, Jeremiah, Jonah, and the Non-Priestly Flood Narrative 1. Introduction: the Book of Job as a Heuristic Point of Entry Anyone who has read Uwe Johnson’s Mutmaßungen über Jakob1 (Assumptions about Jacob) will probably be reminded of this book while reading the Book of Job. The protagonist is a man named Jacob Abs, an employee of the German National Railway. The book begins with his death when a train hits him as he is crossing the tracks. His death raises questions. Was it simply an accident, suicide, or murder? In a literary montage, the life of Jacob Abs is reconstructed through retrospectives, intermingled flashbacks, and reflections in a dizzying array of fragments and narrative splinters including: his refugee origins; his career in East Germany, which brings him into conflict with the government; and his relationship with a woman who eventually defects to the West. All of this is narrated but does not form a complete picture. Thus, at the end, the hope for clarification as to what exactly happened remains unfulfilled. The reader is left only with speculation, both ambivalent and ambiguous, which invokes the story of everyone’s life, because life itself has no resolution. In a similar manner, the Book of Job can be read as book of assumuptions. From the beginning, it is a book of assumuptions about Job. It is well known that the prologue portrays Job as being extremely rich and extremely pious.2 There is something surreal about this Job and his apparently immaculate piety. Based on the idea that his sons could have sinned during their drinking parties, he makes a (sin?) sacrifice just in case. The moment of the surreal is even attested by God’s own words when God declares that there is no one on earth who is as righteous as Job, completely God fearing and avoiding evil. This almost sounds as if Job is as perfect a being as is found only in heaven. This remote and elevated description of Job can also be noted when compared to his prehistoric counterpart, Noah. Noah is also described with predicates such as “righteous” (‫)צַ דִּ יק‬, “perfect” (‫)תָּ ִמים‬, and that he “walked” (Fֶ‫ ) ִ ֽה ְתהַ לּ‬with God 1

The first edition was published in 1959 (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp). For a portrayal of Job that is, in certain ways, extreme, see M. Witte, “Von der Gerechtigkeit Gottes und des Menschen im Alten Testament,” in Gerechtigkeit, Themen der Theologie 6 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 54. 2

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(Gen 6:9), but, despite this, he is still considerably more grounded than Job. It is said of Noah that he is an exception among his contemporaries (Gen 6:9, 7:6). He is the first among equals, an example and role model, but he is still a man of this world. Furthermore, it is said that he finds grace (‫ )חֵ ן‬in the eyes of God, which can be interpreted, along with Thomas Krüger, that, while Noah was righteous in relation to his contemporaries, he was not so perfect that the grace of God was not needed.3 Job’s origin also seems to be that of a person “from afar” (Job 1:1), but he is described differently than Noah, in a way that carries more of the weight of a thought experiment. Assuming that there is a person as downright abnormally perfect as Job, what would such a person expect from life?4 One answer is that he would obviously attract more attention in heaven that would be good for him in the end.5 Throughout the course of the Book of Job, this outcome is gradually deconstructed and, in part, even destroyed. Has there ever been a real person like the Job of the prologue?6 Even the dialogues in the Book of Job are by no means consistently convinced of him being as completely without sin as the prologue presents (Job 9:13–35). Both Job and his friends base much on an understanding of life that focuses on the interpretation of a person’s experiences. People become guilty through actions or omissions to one another, and they experience, deserved or undeserved, suffering. In this respect, the theme of the discussion with the friends is not only the “righteous sufferer” but more whether the magnitude of suffering is related to the guilt that Job, or indeed any “normal” person, incurs. Job experienced God as a foe and himself as a victim of excessive and sadistic behavior, bordering on criminal. This perception is, indeed, in sharp contrast with what the prologue depicts, specifically that Job has the special attention and care of God. Based on this contradiction,

3 T. Krüger, “Das menschliche Herz und die Weisung Gottes. Elemente einer Diskussion über Möglichkeiten und Grenzen der Tora-Rezeption im Alten Testament,” in Rezeption und Auslegung im Alten Testmaent und in seinem Umfeld, ed. R.G. Kratz and T. Krüger, OBO 153 (Freiburg Schweiz: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1997), 65–92. 4 For the framework of Job as a “didactic tale,” most recently, see S.E. Balentine, Have You Considered My Servant Job? Understanding the Biblical Archetype of Patience (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2015), 15–49. 5 On the question of whether Job was ever the subject of a heavenly wager, see M. Saur, “Der Blick in den Abgrund. Bilder des Bösen in der alttestamentlichen Weisheitsliteratur,” in Das Böse, der Teufel und Dämonen – Evil, the Devil, and Demons, ed. J. Dochhorn, S. Rudnig-Zelt, and B. Wold, WUNT 2/412 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 34. For the interpretation of has-satan according to the model of scouts in the Persian Empire, see E. White, Yahweh’s Council, FAT 2/86 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 74. 6 Thus M. Witte, Vom Leiden zur Lehre. Der dritte Redegang (Hiob 21–27) und die Redaktionsgeschichte des Hiobbuches, BZAW 265 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1994), 91–100.

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which the Book of Job accomplishes through the composition of different literary genres and theological schools of thought,7 the audience is provided two fundamental theological hypotheses about humans in relation to God, which are mutually exclusive. Either people are protected by God or persecuted by God. Thus it is already implied that the Book of Job is not mere speculation over Job and the reasons for his fate. The Book of Job is, in all of its parts, a speculation on God’s justice and mercy and on God’s role as the driver of world affairs as a whole and the destiny of an individual life in particular. Usually, theodicy is chosen as the framework for understanding the speculation about God in the Book of Job. When put this way, some decisions about the agenda have certainly already been set. The theodicy question, at least in its modern definition as established by Leibniz, focuses on whether human experience and the human suffering closely linked with it is consistent with the assumption of a moral and just world order. The idea of God is found in this question only functionally, in so far as God is the creator and sustainer of such a world order. Is there, thus, a moral world order that God has not only created but in which, for the continual existence of which, he is also present? If so, then can the extent of injustice and suffering that this moral world order yields, or at least permits, be tolerated? Regardless of how one answers these questions, the common denominator seems to be the assessment of God’s action, based on the consequences and results or the “fallout.” The question of theodicy focuses less on God and more on the plausibility of the assumption of a divinely ordained world order – an assumption that is by no means beyond any doubt. Thus it is not so much about exploring who or what God’s inner nature is or intends as it is about the effects of divine action. In other words, it is about the role that God must play in order for the idea of a moral world order to be reasonable, specifically when people suffer because of the effects of this world order. However, this frame of reference is not enough for the biblical doctrine of God. For the Old Testament, the concept of God is not primarily a role or function within an existing world order. On the contrary, God appears as the sovereign agent whose motives and intentions cannot be merely squared with the rationality of a particular understanding of the world.8 At crucial points, the 7 For the reflection of the different parts of the Book of Job, through which a final “theology” is apparently intentionally undermined, see K. Schmid, “Das Hiobproblem und der Hiobprolog,” in Hiobs Weg. Stationen von Menschen im Leid, ed. M. Oeming and K. Schmid, BThS 45 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2001), 9–34. 8 On the “enigma of the moral world order,” particularly in Qohelet, see O. Kaiser, Vom offenbaren und verborgenen Gott. Studien zur spätbiblischen Weisheit und Hermeneutik, BZAW 392 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2008), 19–23. See also W. Dietrich, “Gottes Nähe und sein Schweigen,” in Gottes Einmischung, Studien zur Theologie und Ethik des Alten Testaments II (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2013), 61–65.

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Old Testament emphasizes the difference between God and a world view, such as can be seen at the end of Deutero-Isaiah, “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways, says the Lord” (Is 55:8 NRSV). Precisely because of this difference and the contingencies that result from God’s actions, the question arises as to who this God actually is. Because of God’s unsurpassed sovereignty, according to Christian teachings, humans are only able to understand certain characteristics of God. And indeed, the Old Testament identifies many such characteristics: God’s love and grief, grace and wrath, and God’s mercy as well as God’s willingness to punish and exact revenge. It should be noted once again that these characteristics are the theme of the hinge points of the Old Testament. This is the case in Exodus 34:6–7. in which the characteristics and predicates ascribed to God serve as interpretative elements of the name of God. The question is whether these characteristics are merely a part of the Old Testament narratives and traditions or if there is something like a meta-theory of God’s nature which comes through the language of the texts. Perhaps a less demanding version of the question would be to ask if there is a fundamental assumption behind the many characteristics that are ascribed to God. This question has been addressed from different angles in recent works on religious history and theology.9 A major emphasis is often put on the discussion of God’s “repentance” which one encounters at various points of the Old Testament and which allows for the working hypothesis that a trait of God is his ability to change his mind. That is that God can actually reject already established intentions and indeed – and this might be the “crux of the matter” – respond to contingent world affairs. From the literary sources, there is no doubt that God can “repent.” Even where this vocabulary is not used, the Old Testament speaks clearly of God revising already made decisions. The first two visions of Amos and the Sinai periscope (Ex 32–34) are examples of this phenomenon. So could it be that the ascribed characteristics of God serve the purpose to make this mutability and variability conceivable?10 9 J. Jeremias, Studien zur Theologie des Alten Testaments, FAT 99 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2015), 139–187; M. Leuenberger, Gott in Bewegung. Religions- und theologiegeschichtliche Beiträge zu Gottesvorstellungen im alten Israel, FAT 76 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 1–7; for an overview of this in the comparative history of religion, see the articles in Divine Wrath and Divine Mercy in the World of Antiquity, ed. R.G. Kratz and H. Spieckermann, FAT 33 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008). 10 J. Jeremias, Die Reue Gottes. Aspekte alttestamentlicher Gottesvorstellung, BThS 31 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 21997), differs in the respect that the purpose of the discussion of the “repentance of God” is not to express the mutability and variability of God as positive (or negative) characteristics but has an entirely different intention. Thus he writes in the introduction, “Das Buch möchte zeigen, daß die Texte selbst gerade die Verläßlichkeit Gottes reflektieren oder aber seinen Willen, das schuldig gewordene Gottesvolk vor der Vernichtung auch dann noch zu bewahren, wenn ihm Vergebung schon nicht mehr möglich ist” (ibid, 5).

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In a certain way, the theme of the repentance and flexibility of God picks up where the classic doctrine of theodicy leaves off. If one, once again, assumes that Leibniz is right in saying that we live in the best of all possible worlds, then the claim is that there is a moral world that God orders as sovereign and in which God allows only an unavoidable degree of evil. Even if we stipulate all of that, the question still remains as to whether God passes by the suffering that is created by this best of all possible worlds with indifference or allows challenges against God to be brought on the basis of this suffering. The concept of “challenge” certainly includes more than just an attitude of sympathetic regret. At the least, when one sets reformation theology as the foundational question, challenge is the deepest form of self-doubt and existential crisis.11 Luther called this challenged faith a human experience that calls into question all certainties and convictions that we have.12 Likewise, to a point, this challenge has the fatal power to call life as a whole into question.13 Can that apply to God? In many places, the Old Testament testifies to the idea that one can challenge God and that God’s behavior is challengeable on the basis of human experience, with the Book of Job as the thematic culmination. More theologically difficult, however, is the question of whether God, as the clearly superior party, allows challenges, and whether God allows, on the basis of Job’s fate, the impeachment of God’s own behavior. Is there something in God like self-doubt, an inner uncertainty about whether creation is worth the price of suffering, fear, and distress and whether it is even the best of all possibilities? Turning first to the Book of Job, the answer remains in limbo. In the divine speeches from the whirlwind, the idea that human experience (primarily) forms the reference for divine actions is manifestly rejected.14 At first glance, the epilogue seems to support the notion of a flexible and repenting God who eventually changes the fate of Job. However, even the epilogue leaves what God actually does ambiguous. There is an emotional component here with regard to Job’s friends. God’s wrath was inflamed by their having spoken not rightly “about” God (Job 42:7). It is precisely this false speech that causes God to intervene. On the other hand, the epilogue allows for a reading that leaves God in the role of a distant judge. Job has proven himself and, according to the 11

Cf. P. Althaus, Die Theologie Martin Luthers (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus Gerd Mohn, 61983), 60. 12 Ibid, 59. 13 O. Bayer, Die Theologie Martin Luthers. Eine Vergegenwärtigung (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 32007), 19–20. “Anfechtung ist also mächtiger als der radikalste intellektuelle Zweifel, tiefgreifender als die Furcht vor der Erschütterung der Fundamente des Seins, tiefgreifender auch als die Erfahrung der Gefährdung und des Verlustes des Selbst- und Weltvertrauens. ” 14 Worth reading on this point is K. Pidcock-Lester, “‘Earth Has No Sorrow That Earth Cannot Heal:’ Job 38–41,” in God Who Creates. Essays in Honor of W. Sibley Towner, ed. W.P. Brown and S.D. McBride (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 125–132.

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rule of law, has been restored twice that which ha-Satan took from him (Job 42:10, Ex 22:9). The scenario is such that Job is, in the end, established as right in a courtroom with God as judge. But how does one deal with the question of whether God can be challenged if even the Book of Job apparently allows for different answers? This demands a further exploration into the traditions of the Old Testament.

2. The Challenged God in the Individual Laments 2.1. The Lament toward God as Savior It is almost a leitmotif in the Old Testament that God is challenged on the basis of human experience, specifically concrete experiences, to the point that God even embraces being challenged. This is particularly seen in the psalms of individual lament. In these, prayer with a request for deliverance is brought before God. That which should cause God to intervene is twofold. God should not allow the faithful to be ridiculed by those who do not believe, and the suffering of the pious is the triumph of the sinful, which is exactly what God cannot allow, for the sake of God’s own glory. Psalm 42 is a prayer, which possibly comes from the time of the exile and reflects on the idea that exile and life in a foreign land is evidence to others that God has abandoned God’s own or even that this God does not exist.15 I say to God, my rock, “Why have you forgotten me? Why must I walk about mournfully because the enemy oppresses me?” As with a deadly wound in my body, my adversaries taunt me, while they say to me continually, “Where is your God?”16 (Ps 42:9–11 NRSV)

The harassment by enemies can also spring from completely different situations. Thus in Psalm 71, the loss of power in an old man is also depicted as something that leads to being cheated and oppressed, because the individual is now regarded as having been abandoned by God.17 Do not cast me off in the time of old age; do not forsake me when my strength is spent. For my enemies speak concerning me, and those who watch for my life consult together. They say, “Pursue and seize that person whom God has forsaken, for there is no one to deliver.” (Ps 71:9–11 NRSV)

15

K. Seybold, Poetik der Psalmen (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2003), 174–175. For context and meaning of the question, see T. Aoki, “Wann darf ich kommen und schauen das Angesicht Gottes?” Untersuchungen zur Zusammengehörigkeit beziehungsweise Eigenständigkeit von Ps 42 und Ps 43, ATM 23 (Münster: LIT, 2008), 113. 17 F.-L. Hossfeld and E. Zenger, Psalms 2. A Commentary on Psalms 51–100, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2005), 196; C. Barth, Die Errettung vom Tode. Leben und Tod in den Klage- und Dankliedern des Alten Testaments (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1997 [first published 1947]), 117–124. 16

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As Claus Westermann has shown, the basic assumption that God saves the faithful from their enemies can be found outside the actual psalms of lament.18 As an example, the reaction of Cain to his banishment from the land of Eden is interesting. Cain complains that God has expelled him from the arable land so that he must, henceforth, wonder aimlessly and that any person who encounters him can kill him with impunity. Cain’s reaction, thus, demonstrates the characteristic form of the individual lament: lamentation against God, lamentation for the self, and lamentation because of the enemy. Indeed, God intervenes, in a manner, with the mark of Cain that prohibits Cain’s enemies from killing him. 2.2 The Lament against God as Creator A further issue, entirely independent of the external suffering that the Psalms deal with, is the fact that every life that is extinguished is someone who can no longer praise God. In this way, every death, especially of those who die before their time, is a defeat for their creator. This motif also forms something of a refrain in the Psalter and, beyond that, has a prominent position in the historical tradition, particularly in Hezekiah’s prayer of thanksgiving. Surely it was for my welfare that I had great bitterness; but you have held back my life from the pit of destruction, for you have cast all my sins behind your back. For Sheol cannot thank you, death cannot praise you; those who go down to the Pit cannot hope for your faithfulness. (Is 38:17–18 NRSV)

This prayer of thanksgiving is illuminating in that it does not deny that the one praying is actually a sinner, and thus that the suffering and distress is the result of his or her own inadequacy or, at least, could be. It is not because of allegedly undeserved suffering that God should be challenged, but the petitioner brings before God the suffering itself in hope of being saved. Consequently, God is not just a judge who is reminded to allow righteousness and justice to prevail, but God is a savior who cannot, with a clear conscience, doom that which God has created.19 The psalms are texts that are written on the basis of human experience. These articulate, as Hezekiah’s prayer of thanksgiving shows, the actual expe-

18 C. Westermann, “Kain und Abel. Die biblische Erzählung,” in Brudermord. Zum Mythos von Kain und Abel, ed. J. Illies (München: Kösel-Verlag 1975), 13–28; also W. Dietrich, “Wo ist dein Bruder? Zu Tradition und Intention von Genesis 4,” in Beiträge zur alttestamentlichen Theologie, FS W. Zimmerli, ed. H. Donner et al. (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1977), 94–111. 19 On the connection between salvation and justice, see J. Assmann, B. Janowski, and M. Welker, “Richten und Retten. Zur Aktualität der altorientalischen und biblischen Gerechtigkeitskonzeption,” in Die rettende Gerechtigkeit, Beiträge zur Theologie des Alten Testaments 2 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1999), 220–246.

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rience or, more precisely, the interpretation of the experience of suffering, either earned or not, that allows one to challenge God. The articulation of a hope is foundational to prayer that God can somehow address concrete distress. The assumption of prayer is that God does not face the experience and suffering that shape human life with apathy and indifference. It does not matter if such apathy would result from disinterest or distance. Certainly, it is conceivablethat God has no interest to enter into a deeper relationship with that which God created or that the qualitative distance between the Creator and created is so great that such a relationship is not possible. Set directly against this is the prayer language of Psalms. It is the concrete, irreducible, particular, and specific life that demands God’s attention and intervention. The creation raises their claim against the Creator. This also makes possible the idea that without lament God would not intervene so that distress and offense would run their course. The lamentation does not, therefore, simply strengthen what God intended to do anyway. Instead, the idea is that it is actually the lamentation that affects a change in God’s attitude.

3. The Confessions of Jeremiah: the Rejected Lamentation In the so-called “Confessions,” which will here be accepted as a part of the final layer of the text,20 Jeremiah is characterized as a prophet who is increasingly despondent about his task. This leads to the frank impeachment of God, who is accused of pushing the prophet into a double-cross. The form of these confessions is peculiar in that, as a rule, closely following the prophet’s lament is God’s answering oracle. In contrast to the psalms of individual lament, here both parts of the whole are captured, the human lament and the divine answer. Beginning with the first Confession, the world between the prophet and God is still functioning according to order. Jeremiah brings before God the hostility of his home town, Anathoth, and receives confirmation of his mission. Lamentation It was the LORD who made it known to me, and I knew; then you showed me their evil deeds. But I was like a gentle lamb led to the slaughter. And I did not know it was against me that they devised schemes, saying, “Let us destroy the tree with its fruit, let us cut him off from the land of the living, so that his name will no longer be remembered!” Oracle

20 Cf. K.M. OConnor, The Confessions of Jeremiah: Their Interpretation and Role in Chapters 1–25, SBLDS (Missoula: Society of Biblical Literature, 1988); A.R. Diamond, The Confessions of Jeremiah in Context. Scenes of Prophetic Drama, JSOT Sup 4 (Sheffield: Sheffield Acadmic Press, 1987); A. Schüle, “Das Geschick des Propheten und die Weisheit prophetischen Lebens. Die ‘Konfessionen Jeremias’ als Beispiel alttestamentlicher Biographik,” in Biographie als religiöser und kultureller Text (Münster: LIT, 2002), 173–195.

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Therefore thus says the LORD concerning the people of Anathoth, who seek your life, and say, “You shall not prophesy in the name of the LORD, or you will die by our hand” – therefore thus says the LORD of hosts: I am going to punish them; the young men shall die by the sword; their sons and their daughters shall die by famine; and not even a remnant shall be left of them. For I will bring disaster upon the people of Anathoth, the year of their punishment. (Jer 11:18–23 NRSV)21

It is conceivable that this is an oracle from the early days of Jeremiah, in which real hostility from his hometown stands in the background. The motif of undeserved suffering and persecution by enemies is heard here. That which the individual laments leaves open can, in fact, be positively gathered from the context of the Confessions. God stands on the side of the persecuted and against the persecutor. Strikingly, this is not the tenor of all of the Confessions. On the contrary, God stands against his prophet at decisive points. This is the case in the second confession.22 Here too, Jeremiah brings his lament against his opponents before God and admonishes God on the basis of divine righteousness. In this case, the oracle is completely different. Lamentation But you, O LORD, know me; You see me and test me – my heart is with you. Pull them out like sheep for the slaughter, and set them apart for the day of slaughter. How long will the land mourn, and the grass of every field wither? For the wickedness of those who live in it the animals and the birds are swept away, and because people said, “He (YHWH) is blind to our ways.” Oracle If you have raced with foot-runners and they have wearied you, how will you compete with horses? And if in a safe land you fall down, how will you fare in the thickets of the Jordan? (Jer 12:3–5 NRSV)

In his lament, the prophet brings the moral apostasy, such as religious indifference, of his contemporaries before God and demands intervention. In Jeremiah’s eyes, God can in no way passively observe as the righteous are included with the unrighteous and the fear of God included with blasphemy. To do so would make the prophetic message unreliable.23 This demand for divine intervention is rejected. On the contrary, God accuses Jeremiah of being thin skinned. What Jeremiah perceives as an emergency, is apparently still far

21

For texts with similar intentions but without the concluding oracle (unless one sees 19:1–5 in this function), see Jer 18:18–23. 22 The boundaries of the text of the Confessions remain controversial and, on the basis of their tight integration within the text, a “sharp edge” is not possible. Here the following division will be adopted: I (Jer 11:19–23), II (Jer 12:1–6), III (Jer 15:10–21), IV (Jer 18:18– 23), and V (Jer 20:7–18). 23 H. Bezzel, Die Konfessionen Jeremias. Eine redaktionsgeschichtliche Studie, BZAW 378 (Berlin: de Guyter, 2007), 285.

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enough away on the horizon of God’s perception that there is not enough reason to intervene. Is this enough to explain the difference of God’s reaction here when compared to the first confession? Note that it is not hostility and external danger from which God must rescue the prophet but rather the prophet’s own sense of righteousness and justice for which he demands intervention. For Jeremiah, it seems unacceptable that God’s opponents remain unpunished allowing not only God but also his prophet to be seen as unreliable. It also raises the question as to what is truly just, and it is precisely on this point that God reserves the authority of unlimited definition. This divergence between the prophetic sense and the divine perspective is further expressed in the third confession, which is also about the suffering of the prophet not because of enemies but because of his understanding of right. Lamentation I did not sit in the company of merrymakers, nor did I rejoice; under the weight of your hand I sat alone, for you had filled me with indignation. Why is my pain unceasing, my wound incurable, refusing to be healed? Truly, you are to me like a deceitful brook, like waters that fail. Oracle Therefore thus says the LORD: If you turn back, I will take you back, and you shall stand before me. If you utter what is precious, and not what is worthless, you shall serve as my mouth. It is they who will turn to you, not you who will turn to them. (Jer 15:17–19 NRSV)

The reaction of God could not be clearer. The lamentation of the prophet is harshly rejected and instead answered with an admonition that he once again return to the right path of prophetic service. The personal sense of hostility, disappointment, and even suffering is still not enough to affect God. On the contrary, it is here said that people must live with not understanding God and must even accept negative experiences. What God requires from Jeremiah is the discipline that a prophet must show, even when they no longer understand God or the world. The Confessions of Jeremiah are texts that have often been compared with the Book of Job, not least because the laments of both Job and Jeremiah move into the extreme form of a death wish as a rejection of the God of the living (Job 3:1–7, 7:7–21, 9:21; Jer 20:17; cf. Jer 15:10). In both cases they indict God, because they have not been treated according to the standards of justice that Job and Jeremiah, respectively, presume. God should establish God’s prophet in righteousness just as God should acknowledge Job’s undeserved suffering. However, that does not happen. Thus it is not just a death wish that both express but rather the insight that God can never be moved, no matter how just or unjust they are. The divine speeches in the Book of Job address the

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lawsuit against God in the same way as the oracles in the Confessions of Jeremiah. In the Book of Job, the echoes of legal language are varied24 and reach their peak in Job’s negative confession of sin (Job 31:5–37), which, especially when seen as a parallel to the negative confessions in the Egyptian Book of the Dead, raises the expectation that God will establish Job as righteous. This is exactly the point, logically, for the divine speeches (Job 38–41). However, like with Jeremiah, Job’s accusation is rejected. Jeremiah and Job are both of the opinion that it is ultimately a breach of justice on the part of God to have brought them into their sorrowful situations. God has become vulnerable to being challenged by not holding to what both perceive as binding and the right order sanctioned by God. However, this is precisely what is repudiated by God’s responses. In a way, the Confessions have a darker ending than the poetic middle section of the Book of Job. Even if the divine speeches ultimately emphasize the distance between God and Job, and thus that the justice of God is too expensive for humanity, at least God answers. The Confessions, on the other hand, remain without such an answer. God answers the first three laments of Jeremiah and no more after those. This is particularly apparent with the last confession (Jer 20:7–18), which calls to mind the characteristic style of lament as seen in Job 9 and following. The Confessions end not with a God who rebukes but with a God who is silent. Thus far it is noteworthy that the lamentations of Jeremiah reach their end point where they are clothed in the form of a lament against his enemies, in which Jeremiah expresses a concrete fear for his life. Here the idea of a God who can be challenged is strengthened, just as is seen in the individual laments. On the other hand, when laments in the Confessions assume the form of legal indictment, God is simply not challenged. Indicated here is an idea, which at no point the Book of Job confirms, namely that a person can set God in the wrong. While human hardship itself challenges God, human perceptions of righteousness and justice do not. On the contrary, Jeremiah is recalled to prophetic obedience even, or perhaps especially, when he can no longer understand God’s justice. The lesson that is drilled into Jeremiah (and Job) is that the human sense of justice is not suitable as a benchmark for divine thought and actions.25 This leads to another prophetic figure that is associated with a similar rebellion against God’s execution of righteousness and justice: Jonah.

24

K. Schmid, “Gott als Angeklagter, Anwalt und Richter. Zur Religionsgeschichte und Theologie juridischer Interpretationen Gottes im Hiobbuch,” in Die Anfechtung Gottes. Exegetische und systematisch-theologische Beiträge zur Theologie des Hiobbuches, ed. L. Ratschow and H. von Sass (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2016), 105–136. 25 Thus Schmid, “Hiobprolog,” 32: “Mit seiner Position trifft sich das Hiobbuch als ganzes überraschenderweise wieder mit dem theologischen Grundtenor der Gottesreden. Gegen Gottes Ungerechtigkeit, wie sie Hiob erfährt, ist Gottes Gerechtigkeit bei Gott nicht einklagbar. Gott ist keinen ihm übergeordneten Prinzipien unterworfen, sondern er ist souverän.

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4. The Conclusion of the Book of Jonah: Justice versus Mercy As is well known, the book of Jonah has, strictly speaking, three endings. The first end is at the end of chapter 3. As a result of the announcement of Nineveh’s pending downfall, the inhabitants of the city repent of and turn away from their wickedness.26 In turn, God accepts this and spares Nineveh. When God saw what they did, how they turned from their evil ways, God changed his mind about the calamity that he had said he would bring upon them; and he did not do it. (Jonah 3:10 NRSV)

It should be noted that there is no mention either of God’s repentance here or of God being challenged.27 Rather, Jonah 3 is about the declaration of a legal or executive order, which is established in Jer 18. At one moment I may declare concerning a nation or a kingdom, that I will pluck up and break down and destroy it, but if that nation, concerning which I have spoken, turns from its evil, I will change my mind about the disaster that I intended to bring on it. (Jer 18:7–8 NRSV)

Here, how God acts and reacts is completely transparent for all involved. God is committed to repentance and, thus, makes it legal, and Jonah is the prophet whose proclamation sets this mechanism in gear, that human repentance allows divine repentance to follow. The second conclusion to the Book of Jonah (Jonah 4:1–4) ends with the prophet rebelling against this logic of conversion and forgiveness. Jonah accuses God of letting the wrong people off the hook in the end. Nineveh, the symbol of imperial arrogance and brutality, cannot make up for all of its injustice that it has brought upon the people of the world through one simple act of conversion. That is how Jonah seems to argue against God. In form and content, this is very close to the Confessions of Jeremiah, as here the prophet’s sense of righteousness is set as a standard against God. Again the prophet turns away and curses his birth, and again God does not allow for the indignation of the prophet. The divine response is to ask Jonah, “Is it right for you to be angry?” (Jon 4:4 NRSV), and thus Jonah, in a way quite similar to Jeremiah in

Insofern, aber nur insofern, liegt die klassische Hiobforschung mit ihrer Einschätzung der Gottesreden als sachlichem Zentrum des Buches durchaus richtig.” 26 J.-D. Döhling, Der bewegliche Gott. Eine Untersuchung des Motivs der Reue Gottes in der Hebräischen Bibel, HBS 61 (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2009), 434–443. 27 Döhling, 444, is right to say that God does not set the threat of harm only for pedagogical reasons but rather that this is earnestly meant and, if need be, would even be executed. Döhling further concludes that Nineveh having been spared implies, therefore, also a “real change” in God. However, even with that, it appears questionable that God, in the light of Jer 18, proclaims a revision of a judgement as already being possible.

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his Confessions, is put in his place.28 It may not be mere coincidence that, like in the divine speeches in the Book of Job, the divine response is cast in the form of a rhetorical question. Naturally, the answer is that no, it is not right. However, the Book of Jonah still has another important step to make in a third variant of the book’s conclusion (Jonah 4:5–11). In 4:5, Jonah leaves the city and goes a safe distance away to watch what would happen next. This is somewhat confusing, because the story has already ended. God had already decided that the city would be spared (Jonah 3:10). This new approach in the narrative has the sense of returning to the point in the story at which Jonah had just announced the divine decision to destroy the city (Jonah 3:4). Jonah began to go into the city, going a day’s walk. And he cried out, “Forty days more, and Nineveh shall be overthrown!” (Jonah 3:4 NRSV)

This can then be followed seamlessly by 4:5. Then Jonah went out of the city and sat down east of the city, and made a booth for himself there. He sat under it in the shade, waiting to see what would become of the city. (Jonah 4:5 NRSV)

Thus the story is told once more and, indeed, in a way in which it is not already clear that Nineveh will take the prophetic message to heart. In this respect, the question of whether Nineveh does or does not deserve God’s mercy is superfluous. Rather, the point is now that, independent of the question of justice, God does not annihilate, because even the supposedly evil city Nineveh is God’s creation. That is the point of the vine experiment. If Jonah grieves and is indignant about the disappearance of a mere plant, how much more must God who creates and “raises” all the nations? Then the LORD said, “You are concerned about the bush, for which you did not labor and which you did not grow; it came into being in a night and perished in a night. And should I not be concerned about Nineveh, that great city, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand persons who do not know their right hand from their left, and also many animals?” (Jonah 4:10–11 NRSV)

Creation in this context does not just refer to the generic process but rather to the elementary connection between Creator and that which is created. The Book of Jonah argues that this connection is something that God does not view merely superficially but by which God is deeply touched. It determines God’s actions in a way that potentially circumvents the standards of righteousness and justice. This is exactly the point of this particular ending. God takes pity on Nineveh at a point in time in which God does not yet know if mercy would be

28

A. Schüle, “‘Meinst du, dass dir Zorn zusteht?’ Der theologische Diskurs des Jonaschlusses (Jona 3,6–4,11),” ThLZ 131 (2006), 675–688. An english translation of this essay is provided in this volume.

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fair and justifiable. God has a perspective on his creation that cannot be reflected completely in the forms of righteousness and justice. From the perspective of this third conclusion, the Book of Jonah has an open ending and thus creates a “gap,” which the reader must fill mentally. It remains not impossible that the Ninevites (Assyrians) were spared and then go and do exactly what they do and even, according to the biblical account, enjoy doing: subjugating or entirely annihilating other nations. This way of thinking results in, according to Hartmut Gese, a relationship between the Jonah narrative and Jonah ben Amittai of 2 Kings 14:25.29 This sporadic mention of Jonah ben Amittai occurs in the immediate run up to the appearance of the Assyrians in Syro-Palestine and the well-known disastrous consequences for Israel. Against this background, the Book of Jonah plays out, as it were, on the eve of the ascent of the Assyrian Empire and, therefore, conveys a somewhat unsettling message. Ultimately, it is the mercy that God shows the Assyrians that is responsible for the destruction of Israel. The relationship between 2 Kings 14:25 and the Book of Jonah underscores the problem that the various endings have already raised. Must God, as a righteous judge, punish even when it does not correspond with what God as creator actually wants to do? Is the anger that Jonah has toward God not, in the end, justified? Returning to the question of challenge, this suggests that the friction of the role of God as a righteous judge against the role as merciful Creator, or the collision of the two, is an interpretative key. Creation does not mean merely the creation and maintenance of a cosmic order that God sine ira et studio executed but also the passionate relationship between God as Creator and creation. This is the ultimate conflict, an unresolved but real discrepancy that some of the biblical traditions indeed ascribe as a conflict internal to the divine nature. This discrepancy can be understood as a challenge – a challenge that is not brought against God from the outside such as in the Confessions of Jeremiah and the second ending of the Book of Job – but which indeed exists “in” God.30 This leads to the last text for consideration here and which is, in many ways, relevant for the topic, as it documents a performance of “God changing” – the non-priestly passages of the flood narrative (Gen 6:5–8:22*).

29 H. Gese, “Jona ben Amittai und das Jonabuch,” in Alttestamentliche Studien (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1991), 122–138. 30 In this respect, it is important to note that the Book of Jonah, alone in the Bible (see J. Jeremias, Theologie des Alten Testaments (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2015), 444), allows space to explore the question, usually only rhetorical, to think about the logic and motivation of the behavior of God.

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5. The Non-Priestly Flood Narrative: The Challenge to God as the Creator of All Life Through the obvious duplication of the statement of the evil of the “imagination and intentions” of the human heart (Gen 6:5–8; 8:20–22), the text explains both why God flooded the world and why God will never again do so.31 This paradox has led, particularly in recent research, to the hypothesis of God’s repentance or change of mind. Humanity is what it is, and a change in the fundamental state of having a heart with evil thoughts is not foreseeable (in contrast to the prophetic traditions of a “new heart”). This means that movement and change can only originate with God. The history of religions demonstrates how this movement and change, which is played out in the Mesopotamian parallels as a conflict within the world of the gods, must now be concentrated within a single deity, YHWH. YHWH is both Enlil and Enki, the one who decides to annihilate all life and, at the same time, the one who circumvents this decision. Even the element of remorse has a Mesopotamian parallel, which is, however, not assigned to either Enlil or Enki but to the Mother Goddess who, in retrospect, considers her consent to the annihilation of humanity to have been wrong. This raises the question as to whether the language of the remorse and pain also casts YHWH in the role of the Mother Goddess.32 Thus in YHWH there is both a side that is angry and violent and a side that repents and feels pain. Because the latter side ultimately prevails, it is reasonable to describe this internal conflict as a challenge to God. However, this argument has many difficulties. Indeed, Gen 6:5–8 discusses God’s emotions, which flow into the decision for the flood. However, there is no comparable statement of motivation after the flood. Right before the flood, God regretted having made humanity. Unlike the priestly report of the flood, in which the decision to annihilate is already connected with the plan for a new beginning with Noah (Gen 6:11–14), here YHWH apparently had no intention at all of resurrecting the world after the flood. This is made all the more dramatic by the word ‫מחה‬, which actually expresses a complete obliteration.33 Unlike in Mesopotamia, the biblical flood report lacks any statements about the 31

See E. Bosshard-Nepustil, Vor uns die Sintflut. Studien zu Text, Kontexten und Rezeption der Fluterzählung Genesis 6–9, BWANT 165 (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2005), 95–99; A. Schüle, Der Prolog der hebräischen Bibel. Der literar- und theologiegeschichtliche Diskurs der Urgeschichte (Genesis 1–11), AThANT 86 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2006), 271–301. 32 For a comprehensive discussion of this, N.C. Baumgart, Die Umkehr des Schöpfergottes. Zu Komposition und religionsgeschichtlichem Hintergrund von Gen 5–9, HBS 22 (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1999), 419–495. 33 The note that Noah found “favor” in God’s eyes (Gen 6:8) only barely corrects the idea of 6:7 that God does not intend any new beginning but rather the extinction of the human race. This reflects the need for YHWH, against the background of the Atrahasis Epic, to

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regret of God (or the gods) after the flood, regret for having (almost) annihilated humanity and all life with them. This role, which in the Atrahasis Epic is played by the Mother Goddess, remains vacant on the biblical page. The emotion that is attributed to God after the flood is much more that of being “pacified” by the sacrifice of Noah (Gen 8:21).34 This allows for the reasonably troubling thought that God still basically regrets having created humanity.35 In fact, the soothing sacrifice of Noah only fits within the dynamic of the narrative if God is still angry and truly ready to take care of the evil inclinations of the human heart through another flood. At the level of the narrative, Noah’s sacrifice breaks this vicious cycle.36 The God who acts on emotions before the flood becomes the one who now promises that the world will exist forever. The question becomes how to translate the myth, at this point, into a theological argument. If, in the flood myth, God “repents,” is “angry,” “feels pain,” or is “calmed” at the end, then these are representations that serve a dramatic interest and set God as an actor in the story as a whole. The key to the non-priestly flood narrative, however, lies in the commitment that God makes between the end of the flood and the repopulation of the earth. And when the LORD smelled the pleasing odor, the LORD said in his heart, “I will never again curse the ground because of humankind, for the inclination of the human heart is evil from youth; nor will I ever again destroy every living creature as I have done.” (Gen 8:21 NRSV)

The decisive element of this self-regulation is the phrase, “never again…because of humankind.”37 People do evil, as God attests before and after the flood.38 Different now, however, is that the evil human heart is no longer (or, assume the roles of both Enlil and Enki. For P, this is solved by setting the decision to annihilate and the decision to rescue as part of the whole divine plan from the beginning. The non-priestly variant does not, however, explain (not even slightly) why YHWH allows a new start. 34 For the non-priestly texts, Noah actually assumes the role of “comforter,” which is indicated by the word play in Gen 8:21 and 5:29. 35 This is also true for the Mesopotamian tradition. The end of the flood myth suggests in no way that Enlil’s stance against the human race has changed all at once. Rather what happens is a pragmatic softening that guarantees the gods their basic needs and decreases their tiresome work. 36 Thus B. Jacob, Das erste Buch der Tora: Genesis (Berlin: Calwer, 1934), 226. 37 It is noteworthy, however, that it is difficult to find this phrase given attention in the commentary literature. Rather there is the impression that this is about the redemption drama for the welfare of humanity. Cf. H. Seebass, Genesis I: Urgeschichte (1,1–11,26) (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1996), 220–221; C. Westermann, Genesis 4–11, BK I/1.2 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 41999), 608–613. 38 R.W.L. Moberly, The Theology of the Book of Genesis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 112–118, raises the interesting possibility, through literary-critical

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at least, no longer the only) reference point for divine behavior. Norbert Clemens Baumgart speaks, in his still relevant monograph on the biblical flood myth, of the “Umkehr des Schöpfergottes.”39 Perhaps one should speak rather of a “reorientation of the Creator.” The wickedness of humanity is no longer reason enough to justify the destruction of all life.40 What moves God is not a change of attitude toward the human race but rather God’s role as Creator of all life. The anthropocentric perspective gives way to the perception of the independent value of non-human life.41 If one takes the logic of Gen 8:21 to its natural conclusion, it results in the ironic realization that humanity remains alive only for the sake of their fellow creatures. If God had a means to wipe out humanity alone, at least the narrative allows for the hypothetical consideration, then God might have done so. It is worth noticing that the non-priestly flood narrative connects with the speeches from the whirlwind in the Book of Job in that God is guided by a concern for created life in general, which even overrules his sense of justice with regard to the evilness of the human heart. Thus this reorientation implies an implementation of a legal system that focuses on the principle of individual responsibility. Everyone can and should be held responsible only for the wrong they commit, excluding punishment “because of others.”42 This motif is certainly also known from Mesopotamia. The result of the flood story there is also the divine insight that global annihilation is not a means through which the gods should be served (or can be served). It methods plausible, that the repetition of the wickedness of humanity’s “imagination and intentions” in 8:21 is a later gloss as it actually break the poetic meter of 8:21–22. Of course, this does not alter the theological challenges of the final text, but it does make clear that the record of the “repentance of God” in the text already portrays an updating of the flood myth. 39 Baumgart, Umkehr, 567, “Der erneute Blick in JHWHs ‘Innerstes’, bei dem einst anthropomorph die sich vom Menschen abkehrenden Emotionen und Affekte zu registrieren waren, zeigt, daß sich JHWH, der Schöpfergott, an den Menschen, so wie er nun einmal vorkommt ‘gewöhnt’ hat. Der Mensch hat bei JHWH so einen Platz erobert, daß er selbst und das Leben als ganzes ungestört dasein dürfen.” 40 Interestingly, Darren Aronofsky takes exactly this line of thought in his film adaptation of Noah tradition (Noah, 2014) and suggests that the deliverance of the animals is the primary goal of the building of the ark. 41 The implications for creation theology and ethics and, as a consequence thereof, the necessity of an Old Testament animal ethic has, until recently, not been given the necessary attention. More recently, however, cf. E. Gass, Menschliches Handeln und Sprechen im Horizont Gottes, FAT 100 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2015), 239–287. Additionally, A. Schellenberg, Der Mensch, das Bild Gottes? Zum Gedanken einer Sonderstellung des Menschen im Alten Testament und in weiteren altorientalischen Quellen, AThANT 101 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2011), 301–324; P.M. Riede, Im Spiegel der Tiere. Studien zum Verhältnis von Mensch und Tier im alten Israel, OBO 187 (Freiburg Schweiz: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 2002). 42 The same is found in the priestly flood narrative concerning the command about blood from Gen 9:4–6. There it is decreed that bloodshed ad capitem (and only so) shall be rewarded.

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is the self-restriction and, thus, also the self-discipline of the gods which lays the foundation of the post-flood world order. However, in Mesopotamia, the law is between gods and humanity and, thus, provides the model for political laws. An extension of this to all creatures as beneficiaries of this legal system is not in view.43 In this respect, the theological statement of the non-priestly flood narrative implies but is not limited to the formulation of a new law. Rather, the key insight is that God is not indifferent to the taking of innocent life – even “only” the innocent life of animals.44 In any case, the characteristic style of the narrative suggests that, before the flood, God apparently had no problem with “collateral damage”, and yet he does by the end of the flood.45 So should one again ask whether one can speak of a change of God in the non-priestly narrative and whether such a change has anything to with God being able to be challenged then the answer could be a cautious “yes.” More important, however, is a motif that we have encountered several times in this investigation, namely that God is responsive to his relationship with the life he has created.

6. Conclusion The idea that people can challenge God’s actions is one of the characteristic features of the world created by the texts of the Old Testament. Does God, however, take such challenge to heart, as it were? The answer is in no way obvious, as the many documented discussions of the emotions of God might suggest. The caution regarding this subject that is repeatedly found in the texts may, above all, have to do with the recognition that the Old Testament traditions promote a great caution on engaging with questions about the “inner na-

43

However, the idea that animals are a part of the legal system is also a part of the priestly text. This begins with the assumption that “all flesh,” that is both animals and humans, fill the world with violence (Gen 6:11–13). Appropriately, the animals are also obligated after the flood to not kill randomly and excessively but only for the acquisition of food, of which humans, as the image of God, are fundamentally off limits. Relevant to this, see Schellenberg, Bild Gottes, 67–68. 44 See the very apt summary by B. Janowski, “Auch die Tiere gehören zum Gottesbund. Gott, Mensch und Tier im Alten Israel,” in Die rettende Gerechtigkeit, Beiträge zur Theologie des Alten Testaments 2 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1999), 23: “Die Tierwelt ist ein herrlicher Kosmos von Gestalten, Gebärden, Lauten, Verhaltensweisen, Farben, Bildern und Geschichten, an dem er Mensch seit jeher auch zum Bewußtsein seiner selbst gekommen ist.” 45 Döhling, Der bewegliche Gott, 132: “Weder ist Jhwh in 6,5 souverän – er wird des Misslingens seiner Absichten ansichtig und sieht den Mensch in einer Weise, die er später korrigiert (8,21) – noch quält ihn der drohende Tod der Geschöpfe; er entledigt sich ihrer als der Gebilde seines Scheiterns.”

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ture” of God. On the surface of the narrative, God appears as angry and repentant and also as graceful and merciful. However, in only comparatively few texts does the narration shift to the level of reflection on the question about God’s inner nature. So it is not surprising that the texts do not develop a “doctrine of the character of God.” Nevertheless, regarding the question of challenge, to once again cite Uwe Johnson, there is at least evidence of “speculations” about the nature of God. So the idea runs through the Old Testament traditions that God cannot be challenged with regard to his righteousness and justice. This is shown by the Book of Job and the Confessions of Jeremiah. Job and Jeremiah accuse God, from their own experience, of being unjust but fail in their attempts. On the point of justice, God cannot be challenged, and that does not even change when people despair of God because of their own sense of justice. The fact that Jeremiah’s lament is, at the end, no longer acknowledged with an answer marks a breach between the human and the divine sense of justice. Nevertheless, there is another path that leads in this direction, which one finds in the lament, where God is addressed as the Creator who rescues the lives of the created. There is a conviction that God is not indifferent when life is snatched from God’s sphere of influence, through whatever means. Ultimately, it is always a defeat for God when an unfolding life fails and death has the last word. Interestingly, of the Confessions of Jeremiah, only the one that focuses on the threat of opponents who want his life leads into an oracle of salvation (Jer 11:18–23). This motif of God being challenged through the violent loss of life is encountered in the presumably later layers of the texts of the Old Testament, which suggests, each in different ways, a reflection on the nature of God. A weighty example of this is the staggered ending of the Book of Jonah, in which God is brought to the point of renouncing vengeance on Nineveh through his role as Creator in relation with the created. This idea also occurs in expanded form in the non-priestly flood account, in which, in analogue to Jonah 4:11b, the death of innocent animals is the foundation for challenging God. In this respect, a multilayered picture emerges. As in other ancient Near Eastern cultures, the Old Testament depicts God as a being so far above the created world that no challenge can reach him from it. Nevertheless, the text allows the idea that, despite this superiority and the distance between God and the world, there is a divine commitment to each of his creatures, the importance of which reaches deeper than all standards of righteousness and justice.

“Have you any Right to be angry?” The Theological Discourse surrounding the Conclusion to the Book of Jonah (Jonah 3:6–4:11)1 1. Introduction: The Theological Profile of the Book of Jonah One of the surprising and almost unavoidable observations one makes when looking at the history of interpretation surrounding the Book of Jonah is the variety of opinions on the question of what this small book is actually seeking to achieve, that is what its literary character and, ultimately, its “message” may be. If we look at Reformation interpretations, we find that Jonah provides for Martin Luther an example of a person who not only doubts in God but fractures before God, and then only at his darkest moment, in the belly of the fish, clings again to trust in his God so that he may at last to become the prophet he is supposed to be. Above all, the story of Jonah has a cathartic character. It describes the dynamics of doubt and despair in God and their subsequent transformation into firm faith. Es kann natur nicht anders thun noch sich schicken, denn wie sie fulet. Nu sie aber Gottes zorn und straffe fulet, helt sie nicht anders von Gott den als von eym zornigen tyrannen, kan sich nicht uber solchen zorn schwingen odder uber solch fulen springen und durch hyn widder Gott zu Gott dringen und ruffen. Drumb da Jona so fern komen ist, das er rieff, da hatte er gewonnen. Also dencke und thu du auch, schlahe nicht den kopff nydder odder fleuch, sondern stehe stolle und far uber dich. So wirstu erfaren, das dieser vers war sey: Ich rieff ynn meyner angst zum herrn und er antwortet myr.2

As such, Jonah in the belly of the fish provides the central image of the book, and the “psalm of trust” (Jonah 2) forms the central text3 around which the entire book is developed. Luther draws attention to one further aspect, namely the sovereign ease with which God’s word works on both human beings and animals.4 A fish is summoned and quickly transformed into a vehicle to bring the fleeing prophet back on track. And finally, it only takes a single, short state-

1

This is a revised version of my Habilitation Lecture before the faculty of the Theological Seminary of Zürich for attaining the venia legendi in Old Testament Scholarship. 2 M. Luther, WA XIX, 223. 3 Ibid., 224. 4 Ibid., 187.

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ment to dissuade the Ninevites from their wickedness and lead them to repentance, “Forty more days and Nineveh will be overturned.” According to Luther, the existential experience of faith on the one hand and the clear sovereignty of the word of God on the other determine the literary and theological character of this book. In Luther’s commentary, we find that his investigation of the fourth chapter, which deals with the vine and Jonah’s grievance against God, is comparatively short and treated as an epilogue. Compared with the typical style of his interpretations, this section seems redundant and disruptive. One gets the impression that Luther senses a regress beyond the end of chapter 3. Indeed, Luther orients himself toward the closed, concentric structure of the first three chapters. This structure might be represented in the following way: Commission (1:1–2) Escape (1:3–16) (“to descend” [‫ ]ירד‬appears 3 times, 1:3, 5: from Jerusalem to Joppa, into the ship, and beneath decks)

In the belly of the fish Psalm of trust (2:3–10)

Return to land (2:11)

Completing the Commission and God’s Repentance (3:1–10)

With God’s repentance, the circle returns to the beginning of the narrative. Yet in this circle the fourth chapter is no longer included.5 If one compares this with Calvin’s commentary on Jonah, one finds an entirely different approach to the structure and intention of the book. Calvin is much more systematic. He searches for connections between particular key-

5 The same can be observed in newer descriptions of a concentric structure in the Book of Jonah, which are usually limited to chapters 1–2 or 1–3. Thus observes H.J. Opgen-Rhein, Jonapsalm und Jonabuch. Sprachgestalt, Entstehungsgeschichte und Kontextbedeutung von Jona 2, SBB 38 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1997), 99, that the internal textual links within ch. 4 to what precedes it are significantly weaker than what is in chs. 1–3. For an overview of the structural analysis of the Book of Jonah, cf. J. Nogalski, Redactional Processes in the Book of Twelve, BZAW 218 (Berlin: De Gruyter 1993), 250 with footnote 4.

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words as well as leitmotifs which might structure the text as a whole. In addition to the three occurrences of ‫ירד‬, the four instances of the verb ‫ מנה‬play a decisive role for Calvin. In this context ‫ מנה‬can be translated as “to provide” or “to send” and signifies the specific intervention of God into the course of the plot. First, God sends a fish, then a vine and a worm to do away with it, and finally a scorching east wind. In the way God moves the world around Jonah, Calvin sees God’s hidden yet powerful providence, which God uses to guide the fortunes of God’s creatures – or in this context, to guide and steer God’s prophets. Aber es wird weiterhin gesagt, daß ein Wurm bereitet (paratus) wurde. Wir sehen also, daß, was zufällig zu geschehen scheint, tatsächlich durch die verborgene Vorsehung Gottes geschieht. Sollte jemand sagen, daß das, was hier erzählt wird, normalerweise nicht so geschieht, sondern etwas ist, daß vorzeiten einmal so geschah, lautet meine Antwort hierzu: Wenngleich Gott damals beschloß, ein wunderbares Beispiel zu schaffen, das des Erinnerns würdig sein würde, ist es gleichwohl doch immerzu wahr, daß sogar das Nagen der Würmer durch Gottes Ratschluß verfügt ist, so daß weder Kraut noch Baum ohne seine Absicht verdorren.6

However, Calvin does not see the Book of Jonah as merely illustrating God’s wonderful providence; rather, it also has an educational purpose. Jonah is finally brought to his senses through God’s providence. This culminates with the two times God asks Jonah, “Have you any right to be angry?” and which is answered by God through an almost parable-like interpretation of the growth and death of the vine. Essentially, Calvin reads Jonah as a “wisdom narrative” and thus lays all the weight upon the fourth chapter as the climax of both the external and internal story-lines. An outline of the text oriented to such an interpretation would look much like the following: God’s commission (1:1–2) Jonah’s escape (1:3–16)

God sends (‫ )מנה‬a fish (2:1) Jonah fulfills his commission (3:2–10)

Jonah quarrels with God (4:1–4) God “sends” (‫ )מנה‬the vine and the worm (4:5–9)

God reveals the reason behind the patience of his providence (4:10–11)

In Calvin’s interpretation of the text and his perception of the underlying structure, we have lost exactly those elements which were so decisive for Luther, 6

Lectio LXXX.

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the “psalm of trust” and the repentance of the Ninevites, which finally prompted God’s own repentance. It is not accidental that these differences in accentuation can be traced to differences of theological opinion between Luther and Calvin. Luther’s understanding of faith, which is located between doubt and trust, leads him to approach the text in a different way from Calvin, with his focus on providential theology. However, exegetical tensions are also apparent in the synchronous profile of the text. As for Jonah’s relationship with God, the “psalm of trust” creates a different accent when juxtaposed with Jonah’s despair in chapter 4. We have a similar situation with the images of God. At the end of chapter 3, God is represented as someone who “plays the waiting game” in regard to human actions and is moved to repentance should the occasion arise. Yet according to chapter 4, it is precisely not wrath and repentance but rather patience or – if one follows Calvin – the tenacity of God’s providence which steers God’s actions. The differing interpretations that we have seen in Luther and Calvin can be traced back to contrasting variations in the textual profile of the Book of Jonah itself. It makes an important, structural difference whether one understands chapters 1–3 as a core, with chapter 4 as the epilogue or as all four chapters forming a unity with 2:3–10 and 3:10 as intermediary insertions. In simple terms, interpretations of the Book of Jonah essentially depend upon whether one places the story’s end at chapter 3 or chapter 4. If we turn to modern interpretations, we can make a very similar observation. Even if the modern theological context is different from those of the Lutheran theology of faith or from the Reformed doctrine of God’s providence, the question regarding the actual ending of the Book of Jonah is still decisive for its entire interpretation. Thus, at one end of the spectrum we find the thesis that this book was meant to be a satire or has, at the very least, a clearly humorous, satirical undertone. Hans Walter Wolff has argued this position in his 1977 commentary on the Book of Jonah,7 and many have since followed his lead.8 On the one hand, this view relates to the figure of Jonah himself. Behold God’s prophet, who, when faced with his commission, runs away in panic. Jonah appears somewhat like a doctor who faints at the sight of blood. Faced with the prospect of having to declare God’s judgment against Nineveh, he flees to the other end of the world. Satire functions here as a critique, calling into question the prophetic institution itself. With Jonah, all we have left is a caricature

7 H.W. Wolff, Dodekapropheon 3. Obadja/Jona, BK XIV/3 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1977); and as a summary H.W. Wolff, “Humor als Seelsorge. Erzählerische Eigenarten des Jonabuches,” Evangelische Kommentare 10 (1977), 39–41. 8 Cf. J. Nogalski, Redactional Processes, 254; A. Schart, Die Entstehung des Zwölfpropehtenbuches. Neubearbeitungen von Amos im Rahmen schriftübergreifender Redaktionsprozesse, BZAW 260 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1998), 283–287, and as an overview J. Sasson, Jonah, AB 24B (New York: Yale University Press, 1990), 331–334.

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of the earlier prophets of the tradition. He is sent to Nineveh with a one sentence message to declare their downfall, an event which is neither historically plausible nor easy to take seriously. While the non-Israelites are spared the same harsh level of critique as Jonah, they are also portrayed ironically. The ship’s crew and the Ninevites are certainly not depicted as evil foreigners but appear as naïve heathens who are, however, ready and willing to learn. A mighty storm and a sharp word suddenly awaken in the gentiles at least a foreboding consciousness of the God who stands before them in their encounter with Jonah. However, one cannot understand the entire Book of Jonah as satire. The psalm clearly drops out of this genre, even when we find the occasional attempt to undermine it by interpreting the entire context of the prayer, such as it taking place within the belly of a fish, as satirical. Furthermore, judging by its formal characteristics and content, the dialogue between God and Jonah also belongs to a different genre. God’s repeated questions in chapter 4 bear the character of lessons from the wisdom tradition, as we can see if we compare this passage with Gen 4 or Job 38–40. Both Jonah and the reader learn here the reasons why God does not repay the wickedness of a nation in kind, why God is slow to anger and abounding in goodness (Jonah 4:2). In contrast to this satirical approach, Hartmut Gese9 and, following him, Jörg Jeremias10 have presented the Book of Jonah as a deeply serious text in which one seeks to understand the decision of God to preserve Nineveh against the background of the remembered Assyrian invasion into Syria and Palestine. Almost inconceivably, God chooses to preserve the imperial power that is responsible for the downfall of a large part of God’s own chosen people. It is this part of their cultural memory that is made the object of a prophetic narrative in the Book of Jonah. A series of arguments interlock here. Gese assumes that Jonah ben Amittai is the prophet who is represented in this text, the one who, according to 2 Kings 14:25, was the last prophet to appear in Israel before it was absorbed and its people deported by the Assyrians. While most commentators think it was only the name of the prophet and his position within the Assyrian period that entered as elements into the Book of Jonah, Gese takes a significant step further arguing that the book must be understood directly within the context of 2 Kings 14–15 Jonah is forced to stand by and watch, indeed even cooperate, as God allows the Assyrians to escape, and God allows this even though, according to the history presented in 2 Kings 14–15, they go on immediately to wipe out the Northern Kingdom. There is no hint of satire here; rather the text deals in all seriousness with the incomprehensibility of God’s actions,

9

H. Gese, “Jona ben Amittai und das Jonabuch,” ThB 16 (1985), 256–272. J. Jeremias, “Das Jonabuch in der Forschung seit Hans Walter Wolff,” in H.W. Wolff, Studien zum Jonabuch (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2003), 93–128. 10

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an incomprehensibility that the prophet Jonah is well aware of from the beginning and of which he is afraid. This interpretation accounts for several aspects of the text that were always difficult to explain satisfactorily. For Gese, when Jonah runs away from God at the very beginning of the narrative, the intention of the text is not at all humorous. Faced with the commission and its consequences for his own people, there is essentially nothing left for Jonah to do except run away to the ends of the earth. His three-fold “descent,” which finally positions him under the surface of the sea and thus into the realm of chaos, as well as the Tardema, a deep, almost drugged, anesthetized sleep, display how seriously Jonah attempts to escape from God. This is emphasized by Jonah’s desire to die in 4:3. Jonah would rather die than have to watch God pardon those people who are about to destroy Israel. Gese’s interpretation is both important and impressive in the sense that it offers a balance to Wolff and others. However, as an interpretation of the entire book it, too, is forced to operate against the text at decisive points. This is noticeable above all in the way the foreigners are perceived. The Assyrians in the Book of Jonah are no longer Sennacherib’s fear-inducing charioteers, rather they appear as somewhat naïve heathens who, as God states, cannot tell their right hand from their left and, as a people and nation, hardly even appear to have attained a serious level of maturity. Gese is right to emphasize the repentance and patience of God in regard to the nations against the background of Israel’s concrete and wretched historical experience. However, this horizon of reflection displays its own irony of historical distance to those past events. In the Book of Jonah, we find horrendous history transformed into simple stories, somewhat like the narratives that we find in the Book of Daniel. To summarize the argument so far, we have seen that when interpreting the Book of Jonah, completely different versions of the book can come about when dealing with the book as a whole. That a book with relatively little text has prompted such divergent, yet respectively pithy, interpretations has made the exegesis of Jonah a particularly unique object in the world of Old Testament research. It is a pluriform book, in the very best sense of the word.11 Thus it hardly seems sensible to ask what the Book of Jonah “really” means. Primarily for this reason, the question about Jonah’s theme has been reformulated and readvanced time and again from historical-redactive or literary-historical perspectives in an attempt to discover what the Book of Jonah meant at each respective stage of its supposed literary development. This approach might settle the issue of Jonah’s pluriformity. Through the final version of the text, we would still see the glimmer of each previous layer and their respective, theological profiles. However, irrespective of the validity of such an approach, the 11 Thus especially J. Magonet, Form and Meaning: Studies in Literary Techniques in the Book of Jonah, BET 2 (Bern: Peter Lang, 1976).

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literary-historical reconstruction of the Book of Jonah hardly turns out to be any less heterogeneous than interpretations of the synchronic text.12 In this regard, it is noteworthy that several recent interpretations combine diachronic analysis with a synchronic theological profile of the Book of Jonah.13 The crux of the problem here, as our discussion so far has suggested, lies with the socalled “layered” conclusion to the book in chapters 3 and 4. In fact, one can show, as I will attempt below, that the theological point of the narrative changes with almost every sentence, thus keeping the interpretation of the entire book constantly progressing.

2. God as Compassionate Judge (Jonah 3:6–10) Let us look first at Jonah 3:6–10, which culminates in the idea of God’s repentance. We find that all Nineveh, both human and animal, has cast itself down in sackcloth and ashes in response to Jonah’s message. Interestingly, a call to repentance did not even appear in Jonah’s message and certainly not as a possibility for salvation from the threat of divine judgment. It is the Assyrian king who understands the 40 day deadline set for Nineveh’s destruction as a time of penance, repentance, and possible salvation. It is even more interesting that he backs up this belief with words which are strikingly similar to a formulation in the Book of Joel (compare Joel 2:14a with Jonah 3:9a), “Who knows? God may turn (‫ שוב‬Q) and have pity (‫ נחם‬N),” (Joel 2:14a NIV). There is a measure of consensus that the Book of Jonah is quoting Joel here, rather than Joel quoting from Jonah.14 The question is then what the intention behind it is. According to Jörg Jeremias, this gives the impression that the Assyrian king never read anything other than Old Testament prophetic texts.15 12 For an overview of various models, cf. G. Vanoni, “Spuren übergreifender Redaktionsarbeit im Jonabuch?” in “Wort JHWHs, das geschah...” (Hos 1,1), Studien zum Zwölfprophetenbuch, ed. E. Zenger, HBS 35 (Freiburg im Breisgau et al.: Herder, 2002), 128–130 and more generally, G. Vanoni, Das Buch Jona. Literar- und formkritische Untersuchung, ATS 7 (St. Otilien: EOS-Verlag, 1978). 13 P. Weimar, “Jona 4,5. Beobachtungen zur Entstehung der Jonaerzählung,” BN 18 (1982), 86–109; T. Krüger, “Literarisches Wachstum und theologische Diskussion im JonaBuch,” in Kritische Weisheit. Studien zur weisheitlichen Traditionskritik im Alten Testament (Zürich: Pano Verlag, 1997), 55–61; E. Blum, “Das Buch Jona,” in Große Werke der Literatur II, ed. H.V. Geppert (Augsburg: Francke Verlag, 1992), 9–21. 14 For a discussion of this, see Vanoni, “Spuren übergreifender Redaktionsarbeit,” 125. The decisive argument for the primacy of the text in Joel, in my opinion, lies in the fact that the entire question of the Joel text (see below) is divided in Jonah between two speakers, the Assyrian king and Jonah and further is associated with entirely different values. This suggests a controversial disagreement with the text of Joel. For a different perspective, see Magonet, Form and Meaning, 79. 15 Jeremias, “Jonabuch in der Forschung,” 122.

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That is certainly not what the text seeks to suggest. In all probability, one would have to say the exact opposite. Although the Assyrian king knows nothing about the prophetic texts, his theological insight at this point corresponds with that of the prophetic texts. What he knows is grounded in a sensible assumption about the thoughts and actions of this God who confronts him and to whose authority he immediately submits. That God allows time for repentance before repaying evil with evil and is ready to revise judgments, even though they have already been declared, is part of a “natural knowledge of God,” to use a modern expression. Such knowledge is not reserved for the people of God, but is open to all peoples. Thus the Book of Jonah presents a position that characteristically extends beyond the remaining prophetic textual tradition. As is well known, the question of whether God’s words of judgment are revisable in light of acts of repentance is part of the comprehensive and controversial theological debate within the so-called “deuteronomic” literature.16 Yet according to the law of the prophets from Dtn 18:21–22, a completely different measure must be applied here. One can recognize a true word of God from the mouth of a legitimate prophet when that which is prophesied occurs exactly as it was proclaimed. This idea developed out of a criteriological interest. One must be able to judge a prophet’s statements, and in the final instance, the point is whether that which is proclaimed as the word of God actually comes to be, whether it is a word of judgment or one of healing. Within the prophetic theology of the deuteronomic tradition, this concept is expanded upon and receives an important correction. There can indeed be unfulfilled prophecy that is still true, or, in other words, there can be unfulfilled words of God which still remain true. This movement is based on a changed understanding of the way in which God speaks to humanity and the purpose behind such speech. God’s word is no longer just a flat message but is an actual word with communicative intention. It wants to achieve something within the recipient, to set something in motion. This is particularly so for words of judgment. When God proclaims disaster, it still allows room for avoiding that end. The time between proclamation and execution opens up a space in which the relationship between God and the individual or group of people changes in a particular way. In the final instance, this allows the proclaimed destruction to be avoided. Realistically, this implies a dual repentance: repentance on the part of the addressee in the form of penance and contrition and repentance on the part of God, repentance over the original plans of destruction. The quintessential expression of this “theology of repentance” can be found in Jeremiah 18:7–8:

16 For a reconstruction of this in view of the Book of Jonah, see Krüger, “Literarisches Wachstum,” 53–56.

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If at any time I announce that a nation or kingdom is to be uprooted, torn down and destroyed, and if that nation I warned repents (‫ שוב‬Q) of its evil (‫)רע‬, then I will relent (‫ נחם‬N) and not inflict on it the disaster (‫ )רע‬I had planned (‫ שוב‬H) (NIV).

This spoken formulation expresses the closely fitted correlation between human actions and divine retribution. Evil leads to destruction, whereas a penitent nation leads to God’s repentance. One encounters this theology in the quotation from Joel, and it is carried over into the Book of Jonah. Here, too, the word of God that comes from the mouth of the prophet sets off a process of change that leads finally to a removal of judgment against Nineveh. Also, we find here the expression of dual repentance (Jonah 3:10): And God saw their works, that they turned (‫ שוב‬Q) from their evil way (‫ ;)רע‬and God repented (‫ נחם‬N) of the evil (‫)רע‬, that he had said that he would do unto them; and he did it not (KJV).

Where the Book of Jonah extends beyond the textual prophetic tradition is not with this theology of repentance but rather with the fact that this theology was known outside of Israel, that it was honored, and that it remained valid.17 It has been noted repeatedly that the “gentile peoples” in Jonah are seen much more positively than in most of the other prophetic and biblical texts. The heart of the Assyrian king is not stubborn and hardened like the heart of Pharaoh in the Exodus narrative. The point of the Book of Jonah, taken within the bounds of chapters 1–3, is precisely not to portray foreign peoples as crude, potentially violent, and incapable of being educated. Rather, those of whom one would least expect it – the notoriously brutal Assyrians – are precisely the ones who are morally responsive. They are the ones who display a consciousness of their own guilt and the necessity for repentance, which is activated, to a certain degree, by their encounter with the God of the heavens, the one who made the seas and dry land (Jonah 1:9). This is an insight which Jonah, as a representative of Israel and Judaism, has yet to gain. At the beginning, he flees when faced with his commission, albeit for understandable reasons. One might suggest, especially against the background of 2 Kings 14, that he who is supposed to threaten the Assyrians with destruction and even enter into the lion’s den itself has chosen to live dangerously. However, in the end, Jonah, as the Hebrew prophet of the God of the heavens, is one who is given an audience with the imperial power and passes on a message that was certainly aimed at the role and identity of Judaism under the rule of the Persian empire, or perhaps under the Greeks for that matter, and the contents of which offer comparisons to the Daniel narratives.

17 Thus R. Lux, Jona, Prophet zwischen ‘Verweigerung’ und ‘Gehorsam’. Eine erzählanalytische Studie, FRLANT 162 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994): “We can expect that Jonah does not represent just Israel but rather the view of the prophetic circles, in which the universality of the ‘grace formula’ was a conspicuous problem.”

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3. The Prophetic Protest against God (Jonah 4:1–4) If we now go a step further and include 4:1–4 in our interpretation, then we find a shift in both the prophetic background of the text as well as its material purpose. In 4:2, Jonah provides an explicit justification for his original decision to flee from God, and he does this, interestingly enough, by appealing exactly to that first part of the Joel passage we encountered above. “That is why I was so quick to flee to Tarshish. I knew that you are a gracious and compassionate God, slow to anger and abounding in love, a God who relents from sending calamity” (NIV). In literary terms, that which is expressed so artfully in 3:10 as the high-point and crux of the narrative is now used critically to raise a complaint against God, that God allows God’s goodness to abound, and thus keeps God’s wrath “at a distance,” to use the Hebraic idiom. Yet how is this to be understood as a grievance, indeed a grievance so great that Jonah wants to die when faced with the reality of God’s change of heart? Both the prophetic complaint against God and the desire to die have their closest parallel in the Book of Jeremiah, specifically in a group of texts that have come to be known as “the Confessions of Jeremiah.”18 Whether these are a self-contained body, or a collection of differing texts which share a common characteristic, namely the raising of grievances against God by a prophet in the first person, is not a question that we need to pursue here.19 These confessions can be categorized according to two core characteristics.20 In the first group, a complaint is raised against God because God does not follow through on the proclaimed judgment against the nation’s injustice, leaving God’s prophets in the lurch. “They keep saying to me, ‘Where is the word of the Lord? Let it now be fulfilled!’” (Jer 17:15). Not only is the prophet forced to say things which are not fulfilled, but this occurs for a reason that he does not understand. Thus the prophet of the confessions looks back upon his calling and strikes a negative balance. When your words came, I ate them; they were my joy and my heart’s delight, for I bear your name, O Lord God Almighty. I never sat in the company of revelers, I never made merry with them; I sat alone because your hand was on me and you had filled me with indignation. 18

See the classic presentation of this by W. Baumgartner, Die Klagegedichte Jeremias (Giessen: De Gruyter, 1917), and further development in N. Ittmann, Die Konfessionen Jeremias. Ihre Bedeutung für die Verkündigung des Propheten, WMANT 54 (NeukirchenVluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1981). 19 For an overview, see H.J. Hermisson, “Jahwes und Jeremias Rechtsstreit. Zum Thema der Konfesionen Jeremias,” in Altes Testament und christliche Verkündigung, FS A.H.J. Gunneweg, ed. M. Oeming and A. Graupner (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1987), 137–139. 20 Cf. A. Schüle, “Das Geschick des Propheten und die Weisheit prophetischen Lebens. Die ‘Konfessionen Jeremias’ als Beispiel alttestamentlicher Biographik,” in Biographie als religiöser und kultureller Text, Literatur – Medien – Religion 4 (Münster: LIT, 2002), 186– 195.

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Why is my pain unending and my wound grievous and incurable? Will you be to me like a deceptive brook, like a spring that fails? (Jer 15:16–18, NIV).

This failure and loss of faith in God finally leads the prophet to curse the day of his birth. No other passage in the Old Testament gives an example as dramatic as the final confession in Jer 20:14–18. In addition to the prophet’s complaint about his own sorry state, God is accused of allowing his enemies to trick him. In all that the enemy does, their piety is hypocrisy, and yet they still achieve what they wanted with God. “You are close to their mouths but far from their kidneys” (Jer 12:2). The kidneys are the seat of conscience, the source of a person’s true intentions and motivations, and it is precisely there that the sinners have no room for God. The prophet accuses God of not being able to see through this charade, of accepting this external show of piety and allowing the sinners to boast, “He shall not see our last end” (Jer 12:4, KJV). If one takes the relationship between God and the prophet, as we find it expressed in the Confessions of Jeremiah, as the background against which we understand Jonah 4:1–4, then the result is a shift in the interpretation of the book as a whole. Jonah knew from the beginning that nothing that he was supposed to proclaim would actually occur. God would let the Assyrians escape despite their guilt and would, thus, wrong him, God’s own prophet, in the process. Seen from this angle, Jonah does not flee out of fear of the Assyrians and the difficulty of the commission but rather out of disappointment and despair in God. His descent into the belly of the fish, the Tardema, and finally his command that the sailors should throw him into the sea are all expressions of Jonah’s wish to die, the desire, in the end, to no longer be forced to be a prophet for this God. Yet another aspect now appears in a different light. One might well ask why Jonah begrudges the Assyrians God’s forbearance and change of heart. Reading from the perspective of the confessions of Jeremiah, the answer would be that the Assyrians have done nothing to deserve such patience. Their sudden reversal and rituals of penance do not come from the heart but express a purely strategic and manipulative intention. That God fails to see through this is incomprehensible. “You are close to their mouths but far from their kidneys.” What the complaining prophet of the Confessions reproaches God for is also implicit in Jonah’s grievance against God. This interpretation appears even more plausible when placed within the context of the Book of the Twelve. Jonah appears fifth in this corpus. If we read beyond Jonah, we learn two books later in Nahum that Nineveh was indeed finally destroyed.21 “Woe to the city of blood, full of lies, full of plunder, never

21 The connection between Jonah and Nahum is even more explicit in the LXX, as Nahum immediately follows Jonah.

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without victims!” begins Nahum’s oracle against the city, which then culminates in the image of the defeated king and his scattered people. O king of Assyria, your rulers slumber; your nobles lie down to rest. Your people are scattered on the mountains with no one to gather them. Nothing can heal your wound; your injury is fatal. Everyone who hears the news about you claps his hands at your fall, for who has not felt your endless cruelty? (Nah 3:18–19).

Within the literary context provided by the Book of the Twelve, one may well ask whether Jonah was not finally right in his accusation. Is it not true that God wastes God’s goodness and patience on a people who do not deserve it? The answer, which finally pulls the rug out from under this question, lies in God’s short statement to Jonah (Jonah 4:4), a statement that is difficult to understand both linguistically and in regards to its content. The difficulty here lies with the verb ‫יטב‬, which in the Hifil can mean very different things. Essentially two interpretations have been discussed. On the one hand, ‫ יטב‬in the Hifil can be understood as “to do good to someone.” If we followed this interpretation, God would appear concerned that Jonah is only hurting himself with his anger. “At this point there is the feeling that God sympathizes with Jonah’s despair, perhaps even wishes to relieve his pain.”22 However, much remains unclear. What is God’s concern actually directed at, and to what degree does this present a valid answer to Jonah’s complaint? After all, Jonah reproaches God for God’s unjust and inappropriate compassion. One could only explain it as caustic cynicism, if God’s response to everything was the advice to “just calm down.” However, the more weighty counter-argument comes in its parallel to 4:11. There, the question clearly deals with why Jonah feels he has the right to be distressed about the death of a plant without allowing God the same right to be distressed about the downfall of an entire nation. The second interpretive variant offers us a more appropriate option, namely to interpret ‫ יטב‬in the sense of “to be fitting for someone” or “to entitle someone to something.”23 As such, one would translate Jonah 4:4 as, “Are you entitled to be angry?” or somewhat more idiomatically, “Do you think you have a right to be angry?” This rhetorical question runs throughout chapter 4, and it has a rhetorical character because the answer is already implicit. Jonah has no right whatsoever to question God’s decision or to speculate about the motives which drive the way God thinks and acts. This motif of rejecting the complaint and rebuking the prophet also has parallels in the confessions of Jeremiah. In Jer 15:19, God responds to the accusation that God has become to the prophet like a deceptive brook by saying, “If you return to me, I will answer you. If you speak something worthy rather than something foolish, you will be (like) my mouth.” To complain against God and then wish to die is ‫( זלל‬foolishness) and should be rejected as such. The prophet 22 23

Sasson, Jonah, 287. Wolff, Jona, 133–134.

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must learn to subordinate himself to God, even when God’s intentions remain unclear to him. If the prophet can no longer understand the world, this is hardly acceptable grounds for complaint. “If you have raced with men on foot and they have worn you out, how can you compete with horses? If you stumble in safe country, how will you manage in the thickets by the Jordan?” (Jer 12:5). In this line of the tradition, it is not only Jonah’s rebelliousness in 4:1–4 that is critically rejected but the very opinion that God’s actions can be understood completely by human reason. This was, however, what Jeremiah 18 assumed about God’s repentance and what is also presupposed in Jonah 3.24 In 4:1–4, why God seriously proclaims judgment and to what degree God is also slow to anger and abundant in grace is much more open. Precisely due to the fact that, according to Nahum, Nineveh was ultimately destroyed, one must be much more careful than we find in Jonah 3 with a theology of “God’s predictable repentance.”

4. The Creator Values the Creation (Jonah 4:5–11) If we turn now to the “final” conclusion of the Book of Jonah, we note yet another changed perspective on the historical activity of God. The general consensus is that Jonah 4:5 marks a new beginning.25 There we read that Jonah goes out from the city in order to see, from a safe distance, what is going to happen to it. This clashes with the previous narrative, since in 3:10 it is already clear that nothing is going to happen. God revokes the decision to judge Nineveh and the city is preserved. To this extent, many have already noted that 4:5 does not follow from 4:4 but connects either to 3:9 or even earlier to 3:5. Thus, for the text’s content, this means that the entire section which deals with God’s repentance and Jonah’s grievance because of it is bracketed out. Jonah 4:5 suggests that God has not yet decided whether to destroy Nineveh or to accept their acts of penance and that this is precisely what Jonah is now waiting to find out.26 This tension on the surface of the text can be explained in two ways from a literary-historical perspective. Either 4:5–11 was the original conclusion to the book, to which the discourse about God’s judgment and repentance was later 24 The change in the rhetoric at this point is delicately captured by P. Trible, “A Tempest in a Text: Ecological Soundings in the Book of Jonah,” in On the Way to Nineveh, FS G.M. Landes, ed. S.L. Cook and S.C. Winter, ASOR 4 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1999), 198: “Rhetoric departs … from the reasoning of the king who proposed a theology of human repentance tied to the possibility of divine repentance.” 25 Cf. Magonet, Form and Meaning, 58. 26 The narrative logic allows for yet one other possible solution, that 4:1–4 reconsiders the question of whether God will truly spare Nineveh. In this situation, 4:5 follows 4:4 as a coherent transition (oral presentation of T. Krüger).

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prefixed, or 4:5–11 was later added to the end of the book as an alternative over against that discourse. In my opinion, which I now hope in closing to justify, 4:5–11 argues that God’s relationship to the nations is no longer to be understood in the sense of a legal contract to which both parties are bound, but rather first and foremost as a relationship between creator and creatures. The character of the narrative in 4:5–11 is that of a lesson given in parable form. God allows the vine to grow overnight, and Jonah enjoys its shade during the heat of the day. As quick as the vine came, it is taken away, due to a worm that is also sent by God to attack the plant’s roots. Of course, Jonah has no idea that he has wandered into a divine “experiment” that God has set up around him. What he feels, however, is anger and sorrow over the death of the vine, and at this point God speaks to him. In a formulation that parallels 4:4, God asks, “Do you have a right to be angry/sorrowful?” The semantic shift is worth noting here. From anger (‫ )חרה‬in the sense of rage (4:4), we find in 4:9 anger with the connotation of “sorrow” or even “disappointment.” This indicates a reinterpretation of the issue, which is central to the point of this concluding passage. In order to make Jonah understand how this entire event looks from God’s perspective, God transposes it into another horizon of meaning. We are not dealing here with an anger which vents itself in the form of punishment or some despotic rage of destruction but rather with care, sorrow, and disappointment about processes of decline and decay. Jonah believes that he is entitled to complain about the vine and tells God so. Here, as in 4:3, we encounter once again a recurring motif, the wish to die. In response, God brings the entire event to an end and explains its meaning. If Jonah is upset and distressed about a plant that grew so quickly and died just as quickly, over a plant which he himself neither planted nor tended, why should God not be distressed about a city like Nineveh with all its people and animals. The text’s nature as a parable becomes clearer when one makes the implicit message explicit. Jonah’s attitude toward the plant is contrasted with God’s attitude toward the nations. A plant grows quickly, but a nation develops over generations; Jonah did not create the plant himself or work hard (‫ )עמל‬for it to grow, but that is exactly what God has done for God’s creatures, the people of the world. If Jonah is anguished to the point of death about a withered plant, how much more anguished must God be when an entire people such as the Assyrians lose their way and degenerate. In its current form, the conclusion to the Book of Jonah provides us with the insight that God acts towards the nations first and foremost as their creator and sustainer, not as their judge, and this is true even when faced with human evil and sinfulness.27 With this altered perspective, the conclusion to the Book of

27 A similar thought is formulated by Krüger, “Literarisches Wachstum,” 58, according to which “YHWH’s will for order is subordinate to [YHWH’s] will to preserve life.”

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Jonah reacts against a theology of the judgment and repentance of God,28 which, as we have seen, was discussed controversially in 3:6–4:4. The Assyrian king speculates that the God of heaven is a compassionate judge, while Jonah complains in 4:1–4 that God does not follow through on God’s words of judgment or adequately punish committed sins. The parable of 4:5–11 sets literary and theological brackets around this tradition. God’s solidarity with the nations of the world does not fit with an image of judgment and repentance,29 rather the relationship is described in terms of nurturing (‫ גדל‬D-St.), toil (‫ )עמל‬and care (‫)חוס‬. Thus the God presented in the conclusion to the Book of Jonah appears more as a father figure or at least a figure who raises the nations in a fatherly way. The father cares for these nations who, according to 4:11, cannot even tell their right hand from their left. In this version, the Book of Jonah gains a humanistic, pedagogical side. Even the prophet finds himself here in the role of a student, whose judgment and opinions are set right by God. If one now reads the Book of Jonah in the context of the Book of the Twelve, then it becomes even clearer how fundamentally Jonah separates itself from the “day of the Lord” tradition. This tradition forms one of the leading themes of Book of the Twelve and can be found bundled into the Book of Joel,30 against which the Book of Jonah presents a multi-layered critique.31 The idea that one day YHWH will call the nations to account for their injustices, namely those against God’s chosen people, lies at exactly the opposite end of the ideological spectrum compared to what we find in the final seven verses of the Book of Jonah.32 Throughout the entire book, with the partial exception of 4:1–4, the 28

Thus Wolff, Jona, 137: “YHWH’s mercy in 4:11 is not only another keyword (‫ )חוס‬as in 3:10 (‫)נחם‬, but appears as the reason for the idea of creation, as its place in chapter 3 powerfully highlights but which is, overall not mentioned here because of the reversal of the proclaimed word.” 29 Conversely, K. Schmid, De Deo. Studien zur Literarkritik und Theologie des Buches Jona, des Gesprächs zwischen Abraham und Jahwe in Gen 18:22f. und von Hi 1, BZAW 143 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1976), 33–47, sees the creation theology of the Book of Jonah as a universal expansion of the repentance theology of Deuteronomy and Jeremiah. In a similar direction but with a different accent Lux, Jona, 203, understands God’s creative activity as a prerequisite of God’s judgment activity. 30 Interestingly, the rabbinic tradition of interpretation has seen Jonah on the same side as Joel, in so far as Jonah threatens Nineveh with the “day of the YHWH” (thus A. Agus, Heilige Texte (München: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 1999), 243). 31 Schart, Entstehung, 289. 32 Its literary context of a characteristically contrasting position in the Book of Jonah seems to also be reflected in the composition history of the Book of the Twelve. In the oldest surviving order of the Minor Prophets from Qumran, Jonah is not, as in the Masoretic Text, placed according to chronology in the fifth position but rather at the end. However this change of placement is assessed, whether as a demotion or promotion, it clearly raises the question of where the Book of Jonah, with its literary character and theological position, belongs within this collection.

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nations fail to represent a threat which YHWH would have to deal with “once and for all.” This rather friendly disposition toward the nations not only allows for the opinion that other peoples also have a knowledge of God that connects with Israel’s own (3:6–10) but also for the development of a thoroughly considered understanding of creation (4:5–11). To conclude, from a literary-historical point of view one can assume that the conclusion to the Book of Jonah was continuously extended. The message behind the first form of the book, that God is the compassionate judge, of whom even the Gentiles know, is contradicted in 4:1–4 by the tradition of the prophet’s grievance against God. This is then addressed in 4:5–11 with the idea that the nations are much too valuable to the creator to be subjected to a regimented, legalistic way of thinking.33 As for its content, the most noteworthy aspect is how a theological discourse about the interrelationship among God’s justice, compassion, and identity as creator has grown out of the narrative surrounding Jonah. From a hermeneutical perspective, this discourse should be understood as still open. The fact that 4:5–11 constitutes the conclusion to the book in its final form is not to say that this is the ultimate position held by the Book of Jonah. As was sketched out at the beginning, throughout the history of interpretation this openness has been reflected in the completely different views regarding just what it is the Book of Jonah wants to say to its readers.

33 Another view of the conclusion of the Book of Jonah can be found in A. Cooper, “In Praise of Divine Caprice: The Significance of the Book of Jonah,” in Among the Prophets: Language, Image and Structure in the Prophetic Writings, ed. P.R. Davies and D.J.A. Clines (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993), 144–63, and following him Trible, “Tempest in a Text,” 199. Thus the creation theology in 4:5–11 intentionally leaves room for the idea of an arbitrarily behaving, “capricious” God, who is no longer bound to forms of law but ultimately does as God pleases. In fact, the conclusion of Jonah remains open. It is no longer clear whether Nineveh remains spared or if God could change God’s mind again on this matter. Against the idea of the arbitrary God, however, stands God’s explicit statement about God’s care and commitment to creation.

The God who Creates A Contribution to the Theology of the Old Testament 1. Creation as the Theme of Old Testament Theology – a Controversial Question Creation is one of the major themes of the theology of our time. In many ways, one gets the impression that the credibility of the Christian faith, both internally and externally, essentially depends on whether it is possible to understand God as the Creator and to understand the world, in all of its aspects, as the creation of God. This is not just about faith and religion as particular aspects or niches of human existence, but rather the whole world with all its diversity must be taken into consideration. This is connected to the second aspect, which is where the doctrine of creation has to grapple with other world views, particularly those of the natural and life sciences. The doctrine of creation now often comes with the expectation that this discourse will produce one of the foundational orientations of theology in general and thus define the greatest common denominator that is needed for theology to negotiate of the contemporary world. Thus it is all the more important to recall that this prominent role for the doctrine of creation in contemporary theology is rather atypical. On the contrary, modern theology as a whole showed itself to be disinterested in this subject, particularly within the field of Old Testament scholarship. Gerhard von Rad is certainly one of the most prominent voices viewing the doctrine of creation as an element that does not properly belong to the faith of biblical Israel. In his famous Theologie des Alten Testaments, he argued that, Nach alledem, wie wir meinten, den Glauben Israels an Jahwe verstehen zu müssen, ist es begreiflich, daß er immer da am schwersten gefährdet war, wo ihm der Kontakt mit dem Wirken Jahwes in der Geschichte verlorenzugehen drohte.1

The doctrine of creation is an indicator of crisis. Whenever faith loses sight of its real objective, the history of salvation, it finds resolution in the natural world. The specific gives way to the general; the historical particularity of faith is withdrawn in favor of the general sense of creation. It only takes a brief look to recognize in von Rad’s position the intentional borrowing from the theology of Karl Barth. Barth is generally known to speak 9

1 G. von Rad, Theologie des Alten Testaments I (München: Christian Kaiser Verlag, 1987), 467.

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of creation as the “external reason” for the covenant between God and the world and, inversely, as the covenant as the “internal reason” for creation. Again there is a difference here between the core and the outer shell. Die Schöpfung ist eine einzige Bereitstellung und also das Wesen und die Existenz des Geschöpfs eine einzige Bereitschaft für das, was Gott in der Geschichte des Bundes mit ihm wollen und tun wird. Seine Natur ist nichts Anderes als seine Zurüstung für die Gnade.2

It remains an open question as to whether and to what degree, for biblical statements, the connection between creation and election can be framed by the distinction of. However, Barth rightly recognizes that creation is not an independent subject or an alternative to other subjects of theology but rather a facet of the whole picture. It is therefore problematic to speak of a theology of creation3 as if this were an independent and discrete type of theology. Hans Heinrich Schmid, in his reaction to von Rad, has most clearly shown the interconnectedness of the issues of creation within the overall context of Old Testament theology. Schmid worked out, based primarily on the book of Isaiah, that the discussion of creation is embedded in the Isaianic vision of justice and salvation. The same God that establishes the law for God’s people and brings salvation is the creator of the world and vice versa. The one cannot be understood without the other. Unlike Barth, this context of mutual reference cannot be set within a hierarchical relationship in the sense of the internal and external. Rather Schmid points out that idea of the world as having been created by God is the soundboard of many, if not all, the theological themes of the Old Testament. Das alles zusammengenommen besagt: Der Schöpfungsglaube, das heißt der Glaube, daß Gott die Welt mit ihren mannigfaltigen Ordnungen geschaffen hat und erhält, ist nicht ein Randthema biblischer Theologie, sondern im Grund ihr Thema schlechthin. Was Israel in seiner Geschichte und die urchristliche Gemeinde an Jesus erfahren hat, ist auf seine Bedeutung hinsichtlich dieses einen Grundthemas befragt und ausgelegt worden.4

However, this comprehensive assessment raises the question as to what exactly it is that lies behind the complex concept of “creation.” For Schmid the idea of order stands in the center. God’s creation is primarily a system of order against chaos, by which the general prerequisites of life are guaranteed. This order is, however, not just limited to the field of cosmogony but rather, as shown in God’s acts of establishing law and justice, applies to the social world as well.

2 K. Barth, Kirchliche Dogmatik III/1 (§41.3) (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 1993), 261. 3 K. Schmid, “Schöpfung im Alten Testament,” in Schöpfung (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 73. 4 H.H. Schmid, “Schöpfung, Gerechtigkeit und Heil. ‘Schöpfungstheologie’ als Gesamthorizont biblischer Theologie,” in Altorientalische Welt in der alttestamentlichen Theologie (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 1974), 25.

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Creation understood as a system of order is, although central, just one aspect of the whole picture. In many Old Testament texts, the theme of creation comes under the questions of what it actually means to believe in God as creator and, inversely, what it means to understand peoples and individuals as creatures. In this respect, the subject automatically extends into theology and anthropology.5 The prophetic texts and the so-called critical wisdom texts, Job and Qoheleth, approach the subject of creation in the sense of a relationship between God and people. In other words, with the subject of creation the complicated network of relationships between cosmogony, cosmology, and law; theology; and anthropology comes into view. This network and its internal logic will be addressed in the following based on selected texts. Of course, no comprehensive picture can be drawn. Nevertheless, the text selection aims to profile creation as a theme that is characteristic of all parts of the Old Testament canon and thus truly forms a central theme of Old Testament theology.

2. Cosmos, Cult, and Vitality: Creation Theology in the Cultic Psalms Perhaps the earliest statements about creation are found in some of the cultic psalms.6 These contain a view of the origin of the world that is clearly different from the “big” creation texts, particularly Gen 1:1–2:3. This pertains first to the manner in which God formed the world. In Ps 24 (cf. Ps 50:12 and 89:1), this takes place by God establishing a disc on the primordial ocean, which in turn becomes the habitat for animals and people, “the world and they that dwell therein” (Ps 24:1 KJV). This disk rests on the foundations that are sunk into the primordial ground and will always be visible when God goes to war and the oceans move (Ps 18:16). On the other hand, a mountain rises in the center of the world bearing the sanctuary, the temple of God. In its horizontal reach, the cosmos is thus arranged in concentric circles, of which the temple is the center and which lead from the chaos at the edge of the world to order and divine presence. Thus one can speak of a “cult-centric” worldview. This also applies to the vertical reach. The temple is not only the middle of the world but also the point at which the heavens and the earth are connected to one another. God lives in the temple and, at the same time, is enthroned in the heavens.

5

B. Janowski, “Konstellative Anthropologie. Zum Begriff der Person im Alten Testament,” in Biblische Anthropologie. Neue Einsichten aus dem Alten Testament, ed. C. Frevel, QD 237 (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2010), 68–72. 6 T. Wagner, Gottes Herrlichkeit. Bedeutung und Verwendung des Begriffs kābôd im Alten Testament, VT Sup 151 (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 297–306.

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The LORD is in his holy temple; the LORD’s throne is in heaven. His eyes behold, his gaze examines humankind. (Ps 11:4 NRSV)

In order to express the idea that heavenly and earthly sanctuaries are two sides of the same coin, the image of the “throne” appears. For the ancient Near Eastern world, a throne consists of a block of material with two “levels of support,” the actual seat and the foot rest.7 Through the imagery of such a throne, the Psalms can grasp the dwelling of God in the heavens and on the earth. “Let us go to his dwelling place; let us worship at his footstool.” (Ps 132:7 NRSV, cf. Ps 99:5)

This results in an image of the cosmos in which the earthly temple and its heavenly counterpart form the central axis of the earth.8 Corresponding cult-centric cosmologies can also be found in other cultures of the ancient Near East, the Egyptian as well as Mesopotamian cultures.9 In the latter case, the names of the sanctuaries already indicate their cosmological significance. For example, the mythical designation of the main temple of the principle deity, É.KUR, is “Mountain House,” which references the world mountain in the middle of the earth where the gods live and rule the world. The name of the temple and the temple tower in Babylon are exemplar of the idea of the axis mundi, É.SAĜ.ILA (“the house that raises its head [to the heavens]”) and É.TEMEN.AN.KI (“the house that is the foundation of the heavens and earth”).10 This cosmology logically corresponds to an image of humanity in which their existence is oriented toward the presence of God in the temple. Humanity longs to behold the face of God,11 which is considered in other texts of the Hebrew Bible to be dangerous or even impossible. As a deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When shall I come and behold the face of God? (Ps 42:1–2 NRSV)

While this cannot be discussed more fully here, the cultic texts in particular consider humanity to be equipped with a life force (næpæš, often translated in English Bibles as “soul”) that reaches out to God, senses the presence of God, 7

This is in contrast to the “footstool,” which from the time of ancient Rome was a separate object no longer integrated into the throne. 8 S.M. Maul, “Die altorientalische Hauptstadt – Abbild und Nabel der Welt,” in Die Orientalische Stadt: Kontinuität, Wandel, Bruch. 1. Internationales Colloquium der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft, 9.–10. Mai 1996 in Halle/Saale, ed. G. Wilhelm (Saarbrücken: Saarländische Druckerei und Verlag, 1997), 118–120. 9 B. Janowski, “Tempel und Schöpfung. Schöpfungstheologische Aspekte der priesterlichen Heiligtumskonzeption,” in Gottes Gegenwart in Israel. Beiträge zur Theologie des Alten Testaments (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1993), 216–223 10 Maul, “Die altorientalische Hauptstadt,” 115. 11 T. Aoki, “Wann darf ich kommen und schauen das Angesicht Gottes?” Untersuchungen zur Zusammengehörigkeit beziehungsweise Eigenständigkeit von Ps 42 und Ps 43, ATM 23 (Münster: LIT, 2008), 124–125.

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or suffers from the distance of God.12 Earth, the habitat of humanity as well as of animals, is established by God on the primordial river. However, at the same time, humanity also belongs to the temple and thus near to God.

3. Deutero-Isaiah The cosmology of the cultic psalms is continued in the prophetic texts of the so-called Deutero-Isaiah (Is 40–55), which are a response to Israel’s experience of the Babylonian exile. In the early 6th century BCE, part of the population of Judah was deported to Babylon. Jerusalem lay in ruins, and the monarchy had been deposed. The exile lasted around fifty years, a time period significantly longer than the average life expectancy at the time. The political situation changed only when Persia, under Cyrus the Great, took control of the ancient Near East as a new great power. For the deported Judeans, or rather their children and grandchildren, this brought the possibility of return and thus the restoration of their still desolate former homeland. In this situation, the natural question was whether the God whom Israel worshipped and whose temple stood on Zion had fallen victim to the power games of the empires of the ancient Near East and thus proven to be an insignificant provincial deity. This is exactly what the prophecy of Deutero-Isaiah responds to by portraying the God of Israel as the creator of the world and no longer primarily as a national God. Have you not known? Have you not heard? Has it not been told you from the beginning? Have you not understood from the foundations of the earth? It is he who sits above the circle of the earth, and its inhabitants are like grasshoppers; who stretches out the heavens like a curtain, and spreads them like a tent to live in; who brings princes to naught, and makes the rulers of the earth as nothing. Scarcely are they planted, scarcely sown, scarcely has their stem taken root in the earth, when he blows upon them, and they wither, and the tempest carries them off like stubble. To whom then will you compare me, or who is my equal? says the Holy One. Lift up your eyes on high and see: Who created these? He who brings out their host and numbers them, calling them all by name; because he is great in strength, mighty in power, not one is missing. Why do you say, O Jacob, and speak, O Israel, “My way is hidden from the LORD, and my right is disregarded by my God”? Have you not known? Have you not heard? The LORD is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint or grow weary; his understanding is unsearchable. (Is 40:21–28 NRSV)

The vision of the strength and superiority of God from the beginning of time as the creator of the world forms the starting point from which various conclusions are drawn.13 As the one who laid the foundations of the world and spread the heavens over it, this God is also the one who rules the nations and their 12

H.W. Wolff, Anthropologie des Alten Testaments, ed. B. Janowski (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2010), 41–42. 13 U. Berges, Jesaja 40–48, HThKAT (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2008), 131–132.

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rulers (vv. 23–24). Because YHWH is the sole creator, there is nothing in or above the world that compares to him (v. 25). This leads further to DeuteroIsaiah’s conclusion that God cannot be represented in the form of a (cult) image (Is 44:12–19). Finally, as creator, God determines the fortune of the nations that God has chosen as his own, even and especially when the particular historical experience of that people does not support such a perception (vv. 27– 28). Thus it is clear that Deutero-Isaiah does not refer just to God’s primordial activities with the depiction of creation but rather that he lifts up a lasting sense of possession against which is set the human tendency to ignore or even to transfer this ownership and control to beings that are not God. For DeuteroIsaiah, the theme of creation is also the basis for political and cultic theology.14 Of course, these two aspects, in the form of social and cultic critique, are already present in the prophets of the 8th century BCE but with a different basis. For Amos, Hosea, and Micah, the earlier history of God with God’s people, the time of the Exodus and the wilderness wondering, form the foundation for the worship of God and social morality. Israel’s own historical experience or, as described by Jan Assman, Israel’s “cultural memory” formed the point of reference for the earlier prophets against which the present conditions were to be measured. That is also the case for Deutero-Isaiah some two hundred years later in the context of the Babylonian exile but in a reduced form. Here there are also references to the Exodus, though in the form of a new Exodus in which the children of Israel, scattered throughout the whole world, are lead back to Zion (Is 43:1–7). Abraham is also mentioned as the model of faith (Is 41:8, 51:2), but now all of this comes under the dominant understanding of the God of Israel as the creator and master of the whole world. Only through this horizon can Deutero-Isaiah draw sense and meaning from the political changes of his time. The world around Deutero-Isaiah has grown considerably and, at the same time, become unmanageable. For the prophets of that time, recourse to their own cultural memory apparently could no longer be sufficient. Only the comprehensive horizon of the creation of the world and the universal reign of God allows Deutero-Isaiah to interpret the world in the sense of the faith of Israel.15 Thus it becomes possible to understand Cyrus the Great as a Messiah that God has made into one of his instruments. Thus says the LORD to his anointed, to Cyrus, whose right hand I have grasped to subdue nations before him and strip kings of their robes, to open doors before him – and the gates shall not be closed: I will go before you and level the mountains, I will break in pieces the 14

B. Anderson, “Mythopoeic and Theological Dimensions of Biblical Creation Faith,” in Creation in the Old Tesament (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1984), 3–11. 15 Cf. J. Jeremias, Theologie des Alten Testaments (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2015), 327–328, who proposes that creation theology is a form of “assurance” precisely from the exilic period.

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doors of bronze and cut through the bars of iron, I will give you the treasures of darkness and riches hidden in secret places, so that you may know that it is I, the LORD, the God of Israel, who call you by your name.(Is 45:1–3 NRSV)

Even this foreign emperor should recognize that a far more powerful ruler stands behind his victories. Noticeably, in the background of such statements, a fascination with the political upheavals of the time comes through and is used to prove the sovereignty of the will of God in everything. Only in this comprehensive perspective will it be clearly shown how God acts and proves God’s righteousness. I form light and create darkness, I make weal and create woe; I the LORD do all these things. Shower, O heavens, from above, and let the skies rain down righteousness; let the earth open, that salvation may spring up, and let it cause righteousness to sprout up also; I the LORD have created it. (Is 45:7–8 NRSV)

Interestingly, despite, or perhaps precisely because of, the fact that the political world has become larger and more complex, Deutero-Isaiah holds fast to the idea that the middle of the world is not in Babylon or Persia but in Zion. From there, God rules over the nations. As is described above, the foundation of this idea was already established in the cultic psalms of the Old Testament, but now it has even greater significance in the context of the exilic or post-exilic time. Zion is not only the axis mundi for God’s own people but rather this idea extends to all people, who will stream from all of the world to God’s mountain (Is 2:1–4; 49:12–18). Of course this involves a religious imagination that clearly responded to the political conditions of the time. Jerusalem and Mt Zion were the center of a small, relatively insignificant province in the Persian Empire. That the nations would consider Zion as the center of the world lay outside any historical plausibility. Presumably, the actual conditions here were to some extent reversed, as the vassal states were required to deliver tribute to the Persian king in Persepolis and to seek rulings from there. If the creation universalism of DeuteroIsaiah is only a historically understandable reaction to a sense of impotence, does this not alleviate the accusation of hubris? This impression cannot be dismissed out of hand. Nevertheless, a theological problem of a more fundamental sort is addressed here, namely the question of the relationship between universal creation and a particular identity. The faith of Israel is, on the one hand, founded in particularism. YHWH saved God’s people from the Pharaoh, led them out of Egypt, defended them against other people and their gods, and gave them a land. Decisive for Israel’s particular identity is, therefore, the differentiation between those who were “in” and those who were “out” and between the “self” and the “foreign.” On the other hand, the faith of Israel is, from the beginning, a belief in creation which broadens in the face of history to a view of the whole world and recognizes in God the creator of all the nations. It is exactly at the intersection of the particular

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and universal perceptions of the world that the theology of Deutero-Isaiah concentrates. This intersection is also decisive in the question of whether creation and salvation history, as suggested by von Rad, are ultimately two mutually incompatible orientations of faith. As has been shown, Deutero-Isaiah solves this problem in the form of Zion theology. The place that God had chosen in the center of Israel is, at the same time, the center of the cosmos. The particular experience and universal world view have, in this way, the same location of focus. As the following shall show, other theological perspectives of the Old Testament deal with this creation theme differently than Deutero-Isaiah, which has been here classified as a representation of the traditional cultic cosmology. An approach with a completely different focus contrasting with this one can be found in the most famous of all Old Testament creations texts, Gen 1:1–2:3.

4. The Story of Creation (Gen 1:1–2:3) Far more explicit than the previously considered texts, Gen 1:1–2:3 (henceforth simply referred to as Gen 1) is identified as a creation myth. This is expressed as early as the first statement, which in the current translations of the Bible reads, “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.”16 It is also clear that the creation of the world is here understood first as an establishment of multiple interlocking forms of order. This is reflected in the so-called day formula, “there was evening and there was morning,” which provides the creation events a temporal rhythm. Incorporated within this day scheme is the spatial form of the world. So the second and third days serve to establish the form of the spatial spheres, heaven, earth, and sea, which are populated with their respective forms of life on the fifth and sixth days.17 One can speak here of a literal understanding of ecological creation in so far as the world is presented as an actual oikos as a self-contained building. It is noteworthy that this story is invested with a more detailed perception of time, space, and life forms than the cultic psalms and the relevant texts from Deutero-Isaiah. Regarding the establishment of the world building, there are also differences. The first created element is not the earth disc fixed on the primordial ocean but is instead the vaults of the heavens (1:6–7) that are like a bell jar under which lies the surface of the earth, which it shields from the chaos waters surrounding it. As 16 Regarding the problematic translation, see M. Bauks, Die Welt am Anfang. Zum Verständnis von Vorwelt und Weltentstehung in Gen 1 und in der altorientalischen Literatur, WMANT 74 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1997), 65–91. 17 E. Zenger, Gottes Bogen in den Wolken. Untersuchungen zu Komposition und Theologie der priesterschriftlichen Urgeschichte, SBS 112 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2 1987), 200.

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a rule, it is presumed that this refers to the Mesopotamian Rivers. In the great creation epic, called after the first two words the Enuma eliš, the initial act of creation consists of the forming of the firmament along with the surface of the earth, which together form an internal space that is demarcated from the surrounding chaos, and in this way the emergence of order and with it life becomes possible. Along with the establishment of the heavens, dry land, and water, the taxonomy of life is a central theme of Gen 1. Mapped onto the six day scheme is an ascending ontology of the works of creation, with the distinction being oriented toward the dichotomy of animate and inanimate. First, the inanimate entities of the first light, the firmament, and the heavenly bodies (Gen 1:14–18) emerge. However, in the case of the dry land, it is not treated as a creation but rather the uncovering of the already existing primordial land (1:9). In the research, it is frequently suggested that the lifelessness, particularly of the heavenly bodies and primordial land, was meant to be a polemic, because in the parallel Mesopotamian texts, this is the part which deals with the gods. The firmament and the earth are formed from the body of the slaughtered deity Tiamat, and the sun and moon are the embodiments of the two main gods of the Mesopotamian pantheon, Šamaš und Śin. However, this is contradicted by the fact that Genesis does not employ any other form of polemic but instead takes a constructive approach to the ancient Near Eastern elements and thus wants to connect with the state of knowledge in the ancient world. However, the world at this beginning point stands in sharp contrast with the Christian doctrine of creation from nothing, creatio ex nihilio. 18 There is a world already in existence before God’s work of creation begins, even though this world is the proverbial chaos (Gen 1:1), which prohibits the development of life.19 It is not a “nothing” to be replaced by “being,” rather it is about overcoming the chaos in favor of life, and thus is creatio ex tumultu. This emphasis is significant, because here, at the beginning of the Hebrew Bible, one finds a fundamental understanding about God’s actions. The first step of structuring the dead material is the creation of plants. However, this is done indirectly, as God instructs the earth to produce vegetation (1:11–12). Interestingly, the idea here is that the primordial earth has an intrinsic vitality, which is enough to bring about the plant life cycle. With the origin of plant life as the starting point, one can recognize how the succession of God’s creative activities with animal and human life will unfold. The land animals, and presumably also the fish and birds, are said to be produced by the 18

For the necessity of the Christianity understanding of cosmogony as creatio ex nihilo, see J. Moltmann, Gott in der Schöpfung. Ökologische Schöpfungslehre (München: Christian Kaiser Verlag, 1987), 91. 19 J. Blenkinsopp, Creation, Un-Creation, Re-Creation. A Discursive Commentary on Genesis 1–11 (New York: T&T Clark, 2010), 30.

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respective domains in which they live, and thus they were also formed by the land, the water, and the air (1:20, 24). However, within this is the respective and decisive statements that God created the living creatures, including the sea monsters (1:21, 25). Further, Genesis uses its own definitions to classify the animal world as “living beings,” næpæš chajjā, (Gen 1:20, 21, 24, and 30), and implies that life in the world actually begins on the fifth day. At the end of the sixth day humanity is created, and their creation is lifted even further above the creation of plants and animals in that it arises solely from divine action. Here the elements are no longer requested to assist God, but now God speaks to God’s self, or to God’s heavenly council, “Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness” (1:26 NRSV). This is followed, appropriately, by the execution, which in this case is God’s own work (1:27). Although the image of God in humanity is discussed elsewhere in this volume, at least two points are relevant here. The first is that the “image of God” is used with the intent of classification. Obviously, humans are “living creatures,” but they are also more than animals. While humans would later be called “persons” or “individuals,” this semantic field does not exist in ancient Hebrew, and, as an expression is needed, the idea of “image” brings with it the idea of the special position of humanity as the highest of the living beings. The same applies to Psalm 8 where one finds the same special relationship of humanity with God. Humanity is only a little lower than God (Ps 8:6), which can also be expressed by saying that humanity stands above all of the rest of creation.20 Thus there is some justification to the idea that the creation account in Genesis 1, along with the approximately contemporary pre-Socratic schools of philosophy in ancient Greece, counts among the first of the texts of antiquity about the origin of the world that connects it with a conceptual systematic taxonomy of life, moving from inanimate matter to the image of God. The second aspect which singles out the creation of humanity in the overall picture is the explicitly mentioned difference of the genders, “male” and “female” (1:27). In the research, this has occasionally been interpreted as a statement of God’s own nature having the aspects of both the male and the female. Presumably, however, the intention of the statement is to be found on a different, anthropological level. The ancients were not unaware that the biological differences between male and female also apply to animals and are the prerequisite for sexual reproduction. However, Gen 1:27 does not deal with the theme of reproduction. Otherwise the creation account could have left the difference between male and female in humanity unmentioned, as it did with the animals. Therefore, another level of interpretation is necessary. In Gen 1, humans, more 20

A. Schellenberg, Der Mensch, das Bild Gottes? Zum Gedanken einer Sonderstellung des Menschen im Alten Testament und in weiteren altorientalischen Quellen, AThANT 101 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2011), 49–59.

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than any other creatures, are relational, or more precisely are creatures that do not just behave as members of the same type but rather according to social relationships. This is also seen clearly in the statements about the likeness of God in Gen 5:1–3 in the context of parents and children and in 9:4–6 in the more general context of a person and their neighbor. The discussion of the divine image in the context of social life may be related to the fact that people are seen to have free will and thus be able to form their own social structures. This theme is taken up in the subsequent statement in the Eden story (Gen 2:4– 3:24) that it is not good for men to be alone (2:18), and so God creates a partner for the earthling, “Adam.” Here it also goes beyond the need to procreate that humans desire company. The representation of creation as presented in Gen 1 has two additional details that stand out. The first is that all creatures are vegetarians. The second is the question of God’s presence in the created world order. The design of the world created by God lacks a food chain. Both animals and people should eat plants and their fruit (1:30). Thus, there is no need to kill. The world that God has created is laid out in such a way that life does not have to be preserved at the cost of other life. However, as every reader knows, the “real” world does not function in this manner, but rather killing is a part of acquiring food. Whoever measures the world order of Gen 1 on the basis of their own experiences, already suspects that creation cannot be considered finished as it is. A regulatory element which deals with violence is still lacking, and, because of this lack, violence spreads so thoroughly over the whole earth (Gen 6:11) that the world after ten generations (Gen 5) is already at the end. Thus the order of creation only reaches its final form after the flood when God issues a new commandment which limits killing to the acquisition of food, legitimate because it is a limited form of violence and because it promises that all killing beyond that will be avenged by God (Gen 9:4–6).21 This often overlooked detail is important, because this is the first time in the Old Testament that casuistic law is implemented, and because God’s command is made into an element of the created order. But where actually is the place of God in the world of Gen 1? As has often been noted and commented on, the central world mountain and the temple are missing from this text. This lack is occasionally explained by the idea that Gen 1 is a cultic text itself, so that what is said here about creation is already part of the internal view of the cult. The main argument for this certainly comes from the seventh day of creation, which God designates by sanctifying it and resting from work (2:2–3). The creation narrative directs that every seventh

21

A. Schüle, Der Prolog der Hebräischen Bibel. Der Literar- und theologiegeschichtliche Diskurs der Urgeschichte (Genesis 1–11), AThANT 86 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2006), 270–271.

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day will be a day of worship, just as it would have been at home with the Jerusalem temple on Mt. Zion.22 However, this interpretation blurs the distinction that is exactly the point of the priestly layer of the text of Gen 1. The world, as it is created, with its varied life forms, with their languages and their peoples, was a very good creation of God. The relevant texts of Gen 1–11 emphasize this in no uncertain terms. From this very good world, neither a particular place nor a particular people stand out above the others, but rather all are blessed by God and affirmed in their existence. Therein lies the consistent implementation of universalism in the prehistoric narratives. This world lacks nothing, but it is also not yet finished. In fact the mention of the seventh day as a holy day leaves a trace well beyond the creation narrative and will only be resumed at the end of Exodus in which the completion of the Tabernacle, which Israel is to erect for its God and into which the glory of God finally moves (Ex 40:34), is discussed. In this way, both the completion of the sanctuary and the completion of creation, are bound together (Gen 2:1, Ex 40:33),23 and yet they are not the same. The cultic theology in Genesis and Exodus is based solely in Israel, with no universalistic claim. God chose God’s people, rescued them from Egypt, and led them from there to Sinai. The cult here is no longer universal but rather grounded in history; it is about the special events that befell this people and gave them their identity. In this way, Israel enters into an intimate knowledge of the God who created the whole world. The particularistic identity of Israel is embedded in the understanding of God as creator. Thus here, as in DeuteroIsaiah, is the idea that the glory of the creator lives in the middle of Israel and only there. On the other hand, everything that God created is good and, as a whole, even very good, and in this is the crucial difference with Deutero-Isaiah, Gen 1 expresses is no expectation that the other nations would turn to God, whose creation they already are.

5. Psalm 104: God as the Giver of All Life This psalm is framed as a classical cultic psalm, in which the soul, næpæš, is called to praise God (vv. 1, 35b). However, this is also a creation hymn, a genre that has very few parallels in the Old Testament (cf. Ps 103, 145, 150) but, interestingly, is directly related to non-biblical literature, for example the Egyptian hymns to Aten from the time of Akhenaten. The structure of the psalm initially follows the same logic that is behind Gen 1. First, there is the material of the world, which forms the architecture of the “creation building”: the heavenly realm in vv. 1–4 and the earthly in vv. 5–9. Unlike Gen 1, however, this 22

J.D. Levenson, Creation and the Persistence of Evil. The Jewish Drama of Divine Omnipotence (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988), 121–127. 23 Zenger, Gottes Bogen, 170–172.

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world is not made by an otherwise distant God but rather God is dynamically present. God’s abode is in the heavens (v. 2), God drives on the clouds (v. 3), and God threatens the chaos waters so that they do not exceed their boundaries. The hymnic description of the creatures that fill the cosmos comes in the second part (vv. 10–23). Here, however, Psalm 104 is different from Gen 1, as there is no tiered ontology that moves from the lower life forms to the higher and eventually to humanity, but the individual realms of life are considered along with the organisms that are found within them (vv. 10–18): You make springs gush forth in the valleys; they flow between the hills, giving drink to every wild animal; the wild asses quench their thirst. By the streams the birds of the air have their habitation; they sing among the branches. From your lofty abode you water the mountains; the earth is satisfied with the fruit of your work. You cause the grass to grow for the cattle, and plants for people to use, to bring forth food from the earth, and wine to gladden the human heart, oil to make the face shine, and bread to strengthen the human heart. The trees of the LORD are watered abundantly, the cedars of Lebanon that he planted. In them the birds build their nests; the stork has its home in the fir trees. The high mountains are for the wild goats; the rocks are a refuge for the coneys. (NRSV)

Thus the cosmos of Ps 104 exhibits a world order planned by God and “wisely” established (v. 24), but is focused on neither a middle point nor a particular form of living being, humanity.24 What holds the world together and animates it is, instead, God’s continued presence as creator and provider. In the central part of this Psalm, God is appropriately characterized as one who cares for God’s creatures and their needs. The end of the Psalm goes even one step further. God is here not just the giver of good gifts, but rather it is God’s own spirit that pulsates in all creatures and thus determines life and decay (vv. 27– 30): These all look to you to give them their food in due season; when you give to them, they gather it up; when you open your hand, they are filled with good things. When you hide your face, they are dismayed; when you take away their breath, they die and return to their dust. When you send forth your spirit, they are created; and you renew the face of the ground. (NRSV)

Thomas Krüger has described this idea of the presence of the creator within creation as “Cosmo theology.”25 In fact, the creation theology here takes a bold position within the whole Hebrew Bible in that God is not merely present 24

T. Krüger, “‘Kosmo-theologie,’ zwischen Mythos und Erfahrung. Psalm 104 im Kontext altorientalischer und alttestamentlicher ‘Schöpfungs’-Konzepte,” in Kritische Weisheit: Studien zur weisheitlichen Traditionskritik im Alten Testament, AThANT 96 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 1997), 118. 25 Krüger, “Kosmo-theologie,” 112–113.

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within the world but rather creation is intrinsically filled with God’s presence. Thus Ps 104 appropriately lacks any reference to cult or temple,26 because there is no special place needed for God’s glory to dwell. Thus a certain conclusion in Old Testament creation theology is reached when perception is directed entirely toward God and life, regardless of whether human or animal. This is also clear in the comparison of Ps 104 with Gen 2:7 (and 6:3), in which the divine breath belongs to humanity alone. The question of whether Ps 104 contains a deliberate self-relativization of humanity can be considered but not stated with certainty. However, it is clear that it is about the vigorous sovereignty of God, which appears before all creatures who are without exception needy and transient but also sheltered and cared for. The fundamental questions of whether and in what manner humanity stands out at all from the plethora of creatures and has a particular relationship to the creator (as in Gen 1 and Ps 8) are posed in the divine speeches in the Book of Job. On this point, the divine speeches also form a thematic conclusion to the Old Testament creation theology, though this certainly should not be taken to mean that this is the “final word.”

6. The Divine Speeches of the Book of Job (Job 38–41): Creation Theology as Critique of Human Understanding and as Relativization of the Concept of Humanity as the Goal of Creation The divine speeches convey the long awaited answer to Job’s in which is expected to clarify why what befell Job is an expression of divine justice. However, that is not what what happens. God does not allow God’s self to be dragged into the role of the accused or, perhaps more accurately, the accused judge who must justify his actions. More precisely, God points out to the recalcitrant challenger that it is not appropriate to judge the logic and the plan of the divine thoughts and behavior. This gap and the human inability to recognize what, as Goethe calls it in his reference to the book of Job in Faust, “holds the world together in its innermost” are at the heart of the creation theology of Job. The Book of Job allows God to change the imagery that forms the backdrop. It is no longer the courtroom but rather creation which provides the rationale of God’s righteousness. For this reason, the divine speeches reveal a grandiose world view. It is almost as if Job, and with him the reader, is allowed to accompany God on a journey through creation. Job gets to see the world in all its 26

J. Jeremias, Das Königtum Gottes in den Psalmen: Israels Begegnung mit dem kanaanäischen Mythos in den Jahwe-König-Psalmen, FRLANT 141 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1987), 45.

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dimensions, and, at the same time, it is clarified to him that indeed he can only marvel at but not comprehend it. There is no question that the world is God’s creation, but human knowledge cannot venture behind this fact, to understand the essence of the world. At this point, the Book of Job breaks with the other, probably older, traditions of creation theology, especially Deutero-Isaiah and Gen 1, which map out the transparency of the acts of divine creation. These texts explain in their own way what God thought when God created the world and according to what criteria God directs it thereafter. The role of creation is the reverse for Job, in that it proves that one cannot understand God and God’s work. Humanity can, as in Ps 104, understand themselves as a part of creation and, at the same time, existentially perceive that they owe their existence to the creative power of God. However, it is exactly at this point that human knowledge ends. “Thus far shall you come, and no farther;” though a quotation from the divine speeches (Job 38:11) about how God prevents the ocean from overflowing, this is also a concise description of the limits of human knowledge. To establish the contrast with other traditions of the Old Testament, the divine speeches draw upon the same outline of creation theology that has already been explored. In the first part (Job 38:1–38), the focus is the physical world that God, as the architect, planned and established. Have you entered into the springs of the sea, or walked in the recesses of the deep? Have the gates of death been revealed to you, or have you seen the gates of deep darkness? Have you comprehended the expanse of the earth? Declare, if you know all this. Where is the way to the dwelling of light, and where is the place of darkness, that you may take it to its territory and that you may discern the paths to its home? (Job 38:16–20 NRSV)

Illuminated by the divine speech are the corners of the world, which are usually hidden from the human eye. God’s sovereignty is exhibited exactly at these points at which human knowledge decreases or even completely ends. This also applies to the next divine speech (Job 38:39–39:30), which brings the world of creatures, particularly of animals, into focus. Do you know when the mountain goats give birth? Do you observe the calving of the deer? Can you number the months that they fulfill, and do you know the time when they give birth, when they crouch to give birth to their offspring, and are delivered of their young? Their young ones become strong, they grow up in the open; they go forth, and do not return to them. (Job 39:1–4 NRSV)

Here it is also brought to light that the divine speeches stand out from the other creation texts by listing the “wilder” aspects of the animal world beyond the limits of human understanding. Job 39 also emphasizes how the animals wrest the demand for God’s attention from humanity. Here the motif, which follows in more detail, begins, that God’s creation does not revolve around the needs of human life.

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Will the wild ox consent to serve you? Or will he spend the night at your manger? Can you tie it in the furrow with ropes, or will it harrow the valleys after you? (Job 39:9–10 NRSV)

According to the logic of the sequence of the physical materials of creation leading up to animals, the reader expects that now, as in Gen 1 and Ps 8, the next step is the theme of humanity. However, that is exactly what does not happen, and therein lies the particular point of the divine speeches.27 In Job 38– 41 there is only a brief single statement about the creation of humanity (Job 40:15), and even that is only a relative clause. Rather it is the two “monsters,” Behemoth and Leviathan, which receive special attention. Look at Behemoth, which I made just as I made you; it eats grass like an ox. Its strength is in its loins, and its power in the muscles of its belly. It makes its tail stiff like a cedar; the sinews of its thighs are knit together. Its bones are tubes of bronze, its limbs like bars of iron. It is the first of the great acts of God – only its Maker can approach it with the sword. (Job 40:15–19 NRSV)

The statement, “it is the first of the great acts of God,” is reminiscent of Prov 8:22, in which personified wisdom says, “The LORD created me at the beginning of his work.” In both cases, the discussion of the beginning of creation shows what was first and above all important to God. For the divine speeches, it is either not humanity or not humanity alone to whose existence and needs God’s creative actions are directed. This leads to the conclusion, which is also the emphasis of the Book of Job as a whole, that the justice of God, as the justice of the creator, far exceeds the realm of human understanding and acceptance. With this final piece, the lineup of the creation theologies has been shown, and these set the foundational beliefs for the other positions within the Hebrew Bible. In Deutero-Isaiah and Gen 1, the subject of creation serves, not the least, the goal of understanding God’s actions in nature, culture, and history. The aim is to show that this God is the same God that turned his sovereign creative power to the world as a whole. On the other hand, the divine speeches allow the creator to step back behind the creation and thus mark the limit of knowledge, taking a serious critical view of the whole picture of the Old Testament traditions. Even the divine speeches allow for no question as to whether the creation of God is “good,” and in the whole even “very good,” as stated in Gen 1. The task set for humanity is thus now to arrive into the order of this very good creation and take their place without an ultimate certainty about the nature or intentions of the God of this creation.

27 I. Knohl, The Divine Symphony. The Bible’s Many Voices (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 2003), 121.

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The Ethics of Genesis A Contribution to Biblical Humanism 1. Introduction: Two Types of Ethics The book of Genesis is a unique literary composition. One might say that it is three books in one. The first eleven chapters, the so-called Primeval History, offer materials that most closely resemble some of the Mesopotamian epics, such as Enuma elish, Atrahasis, and Gilgamesh. Its middle part, roughly Genesis 12–36, offers a collection of mostly folk narratives about the early fathers and mothers of what would later be called the people of Israel. The final portion zeroes in on a particular individual, Joseph (Genesis 37–50), whose story exemplifies the fate of a Diaspora Jew. It becomes immediately clear that due to its different contents and genres, and most likely also because of its very complex literary history, Genesis does not display a unified set of norms and values. There is no ethical system that runs through the unfolding narrative. The other peculiar characteristic of Genesis within the context of the Torah/the Pentateuch is that it stands outside the major legal transmissions. As Jewish tradition has always observed, Genesis is the book that contains the story of creation and of ancestral Israel before the Torah was given. And while it is clear that much in Genesis builds up to and prepares the ground for the Sinai events1, principles of human life and moral behavior in the pre-Sinai world must be grounded in something other than the Torah as God’s revealed will for his people. This is true with one notable exception. There is one place in the Genesis narrative where God establishes a universally valid regulation in the form of casuistic law. As we will have to explore in greater detail below, the new beginning after the flood is marked by God giving laws for the protection of life: You must not, however, eat flesh with its life-blood in it. But for your own life-blood I will require a reckoning: I will require it of every beast; of man, too, will I require a reckoning for human life, of every man for that of his fellow man! Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed; For in His image did God make man. (Gen 9:4–6)

1

E. Zenger, Gottes Bogen in den Wolken: Untersuchungen zu Komposition und Theologie der priesterschriftlichen Urgeschichte, SBS 112 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1983), 37.

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Here, God as the creator of life also establishes the norm of the ultimate value of all life, animal and human. There must not be any willful taking of life in the world that God created “very good.” There is an awareness that permeates the texts of Genesis that the world is always threatened by the chaos and violence that are lurking, waiting to unfold their destructive power (Gen 4:7). The respect for life is of cosmic significance because this is the very principle on which the survival of that vulnerable sphere between the firmament and the primordial ground depends. The respect for and protection of life thus also becomes the most basic principle of the ethics in Genesis. The lives of others and their physical integrity establish a boundary that must not be transgressed under any circumstances. Along the line of this motif, Genesis does in fact imply a normative ethic that, as we shall see, envelopes the unfolding narrative. In this respect, it is safe to state that God’s law as a legal and ethical concept is not limited to the Sinai Torah but is already built into the fabric of the natural and social cosmos (cf. Ps 19; 119). A different and yet related ethical reading of Genesis comes into sharp relief if one focuses on what may be the most hidden and at the same time most overt leitmotif in Genesis, namely the encounter between God and the people that God chooses. As James Kugel observes, the encounter between YHWH and Israel has a somewhat erratic edge in most of the pertinent stories. Different from Exodus where YHWH imposes himself on Israel with utmost determination and power, the God of the ancestral narratives “turns up around the street corner, dressed like an ordinary person”2, without always leaving any deeper traces of his presence. Genesis is a book in which Israel’s ancestors get to know the one who presents himself as the God who promises to be “with them” (Gen 26:24). However, precisely because this encounter remains in the realm of uncertainty and surprise, it is not based on any prior commitment: “Presumably, Abraham is just walking along one day or sitting somewhere when God starts talking to him – but even to put things that way is to distort somewhat the character of this passage. What Abraham was doing or had done before was just not important from the text’s standpoint: God spoke to Abraham and that was all that mattered.”3 Correspondingly, the values that are highlighted in this relationship are different from the ones in the Exodus and Sinai narratives. It is not so much obedience before the law but trust in God’s promises that characterizes the encounter between early Israel and their God. This can also be seen in language typical of Genesis. The protagonists of these stories “walk with” or “walk before” God (Gen 5:22.24, 6:9, 17:1, 24:40, 48:15), and it is Abraham’s “trust” 2

J.L. Kugel, The God of Old: Inside the Lost World of the Bible (New York: Free Press, 2003), 35. 3 Ibid., 38.

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that God reckons to him for “righteousness.” (Gen 15:6) The vocabulary here is important for the ethics of Genesis because what it highlights are not so much certain ethical norms but rather specific values and virtues around which the lives of the matriarchs and patriarchs materialize. What they do, where they go, how they interact with each other and with foreigners is presented as a consequence of this walking with and before God. While not entirely accurate, one could call this a virtue ethics, although the virtues are not so much interpersonal forms of behavior as, for example, Aristotle defines it, but flow from a particular religious experience, namely the encounter with God. One might even say that Genesis is, at least to some extent, quite critical of any reliance on the character (or character formation) of human beings, since there is hardly a single person in the Genesis stories whose personality does not appear to be somewhat peculiar, if not downright problematic. With the sole exception of Noah, at least in the priestly stratum of the flood narrative (Gen 6:9), the protagonists are never depicted as moral heroes but as real people whose typical behaviors are sometimes all-too-human. Put in a different way, what brings out the best in the protagonists of the Genesis stories is not the interaction with other human beings but the way in which they respond to the divine promises that they receive “along the way.” If this initial typology of essentially two different types of ethics – one resulting from inter-human action, the other from the divine-human encounter – in Genesis is essentially accurate, then it comes as no surprise that there are texts that focus precisely on the conflict between the two. Arguably the most troubling text in this regard is Gen 22:1–19, the “binding” (Aqedah) of Isaac. Here, the ultimate and inviolable norm of the protection of life that the creator built into the very foundations of the natural and social world collides with the value of trust in the personal God of Israel’s ancestors. While this dilemma is never resolved at the level of the biblical text, it conveys a sense of the imperfection of any value system, especially when it factors in the notion of divine participation in human life. To risk a general statement, Genesis, just as any other book of the Hebrew Bible/the Old Testament, is well aware that God’s role in human life is not that of a moral agent, which, by the same token means that any ethical system cannot and must not claim to be more than tentative and approximate.

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2. Frame and Foundation: The Value of Life in Genesis For any account of biblical ethics it is important to note that the creation account in Gen 1:1–2:3, a foundational text for both testaments, presents the cosmos as a morally ordered universe.4 While God creates both animated and unanimated entities, the order of creation makes it clear that the emergence of “living beings” is the actual goal of creation. According to this goal, the preservation of life is the supreme ethical good of the created world. According to vv. 29–31, both humans and animals should be vegetarians, without exception. The course of the argument is logically simple. Beings who have the life substance should feed exclusively on that which has no life substance. In other words, in the world as God desires it to be there should be no killing, not even in pursuit of food. One is almost inevitably reminded of the picture of peace in the animal kingdom depicted in Is 11:6–8: The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid, and the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them. The cow and the bear shall feed; their young shall lie down together; and the lion shall eat straw like the ox. The sucking child shall play over the hole of the asp, and the weaned child shall put his hand on the adder’s den.

In fact, the Isaianic vision can be understood as an illustration of the world order as described in the creation account – a world with no food chain and therefore with no need for bloodshed. It can easily be overlooked, especially if the creation account is read as a quasi-“scientific” text for its period, that it constructs an apparently quite intentional contrast to the world of its readers. The creation God originally intended is not identical with the world after the flood at decisive points. This observation also has consequences for the final assessment of the creation as “very good,” since it results in view of a world expected to be where the peaceful coexistence of all living beings will be realized. This very expectation is disappointed, however, and, to this extent, “very good” sounds unfulfilled in view of the “real” world. As much as the creation account is understood to be a self-contained artifact in the history of its reception, it is still part of a literary composition that also treats the failure of the original creation and its restoration after the flood. In this perspective, the creation account offers not only a description of the world as God’s creation, but also functions simultaneously as a contrast to the reality of its readers. In order to keep the chaos forces that threaten life out of the created world, God establishes systems of order and governance. The firmament is put in place 4 W.P. Brown, “The Moral Cosmologies of Creation” in Character Ethics and the Old Testament, ed. M.D. Carroll R. and J.E. Lapsley (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2007), 11–26.

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to keep the primordial waters at bay, whereas sun and moon are supposed to “rule” (mashal) so that darkness, the other chaos force, yields to light. This raises the question as to the meaning of the “dominion” that humans as images of God are expected to exercise in the created realm. What exactly needs to be “dominated”? One may proceed from the assumption that this dominion is supposed to accord with the ordering and preserving activity of God and, therefore, does not legitimate human tyranny over the world. The two Hebrew terms in this passage (from the roots RDH and KBŠ), however, have an irreducibly despotic and even violent overtone. The root KBŠ, in particular, usually translated “to subdue,” has the connotation of “to tread down, to trample” (Mic 7:19; Zech 9:15) and occurs in contexts that discuss the subjugation of other peoples (Num 32:22, 29; Jos 18:1) or slaveholding (Jer 34:11, 16; Neh 5:5). Beyond the mere interpretation of the terminology, the question arises as to what, in the worldview of the Priestly Primeval History, calls for human dominion or what must actually be “dominated.” After all, the world was created and ordered by nothing less than God’s word and blessing. If one directs one’s view beyond the creation account, however, another reality comes into view, namely of a world in which “all flesh” is entangled in the expansion of violence. The beginning of the Priestly flood narrative states that, after only a few generations of created life on earth, the world has already ended because it has become “filled” with violence. As in Gen 6:9–12, violence is understood primarily as meaningless and excessive bloodshed, in which animals and humans participated equally. In modern terms, it was a brutal world in which there was no (longer) regard for life. When 1:28 is read with a view to 6:9–12, it is reasonable to assume that the commission to exercise dominion is intended precisely to hinder and restrain the expansion of violence. The aggressive terminology of v. 28 also makes good sense in this context. Thus, human beings are not to “subdue” their fellow creatures, but the potential for violence latent in “all flesh.”5 The concept of violence introduced in the flood narrative joins the elements of chaos, darkness and the primordial waters, although with the difference that the latter threaten the world from the outside while violence is in creatures’ bones, as it were. The containment of destructive forces and the protection of life created by God thus becomes the core of God’s commission to humankind as God’s image and, as such, lies at the very heart of the ethical vision of the book of Genesis. Thus it comes as no surprise that the first legal regulation that God ever implements, the first piece of Torah, as it were, regards the protection of life. On the one hand, Gen 9:4–6 allows a limited degree of violence to obtain food. However, whenever these laws are violated, God himself will return the blood of the victim on the murderer.

5 A. Schüle, “Uniquely Human: The Ethics of the Imago Dei in Genesis 1–11,” Toronto Journal of Theology 27 (2011), 5–16.

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While the commandments in Gen 9:4–6 mark the conclusion of the flood story, they also set the ethical norm for the narratives that follow. It is quite remarkable that, in Genesis, God interferes with human affairs only when the integrity of a human life is in jeopardy. This is most notably the case in Gen 18:16–19:29 with the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah that are depicted as people who above all else crave murder and rape. As a matter of fact, it seems that their only desire is to harm the ones without protection, such as Lot and his family.6 There is a lust for violence that is reminiscent of the character of Lamech (Gen 4:23), the father of Noah (Gen 5:28–31), who is depicted as the representative of the generation that drowns in the flood. As the Genesis narrative unfolds, it seems that this type of violent humanity resurfaces at certain points of the larger narrative. This is the case in Gen 34:1– 31, the rape of Dina. This is a particularly telling story for our purposes, since it draws a fine line between an offense that can be rectified and one that cannot; and the difference is precisely the integrity of life: Shechem son of Hamor the Hivite, chief of the country, saw her (Dina), and took her and lay with her by force. (Gen 34:2)

What Shechem offers as a remedy is to marry Dina so that she would not carry the blemish of dishonor and potentially a fatherless child. This may have been the solution in the case of what, in the modern era, would be called, consensual pre-marital intercourse. The fact that marriage is not an acceptable option for Dina’s brothers is precisely the fact that violence was used. However, while the story highlights the value of the integrity of life and of the physical body with regard to Dina, it does not so with regard to the Shechemites. Here, an entire city has to die for the crime of one of their leaders, which means that Jacob’s sons apparently follow a similar logic to the one criticized in Gen 4:23 with regard to Lamech as an out-of-control outburst of violence. Finally, the motif of the infinite value of life forms an outer circle around the book of Genesis. In the Cain and Abel story (Gen 4:1–19) and in the Joseph novel, the conflict among brothers is seen as a paradigmatic situation that leads up to violence and (almost) death, symbolized in both cases through blood that “tells” of a violent act (Gen 4:10, 37:26.31). However, the impetus for killing another human being is different here than in Gen 18, 19, and 34. Whereas these stories focus on the violent nature of humankind almost as a genetic defect that needs to be kept in check, the brother stories zero in on a more psychological element that affects human behavior and leads them down the path of destruction and evilness, namely envy and the fear of rejection. Both Gen 4:1–16 and 37:1–35 develop what one might call the psychological profile of people consumed by envy and fear. Both stories spend considerable detail on 6 L.M. Bechtel, “A Feminist Reading of Gen 19.1–11” in Genesis: A Feminist Companion to the Bible, ed. A. Brenner (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 127.

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how ordinary people who do not seem to be particularly prone to violence end up at the brink of murder or, as in Cain’s case, actually slay someone they should care for and love. Arguably one of the most profound, although linguistically enigmatic, sentences in the book of Genesis is Gen 4:7. Here it is God himself who, almost in the fashion of a spiritual mentor, warns Cain that the trail he blazes will end in his own demise: Surely, if you do right, there is uplift. But if you do not do right, sin crouches at the door; its urge is toward you, yet you must master it.

As an aside, this is the first occurrence of the word “sin” in the Hebrew Bible. While Christianity has always regarded Gen 3:1–24 as the story of humankind’s original sin, the Hebrew Bible reserves the term sin not for the eating from the forbidden tree but for the first act of murder. The lesson to be learned here is that humans, even if they have every reason to believe that they have been wronged, must not allow their emotions and affections to overthrow their moral awareness and ethical judgment. There is no reason to bring suffering and death into the world, not even, as in Cain’s case, the feeling of having been rejected by God. It seems accurate to say that God’s verdict about violence and sin in Gen 4:7 functions like a heading for the rest of the book; and so it is not surprising that there is a very similar sentence that could be seen as an intentional closing statement for all of Genesis. In Gen 50:20, after all of Jacob’s sons have been reunited in the land of Egypt, Joseph has the following line: Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good, in order to preserve a numerous people, as he is doing today.

In its narrative context, this sentence means that, had Joseph’s brothers not sold him into slavery, they likely would have died of the famine in the land of Canaan. However, since God turned Joseph’s fortunes in such a way that he became a prince of Egypt, this act of providence also saved the future of those who would eventually become the people of Israel. But apart from its narrative purpose, Gen 50:20 also conveys a sense of the frailty of human nature, though with a slightly different emphasis than in Gen 4:7. What the reader learns at the end of Genesis is that human agency is not the sole or even the most dominant source of morality in the world. As a consequence, not even the complete lack or failure of human morality can unhinge the sense of good that drives divine agency in the world. One of God’s typical roles in Genesis is that of the one who counteracts what humans do when they do wrong. Scholars since Gerhard von Rad have noticed that, looking at its final form, Genesis shows characteristics of wisdom literature, with Gen 2:4–4:16 and the Joseph story as particularly pertinent sections in this regard.7 However, while 7 M.V. Fox, “Joseph and Wisdom” in The Book of Genesis: Composition, Reception, and Interpretation, ed. C.A. Evans, J.N. Lohr, and D.L Peterson (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 261.

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the acts and consequences of human action and, therefore, the discourse about morality do in fact share characteristics of traditional wisdom, Genesis reserves a much stronger role for divine intervention in human affairs. The idea that the world functions according to a moral order that humans, qua wisdom, can know, understand, and follow is not very prominent in Genesis, at least not in ch. 12–50.8 Here, humans act in specific situations, under particular circumstances, and according to their individual needs. They sometimes simply seem to stumble from one situation into another, but they hardly ever have the “bigger picture.” This is precisely why, according to Genesis, human morale can never be sufficient but requires divine guidance as its indispensable counterpart.

3. Ethical Realism and the Encounter with God As has been observed many times, Genesis shares the anthropological realism of most of the narrative materials in the Hebrew Bible. As a matter of fact, there is a marked tendency in the anthropology of Genesis to reveal the entire spectrum of human behavior, especially in the case of the main characters. One of the first things that the reader learns about Abraham is that, out of fear and for the sake of his own security, he risks the well-being of his wife Sarah and the promise given to him to become a great nation (Gen 12:10–20). This famous wife-sister story is repeated twice (Gen 20:1–18; 26:1–14), and although the emphasis of each version is different, it becomes painfully clear that Abraham and Isaac do not do well under pressure,9 that they are prejudiced towards foreigners and that, apparently, their trust in the reliability of the divine promise is far from unshakable.10 The same can be said for Jacob of course, who is arguably the most multifaceted character in Genesis. He is savvy in the way he outsmarts his brother in order to steal the rights of the first-born (Gen 25:29– 34), but then he appears to be strangely naïve when his mother instructs him to also trick his father Isaac into blessing him rather than Esau (Gen 27:1–19). Jacob is a capable leader in some ways, but he also proves to be utterly incapable of controlling his own sons on multiple occasions (Gen 34:30–31; 37:12– 36). Already the earliest attestation of Jacob in the Hebrew Bible (Hos 12:4) mentions him as a somewhat ambivalent character, and the rather elaborate 8 It would be worth investigating if and to what extent the knowledge of good and evil that Gen 3 attributes to humankind is meant as a preface to the following parts of Genesis or more as a counter-model to what appear to be contextually bound, but not necessarily wise behaviors of humans in the Gen 12–50. 9 G.J. Wenham, Genesis 1–15, WBC Vol. I (Nashville TN: Thomas Nelson, 1987), 290– 291. 10 W.S. Towner, Genesis (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2001), 140–142.

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Genesis stories certainly do nothing to change this impression. In his famous comparison between the Homeric and the biblical portrayal of human characters, Erich Auerbach draws attention to this sense of realism: “Scenes such as those between Cain and Abel, Noah and his sons, between Abraham, Sarah, and Hagar, between Rebekah, Jacob, and Esau, and so on, are inconceivable in the Homeric style. The entirely different ways of developing conflicts are enough to account for this. In the Old Testament the peace of daily life in the house, in the fields, and among the flocks, is undermined be the jealousy of election and the promise of a blessing, and complications arise which would be utterly incomprehensible to the Homeric heroes. The latter must have palpable and clearly expressible reasons for their conflicts and enmities; and these work themselves out in free battles; whereas, with the former, the perpetually smoldering jealousy, and the connection between the domestic and the spiritual, between the paternal blessing and the divine blessing, lead to daily life being permeated with the stuff of conflict, often with poison.”11 It seems fair to say that the biblical authors depict the heroes of the Genesis stories in ways that attract the readers’ sympathy. As human characters, the fathers and mothers of Israel do not stand out in any way. They are just as good or bad as any ordinary person and thus become perhaps not role models but certainly figures with whom the readers can identify. It is against the backdrop of this anthropological realism that the Genesis stories also talk about the human encounter with God. There is no preferred setting in which this encounter occurs; rather, God sometimes literally walks into the lives of the protagonists without prior warning, which in turn triggers very natural responses: Abraham and Sarah do not immediately understand who the three men are that visit them in Mamre (Gen 18:1–15), and Jacob certainly has no real clue of the identity of his mighty opponent at the Jabbok river (Gen 32:23–33). But precisely because there is nothing supra-natural about the encounter with the divine, the human responses to this encounter appear to be perfectly authentic: while the protagonists do not always understand the situation, they still trust God as one would trust one’s father or mother. Several of the Genesis stories begin with God telling the patriarchs to leave where they are and move to some other place (Gen 12:1; 31:3; 35:1; 46:3), and the patriarchs simply obey. One might add, however, that, while the male characters in Genesis typically display a somewhat naïve behavior towards the divine commands, the matriarchs balance this with a more critical perspective: Sarah smiles when she is told that, at her tender age, she will become a mother (Gen 18:12); and Rachel is depicted as the one who does not simply abandon the family idols just because this is what she is expected to do (Gen 31:19). There is an awareness reflected in the Genesis

11 E. Auerbach, “Odysseus’ Scar,” in Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1953), 22.

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stories that women and men respond differently to the encounter with God in their lives12, and it may be worth realizing that there is in fact room for both. It seems clear that the anthropological realism that characterizes most of the Genesis narratives has a corresponding ethical message: it is everyday people that are privy to divine blessing and promise, and it is possible, even in the messiness and ambiguity of existence, to orient one’s life towards this blessing and this promise. Thus it is not surprising that Gen 15–a text that exegetes today tend to view as a theological summary of the ancestral narratives13 – establishes a correlation between faith (or trust) and righteousness: He (YHWH) took him outside and said, “Look toward heaven and count the stars, if you are able to count them.” And He added, “So shall your offspring be.” And because he put his trust in YHWH, He reckoned it to his righteousness. (Gen 15:5–6)

As pointed out above, looking at its genre as a narrative, the ethics of Genesis is not based on a set of explicit norms. Rather, the protagonists of these stories lead exemplary, although certainly not ideal, lives that model the behaviors and beliefs that a reader should value and embrace in his or her own life. It may not be accidental that Gen 15:6 had such an enormous impact on the reception history of the book of Genesis, since it provides a concise summary for the ethics of Genesis at large: it is trust in God’s promises around which a righteous life can materialize. The ethical emphasis on faith and trust in God is finally what makes Gen 22:1–9, the binding (Aqedah) of Isaac, such an abysmally erratic story. Here, the God who requires trust in his promises demands something that violates not only what the promise is about but also the law that God established for the protection of life in the post-diluvian world.14 It is at this point that the two ethical trajectories of Genesis collide. There is the absolute value of life that must not be compromised under any circumstances (Gen 9:4–6), but there is also the value of trust in God, even if the logic of what God commands lies beyond the scope of human understanding.15 Obviously, this is an extreme case of what behavioral ethics would call a dilemma situation, with the aggravating circumstance that the dilemma does not just occur but that it is God who deliberately causes it. However, it may be precisely the latter aspect that matters ethically. The fact that values collide and that there are situations in life where one cannot get it right, no matter what one does or does not do, lies at the 12

W.I. Zierler, And Rachel Stole the Idols: The Emergence of Modern Hebrew Women’s Writing (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2004), 1–4. 13 M. Köckert, “Gen 15: Vom ‘Urgestein’ der Väterüberlieferung zum ‘theologischen Programmtext’ der späten Perserzeit,” ZAW 125 (2013), 46–48. 14 I. Kalimi, “‘Go, I beg you, take your beloved son and slay him!’ The Binding of Isaac in Rabbinic Literature and Thought,” Review of Rabbinic Judaism 113 (2010), 3–4. 15 J.L. Crenshaw, Defending God: Biblical Responses to the Problem of Evil (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 63.

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bottom of all human experience. Gen 22:1–19 takes this experience to the extreme and at the same time makes it clear that humans are not responsible for its cause. The Aqedah story stops right where Abraham takes the knife in his hand (v. 10). It remains open what he would have done, perhaps because that is not what ultimately matters. What does matter is that Abraham ended up in a situation that would have likely destroyed him whatever choice he had made. As such, Gen 22:1–19 marks the point where any ethics ends and theodicy begins.16

16

B. Janowski, Ein Gott, der straft und tötet? Zwölf Fragen zum Gottesbild des Alten Testaments (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2013): “Während die traditionelle Theodizeefrage mit dem Problem ringt, dass es Übel gibt, die Gott nicht will, aber zulässt, geht es in Gen 22 darum, dass es etwas Übles gibt, das Gott will, aber nicht zulässt – wie allerdings erst am Ende deutlich wird” (emphasis in original).

“For He is Like You” A Translation and Understanding of the Old Testament Commandment to Love in Lev 19:18 1. Right Observations and Wrong Conclusions: The Debate over Buber’s Understanding of Lev 19:18 It is one of the well-known facts in the research of biblical texts that the theologically laden passages are always the most controversial, as they are the least certain and least capable of inspiring consensus from both philological and hermeneutic perspectives. The first word of the Bible, ‫בראשית‬, with all its scope for creation theology, is as well-known an example of this. Another is the question of whether ‫ ויחשבה לו צדקה‬in Gen 15:16 means God reckons Abraham as righteous or the other way around, that Abraham reckons God as righteous. It is certainy true that the more intensely one focuses on any text, the more it loses its definitiveness. However, a rich, complex text is characterized by the fact that, at the same time, it gains charisma and a sense of depth. This also applies to a text of almost unsurpassable theological and cultural relevance: the commandment to love of Lev 19:18.34 and its New Testament offshoots in Mt 22:39, Luke 10:27, Rom 13:9, Gal 15:4, and James 2:8. The Hebrew text reads: ‫ואהבת לרעך כמוך‬, and the New Testament attestations all correspond with the text of the Septuagint: ἀγαπήσεις τὸν πλησίον σου ὡς σεαυτόν. Certainly not in matters of exegesis but from the philological perspective of the commandment to love there is almost no doubt within the Christian tradition that the translation must read, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” For the translation of the Greek text, there is also no question. However, whether the Greek and Hebrew versions intend the same thing has been a subject of controversy between Jewish and Christian interpreters. Thus, the recent discussion about the translation of the commandment to love has ignited the idea, most prominently represented in Martin Buber’s thesis, that the love of self was not meant to be the measure of affection for one’s neighbor in Lev 19:18 but that it is instead about the recognition of an elementary and genuine equality in which the love for one’s neighbor is grounded. Indeed, Buber translated the text in such a way as to leave it open for more interpretations, by keeping it as close as possible to the Hebrew syntax, “Halte

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lieb deinen Genossen, dir gleich”1 (“Love your neighbor like you”) the meaning of which is clarified elsewhere in that the neighbor is “der dir gleich ist” (“the one who is equal to you”) or “der ist wie du”2 (“the one who is like you.”). As Hans-Peter Mathys has shown, this translation is not an invention of Buber’s but rather dates back rather far in the Jewish history of interpretation of the commandment to love.3 Following Buber, it was primarily taken up by Edward Ullendorf, who may even be attributed with the influence of the interpretation found in the New English Bible, “You shall love your neighbour as a man like yourself.”4 In the following, for the sake of simplicity, reference is made to Buber, but this should be understood as referencing the whole tradition of interpretation and translation which he represents, both before and after him. This tradition would certainly be misunderstood if the love based on equality were written in a more conditional sense, “Love them insomuch as they are like you or you are able to perceive them as like you.” This is not about a feeling of closeness or remoteness that guides the perception of one’s neighbor, rather ‫ כמוך‬includes a statement of a nearly ontological quality without any restrictions. They are like you, and this equality does not depend on the feeling, the recognition, or even the mere opinions of the individual. They are like you, but they are not yourself, and that, particularly, is Buber’s point, which leads him in a direction away from the Christian interpretation of Lev 19:18. Equality can only be taken seriously when the “I” absolutely stands apart from the “you.” That is, the “you” is not a subjective consciousness of the “I” or, in technical terminology, the projection which springs from the “I.” This has the consequence that there is no direct path from the “I” to the “you.” ‫ כמוך‬or ‫כמני‬ is, therefore, not a statement that enables the individual to jump over the boundaries of their own sense of the “I.” Equality as a genuine form of interpersonal relationship must be established somewhere other than in subjective consciousness. It must be guaranteed from outside of the self, and it is precisely this which Buber recognizes as the meaning and significance of “he is like you” coming from the mouth of God. When the individual learns the will of God, they gain, at the same time, knowledge of the self that they cannot draw from within their own self, even though it establishes the sphere of interpersonal relationships in an unsurpassable manner. “Das Du begegnet mir von Gnaden – durch Suchen wird es nicht gefunden.”5 The command to love one’s neighbor 1 M. Buber and F. Rosenzweig, Die fünf Bücher der Weisung (Köln: Jacob Hegner Verlag, 1954), 326. 2 M. Buber, Zwei Glaubensweisen (Zürich: Manesse Verlag, 1950), 69. 3 The earliest reference cited by Mathys appeared in 1782 in the Leviticus Commentary by Naphtali Herz Wessely (cf. H.-P. Mathys, Liebe deinen Nächsten wie dich selbst. Untersuchungen zum alttestamentlichen Gebot der Nächstenliebe (Lev 19,18), OBO 71 (Freiburg Schweiz/Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1986), 6–7). 4 For evidence, cf. ibid. 5 M. Buber, Das dialogische Prinzip (Gerlingen: Schneider, 61992), 15. 3

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is a determination of the will of God that corresponds to the essential nature of humanity. As this brief paraphrase may show, Buber’s translation offers an interpretation rather than a translation of the Hebrew text and should be discussed as such. However, the connections that Buber made are consequential for the reception and discussion of this understanding of the commandment to love. This is seen particularly clearly when Buber postulates that Judaism knows no sense of self but rather only the genuine form of the love of one’s neighbor in Lev 19:18.6 A few years prior, Leo Baeck had already formulated a very similar position as a reply to Adolf von Harnack, Das Wesen des Judentums (1906). Baeck argues that the interpretation history of the love commandment in Judaism on the one hand and in Christianity on the other supports the assumption that Judaism is a religion of altruism, whereas Christianity should be considered as a religiof of egoism. Die eine [scil. das Judentum] ist die Religion des Altruismus, da sie das Streben nach Vollkommenheit dem Menschen zuspricht, der seinen Weg zu Gott gefunden hat, indem er den Menschenbruder sucht, durch Gerechtigkeit und Liebe gegen ihn Gott dient. Die andere [scil. das Christentum] ist die Religion des Egoismus, da sie die Vollkommenheit dem Menschen beimißt, der von den Menschen fortgegangen ist, um den ausschließlichen Weg zu sich zu entdecken und in sich selber zu bleiben. Zwischen diesen beiden Formen der Religion gilt es zu entscheiden …7

Clearly, Baeck and Buber’s positions have to be viewed as a polemical response to the kind of uncritical self-perception as one finds it in Harnack’s “Wesen des Christentums”. However, as with any polemic, this one, too, overstates the case and loses sight of some of the finer points. The primary argument against Buber is that in the Old Testament the idea of the love of self is not remotely as foreign as this theory assumes.8 1 Sam 18:1, 3; 20:17 can be cited as central examples, in which the love between David and Jonathan is formulated with this possibility: ‫ כנפשו‬PN ‫אהב‬, “to love [someone] as one’s own 6

Buber, Glaubensweisen, 701. Quoted from: L. Baeck, Das Wesen des Judentums (Wiesbaden: Fourier, 81988), 58. Franz Rosenzweig explains one of the reasons for the creation of this book in the Freiburger Rundbrief from 1923 as follows, “Harnacks Wesen des Christentums, dies Buch, das in der üblichen gelehrten Ahnungslosigkeit ein Judentum schildert, dessen einzige Existenzberechtigung darin besteht, daß es den finsteren Hintergrund für das christliche Licht bildet, und das ohne diese Funktion an seiner eigenen Lebensunwahrscheinlichkeit zusammenbrechen müßte, hat Baeck veranlaßt, für sich und für uns das Judentum, wie es nicht als Folie für etwas anderes, sondern in sich selber, in seiner eigenen Rundheit und Fülle ist, zu schildern.” Harnack’s Wesen des Christentums refers back to a lecture given in Berlin in the winter semester of 1899/1900. The book enjoyed an enormous reception; by 1927, it had been published in 14 editions and translated into 14 languages. 8 Of course, it would further have to be taken seriously that the LXX is in fact a Jewish canon, which Buber seems to downplay in his argument. 7

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soul (=as one’s self).” As there is no compelling argument against this reference, it seems to further support the translation given by the Septuagint: “Love your neighbor as yourself!”9 The understanding of the love of self that occurs in these passages in Samuel can also apply to Lev 19:18 if one assumes that ‫ ואהבת את רעך כמוך‬has the same semantic meaning as the structure ‫ כנשו‬PN ‫אהב‬. To summarize thus far: When one considers the basis of the Christian translation of the commandment to love, there are essentially two arguments. First, there is the comparison with the idea of the love of self and how it is, in fact, portrayed in the Old Testament; and second, there is the linguistic comparison between the LXX version and its reception history in the New Testament, which renders the love commandment as a form of self-love. Both arguments are, undoubtedly, relevant. However, they do not replace the philological analysis of the Hebrew text itself. Whether they are misleading or accurate, though perhaps for completely different reasons than those proposed by Buber, can only be decided by philological means.

2. Philological Analysis of Lev 19:18 The first step in comparing both of the issues involved in translating is to ask what is more accurately meant by, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” Obviously, this is an elliptical turn of phrase, the full form of which can be reconstructed in two ways. 1. You should love your neighbor as you should (also) love yourself. Therefore, the command to love one’s neighbor explicitly includes a command to love one’s self. In a similar vein, the current insights of both individual and social psychology agree that the love of neighbor presupposes that it comes from an individual whose relationship with the self has enough security, confidence, and awareness of their own short comings and who is equipped with sufficient patience and tolerance. Love of neighbor is only possible when it does not coincide with the loss of self or consuming self-sacrifice, so that it can permit a genuine and authentic form of care for the neighbor. To invert this argument, the type and manner of the love of neighbor must be such that it permits and promotes exactly such a stable and compassionate relationship with the self. 2. You should love your neighbor (as much as) you love yourself.10 This is not about two imperatives, but instead the idea of the love of self is seen as an

9 For the pronominal use of ‫נפש‬, cf. H.W. Wolff, Anthropologie des Alten Testaments (München: Christian Kaiser Verlag, 51990), 44–48. 10 Cf. E. Jenni, Die hebräischen Präpositionen Bd. 2: Die Präposition Kaph (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1994), 110. For examples within the Jewish tradition, see R. Neudecker, “‘And

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anthropological constant from which the imperative is derived. Unlike the first interpretation, the love of self is no fragile measurement which a person is just as likely, in principle, to have or lack as the love of neighbor. Included in this understanding is the idea that the human has a primarily self-referential nature, in a sense “narcissistic,” and has to learn to move from egotism to altruism. Simply put, people naturally love themselves; however, the love of the neighbor is only a result of socialization. Both variants have in common the idea that the relationship with the self is the basis for the relationship with the other. They differ in the way that the two references correspond to each other. As a systematic question, it should be noted that whether this statement should be interpreted as a love relationship is a different semantic question. Buber’s interpretation differs from both in that it does not primarily differentiate between the self and the other but sets the “I” and the “you” as equal and assigns love as the appropriate reciprocal behavior of equals. Grammatically, this difference is that, for Buber, ‫ כמוך‬refers to ‫רע‬, the neighbor and is not the adverbial modifier of ‫אהבת‬, “you shall love.”11 From a purely formal view, both variants are possible. Which of these is more likely can only be answered by whether there is further evidence that a prepositional compound ‫ כ‬+ suffix as a reflexive adverb such as in “as he (loves) himself” can be found or if the solution of an attributive predicate “to be like (you)” is more obvious. 2.1 ‫ כ‬+ Suffix as Adverbial Usage Several verses demonstrate the prepositional phrase functioning as an adverb. The following examples suggest a comparison with Lev 19:18. ‫עד אשר יניח יהוה לאחיכם ככם‬ …until the LORD give rest unto your brethren, as unto you. (Dtn 3:20 JPS)

and ‫כי ככם נדרוש לאלהיכם‬ …for we worship your God as you do. (Ezr 4:2 NRSV)

In both cases, ‫ ככם‬functions as an adverb, and thus they provide parallels for an adverbial relationship between ‫ כמוך‬and ‫ ואהבת‬in Lev 19:18. However, there is a difference between these two distinct prepositional objects. Deuteronomy 3:20 is about the tribes who settled the Transjordan region who must stand alongside those who are continuing on to settle themselves on the other side of You shall love your Neighbour as Yourself – I Am the Lord’ (Lev 19:18) in Jewish Interpretation,” Biblica 73 (1992), 496–517. 11 Thus it is also simplified by T. Muraoka, “A syntactic problem in Lev 19:18” JSS 23 (1978), 291, following A. Ehrlich, Randglossen zur hebräischen Bibel Bd. 2 (Leipzig: J.C. Hinrichs, 1909), 65.

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the Jordan, “…until the LORD give rest unto your brethren, as unto you.” In this example, the ellipse is clearly resolved: until the LORD give rest unto your brethren, as YHWH has [already] given rest to you. There are two different objects referred to in the regular parallel form created by the comparison using ‫כ‬. However, this does not solve the problem of a reflexive reference as is debated for Lev 19:18. Thus it does not settle the question as to whether ‫ כ‬can establish a reflexive adverbial reference such as, “to love someone as one’s self.”12 On this issue, another example is relevant. ‫למען ינוח עבדך ואמתך כמוך‬ …so that your male and female slave may rest as well as you. (Dtn 5:14 NRSV)

Here the ‫ כ‬introduces a comparison between the “you” and “your male and female slave,” which seems to correspond with the use in Lev 19:18. Perhaps the usage in Dtn 5:14 is the best evidence of a reflexive phrase in the commandment to love. However, in contrast to Lev 19:18, ‫ כמוך‬is not an example here of a reflexive use. “You and your male and female slave” is the grammatical subject and therefore cannot serve adverbially, which would be required for a full comparison with the commandment to love. This leads to the earlier mentioned instance in 2 Sam 1:20, which is known, according to communis opinio, to be an example of the reflexive adverbial semantic. Thus it can also be used as indirect evidence for the suspected self-love concept behind Lev 19:18. 2.2 The falsely assumed Synonymy between ‫ כמוך‬and ‫כנפשך‬ The hypothesis that the love of self and the love of neighbor in the David-Jonathan story is the foundation for Lev 19:18 follows the grammatical analysis in so far as it consistently assumes that ‫ כמוך‬has the same meaning and can be used in place of ‫כנפשך‬. Were this the case, however, one would expect that there would be other instances in which ‫ כמוך‬or more generally ‫ כ‬+ suffix has the reflexive character without the connection with ‫נפש‬. As will be seen, this is not the case, and this is precisely the difficulty with the translation “…as yourself.” What exactly does ‫אהב כנפשו‬, “to love someone like one’s own soul,” mean? Can it, after all, be a reflexive self-reference? The exact forms in 1 Sam 18 and 20 are: ‫ונפש יהונתן נקשרה בנפש דוד ויאהבו יהונתן כנפשו‬

12 This runs counter to the classification argued in Jenni, Die Präposition Kaph, 110, that Lev 19:18 and Dtn 3:20 belong to the same thematic category, “Handlungswiederholung mit anderem Objekt.” However, the question of the realization of reflexive speech is not specifically addressed. On the other hand, it would need to be checked as to whether “Handlungswiederholung” is applicable, especially since Jenni understood the commandment to love to be derived from the fact of the love of self.

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The soul of Jonathan was bound to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul. (1 Sam 18:1 NRSV)

‫ויכרת יהונתן ודוד ברית באהבתו אתו כנפשו‬ Then Jonathan made a covenant with David, because he loved him as his own soul. (1 Sam 18:3 NRSV)

and ‫ויוסף יהונתן להשביע את־דוד באהבתו אתו כי־אהבת נפשו אהבו‬ Jonathan made David swear again by his love for him; for he loved him as he loved his own life. (1 Sam 20:17 NRSV)

Considering the context of the David-Jonathan narrative, it is clear what is meant by “love of self” in these instances. There is no question that a precisely formed idea of the love of self yields the measure for the love of neighbor. The use of ‫ נפש‬here has a more concrete meaning than mere self-reference. To love the other as one’s own ‫ נפש‬includes the willingness to jeopardize one’s own ‫ נפש‬for the sake of the other. That is exactly what Jonathan is prepared to do as he redirects Saul’s anger at David to himself. Throughout the narrative, this anger dramatically increases, for example Saul hurls his spear at Jonathan (1 Sam 20:33), just as he tried to kill David twice before (1 Sam 18:11, 19:10). This love for the other like one’s own soul is not thought of, therefore, as a comparison between two reference points (the love of self and the love of neighbor), but rather it is about the substitutional abandonment of one’s own ‫נפש‬, one’s own soul, in favor of the other. This is less a conceptual definition than a statement about the form that the love presented here takes. The covenant in 1 Sam 18:3 and 20:16–17 grows directly from this love. The covenant even requires, if it is to be upheld, the readiness to defend the covenant partner with one’s own life, their own ‫נפש‬. The vassals treaties of Esarhaddon serve as a parallel in the history of religion, in which the Hebrew ‫ אהב כנפשך‬runs into the analogous formulation râmu kima napištika. The vassal pledged themselves to love the crowned prince “as their own soul,” and, according to Wolfram von Soden, here the idea is not that the love for another is measured by the love for self but rather the much more concrete readiness to defend the Assyrian heir with one’s own life.13 To summarize, a person, who is willing to use their own ‫ נפש‬to defend another, loves. Thus, this is not an understanding of love based primarily on differences of motivation. For David and Jonathan the motivation is always suspected to be a homoerotic relationship; whether or not this is accurate, in the case of the vassal treaties the reason is completely different. Despite these very different motivations, the concept of love remains the same. 13

In a brief letter to Mathys (see Nächstenliebe, 26).

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In view of the interpretation of Lev 19:18, the question is now whether these instances can be used as parallels. As has already been mentioned, this is rejected from a philological perspective because there is no evidence that ‫ כ‬+ suffix can be used as a synonym for ‫ כ‬+ ‫ נפש‬+ suffix.14 Objectively, this is also unlikely as the context of Lev 19:18 is neither about substitutional self-abandonment, as in the passages from 1 Sam, nor does it refer to a covenant, or at least it does not allude to or include the terminology belonging to the category of covenant.15 Contrary to the assumed synonymy between ‫ אהב‬+ ‫ כמוך‬and ‫אהב‬ + ‫כנפשך‬, the two fundamentally different understandings of the love of the neighbor are just as obvious as the philological differences and should not be argued to resemble one another. Further evidence that ‫ כנפשך‬may play a role in this context is Dtn 13:7, where the phrase ‫רעך אשר כנפשך‬, “your neighbor who is like yourself” is found. Although, in this context, the discussion is not about the love of neighbor, this raises the question of whether Buber’s translation, “He is like you; he is equal to you,” could be thus expressed and whether, in contrast to this, it would be better to construe ‫ כמוך‬in Lev 19:18 as an adverbial phrase, “love them as you love yourself.” However, here the context again points in a different direction. ‫ לו ולא תשמע אליו‬...‫כי יסיתך אחיך בן־אמך או־בנך או־בתך או אשת חיקך או רעך אשר כנפשך‬ …even if it is your brother, your father’s son or your mother’s son, or your own son or daughter, or the wife you embrace, or your most intimate friend – saying, … you must not yield to or heed any such persons. (Dtn 13:7, 9 NRSV)

At issue here is the temptation to worship other gods than YHWH, the God of Israel. The aim of this law is to prevent this danger, even if the temptation comes from a person close in an intimate manner. This intimacy includes both the genealogical-genetic connection of parents, siblings, and offspring and the sexual, bodily union with one’s wife. That this is, at least in part, about the nature of proximity and familiarity is signified by the phrase ‫רעך אשר כנפשך‬, which generalizes this idea of intimacy to apply to other interpersonal relationships that include this same proximity and familiarity: “Even when someone is as close to you as your own ‫נפש‬, you shall not be enticed into apostasy.” In view of the Samuel instances and certainly in the sense of Deuteronomic theology, this could be paraphrased as, “Even the person you would defend with

14

Thus the assumption that these are “stylistic variants” is not provable (so M. Zehnder, “Exegetische Beobachtungen zu den David-Jonathan-Geschichten,” Biblica 79 (1998), 159). 15 This is counter T.C. Vriezen, “Bubers Auslegung des Liebesgebots Lev 19,18,” ThZ 22 (1966), 9: “Eine Beziehung zu den Forderungen der assyrischen Verträge scheint unverkennbar.” Vriezen further refers to the end of the Holiness Code (Lev 26), which he also wants to understand as covenantal theology. In favor of that he speaks of the thematic closeness of Lev 26 to Dtn 28–29; however, the objection must again be raised that, in respect to the framework of the Deuteronomic legal collection, there is no mention of a covenant.

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your own ‫ נפש‬must not lead you away from YHWH.” The psychologically exclusive and uncompromising requirement of this kind of relationship with God against the most intimate interpersonal relationships is at least noted, even though the theological ramifications thereof will not be discussed here. 2.3 The Syntagma of Preposition + Suffix in Status Attributions If it is now accepted that the semantic range of the syntagma ‫ כ‬+ ‫ נפש‬+ suffix in the Old Testament does not fit Lev 19:18 and, thus, that ‫ כנפשך‬and ‫ כמוך‬cannot be seen as synonyms, then one of the arguments introduced against Buber’s translation is invalid. This raises the question of what ‫ כמוך‬means semantically as opposed to ‫כנפשך‬. Before turning to that, however, it is necessary to consider whether the syntagma of “preposition + suffix” in Lev 19:18 should be understood as an attributive usage rather than adverbial, which is indeed the case. – ‫“ את‬with:” ‫ובאת אל התבה אתה ובניך ואשתך ונשי־בניך אתך‬ …and you shall come into the ark, you, your sons, your wife, and your sons' wives with you. (Gen 6:18 NRSV) (LXX: εἰσελεύσῃ δὲ εἰς τὴν κιβωτόν, σὺ καὶ οἱ υἱοί σου καὶ ἡ γυνή σου καὶ αἱ γυναῖκες τῶν υἱῶν σου μετὰ σοῦ.) ‫ויתן־לך את־ברכת אברהם לך ולזרעך אתך‬ May he give to you the blessing of Abraham, to you and to your offspring with you. (Gen 28:4 NRSV) (LXX: καὶ δῴη σοι τὴν εὐλογίαν Αβρααμ τοῦ πατρός μου, σοὶ καὶ τῷ σπέρματί σου μετὰ σέ) ‫יין ושכר אל־תשת אתה ובניך אתך‬ Drink no wine nor strong drink, thou, nor thy sons with thee. (Lev 10:9 JPS) (LXX: Οἶνον καὶ σικερα οὐ πίεσθε, σὺ καὶ οἱ υἱοί σου μετὰ σοῦ)

In all three cases, ‫ אתך‬does not represent an adverbial but attributive use. In each case, the prepositional phrase is about affiliation (“to be with someone” = “to belong to them”). This is particularly clear in Gen 6:18, in which the emphasis is that only these people who belong to Noah that are permitted to enter the ark. Lev 10:9 also shows that an adverbial understanding would completely distort the sentence. Apart from the issue of congruence, ‫ אתך‬would here refer to ‫אל־תשת‬, so that the prohibition would be against drinking wine with his sons, which is unlikely to be what is meant. The Septuagint seems to mimic the sentence structure of the Hebrew text. This leaves open the question of whether this is thought of, at least by the Greek, as an adverbial or attributive usage. – ‫“ בתוך‬between, among:” ‫לבני ישראל ולגר ולתושב בתוכם תהיינה שש־הערים האלה למקלט‬

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These six cities shall serve as refuge for the Israelites, for the resident or transient alien among them. (Num 35:15) (LXX: φυγαδεῖον ἔσται τοῖς υἱοῖς Ισραηλ, καὶ τῷ προσηλύτῳ καὶ τῷ παροίκῳ τῷ ἐν ὑμῖν ἔσονται αἱ πόλεις αὗται εἰς φυγαδευτήριον)

It is interesting that, in this case, the Septuagint does not assume the Hebrew but rather resolves the prepositional phrase into an attributive construction (the attribute connected to the antecedent by the article). – The attributive use of the syntagma preposition + suffix, in the view of Lev 19:18, demonstrating the use of ‫ כ‬for “as:” ‫נביא מקרבך מאחיך כמני יקים לך יהוה אלהיך‬ The LORD your God will raise up for you a prophet like me from among your own people (Deu 18:15 NRSV) (LXX: προφήτην ἐκ τῶν ἀδελφῶν σου ὡς ἐμὲ ἀναστήσει σοι κύριος ὁ θεός σου)

Grammatically, ‫ כמני‬is an attribute of ‫נביא‬, and ‫ מקרבך מאחיך‬is an adverbial phrase describing ‫יקים‬. The inverted positions of the prepositional phrases related to their referent may serve as a stylistic device highlighting that the promised prophet will be a prophet, who, according to the theology of Deuteronomy, will be as Moses was. It also further highlights that YHWH will raise the prophet up from the midst of the Israelites, so that the prophet will have nothing in common with the soothsayers that are now in the land, which Israel will occupy (18:14). A similar formulation is found in 18:18. The Moses typology is expressed and emphasized by the attributive expression ‫ כמוך‬being moved to the end. ‫נביא אקים להם מקרב אחיהם כמוך‬ I will raise them up a prophet from among their brethren, like unto thee. (Dtn 18:18 JPS) (LXX: προφήτην ἀναστήσω αὐτοῖς ἐκ τῶν ἀδελφῶν αὐτῶν ὥσπερ σὲ) ‫הנה נתתי לך לב חכם ונבון אשר כמוך לא היה לפניך ואחריך לא יקום כמוך‬ Indeed I give you a wise and discerning mind; no one like you has been before you and no one like you shall arise after you. (1 Kings 3:12 NRSV) (LXX: ἰδοὺ δέδωκά σοι καρδίαν φρονίμην καὶ σοφήν, ὡς σὺ οὐ γέγονεν ἔμπροσθέν σου καὶ μετὰ σὲ οὐκ ἀναστήσεται ὅμοιός σοι.) (Vgl. 1 Sam 26:15, 2 Sam 7:22)

The attributive use by the Septuagint is made explicit here by “ὅμοιός.” That is not to say that there has not been and will not be a king who shall arise as Solomon did, but that no king will arise who is like Solomon. ‫אין כמוך אלהים בשמים ממעל‬ “there is no God like you…” (1 Kings 8:23 NRSV) (LXX: οὐκ ἔστιν ὡς σὺ θεὸς ἐν τῷ οὐρανῷ ἄνω)

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Against the syntagma of a prepositional phrase with an attributive use, the argument has been made that this construction is “extremely hard”16 or that in the full form of each a concluding relative clause (with ‫ )אשר‬would be expected.17 However, the latter is only the case twice for the preposition ‫ כ‬in the Old Testament, and thus that is the exception rather than the rule.18 In this respect, there is no reason in the case of Lev 19:18 to cite the lack of the relative particle as an argument against the attributive concept of ‫כמוך‬. Overall, it is therefore clear that the attributive use of the prepositional phrase is not only possible but is also quite common. Combined with the observation that ‫ כמוך‬and ‫ כנפשך‬have different meanings and that there is no evidence that ‫ כמוך‬can be used as an analog for ‫ כנפשך‬as a reflexive adverb “like yourself,” Buber’s translation, for reasons and with arguments other than those he put forward, is the preferable one. Stated with less technical grammar, ‫כמוך‬ is a designation that characterizes the neighbor not the nature of the love. The English translation that comes closest to the Hebrew syntax is, “Love your neighbor; he is like you.” Another possibility would be to express the attributive relationship explicitly with a relative clause, “…, who is like you.” Note, however, that in the Hebrew this is not combined with limitations, in the sense of, “…, insofar as/if he is like you.”

3. Targum and Peshitta The difference between the Hebrew and Greek versions raises the question of how the most important Semitic witnesses transmit the commandment to love. TO: ‫;ותרחמיה לחברך כותך‬ TPS: ‫;ותרחמיה לחברך דםן אנת‬ Targum Neofiti: ‫ותרחמון לחברכון כוותכון‬.

With the exception of the plural forms in Targum Neofiti, it and Targum Onkelos show the most accurate transmission of the Hebrew syntax into Aramaic. The forecasting suffix on the verb, the direct object with the preposition ‫ ל‬as nota accusativi (instead of the Hebrew ‫את‬, which here can also be assumed for the ‫ ל‬in Lev 19:18), and the comparison particle ‫ כות‬are typical Aramaic. A stronger interpretation is found in Pseudo-Jonathan, in which the relative construction does not allow for an adverbial solution but rather the unambiguous translation “…who is like you.”

16

Vriezen, “Liebesgebot,” 7. Mathys, Nächstenliebe, 9. 18 Gen 44:15: ‫“ כי נחש ינחש איש אשר כמני‬that one such as I can practice divination” (NRSV) 2 Sam 9:8: ‫“ מה עבדך כי פנית אל הכלב המת אשר כמוני‬What is your servant, that you should look upon a dead dog such as I?” (NRSV). 17

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On the other hand, the Peshitta agrees with the Septuagint: ʼlw lḥbrk ʼyk npšk. Here an adverbial relationship is indicated with ʼyk npšk. One can consider whether the syntax of the Peshitta transmits the passages from Samuel discussed above onto Lev 19:18. However, historically, it is obvious that the text of the Septuagint had a direct influence on the Peshitta.

4. Mt 5:24 in the Tradition of Lev 19:18 The analysis of Lev 19:18 presented here leads to an important observation of the New Testament, which O. Hofius made on the basis of Mt 5:24.19 Hofius raises the question as to how the form of the commandment to love that is cited here, “You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy,” can be explained by comparison with the actual wording, which, moreover, can be found in Matthew itself (Mt 22:39) and corresponds, as elsewhere in the New Testament, with the LXX. What does it mean that in Mt 5:24 “…as yourself” is replaced by the commandment to hate the enemy? Hofius understands the latter as a translation, according to the understanding of the commandment to love in the sense of, “Love your neighbor, if he is like you!” The conditional clause formulates the requirement under which one should love one’s neighbor: “Love them when they are a member of the same community of worship,”20 and thus are like you! Objectively, although not grammatically, this is also a statement about the neighbor and not the nature of love, so that it clearly forms a parallel with ‫ כמוך‬as “he is like you.”

5. The Meaning of the Commandment to Love in the Context of Lev 19 Hans-Peter Mathys argues that the stalemate between the two translation variants is decided primarily on the basis of philological concerns in favor of the following translation from the Septuagint, “like yourself.” His argument is that the translation “he is like you” is a tautology.21 The previous mentions of ‫רע‬, and certainly in Lev 19, means not “any other” but rather a member of the people, an Israelite, so that the question of relationship is already sufficiently clear and does not need any further explanation. One did not need to be told twice that this is about someone who is like them. 19

O. Hofius, “Nächstenliebe und Feindeshaß. Erwägungen zu Mt 5,43,” in Die Freude an Gott – unsere Kraft, FS O.B. Knoch, ed. J.J. Degenhardt (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1991), 102–109. 20 ibid. 106. 21 Mathys, Nächstenliebe, 29–30.

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Redundancy in the old Semitic style is well enough known that a repetition of the circumstances would not be strange; whether grammatical or semantic in nature, it would not really be conspicuous or even shocking. The question, however, is whether ‫ רעך‬and ‫ כמוך‬actually mean to say the same thing and also whether ‫ כמוך‬is understood as a reference to the idea that the neighbor is an Israelite and, thus, “like you.” In contrast, it is striking that, in Lev 19, the various inequalities, legal and social differences in status, which set Israelites apart from each other, are emphasized. One can even go so far as to say that the entire chapter revolves around the issue of inequality among equals, about the partly obvious and partly subtly concealed social levels and hierarchical arrangements under the umbrella of the ‫בני ישראל‬. Verse 9 contains laws about mercy: in the grain harvest, the fields should not be harvested all the way to the corners that the scythe did not immediately reach and the gleanings should not be gathered in. The last also applies to the harvesting of the vineyard; they shall not be harvested to the very last grape, but enough should remain over for the poor. In v. 13, the general prohibition against theft and robbery is applied to paying day laborers on the same day and not withholding their wage until the next day. Finally, v. 13 and following forbids cheating the disadvantaged and disabled: one may not curse the deaf; place an obstacle in the way of the blind; and finally, use the social position of the socially weaker to their disadvantage in court. Considering the context of the laws about mercy, it is clear that the commandment to love fills a very precise function in the context of Israel’s laws. It is subject to a profoundly realistic insight into the layers of tension and differentiation within one and the same community. For this reason, an understanding of the commandment to love that is built primarily on self-reference results in an understanding that falls short of the inequalities in the social reality of Lev 19. When a person only loves another according to the measure of self-understanding, with his or her own status and prestige, one can actually get caught in a loop that starts and ends with empty self-reference. However, in doing so, one likely loses sight of the overall sensibilities of what Lev 19 attempts to address, that even among equals, some are more equal than others. The commandment to love includes an idea of equality, which is not covered just by national, cultural, or religious affiliation. Being an Israelite meant being a part of a people with a given tradition, a certain self-understanding, a strictly regulated legal and social life, but that society had not yet reached the understanding of equality that is meant in Lev 19:18. The meaning, rather, reveals itself to be in the reverse perspective. The neighbor, who is like one’s self, is a person who is reliant on the protection of laws and social forms that are lifegiving. The neighbor, like me, needs the closeness and intimate warmth of trusted people, because he or she cannot live without all of this. It is sociological and psychological insight into the nature of humanity that once led Hans-

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Walter Wolff to speak of the human as “needy creatures,”22 and this is also an apt description of the view of humanity behind Lev 19:18. A human being is not just an organic construction but also a social being “in need,” depending on their surroundings to meet their various needs, the shape of which they can only partially, or perhaps not at all, influence. This recognition that humanity is dependent on life-giving and life-supporting environments and thus that all people are equal, regardless of their place in the social hierarchy, means that Lev 19’s answer to Kant’s famous question “What should I do?” is to behave towards one’s fellow persons in a way that they find such an environment with you, one that is life-giving and life-supporting for them. Or, in the Hebrew wording, ‫ואהבת את רעך‬, “Love your neighbor!” This may have always been instinctive, particularly with our nearest kindred, which may be founded in an emotional sense of closeness, and when we think about the people with whom we have an intimate friendship, which may also be based on rational considerations such as when we maintain social contacts “only” from those with similar life circumstances and interests. In view of the fact that our actions always have effects that are beyond our immediate control and influence, this may ultimately also be imaginatively applied to people that we may never meet in person. The understanding of love that is expressed in Lev 19:1823 excludes none of these levels, although it specifically responds to one concrete situation. This is possible because the semantics of love are set here deeper and more comprehensively than their specific manifestations in instinct, feeling, understanding, or imagination. In order to have a better understanding of love, one must ask whether the concept of love as found in western cultures, which is restricted to relationships with intimate togetherness, provides a relevant paradigm. For someone to describe a relationship with a friend, a relation, or someone just generally close to them as “love” is, as a general rule, a completely acceptable use of the term. However, when a politician speaks of their love for their land or people, the situation is different. At the very least, we would critically examine the claim, particularly as to whether what they meant was more related to their exercise of power with only a secondary suggestion of any intimacy from love. We would assume that there is no appropriate degree of relationship between politics and everyday life, so that they meant something other than what was actually said. The appropriateness of the term is also debatable when Christians speak of the love of God. That God is to be loved, because God is worthy of love, is one of the obvious rules of the Jewish and Christian “language games.” 22

Wolff, Anthropologie, 25–26. To this argument is added the fact that this is not intended to type the various forms of love understood by the Old Testament. This is especially true of the Deuteronomic commandment to love God (Dtn 6:5, 10:12), which also uses the root ‫ אהב‬but with ‫נפש‬, “soul”; ‫לב‬, “heart”; and ‫מאוד‬, “physical ability,” indicating a different situation as is the case in Lev 19:18. 23

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However, what this describes is less clear and does not have the same selfevident nature as the discussion of love between spouses, best friends, or even toward role models and idols. The Old Testament has a completely different view, but this is not because the Old Testament has a more intimate world view of the world than the modern west. My guess is that the reason lies in the fact that the Old Testament presupposes a much more defined structure of the concept of love, generally speaking, than is the case for us today. The fact that the Old Testament has no difficulty setting the love for God or people as an imperative and thus a component of the legal corpus is noteworthy by itself. This we would have to call a categorical mistake, from the perspective of our understanding of law and our encoding of love as intimate. The German “Bundesgesetzbuch” does not at any point, as far as I know, introduce the concept of love, because it would be nothing more than a legal collection of the individual’s intimate circle, even when love could be expected to include respect for others’ property rights or correct behavior on the road. However, this does not apply to the Old Testament, because its concept of love, at least as indicated in Lev 19:18, has a sufficiently formal structure, which can be transferred to the regulation of very different interpersonal relationships. Love, thus collectively formulated, is the foundational form of any social life, because it is grounded in the elementary anthropological definition of equality as equal-neediness.

6. Conclusion I had mentioned at the beginning that philological study of biblical texts means that the ambiguity of the text must be dealt with but that through this the richness and depth of meaning is opened. “Polysemy”24 is, as is emphasized particularly by H.-P. Müller, not merely a philological problem connected with the constitution of the Hebrew language and its written form but rather forms an essential hermeneutic key for understanding the Old (and New) Testament. Against the considerations presented here, with a preference for one particular interpretation of the commandment of love over other possibilities, the question remains as to whether this hermeneutic insight still yields the tendency toward individuality. Here it seems that the difference between spoken and written text matters. Spoken language, indeed, requires sufficient clarity. What is once said will not, and perhaps cannot, be repeated and must, therefore, be sufficiently ambigious. Textual communication is different. Written language is part textual worlds. In each repetition they can be compared and meditated

24 Cf. especially H.-P. Müller, “Polysemie im semitischen und hebräischen Konjugationssystem,” Or. 24 (1986), 365–389.

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upon. They can expose different perspectives, contexts, or “interpretative milieus.” They live in the complexity that unfolds in every new reading and in every new hermeneutic approach. I assume that for the “first hearers” the commandment to love was clearly understood and the juristic statement clear, “Love your neighbor, for they are like you!” At the same time, however, the linguistic form is so open (‫ כמוך‬as adverb or as attribute) that the worked text has a spectrum of meaning that allows for significant understanding in changing cultural contexts. Perhaps, considerations in this direction can contribute not to abolish the differences between the Hebrew and Greek versions of Lev 19:18 but simply to understand them. Furthermore, an aspect that was not considered in the above observations is how essential it is that the commandment to love is a part of to the Holiness Code. This is the corpus of God’s laws that is marked by the formula ‫אני יהוה‬,25 of which there are more than 50 examples throughout and with which the commandment to love is directly connected. The full form of Lev 19:18 reads, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself, for I am YHWH.” Although, thus far no exegetical explanation has been found as criteria for this “self-introductory formula” in Lev 17–26, it must certainly be included in the interpretation of a verse in which it occurs. Should the syntactic and semantic of Lev 19:18, which has been the primary focus here, be further reflected upon in view of its ethical and anthropological relevance, it must be taken into account that the designations of equality as equal-neediness and of love as providing an environment that is life-giving and life-supporting does not only unfold in Alter-Ego-Relations (person-person, person-God, God-person) but, according to the statement itself, in the triadic structure of person-neighbor-God. This leads, in my opinion, to a close connection between the understanding of love and the understanding of creation, in that the Old Testament statements about creation are essentially also built upon the semantics of “neediness” and “environment.”26 Finally, in the New Testament, the love for neighbor is applied universally, while remaining rooted in the nationalism of the Old Testament. It is indeed true that, historically, Lev 19 includes provisions that regulate the social and 25

For this, see C. Feucht, Untersuchungen zum Heiligkeitsgesetz, ThA 20 (Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1964), 126–127. 26 Central to this is the fact that creation is not thought of as the genesis of entities and their interdependence, but rather that both the natural and cultural environments are set by creation, out of which come distinctive individuals. This applies to the linked pairs in the priestly account of literature (light/dark, heaven/earth, water/dry land, etc.) as well as for the “Yahwistic” imagining of a garden in the midst of the steppe, in which YHWH places humanity. Cf. A. Schüle, “Schöpfer des Himmels und der Erde. Religionsgeschichtliche und systematische Konzepte zu einer alttestamentlichen Gottesbezeichnung,” in Resonanzen. Theologische Beiträge, FS M. Welker, ed. S. Brandt and B. Oberdorfer (Wuppertal: Foedus, 1997), 310–311.

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cultic life within Israel, and thus the “neighbor” of Lev 19:18 also aligns with these provisions. Thus one must search first within the boundaries of biblical Israel. However, the outlined anthropology, on which the commandment to love is built, neither adds nor takes away anything when it is addressed outside of the context of the Levitical legislation.27 Perhaps it would be helpful when thinking of this to address the polemic points from the initially outlined debate. Judaism is not the religion that teaches only to love one’s neighbor but not the enemy, nor is Christianity the religion of egotism that allows the neighbor only to be measured according to the perspective of one’s own self. At the very least, this understanding could be the result of a renewed focus on the philological and contextual meaning of Lev 19:18.

27 This corresponds with the Talmudic interpretation where “neighbor” is now ‫ חבר‬as “the one who is related.” Cf. Neudecker, “Lev 19:18 in Jewish Interpretation,” 499–500.

Sharing and Loving Love, Law and the Ethics of cultural Memory in the Pentateuch 1. The Modern Understanding of Love as “Intimacy” In an investigation of the sociology of love in modernity, Niklas Luhmann presented the thesis that, in modern society, love has become increasingly responsible for the communication of intimacy.1 As a methodological axiom, Luhmann assumes that social life consists primarily of communication, more precisely: of a multitude of different forms of communication, to which belong legal, economic, political, aesthetic and religious communication, as well as those of family life or that of self-referential “talking to oneself”. All these forms occur in every society in one way or another and are indispensable because they mediate between the respective needs of the individual and their integration into a given social unit. Societies, however, differ considerably in the manner in which they coordinate these forms of communication with each other. According to Luhmann’s often expressed conviction, modern societies stand out due to a high degree of specialization. That means, above all, that they no longer connect each contribution to social life in order to bring it into harmony with as many others as possible, as perhaps the case still was under the medieval feudal system. Hence, to take a few examples, that which appears politically meaningful is not dependent upon it also having a believable religious aspect; similarly, we consider it as elementary for the existence of a democracy that those principles are not dependent upon the opinions of markets and the tastes of mass-media; what is deemed as aesthetic need not also have “educational worth”; and finally, modern industrial nations take advantage of the fact that the idea of economic efficiency is not necessarily bound to the support of social rights. The way in which all of these contributions are to be connected into an overarching cultural semantic is not pregiven from the outset; hence the increasing differentiation and individualization of the social sphere suggests both freedom and confusion – the virtue and vice of modern life. According to Luhmann, the communication of love has also gone through this specialization process. To expect love, or to give love, is not always and 1 N. Luhmann, Liebe als Passion: Zur Codierung von Intimität (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1996), esp. 49–56.

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in every instance appropriate. There is communication that is directed to love, and that which avoids it. Love can expect too much of communication; it can in wrong moments break down distance where distance would have promoted the success of communication rather than the “unreasonable demands” of love.2 Whereas concepts such as “respect” and “esteem” are considered – especially in the modern age – as universally sturdy, i.e., always fundamentally to be expected and demanded3 (among marriage partners and siblings equally so as between trading partners or opposition politicians), love concentrates itself on a particular form of social life, namely the communication of intimacy. As Luhmann once pointedly put it, love moves about “within the world of another to find meaning,” to shape one’s own desire, understanding, judgment, and action out of the experience of the other. This is not a form of the unio mystica, which focuses on a merger with the other. Love does not dissolve the boundary between the lover and the loved, despite the poetics of Romanticism that described the absorption in the other as that ultimate, albeit unobtainable ideal. Love does not stand at the end of consciousness and identity, but enters into the risk of gaining identity within the world of someone else’s experience;4 and, on each occasion, it is precisely this preparedness that also stimulates the reciprocation of love. “Within the world of another to find meaning” necessarily implies the idea of other people, people who always remain in approach and don’t have to agree with one’s own actual and, of itself in no way homogenous, world of experience. These approaches move about one another within a field of contact characterized by fulfillment and disappointment – an aspect explicitly, and to the greatest extent, focused upon within the medieval literature of courtly love. Love and its reciprocation constitute closeness, with the risk that the “world of the other” is misinterpreted, misunderstood, or that the whole is experienced at end as unattainable, disappointing or simply closed off. Love is passion in the double sense of experience and suffering. In this regard it becomes clear without much further analysis that love is an enormously costly and uncertain form of communication, one that is actually able to enter into intimate togetherness only for few, albeit particular and deep-reaching, relationships.5 2

Luhmann, Liebe als Passion, 172. This is expressed in its most distinct form in Kant’s notion of 'esteem' as a 'feeling a priori' (cf. his Critique of Practical Reason, original edition 139–150). 4 Cf. on the part of contemporary theology E. Jüngel’s definition of love as an 'event where even the highest degree of self-reference dissolves into an ever higher self-giving' (ein 'Ereignis einer inmitten noch so großer Selbstbezüglichkeit immer noch größeren Selbstlosigkeit)', cf. E. Jüngel, Gott als Geheimnis der Welt: Zur Begründung der Theologie des Gekreuzigten im Streit zwischen Theismus und Atheismus (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1986), 435. 5 Cf. from a biological point of view Attraktion und Liebe: Formen und Grundlagen partnerschaftlicher Beziehung, ed. M. Amelang, H.-J. Ahrens, and H.W. Bierhoff (Göttingen: 3

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Let us linger a moment with Luhmann’s analysis and clarify a few observations that appear characteristic for contemporary culture. Modern societies are being experienced and described more and more as cold, impersonal and loveless. However, in regards to love as a cultural theme, right across the spectrum from critical literature to the expressions of popular culture6, love appears in no way to have “cooled down.”7 Compared with other times, love has not become less important, and people are not unaware that the semantics of love are not wrapped up in physicality or the erotic, despite the eagerness of whole branches of industry to suggest that very thing. The consciousness of the lack of love with the simultaneous emphasis on its inalienability could however hang together with the fact that modern societies adapt themselves to the situation where it is true that love as intimacy possesses a high, even ideal status as seen within the whole field of social communication, but that it only really gets attention in relatively few areas. A further observation, that will be important below, is that in modernity love represents one of the few communication forms that are not also reflected through the legal system of society. Whereas the concepts of esteem (for human dignity) and respect (for the property of the other) are anchored within fundamental human rights, love just cannot – and should not – be expected, let alone demanded or possibly even sanctioned. Understood as intimacy, love crosses the threshold where legality and morality find their limit.8 That does not push love out of the terms of reference of social communication into the “purely private” spheres (as marriage and friendship are also at any time only conceivable within this frame), but it builds here a basis upon which it can evade legal and moral control.9

Hogrefe, 1995). The contributors examine the complexity of genetic, psychological and social factors that encourage or hamper the emergence of love. Axiomatically, the notion of love is thereby located in the sphere of intimate togetherness. 6 On this aspect see J. Herrmann, Sinnmaschine Kino: Sinndeutung und Religion im populären Film (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2001), 212–216. 7 Cf. Luhmann, Liebe als Passion, 13–15. 8 In her reading of H. James’s novel The Ambassadors M. Nussbaum traces a similar tension between love as an intimate space and public morality: “What Strether senses is that what he calls the ‘deep, deep truth’ of sexual love is at odds with the morality of perception, in two ways. It asks for the privacy, for others to avert their gaze; and on the inside it asks that focus be averted from all else that is outside”, cf. M. Nussbaum, Love’s Knowledge: Essays on Philosophy and Literature (New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 188–189. 9 Cf. U. Beck, “Die irdische Religion der Liebe,” in Das ganz normale Chaos der Liebe, ed. U. Beck and E. Beck-Gernsheim (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1990), 248.

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2. Love as a Commandment in Biblical Traditions At this point, the function and status of love in modern societies can help us in view of the Old Testament commandment of love; help us to sense a contrast for the peculiarity of a part of the biblical tradition. The Old Testament also has a concept of love that, at least at first sight, “encodes intimacy”: the love poetry of the Song of Songs, one of the latest texts within the Old Testament canon, is in this regard the most influential piece of evidence. However, it stands out all the more that the Hebraic ‘ahab (to love) is also encountered in connections that lack any reference to the language of intimacy. By that is meant the series of love commandments from the books of Leviticus and Deuteronomy, those commandments for compassion or fraternal love. In the Greek tradition of transmission, which became decisive for Christianity, the text reads, “love your neighbor as yourself!” (Lev 19:18). If one sticks to the idea of love essentially as intimacy, then one runs into a series of difficulties: love appears within the Torah in the form of a commandment. Love becomes an imperative: “You’re supposed to love!” In that regard, the command to love is met in the context of different legal systems – the so-called “holiness code” (Lev 17–26) and in Deuteronomy – and it stands there in both narrower and broader relations with familial, economic and cultic regulations. Its character as commandment determines, therefore, more precisely that love possesses an ethico-legal and therefore normative character. To love or not to love is not a question of sympathy; it does not remain an issue left to the feeling of the individual, their emotional affinity, their affection or even aversion in face of the other. Love is not that unavailable, exceptional thing that simply appears or fails to materialize; rather, it implies a behavior in relation to one’s neighbor that can be required, and, at this point above all, the difference between the ethico-legal view of love in the biblical tradition and the romantic character of the modern understanding of love becomes thematic.10 That leads us to the persons who are supposed to be loved. Above all there are the personae miserae (the foreigner, the widow and the orphan), then the Re’a, the “neighbor” and, outside the series of fellow human beings, finally God himself. The following reflections are aimed at the unpacking of the semantics of love which come to bear in relation to each of these target groups. It will be seen that this semantic is in no way uniform, but rather contains throughout differing aspects that extensively avoid definitional homogenization. However, perhaps it would be appropriate at this point to give an indication of the developments in this area that will be met below. In regard to Luhmann’s observation about modernity – that to love another means “to find meaning in his or her world” – the commandments of love within the Torah stand, in a certain way, in a complementary relationship: the semantics of love 10

On this cf. Attraktion und Liebe, 203.

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become crucial above all in those contexts where one opens one’s “own world” to the other in order to create an environment that meets with his or her requirements for life. Even more pointedly formulated: love has something to do with the work of one’s own experience and actual life for the benefit of the other. This in no way shuts out the understanding of intimacy as that deep, relational closeness, and as a closeness which is not simply at one’s disposal. But the spectrum of a concept of love, understood in this way, becomes considerably broader. It potentially includes all the areas of structured and structurable life: law, property and possession, and equally so the construction of personal identity and cultural memory. As we will see, all these themes are tied up in the series of love commandments found in the Torah.

3. Love and Law Let us focus our examination of the commandment of love upon the personae miserae (the widow, the orphan and the foreigner) beginning with a central passage of the book of Deuteronomy: For the Lord your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, the great, the mighty, and the terrible God, who is not partial and who takes no bribe. He executes justice for the fatherless and the widow, and loves the sojourner, giving him food and clothing. Love the sojourner therefore; for you were sojourners in the land of Egypt. (Dtn 10:17–19)

In that age, no more so than today, were widows, orphans and foreigners people who typically appeared at the lower end of the social scale. It’s true that one can also find in the Old Testament foreigners who had been able to establish themselves within the Judaic state. Under “foreigner” we do not have to think primarily of “ethnic minorities” that were suspended outside the power of the native hegemony. It may have been a matter of individuals, or at most small families, who for the same reasons as always left their homeland and had to build a new existence for themselves. And that could have occurred in all sorts of ways. For example, the Hittite Uriah, the husband of Bathsheba, rose within the military – a route often used by foreigners to establish themselves (2 Sam 11). There also appeared to be particular niches for widows. Occasionally they are met in the role of the wise and, from time to time, even clairvoyant woman who was consulted in particular instances. The widow from Tekoa (2 Sam 14) who was supposed to soften David’s heart for Absalom, and whose appearance was told of in parallel to the wise Nathan, is in this instance a striking example. The “normal case” may, however, have turned out to be much more prosaic. To be a widow, orphan or stranger implied above all the lack of a primary group which guaranteed economic security and social embeddedness, which in turn manifested itself in latent existential uncertainty. This is the foundational

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theme of the book of Ruth, which in many respects was both exemplified and criticized by the levitical and deuteronomic conceptions of law. One could be lead to the conclusion that in these cases love stood to the greatest possible extent as a synonym for “mercifulness”. Therefore, it had to do with help for the helpless, with economic support without the thought of personal profiteering. In the broadest sense it had to do with the establishment of a protected sphere of existence for those who had lost such a space due to their particular biographical situation. The association with compassion is a practical result that is certainly applicable, but it does not yet fully embrace the peculiarity of the talk of “love”. In that regard one sees clearly that widows, orphans and foreigners were not without rights.11 The social status in this respect is deceptive in that even the personae miserae were in no way “outcasts” who no longer existed within the society and could only manage to live from the voluntary donations of others. The Old Testament contains a whole series of regulations in favor of the rights of these groups. Through the so-called Levirate marriage, a widow in child-bearing years had somewhat of a claim to being reintegrated into her husband’s family. The commandment of love was not a reaction primarily to a loss of rights which through compassion had to be offset. The point is grounded much deeper: widows, orphans and foreigners did indeed possess a status to human rights; however, their occasionally precarious situation resulted from the fact that they of themselves had little or absolutely nothing at their disposal to make those rights effective. Rather, they had to rely on someone respecting those rights. Again the book of Ruth is the illustrating text: even the alien widow Ruth is entitled to be received into the family of her closest Israelite relatives. In that regard there’s no doubt. The actual theme of the book, with its partly tragic, partly risqué and partly humorous developments becomes a matter of how Ruth finally achieves that right. Love becomes central, then, where not the right itself but rather its efficacy is questioned. It doesn’t have to do with setting down absolutely what must be done in favor of the weak; but it does have to do with contributing to their rights and welfare precisely when there is no external compulsion to do it. “To love” and “to help someone to gain his right” therefore become semantic correlates. In Dtn 10:18, this connection is made explicit by the usage of stylistic parallelism. The command is introduced by the indicative that God himself is the one who helps (‘oseh mishpat) the widow and orphan to get their rights, and is the one who loves (‘oheb) the foreigner. Informatively, the difference in this regard is in opposition to the formulation of the command in the book of the covenant: You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt. You shall not afflict any widow or orphan. If you do afflict them, and they cry out to me, I 11 Cf. G. Braulik, Deuteronomium 1–16,17, Die Neue Echter Bibel Lfg. 15 (Würzburg: Echter, 1986), 86.

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will surely hear their cry; and my wrath will burn, and I will kill you with the sword, and your wives shall become widows and your children fatherless. (Ex 22:21–24)

It is clear that in the book of the covenant, the rights of the personae miserae are intended, and it is also here presupposed that they are not in the position to stand up for their own rights. However, in distinction from Deuteronomy, love is not the issue in this instance. There is a different constellation here: the motivation to rights is based on the threat of retaliation, for God himself stands up for the rights of this group. In a certain way this establishes the legal “normal case” even for the weak of society. The question as to why one should fight particularly for their interests can remain open in this case, because the validity and effectiveness of those rights are now secured only through the threat of punishment. To summarize so far, we could emphasize two different points: On the one hand, love towards another requires no qualitative leap. In that respect, love can “simply” manifest itself to help the other to get just that right to which he or she is actually entitled. That does not make the foreigner a native, and it also changes only partly the status of widows and orphans. The understanding of love that is to be grasped here comes forth with strikingly low expectations – in distinction to the high expectations given to a romantic understanding of the “power of love”. On the other hand, there is the comparison with the book of the covenant that intends a turning towards the other with a love whose impetus lies outside the sanctioning through reward or punishment, and which nevertheless does not follow arbitrarily but is bound up within the frame of social expectation. That leads us to a decisive question: On what precisely are the motivations to such actions, so distinguished as love, based? The decisive evidence, to which we should now turn, lies in the memory of Israel’s time in Egypt and of the Exodus, a memory that is recorded in Ex 22:21–24 and Dtn 10:17–19 and, in the case of the Deuteronomy text tied in a double sense with the theme of love: as the love of God to the weak, and as the commandment of love to the foreigner.

4. Love and Cultural Memory in Deuteronomy To comprehend the connection of love and memory is at first difficult if one understands love primarily as a state, as a form of presence or sphere in which people find themselves caught up. This understanding, that leads us again down the path of a romantically shaped concept of love, is above all an inheritance of the Greeks. The hypostatization of love within poetry, and its mythical deification in the form of the Olympic gods, had the origins of their cultural his-

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tory much more in the Aegean than in the region of the Fertile Crescent. Accordingly, one finds traces of this view in the Old Testament, above all in those texts, which developed within the time of Hellenism – primarily Ecclesiastes, the Song of Songs,12 and perhaps even Ruth. However, above all in the language of Deuteronomy, in which the abstract concept of love is met with most frequency,13 the meaning of love is highlighted as “to love”, as an activity, as a mode of the form of shared reality rather than an emotional state. The same is also valid for memory, which the ancient rhetoric expressed through the imagery of a space furnished by memory.14 The legislation of Deuteronomy and the holiness laws of Leviticus now combine love and memory in view of the Exodus tradition, as we will see below. In other words: the memory of Egypt and the Exodus releases an ethics to which love belongs as one of the central concepts. How then is this relation of memory to the ethics of love formed? Following the prologue of Deuteronomy (ch. 1–4)15, we find the people of Israel having exited from Egypt, having crossed the desert and, now in the east Jordan region, pausing before they enter into the Promised Land. At this point, Moses turns to the people and presents a great speech.16 This speech is built upon two pillars, the first being a historical account beginning with Israel’s origins and leading up to the present shortly before the taking of the land, and the second pillar being an announcement of the law of God that should be valid

12

“Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm; for love is strong as death, jealousy is cruel as the grave. Its flashes are fleshes of fire, a most vehement flame” (Song 8:6). Love, symbolized by divine insignia like arrows and flames, stand (like death) for that kind of power that humans cannot dispose of but that, nonetheless, determines their fate. 13 Cf. Dtn 4:37; 5:9.10; 6:5; 7:8–9; 10:12; 10:15; 10:18–19; 11:1; 11:13; 11:22; 15:16; 19:9; 21:15–16; 23:6; 30:6; 30:16; 30:20. 14 The classical text on memory as something that creates ‘spaces of recollection'’, is Cicero’s De oratore II, 352–354 which plays a significant role in contemporary studies on the phenomenon of 'collective' or 'cultural memory'; cf. esp. the work of M. Halbwachs: Les cadres sociaux de la mémoire (1925); La mémoire collective (1939) and J. Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis: Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen (München: C.H. Beck, 1997). 15 In what follows I shall confine myself to a synchronic reading of Deuteronomy. As G. Braulik has convincingly shown, different concepts of ‘memory‘ and ‘learning’ are, however, present in all the stages of literary development in Deuteronomy; cf. G. Braulik, “Das Deuteronomium und die Gedächtniskultur Israels. Redaktionsgeschichtliche Beobachtungen zur Verwendung von lmd,” in Studien zum Buch Deuteronomium (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1997), 119–146. For the connection of the prologue (esp. ch. 4) with legal parts of Deuteronomy cf. A.D.H. Mayes, “Deuteronomy 4 and the Literary Criticism of Deuteronomy,” in A Song of Power and the Power of Song: Essays on the book of Deuteronomy, ed. D.L. Christensen (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1993), 214–215. 16 On the literary form of Deuteronomy cf. N. Lohfink, “Bund als Vertrag im Deuteronomium,” in Studien zum Deuteronomium und zur deuteronomistischen Literatur IV (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2000), 285.

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after entry into the land.17 Yet the relationship of narrative and addressee is fundamental in order to understand the sense of this connection between historical review and legal proclamation before the entry into the land.18 Within the narrative, the Israelites are those people who have Egypt and the desert wanderings “deep in their bones”. However, the actual addressee of the text of Deuteronomy is the people Israel who, now long settled, have taken possession of the land and for whom slavery and desert wanderings are no longer present in living memory.19 In this way, a peculiar form of historical representation and historiography is chosen. Which intentions would stand behind such a representation of history? Above all it transfers in an imaginative way those who have come into the possession of land and goods into the position of “not-yetpossessors”. Whoever hears the Torah of YHWH out of the mouth of Moses would be led, as it were, out of the middle of the land to its borders, brought to the point of looking at their possessions as if what he or she owned would have to be repeatedly acquired anew. It is here where the point of the deuteronomic conception of property lies. “Possession” is accordingly the result of just and regulated social relations as well as true knowledge and worship of God – it is not a presumption. As a consequence, the possession of land, goods and life is not actually viewed as “one’s own possession”, but rather as the material reality of a successful life before God and with humanity; and to possess something means then more precisely, to have a share in this reality. Therefore, Deuteronomy contemplates a structure of interdependence in which is essentially embedded what it means “to possess something”. Kathryn Tanner has described through observations about modernity what this cannot mean: This logic of modern property brings with it a certain understanding of social relations. Social relations are, first of all, consensual in virtue of a freedom that is a function of wealth. Having property allows one’s relations with others to be consensual. If one has property one is not at the mercy of one’s fellows, but can approach them on an equal footing. The freedom that having property involves is, moreover, primarily understood negatively - as freedom from others and their potentially unjust seizure or use of what is one’s own. One has one’s own person and the products of one’s own labor without owing them to anyone else. From this perspective, property is left to the sovereign power of the owner. This is a power that

17

In contrast to Deuteronomy, the Book of the Covenant and the holiness laws of Leviticus locate the giving of 'Torah' not at the boarder of the promised land but at Mount Sinai which pre-figures the temple mountain in Jerusalem. 18 See T. Veijola, “‘Der Mensch lebt nicht vom Brot allein’: Zur literarischen Schichtung und theologischen Aussage von Deuteronomium 8,” in Bundesdokument und Gesetz. Studien zum Deuteronomium, ed. G. Braulik (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1995), 158. 19 On the basis of speech-act analysis this has been rightly emphasized by Lohfink, “Bund als Vertrag,” 293.298.

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serves to deny obligations to the “have nots” and to establish a social agenda exclusively according to one’s own discretion.20

It has been noted, however, that such a conception of a sovereign possessor does in fact occur within Deuteronomy. This sovereign, however, is no human being, but rather God. He is the actual owner of both the land that is loaned to Israel, and all its goods (Dtn 8:6–20). God gives of his own free will, and Israel receives all of this under the condition that they follow the commands of God, therefore shaping life with all according to the stipulations of God’s Torah– land and property in return for obedience.21 There exists a broad scholarly consensus that with great probability the book of Deuteronomy has reproduced this form of the double-sided obligation from the conditions of state-rule as they existed between the Assyrian king and his vassals at the time of the late Assyrian empire (8th to 6th century BCE)–a political environment in which the Israelite northern kingdom and Judah also found themselves.22 Deuteronomy adopted this political form and adapted it at the same time against the Mesopotamian supremacy: not the king of a far-off land, but rather YHWH whose word is close to Israel is the giver of the land; and not the keeping of the vassal treaties, but rather the keeping of the covenant of YHWH decided whether Israel would remain in the land or be cast out among all the nations (the latter was the “punishment” that Assur executed against rebellious vassals and which also extinguished the northern kingdom in 722 BCE). Yet the dark side of such a covenantal theology has been also repeatedly raised. In the end, is not YHWH simply stylized as a super-potentate who, though actually more powerful, is just like the Mesopotamian overlord and not really any different? Does that allow for the relationship between God and his people to be thought of appropriately as “covenant”, as an arrangement where both sides have claims and duties? One should note that to the political duties of the vassal, love of one’s king was added. The relevant formula within the vassal treaties is rāmu kima napištika, “to love (the Assyrian King) as one’s own life”. In no way is here demanded an especially deep emotional tie. Rather the meaning of this formulation is essentially pragmatic: to love someone like one’s own nefesh, one’s own “life” or “soul” implies a willingness to devote these to the other. What is being demanded is an allegiance that holds nothing back. The underlying concept of “love” is an all encompassing self-surrender to the person being loved. Loving 20

K. Tanner, “Economies of Grace”, in Having. Property an Posession in Social Life, ed. W. Schweiker and C. Mathewes (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004), 355, 21 Cf. R. Albertz, Religionsgeschichte Israels in alttestamentlicher Zeit 1, ATD Ergänzungsreihe 8/1 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1992), 356–257; T. Veijola, “Bundestheologische Redaktion im Deuteronomium,” in Das Deuteronomium und seine Querbeziehungen (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996), 242–276. 22 For an overview of recent studies in the historical background of Deuteronomy cf. Albertz, Religionsgeschichte 1, 356–360.

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means not holding anything back, but placing everything within the right of disposal of another. In Dtn 6:5, Israel is commanded to love its God “with all its soul” (nefesh), “with all its heart” (leb) and “with all its strength” (me’od). Nefesh denotes physical existence, leb denotes the cognitive and emotional centers of human existence, and me’od the material goods. The covenantal concept of love encircles all the defining characteristics of the person. Hence “theplacing-into-service” of oneself in favor of another becomes the core of love, which does not at all require that the “beloved” other behaves likewise – at any rate, the Assyrian emperor did not add “love” to his own list of political obligations. This is, however, a point where Deuteronomy diverges significantly from the Assyrian model. Although “love” is not part of YHWH’s covenantal obligations, nothing that Israel receives in return for their own loyalty, the love of YHWH for Israel is one of the most defining elements of deuteronomic theology. However one assesses the adequacy of “covenant” as a theological category, it is clear that Deuteronomy has its own particular version of it, making “love” the motivating force behind YHWH’s engaging in a covenant with Israel. And this is the crucial point: whenever Israel remembers its own past, the events that preceded the covenant, this memory is intimately tied to what could be called YHWH’s love story with Israel (Dtn 4:37; 7:8; 10:15; 23:5), a story which encompasses the three largest parts of Israel’s history before their acquisition of the land: the ancestral age (4:37), the time of captivity in Egypt and the exodus (7:8), and finally the forty-year-long desert wanderings (23:5). It is important to see that establishing cultural memory here implies more than only selecting certain events of the past and putting them in historical sequences. It is rather about disclosing and making explicit the peculiar logic inherent in these events that is hidden from a merely descriptive point of view. This is the case also in Deuteronomy: what connects, according to Deuteronomy, the different periods of the early history of Israel and eventually culminates in the covenant and the giving of the Torah is the continuous creating and saving work of YHWH towards what would become his people. In its most explicit form this is expressed in a text that exegetes, following Gerhard von Rad, like to call the “historical creed” of Israel (Dtn 26:5–10). This text starts out “My father was an Aramean about to perish, but he went down to Egypt ...,” followed by the rest of the covenant story.23 Having in mind that in Deu-

23 Today, relatively few scholars would however still agree with von Rad’s influential theory that Dtn 26:5–10 is part to the oldest layers of historical writing in ancient Israel. The consensus is rather that the ‘Creed’ is to be understood as a summary that does not only look back upon the historical events, but synthesizes the related literary traditions of the Pentateuch from a specific point of view (for an overview of the discussion see A. Schüle, Israels Sohn – Jahwes Prophet (Münster: Lit, 2001), 146–152).

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teronomy love is the most inclusive term for YHWH’s creating and saving activity it becomes apparent that the constitution of memory through the text is linked inextricably with the rhetoric of love. It should be mentioned that in Deuteronomy it is beyond doubt that this story is about a love that was never reciprocated. None of the “mighty deeds” of God could move the people to love him of their own accord – not the election of their ancestors, nor the Exodus and certainly not the time in the desert, a time during which Israel doubted the sense and goal of the Exodus, finally rebelling and in so doing tossing aside in their entirety YHWH’s salvific acts. And yet, it is here that we see a concept of love (based in covenantal law) attain a definitive position: YHWH’s love towards Israel does not fall within the obligations of the covenant. Above all, that means that this love is not conditioned upon compliance to the Torah. Israel can neither acquire the love of God through such compliance, nor lose YHWH’s love through its own disregard. In other words, YHWH already loved Israel before the covenant was in place, and he can continue to love them even when they break that covenant. YHWH’s love and Israel’s memory, so we might summarize, frame the concept of covenant. The entire complex of covenant, law, possession of land and goods, and social life within that land is drawn up upon a history of love which precedes all acts of remembering the past as so, and it is this memory that shapes moral conduct at every point in Israel’s subsequent historical presence. This brings us to a position to look again at the connection between Israel’s cultural memory and the command to love the stranger which is made at various points of Deuteronomy.24 We can now grasp the deeper meaning of these texts, which lies in the fact that the history of love between YHWH and Israel opens itself up in relation to the foreigner. Their fate is characterized in a way which at the same time deeply determines the historical identity of Israel, i.e., that the person and status of the foreigner is identified on the basis of Israel’s own creative and salvific experience with God. It is precisely here that we find one of the most excellent cultural and historical achievements of Old Testament ethics. And it is in terms of this identification (which is the sense behind the character of the command of Dtn 10:17–19), that the dispositions and actions towards the foreigner should be fashioned. These dispositions and actions are now described likewise as love, analogously to the relationship of love between YHWH and Israel. Another text (in this case outside of Deuteronomy, but possibly influenced by the tradition) which expresses this notion in equally exemplary fashion is Leviticus 19:34, within the context of the holiness code. 25 To quote from the Revised Standard Version: 24

Besides Dtn 10:19 cf. also Dtn 15:15; 16:12; 24:18. Especially instructive on the role of Lev 19 within the holiness code is M. Douglas, Justice as the Cornerstone. An Interpretation of Leviticus 18–20, Interpretation 53/4 (1999), 25

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The stranger who sojourns with you shall be to you as the native among you, and you shall love him as yourself; for you were strangers in the land of Egypt: I am the Lord your God. (Lev 19:34)

However, the formulation “love him as yourself” requires clarification. The translation here follows primarily the Greek tradition of the Septuagint, which uses the reflexive personal pronoun. Yet in Hebrew, this is not the case. If one translates the text word for word (as far as possible), then the text reads: “Love him – like you.” At the grammatical level, two translations are equally possible: “Love him as yourself”, but also “Love him, he is like you”.26 In light of our considerations thus far, it is clear that the second translation possibility is a better approximation of the sense of the text. What makes the foreigner an object of love is his or her particular fate, which wraps Israel up within its own cultural memory.

5. “Love Thy Neighbor” (Lev 19:18) Here too, we run into the problem of translation that was discussed above all at the beginning of the twentieth century amongst Jewish and Christian interpreters. This problem of translation directly parallels that of Lev 19:34. In contrast to the translation of the Septuagint – “love your neighbor as yourself” – which also lies behind each of the New Testament instances (Matt 22:39; Luke 10:27; Rom 13:9; Gal 15:4), the Hebrew is grammatically ambiguous. Once again, a possible word for word translation would result in a formulation of the command which reads: “Love your neighbor – like you”. The philological approach also yields the possibility to translate the text: “Love your neighbor, (for) he is like you”. Martin Buber, above all others, displayed the advantages of this variant within recent times. Buber formulated this passage in such a way that it left multiple interpretations open, leaving it as close as possible to the 341–349. The interpretation of Lev 19 has recently triggered a discussion on the relationship between narrative and legal traditions within the Torah. C.M. Carmichael, “Laws of Leviticus,” HTR 87 (1994), 239–256 finds a connection between Lev 19,18 and the story of Joseph (Gen 37–50). Above all, it is the relationship between Joseph and his brothers that he sees to thematize both, what separates even those who belong to the same social units and what makes them 'neighbors'. For a critique of this approach cf. B.M. Levinson, “Calum M. Carmicheal’s Approach to the Laws of Deuteronomy,” HTR 83 (1990), 227–257 and J. Milgrom, “Law and Narrative and the Exegesis of Leviticus XIX 19,” VT 46 (1996), 544– 547. On the issue in general cf. R. Cover, “Nomos and Narrative,” HLR 97 (1983), 4–68; J. Watts, “The Rhetorical Strategy in the Composition of the Pentateuch,” JSOT 68 (1995), 3– 22. 26 For a more detailed philological analysis cf. the essay “For He is Like You.” A Translation and Understanding of the Old Testament Commandment to Love in Lev 19:18 included in this volume.

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Hebraic syntax: “Treat your companions kindly, like you” [“Halte lieb deinen Genossen, dir gleich”27]; yet what is intended, according to clarifications he makes elsewhere, is a view of the neighbor “who is your equal”, “who is like you”.28 As H.-P. Mathys has shown, this interpretation is no invention of Buber’s but reaches far back into the Jewish history of the interpretation of this command to love.29 This has nothing to do with a feeling of being close or distant that leads to the fostering of one’s neighbors. Rather the Hebrew term kamoka (“like you”) is much more a statement of an ontological quality that has no limitation whatsoever: The neighbor is your equal, and this equality does not depend upon emotion, recognition, or the mere opinions of the individual. He is your equal, but he is not you yourself – that in particular is Buber’s point, which led him against the Greek tradition of interpretation of Lev 19:18. Equality can only be serious then if there is a definite “You” standing over against the “I”, one that is not simply a projection or a subjective image of a neighbor. Equality as a genuine form of interpersonality must therefore be grounded somewhere other than in subjective consciousness; it must be imported from without. And it is precisely here that Buber recognizes the sense and meaning of the “he is like you” as a command out of the mouth of God. Here we learn the will of God and acquire the realization of the elementary equality of “I” and “You” which we cannot create by ourselves: “The You meets me by grace – by seeking it is not found”.30 The command to love one’s neighbor is a regulation of the will of God, which corresponds to the regulation of the existence of human beings.31 Regardless of Buber’s ingenious feel for language, these interpretations admittedly appear not primarily thanks to philological and exegetical observations, but rather to his general ontological approach. However, it is important for the exegetical approach to the text that Buber finds the aspect of interpersonal equality in Lev 19:18. The sense of the text develops with this into something quite different: the Greek version asks about the type and quality of the love, while bringing love of self and love of neighbor into relation. The second possible version, that arises out of the Hebraic text asks, on the other hand, about the “why” that lies behind the love of one’s neighbor. The connection to the command of love towards foreigners lies in this approach and in that respect

27 M. Buber and F. Rosenzweig, Die fünf Bücher der Weisung (Köln: Jacob Hegner Verlag, 31954), 326. 28 M. Buber, Zwei Glaubensweisen (Zürich: Manesse Verlag, 1955), 69. 29 Mathys finds the earliest reference to the translation 'he is like you' in Naphtali Herz Wessely’s commentary on Leviticus from 1782; cf. H.-P. Mathys, Liebe deinen Nächsten wie dich selbst. Untersuchungen zum alttestamentlichen Gebot der Nächstenliebe (Lev 19,18), OBO 71 (Freiburg Schweiz/Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1986), 6–7. 30 M. Buber, Das dialogische Prinzip (Gerlingen: Steiner, 1992), 15. 31 Cf. H. Gese, “Der Dekalog als Ganzheit betrachtet,” ZThK 64 (1967), 121–138.

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displays an analogy to the deuteronomic understanding of the love of God towards his people. Above all, it becomes interesting then in our context to take up Buber’s translation. The first thing that is then noticed, is that in many diverse ways the entirety of Lev 19 32 stresses the inequality, the legally and socially differing levels of status simply among the Israelites themselves. One could even go so far as to say that the whole chapter revolves around the theme of inequality among equals, around the partly public, partly private and subtly cloaked social divides and hierarchical arrangements among the Israelites.

6. Conclusion At the beginning of the essay, we introduced love – within the horizon of modern thought – as a “code of intimacy”. In this view of loving, “turning towards” another person is accordingly an intentional act which aims at “finding sense in the world of another” (Luhmann) and achieves one’s own identity out of the world of experience of the other. If we look back at the differing versions of the Old Testament command of love, the spectrum widens considerably: love has even more sources than the intimate relationship between “You” and “Me”. The Old Testament version leads at first to the opening of one’s own cultural memory and identity for the situation and support of another who does not belong to the same community (Lev 19:34; Dtn 10:17–19). The forming of such environments to the favor of one’s neighbors is the crux of what distinguishes acts of love. In each of these different versions of the command to love, it is clear that love comes into view less as an affect or emotion, but rather as a special form of creativity which applies in transformative and always new ways to all regions of social life.

32

Especially instructive on the role of Lev 19 within the holiness code is M. Douglas, “Justice as the Cornerstone. An Interpretation of Leviticus 18–20,” Interpretation 53/4 (1999), 341–349. The interpretation of Lev 19 has recently triggered a discussion on the relationship between narrative and legal traditions within the Torah. C.M. Carmichael, “Laws of Leviticus,” HTR 87 (1994), 239–256, finds a connection between Lev 19:18 and the story of Joseph (Gen 37–50). Above all, it is the relationship between Joseph and his brothers that he sees to thematize both, what separates even those who belong to the same social units and what makes them 'neighbors'. For a critique of this approach cf. B.M. Levinson, “Calum M. Carmicheal’s Approach to the Laws of Deuteronomy,” HTR 83 (1990), 227–257 and J. Milgrom, “Law and Narrative and the Exegesis of Leviticus XIX 19,” VT 46 (1996), 544–547. On the issue in general cf. R. Cover, “Nomos and Narrative,” HLR 97 (1983), 4–68; J. Watts, “The Rhetorical Strategy in the Composition of the Pentateuch,” JSOT 68 (1995), 3–22.

References “Made in the Image of God: The Concepts of Divine Images in Gen 1–3,” ZAW 117 (2005), 1–20. “The Reluctant Image: Theology and Anthropology in Gen 1–3” (unpublished). “The Dignity of the Image: A Re-Reading of the Priestly Prehistory,” translated and revised version of “Die Würde des Bildes. Eine Relektüre der priesterlichen Urgeschichte,” EvTh 66 (2006), 440–454. “The Notion of Life: ‘Nefesh’ and ‘Ruach’ in the Anthropological Discourse of the Primeval History,” HeBAI 1/4 (2012), 483–501. “Transformed into the Image of Christ: Philosophical and Biblical Perspectives on Personality, Identity, and Resurrection,” in Resurrection: Theological and Scientific Assessments, ed. T. Peters, R.J. Russell, and M. Welker (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), 219–235. Reprinted with friendly permission by the publisher. “‘And Behold, It Was Very Good … And Behold, the Earth Was Corrupt’ (Genesis 1:31; 6:12),” translated and revised version of “‘Und siehe, es war sehr gut … und siehe, die Erde war verdorben’ (Gen 1,31; 6,12). Der urgeschichtliche Diskurs über das Böse,” JBTh (2011), 3–28. “The Divine-Human Marriages (Genesis 6:1–4) and the Greek Framing of the Primeval History,” ThZ 65 (2009), 116–128. “Evil from the Heart: Qoheleth’s Negative Anthropology and its Canonical Context,” in The Language of Qohelet in its Context: Essays in Honor of Anton Schoors, ed. A. Berlejung and P. Van Hecke, OLA 164 (Leuven: Peeters Publishing, 2007), 309–329. “The Eternal Covenant in the Priestly Pentateuch and the Major Prophets,” in Covenant in the Persian Period, ed. R.J. Bautch and G.N. Knoppers (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2014), 41–58.

324

References

“The Primeval History as an Etiology of Torah” (unpublished). “At the Border of Sin and Forgiveness: Salaḥ in the Old Testament,” translated and revised version of “An der Grenze von Schuld und Vergebung. ‫ סלח‬im Alten Testament,” in “… der seine Lust hat am Wort des Herrn!” Festschrift für Ernst Jenni zum 80. Geburtstag, ed. J. Luchsinger, H.-P. Mathys, and M. Saur, AOAT 336 (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2007), 309–329. “On Earth as it is in Heaven. Eschatology and the Ethics of Forgiveness,” in Who is Jesus Christ for Us Today? Pathways to Contemporary Theology, ed. A. Schüle and G. Thomas (Louisville: WJK Press, 2009), 185–202. “The Challenged God: Reflections on the Motif of God’s Repentance in Job, Jeremiah, Jonah, and the Non-Priestly Flood Narrative,” translated and revised version of “Das Angefochtensein Gottes. Überlegungen zum Motiv der Umkehr Gottes bei Hiob, Jeremia, Jona und der nicht-priesterlichen Fluterzählung,” in Die Anfechtung Gottes. Exegetische und systematisch-theologische Beiträge zur Theologie des Hiobbuches, ed. L. Ratschow and H. von Sass, ABG 54 (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2016), 137–161. “‘Have you any right to be angry?’ The Theological Discourse surrounding the Conclusion to the Book of Jonah (Jonah 3:6–4:11),” translated and revised version of “‘Meinst du, dass dir Zorn zusteht?’ Der theologische Diskurs des Jonaschlusses (Jona 3,6–4,11),” ThLZ 131 (2006), 676–688. “The God who Creates: A Contribution to the Theology of the Old Testament” (unpublished). “The Ethics of Genesis: A Contribution to Biblical Humanism,” expanded version of “Genesis,” OEBE (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 184–188. “‘For He is like You:’ A Translation and Understanding of the Old Testament Commandment to Love in Lev 19:18,” translated and revised version of “‘Denn er ist wie du.’ Die Übersetzung und Bedeutung des Liebesgebots von Lev 19,18,” ZAW 113 (2001), 315–334. “Sharing and Loving: Love, Law, and the Ethics of Cultural Memory in the Pentateuch,” in Having: Property and Possession in Religious and Social Life, ed. W. Schweiker and C.T. Mathews (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004), 51–68. Reprinted with friendly permission by the publisher.

Biblical Passages Old Testament Genesis 1

1:1 1:1–2:3

1:1–2:4a 1:1–3 1:2 1:3 1:6–7 1:9 1:11–12 1:14–18 1:16 1:20 1:20–21. 1:21 1:24 1:24–25 1:25 1:26 1:26.28 1:26–27 1:26–28

1:27 1:27–28

1:28 8, 10–11, 20, 24, 28–44, 52, 54, 58– 59, 62, 64, 70, 76, 95, 107–108, 112, 119, 122, 132–133, 156, 171–173, 176– 181, 266–274 224, 267 31, 46, 50, 53, 58, 70, 72, 75, 106– 107, 171, 174, 261, 266, 280 8 59, 108, 126 73–77, 114 10, 125–126 31, 266 267 31–32, 267 267 34, 58, 108, 117 31, 64, 70, 268 31–32 70, 268 70, 268 31, 33 268 13, 32, 39, 51, 117, 268 29, 38, 179 11, 32, 74 9, 13, 14–15, 20, 24, 28, 35, 38–39, 47–49, 51, 54, 71, 103, 167 20, 29, 53, 60, 268 14, 52

1:29–30 1:30 1:31 1–3 1–6 1–9 1–11

2

2:1 2:1–3 2:2–3 2:3 2:3–3:24 2:4a 2:4b–9 2:4–25 2:4–3:24 2:4–4:16 2:4–7 2:5 2:5–3:24 2:5–7 2:7 2:8 2:9 2:15 2:17

11, 22, 28, 49–50, 53, 62, 145, 167 28 64, 71, 110, 179, 268–269 36, 99, 118 9–10, 29, 37–40, 44 36 9, 15–16, 36–37, 179, 181 27, 29, 31, 37, 47, 63–64, 70, 74, 79, 105–107, 114, 118, 121, 133, 171–174, 181, 270 9, 13–14, 20–21, 28, 39–41, 43, 64, 116, 122 270 159 158, 172, 269 14, 159 23 10 9 37, 39 13, 269 283 64, 74 23 40 23 23, 39, 64, 74, 103, 125–126, 272 28 112 23, 28 37, 112, 174

326 2:18 2:18–24 2:19 2:19–20 2:21 2:21–22 2:23 2:24 2–3

2–4 3

3:1–24 3:6 3:7 3:8 3:11–13 3:14–24 3:20 3:22 3:22–24 3:23 3:24 4 4:1–16 4:1–19 4:2 4:6–7 4:7 4:10 4:23 5 5:1 5:1–3 5:3 5:22.24 5:28–31 5:29 6 6:1–2a 6:1–3 6:1–4 6:3

Biblical Passages 41, 269 9 23, 71 41 42 42 42 23 9–10, 16, 18–25, 37–44, 105, 109, 111, 128, 132, 173 116–117, 121, 173 21–23, 40, 43, 51, 105, 108, 115–117, 284 283 43 43 43 116 23 23, 42 116 80 23, 29 29 247 282 282 29 116–117 115, 117, 278, 283 282 282 48, 58, 107, 125, 269 14, 54 13, 24, 29, 51–52, 54, 71, 177, 269 13, 54, 60 278 282 238 173 125 123 121–133 74, 121, 125–126, 136

6:4 6:4aα 6:5 6:5–8 6:5–8:22 6:7 6:8 6:9 6:9–12 6:9–13 6:9–22 6:10.13 6:11 6:11–13 6:11–14 6:12 6:12.17 6:12–13 6:13 6:17 6:18 6:28 6–8 6–9 7:1 7:6 7:6–7 7:11–12 7:13 7:15 7:15.22 7:17b-20 7:21 7:22 8:1 8:1–2 8:6 8:6–7 8:15–17 815–18 8:20–22 8:21 8:21–22 8:22 9 9:1

124, 128–129 123 111–112, 117, 142– 145, 174 113, 144, 237 236 237 143–144, 237 58, 224, 278–279 107, 281 172 48 35 14, 60, 107, 269 58, 174, 240 237 33, 99, 115 34 36 173 64, 74, 136 160, 297 281 34, 142, 145–147, 151 107, 111, 116 143, 145 224 48 48 172 64, 136 74 48 64 64, 126 74–75, 175 48 145 48 167 48 105, 113, 237 111–112, 117, 142– 143, 174, 238–239 239 148 159, 168, 178–180 175

327

Biblical Passages 9:1–3 9:1–7 9:1–17 9:2 9:3 9:4–5 9:4–6

9:5 9:5–6 9:6 9:6–7 9:8–17 9:9 9:9–11 9:9–17 9:10 9:12 9:12–16 9:13–15 9:15 9:17 9:28–29 10 10:1–7 10:13–32 11 11:1–9 11:10–32 12 12:1 12:10–20 12–36 12–50 15 15:5–6 15:12 15:16 15:6 17 17:1 17:9–1 17:12–13 18

167 175 48, 64, 107, 167, 175 36, 179 28, 145 71 29, 51–60, 64, 71, 103, 110–113, 168, 176–178, 180, 239, 269, 277, 281–282, 286 177–178 71 14, 37, 61 24 175 168 180 110, 160 70–71 70–71, 168 180 175 175 168 48 56, 105, 177 48 48 105 56, 105 48 105 285 284 277 284 286 286 21 289 279, 286 156, 159, 162, 176, 180 162, 278 160 161 282

18:1–15 18:12 18:16–19:29 18:20–33 19 20:1–18 21.24 22:1–9 22:1–19 22:10 24:40 25:29–34 26:1–14 26:24 27:1–19 28:4 29–31 31:3 31:19 32:5 32:23–33 33:8.15 34 34:1–31 34:2 34:11 34:30–31 37:1–35 37:12–36 37:26.31 37-50 39:4 44:15 48:15 50:20

285 285 282 194 282 284 64 286 279, 287 287 278 284 284 278 284 297 280 285 285 143 285 143 282 282 282 143–144 284 282 284 282 319, 277, 321 143 299 278 283

Exodus 4:24–26 6:3 12:44 14:21 20:8–10 20:11 20–40 21:12–14 21:12–32 21:15–16 21:28 22:9

160 162 160 75 161 158 159 177 177 177 177 228

328 22:21–24 23:1 25:1–31:11 25:20–22 25–31 26:31–36 31 31:12aα 31:12–15 31:12–17 31:15 31:15–17 31:16 31:16–17 31:17 31:31–34 32:10 32–34 34 34:6–7 34:6–9 34:6–10 34:7 34:9 34:10 34:10–27 35 35:1–3 35:4–39:43 35:30–31 35–40 40 40:33 40:34 40:34–38 Leviticus 1–16 4:2.13 4:3 4:13 4:20b 4:20bα 4:27–31 4–5 5:1–4 5:16

Biblical Passages 313 108 159 209 171 209 159, 162, 180 158 158 157–161 158, 161 158 156, 169 158, 160, 167 158, 169 167 201 159, 198, 226 211–214 198–200, 211, 214, 226 198, 200, 209, 211 215 200 185, 211–212 199, 211 155 159 159, 161 159 75 171 156, 170 270 162, 270 155

168 187 187 185 187 186 208 184, 187, 190, 208, 213 188 187

9:22–24 10:9 12:3 16 16:33 16:34 17:14 17–26 19 19:9 19:13 19:13–15 19:18 19:18.34 19:34 26

156 297 160 187, 213 213 156 136 157, 304, 310 300–304, 319, 321 301 301 301 289–305, 310, 319– 321 289 318–321 296

Numeri 6:6 13:32 13:33 14 14:18–20 15:22–31 15:25–28 15:31 16:22 16:28–33 19:14–15 27:16 32:22.29 33:52 35:15

67 129 129 199 198–199 188 184, 208 188 136 184 67 136 281 16 298

Deuteronomy 1–4 3:20 4:37 5:2 5:9–10 5:12–15 5:14 6:5 7:8 7:8–9 8:6–20 10:12 10:15

314 293–294 314, 317 155 314 161 294 302, 314, 317 317 314 316 302, 314 314, 317

329

Biblical Passages 10:17–19 10:18 10:18–19 10:19 11:1 11:13 11:22 13:7 13:7.9 15:15 15:16 16:12 18:14 18:15 18:18 18:21–22 19:9 19:16 21:15–16 23:5 23:6 24:18 26:5–10 28:69 28–29 29 29:15–18 29:20 30:6 30:16 30:20

311, 313, 318, 321 312 314 318 314 314 314 296 296 318 314 318 298 298 298 250 314 108 314 317 314 318 317 155 296 193–195 193 193 314 314 314

Joshua 5:2–7 18:1

160 281

1 Samuel 1:17–18 18 18:1 18:3 18:11 19:10 20 20:16–17 20:17 20:33 26:15

144 294 291, 295 291, 295 295 295 294 295 291, 295 295 298

2 Samuel 1:20 7 7:22 9:8 11 14 23:5 1 Kings 3:12 5:4 8

294 169 298 299 311 311 165

8:23 8:27–29 8:27–30 8:30 8:33–34 8:33.35.46 8:34 8:34.36.39.50 8:35 8:37 8:46–50 8:50 11:9

298 50 69, 184, 190–198, 210–211 298 189 69 189, 192 191, 209 190 191 190 190 190 191, 209–210 192 143

2 Kings 4:34–35 11:18 14 14:25 14–15 24:2

39 16 251 236, 247 247 193

2 Chronicles 6:25.39 7:13–14

184 184

Ezra 4:2

293

Nehemiah 5:5 9 9:17

281 192 198, 200

330

Biblical Passages 104

Job 3:1–7 7:7–21 9:13–35 9:21 31:5–37 33:15 38:1–38 38:11 38:16–20 38:39–39:30 38–40 38–41 39 39:1–4 39:9–10 40:15 40:15–19 42:7 42:10

232 232 224 232 233 21 273 273 273 273 247 33, 233, 272, 274 273 273 274 274 274 227 228

Psalms 6:3 8 8:6 11:4 18:16 19 24 24:1 25:11 35:13 36:10 42 42:1–2 42:2–4 42:9–11 50:12 71 71:9–11 84:3 86:5 89 89:1 89:13.48 99:5 103 103:3

272 268, 272, 274 268 262 261 278 261 261 185 42 66 66, 228 262 66 228 261 228 228 66 185 169 261 184 262 136, 270 185

104:1.35b 104:1–4 104:2 104:3 104:5–9 104:10–18 104:10–23 104:24 104:27–30 104:31–35 110:1–2 119 119:18 130:4 132:7 145 148:5 150

33, 76–78, 136, 270–273 270 270 271 271 270 271 271 271 271 77 59 278 43 214 262 270 184 270

Proverbs 8:22 8:36 10:6 10:11

274 108 108 108

Qoheleth 1:17 2:1 2:3 2:20 2:22–23 3:1–9 3:2–3 3:10–11 3:11 3:19–21 4:11 4:17 4:17–5:6 5:1 5:1b 5:3 5:18–19 7:3–4 7:7 7:14 7:21

138 141 138 138 138 148 148 139 80, 141 77 141 150 150 151 150 137 139 137 137 141 141

331

Biblical Passages 7–8 8:6 8:6–7 8:9 8:11 8:16 8:20–22 9:1 9:2 9:2–3a 9:3 9:3a 9:3b 9:10 9:12–13 10:2 10:7 10:20 11:9 23–24

141 142 141 138 137, 140–141 138 150 141 150 140 140–141 140–141 140–142 141 141 138 136 141 137, 140 141

Song of Songs 8:6

90, 314

Isaiah 2:1–4 5:1–7 6:6–7 11:1–9 11:6–8 14:6 25:8 38:17–18 40:21–28 40:23–24 40:25 40:27–28 40–48 40–55 40–66 41:8 41:8.51:2 43:1–7 44:12–19 45:1–3 45:7–8 49:12–18 51:2 55

265 172 39 114 280 50 114 229 263 264 264 264 7 263 184 156 264 264 264 265 265 265 156 165, 196–198

55:1–5 55:3 55:3–7 55:7 55:8 56:6–7 56:7 61:8–9 65:17–25 65:25 65–66

165 195 209 185, 195, 215 226 161 69 165 114 114 119

Jeremiah 1:9 4:1–4 5 5:1–2 5:1–2.7–8 5:1–8 5:7–9 11:18–23 11:19–23 12:1–6 12:2 12:3–5 12:4 12:5 15:10 15:10–21 15:16–18 15:17–19 15:19 17:15 18 18:7–8 18:18–23 20:7–18 20:14–18 20:17 31 31:19–20 31:22 31:31 31:31–33 31:31–34 31:33 31:33–34 31:34 32:39–41

39 255 194 193 194 195 193 231, 241 231 231 253 231 253 255 232 231 253 232 254 252 234, 255 234, 250 231 231, 233 253 232 212 178 184 163 146, 166 166, 196, 212 166 209 185, 196, 209 166

332

Biblical Passages

32:40 33:7–8 33:8 33:9 33:25–35 33:34 33:40 34:11.16 50:20

166 197 185 197 166 196 166 281 185, 197

Lamentations 3:42 3:42–44

191 209

Ezekiel 1:26 2:8–3:3 7:2–6 11:19 16:17 16:60 18 18:1–9 29:15 36:26 37 37:1–14 37:21–26 37:26–28 47:9

51 39 172 112, 115 16 163 161 178 50 112, 146 165 76 164 165 71

Daniel 9 9:4–19 9:19 12:2–3

192 192 185, 192 79

Hosea 12:4

284

Joel 2:14a Amos 7:1–6 7:2 7:7–8 7–9 8:1–2

8:2 9:1–4 Jonah 1:1–2 1:3.5 1:3–16 1:9 1–3 2 2:1 2:3–10 2:11 3 3:1–10 3:2–10 3:4 3:5 3:6–4:4 3:6–4:11 3:6–10 3:9 3:9a 3:10

172, 194 194

4 4:1–4 4:2 4:3 4:4 4:5 4:5–9 4:5–11 4:9 4:10–11 4:11 4:11b

244–245 244 244–245 251 246, 251 243 245 244, 246 244 234, 246, 249, 255 244 245 235 255 257 243 249, 258 255 249 234–235, 246, 251– 252, 255 246, 249, 254 234, 245, 252–258 247, 252 248, 256 234, 254–256 235, 255 245 235, 255–258 256 235, 245 254, 257 241

Micah 4:7 7:19

42 60, 281

Nahum 3:18–19

254

Zephaniah 3:19

42

249

194 185, 194–195 194 194 194

333

Biblical Passages Zechariah 9:15

281

Wisdom 2:1–6 2:23 3:1–3 3:6–7 7:21 7:21–22 9:17

78 78 79 79 75 78 75

Sirach 5:2

137

16:8 28:2

123 204, 217

Qumran 11Q19 212 11Q19 XXVI, 9–10 213 1QH 207 1QHa VI, 23–24 213 1QHa XIV, 7–9 213 1QHa XV, 29–32 215 1QHa XVII, 33–36 214 1QS 212 4QInstruction 215 4QMMT 212

New Testament Matthew 3:2–8 5:20 5:24 5:48 6:10 6:12 6:14 6:14–15 6:33 9:2–7 9:5 18:21–22 18:21–35 18:24–35 22:1–14 22:39 23:23 23–25 24:43–44 25:1–13 25:32 Mark 1:4 2:1–12 2:7 11:25

216 203, 220 300 217 205 203, 205, 217–218 204, 217 204 206 204, 206, 218 207 218 219 204 217 289, 300, 319 205 219 217 217 219

216 206 206 204

Luke 3:3 5:17–26 6:37 10:27 17:3–4 23:43

216 206 204 289, 319 218 22

Acta Apostolorum 2:7 22 Romans 4:4 6:5 8:11 8:23 8:29 13:9 13:14

203 84 95 95 84, 87 289, 319 84

1 Corinthians 15:20.23 15:53 15:53.54

84 85 84

2 Corinthians 5:5 8:6

95 95

334

Biblical Passages

Galatians 3:27 4:19 15:4

84 84 289, 319

1 Thessalonians 4:13–18

83

5:2

217

James 2:8

289

Authors Abou-Assaf, Ali 15 Agus, Aharon 257 Ahn, Gregor 68 Albertz, Rainer 22–23, 316 Althaus, Paul 227 Anderson, Bernhard W. 264 Angerstorfer, Andreas 8, 15, 184 Aoki, Takako 228, 262 Aronofsky, Darren 239 Assmann, Jan 11, 149–150, 188, 229, 314 Auerbach, Erich 285 Backhaus, Franz J. 145 Baeck, Leo 291 Balentine, Samuel E. 210, 224 Barloewen, Consantin von 82 Barr, James 15 Bartelmus, Rüdiger 128 Barth, Chrtistoph 228 Barth, Karl 259–260 Bauks, Michaela 266 Baumgart, Norbert Clemens 105–107, 172, 179, 237, 239 Baumgartner, Walter 252 Bautch, Richard J. 161–162 Bayer, Oswald 227 Bechtel, Lyn M. 282 Beck, Ulrich 309 Berger, Peter L. 88–90 Berges, Ulrich 263 Berlejung, Angelika 7, 17, 39, 75 Betz, Hans Dieter 84, 203–204 Bezzel, Hannes 231 Bird, Phyllis A. 22 Blenkinsopp, Joseph 9–10, 23, 68, 72– 73, 110, 113, 143, 166, 173, 267 Blischke, Mareike Verena 79 Blum, Erhard 157, 249 Blumenberg, Hans 101, 119 Boda, Mark J. 210 Bonhoeffer, Dietrich 83

Bosshard-Nepustil, Erich 106, 172, 174, 237 Braulik, Georg 312, 314 Brown, William P. 70, 280 Brueggemann, Walter 195 Buber, Martin 289–293, 296–299, 319– 321 Bührer, Walter 38–39 Burchard, Christoph 95 Calvin, Johannes 83, 244–246 Carmichael, Calum M. 319, 321 Carr, David M. 9, 23, 174 Cascardi, Anthony J. 86 Charlesworth, James H. 216 Christianson, Eric S. 136, 138 Cicero, Marcus Tullius 314 Clines, David J. A. 54, 125 Cohen, Anthony P. 86 Collins, John J. 214–215 Cooper, Alan 258 Cornelius, Izak 7 Cover, Robert 319, 321 Crenshaw, James L. 286 Cross, Frank M. 14, 191 Crüsemann, Frank 112, 116 Curtis, Edward Mason 48 Dalferth, Ingolf U. 84 Dante Alighieri 82 Dentan, Robert C. 185, 198, 202 Descartes, René 86 Diamond, A.R. Pete 230 Dick, Michael B. 17, 39 Dietrich, Manfried 7, 17 Dietrich, Walter 225, 229 Dietzfelbinger, Christian 204 Dillman, August 160 Dilthey, Wilhelm 82 Döhling, Jan-Dirk 234, 240 Dohmen, Christoph 13, 199 Douglas, Mary 318, 321 Dupré, Louis 46 Ebeling, Erich 17

336 Ehrlich, Arnold B. 293 Elnes, Eric E. 65 Erikson, Erik H. 86 Fabry, Heinz-Josef 21 Feldtkeller, Andreas 56 Feucht, Christian 304 Finley, Thomas 183 Fischer, Georg 166 Ford, J. Massingberg 218 Ford, Lewis S. 90 Fox, Michael V. 136–138, 283 Freedman, David Noel 198 Frevel, Christian 49 Gane, Roy 186–187 Garr, W. Randall 56 Gass, Erasmus 239 Gerhards, Meik 30 Gertz, Jan Christian 38, 63, 105, 117 Gese, Hartmut 181, 186, 236, 247–248, 320 Giddens, Anthony 86 Gladigow, Burkhard 7 Gnaeus Naevius 90 Gordis, Robert 135–136, 143 Graf von Baudissin, Wolf Wilhelm 66 Graham, Larry Kent 57 Greenberg, Moshe 164, 172 Groethuysen, Bernhard 82 Groß, Walter 11, 13, 15, 49, 72, 157, 161, 163, 196–197, 201 Gunkel, Hermann 13, 121 Halbwachs, Maurice 314 Halpern, Baruch 191 Hanson, Howard E. 184 Harland, Peter J. 167 Harnack, Adolf von 291 Hartenstein, Friedhelm 66 Hendel, Ronald S. 123 Hermisson, Hans-Jürgen 252 Herring, Stephen L. 39 Herrmann, Jörg 309 Hesiod 127–128, 132 Hildebrandt, Wilf 73 Hofius, Otfried 300 Hossfeld, Frank-Lothar 228 Hughes, Julie A. 214 Jacob, Benno 56, 238 Jacobsen, Thorkild 17 James, Henry 309

Authors Janowski, Bernd 11, 40, 49, 65, 72, 112, 149, 162, 171, 186, 189, 229, 240, 261–262, 287 Jenni, Ernst 292, 294 Jeremias, Jörg 226, 236, 247, 249, 264, 272 Johnson, Uwe 223, 241 Johnstone, William 198 Josephus, Flavius 8, 155 Jüngel, Eberhard 308 Jüngling, Hans-Winfried 163 Kaiser, Otto 225 Kalimi, Isaac 286 Kant, Immanuel 57, 308 Karageorghis, Vassos 129 Kaufman, Gordon D. 82 Keel, Othmar 7, 12, 106 Kepler, Johannes 100 Knohl, Israel 157–158, 274 Knoppers, Gary N. 169, 191 Koch, Klaus 11–12, 49 Köckert, Matthias 286 Krašovec, Jose 197 Kratz, Reinhard G. 9–10 Krochmalnik, Daniel 47 Krüger, Thomas 109, 112, 115, 141, 144, 224, 249–250, 255–256, 271 Kruhöffer, Gerald 47 Kugel, James L. 278 Kutsko, John F. 8, 165 Kvanvig, Helge S. 126 LaCocque, André 100, 117 Lambert, Wilfred G. 103 Lampe, Peter 84 Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm 99–100, 104, 107, 109, 111, 113, 118, 225, 227 Leuenberger, Martin 226 Levenson, Jon D. 76, 113–114, 117, 191, 270 Levin, Christoph 142 Levinson, Bernard M. 319, 321 Link, Christian 55 Locke, John 86 Lohfink, Norbert 40, 135, 150–151, 314–315 Loretz, Oswald 7, 17 Lucretius Carus, Titus 27 Luhmann, Niklas 104, 307–310, 321

Authors Luther, Martin 227, 243–246 Lux, Rüdiger 251, 257 Luz, Ulrich 203–204, 217 Magonet, Jonathan 248–249, 255 Mason, Steven 162 Mathys, Hans-Peter 290, 295, 299–300, 320 Maul, Stefan M. 65, 101, 104, 189, 262 Maussion, Marie 141 Mayes, Andrew D. H. 314 Mays, James L. 76 McBride, S. Dean 49, 105, 155, 171 McConville, J. Gordon 193 McDowell, Catherine 40, 44 Mead, George Herbert 86 Merz, Annette 206 Meshullam, Margaliot 198 Mettinger, Tryggve 8, 12, 100, 117 Michel, Andreas 202 Michel, Diethelm 67, 135 Michelangelo Buonarroti 46–47, 82 Middlemas, Jill 32 Middleton, J. Richard 55 Milgrom, Jacob 158, 186, 319, 321 Millard, Allan R. 103 Millard, Matthias 171, 176, 180 Miller, J. Maxwell 15 Miller, Patrick D. 11, 180 Moberly, R. Walter L. 174, 198–201, 211, 238 Moltmann, Jürgen 56, 83, 267 Mowinckel, Sigmund 155 Müller, Hans-Peter 11, 21, 303 Muraoka, Takamitsu 293 Murphy, Nancey 63, 86 Murphy, Roland E. 147 Neudecker, Reinhard 292, 305 Neumann-Gorsolke, Ute 48 Newsom, Carol A. 213 Newton, Isaac 100 Niehr, Herbert 7 Nietzsche, Friedrich Wilhelm 139 Nihan, Christoph 157 Nogalski, James 244, 246 Noth, Martin 12, 192, 195 Nötscher, Friedrich 66 Nussbaum, Martha 309 O’Brien, Mark 191 O’Connor, Kathleen M. 230

337 Oberforcher, Robert 172 Ockinga, Boyo 48 Oeming, Manfred 122 Oevermann, Ulrich 89 Olyan, Saul 158–160 Opgen-Rhein, Hermann J. 244 Otto, Eckart 9–10, 23, 118 Pannenberg, Wolfhart 85 Pardee, Denis 67 Parfit, Derek 87, 90–94 Petersen, David L. 125 Phillips, Anthony 198 Pidcock-Lester, Karen 227 Pollack, Detlef 89 Preuss, Horst Dietrich 147 Pritchard, James B. 20 Puëch, Émile 184 Quack, Joachim Friedrich 160 Rad, Gerhard von 11, 13, 75, 105, 119, 121, 145, 155, 259–260, 266, 283, 317 Reintjens-Anwari, Hortense 82 Rendtorff, Rolf 105 Repschinski, Borus 203 Riede, Peter M. 239 Robinson, Bernard P. 202 Rom-Shiloni, Dalit 166 Rösel, Martin 13 Rosenzweig, Franz 290–291, 320 Rudman, Dominic 139 Russell, Robert John 87 Rüterswörden, Udo 48 Ruwe, Andreas 158–159 Sachau, Rüdiger 81 Sakenfeld, Katharine Doob 199–200 Sasson, Jack 246, 254 Saur, Markus 224 Scharbert, Josef 199 Schart, Aaron 246, 257 Schellenberg, Annette 30, 35, 71, 167, 179, 239–240, 268 Schlisske, Werner 122 Schmid, Hans H. 260 Schmid, Konrad 22–23, 69, 105, 117, 196, 225, 233, 257, 260 Schmidt, Werner H. 8, 31, 33, 49, 106 Schoors, Antoon 141 Schroer, Silvia 12, 106

338 Schüle, Andreas 20, 38, 40, 47, 55, 68, 70, 73–74, 94, 106–110, 115, 119, 122, 167–168, 171–172, 176, 183, 207–209, 211, 230, 235, 237, 252, 269, 281, 304, 317 Schüngel-Straumann, Helen 52–53 Schwartz, Baruch 38 Sedlmeier, Franz 112 Seebass, Horst 238 Seow, Choon-Leong 141 Seybold, Klaus D. 228 Singer, Peter 92 Ska, Jean-Louis 143 Smend, Rudolf 172 Smith, Mark S. 70, 107 Soden, Wolfram von 295 Spieckermann, Hermann 9, 22–23, 116 Spinoza, Baruch de 100 Stackert, Jeffrey 158–159 Stamm, Johann Jakob 189 Steck, Odil Hannes 32, 50, 105 Stoebe, Hans Joachim 166 Sweeney, Marvin A. 198 Tamez, Elsa 137 Tanner, Kathryn 86, 315–316 Theissen, Gerd 206 Tillich, Paul 23 Timmer, Daniel C. 159 Tomes, Roger 191 Toulmin, Stephen 86 Towner, W. Sibley 284 Trible, Phyllis 12, 50, 54, 255, 258 Uehlinger, Christoph 7, 42, 142 Ullendorf, Edward 290 Van den Eynde, Sabine 158 Van Seters, John 23, 198 Vanoni, Gottfried 249 Veijola, Timo 315–316 Vermeylen, Jacques 198, 200 Vieweger, Dieter 196

Authors Volz, Paul 14 Vriezen, Theodor C. 296, 299 Wagner, Peter 86 Wagner, Thomas 261 Walker, Christopher 17, 39 Walker, Norman 198 Walton, John H. 70 Watts, James 319, 321 Weimar, Peter 65, 249 Weinfeld, Moshe 12 Weippert, Helga 166 Weippert, Manfred 11, 13, 15 Welker, Michael 45, 91, 205, 216, 219, 229 Wenham, Gordon J. 284 Werblowsky, Zwi 82 Wessely, Naphtali Herz 290, 320 Westermann, Claus 9–11, 24, 50, 108, 121, 229, 238 Whitaker, Richard E. 57 White, Ellen 224 Whitehead, Alfred North 87, 90–91, 94 Whybray, Roger N. 148 Wiesehöfer, Josef 68 Wiggermann, Franciscus A. M. 7 Wilckens, Ulrich 84 Wildberger, Hans 49 Wischmeyer, Oda 49 Witte, Markus 50, 133, 223–224 Wolff, Hans Walter 112, 246–248, 254, 257, 263, 292, 302 Young, Ian 183 Zehnder, Markus 296 Zenger, Erich 11–12, 162, 171, 228, 266, 270, 277 Zierler, Wendy I. 286 Zimmer, Tilmann 136, 150 Zimmerli, Walther 155–157, 159, 161, 167, 176, 180 Zimmern, Heinrich 17

Subject Index Adam 9–14, 18–24, 28–29, 40–44, 46, 53–54, 58, 95, 122, 124–126, 133, 269 animals 18–20, 27–36, 50, 52, 54, 56– 59, 61, 64, 70–71, 74, 77, 79, 103– 104, 109, 167–168, 177, 179–180, 184, 231, 235, 239–241, 243, 256, 261, 263, 267–269, 273–274, 280– 281 atonement 150, 186–193, 201, 208, 213 Atrahasis 30, 43, 101–103, 126, 237– 238, 277 body 18, 24, 39, 41–42, 44, 63–64, 66– 68, 72, 77–78, 81–95, 99, 102, 115, 139, 228, 252, 267, 282 breath 19, 23, 44, 64, 74–80, 103, 125–126, 139, 160–161, 271–272 chaos 33–35, 58–60, 62, 65, 73, 75, 91, 108–110, 114, 117–118, 125, 148, 180, 248, 260–261, 266–267, 271, 278, 280–281 commandments 111, 169, 175–177, 187, 196–197, 208, 282, 310–311 cosmology 32, 45, 54, 57, 62, 65, 68– 69, 71, 76–77, 79, 99, 114, 160, 171, 174, 205, 261–263, 266 covenant 9, 14, 110–111, 113, 146, 149, 155–170, 175–176, 180, 184, 189, 191, 193, 195–197, 199–202, 208–214, 219–220, 260, 295–296, 312–318 creatio ex nihilo 34, 62, 267 creatio ex tumultu 34, 62, 267 darkness 34–36, 58–59, 73, 108, 110, 126, 163, 265, 273, 281 death 23, 67, 78, 81–84, 88–95, 114, 127–128, 135, 139, 141, 177, 219, 223, 229, 232, 241, 245, 254, 256, 273, 282–283, 314 dignity 14, 45–62, 77, 87, 95, 127, 309

dominium terrae 11, 35–36, 49–50, 60–61, 167, 179 doubt 227, 243, 246, 318 etiology 43, 110, 117, 171, 181 Eve 9, 18–19, 22–24, 41–44 evil 22, 59, 99–119, 121, 137, 140– 147, 150, 172–174, 179, 194, 204, 215, 223, 227, 230, 234–235, 237– 238, 247, 250–251, 256, 282 exile 7, 69, 146, 156, 164, 169, 191– 193, 196–198, 209, 212, 214, 228, 263, 264 female 10, 12–13, 29, 32, 42, 53, 208, 268, 294 finitude 22, 79, 136–137, 140–141 flesh 19, 33–36, 42, 59, 64, 66, 71, 105, 107–108, 110–112, 115–116, 123, 126, 135–136, 138, 146–147, 168, 171–174, 178, 240, 277, 281 flood 14, 28, 30, 34–37, 47, 58–60, 64, 70, 74–75, 101–117, 121–124, 126, 133, 142–145, 148–151, 160, 167– 168, 171–181, 236–241, 269, 277, 279–282 forgiveness 143, 183–202, 203–220, 234 freedom 23, 55, 60, 307, 315 Gilgamesh 21, 30, 102, 104, 128, 179, 277 good and evil 20–22, 43, 108, 112, 115–117, 214, 284 grace formula 198–202, 211, 214, 251 heart 65–66, 105, 111–118, 121, 135– 151, 165–166, 174, 196–197, 200, 209–210, 231, 235, 237–238, 251– 253, 271, 281, 302, 311, 314, 317 Hodayot 207, 212–215, 219 Holy of Holies 8, 18–19, 66, 75, 186, 209 imago dei 11–13, 29, 37–39, 45–62, 71, 74, 177

340

Subject Index

imperfection 99–100, 107, 109, 118, 201, 211, 279 intercession 194, 199–200 justice 16, 35, 140, 143, 149–150, 177, 184, 205, 225, 229, 232–233, 235– 236, 239, 241, 258, 260, 272, 274, 311 kingdom of God 205–207, 217 law 60, 67, 110–111, 116, 135–136, 146–147, 151, 161, 166, 168–170, 176–181, 187–188, 203, 205–206, 208–210, 228, 240, 250, 258, 260– 261, 269, 277–278, 281, 286, 296, 301–304, 307, 311–312, 314–315, 318 life 9–10, 13, 15–16, 18–19, 21–24, 27–33, 36, 39, 41–44, 46, 50, 52–62, 63–67, 70, 73–79, 81–95, 101–104, 107–108, 113–114, 117, 121, 125– 128, 135, 137–139, 142–143, 145, 147–148, 150, 167–168, 172, 174– 181, 186, 188, 194, 203, 205–206, 208, 216, 219–220, 223–233, 237– 241, 256, 259–260, 262–263, 266– 267, 269, 270–273, 277–287, 295, 302–305, 307–308, 311, 315–316, 318 light and darkness 214 male 10, 12–13, 29, 32, 53, 159–161, 268, 285, 294 marriages 74, 121–122, 124, 127 mercy 142, 195, 205, 210–211, 215, 219, 225–226, 234–236, 257, 301, 315 mind 80–81, 87, 89, 93, 138, 298, 317 mīs pî pīt pî 17–18, 40, 43–44 myth 9, 20, 27, 29, 36, 43, 61–62, 65, 70, 80, 100–102, 104, 107, 109–111, 117–119, 123, 125–126, 128–129, 132, 148, 150–151, 175, 238–239, 262, 266, 313 mythology 12, 21–22, 29–30, 48, 100, 114, 123, 126–133, 151, 160, 178 nefesh 63–68, 70–74, 316–317 Noah 13–14, 37, 58–59, 112, 124–125, 143–144, 150, 155, 160, 163, 167– 168, 176, 180, 223–224, 237–239, 279, 282, 285, 297

plants 18–19, 31–33, 52, 54, 57, 61, 64, 70, 72, 74, 79, 184, 267–269, 271 possession 17, 264, 311, 315, 318 prophets 8, 114, 118–119, 135–136, 149, 151, 155, 163, 166, 168–169, 245, 247, 250, 252–254, 257, 264 providence 245–246, 283 Qumran 207, 212–220, 257 repentance 190, 194–195, 200–201, 211, 216–218, 223, 226–227, 234, 237, 239, 244, 246, 248–251, 255, 257 resurrection 81, 83–85, 87–90, 94–95, 135, 165, 219 righteousness 138, 144–145, 194, 203, 205, 217, 220, 229, 231–235, 241, 265, 272, 279, 286 salvation 105, 145, 151, 185, 229, 241, 249, 259–260, 265–266 spirit 63–64, 66, 72–80, 89, 93, 95, 115, 123, 125–126, 136, 146, 165, 213, 271 tabernacle 42, 69–70, 75, 155–156, 162, 171, 176, 181, 209, 270 taxonomy of life 71–72, 74, 267–268 temple 7–8, 16, 17–19, 39–40, 65–66, 68–74, 149–151, 161, 171, 184, 186, 189–193, 195, 197, 200–202, 207– 208, 210, 212–213, 216, 218–219, 261–263, 269, 272, 315 theodicy 99–100, 118, 225, 227, 287 throne 51, 164, 262 tohuwabohu 33–34, 46, 58, 73, 108, 174 Torah 10, 43–44, 67, 69, 75, 110, 145– 147, 151, 155, 157, 167–168, 171, 181, 184–185, 187–190, 196–197, 200–202, 209–210, 277–278, 281, 310–311, 315–318, 321 trust 191, 213, 243–244, 246, 278– 279, 284–286 violence 33–36, 58–60, 62, 105, 107– 112, 115–118, 128, 146, 168, 171– 174, 176, 179–180, 240, 269, 278, 281–283 yom kippur 213