Toward a Poetics of Genesis 1–11: Reading Genesis 4:17–22 in Its Near Eastern Context 9781575066943

Citation preview

Toward a Poetics of Genesis 1–11

Bulletin for Biblical Research Supplements Editor

Richard S. Hess, Denver Seminary Associate Editor

Craig L. Blomberg, Denver Seminary

Advisory Board Leslie C. Allen Fuller Theological Seminary Donald A. Carson Trinity Evangelical Divinity School Donald A. Hagner Fuller Theological Seminary Karen H. Jobes Wheaton College

I. Howard Marshall University of Aberdeen Elmer A. Martens Mennonite Brethren Biblical Seminary Bruce K. Waltke Knox Theological Seminary Edwin M. Yamauchi Miami University

 1. Bridging the Gap: Ritual and Ritual Texts in the Bible, by Gerald A. Klingbeil  2. War in the Bible and Terrorism in the Twenty-First Century, edited by Richard S. Hess and Elmer A. Martens  3. Critical Issues in Early Israelite History, edited by Richard S. Hess, Gerald A. Klingbeil, and Paul J. Ray Jr.  4. Poetic Imagination in Proverbs: Variant Repetitions and the Nature of Poetry, by Knut Martin Heim  5. Divine Sabbath Work, by Michael H. Burer  6. The Iron Age I Structure on Mt. Ebal: Excavation and Interpretation, by Ralph K. Hawkins  7. Toward a Poetics of Genesis 1–11: Reading Genesis 4:17–22 in Its Near Eastern Context, by Daniel DeWitt Lowery

Toward a Poetics of Genesis 1–11 Reading Genesis 4:17–22 in Its Near Eastern Context

Daniel DeWitt Lowery

Winona Lake, Indiana Eisenbrauns 2013

© Copyright 2013 Eisenbrauns All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. www.eisenbrauns.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Lowery, Daniel DeWitt. Toward a poetics of Genesis 1–11 : reading Genesis 4:17–22 in its    Near Eastern context / by Daniel DeWitt Lowery.   pages cm. (Bulletin for biblical research supplements ; 7) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-57506-816-9 (hardback : alk. paper) 1.  Bible. O.T. Genesis IV, 17–24—Criticism, interpretation, etc. I. Title. BS1235.52.L69 2013 222′.1106—dc23 2013001282

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48–1984. ♾™

Contents Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii Abbreviations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   ix 1.  Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   1 Orientation 3 The Issue  4 The Parameters  8 Conclusion 10

2.  Matters of Method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   11 The Text’s Ancient Cognitive Environment   12 The Genre(s) of the Text   13 Text Conventions: Historiography and Mythography  35 Conclusion 71

3.  The Text of Genesis 4:17–22 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   73 Critical Translation of Genesis 4:17–22  73 Literary Context  74 Literary Genre  77 Literary Analysis  87 Conclusion 113

4.  Ancient Near Eastern Context . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  122 Mesopotamian Literature  123 Conclusion 226 Excursus: The Spell of Nudimmud  227

5.  Toward a Poetics of Protohistory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  231 Historical Traditions  231 Historical Concerns  233 Historical Arrangement  235 Conclusion 237

6.  Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  238 Review of Goals  238 Summary of Conclusions  238 Areas for Future Study  240 Conclusion 240

Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 242 Index of Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 277 Index of Scripture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  283 v

Preface The objective of this study is to understand more accurately ancient Near Eastern language and claims about origins, specifically as found in Gen 1–11 of the Hebrew Bible. I will set forth a method that could be applied to any part of these chapters, but I will focus on a short passage as a test case, Gen 4:17–22, which I understand to represent the Hebrew tradition explaining how the world came to be civilized. Though this is not universally agreed, this passage does seem to serve a function within the larger narrative of Gen 1–11 similar to other ancient Near Eastern traditions of civilized beginnings. Moreover, it occupies a place in the overarching “narrative of beginnings” (also called the “protohistory” or “primeval history”) akin to what we find elsewhere throughout the ancient world. For the sake of time and space, Mesopotamia will be the primary focus, and other cultures with significant contributions will be left for later study. From a comparative standpoint, I seek to demonstrate that much of the language of Gen 1–11, at least in its nature and scope, was similar in many ways to its Mesopotamian counterparts. This is because the two cultures shared, broadly speaking, a common cognitive environment. The ancient Near Eastern mind thought and communicated about the past differently, and this study should illustrate this in some detail. More explicitly, this is an attempt to examine the nature of the language and the terms of the text to ascertain what truths are being communicated and also to demonstrate more clearly how these truths are being communicated. At its most basic, this is a study of the genre and generic claims of protohistory as found in Gen 1–11, with Gen 4:17–22 as a test case. Preparing this book for publication has been quite an adventure for me, and I would like to extend thanks to a number of people for their help along the way. It began as a doctoral dissertation under the primary supervision of Gordon Wenham, completed in 2010. The dissertation was a labor of too many people’s time, attention, and care for them not also to share in the joy of seeing it become a book. In that regard, special thanks are in order for my secondary supervisor, Alan Millard, and also for Gordon Johnston, John Hilber, David Wyrtzen, and Harold Hoehner, some presently, some formerly of Dallas Theological Seminary. Each was a source of wisdom, encouragement, and motivation in his own way as I toiled away on the dissertation. More than a few years removed from the process, I am still deeply grateful for all of their participation in the process. That being said, this is no longer simply a dissertation gathering dust on my bookshelf. The publication process started when I received John vii

viii

Preface

Walton’s Genesis 1 As Ancient Cosmology (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011) in the mail and began reading it. In no more than a few pages, I broke out into a terrified cold sweat familiar to many young scholars as they wonder whether their dissertations can indeed be published (but also whether their windows of opportunity have already closed). Walton’s book quickly reminded me that the academic conversation of the early chapters of Genesis was still quite lively, and that perhaps my dissertation actually had some things to say in this conversation. The sweats came from not knowing how to convince a publisher of this. I took my sob story to my father, Dave Lowery, who immediately suggested I e-mail Walton to ask for advice. I did, and John was exceedingly gracious, offering to read it and advise accordingly. To my delight, he passed along his recommendation to Rick Hess for publication in the Bulletin for Biblical Research Supplement series. To even more of my delight, Rick agreed. Working with him in this process of turning a dissertation into a book has been wonderful. I am grateful for his thorough and knowledgeable editing, as well as his prompt and encouraging interaction during this time. And above all, I am grateful for his willingness to gaze through the fog of a dissertation and see the possibility of a book that was worth publishing, and for his patience and wisdom in helping to bring this book about. Thanks are also certainly in order to Amy Becker, my editor at Eisenbrauns, who has been a delight to work with, not to mention an incredible help! If I’ve read it once I’ve read it a thousand times—but never understood it fully until now—please do not hold any of those who have helped me responsible for the shortcomings of this book! The errors are my own, and should not in any way reflect the input that so many so graciously provided. This could not have been done without their help but should not be held against them at all! A lot has changed since writing the dissertation’s “Dedication and Acknowledgments” section, most of which I could never have imagined in my most creative of moments. I am deeply grateful to Lakeview Community Church, in Cedar Hill, TX. ( Join us on Sundays!) Thank you for providing a place for me to work when it seemed like there was not going to be one anywhere. I love being your pastor, and I am quite excited about what the future holds for us here. Thank you for taking such wonderful care of my family and for making us feel so loved and appreciated. Finally, this preface would be incomplete without mentioning my sweet and growing family: Lauren, Edie, and now Joel. You are a source of unimaginable delight and blessing, and I am so thankful for the chance to grow together, to learn together, to laugh and cry together—to share life with you. I have indeed tasted and seen that the Lord is good. We have been blessed as we have taken refuge in him (Ps 34:8).

Abbreviations General A tablet in the collections of the Oriental Institute, University of Chicago Abr. Philo, De Abrahamo Ag. Ap. Josephus, Against Apion Akk. Akkadian AKL Assyrian King List Alleg. Interp. 2 Philo, Legum Allegoriae 2 ANE ancient Near East Ant. Josephus, Jewish Antiquities AO tablets in the collections of the Musée du Louvre Aram. Aramaic Ash. Ashmolean Museum, Oxford ASW Adapa and the South Wind C3 Cairo Pentateuch Codex Creation Philo, De Opificio Mundi ED Early Dynastic Period (Sumerian) Gen. Rab. Genesis Rabbah GHD Genealogy of the Hammurabi Dynasty Heb. Hebrew K Kuyunjik, tablet signature at the British Museum, London Ki. tablet siglum in the British Museum Life Josephus, The Life LKL Lagaš King List LXX Septuagint m. Ed. mishnah Eduyyot m. Qidd. mishnah Qiddushin MT Masoretic Text Neof. Targum Neofti Onq. Targum Onqelos PE Eusebius, Praeparatio Evangelica Post. Philo, De posteritate Caini Ps.-J.  Targum Pseudo-Jonathan PT Pyramid Text ptcp. participle QG 1 Philo, Questions and Answers on Genesis 1 ULKS Uruk List of Kings and Sages (tablet W 20030, plate 7) SKL Sumerian King List Sum. Sumerian Syr. Syriac version of the Old Testament Targ(s). Targum(s) V Venice edition, Second Rabbinic Bible, 1524–1525 Vulg. Vulgate W. field numbers of tablets excavated at Warka W-B tablet in the Weld-Blundell Collection YBC tablet siglum, Yale Babylonian Collection

ix

x

Abbreviations

Reference Works AASOR AB ABD

Annual of the American School(s) of Oriental Research Anchor Bible Anchor Bible Dictionary (ed. D. N. Freedman; 6 vols.; New York: Doubleday, 1992) AcOr Acta Orientalia AcSum Acta Sumerologica ADOG Abhandlungen der deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft AfO Archiv für Orientforschung AHw Akkadisches Handwörterbuch. 3 vols. (ed. W. von Soden; Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1965–81) AJSL American Journal of Semitic Languages and Literatures ANESS Ancient Near Eastern Studies Supplement Series AnOr Analecta orientalia AnSt Anatolian Studies AOAT Alter Orient und Altes Testament AoF Altorientalishe Forschungen ArOr Archiv Orientální AUSS Andrews University Seminary Studies BA Biblical Archaeologist BAM Die babylonischen-assyrische Medizin in Texten und Untersuchung (ed. R. Biggs and M. Stol; 7 vols.; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1963–2005) BAR Biblical Archaeology Review BASOR Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research BBR Bulletin for Biblical Research BCSMS Bulletin of the Canadian Society for Mesopotamian Studies BE Babylonian Expedition of the University of Pennsylvania BECNT Baker Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament BETL Bibliotheca ephemeridum theologicarum lovaniensium BHT Beiträge zur historischen Theologie Bib Biblica BJRL Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester BJS Brown Judaic Studies BJSUCSD Biblical and Judaic Studies from the University of California, San Diego BM Museum siglum of the British Museum, London BO Bibliotheca Orientalis BRA Beiträge zur Religionsgeschichte des Altertums CAD The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago (ed. R. D. Biggs et al.; 21 vols.; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1956–2011) CANE Civilizations of the Ancient Near East (ed. J. M. Sasson; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006) CBQ Catholic Biblical Quarterly CBQMS Catholic Biblical Quarterly Monograph Series CBS Catalogue of the Babylonian Section, siglum of the University of Pennsylvania CM Cuneiform Monographs CSSH Comparative Studies in Society and History CT Cuneiform Texts from Babylonian Tablets in the British Museum DSROA Dissertationes scientificae de rebus orientis antiqui DT Daily Telegraph, signature at the British Museum, London EPRO Études préliminaires aux religions orientales dans l’empire romain ErIsr Eretz Israel

Abbreviations ETCSL EvQ FB FRLANT GMTR HALOT HAR HBS Hist. Theory HO HSS HUCASup HZAG IBC ICC ITC JANES JAOS JBL JCS JNES JQR JSOT JSOTSup JTS KAR LCL LHBOTS LKA MBI MC MSEO MSL NAC NBC NICNT NICOT NIDOTTE NIGTC NFT NOVEL OBC OBO OEAE OEANE

xi

Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature (On-line: http://etcsl. orinst.ox.ac.uk/) Evangelical Quarterly Forschungen und Berichte Forschunen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments Guides to the Mesopotamian Textual Record The Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament (ed. L. Koehler, W. Baumgartner, and J. J. Stamm; trans. M. E. J. Richardson; 4 vols.; Leiden: Brill, 2001) Hebrew Annual Review Herders Biblische Studien History and Theory Handbuch der Orientalistik Harvard Semitic Studies Hebrew Union College Annual Supplements Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte Interpretation: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching International Critical Commentary International Theological Commentary Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society Journal of the American Oriental Society Journal of Biblical Literature Journal of Cuneiform Studies Journal of Near Eastern Studies Jewish Quarterly Review Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplements Journal of Theological Studies Keilschrifttexte aus Assur religiösen Inhalts (ed. E. Ebeling; Leipzig: Hinrich, 1919–23) Loeb Classical Library Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies Literarische Keilschrifttexte aus Assur Miscellaneous Babylonian Inscriptions (ed. G.A. Barton; vol. 1; New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1918) Mesopotamian Civilizations Mémoires de la Société d’Études Orientales “Ex Oriente Lux” Materialen zum Sumerischen Lexikon New American Commentary Nies Babylonian Collection, siglum of the Yale Babylonian Collection New International Commentary on the New Testament New International Commentary on the Old Testament New International Dictionary of Theology and Exegesis (ed. W. A. Van Gemeren; 4 vols.; Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1997) New International Greek Testament Commentary Nouvelles Fouilles de Tello (ed. G. Cros et al., Paris: Leroux, 1910) NOVEL: A Forum on Fiction Orientalia biblica et christiana Orbis biblicus et orientalis Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt (ed. D. B. Redford; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001) The Oxford Encyclopedia of Archaeology in the Near East (ed. E. M. Meyers; 5 vols.; New York: Oxford University Press, 1997)

xii

Abbreviations

OPSNKF Occasional Publications of the Samuel Noah Kramer Fund Or Orientalia OTL Old Testament Library PAPS Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society PBS Publications of the Babylonian Section, University of Pennsylvania PEQ Palestine Exploration Quarterly PMLA Publications of the Modern Language Association PSD Pennsylvania Sumerian Dictionary (ed. S. Tinney and P. Jones; On-line: http://psd.museum.upenn.edu/epsd/index.html) QAO Quellen des Alten Orients RA Revue d’assyriologie et d’archéologie orientale RlA Reallexikon der Assyriologie (ed. E. Ebeling et al.; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1928–2011) SAACT State Archives of Assyria Cuneiform Texts SANE Sources from the Ancient Near East SARASS School of American Research Advanced Seminar Series SBEC Studies in the Bible and Early Christianity SBLABS Society of Biblical Literature Archaeology and Biblical Studies SBLDS Society of Biblical Literature Dissertation Series SBLWAW Society of Biblical Literature Writings from the Ancient World SCS Septuagint Commentary Series SHCANE Studies in the History and Culture of the Ancient Near East SHS Scripture and Hermeneutics Series SLTN Sumerian Literary Texts from Nippur (ed. S. Kramer; AASOR 23; New Haven, CT: American Schools of Oriental Research, 1944) SNTSMS Society for New Testament Studies Monograph Series SRT Sumerian Religious Texts (ed. E. Chiera; Upland, PA, 1924) STVC Sumerian Texts of Varied Contents (ed. E. Chiera, Oriental Institute Publications 16; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1934) STT The Sultantepe Tablets (ed. O. Gurney, J. Finkelstein, and P. Hulin; 2 vols.; London: British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara, 1957–64) TCL Textes cunéiformes (Musée du Louvre; 3 vols.; Paris: Geuthner 1910–67) TCS Texts from Cuneiform Sources TUAT Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments TUATSup Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments: Supplement TynBul Tyndale Bulletin UBL Ugaritisch-biblisch Literatur UET Ur Excavation Texts (ed. C. J. Gadd and L. LeGrain; London: Trustees of the Two Museums, 1928) UF Ugarit-Forschungen VT Vetus Testamentum VTSup Supplements to Vetus Testamentum WBC Word Biblical Commentary WMANT Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen Testament WO Die Welt des Orients WUNT Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament YNER Yale Near Eastern Researches ZA Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und vorderasiatische Archäologie ZAW Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft ZAWBeih Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft: Beiheft

Chapter 1

Introduction Who controls the past . . . controls the future; who controls the present controls the past. 1 So goes the party slogan promulgated by the Ministry of Information, attributed to Big Brother in George Orwell’s classic novel 1984. Though the slogan is entirely the product of Orwell’s imagination, it nonetheless serves to communicate an entirely real concept immediately relevant here: history is a subjective enterprise—it is controlled. The power of the present, Orwell says, decides what is counted as history. Essentially, then, how the rest of us are told this history took place shapes our view of it and, concomitantly, our outlook for the future. In this sense, then, history fundamentally shapes the future. 2 Capturing another sense in which this is the case, C. G. Starr writes in the preface of his History of the Ancient World of the ancients: “their customs and fundamental beliefs are often far different from ours. In their deeds and thoughts, in their hopes and fears, nonetheless, they fashioned a civilized base of life upon which the modern world directly rests.” 3 This seems all the more true when considering the account of beginnings in the early chapters of Genesis. These stories have provided a foundation for three of the world’s major religions—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Furthermore, arguably, these pages also provide the foundations on which Western civilization as we know it today has been built. Indeed, few questions are more fundamental to human existence than Who am I? Where did I come from? What is my place in this world? The earliest chapters of Genesis have oriented hearers and readers for millennia in their attempts to address these concerns. 4 That is, for both of the senses mentioned above, Genesis shapes the future. 1. George Orwell, 1984: A Novel (Signet Classics, 1950), 32. 2. G. B. Caird observes: “By his interpretation of the past the historian helps to determine the future. He is in effect saying to his people, ‘This is the way which your tradition has marked out for you to follow.’” G. B. Caird, The Language and Imagery of the Bible (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1980), 202. 3. C. G. Starr, A History of the Ancient World (4th ed.; New York: Oxford University Press, 1991), vii. 4. H. Gunkel expresses as much regarding “the Creation and Paradise narratives. These are the beginnings of theology and philosophy. It is no wonder that special

1

2

Chapter 1

Modern scholars agree that there exists no entirely objective account of the past, 5 and this is especially the case when considering ancient historical accounts. Ancient historical accounts will be the focus of this study, more specifically the ancient Hebrew account of how the known world came to be civilized, as described in Gen 4:17–22. The question then becomes: might we identify some of the operating principles of the ancient Hebrew historian, and if so, how might that affect our understanding of this passage? This study assumes that identifying some of these principles is indeed possible, and seeks to do precisely that. 6 These principles we seek to discover here are called poetics. A. Berlin defines poetics as “the science of literature,” which inductively “seeks to abstract the general principles of literature from many different manifestations of those principles as they occur in actual literary texts.” 7 What emerges with these principles is a better understanding of how texts communicate their meaning. And, as she says elsewhere, “if we know how texts mean, we are in a better position to discover what a text means.” 8 Poetics, then, helps us know how texts mean so that we can better understand what they mean. All of this will be done primarily by way of a detailed examination of and comparison with one of ancient Israel’s more influential neighboring cultures, Mesopotamia, looking at the ancient cognitive environment of their civilization traditions. Different cultures each had their own account of how their known world came to be civilized, and both the similarities and differences contribute to a fuller understanding of the Genesis account. By studying our Genesis passage in its larger ancient Near Eastern (ANE) emphasis has been placed on these passages in postbiblical times and that, as long as Genesis has been read, every generation to this day has read its most profound ideas into these accounts” (H. Gunkel, “The Legends of Genesis,” in Genesis: Translated and Interpreted by Hermann Gunkel [Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1997], xiv). 5. See for example, E. Blum, “Historiography or Poetry? The Nature of the Hebrew Bible Prose Tradition,” in Memory in the Bible and Antiquity (ed. S. C. Barton et al.; WUNT 212; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 124; A. M. G. Capomacchia, “Heroic Dimension and Historical Perspective in the Ancient Near East,” in Historiography in the Cuneiform World (ed. T. Abusch et al; Proceedings of the XLV Recontre Assyriologique Internationale 45/1; Bethseda, MD: CDL, 2001), 91; J. J. Collins, The Bible after Babel: Historical Criticism in a Postmodern Age (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005), 29. 6. This optimism is not shared by every scholar, though I aim to demonstrate here how this may be done. 7. A. Berlin, Poetics and Interpretation of Biblical Narrative (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1999), 15. 8. Ibid., 17. So also, G. Osborne, who says that poetics is the aspect of narrative interpretation that “studies the artistic dimension or the way the text is constructed by the author; and meaning . . . recreates the message that the author is communicating. The ‘how’ (poetics) leads to the ‘what’ (meaning)” (G. R. Osborne, The Hermeneutical Spiral: A Comprehensive Introduction to Biblical Interpretation [rev ed.; Downers Grove: IVP Academic, 2006], 203).

Introduction

3

cognitive environment, certain history writing principles—collectively referred to as poetics—may become evident. These principles should be helpful in interpreting other portions of Genesis, though I will say more about this in due course. Before these questions can be addressed, it is important to lay out my approach for this undertaking—the thought process must be deliberate, reasoned and clear. The next section, accordingly, will briefly chart our course on the “roadmap” for the present study.

Orientation At its most basic, this is an attempt to arrive at some general poetics of protohistory by examining these verses in Genesis as well as their larger surrounding cognitive contexts. This chapter will demonstrate the need for this study, as well as justify its parameters and scope. To do so effectively, we must engage a number of closely related fields. The fields of historiographical studies, mythographical studies, communication theory, generic and other literary studies all have something to offer, and a brief examination of each will make up the bulk of the second chapter following the introduction. To learn from each of these fields is not as simple as it may at first sound, so a major concern of this chapter will be to discuss how one goes about doing so appropriately—method, in other words. Emerging from this will be a tentative interpretive grid through which to view the Genesis material, as well as the other ancient materials. It may feel to some as though I am placing the proverbial cart before the horse with this chapter, but rest assured that the “cart” will be tested and refined after the materials of the following chapters. To shift metaphors, the following chapters will be sifted through the second chapter’s sieve. That is to say, the second chapter will be tentative and testable, to be fully assembled only at the end of the study. Following the second chapter, the third begins with a text and critical translation of our Genesis passage, with the more technical discussions being confined to an appendix to this chapter (pp. 115–121). An examination of the passage’s literary context and genre—genealogy—follows that, and the chapter will end with a detailed literary analysis. The literary analysis discusses the text’s form and function, ancient contexts, and historiographical value. Here the ancient contexts will be primarily those not receiving as much attention in the fourth chapter. Attention will also be given to apply the tentative conclusions of the previous chapter to the Genesis text in this chapter. In the fourth chapter, I will examine the ancient Mesopotamian cognitive environment of Gen 4:17–22, again keeping in mind the grid of the second chapter. Of course, as this chapter’s introduction will explain more fully, the arrangement is an entirely modern construction, designed to communicate concepts as clearly and simply as possible. Ironically, it is difficult to reconstruct an ancient cognitive environment successfully without imposing at

4

Chapter 1

least some semblance of order upon one’s subjects—an order that likely did not exist in the ancient cognitive environment being studied. 9 If one will allow for this, then, we may come away from this chapter with some idea of how the Mesopotamians conceived of their civilized beginnings. Appropriately, in the fifth chapter, I will apply what was learned in the previous three to arrive at suggestions for some of the ancient historian’s operating principles. This chapter develops from more general summary concepts to possible conclusions to be drawn for our material in Genesis. By this point, both background and underlying concepts should be well clarified, so this chapter will, in essence, be the final step in the study. Another way of looking at it, then, is that the previous chapters will have set the puzzle pieces out on the table, and the fifth chapter will be where they are finally arranged and put in their proper place. The final, sixth concluding chapter will simply restate the major arguments and conclusions of the paper in summary form. Furthermore, if the methodological approach to ancient historical texts suggested here is indeed valid, it follows that there are ways in which it is applicable to other areas of Genesis study. Here it will also be appropriate to touch on some possible areas for further study. An enterprise of this sort—blending a number of areas of study—will undoubtedly leave the curious reader with many areas for further exploration. With the plan in place, it is time to introduce some of the more pressing interpretive issues in our Genesis passage that cause us to look for these history writing principles in the first place.

The Issue As Gen 4:17–22 is a test case to examine poetical principles, I will take a moment now to demonstrate the need for this study by discussing various interpretive issues germane to a study of this passage and its immediate context. Attempts have been made to understand these verses for millennia. Though much more will be said on this in the third chapter, a brief comment is in order to introduce the issue here. Not only is this small section of Genesis difficult to understand, but it is also couched in a larger narrative that is as equally unsettling to many. D. Gowan provides a few examples of what he calls the story’s “problems of continuity” within Gen 4: Who are the other people Cain fears who might kill him? Where does he find his wife? Who could there possibly be to populate his city? Further, why bother to tell us about the rise of the civilized arts when they are immediately wiped out in the flood? For Gowan and many others, problems like these lead them to conclude this section of Scripture has little correspondence to reality and therefore little real historical value. Gowan’s explanation 9. This is not to say that there was no ancient hierarchy of thought, language, literature, etc. It is simply to acknowledge from the outset that the specific chosen order is a decidedly modern imposition.

Introduction

5

is that J 10 must not have had enough materials before him to record a “full-fledged history of those periods (with careful chronological information and cause and effect relationships spelled out).” 11 Alternatively, W. Brueggemann explains that in Genesis, Israel is transmitting faith, not “a structure of reality (as in myth) nor a chronicle of events (as in history). Rather, it is about a memory that is transformed, criticized, and extended each time it is told.” 12 Others are slightly less charitable in their assessment. Speaking of the “Table of Nations” in Gen 10, Y. Levin says: “Unlike the preceding Creation, Eden, Fall and Flood Narratives, the “Table of Nations” is clearly based on a tangible view of the history and geography of the world, which the scholar can attempt to understand using his knowledge of the ancient Near East and his understanding of the workings of biblical literature . . .” 13 Clearly implied here is the notion that everything prior to Gen 10 is not based on anything tangible. Similarly, M. Borg feels that the stories in early Genesis should be read entirely metaphorically, taking his literary cues from the sorts of issues raised by Gowan and others. For him, “no particular historical event lies behind” these stories at all. 14 These are but a few voices from a much larger chorus of scholars who share the general conviction that the text [of early Genesis] is not meant to communicate literal, factual events and therefore should be understood in other ways. H. Morris, whose sentiments echo those of many others, may be said to occupy the opposite pole of the interpretive spectrum. Morris contends that Gen 4 is “in every way to be understood as actual history.” 15 10. Gunkel describes Genesis as “the confluence of many sources,” and J is one of these sources (“The Legends of Genesis,” lxxxvi). Scholars maintain various sources to be behind the composition of Genesis (among other sections of the Hebrew Bible). J (the Yahwist source, which begins with a J in German) and P (the Priestly source) are responsible for the composition of Gen 1–11, and J specifically is held responsible for our particular passage. C. Westermann represents the theory well: “One must always be conscious that one is dealing with a tradition which has had a long and varied history, which grew and was adapted for hundreds of years in Israel before it took written form under J and P” (C. Westermann, Genesis 1–11: A Commentary [trans. J. Scullion; Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1984], 65). 11. Gowan, From Eden to Babel: A Commentary on the Book of Genesis 1–11 (ed. Frederick Carlson Holmgren and George A. F. Knight; ITC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1988),64. 12. W. Brueggemann, Genesis (IBC; Atlanta: John Knox, 1982), 4. 13. Y. Levin, “Nimrod the Mighty, King of Kish, King of Sumer and Akkad,” VT 52/3 (2002): 350. 14. M. Borg, Reading the Bible Again for the First Time: Taking the Bible Seriously but not Literally (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2001), 46. 15. H. M. Morris, The Genesis Record: A Scientific and Devotional Commentary on the Book of Beginnings (Grand Rapids: Baker, 1976), 133.

6

Chapter 1

Presumably in this instance “actual history” means that every word of the biblical text has a one-to-one correspondence with reality. That is, the biblical stories occurred exactly the way they are described and, as such, are accurate records of history. Such a woodenly literalistic reading of Gen 4 compels Morris and those who share his leanings to come up with creative ways to answer the sorts of questions posed above by Gowan, even if those answers appear to stretch credulity beyond its normal bounds. For example, when speaking of how Cain could have found his wife Morris says that, because of the longer life-spans of that day, the earth had a population of at least one hundred and twenty thousand by its eight hundredth year, “though it is probable that the figure was much more than this . . .” 16 With numbers like these, he says, “the ancient quibble about ‘Cain’s wife’ is thus seen to be quite trivial.” 17 Furthermore, by the time of the flood, the earth’s population had exploded to “at least seven billion people!” 18 H. Ross suggests that by the time Adam was 760, the earth should have reached a population of almost sixty billion people! He goes on to qualify his estimate by admitting there is, at present, no archaeological evidence to suggest the world’s population ever neared a number that large. He speculates that infant mortality might have been one factor in quelling growth, “but this problem alone seems vastly inadequate to explain the lack of population explosion.” 19 Ross provides his explanation on the next page and suggests “murder must have become the leading cause of death for pre-Flood people. As many as nine out of ten, and perhaps more, must have been murder victims.” 20 For Ross, in fact, the hypothesized murder rate becomes God’s reasoning behind placing Noah and his family on the ark and sending the flood—“humanity lay in danger of self-extermination.” 21 We must take care as interpreters to avoid either of the above extremes. This being the introduction, neither of these interpretive poles will receive interaction. Here they only demonstrate the wide scope of responses to the issues raised by the likes of Gowan, among others. There are those who respond to these issues by suggesting the earliest portions of Genesis do 16. Ibid., 143. Presumably for Morris, the long lives recorded in Gen 5 allows him to make this assessment. The resultant large population gives Cain enough women to choose from in order to find a wife, thereby “solving” one of the issues raised by Gowan above. 17. Ibid., 144. 18. Ibid. According to the “World POPClock Projection” of the U. S. Census Bureau, the earth’s population as of December 2011 was just over seven billion people. “World POPClock Projection” [cited December 2011]. On-line: http://www.census.gov/ipc/ www/popclockworld.html. 19. H. Ross, The Genesis Question: Scientific Advances and the Accuracy of Genesis (Colorado Springs: NavPress, 1998), 103. 20. Ibid., 104. 21. Ibid. This is an example of Ross’s gap-filling as a reader of the text.

Introduction

7

not correspond to reality and therefore have no historical value, and also those who contend the very same text’s primary value is history and that it corresponds to reality in every way. There are, of course, scholars who deftly avoid becoming entangled with such bold claims, though they may or may not share the conviction that the material is factually accurate in its historical testimony. B. Waltke, speaking of the book of Genesis as a whole, says that “the author of Genesis represents himself as a historian . . .” and that he “gives an essentially coherent chronological succession of events . . .” 22 Waltke also says that the narrator “intended to write real history, not myth, saga or legend.” 23 He declines to comment on the implications of such statements in his commentary, however, choosing rather to focus primarily on the literary and theological ideas communicated by Genesis. This is the approach, incidentally, favored by many. V. Hamilton, with some similar historical convictions, resorts to [what some might describe as] special pleading when dealing with the supposed anachronisms found in the Cainite genealogy. The particular issue is how Tubal Cain could have been the progenitor of both iron working and bronze working. 24 Though Genesis joins the two into one person, generally accepted historical data show that these two technologies were not discovered and developed over the span of one historical generation. Hamilton concludes that “the reference here may be to meteoric iron and surface deposits of copper.” 25 Discussions like this demonstrate the need for a more nuanced approach that will allow for poetics to emerge. Through a careful study of the text’s 22. B. K. Waltke and C. J. Fredricks, Genesis: A Commentary (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2001), 29. 23. Ibid. Waltke is, admittedly, a tough one to pin down. Presumably in his words above he is referring more accurately to the time of the Patriarchs onward (Gen 12–50), though he is not entirely clear. Elsewhere, he seems to qualify these sentiments when describing the Adam and Eve story: “The story is based on events in time and space, a real Adam and Eve. But it is not merely a historical account. The style is artistic and figurative rather than scientific and literalistic. The scenes of creation are painted as an artist might envision them” (ibid., 80). Speaking of the long lives recounted in the genealogies of Gen 5, however, he admits that the symbolism of the numbers is significant but that “it would be mischievous to pit this possibly symbolic use of numbers against their historical use . . . we have no reason to think that his [the narrator’s] artistic use of numbers is not restrained by real history” (ibid., 112). It is unclear to me exactly how these ideas all fit consistently together for Waltke. 24. Gen 4:22. The complex textual problems in this verse do not change the essential communicative point. 25. V. P. Hamilton, The Book of Genesis: Chapters 1–17 (NICOT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1990), 239. There are, of course, other ways of making sense of this passage. I only cite this as an example of “special pleading” when trying to comment on this problem. These issues will be discussed in further detail when I discuss the historiographical value of our passage in the third chapter.

8

Chapter 1

cognitive environment, it becomes clear that the ancient conventions for history writing—that is, its poetics—were vastly different from those of our present age. Not only were the conventions different, but the concerns, as well. We are moving now towards being able to define terms and discuss issues that will help reconstruct, as much as possible, the cognitive environment of the Genesis passage. This is a very important step in responding to Gowan’s “problems of continuity” from, as was suggested, a more nuanced position. First, however, we must delineate our parameters.

The Parameters Capable scholars have examined many of the issues covered here in very effective ways. What will be offered here, rather, is a compendium of sorts, and an analysis of various Near Eastern traditions, tracing their development through time and testing their validity and limits. Rather than having to find snippets in footnotes of various articles or just a few paragraphs or chapters within a monograph, this study will be a collection, synthesis and evaluation of ideas. It will use this data in conjunction with other more modern fields of learning, mentioned above, to come to a more accurate understanding of how Gen 4:17–22 communicates what it believes to be truth. As well, it will provide an analysis of how “accurate” this truth may or may not be, and by whose standards it should be judged. When taken with the information presented in the fourth chapter regarding the Mesopotamian contexts of our passage, some of the more basic principles of history writing should emerge. Further, the presentation of the Genesis passage within its broader ANE context should prove beneficial to biblical scholars who are perhaps not as familiar with Mesopotamian materials. Though the treatment of these materials is in no way comprehensive, enough information is included to provide the reader with a helpful introduction to the Mesopotamian data. The primary contribution, in other words, will be to make use of the comparative data to explore the modes of thought and mechanisms of communication found in Gen 4:17–22 and elsewhere throughout the ancient Near East. The result is that we would be left with a tentative poetics of history writing that could be used to interpret other areas of early Genesis. That is, the Genesis text and ANE materials, and their already thorough analyses by other scholars, provide us with an exceptional platform from which to explore the possibility of reconstructing these poetics. Z. Zevit has suggested a need for this type of work to be done in the field of biblical studies. More specifically, Zevit cites the need for biblical scholars not to import “canons of discourse, points of view, and examples” from literary scholars mindlessly. “The tenor and contents of discussions . . . [are] set by those doing the theorizing, not by those borrowing from the theoreticians,” he observes. Rather, he suggests that biblical scholars should explore these fields from within their own contexts. It will be the detailed attention given

Introduction

9

to the Near Eastern contexts that will prevent precisely what Zevit warns against, and to attempt what he suggests. 26 Though the passage itself will be studied at some length in the third chapter, along with its context, a moment should now be spent to explain why it has been chosen as the subject of study for this paper. As already mentioned, Gen 4:17–22 is understood to represent the Hebrew tradition explaining how the world came to be civilized. This is not necessarily something all scholars would agree upon, though it does seem to serve a similar function within the larger narrative of Gen 1–11 when compared to other ancient Near Eastern traditions of civilized beginnings. Moreover, it occupies a similar place in the overarching “narrative of beginnings” (also called “protohistory,” or “primeval history”), similar, to a degree, to what we find elsewhere throughout the ancient world. This is not to say that Gen 4:17–22 is the lone biblical voice. Rather, it offers a unique comparative opportunity because of its prominent place and function within the Gen 1–11 protohistory, arguably foundational to the numerous religious traditions which claim it as their scriptures. The poetics to be discovered here will be limited mainly to those of the protohistorical account of Gen 1–11, being unique in the Hebrew Bible. Gen 4:17–22 has been chosen as a test case of sorts, that allows the investigation to focus on one particular slice of ancient cultural contexts. By limiting the focus to Gen 4:17–22, the focus is narrow enough to have a relatively manageable amount of material to study. The rationale for choosing to focus on Mesopotamian traditions is also a practical one—most every Genesis commentator brings their traditions into discussions of our passage in Genesis. Mesopotamia offers by far the most material to study and therefore will receive its own chapter, to both test and expand the ideas put forth by biblical scholars. 27 Not all biblical scholars will be familiar with the Mesopotamian material, so this should provide a helpful way to interact with some of its more important ideas in presentable manner. Of course other sources that might prove beneficial will be mentioned as needed, though time and space will not allow for a more extensive survey of other cultures of the ancient Near East and their traditions, which were certainly also part of ancient Israel’s cognitive environment. The general idea is not only to give the reader the ability to interact with and assess the ideas presented by commentators, but to advance beyond these ideas to appreciate some of the principles of history writing that emerge from our study. 26. J. Walton makes note of Zevit’s comments as well and does a fine job of introducing some of the more important concepts pertaining to the poetics of ancient history writing (Ancient Near Eastern Thought and the Old Testament: Introducing the Conceptual World of the Hebrew Bible [Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2006], 227–37). I will certainly build on Walton’s ideas. 27. Commentators also bring up Philo of Byblos’s Phoenician History quite consistently, so it will be discussed as well, though not in its own chapter.

10

Chapter 1

A number of biblical commentators recognize the complexity of the issues at hand in early Genesis, though it seems that all too often the implications are passed over, whether intentional or not. For many, further exploration may simply be beyond the purview of their work. C. J. Collins provides some examples by twice describing the manner of presentation in the Cainite genealogy as “anachronistic,” though in neither place does he discuss it any further. 28 What might the consequences be of this anachronistic way of speaking of the past? Elsewhere he says that “the very content invites us to recognize the historical impulse. On the other hand, we must be cautious about too high a level of literalism in reading this material, since it seems to follow some of the conventions of the literature of which it is part.” 29 This could be interpreted to be a helpful nudge in the right direction, or it could also be construed as a warning of sorts (depending on your perspective), but what exactly does he mean? How high is too high a level of literalism? What of this historical impulse? It is hoped that one may begin to see the merit in attempting to reconstruct the text’s cognitive environment in light of comments like these.

Conclusion Perhaps this study will provide an occasion to visit and re-evaluate our method of interpreting these often enigmatic verses of Genesis. We must take the cognitive environment of early Genesis seriously, something that may compel us, in certain instances, to revise our thinking. As P. Michalowski observes: “Ancient texts have uncertain lives in the modern world. Some are constantly debated, revised, reinterpreted, and edited anew, while others remain as originally interpreted, maintaining venerable historical or cultural analyses. Occasionally something prompts us to renounce a comfortable, unquestioning relationship with a text with unpredictable consequences.” 30 Perhaps a careful study of the cognitive environment of Gen 4:17–22, as Michalowski says, “prompts us to renounce a comfortable, unquestioning relationship with a text with unpredictable consequences.” In the following chapter, terms will be defined that will allow for a proper exploration Israel’s cognitive environment, and some of its ramifications, in greater detail. 28. C. J. Collins, Genesis 1–4: A Linguistic, Literary, and Theological Commentary (Phillipsburg, NJ: P & R, 2006), 202, 253. 29. Ibid., 252. 30. P. Michalowski, “The Strange History of Tumal,” in Approaches to Sumerian Literature: Studies in Honor of Stip (H. L. J. Vanstiphout) (ed. P. Michalowski and N. Veldhuis; CM 35; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 145.

Chapter 2

Matters of Method A primary proposal of this study is that protohistorical poetics develop out of a further examination of the ancient Near Eastern background to Genesis, which involves a detailed look at the literatures, languages and cultures of those peoples surrounding ancient Israel. In other words, to understand the conventions of our own text, the nature of the language, and the world view espoused, we need to examine other ancient texts that are similar. The key for interpreting our biblical texts will be the characteristics of ancient genres that emerge. 1 This is precisely the direction we will take in this study. To do this well, we must spend a few moments defining some of the more important terms. Not only must we come to grips with the specifics of ancient genres, but we need to learn how to interact with these ancient genres today. As B. Foster observes of Akkadian literature (which applies more broadly to our endeavor), Approaching these texts from a European tradition, the reader may find them in comparison lifeless, stereotyped, and without apparent form, color or internal development. The following remarks are intended to orient the reader who wishes to approach these texts from a theoretical or critical standpoint, but who finds himself groping for landmarks on apparently featureless terrain. 2

Both ancient and modern genres leave the reader with certain responsibilities, which I will cover here, and it may not be immediately clear what they are. I hope, to borrow Foster’s words, that this chapter will provide the reader “landmarks on apparently featureless terrain” by which the texts of the following two chapters can be more effectively understood. I will begin with the more abstract definitions and terms and move to the more concrete application of these terms. The chapter will end with a fairly detailed discussion of what it means for us to approach ancient texts from our standpoint today. Again, parts of this chapter may feel to some as though conclusions have already been reached, but bear in mind that my purpose is to refine what is suggested in this chapter into principles of ancient history writing. I will take this chapter and then test it in the following two 1. Osborne, The Hermeneutical Spiral, 181. 2. B. R. Foster, Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature (3rd ed.; Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2005), 26.

11

12

Chapter 2

chapters. These are not conclusions but rather the building blocks on which conclusions will be set—landmarks on what may be for some a “featureless terrain.”

The Text’s Ancient Cognitive Environment Scores of ancient Near Eastern materials are published on what feels like almost a daily basis. We are constantly learning from the numerous and rapid advances in the ancient Near Eastern disciplines just how ancient the ideas expressed within biblical texts really are. As our understanding of ancient materials advances, we find that the concerns of the text—being ancient itself—might be slightly other than what we had once thought. This becomes a safeguard for us today, as recognizing the ancient questions and concerns allows us to avoid reading back into Genesis what Longman calls our own “modern scientific perspectives and questions.” 3 Walton provides a very helpful phrase referred to already on numerous occasions: ancient cognitive environment. In order to appreciate Walton’s concept, we must first be clear about what a “cognitive environment” is. Gutt defines a cognitive environment as “all the facts that an individual is capable of representing in his mind and of accepting as true, or probably true. The sources of this information can be perception (seeing, hearing, etc.), memory, or inference, which can make use of information from the other two sources.” 4 To say that Israel was indeed a partaker in the ancient cognitive environment of the Near East is to say that she shared many of the basics to some degree with her ancient neighbors. 5 There were many similarities in world view and general everyday concerns. The common cognitive environment was not a matter of one culture borrowing from another. Rather, as Walton says, “a cognitive environment is a cultural heritage shaped by infinite forces and influences generation by generation, through complexities that cannot be traced or identified.” 6 We need not concern ourselves with the existence of cultural parallels, their direction or degree of connection, and so on, when considering a text’s 3. T. Longman III, How to Read Genesis (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 2005), 70. 4. E.-A. Gutt, Relevance Theory: A Guide to Successful Communication in Translation (Dallas: Summer Institute of Linguistics, 1992), 22. More simply, M. Kearns defines it as someone’s “mental landscape.” M. Kearns, “Relevance, Rhetoric, Narrative,” Rhetoric Society Quarterly 31/3 (2001): 74. D. Sperber and D. Wilson call a cognitive environment that is shared a “mutual cognitive environment.” For their detailed discussion of cognitive environments, both cognitive and mutual, see D. Sperber and D. Wilson, Relevance: Communication and Cognition (2nd ed.; Oxford: Blackwell, 1995), 38–46. 5. Walton, Ancient Near Eastern Thought, 331. Contra Sternberg (The Poetics of Biblical Narrative, 232), Osborne writes, “the biblical author shared certain assumptions with his readers. . . . The interpreter needs to discover these underlying ‘givens’ for properly understanding the text” (Osborne, The Hermeneutical Spiral, 519). 6. Walton, Ancient Near Eastern Thought, 332.

Matters of Method

13

ancient cognitive environment. Walton is again instructive: “Borrowing is not the issue, so methodology does not have to address that. Likewise, this need not concern whose ideas are derivative. There is simply common ground across the cognitive environment of the cultures of the ancient world.” 7 Nor should we be concerned with the fact that different geographical areas had different ways of speaking of their beginnings—our net is cast wider than this. A study of the ancient Near Eastern cognitive environment allows us to glean from each culture what we may without needing to validate it by the presence of a direct connection. 8 It is against this backdrop that the modern reader may discover what elements of the Hebrew thinker might represent a deviation from standard thought, or perhaps an innovation. 9 This, then, is the goal—to recover the ancient cognitive environment for Gen 4:17–22 to understand better what it is, if anything, that sets the Hebrew thinker apart. By comparing Genesis with the literature from the cultures surrounding Israel, my aim is to recover how the ancient Israelite mind would have understood this passage as it stands in the context of the larger text.

The Genre(s) of the Text An exercise of this nature will invariably draw our attention to the genres of the Genesis text. 10 As E. D. Hirsch has famously stated, “every disagreement about interpretation is usually a disagreement about genre.” 11 This might be overstating things just a bit, though it no doubt set us out on the proper path. 12 Without question, the problems mentioned above have arisen, I will argue, from a failure to do proper justice to the genre(s) of the Genesis text. 7. Ibid., 21. Elsewhere, he explains: “When comparative studies are done at the cognitive environment level, trying to understand how people thought about themselves and their world, a broader methodology can be used” (ibid.). 8. This approach, it has been demonstrated, is essentially futile anyway because of the fragmentary and widely divergent views from within even one culture. For an example, see S. Dalley’s short discussion of the multivalent Mesopotamian views of creation (Myths from Mesopotamia: Creation, The Flood, Gilgamesh, and Others [World’s Classics; rev. ed.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000], 278). 9. K. A. Mathews, Genesis 1–11:26 (NAC 1A; Nashville: Broadman & Holman, 1996), 88. 10. For a short moment I will, for the sake of the present discussion, step back from our passage in Gen 4 to consider the larger context of Gen 1–11 as a whole. Our passage is tied inextricably to this larger context, so it makes sense to study its generic character first. On context and genre, see E. D. Hirsch, Validity in Interpretation (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1967), 86–87. When appropriate, I will refocus our lens on our smaller passage within Gen 4. 11. Ibid., 98. 12. Michalowski, “The Strange History,” 145.

Chapter 2

14 Toward a Definition of Genre

Simply stated, a genre in literature is “a group of texts that bear one or more traits in common with each other.” 13 These common traits allow the author and hearer/reader to communicate in agreed-on ways. 14 To read correctly—that is, according to a text’s genre—the reader follows the rules or conventions of the text as set forth by these traits. In this sense, then, genre acts as a bridge between the author and the reader. 15 Vanhoozer likens the various biblical genres to different kinds of maps. Each map performs or accomplishes different tasks (informing, warning, encouraging, commanding, assuring, and so on) based on what features of the world the map highlights. And like a map, he explains, each genre also has its own “key” and “scale.” The “key” explains what a text is about. Just as different maps highlight different aspects of reality (e.g., roads, geological characteristics, historical events), so different literary genres select and attend to some aspects of reality more than others. Similarly, each genre has its own “scale,” that is, its own conventions for thinking and its own manner of fitting words to the world. 16

We may not speak of Genesis as though it is monolithic. Rather, we should recognize the many different “kinds of maps” that make up the book as a whole. 17 This is directly related to the nature of the composition of the book in its present form, though nothing need be said in this regard other than to acknowledge its compositional complexity. Entirely satisfactory conclusions regarding the genre of the Gen 1–11 protohistory have not often been reached, due in large part to the uniqueness of the text as a whole. In reality, many different genres may have been drawn together in an artful and skillful way to make up what we now have before us as Gen 1–11. It simply cannot be pigeonholed by one generic category or another, nor should it be. Indeed, the Pentateuch as a larger whole “nests,” as K. Sparks says, many different genres into “what appears otherwise a historical narrative framework.” 18 All of this is not to say that axiomatic statements concern13. T. Longman III, Literary Approaches to Biblical Interpretation (Foundations of Contemporary Interpretation 3; Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1996), 141. 14. Osborne explains simply that genre is a set of literary conventions shared by the author and interpreter (The Hermeneutical Spiral, 183). 15. K. J. Vanhoozer, “Introduction: Hermeneutics, Text, and Biblical Theology,” NIDOTTE 1:39. 16. Idem, Is There a Meaning in This Text? The Bible, the Reader, and the Morality of Literary Knowledge (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1998), 343. 17. As we will see below, these “maps” represent a genre, its “scale,” and “keys” for a specific moment in time. Genres, we will see also change or develop. That is, they are culturally conditioned, and the map’s key and scale may also change through time. However, we are still able to appreciate what Vanhoozer is suggesting about the nature of genre in general with this image he employs. 18. Some of the genres he provides as examples are itineraries, genealogies, legends, myths, treaties, laws, and ritual texts (K. L. Sparks, Ancient Texts for the Study of the Hebrew

Matters of Method

15

ing the section cannot be made, but rather what is suggested must be done in such a nuanced way that it respects the complex nature of the material. Hirsch describes two categories of literary critics where genre is concerned, what he calls the Aristotelian and the Crocean camps, presumably related to their founders. Aristotelians hold that genres are limited in number, either by convention or nature or both, and Croceans hold that genres are “fictitious entities” that arbitrarily break up the infinite continuum of possible ways to express something. 19 These categories are essentially the same as those of Sparks when he says one school of thought practices generic realism while the other practices generic nominalism. The first, which he associates with traditional form criticism (pioneered by H. Gunkel), is the understanding that a text fits uniquely into one and only one of the proposed generic categories in which we place them. 20 This is contrasted with generic nominalism, which recognizes that our generic categories are taxonomic human inventions, and, therefore, there is a “flexible and partially arbitrary character to all classifications.” 21 In generic studies today, the latter option, generic nominalism, is almost universally preferred. A major fault of traditional form criticism (generic realism), then, is its failure to recognize just how fluid genre actually is. In fact, J. Kofoed, after a survey of modern genre theorists, sums up their conclusions with these words: “we may conclude . . . if there is one word we cannot use in a definition of genre and in describing the mechanics of genre recognition, it is rigid.” 22 A. Fowler, chief among these genre theorists, explains why this is so. He says that every literary work changes its genre in some small way. Even if, as he says, a work “kowtows slavishly to generic conventions,” these conventions will be affected. Fowler suggests, therefore, that all genres constantly undergo what he calls “metamorphosis.” 23 Bible: A Guide to the Background Literature [Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2005], 8). 19. E. D. Hirsch, The Aims of Interpretation (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1976), 67–68. 20. Sparks, Ancient Texts, 6. See also Vanhoozer, who warns against the failure to distinguish between the work of form critics and that of literary and generic studies (Is There a Meaning, 336–37). 21. Sparks, Ancient Texts, 6. 22. J. B. Kofoed, Text and History: Historiography and the Study of the Biblical Text (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2005), 199, emphasis his. See also the discussion in, D. Damrosch, The Narrative Covenant: Transformations of Genre in the Growth of Biblical Literature (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1987), 37. 23. He goes on to explain: “This, indeed, is the principal way in which literature itself changes . . . we need only notice that literary meaning necessarily involves modulations or departures from generic codes, and therefore, eventually, alterations of them. However a work relates to existing genres . . . it will tend, if it becomes known, to bring about new states of these genres” (Kind of Literature: An Introduction to the Theory of Genres and Modes [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982], 23). Elsewhere, he elaborates further: “In the dialectical progression of literary history, there have been many times when the

16

Chapter 2

Kofoed suggests that a further difficulty with rigid generic categories is that both genre definition and recognition are historically conditioned concepts. By their very nature, not only do they change over time but they depend heavily (for a definition) on the culture into which and for which they are created. 24 In this sense, genres can be thought of as a set of historical assumptions agreed on by author and audience, though these assumptions may be redefined or abandoned at any given moment. 25 It certainly follows that, for successful communication, the generic context should be shared by author and audience. 26 When these contexts are not shared, as when we study ancient cultures and their literatures today, extra care must be exercised when seeking to bridge the temporal divide between us. In other words, when we discuss genres through time, we should make provision for “considerable diachronic variation.” 27 The implications of such historically conditioned genres should become more clear as we proceed, when we explore the genre(s) of ancient history writing in further detail. Before, however, there are a few more items of generic method to cover. Handling Genre Responsibly It seems most reasonable, in light of the ever-changing nature of genre, to practice a type of generic nominalism. This would mean that we are no longer confined by the typical definitions of certain genres, nor by the discussions that arise about a particular text’s inclusion into one of them. Indeed, the previous few paragraphs have attempted to demonstrate that these generic categories are rendered, in a sense, moot. For our purposes, this means we should not confine ourselves to the traditional generic (form critical) categories myth, history, legend, folklore, and so on when speaking of Gen 1–11. 28 This section of Genesis is inherently more complex than any of these categories could adequately account for, due in part to the apparent blending of genres found within it. For example, the language in places appears mythological, though at the same time seems to consider what it is communicating to be historical. Is this myth or history? At times certain urge to go beyond existing genres has recurred. To some extent, indeed, the tendency is perpetual. Boundaries have always been transgressed, genres have always been combined or discarded” (ibid., 32). For a more in-depth look at the nature of generic transformation and modulation, see (ibid., 171–212). 24. Kofoed, Text and History, 199–200. Fowler adds that “without some historical localization, discussion of genre tends toward the vacuous.” Fowler, Kind of Literature, 47. See also, Vanhoozer, Is There a Meaning, 339. 25. R. Cohen, “History and Genre,” New Literary History 17/2 (1986): 210. For a more detailed example of what this process looks like, see A. Fowler, “Genre and the Literary Canon,” New Literary History 11/1 (1979): 109–10. 26. Vanhoozer, “Introduction: Hermeneutics,” 39. 27. Fowler, Kind of Literature, 47. 28. At least for the time being, that is. I will define terms to use in the following sections after a discussion of how genre should be responsibly handled.

Matters of Method

17

names appear to be highly symbolic, and elsewhere they seem to be used more conventionally. Is it literal or symbolic language? Must we choose between the two genres in each of these examples? Could we rather deal with the data in an open and honest way and practice generic nominalism? The following sections will demonstrate, among other things, that the ancient mind often made much less of the distinctions between myth and history and also between the literal and the figurative than we do today. All of this is, of course, not to propose that we do away with the question of genre but to highlight the uniqueness and complexity of the texts at hand, and also the fluidity of genre. We may need to revisit our generic categories when considering Gen 1–11, and more specifically our passage in Gen 4. Stated another way, the goal must be to recover the definition and function of these genres within their ancient contexts (the “emic” views), rather than wrangle over generic concepts defined by modern scholars (the “etic” views). 29 This sort of approach should allow us to construct from the ground up, so to speak, our understanding of the genre(s) of Gen 1–11 based on a more accurate understanding of the ancient conventions of communication. Generic Signals To arrive at proper generic conclusions for our passage, then, we need to pay attention to these ancient conventions. We will begin to do this in more detail below, but before then, we must take a moment to speak of mechanisms of genre recognition at a broad level. Derrida speaks of a code that provides identifiable traits in texts. These traits allow us to determine which texts belong to which genres. 30 Constituting this code, we have generic signals, that is, elements within texts that point them in the direction of certain genres (and by inference make their inclusion in others less probable). 31 Quite often, these signals appear at the outset of a narrative and play an important role in guiding the reader. 32 Names would be one example of possible generic signals to notice when reading a text—both 29. V. Matthews explains: “Emic is a view that anthropologists use to indicate the way members of a culture understand and explain their own society” (Studying the Ancient Israelites: A Guide to Sources and Methods [Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2007], 98). W. G. Doty defines etic views as “external distinctions made by the analyst” (Mythography: The Study of Myths and Rituals [2nd ed.; Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 2000], 37). For a general discussion of the emic understanding of genre in Mesopotamian literature (specifically related to Gilgamesh, in this instance) see A. R. George, “The Epic of Gilgameš: Thoughts on Genre and Meaning,” in Gilgameš and the World of Assyria: Proceedings from the Conference Held at Mandelbaum House, The University of Sydney, 21–23 July 2004 (ed. J. Azize and N. Weeks; ANESS 21; Leuven: Peeters, 2007). 30. J. Derrida, “The Law of Genre,” Critical Inquiry 7/1 (1980): 64. 31. T. N. D. Mettinger, The Eden Narrative: A Literary and Religio-historical Study of Genesis 2–3 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2007), 66–67. Note that Derrida calls these “traits” (“The Law of Genre,” 64). 32. Fowler, Kind of Literature, 88.

18

Chapter 2

personal and geographical, or the description of a text’s setting. 33 Y. Amit suggests that vague or blurred geographical references are very strong generic signals. For example, the difficulty scholars have typically had in even identifying the four rivers in Eden (from Gen 2) might hint at an otherworldly location for Eden. 34 Another possible signal relates to the subject matter of the opening topics in a work. For example, these opening topics may prepare the reader’s “expectations of a genre in a more discriminating way.” 35 Generic signals—these and others—must be taken into account when seeking to make sense of a text and arrive at generic conclusions. I will of course attempt to identify the generic signals in our Genesis text in the following chapter. Referential Ambition and Truth Claims Tied closely to generic issues, for the interpreter, is a text’s referential ambition, or “the sense that it purports to tell the truth about an extralinguistic reality.” 36 What sort of referential ambition does a text seem to demonstrate, or does it rather possess representativity, which T. Mettinger defines as “a validity that is greater than the individual case”? 37 Mettinger appears to treat these two options as though they are mutually exclusive poles, though it may be more profitable to see these as two somewhat related items for consideration. In other words, the interpreter must ask how referential the words of the text appear to be. To what degree are they representational? This is not always a simple task, as noted below. Berkhofer writes, History, historical fiction, fictional history, and fiction all exist along a spectrum ranging from supposedly pure factual representation of literal, historical truth to pure non-literary, invented fictional representation of fantasy. No work of history conveys only literal truth through factuality, and few novels, even science fiction ones, depict only pure fantasy. 38

We must remain sensitive to the spectrum of possibilities when considering genre and questions of reference. Long returns time and again to the example of a painter and his work in order to elucidate some of the issues surrounding how reality is reflected in what is normally perceived to be a 33. See also, V. P. Long, The Art of Biblical History (Foundations of Contemporary Interpretation 5; Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1996), 308–9. 34. She adds, “The text employs known names, but geographically they do not add up, which creates ambiguity” (Y. Amit, Reading Biblical Narratives: Literary Criticism and the Hebrew Bible [trans. Y. Lotan; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001], 121). 35. Fowler, Kind of Literature, 98. 36. Mettinger, The Eden Narrative, 67. This seems similar to discerning what Long calls a text’s embodied intention (The Art of Biblical History, 296). 37. Mettinger, The Eden Narrative, 67. 38. R. F. Berkhofer, Beyond the Great Story: History as Text and Discourse (Cambridge: Belknap, 1995), 67. See also P. Heehs (“Myth, History, and Theory,” Hist. Theory 33/1 [1994]: 1–19), who demonstrates that fact is often blended with fiction in a literary work.

Matters of Method

19

historical text: “What is of essential importance in a portrait by a great master, the subject itself as a historical person or the masterful interpretation of the subject?” He replies, “Surely both are important. Even to ask the question in this way is to assume a false dichotomy.” Similarly, when considering an ancient work of history writing, we must consider both the historical events the text claims to describe as well as the interpretive qualities of the words mediating the events to us. The scholarly tendency is to “swing” from one extreme to the other—like a pendulum—either making too much of the events behind the text or dismissing them completely. The pendulum should be halted in the middle, not losing touch with either the historical event or interpretive word. 39 Again, comparing our text to a painting, we should take care not to lose sight of the artistic interpretation of the work, while allowing it to retain its referential character. 40 The next step is then to ask what the text’s truth claims are. That is, in addition to establishing the basic claim of referentiality, we should attempt to discover the level of detail and precision intended. In other words, “What kind of likeness of reality is the narrator attempting to create?” 41 Additionally, what of these details and likeness should the interpreter “believe” (accept as truth being communicated by the author)? To determine this, we need to distinguish between the truth claims of an author and the overall truth value of a work. 42 That is, truth value has to do with how well a text corresponds to reality, whereas a truth claim is simply the text’s claim to correspond to reality. Long explains it well: “It is one thing to discern what a work intends (truth claim), it is quite another to decide whether it succeeds (truth value).” 43 A Word of Warning A word of warning is in order, however, when considering generic issues and truth claims: we must not simply suppose that a text appearing to be factual must be factual, for that would be “to ride roughshod over the issue of literary genres.” 44 In other words, genres frequently blend fact and fiction, which makes it at times very difficult (if not impossible) to distinguish the types of truth claims being made. 45 All of this means we can never simply assume that, if a text presents itself as factual, it must be. The converse of this is also true, as Berkhofer insinuated: simply that a text contains within 39. Ibid. 40. Ibid., 350. 41. Ibid., 297. 42. Sternberg, The Poetics of Biblical Narrative, 25. 43. Long, The Art of Biblical History, 297. 44. K. J. Vanhoozer, “The Semantics of Biblical Literature: Truth and Scripture’s Diverse Literary Forms,” in Hermeneutics, Authority, and Canon (ed. D. A. Carson and J. D. Woodbridge; Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2005), 68. 45. Kofoed, Text and History, 210.

20

Chapter 2

it fictional or fantastical elements should not cause one to suppose that it may not also contain elements of truth. It is precisely an understanding of a text’s genre that allows the interpreter to recognize what kinds of truth claims are being made, as well as what to make of them (that is, judgments regarding their truth value). 46 And further, M. Sternberg contends that it is not the presence or absence of truth value by which a work’s historical character should be judged but rather the author’s commitment to truth value. 47 That is, both ends of Berkhofer’s spectrum of history writing may contain a blending of fact and fiction, but it is the author’s intention to impart truth value in his work, not his success, that ultimately matters. 48 As Long reminds us, we should not “lose touch with either historical event or interpretive word.” 49 Rather, as I suggested above, we must make note of the generic signals to discover to the degree of referential ambition and the truth claims of a text, all of which relate directly to its genre. One final caveat: an interpreter’s preliminary generic conception will color all that is subsequently understood until, somehow, that conception is changed. 50 In the case of the text of Genesis, when an interpreter’s reli46. Vanhoozer, “The Semantics of Biblical Literature,” 69, 80. 47. Sternberg, The Poetics of Biblical Narrative, 25–30. So also, Osborne, The Hermeneutical Spiral, 514–15. Along similar lines, A. Loprieno defines ancient Egyptian fictionality as the “textual category whereby an implicit mutual solidarity is established between the author and the reader to the effect that the world presented in the text need not coincide with actual reality and that no sanctions apply in the case of a discrepancy” (“Defining Egyptian Literature: Ancient Texts and Modern Literary Theory,” in The Study of the Ancient Near East in the 21st Century: The William Foxwell Albright Centennial Conference [ed. J. S. Cooper and G. M. Schwartz; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1996], 214). In other words, Loprieno agrees that the question of historicity (or lack thereof ) is dependent on the intention of the author. 48. Sternberg clarifies: If the title to history-writing hinged on the correspondence to the truth—the historicity of the things written about—then a historical text would automatically forfeit or change its status on the discovery that it contained errors or imbalances or guesses and fabrications passed off as verities. Also, its historiographic character would come and go according to historiosophic fashion. But that is not the case, or else there would hardly be any works of history left and librarians would spend most of their time shuttling books between the nonfiction and fiction shelves. Thucydides and Gibbon and even von Ranke . . . have all been caught out or challenged by their successors, but no one would consider relegating them to a genre other than the historical. Whatever its faults, real or imagined, bad historiography does not yet make fiction. (Sternberg, The Poetics of Biblical Narrative, 25)

So also J. Huizinga, “A Definition of the Concept of History,” in Philosophy and History: Essays Presented to Ernst Cassirer (ed. R. Klibansky and H. J. Paton; New York: Harper Torchbooks, 1963), 3–4. 49. Long, The Art of Biblical History, 349. 50. Hirsch, Validity in Interpretation, 74.

Matters of Method

21

gious values may also be intertwined with the interpretive process, the issue can become even more complex—it becomes all the more difficult for one’s generic conceptions to be altered. All too often, it seems, interpreters’ preliminary generic conceptions of the text (or, religious import) blind them to generic signals in the text. 51 It is a difficult task, then, religious or not, to become alert to a text’s generic signals, referential ambition, and truth claims. We must do our best to allow the text to speak for itself. The text’s “voice” should become much clearer after its larger cognitive environment is examined in the following pages. Authorial Intent In light of the last few paragraphs, it should be clear how textual generic issues are inescapably tied to authorial intent. 52 As M. Mullett says, genre “brings the author . . . back into the spotlight and allows sidelong lunges at 51. This is just as Hirsch says it can be: “An interpreter’s notion of the type of meaning he confronts will powerfully influence his understanding of the details” (ibid., 75). See also Vanhoozer’s similar warning, “The Semantics of Biblical Literature,” 93. 52. Though there are many levels to distinguish between when speaking of authorship in narrative texts, my goal is to recover the intentions of the historical author, not the implied author or the narrator. With P. Juhl, to discover the intentions of the implied author is to discover those of the real author (Interpretation: An Essay in the Philosophy of Literary Criticism [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980], 100–105, 153–95). It is the historical author who “makes choices as to what to do and how to do it: he or she chooses to follow or to ignore certain conventions” (Vanhoozer, Is There a Meaning, 239). Quite often, the only access we have to the real author, however, is the implied author (Osborne, The Hermeneutical Spiral, 519). W. Nelles describes the “implied author” as “the second self that an author creates when he or she writes, the image of the author that a reader infers from the written work itself ” (“Historical and Implied Authors and Readers,” Comparative Literature 45/1 [1993]: 24). G. J. Wenham adds that this “implied author” is the projected image of the author and his or her attitudes through a text. It is because of this ability to project that the implied author is felt to be different from the actual author (Story as Torah: Reading Old Testament Narrative Ethically [Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2004], 8–9). See also the more detailed treatment, W. C. Booth, The Rhetoric of Fiction (2nd ed.; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983), 70–77. Vanhoozer calls the “implied author” more accurately the “inferred author.” Vanhoozer, Is There a Meaning, 239. Additionally, there exists a “narrator,” who is “chosen and fashioned by the author” (Amit, Reading Biblical Narratives, 101). This narrator is “inside the narrative . . . an integral part of the work” and, furthermore, should remain distinct from the implied author (though this distinction is neither agreed on nor upheld by all. See J. P. Fokkelman, Reading Biblical Narrative: An Introductory Guide [trans. I. Smit; Leiderdorp: Deo, 1999], 55). The narrator “tells us what is happening and which character is speaking at any given time,” and the implied author “becomes known to us through what the narrator says, through the speech of the characters . . . and through the organization of the narrative materials, plot, time, space, etc.” (S. Bar-Efrat, Narrative Art in the Bible [London: T. & T. Clark, 2004], 13–14). What is more, the narrator emerges as both omniscient and, in general, reliable (that is, we may trust his point of view). For more on the narrator, omniscience and point of view, see Sternberg, The Poetics of Biblical Narrative, 84; R. Alter, The Art of Biblical Narrative (New York: Basic Books, 1981), 155.

22

Chapter 2

his intentions.” 53 Most of the difficulties interpreters have with our passage revolve around how (if at all) the author intended the text to correspond to reality. In addition, difficulties remain in discerning how this information should affect his audience. 54 This is what we are doing when we seek to determine a text’s referential ambition and then its truth claims. More precisely, then, the goal should be to determine the author’s referential ambition and truth claims, when possible. To accept a statement such as this is to accept that meaning for interpreters is located more accurately with the author, rather than the text. 55 Practically speaking, of course, we may only learn of the author and his intent through the medium of the text, which is still with us. Indeed, text and author are intrinsically related. 56 All of this 53. M. Mullett, “The Madness of Genre,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 46 (1992): 234. 54. J. L. Austin gave rise to the “speech-act” theory of language, which assumes that language is, in a sense, performative. That is, communication takes place not only to convey propositional truth-statements but to have an effect on an audience as well. R. S. Briggs, “Speech-Act Theory,” in Dictionary of Theological Interpretation of the Bible (ed. K. J. Vanhoozer; Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2005). In his own words, Austin explains that “the locutionary act . . . is roughly equivalent to ‘meaning’ in the traditional sense.” The illocutionary act is what we do in saying something, and the perlocutionary act is “what we bring about or achieve by saying something, such as convincing or persuading, deterring, and even, say, surprising or misleading” (How to Do Things with Words: The William James Lectures Delivered at Harvard University in 1955 [2nd ed.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976], 109). By way of an example, a locutionary act would be my uttering the words I am thirsty. On the surface, it appears to be nothing more than a statement of information. If my wife happens to be nearby and overhears, she may assume rather that I am asking her to fill a glass of water and bring it to me (if I am watching sports on the television, this is likely the case!). Therefore, the illocution of my locutionary statement is a request for water. The perlocution of this is the result that is brought about by them, namely, my wife responds to my request and brings to me a glass of water. Vanhoozer writes that “Austin’s significance lies in his discovering a whole new realm of acts—illocutions—what we do in saying something” and also that a “complete understanding of a speech-act involves, therefore, an apprehension not only of the meaning but also of the force” (“The Semantics of Biblical Literature,” 86–87). J. R. Searle was responsible for arranging and classifying Austin’s speech-acts, and it is through his writing that “speech act theory has had the most of its impact on linguistics” (S. C. Levinson, Pragmatics [Cambridge Textbooks in Linguistics; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983], 237–38). See for example, J. R. Searle, Expression and Meaning: Studies in the Theory of Speech Acts (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), 1–29. For our purposes here, we may understand that the author is imparting information in Genesis (the locutionary act), and in so doing, he aims to affect the reader in some way (the illocutionary force of his words). For further study, refer to Vanhoozer, “The Semantics of Biblical Literature,” 86–92, and the much more fully developed and technical coverage of Levinson (Pragmatics, 226–83) and K. Taylor (Truth and Meaning: An Introduction to the Philosophy of Language [Oxford: Blackwell, 1998], 303–81). 55. As Vanhoozer says, “a word or text only has meaning (noun) if some person means (verb) something by it” (Is There a Meaning, 202). 56. As P. Juhl notes, to “appeal to the text . . . is to appeal to the author’s intention” (Interpretation, 88). Or, as D. H. Aaron observes, the text is a “metonym” for an author

Matters of Method

23

leads N. Wolterstorff to promote what he calls the “authorial-discourse” method of interpretation, which, among other things, recognizes that what the author intended to say and actually said in the text might be somewhat different. So then, with Wolterstorff, the author’s intention as expressed through the text is what we are ultimately attempting to recover. 57 The Role of the Reader This is a convenient segue, then, into another facet of the interpretive process. The audience, readers, or otherwise receivers of a communicative act (or, in our case, a text) play a significant interpretive role in the process of understanding. It is the reader, after all, who must discern what the ancient writer intended. To reiterate, the reader does this through the medium of the text, which is why we have focused our energies on matters of textual genres and related terms. I have alluded to the role of the reader several times and must now make it more explicit. We will also discuss a few tools that will aid the reader in the interpretive process. Mind the Gaps The first mention of the reader’s responsibility came with the various interpretations of our passage, presented in the introductory chapter. Specifically, it is left to the reader to “fill in the gaps” when attempting to reach any conclusions regarding Gowan’s “problems of continuity.” 58 More formally, a gap may be defined as a point of ambiguity in a text. Gaps may result from information simply not provided by the author, whether it relates to a particular event, a character’s motive, larger plot structure, and so on. Gaps also may result from a story’s chronological sequence being twisted, or not presented necessarily in the order its events actually occurred. As Sternberg explains, “The sequence devised for the reader thus becomes discontinuous . . . and gap-filling consists exactly in restoring the continuity that the narrator broke.” 59 Booth calls these gaps “authorial silence” and demonstrates how, in a number of ways, this silence can be a very effective tool for the author to convey meaning in a text. He observes that “by the kind of silence (Biblical Ambiguities: Metaphor, Semantics, and Divine Imagery [Leiden: Brill, 2002], 7). 57. In essence, then, N. Wolterstorff ’s method aims to recover the author’s illocutionary force as expressed in the text (“The Promise of Speech-Act Theory for Biblical Interpretation,” in After Pentecost: Language and Biblical Interpretation [ed. C. G. Bartholomew et al.; SHS 2; Carlisle: Paternoster, 2001], 82; see n. 54 for discussion of illocutionary force). For a brief treatment of the authorial-discourse interpretation, see idem, “Authorial-Discourse Interpretation,” in Dictionary of Theological Interpretation of the Bible (ed. K. J. Vanhoozer; Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2005), 78–80. 58. See p. 4. 59. Sternberg, The Poetics of Biblical Narrative, 235. R. L. Stein refers to gaps as “indeterminacies” and says, “Indeterminacy is the primary condition of art because it is the fundamental condition of life” (“Historical Fiction and the Implied Reader: Scott and Iser,” NOVEL 14/3 [1981]: 215).

24

Chapter 2

he maintains . . . the author can achieve effects which would be difficult or impossible if he allowed himself or a reliable spokesman to speak directly and authoritatively to us.” 60 Before the reader fills a gap, he must determine whether or not the gap is worth filling at all. Sternberg distinguished between gaps in the narrative “for the sake of interest” and “blanks,” which were omitted “for lack of interest.” 61 There is, we could say, a hierarchy of gaps, ranging from the very important to the less important. However, even a gap determined to be of minimal importance by the reader may influence—albeit subtly—response and understanding. 62 That is to say, every legitimate gap in the text may help us determine what sort of text we are dealing with. 63 It is somewhat a cyclical process, gap filling—the types of gaps direct us, they give us clues to help us identify the genre of a text, and yet the type of genre with which a text is identified affects the way we are to fill in those gaps. 64 This business of gap filling is no small task, to be sure. It requires the reader’s active participation, as well as concentration. 65 Moreover, just as easily as it can be done well, it can also be done poorly. This “illegitimate gap filling” is led by the reader’s subjective concerns or preconceptions, as opposed to the signals and terms of the text itself. 66 Nor is the process arbitrary, as noted already. Various factors aid the reader in filling in the gaps properly, and chief among these are the text’s conventions, which Sternberg calls “language and poetics,” and the text’s genre. 67 As one might guess, these three are quite interrelated. The conventions of the text point the reader toward certain generic decisions, which in turn help the reader determine and fill in gaps properly. Similarly, the types of gaps may also lend themselves to the interpretive process, serving to help the reader identify the genre of a text. In this sense, then, gaps function as types of generic signals. 60. Booth, The Rhetoric of Fiction, 273. Booth devotes a chapter to this authorial silence, ibid., 271–309. 61. Sternberg, The Poetics of Biblical Narrative, 236; also p. 529 n. 31. Note that W. Iser calls these, respectively, “negations” and “blanks.” Iser offers interesting comments on how blanks and negations “induce the reader to perform basic operations within the text” (“Interaction between Text and Reader,” in The Reader in the Text: Essays on Audience Interpretation [ed. S. R. Suleiman and I. Crosman; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980], 112). 62. Sternberg, The Poetics of Biblical Narrative, 222. 63. The very presence of a gap may be indicative of a different genre entirely from that of prose. In other words, perhaps the reason we have these questions (gaps) in the first place is that we have not understood the genre. This is not to suggest that prose may not also have gaps but rather that other types of texts may as well and it might be that the type of gap suggests we take another look, if you will. 64. Ibid., 189. 65. Ibid., 239. 66. Ibid., 188. 67. Ibid., 189.

Matters of Method

25

Determine the Genre This brings us to the second interpretive task of the reader, already implied in several places. The reader, having made note of the gaps, must ask what kind of a text is being read. 68 In other words, the reader needs to determine properly the genre of the text being read. M. Fox explains this process quite well: When we come to a text for the first time, we ask ourselves what kind of text we are reading. We answer with a broad, “heuristic” genre concept, which we progressively narrow and refine as our understanding increases. An audience always has expectations about the type of discourse it is about to hear. Writers build on these expectations. . . . Genre-built expectations make possible the delight and insight of surprise, for there can be surprise only when there are expectations to be violated. 69

The reader determines the genre by making note of the gaps and generic signals in a text. Only then will he be able to discern its degree of referential ambition and truth claims. As Fox described, this first attempt might begin more broadly, to be narrowed and refined as one’s understanding increases. It might be that we do not understand all of the conventions of a particular genre right away due to genre’s fluid nature or its historically conditioned definitions and uses. Presumably, the more we come to understand the historical and cultural context in which this particular genre was employed, the more accurately we might come to understand its conventions. It is sometimes also true, as is the case with our passage, that a text may be a part of more than one genre at a time. It may also be that the conventions of one of these genres—perhaps better understood—offer insight into the conventions of the other. For example, it is well known that the genre of our passage in Genesis is that of a genealogy. As I will show in the following chapter, the conventions of ancient genealogies are fairly well understood. Our genealogical passage is one smaller part of the larger text, Gen 1–11, the genre of which is much less clearly understood. Is it myth, legend, saga, history, or something else entirely? A better understanding of the function and purpose of the genealogy genre should help us better understand the larger generic picture. Learn the Genre’s Rules Vanhoozer speaks of a “cooperative principle” at work between the author (by way of the text) and reader where genre is concerned. 70 In order to understand the meaning of a text, the reader cooperates with the author 68. “Every piece of writing is a kind of something” ( J. B. Gabel et al., The Bible as Literature: An Introduction [4th ed.; New York: Oxford University Press, 2000], 17). 69. M. V. Fox, The Song of Songs and the Ancient Egyptian Love Songs (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1985), xxii, emphasis his. 70. Vanhoozer, Is There a Meaning, 337–38. Elsewhere he calls this cooperation a “communicative covenant,” or a “covenant of discourse.” Ibid., 346.

26

Chapter 2

(through the text) by adhering to certain rules (literary conventions, or our poetics, from above), which are defined by the text’s genre. It is the duty of the reader, then, to become competent in these conventions in order to grasp the author’s meaning. 71 Even if the reader may not be competent, however, texts often have generic “sign-posts” within them to aid the reader in this process (generic signals). 72 Osborne describes the entire process as a “trialogue” among the author, text, and reader. The author, through the text, provides “access points” that serve to direct the reader toward a proper interpretation. “The reader thereby aligns him- or herself with the textual world and propositional content, thus coming to understand the intended meaning of the text.” 73 The rules of this “trialogue” constitute the third interpretive task of the reader already implied. To reiterate, it is the task of the reader to become as well-versed as possible in the conventions, or poetics, of the text in order to be able to identify its genre properly. This is, again, what Berlin means when she writes that “if we know how texts mean, we are in a better position to discover what a text means.” 74 It is in this way that the reader, in a real sense, is responsible for the meaning of a text—we as readers must learn how texts mean and we must choose to engage them. 75 The three steps mentioned above, determining gaps, genre, and conventions are, as we have said, intertwined with one another. It may not always 71. This could be what A. Heschel meant when he observed that “the great challenge to those of us who wish to take the Bible seriously is to let it teach us its own essential categories; and then for us to think with them, instead of just about them” (personal conversation between Heschel and Outler as reported in A. C. Outler, “Toward a Postliberal Hermeneutics,” Theology Today 42 (1985): 290; emphasis original. 72. Booth writes, “Though actual readers will make of works whatever their generic expectations enable them to make, works themselves work very hard, as we might say, to put up ‘dead end’ signs and directional arrows that actually work” (The Rhetoric of Fiction, 435, emphasis his). Similarly, R. Watts says that the words of the text “are particular signs in a particular order. They are the readers’ ‘marching orders,’ designed by the writer to communicate what he intended to the competent reader. The terms of those marching orders are indicated by the genre, the contract made between writer and reader as to how the signs are to be read” (R. E. Watts, “Making Sense of Genesis 1,” ASA: Science in Christian Perspective (2002) [cited February 3, 2009]. On-line: http://www.asa3.org/ASA/topics/ Bible-Science/6-02Watts.html. 73. Osborne, The Hermeneutical Spiral, 516. 74. Berlin, Poetics and Interpretation, 17. So also, Osborne, The Hermeneutical Spiral, 203. 75. Vanhoozer, Is There a Meaning, 368. See also, D. J. A. Clines, “What Happens in Genesis,” in What Does Eve Do to Help? and Other Readerly Questions to the Old Testament ( JSOTSup; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990), 50. As Wenham observes, the author “is in charge of the conversation. He or she dictates the course of the conversation, but it is the reader’s decision whether to continue it. If we do not like the subject of the conversation or the author’s attitude towards the subject, we may well give up reading. But to continue requires us to submit at least partially to the interests and values of the author” (Story as Torah, 11).

Matters of Method

27

be possible to determine all three, and at times some may be more readily obvious than the others. There are tools available to help us in this endeavor, which will be the focus of the following section. Tools for the Reader The Bible reader’s role is further complicated by the fact that he or she today is significantly removed from the author’s original, intended audience. Indeed, a dominant premise of this study is that there actually is such a temporal divide between today’s audience and an original audience and also that this divide needs to and can be bridged. 76 This is the end in mind when attempting to reconstruct the ancient cognitive environment surrounding our passage in Genesis. We are trying to reconstruct, in other words, the “givens” of the particular cognitive environment that the author and original audience shared. There are tools that aid the reader in doing precisely this. First, D. Sperber and D. Wilson’s relevance theory 77 may help explain why it is that we have trouble reconstructing the context of a message properly when we are so far removed from the original audience. I will spend a moment discussing relevance theory and its merits before covering how we might bridge the expanse between today’s audience and the original audience. Relevance Theory.  Relevance theory is “a cognitive theory about how utterances carry meaning.” 78 It is, in effect, “a principle of constraint” designed to limit the possible conclusions or inferences one may draw from a given communicative utterance. It suggests that the conclusions to be drawn from an utterance will be of the utmost relevance to the audience and that the audience is right to expect this sort of relevance. They will use their immediate context as well as their contextual effects (shared assumptions about the context and thus no need for either party to communicate) to draw appropriate conclusions. 79 The theory acknowledges that the 76. P. Grelot remarks that the Bible is “inseparable from the cultural framework within which it took shape” (The Language of Symbolism: Biblical Theology, Semantics, and Exegesis [trans. C. R. Smith; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006], 9). 77. D. Sperber and D. Wilson, Relevance. Sperber and Wilson build their theory on the supposition that our mental processes as humans are “at least partially predictable to others” (idem, “Truthfulness and Relevance,” Mind 111/443 [2002]: 603). 78. R. Buth, “Language, Linguistics,” in Dictionary of Theological Interpretation of the Bible (ed. K. J. Vanhoozer; Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2005), 434. 79. Kearns furnishes what he calls “a frequently mentioned example”: “if I ask my wife ‘Would you like some coffee?’ and she replies ‘Coffee would keep me awake,’ I infer ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ or ‘maybe’ based on context (is it morning or evening, are we at home or on a road trip), my knowledge of her beverage preferences, and so forth. I’m able almost instantaneously to sort through these factors because I take her response as maximally relevant to my query, within the immediate context of that query. Each of us operates with the assumption that the other’s linguistic behavior is intentional, an assumption that is necessary for the communication of the message” (“Relevance, Rhetoric, Narrative,” 76).

28

Chapter 2

speaker will use only as much energy as deemed necessary to communicate what needs to be communicated. Likewise, the receiver of an utterance will assume this to be the case and process the message accordingly. 80 That is, the speaker will aim to make the message as relevant as possible—optimally relevant—for the audience so that they may process the message with as little processing energy as possible. 81 Also note that a fundamental assumption of relevance theory is that communication is a purposeful, intentional act, something touched on already in various places. 82 Buth expounds, The theory stipulates that all statements are encoded and decoded with maximum relevance assumed. An encoder uses as much processing energy as is necessary for the intended audience. An audience assumes that the author thought he had used enough information so that they can reach appropriate strong and weak implicatures about the message. Shared cultural information will frequently be left out, or if included, it will raise a question in the recipient’s mind as to why, and lead them to look for a more complex interpretation. If the implication of a message will take extra processing, the author usually needs to signal this. 83

Buth’s explanation brings up two somewhat related items for discussion: first, because we are efficient and generally aim for optimal relevance, shared cultural information is frequently left out of the message. 84 Second, when it is not left out, it is for a reason, and the audience will know to question why His reference to the operating assumption of intentionality is from D. Blakemore, “Relevance, Poetic Effects and Social Goals: A Reply to Culpepper,” Language and Literature 3 (1994): 55. 80. Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 49. For an extended example, see Gutt, Relevance Theory, 26–27. A. Goatly is correct in noting that there are exceptions to this, however. Not all genres, he claims, are designed to be interpreted with the “minimum processing.” Some genres—puzzles, jokes, riddles, and so on, “are deliberately designed to increase” the processing effort of the receivers (The Language of Metaphors [London: Routledge, 1997], 284–85). 81. At times, Sperber and Wilson note, the proposition with optimal relevance is not necessarily literal, something we will talk more about on pp. 57–64 when we discuss metaphor. “From the standpoint of relevance theory, there is no reason to think that the optimally relevant interpretive expression of a thought is always the most literal one” (Relevance, 233). 82. Relevance theorists call this intentional act of communication “ostensive behavior” (Kearns, “Relevance, Rhetoric, Narrative,” 75–76) or, more simply, “ostension” (Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 49–50). We are told that “an act of ostensive communication automatically communicates a presumption of relevance (ibid., 156). In this respect, relevance theory is related to speech-act theory, as both presume on the intentionality of communication. Whereas speech-act theory demonstrates the inherent intentionality of certain uses of language, relevance theory reinforces this and also helps to recover certain aspects of this intentional speech-act. 83. Buth, “Language, Linguistics,” 434. 84. Note that “shared cultural information” is that which is assumed to be manifest (by the speaker) to those comprising the mutual cognitive environment.

Matters of Method

29

this is so (and likely know the answer, be able to infer, etc.). It follows, then, that if an audience does not share this cultural context (that is, they do not share the cognitive environment), they will be much less likely to infer from the message what is needed to understand it correctly. Gutt calls this a “secondary communication situation” and says that it can theoretically lead to “a total breakdown of communication.” 85 Less dramatically (a total breakdown is not likely), we as readers today frequently experience this contextual gap when approaching ancient texts, and relevance theory furnishes an explanation for us. Because we do not share the contextual effects—a result of their shared cognitive environment—we miss the relevance of these communicative acts. 86 Not only does relevance theory explain the communicative breakdown, but it helps us understand that implicit contextual information is present, that it is recoverable, and also that it is crucial to our understanding of a given communicative act. 87 In other words, relevance theory makes us aware of our interpretive lack, and it offers a goal, or target, if you will, when attempting to draw proper conclusions. 88 We as readers must test our possible reconstructions, or possibilities about what is being communicated, and relevance theory defines our parameters. 89 There are other tools, as far as the role of the reader is concerned, that help fill the void relevance theory demonstrates. The Implied Reader.  One of the most practical of these tools is the concept of the implied reader. 90 Osborne explains: every book has a group of readers in mind. These original readers are no longer available to the “real reader” (the person actually reading it today), and so the text yields only an “implied reader” behind the intended message. The actual reader is called on by the text to read it from the standpoint of these implied readers and to identify with the problems and message intended for them. This process will help the actual readers to associate with the feelings and responses indicated by the text rather than with the meanings that they might read into the text. 91 85. Gutt, Relevance Theory, 27. This, he explains might transpire if the “context which the receptors bring to the translated text is so different that there are few or even no contextual effects, not only will they have no assurance that they have understood the texts, but they are also very likely to terminate the communication process. That is, they will stop reading or listening” (ibid., 30, emphasis his). 86. Gutt provides a helpful example from Matthew’s Gospel of what this may look like (ibid., 31–32). 87. Ibid., 33–34. 88. For an extended discussion on how this transpires in narrative texts, see Kearns, “Relevance, Rhetoric, Narrative.” 89. See Buth for two examples of this process, one from the New Testament and one from the Old (“Language, Linguistics,” 434). 90. Osborne, The Hermeneutical Spiral, 211. 91. Ibid. Wenham adds accordingly that, if the “real reader is to grasp accurately what the writer is saying, he must approximate to this implied reader” (Story as Torah, 9). See also, A. C. Thiselton, “‘Behind’ and ‘In Front Of ’ the Text,” in After Pentecost: Language and

30

Chapter 2

It should be abundantly clear, then, how the concept of the implied reader aids the interpreter in grasping meaning. 92 It is by the implied reader that we may locate some of the intentions of the author expressed in the text. In other words, the implied reader helps us identify the text’s relevance. It is through devices such as the implied reader that the text in fact guides the reader toward understanding. 93 We may in this sense think of it as a part of textual meaning. 94 While some have undertaken to differentiate between multiple types (or levels) of readers of texts, for our purposes here it will suffice to understand simply the concept of an implied reader more generally. 95 There are times when the implied reader is explicitly revealed in a text. Many letters of the New Testament, for example, were sent to particular churches and designed to address particular issues within those churches. Elsewhere, however, the implied reader is not so easily identified. Take, for example, our text in Gen 4. As already observed, it is a smaller part of a larger whole (Gen 1–11), itself introducing the book of Genesis, as well as the Pentateuch. Many have attempted to date the text, identify sources, locate an original audience, and so on, ad nauseam, though success thereof is generally limited, if existent at all. 96 Here again, the concept of the implied Biblical Interpretation (ed. C. G. Bartholomew et al.; SHS 2; Carlisle: Paternoster, 2001), 104–5. Gibson calls this reader the “mock reader” and says that the real reader takes on “the mask and costume” of the mock reader “in order to experience the language” (“Authors, Speakers, Readers, and Mock Readers,” College English 11/5 [1950]: 265–66). See also W. J. Ong, “The Writer’s Audience Is Always Fiction,” PMLA 90/1 (1975): 12. 92. Iser is a must-read in the field when it comes to the concept of the implied reader. He certainly has his faults, but he should be consulted nonetheless. See his The Implied Reader: Patterns of Communication in Prose Fiction from Bunyan to Beckett (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1974), 29–56, though he consolidates his thoughts on the subject and presents them more generally in The Act of Reading: A Theory of Aesthetic Response (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978), 27–38. 93. So Osborne: “the text guides readers to its intended meaning via devices like the implied reader that force them to enter the textual world and relive it.” Osborne, The Hermeneutical Spiral, 211. 94. Wilson says that the author’s picture of this reader shapes his work and plays “a role in the text that shows readers how to understand the text.” W. D. Wilson, “Readers in Texts,” PMLA 96/5 (1981): 850. Wilson is a wonderful resource for those wishing to be introduced to the concept of the ideal reader in much more detail. He also has an extremely helpful survey of the field, and a critique of many of the major scholars in this field. The reader is also directed to the more general introduction to narrative authorship and readership, Nelles, “Historical and Implied Authors.” 95. P. J. Rabinowitz, “Truth in Fiction: A Reexamination of Audiences,” Critical Inquiry 4/1 (1977): 126–29. Rabinowitz calls this more general implied reader a “hybrid form” of his many layers and makes a good case for interacting and dealing with his suggestions. His work is a helpful guide for those wishing to engage in further study of this topic: ibid., 130 n. 18. 96. K. Mathews wryly observes, “the scholarly literature concerning Genesis could be appropriately named ‘Legion’” (Genesis 1–11:26, 23). See also his assessment of the state of the academy concerning the compositional history of Genesis, ibid., 63.

Matters of Method

31

reader can be helpful. Because the implied reader is a construct of the author, we may at times infer certain things about the implied reader from the text itself. That is, by identifying some of the conventions of the text or some of the concerns expected to be shared by both author and audience, we may come to learn things about this implied reader and his context. 97 Booth adds that we may also learn of this audience by the gaps in the story. “The reader whom the implied author writes to can be found as much in the text’s silences as in its overt appeals. What the author felt no need to mention tells us who he thinks we’ll be—or hopes we’ll be.” 98 In sum, the concept of the implied reader—who may be identified in the text—can at times also help us to have some idea of the world into which our text was expected to be received. 99 There is another theoretical tool, to which we now briefly give attention, that helps us enter into the world of the implied reader more effectively, namely, politeness theory. Politeness Theory.  Politeness theory provides a framework on which to study communicative acts, in relation to both their social context and their nature as speech-acts. In other words, by it we may isolate and understand some of the demands the author is making of the implied reader as related to particular speech-acts. Politeness theory originated with P. Brown and S. Levinson from the observation that humans interact in highly predictable ways regardless of the originating culture. 100 The theory, then, is their suggested explanation of these highly uniform interactions. It begins with two assumptions: that all people are “rational agents” and that they possess “face.” All people are “rational agents” because they “choose means that will satisfy their ends.” 101 Face “is something that is emotionally invested, 97. Rabinowitz, “Truth in Fiction,” 128. 98. Booth, The Rhetoric of Fiction, 423, emphasis his. Booth gives a great example of this: “Demby’s The Catacombs . . . takes place during the early sixties, and the novel achieves its sense of impending doom only if the reader knows that John F. Kennedy will be assassinated when the events of the novel reach 22 November 1963. Precisely because the novel remains silent about this fact, we can infer that members of the ‘authorial audience’ already know it. The same thing holds for our beliefs about values: what the author feels no need to mention, of the values the story depends on, tells us who he things we are before we start to read. (ibid.)

The quotation in the first part of Booth’s example is from Rabinowitz, “Truth in Fiction,” 126. 99. I will return to this idea after the ancient cognitive environment has been covered in the following chapters. 100. They elaborate: “across cultures, the nature of the transaction being conducted in a verbal interchange is often evident in the manner in which it is done as in any overt performative act. In other words, one recognizes what people are doing in verbal exchanges . . . not so much by what they overtly claim to be doing as in the fine linguistic detail of their utterances.” P. Brown and S. C. Levinson, Politeness: Some Universals in Language Usage (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 57. 101. Ibid., 59.

32

Chapter 2

and that can be lost, maintained, or enhanced, and must be constantly attended to in interaction.” 102 As we are rational beings, we interact with each other 103 in ways that, as they say, “threaten face” to at least some degree, and these interactions can result in either positive face or negative face. 104 Watts explains that “facework involves the maintenance of every participant’s face for the duration of the social interaction (as far as this is possible), it is therefore in the interests of all the participants to reduce face-threatening to a minimum.” 105 In other words, we humans go to great lengths in our interactions to keep things as civil as possible. All of this, of course, grossly oversimplifies the theory, and indeed there have been numerous legitimate criticisms and reworkings of politeness theory since Brown and Levinson’s work. 106 In general, though the theory does not always demonstrate how polite language is created, it does so well enough and consistently enough for our purposes—the general base of politeness theory is secure. 107 Its value is manifold, both for what it may suggest about our “ideal reader,” and for what it suggests about us as readers today. That is to say, not only does politeness theory help us identify some of the mutual concerns of the author and his ideal reader, but Olhausen contends that politeness theory demonstrates also how we belong to, and are shaped by, the speech community in which we reside. Unwittingly, we are obliged to play by some well-defined social conventions just to maintain our sense of status and solidarity. Secondly, by elucidating notions of “rationality” and “face” . . . [politeness theory] is able to predict the type of goals and motivations people bring to discourse and, by extension, the interpretation of Scripture. 108 102. Ibid., 61. W. Olhausen explains that “face” is somewhat akin to “self-image or ‘personality’ (crucially including the desire that this self-image be appreciated and approved of )” (W. Olhausen, “A ‘Polite’ Response to Anthony Thiselton,” in After Pentecost: Language and Biblical Interpretation [ed. C. G. Bartholomew et al.; SHS 2; Carlisle: Paternoster, 2001], 126). 103. These interactions “involve the performance of speech-acts” (R. J. Watts, Politeness (Key Topics in Sociolinguistics; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003], 87). 104. They call these “face-threatening acts.” Brown and Levinson, Politeness, 60. 105. Watts, Politeness, 86. Hence the name, “politeness theory.” It is the theory that explains why humans interact politely, in essence. Here is one example of positive politeness strategy, along with its underlying face-threatening act: a way to avoid disagreement yet maintain positive face would be to say “Well, in a way, I suppose you’re sort of right. But look at it like this.” The face-threatening act would be, essentially, “Why don’t you [look at it like this]?” (ibid., 89). An example of a speech-act addressed to the hearer’s negative face would be to be what Watts calls “conventionally indirect”: “Could you tell me the time, please?” (ibid., 90). See ibid., 89–91 for further examples. 106. For critiques as well as suggestions, see ibid., 93–116. 107. Watts is careful to distinguish politeness theory from what he calls “Face Theory” (ibid., 117–41), and suggests a possible alternative (ibid., 142–67). 108. Olhausen, “A ‘Polite’ Response,” 126.

Matters of Method

33

Not only does politeness theory alert us as readers to our own speech communities, but we also can appreciate from it how, to a degree, we share certain communicative expectations with the ancient audience. That is, there is some common ground established across speech communities and communicative contexts, and politeness theory helps us locate and further define what that common ground could be. In sum, as readers our role is not only to understand the concept of the implied reader but to participate actively and willingly with the implied reader in the reading process. These two aspects, understanding and acting, are somewhat related. If someone fails to grasp the significance of the implied reader, it follows that he or she will be less likely to enter into their narrative world as they read. Like gap-filling, then, relating to the implied reader can be done well and it can be done poorly. 109 As I have said elsewhere already—the more the reader works to learn how a text means, the greater the extent to which he or she will learn what it means. In other words, working to recover the world of the ideal reader is worth the work, as is learning how to do this well. In this regard, speech-act theory, politeness theory, and relevance theory all serve as valuable aids. Speech-act theory demonstrates that language is implicitly, if not at times explicitly, demanding. Politeness theory locates speech-acts within particular social contexts and helps us understand some of the mechanisms by which the demands (illocutions) of speech-acts are made. Relevance theory heightens our awareness of shared and frequently omitted language in speech-acts, and also gives us a framework by which we may test our reconstructions of these omissions. 110 It is as Long says: “an increased appreciation of the literary mechanisms of a text—how a story is told—often becomes the avenue of greater insight into the theological, religious and even historical significance of the text—what the story means.” 111 These related cognitive and communicative theories give us “an increased appreciation of the literary mechanisms of a text” so that we might come to understand more clearly “what the story means.” We now conclude our discussion of the role of the reader with a final facet—the role of subjectivity in the process. Subjectivity Vanhoozer maintains that every reader “is situated in a particular culture, time, and tradition. No reading is objective; all reading is theory-laden. There is no innocent eye; there is no innocent ‘I.’” 112 This is of course as true 109. Rabinowitz, “Truth in Fiction,” 131. 110. For a look at how politeness theory is informed and bolstered by the application of relevance theory, see Watts, Politeness, 208–12. 111. V. P. Long, The Reign and Rejection of King Saul: A Case for Literary and Theological Coherence (SBLDS 118; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989), 14, as cited in, Long, The Art of Biblical History, 309. 112. Vanhoozer, Is There a Meaning, 151.

34

Chapter 2

for the ancient cultures under our microscope as it is for us today. The goal remains to enter into the culture-bound communication contexts of the ancient texts, though we do so firmly bound to our own culture and context. As politeness theory has already demonstrated, we are shaped by the traditions within which we read, with little to no possibility of moving beyond them. 113 Some view subjectivity as a problem to be overcome in the interpretive process; for others, it is an insurmountable barrier. 114 More appropriately, Fokkelman suggests that we view our subjectivity as a positive factor: We as readers need not be ashamed of our subjectivity, since the text cannot come to life through any other channel. This does not mean that we are at liberty to do anything we want to the text and subject it to the wildest speculations. We may do that, but we will then disqualify ourselves right away as interpreters . . . 115 [We must be] aware of our own contribution and our propensity to read things into the text, slant the text, overemphasize specific meanings, and allow ourselves to be led by our imagination. Good readers control their subjectivity: they do not deny it and know they need not be ashamed of it; on the contrary, they are able to employ it in a disciplined way for the good of the text. 116

This stance acknowledges that modern notions of objectivity related to reading strategies—that it is both possible and preferable to read texts “apart from any confessional or theological bias”—are no longer tenable. 117 It is beyond the scope of this study to explore these issues at length, however. 118 We must simply confess this supposition and move forward. This is no “agenda” that blinds us to conflicting data and alternative interpretations. 119 On the contrary, we simply place these suppositions in front of rather than behind the text, thereby “allowing the text rather than ideo-

113. Wolterstorff, “The Promise of Speech-act Theory,” 77. 114. For a wonderful introduction to this conversation, see Vanhoozer, Is There a Meaning, 381. Mettinger rightly says of Vanhoozer’s treatment: “This work deserves the special attention of all scholars who work with texts” (The Eden Narrative, 66 n. 4). Osborne’s two appendixes of his revised and expanded Hermeneutical Spiral serve as a more accessible introduction to these author, text, meaning and reader issues (The Hermeneutical Spiral, 465–521). 115. Vanhoozer describes the interpreter who imposes meaning onto texts as an “exegetical conquistador” for whom interpretation is “the process of ideological colonization” (Is There a Meaning, 382). 116. Fokkelman, Reading Biblical Narrative, 24–25, emphasis mine. 117. M. A. Bowald, “Objectivity,” in Dictionary of Theological Interpretation of the Bible (ed. K. J. Vanhoozer; Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2005), 544. So also, J. R. Middleton, The Liberating Image: The Imago Dei in Genesis 1 (Grand Rapids: Brazos, 2005), 34–37. 118. Others have done so quite ably. Should the reader desire further resources pertaining to these areas they may consult the bibliographies of Vanhoozer, Is There a Meaning; Osborne, The Hermeneutical Spiral; Bowald, “Objectivity.” 119. R. G. Walsh, Mapping Myths of Biblical Interpretation (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 54.

Matters of Method

35

logical factors to guide the interpretive process.” 120 J. R. Middleton concurs: “One can see nothing without standing in a particular place. Apart from a social, religious, ideological location, with all its bias, there would simply be no point of entry for any interpretation. Our prejudices are thus valuable.” 121 Returning to the role of the reader, then, we may conclude the following: reading ancient texts well requires both ability and humility. To recover generic issues, to fill gaps, to identify the implied reader—all of these require our utmost mental capacities. 122 Both linguistic and literary competence will aid the reader in making necessary decisions regarding the material being read. First, we must take stock of the particular place in which we stand. We must be honest enough to acknowledge our subjectivity and humble enough to have our minds changed by what we may encounter in the text. 123 With our own “givens” in front of the text, we move now to continue seeking after the “givens” of these ancient cultures. I will now begin to enumerate some of the conventions of the ancient Near Eastern historian. Recall that our primary concern is not to recover the historical reality behind the texts but rather to examine how the ancients thought about their own history and how they would have rendered it. 124 To rephrase from earlier sections, we must understand the genre and its conventions before we can draw conclusions regarding actual truth claims and overall truth value. Ample data exist to help reconstruct what might have actually transpired in many instances, but there is work yet to be done when considering how the ancient world would have conceived of and rendered the past, as well as why they did so in such ways. We move now to do precisely this.

Text Conventions: Historiography and Mythography Literary and biblical scholars have provided many ways to think about the complex issue of genre, and we move now to begin an investigation of 120. Osborne, The Hermeneutical Spiral, 507. 121. Middleton, The Liberating Image, 37. 122. Long, The Art of Biblical History, 308–09. 123. This is the process Osborne and others refer to as “the hermeneutical spiral.” We are rarely, if ever, left in the same place we began after an encounter with a text (this would be a “hermeneutical circle”). Rather, we are constantly moving along the process of understanding—spiraling upward, closer and closer to the intended meaning of a text (The Hermeneutical Spiral, 32). 124. R. E. Averbeck, “The Sumerian Historiographic Tradition and Its Implications for Genesis 1–11,” in Faith, Tradition, and History: Old Testament Historiography in Its Near Eastern Context (ed. A. R. Millard et al.; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1994), 81 n. 6. So also M. Chavalas, who writes: “What is important is not the event or ‘fact’ mentioned in the text, but the narration itself, and the scholar should attempt to understand the author’s intentions and his/her historical environment” (“Genealogical History as ‘Charter’: A Study of Old Babylonian Period Historiography and the Old Testament,” in Faith, Tradition, and History: Old Testament Historiography in Its Near Eastern Context [ed. A. R. Millard et al.; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1994], 106).

36

Chapter 2

how this might apply to the study of ancient genres. This is an important step if we wish to, as Zevit suggested, do more than simply import these ideas “mindlessly.” 125 Again, generic categories are both fluid and culturally defined, so we must attempt to recover principles that guided the ancient historian as he thought and wrote about the past, from his historical and cultural perspective. It is imperative that we define our terms. History, history writing, historical, historiography, myth, mythical, mythography—scholars differ as to how these terms are defined and used, and it is important to arrive at what each means before deciding how (if at all) they should relate to our current study. The rest of this chapter will be a general introduction to the study of ancient history writing, though, again, actual principles will only emerge in the concluding chapters. History writing, as I will define it, is a very broad generic descriptor. Averbeck 126 provides a starting point: the way forward in the study of the relationship among history, theology, and ancient Near Eastern myth in the Bible is through reading myth as analogical thinking about history and reality. We are not talking about some kind of alternative truth system, but a different way of talking about what was and is in fact true, historically and experientially. 127

Over the course of the last decade or so, Averbeck has written a number of articles dealing with the interplay of ancient Near Eastern historiograph125. See pp. 8–9. 126. Averbeck has dealt at length with these issues, so I will interact with his work here. He is by no means the final word on the subject, however. The section will present, therefore, an eclectic definition of both historiography and mythography, gleaning from any and every scholar what is judged most helpful. It is impossible to represent adequately the depth and breadth of either scholarly field in such a short section, however. The writing on both historiography and mythography is voluminous, and my modest aim here is to come away from each with a simple working definition of, respectively, history and myth. For a useful and fairly recent introduction to the present state of biblical historical criticism, the reader is directed to Collins, The Bible after Babel, 1–52. For a more general assessment of the ancient Near Eastern landscape, see W. W. Hallo, “The Limits of Skepticism,” JAOS 110 (1990): 187–99, and more recently, idem, “Polymnia and Clio,” in Historiography in the Cuneiform World (ed. T. Abusch et al; Proceedings of the XLV Recontre Assyriologique Internationale 45/1; Bethseda, MD: CDL, 2001). For a wonderful introduction to the five major schools of mythographical thought, see Doty, Mythography, 123–302. This book has been heavily revised and updated since its original publication in 1986 and represents an invaluable tool for the aspiring mythographer. E. Csapo is a more recent and equally thorough introduction to the study of myth, a history both of theories and also of interpretation: E. Csapo, Theories of Mythology (Oxford: Blackwell, 2005). See Caird, The Language and Imagery, 219–24, as well, for a short but helpful discussion of the competing views of myth. See, more recently, Sparks, Ancient Texts, 305–6. 127. R. E. Averbeck, “Ancient Near Eastern Mythography as It Relates to Historiography in the Hebrew Bible: Genesis 3 and the Cosmic Battle,” in The Future of Biblical Archaeology: Reassessing Methodologies and Assumptions. The Proceedings of a Symposium, August 12–14, 2001 at Trinity International University (ed. J. K. Hoffmeier and A. R. Millard; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004), 355.

Matters of Method

37

ical techniques and the Bible. Specifically he deals with Sumerian history writing and its implications for understanding how reality was conceived of and portrayed throughout the ancient world. His assertion, per the above quotation, is that one must first understand the use of myth as it is incorporated in history writing so as to see more accurately what a given author intended to communicate. That is to say, the presence of myth in ancient Near Eastern historical writing is undeniable, and we must come to terms with myth and history’s commingling before we can rightly understand the ancient conception of history. Scholars have recognized this for years now. As far back as 1937, S. H. Hooke noted “the curious mingling of genuine historical material with mythical elements.” 128 More recently, R. H. Moye has observed that the Bible’s historical writing is a “far-reaching transformation of earlier genres,” which is especially evident in the “merging of myth and history . . . in Genesis.” 129 What does all of this mean for our study? Can we come to an understanding of what it means that “genuine historical material” seems also to include “mythical elements”? A correct understanding of myth and history’s commingling is possible, and by it we may more accurately understand how we should approach the texts of the following two chapters. 130 First, we must define our terms. Historical Matters Throughout his writing, Averbeck makes frequent reference to J. Huizinga’s definition of history as “the intellectual form in which a civilization renders account to itself of its past.” 131 For Huizinga, then, history refers to the writing of history. If we adopt this primarily sociological definition— and I suggest we do—it allows us to sidestep many of the philosophical and epistemological issues swirling about historians’ circles today. 132 By allowing 128. S. H. Hooke, Middle Eastern Mythology (London: Penguin, 1963), 146. 129. R. H. Moye, “In the Beginning: Myth and History in Genesis and Exodus,” JBL 109 (1990): 580. Tobin explains a similar phenomenon in Egyptian history writing: “The process of mythologization not infrequently encompasses also what the modern mind would consider historical reality. Historical events and individuals were often mythologized . . . to underscore the fact that they had a significance beyond the process of history. . . . Often there is no clear division between myth and history . . . there was no sharp distinction between the worlds of myth and of reality.” (“Mythological Texts,” OEAE 2:459, emphasis mine). 130. The word myth can be unsettling for many, though perhaps after time is taken to define carefully what is meant by the term, we may think otherwise. Regarding myth, C. S. Lewis admits that the “word is in many ways unfortunate,” though he suggests that defining the word properly would help allay many concerns (An Experiment in Criticism [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1961], 42). Gunkel agrees, and says regarding myth that “one need not fear this word” (“The Legends of Genesis,” xii). 131. Huizinga, “A Definition,” 9. 132. In justification of this sidestep, Whorf suggests one’s conception and experience of time are largely culture-bound. It is so because of the way our language system shapes our conception of the world, which we often take for granted (or, as is often the case in

38

Chapter 2

each culture to define what is, by their own accounts, historical writing, we may in some ways loose ourselves from our contemporary models and definitions. We no longer need to ask whether or not a genre is capable of being defined as history writing—different cultures utilize various forms of writing for this purpose. As J. Assmann explains, “history itself is cast in a mold that is culturally specific.” 133 This means, for example, that we should not limit our attention to a study of only genres that seem to be the most similar to what we think of as history writing. 134 In this way, we allow each culture to define what history is for itself. It is by their standards and on their terms that history is defined. 135 “Thus,” Averbeck writes, “history is the general the West, take to be universal both spatially and temporally). That is, one’s historical consciousness is situated squarely within one’s linguistic and, hence, cultural context (Whorf, “The Relation of Habitual Thought,” 153). For this reason, Huizinga’s definition of history allows us to approach a culture’s historical consciousness—and how they express that consciousness—with this awareness. 133. J. Assmann, The Mind of Egypt: History and Meaning in the Time of the Pharaohs (trans. A. Jenkins; New York: Metropolitan Books, 2001), 13. Huizinga says, “every civilization creates its own form of history, and must do so” (“A Definition,” 7). It does not necessarily follow that we can always divine the intentions of the ancient author, as it were, to be sure what was written was indeed “history.” For example, in the biblical stories of Job and Jonah, this issue is very much debated. What we are saying here, rather, is that we do not need to be concerned with defining which genres of writing could have been used to write “historically.” In other words, Job and Jonah could both be ancient forms of history writing—we may not rule them out based on our contemporary models and standards— but comment further would take us too far afield from our current task. 134. J. J. Finkelstein writes of Mesopotamian history writing: “We need not restrict our attention only to those genres of Mesopotamian writing which in form appear to most resemble one of the Western forms of historical narration. We need not even be looking for the Mesopotamian literary media or genres in which historical events per se constitute the main subject matter. What we must seek is that form or genre in which the Mesopotamian thinker confronted his experience of the past” (“Mesopotamian Historiography,” PAPS 107/6 [1963]: 462, emphasis mine). See also Walton (Ancient Near Eastern Thought, 218–19); D. B. Redford (Egypt, Canaan, and Israel in Ancient Times [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992], 262–63); J. J. M. Roberts (“Myth versus History: Relaying the Comparative Foundations,” CBQ 38 [1976]: 3 n. 15). Roberts’s article was reprinted in J. J. M. Roberts, The Bible and the Ancient Near East: Collected Essays (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2002). Similarly, N. Veldhuis observes that “Sumerian narrative texts and hymns do not represent fiction; they contain knowledge and reflect on the history of Babylonia” (Religion, Literature, and Scholarship: The Sumerian Composition “Nanše and the Birds” (CM 22; Leiden: Brill, 2004), 75. 135. From a biblical standpoint, J. Goldingay suggests this means that history was more than just an account of “what happened” in the past (“‘That You May Know That Yahweh Is God’: A Study of the Relationship between Theology and Historical Truth in the Old Testament,” TynBul 23 [1972]: 60–61). Bullock refers to an unpublished paper read by Elmer Martens, who defines history from an Old Testament perspective: events are selected and recorded in time and space, and they are done so both interpretively and from a particular perspective. E. A. Martens, “The Oscillating Fortunes of History

Matters of Method

39

term used for what is happening when a civilization takes account of its own past from its own point of view.” 136 J. Van Seters seems to believe that this “intellectual form” Huizinga speaks of is specific and that there are limited examples (in terms of types) from each. For him, history writing is a certain form of history, specifically that of a national history. 137 As our focus here is on literary texts, we are naturally also concerned with the form history writing takes, though, as I have suggested, history writing can be defined much more broadly than just national histories. A variety of genres can contain historical writing, and we will look to many to reconstruct ancient historical conceptions in the following chapters. 138 Etymologically speaking, historiography denotes simply the writing of history, though, with Glassner, “the word turns out to be remarkably ambiguous.” 139 For Averbeck, historiography appears to differ from history writing in that the former constitutes the study of how history was conceived of and rendered, specifically in the ancient world. 140 This is similar to many others who define historiography as basically the study of history writing, its theories, and its principles. Van Seters defines it differently, however. Historiography is his term for the larger category of historical texts that also includes history writing (his more narrowly defined national history, as explained above). For Van Seters, then, historiography is essentially the same thing as Averbeck’s history writing—anything expressing historical elements in a written form. T. Thompson provides yet another definition for historiography: “a specific literary genre relating to critical descriptions and evaluations of past reality and events, in contrast to more fictional varieties of prose.” 141 For Thompson, it seems, the label within Old Testament Theology” (paper presented in Wheaton, IL, 1990), as cited in C. H. Bullock, “History and Theology: The Tale of Two Histories,” in Giving the Sense: Understanding and Using Old Testament Historical Texts (ed. D. M. Howard and M. A. Grisanti; Grand Rapids: Kregel, 2003), 97–98. Both of these definitions adhere to Huizinga’s definition in that they take care to define history with respect to what they perceive to be the Bible’s terms and standards. 136. Averbeck, “The Sumerian Historiographic Tradition,” 82–83. Capomacchia adds that “we have to study thoroughly the cultural mechanisms through which every human group defines and establishes its own identity and history” (“Heroic Dimension,” 91; see also, Finkelstein, “Mesopotamian Historiography,” 461–62). 137. J. Van Seters, In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1997), 1–2. 138. With Finkelstein (n. 133 above), we need not even restrict our inquiry to “literary media or genres in which historical events per se constitute the main subject matter.” 139. J.-J. Glassner, Mesopotamian Chronicles (SBLWAW 19; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2004), 3. 140. Averbeck, “The Sumerian Historiographic Tradition,” 83. This is similar in some sense to Walton, who says that it is the historian’s “set of guiding principles that constitutes” his historiographyn (Ancient Near Eastern Thought, 218). 141. T. L. Thompson, “Israelite Historiography,” ABD 3:206.

40

Chapter 2

“historiography” is qualitative—it must be a critical description and evaluation of the past and should align with the evidence we have today. 142 We have talked in circles long enough. It should be clear enough by now what Glassner meant when he described the word historiography as “remarkably ambiguous.” There is indeed, as E. Frahm says, a “striking diversity of historiographical genres and breadth of the concept of history.” 143 To avoid any potential confusion, I will use the terms history, history writing, and historiography as effectively synonymous. They will all refer to the written expression of any culture’s historical conceptions in whatever form it takes. 144 Averbeck’s definition of historiography seems similar to what I have referred to as history writing’s poetics. Again, the goal is to determine some of the ancient historian’s principles of writing, these “literary conventions common to the author and his audience.” 145 We may now comment briefly on some of the concerns and values of the ancient historian, at times different from those of our own present day. To begin, it is important to understand that the cognitive environment of the Near East was “thoroughly transcendent.” 146 That is, deity and a desire to make sense of the divine realm were central to almost all thought and writing in the ancient world. This of course directly applies to ancient history writing in that most accounts were concerned in some way with the divine role in history. “History,” to the Near Eastern mind, was considered “the doings of the deity revealing the will of the deity.” 147 If this is true, history, and the task of writing history, was important not because it recounted events of the past with any accuracy (though it may have to varying degrees), but because it assigned meaning and purpose to the present by orienting author and audience properly to deity. Walton explains: Most peoples of the ancient world found the past interesting and significant and found in it a key to social coherence lending meaning to life in the pres142. Ibid., 207. 143. E. Frahm et al., “Historiography: Ancient Orient,” in Brill’s New Pauly Encyclopaedia of the Ancient World: Antiquity (ed. H. Cancik and H. Schneider; 16 vols.; Leiden: Brill, 2005), 6:420. 144. Our quest is broad enough to permit such generalities—I seek, essentially, anything that reflects a conception of the past that will allow for a reconstruction of the ancient cognitive environment of our passage. 145. As Walton explains, “All historiography is a literary construct artistically rendered. It therefore must be understood to operate by means of literary conventions common to the author and his audience—a key to communication that represents its poetics” (Walton, Ancient Near Eastern Thought, 227). 146. Ibid., 239. 147. Ibid., 222. Similarly, Glassner writes that “history was not exclusively a matter of events. It had another motivation, of a biographical nature, in the sense that it was concerned with the great deeds and exploits of sovereigns and with their personal lives” (Glassner, Mesopotamian Chronicles, 9).

Matters of Method

41

ent. It is this quest for meaning that makes history important. History should not be seen naïvely as an attempt to recount what really happened. 148

For example, J. Glassner says that the accuracy of chronological material in Mesopotamian royal inscriptions “did not matter much” to the ancient historian. Rather, the point was that chronologies, inaccurate as they may have been, put things in proper perspective for author and audience. 149 That is, the historian’s interpretation and, in a sense, “use” of the past lent credibility and meaning to a present reality, and that was its purpose. This was its significance. We may not dismiss or exclude those historical accounts that are (by our standards) inaccurate, for that is to miss the point of ancient Near Eastern history writing entirely. Neither may we dismiss ancient history that speaks of the world of the gods and their involvement in human affairs, for this too misses the point. D. Damrosch writes of a mistaken ideological division commonly attributed by scholars to ancient Mesopotamian (and other Near Eastern) history writing. “History” is thought of as dealing with only “the dry facts,” and myth and epics are relegated to a different world and time. For the Mesopotamians, Damrosch posits, “No such ideological distinction exists . . . No sharp division can be drawn between the divinely ordered world of nature and a separate, secular world of human historical activity.” 150 In sum, ancient Near Eastern history writing was, broadly speaking, an attempt to lend coherence to the present day by making creative use of past events. The result, according to Walton, is that “when knowledge of the past is based on its coherence, history is defined more by its outcomes than its events.” He calls this focus on outcomes and results teleological. That is, “both history and the writing of it are ‘going somewhere’ driven by divine purpose. . . . It is this teleological perspective that is the common ground of the ancient cognitive environment.” 151 These concerns and values expressed in ancient history writing can be quite different from our own today, and we must take this into account as we sift through ancient historical conceptions expressed in the texts of the 148. Walton, Ancient Near Eastern Thought, 223–24. As I will soon suggest, it could very well be this desire to demonstrate the significance of events (that is, interpret them) that led historians to infuse certain types of historical materials with what we now would call “mythical” elements, per Averbeck’s comments from above. 149. Glassner, Mesopotamian Chronicles, 8. Glassner has numerous examples on that and the previous page of chronological inaccuracy. 150. Damrosch, The Narrative Covenant, 59–60. 151. Ibid. He goes on to say: “In the ancient pursuit of coherence, hindsight was not only important, it was essential. Likewise, a transcendent view of history was essential. A sense of what ‘really happened’ was gained in light of the outcome, not in light of what any given eyewitness thinks he might have seen, since eyewitnesses were also limited by their perspective and compromised by their opinions. What one saw could barely begin to offer insight into what really happened” (ibid., 226).

42

Chapter 2

following chapters. The ancient Near Eastern world view was indeed “thoroughly transcendent,” as Walton has said. To approach these texts on their own terms we must allow for this in our final valuations. With all of this in mind, Averbeck separates Sumerian historiography into four distinct modes of thought and communication, which come from a careful analysis of Sumerian materials. His distinctions are temporal (“the progress of events through time”) and they also involve “what might be called ‘modes’ of historical thought where levels of reality are mixed.” 152 The first, he calls “contemporary history.” This is when the Sumerians wrote of events and circumstances most current, or perhaps even ongoing. The next is “previous history,” which recounts the history of events less than contemporary, but extending into the near past. 153 The third he calls “legendary history,” which appears for him to lack an explicit definition. It seems most clearly understood when contrasted with the fourth mode, however (he admits that the line between that and the fourth mode is difficult to define). “Mythic history” describes a time when the primary actors were the gods. 154 These, he says, were the schemes through which the Sumerians thought about their past—four distinct but equally important modes of thought. 155 Because Averbeck sees these modes of historical thought as part of the common cognitive environment of the ancient Near East as a whole (rather 152. Averbeck, “The Sumerian Historiographic Tradition,” 97. 153. This is usually a few generations, at most, though Averbeck refrains from saying this explicitly. 154. Ibid., 97–98. Clearly, these categories are subjective and highly provisional. Averbeck creates them simply to demonstrate the topical variety found in Sumerian history writing. In some sense, the gods are the primary actors in all types of ancient history writing, though, for example, they feature less prominently in archival inventory lists (contemporary history) than they do in mythic stories of beginnings (mythic history). Here, J.-J. Glassner’s comments on myth might also be helpful. He defines myth not only as stories “in which the gods are the main actors” but also as stories “in which creation is explained” (“The Use of Knowledge in Ancient Mesopotamia,” in CANE, 1815). This, then, may help to delineate further the two final categories as well. Perhaps we may think of the last as that in which creation is also explained. See a similar discussion in Damrosch, The Narrative Covenant, 39–41. Myth will also be defined in more detail below. 155. In another article, Van Seters describes two “contrasting types of historiography and the ways in which a variety of different genres of ‘historical’ texts in the Near East reflect them. The first presents recent events from immediately accessible sources to offer accountability and memorialize the events for future generations. . . . The second type of historiography involves the re-presentation of the remote past for the purpose of explaining and understanding the present in terms of origins and primary causes.” J. Van Seters, “The Historiography of the Ancient Near East,” in CANE, 2433. These two types are similar to M. Eliade’s two types of memory: “primordial” memory and “historical memory.” Both have essentially the same definitions (Myth and Reality [trans. W. R. Trask. New York: Harper Torchbooks, 1963], 123).

Matters of Method

43

than being confined simply to the Sumerians), he is able to extrapolate some comparisons for Israelite historiography. He sees the conquest and settlement as being the contemporary history, and the history of Israel in Egypt and the Exodus as the previous history. The stories of the Patriarchs would be the legendary history, and Gen 1–11 would be what he calls the mythic history. 156 He further distinguishes between two different types of mythic history. One he calls “founding myths” and defines them as myths having to do with origins, “or at least divine intervention outside of time.” 157 The other, “permeating myths,” refer to divine intervention taking place within human time. 158 Though Averbeck uses the term myth to describe biblical texts that speak of the rationale of divine intervention, he notes that one could also use the term theology. This is, in fact, how N. Wyatt defines myth—as “narrative theology.” 159 Recall once more that we are attempting to approach these texts from the perspective and standards of the ancient mind, not our own. We may not dismiss ancient historiographical texts as not “historical” because we detect the presence of mythical elements. Nor is it right to dismiss or diminish the presence of mythical elements because of our convictions regarding the value(s) of the text. Van Seters explains: “While origins and primary causes may be viewed by the ancients as belonging to a mythological beginning and are explained in theological terms, they are ‘historical’ when they stand in chronological continuity with the present and when they are explained in terms of historical realities.” 160 I will continue to use the term mythic history in the following sections of the chapter, but be aware that this is essentially coterminous with what I have already called “protohistory.” Protohistory has heretofore been defined more by the scope of its content (narrative of beginnings), rather than the genre of its content (mythic history), which is what Averbeck and others have done. We now move to discuss the contents of our protohistory, that is, ancient historical accounts of beginnings told with mythical elements, or mythic history. To do this properly, we must first spend a few moments defining our terms as they relate to the study of myth. 156. Averbeck, “The Sumerian Historiographic Tradition,” 98–99. 157. R. E. Averbeck, “Sumer, The Bible, and Comparative Method: Historiography and Temple Building,” in Mesopotamia and the Bible: Comparative Explorations (ed. M. W. Chavalas and K. L. Younger; JSOTSup; London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002), 107–8. 158. Ibid., 108. 159. N. Wyatt, Myths of Power: A Study of Royal Myth and Ideology in Ugaritic and Biblical Tradition (UBL 13; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 1996), 117. So also, B. Batto, who says of Israel’s theologians that they “used myth and mythmaking speculation as one of their primary modes of theologizing.” B. F. Batto, “Creation Theology in Genesis,” in Creation in the Biblical Traditions (ed. R. J. Clifford and J. J. Collins; CBQMS 24; Washington D.C.: The Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1992), 16. 160. Van Seters, “Historiography,” 2433.

Chapter 2

44 Mythographical Matters

Scholars from certain circles may balk at the a characterization of Gen 1–11 as mythic history, so a few moments should now be spent discussing the matter. Mythography is the deliberate and reasoned analysis of the nature and meaning of myth, itself to be defined shortly. Averbeck defines mythography as “the critical study of the nature, principles, significance, and history of myths and mythical literature.” 161 He suggests that the underlying problem for us today is that we require an explanation for the presence of myth or legend in a historical work in the first place. The ancients would have understood this to be normal, whereas we today do not. This, to Averbeck, is the real issue. 162 Mythographers frequently begin their writing with a warning—one we would also do well to heed: the proper meaning of myth has been misunderstood for millennia, ever since the introduction of reasoned and logical thought by the ancient Greeks. M. Eliade explains: Everyone knows that from the time of Xenophanes (ca. 565–470)—who was the first to criticize and reject the “mythological” expressions of the divinity employed by Homer and Hesiod—the Greeks steadily continued to empty mythos of all religious and metaphysical value. Contrasted both with logos and, later, with historia, mythos came in the end to denote “what cannot really exist.” On its side, Judeo-Christianity put the stamp of “falsehood” and “illusion” on whatever was not justified or validated by the two Testaments. 163

From Xenophanes onward, then, the concept of myth has been misunderstood and misrepresented. 164 The shift in thought favoring logic and reason 161. Averbeck, “Ancient Near Eastern Mythography,” 330. 162. Ibid., 331. 163. Eliade, Myth and Reality, 1–2. And further, W. Doty adds: “When Greek philosophical and scientific discourse began to claim that its rationality (its logos) had supplanted mythological thinking (identified as mythos, although that same discourse was still heavily indebted to mythological thinking), the mythological came to be contrasted with logic (the logos-ical) and later with ‘history’ in the sense of an overview or chronicle of events (epos or historia, not necessarily chronologically distant from the present) (Mythography, 6–7). Wiggins elaborates: “For the Greeks, it is clear that mythos was a word designating traditional versions of the past, whereas historia denoted an accurate account of the past. What the word mythos implies is an uncritical, or better pre-critical, attitude toward the past, temporality, epistemology, etc.; in the case of historia, the very word was understood to be built upon inquiry to certify an accurate account” (“History as Narrative: Remembering Creatively,” in Myth and the Crisis of Historical Consciousness [ed. L. W. Gibbs and W. T. Stevenson; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1975], 76). See also G. Weckman, “Believing Myth as Myth,” in Myth and the Crisis of Historical Consciousness (ed. L. W. Gibbs and W. T. Stevenson; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1975), 99; Heehs, “Myth, History, and Theory,” 2–3. Though, as Millard has noted in a personal correspondence (May, 2009), we should not always assume that historia was understood to be accurate (contra Wiggins’s definition). Herodotus in his Histories, for example, passed along many things he doubted to be true. 164. W. T. Stevenson contrasts the more ancient, authentic myth with what he calls

Matters of Method

45

has affected us to this day, to the end that when someone declares something to be “mythical” it is tantamount to saying that it is “untrue.” 165 This, as Doty says, is a result of the “heavy burden of our cultural background” upon us that causes us to give myth the sense “unreal” or “fictional.” 166 Myth has become a disparaging term that suggests an immediate dismissal of the account as credible or reliable. 167 In the field of biblical studies, to be sure, many scholars perpetuate this unfortunate misconception by equating myth with fiction. Garbini, as one example of this sense, speaks of the Hebrew Bible as “a mythic reconstruction of Israel’s past.” 168 It is understandable, then, how the term myth has come to be so sharply contrasted with the modern critical (scientific) notion of history as well. All of this is a logical consequence of equating myth with fiction. 169 T. Fawcett provides four reasons for this pejorative understanding of the word myth: (1) At one time, our knowledge of myths was wholly derived from a study of classical Greek and Roman literature—itself an important part of what was considered to be a “classical education.” Understandably, then, “mythology came to be regarded as synonymous with this literature,” though, as we have seen already, the age of myth was already severely in decline by the classical Greek period. 170 (2) With the modern period of history came the operational control model of progress, whereby humans thought of themselves “as the result of an evolutionary process in which the crudities of the past had been largely eliminated. This became so generally accepted that it was possible to refer to the ancient world as the childhood of the human race.” 171 In other words, what was ancient “was necessarily the Greek and Roman “mythological stories.” He explains that these mythological stories derived from real myth, but “had already become trivialized and made a matter of literature in the Hellenistic period.” Specifically, these mythological stories have trivialized “the richness and mystery of the myth and its symbols” (“Myth and the Crisis of Historical Consciousness,” in Myth and the Crisis of Historical Consciousness (ed. L. W. Gibbs and W. T. Stevenson; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1975), 5. 165. T. Fawcett, The Symbolic Language of Religion: An Introductory Study (London: SCM, 1970), 95. 166. Doty, Mythography, 8. 167. G. A. Larue, Ancient Myth and Modern Man (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1975), 4–5. See also, B. Halpern, “‘Myth’ and ‘Idealogy’ in Modern Usage,” Hist. Theory 1 (1961): 131, esp. n. 5. 168. G. Garbini, Myth and History in the Bible (trans. C. Peri; London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2003), 137. 169. For an in-depth discussion of this contrast, see C. D. Church, “Myth and History as Complementary Modes of Consciousness,” in Myth and the Crisis of Historical Consciousness (ed. L. W. Gibbs and W. T. Stevenson; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1975). On the perceived opposition of myth and history, N. Wyatt says, “This is not a dichotomy with which I am happy, for I believe it to be false, or simply meaningless” (Myths of Power, 374). 170. Fawcett, The Symbolic Language of Religion, 95. 171. Ibid., 96.

46

Chapter 2

naïve, simple and childish.” 172 (3) A proper understanding of myth was also greatly hindered by an attempt to relate it to scientific thinking. “When this has happened, the conclusion has invariably been that good myth was poor science. Myth has been seen as a pre-scientific way of thinking,” and myths “have, therefore, been classified according to the scientific questions they were held to have been answering.” 173 Myth, however, is a different way of thinking from that of science, similar to the way that the ancient notion of history is different from our modern conception, so concerned with facts. 174 “At all events,” Fawcett says, “it has become clear that myth and science work in two quite different areas of human concern and that a comparison of the two is misleading rather than enlightening.” 175 As a possible example from the Hebrew Bible, it seems most unlikely that the ancient author of Gen 1:1–2:4 was concerned at all with disproving our entirely modern theory of evolution. As obvious as that may seem to many, certain schools of thought persist in wrongly defending this as a focus and concern of the ancient text. Finally, (4) often we no longer share the kind of faith which gave rise to these myths in the first place. Myths reflect a certain outlook on the world, which, if not shared by the modern interpreter, leads to a strong possibility of misunderstanding. 176 Myth is therefore more rightly defined as a reflection on the human world (immediate to the author) “by describing or imaging creative analogies between the circumstances and experiences of human beings in the world and beliefs about the world of the gods.” 177 Here, we find the “analogical think172. Ibid. According to B. R. Foster, a characterization of this sort is a grave error in judgment (“Wisdom and the Gods in Ancient Mesopotamia,” Orientalia 43 [1976]: 351 n. 28). For a typical description of this “naive” or “primitive” mind, see W. Abell, “Myth, Mind, and History,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 4/2 (1945): 79–80; and a more general discussion in H. A. Frankfort et al., Before Philosophy: The Intellectual Adventure of Ancient Man (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1959), 237–63. B. L. Whorf, however, offers a critique of this view with an analysis of the languages in various primitive communities. He observes the complexity of these languages and says that they often “far out-distance the European languages” (“A Linguistic Consideration of Thinking in Primitive Communities,” in Language, Thought, and Reality: Selected Writings of Benjamin Lee Whorf [ed. J. B. Carroll; Cambridge, MA: Massachusetts Institute of Technology Press, 1956], 80). Both Gibbs and Weckman offer a more constructive, briefer discussion of some of the actual differences between ancient and modern thought (“Myth and the Mystery of the Future,” in Myth and the Crisis of Historical Consciousness [ed. L. W. Gibbs and W. T. Stevenson; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1975], 32 n. 1; Weckman, “Believing Myth,” 101). 173. Fawcett, The Symbolic Language of Religion, 97. 174. Church describes the modern notion of history: “meaning or truth is revealed through the amassing of externally derived facts” (“Myth and History,” 35). 175. Fawcett, The Symbolic Language of Religion, 97. Gibbs, while noting that myth and science are indeed quite different, does see some similarities—they both serve (or served) many similar functions in their respective societies (“Myth and the Mystery,” 31 n. 1). 176. Fawcett, The Symbolic Language of Religion, 98. 177. R. E. Averbeck, “Daily Life and Culture in ‘Enki and the World Order’ and Other Sumerian Literary Compositions,” in Life and Culture in the Ancient Near East (ed. R. E.

Matters of Method

47

ing” that Averbeck has mentioned. Mythological analogical thinking is the tendency of the ancient mind to relate their beliefs about the distant past (a usual subject of mythological writing) in terms more familiar to them. 178 That is, they tended to analogize known elements from their world around them in order to explain the unknown (or lesser known) elements of their past. 179 This should be reasonable in light of the historian’s concerns discussed in the previous section. Mythical stories are generally set in a time far removed from the author and audience—in the beginning—a time when the order of their current world was fixed, once and for all. 180 With all this in mind, myth may be replete with “ideologies, perspectives, and even literary techniques” that can distort the way things actually were in the ancient world (that is, at times, less than literal descriptions). 181 One example comes from the language of geography in myths, which, as many scholars point out, was often used in metaphorical or figurative ways. 182 Mythical language could also be used to Averbeck et al.; Bethseda, MD: CDL, 2003), 25. See also the brief definition of myth in idem, “The Sumerian Historiographic Tradition,” 92–93. Here Averbeck draws from Moye, who is also helpful (“In the Beginning”). 178. The result is that much may be learned of the ancient world of the author and audience by reading these stories. For example, an ancient incubation ritual may be understood from various myths and myth fragments; A. R. George and F. N. H. al-Rawi, “Tablets from the Sippar Library VI: Atra-ḫasīs,” Iraq 58 (1996): 173–74. In another example, we learn something of Hittite marriage rituals from Illuyanka: G. M. Beckman, “The Anatolian Myth of Illuyanka,” JANES 14 (1982): 24. 179. A. R. Millard notes that even modern historians tend to do this: “On a large scale, it may be noted, all history writing is a species of etiology, and analogy is basic to the work of the modern historians” (“Story, History, and Theology,” in Faith, Tradition, and History: Old Testament Historiography in Its Near Eastern Context [ed. A. R. Millard et al.; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1994], 40). 180. P. R. Davies and J. W. Rogerson, The Old Testament World (2nd ed.; Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2005), 114. 181. Averbeck, “Daily Life and Culture,” 25. 182. Ibid., 24. This is how a civilization culturally defined their own geographical realities. See, for example, the comments of P. Michalowski on Mesopotamian use of geographical terms: “Almost all use of space and geography in Sumerian and Akkadian literature is figurative” and elsewhere that “it is impossible to separate the metaphorical and literal conceptualizations of . . . places” (“Mental Maps and Ideology: Reflections on Subartu,” in The Origins of Cities in Dry-farming Syria and Mesopotamia in the Third Millennium B.C. [ed. H. Weiss; Guilford, CT: Four Quarters, 1986], 131). Capomacchia also talks of the importance of examining what she calls “mythical geography,” which she says is a “cultural characterization of true geography.” T. Dozeman calls this “religious geography” in contradistinction to the more realistic “geography of religion.” T. B. Dozeman, “Biblical Geography and Critical Spatial Studies,” in Constructions of Space I: Theory, Geography, and Narrative (ed. J. L. Berquist and C. V. Camp; LHBOTS 481; New York: T. & T. Clark, 2007). Similarly, Matthews says that the ancient mind “created geographies, both physical and ideal, that were part of their national identity.” Matthews, Studying the Ancient Israelites, 11. He was speaking specifically of the ancient Israelite, though it could just as well apply to the ancient Near East at large.

48

Chapter 2

describe more current situations. Postgate describes how Mesopotamian kings would speak of themselves as having divine parentage, for example. He mentions the king Eanatum, who claimed to have been fathered by Ningirsu and suckled by the goddess Ninhursag: “That this is a metaphorical statement is clear from the frequent occasions when he mentions that his human father was in fact Akurgal.” All of this to say that the operative form of mental conception in ancient Near Eastern myth is metaphorical thinking. 183 A metaphor is itself highly analogical, which we will explore in more detail below. 184 It is very important to note here that this understanding has not arisen from a desire to do away with seeming incongruities in certain texts. Rather, this is perceived to be how the ancient mind actually spoke of their pasts. These are their terms, in other words. 185 As mentioned already, the numerous advances in the various ancient Near Eastern disciplines have allowed us to understand in unprecedented ways how these mythic stories once functioned, as well as the worlds into which they were transmitted. Bearing this in mind, there were certain cultural foundations common to many Near Eastern cultures. As far as Gen 1–11 protohistory was concerned, the Israelites “did history” in ways similar to other ancient Near Eastern cultures because it was part of their common cultural heritage—this common way of doing history was the result of the common ancient cognitive environment. 186 The importance of this for our 183. E. Cassirer, Language and Myth (trans. S. K. Langer. Dover ed. New York: Dover, 1953), 84. 184. N. Frye says that the “motive for metaphor . . . is a desire to associate, and finally identify, the human mind with what goes on outside it” (The Educated Imagination [Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1964], 32). It is perfectly legitimate to explain this even more broadly—language itself is an undeniably analogical phenomenon. S. Sawatzky observes of language: “This organizing, mapping activity of the mind in perceiving reality is metaphorical in nature, since the reality we observe is expressed analogically in terms of different entities, whether they be objects, actions, or emotive qualities” (“Metaphor, Cognition and Culture,” in Metaphor and Religion [ed. J. P. van Noppen; Theolinguistics 2; Brussels: Vrije Universiteit Brussel, 1983], 10). Taking this even further, M. B. Hesse claims that “all language is metaphorical” (“The Cognitive Claims of Metaphor,” in Metaphor and Religion [ed. J. P. van Noppen; Theolinguistics 2; Brussels: Vrije Universiteit Brussel, 1983], 27–29). 185. J. Petöfi says it well: “an inherently manifest semantic (or any other kind of ) incompatibility in a given utterance is neither a necessary nor a sufficient condition for assigning a non-literal meaning to the utterance; it suffices only if the interpreter is convinced that a non-literal meaning has been intended by the text producer”( J. Petöfi, “Metaphors in Everyday Communication, in Scientific, Biblical, and Literary Texts,” in Metaphor and Religion [ed. J. P. van Noppen; Theolinguistics 2; Brussels: Vrije Universiteit Brussel, 1983], 160–61). This is not to say that semantic incompatibility might not rightly suggest a metaphorical (or nonliteral) interpretation but only that the text’s producer should be the overriding factor when a decision is reached. 186. This is not to downplay the material found in the Hebrew Bible, which is quite obviously unique in its own right. Alter, The Art of Biblical Narrative, 25; Sternberg, The Poetics of Biblical Narrative, 31, 232. See also, J. Oswalt (“Myth of the Dragon and Old Tes-

Matters of Method

49

purposes is the way the ancients, and by association the Israelites (in this section of Genesis), did history was through the medium of myth. 187 They “did indeed make it their practice to express their speculations about world forces and their situation amid them by means of very sophisticated compilations of mythological motifs and patterns.” 188 In other words, the ancient mind tended to (as we would describe it today) mythologize their past. That is, they speculated about their past in mythological terms. Kitchen rightly observes that in the ancient Near East they “did not historicize myth (i.e., read it as an imaginary ‘history’). In fact, exactly the reverse is true—there was, rather, a trend to ‘mythologize’ history, to celebrate actual historical events and people in mythological terms.” 189 Furthermore, our modern tendency to separate myth from history would be a completely foreign notion to them—that was not the way they “did history.” 190 Again, all of this should make perfect sense in light of the values and concerns of ancient history writing discussed above. Mythological language was the perfect means by which to communicate the relevance of such weighty historical matters. Mythic History: The Commingling of History and Myth Now that we have defined some of our more important terms, we can begin to discuss what they might mean more specifically within the scope of our study. Our present task is to discern what it might mean that the protohistorical Gen 1–11 is indeed mythic history, as Averbeck has suggested. In some sense, we may begin to think of this as a larger genre subsuming many tament Faith,” EvQ 49 [1977]: 163–72), who deals specifically with the presence of mythical ideas in Genesis and also its uniqueness within that context. Though I do not share many of Oswalt’s conclusions, he nonetheless should be commended for attempting to uphold the text’s uniqueness within its ancient Near Eastern environment. The point made here, rather, and one of the larger study, is that many of the conventions of the literature are found to be common, in many respects, to the larger ancient cognitive environment; see Berlin, Poetics and Interpretation, 15. It is only after a careful exposition of the similarities of texts that their differences may be adequately appreciated. 187. This statement (and others like it) will begin to take shape only after the surrounding ancient cultures have been examined in the fourth chapter of this volume. 188. Averbeck, “Ancient Near Eastern Mythography,” 331. M. I. Finley adds, “long before anyone dreamed of history [by this he is referring to our modern conception of history], myth gave an answer. That was its function, or rather one of its functions; to make the past intelligible and meaningful by selection, by focussing on a few bits of the past which thereby acquired permanence, relevance, universal significance” (“Myth, Memory, and History,” Hist. Theory 4 [1965]: 283). 189. K. A. Kitchen, On the Reliability of the Old Testament (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 262; emphasis original. 190. It should be noted, though, that when the ancients mythologized their past, they did not think of it as a falsification of any sort. Contra T. L. Thompson, who says that the biblical accounts are merely “literary fictions” developed only with an audience in mind (The Origin Tradition of Ancient Israel, vol. 1: The Literary Formation of Genesis and Exodus 1–23 [Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987], 49).

50

Chapter 2

others to make up Gen 1–11. What would it mean to think of Gen 1–11 as mythic history? For the remainder of this chapter, I will be concerned with identifying some of the more general characteristics of this genre, as well as beginning to suggest interpretive techniques. Our interpretive grid will become more and more refined, but actual interpretive principles (the titular poetics of Gen 1–11, that is, protohistory) must wait until the fifth chapter. Here, I only make suggestions as to how the genre mythic history should be thought of and approached. The chapter will end with a discussion of Near Eastern poetics that also may apply generally to our genre of mythic history. We must keep in mind, however, that these are merely suggestions for how our texts should be approached by casting a wide net indeed. In the fifth chapter, we will refine these to applicable interpretive principles, or poetics. Glassner describes what mythic history looked like in Mesopotamia: The break between the spheres of myth and legend and history was never quite achieved. The narrators believed in the truth of their accounts, whether they were myth or history, and since they thought them true, the differences between myth and history diminished and blurred. This went so far as to produce a hybrid form, myth using historical categories and history becoming “mythologized,” in order to achieve exemplary significance and universal perspective. 191

What was true in Mesopotamia was largely true elsewhere in the ancient world. Capomacchia explains more generally that it is through the medium of myth that civilizations connected with the events of mythical time, thereby establishing their own historical dimension. She suggests it was this practice of connecting myths to known historical events that gave the ancients’ reality “a certain order in its historical dimension.” 192 This order, according to Capomacchia, is what Walton refers to as “coherence” in our discussion above. It makes perfect sense that the genre of mythic history would share this concern for coherence in the present, being but one of many ancient genres capable of writing history. 193 Glassner suggests that myth-making was such a powerful “intellectual device” because myths “conferred validity on institutions, practices, or customs through their power to organize experience.” 194 The language employed in mythic history is frequently symbolic. It is an extremely powerful vehicle by which to communicate significant matters, which, according to Glassner, is why it was employed. The themes of the myths, Fawcett explains, take on local form and color, “provided by the 191. Glassner, Mesopotamian Chronicles, 3–4. 192. Capomacchia, “Heroic Dimension,” 91. 193. “In the same way,” Capomacchia adds, “historical reality is defined through the mythical dimension, where cultural characters, institutions, and historical events are sacrally established, as are relationships, peaceful and not with neighboring countries, which likewise receive in the myth a specific characterization” (ibid., 91–92). 194. Glassner, “The Use of Knowledge,” 1815.

Matters of Method

51

imagery appropriate to a particular time and place.” We must be careful with this, however, as myths could vary in cultural viability across a society’s history. 195 In other words, because symbols are involved, the stories are capable of both changing in meaning and also taking on new meanings. This is a perfectly natural phenomenon for language in general, so we should also expect this from the culture-specific language that mythic history is. Symbols require a referent to make any sense at all. These referents, rooted in a particular cultural context, develop and change through time quite regularly. 196 The interpreter must guard against the fallacy of assuming a symbol (or other mythic element) is static in meaning through time, or alternately assuming that a particular culture’s later understanding of a mythic symbol is the same as an earlier understanding. I have already mentioned one example of this—Xenophanes was working a mere few centuries after Homer and Hesiod, and the myths’ meanings were already lost on him. This happens when a myth becomes so well-known—so thoroughly internalized— that its original intent is lost. The story simply comes to be considered “the way things are literally.” 197 It happens naturally over the course of time, and the myth loses its vitality. 198 If one grants this possibility, it becomes feasible to suggest, for example, that the Jewish historian Josephus may not have grasped the full meaning of some of his own people’s ancient myths either—perhaps his overly literal interpretations of some of the Genesis stories reflect this loss of mythic vitality. Conversely, Philo of Alexandria, a contemporary of Josephus, recognized the problems with a literal interpretation of Genesis and chose rather to seek the “deeper meaning” of the stories that lay beyond the plain meaning by interpreting them allegorically. 199 195. Doty, Mythography, 18. 196. Caird has a very helpful chapter devoted to this concept called “Changes of Meaning” (The Language and Imagery, 62–84). 197. Doty, Mythography, 52. Similarly, Weckman describes this process as a myth being reduced to “more specific, non-narrative meanings” that are then “held to have truth value.” The myth that is then “believed” is merely a reduced, derived form of what it was previously. An alternative he proposes is to “believe (find truth in) myth (narrative) as myth (recognizing its special form and function), without reduction or diminution” (“Believing Myth,” 98). 198. The myth moves to a “relatively inert stage where it has become an empty image or an artificial frame of reference” (Doty, Mythography, 79). E. Cassirer likewise suggests that mythic words “are reduced more and more to the status of mere conceptual signs” (Language and Myth, 97). See also, J. M. Mellard, Doing Tropology: Analysis of Narrative Discourse (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1987), 142–44. 199. Contrast, for example, Josephus’s interpretation of the serpent with that of Philo, Alleg. Interp. 2, 18.72–74. Weckman writes: The primary device used by the Hellenistic thinkers to derive acceptable ideas from myths was allegory. In Jewish and Christian thought the first prominent name is Philo, and New Testament exegesis of the Old uses this method also. Allegory permits one to dismiss the myth as story and substitute for it a set of ideas. Whether the story is true or not becomes irrelevant, especially insofar as the question of the historicity of

52

Chapter 2

Even though Philo rejected the notion that these stories were mythical, 200 he was at the same time unable or unwilling to interpret these stories acbiblical accounts is concerned. The truth lies at another level, in the lessons which can be preached on the basis of the story. (Weckman, “Believing Myth,” 99)

Similarly, D. Harlow suggests that the truths being communicated by the New Testament authors’ use of the Old Testament (with regard to Gen 1–11) are not dependent on their understanding of historical factuality (or literary genre). Harlow is suggesting the New Testament truth claims were wholly other than claiming a historical factuality or determining literary genre—“to think otherwise is to indulge in a gross anachronism” because “none of these statements intended to make a scholarly pronouncement on either the literary genre or historical factuality of early Genesis” (“Creation According to Genesis: Literary Genre, Cultural Context, Theological Truth,” Christian Scholar’s Review 37 [2008]: 197). Therefore, the truths being communicated (primarily theological) do not depend necessarily on a perceived factual accuracy. P. Enns suggests that these truths arose from the New Testament authors’ understanding of the Old Testament “in light of Christ’s coming”—an event for these writers that was of seminal importance and around which their thinking and writing revolved (Inspiration and Incarnation: Evangelicals and the Problem of the Old Testament [Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2005], 115–16, emphasis his). Walton speaks of the “archetypal focus” of the Genesis stories and notes that the Apostle Paul seems to treat Adam as such in the New Testament. He is, however, quick to say that “archetypal identity neither affirms nor denies the existence of the individual” (Ancient Near Eastern Thought, 209 n. 4). See our discussion of archetypes, pp. 55–56. These notions are not entirely without the support of New Testament interpreters. For example, of Paul’s use of Adam in Romans, Dunn writes that it would not be true to say that Paul’s theological point here depends on Adam being a “historical” individual or on his disobedience being a historical event as such. Such an implication does not necessarily follow from the fact that a parallel is drawn with Christ’s single act: an act in mythic history can be paralleled to an act in living history without the point of comparison being lost. So long as the story of Adam as the initiator of the sad tale of human failure was well known, which we may assume (the brevity of Paul’s presentation presupposes such a knowledge), such a comparison was meaningful. Nor should modern interpretation encourage patronizing generalizations about the primitive mind naturally understanding the Adam stories as literally historical. It is sufficiently clear, for example, from Plutarch’s account of the ways in which the Osiris myth was understood at this period (De Iside et Oriside 32 ff.) that such tales told about the dawn of human history could be and were treated with a considerable degree of sophistication, with the literal meaning often largely discounted. Indeed, if anything, we should say that the effect of the comparison between the two epochal figures, Adam and Christ, is not so much to historicize the individual Adam as to bring out the more than individual significance of the historic Christ. (Romans 1–8 [WBC; Dallas: Word, 1988], 248)

This is also likely what D. Moo means, in professed concert with Käsemann, when he says that “Paul is interested in the function rather than the “substance” of Adam” (The Epistle to the Romans [NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996], 328 n. 62). Similarly, C.  E.  B. Cranfield points out that “Adam is only mentioned in order to bring out more clearly the nature of the work of Christ” (A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans [2 vols. ICC; London: T. & T. Clark, 2004], 1:281). 200. Philo referred to the Genesis stories as “no mythical fictions . . . but modes of making ideas visible, bidding us resort to allegorical interpretation guided in our renderings by what lies beneath the surface” (Creation, 56.157).

Matters of Method

53

cording to their literal sense. 201 Certainly, Philo recognized the symbolic power communicated by many of the Genesis stories. Myths often make use of symbols in a narrative form. 202 These symbols, or sets of symbols as it may be, could be woven into “dramatic-ritual and narrative form.” 203 If, as suggested, history and myth were inextricably intertwined in the ancient world, we would expect this of history writing as well. Mythic history is narrative in form, and it is at times difficult to distinguish between the various textual elements. Kofoed writes that history writing “may be different with regard to its referent, but it deploys precisely the same literary devices as a number of other literary genres: rhetoric, digression, irony, metaphor, hyperbole, and so on.” 204 These symbolic (and other) narrative elements can be another potentially tricky area for interpreters. Difficulties may arise because we lack the cultural context to reconstruct the original associations of these elements or to recover meanings that would have been evident to an original audience. Narrative form also can be misunderstood because, as Fawcett notes, The myths operate analogically at the level of metaphor and not of simile. This metaphorical structure is consistently maintained, and so the analogical character is never apparent. They never speak in simile of one thing being like another, but as though they gave a direct description of the world and a transcript of ancient history. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that many should have fallen into the trap of thinking that the myth-makers were attempting to write science or history. 205 201. W. J. van Bekkum, “Modern Jewish Attitudes to the Concept of Myth,” in Imagining Creation (ed. M. J. Geller and M. Schipper; IJS Studies in Judaica 5; Leiden: Brill, 2008), 141–42. 202. C. Westermann writes that “narrative is the overarching genre of myth” (Westermann, “Die Gliederung der Mythen,” in Mythos im Alten Testament und seiner Umwelt: Festschrift für Hans-Peter Müller zum 65. Geburtstag [ed. A. Lange; ZAWBeih 278; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1999], 212). Similarly, P. Swiggers says that one aspect of myth is that it is “a narrative, which usually involves a certain degree of literary elaboration” (“Babel and the Confusion of Tongues,” in Mythos im Alten Testament und seiner Umwelt: Festschrift für HansPeter Müller zum 65. Geburtstag [ed. A. Lange; ZAWBeih 278; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1999], 188). 203. Stevenson, “Myth and the Crisis,” 5; see also Weckman, “Believing Myth,” 97–98. Doty says, “as units of information that are not bound by the immediate contours of what presently is being experienced, mythical metaphors, symbols, and allegories provide concrete conveyances for (abstract) thought” (Mythography, 50, emphasis his). Similarly, Church says that “the language of religion is symbolic; its phrases are metaphors giving meaning and structure to existence” (“Myth and History,” 36). 204. Kofoed, Text and History, 202. 205. Fawcett, The Symbolic Language of Religion, 102. Fawcett writes that metaphors play an even larger part than simile in religious literature. . . . Metaphors have a direct quality absent from similes. They hide their analogical character. They are undeclared analogies. The weakness of the metaphor, or the danger that lurks within it, results from the hiddenness of the analogy and the possibility that the comparison will be taken literally . . . but when metaphors are considered within a cultural situation to which they

54

Chapter 2

In other words, mythical language tends toward the vivid and the highly figurative, and these associations are often veiled to the modern interpreter. The matter-of-fact presentation style full of “hidden” metaphors, often appearing in the form of narrative, can be misleading. 206 Confusion can arise when “the (sometimes highly implicit) metaphorical assimilation is not perceived.” 207 But it is just this “hiddenness” or “otherness” of metaphors that gives them such power. 208 The modern interpreter should not deny their efficacy by reading these stories as strictly literal history. 209 It is as Fawcett warned—the metaphorical structure of mythical language suggests as much. These are “neither literal pictures of reality nor useful fictions.” 210 With myths, there is both literal and metaphoric predication, and “the difference between the literal and the metaphoric is not presence or absence of truth-value but rather a difference of novelty and semantic tension.” 211 did not originally belong, misunderstanding is likely. The clear analogical character of the metaphor which was apparent to the original hearers may no longer be apparent in a later age . . . the hiddenness of metaphors can cause difficulty. (Ibid., 51–53, emphasis mine)

206. This is the more accurate explanation for why myths may lose their vitality over time. Myths are composed of symbols, metaphors, and themes—figurative language, in other words—that can lose its vitality over time and thus become misunderstood (as Fawcett asserted, above). This diachronic analysis of metaphors says that they begin their “lives” as a powerful way “to describe the familiar in new ways or to describe for the first time the unfamiliar in terms of the familiar” (I. Paul, “Metaphor and Exegesis,” in After Pentecost: Language and Biblical Interpretation [ed. C. G. Bartholomew et al.; SHS 2; Carlisle: Paternoster, 2001], 394). J. G. McConville writes that the power of a metaphor is in its “strong element of ‘semantic shock’ or ‘semantic impertinence,’” by which he means that metaphors have the “capacity to surprise the hearer or reader in such a way as to suggest new horizons of meaning” (“Metaphor, Symbol and the Interpretation of Deuteronomy,” in After Pentecost: Language and Biblical Interpretation [ed. C. G. Bartholomew et al.; SHS 2; Carlisle: Paternoster, 2001], 333). This is similar to what Thiselton refers to as “code switching,” which in essence is the use of a term the audience would be familiar with in a way that challenges what they thought they knew about it (“‘Behind’ and ‘In Front Of ’ the Text,” 106). Paul further explains that “metaphors successively extend the boundaries of language” until they then “become an accepted part of the lexicon and so lose their metaphorical nature” (“Metaphor and Exegesis,” 394). 207. J.-P. van Noppen, “Interpretation Errors in Theory and Practice,” in Metaphor and Religion (ed. J. P. van Noppen; Theolinguistics 2; Brussels: Vrije Universiteit Brussel, 1983), 139; so also Foster, Before the Muses, 18. 208. R. Van Leeuwen observes, “it is the foreignness of metaphors that is their virtue. Metaphors make us stop and think, ‘Now what does that mean?’ . . . Metaphors are multifaceted and function to produce active thought on the part of the receiver. One must think through a metaphor, and it is this very process that gives the metaphor its power to take hold of the receiver as the receiver takes hold of it” (“On Bible Translation and Hermeneutics,” in After Pentecost: Language and Biblical Interpretation [ed. C. G. Bartholomew et al.; SHS 2; Carlisle: Paternoster, 2001], 290, emphasis original). 209. By “literal,” I mean the events happened exactly as described by the words of the text I will define the term literal more fully below. 210. Sawatzky, “Metaphor, Cognition and Culture,” 22. 211. Hesse, “The Cognitive Claims,” 35.

Matters of Method

55

Often our modern misunderstanding of myth relates to its purpose. Not only may we miss the point of myths due to the nature of the language, but we also may misunderstand its significance (or relevance), which is itself implicit. It becomes a bit easier to appreciate the frequent use of symbols and metaphor in mythic history when we realize how different the ancient concerns were from what our own would be. 212 Shaw explains that there was what he calls “conflict between the general and the particular” in the mind of the ancient Egyptian historian: The texts and artefacts that form the basis of Egyptian history usually convey information that is either general (mythological or ritualistic) or particular (historical), and the trick in constructing a historical narrative is to distinguish as clearly as possible between these types of information, taking into account the Egyptians’ tendency to blur the boundaries between the two . . . In other words, the Egyptians were used to the idea of portraying human individuals as combinations of the general and the particular. Their own sense of history therefore comprised both the specific and the universal in equal measure. 213

This “conflict” was not unique to the cognitive environment of the ancient Egyptians. I have alluded to this already, but the dominant focus of mythic history in the ancient world was the general rather than the particular. 214 As Shaw suggests, even when the accounts speak of the particular, the lines are often blurred. In this way, mythic history—a blending of the general and the particular—becomes a much more powerful vehicle of communication than a factual historical (individual) account ever could be when speaking of protohistorical events. Historical events take on a universal significance that they otherwise would never have. As we will see in the following chapters, stories of individuals even function archetypally because the ancient concept of significance was so different from our own. Perhaps a better way to think about this was that because the ancient ideas of what was significant were so different from our own, the stories they told were told in more general terms to communicate their significance more powerfully than an individual or particular story ever could. As Shaw says elsewhere, we must be sure to appreciate what these texts are often intending to do—commemorate rather than describe historical events. I will say more on this, but first we must define more clearly what might have been of significant concern to the ancient mind. Walton speaks frequently in his writing of the ancient concern for the function of things. That is, something existed not because of its material 212. This is a further development of the discussion above of the ancient historian’s concerns and values, pp. 40–42. 213. I. Shaw, ed., Oxford History of Ancient Egypt (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 10. 214. M. Eliade writes of “traditional cultures” that they are “concerned with exemplary models and paradigmatic events, not with the particular and the individual” (Myth and Reality, 137–38).

56

Chapter 2

qualities, but, as he says, “by virtue of its having a function in an ordered system . . . in relation to society and culture.” 215 He explains that the issue is not what the ancient mind necessarily perceived, but rather to what it attached significance. 216 Things were significant because of their function. This may help clarify why mythic history, as Shaw said, has a “tendency to blur the boundaries” between the general and the particular, or the mythic and the historical. Mythic history communicated the significance attached to the functional aspect of things quite effectively, which led to the archetypal portrayal of both people(s) and things in ancient accounts. Accounts of human origins, for example, are often presented archetypally. Walton explains: Archetypal discussions by definition focus on connectedness and relationship because archetypes offer a paradigm or an exemplar. The archetypes establish a pattern and stand as a representative of a specified class. Connectivity and relationship are vital in trying to understand an ancient sense of personal and corporate identity. 217

There are several basic archetypal relationships that tend to be addressed in accounts of human origins: humans to deity, male to female, humans to created world, humans to previous and future generations.These associations focus, Walton says, “on functional issues rather than material ones.” 218 All of this will be fleshed out in the following chapters as we explore ancient accounts in more detail. For now, we must only raise the issue—the significance the ancient mind attached to function was such that people and events could be (and frequently were) portrayed archetypally using the language of mythic history. For all the reasons mentioned above, the blurred lines between the mythical and historical can be difficult for modern interpreters to distinguish. Our difficulty, then, is not only that we must identify the focus of myths that may operate on both the literal and the metaphorical levels simultaneously but that we must do so from a distance of thousands of years. It is understandable that the significance communicated by many of these stories, without a careful study of a text’s ancient cognitive environment, might in the very least be somewhat diminished. Given the complexity of the discussion, we will take this opportunity to dwell a bit more on figurative language and how we might better understand its terms. 215. J. H. Walton, The Lost World of Genesis One: Ancient Cosmology and the Origins Debate (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2009), 26, emphasis his. Elsewhere he writes: “In other words, something exists when it has a function, not when it takes up space or is a substance characterized by material properties. This applies to everything in the cosmos” (Ancient Near Eastern Thought, 167, emphasis mine). 216. Idem, The Lost World, 27. 217. Idem, Ancient Near Eastern Thought, 207. 218. Ibid., 207–9.

Matters of Method

57

Figurative Language and Relevance Theory An affirmation to this point is that the language of ancient history writing—especially of protohistorical accounts—tends toward the mythical. The result is that the language can be figurative, often the result of the ancient historian’s “ideologies, perspectives and literary techniques.” Though prominently featured, this figurative language can be both frustrating and confusing for the interpreter for many of the reasons mentioned above. Nor may we assume that every reader yet shares this particular conviction—that much of ancient protohistory is indeed figuratively expressed. For this discussion we again turn our attention to relevance theory, which should help us sift through these sensitive issues in a sensible manner. Relevance theory was previously discussed for its usefulness in demonstrating why shared contextual information is often left out of a given communication utterance. 219 The theory also suggested such information was in some ways recoverable, and this section will explore this in more depth. First, however, we must set forth the problems that relevance theory helps to solve, namely, those of a strictly literal interpretation of every communication act. P. Macky helps orient us to the discussion: “Literal” and “figurative” are terms used to describe an aspect of speech, of the use of language in speech acts. Thus they are characteristics of “speaker’s meaning” not of “standard,” or “word meaning.” In addition, because of the continuous change going on in word use, many figurative uses are at various stages along the way towards becoming literal uses. Thus, we are dealing with a continuum, like day-night, not wholly discrete categories like apple and ape. 220

From this we may gather, as I have suggested already, that the end result of any interpretation of a text should be to recover the meaning of the historical author. Moreover, between “literal” and “figurative” is a continuum—we are not dealing in absolutes here. 221 Words develop in meaning and significance; symbols change over time, as we have also seen already. Because of these factors, it is not always possible to say that to know what a text says is to know what it means. 222 Communication is far more complex than 219. See pp. 27–29. 220. P. W. Macky, The Centrality of Metaphors to Biblical Thought: A Method for Interpreting the Bible (SBEC 19; Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 1990), 32. 221. See the excellent demonstration of this in Goatly, The Language of Metaphors, 14– 39. Between the two binary poles “literal” and “figurative,” D. Aaron proposes another category of expression that acknowledges these “graded” levels of meaning: conceptual ascription (Biblical Ambiguities, 60). 222. This may seem at first like an unfair caricature, though there are quite a fair number for whom this is their primary interpretive maxim for the Bible. See L. R. Bailey (Genesis, Creation, and Creationism [Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1993], 134–38) for a discussion of this principle of interpretation and a reasoned response. J. D. Fantin also says that “this error is often propagated in basic Bible study guides and elementary hermeneutic

58

Chapter 2

this allows, and one suspects proponents of this view might acknowledge as much in actual practice. 223 There are numerous occasions, for example, when literal interpretation does not account for the intended meaning of an author’s utterance. Searle shows, for instance, that when someone tells a lie, speaks ironically, or uses sarcasm, it would be patently wrong to take what they say literally, or at face value (assuming, of course, that the utterance is recognized by the hearers for what it is). 224 In a written text, as in verbal communication, contextual clues usually allow us to make the correct interpretation when faced with these sorts of decisions. We may conclude that sentences do theoretically have literal meanings, which is what they would mean independent of any contextual input. 225 Additionally, for something to be literal, Macky says that it should also be communicable. That is, the meaning of an utterance’s independent usage should be readily understood by others when shared. 226 Macky therefore defines literal speech or usage as the “(communicable) independent use” of an utterance. 227 This notion of independence (or lack thereof ) is an important notion for us to grasp. Fantin 228 calls the “contextless (straightforward) meaning texts. For example, the interpretive principle, interpret literally unless there is something explicit (nonsense, contradiction, etc.) has been suggested as a guide to instruct the interpreter when to look for figurative language” (The Greek Imperative Mood in the New Testament: A Cognitive and Communicative Approach [Ph.D. diss., Dallas Theological Seminary, 2003] , 69 n. 175). So also G. K. Beale (who is likewise arguing against the principle that to know what a text says is to know what it means): “a number of authors of both popular and scholarly commentaries contend that one should interpret literally except where one is forced to interpret symbolically by clear indications of context” (The Book of Revelation: A Commentary on the Greek Text [NIGTC: Carlisle: Paternoster, 1999], 52). 223. For example, it is highly unlikely that they simply do what the text says when they come across a poetic passage or, say, hyperbole. For a helpful discussion on this subject see E. Lucas, Can We Believe Genesis Today? The Bible and the Questions of Science (3rd ed.; Nottingham: InterVarsity, 2007), 46–47. 224. Searle, Expression and Meaning, 117–18. 225. Ibid., 119; Macky, The Centrality of Metaphors, 39. Searle contends that there can be no strictly literal meaning independent of context, because every utterance presumes on at least some background assumptions. He makes a good case for this from the example phrase “the cat is on the mat” (Expression and Meaning, 119–26). He is worth consulting on this, and for the rest of his thoughts on this topic. However, I will maintain a more general approach to the topic (for the sake of argument) and have no need of “splitting hairs” quite so thinly. 226. The example he gives is that when someone tells us “I have a headache,” we understand what is being communicated “because we have had headaches too and we have learned how our speech community uses ‘headache’ literally” (Macky, The Centrality of Metaphors, 38). As Millard notes in a personal correspondence (May 2009), language could hardly function if this were otherwise; “it operates upon the assumption of common experience.” 227. Ibid., 39. 228. Fantin wrote a Ph.D. dissertation (2003), published in 2010 by Peter Lang. The thrust of his study is to examine the Greek imperative mood in light of advances in cogni-

Matters of Method

59

. . . semantic meaning,” which highlights its independent use. He contrasts this with the “pragmatic meaning” of an utterance, indicating that meaning is “dependent upon contextual input.” 229 Understanding the difference between semantic and pragmatic meaning will help us to understand the difference between literal and figurative language. Macky defines nonliteral or figurative language as what is dependent on the literal meaning of the utterance. 230 But we cannot stop there—figurative language also draws heavily from the context of the receiver. 231 As Fantin says, “figurative language is not merely a literal meaning couched in associative wording. Rather, it adds to the communication situation by including aspects of color, allusions to the collective aspects of the culture, etc.” 232 In other words, meaning, for figurative language, occupies both the semantic and the pragmatic level. But more emphasis should be placed on recovering the pragmatic meaning, because this has more to do with what the author intended in a particular context. That is to say, the pragmatic meaning depends both on the semantic meaning of an utterance as well as on its context for proper understanding. tive linguistics. His approach is largely theoretical, seeking to demonstrate a correct application of cognitive linguistics for New Testament studies. His synthetic presentation of basic communication theory and cognitive linguistics is excellent, reasoned, and deliberate and is recommended for anyone seeking an introduction to the field, especially as it relates to biblical studies. 229. Fantin, “The Greek Imperative Mood,” 73. A. Goatly adds that “what a sentence means (its decoded sense) is the domain of semantics, and what a speaker means by uttering it in context is the domain of pragmatics” (The Language of Metaphors, 35). Fantin also uses the notion of directness and indirectness to describe the contrast, which “is simply whether the linguistic information under consideration is the direct language code being considered or language code from the context having bearing on the language code under consideration” (“The Greek Imperative Mood,” 75). D. Wallace, another New Testament grammarian, uses the terms unaffected and affected meaning, which is essentially the same as Fantin’s semantic and pragmatic or direct and indirect. “By ‘unaffected’ is meant the meaning of the construction in a vacuum—apart from contextual, lexical, or other grammatical intrusions. By ‘affected’ is meant the meaning of the construction in its environment—i.e., ‘real life’ instances” (D. B. Wallace, The Article with Multiple Substantives Connected by Και in the New Testament: Semantics and Significance [Ph.D. diss., Dallas Theological Seminary, 1995], 10). He describes the unaffected meaning as “ontological” and says also that it “is an abstraction that can only be derived from observed phenomena” (ibid., 11). See also his note on “ontological” meaning, p. 11 n. 32. Wallace is similar to Searle in observing that the unaffected meaning is somewhat a theoretical abstraction. These cited pages of Wallace are from his Ph.D. dissertation and were reproduced verbatim in his more widely available Greek Grammar beyond the Basics: An Exegetical Syntax of the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1996), 2–3. 230. Macky, The Centrality of Metaphors, 40. 231. Elsewhere, Macky does admit that his concept is only an “adequate beginning generalization” (ibid., 42). 232. Fantin, “The Greek Imperative Mood,” 70.

60

Chapter 2

These distinctions will help immensely as we consider now a type of figurative language appearing frequently in ancient history, metaphor. Metaphor has been discussed already, though it will be helpful to discuss it in a bit more detail at this time. Our previous discussion was rooted the use of metaphor in ancient contexts; here it would be prudent to spend a moment dealing with less-contextualized definitions. Soskice defines metaphor as “that figure of speech whereby we speak about one thing in terms which are seen to be suggestive of another.” 233 A metaphor is not, therefore, a symbol, or a subject, or an analogy—it is more accurately “a mode of language use” that employs these devices and relates them all together. 234 With literary texts, metaphor is a mode of language use in which the author relates these items in some way, and the audience must discern its significance. In Fantin’s terms, when a reader encounters metaphors in literature the goal is primarily to discern its pragmatic meaning, which “is dependent upon contextual input.” This is also what McConville is suggesting when he says that it “is often in narrative that metaphors and symbols take on their particular force.” 235 Interpreting metaphors, however, is slightly more complex than merely recovering the pragmatic usage (as though this were not complex enough already!). Recall that a metaphor does indeed depend on, to varying degrees, a literal predication. This is what Ricoeur calls a “split reference”: metaphor opens up language to allow it two meanings, the literal and the metaphorical. 236 That is, both the literal and the figurative references used in a metaphor figure into its meaning. 237 One may recall the quotation from Macky, above, who asserted that “literal” and “figurative” were characteristics of “speaker’s meaning.” Strictly speaking, “literal” is when an author means 233. J. M. Soskice, Metaphor and Religious Language (Oxford: Clarendon, 1985), 15. Similarly, Macky defines it as “that figurative way of speaking (and meaning) in which one reality, the Subject, is depicted in terms that are more commonly associated with a different reality, the Symbol, which is related to it by Analogy” (The Centrality of Metaphors, 49). Soskice and Macky both devote a number of pages to unfolding a more detailed discussion of definition: Soskice, Metaphor and Religious Language, 15–23; Macky, The Centrality of Metaphors, 31–56. See also the very thorough Searle, Expression and Meaning, 76–116; and Goatly, The Language of Metaphors. 234. Soskice, Metaphor and Religious Language, 16. 235. McConville, “Metaphor, Symbol,” 341. 236. P. Ricoeur, The Rule of Metaphor: Multi-disciplinary Studies of the Creation of Meaning in Language (trans. R. Czerny; Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1977), 265, 270– 73. Wolterstorff employs the terms noematic content and designative content to speak of Ricoeur’s literal and metaphorical senses, respectively (Divine Discourse: Philosophical Reflections on the Claim That God Speaks [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995], 152). 237. Soskice maintains this to be false, and says that the reference of the metaphor “is rather the reference effected by the speaker’s employment of the whole utterance in its context.” Her corrective is somewhat justified, though we are in a position to appreciate both sides of this discussion (Metaphor and Religious Language, 53).

Matters of Method

61

exactly what he says, and “metaphorical” is when he means something other than what he says. 238 Our concern is to understand how an author employs metaphor in ancient mythical historical accounts, and Ricoeur’s distinctions become quite useful. Mythic history operates on both the literal and the metaphorical levels simultaneously, precisely because it contains metaphorical language that operates on both levels simultaneously as well. While our primary goal is to recover the pragmatic meaning of metaphorical, mythic history, we must not do so to the degree that we lose sight of its semantic meaning. In other words, it would be fallacious to assume that, because an author recounts mythic history metaphorically, he may not also be referring to actual events in time and space. Metaphorical is not synonymous with fictitious—recall Long’s painting example from above. 239 Paul’s reminder is helpful as we consider the exegesis of metaphors, however: “in the process of metaphorization, aspects of historical detail are lost and may not affect the rhetorical power of the text.” 240 Primarily, our goal is to recover the pragmatic, or dependent, meaning of the metaphors in mythic history as intended by the author. Bearing this in mind, then, let us turn to relevance theory and its merits for doing just this. Relevance theory serves two primary purposes in this discussion. First, it accounts for figurative language by justifying its use. Second, it gives us the parameters by which we may recover the author’s meaning, if at times only partially. Fantin distills the two principles of relevance as follows: (1) “Human cognition tends to be geared to the maximization of relevance,” and (2) “Every act of ostensive communication [communication that comes with a communicative intention] communicates a presumption of its own optimal relevance.” In other words, relevance drives communication. 241 Fantin also mentions “seemingly non-relevant” utterances, such as redundancies or regressions: Neither of these types of utterances violates this principle. Redundancy may contribute to relevance by adding the notion of importance (or another strengthening notion). Regression may serve to add additional background information, add a relevant side issue for consideration, or even serve as a 238. Searle makes this distinction as well: “whenever we talk about the metaphorical meaning of a word, expression, or sentence, we are talking about what a speaker might utter it to mean, in a way that departs from what the word, expression, or sentence actually means” (Searle, Expression and Meaning, 77). 239. See p. 19. 240. Paul, “Metaphor and Exegesis,” 398. 241. Fantin, “The Greek Imperative Mood,” 66–67. This is almost a direct quotation (but more “user-friendly”) from Sperber and Wilson’s “Postface,” which can be found at the end of their second edition. Here, they explain why they have revised their theory into two related theories, one cognitive and the other communicative (Fantin’s two principles, respectively) and they discuss them in some detail: Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 260–79.

62

Chapter 2 corrective mechanism if the communicative situation is in danger of breaking down. In an inferential model of communication driven by the principles of relevance, all communicative actions, whether verbal or non-verbal, code or non-code, serve as evidence to be interpreted. 242

There are also numerous instances in which figurative language would be much more relevant than literal usage. 243 Sperber and Wilson observe that, from the standpoint of relevance theory, there is no reason to think that the optimally relevant interpretive expression of a thought is always the most literal one. The speaker is presumed to aim at optimal relevance, not at literal truth. The optimal interpretive expression of a thought should give the hearer information about that thought which is relevant enough to be worth processing, and should require as little processing effort as possible. There are many quite ordinary situations where a literal utterance is not optimally relevant; for example, where the effort needed to process it is not offset by the gain in information conveyed. There are thus many situations where a speaker aiming at optimal relevance should not give a literal interpretation of her thought, and where the hearer should not treat her utterance as literal. 244

More specifically, there are numerous instances when it might be more relevant to communicate with a metaphorical rather than a literal predication. Speaking of both Genesis and the New Testament book of Revelation, A. Wolters says, “It seems that the historical realities of both the beginning and the end of . . . [the Bible are] best captured in such figurative language. Perhaps this is because they are realities which lie outside of our ordinary experience.” 245 Relevance theory allows us to specify that the original authors of these areas of Scripture might have employed figurative language because it was more relevant to do so when considering the implied reader. One reason might be, as Wolters has said, that they depict realities that are beyond normal human experience—the extremely distant past (indeed, the “beginning”) and the apocalyptic vision of the future of the world. Goatly also suggests that both “imagistic” and “hyperbolic” metaphors have “a particular vitality” because they grab attention and enhance memorability. 246 Each of these reasons seems plausible when considering the relevance of 242. Fantin, “The Greek Imperative Mood,” 67–68, emphasis his. In a footnote, Fantin also says of this that “What is important is that these utterances are considered relevant and as such they are not rejected as useless” (ibid., 68 n. 171, emphasis his). We will see below that redundancy, ambiguity, and other nonliteral usages of language were very common in the ancient Near East. Relevance theory explains why they appear and also suggests that they are relevant to interpretive matters. 243. For an excellent extended example, see Fantin’s entire discussion, which demonstrates with the same running example how the relevance theory of communication adequately explains what the code model of communication cannot (ibid., 51–73). 244. Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 233. 245. A. M. Wolters, “Thoughts on Genesis,” Calvinist Contact (1990): 5. 246. Goatly, The Language of Metaphors, 164–65.

Matters of Method

63

communicating truths of an unfathomable, distant past. They speak to the purpose of the author as suggestions why it might have been more relevant to communicate figuratively than literally. 247 This point is worth dwelling on for a moment longer: a mythical, figurative account of history in no way rules out the possibility that it may represent actual events. 248 To say as much would be to misunderstand figurative language and its many possible uses. 249 Wolters speaks of the “illusion” that figurative language is “somehow second best” when speaking of the events portrayed in Gen 1–11. There are those who feel as though it would be much more effective to have a scientifically accurate depiction of what actually transpired. “Figurative language is not necessarily a second-best way of conveying truth,” he says. “In some cases it is far more straightforward and effective than any other way of reporting facts. Perhaps the early history of the world as recorded in Scripture is such a case.” 250 It is hoped that relevance theory has demonstrated why it may be reasonable to see early Genesis as both mythical and historical at the same time—that is, mythic history. The problem remains to be dealt with, finally, how we apply relevance theory to the study of figurative language. What are the parameters by which we discern the relevance of particular figurative language? Sperber and Wilson suggest another interpretive maxim: “the hearer should take an utterance as fully literal only when nothing less than full literality will confirm the presumption of relevance.” 251 This is, in a sense, to turn the literalistic interpretive maxims discussed above on their head. 252 We must restate this principle in light of our text’s implied reader, 253 however: the reader of 247. This is similar to my point in the previous section where I discussed the efficacy of the genre of mythic history to communicate the archetypal, functional significance of people, places, and events. Here, I specify further that this communication is effective because it is optimally relevant. 248. Indeed, it is widely accepted—by a variety of commentators—that this is what is happening in Rev 12–13. G. R. Osborne includes other examples of mythical shaping of historical events elsewhere in the Bible (Revelation [BECNT; Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2002], 454). This is not a position shared by all, however. Note R. L. Thomas’s attempts to explain these allusions in other ways in Revelation 8–22: An Exegetical Commentary (Chicago: Moody Press, 1995), 117–19. 249. Interestingly, this seems to be a fundamental flaw in the reasoning of both poles of interpretation mentioned in the introductory chapter. One side rules out the possibility of figurative language because they cannot see how it could speak of actual events, and the other side rules out the possibility of actual history because they cannot see how figurative language could speak of actual events. Both sides, for the reasons suggested here, are misguided. 250. Wolters, “Thoughts on Genesis,” 5. 251. Sperber and Wilson, Relevance, 234. 252. See p. 57 n. 222. Their view of language usage, as Fantin notes, “fails to observe that figurative language is very common and in no way non-normal” (“The Greek Imperative Mood,” 69, emphasis his). 253. See pp. 29–31.

64

Chapter 2

an ancient text should take an utterance as fully literal only when nothing less than full literality will confirm the presumption of relevance as it would have appeared to the implied reader. We must never lose sight of the implied reader when considering these ancient texts. Relevance and meaning for today’s audience may only be established once relevance and meaning has properly been established for the implied reader. Indeed, proper relevance today depends on a proper understanding of relevance as it would have been for the implied reader. This brings us back full-circle to the allimportant issue of genre. It is only by properly determining the genre of a passage that we may come to reconstruct relevance for the implied reader of a text. This again points to the need to reconstruct the ancient cognitive environment of a passage. Questions of genre in Gen 4:17–22—and especially of relevance within its particular genre—will be addressed more effectively only once the ancient cognitive environment is enumerated in the third and fourth chapters. Before this, however, we have one final section to discuss methodological concerns at a broader level. Narrowing the Focus Now for a few brief comments on ancient Near Eastern poetics. To be clear, this is a generalized discussion designed to give some sense of how biblical and ancient Near Eastern scholars interact with the material we have discussed thus far. In other words, we are narrowing our focus. What would these scholars consider to be some of the more general characteristics of the genre of mythic history? What should we expect as we encounter the material in the following two chapters? First of all, many ancient Near Eastern scholars argue that distinctions between simile and metaphor should not be maintained. Or rather, that the two were not sufficiently distinguished by the ancient authors. To be sure, simile was employed, but metaphor was much more common, especially in myth. 254 Most agree that both metaphor and simile function essentially in the same ways, and therefore the distinction is not as pronounced as once thought. 255 Metaphor throughout ancient literature, it should be added, 254. For examples, see the discussions of L. Feldt (“On Divine-Referent Bull Metaphors in the ETCSL Corpus,” in Analysing Literary Sumerian Corpus-Based Approaches [ed. J. Ebeling and G. Cunningham; London: Equinox, 2007], 187–92), J. Black (“The Imagery of Birds in Sumerian Poetry,” in Mesopotamian Poetic Language: Sumerian and Akkadian [ed. M. E. Vogelzang and H. L. J. Vanstiphout; CM; Groningen: STYX, 1996], 23; idem, Reading Sumerian Poetry [Athlone Publications in Egyptology and Ancient Near Eastern Studies; London: Athlone, 1998], 9–19), M. C. A. Korpel (A Rift in the Clouds: Ugaritic and Hebrew Descriptions of the Divine [UBL 8; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 1990], 55–75), and W. Heimpel (Tierbilder in der Sumerischen Literatur [Studia Pohl: DSROA 2; Roma: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1968], 12–42). In notable opposition to this point of view is M. P. Streck, Die Bildsprache der akkadischen Epik (AOAT 264; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 1999), 30–31. For the lack of distinction in biblical literature, see Gabel et al., The Bible as Literature, 25. 255. This is especially the case in ancient cultures, where scholars experience difficulties distinguishing between conventional and individual symbols. J. G. Westenholz

Matters of Method

65

was “unavoidably ambiguous.” 256 A metaphor might appear in a text, serve its purpose (so to speak), and then be immediately reemployed by the story in a slightly different way. Vanstiphout refers to this as a “reified image,” and explains, the “reified” image is now not only incorporated in the main argument for its own sake; it is also described in some detail, which is another way in which one may see ambiguity engendering text. This technique is used frequently, and deserves special study. Often things, or complexes of things, or concepts are introduced into the flow of narrative or descriptive or rhetorical discourse, and are then described in detail, sometimes minutely, and even sometimes adorned with ulterior meaning. 257

This ambiguity, though problematic for modern interpreters, was a commonly employed literary device throughout the ancient Near East. It was obviously relevant in some way to the ancient mind. Vanstiphout writes that “offhand one can already say” that the ancient “scribes and poets would have no truck with one of the banes of ‘western scientific culture’ of sorts, viz. the intolerance of ambiguity.” 258 In other words, supposed “contradictions” identified in mythical texts by modern interpreters were often not seen as such by the ancient authors or scribes themselves. This applies equally to contradictions found within a single story or those of multiple stories. Speaking specifically of Sumerian myths, Michalowski writes that many “differ in detail and often present contradictory narratives [regarding the details of various deities] . . . but it is characteristic of the culture that the contradictory narratives were not harmonized.” 259 These notions may speak directly to the “problems of continuity” that Gowan saw as problematic in Gen 4, as cited in the introduction. 260 Could it be that these questions need not be resolved but rather that they were—clearly a product explains: “Symbols can be of two kinds: conventional but wholly arbitrary, where the symbol is culturally conditioned, or individual and formed by association, in which case they are arbitrary but not conventional. In traditional societies, such as that of Mesopotamia, it is difficult to differentiate between the two kinds of symbol. Thus, the holistic approach which includes all types of imagery without distinction seems most suitable” (“Symbolic Language in Akkadian Narrative Poetry: The Metaphorical Relationship between Poetical Images and the Real World,” in Mesopotamian Poetic Language: Sumerian and Akkadian (ed. M. E. Vogelzang and H. L. J. Vanstiphout; CM; Groningen: STYX, 1996), 183–84. 256. H. L. J. Vanstiphout, “Ambiguity as a Generative Force in Standard Sumerian Literature, or Empson in Nippur,” in Mesopotamian Poetic Language: Sumerian and Akkadian (ed. M. E. Vogelzang and H. L. J. Vanstiphout; CM; Groningen: STYX, 1996), 157. 257. Ibid., 158. Of this reification process today, Goatly claims it is “the first and major step on which the metaphorical structuring of abstractions depends” (The Language of Metaphors, 46). 258. Vanstiphout, “Ambiguity as a Generative Force,” 164. 259. P. Michalowski, “Sumerian Literature: An Overview,” in CANE, 2286. Note that he is speaking with reference to Mesopotamians of the Old Babylonian period. 260. One may also recall the discussion of gaps and ambiguity above.

66

Chapter 2

of the ancient cognitive environment—intentionally included as narrative devices? Another feature of ancient Mesopotamian poetics is that literature is marked by pronounced redundancies. That is to say, repetition is abundantly employed, and it may take a number of forms. 261 For our purposes, it should be noted that there is what can be called a minimal variant (formulaic repetition using stereotyped expressions) and large scale variant (“wholesale repetition of passages”). 262 To be sure, repetition is a poetic device so commonly employed throughout the ancient Near East, yet, at times, curiously ignored by biblical scholars. For example, the partially parallel genealogies of Gen 4 and 5 might be understood somewhat differently in light of these firmly demonstrable features of mythical poetic language. 263 In essence, the last few paragraphs may be reduced to this: history in the ancient Near East was written in the form of myth, which often used symbols and metaphorical, analogical language in narrative form, often intentionally ambiguous. This metaphorical structure of mythic history was frequently redundant, making abundant use of repetitive poetic devices 261. Foster, Before the Muses, 15–16. For a more in-depth discussion of repetition as a poetic device in Akkadian, replete with examples, see M. E. Vogelzang, “Repetition as a Poetic Device in Akkadian,” in Mesopotamian Poetic Language: Sumerian and Akkadian (ed. M. E. Vogelzang and H. L. J. Vanstiphout; CM; Groningen: STYX, 1996). Vanstiphout, in a discussion of the use of repetition in the Sumerian Aratta texts, says that a “close study of these and other Mesopotamian poems suggests that in almost every case there is system and logic and meaning to the repetitions.” H. L. J. Vanstiphout, “Problems in the ‘Matter of Aratta’,” Iraq 45/1 (1983): 40. 262. B. Groneberg, “Towards a Definition of Literariness as Applied to Akkadian Literature,” in Mesopotamian Poetic Language: Sumerian and Akkadian (ed. M. E. Vogelzang and H. L. J. Vanstiphout; CM; Groningen: STYX, 1996), 70. Groneberg says that “narrativity is without doubt distinctively marked by means of all kinds of broad ‘parallelism’” (ibid., 71). Elsewhere, she says that “narrative style has passages of deep interdependencies, but also large sections constructed with formulae or large-scale repetitions, which then have the function to develop the plot. They stop the narrative to picture for the ‘present’ situation and to build up tension” (ibid., 77). 263. Many scholars consider the genealogy in ch. 4 to be from the so-called J source, and ch. 5 to be from the P source. A reconsideration may also be in order for those who separate the Noahic flood story in Genesis into two separate accounts (also the J and P accounts). It may very well be that the repetition in that well-known story, as Vogelzang says, “adds body to the narrative, heightens tension, allows the development of details and the introduction of subjective elements, sometimes in a very subtle way” (“Repetition as a Poetic Device,” 168). For examples of attempts to interpret the flood story with this in mind, see G. J. Wenham (“The Coherance of the Flood Narrative,” in I Studied Inscriptions from Before the Flood: Ancient Near Eastern, Literary, and Linguistic Approaches to Genesis 1–11 [ed. R. S. Hess and D. T. Tsumura; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1994]), and G. A. Rendsburg (“The Biblical Flood Story in the Light of the Gilgameš Flood Account,” in Gilgameš and the World of Assyria: Proceedings from the Conference Held at Mandelbaum House, The University of Sydney, 21–23 July 2004 [ed. J. Azize and N. Weeks; ANESS 21; Leuven: Peeters, 2007]).

Matters of Method

67

to enhance the story and to perform various didactic functions. At times, metaphorical imagery was even “reified” and discussed in more detail later in the story, further adding to its ambiguity. Along these lines, the ancient mind did not avoid the ambiguous in storytelling; rather, it was embraced. Consequently, the mythic mind would have had no category for our modern discussions of “contradictions.” 264 One should guard against the assumption that because mythic history tends to connect what is real with what is mythical that it does not contain truth, as we have said already. Rather, Averbeck posits, this particular kind of myth contains much more than fiction, even if there are “fictional elements” in it. 265 Here, it would be helpful to include the comments of K. Sparks, with whom Averbeck interacts extensively. Sparks describes four different categories of myth, and one of those four merits our attention at this time: what he calls “historical myths.” 266 These are “mythic texts 264. It may also be the same for our hypothesized multiple source “solutions” where these occur (often in response to, among other things, perceived contradictions). Biblical scholars are primarily responsible for perpetuating these alternatives—scholars of other ancient Near Eastern disciplines have relatively little to say in this regard. When they do, it can be mildly derisive. For example, Michalowski refers at one point to “the curious notions of source criticism” employed by biblical scholars (“Sailing to Babylon, Reading the Dark Side of the Moon,” in The Study of the Ancient Near East in the 21st Century: The William Foxwell Albright Centennial Conference [ed. J. S. Cooper and G. M. Schwartz; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1996], 183). This, of course, grossly oversimplifies the conversation. For example, many of biblical scholars are also quite skeptical of resorting to putative sources to explain contradictions in the text. Hamilton rightfully observes that a complete absence of JEDP-like theories for other ancient Near Eastern sources should not necessarily argue against this sort of approach’s validity, however. “True,” he says, “no one has yet advanced the equivalent of a JEDP theory for the origin of any notable hieroglyphic or cuneiform document, but we have drawn attention above to Tigay’s study of both the Gilgamesh Epic and the Samaritan Pentateuch that shows the growth of a composition over a period of time and the weaving of different accounts into one fabric” (The Book of Genesis, 37). Davies and Rogerson advocate a balanced approach to Gen 1–11 in light of Gilgamesh, hypothesized sources and the like (The Old Testament World, 113–14). Millard notes in a personal correspondence (May 2009) that both of Hamilton’s examples from above do have attestations of a composition over time. Without them, however, scholars would be unable (and perhaps unwise?) to reconstruct with any certitude what either a later version would be (from a lone early version) or what an early version would be (from a late version). The point being, however one feels about JEDP source theories, we must be sure to acknowledge that we do not possess an actual copy of J, E, D, or P and must theorize with the utmost caution. Were we to be in the possession of, say, a J manuscript, we might be able to proceed with more certainty. At the very least, then, we must be sure to take into account the ancient lack of concern for contradictions as we formulate our source theories. 265. Averbeck, “Daily Life and Culture,” 25. 266. Our genre of mythic history. The other three categories of myth he lists are psychological, metaphorical and pleasure myths. Again, the category we focus on here is historical,

68

Chapter 2

whose authors attribute to them a referential historical status: the events actually happened.” 267 Within this category Sparks writes of two subcategories: complex and analogical historical myths. Sparks describes the latter as having a sense of causation that can be highly analogical. In other words, he says, “the ultimate verities are reconstructed on the basis of simple analogies from what is known.” 268 And further, the author believes what he is creating to be “referentially accurate and true.” 269 At this point, an extended quotation would help communicate what he is trying to say: The main point is this: We tend to believe that the freehanded composition of a literary piece that addresses mythic themes must necessarily imply that the sane author knew it to be fictive and legendary. . . . But I have become increasingly convinced that a set of “facts” presumed by an author, combined with that author’s unique Tendenz, can produce a creative narrative that is for the author anything but fictive. The inclination, of course, for those of us who doubt the author’s “facts” and Tendenz, is to view the narrative as a fictive one and, without too much ado, to assume that this was its author’s perspective as well. But while we might readily associate the trait of “manifest impossibility” with the mythic genre for heuristic purposes, we ought to restrain ourselves from presuming too quickly that a myth was, for its author, referentially fictive. 270

Sparks makes the salient point that no matter what we might be inclined to think regarding the historicity of these stories, we should not deny that the authors and the audience believed certain truths about reality were being communicated. That they did so in ways that may be referentially true with regard to their everyday life should, in turn, affect the ways we read the stories. Averbeck believes these stories have significant things to say with regards to the life of the ancient storyteller and audience (because of their analogizing tendencies). At least in some ways, the stories describe and contemplate the “perception and understanding that the writer has of his or her world.” 271 To summarize, then, Averbeck and Sparks both consider the world described in the words of certain types of ancient mythic history to resemble the audience’s real world. This is a result of their analogical thinking, or tendency to describe the mythical world in terms they could easily associate with and relate to. Averbeck says, “To be sure . . . [this type of myth] mywhich is distinct from the others by the author’s understanding that the events reflected in the myths are real. 267. K. L. Sparks, “The Problem of Myth in Ancient Historiography,” in Rethinking the Foundations: Historiography in the Ancient World and in the Bible (ed. John Van Seters et al.; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2000), 274. 268. Ibid., 275. 269. Ibid. 270. Ibid., 276. 271. Averbeck, “Ancient Near Eastern Mythography,” 332.

Matters of Method

69

thologizes and idealizes their regular world, but that’s the main point—it is their regular real world that is being mythologized and idealized, not some alternate ‘other world.’” Beyond the level of analogical truth, P. Munz suggests myths are true not because of how they may relate to a particular event in history but rather because they exhibit “universally true features.” 272 Of course, this in no way suggests that these stories may not also refer to particular historical events but emphasizes the idea that their truth value might be more appropriately derived from their universally true features, as we have already suggested elsewhere. To return to Mettinger’s terminology, Munz seems to be suggesting that myths possess representativity, and communicate truths with a “validity that is greater than the individual case.” To be sure, the generic signals of certain myths (strong symbolic elements operating at a metaphorical level) lend a certain validity to Munz’s claim. Mythic history is a wonderfully creative and effective way of communicating important truths, though perhaps more representationally than it at first appears. 273 In the case of the ancient Near East, myth happens to be the medium by which “a civilization takes account of its own past from its own point of view.” 274 As far as Gen 2:4–4:26 is concerned, it seems to resemble what Sparks would call a “historical myth” and fall under the auspices of what Averbeck would call “mythic history.” The historical reality it represents might be in some ways truncated, collapsed, or otherwise distorted (read: mythologized), though that would not have diminished its significance to its ancient audience. That is, they would have understood its relevance. 275 To reiterate what Averbeck said earlier, the way forward in the discussion regarding the relationship among history, theology and ancient Near Eastern myth in the Bible “is through reading myth as analogical thinking about history and reality. We are not talking about some kind of alternative truth system, but a different way of talking about what was and is, in fact true, historically and experientially.” 276 We must now spend a final few moments to distinguish between the results of our thought process and that of the ancient Greek historian Euhemerus. Euhemerus of Messina (330–260 b.c.) made the claim, according to Doty, that he had discovered the origins of the gods: “they had been mere human kings and conquerors to whom humankind expressed appreciation 272. P. Munz, “History and Myth,” Philosophical Quarterly 6/22 (1956): 3. 273. On the representational nature of narrative in general, see Berlin, Poetics and Interpretation, 13–14. 274. To borrow the words of Averbeck once more (“The Sumerian Historiographic Tradition,” 82–83). 275. The precise nature of this relevance will be examined later in this volume. The point here is that the historical reality behind this history writing is perhaps somewhat different from what the words of the story might suggest. 276. Averbeck, “Ancient Near Eastern Mythography,” 355.

70

Chapter 2

by offering them the worship due to gods. When later their human status was forgotten, they were regarded as having been deities from the beginning.” This was a new and “rational” way of interpreting these great myths. Euhemerus had given them, in a sense, a “reality” by making them historical. These myths, as Eliade explains, merely “represented the confused memory or an imaginative transfiguration of the exploits of the primitive kings.” 277 Though this sort of mythicization was certainly practiced, 278 I suggest something different here, something far more commonplace. The ancient mind tended to relate their beliefs of the past in familiar terms—for Averbeck, myth is “analogical thinking about history and reality.” 279 Rather than reducing myth to a “confused memory or an imaginative transfiguration,” 280 we have seen how history was enhanced by the presence of language the audience could readily relate to. That is, mythic history was optimally relevant in the purposes it served. And further, the mythic history of Gen 1–11 may reflect reality in a slightly different way from that often thought, based on the ancient “ideologies, perspectives, and even literary techniques.” 281 One may also recall the comments of Fawcett earlier—it could be, if something fails to “make sense” to us today that we are simply unaware of the original meaning of certain things. Or more precisely, we could be unaware of the relevance of certain things. As a possible example of this, Collins writes, “the climate implied in Gen. 2:5–6 is like that of the western Levant, notably of Israel. It is not clear whether this is a strong claim of the historical location of the event or simply a literary device that recounts the event in terms familiar to the audience.” 282 From what we have seen so far, it is very possibly the latter. Along these lines, it becomes conceivable that the first humans did not actually speak biblical Hebrew, nor take Hebrew names. The sanctuary 283 or temple-garden 284 277. Eliade, Myth and Reality, 155–56. 278. For example, though their ages are at times astronomically large, the Sumerian King List records the names of kings, some of whom, archaeology has demonstrated, actually existed. Enmebaragisi, king of Kish, is but one example; K. A. Kitchen, Ancient Orient and Old Testament (Chicago: InterVarsity, 1968), 40. Legendary materials were thought to have developed around various other Sumerian kings, as well. For a discussion of this process as it relates to Gilgamesh, king of Uruk, see J. Hansman, “Gilgamesh, Humbaba and the Land of the Erin-Trees,” Iraq 38 (1976): 23–35. See also our discussion of Philo of Byblos, below, pp. 96–102. 279. Averbeck, “Ancient Near Eastern Mythography,” 355. 280. Eliade, Myth and Reality, 156. 281. Averbeck, “Daily Life and Culture,” 25. 282. Collins, Genesis 1–4, 253 n. 6. Recall also the comments of Michalowski and Capomacchia (p. 47 n. 182) above. 283. G. J. Wenham, “Sanctuary Symbolism in the Garden of Eden,” in Proceedings of the Ninth World Congress of Jewish Studies, Division A: The Period of the Bible ( Jerusalem: World Union of Jewish Studies, 1986), 21. 284. L. E. Stager, “Jerusalem as Eden,” BAR 26/3 (2000): 36–47, 66; J. H. Walton, “Eden, Garden of,” in Dictionary of the Old Testament: Pentateuch (ed. T. D. Alexander and D. W.

Matters of Method

71

language that describes the garden in Eden might also be a powerful literary device that communicates to an Israelite audience the idea of a divine residence much more effectively (relevantly) than a literal, factual account ever could have. This is of course in no way to suggest that the words of Genesis are fictitious but rather simply that they may be more representational than many are willing to admit. An attempt has been made in this section to identify and describe some of the more pertinent ancient Near Eastern historiographical principles to be refined in the following chapters. Because the author of our Genesis text was himself a part of this larger ancient cognitive environment, it should follow that we have also described many of his historiographical principles, as well. If this is the case, it might be that we can now better understand the kind of history that we have before us today in our Genesis text. These are all issues we must take into account when considering the genre of our passage. More will of course be said regarding all of this in the following pages. For now, it is only important that we recognize to some degree the issues of method at hand as we attempt to recover the ancient cognitive environment of Gen 1–11, more specifically of our test-case, Gen 4:17–22. Would it be possible to use the available evidence as building blocks to arrive at a slightly more nuanced way of thinking and speaking of these texts—one that does justice to the nature of the language, the complexity of formation, and the function of the stories within their proper contexts?

Conclusion Big Brother may have been on to something after all. The past is indeed controlled—certainly this was a priority for the ancients. Their shaping of the past was clearly motivated by this desire, and it is our duty as readers to understand how they chose to do this. If we genuinely wish to interact with what they have to say, it should be done on their terms. Here, I have laid some ground rules, so to speak, that provide the “intellectual context” by which we may begin to do just that. It is by these ground rules that we may properly engage the following chapters. That is, it is through this grid that we will interact our Genesis text and its ancient cognitive environment. The fifth chapter should then be nothing more than the correct application of the content here to the next two chapters. Before we proceed we should take a moment to restate the primary thoughts of the present chapter. They can be divided into two larger sections: the first deals with our approach to the text and the second with the text itself. First, our approach to the text must be concerned to recover its ancient cognitive environment. This is a worthwhile but complicated process, and Baker; Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 2003), 202–3; T. D. Alexander, From Eden to New Jerusalem: Exploring God’s Plan for Life on Earth (Nottingham: InterVarsity, 2008), 21.

72

Chapter 2

it must begin by discerning the genre(s) of the text. This is done by noting the generic signals within the text as well as by observing the types of gaps that the author left. Often these help in specifying a text’s genre, which in turn allows one to determine the particular types of truth claims made by a text. Relevance theory demonstrates the need for contextual reconstruction, and the implied reader provides a means to accomplish this, albeit tentatively. All of this must be done with the humble acknowledgment that this entire enterprise is highly subjective. There is no reason to avoid this; rather, an awareness of how our background shapes us allows others to interact with our ideas more effectively. This sums up, in broad strokes, our general approach to the texts in this study. It describes the approach to both the materials surrounding the Genesis text and the Genesis text itself. The following summary of the genre of mythic history may then suggest a highly provisional approach. Again, poetics will emerge only after the textual work done in the following two chapters, though I will nevertheless suggest some basic principles here. Texts speaking of protohistory come from many different genres of literature. We must be careful to allow the ancient cultures we study to define “history” on their own terms, which means we must accept whatever genre of text they put forth as “historical.” These texts frequently involve the use of myth, which has been greatly misunderstood in recent times. Correctly, we may understand myth to be analogical, and therefore full of ideologies, ancient perspectives and literary techniques that can (and frequently do) distort the presentation of reality in some way. Protohistory was often recounted metaphorically, or at the very least included metaphors, symbols, and other figurative language. The obvious result is that the texts are often difficult to understand today. This is because the tapestry of images is frequently culture-bound, and also because they may very well have lost their original vitality over the passing of time. Furthering the difficulty, mythic history often took narrative form, replete with ambiguities and redundancies. Reality was often reflected figuratively, though again we must not lose sight of the fact that the ancients believed they were indeed representing reality. Relevance theory helps us understand what was being communicated, and also how the language functioned to communicate meaning. We will do just that in due course. First, however, we must examine our Genesis text in more detail.

Chapter 3

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22 By this point in our study we should possess a sufficient understanding of how to think about the genre of mythic history, which is what I am calling the section of Genesis that our passage falls into (Gen 1–11). I have dealt briefly with some methodological issues for approaching it and suggested some basic tools to do so effectively. Now we turn our attention to our passage in more detail. To begin, a Hebrew text and critical translation of Gen 4:17–22 will be presented, with some of the more important text-critical, translational and grammatical discussions highlighted in the appendix to this chapter, pp. 115–121. The literary context of our passage within the early chapters of Genesis as a whole will also be addressed, as will the literary form (or genre) of our text, genealogy. The role of the reader begins with an understanding of these preliminary issues—text, context, genre, etc. I will follow the general discussion with a more detailed analysis of our passage specifically and end with a short discussion of the passage’s historiographical value. The goal of this chapter is to provide the reader with enough information to engage the material presented in the following chapter, the Mesopotamian traditions. In other words, this chapter should provide adequate grounds for sound analysis of the more general ancient cognitive environment of our passage in light of the Mesopotamian data. What this chapter is not, to be clear, is an entirely new discussion of the passage in question. Much of what will be covered here is not new or particularly groundbreaking. The discussion should be enough to catch the reader up on the important discussions of this passage, and to demonstrate a careful approach to a select portion of Genesis. It is a test-case that should demonstrate how to study properly a passage of early Genesis in its ANE context, with careful attention given to matters of genre.

Critical Translation of Genesis 4:17–22 ‫ ויולד‬:‫וידע קין את אשתו ותהר ותלד את חנוך ויהי בנה עיר ויקרא שם העיר כשם בנו חנוך‬ :‫לחנוך את עירד ועירד ילד את מחויאל ומחייאל ילד את מתושאל ומתושאל ילד את למך‬ ‫ ותלד עדה את יבל הוא היה אבי‬:‫ויקח לו למך שתי נשים שם האחת עדה ושם השנית צלה‬ ‫ וצלה גם הוא ילדה את‬:‫ ושם אחיו יובל הוא היה אבי כל תפש כנור ועוגב‬:‫ישב אהל ומקנה‬ ‫תובל קין לטש כל חרש נחשת וברזל ואחות תובל קין נעמה‬

73

74

Chapter 3 Cain knew his wife, and she became pregnant and gave birth to Enoch. And he was building a city and he called the name of the city after the name of his son Enoch. And Irad was born to Enoch, and Irad bore Mehuyael. And Mehiyael bore Methushael, and Methushael bore Lamech. Now Lemech took for himself two wives; the name of the first was Adah, and the name of the second was Zillah. And Adah bore Yabal; he was the father of those who dwell in a tent and have livestock. And the name of his brother was Yubal; he was the father of all who play the harp and the flute. Now Zillah also bore Tubal-cain, the father of those who sharpen bronze and iron. And the sister of Tubal-cain was Naamah. 1

Literary Context Here I will introduce how our passage relates to its context. In so doing, I will comment only briefly on the relationship of Gen 4 and Gen 5, as more will be said in that regard later in the following sections of this chapter. Gen 4:17–22 is itself part of the larger pericope which extends through v. 24. 2 4:17–24 is the second of three units within ch. 4, each beginning with the formulaic man “knowing” (‫ )ידע‬his wife (‫ )אשתו‬who then “bears” (‫ )ילד‬a son: Gen 4:1, 17, 25. Furthermore, when taken together with the genealogy at the end of the chapter (vv. 25–26), a record of 10 generations is formed, which T. Brodie explains is “the requisite number for a full genealogy.” 3 C. J. Collins also notes that the chapter begins and ends “with Eve naming a son and giving an optimistic rationale,” which further demonstrates its literary unity. 4 Genesis 4 is also a part of the larger literary unit of 2:4–4:26. First, it begins with the heading “these are the generations of heaven and earth.” The toledot formula is a structuring agent for the entire book of Genesis, and the next toledot does not come until Gen 5. Second, as G. Wenham notes, the numerical symmetry found within it also strongly suggests literary unity: Throughout the Pentateuch, the sevenfold use of divine speech formulae is commonplace, and within this chapter the number seven is clearly significant (cf. vv. 15, 24). Unusually full details about Lamek, the seventh generation from Adam (18–24), may illustrate another convention associated with biblical genealogies, a tendency to draw attention to the seventh generation. Indeed, numerous keywords in the narrative appear a multiple of 7 times. With1. For commentary on this translation, see the appendix on pp. 115–121. 2. Because 4:17–22 is the part that relates most clearly to the ancient Near Eastern data with which we are concerned, the discussion is limited to those verses. 3. T. L. Brodie, Genesis as Dialogue: A Literary, Historical, and Theological Commentary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 159. This, of course, is a matter of opinion. R. Wilson, writing of oral genealogies, does not agree that enough data exist to allow for such statements to be made (“The Old Testament Genealogies in Recent Research,” JBL 94/2 [1975]: 186). 4. Collins, Genesis 1–4, 191; so also U. Cassuto, A Commentary on the Book of Genesis, part 1: From Adam to Noah (trans. I. Abrahams; 1st English ed.; Jerusalem: Magnes and Hebrew University Press, 1961), 190–91.

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

75

in 4:1–17, “Abel” and “brother” appear 7 times, and “Cain” 14 times. Within the whole of 2:4–4:26, ‫“ ארץ‬earth,” not “land of,” is mentioned 7 times, ‫אדמה‬ “land” 14 times, and “God” “the Lord” or “the Lord God” some 35 times, exactly matching the 35 appearances of “God” in 1:1–2:3. The last verse of ch. 4, “At that time people began to call on the name of the Lord,” thus contains the 70th mention of the deity in Genesis and the 14th use of the keyword “call.” 5

To these spectacular statistics U. Cassuto adds that the names listed in Cain’s family number 14 if one counts from Adam and Eve to Naamah. The words ‫“( שם‬name”) and ‫“( שדה‬field”) both also appear 7 times, and the words ‫“( גן‬garden”), ‫“( עדן‬Eden”), and ‫“( קדם‬east”) appear collectively 21 times in the section. Cassuto also mentions the frequent employment of the sexagesimal numbering system—a Sumerian method of numeration basing itself on the number 60—throughout this section (2:4–4:26). There are 12 male descendants of Adam, and the stem (both noun and verb) ‫“( ילד‬to bear” and “child”) also appears 12 times. He adds that the paragraphs of the section, “which are naturally separable by their content and their parallels between them” are 6 in number. 6 The name ‫( אלהים‬Elohim) alone or together with ‫( יהוה‬Yhwh) appears 60 times “counting from the beginning of the book to the end of this section” (from Gen 1:1–4:26). 7 Further, the name ‫( יהוה‬Yhwh) appears alone or in combination with ‫( אלהים‬Elohim) half as many times, with 30 occurrences. When taking all of these factors into account, as Cassuto says, “it is inconceivable that all this should be pure coincidence.” 8 These numerical patterns seem to suggest 1:1–2:3 and 2:4–4:26 have been purposefully related, as though one were composed with the other in mind. 9 They also may serve as generic signals for the larger section—it could be that the incredible numerical symmetry is one clue we might be dealing with a masterfully composed work of literature that may not reflect reality in every detail (so, mythic history). Beyond the first two units of Genesis (1:1–2:3 and 2:4–4:26), our section is also related in some way to Gen 5. The large majority of biblical scholarship maintains the two passages represent variant versions of the same genealogy, J being responsible for 4:17 onward (including vv. 25–26) and P being responsible for 5:1 onward. 10 Gunkel says that these two chapters represent a “dual tradition” and that the names of both genealogies “are, in the final analysis, the same.” 11 Westermann assumes J and P both took up a prior 5. Wenham, Genesis 1–15 (WBC 1; Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1987), 96. 6. Cassuto, Book of Genesis, 193. 7. Ibid. 8. Ibid., 192. 9. Which came first is not our concern here. 10. On J and P, see p. 5 n. 10 above. 11. Gunkel, Genesis: Translated and Interpreted by Hermann Gunkel (trans. M. E. Biddle; 3rd ed. Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1997), 50.

76

Chapter 3

tradition. 12 This section is not the appropriate place to comment on these notions (we will do so briefly below). I mention this here only to note that most scholars hold the relationship between the genealogies in Gen 4 and Gen 5 to be primarily related to the hypothesized sources they may have used, based on the similarity of some of the names. We may, however, appreciate a number of other similarities between the two as well. The numbers of descendants in the two panels—the genealogies of ch. 4 and ch. 5—are similar, depending on how the numbers are tallied. 13 From 4:17–24 there are seven generations, and from 4:24–26 there are three, equaling 10. If the genealogy of ch. 5 stops with Noah, here again we find 10 generations listed. If the first three names of ch. 5 are not counted (repeated from the end of ch. 4), we may include Noah’s sons from 5:32 to again arrive at 10 generations. 14 The very fact that ch. 4 ends with the same three names ch. 5 begins with suggests that they were composed with each other in mind. 15 Further evidence is that the only two names appearing in both genealogies, Lamech and Enoch, include extra information about them, leading Wenham to the conclusion that it appears as though “the editor gives extra information about these figures in order that the Cainite Enosh would not be confused with the Sethite, or the Cainite Lamek with his Sethite counterpart.” 16 Beyond this, T. Brodie adds that the two genealogies both begin as linear—that is, “they trace a narrow perpendicular line from father to eldest son” and they end by opening out to become horizontal: “each tells of three brothers.” 17 Both draw extra attention to the seventh descendants (counting both from Adam) in their lists by providing extra information about them. The purpose of this becomes quite clear when we contrast the violent song of Lamech (4:23–24) with the evident piety of Enoch (5:22–24). Again, if we choose not to count the first three overlapping descendants of 12. Westermann, Genesis 1–11, 349. Similar views are found in G. von Rad, Genesis: A Commentary (trans. J. H. Marks; OTL; rev. ed.; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1972], 111); Hooke, Middle Eastern Mythology, 126–29; and M. D. Johnson, The Purpose of the Biblical Genealogies with Special Reference to the Setting of the Genealogies of Jesus (SNTSMS 8; 2nd ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 7–8. 13. I will also discuss numbers in more depth below. My purpose here in mentioning numbers is to demonstrate the similarities between Gen 4 and Gen 5, to suggest how they might be related. 14. Note also that another 10-generation genealogy traces the descendants of Shem to Abram in 11:10–26. 15. Wenham notes that a preview for a new section often appears at the end of the previous section throughout Genesis. He likens them to “trailers for the sequel” (Wenham, Genesis 1–15, 97). 16. Ibid., 123. 17. Brodie, Genesis as Dialogue, 160. Brodie includes a few other similarities between the two panels, which, though interesting, seem a bit speculative at times. They revolve around his generally structuralist ideas of diptychs found in Genesis, which allow him to appreciate what he calls the “complementarity” of the two panels so far as space and time, divine-human interactions, and the roles of women are concerned.

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

77

ch. 5, the seventh descendant then is Noah, who also includes added information about his life before his death is announced (9:29). Extending the scope of our inquiry further still, Waltke demonstrates how well the entire protohistory (Gen 1:1–11:26) is structured as its own larger literary unit. It is arranged in what he calls an “alternating structure,” in which sections seem to be composed and arranged in such a way that they appear thematically parallel to one another. Time and space only permit a few examples of what he means by this: The creation story (1:1–2:3) speaks of the first beginning and God’s divine blessing. In an interesting parallel we read in the flood story of a reversal of that creation, a new beginning and also another divine blessing. The story of the flood is told in such a way that the parallelism is easily observable to the hearer or the reader. Likewise, the second story unit (2:4–3:24) tells the story of Adam’s sin, nakedness realized and covered, and a curse. Parallel to this is the sin of Noah (9:20–29), which also involves a sin (of eating/drinking), nakedness realized and covered, and another curse. The descendants of Adam’s sinful son Cain from our passage are parallel to the list of Noah’s sinful son Ham’s descendants in 10:6–20. The parallels continue so that the time following the flood is recounted in a way that is conspicuously parallel to the preflood events. 18 All of this combines to provide a masterfully told introduction to the call of Abraham in the next section of Genesis. 19 In all of this we may conclude that our passage is but a small part of the larger protohistorical account in Genesis, set off from the rest of the Genesis text thematically and literarily. I have already suggested that the overarching genre for this section is that of mythic history. We will now explore more specifically the genre of our particular passage, genealogy. Following this more general study of the genre of genealogy, our passage will be subjected to a more thorough literary analysis.

Literary Genre As already observed, the specific genre of our passage is that of a genealogy. A genealogy may be broadly defined as “a written or oral expression of the descent of a person or persons from an ancestor or ancestors.” 20 A genealogical form (or type) in a text may be identified as one in which proper 18. Waltke and Fredricks, Genesis, 19–20. 19. Wenham observes: “Within the perspective of Genesis as a whole, the primeval history serves to enhance our appreciation of the patriarchs and their calling . . . if the message of Genesis is essentially one of redemption, Gen 3–11 explains why man needs salvation and what he needs to be saved from. Chaps. 1–2, in describing the original state of the world, also describe the goal of redemption, to which ultimately the world and humanity will return when the patriarchal promises are completely fulfilled” (Wenham, Genesis 1–15, lii). 20. R. R. Wilson, Genealogy and History in the Biblical World (ed. W. Hallo, M. H. Pope, and W. K. Simpson. YNER 7; New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1977) 9.

78

Chapter 3

names are found, kinship relationships are noted between the name bearers, and the notices of kinship occur more than once in a predictable pattern. 21 There are, by these standards, quite a few different typical ancient Near Eastern genealogical forms, some of the more important of which I will cover below. We should note that these established forms can and do appear alone (that is, not more than once in a predictable pattern), as well. 22 Genealogies may serve a number of different purposes, and often these relate to a particular genealogy’s specific form. For these reasons, we will briefly discuss some of the more common forms of ancient genealogies and also some of their more common functions before we study the specific characteristics of our passage. Genealogical Form Many distinguish between two major forms of a genealogy, what A. Malamat calls the “vertical” type and the “spread-out” type. 23 Others, such as R. Wilson and T. Hieke, refer to these as “linear” and “segmented” forms. 24 Segmented genealogies exhibit “more than one line of descent from a given ancestor” and linear genealogies express “only one line from a given ancestor.” 25 Within these larger forms, Hieke distinguishes four different smaller forms or types of genealogies found in Genesis: the toledot-type, the yalad-type, the ben-type and the sibling-type. The toledot-type, a structuring agent for the entire book of Genesis, begins with the Hebrew word ‫ תולדות‬and is followed by names in the line (usually a single name: Gen 5:1, 6:9; but also compound: Gen 2:4). 26 The distinguishing characteristic for the yalad-type is the use of some form of the word ‫ילד‬, and the verb can appear in both active and passive forms (4:17, 18, 22). 27 With the ben-type, Hieke says that familial relationships are emphasized. Often from the parents’ perspective, 21. R. S. Hess, “The Genealogies of Genesis 1–11 and Comparative Literature,” Bib 70 (1989): 242. 22. This is how Hess, who defines genealogies as “kinship relations that occur more than once in a predictable pattern,” can make the following statement: “Genealogical forms which are repeated occur in Gen 4, 5, 10, and 11. In each of these chapters there is one form which recurs in a predictable pattern, and each of these four forms is distinct” (ibid.). While this is certainly a valid observation, T. Heike can also rightly identify at least three separate genealogical types that appear in our passage alone—some only appear once (T. Hieke, Die Genealogien der Genesis [HBS 39; Freiburg: Herder, 2003], 28–34). 23. A. Malamat, “King Lists of the Old Babylonian Period and Biblical Genealogies,” JAOS 88 (1968): 163–64. 24. Wilson, Genealogy and History, 9; Hieke, Die Genealogien der Genesis, 19–20. 25. Wilson, Genealogy and History, 9. Waltke has slightly more nuanced ways of describing genealogical forms: “Broad genealogies present only the first generation of descendants. . . . Deep genealogies list sequential descendants. . . . Linear genealogies display only depth. . . . [and] Segmented genealogies display both depth and breadth” (Waltke and Fredricks, Genesis, 105, emphasis original). 26. Hieke, Die Genealogien der Genesis, 20–21. 27. Ibid., 31.

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

79

they begin either with a mother or father, and follow with a single descendant’s name (Gen 9:18). This type can also speak of the descendant as being the father or mother of another ancestor, or group and that construction often involves the verb ‫( היה‬Gen 4:20b). In other words, here the Ben can also be an ab of another group of people. Hieke labels this sub-type of the ben-type the ab- and am-types, accordingly. 28 And finally, Hieke describes the sibling-type as a horizontal pattern that speaks to relationships within families (Gen 4:21a, 22b). 29 From this brief discussion, our short passage contains three of Hieke’s types: the yalad, the ben (and its Ab sub-types), and the sibling-type of genealogy. This is instructive as we consider the difficulty of arriving at a precise definition for a genealogy. Indeed, even within Gen 1–11 there is quite an array of genealogical forms. This should be completely understandable in light of the previous chapter’s discussion of genre, where emphasis was placed on the fluid nature of genres in general. 30 Speaking of oral genealogies primarily, R. Wilson observes that a “major formal feature” is fluidity. 31 This can, no doubt, apply to a study of written genealogies as well. Indeed, many written genealogies exhibit fluidity precisely because they were transmitted orally for extended periods of time before being committed to writing. 32 In the following chapter we will study king lists, parts of which exhibit quite demonstrable fluidity. Wilson explains that the form of a genealogy is “intimately related” to its function in two primary respects. 33 First, though the form of a genealogy does not necessarily determine function, it “does sometimes limit the functions it may have.” 34 That is to say, the distinct forms discussed above may have somewhat distinct functions or uses in the literature—this is certainly the case for the two primary genealogical forms we mentioned, linear and segmented. Linear forms, according to Malamat, “record only ‘genealogical depth’ and sequence of generations.” Segmented forms, however, encompass “nodal eponyms from which stem several descendants who in turn may act as founding ancestors of peoples, tribes and clans.” 35 In other words, the form of a genealogy often limits its function.

28. Ibid., 32–33. 29. Ibid., 34. 30. See p. 15. 31. Wilson, “The Old Testament Genealogies,” 180. 32. Or, as we will see below, because they serve different functions. 33. Wilson is again speaking primarily of oral genealogies, though here also we may appreciate how this contributes to an understanding of written genealogies. Of the written genealogies in Genesis, for example, Waltke writes that genealogies in Genesis “serve several purposes, depending in part on the nature of the genealogy” (Waltke and Fredricks, Genesis, 105). 34. Wilson, Genealogy and History, 46. 35. Malamat, “King Lists,” 164. See also, Westermann, Genesis 1–11, 329.

80

Chapter 3

Second, the function of a genealogy influences its form, especially concerning “which portions of it are remembered and used.” 36 This is clearly demonstrated in written genealogies appearing in the Bible. Consider the two genealogies of Jesus of Nazareth in the New Testament Gospels of Matthew (1:2–16) and Luke (3:23–38). The names that are included in those lists, as well as how they are arranged, are directly related to their function in their respective narratives. Similarly in Gen 4:17–22, we find the form of the genealogy to be instructive when considering function. Its form and function are most apparent when contrasted with that of the Gen 5 genealogy. First, and most obviously, the genealogy of Gen 5 is linear, which records sequences of generations efficiently—the reader is being whisked along through generations of time. The segmentation at the end of our genealogy in Gen 4 (entirely linear until this final generation) functions to record, as Malamat said above, “founding ancestors of peoples, tribes and clans.” The genealogy of Gen 4 is functioning, in a sense, as a technogony (a history of culture, or of the civilized arts), and the segmented form it is in helps communicate this effectively. As another example, it is typical of the style exhibited throughout Genesis that the descendants of the unfavored sons are recorded first. 37 So we find Cain’s descendants being described in Gen 4:17–22 before Seth’s descendants in Gen 5. The seventh position of each genealogy—a position of special importance in ancient Near Eastern genealogies—is devoted in each to reinforcing this idea that the first line is the unfavored line. 38 This seventh position also offers further justification as to why it is that each line is either favored or unfavored. All this to say, the function of a genealogy may influence its form. Here we have spent just a moment to explore some of the more basic forms of genealogies in Genesis. I have suggested that the form of a genealogy is related in important ways to its function. In so doing, I have mentioned at least some of the functional aspects of genealogies, which I will now expound a bit more fully before we assess the genealogy in Gen 4 in further detail. Genealogical Function Genealogies tend to be more important to societies based on tribal or patriarchal traditions, often because of the ways they function within these societies. 39 Wilson highlights three spheres within which genealogies typi-

36. Wilson, Genealogy and History, 46. 37. Wenham, Genesis 1–15, 97. 38. Lamech in Gen 4 versus Enoch in Gen 5. 39. J. Liver and I. M. Ta-Shma, “Genealogy,” in Encyclopaedia Judaica, vol. 7: Fr–Ha (ed. C. Roth and G. Wigoder; Jerusalem: Encyclopaedia Judaica, 1978), 377. Westermann explains that the genre of genealogy “had its origin and fullest development among nomad tribes” and was “very ancient and very significant” (Genesis 1–11, 7).

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

81

cally function: the domestic, the political, and the religious. 40 Once a genealogy is written down in some form, we must also take into account its function at the literary level. That is, we should seek to understand the author’s intention with the use of this particular genre of writing. Understandably, this will become our primary area of interest as our discussion progresses. 41 Broadly speaking, the two are somewhat related and Wilson’s three categories apply to both oral and written genealogies. Domestically, they may serve as charters for lineage, validating the social order and lending credibility to the relationships expressed by the genealogy or lineage. 42 At the political level, genealogies may be used as charters of a particular society’s organization of people and territory. An office holder might use a genealogy to demonstrate his right to power, or a potential successor may also employ a genealogy to legitimate succession. 43 When a genealogy functions in the religious realm, it may be used to organize a lineage for an ancestor cult or perhaps to demonstrate the divine nature of a kingship, linking the living king to a given deity. 44 Likewise, various cultic offices may also legitimate their positions with genealogies. 45 J. Renger addresses the common thread in all three of Wilson’s suggested functional spheres by explaining that genealogies in early societies were “often used as a means of legitimation and (pseudo-historical) memory, which was always also directed at publicity.” He elaborates by saying that genealogies legitimated the claims to rulership, to tenure of a particular office, to professional status or to property rights, “with the length of the pedigree adding weight to the claim.” 46 This sort of literature, intended to legitimate or demonstrate credibility, is called a charter. 47 A charter validates claims 40. Wilson, Genealogy and History, 199. To be more precise, Wilson’s second category is “politico-jural,” though we need not be quite so detailed with our definitions here. 41. Here, I will be more concerned with genealogies written in texts as opposed to inscriptional genealogies. 42. In Israel’s Postexilic Period, there is a resurgence of interest in genealogies that seem to function, as M. D. Johnson says, to show “continuity and cohesiveness of the nation” (“Review: ‘Genealogy and History in the Biblical World’ by Robert R. Wilson,” JAOS 100[1980]: 357). 43. M. Chavalas says that, “often an authority in power uses historical data, including genealogies, to achieve a propagandistic goal of social control” (“Genealogical History as ‘Charter,’” 107). 44. So Michalowski concludes of Mesopotamian genealogies that “two of the three main ancient royal genealogies . . . are encountered within the context of ritual offerings to deceased ancestors” (“History as Charter: Some Observations on the Sumerian King List,” JAOS 103 [1983]: 245). 45. Wilson, Genealogy and History, 37–45. See also, Chavalas, “Genealogical History as ‘Charter,’” 109 n. 36. 46. J. Renger and K. Meister, “Genealogy,” in Brill’s New Pauly Encyclopaedia of the Ancient World: Antiquity (ed. H. Cancik and H. Schneider; 16 vols.; Leiden: Brill, 2004), 5:746. 47. M. Douglas, introduction to Imagining Creation (ed. M. J. Geller and M. Schipper; IJS Studies in Judaica 5; Leiden: Brill, 2008), 10–11; Wilson, Genealogy and History, 38 n. 60.

82

Chapter 3

(territorial, political, or other) set forth by its creators. Although certainly not all charters are genealogical in form, here I suggest that a primary function of genealogies is to serve as a charter of some sort, and generally in one of the three sociological realms mentioned above by Wilson. 48 Renger’s parenthetical nuance of genealogy as a means of “(pseudo-­ historical) memory” betrays a more recent development in the understanding of function related to genealogies, and one of interest here—the historiographical value of genealogies. Thus far, we have focused on the sociological functions of genealogies. Now we turn our attention to their literary functions, primarily focusing on the question: What is the historical value of a genealogy? 49 Attention in recent decades to the sociological functions just highlighted has led to a more refined understanding of their literary functions, to which we now move. An obvious function of genealogies at the literary level was to communicate certain conceptions of the past. Notions of prehistory and origins were expressed in genealogies, as were historical facts and theology. 50 These historical conceptions could also be combined in one way or another in the biblical genealogical material. Wilson notes that “the various ways in which the biblical writers incorporated genealogical material into their work suggests that they understood the idiom of genealogy and were able to use it creatively throughout the biblical period.” 51 This is the case with our genealogy in Gen 4, where conceptions of prehistory join with the larger narrative to express theological truths in a unique way, as we will soon see. As another example, Gunkel explains that Israel held to the viewpoint that each nation 48. The concept of charter will resurface in the following chapter with Mesopotamian king lists. Though king lists are not necessarily genealogical, they can and often do have genealogical elements to them so far as form and function are concerned. 49. Wilson has covered this topic so thoroughly already that I need only to summarize his findings below. Since his landmark study in 1977, commentators have generally agreed with his findings, at least as far as the historiographical value of genealogies is concerned. 50. Notions of prehistory and origins: Renger and Meister, “Genealogy,” 746; K. R. Andriolo, “A Structural Analysis of Genealogy and World View in the Old Testament,” American Anthropologist 75 (1973): 1663. Westermann explains that history was presented, “but in the manner of a succession of generations characteristic of the period before history” (Genesis 1–11, 325). Historical facts: So, for example, Renger suggests that the genealogy in Gen 10 serves as a sort of “political map” for its authors (Renger and Meister, “Genealogy,” 746). See also Brueggemann’s helpful exposition of the text, Genesis, 91–94. C. Wilke makes a similar argument for the Sumerian King List and its geographical elements: “Genealogical and Geographical Thought in the Sumerian King List,” in Dumu-e2-dubba-a: Studies in Honor of Åke W. Sjöberg (ed. H. Behrens et al.; OPSNKF 11; Philadelphia: University Museum Press, 1989). Theology: D. J. A. Clines demonstrates quite clearly the theological contribution of the genealogies of Gen 1–11 (“Theme in Genesis 1–11,” CBQ 38/4 [1976]: 491). Other examples would include the god lists of Mesopotamia and Egypt. 51. R. R. Wilson, “Genealogy, Genealogies,” ABD 2:932.

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

83

“originated from the ever-expanding family of one ancestor” and that the genre of genealogy serves to illustrate the perceived relationship between nations. 52 However, the historical impulses of some genealogical material has led to misunderstanding. Wilson explains: Evidence . . . indicates that there is a tendency for genealogies originally created for particular purposes to be understood by later tradents as historically accurate sources . . . The early genealogies in Genesis in particular were apparently viewed as historical sources by the Chronicler and by writers in the intertestamental and New Testament periods. 53

Until recently (the last few hundred years), as Wilson has suggested, scholars were in general agreement with the biblical writers that the genealogies of the Bible were historically reliable sources that could be used to reconstruct the history of Israel. 54 What could have led to this misunderstanding? Westermann explains that the significance of the form and function of genealogy is tied largely to the “form of community life to which it belongs” and that when that form changes, “the genealogies can no longer mean what they once meant.” 55 He argues that the form of community life changed somewhat for the people of Israel during the monarchy period. This resulted in a diminished frequency of genealogical occurrence, to the end that meaning may have also been diminished (or lost completely). 56 It is perfectly natural, then, that later biblical and intertestamental authors understand the genealogies of Genesis differently and that much of the original significance (authorial intention) may have been lost on them. All of this is consistent with what was suggested in the previous chapter, that genres are fluid and that both genre definition and recognition are historically conditioned concepts. 57 In other words, it is normal for genres (and an understanding of these genres) to develop or change over the course of time. This could be an example of what W. Doty meant when he suggested mythic material could “vary in cultural viability across the society’s history.” 58 Genealogies could and often did convey accurate historical information, but they were generally created with other ends in mind. Scholars have now come to agree that, generally speaking, the primary literary function of 52. Gunkel, “The Legends of Genesis,” xiv. He explains that this understanding of the origin of peoples also was prominent among the early Greeks and Arabs, but not the Babylonians or Egyptians. For further comments along this line, see Bailey, Genesis, Creation, and Creationism, 78. 53. Wilson, Genealogy and History, 199–200. 54. For a helpful assessment of the situation see Wilson, “The Old Testament Genealogies,” 169–78. 55. Westermann, Genesis 1–11, 7. 56. He writes that “genealogies begin to disappear from the book of Exodus on” and that when they do occur again “they have but partial function” (ibid., 8). 57. See pp. 14–16. 58. See pp. 50–51.

84

Chapter 3

genealogies was not to narrate historical events. 59 “As a rule,” Wilson states, “ancient Near Eastern genealogies seem not to have been created specifically for the purposes of writing history.” 60 He later concludes the same for biblical genealogies, writing that “they are not normally created for the purpose of conveying historical information.” 61 This is not to say that the historian has no use for biblical genealogies, a point Wilson readily concedes: Although we have seen no anthropological evidence indicating that genealogies are created for the purpose of making a historical record, genealogies may nevertheless be considered historically accurate in the sense that they frequently express actual domestic, political and religious relationships. They are, therefore, potentially valuable resources for the modern historian. However, the nature of genealogy requires that the question of historiographic worth be asked in each individual case, for only in this way can the complexities of genealogical form and function be taken into account. 62

It is important to note that though Wilson asserts genealogies may not have been created to function primarily as history, they can and often do contain accurate historical information in them. 63 As we can see, each genealogy must be considered individually when questions of historical value arise. 64 We may conclude that, in most cases, however, genealogies were intended to serve other functions in other spheres—most often as a charter of some sort, as mentioned above. A presentation of the past may occur, but this is a secondary function, subservient to a primary function of charter. 65 An59. This is consistent with the analysis of the previous chapter that the genre of mythic history in general is not as concerned with the individual or the particular as we might think. As Shaw noted, often mythic history sought to commemorate an event rather than describe it. See pp. 55–55. By our estimation, the larger genre of the protohistorical Gen 1–11 is mythic history, and genealogy is one of many more specific genres making up this larger account. It would make sense to see the purpose or function of these genres as not conflicting. 60. Wilson, Genealogy and History, 132. 61. Ibid., 199. 62. Wilson, “The Old Testament Genealogies,” 189. 63. This is precisely because, as Averbeck and Sparks suggested in the previous chapter, the ancient mind related to the past analogically (pp. 46–47, 68). Wilson continues, “All of our evidence also indicates that in fact genealogies may contain accurate information and may be potentially valuable sources for the modern historian. In many cases we found agreement in the various versions of a given genealogy and therefore have no reason to question its accuracy. . . . In all of our material we saw that genealogies may be accurate in the spheres in which they are functioning but not in other spheres . . . In conclusion we may say that genealogies may be used as sources for historical research but that they cannot be used uncritically” (Genealogy and History, 200). 64. T. J. Prewitt adds in concert with Wilson that “the functions of genealogies in literary or historical representation may not be presumed” (“Kinship Structures and the Genesis Genealogies,” JNES 40 [1981]: 88). 65. So after a study of various royal Near Eastern lineages, Michalowski can say that “kinship is, in many ways, a fiction, and there is ample documentation for the manipula-

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

85

other way to put it, quite often when the past is presented in a genealogy, its most important functions have to do with what it accomplishes in the present. This is what Westermann means when he says that common to the historical presentations of genealogies is “a continuous succession of events which reaches its goal in the present.” 66 In other words, the author’s intention (his illocutionary force; see p. 22 n. 54) with a genealogy has less to do with a presentation of historical events and far more to do with its function as a charter. By now it should be clearer which functions of genealogy are primary and which are secondary, and why. As noted, these conclusions have come about more recently because of greater attention being paid by scholars to the sociological functions of genealogies, which has led to a more accurate understanding of their potential literary functions. The result of these conclusions—that genealogies do not function primarily to convey historical information—should also suggest that when we arrive at alleged historical inaccuracies, discrepancies or contradictions in ancient genealogies, we may not simply dismiss them as “false” or “inaccurate” claims. And further, perhaps it is not a valid response to speculate how these “mistakes” might have come about in the history of the text’s transmission. Rather, as Wilson suggests, “an attempt must be made to place apparent formal contradictions in a functional context.” 67 We must ask first and foremost how a genealogy functions in its context before we may judge the particular features of its form. 68 Before we move on to our general conclusions for this section, we must note that in the Hebrew Bible, and in Genesis in particular, genealogies can also serve other literary functions. Many are not merely charters, per se, nor are they primarily serving to recount historical information (though they may indeed do so). Rather, some genealogies in Genesis serve together as a structuring agent for the entire book (see also the discussion of toledot-

bility of genealogies to serve different ends” (“History as Charter,” 245). Similarly, R. E. Brown adds in a discussion of the Matthean genealogy that it is “artificial, rather than strictly historical in its structure, although neither term is really precise if we consider that the primary purpose of a biblical genealogy is rarely involved with biological descent” (The Birth of the Messiah [Garden City, NY: Image, 1979], 74). Cited in Bailey, Genesis, Creation, and Creationism, 75. 66. Westermann, Genesis 1–11, 7., emphasis mine. 67. Wilson, “The Old Testament Genealogies,” 189. 68. Wilson says that “to understand genealogies in general, and apparently conflicting genealogies in particular, it is necessary to determine the functions of the genealogies.” And further, “when apparently contradictory genealogies are found within a society, it is important to ask what sorts of relationships each genealogy represents. It is frequently the case that each genealogy has its own legitimate function and accurately expresses a particular aspect of social reality” (“Between ‘Azel’ and ‘Azel’ Interpreting the Biblical Genealogies,” BA 24/1 [1979]: 13). For Wilson, the same applies to cases of genealogical variants (ibid., 19).

86

Chapter 3

type genealogies above). 69 Narrowing the focus even more, Westermann observes that “genealogies are an essential constitutive part of the primeval story and form the framework of everything that is narrated in Gen 1–11.” 70 Thus Averbeck concludes that genealogies could even “serve as the framework or skeleton within which stories could be remembered and sometimes even recorded . . .” 71 If Averbeck is correct, it appears to be a unique example in the ancient Near Eastern world of how a genealogy may function in literature. 72 And finally, R. Robinson suggests that the genealogies work together with the narrative to establish the genre of Genesis. He concludes, based on the common focus of both genealogy and narrative parts of the book, that the genre of Genesis is what he calls a “family history.” 73 Genealogies, we may conclude, served important functions in tribal or patriarchal societies. Though they did often communicate conceptions of the past, from the perspective of the author it was far more important that genealogies lend credibility to a present situation. In a sense, genealogies made creative use of the past in order to establish or validate present claims of authority—they were charters. 74 Any consideration of a genealogy’s function must also consider its form, which Wilson has demonstrated are 69. Waltke and Fredricks (Genesis, 17–21), among many other commentators. J. Scharbert attributes the toledot formula to the Priestly writer and has a fairly thorough treatment for the entire book of Genesis (“Der Sinn der Toledot-Formel in der Priesterschrift,” in Wort-Gebot-Glaube: Beiträge zur Theologie des Alten Testaments. Walter Eichrodt zum 80. Geburtstag [ed. J. J. Stamm et al.; Zürich: Zwingli, 1970]). 70. Westermann, Genesis 1–11, 6. For analysis of the toledot structuring of Gen 1–11, see M. Fishbane, Text and Texture: Close Readings of Selected Biblical Texts (New York: Schoken, 1979), 28–29. 71. R. E. Averbeck, “Factors in Reading the Patriarchal Narratives: Literary, Historical, and Theological Dimensions,” in Giving the Sense: Understanding and Using Old Testament Historical Texts (ed. D. M. Howard and M. A. Grisanti; Grand Rapids: Kregel, 2003), 133. Though Averbeck is not speaking specifically of genealogies in Genesis at this point, it seems evident he intends this connection to be made by the reader. Similarly, speaking of Gen 5–9, Wenham suggests that “it looks more likely that the flood story was inserted into the genealogy than that the genealogy was added later to the flood story” (G. J. Wenham, “The Priority of P,” VT 49 [1999]: 243). 72. As Averbeck also notes, Wilson says very clearly that this happens nowhere else in the ancient Near East. After an examination of genealogies in the ancient Near East, he writes: “In no case . . . were there any indications that the genealogies were used to provide the structure of the larger narratives or to link smaller narrative units. Rather in each case the genealogies seem to have been added to an already structured text. Genealogies were apparently never used as the skeleton of the narratives” (Genealogy and History, 135). Curiously, Wilson does not pick this idea back up after his chapter on biblical genealogies, though see his comments in “Genealogy,” 932. 73. R. B. Robinson, “Literary Functions of the Genealogies of Genesis,” CBQ 48/4 (1986): 601–2. So also, Scharbert, “Der Sinn der Toledot-Formel,” 52. 74. Again, I am not suggesting that all charters were genealogical but simply that a primary function of genealogies was to serve as a charter of some sort.

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

87

closely intertwined. These factors will be taken into account below as we consider in further detail the genealogy found in Gen 4:17–22 and its relationship to the surrounding text.

Literary Analysis W. Brueggemann’s introduction to this section of Genesis is anything but flattering. He considers it to be, it seems, insignificant when compared to the larger narrative in which it is couched: In tracing the main theological elements in Genesis, it is usual to move directly from the Cain story in 4:1–16 to the flood story beginning in 6:5, with some minor attention to 6:1–4. The materials which concern us here fall between the Cain narrative and the flood account and may be treated with relative brevity. They are comprised of three elements which have no direct relation to each other. They may, therefore, be treated separately. 75

Brueggemann says that the genealogy serves to connect previously unrelated material and it has “peculiar overlaps with the more extended and stylized one that follows in chapter 5.” 76 Similarly, von Rad believes this chapter testifies to three originally separate sources and writes: “If each of these traditions had its own special character, then our narrator did not intend at all to orient them toward each other in all their details after welding them into the large work.” 77 E. A. Speiser appears to agree with both scholars’ assessments, calling the section in his commentary “derivative in every sense” and basically reducing it to an accident of transmission. 78 Westermann would certainly disagree with these commentators, or any others he feels may have “already decided that the genealogies of chs. 1–11 can have no particular significance, in any case, no determining theological significance.” For Westermann, “to devalue implicitly the genealogies or to leave them aside must have far-reaching effects on one’s final understanding of a judgment on the primeval story.” 79 Indeed, Westermann echoes a very ancient sentiment, one that held genealogies in high esteem, contra Brueggemann, von Rad, and Speiser. 80 We would be wise to heed his 75. Brueggemann, Genesis, 64. 76. Ibid. He later explains that, though this section includes “the first and one of the few explicit references in the Old Testament to the arts . . . nothing should be deduced from this about the actual history of culture” (ibid., 65). 77. Von Rad, Genesis, 110. 78. E. A. Speiser, Genesis: Introduction, Translation, and Notes (AB 1; 2nd ed.; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1964), 36. 79. Westermann, Genesis 1–11, 3. 80. When a priest took a wife, her genealogical record was carefully studied to verify her lineage ( Josephus, Ag. Ap. 1.7.31–36; m. Qidd. 4:4–6). Genealogies also factored into purity rules and membership assessment for various sectarian communities (4QTohorot B, fragment 3.2). Genealogies could also be employed to lend credibility to teaching or writing ( Josephus, Life 1.1–6; m. Ed. 8.7; compare with Matt 1:2–16 and Luke 3:23–38). Fur-

88

Chapter 3

warning and take these genealogies seriously. In other words, we should do what we can to move from our own culture-bound communication contexts to those of the ancients. 81 Genealogies were important—especially in certain societal contexts, as we have seen—and a study of our genealogy in its proper context would serve us well. We move now to do just that, taking into consideration its form and function, its ancient contexts, and its possible historiographical value. Keeping in mind that these issues have been well-covered by scholars already, I will simply survey the work that has been done and offer suggestions for possible further inquiry. Form and Function Scattered throughout the previous sections are piecemeal discussions of our passage’s form. We will gather them here and devote the bulk of our attention to the functional implications of the forms of our passage. As I have said already, the genealogy begins as linear and after Lamech becomes segmented. In v. 19, however, the linear depiction is interrupted to include the names of Lamech’s two wives. Wilson notes that they do not function in ways typical of segmentation introduced into a genealogy and therefore should not be understood as such. 82 Occasionally, narrative elements are included for other members of the genealogy as well. 83 As far as genealogical formulas are concerned, our passage contains three distinct types, or forms: the yalad type (4:17, 18, 22), the ab type (4:20b, 21a), and the sibling type (4:21a, 22b). 84 Numbers, as one might have suspected already, factor significantly in the passage and therefore deserve our attention at this time. We will also move to discuss function, as numbers offer a convenient segue to doing so. Here we must be mindful of, as I have mentioned before, how referential these numbers are intended to be. To what degree are they representational? In other words, what might the author’s referential ambition be here? Numerical patterns have already been mentioned briefly, but here we will focus more specifically on our genealogy. Within the larger fourth chapter of Genesis, the numbers 7 and 10 feature rather prominently. For example, from Adam to Lamech there are 7 thermore, the genealogies of Genesis were discussed at some length by the intertestamental authors (Philo, Abr. 6.31, Post. 12.40–36.124, QG 1 81; Josephus, Ant. 1.2.60–71; Jub. 4:1–33). 81. See p. 34. 82. He suggests that they may have been added secondarily to account for their presence in what he feels is an originally separate Song of Lamech (4:23–24; Genealogy and History, 141). 83. Further detailed analysis relating to the form of this genealogy can be found in ibid., 138–44. 84. Hieke, Die Genealogien der Genesis, 53–56. See also the discussion of Hieke above for more detail, pp. 78–79.

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

89

generations. 85 There are also 10 male members in the line from Adam to Tubal-cain (the end of Cain’s line). There are 7 generations within Cain’s genealogy (starting with Cain, not Adam), the seventh being the segmented culmination of the technogony. Combining the 7 generations of Cain with the 3 of Adam, we are left with 10 generations featured in the chapter. 86 The 7 generations of Cain’s lineage contain 10 proper names (not counting Lamech’s two wives, as they are technically not a part of the genealogy proper), and the genealogies of the entire fourth chapter contain 17 personal names (might 10 plus 7 be significant?). Note also that in Lamech’s boastful song (vv. 23–24) he sings of vengeance both 7-fold and 77-fold. It certainly seems that Lamech is being associated with the number 7 in a unique way in the chapter. 87 So Bailey suggests that we might consider it “plausible . . . if not compelling, that biblical genealogies were constructed in 7’s and multiples of 7’s, even if deletions were necessary and if some entries were counted twice.” 88 Hess speculates that Lamech’s boastful use of 7 and 77, as well as his place in the line as seventh from Adam may also suggest a sense of completion. In other words, it could be that Cain’s line comes to an end with Lamech, and from there the generations will be known by their cultural contributions as opposed to their association with Cain. For Hess, it is the significance of the number 7 and also the segmentation at that point in the genealogy that suggest this. 89 Other than Cain (or Enoch), the bulk 85. For Westermann, “these 7 designate the generations of the primeval period.” Westermann, Genesis 1–11, 324. 86. This again likely corresponds to the 10 generations mentioned in the following chapter (from Adam to Noah or from Kenan to Noah’s children). 87. Further, Bailey adds, the gematria of his father’s name (Methushael) equals 777. We may also compare the Lamech of ch. 5 who lives to be 777 years old, and the gematria of his father’s name (Methuselah) is 777 plus 7—784 years old (Bailey, Genesis, Creation, and Creationism, 163). 88. Ibid., 74. Elsewhere, he mentions the distinct possibility of a “theological statement being made through the manipulation of numbers” (ibid., 77). S. Sanders explains that “the property of being seventh is not inherent to the tradition about the figure but is itself an editor’s comment on the figure’s status” (Writing, Ritual, and Apocalypse: Studies in the Theme of Ascent to Heaven in Ancient Mesopotamia and Second Temple Judaism [Ph.D. diss., Johns Hopkins University, 1999], 36). Likewise, Sasson suggests that, “in some cases, minimal alterations were made in inherited lists of ancestors in order to place individuals deemed worthy of attention in the seventh . . . position of a genealogical tree” (“A Genealogical Convention,” 171–72). However, see the sharp rebuttal of Sasson’s suggestions in D. T. Bryan, “A Reevaluation of Gen 4 and 5 in Light of Recent Studies in Genealogical Fluidity,” ZAW 99 (1987): 181–82. Hess, as a bit of a corrective to Sasson’s thoughts, suggest the predisposition to employing these numbers as a structuring device might be more widespread than simply biblical and West Semitic literature (“The Genealogies of Genesis 1–11,” 253 n. 40). 89. R. S. Hess, “Lamech in the Genealogies of Genesis,” BBR 1 (1991): 22. So also Westermann, who calls this section the “end piece of the genealogy which looks to a group” (Genesis 1–11, 329).

90

Chapter 3

of the narrative elements included with the names appear with Lamech’s descendents, which may also serve to strengthen Hess’s ideas. These literary techniques noticed by commentators may indicate the author of our account intended to represent reality somewhat figuratively, or metaphorically. That is, the representational nature of the numbers and arrangement of this passage seem to suggest a function for this passage other than a factually accurate description of historical events. This is consistent with the findings of the previous section relating to the function of ancient genealogies more broadly. More generally, these narrative elements also connect the names in the Cainite genealogy with the origins of various aspects of civilization, thus functioning as a technogony. 90 As already suggested, it is also the formal segmentation after Lamech that contributes to this understanding. G. Castellino therefore refers to this section as an example of an “organizational myth,” 91 and Westermann explains that the segmentation into branches functions to demonstrate “the corresponding division of human labor and creative cultural progress.” 92 Though I will speak more specifically to the historiographical value of this genealogy below, we should note here that not all scholars believe this to be a full-fledged “organizational” story intending to depict history on a worldwide scale. C. Hauret is not alone when he describes this section as simply a history of various aspects of nomadism. 93 Wilson adds, “there is nothing in the text to indicate that the Yahwist intended to give here an exhaustive account of the origins of civilization.” 94 Though not exhaustive, I contend that the referential ambition of our genealogy is more comprehensive than merely an account of pastoral nomadism. 95 Its location in the larger context of the Genesis protohistory suggests this as much as anything else. We may also note here that the ancient ideas of historical significance gave the historians the freedom to be selective with what they included, and how they included it (that is, with their selection and arrangement). 96 These particular elements included in 90. Wilson, Genealogy and History, 148. So also Brodie, Genesis as Dialogue, 158. 91. G. Castellino, “Les Origines de la Civilisation Selon les Textes Bibliques et les Textes Cuneiformes,” in Volume du Congres: Strasbourg (ed. G. W. Anderson et al; VTSup; Leiden: Brill, 1957), 133. G. Wallis adds that this tradition is certainly related to other ancient Near Eastern cultures’ organizational myths, though not titling it as such himself. G. Wallis, “Die Stadt in den Überlieferungen der Genesis,” ZAW 78 (1966): 135. 92. Westermann, Genesis 1–11, 329. 93. C. Hauret, “Réflexions pessimistes et optimistes sur Gen., IV, 17–24,” in Sacra Pagina: Miscellanea Biblica Congressus Internationalis Catholici de Re Biblica (ed. J. Coppens et al.; BETL; Gembloux: Duculot, 1959), 361. He also comments that Yubal was simply the ancestor of those who played the harp and the lyre and “not the ancestor of musicians in general” (ibid., emphasis his). 94. Wilson, Genealogy and History, 149 n. 30. 95. So also Wallis, “Die Stadt,” 137. 96. See pp. 40–41 and 55–56.

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

91

the Gen 4 technogony were significant because of their function in ancient Israelite society, so their inclusion makes sense if we understand Gen 1–11 to be a universal history from a distinctly Israelite perspective. This and the genealogy’s location in the larger protohistorical context combine to reinforce the idea that this technogony is about more than simply the advent of pastoral nomadism. Could there be any significance to the founders of these various civilized arts being linked with the murderous Cain? Is the narrator insinuating something negative with this association? Scholarly opinions are mixed on this. Concerning only the genealogy of 4:17–22, Walton says that “there is nothing to reflect rebellion here.” 97 Westermann views the entire last half of the chapter (4:17–26) to be the outworking of God’s commission to work—all “a function of the blessing God bestows on his creatures to enable the creatures themselves to make the basic discoveries. Civilization and its effects then have a positive emphasis in Israel from the very beginning.” 98 While many agree that these genealogies may have once originally functioned elsewhere independently, they now seem to be serving a new purpose in their present context of Gen 1–11. Note that it does not necessarily follow from this that the three sections of chapter four ever circulated independently of each other. Rather, it may be that these sections point to prior traditions that may have been brought together by the author of Gen 4. 99 In other words, many agree with von Rad’s source proposal, 100 they simply disagree with him about how closely they are now oriented toward each other in their present context. M. Fishbane, for example, says of the genealogies that their “present integration in the Bible is the result of a creative coordination of traditions.” 101 Whatever they may have once meant independently, they now function as a vital part in a plot line shaped to communicate certain truths in certain ways. These truths, many have observed, seem to portray Cain and his line in an overtly negative light. Wilson suggests that this function can be seen in the context in which the genealogy is placed. 102 First of all, our genealogy comes on the heels of the account of Cain’s murder of Abel and Yahweh’s cursing and banishment of Cain. Second, it is followed by the song of Lamech in vv. 23–24, which 97. Walton, Genesis, 277. 98. Westermann, Genesis 1–11, 343. 99. Wilson, Genealogy and History, 157. 100. From the introduction of the “Literary Analysis” section above (p. 87). 101. Fishbane, Text and Texture, 28. H. Krauss and M. Küchler seem to be fairly representative of the predominant view here: “the genealogies stand conscripted into the service of the author: he wanted to write history, and used the genealogies . . . that were, more or less, self-standing in their original form, and shaped them into a new cohesive story” (Erzählungen der Bibel: Das Buch Genesis in literarischer Perspektive, Die biblische Urgeschichte [Freiburg: Paulusverlag, 2003], 10). 102. Wilson, Genealogy and History, 155–56.

92

Chapter 3

itself refers back to the story of Cain’s murderous act (and seems to reflect back on it positively). 103 Essentially, then, our genealogy in 4:17–22 functions to link two murderers, which Robinson describes as “highly ironic.” He explains: Their actions in bringing life to an end contradict the whole logic of the genealogies, which normally record the orderly continuation of life from one generation to the next. The irony, in turn, highlights a fundamental theme in Genesis, that human sin stands in profound contradiction to the created order of God. 104

So according to Wilson, the overall effect of placing Cain’s genealogy where it is presently is to cast Cain’s line in a negative light. 105 For these reasons, D. J. Clines can say that the progress this genealogy describes “has been a progress of sin as much as in civilization.” 106 This interpretation certainly has a long history of support as well. 107 Nonetheless, it remains difficult to assign a strictly negative value to any one of the areas of civilization mentioned in the account, or more precisely to assume the narrator or audience would have understood them as such. After all, it seems probable that they were the beneficiaries of many of the very technologies referred to by our passage. 108 As Walton rightly observes, there is also nothing in the text to suggest Cain’s offspring were the only 103. Hauret observes that “this genealogy begins badly and it ends badly” (“Réflexions pessimistes,” 358). On the following page, he even suggests that each of the occupations of the genealogical founders could be seen as “a bad omen” in some way. 104. Robinson, “Literary Functions,” 600 n. 8. 105. He elaborates: “Thus the Cainite genealogy becomes part of the Yahwist’s account of man’s increasing sin” (Wilson, Genealogy and History, 155). He adds, however, that it is only the narrative frame that provides the opportunity for interpreting the genealogy negatively. He suggests that scholars who see negative elements in the actual genealogy are reading too much into things (ibid., 155 n. 47). 106. Clines, “Theme in Genesis 1–11,” 493. 107. Philo of Alexandria spoke of the “race of Cain,” whose members “show a life of plotting, and cunning, and wickedness, and dissoluteness, full of passion and wickedness” (Post. 12.43). See also, Josephus, Ant. 1.2.66; Gen. Rab. 23.2–4. Note as well that the LXX emends Lamech’s vengeful song from the MT’s “seventy-seven fold” retribution to “seventy times seven.” As S. Brayford notes, this “could reflect the increased likelihood of violence that was associated with the growing complexity of human life and the enhanced technological capacity to make such violence a reality.” She also adds that this “exponential upsurge” in the figure should not be surprising, and may even be a reflection of “the historical events that occurred between the early MT poem and its [the LXX’s] third century b.c.e. translation” (Genesis [ed. S. E. Porter, R. S. Hess, and J. Jarick; Septuagint Commentary Series 1; Leiden: Brill, 2007] 256). 108. So also P. M. McNutt, “In the Shadow of Cain,” Semeia 87 (1999): 46. Moreover, we may also ask, did any of the original audience actually believe these civilized arts perished in the flood? Genesis certainly seems to suggest they (the arts) did, if one is inclined towards a more woodenly literalistic reading of the accounts of Gen 1–11. It seems likely the truth claims being made in this text speak to other realms of reality, however.

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

93

ones to enjoy the arts of civilization. 109 We must be careful to distinguish between the theological verdict being leveled against humankind (spiraling toward the destruction of the flood) and their specific achievements. In other words, what are the truth claims being made in this passage? As we will see below in our discussion of ancient contexts, Genesis removes technological progress from the realm of the gods and places it solely within the sphere of human activities. 110 It is only natural that these people—not being worshipers of Yahweh—would be depicted in such a way. J. McKenzie describes it as common knowledge to the ancient Israelite that, “all the cultural advances of the ancient world were made by people who committed the folly of worshipping false gods.” 111 The theological verdict is being rendered on humanity, not necessarily the civilized arts. To be more precise, the truth claims being made in this passage have to do with humankind, not their advances. Technological advancement, according to Genesis, was the product of human enterprise. The enterprising humans, according to God (as depicted by our narrator shortly after the Cainite genealogy) were inclined toward evil all the time (Gen 6:5–6). 112 Again, there is a verdict being rendered here, though not against the civilized arts, per se. The narrator’s response after the Cainite line is also telling. That is to say, the positioning of the Sethite fragment directly after the Cainite line functions to communicate a contrast quite clearly—but the contrast pertains to spiritual matters. 113 The final “first thing” the narrator mentions in this toledot of “first things” comes at the end of Adam’s short genealogy in vv. 25–26. After Enosh was born, “at that time (‫)זא‬, men began to call upon the name of the Lord.” 114 This is an account of the beginnings of worship. Much as the text does not suggest Cain’s line was the only one to enjoy the civilized arts, here there does not seem to be a reason to assume the Sethite line was the only one to worship. And further, the text is not attributing the beginning of worship specifically to Enosh but rather is suggesting, as Walton says, “that the development of civilization did not bring a total abandonment of the Lord.” 115 Humankind was spiraling wickedly out of control, 109. Walton, Genesis, 279. 110. Though, as K. Mathews adds, “certainly permitted by God in accord with the charge to subdue the earth” (Genesis 1–11:26, 284). 111. J. L. McKenzie, “Reflections on Wisdom,” JBL 86 (1967): 7. 112. This is what McKenzie means when he says that these stories in early Genesis have been “woven into a sequence of events in which the progress of culture marches with the growth of human pride and wickedness” (ibid., 6). 113. See also D. Bryan, who suggests that this section also points to the close relationship the genealogies of Gen 4 may have had with Gen 5 (“A Reevaluation of Gen 4 and 5,” 185). 114. Following the text of the MT. See the text-critical discussions of Westermann, Genesis 1–11, 322–23 n. 26b–c; and Wenham, Genesis 1–15, 96 n. 26c–d. 115. Walton, Genesis, 279. Van Seters notes that “the remark in 4:26 that Enosh was the first to invoke the name of Yahweh is not easy to reconcile with the rest of J’s account”

94

Chapter 3

but all hope was not lost. There were some in those days who began to “call on the name of the Lord.” As another matter of form and function, we must consider how some scholars feel this genealogy functioned at the oral level. As J. Miller puts it, “the evidence seems to indicate . . . that Palestinian folklore knew of two different Cains . . . i.e., Cain the city builder and prototype of the settled farmer, and Cain the heros eponymous of the Kenite metal workers.” 116 For Miller and others, Gen 4’s vastly different (and even contradictory) accounts of Cain point to this as well. The contention is that at the oral level these were separate Cain characters being spoken of, and the author of Gen 4 telescoped these two traditions together. 117 Wilson describes this as “a classic example” of an approach that speculates about “the original function of particular biblical genealogies without taking into account their structure.” 118 Wilson notes, as we have above, that linear genealogies served one function and segmented genealogies served another. The Cainite genealogy as we now have it is entirely linear (only becoming segmented when Lamech is introduced), which would rule out possible functions of segmented genealogies. Cain’s line, as already mentioned, ends with Lamech. Therefore, formal considerations rule out the possibility that this genealogy presently functions as an origin account of the Kenite tribe. 119 To be clear, this is to speak only of the text’s present form and function, allowing for the possibility that it might have appeared in earlier iterations otherwise. 120 (Prologue to History: The Yahwist as Historian in Genesis [Louisville: Westminster, 1992], 143). I suggest here that we do not need a reconciliation of any sort because the text is not actually asserting this. As R. S. Kawashima demonstrates, the text must be emended to interpret Enosh as the first worshiper (“Homo Faber in J’s Primeval History,” ZAW 116 [2004]: 497 n. 77). 116. J. M. Miller, “The Descendants of Cain: Notes on Genesis 4,” ZAW 86 (1974): 169. 117. Ibid., 169–71. So also Johnson, The Purpose of the Biblical Genealogies, 11–12. 118. Wilson, “Interpreting the Biblical Genealogies,” 19, emphasis his. 119. Idem, Genealogy and History, 156–57; idem, “Interpreting the Biblical Genealogies,” 19. 120. See, for example, von Rad’s speculative but fascinating discussion of the historical background of the material in Gen 4:1–16 (Genesis, 107–9). More recently, J. Day has argued that the entire text of Gen 4 as it presently stands serves as an etiology for the Kenites. His primary motivation to interpret it this way seems to be to account properly for all of the contradictions in the story, as well as in the larger Gen 1–11 protohistory (he certainly provides more reasons, but this seems to be his primary motivator). Besides our assertion that the current structure does not permit such an interpretation, much attention was devoted in the previous chapter to demonstrate that often our so-called contradictions were not seen as such by ancient audiences of mythic history. The concerns, values, and compositional principles were vastly different and we must take them into account when we interpret mythic history today (see pp. 35–43). Therefore, both the genealogical structure and the nature of the language of mythic history suggest Day is incorrect in his assessment (“Cain and the Kenites” in Homeland and Exile: Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honour of Bustenay Oded [ed. G. Galil, M. Gellar, and A. R. Millard; VTSup 130; Leiden: Brill, 2009] 335–46).

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

95

Generally speaking, the ways genealogies function in Gen 1–11 is unique in the ancient world. Hess explains that though most genealogies serve as charters for individuals, Genesis’s genealogies serve as charters for an entire nation. 121 Furthermore, as we have seen, the picture they present in their charter is usually not flattering. Neither is the Cainite genealogy the only one in Gen 1–11 casting a negative light on its members. 122 Hess suggests that there is a “fundamental difference in the orientation of the genealogies” as well. Rather than functioning to draw the reader’s attention back in time, the biblical genealogies actually propel the reader forward: “So the genealogies push the reader forward in history, recognizing that the past must be learned from, but that the challenges of the present require that former failures not be repeated.” 123 In this section, I have discussed some of the more relevant ideas concerning matters of form and function as they relate to our passage. It is impossible in such a short space to be comprehensive. Rather, I have simply made suggestions that will allow us to interact more effectively with the data in the following sections. We move now to matters of ancient contexts, before addressing questions of the text’s historiographical value. Ancient Contexts Many commentators suggest certain ideas expressed in our text also appear in other ancient Near Eastern traditions. In this section, I will only mention some of the more important non-Mesopotamian traditions that commentators mention, as Mesopotamia will receive its own more thorough treatment in the following chapter. The discussion will begin with the more general culture-hero motif and then move to a prominent example of a West Semitic account of these culture heroes. From there, we will discuss what role, if any, ancient contexts should play in our understanding of the names found in Gen 4. Ancient contexts could also be instructive as we compare this list with that of Gen 5. Culture Hero Before attempting to recover the ancient contexts of our passage, we must first discuss the concept of a culture hero. Culture heroes are common to almost all known religions, both past and present. Typically, a culture hero was someone who was believed to have introduced the cultural knowledge critical for survival. This could also be a cultural custom or practice. 124 Often, these heroes were neither fully human nor fully divine; rather, they 121. Hess, “The Genealogies of Genesis 1–11,” 248. 122. Among the genealogies of Gen 1–11, Hess says that Gen 11 is unique in that it leads to the “unqualified promise of blessing to Abram” (ibid.). 123. Ibid., 250. What might all of this suggest about the intended audience of our text? 124. G. S. Kirk, Myth: Its Meaning and Functions in Ancient and Other Cultures (Sather Classical Lectures; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1973), 11.

96

Chapter 3

were some hybridized or intermediate form between gods and humans. 125 Indeed, it can be difficult to discern whether a given text speaks of them as a god or a human at times. Often, they were described to be the offspring of the gods, 126 though as we have said already, we cannot be sure if this accurately reflects what author and audience believed or rather if it was simply a metaphorical expression of relationship. 127 Culture heroes often did their work in prehistoric times and then disappeared before; as A. Métraux notes, “the world becomes as it is now.” 128 As this is also the usual setting for mythical texts in general (see p. 47), it makes sense that we would encounter culture-hero stories in our genre of mythic history. Indeed, we should expect culture-hero accounts in mythic history—this is when they did their work. More importantly, however, the ancient audience would have also expected culture-hero tales to be a part of this genre. 129 Many times, these heroes were also noted for their shrewd or scheming nature. Many culture heroes are in fact referred to as “tricksters” in the stories themselves. K. Köpping observes: “In their infinite variations between shrewdness and greed, trickster–culture heroes serve as the great transformers of the world at the dawn of human civilization.” 130 Interestingly enough, Köpping contends the “monotheistic religions of revelation” lack culture heroes in their religious writing. 131 However, the ancient Near East certainly had culture heroes of various sorts, and if our goal is to reconstruct the ancient cognitive environment for our passage, we must understand this concept. The author of our passage in Genesis is no doubt aware of the motif—indeed, we cannot appreciate what is communicated in Genesis without a basic awareness of its ancient contexts. It seems as though our technogony might even be functioning in the place of culture-hero accounts in other protohistorical texts, as I have suggested already. Philo of Byblos Almost invariably, Philo of Byblos’, Phoenician History is one of the first ancient comparative sources mentioned by commentators of our passage. 125. K. P. Köpping, “Culture Hero,” in Religion Past and Present: Encyclopedia of Theology and Religion (Chu–Deu) (ed. H. D. Betz et al.; Leiden: Brill, 2007), 624. 126. J. Black et al., The Literature of Ancient Sumer (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 1. 127. See, for example, p. 47. 128. A. Métraux, “Culture Hero,” in Funk and Wagnalls Standard Dictionary of Folklore, Mythology, and Legend (A–I) (ed. M. Leach and J. Fried; New York: Funk & Wagnalls, 1949). 129. This is certainly a West Semitic expectation. See the comments of J. Davila, p. 102. 130. Köpping, “Culture Hero,” 624. P. McNutt refers to Cain as such in Gen 4 (“In the Shadow of Cain,” 57). 131. Köpping, “Culture Hero,” 624.

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

97

Philo represents not only a culture-hero story but a collection of culture heroes, comprising what Gunkel referred to as a “cultural history from Phoenician tradition.” 132 It is particularly relevant to a study of our passage for two reasons: first, it hails from a city in Phoenicia (Byblos), which is geographically and culturally near to Israel. Second, parts of the account come to us in the form of a genealogy. 133 There are a number of similarities between the biblical account and Philo’s History, though a study of Philo and his work is not without its fair share of complications. To begin, we do not have any actual writing from Philo. What we have, rather, is fragmentary preservation of his work through the writings of various other ancient authors. Primarily, what we know of the Phoenician History has been transmitted to us indirectly through the 4th-century Christian writer Eusebius. 134 Philo, according to Eusebius, did not actually compose the Phoenician History but rather translated the work of another Phoenician priest, Sanchuniathon, from Phoenician to Greek. Sanchuniathon “was a man of most ancient times, even earlier, so they say, than the Trojan era.” 135 Some find Philo’s writing to be a less-than-reputable record of what Sanchuniathon actually wrote, however. Barr describes this work as “less a history than an account of the myths and legends of the Phoenicians.” 136 Others wonder if Sanchuniathon was an actual person, or perhaps rather a rhetorical device (not unknown to Hellenistic historians) employed by Philo to lend authority to his writing. 137 H. Attridge and R. Oden represent 132. Gunkel, Genesis, 51. 133. According to S. Ribichini, it represents an ancient tradition in close geographical proximity to Israel that “recorded the origins of humanity and the inventions of culture by a long series of family trees in one successive genealogy.” This genealogy recorded those “responsible for the origins of humanity in so much as they were the authors of invention and discovery, in a sense the founders of cities, of heroes divinized after death by their descendants” (“Les Mentalités,” in La Civilisation Phénicienne et Punique: Manuel de recherche [ed. V. Krings; HO; Leiden: Brill, 1995], 338). 134. Other fragments have been found in the writings of the 3rd-century philosopher Porphyry. H. W. Attridge and R. A. Oden, Philo of Byblos the Phoenician History: Introduction, Critical Text, Translation, Notes (CBQMS 9; Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1981), 2. L. K. Handy believes Eusebius to have been dependent on Porphyry as a source for Philo (“it is clear that he used Porphyry”), though a question remains to what extent. L. K. Handy, Among the Host of Heaven: The Syro-Palestinian Pantheon as Bureaucracy (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1994), 44–45. 135. Eusebius, PE 1.9.20. Attridge and Oden, Philo of Byblos, 19. So also Porphyry, de abstentia 2.56 (ibid., 17). 136. J. Barr, “Philo of Byblos and His ‘Phoenician History,’” BJRL 57 (1974): 17. So also A. Kuhrt, who says that Philo’s efforts have left us with “an account of the Phoenician religion” (The Ancient Near East c. 3000–330 bc [2 vols.; London: Routledge, 2002], 404). 137. So Van Seters, In Search of History, 206. See also the very thorough discussion in R. A. Oden, “Philo of Byblos and Hellenistic Historiography,” PEQ 110 (1978): 115–26. R. J. Clifford, writing almost twenty years ago, said that at that time the consensus was to understand Philo as having been heavily influenced by Hellenistic ideas. As a result,

98

Chapter 3

a balanced approach to the question of authenticity when they say that we can be fairly confident “Philo or his source had access to authentic and ancient local tradition” though “the evidence . . . provides no indication of the date or nature” of the sources he may have used. 138 Taking our cues from Barr, “by now . . . it is high time that something should be said about . . . Philo’s work”! 139 Eusebius records many different sections of Philo’s material, but we are interested here in only two: his cosmogony and his technogony. Though we cannot be certain these two accounts were intended to follow one another, or even that they are related, I will discuss them in that order. 140 The cosmogonical account records Desire being formed out of a mixture of “gas . . . and gloomy chaos” and in turn mixing with the wind to form Mot. 141 Every other living substance was said he suggested caution in using Philo as a reliable guide to Phoenician religion (Clifford, “Phoenician Religion,” BASOR 279 [1990]: 55–56). O. Eissfeldt (writing much earlier) lists some of these Hellenistic tendencies: the presence of nature symbols and allegory, syncretistic Semitic and western (Greek) ideas, and his use of euhemerism (Ras Schamra und Sanchunjaton [BRA 4; Halle: Max Niemeyer, 1939], 68). S. Moscati, along with Eissfeldt, supposed the Phoenician reality behind Philo’s account to be more trustworthy, due in part to a correspondence with more recently discovered material from Ugarit (The World of the Phoenicians [trans. A. Hamilton; London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1968], 55). M. J. Edwards adds that “many of the ingredients of the work attributed to him are of high antiquity and native provenance,” which demonstrates that he must have at least had a Phoenician source. Admitting to the existence of a Phoenician source is not the same as arguing for the accurate preservation of an ancient source such as Philo claims, however (“Philo or Sanchuniathon? A Phoenician Cosmogony,” Classical Quarterly 41/1 [1991]: 213). Attridge and Oden suggest that Philo’s work is so thoroughly hellenized in its concerns and tendencies that Philo’s source likely dates to no earlier than the Hellenistic period. 138. Attridge and Oden, Philo of Byblos, 6. Elsewhere, they explain that “although it is thus doubtful that the Phoenician History is based upon a written source antedating the Hellenistic period, the work remains a valuable witness to Canaanite mythology and the ways in which that ancient religious tradition was perceived and interpreted in the first centuries of our era” (ibid., 9). Similar sentiments expressed in Handy, Among the Host of Heaven, 48. 139. Barr, “Philo of Byblos,” 22. 140. Philo’s source (or Philo himself if the source was fictitious) may have collected various Phoenician traditions and put them in one work. We may not simply assume these accounts were intended to represent a comprehensive tradition of origins. So Wilson, Genealogy and History, 152. Furthermore, we cannot be entirely sure that Eusebius has referred to Philo’s work in the order that Philo actually wrote it. 141. Gas and gloomy chaos: Attridge and Oden suggest these two elements may correspond to the tōhû and bōhû of Gen 1 (Philo of Byblos, 75 n. 24). Mot: For an Egyptian explanation of this name, see Oden, “Philo of Byblos,” 125–26. Not all scholars agree that we can find Egyptian parallels here, however. S. E. Loewenstamm, for example, calls the idea “totally unfounded” (“Philo of Byblos,” in Comparative Studies in Biblical and Ancient Oriental Literatures [ed. K. Bergerhof et al; AOAT; Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker, 1980], 400). For Ugaritic similarities, see the comments and footnote references in Edwards, “Philo or Sanchuniathon?” 217 n. 31.

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

99

to have come from Mot, when he “shone forth, with sun and moon, stars and great constellations.” 142 From this account, Philo describes how certain living creatures and animals were created. In another section, Eusebius records Philo’s technogony. Here, it will be helpful to quote at length from Philo’s account: from the wind Colpia and his wife Baau (this means night) were born Aeon and Protogonos, mortal men, so called. Aeon discovered the nourishment from trees. Their offspring were called Genos and Genea and they settled Phoenicia. When droughts occurred, they raised their hands to heaven, toward the sun. For . . . they considered him, the lord of heaven, to be the only god and called him Beelsamen, which is “Lord of Heaven” in Phoenician . . . from Genos . . . there were born further mortal children, whose names are Light, Fire, and Flame. . . . These discovered fire by rubbing sticks of wood together, and they taught its usefulness. They begot sons greater in size and stature, whose names were given to the mountains over which they ruled . . . From these . . . were born . . . Hypsouranios, and Ousōos. . . . Hypsouranios settled Tyre and . . . he invented huts made of reeds, rushes, and papyrus. He quarrelled with his brother, Ousōos, who first discovered how to gather a covering for the body from the hides of animals which he captured. . . . Ousōos . . . for the first time ever, dared to travel on the sea. . . . In much later times there were born, in the line of Hypsouranios, Hunter and Fisher, the inventors of fishing and hunting. . . . From them were born two brothers who discovered iron and how to work it. One of these, Chousor, 143 practiced verbal arts including spells and prophecies. He is, in fact, Hephaestos and he invented the hook, lure, line, and raft, and was the first of all men to sail. . . . Some say that his brothers invented walls of brick. 144

The account proceeds where we have left it to speaking of the invention of baked bricks, roofed dwellings, villages and shepherding, enclosed courtyards to houses, and the use of salt. The similarities with Gen 1–11 are fairly abundant, so much so that Westermann observes “that almost every sentence in Gen 1–11 which has anything to do with the origin of civilization has counterparts in the text of Sanchuniathon.” The significance of this for Westermann is that it demonstrates that “the union of genealogy and the origin of civilization must have had a rich and many-sided history,” and that the story in Gen 4 “has preserved just a few significant excerpts.” 145 142. Eusebius, PE 1.10.1–2; Attridge and Oden, Philo of Byblos, 37. Oden notes that this account has very strong parallels to the Egyptian cosmogony from Hermopolis (“Philo of Byblos,” 125). Note also that Eusebius makes the claim that the “polytheistic error of all nations” appeared in ages past, which he said began with both the Egyptians and the Phoenicians (PE 1.9.19; Attridge and Oden, Philo of Byblos, 19). 143. Here, some find parallels to the Ugaritic god kṯr w ḫss (Kothar-wahasis). Loewenstamm, “Philo of Byblos,” 393–94; so also J. C. L. Gibson, Canaanite Myths and Legends (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1977), 3 n. 2. 144. Eusebius, PE 1.10.7–11; Attridge and Oden, Philo of Byblos, 41–45. 145. Westermann, Genesis 1–11, 330.

100

Chapter 3

Indeed, if we expand our comparative scope to include Gen 2–4, both stories do mention the first worshipers, wearers of animal skins, iron workers, shepherds, and villagers. It is also interesting to note that a very early set of brothers in the genealogy, Hypsouranios and Ousōos, also quarrelled with each other. These similarities lead Edwards to go so far as to suggest that Philo might have even drawn from the Priestly writer as one of his sources. 146 The differences, however, are also important to note. Though Philo refers to the characters as “mortal men,” L. K. Handy, for one, believes them to be actual deities described in human terms. 147 Note that this is, in a sense, the opposite of what Attridge and Oden suggest is taking place. They consider this to be an example of euhemerism (see p. 69), where “the gods of traditional mythology were in fact human beings who were accorded divine honors after death.” 148 Regardless of what one makes of Philo’s account, the characters in Gen 4 are clearly human. Also, the overall length and level of detail in Philo’s culture history is much more similar to other Hellenistic accounts of primeval history than to Gen 4. 149 Generally speaking, Philo shares many more similarities with these Hellenistic primeval histories than with Gen 1–11. For example, Attridge and Oden speak of the Hellenistic trait of “schematization,” which they describe as “a deliberate part of the rationalizing technique of the Hellenized author of our text.” One example they cite of this scheme of development is housing: “The first wattle houses give way to houses of simple brick . . . then brick made with straw. . . . Later houses are surrounded by courtyards and walls, and villages are introduced. . . . Finally a city is founded.” 150 Any sort of scheme, if it can be found at all in Gen 4 (or Gen 1–11, for that matter), is much less refined than those of Hellenistic histories. Another example given by Oden is that the Hellenistic histories—Philo’s included—are very patriotic. That is, “each historian claims these cultural benefactors as his own nation’s ancestors.” 151 As we have seen above, Gen 4 makes no such claims. Rather the point seems to be emphasized that all cultural advances 146. Edwards, “Philo or Sanchuniathon?” 217–18. Barr also compares Philo’s work to the Bible, as well as to other Second Temple Jewish literature. Barr, “Philo of Byblos,” 59–60. 147. Handy, Among the Host of Heaven, 136–37. 148. Attridge and Oden, Philo of Byblos, 7–8. A. I. Baumgarten interprets Philo as Handy does and yet seems to refer to this as Philo’s euhemerizing tendencies (A. I. Baumgarten, The Phoenician History of Philo of Byblos: A Commentary [EPRO 89; Leiden: Brill, 1981], 140). 149. See Edwards, “Philo or Sanchuniathon?” 214; and Oden, “Philo of Byblos.” 150. Attridge and Oden, Philo of Byblos, 83 n. 58 n. 61. 151. Oden, “Philo of Byblos,” 120. Similar to this, Hellenistic histories from other non-Greek historians demonstrated a very strong anti-Greek polemic, which is also lacking from our Genesis account. Ibid., 121–22.

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

101

took place long ago in ages past, long before Israel became a nation. 152 And finally, Hellenistic historians often made great show of the antiquity and quality of their sources, especially to note how much better theirs were than those of other historians. 153 So, as noted, Philo claims that Sanchuniathon was “a man of most ancient times” and “almost contemporaneous with Moses, as the succession lists of the Kings of Phoenicia reveal.” 154 Though Gen 1–11 has no doubt used sources, little effort is put forth to call attention to them (Gen 5:1, for example), much less to argue for their superiority over and against other competing histories. All this should lead us to a conclusion similar to Barr: there are some elements that cause us to believe Philo may have had access to older authentic local traditions that he used as he composed his Phoenician History. On the other hand, Philo was no doubt a product of his environment—his History is therefore a good example of Hellenistic historiography and must be interpreted with that in mind as well. 155 For our purposes, it also indicates that the Phoenicians possessed traditions about the origins of civilization and we can see some similarities with our own biblical material. This need not lead us to the conclusion that Genesis is dependent on Philo in any way. Conclusions about both similarities and differences must also be tempered by the nature of evidence. Philo’s History is extremely fragmentary as we now have it and is also secondhand. Further, Eusebius seems mindful to present only what best serves his purposes in his work, so we must be careful with our comparative analyses concerning matters of scope. 156 For example, Van Seters concludes that Phoenician tradition of the history of culture “appears to have been originally separate from other primeval traditions and knows nothing of the flood and an antediluvian period. In similar fashion, the tradition of invention in Gen 4 seems to ignore completely the fact that the flood would have wiped out these cultural lineages, so that the inventors of Genesis come from a western antiquarian tradition that does

152. This is not to suggest that Genesis does not contain polemical elements in it. Quite the contrary, though I am suggesting this section of Genesis is not specifically patriotic and especially that it is not anti-Greek (see previous footnote). 153. Ibid., 122–23. 154. Eusebius, PE 1.9.21. Attridge and Oden, Philo of Byblos, 21. B. Z. Wacholder says this was done in order that “Phoenician scriptures might antedate those of the Jews and the Egyptians. . . . Sanchuniathon’s claim to primacy would serve to show the dependence of the Mosaic Pentatuech on Phoenician writings. This may account for the fact that, imitating his younger contemporary Josephus, Philo alleges that he too was merely translating ancient sources” (Wacholder, “Review: ‘Philo of Byblos: The Phoenician History’ by H. Attridge and R. Oden,” JBL 102/2 [1983]: 333). 155. Barr, “Philo of Byblos,” 61. 156. This is not to suggest Eusebius did not transmit Philo reliably but only that the decision of which parts of Philo’s Phoenician History to include was his. On the reliability of transmission, see Attridge and Oden, Philo of Byblos, 2 n. 5.

102

Chapter 3

not know the flood.” 157 While I will deal in part with his biblical conclusions in the following chapters, I note here that his first conclusions seem hasty—we simply know too little of Phoenician traditions to make these observations with any confidence (even if they may be correct). 158 Note also that a fragment of the Babylonian flood tradition has been found in Ras Shamra (ancient Ugarit) dating to the 14th century b.c.e. 159 It seems quite possible, given the Ugaritic elements found in the Phoenician History as well as the biblical allusions, that a flood account might have been a part of Philo’s original complete work. 160 We simply cannot know, but we should refrain from categorically excluding the possibility. What we can know from the evidence is what J. Davila states clearly: “lists of culture-heroes were at home in the West Semitic world.” 161 Scholars appreciate what Philo’s Phoenician History contributes to our understanding of the Genesis text, and for good reason. Many common elements are shared between the two accounts, which may indicate something of a common cognitive environment. As Davila pointed out, this has very much to do with the fact that both were part of the larger West Semitic world. We move now to another consequence of our passage being at home in a West Semitic world: the names in our genealogy. Names in Genesis 4 There has been much fine work in determining what some of the names might mean in this genealogy, but not as much effort has been directed toward an analysis of the significance of these results. 162 This is in part because 157. Van Seters, Prologue to History, 145–45. 158. Van Seters has even warned that Eusebius’s quotations of Philo, “though extensive, still represent only a small fraction of the whole” (In Search of History, 205). 159. J. R. Davila, “The Flood Hero as King and Priest,” JNES 54 (1995): 205–6. Text and short introduction in W. G. Lambert and A. R. Millard, Atra-ḫasīs: The Babylonian Story of the Flood (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1999), 131–33. 160. Note also the prevalence of a flood tradition in Hellenistic literature. Davila cites Ovid’s Metamorphosis, Lucian of Samosata’s De Dea Syria, and Apollodorus’s Library. Davila, “The Flood Hero,” 212–13 n. 65. We might also add that a Hellenistic flood tradition was so well known that the historian Didodurus Siculus in his history of Egypt—itself with no trace of a native flood tradition—felt the need to incorporate the flood into his work (The Library of History 1.10.4, in Diodorus Siculus: The Library of History: Books I–II.34 [ed. C. H. Oldfather; LCL 279; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2004], 37). It would not be unreasonable, therefore, to think that Philo might have included an account of the flood and that Eusebius simply left it out because it did not suit the purposes of his own work. 161. Davila, “The Flood Hero,” 210. 162. For thorough treatments of the names, see Gabriel, “Kainitegenealogie,” 411–19; J. Vermeylen, “La descendance de Caïn et la descendance d’Abel,” ZAW 103 (1991): 178– 83. See also the commentary discussions of Cassuto, Book of Genesis, 228–38; Westermann, Genesis 1–11, 328–34; and Wenham, Genesis 1–15, 111–14. Though more will be spoken of this below, Hess has by far the most exhaustive treatment of our names in his Studies in the Personal Names of Genesis 1–11 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2009)..

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

103

an analysis of the names has proven so difficult in the first place. 163 Adding to the difficulty is the popular assumption of scholars that the names in the genealogies of Gen 4 and Gen 5 are the product of some variation of a source theory (introduced above on pp. 75–76). The problem seems to be that these source theories differ in subtle-yet-crucial ways from one another and there appears to be no hope of arriving at a consensus any time soon. Some, like Gunkel, suggest that the genealogies in chs. 4 and 5 are parallel yet poorly preserved variants of each other. 164 Westermann agrees with this 165 but maintains that J and P have significant differences that must be explored. 166 Sparks supposes that P took J, used the names, and added chronological information. 167 Von Rad supposes the existence of a redactor, who combined J and P. 168 These difficulties are compounded further still by the fact that most of these scholars’ explanations of the names—and their possible functions in the text—are somewhat dependent on whatever variation of source theory they espouse. 169 Occasionally, scholars will offer alternatives to understanding these genealogies without resorting to source theories, 170 but they are the exception rather than the rule. Considering more than just the genealogical material for a moment, some scholars even separate their analyses of the text out to their putative sources with seeming disregard for the shape of the text as it now stands. 171 This can lead to the purported themes of one trumping the other (depending on which source is granted priority), or at least a focus on one of the

163. Before an examination of the names found in 4:18, Westermann admits that “the names are as good as beyond explanation” (Genesis 1–11, 328). 164. Gunkel, Genesis, 50; Speiser, Genesis, 35–36; Johnson, The Purpose of the Biblical Genealogies, 7–8. 165. Westermann, Genesis 1–11, 349. 166. Ibid., 9–18. Carr makes the distinction between P and non-P genealogies (Reading the Fractures of Genesis: Historical and Literary Approaches [Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1996], 68–69). 167. Sparks adds that P “attempted to mimic the Mesopotamian king lists” and that Gen 5 “generically extended” Gen 4 to make it serve a new purpose (Ancient Texts, 8). 168. Von Rad, Genesis, 24–28; Vermeylen, “La descendance de Caïn,” 188–93. 169. So, for example, C. Levin considers the gap between Lamech (of 4:18–24) and Noah to be a Priestly interruption in the original story. In other words, the Lamech of Gen 4 is the same Lamech of Gen 5 and thus Noah’s father (“The Yahwist: The Earliest Editor in the Pentatuech,” JBL 126/2 [2007]: 213 n. 18). So also, P. R. Davies, “Sons of Cain,” in A Word in Season: Essays in Honour of William McKane (ed. J. D. Martin and P. R. Davies; JSOTSup 42; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1986), 41; Kawashima, “Homo Faber,” 490. Obviously, the conclusions they draw about Cain’s genealogy and the function it plays in the narrative will differ from those who consider the Lamech of Gen 4 to be different from the Lamech of Gen 5—or at least appearing as distinct characters in the storyline of Gen 1–11. 170. See, for example, Bryan, “A Reevaluation of Gen 4 and 5.” 171. Von Rad, Genesis.

104

Chapter 3

source’s themes while ignoring or downplaying the other. 172 Another unfortunate consequence of the separation into these sources is that often comparative analyses are performed solely with one or the other source in view, creating the possibility of distorted comparisons. 173 And further, interpretations of texts can differ depending on (1) which particular source a block of text is assigned to, (2) whether or not sources can be accurately determined, and (3) which source is granted priority over another. 174 In effect, this sort of attention has been given to the hypothesized sources of the text that, when it is all said and done, there is almost nothing left to examine aside from other source theories—the text has receded almost completely into the background! 175 Any efforts to resolve these methodological difficulties with any degree of certainty seem entirely futile, not to mention, beyond our scope here. With these thoughts in mind, we bring the discussion back to the names of Gen 4 and 5. Might there be another way to determine the significance of these names? That is, can we explain the common names of both genealogies without an appeal to sources? 176 Are we right to resort to other methods? To look elsewhere for solutions is not to deny the existence of sources or the validity of source-critical ideas. Rather, the text as it presently stands attests quite clearly to the use of sources. 177 Indeed, I have suggested as much on numerous occasions. But in light of our approach to the text established already, we must be careful to allow the text to communicate on its own terms. Are any terms established, and if so, what are they? 172. So B. Batto, who discusses the primeval myth of J (“Creation Theology”), and Kawashima, who focuses on the theme of human achievement in J (“Homo Faber”). See also the list of studies focusing on the P source in Collins, Genesis 1–4, 221–22 n. 2. Perhaps a more constructive example is Westermann, who includes discussions of how both sources combine as a whole (Genesis 1–11, 17, 56, 62–64). 173. For example, T. Jacobsen compares what he calls the Eridu Genesis (a reconstructed text from various sources) with the P material of Gen 1–11 (“The Eridu Genesis,” JBL 100/4 [1981]: 513–29). P. Miller then rightly points out the important similarities between the Eridu Genesis and the J material and includes comments on the importance of viewing the Genesis account as a whole, rather than as separate parts. P. D. Miller, Jr., “Eridu, Dunnu and Babel: A Study in Comparative Mythology,” HAR 9 (1985): 234. See my further discussion of both, p. 156 n. 189 below. 174. See, for one example, Wenham (“The Priority of P”), who proposes a reevaluation of J’s supposed priority over P in Genesis. His discussion of some of the changes that would result in the overturning of what he calls an “axiom of pentateuchal criticism” is telling. 175. For a recent example of this, see R. Levitt Kohn, “Whom Did Cain Raise? Redaction and J’s Primeval History,” in Le-David Maskil: A Birthday Tribute for David Noel Freedman (ed. R. E. Friedman and W. H. Propp; BJSUCSD 9; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2004). 176. And without resorting to the interpretive schemes Philo of Alexandria employed (Post. 12.40–36.124)? 177. So Gen 5:1.

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

105

Do we find any generic signals alerting us to how this text should be read? 178 There are some indications within the text itself that seem to suggest how it should be approached. First of all, we may conclude that the final editor of these two genealogies saw nothing wrong with placing them side by side in the text. Often, the motivation for seeking putative sources has been the apparent contradictions of the two genealogies, though McNutt warns that frequently what strikes us as contradictory or confused “may nevertheless convey crucial cultural information.” 179 In other words, we might simply be missing the relevance communicated by these two passages, placed together as they are. In some sense, then, relevance theory allows us to think of redundancies and contradictions as possible generic signals. With this in mind, recall from above that Wilson suggested slight variations in genealogies may not have been seen as contradictory by original author and audience. Speaking of these biblical genealogies, Wilson writes: Previous studies of the biblical genealogies have tended to concentrate on their structure without taking into account their function. This tendency has had serious consequences in scholarly treatments of apparently parallel genealogies which contain structural variants. Interpreters concerned only with genealogical structure have usually dealt with these variants by attempting to harmonize them, either by locating the “error” made in one of the genealogies, or by reconstructing the “original” from which the variants emerged. In some cases, this approach may still be the right one. However, the comparative evidence presents another explanation for genealogical variants. They may be related to the differing functions of the genealogies. When this is the case, then the interpreter should not attempt to harmonize the variants or correct the “errors,” to do so would obscure the point that the biblical writer is trying to convey. Seen in the proper functional context, two apparently conflicting genealogies may in fact both be accurate statements of the ancient writer’s views. 180

Relevance theory suggests, with Wilson, that both the original author and audience would have understood the function of these genealogical “repetitions” and “conflicts,” even if we may not today. Our reading strategy should not be to dismiss redundancies and inconsistencies as we see them but to ask why they might have been included. 181 Our reading strategy also suggests caution in using these criteria to discern possible sources from the

178. So McNutt writes: “One of our aims, then, in interpreting ancient texts is to attempt to recover, not only what the ancient author or authors said, but also what they may have meant to convey to their audiences, trying to avoid allowing our own world views and biases to control our readings” (“In the Shadow of Cain,” 47, emphasis hers). 179. Ibid., 46. 180. Wilson, “Interpreting the Biblical Genealogies,” 19, emphasis his. 181. Recall the comments of Fantin, p. 61.

106

Chapter 3

text as we have it presently. We must assume the relevance of this communicative act and try to discover what that relevance might have been. It follows, then, that the final editor of these sources would have been aware of the potential for confusion by placing the same names in both genealogies. 182 Indeed, Gen 5 provides extra information about Lamech and Enoch, so we might distinguish between them and their counterparts in Gen 4. Further attention is drawn to the contrasting Lamechs by their speech, which is the only speaking on record in either of the genealogies. We must take our cues from the text that we are supposed to see these as different people and certainly that they serve different functions (or serve to highlight the differing functions of their genealogies). The lack of additional information for Kenan in 5:9–14 might also indicate the editor saw no need to distinguish between Kenan and Cain from Gen 4. In other words, attempts to explain Kenan as a misspelled variant of Cain might be misguided, at least if we are taking our cues from the editor as to how to interpret these genealogies. These are not variants to be harmonized, at least according to the cues given by the text. Nor are we reading the text correctly if we assume Noah came from Cain’s line. 183 Rather, the Lamechs are to be contrasted, as are their respective lines. Furthermore, as we have noted above, the heading of Gen 5, unique in Genesis (“This is the book of the genealogies”), strongly suggests that the editor would have seen this genealogy as distinct from Gen 4. 184 Note that this is different from suggesting that Gen 4 and Gen 5 may or may not have originated from separate sources. Rather, we are simply suggesting here that the final editor of Genesis seems to have considered them to have been originally distinct and not in any way contradictory or unnecessarily redundant. Hess has subjected the personal names of Gen 1–11 to rigorous examination, which has yielded some interesting results. 185 Especially pertinent to our work here, he has sought to explain the origins of the names by resorting to ancient Near Eastern data and the shape of the present text rather than source theories. In other words, he helps us understand what the relevance of the names might have been. His conclusions help us understand how the names in our genealogy contribute to its function, as well as for the genealogy in Gen 5. Beyond this, his work helps us begin to understand something of the text’s implied reader, 186 and it may also give directional 182. Speaking of similar supposed contradictions between Gen 1 and Gen 2, Wenham writes: “Clearly the final editor of Genesis whether he be P or J found no irreconcilable clash between Gen i and Gen ii, so modern exegetes should not create problems where he saw none” (“The Priority of P,” 256). 183. So p. 103 n. 169. 184. Wenham, Genesis 1–15, 122. 185. Hess, Studies. 186. Recall that relevance theory may allow us to determine certain things about a text’s implied reader. See pp. 27–33.

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

107

clues for future research in the areas of source study. For the sake of time and space, here I will simply summarize his conclusions. His first task is to examine the origins of the personal names in Gen 1–11 in order to determine when and where in the ancient Near East they are most likely to appear. He concludes that, generally speaking, most of the names “do have attestations among the proper names of the Amorite world as found attested in the early second millennium b.c. at sites such as Mari and those tells which are found throughout the region of the Upper Euphrates.” 187 He is prompted to these conclusions in part by the author’s use of Hebrew to explain etymologies of various names. Even though the roots may not be correct etymologically, Hess says, “they do reflect a natural association with West Semitic.” He notes also that many of the names have “clearly identifiable Canaanite or West Semitic roots as part of their origin.” 188 These explanations hold true for the etymologies and onomastic environments of most of our names in our Cainite genealogy. Speaking specifically of our genealogy, he observes that “the preponderance of the evidence points to the early part of the second millennium b.c. as the period in which the names fit most comfortably.” 189 If Hess is correct, this certainly proposes an alternative solution to that of J. Vermeylen, who supposes the names to be simply the products of a first millennium redactor’s imagination. 190 Hess also suggests that “these names cannot be dated to the exilic or post-exilic period, given the present state of onomastic evidence.” 191 As he explains, this has implications more for the traditions behind the text than for the text itself. In other words, the traditions employed by the final redactor (whenever he lived) seem to hail from a second-millennium West Semitic environment. Hess also adds that, from a form-critical perspective, both the genealogies and the narratives of Gen 1–11 are unique. He concludes by saying that “the personal names of Gen 1–11 bear witness to the presence of early traditions in this literature, without providing clear direction as to the origins of those traditions.” 192 In Hess’ second section of the book, he moves to an examination of the possible functions of the names in Gen 1–11. For the Cainite genealogy, Hess shows how there might be some instance of wordplay in the names,

187. Ibid., 5. 188. Ibid., 10. 189. Ibid., 57; so also idem, Israelite Religions, 145. Noteworthy among the exceptions is Cain, who does not have a clearly identifiable West Semitic root (idem, Studies, 24–27, 37–39, 104–5). However, Hess notes that the author did choose to associate his name with a “grammatically and semantically distinct” West Semitic root qnh. Further, this could be because Cain’s line does not continue, as the line of Adam does, to Abram (ibid., 33). 190. Vermeylen, “La descendance de Caïn,” 181. 191. Hess, Studies, 105. 192. Ibid., 106.

108

Chapter 3

functioning to link the narrative section with the genealogy that follows. 193 He also concludes that “both the study of the origins of these names and the investigation into their wordplay confirm Cain’s line as one concerned with representatives of a range of cultural skills.” 194 As noted before, we might be right in suggesting that the referential ambition of our genealogy is more comprehensive than merely an account of pastoral nomadism. When comparing the two genealogies in Gen 4 and Gen 5, Hess also confirms our suspicions regarding the negative light cast on the first in contrast to the positive of the second. 195 He also agrees that the final editor juxtaposes these two genealogies for communicative effect, which he calls a “genealogical doublet”: Whatever the origins of the two lines . . . the texts of Genesis 4 and 5, and particularly the recurrent similarity in names, invite an examination of their relationship. The text attaches Cain’s Enoch to a city but Seth’s Enoch moves beyond human culture to the world of the divine . . . both Lamechs play pivotal roles in their lines and both have statements recorded in the text. But Cain’s Lamech utters a cry of vengeance and with that terminates his line; while Seth’s Lamech expresses the hope for a better life for his descendants, and with that introduces the offspring who will continue his line and play a role in trying to fulfill his wish. 196

In Hess’s discussion of the similarities between the genealogies of Gen 10 and Gen 11, he concludes that they make up the second genealogical doublet of Gen 1–11, with the first being Gen 4 and 5. He lists five similarities between the two genealogical doublets: (1) the first genealogy has a universal context, (2) the second genealogy has a context that connects it with what follows as well as what precedes, (3) the first genealogy has less of a fixed form, (4) the second genealogy has a much more ordered form, and (5) the first genealogy always contains fewer generations. 197 That these patterns emerge in the genealogical structure of Gen 1–11 certainly points to 193. For example, Yabal is associated with tent-dwellers and also with miqneh, which shares two consonants with his ancestor Cain (qyn). Further, the root of his name seems to share similar (or same) roots to his brothers, who together make up the only ones designated as “fathers” of various occupations or who possess an occupation. Hess explains: “Cain and Abel, the earlier set of brothers described in Genesis 4, also hold specific occupations. In addition to the wordplay between the three brothers and Cain already noted, we find a similarity of two consonants of the ybl root to the name of the first caretaker of livestock, Abel (hbl).” Ibid., 126. 194. Ibid., 129. 195. Ibid., 141–42. 196. Ibid., 142. Later he notes that Cain’s line “demonstrated aspects of human endeavor and culture available to the whole of humanity” while Seth’s line narrowed the focus to “one descendant and one aspect of human concern.” For Hess it was the meaning of the personal names that suggested this shift in emphasis. Ibid., 150–51. 197. Ibid., 148, 160.

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

109

the skillful attention of a thoughtful editor, no matter what is suggested of the sources. Hess draws many more profound conclusions in the last few pages of his study, but they lie beyond our interests here. 198 We gather from his study that the personal names of Gen 1–11 play a vital role in helping the interpreter grasp the meaning of the text, and the same can certainly be said for our genealogy in 4:17–22. Hess’s findings are consistent with our other suggestions thus far in the section. Our genealogy reflects older traditions that seem firmly rooted in a West Semitic environment, as a study of its names might suggest. Though the shape of his work is largely Hellenistic, Philo of Byblos’s Phoenician History also reflects older West Semitic traditions, speaking into an ancient cognitive environment very much aware of the culture-hero motif. Though a careful reading of our text (and its larger context) would suggest a more agnostic position toward source theories, it does indicate something of the age of the sources that might have been used by a final editor, as well as saying something about the possible intended reader of this text. 199 Both seem to be much older than they are often credited to be. Just as Philo’s work reflects the authenticity of older traditions, so does our genealogy. 200 In fact, more than one scholar has pointed to the similarities of our passage with other (older) West Semitic genealogies, which we will examine in more detail in the following chapter. 201 Our study of the ancient contexts of our passage has also hinted at some very important differences, though again, we will examine these in further detail in the following chapters. In short, from the perspective of Genesis, civilization is a human accomplishment, as opposed to other ancient Near Eastern cultures in which the gods are largely responsible. 202 In some sense, it is as though the biblical authors wanted to “demythologize” the understanding of world and civilization origins, to remove it from the realm of otherworldly origins and to place it squarely into the realm of human history. 203 On the other hand, the larger protohistorical context of our genealogy, Gen 1–11, is comfortably within the bounds of the genre of mythic history. 204 Generic signals such as the use of gaps, numbers, and names, among other things, suggest this. These thoughts will help us as we move 198. Ibid., 157–62. 199. Relevance theory also suggests that some of the motivation for finding these sources might be slightly misguided. 200. As Westermann writes, “many different ancient traditions are worked together in J’s text” (Genesis 1–11, 326). 201. Malamat, “King Lists,” 164; Wilson, “The Old Testament Genealogies,” 177; see also T. C. Hartman, “Some Thoughts on the Sumerian King List and Genesis 5 and 11B,” JBL 91/1 (1972): 25–32. 202. Castellino, “Les Origines de la Civilisation,” 135; Westermann, Genesis 1–11, 343. 203. Krauss and Küchler, Erzählungen der Bibel, 128. 204. Keep in mind how I defined this in the previous chapter.

110

Chapter 3

into the next section to consider questions relating to the historiographical value of our genealogy. Historiographical Value This section will simply be a summary of what has been suggested thus far, though I will also set the stage for some of the topics to follow in the concluding chapters. There are three related issues to mention here: What can we know of the reality behind the text? How was the past thought of? How was the past communicated? As the first is the most difficult to answer, our attention will be devoted primarily to the last two of these. Of these, the second, how the past was thought of, is better left until after we have covered the Mesopotamian material in the following chapter. Here, I will introduce the issues surrounding the first question and see what our study of genealogies might suggest as to the third, how the past was communicated. There are some who consider the words of Gen 1–11 to be an accurate representation of reality in every way. As mentioned in the introductory chapter, this means that every word of the biblical text would have a oneto-one correspondence with reality. That is, the biblical stories occurred exactly the way they are described and as such are accurate records of history (and, by implication, science as well). Also as we mentioned, there are difficulties that arise from this sort of interpretation. The details of Cain and Abel’s story in Gen 4 suggest to some a Neolithic setting, which would leave our genealogy to describe the development of civilization from that period onward. The general idea is that Cain is portrayed as the first agriculturalist and Abel the first pasturalist. As the domestication of plants and animals occurred during the Neolithic period (ca. 9000–6000 b.c.e.), 205 this leads some to consider the story of Cain and Abel to be set in this historical period. 206 A pursuit of this discussion would lead us down an entirely different path from the one chosen here, however. I bring it up only to suggest that there are legitimate difficulties for those who believe Gen 1–11 depicts matters of science and history with a high degree of accuracy. The ages recorded in Gen 5 and Gen 10 simply do not allow for the story to be set so far back in time if the numbers are taken to represent a chronological record of ages. 207 D. Kidner recognizes that these disparate “pictures, biblical and scientific,” present difficulties and concludes that “how . . . they are related to each other is not immediately clear, and one should allow for the provisional 205. H. J. Nissen, The Early History of the Ancient Near East, 9000–2000 b.c. (trans. E. Lutzeier and K. J. Northcott. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988), 20–21; W. W. Hallo and W. K. Simpson, The Ancient Near East: A History (2nd ed. Fort Worth: Harcourt Brace, 1998), 11. 206. Castellino, “Les Origines de la Civilisation,” 133. 207. This is not to say there are not also problems with a Neolothic setting for these stories. For a presentation of this issue and a discussion of some of its difficulties, see Lucas, Can We Believe Genesis Today? 135–38.

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

111

nature of both.” 208 Walton has a convenient summary of the picture provided by archaeology and then concludes, “these archaeological data cannot be linked with the information in this chapter about the line of Cain.” 209 The main reason for this is that the archaeological data suggest the advances spoken of in our genealogy took much longer than just a few generations to come about. In other words, gaps abound in our text. For example, permanent, localized settlements do not appear in the archaeological record until animal and plant domestication came about in the ninth millennium. 210 Metals were not discovered until the fourth millennium, when copper came into use. 211 The use of bronze came in the third millennium and iron was introduced in the second millennium. 212 Though the earliest musical instruments date back much earlier ( before the seventh millennium, made of stone 213), the earliest examples of harps and lyres date back to the early third millennium. 214 Cities, as opposed to villages and settlements, did not appear in the ancient Near East until the fourth millennium either. 215 Our genealogy describes these advances as taking place over the course of seven generations and in a particular order, which by most accounts does not comport with the data. Unless one insists that these data are false, 216 other 208. D. Kidner, Genesis: An Introduction and Commentary (London: Tyndale, 1967), 26. 209. Walton, Genesis, 276–77. 210. H. J. Nissen refers to this more accurately as the “Pre-pottery Neolithic” (“Ancient Western Asia Before the Age of Empires,” in CANE, 792). See also Hallo and Simpson, The Ancient Near East, 10–11. 211. R. Gonen, “The Chalcolithic Period,” in The Archaeology of Ancient Israel (ed. A. Ben-Tor; New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1992), 40. 212. Walton, Genesis, 276–77. 213. J. Braun, Music in Ancient Israel/Palestine: Archaeological, Written, and Comparative Sources (trans. D. W. Stott. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), 49. 214. Walton notes that “end-blown flutes” date to the fourth millennium (Genesis, 276). 215. E. C. Stone, “The Development of Cities in Ancient Mesopotamia,” in CANE, 236. Note that cities are differentiated from villages for more reasons than simply population size. H. F. W. Saggs says that “although the city may have grown out of a group of villages, it was something more than a mere overgrown village: it developed into a completely new social institution” (Civilization before Greece and Rome [New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1989], 33–34). He goes on to explain that, in a city, social structures allowed for specialization not possible in villages. A city served as a market, a center for trade, a regional shrine, and offered protection to those living within its walls. All this combined to create what Saggs calls “a powerful social force” (ibid., 34). C. Renfrew refers to Saggs’s “social force” as “civilization” and explains that much older large urban settlements, such as Jericho and Catal Hüyük, lacked some or many of these distinguishing features and are therefore not defined as cities (“The Emergence of Civilization,” in Penguin Encyclopedia of Ancient Civilizations [ed. A. Cotterell; London: Penguin Books, 1980], 14–15). 216. H. Morris writes: “Once again, it is significant to note that the elements which modern evolutionary archaeologists and anthropologists identify as the attributes of the emergence of evolving men from the stone age into true civilization—namely,

112

Chapter 3

explanations must be put forth. 217 With these difficulties in mind, I suggest a more fruitful pursuit would be an exploration of the final two questions posed above. That is, rather than attempting to determine the reality behind the text, we should ask after the reality portrayed in the text itself. So now we ask, what might the text tell us about how the past was thought of and how it was communicated? Relevance can be assumed; we must try to recover what that relevance might have been. The reality behind the text is of course important, but these two related questions are far more important to ask, and dealing with them may also help us come to more plausible solutions concerning that reality. Without attempting to answer yet how the past may have been thought of, I will summarize briefly what our study of genealogies might tell us about how the past was communicated. 218 I suggested that one of the functions of genealogies at the literary level was to communicate certain conceptions of the past. Though we must remember that one of the primary reasons genealogies were employed to speak of the past was to lend credibility to a present situation—they functioned as charters. The past was employed, in a sense, for much more important functions in the present. Recall the comments of Hess, who explained that the genealogies of Genesis functioned as a charter for an entire nation, rather than an individual. Beyond this, they also did not glorify the past but rather employed accounts of past failures to “push the reader forward in history” so that by learning from these mistakes history would not be repeated. 219 This is consistent with our discussion relating to the purpose of ancient history writing, as well as those of the more narrowly defined genre of mythic history. As already observed, ancient Near Eastern history writing was, according to its own terms, an attempt to lend coherence or cohesion to to the present day by making creative use of past events. 220 Our genealogy appears to fit this description. Kidner suggests, therefore, that the portrayal of history here might be “pictorial” in form or “landmarks punctuating an immense tract of time.” 221 urbanization, agriculture, animal domestication, and metallurgy—all were accomplished quickly by the early descendants of Adam and did not take hundreds of thousands of years” (The Genesis Record, 146–47). 217. J. Sailhammer, for example, seems to think this account describes the first city of refuge and the technogony is a description of the culture that developed in that particular city: “the originators of the primary components of city life” (The Pentateuch as Narrative: A Biblical-Theological Commentary [Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1992], 114–15). This is similar in some sense to van Wolde’s view (Stories of Beginning: Genesis 1-11 and Other Creation Stories [trans. J. Bowden. London: SCM, 1996], 95). 218. Again, our method of approach suggests that we seek to know how a text means in order to determine what it means. That is, how the past was communicated helps us appreciate how its community may have thought of it. 219. Hess, “The Genealogies of Genesis 1–11,” 250. 220. See p. 41. 221. Kidner, Genesis, 27.

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

113

Our discussion of the symbolic use of numbers and of the ancient contexts to our genealogy lends credibility to this suggestion. Certainly, stories of culture heroes were relegated to the far distant past, and Genesis’s unique twist on this motif assumes a basic level of awareness. Further, the theological teaching of the genealogy in its larger context also plays on this awareness for its effect. For now, we can say that history was presented by our genealogy, “but in the manner . . . characteristic of the period before history.” 222 This is partly what was intended by referring to the larger context of Gen 1–11 as “protohistory.” Moreover, the particular ways biblical genealogies spoke to the present was unique in the ancient world. All this aligns perfectly with our revised interpretive principle from the previous chapter: the reader of an ancient text should take an utterance as fully literal only when nothing less than full literality will confirm the presumption of relevance as it would have appeared to the implied reader. 223 This literary analysis has suggested optimal relevance was communicated between author and audience with more of a figurative portrayal of the past, not a literal portrayal. These concepts should become clearer as we examine ancient contexts in more detail in the following chapter.

Conclusion In this chapter, I introduced our text in some detail and also suggested various ways its form might contribute to its function in the text. The passage and some of its more critical issues have been examined, as have matters of the text’s genre, genealogy. Scholars’ efforts in understanding our genealogy have been of tremendous help, which I hope has been demonstrated as well. Sifting the previous chapters through this one allows us to begin the next chapter with the following thoughts in mind: (1) The use of numbers in Gen 1–11 and in our genealogy, among other things, seems to indicate how things are being communicated, and this is figuratively. 224 (2) The primary purpose of Gen 1–11 is not to communicate historical events. This should lessen considerably our desire to ensure the details of our genealogy can be harmonized historically. (3) The primary purpose is theological. (4) The culture-hero motif in our genealogy is much less refined than what is found in Philo of Byblos’s History. This could be a generic signal and may also suggest that our text is older than Philo’s. The euhemerizing principles are not at work here. Rather, protohistory is being taken out of realm of the gods and being put into human history. (5) Ancient contexts, as well as the names, also encourage us to appreciate the text’s antiquity. It seems to make use of some old traditions (sources), even if the editors (or whatever 222. Westermann, Genesis 1–11. 223. For this, see p. 64. 224. While we are not able to always discern what they mean, I have suggested reasons to consider how they mean.

114

Chapter 3

other terms are used) are later. (6) To be adequate, source theories need to account for the seeming age of text and also how well it fits into a secondmillennium context. Its implied audience seems to be from the second millennium. (7) The names used also point toward an implied reader of West Semitic background. (8) Source critics should not use the supposed “contradictions” or “redundancies” of our text as criteria for the determination of sources. Rather, these might serve as generic signals themselves, suggesting how a text should be read. Having offered these suggestions, we may now proceed to the next chapter to engage the Mesopotamian data. At this point, we should be better prepared to interact with Mesopotamian materials and to determine their significance for an understanding of our text, and of historiographical principles in general.

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

115

Appendix: Commentary on Translation of Genesis 4:17–22 Verse 17 Building.  A few manuscripts have the participle in construct rather than absolute form. When in construct form and following ‫היה‬, the participle is sometimes used to describe an occupation characterizing the subject (e.g., Gen 4:2, 20; Josh 9:21). The motivation for the repointing seems to be to harmonize with the pattern in 4:2. Here, we have something different, however, and the sense is a durative past action. P. Joüon and T. Muraoka, A Grammar of Biblical Hebrew (Subsidia Biblica 14/1–2; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 2003), 411. It is not that the subject was characterized as a “city-builder,” as some suggest (Cassuto, Book of Genesis, 230), but rather that the subject “was building a city.” The ramifications of such a distinction should become more clear below. Some argue that Enoch must be the “city-builder” based on the formula of 4:2. Though K. Mathews does not ultimately agree with this, he explains the position well (Genesis 1–11:26, 284 n. 309). But Gen 4:17 is subtly distinct from 4:2, and, though subtle, the difference may be significant. After the name.  A few LXX manuscripts seem to presuppose ‫ בשם‬instead of the MT ‫כשם‬. Others also omit the words του υιου from the verse. These are in the minority, however, as there are many more prominent witnesses in favor of the reading put forth in the Göttingen eclectic text. For a list of these variants, see Septuaginta: Vetus Testamentum Graecum: Auctoritate Academiae Scientiarum Gottingensis editum (ed. J. W. Wevers; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1974), 99. His son Enoch.  The text is not clear here with regard to the subject of this sentence. What follows is simply an attempt to understand how different scholars have made sense of this sentence in its context. To translate this sentence is to make an interpretive decision, though it cannot be stressed enough how tentative we must remain on this issue. The majority of recent interpreters have taken Cain to be the subject, but the matter is in no way settled. It begins with the clause ‫ויהי בנה עיר‬. U. Cassuto, among others, sees Enoch (directly preceding the clause) as the subject and city-builder. He chooses to identify Enoch as the one building a city because of the similarity with the construction in 4:2, where Abel’s profession is described: ‫“( ויהי הבל רעה צאן‬And Abel was a shepherd of the flocks”) as well as Cain’s. There are important differences between the two phrases to note, however: in 4:2, ‫ הבל‬follows and is explicitly connected to ‫ויהי‬, whereas in 4:17, ‫ויהי‬ is connected directly to ‫בנה‬. Also, as we have noted already, the participle in 4:2 is pointed for construct form, and the participle in 4:17 is in absolute form.

116

Chapter 3

Instead of reading “after the name of his son” (‫ )כשם בנו‬toward the end of the verse, Westermann reads simply “after his name” (‫)כשמו‬, supposing a mistakenly inserted ‫ בנ‬into the text (Genesis 1–11, 326–27). This is quite possible. E. van Wolde maintains the reference is to Enoch without any further emendations, perhaps like Cassuto above (Stories of Beginning, 93). With “after the name of his son, Enoch” emended to “after his name, Enoch,” it could make sense to see the participial phrase ‫ בנה עיר‬as referring to Enoch. To read the text in this way requires the final ‫ חנוך‬to be a scribal gloss of some sort. Enoch, simply where it is in the text, is somewhat troublesome. Wenham feels it is slightly misplaced, and moves it up a few words (“He was building a city and Enoch called the city after his son’s name”; Genesis 1–15, 93). However, we should note that Wenham does not emend “after the name of his son” to “after his name.” He simply feels that the scribal gloss “Enoch” could have been slightly out of place (ibid., 95 n. 17d). Cassuto and Westermann both believe it is a scribal gloss but leave it where it is. Westermann does this by emending the final few words as we have shown (“and he called it Enoch, after his own name”) and Cassuto does not (Book of Genesis, 228; Westermann, Genesis 1–11, 322). Sasson suggests that the final ‫ חנוך‬was an editor’s attempt to “resolve what seemed to him a repetition of information about Enoch” (“A Genealogical Convention in Biblical Chronography?” ZAW 90 [1978]: 174). The motivation for these emendations seems to be an attempt to make sense of this verse in its context. Cain had already been condemned to a life of wandering in the preceding verse—how then (or why?) could he build a city? Wenham, Genesis 1–15, 111; R. R. Wilson, Genealogy and History, 140. Adding to the difficulty, in Westermann’s opinion, Cain has already been described in the same genealogy as a farmer (4:1), so it does not make sense for him to be described here as the builder of a city (Genesis 1–11, 327). Though from an earlier note (two prior), we may see this formulation as it is currently pointed not as a construct describing an occupation but rather as expressing a durative past action. Interpreting Enoch as the city builder would allow for a clever word-play between ‫ בנו‬and ‫( בנה‬Cassuto, Commentary on Genesis, 231). Though interpreting Cain as the ‫ בנה‬would not rule out a wordplay, per se, it would be more interesting if Enoch were the ‫בנה‬. Hamilton, for instance, appreciates the wordplay while associating Cain with the city building (The Book of Genesis, 237 n. 5). Also, if Enoch is the ‫ בנה‬then he names the city after his son, Irad. “Irad,” Wenham observes, sounds quite a bit like “Eridu,” which Mesopotamian tradition held to be the oldest city in the world (Wenham, Genesis 1–15, 111; so also Wilson, Genealogy and History, 139–40). Though J. Day points out that Irad is not named until the following verse, so “a reference to a city being named after him already in v. 17 seems premature” (“Cain and the Kenites,” 340 n. 14). All of the reasons above have been suggested in favor of a translation that sees Enoch as the subject of the clause ‫ויהי בנה עיר‬. As we have said

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

117

already, however one comes down on this translation, one must maintain a healthy skepticism regarding anyone claiming to have arrived at a solution—these can be suggestions only. We will now have a look at some possible reasons for reading the MT as it stands. Those reasons are related both to the textual witnesses and matters of syntax. As we mentioned above, the vast majority of commentators also take Cain to be the subject of this clause. In favor of the MT reading is the LXX, along with almost every other ancient version or commentary. The LXX ends the verse similarly, επι τω ονοματι του υιου αυτου, Ενωχ. J. W. Wevers, Notes on the Greek Text of Genesis (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1993), 62. So also the Targs. Onq., Neof., and Ps.-J., and Vulgate. Furthermore, Jub. 4:9 also says: “And in the first year of the first week of the fifth jubilee, houses were built on the earth, and Cain built a city, and called its name after the name of his son Enoch.” Beyond the version witnesses to the MT reading, the syntax of the verse as it stands is also possibly instructive. There are reasons to understand that the text as it stands is not the result of an accident (or intentionally emended) but rather the well-planned product of a careful redactor (or author). First of all, the participial clause in question begins with ‫ויהי‬, which, as R. B. Chisholm says, often “introduces a parenthetical note in the narrative” (From Exegesis to Exposition: A Practical Guide to Using Biblical Hebrew [Grand Rapids: Baker, 1998], 122). A parenthetical idea represents—by its very nature—a subtle disjunction in the narrative; a slight break, as it were. Were the disjunctive ‫ ויהי‬not present, it would be natural to interpret the ‫ בנה‬as referring to the immediately preceding ‫חנוך‬. This proper name + participle formula is not uncommon in the Hebrew Bible and it would not be unreasonable to think that in most of these instances, the participle offers a description of the immediately preceding proper noun (the formula occurs in the entire HB 513 times, 86 times in the Pentateuch, and 26 times in Genesis). We can be sure that the redactor is aware of this construction because he makes use of it just a few verses later within the same section (4:22, describing Tubal-cain). Here, however, something different might be going on, and the ‫ ויהי‬could be our indicator. W. Schneider tells us that, when participles appear with the verb ‫היה‬, the resulting clause often serves as a predicate nominative of sorts (Grammatik des biblischen Hebräisch: Ein Lehrbuch [5th ed.; Munich: Claudius, 1982], 210). And further, the ‫ היה‬can be used as a temporal indicator, so the parenthetical, participial clause is giving additional information to the audience about something the already established subject happened to be doing at the time of the action of the main verb in that clause. G. Bergsträsser, Hebräische Grammatik (29th ed.; Hildesheim: Olms, 1986), 73; so also B. T. Arnold and J. H. Choi (A Guide to Biblical Hebrew Syntax [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003], 81), who write that “the normally atemporal nature of the verbal participle is clarified with the addition of the verb ‫היה‬

118

Chapter 3

to express past time clearly.” All of that is to say, ‫ קין‬could just as well be the nominative subject to which ‫ ויהי‬is referring back. Though the examples are limited in number, the evidence from the Hebrew Bible bears this out, as well. There are only five instances (including this verse) of a proper noun directly followed by ‫ויהי‬, which is itself followed by a participle of any kind (also, 2 Kgs 17:28; 1 Chr 18:14; 2 Chr 24:12, 30:10). Though the evidence is limited to but five examples, in exactly none of the other four examples did the word ‫ ויהי‬refer to the directly preceding proper noun. They all referred back to a prior subject or object. Granted, three of the four proper nouns preceding the ‫ ויהי‬are place names, but all four are also in absolute form (like this verse). We can tentatively concluded that when ‫ ויהי‬is utilized within the confines of this formula, the subject (of the following prepositional clause) is located somewhere other than the immediately preceding proper noun. Contra J. Van Seters, who contends (and he is not alone) that “according to the usual rules of Hebrew syntax, the antecedent for boneh, ‘builder,’ should be Enoch” (Prologue to History, 141). So also V. Hamilton, who says that the “Hebrew syntax would permit, if not suggest, that the subject . . . was Enoch.” This is offered almost as an aside after he says that “as the Hebrew text now stands, it clearly indicates that Cain was the builder of the city” (Hamilton, The Book of Genesis, 237 n. 5). Here, it is hoped, we have demonstrated how the Hebrew syntax is, in fact, consistent with the text after all. So also C. van der Merwe et al., who write that when ‫ ויהי‬occurs with an ensuing nominal clause, it can signal that a “state of affairs needs to be treated on par with the mainstream events of the narration, and that is not mere background information” (A Biblical Hebrew Reference Grammar [Biblical Languages: Hebrew 3; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999], 332–33). What we find in this verse, then, seems to be a break with the conventional genealogical formulations. It is as though the audience is notified that something significant is being communicated—and this is done by breaking from normal patterns (or forms) of communication. This information, therefore, is likely more than Westermann would have us believe—a mundane part of a well-known genealogical formula. There may be some significance to the fact that Cain was banished to a life of a “ceaseless wanderer” (v. 12) and then founded a city. As S. Brayford adds, all of this makes good narrative sense, as well. If Cain were forced to give up his way of life as an agriculturalist, it seems likely that he would move to do something different (S. Brayford, Genesis, 255). Finally, R. Hess mentions a personal communication from K. Kitchen of possible interest to our suggested reading. Hess notes that Enoch may also be compared to the Sumerian UNUG, “which is used to designate the city Uruk. Phonologically, this logogram could be related to the Hebrew Enoch” (R. S. Hess, Studies in the Personal Names of Genesis 1–11, 143; and J. Skinner, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Genesis [ICC 1; 2nd ed. Edinburgh:

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

119

T. & T. Clark, 1930], 116–17). Hess does not feel this association is likely but does mention it as a possibility. Verse 18 Irad.  The LXX reads “Γαιδαδ,” which Hess says may reflect the similarity of ‫ ר‬and ‫ ד‬in later Hebrew orthography (Studies, 40 n. 91). Further, Syriac reads ‫עידר‬, which R. S. Hendel explains the same way (graphic confusion; The Text of Genesis 1–11: Textual Studies and Critical Edition [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998], 128). Born to Enoch.  Lit., “and he was born (Niphal waw consecutive, 3ms) to Enoch, Irad.” This is what P. Joüon and T. Muraoka call an example of an “impersonal passive” verb (A Grammar of Biblical Hebrew, 461). So also J. Gabriel, “Kainitegenealogie,” Bib 40 (1959): 410 n. 4. Note also the passive construction here is contrasted with active voice in the following clauses (B. L. Bandstra, Genesis 1–11: A Handbook on the Hebrew Text [Baylor Handbook on the Bible; Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2008], 267). B. Waltke and M. O’Connor explain that the ‫ את‬preceding Irad marks it as the subject of the Niphal (in this instance, passive) verb (An Introduction to Biblical Hebrew Syntax [Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1990], 384–85). And Mehiyael: Here, the MT lists variant spellings of this name: ‫מחויאל‬ and also ‫מחייאל‬. According to Wenham, most versions harmonize the variant readings. Cairo Genizeh, Syriac, Vulgate, and several Targums (Neofiti and Pseudo-Jonathan) harmonize to “Mehuyael,” whereas the Samaritan Pentateuch, the LXX, and later Masoretic manuscripts C3 and V harmonize to “Mehiyael” (as does Hendel in his excellent and updated critical edition of the Gen 1–11 text, The Text of Genesis 1–11, 128–29). Even though Wenham says that the former reading seems more probable, he agrees with Cassuto that the original, mixed reading of the MT might very well be the oldest (Genesis 1–15, 95 n. 18c). Cassuto adds, in favor of the mixed reading, that “no scribe would have made so noticeable a mistake,” and therefore we must conclude “that the two forms were fully intended.” Divergences such as this, he adds, “were a common practice” and to be attributed to the “oriental principles of thought and literary taste” (Cassuto, Book of Genesis, 232). In contrast to Cassuto’s claim, Hendel suggests this may simply be an example of confusion between the Hebrew graphemes ‫ י‬and ‫( ו‬The Text of Genesis 1–11, 47–48). Bore Lamech.  Here, “Lamech” is the pausal form of “Lemech” (in the following verse). Verse 19 Lemech took for himself.  The verb is a Qal waw consecutive, 3ms. In this instance, the reflexive element is not marked by the verb (often marked by Niphal, but here is Qal) but by ‫ל‬, the preposition (Waltke and O’Connor, An Introduction, 388).

120

Chapter 3

Verse 20 Bore Yabal.  LXX reads “Ιωβελ” here, according to J. Wevers, “presupposing the consonants of his brother” (Notes on the Greek, 63). H. Gunkel notes that ‫ יבל‬may have originally read ‫ אובל‬here. The corresponding word in Arabic, he notes, means “the shepherd who herds the camels” (Genesis, 53). Father of.  Some Targs. (Onq., Ps.-J.) depart from MT and read “master of ” or “ruler of ” (‫)רב‬. Those.  Lit., “of him who dwells in a tent.” Tent.  The LXX and many modern translations read “tents” here (‫)אהלי‬. Livestock.  Literally the text reads, “all who dwell in a tent and livestock.” Cassuto says that “the verb dwells, which is appropriate to tent and not to cattle, applies to both nouns by the rhetorical usage called by the Greeks zeugma. The meaning is that Jubal originated the mode of living in tents and renewed the industry of sheep-rearing, which fell into desuetude and became completely forgotten after Abel died” (Book of Genesis, 235). J. Wevers adds that this construction is associating the two practices together. That is, “those dwelling in tents” and “cattlemen” are closely associated, making Yabal, therefore, “the ancestor of nomads” (Notes on the Greek, 63). Further, the LXX omits the “and” from between “tents” and “livestock,” thus associating the two even more strongly. Brayford, Genesis, 255. Hendel suggests this LXX omission could have resulted from the graphic confusion of the conjunction ‫ ו‬and the plural indicator ‫י‬. This could have been related to a word misdivision, which produced the plural “tents” (‫ אהלי‬in the previous note; The Text of Genesis 1–11, 128). Verse 21 Father of.  Some Targums (Onqelos, Pseudo-Jonathan) depart from MT and read “master of ” or “ruler of ” (‫)רב‬. The LXX says Yubal was the one who “invented” (καταδειξας) the musical instruments, rather than the MT’s reading, where he was the “father” of those who play the instruments (Genesis, 255). Verse 22 Tubal-cain.  The LXX reads, here and in the following instance, Θοβελ, and it does not include any representation of the “cain” element to the name. Bronze and iron.  Literally, the text reads, “Now Zillah also bore Tubalcain, sharpener, every forger of bronze and iron” (the description of TubalCain reads: ‫)לטש כל־חרש נחשת וברזל‬. Some Targums (Onqelos, Pseudo-Jonathan), as in previous verses, add ‫ כל‬and also “master of ” or “ruler of ” (‫ )רב‬to “sharpener.” I agree with Wenham (Genesis 1–15, 95 n. 22 b-b) that these seem either to emend or attest to a different text. Likewise, the editors of the BHS apparatus also suggest the reading “father of those who sharpen” (‫אבי‬

The Text of Genesis 4:17–22

121

‫)כל־לטש‬, and so does Hendel (The Text of Genesis 1–11, 48). Westermann says that the absence of ‫ אבי‬indicates a disturbance in the text and favors inserting it here (Genesis 1–11, 332). So also Gunkel, who adds that ‫ לטש‬and ‫חרש‬ are “probably variants of which the more unusual ‫ לטש‬is the more original” (Genesis, 53). However one chooses to render the text, we can be fairly sure of the essence of what is being communicated: each of Lamech’s sons are credited with founding some element of civilized life, no matter what the wording of the text may be.

Chapter 4

Ancient Near Eastern Context This chapter is an examination of the ancient Near Eastern context of our passage in Genesis and represents the final piece in the interpretive “puzzle,” so to speak. Upon completion of this chapter, it will become possible to combine these separate pieces, enumerated in the preceding chapters, and engage the Genesis text in a more informed manner. In effect, this will be the last “data” chapter before a synthesis can be attempted. Here my concern will be to recover, as much as possible, elements of the ancient cognitive environment relating to our topic. 1 More often than not, expressions of belief or world view can be gleaned from a careful study of the literature, so fittingly, the bulk of the chapter will be devoted to doing precisely that. It will be organized in such a way that the concepts may be easily developed and understood. That is to say, the logic is entirely my own, and any order perceived must not be mistakenly construed as ancient. Furthermore, the isolation of Mesopotamian thought and literature could also be somewhat misleading. The ancient Near Eastern world was much more intricately interconnected than time and space will allow me to demonstrate here. 2 It was a veritable exchange of ideas, beliefs, and technologies that were transmitted from one place to another by way of mercantile trade routes, scribal schools, and military conquests. 3 The focus on Mesopotamian literature is entirely practical and speaks little to the value of a careful study of other ancient Near Eastern cultures, especially so far as their con1. See pp. 12–13 for a refresher of this concept or a justification of its importance. 2. Some of these complexities will be addressed in footnotes, though most I will leave for others to explore elsewhere. 3. G. Buccellati furnishes an example of this process by way of an Egyptian scribal school: the best-preserved copy of the Mesopotamian myth Adapa and the South Wind (ASW) is on a tablet found in Egypt as part of the Amarna archives and was used as a part of Egyptian scribal training. It was necessary for these scribes to learn the diplomatic lingua franca of the day—which happened to be Akkadian—and texts such as ASW were copied and recopied in these schools in order to provide the needed practice for properly learning the language. “The influence of these texts,” Buccellati writes, “was most likely to be felt not only on the linguistic, but also on the cultural level: concepts and formulations were more apt to be assimilated and borrowed from one culture to the other through the intermediary of the scribal school” (“Adapa, Genesis, and the Notion of Faith,” UF 5 [1973]: 61).

122

Ancient Near Eastern Context

123

tribution to biblical studies is concerned. 4 I should also mention that what follows is not intended to be a comprehensive survey by any stretch of the imagination. Rather, it is an overview of the pertinent discussions, designed to bring the highlights of what is going on in the world of Mesopotamian studies to a wider audience of biblical scholars.

Mesopotamian Literature The literature under discussion in this survey is limited to those texts expressing broadly similar ideas to the passage in Genesis. That is, there are texts that offer clues to how the ancients may have believed their culture came to be civilized in protohistorical times, 5 and they will be surveyed below. As already mentioned, the resulting order of texts is entirely fabricated so as to communicate these shared concepts as effectively as possible—the construct is entirely modern and bears little or no correspondence to any ancient arrangement of the stories. Furthermore, these ideas are gleaned from a variety of textual genres, such as myth, legend, ritual texts, court records, chronicles, and so on. 6 Again, the point of the following survey is to seek clues of any sort—and from any textual genre—that shed light on the process by which the Mesopotamians believed themselves to have been civilized in protohistorical times. An assumption here, per the introductory chapter, is that a survey of this sort will help us in turn to more effectively understand the biblical text, as well as principles of mythic history writing in general. In other words, the driving question here is this: how did the Mesopotamians conceive of their beginnings (pertaining to the rise of 4. Also as noted already, commentators of our Genesis passage consistently refer to the Mesopotamian material, so it is important to examine it further. 5. As well as the world around them, of course. It is worth noting that some ancient cultures considered the entire world to be made civil by advancements of their own cultures, which is in contrast to the ideas of the Hebrew Bible (as enumerated in the previous chapter). These ideas will of course be more fully developed in the following section. 6. This is again in contrast to the Hebrew Bible, where the primary means of telling this part of the story (and the only means in Gen 4:17–22) is by way of the genealogical genre. Genealogies were one of many ancient modes of recounting the past, and a relatively minor mode at that (as we saw in the preceding chapter). As Frahm observes (already mentioned elsewhere) in the ancient Near East: “there is a striking diversity of historiographical genres and breadth of the concept of history” (Frahm et al., “Historiography,” 420). Furthermore, a single piece of literature can function differently in different contexts or situations, and the reverse is also true—that different genres of literature can function the same way as well. Sparks says that common generic categories can even be determined on the basis of function of texts, as opposed to literary form. They might be different literary genres but serve similar functions or purposes, and he calls these “functionally equivalent” genres. His example is Hebrew prophecy and Mesopotamian omen texts—both serve as what he and others call “intermediary” texts (Ancient Texts, 14–15). We are therefore justified in studying texts from a variety of genres to reconstruct the conceptual world of our passage.

124

Chapter 4

civilization) and how might that help us understand the way Israel thought of her past? Some cultures seem to have had a relatively clear understanding of this process, whereas others tended not to have collected their thoughts in such an organized fashion. So it was in Mesopotamia, and the task will be to piece together scattered ideas from various fragments in order to reconstruct and communicate any sort of synthetic review. 7 It should also be noted that the treatment of each text will be selectively brief, only giving enough information to demonstrate effectively the presence or development of the ideas pertinent to our discussion. Relevant portions of the texts themselves will be included when appropriate, though again, only enough of the texts to communicate the relevant ideas will be considered. Should one wish to consult a more complete version of a particular text for further study, references will be provided in the footnotes and bibliography. Mesopotamia (Greek, “between the rivers”) is a term given to the fertile, alluvial land nestled between the Tigris and the Euphrates rivers, which today is known as Iraq. The area was inhabited primarily by two distinct peoples, the Sumerians and the Akkadians, whose struggle for control of the land lasted for nearly two millennia. The literature from this region is a reflection of the complex intermingling of these two people groups. In order to appreciate this literature more fully, then, it would be prudent to consider first some rudimentary matters of historical importance, which I will cover in the following historical survey. Historical Background The Sumerians were a non-Semitic people group of unknown origin. 8 The inability of scholars to explain their origins satisfactorily has led some to refer to their appearance as the “Sumerian phenomenon.” 9 Little is 7. Even with those cultures that had a fairly clear understanding of the process, at times it is impossible to draw concrete conclusions due to the paucity of extant textual evidence. Furthermore, with some cultures, scholars debate whether or not one “consensus” view can even be extrapolated. Ancient Egypt is one example of which some scholars argue that what has come to us represents many competing schools of belief and thought, rather than a cohesive, unified system of understanding. W. Hallo, for example, mentions Egypt as having three distinct “intellectual perspectives,” though he adds that older Mesopotamian thought might have been subsumed under three theological schools as well (“Enki and the Theology of Eridu: A Review of S. N. Kramer’s ‘Myths of Enki,’” JAOS 116 [1996]: 231). 8. Three recent, helpful, and detailed treatments of the historical periods discussed here are Kuhrt, The Ancient Near East; M. van de Mieroop, A History of the Ancient Near East ca. 3000–323 bc (2nd ed.; Oxford: Blackwell, 2007); and B. R. Foster and K. P. Foster Civilizations of Ancient Iraq (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009). 9. See, for example, the discussion of J. Reade. He also includes a helpful bibliography for further study (“Sumerian Origins,” in Sumerian Gods and Their Representations [ed. I. L. Finkel and M. J. Geller; CM; Groningen: STYX, 1997]).

Ancient Near Eastern Context

125

known of the details of their appearance, as there is no trace of written records until much later in history (an estimate is around 1,000 years later than the supposed time of their appearance). 10 It is possible that they either entered Mesopotamia from the south, via the Persian Gulf, or the east prior to or during the fourth millennium, during which time, the land was inhabited by a Semite people. 11 It is conceivable that they would have appeared much earlier than this. J. Oates cites the lack of real evidence for any sort of “invasion” around this time in conjunction with the evidence for the continuity of what appears to be an already diverse culture to suggest the possibility of a much earlier Sumerian presence—perhaps even before the Ubaid period. 12 W. Hallo observes that more recent discoveries have called this theory into question, however, and for the sake of simplicity, we may assume some sort of Sumerian infiltration at some point(s) in time. 13 The Sumerians, it is supposed, subdued the native Semites and took control of the land, settling primarily in the southern part of the land. 14 While the 10. D. Charpin further explains that “while writing emerged around 3200 b.c.e., more than six centuries elapsed before the appearance of ” what he calls “the earliest ‘historical’” writing, and these were in the forms of commemorative inscriptions (“The History of Ancient Mesopotamia: An Overview,” in CANE, 808). 11. In favor of entering via Persian Gulf: Hallo and Simpson, The Ancient Near East, 24. Favoring entry from the East: S. N. Kramer, Sumerian Mythology: A Study of the Spiritual and Literary Achievement in the Third Millennium bc (rev. ed.; Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997), 6. J. Gruber cites the highlands of Elam as a possible source of origins. J. W. Gruber, “Irrigation and Land Use in Ancient Mesopotamia,” Agricultural History 22/2 (1948): 71. Regarding Semites in the land, Hallo dates their entrance to 3100 (Hallo and Simpson, The Ancient Near East, 24) All dates and references to time in this chapter, unless noted otherwise, refer to the period of history coming before the common era (dated roughly to the time of Christ). That is, there will be no “b.c.” or “b.c.e.” indicators. . 12. The Ubaid period was ca. 5000. For a more detailed discussion, see J. Oates, “Ur and Eridu: Prehistory,” Iraq 22 (1960): 46–48. Similarly, P. Garelli notes that “the longheld idea [among scholars] of a struggle between the Sumerian and Akkadian elements of the population . . . has been rejected” (“The Changing Facets of Conservative Mesopotamian Thought,” Daedalus 104/2 [1975]: 49). 13. Hallo and Simpson, The Ancient Near East, 22 n. 42. For a brief and balanced discussion on Sumerian origins, see J. N. Postgate, Early Mesopotamia: Society and Economy at the Dawn of History (London: Routledge, 1992), 23–24. See also, Reade, “Sumerian Origins.” 14. It is common to divide Mesopotamia geographically into three areas: the South, the North, and North Syria; A. C. Cohen, Death Rituals, Ideology, and the Development of Early Mesopotamian Kingship: Toward a New Understanding of Iraq’s Royal Cemetery of Ur (Ancient Magic and Divination 7; Leiden: Brill, 2005), 39. Most of the Semite and Sumerian interactions took place in the southern region, which is where this study will focus. The northern settlement was named after its most well-known settlement, Assur, and was called Assyria. For a history of this region, see J. Læssø, People of Ancient Assyria: Their Inscriptions and Correspondence (trans. F. S. Leigh-Browne. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1963); and H. W. F. Saggs, The Might That Was Assyria (Sidgwick & Jackson Great Civilizations Series; London: Sidgwick & Jackson, 1984).

126

Chapter 4

ruling power, the Sumerians made many important advances in their cultural, socioeconomic, and political organization that would leave a lasting impact on those cultures who came into contact with them in the years to follow. 15 Rather than a united rule, however, ancient materials describe a land that was divided into more than 30 autonomous city-states, each with its own ruler (Sumerian, ensi, among other terms) and patron deity. 16 Hallo notes that, in spite of the fragmentary nature of the city-states, the Sumerians did share a similar culture, language, economy, and most likely even had a shared set of religious beliefs. Through these uniting factors, they formed a sort of coalition, known as the Kengir League. 17 The religious center was established in Nippur, where the patron deity Enlil rose to supremacy over the rest of the Sumerian pantheon. 18 By the beginning of the third millennium, the Semites had gained enough strength to push the Sumerians further into the southern part of the land, and the land remained in this way divided for a few more hundred years. 19 This period in history is generally referred to as the “Early Dynastic period.” Midway through the third millennium, 20 a strong Semitic king 15. R. M. Whiting notes that the Sumerian realm of influence might have even extended as far as Pre-dynastic Egypt: “There is also evidence of Mesopotamian contact with, if not a physical presence in Predynastic Egypt” (“Amorite Tribes and Nations of Second-Millennium Western Asia,” in CANE, 1232). 16. For other terms to describe these rulers, see W. G. Lambert (“Kingship in Ancient Mesopotamia,” in King and Messiah in Israel and the Ancient Near East: Proceedings of the Oxford Old Testament Seminar [ed. J. Day; JSOTSup; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998], 56–57). On patron deities, see Charpin, “Ancient Mesopotamia,” 809. This semi-autonomous city-state mode of organization was firmly established in that part of the world already. See G. Algaze et al. for a more detailed description of this fragmentation in the earlier Uruk period (“The Uruk Expansion: Cross-cultural Exchange in Early Mesopotamian Civilization,” Current Anthropology 30/5 [1989]: 589–90). 17. Hallo and Simpson, The Ancient Near East, 43. 18. Charpin, “Ancient Mesopotamia,” 809. See also Postgate, Early Mesopotamia, 34–35. 19. This coexistence was not necessarily hostile. M.-C. Poo examines the mixed nature of the language from around this time to suggest as much in Enemies of Civilization: Attitudes toward Foreigners in Ancient Mesopotamia, Egypt, and China (SUNY Series in Chinese Philosophy and Culture; Albany: State University of New York Press, 2005), 29–31. Writing specifically of the Early Dynastic III period (ca. 2600–2300), A. Cohen explains that while the land was not “politically unified . . . it was culturally unified. All the city-states within Southern Mesopotamia relied on a common system of food procurement, namely irrigation agriculture, which made them dependent on the same plant and animal species. This economic base supported a high level of urban settlement. . . . Thus, in terms of economy, settlement patterns, politics, and even world view, we may consider Southern Mesopotamia to have been a single cultural unit” (Death Rituals, 39–40). 20. Circa 2350, according to A. Westenholz, although she notes that “almost everything pertaining to the Sargonic period is a matter of controversy” (W. Sallaberger and A. Westenholz, Mesopotamien: Akkade-Zeit und Ur III-Zeit [OBO 160/3; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag, 1999], 18).

Ancient Near Eastern Context

127

named Sargon arose, who would founded the Akkad Dynasty—the first of the great Semitic empires, which would continue to rise and fall in one form or another until Alexander the Great would come and conquer some 2,000 years later. 21 Sargon made it a practice of carrying off his vanquished foes into captivity and settling Semites in their place. His rise to power over the Sumerians therefore marked a transition, one that signaled the beginning of the end for the Sumerians, as well as a transition from city-state independence to a newfound national unity in the land. This new unity also brought heretofore unknown prosperity to these city-states, long used to competition and strife. 22 Hallo writes that Sargon “laid the basis for a new departure in Mesopotamian political organization and ushered in a complex of social, religious, and artistic innovations that deserve to be regarded as a kind of cultural explosion.” 23 This new imperialistic mindset was so powerful that it essentially created an ideology of unification that served to legitimize all subsequent progress—both Assyrian and Babylonian. 24 The Sumerians would unite and temporarily reconquer the land toward the end of the third millennium to form what was known as the “Third Dynasty of Ur” or the “Ur III Dynasty,” but the Semites played such an important role in the brief flowering of this “Neo-Sumerian” kingdom that the last three kings of the dynasty bore Semitic names. Though the Ur III Dynasty was short lived, relatively speaking, it brought about what J. Klein calls “a political and cultural renaissance for Sumer that exercised tremendous influence on contemporaneous and future generations.” 25 Nonetheless, Ur, their last capital, was destroyed ca. 2000, and the Sumerians gradually faded into obscurity as a political entity. 26 The decay of the Ur III Dynasty was partly the result of the movements of the Amurru. 27 More commonly known as Amorites, they were a Semitic 21. This period is referred to variously as the “Old Akkadian period,” “Akkadian period,” or the “Sargonic period.” 22. J. Klein, “Royal Ideaology and State Administration in Hittite Anatolia,” in CANE, 840. See also H. Weiss et al., “The Genesis and Collapse of Third Millennium North Mesopotamian Civilization,” Science n.s. 261/5124 (1993): 998. 23. Hallo and Simpson, The Ancient Near East, 54. 24. H. Weiss says this unification was “economic, ethnic and regional” (Weiss et al., “The Genesis and Collapse,” 999). Though Weiss was speaking specifically of building innovations, the unity of the Akkad Dynasty enjoyed a much more comprehensive, widespread and lasting impact. 25. More specifically, J. Klein was speaking of the second—and most prominent— ruler of the Ur III Dynasty, Shulgi of Ur (elsewhere, Šulgi), who was most directly responsible for bringing this “renaissance” about (“Shulgi of Ur: King of a Neo-Sumerian Empire,” in CANE, 843). 26. For one of the more detailed historical treatments of the region up until ca. 2000, refer to Nissen, Early History. 27. For a fuller picture of the end of the Ur III Dynasty, see Kuhrt, The Ancient Near East, 70–73.

128

Chapter 4

people who had already begun to migrate to Mesopotamia from the west well before the end of the third millennium. 28 From ca. 2000 to 1800, there were various competing city-states rising into and falling out of prominence in southern Mesopotamia, most notably Isin and Larsa. Often, this is referred to as the “Isin-Larsa period” or the “Early Old Babylonian period.” 29 Around 1800, the Amorites established the city of Babylon as their new capital, and would rule intermittently for about 500 years. 30 Because of Babylon’s prominence, the new, united Amorite kingdom would come to be known as Babylonia. Consequently, this period is often referred to as the “Old Babylonian period,” and some of these rulers of this time enjoyed international significance, short lived as it may have been. 31 The most renowned Amorite king was Hammurabi, who united the two lands for a brief time near the end of his reign. 32 Though the northern and southern lands would continue to vie for supremacy, Babylonia would also be the title used by the Kassite rulers, when they put an end to city-states once and for all by uniting the two land areas. 33 Van de Mieroop refers to what followed as the beginning of the “territo28. For a helpful discussion of this people and their migration, see I. J. Gelb, “The Early History of the West Semitic Peoples,” JCS 15/1 (1961): 29. Both Akkadian and Sumerian terms for the Amurru, amurru and mar.tu, respectively, were used for the position of a compass designating the westerly direction (Poo, Enemies of Civilization, 40). The earliest known cuneiform occurrence of Sumerian m a r. t u comes from a tablet discovered in Fara and can be dated to ca. 2600–2500. Whiting, “Amorite Tribes,” 1234. Elsewhere, I. Gelb has suggested that the Amurru came not from the west but rather from the southeastern part of Mesopotamia near the Persian Gulf, though perhaps he is overstepping the evidence (“An Old Babylonian List of Amorites,” JAOS 88 [1968]: 43). 29. As this is simply an overview in broad strokes, we need not say anything further. For more on this particular period in Mesopotmian history, see Hallo and Simpson, The Ancient Near East, 84–97; and, more recently, Kuhrt, The Ancient Near East, 74–80; and van de Mieroop, A History of the Ancient Near East, 85–94. 30. Surprisingly, little is known of the Amorites, and one of the main reasons this is so is that they left little trace of their own written language (many Amorite personal names exist, however). With reference to this, R. Whiting says “When people that we know to be Amorites write, they write in Akkadian and it is very difficult to separate out anything that may be specific to the Amorites in what they say. For these reasons, we do not have a literature that we can specifically attribute to the Amorites” (“Amorite Tribes,” 1231). 31. See also Hallo and Simpson, The Ancient Near East, 98–99, fig. 18, for a convenient list of the royal houses of this period along with their rulers. 32. He ruled from 1792 to 1750, and the kingdom he established endured roughly another 200 years after his death ( J. M. Sasson, “King Hammurabi of Babylon,” in CANE, 905, 913). See also M. van de Mieroop, King Hammurabi of Babylon: A Biography (Oxford: Blackwell, 2005). 33. As B. T. Arnold says, “How the Kassites came to power is beyond the grasp of historical reconstruction” (Who Were the Babylonians? [SBLABS 10; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2004], 64). Van de Mieroop suggests the Kassites were fully in power by 1475, having incorporated Babylon into their territory (A History of the Ancient Near East, 123).

Ancient Near Eastern Context

129

rial states.” 34 The Old Babylonian period had ended more than a century earlier with the sack of Babylon by the Hittite king Mursili in 1595, 35 and again various city-states were vying for control. The Kassites finally filled the power vacuum created by Mursili. This period in Mesopotamian history is often referred to as the “Kassite period” or the “Middle Babylonian period.” In all, the unified Kassite rule would last 450 years and finally come to an end ca. 1155. 36 Concurrently in the north, Assyria was beginning to establish itself as a powerful new force in the Near East. By the end of the second millennium, Assyria had become the dominant military power in Mesopotamia (the “Middle Assyrian period” was ca. 1350–1200 37), though Babylon remained the cultural hub far into the “Neo-Assyrian period” (ca. 900–600). 38 The first millennium was the beginning of what some refer to as the “Age of Empires,” when many former territorial states became united under Assyrian rule. Babylon would rise once more when Assyrian king Ashurbanipal died and Assyrian hegemony over southern Mesopotamia waned. 39 With help from the Medes, themselves filling a power vacuum left by Assyria’s defeat of the Elamites, the Babylonians established an empire of their own in what is now known as the “Neo-Babylonian period” (ca. 600–539). The “Persian period” soon followed the ascension of Cyrus the Great to the throne in 559. In 539, he successfully layed siege to Babylon, bringing all Neo-Babylonian lands under the control of the Persian Empire, where they remained until Alexander the Great effectively brought ancient Near Eastern history to an end with his conquest of Persia, before his untimely death in 323.

34. Ibid., 85–94. 35. Ibid., 119. 36. W. Sommerfeld, “The Kassites of Ancient Mesopotamia: Origins, Politics, and Culture,” in CANE, 918. Like the foreign Amorites before them, the Kassites differed culturally and linguistically from the Babylonians but were somehow unable (or unwilling?) to alter the cultural and religious landscape of Babylonia. 37. Hallo and Simpson, The Ancient Near East, 113–17. 38. Saggs, Civilization before Greece and Rome, 8. The interested reader is also directed to the excellent and brief historical summary in M. T. Larsen, “The Tradition of Empire in Mesopotamia,” in Power and Propaganda: A Symposium on Ancient Empires (ed. M. T. Larsen; Copenhagen Studies in Assyriology; Copenhagen: Akademik Vorlag, 1979), 75– 90; and the more thorough and recent Kuhrt, The Ancient Near East, 473–546; and van de Mieroop, A History of the Ancient Near East, 229–69. 39. The details of the actual end of the Neo-Assyrian period are not clear. See Kuhrt, The Ancient Near East, 540–46; and van de Mieroop, A History of the Ancient Near East, 266–69. See also P. Machinist, “The Fall of Assyria in Comparative Ancient Perspective,” in Assyria 1995: Proceedings of the 10th Anniversary Symposium of the Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, Helsinki, September 7–11, 1995 (ed. S. Parpola and R. M. Whiting; Helsinki: NeoAssyrian Text Corpus Project, 1997); and S. C. Melville, “A New Look at the End of the Assyrian Empire,” in Homeland and Exile: Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honour of Bustenay Oded (ed. G. Galil et al.; Leiden: Brill, 1999).

130

Chapter 4

Literary Milieu The preceding historical sketch should be enough to communicate at least some of the ancient region’s complicated history. Understandably, then, the literature is often a tangled web of religious, social and political ideas, and in many ways mirrors the patterns of the region’s political history. As one of the competing peoples would rise to prominence, so too would their respective arts and literature. When tides turned, as they were wont to do, ideas would be absorbed into those of the usurper. Often, these ideas found expression in the literature. 40 As this process continued for the better part of two millennia, it is at times difficult to distinguish a purely Sumerian idea from an Akkadian idea. 41 Moreover, beyond the very broadest of generalizations, it is even difficult to agree on which language was predominantly spoken at any given time. 42 For these reasons, and because the literature of Sumer and Akkad co-existed for so long, Michalowski observes that it might even be somewhat an artificial distinction to speak of strictly “Sumerian” or “Akkadian” literature. 43 So Foster explains that “the two traditions are so closely connected that one can speak of a hybrid Sumero-Akkadian literary culture.” 44 The earliest writing in the world first appeared in Uruk as lexical and administrative texts and dates to ca. 3100. 45 Though it cannot be known for 40. As already noted in the previous chapter, the term for this function of literature is charter. For a brief definition and discussion of genealogy as charter, see p. 82. W. G. Lambert provides a very helpful study following the process of change Mesopotamian myths underwent relative to the shifting political climate in the Babylonian Empire (“Mesopotamian Creation Stories,” in Imagining Creation [ed. M. J. Geller and M. Schipper; IJS Studies in Judaica 5; Leiden: Brill, 2008]). 41. This is not to say that tracing a given idea is without merit or not possible, as the following section will soon attempt to demonstrate. 42. S. Dalley writes of the Ur III period: “Until quite recently, it was supposed that Sumerian was the indigenous, spoken language of Ur and Uruk at that time, but now we think that this may not have been the case.” Later, she writes that some have even suggested Akkadian was the primary spoken language as far back as the early third millennium (Myths from Mesopotamia, 42). Also, R. Biggs has noted the surprisingly consistent Semitic elements in Sumerian names, as found on Early Dynastic Sumerian texts (R. D. Biggs, “The Abū Salābīkh Tablets: A Preliminary Survey,” JCS 20/2 [1966]: 77–78). 43. Michalowski, “Sumerian Literature,” 2279. Scholars have long been aware of the difficulty of distinguishing between the two cultures, their literature and beliefs. In 1916, M. Jastrow warned, “To be sure, we must proceed cautiously in such attempted differentiation, both because of the uncertainty still prevailing in renderings of Sumerian texts and because of the mixed character of the Babylonian religion—composed of Sumerian and Semitic elements even in the earliest period to which our material carries us back” (“Sumerian and Akkadian Views of Beginnings,” JAOS 36 [1916]: 274). 44. Foster, Before the Muses, 44. 45. H. J. Nissen et al., Archaic Bookkeeping: Early Writing and Techniques of Economic Administration in the Ancient Near East (trans. P. Larsen. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 4. See also C. B. Walker, who has a different and equally plausible theory

Ancient Near Eastern Context

131

certain, scholars generally assume this language was Sumerian. 46 The earliest narrative and poetic texts came from around 2500, and little of this early Sumerian can be deciphered. 47 Akkadian literature likely made its appearance during the Akkad Dynasty and subsequently died down during the following Ur III Dynasty when Sumerian literature thrived once again. While practically nothing of this Akkad Dynasty literature survived, 48 J. Bottéro describes the Ur III period “a veritable renaissance” during which Sumerian literature “attained its peak of invention and perfection.” 49 One may recall from the historical survey, however, that by the Ur III Dynasty the Sumerian population was heavily inundated with a Semitic presence, and, as such, was susceptible to Semitic influence. It would be safe to say that by this point, the lines had begun to blur between the literary products of these two great cultures, as Michalowski has already indicated. To complicate matters further, most of the surviving Sumerian myths come from the first few centuries of the second millennium (the Old Babylonian period), by which point Sumerian had long ceased being spoken. 50 It was only understood by the well-educated Akkadian scribes of the day, who recopied the myths deemed worthy of preservation. 51 After about 1600, W. G. Lambert writes, that number was fast dwindling. Just a handful of Sumerian myths continued to be copied, and many were lost altogether. 52 (Cuneiform,” in Reading the Past: Ancient Writing from Cuneiform to the Alphabet [ed. J. T. Hooker; New York: Barnes & Noble, 1998], 17–21). 46. H. L. J. Vanstiphout agrees, saying that “thorough and painstaking studies . . . have removed most of the doubts that the language of the documents is Sumerian” (“Memory and Literacy in Ancient Western Asia,” in CANE, 2182). 47. Michalowski, “Sumerian Literature,” 2281. 48. A. R. George says, “The early texts in Akkadian dating from this period include a very small body of literature” (The Epic of Gilgamesh: The Babylonian Epic Poem and Other Texts in Akkadian and Sumerian [New York: Barnes & Noble, 1999], xvii). In contrast with the paucity of textual evidence, much Akkad Dynasty artwork has been discovered. This attests quite clearly to the lively literary and oral traditions that must have been swirling about during this time (E. Porada, Ancient Art in Seals [Franklin Jasper Walls Lectures; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980], 10). 49. J. Bottéro, “Akkadian Literature: An Overview,” in CANE, 2293. 50. P. Michalowski, “Ancient Poetics,” in Mesopotamian Poetic Language: Sumerian and Akkadian (ed. M. E. Vogelzang and H. L. J. Vanstiphout; CM; Groningen: STYX, 1996), 145. 51. D. Carr notes that scribal training focused primarily on Sumerian hymns and epics for their training. For a discussion of the particular texts that made up this “curriculum,” see D. M. Carr, Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 24–25. Millard notes in a personal correspondence (May 2009) that though in fact very few literary texts actually have reached us from the Akkadian or Ur III periods, we may safely assume that the Sumerian literature copied in the Old Babylonian period did indeed originate in the Ur III period. So also, Black et al., The Literature of Ancient Sumer, xlvii. 52. W. G. Lambert, “Myth and Mythmaking in Sumer and Akkad,” in CANE, 1825. Michalowski notes, however, that more Sumerian works have been discovered from the

132

Chapter 4

Though some extant Akkadian texts date back to the period when Akkadian literature began to flourish (the 18th century), most come from much later in history. In other words, the texts that exist are often later representations of earlier material, most likely pointing back in time to a much older tradition. 53 A related item for consideration in this discussion is the reality of oral traditions antedating the first known literary discoveries by what could be hundreds of years. B. Alster mentions the distinct possibility that this number might actually be much larger: “What we can learn from Sumerian sources is . . . that proverbs, folktales, and storytelling are much older than the oldest written sources known to us, and, in fact, may already have existed thousands of years prior to the world’s oldest written sources.” 54 Lambert agrees, and says that it is reasonable to conclude that “oral myths existed before writing was invented,” and that they “had been in existence for millennia before we first know them in written form.” 55 Nor may we assume that the concept of an oral tradition died out once writing came to flourish. Rather, as D. Carr demonstrates, oral and written traditions existed side by side as “joint means for accomplishing a common goal: accurate recall of the treasured tradition.” 56 Further, in the Near East, the idea of what it meant to be an “author” was very different from our modern conception. It was acceptable practice for ancient authors or storytellers to adapt a tale to their particular surroundings because “the ancient world had no proper titles, no sense of literary rights, and no aversion to what we call plagiarism. Succeeding ages often rewrote old texts to suit new language forms and tastes.” 57 As an example, 1st millennium than previously thought: “More and more we are becoming aware of the fact that a much larger proportion of Sumerian literary texts were known in later periods than had until recently been expected.” P. Michalowski, “The Early History of the Ershahunga Prayer,” JCS 39/1 (1987): 38. 53. However, as Lambert notes, it is likely that the standard works of Akkadian literature in “the form in which they are known from late libraries” actually became standardized as early as the Kassite period (“Ancestors, Authors and Canonicity,” JCS 11/1 [1957]: 7). 54. B. Alster, “Epic Tales from Ancient Sumer: Enmerkar, Lugalbanda, and Other Cunning Heroes,” in CANE, 2315. 55. Lambert, “Myth and Mythmaking,” 1826. See also, S. Izre′el, “Mesopotamian Literature in Contemporary Setting: Translating Akkadian Myths,” in Mesopotamian Poetic Language: Sumerian and Akkadian (ed. M. E. Vogelzang and H. L. J. Vanstiphout; CM; Groningen: STYX, 1996), 85–86. 56. Carr, Tablet of the Heart, 7. So it can be said of the Sumerian literary tradition that it was “paradoxically, not exclusively a literate one. Examining the different sources for individual works shows us that compositions were passed on not through the copying of earlier manuscripts but through dictation, repetition, and memorization” (Black et al., The Literature of Ancient Sumer, xlviii, emphasis original). 57. Lambert and Millard, Atra-ḫasīs, 5. Elsewhere, Lambert writes that “the authors of ancient cosmologies were essentially compilers. Their originality was expressed in new

Ancient Near Eastern Context

133

S. Dalley writes of Enheduana, “daughter of Sargon of Akkad . . . holder of the most prestigious temple office at Ur, and traditionally the authoress of the Sumerian Collection of Temple Hymns. We now know much of that work existed long before her lifetime, and was revised and augmented after her death; this did not undermine her credibility as an author in antiquity but rather enhanced it.” 58 This mentality, and its concomitant praxis, led to many texts of unknown provenance being transmitted orally as well as in writing—some contemporaneously and often in divergent forms. 59 Often these forms are so varied that they can hardly be taken to represent unintentional mistakes of the storyteller. Rather, it seems more likely that they represent a “flourishing oral tradition” that was “continually changing in order to fit in with local interests and relate to the experience of particular audiences.” 60 At times it was not just the oral traditions that were developed but the literary as well. As we will see below, it was perfectly acceptable for written genealogies and lists to display considerable variation. 61 J. Tigay speaks to what he calls the “evolution” of the Gilgamesh Epic through time due to factors such as

combinations of old themes and in new twists to old ideas. Sheer invention was not part of their craft” (“A New Look at the Babylonian Background of Genesis,” JTS 16 [1965]: 2970). So also Foster, Before the Muses, 21–22; and Glassner, who says that even “documents that had no intrinsic connection to each other could be patched together” (Mesopotamian Chronicles, 15). J. S. Cooper notes that at times this rewriting was not done so skillfully. He surveyed several examples in which it seems as though the updating author “gratuitously” repeated written formulas, often to the detriment of the older text’s style and artistry (“Symmetry and Repetition in Akkadian Narrative,” JAOS 97 [1977]: 509–12). As a related example, Sanders suggests the later versions of the Etana Epic were rewritten in such a way that “it appears to suggest the Old Babylonian version was not fully understood in later periods” (“Writing, Ritual, and Apocalypse,” 85 and n. 67). 58. Dalley, Myths from Mesopotamia, 3. For further discussion of Enheduana, see W. W. Hallo and J. J. A. van Dijk, The Exaltation of Inanna (YNER 3; New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1968), 1–11. 59. Lambert, “Myth and Mythmaking,” 1825. See also, J. G. Westenholz, “Oral Traditions and Written Texts in the Cycle of Akkade,” in Mesopotamian Epic Literature: Oral or Aural? (ed. M. E. Vogelzang and H. L. J. Vanstiphout; Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 1992); and M. E. Vogelzang, “Some Aspects of Oral and Written Tradition in Akkadian,” in Mesopotamian Epic Literature: Oral or Aural? (ed. M. E. Vogelzang and H. L. J. Vanstiphout; Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 1992). Though see the warning of pressing the limited evidence too far in Foster, Before the Muses, 45. 60. Dalley, Myths from Mesopotamia, 43. See R. Drews’s discussion of the Sargon Legend, “Sargon, Cyrus and Mesopotamian Folk History,” JNES 33 (1974): 387–93; and J. Hansman’s discussion of the Gilgamesh Epic, “Gilgamesh, Humbaba.” See further Hallo’s discussion of Assyrian adaptation of Babylonian stories in general, “Assyrian Historiography Revisited,” ErIsr 14 (1978): 1*–7*. More generally, G. Komoróczy examines the development of Akkadian literary works out of Sumerian sources (“Berosos and the Mesopotamian Literature,” Acta antiqua academiae scientiarum hungaricae 21 [1973]: 125–42). 61. Sanders, “Writing, Ritual, and Apocalypse,” 35 n. 21.

134

Chapter 4

“historical stimulus” and “theological reflection.” 62 So stories were changed and adapted to fit the needs of a particular audience, something considered to be a completely acceptable practice of the day. In other words, traditions, like genres, were also somewhat fluid. K. Sparks writes that “ancient Near Eastern literature reflects both a healthy respect for tradition and obvious tendencies to revise and reformulate these inherited traditions. Scholars now generally recognize that many ancient works . . . have undergone a number of changes and revisions over the course of their transmission history.” 63 As a result of all that has been mentioned, it was not at all unusual for anachronisms to appear in texts. That is, as stories were adapted for particular audiences, certain elements of the story—especially things such as gods, place names, and people—fit more naturally with the receiving audience than with the world of the text (appearing out of place in that world). As texts were adapted and updated as a matter of practice, the appearance of anachronism was not at all unusual or out of place. 64 It would be prudent, before moving on to the next section, to review the main ideas that have been covered here. The literature that will soon be studied is the result of a complicated historical process. Varied, and at times conflicting, cultural forces shaped the ideas expressed in the literature, often so much so that it becomes difficult to locate a particular idea’s origin. Stories were borrowed, recopied and adapted as necessary, and the texts that have come to us are themselves later representations of much earlier traditions. Bearing this in mind, the next section will touch on some of the more important themes to be developed in the textual examination. Intellectual Milieu Here, I will briefly preview the ideas on which the following portions of this chapter will expound. I will only introduce them here in order to give 62. J. H. Tigay, The Evolution of the Gilgamesh Epic (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1982), 81, 100–109. 63. Sparks, Ancient Texts, 20. Sparks was speaking specifically with reference to the Hebrew Bible, but the validity of his statement can undoubtedly be more broadly appreciated. We must be careful here to note that though stories were adapted and updated quite readily as a common matter of practice, scribes were by and large extremely faithful in their reproductions. We must also note that not all texts were updated, but rather they could have been preserved faithfully for many hundreds of years (for example, the Code of Hammurabi). See A. R. Millard, “In Praise of Ancient Scribes,” BA 45/3 (1982): 143–53. For ancient scribes and their practices, see Lambert, “Ancestors”; and more generally, L. E. Pearce (“The Scribes and Scholars of Ancient Mesopotamia,” in CANE, 2265–78); and Black et al., (The Literature of Ancient Sumer, xl–l). 64. See, for example, Glassner’s introduction to what many refer to as the Weidner Chronicle. (He calls it the Chronicle of the Esagila; Glassner, Mesopotamian Chronicles, 263.) Note that this is also quite reasonable in light of the analogical nature of language in general, but myth in particular, as we have spoken of already.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

135

the reader some sense of the intellectual milieu that we will be exploring. Mesopotamian tradition was made up of specific ideas regarding the origins of civilization, and these ideas found repeated expression throughout the literature in the form of myth. 65 The discussion of texts that follows will be arranged in such a way that various Mesopotamian mythic ideas regarding the origins of civilization are enumerated and explained. As one may recall from the historical survey above, many significant concepts began in Sumer and found their way into the greater Mesopotamian society. That remains the case for the majority of the following discussion—these were primarily Sumerian ideas handed down and assimilated into Akkadian thought. Not all Sumerian cosmogonic concepts were smoothly integrated, though in this particular study we can safely speak in such broad terms. 66 Regarding cosmogonic concepts, one further note of caution is warranted: often, it seems, the content of cosmogonic belief and understanding was far too varied to be subsumed under the generic description of a “Mesopotamian belief.” In other words, Mesopotamian cosmogonic concepts often differed, sometimes so widely that it would be misleading to refer to any one of them as representing “the Mesopotamian view.” 67 Fortunately, our purposes allow us to appreciate this varied content for its specific contribution to the larger ancient cognitive environment. Furthermore, the portion of the ancient cognitive environment that we aim to reconstruct is much more limited in scope. We seek only to understand the elements that correspond broadly to the ideas expressed in Gen 4, namely, how they believe their world came to be civilized. With these caveats in mind, we will now briefly examine the Mesopotamian intellectual milieu concerning the rise of civilization. 68 Generally speaking, Mesopotamians believed the world to be governed by Supreme Order, which was broken down into its constituent ordered parts called the “me.” These me constitute what we may broadly classify as their “arts of civilization” and were given to humans from the water- and creator-god Enki. He passed them to humankind by way of demigod creatures called the apkallu, who arose out of the sea to serve as intermediaries. 69 Mesopotamians believed that all civilization came from the gods as a gift and that without these me, humankind would be naive, barbaric, and 65. For a definition of myth, refer back to p. 46. 66. T. Jacobsen, “Sumerian Mythology: A Review Article,” JNES 5 (1946): 138. 67. Dalley, Myths from Mesopotamia, 278. 68. These concepts will be discussed in more detail later in the chapter. 69. J. J. A. van Dijk, La sagesse sumero-accadienne: Recherches sur les genres litteraires des textes sapientiaux/avec choix de textes par J. J. A. van Dijk (Commentationes orientales, quas edidit fundatio C. N. 1; Leiden: Brill, 1953), 20. The Sumerian equivalent, abgal (n u n . me), is not often used in the discussions, presumably because the Akkadian translation of the term, apkallu, appears so much more frequently in the texts. I will use the Akkadian term in our discussions as well.

136

Chapter 4

lost. Fundamental elements of civilization such as cities, kingship, the arts, and so on, were passed on to humans in hoary antiquity. Various hero tales also recount how certain aspects of civilization may have originated, and some even can be traced to humans (expressions of the “culture-hero” motif mentioned in the previous chapter). As the concept of me transferred to Akkadian thought it diminished somewhat in importance, a trend reflected in the literature. The difficulty the Akkadian language had in even expressing the concept of the me is well documented, which they translated as either parṣu or mu. 70 The Akkadians simply had no equivalent concept at their disposal. S. Franke explains that, during the Akkad Dynasty, an ideological transformation occurred, displacing the Sumerian idea that one was bound by a prescribed order (me). Rather, the world became “a place where it is possible to upset conventional order and hierarchy” and where “an individual could shape his own role in society.” 71 Akkadian theology became “increasingly universalistic” as power became centralized, 72 which can quite reasonably be understood to be a natural consequence of the Akkadian rise to power. That is, in order for the Akkadians to gain and maintain sway, it became necessary to reorganize Sumerian patterns of social organization and replace them with their own prescribed order. This new order found expression in the Akkadian cult and practice, with much less attention paid to the me. Though its importance may have diminished, me still had a place in Akkadian literature, as did the apkallu, the transmitters of me to humankind. Textual Survey The primary purpose of the following textual survey is to demonstrate in some detail the intellectual milieu discussed above. That is, we will trace the Mesopotamian ideas of me/parṣu and the apkallu sages through the literature in such a way that these concepts can be more clearly understood. In addition to these ideas, Mesopotamian traditions regarding the origins of cities and kingship—both also foundational elements of civilization—will be discussed, along with the existence of other ideas possibly related to the Genesis antediluvian tradition as depicted in our section of text. As should become apparent, these concepts (me, the apkallu, cities, kingship) were closely related to one another in the Mesopotamian antediluvian tradition. The sections are ordered to facilitate the explanation and development of these concepts. 70. Parṣu: see R. D. Biggs et al., eds., “Parṣū,” CAD P 195–203; W. von Soden, ed., “Parṣu(m),” AHw 2:835–836. Mu: see R. D. Biggs et al., eds., “mu B,” CAD M/1 156–57; “ME,” PSD. Cited November 23, 2012. Online: http://psd.museum.upenn.edu/epsd/ nepsd-frame.html. 71. S. Franke, “Kings of Akkad: Sargon and Naram-Sin,” in CANE, 835. 72. Bottéro, “Akkadian Literature,” 2295–96.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

137

Eridu Genesis and Primeval Cities We begin our survey with a look at cities and, more importantly, how they were regarded in the mind of the ancient Mesopotamian. Cities played an important role, we will see, in the civilization process. The present goal will be to provide the textual data that will allow us to reconstruct the ancient cognitive environment with regard to the city. The texts to be discussed often speak much more comprehensively of beginnings than merely the origins of cities, though the primeval city will remain the focus of this section. This selectivity can be somewhat misleading if not properly understood. When approaching the texts more holistically, many of the stories also depict various accounts of the creation of humankind and the origins of kingship, and some also include flood accounts, though these will not receive much attention here. 73 I will of course properly set the concepts of the city within their contexts later in the study—they must first be examined separately in this section. The Primeval City.  Seeking to determine the ancient cognitive environment surrounding the conception of cities should prove instructive, as we seek ultimately to understand how this in turn might elucidate the Hebrew tradition. I will also test the substance of these beliefs over and against the claims of the historical evidence available to us today through archaeological and anthropological inquiry. In so doing, we may attempt to measure how the Mesopotamian historical mind in some way worked. How did their mythological claims reflect and/or differ from the world around them, and what might this say regarding their collective historical consciousness? To seek answers to these questions, is, of course, a major aim of the larger study, and this section will only briefly introduce this method of inquiry. Walton helps to orient us as we begin: In Mesopotamia . . . the city was the ideal social context. Nomadism was inferior and uncivilized. The order that characterized a city was parallel to and contributing to the order of the cosmos. Indeed, the cosmos found its ultimate ordered state in the city. 74

Clearly then, the city was foundational to the Mesopotamian concept of civilization. 75 The Order of all things, brought about by the me, found its fullest expression in the parallel order of the city. Indeed, cities symbolically 73. This is primarily because they do not have ideological parallels with our specific Genesis text, and also because kingship will be explored to some extent in the “Sumerian King List” section, pp. 177–200 below. For an excellent and fairly recent synthetic treatment of Mesopotamian cosmogonic texts in general, see R. J. Clifford, Creation Accounts in the Ancient Near East and the Bible (CBQMS 26; Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1994), 13–98. 74. Walton, Ancient Near Eastern Thought, 275. 75. M. van de Mieroop agrees: “Mesopotamian civilization, as it is known to us, was an urban civilization” (The Ancient Mesopotamian City [Oxford: Clarendon, 1997], 2).

138

Chapter 4

struggled for supremacy by creating myths of patron deities vying for the me. 76 Cities were held to be primordial, with the gods having first created and dwelt in them in the distant past; they were created initially for the gods, not humans. 77 Not only that, cities were portrayed in some texts as divine themselves. 78 Another tradition expressed in The Tamarisk and the Palm begins by recounting how “in the distant years when the gods established the land” they “built cities for the distant peoples.” 79 The success of an ancient city depended entirely on its corresponding patron deity. Whether or not a city declined or flourished depended entirely on the will of a god. 80 76. See, for one example, Ninurta’s Journey to Eridu; D. Reisman, “Ninurta’s Journey to Eridu,” JCS 24/1–2 (1971): 3–10. 77. Walton, Ancient Near Eastern Thought, 276. For a discussion of the “Primeval City” in which the gods dwelled, see J. J. A. van Dijk, “Sumerische Religion,” in Handbuch der Religonsgeschichte (ed. J. P. Asmussen; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1971), 451. See also the discussion of J. van Dijk’s passage in Clifford, Creation Accounts, 19–22. Clifford explains that van Dijk was referring to the Old Babylonian god list TCL 15 10, which first appeared in H. de Genouillac, “Grande Liste de noms divins sumériens,” RA 20 (1923): 89–106, and later with corrections in H. de Genouillac, “Liste alphabétique des dieux sumériens,” RA 25 (1928): 137–39. Note that at that time H. de Genouillac referred to it by its Louvre collection number, AO 5373. Van Dijk also discussed the text in more depth in J. J. A. van Dijk, “Le motif cosmique dans la pensée sumérienne,” AcOr 28/1–2 (1964): 6–16. A helpful introduction to this and other god lists can be found in W. G. Lambert, “Götterlisten,” RlA 3:473–79. To the ancient Mesopotamian, the divine origin of the city meant that its “foundation . . . was too important a task to be left to a mere human” (van de Mieroop, The Ancient Mesopotamian City, 61). In other words, cities were divinely established, and it was an act of both hubris and rebellion to attempt to found a city on one’s own. An interesting note: when Sargon of Assyria, “the only king who readily admitted to having built a new city,” described his work, he felt compelled to liken himself to Adapa, foremost of the apkallu sages. “It was as if he re-enacted a primordial event,” notes van de Mieroop (ibid., 59–61). For another example of a city’s divine origins, the Legend of Etana begins by stating that “the gods drew the plan of the city.” This was in fact part of its ancient title. M. Dietrich et al., Ergänzungslieferung (TUATSup; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlaghaus, 2001), 42 n. 1a. For Etana, see J. V. Kinnier-Wilson, The Legend of Etana (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1985); J. R. Novotny, The Standard Babylonian Etana Epic: Cuneiform Text, Transliteration, Score, Glossary, Indices and Sign List (SAACT 2; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2001). Other translation, Foster, Before the Muses, 533–54. 78. For some examples, see W. W. Hallo, “Antediluvian Cities,” JCS 23 (1970): 59 n. 35. 79. C. Wilke, “Die Emer-Version von ‘Dattelpalme und Tamariske’—Ein Rekonstruktionsversuch,” ZA 79 (1989): 179. This is a reconstruction from fragmented tablets, some dating to the Old Babylonian period (W. H. P. Römer and W. von Soden, Weisheits­texte, Mythen und Epen: Weisheitstexte I [TUAT 3/1; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlaghaus Gerd Mohn, 1990], 184). Comprehensive text, translation and analysis: W. G. Lambert, Babylonian Wisdom Literature (Oxford: Clarendon, 1967), 151–64. English translation and short introduction: Foster, Before the Muses, 927–29. 80. W. G. Lambert, “Nippur in Ancient Ideology,” in Nippur at the Centennial: Papers Read at the 35e Recontre assyriologique internationale, Philadelphia, 1988 (ed. M. d. Ellis; OPSNKF; Philadelphia: Univeristy Museum Press, 1992), 119. See, for example, how

Ancient Near Eastern Context

139

All this, one may recall, is in stark contrast to the biblical portrayal of the first city, recorded in Gen 4:17. 81 In Mesopotamia, the city, as P. Miller says, was central “both as a cosmogonic motif and as a social institution whose significance is etiologized in various literary traditions.” 82 How then does this square with the available evidence? In reality, the city 83 was not quite as primeval as the myths would have us believe, though they were ancient nonetheless. Human presence in Mesopotamia can be traced as far back as the Paleolithic period (ca. 1,000,000– 20,000), though these were nomadic, hunter-gatherer peoples. 84 City roots date to the Ubaid period (ca. 5000) when the earliest settlements can be found in southern Mesopotamia. Irrigation techniques to water the dry, alluvial land were gradually developed during the Ubaid period, which then gave rise to full-fledged cities of the Uruk period. 85 F. Hole is careful to point out that this was a process—the first urban centers did not have largescale irrigation in place, rather, that developed progressively over time. 86 The entire process, from settlement to city, took around 2,000 years. 87 Cities emerged as a significant structuring agent in Mesopotamian society ca. Marduk abandoned Babylon in the Erra Epic and cosmic order was disturbed (tablet 2, fragment A); L. Cagni, The Poem of Erra (SANE 1/3; Malibu, CA: Undena, 1977), 36. Elsewhere, this is referred to as Išum and Erra or vice versa. F. N. H. al-Rawi and J. Black have a text, translation and helpful discussion of tablet 2 in “The Second Tablet of ‘Išum and Erra’,” Iraq 51 (1989): 111–22. On the Erra Epic, note also p. 225 n. 596. 81. Even though, as noted, there is a measure of controversy surrounding the interpretation of this verse, it is clear that a human, not a deity, is given credit for the construction of the first city in the Hebrew tradition. Nor was there anything even remotely divine about it. In fact, as we have noted in the previous chapter, some think Gen 4 portrays the city in an overtly negative light. 82. Furthermore, the city was “a center of power” that was even able to “stand against the power of a king” (Miller, “Eridu, Dunnu and Babel,” 238). 83. For a definition, see p. 111 n. 215. 84. Paleolithic period: OEANE 4:269. Nomadic hunter-gatherers: Nissen, Early History, 15. See also P. Charvát, Mesopotamia before History (rev. ed.; London: Routledge, 2002), 1–5. P. Charvát is a wonderful reference for any study of pre-historic Mesopotamia. 85. Nissen, Early History, 39–64; Starr, A History of the Ancient World, 31–35; Saggs, Civilization before Greece and Rome, 31–35. 86. F. Hole, “Investigating the Origins of Mesopotamian Civilization,” Science n.s. 153/3736 (1966): 606. See also N. Yoffee, “The Decline and Rise of Mesopotamian Civilization: An Ethnoarchaeological Perspective on the Evolution of Social Complexity,” Society for American Archaeology 44/1 (1979): 20–21. So important was the harnessing of water for the rise of civilization that J. Gruber equated these newfound irrigation technologies to the mythical Prometheus, who stole fire from the gods and brought it to humans (“Irrigation and Land Use,” 70). Given this importance, it is not surprising that the Sumerian god of the fresh-water, Enki, was associated with what was held to be (by the Sumerians themselves) the most ancient of all the cities, Eridu (Enki will be discussed in more detail in the following section). Eridu was indeed one of the oldest settlements in the area, dating back to ca. 5300 (Hole, “Investigating the Origins,” 607). 87. Van de Mieroop, The Ancient Mesopotamian City, 23.

140

Chapter 4

3500, which roughly equates to the time the Uruk period is said to have begun. 88 The texts we will look at below hail from at least 1,500 years later (most much more), so it should come as no surprise that traditions venerating the antiquity of these cities existed. In sum, cities rightly seemed very old to the ancient Mesopotamian of the early second millennium, and their traditions reflect this notion accordingly. Now we will discuss various texts associated in some way with cities. Eridu Genesis.  The first text to be studied has been given the name Eridu Genesis by T. Jacobsen and is a reconstruction from fragments of related but variant versions of the Sumerian flood story. 89 As the name suggests, the city Eridu plays a major role in the story. Jacobsen supposes the text to have taken shape around 1600, and it deals with the creation of humans, kingship, the first cities, and a great flood. 90 Much of the discussion surrounding this story has resulted from its numerous and sizable lacunae, along with what Kramer refers to as the “baffling difficulties and obscurities that abound in the text.” 91 I will begin by charting the course the story has taken to arrive in its present form as we have it today. Much of the reconstruction is somewhat speculative, as we shall see. This is hardly a problem for our purposes, as we seek only to reconstruct the general cognitive environment surrounding the city in ancient Mesopotamia. In fact, I will draw from many different sources to reconstruct a more complete picture below. The myth was discovered by A. Poebel in 1912 as a collection of fragments, and he assembled them for publication in 1914 cataloged as PBS 5 no.1 and again that same year as PBS 4 no.1 with commentary and notes. 92 In 1969, M. Civil revisited the text, now cataloged as CBS 10673, in a supplemental chapter in Lambert and Millard’s Atra-ḫasis. 93 Jacobsen treated the 88. Hallo and Simpson, The Ancient Near East, 17. For more on the Uruk expansion, see G. Algaze et al., “The Uruk Expansion.” S. Pollock also has a helpful discussion on the Uruk period: “The Uruk Period in Southern Mesopotamia,” in Uruk Mesopotamia & Its Neighbors: Cross-Cultural Interactions in the Era of State Formation (ed. M. S. Rothmann; SARASS; Santa Fe: School of America Research Press, 2001). For a helpful essay on the development of Mesopotamian cities, see Stone, “The Development of Cities.” 89. In fact, most scholars refer to it simply as The Sumerian Flood Story. 90. Jacobsen, “The Eridu Genesis,” 513. M. Civil says the date of the tablet “is not earlier than Late Old Babylonian” (“The Sumerian Flood Story,” in Atra-ḫasīs: The Babylonian Story of the Flood [ed. W. G. Lambert and A. R. Millard; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1999], 138). 91. S. N. Kramer, “The Sumerian Deluge Myth: Reviewed and Revised,” AnSt 33 (1983): 115. 92. A. Poebel, Historical Texts (University Museum Publications of the Babylonian Section 4/1; Philadelphia: University Museum Press, 1914). 93. Civil, “The Sumerian Flood Story.” G. Pettinato seems to be largely dependent on Civil for his treatment of the myth (he includes only the first two sections), though he does have helpful translation notes following his text and translation (Das altorientalische Menschenbild und die sumerischen und akkadischen Schöpfungsmythen [Abhandlungen der Hei-

Ancient Near Eastern Context

141

flood story much more thoroughly in 1981, 94 and, in his own words, Kramer “reviewed and revised” the myth just two years later, often differing sharply from Jacobsen on matters of interpretation. 95 As one example of their areas of disagreement, Jacobsen believes the reverse of the tablet UET 6 61 to be a part of the missing 36 lines at the beginning of the myth, 96 though Kramer does not feel this is justified. 97 Beyond the first tablet and the disputed UET text, there is another, much more recent (ca. 600) bilingual fragment from Ashurbanipal’s library, CT 46.5. Jacobsen holds this to be similar to the text missing from the beginning of the third column and restores it accord­ingly. 98 Though his treatment is largely synthetic (meaning not textual), Miller provides extensive interaction with the story and has a very clear English translation in an appendix. 99 Finally, then, the Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature Web site by the Oriental Studies Faculty of Oxford University provides an up-to-date, tagged, transliterated text, as well as a fresh translation of the myth. 100 delberger Akademie der Wissenschaften Philosophisch-historische Klasse 1; Heidelberg: Carl Winter Universitätsverlag, 1971], 97–100). 94. Jacobsen, “The Eridu Genesis.” 95. Kramer, “The Sumerian Deluge.” 96. So also, B. Alster, “Dilmun, Bahrain, and the Alleged Paradise in Sumerian Myth and Literature,” in Dilmun: New Studies in the Archaeology and Early History of Bahrain (ed. D. T. Potts; Berliner Beiträge zum Vordern Orient; Berlin: Reimer, 1983). 97. Jacobsen admits that only a few words survive of this tablet (on the left edge of the tablet). He restores the text largely from the stereotypical contents of other writings (“The Eridu Genesis,” 516 nn. 3, 7. Kramer further explains that Jacobsen’s claim is that UET 6 61 is “a duplicate inscribed with a considerably varying version” of the myth. Kramer, “The Sumerian Deluge,” 116 n. 2. Curiously, one of the texts Jacobsen uses to restore his tablet takes place in what is very clearly a postflood context, which may serve to demonstrate how highly programmatic and stereotypical he felt the contents to have been. See lines 20–22; E. Sollberger, “The Rulers of Lagaš,” JCS 21 (1967): 283. 98. Jacobsen, “The Eridu Genesis,” 519. Civil agrees that this “might belong to the same text” as well (“The Sumerian Flood Story,” 138). This is also reflected in Miller’s reconstruction in “Eridu, Dunnu and Babel,” 245–46. CT 46.5 is a list of five cities, the rulers associated with each and the abnormally large lengths of their reigns. Jacobsen, “The Eridu Genesis,” 519–20. We will not quote this text here, though refer to p. 146 n. 126, to see where it should fit into the larger Eridu Genesis, and for a translation of the text, see Miller, “Eridu, Dunnu and Babel,” 245–46. Reprinted in I Studied Inscriptions from before the Flood (ed. R. S. Hess and D. T. Tsumura; Sources for Biblical and Theological Study 4; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1994), 162. Lambert and Millard also suggest CT 46.5 is a “descendant” of the SKL, which we will study below (Atra-ḫasīs, 17–18). 99. Miller, “Eridu, Dunnu and Babel.” 100. Note that all texts that can be found on this Web site (http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac .uk/) will be identified by the Web site abbreviation, ETCSL, followed by the content number. For example, Eridu Genesis is ETCSL 1.7.4. Some of those responsible for the ETCSL Web site have also published a select number of the ETCSL texts in Black et al., The Literature of Ancient Sumer. In this volume, the texts have a short introduction and are followed by a translation.

142

Chapter 4

There is some measure of debate surrounding the inclusion of UET 6 61, which I will discuss presently. As stated above, Kramer feels its inclusion should be rejected. He claims that the obverse of the UET fragment actually contains what he calls the “Golden Age” passage of Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta, wherein a (debatably) more positive prehistoric age is described. 101 Elsewhere, he suggests that CBS 10673 (Eridu Genesis) might better be understood in the context of this “Golden Age” tablet, rather than Jacobsen’s suggested introduction (it is now conventional for scholars to refer to this passage as The Spell of Nudimmud). In the “Golden Age” tablet, Enki appears to confuse humankind’s speech in a manner similar to the Babel narrative in Gen 11. 102 With Kramer, it does seem more likely that Enki’s actions would have brought about the dispersal of humankind (in much the same way as in Gen 11), and this would seem to give him good reason to yearn for their return (as described in CBS 10673, if Enki is the first unnamed speaker). 103 It therefore seems reasonable—for at least, if not more than, the same reasons given for UET 6 61—to appreciate the Spell of Nudimmud’s contribution to the context of the Eridu Genesis. As Jacobsen says, these stories “vary a good deal among themselves in explicitness and so must be taken to represent not one, but several different versions, some more some less full in their renderings of the story.” 104 With this in mind, then, both hypothetical introductions will be included here, as both offer considerable insight into how the ancient Sumerian mind depicted precivilized life. They could very well be two different versions of the same story. First, UET 6, no. 61: In those days, no canals were opened, no dredging was done at dikes and ditches on dike tops. The seeder plough and ploughing had not yet been instituted for the knocked under and downed people. No (one of ) all the countries was planting in furrows. Mankind of (those) distant days, since Shakan 105 had not (yet) come out on the dry lands, did not know arraying themselves 101. Kramer, “The Sumerian Deluge,” 116 n. 2. The discussion of how to handle this text is reserved for an excursus at the end of the chapter. See pp. 227–230. 102. Idem, “The ‘Babel of Tongues’: A Sumerian Version,” JAOS 88 (1968): 111. See Jacobsen’s translation, p. 143 below. 103. Idem, “The Sumerian Deluge,” 116 n. 2. Ironically, Jacobsen’s comments on the Enmerkar fragment (The Spell of Nudimmud) give Kramer’s suggestion even more credibility. He says that the fragment “quoted at this point in the tale seems gratuitous. It has no bearing on the situation, is mentioned only, is not repeated later on . . . and plays no role whatever in the plot. Most likely it was a separate, independent myth added by some copyist who thought it might fit” (The Harps That Once . . . Sumerian Poetry in Translation [New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1987], 288–89 n. 25). He later revised his opinion and suggested a possible role the story played in the context of the larger narrative. T. Jacobsen, “The Spell of Nudimmud,” in Shaʿarei Talmon: Studies in the Bible, Qumran, and the Ancient Near East Presented to Shemaryahu Talmon (ed. M. Fishbane and E. Tov; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1992), 414–16. 104. Jacobsen, “The Eridu Genesis,” 514. 105. The god of the flocks.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

143

in prime cloth, mankind walked about naked. In those days, there being no snakes, being no scorpions, being no lions, being no hyenas, being no dogs, being no wolves, mankind had no opponent, fear and terror did not exist. [The people had as yet no] king. 106

Humans are described as the “knocked under and downed people” who roamed about naked because the god of the herds had not yet appeared and given wool to weave clothing! It was a time before irrigation brought life to the land and before plowing had been instituted. Now we come to Kramer’s text, which is made up of two tablets, cataloged as CBS 29.16.422, 107 and Ash. 1924.475. 108 Jacobsen has a more recent, revised translation that will be used here: In those days, there being no snakes, there being no scorpions, there being no hyenas, there being no lions, there being no lionets or wolves, there being no frighteners or terrifiers, mankind had no opponents. In those days . . . the whole of heaven and earth, the people in (his) care, were verily holding forth to Enlil with one voice. In those days . . . did Enki, lord of plenty, keeping promises, wise one . . . leader of the gods, the wise and resourceful one, the lord of Eridu alienate the tongues in their mouths as many as he had put there, the tongues of man that were (as) one. 109

One may readily observe the similarities between the two texts, as both seem to describe a primeval age devoid of predatory animals and the like. In a moment, we will discuss more texts that portray what the ancient Mesopotamians believed to be the precivilized state of humans. First, however, the remaining relevant portions of the Eridu Genesis need to be presented. It is likely within a context similar to one of the passages above (or both?) that we come to tablet CBS 10673—in a sense, it picks up where they leave off. This is certainly the case if, as suggested, a scene similar to the two excerpts above constituted part of the initial 36 missing lines of this tablet. We begin with a soliloquy from an unknown speaker, witness to this inchoate state of humankind. 110 The first segment, A, is as follows: 111 [about 36 lines missing] . . . . . . sets up . . . . . . “I will . . . . . . the perishing of my mankind; for Nintur, I will stop the annihilation of my creatures, and I will 106. Translation from Miller, “Eridu, Dunnu and Babel,” 244. The final sentence within the brackets is Jacobsen’s hypothetical reconstruction (“The Eridu Genesis,” 516). 107. S. N. Kramer, “Man’s Golden Age: A Sumerian Parallel to Genesis XI.1,” JAOS 63 (1943): 191–94. 108. Kramer, “The ‘Babel of Tongues.’” 109. Jacobsen, “The Spell of Nudimmud,” 406–7. 110. Jacobsen believes it to be Nintur, though Kramer feels it is Enki. It should be noted that in some myths, both are pictured as creating together. See, for example, Enki and Ninmah; C. Benito, Enki and Ninmah, and, Enki and the World Order (Ph.D. diss., University of Pennsylvania, 1969). 111. Unless otherwise noted, the text is taken from ETCSL, though the line numbering scheme is that of Civil, Jacobsen, and Kramer.

144

Chapter 4

return the people from their (dispersed) habitations. 112 Let them build many me-endowed cities 113 so that I can refresh myself in their shade. Let them lay the bricks of many me-endowed cities in pure places, let them establish the me-endowed places of divination 114 in pure places, and when the fire-quenching . . . . . . is arranged, the divine rites and exalted me 115 are perfected and the earth is irrigated, I will establish well-being there.” After An, Enlil, Enki and Ninḫursaga had fashioned the black-headed people, they also made animals multiply everywhere, and made herds of four-legged animals exist on the plains, as is befitting. [about 32 lines missing] 116

A god—either Nintur or Enki—calls humans back from their (apparent) wanderings and gives them the blessing to build “many me-endowed cities” so that the god can rest in their shade. One may note the frequent associations of cities with the me in the text. This helps reinforce the earlier suggestion that to the ancient Mesopotamian, Order (derived from the me) finds its fullest expression in the parallel order of the city. Segment B continues with a list of the five me-cities: [3 lines fragmentary] “I will oversee their labour. Let . . . . . . the builder of the Land, dig a solid foundation.” After the . . . . . . of kingship had descended from heaven, 117 after the exalted crown and throne of kingship had descended from heaven, the divine rites and the exalted me were perfected, the bricks of the me-endowed cities were laid in holy places, their names were announced and the [half-bushel baskets] 118 112. For a discussion of “(dispersed) habitations,” see Kramer, “The Sumerian Deluge,” 117 n. 7; Civil, “The Sumerian Flood Story,” 167–68 n. 40; Pettinato, Das altorientalische Menschenbild, 99. 113. This is Kramer’s translation, chosen to communicate the sense behind the ambiguous iri-me-a (both here and below). Kramer says that this would perhaps be, more literally, “the cities of the me” (“The Sumerian Deluge,” 117 n. 8). This is one example to which Hallo could have referred when he said of the Sumerian term for “city” (ir i, u r u ), “the sense of a city above the ordinary could also be expressed by adding a qualifying epithet to the generic term” (“Antediluvian Cities,” 60). With Kramer, then, the chosen translation reflects the sense of these cities, expressed by the qualifying “me ” epithets. 114. Again, following Kramer, this represents an attempt to communicate the inclusion of ki-eš with me-a (ki-eš-me-a). Though Kramer chose not to speculate on the meaning of the ambiguous ki-eš, others indicate it is something along the lines of “places” (presumably, “of divination” is their attempt to deal with m e -a ). W. Römer renders this phrase literally as “places of the me” (W. H. P. Römer and D. O. Edzard, Weisheitstexte, Mythen und Epen: Mythen und Epen I [TUAT 3/3; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlaghaus and Mohn, 1993], 450 n. 5′a). 115. Following the translation of Kramer, “The Sumerian Deluge,” 117. 116. Lines 37–50, ETCSL 1.7.4. 117. Note that this formulation is programmatic and appears elsewhere in the literature. It will appear again in our discussion of king lists in a section below. 118. The text is fragmented at this point. Reconstruction is suggested from the similarities with line 98 of the text below (see also n. 119 on the translation of KAB- d u - g a ).

Ancient Near Eastern Context

145

were distributed. The firstling of the cities, 119 Eridug, was given to Nudimmud the leader. 120 The second, Bad-tibira, was given to the Mistress. 121 The third, Larag, was given to Pabilsag. 122 The fourth, Zimbir, was given to the hero Utu. 123 The fifth, Šuruppag, was given to Sud. 124 And after the names of these cities had been announced and the half-bushel baskets 125 had been 119. There is some confusion here related to the descriptor of Eridu as “firstling of the cities.” The text is fragmentary, and it seems reasonable to restore it to “[ni ]s a g - u r u be-é-ne.” It seems that how one chooses to render “KAB- d u - ga ” (also discussed below in n. 125) affects the decision here. Civil and Pettinato agree that there is some sort of primacy being communicated with the “ur u- sa g” here, but not one of rank. They both translated “KAB-du-ga” as a capital city, which would mean that each city described in the story is in some way given the status of a capital city. Therefore, this “u r u - sa g” cannot mean “capital,” as van Dijk suggests, as that would be illogically redundant (“Une insurrection generale au pays de Larša avant l’avenement de Nūradad,” JCS 19/1 [1965]: 19–20). Curiously, both Pettinato and Civil seem to agree with van Dijk’s analysis, yet this does not affect their translations (possibly because of how they rendered “KAB- d u ga”?). See Civil, “The Sumerian Flood Story,” 170 n. 93; and Pettinato, Das altorientalische Menschenbild, 100. Hallo suggests that the primacy communicated by “u r u - sa g ” may be one of time (“Antediluvian Cities,” 61). As will be discussed below, it seems reasonable to translate “KAB-du-ga” as “bushel-basket” rather than “capital city,” so we may appreciate the primacy being accorded Eridu with the descriptor “[ni ]s a g - u r u - be - é - n e .” The PSD defines “nesa g” as “an offering, or a first-fruit offering” and says that it appears 977 times in the literature (“nesa g,” PSD. Cited November 22, 2012. Online: http://psd .museum.upenn.edu/epsd/nepsd-frame.html). It seems reasonable, therefore, to restore “nisa g” or “nesa g ” and describe Eridu as the “firstling” of the cities. This sort of translation certainly fits with the sense of the passage, wherein Eridu is given to Enki “the leader.” This translation follows Jacobsen and Römer ( Jacobsen, “The Eridu Genesis,” 517–18; Römer and Edzard, Mythen und Epen I, 452). 120. “Nudimmud the leader” is another name for Enki ( Jacobsen, The Harps That Once, 146 n. 5). 121. This is translated as “The Sacred One” by Jacobsen and is an epithet of Inanna (ibid., 146 n. 7). So also Römer and Edzard, Mythen und Epen I, 452 n. 15′c; and Civil, “The Sumerian Flood Story,” 170 n. 94. 122. Pabilsag was god of the trees ( Jacobsen, The Harps That Once, 147 n. 8). 123. Utu (Šamaš) was the god of the sun and also of righteousness (Römer and Edzard, Mythen und Epen I, 452 n. 17′c). 124. Sud, or Ansud, was the grain goddess also known as Ninlil, the consort of Enlil ( Jacobsen, The Harps That Once, 147 n. 10). 125. The term KAB-du-ga seems difficult to translate. Civil and Pettinato both translate it as “capital (cities).” Kramer and Römer both leave it untranslated in their text, and ETCSL omits it entirely. This translation follows Jacobsen, who cites as evidence for his translation the Akkadian borrowed term kaptukkû, which is a jar with slightly more than half a bushel capacity. Jacobsen, “The Eridu Genesis,” 518 n. 8. In further corroboration with this translation, the PSD lists 2 occurrences of “ka b - d u g ga” (both with different “dug” signs), defined as a “measure, or a capacity measure container” (“kabduga,” PSD. Cited November 22, 2012. Online: http://psd.museum .upenn.edu/epsd/nepsd-frame.html). This appearance is not one of those listed, possibly due to the fragmentary nature of this tablet. Of the meaning, Jacobsen explains: “That the first cities were given ‘bushel baskets’ is to be understood in the light of the fact that

146

Chapter 4

distributed, the river . . . . . . , . . . . . . was watered, and with the cleansing of the small canals . . . . . . were established. 126

In this section, after kingship had descended from heaven and after the divine rights and me were distributed, five me-endowed cities were founded. Though it remains unclear exactly who it was that founded these cities, it seems as though they were founded so that the narrating deity could rest in the shade they furnish. Humans are called out of their wandering existence to inhabit these cities, and each city is given to a particular deity. The rest of the tablet will not be included in the discussion, as it tells the story of the flood and its aftermath and as such generally extends beyond the scope of this study. 127 The Eridu Genesis reflects the very clear Mesopotamian understanding that cities were a harbinger of civilization. That is, with them, the gods also brought about many other advances or changes that would further civilize humanity—most notable among these advancements were the me. In some sense, what was considered “meaningful” history does not begin in the mind of the Sumerian until cities were built. 128 The Primitive State of Primeval Creation.  Without the advances that the gods bring (partly through cities), humans were barbaric, which can be adduced from the sundry other textual depictions of their fledgling, precivilized state (or reflections on it). We will now spend a few moments to explore this notion further. How was humankind’s primitive state thought of and described in the literature? Interestingly, W. Moran describes the expression of the concept of primitive or primal humans in the character Enkidu of the Gilgamesh Epic: Enkidu is modeled on a concept of antiprimitivism found elsewhere in Sumerian, Babylonian, and classical sources. According to this notion, the bethe ancient Mesopotamian economy was a distributional one, not a money economy. All remuneration for work was accordingly given in goods, especially edibles such as grain and flour. The ‘half-bushel baskets’ characterize therefore the cities as economical centers, ‘distribution points,’ and are to be understood as symbols of that function” (“The Eridu Genesis,” 519). 126. Lines 84–100, ETCSL 1.7.4. Following line 100 there is a 36-line lacuna at the beginning of tablet 3. Some feel that this is where CT 46.5 (or something like it) would have appeared. For CT 46.5, see p. 141 n. 98. 127. The flood and its various traditions will be discussed, albeit briefly, beginning on p. 206. See also the discussion below, p. 156 n. 189, for a discussion of Eridu Genesis set in the context of its larger genre. 128. Speaking of various epics of Sumerian kings, Vanstiphout writes that “the stories are set in the greatest of heroic times, when the city was first built. This amounts to saying that, as far as they were concerned, this is where their history starts” (Epics of Sumerian Kings: The Matter of Aratta [SBLWAW 20; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003], 4). Note that the characters in these epics would appear to hail from after the flood and Eridu Genesis is before it. Wherever meaningful historical accounts begin, it seems, they begin with the city.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

147

ginning of human existence was neither a golden age nor a period of pristine simplicity. On the contrary, life was savage, and man differed little, if at all, from other animals. Primal man was a beast, and the Babylonian Enkidu was primal man redivivus, a figure who introduced into the epic a sharp natureculture contrast that became a recurrent theme. 129

Enkidu, Moran is saying, may be seen as an archetypal “primal man,” and his ideas are shared by many other scholars. 130 Scholars also suggest, incidentally, that this idea finds its way to the Hebrew Bible in various forms, though to do more than simply make note of this would take us too far afield for our present purposes. 131 We will now diverge slightly in our study of primeval cities to examine the Mesopotamian conception of what the world was like before cities and before the me. Some texts have already explored this, but a fuller picture would be helpful. Much like Enkidu, humankind portrayed in these texts tends toward the archetypal, which should not surprise us, given our prior discussion of the general characteristics of the mythic history genre. 132 We begin with the Old Babylonian Disputation between Ewe and Wheat. Though from a different genre, it suggests an ancient tradition of primal humans that J. Tigay believes to reflect the antecedent tradition for Enkidu. 133 Uttu had not yet been born and Sumugan 134 had not yet gone out. . . . The 129. W. L. Moran, “The Gilgamesh Epic: A Masterpiece from Ancient Mesopotamia,” in CANE, 2328–29, emphasis original. So also idem, “The Epic of Gilgamesh: A Document of Ancient Humanism,” in The Most Magic Word (ed. R. S. Hendel; CBQMS; Washington DC: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 2002), 13–14, which is a reprint of idem, “The Epic of Gilgamesh: A Document of Ancient Humanism,” BCSMS 22 (1991): 15–22. Enkidu is also a convenient example of the importance of kingship in civilization, to be discussed below, p. 180 n. 316. 130. See, for example, G. Mobley, “The Wild Man in the Bible and the Ancient Near East,” JBL 116 (1997): 220–23; Tigay, The Evolution of the Gilgamesh Epic, 202–3; R. S. Kluger, The Archetypal Significance of Gilgamesh: A Modern Ancient Hero (Einsiedeln: Daimon, 1991), 45; A. R. George, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 142; A. Westenholz and U. Koch-Westenholz, “Enkidu: The Noble Savage?” in Wisdom, Gods and Literature: Studies in Honour of W. G. Lambert (ed. A. R. George and I. L. Finkel; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2000). 131. J. A. Bailey compares the J account of Gen 2–3 with Enkidu, specifically the role of woman in “civilizing both biblical Adam and Enkidu” (“Initiation and the Primal Woman in Gilgamesh and Genesis 2–3,” JBL 89 [1970]: 137–50). G. Mobley also explores other possible biblical expressions of this idea, most notably Samson, in “The Wild Man,” 226–33. 132. The discussion begins on p. 35. 133. Tigay, The Evolution of the Gilgamesh Epic, 203. See also Castellino, “Les Origines de la Civilisation,” 133–34. 134. Uttu is the godly Weaver. Sumugan is elsewhere Sumukan or Shakan, the god of the flocks. Dalley, Myths from Mesopotamia, 328.

148

Chapter 4

people of those primeval times 135 knew nothing of bread to eat, they knew nothing of clothes to wear. They went around “on all fours” [lit., “with naked limbs”] and grazed on the grass like sheep and they drank the water out of ditches. 136

This is very similar to How Grain Came to Sumer, which begins by saying that “mankind used to eat grass with their mouths like sheep. In those days, Ezinu (the goddess of grain) had not yet made barley and flax available.” 137 Another text, Enlil and the E-kur, looks back on how things might have been had Enlil not made provisions for civilization: Without the Great Mountain Enlil, Nintur would not kill, she would not strike dead; no cow would drop its calf in the cattle-pen, no ewe would bring forth a . . . . . . lamb in its sheepfold; the living creatures which multiply by themselves would not [lie down in their bed-chambers]; 138 the four-legged animals would not propagate, they would not mate. Enlil, your ingenuity takes one’s breath away! 139 135. Kramer interprets these beings (Sum., “nam-l ú - u l u ,” line 20) as the Anunnaki (chthonic deities of the underworld headed by Anu), though this translation sides with the numerous other, more recent, interpreters who see these as early humans. Kramer, Sumerian Mythology, 73. Note also that the PSD defines “n a m - l ú ” as “a person” (“namlu,” PSD. Cited November 22, 2012. Online: http://psd.museum .upenn.edu/epsd/nepsd-frame.html). 136. Pettinato, Das altorientalische Menschenbild, 88. For an English translation, see H. L. J. Vanstiphout, “The Disputation between Ewe and Wheat,” in The Context of Scripture (ed. W. W. Hallo and K. L. Younger; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 575–78. FOr translation and helpful introduction, see Black et al., The Literature of Ancient Sumer, 225–29. For text and translation, see ETCSL 5.3.2. For a discussion of the debate genre and its textual contributions to cosmogonic thought, see Clifford, Creation Accounts, 25–27, 65–67; and the more thorough H. L. J. Vanstiphout, “Mesopotamian Debate Poems: A General Presentation (Part 1),” AcSum 12 (1990): 271–318. 137. Römer and Edzard, Mythen und Epen I, 360–61. See also ETCSL 1.7.6. Diodorus Siculus, a 1st-century b.c.e. historian, says the “first generation of the universe . . . led an undisciplined and bestial life” (book 1, ch. 8); Oldfather, Diodorus Siculus, 29. Similarly, Berossus says that these early men “lived without laws just like wild animals” (Babyloniaca [elsewhere The Babylonian History], book 1). S. M. Burstein, The Babyloniaca of Berossus (SANE 1/5; Malibu, CA: Undena, 1978), 13. For a discussion of the possible other traditions of primal human from which Berossus may have drawn, see Komoróczy, “Berosos,” 140–42. For a more in-depth discussion of Berossus and his work, see pp. 193–195 138. “Bed chambers” follows Kramer’s reconstruction here (Sumerian Mythology, xvi). 139. Lines 124–31, ETCSL 4.5.1. See also Black et al., The Literature of Ancient Sumer, 320–25. Note also the very similar scene depicted at the beginning of Enki and Ninhursag, lines 13–28, ETCSL 1.1.1; Römer and Edzard, Mythen und Epen I, 366–67; P. Attinger, “Enki et Ninḫursaĝa,” ZA 74/1 (1984): 7–9. This is, in the words of K. Dickson, a “negative utopia” being described here (“Enki and Ninhursag: The Trickster In Paradise,” JNES 66 [2007]: 5). Dilmun, described in the myth, is anything but paradise; it is more a place devoid of anything substantive, which fits the Mesopotamian conception of a world before it was made civil.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

149

Humans, without the aid of the gods, would not even have a place to lie down. Another story, The Song of the Hoe, tells of the advances able to be made because Enlil gave the pickax to his “black-headed ones” (the Sumerians): The hoe and the basket are the tools for building cities. It builds the right kind of house, it cultivates the right kind of fields. It is you, hoe, that extend the good agricultural land. . . . The hoe, the implement whose destiny was fixed by Father Enlil—the renowned hoe! Nisaba be praised! 140

Without the divine gift of the pickax, it seems, cities would not have been built and humans would not have known the prosperity to which they had become accustomed. These few examples demonstrate the importance of the gods’ activity in bringing civilization to humankind. Left on their own, humans were not even able to clothe or feed themselves. 141 R. J. Clifford observes that pre-creation, to the ancient Mesopotamians, was not “unspecified nothingness.” Rather, as these texts have shown, the pre-creation state is described “concretely as the absence of particular elements of society.” 142 This is demonstrated well by the creation myth appended to a late bilingual incantation. 143 It is set in a time even before the “pure house of the gods was made”: A reed had not yet come out, no tree was created. No brick was to be found— no brick mold had yet been created. No house was built, no city created. No city was made, no settlement was established. Nippur was not built, the Ekur 144 was not created. Uruk was not built, Eanna 145 not created, the Apsu 140. Selections from lines 94–109, ETCSL 5.5.4. See also, Black et al., The Literature of Ancient Sumer, 314. 141. Alster says that in Sumerian thought it was understood that “originally life was hard, unorganized, and unpleasant” (“Dilmun,” 55). Alster has a wonderful discussion of this conception, as well as extensive footnotes for further study. 142. Clifford, Creation Accounts, 36. Clifford makes note of the similarities with biblical examples, as well. Gen 2:5 describes a time “when no plant of the field was yet in the earth and no herb of the field had yet sprung up.” In Prov 8:23–26, the creation of “Woman Wisdom” (Clifford’s term) takes place “when there were no depths and springs, mountains and hills, earth and soil” (ibid.). 143. K. Hecker says that this incantation belongs to the “Mouth-washing incantation series.” Duplicate fragments were found in Ashurbanipal’s library in Nineveh (K. Hecker et al., Weisheitstexte, Mythen und Epen: Mythen und Epen II [TUAT 3/4; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlaghaus and Mohn, 1994], 608). Though the copy is Late Babylonian, W. Horowitz considers this incantation to be based on a Sumerian original (Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography [MC 8; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1998], 129–30). 144. Ekur, or “Mountain House,” was the name of the Temple of Enlil in Nippur (Hecker et al., Mythen und Epen II, 608 n. 6a). 145. Eanna, or “House of Heaven,” was the name of the holy precinct of Inanna in Uruk (ibid., 608 n. 7a). P. Garelli and M. Leibovici claim Eanna was actually Anu’s temple. P. Garelli and M. Leibovici, “Akkadische Schöpfungsmythen,” in Die Schöpfungsmythen: Ägypter, Sumerer, Hurriter, Hethiter, Kanaaniter und Israeliten (ed. M. Eliade; QAO; Darm-

150

Chapter 4

was not made, Eridu not created. A holy house, the house of the gods, their dwelling was not (yet) made. All countries were [covered by] the sea. The spring in the midst of the sea was just a gully. Back then Eridu was made, Esagila 146 created. Esagila—in the midst of the Apsu Lugaldukuga 147 established—Babylon was made, Esagila was completely formed. The Anunnaki gods, he made all of them. He called it [Babylon?] the lofty “Holy City, Dwelling of the Heart’s Delight.” 148

Here is a picture of life when reeds, bricks, brick molds, houses and even cities “had not yet” come into existence. As their presence in the myth demonstrates, these were all considered foundational elements for proper civilization. Though here Lugaldukuga (Enki) is credited with establishing Esagila, 149 the text proceeds to speak of Marduk and his creative activity. He, along with Aruru 150 is credited with the creation of humankind, the animals of Sumukan, the Tigris and Euphrates, which he set in their proper place. That this incantation begins with such an elaborate creation myth is not unusual. Lambert explains that incantations “depended for their efficacy on being recited with verbal precision, and they often contain old mythical material.” 151 We may gather then, that this mythical material is much older than the incantation itself. It echoes the ideas of the other passages we have already presented, speaking of an initial, uncivilized age before the gods passed to humankind all known elements of society. The Mesopotamian conception of primeval history extends back even farther than this, however, to a time before even the gods were created. A fragmentary Early Dynastic tablet cataloged as AO 4153, NFT 180 is translated as follows: 152 stadt: Wissenschaftliche, 1977), 245 n. 74. Whether or not it was Inanna’s or Anu’s temple seems of minimal importance—likely, Eanna was built for both of them, as they were both patron deities of Uruk. M. Lambert, “Sumerische Schöpfungsmythen,” in Die Schöpfungsmythen: Ägypter, Sumerer, Hurriter, Hethiter, Kanaaniter und Israeliten (ed. M. Eliade; QAO; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche, 1977), 106. 146. Esagila was otherwise known as “the House of the Lofty Top” and normally referred to the holy Temple of Marduk in Babylon. Here and in the following line, however, it most likely is speaking not of Marduk’s actual temple but rather of a prototype of the same name that Ea apparently constructed in the Apsu (Hecker et al., Mythen und Epen II, 609 n. 12a). 147. In Sumerian, this meant “Lord of the Holy Hills” and was another name for Ea/ Enki (ibid., 609 n. 13a). 148. Lines 2–16; ibid., 608–9. A. Heidel has a fine English translation and a short introductory discussion: The Babylonian Genesis: The Story of Creation (Phoenix Books; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974), 61–63. See also Clifford, Creation Accounts, 62–65. Note that Clifford calls the myth the Chaldean Cosmogony or The Foundation of Eridu. 149. Enki’s creative exploits will be covered in more detail on pp. 159–167. 150. Aruru was another name for the Mother Goddess Ninhursag. Dalley, Myths from Mesopotamia, 318. 151. Lambert, “Myth and Mythmaking,” 1826. Incantations will be studied in more depth in a later section. 152. Hallo says this tablet from Lagaš may be “one of the oldest pieces of Sumerian mythology” we have. Hallo, “Antediluvian Cities,” 65.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

151

[Let An-Heaven . . .] . . . Let Ki-Earth come forth in (all) her lavishness(?)! 153 She was green (like) a garden, it was cool. The holes in the ground were filled with water. An, the En, was standing as a youthful man. An-Heaven and KiEarth were “resounding” together. At this time the Enki- and the Nunkigods 154 did not (yet) live, Enlil did not (yet) live, Ninlil did not (yet) live, “Today” (:) “last (year),” “The remote (time)” (:) “last (year),” the sunlight was not (yet) shining forth, the moonlight was not (yet) coming forth. 155

This is very similar to another text from the Ur III period cataloged NBC 11108: An, the En, illuminated(?) the sky (but) let earth (still) be dark . . . into the “land.” No water was drawn (from) the deep, nothing was produced . . . the wide earth . . . was not (yet) done . . . Heaven and Earth had not (yet) taken each other in marriage(?). Light did not (yet) shine, darkness expanded. AnHeaven had not(?) . . . his heavenly abode. Ki-Earth did not . . . fragrant herbs and plants. The divine powers [m e] of Enlil were not (yet) 156 perfected . . . The gods of Heaven, the gods of the Earth were not (yet) walking about. 157

153. Alternatively, A. Sjöberg suggest this line might read “Ki-Earth came forth in (all) her lavishness.” 154. Å. W. Sjöberg says these likely represent the ancestors of the Mesopotamian gods (“In the Beginning,” in Riches Hidden in Secret Places: Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Memory of Thorkild Jacobsen [ed. T. Abusch; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns] 2002, 237 n. 14). Furthermore, in some of the god lists collected by van Dijk on his fold-out chart, d en-ki a nd d nun-ki comprise the first couple listed (VA 12573 + 12763, TCL 15 10; van Dijk, “Le motif cosmique,” between p. 6 and p. 7). This also corresponds to incantations that M. Krebernik has published, where den - k i and dnun-k i are also listed as the ancestors of ancient gods (incantation no. 19c, and no. 20b; M. Krebernik, Die Beschwörungen aus Fara und Ebla: Untersuchung zur ältesten keilschriftlichen Beschwörungsliterature [New York: Hildesheim, 1984], 99, 103). R. Litke claims this tradition is actually older than those that preserve Anu and Enlil first in the lists. Note also that this is not the god Enki of Eridu fame. Lambert, RlA 3:469–70; R. L. Litke, A Reconstruction of the Assyro-Babylonian GodLists, AN: dA-NU-UM and AN: ANU ŠA AMĒLI (Yale Babylonian Collection 3; New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1998), 30–31 n. 96. Van Dijk initially read this line “u 4-ba e n-ki e ri du ki nu - s i 12” (“Le motif cosmique,” 40). He later corrected this to read “n u n ki” in place of “eridu ki.” For this discussion, see Sjöberg, “In the Beginning,” 236–37. 155. Columns 1–3, ibid., 231. 156. The idea of describing the condition before creation as a time when things “had not yet” come into being is not particular to Mesopotamia alone. We have already noted above the similarities with Gen 2:5 and its similar depiction. Further, the Egyptian PT 1466 speaks of a time before creation as follows: “The sky had not yet come into being; the earth had not yet come into being; mankind had not yet come into being; the gods had not yet been born; death had not yet come into being” (V. A. Tobin, Theological Principles of Egyptian Religion [New York: Peter Lang, 1989], 59). Here, I have at least begun to demonstrate that this way of describing the precreated state was common to the ancient Near East as a whole. This conception may have been part and parcel of their collective ancient cognitive environment. See further Walton, Ancient Near Eastern Thought, 184–88. 157. Sjöberg, “In the Beginning,” 240. Further text and discussion, see Clifford, Creation Accounts, 27–29; and Horowitz, Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography, 138–39.

152

Chapter 4

The pre-created world described by these two myths bears a striking resemblance to the one described in Genesis. In the first, Ki-Earth is a garden, green and cool. Deep holes in the earth were full of water, but not yet flowing. We are also introduced to a youthful and standing An, the father of the older generation of the gods. An meets and “resounds” with Ki-Earth. Both the first and the second myth describe this pre-created state as one shrouded in darkness—only on earth, not in heaven. 158 The age described in these texts is so ancient that the me are not yet perfected, either. 159 As CBS 10673 (Eridu Genesis) shows, it was into just this sort of world that the me-endowed cities were built, patron deities assigned and humankind settled. Other City Traditions.  CBS 10673 and the bilingual incantation mentioned above are but two examples of Mesopotamian antediluvian traditions that speak of cities; 160 others often appear in the context of king lists (many of which also include a flood account). Though the king list tradition will be examined in more detail below, here it is worth noting that similarities existed between CBS 10673 and many antediluvian sections of the various king list traditions, primarily with reference to the cities. 161 As we will also see below, the antediluvian section was not considered to be original to these lists. Hallo notes that the “relative unanimity” of the cities in these otherwise diverse antediluvian accounts was “impressive.” 162 Generally speaking, the first city in these lists was Eridu, and the final city before the flood waters came was Šuruppak. “No doubt,” Hallo explains, “this is due to firm notions, outside the antediluvian schemes, as to the first of all cities and as to the home of the flood hero.” 163 Finkelstein agrees, and notes that the names and the sequence of antediluvian cities did achieve a consensus of sorts, its 158. These similarities lead Sjöberg to conclude that “there might be some connections between [these two texts] and the beginning of the story of creation in Genesis 1” (“In the Beginning,” 239 n. 20. The similarities between AO 4153 and Gen 2 should be evident as well. In the same note Sjöberg discusses the many similarities that exist between the two texts and the creation text of Prov 8:22–29, conclusions resembling those of Clifford, above, p. 149 n. 142. 159. That the me are attributed to Enlil is not an issue. As I will discuss more in the following section, many gods were at one time or another associated with the me. 160. The incantation does not mention the flood, though it clearly takes place before the time of the flood. 161. It is because of similarities with other antediluvian traditions that Jacobsen felt justified in restoring CT 46.5 (mentioned above, p. 141 n. 98, as the third column of CBS 10673. 162. Hallo, “Antediluvian Cities,” 63. J. Finkelstein describes this diversity: “the relative absence of uniformity about the antediluvian traditions” (“The Antediluvian Kings: A University of California Tablet,” JCS 17 [1963]: 43). See further Foster, “Wisdom and the Gods,” 346 n. 8. 163. Hallo, “Antediluvian Cities,” 63.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

153

other variety notwithstanding. 164 H. Kvanvig lists five Old Babylonian tablets with antediluvian sections, and all but one have Eridu as the first city on the list. 165 The other can reasonably be restored to have listed Eridu as its first city, as well. Eridu is indeed accorded some sort of primacy, though—as stated above (see text and discussion of Segment B, p. 144)—what exactly that is has been debated. There is a large swath of other material giving Eridu primacy, as well. 166 The apkallu tradition, for one, is strongly associated with Eridu. One example of this is that the apkallu are referred to in places as the “seven apkallu of Eridu.” 167 Adapa, the most prominent (if not also the numerical first) of the apkallu, is also referred to as the “Sage, the citizen of Eridu.” 168 Eridu was not the only city claiming primacy. Cities, and the establishment of their antiquity, were very clearly important to the ancient Mesopotamians. 169 Different cities may have had their own local cosmogonic traditions and stories, each reflecting their own interests. 170 For example, Hallo writes that Sippar, Babylon, Nippur, and Uruk all claimed at one time or another to be “the eternal city.” 171 Uruk also features rather prominently in certain epics and legends, claiming to be the place where various technologies were invented. 172 This is reinforced in the Epic of Gilgamesh, as tablet one begins by asserting that the “seven masters” established the foundations of Uruk, apparently making them very strong. 173 Here again, the city 164. Finkelstein, “The Antediluvian Kings,” 51. 165. H. S. Kvanvig, Roots of Apocalyptic: The Mesopotamian Background of the Enoch Figure of the Son of Man (WMANT 61; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1988), 166–67. So also C. Maisels, who notes that the “Sumerians regarded Eridu as the original city . . .” C. K. Maisels, The Emergence of Civilization: From Hunting and Gathering to Agriculture, Cities, and the State in the Near East (London: Routledge, 1990), 139. 166. Under his discussion of Mesopotamian cosmogonies, Clifford divides his material chronologically into two larger groups: third- and early second-millennium material (generally Sumerian) and mid-second- and first-millennium material (generally Akkadian; Clifford, Creation Accounts, 14). Within his Sumerian discussion, he has a subsection devoted to narrative texts from Eridu, under which many of these texts would fit. This discussion here ranges more widely, however, as we are dealing with much more than cosmogonic texts. Because the cognitive environment reconstructed here is more general, we need not arrange our material so particularly, though Clifford’s categories are helpful. 167. LKA 146. W. G. Lambert, “The Twenty-One ‘Poultices,’” AnSt 30 (1980): 79. 168. Adapa and the South Wind, tablet A; Foster, Before the Muses, 526. 169. See Kramer, for example, who writes of Enki (and Eridu’s) seeming “inferiority complex” as they vie for supremacy with other well-established cities and their patron deities. S. N. Kramer, “Enki and His Inferiority Complex,” Or 39/1 (1970): 103–10. 170. Dalley, Myths from Mesopotamia, 278. 171. Hallo, “Antediluvian Cities,” 65. 172. Vanstiphout, Epics of Sumerian Kings, 8–9. 173. Standard Babylonian version, tablet 1, line 21. B. R. Foster, The Epic of Gilgamesh: A New Translation, Analogues, Criticism (New York: Norton, 2001), 3. Here the line is restored on the basis of tablet 11 line 305. J. C. Greenfield, “The Seven Pillars of Wisdom (Prov.

154

Chapter 4

and mythical sages are associated with the process by which the gods made humans civil, though here the city is Uruk. Elsewhere, we see entirely different cosmogonic traditions being used to assert the importance of different cities. One such example, to be studied presently, is Dunnu. In the cosmogonic text from the city of Dunnu, published by Lambert and Millard in CT 46 as number 43, we have a theogony (a genealogy of gods) asserting that Dunnu was built by the first pair of gods. Dunnu is further described as the burial place of other primeval gods. This text has been given different names by different scholars, though here we will call it the Theogony of Dunnu, or Dunnu Theogony. 174 Hallo tells us that the name Dunnu is a generic term for “fort, fortress” and that in a lexical text the city is referred to as “the pristine, heavenly city.” 175 The grammatical features suggest Late Babylonian, but it may very well reflect an earlier tradition. 176 Only selections from the text will follow: At the very beginning (?) [Plow 177 married Earth] and they [decided to establish (?)] a family (?) and dominion. “We shall break up the virgin soil of the land into clods.” In the clods of their virgin soil (?), they created Sea. 178 The Furrows, of their own accord, begot the Cattle God. 179 Together they built Dunnu forever (?) as his refuge. Plow made unrestricted dominion for himself 9:1): A Mistranslation,” JQR 76/1 (1985): 16 n. 15. Elsewhere, Gilgamesh, king of Uruk, is “considered master of the apkallus” (ibid., 16). We must note that the “seven [wise ones]” here are not the apkallu but rather muntalkī, though we may assume the Gilgamesh text to be an allusion to the apkallu mythical tradition. Dalley, Myths from Mesopotamia, 125–26 n. 3; Greenfield, “The Seven Pillars,” 16. Note that CAD also defines muntalku as “mythical figures” (“muntalku 2.b,” CAD M/1 207). 174. So also, Dalley, Myths from Mesopotamia, 278–81; Clifford, Creation Accounts, 94–97; W. W. Hallo, “The Theogony of Dunnu,” in The Context of Scripture (ed. W. W. Hallo and K. L. Younger; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 402–3. Following the lead of Jacobsen, some refer to it as the Harab Myth; see Jacobsen, The Harab Myth (SANE 2/3; Malibu, CA: Undena, 1984); Hecker et al., Mythen und Epen II, 610–11. Finally, B. Foster calls it the Myth of the Plow (Before the Muses, 489–91). 175. Hallo, “The Theogony of Dunnu,” 402. 176. Foster, Before the Muses, 489. 177. This is the titular character Harab, taken to be the personification of the harbu plow. Jacobsen, The Harab Myth, 21 n. 9. This is as of yet the only place we find Harab with the accompanying cuneiform determinative for a deity (Hecker et al., Mythen und Epen II, 610 n. 1a). Here, N. Wyatt notes, we have an example of history beginning with the plow: “It is almost as though the creation were dated from the beginning of the Neolithic and the invention of agriculture” (Space and Time in the Religious Life of the Near East [Biblical Seminar 85; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001], 70 n. 1). This may very well be another example of how the mythic mind was more concerned with the first significant generation as opposed to an actual first generation. See further the comments of W. Shea on p. 223. 178. Akk. tâmta. 179. Elsewhere, when his name is not translated, he is simply Shakkan, or Sumuqan (the text also includes his Sumerian name dama-gan-du).

Ancient Near Eastern Context

155

in Dunnu. Then Earth raised her face to the Cattle God his son and said to him, “Come and let me love you!” The Cattle God married Earth his mother, and killed Plow his father, and laid him to rest in Dunnu, which he loved. The Cattle God took over his father’s dominion. 180

This fascinating account of incest and parricide continues for generations in the pattern above. We read of the exploits of the Flocks God, River, Herdsmen God, Pasture-and-Poplar, and finally some lesser known (and apparently untranslatable) gods Haharnum and Hayyashum before the tablet becomes too fragmentary for translation. R. Harris likens this tale to the “Oedipal story of Mesopotamia,” and she, like many others, make comparisons to Hesiod’s Theogony. 181 Clifford observes the similarities between our Dunnu Theogony, Hesiod’s work and the History of Kronos in Philo of Byblos’s Phoenician History—all three are theogonies that speak of the murder of a father god by a son. 182 H. Attridge and R. Oden also note the similarity with the Hittite myth, the Song of Kumarbi, in which Kumarbi castrates his father Anu by biting off and swallowing his “manhood.” 183 These similarities lead Jacobsen to conclude that Dunnu seems to “represent, or to belong in” the tradition of the lost Babylonian source for all three of these other myths, with “each of these retelling only the last parts of the original story and each selecting different aspects and motifs from it.” 184 It is certainly plausible, in the very least, that Dunnu does represent a tradition much older than our extant text, a possibility which has been noted already. 185 It is difficult, 180. Translation excerpt lines 1–13 from Dalley, Myths from Mesopotamia. Dalley’s translation is provided here because she does a fine job of communicating the essence of the deity names. 181. She even goes so far as to call it a “condensation” of Hesiod’s work (R. Harris, “The Conflict of Generations in Ancient Mesopotamian Myths,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 34/4 [1992]: 631–32). See also W. G. Lambert and P. Walcot (“A New Babylonian Theogony and Hesiod,” Kadmos 4 [1965]: 64–72), who were the first to make this comparison. 182. Clifford, Creation Accounts, 96. Philo of Byblos is treated in more detail in the previous chapter, pp. 96–102. In both Philo and Hesiod, the god Kronos castrates his father, Heaven (Ouranos), in defense of his mother, Earth (Ge). According to Philo’s account, Kronos then slays Ouranos (lines 164–210 of Hesiod’s Theogony in G. P. Goold, ed. Hesiod, The Homeric Hymns and Homerica [LCL 57. London: William Heinemann, 1977], 91–95; lines 16–34 of Philo’s Phoenician History in Attridge and Oden, Philo of Byblos, 46–55). 183. Ibid., 90 n. 121. So also Clifford, Creation Accounts, 96; §§5–7 of the Song of Kumarbi; H. A. Hoffner and G. M. Beckman, Hittite Myths (SBLWAW 2; 2nd ed.; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1998), 42–43. See B. Alster, “Enki and Ninhursag: The Creation of the First Woman,” UF 10 (1978): 21–25, for a comparison of Dunnu, Kumarbi, and Hesiod with various Enki myths. Compare also the similarities to the account of Noah and Ham in Gen 9. 184. Jacobsen, The Harab Myth, 26. Jacobsen discusses these possible parallels in greater detail earlier in the work (ibid., 17–20). 185. Jacobsen suggests the possibility that it may have already existed by the Isin-Larsa period, which would explain how it came to the Hittites shortly thereafter (ibid., 26).

156

Chapter 4

given the fragmentary nature of this myth, to say much more than we have already without indulging in speculation. The Dunnu Theogony contributes to our section’s conversation in a number of interesting ways. First of all, it is an example of another cosmogonic tradition under the Mesopotamian umbrella, so to speak. As Dalley reminds us, we may not speak simply of a unified “Mesopotamian view” of creation. 186 Rather, the goal remains to reconstruct the larger, more general ancient cognitive environment. How did the ancient Mesopotamian regard the city in the process of civilization? The answer depends on to which text you turn. We may conclude broadly that establishing the antiquity of one’s city was very important to the Mesopotamians. Traditions arose out of different locales claiming primacy for their own city, as the Dunnu Theogony further demonstrates. Dunnu also helps underscore the importance of the relationship between kingship and cities in the civilization process. 187 As Miller writes, “Kings did not exist without cities, nor did the cities have a history apart from kingship.” 188 This link is further reinforced by Segment B of the Eridu Genesis, where the me-cities and kingship appear around the same time. 189 Furthermore Dunnu, like our Genesis text, is genealogical in 186. Dalley, Myths from Mesopotamia, 278. 187. Each character in the myth established dominion and took up rule in Dunnu. 188. Miller, “Eridu, Dunnu and Babel,” 240. 189. Jacobsen also sees larger generic similarities between the Eridu Genesis and the “P” source of Gen 1–11. He says they share a similar structure as well as a “similarity of style of a particular and unusual character” (“The Eridu Genesis,” 528). Among these similarities, he notes the interest in cause and effect, chronology, and the record of a slow aging process. Because of this, he assigns to both texts a new genre: mytho-historical (ibid.). Miller, though urging that proposing a new literary genre is usually not wise, agrees with Jacobsen on this (see our discussion of the ancient Near Eastern genre of mythic history, beginning on p. 35). Both authors appreciate the many mythical elements of both texts intertwined with a very clear historical interest and tone (Miller, “Eridu, Dunnu and Babel,” 232). Miller expands on Jacobsen’s argument for Priestly dependence to demonstrate the many similarities between Eridu and the “J” source of Gen 1–11. Among these, he cites the narrative style, the focus on the “not yet” aspects of pre-creation, and the clear interest in cities (ibid., 233). From this, Miller asserts that we must not split the text of Gen 1–11 up when comparing it to other texts: “What is clear and important is that there were Mesopotamian models that anticipate the structure of Genesis 1–11 as a whole and not simply one or the other of the possible strata or sources” (ibid., 234, emphasis mine). This is much like the argument set forth by I. Kikawada and A. Quinn for the structural similarities between Gen 1–11 and the Atra ḫasis Epic. I. M. Kikawada and A. Quinn, Before Abraham Was: The Unity of Genesis 1–11 (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1985). Like Miller, because of these similarities they too suggest viewing the text of Gen 1–11 as a whole rather than breaking it apart into its supposed sources. Or, as Kikawada and Quinn say, we should not view this passage as a “patchwork” of material, but rather a unified story in scope and emphasis. A. Millard also observes large-scale structural similarities between Atra ḫasis and Gen 1–11. He writes that both are “a continuous narrative of the first era of human existence” and that any discussion of Genesis and questions of its

Ancient Near Eastern Context

157

form. Also like our Genesis text, the genealogy recounts the emergence of various important elements of society genealogically—the plow, furrows, cattle god, flocks god, herdsman god, and so on. Granted, the differences between the two are also significant, though they do not concern us much here. Theology of the City.  I will conclude this section by first restating in summary form some of the more important elements we have discussed thus far, which one may well describe as a brief Mesopotamian “theology of the city.” And second, I will measure the theological claims of the myths over and against reality. First, the city was the ideal social context—it represented the pinnacle of the ordered cosmos. The most important cities were “me-endowed,” a gift from the gods. Indeed, they were first created by and inhabited by gods. Some were even said to be divine. According to other texts, the founding of kingship, the distribution of the me and the establishment of cities all took place together, in the primeval days of yore. Before these foundational elements of civilization were divinely bestowed, earth was empty and uninhabitable. Accordingly, without these elements humankind was barbaric, purposeless, and lost. 190 Some traditions, as we will soon see in more detail, speak of the apkallu sages as being the transmitters of the me to humankind. Finally cities were believed to be extremely old, and various cities likely had their own local traditions to assert their primacy and their antiquity. To a Mesopotamian living in the Old Babylonian period, much of this was nothing more than a summation of the observable origins must take this complete larger narrative into account. That is, Genesis should no longer be discussed as disparate pieces of borrowed accounts, but rather as a complete story incorporating creation, rebellion and a flood. A. R. Millard, “The New Babylonian ‘Genesis’ Story,” TynBul 18 (1967): 5, 14–15. In other words, all four of these authors (or authorial teams, as it may be) suggest in one way or another that there most likely was generic precedent for a narrative like that found in Gen 1–11. To this discussion we may also add the unpublished Sumerian fragments of the Adapa myth from Tell-Hadad. They include an introduction of around 100 lines that appear to place it within a much larger narrative framework than many originally assumed (discussed on p. 214). I will give these ideas more attention in the following chapter. For now, we may simply acknowledge the strong possibility of ancient Near Eastern generic precedent for our Genesis protohistory. As B. Batto observes, “Israel’s theologians used the culturally conditioned theological medium of their day” (“Creation Theology,” 38). I suggest, with Jacobsen, that the “culturally conditioned theological medium of their day” for protohistory was mythic history. 190. W. L. Moran observes that humans in this state “lived in the open . . . lacking all social bonds. [They] ate earth . . . grass, plants, roots, and nuts. [They] went naked or clad only in animal skins. . . . Only with the discovery or revelation of agriculture and viticulture, fire and metal and tools, navigation and speech (with eloquence), did the truly human life emerge” (“Ovid’s Blanda Voluptas and the Humanization of Enkidu,” in The Most Magic Word [ed. R. S. Hendel; CBQMS; Washington DC: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 2002], 25). Reprint of W. L. Moran, “Ovid’s Blanda Voluptas and the Humanization of Enkidu,” JNES 50 (1991): 121–27.

158

Chapter 4

features of their surrounding world. In other words ,these beliefs in many ways measured up to reality with regard to the city. 191 Human presence dates back tens of millennia in Mesopotamia. As mentioned in the previous chapter, settlements began to develop into cities ca. 5000, and by ca. 3500 they were full-fledged urban centers. Even the average citizen must have been acutely aware that their cities had developed precisely because of the many technological wonders that surrounded them—they could be nothing other than a gift from the gods. The pickax, the plow, the loom, domesticated animals, irrigation canals, music, the potter’s wheel— even wheels themselves—all were ancient and were given as gifts from the gods in hoary antiquity, and their myths reflected this accordingly. 192 Furthermore, much of the order of the city depended on an able ruler, a king, who upheld justice and offered protection. Kingship was also ancient, a gift from the gods, and closely interconnected with the city and its functions. In many ways, the myths of this section articulate these truths quite clearly. We have only gathered here a representative sample of myths to demonstrate how the ancient Mesopotamian would have conceived of the city and also how he or she would have communicated about it, historically speaking. We may not dismiss these stories as fanciful speculations of a supposedly prescientific age. Rather, as Averbeck asserted earlier, these myths are “a different way of talking about what was and is in fact true, historically and experientially.” 193 To summarize, this survey has spanned genres of literature and also centuries of time tentatively to reconstruct the ancient cognitive environment with regards to the city. We have seen examples of mythical language—at times the stories have been less than literal depictions. For example, it is 191. We must, of course, approach this through the grid of their ancient cognitive environment, where the gods were ultimately responsible for everything. Walton observes: “In the end, there is a distinction between the heavenly realm and the earthly one, but events in the two were often intertwined or parallel. It would be difficult to discuss with the ancients the concept of divine intervention, because in their world view deity was too integrated into the cosmos to intervene in it. For the most part, deity is on the inside, not the outside. All experience was religious experience, all law was spiritual in nature, all duties were duties to the gods, all events had deity as their cause” (Ancient Near Eastern Thought, 87). 192. As G. P. Verbrugghe and J. M. Wickersham put it: “One of the concerns of the ancients was to account for how humans learned to do things. For those who saw the gods as responsible for all things . . . a solution to this question was to attribute all learning, all skills, all science, all art to the instruction of the gods, their gift. The idea of humans themselves learning how to do things, of making progress, was not taken into account” (Berossos and Manetho, Introduced and Translated: Native Traditions in Ancient Mesopotamia and Egypt [Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2001], 44 n. 4). Again, when we turn to our text in Genesis, the picture is vastly different—human progress is reported quite matter-of-factly. 193. Averbeck, “Ancient Near Eastern Mythography,” 355.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

159

quite possible that the ancient Mesopotamian did not actually believe the first humans went around on all fours, grazing grass like an animal before Uttu the Weaver God was born. 194 Rather, this could be a fine example of Averbeck’s mythological analogical thinking, whereby the ancients related their beliefs about the distant past in terms more familiar to them. 195 We have seen in these myths their values expressed, both symbolically and concretely in a number of ways. In the following sections, I will expand our study to include discussions of kingship, the apkallu sages and other fundamental elements of civilization. Before that, however, I will further expound on Enki, the crafty creator god, and the me of which he is the steward. Enki as Creator and Steward of the me Thus far, I have alluded to several elements of Mesopotamian mythological thought that I will now elaborate on more fully, namely, Enki and the me and their proper place within the context of our larger discussion. Other elements that may be pertinent to the topic will be included as well. The me featured in the previous section, and here they will be discussed in further detail. Unlike many of the other sections in this chapter that may delve more deeply into textual issues, here I will concentrate primarily on providing coherent theological summaries of the relevant topics. 196 This will be done largely because these topics have been sufficiently covered by other scholars already, and here it will suffice to provide syntheses of what has been said, resulting in a brief yet balanced survey of both the ancient and modern literature. Though these topics naturally overlap with one another in many ways, the discussion will be divided into two parts: Enki/Ea and the me. Enki/Ea.  As Enki was the Sumerian god of the fresh water, he was also considered Lord of the springs, wells, and fountains. His abode was the abzu, his mythical, underground watery domain and his earthly home was Eridu, the place of his primary temple. Enki was also considered to be patron god of the arts, sciences, crafts, and of white magic. 197 He was regarded as the god of creation, and in many texts he was given credit for various aspects of the creation of humans. Often his creative exploits also included organizing humanity or certain other realms of creation. Closely related to this, quite often it is Enki who is said to have been the steward of 194. See The Disputation between the Ewe and the Wheat, p. 147 above. We should not dismiss the possibility that later writers, like Diodorus Siculus or Josephus, for example, may have misunderstood this mythical language to be literal reflections on beliefs the ancients actually held. See p. 51 for a discussion of this possibility. 195. See pp. 46–47. 196. References to appropriate sources will mainly be confined to the footnotes. 197. F. A. M. Wiggermann, “Theologies, Priests, and Worship in Ancient Mesopotamia,” in CANE, 1860.

160

Chapter 4

the me. At first glance, assigning to Enki these diverse functions may seem rather haphazard, though it is possible to understand them as being related in some ways. We will discuss their possible derivations as we explore some of the more important functions in more detail. A clear understanding of who Enki actually was remains elusive today, so much so that Kramer and J. Maier describe him as “the enigmatic Enki.” They go on to explain “the portrait of Enki that emerges from the extant Sumerian texts is rather enigmatic, paradoxical and contradictory.” 198 As they say, Enki is portrayed in a great many different ways in a wide variety of ancient materials. These materials comprise what many scholars refer to as the “traditions” of Enki. That is, the materials making reference to Enki are so diverse and they appear across such a long span of time that trying to explain concisely who Enki was remains difficult. 199 Enki is one of the most ancient deities of the Sumero-Akkadian pantheon, appearing as early as the Early Dynastic period in various texts and inscriptions. 200 As Ea, his Akkadian name, he continued to play a significant role in the pantheon through the Neo-Assyrian period of history. 201 198. S. N. Kramer and J. Maier, Myths of Enki, the Crafty God (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989), 2. 199. Even the matter of his name is perplexing. In Sumerian, it literally means “Lord of the Earth” (en-ki). How is it that the god of water could be named “Lord of the Earth,” especially when the god Enlil clearly assumed that role within the Sumerian pantheon? Lambert, as noted above, suggests that the original “Lord of the Earth” Enki should be distinguished from the much later Enki of Eridu that we study here. Lambert, RlA 3:469. For this Enki, see p. 151 n. 154 above. Other explanations have also been put forth. S. G. F. Brandon supposes that “there must have been some original justification” for the name and that his “relation to the earth finds expression in terms of his sovereignty over the subterranean area from which the springs and rivers have their source” (Creation Legends of the Ancient Near East [London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1963]). Perhaps this is why K. L. Tallqvist renders en-ki “Lord of the Underworld” (Akkadische Götterepitheta [Studia orientalia edidit societas orientalis fennica 7; Hildesheim: Olms, 1974], 287). Jacobsen says the title refers to the “fertilizing power of the irrigation waters” and sees it therefore as perfectly appropriate (“Mesopotamian Gods and Pantheons,” in Towards the Image of Tammuz and Other Essays on Mespotamian History and Culture ([ed. W. L. Moran; HSS; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1970], 22). H. D. Galter suggests, similar to Lambert’s idea, that originally Enki was the name of another deity that did rule over the earth and that in time his name somehow displaced the name assigned to our present Enki (Der Gott Ea/Enki in der akkadischen Uberlieferung: Eine Bestandsaufnahme des vorhandenen Materials [Dissertationen der Karl-Franzens-Universitat Graz 58; Graz: Karl-Franzens-Universität, 1983], 8–9). Jacobsen suggests this original name was “Abzu” and Kramer thinks it may have been “En-Kur” (“Towards the Image,” 22; Kramer and Maier, Myths of Enki, 3). 200. E. Ebeling, “Enki (Ea),” RlA 2:375. 201. As early as pre-Sargonic times, Ea was mentioned in personal names, taken to be the Semitic Akkadian representation of Enki. Galter says that the proto-Akkadian form would have been something to the effect of “ḫa-a,” which, when found in cuneiform would have quite possibly included an intervocalic “y.” The result would be “ḫayya,” similar to many other Semitic variations of the root ḫ-y-y (Hebrew, Phoenician, Aramaic and

Ancient Near Eastern Context

161

It is commonly accepted that Enki’s association with fresh water is the oldest and most logical starting point for the other developments of his essence. 202 This association gives rise to three related domains of lordship for him: lordship over the Abzu, lordship over the springs and flowing waters, and lord of white magic and incantations. Often we find two or all three of these related domains appearing in the literature together. He was the citygod of Eridu, which was situated in antiquity on a lake or lagoon of some sort. 203 All of this naturally allowed for the connections with Enki and the abzu—quite often he is referred to as “Lord of the Abzu” or “King of the Abzu.” P. Espak makes reference to the “Stele of the Vultures,” wherein the epithet “King of the Abzu” 204 appears frequently. 205 The much later Enuma Elish incorporates what is most likely an early tradition explaining how Enki came to dwell in the Abzu—he vanquished the scheming Abzu and established his dwelling on his corpse. 206 He did away with Abzu by first putting

even Arabic). Galter therefore says the original meaning of the name Ea would have been something related to “life” or “the living one,” much like the other Semitic variations (compare also Eve, Gen 3:20, havva, “mother of all the living”; Galter, Der Gott Ea/Enki, 3–5). However, see J. J. M. Roberts’s comments on this in The Earliest Semitic Pantheon: A Study of Semitic Deities Attested in Mesopotamia Before Ur III (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1972), 20–21. This has led some to note the possible similarities between the Hebrew god Yahweh (or Yah) and the Akkadian Ea. N. Amzallag, “Yahweh, the Canaanite God of Metallurgy?” JSOT 33 (2009): 397 n. 43. In related discussion, Kramer suggests that Ea was the originally Semitic deity’s name, and the name E n -k i was given to him in an effort to ensure his supremacy (“Enki and His Inferiority Complex,” 108). 202. Note the possible connection between the Semitic name Ea and running water, closely related to the previous footnote’s discussion. Roberts, The Earliest Semitic Pantheon, 57–58, 80 n. 117. See also the discussion of the remains of an extremely ancient “fish cult” in Eridu, p. 216 n. 538. 203. Many even suggest that the ancient shoreline of the Persian Gulf extended as far as Eridu and has only more recently receded to its present boundary. 204. Sum. d e n-k i lugal ab zu- k a. 205. P. Espak, Ancient Near Eastern Gods Enki and Ea: Diachronical Analysis of Texts and Images from the Earliest Sources to the Neo-Sumerian Period (M.A. thesis, Tartu University, 2006), 39–40. In a hymn to Enki’s temple in Eridu, the E’Engurra (elsewhere known as Enki and Eridu, or Enki’s Journey to Nippur), we are told that “In those remote days, when destiny was determined, in a year (full of ) abundance, which An had created, when people sprang up from the earth like herbs (and) plants, (then) the lord Enki, lord of Abzu, Enki, the lord who determines destinies, built all of his house with silver (and) lapis lazuli . . . in Eridu he built the house on the bank.” A.-H. A. Al-Fouadi, Enki’s Journey to Nippur: The Journeys of the Gods (Ph.D. diss., University of Pennsylvania, 1969), 77. See also ETCSL 1.1.4; Black et al., The Literature of Ancient Sumer, 330–33. Brandon thinks this indicates that the Sumerians believed Enki to have arrived in their land by sea at the dawn of time (Creation Legends, 73). For numerous other references to Enki as Lord of the Abzu, see Galter, Der Gott Ea/Enki, 80–84. 206. Tablet 1, lines 59–78. P. Talon, The Standard Babylonian Creation Myth Enūma Eliš: Introduction, Cuneiform Text, Transliteration, and Sign List with a Translation and Glossary in

162

Chapter 4

a spell on him, which leads us to our next area of the discussion, that of Enki as lord of incantations. As “Lord of the Incantation,” 207 Enki’s association with water could very well be related to his role as god of white magic and incantations. 208 Many of the incantations and rituals involved the cleansing powers of flowing fresh and spring water, so it is only natural that Enki came to be associated with these practices as well. 209 There are many examples of incantations referring to the healing or cleansing powers of water. One such begins by saying that “I have washed my hands, purified my body, in the holy groundwaters, that were created in Eridu.” 210 Enki is of course referred to directly in many of these. In one example (here he is called Ellilbanda), an incantational prayer begins by asking the “King of Wisdom, Creator full of deep insight, exalted Knower of Hidden Things . . . from E’abzu” to “let the rivers rejoice . . . in the river-marshes, let their abundance flow forth!” 211 Often Enki’s answers to specific problems—or his prescriptions, one might say—involved water in some way. One particular prescription begins with the words “After you have poured water into an anzam-jar . . . recite . . . [the following words].” 212 In another, he tells Marduk to “cut the blade of a reed plant in half, have the water of life drip upon his hand.” 213 It is quite possible that a recognition of the fruitful or life-giving aspects of water, as well its ability to shape clay, were crucial in leading to an appreciation of Enki’s creative aspects. 214 That is to say, Enki’s association French (SAACT 4; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2005), 80. For an English translation, see Foster, Before the Muses, 436–86. 207. Akk. bēl šipti, or also bēl šipat balāṭi (“Lord of the Life-Giving Incantation”). Tall­ qvist, Akkadische Götterepitheta, 290; and Galter, Der Gott Ea/Enki, 37, respectively. 208. W. G. Lambert says that already by the Akkad Dynasty and Ur III period, Ea/ Enki was “commonly acknowledged . . . as the god responsible for incantations” (“The Classification of Incantations,” in Proceedings of the 51st Recontre Assyriologique Internationale [ed. R. D. Biggs et al.; Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization; Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 2008], 93). 209. Ebeling, RlA 2:376. So also, Jacobsen, “Towards the Image,” 21–22. 210. Galter, Der Gott Ea/Enki, 57. Another incantation says “I have provided . . . pure spring water, which originated in Eridu, and has flowed out of a pure mountain spring in the cedar mountains. Wash your hands, clean your hands!” lines 27–30; J. S. Cooper, “Bilinguals from Boghazköi, II,” ZA 62/1 (1972): 77. Interestingly enough, in this incantation the request is actually made to the deity that he wash and clean his hands. 211. Lines 1–7. A. Falkenstein and W. von Soden, Sumerische und Akkadische Hymnen und Gebete (Die Bibliothek der alten Welt; Zurich: Artemis, 1953), 295. Enki frequently appears in these incantations alongside Šamaš and Marduk as well. For a much more detailed discussion of Enki and incantations, see Galter, Der Gott Ea/Enki, 57–79. 212. W. Farber et al., Religiöse Texte: Rituale und Beschwörungen I (TUAT 2/2; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlaghaus and Mohn, 1987), 198. 213. Kramer and Maier, Myths of Enki, 101. Kramer and Maier have a chapter devoted to Enki’s incantations and magic called “The Great Magician,” pp. 99–126. 214. Galter, Der Gott Ea/Enki, 93.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

163

with water may have led naturally to the belief that he was a creator-god. 215 Primarily, his creativity was closely related to the creation of humankind and the ordering of the earth and its processes, 216 though there are far too many examples of Enki’s creative inspiration or acts to cite more than just a few at this point. 217 A hymn to Šamaš says that though Šamaš protects “the entirety of the people of the land,” they were created by Enki, “the King, the Prince.” 218 A text from Šurpu says of him that his “hands created humankind.” 219 In Enki and the World Order, he is depicted as an “active, productive organizer and administrator who originates and operates the cultural processes essential to civilization and does so creatively and resourcefully.” 220 In the myth, Enki creates certain elements, as well as organizing many others. 221 Along similar lines, the Disputation between the Bird and the Fish has a long list of creative acts for which Enki is credited. 222 In Atra ḫasis, we find a variation on this theme, but one that has numerous attestations in the literature. It is Enki’s idea to create humankind for the relief of the gods’ work, though he does nothing more than instruct Mami how this should be done. 223 A similar refrain can also be found in Enki and Ninmah, where Enki, “the cunning (and) perceptive one, the one who guides the seeker, the skilled one who fashions the form of things,” tells both his mother Nammu and also Ninmah how to fashion humankind from pieces of clay. 224 We see how persistent these creative traditions of Enki are, as 215. H. L. J. Vanstiphout observes a similar logic in the progression from water to other cultural processes such as agriculture but also to clay working and construction, and so on, in Enki and the World Order (“Why Did Enki Organize the World,” in Sumerian Gods and Their Presentations [ed. I. L. Finkel and M. J. Geller; CM; Groningen: STYX, 1997], 118). 216. Galter, Der Gott Ea/Enki, 85. 217. Kramer and Maier’s work Myths of Enki does a wonderful job of gathering and interacting with a great number of Enki-related texts. 218. Galter, Der Gott Ea/Enki, 86. 219. Tablet 4, line 91; ibid. 220. Kramer and Maier, Myths of Enki, 38. For text, see ETCSL 1.1.3. See also, Black et al., The Literature of Ancient Sumer, 215–25; Kramer and Maier, Myths of Enki, 38–56; C. Benito, “Enki and Ninmah.” 221. Vanstiphout has an interesting discussion of Enki’s creative and organizing capacities on display in the myth, as well as the motives behind his actions. Vanstiphout, “Why Did Enki Organize.” 222. ETCSL 5.3.5. See also, Black et al., The Literature of Ancient Sumer, 230–35; Clifford, Creation Accounts, 38–39; Kramer and Maier, Myths of Enki, 86–87. 223. Tablet 1, lines 204–239. Lambert and Millard, Atra-ḫasīs, 57–59. 224. Lines 1–37, ETCSL 1.1.2. See also, Clifford, Creation Accounts, 40–42; Jacobsen, The Harps That Once, 151–66. In both Atra ḫasis and Enki and Ninmah we have examples of a two-step creation process. The first step is the creation of humans in general, and the second involves a more specific creative act. I. M. Kikawada charts the creative exploits of these two myths and makes some fascinating comparisons with the double creation acts recorded in Genesis (chs. 1 and 2). He suggests that in the ancient Near East there

164

Chapter 4

even in the much later Enuma Elish, which seeks to assert Marduk’s preeminence, Marduk must find Enki’s (here Ea) approval before they can create humans together. 225 Enki was also thought of as having a close association with various skilled occupations. That is, he came to be known as a patron god of the artisans. Galter suggests that this association is “in all probability” a secondary development, which he considers to have developed out of Enki’s role as the god of wisdom. 226 More likely than not, both of these roles (patron of skilled laborers and wisdom deity) arose out of belief in Enki’s creative faculties. 227 Artisan deities, according to Galter, were originally distinct and came through the course of time to be associated with Enki. He finds evidence for this in the “occasionally mentioned” Temple Restoration Ritual, where Enki creates various artisan deities to restore his temple. 228 G. Selz has a was “a literary convention of telling the story of the origin of mankind in a doublet. The first part of the story relates the creation of mankind in more general and abstract terms, whereas the second part of the story narrates it in more specific and concrete terms” (“The Double Creation of Mankind in Enki and Ninmah, Atrahasis I.1–351, and Genesis 1–2,” Iraq 45 [1983]: 43). He also makes the point that in both Genesis and Atra ḫasis, the double creation story serves as background for the early history of humankind and leads to a disastrous flood. He concludes with this: “In summary, one thing I may say is that there were more than a thousand years of literary tradition preceding the compilation of the biblical narrative during which the double creation story is used to preface the early history of mankind that climaxed in the great flood” (ibid., 45). 225. Even here, it seems that Enki is doing most of the work. Tablet 6, lines 1–38. P. Talon, “Enuma Elish and the Transmission of Babylonian Cosmolgy to the West,” in Mythology and Mythologies: Methodological Approaches to Intercultural Influences: Proceedings of the Second Annual Symposium of the Assyrian and Babylonian Intellectual Heritage Project Held in Paris, France, Oct. 4–7, 1999 (ed. R. M. Whiting; Melammu Symposia; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2001), 99–100. 226. He also believes Enki’s association with water led him to become the patron deity of many types of craftsmen and artisans. Galter, Der Gott Ea/Enki, 99. 227. M. Dietrich certainly feels Enki’s creative aspects relate to his lordship over skills and crafts (“Enki/Ea und El—Die Götter der Künste und Magie,” in Studien zu Ritual und Sozialgeschichte im Alten Orient: Tartuer Symposien 1998–2004 [ed. T. R. Kämmerer; ZAWBeih; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2007], 93–94). 228. Galter, Der Gott Ea/Enki, 99. Cataloged as BE 13987. Text and translation, lines 24–40, F. Thureau-Dangin, Rituels Accadiens (Osnabrück: Otto Zeller Verlag, 1975), 46– 47. English translation and discussions in Brandon, Creation Legends, 84–85; Heidel, The Babylonian Genesis, 65–66. English translation, J. B. Pritchard, ed., Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament (3rd ed.; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1969), 341–42. Galter’s theory must remain speculative, however, because this text only dates to the Persian period. Sparks, Ancient Texts, 159. Sparks does admit, however, that “much older traditions” are reflected in the text (ibid., 158). Note also that some of these deities are mentioned by name by Marduk in the Erra Epic. It seems clear from the context there that they are actually apkallu, and L. Cagni for one thinks that they are (The Poem of Erra, 35 n. 48). He notes that seven are mentioned, which fits quite nicely with the larger apkallu traditions (to be discussed in the following sections of this study).

Ancient Near Eastern Context

165

discussion of an Early Dynastic text from Fara that may strengthen Galter’s claim. The text includes what may be a list of cultic objects and their deified counterparts. 229 Selz points out what he calls the “conceptual similarities” between his list of deities and the list of the me in Inanna and Enki, to which we will turn in a moment. 230 Whether or not Galter is correct, it remains the case that Enki was closely associated with the arts, crafts, and skilled laborers throughout ancient Mesopotamia, as well as with the me. 231 We move now to discuss Enki as the god of wisdom. G. Kirk speaks of a general shift in thought from Enki as a water god to that of Enki as the god of wisdom, which he explains simply as a shift from Sumerian literary concerns to more Akkadian concerns. For example, many of the Akkadian myths seem much less interested in irrigation, hence the shift of Enki as water god to wisdom god. 232 There may be some truth to this, though note that Enki was certainly thought of as all-wise and all-knowing long before Sumerian literature and thought fell under the auspices of Akkadian scribes. The Early Dynastic king En-temena of Lagaš (ca. 2400) said of his own intelligence that “it was endowed from Enki.” 233 Neither was humanity the only one who received wisdom from Enki—the gods could and often did, as well. Lambert published Prayer to Marduk, no.2, wherein the scribe praises Marduk and proclaims that “Ea in the Abzu donated wisdom to you.” 234 Enki’s wisdom took many forms in the literature, as we might expect from the many different ways he was portrayed. 235 At times, Enki is described as 229. G. J. Selz, “The Holy Drum, the Spear, and the Harp,” in Sumerian Gods and Their Presentations (ed. I. L. Finkel and M. J. Geller; CM; Groningen: STYX, 1997), 170–73. F. Kraus has a discussion of how elements of nature gradually became deified and emerged as individual gods. F. R. Kraus, “Altmesopotamisches Lebensgefühl,” JNES 19 (1960): 118–19. More generally, Walton tells us that “every aspect of what we call the natural world was associated with some deity in the ancient Near East” (Ancient Near Eastern Thought, 97). 230. Selz, “The Holy Drum,” 191–92 n. 90. 231. For a list of the various forms of skilled labor that Enki presided over, see Galter, Der Gott Ea/Enki, 98–99. 232. Kirk, Myth: Its Meaning and Function, 119. H. Kvanvig elaborates, saying Akkadian myths reflect “history in the meaning of sociopolitical development and foundation of institutions, while Sumerian myths were more concerned with the tension between nature and culture” (Roots of Apocalyptic, 182). 233. E. Sollberger and J.-R. Kupper, Inscriptions Royales Sumeriennes et Akkadiennes (Littératures anciennes du Proche-Orient; Paris: du Cerf, 1971), 73. Additionally we find inscriptions from Neo-Sumerian kings Ur-baba and Šulgi, both claiming their wisdom was a gift from Enki. Galter, Der Gott Ea/Enki, 177. 234. Line 38. W. G. Lambert, “Three Literary Prayers of the Babylonians,” AfO 19 (1959): 62. Galter also mentions what he calls an Incantation to Adad where it says that “[Ea, King of] the Abzu, [gave you] wisdom.” Galter, Der Gott Ea/Enki, 97. 235. This is fitting, as wisdom itself was somewhat of a nebulous concept throughout the ancient Near East. As S. Denning-Bolle says, in Mesopotamia “we find no precise corpus of ‘wisdom’ literature.” S. J. Denning-Bolle, “Wisdom and Dialogue in the Ancient

166

Chapter 4

one who knew about things before they would transpire. In Inanna and Enki, he knew that Inanna was coming to Eridu “when she was still more than a mile away.” 236 Denning-Bolle explains, however, that “the recurrent theme in Ea’s wisdom . . . is his persuasive powers of speech.” 237 Often this came in the form of clever or crafty advice delivered to the gods or humanity in times of crisis. I have already mentioned one example, as Enki was responsible for quelling the anger of the lower gods by creating humans to take their place in Atra-ḫasis. 238 Wisdom in the ancient Near East also was associated with the ears, as “the ear was considered the seat of intelligence.” 239 It is no surprise, then, that another of Enki’s epithet’s involve his ears, “Lord of the Intelligent Understanding”(lit., “Lord of the Intelligent Ears”). 240 So, for example, Enki knows Inanna is coming to Eridu in Inanna and Enki because his “ears are superior.” 241 A Hymn to Ninurta includes the following address Near East,” Numen 34/2 (1987): 215. Lambert explains that even the idea of a genre of “wisdom” literature was foreign to Mesopotamia, having been appropriated from biblical scholars. Rather, many types of literature made up what we may call “wisdom” literature. Lambert, Babylonian Wisdom Literature, 1. Buccellati prefers we speak of the “traditions” of wisdom, and provides a thorough discussion of what these traditions may entail. G. Buccellati, “Wisdom and Not: The Case of Mesopotamia,” JAOS 101 (1981): 35–47. See more recently, B. Alster, “Scribes and Wisdom in Ancient Mesopotamia,” in Scribes, Sages, and Seers: The Sage in the Eastern Mediterranean World (ed. L. G. Perdue; FRLANT; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2008), 52–54. All of this is similar to what we find in other parts of the ancient world, as well. J. Assmann defines Egyptian wisdom literature as anything “that concerned itself with social norms in the broadest sense” (The Mind of Egypt, 124). 236. Farber-Flügge provides the catalog number, SLTN 32, lines 9–14. G. Farber-Flügge, Der Mythos “Inanna und Enki” unter besonderer Berücksichtungung der Liste der me (DSROA 10; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1973), 19. See also ETCSL 1.3.1, segment B, lines 6–15. Enki is described similarly in Ninurta and the Turtle. There, he is one who “spontaneously [understood] the importance of the matter” even though it was hidden from everyone else. UET 6.1 2, lines 30–31; B. Alster, “‘Ninurta and the Turtle’, UET 6/1 2,” JCS 24 (1972): 122. Also, ETCSL 1.6.3. 237. S. J. Denning-Bolle, Wisdom in Akkadian Literature: Expression, Instruction, Dialogue (MSEO 28; Leiden: Ex Oriente Lux, 1992), 41. 238. See W. L. Moran, “The Creation of Man in Atrahasis I: 192–248,” BASOR 200 (1970): 48–56, for a more in-depth discussion of Enki’s role in this creation process. Moran makes the point that the structure of the story brings the focus on Enki’s speech to the gods, thus highlighting its importance in the narrative. For a few other examples of Enki’s intervention, see N. L. Andreasen, “Adam and Adapa: Two Anthropological Characters,” AUSS 19 (1981): 183 n. 23. The general trustworthiness of Enki’s advice has led to some spirited debate regarding his possibly ill-advised counsel to Adapa in the Adapa and the South Wind, as we will see in that section of the study below. 239. Denning-Bolle, Wisdom in Akkadian Literature, 37. 240. Akk., bēl uzni hasīsi. Galter, Der Gott Ea/Enki, 38. 241. Sum., ge št ú- diri. SLTN 32, line 9. This phrase is often obscured by the way it is translated. ETCSL 1.3.1 translates it as “exceptional knowledge,” and Farber-Flügge translates it as “broad understanding” (Farber-Flügge, Der Mythos “Inanna und Enki,” 18).

Ancient Near Eastern Context

167

to Ea and Damkina (his wife): “your ears . . . the sign of knowing.” 242 It is, no doubt, Enki’s wisdom that connects him so strongly to the apkallu tradition as well. He is a sage, an apkallu, and as such chief of the apkallu. 243 As we will see in a later section the most famous of the apkallu, Adapa, was his temple servant in Eridu. Accordingly, a few of Enki’s epithets refer to his status as an apkallu. 244 In sum, Enki’s wisdom made him the helper of many a human and god throughout Mesopotamia’s long existence. Often, his wise responses to problems involved the use of magic or incantations, many of which also involved water in some way. We may conclude this discussion by acknowledging that the traditions of Enki as the god of wisdom were varied and enduring. Moreover, those traditions were often closely intertwined with those of Enki as water god, creator god, and god of white magic. It is difficult to separate the various traditions from one another, which may be just as well. Enki was all of these things at once, which makes Kramer and Maier’s description of him as “enigmatic” quite appropriate indeed. The me.  An aspect of Enki that we have not yet discussed at length is his relationship to the me, the “arts of civilization” mentioned in the introduction of this chapter. As we begin a general discussion of the concept of the me we will also assess how the gods related to them, including particulars from various texts. A sense of order, and the desire to see it established, were central concerns of almost all Sumerian literature. 245 The Sumerians believed that the proper order of all things, both divine and human, was dependent on what they referred to as the me. 246 The me were archetypally representative of culture and civilization elements in Sumerian thought and were of divine Only preserving the phrase is Kramer, in the volume arranged by Wolkstein: “wide open” ears: D. Wolkstein and S. N. Kramer, Inanna, Queen of Heaven and Earth: Her Stories and Hymns from Sumer (New York: Harper & Row, 1983), 12. Oddly enough this is done away with later by Kramer in Kramer and Maier, Myths of Enki, 58. 242. Line 21, Galter, Der Gott Ea/Enki, 96. 243. The Erra Epic even speaks of Enki as having “endowed those ummânu (another name for apkallu) with a vast heart and [made firm] their foundations” (Tablet 2, fragment b, line 19). Cagni, The Poem of Erra, 38. According to Cagni, this appears to indicate “that Ea has firmly established the institution of the ummânu” (ibid., 39 n. 68). See also Foster, Before the Muses, 891. 244. A few that Tallqvist lists are: apkal digigi (Sage of the Igigi), apkal ilāni (Sage of the Gods), apkal nīmeqi (Sage of the Wise). Tallqvist, Akkadische Götterepitheta, 289. See the numerous other references in R. D. Biggs et al., eds., “apkallu” CAD A/1 171–72 n. 1.a. 245. Michalowski, “Sumerian Literature,” 2286. 246. Sparks, Ancient Texts, 57. Though me is technically a plural term expressed in the collective singular, it appears at times in scholarly treatments as referring to a singular civilized element, a collection of which is sometimes pluralized with an apostrophe-s. We are told by van Dijk that the me never exist in the singular other than as a collective—they were innumerable and could not be individualized (“Einige Bemerkungen zu

168

Chapter 4

origin. 247 Though divine, the me were not gods, and they were not personified. Nor were they a surrogate god of some sort, or any other numinous being. Much more often, G. Farber-Flügge explains, it was the gods who possessed the m e, and it was their most-prized possession. 248 Human success, as Sparks tells us, “was achieved by living in harmony with the pattern sumerischen religionsgeschichtlichen Problemen,” Orientalistische Literaturzeitung 62/5–6 [1967]: 230, 233). 247. Kraus, “Altmesopotamisches Lebensgefühl,” 119. G. Farber says that “every realm of civilization and culture . . . was permeated by these ‘divine essences,’ which were planned and implemented by the gods” (“me [ĝarza, parṣu],” RlA 7:610). As van Dijk notes, the me constituted “the central conception of Sumerian religion” (La sagesse sumeroaccadienne, 19). Castellino compares the me to the Platonic principle logos, the rational principle that the ancient Greeks held governed all things (van Dijk, “Einige Bemerkungen,” 233). 248. Farber-Flügge, Der Mythos “Inanna und Enki,” 118. Though note that in more than one god list the names “Lord me of the universe” (dEn - m e- š a r- r a ) and “Lady me of the universe” (dNi n - me- š ar- ra) appear (TCL 15 10 and CT 24.1; van Dijk, “Le motif cosmique,” 6–7). Jacobsen cites what he calls the Genealogy of Enlil, which begins with these beings. “At the beginning of the genealogy, before everything else, stands the active principle of the world itself, its modus operandi, personified” (“Sumerian Mythology,” 139). For further discussion, see Clifford, Creation Accounts, 16–22; and Y. Rosengarten and A. Baer, Sumer et le sacré: le jeu des “prescriptions” (”m e”), des dieux, et des destins (Paris: Éditions E. de Boccard, 1977), 58. If it is possible to see that the me actually were at times indeed personified, they might be compared in this way to the Egyptian principle of maʾat, the concept and personified deity of Order and Justice. Even when the m e are not personified, we may see some similarities between the me and maʾat within their respective societies, though these do not outweigh the vast conceptual differences. For example, as Assmann explains, “the essence of Maʾat is that it is in its abstract and general sense a highly developed power, and one that man can only conceive of within an accordingly developed system of social order. This same contradiction constitutes the likely related ancient Sumerian concept of the me . . . whose potency orders life and determines experience” (Maʾat: Gerechtigkeit und Unsterblichkeit im alten Ägypten [Munich: Beck, 1995], 241). H. H. Schmid agrees that maʾat and the me are not simply synonymous terms in different languages, but does feel they both address the same world order (and desire to see it established) within their respective cultural frameworks and categories (Gerechtigkeit als Weltordnung: Hintergrund und Geschichte der alttestamentichen Gerechtigkeitsbegriffes [BHT 40; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1968], 61). See also, J. H. Walton, Genesis 1 as Ancient Cosmology (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 60–61. Another observation: the goddess Maʾat was often associated with the god Thoth in art and in literature. For example, A Hymn to Ra in the New Kingdom Book of the Dead says that “Thoth and Maat mark out thy course for thee” (line 9). E. A. W. Budge, The Book of the Dead: The Hieroglyphic Transcript of the Papyrus of ANI, the Translation into English and an Introduction (New York: University Books, 1960), 343. See also A Hymn to Thoth and Maʾat in J. L. Foster, Hymns, Prayers, and Songs: An Anthology of Ancient Egyptian Lyric Poetry (SBLWAW 8; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1995), 113–14. Thoth was, according to M. Görg, “the wisest of all gods . . . the master of science and art, of mathematics and medicine” (“Gods and Deities,” in Egypt: The World of the Pharaohs [ed. Regine Schulz and M. Seidel; Königswinter: Ullmann, 2007], 440). Though we must not make too much of this, as the god Ptah was more appropriately considered to be the

Ancient Near Eastern Context

169

(giš-hur, elsewhere rendered geš-hur, Akk. uṣurtu(m)) which was determined by the me.” 249 The gods An, Enlil, and Enki were regarded as the three primary stewards of the me, though this may not have always been the case. 250 Originally, it seems that An and Enlil were alone responsible for the me. UET 6 118 even describes Enlil as the “grower of the me” and his wife Ninlil as “the one who gave birth to the me.” 251 In Enki and the World Order, we hear of Enlil handing the me to Enki, which then presumably passes the responsibility of stewardship to him. 252 These me were the those “necessary for creator god and also god of the artisans, the relationship between Thoth and Maʾat is fascinating in light of Enki’s connections with the me in Mesopotamian mythology. 249. Sparks, Ancient Texts, 57. Geš-ḫur, like me, appears infrequently from the Early Dynastic period through the Ur III period. In the Old Babylonian period it becomes quite common to find the phrase “me geš-ḫur ” (or the much less common, “g e š - ḫu r me”) throughout the literature (“geš-hur,” PSD. Cited November 23, 2012. Online: http://psd.museum.upenn.edu/epsd/nepsd-frame.html). Again, the attestation of “m e geš-ḫur ” at this time has little to do with when these concepts came to be identified with each other, though it does show how important—and ancient—this dual concept may have been. And further, most of the Sumerian texts we have come from the Old Babylonian period but can be dated to the Ur III period. On the occurrence of these two terms together, see B. Hruška, “Das Spätbabylonische Lehrgedicht ‘Inannas Erhöhung’,” ArOr 37 (1969), 502–3 n. 47–50; and Farber-Flügge, Der Mythos “Inanna und Enki,” 182–83. Closely related to this was the Sumerian idea of the “divine destinies” (Sum. na m , Akk. šīmtu(m)). R. D. Biggs et al., eds., “šīmtu(m),” CAD Š/1 11. For a helpful discussion of šīmtu(m) and the Tablet of Destinies, see J. N. Lawson, The Concept of Fate in Ancient Mesopotamia of the First Millennium: Toward an Understanding of Šīmtu (OBC 7; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1994), 19–48, esp. pp. 43–44 n. 10 for a discussion of these destinies in relation to the me. Walton also provides helpful commentary in this regard (Genesis 1 As Ancient Cosmology, 46–62). 250. The bilingual Great Astrological Treatise begins with “An, Enlil, and Enki, the great gods, in their infallible counsel, among the great [me] of heaven and earth” (no. 8a, line 1). Clifford, Creation Accounts, 67. 251. Column 3, lines 17–22. Farber-Flügge, Der Mythos “Inanna und Enki”. Also, in Enlil and Sud, Enlil appears to have control of the me and is free to do with them as he wishes (line 39); M. Civil, “Enlil and Ninlil: The Marriage of Sud,” JAOS 103 (1983): 52; see also ETCSL 1.2.2; Black et al., The Literature of Ancient Sumer, 106–11. In UET 6/1, no. 96, Enlil is referred to as “Lord, [the Leader], whose me’s surpass (all others’) me ’s (?).” Römer calls the text A Decree of Destiny by Enlil for Lipiteštar of Isin (line 7; W. H. P. Römer, Hymnen und Klagelieder in sumerischer Sprache [AOAT 276; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2001], 94). As for An and the me, in STVC 36, a tigi-Song to the Goddess Baba, Baba has come from deep within heaven and brought with her the mes. Her loving father, An, the King, is said to have given her all of the “transcendent me’s [me- n ì - g a l a m ] as a gift” (lines 9–11, repeated in lines 13–15; ibid., 5). 252. Lines 61–80. Kramer and Maier, Myths of Enki, 41. Enki’s original subordination to Enlil is also inferred from the myth Enki and Eridu, which depicts Enki traveling to Nippur after the completion of his temple in Eridu. It appears that his goal in making this journey is to obtain Enlil’s blessing. Text and discussion in ibid., 69–74.

170

Chapter 4

civilisation,” according to J. Lawson. 253 Enki and the me appear in numerous hymns, myths, and inscriptions, highlighting their central association throughout much of Mesopotamian history. 254 In Enki and Ninmah, the senior gods in the assembly even proclaim to Enki: “you have the me of deciding destinies (nam), in fact, you are the me.” 255 The me receive special attention in the myth Inanna and Enki, where we see quite explicitly what sorts of things were believed to constitute the me. A select few from the list of around 100 are the me of godship, kingship, various priestly offices, the flood, weapons, sexual intercourse, art, the musical instrument, music, scribeship, craft of the builder, victory, judgment, decision, and so on. 256 As Kramer states, “these items consist of various institutions, priestly offices, ritualistic paraphernalia, mental and emotional attitudes, as well as sundry beliefs and dogmas.” 257 As Enki becomes the steward of the me, we find stories like Ninurta’s Journey to Eridu, where Ninurta travels to Eridu to receive the me from Enki. 258 Ninurta was one of many gods whose goal was to obtain the me. So 253. Lawson, The Concept of Fate, 43 n. 10. Lawson has a helpful discussion of how important these me are—along with the Tablet of Destinies—for all of civilization to exist peacefully. He cites the Anzu Myth as evidence for what could happen should anything happen to them (ibid., 26–27). In the final lines of tablet 1, the “Mistress of all the Gods” entreats Ninurta to recover both, which have been stolen from them by the Anzu bird. She says “Anzu has thrown into confusion [the kingship I appointed], the tablet of destinies . . . Anzu . . . has taken control, he has snatched from Enlil, he has spurned your father, he has snatched away authority [me]” (lines 207–10). Foster, Before the Muses, 568. 254. For a handy collection of texts such as these, see Kramer and Maier, Myths of Enki, 75–98. 255. Line 51, ETCSL 1.1.2. 256. The me are listed, group by group, beginning on tablet 1, column 3. FarberFlügge, Der Mythos “Inanna und Enki,” 21. Farber-Flügge also includes a commentary on the me listed in this myth. Ibid., 97–115. Text and translation, ETCSL 1.3.1. For translation, Wolkstein and Kramer, Inanna, Queen of Heaven and Earth, 12–27. 257. S. N. Kramer, The Sumerians: Their History, Culture, and Character (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1963), 116. Often Inanna and Enki is said to have cited all the m e believed to have existed, but J. Glassner demonstrates that the list is not comprehensive, but rather specific to Inanna. The me listed, he claims, all have to do with Inanna and her cult. For example, the list contains no reference to me of agriculture or irrigation, two very important ideas in Mesopotamia. Were this a complete list, there would be references in it to things such as this as well ( J.-J. Glassner, “Inana et les me,” in Nippur at the Centennial: Papers Read at the 35e Recontre assyriologique internationale, Philadelphia, 1988 [ed. M. d. Ellis; OPSNKF 14; Philadelphia: Univeristy Museum Press, 1992], 56). Walton also notes that there are no cosmic elements to the me listed, which is another reason this list is specific to Inanna and her cult. Walton, Ancient Near Eastern Thought, 193. 258. Column 2, lines 8–13. Reisman, “Ninurta’s Journey to Eridu,” 6. We may also read about his return to Nippur, his cult center, with these m e in The Return of Ninurta to Nippur. Here he is described numerous times as a warrior who has “taken up the m e ” (lines 9–12). J. S. Cooper, The Return of Ninurta to Nippur: an-gim dím-ma (AnOr 52; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1978), 59. See also ETCSL 1.6.1.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

171

Hallo is correct when he writes that “it is precisely the mark of a great deity that he collect or gather numerous me’s to himself.” 259 Much like the gods vied for the me, so also did cities and their temples. A hymn to Ninazu’s Temple, “Esikil in Eshnunna,” begins by describing Esikil as “the house of the holy me.” 260 Perhaps the most well-known example of a deity desiring and taking possession of the me is Inanna, who charms Enki into handing them over to her while he was in a drunken stupor. 261 By the time he sobers up, Inanna is long gone with the me. Nor was this her first attempt at obtaining these from Enki—her desire to possess them was well known. In Enki and the World Order, she weepingly complains to Enki after he is done creating and ordering the world, asking “where are my functions?” 262 259. Hallo and van Dijk, The Exaltation of Inanna, 50. Gods could also obtain the me and then lose them again, as Ninurta evidently did in the opening lines of Ninurta and the Turtle. Lines 1–5, Alster, “Ninurta and the Turtle”; also ETCSL 1.6.3. Kramer also has a translation of this text but calls it Ninurta’s Pride and Punishment (Kramer and Maier, Myths of Enki, 84–86). The temple hymn SRT 6, entitled a šìr-gíd-da to the Goddess Nininsina, by Römer, begins by calling the goddess Nininsina the “Lord of the terrible m e ’s.” She also collects the mes and lets them be found by the gárza (?). She is referred to as having “seized craftsmanship (Sum., galam-ma)” and “equipped with craftsmanship she gathers the me” where she “has all the me in her hand.” Later she gives them to her son, the King Damu of Girsu, but only after she has perfected the m e of medicine (lines 1–15, Römer, Hymnen und Klagelieder, 111). See also ETCSL 4.22.1. A lament hymn from Isin speaks of the banishment and demise of the patron goddess Ninisina. In spite of this, she is introduced as having great possessions: “My me’s are great m e’s.” The hymn is called Eršemma no. 171 by M. E. Cohen, and it is reconstructed from two texts, A 6742 and CT 42.7, line 7 (Cohen, Sumerian Hymnology: The Eršemma [HUCASup 2; Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College, 1981], 95–103). 260. Lines 1–3, Falkenstein and von Soden, Sumerische und Akkadische Hymnen, 131. A Sumerian Temple Hymn (no. 21) says of the me that they are from Etarsirsir: “Etarsirsir, from which decision and me’s come forth” (Å. W. Sjöberg and E. Bergman, The Collection of the Sumerian Temple Hymns [TCS 3; Locust Valley, NY: Augustin, 1969], 32, cited in Postgate, Early Mesopotamia, 26). And further, a hymn from Rim-Sin, King of Larsa, says “At Larsa . . . where the me’s of rulership have been cast, you have been chosen rightly” (ibid., 261). 261. Elsewhere she is more charitably said to have been given the m es by Enki, here called her father. Šulgi X, line 45. J. Klein, Three Šulgi Hymns: Sumerian Royal Hymns Glorifying King Šulgi of Ur (Bar-Ilan Studies in Near Eastern Languages and Culture; RamatGan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1981), 139. She has also been associated with An as her father (though he was generally considered father of all the gods), as well as the daughter of Nanna and Ningal. C. Wilke, “Inanna/Ištar: A. Philologisch,” RlA 5:80. 262. The full text is quite clear in its portrayal of Inanna: “Then, alone lacking any functions, the great woman of heaven, Inanna, lacking any functions—Inanna came in to see her father Enki in his house, weeping to him, and making her complaint to him: ‘Enlil left it in your hands to confirm the functions of the Anuna, the great gods. Why did you treat me, the woman, in an exceptional manner? I am holy Inanna—where are my functions?’” (lines 387–94, ETCSL 1.1.3; Black et al., The Literature of Ancient Sumer, 215–25). Here the word translated as “functions” is the Sumerian word g a r z a . This is a loan-word

172

Chapter 4

There is, consequently, quite a solid tradition associating Inanna with the me, who was one of the most popular deities of ancient Mesopotamia. 263 In Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta, for example, she is referred to as the “Queen of the numerous aspects of culture [me].” 264 In Inanna and Ebiḫ, she is described as “Goddess of the fearsome divine powers [me], clad in terror, riding on the great divine powers [me].” 265 It is also interesting to note that—possibly—Inanna has been associated with the apkallu. 266 A. Green has a picture of a Neo-Assyrian seal in which (what could be) Inanna is flanked by two apkallu. 267 He wonders if this might be related to the mythic description of the first postdiluvian apkallu Nunpiriggaldim from the Akkadian parṣu, which is itself the Akkadian translation of m e (Farber-Flügge, Der Mythos “Inanna und Enki,” 167). Therefore, we are justified in seeing this to be a variant term for the me in certain contexts. There are many important differences between the two terms (ibid., 168–72), though here we may see this passage as an expression of Inanna’s desire power and, more specifically, for the m e . See also the interpretation of this scene in Averbeck, “Myth, Ritual, and Order,” 764–67. 263. S. N. Kramer explains that “female deities were worshiped and adored all through Sumerian history. . . . But the goddess who outweighed, overshadowed, and outlasted them all was . . . Inanna, ‘Queen of Heaven’. . . . Inanna played a greater role in myth, epic, and hymn than any other deity” (From the Poetry of Sumer: Creation, Glorification, Adoration [Una’s Lectures 2; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1979], 71). B. Hruška describes her as the goddess of love, the goddess of war, and the astral goddess of the Venus star. Hruška, “Inannas Erhöhung,” 480 n. 21. J. S. Cooper is not as generous in his assessment, describing her as, at times, “power hungry and manipulative” and saying that “she was the avatar of all that men—who wrote down these stories—fear in women”! (“Review: ‘Inanna: Queen of Heaven and Earth’ by Diane Wolkstein and Samuel Noah Kramer,” BA 47/3 [1984]: 189). 264. Line 223. B. Alster, “An Aspect of ‘Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta’,” RA 67/2 (1973): 103. 265. Line 1. J. Bottéro and S. N. Kramer, Lorsque les dieux faisaient l’homme: mythologie méspotamienne (Bibliothéque des histoires; Réimpression avec diverses corrections de détail et précisions ed. Paris: Gallimard, 1993), 219–29. Later in the poem, she is described as having “established authority [me] over the mountain” (line 150). Another text, A šir-namšub to Inanna, speaks of her as the “gatherer of the divine powers [m e ].” Line 3, ETCSL 4.08.13. Note that M. E. Cohen considers a “šir-namšub” to be synonymous with a “šir kug nam-šub,” in which case this would be an incantation-hymn that was sung (“The Incantation-Hymn: Incantation or Hymn?,” JAOS 95 [1975]: 595 n. 12). In SRT 36, Inanna is described as “she who made the me’s superior in the land of Sumer. She seized the m e ’s in heaven and gathered the me’s on earth.” Römer calls the text he has assembled An Aggregate Tablet of Hymns (lines 1–3; Römer, Hymnen und Klagelieder, 59). One may also refer to the first eight lines of nin-me-šar-ra, which praise her extensively for her relationship to the me (Hallo and van Dijk, The Exaltation of Inanna, 15). 266. We will discuss the apkallu in more detail in a following section of this chapter. I mention it here because Enki was traditionally associated with the apkallu, and Inanna’s possible association with them further suggests her hunger for power in all realms. 267. A. Green, “Myths in Mesopotamian Art,” in Sumerian Gods and Their Presentations (ed. I. L. Finkel and M. J. Geller; CM; Groningen: STYX, 1997), 155, figure 12.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

173

from LKA 76 “who brought down Ishtar from heaven to the Eanna.” 268 Whether or not this is the case, Inanna’s connections to the me were so strong that it would not be a complete shock to discover that some came to associate her also with the apkallu. Because of the variety of contexts in which the me appear in the literature, the word has been notoriously difficult to translate. 269 Traditionally, the me have been regarded by scholars as abstract concepts, or “divine forces, the sustainers of Sumerian culture.” 270 Kramer and Maier call them “authoritative, universal decrees.” 271 Along these lines, Walton explains that for the Mesopotamians the me “are what define the parameters regarding how the world works.” Hence his translation of the term, the “control attributes.” 272 Walton notes that, though the gods were responsible for establishing the me, they were also bound to operate within the parameters set forth by them. That is to say, the gods operated “within a system” that they managed. 273 Klein, however, says that in some texts the me appear to be something other than abstract, and he argues rather convincingly that the me could also be concrete objects, such as symbolic representations on flags, banners, and buildings. 274 These concrete representations of the me refer back 268. Ibid., 140 n. 46. For LKA 76, see p. 201 n. 441, below. 269. Tigay refers to the me as “one of the most elusive concepts in Sumerian literature” (The Evolution of the Gilgamesh Epic, 205). The word appears relatively sporadically until the Old Babylonian period, at which point there is what seems to be an explosion of usage. 745 of the 750 instances of me come from this time, with all but 5 appearing in literary texts (PSD “ME”). On one hand, this is to be expected, as most Sumerian texts we have come from the Old Babylonian period. On the other hand, by this point in history, Sumerian had actually ceased to be a spoken language. That so many texts attesting to the me tradition were deemed worthy of being copied by Akkadian scribes could demonstrate how important the concept was in Sumerian tradition (as well as the Akkadian). 270. Farber-Flügge, Der Mythos “Inanna und Enki,” 1. 271. Kramer and Maier, Myths of Enki, 38. Elsewhere, Kramer says of the me that they “seem to denote a set of rules and regulations assigned to each cosmic entity and cultural phenomenon for the purpose of keeping it operating forever in accordance with the plans laid down by the deity in creating it” (The Sumerians, 115). 272. Walton, Ancient Near Eastern Thought, 98. 273. Here Walton is speaking of the system comprised of both the m e and the destinies (ibid., 99). So also Buccellati, who explains that “the gods are themselves subjected to these laws, they have no direct participation in the phenomenon of divination, but appear only as outsiders” (“Wisdom and Not,” 36). 274. J. Klein, “The Sumerian me as a Concrete Object,” AoF 24 (1997): 211–18. Kraus had hinted at as much many years before when he said of the m e in Inanna and Enki that they could be seen as concepts or archetypes “that the poet portrayed concretely, perhaps as amulets like in The Descent of Ishtar” (“Altmesopotamisches Lebensgefühl,” 119). Farber-Flügge also notes that most likely the Sumerians themselves imagined these “abstractions” very concretely (Der Mythos “Inanna und Enki,” 117 n. 124).

174

Chapter 4

symbolically to the abstract concept. 275 Alster says that the individual me therefore is an abstraction or “plan which can (and ideally should) be manifested in visible shape, anything existing can be referred to as me, e.g., the appearance of a temple, divine radiance, an emblem, a cloth, or even the visible result of the vengeance of a god.” 276 In Lahar and Ashnan, for example, the me appear to be manifested as a royal cloth with emblems on it. 277 In the Gudea Cylinders when the attending deities are installed into their temple office and responsibilities, their particular me is paraded before the temple’s god Ningirsu: “Igalim, the beloved son, for the Lord Ningirsu he makes the (emblems? of the) rituals pass by.” 278 In Inanna and Šukaletuda, Inanna is wearing a garment referred to as the “loincloth (?) of the seven divine powers [mes].” 279 R. Averbeck provides a helpful summary of the concept, in light of all that has been said thus far: The noun may derive from the verb me “to be,” and on that basis its basic meaning would be “essence.” 280 It is commonly used as an abstract noun in reference to the basic elements of material culture, various cultural institutions (religious, social, and political), and the rules, principles, attributes, capacities, and functions that make the whole cultural system work properly. With regard to the latter, in one way or another, me virtually always relates to how things actually function or the nature of the effect that they have. In that sense, it is not just a matter of abstract essence. Aside from that, me some275. So for example, A. Livingstone’s discussion of this with regard to a text he calls The Weapon Name Exposition. He concludes that the reference to the m e in his text is a reference to a physical object that was regarded as a symbol or an archetype (lines 17–20; A. Livingstone, Mystical and Mythological Explanatory Works of Assyrian and Babylonian Scholars [Oxford: Clarendon, 1986], 55). Later, Livingstone also notes that “divine weapons, which existed as physical objects, were used as symbols of the deities to whom they belonged” (ibid., 59). 276. B. Alster, “On the Interpretation of the Sumerian Myth ‘Inanna and Enki’,” ZA 64 (1975): 33 n. 33. See also ETCSL 5.3.2; Black et al., The Literature of Ancient Sumer, 225–29. 277. Lines 92–99. B. Alster and H. L. J. Vanstiphout, “Lahar and Ashnan: Presentation and Analysis of a Sumerian Disputation,” AcSum 9 (1987): 21. Lahar and Ashnan is referred to as the Disputation between Ewe and Wheat in the previous section. 278. This ritual occurs a number of times, but one example is on Cylinder B 6, lines 22–26. E. J. Wilson, The Cylinders of Gudea: Transliteration, Translation and Index (AOAT 244; Kevelaer: Buzton & Bercker, 1996), 147–48. Alster and Vanstiphout would prefer to translate the me here as “emblems” (“Lahar and Ashnan,” 35 n. 1.98). 279. Lines 112–28. Black et al., The Literature of Ancient Sumer, 200. 280. So also Jacobsen, “Sumerian Mythology,” 139 n. 20, who rendered the word “modus operandi.” Later, according to Averbeck’s personal communication with Jacobsen, he decided this definition was incomplete, but not incorrect. He suggested that the term denotes “office” in an extended sense, including things such as trades and occupations. The office includes the powers that go with the office (R. E. Averbeck, “Ritual Formula, Textual Frame, and Thematic Echo in the Cylinders of Gudea,” in Crossing Boundaries and Linking Horizons: Studies in Honor of Michael C. Astour on His 80th Birthday [ed. G. D. Young et al.; Bethseda, MD: CDL, 1997], 82 n. 98).

Ancient Near Eastern Context

175

times refers to a symbol associated with a particular me, or a two-dimensional representation of that symbol engraved or painted on a sign, banner, or standard of some kind. 281

A final point to make is that the me need to be “accomplished,” “perfected,” “executed,” or “activated” in some way. It is almost always the case that when the me are activated it takes place in the context of a ritual. 282 Y.  Rosengarten even suggests that there can be times when the me refer to the actual rituals performed by the cult, perhaps like those described in the Gudea text. She therefore translates m e as “rite,” “ritual,” or even “prescription” depending on the context. 283 Rosengarten explains that the verb šu-du 7 (or various other iterations) is frequently employed when this takes place. 284 She says that both gods and humans, as well as inanimate objects, are able to “šu-du 7” the me. 285 So we find in the Sumerian Flood Story an unknown deity—possibly Enki—boasting that he had “perfected the divine rules and the lofty me.” 286 It is also said of Enlil that he “perfected the eternal me.” 287 A temple hymn from the Isin-Larsa period tells of the king’s ritual Sacred Marriage ceremony with Inanna, for which he embodies the 281. R. E. Averbeck, “The Cylinders of Gudea,” in The Context of Scripture (ed. W. W. Hallo and K. L. Younger; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 418 n. 2. 282. Walton, Ancient Near Eastern Thought, 99. Here again, we find similarities with the Egyptian principle of maʾat. Just as the me were dependent on ritualistic activation, so was maʾat. Also similar to the me, it was the responsibility of the cult to ritually actualize and uphold the order of the cosmos—maʾat—on earth. Tobin, Theological Principles, 30–31, 84. For more on maʾat and the cult’s role in upholding it, see Schmid, Gerechtigkeit als Weltordnung, 57–60. It was the king, serving as the high priest of the cult, who was primarily responsible for ensuring this takes place. J. Assmann, “Invisible Religion and Cultural Memory,” in Religion and Cultural Memory: Ten Studies (ed. M. Bal and H. de Vries; Cultural Memory in the Present; Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2006), 33. We see the king’s role expressed very clearly in a Theban Sun Hymn: “Re has installed the king on the earth of the living for ever and ever, for the justice of man, for the pleasure of the gods, for the birth of Maʾat, for the destruction of Isfet (chaos). He brings holy offerings to the gods and offerings to the transfigured dead” (idem, Maʾat, 206). T. Schneider describes a ritual where the king presents a statue of the goddess Maʾat to the god as an offering designed to uphold maʾat in the universe (“Sacred Kingship,” in Egypt: The World of the Pharaohs (ed. R. Schulz and M. Seidel; Königswinter: Ullmann, 2007), 324. 283. Rosengarten and Baer, Sumer et le sacré, 187–212. In her analysis, the m e can be used as prescriptions by the gods should there be something wrong with the universe. That is, a mention of the me in literature is sometimes actually referring to religious rituals prescribed by the gods, in a sense, to maintain the order in the universe (ibid., 4–5). 284. For a more extensive list of the verbs associated with the care of the m e , see Farber-Flügge, Der Mythos “Inanna und Enki,” 143–47. 285. Rosengarten and Baer, Sumer et le sacré, 138–40. In spite of the numerous attestations of the verb, Farber-Flügge writes that “the meaning of š u - d u 7 in relation to the m e is still relatively obscure” (Der Mythos “Inanna und Enki,” 146). 286. Column 1, line 45. Civil, “The Sumerian Flood Story,” 141. The text is quoted in more detail in the previous section as Segment A of CBS 10673, p. 144. 287. SGL 1, 13, line 46. Farber-Flügge, Der Mythos “Inanna und Enki,” 146.

176

Chapter 4

god Dumuzi. A primary reason given for this ritual in the hymn is to “perfect the me.” 288 The royal hymn Šulgi X also speaks of Shulgi’s responsibility to perfect the me. 289 Enki was not only responsible for organizing the earth but also “establishing what might be called law and order upon it.” 290 He did this most concretely by transferring the divine me to humanity, 291 and so we find examples like Shulgi, who is said to possess the “me’s of princeship.” 292 Other humans possess various other me or are responsible for tending to them or activating them, as it may be. A wonderful example of this comes from the Gudea Cylinders. Gudea asks that Ningirsu would let him “perfect the me” for him as he builds his temple. 293 Averbeck explains that the means by which Gudea accomplished this was through his temple dedication ritual, explained above. 294 Once this had been done properly, the temple is said to have “towered upwards in full grandeur [me].” 295 Our discussion concludes with a final analysis by Alster, helping us round out our picture of the me and their possible manifestations: any attempt at finding a single translation of the word me would be a contradictio in adjecto. In brief, the term m e includes the following: 1) Any archetype or cultural norm. 2) Any visible manifestation of an archetype. . . . 3) Any process relating to the actualization of an archetype (“function, duty, success, prayer, ritual”). 4) Anything that symbolizes the capability of actualizing an archetype (“emblem, insignia,” etc.). 296

We have introduced and briefly examined some of the more important traditions of Enki, as well as the me of which he is the steward. The section has done little more than scratch the surface of these traditions, though it should be sufficient as we move to the next section. We will, with the next few sections, begin to explore the apkallu traditions, which are closely related to Enki and the me, as well as the city traditions we examined in the previous section. The apkallu appear in later king lists, and beyond this they have much to say with regard to the Mesopotamian idea of civilization. 288. Information about the ritual from, Postgate, Early Mesopotamia, 265–66; lines 167–188 of Hymn to Inanna-Dilibad; W. H. P. Römer, Sumerische ‘Königshymnen’ der Isin-Zeit (Leiden: Brill, 1965), 133–34, trans. pp. 141–42. 289. Line 137. Klein, Three Šulgi Hymns, 145. See also, ETCSL 2.2.4.24. 290. Kramer, Sumerian Mythology, 59. 291. Enki was frequently represented by a fish-man hybrid. Galter, Der Gott Ea/Enki, 107. Recall that Berossus (see p. 193–195) spoke of Oannes the apkallu, who had the body of a fish and head of a man. Oannes brought humans knowledge of all sorts of things (me), which is evidently an outworking of the close traditional association of Enki, the me and the apkallu, and also how the me were brought to humans. 292. Line 2, Šulgi X; Klein, Three Šulgi Hymns, 137. 293. Cylinder A 2, line 15, ETCSL 2.1.7. 294. Averbeck, “The Cylinders of Gudea,” 429–30 n. 61 and 431 n. 69. 295. Cylinder B 16, line 3, ETCSL 2.1.7. 296. Alster, “On the Interpretation,” 33–34 n. 33.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

177

For these reasons, I will begin with a study of king lists, with most of the attention devoted to the SKL, perhaps the most well known of all the lists. From there, we will follow the apkallu through various ritual and incantation texts, and the chapter will conclude with a study of Adapa, the most famous of the apkallu. Sumerian King List and Other King Lists The Sumerian King List (SKL) will occupy most of our attention, though other king lists will also be included in this section’s discussion. It is necessary to interact with and understand king lists for a number of reasons. Biblical commentators mention them frequently in discussions of Gen 4 and 5 (often coupled with 11b) for the noted parallels, both in the generic similarities of genealogical structure, 297 as well as the incredible spans of time that are (at times) described in both. Somewhat similarly to the way that some of the lists trace kingship from city to city, Gen 5 traces the patriarchal line from Yahweh to Abram. 298 Most consistently, comparisons have been made with Gen 5, though, as this section seeks to demonstrate, there are compelling reasons for studying their possible contributions for the study of Gen 4:17–22, as well. Lambert has concluded that direct borrowing from the SKL to the biblical traditions is untenable, 299 though there are elements common to both cognitive environments to be found in the texts. 300 In late versions of the SKL, the apkallu tradition comes to be joined with the king list tradition to create what H. Kvanvig calls “a comprehensive view of the primeval antediluvian period.” 301 Before we approach the SKL, however, we must dwell for a moment on Mesopotamian lists in general. Mesopotamian Lists.  The Mesopotamian tendency to compile and preserve lists is well known. 302 Often they took the form of genealogies, recording both royal and nonroyal lineages. 303 Not all of these lists were necessarily genealogies, however (though some certainly were). That is, not all recorded kinship or descendants of some sort, as we will see. Our concern here will be primarily with royal lists, better known as “king lists,” which 297. Note that I am suggesting not that the genre of all king lists was “genealogy” but simply that they all shared generic similarities that make them worth exploring. 298. Though not immediately explicit as royal, the Genesis text does trace a chosen line, or “seed,” that ultimately find fulfillment in a royal Judaic dynasty. T. D. Alexander, “Genealogies, Seed and the Compositional Unity of Genesis,” TynBul 44/2 (1993): 255. 299. Lambert, “A New Look,” 299. Reprinted with additions in Hess and Tsumura, I Studied Inscriptions, 96–113. 300. Especially, we will see, so far as other king lists may be concerned. 301. Kvanvig, Roots of Apocalyptic, 159. Could this perhaps help to explain why the biblical founders of civilization from Gen 4 are in such close proximity to the patriarchal line in Gen 5? We will explore this further in due course. 302. Van Seters calls this “the Mesopotamian list-science mentality” (In Search of History, 69). 303. Wilson, Genealogy and History, 57.

178

Chapter 4

had a long history in Mesopotamia. As Lambert explains, the Sumerians kept these lists for, among other things, the practical purpose of identification. He writes, “many persons commonly bore the same personal name at any one time, and kings frequently bore names used by their predecessors; for example, ‘A son of B’ may refer to more than one royal father and son.” 304 So king lists could serve simply to identify rulers and their kin, but as time progressed they came to be used in other ways. While he writes that “it is doubtful whether any written genealogies were passed on from the Sumerians to the Babylonians,” they did, he explains, “inherit king lists” from them for two main reasons. First, as we will soon see, the Mesopotamians held kingship in such high esteem—it was a gift from the gods to the human race, which made records about kings worth keeping. Second, “king lists were part of the ancient systems of time reckoning and were thus required for practical needs.” 305 S. Melville elaborates: Past events play a vital role in the way every culture forms, evolves and maintains its identity. And of course, without a proper chronological context, economic transactions, tax schedules, military musters, and administrative records, as well as cultic accounts and private records quickly become useless. In order to administer their present and discuss their past in a meaningful way, the ancients needed a coherent, widely understood means of establishing the sequence of events; that is, a dating system. 306

This need to account systematically for the passage of time took a number of different forms, depending on the time and place the list was made. F. van Koppen writes that it was customary in Mesopotamia, from the late Early Dynastic period to the early Kassite period, to designate each year with a formula that mentions an event of the preceding year or, less often, with one referring to an era that had started with an event of the more distant past. Used in all kinds of legal and administrative records and surviving in large numbers, these so-called year names are an invaluable source of historical information. 307

Beyond their use for historical reconstruction, as the year names were coined and then made public they became an effective means of conveying 304. W. G. Lambert, “Review: ‘Genealogy and History in the Biblical World’ by Robert R. Wilson,” JNES 39 (1980): 75. 305. Ibid., 76. 306. M. W. Chavalas, ed., The Ancient Near East: Historical Sources in Translation (4th ed.; Blackwell Sourcebooks in Ancient History; Oxford: Blackwell, 2008), 293. 307. Ibid., 107. So also A. R. Millard, The Eponymns of the Assyrian Empire 910–612 bc (Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project 2; Helsinki: University of Helsinki and Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 1994), 1. For examples of this type of list, see the compilation in Chavalas, The Ancient Near East, 109–11; and two further exemplars in Pritchard, Ancient Near Eastern Texts, 269–71.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

179

particular kingship images to the people. 308 They served as a type of charter to legitimate rulership. 309 Furthermore, these types of year lists were most likely among the sources used by the editors or compilers of the SKL. 310 Millard distinguishes between this older dating system (by event), and two other ways Mesopotamian record keepers distinguished year from year. First, after the dating-by-event system fell out of use (or simply became less common), the system was simplified to number only the year of each king’s reign. 311 Another more common dating system was by eponyms. That is, “each year was named after a high officer of state, termed līmu (or limmu) in Akkadian.” 312 Millard explains that though little is known about how and when this method began to be used, aside from limited eponym dating in third millennium Sumerian texts, “it is otherwise confined to Assyria from the nineteenth to the seventh centuries bc.” 313 This method of dating by limmu was popular not only in lists, but in inscriptions and scribal colophons to literary texts, as well. 314 In sum, king lists were in some way related to the ancient systems of time reckoning, some of which may have even served as sources for the SKL’s compiler. Now we return to Lambert’s first reason king lists were passed on from the Sumerians to the Babylonians, namely, the importance of kingship. Not only did king lists fulfill practical needs, but as van Koppen said above, they helped record and transmit “particular images of kingship to the people.” The SKL is a wonderful example of this, which is an important reason we will study it. Mesopotamian Kingship.  Kvanvig’s “comprehensive view of the primeval antediluvian period” has much to say regarding the Mesopotamian 308. The types of events used in the year names were those that “the ruler and his circles deemed most laudable,” such as, “pious work for the gods, good deeds for the people, and defeat of the enemies” (Chavalas, The Ancient Near East, 107). 309. This, as discussed in the previous chapter, was a function of genealogies, as well as being a primary function of the SKL, below. 310. Kuhrt, The Ancient Near East, 47. Though Kuhrt refers specifically to the use of sources for one historical period in particular, the Akkad period, we are justified in thinking the SKL compilers consulted sources for other periods, especially the more recent periods. So also Oppenheim in Pritchard, Ancient Near Eastern Texts, 265; Lambert, “Review: ‘Genealogy and History in the Biblical World,’” 76. 311. Millard, The Eponymns, 1. For an example of this type of list, see p. 3; the Babylonian King List B in Pritchard, Ancient Near Eastern Texts, 271. 312. Millard, The Eponymns, 1. 313. Ibid. So also Pritchard, Ancient Near Eastern Texts, 274. 314. Chavalas, The Ancient Near East, 294. For examples of limmu lists, see Pritchard, Ancient Near Eastern Texts, 274; A. R. Millard, “Assyrian Eponym Canon,” in The Context of Scripture (ed. W. W. Hallo and K. L. Younger; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 465–66; Glassner, Mesopotamian Chronicles, 160–77; Chavalas, The Ancient Near East, 295–98; and of course, the most thorough treatment in Millard, The Eponymns.

180

Chapter 4

understanding of how the world came to be civilized. As Lambert noted, the king list tradition reflects an extremely important strand within that greater Mesopotamian concept of civilization, namely, kingship. As we will see, it speaks to the very ancient Mesopotamian idea that kingship was “one of the basic institutions of human life devised by the gods for humankind.” 315 And further, Moran notes that kingship was “the institution in Mesopotamian world view [that] was the sole guarantee of the guided, the ordered, the fully human life.” 316 Elsewhere, he describes kingship as “the final and perfect ordering principle of human existence, and in its absence humanity is incomplete, even savage.” 317 We have seen examples already of the Mesopotamian view of uncivilized and savage humankind (above in the “Eridu Genesis” section). The first tablet of the Etana myth describes a “teeming people” and their need for a king. Furthermore, in their plight “there was no right counsel.” The issue is only settled once Ishtar has found Etana and set him in place as king. 318 Similarly, the order of creation as described in The Debate between the Bird and the Fish suggests the importance of kingship. Humankind is provided with a king to shepherd them even before food is created! 319 On the ancient king and kingship in general, Walton expounds: In the ancient world the king stood between the divine and human realms mediating the power of the deity in his city and beyond. He communed with the gods, was privy to their councils, and enjoyed their favor and protection. 315. Saggs, Civilization before Greece and Rome, 36. Similarly, S. Greengus says that the “kinglist portrays kingship as a divinely ordained institution bequeathed to humankind by the gods” (“Legal and Social Institutions of Ancient Mesopotamia,” in CANE, 470). This view is not restricted merely to Mesopotamia in the ancient Near East. For example, J. Baines writes of kingship in Egypt that was “the central institution of society and civilization” and that “the ideological alternative to kingship was . . . chaos” (“Ancient Egyptian Kingship: Official Forms, Rhetoric, Context,” in King and Messiah in Israel and the Ancient Near East: Proceedings of the Oxford Old Testament Seminar [ed. J. Day; JSOTSup 270; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998], 16–17). The king in Hittite Anatolia was “the gods’ deputy on earth” (T. Bryce, Life and Society in the Hittite World [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002], 29). 316. Moran, “The Gilgamesh Epic,” 2329. The example he furnishes for this is Enkidu from the Gilgamesh Epic (see also p. 146 above). Enkidu does not become fully human, as it were, until he acknowledges Gilgamesh as king. Upon this admission, Gilgamesh and Enkidu “kissed each other and formed a friendship,” and thereby completed the transition from wild beast to human being (YBC 2187 [the Yale Tablet, OBIII], tablet 3, column 1, lines 18–19). George, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic, 197. According to Clifford, the Enkidu section is distinctly Akkadian and does not appear in the Sumerian versions of the epic (Creation Accounts, 6). This may demonstrate the growing import of kingship to the ancient Akkadian mind, reflecting appropriately the shift in historical circumstances mentioned earlier. 317. Moran, “The Epic of Gilgamesh,” 14. 318. Ibid. Text quoted is Old Babylonian version, tablet 1, Foster, Before the Muses, 535. 319. ETCSL 5.3.5. See also Black et al., The Literature of Ancient Sumer, 230–35.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

181

He was responsible for maintaining justice, 320 for leading in battle, for initiating and accomplishing public building projects from canals to walls to temples, and had ultimate responsibility for the ongoing performance of the cult. Beyond that, every aspect of order and balance in the cosmos was associated with the king’s execution of his role. 321

Another reason we are studying the SKL is that it lends insight into how the ancient mind attached historical significance to certain times and events. 322 For example, history became endowed with a greater meaning only once it became civilized. In other words, “absolute beginnings” were not as much of a concern to the ancient mind. Rather, “civilized beginnings” were of extreme importance, and, for the Mesopotamian, civilization did not begin in a sense until kingship was introduced by the gods to the earth. 323 As we will see below, the SKL describes this as when “kingship descended from heaven.” 324 The “comprehensive view” coalesced at a relatively late time, and there are compelling reasons to believe the apkallu and the king list traditions were initially of separate origins. The thrust of this section is to develop a basic working knowledge of the SKL and the king list tradition. The following section of this study will build on this foundation by further exploring the origins and identity of the apkallu, as well as how and when the apkallu traditions may have joined with the king list traditions. The Sumerian King List.  The SKL is, just as it sounds, a list of Sumerian kings, the cities with which they are associated, and the lengths of their respective reigns. The order in which they appear seems to suggest successive rule. 325 At its most complete, it begins with a list of antediluvian kings, is followed by the flood, and ends with the postdiluvian kings. 326 It 320. According to R. J. Leprohon, the Egyptians believed their king to be “the fount of all laws and thus the foundation of moral righteousness” (“Royal Ideology and State Admistration in Pharaonic Egypt,” in CANE, 273). 321. Walton, Ancient Near Eastern Thought, 278, emphasis mine. For another brief discussion of the ideal king in Mesopotamia, see S. N. Kramer, “The Sage in Sumerian Literature: A Composite Portrait,” in The Sage in Israel and the Ancient Near East (ed. J. G. Gammie and L. G. Perdue; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1990), 41–42. 322. The idea of historical significance (see 40–42 above) will also be discussed in more detail below on pp. 223–224. 323. Hartman, “Some Thoughts,” 27–28, 32; Lambert, “A New Look,” 299; Walton, Ancient Near Eastern Thought, 278. 324. Elsewhere, for example, a god or goddess “gives birth” to a king. A tigi to NintudAruru, lines 1–12, ETCSL 4.26.1; see also, Black et al., The Literature of Ancient Sumer, 195–97. Kramer explains that when kingship descended from heaven, its royal m e came with it (“The Sage in Sumerian Literature,” 41). 325. W. W. Hallo, “New Directions in Historiography (Mesopotamia and Israel),” in Dubsar anta-men: Studien zur Altorientalistik. Festschrift für Willem H. Ph. Römer zur Vollendung seines 70. Lebensjahres mit Beiträgen von Freunden, Schülern und Kollegen (ed. M. Dietrich and O. Loretz; AOAT; Münster: Ugarit Verlag, 1998), 116. 326. Sparks, Ancient Texts, 345.

182

Chapter 4

was “composed as a charter to legitimise the claim of a dynasty as rightful successor of a previous one.” 327 Although most copies of the list end with the names of the Isin rulers (successors to the Ur III Dynasty), there is no general agreement as to when the first of these lists originated. 328 Sparks ventures a guess, however, that it probably originated ca. 2000. This would interpret the Isin propaganda as a later addition to the earlier Uruk material. 329 P. Steinkeller has even published a copy of the SKL from the Ur III period, which could lend support to these theories. 330 However, he prefers to date the composition even earlier to the Akkad Dynasty, and his line of reasoning is fairly persuasive. 331 The SKL is comprised of two different types of material: lists containing the names and provenance of kings and length of their rule, and also epic and legendary material dealing with some of the kings. 332 The amalgamated new “genre” is one of a list of kings and their rule, interspersed with brief legendary comments throughout. 333 Each of the kings in the list has an unusually long reign attributed to him, by far the longest reigns coming in the antediluvian period (most numbering in the tens of thousands of years). After the flood, the lengths of reign diminish significantly but still remain unrealistically large for a while (most reigns are in the hundreds, still others are in the thousands), though as the list nears the present the reigns become progressively more believable. 334 327. E. Flückiger-Hawker, Urnamma of Ur in Sumerian Literary Tradition (OBO 166; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999), 41. See also Kuhrt, The Ancient Near East, 30–31. 328. Flückiger-Hawker, Urnamma of Ur, 41. 329. Sparks, Ancient Texts, 345. M. Rowton also posits the Ur III period as an approximate date. M. B. Rowton, “The Date of the Sumerian King List,” JNES 19 (1960): 161. So also Wilke, “Studies in Honor of Åke W. Sjöberg,” 559. T. Jacobsen does as well and offers a slightly more specific date of the rule of Utu-ḫegal, in the city of Uruk (The Sumerian King List [Assyriological Studies 11; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1939], 140). 330. P. Steinkeller, “An Ur III Manuscript of the Sumerian King List,” in Literatur, Politik und Recht in Mesopotamien: Festschrift für Claus Wilke (ed. W. Sallaberger et al.; OBC; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2003). 331. Ibid., 281–84. So also Michalowski in Chavalas, The Ancient Near East, 81. 332. It has been argued that this material amounts essentially to appended scribal notes (Genealogy and History, 74). Michalowski writes: “These little stories, which one could very well compare to the anecdotal material encountered in the so-called historical omens, were added to the SKL some time after the reign of Shulgi” (“A Man Called Enmebaragesi,” in Literatur, Politik und Recht in Mesopotamien: Festschrift für Claus Wilke [ed. W. Sallaberger et al.; OBC; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2003], 197). 333. Although, as Millard notes in a personal correspondence (May, 2009), we cannot be certain that the epic and legendary material was originally separate. Ideas such as this can only be speculative at best. Rather, he says, it is possible that this material could have already been attached to the list of names that the compiler of the SKL used. 334. By the end of the list, the names and dynastic dates are certainly believable and can even be corroborated from contemporary documents.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

183

While most would agree these numbers are not meant to be taken literally (that is, the implied reader would not have understood them to be literal numbers of years), a reasonable explanation remains somewhat elusive. D. Young’s comments can be taken as normative when he dismisses the lengths of antediluvian reigns as “virtually astronomical figures.” 335 For an example of these numbers, the antediluvian portion of the king listfollows: After the kingship descended from heaven, the kingship was in Eridug. In Eridug, Alulim became king; he ruled for 28800 years. Alalgar ruled for 36000 years. 2 kings; they ruled for 64800 years. Then Eridug fell and the kingship was taken to Bad-tibira. In Bad-tibira, En-men-lu-ana ruled for 43200 years. En-men-gal-ana ruled for 28800 years. Dumuzid, the shepherd, ruled for 36000 years. 3 kings; they ruled for 108000 years. Then Bad-tibira fell (?) and the kingship was taken to Larag. In Larag, En-sipad-zid-ana ruled for 28800 years. 1 king; he ruled for 28800 years. Then Larag fell (?) and the kingship was taken to Zimbir. In Zimbir, En-men-dur-ana became king; he ruled for 21000 years. 1 king; he ruled for 21000 years. Then Zimbir fell (?) and the kingship was taken to Šuruppag. In Šuruppag, Ubara-Tutu became king; he ruled for 18600 years. 1 king; he ruled for 18600 years. In 5 cities 8 kings; they ruled for 241200 years. Then the flood swept over. 336

The postdiluvian lengths of reign are considerably smaller, though they too seem beyond the realm of realistic possibility: After the flood had swept over, and the kingship had descended from heaven, the kingship was in Kiš. In Kiš, Gušur became king; he ruled for 1200 years. Kullassina-bēl ruled for [960] years. Nangišlišma ruled for [670] (?) years. Entaraḫ-ana ruled for [420] years . . . . . . , 3 months, and 3 1/2 days. Babum . . . . . . ruled for [300] years. Puannum ruled for [840] years. 337 Kalibum ruled for [960] years. Kalūmum ruled for [840] years. Zuqāqīp ruled for [900] years. [Atab] ruled for 600 years. Mašda, the son of Atab, ruled for [840] years. Arwium, the son of Mašda, ruled for 720 years. Etana, the shepherd, who ascended to heaven and consolidated all the foreign countries, became king; he ruled for [1500] years. 338 Baliḫ, the son of Etana, ruled for [400] years. 335. D. W. Young, “A Mathmatical Approach to Certain Dynastic Spans in the Sumerian King List,” JNES 47 (1988): 123. Kuhrt says the numbers “clearly belong to a purely legendary time.” Kuhrt, The Ancient Near East, 29. 336. Lines 1–39, ETCSL 2.1.1. As Schmidt notes below (p. 189 n. 369), different copies of the SKL recorded different names, numbers of kings, and lengths of reign. 337. Glassner suggests the kingship list at Kish can be broken down into two related lists, the first ending here. It can be characterized by the name Kullassina-bēl, which means “they are all lord.” For him, this is an indication that this first list speaks of “humanity’s first phase, before royal authority had been established” (Mesopotamian Chronicles, 60). 338. Note that Etana occupies the seventh position in this list. According to the genealogical discussion of the previous chapter, he might appear here in the list to accord him special attention. The additional information provided with his name certainly seems to present him as worthy of the seventh position of this list. He also seems to be the first human named in this second list. With the exception of one (Atab), the rest appear to

184

Chapter 4

En-me-nuna ruled for [660] years. Melem-Kiš, the son of En-me-nuna, ruled for 900 years. [Barsal-nuna, the son of En-me-nuna,] ruled for 1200 years. Zamug, the son of Barsal-nuna, ruled for 140 years. Tizqār, the son of Zamug, ruled for 305 years. Ilku ruled for 900 years. Iltasadum ruled for 1200 years. En-me-barage-si, who made the land of Elam submit, became king; he ruled for 900 years. Aga, the son of En-me-barage-si, ruled for 625 years. 23 kings; they ruled for 24510 years, 3 months, and 3 1/2 days. Then Kiš was defeated and the kingship was taken to E-ana. 339

As the regnal spans become more recent, they become more and more credible. The following lines reflect that trend: In E-ana, Meš-ki-ag-gašer, the son of Utu, became lord and king; he ruled for [324] years. Meš-ki-ag-gašer entered the sea and disappeared. Enmerkar, the son of Meš-ki-ag-gašer, the king of Unug, [who built Unug], became king; he ruled for [420] years. Lugalbanda, the shepherd, ruled for 1200 years. Dumuzid, the fisherman whose city was Kuara, ruled for [100] years. [He captured En-me-barage-si single-handed.] Gilgameš, whose father was a phantom (?), the lord of Kulaba, ruled for 126 years. Ur-Nungal, the son of Gilgameš, ruled for 30 years. Udul-kalama, the son of [Ur-Nungal], ruled for 15 years. Lā-ba’šum ruled for 9 years. En-nun-taraḫ-ana ruled for 8 years. Meš-ḫe, the smith, ruled for 36 years. [Melem-ana] ruled for [6] years. Lugal-kitun (?) ruled for [36] years. 12 kings; they ruled for [2310] years. Then Unug was defeated and the kingship was taken to Urim. 340

Some attribute the large numbers to a matter of scribal transcriptional error. B. Rudman, a proponent of this argument, speculates the confusion may have arisen because of a confusion of digit placement in the numbers, 341 though R. Wilson thinks this highly unlikely. Wilson explains in more explicit detail the Sumerian numbering system to demonstrate how unlikely a scribal mistake (of this or any sort) would be. 342 Walton, however, gives a be the names of animals. Glassner takes this to suggest that the compiler of the SKL is describing Etana as “king of the animals.” He also notes that one version of the Etana Epic records the speech of the eagle as “You, Etana, are king over the animals” (ibid., 61). For more on Etana and the SKL, see Sanders, “Writing, Ritual, and Apocalypse,” 72–73. 339. Lines 40–94, ETCSL 2.1.1. The text-critical variants have been removed for the sake of simplicity. 340. Lines 95–133, ETCSL 2.1.1. Note also examples of the scribal notes or legendary material (as mentioned above) in several places. 341. For an example, he uses the number 1234. A confusion of digit placement could result in the mistaken reading of this number as 1.234, 12.34, or 123.4. He wonders if the scribes might have mistaken smaller numbers for larger numbers due to this sort of digit confusion. 342. B. S. Rudman and R. R. Wilson, “Genealogies and Number Systems,” BA 43/2 (1980): 69–70. For a brief but excellent treatment of the Mesopotamian numbering systems, see Saggs, Civilization before Greece and Rome, 220–28. See also A. Goetze, who surveys the usage of numerical idioms (cardinal and ordinal numbers, fractions) in the Old Babylonian period (“Number Idioms in Old Babylonian,” JNES 5 [1946]: 185–202).

Ancient Near Eastern Context

185

more convincing argument for the possibility of scribal error taking place over the course of several centuries. He suggests a possible confusion between Sumerian sexagesimal numbering system and a Semitic decimal numbering system. He even goes so far as to say that within individual societies, both systems have been attested during the same time periods. 343 Indeed, by the Neo-Assyrian period, the Mesopotamian numerical system had evolved to “a compromise between the decimal and the sexagesimal systems.” 344 Young concurs, although he notes that Mesopotamian mathematicians operated only with the sexagesimal system in mathematical problem texts, reserving use of the decimal system for other matters. 345 Though Walton may be correct in suggesting the possibility of scribal error, there are alternative theories that may better explain the extraordinary numbers. Wilson, writing in 1980, wondered if the numbers might represent some sort of numerical speculation, although he noted that at the time of his writing, no suitable explanation existed. 346 A few years later, D. Young began a series of articles related to this very possibility, and made some very intriguing suggestions of his own. 347 In a series of six articles (from 1988 to 2004), Young draws on Babylonian mathematical texts to suggest the large numbers in the SKL may in fact be predetermined figures only later allotted to regnal spans and dynasties. 348 By implication, the author of the SKL would have had at least a rudimentary understanding of some of the simpler mathematical operations taught to and practiced by later Babylonian scribes. Indeed, Young thinks the mathematical texts from the Old Babylonian period were “being created prior to 343. J. H. Walton, “The Antediluvian Section of the Sumerian King List and Genesis 5,” BA 44/4 (1981): 207–8. Though his example happens to be Ebla, somewhat removed geographically, a relationship between Ebla and Mesopotamian cities as far back as the third millennium has been demonstrated. It would be entirely plausible to suppose numbering habits may have been similar. P. Michalowski, “Third Millennium Contacts: Observations on the Relationship between Mari and Ebla,” JAOS 105 (1985): 293–302; I. J. Gelb, “Ebla and the Kish Civilization,” in La lingua di Ebla: atti del convegno internazionale (Napoli, 21–23 aprile 1980) (ed. L. Cagni; Rome: Herder, 1981); P. Mander, “Sumerian Personal Names in Ebla,” JAOS 108 (1988): 481–83. 344. M. de Odorico, The Use of Numbers and Quantifications in the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions (Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project 3; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 1995), 4. 345. D. W. Young, “The Incredible Regnal Spans of Kish I in the Sumerian King List,” JNES 50 (1991): 28 n. 28. Saggs explains more specifically that generally “administration and business mainly used the decimal system” and that “the main contexts in which sexagesimal numeration predominated were mathematical and astronomical calculations” (Civilization before Greece and Rome, 222). 346. Rudman and Wilson, “Genealogies and Number Systems,” 70. 347. Writing in 2001, Walton does not seem to have interacted with Young’s ideas and seems even more inclined to think no suitable solution exists (Genesis, 281–82). 348. Young, “A Mathmatical Approach,” 124. He seems to imply that all of the numbers can be accounted for in this way, though he only deals with limited examples.

186

Chapter 4

and contemporaneously with the composition of the Sumerian king list.” 349 He also holds that this scribal arithmetic heavily influenced the biblical use of numbers in early Genesis, though an in-depth exploration of this possibility would take us farther afield than our present topic would warrant. Here, we will limit ourselves to but a few examples of possible biblical influences and nothing more. 350 In the final article of the series, Young distills his theory to this: “The underlying proposition in these studies is that the authors of the pertinent numbers drew upon figures which had become important to them through their exposure to sexagesimal mathematics as it was taught in Mesopotamian schools over the centuries.” 351 By way of an example, twice in the regnal spans of Kish (in the postdiluvian section as Kiš), a reign of 900 years is followed by a reign of 1,200 years. This pairing, says Young, “speaks strongly of an algebraic affiliation.” 352 He shows from Tablet YBC 4668, no. B 6, a scribal textbook example, how the number 1,200 is a product obtained only by using the numbers 30 and 20: 30 x [30 + (30 - 20)]. This equation, we can see, leads to 900 as the value of x2, “and from this square one may, of course, ascertain that x is 30.” The actual problem is as follows: “The length, plus the difference between the length and the width I multiplied by the length and got 20.” 353 The tandem appear349. Idem, “The Incredible Regnal Spans,” 23. This certainly falls within the realm of possibility. Though the mathematical texts Young employs were from the Old Babylonian period, M. Powell, for one, has demonstrated that such mathematical practices were extant as far back as Sargonic Akkad. The author of the SKL, most likely writing in or close to the Ur III period, would be versed in these. M. A. Powell, “The Antecedents of Old Babylonian Place Notation and the Early History of Babylonian Mathematics,” Historia Mathematica 3 (1976): 417–39. Contra Powell and others, J. Friberg has stated that the earliest known “firmly dated” example of sexagesimal mathematics, YBC 1793, dates to the Ur III period. He makes the claim that mathematical exercises that antedate Ur III can be more simply explained in other ways (“On the Alleged Counting with Sexagesimal Place Value Numbers in Mathematical Cuneiform Texts from the Third Millennium BC,” Cuneiform Digital Library Journal 2 [2005]: 1). Nissen et al. agree that the invention of the sexagesimal place value system took place by the end of the third millennium. They further observe that by the Old Babylonian period the “system was fully developed” (Archaic Bookkeeping, 142). 350. For further reading, consult the following articles: D. W. Young, “On the Application of Numbers from Babylonian Mathematics to Biblical Life Spans and Epochs,” ZAW 100 (1988): 331–61; idem, “The Influence of Babylonian Algebra on Longevity Among the Antediluvians,” ZAW 102 (1990): 321–35; idem, “The Sexagesimal Basis for the Total Years of the Antediluvian and Postdiluvian Epochs,” ZAW 116 (2004): 502–27; idem, “The Step-Down to Two Hundred in Genesis 11,10–25,” ZAW 116 (2004): 323–33. See also C. A. Hill, “Making Sense of Numbers in Genesis,” Perspectives on Science and Christian Faith 55 (2003): 239–52. 351. Young, “The Step-Down to Two Hundred,” 323. 352. Idem, “The Incredible Regnal Spans,” 27. 353. Ibid.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

187

ance of these numbers in both mathematical texts and the king list seems to point to a similar “fascination,” as Young calls it. 354 Young also cites the importance of the numbers 7, 11, and 13, and the role they play in predetermining the total years for certain regnal spans in the SKL as well as in certain biblical postdiluvian epochs. He claims these numbers “are absent from a standard reciprocal table because they lead to nonterminating fractions of 60. In the Babylonian curriculum students received extensive instruction in how to handle exercises involving this trio by using special tables.” 355 For example, in the First Dynasty of Uruk (part of which is quoted above, lines 107–33), 12 kings ruled for 2,310 years. This total would have been reached by the simple formula: (7 × 11) × 30. Similarly, the regnal span of Kish IIIb (lines 244–58, not quoted above) is listed as 491 years. This would have been reached by using the formula (7 × 13) + 202. In both of these cases, Young notes, there are two operations behind the choice of dynastic length: “multiplication of either 11 or 13 by the integer 7 . . . [or] addition or multiplication involving a power of one of the three lowest tens.” 356 Again, Young suggests that these numbers would have been used because of scribes’ extraordinary interest in the three figures. Use of the three numbers may play a role in the biblical account in Genesis, as well. For example, the lifetime of Shem (Gen 11:10–11) is 600, which can be calculated as: (13 × 30) + (7 × 30). 357 Finally, Young reckons the entire postdiluvian period was 600 years in length, from the death of Noah to the death of Jacob. 358 The logical next question, then, would be Why? Why did the author of the SKL seem to be so fascinated with these numbering schemes? What could be the significance, if any, of the numbers appearing as they do? 359 A possible answer ties into the next discussion of this section, that of the historicity of the king list. Vanstiphout describes the king list as one “purporting to be historical,” 360 though in reality the issues are more complex. 354. Idem, “The Sexagesimal Basis,” 517. 355. Ibid., 516. 356. Ibid. 357. Note also that Noah was 600 when the flood came, as Gen 7:6 mentions. 358. Ibid., 521. It is also noteworthy that Young does not consider the author of the biblical numbers to have been influenced by the SKL directly. Rather, he sees a similar mathematical education as the reason they may have been “led down a similar path” (ibid., 517). In other words, any similarities are simply the result of a common cognitive environment (pp. 12–13). 359. R. A. Veenker believes that the story Gilgamesh and the Magic Plant was originally (removed from the context of the Gilgamesh Epic) an ancient attempt to deal with this very question (“Gilgamesh and the Magic Plant,” BA 44/4 [1981]: 199–205). In a later article, Lambert responds to this thesis and strongly disagrees. Directly following, Veenker responds to Lambert’s comments. W. G. Lambert and R. A. Veenker, “Gilgamesh and the Magic Plant,” BA 45/2 (1982): 69. 360. Vanstiphout, Epics of Sumerian Kings, 1.

188

Chapter 4

In some sense, as we will see below, it does seem historically accurate, but in others, like the numbering scheme, it does not. Though L. Bailey is describing the large numbers in the early portions of Genesis, his suggestion is both interesting and equally applicable to the SKL when he says that the extraordinary numbers should not “suggest that the figures are not ‘true.’ Rather . . . they were meant to depict a dimension of truth that does not coincide with a modern concern for chronology.” 361 This is certainly not to suggest numbers were always employed in this manner, however. C. Hill explains that the Mesopotamians “incorporated two concepts of numbers into their world view: (1) numbers could have real values, and (2) numbers could be symbolic descriptions.” 362 C. Hyers would contrast the two uses by describing the former as numerical and the latter as numerological. That is, “their symbolic value was the basis and purpose for their use, not their secular value as counters.” 363 For the time being, we simply may not understand what the communicative purposes of these large numbers might have been in the SKL, though we trust they appeared for numerological reasons understood by both the author and the original audience. J. Gabel et al., suggest that these numbers are hyperbolic, and that “we should recognize that whatever else lies behind these figures, they are intended to impress the reader with the magnitude of the subject.” 364 Similarly, K. Kitchen posits that the ancients used these mathematically derived large numbers to fill a “great conceptual gap.” In other words, they knew their world was ancient, and they expressed that age with the systematically inflated number of years attributed to each individual. 365 361. Bailey, Genesis, Creation, and Creationism, 58. 362. Hill, “Making Sense of Numbers,” 241. 363. C. Hyers, “The Narrative Form of Genesis 1: Cosmogonic, Yes; Scientific, No,” Journal of the American Scientific Affiliation 36/4 (1984): 212. As one example of the numerological use of numbers, K. R. Nemet-Nejat quotes Sargon during a construction project at Khorsabad: “I built the circumference of the city wall 16,283 cubits, the number of my name” (Daily Life in Ancient Mesopotamia [Daily Life through History; Westport, CT: Greenwood, 1998], 83). 364. Gabel et al., The Bible as Literature, 24. So also Hartman, who acknowledges that “epic elements” could be in play where “it is possible to see in this extreme longevity the reflex—in time—of a psychology still operative today, whereby bigness is equated with greatness” (“Some Thoughts,” 30). Though they speak specifically of the antediluvian heroes of Genesis, their descriptions of the practice is similar and applicable to the SKL. 365. Kitchen, On the Reliability, 443–47. See also the helpful discussion in Bailey, Genesis, Creation, and Creationism, 56–64. Not only did the antediluvian heroes live long lives, says Jacobsen, but they also lived more “slowly” than in historical times. Jacobsen, “The Eridu Genesis,” 520–21. This could perhaps lend further credibility to Kitchen’s hypothesis—another ancient technique to describe the bygone days of antiquity. He cites the Lagaš King List (see below, pp. 195–196), which speaks of a child “in his carefree youth . . . for 100 years,” among other slow developments, and also mentions a striking similarity to Hesiod’s description of humanity’s silver age in Works and Days, where “a child was brought up at his good mother’s side an hundred years, an utter simpleton, playing

Ancient Near Eastern Context

189

Kitchen’s suggestion that these large numbers are being used to fill “a great conceptual gap” in time seems more credible in light of Lambert’s comments above, relating to a possible function of king lists (and, by implication, the SKL). That is, if the SKL indeed contributed to the ancient systems of time reckoning (and I agree that it did in some way), Kitchen would then be suggesting how the large numbers might have contributed to this system. The numbers served as part of their system to fill a conceptual gap the compilers knew to be extremely large, due to the obvious antiquity of the world around them. However, the basis for assigning individual numbers to rulers and regnal spans is even more difficult to understand than the significance of the numbers themselves, though the limited scope of this study allows us to sidestep the issue and move on from here. Suffice it to say, the large figures do bear witness to the Mesopotamian mathematical training the scribes were afforded. 366 Though the SKL may in fact “purport” to be historical, Jacobsen claims that we should discard (as a source of accurate history) “all those features which must be ascribed to the author himself, more exactly, the arrangement and succession of the individual dynasties.” 367 Because of the author’s successive arrangement of dynasties, some of which in reality were concurrent with one another, Jacobsen is confident these “arranged” elements are not historically accurate. 368 Moreover, among the varying sources of the king list, some of the details differ to one degree or another. 369 The reliable childishly in his own home.” The Lagaš King List quote was from, Sollberger, “The Rulers of Lagaš,” 283. The Hesiod quote was from line 130, Goold, Hesiod, 11. It should also be noted that Jacobsen and Kitchen both believe the inflated lifetimes in early Genesis serve a similar function. 366. For an explication of Mesopotamian scribal mathematical training, see NemetNejat, “Systems for Learning Mathematics in Mesopotamian Scribal Schools,” JNES 54 (1995): 241–60. 367. Jacobsen, The Sumerian King List, 165. From our discussion above, we may add the astronomically large numbers to Jacobsen’s list of elements likely not meant to depict accurate history. More recently, Michalowski has described the king list as “tendentious and partially fictive” (“Sumerian Literature,” 2284). See also idem, “History as Charter.” Bottéro calls it a “largely fictional and apologetic historical” work (“Akkadian Literature,” 2296). 368. T. Hartman writes that the “format . . . and . . . point of view . . . may be said to have been . . . consciously contrived” (“Some Thoughts,” 31). 369. Of these differences B. B. Schmidt writes the following: “There are significant differences evident among the fifteen known copies of the Sumerian Kinglist. The various copies display differences in the names of the kings, their lengths of reign, order and number. These variations suggest that it was an adaptable reconstruction of dynastic succession in which political power is transferred from one city-state to another by the gods” (“Flood Narratives of Ancient Western Asia,” in CANE, 2340). The existence of all of these copies point back to the likelihood of a single original source. Walton explains that this “internal fluidity” is “characteristic of genealogical tradition,” within which the king list can be broadly classified, a trait we explored in the last chapter as well (Walton,

190

Chapter 4

data, then, are the material that made up the basis for the king list, namely, the names of kings and their associated cities. Among the different versions, the order of the kings and the order of the cities may vary, but the connection between the kings and their respective cities does not. 370 Kvanvig concludes accordingly that this indicates the list “was regarded basically as a list of city dynasties.” 371 The earlier section of the SKL, the antediluvian section, is not original to the story at all. 372 Rather, it was drawn from independent sources, possibly introduced in the Isin-Larsa period. 373 This theory is strengthened by the existence of other antediluvian traditions from around the same time as the SKL. 374 Variations in the details of later antediluvian accounts (some of them are king lists) also seem to suggest a separate origin from the SKL. 375 J. J. Finkelstein includes a convenient table charting the differences between the variant versions in existence. 376 From this, he concludes that the antediluvian section never achieved any sort of literary “canonicity” per se but rather when that section of the SKL was copied, the author gave “something of an ad hoc written form to a tradition that was mostly oral.” 377 Fin“The Antediluvian Section,” 208). This fluidity is also observable in king lists beyond the borders of Mesopotamia. For example, the Egyptian Abydos King List “silently omits three entire groups of kings . . . at three separate points in an otherwise continuous series” (Kitchen, Ancient Orient, 38). Text and discussion, J. K. Hoffmeier, “King Lists,” in The Context of Scripture (ed. W. W. Hallo and K. L. Younger; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 69–70. 370. Jacobsen, The Sumerian King List, 165. 371. Kvanvig, Roots of Apocalyptic, 170. Likewise, Van Seters concludes it amounts to a collection of the cities’ “dynastic traditions” (“Historiography,” 2439). 372. Davila, “The Flood Hero,” 201. 373. Jacobsen, The Sumerian King List, 59–61, 70 n. 1. 374. For example, tablet W-B 62. S. Langdon, The Weld-Blundell Collection, vol. 2: Historical Inscriptions, Containing Principally the Chronological Prism, W-B. 444 (Oxford Editions of Cuneiform Texts 2; London: Oxford University Press, 1923), 256. W-B 62 is written in cuneiform, and, not being able to read cuneiform, I have not actually read the tablet. This tablet and others like it are included in the present study not to give the impression that I have but rather because they are referred to so frequently in scholarly conversations our discussions would be incomplete without reference to them. W-B 62 contains a list of antediluvian kings much like the king list, as does Poebel’s PBS 4, no.1, Historical Texts, 13–16. PBS 4, no.1, contains the tradition in a separate composition entirely—both helping to demonstrate that the antediluvian tradition existed as its own entity prior to being joined with the king list. Jacobsen, The Sumerian King List, 56–60. 375. See the Neo-Assyrian antediluvian king list, for example, in W. G. Lambert, “A New Fragment from a List of Antediluvian Kings,” in Symbolae biblicae et Mesopotamicae Francisco Mario Theodoro de Liagre Böhl Dedicatae (ed. M. A. Beek et al.; Leiden: Brill, 1973). 376. Finkelstein, “The Antediluvian Kings,” 45, table 1. See also, Kvanvig, Roots of Apocalyptic, 166–67. Glassner supplies a more recent table serving a similar function in Mesopotamian Chronicles, 57–58. 377. Finkelstein, “The Antediluvian Kings,” 51. So Glassner observes, “there does not seem to have been a unified tradition” (Mesopotamian Chronicles, 56).

Ancient Near Eastern Context

191

kelstein’s comments are strengthened by Late Babylonian chronicle fragments BM 35572 and BM 40565, 378 both of which contain their own “renditions” of the antediluvian history. I. Finkel suggests the fragments make up the beginning of what is known as the Dynastic Chronicle, which he says “can be fairly categorized as a bilingual copy of the Sumerian King List.” 379 The antediluvian sections of both of these late fragments are considerably different, however, which allows Finkel to conclude that they must have been drawing on the same sources that the SKL was drawing on for its antediluvian history. 380 It may be, in fact, that the antediluvian sections appended to these documents were originally a part of the more comprehensive primeval histories that we examined above, beginning on p. 137. King Lists Related to the SKL.  However, it came to be in this more completed form, this version of the SKL spawned later versions that are clearly related to it in some way. 381 Among the more noteworthy of these later versions, the Uruk List of Kings and Sages (hereafter, ULKS), 382 must be mentioned. Cataloged as W 20030, 383 it is a clear representation of the antediluvian section and it dates to around 150–120 b.c.e. Here we find record of an expanded list that includes not only kings but also their royal counselors. 384 The antediluvian portion of this list is as follows, along with some of the postdiluvian aftermath: [In the tim]e of Aiālu the King, there was U’an the apkallu. [In the tim]e of Alalgar the King, there was U’anduga the apkallu. [In the time of] Ammelu’anna the King, there was Enmeduga the apkallu. [In the time of] Ammegalanna the King, there was Enmegalamma the apkallu. [In the time of] Enme’ušumgalanna the King, there was Enmebulugga the apkallu. [In the time of] Dumuzi the Shepherd King, there was Anenlilda the apkallu. [In the

378. I. L. Finkel, “Bilingual Chronicle Fragments,” JCS 32/2 (1980): 68–50. 379. Ibid., 70. See also Van Seters, In Search of History, 71–72. For text, translation and discussion, see A. K. Grayson, Assyrian and Babylonian Chronicles (TCS 5; Locust Valley, NY: Augustin, 1975), 40–42, 139–44; and, more recently (including Finkel’s introductory fragments), Glassner, Mesopotamian Chronicles, 126–35. A fragment also thought to represent part of the antediluvian portion of the Dynastic Chronicle is CT 46.5, which we have discussed in a previous previously on p. 141 n. 98. 380. Finkel, “Bilingual Chronicle Fragments,” 70–71. 381. Van Seters refers to these as the “descendants” of the SKL (In Search of History, 71). 382. Elsewhere, this is referred to rather ambiguously as the Seleucid King List or the Uruk Text. 383. Plate 7; J. J. A. van Dijk, “Die Inschriftenfunde,” in XVIII. vorläufiger Bericht über die von dem Deutschen Archäologischen Institut und der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft aus Mitteln der Deutschen Forschungsgemeinschaft unternommenen Ausgrabungen in Uruk-Warka (ed. H. Lenzen; ADOG; Berlin: Mann, 1962), 44–45. 384. Lambert says that the list is in fact dated by the sages and not by the kings, “so that only as many kings as were needed for this purpose were included” (“Review: ‘Genealogy and History in the Biblical World,’” 76).

192

Chapter 4

time of] Enmeduranki the King, there was Utu’abzu the apkallu. [After the flood], during the reign of Enmekar, there was Nungalpiriggal the apkallu. 385

According to van Dijk, these apkallu were the mythical sages that first arose in primeval times from the sea to reveal the arts of civilization to humans. 386 The ULKS refers to the antediluvian sages as apkallu, and the postdiluvian sages as ummânu. Their presence in the king list tradition seems to indicate an infusion with yet another mythical strand of literature, as mentioned above. This significance will be explored more thoroughly later in this chapter, where these apkallu/ummânu are discussed in further detail (see pp. 200–214). The ULKS was not the first text to join a king list with sages, however. The Assyrian Synchronistic Chronicle, a poorly preserved Neo-Assyrian king list of both Assyrian and Babylonian kings, is significant because it joins sages and kings into one list. 387 Though the chronicle (and other fragments within its family) are badly damaged, it does at least lend historical credibility to the association between kings and sages. 388 Grayson explains of the text that, “when in a complete state,” it “began with Ērišum I of Assyria and Sumu-la-El of Babylonia (1880–1845 b.c.) and ended with Aššurbanipal (668–627 b.c.) and Kandalānu (647–627 b.c.), respectively.” 389 Toward the end of the list, the names of certain ummânu are listed with the name of a king. In other parts of the chronicle, as well as in other similar fragments, other ummânu appear, though they are not always named. 390 Grayson speculates as to its purpose: There are few clues to the origin and purpose of this list but certainly the regular inclusion of the name of the Assyrian ummânu, probably the king’s chief 385. Lines 1–8, van Dijk, “Die Inschriftenfunde,” 45. See also the brief discussions and English translations in R. J. Clifford, Proverbs: A Commentary (OTL; Louisville: Westminster, 1999), 25–26; and Sanders, “Writing, Ritual, and Apocalypse,” 124–25. 386. Van Dijk, “Die Inschriftenfunde,” 46. 387. I include it in our discussion of king lists related in some way to the SKL, even though it does not refer to the antediluvian period; see §3.12. A. K. Grayson, “Königslisten und Chroniken: B. Akkadisch,” RlA 6:116–21. English translation: Pritchard, Ancient Near Eastern Texts, 272–74. This is not to be confused with a chronicle of the same name in Glassner, Mesopotamian Chronicles, 176–83, or with Chronicle 21: Synchronistic History in Grayson, Assyrian and Babylonian Chronicles. 388. R. F. G. Sweet comments that “the singling out of these officials (they might be regarded as Ministers of Science and Technology) for mention in a king list besides the name of the king speaks eloquently of the high value placed on learning at the royal courts” (“The Sage in Mesopotamian Palaces and Royal Courts,” in The Sage in Israel and the Ancient Near East [ed. J. G. Gammie and L. G. Perdue; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1990], 107). See also his discussion of some of the names in the Chronicle, ibid., 107 n. 26. 389. Grayson, RlA 6:116. 390. Grayson wonders if the names appearing in what he calls an Assyrian King List Fragment (§ 3.11) are in fact ummânu, as well (ibid.). See also §3.14, where another ummânu is named (ibid., 123) and again in §3.17 (ibid., 124–25). All of these texts and their interpretations are hampered by their extreme fragmentary nature.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

193

scribe, in the later sections is significant. It indicates that the list was drawn up by this official or under his direct supervision. If it was first composed during the reign of Aššurbanipal, at which point the present exemplar ends; it is relevant to note that an experiment in uniting the crowns of Assyria and Babylonia was ended with the accession of Aššurbanipal and Šhamaš-šumaukīn to the thrones of Assyria and Babylonia respectively. Was it one of the author’s concerns to illustrate from the history of Assyria and Babylonia that the two monarchies should be kept separate? 391

As Grayson sees it, the sources for the compiler would have been the Assyrian King List, Babylonian King List A, 392 and chronicles and documents related to these texts. As for its reliability, he says that “the rather contrived format leads to some inaccuracy with regards to synchronisms although no blatant error can be proven. However, readings on the obverse, as mentioned earlier, must be regarded with extreme caution because of the modern state of the text.” 393 The association of kings with ummânu, according to the text, is ancient. Further, these ummânu seem to be removed entirely from the mythic realm. 394 Another late work that, like the ULKS, fused the king list, the apkallu traditions, and the antediluvian period in some way is the Babyloniaca, from Berossus. 395 Berossus was a Babylonian priest from the early 3rd century b.c.e., serving in Esagil, the Temple of Marduk in Babylon. 396 The Babyloniaca was 391. Ibid., 117. 392. Assyrian King List will be discussed below. Babylonian King List A is a fragmentary tablet of unknown date and provenance and is often referred to as BKL-A. For brief discussion, see Sparks, Ancient Texts, 351. For text, see Pritchard, Ancient Near Eastern Texts, 272; and Grayson, RlA 6:96–97. 393. Ibid., 117. 394. I will discuss these sages more on pp. 200–214. 395. As Brandon writes, “Our knowledge of what Berossus wrote has unfortunately reached us in a very indirect manner” (Creation Legends, 111). Foster adds, “This text has often been referred to but the difficulties of its interpretation have been too easily glozed over” (“Wisdom and the Gods,” 347 n. 12). What is known of Berossus’s writings comes from the 4th-century writer Eusebius, itself an abridgement of Cornelius Alexander Polyhistor’s work, from the 1st century b.c.e. Unfortunately, however, Polyhistor also appeared to be working with an abridged version of Berossus’s writing. Josephus (1st century c.e.) and Abydenus (2nd century c.e.) also refer to Polyhistor in their own writing. In short, then, our information of Berossus’s Babyloniaca comes from three separate abridgements of Polyhistor’s own abridgement, though nothing of his actual writing has survived to this day. Burstein, The Babyloniaca, 6; see also Lambert and Millard, Atra-ḫasīs, 134–37. For simplicity’s sake, Berossus will be referred to as the author of this account, in spite of the more complicated history involved. 396. S. Burstein reckons he wrote the Babyloniaca ca. 281 (The Babyloniaca, 4). Verbrugghe and Wickersham say ca. 290 (Berossos and Manetho, 13). Regarding his service in the the Temple of Marduk in Babylon, see Sparks, Ancient Texts, 375. There has been some debate surrounding the identity of Berossus. Some scholars feel as though the subject matter of the writing attributed to Berossus by other ancient authors warrants the existence of another so-called “Pseudo-Berossus.” Most noteworthy among the proponents of this

194

Chapter 4

a hellenized introduction to Babylonian culture as a whole, 397 designed “to correct the Greeks’ misapprehensions about Babylon, and thus to enhance the image of the Chaldeans.” 398 Berossus seems to have drawn on the king list tradition for some parts of his antediluvian account, though this does not mean we may conclude he used it as a source. 399 He includes an antediluvian king list of his own, which also speaks of the apkallu, and gives a more detailed description of them. It was in fact the similarity of Berossus’s account with the late Babylonian fragments mentioned above (BM 35572 and BM 40565) that led Finkel to suggest Berossus may have consulted them as sources rather than the SKL. 400 Oannes was the first “beast,” whose “entire body was that of a fish.” 401 He goes on to describe it further: a human head had grown beneath the head of the fish and human feet likewise had grown from the fish’s tail. It also had a human voice. A picture of it is still preserved today. 402

According to Berossus, Oannes came out of the sea each morning and spent his days with men, giving them the knowledge of letters and sciences and crafts of all types. It also taught them how to found cities, establish temples, introduce laws and measure land. It also revealed to them seeds and the gathering of fruit. 403

Oannes would retreat back into the sea at night when he was done teaching for the day. 404 We are also told by Berossus that Oannes gave report of the theory is F. Jacoby (Die Fragmente der griechischen Historker: Neudruck vermehrt um addenda zum text, Nachträge zum Kommentar, Corrigenda und Konkordanz [Leiden: Brill, 1957]). On this matter, and for a convincing rebuttal, see both Verbrugghe and Wickersham, Berossos and Manetho, 13–15; and R. Drews, “The Babylonian Chronicles and Berossus,” Iraq 37 (1975): 51–53. 397. Burstein, The Babyloniaca, 7. 398. R. Drews, “Assyria in Classical Universal Histories,” HZAG 14/2 (1965): 130. 399. See Verbrugghe and Wickersham for a convincing demonstration that Berossus did not actually rely upon the SKL as a specific source. Rather, he culled his information from a number of sources and presented his understanding and interpretation of what transpired (Berossos and Manetho, 15–27 but esp. pp.19–20). For other traditions on which he drew, notably the flood traditions, see pp. 205–208. 400. Finkel, “Bilingual Chronicle Fragments,” 71–72. 401. For a more detailed discussion of the possible identity of Oannes, consult pp. 220–221 below. 402. Burstein, The Babyloniaca, 13. 403. Ibid., 13–14. Writing many years earlier, G. A. Barton speculated that Oannes might have symbolically represented the distant memory of the Sumerian people entering the land of Mesopotamia (from the sea), as they introduced their technologies and “civilized arts” to the land (“The Origins of Civilization in Africa and Mesopotamia, Their Relative Antiquity and Interplay,” PAPS 68 [1929]: 307). 404. Glassner makes the observation that the description of Meš-ki-ag-gašer, the son of Utu in line 95 of the SKL might represent a confusion with Oannes. Meš-ki-ag-gašer

Ancient Near Eastern Context

195

creation of the world and of humans. 405 Berossus also reports that before the flood came, Cronos ordered Xisouthrous (the flood hero of this tradition) to bury the “beginnings, middles and ends” of all the writing in Sippar before he got into the boat. 406 After the flood waters had subsided, he was told to dig the writings up and to distribute them to all of humanity. 407 In this way, civilization was preserved through the flood. 408 The significance of the ULKS and the Babyloniaca, for our purposes, is that they point to the existence of a continuing tradition (or multiple traditions) of the king list that included antediluvian, divine sages responsible for handing the “civilized arts” to humans in antiquity. By the time Berossus wrote in the 3rd century, the king list had been joined with this other mythical material of the antediluvian sages. Or perhaps a better way of phrasing it is that the antediluvian material that joined with the king list around 2000 expanded to include more details of the legendary apkallu figures, and this most likely took place long before Berossus wrote his Babyloniaca. 409 Presumably, as he must have for other parts of his work, he drew from a preexistent literary tradition for his source material that spoke of the apkallu. The fact that the ULKS also includes this tradition serves to strengthen that theory. 410 The Synchronistic Chronicle allows us to appreciate an earlier historical connection between the kings and their sages, as well as their association in a king list. Each of these three traditions (king lists, antediluvian stories, sages) were well known in Mesopotamia on their own, and, on occasion, combined in one form or another. Other King and Ancestor Lists There are other king lists that, though not related to the SKL directly, are somewhat similar in style and scope. The first is the Lagaš King List (hereafter, LKL). E. Sollberger contends that it is actually a satirical response to the SKL, composed because the Sumerian list failed to mention the rulers of Lagaš. 411 The tablet, BM 23103, dates to the Old Babylonian is said to have disappeared into the sea at the conclusion of his reign, which leads Glassner to conclude that “at least during the Isin-Larsa period there was some confusion” between this SKL king and Oannes. He adds that “this is actually a sort of echo of the Legend of Oannes” (Mesopotamian Chronicles, 59). 405. M. P. Streck, “Oannes,” RlA 10:1. 406. Burstein, The Babyloniaca, 20. 407. Denning-Bolle, “Wisdom and Dialogue,” 218. 408. See the very thorough treatment of Berossus in Lehmann-Haupt, “Berossos,” RlA 2:1–17. 409. If Glassner is right about king Meš-ki-ag-gašer and the confusion of traditions (n. 404), Berossus’s material is old indeed! 410. Though the ULKS came after Berossus, it is unlikely that ULKS used Berossus as a source. 411. Sollberger, “The Rulers of Lagaš,” 279; so also Glassner, Mesopotamian Chronicles, 146. Sparks points out that if this is indeed a response to the SKL, it “demonstrates that similar texts can be composed through quite-different modes of composition. It is a

196

Chapter 4

period and only contains a record of the postdiluvian rulers. For the LKL, then, history begins after the flood. Especially interesting, the LKL also contains reference to the origins and developments of certain aspects of civilization. They come in what amounts to quite a lengthy introduction to the king list itself. Its style is consistent with the findings from the last chapter, which refer to the programmatic nature of the language describing uncivilized or protohistorical humanity. The introductory material begins as follows: After the flood had swept over and brought about the destruction of the countries; when mankind was made to endure, and the seed of mankind was preserved and the black-headed people all rose; when An and Enlil called the name of mankind and established rulership, but kingship and the crown of the city had not yet come out from heaven, and Ningirsu had not yet established for the multitude of well-guarded (?) people 412 the pickaxe, the spade, the earth basket and the plough, which mean life for the Land—in those days, the carefree youth of man lasted for 100 years and, following his upbringing, he lasted for another 100 years. However, he did not do any work. He became smaller and smaller, . . . . . . ; his sheep died (?) in the sheepfold. In those days, because the water of Lagaš was held back, there was famine in Girsu. Canals were not dug, the levees and ditches were not cleaned. The large arable tracts were not . . . . . . , there was no water to irrigate abundantly all the cultivated fields: the people relied on rain; Ezina did not make dappled barley grow, furrows were not yet opened, they bore no yield; the high plain was not tilled, it bore no yield. 413

Though this setting is clearly postdiluvian, much of the language seems to be very similar to other accounts of origins. For Sollberger, this is further evidence that the antediluvian section of the SKL was not originally “an integral part” of the composition, as we have noted above, as well. 414 Here again, this type of account is simply attached to a king list. He says of this introduction, rather, that it “must rank among the works of didactic literature dealing with the origin and development of civilization.” 415 Certainly its treatment of kingship, various agricultural elements and its references to the creation of humans make a suggestion such as this more plausible. classical example of generic extension, in which the king list genre was extended to create a new type of text: the parody king list” (Ancient Texts, 348). 412. Glassner reads the signs differently (si-ga as sì- g a ) and translates this phrase as “silent people” (Mesopotamian Chronicles, 147). He takes this to be an expression of humanity destroyed by the flood, metaphorically referring to postdiluvian humanity (ibid., 155 n. 59). 413. Lines 1–31, ETCSL 2.1.2. Discussion, text, and translation: Sollberger, “The Rulers of Lagaš.” Text and translation: Glassner, Mesopotamian Chronicles, 144–49. 414. Sollberger, “The Rulers of Lagaš,” 280. 415. Ibid., 279. Allusions in the LKL introductory material to other such works lead him to this conclusion.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

197

Two Semitic lists of kings to discuss are the Genealogy of the Hammurabi Dynasty (hereafter, GHD) and the Assyrian King List (AKL). 416 Lambert explains that the GHD was not actually a king list per se but rather was a funerary document to be used in a cult ritual called the kispum ritual. 417 The souls of the dead ancestors were invoked to share a commemorative meal (the kispum), and Glassner explains its purpose “was to reinforce the ties binding the living and the dead by sharing the same food.” 418 An interesting feature of both of these lists, for our purposes, is the similarity of the respective first groupings of records. Both begin with a list of ancestors from far in the past, extending toward the author’s present. The lists contain more than just names however. They also include appellatives, tribal names, and perhaps even toponyms. 419 These lists have such similarities in the first few names that virtually all scholars agree they are both drawing from the same distant tradition. 420 Lambert suggests that they also owe a debt to limmu lists as a source. 421 Here is the beginning of the GHD: Arammandara, Tubtiyamuta, Yamquzuhalamma, 422 Heana, Namzu, Ditana, Zummabu, Namhu, Amnanu, Yahrurum, 423 Iptiyamuta, Buzahum, Sumalika, Ashmadu, Abiyamuta, Abiditan . . . 424

Here are the first few lines of the AKL: 416. GHD: Finkelstein was one of the first to publish this tablet, given the catalog number BM 80328. Text and translation, J. J. Finkelstein, “The Genealogy of the Hammurapi Dynasty,” JCS 20 (1966): 95–97; and translation, A. R. Millard, “Babylonian King Lists,” in The Context of Scripture (ed. W. W. Hallo and K. L. Younger; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 462. AKL: Text(s) and translation, I. J. Gelb, “Two Assyrian King Lists,” JNES 13 (1954): 209–30; and more recently, Glassner, Mesopotamian Chronicles, 136–45. Translation and discussion, A. R. Millard, “Assyrian King Lists,” in The Context of Scripture (ed. W. W. Hallo and K. L. Younger; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 463–65. 417. W. G. Lambert, “Another Look at Hammurapi’s Ancestors,” JCS 22 (1968): 1–2. 418. Glassner, Mesopotamian Chronicles, 71. 419. Malamat, “King Lists,” 165; Hallo, “Assyrian Historiography,” 4*; Glassner, Mesopotamian Chronicles, 71. Malamat’s essay is reprinted in his Mari and the Bible (SHCANE 12; Leiden: Brill, 1998), 219–36; also, Hess and Tsumura, I Studied Inscriptions, 183–99. 420. Finkelstein, “The Genealogy,” 99; Hallo, “Assyrian Historiography,” 5*; Van Seters, In Search of History, 74; Glassner, Mesopotamian Chronicles, 71–72. Wilson wonders if it might have been significant that they both traced back to the same lineage, because two kings featured in the respective lists (Šamši-Adad I and Hammurabi)—who theoretically once used parts of these lists as their own king lists—were contemporaries and perhaps vying for clout and power (Genealogy and History, 113). 421. Lambert, “Review: ‘Genealogy and History in the Biblical World’,” 76. 422. Glassner says that these three names are the result of complex wordplays. He writes, “the first double name . . . means ‘The lover (?) is in tears,’ the second . . . ‘My happiness has died,’ and the third . . . ‘Ruin befell him’” (Mesopotamian Chronicles, 92 n. 28). 423. Glassner says these two names are the names of two Amorite tribes that settled in southern Babylonia (ibid., 71–72). 424. Millard, “Babylonian King Lists,” 462.

198

Chapter 4

Tudiya, Adamu, Yangi, Shulamu, Harharu, Mandaru, Imsu, Harsu, Didanu, Hanu, Zuabu, Nuabu, Abazu, Belu, 425 Azarah, Ushpia, Apiashal. Total: 17 kings who lived in tents . . . 426

With a little imagination, one might begin to see how “Tudiya” and “Adamu” from the AKL were combined to form “Tubtiyamuta” in the GHD, or how “Yangi” and “Shulamu” from the AKL became “Yamquzuhalamma” in GHD, and so on. Scholars are confident that the names in the GHD are, as Wilson says, “conflated or mangled forms” of those found in the AKL. 427 He also suggests that the garbled forms indicate that they existed in oral form first, which seems quite plausible. 428 Finkelstein claims that the list shows that the Semitic tribes had “evolved and elaborated genealogical traditions at an early age . . . which were linked together by a belief in a series of early ancestors common to all of them.” 429 Glassner explains this belief: Diachronic relationship is an organizational principle of history in all archaic societies, within which the ruling dynasties construct etiological genealogies embracing the birth of humanity and its division into differentiated social groups. These genealogies are works of imagination and manipulation, intended to affirm the prestige and authority of the ruling monarchs, genealogies in which the duration of time is deduced in proportion to its distance from the present and in which telescopings occur, ancestors who caused no divisions being omitted for the simple reason that they played no part in the linkages between groups. 430

Though we have noted the form and function of genealogies in more detail in the previous chapter, we may make a few pertinent observations here. What Glassner has said aligns quite reasonably with what I have suggested already. The AKL lists its second section of kings in reverse chronological order, which Wilson takes to indicate that its author joined previously separate pieces together into a new work, the AKL. 431 Furthermore, as stated 425. Here Glassner notes the similarities between this name—decidedly non-­ Amorite—and a name found in the SKL, Kullassina-bēl (lines 45–46). The latter means “they are all lord,” and Glassner thinks the former, “they (are) lords,” might be related in some way (Mesopotamian Chronicles, 73). 426. Millard, “Assyrian King Lists,” 463. On this last descriptive phrase, see Hallo’s comments in “Assyrian Historiography,” 5*. 427. Wilson, “The Old Testament Genealogies,” 174. Finkelstein has a fairly detailed discussion of the similarities between these and other names, as well as how they might have become differentiated in the respective texts (“The Genealogy”). 428. Wilson, Genealogy and History, 110. 429. Finkelstein, “The Genealogy,” 116. He goes on to say that this was likely the tradition from which the compilers of later scholarly traditions drew when compiling king lists and chronicles (ibid., 117). Similar to the process Kitchen suggests, a king list in Ugarit was formed (“The King List of Ugarit,” UF 9 [1977]: 135). 430. Glassner, Mesopotamian Chronicles, 72. 431. Wilson, Genealogy and History, 95; also, Van Seters, In Search of History, 73. For an-

Ancient Near Eastern Context

199

above, it is generally accepted that both the AKL and the GHD have appropriated earlier material for their own use in the first section of their lists. 432 This is much like the SKL, with its previously separated antediluvian section joined to the other materials, and it indicates clearly that compilers of genealogies could and often did arrange material as it suited their purposes. We must therefore always consider a genealogy’s purpose when attempting to understand its content and meaning. 433 In the case of the SKL, GHD, and AKL, the earliest genealogical section was appropriated from other sources to make the charter more effective. It is equally plausible that this genealogical tradition could have been employed by other West Semitic tribes as they reconstructed their past as well. This possibility leads A. Malamat to conclude that “the external evidence now lends support to the assumption that the genealogical traditions contained in Genesis reflect beliefs actually current among these peoples, notions which consciously upheld their common ancestry.” 434 Malamat happens to be referring to the genealogical material in Gen 10, though we might also note that the first 17 rulers from the AKL were said to “live in tents,” which calls to mind Yabal of Gen 4:20, “the father of those who live in tents and raise livestock.” Of course, there is also the obvious similarity between “Adamu” and “Adam” in Genesis. 435 Though, as Malamat says, the earlier genealogies appear “beyond the realm of actual history,” we can at least appreciate some similarities. 436 He does, however, suggest that “the dynasty not recorded on this tablet” from the GHD might be related to the genealogical material of Gen 5 in some way. 437 These conclusions seem to lend further credibility to the work of Hess, as cited in the previous chapter, other example of a king list in reverse chronological order, see Kitchen, “The King List of Ugarit.” 432. For a lucid discussion of this process, see Glassner, Mesopotamian Chronicles, 71–74. 433. Wilson, “The Old Testament Genealogies,” 182. 434. Malamat, “King Lists,” 164. Wilson agrees: “When taken together with the early portion of the AKL, the GHD shows that genealogies, which are not commonly found in Mesopotamia, were used by Old Babylonian tribal groups having Amorite connections. The biblical patriarchs are also traditionally connected with the Amorites, and the OT places a number of genealogies in the patriarchal period” (“The Old Testament Genealogies,” 175). In a similar vein, S. Greengus cites examples of biblical and Mesopotamian laws that may have both shared a common Amorite ancestry. S. Greengus, “Biblical and Mesopotamian Law: An Amorite Connection?” in Life and Culture in the Ancient Near East (ed. R. E. Averbeck et al.; Bethseda, MD: CDL, 2003). 435. Speiser makes the observation that the AKL even uses “an analogous participial form” to that of the Genesis notes (Genesis, 35). 436. T. Hartman certainly sees similarities between antediluvian genealogies in Genesis and West Semitic lists such as the GHD—many more similarities, it is worth noting, than between Genesis and the SKL (“Some Thoughts,” 29–30). 437. The reference is to line 32 in the GHD. Malamat, “King Lists,” 165. D. Rohl has a speculative discussion of more similarities between the Amorite lists and Genesis. D. M. Rohl, Legend: The Genesis of Civilisation (A Test of Time 2; London: Century, 1998), 193–97.

200

Chapter 4

who suggested the names in our genealogy and in the rest of Gen 1–11 are West Semitic in origin and hail from the second millennium. To this point, we have examined the Mesopotamian understanding of cities, Enki, the me, and kingship as they relate to the civilizing process. In this section we have seen how king lists play a significant role in constructing a more “comprehensive view” of Mesopotamian history and this civilizing process. We have also seen the relationship of the concept of kingship to the Mesopotamian idea of historical significance. Now we move to further clarify the mysterious apkallu characters and the seminal role they play within the comprehensive view of history and the civilizing process. More specifically, we turn our attention to the apkallu tradition, and the literature that makes more explicit mention of them. Rituals/Incantations “Before the Flood,” there were, according to a Sumero-Akkadian tradition of a much later day, sages known as abgals, such as Adapa, who brought culture and civilization to Sumer and to humankind. But virtually nothing is known of these abgals, and what little is known is vague, legendary, and obscure. 438 Though we have already discussed Kramer’s “tradition of a much later day” (the ULKS), he captures the element of mystery surrounding these preflood sages quite nicely. The apkallu sages appear in various text fragments spanning a multitude of genres to make up what can justifiably be described as an apkallu tradition, but little of the antediluvian sage is known. In comparison with how little is known today, it is clear by the larger tradition that the ancient Mesopotamians were fascinated by the idea of the sage. So prevalent was this idea throughout ancient Mesopotamia that they were commonly featured in artwork, such as various wall reliefs, religious iconography, and clay figurines. Due to the paucity of extant textual evidence, it remains difficult to ascertain which genre gave rise to which, though this section will attempt to put forth suggestions nonetheless. The apkallu appear sporadically in mythical and epic tales (see the sections “Sumerian King List,” pp. 177–200 and “Adapa,” pp. 214–226, among others), though a large amount of material comes to us in medical or incantational texts. These also serve to explain the existence of many of the figurines and religious iconography. Due to this frequency, the greater apkallu tradition will be explored in this section by first focusing on their appearances in ritual and incantation texts before moving progressively outward from there. 439 438. Kramer, “The Sage in Sumerian Literature,” 31. 439. This approach allows us to first examine how the ancient Mesopotamian employed the concepts of the apkallu, which in turn should suggest what they thought of them. In this way we will approach the apkallu traditions in what Sanders calls a “culturally embedded fashion” (“Writing, Ritual, and Apocalypse,” 93).

Ancient Near Eastern Context

201

Through all of this, we might be able to recover some of the details of the apkallu tradition, both pre- and postflood. 440 The Apkallu Traditions in Rituals and Incantations. The apkallu are the main characters of a bilingual (Sumerian and Akkadian), ritual text fragment edited by E. Reiner in 1961 that represented a breakthrough in the understanding of these mysterious characters. The focus for Reiner was the text on the reverse of the tablet, which she titled the Myth of the Seven Sages. 441 R. Borger has since concluded that this myth actually represents a small fragment of a larger incantation series—the Bīt Mesēri—which will also receive its own rather limited treatment later in this section. That this fragment is a smaller part of a larger whole is a conclusion that Reiner herself hypothesized years before, though she could not be certain. 442 The contents of this fragmentary myth merit a short discussion of their own, however, as the myth is so frequently referred to in other literature as a selfstanding text. A translation of the text is as follows: [Adapa,] the purification priest of Eridu [. . .] who ascended into heaven. They are the seven brilliant apkallu’s, purādu-fish of the sea, [sev]en apkallu’s “grown” in the river, who insure the correct functioning of the plans of heaven and earth. Nunpiriggaldim, the apkallu of Enmerkar, who brought down Ištar from heaven into Eanna; Piriggalnungal, stemming from Kiš, who angered Adad in heaven so that he let no rain and (hence) vegetation be in the country for three years; Piriggalabzu, stemming from [Eridu] who [suspended his seal on (?) a suhurmasu-fish 443] and thus angered Ea in the Apsû so that he [cut (?) the cords from (?) the seal around his neck (?)]. 444 The fourth is Lu-Nanna, (only) two-thirds apkallu, who drove the ušumgallu-dragon from 440. This is, as I have noted before, not a comprehensive examination. For details and bibliographical references, see Biggs, CAD A/1 171–73. For a well-balanced survey and discussion of the apkallu/ummânu traditions in the larger context of the Mesopotamian “sage,” see Kramer, “The Sage in Sumerian Literature”; R. F. G. Sweet, “The Sage in Akkadian Literature: A Philological Study,” in The Sage in Israel and the Ancient Near East (ed. J. G. Gammie and L. G. Perdue; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1990); idem, “The Sage in Mesopotamian Palaces”; V. A. Hurowitz, “Tales of Two Sages: Towards an Image of the ‘Wise Man,’” in Scribes, Sages, and Seers: The Sage in the Eastern Mediterranean World (ed. L. G. Perdue; FRLANT; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2008). 441. E. Reiner, “The Etiological Myth of the ‘Seven Sages,’” Or 30 (1961): 1–11. She considers the reverse to be totally unrelated in content to the obverse. Furthermore, her text can more accurately be understood as a composite of four text fragments: K 5119, Ki. 1904–10–9, 87, K 7987, and LKA 76 (ibid., 1). 442. R. Borger, “Die Beschwörungsserie bit meseri und die Himmelfahrt Henochs,” JNES 33 (1974): 187; see also Reiner, “The Etiological Myth,” 5 n. 3. 443. Reiner is unsure about this section (contained within these brackets and those directly following) and has therefore left her suggested reconstruction to a footnote. We have included it here for continuity’s sake and also because Borger’s updated look at this text confirms much of what Reiner thought (ibid., 5 n. 1). 444. See previous footnote.

202

Chapter 4

Eninkarnunna, the temple of Ištar of Šulgi. [. . .] of human descent, whom (pl.) the lord Ea had endowed with a broad understanding. 445

In Reiner’s estimation, her reconstructed [Adapa] is the last of the first seven mythical apkallu, described as the “purādu-fish 446 of the sea” (more on Adapa will come later in this chapter). They are followed by seven more who are “grown in the river” and “ensure the correct functioning of the plans of heaven and earth” who are in turn followed by the four apkallu she considers to be “of human descent.” These four are named in the fragment quoted above. 447 Though her interpretation has since been revised somewhat by Borger, there is something here worth noting. Here, the Sumerian word for “plans” is giš-ḫur (Akk., uṣurtu). Recall from our previous discussion that the giš-ḫur are the plans by which one lives, themselves determined by the me—the divine pattern that all must live by so that Order may be preserved. Here in this text, the second group of seven apkallu are ascribed the authority to “ensure the correct functioning” of the gi š-ḫur of everything known to humanity. 448 This is somewhat surprising, as normally these sorts of activities are reserved for the divine realm. 449 It is also surprising because, as shown above, the apkallu were not always described in what we could call the most favorable terms. Sometimes they seem to have done things that angered various deities. 450 The apkallu are described elsewhere as having this sort of power as well. An incantation speaks of the seven apkallu of Eridu as the keepers of the Tablets of Destiny, a similarly shocking description that is traditionally ascribed to deity. 451 Texts such as these demonstrate some of the status with which the apkallu were believed to be afforded—at least by the time they began to appear in various spells and incantations. They truly were powerful “intermediaries” between the divine and human realms. 452 445. Ibid., 4–5. 446. “Purādu” is simply the Akkadian term for “carp.” R. D. Biggs et al., eds. “Purādu,” CAD P 516–17. 447. Reiner, “The Etiological Myth,” 5 n. 3. See also A. Kilmer, who draws comparisons between these apkallu and the nēpīlim of Gen 6: “The Mesopotamian Counterparts of the Biblical Nephilim,” in Perspectives on Language and Text: Essays and Poems in Honor of Francis I. Andersen’s Sixtieth Birthday, July 28 1985 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1987). 448. This reflects interpreting “heaven and earth” as a merism. 449. For examples of this, see Alster, “Ninurta and the Turtle”; and Reisman, “Ninurta’s Journey to Eridu.” We will see in the following section that Adapa is also associated with the “plans of earth.” 450. See the brief remarks in Hurowitz, “Tales of Two Sages,” 66, and also our discussion of Adapa, pp. 214–226. 451. W. G. Lambert, “Review: ‘Literarische Keilschrifttexte aus Assur’ by Erich Ebeling,” BO 13/3–4 (1956): 144. Elsewhere, Lambert refers to this myth as the Myth of the Twenty-One Poultices, the contents of which can be gleaned from three separate tablet fragments: LKA 146 (Late Assyrian), BAM 313 (Late Assyrian), and BM 33999 (Late Babylonian). 452. Van Dijk, La sagesse sumero-accadienne, 20.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

203

Upon the publication of Borger’s Bīt Mesēri article, it has become clear that Reiner’s fragment should be understood somewhat differently. He explains that her fragment is actually part of the third tablet of a larger incantation series, the context of which provides for a fuller understanding. 453 Borger supplies the introductory material leading up to the point at which Reiner begins. It is as follows: Incantation. U-Anna, who completed the plans of the heavens and the earth. U-Anne-dugga, who is endowed with universal understanding. Enmedugga, for whom a good fate was granted. Enmegalamma, who was born in a house. Enmebulugga, who grew up in the pasture-lands. An-Enlilda, the purification priest of the city of Eridu. Utuabzu, who ascended [up] to heaven. 454

This list preserves the seven apkallu, the seventh of which Reiner restored as “Adapa,” where her fragment began. What Borger establishes in his text also corroborates details of van Dijk’s ULKS. 455 Namely, that the “purification priest of Eridu” was An-enlilda, Utuabzu ascended up to heaven and Enmerkar’s apkallu, Nungalpiriggal, was associated in some way with a descent from heaven. This also fits with Lambert’s Myth of the Twenty-one Poultices which also describes Anenlilda as “the purification priest of Eridu.” 456 The confusion with some of the names is warranted, and it appears that the names in the lists were not necessarily fixed in any certain order. That is, enough variation in the different lists exist to suggest, like our genealogical conclusions of the previous chapter, that there was a certain amount of fluidity to the written apkallu tradition when it came to how they were listed. 457 This is also similar to the kings in our king lists traditions explored in the previous section. The author of the SKL seems to have arranged the material to present Etana as the seventh member of a particularly important dynasty, much like the different apkallu lists may have different names in their seventh position. 458 The same was true of the names in the AKL and the GHD. Accordingly, like the names of some of these kings, the apkallu appear to have names that were formulaically constructed. 459 453. Borger, “Die Beschwörungsserie bit meseri,” 189. 454. Ibid., 192. The text and translation also appear more recently, with a helpful discussion, in Sanders, “Writing, Ritual, and Apocalypse,” 114–20. 455. W 20030 from the previous section, p. 195. 456. Obverse, line 11, LKA 146. Lambert, “The Twenty-One ‘Poultices,’” Anatolian Studies (1980): 77–83, esp. p. 79. “Utuabzu,” as will be demonstrated in the following section, reflects a shared tradition with Adapa, so Reiner’s restoration was by no means unjustified. 457. See Sanders’s explanation of this. Sanders, “Writing, Ritual, and Apocalypse,” 119–20. 458. Among other positional variants. I will explore some of the different names in these lists on pp. 220–226, as Adapa is an important part of this discussion. 459. See the discussion of these names in W. W. Hallo, “On the Antiquity of Sumerian Literature,” JAOS 83 (1963): 175–76; and Sanders, “Writing, Ritual, and Apocalypse,” 117.

204

Chapter 4

The Bīt Mesēri mythical material is clearly set within the context of an incantation designed to be recited, and the apkallu appear primarily as apotropaic figures. 460 In other words, they were called on, as prescribed by the specific incantations, to “remove or prevent troublesome outcomes ranging from illness, snake bite, domestic quarrels, infant mortality, and sexual impotence to the threats posed by ghosts, demons, witches, angry gods, and human enemies.” 461 The particular text under discussion was most likely recited as a part of the Bīt Mesēri incantations to protect and/or rid homes and buildings from the threat of any sort of demonic or negative spiritual presence. 462 As S. Sanders observes, the mythological material regarding the apkallu serves to give a proper context for the incantation. “The purpose of this incantation is not to accomplish a medical-magical task by itself, but to set one up.” 463 The apkallu before whom the Bīt Mesēri incantation was to be recited were, according to the last line of the ritual, “drawn on the wall of the side of the sanctuary.” 464 They could also be represented as small clay figurines and deposited in the foundations of buildings and the corners of rooms, as prescribed in the specific ritual. 465 They were viewed as one of many different types of these apotropaic figures, many of which are well documented elsewhere. 466 It is only logical that the apkallu, the mythical guardians of order and transmitters of the me, were among the figures represented in these protective rituals. 467 460. Reiner, “The Etiological Myth,” 5 n. 3. 461. Sparks, Ancient Texts, 176. 462. Ibid., 181. 463. Sanders, “Writing, Ritual, and Apocalypse,” 116. 464. Line 31; ibid. 465. Hallo, “On the Antiquity,” 175. See also T. S. Kawami for a more detailed description of these figurines, as well as photographs of well-preserved statues (“The Date of the Fish-Garbed Men from Assur,” FB 16 [1974]: 9–13); so too F. A. M. Wiggermann, “Mythological Foundations of Nature,” in Natural Phenomena: Their Meaning, Depiction, and Description in the Ancient Near East (ed. D. J. W. Meijer; Amsterdam: Royal Netherlands Academy of Arts and Sciences, 1992), 65. M. Mallowan has photos of the apkallu statues still in the ground before being removed from a dig at Nimrud, as well as other pictures of the figurines in various guises (plates 17–20; M. Mallowan, “The Excavations at Nimrud (Kalḫu), 1953,” Iraq 16 [1954]: 84). 466. For examples of 25 different apotropaic figures commonly represented in Mesopotamian iconography, see A. Green, “Ancient Mesopotamian Religious Iconography,” in CANE, 1848, fig. 5. In another article, Green notes, “the most expansive text prescribing the types of figurines is the Aššur ritual KAR, no. 298.” Refer to this article for a discussion of the text’s contents: A. Green, “Neo-Assyrian Apotropaic Figures: Figurines, Rituals, and Monumental Art,” Iraq 45 (1983): 87–96. For a detailed examination of the different types of clay figurines excavated from Aššur, including the apkallu, see E. KlengelBrandt, “Apotropäische Tonfiguren aus Assur,” FB 10 (1968): 22–23, 32–33. 467. For a fascinating article on the ancient mode of thinking behind these apotropaic rituals, see C. Nakamura, “Dedicating Magic: Neo-Assyrian Apotropaic Figurines and the protection of Assur,” World Archaeology 36/1 (2004): 11–25.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

205

The Bīt Mesēri incantations represent but one strand of the apkallu tradition, which was the logical outworking of a more ancient mythical tradition. Though all copies date to the Neo-Assyrian period, we can confidently assume the mythic apkallu material contained within the incantations harks back to an earlier time. 468 Although in the Greek version (Berossus), the account clearly seems etiological in some way, there seems to be no corresponding etiological apkallu element to what has been found in Mesopotamia. Reiner supposes their association with “wisdom and the crafts” (as demonstrated by these texts and others) has something to do with their connection to the term ummânu, which, translated, means something along the lines of “master craftsman.” 469 The alternation of the words apkallu and ummânu in varying literary contexts allows Reiner to be confident about this, 470 but final confirmation is their combined use in the later exemplars of the King Lists. 471 The Apkallu Traditions in Myth.  It would be helpful here to summarize the known elements of the mythical apkallu tradition. What remains of the apkallu tradition is as follows. These mythical apkallu characters were believed to be fish-like royal advisors to the antediluvian kings. 472 As stated above, they were credited with bringing the arts of civilization—the m e— to humanity. 473 Berossus gives us an idea of how important these figures were held to be in the civilization of humans when he commented, “from the time of that beast [Oannes] nothing further was discovered.” 474 After the flood, they were followed by semi-mythical figures, known either as apkallu or ummânu. Sparks explains, “according to the Mesopotamian understanding, the wisdom tradition followed a line from Enki, to the apkallu, to the heroic ummânu, to the human ummânu of historical time.” 475 There is a close relationship between the apkallu and the ummânu, though the lines are not always as clear-cut as Sparks suggests. At times, the titles seem to 468. F. Wiggermann agrees and contends that it is the presence of the four extra apkallu that shows this was not the first place the list appeared. He says that the list “does not originate from Bīt Mesēri but from another text—a Chronicle?—from where it was adopted by Bīt Mesēri” (“Mythological Foundations,” 108). See also the comments of Lambert regarding myth in incantations, p. 150. 469. Reiner, “The Etiological Myth,” 6. 470. Adapa, she notes, is at times referred to by both terms (ibid., 8). See also Finkel’s sa.gig text below. 471. Ibid. 472. Biggs, CAD A/1 172. 473. Dalley, Myths from Mesopotamia, 182. Kilmer has gathered relevant materials to chart the recorded activities of these apkallu in “The Mesopotamian Counterparts,” 40–41. 474. Burstein, The Babyloniaca, 14. Lambert notes the parallel mode of thought in Jewish rabbinic circles, that “God’s revelation in its entirety is contained in the Torah” (“Ancestors,” 9). 475. Sparks, Ancient Texts, 57.

206

Chapter 4

be used interchangeably, and elsewhere an ummânu may assume the title apkallu. Generally speaking, however, Sparks’s generalization accurately describes the Mesopotamian sage tradition. However fuzzy the transition from ummânu to apkallu, the term ummânu eventually came to have the connotation of “master,” or someone “proficient in a particular area of knowledge,” and, as we have already noted, “the king regularly availed himself of the talents of these specialists and counted them among his most trusted advisors.” 476 Something of these ummânu appear in the various Mesopotamian flood stories and their recensions, which bear mentioning at this juncture. Essentially, these are the Atra ḫasis Epic, the 11th tablet of the Gilgamesh Epic and the Sumerian Flood Story. 477 From these, we gather that the ummânu were taken on board with the animals by the flood hero (variously named) so that civilization would be preserved through the flood. 478 This, according 476. Pearce, “Flood Narratives,” 2275. We have already made connections with the creation account in Prov 8 and Mesopotamian ideas (above in the “Eridu Genesis” section) but here it would be worth noting further possible connections that have been suggested. In Prov 8:30, Lady Wisdom speaks of herself in relation to Yahweh at the time of creation, “I was beside him as an ʾāmôn (‫)אמון‬.” Though the translation of this term is debated, many render the term “craftsman.” Some repoint the consonants to read ʾāmûn (“nursling, child”), although, as T. Longman notes, this is often theologically motivated (Proverbs [Baker Commentary on the Old Testament Wisdom and Psalms; Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2006], 196 note h). “Craftsman” has the bulk of the extrabiblical version support (LXX, Vulg., Syr., Targ.). See also Song 7:1, Jer 52:15 in the Hebrew Bible. W. H. Harris III, ed., NET Bible: New English Translation (2nd beta ed.; Spokane, WA: Biblical Studies Press, 2003), 1037 n. 14. If, as it seems, we are correct to see this as “craftsman,” it is not difficult to see how Heb. ʾamon could be a loan-word from Akk. ummânu. So HALOT, which says it may have come through Aramaic. “‫אמן‬,” HALOT 1:64. See the detailed discussion of this translational issue in Clifford, Proverbs, 99–101; and P. V. Mankowski, Akkadian Loanwords in Biblical Hebrew (HSS 47; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2000), 33. For the possibility of transmission through Aramaic channels, see Ahiqar, p. 209 below. 477. T. Frymer-Kensky, “The Atrahasis Epic and Its Significance for Our Understanding of Genesis 1–9,” BA 40/4 (1977): 147. T. Frymer-Kensky actually refers to the ninth tablet of Gilgamesh, though this is presumed to be a mistake. Elsewhere she speaks correctly of the eleventh tablet. See also the booklet discussion of E. Sollberger, The Babylonian Legend of the Flood (3rd ed.; London: British Museum Press, 1971). The Sumerian Flood Story has already been discussed somewhat on pp. 140–146 above. The flood event appears elsewhere in the literature, though these texts are taken to be either subsidiary or to reflect other traditions entirely. Some appear to be based directly on the flood tradition discussed here (Berossus), and others are written much later and seem to assume a primordial flood for other reasons (Erra and Ishum). Still others, contemporary with this flood tradition, speak of the flood as a temporal marker, refraining from much detail (SKL, LKL, see pp. 181–191, 195–196). See further Schmidt, “Flood Narratives”; and R. E. Simoons-Vermeer, “The Mesopotamian Floodstories: A Comparison and Interpretation,” Numen 21/1 (1974): 17–34. 478. C. Levin notes the contrast with Noah in the biblical account (Gen 6–9). There is no mention of Noah taking any craftsmen with him into the ark, and presumably they

Ancient Near Eastern Context

207

to Heidel, is for the same reason that in Berossus’ account, Xisouthrous is told to record and bury certain things to survive the flood. 479 These stories appear to reflect a concern to demonstrate how the civilized arts could have survived such widespread devastation. 480 Admittedly, not all of the flood stories include details of the ummânu, though this may simply be the result of the fragmentary nature of the extant texts. 481 Generally, it can be said that the flood tradition represented in Atra ḫasis gave rise to that of tablet 11 of Gilgamesh, 482 which took its shape some time in the second half of the second millennium. 483 The Atra ḫasis tradition seems to have been contemporaneous with that of the Sumerian Flood Story, 484 and a study of both indicates that the Mesopotamian flood tradition dates back further still. 485 Though the standard Old Babylonian perished in the flood (at least according to his understanding of a straightforward reading of the text). To Levin, this detail demonstrates that Noah and the flood account were “interpolated later” into the biblical text (“The Yahwist,” 214). 479. A. Heidel, The Gilgamesh Epic and Old Testament Parallels: A Translation and Interpretation of the Gilgamesh Epic and Related Babylonian and Assyrian Documents (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1963), 237. For Berossus, see pp. 193–195 above. 480. It is debatable precisely how widespread the devastation actually was (or, more accurately, believed to be). In that regard, see Hallo’s discussion in “Antediluvian Cities,” 62 n. 74. 481. Not to mention the fact that certain details of the story (names, geographical locations, and so on) may have simply been changed to fit local needs, an ancient literary custom that I have discussed already. In other words, details may simply differ between the various recensions. 482. Simoons-Vermeer, “The Mesopotamian Floodstories,” 21; A. R. Millard, “The Sign of the Flood,” Iraq 49 (1987): 67. By H. Hoffner’s estimation, the editor of Gilgamesh “remodeled” the Atra ḫasis account. H. A. Hoffner, “Enki’s Command to Atraḫasis,” in Kramer Anniversary Edition: Cuneiform Studies in Honor of Samuel Noah Kramer (ed. B. L. Eichler; AOAT; Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker, 1976), 241–42. J. Davila describes it simply as a reproduction of Atra ḫasis (“The Flood Hero,” 206), and Lambert calls the entire flood story a “digression” of the larger narrative (“A New Look,” 292). Tigay believes this pattern and direction of dependence (of Gilgamesh traditions on Atra ḫasis traditions) can be repeated for the discussion of the creation of Enkidu in Gilgamesh and of humans in general in Atra ḫasis. For this discussion, see Tigay, The Evolution of the Gilgamesh Epic, 192–97. 483. T. Abusch, “The Development and Meaning of the Epic of Gilgamesh: An Interpretive Essay,” JAOS 121 (2001): 618. 484. Lambert and Millard, Atra-ḫasīs, 14. Some, however, feel that the Flood Story was incorporated into Atra ḫasis. Gabel et al., The Bible as Literature, 49. 485. Though this is slightly different, Dalley notes that the Sumerian flood hero, Ziusudra, is mentioned in tablets from the Early Dynastic period, the Instructions of Shuruppak. “Thus,” she says, “Atrahasis was a notable figure at the dawn of history, and literary tradition was attached to him at an extremely early period” (Myths from Mesopotamia, 2). We should note that the flood traditions and the flood hero traditions are not the same, though it may be instructive to note how ancient the flood hero traditions are when considering the antiquity of the flood traditions in Mesopotamia. On Gilgamesh

208

Chapter 4

exemplar of Atra ḫasis 486 does not make reference to the ummânu (the particular scene in which Atra ḫasis gathers the remnant to his ship is extremely fragmented 487), we may reconstruct the general tenor of the scene from tablet 11 of Gilgamesh. The flood hero narrates: [Everything I had] I loaded aboard it, I loaded aboard it whatever silver I had, I loaded aboard it whatever gold I had, I loaded aboard it whatever seed I had of living things, each and every one. All my kith and kin I sent aboard the boat, I sent aboard animals of the wild, creatures of the wild, persons of every skill and craft [ummâni kālīšunu ušēli]. 488

This is similar to other recensions of Atra ḫasis that have been found. Though also fragmentary, they suggest similar wording when the flood hero loads his ship before the door is closed. 489 In sum, though there is at present no firm textual example for this, other fragments suggest that the tradition of the ummânu being preserved through the flood may indeed date back to the Old Babylonian period. 490 However one chooses to date the material, it is clear that within the ancient cognitive environment of Mesopotamian flood traditions, there exists a concern to demonstrate how civilization might have been preserved through the ancient flood. According to another tradition, the transition between the apkallu sages and the ummânu sages came shortly after the time of the flood—there was a final postdiluvian apkallu, Nungalpiriggal, before the line of ummânu began. 491 The transitional period in the Bīt Mesēri texts is slightly different, if one interprets the final four named apkallu as being postdiluvian. 492 Interestingly, as Kvanvig notes, the first of the postdiluvian apkallu has essentially the same name as the one postdiluvian apkallu of van Dijk’s ULKS, which provides fairly strong incentive to interpret the four sages as post­ diluvian. 493 Berossus also writes of one final sage after the time of the flood, though in his account, he comes considerably later: In the tenth generation after the Flood there was a man among the Chaldaeans who was just, great and knowledgeable about heavenly phenomena. After the Flood, Euechsios ruled over the land. 494 hero traditions and their antiquity, see George, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic, 5; Moran, “The Gilgamesh Epic,” 2327. 486. CT 46.3; Lambert and Millard, Atra-ḫasīs, 40. 487. The same is true of the Sumerian Flood Story. See Jacobsen, “The Eridu Genesis,” 523; and Civil, “The Sumerian Flood Story,” 143, lines 160 and following. 488. Lines 81–86. George, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic, 708–9. 489. See the Middle Babylonian CBS 13532 and the Late Assyrian DT 42; Lambert and Millard, Atra-ḫasīs, 126–29. 490. These ummânu were likely thought of as simply human craftsmen and not the heroic representations. 491. Van Dijk, “Die Inschriftenfunde,” 45. 492. See Wiggermann’s comments on the four figures, p. 205 n. 468 above. 493. Kvanvig, Roots of Apocalyptic, 194. 494. Burstein, The Babyloniaca, 21.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

209

S. Burstein notes that this is “the only surviving reference to one of the post-Flood apkallus,” though the hero remains unnamed. He explains that both Josephus and Pseudo-Eupolemus identified this figure with Abraham of the biblical tradition, and he also suggests that Berossus dated him to about 6,000 years after the flood. 495 Kvanvig disagrees, however, deciding that Berossus is referring to the tenth generation of apkallu/ummânu of the ULKS, Aba-enlidari, “whom the Arameans call Aḥuqar” (rev., line 20). 496 The author of the ULKS was “obviously aware that Aḥiqar, one of Sennacherib’s counsellors, had an international reputation.” 497 If this is the case, Clifford suggests we may appreciate from this that the apkallu/ummânu tradition spread at least as far as the Levant, as evidenced by the fact that the final ummânu is “explicitly identified with Aḥiqar, the hero of the Aramaic tale Aḥiqar.” 498 We need not arrive at an absolute conclusion here, though Kvanvig’s position does seem more likely. It is enough to note simply that debate is ongoing regarding how one should identify these ummânu.

495. Ibid., 21 n. 60. 496. Van Dijk, “Die Inschriftenfunde,” 45. 497. Kvanvig, Roots of Apocalyptic, 194. So also van Dijk: “Already by the time our text was composed, his name must have become quite well-known in the Aramaic world and had an ‘international ring’ to it” (“Die Inschriftenfunde,” 52). On the apkallu (or its equivalent) in Ugarit, see L. R. Mack-Fisher, “A Survey and Reading Guide to the Didactic Literature of Ugarit: Prolegomenon to a Study on the Sage,” in The Sage in Israel and the Ancient Near East (ed. J. G. Gammie and L. G. Perdue; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1990), 79; and the table in L. R. Mack-Fisher, “The Scribe (and Sage) in the Royal Courts in Ugarit,” in The Sage in Israel and the Ancient Near East (ed. J. G. Gammie and L. G. Perdue; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1990), 109. 498. Clifford, Proverbs, 24. Clifford believes his case is strengthened by a passage from Philo of Byblos, History, that speaks of Sanchuniathon as having come on the “secret works” that were “composed in the letters of the Ammoneans (Αμμουναιων)” for source material. Fragment 1, lines 3–4; Attridge and Oden, Philo of Byblos, 28–29. Clifford says that this “seems to be a reminiscence” to the ummânu (Proverbs, 24 n. 39). J. Greenfield makes a case for this much more vigorously, even though Attridge and Oden strongly disagree with this interpretation (Philo of Byblos, 73–74 n. 11). Greenfield notes that Attridge and Oden do not agree, though he says, “they give no reason for considering [this] suggestion implausible” (“The Seven Pillars,” 20 n. 30). This is technically true, though they do provide what they feel to be a much more reasonable identification for the Ammoneans, which would, if correct, exclude Greenfield’s explanation from the realm of plausibility. They conclude that the Ammoneans “are probably to be understood as priests or followers of the Egyptian god Ammon.” They go on to say that “this reference is certainly compatible with the role played in Philo’s narrative by the Egyptian Taautos and with the presence of other material relative to Egypt” (Attridge and Oden, Philo of Byblos, 74 n. 11). They also point out that Herodotus defined the Ammoneans in a similar fashion in his work The Histories: “the Ammonians, who are a joint colony of Egyptians and Ethiopians, speaking a language between the two” (book 2, chapter 42). G. Rawlinson, The Histories of Herodotus (Everyman’s Library 234; 9th ed.; New York: Knopf, 1997), 145. Thus, I conclude that, as exciting as it would be to see traces of the ummânu in Philo of Byblos with Clifford and Greenfield, Attridge and Oden—as well as Herodotus—make a much better case.

210

Chapter 4

We do know, however, that at some point in time there came to be actual, historical advisors to the kings called ummânu who were known as purveyors of wise counsel. More fully, S. Parpola explains that the ummânu were the court scholars whose “primary function was to protect the king and attend to his moral integrity.” 499 Glassner writes that “in all times in Mesopotamian society, sages were essential figures, sharing the intimacy of kings, living in their shadow, and bestowing their advice on them.” 500 In addition to our discussion of the Synchronistic Chronicle, many Neo-Assyrian kings also mention their ummânu in various writings. 501 Though these viziers were fully human, it was held that they derived their wisdom from the gods. As an example of this line of thought, a particular ummânu credits the gods for his new edition of the medical-omen series sa.gig: In the reign of Adad-apla-iddina . . . Esagil-kīn-apli, son of Asalluḫi-mansum, the Sage [Sum., n u n . m [e], Akk. apkallu] of King Hammurabi . . . the (chief ) Scholar [Sum., u m . m e . a ; Akk., ummânu] 502 of Sumer and Akkad, through the incisive intelligence that Ea and Asalluḫi/Marduk had bestowed upon him . . . produced the authorised editions for s a . g i g , from head to foot, and established them for knowledge. Take care! Pay [attention!] 503

I. Finkel rightly observes that the designation of Asalluḫi-mansum as the apkallu of Hammurabi is rare indeed. It is with great infrequency that an apkallu was mentioned as having lived in postdiluvian days, not to mention so far after the flood, and “no scholar from the reign of Hammurabi is given in the Uruk list [W 20030].” 504 He concedes that this is not without precedent, however, as Enmerkar had a nun.me, as did Gilgamesh. 505 Though traditionally, we have seen, the designation of apkallu was reserved for the preflood scholars, Lambert calls our attention to a few more postflood apkallu, which may serve to strengthen the claims for authenticity of the ummânu Esagil-kīn-apli. The medical text K. 8080 is said to be a “se499. S. Parpola, “The Assyrian Tree of Life: Tracing the Origins of Jewish Monotheism and Greek Philosophy,” JNES 52 (1993):167 n. 31. 500. Glassner, “The Use of Knowledge,” 1816. 501. Sweet, “The Sage in Akkadian Literature,” 58 n. 55–57. For more on the relationship between kings and their top ummânu, see Sweet, “The Sage in Mesopotamian Palaces,” 106–7. Among these court ummânu, skill and responsibility could vary. For a discussion of some of the differences, see Hurowitz, “Tales of Two Sages,” 68–71. 502. Note that here again we find a sage referring to himself as both an apkallu and an ummânu. 503. B rev., lines 19–25. I. L. Finkel, “Adad- ap la- i ddi na , E sa g i l-kī n-a pli , and the Series SA.GIG,” in A Scientific Humanist: Studies in Memory of Abraham Sachs (ed. E. Leichty et al; OPSNKF; Philadelphia: University Museum Press, 1988), 149. The text can be dated to the Neo-Babylonian period. 504. Ibid., 145. 505. Enmerkar: see p. 222 n. 585. Gilgamesh: ibid. Both Enmerkar and Gilgamesh have apkallu named in the ULKS. Clifford, Proverbs, 26.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

211

cret of Lu-Nanna, sage [apkallu] of Ur.” 506 Elsewhere, Lu-Nanna is said to have banished “two thirds of the sages [abgal.e.ne] from the house of Nin-kar-nunna, the house of the goddess of Šulgi, the sole ruler.” 507 Note that Lu-Nanna is also linked with Shulgi by the Bīt Mesēri incantations (above), where he was described as “(only) two-thirds apkallu, who drove the ušumgallu-dragon from Eninkarnunna, the temple of Ištar of Šulgi.” Not only does this link Lu-Nanna with King Shulgi of the Ur III fame (ca. 2150–2103), it speaks of other apkallu serving in the temple court at that time as well. 508 Obviously, K. 8080 does not reflect a tradition as old as that of which it speaks, though Lambert provides further evidence that medical texts such as this may be older than some think. Medical text K. 4023 writes, Of Šamaš . . . the craft of the bārû-priest which . . . According to the old sages [apkallē] from before the flood, which, in Šuruppak, in the second year of Enlil-bani, king of Isin, Enlil-muballiṭ, sage of Nippur, composed . . . 509

For Lambert, this places the work of Enlil-muballiṭ at around 1800, which may in turn reflect the relative age of the text K. 8080 presents. 510 From this, we may reasonably conclude that the apkallu tradition dates at least as far back as the Old Babylonian period. This is confirmed by another ancient temple hymn, dating at the latest to the Old Babylonian period, though realistically it could date to the Ur III period. 511 The Temple Hymn to Šu’ara, no. 10, speaks of the “Seven Wise Ones [abgal]” in what seems to be a sort of blessing that associated them with the ancient city Kuara. 512 The first explicit mention of an actual link between an apkallu and an antediluvian king, however, does not appear until the Neo-Assyrian period. 513 STT 2:176 was found in Sultan Tepe, and is an “apocryphal letter” of 506. Lambert, “Ancestors,” 7. 507. This appears to be an appended note at the end of LKA 76. Ibid. 508. Dalley also associates Lu-Nanna with Shulgi of Ur (Myths from Mesopotamia, 189). Sweet mentions various classes of diviners and exorcists that were associated with the apkallu as well (“The Sage in Akkadian Literature,” 60–61). 509. Lambert, “Ancestors,” 8. 510. Ibid. 511. Sumerian temple hymns often date back to the third millennium (Sparks, Ancient Texts, 86). Michalowski explains that “the songs and the poems from the court and temples or Ur were adapted and recopied by later generations of scribes, and therefore we have access to some of these compositions” (Michalowski, “Sumerian Literature,” 2282). Alster remarks that the genre usually designated “temple hymns” was well established and in use by the Early Dynastic period (“Early Patterns in Early Mesopotamian Literature,” in Kramer Anniversary Volume: Cuneiform Studies in Honor of Samuel Noah Kramer [ed. B. L. Eichler; AOAT; Kevelaer: Butzon & Berker, 1976], 18). Refer to R. Biggs for a discussion of the contents of some of these ED hymns (“The Abū Salābīkh Tablets,” 80). 512. Line 139. Sjöberg and Bergman, The Collection, 25. See also Sanders, “Writing, Ritual, and Apocalypse,” 119 n. 154; ETCSL 4.80.1. 513. Hallo, “Antediluvian Cities,” 62.

212

Chapter 4

“Adapa, the sage” to Alulu, the first antediluvian King. 514 Elsewhere, Sennacherib is described as the offspring of the same sage. 515 In spite of this relatively late link between an antediluvian king and an apkallu, already by the Old Babylonian period we may reliably speak of the convergence of a scribal apkallu tradition with that of an older mythical tradition (that is, the ummânu and the apkallu converged). We have already seen that the incantational apkallu tradition drew from the mythical strand—it seems as though the scribes likewise appropriated this mythical mantle to garner support for their claims of authenticity and authority. The fact that the antediluvian king/apkallu union does not appear until the Neo-Assyrian period should not be cause for alarm, in light of the relative antiquity of both the royal and apkallu traditions individually, as well as of the tradition that joins kings with an apkallu (Šulgi of Ur with the sage Lu-Nanna, for example). It is quite feasible to assume they would have been conjoined much earlier than we as yet have textual or archaeological evidence to demonstrate, though this is impossible to prove. In sum, the apkallu mythic traditions date at least to the Old Babylonian period (likely earlier), and were in turn appropriated by a number of other traditions. The association between an antediluvian king and an apkallu is attested later, though both royal and apkallu traditions, as well as those joining postdiluvian kings with sages, are ancient. Geographically, it seems quite possible the apkallu traditions were transmitted at least as far as the Levant, based on the later identification of Aḥiqar as an apkallu. The Apkallu Traditions in Iconography  Finally, it would be helpful to discuss the apkallu iconographic tradition, something alluded to briefly in conjunction with the Bīt Mesēri rituals. A.  Green writes that apkallu have been recognized in religious iconography as far back as the Kassite period (for the fish-like representations) and the Middle Assyrian period (for the griffin-hybrid representations), with antecedents possibly as far back as the Early Dynastic period. 516 E. Porada provides a description of one of the Kassite-period seals bearing the apkallu: “Naturalistically sculptured animals and human or superhuman figures like fishmen are symmetrically arranged at the sides of the tree of god.” 517 The Kassite period was a time 514. “Adapa, the sage”: Akkadian, a-da-pa ap-kal-um-ma. Lines 14 and following. Lambert and Millard, Atra-ḫasīs, 27. 515. Hallo, “Assyrian Historiography,” 2*. English translation of the text Hallo refers to is in Pritchard, Ancient Near Eastern Texts, 605–6, although, see the note on his translation of the line in question, Hallo, “On the Antiquity,” 176 n. 83. The apkallu traditions more explicitly associated with Adapa will be covered in the following section. 516. Green, “Iconography,” 1848, fig. 5, nos. 16–18. See also idem, “Neo-Assyrian Apotropaic Figures,” 90; idem, “Myths in Mesopotamian Art,” 140. 517. E. Porada, “Why Cylinder Seals? Engraved Cylindrical Seal Stones of the Ancient Near East, Fourth to First Millennium b.c.,” Art Bulletin 75 (1993): 576. Parpola, in a fascinating article on the Assyrian tree of life imagery in art, speaks of the apkallu flanking the

Ancient Near Eastern Context

213

of economic prosperity that led to a significant upswing in the arts and sciences. 518 This upswing coincided with the transformation in religious iconography from the Old Babylonian emphasis on people to the imagery of animal-headed hybrids, 519 which would explain well why these “fishmen” might be first attested during this time. Porada describes the Kassite artistic interests of this period as reflecting “the influences of the international age by including elements derived from Egyptian and perhaps also from Aegean art.” 520 It certainly also seems plausible that various traditions within Mesopotamian lore could have been woven together during this period, though nothing of the sort could be proven. 521 Art frequently exhibited the combination of previously disparate mythological traditions, a practice both common and well documented as far back as the Akkadian Age (Akkad Dynasty). 522 Finally, to conclude this section, Lambert and Millard speak of two strands of ancient Mesopotamian historical consciousness: the political and the social. 523 Both the religious iconography and the literature involving the apkallu help paint a picture in support of a suggestion such as this, as they seem to represent a hybridized Mesopotamian sociopolitical historical perspective. The interconnectedness of these dual strands is made explicit in the artwork and the literature by the end of the Neo-Assyrian period, though its implicit beginnings undoubtedly hark back to an earlier age. Indeed, this twin historical consciousness may offer insight into the seemingly parallel genealogical passages in Gen 4 and 5. Perhaps the Cainite genealogy is the Hebrew perspective on “social” history and the Sethite genealogy tree as a “genuine . . . innovation” of Middle Assyrian art (“The Assyrian Tree of Life,” 165 n. 24). As the Kassites were frequently at war with their Assyrian neighbors to the north, and as both cultures held the more ancient Babylonian mythology in high esteem, it is fascinating to see how this imagery appeared in both cultures around the same time—almost as though they were both laying claim to it for their own. 518. Sommerfeld, “The Kassites,” 920. 519. Green, “Iconography,” 1847. A similar thematic shift took place in the more northern Mitanni kingdom around this time, as well. Porada explains that in cylinder seal art there was a noticeable shift from the “man-centered Old Babylonian style” to a highly schematic style of “demons and monsters” (Ancient Art in Seals, 11). 520. Ibid., 13. See also Porada, “Why Cylinder Seals?” 575–76. 521. This would be consistent with the character of the Kassites and the nature of their rule. Though not of Mesopotamian origins themselves, they soon reestablished a Babylonian state run—in some sense—similarly to their Old Babylonian predecessors, and adapted or adopted many of the religious and artistic ideas for their own use. Yoffee, “The Decline and Rise,” 13. 522. Porada, Ancient Art in Seals, 10. 523. Lambert and Millard, Atra-ḫasīs, 21. Elsewhere, Glassner makes a similar point, though in a different context. When speaking of the Mesopotamian mythic mind, he says it employed myth-making to express both political and social order, among other things. Glassner, “The Use of Knowledge,” 1815.

214

Chapter 4

offers the Hebrew perspective on the “political.” 524 In agreement, Kitchen notes that “twin lines [the social and political] . . . are a hallmark of this particular early ‘primeval period’ tradition,” and must be taken into account when reading Gen 4 and 5. 525 All of this seems quite likely given what has been studied thus far. The following section, however, will plumb even deeper depths of the apkallu traditions by focusing on the most famous of all the apkallu, Adapa. Adapa Adapa traditions almost unanimously refer to Adapa as an apkallu sage, 526 and from the previous sections, it is clear that the apkallu played a major role in bringing the arts of civilization to humanity. Adapa, depending on how one relates him to the seven apkallu of other texts, could very well have played an important role in this process. The story Adapa and the South Wind (ASW) has often been studied for its significant parallels to various aspects of Gen 1–11, even though the precise nature of these parallels is still debated. 527 In this section, however, the tradition will be examined for its contribution to the concept of Mesopotamian civilization. Where might Adapa fit within this scheme, as the most famous of the apkallu sages? There is no shortage of material devoted to this fascinating character, and the task at hand will be to distill this material down to what is particularly relevant to this study. The genre of the ASW has been called into question on more than one occasion, and its theme is also a matter of debate. There is further disagreement as to where in the apkallu tradition Adapa fits—some stories give us reason to believe he was the seventh and last of the antediluvian apkallu, and others, the first. Again, this section will deal with these issues only briefly in order to focus on the Adapa tradition’s contributions to the Mesopotamian concept of civilization. Adapa and the South Wind  There seem to be two basic fragmentary components to ASW, the introductory fragment A (Nineveh, 7th century) and the story proper, fragment B (Amarna, 14th century). An additional tablet, fragment D (Nineveh, 7th century) serves as an alternate conclusion to B and includes an incantational ending. Fragment C (Nineveh, 7th century) is a poorly preserved parallel to B. 528 Presentations of ASW tend to combine the A and B tablets, though it is not entirely clear how the tablets 524. Finkelstein, “The Antediluvian Kings,” 50 n. 41. So also W. H. Shea, “Adam in Ancient Mesopotamian Traditions,” AUSS 15 (1977): 35. 525. Kitchen, On the Reliability, 441–42. 526. For a list of references, see Biggs, CAD A/1 172 n. 2.a.2′. 527. N. Andreasen feels that even the term “parallel . . . may be inappropriate and quite inadequate to take account of the complex relationships that exist between biblical and extrabiblical literary traditions” such as Adapa (“Adam and Adapa,” 179–80). 528. Foster, Before the Muses, 527 n. 1. W. Shea also notes that C and D appear to have been written by the same scribe. Shea, “Adam in Ancient Mesopotamian Traditions,” 27.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

215

related to one another, if at all. 529 S. Izre′el feels that A and D represent an “elaboration” of the B tablet. 530 G. Kirk similarly wonders if they should be seen as a part of the story, or rather as an attached interpretation of it. 531 Along similar lines, T. Mettinger concludes that A sheds light on how the story would have been understood in the 1st millennium, representing an editorial update of sorts. 532 One need not draw such a conclusion from the evidence, however. Izre′el suggests the possibility that B might be a shortened variation of the tale that circulated independently, and A + D versions (more complete versions) may have been circulating concurrently with B. In support of this, he argues that multiple versions of a myth often circulated concurrently in the ancient world. 533 Certainly, the fragmentary nature of the tablets gives rise to such speculation. The likelihood of Izre′el’s theory is strengthened by the existence of Sumerian literary texts that were discovered at Tell-Haddad. One such text is the Adapa narrative proper, preceded by its own distinct introduction of about 100 lines. 534 The story of this Sumerian version, dating back at the very least to the Old Babylonian period, is set shortly after the time of the flood and appears to describe the feeding of the gods and the reorganization of postdiluvian humankind, before setting in to the narrative proper. 535 The Sumerian narrative proper is very similar in content to the Akkadian tablet B, as far as the basic storyline is concerned, and is followed by an incantation-like passage also similar to the Akkadian tablet D. This final section may indeed be a later secondary addition as some have speculated, but the existence of this Sumerian version from Tell-Haddad shows quite clearly that one must date variants of this sort at least as far back as the Old Babylonian priod. 536 Briefly, ASW is as follows, including select portions of the text: 537 Adapa was created by Ea/Enki to serve in his temple in Eridu. Duties of the caretaker included baking bread and catching fish for the daily offerings. 538 529. We must consider in this discussion the seven centuries separating tablet B and all other attestations. 530. S. Izre′el, Adapa and the South Wind: Language Has the Power of Life and Death (MC 10; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2001), 108. 531. Kirk, Myth: Its Meaning and Function, 124. 532. Mettinger, The Eden Narrative, 101. 533. Izre′el, Adapa and the South Wind, 109. See further pp. 132–134. 534. Unfortunately, this text has yet to be published. Izre′el also commented on the possibility that “an old Vorlage of the Adapa myth is conceivable” (ibid., 67). 535. A. Cavigneaux and F. Al-Rawi, “New Literary Texts from Tell Haddad (Ancient Meturan): A First Survey,” Iraq 55 (1993): 92. 536. Ibid. 537. All text, unless otherwise noted, is from Foster, Before the Muses, 526–30. 538. It seems appropriate that Adapa was the temple fisherman for several reasons, not the least of which is that Eridu was associated from very early on with fishing. Eridu was the home of the patron deity Enki, who resided in the Apsu, so it makes sense that

216

Chapter 4

Adapa was endowed with extraordinary wisdom, which tablet A describes in this way: Understanding . . . his utterance could command, like the utterance [of Anu], he made him perfect in wisdom, revealing (to him) the designs of the land [uṣurat māti]. To him he granted wisdom, eternal life he did not grant him. In those days, in those years, this sage [apkallu], the citizen of Eridu, Ea made him his vicegerent among men. 539 This sage whose pronouncement no one gainsaid, able one, exceedingly wise, he was (servant) of the Anunnu-gods, pure, clean of hands, anointed one who was solicitous after divine rites.

Fragment A ends with a description of Adapa’s maritime prowess: [At] the sacred quay, the quay of “Heavenly Splendor,” he boarded the sailboat. [Without? a st]eering oar his boat could drift on course, [without? a pu[nting] pole he could pilot his boat. 540 [Into the . . . ocean, into the] wide sea.

The narrative proper begins in Fragment B with Adapa out at sea. Out of what Adapa later describes as frustration, he curses the south wind 541 and stops it from blowing: water and fish would play a large role there. S. Denning-Bolle writes that “great quantities of fish and fish bones have been unearthed in the Eridu temple complex” and takes this as evidence for the existence of some sort of fish cult. Denning-Bolle, Wisdom in Akkadian Literature, 45. Foster notes the special interest in fish in Eridu and says that “we have to reckon with the loss of a body of Mesopotamian religious tradition centering on the sea and fishing, both salt and fresh water” (“Wisdom and the Gods,” 350). Certainly texts such as The Home of the Fish support this notion: M. Civil, “The Home of the Fish,” Iraq 23 (1961): 154–75, as cited in Foster, “Wisdom and the Gods,” 350 n. 23. See also the discussion of the Ichthyophagoi, or “Fish-eaters,” in Reade, “Sumerian Origins,” 222. The mythical descriptions of the fish-like (puradu-fish) apkallu from the previous two sections (iconography, apotropaic figurines, Berossus, Bīt Mesēri, etc.) certainly make more sense in light of the connections between Eridu and fish. Ea, their creator, lived the Apsu, which would explain why the apkallu were imagined themselves to be “of the sea (apsû)” (Kvanvig, Roots of Apocalyptic, 198). This is not to say that Adapa was imagined in the story to be an actual fish, however. Kvanvig humorously writes that when Adapa “goes out on the sea, it is to catch fish, not to meet his colleagues.” On the other hand, an Akkadian lexical text lists a-da-pu as the equivalent of the Sumerian u . t u . a . a b . ba , which means “born in the salt water” (ibid., 203). 539. Foster notes that at this point in the text the translation is uncertain. Kvanvig takes this to say that Ea “created the apkallu . . . as a model for mankind” (ibid.). See the discussion surrounding the translation of this term in Izre′el, Adapa and the South Wind, 12. 540. For Foster, this is a sign of Adapa’s “magical powers” (Before the Muses, 526 n. 2). Though see Izre′el’s repudiation of this understanding: Adapa and the South Wind, 14, 68. 541. On line 65 of the same tablet, Adapa tells Anu that he was frustrated because “the south wind blew upon me and capsized me.” Foster writes that the south wind was held to be “especially powerful.” He also quotes a Sumerian proverb that says that “the south wind knocks over the man it hits” (Before the Muses, 525 n. 1). See also Ps 78:26. To demonstrate the ferocity of the south wind further, Ninurta was both the war-god and a personification of the south wind (Kirk, Myth: Its Meaning and Function, 90–91). Interestingly enough, Enki also came to be associated with the south wind. In a Neo-Assyrian

Ancient Near Eastern Context

217

He ma[de ready to speak, saying to the south wind], “O South wind! [. . .] I have done enough(?), let me [. . .] [. . .], O south wind, [the wi]nds, your brothers, as m[any as there be], I will fracture your w[in]g!” As soon as he said it, the south wind’s wing was fractured.

Because of Adapa’s curse, the south wind did not blow for seven days, which incurred the wrath of the god Anu, the god responsible for overseeing the cosmic order. Anu summoned Adapa to his divine court for a trial of sorts. Before Adapa left, Ea, “who knows the ways of heaven,” warned him: “If they proffer you food of death, do not eat! If they proffer you water of death, do not drink! It they proffer you a garment, put it on, if they proffer you oil, anoint yourself. Do not neglect the instructions I give you, hold fast to the words that I have spoken.”

As instructed by Ea his patron god, Adapa refused the bread and water when Anu offered them to him. In a curious twist (that lends itself to the aforementioned debated theme), they are described as the “food of life” and “water of life” (lines 77 and 78, respectively) when Anu offers them. At Adapa’s refusal, Anu bursts out in laughter and says enigmatically: Come now, Adapa, why did you not eat or drink? Won’t you live? Alas for the wretched peoples, . . . Take him and [ret]urn him to earth.

Fragment D gives a slightly different ending to the story: Anu laughed uproariously at what Ea had done, “Who else, of all the gods of heaven and netherworld could d[o] something like this? Who else could make his command outweigh Anu’s?” . . . [At that ti]me Anu imposed on Adapa an observance, [ ] . . . Ea released him. [An]u ordained that he be distinguished for his leadership for all time. 542

There seem to be as many interpretations as there are interpreters for this enigmatic little story. 543 Our purposes here allow for a brief review some of the more common ideas and refrain from drawing any particular conclusions. What one perceives as the theme of this story is closely related to how one views Ea’s actions toward Adapa. Why would he have commanded him not to eat or drink what Anu would offer? It would seem that Ea was either mistaken or deceptive 544 in his actions toward Adapa. As we have ritual text, the south wind is referred to as the “favorite [narāmti]” of Ea. Galter, Der Gott Ea/Enki, 107. Asarhaddon also mentions in his report of his entrance to Niniveh that the South wind, “the Wind of Ea” is blowing (ibid., 108). Livingstone also has a short discussion of wind and the various associations with the gods in Mystical and Mythological, 74–76. 542. Foster says this means Adapa would not live forever, but Anu would make him famous forever (Before the Muses, 530 n. 2). 543. As Sanders states: “A review of the literature on Adapa produces the effect of a series of diametrically opposed readings” (“Writing, Ritual, and Apocalypse,” 130). 544. Mistaken: F. M. T. Böhl, “Die Mythe vom weisen Adapa,” WO 2 (1959): 426; Buccellati, “Adapa, Genesis,” 63. Deceptive: Shea, “Adam in Ancient Mesopotamian Traditions,” 34; Sparks, Ancient Texts, 318.

218

Chapter 4

seen in an earlier section, he was renowned for his craftiness and wisdom, so some consider it highly unlikely that Ea would be portrayed as mistaken. However, as Adapa’s patron god, many find willful deception equally untenable. 545 Others have suggested that Ea gave Adapa the best advice he could but simply underestimated Anu’s gracious forgiveness. 546 Furthermore, how should Anu’s actions toward Adapa be understood? Would the food and drink really have killed Adapa, allowing the conclusion that the food and drink were punishment? Would they have extended immortality to the sage? 547 Some contend that Anu was offering him not only immortality, but a position in his council. In other words, Anu was attempting to conscript Adapa out of Ea’s service and into his own, which Ea foresaw and took measures to prevent. 548 Others, like Jacobsen, interpret these actions as merely the conventions of Near Eastern hospitality. For Jacobsen, Ea knew that Anu would offer Adapa the food of the gods and did not want him to become immortal (and in so doing, lose his worthy servant). 549 As another suggestion, Ea could have been both correct and well-meaning in his command to Adapa, and the bread and water of life would become the bread and water of death to a mere mortal. This would interpret Anu as the less trustworthy character in the story, and allows Ea’s craftiness and goodness to be preserved. 550 It remains difficult to see one of the major themes of this story as a test of any kind (for example, of obedience, presumably in a parallel way to Genesis) if Adapa was not aware he was being tested in the first place. Buccellati holds that Adapa’s faith in Ea (and subsequent obedience to his commands) is instead the major theme. 551 This allows him to, in effect, “do away” with immortality as a theme and hold to a sort of testing idea as central to the story. As J. Bing points out, however, immortality was an extremely popular and recognizable theme to the ancient Mesopotamian mind, and it therefore seems probable that this would have been a major theme of the story. 552 Indeed, as Foster notes, the text makes this point clear from the first 545. Indeed, Ea/Enki was frequently portrayed as a helper to both deities and humans alike in crisis situations, as we have noted in an earlier section. 546. S. N. Kramer, “Mythology of Sumer and Akkad,” in Mythologies of the Ancient World (ed. S. N. Kramer; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1961), 125. 547. J. D. Bing, “Adapa and Immortality,” UF 16 (1984): 55–56. 548. P. Burrows, “Note on Adapa,” Or 30 (1928): 24. 549. T. Jacobsen, “The Investiture and Anointing of Adapa in Heaven,” AJSL 46/3 (1930): 202. 550. Andreasen, “Adam and Adapa,” 183–84. Andreasen also points out how this interpretation allows us to appreciate a duality in Anu’s gift to that of the two trees in the garden: “one of life, leading to eternal life . . . the other of knowledge, presumed to offer godlikeness, but actually leading to mortality” (ibid., 184). 551. Buccellati, “Adapa, Genesis,” 63. 552. Bing, “Adapa and Immortality,” 53. He also notes that the theme of immortality was “what made the myth especially attractive to the Egyptian scribes at Amarna” (ibid.).

Ancient Near Eastern Context

219

few lines when it explicitly states how Ea did not grant Adapa immortality. The story, in a very real sense, seems to revolve around the development of this theme. For Foster, the story is a parabolic myth that tells the audience that “man can never gain immortality; if Adapa could not, superior man that he was, who could?” 553 Elsewhere, he calls the story “an etiology of death.” 554 W. Shea notes that the story is not infrequently referred to as a myth, even though the story centers around a human and his actions. From this he concludes that the story has more in common with an epic than it does with myth, even though it does contain mythical elements. 555 This is similar to what Bottéro says, that the Adapa story fits in the “vein of narratives and legends that had as its subjects mortals whose destiny the gods surreptitiously guided.” 556 Hallo defines the story as an epic, which he defines as, “in the narrow sense . . . heroic tales of the mighty men of the past, set to poetry or, at least, written with a high degree of literary polish.” 557 He is careful to differentiate an epic from both myth and legend, however, by saying that myths talk about gods, not men, and legends are “prose narratives of the popular imagination, or folklore.” 558 For Hallo, in concert with Shea and Foster, Adapa is an etiology of death, and the theme is “the problem of the loss of immortality” and somewhat more specifically that “God offers life but man chooses death.” 559 Foster may have had these sorts of discussions in mind when he conceded that “the modern distinction between myth and epic is blurred in Assyriology, as different scholars refer to the same texts as one or the other. No Mesopotamian terms are known for either category.” 560 No matter how scholars speak of the story’s genre, ASW shares more broadly the generic characteristics of myth summarized previously. 561 Moreover, being etiological, it also shares (to a certain degree) the set of values expressed by the ancient historian by lending coherence to a present For a similar stance, see also Kirk, Myth: Its Meaning and Function, 124. In a further development of this, Mettinger holds that the theme was more accurately that both wisdom and immortality were divine prerogatives (The Eden Narrative, 109). 553. Foster, “Wisdom and the Gods,” 352. 554. B. R. Foster, “The Adapa Story,” in The Context of Scripture (ed. W. W. Hallo and K. L. Younger; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 449. 555. Shea, “Adam in Ancient Mesopotamian Traditions,” 28. 556. Bottéro, “Akkadian Literature,” 2295. 557. W. W. Hallo, “Adapa Reconsidered: Life and Death in Contextual Perspective,” Scriptura 87 (2004): 267. 558. Ibid. 559. Ibid., 272, 277. 560. B. R. Foster, Akkadian Literature of the Late Period (GMTR 2; Münster: Ugarit Verlag, 2007), 49, emphasis mine. See also his similar observations on Mesopotamian narrative literature in general: Foster, Before the Muses, 42. 561. See pp. 46–47.

220

Chapter 4

circumstance. 562 Hallo certainly understands this to be part of ASW’s broader purposes, as well. Though he labels it an epic, ASW has more than just a story-telling aim, he says. “Very often they [epics] serve to “explain” some current phenomenon, or some eternal mystery. Where the scientist of today might prefer to furnish a causal analysis, they offer a ‘historical’ analysis or ‘etiology,’ i.e., the explanation of a presently observed condition by appeal to an imaginary or one-time event in the past. In other words, they use the ‘punctual’ to explain the ‘durative.’” 563 After this kind of talk, it should be clear that, despite the semantic wrangling, ASW fits comfortably within our broader genre of mythic history and may be appreciated for its numerous contributions to the genre’s cognitive environment. Adapa and the Apkallu Traditions.  As already noted, scholars differ in their opinions of where Adapa fits within the apkallu tradition. Some scholars feel that he represents the first of the seven antediluvian sages, while others describe him as the last. Both conclusions are drawn from textual evidence, further strengthening the claim that the apkallu traditions—Adapa foremost among them—seem to be a coalescence of multiple, originally distinct traditions. 564 From the previous section, Adapa was linked to the first antediluvian king, Alulu (elsewhere, Alulim), by the “apocryphal letter” STT 2:176 (see above, p.  211). Further evidence for the primary position in the list, text fragment K 2248 links Adapa with Oannes: “These are the ones which Oannes-Adapa [spoke].” 565 This could be the same double name appearing in a brick inscription of Nicarchus, possibly restored to: “The Reš-shrine, that in earlier times Oannes-Adapa built.” 566 P. Talon even feels as though the “First One” to whom Enuma Elish was revealed is Oannes-Adapa. 567 It is understandable then, that texts such as these lead many scholars to link Adapa with the Oannes figure described by Berossus, the first apkallu, 568 in spite of the difficulty of drawing firm conclusions regarding this double name. If this is the case, then Adapa can be seen to have brought the arts of civilization (the me) to humanity itself as depicted by Berossus—a feat of no small importance! 562. This is what Walton defined as a teleological goal and is very much a part of the larger ANE cognitive environment. See p. 41. 563. Hallo, “Adapa Reconsidered,” 267. 564. Kvanvig, Roots of Apocalyptic, 203. 565. Akk., [an-nu-tum šá] uma-an-na a-da-p[á]. W. G. Lambert, “A Catalog of Texts and Authors,” JCS 16 (1962): 64. Lambert dates this fragment to the first half of the 9th century (ibid., 76). 566. Akk., érēš šá ina maḫri u4-dan-[a-d]a-p[à] ipušu; van Dijk, “Die Inschriftenfunde,” 42. 567. Talon, “Enuma Elish and the Transmission,” 270–71. Tablet 7, line 157, begins, “The revelation of the First One,” Akk., tak-lim-ti maḫ-ru-ú. Talon, The Standard Babylonian Creation Myth, 76. 568. For example, Dalley, Myths from Mesopotamia, 182; and Burstein, The Babyloniaca, 13.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

221

A short survey of this conversation should suffice: Borger says that “adapa” is actually an appellative, of sorts, for “sage,” which would explain the association of Adapa, son of Ea, with the Oannes figure. 569 Hallo and Lambert both agree that “adapa” is an epithet (more akin to “recovered from the water”) and Oannes was more accurately understood to be his proper name. 570 Izre′el agrees and writes that “at some point” the name Adapa came to be interpreted “as an epithet rather than a proper noun,” hence the association with Oannes. 571 He goes on to say that “whether the word was originally an epithet or a name is hard to tell, especially since one cannot draw any sound conclusions regarding the origin of a myth or of any individual mytheme from the chronology of its occasional textual finds.” 572 Regardless of one’s position, it should be clear that Adapa is in some way related—in more than one text (and in more than one genre)—to the first of the famed mythical sages. The seventh apkallu identified in Reiner’s LKA 76 fragment (also found in the previous section) is “[Adapa,] the purification priest of Eridu [. . .] who ascended to heaven.” 573 As indicated by the brackets, “Adapa” is her restoration of the broken tablet, which she justifies by noting that the phrases “purification priest of Eridu” and “who ascended into heaven” are also used to describe Adapa in the Adapa narrative. 574 Recall that Borger’s Bīt Mesēri tablets, of which LKA 76 is a part, show that the seventh sage “who ascended to heaven” was in fact named Utuabzu. 575 One may also recall from a previous footnote discussion the existence of an Akkadian lexical 569. Borger, “Die Beschwörungsserie bit meseri,” 186. He also observes, in favor of a mistaken identification of Adapa with Oannes, that it would be foolish to assume that when Anu described Adapa as “a human being” (line 70, tablet B), he was actually a fish! Furthermore, Borger says, nowhere in the literature do we find Oannes being associated with Ea/Enki, either. Both of these allow him to conclude that a supposed identification of Adapa with Oannes is a mistake (ibid.). 570. Hallo, “On the Antiquity,” 176 n. 79; Lambert, “A Catalog of Texts,” 74. Representing a completely different interpretation, Brandon writes, “there can be little doubt that in this strange being . . . Berossus was describing the water-god Enki or Ea, who was the god of wisdom” (Creation Legends, 111). Of this interpretation, Borger notes that, though often put forth, it has “not the slightest amount of proof ” and should therefore be discarded (Die Beschwörungsserie bit meseri,” 186). 571. Izre′el, Adapa and the South Wind, 1. 572. Ibid. For a helpful discussion of Oannes, see Streck, RlA 10:1–3. 573. Reiner, “The Etiological Myth,” 4. 574. Ibid., 6–7. So also Wilson, though he seems to depend solely on Reiner for this conclusion (Genealogy and History, 150). Van Dijk notes that the words “purification priest of Eridu” are also associated with the sixth apkallu, An-Enlilda, in LKA 146, 2 (van Dijk, “Die Inschriftenfunde,” 48). This text is also discussed briefly by Lambert (“Review: ‘Literarische Keilschrifttexte aus Assur’,” 144) and by Reiner (“ME.UGU = m ē l u ,” AfO 19 [1959]: 150). 575. Borger, “Die Beschwörungsserie bit meseri,” 192.

222

Chapter 4

text listing a-da-pu as the equivalent of the Sumerian u.tu.a.ab.ba, 576 allowing the possibility of the equation of Adapa with Utuabzu. 577 This association, along with similar descriptions of the two characters, strongly suggests Utuabzu of the Bīt Mesēri tablets is the same as Adapa of ASW. 578 One may safely conclude from this seemingly contradictory evidence, as Kvanvig does, that Adapa and the South Wind is the result of a “compilation of motifs.” 579 Moreover, Adapa seems a perfect exemplar of the process whereby different apkallu traditions are combined into something new. 580 This is perfectly in line with what Izre′el says when he writes—with Adapa in mind—that “variation . . . is a part of the very nature of mythological traditions.” 581 Foster claims that the ordered scheme of the apkallu was a secondary development; “what is of interest here is that Adapa was numbered among the apkallu’s and was the most famous of them all.” 582 If ASW is a compilation of various Adapa traditions, and if Adapa was regarded as the most famous of all the sages, we should expect other traces of these traditions to appear. This is indeed the case, as Adapa was clearly a dominant figure on the mental landscape of the ancient Mesopotamians. The earliest textual attestation to Adapa comes from an exorcism text of the Old Babylonian period found in Nippur. 583 This, like Cavigneaux and Al-Rawi’s yet-unpublished Sumerian Adapa text mentioned above, strongly suggests Adapa traditions extend back earlier still. His name also appears in various public inscriptions, literary cataloges, royal correspondences and ritual texts, among others. 584 By the Neo-Babylonian period, for example, kings often associated themselves with this ancient sage. 585 576. See p. 216 n. 538. 577. Though the two names are different (“born from the sea” vs. “born from the abzu”), they themselves are equated in another incantation recorded by Borger. The seventh apkallu, Utuabzu, “who ascended to heaven,” is replaced with Utuabba, “who descended from heaven” (ibid., 193); Hess and Tsumura, I Studied Inscriptions, 231. So also Abydenus’s transmission of Berossus (via Polyhistor) lists the seventh apkallu as Anodaphos, which means “Born from the freshwater sea” (Verbrugghe and Wickersham, Berossos and Manetho, 71). 578. Kvanvig, Roots of Apocalyptic, 204. 579. Ibid., 207. 580. Ibid., 203. 581. Izre′el, Adapa and the South Wind, 2. 582. Foster, “Wisdom and the Gods,” 346. So also, Mettinger, The Eden Narrative, 103. 583. Relevant portions of the text and discussion are in Sanders, “Writing, Ritual, and Apocalypse,” 107–9. 584. For a helpful collection of the textual data, see Sanders’s very thorough treatment of the Adapa traditions, ibid., 91–129. 585. For example, one Adapa tradition links the sage with Enmerkar, king of Uruk. Though this tradition does not warrant much further discussion, relevant texts are cited here to demonstrate the multiplicity of Adapa traditions that circulated, often concurrently. Text fragment K 5763 connects Adapa with Enmerkar and seems to be a commentary of sorts on another historical text. W. G. Lambert, “An Address of Marduk to the

Ancient Near Eastern Context

223

This understanding becomes more important as we move to discuss the overall significance of Adapa as he pertains to the Mesopotamian concept of civilization. Because Adapa was the most famous of the apkallu, in many ways he came to be seen as a representative of their kind. In much the same way, then, he represented humankind as well. Indeed, perhaps the most dominant theme of the story, immortality (and the human inability to achieve it) would have very little meaning if Adapa were not viewed as a symbol or a type of humanity. This notion of Adapa as a representative human is tied to both his prominence as (in many traditions) the first and foremost of the apkallu and the way the ancient Mesopotamian mind conceived of its past. W. Shea helps to make this more clear: If questioned closely, a resident of ancient Sumer probably would have admitted that people lived on earth before the generation of Alulim and Adapa. Such a question missed the point somewhat, however, as the texts appear to indicate that the Sumerians believe that Alulim and Adapa belonged to the first significant generation of mankind. The reason for this lies in their political theology. Regardless of how the development took place, by the end of the Early Dynastic period kingship was firmly established as an integral and indispensable part of the Mesopotamian way of life. Subsequent political theology shaped itself around that fact. Thus, both in the beginning and after the flood, meaningful human activity began “when kingship was lowered from heaven. . . .” Kingship was one of the givens from the gods. Thus by being contemporaneous with the first earthly king, Adapa was in essence a de facto member of the first generation of mankind. 586 Demons: Appendix,” AfO 17 (1956): 321. Writing a few years later, Lambert decides that text is the Weidner Chronicle. Lambert, “A Catalog of Texts,” 74 n. 13. The Weidner Chronicle also relates the two (line 33), and the standard text and translation can be found in Grayson, Assyrian and Babylonian Chronicles. B. T. Arnold provides an updated translation and includes more recently discovered introductory fragments: “The Weidner Chronicle and the Idea of History in Israel and Mesopotamia,” in Faith, Tradition, and History: Old Testament Historiography in Its Near Eastern Context (ed. A. R. Millard et al.; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1994). See also Glassner (Mesopotamian Chronicles, 263–69), who refers to the text as The Chronicle of the Esagila. Though the extant copies of the text are dated to the first millennium (Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian periods) the Chronicle most likely dates back to the late second millennium (later Kassite to early Isin II period). Arnold, “The Weidner Chronicle,” 131; Grayson, Assyrian and Babylonian Chronicles, 278–79. Finkel agrees and says that there are certain features of the text (notably, the Sumerian language of his bilingual fragment) that clearly are there to “lend the composition an appearance of antiquity and greater authority” (“Bilingual Chronicle Fragments,” 72). Beyond the Weidner Chronicle, though representing a similar tradition, Foster lists a short fragmentary composition which he calls, Adapa and Enmerkar. This is a poorly understood, quite-fragmented story that seems to describe Enmerkar as helping Adapa to exhume the corpse of a friend, and it ends with Adapa employing the services of a smith to refit the coffin (presumably to rebury it; Foster, Before the Muses, 531–32). See also Sanders, “Writing, Ritual, and Apocalypse,” 127–29. 586. Shea, “Adam in Ancient Mesopotamian Traditions,” 36–37, emphasis original.

224

Chapter 4

In a word, Adapa was a Mesopotamian “Everyman.” Foster adds: “Adapa was in the first place a king, first among men politically, and a wiseman, first among them intellectually. His very perfection made his story of peculiar interest for his fate had thereby a universal validity. Yet he was withal a mortal not fit for heavenly things, and thus a representative man.” 587 In further support of this idea that Adapa was believed to be the representative first human, lexical text MSL 12:93 equates his name with a word that simply means “human being” (amilu). 588 The concept of “the first significant generation” from Shea may also lend itself to a more accurate understanding of Adam in the Genesis text, though this is neither the time nor the place for a thorough comparative analysis. Adam and Eve may represent the Hebrew “Everyman,” and the Eden account may be the symbolic Hebrew account of what was held to be their “first significant generation.” 589 In other words, the significance of the Adapa story to its audience would have been primarily archetypal, as the Genesis accounts would possibly have been for its audience. 590 Adapa’s importance as a representative human should not detract from his status as the foremost of the apkallu, however. His story offers insight into how the apkallu may have been understood in Mesopotamian society— ideas that seemed to have been firmly in place well before the end of the second millennium. The apkallu, as the transmitters of the divine me, clearly possessed enough power to disrupt the order established by those me. This is evident not only by the fact that Adapa broke the wing of the wind with nothing but his words (Tablet B, lines 2–5), but also that he is described as understanding the designs of the land [uṣurat māti]. 591 Anu, whom H. Müller refers to as “the Guardian of Order,” 592 shows considerable consternation when his order is disrupted by Adapa’s curse. This is the reason Anu 587. Foster, “Wisdom and the Gods,” 351. 588. Hallo, “Adapa Reconsidered,” 272. 589. We may also note the possible similarities with Egyptian thought, as well. When the Egyptians looked back to the time of creation, they thought of it as having occurred “at the first time.” As S. Morenz explains, “This does not just mean the beginning. It only means the beginning of an event. For ‘time’ means an even” (Egyptian Religion [trans. A. E. Keep; Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992], 166). 590. Walton has a helpful and clear discussion of the archetypal significance of human creation account in the ancient Near East, Ancient Near Eastern Thought, 207–10. See also our discussion, p. 55 above, and the more specific discussion of the various uses of adam in Genesis, both as a proper name and as an archetype in R. S. Hess, “Splitting the Adam: The Usage of ʾAdam in Genesis i–iv,” in Studies in the Pentateuch (ed. J. A. Emerton; VTSup; Leiden: Brill, 1990); Hess, Studies. 591. One may recall from above (p. 169), this is the Akkadian equivalent of the Sumerian geš-hur, to which humankind must adhere to be successful. 592. H. P. Müller, “Erkenntis und Verfehlung: Prototypen und Antitypen zu Gen 2–3 in der altorientalischen Literatur,” in Glaube und Toleranz: Das Theologische Erbe der Aufklarung (ed. T. Rendtorff; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus and Mohn, 1982), 205.

Ancient Near Eastern Context

225

summons Adapa for a trial in the first place—to call him to account for his actions. 593 It is worth noting that Anu does not seem able to restore this order himself, either. In fact, when he finds out from his courier Ilabrat who it was that was responsible for stopping the wind, he proclaimed, “Heaven help us,” rose urgently from his chair, and sent for Adapa at once (Fragment B, lines 8–15). 594 Again from the previous section, LKA 146 portrays the seven apkallu of Eridu as the keepers of the Tablets of Destiny, something Lambert describes as “the most unexpected feature” of the text. 595 Clearly, the apkallu did more than merely transmit the me to humans from the gods, à la Berossus. They were able, as Adapa demonstrates, to disrupt the orderly forces of the me should they so choose. As another example, from the Erra Epic, Marduk seems unable to construct the divine statues without help of the seven ummânu/apkallu, whom he banished to the apsu some time before. 596 These examples seem to indicate some of the power and influence identified with the apkallu. In conclusion, an examination of the Adapa tradition offers several insights into the study of the greater apkallu tradition. The Sumerian version of the Adapa story and also the Nippur exorcism text demonstrate how ancient elements of the tradition actually are. At the earliest, they reflect Old Babylonian thought and likely record much older traditions than that. Thus 593. Anu, with Enlil and Enki, were not held to have created the m e , though they were in charge of their stewardship and administration in the cosmos (Ancient Near Eastern Thought, 192). See p. 169. 594. Though one must guard against the temptation to make the story say more than it actually does, it certainly seems as though Anu is not able to revive the wind himself. 595. Lambert, “Review: ‘Literarische Keilschrifttexte aus Assur,’” 144. The Destinies (Sum. nam, Akk. šīmtu) “defined the roles and functions played by individual entities within the parameters” of the me. Walton, Ancient Near Eastern Thought, 98–99. Also discussed p. 169 n. 249. 596. Though the text remains unclear whether or not this was an act of punishment or whimsy on the part of Marduk, it could be that they were relegated to the a b z u because they did something similar to what Adapa had done by disrupting the orderly forces of the me(tablet 1, lines 145–70). This text is fascinating for a number of reasons related to the apkallu: (1) Three of the sages are mentioned by name, along with their duties (tablet 1, lines 155–160). (2) Some of their duties are similar to those of our genealogy in Gen 4. Ninildu is a woodcarver, Guškinganda shapes idols, and Ninagal forges tools and “chews hard copper” (could this be a reference to smelting?). The names of all seven appear in the incantation BE 13987, lines 26–31. There they are said to have been created by Enki to assist him with his numerous building projects (Thureau-Dangin, Rituels Accadiens, 47). This text was mentioned in a previous discussion (p. 164 n. 228) where I noted that Galter considers the names in BE 13987 to be of artisan deities. The context of their appearance in the Erra Epic certainly seems to favor Cagni’s interpretation, however (discussed in same footnote). (3) The text links Ea and the apkallu quite clearly. As we have mentioned elsewhere already, Ea is credited with their foundation, perhaps related to the establishment of their office or function. (4) Finally, their description as “puradu-fish” (tablet 1, line 163) links them quite clearly to the Myth of the Seven Sages (pp. 201–205).

226

Chapter 4

already by the Old Babylonian period, the foremost apkallu was connected with the most ancient of Sumerian cities, Eridu. Adapa’s representational depiction in the story, along with his association with the first king, gives insight into how the ancient mind attached significance to history. Historical value was assigned differently from how it would be today. Finally, Adapa demonstrates the considerable power believed to be available to the apkallu—not only were the apkallu responsible for transmitting the divine ordinances to humanity but they could influence their outworking in the world around them. The apkallu tradition was ancient and well established, and Adapa provides clear examples of how elements of different traditions were readily combined into new traditions when needed.

Conclusion This chapter began with a brief discussion of the historical, literary and intellectual milieu of ancient Mesopotamia, which was followed by an examination of the textual traditions related to the civilization process. By and large, we concentrated our efforts on the me and the apkallu, though we also spent time on related topics such as the Mesopotamian understanding of cities and kingship. Though there seems to be no single tradition enumerating the process entirely, when we consider the spectrum of extant textual evidence, some tenets of the cognitive environment can be tentatively reconstructed. To begin, the Mesopotamians believed that humankind was initially barbaric and primitive. Civilization, consisting of cities, kingship, arts, sciences and technology, among other things, was a gift from the gods, given to humans by the gods. Once humans received these civilizing elements from the gods, they moved beyond their initial state of primitivism and became civilized. For many of these cultural rudiments, the creator god and god of wisdom Enki is said to have passed them to humans, and the apkallu were often the instruments of this transmission. The Mesopotamians spoke of these cultural components as the me, a term used to quantify in concrete terms their conception of the various aspects of civilization. With our examinations of the textual data in the last two chapters now complete, we may reflect on some of the more important implications for our pursuit of history writing principles. Our study of Gen 4:17–22 and its ancient Near Eastern context (the last two chapters) has allowed us to flesh out the ancient cognitive environment concerning the civilizing process. We should, by this point, have a fairly clear understanding of how the ancient Near Eastern mind spoke of how their world became civilized. The task of the following chapter is to synthesize much of what has been said to formulate some tentative poetics of this protohistorical period. That is, what might our study to this point suggest about ancient Near Eastern history writing principles, and how might that also affect the way we should in turn approach the Genesis protohistorical account? This will understand-

Ancient Near Eastern Context

227

ably build out of our methodological approach to these texts, as enumerated in the second chapter.

Excursus: The Spell of Nudimmud This excursus is related to the discussion of Kramer’s “Golden Age” tablet, now known as The Spell of Nudimmud (pp. 142–143 above). Not everyone agrees that the story describes an age of the past, nor does everyone agree that the age was quite as “golden” as Kramer contends. Vanstiphout has a fairly comprehensive survey of scholarship up to the time of his writing and speaks briefly to the nature of this age (“Another Attempt at the ‘Spell of Nudimmud,’” RA 89 [1994]: 136 n. 6). It is now more commonly accepted to side with van Dijk, who claims the description is simply of a time when life was more primitive (much like many of the other passages studied here; “La ‘confusion des langues’, Note sur le lexique et sur la morphologie d’Enmerkar, 147–155,” Or 39/2 [1970]: 302; so also, Alster, “An Aspect of ‘Enmerkar,’” 104; idem, “Dilmun,” 52–60; Sparks, Ancient Texts, 307). As for when the story takes place, the Sumerian is fairly ambiguous and will not allow definite conclusions to be drawn. Of a past interpretation, Vanstiphout admits that the “grammar and philology could bear such a reading,” though he chooses to interpret it as a description of future events (Epics of Sumerian Kings, 94 n. 19). Further, he also interprets the story as one in which Enki actually unites the disparate languages of Mesopotamia and causes all humankind to speak Sumerian. Alster was the first to suggest this view, and Vanstiphout upholds it (Alster, “An Aspect of ‘Enmerkar’”; Vanstiphout, “Another Attempt”; idem, Epics of Sumerian Kings). Curiously enough, writing 10 years later than his first article, Alster retranslates the story as having taken place in the past. Furthermore, he seems to have also changed his mind regarding Enki’s actions. In his new translation, Enki changed the languages rather than unifies them! He admits that “the text is very strange indeed in this context” though he still tries to justify his future event interpretation (though this time with more trepidation). He writes that “the use of the introductory formula u 4-ba, ‘in those days’ points towards the past. . . . A prophecy is normally introduced by the formula u 4-ne, ‘on that day,’ but, at any rate, there would be no point in reciting an incantation if it did not somehow apply to the future” (Alster, “Dilmun”). There are many who side in favor of a past interpretation in which Enki confuses the originally unified language: Poebel, Historical Texts, 66; Kramer, “Man’s Golden Age”; idem, “The ‘Babel of Tongues’”; van Dijk, “La ‘confusion des langues’”; Jacobsen, “The Spell of Nudimmud”; W. W. Hallo, The Book of the People (BJS 225; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1991); Swiggers, “Babel and the Confusion of Tongues,” 186–87 n. 25; Sparks, Ancient Texts, 273. More than anything, decisions seem to be based on one’s interpretation of the context within the larger Enmerkar narrative, though the language, as Alster has shown, is suggestive of a past interpretation. Interpreting the story as having occurred in

228

Chapter 4

the past seems most reasonable, so we may therefore appreciate its contribution to the ancient cognitive environment regarding the Mesopotamian understanding of a precivilized state of humankind. This interpretation is justified on the following bases. First, the story is introduced quite clearly by what we have called earlier a generic signal (see pp. 17–18). As Alster has demonstrated in the preceding paragraph, what one thinks they are reading in a passage (based on generic assumptions) largely determines how they will interpret it. Our text is called a “nam-šub dnu-dim 2-mud-da-kam” (or “dnu-dim 2-mudda-ke 4”; the difference is minimal—the first is possessive, the second is demonstrative) in line 135 (and again in line 207, though here “nam-šub” is a restoration). We may translate “nam-šub” as “spell” or “incantation,” though as we will see, this term is misleading in our specific context. Our passage is often called the Spell of Nudimmud, where “Nudimmud” is simply another name for Enki/Ea (Galter, Der Gott Ea/Enki, 13–14). In line 134, Enmerkar tells his messenger to “šir 3 kug nam-šub du 12-a-ba,” “the holy song, the spell, sing.” M. Cohen observes that in Sumerian literature when “nam-šub” and “šir 3 kug” appear together, the verb “to cast” is not usually used (“The Incantation-Hymn,” 595). Rather, as we have here, the verb is “sing.” In other words, one does not cast a “šir 3 kug nam-šub”; one sings it. More importantly, what we have here, if Cohen is correct, is not an incantation. More accurately, rather, it is what he calls an “incantationhymn.” He explains: The ensuing passage dealing with Enki and the number of languages mankind spoke does not appear to be an incantation. Not only are words intended to expel the evil force lacking, but there is no mention what-so-ever of the evil against which this passage would have been recited. Rather . . . ‘The Incantation of Nudimmud’ . . . is a sort of title to the work, probably referring to Enki having changed the speech in man’s mouth by means of an incantation.” (ibid.)

Compare the discussion of terms in Hallo and van Dijk, The Exaltation of Inanna, 53. This seems a wonderful solution to the perceived difficulties (noted by many) of how an incantation can refer to anything but the future. It is not an incantation after all. It is a reference to Enki’s incantation whereby he confused the languages of humans in prehistory. This understanding fits much more closely with the appearance of the passage within the larger Enmerkar story, as well, which brings us to our second basis for a past interpretation. Within the larger Enmerkar text, the messenger is commanded by Enmerkar to sing this incantation-hymn after he presents the Lord of Aratta with his first demand of submission. At this point, an extended quotation is justified: Messenger, speak to the lord of Aratta and say to him: “Lest I make the people fly off from that city like a wild dove from its tree, lest I make them fly around like a bird over its well-founded nest, lest I requite (?) them as if at a current

Ancient Near Eastern Context

229

market rate, lest I make it gather dust like an utterly destroyed city, lest like a settlement cursed by Enki and utterly destroyed, I too utterly destroy Aratta; lest like the devastation which swept destructively, and in whose wake Inanna arose, shrieked and yelled aloud, I too wreak a sweeping devastation there— let Aratta pack nuggets of gold in leather sacks, placing alongside it the kugmea ore; package up precious metals, and load the packs on the donkeys of the mountains; and then may the Junior Enlil of Sumer have them built for me, the lord whom Nudimmud has chosen in his sacred heart, a mountain of a shining me.” (lines 114–30, ETCSL 1.8.2.3)

As should be evident, Enmerkar is threatening the Lord of Aratta. He is making extensive demands of him, as well. Unless Aratta builds for Enmerkar a mountain of me with precious stones and minerals, he will destroy and scatter Aratta in the same manner that Enki cursed and destroyed a settlement. It seems reasonable to include with this threat an old spell that demonstrates Enki’s ability to do just that. That is, the hymn is to be sung to reinforce the threat by enhancing the destructive imagery. Enmerkar has been “chosen by Nudimmud,” which should lead Aratta to the obvious conclusion that Enki would act on Enmerkar’s behalf unless his demands were met. Ironically, Alster recognizes this first passage’s relevance to the following section, but the only connection between the two for him is that both request submission of Aratta. Somehow, he fails to note the similarity in invoking Enki’s example (clearly negative in the first!) in both passages (Alster, “An Aspect of ‘Enmerkar’,” 103). Adding further validity to this connection, both Jacobsen and Vanstiphout suggest that suffixed -e or -ne (demonstrative pronominal suffix “this”) following en and nun of line 149 further demonstrate Enmerkar’s desire to link the spell with the conflict between the two ( Jacobsen, “The Spell of Nudimmud,” 413; Vanstiphout, “Another Attempt,” 149). Even within the hymn, then, Enmerkar is reminding Aratta of the danger of resistance. Therefore, I suggest this hymn is better understood in its original context as referring to a past event in which Enki confused the languages of humans. Finally, such an interpretation makes more sense in light of the remaining corpus of Mesopotamian literature, as well as in the larger cognitive environment into which this story communicates (Gen 11, for example). Though there do not seem to be mentions elsewhere of Enki’s language confusion, the rest of the spell invokes a similar scene to that of other Sumerian stories. I will not discuss these here for the sake of space, though a few are mentioned on pp. 142–157. As Alster quite ably demonstrated, the Sumerian conception of primeval life was of a barbaric and primitive world, devoid of the advances that accompanied civilization. As other texts in circulation clearly refer to the past in terms to similar our hymn’s, it seems reasonable to interpret it as also referring to the past. That an understanding such as this is provisional should go without saying. Our discussion here has been brief—too brief to cover many of the other important issues at any length. Vanstiphout, the current “torch-

230

Chapter 4

bearer” for a future interpretation, has treated the text and its issues in admirable detail in his writings. By his own admission, the grammar and philology are by themselves inconclusive—we must resort to context for a solution to this dilemma. His solution is an appeal to the distant context of a perceived parallelism with Enmerkar’s actions later in the story (lines 497–506; Vanstiphout, Epics of Sumerian Kings, 53; discussed in more detail in idem, “Another Attempt,” 152–54). His conclusions seem somewhat forced, though they are certainly confined by his understanding of the passage as a “nam-šub” (ibid., 149). He does not appear to have interacted with Cohen’s article which has been so helpful in our generic understanding of the passage. This is not simply a “nam-šub,” but a “šir 3 kug nam-šub,” and it was to be sung to remind Aratta of Enki’s potential for destructive action. We may therefore appreciate its contribution to a Sumerian understanding of antiquity.

Chapter 5

Toward a Poetics of Protohistory We have, by this point, been introduced to a proper methodological approach to ancient historical texts and more specifically to the terms of the genre of mythic history. We have also applied that methodological approach to our passage in Genesis, and finally, we expanded the cultural lens to explore some of the more important Mesopotamian contributions to that cognitive environment. Here, I will suggest several things we might infer from our work regarding principles of ancient history writing. In other words, in this chapter we will move toward establishing a “poetics of protohistory.” These must remain tentative, though I will do my best to demonstrate how I arrived at these suggestions from the previous chapters’ data. Each may also be applicable to the larger context of Gen 1–11 in some way and, at times, also to our Cainite genealogy. Though my primary concern here will be to set forth these tentative principles of history writing, each section will end with an attempt to make the biblical connections explicit. I will separate my suggestions into three sections: historical traditions, historical concerns, and historical arrangements.

Historical Traditions There are several things involving Mesopotamian traditions, both written and oral, that suggest we rethink our understanding of the way biblical traditions may have been thought of and employed. Traditions Were Fluid The existence of written and oral traditions together alongside one another seems to indicate that literary traditions were not necessarily set in all cases. Rather, with Carr, both written and oral traditions “worked” together toward the common goal of recounting this treasured tradition. Further, geographical regions often had their own independent traditions, different from other locales. I have mentioned the possibility that Mesopotamian antediluvian traditions were never canonized, at least in the sense that we think of that term today. The development of older traditions into newer ones also seems to suggest this (Gilgamesh). Variants of a text, sometimes circulating concurrently with other versions, also suggest the fluid nature of traditions (flood traditions, Adapa and the South Wind). For what we do have in writing, we must at least acknowledge the possibility that it is but one of any number of representations of a more ancient tradition. 231

232

Chapter 5

Traditions Could Be Adapted A major consequence of the fluid nature of traditions is that these traditions were frequently reworked to fit local needs. Often, our understanding of authorship does not account for ancient practices, where the author was essentially a collector, compiler, and reshaper of traditions. The shape these adaptations take may also reflect the culture or region, for example, the more prominent West Semitic use of genealogy to recount culture history (though note Mesopotamian Dunnu Theogony, pp. 154–157). Texts were adapted to take on local form and color, the use of geographical terms in myth suggest (see pp. 50, 132; also, flood traditions, p. 207 n. 481). Another consequence of traditions being adapted is that anachronisms could and did appear. This is also very much related to the fact that traditions were fluid, being both adapted and updated appropriately for audiences. Anachronisms often appeared in geographical features or names, personal names and cultural details of a story. Anachronisms should in no way negate a text’s authenticity; rather, they are the natural and expected result of ancient editorial processes. Traditions Were Adapted Carefully Though traditions were undoubtedly fluid and often adapted, we must assume these adaptations were done with the care and attention to detail. Attention scribes gave to reproducing texts faithfully may suggest as much. This is not to say mistakes were not made (for example, student exercises), but by and large we may trust that the author acted deliberately in adapting traditions. We must not automatically assume features of the text that we see as ambiguous, contradictory, or unnecessarily repetitive came about by transcriptional error or a thoughtless conflation of traditions. Rather, from this we may appreciate how the ancient mind saw less need to clear up what we think of today as contradictions or ambiguities. And further, some of these features may have served a literary purpose whose relevance is simply misunderstood today. Traditions Could Be Extensive Though examples are limited, there are reasons to believe creation traditions may have been more extensive in nature. Evidence at least hints at the possibility of this being the case (Eridu Genesis, the double creation account ending in a flood in Atra ḫasis, Tell-Haddad Adapa). The fragmentary nature of the evidence simply does not allow for firm conclusions, though the possibility is real nonetheless and may be reasonably inferred from the data. Possible Biblical Conclusions Our discussion of Mesopotamian traditions might suggest a slight revision of our understanding of the biblical use (and adaptation) of traditions. It seems reasonable to assume aspects of Gen 1–11 represent an appropria-

Toward a Poetics of Protohistory

233

tion and recasting of extant traditions. This certainly seems to be the case in Gen 4 and 5. That the traditions were adapted carefully might suggest we refrain from making too much of what appear to us to be contradictions. For example, the ummānu taken on board the boat to be preserved from the flood (and to account for how civilization was preserved) in Mesopotamian flood traditions. Such attention to these details should suggest our biblical author was aware of the consequences of arranging the details of his account as he did (for example, by portraying the culture heroes and their arts as perishing in the flood). Perhaps it would be better to assume some other concern or purpose behind this. Though this is indeed speculative, it could be that the author was trying to communicate the magnitude of destruction brought about by the flood as God’s judgment toward humankind. Destruction was so complete that even culture itself was destroyed. Of course, the author and audience would have understood that culture did not actually perish in the flood—they would have likely been beneficiaries of many of those same cultural advances—the account in Gen 1–11 was simply communicating the totality of the flood’s destruction. Furthermore, the generic precedent for more extensive traditions suggests to some that we may not automatically assume an essential disunity of the material in Gen 1–11. It seems clear that traditions are behind many of the individual episodes, though we might be better served appreciating the similarities with other more extensive traditions, such as the Mesopotamian traditions mentioned above, rather than attempting to split the text up in some way as we compare it to other ANE texts.

Historical Concerns Our work thus far has led us to a few conclusions regarding ancient historical concerns. These concerns naturally have an effect on the nature of the language employed to communicate them. Functional Versus Material Concerns The significance attached to certain characters in our texts might seem puzzling to us, because our understanding of significance is defined by our culture. More often than not, protohistory was more concerned with the first “significant” generation rather than the actual first generation. This seems to be a reflection of the ancient concern for function as opposed to material significance. So, for example, the Dunnu Theogony to date creation to the beginning of the plow and civilization begins in the SKL once kingship is lowered from heaven. Likewise, for the Mesopotamians, history began with the advent of the city, when society was able to function as such. Representational Portrayal of Humanity This is closely related to the previous paragraph. Because the concerns of protohistory often pertained to the first “significant” generations, stories

234

Chapter 5

often portrayed its characters functioning representationally or as archetypes. Adapa is an example of a character in a story functioning archetypally. We might also appreciate the archetypal portrayal (and significance) of Enkidu and more generally of the first humans. Though some accounts speak of characters as individuals, their significance would derive primarily from their archetypal portrayal. On a larger scale, myths of protohistory also may have derived more significance from their archetypal or universally true features. That is, the truth of these stories is located more accurately in their universal significance, which allows us to appreciate why it is often portrayed representationally. Mythical Language Analogical The stories were cast in language to which the authors and audiences could easily relate. The language of mythic history was analogical, and analogical language was quite often metaphorical. The nature of this language is such that it often reveals more about the world of the author and audience than it does about the way things actually were believed to have been in the past (for example, Gen 10 as a current political map p. 82 n. 50; myths that provide information about ancient incubation and also marriage rituals, p. 46 n. 177). This also may suggest the authors and audiences might not have believed the worlds of these stories ever existed in precisely the ways described (for example, geographical features of protohistorical accounts p. 47 n. 181; that kings were actually suckled by goddesses, p. 47; that humans roamed about on all fours and ate grass, p. 147). Relevance of the Past for the Present Closely related to the previous few paragraphs, the mythic past was recounted for its relevance to the present. In other words, history was not the primary concern of ancient historians—the present was (the value of genealogies as charter rather than history). This may explain the etiological functions many of these stories seemed to have, as well (Adapa). All of this is a reflection of the ancient concern and search for what Walton called coherence. Possible Biblical Conclusions The ancient concern with the first “significant” generation may explain why our Gen 4 account seems to be set in the Neolithic period. Perhaps that is as far back as “significant” history stretched in the memory of the ancient historians. In other words, this could represent the time when meaningful human activity began, and thus this was their primary concern in the protohistory of Gen 1–11. As we have discussed, this is when humans began to function as humans, making use of the advances of civilization described in Gen 4. It should therefore come as no surprise that the portrayal of humanity in these stories is representational or archetypal. If this is the case,

Toward a Poetics of Protohistory

235

it may help explain why all of the civilized arts are portrayed as having come from a single, nuclear family unit (Lamech’s family). Perhaps it is not wise to interpret this in such a woodenly literal fashion, but to appreciate the archetypal nature of this representation. The analogical nature of mythic language may also allow us to appreciate the antiquity of many of the traditions found in Gen 1–11, as well as our story. For example, the most recent technological development spoken of in our technogony was the forging of tools from iron, which dates to the second millennium b.c.e. This may suggest, then, a second-millennium context for the technogony as a whole, which in turn may lend further credibility to Hess’s conclusions regarding the names used in the account (pp.  106–109). This may also help explain the selection of technologies and cultural arts in Gen 4. Perhaps these are the most important cultural arts for the author and intended audience—arts with which they most readily identify.

Historical Arrangement Our discussions of the traditions and concerns of ancient historical materials have led us to considering the arrangement of materials. Presentations of the past in literary texts seem to indicate a certain amount of rearrangement was commonplace. As in the previous sections, these similarities might also suggest something similar for the biblical material. History Could Be Arranged The presentation of ancient material we tend to think of as historical was often arranged literarily in some way. This could be related to our inability at times to distinguish between the commemoration of an event and its description. In other words, it may be that we have not properly understood the nature of the genres that were employed to do history in the ancient world. Often, mythic history was recounted in narrative form, and the figurative nature of the language can be confusing for later audiences. Genealogies and other lists could be truncated and may not have reflected reality exactly as described (SKL, Abydos King List). Essentially, history was arranged in such a way as to communicate its significance as effectively as possible, and often this significance is lost on us today, or at least somewhat veiled. With this in mind, then, we may also appreciate the selectivity of the ancient historian regarding the content of protohistorical accounts (based on what was judged to be significant, for example, certain lists of the me were not comprehensive but particular to Inanna). Numbers Could Convey a Different “Truth” From our many discussions of the use of numbers in ancient texts, it should be clear by now that numbers could be and often were employed to convey certain aspects of reality other than their “normal” enumerative

236

Chapter 5

functions. At times, the symbolic use of certain numbers seems to have given structure to texts (for example, genealogies). Elsewhere, numbers were incorporated into (what now appear to be) elaborate schemes designed to communicate significance, even though that significance has yet to be fully understood (SKL). Bifurcated Historical Consciousness Our study of Mesopotamian traditions suggests two distinct areas of historical interest, the social realm and the political realm. Though there were materials pertaining to one or the other, at some point in time they also came to be joined to form a more “comprehensive” view of history. In other words, historical consciousness took on a dual emphasis (expressing concern for both political and social order), something to which even Mesopotamian artwork attests. Possible Biblical Conclusions If other ancient Near Eastern material is any indication, our material in Gen 1–11 might be arranged literarily to communicate its relevance in very specific ways, even if that relevance is lost or diminished today. It may not have transpired exactly how it is described, and it may also contain anachronisms. We have already spoken of the possible significance of the numbers found in the genealogies of Gen 4 and 5, which should suggest even more strongly the possibility of literary arrangement (and, by implication, a less‑than‑exact correspondence to reality). Numbers were often used to convey different “truths,” as we have said. This would also seem to imply that the Gen 4 genealogy was not created to communicate human protohistory chronologically, but rather to represent certain ideas pertaining to the common ancient concern of culture heroes. If this is the case, culture and the arts were not introduced to the world over the span of just a few generations (primarily from a single generation if we take Gen 4:20–22 literally!). It also makes sense to understand our genealogy as serving to recount in some sense the social concerns of Gen 1–11, with the genealogy in Gen 5 functioning to recount the corresponding other element of this twin historical consciousness (of course, Gen 5 does not reflect political interests, though it does trace the line of Israel’s heir). None of these features of arrangement should be a problem for us, because all of these elements were at home in the ancient Near Eastern cognitive environment. Similarly to how the lists of the me were not comprehensive but particular to Inanna, the elements included in the technogony of Gen 4 may have been selected based on their relevance to Israelite society. In other words, there is no conflict in saying the technogony represents universal human history but contains elements significant to ancient Israel.

Toward a Poetics of Protohistory

237

Conclusion Within these three closely related areas, I have begun to establish a tentative “poetics of protohistory.” Bear in mind that these are not interpretive principles that will tell us what texts mean. Rather, they are suggested guidelines for establishing how ancient historical texts might mean. Indeed, this is the goal of poetics, and I have suggested some of the more basic principles here. It is first important to understand how traditions were gathered and handled. This in turn allows us to appreciate what some of the ancient historical concerns might have been. These concerns would naturally have some governing influence over the way texts would be arranged, being shaped to address these concerns as effectively as possible.

Chapter 6

Conclusion With this final chapter, our study draws to a close. Here I will simply review my goals, assess whether and how these goals were met (by way of a summary of conclusions), and set forth areas for future study perhaps brought up by this work.

Review of Goals I set out to develop an approach that would allow us to understand more accurately the genre and generic claims of ancient Near Eastern mythic history writing. Gen 4:17–22 was a test case of sorts, studied in its ANE context. Studying this test case in its ANE context means that I attempted to recover some of the elements of its ancient cognitive environment, pertaining specifically to civilization traditions as they appeared in protohistorical accounts. Through this whole process, I also hoped that the reader might be equipped to interact with commentators of our Genesis text more effectively. The end result should be the emergence of tentative poetics of protohistory writing. Though tentative, the goal was to present these principles in such a way that other portions of Gen 1–11 might be more readily understood as a result. I hoped, in other words, that my approach to this text could be applied to other portions of the Genesis protohistorical account. Having traveled through this process, what conclusions may we draw?

Summary of Conclusions The nature and claims of the language in Gen 1–11 are similar in many respects to the surrounding ANE cultures and their protohistorical writing. These similarities extend or relate to historical traditions, historical concerns, and historical arrangement of materials. Thinking within these categories allows us to understand mythic history’s generic terms more effectively. These can only be tentative because genres are both fluid and also historically conditioned concepts. Therefore, the principles that result are broad generalizations that allow us to appreciate what might be happening in Gen 1–11, rather than what necessarily is. They provide a framework within which to explore the possibilities of these texts further, suggesting how texts might mean rather than what mean. Poetics also helps us to appreciate the differences, though we have not done as much of that in this study. 238

Conclusion

239

Contra Gowan’s comments from the introductory chapter, our text does indeed correspond to reality, though not always to our reality not always in the ways we think it should. We must consider the relevance of these texts to an ancient audience (that is, they correspond to reality in some way) and proceed in our study from that standpoint. I have discussed a number of generic signals that suggest how our genealogy in Gen 4 may in fact correspond to reality. The names and numbers both suggest a certain level of literary artistry and thoughtful arrangement, which is in concert with the generic signals of the surrounding context, Gen 1–11. The artistry and arrangement fit with expectations for the genre of mythic history, which suggests this should not be interpreted in a woodenly literal manner. This again is not to suggest actual events are not being described. Rather, it is perhaps more immediately relevant to the implied audience to speak of these events more figuratively. These events are in the distant protohistorical past, and the language employed to speak of that period in time fits with the generic expectations of mythic history. The genealogy itself, in tandem with the other genealogies of Gen 1–11, functions in some sense as a generic signal, by covering such large amounts of time so economically. This allows the narrative to extend back from the present (of the author and audience) to the very beginnings of significance, which, we have learned, is different from absolute. The genealogies of this section serve as a structuring agent, forming the backbone of the narrative. This framework extends through the entire book of Genesis, as well, though our focus has been on Gen 1–11. Not only do the genealogies move the story along, but taken together they serve to communicate the antiquity of the known world quite powerfully. There is an obvious reverence for the antiquity of the known world in Gen 1–11, and these genealogies relate the author and audience to that world. These cultural advances took place long before the tiny nation of Israel was around, and the sweeping genealogies help reinforce that idea. The list of cultural achievements is pared down and limited in scope to some of the more prominent Israelite interests, though its place in the larger Gen 1–11 context suggests it is functioning as a technogony. A technogony is something an audience would have expected in a protohistorical account such as we have here. The primary function of our genealogy in its context was to serve as a charter, which made use of the past in order to lend credibility or legitimacy to a present reality. Again, when taken in its context with the other genealogies and the narratives they combine, this charter is to lend credibility not to an individual but rather to a nation. This is not the usual function of a genealogy in the ancient world. Our genealogy also plays a part in rendering a negative theological verdict on humankind, though we must be careful to distinguish between judgments being rendered on humans (sinful) and their cultural and technological advances (not sinful, but a normal part of protohistorical accounts). The

240

Chapter 6

editorial twist of the Gen 1–11 protohistory, and perhaps one of the things that helps set it apart from its ANE counterparts, is that even though humanity advanced culturally and technologically, things were not at all the way they should be between humans and their Creator. Thus, the stage is set for Abraham in Gen 12, and through him and his offspring, the nation of Israel. 1 Though this study is drawing to a close, these conclusions are not the end of the matter by any stretch of the imagination. They are but one small part of a much larger conversation that is taking place in the larger world of biblical studies and should be seen as such. They should be more appropriately seen as the beginning to many other studies. These may include the following suggested aresa for future study.

Areas for Future Study Further studies to test and validate the poetics that have been established here are needed. This could be done by expanding the explored cognitive environment (that is, the range of the conceptual study) or by simply exploring a more geographically and culturally diverse body of texts. As I have noted, I chose Mesopotamia for certain reasons, but other geographical areas are also important. Along these lines, work remains to identify other areas of Gen 1–11 that might benefit from this approach and cognitive environment awareness. That is, how might these history writing principles influence our understanding of other areas of the protohistorical account? Further, they should also be used to appreciate legitimate differences between Gen 1–11 and ANE literature (to arrive at truth claims). This study has also suggested that some motivation for assuming various sources might not be appropriate. This is not in any way to suggest that sources or other source-critical claims are inappropriate but simply to say that there is work yet to be done in this field. We must work to define these sources in ways that comport with what we are learning about ancient texts, how they were arranged, and what they sought to communicate.

Conclusion With this, our examination draws to a close. As we saw from the opening chapter, history shapes the future in many respects. The writing of history is very much a culturally conditioned practice and must be approached as such to be more appropriately understood. As simple as this may sound, not all have borne this in mind as they interpret the earliest portions of the Genesis account. Here, I have explored the history writing tendencies of the ancient Near East, more specifically as derived from Mesopotamian, biblical, and 1. Recall the remarks of Wenham, describing the call of Abraham, p. 77 n. 19.

Conclusion

241

select other accounts of protohistory. From this limited vantagepoint, I have sought to enumerate history-writing principles that should guide us to approaching other texts of similar scope, to understand more fully how to communicate meaning. This has been done by recovering, as much as possible, the ancient cognitive environment of these texts. There are, as the introduction demonstrated, many differing opinions of how protohistorical texts communicate meaning, and I hope that this work proves to be a balanced and reasoned contribution to this area of study.

Bibliography Aaron, David H. Biblical Ambiguities: Metaphor, Semantics, and Divine Imagery. Leiden: Brill, 2002. Abell, Walter. “Myth, Mind, and History.” The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 4 (1945): 77–86. Abusch, Tzvi. “The Development and Meaning of the Epic of Gilgamesh: An Interpretive Essay.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 121 (2001): 614–22. Al-Fouadi, Abdul-Hadi A. “Enki’s Journey to Nippur: The Journeys of the Gods.” Ph.D. diss., University of Pennsylvania, 1969. Al-Rawi, F. N. H. and Jeremy Black. “The Second Tablet of ‘Išum and Erra’.” Iraq 51 (1989): 111–22. Alexander, T. Desmond. “Genealogies, Seed and the Compositional Unity of Genesis.” Tyndale Bulletin 44 (1993): 255–70.    . From Eden to New Jerusalem: Exploring God’s Plan for Life on Earth. Nottingham: InterVarsity, 2008. Algaze, Guillermo, Burchard Brenties et al. “The Uruk Expansion: Cross-cultural Exchange in Early Mesopotamian Civilization [with Comments and Reply].” Current Anthropology 30 (1989): 571–608. Alster, Bendt. “’Ninurta and the Turtle’, UET 6/1 2.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 24 (1972): 120–25.    . “An Aspect of ‘Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta’.” Revue d’assyriologie et d’archéologie orientale 67 (1973): 101–09.    . “On the Interpretation of the Sumerian Myth ‘Inanna and Enki’.” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und vorderasiatische Archäologie 64 (1975): 20–34.    . “Early Patterns in Early Mesopotamian Literature.” Pp. 13–24 in Kramer Anniversary Volume: Cuneiform Studies in Honor of Samuel Noah Kramer. Edited by Barry L. Eichler. Alter Orient und Altes Testament. Kevelaer: Verlag Butzon & Berker, 1976.    . “Enki and Ninhursag: The Creation of the First Woman.” Ugarit-Forschungen 10 (1978): 15–27.    . “Dilmun, Bahrain, and the Alleged Paradise in Sumerian Myth and Literature.” Pp. 39–74 in Vol. 2 of Dilmun: New Studies in the Archaeology and Early History of Bahrain. Edited by Daniel T. Potts. Berliner Beiträge zum Vordern Orient. Berlin: D. Reimer Verlag, 1983.    . “Epic Tales from Ancient Sumer: Enmerkar, Lugalbanda, and Other Cunning Heroes.” Pp. 2315–26 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006.    . “Scribes and Wisdom in Ancient Mesopotamia.” Pp. 47–63 in Vol. 219 of Scribes, Sages, and Seers: The Sage in the Eastern Mediterranean World. Edited by Leo G. Perdue. Forschunen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2008. Alster, Bendt and H. L. J. Vanstiphout. “Lahar and Ashnan: Presentation and Analysis of a Sumerian Disputation.” Acta Sumerologica 9 (1987): 1–43.

242

Bibliography

243

Alter, Robert. The Art of Biblical Narrative. New York: Basic Books, 1981. Amit, Yairah. Reading Biblical Narratives: Literary Criticism and the Hebrew Bible. Translated by Yael Lotan. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001. Amzallag, Nissim. “Yahweh, the Canaanite God of Metallurgy?” Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 33 (2009): 387–404. Andreasen, N. L. “Adam and Adapa: Two Anthropological Characters.” Andrews University Seminary Studies 19 (1981): 179–81. Andriolo, Karen R. “A Structural Analysis of Genealogy and World View in the Old Testament.” American Anthropologist 75 (1973): 1657–69. Arnold, Bill T. “The Weidner Chronicle and the Idea of History in Israel and Mesopotamia.” Pp. 129–48 in Faith, Tradition, and History: Old Testament Historiography in Its Near Eastern Context. Edited by Millard, A. R., Hoffmeier, James K. and David W. Baker. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1994.    . Who Were the Babylonians? Society of Biblical Literature Archaeology and Biblical Studies 10. Edited by Andrew G. Vaughn. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2004. Arnold, Bill T. and John H. Choi. A Guide to Biblical Hebrew Syntax. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003. Assmann, Jan. Ma’at: Gerechtigkeit und Unsterblichkeit im alten Ägypten. Zweite Auflage ed. München: Verlag C. H. Beck, 1995.    . The Mind of Egypt: History and Meaning in the Time of the Pharaohs. Translated by Andrew Jenkins. New York: Metropolitan Books, 2001.    . “Invisible Religion and Cultural Memory.” Pp. 31–45 in Religion and Cultural Memory: Ten Studies. Edited by Bal, Mieke and Hent de Vries. Cultural Memory in the Present. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2006. Attinger, P. “Enki et Ninḫursaĝa.” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und vorderasiatische Archäologie 74 (1984): 1–52. Attridge, Harold W. and Robert A. Oden. Philo of Byblos the Phoenician History: Introduction, Critical Text, Translation, Notes. The Catholic Biblical Quarterly Monograph Series 9. Edited by Bruce Vawter. Washington D.C.: The Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1981. Austin, J. L. How to Do Things with Words: The William James Lectures Delivered at Harvard University in 1955. Edited by Urmson, J. O. and Marina Sbisà. Second ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976. Averbeck, Richard E. “The Sumerian Historiographic Tradition and Its Implications for Genesis 1–11.” Pp. 79–102 in Faith, Tradition, and History: Old Testament Historiography in Its Near Eastern Context. Edited by Millard, A. R., Hoffmeier, James K. and David W. Baker. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1994.    . “Ritual Formula, Textual Frame, and Thematic Echo in the Cylinders of Gudea.” Pp. 37–93 in Crossing Boundaries and Linking Horizons: Studies in Honor of Michael C. Astour on His 80th Birthday. Edited by Young, Gordon D., Chavalas, Mark W. and Richard E. Averbeck. Bethseda, MD: CDL Press, 1997.    . “Sumer, The Bible, and Comparative Method: Historiography and Temple Building.” Pp. 88–125 in Mesopotamia and the Bible: Comparative Explorations. Edited by Chavalas, Mark W. and K. Lawson Younger. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series ; London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002.

244

Bibliography

   . “Factors in Reading the Patriarchal Narratives: Literary, Historical, and Theological Dimensions.” Pp. 115–37 in Giving the Sense: Understanding and Using Old Testament Historical Texts. Edited by David M. Howard and Michael A. Grisanti. Grand Rapids: Kregel Publications, 2003.    . “Daily Life and Culture in “Enki and the World Order” and Other Sumerian Literary Compositions.” Pp. 23–61 in Life and Culture in the Ancient Near East. Edited by Averbeck, Richard E., Chavalas, Mark W. and David B. Weisberg. Bethseda, MD: CDL Press, 2003.    . “Myth, Ritual, and Order in “Enki and the World Order”.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 123 (2003): 757–71.    . “The Cylinders of Gudea.” Pp. 417–33 in Vol. 2 of The Context of Scripture. Edited by William W. Hallo and K. Lawson Younger. Leiden: Brill, 2003.    . “Ancient Near Eastern Mythography as It Relates to Historiography in the Hebrew Bible: Genesis 3 and the Cosmic Battle.” Pp. 328–56 in The Future of Biblical Archaeology: Reassessing Methodologies and Assumptions: The Proceedings of a symposium, August 12–14, 2001 at Trinity International University. Edited by James Karl Hoffmeier and A. R. Millard. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004. Bailey, John A. “Initiation and the Primal Woman in Gilgamesh and Genesis 2–3.” Journal of Biblical Literature 89 (1970): 137–50. Bailey, Lloyd R. Genesis, Creation, and Creationism. Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1993. Baines, John. “Ancient Egyptian Kingship: Official Forms, Rhetoric, Context.” Pp. 16–53 in Vol. 270 of King and Messiah in Israel and the Ancient Near East: Proceedings of the Oxford Old Testament Seminar. Edited by John Day. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998. Bandstra, Barry L. Genesis 1–11: A Handbook on the Hebrew Text. Baylor Handbook on the Hebrew Bible. Edited by W. Dennis Tucker Jr. Waco: Baylor University Press, 2008. Bar-Efrat, Shimon. Narrative Art in the Bible. London: T. & T. Clark, 2004. Barr, James. “The Meaning of ‘Mythology’ in Relation to the Old Testament.” Vetus Testamentum 9 (1959): 1–10.    . “Philo of Byblos and his ‘Phoenician History‘.” Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester 57 (1974): 17–68. Barton, George A. “The Origins of Civilization in Africa and Mesopotamia, Their Relative Antiquity and Interplay.” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 68 (1929): 303–12. Batto, Bernard F. “Creation Theology in Genesis.” Pp. 16–38 in Vol. 24 of Creation in the Biblical Traditions. Edited by Clifford, Richard J. and John J. Collins. The Catholic Biblical Quarterly Monograph Series. Washington D.C.: The Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1992. Baumgarten, Albert I. The Phoenician History of Philo of Byblos: A Commentary. Études préliminaires aux religions orientales dans l’empire romain 89. Leiden: Brill, 1981. Beale, G. K. The Book of Revelation: A Commentary on the Greek Text. New International Greek Testament Commentary. Carlisle: Paternoster Press, 1999. Beckman, Gary M. “The Anatolian Myth of Illuyanka.” Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society 14 (1982): 11–25.

Bibliography

245

Bekkum, Wout Jac van. “Modern Jewish Attitudes to the Concept of Myth.” Pp. 139–55 in Vol. 5 of Imagining Creation. Edited by Geller, Markham. J. and Mineke Schipper. Institute of Jewish Studies: Studies in Judaica. Leiden: Brill, 2008. Benito, Carlos. “Enki and Ninmah, and, Enki and the World Order.” Ph.D. diss., University of Pennsylvania, 1969. Bergsträsser, Gotthelf. Hebräische Grammatik. 29 ed. Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlag, 1986. Berkhofer, Robert F. Beyond the Great Story: History as Text and Discourse. Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1995. Berlin, Adele. Poetics and Interpretation of Biblical Narrative. Reprint ed. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1999. Biggs, Robert D. “The Abū Salābīkh Tablets: A Preliminary Survey.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 20 (1966): 73–88. Bing, J. D. “Adapa and Immortality.” Ugarit-Forschungen 16 (1984): 53–56. Black, Jeremy. “The Imagery of Birds in Sumerian Poetry.” Pp. 23–46 in Vol. 6 of Mesopotamian Poetic Language: Sumerian and Akkadian. Edited by Marianna E. Vogelzang and Herman L. J. Vanstiphout. Cuneiform Monographs. Groningen: STYX Publications, 1996.    . Reading Sumerian Poetry. Athlone Publications in Egyptology and Ancient Near Eastern Studies. Edited by John Baines. London: The Athlone Press, 1998. Black, Jeremy, Graham Cunningham et al. The Literature of Ancient Sumer. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004. Black, Max. “Linguistic Relativity: The Views of Benjamin Lee Whorf.” The Philosophical Review 68 (1959): 228–38. Blakemore, Diane. “Relevance, Poetic Effects and Social Goals: A Reply to Culpepper.” Language and Literature 3 (1994): 49–59. Blum, Erhard. “Historiography or Poetry? The Nature of the Hebrew Bible Prose Tradition.” Pp. 25–46 in Memory in the Bible and Antiquity. Edited by Barton, Stephen C., Stuckenbruck, Loren T. and Benjamin G. Wold. Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007. Böhl, F. M. Th. “Die Mythe vom weisen Adapa.” Die Welt des Orients 2 (1959): 416–31. Booth, Wayne C. The Rhetoric of Fiction. Second ed. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983. Borg, Marcus. Reading the Bible Again for the First Time: Taking the Bible Seriously but not Literally. San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2001. Borger, Rykle. “Die Beschwörungsserie bit meseri und die Himmelfahrt Henochs.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 33 (1974): 183–96. Bottéro, Jean. “Akkadian Literature: An Overview.” Pp. 2293–303 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006. Bottéro, Jean and Samuel Noah Kramer. Lorsque les dieux faisaient l’homme: mythologie méspotamienne. Bibliothéque des histoires. Réimpression avec diverses corrections de détail et précisions ed. Paris: Gallimard, 1993. Bowald, Mark A. “Objectivity.” Pp. 544–46 in Dictionary of Theological Interpretation of the Bible. Edited by Kevin J. Vanhoozer. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2005.

246

Bibliography

Brandon, Samuel G. F. Creation Legends of the Ancient Near East. London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1963. Braun, Joachim. Music in Ancient Israel/Palestine: Archaeological, Written, and Comparative Sources. Edited by Freedman, David N. and Astrid B. Beck. Translated by Douglas W. Stott. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002. Brayford, Susan. Genesis. Septuagint Commentary Series 1. Edited by Porter, Stanley E., Hess, Richard S, and John Jarick. Leiden: Brill, 2007. Briggs, Richard S. “Speech-Act Theory.” Pp. 763–66 in Dictionary of Theological Interpretation of the Bible. Edited by Kevin J. Vanhoozer. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2005. Brodie, Thomas L. Genesis as Dialogue: A Literary, Historical, and Theological Commentary. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. Brown, Penelope and Stephen C. Levinson. Politeness: Some Universals in Language Usage. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987. Brown, Raymond E. The Birth of the Messiah. Garden City, NY: Image Books, 1979. Brueggemann, Walter. Genesis. Interpretation: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching. Edited by James Luther Mays. Atlanta: John Knox, 1982. Bryan, David T. “A Reevaluation of Gen 4 and 5 in Light of Recent Studies in Genealogical Fluidity.” Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 99 (1987): 180–88. Bryce, Trevor. Life and Society in the Hittite World. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002. Buccellati, Giorgio. “Adapa, Genesis, and the Notion of Faith.” Ugarit-Forschungen 5 (1973): 61–66.    . “Wisdom and Not: The Case of Mesopotamia.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 101 (1981): 35–47. Budge, E. A. Wallis. The Book of the Dead: The Hieroglyphic Transcript of the Papyrus of ANI, the Translation into English and an Introduction. New York: University Books, 1960. Bullock, C. Hassell. “History and Theology: The Tale of Two Histories.” Pp. 97–111 in Giving the Sense: Understanding and Using Old Testament Historical Texts. Edited by D.M. Howard and M. A. Grisanti. Grand Rapids: Kregel, 2003. Burrows, Pater. “Note on Adapa.” Orientalia 30 (1928): 24. Burstein, Stanley Mayer. The Babyloniaca of Berossus. Sources and Monographs: Sources from the Ancient Near East 1.5. Malibu, CA: Undena, 1978. Buth, Randall. “Language, Linguistics.” Pp. 431–35 in Dictionary of Theological Interpretation of the Bible. Edited by Kevin J. Vanhoozer. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2005. Cagni, Luigi. The Poem of Erra. Sources from the Ancient Near East 1/3. Malibu, CA: Undena, 1977. Caird, G. B. The Language and Imagery of the Bible. Philadelphia: Westminster, 1980. Capomacchia, Anna Maria G. “Heroic Dimension and Historical Perspective in the Ancient Near East.” Pp. 91–97 in Historiography in the Cuneiform World. Edited by Tzvi Abusch et al. Proceedings of the XLV Recontre Assyriologique Internationale. Bethseda, MD: CDL Press, 2001. Carr, David M. Reading the Fractures of Genesis: Historical and Literary Approaches. Louisville: Westminster, 1996.    . Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005.

Bibliography

247

Cassirer, Ernst. Language and Myth. Translated by Susanne K. Langer. Dover ed. New York: Dover, 1953. Cassuto, Umberto. A Commentary on the Book of Genesis: Part I: From Adam to Noah. Translated by Israel Abrahams. 1st English ed. Jerusalem: Magnes Press, Hebrew University, 1961. Castellino, George. “Les Origines de la Civilisation Selon les Textes Bibliques et les Textes Cuneiformes.” Pp. 116–37 in Volume du Congres: Strasbourg. Edited by George W. Anderson et al. Supplements to Vetus Testamentum. Leiden: Brill, 1957. Cavigneaux, Antoine and Farouk Al-Rawi. “New Literary Texts from Tell Haddad (Ancient Meturan): A First Survey.” Iraq 55 (1993): 232–48. Charpin, Dominique. “The History of Ancient Mesopotamia: An Overview.” Pp. 807–29 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006. Charvát, Petr. Mesopotamia Before History. Revised and Updated ed. London: Routledge, 2002. Chavalas, Mark W. “Genealogical History as “Charter”: A Study of Old Babylonian Period Historiography and the Old Testament.” Pp. 103–28 in Faith, Tradition, and History: Old Testament Historiography in Its Near Eastern Context. Edited by Millard, A. R., Hoffmeier, James K. and David W. Baker. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1994. Chavalas, Mark W. ed. The Ancient Near East: Historical Sources in Translation. 4th Printing ed. Blackwell Sourcebooks in Ancient History. Oxford: Blackwell, 2008. Chisholm, Robert B. From Exegesis to Exposition: A Practical Guide to Using Biblical Hebrew. Grand Rapids: Baker, 1998. Church, Cornelia Dimmitt. “Myth and History as Complementary Modes of Consciousness.” Pp. 35–55 in Myth and the Crisis of Historical Consciousness. Edited by Gibbs, Lee W. and W. Taylor Stevenson. Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1975. Civil, Miguel. “The Home of the Fish.” Iraq 23 (1961): 154–75.    . “Enlil and Ninlil: The Marriage of Sud.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 103 (1983): 43–66.    . “The Sumerian Flood Story.” Pp. 138–45 in Atra-ḫasīs: The Babylonian Story of the Flood. Edited by Lambert, W. G. and A. R. Millard. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1999. Clifford, Richard J. “Phoenician Religion.” Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 279 (1990): 55–64.    . Creation Accounts in the Ancient Near East and the Bible. The Catholic Biblical Quarterly Monograph Series 26. Washington, D.C.: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1994.    . Proverbs: A Commentary. Old Testament Library. Louisville: Westminster, 1999. Clines, D. J. A. “Theme in Genesis 1–11.” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 38 (1976): 483–507.    . “What Happens in Genesis.” Pp. 49–66 in What Does Eve Do to Help? and Other Readerly Questions to the Old Testament. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series. Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990. Cohen, Andrew C. Death Rituals, Ideology, and the Development of Early Mesopotamian Kingship: Toward a New Understanding of Iraq’s Royal Cemetery of Ur. Ancient

248

Bibliography

Magic and Divination 7. Edited by Tzvi Abusch, Guinan, Ann K. and Frans A. M. Wiggermann. Leiden: Brill, 2005. Cohen, Mark E. “The Incantation-Hymn: Incantation or Hymn?” Journal of the American Oriental Society 95 (1975): 592–611.    . Sumerian Hymnology: The Eršemma. Hebrew Union College Annual Supplements 2. Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College, 1981. Cohen, Ralph. “History and Genre.” New Literary History 17 (1986): 203–18. Collins, C. John. Genesis 1–4: A Linguistic, Literary, and Theological Commentary. Phillipsburg: P & R, 2006. Collins, John J. The Bible after Babel: Historical Criticism in a Postmodern Age. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005. Cooper, Jerrold S. “Bilinguals from Boghazköi, II.” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und vorderasiatische Archäologie 62 (1972): 62–81.    . “Symmetry and Repetition in Akkadian Narrative.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 97 (1977): 509–12.    . The Return of Ninurta to Nippur: an-gim dím-ma (Utilizing Materials Prepared by E. Bergmann). Analecta Orientalia: Commentationes Scientificae de Rebus Orientis Antiqui 52. Roma: Pontificum Institutum Biblicum, 1978.    . “Review: “Inanna: Queen of Heaven and Earth” by Diane Wolkstein and Samuel Noah Kramer.” The Biblical Archaeologist 47 (1984): 188–89. Cranfield, C. E. B. A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans: Romans 1–8. 2 vols. The International Critical Commentary 1. Edited by Emerton, J. A., Cranfield, C. E. B. and G. N. Stanton. London: T. & T. Clark, 2004. Csapo, Eric. Theories of Mythology. Oxford: Blackwell, 2005. Dalley, Stephanie. Myths from Mesopotamia: Creation, The Flood, Gilgamesh, and Others. World’s Classics. Revised ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. Damrosch, David. The Narrative Covenant: Transformations of Genre in the Growth of Biblical Literature. San Francisco: Harper & Row, Publishers, 1987. Davies, Philip R. “Sons of Cain.” Pp. 35–56 in A Word in Season: Essays in Honour of William McKane. Edited by Martin, James D. and Philip R. Davies. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series 42. Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1986. Davies, Philip R. and John W. Rogerson. The Old Testament World. Second ed. Louisville: Westminster, 2005. Davila, James R. “The Flood Hero as King and Priest.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 54 (1995): 199–214. Day, John. “Cain and the Kenites.” Pp. 335–46 in Homeland and Exile: Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honour of Bustenay Oded. Edited by Galil, Gershon, Gellar, Mark and A. R. Millard. Supplements to Vetus Testamentum 130. Leiden: Brill, 2009. Denning-Bolle, Sara J. “Wisdom and Dialogue in the Ancient Near East.” Numen 34 (1987): 214–34.    . Wisdom in Akkadian Literature: Expression, Instruction, Dialogue. Mémoires de la Société d’Études Orientales “Ex Oriente Lux” 28. Leiden: Ex Oriente Lux, 1992. Derrida, Jacques. “The Law of Genre.” Critical Inquiry 7 (1980): 55–81. Dickson, Keith. “Enki and Ninhursag: The Trickster In Paradise.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 66 (2007): 1–32.

Bibliography

249

Dietrich, Manfried. “Enki/Ea und El—Die Götter der Künste und Magie.” Pp. 93–125 in Vol. 374 of Studien zu Ritual und Sozialgeschichte im Alten Orient: Tartuer Symposien 1998–2004. Edited by Thomas Richard Kämmerer. Beiheft zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2007. Dietrich, Manfried, Karl Hecker et al. Ergänzungslieferung. Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments Supplement. Edited by Otto Kaiser. Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlaghaus, 2001. Dijk, J. J. A. van. La sagesse sumero-accadienne: recherches sur les genres litteraires des textes sapientiaux/avec choix de textes par J.J.A. van Dijk. Commentationes orientales, quas edidit fundatio C. N. 1. Leiden: Brill, 1953.    . “Die Inschriftenfunde.” Pp. 39–62 in XVIII. vorläufiger Bericht über die von dem Deutschen Archäologischen Institut und der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft aus Mitteln der Deutschen Forschungsgemeinschaft unternommenen Ausgrabungen in Uruk-Warka. Edited by Heinrich Lenzen. Abhandlungen der deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft. Berlin: Gebr. Mann Verlag GmbH, 1962.    . “Le motif cosmique dans la pensée sumérienne.” Acta Orientalia 28 (1964): 1–59.    . “Une insurrection generale au pays de Larša avant l’avenement de Nūradad.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 19 (1965): 1–25.    . “Einige Bemerkungen zu sumerischen religionsgeschichtlichen Problemen.” Orientalistische Literaturzeitung 62 (1967): 229–44.    . “La ‘confusion des langues’, Note sur le lexique et sur la morphologie d’Enmerkar, 147–155.” Orientalia 39 (1970): 302–10.    . “Sumerische Religion.” Pp. 431–96 in Vol. 1 of Handbuch der Religonsgeschichte. Edited by Jes Peter Asmussen. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1971. Doty, William G. Mythography: The Study of Myths and Rituals. Second ed. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 2000. Douglas, Mary. “Introduction.” Pp. 1–13 in Vol. 5 of Imagining Creation. Edited by Geller, Markham. J. and Mineke Schipper. Institute of Jewish Studies: Studies in Judaica. Leiden: Brill, 2008. Dozeman, Thomas B. “Biblical Geography and Critical Spatial Studies.” Pp. 87–108 in Vol. 481 of Constructions of Space I: Theory, Geography, and Narrative. Edited by Berquist, Jon L. and Claudia V. Camp. Library of Hebrew Bible/ Old Testament Studies. New York: T. & T. Clark, 2007. Drews, Robert. “Assyria in Classical Universal Histories.” Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte 14 (1965): 129–42.    . “Sargon, Cyrus and Mesopotamian Folk History.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 33 (1974): 387–93.    . “The Babylonian Chronicles and Berossus.” Iraq 37 (1975): 39–58. Dunn, James D. G. Romans 1–8. Word Biblical Commentary. Edited by David A. Hubbard and Glenn W. Barker. Dallas: Word Books, Publisher, 1988. Ebeling, Erich et al, eds. Reallexikon der Assyriologie und vorderasiatischen Archäologie. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1938–2011. Edwards, M. J. “Philo or Sanchuniathon? A Phoenician Cosmogony.” The Classical Quarterly 41 (1991): 213–20. Eissfeldt, Otto. Ras Schamra und Sanchunjaton. Beiträge zur Religionsgeschichte des Altertums 4. Halle: Max Niemeyer Verlag, 1939.

250

Bibliography

Eliade, Mircea. Myth and Reality. Translated by Willard R. Trask. New York: Harper Torchbooks, 1963. Enns, Peter. Inspiration and Incarnation: Evangelicals and the Problem of the Old Testament. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2005. Espak, Peeter. “Ancient Near Eastern Gods Enki and Ea: Diachronical Analysis of Texts and Images from the Earliest Sources to the Neo-Sumerian Period.” M.A. thes., Tartu University, 2006. Falkenstein, Adam and Wolfram Von Soden. Sumerische und Akkadische Hymnen und Gebete. Die Bibliothek der alten Welt. Edited by Karl Hoenn. Zurich: Artemis-Verlag, 1953. Fantin, Joseph D. “The Greek Imperative Mood in the New Testament: A Cognitive and Communicative Approach.” Ph.D. diss., Dallas Theological Seminary, 2003. Farber-Flügge, Gertrud. Der Mythos ‘Inanna und Enki’ unter besonderer Berücksichtungung der Liste der me. Dissertationes Scientificae de Rebus Orientis Antiqui 10. Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1973. Farber, Walter, Hans Martin Kümmel et al. Religiöse Texte: Rituale und Beschwörungen I. Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments 2.2. Edited by Otto Kaiser. Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlaghaus Gerd Mohn, 1987. Fawcett, Thomas. The Symbolic Language of Religion: An Introductory Study. London: SCM Press, 1970. Feldt, Laura. “On Divine-Referent Bull Metaphors in the ETCSL Corpus.” Pp. 184–214 in Analysing Literary Sumerian Corpus-Based Approaches. Edited by Ebeling, Jarle and Graham Cunningham. London: Equinox, 2007. Finkel, Irving L. “Bilingual Chronicle Fragments.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 32 (1980): 68–50.    . “Adad-apla-iddina, Esagil-kīn-apli, and the Series SA.GIG.” Pp. 143–59 in A Scientific Humanist: Studies in Memory of Abraham Sachs. Edited by Erle Leichty et al. Occasional Publications of the Samuel Noah Kramer Fund. Philadelphia: The University Museum, 1988. Finkelstein, Jacob J. “The Antediluvian Kings: A University of California Tablet.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 17 (1963): 39–51.    . “Mesopotamian Historiography.” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 107 (1963): 461–72.    . “The Genealogy of the Hammurapi Dynasty.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 20 (1966): 95–118. Finley, M. I. “Myth, Memory, and History.” History and Theory 4 (1965): 281–302. Fishbane, Michael. Text and Texture: Close Readings of Selected Biblical Texts. New York: Schoken Books, 1979. Flückiger-Hawker, Esther. Urnamma of Ur in Sumerian Literary Tradition. Orbis Biblicus Et Orientalis 166. Edited by Keel, Othmar and Christoph Uehlinger. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999. Fokkelman, J. P. Reading Biblical Narrative: An Introductory Guide. Translated by Ineke Smit. Leiderdorp: Deo, 1999. Foster, Benjamin R. “Wisdom and the Gods in Ancient Mesopotamia.” Orientalia 43 (1976): 344–54.    . The Epic of Gilgamesh: A New Translation, Analogues, Criticism. A Norton Critical Edition. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2001.

Bibliography

251

   . “The Adapa Story.” Pp. 449 in Vol. 1 of The Context of Scripture. Edited by William W. Hallo and K. Lawson Younger. Leiden: Brill, 2003.    . Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature. 3rd ed. Bethesda, MD: CDL Press, 2005.    . Akkadian Literature of the Late Period. Guides to the Mesopotamian Textual Record 2. Edited by Frahm, Ekhart and Michael Jursa. Münster: UgaritVerlag, 2007. Foster, Benjamin R. and Karen P. Foster. Civilizations of Ancient Iraq. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009. Foster, John L. Hymns, Prayers, and Songs: An Anthology of Ancient Egyptian Lyric Poetry. Society of Biblical Literature Writings from the Ancient World 8. Edited by Susan Tower Hollis. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1995. Fowler, Alastair. “Genre and the Literary Canon.” New Literary History 11 (1979): 97–119.    . Kind of Literature: An Introduction to the Theory of Genres and Modes. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982. Fox, Michael V. The Song of Songs and the Ancient Egyptian Love Songs. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1985. Frahm, Eckart, Karl Jansen-Winkeln et al. “Historiography: Ancient Orient.” Pp. 415–18 in Antiquity: Volume 6. Edited by Cancik, Hubert and Helmuth Schneider. Brill’s New Pauly Encyclopaedia of the Ancient World. Leiden: Brill, 2005. Franke, Sabina. “Kings of Akkad: Sargon and Naram-Sin.” Pp. 831–41 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006. Frankfort, Henri, H. A Frankfort et al. Before Philosophy: The Intellectual Adventure of Ancient Man. Reprint ed. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1959. Friberg, Jöran. “On the Alleged Counting with Sexagesimal Place Value Numbers in Mathematical Cuneiform Texts from the Third Millennium BC.” Cuneiform Digital Library Journal 2 (2005): 1–23. Frye, Northrop. The Educated Imagination. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1964. Frymer-Kensky, Tikva. “The Atrahasis Epic and Its Significance for Our Understanding of Genesis 1–9.” The Biblical Archaeologist 40 (1977): 147–55. Gabel, John B., Charles B. Wheeler et al. The Bible as Literature: An Introduction. Fourth ed. New York: Oxford University Press, 2000. Gabriel, Johannes. “Kainitegenealogie.” Biblica 40 (1959): 409–27. Galter, Hannes D. Der Gott Ea/Enki in der akkadischen Uberlieferung: Eine Bestandsaufnahme des vorhandenen Materials. Dissertationen der Karl-Franzens-Universitat Graz 58. Graz: Karl-Franzens-Universität, 1983. Garbini, Giovanni. Myth and History in the Bible. Translated by Chiara Peri. London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2003. Garelli, Paul. “The Changing Facets of Conservative Mesopotamian Thought.” Daedalus 104 (1975): 47–56. Garelli, Paul and Marcel Leibovici. “Akkadische Schöpfungsmythen.” Pp. 121–51 in Die Schöpfungsmythen: Ägypter, Sumerer, Hurriter, Hethiter, Kanaaniter und Israeliten. Edited by Mircea Eliade. Quellen des Alten Orients. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1977.

252

Bibliography

Gelb, Ignace J. “Two Assyrian King Lists.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 13 (1954): 209–30.    . “The Early History of the West Semitic Peoples.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 15 (1961): 27–47.    . “An Old Babylonian List of Amorites.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 88 (1968): 34–96.    . “Ebla and the Kish Civilization.” Pp. 9–73 in La lingua di Ebla: atti del convegno internazionale (Napoli, 21–23 aprile 1980). Edited by Luigi Cagni. Roma: Herder, 1981. Genouillac, H. de. “Grande Liste de noms divins sumériens.” Revue d’assyriologie et d’archéologie orientale 20 (1923): 89–106.    . “Liste alphabétique des dieux sumériens.” Revue d’assyriologie et d’archéologie orientale 25 (1928): 137–39. George, Andrew R. The Epic of Gilgamesh: The Babylonian Epic Poem and Other Texts in Akkadian and Sumerian. New York: Barnes & Noble, 1999.    . The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts. 2 vols. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003.    . “The Epic of Gilgameš: Thoughts on Genre and Meaning.” Pp. 37–65 in Gilgameš and the World of Assyria: Proceedings from the Conference Held at Mandelbaum House, The University of Sydney, 21–23 July 2004. Edited by J. Azize and Noel Weeks. Ancient Near Eastern Studies Supplement 21. Leuven: Peeters, 2007. George, Andrew R. and F. N. H. Al-Rawi. “Tablets from the Sippar Library VI: Atra-ḫasīs.” Iraq 58 (1996): 147–90. Gibbs, Lee W. “Myth and the Mystery of the Future.” Pp. 19–33 in Myth and the Crisis of Historical Consciousness. Edited by Gibbs, Lee W. and W. Taylor Stevenson. Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1975. Gibson, J. C. L. Canaanite Myths and Legends. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1977. Gibson, Walker. “Authors, Speakers, Readers, and Mock Readers.” College English 11 (1950): 265–69. Glassner, Jean-Jacques. “Inana et les me.” Pp. 55–86 in Vol. 14 of Nippur at the Centennial: Papers Read at the 35e Recontre assyriologique internationale, Philadelphia, 1988. Edited by Maria deJong Ellis. Occasional Publications of the Samuel Noah Kramer Fund. Philadelphia: Univeristy Museum, 1992.    . Mesopotamian Chronicles. Society of Biblical Literature Writings from the Ancient World 19. Edited by Benjamin R. Foster. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2004.    . “The Use of Knowledge in Ancient Mesopotamia.” Pp. 1815–23 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006. Goatly, Andrew. The Language of Metaphors. London: Routledge, 1997. Goetze, Albrecht. “Number Idioms in Old Babylonian.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 5 (1946): 185–202. Goldingay, John E. “’That You May Know that Yahweh is God’: A Study of the Relationship Between Theology and Historical Truth in the Old Testament.” Tyndale Bulletin 23 (1972): 58–93. Gonen, Rivka. “The Chalcolithic Period.” Pp. 40–80 in The Archaeology of Ancient Israel. Edited by Amnon Ben-Tor. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1992.

Bibliography

253

Goold, G. P., ed. Hesiod, The Homeric Hymns and Homerica. Loeb Classical Library 57. London: William Heinemann, 1977. Görg, Manfred. “Gods and Deities.” Pp. 433–43 in Egypt: The World of the Pharaohs. Edited by Schulz, Regine and Matthias Seidel. Königswinter: H. F. Ullmann, 2007. Gowan, Donald E. From Eden to Babel: A Commentary on the Book of Genesis 1–11. International Theological Commentary. Edited by Frederick Carlson Holmgren and George A. F. Knight. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1988. Grayson, A. Kirk. Assyrian and Babylonian Chronicles. Texts from Cuneiform Sources 5. Edited by A. Leo Oppenheim. Locust Valley, NY: J. J. Augustin, 1975. Green, Anthony. “Neo-Assyrian Apotropaic Figures: Figurines, Rituals, and Monumental Art.” Iraq 45 (1983): 87–96.    . “Myths in Mesopotamian Art.” Pp. 135–38 in Vol. 7 of Sumerian Gods and their Presentations. Edited by Finkel, I. L. and M. J. Geller. Cuneiform Monographs. Groningen: STYX Publications, 1997.    . “Ancient Mesopotamian Religious Iconography.” Pp. 917–30 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006. Greenfield, Jonas C. “The Seven Pillars of Wisdom (Prov. 9:1): A Mistranslation.” The Jewish Quarterly Review 76 (1985): 13–20. Greengus, Samuel. “Biblical and Mesopotamian Law: An Amorite Connection?” Pp. 63–81 in Life and Culture in the Ancient Near East. Edited by Averbeck, Richard E., Chavalas, Mark W. and David B. Weisberg. Bethseda, MD: CDL Press, 2003.    . “Legal and Social Institutions of Ancient Mesopotamia.” Pp. 469–84 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006. Grelot, Pierre. The Language of Symbolism: Biblical Theology, Semantics, and Exegesis. Translated by Christopher R. Smith. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006. Groneberg, Brigitte. “Towards a Definition of Literariness as Applied to Akkadian Literature.” Pp. 59–84 in Vol. 6.2 of Mesopotamian Poetic Language: Sumerian and Akkadian. Edited by M. E. Vogelzang and H. L. J. Vanstiphout. Cuneiform Monographs. Groningen: STYX Publications, 1996. Gruber, Jacob W. “Irrigation and Land Use in Ancient Mesopotamia.” Agricultural History 22 (1948): 69–77. Gumperz, John T. and Stephen C. Levinson. “Rethinking Linguistic Relativity.” Current Anthropology 32 (1991): 613–23. Gunkel, Hermann. “The Legends of Genesis.” Pp. vii-lxxxvi in Genesis: Translated and Interpreted by Hermann Gunkel. . Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1997.    . Genesis: Translated and Interpreted by Hermann Gunkel. Translated by Mark E. Biddle. Third ed. Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1997. Gutt, Ernst-August. Relevance Theory: A Guide to Successful Communication in Translation. Dallas: Summer Institute of Linguistics, 1992. Hallo, W. W. “On the Antiquity of Sumerian Literature.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 83 (1963): 167–76.    . “Antediluvian Cities.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 23 (1970): 57–67.    . “Assyrian Historiography Revisited.” Eretz Israel 14 (1978): 1*-7*.    . “The Limits of Skepticism.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 110 (1990): 187–99.

254

Bibliography

   . The Book of the People. Brown Judaic Studies 225. Edited by Frerichs, Ernest S., Dietrich, Wendell S., Goldscheider, Calvin, Hirsch, David and Alan Zuckerman. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1991.    . “Enki and the Theology of Eridu: A Review of S. N. Kramer’s ‘Myths of Enki’.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 116 (1996): 231–34.    . “New Directions in Historiography (Mesopotamia and Israel).” Pp. 109– 28 in Vol. 253 of dubsar anta-men: Studien zur Altorientalistik: Festschrift für Willem H.Ph. Römer zur Vollendung seines 70. Lebensjahres mit Beiträgen von Freunden, Schülern und Kollegen. Edited by Dietrich, Manfred and Oswald Loretz. Alter Orient und Altes Testament: Veröffentlichungen zur Kultur und Geschichte des Alten Orients und des Alten Testaments. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 1998.    . “Polymnia and Clio.” Pp. 195–209 in Part 1, Harvard University: Historiography in the Cuneiform World. Edited by Tzvi Abusch et al. Proceedings of the XLV Recontre Assyriologique Internationale. Bethseda, MD: CDL Press, 2001.    . “The Theogony of Dunnu.” Pp. 402–03 in Vol. 1 of The Context of Scripture. Edited by William W. Hallo and K. Lawson Younger. Leiden: Brill, 2003.    . “Adapa Reconsidered: Life and Death in Contextual Perspective.” Scriptura 87 (2004): 267–77. Hallo, W. W. and J. J. A. Van Dijk. The Exaltation of Inanna. Yale Near Eastern Researches 3. Edited by Hallo, Finkelstein, Jacob J. and William K. Simpson. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1968. Hallo, W. W. and William Kelly Simpson. The Ancient Near East: A History. Second ed. Fort Worth: Harcourt Brace College Publishers, 1998. Halpern, Ben. “’Myth’ and ‘Idealogy’ in Modern Usage.” History and Theory 1 (1961): 129–49. Hamilton, Victor P. The Book of Genesis: Chapters 1–17. The New International Commentary on the Old Testament. Edited by R. K. Harrison. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1990. Handy, Lowell K. Among the Host of Heaven: The Syro-Palestinian Pantheon as Bureaucracy. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1994. Hansman, J. “Gilgamesh, Humbaba and the Land of the Erin-Trees.” Iraq 38 (1976): 23–35. Harlow, Daniel C. “Creation According to Genesis: Literary Genre, Cultural Context, Theological Truth.” Christian Scholar’s Review 37 (2008): 163–98. Harris III, W. Hall, ed. NET Bible: New English Translation. Second Beta ed. Spokane, WA: Biblical Studies Press, 2003. Harris, Rivkah. “The Conflict of Generations in Ancient Mesopotamian Myths.” Comparative Studies in Society and History 34 (1992): 621–35. Harris, Trudier. “Genre.” The Journal of American Folklore 108 (1995): 509–27. Hartman, Thomas C. “Some Thoughts on the Sumerian King List and Genesis 5 and 11B.” Journal of Biblical Literature 91 (1972): 25–32. Hauret, Charles. “Réflexions pessimistes et optimistes sur Gen., IV, 17–24.” Pp. 358–65 in Vol. XII-XIII of Sacra Pagina. Miscellanea Biblica Congressus Internationalis Catholici de Re Biblica. Edited by Coppens, J., Descamps, A. and É. Massaux. Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium. Gembloux: Éditions J. Duculot, 1959.

Bibliography

255

Hecker, Karl, W. G. Lambert et al. Weisheitstexte, Mythen und Epen: Mythen und Epen II. Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments 3.4. Edited by Otto Kaiser. Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlaghaus Gerd Mohn, 1994. Heehs, Peter. “Myth, History, and Theory.” History and Theory 33 (1994): 1–19. Heidel, Alexander. The Gilgamesh Epic and Old Testament Parallels: A Translation and Interpretation of the Gilgamesh Epic and Related Babylonian and Assyrian Documents. Paperback ed. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1963.    . The Babylonian Genesis: The Story of Creation. First Phoenix (8th Impression) ed. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1974. Heimpel, Wolfgang. Tierbilder in der Sumerischen Literatur. Studia Pohl: Dissertationes Scientificae de Rebus Orientis Antiqui 2. Roma: Pontificium Institutum Biblicum, 1968. Hendel, Ronald S. The Text of Genesis 1–11: Textual Studies and Critical Edition. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998. Hess, Richard S. “The Genealogies of Genesis 1–11 and Comparative Literature.” Biblica 70 (1989): 241–54.    . “Splitting the Adam: The Usage of  ʾAdam in Genesis i–iv.” Pp. 1–16 in Studies in the Pentateuch. Edited by J. A. Emerton. Vetus Testamentum Supplement. Leiden: Brill, 1990.    . “Lamech in the Genealogies of Genesis.” Bulletin for Biblical Research 1 (1991): 21–25.    . Israelite Religions: An Archaeological and Biblical Survey. Grand Rapids: Baker, 2007.    . Studies in the Personal Names of Genesis 1–11. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2009. Hess, Richard S., and David Toshio Tsumura, eds. I Studied Inscriptions From Before the Flood. Sources for Biblical and Theological Study, Vol. 4. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1994. Hesse, Mary B. “The Cognitive Claims of Metaphor.” Pp. 27–45 in Vol. 2 of Metaphor and Religion. Edited by J. P. van Noppen. Theolinguistics. Brussels: Vrije Universiteit Brussel, 1983. Hieke, Thomas. Die Genealogien der Genesis. Herders Biblische Studien 39. Edited by Klauck, Hans-Josef and Erich Zenger. Freiburg: Herder, 2003. Hill, Carol A. “Making Sense of Numbers in Genesis.” Perspectives on Science and Christian Faith 55 (2003): 239–52. Hirsch, E. D. Validity in Interpretation. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1967.    . The Aims of Interpretation. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1976. Hoffmeier, James K. “King Lists.” Pp. 68–73 in Vol. 1 of The Context of Scripture. Edited by William W. Hallo and K. Lawson Younger. Leiden: Brill, 2003. Hoffner, Harry A. “Enki’s Command to Atraḫasis.” Pp. 241–46 in Kramer Anniversary Edition: Cuneiform Studies in Honor of Samuel Noah Kramer. Edited by Barry L. Eichler. Alter Orient und Altes Testament. Kevelaer: Verlag Butzon & Bercker, 1976. Hoffner, Harry A. and Gary M. Beckman. Hittite Myths. SBL Writings from the Ancient World Series 2. 2nd ed. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1998. Harry Hoijer, ed. Language in Culture: Proceedings of a Conference on the Interrelations of Language and Other Aspects of Culture. Menasha, WI: American Anthropological Association, 1954.

256

Bibliography

Hole, Frank. “Investigating the Origins of Mesopotamian Civilization.” Science, New Series 153 (1966): 605–11. Hooke, S. H. Middle Eastern Mythology. London: Penguin Books, 1963. Horowitz, Wayne. Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography. Mesopotamian Civilizations 8. Edited by Jerrold S. Cooper. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1998. Hruška, Blahoslav. “Das Spätbabylonische Lehrgedicht ‘Inannas Erhöhung’.” Archiv Orientální 37 (1969): 473–522. Huizinga, Johan. “A Definition of the Concept of History.” Pp. 1–10 in Philosophy and History: Essays Presented to Ernst Cassirer. Edited by Raymond Klibansky and H. J. Paton. New York: Harper/Academy Library, 1963. Hurowitz, Victor A. “Tales of Two Sages — Towards an Image of the ‘Wise Man’.” Pp. 64–94 in Vol. 219 of Scribes, Sages, and Seers: The Sage in the Eastern Mediterranean World. Edited by Leo G. Perdue. Forschunen zur Religion und Literature des Alten und Neuen Testaments. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2008. Hyers, Conrad. “The Narrative Form of Genesis 1: Cosmogonic, Yes; Scientific, No.” Journal of the American Scientific Affiliation 36 (1984): 208–15. Iser, Wolfgang. The Implied Reader: Patterns of Communication in Prose Fiction from Bunyan to Beckett. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1974.    . The Act of Reading: A Theory of Aesthetic Response. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978.    . “Interaction Between Text and Reader.” Pp. 106–19 in The Reader in the Text: Essays on Audience Interpretation. Edited by Suleiman, Susan R. and Inge Crosman. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980. Izre’el, Shlomo. “Mesopotamian Literature in Contemporary Setting: Translating Akkadian Myths.” Pp. 85–125 in Vol. 6.2 of Mesopotamian Poetic Language: Sumerian and Akkadian. Edited by M. E. Vogelzang and H. L. J. Vanstiphout. Cuneiform Monographs. Groningen: STYX Publications, 1996.    . Adapa and the South Wind: Language Has the Power of Life and Death. Mesopotamian Civilizations 10. Edited by Jerrold S. Cooper. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2001. Jacobsen, Thorkild. “The Investiture and Anointing of Adapa in Heaven.” The American Journal of Semitic Languages and Literatures 46 (1930): 201–03.    . The Sumerian King List. Assyriological Studies 11. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1939.    . “Sumerian Mythology: A Review Article.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 5 (1946): 128–52.    . “Mesopotamian Gods and Pantheons.” Pp. 16–38 in Vol. 21 of Towards the Image of Tammuz and Other Essays on Mespotamian History and Culture. Edited by William L. Moran. Harvard Semitic Studies. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1970.    . “The Eridu Genesis.” Journal of Biblical Literature 100 (1981): 513–29.    . The Harab Myth. Sources from the Ancient Near East 2/3. Malibu, CA: Undena, 1984.    . The Harps That Once… Sumerian Poetry in Translation. New Haven, London: Yale University Press, 1987.    . “The Spell of Nudimmud.” Pp. 403–16 in She’arei Talmon: Studies in the Bible, Qumran, and the Ancient Near East Presented to Shemaryahu Talmon. Edited

Bibliography

257

by Michael Fishbane and Emmanuel Tov. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1992. Jacoby, Felix. Die Fragmente der griechischen Historker: Neudruck vermehrt um addenda zum text, Nachträge zum Kommentar, Corrigenda und Konkordanz. Leiden: Brill, 1957. Jastrow, Morris. “Sumerian and Akkadian Views of Beginnings.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 36 (1916): 274–99. Johnson, Marshall D. “Review: ‘Genealogy and History in the Biblical World’ by Robert R. Wilson.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 100 (1980): 357–58.    . The Purpose of the Biblical Genealogies With Special Reference to the Setting of the Genealogies of Jesus. Society for New Testament Studies Monograph Series 8. Edited by G. N. Stanton. 2nd ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988. Joüon, Paul and T. Muraoka. A Grammar of Biblical Hebrew. Subsidia Biblica: 14/1– 14/2. Roma: Editrice Pontificio Istituto Biblio, 2003. Juhl, Peter D. Interpretation: An Essay in the Philosophy of Literary Criticism. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980. Kawami, Trudy S. “The Date of the Fish-Garbed Men from Assur.” Forschungen und Berichte 16 (1974): 9–13. Kawashima, Robert S. “Homo Faber in J’s Primeval History.” Zeitschrift für alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 116 (2004): 483–501. Kearns, Michael. “Relevance, Rhetoric, Narrative.” Rhetoric Society Quarterly 31 (2001): 73–92. Kidner, Derek. Genesis: An Introduction and Commentary. London: The Tyndale Press, 1967. Kikawada, Isaac M. “The Double Creation of Mankind in Enki and Ninmah, Atrahasis I.1–351, and Genesis 1–2.” Iraq 45 (1983): 43–45. Kikawada, Isaac M. and Arthur Quinn. Before Abraham Was: The Unity of Genesis 1–11. Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1985. Kilmer, Anne. “The Mesopotamian Counterparts of the Biblical Nephilim.” Pp. 39–43 in Perspectives on Language and Text: Essays and Poems in Honor of Francis I. Andersen’s Sixtieth Birthday, July 28 1985. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1987. Kinnier-Wilson, J. V. The Legend of Etana. New ed. Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1985. Kirk, G. S. Myth: Its Meaning and Functions in Ancient and Other Cultures. Sather Classical Lectures. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1973. Kitchen, K. A. Ancient Orient and Old Testament. First American Printing ed. Chicago: InterVarsity, 1968.    . “The King List of Ugarit.” Ugarit-Forschungen 9 (1977): 131–42.    . On the Reliability of the Old Testament. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003. Klein, Jacob. Three Šulgi Hymns: Sumerian Royal Hymns Glorifying King Šulgi of Ur. Bar-Ilan Studies in Near Eastern Languages and Culture. Ramat-Gan: BarIlan University Press, 1981.    . “The Sumerian me as a Concrete Object.” Altorientalishe Forschungen 24 (1997): 211–18.    . “Royal Ideaology and State Administration in Hittite Anatolia.” Pp. 529–43 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006.

258

Bibliography

   . “Shulgi of Ur: King of a Neo-Sumerian Empire.” Pp. 843–57 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006. Klengel-Brandt, Evelyn. “Apotropäische Tonfiguren aus Assur.” Forschung und Berichte 10 (1968): 19–37+T1-T10. Kluger, Rivkah Schärf. The Archetypal Significance of Gilgamesh: A Modern Ancient Hero. Edited by H. Yehezkel Kluger. Einsiedeln: Daimon Verlag, 1991. Kofoed, Jens Bruun. Text and History: Historiography and the Study of the Biblical Text. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2005. Komoróczy, G. “Berosos and the Mesopotamian Literature.” Acta Antiqua Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 21 (1973): 125–42. Köpping, Klaus Peter. “Culture Hero.” Pp. 624–25 in Vol. 3 of Religion Past & Present: Encyclopedia of Theology and Religion (Chu-Deu). Edited by Betz, Hans Dieter, Browning, Don S., Janowski, Bernd and Eberhard Jüngel. Leiden: Brill, 2007. Korpel, Marjo Christina Annette. A Rift in the Clouds: Ugaritic and Hebrew Descriptions of the Divine. UBL 8. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 1990. Kramer, Samuel Noah. “Man’s Golden Age: A Sumerian Parallel to Genesis XI.1.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 63 (1943): 191–94.    . “Mythology of Sumer and Akkad.” Pp. 93–138 in Mythologies of the Ancient World. Edited by Samuel Noah Kramer. Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Company, 1961.    . The Sumerians: Their History, Culture, and Character. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1963.    . “The ‘Babel of Tongues’: A Sumerian Version.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 88 (1968): 108–11.    . “Enki and His Inferiority Complex.” Orientalia 39 (1970): 103–10.    . From the Poetry of Sumer: Creation, Glorification, Adoration. Una’s Lectures 2. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1979.    . “The Sumerian Deluge Myth: Reviewed and Revised.” Anatolian Studies 33 (1983): 115–21.    . “The Sage in Sumerian Literature: A Composite Portrait.” Pp. 31–44 in The Sage in Israel and the Ancient Near East. Edited by Gammie, John G. and Leo G. Perdue. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1990.    . Sumerian Mythology: A Study of the Spiritual and Literary Achievement in the Third Millennium BC. Revised ed. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997. Kramer, Samuel Noah and John Maier. Myths of Enki, the Crafty God. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989. Kraus, F. R. “Altmesopotamisches Lebensgefühl.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 19 (1960): 117–32. Krauss, Heinrich and Max Küchler. Erzählungen der Bibel: Das Buch Genesis in literarischer Perspektive, Die biblische Urgeschichte. Freiburg, CH: Paulusverlag, 2003. Krebernik, Manfred. Die Beschwörungen aus Fara und Ebla: Untersuchung zur ältesten keilschriftlichen Beschwörungsliterature. New York: Hildesheim, 1984. Kuhrt, Amélie. The Ancient Near East c.3000–330 BC. 2 vols. Paperback Reprint ed. London: Routledge, 2002.

Bibliography

259

Kvanvig, Helge S. Roots of Apocalyptic: The Mesopotamian Background of the Enoch Figure of the Son of Man. Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen Testament 61. Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1988. Læssø, Jørgen. People of Ancient Assyria: Their Inscriptions and Correspondence. Translated by F. S. Leigh-Browne. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1963. Lambert, Maurice. “Sumerische Schöpfungsmythen.” Pp. 103–17 in Die Schöpfungsmythen: Ägypter, Sumerer, Hurriter, Hethiter, Kanaaniter und Israeliten. Edited by Mircea Eliade. Quellen des Alten Orients. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1977. Lambert, W. G. “Review: ‘Literarische Keilschrifttexte aus Assur’ by Erich Ebeling.” Bibliotheca Orientalis 13 (1956): 143–46.    . “An Address of Marduk to the Demons: Appendix.” Archiv für Orientforschung 17 (1956): 321.    . “Ancestors, Authors and Canonicity.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 11 (1957): 1–14.    . “Three Literary Prayers of the Babylonians.” Archiv für Orientforschung 19 (1959): 47–66.    . “A Catalog of Texts and Authors.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 16 (1962): 59–77.    . “A New Look at the Babylonian Background of Genesis.” Journal of Theological Studies 16 (1965): 287–300.    . Babylonian Wisdom Literature. Corrected ed. Oxford: Clarendon, 1967.    . “Another Look at Hammurapi’s Ancestors.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 22 (1968): 1–2.    . “A New Fragment from a List of Antediluvian Kings.” Pp. 271–75 in Symbolae biblicae et Mesopotamicae Francisco Mario Theodoro de Liagre Böhl Dedicatae. Edited by M. A. Beek et al. Leiden: Brill, 1973.    . “The Twenty-One ‘Poultices’.” Anatolian Studies 30 (1980): 77–83.    . “Review: ‘Genealogy and History in the Biblical World’ by Robert R. Wilson.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 39 (1980): 75–77.    . “Nippur in Ancient Ideology.” Pp. 119–26 in Vol. 14 of Nippur at the Centennial: Papers Read at the 35e Recontre assyriologique internationale, Philadelphia, 1988. Edited by Maria deJong Ellis. Occasional Publications of the Samuel Noah Kramer Fund. Philadelphia: Univeristy Museum, 1992.    . “Kingship in Ancient Mesopotamia.” Pp. 54–70 in Vol. 270 of King and Messiah in Israel and the Ancient Near East: Proceedings of the Oxford Old Testament Seminar. Edited by John Day. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998.    . “Myth and Mythmaking in Sumer and Akkad.” Pp. 1825–35 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006.    . “Mesopotamian Creation Stories.” Pp. 15–59 in Vol. 5 of Imagining Creation. Edited by Geller, Markham. J. and Mineke Schipper. Institute of Jewish Studies: Studies in Judaica. Leiden: Brill, 2008.    . “The Classification of Incantations.” Pp. 93–97 in Vol. 62 of Proceedings of the 51st Recontre Assyriologique Internationale. Edited by Biggs, Robert D., Myers, Jennie and Martha T. Roth. Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization. Chicago: The Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 2008.

260

Bibliography

Lambert, W. G. and A. R. Millard. Atra-ḫasīs: The Babylonian Story of the Flood. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1999. Lambert, W. G. and Ronald A. Veenker. “Gilgamesh and the Magic Plant.” The Biblical Archaeologist 45 (1982): 69. Lambert, W. G. and P. Walcot. “A New Babylonian Theogony and Hesiod.” Kadmos 4 (1965): 64–72. Langdon, Stephen. The Weld-Blundell Collection, vol. II: Historical Inscriptions, Containing Principally the Chronological Prism, W-B. 444. Oxford Editions of Cuneiform Texts 2. London: Oxford University Press, 1923. Larsen, Mogens Trolle. “The Tradition of Empire in Mesopotamia.” Pp. 75–103 in Vol. 7 of Power and Propaganda: A Symposium on Ancient Empires. Edited by Mogens Trolle Larsen. Copenhagen Studies in Assyriology. Copenhagen: Akademik Vorlag, 1979. Larue, Gerald A. Ancient Myth and Modern Man. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall, 1975. Lawson, Jack N. The Concept of Fate in Ancient Mesopotamia of the First Millennium: Toward and Understanding of Šīmtu. Orientalia Biblica et Christiana 7. Edited by Otto, Eckart and Siegbert Uhlig. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 1994. Leprohon, Ronald J. “Royal Ideology and State Admistration in Pharaonic Egypt.” Pp. 273–87 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006. Levin, Christoph. “The Yahwist: The Earliest Editor in the Pentatuech.” Journal of Biblical Literature 126 (2007): 209–30. Levin, Yigal. “Nimrod the Mighty, King of Kish, King of Sumer and Akkad.” Vetus Testamentum 52 (2002): 350–66. Levinson, Stephen C. Pragmatics. Cambridge Textbooks in Linguistics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983. Levitt Kohn, Risa. “Whom Did Cain Raise? Redaction and J’s Primeval History.” Pp. 39–46 in Vol. 9 of Le-David Maskil: A Birthday Tribute for David Noel Freedman. Edited by Friedman, Richard Elliot and William H. Propp. Biblical and Judaic Studies from the University of California, San Diego. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2004. Lewis, C. S. An Experiment in Criticism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1961. Litke, Richard L. A Reconstruction of the Assyro-Babylonian God-Lists, AN: dA-NUUM and AN: ANU ŠA AMĒLI. Yale Babylonian Collection 3. Edited by William W. Hallo. New Haven: Yale Babylonian Collection, 1998. Liver, Jacob and Israel Moses Ta-Shma. “Genealogy.” Pp. 377–83 in Encyclopaedia Judaica: Volume 7: Fr-Ha. Edited by Roth, Cecil and Geoffrey Wigoder. Jerusalem: Encyclopaedia Judaica, 1978. Liverani, Mario. Myth and Politics in Ancient Near Eastern Historiography. Edited by Bahrani, Zainab and Marc Van De Mieroop. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2004. Livingstone, Alasdair. Mystical and Mythological Explanatory Works of Assyrian and Babylonian Scholars. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1986. Loewenstamm, Samuel E. “Philo of Byblos.” Pp. 390–404 in Comparative Studies in Biblical and Ancient Oriental Literatures. Edited by Kurt Bergerhof et al. Alter Orient und Altes Testament. Kevelaer: Verlag Butzon & Bercker, 1980.

Bibliography

261

Long, V. Philips. The Reign and Rejection of King Saul: A Case for Literary and Theological Coherence. Society of Biblical Literature Dissertation Series 118. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989.    . The Art of Biblical History. Foundations of Contemporary Interpretation: Six Volumes in One. Edited by Moisés Silva. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1996. Longman III, Tremper. Literary Approaches to Biblical Interpretation. Foundations of Contemporary Interpretation: Six Volumes in One. Edited by Moisés Silva. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1996.    . How to Read Genesis. Downers Grove: InterVarsity, 2005.    . Proverbs. Baker Commentary on the Old Testament Wisdom and Psalms. Edited by Tremper Longman III. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2006. Loprieno, Antonio. “Defining Egyptian Literature: Ancient Texts and Modern Literary Theory.” Pp. 209–32 in The Study of the Ancient Near East in the 21st Century. The William Foxwell Albright Centennial Conference. Edited by Cooper, Jerrold S. and Glenn M. Schwartz. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1996. Lucas, Ernest. Can We Believe Genesis Today? The Bible and the Questions of Science. Reprinted Third ed. Nottingham: InterVarsity, 2007. Machinist, Peter. “The Fall of Assyria in Comparative Ancient Perspective.” Pp. 179–95 in Assyria 1995: Proceedings of the 10th Anniversary Symposium of the Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, Helsinki, September 7–11, 1995. Edited by Parpola, Simo and Robert M. Whiting. Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 1997. Mack-Fisher, Loren R. “A Survey and Reading Guide to the Didactic Literature of Ugarit: Prolegomenon to a Study on the Sage.” Pp. 67–80 in The Sage in Israel and the Ancient Near East. Edited by Gammie, John G. and Leo G. Perdue. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1990.    . “The Scribe (and Sage) in the Royal Courts in Ugarit.” Pp. 99–107 in The Sage in Israel and the Ancient Near East. Edited by Gammie, John G. and Leo G. Perdue. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1990. Macky, Peter W. The Centrality of Metaphors to Biblical Thought: A Method for Interpreting the Bible. Studies in the Bible and Early Christianity 19. Lewiston: Edwin Mellen, 1990. Maisels, Charles Keith. The Emergence of Civilization: From Hunting and Gathering to Agriculture, Cities, and the State in the Near East. London: Routledge, 1990. Malamat, Abraham. “King Lists of the Old Babylonian Period and Biblical Genealogies.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 88 (1968): 163–73.    . Mari and the Bible. Studies in the History and Culture of the Ancient Near East 12. Leiden: Brill, 1998. Mallowan, M. E. L. “The Excavations at Nimrud (Kalḫu), 1953.” Iraq 16 (1954): 59–114. Mander, Pietro. “Sumerian Personal Names in Ebla.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 108 (1988): 481–83. Mankowski, Paul V. Akkadian Loanwords in Biblical Hebrew. Harvard Semitic Studies 47. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2000. Martens, Elmer A. “The Oscillating Fortunes of History Within Old Testament Theology.” Paper presented at Wheaton, IL, 1990.

262

Bibliography

Mathews, Kenneth A. Genesis 1–11:26. The New American Commentary 1A. Edited by E. Ray Clendenen. Nashville: Broadman & Holman, 1996. Matthews, Victor H. Studying the Ancient Israelites: A Guide to Sources and Methods. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2007. McConville, J. Gordon. “Metaphor, Symbol and the Interpretation of Deuteronomy.” Pp. 329–51 in Vol. 2 of After Pentecost: Language and Biblical Interpretation. Edited by Bartholomew, Craig G., Greene, Colin and Karl Möller. The Scripture and Hermeneutics Series. Carlisle: Paternoster Press, 2001. McKenzie, John L. “Reflections on Wisdom.” Journal of Biblical Literature 86 (1967): 1–9. McNutt, Paula M. “In the Shadow of Cain.” Semeia 87 (1999): 45–64. Mellard, James M. Doing Tropology: Analysis of Narrative Discourse. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1987. Melville, Sarah C. “A New Look at the End of the Assyrian Empire.” Pp. 179–201 in Homeland and Exile: Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honour of Bustenay Oded. Edited by Galil, Gershon, Geller, Mark and A. R. Millard. Leiden: Brill, 1999. Merwe, Christo H. J. van der, Naude, Jackie et al. A Biblical Hebrew Reference Grammar. Biblical Languages: Hebrew 3. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999. Métraux, Alfred. “Culture Hero.” Pp. 268 in Vol. 1 of Funk & Wagnalls Standard Dictionary of Folklore, Mythology, and Legend (A-I). Edited by Leach, Maria and Jerome Fried. New York: Funk & Wagnalls, 1949. Mettinger, Tryggve N. D. The Eden Narrative: A Literary and Religio-historical Study of Genesis 2–3. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2007. Michalowski, Piotr. “History as Charter: Some Observations on the Sumerian King List.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 103 (1983): 237–48.    . “Third Millennium Contacts: Observations on the Relationship Between Mari and Ebla.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 105 (1985): 293–302.    . “Mental Maps and Ideology: Reflections on Subartu.” Pp. 129–56 in The Origins of Cities in Dry-farming Syria and Mesopotamia in the Third Millennium B.C. Edited by Harvey Weiss. Guilford, CT: Four Quarters, 1986.    . “The Early History of the Ershahunga Prayer.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 39 (1987): 37–48.    . “Ancient Poetics.” Pp. 141–53 in Vol. 6.2 of Mesopotamian Poetic Language: Sumerian and Akkadian. Edited by M. E. Vogelzang and H. L. J. Vanstiphout. Cuneiform Monographs. Groningen: STYX Publications, 1996.    . “Sailing to Babylon, Reading the Dark Side of the Moon.” Pp. 177–93 in The Study of the Ancient Near East in the 21st Century. The William Foxwell Albright Centennial Conference. Edited by Cooper, Jerrold S. and Glenn M. Schwartz. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1996.    . “A Man Called Enmebaragesi.” Pp. 195–208 in Vol. 14 of Literatur, Politik und Recht in Mesopotamien: Festschrift für Claus Wilke. Edited by Sallaberger, Walther, Volk, Konrad and Annette Zgoll. Orientalia Biblica et Christiana. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2003.    . “Sumerian Literature: An Overview.” Pp. 2279–91 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006.

Bibliography

263

   . “The Strange History of Tumal.” Pp. 145–65 in Vol. 35 of Approaches to Sumerian Literature: Studies in Honor of Stip (H. L. J. Vanstiphout). Edited by Michalowski, Piotr and Niek Veldhuis. Cuneiform Monographs. Leiden: Brill, 2006. Middleton, J. Richard. The Liberating Image: The Imago Dei in Genesis 1. Grand Rapids: Brazos Press, 2005. Mieroop, Marc van de. The Ancient Mesopotamian City. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997.    . King Hammurabi of Babylon: A Biography. Oxford: Blackwell, 2005.    . A History of the Ancient Near East ca. 3000–323 BC. Second ed. Oxford: Blackwell, 2007. Millard, Alan R. “The New Babylonian ‘Genesis’ Story.” Tyndale Bulletin 18 (1967): 3–18.    . “In Praise of Ancient Scribes.” the Biblical Archaeologist 45 (1982): 143–53.    . “The Sign of the Flood.” Iraq 49 (1987): 63–69.    . “Story, History, and Theology.” Pp. 37–64 in Faith, Tradition, and History: Old Testament Historiography in Its Near Eastern Context. Edited by Millard, A. R., Hoffmeier, James K. and David W. Baker. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1994.    . The Eponymns of the Assyrian Empire 910–612 BC. Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project 2. Edited by Simo Parpola. Helsinki: University of Helsinki, NeoAssyrian Text Corpus Project, 1994.    . “Babylonian King Lists.” Pp. 461–63 in Vol. 1 of The Context of Scripture. Edited by William W. Hallo and K. Lawson Younger. Leiden: Brill, 2003.    . “Assyrian King Lists.” Pp. 463–65 in Vol. 1 of The Context of Scripture. Edited by William W. Hallo and K. Lawson Younger. Leiden: Brill, 2003.    . “Assyrian Eponym Canon.” Pp. 465–66 in Vol. 1 of The Context of Scripture. Edited by William W. Hallo and K. Lawson Younger. Leiden: Brill, 2003. Miller, J. Maxwell. “The Descendants of Cain: Notes on Genesis 4.” Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 86 (1974): 164–74. Miller, Patrick D., Jr. “Eridu, Dunnu and Babel: A Study in Comparative Mythology.” Hebrew Annual Review 9 (1985): 227–51. Mobley, Gregory. “The Wild Man in the Bible and the Ancient Near East.” Journal of Biblical Literature 116 (1997): 217–33. Moo, Douglas J. The Epistle to the Romans. The New International Commentary on the New Testament. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996. Moran, William L. “The Creation of Man in Atrahasis I: 192–248.” Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 200 (1970): 48–56.    . “The Epic of Gilgamesh: A Document of Ancient Humanism.” Bulletin of the Canadian Society for Mesopotamian Studies 22 (1991): 15–22.    . “Ovid’s Blanda Voluptas and the Humanization of Enkidu.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 50 (1991): 121–27.    . “The Epic of Gilgamesh: A Document of Ancient Humanism.” Pp. 5–20 in Vol. 35 of The Most Magic Word. Edited by Ronald S. Hendel. The Catholic Biblical Quarterly Monograph Series. Washington D.C.: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 2002.    . “Ovid’s Blanda Voluptas and the Humanization of Enkidu.” Pp. 23–32 in Vol. 35 of The Most Magic Word. Edited by Ronald S. Hendel. The Catholic

264

Bibliography

Biblical Quarterly Monograph Series. Washington D.C.: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 2002.    . “The Gilgamesh Epic: A Masterpiece from Ancient Mesopotamia.” Pp. 2327–36 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006. Morenz, Siegfried. Egyptian Religion. Translated by Ann E. Keep. First Printing, Cornell Paperbacks ed. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992. Morris, Henry M. The Genesis Record: A Scientific and Devotional Commentary on the Book of Beginnings. Grand Rapids: Baker, 1976. Moscati, Sabatino. The World of the Phoenicians. Translated by Alastair Hamilton. London: George Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1968. Moye, Richard H. “In the Beginning: Myth and History in Genesis and Exodus.” Journal of Biblical Literature 109 (1990): 577–98. Müller, H. P. “Erkenntis und Verfehlung: Prototypen und Antitypen zu Gen 2–3 in der altorientalischen Literatur.” Pp. 191–210 in Glaube und Toleranz: Das Theologische Erbe der Aufklarung. Edited by T. Rendtorff. Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus Gerd Mohn, 1982. Mullett, Margaret. “The Madness of Genre.” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 46 (1992): 233–43. Munz, Peter. “History and Myth.” The Philosophical Quarterly 6 (1956): 1–16. Nakamura, Carolyn. “Dedicating Magic: Neo-Assyrian Apotropaic Figurines and the protection of Assur.” World Archaeology 36 (2004): 11–25. Nelles, William. “Historical and Implied Authors and Readers.” Comparative Literature 45 (1993): 22–46. Nemet-Nejat, Karen R. “Systems for Learning Mathematics in Mesopotamian Scribal Schools.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 54 (1995): 241–60.    . Daily Life in Ancient Mesopotamia. The Greenwood Press “Daily Life Through History” Series. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1998. Nissen, Hans J. The Early History of the Ancient Near East, 9000–2000 B.C. Translated by Lutzeier, Elizabeth and Kenneth J. Northcott. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1988.    . “Ancient Western Asia Before the Age of Empires.” Pp. 791–806 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East: Volumes I & II. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006. Nissen, Hans J., Damerow, Peter et al. Archaic Bookkeeping: Early Writing and Techniques of Economic Administration in the Ancient Near East. Translated by Paul Larsen. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993. Noppen, Jean-Pierre van. “Interpretation Errors in Theory and Practice.” Pp. 131–48 in Vol. 2 of Metaphor and Religion. Edited by J. P. van Noppen. Theolinguistics. Brussels: Vrije Universiteit Brussel, 1983. Novotny, Jamie R. The Standard Babylonian Etana Epic: Cuneiform Text, Transliteration, Score, Glossary, Indices and Sign List. State Archives of Assyria Cuneiform Texts 2. Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2001. Oates, Joan. “Ur and Eridu: Prehistory.” Iraq 22 (1960): 32–50. Oden, Robert A. “Philo of Byblos and Hellenistic Historiography.” Palestine Exploration Quarterly 110 (1978): 115–26. Odorico, Marco de. The Use of Numbers and Quantifications in the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions. The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project 3. Helsinki: The NeoAssyrian Text Corpus Project, 1995.

Bibliography

265

Oldfather, C. H., ed. Diodorus Siculus: The Library of History: Books I-II.34. Loeb Classical Library 279. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2004. Olhausen, William. “A ‘Polite’ Response to Anthony Thiselton.” Pp. 121–30 in Vol. 2 of After Pentecost: Language and Biblical Interpretation. Edited by Bartholomew, Craig G., Greene, Colin and Karl Möller. The Scripture and Hermeneutics Series. Carlisle: Paternoster Press, 2001. Ong, Walter J. “The Writer’s Audience is Always Fiction.” Publications of the Modern Language Association 90 (1975): 9–21. Orwell, George. 1984: A Novel. Signet Classics, 1950. Osborne, Grant R. Revelation. Baker Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2002.    . The Hermeneutical Spiral: A Comprehensive Introduction to Biblical Interpretation. Revised and Expanded ed. Downers Grove: IVP Academic, 2006. Oswalt, John. “Myth of the Dragon and Old Testament Faith.” Evangelical Quarterly 49 (1977): 163–72. Outler, Ablert C. “Toward a Postliberal Hermeneutics.” Theology Today 42 (1985): 281–91. Parpola, Simo. “The Assyrian Tree of Life: Tracing the Origins of Jewish Monotheism and Greek Philosophy.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 52 (1993): 161–208. Paul, Ian. “Metaphor and Exegesis.” Pp. 387–402 in Vol. 2 of After Pentecost: Language and Biblical Interpretation. Edited by Craig G. Bartholomew, Colin J. D. Greene and Karl Möller. The Scripture and Hermeneutics Series. Carlisle: Paternoster Press, 2001. Pearce, Laurie E. “The Scribes and Scholars of Ancient Mesopotamia.” Pp. 2265–78 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006. Petöfi, János. “Metaphors in Everyday Communication, in Scientific, Biblical, and Literary Texts.” Pp. 149–79 in Vol. 2 of Metaphor and Religion. Edited by J. P. van Noppen. Theolinguistics. Brussels: Vrije Universiteit Brussel, 1983. Pettinato, Giovanni. Das altorientalische Menschenbild und die sumerischen und akkadischen Schöpfungsmythen. Abhandlungen der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften Philosophisch-historische Klasse 1. Heidelberg: Carl Winter Universitätsverlag, 1971. Poebel, Arno. Historical Texts. The University Museum Publications of the Babylonian Section 4.1. Philadelphia: The University Museum, 1914. Pollock, Susan. “The Uruk Period in Southern Mesopotamia.” Pp. 181–231 in Uruk Mesopotamia & Its Neighbors: Cross-Cultural Interactions in the Era of State Formation. Edited by Mitchell S. Rothmann. School of American Research Advanced Seminar Series. Santa Fe: School of America Research Press, 2001. Poo, Mu-Chou. Enemies of Civilization: Attitudes Toward Foreigners in Ancient Mesopotamia, Egypt, and China. SUNY Series in Chinese Philosophy and Culture. Edited by Roger T. Ames. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2005. Porada, Edith. Ancient Art in Seals. The Franklin Jasper Walls Lectures. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980.    . “Why Cylinder Seals? Engraved Cylindrical Seal Stones of the Ancient Near East, Fourth to First Millennium B.C.” The Art Bulletin 75 (1993): 563–82.

266

Bibliography

Postgate, J. N. Early Mesopotamia: Society and Economy at the Dawn of History. London: Routledge, 1992.    . “Royal Ideaology and State Administration in Sumer and Akkad.” Pp. 395– 411 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006. Powell, Marvin A. “The Antecedents of Old Babylonian Place Notation and the Early History of Babylonian Mathematics.” Historia Mathematica 3 (1976): 417–39. Prewitt, Terry J. “Kinship Structures and the Genesis Genealogies.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 40 (1981): 87–98. Pritchard, James B., ed. Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament: With Supplement. Third ed. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1969. Rabinowitz, Peter J. “Truth in Fiction: A Reexamination of Audiences.” Critical Inquiry 4 (1977): 121–41. Rad, Gerhard vom. Genesis: A Commentary. Old Testament Library. Translated by John H. Marks. Revised ed. Philadelphia: Westminster, 1972. Rawlinson, George. The Histories of Herodotus. Everyman’s Library 234. 9 ed. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1997. Reade, Julian. “Sumerian Origins.” Pp. 221–29 in Sumerian Gods and Their Representations. Edited by Finkel, I. L. and M. J. Geller. Cuneiform Monographs. Groningen: STYX Publications, 1997. Redford, Donald B. Egypt, Canaan, and Israel in Ancient Times. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992. Reiner, Erica. “ME.UGU = mēlu.” Archiv für Orientforschung 19 (1959): 150–51.    . “The Etiological Myth of the ‘Seven Sages’.” Orientalia 30 (1961): 1–11. Reisman, Daniel. “Ninurta’s Journey to Eridu.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 24 (1971): 3–10. Rendsburg, Gary A. “The Biblical Flood Story in the Light of the Gilgameš Flood Account.” Pp. 115–27 in Gilgameš and the World of Assyria: Proceedings from the Conference Held at Mandelbaum House, The University of Sydney, 21–23 July 2004. Edited by Azize, Joseph and Noel Weeks. Ancient Near Eastern Studies, Supplement 21. Leuven: Peeters, 2007. Renfrew, Colin. “The Emergence of Civilization.” Pp. 12–20 in The Penguin Encyclopedia of Ancient Civilizations. Edited by Arthur Cotterell. London: Penguin Books, 1980. Renger, Johannes and Klaus Meister. “Genealogy.” Pp. 746–47 in Antiquity: Volume 5. Edited by Cancik, Hubert and Helmuth Schneider. Brill’s New Pauly Encyclopaedia of the Ancient World. Leiden: Brill, 2004. Ribichini, S. “Les Mentalités.” Pp. 334–44 in La Civilisation Phénicienne et Punique: Manuel de recherche. Edited by Véronique Krings. Handbuch der Orientalistik. Leiden: Brill, 1995. Ricoeur, Paul. The Rule of Metaphor: Multi-disciplinary Studies of the Creation of Meaning in Language. Translated by Robert Czerny. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1977. Roberts, J. J. M. The Earliest Semitic Pantheon: A Study of Semitic Deities Attested in Mesopotamia Before Ur III. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1972.    . “Myth Versus History: Relaying the Comparative Foundations.” The Catholic Biblical Quarterly 38 (1976): 1–13.

Bibliography

267

   . The Bible and the Ancient Near East: Collected Essays. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2002. Robinson, Robert B. “Literary Functions of the Genealogies of Genesis.” The Catholic Biblical Quarterly 48 (1986): 595–608. Rohl, David M. Legend: The Genesis of Civilisation. A Test of Time 2. London: Century, 1998. Rollins, Peter C. “The Whorf Hypothesis as a Critique of Western Science and Technology.” American Quarterly 24 (1972): 563–83. Römer, Willem H. Ph. Sumerische ‘Königshymnen’ der Isin-Zeit. Leiden: Brill, 1965.    . Hymnen und Klagelieder in sumerischer Sprache. Alter Orient und Altes Testament: Veröffentlichungen zur Kultur und Geschichte des Alten Orients und des Alten Testaments 276. Edited by Dietrich, Manfred and Oswald Loretz. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2001. Römer, Willem H. Ph. and Dietz Otto Edzard. Weisheitstexte, Mythen und Epen: Mythen und Epen I. Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments 3.3. Edited by Otto Kaiser. Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlaghaus Gerd Mohn, 1993. Römer, Willem H. Ph. and Wolfram Von Soden. Weisheitstexte, Mythen und Epen: Weisheitstexte I. Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments 3.1. Edited by Otto Kaiser. Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlaghaus Gerd Mohn, 1990. Rosengarten, Yvonne and André Baer. Sumer et le sacré: le jeu des “prescriptions” (”m e”), des dieux, et des destins. Paris: Éditions E. de Boccard, 1977. Ross, Hugh. The Genesis Question: Scientific Advances and the Accuracy of Genesis. Colorado Springs: NavPress, 1998. Rowton, M. B. “The Date of the Sumerian King List.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 19 (1960): 156–62. Rudman, Burton S. and Robert R. Wilson. “Genealogies and Number Systems.” The Biblical Archaeologist 43 (1980): 69–70. Saggs, H. W. F. The Might That Was Assyria. Sidgwick & Jackson Great Civilizations Series. London: Sidgwick & Jackson, 1984.    . Civilization Before Greece and Rome. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989. Sailhamer, John. The Pentateuch as Narrative: A Biblical-Theological Commentary. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1992. Sallaberger, Walther and Aage Westenholz. Mesopotamien: Akkade-Zeit und Ur IIIZeit. Orbis Biblicus Et Orientalis 160 (3). Edited by Attinger, Pascal and Markus Wäfler. Freiburg: Universitätsverlag, 1999. Sanders, Seth L. “Writing, Ritual, and Apocalypse: Studies in the Theme of Ascent to Heaven in Ancient Mesopotamia and Second Temple Judaism.” Ph.D. diss., Johns Hopkins University, 1999. Sasson, Jack M. “A Genealogical Convention in Biblical Chronography?” Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 90 (1978): 171–85.    . “King Hammurabi of Babylon.” Pp. 901–15 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006. Sawatzky, Sheldon. “Metaphor, Cognition and Culture.” Pp. 5–26 in Vol. 2 of Metaphor and Religion. Edited by J. P. van Noppen. Theolinguistics. Brussels: Vrije Universiteit Brussel, 1983. Scharbert, Josef. “Der Sinn der Toledot-Formel in der Priesterschrift.” in WortGebot-Glaube: Beiträge zur Theologie des Alten Testaments. Walter Eichrodt zum 80. Geburtstag. Edited by Stamm, J. J., Jenni, E. and H. J. Stoebe. Zürich: Zwingli Verlag, 1970.

268

Bibliography

Schmid, Hans H. Gerechtigkeit als Weltordnung: Hintergrund und Geschichte der alttestamentichen Gerechtigkeitsbegriffes. Beiträge zur historischen Theologie 40. Edited by Gerhard Ebeling. Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr (Paul Siebeck), 1968. Schmidt, Brian B. “Flood Narratives of Ancient Western Asia.” Pp. 2337–51 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006. Schneider, Thomas. “Sacred Kingship.” Pp. 323–29 in Egypt: The World of the Pharaohs. Edited by Schulz, Regine and Matthias Seidel. Königswinter: H. F. Ullmann, 2007. Schneider, Wolfgang. Grammatik des biblischen Hebräisch: Ein Lehrbuch. 5 ed. München: Claudius Verlag, 1982. Searle, John R. Expression and Meaning: Studies in the Theory of Speech Acts. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979. Selz, Gebhard J. “The Holy Drum, the Spear, and the Harp.” Pp. 167–213 in Vol. 7 of Sumerian Gods and their Presentations. Edited by Finkel, I. L. and M.  J. Geller. Cuneiform Monographs. Groningen: STYX Publications, 1997. Shaw, Ian, ed. The Oxford History of Ancient Egypt. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. Shea, W. H. “Adam in Ancient Mesopotamian Traditions.” Andrews University Seminary Studies 15 (1977): 27–41. Simoons-Vermeer, Ruth E. “The Mesopotamian Floodstories: A Comparison and Interpretation.” Numen 21 (1974): 17–34. Sjöberg, Åke W. “In the Beginning.” Pp. 229–47 in Riches Hidden in Secret Places: Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Memory of Thorkild Jacobsen. Edited by Tzvi Abusch. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2002. Sjöberg, Åke W. and E. Bergman. The Collection of the Sumerian Temple Hymns. Texts from Cuneiform Sources 3. Edited by Åke W. Sjöberg, E. Bergman and G. B. Gragg. Locust Valley, NY: J. J. Augustin, 1969. Skinner, John. A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Genesis. The International Critical Commentary 1. 2 ed. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1930. Sollberger, Edmond. “The Rulers of Lagaš.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 21 (1967): 279–91.    . The Babylonian Legend of the Flood. Third ed. London: The British Museum Publications Limited, 1971. Sollberger, Edmond and Jean-Robert Kupper. Inscriptions Royales Sumeriennes et Akkadiennes. Littératures Anciennes du Proche-Orient. Paris: du Cerf, 1971. Sommerfeld, Walter. “The Kassites of Ancient Mesopotamia: Origins, Politics, and Culture.” Pp. 917–30 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006. Soskice, Janet M. Metaphor and Religious Language. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985. Sparks, Kenton L. “The Problem of Myth in Ancient Historiography.” Pp. 269–80 in Rethinking the Foundations: Historiography in the Ancient World and in the Bible. Edited by Steven L. McKenzie and Thomas Römer. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2000.    . Ancient Texts for the Study of the Hebrew Bible: A Guide to the Background Literature. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2005. Speiser, E. A. Genesis: Introduction, Translation, and Notes. The Anchor Bible 1. Edited by W. F. Albright and David N. Freedman. 2nd ed. Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Company, 1964.

Bibliography

269

Sperber, Dan and Deidre Wilson. Relevance: Communication and Cognition. Second ed. Oxford: Blackwell, 1995. Stager, Lawrence E. “Jerusalem as Eden.” Biblical Archaeology Review 26 (2000): 36–47, 66. Starr, Chester G. A History of the Ancient World. Fourth ed. New York: Oxford University Press, 1991. Stein, Richard L. “Historical Fiction and the Implied Reader: Scott and Iser.” NOVEL: A Forum on Fiction 14 (1981): 213–31. Steiner, George. “Whorf, Chomsky and the Student of Literature.” New Literary History 4 (1972): 15–34. Steinkeller, Piotr. “An Ur III Manuscript of the Sumerian King List.” Pp. 267–92 in Vol. 14 of Literatur, Politik und Recht in Mesopotamien: Festschrift für Claus Wilke. Edited by Sallaberger, Walther, Volk, Konrad and Annette Zgoll. Orientalia Biblica et Christiana. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2003. Sternberg, Meir. The Poetics of Biblical Narrative: Ideological Literature and the Drama of Reading. Indiana Studies in Biblical Literature. Edited by Robert M. Polzin. First Midlands Book ed. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1985. Stevenson, W. Taylor. “Myth and the Crisis of Historical Consciousness.” Pp. 1–17 in Myth and the Crisis of Historical Consciousness. Edited by Gibbs, Lee W. and W. Taylor Stevenson. Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1975. Stone, Elizabeth C. “The Development of Cities in Ancient Mesopotamia.” Pp. 235–48 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006. Streck, Michael P. Die Bildsprache der akkadischen Epik. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 264. Edited by Dietrich, Manfred and Oswald Loretz. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 1999. Sweet, Ronald F. G. “The Sage in Akkadian Literature: A Philological Study.” Pp. 45–65 in The Sage in Israel and the Ancient Near East. Edited by Gammie, John G. and Leo G. Perdue. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1990.    . “The Sage in Mesopotamian Palaces and Royal Courts.” Pp. 99–107 in The Sage in Israel and the Ancient Near East. Edited by Gammie, John G. and Leo G. Perdue. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1990. Swiggers, Pierre. “Babel and the Confusion of Tongues.” Pp. 182–95 in Vol. 278 of Mythos im Alten Testament und seiner Umwelt: Festschrift für Hans-Peter Müller zum 65. Geburtstag. Edited by Armin Lange. Beiheft zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1999. Tallqvist, Knut Leonard. Akkadische Götterepitheta. Studia Orientalia Edidit Societas Orientalis Fennica 7. Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlag, 1974. Talon, Philippe. “Enuma Elish and the Transmission of Babylonian Cosmolgy to the West.” Pp. 265–77 in Vol. 2 of Mythology and Mythologies: Methodological Approaches to Intercultural Influences: Proceedings of the Second Annual Symposium of the Assyrian and Babylonian Intellectual Heritage Project Held in Paris, France, Oct. 4–7, 1999. Edited by Robert M. Whiting. Melammu Symposia. Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2001.    . The Standard Babylonian Creation Myth Enūma Eliš: Introduction, Cuneiform Text, Transliteration, and Sign List With a Translation and Glossary in French. State Archives of Assyria Cuneiform Texts 4. Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2005.

270

Bibliography

Taylor, Kenneth. Truth and Meaning: An Introduction to the Philosophy of Language. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1998. Thiselton, Anthony C. “’Behind’ and ‘In Front Of ’ the Text.” Pp. 97–120 in Vol. 2 of After Pentecost: Language and Biblical Interpretation. Edited by Bartholomew, Craig G., Greene, Colin and Karl Möller. The Scripture and Hermeneutics Series. Carlisle: Paternoster Press, 2001. Thomas, Robert L. Revelation 8–22: An Exegetical Commentary. Edited by Kenneth Barker. Chicago: Moody Press, 1995. Thompson, Thomas L. The Origin Tradition of Ancient Israel: I. The Literary Formation of Genesis and Exodus 1–23. Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987.    . “Israelite Historiography.” Pp. 206–12 in Vol. 3 of The Anchor Bible Dictionary. Edited by David N. Freedman. New York: Doubleday, 1992. Thureau-Dangin, F. Rituels Accadiens. Osnabrück: Otto Zeller Verlag, 1975. Tigay, Jeffrey H. The Evolution of the Gilgamesh Epic. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1982. Tobin, Vincent Arieh. Theological Principles of Egyptian Religion. New York: Peter Lang, 1989.    . “Mythological Texts.” Pp. 459–64 in Vol. 2 of The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt. Edited by Donald B. Redford. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. U. S. Census Bureau. “World Popclock Projection.” Cited December 2011. Online: http://www.census.gov/ipc/www/popclockworld.html. Van Leeuwen, Raymond C. “On Bible Translation and Hermeneutics.” Pp. 285–311 in Vol. 2 of After Pentecost: Language and Biblical Interpretation. Edited by Craig G. Bartholomew, Colin J. D. Greene and Karl Möller. The Scripture and Hermeneutics Series. Carlisle: Paternoster Press, 2001. Van Seters, John. Prologue to History: The Yahwist as Historian in Genesis. Louisville: Westminster, 1992.    . In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History. Reprint ed. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1997.    . “The Historiography of the Ancient Near East.” Pp. 2433–44 in Vol. III & IV of Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006. Van Wolde, E. J. Stories of Beginning: Genesis 1–11 and Other Creation Stories. Translated by John Bowden. London: SCM Press, 1996. Vanhoozer, Kevin J. “Introduction: Hermeneutics, Text, and Biblical Theology,” in New International Dictionary of Theology & Exegesis. Edited by Willem A. VanGemeren. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1997.    . Is There a Meaning in This Text? The Bible, the Reader, and the Morality of Literary Knowledge. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1998.    . “The Semantics of Biblical Literature: Truth and Scripture’s Diverse Literary Forms.” Pp. 49–104 in Hermeneutics, Authority, and Canon. Edited by D. A. Carson and John D. Woodbridge. Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2005. Vanstiphout, H. L. J. “Problems in the ‘Matter of Aratta’.” Iraq 45 (1983): 35–42.    . “Mesopotamian Debate Poems: A General Presentation (Part 1).” Acta Sumerologica 12 (1990): 271–318.    . “Another Attempt at the ‘Spell of Nudimmud’.” Revue d’assyriologie et d’archéologie orientale 89 (1994): 135–54.

Bibliography

271

   . “Ambiguity as a Generative Force in Standard Sumerian Literature, or Empson in Nippur.” Pp. 155–66 in Vol. 6.2 of Mesopotamian Poetic Language: Sumerian and Akkadian. Edited by M. E. Vogelzang and H. L. J. Vanstiphout. Cuneiform Monographs. Groningen: STYX Publications, 1996.    . “Why Did Enki Organize the World.” Pp. 117–34 in Vol. 7 of Sumerian Gods and their Presentations. Edited by Finkel, I. L. and M. J. Geller. Cuneiform Monographs. Groningen: STYX Publications, 1997.    . Epics of Sumerian Kings: The Matter of Aratta. Society of Biblical Literature Writings from the Ancient World 20. Edited by Jerrold S. Cooper. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003.    . “The Disputation Between Ewe and Wheat.” Pp. 575–78 in Vol. 1 of The Context of Scripture. Edited by William W. Hallo and K. Lawson Younger. Leiden: Brill, 2003.    . “Memory and Literacy in Ancient Western Asia.” Pp. 2181–96 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006. Veenker, Ronald A. “Gilgamesh and the Magic Plant.” The Biblical Archaeologist 44 (1981): 199–205. Veldhuis, Niek. Religion, Literature, and Scholarship: The Sumerian Composition ‘Nanše and the Birds’. Cuneiform Monographs 22. Leiden: Brill, 2004. Verbrugghe, Gerald P. and John M. Wickersham. Berossos and Manetho, Introduced and Translated: Native Traditions in Ancient Mesopotamia and Egypt. First Paperback ed. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2001. Vermeylen, Jaques. “La descendance de Caïn et la descendance d’Abel.” Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 103 (1991): 175–93. Vogelzang, Marianna E. “Some Aspects of Oral and Written Tradition in Akkadian.” Pp. 265–78 in Mesopotamian Epic Literature: Oral or Aural? Edited by Vogelzang, M. E. and H. L. J. Vanstiphout. Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 1992.    . “Repetition as a Poetic Device in Akkadian.” Pp. 167–82 in Vol. 6 of Mesopotamian Poetic Language: Sumerian and Akkadian. Edited by Marianna E. Vogelzang and Herman L. J. Vanstiphout. Cuneiform Monographs. Groningen: STYX Publications, 1996. Wacholder, Ben Zion. “Review: “Philo of Byblos: The Phoenician History” by H. Attridge and R. Oden.” Journal of Biblical Literature 102 (1983): 333–34. Walker, C. B. F. “Cuneiform.” Pp. 15–73 in Reading the Past: Ancient Writing from Cuneiform to the Alphabet. Edited by J. T. Hooker. New York: Barnes & Noble Books, 1998. Wallace, Daniel B. “The Article with Multiple Substantives Connected by Και in the New Testament: Semantics and Significance.” Ph.D. diss., Dallas Theological Seminary, 1995.    . Greek Grammar Beyond the Basics: An Exegetical Syntax of the New Testament (With Scripture, Subject, and Greek Word Indexes). Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1996. Wallis, Gerhard. “Die Stadt in den Überlieferungen der Genesis.” Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 78 (1966): 133–48. Walsh, Richard G. Mapping Myths of Biblical Interpretation. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001.

272

Bibliography

Waltke, Bruce K. and Cathi J. Fredricks. Genesis: A Commentary. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2001. Waltke, Bruce K. and Michael O’Connor. An Introduction to Biblical Hebrew Syntax. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1990. Walton, John H. “The Antediluvian Section of the Sumerian King List and Genesis 5.” The Biblical Archaeologist 44 (1981): 207–08.    . Genesis: From Biblical Text to Contemporary Life. The NIV Application Commentary. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2001.    . “Eden, Garden of.” Pp. 202–07 in Dictionary of the Old Testament: Pentateuch. Edited by Alexander, T. Desmond, and David W. Baker. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 2003.    . Ancient Near Eastern Thought and the Old Testament: Introducing the Conceptual World of the Hebrew Bible. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2006.    . The Lost World of Genesis One: Ancient Cosmology and the Origins Debate. Downers Grove: IVP Academic, 2009.    . Genesis 1 As Ancient Cosmology. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011. Watts, Richard J. Politeness. Key Topics in Sociolinguistics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003. Watts, Rikki E. “Making Sense of Genesis 1.” The American Scientific Affiliation: Science in Christian Perspective (2002): Cited February 3. Online: http://www. asa3.org/ASA/topics/Bible-Science/6–02Watts.html. Weckman, George. “Believing Myth as Myth.” Pp. 97–107 in Myth and the Crisis of Historical Consciousness. Edited by Gibbs, Lee W. and W. Taylor Stevenson. Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1975. Weiss, Harvey, M.-A. Courty et al. “The Genesis and Collapse of Third Millennium North Mesopotamian Civilization.” Science, New Series 261 (1993): 885–1104. Wenham, Gordon J. “Sanctuary Symbolism in the Garden of Eden.” Pp. 19–25 in Proceedings of the Ninth World Congress of Jewish Studies, Division A: The Period of the Bible. . Jerusalem: World Union of Jewish Studies, 1986.    . Genesis 1–15. Word Biblical Commentary 1. Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1987.    . “The Coherance of the Flood Narrative.” Pp. 436–47 in I Studied Inscriptions from Before the Flood: Ancient Near Eastern, Literary, and Linguistic Approaches to Genesis 1–11. Edited by Richard S. Hess and David Toshio Tsumura. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1994.    . “The Priority of P.” Vetus Testamentum 49 (1999): 240–58.    . Story as Torah: Reading Old Testament Narrative Ethically. North American Paperback ed. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2004. Westenholz, A. and U. Koch-Westenholz. “Enkidu—the Noble Savage?” Pp. 437–51 in Wisdom, Gods and Literature: Studies in Honour of W. G. Lambert. Edited by George, Andrew R. and Finkel, I. L. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2000. Westenholz, Joan G. “Oral Traditions and Written Texts in the Cycle of Akkade.” Pp. 123–54 in Mesopotamian Epic Literature: Oral or Aural? Edited by Vogelzang, M. E. and H. L. J. Vanstiphout. Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 1992.    . “Symbolic Language in Akkadian Narrative Poetry: The Metaphorical Relationship between Poetical Images and the Real World.” Pp. 183–206 in Vol. 6.2 of Mesopotamian Poetic Language: Sumerian and Akkadian. Edited by M. E. Vogelzang and H. L. J. Vanstiphout. Cuneiform Monographs. Groningen: STYX Publications, 1996.

Bibliography

273

Westermann, Claus. Genesis 1–11: A Commentary. Translated by John J. Scullion. Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1984.    . “Die Gliederung der Mythen.” Pp. 212–32 in Vol. 278 of Mythos im Alten Testament und seiner Umwelt: Festschrift für Hans-Peter Müller zum 65. Geburtstag. Edited by Armin Lange. Beiheft zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1999. Wevers, John William, ed. Septuaginta: Vetus Testamentum Graecum: Auctoritate Academiae Scientiarum Gottingensis editum. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1974.    . Notes on the Greek Text of Genesis. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1993. Whiting, Robert M. “Amorite Tribes and Nations of Second-Millennium Western Asia.” Pp. 1231–42 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006. Whorf, Benjamin Lee. “Language, Mind, and Reality.” Pp. 246–70 in Language, Thought, and Reality: Selected Writings of Benjamin Lee Whorf. Edited by John B. Carroll. Cambridge, MA: The Technology Press of Massachusetts Institute of Technology, 1956.    . “A Linguistic Consideration of Thinking in Primitive Communities.” Pp. 65–86 in Language, Thought, and Reality: Selected Writings of Benjamin Lee Whorf. Edited by John B. Carroll. Cambridge, MA: The Technology Press of Massachusetts Institute of Technology, 1956.    . “The Relation of Habitual Thought and Behavior to Language.” Pp. 134–59 in Language, Thought, and Reality: Selected Writings of Benjamin Lee Whorf. Edited by John B. Carroll. Cambridge, MA: The Technology Press of Massachusetts Institute of Technology, 1956.    . “Languages and Logic.” Pp. 233–45 in Language, Thought, and Reality: Selected Writings of Benjamin Lee Whorf. Edited by John B. Carroll. Cambridge, MA: The Technology Press of Massachusetts Institute of Technology, 1956.    . “Science and Linguistics.” Pp. 207–19 in Language, Thought, and Reality: Selected Writings of Benjamin Lee Whorf. Edited by John B. Carroll. Cambridge, MA: The Technology Press of Massachusetts Institute of Technology, 1956. Wiggermann, F. A. M. “Mythological Foundations of Nature.” Pp. 279–306 in Natural Phenomena: Their Meaning, Depiction, and Description in the Ancient Near East. Edited by Diederik J. W. Meijer. Amsterdam: Royal Netherlands Academy of Arts and Sciences, 1992.    . “Theologies, Priests, and Worship in Ancient Mesopotamia.” Pp. 1857–70 in Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2006. Wiggins, James. “History as Narrative: Remembering Creatively.” Pp. 75–85 in Myth and the Crisis of Historical Consciousness. Edited by Gibbs, Lee W. and W. Taylor Stevenson. Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1975.    . “Die Emer-Version von ‘Dattelpalme und Tamariske’—ein Rekonstruktionsversuch.” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und vorderasiatische Archäologie 79 (1989): 161–90.    . “Genealogical and Geographical Thought in the Sumerian King List.” Pp.  557–71 in Vol. 11 of Dumu-e2-dub-ba-a: Studies in Honor of Åke W. Sjöberg. Edited by Behrens, Hermann, Loding, Darlene and Martha T. Roth.

274

Bibliography

Occasional Publications of the Samuel Noah Kramer Fund. Philadelphia: University Museum, 1989. Wilson, Deidre and Dan Sperber. “Truthfulness and Relevance.” Mind 111 (2002): 583–632. Wilson, E. Jan. The Cylinders of Gudea: Transliteration, Translation and Index. Alter Orient und Altes Testament: Veröffentlichungen zur Kultur und Geschichte des Alten Orients und des Alten Testaments 244. Edited by Dietrich, Manfred and Oswald Loretz. Kevelaer: Verlag Buzton & Bercker, 1996. Wilson, Robert R. “The Old Testament Genealogies in Recent Research.” Journal of Biblical Literature 94 (1975): 169–89.    . Genealogy and History in the Biblical World. Yale Near Eastern Researches 7. Edited by W. Hallo, Marvin H. Pope, and William K. Simpson. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1977.    . “Between ‘Azel’ and ‘Azel’ Interpreting the Biblical Genealogies.” The Biblical Archaeologist 24 (1979): 11–22.    . “Genealogy, Genealogies.” Pp. 929–32 in Vol. 2 of The Anchor Bible Dictionary. Edited by David N. Freedman. New York: Doubleday, 1992. Wilson, W. Daniel. “Readers in Texts.” Publications of the Modern Language Association 96 (1981): 848–63. Wolkstein, Diane and Samuel Noah Kramer. Inanna, Queen of Heaven and Earth: Her Stories and Hymns from Sumer. New York: Harper & Row, 1983. Wolters, Albert M. “Thoughts on Genesis.” Calvinist Contact (1990): 4–5. Wolterstorff, Nicholas. Divine Discourse: Philosophical Reflections on the Claim that God Speaks. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995.    . “The Promise of Speech-act Theory for Biblical Interpretation.” Pp. 73–90 in Vol. 2 of After Pentecost: Language and Biblical Interpretation. Edited by Bartholomew, Craig G., Greene, Colin J. D. and Karl Möller. The Scripture and Hermeneutics Series. Carlisle: Paternoster Press, 2001.    . “Authorial-Discourse Interpretation.” Pp. 78–80 in Dictionary of Theological Interpretation of the Bible. Edited by Kevin J. Vanhoozer. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2005. Wyatt, Nicholas. Myths of Power: A Study of Royal Myth and Ideology in Ugaritic and Biblical Tradition. Ugaritisch-Biblische Literatur 13. Edited by Oswald Loretz. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 1996.    . Space and Time in the Religious Life of the Near East. The Biblical Seminar 85. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001. Yoffee, Norman. “The Decline and Rise of Mesopotamian Civilization: An Ethnoarchaeological Perspective on the Evolution of Social Complexity.” Society for American Archaeology 44 (1979): 5–35. Young, Dwight Wayne. “A Mathmatical Approach to Certain Dynastic Spans in the Sumerian King List.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 47 (1988): 123–29.    . “On the Application of Numbers from Babylonian Mathematics to Biblical Life Spans and Epochs.” Zeitschrift für alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 100 (1988): 331–61.    . “The Influence of Babylonian Algebra on Longevity Among the Antediluvians.” Zeitschrift für alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 102 (1990): 321–35.    . “The Incredible Regnal Spans of Kish I in the Sumerian King List.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 50 (1991): 23–35.

Bibliography

275

   . “The Step-down to Two Hundred in Genesis 11,10–25.” Zeitschrift für alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 116 (2004): 323–33.    . “The Sexagesimal Basis for the Total Years of the Antediluvian and Postdiluvian Epochs.” Zeitschrift für alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 116 (2004): 502–27. Younger, K. Lawson. “Review: ‘In Search of History’ by John Van Seters.” Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 40 (1983): 110–17. Zevit, Ziony. The Religions of Ancient Israel: A Synthesis of Parallactic Approaches. London: Continuum, 2001.

Index of Authors Aaron, D. H.  22, 57 Abell, W.  46 Abusch, T.  207 Alexander, T. D.  71, 177 Algaze, G.  126, 140 Alster, B.  132, 141, 149, 155, 166, 171, 172, 174, 176, 202, 211, 227, 228, 229, 230 Alter, R.  21, 48 Amit, Y.  18, 21 Amzallag, N.  161 Andreasen, N. L.  166, 214, 218 Andriolo, K. R.  82 Apollodorus  102 Arnold, B. T.  117, 128, 223 Assmann, J.  38, 166, 168, 175 Attinger, P.  148 Attridge, H. W.  97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 155, 209 Austin, J. L.  22 Averbeck, R. E.  35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 42, 43, 44, 46, 47, 49, 50, 67, 68, 69, 70, 84, 86, 158, 159, 172, 174, 175, 176 Baer, A.  168, 175 Bailey, J. A.  147 Bailey, L. R.  57, 83, 85, 89, 188 Baines, J.  180 Bandstra, B. L.  119 Bar-Efrat, S.  21 Barr, J.  97, 98, 100, 101 Barton, G. A.  194 Batto, B. F.  43, 104, 157 Baumgarten, A. I.  100 Beale, G. K.  58 Beckman, G. M.  47, 155 Bekkum, W. J. van  53 Benito, C.  143, 163 Bergman, E.  171, 211 Bergsträsser, G.  117 Berkhofer, R. F.  18, 19, 20

Berlin, A.  2, 26, 49, 69 Berossus  148, 176, 193, 194, 195, 205, 206, 207, 208, 209, 216, 220, 221, 222, 225 Biggs, R. D.  130, 136, 167, 169, 201, 202, 205, 211, 214 Bing, J. D.  218 Black, J.  64, 96, 131, 132, 134, 139, 141, 148, 149, 161, 163, 169, 171, 174, 180, 181 Blakemore, D.  28 Blum, E.  2 Böhl, F. M. T.  217 Booth, W. C.  21, 23, 24, 26, 31 Borger, R.  201, 202, 203, 221, 222 Borg, M.  5 Bottéro, J.  131, 136, 172, 189, 219 Bowald, M. A.  34 Brandon, S. G. F.  160, 161, 164, 193, 221 Braun, J.  111 Brayford, S.  92, 118, 120 Briggs, R. S.  22 Brodie, T. L.  74, 76, 90 Brown, P.  31, 32 Brown, R. E.  85 Brueggemann, W.  5, 82, 87 Bryan, D. T.  89, 93, 103 Bryce, T.  180 Buccellati, G.  122, 166, 173, 217, 218 Budge, E. A. W.  168 Bullock, C. H.  38, 39 Burrows, P.  218 Burstein, S. M.  148, 193, 194, 195, 205, 208, 209, 220 Buth, R.  28, 29 Cagni, L.  139, 164, 167, 225 Caird, G. B.  1, 36, 51 Capomacchia, A. M. G.  2, 39, 47, 50, 70 Carr, D. M.  103, 131, 132, 231 Cassirer, E.  48, 51

277

278

Index of Authors

Cassuto, U.  74, 75, 102, 115, 116, 119, 120 Castellino, G.  90, 109, 110, 147, 168 Cavigneaux, A.  215, 222 Charpin, D.  125, 126 Charvát, P.  139 Chavalas, M.  35, 81, 178, 179, 182 Chisholm, R. B.  117 Choi, J. H.  117 Church, C. D.  45, 46, 53 Civil, M.  140, 141, 143, 144, 145, 169, 175, 208, 216 Clifford, R. J.  97, 98, 137, 138, 148, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153, 154, 155, 163, 168, 169, 180, 192, 206, 209, 210 Clines, D. J. A.  26, 82, 92 Cohen, A. C.  125, 126 Cohen, M. E.  171, 172, 228, 230 Cohen, R.  16 Collins, C. J.  10, 70, 74, 104 Collins, J. J.  2, 36 Cooper, J. S.  133, 162, 170, 172 Cranfield, C. E. B.  52 Csapo, E.  36 Dalley, S.  13, 130, 133, 135, 147, 150, 153, 154, 155, 156, 205, 207, 211, 220 Damrosch, D.  15, 41, 42 Davies, P. R.  47, 67, 103 Davila, J. R.  96, 102, 190, 207 Day, J.  94, 116 Denning-Bolle, S. J.  165, 166, 195, 216 Derrida, J.  17 Dickson, K.  148 Didodurus Siculus  102 Dietrich, M.  138, 164 Dijk, J. J. A. van  133, 135, 138, 145, 151, 167, 168, 171, 172, 191, 192, 202, 203, 208, 209, 220, 221, 227, 228 Doty, W. G.  17, 36, 44, 45, 51, 53, 69, 83 Douglas, M.  81 Dozeman, T. B.  47 Drews, R.  133, 194 Dunn, J. D. G.  52 Ebeling, E.  160, 162 Edwards, M. J.  98, 100 Edzard, D. O.  144, 145, 148

Eissfeldt, O.  98 Eliade, M.  42, 44, 55, 70 Enns, P.  52 Espak, P.  161 Euhemerus  69, 70 Eusebius  97, 98, 99, 101, 102, 193 Falkenstein, A.  162, 171 Fantin, J. D.  57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 105 Farber, W.  162, 168 Farber-Flügge, G.  166, 168, 169, 170, 172, 173, 175 Fawcett, T.  45, 46, 50, 53, 54, 70 Feldt, L.  64 Finkel, I.  191, 194, 205, 210, 211 Finkelstein, J. J.  38, 39, 152, 153, 190, 197, 198, 214 Finley, M. I.  49 Fishbane, M.  86, 91 Flückiger-Hawker, E.  182 Fokkelman, J. P.  21, 34 Foster, B. R.  11, 46, 54, 66, 124, 130, 133, 138, 152, 153, 154, 162, 167, 170, 180, 193, 214, 215, 216, 217, 218, 219, 222, 223, 224 Foster, J. L.  168 Foster, K. P.  124 Fouadi, A.-H. A. al-  161 Fowler, A.  15, 16, 17, 18 Fox, M. V.  25 Frahm, E.  40, 123 Franke, S.  136 Frankfort, H. A.  46 Fredricks, C. J.  7, 77, 78, 79, 86 Friberg, J.  186 Frymer-Kensky, T.  206 Gabel, J. H.  25, 64, 188, 207 Gabriel, J.  102, 119 Galter, H. D.  160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167, 176, 217, 225, 228 Garbini, G.  45 Garelli, P.  125, 149 Gelb, I. J.  128, 185, 197 Genouillac, H. de  138 George, A. G.  17, 47, 131, 147, 180, 208 Gibbs, L. W.  46

Index of Authors Gibson, J. C. L.  30, 99 Glassner, J.-J.  39, 40, 41, 42, 50, 51, 133, 134, 170, 179, 183, 184, 190, 191, 192, 194, 195, 196, 197, 198, 199, 210, 213, 223 Goatly, A.  28, 57, 59, 60, 62, 65 Goetze, A.  184 Goldingay, J.  38 Gonen, R.  111 Goold, G. P.  155, 189 Görg, M.  168 Gowan, D.  4, 5, 6, 8, 23, 65, 239 Grayson, A. K.  191, 192, 193, 223 Green, A.  172, 204, 205, 212, 213 Greenfield, J. C.  153, 154, 209 Greengus, S.  180, 199 Grelot, P.  27 Groneberg, B.  66 Gruber, J. W.  125, 139 Gunkel, H.  1, 2, 5, 15, 37, 75, 82, 83, 97, 103, 120, 121 Gutt, E.-A.  12, 28, 29 Hallo, W. W.  36, 110, 111, 124, 125, 126, 127, 128, 129, 133, 138, 140, 144, 145, 150, 152, 153, 154, 171, 172, 181, 197, 198, 203, 204, 211, 212, 219, 220, 221, 224, 227, 228 Halpern, B.  45 Hamilton, V. P.  7, 67, 116, 118 Handy, L. K.  97, 98, 100 Hansman, J.  70, 133 Harlow, D.  52 Harris, R.  155 Harris, W. H., III  206 Hartman, T. C.  109, 181, 188, 189, 199 Hauret, C.  90, 92 Hecker, K.  149, 150, 154 Heehs, P.  18, 44, 45 Heidel, A.  150, 164, 207 Heimpel, W.  64 Hendel, R. S.  119, 120, 121 Heschel, A.  26 Hesiod  44, 51, 155, 188, 189 Hesse, M. B.  48, 54 Hess, R. S.  78, 89, 90, 95, 102, 106, 107, 108, 109, 112, 118, 119, 177, 197, 199, 222, 224, 235

279

Hieke, T.  78, 79, 88 Hill, C. A.  186, 188 Hirsch, E. D.  13, 15, 20, 21 Hoffmeier, J. K.  190 Hoffner, H. A.  155, 207 Hole, F.  139 Homer  44, 51 Hooke, S. H.  37, 76 Horowitz, W.  149, 151 Hruška, B.  169, 172 Huizinga, J.  20, 37, 38, 39 Hurowitz, V. A.  201, 202, 210 Hyers, C.  188 Iser, W.  24, 30 Izre'el, S.  132, 215, 216, 221, 222 Jacobsen, T.  104, 135, 140, 141, 142, 143, 145, 152, 154, 155, 156, 157, 160, 162, 163, 168, 174, 182, 188, 189, 190, 208, 218, 227, 229 Jacoby, F.  194 Johnson, M. D.  76, 81, 94, 103 Josephus  51, 87, 88, 92, 101, 159, 193, 209 Joüon, P.  115, 119 Juhl, P.  21, 22 Kawami, T. S.  204 Kawashima, R. S.  94, 103, 104 Kearns, M.  12, 27, 28, 29 Kidner, D.  110, 111, 112 Kikawada, I.  156, 163 Kilmer, A.  202, 205 Kinnier-Wilson, J. V.  138 Kirk, G. S.  95, 165, 215, 216, 219 Kitchen, K. A.  49, 70, 118, 188, 189, 190, 198, 214 Klein, J.  127, 171, 173, 176 Klengel-Brandt, E.  204 Kluger, R. S.  147 Koch-Westenholz, U.  147 Kofoed, J. B.  15, 16, 19, 53 Kohn, R. L.  104 Komoróczy, G.  133, 148 Koppen, F. van  178, 179 Köpping, K. P.  96 Korpel, M. C. A.  64

280

Index of Authors

Kramer, S. N.  125, 140, 141, 142, 143, 144, 145, 148, 153, 160, 161, 162, 163, 167, 169, 170, 171, 172, 173, 176, 181, 200, 201, 218, 227, 228 Kraus, F. R.  165, 168, 173 Krauss, H.  91, 109 Krebernik, M.  151 Küchler, M.  91, 109 Kuhrt, A.  97, 124, 127, 128, 129, 179, 182, 183 Kupper, J.-R.  165 Kvanvig, H. S.  153, 165, 177, 179, 190, 208, 209, 216, 220, 222 Læssø, J.  125 Lambert, M.  150 Lambert, W. G.  102, 126, 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 138, 140, 141, 150, 151, 153, 154, 155, 160, 162, 163, 165, 166, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 187, 188, 190, 191, 193, 197, 202, 203, 205, 206, 207, 208, 210, 211, 212, 213, 220, 221, 222, 225 Langdon, S.  190 Larsen, M. T.  129 Larue, G. A.  45 Lawson, J. N.  169, 170 Lehmann-Haupt, C. F.  195 Leibovici, M.  149 Leprohon, R. J.  181 Levin, C.  103, 206, 207 Levinson, S. C.  22, 31, 32 Levin, Y.  5 Lewis, C. S.  37 Litke, R. L.  151 Liver, J.  80 Livingstone, A.  174, 217 Loewenstamm, S. E.  98, 99 Longman, T., III  12, 14, 206 Long, V. P.  18, 19, 20, 33, 35, 61 Loprieno, A.  20 Lucas, E.  58, 110 Lucian of Samosata  102 Machinist, P.  129 Mack-Fisher, L. R.  209 Macky, P. W.  57, 58, 59, 60 Maier, J.  160, 162, 163, 167, 169, 170, 171, 173

Maisels, C. K.  153 Malamat, A.  78, 79, 80, 109, 197, 199 Mallowan, M.  204 Mander, P.  185 Mankowski, P. V.  206 Martens, E. A.  38 Mathews, K. A.  13, 30, 93, 115 Matthews, V.  17, 47 McConville, J. G.  54, 60 McKenzie, J. L.  93 McNutt, P. M.  92, 96, 105 Meister, K.  81, 82 Mellard, J. M.  51 Melville, S. C.  129, 178 Merwe, C. van der  118 Métraux, A.  96 Mettinger, T. N. D.  17, 18, 34, 69, 215, 219, 222 Michalowski, P.  10, 13, 47, 65, 67, 70, 81, 84, 130, 131, 132, 167, 182, 185, 189, 211 Middleton, J. R.  34, 35 Millard, A. R.  44, 58, 59, 67, 102, 131, 132, 134, 140, 141, 154, 156, 157, 163, 178, 179, 182, 193, 197, 198, 207, 208, 212, 213 Miller, J. M.  94 Miller, P. D., Jr.  104, 139, 141, 143, 156 Mobley, G.  147 Moo, D.  52 Moran, W. L.  146, 147, 157, 166, 180, 208 Morenz, S.  224 Morris, H. M.  5, 6, 111 Moscati, S.  98 Moye, R. H.  37, 47 Müller, H. P.  224 Mullett, M.  21, 22 Munz, P.  69 Muraoka, T.  115, 119 Nakamura, C.  204 Nelles, W.  21, 30 Nemet-Nejat, K. R.  188, 189 Nissen, H. J.  110, 111, 127, 130, 139, 186 Noppen, J. P. van  54 Novotny, J. R.  138 Oates, J.  125 O’Connor, M.  119

Index of Authors Oden, R. A.  97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 155, 209 Odorico, M. de  185 Oldfather, C. H.  148 Olhausen, W.  32 Ong, W. J.  30 Orwell, G.  1 Osborne, G. R.  2, 11, 12, 14, 20, 21, 26, 29, 30, 34, 35, 63 Oswalt, J.  48, 49 Outler, A. C.  26 Ovid  102 Parpola, S.  210, 212 Paul, I.  54, 61 Pearce, L. E.  134, 206 Petöfi, J.  48 Pettinato, G.  140, 144, 145, 148 Philo of Alexandria  51, 52, 53, 92, 104 Philo of Byblos  9, 70, 88, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 102, 109, 113, 155, 209 Poebel, A.  140, 190, 227 Polyhistor  193, 222 Poo, M.-C.  126, 128 Porada, E.  131, 212, 213 Porphyry  97 Postgate, J. N.  48, 125, 126, 171, 176 Powell, M. A.  186 Prewitt, T. J.  84 Pritchard, J. B.  164, 178, 179, 192, 193, 212 Pseudo-Eupolemus  209 Quinn, A.  156 Rabinowitz, P. J.  30, 31, 33 Rad, G. von  76, 87, 91, 94, 103 Rawi, F. N. H. al-  47, 139, 215, 222 Rawlinson, G.  209 Reade, J.  124, 125, 216 Redford, D. B.  38 Reiner, E.  201, 202, 203, 204, 205, 221 Reisman, D.  138, 170, 202 Rendsburg, G. A.  66 Renfrew, C.  111 Renger, J.  81, 82 Ribichini, S.  97 Ricoeur, P.  60, 61

281

Roberts, J. J. M.  38, 161 Robinson, R. B.  86, 92 Rogerson, J. W.  47, 67 Rohl, D. M.  199 Römer, W. H. P.  138, 144, 145, 148, 169, 171, 172, 176 Rosengarten, Y.  168, 175 Ross, H.  6 Rowton, M. B.  182 Rudman, B. S.  184, 185 Saggs, H. F. W.  111, 125, 129, 139, 180, 184, 185 Sailhammer, J.  112 Sallaberger, W.  126 Sanchuniathon  97, 99, 101, 209 Sanders, S.  89, 133, 184, 192, 200, 203, 204, 211, 217, 222, 223 Sasson, J. M.  89, 116, 128 Sawatzky, S.  48, 54 Scharbert, J.  86 Schmid, H. H.  168, 175 Schmidt, B. B.  189, 206, 207 Schneider, T.  175 Schneider, W.  117 Searle, J. R.  22, 58, 59, 60, 61 Selz, G. J.  164, 165 Shaw, I.  55, 56, 84 Shea, W. H.  154, 214, 215, 217, 219, 223, 224 Simoons-Vermeer, R. E.  206, 207 Simpson, W. K.  110, 111, 125, 126, 127, 128, 129, 140 Sjöberg, A. W.  151, 152, 171, 211 Skinner, J.  118 Soden, W. von  136, 138, 162, 171 Sollberger, E.  141, 165, 189, 195, 196, 206 Sommerfeld, W.  129, 213 Soskice, J. M.  60, 61 Sparks, K. L.  14, 15, 36, 67, 68, 69, 84, 103, 123, 134, 164, 167, 168, 169, 181, 193, 194, 195, 204, 205, 206, 211, 217, 227 Speiser, E. A.  87, 103, 199 Sperber, D.  12, 27, 28, 61, 62, 63 Stager, L. E.  70 Starr, C. G.  1, 139 Steinkeller, P.  182

282

Index of Authors

Stein, R. L.  23 Sternberg, M.  12, 19, 20, 21, 23, 24, 48, 49 Stevenson, W. T.  44, 53 Stone, E. C.  111, 140 Streck, M. P.  64, 195, 221 Sweet, R. F. G.  192, 201, 210, 211 Swiggers, P.  53, 227 Tallqvist, K. L.  160, 162, 167 Talon, P.  161, 164, 220 Ta-Shma, I. M.  80 Taylor, K.  22 Thiselton, A. C.  29, 54 Thomas, R. L.  63 Thompson, T. L.  39, 49 Thureau-Dangin, F.  164, 225 Tigay, J. H.  67, 133, 134, 147, 173, 207 Tobin, V. A.  37, 151, 175 Tsumura, D. T.  177, 197, 222 Van de Mieroop, M.  124, 128, 129, 137, 138, 139 Vanhoozer, K. J.  14, 15, 16, 19, 20, 21, 22, 25, 26, 33, 34 Van Leeuwen, R.  54 Van Seters, J.  39, 42, 43, 93, 97, 101, 102, 118, 177, 190, 191, 197, 198 Vanstiphout, H. L. J.  65, 66, 131, 146, 148, 153, 163, 174, 187, 227, 229, 230 Veenker, R. A.  187 Veldhuis, N.  38 Verbrugghe, G. P.  158, 193, 194, 222 Vermeylen, J.  102, 103, 107 Vogelzang, M. E.  66, 133 Wacholder, B. Z.  101 Walcot, P.  155 Walker, C. B.  130 Wallace, D. B.  59 Wallis, G.  90 Walsh, R. G.  34 Waltke, B. K.  7, 77, 78, 79, 86, 119

Walton, J. H.  9, 12, 13, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 50, 55, 56, 57, 70, 91, 92, 93, 111, 137, 138, 151, 158, 165, 168, 169, 170, 173, 175, 180, 181, 184, 185, 189, 220, 224, 225, 234 Watts, R. E.  26 Watts, R. J.  32, 33 Weckman, G.  44, 46, 51, 52, 53 Weiss, H.  127 Wenham, G. J.  21, 26, 29, 66, 70, 74, 75, 76, 77, 80, 86, 93, 102, 104, 106, 116, 119, 120, 240 Westenholz, A.  126, 147 Westenholz, J. G.  64, 133 Westermann, C.  5, 53, 75, 76, 79, 80, 82, 83, 85, 86, 87, 89, 90, 91, 93, 99, 102, 103, 104, 109, 113, 116, 118, 121 Wevers, J. W.  117, 120 Whiting, R. M.  126, 128 Whorf, B. L.  37, 38, 46 Wickersham, J. M.  158, 193, 194, 222 Wiggermann, F. A. M.  159, 204, 205, 208 Wiggins, J.  44 Wilke, C.  82, 138, 171, 182 Wilson, D.  12, 27, 28, 61, 62, 63 Wilson, E. J.  174 Wilson, R.  74, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 88, 90, 91, 92, 94, 98, 105, 109, 116, 177, 184, 185, 197, 198, 199, 221, 222 Wilson, W. D.  30 Wolde, E. van  112, 116 Wolkstein, D.  167, 170 Wolters, A. M.  62, 63 Wolterstorff, N.  23, 34, 60 Wyatt, N.  43, 45, 154 Yoffee, N.  139, 213 Young, D. W.  183, 185, 186, 187 Zevit, Z.  8, 9, 36

Index of Scripture Genesis 1  26, 34, 98, 106 1–2  164 1–4  10, 70, 74, 104 1–9  206 1–11  5, 9, 13, 14, 16, 17, 25, 30, 35, 43, 49, 50, 52, 63, 66, 67, 70, 71, 73, 76, 78, 79, 80, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110, 112, 113, 116, 118, 119, 120, 121, 156, 157, 200, 214, 231, 232, 233, 234, 235, 236, 238, 239, 240 1–11:26  13, 30, 93, 115 1–15  75, 76, 77, 80, 93, 102, 106, 116, 119, 120 1:1–2:3  75, 77 1:1–2:4  46 1:1–4:26  75 1:1–11:26  77 2  18, 106, 152 2–3  17, 147, 224 2–4  100 2:4  78 2:4–3:24  77 2:4–4:26  69, 74, 75 2:5  149, 151 2:5–6  70 3  36 3–11  77 3:20  161

Genesis (cont.) 4  4, 5, 6, 13, 17, 30, 65, 66, 74, 76, 80, 82, 89, 91, 93, 94, 95, 96, 99, 100, 101, 103, 104, 106, 108, 110, 135, 139, 177, 213, 214, 225, 233, 234, 235, 236, 239 4–5  78 4:1  74, 116 4:1–16  87, 94 4:1–17  75 4:2  115 4:17  74, 75, 115, 139 4:17–18  78, 88 4:17–22  2, 3, 4, 8, 9, 10, 13, 64, 71, 73, 74, 80, 87, 91, 92, 109, 115, 123, 177, 226, 238 4:17–24  74, 76 4:17–26  91 4:18  103 4:18–24  103 4:20  79, 115, 199 4:20–21  88 4:20–22  236 4:21–22  79, 88 4:22  7, 78, 88 4:23–24  76, 88, 91 4:24–26  76 4:25  74 4:25–26  74 4:26  93 5  6, 66, 74, 75, 76, 80, 89, 93, 95, 103, 104, 106, 108, 110, 177, 199, 213, 214, 233, 236

283

Genesis (cont.) 5–9  86 5:1  75, 78, 101, 104 5:9–14  106 5:22–24  76 5:32  76 6  202 6–9  206 6:1–4  87 6:5  87 6:5–6  93 6:9  78 7:6  187 9  155 9:18  79 9:20–29  77 9:29  77 10  5, 82, 108, 110, 199, 234 10–11  78 10:6–20  77 11  108, 142, 229 11:10–11  187 11:10–26  76 12  240 12–50  7 Exodus 1–23  49 Joshua 9:21  115 2 Kings 17:28  118 1 Chronicles 18:14  118

284 2 Chronicles 24:12  118 30:10  118 Psalms 78:26  216

Index of Scripture Proverbs 8  206 8:22–29  152 8:23–26  149 8:30  206 9:1  154

Song of Songs 7:1  206 Jeremiah 52:15  206

New Testament Matthew 1:2–16  80, 87

Luke 3:23–38  80, 87

Revelation 8–22  63 12–13  63