Visions and Eschatology : A Socio-Historical Analysis of Zechariah 1-6 [1 ed.] 9780567160706, 9780567131591

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Library of second temple Studies

79 formerly the Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha Supplement series

Editor Lester L. Grabbe

Editorial Board Randall D. Chesnutt, Philip R. Davies, Jan Willem van Henten, Judith M. Lieu, Steven Mason, James R. Mueller, Loren T. Stuckenbruck, James C. VanderKam

Founding Editor James H. Charlesworth

visions and eschatology A Socio–Historical Analysis of Zechariah 1–6

antonios finitsis

Published by T&T Clark International A Continuum imprint The Tower Building, 11 York Road, London SE1 7NX 80 Maiden Lane, Suite 704, New York, NY 10038 www.continuumbooks.com All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Copyright © Antonios Finitsis, 2011 Antonios Finitsis has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the Author of this work. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library e-isbn: 978-0-567-16070-6 Typeset by Free Range Book Design & Production Limited

Contents Acknowledgements Abbreviations 1. Introduction

vii ix 1

2. Between Prophecy and Apocalyticism: Distinguishing the Strands of Eschatology 2.1 Relating Prophecy and Apocalypticism 2.2 Defining Eschatology 2.3 Pre-Exilic Prophetic Eschatology 2.4 Post-Exilic Prophetic Eschatology 2.5 Probing the Grey Area of Eschatology 2.5.a Eschatology and Myth 2.5.b Eschatology and Tensions within the Community 2.6 Shedding light on the Grey Area 2.7 Defining Post-Exilic Prophetic Eschatology 2.8 Apocalyptic Eschatology 2.9 Conclusion

5 5 6 8 14 16 16 23 25 25 33 35

3. Priestly Politics and Millennial Hope: An Evaluation of the Socio-Historical Discussion 3.1 Social Scientific Criticism and Second Temple Politics 3.2 The Transformation into a Theocracy 3.3 The Struggle between Visionaries and Hierocrats 3.4 The Millennial Parallel 3.5 An Evaluation of the Use of Inter-Disciplinary Material 3.6 Conclusion

37 37 38 44 50 51 62

4. The Empire and the Province: A Reconstruction of the Socio-Historical Context 4.1 Reconstruction of the Post-Exilic Social Setting 4.2 The Achaemenid Administrative Policies 4.2.a Creating Dynastic Continuity 4.2.b Befriending Local Aristocracy 4.2.c Ingratiating Local Sanctuaries 4.3 Conclusion 4.4 Demographic Analysis

64 64 64 69 73 78 84 86

vi

Contents 4.4.a The Biblical Information at Face Value 4.4.b The Biblical Information Subverted 4.4.c The Information Provided by Ethnoarchaeology 4.5 Conclusion

89 93 98 100

5. Restoration Eschatology and Messianic Presence: Haggai and Proto-Zechariah in their Socio-Historical Context 5.1 Proto-Zechariah and Apocalypticism 5.2 Restoration Eschatology 5.3 The Social Context of the Return 5.4 Haggai 5.5 Zechariah 1–6 5.6 Conclusion

102 102 103 104 114 125 135

6. The Rhetorical Function of the Heavenly World: Zechariah’s Role and the Role of Visions 6.1 Proto-Zechariah’s Role 6.2 The Rhetorical Potential of Visions 6.3 Zechariah’s Message 6.4 Zechariah’s Function 6.5 Zechariah as a Priest 6.6 Is Zechariah a Sui Generis Prophet? 6.7 The Visionary Technique 6.8 The Peculiarity of the Social Context 6.9 Zechariah’s Societal Contribution 6.10 Conclusion

137 137 139 147 151 152 154 155 157 158 161

7. Conclusion

163

Bibliography Index of References Index of Subjects

173 187 191

Acknowledgements First, I wish to thank my professors in the National and Capodistrian University of Athens for their invaluable help and advice. Nikolaos Olympiou for encouraging me to undertake graduate studies in the field of the Hebrew Bible. Elias Oikonomou for providing me with the opportunity to find a graduate studies programme abroad. Nikolaos Bratsiotis for being my scholarship advisor. Without your guidance and inspiration I would not have been able to study in the United States. Finally, I wish to thank State Scholarships Foundation (IKY) for awarding me the scholarship that enabled me to pursue my studies in the University of Chicago. In Chicago I made a number of friends whose keen help and sincere assistance were instrumental in my seamless advance through my Masters and Doctoral programme. Therefore, I want to express my gratitude to George and Elaine Gavas, Janice Sotiros, Anna Giabourani, and Phaedra Daipha. I conducted most of my research at Yale University and I want to thank Professor Robert R. Wilson for his invaluable help, and Professor Carolyn Sharp for her positive energy. For their financial patronage I should thank Holy Cross Greek Orthodox School of Theology and the Greek Orthodox Archdiocese of America. For their unwavering support I want to thank my parents and sister. They have always been by my side and have dealt bravely with my decision to move to another country for such a long time. Finally, I want to thank the members of my dissertation committee, Professors David Schloen (adviser), Martin Riesebrodt and John J. Collins. Professor John J. Collins guided my progress since my first day in the United States and I am most grateful for all his earnest instruction over the years.

Abbreviations ABC ABD AUSS BARInt BASOR BR BS BWANT CBQ CCR FOTL HAT HNT HTS IDBSup IOS JBL JBLSup JMS JNES JSOT JSOTSup JSP JSPSSup LAI NT OLP OTGBS OTL OTS RB SAPW SBLDS SJC SOFSup STAR TSK

Anchor Bible Commentary Anchor Bible Dictionary Andrews University Seminary Studies Biblical Archaeology Review International Series Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research Biblical Research Biblical Scholarship Beiträge zur Wissenschaft vom Alten und Neuen Testament Catholic Biblical Quarterly Current Continental Research Forms of Old Testament Literature Handbuch zum Alten Testament Handbuch zum Neuen Testament Harvard Theological Studies Interpreters’ Dictionary of the Bible Supplementary Volume Israel Oriental Studies Journal of Biblical Literature Journal of Biblical Literature Supplement Series Journal of Mental Science Journal of Near Eastern Studies Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha Supplements Library of Ancient Israel Novum Testamentum Orientalia Lovaniensia Periodica Old Testament Guides to Biblical Scholarship Old Testament Library Oudtestamentische Studiën Revue Biblique Studies in the Ancient Palestinian World Society of Biblical Literature Dissertation Series Studies in Jewish Civilization Symbolae Osloenses Fasc. Supplements Studies in Theology and Religion Theologische Studien und Kritiken

x VT VTSup WBC ZAW ZTK

Visions and Eschatology Vetus Testamentum Vetus Testamentum Supplements Word Biblical Commentary Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche

Chapter 1

Introduction Almost every investigation of apocalyptic literature has stressed the centrality of eschatology in the thematic repertory of this genre. The emphasis of the end-times and the description of events that will take place in another temporal and spatial frame seem to be a recurring feature in a fairly variegated collection of writings. Once this shared feature came to the fore and was recognized as a unifying element scholars tried to detect the root of these ideas. Naturally, they turned toward the prophetic literature where eschatological ideas occur with a higher frequency than the rest of the Hebrew Bible. The underlying assumption was that there had to be some type of genetic relation between prophecy and apocalypticism. Since eschatology was featured in both genres, they postulated, there could be an identifiable way in which the latter genre, apocalypticism, grew out of the earlier one, prophecy, via a series of mutations revolving around their eschatological outlook. This line of thinking is evidently evolutionistic and, to a degree, also reductionistic since it presupposes an internal evolution of a simpler idea to a more complex version of itself. It also disregards the possibility of unpredictable developments and thus reduces the creation of new forms along the lines of clear-cut, predictable patterns. At the time, however, developmental theories were the master paradigms in social sciences and their influence in biblical studies should be attributed to the predominant intellectual Zeitgeist. Biblical scholars were drawn into all kinds of projects that tried to show how certain literary and theological ideas spread from one prime or more ancient civilization to the next. Hence eschatology was named the red thread that ran through the tapestry of prophetic and apocalyptic literature. Aiming to uncover the lost link in the chain of biblical genres, they turned to post-exilic prophecy and embarked on a series of comparisons of its eschatological ideas with apocalypticism. The goal of these comparisons was to detect the commonalities and then extrapolate what could have generated the differences between prophecy and apocalypticism. The reason that prompted the focus on post-exilic prophecy in particular had to do with the societal upheavals reflected in these writings. Apocalypses were also seen as originating from a turbulent sociological setting, and thus it made sense that this one similarity in conjunction with their eschatological affinities would lead to the discovery of the genetic link. As a result, the frequency with which

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sociological studies were used to shed light on the context of post-exilic prophecy was exceptional for the biblical field. Otto Plöger argued that the sociological reason, which led to the development of apocalypticism, was the transformation of second Temple society into a theocracy.1 Paul Hanson maintained that apocalypticism was the medium used by people who were marginalized by the dominant priestly party. In order to support his opinion he employed sociological theories that describe the clash of various groups that vie to achieve power in a religious context.2 Stephen Cook reacted by asserting that groups in positions of power could also produce apocalyptic writings, citing examples from millennial movements. Cook formulated his argument largely on the basis of models that explain the interaction of groups in cases where two different cultures meet in a colonial setting, and in which the millennial dreamers are in a position of power.3 Therefore, even though Plöger used extra-disciplinary material in a rudimentary fashion, Hanson and Cook delved into the realm of sociology in a more thorough manner. However, both projects seem to suffer from the same type of shortcomings. First, the typology of biblical eschatology was not sufficiently nuanced. Second, there was not enough attention given to the particularities of the post-exilic society before the evidence was appropriated from the social sciences. These difficulties frustrated the attempts to explore from a sociohistorical perspective the way in which eschatology relates to prophecy and eschatology. Proto-Zechariah has often been viewed as a special case in the exploration of the connections between prophecy and apocalypticism. Chronologically this book is situated in the early post-exilic period, which introduced a series of changes to the organization of Israelite community. Furthermore, Zechariah 1–6 relates his message predominantly with visions, and the literary form of the book bears a strong resemblance to apocalypses. Consequently, the prophet has often been situated at the centre of this discussion. My thesis is that a simple contrast between prophetic and apocalyptic eschatology is not sufficient for locating proto-Zechariah. A distinction can be made between pre-exilic and post-exilic eschatology. Apocalyptic eschatology, however, is a third type, different from both. It is my contention that Zechariah’s social setting created a particular situation that called for a particular type of eschatological thinking, which I call restoration eschatology. Therefore, even though eschatology is indeed apparent across prophetic and apocalyptic literature, it is not of the same type. This means that the relation between visions and eschatology in Zechariah 1–6 has to be viewed separately from any genetic relationship to apocalyptic literature. I will argue that proto-Zechariah’s visions fulfil a socio-rhetorical function that is unique to his context. 1. Otto Plöger, Theocracy and Eschatology, trans. S. Rudman (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1968). 2. Paul D. Hanson, The Dawn of Apocalyptic (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1979). 3. Stephen L. Cook, Prophecy and Apocalypticism: The Postexilic Social Setting (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995).



Introduction

3

In order to argue my thesis, I will proceed with an inductive methodological approach. Instead of using theories from the social sciences as the keys, which will provide me with answers on the relation between social context and religious mode of expression, I will use them as a means to generate questions. Therefore, I will have to offer sharper definitions on eschatology that point to social dynamics. I will also have to pay attention to the particular social setting of proto-Zechariah and attempt to reconstruct it on the basis of the historical evidence, before embarking on any type of comparison with interdisciplinary material. The nature of my project requires that I investigate both Zechariah’s sociological context and his visionary method of expression. In order to probe deeper in the issues of social turmoil and his peculiar method of expression, I will have to describe the eschatological viewpoint put forth by Haggai and Zechariah within the social context of the early post-exilic period. This will enable me to probe deeper into the relation between religion and politics in this era, which seems to be a constant theme in every analysis of the early post-exilic period. It will also enable me to ponder the relation between eschatology and the visionary mode of communication. Hopefully, these considerations will help me discern in which ways proto-Zechariah should be conceived as the nexus between prophecy and apocalypticism. Related to this question is the discussion of the role that proto-Zechariah played in his society. Scholars who have sought to understand what he tried to do have also attempted to elucidate why he took those actions. The debate seems to be whether or not proto-Zechariah was a prophet or a priest. If he was a priest, what was his social location, and how am I to interpret his motivation? I will argue that the author of Zechariah 1–6 perceived himself as a prophet and that he also wanted his audience to identify him as such. In order to support this argument, I will offer a proposal that addresses proto-Zechariah’s role by combining his message, his method of relating his prophecies, and his function. In order to address these topics in a methodologically clear fashion, I will structure my research in the following manner: in Chapter 2 I will try to offer a new typology of eschatological viewpoints that will show the connections between the eschatology found in pre-exilic and post-exilic prophecy, as well as the eschatology in apocalypticism. With Chapter 3, I will summarize the proposed social settings that scholars have used in order to explain the relation between prophecy and apocalypticism, and then I will evaluate the anthropological and sociological methods and models used to reconstruct these settings. The goal of Chapter 4 will be to introduce my own understanding of the macro settings of the post-exilic social setting. In order to achieve this end, I will study the administration of the Persian Empire in connection with the size and role of the Persian province of Yehud. Having discussed the broader socio-historical background, I will then zero in on the situation Haggai and Zechariah were facing and proceed to exemplify the particular eschatological viewpoint of Haggai and Proto-Zechariah with Chapter 5. Finally, I will examine the factors that render Zechariah’s visions

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so distinctive, and I will attempt to shed some light in their relation to the early post-exilic social context and how their form was moulded to achieve the prophet’s goals. I propose to do so with my Chapter 6. In Chapter 7 I will offer a comprehensive summary of my work.

Chapter 2

Between Prophecy and Apocalypticism: Distinguishing the Strands of Eschatology

2.1 Relating Prophecy and Apocalypticism The late prophetic literature, composed after the return from the Babylonian exile, has been the subject of lively debate in the last half century. Much of this debate has centred on the relationship between prophecy and apocalypticism, or between prophetic and apocalyptic literature.1 Most scholars over the last two centuries have affirmed some form of continuity between prophecy and apocalyptic literature.2 Alternative views assign the origin of this genre to foreign influence or to wisdom influence.3 The observation that the decline of prophecy was inversely related to the rise of apocalypticism encouraged the supposition that the two phenomena were interrelated and brought about a series of studies that sought to re-examine prophecy with an eye to apocalypticism. R. H. Charles was the first to remark that prophecy had died and that ‘its place had been 1. As is evident from the selection of the terms that frame my investigation, I too want to maintain the distinction between apocalypse as a literary genre and apocalypticism, whether as a social movement or as a worldview. Hanson has shown how the term apocalypticism can be used to refer to social movements and Collins how to refer to worldviews. Paul D. Hanson, ‘Apocalypticism’, IDBSup, (1976): 29–30. John J. Collins, Daniel with an Introduction to Apocalyptic Literature, FTOL 20 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1984), 2–5. 2. For the older history, see J. M. Schmidt, Die jüdische Apokalyptik (NeukirchenVluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1969); see also P. D. Hanson, ‘Prolegomena to the Study of Jewish Apocalyptic’, in F. M. Cross et al., eds., Magnalia Dei: the Mighty Acts of God (Garden City: Doubleday, 1976), 389–413. 3. Bousset has argued that its origins are to be found in Persian dualism. W. Bousset, Die Religion des Judentums im späthellenistischen Zeitalter (Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1966), 506–16. Hölscher argued that wisdom is the source of apocalypticism. Gustav Hölscher, ‘Die Entstehung des Buches Daniel’, TSK 92 (1919): 113–38. Later von Rad expanded on Hölscher’s theory. Gerhard von Rad, Old Testament Theology, trans. D. M. G. Stalker, vol.2 (Edinburgh: Oliver and Boyd, 1962), 306–8, and Gerhard von Rad, Wisdom in Israel, trans. James D. Martin (London: S. C. M. Press, 1972), 269–93.

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Visions and Eschatology

taken by apocalyptic’.4 It was, however, H. H. Rowley’s statement that the ‘apocalyptic is the child of prophecy’ that changed the direction of investigation towards a genetic relation between the two genres.5 The post-exilic period is the transitional period par excellence between biblical Israel and early Judaism. More importantly, it is the time when prophecy undergoes a series of prominent changes, when some of the novel traits that turn up for the first time in prophetic books become apocalyptic hallmarks.6 Another important observation was the fact that the shared traits occur primarily in post-exilic prophetic passages with eschatological content. Therefore, post-exilic prophecy was regarded as the grey area between prophecy and apocalypticism, and eschatology was considered their point of contact. In this chapter, I will investigate and evaluate the attempts to relate prophecy and apocalypticism via their eschatological affinities and attempt to offer a typology that will show how post-exilic prophetic eschatology relates to the eschatology of classical prophecy and apocalypticism. 2.2 Defining Eschatology In order to achieve this goal, I first have to provide a definition of the term eschatology. This is rendered difficult by several factors. This term derives 4. R. H. Charles, Religious Development between the Old and the New Testaments, Home University Library of Modern Knowledge, vol.88 (New York: Henry Holt and Co./ London: Williams and Norgate, 1914), 32–3. Charles believed that apocalypticism replaced prophecy because ‘they have a common basis and use for the most part the same methods’. Ibid., 16. 5. H. H. Rowley, The Relevance of Apocalyptic: A Study of Jewish and Christian Apocalypses from Daniel to the Revelation, 1st edn 1944, 2nd edn 1947, 3rd edn 1963 (London: Lutterworth Press, 1963), 15. Rowley acknowledged that apocalypticism had a character and purpose of its own. However, he noticed that there were certain traits that it shared with prophecy. Rowley believed that prophecy paved the way for apocalypticism because he found that they share the eschatological notions of divine deliverance and a golden age, messianic ideas, and a predictive aspect. Ibid., 23–41. 6. Blenkinsopp discusses the way in which the social and political changes of the exile caused an inner crisis in prophecy. J. Blenkinsopp, A History of Prophecy in Israel, 2nd edn (Louisville, Kentucky: Westminster John Knox Press, 1996), 149–60. Russell, like Rowley, also argued that the seeds of apocalypticism were in prophecy. He differed in maintaining that the ‘tap root’ of apocalypticism was post-exilic prophecy, particularly the prophecies found in Ezek. 38–39; Zech. 1–8; 9–14; Joel 3; and Isa. 24–27. D. S. Russell, The Method and Message of Jewish Apocalyptic 200BC–AD100, OTL (Philadelphia: The Westminster Press, 1964), 88–9. The traits that apocalypticism borrowed from post-exilic prophecy according to Russell are ‘the notion of divine transcendence, the development of angelology, fantastic symbolism, cosmic imagery, the use of foreign mythology, reinterpretation of prophecy, the visionary form of inspiration, a distinctly literary form, cataclysm and judgment, the Day of the Lord, the destruction of the Gentiles, the coming of the Golden Age, the messianic deliverer and the resurrection of the dead’. Ibid., 91. Russell clarified that ‘apocalyptic is not a substitute for prophecy…but it is in many respects a continuation, or at least a development of it…it is “prophecy in a new idiom”’. Ibid., 92.



Between Prophecy and Apocalypticism

7

from modern theology, but it is applied to a wide range of material from the ancient world and to ideas that changed considerably over time.7 The noun eschatology is derived from the Greek adjective eschatos, which means ‘last’ or ‘final’.8 Therefore, the term is understood to refer to expectations and events that are believed to take place at an end-time. This end-time constitutes a definitive change but can be construed in either an absolute or a relative sense. In the first case, it pertains to the destruction and/or renewal of the physical universe, and this is a view that is often found in apocalyptic literature, while in the second it relates the destruction and/or renewal of Israel, a notion that is predominant in prophecy.9 In the case of a renewal, ‘the end’ is viewed as a point of transition rather than a terminal point.10 In both cases, these changes are presented as decisively different from the regular state of affairs ‘to such an extent that one can speak of an entirely new state of reality’.11 The other important thing to notice is that this flexibility around the understanding of the nature of ‘the end’ allows plenty of room for the development and formation of a variety of eschatological ideas. The nature of this study requires that I accept as eschatological the whole spectrum of ideas that describe ‘the end’; those that regard it as a shift and/ or transition that is supposed to take place in the near future and those 7. Vriezen underlines this problem when he remarks that the term eschatology may have originated in dogmatics, but it was soon used by other fields, such as the phenomenology of religion, the history of religion, and biblical theology. Th. C. Vriezen, ‘Prophecy and Eschatology’, VTSup 1 (1953): 201. As Petersen notes, it is important to remember that eschatology was applied to the literature of the Bible as a term only in the 19th century. D. L. Petersen, ‘Eschatology’, in ABD, D. N. Freedman, ed. (New York, London, Toronto, Sydney, Auckland: Doubleday, 1992), II, 576. 8. Petersen states that the Greek word has a variety of meanings, which depend on the particular frame of reference. It can mean ‘the farthest extent in space, the final element of time, and last piece of money’. D. L. Petersen, ‘Eschatology’, II, 576. 9. The debate around the proper definition of eschatology, i.e. with a relative or an absolute sense, has a long history in biblical scholarship. Van der Ploeg has argued for an absolute definition of the term. J. van der Ploeg, ‘Eschatology in the Old Testament’, OTS 17 (1972): 89–99, whereas von Rad has defended a relative understanding of eschatology. G. von Rad, Old Testament Theology, trans. D. M. G. Stalker, vol.2 (New York, Harper: Harper & Row, 1962–[65]), 114–15. Bob Becking has asserted that the ancient Israelites did not speculate on the end of time. He adds that in the Hebrew Bible there is no indication of an unbridgeable discontinuity before the coming of the kingdom of heaven. Bob Becking, ‘Expectations about the End of Time in the Hebrew Bible: Do They Exist?’, in Apocalyptic in History and Tradition, ed. Christopher Rowland and John Barton (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002), 44–6. It is my conviction that a proper definition should include both the relative and absolute understanding of the term. 10. Talmon maintains that as far as the hope for the future reflects the reconstitution of a situation that existed in the past, only infinitely better and depicted in utopian hues, it should be regarded as a turning point in time. Put in other words, it is ‘a new edition’ of something that had already been experienced. S. Talmon, King, Cult and Calendar in Ancient Israel (Jerusalem: The Magnes Press, 1986), 144. 11. D. L. Petersen, ‘Eschatology’, II, 575. Nickelsburg agrees also that eschatology refers to a decisive act of God in the future that will generate a different status quo. G. W. E. Nickelsburg, ‘Eschatology (Early Jewish)’, II, 580.

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that consider it a terminal point. Eschatology, then, is a broad term that is applicable both to prophecy and to apocalypticism. The challenge that lies ahead is to distinguish between the various types of eschatology.12 2.3 Pre-Exilic Prophetic Eschatology Certain scholars have doubted the existence of eschatology in classical prophecy.13 Robert Carroll offers a representative argument when he states that ‘if eschatology is understood in its literal sense as the doctrine of the last things, or the final things, or even the ultimate things then prophecy had no eschatology’. He believes that any future hope, which appears in prophecy, is more accurately described as futurism rather than eschatology.14 As becomes clear then, the problem for these scholars is definitional rather than contextual. Pre-exilic Israelite prophets often describe a world in turmoil and point to conflicts that split their society apart. With their message they attempt to indict the guilty and/or console the oppressed. In their judgment oracles, they do not hesitate to point to the social fault lines. Depending on the circumstances,

12. Although I do not believe that the various types of eschatology can be separated into mutually exclusive categories, I believe that a closer examination of eschatological thinking requires an attempt to distinguish one type from the other. I do not want to argue that there is a linear and clear-cut progression in eschatology, but several developments that, as Vriezen remarks, ‘diverge from and are connected with each other and date from very different periods’. In this observation, Vriezen admits that he is influenced by Steurnagel’s study of Jewish eschatology. In this study, Steuernagel brings up the argument that in eschatology ‘there is no method in it but a series of “Einzellinien’’ (lines of development) have sprung up, which diverge from and are connected with each other and date from different periods’. Th. C. Vriezen, ‘Prophecy and Eschatology’, VTSup 1 (1953): 225. This may be an artificial distinction, but it is also an epistemological convention dictated by the need to study phenomena in their specificity in order to comprehend the bigger picture. Almost every scientific inquiry has to abide by this convention, and it is by no means unique to this study. I will attempt to emphasize, however, the importance of balancing the general and the specific. 13. Sigmund Mowinckel argued that in the prophets one encounters ‘a future hope and a hope of restoration, essentially this-worldly, national and political in character, but with important religious elements.’ In later Judaism, however, one finds a notion of eschatology that is transcendental, superterrestrial, other-worldly and ‘“wholly other,” different from everything hitherto experienced on earth’. The original was published in Norwegian, S. Mowinckel, Han som kommer (Copenhagen, 1951). In this study the references come from the English translation, S. Mowinckel, He That Cometh, trans. G. W. Anderson (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1959), 261. The book has now been reprinted by Eerdmans, 2005, with a foreword by John J. Collins. It should be noted that by ‘later Judaism’ Mowinckel refers to literature composed from the second century and later, i.e. Daniel, 1 and 2 Maccabees, Tobit, the Wisdom of Solomon, etc. Ibid., 280. 14. Carroll believes that with ‘futurism’ there are fewer chances of confusing the prophetic motifs with later apocalyptic eschatology. R. P. Carroll, When Prophecy Failed (New York: The Seabury Press, 1979), 37–8.



Between Prophecy and Apocalypticism

9

they condemn an individual, an interest group or the whole nation.15 In other words, pre-exilic prophets do not hesitate to focus on members of the political body or groups within the nation and deliver custom-made judgment oracles.16 Their eschatological messages, however, are distinctive in one important respect; they always address the nation as a whole. In order to illustrate this peculiarity, I will examine the most representative eschatological passages from pre-exilic prophets and try to determine their intended audience. The fourth vision of Amos (8:1-3) has been seen as a classic example of prophetic eschatology: 8:1 This is what the Lord God showed me, a basket of summer fruit. 2 He said: ‘Amos, what do you see?’ and I said: ‘A basket of summer fruit.’ Then the Lord said to me: ‘The end has come upon my people Israel; I will never again pass them by. 3 The songs of the temple shall become wailings in that day.’ Says the Lord God; ‘the dead bodies shall be many, cast out in every place. Hush!’

In this passage Amos declares the final punishment, the one that will signal the end for the nation of Israel. Andersen and Freedman argue that the time reference ‘in that day’, which the prophets used to enumerate the events that will befall Israel, confirms that this temporal marker has acquired eschatological time reference.17 The prophet does not explain how or when the Lord is about to bring doomsday. Amos is able to formulate such a 15. An example of the first case would be Amos’ prophecy against Amaziah (7:14-17). An instance of the second would be Micah’s chastisement of the members of the prophetic guild, who accept bribes and forsake the spiritual nature of their leadership for the sake of monetary gain (3:5-8). As this example illustrates, I use the term interest group to speak about a number of individuals who are not randomly assembled but are recognized as such on the basis of a distinctive, shared trait that ascribes unity or even solidarity within the group. An illustration of the third pattern would be Isaiah’s condemnation of the people’s decision to rely on Egypt for security (30:12-14). 16. I believe that one should try to draw a fine distinction between judgment and eschatological oracles if one is to gain a deeper understanding of eschatological thought. It is true that eschatological oracles fall under the broader category of judgment speech, but as Westermann has shown, there is more than one type of judgment oracle, and there are variants to the form of announcement of judgment against Israel. Although Westermann does not draw a distinction between eschatological and judgment oracles, he argues that the announcement of the judgment against Israel speech is a development of the earlier prophetic judgment speech to individuals. However, he acknowledges that the judgment against Israel underwent a large number of modifications, expansions and variant wordings that he could not list exhaustively in his study. Claus Westermann, Basic Forms of Prophetic Speech (Westminster: John Knox Press, 1991), 169–94. This distinction is not only grounded on content but on form-critical considerations as well. Content-wise, judgment oracles that reach a climax with a severe punishment, which seems to annihilate Israel, are often taken to be eschatological. From a form-critical standpoint, one should avoid collapsing the two types because eschatological oracles can often be cast in the form of salvation oracles. Messianic oracles are often found in this form. Later eschatological oracles include the proclamation of both judgment and salvation. 17. Francis I. Andersen and David Noel Freedman, Amos: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, The Anchor Bible 24a (New York, London: Doubleday, 1989), 797.

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complete picture of annihilation because he relates his message with a vision. The visionary mode of communication allows more room for expression and poetic licence. Judgment oracles that focus on particular individuals under particular circumstances call for a greater degree of specificity, like the oracle against the women of Samaria, which announces captivity and exile (Amos 4:1-3). The fourth vision is addressed to the people of Israel.18 Shalom Paul notes that Amos clearly envisages a wholesale decimation of the people that ‘ends on the dire tones of a funerary lamentation bemoaning the mass carnage’.19 The picture of many dead bodies that have been cast out everywhere puts together a scene of utter devastation and may very well imply that there is no one left to bury them.20 Vriezen is accurate when he observes that the life task of Amos was ‘to proclaim the imminence of the absolute judgment to Israel at a time when nobody expected it’.21 Nevertheless, there are scholars who argue that although the disaster proclaimed by Amos is unconditional, it is not wholesale.22 They ground their argument on the idea of the remnant that occurs in several passages.23 They posit that for Amos the future holds out hope since he mentions some survivors, if not for Israel as a whole then at least for a ‘remnant of Joseph’.24 This discussion was largely brought about by a long-standing attempt to determine whether or not Amos was a consistent prophet of doom.25 It is important to notice that the goal of this inquiry was to assess the message of the book of Amos in its entirety. From my brief analysis, I concur with Hasel’s conclusion that ‘Amos is not a consistent prophet of unrelieved doom’.26 There are a few passages which suggest that there will be some survivors. 18. One should note that the message it communicates has many gaps and the audience is called to fill in the details. This way everyone listening is engaged in active participation trying to process the vision. As they make the logical associations from one piece of information to the next, everyone contributes in the visualization of the catastrophe, amplifying it in a manifold manner. 19. Shalom Paul, Amos: A Commentary on the Book of Amos, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1991), 254. 20. F. I. Andersen and D. N. Freedman make this connection on the basis of Psalm 79. Verses 2-3 describe the destruction of Jerusalem by the nations and state explicitly that the dead bodies of the people are left as prey for the birds and the wild animals because there is no one to bury them. Ibid., 799. 21. Th. C. Vriezen, ‘Prophecy and Eschatology’, VTSup 1 (1953): 205. 22. Hasel offers an overview of this discussion, which began with Klaus Koch. Gerhard F. Hasel. ‘The Alleged “No” of Amos and Amos’ Eschatology’, Andrews University Seminary Studies 29 (1991): 5. 23. Hasel argues that Amos uses the remnant motif either to heighten judgment as in 3:12; 4:1-3; 5:3; 6:9-10; and 9:1-4 and to proclaim salvation in 5:14-15 and 9:11-12. Gerhard F. Hasel, ‘The Alleged “No” of Amos and Amos’ Eschatology’, 10. 24. Gerhard F. Hasel, Understanding the Book of Amos (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Baker Book House, 1991), 105. 25. For an overview of this debate, see Gerhard. F. Hasel, The Remnant (Berrien Springs, Michigan: Andrews University Press, 1972), 173–6. 26. Hasel maintains that for Amos, ‘the important matter was to point with bitter irony to the false popular notions of salvation and future hope in Israel and to call the people to repentance’. Hasel, ibid., 198.



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One has to acknowledge, however, that these passages are deeply disturbing and dismal. The best example would be the oracle of the decimated city in 5:3, where Amos proclaims that one-tenth of the population of each city will survive.27 Furthermore, one should keep in mind a few key observations. First, this is a judgment oracle with no eschatological dimensions. Second, this oracle is found in the middle of the book before Amos’ message reaches its climactic point. Third, the survival of this remnant is a possibility but not a certainty, since it is conditioned by the word ‘perhaps’ (5:15). Furthermore, the remnant, as described by Amos, is small and insignificant. Hasel believes that Amos affirmed the existence of a debased remnant because this shocking description could contrast more effectively with people’s hopes for survival than if the prophet had denied the existence of any survivors at all.28 Last, and more importantly, the metonym the remnant of Joseph does not seem to refer to any divisions within the nation of Israel. Andersen and Freedman maintain that this is an unusual but understandable reference to the Northern Kingdom.29 One should also keep in mind that the other two instances in which Amos uses the word remnant, 1:8 and 9:12, are with the ethnic names Philistines and Edom. Therefore, even in these cases the addressee is still an entire nation. It seems, then, that even in cases where Amos affirms the existence of some survivors from what he perceives to be an eschatological judgment, he believes that their identity is random and cannot be identified in any meaningful way from the rest of the nation that is going to perish. The other pre-exilic prophet in whom I find an explicit eschatological message is Isaiah of Jerusalem. Vriezen states that Isaiah is ‘as radically positive about the absoluteness of the judgment’ as Amos; however, there is a certainty that a remnant shall return.30 In 30:13-14 the absoluteness of the judgment is eloquently illustrated: 27. Another example would be the image of a shepherd, who rescues the mangled remnants of a sheep from the lion in 3:12. Furthermore, the judgment oracle in 5:14-15 leaves room for hope of deliverance if the people ‘seek good and not evil’ and ‘hate evil and love good and establish justice in the gate’. G. F. Hasel, The Remnant, 198. Blenkinsopp, however, believes that the language of this oracle is Deuteronomistic and one should doubt its attribution to Amos. Joseph Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 1–39, AB (New York: Doubleday, 2000), 110. Hasel quotes J. P. Hyatt, who asserts that Amos 5:4-6, 14-15 is one of the most hopeful passages of the prophet. The Remnant, 192. Hasel believes that, for Amos, the important point was not to proclaim unmitigated doom but to shake Israel out of a false sense of security and ‘induce them to return to Yahweh’. Ibid., 198. 28. Hasel agrees with Gressmann that the emphasis on Amos’ use of the remnant motif is on the meaninglessness, ineffectiveness and smallness of the remnant for Israel’s national existence. Hasel argues that Amos wants to do more than destroy Israel’s false hopes; he wants to warn Israel of the real danger of complete destruction and provoke reformation. G. F. Hasel, The Remnant, 189–90. 29. Francis I. Andersen and David N. Freedman, Amos, 508. They also conclude that Amos uses the name Joseph to refer to the Northern Kingdom as a nation just as Judah invariably refers to the Southern Kingdom. Ibid., 109. 30. Vriezen believes that, with Isaiah, prophecy reaches a new stage in the development of the hope of salvation since salvation and doom are related paradoxically. Th. C. Vriezen, ‘Prophecy and Eschatology’, 207.

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30:13 therefore this iniquity shall become for you like a break in a high wall, bulging out and about to collapse, whose crash comes suddenly, in an instant; 14 its breaking is like that of a potter’s vessel that is smashed so ruthlessly that among its fragments not a sherd is found for taking fire from the hearth, or dipping water out of the cistern.

Isaiah here uses two similes to communicate to the ‘rebellious people’ (30:9) the totality of the punishment; first is the sudden collapsing of a high wall, and the second is the shattering of a pot to bits. The former stresses the allenveloping and swift nature of the judgment while the latter emphasizes its thoroughness. If the smashed pot in this simile is the state of Judah, then this image stresses its uselessness after the coming judgment.31 Blenkinsopp and Beuken both note that the judgment here hinges on the rejection of God’s instruction, which seems to be the main thread of the chapter. The nature of the disaster and the appellation of God as the ‘Holy one of Israel’ that precedes it seem to indicate that the rejection occurs in a national level. Thus, it would be safe to assume that the addressee is the entire nation.32 However, Isaiah adopts the remnant motif in his prophecy and ascribes to it new meaning and importance for the future of Israel. An exhaustive examination of all the dimensions of this topic is outside the scope of the present study. Instead, I will focus on the question relevant to this inquiry: namely, whether or not Isaiah’s use of the remnant leads to a different vision of the eschatological fate of the nation. In other words, whether the people of Judah are still seen as a corporate personality that is going to experience judgment together and whether there are divisions drawn between interest groups within the society that are destined for a different future. In order to answer this question, I will examine representative eschatological oracles which use this motif. The first comes from 6:11-13, the call of the prophet Isaiah: 6:11 Then I said, ‘How long, O Lord?’ And he said: ‘Until cities lie waste without inhabitant, and houses without people, and the land is utterly desolate; 12 Until the Lord send everyone far away, and vast is the emptiness in the midst of the land. 13 Even if a tenth part remain in it, it will be burned again, like a terebinth or an oak whose stump remains standing when it is felled. The holy seed is its stump.

This future destruction is utter, and it will come in two successive waves: the second will burn over anything that has escaped the first.33 I should underline 31. Kissane and Beuken both note that the image of a broken pot is elsewhere used to convey the image of uselessness and to proclaim judgment. Kissane points to Jeremiah 19:10 and 22:28, and Beuken adds Ps 2:9. Edward J. Kissane, The Book of Isaiah, vol.1 (Dublin: Browne and Nolan, 1941), 345. Willem A. M. Beuken, Isaiah, part II, chapters 28–39 (Peeters: Leuven, 2000), 165. 32. Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 1–39, 416. Beuken, Isaiah, 164. Contra Wildberger, who does not know who the addressee is but believes that it cannot be the general population of Judah or Jerusalem. Hans Wildberger, Isaiah 28–39 (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2002), 151. 33. Blenkinsopp observes that the judgment proclaimed here must refer to the future devastation of Judah instead of the Assyrian conquest of Syria and Israel ‘since it is Judeans



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two elements from this oracle that are pertinent to my discussion. First, it clearly marks the end of an era, possibly by alluding to the end of national existence for Judah, but it does not signify the end of all life, which brings me to my second point that a ‘stump’ is going to survive. The last part of verse 13 which identifies this stump as the ‘holy seed’ is most probably a post-exilic addition with an explicative/exegetical function.34 However, there is no reason to make me think that the idea of a remaining rootstock that will sprout again is alien to Isaiah.35 Hasel notes that according to Job 14:7-9, much should be taken as common knowledge.36 I would claim that the remnant is part of a whole, but it is not a specific group within the society. It is an eschatological entity in the sense that it survives the judgment and that the new community springs from it. Isaiah, however, has no interest or desire to define the identity of this remnant in a way that connects it with a specific group of people in Judah. Overall Amos and Isaiah seem to have similar eschatological ideas. Isaiah however, emphasizes more the survival of a remnant. He does not belittle the coming judgment; to the contrary, he seems to agree with Amos on its severity. Nevertheless, for Isaiah, the survival of a remnant, even under dismal circumstances, justifies hope for the future.37 This difference does not affect the inclusiveness of the nation in the coming judgment but it constitutes a difference in eschatological perspective. Eschatology in pre-exilic prophecy drew a fairly clear distinction between Israel and the rest of the world. It was primarily concerned with the destiny of God’s people that was conveniently defined by their national identity. who are to be rendered obdurate as a result of the mission’. He also notes that the plaintive question ‘how long?’ is often found in liturgical laments, e.g. Psalms 74:10; 79:5 and 94:3. Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 1–39, 226. 34. Kaiser believes it to be a secondary addition. Otto Kaiser, Isaiah 1–12: A Commentary, OTL (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1972), 84. Wildberger also considers it a gloss. Hans Wildberger, Isaiah 1–12 (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1991), 258. It is also worth mentioning that this phrase does not appear in some of the Greek translations (A, Q, B, and Syh). Wildberger, Isaiah 1–12, 251. Blenkinsopp notes that the only other occurrence of the phrase ‘holy seed’ is found in Ezra 9:2, where the Babylonian immigrant community tries to separate itself from the native population of the province. Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 1–39, 226. 35. The change in style and the allusion to the deportation in verse 12 lead scholars to believe it is a later addition, but they argue that it should be dated to Sennacherib’s campaign in 701 rather than post-exilic times. See Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 1–39, 226. Cf. also Marvin A. Sweeney, Isaiah 1–39, FOTL vol.XVI (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans Publishing Co, 1996), 138. 36. Hasel asserts that ‘the idea of life which is basic to the remnant motif in general is implicit in the picture of the root stock in the inaugural vision of Isaiah’ Hasel, The Remnant, 244–5. 37. The judgment oracle that Isaiah delivered to Ahaz in 7:1-17 during the SyroEphraimite war shows clearly Isaiah’s conviction that although the future will be difficult, Ahaz should not give up all hope. The hope is reflected in both his son, named ‘a remnant will return’, and in the sign of the surviving Immanuel. However, both point to a coming catastrophe. The name of Isaiah’s son implies that the people will be exiled and, as shown in verse 15, Immanuel will grow up in a destroyed land. Isaiah’s eschatological oracles seem to stem from the same conviction and thus they present a similar viewpoint.

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Visions and Eschatology

Therefore, when it came to proclaiming the eschatological fate of Israel, which was one of the gravest messages a prophet had to deliver, his addressee was the nation in its entirety. 2.4 Post-Exilic Prophetic Eschatology Even though most scholars agree that the eschatology found in post-exilic prophecy constitutes the grey area between prophecy and apocalypticism, the problem of definitions becomes a source of confusion in the debate. Even a brief survey of the relevant literature confirms that post-exilic prophecy is seen as carrying the seeds of apocalyptic eschatology. Mowinckel, who was among the first to look into this matter, picked Second-Isaiah as the nexus.38 Plöger widened the scope and focused on Isaiah 24–27, Third-Zechariah and Joel.39 Hanson argued for Third-Isaiah, while Cook centred the discussion on Ezekiel 38–39, Zechariah 1–8 and Joel 2:1-11and 3–4.40 Indicative of the terminological confusion is Plöger’s and Hanson’s insistence on defining the eschatology found in post-exilic prophecy as ‘apocalyptic eschatology’ and Cook’s choice to define it as ‘proto-apocalyptic eschatology’. Even though the sources of apocalypticism may lie within the prophetic tradition, as these scholars want to argue, the post-exilic material is not apocalyptic. As all scholars recognize, the primary examples of apocalyptic literature are found in the books of Daniel and Enoch in the second century BCE and in later writings (4 Ezra, 2 Baruch, the Book of Revelation, etc.).41 The eschatology of these writings is significantly different from what I find in post-exilic prophecy, as it includes the hope for the vindication or judgment 38. Mowinckel argued that in Deutero-Isaiah, there is a change in prophetic eschatology. S. Mowinckel, He That Cometh, 149. 39. Plöger believed that the initial traces of the change in eschatological thinking were to be found in late prophetic passages. His work was first published in German, Otto Plöger, Theokratie und Eschatologie (Neukirchen: Neukirchener, 1959). The references in this study come from the English translation. Otto Plöger, Theocracy and Eschatology, trans. S. Rudman (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1968), 53–105. 40. Hanson, too, was convinced that apocalyptic eschatology was a natural offspring of prophecy that stood in unbroken connection with the centuries of continuous prophetic tradition before it. Paul D. Hanson, The Dawn of Apocalyptic (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1979). Hanson locates the apocalyptic core of prophecy in its attempt to change the status quo. He states that ‘the affirmation of existing structures as “absolute and eternal” implies a strong negation of the eschatological element of classical prophecy, for the element calls for judgment of the status quo and for the supplanting of old structures by a new order’. Ibid., 276. Cook believes that ‘those Persian period religious texts’ have clear affinities with Hellenistic and Roman period apocalypticism. Stephen L. Cook, Prophecy and Apocalypticism: The Postexilic Social Setting (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995), 35. 41. Rowland argues that apocalyptic texts were written around the beginning of the Christian era and provides a list of Jewish and Christian apocalyptic compositions. Christopher Rowland, The Open Heaven (New York: Crossroad, 1982), 11–22. Cf. Michael E. Stone, Jewish Writings of the Second Temple Period (Assen: Van Gorcum, Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984), 392–5.



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of individuals after death.42 Consequently, what Plöger and Hanson designate as ‘apocalyptic eschatology’ in the prophetic corpus is not the same as ‘apocalyptic eschatology’ in Daniel and Enoch. By superimposing apocalyptic eschatology on prophecy, they produce definitions that blur the distinction between the eschatological viewpoints of prophecy and of apocalyptic literature. In this study, I will use the adjectives prophetic and apocalyptic as significative of the eschatological notions that are found in the corpora of writings deemed as prophecies or apocalypses, respectively.43 In other words, I will employ these adjectives with their stem meaning as it derives from their association with the one or the other literary genre.44 My goal is to avoid further confusion by offering sharper definitions that will enable me to distinguish with more clarity the various types of eschatology.

42. Collins argues that the book of Daniel goes a step beyond from previous eschatological notions when it suggests that ‘the just can be elevated to the heavenly sphere of life to join the angelic host’. John J. Collins, ‘Apocalyptic Eschatology as the Transcendence of Death’, in Seers, Sibyls & Sages (Leiden, New York, Cologne: Brill, 1997), 84–91. 43. The decision to focus on a specific group of texts that are clearly defined either as prophecy or apocalypses is taken in order to achieve methodological clarity. The determination of what constitutes prophetic literature is fairly easy since the matter has been settled mostly with the help of the canon of the Hebrew Bible. For the determination of the apocalyptic genre I will accept the definition offered by Collins: ‘“Apocalypse” is a genre of revelatory literature with a narrative framework, in which a revelation is mediated by an otherworldly being to a human recipient, disclosing a transcendent reality which is both temporal, insofar as it envisages eschatological salvation, and spatial insofar as it involves another, supernatural world.’ John J. Collins, ‘Morphology of a Genre’, Semeia 14 (1979): 9. 44. I should repeat that my goal is not to clarify what is ‘apocalyptic’, but to shed light on the relationship of post-exilic prophetic eschatology to the earlier prophetic type and the later apocalyptic one. The term ‘apocalyptic’ has a long history behind it, and that makes it difficult for scholars to agree on the parameters of its proper understanding. Collins points out that, as a term, it refers to an ‘indeterminate body of literature with vague family resemblances’. He continues that, since resemblances can be of many different kinds, ‘Some scholars focused on literary form, some on eschatology, some on quite isolated motifs that happened to be found in Revelation’. John J. Collins, ‘Prophecy, Apocalypse and Eschatology’, in Knowing the End from the Beginning, 45–6. Collins also argues that apocalypses should provide the standard for apocalyptic eschatology; otherwise, the term is used in an extended sense that is helpful only in pointing to the implications of some texts. John J. Collins, The Apocalyptic Imagination, 11–12. Tigchelaar points out, too, that what has been called ‘apocalyptic eschatology’ appears also in other literary genres. E. C. Tigchelaar, The Prophets of Old and the Day of the Lord (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1996), 7. Therefore, apocalyptic eschatology can only be construed as a typical kind, and not a somewhat arbitrary appellation, only if the definitional touchstone is set by the apocalyptic corpus itself.

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Visions and Eschatology 2.5 Probing the Grey Area of Eschatology

2.5.a Eschatology and Myth One of the reasons why scholars have considered post-exilic prophecy as the grey area is the prominence of mythological language and motifs. Mowinckel believes that future expectations began to change after the exile. He considers this period a turning point that is noticeable in Deutero-Isaiah, who adopted a universal outlook along with a mythological and symbolical language and a cosmic perspective. However, this was not a radical transformation. Ultimately, Deutero-Isaiah was limited by his Jewish nationalism because his ‘universal God is the God of Israel; and in spite of everything his kingdom is still a kingdom of this world’.45 Nevertheless, he considers it an important first step since it made possible ‘the severance of future hope from historical reality, from the contingent’.46 It also enabled the future hope to be ‘lifted up into the transcendent realm, to become something which is not a matter of “rational” probability or possibility’.47 Mowinckel asserts that the transformation of the Jewish hope for the future into eschatology was achieved finally through the agency of two more factors. First, via the adoption of ‘a dualistic view of the world’ that was an unfamiliar concept to ancient Israelites and second, through ‘the theological, exegetical, and speculative learning based on the old prophetic sayings and books’ that he calls ‘wisdom’.48 He maintains that only 45. Mowinckel, He That Cometh, 149. 46. Ibid., 154. What is important for Mowinckel is that this hope assumes an absolute character. 47. Ibid., 154. Soon afterwards, Frost offered an analysis of eschatology that contradicted Mowinckel in two points. Frost asserted that eschatology was an integral element of Israelite religion from its early stages and that universalistic language was not a characteristic of the post-exilic period. He stated that the pre-exilic prophecy had already reached universalistic dimensions in Zephaniah’s message of the ‘day of Yahweh’ since, according to this prophet, the whole world would come under God’s judgment. He argued that what gave birth to apocalypticism was the fusion of prophecy with mythic language that happened in the post-exilic period. Stanley B. Frost, Old Testament Apocalyptic: Its Origins and Growth (London: The Epworth Press, 1952), 41–92. However, as Nicholson observes, Frost’s argument has a glaring gap; if myth and eschatology were irreconcilable in the preexilic period, it is hard to see why the exile would have altered so radically this notion. Ernest W. Nicholson, ‘Apocalyptic’, in Tradition and Interpretation, ed. G. W. Anderson (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979), 199. Furthermore, Frost does not explain why mythic motifs should be limited to the post-exilic era. His argument that Amos’ eschatological language is ‘vaguely mythical’ because it does not have a particular reference to a story or figure is not accurate since mythic motifs often circulate and function independently from the specific story in which they are found. As Barr maintains, one cannot draw ‘so sharp a distinction in nature between the fire, which ate up the tehom rabbah in Amos and the prophecies of the Golden Age’. J. Barr, ‘The Meaning of “Mythology” in Relation to the Old Testament’, VT ix (1959), 9–10. Grabbe adds that ‘Just because earthquakes are historical phenomena does not make Amos 9.1-6 less mythical than Zech. 14.4-5’. Grabbe, ‘Introduction and Overview’, in Knowing the End from the Beginning, 18. 48. Mowinckel, 263. Mowinckel clarifies that Jewish dualism is temporal, spatial and ethical, ibid., 264. As such, it should be distinguished from the material dualism of the



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then the ground was ready for apocalypticism to rise ‘with eschatology at its centre’.49 Thus, Mowinckel argues that eschatology only appeared after the exile with the import of foreign dualistic doctrines and the reinterpretation of earlier tradition. Paul Hanson, in his influential book The Dawn of Apocalyptic, offers a similar argument. He contends that the eschatological dimension of prophecy is found in its attempts to judge the status quo and supplant the old structures by a new order, a trait that is also typical of apocalyptic literature.50 Having established their connection, his next task was to show how they differ. He defined the two phenomena as follows: Prophetic eschatology we define as a religious perspective which focuses on the prophetic announcement to the nation of the divine plans for Israel and the world which the prophet has witnessed unfolding in the divine council and which he translates into the terms of plain history, real politics and human instrumentality; that is, the prophet interprets for the king and the people how the plans of the divine council will be effected within the context of their nation’s history and the history of the world. Apocalyptic eschatology we define as religious perspective which focuses on the disclosure (usually esoteric in nature) to the elect of the cosmic vision of Yahweh’s Gnostics, ibid., 275. Mowinckel adds that this new study of prophecy was combined with all kinds of ancient Near Eastern learning such as cosmography, angelology, astrology and medical magic. Ibid., 266. 49. Ibid., 266. 50. Hanson’s insistence that there is an apocalyptic core to prophecy is largely based on Mannheim’s sociological theory on utopia, which seems to resonate with Hanson’s theological understanding of prophecy. K. Mannheim, Ideology and Utopia: An Introduction to the Sociology of Knowledge, trans. and ed. Louis Wirth (New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1949). I should clarify that although Mannheim does not use the term ‘eschatology’ in his work, he refers to the concept of the expectation of an ultimate end. He believes that this expectation has concrete impact on history. A typical example is his comment ‘Whenever the utopia disappears, history ceases to be a process leading to an ultimate end. The concept of historical time which led to quantitatively different epochs disappears, and history becomes more and more like undifferentiated space.’ Mannheim, Ideology and Utopia, 227–8. Wellhausen’s classic argument states that the classical prophets were the founders of monotheism. Wellhausen, Prolegomena, 57. Hanson believes that the prophets were not the inventors of Yahwism, but he states that from the eighth century on, the prophets were the ones who were responsible for ‘translating Yahweh’s cosmic rule into terms of contemporary history and politics’. Hanson, Dawn of Apocalyptic, 14, 16. In this respect, Hanson seems to be influenced by Wellhausen in stating that prophets were the guardians of Yahwism. Carroll, in his review of Hanson’s book, notices that Hanson never addresses the differences between his understanding of prophecy and opposing interpretations. All the clarifications Hanson offers are always in terms of his own position. Robert P. Carroll, ‘Twilight of Prophecy or Dawn of Apocalyptic?’, JSOT 14 (1979): 18. Carroll even suggests that Hanson’s favour toward the prophetic group might be influenced by Hanson’s background in the 1960s with its counter-culture apocalypticism. Carroll, 27. Hanson’s contention that the eschatology in prophecy is found in the attempt to judge the status quo is influenced by Mannheim, who admits that he is influenced by the Hegelian theory of T.G. Droysen. As Mannheim puts it, ‘The existing order gives birth to utopias which in turn break the bonds of the existing order, leaving it free to develop in the direction of the next order of existence’. K. Mannheim, Ideology and Utopia, 179.

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sovereignty – especially as it relates to his acting to deliver his faithful – which disclosure the visionaries have largely ceased to translate into the terms of plain history, real politics, and human instrumentality due to a pessimistic view of reality growing out of the bleak post-exilic conditions within which those associated with the visionaries found themselves. Those conditions seemed unsuitable to them as a context for the envisioned restoration of Yahweh’s people.51

The point that Hanson wants to make is that these are two different, yet related, ways of eschatological expression. Both of them involve the relation of information procured from the divine realm to the sphere of human activities. In other words, he believes that the overarching theological framework, the setting, and the intention are the same. Nevertheless, according to his definitions, they differ in three points: in the mode of expression, the identity of the messenger and the intended audience. I will examine the first two of these points here and the third in the next chapter. Hanson combines Mowinckel’s proposal on cosmic language and the predominance of mythological motifs to argue that post-exilic prophecy uses a different mode of expression. It seems to me that the difference in kind does not hold up to scrutiny.52 The difference seems rather to be one of degree. Collins observes that, as Isaiah 11 shows, national and this-worldly hopes can be expressed in language that is cosmic and other-worldly in order to achieve a hyperbolic rhetorical effect.53 Therefore, it is more accurate to say that the difference lies in the frequency with which mythical language is used to give expression to eschatological ideas. Hanson’s contention that the retreat from history into myth by the postexilic prophets is a prime indicator that the progressive course towards apocalyptic eschatology is not accurate.54 Pre-exilic prophets often employed mythic motifs in order to address a concrete historical situation. Carroll notes that what may be different in this case is the specific use of myths between prophecy and apocalypticism.55 In the first case, the divine communication is 51. Hanson, Dawn of Apocalyptic, 11–12. 52. McCullough also believes that this is a doubtful distinction. W. S. McCullough, ‘Israel’s Eschatology from Amos to Daniel’, in Studies on the Ancient Palestinian World, ed. J. W. Wevers and D. B. Redford (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1972), 86. 53. Although Collins finds merit in Mowinckel’s distinction, he also draws attention to its limitations. John J. Collins, ‘Prophecy, Apocalypse and Eschatology’, in Knowing the End from the Beginning, 47–8. 54. Hanson, Dawn of Apocalyptic, 29, 99–100 and 126–7. 55. Carroll, ‘Twilight of Prophecy’, 20. Carroll even maintains that ‘The false antithesis between myth and history is a major weakness of the book’. He also adds that ‘the treatment of myth throughout the book is unsatisfactory’, ibid., 20. Carroll claims that Hanson should distinguish between mythic images that are ubiquitous in the Ancient Near East and mythic images that are products or romantic notions. It is true that Hanson never states what is his understanding of myth and that allows for several misunderstandings in the course of his argumentation. Hanson’s understanding of the difference between myth and history has been criticized before. Roberts, responding to comments which Hanson made in his article ‘Jewish Apocalyptic Against Its Near Eastern Environment’, asserts that ‘one must be aware of the possible mythological use of history as well as the historical use of myth’. J. J. M. Roberts, ‘Myth Versus History: Relaying the Comparative Foundation’, CBQ 49 (1976): 13.



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translated in terms of ‘plain history’, while in the second it is presented with a ‘cosmic’ vocabulary.56 This constitutes a difference in rhetoric, and as I discussed, the intensification of the set of images and vocabulary in apocalyptic eschatology is indeed a prominent characteristic in post-exilic prophecy. However, it is important to keep in mind that the heightened rhetoric of postexilic prophecy does not in itself identify apocalyptic eschatology. As John Collins argues, the feature that makes apocalyptic eschatology distinct is its transcendent character and the fact that ‘it looks for retribution beyond the bounds of history’.57 Hanson wants also to establish a difference based on identity of the messenger. This distinction is made necessary by a terminological question rather than an actual difference. Since Hanson also locates apocalyptic eschatology within post-exilic prophetic tradition, he has to coin a distinctive name for its messengers that will set them apart from other prophets, and he calls them visionaries. There are two problems with this distinction. First, the term ‘visionaries’ creates additional terminological complications. As Wilson has shown, the title ‘visionary’ is used to describe a particular type of prophet in the Judean tradition, who most probably obtained revelations through visions.58 In this sense, it is a terminus technicus that should be used to describe these prophets. Second, visions are not a distinctive marker of apocalyptic eschatology. They are also found in classical prophecy; hence, the decision to call these messengers ‘visionaries’ is both inaccurate and arbitrary. Hanson’s reasons for selecting this appellation are largely ideological. He wants this designation to reflect what he perceives to be a sharp division between the pragmatism of the priests and the marginalization of the apocalypticists.59 I also have to underline that visions have a long history in Israelite tradition 56. It bears repeating that the distinction drawn here is not between myth and history. It is between two different modes of expression. In the first case, the divine message is expressed with explicit historical references, while in the second, it is delivered in a way that resists any historical correlations. This difference is primarily a matter of rhetorical expression. Otherwise, as Collins argues, ‘all belief in divine intervention in history, is of necessity mythical’. John J. Collins, ‘Prophecy, Apocalypse and Eschatology’, in Knowing the End from the Beginning, 47. Grabbe adds that ‘We cannot distinguish between apocalyptic and prophetic on the basis of what might be historically possible from a scientific point of view. Furthermore, the worldview of the prophets is as mythical as that of the apocalypticists.’ Lester L. Grabbe, ‘Prophetic and Apocalyptic’ in Knowing the End from the Beginning, 114. 57. Collins, The Apocalyptic Imagination, 11. Gowan’s view on the eschatology of the prophets complements in a sense Collins’ argument. Gowan states that Hebrew Bible eschatology (he refers to the prophetic passages) ‘does not scorn, ignore, or abandon the kind of life which human beings experience in this world in favor of speculation concerning some other…to be hoped for after death’. D. E. Gowan, Eschatology in the Old Testament (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986), 122. 58. Wilson notes that this title is the translation of the participle of the verb hãzãh, ‘to see’ or ‘to have a vision’. R. R. Wilson, Prophecy and Society, 254–6. 59. We will examine this idea in detail in the next chapter. For now, it will suffice to say that Hanson seems to be influenced by Plöger’s dubious idea of a dominant theocracy. Plöger, 38.

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and appear in many varieties.60 Furthermore, in the corpus of the prophets that Hanson calls visionaries there are too few visions when compared with oracular prophecy. Third-Isaiah, who is Hanson’s paradigmatic visionary, does not use any visions; his material is oracular. On the flip side, it seems oxymoronic, from a terminological point of view, to call Proto-Zechariah and Ezekiel ‘hierocrats’, since they use visions so extensively. Therefore, it is misleading to identify a difference between post-exilic and apocalyptic eschatology on the grounds that the messengers are visionaries. Hanson is correct in his contention that there is an eschatological element to pre-exilic and post-exilic prophecy. However, mythic language is not wholly lacking in earlier prophecy or even the earlier part of the Hebrew Bible. Furthermore as I have shown, the distinction on the basis of the identity of the messenger is arbitrary and inaccurate. The most recent attempt at showing the connection of prophecy and apocalypticism via the use of mythic language in eschatology is found in Stephen Cook’s Prophecy and Apocalypticism. He argues that certain postexilic prophetic passages evince the same eschatological viewpoint as later apocalypses. Cook calls this shared type ‘radical eschatology’.61 In his opinion, the features that constitute ‘radical eschatology’ are basically ‘dualism’ and various secondary features such as numerology, determinism, messianism and pseudonymity. He also includes certain minor features such as the use of ciphers and fire imagery. While Cook calls the shared eschatological viewpoint ‘radical eschatology’, he does not define it clearly.62 He uses it as if it were the same as apocalyptic eschatology.63 It is true that the eschatology in Ezekiel 38 and 39, as well as in Zechariah and Joel, is radical. The old divine warrior myth is combined with the idea of the undoing of creation and the attack of the nations. God intervenes in history and administers justice to the world; God even restores the glory of Zion to the nth degree, but as I have observed, this eschatology is different from that of pre-exilic prophecy in degree, not in kind. The conflict described has cosmic proportions but the focus is still on the physical universe. There is no belief in personal afterlife. As Grabbe points out, there are several instances in pre-exilic prophecy where the break with 60. Niditch observes that visions and dreams are found in the Elohist in Genesis (Gen: 20:3, 6, 28:12, 46:2, 31:24) and in the Deuteronomistic history (Jud 7:13, 1Kgs 3:5, 1Kgs 22:19-23). She also states that there is a diachronic development of the type of the symbolic vision from its simplest and earliest examples in Amos to its baroque and narrative stage in Daniel and some apocryphal works. Susan Niditch, The Symbolic Vision In Biblical Tradition (Chico, California: Scholars Press, 1980), 12. 61. The closest Cook comes to a definition is when he describes the worldview of millennial groups. He states that these groups combine ‘a linear view of history with a futuristic eschatology that pictures an imminent radical change in the way things are. This radical change may involve the expectation of a coming judgment, often including world or cosmic destruction or at least the destruction of a wicked enemy.’ Cook, Prophecy and Apocalypticism, 26. 62. Cook also admits that ‘the exact relationship between a millennial worldview and a given viewpoint on eschatology remains problematic’. Ibid., 26, n24. 63. In fact, in his discussion of Ezekiel 38 and 39, he calls it ‘apocalyptic eschatology’. Ibid., 88.



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the contemporary conditions is also radical.64 Therefore, the term ‘radical eschatology’ fails to indicate a distinction between the eschatology found in pre-exilic and post-exilic prophecy, or between the eschatology of post-exilic prophecy and apocalypticism. There are problems with the constitutive features as well. Mowinckel had already emphasized the importance of dualistic notions for the development of eschatological ideas. Cook reprises this idea, but his lack of terminological precision confuses, rather than sheds light. His argument on ‘radical eschatology’ would have been more convincing if Cook could show that this particular kind of eschatology had a distinctive trait. He thinks that this trait is its strong dualistic character. Cook seems to understand dualism very broadly. He does not offer a definition, but from the way he uses it, he probably understands dualism to refer to any pair of contrasting modalities. However, not every binary division constitutes dualism. Dualism is usually defined as a ‘dichotomy of the principles which, coeternal or not, cause the existence of that which does or seems to exist in our world’.65 In most cases, the apocalyptic eschatological scenario includes a final fight between two opposing forces, which ends in appropriate retribution and constitutes the dualistic feature of apocalypticism. Classic examples of apocalyptic dualism are found in the Instruction on the Two Spirits in 1QS 3–4 and the War Rule from Qumran.66 The texts that Cook is analysing display an overarching understanding of the world that is monistic rather than dualistic. The opposing force is a creature and an instrument of Yahweh. Gog in Ezekiel is an earthly creature, and equally earthly is the great army in Joel.67 The accuser and the wickedness in Zechariah act in a way that challenges God’s authority, but they are in no position to fight God in equal terms and in the end do God’s bidding. In this sense, their existence should not be taken as a signifier of dualism, just as the lying spirit in 1 Kings 22 and the angels in Genesis 19 do not indicate dualism. Cook attempts to fortify his claim regarding dualism by pointing to the binary oppositions present age/age to come and natural world/supernatural world, which can be construed from the information in the texts. All prophetic eschatology, however, entails a 64. Grabbe states that ‘It is highly artificial to say that some things might be actually possible in “real history” whereas other things could only be “mythical”. To say that Isa. 65 represents only an extension of present conditions (people just live longer or inhabit an idealized society), whereas Dan. 12 shows a break with present conditions, is to make a distinction that the ancients – whether prophets or apocalypticists – would not have understood.’ Lester L. Grabbe, ‘Introduction and Overview’, in Knowing the End from the Beginning, 18. 65. The historian of religion Ugo Bianchi offers this definition of dualism. Ugo Bianchi, ‘The Category of Dualism in the Historical Study of Religion’, Temenos 16 (1980): 15. 66. Collins argues that the dualism in the Instruction of the Two Spirits is: ‘simultaneously psychological, moral and cosmic. There is a synergism between the psychological realm and the agency of the supernatural angels or demons.’ John J. Collins, Apocalypticism in the Dead Sea Scrolls, 41. 67. Cook actually admits that, in the book of Joel, it is clear that God ‘is the actual force causing the radical world changes of the end times’. Cook, 174.

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contrast between the present and the future time, and so the novelty in postexilic prophecy is at most a matter of degree. Furthermore, the secondary features of radical eschatology are so vaguely defined that they cannot carry the burden of evidence of any form of connection on their own.68 These secondary features are random and do not appear consistently in all the three post-exilic prophetic texts that Cook analyses.69 Cook has cast his net wide working with the most flexible definitions and, as a result, the ‘radical eschatology’ of post-exilic prophecy is not clearly distinguished from pre-exilic eschatology. With his study, Cook establishes the existence of a grey area between prophecy and apocalypticism. However, he did not succeed in demonstrating the relationship of prophecy and apocalypticism beyond a general descriptive enumeration of certain literary and mythic motifs that they share. Almost every scholar agrees that mythic language becomes more and more prominent in post-exilic prophecy and eventually becomes the norm in apocalyptic literature. However, the increased frequency of this particular type of language is not a particularly helpful criterion since it does not seem to be limited to apocalyptic texts.70 Therefore, the mode of expression alone is not sufficient to exemplify the way in which post-exilic prophecy is the grey area between prophetic and apocalyptic eschatology.

68. A good example is Cook’s discussion on determinism. Determinism in apocalyptic literature involves the periodization of history, which implies that God has predetermined everything and that history unfolds according to a preset plan. This plan makes easier the calculation of time from beginning to end, a fact that is meant to communicate the certainty that God is still in control of the situation. Cook, however, calls ‘apocalyptic determinism’ Ezekiel’s notion that Gog, who symbolizes God’s enemy, is bound to be destroyed. ‘God first brings Gog against Israel (Ezek. 38:4). This, combined with the use of Terms expressing inevitability (for example, htyhnw “and it will happen”, Ezek. 39:8), pictures Gog as a pawn, predestined to his own destruction.’ Ibid., 94. Similarly, Cook argues that in Zechariah 1–8, predetermination is to be found in the idea that events on the heavenly plane will find their parallels on earth and that this notion conveys ‘the certainty of expected events’. Ibid., 131. Although I agree with Cook that Ezekiel 38 and 39 and Zechariah 1–8 make the first steps toward the creation of a timetable of fixed future events, I have to point out that this is not the same as determinism in apocalyptic literature. 69. According to Cook, for Ezekiel 38 and 39 the secondary features are determinism, numerology, the apocalyptic sword motif, fire and the sacrificial-feast motif. Ibid., 94–5. For Zechariah 1–8 they are the other-worldly mediator, the superhuman entities, numerology, predetermination of history and Messianism. Ibid., 131–3. For Joel they are the predetermination, ciphers or coded terms, fire and blood. Ibid., 179–80. 70. In most of these cases, cosmic motifs are used in passages that have to do with creation or with God’s exultation as creator and king. Confer, for example, the Song of the Sea in Exodus 15:1-18 or Psalms 18, 97, 104, 136. This language is metaphorical and powerful; therefore, it can be used in several instances for rhetorical effect and for captivating the audience’s attention and imagination.



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2.5.b Eschatology and Tensions within the Community Plöger and Hanson, however, did not rely only on the prominence of mythological language to determine the distinctiveness of post-exilic prophecy. An alternative focus was provided by the type of portrait the eschatological traditions would paint for the nation of Israel. This was not an entirely novel idea. Mowinckel had already commented on the nationalistic character of prophetic eschatology. Plöger, however, put a new spin on this idea and presented a comprehensive argument in order to exemplify how this trait led from prophetic to apocalyptic eschatology. His analysis is based on his conviction that while monarchical Israel was a political entity, in postexilic times, the nation of Israel transformed into a theocratic regime. He uses as proof of this transformation the record preserved by the Chronicler. I will examine the arguments he adduces to defend this assertion in detail later. Now, I will concentrate on his discussion of eschatology. Plöger, like most of the scholars before him, is of the opinion that the root of the apocalyptic writings is to be found in prophecy. In his opinion, the difference between them is grounded on a deeper level that has to do with the ‘understanding of what Israel represents in the world’.71 His definition of the two phenomena reads: The old prophetic eschatology embodied the future hope of a nation which was conscious of being separate from the other nations of the world as a result of its relationship with God, although it did not overlook the significance of this for the other nations, pressing in fact, towards a consummation of creation without surrendering its privileges; apocalyptic eschatology, on the other hand, expressed the future hope of a community which was conscious of being a religious body absolutely separate from the national and religious life of the rest of mankind and which, being unique, could only express a future hope in terms of the manifestation of its own distinctive existence, while living at the same time in the belief that ‘the manner of this world is passing away.’72

According to this definition, the basic distinction between prophetic and apocalyptic eschatology revolves around two poles: first, the self-perception of Israel either as a nation or a religious body and second, the destiny of 71. Plöger, 29. Plöger accepts the distinctions drawn between the repeatable future events of prophetic eschatology as opposed to the unrepeatable destiny of apocalyptic eschatology, the monistic as opposed to the dualistic view of God, which, as I have shown in my discussion of Mowinckel, is not entirely correct. Further, he adopts the distinction based on the fulfilment of creation as opposed to its dissolution, which is misleading since in both eschatological strands creation is undone to a lesser or a greater degree in order to reach its fulfilment. Last, he admits the difference regarding the possibility of a deferral of judgment in prophecy as opposed to its irrevocability in apocalypticism. This difference, however, seems to be related more to the conventions of genre, since apocalypses are concerned with issues that are by their nature terminal, like the final judgment and the resurrection of the dead. However, Plöger operates with a broad definition of eschatology because he believes that despite these contrasts, both eschatological types are concerned with essentially the same issues and that bespeaks their connection. 72. Plöger, Theocracy and Eschatology, 49–50.

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creation. Both of these criteria require some qualification. About the first criterion one has to note that the prophetic office was as much religious as it was political. When the prophets offered political advice, it was dictated by their view of the relationship between God and Israel. Therefore, I do not think that it is only in apocalyptic eschatology that there is an awareness that Israel is a religious community. Furthermore, several apocalyptic compositions seem to have political interests that are generated from their concern about the political fate of the nation.73 Apocalyptic literature does not distinguish either between the religious and the national life of Israel. As for the second criterion, Plöger suggests that prophetic eschatology is aiming at the consummation of creation, while in apocalyptic eschatology, the dominant view is that creation and its manners are passing away. This issue is complicated, however, by the use of hyperbolic language in the prophets, which is not necessarily to be taken literally. The description of the Day of the Lord in Isaiah 13, for example, speaks of the darkening of the sun and the stars, but probably does not envision the literal end of the world. According to Plöger’s proposal, the transformation of post-exilic Israel into a theocracy meant the abandonment of eschatological expectation in favour of a worldview of realized eschatology. He finds evidence for these changes in the marked preoccupation that Ezra-Nehemiah and Chronicles have with Israel’s religious self-determination, which is paired with the growing indifference towards the nations. He believes that this change, on the one hand, generated the desire to separate from the rest of the world and, on the other, rendered pre-exilic prophetic eschatology superfluous.74 However, although it became extraneous, it could not be done away with. In order for the new theocracy to prove that its regime was in fact the actualization of God’s eschatological plan as proclaimed by the pre-exilic prophets, it had to preserve those teachings. Prophetic eschatology, however, was not entirely compatible with realized eschatology, since it pointed to a consummation of creation that could be interpreted in a very different way from the realized eschatology of the theocracy. Eventually, this tension grew stronger and gave birth to apocalyptic eschatology, which interpreted prophetic eschatology in a completely different way that was not limited to the cultic sphere and that would view Israel as a political, rather than a theocratic, entity. This discussion draws a clear distinction between prophetic eschatology and the alleged Second Temple theocracy. It does not do much to clarify the difference between pre-exilic and post-exilic eschatology. It does, however, point to an important factor: the tension within the post-exilic community between the

73. As Collins notes, in the Animal Apocalypse ‘the foreign rulers of Israel are the primary enemies’. John J. Collins, The Apocalyptic Imagination, 72. Politics are also the primary concern of the third Sibylline Oracle that seems to have primarily a propagandistic function. Ibid., 125–6. 74. Plöger asserts that the transformation of the nation into a community resembling a church made people realize that ‘the prophetic eschatology, which had the nation at its centre, could no longer be maintained in the traditional sense’. Plöger, 43.



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theocratic element that focused on the present and the prophetic heritage that looked for eschatological transformation. At this point I should return to Hanson’s third point, i.e. the difference between the two kinds of eschatology on the basis of the intended audience and the significance of the nation. Hanson grounds the eschatological dimension of both prophecy and apocalypticism in their interest in the future fate of Israel.75 He maintains that the addressee in prophetic eschatology is the entire nation, whereas in apocalyptic eschatology, it is a group he calls the ‘elect’. This is a very helpful observation because this seems to be a novel trait in post-exilic eschatology. In order to capitalize on this observation one needs to examine carefully how this change occurs from pre-exilic to postexilic prophecy and then to apocalypticism. 2.6 Shedding Light on the Grey Area Since eschatology involves a declaration of future events, it is important to establish for whom this future is relevant.76 As I have discussed, scholars have already called attention to this factor. One of Plöger’s observations was that one could distinguish between eschatological strands because they vary in the way they perceive the audience either as a political or as a religious entity. Hanson also argued that one of the criteria that distinguishes prophetic from apocalyptic eschatology is the addressee of the message. I will pursue this line of inquiry further and attempt to show that indeed I can make this distinction on the basis of the intended audience of the eschatological message. I will adopt a socio-historical approach and try to explain how the destruction of the northern and southern kingdoms, the exile and the return have influenced the formation of eschatological types. 2.7 Defining Post-Exilic Prophetic Eschatology Westermann observes that the form of the prophetic judgment speech started to dissolve in the post-exilic period since the events of the exile fulfilled

75. He remarks that ‘Despite these differences in the form of prophetic and apocalyptic eschatology, it must be emphasized that the essential vision of restoration persists in both, the vision of Yahweh’s people restored as a holy community in a glorified Zion.’ Hanson, Dawn, 12. 76. The determination of the addressee has been one of the fundamental questions for the form-critical study of prophetic speech. Westermann maintains that there are three basic questions a form-critic asks in the analysis of prophetic material: 1) who speaks? 2) to whom does he speak? and 3) what takes place in this speaking? The answers to these questions have been found to influence the arrangement and the composition of prophetic speeches. The issue of the addressee seems also to have influenced those who collected and passed down the prophetic speeches. Claus Westermann, Basic Forms of Prophetic Speech, 90–96.

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the historical mission of this particular form.77 Following a similar line of argument, I believe that the socio-historical changes caused by the exile influenced the development of eschatological thinking. The fall of Jerusalem in 586 BCE signalled the end of the Israelite nation as it had been defined at least from the beginning of the monarchy and on. Some people were carried into exile and others were left behind.78 The geographical division of the Israelites with the exile foreshadowed ideological and theological distinctions in the post-exilic period. The distinctions would now be drawn within the people of Israel. After the exile this becomes evident in the radical redefinition of the identity of the prophetic addressee. Third-Isaiah, who was active during the post-exilic period, uses the name ‘Israel’ in order to identify his audience, but it is clear that this ‘Israel’ is understood in very different way. In the opening (56:1-8) and concluding (66:18-24) oracles, which serve as the framework of the book, ‘Israel’ is used in a broad sense; it includes members of the Diaspora, of the Palestinian community and even foreigners. Despite this wider understanding, there are still people who do not make this new cut. More importantly, it seems that some of them used to be part of Israel, but not any more (56:2b; 6b, 66:24). Membership in Israel is not determined by birthright any longer. Schramm notes that in Isaiah 56–66, one finds ‘an early attempt to answer the question: who or what is “Israel”?’79 Hanson explains that in the postexilic period ‘the historical boundary demarcating Israel from the nations is replaced by the spiritual boundary setting Israel off from Israel’. Following the exile, the nation had fractured and the eschatological future proclaimed by the prophets was intended for only a particular fraction of it.80 77. Westermann notes that the dissolution of the form is best seen in DeuteroIsaiah, where it does not exist any longer. He adds that there were no more unconditional announcements of judgment after the exile and later. This form only returned with the proclamation of Jesus in Matt. 11:20-24; Luke 10:13-15 and in Luke 11. Westermann, Basic Forms, 205–206. 78. The criteria that determined the dislocation of the specific segment of the population were not readily apparent. The exilic prophets Jeremiah and Ezekiel advocated the idea of ‘individual responsibility’ in their attempt to provide a rationale for the event (Jeremiah 31:27-30 and Ezekiel 18). According to this approach, God would regulate His relationship with the people of Israel on an individual basis. It is remarkable that both prophets proclaim that people will be punished on the basis of their individual sins by refuting the validity of the proverb: ‘The parents have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge.’ 79. Schramm believes that Third-Isaiah ‘had either adopted or had himself developed a controversial position with regard to the definition of the term “Israel”’. Schramm, 83. Williamson notes that the redefinition of ‘Israel’ had started Ezekiel and later continued with Second Isaiah. In his opinion, Second Isaiah started using this term to address the Babylonian exiles; their lack of response, however, led the prophet to restrict the term to a faithful individual group within the community. H. G. M. Williamson, ‘The Concept of Israel in Transition’, in The World of Ancient Israel, ed. R. E. Clements (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 147. 80. Plöger argues that this fracture is also found in Joel 3:5 (2:32 Eng.), where ‘a hidden division of Israel is being prepared’. Eschatological deliverance is still promised to all Israel on the terrible day of LORD, but ‘only those whom Yahweh calls will escape’. Plöger



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In order to examine the shift in the identity of the recipient of the eschatological message after the exile, I will turn my attention to a post-exilic prophet, Third-Isaiah. In 65:8-15, the addressee of the eschatological message is called ‘my chosen’ or ‘my servants’, and the prophet clarifies that this group is not coterminous with the nation of Israel: 65:8 Thus says the LORD: As the wine is found in the cluster, and they say, ‘Do not destroy it, for there is a blessing in it,’ so I will do for my servants’ sake, and not destroy them all. 9 I will bring forth descendants from Jacob, and from Judah inheritors of my mountains; my chosen shall inherit it, and my servants shall settle there. 10 Sharon shall become a pasture for flocks, and the Valley of Achor a place for herds to lie down, for my people who have sought me. 11 But you who forsake the LORD, who forget my holy mountain, who set a table for Fortune and fill cups of mixed wine for destiny; 12 I will destine you to the sword, and all of you shall bow down to the slaughter; because, when I called you did not answer, when I spoke, you did not listen, but you did what was evil in my sight, and chose what I did not delight in. 13 Therefore thus says the Lord GOD: My servants shall eat, but you shall be hungry; My servants shall drink, but you shall be thirsty; My servants shall rejoice, but you shall be put to shame; 14 my servants shall sing for gladness of heart, but you shall cry out for pain of heart, and shall wail for anguish of spirit. 15 You shall leave your name to my chosen to use as a curse, and the Lord GOD will put you to death; but to his servants he will give a different name.

According to the end of this oracle, God will give to his servants a new name because the heretofore appellation of his people will only be used as a curse.81 To illustrate that this is not simply a matter of new terminology but a momentous change in history, he adds that God is going to eradicate all those who used to call themselves his by putting them to death. In effect, the prophet proclaims both the severance of an existing relationship and the introduction of a new one. This new development is brought into play by the opening image of this oracle. The people of Israel have traditionally been likened to a vine, but I believes that the ones most likely to be called by YHWH are those who have responded to the eschatological faith and consider ‘the day of Yahweh as an eschatological entity’. Plöger, 103. It should be noted, however, that Plöger emends the text in order to produce this translation. The standard translation of the verse reads ‘Then everyone who calls on the name of the LORD shall be saved’. This translation, coupled with my critique of Plöger’s understanding of eschatology, renders his argument dubious. 81. Koole notes that the phrase ‘“another name” contrasts mainly with the name of the idolaters and, which is a “curse” in v. a, and thus suggests a “blessing”’. Jan L. Koole, Isaiah, vol.3 (Leuven: Peeters, 2001), 442.

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should call attention to the fact that the text here refers to a certain cluster of grapes.82 This cluster is spared from destruction because God does not want to destroy ‘them all’, and the implication seems to be that some grapes in the cluster can produce wine and, hence, are worth saving.83 Several scholars point out that the image of this one cluster of grapes corresponds nicely with the idea of the remnant that was found in pre-exilic prophecy.84 However, as Whybray observes, the prophet here goes far beyond the preexilic concept.85 If indeed the vine should be equated with the people of Israel and the cluster with the remnant of Israel, then the individual grapes to which God promises descendants and land should be a yet different division of the nation. The prophet calls this group ‘my people who have sought me’. The key element in this oracle seems to be the conscious and voluntary character of the relationship this new group of people has with God. They have sought after God; God, in return, has chosen them and forsaken the ones who chose what he ‘did not delight in’. This marks a drastic change in the tradition of election since ‘the chosen’ are a group in the community instead of the entire nation.86 The subsequent declaration of salvation to some and judgment to others underlines further the repercussions of this shift. While God’s servants are promised descendants and land, the ones who have forsaken God will be put to the slaughter. Westermann calls this development ‘an extremely momentous change’ in prophetic speech because, in his opinion, divine intervention that brings at once ruin and salvation to different sections of the population ‘cannot possibly be conceived in terms of history’.87 Blenkinsopp seems to agree with Westermann since he states that these verses signal the move from the historical to the metahistorical plane.88 Whybray confirms the 82. Cf. Isaiah 3:14; 5:1-7; 27:2-5, Hosea 10:1, Jeremiah 2:21, Psalm 80:8-13. 83. Schramm maintains that the point of this image is to show that not everyone in the community is to be implicated in the accusations levelled in 65:1-7. He believes that the distinction needs to be made because in 63:17, the speaker used the term ‘YHWH’s servants’ as a description of the entire community. Schramm, 158. 84. Cf. Josef Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 56–66, (New York: Doubleday, 2003), 274. Also Jan L. Koole, Isaiah, 429. 85. Whybray states that this development was the fruit ‘of a more individualized understanding of faith which emerged after the destruction of Israel’s national institutions in 587 BC and became a characteristic feature of post-exilic Judaism’. R. N. Whybray, Isaiah 40–66 (London: Oliphants, 1975), 272. 86. The classic formulation of the idea of the election of the entire nation is found in Deuteronomy 7:6 (cf. also Deut. 10:12–11:17, 14:1-2 and 4:1-40). Even passages that deviate from the normative understanding of election, like Deuteronomy 32:8-9 and Amos 9:7, state that God has chosen the entire nation as His. For the development and the various dimensions of the theme of election, see Seock-Tae Sohn, The Divine Election of Israel (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1991), 101–81. 87. The contrasting future of the two groups is highlighted sharply in verses 13-14 where it is presented in a series of parallel yet antithetical declarations of blessing and judgment placed next to one another. Claus Westermann, Isaiah 40–66, A Commentary (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1969), 404. 88. Blenkinsopp believes that the theme of eschatological reversal is a feature of revolutionary movements and sects. According to this motif, roles in the future are reversed,



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eschatological nature of this oracle by asserting that this series of antitheses constitutes an early example of a literary type that became important in later Jewish eschatology and continued in Christian literature.89 However, it is helpful to keep in mind that this is not entirely an innovation, but a different synthesis of an older tradition. As Blenkinsopp indicates, what one finds here sounds like an eschatologized echo of the blessings and curses attached to the covenant.90 The true innovation of this passage is the restriction of the eschatological message to a specific group. We find a similar pattern in the book of Malachi that is dated safely in the post-exilic period and displays a marked interest in the eschatological fate of Israel.91 According to Malachi, God’s relationship with the people is strained by the people’s expression of discontent. In 2:17, God has become weary of the people’s complaints. These complaints grow out of an inner societal division. On the one hand, there are people who ‘do evil’, and on the other, there are the righteous. The latter are vexed by the fact that the Lord apparently lets the wicked get away with their injustice and proclaim: ‘All who do evil are good in the sight of the LORD and he delights in them.’92 This radical affront to YHWH reflects clearly the crisis which the community undergoes. In 3:1415, the same complaint is further elaborated.93 Nevertheless, God assures the power (the power to coerce) and authority radically redistributed and the redemptive media redefined. He also offers that an attempt to probe the source of these antitheses might begin with an allusion to the eschatological banquet, which is rooted in the mythic image of the banquet of the gods. Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 56–66, 281. 89. Whybray states that Luke 6:20-26 is an example of this literary type, and he adds that this type influenced the picture of the Last Judgment in Matthew 25:31-46. R. N. Whybray, Isaiah 40–66, 274. 90. He adds that the closest parallel to the judgment of those who have forsaken God are the curses found in Deuteronomy 28:47. Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 56–66, 281. 91. Petersen concludes that the book ‘has been regularly dated to the late sixth or early fifth century BCE’. David L. Petersen, Zechariah 9–14 and Malachi: A Commentary (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press: 1995), 5–6. A generally agreed upon dating of the book has emerged. Cf. Paul L. Redditt, Haggai, Zechariah and Malachi (Grand Rapids: Marshall Pickering, 1995), 149–51. See also R. J. Coggins, Haggai Zechariah Malachi (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1987), 74–5. 92. The question of theodicy has foremost importance for Wisdom literature; see, for example, Job 21:7-25. However, it is not an exclusive concern of Wisdom literature; it is also found in priestly and prophetic rhetoric. As Smith has noted, it has also been addressed in Habakkuk 1:13 and Psalm 73. Furthermore, Isaiah 5:18-20 also shows ‘Yahweh’s failure to act in judgment and the confusion of moral value’. Ralph L. Smith, Word Biblical Commentary: Micah-Malachi (Waco, Texas: Word Books, 1984), 327. As Petersen observes, this statement seems to be an intentional reversal of standard Deuteronomic law meant to depict ‘Yahweh as perverse’. Petersen argues that the similarities between Mal. 2:17 and Deut. 18:12 and 25:16 are so striking that they cannot be accidental. Their purpose is to characterize Yahweh as one who approves evil rather than good. David L. Petersen, 208. Hill adds that Malachi has combined elements from two formulaic expressions in Deuteronomy. The first expression occurs in Deut. 4:25; 9:18; 17:2; and 31:29, while the second occurs in Deut. 6:18; 12:25, 28; 13:19[18]; and 21:9. Hill, 263. 93. Their behaviour is not just morally and theologically provoking but socially corrosive, since it seems to call into question the validity of the covenant on which their community was established. Petersen also argues that this is more than ‘just a theological

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people that the righteous have been identified and written in ‘the book of remembrance’ (3:16), but God defers rectification to the eschatological future (3:17-18).94 Malachi describes the events of the eschaton in several passages.95 Of particular interest is the double eschatological scene of the book, which offers the final resolution to the tension that has been building within the post-exilic community: 3:16 Then those who revered the LORD spoke with one another. The LORD took note and listened, and a book of remembrance was written before him of those who revered the LORD and thought of his name. 17 They shall be mine, says the LORD of hosts, my special possession on the day that I act, and I will spare them as parents spare their children who serve them. 18 Then once more you shall see the difference between the righteous and the wicked, one who serves God and one who does not serve him.

In the first eschatological scene, the prophet wants to appease the worries of the ones who revere the Lord and are alarmed by his inaction. Therefore, he informs them that God is watching closely over the inner community developments. He is keeping track of those who follow the prescribed code of conduct, and, like a parent, he will reward the obedient children. After all, God considers them his special possession.96 The primary purpose of this scene is to reassure the righteous that they will be rewarded for doing the right thing and reaffirm the belief that the covenantal structure of the cosmos problem – there is a problem within the community’. Particularly since it seems to generate questions like: ‘Who is it that one can identify as properly religious? What is the correct mode of behaviour towards Yahweh? What external marks, especially as regards social standing and economic prosperity, might one identify as signs of Yahweh’s blessing?’ Petersen, 221. Pohlig adds a theological dimension to this societal crisis. He argues that the people’s complaint resulted from ‘a tortured search for a continued relationship’ with God and ‘out of fear that such a relationship was no longer possible’. James N. Pohlig, An Exegetical Summary of Malachi (Dallas: Summer Institute of Linguistics, 1998), 173. 94. The term ‘book of remembrance’, appears only here in the Hebrew Bible. However, the idea of a book in which God records the names of the faithful appears also in Exod. 32:32-33, Ps. 69:28; 87:6 and Dan. 12:1. Cf. Smith, 338 and Pohlig, 180. Hill notes that this term has a parallel in Esther 6:1 (‘the book of records’), through which king Ahasuerus remembers and rewards Mordecai’s loyalty. Hill, 339–40. Taylor and Clendenen point to Ezra 4:15; 5:17 and 6:6-12, where the Persian kings are said to consult the ‘royal archives’ in order to verify the truthfulness of a claim made by their subjects and decide which course of action they should take. Richard A. Taylor and E. Ray Clendenen, Haggai, Malachi (Nashville: Broadman & Holman Publishers, 2004), 443. 95. Cf. 3:1b-5. Even though in this passage the image of partial destruction is similar to the remnant motif in the pre-exilic prophets, it differs from it in a significant way. This cleansing process will be deliberately axiological, and the separation will be decided on the basis of merit. Hill states that the book of Malachi makes an original contribution to the eschatology of the Hebrew Bible in developing the day of YHWH as a day of judgment for evil-doers within the ranks of the covenant people. Hill, 290. 96. As Smith notes, the term ‘special possession’ is a covenant word since it occurs in the inauguration of the covenant in Exodus 19:5. Subsequently, it appears also in Deut. 7:6; 14:2; 26:18; and Ps. 135:4. Smith, 338.



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is valid. The oracle concludes with the confirmation that there is a difference between those who serve God and those who do not, and that, unlike the present, this difference will become explicit for everyone to see in the future. In the second eschatological scene, the content of the message is the same, but the tone is a lot grimmer: 4:1 See, the day is coming, burning like an oven, when all the arrogant and all the evildoers will be stubble; the day that comes shall burn them up, says the Lord of hosts, so that it will leave them neither root nor branch. 2 But for you who revere my name the sun of righteousness shall rise, with healing in its wings. You shall go out leaping like calves from the stall. 3 And you shall tread down the wicked, for they will be ashes under the soles of your feet, on the day when I act, says the LORD of hosts.

Here the emphasis is placed on the judgment of the wicked, and there emerges a desire for vindication. The imagery used involves fire, but this time, it is not the purifying type, but an all-consuming one. The eschatological crisis is described as a terrifying event for the arrogant, who will meet with it their utter annihilation. The prophet stresses that there shall be no root or branch left from them. These are the terms that the pre-exilic prophets used to talk about the surviving remnant. Malachi employs these terms to make exactly the opposite point. None from the wicked will outlive this specific trial; there will be no escape. According to him, the only survivors are going to be the ones who revere the name of the Lord. They are going to experience this cauterizing intervention as healing, rather than destruction, and they will derive unbridled joy out of it. God’s return to action, which seems to be the request of the righteous, will also be the final retribution since it will provide the chance to trample upon the ashes of the wicked.97 It bears repeating that similar images of victory over the wicked in the Hebrew Bible repeatedly referred to heathen nations. Here, however, ‘the wicked are in fact the rebellious elements of Israel’.98 With this final scene of restitution Malachi confirms the unbridgeable gap created by the inner-community division. At this point I can return to a passage that is located in the chapters usually ascribed to Isaiah of Jerusalem but which contains later additions and evince post-exilic eschatological ideology (4:2-6). It describes the future glory of the survivors in Zion.99 The opening verse presents an idyllic situation in a 97. I agree with Petersen that this image does not convey combat or conflict since those who revere the name of God step on the ashes of ‘the fiery destruction of the wicked, who have already been destroyed’. Petersen, Zechariah 1–9 and Malachi, 226. Hill thinks that the phrase ‘the soles of your feet’ may be a veiled reference to the reinstatement of Israel’s ‘covenant identity’ as outlined in Deut. 11:24. Here Israel receives the divine promise of possessing all the land upon which they set the ‘soles of their feet’, which is conditional upon their obedience of YHWH’s commandments. Hill, 354. 98. Pohlig believes that this is a variation of the ‘Day of the Lord’ motif. Pohlig, 196. 99. Beginning with Duhm, the authenticity of this passage has been contested. Hasel offers a comprehensive listing of the scholars who defend or reject its original character. Hasel, 258–9. Kaiser argues that verses 3-6 are a later supplement because they constitute a break in the rhythm. Kaiser, 53. Sweeney adds that verses 3-6 have to be later because of three reasons. They focus on the remnant in Jerusalem and not the remnant of Jacob (10:21),

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fruitful land, and the last two verses paint a recreated utopian Zion, which is characterized by the divine presence and protection.100 It is the verses in between, however, that allude to inner-community strife and are relevant to my discussion: 4:2 On that day the branch of the LORD shall be beautiful and glorious, and the fruit of the land shall be the pride and glory of the survivors of Israel. 3 Whoever is left in Zion and remains in Jerusalem will be called holy, everyone who has been recorded for life in Jerusalem, 4 once the Lord has washed away the filth of the daughters of Zion and cleansed the bloodstains of Jerusalem from its midst by a spirit of judgment and by a spirit of burning. 5 Then the LORD will create over the whole site of mount Zion and over its places of assembly a cloud by day and smoke and the shining of a flaming fire by night. Indeed over all the glory there will be a canopy. 6 It will serve as a pavilion, a shade by day from the heat, and a refuge and a shelter from the storm and rain.

Before the onset of the eschatological wonders in Zion, there is going to be a purging. The judgment enacted by God will be twofold. It will drive away the ‘filth’, and it will cleanse ‘the bloodstains’. It involves both separation and purification, since a specific part of the community in Jerusalem has to be removed, and the remainder needs to be cleansed ‘by a spirit of burning’. Whoever composed this oracle believes that there is an irreconcilable division in the society between the pure and the impure ones. This is readily apparent by the terms used to describe the portion that will be the object of the judgment. Priestly terminology is clearly prominent here, and it seems that its thrust is to dispel any doubts in the audience about the necessity or the just character of this destruction.101 The author also believes that the only way this situation can be dealt with is by doing away completely with the impure part. Only then those who will remain will be ‘called holy’. This differs in an important way from standard pre-exilic eschatology, as was expressed by Isaiah of Jerusalem. The coming destruction has targeted a specific part of the community. The fact that the names of the survivors have been recorded by God suggests that it is not indiscriminate or random. As Wildberger puts it, ‘only select individuals or the group of those who are to survive the

Israel (10:21), or ‘his [YHWH] people’ (11:11; 16, 28:5) as is typical of Isaiah. They refer to exodus and wilderness traditions that do not appear to play any role in the work of Isaiah, and they are concerned with priestly matters that are more typical of the period of Ezra and Nehemiah. Sweeney, 110–11. 100. Hasel offers that the author stresses the abundant growth of vegetation in the land because it is important to say that, after the eschatological judgment, life will be ensured, ‘in contrast to normal circumstances when life is most precarious after a major national catastrophe’. Hasel, 269. 101. Wildberger maintains that it is not clear whether the uncleanness was a result of cultic or ethical offences. However, ‘according to priestly understanding, which must be presumed as the background for this present passage, bloodguilt is connected with every single offense which disregards the taboos ordained by God, departing from the order which God established’. Wildberger, 170–71.



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catastrophe are registered’.102 There are two groups, and each one is destined for a different eschatological future. The division between them is drawn along the lines of purity and holiness. In Isaiah 4:2-6, there seems to be a clear rupture in the community. The author of this oracle is more interested in pointing out and even stigmatizing this rupture in his proclamation of the eschatological future. In this sense, this oracle is antagonistic, and the implication seems to be that the nation after the exile has been divided. Both Third-Isaiah and Malachi deliver their message after the exile, which had scattered the people of the nation of Israel. Even though their eschatological hopes agree in content with pre-exilic prophets, insofar as they envision the future events ‘in the land’, they seem to presuppose a different social situation. Both prophets restrict the eschatological hope to a specific group within the nation of Israel. This group seems to consist of people who have actively and vigilantly maintained a relationship with God within the set covenantal framework, despite the upheavals of the exile. This change marks the onset of a new consciousness of community that is not forged along the traditional understanding of ethnicity. In this way, Third-Isaiah and Malachi contributed to the production a radical redefinition of the identity of Israel, which departed from the one employed by pre-exilic prophets. Israel is not any more defined over against foreign nations, but over against its own members, who are going to be excluded from partaking in the eschatological future. 2.8 Apocalyptic Eschatology The first apocalyptic compositions appeared in the early second or late third century BCE. By that time, prophecy had waned significantly but the postexilic eschatological ideas it promulgated had left their mark. Chief among these was the demand for a differentiation between the wicked and the righteous in the midst of Israel. In pre-exilic prophecy, the expectations of the future used to revolve around the life and the prosperity of the nation, as was depicted by long life and prosperity on the family level. For the postexilic prophets, it was important that only the ones who were deemed worthy should be able to participate in the eschatological future. As Collins has argued, apocalyptic literature pushed the eschatological envelope even further with the belief in the resurrection of the dead.103 102. Wildberger, 169. Hasel believes that verse 3 indicates that God ‘has determined them for life in advance of the destructive judgment’. Hasel, 268. It is also interesting to note that his idea that some people have been recorded ‘for life’, although not novel, as I have pointed out, is used in an eschatological context after the exile by Malachi. 103. Collins focuses the discussion primarily on Daniel and secondarily on a few other apocalypses, which come from the same geographical area and chronological period. He selects some of the Qumran Scrolls, 1 Enoch, Jubilees and the Assumption of Moses. All of these texts ‘appear to have been written in Palestine in the second, or at latest first century BCE’. John J. Collins, ‘Apocalyptic Eschatology as the Transcendence of Death’, 85.

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In the eschatological future envisioned by the apocalyptic authors there will be a final judgment. Chapter 12 in the book of Daniel offers the clearest description of the event: 12:1 At that time Michael, the great prince, the protector of your people, shall arise. There shall be a time of anguish, such as has never occurred since nations first came into existence. But at that time your people shall be delivered, everyone who is found written in the book. 2 Many of those who sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake, some to everlasting life, and some to everlasting contempt.

According to this passage, the events that will take place ‘at that time’ will be unprecedented in the historical record. In agreement with Malachi, God’s people will be delivered, since their names have been catalogued in ‘the book’.104 Up to this point there is no significant break with postexilic eschatology. What follows, however, is unique. The dead will be resurrected, not just the righteous ones, but also the wicked. The purpose of this resurrection is to reward the faithful and punish the guilty.105 I agree with Collins’s remark that ‘no biblical text before Daniel had spoken, even metaphorically, of a double resurrection of the righteous and the wicked and a judgment of dead’.106 There is a similar emphasis on judgment for the living and the dead in 1 Enoch.107 Nickelsburg argues that the judgment in 1 Enoch 102–104 is ‘a means of adjudicating the injustices involved in the suffering and maltreatment of the righteous and the success and prosperity of the wicked’.108 The repercussions of this innovation are not only stylistic or theological. The belief in resurrection and judgment after death ‘entailed a 104. Collins argues that if this scene is interpreted in judicial context, then one finds several other parallels in which an angelic advocate records the deeds of humanity in a book in Animal Apocalypse (1En 89:70-77 and 90:10), Testament of the Twelve Patriarchs; T. Levi 5:6-7 and T. Dan. 6:1-5. John, J. Collins, Daniel: A Commentary on the Book of Daniel (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1993), 390. 105. This is also the case in 4 Ezra. In 4:35-36 and 5:41-42 one finds that both alive and resurrected humans will be judged. Furthermore, as Michael Stone states, in 7:75-99 and 4:33-37, ‘there is an explicit difference between the fate of the righteous and wicked souls’. Michael Edward Stone, Fourth Ezra: A Commentary on the Book of Fourth Ezra (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1990), 151. 106. Collins, Daniel, 395. 107. Cf. 1 Enoch, 103:3-4, which describes the rewards of the righteous who are dead and 103:7-8, which recounts the punishment of the dead sinners. In 104:1-6 and 104:7-8 the author addresses the righteous and the sinners who are alive, and describes their future prosperity and tribulation, respectively. In 1 Enoch 22:1-13 one reads of a high mountain where the spirits of the dead are assembled until the day of judgment, when the righteous will be rewarded and the sinners, who have not been adequately punished, judged. 108. Nickelsburg adds that the resurrection in 1 Enoch offers a number of innovations. First, God raises the righteous because they have suffered unjustly, not because they have suffered unjustly for his sake. Then, resurrection to life speaks to the problem of suffering and oppression, even when it has not resulted in death. Last, in 1 Enoch, ‘God vindicates the behavior of the righteous vis-à-vis those who have claimed that such conduct goes unrewarded’. George W. E. Nickelsburg, Resurrection, Immortality and Eternal Life (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1972), 124.



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fundamental shift in values’.109 Up to this point, the eschatological scenario, regardless of how idealistic, or even utopian, was primarily concerned with changes that were supposed to take place in this world. In apocalyptic eschatology, the hope for the end-time becomes transcendental. The climactic point focuses on the world beyond death, and it applies equally to the righteous and the wicked. This shift could be related, at least partially, to the socio-historical events of Hellenistic times, which generated the impression that struggling in the arena of politics could very well be a hopeless cause.110 Collins puts it in a slightly different way when he states that ‘resurrection is not an incidental motif among the many that one might find in an apocalypse. It is a key to the function and purpose of the work’.111 From this perspective, it seems that the need for a belief in a post-mortem judgment of individuals could be the force that drove this literature and determined its appeal. The radical character of the double judgment after the resurrection becomes clearer when one examines more closely the lines of continuity with prophetic eschatology. Language involving or alluding to resurrection was already found in the prophets: in Hosea’s call to repentance (6:2), Ezekiel’s oracle on the valley of dry bones (37), and Isaiah’s song of victory for Judah (26:19). However, I agree with Collins’s argument that these passages do not refer to actual resurrection of dead Israelites. The language is metaphorical and was used to express the hope of national restoration.112 Therefore, even though the idea was not unheard of, there is a clear shift in content and social matrix. Content-wise, there is a significant difference since the hope is not about the land any more, but other-worldly salvation. From a sociological perspective, there is a difference between the eventual restoration of the nation expressed by the prophets and the hope for the restoration of the righteous in the afterlife found in apocalyptic literature. 2.9 Conclusion In his attempt to explore the development of eschatological thinking, Plöger went back in time, starting from its most robust form in the book of Daniel, 109. Collins maintains that the belief in resurrection reflected a reorientation in the goals of life. What was important in the apocalyptic worldview was to live with the angels in heaven and not just to live a long life and to see one’s children’s children. John J. Collins, ‘Prophecy, Apocalypse and Eschatology’, in Knowing the End from the Beginning, 49. 110. This seems to be the case in the Book of Parables in 1 Enoch. According to George Nickelsburg, throughout the book, one finds references to the ‘earth’ or ‘land’ which the kings and the mighty now possess. God, however, ‘will renew and transform’ it into ‘the locus of salvation after the judgment’. George W. E. Nickelsburg, 1 Enoch 1: A Commentary on the Book of 1 Enoch (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2001), 39. 111. Collins, ‘Prophecy, Apocalypse and Eschatology’, in Knowing the End from the Beginning, 49. 112. Collins states that it is important to note that ‘the notion of immortality was not completely alien to Israel and helped make the eventual emergence of a more literal belief possible’. Collins, Daniel, 395.

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and then attempted to trace its origins ‘via the “Isaiah-Apocalypse” and “Trito-Zechariah” to Joel 3’.113 This reverse chronological approach has blurred the distinction between the various expressions of the hope for the end-time. Therefore, I began my examination with earlier texts and tried to show how the subsequent phases of eschatology differ from the ones before them. I concluded that before the exile eschatological declarations addressed Israel as a nation, i.e. as an entity defined over against the other nations. After the exile, eschatological messages start to separate between the people of Israel on the basis of their fidelity, i.e. Israel was now defined over against itself.114 In apocalyptic literature, eschatological hope is extended to the individual and is typified by the expectation of final judgment after resurrection of the dead. In other words, the difference is not only in the language used but also in the kind of social situation they suppose. As social circumstances changed, so did the eschatological outlook, in order to reflect those changes.

113. Plöger is well aware that his examination ‘runs counter to the stream of history in the sense of historical sequence’. Plöger, 105. 114. It is important to note an interesting reversal of motifs in the post-Enochic apocalyptic tradition. As Nickelsburg shows, by then the addressee is not any more a select group, but Israel in general. ‘At the same time the openness to the Gentile, evident to most strata of 1 Enoch, is notably absent in Daniel, 4 Ezra, 2 Baruch, and the Apocalypse of Abraham.’ Nickelsburg surmises that this last change is most probably due to the severe Gentile persecution and devastation of 168 BCE and 70 CE. Nickelsburg, 1 Enoch 1, 70.

Chapter 3

Priestly Politics and Millennial Hope: An Evaluation of the Socio-Historical Discussion

3.1 Social Scientific Criticism and Second Temple Politics Plöger, Hanson, and Cook while discussing the function of eschatology in prophecy and apocalypticism found it necessary to reconstruct the social setting in which this eschatological thinking developed. In order to paint a more complete description for a time period that is partially documented, they employed sociological theory and methods. Their goal was to gain access to information, which is beyond the scope of the biblical text, recovering thus the missing pieces from the selective biblical presentation. Interdisciplinary methods are not a novelty in Hebrew Bible studies. The degree to which these scholars relied on social scientific criticism in order to present their argument, however, is somewhat exceptional for the field. The reason why all these scholars found it necessary to turn to the social sciences for help has also to do with the fundamental socio-political changes that transpired during the Second Temple period. No one could ignore the fact that the Israelite states, in which prophecy came to prominence, had been destroyed and the nation where apocalypticism grew was a new entity. This new entity was under the shadow of powerful empires that were interested in more than tribute and political submission, and had little in common with monarchical Israel. Post-exilic Israel was not only different politically from its pre-exilic counterpart; there were also significant religious innovations and a new class stratification that led to the constitution of a new identity.1 If there was a reason for the transformation of prophetic eschatology into 1. Talmon believes that there are two pivotal aspects in the socio-religious transformations of post-exilic community. First, he presents the changes of interaction in the internal structure of the main societal agents of leadership in the Israelite society, i.e. king, priest, and prophet. Second, he draws attention to the transformation from a ‘monocentric nation, defined by the geopolitical borders of the land of Israel, to post-exilic people characterized by a multicentricity which resulted from deportations and voluntary or semivoluntary emigration’. S. Talmon. King, Cult and Calendar in Ancient Israel (Jerusalem: The Magnes Press, 1986), 177.

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apocalyptic, then it made sense that this reason would have to be related to all the monumental changes Israelite society underwent in the period of restoration.2 While Plöger’s proposal has influenced Hanson, and Cook’s argument reacts to the previous reconstructions, each scholar presents a different picture of the post-exilic social dynamics. I will examine each one separately and evaluate both the accuracy of their propositions and their use of inter-disciplinary material. 3.2 The Transformation into a Theocracy Otto Plöger was the first to construct a hypothesis in which the emergence of apocalypticism was attributed primarily to the social changes of the Second Temple period. He undertook this approach because he wanted to understand the social changes in the second century BCE. In particular, Plöger wanted to seek the origin of Hasidim as they are called in the books of the Maccabees. He believed that the origin of these people could throw light on the fragmentation of Jewish community in Hellenistic times and explain the apocalyptic material that is found in the book of Daniel.3 Therefore, it is important to keep in mind that Plöger’s focus is on the Hellenistic period and that his argument is reversely engineered with an eye to the events reflected in

2. Barton argues that the idea that prophecy declined and was replaced by apocalypticism derives essentially from Wellhausen’s claim that prophecy was silenced by the growing prestige of the Law. However, Barton wants to clarify that Wellhausen ‘was not thinking primarily of the suppression of one institution by another, so much as expressing a theological evaluation of a change in Israel’s understanding of its relationship with God’. Barton concludes that ‘this was not a theory about the demise of an institution, but a judgment about the spiritual quality of life in post-exilic times, for Wellhausen of course knew that there continued to be functionaries called “prophets”, as Chronicler shows’. John Barton, Oracles of God: Perceptions of Ancient Prophecy in Israel after the Exile (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 111–12. 3. Plöger wants to explore the ideology of the intellectual ancestors of the Hasidim, or the ‘Pious’, in order to understand the background of the fragmentation of the community in the Maccabean era. Particularly, he wants to explain whence the splintering indicated by the general terms Hasidim, Essenes, the Qumran community and Pharisees. Plöger, 7–9. He concludes that the intellectual forefathers of the Hasidim have to be the ones who were responsible for the formation of the prophetic canon on the basis of two observations. First, they had a definite eschatological interest like the Hasidim. Second, they succeeded in securing canonical authority for the prophetic literature as a supplement to the Pentateuch. Plöger believes that this act indicates their belief that the prophets were tradents and interpreters of the Torah, a belief that is a point of contention between the ideologies of the Pharisees and the Sadducees. Ibid., 23–4. Plöger believes that there is a difference of opinion between the Maccabees and the visionary section of the book of Daniel on the eschatological evaluation of the events of their time. I Maccabees 9:27 shows that these events are like all other historical events while Daniel 12:1-3 maintains that these events are the onset of eschatological times. Furthermore, he notices that the ‘passive but loyal attitude displayed by the book of Daniel agrees well with the position of the Hasidim indicated in I Macc. ii’. Ibid., 17.



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books that may be centuries earlier.4 Plöger framed the discussion in terms of a historical quest of a group of people by looking backwards at the literature that displayed affinities with their ideology.5 Hence, the question of the origin included an implied evolutionist logic of group development and an implied straightforward correlation between texts and group formation.6 Both of these implied traits in Plöger’s inquiry made their way into later studies, which attempted to answer similar questions of origin. He also introduced the idea that the constitution of the post-exilic community, as the books of Chronicles, Ezra, and Nehemiah depict it, is that of a theocracy.7 Although later scholars did not insist on the idea of a theocratic regime, the notion that priests played a dominant role in defining the shape of the restoration proved quite influential. These aspects of Plöger’s argument deserve closer examination in order to understand and evaluate them properly. Plöger’s argument is fairly complex since he tries to account for events over an extended period of time. The best place to start is his take on the rise of apocalypticism. First, it bears repeating that he accepts the wisdom influences in apocalypticism and even concedes that several foreign elements were appropriated to facilitate the expression of apocalyptic ideas. However, he sees apocalypticism as a new phenomenon that was produced by the social, theological, and cultic innovations engendered in the post-exilic community. He builds mainly on the research by Rost on the development of the Priestly Document and on Rudolph’s theories on the Chronicler.8 4. Plöger traces the origin of the fragmentation observed in the Hellenistic era in the eschatological passages of the books of Isaiah (24-27), Trito-Zechariah (12-14), and Joel that are dated in the fourth century BCE. Ibid., 53–105. 5. Plöger believes that the initial traces of sectarianism are discerned in the book of Daniel. This in his opinion justifies his presuppositions ‘of an earlier epoch which have culminated in such a division’. Ibid., 20. 6. Evolutionist anthropology appeared in the middle of the 19th century and became a major paradigm of understanding society before functionalism and relativism. It arose from questions that explored the relations between ‘primitive’ societies and Victorian England. Barnard notes that ‘All unilinear evolutionists…held a vision of anthropology as a science which tied the present and the past. They sought origins, and they found them among their “primitive” contemporaries. Their methodological flair, however, was dampened as succeeding generations turned away from the question of origins.’ Alan Barnard, History and Theory in Anthropology (Port Chester, NY, USA: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 37–8. 7. When Plöger was writing the view that the books of Ezra and Nehemiah are related to the circle that produced the books of Chronicles was standard. The overlap between 2 Chronicles 36:22-23 and Ezra 1:1-3 generated this opinion because it gave the impression that Ezra and Nehemiah are the direct continuation of Chronicles and that the division between them in the Canon is secondary. Now, however, Japhet has disproved this view convincingly. S. Japhet, I & II Chronicles: A Commentary (Louisville, Kentucky: Westminster/John Knox Press: 1993), 23–8. See also H. G. M. Williamson, 1 and 2 Chronicles NCB (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans and London: Marshall, Morgan & Scott, 1982), 5–15. 8. Rost’s main argument is that P’s substitution of the term people of Israel (‘am yisrael ) with the term congregation/assembly (‘edah ) reflects a conscious attempt to depict a cultically pure religious group without the political ingredients introduced with the establishment of monarchy. Leonhard Rost, Die Vorstufen von Kirche und Synagogue im Alten Testament, BWANT IV 24 (1938). Rudolph asserts that the Chronicler’s goal was

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Plöger asserts that the sociological transformation of post-exilic Israel from a nation to a religious community, or, put differently, from a political state to a theocracy, is the key for the rise of apocalypticism.9 At this stage it would be best to explain how Plöger understands this theocracy. According to his reconstruction, the Priestly Document understood the principle of creation as separation and division. The books of Ezra and Nehemiah that shaped the post-exilic community continued in the same vein and thus argued that Israel should stay away from political/diplomatic relationships on the grounds of its separation and uniqueness.10 The Chronicler argues that the royal, priestly, and prophetic offices that shaped the monarchy were taken up by the priests and thus promote the ‘embodiment of his theocratic ideal within the Jewish community’.11 Plöger believes that the consolidation of the three offices in one interest group meant, at least for the priestly aristocracy, that there was no expectation for anything further. However, this elimination of any and every expectation had an adverse consequence. The religious life gradually grew empty since nothing fresh could be imported to inject new vitality into it. For Plöger this was an internal metamorphosis, which ‘may be regarded as an act of withdrawal into a specifically religious sphere’ that bore ‘within itself the seed of sectarian narrowness’.12 Therefore, it is in this reorientation of the community that Plöger pinpoints the beginning of fragmentation and sectarianism. He believes that the religious heritage of Israel, which is found

to portray the realization of theocracy in Israel in the way it took shape at the time when Chronicler wrote. Wilhelm Rudolph, Chronikbücher, HAT I 21 (1955). 9. The first to speak of a theocracy in the post-exilic period is Wellhausen who takes this cue from Josephus. Josephus calls a theocracy the state organized on Mosaic laws. Josephus, Contra Apion, ii, 17. However, Wellhausen is quick to notice that this description would be more apt for Josephus’s community around 70 CE. Wellhausen carefully tries to draw a distinction between the Mosaic theocracy and the post-exilic hierocracy. Wellhausen, 411, 421. Albertz concurs that since Josephus it has become customary to designate the post-exilic community a theocracy. However, he clarifies that the correct insight is that in this period the priesthood forms an independent power factor for the first time in Israel’s history. Rainer, Albertz, A History of Israelite Religion in the Persian Period, Vol. II: From the Exile to the Maccabees, trans. John Bowden (Louisville Kentucky: Westminster John Knox Press, 1994), 448. Perdue argues that one can speak of a theocracy during the third century BCE on the basis of the evidence provided by PseudoHecateus. According to Pseudo-Hecateus the Sadducean priests dominated the city both cultically, politically, and financially. Leo G. Perdue, The Sword and the Stylus (Grand Rapids, Michigan: William B. Eerdmans, 2008), 229. 10. Plöger, 35–6. 11. Ibid., 40. Plöger states that this was later escalated according to the evidence found in the 13th book of Josephus’ antiquities, which reports the union of the government of the people, the office of High Priest and the gift of the prophecy in the line of the Hasmoneans. Ibid., 42. Albertz agrees with Plöger’s idea that Chronicles reflects a scribal idea of a theocracy and expands on Plöger’s theory on the nature of this theocratic ideal but he does not claim that this ideal came to pass as described in Chronicles. Albertz, 544–56. 12. Plöger, 50.



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in prophetic literature, included a diverse collection of theological traditions that could not fit in the narrow constitution of the new cultic community.13 The building tension between the narrow approach of the theocracy and the variegated theological traditions in Israel’s heritage would not lead to an outward division, according to Plöger, if not for a number of other contributing factors. First, he thinks that certain events that took place in the end of the fourth century BCE were instrumental for the community fragmentation. These events were ‘the collapse of the Persian rule and the Hellenistic expansion in the political sphere, the Samaritan schism in the cultic sphere, and the reinterpretation of history on confessional lines by the Chronicler in the theological sphere’.14 He adds that the theocratic polity aggravated this already tenuous situation. Within a national body, as he explains, ‘opposition movements could be formed and tolerated without endangering the unity of the nation’.15 As proof for this assertion he offers the examples of the Nazarenes and the Rechabites who existed harmoniously within the context of institutional Israel, even though they represented older charismatic movements. However, within a community based primarily on law and cult, an opposition movement would receive a more rigid cast and the danger of splintering could not be avoided permanently. He concludes that the brewing schism was eventually brought about by the reform of the Hellenistic party under Antiochus IV and the Maccabean revolt. Plöger believes that the apocalyptic compositions represent the subsequent splits from this theocracy that attempted to redefine Israel.16 Plöger also offers a very specific picture of how events in the social arena affected the transformation into a theocracy. According to his reconstruction, the Chronicler picked up from the point where the Priestly document left off. The restoration blueprint adopted by the interest group behind the Chronicles, which, in Plöger’s opinion, came to decide the fate of Israel, did not want to attribute any fundamental importance to all the other traditions that flourished in the nation of Israel. Their goal remained consistent with pre-exilic priestly theology. They too wanted to defend Israel’s uniqueness by keeping it exempt from the influence of historical relationships, particularly since historical relationships played a key role in the demise of the monarchy. However, they could not entirely rewrite the past. The importance of the 13. Knohl argues that it was this isolationist tendency of the Priestly Torah and its lack of contact with the surrounding world and the time period of its contemporaries that led to the formation of the Holiness School. He maintains that the essential difference between these two is that ‘PT concentrates on its own inner world and has little interest in what takes place outside the Temple and the cult, whereas HS is concerned with the broader life and problems of the Israelite congregation’. Israel Knohl, The Sanctuary of Silence, 203. 14. Plöger, 111. 15. Ibid., 46. 16. Plöger does not list explicitly these apocalyptic compositions. The clearest description he offers is found when he discusses the trend of pseudonymity in apocalyptic literature. In this section he refers to apocalypses, which claim to stem from prophets like Isaiah or Elijah, and others who claim to stem from men of Law, such as Moses or Ezra or the patriarchs or even figures of hoary antiquity, such as Adam or Enoch. Ibid., 29.

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prophetic tradition was undisputed, and that is the reason why these priestly circles had to find a way to incorporate the prophets in the priestly scheme of things. Plöger believes that these post-exilic priestly circles used the prophetic tradition to bridge the chronological gap between the end of the Priestly Document and their time. At the same time, they took care to frame it with priestly material in order to control the way it was understood. This was a double victory for the theocracy because, on the one hand, prophecy was made to serve their cause, but on the other, it was rendered innocuous by being restricted to a particular period of the past. However, the preservation of prophecy carried within it the hope of the restoration of the nation, which was an integral part of the prophetic tradition. Some peripheral elements within the theocratic community could not help but acknowledge the validity of this prophetic hope and be lured by the prospect of the fulfilment of Yahweh’s plan in the historical sphere. Plöger believes that during the course of time these groups, by virtue of their peripheral status, were exposed to foreign ideas that helped them reconcile the ideas of national restoration and contact with the rest of the world via eschatology. This was an idea that could not be conceived within the theocratic frame of thought that left no room for eschatological expectation. Thus, the idea of the restoration of the nation was reinterpreted in an innovative way that dispelled the feeling of ‘emptiness or aimlessness’ fostered by the realized eschatology of the mainstream.17 On the one hand, these groups did not separate themselves from the community; they only ‘began to strengthen their position by gradually secluding themselves in conventicles’.18 On the other hand, there was no resistance to this innercommunity development because the mainstream recognized that these developing ideas were within the range of the respected prophetic tradition. Nevertheless, the momentous events at the end of the fourth century threw off balance this volatile compromise. Eventually they led to a break in Maccabean times when adherence to prophetic eschatology maintained that eschatology could not be restricted in the present, as the priests had claimed. This denial undermined the claim that eschatological hopes could be realized only within the bounds of the theocracy, which was what necessitated its existence. In Plöger’s opinion, this break eventually led to the dissolution of the theocracy. Plöger identifies these peripheral groups with the Hasidim and claims that their ideas found expression in the apocalyptic literature.19 17. Ibid., 44. 18. Ibid., 48. 19. Hamerton-Kelly accepts Plöger’s theory that apocalypticism ‘arose in circles that were estranged from the post-exilic theocracy because its constitution left no room for eschatological hope’. He adds that a second point of divergence between the theocracy and the eschatological circles was ‘the theology of the temple’. While the theocracy considered the Second Temple as the realization of any hopes for a new Temple, their opponents believed that the rebuilding was ‘a betrayal of the eschatological hope’. According to them, the true Temple was present in heaven and would be revealed at the eschaton. HamertonKelly argues that the belief in the eschatological Temple generated an interest in the ‘world above’ that led the ‘apocalypticists to develop their extended speculations on the dimensions and inhabitants of heaven’. In his opinion, this explains why apocalyptic eschatology is so



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He even contends that these groups are more ‘responsible for the formation of the prophetic canon than the leading circles of the theocracy’, who are responsible for the Pentateuch.20 Plöger’s idea of the establishment of a theocracy during the Second Temple period runs into problems. It is true that priests played a big role in the restoration period, but the only time one could speak of a polity resembling a theocratic regime would be under the Hasmoneans.21 As Cook notes, the Yehud seals and coins published by Nahman Avigad refute the idea that the province of Yehud was theocratically managed in the Persian period.22 In the next chapter, I will discuss at length the social setting of the post-exilic community in Judah in order to get a clearer picture of the specifics of its organization. Furthermore, while it is true that the books of Chronicles emphasize the cult and present a picture that can be described as theocratic, they are neither the only nor the dominant voice in the religious life of the Second Temple. As Wilson has observed, at the same time wisdom literature was flourishing and the interpretation and study of Torah was gaining popularity.23 More importantly, it seems that there were other priestly voices with different viewpoints. Knohl argues that the Holiness School displays affinities with prophetic and wisdom literature, and seems to be concerned with the political and social events in all the strata of Israelite society.24 Therefore, Plöger’s monophonic reconstruction of the post-exilic society is very unlikely.25 Although Plöger attempts to reconstruct a complex picture of the social formations in the post-exilic period, in the end he comes down to a bipolar conflict between the priestly and prophetic tradition. As a result all his intricate analysis is reduced to a simplistic dichotomy.26 Plöger’s proposition transcendental. R. G. Hamerton-Kelly, ‘The Temple and The Origins of Jewish Apocalyptic’, VT 20 (1970): 12–13. 20. Plöger, 117. 21. Albertz maintains that during the Persian period there is no question of a dominant priestly rule since the priesthood was one governing body among others since temple power and temple economy were not decisive factors. Albertz, 448. 22. Stephen L. Cook, Prophecy and Apocalypticism: The Postexilic Social Setting (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995), 163. Similarly, Rose states that ‘the view which dates an emergence of the priesthood as a political power (hierocracy) to the Persian period runs into problems for historical reasons’. He contests this view on the grounds of the evidence in the books of Ezra and Nehemiah and the evidence from bullae and seals. Wolter H. Rose, Zemah and Zerubbabel (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 250. 23. Wilson, ‘The Problems of Describing and Defining Apocalyptic Discourse’, Semeia 21 (1981): 133. 24. Knohl adds that ‘HS’s indebtedness to non-Priestly writings is evident in its style, its law, and its worship’. Israel Knohl, The Sanctuary of Silence, 203. 25. Barton believes that this explanation has many attractions but, nevertheless, it is too simple. John Barton, Oracles of God, 168. 26. Even scholars who reconstruct fairly complex scenarios with several fronts and stages of conflict end up reducing it to a clash between two opposing forces that seem to encompass all the various parties. Morton Smith believes that there were two parties, each a coalition of several forces, which were responsible for the final form of the Old Testament, the separatists versus the assimilationists or the Yahweh-alone party versus the syncretists.

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is burdened by the imposing status ascribed to the theocratic regime and is weakened by the relegation to the periphery of all those other post-exilic voices that offered a different understanding of Second Temple Israel. 3.3 The Struggle between Visionaries and Hierocrats Hanson proceeds with a more explicit use of sociological material in the Dawn of Apocalyptic. He undertook this investigation maintaining the same basic approach; explore how the decline of one phenomenon could lead to the rise of another, namely how the eclipse of prophecy led to the dawn of apocalypticism.27 Unlike Plöger, however, he focuses his analysis on post-exilic prophecy leaving out of the picture the events of the Hellenistic era. What led Hanson to interdisciplinary material was his desire to address three interrelated topics to locate chronologically apocalypticism’s point of origin, and to clarify its ‘essential nature’ and to explain its historical and social matrix.28 Hanson wants to locate in time the emergence of apocalypticism because he argues that if one accepts a later date as its birth point then the resulting typology of apocalyptic literature will be ‘grossly inaccurate’.29 He posits as its point of origin the time span between the sixth and the fifth centuries BCE. It is in this period that he locates the formation of the matrix, which gave birth to apocalypticism. He argues that the restoration period should be understood as a power struggle between priests and prophets over the control of the Temple in Jerusalem. On the one hand, Hanson arrives at this date because that is when he locates the shift from prophetic to apocalyptic eschatology. As I have argued, this particular shift is not as simple or clear Morton Smith, Palestinian Parties and Politics that Shaped the Old Testament (London: SCM Press Ltd, 1987), 118, 75, 88. Odil H. Steck , who presents the Hebrew Bible as a combination of various streams of tradition, asserts that eventually the numerous streams converge in two opposing ones, the theocratic and the eschatological stream. Odil H. Steck, ‘Theological Streams of Tradition’, in Tradition and Theology in the Old Testament, ed. D. A. Knight (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990) 211. 27. Barton argues that ‘“the transition from prophecy to apocalyptic” is the title of a process that never occurred’. He adds that Rowland has striven to show that prophecy did not turn into apocalypticism because the two ‘movements’ have a different subject matter: prophecy is concerned with the future, whereas apocalyptic literature concerns itself with the disclosure of secrets. Barton claims that prophecy ‘continued to exist even when the word was no longer used to describe the activity of contemporaries, came to be seen as essentially the disclosure of secrets’. Barton, Oracles of God, 200. 28. Hanson states clearly that he wants to address four points with his book: 1) how the sources of apocalypticism, 2) locate its point of origin, 3) clarify its essential nature, and 4) explain its socio-historical matrix. He offers this outline twice in the book. The order of these four points is given here according to Hanson’s second presentation. The first time the third and fourth points are presented in reverse order. P. D. Hanson, Dawn of Apocalyptic, 7 and 29. 29. Hanson, 7. Hanson wants to dispel the notion that foreign religious ideas influenced the development of apocalypticism. He believes that influences from Persian dualism and Hellenism were late and came only after the essential character of apocalypticism had been formed.



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a transition as Hanson has offered. There seems to be a more complex development in the various types of eschatology between prophecy and apocalypticism. Although most scholars would agree that the decline of prophecy takes place from the sixth to the fifth centuries, the point in history that marks the rise of apocalypticism is a less agreed upon subject. On the other hand, Hanson seems to believe that new phenomena are only born when a society undergoes a crisis situation.30 When one has better access to the historical record of a crisis situation, one can observe how people react to the crisis. This is one of the tasks of social anthropology. However, it is not certain that a crisis is always required to produce a new form of social expression. From a sociological point of view this is a mechanistic way of analysing social phenomena, which in turn portrays society as a closed reactionary system where processes happen according to Hegelian dialectics. In this respect, Hanson seems to follow Plöger’s argument, which was constructed on the basis of evolutionary reasoning. It is one thing to attempt to locate temporally a historical event and another to seek to pinpoint the origin of a sociological phenomenon on the grounds of a cause and effect mechanism. One should allow room for imbalances and unpredictable consequences in the development of social phenomena.31 It should be noted that Hanson seems to adopt a developmental sociological model not just for the origin of what he calls ‘apocalyptic eschatology’, but for the origin of prophecy in Israel as well.32 Hanson was right to turn our attention to this period. It is obvious enough that this is the period when prophecy gradually loses ground. Implying that apocalyptic literature came to fill in the gap left by prophecy is a mistake. First, it is fairly certain that these two genres of literature served diverse social functions and catered to different needs. Second, several other genres flourished when prophecy began fading. It is then probable that the arising plurality and variety in literature that is evident from the growth of wisdom, law, and apocalypticism is a sign of the religious sentiments, cultural trends, and intellectual ideas of the times rather than stages of an attempt to replace prophecy.33 30. Carroll offered a similar argument when he tried to describe the emergence of the prophetic movement in Israel. He claimed that prophecy was a way to respond to a variety of political or religious crises, from the Philistine crisis to the Assyrian one. R. P. Carroll, When Prophecy Failed, 8–9. 31. As Cook remarks society should not be seen as ‘a closed system in which social energy is never created or destroyed’. Cook, Prophecy and Apocalypticism, 44. 32. Cf. Hanson’s comment that the prophets ‘were themselves born of a crisis in the tenth century when Yahwism was thrust into an environment within which it could survive only by adopting new forms’. Ibid., 12. Hanson seems to believe that social changes are triggered only by situations of crisis and only when society faces adverse situations. 33. It would be safe to say that plurality rather than singularity seems to have been the dominant trend in the Second Temple period. As Tov shows, the diversity of religious literature is also reflected in the variety of the textual witnesses. He states that 35 per cent of the texts found in Qumran should be characterized as ‘non-aligned’ since they disagree to the same extent with all the other known groups of texts (i.e. the Masoretic, the Samaritan and the Greek) and contain readings that are not found anywhere else. I agree with Tov that the variety exemplified with these texts is important when one tries to determine the full range

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Hanson’s next point concerns the description of the ‘essential nature’ of apocalyptic, which in his opinion is located in a particular shift in expression. He submits that since the priests were at the centre of their society, they had to defend the status quo. Therefore, their method of expression had to be pragmatic and historically specific.34 Since the prophets spoke for the powerdeprived elements in post-exilic society, they opted for a mode of expression with a strong other-worldly orientation. Hanson continues that in post-exilic times prophets gradually abandoned the established pattern of translating the divine message into factual entities that were historically recognizable.35 Instead, prophets opted to translate the divine message with symbolic images breaking any connection with the actual politico-historical circumstances of their time. According to Hanson, this change in mode of expression was prompted by a specific sequence of events. The post-exilic prophets wanted to break free from the limitations imposed by the servitude to the political reality36 because the actual world of politics failed to give fruition to their hopes for salvation, and thus they directed their hopes to a transcendent reality.37 Although the shift towards an abstract and cosmic mode of expression in later prophecy is undeniable, as I have discussed in the previous chapter, Hanson’s explanation of this shift presupposes certain sociological parameters that are contested. The fact that prophets used common political parlance to relate their message did not necessarily mean that they served or approved the political environment that generated this parlance. As mediators prophets had to use the current talk in order to be culturally relevant. Moreover, using language that was on the people’s lips and addressing figures that were in the public eye is what would make their message compelling to their audience.38 The gradual turn to mythic imagery and obscure language that one observes in post-exilic times is not to be attributed solely to frustration with the

of texts current in the Second Temple period. Emanuel Tov, Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible, 2nd edn (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2001), 116–17. 34. Grabbe objects that apocalypses may be produced by figures within the scribal or priestly establishments. He even asserts that ‘there are examples of apocalyptic-type writings being used by the established church against an apocalyptic sect!’ Lester L. Grabbe, ‘The Social Setting of Early Jewish Apocalypticism’, JSP 4 (1989): 33. 35. The gradual shift to myth from the pre-exilic to the post-exilic period is further emphasized by Carroll’s comment that ‘the notion of Yahweh as the king enthroned in Zion’s temple was as mythic in Isaiah as anything in Second Isaiah and his followers’. R. P. Carroll, When Prophecy Failed, 210. 36. Ibid., 131–3. 37. Ibid., 161, 219 and 409. 38. Wilson offers another reason why prophets were expected to use language that would resonate with their audience. He argues that prophets in the Ephraimite and Judean traditions used stereotypical speech patterns and employed distinctive vocabulary because they had to conform to the expectations of their respective support groups, which expected them to speak in certain characteristic ways in order to recognize them as genuine messengers of Yahweh. R. R. Wilson, Prophecy and Society in Ancient Israel (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1980), 135–6, 141–6, 251, 257–63.



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historical order.39 In most prophetic books prophets offered advice that went against the grain, and as a result they were habitually disregarded by the political structures of their time. Therefore, if prophets had faced rejection and despair with politics in the past and yet continued to use current political language one has to postulate that the turn to transcendent imagery had to be brought about by additional reasons. Hanson realizes that the situation had to be more complicated and later attempts to fortify his suggestion from another angle. Thus, he offers, prophecy was prompted to abandon political language because political programmes often failed, and this failure discredited the prophetic office.40 In this line of argumentation, the recourse to mythic language was not only a reaction against unfavourable political circumstances, but also an attempt to revert to archaic forms of religiosity and organization.41 The point Hanson makes is that the use of motifs, such as the Divine Warrior, indicates a desire to liberate oneself from politics, because this set of images hearkens back to the time of the tribal federation when the political structures were a lot more egalitarian. Given the fact that the existence of such a federation is now seen to be doubtful, this point has little explanatory power.42 Most likely the Divine Warrior motif achieved a prominent part in the tradition because it was used in conjunction with monarchical ideology. If this is correct, then there is a certain irony in the claim that the return to these images reflects an attempt to escape the world of politics, since such motifs had been used in the past to promote the dynastic political agenda. Hanson is correct that this set of images lack historical specificity, but the connotations they evoke were most definitely politically concrete. One has to agree with Hanson that in post-exilic prophetic eschatology there is a clear indication that the hopes for the future are expressed in sharp opposition to the existing political structures and contemporary historical events.43 This opposition is clearly seen in the shift from factual to symbolic language. However, some of his observations on the social matrix have to be modified. Hanson posits that this new mode of expression emerges when historical circumstances are unfavourable and deny opportunity of expression within the confines of reality.44 As Carey argues, 39. In this respect, Hanson seems to be influenced by Buber, who claims that the eschatological hope in history ‘arises only through increasing disappointment with history… Real eschatological faith is born from real history with the great birth-pangs of historical experience: any other attempt to trace its origin fails to recognize its true nature’. M. Buber, Kingship of God, trans. R. Scheimann; 3rd edn (New York: Harper & Row, 1967). 40. Ibid., 247. 41. Ibid., 315–16, 363. 42. For a more recent discussion of the matter, see Kenton L. Sparks, Ethnicity and Identity in Ancient Israel (Winona Lake, Indiana: Eisenbrauns, 1998), 6–8. 43. Hanson, 229. 44. The idea that apocalypticism was brought about by deprivation has a long history. However, R. North offers the most extreme formulation by arguing that apocalypticism ‘is the product of a ghetto community’. Robert North, ‘Prophecy to Apocalyptic via Zechariah’, VTSup 22 (1972): 69. North claims that J. Moltmann put this idea forth, but Moltmann does not even come close to using such sharp words. J. Moltmann, Theology of Hope: on the Ground and Implications of a Christian Eschatology (New York: Harper, 1967), 134.

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the ‘exclusive link of apocalyptic discourse with oppressed communities does not stand up to the data’.45 To this I should add that apocalyptic eschatology betrays not just the desire for an outlet of alternative expression but also a broad spectrum of desires from consolation to vindication and even catharsis.46 Furthermore, as Tigchelaar remarks, the kind of relation between one’s worldview and one’s experience of reality is not only causal.47 The underlying aspect of power struggle that Hanson detects in the recourse to mythic symbolism argues against his suggestion that apocalyptic eschatology displays a ‘growing indifference to the world of politics’.48 What is evident is that the people who pick this mode of expression are very much interested in the world of politics.49 It is their frustration with politics and possibly their inability to affect them in any practical way that drives them to the rejection of human instrumentality.50 The other argument Hanson presents in order to explain this shift in expression seems to be equally problematic. In agreement with his theory 45. Carey observes that the book of ‘Revelation itself indicates a mixed audience; according to John, the church in Laodicea regarded itself as prosperous and in need of nothing (3:17). And while Daniel reflects concern with religious persecution, it locates itself within the level of a courtly, highly literate population’. Carey adds that this is also the case with 1 Enoch 72–82, the Book of the Luminaries that is associated with priestly groups. Greg Carey and L. Gregory Bloomquist, Vision and Persuasion: Rhetorical Dimensions of Apocalyptic Discourse (St Louis Missouri: Chalice Press, 1999), 7. 46. A. Collins, while discussing the psychological impact of the book of Revelation, argues that ‘the projection of the conflict onto a cosmic screen, as it were, is cathartic in the sense that it clarifies and objectifies the conflict’. Adela Yarbro Collins, Crisis & Catharsis: The Power of the Apocalypse (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1984), 153. 47. Tigchelaar notes that one cannot argue ‘that the Hellenistic crises all of a sudden gave rise to a new kind of worldview. It is more likely that the experience of a crisis demanded a reinterpretation and modification of existing beliefs and opinions’. E. C. Tigchelaar, The Prophets of Old, 264–5. 48. Hanson, Dawn, 219. 49. Hanson seems to confuse the deferral of hope for a solution with disinterest for a solution. Collins has cleared this confusion with an illuminating comment: ‘it is in the nature of apocalyptic eschatology that it cannot be fully realized in this life’. J. J. Collins, ‘From Prophecy to Apocalypticism: The Expectation of the End’, in The Continuum History of Apocalypticism, ed. Bernard McGinn (New York, London: Continuum, 2003), 86. Bellis, in her research of the use of the figure of Babylon in biblical and apocalyptic literature, concludes that ‘the apocalypses are as much rooted in historical reality as the earlier prophetic books are’. Alice Ogden Bellis, ‘The Changing Face of Babylon in Prophetic/Apocalyptic Literature: Seventh Century BCE to First Century CE and Beyond’, in Knowing the End from the Beginning, 71. 50. Collins argues that there are two kinds of apocalypses. On the one hand, there are quietistic apocalypses like the books of 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch that are primarily reflections on failure and destruction. On the other, there are militant apocalypses like the Apocalypse of Weeks and the Animal Apocalypse that may be understood to incite support for the Maccabees revolt. Whether their purpose is to exhort to action or console, apocalypses are tied to political events. J. J. Collins, ‘From Prophecy to Apocalypticism’, 86. However, they conceal ‘the historical specificity of the situation beneath the primeval archetype’ because apocalyptic symbolism has the power to relieve anxiety. J. J. Collins, The Apocalyptic Imagination, 51.



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that there are mainly two types of eschatological thinking, the prophetic and the apocalyptic, he claims that the eschatological mode of expression was actually present in pre-exilic times, but the prophets with such a message ‘were driven to silence.’51 Their message was not acceptable in the pre-exilic social situation. However, the destruction of Jerusalem created social conditions that were favourable to this minority message. Nevertheless, one has to note that as long as there was confidence in the notion of a strong state, there was no compelling reason why people would give up hope in politics and human instrumentality. The available evidence shows that both Israelite states relied heavily on diplomacy throughout their existence and that prophets played an essential and distinctively vocal role in most of those diplomatic endeavours.52 Furthermore, one has to observe that Hanson presents a scenario for which there is no evidence. Instead, Hanson supplies the evidence from the sociological theory of Troeltsch. Troeltsch asserts that there are two types of religious organization in Christianity, which are opposed to one another, the Church-type and the sect-type; the first relies on the ruling classes, while the second depends on the suppressed classes.53 Since the Church is the organization based on power and control, its mode of expression tends to be pragmatic and favourable to the political establishment. The sect-type, having no worldly power, is bound to utilize idealistic and eschatological modes of expression. It is this very idea that supports the hypothetical existence of a silenced apocalyptic group during the monarchy. Hanson recognizes that Troeltsch’s theory results from the observation of social conditions that are several centuries later than the ones he discusses. Yet he opts to apply this model to biblical material, even though there is no evidence that would guarantee this comparison.54 Barton further observes that even the medieval Catholic Church that perceived itself as eternal had eschatological hopes.55 51. Hanson, Dawn, 217. 52. Talmon claims that prophets represented one of the three pivotal socio-religious institutions of the monarchy. Specifically, he notes that ‘the societal integrity of Israel in the monarchical period rested upon the equilibrium maintained between the forces of “constancy” – kings and priests – and the generators of “creative movement” – the prophets’. S. Talmon, King, Cult and Calendar, 178. Wilson adds that in the Deuteronomic picture of the ideal state, prophets have to ‘work along with judges, kings and Levitical priests to help maintain the social structure’. R. R. Wilson, Prophecy and Society, 165. 53. Ernst Troeltsch, The Social Teaching of the Christian Churches, trans. Olive Wyon, vol.1 (New York: Harper Brothers, 1960), 331–43. It should be noted that Troeltsch defines ‘sect’ as ‘an independent sociological type of Christian thought’ and not a movement which is an ‘underdeveloped expression of the Church type’. Ibid., 338. Troeltsch also states expressly that both types were developed on the basis of the New Testament. Ibid., 343. 54. Kessler critiques Hanson for not offering a detailed analysis of the demography and economy of Yehud in the presentation of his sociological argument. He adds that ‘this lack of historical rootedness is exacerbated’ by the fact that the social theories that Hanson uses were formulated and elaborated in a ‘European and ecclesiastical context’ and ‘are applied to Yehud in 520 without adequate justification of the validity of such an approach’. J. Kessler, The Book of Haggai (Leiden, Boston, Cologne: Brill, 2002), 16. 55. Barton claims that Medieval Catholicism that was a theocracy had eschatological expectations in the sense that it looked for patterns of providential guidance in history and

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Hanson’s two-stage development seems to depend on Troeltsch’s two types of organization rather than on textual evidence. Although Hanson offers a different theory on the rise of apocalypticism he follows Plöger’s evolutionary thinking tracing the emergence and escalation of a conflict through various post-exilic texts. Hanson also attributed a central role to the dominant position of the priests in the fragmentation of post-exilic society. However, his ideas on the relationship between prophecy and apocalypticism through eschatology rely more on the theories of Mannheim and Troeltsch than the evidence provided by Chronicles and EzraNehemiah on the theocratic polity. Indubitably, Hanson’s research furthered our understanding of the post-exilic social conditions and shed light to some obscure biblical passages. However, his insistence on a two-stage development of the eschatological ideas in prophecy, drawn around a bipolar conflict, are simplistic and do not do justice to the complexity of the biblical material. 3.4 The Millennial Parallel Cook, in his book Prophecy and Apocalypticism, largely reacts to Plöger’s assertion that the consolidation of power by post-exilic priests led to a gradual disappearance of eschatological hope among their circles and Hanson’s contention that the apocalyptic phenomenon is tightly connected to alienated, peripheral, or disenfranchised groups.56 Cook sets out to challenge these contentions and present evidence that ‘proto-apocalyptic texts have been produced by power holding priestly groups, not marginal and not deprived groups’.57 In order to make his case, he compares exilic and postexilic prophetic texts with anthropological material gathered from the study of groups that sociologists refer to as ‘millennial’, because he observes that between the two there are strong family resemblances particularly when it comes to their worldviews.58 Cook’s strategy of argumentation is pretty uniform. He begins his analysis with a discussion of the history of scholarship for each prophetic text that has been deemed proto-apocalyptic. His goal is to show the apocalyptic dimensions of the passage and to prove the compatibility of the given passage with the millennial data by highlighting some of the features that are common in both. These features include: a) radical eschatology, b) dualism, and c) a number of secondary traits that vary with each text. Subsequently he looks into the language, the motifs and the concerns of each passage, and he finds that they are predominantly priestly. In his opinion, this means that the composers, tradents and redactors of the prophetic passages were either priests or groups very closely affiliated with the priesthood, an affiliation in the eventual consummation of all things. Barton, Oracles of God, 221. 56. Cook, Prophecy and Apocalypticism, 9–12. 57. Ibid., 2. 58. Cook focuses particularly in Ezekiel chapters 38 and 39, ibid., 85–121, Zechariah 1–8, ibid., 123–65 and the book of Joel, ibid., 167–209.



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which implies that they were operating from the centre rather than the periphery of the post-exilic society.59 In each case, Cook takes great care to show how each text tries to contribute in a constructive way to the development of the post-exilic society and thus prove that apocalypticism/ millennialism can be a positive force and does not need to be necessarily a reaction to stress or despair. Cook made several important contributions with his research to the exploration of the relationship between prophecy and apocalypticism. He uncovered priestly layers in prophetic books with a marked eschatological interest. Thus, he first showed that it is possible for priests to foster eschatological hopes even when they are in a position of power, in contrast to Plöger’s assertion.60 Second, he argued that an abstract and cosmic mode of expression is not the sole prerogative of prophets or of disenfranchised groups as Hanson has argued.61 Last, he brought to the foreground the need for a model that reflects a more complex development of the eschatological ideas in biblical prophecy than the two-step models Plöger and Hanson proposed. 3.5 An Evaluation of the Use of Inter-Disciplinary Material Inter-disciplinary methods are often seen as the most efficient way to tackle one of the inherent problems in biblical studies, namely the paucity of information regarding certain aspects of ancient Near Eastern everyday life.62 Recourse to this field of studies, in order to answer the puzzling question of 59. It should be noted that Cook concludes each section with a synthesis of the interdisciplinary data and the biblical text. In this last section, he seeks to uncover the diachronic development of the group that produced this literature by linking the different layers of the text with a different stage in the career of millennial groups. As a result, texts that were broken down in earlier and later strata of different provenance are claimed to originate from the same group and thus reflect the various phases of one movement. Cook, 109–21; 153–65; 201–209. 60. The position of power for exilic and post-exilic priests has to be qualified in relation to the Persian Empire. I will discuss extensively the place of Yehud within the imperial scheme of things in the next chapter. For now, I should call attention to Collins’ remark that while Haggai and Zechariah (who according to Cook evince priestly interests) were close to the centre of power in Jerusalem, they can only be viewed as marginal figures in the broader context of the Persian empire. J. J. Collins, ‘From Prophecy to Apocalypticism: The Expectation of the End’, 67. 61. It should be noted that subsequently Hanson changed his mind and consented that leaders or leading groups can employ ‘visionary literary conventions and images’ because they see their power diminished vis-à-vis the greater authority of the world powers at the time. Paul D. Hanson, ‘Israelite Religion in the Early Postexilic Period’, Ancient Israelite Religion, ed. Patrick D. Miller, et al. (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1987), 492. 62. Overholt asserts that inter-disciplinary material provides access to cultures that are not limited to literary texts and thus enhances our ability to ‘treat specific problems for which there was insufficient information within the Old Testament texts’. T. W. Overholt, Prophecy in Cross-Cultural Perspective, 340. Elliot, while assessing the contribution of the social science to the study of the Bible, states that there is now ‘a new set of appropriate

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the relation between prophecy and apocalypticism, proved inevitable. In the course of time, different scholars followed different strategies in the way they used material from the social sciences to answer this question with different degrees of success. Plöger’s historical sensitivities led him to a discussion that assumes a correlation between apocalyptic literature and the apocalyptic social phenomenon, as expressed in sectarian group formation of the Hellenistic era.63 While it is true that certain collections of texts, such as the Qumran literature, belong to a specific sectarian movement one cannot arrive at the same conclusion for every apocalyptic text.64 It is one thing to claim, as Vielhauer does, that actual distresses produce this type of literature,65 and another to maintain that each situation of distress leads necessarily to sectarian group formation.66 Furthermore, according to this reasoning, the process of determining the social background of apocalyptic texts becomes circular.67 Since the distress is presupposed, then one is bound to reconstruct questions to ask and new nets and lenses for gathering data’. J. H. Elliot, What is SocialScientific Criticism?, 102. 63. Plöger was not the first to try to explain religious phenomena through historical circumstances. Wellhausen had followed the same method of argumentation in his attempt to date the Priestly Document. Knohl points to a fundamental flaw in this type of endeavour: ‘it ignores the power of spiritual creativity, which can never be completely explained through an understanding of its time and place of inception’. However, Knohl believes that this difficulty should not discourage any such investigation. He believes that one should rather be very careful as to what type of results one can get from the correlation of literature and socio-historical phenomena. On the issue of the dating of the Priestly Document he states, ‘we may, however, acknowledge that religious and spiritual phenomena are not created ex nihilo but are grounded in particular historical, cultural, and social reality. We may, thus, investigate the historical conditions surrounding developments in the spiritual world of the Israelite priesthood, though we do not claim that in doing so we determine the “causes” of these developments’. Israel Knohl, The Sanctuary of Silence, 199–200. 64. Collins notes that one has to allow for the existence of several apocalyptic movements at different times that are not necessarily linked genetically. He also maintains that despite the fashion in biblical studies, it is not necessary to posit a community or movement behind every text. John J. Collins, ‘Genre, Ideology and Social Movements in Jewish Apocalypticism’, in Mysteries and Revelations, ed. J. J. Collins & J. H. Charlesworth, JSPSup 9 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991), 23. 65. Tigchelaar cautions that the hypothesis that actual distresses produce this type of literature needs to be qualified. He claims that ‘one has to distinguish between specific crises and long, stable periods of oppression’. Otherwise apocalyptic texts will always fit this hypothesis. Even when it is not possible to relate a text to a particular crisis, it will still be considered as the product of a crisis situation because the period as a whole is characterized as oppressive. E. C. Tigchelaar, The Prophets of Old, 264. 66. P. Vielhauer and G. Strecker, ‘Apocalypses and Related Subjects’, in New Testament Apocrypha, vol.2, ed. E. Hennecke, W. Scheemelcher, and R. McL. Wilson (Louisville: Westminster, 1991), 558. 67. Blenkinsopp warns against the arbitrary assumptions that are presupposed in this type of reasoning. He claims that ‘the Sitz im Leben of a literary form occurring in prophetic texts does not necessarily tell us anything about the social situation of the prophet who made use of it’. J. Blenkinsopp, A History of Prophecy, 39. See also Lester L. Grabbe, A History of



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it from the information preserved in the text.68 The circular character of this logic was not detected early on because the nature of apocalyptic literature is conducive to the reconstruction of a crisis situation for two reasons. First, because the purpose of this literature is to shape the reader’s perception in a particular way, it is easy to discern the author’s interpretation of the world in which he or she lives.69 Second, because every reference to the actual social context is allusive, identifications are probable but not unambiguous.70 In these cases, the social context that seems more plausible is more often than not a crisis situation that justifies the interpretation of the author. Hence, the identification of the socio-historical context becomes a cyclical enterprise. In the course of his argumentation, Plöger introduced another methodological problem in terms of the way he set up the inquiry. Plöger postulated an uninterrupted trajectory of increasing alienation between the priestly leadership and the peripheral adherents to the prophetic message, which, in his opinion, lasted the better part of four centuries. Blenkinsopp objects that such a trajectory covers a time period, which is poorly documented. Therefore, there is not enough data to warrant the claim for an unbroken development, and as such this formulation is grounded more on speculation than historicity.71 Beyond this valid objection, one has to notice that conflicts rarely develop in such a clear linear way in societies. It seems more likely that this linear trajectory is a positivist conceptual the Jews and Judaism in the Second Tempe Period, Yehud: A History of the Persian Province of Judah, vol.1 (London: T & T Clark International, 2004), 260. 68. Tigchelaar points to another circularity. He shows that the tendency to characterize the period as pessimistic leads one to consider the concern with another world in apocalypticism as evidence of a pessimistic view. E. C. Tigchelaar, The Prophets of Old, 264. 69. As Yarbro Collins has argued, an apocalypse is ‘intended to interpret, present, earthly circumstances in light of the supernatural world and of the future, and to influence both the understanding and the behavior of the audience by means of divine authority’. A. Yarbro Collins, ‘Introduction: Early Christian Apocalypticism’, Semeia, 36 (1986): 7. 70. Collins in his discussion of Enoch argues that the historical situation of the author is intentionally concealed because ‘the emphasis is not on the uniqueness of historical events but on recurring patterns, which assimilate the particular crisis to some event of the past whether historical or mythical’. He adds that allusive language is itself ‘part of the solution of the problem that generates the text’ because it blurs historical specificity beneath archetypes in order to relieve anxiety. J. J. Collins, The Apocalyptic Imagination, 51. 71. Blenkinsopp believes that connections of some kind can be established ‘between the visions of Zechariah and those of Daniel’, but the time span between the two periods is too long and the data inadequate to support an unbroken trajectory. J. Blenkinsopp, ‘Interpretation and the Tendency to Sectarianism: An Aspect of Second Temple History’, in Jewish and Christian Self-Definition, ed. E. P. Sanders, vol.2 (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1981), 2–3. Grabbe, in his critique of Persian period sectarianism, asks, ‘Why would such a sharp dichotomy, with most of the community on either side or the other, leave so little evidence in the literature of time except in difficult and obscure prophetic oracles?’ Lester L. Grabbe, A History of the Jews and Judaism in the Second Tempe Period, 260.

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framework meant to provide data for a period that is a historical black hole.72 Nevertheless, it is too simplistic to reflect accurately actual social events. Hanson turned to the social sciences consciously in order to explore the origin of apocalypticism. His last point, i.e. his explanation of the historical and sociological matrix of apocalypticism, is the culmination of his argumentation and constitutes the main sociological contribution of his research to the study of prophecy and apocalypticism. Following Plöger’s model, he concludes that the historical and sociological matrix of apocalypticism is found in the Second Temple inner-community struggle between two opposing religious factions, the priests and the prophets. In this struggle the priests represented the interests of the ruling classes and the controlling powers of the period, whereas the prophets were the advocates of the powerless and disenfranchised people in the community. Hanson chooses to call the two antagonistic groups realists and visionaries respectively because of their preferred method of expression. At the core of this proposition lies Hanson’s belief that the tension between the visionary and realistic elements is ‘a struggle basic to all ethical religions’.73 Hanson seems to have a very specific form of ethical religion in mind, or at least a particular mode of expression of an ethical religion. The presupposition that all ethical religions develop in a similar manner sociologically is wrong, as is the notion that they all follow a standard pattern of evolution with identical phases.74 As noted above, Hanson finds the sociological undergirding for this position in Troeltsch’s study of the relation between Church and sect. It bears repeating that Troeltsch describes social phenomena that are separated from the post-exilic setting both spatially and temporally. More importantly, 72. Jay attributes the impulse among scholars to construct linear social evolution patterns during the 19th century to the belief that positive science could rid the world of obscurities. She says that ‘for the classical positivist, there existed on the one hand a wholly objective material world, moved only by physical causation, and explainable by the scientists, and on the other hand the one true and pure subjectivity: the scientific mind, unsituated…This world was, in principle intelligible, although it was limited to two modes: objects understood by scientists, and scientists understanding objects’. N. Jay, Throughout Your Generations Forever, 2. 73. Hanson, Dawn, 211. 74. The belief in universal evolutionary stages of development that was put forth by Unilinear Evolutionist Anthropology presupposes that all societies progress through the same stages. This approach, however, uses white Europeans as the exemplars of ‘civilization’ and, more importantly, it erases cultural variation and assumes universal laws of culture. The description of evolutionary sequences for religion was influenced by the Enlightenment doctrine that the human system of belief was steadily moving toward higher forms of rationality. Lubbock devoted two thirds of his book, The Origin of Civilization, to sketching the stages of religious belief. John Lubbock, The Origin of Civilization and the Primitive Condition of Man: Mental and Social Condition of Savages (New York: D. Appleton, 1870). As Harris points out soon scholars began criticizing the evolutionary approaches to religion and chief among them were Boas, Radcliffe-Brown and Malinowski. Marvin Harris, The Rise of Anthropological Theory: A History of Theories of Culture (New York: Thomas Y. Crowell Company, 1968), 259, 525, 553.



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there is no warrant that would justify a comparison between a group of postexilic priests seeking to reestablish their centre of worship with the medieval Catholic Church, which was already a stabilized institution. Nor is there the required evidence that would justify drawing a parallel between the sect, which has no worldly power, and the visionaries who as Hanson admits were in a position of power for a period of time.75 Hanson’s proposition has to be modified in two respects. First, this struggle cannot be delineated as neatly as Hanson proposes. The objections raised against Plöger’s linear schema apply here as well. Because he wants to present the tension between the pragmatic and the visionary elements as a salient trait in Israelite (and indeed in any ethical religion), he argues for the existence of two different types of eschatology. However, as I have argued, the development of eschatological ideas in the Bible is more complex than Hanson’s two types allow. Furthermore, Hanson divides the post-exilic prophetic writings into two rival camps; each prophet is assigned to defending one or the other group and the cause for this discord is a power struggle. Forcing the exilic material to fit a pre-exilic conflict, for which there is little and debatable evidence, creates certain unexplained anomalies, and Hanson cannot but acknowledge them.76 The most prominent of these anomalies is that visionary elements appear in the texts of both parties, and Hanson is hard pressed to explain this occurrence in view of the rigid division he has carved between the interests and methods of expression of the two groups.77 Equally problematic is Hanson’s belief that all the Zadokite literature expresses the same viewpoint. It is difficult to see how the priestly sensibilities found in Ezekiel, Ezra, Nehemiah and Chronicles can be collapsed into one category.78 Despite these difficulties Hanson defends his position, but his 75. Hanson, Dawn, 96, 243. 76. Ibid., 237. 77. Cook has argued that the books that Hanson categorizes as hierocratic are no less visionary than the books he attributes to the prophets; as such the priests may be considered equally as forerunners of the development of eschatological ideas. Cook, Prophecy and Apocalypticism, 71–4. 78. VanderKam remarks that in order to read these texts as expressing one viewpoint one has to assume that ‘there must have been a lot of good will within the groups such that they could embrace people who held diametrically opposed views’. James C. VanderKam, ‘Mapping Second Temple Judaism’, in The Early Enoch Literature, ed. Gabrielle Boccaccini and John J. Collins (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 17. VanderKam then adds that Odil Steck highlighted the differences between the theology of the Chronicler and that of the prayers of confession in Nehemiah 1 and 9 and Ezra 9. VanderKam notes that according to Steck there was no anticipation of a future or an eschatological event of salvation in the Chronicler because God ruled through the Persian king. In the prayers of Ezra and Nehemiah the post-exilic community is far from having realized its salvation. Instead it was in aproleptic condition, short of the expected salvation when God would curse the foreign ruler. VanderKam concludes that if Steck’s analysis is correct ‘what should we say was the theology of the Zadokite establishment? It seems as if even some Zadokites adopted an eschatology that remained unrealized’. Ibid., 17–18. Tamara Cohn Eskenazi also refers to a number of the tensions between priests and Levites in Ezra and Nehemiah. She concludes that the dynamics in post-exilic Judah were more complex than Hanson’s bifurcated model allows. Tamara Cohn Eskenazi, ‘The Missions of

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desire to uphold the strict divide between realists and visionaries leads exactly to that which he wants to avoid: a simplified division of the material.79 Hanson’s argument included the assertion that this Second Temple struggle was the historical and sociological matrix for apocalypticism. His position is similar to the one put forth by Plöger, but in this case it gets more problematic because of the assertion that this single conflict is the setting for every post-exilic prophetic text that has affinities with apocalyptic literature. The composition of all these texts cannot be attributed to a single conflict.80 Because of the nature of the material, sound methodology would require the determination of the social setting for each given post-exilic text separately, as one would feel inclined to do for any pre-exilic prophetic or wisdom piece of literature.81 In this case the hypothesis is even more precarious because it is done deductively, and as such it entails the circular reasoning that was introduced by Plöger.82 Several more problems emerge when one attempts to evaluate Hanson’s use of the material from the social sciences. In the integration of interdisciplinary material into biblical research he seems to run into problems on three accounts. First, he adopts a model of social process that was soon Ezra and Nehemiah’, in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period, ed. Oded Lipschits and Manfred Oeming (Winona Lake, Indiana: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 513. 79. Ackroyd maintains that ‘the attempt at simplifying that period into two main lines of thought does not do justice to the evidence’. He concludes that ‘the truth is much more complex than this’. P. R. Ackroyd, ‘Archaeology, Politics and Religion: The Persian Period’, The Iliff Review, 39 (1982), 22. 80. Wilson, using the book of Daniel as a text case, argues that ‘attempts to tie Israelite apocalyptic to a particular tradition stream such as prophecy or wisdom appear to be unable to accommodate all of the biblical evidence’. R. R. Wilson, ‘From Prophecy to Apocalyptic: Reflections on the Shape of Israelite Religion’, Semeia, 21 (1981), 79–95. Similarly, Tigchelaar argues that the search should be for origins instead of the origin because apocalypse is ‘a highly complex genre and cannot be thought of as having only one origin’. E. C. Tigchelaar, The Prophets of Old and the Day of the Lord, 10. 81. Collins emphasizes that the apocalyptic genre ‘can accommodate a considerable range of social settings, and that these have to be established by historical study’. John J. Collins, ‘Genre, Ideology and Social Movements in Jewish Apocalypticism’, 19. Collins asserts that apocalypses may be responses of a group in crisis since during the time that apocalypses were composed Jewish people were facing one or another crisis but these crises were of various kinds. Therefore, each crisis has to be determined separately for each book. For example, for the authors of the Book of the Watchers it was a cultural crisis while for the author of 4 Ezra it was a crisis of theodicy. J. J. Collins, ‘From Prophecy to Apocalypticism: The Expectation of the End’, 86. 82. Carroll also detects circularity in Hanson’s arguments because Hanson ‘defines a certain activity in such a way and uses that definition in the place of argument’. R. P. Carroll, ‘Twilight of Prophecy’, 25. In his definition of the two types of eschatology, Hanson already suggests the possible social location of a group likely to express itself with either of these modes of expression. Later when he proceeds to examine the various post-exilic texts he ascribes each text to one or the other social setting according to the type of eschatology that is found in each one. Schramm observes that Hanson’s presuppositions about the priesthood in Israel inform his exegesis and then Hanson uses his exegesis to justify his presuppositions. Brooks Schramm, The Opponents of Third Isaiah, JSOTSup 193 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 188.



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considered reductionistic. The assumption that an ideology can be attributed directly to social or political circumstances fell out of favour and was abandoned for other models that seemed to offer better explanations of the ways a society works. Theories rise to prominence and later fade to obscurity even in the biblical field. In this regard, Hanson cannot be faulted for working with available theories from the social sciences that were later criticized and discarded by sociologists. He should be held accountable, however, for disregarding the historical specificity of the theories offered by both Mannheim and Troeltsch. It is true that both thinkers build an overarching framework for their theory, which is nevertheless grounded securely in concrete events and particular social phenomena. Mannheim discusses the utopian mentality of the oppressed strata of society in conjunction with the orgiastic Chiliasm of the Anabaptists.83 Likewise, his analysis of the SocialistCommunist utopia refers to events of the 19th century and is contrasted with the utopian socialism of the 18th century.84 In a similar fashion Troeltsch states clearly that the distinctions he draws between Church and Sect are anchored in time. The picture he is painting depends on the changes the Church underwent in the feudal society of the Early Middle Ages and the developments the Sect was exposed to in the city civilization of the central Middle Ages.85 Consequently, both scholars examine events that unfolded in a particular context; Hanson took their theoretical-interpretive schema outside of its context compromising thus its validity and usefulness. He took for granted that their model was appropriate to the level of particularity of post-exilic prophecy.86 However, this is a point that needs to be proven rather than accepted at face value. A more serious error that Hanson commits in his handling of sociological material is methodological in nature. He appropriates the theories offered partially. The elements he leaves out do not fit his analysis, and were they to be incorporated into the discussion they would blur the clear division he wants to make. Furthermore, the omitted elements do not seem to be ancillary in either interpretive model, a condition that would justify their exclusion. 83. Mannheim, Ideology and Utopia: An Introduction to the Sociology of Knowledge, 190–97. 84. Ibid., 216, footnote 1. Cf. also his discussion on the particular influence of Marx and Bakunin on the Chiliastic experience. Ibid., 218–19. 85. Troeltsch , 343. Because of this time difference, Carroll asserts that the Churchsect analogy would have worked in Hanson’s proposal for the post-exilic period only ‘if there had been a monolithic structure in existence comparable to a church’. R. P. Carroll, When Prophecy Failed, 210. He adds that such a structure might have developed over time ‘but hardly as early as Hanson’s dates for apocalyptic’ (550–425). Ibid., 211. 86. Grabbe addresses a similar problem when he discusses the use of social-scientific models of urbanism to analyse biblical material. He insists that certain parameters need to be set in order to apply the sociological material fruitfully to the information provided by the Hebrew Bible. He concludes that ‘theories derived from the social sciences are simply models to be tested against the biblical and other data, not conclusions to be imposed on the sources’. Lester L. Grabbe, ‘Sup-urbs or only Hyp-urbs? Prophets and Populations in Ancient Israel and Socio-Historical Method’, Every City shall be Forsaken, ed. Lester L. Grabbe et al., JSOTSup 330 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 122.

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For example, Hanson refers to Mannheim’s distinction between ideology and utopia in order to define the hierocrats as the group with the ‘ideological’ mentality and the visionaries as the people with the ‘utopian’ one.87 There are a number of objections to this identification. Hanson ascribes the utopian mentality to the prophets because it is supposedly a characteristic of oppressed groups. This contradicts Mannheim’s claim that even privileged social strata can have a utopian vision.88 In light of this assertion Mannheim then proceeds to describe five different types of utopian mentalities, each belonging to a different group.89 He submits that these types can be coexistent and they are sometimes even ‘destroying one another in reciprocal conflict’.90 The next logical step for Hanson would be to pick which of the five types of utopian mentality the visionaries exhibit but he does not. The problem is twofold; first, Hanson cannot accept that the hierocrats could have a utopian vision, and second, he wants to appropriate traits from two out of the five different types of utopian mentalities for the visionaries. His model works better if the enthusiastic element of the Chiliastic utopia and the eschatological trait of the Liberal-Humanitarian utopia as described by Mannheim were to be combined in one. Even this selective use of the sociological schema does not provide Hanson with all the data necessary for his model. Since Mannheim contends that all forms of utopia seek to replace the existing order but not every type has a use for eschatological thinking, Hanson had to find proof of the continuous presence of eschatological orientation for the visionaries somewhere else.91 That is what leads him to Troeltsch, as I have shown, and with the help of his theory he seeks to support this very claim. However, he again uses parts of Troeltsch’s material since this interpretive model in its entirety does not justify Hanson’s picture. Troeltsch explicitly states that the sect-type does not always react against the pressures it is subjected to by turning to eschatological views. In fact, he lists a number of various ways of action that the sect has resorted to over the years; these include reformative

87. Hanson, Dawn, 213. 88. Furthermore, Mannheim asserts that ‘the key to the intelligibility of utopias is the structural situation of the social stratum which at any given time espouses them’. Mannheim, Ideology and Utopia, 187. This observation refutes another statement, which Hanson makes on the basis of Mannheim, namely that powerful officials do not have dreams of overthrowing the status quo. Hanson, Dawn, 232. 89. Mannheim describes the five different types of utopia as these are found in 1) the Anabaptists, 2) the Liberal-Humanitarian idea, 3) the Conservative idea, 4) the SocialistCommunist utopia, and 5) the Contemporary situation. Mannheim, Ideology and Utopia, 191–228. 90. Ibid., 224. 91. Mannheim believes that the Conservative and the Socialist-Communist types of utopia do not have an eschatological dimension. Cf. his comments, ‘In conservatism we find the process of approximation to the “here and now” completed. The utopia in this case is, from the very beginning, embedded in existing reality.’ Ibid., 209. Cf. also his comments on the Socialist-Communist utopia, ‘Time is experienced here as a series of strategic points… here we are dealing with a process of gradual concretization.’ Ibid., 219–21.



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and military action in addition to eschatological hope.92 Troeltsch also states that the sect revives the eschatology found in the Bible, only in so far as it wants to maintain a Christian-universalistic perspective.93 It becomes obvious that neither Mannheim nor Troeltsch offer a model that is truly compatible with Hanson’s reconstruction of post-exilic social dynamics. Hanson’s project was a conscious attempt at integration of sociological models and biblical research. However, he used inter-disciplinary material partially and in the end it functioned as a crutch to an already limping reconstruction. What becomes evident from my critique of Hanson’s proposal is that inter-disciplinary material cannot be used selectively to supply data for which there is no clear evidence in the biblical text.94 In his research, Cook tries to steer away from the shortcomings that plagued Plöger’s and Hanson’s analysis. First, he wants to avoid the circularity involved in the correlation of text with sect formation. To this extent, Cook critiques the inadequacies of the original concept of deprivation as well as the subsequent relative deprivation theory as the primary cause for the apocalyptic social phenomenon.95 He also differentiates between apocalyptic literature, apocalyptic worldview, and the apocalyptic social phenomenon as three independent categories.96 He proposes to focus his discussion on the social phenomenon leaving the other two aspects of apocalypticism on the margins of the conversation. Second, he attempts to avoid the evolutionary assumptions inherent in the unbroken line of development from prophecy to apocalypticism as that was introduced by Plöger and developed by Hanson. Cook is aware of this problem, and he decides to use the term proto-apocalyptic in order to describe ‘texts, viewpoints, and practices that have clear affinities with the full blown apocalypticism’, and not to imply a typology that presupposes a forced trajectory from prophecy to apocalypticism.97 These are helpful contributions. His method, however, which includes the comparison of features and motifs between early and late literature, does not help him to stay completely clear from the presupposition 92. Troeltsch, 380. It is worth noticing that Hanson actually quotes in his book the paragraph from Troeltsch in which all three of these reactions of the Sect-type are listed. Nevertheless, the sentence right before the one that introduces the quote reads ‘that is why they (the sect) were always forced to adopt eschatological thinking’. Hanson, Dawn, 216. 93. Troeltsch, The Social Teaching, 339. 94. Grabbe remarks that ‘a number of theories of sectarianism depend heavily on certain sociological models’. He adds that concerning the Persian period theories about sectarianism several sociological analyses are based on facile assumptions and that ‘certain sociological “truths” are too often read into the data’. Lester L. Grabbe, A History of the Jews and Judaism in the Second Tempe Period, 260. 95. Deprivation theory explains the emergence of apocalypticism on the basis of a cause and effect reaction. According to this theory deprivation of things, which a group expects to have, creates the matrix responsible for the apocalyptic social phenomenon. Cook, Prophecy and Apocalypticism, 35–52. Cook remarks that the investigation of group formation should shy away from psychological explanations that do not offer themselves for sociological analysis. Ibid., 49. 96. Cook, Prophecy and Apocalypticism, 19–34. 97. Ibid., 35.

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of such an uninterrupted trajectory.98 What seems to trap Cook’s thought in the continuum between prophecy and apocalypticism is his tendency to use the term ‘proto-apocalypticism’ as if it was a clearly defined genre like prophecy or wisdom. Cook wants to overturn Hanson’s proposal following a different method of argumentation.99 First, he declares that he will ‘make direct use of sociological descriptions in the hope of avoiding the pitfalls that result from drawing exclusively on the theoretical constructs of sociologists’.100 Cook seems to believe that the problem with Hanson lies in his use of sociological theory, which in the absence of field evidence can be bent to match the biblical text. This seems to be the reason why Cook opts to battle Hanson’s position with anthropological data instead of theory. As I have shown, however, what is at fault with Hanson is not that he uses abstract sociological constructs but that he misuses these constructs. Cook’s innovation in the use of inter-disciplinary material is his assertion that data gathered from the study of millennialism can be successfully used to illuminate apocalypticism.101 However, there are a number of problems involved in this enterprise that render the fruitfulness of such comparison dubious. Chief among these problems is the issue of terminological difficulties. George Shepperson has noted that scholars have been notoriously lax in their use of terms on the subject and adds that there is more than one definition of millennialism and not all of them are compatible with the others.102 Cook 98. A case in point would be a comment which Cook makes in his discussion of Joel and which reveals that he has not done away with the idea of such a trajectory completely and that he thinks that prophets fostered apocalypticism by adopting apocalyptic traits. His statement, ‘Joel’s description of possible desolation for Yehud (Joel 2:1-11) is definitely developed using apocalyptic ideas and terms’ seems to imply that prophets chose to phrase their message by incorporating apocalyptic motifs. Ibid., 172. Cf. Cook’s comment, ‘biblical apocalypticism first emerges in the writings of Ezekiel, and the origins of the Gog text are best viewed as a part of this development’. Ibid., 96. In my opinion this statement also shows that Cook thinks in terms of a trajectory. 99. It is remarkable that Cook does not engage Hanson’s argumentation. As I have seen Hanson’s reasoning is not sound and can be challenged on several levels. Instead of pointing to Hanson’s faults Cook picks the aspect of the social origin of apocalypticism in Hanson’s theory and attempts to disprove it with a different method altogether. The side effect of a strategy that avoids analysing the thought process of somebody else who has tackled a similar problem is exposing oneself to the risk of repeating some of the same mistakes that have been made before. 100. Ibid., 18. 101. Grabbe, who has conducted a similar investigation, observes that although ‘millenarian movements help us to understand apocalyptic writings and may lie behind them in some or many cases, this is not invariable’. Lester L. Grabbe, ‘Review of S. L. Cook, Prophecy and Apocalypticism: The Postexilic Social Setting’, JTS, 49, (1998): 191. 102. Shepperson notes that scholars have borrowed terms from the Jewish-Christian concept of millennialism to describe phenomena that have nothing to do with JewishChristian tradition. He adds that there is also an added complication; the term ‘millennium’ is used in two ways. First, ‘to refer to the final state of society in which all conflicts are resolved and all injustices removed after a preliminary period of purging and transformation’, while ‘in reality, of course, the traditional concept of the millennium has a transitional rather than



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decides to use a definition for millennialism that functions as the lowest common denominator for the description of this phenomenon. In this decision, he follows the lead of Sylvia Thrupp, who consciously gave up the broadly accepted definition of millennialism and opted to use a more general concept in order to facilitate an inter-disciplinary discussion that would include both historical and contemporary field studies.103 Thrupp defines as millennial ‘religious movements that have been animated by the idea of a perfect age or a perfect land’.104 Even with this generalized definition Thrupp admits that there are several different types of movements even within the same culture, not just diachronically but also synchronically, let alone cross-culturally and cross-temporally.105 Given the degree of dissimilarity within the millennial movements, Thrupp concedes that there are limits to the comparisons one can draw fruitfully among the various movements.106 Even a cursory look at Cook’s field cases reveals that a disparate variety of cultures are brought together under the millennial rubric, from Jainism and Kabbalistic movements to Cargo Cults and Christian chiliasm. Since most of these examples are alien to the Ancient Middle Eastern cultural environment that constitutes the closest comparative context for biblical material, one could legitimately raise the questions how reliable can these comparisons be and how relevant these paradigms are to post-exilic Judah.107 Cook appreciates the importance of the social setting for the emergence of apocalypticism. In his survey of anthropological studies he notices that millennial phenomena arise both in situations that involve a culture alone or two cultures in antagonistic or pacifist contact. He also explores the scenarios in which the cultures involved are central or peripheral in their society.108 On the basis of the complexities made manifest from the sociological data, final character’. George Shepperson, ‘The Comparative Study of Millenarian Movements’, in Millennial Dreams in Action, ed. Sylvia L. Thrupp (The Hague: Mouton, 1962), 44. Burridge also discusses the problems into which a classification of Millenarian movements runs. Kenelm Burridge, New Haven New Earth (New York: Schocken Books, 1969), 97– 104. He even asserts that given the lack of a specific theory and conceptual framework the comparison of the various movements is ‘wholly dependent on the investigator’s intuitive insights’. Ibid., 103. 103. Sylvia L. Thrupp, ‘Millennial Dreams in Action: a Report on the Conference Discussion’, in Millennial Dreams in Action, ed. Sylvia L. Thrupp (The Hague: Mouton, 1962), 11–27. 104. Ibid., 11. 105. Cf. Thrupp’s discussion on the historical pattern of millennial movements in the various cultures examined. Ibid., 15–22. 106. Specifically, Thrupp maintains that two types of issues were readily comparable in these movements. First were the general issues of the aesthetic perception of the cosmos and the kind of ordeal that would make the loyal followers ‘magically’ worthy of the new age/ land, and second specific aspects like the ones that pertain to the organization or ethos of the movement. Ibid., 22–5. 107. Barton believes that there is no reason to resort to comparisons with ‘millenarian sects’ to discuss the idea of encouraging calm and unshaken faith in the face of radically new events. According to Barton, this idea is eminently compatible with established religion and it stands in what was to become the mainstream of Judaism. Barton, Oracles of God, 230. 108. Cook, Prophecy and Apocalypticism, 56–71.

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Cook submits that the post-exilic conflict could be a lot more complex than Hanson allows. The most interesting insight gained is that apocalypticism can stem from a place of authority and function as a unifying force in society in a time of crisis. Cook is correct that apocalyptic thinking should not be exclusively delegated to marginalized groups. It can also originate from mainstream groups and can play a positive role in society. The determination he comes up with from his sociological comparison that people from the centre of the community, such as priests, can foster millennial movements. His remarks on the groups behind the prophets he discusses are insightful but resemble the arguments offered by Plöger and Hanson on the primacy of the hierocracy.109 Cook’s proposal would be more useful if he had explained how he understands the power dynamics within the Judean community. I believe that a reconstruction of the social context would have offered a blueprint against which he could have tested the relevance of the inter-disciplinary material he discusses and would have provided a frame of reference for the analysis of the biblical texts. 3.6 Conclusion Even though the preceding attempts at integrating inter-disciplinary and biblical material have certain flaws, biblical research has gained a lot not just in sophistication of sociological methodology, but also in insight into the possible historical circumstances. Therefore, the invaluable contribution of the social sciences to the biblical field cannot be doubted. Nevertheless, we know now that cross-cultural comparisons couched in terms of social patterns or structures as Evans-Pritchard has advocated do not always guarantee comparisons without problems.110 The danger inherent in a comparison that abstracts structural ‘relations in each society from their particular modes of cultural expression’ is marginalizing the basic source of information available for these cultures.111 In the field of anthropology, one can afford to set aside the particularities of cultural expression because of the abundance of information, which one can use in order to retain the clarity of 109. Cook, Prophecy and Apocalypticism, 71–74. Cook states that the career of millennial groups varies from routinization to radicalization and dissolution. Ibid., 78–81. According to his analysis, the group behind Ezekiel 38 and 39 underwent radicalization, which later turned into routinization. Ibid., 112–19. According to chapters 9–14 in Zechariah, he asserts that the group responsible for Zechariah 1–8 underwent radicalization, which culminated in the focus on cult and ritual. Ibid., 161–5. Cook also observes that the effects of millennialism on the existing faction within a society can be estrangement or unification. Ibid., 74–8. He argues that the message of the book of Joel advocates a sociology of unification rather than alienation. Ibid., 206–209. 110. Evans-Pritchard maintains that ‘in a comparison what one compares are not things in themselves but certain particular characteristics of them’. He believes that unless scholars modify their comparisons in terms of social patterns or structures they ‘will not be able to make the comparison’. E. E. Evans-Pritchard, ‘Social Anthropology’, in Social Anthropology and Other Essays (New York: Free Press, 1964), 18. 111. E. E. Evans-Pritchard, ibid., 18.



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the comparison. In the study of the ancient Near East, all information is by nature preserved by the historical and cultural record, therefore we depend on it in a way field anthropologists do not. This means that we cannot lose sight of the particularity of the historical record lest we give up the particularity of the material and end up working with the methodological similarities created by the overriding pattern of the comparison.112 There is a limit to the generalizations and abstractions one can make without imposing a superficial homogeneity on the material. This limit is set by the data preserved for these societies.113 The social sciences can provide us with pieces that are missing from the puzzle but the blueprint for the co-ordination of these pieces has to be grounded in the historical record. Accordingly, I will now turn to a reconstruction of the post-exilic social setting utilizing the historical and archaeological sources at our disposal.

112. Carroll takes an extreme position on the usefulness of interdisciplinary analogues. He believes that these comparisons are altogether counter-productive. He objects that theoretical models cannot compensate for ‘the lack of clear biblical data or override the ideological controls on those data’. In the end, he continues, these models ‘ruin the particularity of the data under scrutiny and thereby fail to do justice to the texts’. R. P. Carroll, ‘Prophecy and Society’, in The World of Ancient Israel, ed., R. E. Clements (Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 220. 113. In this respect I agree with Overholt, who states that ‘both the particularity of specific cultures and more general patterns intelligible across cultural lines must be taken into account’. T. W. Overholt, Cultural Anthropology, 11.

Chapter 4

The Empire and the Province: A Reconstruction of the Socio-Historical Context

4.1 Reconstruction of the Post-Exilic Social Setting The discussion of the relation between post-exilic prophecy and apocalypticism has always involved a reconstruction of the social setting. The tendency in the scholars I have examined has been to reconstruct the social conditions relying largely on their interpretation of the prophetic books and on data provided by the social sciences. As I have argued, this tactic is circular since the social setting depends on the interpretation of the text, and in turn the text is understood against the reconstructed social context. In this chapter I will try to recreate the social context by following a different strategy. First, I will look into Achaemenid administrative policies and try to get some clues as to how a Persian province, Yehud in particular, would relate to the Persian Empire in order to discern the parameters on which such a relationship was established. Then, I will examine and evaluate the various scholarly attempts that try to synthesize a picture of the size and the actual living conditions in post-exilic Judea. The goal is to lay out the available data from extrabiblical and biblical sources before engaging in the interpretation of text. The rationale behind this strategy is to establish a framework that will function as a guide for the employment of extra-disciplinary material and against which to test the interpretation of post-exilic prophecy. 4.2 The Achaemenid Administrative Policies The Achaemenid Empire differed in two important respects from all other empires that flourished in the Mesopotamian region. First, it covered a vast geographical area from the Aegean to the Indus and from the Black Sea to Egypt. The sheer size of its territory dwarfed every other great power that had preceded it. The extent of the empire’s sphere of influence and its ethnocultural diversity called for a revised administrative system. The highly centralized control system exercised uniformly throughout the realm, a system that was



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implemented and perfected by the Assyrian and Babylonian Empires, would not be adequate for this new super power.1 A new administrative policy was necessary. However, scholars disagree as to what was the Persian political philosophy. On the one hand, Rainer Albertz asserts that what gave the Persian empire its stability was Cyrus’ resolve to ‘strengthen local regimes and use the resources of the empire to support politically important regions’.2 On the other hand, Lester Grabbe maintains that even though the Persians seemed to be religiously tolerant, ‘the importance of Judah is an “optical illusion” created by the uneven distribution of evidence’.3 He maintains that ‘there may not have been any formal policy but rather a generally accepted practice or view that informed decisions by officials’.4 I will argue that the Persians were very intentional when it came to their method of governance. I believe that they implemented a specific system whose goal was to promote unity despite the lack of uniformity. Hoglund maintains that the need to control diverse ethnic populations obliges imperial systems to seek a ‘mixture of coercive and voluntary mechanisms to insure the reproducibility of imperial rule of the subject territory’.5 Therefore, although the Achaemenids adopted the ‘internal’ Assyrian-devised system of replacing the conquered states with centrally controlled provinces they also balanced it with an additional ‘external’ administrative policy that would complement this tried and trusted control system. This new ‘external’ policy was adaptively duplicated across the empire.6 It was adaptive because this policy would be modified to fit 1. For a concise discussion of the administrative policies of the Assyrian Empire, see Kenneth G. Hoglund, Achaemenid Imperial Administration in Syria-Palestine and the Mission of Ezra and Nehemiah, SBLDS 125 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1992), 6–12. See also J. A. Brinkman, ‘Babylonia under the Assyrian Empire, 745–627 BC’, MESOPOTAMIA 7 (1979): 223–39. Stern describes the Babylonian empire as an ‘extremely centralized regime’. E. Stern, Archaeology of the Land of the Bible, vol.II (New York, London: Doubleday, 2001), 308. See also Lester L. Grabbe, A History of the Jews, 132. 2. Rainer Albertz, Israel in Exile: The History and Literature of the Sixth Century BCE (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 119. Albertz believes that Darius followed Cyrus’ policy when it came to his dealings with the Judean community. Ibid., 125. 3. Grabbe, A History of the Jews and Judaism in the Second Temple Period Yehud, 275. 4. Ibid., 209. Grabbe insists that the tolerant religious policy of the Persians was similar to the one of the Assyrians and the Babylonians. He thinks it unlikely that Cyrus took the time to deal specifically with small ethnic communities. Ibid., 273–5. 5. Hoglund, Achaemenid Imperial Administration, 167. 6. P. Briant calls the practice of transmitting ideals and training methods employed for the organization of the Persian army ‘social reproduction’. Pierre Briant, ‘The Achaemenid Empire’, in War and Society in the Ancient and Medieval Worlds, ed. Kurt Raaflaub and Nathan Rosenstein (Cambridge, Massachusetts, and London, England: Harvard University Press, 1999), 108. However, I believe that ‘adaptive reduplication’ is a more accurate modifier of the policies of the imperial administrative system. The Persians did not seek to maintain control of the empire by reproducing their culture in the conquered lands. They tried to maintain control by reduplicating their administrative measures and policies within the framework of the indigenous culture. Hoglund mentions four mechanisms with

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seamlessly the socio-religious context of each land.7 It was duplicated because the goal of this administrative policy was to recreate, in the various lands, the conditions that would inspire faith and allegiance to a markedly multinational Empire.8 This policy requires a closer look into the specific workings of the Persian Empire in order to gain a better understanding of it.9 The stability of an empire relies largely on the degree of its cohesiveness. The marked heterogeneity of the Persian Empire made difficult the imposition of an immutable system that would be enforced from the heart of the empire to its distant lands, particularly since the Persians were in the minority within such an enormous territory and could not maintain a strong military presence everywhere. Furthermore, from the available evidence, there is no sign that the Persians tried to transmit their customs, language or religion.10 Instead, a new process of acculturation was employed. The which the Persian Empire attempted to ensure the reproducibility of imperial possession: ruralization, commercialization, militarization and ethnic collectivization. K. G. Hoglund, ‘The Achaemenid Context’, in Second Temple Studies 1, ed. P. R. Davies, JSOTSup 117 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), 57–68. However, it is not clear to what degree one can attribute to the Achaemenids the enforcement of ruralization and ethnic collectivization. Further, it seems that the Persians sought to retain the traditional economic patterns of selfsufficiency rather than replace them with a commercial system, which strengthened financial interdependence. I think that in this regard, Hoglund is sidetracked by Eisenstadt’s theory on bureaucratic empires. 7. Eisenstadt believes that the legitimation of rulers in historical bureaucratic societies was mainly religio-traditional. S. N. Eisenstadt, The Political Systems of Empires (London: The Free Press of Glencoe, 1963), 19. Although Eisenstadt specifies that the Achaemenid Empire is not a typical example of a historical bureaucratic society. Ibid., 11. I believe that this observation is valid. Hoglund notes the flexibility of the administrative system of the Achaemenids is shown clearly in their willingness to work within established local customs. Instead of imposing their own set of rigid laws, they chose to work with the existing legal structures. Hoglund, Achaemenid Imperial Administration, 234. Jigoulov calls the Achaemenid governance policy in Phoenicia a managed autonomy. He defines as managed autonomy ‘a system wherein Phoenician city-states were allowed to run their affairs largely unhindered. The only stipulations from the central Persian authorities were Phoenician collaboration on imperial economic and military projects and timely payment of tribute.’ Vadim S. Jigoulov, The Social History of Achaemenid Phoenicia: Being Pheonician, Negotiating Empires (London, Oakville: Equinox, 2010), 169. 8. I believe it is misleading to present a choice of either a loose federation of autonomous countries under the Persian King or a rigidly organized Empire by the central authority that promoted acculturation as Briant does. Pierre Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander: A History of the Persian Empire, trans. Peter T. Daniels (Winona lake, Indiana: Eisenbrauns, 2002), 1. In the following pages, I will argue, on the basis of its organization, that the Persian Empire combined elements from both these types. 9. Unfortunately, the administrative system of the Persian Empire was not described thoroughly by the classical authors. As Momigliano observes, Persian tyranny was illogical to democratic Athenians, and thus ‘there was no effort to see what kept the empire together behind the administrative façade’. Arnaldo Momigliano, ‘Persian Empire and Greek Freedom’, in The Idea of Freedom: Essays in Honour of Isaiah Berlin, ed. Alan Ryan (Oxford: University Press, 1979), 145. 10. Meadows states that ‘the Persian Empire was able to accommodate existing political habits, without the need to enforce change’. Andrew R. Meadows, ‘The Administration of



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various parts of the empire were allowed to retain their local form of organization and component parts of their identity, but, at the same time, they had to acknowledge the Persian supremacy and abide by the ideals and regulations required by the royal court.11 An example of the measures taken to achieve this seemingly contradictory goal was the collection and codification of local laws. According to a text found on the back of the Demotic Chronicle, Darius ordered the Egyptian satrap to assemble the local sages and have them produce a collection of their traditional laws.12 Once the Persians recognized officially this new law code, it was put into effect as ‘royal law’. This meant that its authority now stemmed not only from the local traditions from which it was created, but also from the royal patronage, which guaranteed its binding status. As Briant notes, ‘the concept of royal law belongs in the sphere of politics, not of law’.13 Another measure was the Persian effort to create loyal cells throughout their territory that would create and cultivate the conditions necessary to maintain control of the empire.14 The influence of these cells would be greater if they were comprised from the indigenous population rather than from foreign royal appointees. The trade-off for their compliance was the right to run their domestic affairs with a reasonable degree of freedom. As the Achaemenid Empire’, in Forgotten Empire: The World of Ancient Persia, ed. John E. Curtis and Nigel Talis (Berkeley, Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2005), 184. He adds that a reflex of this policy was the fact that there was no effort on the part of the Persians to enforce their coinage and weight standards on all of their empire. Ibid., 187–8. 11. Tuplin argues that although there is compelling archaeological evidence that proves the existence of a highly developed bureaucratic system, the Persian administration system ‘did not involve abolishing existing structures and replacing them with a unified Persian one’. Instead, he adds, ‘it was the Persian way to use existing institutions and seek to harness the energies and interests of native dominant classes to their own ends’. Christopher Tuplin, ‘The Administration of the Achaemenid Empire’, in Coinage and Administration in the Athenian and Persian Empires, ed. Ian Carradice, BAR International Series 343 (1987): 110–12. 12. On the verso of the Demotic Chronicle there are five small texts. The second one (C.:6-16) states that Darius I had the Egyptian laws collected and written in a papyrus in Assyrian and Demotic. D. Devauchelle, ‘Le sentiment anti-perse chez les anciens Égyptiens’, TRANSEUPHRATÈNE 9 (1995): 74–5. 13. Pierre Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 511. Briant also argues that this measure was meant to function as a check to satrapal arbitrariness. Ibid., 510–11. Perdue believes that the codification of socio-religious law was one means for achieving stability in the empire. Leo G. Perdue, The Sword and the Stylus, 192. 14. This reduplication policy is also discernible in the organization of the Persian aristocratic houses and the satrapal courts. As Briant notes, ‘the aristocratic houses were directed and organized in a way absolutely identical to the rules that governed protocol in the royal house’. Ibid., 335, 353. The same goes for the satrapal courts. Xenophon writes that Cyrus sent orders to his satraps to model their courts after the royal one. Xenophon,VIII, 6.10, trans. Walter Miller, Xenophon In Seven Volumes (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1914), II, 412–15. See also Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 345–7. See also E. Stern, ‘The Province of Yehud: the Vision and the Reality’, in The Jerusalem Cathedra: Studies in the History, Archaeology, Geography and Ethnography of the Land of Israel, I. Persian Period, ed. L. Levine (Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi Institute, 1981), 12.

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Pierre Briant remarks, even after the creation of the satrapies, the cities and the towns of the empire ‘retained considerable autonomy as long as they fulfilled the obligations placed on them, especially the financial and military obligations’.15 The continuous submission to imperial authority was not left to the benevolent disposition of their subjects. The impression that Persian control owed its effectiveness to their policies of toleration, in contradiction to the cruel tactics of the Assyrian and Babylonian empires, has been severely contested and proven erroneous.16 The Achaemenids took both internal and external measures to secure the stability and order of the empire.17 Internally, each administrative unit had a personal representative of the king who was called a Satrap, which in Old Persian means ‘protector of the realm [kingdom]’.18 Externally, the Persians promoted the cohesion of the empire by following a three-fold policy designed to promote unity by taking advantage of national, political, and religious sensibilities. First, they made an effort to create a sense of dynastic continuity between what went on before and the new order. This was a measure aimed at enhancing the ruler’s legitimation by connecting local traditions with imperial symbols. Second, they tried to make allies out of the local aristocracy in order to incorporate indigenous trained personnel into the Persian bureaucratic machine. Third, they sought the good will of the local sanctuaries because, through them, they could manipulate group loyalties as well as gain revenue that would provide support for their

15. Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 64. 16. Weinberg believes that the Achaemenid policy of religious toleration is one of the major catalysts that contributed to the developments of pre-Hellenism in the ancient Near East. J. Weinberg, The Citizen-Temple Community, trans. Daniel L. Smith-Christopher, JSOTSup 151 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992), 32. Berquist goes as far as to say that ‘the Persians funded the construction of Jerusalem’s Second Temple for humanitarian reasons’. Jon L. Berquist, Judaism In Persia’s Shadow, 2nd edn (Eugene, Oregon: Wipf and Stock Publishers, 2003), 63. Kuhrt maintains that the Persians managed to get good press because of ‘the limited experience of one influential group of a very small community which happened to benefit by Persian policy’ and because of their blatant propaganda. Amelie Kuhrt, ‘The Cyrus Cylinder and Achaemenid Imperial Policy’, JSOT 25 (1983): 94–5. Briant attributes the positive evaluation of Cyrus’s policies to ‘the narrowly Judeocentric perspective of our sources’. Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 48. Van der Speck adds that Cyrus’s fame should also be attributed to the Babylonian priests who influenced the Greek authors. R. J. van der Speck, ‘Did Cyrus the Great Introduce a New Policy Towards Subdued Nations? Cyrus in Assyrian Perspective’, PERSICA 10 (1982): 282. 17. Eisenstadt notes that the ‘external’ links between periphery and centre of the empire are effected through ‘local kinship – territorial and/or ritual – units and subcenters’ that are mostly adaptive in character. S. N. Eisenstadt, ‘Observations and Queries about Sociological Aspects of Imperialism in the Ancient World’, MESOPOTAMIA 7 (1979): 23. 18. Tuplin points out that the imperial area was not solely organized on the basis of satrapies. There were cities and individual places that counted as administrative units and yet were under the control of native dynasts. Tuplin, 114, 127–33. A. T. Olmstead, History of the Persian Empire [Achaemenid Period] (Chicago & London: The University of Chicago Press, 1970), 59. For an extensive discussion of the duties of Satraps, see Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 65–7.



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goals and policies.19 In order to highlight the consistency and importance of these externally imposed measures, I will have to examine them in detail. 4.2.a Creating Dynastic Continuity The Persians, like the Assyrians before them understood the importance of a good propaganda machine. The monumental trilingual inscription at Behistun shows that the Achaemenids were well aware that the world was watching and, more importantly, that they were prepared to present a compelling argument on their right to power. Beyond the creative use of architecture to make statements, the Achaemenids employed tactics that bespeak their diplomatic know-how.20 Cyrus, the founder of the Achaemenid dynasty, instigated a policy that sought to establish a sense of continuity, however artificial, throughout the empire that would be duplicated in every subjugated land. After his first war against the neighbouring country of Media was over, the war that put Persia on the map, he took great care to connect himself with the dynasty he had deposed. The Median dynasty had prestige and power; Cyrus, on the other hand, was the young upstart coming from a people that used to be known as the slaves of the Medians, according to Herodotus.21 Desiring a more respectable pedigree, Cyrus married the daughter of Astyages, the Median king, and conducted himself as Astyages’ rightful successor.22 At the same time this move would have won the loyalty of the Medians while alleviating any sense of disjunction between the conqueror and his new subjects. That is why Cyrus followed a similar policy when he conquered Babylon. Twice in the Cyrus Cylinder it is mentioned that the Persian army entered ‘Babylon in a peaceful manner’.23 Once in 19. Eisenstadt believes that the goals of such measures reflect some of the main reasons why imperial rulers would help cultural, religious and educational institutions to advance. Eisenstadt, The Political Systems of Empires, 140–43. 20. Nylander argues that the main goal of the Achaemenid imperial art was to stress the collaboration of the various peoples under a benevolent kingship, rather than terror or tyranny. Carl Nylander, ‘Achaemenid Imperial Art’, MESOPOTAMIA 7, (1979): 354–6. See also Briant’s discussion of the reliefs of the palace at Susa. He claims that their goal was to put forth a message rather than offer an accurate historical record. Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 175–8. The same holds true for the inscriptions at Persepolis, which serve an equally propagandistic goal. Ibid., 183–6. 21. Herodotus maintains that Cyrus was able to unify the Persian tribes against the Medes because they despised being their slaves, I: 126–7. A. D. Godley, Herodotus (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1920), I, 165–7. 22. Briant discusses the stories related by Ctesias, Xenophon and Nicolaus of Damascus, which describe Cyrus’ attempt to connect himself with the dynasty he had deposed. Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 33. 23. The Cyrus Cylinder is a text inscribed on a clay cylinder that recounts Cyrus’s conquest of Babylon. It was found by Rassam in 1879 at Babylon. Cyrus’s peaceful victory is related in lines 15–17 and 22b in M. Cogan’s translation. Mordechai Cogan, ‘Cyrus Cylinder’, in The Context of Scripture, 2.124, ed. W. W. Hallo and K. Lawson Younger, jr. (Leiden, Boston, Cologne: Brill 2000), 315. Cyrus’s peaceful entry into Babylon is also

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control of Babylon, Cyrus attempted again to present the new world order as a natural dynastic development by claiming that Assurbanipal, who, even though he was Assyrian, took it upon himself to finish his father’s restoration programme of Babylon, was one of his predecessors.24 This claim was meant to flatter their vanity while masking ‘the fact of their servitude’.25 However, as Cameron has suggested, Cyrus also took active steps in order to conform to the Babylonian archetype of a good ruler by improving irrigation along the Diyala River.26 This policy did not die out with Cyrus; it was honoured by most of his successors on several occasions. Cyrus’ son Cambyses repeated the exact same steps after conquering Egypt. Herodotus goes so far as to say that if pharaoh Psammetichus had minded his own business, Cambyses would have let him be governor of Egypt.27 Given the unwillingness of Psammetichus to co-operate, Cambyses took over the mantle of pharaoh. This is illustrated by Cambyses’ participation, as custom required of every pharaoh, in the religious ceremonies that marked the earthly death of a sacred Apis bull.28 The epitaph of Apis, embalmed at the time of Cambyses, has been discovered, and it depicts Cambyses with Egyptian garb kneeling while he is called ‘the Horus […] king of Upper and Lower Egypt’, as was the custom for Egyptian monarchs.29 The inscription on Apis’s sarcophagus attests again to the attempt to link with the local dynasty, as Cambyses is said to have built a monument to ‘his confirmed by Babylonian sources. See Chronicle 7, iii, 12-16, where it is recorded that ‘the army of Cyrus entered Babylon without battle’, trans. A. Millard. Alan Millard, ‘The Babylonian Chronicle’ in The Context of Scripture, 1.137, 468. 24. P. R. Berger has published in the Yale collection a nine-verse fragment that completes the inscription of the Cyrus Cylinder. P. R. Berger, ‘Der Kyros Zylinder mit Zusatzfragment BIN II, 32 und die akkadischen Personennamen in Danielbuch’, ZA 64 (1975): 192–234. In the last verse of this fragment, Cyrus refers to Ashurbanipal as ‘a king who had preceded me’. M. Cogan, 316. A. Kuhrt argues that ‘the Cyrus Cylinder is a document composed in accordance with traditional Mesopotamian building texts’ and that ‘no foreign and/or new literary elements appear in it’. Amelie Kuhrt, ‘The Cyrus Cylinder’, 92. She also notes that the Cylinder resembles several of the Nabonidus texts and, most importantly, several of the Assyrian texts of Esarhaddon. Ibid., 91–2. She adds that such texts were deposited in the foundations of buildings and their goal was to demonstrate to subsequent generations the legitimacy of a ruler. Ibid., 88. See also Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 44. In order to highlight the effectiveness of royal propaganda Grabbe calls attention to the fact that in a tablet found in Nippur, ‘Cyrus was presented as the choice of Sin’. Grabbe, A History of the Jews, 272. See also Albertz, Israel in Exile, 114–15 and 121. 25. Olmstead, 71. 26. George C. Cameron, ‘Cyrus the “Father”, and Babylon’ in Acta Iranica Première Serie Commemoration Cyrus (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1974): 47–8. 27. Herodotus III:15. A.D. Godley, Herodotus, II, 20–23. 28. Herodotus gives a contradictory report. He writes that Cambyses ran into the festivities in honour of Apis in Mempis, on his way back from his expedition against Ethiopia. Cambyses mistook the festivities as a celebration of his defeat in Ethiopia and killed the sacred bull and punished the priests. Herodotus, III, 27–9. A. D. Godley, Herodotus, II, 3639. For an evaluation of Herodotus’ report and the scholarly debate around it, see Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 887–8. 29. Ibid., 57.



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father Apis-Osiris’.30 Apparently, the impetus to connect the foreign monarchs with the indigenous royal bloodline was operating in both ends. According to Herodotus, there was a story that circulated in Egypt that claimed that Cambyses’ mother was the Egyptian princess Ninetis, the only surviving member of the family of the slain Pharaoh Apries. Pharaoh Amasis supposedly sent the daughter of the former king to the Persian court in an effort to spare his own daughter.31 Although, as Herodotus submits, this story is erroneous, it reveals an attempt to alleviate the humiliation caused by the Persian suzerainty and, at the same time, project the indigenous Egyptian kingship. The same concern for dynastic continuity is also found in Darius, whose interest, first and foremost, was to link himself with the Achaemenid family line by marrying Cyrus’s two daughters and granddaughter. Having established his connection with the bloodline of Cyrus, Darius used the Behistun inscription to justify his succession rights and accuse the false kings who lie to the people by presenting themselves as descendants of Cyrus, Nabonidus of Babylon or Cyaxares of Media. In Egypt, Darius again tried to connect himself with pharaonic power by cultivating the impression that he was their natural successor.32 There are two pieces of evidence that testify that his efforts to this end were successful. First, Diodorus reports that the Egyptians not only addressed him as god while he was alive, but ‘at his death he was accorded equal honours with the ancient kings of Egypt’.33 Second, there is a crude limestone stele from the Fayyûm, which shows a person 30. Ibid., 57. 31. Herodotus, III, 1–2. A. D. Godley, Herodotus, II, 2–5. 32. Diodorus reports that Darius wanted to place his statue above the statue of pharaoh Sesostris in the temple of Hephaestus in Memphis in an attempt to show that he had surpassed pharaoh’s Asiatic legendary success. However, the chief priest opposed this action claiming that Darius had not yet surpassed Sesostris, and Darius complied, accepting this as a test of excellence. He assured the priests that he would strive not be found any less worthy of Sesostris by the time he would reach the Pharaoh’s years. Apparently, even the fact that the Egyptians were willing to accept the comparison between him and an admired local ruler and grant him a lesser status was enough. Diodorus Siculus, I, 58.4. C. H. Oldfather, Diodorus Of Sicily, 12 volumes (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1933), I, 205. Herodotus adds to Darius’s achievements in Egypt the completion of the canal, which was meant to connect Bubastis and the Red Sea. This was a project initially conceived by Pharaoh Neco. Herodotus, II, 158–9. A. D. Godley, ibid., I, 471–3. Diodorus, however, holds that Darius continued Neco’s project, but Ptolemy was the one who eventually saw the project to its completion. Diodorus Siculus I, 33. C. H. Oldfather, ibid., 111–13. R. W. Rogers, however, concludes on the basis of a number of inscriptions found along the canal that it was Darius who finished it. R. W. Rogers, A History of Ancient Persia (New York, London: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1929), 120. Gardiner also believes that it was Darius who completed the canal. Gardiner thinks that the several huge stelae with the bilingual inscriptions that were erected along the canal offer valid historical information on the matter, even though they are preserved in poor condition. Alan Gardiner, Egypt of the Pharaohs: An Introduction (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1964), 365. 33. Diodorus makes this comment while he discusses the various Egyptian lawgivers. According to him, Darius was the sixth most important lawgiver in Egyptian history. Diodorus Siculus I, 95. This quotation is taken from the translation by C. H. Oldfather, ibid., I. 325.

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kneeling in front of a hawk. The image alone is a typical supplication scene in honour of Horus. What is extraordinary, though, is that in the inscription under it, Horus is identified with Darius. As Lloyd observes, the fact that makes this stele even more important is that it comes from a relatively humble level in society and not from an official context.34 This confirms that the Persian ruler was successful in convincing the people that he was the natural and legitimate heir to the pharaonic throne.35 As part of their efforts to promote continuity over disjunction in the empire, the Achaemenids took great care to present themselves as divinely approved by the various local deities, mainly because kingship in the ancient Near East relied, to a certain extent, on acquiring divine sanction.36 According to the Cyrus Cylinder, it was Marduk, the patron deity of Babylon, who gave up on Nabonidus, the Babylonian king, and chose Cyrus to liberate the people of Babylon.37 In other words, the propaganda presents Cyrus as ‘the restorer of destroyed or abandoned civil and cult structures’.38 Cambyses was also the recipient of endorsements from local deities. In the inscription of his Egyptian seal, he is called ‘beloved of [the goddess] Wajet, sovereign of [the town of] Imet’, and in a relief in the Saite temple of Neith, he is described as the restorer of order.39 Even Darius, who insisted on the pre-eminence of Ahura-Mazda above all other gods in the canal stelas between Bubastis and the Red Sea, is referred to as ‘born of Neith, mistress of Saïs…He whom Râ placed on the throne to finish what he had started’.40 Xerxes, too, was careful to offer the appropriate sacrifices to local gods, whether this was Marduk of Babylon or the Trojan Athena. Further evidence of Xerxes’ plan to win over 34. Alan B. Lloyd, ‘The Inscription of Udjahorrsnet, a Collaborator’s Testament’, Journal of Egyptian Archaeology, 68 (1982): 174–5. More recently, Lloyd stated that the text in the multiligual stela in the Tell el-Maskhuteh monument, recording the construction of a canal between the Nile and the Red Sea by Darius I, shows a ‘marked effort to present Darius as a classic Egyptian Pharaoh’ who has ‘been fully assimilated into the ideology of Egyptian kingship’. Alan B. Lloyd, ‘Darius I in Egypt: Suez and Hibis’, in Persian Responses: Political and Cultural Interaction with(in) the Achaemenid Empire, ed. Christopher Tuplin (Oxford: The Classical Press of Wales, 2007), 99–103. 35. Grabbe refers to Darius’ desire ‘to appear in the image of the traditional kings of Egypt’ in connection with the multilingual inscription that was found on the statue of Darius discovered in Susa. In this inscription Darius is concerned about the prosperity of Egyptian temples and his rule is also endorsed by Egyptian deities. Grabbe, A History of the Jews, 116 and 213. Allen presents the cartouche of Darius I in which the king appears to worship Anubis with Isis behind him. She observes that ‘the representation of Darius in a fully Egyptian setting illustrates the degree to which Achaemenid rule could be cast in existing monarchic traditions in different regions of the empire’. Lindsay Allen, The Persian Empire (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2005), 110–11. 36. Horsley states that ‘the Persians underwrote the service of local deities as a traditional form of domination and exploitation’. R. A. Horsley, ‘Empire, Temple and Community – but no Bourgeoisie!’ in Second Temple Studies 1, ed. P. R. Davies, JSOTSup 117 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), 172. 37. Lines 9–18. M. Cogan, 315. 38. Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 43. 39. Ibid., 57. 40. Ibid., 478.



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to his side gods of the particular country is the fact that during his campaign against Greece, his entourage included not just Persian magi, but also native diviners, who could offer him specialized advice. It is in this context of creating a connection with the local dynasty and gaining divine sanction that Cyrus’s relationship with the Judean exiles in Babylon should be seen. The positive predisposition of the locals would then contribute to the unimpeded fruition of political unification while promoting his acceptance rate among his subjects from the inside. Apparently, he was successful in winning them over to his side. Escaping the tarnish of the violent and infidel conqueror that had branded the Assyro-Babylonian kings before him, he came to be depicted as Yahweh’s anointed by Second Isaiah.41 Cyrus had once more received the confirmation and support of a national deity as the liberator of a people. This should serve as testimony to the effectiveness of his propaganda machine and the effort that Cyrus put to creating a sense of continuity throughout the empire. It is one thing to claim for himself Marduk’s support in the Cylinder, a document created by his court, but it is quite another to convince a foreign people to describe him with equally favourable terms in their own literature, particularly when such a description was at the time unprecedented.42 4.2.b Befriending Local Aristocracy The ambitious overtures of the imperial propaganda may not have been so successful if they had not met with some support from their audience. The Achaemenids were not shy when it came to image building, but for their claims to take root, they had to secure the co-operation of the local elite, whose opinion could exert more influence in the populace. That is why they tried to establish a bilateral relationship with the upper classes. The Achaemenids would ensure the lifestyle to which they were accustomed, and in return, the aristocracy would defend the interests of the Persian benefactors. Once more, Cyrus established the pattern: after each conquest he would spare the life of the local leader and grant him the means to maintain an aristocratic style of life. This was true for Astyages, the overthrown Median king, and Croesus, the king of Lydia, who after his surrender was given as a grant a Median city.43 Xenophon has Cyrus spell out to Croesus the reason for this generous treatment: ‘If I make my friends rich I shall have treasures in them and at the same time more trusty watchers both of my person and our common 41. Isaiah 45:1. Schramm adds that once Cyrus had been recognized as anointed by the God of Israel, it would have been a short step to view ‘Cyrus’s empire as divinely mandated as well’. Schramm surmises that this could explain the lack of any anti-Persian polemic in prophetic texts. Brooks Schramm, ibid., 75. 42. Cambyses was able to get an equally favourable mention in foreign literature later on, as becomes evident in Udjahorresnet’s inscription. See following discussion on pages 74–80. 43. When Cyrus conquered Babylon he did not kill its king; instead, Nabonidus was taken prisoner, and his life was spared. Briand, From Cyrus to Alexander, 42.

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fortunes than any hired guards I could put in charge.’44 From Babylonia there is also evidence of royal scribes who served in the court under Nabonidus and continued in the same office during the reign of Cyrus and Cambyses.45 However, not all aristocracy was content to function loyally under the Persian supremacy. That was the case with Egypt where the dethroned rulers attempted to incite rebellion in several instances with the support of the aristocrats who were faithful to them. In these situations, Cambyses retaliated with a ferocity that far exceeded his generosity. A case in point was his order to massacre two thousand Egyptian noblemen, among whom were the son and daughter of the pharaoh. At the same time he rewarded handsomely the Egyptian officials who maintained their continuous allegiance to Persia. A telling example is found in the inscription of a statue of a man named Udjahorresnet, who was an admiral of the pharaonic fleet under Amasis and Psammeticus III but after the defeat of the Egyptians collaborated with the Persians.46 Because of his unfailing support, Cambyses was gracious to Saïs, his hometown, and showed particular respect to the local sanctuary of Neith, while Udjahorresnet himself received the office of Chief Physician in the king’s court. Although this was a position that commanded less power than his previous appointment, it was nevertheless prestigious and, as Udjahorresnet claims, he functioned as ‘a Companion and Controller in the Palace’. Udjahorresnet in return changed the royal titulary of the Persian king to reciprocate the favour. Initially Cambyses is introduced in the inscription as the ‘Great King of All Foreign Lands’, but Udjahorresnet then bestows on Cambyses the title of ‘King of Upper and Lower Egypt’ and consistently uses the traditional pharaonic title alongside Cambyses’ name each time he refers to the Persian king thereafter. Lloyd submits that with this change in titulature, Udjahorresnet meant to communicate to his people that ‘whatever Cambyses might be outside the Nile Valley, within it he was Pharaoh’.47 44. Xenophon, Cyropaedia, VIII, 2:19, trans. Walter Miller, II, 343. The same idea is communicated by another statement Cyrus makes to Croesus in the same monologue: ‘I use it [wealth] to satisfy the wants of my friends; and by enriching men and doing them kindness I win…their friendship and loyalty and from that I reap as my reward security and good fame.’ Xenophon, Cyropaedia, VIII, 2.22, trans. Walter Miller, II, 343. 45. Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 71. 46. The green basalt statue is now in the Vatican Museum. There are several translations of the inscription. I have followed the one provided by Lloyd. Lloyd, 168–74. See also Gardiner, 366–7 and M. Lichtheim, Ancient Egyptian Literature (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980), 36–41. 47. Lloyd, 171. Lloyd also argues that the religious vocabulary used to describe Cambyses in this inscription was traditionally used to describe Pharaonic activities. As a result, Cambyses is shown to discharge ‘the cosmicizing or demiurgic role of Pharaoh’. Ibid., 172. Therefore, in Udjahorresnet’s opinion, Cambyses does not simply assume ‘the forms of the Pharaonic office but the Pharaonic office in the fullest possible sense’. Ibid., 173. The Persian invasion was depicted in this inscription as a manifestation of demonic and destructive power. Ibid., 177. However, Lloyd believes that Udjahorresnet did not contradict himself in depicting the Persians achieving Pharaonic status later on. According to Lloyd, Udjahorresnet was able to transmute the Persians convincingly from enemies into Pharaohs because they showed respect for Egyptian customs and susceptibilities. Ibid., 179.



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Udjahorresnet’s good relations with the Achaemenids continued even with Darius since he was able to retain his titulature. This is a testament to the Achaemenid resolution to play the game consistently, namely to co-operate with the local elite as long as they were willing to function in the context of the new imperial power. As Briant puts it, the goal was to show that ‘there is no necessary contradiction between imposition of Persian authority and maintenance/partial adaptation of regional and local conditions’.48 In the Behistun inscription, Darius offers a formal declaration of this policy in the conquered countries when he states, ‘Within these countries, the man who was loyal, him I rewarded well; [him] who was evil, him I punished well.’49 Concrete evidence of the consequences of this policy is offered by Herodotus when he discusses the predicament in which the Ionian tyrants found themselves when Darius had to march against the Scythians. The Scythians, in an effort to challenge Darius, in two battlefronts pressured the cities in Asia Minor to secede. The Ionian aristocracy, however, owed its power to Darius and was reluctant to turn against the basis of their authority. The speech given by Histiaeus of Miletus to the Ionian council that assembled to deal with the situation is telling: ‘It is by help of Darius that each of us is sovereign of his city; if Darius’ power be overthrown, we shall no longer be able to rule, neither I in Miletus nor any of you elsewhere.’50 The dilemma they were facing was irreconcilable; on the one hand, they wanted to do away with the Persian overlords, and, on the other, they wanted to retain the power granted by these overlords. Herodotus attributes the failure to revive the earlier Ionian League in order to create a unified front against the enemy both to the fear of the Persian military might and the influence of the tyrants, who did not want to jeopardize their position of power.51 There may be yet another reason why the heads of the various peoples enjoyed favourable treatment by the king. Tuplin postulates that the set-up of the tribute system implied the retention of the local political structures in the towns and cities of each tax-collecting unit.52 Although it was the satrap’s 48. Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 78. 49. Behistun Inscription §§7–8. Briant argues that Persian leaders held above everything else ‘faithfulness’ as the most important quality among their subjects. He argues that the Persian word bandaka, as that is found in the Behistun inscription, describes both ‘subject and loyal peoples and those who supplied aid against rebels’. Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 324. He adds that the concept of ‘faithfulness’ had also important political implications since ‘it tended to downplay family solidarity in favor of dynastic loyalty’. Ibid., 325. Another important element is that participation in the Persian aristocracy was determined by birth, wealth and royal favour. Briant maintains that the purpose of election to nobility through royal favour was to relativize genealogical prestige and strengthen faithfulness towards the king. Ibid., 331–2. 50. Herodotus IV: 137. This quotation is taken from the translation by A. D. Godley, II, 339. 51. Herodotus presents the development of relationships with the Medes as the cause of a schism that would lead to the downfall of Greece. Herodotus VI: 109. A. D. Godley, 262–5. For a discussion on the dangers of Medism in the face of the Persian conquest, see Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 159–60. 52. Tuplin 145–7. See also Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 411.

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duty to collect the tribute for each district, the local leaders were the ones responsible to raise the tribute imposed on their city and present it to the satrap.53 This arrangement necessitated the recognition of the local forms of organization and support of the aristocracy since they were entrusted with such an important role in the Persian bureaucracy. Kessler adds that ‘there is significant evidence from Sogdiana, Bactriana, Phoenicia, Cyprus and Cilicia’, which demonstrates that the Persians used this policy extensively.54 Briant states that this set-up made the work of the satrap easier since it ‘allowed the satrap to avoid becoming directly involved in the complications inherent in the internal distribution of the tribute among the various communities of his district’.55 To this I may add that by incorporating the local leaders into the administration, the Persians simplified the structural articulation of their tribute collecting system and increased its efficiency. The local leaders played the role that would have been otherwise assigned to Persian clerks and thus spared the Persian government from hiring additional personnel. Moreover, they already knew the particularities of their region, i.e. fertile versus infertile areas, bigger versus smaller households, etc., and could collect the tribute more efficiently. Nehemiah, as the newly appointed governor of Judah, had a considerable impact on the collection of tribute in Yehud.56 Lisbeth Fried has argued against the use of local leaders by the Persians. While examining the temple-palace relations in the empire, she offers that even though ‘the Persians utilized local forms of governance and adopted local modes of kingship’, they always placed a Persian in the decision-making positions.57 In her opinion, Persian-period Yehud was not self-governing.58 53. Tuplin points out that, according to Herodotus, the satrap would ask from every city a specific tribute-quota. He then concludes that the city should then decide ‘how to produce its quota, and on whom to make the burden fall, as it saw fit’. Tuplin, 148. 54. Kessler believes that the reinstatement of deposed members of the ruling elite was in line with the ‘dynastic model’ employed by the Persians as it served to further their imperial interests. John Kessler, ‘Persia’s Loyal Yahwists: Power and Identity and Ethnicity in Achaemenid Yehud’, in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period, 105. Maffre adds that ‘the Achaemenids seized the opportunity to keep elite members of subject societies on their side’. He states that ‘the most notable example is that of Phrygia’ where indigenous aristocracies held important roles. Frédéric Maffre, ‘Indigenous Aristocracies in Hellespontine Phrygia’, in Persian Responses, 125–6. 55. Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 411. 56. It seems that in order to pay the king’s tax, some farmers had to borrow money, and because of their inability to repay their creditors, they were driven into debt slavery. Nehemiah, 5:4-5. After his attempt to eradicate debt slavery, Nehemiah tried to lead by setting an example with his own conduct. Nehemiah, 5:6-13. He rescinded the heavy burdens imposed on people by other governors, he did not try to acquire land by exploiting his power, and he did not demand the food allowance of the governor. Nehemiah, 5:14-19. 57. Lisbeth S. Fried, The Priest and the Great King: Temple-Palace Relations in the Persian Empire, Biblical and Judaic Studies vol.10 (Indiana: Eisenbrauns, 2004), 47. She concludes that ‘the power of local priesthoods and of local elites in general declined in Asia minor under Persian rule, as it did in Babylon and Egypt’. Ibid., 155. 58. Ibid., 233. In a later article she argues further that the provincial governors and the satrapal officials were all foreign. Lisbeth S. Fried, ‘The cam haares in Ezra 4:4 and Persian Imperial Administration’, in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period, 136. She



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I agree that the court of the great king was comprised of Persians, but I believe that Fried overstates her case. First, the Persians were a minority in their vast empire and could not maintain a totalitarian governing presence in all the lands. The satraps had to work, to a degree, with local elites. Then, the fact that they sought the co-operation of the local elites does not mean that they also granted to those elites self-governing privileges. The power of the aristocracy was conditional. Whatever authority they had was at the discretion of the great king, and they kept it only as long as they were co-operative. He could take it away as easily as he had bestowed it. In his examination of Mesopotamia, Dandamayev confirms that ‘high ranking officials of the state administration, including district and city governors, were usually Babylonians’.59 Lipschits calls the appointment of governors from members of the exiles to Babylon the ‘great change, which occurred in the Persian period’.60 I would further argue that Haggai’s last oracle (2:20-23) shows that, at least according to the prophet, Zerubbabel was in a decisionmaking position. Taking into consideration the Persian policies towards the leaders of the various peoples, the permission for a Davidic descendant to return to Jerusalem and the close co-operation of the Persians with Ezra and Nehemiah should not come as a surprise.61 Having secured what looked like unconditional support of the exiles through the proclamation of Second Isaiah, the Achaemenids would have every reason to collaborate with the Judeans and support their return to Jerusalem and the rebuilding of their community.62 acknowledges that there were exceptions and that: ‘few local dynasts governed satrapies’. Ibid., 137. However, she concludes that Persia was not a democracy and that there was no local self-rule anywhere in the empire. Ibid., 141. 59. M. A. Dandamayev, ‘Neo-Babylonian and Achaemenid State Adminstration in Mesopotamia’, in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period, 395. Eskenazi also believes that Ezra and Nehemiah yielded power as governors. She submits that Ezra’s value to the empire was his loyalty and the stability he could bring to Yehud while Nehemiah’s contribution was greater economic prosperity. She argues that the conflict over the ‘mixed’ marriages in Ezra was meant to create boundaries for internal governance. Tamara Cohn Eskenazi, ‘The Mission of Ezra and Nehemiah’, in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period, 525–6. 60. Oded Lipschits, ‘Nebuchadrezzar’s Policy in “Hattu-Land” and the Fate of the Kingdom of Judah’, Ugarit-Forschungen 30 (1999): 483. Lipschits submits also that the appointment of local notables in administrative positions was a practice followed by the Assyrian empire in the eighth and ninth centuries. Ibid., 479–80. 61. Blenkinsopp points out that there are several similarities between the mission of Udjahorresnet and those undertaken by Ezra and Nehemiah. He observes that beyond the stylistic resemblances between Udjahorresnet’s autobiography and Nehemiah 13, the two figures held comparable offices and ideologies. They were also sent to their countries under similar historical situations. He adds that the mission of Ezra, much like Udjahorresnet’s, involved the restoration of the cult in the dynastic shrine and the reorganization of judicial institutions. Joseph Blenkinsopp, ‘The Mission of Udjahorresnet and those of Ezra and Nehemiah’, JBL 106/3 (1987): 414–21. 62. Kessler, following John A. Porter’s study of colonial elite groups, proposed viewing the Yehudite returnee community as a charter group. He defines a charter group

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4.2.c Ingratiating Local Sanctuaries Last I need to turn my attention to the Persian policy towards the local sanctuaries since it is directly related to the events in Jerusalem. The political and economic power of the temples and sanctuaries is well attested throughout the ancient world. As a result, monarchs in the ancient Near East had to deal very delicately with them since they both wanted to win their favour and exploit their considerable financial resources. The numerous votive offerings found in the Greek sanctuaries in Asia Minor and the Mediterranean world from monarchs like Croesus of Lydia and Amasis of Egypt, who were Cyrus’s contemporaries, show that these rulers made a conscious effort to enlist the support of these sanctuaries in their diplomatic endeavours. A lavish gift could generate a favourable oracle from the deity of the sanctuary, which in turn would influence political developments to the donor’s advantage. Lindsay Allen observes that this practice set the monarch ‘in a role which gave him legitimacy while the religious institution might gain from royal patronage of buildings and sacrifices’.63 The Persians caught on with this trend from the very beginning. The oracle of Apollo at Didyma, near Miletus, urged on two different occasions the Cymeans to submit to the Persian army commander Mazares, who was sent by Cyrus to quench the revolt of the Greek cities. Another document from the time of Darius provides further evidence of the benefactions of his ancestors to the sanctuary of Apollo at Claros, near Ephesus. It seems that Darius himself followed the same policy.64 During the campaign of Datis against the Greek islands, according to Herodotus, Darius had given strict orders to Datis not to land any troops on the island of Delos that was considered holy. Furthermore, Datis was ordered to restore on that island a golden statue of Apollo. Darius’s motive behind these orders probably was his desire to win the favour of the powerful Delian sanctuary by presenting himself as a protector, rather than as an as a geographically transplanted elite who functioned in subjection to and with the support of the Persians in order to further their interests. John Kessler, Persia’s ‘Loyal Yahwists’, 91–121. 63. Allen adds that since the king was a natural prime provider for the sanctuaries, ‘a prayer for one was a prayer for both. The recognition of the king as a benefactor to cults and temples was a traditional, advantageous relationship.’ Lindsay Allen, The Persian Empire, 126. 64. There is one particular document that has often been brought into the discussion of Darius’ treatment of temples and that is known as the letter of Darius to Gadatas. This letter is preserved in a Greek inscription found on a marble corner-block from a wall on the road from Magnesia to Tralles. It is now in the Louvre. In this letter Darius responds to the gardeners of the Temple who complained to the king about the imposition of tribute and about being forced to cultivate profane land. According to Darius’ response, the temple was granted special rights from the king’s ancestors on the grounds of an oracle delivered to them, and Gadatas is ordered to respect those rights. The authenticity of this document has been debated. For a detailed listing of the debate see Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 72. Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 952. Grabbe has determined that this inscription is not authentic, and that it ‘has to be removed from the discussion about the Persian period’. Grabbe, A History of the Jews, 117.



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enemy. Nevertheless, the Persian benefaction towards the local temples was not unconditional. The aforementioned temple of Apollo at Didyma, which had established an advantageous relationship with Cyrus, was plundered and burned by Artaphernes, Darius’s general, in retaliation for the revolt of the Ionian cities. Clearly the benefaction was meant to be reciprocal. Whenever the local shrines failed to perform their expected role, they suffered the same exemplary punishment as the other disloyal subjects of the empire. The situation with the temples in Babylon and Egypt was slightly different. Beyond the political influence these temples could exert there was the issue of the significant material resources at their disposal.65 For example, Eanna, the temple of the goddess Ishtar at Uruk, controlled vast irrigated agricultural areas along the Euphrates that were producing cereals, while in parts of its property that were fallow, herds of livestock dedicated to the goddess would pasture.66 The potential revenue was ignored neither by Nabonidus, who introduced modifications in the temple’s management, nor by Cyrus and Cambyses, who left these modifications in place and also flanked the temple administrator with a royal commissioner to systematize and centralize the collection of precious metal.67 In addition to the regular levies, the temple at Uruk was asked to provide soldiers for the imperial army, workers for construction, crops and animals from their livestock, raw materials from their inventory and to undertake periodically the care of the royal herd. One should note that the exploitation of the temple resources went hand in hand with royal patronage. The Egyptian pharaohs had long recognized that temples were centres of intense economic activity, and they were treated as such. That is why in the course of time the state devised a series of measures which ranged from official regulation of their legal rights to grants of land and annexation of neighbouring territories, in order to boost their economic growth and in return maximize the temple’s and the state’s profit. This balanced approach changed when Cambyses conquered Egypt; his name is linked with a unilateral drastic economic exploitation of the Egyptian temples.68 This probably had to do with the fact that the subjugation of Egypt to Cambyses was more turbulent than the Babylonian conquest had been. This one-sided fiscal pressure can be interpreted as punishment for 65. For a discussion on the financial enterprises of ancient Near Eastern temples, see M. Silver, Economic Structures of the Ancient Near East (London & Sydney: Croom Helm, 1985), 19–21. Renger states that according to evidence from the Old Babylonian period, in times of hardship people would turn to the temple for consumptive or harvest loans. J. Renger, ‘On Economic Structures in Ancient Mesopotamia’, Orientalia 63 (1994): 196. Fried concludes that the Persian kings viewed the Egyptian and Babylonian temples as just another source of revenue. Lisbeth S. Fried, The Priest and the Great King, 107. 66. Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 72. 67. For the details on the transition in fiscal administration of Babylonian Temples from Nabonidus to the Achaemenids, see Joachim Schaper, ‘The Jerusalem Temple as an Instrument of the Achaemenid Fiscal Administration’, VT 45 (1995): 528–35. See also Tuplin, 151. 68. Briant notes that ‘the stelas marking royal generosity to the temples, so numerous before 525, disappeared in the time of Cambyses’. Ibid., 60.

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the Egyptian unwillingness to co-operate with the Persian overlords. This seems to be a valid explanation in light of the fact that few Egyptian temples were exempt of the heavy taxation.69 There is also evidence of preferential treatment of the temple at Saïs because of Udjahorresnet’s close collaboration with the Persians. The classical authors systematically present Darius in a more positive light than Cambyses, and it is true that Darius was very generous towards various Egyptian gods. Gardiner goes as far as to state that the temple of Hibis at El-Khãrga is so well preserved because of Darius.70 The truth is that Darius would want to win the support of the Egyptian temples and that he would have taken steps in that direction.71 There seems to be a consensus among scholars, however, that the bad press that Cambyses has received by classical authors is tendentious.72 Given the fact that the situation in Egypt was a lot more tumultuous for Cambyses than it was for Darius, it is quite plausible that Darius was able to follow a more lenient policy than Cambyses. Keeping in mind the care with which the Achaemenids dealt with the local temples, it seems logical that Cyrus would send back to Jerusalem the vessels taken by Nebuchadrezzar.73 With no cost of his own, Cyrus would boost his acceptance rate among his subjects and promote his image as the beneficent emperor. However, the subject of the return of the vessels is controversial because the biblical record is contradictory. According to one tradition, the sacral furnishings were completely destroyed in 597 BCE, while according to another, Nebuchadrezzar took some of them with him 69. According to a decree of Cambyses that is preserved in the third story (D.:1-17) on the verso of the Demotic Chronicle, the temples of Memphis, of Ounkhem and of Perapis were to be exempt of taxation. D. Devauchelle, ‘Le sentiment’, 74–5. 70. Gardiner, 366. See also Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 480–81. Lloyd argues that we now know that Darius I only did a ‘substantial amount of decoration’ to the temple. He adds that ‘the beneficence to such cults could not fail to raise Darius’ stock amongst the elite of the kingdom, and we can be confident that it was intended to do just that’. Alan B. Lloyd, ‘Darius I in Egypt: Suez and Hibis’, in Persian Responses (Oxford: The Classical Press of Wales, 2007), 107–11. 71. Grabbe, in his discussion of Egyptian texts, cites the correspondence of satrap Pherendates under Darius I. The first two letters relate the communication of the priests of Khnum and the satrap on the appointment of a lesonis, who was an important officer in the administration of the temple. On the basis of these letters, Grabbe concludes that the satrap, in the manner of the Pharaoh, perhaps retained ‘a theoretical veto over any appointments’ in Egyptian temples. Grabbe, A History of the Jews, 114. 72. Briant believes that in the absence of evidence of actual donations by Darius to specific temples, one should not draw a distinction between the policies of Cambyses and Darius in Egypt. Ibid., 479–80. Lloyd maintains that the negative depiction of Cambyses by the classical authors lacks historicity and rather reflects ‘hostile priestly propaganda generated by the restrictive fiscal measures applied by Cambyses to certain Egyptian temples’. Ibid., 173. See also Blenkinsopp, ‘The Mission of Udjahorresnet’, 411. 73. Fried argues that in the ancient Near East, in addition to a common ideology of conquest, there is a common ideology ‘of temple restoration after the conquest’. Lisbeth S. Fried, ‘The Land Lay Desolate: Conquest and Restoration in the Ancient Near East’, in Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period, ed. Oded Lipschits and Joseph Blenkinsopp (Indiana: Eisenbrauns, 2003), 30.



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to Babylon.74 Carroll believes that this contradiction is due to the fact that the biblical traditions often confuse and conflate the events of 597 and 587 BCE.75 The capture and transfer of the furnishings to Babylon becomes a very important motif in later books, and one could note that there has to be some validity to this tradition.76 Nevertheless, it has been shown that it becomes an important motif because it belongs to ‘the discussion of power and legitimation in the second temple period’.77 I propose to try to overcome this impasse by examining the issue from the Babylonian point of view. As Vanderhooft observes, Nebuchadrezzar would have a legitimate interest in the temple vessels.78 His interest would be twofold: first, in the sense of booty, and second, as tangible proof of Marduk’s superiority. Vanderhooft cites inscriptions which show that Nebuchadrezzar used to deposit captured booty in the Esagil.79 Furthermore, Williamson asserts that the deposit of the temple vessels to Babylon was intended to prove the conquered god’s, in this case YHWH’s, inability to save his devotees.80 Hence, when Grabbe asserts that it is unlikely that the Babylonians preserved the temple vessels, he seems to consider only their monetary value.81 Fried calls attention to the ideological and theological purpose of the return of the vessels. She argues that the return of cult objects to a destroyed temple on the periphery of an empire is one of the requirements for temple rebuilding after a conquest.82 Therefore, I would conclude that even though the biblical record is contradictory, it makes sense 74. 2 Kings 25:13-17 and Jeremiah 52:17-23 relay that Nebuchadrezzar took the vessels to Babylon in 587 BCE. 75. Robert P. Carroll, Jeremiah, ABC (Philadelphia: The Westminster Press, 1986), 535. Ackroyd maintains that this multiplicity of viewpoints cannot be harmonized. Peter R. Ackroyd, ‘The Temple Vessels: A Continuity Theme’, SVT 23 (1972): 175. However, Cogan and Tadmor have attempted to harmonize the two traditions. They argue that 2 Kings 24:13 is an editorial exaggeration based on a prophetic oracle. They further argue that this verse was misplaced and that it originally referred to the events in 597 BCE. Mordechai Cogan and Hayim Tadmor II Kings, ABC (New York: Doubleday, 1988): 312–14. 76. See 2 Chronicles 36:7, 10, 18; Ezra 1:5-11; 5:14-16, 6:5 and Daniel 1:2; 5:2-4. 77. Robert P. Carroll, Jeremiah, 536. Fried argues that in the case of an aniconic god, like YHWH, the cult vessels had to return because they provided evidence of YHWH’s will to return. Therefore, the impetus to rebuild the temple could only come from the returnees. Lisbeth S. Fried, ‘The Land Lay Desolate’, 50–52. 78. David Vanderhooft, ‘Babylonian Strategies of Imperial Control in the West: Royal Practice and Rhetoric’, in Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period, 251. 79. ‘Gold, silver, exceedingly valuable gemstones,…I transported and brought into the Esagil and Ezida.’ David Vanderhooft, The Neo-Babylonian Empire and Babylon in the Latter Prophets (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1999), 46. 80. H. G. M. Williamson, Ezra, Nehemiah, WBC (Waco, Texas: Word Book Publisher, 1985), 16. See also Lisbeth S. Fried, ‘The Land Lay Desolate’, 40. 81. He claims that the temple vessels had no significance for the Babylonians and that they were probably melted down for the coffers of the Neo-Babylonian empire. Lester L. Grabbe, ‘The “Persian Documents” in the Book of Ezra’ in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period, 546. 82. She argues that many temples were never rebuilt because the conqueror never bothered to the gods or the cult objects to the city. Lisbeth S. Fried, ‘The Land Lay Desolate’, 32–3.

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from Nebuchadrezzar’s viewpoint to take the vessels and from Cyrus’ to allow for their return. Furthermore, Cyrus’ action would be in line with his alleged benefaction to Babylon and with the tactics of the Assyrian emperors before him.83 Similarly, the endorsement for the rebuilding of the temple by Darius would be compatible with his policies towards temples throughout the empire.84 Scholars have referred to yet another motive behind the Achaemenid interest in the rebuilding of the temple. Temples in the Achaemenid Empire played a key role in financial administration. Schaper goes so far as to claim that the Persians took such a great care of the Jerusalem Temple because it functioned as an ‘outlet of the Imperial “Inland Revenue”’.85 It is true that the Temple could subsequently function as the depository of Judean taxes before these were assayed and sent over to the Persian Government.86 Bedford, however, cautions that in the Achaemenid empire temples were not the sole collection point for taxes.87 83. Ezra 5:1. The Cylinder Cyrus declares that he was the one who returned the images of gods to the sacred centres and let them dwell in eternal abodes, in contradistinction to Nabonidus. Lines 30–36. M. Cogan, 315–16. Van der Spek points out that the repatriation of divine images and temple-furniture was a tactic that Assyrian monarchs like Sargon and Esarhaddon employed long before Cyrus. R. J. van der Speck, ‘Did Cyrus the Great Introduce a New Policy towards Subdued Nations?’, 279. See also Lisbeth S. Fried, ‘The Land Lay Desolate’, 30­33. 84. Ezra 6:6-9. One could argue that the imperial interest in winning the allegiance of the community around the rebuilt temple is also evident in Darius’ request that prayers for ‘the life of the king and his children’ be included in the liturgy. Ezra 6:10. This hypothesis also explains the interest Artaxerxes took to the Jerusalem Temple (evident in his letter to Asaph, the keeper of the king’s forest, which instructs Asaph to provide Nehemiah with timber for the building activities in Jerusalem). Nehemiah 1:8. It is also congruent with Artaxerxes’s decree to the treasurer in the province beyond the river not to impose tribute, custom or toll to personnel of the Temple in Jerusalem. Ezra 7:21-24. The exemption of a particular community from taxes was another policy that the Achaemenids adopted from the Babylonians. The grant of tax-free status was a way of gaining popular support and securing allegiance to the grantor. Kuhrt draws attention to the fact that a number of cities in Mesopotamia have enjoyed this tax-exempt status and that Cyrus probably restored this status to Babylon since Nabonidus had taken it away. Amelie Kuhrt, ‘The Cyrus Cylinder’, 89–90. 85. Schaper, The Jerusalem Temple, 539. See also Oded Lipschits, ‘Achaemenid Imperial Policy, Settlement Processes in Palestine, and the Statues of Jerusalem in the Middle of the Fifth Century BCE’, in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period, 39. 86. Schaper concludes that the Temple in Jerusalem not only collected and administered ‘holy’ taxes, but also the Achaemenid state taxes. Joachim Schaper, ‘The Temple Treasury Committee in the Times of Nehemiah and Ezra’, VT 47 (1997): 204. Tuplin concludes that the existence of ‘a treasury in a provincial capital was a standard phenomenon’ in the Persian Empire. Tuplin, 128, 130. Carter enforces this point with his observation that ‘the use of coins took considerable time to become widely accepted and to replace the long standing practice of using weights of precious metals in business exchanges’. Charles E. Carter, ‘The Province of Yehud in the Post-Exilic Period: Soundings in Site Distribution and Demography’, in Second Temple Studies 2. Temple and Community in the Persian Period, ed. Tamara C. Eskenazi and Kent H. Richards, JSOTSup 175 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994), 273. 87. Peter R. Bedford, ‘The Economic Role of the Jerusalem Temple in Achaemenid Judah: Comparative perspectives’, in Shai le-Sara Japhet: Studies in the Bible, its Exegesis



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The primary concern of the Achaemenids with the Temple, however, was to ensure the existence of a focal point for the newly re-established community. Fried maintains that the greater impact of the rebuilt temple would be psychological in nature.88 The Persians were concerned with the temple because it would also serve their interests. Due to the extent and the heterogeneity of the empire, the administration system depended heavily on the exploitation of the already existing infrastructure of the various nations. The Persians knew very well that the Temple would be a crucial catalyst for the formation and solidification of such an infrastructure.89 Further evidence for this is found in the fact that they not only permitted and facilitated its rebuilding, but they also encouraged the return of the personnel that would operate this Temple and supported the endeavours of the community leaders who were willing to work within a mutually beneficial framework. Thus, Plöger was right to recognize that the Temple became an institution of primary importance for the post-exilic community. However, one should distinguish between calling the new community temple-centred and calling it a theocracy. It is one thing to claim that the Temple played a role within the administrative structure and another to claim that it was the absolute administrative structure for that community. A theocratic regime would not be in the best interest of this empire. Scholars doubt that the Persian kings themselves would have given extensive attention to local sanctuaries. Grabbe asserts that the support of cults under the Persians is often exaggerated due to the propaganda of the Persian kings. He maintains that the king would respond when asked to intervene in religious matters, but he would not have offered financial support or other imperial resources to these matters.90 I agree with Grabbe’s claim. I believe Lloyd has elucidated why the monarch’s name is so often associated with local temples: ‘However great or small the royal involvement may have and its Language (Jerusalem: the Bialik Institute: 2007), 16. He concludes that ‘there is not clear evidence that all temples in the Achaemenid Persian Empire operated as repositories for imperial taxes’ and that the ‘Babylonian temples may not offer the most pertinent parallels to the economic role of the Jerusalem Temple’. Ibid., 19–20. 88. Fried bases her argument on the letter from the Jews at Elephantine, who describe the enormity of their loss once their temple was destroyed. Lisbeth S. Fried, The Priest and the Great King, 159. 89. For a similar argument see J. Blenkinsopp, ‘Temple and Society in Achaemenid Judah’, in Second Temple Studies 1, ed. P. R. Davies, JSOTSup 117 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), 26, 39. Weinberg goes so far as to say that the edict of Artaxerxes I (Ezra 7:1126) granted the Jerusalem community tax-exempt status, and that practically meant that Artaxerxes recognized the community as a separate socio-political structure, which he calls the citizen-temple community. He believes that the Persians supported and recognized the Jerusalem citizen-temple community as the official agent of local administration because this form of socio-political structure was considered more loyal than other prevalent forms such as the polis, the kingdom or the tribe. Joel Weinberg, The Citizen-Temple Community, 115–26. 90. Grabbe, A History of the Jews, 215–16. He adds that the Persians tolerated, but did not promote, local cults and that lower officials would have dealt with matters pertaining to local temples. Ibid., 273–4.

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been, if there were any inscriptions set up to commemorate his activities, they would all without exception have attributed the work to the king who was reigning, or thought to be reigning, at the time.’91 This explains why the evidence overemphasizes the involvement of the king and it also shows that the imperial administration had a marked interest in local sanctuaries. It should now be clear that the province of Yehud has to be considered in the broader context of the Persian Empire. 4.3 Conclusion In light of the policies employed by the Persians throughout the empire the events in the province of Yehud are cast in a slightly different light. The decree of Cyrus, the restoration of the Temple and the role of leaders like Zerubbabel and Ezra make sense in the context of the Persian administration. There were three measures that the Achaemenids replicated adaptively throughout their empire: i.e. creating dynastic continuity, befriending local aristocracy and ingratiating the local sanctuaries during the time of three different emperors (Cyrus, Cambyses and Darius). The consistency with which they employed these measures in many other lands leads me to believe that they were intentional. I would argue that they constituted more than a systemic side effect of Achaemenid rule or a generally accepted practice or view.92 Andrew Meadows argues that, according to the evidence produced by Pseudo Aristotle in Oikonomika, the Persians employed a four-tiered administrative system. On the top of the hierarchy was the royal administration, below it was the satrapal level and there followed the civic and personal levels.93 If Meadows is correct in his assertion, then all three measures I examined were employed on the third tier: that of civic administration. It stands to reason that if the Persians distinguished the civic as a separate domain of administration, they would have taken measures to organize it appropriately. Therefore, I believe one could call these measures a policy. The success of the Achaemenid rule in 91. In connection to the temple of Amun in Hibis, Lloyd maintains that the ‘priests sought and gained the imprimatur of the satrap at Memphis but that would probably have been the outer limit of Persian governmental involvement’. Alan B. Lloyd, ‘Darius I in Egypt: Suez and Hibis’, in Persian Responses, ed. Christopher Tuplin (Oxford: The Classical Press of Wales, 2007), 110. Perdue states that the Achaemenid support of temple and hierarchies was based on ‘the principle of expediency of ruling peacefully over the colonial kingdoms and nations that made up the empire’. Leo G. Perdue, The Sword and the Stylus, 159. 92. Grabbe argues that when it comes to Persian attitude towards religion and law, scholars have made many claims about the existence of a formal policy. However, he observes that the evidence is too thin about such a policy in the sources. Grabbe, A History of the Jews, 209–10. 93. Meadows believes that this text was written soon after the fall of the Achaemenid empire and that it was heavily influenced by Persia in the structure it adopted. He adds that we also find evidence in Cyropaedia that Cyrus relied on local kings to maintain control of the empire. Andrew R. Meadows, ‘The Administration of the Achaemenid Empire’, in Forgotten Empire, 182–3.



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such a vast territory is remarkable, and the evidence reviewed suggests that its effectiveness was by design, rather than accidental. I would draw further support for my argument from the formal evidence we have on Persian administration. Fulton observes that several monumental inscriptions, often referred to as ‘empire lists’, have a formulaic introduction.94 This introduction contains three elements: the importance of the monarch, his relationship with his deity and his control over the people listed.95 I would then argue that in these inscriptions, the dynastic claim of the king, as well as his religious background, is linked with the enumeration of ruled people. In other words, these concerns were placed squarely on the radar screen of the Persian authorities and were reflected on governmental documents. Furthermore, in his discussion of the satrapal organization, Grabbe remarks that the great king ensured the obedience of his satraps by rewarding those who served him well and by instigating a contest of attention and favour among them.96 If the king was politically savvy enough to orchestrate ‘internally’ the politics among his satraps to his favour, I would argue that he would also be predisposed to do the same ‘externally’ with the local elites. However, one cannot deny that the biblical record has been embellished. A case in point would be the edict of Cyrus in Ezra 1:1.97 The return was not prompted by divine intervention alone, as the writer of Ezra would have us believe.98 The return of the exiles, the collaboration of the Persians with the Judean leaders and the support provided for the rebuilding of the Temple are all typical elements of the administrative policy of adaptive reduplication and indicate the Persian attempt to integrate Judah organically in the empire. Scholars have focused mainly on strategic and financial reasons in order to explain why this was the case. Briant believes that this geographical area was of interest to the Achaemenids because it played a key role in the profitable Arab and Mediterranean trade.99 Kuhrt offers that the Old Persian rulers quite possibly wanted to use Judah as a buffer against Egypt.100 Hoglund 94. Fulton makes this assertion in connection with the Behistun monument, Darius’ tomb inscription at Naqsi-Rustam, the Persepolis Terrace inscription and the Daiva inscription from the time of Xerxes. Deirdre N. Fulton ‘Organizing the World: The Construction of Persian Period Place-Name Lists’, forthcoming. 95. Fulton believes that these lists are not arbitrary, but portray a clear internal logic and agenda in their creation. She adds that these lists show how kings and their scribes conceptualized their empire and the space they controlled. Ibid. 96. Grabbe, A History of the Jews, 133. 97. Bedford, Temple Restoration, 128–9. Grabbe, ‘The “Persian Documents” in the book of Ezra’, 542–3. 98. Ezra 1:1. Japhet believes that the prologue to the decree is meant to show that the prophecy of Jeremiah is brought to fulfilment. S. Japhet, ‘Sheshbazzar and Zerubbabel: Against the Background of the Historical and Religious Tendencies of Ezra-Nehemiah’, ZAW 94 (1982): 73. 99. Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 44–5. 100. Kuhrt, ‘The Cyrus Cylinder’, 94. This is by far the most popular explanation among scholars. Petersen also explains Judah’s importance in the Persian Empire in the context of Cambyses’ military operations against Egypt. David L. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah

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adds that in the decade 460–450 BCE, the Persians not only had to contend with the Egyptian revolts, but also with the intervention of Athenian forces in the Mediterranean.101 Berquist maintains that Persia’s concern was not only defensive but also fiscal; it was generated by their desire to enhance their tax base.102 Albertz states that the rebuilding of the temple and the repatriation of the Judean community should be understood as measures undertaken by Darius to secure his throne.103 It is most likely that all these reasons contributed to the Achaemenid decision to develop and maintain a relationship with the community in Jerusalem. However, one also has to keep in mind that the Persian administrative policy, which was intended to promote the cohesiveness (and thus ensure the stability) of the empire, played an equally important role in this development. The fact that similar administrative tactics were followed consistently in many other lands reveals that these measures were standard policies of the Achaemenid imperial administration system. 4.4 Demographic Analysis Having shed some light on the international context in which the events of the return and the rebuilding of the temple took place, I should now focus on the particulars of life in Judea. Any reconstruction of the post-exilic social setting has to consider first and foremost the actual population size of the Persian province of Yehud, since the density of the population influences both social dynamics and the way in which the different scenarios develop.104 1–8: A Commentary, OTL (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1984), 24–7. Weinberg points also to the strategic importance of Judah vis-à-vis Persia’s preparations for the conquest of Egypt. Weinberg, The Citizen-Temple Community, 131. Albertz believes that Darius also developed an interest in Judah because of the problems in Egypt. Rainer Albertz, A History of Israelite religion in the Old Testament Period, vol.II, trans. John Bowden, OTL (Louisville: Westminster Press, 1994), 444. 101. Hoglund, Achaemenid Imperial Administration, 163, 242. 102. Jon L. Berquist, Judaism In Persia’s Shadow, 141. Lipschits also emphasizes the economic interests that the Persians had in this area. He concludes that the most logical explanation for the Persian interest in Jerusalem is their realization that this city, besides its status as the ideological and literary centre, had become the fiscal centre of the province. Oded Lipschits, ‘Achaemenid Imperial Policy, Settlement Processes and the Status of Jerusalem in the Middle of the Fifth Century BCE’”, in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period, 40. 103. In Albetz’s opinion, Darius’ decisions towards the Judeans were guided by his desire to consolidate his rule in Babylonia and facilitate the conquest of Egypt. Rainer Albertz, Israel in Exile, 125. 104. Kessler believes that as large populations are pressed into limited space, the intensity of conflict increases. Kessler, ‘Reconstructing Haggai’s Jerusalem’, 147. That is true when one talks about people who share space, as in the same household. However, when one refers to a city, as is the case of Jerusalem, there is not such a direct relationship between a large population in limited space and an increase of conflict, unless the conflict is about space. It would be more accurate to say that as more and more people are concentrated in a city, the chances of conflict increase as various interests compete and oppose one another. It would also be accurate to say that as the population increases in a city, the chances of more complex conflicts increase too.



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Demographic estimates, whether implicit or explicit, are included in every model I have discussed in the previous chapter. As Plöger, Hanson or Cook begin to reconstruct the inter-community relations, they already have in mind a certain size of population that would permit the scenarios they espouse.105 Their proposals seem feasible under specific socio-economic and political circumstances. Ideally, they should offer their population assessment within the context of their sociological analysis, since this strategy would have made their proposals more complete and would have grounded their reconstruction on a more concrete picture.106 In order to offer such a picture here, I should now discuss the population of Yehud. There have been several demographic estimates of the population of Judea during the Persian period. The numbers offered vary greatly ranging from 13,350 to 150,000 people in the entire province and 1,500 to 12,000 citizens in the city of Jerusalem.107 There seems to be a fixed set of variables on which the various computations are based.108 The first piece of evidence that scholars take into account is the population of pre-exilic Judah before and after the fall of Samaria. The second factor to be considered is the number of deportees and the extent of the Babylonian destruction, as well 105. When Hanson declares that Haggai and Zechariah were trying to make the hierocratic programme ‘attractive for the masses’ by ‘rallying popular support’, he already presupposes that these events take place in a populous Jerusalem. In fact, Hanson accepts the list preserved in Ezra 2 and 8 as a genuine record of those returning from the exile. Thus he surmises that the priestly party, which was in the minority, had 4,289 members in 520. Hanson, Dawn of Apocalyptic, 226. That leads me to believe that Jerusalem, in Hanson’s opinion, should have at least 9,000 citizens. 106. See similar discussion in Kessler, The Book of Haggai, VTSup 91 (Leiden, Boston, Cologne: Brill 2002), 90. Also see John Kessler, ‘Reconstructing Haggai’s Jerusalem: Demographic and Sociological Considerations and the Search for an Adequate Methodological Point of Departure’, in Every City Shall Be Forsaken, ed. Lester L. Grabbe and R. D. Haak, JSOTSup 330 (Shefffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 146–7. 107. Weinberg estimates 150,000 in his discussion of the demography of the post-exilic community. Weinberg, The Citizen-Temple Community, 43, 47. According to Carter’s most recent publication, the approximate population of Yehud from 539–450 BCE was 13,350 and from 450–333 BCE was 20,650. Charles E. Carter, The Emergence of Yehud in the Persian Period, JSOTSup 294 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 201. This revises his earliest proposal of 10,850 and 17,000 for the two periods, respectively. Charles E. Carter, ‘The Province of Yehud’, 135. Carter’s estimation agrees with the one offered by Albright. Albright claimed that the population of Yehud in the late sixth century was 20,000. W. F. Albright, The Biblical Period from Abraham to Ezra (New York: Harper and Row Publishers, 1949), 87. Barstad takes the estimate of 12,000 for exilic Jerusalem from E. M. Laperrousaz. Hans M. Barstad, The Myth of the Empty land: A Study in the History and Archaeology of Judah During the ‘Exilic’ Period, SOSup 28 (Oslo: Scandinavian University Press, 1996), 53, n.19. However, as Kessler notes, Laperrousaz gives this estimate for Nehemiah’s Jerusalem. Kessler, ‘Haggai’s Jerusalem’, 148. Carter maintains that by the end of the fifth century, Jerusalem would have grown to a population of approximately 1,500. Charles E. Carter, The Emergence of Yehud in the Persian Period, 200–201. See also Carter, ‘The Province of Yehud’, 135. 108. Grabbe discusses the difficulties inherent in estimating the populations of ancient towns and the complexities of estimating population density in Persian-period Israel. Grabbe, A History of the Jews, 200–202.

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as the number of returnees in the Persian period. A complete assessment of both of these variables relies on the interpretation of the information provided by both the biblical and extra-biblical record. Finally, one has to consider the extent of the literary production during this period, and its relation to the density of the population.109 On the face of it, the variables involved are not incalculable enough to justify such a marked discrepancy in the proposed computations. What seems to create the variant opinions is primarily the interpretation of data and the ideological presuppositions involved. Therefore, for the sake of accuracy and practicality, I will group the proposed population estimates into three categories, depending upon the method of interpretation and the concomitant presuppositions. Weinberg’s proposal offers the greatest population number, and his methodology takes at face value the biblical text and presupposes the transformation of the post-exilic community into a citizen-temple community.110 Second, there is an estimate that is more eloquently advocated by Barstad and is also shared by several other scholars.111 The trademark presupposition of this approach is that the events following the Babylonian siege of Jerusalem had no considerable impact on the population.112 The information of the biblical text to the contrary should be viewed as serving literary, aesthetic or ideological purposes.113 Barstad maintains that the sharp distinction between pre- and post-586 is ‘inappropriate and should regarded as “mythical” rather than 109. Kessler offers also a discussion on the issues contingent on the calculation of the population in Yehud. Kessler, The Book of Haggai, 90–91. 110. Weinberg even states that this transformation was ‘almost inevitable’, given the nature of the community and the international politics of the time. Weinberg, The CitizenTemple Community, 126 and 30–31. 111. Hans M. Barstad, The Myth of the Empty Land, 47–55. The same line of argument is found in E. Janssen, Juda in der Exilszeit: Ein Beitrag zur Frage der Entstehung des Judentums, FRLANT 69 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1956); H. Kreissig. Die Sozialökonomische Situation in Judah zur Achämenidzeit, Schriften zur Geschichte und Kultur des Alten Orients 7 (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1973). 112. Weinberg maintains too that there was no considerable reduction in the population because of the influx of Ammonites and Edomites into Judah and the economic growth of Palestine in the Babylonian period. Weinberg, The Citizen-Temple Community, 37, 43. However, Weinberg differs from Barstad in affirming that 50,000–70,000 people, almost a third of the residents of Judah, according to his calculations, were taken into exile. Ibid., 36. Furthermore, he asserts that the exile brought about decisive changes for the structure of the Judean society. Ibid., 37. 113. Carroll claims that ‘the myth of the empty land’ served an ideological/political goal. R. P. Carroll, ‘The Myth of the Empty Land’, Semeia 59 (1992): 90–91. In a subsequent article, he sees this ‘myth’ as a literary trope with aesthetic value. R. P. Carroll, ‘Exile! What Exile? Deportation and the Discources of Diaspora’, in Leading Captivity Captive, ed. Lester L. Grabbe, JSOTSup 278 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 71. Thompson also brings attention to exile as a literary metaphor. T. Thompson, ‘The Exile in History and Myth: A Response to Hans Barstad’, in Leading Captivity Captive, ed. Lester L. Grabbe, JSOTSup 278 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 110. Davies believes that the ‘exile’ is ‘a claim about ethnicity and relationship to a “homeland” and an implication of enforced absence’. P. R. Davies, ‘Exile? What Exile? Whose Exile?’, in Leading Captivity Captive, 128.



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“historical”’.114 According to this approach, life in Judah continued as it had before, albeit under new overlords and harsher circumstances. Third, there is the approach that offers the smallest population number for Judah in the Persian period. The methodology employed is called ethnoarchaeology because it integrates textual, social and archaeological approaches and is characterized by its belief that population in Judah declined because of the Babylonian invasion.115 Carter’s work represents best this method of calculation.116 In order to gain a clearer understanding of how each group proceeds with their estimates and arrives at their final number, I shall now examine each argument in succession. 4.4.a The Biblical Information at Face Value Weinberg represents an attempt to come up with a population estimate by working primarily with the information provided by the Biblical text. There are several instances in which Biblical books provide us with data that can be used for demographic computations. Examples of such data vary from the tribute paid by Menahem of Israel to Tiglath-Pileser III (2 Kings 15:19-20) as a way to estimate the population of the Northern Kingdom, to the number of people carried into exile (2 Kings 24:14-16; 24:11-22, 26; Jeremiah 52:28-30) and the lists of returnees (Nehemiah 7 and Ezra 2). Weinberg begins his calculations with the pre-exilic period in order to come up with an estimate of the population of the kingdoms of Israel and Judah, subtracting the number of people exiled and adding the number of people who returned. On the basis of these calculations, he concludes that the kingdom of Judah included 220,000 to 250,000 people before the Babylonian exile, and that by the time of Nehemiah, this population was 150,000. Such an approach presupposes that the pieces of information provided by the Biblical record are reliable, accurate and compatible. Regrettably, this is not the case, and as Carter 114. Hans M. Barstad, The Myth of the Empty land, 78. Barstad does not assert that one cannot use the Bible as a historical source in general, or that the Bible is ‘unreliable’. Instead he maintains that when dealing with ancient historiography, one has to grant to the sources the benefit of the doubt. H. M. Barstad, ‘The Strange Fear of the Bible: Some Reflections on the “Bibliophobia” in Recent Ancient Israelite Historiography’, in Leading Captivity Captive, 121, 126. 115. Carter remarks that the need for a ‘new archaeology’ was felt after the criticism of the deficiencies of the classical biblical archaeology movement. The new method had to make greater use of anthropological and sociological modelling, combine a concern for ecology and demographics and involve a sensitivity to both biblical and modern historiography. Carter, The Emergence of Yehud in the Persian Period, 70–74. 116. Carter, The Emergence of Yehud in the Persian Period, 20. Several other scholars share the opinion that the Babylonian invasion not only destroyed Jerusalem but had a disruptive effect in everyday life in the entire region. See J. M. Miller and J. H. Hayes, A History of Ancient Israel and Judah (Philadelphia: The Westminster Press, 1986), 416–17. Also, W. M. Schniedewind, Society and the Promise to David (New York, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 98–100.

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has remarked Weinberg’s reconstruction ‘stands or falls on his uncritical use’ of text.117 Weinberg’s calculations have been deemed wide of the mark and incongruous with archaeological evidence. As such, their validity has been criticized on several fronts. The basic problem revolves around his methodology. Blenkinsopp has pointed out that there are problems both with Weinberg’s attempts to harmonize the contradictory figures provided by the biblical narratives and with his inferences from these figures.118 A telling example is his insistence that the boundary list in Nehemiah 11:25-36 is accurate. Scholars have pointed out that this list is parallel to the list provided in Joshua 15–18 and, as such, reflects the ideal rather than the actual boundaries of Judah.119 Although Weinberg is aware of the objections, he still believes that there are no grounds to doubt the historicity of Nehemiah, partly because he needs to prove that there was substantial population growth in Judah in order to justify his multitudinous estimate.120 Furthermore, one cannot ignore the fact that the Exodus-Settlement typology is reflected in several places in the books of Ezra and Nehemiah, and this seems to be one such instance.121 More importantly, this list includes places that, according to information provided by the book of Maccabees, were under Edomite control at that point in time and were only later added to the territory of Judah.122 The proposed transformation of the post-exilic society into a citizentemple community is also problematic.123 Weinberg borrows this concept 117. Specifically, Carter asserts that Weinberg’s reconstruction stands or falls on his uncritical use of three sets of texts: 1) Ezra 2/Nehemiah 7; 2) Neh. 3 and Neh 11:25-35; and 3) Ezra 7:13-26. Charles E. Carter, The Emergence of Yehud in the Persian Period, 297. 118. Blenkinsopp, ‘Temple and Society in Achaemenid Judah’, 42–4. Carter also maintains that ‘Weinberg relies too heavily on these texts and draws conclusions from them that are questionable at best’. Carter, The Emergence of Yehud in the Persian Period, 298. 119. Stern argues that some of the settlements in this list were not within the borders of the Judean province during the Persian period. E. Stern, ‘The Province of Yehud: the Vision and the Reality’, 15–17. 120. Weinberg, The Citizen-Temple Community, 45. 121. Weinberg does not seem to be aware of the complicated transmission of EzraNehemiah, and his approach is not nuanced enough to recognize the themes and motifs in the narratives. Eskenazi has shown that these texts are tendentious, and one has to be aware of their thrusts in order to understand them. She argues that the purpose of the list in Nehemiah 11:25-36 is to show the success of the objective defined by Ezra 1:1-4, i.e. the decree to build the house of God. In particular, she deems that the allusion to Joshua 15 is intentional and that its goal is to illustrate the shift in emphasis from the role of the leaders (Joshua) to the role of the community (Nehemiah). Tamara Eskenazi, In an Age of Prose: A Literary Approach to Ezra-Nehemiah, SBL Monograph Series 36 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 5–9, 38–9, 113, 185–7. Japhet posits that one has to be aware of the tendencies in Ezra 1–6 in order to separate history from historiography. S. Japhet, ‘Sheshbazzar and Zerubbabel’, 1982, 66–98. Knowles offers a summary of the similarities and differences between the exodus from Egypt and the returns from Babylon in Ezra 1–2 and 7–8. M. D. Knowles, ‘Pilgrimage Imagery in the Returns in Ezra’, JBL 123/1 (2004): 57–61. 122. Cf. Blenkinsopp, ‘Temple and Society in Achaemenid Judah’, 44. 123. Weinberg maintains that the citizen-temple community was in a state of development but reached its final form after the edict of Artaxerxes I in 458/457 BCE.



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from various anthropological studies that have observed and described this form of socio-political organization.124 In order to prove that this model applies also to post-exilic Judah, he has to show how and to what degree this particular model corresponds with the existing data. Therefore, I will next examine and evaluate the correspondence between model and data in Weinberg’s reconstruction. His argumentation on the emergence of the citizen-temple community in Judah relies on three theories that describe various kinds of social and economic organization of communities to which the biblical data are shown to conform.125 Weinberg proposed the designation citizen-temple community for this form of social structure because he felt that it encapsulates the three basic characteristics that express the nature of this community: first, the exclusive membership and the organization of local administration; second, the merging of the Temple with the community; and third, the common property.126 Each trait needs to be examined in more detail. The first characteristic is a typical trait of the Greek polis.127 Weinberg justifies this similarity by claiming that the new socio-economic and cultural developments in the Achaemenid Near East, which contributed to the formation of Hellenism, were also conducive to the emergence of the citizen-temple community.128 He wants to draw this parallel in order to Weinberg, The Citizen-Temple Community, 67. 124. In his foreword, Smith-Christopher lists the works that influenced Weinberg in the formation of the ‘temple-community’ concept. Ibid.,10–14. Most of these are in Russian. Most of these works prominently feature a series of articles by Diakanoff on the pre-capitalist modes of production. See, for example, I. M. Diakanoff, ‘The Structure of Near Eastern Society before the Middle of the 2nd Millennium BC’ [Russian],VDI 3 (1968); English trans. Oikumene 3 (1982): 7–100. Dandamaev’s work on slavery in Babylonia was also influential. See M. Dandamaev, ‘Testimonies of Slaves in the Court in Babylonia in the 6th Century BCE’ [Russian],VDI 1 (1968): 3–12. Idem, ‘State and Temple Economy in Babylonia in the First Millennium BC’ [Russian], VDI 4 (1996); English trans. in State and Temple in the Ancient Near East, vol. II, ed. E. Lipinski (Louvain: Department Oriëntalistiek, 1979), 589–96. Bardavelidze’s ethnographic observations on pre-Christian villages in the Caucasus Mountains were also pivotal. V. V. Bardavelidze, The Administration of the Hefsurian Community (Georgia, 1952). Sarkisian’s study on the combination of Hellenistic socioeconomic forms with older Mesopotamian forms exerted influence. G. C. Sarkisian, ‘The Self-Governing City in Seleucid Babylonia’, [Russian],VDI 1 (1966): 68–83. Perichanian’s discussion on autonomous local organizations in Asia Minor in the Hellenistic period is another of Weinberg’s sources. A. Perichanian, The Temple Communities of Asia Minor and Armenia [Russian], (Moscow, 1959). Last, one should check Amusin’s application of the temple-community concept to post-exilic Judah. J. D. Amusin, ‘The People of the Land’, [Russian],VDI 2 (1953): 14–35. 125. The various definitional studies offered by Weinberg, such as the one for the term bêt ‘ãbôt, are too hypothetical to prove anything conclusively. Furthermore, in these studies, the citizen-temple community concept is used in order to shed light on the meaning of the terms, rather than vice versa. Ibid., 49–61. 126. Ibid., 137; 31; 90 and 103. 127. Weinberg himself admits that the citizen-temple community shares certain similarities with the polis. Ibid.,31. 128. Weinberg, The Citizen-Temple Community, 33.

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prove that the citizen-temple community was a distinct and autonomous unit. He insists on the exclusive membership because, in his opinion, it kept the community separate and thus consolidated the tax-exempt status of the entire community.129 Williamson, however, has shown convincingly that this is not the case.130 According to Ezra 7:24-26, tax exemption was granted to cultic functionaries and not the entire community. This is confirmed by Nehemiah 5:4, a text in which people complain because they have to pay the king’s tax. Similarly, there are problems with Weinberg’s reconstruction of the local administration.131 Bedford has argued that Nehemiah was not just the governor of the temple-community, but of a wider domain.132 More to the point, Nehemiah is shown to mediate between interest groups. Therefore, the degree to which this community was uniform and self-sufficient, the way a Greek polis would be, is questionable. Weinberg bases the second feature, the merging of the temple with the community, on the predominance of the priesthood in post-exilic society.133 However, it’s one thing to state that the temple played a prominent role in post-exilic society and another to claim that the polity was a theocratic regime.134 In this regard, Weinberg is influenced by Plöger’s theory on the development of a theocracy, which, as I have argued in the previous chapter, is not valid in the Achaemenid context, since the priests were not able to consolidate their power until much later. The last trait that lends the citizen-temple community its distinctiveness is the common property. In all the other citizen-temple communities, the ‘supreme “owner” of the land’ was considered to be the relevant deity.135 Weinberg believes that there is no evidence that the Jerusalem temple owned any land or had its own economy.136 Thus, he suggests that the majority of the land was the property of the bêt ‘ãbôt.137 Although this is something that is a bit difficult to prove, one has to keep in mind that there is no evidence against

129. Ibid., 117. 130. H. Williamson, ‘Judah and the Jews’, in Achaemenid History XI, Studies in Persian History: Essays in Memory of David M. Lewis, ed. M. Brosious and A. Kuhrt (Leiden: Nederlands Institut voor Het Nabije Oosten, 1998), 154–6. 131. For a succinct summary of the objections raised on Weinberg’s ideas of the administration of Yehud, see Carter, The Emergence of Yehud in the Persian Period, 301– 304. 132. P. R. Bedford, ‘On Models and Texts: A Response to Blenkinsopp and Petersen’, in Second Temple Studies 1, 158. 133. Weinberg, The Citizen-Temple Community, 74. 134. Ibid., 133. 135. Weinberg states that the land of the post-exilic citizen-temple community was formally accepted as Yahweh’s property. Ibid., 103. 136. As I have argued above, the Jerusalem Temple most likely filled a financial function in the imperial context. Carter posits that in Ezra and Nehemiah there are several texts that link tax collection with the temple and temple personnel. Thus, he makes specific suggestions about the economic function of the Temple. Carter, The Emergence of Yehud in the Persian Period, 304–305. 137. Weinberg, The Citizen-Temple Community, 57.



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it, either.138 It would be safer to ascribe the claim for common property to Weinberg’s communist background and the general tendency ‘to project a nascent “capitalism” developing out of disintegrating “feudalism”’.139 The artificiality of Weinberg’s scenario is further stressed by the fact that the setup of the citizen-temple community in Judah is unique and unprecedented by any other such community in the Ancient Near East. All the other known examples of this particular type of organization from this region differ from the one in Judah in two important respects. They either owned land and operated their own economy, like the communities at Uruk and Sippar, or owned land but did not operate their economy, like the community at Mylasa-Olymos.140 The above evaluation of Weinberg’s study indicates that the scenario he offers seems more like an artificial construct that depends upon the model that he presupposed from three distinct theories on the socio-economic organization of communities in the pre-Hellenistic Near East. One has to question the usefulness of his proposal, particularly since a careful examination of this theory reveals that the existence of citizen-temple community poses more questions than answers and is not compatible with the historic or textual evidence.141 4.4.b The Biblical Information Subverted Contrary to Weinberg, there is an approach that maintains that the information provided by the biblical witness is tendentious and should not be taken at face value. According to this line of argument, the Babylonian siege of 587, which resulted in the partial destruction of the city walls and the Temple, had no effect on the residential part of the city. Furthermore, the deportation and repatriation of a small number of the aristocracy did not have any serious repercussions on everyday life. Thus, the accompanying ‘Myth of the Empty Land’ is best regarded as a recurrent root metaphor in traditional storytelling that serves rhetorical purposes rather than 138. The solidarity displayed in the bêt ‘ãbôt can hardly be considered as evidence of common property. Ibid., 57. 139. Horsley, ‘Empire, Temple and Community’, 165. Horsley attributes this tendency to the fact that ‘Western’ scholars did not read Marx and the fact that ‘Soviet’ scholars read Marx within a Stalinist straightjacket that dictated a four-stage historical development for every society. Therefore, between commune, slave, feudal and capitalist society, scholars tried to force Near Eastern data into the slave or feudal model. Horsley believes that it was after the publication of Marx’s Grundrisse that scholars awoke to the possibility of economic systems different from the Greek, Roman and European patterns. Ibid., 165–6. 140. Even though Weinberg is aware of the fact that the Jerusalem citizen-temple community is, as he describes it, sui generis, he asserts that it still belongs to the broader temple-community type. Ibid., 104. 141. Bedford underlines the fact that the walls and city of Jerusalem were in disrepair and relatively unpopulated at the time of Nehemiah. These facts should cast serious doubts on the existence of a citizen-temple community because they show neglect towards the city and the temple, both of which are central for such a community. P. R. Bedford, ‘On Models and Texts’, 158–9.

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communicates historical facts.142 Its function is to accentuate the Babylonian destruction and the importance of the return.143 Evidently, the foundation of this argument is the widely accepted position that the narratives of Ezra and Nehemiah are heavily tendentious.144 The positive evidence that is brought forth by the scholars who advocate this approach is that the Palestinian community remained active throughout the exilic period, producing a number of books that found their way into the Hebrew Bible canon.145 In their opinion, literary compositions (like the Deuteronomistic history), certain lament Psalms (like 44, 74, 79) and Zion Psalms (like 89 and 102), the book of Lamentations, and major prophetic works (like Isaiah 21, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Second and Third Isaiah and Obadiah) were composed in Judah during the Babylonian and Persian periods. This extensive literary production constitutes proof for the proponents of this approach that the community in Judah was in a much better shape than the biblical text would lead us to believe, since literary production of this calibre requires amicable socio-political conditions and a stable economy. However, the population density of post-exilic Jerusalem does not need to be on par with the pre-exilic density in order to justify the body of literature ascribed to this period. Based on historical and sociological parallels, Carter concludes that a small capital could very easily have sustained the level of literary creativity that is traditionally attributed to the Persian period.146 It would also be misguided to claim that a populous city equals intense 142. Thompson states that the ‘exile and return’ is a legendary story of origins that is meant to define a ‘new Israel’. He argues that it follows the legendary motifs of the phoenix and that ‘the exile carries us through the death of the old Israel to the resurrection of the new’. Thomas L. Thompson, The Mythic Past: Biblical Archaeology and the Myth of Israel (New York: Basic Books, 1999), 210. Lemche believes that the myth of the exile arose in the latter part of the first Millennium and has two functions. First, it claims that ‘nobody except the generation that returned should be allowed to stay in the land’, and second, it creates a ‘legitimate right to the land’. Niels P. Lemche, The Israelites in History and Tradition (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1998), 87–8 143. Oded argues that ‘the myth of the Empty Land’ is ‘part and parcel, or rather, a by-product of the thesis about “mythical ancient Israel”’. B. Oded, ‘Where Is the “Myth of the Empty Land” To Be found? History versus Myth’, in Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period, 57. Vanderhooft posits that the revisionists are right to recognize that some biblical writers had an agenda. However, the revisionists conclude wrongly that, because of their agenda, the historiographical reconstruction of the biblical writers must be false. David Vanderhooft, ‘Babylonian Strategies of Imperial Control in the West’, 252. 144. Grabbe asserts that the various themes in these books combine to put forth one blatant message. The ideological Tendenz of the books and the complex editing mean that one should read them crtitically. Grabbe, A History of the Jews, 73–6. 145. Hans M. Barstad, The Myth of the Empty Land, 19–20, 45. Also H. M. Barstad, ‘On the History and Archaeology of Judah during the Exilic Period. A Reminder’, Orientalia Louvaniensia Periodica, 19 (1988): 25, 36. P. R. Davies, In Search of ‘Ancient Israel’, JSOTSup 148 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992), 98–101. 146. Carter maintains that even if the population of Jerusalem was between 1,250 and 1,500 people, it would be well within the 5 to 10 per cent average of urban centres in the pre-industrial age. Carter, The Emergence of Yehud, 288.



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literary production. It is more accurate to say that the post-exilic sociopolitical conditions necessitated an increase in literary output.147 The need to communicate, connect and elicit financial support from the wealthier community in Babylon played an important role in the intensification of writing.148 One cannot also ignore the several issues around post-exilic literary production that have yet to be resolved. Chronologically or geographically pinpointing, with certainty, the composition or final redaction of several of these texts is a highly complex and debatable issue. The fact remains that we know very little about the people who put to writing the post-exilic Biblical texts, let alone the conditions under which this writing took place.149 Therefore, while it is most certain that a lot of the Biblical material came together in the Persian period, there is little evidence that would enable us to identify the specifics of this process. Next, the advocates of continuity before and after 586 point out the fact that the biblical narratives describing the events of the destruction of Judah and the deportation of the population are contradictory and often incoherent.150 Therefore the biblical stories about the exile should not be treated as historical accounts but as a trope, ‘a fundamental element in the cultural poetics of biblical discourses’.151 Kessler responds that even if the ‘Myth of the Empty Land’ is indeed a literary construct, it does not prove that the population did not actually diminish.152 Furthermore, while the Books of Ezra and Nehemiah seem to serve a particular ideology, that does not mean that the 18-month-long Babylonian military expedition had negligible impact on everyday life in Judea.153 It would be equally improbable to claim that the deportations, regardless of their scale, as well as the resettling of the land and the imposition of a new regime did not affect the economy or everyday life. Vandehooft holds that ‘the Babylonian destructions disrupted patterns 147. Albertz remarks that after ‘the loss of political and cultic institutions informal groups of theologians became more and more the vehicles of official Yahwism’. He believes that ‘the result of this deregulation of religious traditions was an almost explosive increase in literary production and a splintering of “theological schools” that went considerably beyond the divisions of the preexilic period’. Albertz, Israel in Exile, 133–4. 148. As Ackroyd states in his article, ‘Jewry is Larger than Judah’. P. R. Ackroyd, ‘Archaeology, Politics and Religion’, 5. 149. For an analysis of these problems, see E. ben Zvi, ‘The Urban Center of Jerusalem and the Development of the Literature of the Hebrew Bible’, in Urbanism in Antiquity, ed. W. E. Aufrecht, N. A. Mirau and S. W. Gauley, JSOTSup 244 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1999), 201–206. 150. Hans M. Barstad, The Myth of the Empty land, 31, 36. 151 R. P. Carroll, ‘Exile! What Exile? Deportation and the Discourses of Diaspora’, 64. 152. Kessler, ‘Reconstructing Haggai’s Jerusalem’, 148. 153. Eskenazi, on the one hand, has argued that the goal of the books is to show that the objective has been reached. The house of God has been built, fulfilling thus the edict of God and Cyrus. T. Eskenazi, In an Age of Prose, 40, 175–6. Schniedewind, on the other hand, believes that the ‘myth of the empty land’ served the ideology of Ezra by giving the returnees a privileged place in the restored community. W. Schniedewind, Society and the Promise to David, 100.

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of trade and economic prosperity throughout the Levant’.154In connection with a disrupted economy, one should also keep in mind the arguments between those who returned and those who had stayed behind on the matter of redistributed property.155 Barstad then turns to archaeology in order to supply evidence which shows that neither Judah nor Jerusalem was desolate during the Babylonian period.156 Almost everyone would agree that there was not a complete cessation of activity in the city.157 This, however, does not prove that the population level remained constant in the area until the Persian period. There are several independent archaeological reports that confirm a population decrease in Palestine after the Babylonian invasion.158 Furthermore, archeologists have argued that the situation in Benjamin, Negev or Transjordan is not comparable to the situation in Judah proper.159 Lipschits has also that the ‘destruction of Jerusalem and the end of the kingdom of Judah brought about the gravest demographic crisis in the history of the kingdom of Judah’.160 154. Vanderhooft, ‘Babylonian Strategies of Imperial Control in the West’, 255. 155. 2 Kings 25:12 and its parallel in Jeremiah 52:16. See also Ezekiel 33:23-27. Albertz offers that the redistribution of land in Judah was in the interest of the Babylonians, who wanted to consolidate the devastation after the war. R. Albertz, A History of Israelite Religion, 371. 156. Hans M. Barstad, The Myth of the Empty land, 47–55. Barstad repeated the argument of a continued existence of a considerable material culture in Judah in a later essay. Hans M. Barstad, ‘After the “Myth of the Empty Land”: Major Challenges in the Study of Neo-Babylonian Judah’, in Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period, 3–20. 157. Finkelstein maintains that the majority of the population remained after the Babylonian campaigns. Israel Finkelstein and Neil A. Silberman, The Bible Unearthed: Archaeology’s New Vision of Ancient Israel and the Origin of its Sacred Texts (New York: Free Press, 2000), 205–308. 158. Briend reports a population decline in Galilee, and Zertal posits a similar decline for Samaria. J. Briend, ‘L’occupation de la Galilée occidentale à l’époque perse’, TRANSEUPHRATÈNE 2 (1990): 121. A. Zertal. ‘The Pahwah of Samaria (Northern Israel) during the Persian Period. Types of Settlement, Economy, History and New Discoveries’, TRANSEUPHRATÈNE 3 (1990): 11. For an extensive discussion of the archaeological evidence of the Babylonian destruction, see Kessler, The Book of Haggai, 94–5. 159. Albright had already shown the Negev and Benjamin were populated during the exilic period. William F. Albright, From the Stone Age to Christianity: Monotheism and the Historical Process (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins Press, 1946), 247. Oded argues that ‘We are dealing with two completely different situations and circumstances’. B. Oded. ‘Where Is the “Myth of the Empty Land” To Be found?’, 67. Lipschits adds that in contrast to the settlement picture in Jerusalem, which was razed thoroughly by the Babylonians, settlement in Benjamin declined only at the beginning of the Persian period. Oded Lipschits, ‘Demographic Changes in Judah between the Seventh and the Fifth Centuries BCE’, in Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period, 365. See also Oded Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem: Judah under Babylonian Rule (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2005), 153. 160. Lipschits maintains that this demographic crisis ‘was much more severe than that of the Sennacherib campaign’ in 701 BCE. Oded Lipschits, ‘Demographic Changes in Judah’, 364. He estimates that after the destruction of Jerusalem, Judah ‘registered a decline of 60% in settled area’. By his calculations only 40,000 people lived in Judah from a total of 110,000 before the Babylonian province was established. Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem: Judah under Babylonian Rule (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2005), 368. In an earlier article



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That can only mean that the after-effects of the Babylonian army were a lot more significant than Barstad’s approach allows.161 Having tried to ground the argument for continuity on the ideological nature of the biblical evidence and the archaeological record, Barstad next addresses ancient Near Eastern politics. He claims that Nebuchadrezzar would have treated Judah as he treated the kingdoms in Transjordan. More to the point, it would have been nonsensical for him to destroy Judah since it was strategically important to the Neo-Babylonian Empire and ripe for financial and commercial exploitation.162 Despite Nebuchadrezzar’s original intentions one cannot be certain that after a year and a half of hostilities, the Neo-Babylonian army would have kept its patience and played by the book. The more a war drags on, the more the chances for an escalation of violence and destruction increase.163 Barstad seems also to overestimate Yehud’s economic potential. While Syria-Palestine was economically important, as Barstad argues, that does not immediately translate into a flourishing economy for Judah in particular. The Arab trade and the Mediterranean trade were not in the hands of the rural population around Jerusalem. Furthermore, Kessler draws attention to the fact that the biblical record includes repeated allusions not just to the military destruction, but also to ‘destruction through famine, sword, plague and disease’ conditions that do not point to a growing economy.164 Barstad is most probably right in claiming that Judah was not completely destroyed after the events of 586; however, it is implausible to maintain that life went on without disruption and that the population remained stable.165 Carter argues that ‘there was likely a substantial disconnect, given the absence of a monarchy and its Lipschits claimed that the population increase in regions neighbouring Judea after the 587 siege could be ascribed to the destruction of the land by the Babylonians. O. Lipschits, ‘The History of the Benjamin Region under Babylonian Rule’, Tel Aviv 26 (1999): 181–2. 161. Kessler believes that in the text of Haggai there are clues that point to a sparsely populated Jerusalem. Primary among these clues is the use of the term brh to describe the Temple. Kessler, ‘Reconstructing Haggai’s Jerusalem’, 149–51. 162. Hans M. Barstad, The Myth of the Empty land, 57, 64, 67. 163. Lipschits reports that ‘during the siege of Jerusalem, the Babylonians destroyed most of the population centers in the Shephelah, apparently as a way of “opening the gates” from the coast toward the hill-country ridge and as a part of the Babylonian interest in maintaining open roads from east to west’. Lipischits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem, 366. Oded maintains that ‘the Babylonians caused havoc and devastation (Jer 4:23-27; 44; 51:34; Hab 1:6, 9, 17; 2:8, 17)’. B. Oded, ‘Where Is the “Myth of the Empty Land” To Be Found?’, 67. He adds that Jerusalem ‘faded into darkness throughout the exilic period’. Ibid., 69. 164. Kessler refers to the following texts: Jeremiah 5:12; 14:15-16; 21:7-9; and 27:8. Kessler, The Book of Haggai, 94–5. 165. Even Sacchi, who claims that life in Jerusalem continued after the Babylonian invasion without any significant decrease in population, notes that ‘a new social situation was created in Judah’. P. Sacchi, The History of the Second Temple Period, JSOTSup 285 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 47–9. Vanderhooft adds that the presence of a high percentage of Hebrew names in cuneiform tablets from Babylonian settlements suggests that ‘the biblical insistence on the shift of the elite into Babylonia was not mere fancy’. Vanderhooft, ‘Babylonian Strategies of Imperial Control in the West’, 255–6.

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infrastructure’.166 History shows that a military invasion and the imposition of a foreign overlord tend to have more of an impact in any society. 4.4.c The Information Provided by Ethnoarchaeology The third approach in calculating the demography of Yehud is in agreement with traditional biblical archaeology, which has argued for a population decrease in Jerusalem and its immediate environs after the Babylonian exile.167 Before Carter begins his calculations, he establishes three parameters that he believes are central for an accurate evaluation of the existing data. The first has to do with the geography and determination of the boundaries of Yehud, which was a contested issue in Weinberg’s reconstruction. In his opinion the province extended from just north of Bethel to Jericho in the north-east and just south of Hebron, while the Shephelah and the coastal plain to the west, although culturally connected to Yehud, would more likely have formed a separate district from it.168 The second deals with chronology, which was a debatable point in Barstad’s proposal. Carter argues that according to the archaeological record, the Persian period should be divided into two phases, Persian I from 538 to c.450 BCE and Persian II from c.450 to 332 BCE.169 He believes that the mid-fifth century represents a new phase in imperial policy that is indicated by the missions of Ezra and Nehemiah and a series of changes in the archaeological record.170 He maintains that these data 166. Carter believes that the imprint of this disconnect is present in the biblical traditions. Charles E. Carter, ‘Ideology and Archaeology in the Neo-Babylonian Period: Excavating Text and Tell’, in Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period, 311. 167. See, W. F. Albright, The Biblical Period, 84. Also, Y. Aharoni, The Land of the Bible: A Historical Geography (London: Burns and Oates, 1979), 409. Lipschits and Milevski have also supported this conclusion by Aharoni in more recent studies. Lipschits argues that although the city and the close surroundings were deserted after the Babylonian assault, there is no evidence for destruction in the Benjamin region. O. Lipschits, ‘Nebuchadrezzar’s Policy in “Hattu-Land” and the Fate of the Kingdom of Judah’, UF 30 (1998): 474–6. Milevski states that although the destruction caused by the Babylonians was not total, there was a significant destruction of sites and redistribution of the population. I. Milevski, ‘Settlement Patterns in Northern Judah during the Achaemenid Period, According to the Hill Country of Benjamin and Jerusalem Surveys’, BAIAS 15 (1996–7), 20. See also A. F. Rainey, ‘The Biblical Shephelah of Judah’, BASOR 251 (1982): 17. Stern also believes that the main cities that flourished during the Assyrian period were destroyed by the Babylonians. E. Stern, Archaeology of the Land of the Bible, 309–11, 348–50. 168. Carter cites both textual and archaeological reasons for the exclusion of Shephelah and the coastal plain for the province of Yehud. Carter, The Emergence of Yehud, 90–100. While he reconstructs the borders of Yehud on the basis of topographic, environmental and geological and geopolitical features. Ibid., 113. He concludes that the area of the entire province covered almost 1,900 square kilometers (680 square miles). Ibid., 102. 169. Ibid., 115–16. 170. These changes have to do with the construction of a number of fortresses in SyriaPalestine, the prominence of coinage in the late fifth and early fourth century, the wide distribution of attic ware and the increase of the number of seals that are associated with the province of Yehud in this period. Ibid., 116–17.



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signify a change in the status of Yehud within Syria-Palestine and adds that this development is linked to the re-population and the economic prosperity of the area. The last of his three parameters addresses methodology. Carter states that of all the scientific methods to estimate the population of a given area, the one suited best for Yehud is the area analysis calculation because of the nature of the available data.171 For this reason his work relies heavily on the research conducted by Shiloh, Broshi and Gophna, and Filkenstein, whose studies provide the necessary raw data.172 Having established the parameters of his analysis, Carter proceeds with an evaluation of the data. He observes that there was a population decline from Iron II to Persian I. Overall the picture that emerges is of a small and poor province with a population during the Persian period that was one-third of that in the previous period. He reaches the conclusion that Jerusalem was ‘approximately 20 per cent of its Iron II size’.173 This decrease in size and population is better explained as the after-effect of the Babylonian conquest.174 He asserts that in Persian II, there was a 55 per cent growth in the population of Yehud.175 During this period Carter notices that Judah enjoyed a more gradual increase than Benjamin. He postulates that the flourishing of Judah should be attributed to economic factors related to the proximity to a major city as well as to imperial policy.176 Of the three approaches discussed, Carter’s seems to piece together most successfully the information between text and archaeology. As Kessler puts 171. However, he cautions that the survey data he is working with come from four different surveys conducted by different teams at different times and with distinct methodologies, and this could introduce an element of unevenness in his calculations. Ibid., 183. 172. Carter, The Emergence of Yehud, 195. Y. Shiloh, ‘The Population of Iron Age Palestine in the Light of a Sample Analysis of Urban Plans, Areas and Population Density’, BASOR 239 (1980): 25–35. M. Broshi, ‘The Population of Western Palestine in the RomanByzantine Period’, BASOR 236 (1980): 1–10. M. Broshi and R. Gophna, ‘The Settlements and Population of Palestine during the Early Bronze Age II–III’, BASOR 253 (1984): 41–53. M. Broshi and R. Gophna, ‘Middle Bronze Age II Palestine: Its Settlements and Population’, BASOR 261 (1986): 73–90. I. Finkelstein, The Archaeology of the Israelite Settlement, (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1988). M. Broshi and I. Finkelstein, ‘The Population of Palestine in Iron Age II’, BASOR 287 (1992): 47–60. 173. Carter, The Emergence of Yehud, 247. Carter believes that ‘both text and tell when properly excavated agree that the destruction and deportations rendered a different reality in the land, one that was without monarchy and without Temple’. Carter, ‘Ideology and Archaeology in the Neo-Babylonian Period’, 318. 174. Oded also affirms the continuity between pre-exilic and exilic times, but he emphasizes that when it comes to population, there was a ‘marked decline in quality and very limited in quantity’. He adds that ‘Judah proper was a land with no state or capital, no leaders or elders (except in Babylonia), no organized community with political, social, and religious institutions, no priests or prophets to consult (except in exile: see for example, Jer 29:15; Ezek 33:33), no significant economic activities or trade (except in Benjamin), no cultural or literary activities (except in exile)’. B. Oded, ‘Where Is the “Myth of the Empty Land” To Be Found?’, 71. 175. Carter, The Emergence of Yehud, 226. 176. Ibid., 238.

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it, the scholars who work with this method succeed in translating data into population estimates using a ‘clearly definable methodology’, unlike Weinberg or Barstad.177 The credibility of this methodology is further enhanced by the fact that it has been used effectively in other fields. One should also notice the way in which Carter’s refinements on the issues of geography and chronology solve several of the problems posed by the incompatible information provided by the biblical texts. 4.5 Conclusion According to Carter’s calculation, the population of Jerusalem should be around 1,500 in the early post-exilic period.178 The ensuing picture is one of a small Jerusalem. If this small a population would have been called upon to collect tribute for the Persian empire, raise funds for the rebuilding of the Temple, finance the returning priests and support the various local and imperial administrative officials, then it would face serious economic challenges. The fact that so many demands were placed on such a small and poor region contributed to the development of a charged atmosphere. Therefore, Hanson would be correct in his assertion of inner-community conflicts in the Second Temple period. The process of restoration required a number of key decisions and a series of definitive actions. Since more than one party was involved in this decision process, there was difference of opinion and conflict. The complaints recorded in Nehemiah on the administrative abuses and debt slavery provide evidence that difficulties persisted for quite some time. Despite the poverty and its small size, this Persian province was not devoid of significance. Two pieces of evidence point to its importance. First, the central administration attempted to incorporate Yehud in the imperial scheme. Yehud was called to participate in the inter-relationships that held together the vast world of the empire. Second, the Persians expended some effort to develop solid relations with Yehud’s aristocracy and with the temple in Jerusalem.179 This oblique coercion of Yehud into the international context 177. Kessler, ‘Reconstructing Haggai’s Jerusalem’, 146. 178. Carter, The Emergence of Yehud, 201. Lipschits agrees with that number. Oded Lipschits, ‘Achaemenid Imperial Policy and the Status of Jerusalem’, 32. While Kessler accepts the population number proposed by Carter for Persian I, he believes future research will more likely raise this figure rather than lower it. He reasons that ‘it is more likely that Persian I occupation will be posited in new sites than that it will be rejected for cites where it is currently assumed’. Kessler, ‘Reconstructing Haggai’s Jerusalem’, 146. Lipschits also stated that ‘even at the height of the Persian period, the city’s population was only 3,000, which is about 12% of the population of the city and its environs on the eve of the destruction’. Lipschits, ‘Demographic Changes in Judah’, 365. 179. Carter suggests that both the Neo-Babylonians and the Persians adhered to the principle of regional production in the commercial set-up of their empires. Therefore, he offers that the Persians expected a viable Yehud to contribute to the commerce among provinces and thus promote the stability of the area. He believes that this theory ‘may explain the large granaries at Tell el-Hesi and, perhaps, El Jîb’. Carter, The Province of Yehud, 141–3.



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of the empire would have accentuated the need for a self-definition and the establishment of some identity. It is in this social setting that the prophets Haggai and Proto-Zechariah should be placed. Facing impossible odds, they had to come up with a message that would inspire unity rather than provoke further division. Thus, they should not be seen as sectarian or mouthpieces of particular interest groups. If their message was to take root, they had to be relevant to all members of the early post-exilic society. The unmitigated support they offered towards the rebuilding of the temple should be seen in conjunction with the Achaemenid policy towards sanctuaries throughout their empire.

Chapter 5

Restoration Eschatology and Messianic Presence: Haggai and Proto-Zechariah in their Socio-Historical Context

5.1 Proto-Zechariah and Apocalypticism Scholars have often argued that the book of Zechariah is the nexus between prophecy and apocalypticism.1 Chronologically it is situated in the Second Temple period, a time that marked a series of changes for Israelite religion. Scholars have argued that Zechariah paradigmatically exemplifies these changes because the literary form of chapters 1–6 in his book bears strong resemblances to apocalypses.2 A case in point is the Angelus Interpres that is first introduced here in order to provide the prophet with a divinely authoritative interpretation of his visions and later becomes a recurrent character in apocalypticism.3 Although I agree that the restoration period is a 1. Ewald was the first to notice the connection of Zechariah to apocalypticism. Heinrich Ewald, Die Propheten Des Alten Bundes (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1841), 3:318. Later in a meeting held in Uppsala both North and Amsler underlined Zechariah’s proximity to apocalypticism. Robert North, ‘Prophecy to Apocalyptic via Zechariah’, VTSup 22 (1972): 71. Samuel Amsler, ‘Zacharie et l’origine de l’apocalyptique’, VTSup 22 (1972): 231. Gese, however, has made this point forcefully by arguing that Zechariah marks the end of the time of prophecy and that his visions are the oldest apocalypse known to us. Hartmut Gese, ‘Anfang und Ende der Apocalyptik, dargestellt am Sacharjabuch’, ZTK 70 (1973): 24. 2. Torrey argued that Zechariah 1:8–6:8 contains a mixture of two incongruous elements. One of the elements he calls ‘stereotyped prophecy’ and the other he identifies as the ‘apocalyptic stratum’. Charles C. Torrey, ‘The Messiah Son of Ephraim’, JBL 66 (1947): 274–7. Most recently, Tigchelaar has offered a similar argument. In his book, he examines ‘the correspondences, differences and possible developments between Zechariah, Deutero-Zechariah and the Enochic Book of Watchers’. He qualifies the traditional thesis by claiming that ‘whereas Zechariah is usually seen as a precursor of the formal elements of the genre apocalypse, Deutero-Zechariah represents a forerunner of the apocalyptic mode’. E. J. C. Tigchelaar, Prophets of Old, 13. Barton states that ‘Zechariah 1–8 is full of little “apocalypses”’. Barton Oracles of God, 209. 3. The angel in Ezekiel 8 and 40–48 guides the prophet in a tour through the New Temple and the land but does not engage him in conversation. The dialogue between



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watershed regarding the developments in the religion of Israel, I have shown that changes in the literary form are not a reliable criterion for describing the relation between prophecy and apocalypticism. Rather, I have determined that the criterion, which differentiates the two genres, is the varied formulation of eschatological expectations. However, literary form and eschatology are not opposed. The mode of expression is distinctive to a degree. Therefore, in order to gain a better understanding of Zechariah’s relation to apocalypticism, I will have to examine his eschatological thinking. 5.2 Restoration Eschatology In the first chapter, I suggested a way to separate post-exilic from apocalyptic eschatology. It is my contention that Zechariah does not fall in either category. I will try to show that the early post-exilic period offered yet another variation in eschatological thinking. This was peculiar to the time after the return of the exiles and was deeply influenced by the socio-historical developments pertaining to the restoration of the Israelite cult and nation under the Persian empire. Petersen has observed that the books of Haggai and Zechariah ‘provide the most chronologically focused literature in the Old Testament’.4 Most scholars would agree that the two prophets can safely be dated around 520 BCE.5 The book of Haggai seems to reflect events that span a period of three months in the second year of Darius, while the visions in Zechariah 1–6 were reportedly received in the course of one night later the very same year.6 As Petersen remarks, it is not often that one encounters such concentrated attention to Zechariah and the angel is a new trait that marks a new phase in the visionary tradition of the Hebrew Bible. Cf. Janet E. Tollington, Tradition and Innovation in Haggai and Zechariah 1–8 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993), 97–9. In this respect, Zechariah is said to stand at a transitional stage between the visions of the older prophets and the later apocalyptic writers. Zimmerli believes that in the man of Ezek. 40ff ‘the angelus interpres is prefigured’, who appears as a clearly defined figure in the night visions of Zechariah. Walther Zimmerli, Ezekiel 1 (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1979), 27. 4. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 19. 5. For a thorough discussion on the date, see Wolter H. Rose, Zemah and Zerubbabel, Messianic expectations in the Early Post Exilic Period (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 26–30. 6. Haggai, 1:1, 2:1 and 2:10. Zechariah, 1:7. The historical validity of Haggai and Zechariah has been traditionally affirmed, particularly over against the mounting historical problems provided by the books of Ezra and Nehemiah. Torrey remarks that the Haggai and Zechariah are ‘our first and only sure source of information between Nebuchadnezzar and Nehemiah’. C. C. Torrey, Ezra Studies (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1910), 303. Pfeiffer adds further that the greater importance of the books of Haggai and Zechariah is to be found in their usefulness as a historical source. R. H. Pfeiffer, Introduction to the Old Testament (New York: Harper and Bros., 1941), 603. Bedford also concludes that the ‘Hebrew and Aramaic narratives (in Ezra) prove to be unreliable witnesses when compared to Haggai and Zechariah 1–8’. Peter Ross Bedford, Temple Restoration in Early Achaemenid Judah (Brill: Leiden, Boston, Cologne, 2001), 181.

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such a limited period of time in the biblical corpus. This is the reason why I assert that they merit to be studied as a sui generis category as far as their eschatological outlook is concerned. On the one hand, the events described in these books are focused on issues pertaining to the rebuilding of the Temple and do not address questions about priestly lineages or intermarriage that are found in later post-exilic literature.7 Furthermore, as Bedford puts it, for these prophets the rebuilding of the temple is not a cause for social division but ‘an act of social integration’.8 On the other hand, they share ideas that are not found elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible. The end result is the formulation of yet another viewpoint that adds to the variation of eschatological expression. The close chronological proximity of Haggai and Zechariah, and the fact that their prophecies feature the same protagonists, has led scholars to group them together and examine them in tandem. However, one should be mindful of the ideological and stylistic differences between them that nuance differently their respective eschatological outlooks. Haggai communicates his message with oracles, while Zechariah 1–6 relies heavily on visions. This is an important observation because it is the elaborate visionary mode of expression of Zechariah 1–6 that has led scholars to examine the relation of his prophecies to apocalyptic literature. However, in my inquiry I have focused my attention in eschatology rather than the mode of expression, and since Haggai makes several eschatological claims, I need to include him in my analysis. Furthermore, it is necessary to examine both prophets in order to justify why I need to categorize ‘restoration eschatology’ separately. 5.3 The Social Context of the Return There are two issues that I need to clarify in order to understand the context in which the prophets delivered their message. First, I would have to examine who decided to leave Babylon and come back to Jerusalem. Anyone who would resolve to relocate after almost seventy years would have certain expectations from this move and probably vested interests in settling back in Judah. Related to this issue is a discussion of the identity of the leaders that spearheaded the return to Jerusalem. Their goals and their actions would have played a key role in determining the direction towards which events would unfold. Also, I need to look into the information that biblical books preserve on what was happening in the land during the exile and the return. It is particularly important to get a clear picture of the social dynamics in early post-exilic Jerusalem. The return of a group planning to rebuild the temple and set up a new administrative system would infringe 7. Carroll claims that Haggai and Zechariah are predominantly concerned with the Temple and with the reinstatement of Zerubbabel as the rightful Davidic heir. Carroll, When Prophecy Failed, 159–64. 8. Bedford believes that as far as Haggai and Zechariah were concerned both repatriates and non-repatriates could participate in the rebuilding of the Temple. P. R. Bedford, Temple Restoration, 247.



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upon what had been going on in their absence. More importantly, it would have raised a number of questions about legitimacy of authority, ownership of land, necessity of temple rebuilding, and financial responsibility for the restoration project. A lot of the information available about the return to Jerusalem and the events that followed come from the books of Ezra and Nehemiah. However, as I pointed out in the previous chapter, both books are tendentious and one is hard-pressed to separate between ideology and fact. Nevertheless, one cannot disregard completely the information these books put on the table. In my attempt to discern the social dynamics in Yehud, I will employ a twotiered approach. First, I will look at the evidence in Haggai and Zechariah, who, scholars believe, relate more reliable information. Then, I will look at Ezra and Nehemiah and see if there is any correspondence between their evidence and the information I gleaned from the two prophets. By 520 BCE, the time that Haggai and Zechariah were active, two waves of returnees had already arrived in Jerusalem. Sheshbazzar supposedly led the first wave in 538. The data available for this group are sparse and contradictory. We know that Cyrus sent him to Yehud as a governor (Ezra 3:14) and that he carried the title ‘prince of Judah’ (Ezra 1:6). This title would suggest that he was descended from the line of David and that he could be a legitimate heir to the throne. Nevertheless, his name does not appear in the genealogies of the Chronicler and this suggestion cannot be confirmed. Zechariah obscures even more the events pertaining to the mission and work of Sheshbazzar, probably intentionally. According to Ezra 5:16, Sheshbazzar laid the foundation of the Temple.9 Zechariah 4:9, however, credits this event explicitly to Zerubbabel almost twenty years later. Given the prominence of Zerubbabel in the book of Zechariah one can postulate that either the prophet omitted Sheshbazzar because he did not want anything to detract from Zerubbabel’s role or that Sheshbazzar’s contribution was insignificant and hence not memorable. The end result is that Sheshbazzar fades out from the historical record of the period.10 Zerubbabel and Joshua led the 9. We have to notice that Ezra is not consistent in this topic. While in 5:16 the laying of the foundations is attributed to Sheshbazzar, in 3:8-9 it is attributed to Zerubbabel. This inconsistency has given rise to a number of scholarly theories that try to determine the historical sequence of events. For an overview of this discussion, see Bedford, 95–102. He concludes that it would be unacceptable for the author of the Hebrew narrative to admit that the returnees had not started immediately rebuilding the Temple. Therefore, this author ‘deliberately overstated the extent of the work undertaken by Sheshbazzar’. His concern was to show that the work got delayed but not neglected. Ibid., 108. Grabbe adds that ‘Ezra 5.14-16 is tantalizingly brief and raises many questions’. Some of these include: How long was Sheshbazzar governor? Why did he not finish what he started? Why did he get ‘forgotten’ by later writers? Grabbe remarks that a historian could not have ignored dealing with these important questions, thus he concludes that ‘the writer of Ezra-Nehemiah is clearly no historian’. Grabbe, A History of the Jews, 277. For a discussion on the identity and role of Sheshbazzar, see also Albertz, Israel in Exile, 123–4. 10. Josephus who writes at a later time decides to draw a distinction between Sheshbazzar and Zerubbabel. As Japhet remarks, Sheshbazzar becomes the ‘eparch and governor of Syria and Phoenicia’, and the building of the Temple falls within his

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second wave around 528–530 BCE. According to 1 Chronicles 3:16-19, Zerubbabel is the great-grandson of Jehoiakim, the king of Judah and hence a Davidide.11 Joshua is the high priest.12 It is reasonable to assume that they would be hoping, if not actively trying, to assume political and religious office respectively and establish themselves as leaders of the province of Yehud. Petersen argues that when Haggai addresses Zerubbabel and Joshua by emphasizing genealogy and title, he is indirectly stating that ‘the authorities in the community are those returning from exile’.13 Zerubbabel returned to Jerusalem as the appointed governor by the Persian authorities therefore his political power was already secure from the outside. Haggai and Zechariah endorse his rule so tenaciously that I assume that he also received backing from inside the community. It was not equally simple for Joshua. With his fourth vision Zechariah alludes to a debate around the high priest. The goal of the vision seems to be the absolution of Joshua, the high priest of all guilt and his reinstatement to ritual purity. This implies that in the opinion of the prophet, and possibly of the people, Joshua was deemed unfit for his office and criticized. In Zechariah 3:7, Joshua is explicitly told that his position of power will be retained only as long as he is faithful to YHWH. The conditionality of Joshua’s rule possibly betrays the prophet’s attempt to mediate fairly an argument between the people and the high priest. Although we do not know the extent or the nature of the argument, it seems that Zechariah helped them reach a compromise by absolving the high

responsibility while Zerubbabel is responsible for the practical realization of the project. Japhet, ‘Sheshbazzar and Zerubbabel 2’, 227–8. 11. Miller and Hayes doubt the Chronicler’s assertion that Zerubbabel was a member of the Davidic family line because neither Ezra-Nehemiah, nor Haggai and Zechariah preserve such information. They conclude that the Chronicler made him into a member of the Judean royal family in order to emphasize the continuity of leadership between pre-exilic and post-exilic times, which was one of his essential concerns. Miller and Hayes, 456. Japhet argues that Ezra and Nehemiah do not refer to Zerubbabel’s origins because of their Tendenz because they want to stress that ‘throughout this period the ones who actualize the divine will in the history of Israel are the kings of Persia’. Japhet, ‘Sheshbazzar and Zerubbabel’, 73. 12. Miller and Hayes note that Ezra and Nehemiah do not assign any title to Joshua but refer to him either by name alone (Ezra 2:2, 36; 4:3, Neh. 12:1, 7, 10) or with reference to his father (Ezra 3:2, 8; 5:2; 10:18; Neh. 12:26). However, both Haggai and Zechariah call him ‘high priest’, (Hag. 1:1, 12, 14; 2:2, 4; Zech. 3:1, 8; 6:11). They conclude that: ‘it is finally impossible to have any real certainty about the origins of the priestly line represented by Joshua’. Ibid., 457–8. 13. Haggai addresses Zerubbabel and Joshua together several times in his first two oracles. Petersen adds that Haggai was probably making a claim for continuity with the past social structure and value system with those who experienced the exile in Babylon. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 46. Meyers and Meyers add that it also reflects the restructuring of the governance of the restoration community in comparison with the pre-exilic states. They argue that the duality of the leadership should be attributed to the removal of the monarch, who used to exercise religio-political authority. Meyers and Meyers, 17.



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priest, on the one hand, and assuaging the people that this absolution is both conditional and a hapax, on the other.14 It should not be surprising that most of the people who decided to return were priests or local aristocrats. Priests could work legitimately only in the Jerusalem temple, both their title and their function would be redundant had they decided to stay in Babylon. Ezra 1:5 gives a very general description, stating that ‘the heads of the families of Judah and Benjamin, and the priests and the Levites – everyone whose spirit God had stirred – got ready to go up and rebuild the house of the LORD in Jerusalem’. What one surmises from this passage is that the people who made the trip back to Jerusalem fell into three broad categories. They were either dignitaries, i.e. men from prominent families, or members of the priesthood or common people.15 This information agrees with the information about the people who were taken into exile by the Babylonians. Haggai and Zechariah, however, do not pay much attention to the division between returnees and remainees among common people; for them the laity are a unified group.16 According to Ezra 1:5, what connected all the returnees was motivation by God. Already in the motivation Ezra’s theological Tendenz becomes clear. As Bedford notes Ezra describes the repatriates as ‘a cultic community who are recalled to their homeland to return their cultic life to normality’.17 Beyond this generalized description we have a list of returnees in Ezra 2 and its close parallel in Nehemiah 7. They both indicate that about fifty thousand people returned. However, scholars believe that this list most probably comes from 14. I will examine this vision in detail later in this chapter. 15. Williamson believes that this verse reveals clearly the Tendenz of the author. The return was an event that stretched out for a number of years but here it is compressed into a single account because the author wanted to emphasize the people returned ‘in response to God’s prompting’. Furthermore, the returning group is divided into three classes of priests, Levites, and laity. This is a representation of the three tribes of Judah, Benjamin and Levi, which the author considers to be the continuation of the kingdom of Judah and hence ‘the only true community’. H. G. M. Williamson, Ezra, Nehemiah (Waco, Texas: Word Books, 1985), 15. Albertz, however, on the basis of the evidence from the Elephantine papyri posits that the organizational structure in Judah comprised the appointed governor, the ‘congregation of the priests’ and the ‘council of the elders’. Albertz, ‘The Thwarted Restoration’, in Yahwism after the Exile, (Assen: Van Gorcum, 2003), 11–12. This would lend credence to the information provided in Ezra 1:5. 16. Bedford notes that Haggai and Zechariah unlike Ezra and Nehemiah do not distinguish between repatriates and non-repatriates, nor do they exclude the Samaritans from the rebuilding of the temple. For the two prophets ‘temple rebuilding was not undertaken to establish a distinct community of repatriates within Judah’. Peter Ross Bedford, Temple Restoration in Early Achaemenid Judah, 264. Kessler concludes that ‘Zech. 1–8 presents a highly inclusivistic, nonpolemical, nonexclusionary perspective. There is no conflict between political and religious authorities, and no heterodox and ethically suspect worshippers of Yahweh from whom to keep separate’. John Kessler, ‘Diaspora and Homeland in the Early Achaemenid Period: Community’, in Approaching Yehud, 165. 17. I agree with Bedford’s observation that according to the Ezra 1–6 narrative it is clear that the repatriates do not seek to ‘reconstitute the kingdom of Judah, nor do they define their identity in terms of kingship and statehood’. The singular goal of the community seems to be the rebuilding of the Temple. Bedford, 94.

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a later period and that its original function was unrelated to the list of people who returned.18 What becomes evident from the information provided in this list is that several years after the return there developed a strong concern for communal legitimacy and priestly pedigree. These lists were meant to address this concern. Lipschits maintains that according to the archaeological record ‘the “Return to Zion” appears to have no demographic impact on the land of Judah’.19 Evidence in Zechariah verifies the archaeological record. In 2:6-9 the prophet admonishes the exiles that they should return to Jerusalem. One has to look at the reasons why the majority of the exiles decided to stay behind. Babylon was a metropolis at the heart of a growing empire. It is fairly certain that the quality of life in Babylonia would have been a lot better and that there would be more employment opportunities available than in Judah.20 Josephus, who writes a few centuries later, believes that the exiles stayed behind because they ‘were unwilling to leave their possessions’.21 The donation lists in Ezra (2:69 and 8:30) indicate that they had such possessions. Vanderhooft notes, on the basis of Neo-Assyrian land conveyances and three unprovenanced Neo-Babylonian tablets, that by the early Achaemenid period ‘at least a few Jews in Babylonia held official administrative positions and were land-holders, while others were participants in or witnesses to legally

18. Miller and Hayes argue that if this list is genuine then it probably comes from a time later than Sheshbazzar. Furthermore, since the list makes no reference to Cyrus, it is not an authentic tabulation of returnees. They conclude that ‘it may be some census count, a tax document, or a population count (see Ezra 5:4-10) from a later period which has been incorporated into the text and treated as a list of returnees’. According to their opinion, the initial return from Babylon involved fewer people than this list indicates. J. Maxwell Miller, John H. Hayes, A History of Ancient Israel and Judah (Philadelphia: The Westminster Press, 1986), 446–7. Williamson maintains that the composite nature of the list rules out any ‘single event’ explanation. He believes that it probably reflects a number of return journeys throughout the reigns of Cyrus and Cambyses. H. G. M. Williamson, Ezra, Nehemiah, 31. Blenkinsopp argues that ‘the theological significance of this list is to be sought in the parallelism with the occupation of the land in Joshua, which also makes extensive use of lists’. Joseph Blenkinsopp, Ezra-Nehemiah (Philadelphia: The Westminster Press, 1988), 83– 4. Grabbe follows Mowinckel and states that the list in Ezra2/Neh. 7 most likely represents the population of Judah in the late fifth century. Lester L. Grabbe, Ezra-Nehemiah (London and New York: Routledge, 1998), 157. 19. He clarifies that there is no detectable change in the population density between the end of the sixth century and the beginning of the fifth century BCE. Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem, 372. 20. Miller and Hayes claim that the Jews who were settled by the Babylonians ‘received land to till and sites to rebuild and settle and as tenants to the king would have provided labor, paid taxes and serve the military’. They also observe that references to ‘the elders of Judah/Israel’ (Ezek. 8:1; 14:1; 20:1, 3) and ‘elders of the exile’ (Jer. 29:1) indicate that they enjoyed limited internal autonomy and that they were allowed to preserve their family structures. Miller and Hayes, 432–3. 21. Josephus, Jewish Antiquities XI, 8. It is interesting to note that Josephus repeats that the ones who returned were the leaders of the tribes of Judah and Benjamin, priest and Levites. Ibid., XI, 8.



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binding transactions’.22 Further evidence that comes from approximately a hundred years later shows that the exiles were integrated in the Babylonian economic life. This evidence is found in the Murashû archives of the homonymous agricultural and trading house from Nippur. These records show that by this time the people from Judah were legally participating in ordinary economic transactions.23 Meanwhile in the course of roughly seven decades Jerusalem and its environs were not exempt from change. The deportations resulted in some redistribution of wealth as some members of the lower classes occupied the land of the aristocrats who were taken to exile. The heads of the families who had property back in Judah would most probably have an economic interest to return and reclaim it. As Albertz notes, evidence in Jeremiah suggests that landless and refugees were installed on the properties of large landowners (39:10; 40:10), which had either been abandoned or confiscated (Lam 5:2).24 More importantly, according to Ezekiel (11:15), the people who had occupied the land refused to give it back.25 Japhet argues that Ezekiel 11:15-21 and 22. D. Vanderhooft, ‘From Neo-Babylonian to Achaemenid Administration’, in Yahwism after the Exile, 227. The Neo-Assyrian tablets date to the initial years of Nebuchadnezzar II, between 605 and 602. Ibid., 221. The Neo-Babylonian tablets date from the reigns of Cyrus, Cambyses and Darius I. Ibid., 223. 23. The Murashû archives date from 454–404 BCE and are named after the family’s ancestor. Members of this family were commercial contractors who made loans and managed estates for landlords. The archive contains approximately 730 cuneiform texts from Nippur. Eighty people who appear either as smallholders, petty officials or as witnesses seem to have been Jewish. As Stolper notes, the term ‘Jew’ does not appear in the texts. However, their names were compounded with the divine name Yahweh or had other ‘West Semitic names considered typically Jewish’. Furthermore, ‘they rarely did business on Sabbaths or feast days, but they were assimilated to the extent of giving to some of their children Babylonian names’. Matthew W. Stolper, ‘Murashû, Archive of’, ABD IV (1992): 927–8. See also M. D. Coogan, West Semitic Personal Names in the Murashû Documents, HSM 7 (Misoula, Montana: Scholars Press, 1976). Cf. Lester L. Grabbe, A History of the Jews and Judaism in the Second Temple Period, vol.1 (London, New York: T & T Clark International, 2004), 317–18. As both Miller and Hayes, and Albertz note, the success of the exiles in Babylonia should not come as a surprise since they were instructed by Jeremiah to settle down and seek the welfare of the city to which they were taken (Jer. 25:5-9). Miller and Hayes, 453. Rainer Albertz, A History of Israelite Religion in the Old Testament Period, vol.II (Louisville, Kentucky: Westminster John Knox Press, 1994), 373. Pearce brings to the discussion additional evidence from the TAYN corpus, which shows that from approximately 600 individuals in the Babylon-Borsippa region approximately 120 bear Yahwhistic names. Laurie E. Pearce, ‘New Evidence for Judeans in Babylonia’, in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period, 404. 24. Albertz maintains that this policy of resettling the land was in the interest of the occupying power, which wanted to consolidate the situation as soon as possible in the area that was devastated by the war. Albertz, A History, 371. Holladay maintains that Nebuchadrezzar redistributed some land both as an economic necessity and as a measure for pacification. William, L. Holladay, Jeremiah 2 (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1989), 293. 25. Albertz adds that Ezekiel 11:15 and 33:24 imply that those who were left behind not only agreed with the redistribution of property, but also found a way to justify it theologically. ‘For them the exile was Yahweh’s judgment on the exploitation of the upper class and often even a de facto liberation from debt.’ Albertz, A History, 372. Zimmerli adds

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33:23-29 as well as Jeremiah 24 preserve arguments which seek to exclude either the returnees or the remainees from making a claim for the land.26 Understandably, these building tensions would reach a critical point when the exiles returned and confronted the people who were left behind on issues of property.27 It is also important to mention that the Palestinian region was not an administrative vacuum. Samaria to the north had a governor appointed by the Achaemenids long before Jerusalem received one.28 Even though Samaria was always the more economically prosperous city of the two, and despite the fact that Jerusalem was not in any enviable shape at the time, ‘the people of the land’ would have reasons to be wary of the competition, particularly since both cities were located in a geographically confined space and would be vying for the same resources in that region. Furthermore, Jerusalem had the historical prestige, the legacy and hence the potential to develop into the more important metropolitan centre in the area. It stands to reason that the people who had established themselves in the land would be better organized and would take some steps to prevent such an event from occurring, and put Jerusalem in their sphere of influence. Since their requests for participation in the rebuilding were flatly denied, they tried the second alternative. They turned against Jerusalem and attempted to sabotage its restoration.29 In that Ezek. 11:15 is an ‘objective claim to legal right’ but it is also a theological statement. This argument holds that ‘the land was the sacramental assurance of the favor of Yahweh’; those who ‘lost the land had visibly lost the sign of his favor and was far from Yahweh’s salvation’. Zimmerli, 261. Hanson concludes that the polemical confrontation depicted in Ezekiel led to an inevitable acrimonious confrontation when the return took place. Hanson, Dawn of Apocalyptic, 240–42. 26. Japhet believes that both prophets defend the interests of the Babylonian exiles. Sara Japhet, From the Rivers of Babylon to the Highlands of Judah: Collected Essays on the Restoration Period (Indiana: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 100–103. 27. Smith has argued that the class conflict between those who went into exile and those who did not had a material basis. However, he adds that this was also due to the social boundaries that were erected as a mechanism of survival during the exile. Daniel L. Smith, The Religion of the Landless: The Social Context of the Babylonian Exile (Bloomington, IN: Meyer Stone Books, 1989), 193–7. Bedford notes that the beginning of the conflict has its roots in the deportations because both the exiles and those who remained thought of their community as ‘the locus of Yahweh’s saving plan in the aftermath of the dissolution of the kingdom of Judah’. On the one hand, the exiles contended that they were the chastised remnant that was purified by this humiliating experience and that YHWH would soon allow them to return to their land. On the other hand, those who remained in Judah believed that exiles were punished justly and that they were banished to places that lay outside YHWH’s salvation. More importantly, they believed that YHWH’s interest ‘was in those who remained in his land – Judah’. Bedford, Temple Restoration, 20. 28. This fact has generated a debate among scholars who strive to determine whether or not Judah was initially under the jurisdiction of Samaria. Although we do not have irrefutable evidence on the matter, it seems that this was not the case. For an overview of the discussion, see Grabbe, A History of the Jews, 140–42. For a description of the administration of the Persian province of Samaria, see Grabbe, ibid., 155–9. 29. In two verses (4:4-5), Ezra summarizes his view of the conflict with the following stereotypical comment: ‘Then the people of the land discouraged the people of Judah, and



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Ezra 4:11-16 there is a letter that the ‘adversaries of Judah and Benjamin’ supposedly sent to the Persian court with the intent to stop the rebuilding of the walls of Jerusalem. They go as far as to claim that if the king does not heed their warning he will soon find out that he will ‘have no possession in the Province beyond the River’. In his reply to this letter the Persian king admits that ‘Jerusalem has had mighty kings who ruled over the whole province Beyond the River, to whom tribute, custom and toll were paid’ (Ezra 4:20), and issues an order according to which all rebuilding activities must cease until further notice.30 Eventually the walls of Jerusalem got rebuilt, but it is interesting to notice that the statement made by the king reflects closely the political apprehensions of the Samaritans.31 In the book of Nehemiah, one witnesses more attempts to impede the rebuilding of Jerusalem. Here, however, the enemies have names and their accusations are more explicit. As a result, the conflict becomes personal, and one gets the impression that Nehemiah’s life is in immediate danger.32 In 6:14, the leaders of Samaria and Ammon strive to trap Nehemiah and harm him, while in 6:10-14 they devise a plan to terrorize him and induce him to commit sacrilege. As Grabbe remarks, it is interesting to note that opposition did not only come from outside but also from within the community since various prophets and prophetess as well as nobles had taken the side of Nehemiah’s

made them afraid to build, and they bribed officials to frustrate their plan throughout the reign of King Cyrus of Persia and until the reign of King Darius of Persia.’ Talmon, while discussing the literary structuring of Ezra and Nehemiah, identifies these two verses as a literary device that he calls a ‘summary notation’. According to his definition, this device functions as a condensed summary that recapitulates the contents of a preceding textual unit. In this case 4:5 serves also as a problepsis of the events in 5:1ff. S. Talmon, ‘Ezra and Nehemiah’, IDBSup (Nashville: Abington Press, 1988), 322. Hamerton-Kelly adds that the strongest themes we find in the texts that relate the rebuilding of the Second Temple are opposition and disappointment. Hamerton-Kelly, 12. 30. Scholars have noticed that although the narrative in Ezra 4:1-24 is coherent, the information it provides is out of chronological order. Cf. Grabbe, Ezra-Nehemiah, 21. This chronological confusion is also reflected in the recounting of the same story in 1 Esdras and Josephus. Cf. Blenkinsopp, Ezra-Nehemiah, 106. Williamson explains that the unit is composite and that the various stories have been brought together in order to prove the author’s point, that the offer which the people of the land made was not genuine and they were not to be trusted. Williamson, 65. 31. Bedford asserts that there are two pieces of evidence which point that this particular story is ‘a concoction of the author of the Hebrew narrative to suit his tendentious purposes’. The first piece of evidence is that in Ezra 5–6 the Judeans, Tattenai and Darius are not aware of this injunction, and the second is that the administrators of Darius when they searched the archives (6:1-5), even though they found the decree of Cyrus they did not find the decree of Artaxerxes ordering the cessation of the rebuilding. Bedford, 105–106. Williamson adds that the accusation that the Jewish community would be in a position to withhold taxes and then to spread rebellion was absurd. Williamson, 63. Cf. Grabbe, Ezra-Nehemiah, 165. 32. Despite the personal character of the story that is primarily attributed to the first person account of the Nehemiah Memoir, Williamson observes that the opening words of Nehemiah 6:17-19 ‘moreover in those days’ indicate that this type of intrigues were typical of this period as a whole. Williamson, 261.

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enemies.33 Furthermore, in 6:5-9, the same opponents launch yet another ploy in order to thwart the work. They send a letter with which they make two allegations against Nehemiah and the people. First, they ascribe to Nehemiah an ulterior motive; he allegedly wants to repair the walls because he has royal aspirations. Second, they cast aspersions on the people of Jerusalem; they purportedly plan to rebel against the Persians.34 In the books of both Ezra and Nehemiah, there is evidence of a power struggle for the control of Jerusalem. Although this evidence comes from a later time than the one I am examining, it is probable that the antagonism between Samaria and Jerusalem began with the first signs of the restoration of the latter. Israel’s fate was always determined by its geographical location in between the Mesopotamian and Egyptian empires.35 It was also the geographical location of Judah that made it by comparison one of the poorer satrapies in the Persian empire. It could not be compared with other fertile areas in broader Mesopotamia and even though it was close to major trade routes it was not on them and hence could not exploit them for profit.36 There are indications almost in every book from this period that the economic conditions after the return were pretty bad. In Haggai 1:6 we find that agricultural commodities were in short supply in Judah, and in 1:10-11 he explains that this was due to a drought brought about by YHWH. Zechariah also attests to hardship in 4:10 when he mentions that people describe this as a time of ‘small things’. In 7:14, the prophet relates that the land ‘was desolate, so that no one went to and fro, and a pleasant land was made desolate’.37 In 8:10, he adds that ‘there were no wages for people or for animals, nor was there any safety from the foe for those who went out or came in’; these dire social circumstances, he continues, ‘set them all against one another’. With this last phrase the 33. Grabbe, Ezra-Nehemiah, 49. In Ezra 4:5, the people of the land bribe officials in order to frustrate the rebuilding project; in Nehemiah 6:18, however, we find out that some of the nobles of Judah were bound by oath to Nehemiah’s enemies. Nehemiah explains that this bond was created through marriage. Williamson adds that the fact that Nehemiah’s opponents had sympathizers in the city explains why they were able to react so speedily to what was happening in Jerusalem. Williamson, 191. 34. Williamson believes that this letter is a reflection of and a deliberate play on the events described in Ezra 4:7-16. He maintains that Sanballat knew that the same charge had been made not that long ago and it resulted in the cessation of the rebuilding. Thus, Sanballat hoped that his letter would put Nehemiah under pressure to compromise. Williamson, 256– 7. 35. Grabbe observes that two facts of geography affected Judah: its relative lack of natural resources in comparison to areas in the north and the west, and its relative isolation. Grabbe, A History of the Jews, 263. 36. Schniedewind maintains that the province of Yehud was isolated in the hill country and that both the international commerce routes and the fertile agricultural vineyards of Hebron were outside the control of Yehud. He concludes that ‘its boundaries left Yehud with limited economic potential and cast its economy into a precarious situation’. William M. Schniedewind, Society and the Promise to David (New York, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 122. 37. Kessler notes that the themes of destruction, exile and abandonment figure prominently in the root (smm) that Zechariah uses in this verse. John Kessler, ‘Diaspora and Homeland’, 160–61.



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prophet reveals that the tight fiscal situation had led to a climate of outright hostility. Apparently these unfavourable conditions persisted down till the time of Nehemiah. In Nehemiah 5, we are informed of a famine that caused an outcry from the people who had to pledge their fields and houses to get grain. It is probable that this dire financial situation would have exacerbated any other social problems and would have caused people to hesitate to commit to any large-scale projects that would require straining their already scant resources. Later literature presents the rebuilding of the temple as an issue rife with contention. In Ezra 4:2-3, the remainees asked from Zerubbabel, Joshua and the heads of the families to be allowed to participate in the rebuilding of the Temple. The answer they received was negative since Ezra paints the returnees as an exclusivist community that did not want to mingle with ‘the people of the land’.38 The returnees won this fight and their point of view got preserved as normative. This explains why there is so little information on the people who had been left behind.39 The social circumstances of the return created a climate that was conducive to eschatological thinking in the sense of a number of desired definitive changes in several fronts. In the political scene, the returnees embarked on the trip back to Judah driven primarily by the expectation of national renewal. The aristocrats and the political leaders were seeking the set-up of a new system of administration, and the laity were expecting the reforging of the severed covenantal link between the people and the land. Even the people who had stayed behind viewed this time as the end of an era. All indications were pointing to a time of national revival, and the remainees wanted to make sure that their own interests would be represented and defended in the reshaping of the status quo. In the cultic front, the priests and the Levites were all looking forward to the revival of the cult. In the broader day-to-day context, people were looking forward to an immediate recovery of the economy at least. All the key players were on the scene and ready to tackle this task. However, the rebuilding of the Temple that is presented as the occasion of the return and the catalyst of the change was an unrealistic undertaking in the harsh reality of post-exilic Judah. Furthermore, the repatriates and the people of the land were mutually unwilling to negotiate with each other and find a

38. Bedford notes that Haggai and Zechariah, unlike Ezra and Nehemiah, do not distinguish between repatriates and non-repatriates, nor do they exclude the Samaritans from the rebuilding of the temple. For the two prophets, ‘temple rebuilding was not undertaken to establish a distinct community of repatriates within Judah’. Bedford, 264. 39. Bedford adds that the narrative in Ezra is ‘specifically directed against the Samaritans whom the narrator considers as being foreigners living north of Judah who had been imported into the region (Ezra 4:2, 9-10)’. This is another reason why the people on the land are not mentioned as often. Bedford, 108. Grabbe concludes that text of Ezra and Nehemiah ‘simply refuses to admit that there were Jewish inhabitants of the land after the deportations under Nebuchadnezzar’. Grabbe, A History of the Jews, 286. See also Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem, 374.

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way to reconcile their contradictory expectations.40 The adverse economical situation and the disagreements in the particulars of the restoration process eventually led to open conflicts that would frustrate expectations on all sides. One had to find a way to show that these expectations were still feasible despite the problems. Haggai and Zechariah succeeded in doing just that. They revitalized the expectations by saying that the problems would be overcome by a definitive divine intervention. However, they did not place this radical change in the indefinite future but in the immediate one. They argued that the actual obstacles of daily life would be surpassed and a new ideal status quo would emerge within a very short time. 5.4 Haggai Haggai delivered his oracles two months before Zechariah, and his message is traditionally associated with the rebuilding of the Temple in Jerusalem.41 He and Zechariah receive the credit for being the ones who managed to get the people to finally build the Temple.42 However, his message does not examine issues regarding the Temple in isolation from the contemporary socio-economic context, the way Ezekiel 40–48 does.43 Instead, he explores simultaneously the parameters that are directly relevant to the temple building project. Haggai addressed the bleak economical situation, matters pertaining to cultic purity and the leadership of the community. I believe that the success of his message is to be attributed to a large extent to the way he integrated these topics and to the solution he offered to the problems they posed.

40. Lipschits offers a succinct summary of the conflicts between returnees and remainees. ‘The elite returning from Babylon were unable to come to terms with the fact that the people remaining in Judah had managed their lives without the elite, that their inheritance had been taken from Jerusalem, that the central (or only) temple was standing in ruins, and that alongside these ruins other ritual sites were springing up.’ Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem, 374. See also Tamara Cohn Eskenazi, ‘The Missions of Ezra and Nehemiah’, 518. 41. The editor of the book of Haggai dates it in the second year of Darius’ reign from Aug.–Sept. to Nov.–Dec. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 20. Cf. Meyers and Meyers, 4–6. Kessler concludes that the dating formulae were attached to the oracles at an early stage of the redactional process. Kessler, The Book of Haggai, 41–51. 42. Boda, on the basis of Zechariah 1:14, 16, 17; 2:2-5; and 8:1-7, claims that Zechariah expands restoration beyond a rebuilt temple ‘to include a renewed city and province’. M. J. Boda, ‘Zechariah: Master Mason or Penitential Prophet?’, in Yahwism after the Exile, 53. 43. Zimmerli notes that there are two elements that distinguish Ezek. 40–48. First, the existence of many legal regulations recalls the legal style of several Pentateuchal passages, and second, these chapters proclaim: ‘a new reality miraculously brought about by Yahweh’. Zimmerli, 327.



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His first oracle (1:1-15) is essentially a call to rebuild the Temple.44 Haggai opens his address by offering a detailed description of the harsh conditions people had to face at the time: 1:6 You have sown much, and harvested little; you eat, but you never have enough; you drink, but you never have your fill; you clothe yourselves, but no one is warm; and you that earn wages earn wages to put them into a bag of holes…9 You have looked for much and, lo, it came to little; and you brought it home, I blew it away. Why? Says the Lord of hosts. Because my house lies in ruins, while all of you hurry off to your own houses. 10 Therefore the heavens above you have withheld the dew, and the earth has withheld its produce. 11 And I have called for a drought on the land and the hills, on the grain, the new wine, the oil, on what the soil produces, on human beings and animals, and on all their labours.

The point he wants to make is that the adversarial living conditions were a direct consequence of the fact that the Temple lay in ruins.45 As Petersen states, ‘it was not a matter of multiple and causeless misfortune’.46 People had neglected their priorities and behaved selfishly.47 While they were attending to matters pertaining to their own households they did not pay attention to the house of the Lord and YHWH was not honoured.48 Therefore, YHWH put an end to the fecundity of the land and the productivity of human beings and animals.49 The logical inference seems to be that the difficulties the people face can be overruled, and the sure way to achieve this is to build the Temple and appease YHWH who controls creation.50 44. Petersen argues that on the basis of the dating formula Haggai must have delivered this oracle at a time when the community should be keeping the festival of the new moon. This celebration, however, was impossible since there was no altar and sanctuary. Petersen believes that this would have made his argument for an appropriate place of worship all the more potent. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 44. 45. Scholars have argued that the language in verse 6 resembles the formulation found in the so-called futility curses that are common in the ancient Near East. However, in Haggai the curses are written in the past tense functioning as historiography. Thus, Petersen argues that ‘the reconstruction of the Temple is treated as a covenantal duty’. In this sense, the curses befall the people because they did not keep their covenant. Petersen, 50. Kessler maintains that, for Haggai, neglecting the Temple manifested both faithlessness to the covenant and a lack of wisdom. Kessler, The Book of Haggai, 156. 46. Petersen observes that all the hardship was due to YHWH’s direct intervention in human affairs. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 52. 47. Meyers and Meyers maintain that Haggai chastised the people for attending to individual productivity to the exclusion of communal concerns, like the Temple. Meyers and Meyers, 30. 48. In 1:4 Haggai denounces a glaring contradiction: while the people live in finished houses, the house of YHWH is uninhabitable. Cf. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 48. See also Meyers and Meyers, 24, and Kessler, The Book of Haggai, 130. 49. Petersen observes that, according to Haggai, YHWH is behind all these misfortunes. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 54. Cf. Kessler, The Book of Haggai, 140. 50. Haggai’s reasoning relies to an extent on ancient Near Eastern ideas about the relationship between the cult and fertility, which were also the staple of the Baal cycle. Boda states that the belief that a restored temple would initiate an era of blessing, especially after a period of curse, is evident in the text of Gudea. It reads: ‘When you, O true shepherd of Gudea,

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As one reads in 1:12-15, this is exactly the inference that Zerubbabel, Joshua, and the remnant of the people drew from the prophetic oracle.51 The audience recognized the prophet as a legitimate messenger of YHWH and ‘feared the Lord’, which probably means that they took his advice to heart. In return, Haggai assured the people that the Lord is with them (1:13). In order that we as readers derive the same conclusion, namely that this is the will of YHWH, we are told that the governor, the high priest and the people were stirred up by the spirit of YHWH and thus worked on the house of the Lord.52 Thus far there is nothing explicitly eschatological in Haggai’s message beyond the promised change in the status quo. The prophet simply delivers an oracle that offers a theological rationale for a problem that the community faces and suggests a course of action in order to overcome the said problem.53 However, this is not the end of the story. One month later Haggai delivers his second oracle (2:1-9). The occasion that seems to have generated this oracle seems to be the disappointment of the people when they saw how inferior the Second Temple was by comparison with the first. The prophet offers some carefully chosen words of encouragement and a solution to the problem: 2:4 Yet now take courage, O Zerubbabel, says the LORD; take courage, O Joshua, son of Jehozadak, the high priest; take courage all you people of the land says the will effectively start (to build) my House for me…then I will call up to heaven for a humid wind so that surely abundance will come to you from above and the land will immediately (or: under your reign) gain in abundance’. Mark J. Boda, ‘From Dystopia to Myopia: Utopian (Re)Visions in Haggai and Zechariah 1–8’, in Utopia and Dystopia, 241. Meyers and Meyers maintain that the Israelite belief that the Temple was a source of agricultural fertility is influenced by Canaanite mythology and ideas that appear in Mesopotamian temple texts. Meyers and Meyers, 65. In the third section of the Ugaritic myth of Baal, Mot swallows Baal and rain stops. However, Baal’s subsequent resurrection guarantees the return of rain and fertility. See, Dennis Pardee, ‘The Ba’lu Myth’, in The Context of Scripture, vol.1 (Leiden, New York, Cologne: Brill, 1997), 271–2. Haggai’s argument contradicts the position that Amos and Micah had offered about the value of sacrifice and cultic observance. These prophets wanted to emphasize ethics and morality over against the cult of YHWH. Cf. Paul, 138–41. See also, Delbert R. Hillers, Micah (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1984), 78–9. To the extent that my hypothesis that Haggai was trying to present YHWH as the God who controls fertility and creation is correct, it is also compatible with Smith’s proposal about the emergence of a party in post-exilic Judah that promoted YHWH to the exclusion of other deities. M. Smith, Palestinian Parties and Politics, 75–95. 51. Petersen remarks that the historian wants to show that after the exile prophets received the respect they deserved and thus become more effective. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 57. 52. As Petersen notes, the other most important occasions when YHWH ‘stirred up’ someone are 2 Chronicles 36:22-23 and Ezra 1:5, where YHWH stirred up Cyrus and the returnees. Petersen argues that Haggai uses intentionally this phrase for the third time in order to show that YHWH ‘had to act to enable the Judahites to carry out this rebuilding activity’. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 59. Cf. Meyers and Meyers, 35. 53. Kessler states that 1:12-15a reveals ‘the over-arching redactional themes into which the oracles of Haggai are being integrated’. Namely, the purpose of this unit is to emphasize the authority of the prophet and the efficacy of his words. Kessler, The Book of Haggai, 153.



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LORD; work for I am with you, says the LORD of hosts, 5 according to the promise that I made you when you came out of Egypt. My spirit abides among you; do not fear. 6 For thus says the LORD of hosts: Once again, in a little while, I will shake the heavens and the earth and the sea and the dry land; 7 and I will shake all the nations, so that the treasure of all nations shall come, and I will fill this house with splendour says the LORD of hosts. 8 The silver is mine, and the gold is mine, says the LORD of hosts.

Haggai combines a number of strategies in order to convince the people not to give up on the Temple despite their disappointment.54 First, he addresses the present by entreating his audience to ‘take courage’ and ‘work’ because the Lord of Hosts is with them.55 Despite how they feel and how poorly they evaluate the rebuilding project, this is the will of YHWH and they should keep at it. Then, he turns to the past and reminds them of the Exodus and the covenant.56 God performed miracles in the past and more importantly made a promise to be always with his people. According to Haggai, this promise alone should dispel any fear or doubt that might have been plaguing them. However, he offers further encouragement by stating that YHWH’s spirit abides among them.57 Having established the miraculous action of YHWH in the past, Haggai now proceeds to assure his audience that a wondrous intervention is going to happen again in the near future. God will perform a new act ‘in a little while’ on behalf of his people. It is here that Haggai’s message starts displaying explicit eschatological dimensions by relating events associated with YHWH’s direct involvement to the human realm.58 Haggai has already presented YHWH as the master of creation in his previous oracle. In his capacity as the ultimate ruler of the cosmos God will bring the treasure 54. Meyers and Meyers argue that the disappointment among the people should not be attributed to the comparison of the material splendour between the pre-exilic and post-exilic Temple. They contend that the disappointment resulted from the realization that the postexilic Temple did not signify the seat of an Israelite empire but ‘only the smallest component of a foreign empire’. Meyers and Meyers, 72. However, Haggai’s response in verses 6-8 rectifies an economic problem not a political one. Therefore, I would argue that the problem had to do with the material splendour of the Temple. 55. Schniedewind argues that Haggai’s words ‘take courage’ and ‘work’ point to Solomon’s commissioning before the assembly to build the Temple in 1 Chronicles 28:10, where the same terminology is used. He also notes that it is not a coincidence that Zerubbabel sets out to build the Temple on the same day that Solomon was supposed to have begun building the first Temple, i.e. the second of the second month (Ezra 3:8 and 2 Chr 3:2). Schniedewind, 133. Since the book of Chronicles and the book of Ezra are dated to a later period, we can surmise that the editors of Haggai wanted to emphasize that Zerubbabel was of the line of David and also the perfect person to commence the rebuilding of the Temple. 56. Kessler maintains that by referring to the covenant Haggai stresses the continuity between the original recipients and the post-exilic community. Kessler, The Book of Haggai, 171, 185. 57. For Petersen this is another way to state the notion of YHWH’s presence with Israel. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 65. Kessler adds that YHWH’s spirit here is in a way analogous to the pillar of cloud at the exodus (Ex. 13:21, 14:19; 24, 25:8, 29:45). Kessler, The Book of Haggai, 172. 58. Cf. Meyers and Meyers, 52–3.

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of nations to Jerusalem and restore the splendour of His house.59 Haggai was addressing both the practical and the emotional difficulty of the rebuilding, but the solution he was providing was a metaphysical one. The prophet had promised that the tight financial situation would be relieved once work in the Temple began. However, insufficient funds resulted in the building of a lacklustre Temple, and while Haggai had promised that the rebuilt Temple would solve problems, it created more by building up impossible expectations for the people. Thus, the prophet had to find a way to rekindle the spirit of the people in order to maintain their commitment to the completion of the rebuilding project without making the same type of concrete promise that he made in this first oracle. Thus, he declared that in the near yet indefinite future YHWH would reverse current conditions by providing the funds that were missing. Through a miraculous intervention, the wealth of the nations would flow to Jerusalem and the splendour of the Temple would be restored.60 This transitional point would be a glorious new start meant to rectify the wounded prestige of the Temple and affirm the special status of the people. After two months Haggai delivers a third oracle (2:10-19), which is primarily directed to the priests.61 Towards the end he makes an interesting assertion: 2:18 Consider from this day on, from the twenty-fourth day of the ninth month. Since the day that the foundation of the LORD’S temple was laid, consider: 19 Is there any seed left in the barn? Do the vine, the fig tree, the pomegranate, and the olive tree still yield nothing? From this day on I will bless you.

Haggai promises that the foundation of the Temple will lead to a blessing (2:19). That blessing is supposed to mark another change, which constitutes his most ambitious message yet. The people had already experienced a transition from a state of wretchedness to one of manageable survival. Now, however, they were about to welcome one of blessed existence. On the same day of the month Haggai delivers his coup de grâce. His last oracle (2:20-23) combines elements from all the previous ones and constitutes

59. Even though the language used here is borrowed from Israel’s theophanic tradition, it is here used in a distinctive way because the scope of the quaking includes the entire cosmos not just the mountains and because it is linked not to an appearance of YHWH but to a new activity of YHWH on behalf of his people. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 67. 60. YHWH’s intervention seems to redress a cosmic international imbalance. He will reclaim wealth from the nations that prosper improperly. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 68–9. 61. Haggai 2:15-19 probably included the people too. Petersen maintains that this oracle was delivered on the day when the site of the Temple became ritually pure and thus became once again functional holy space. He believes that this ceremony resembles the ancient Near Eastern kalû ritual. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 93. Kessler adds that the primary goal of the kalû or rededication ritual in Mesopotamian texts appears to be the establishment of continuity between old and new temples. Kessler, The Book of Haggai, 209.



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the climax of his prophecy. More importantly, it is the one that puts a definitive spin on his eschatology: 2:20 The word of the Lord came a second time to Haggai on the twenty-fourth day of the month: 21 Speak to Zerubbabel, governor of Judah, saying, I am about to shake the heavens and the earth, 22 and to overthrow the throne of kingdoms; I am about to destroy the strength of the nations, and overthrow the chariots and their riders; and the horses and their riders shall fall, every one by the sword of a comrade. 23 On that day, says the LORD of hosts, I will take you, O Zerubbabel my servant, son of Shealtiel, says the LORD, and make you like a signet ring; for I have chosen you, says the LORD of hosts.

This time Haggai focuses his attention on one individual: Zerubbabel, the governor of the province. This is unusual because in his previous oracles the prophet has been repeating consistently the threefold salutation of his audience, i.e. Zerubbabel, Joshua, and the people; and in his third oracle he addresses an interest group, the priests in Jerusalem.62 This observation becomes even more important when one realizes that in order for this oracle to achieve the desired effect at least the majority of the population of Judah should have listened to it.63 Haggai proclaims that YHWH is about to intervene once more in the world and this time the results are going to be drastic.64 God will begin with a fearful shaking of the heaven, the earth, and the nations. In keeping with what the prophet said earlier, the goal of this action would be to bring the foreign treasure to Jerusalem and thus solve the financial problems. Then God will cause the nations to wage mutually destructive war. This way, the enemies of his people will turn against each other and annihilate themselves. Probably the point Haggai is trying to make is that the people should not be concerned with their enemies because that is a problem that is going to take care of itself. The nations with their superior military might had been in position to dictate the fate of God’s people in the past but not anymore. God is clearing the scene for a new phase. On that day, YHWH will take his servant Zerubbabel and make him ‘like a signet ring’ because he is God’s chosen.65 In order to understand the full extent of this assertion, one needs to unpack the 62. Japhet states that this is presented ‘as a personal prophecy’ to Zerubbabel. Japhet, ‘Sheshbazzar and Zerubbabel’, 77. Meyers and Meyers argue that the high priest in this oracle recedes in relative power because the context is eschatological. As such it allows for the resumption of monarchic authority with a king as YHWH’s viceroy. Meyers and Meyers, 17. 63. Kessler asserts that the redactor who placed this oracle in its present structure makes it ‘public knowledge’ and gives it a significant rhetorical and literary role. Kessler, The Book of Haggai, 222. 64. Scholars have noticed that the vocabulary used here is appropriate to military activity. See Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 99, 102. See also Meyers and Meyers, 67, and Kessler, The Book of Haggai, 225. 65. In Song of Songs 8:6, the Hebrew term translated here as ‘signet ring’ is used to denote an intimate relationship. Murphy argues that ‘It points to the inseparability of the couple’. Roland E. Murphy, O. Carm. The Song of Songs, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1990), 196.

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symbolism. As Schniedewind notes, the term ‘chosen’ was previously ascribed to Solomon as the Temple builder king. The parallelism here is intentional.66 The signet ring is the means by which a seal was imprinted. The royal seal would confer the authority of the king, thus, if Zerubbabel was God’s signet ring, then he represented the authority of YHWH.67 It is fairly probable that Haggai intentionally borrowed this term from the judgment oracle in Jeremiah 22:24-30.68 In this oracle, Jeremiah proclaims that even if King Coniah were the signet ring on the hand of YHWH, he would still suffer exile and death. Jeremiah concludes his oracle with a shocking statement. He claims that King Coniah will die childless and none of his offspring shall sit on the throne of David and rule Judah. Haggai’s oracle in stark contrast announces the reinstatement of a Davidide as God’s chosen on the throne of David.69 Therefore, one would be justified in postulating that Haggai picked this term because he wanted to contradict Jeremiah’s negative prophecy.70 If he wanted to see the restoration project take off the ground he had to contend with the prophetic oracles that stated the opposite. Thus, Haggai used the phrase ‘signet ring’ in order to show the antithesis between what had been declared in the past and what was going to happen at his own time. Coniah had suffered YHWH’s rejection but Zerubbabel would experience YHWH’s favour. The prophet’s point seems to be that there are better days ahead and that the community ‘should continue its daily life in confident expectation’.71 It is true that Haggai was not the first to focus messianic expectations on a specific person after the destruction of the kingdom of Judah: SecondIsaiah had done that with Cyrus. He is, however, the first to designate clearly and unequivocally the coming Davidic descendant as Zerubbabel, a 66. Schniedewind, 133. It is interesting to note that the combination of the noun ‘servant’ with the verb ‘to choose’ is also used in 1 Kings 11:34 in connection with David. Rose states that these words are used ‘in a variety of contexts referring to a variety of persons’. Rose 215. The variety includes: a) David, b) Jerusalem, e.g. 1 Kings 11:34, and c) the people, e.g. Isaiah 43:10, but in Haggai the term ‘chosen’ is coupled with the term ‘signet ring’, which has a strong royal association. 67. As Petersen puts it, with this metaphor Zerubbabel was designated as the earthly representative of YHWH equivalent to a king in significance. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 104. 68. This supposition is further strengthened by the fact that Haggai is trying to make a pun. In Jer. 22:30, the noun [rz ‘offspring’ is used that is one component of the name of Zerubbabel. 69. Rose argues that there is nothing about the seal imagery that invokes royal connotations. He suggests instead that this image relates YHWH’s protection of Zerubbabel so that he would not suffer the same fate as the other political powers of the day. Rose, 229, 242. However, the context in which YHWH’s offer of protection would have made better sense is the royal ideology and the promise for eternal kingship to the line of David. 70. Kessler asserts that in Jeremiah the image communicates the withdrawal of YHWH’s favour while in Haggai it denotes the bestowal of YHWH’s favour. The implication seems to be that the promise to David has ongoing validity. Kessler, The Book of Haggai, 231, 237. Cf. Tollington, 142. 71. Kessler, The Book of Haggai, 235.



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contemporary figure who was also the governor of the province. Jeremiah and Ezekiel in their messianic oracles referred vaguely to an unspecified figure from the house of David.72 As von Rad observes, the fact that he names a living member of the house of David as the anointed one differentiates Haggai radically from the other prophets.73 The question arises why Haggai chose to include a current historical figure in his prediction. The reason is directly related to the prophet’s eschatological viewpoint. As we have seen, up to this point the moment of the eschatological change for the prophet was an undefined time in the near future. Even though he stressed both its temporal proximity and the certainty of its arrival he did not venture to date it in a more concrete manner. Haggai, however, had a very definite agenda, i.e. to see the Temple finished and functional. That was not an easy goal to achieve given the financial, emotional and cultic problems he had to help his audience overcome, particularly since this type of project required also the maintenance of a certain level of excitement. It is quite plausible that the prospect of the return generated high levels of excitement at the beginning.74 Nevertheless, as I tried to show, this excitement was soon smothered by its inherent problems. That is probably why Haggai upped the ante by bringing the eschaton to the present. By identifying Zerubbabel as the expected messiah, he was fixing the point of change in the lifetime of his contemporaries.75 As Meyers and Meyers put it, ‘he presents a view of time in which eschatology is not distinguished from history – the two belong together for him’.76 The promise of momentous change that would involve members from his audience excited the prophet and probably his audience. It generated an enthusiasm about a definitive change in the immediate future that I call restoration eschatology. The sudden shift of attention from the first two oracles, where the prophet is primarily concerned with the temple, to the last one where he focuses on the surviving Davidic descendant, is probably due to his rhetorical strategy. For the prophet the restoration of the Temple would trigger a transition. He seems to believe that a finished and functional temple would mark the onset of a new phase of history for the community in Judah. In this regard, he was right to an extent. The Second Temple influenced the development of Jewish identity in numerous ways. However, Haggai exaggerated in his predictions and, more importantly, he did not refer to the changes that the Second Temple actually brought about. He also missed the mark in his prediction about Zerubbabel. The fact that the temple got built but Zerubbabel never came to 72. Cf. Jeremiah 23:5-6, which designates the messiah as ‘a righteous Branch’, or 33:17-22, which describes the messiah as ‘a son of David’ and Ezekiel 34:23-24, which refers to the messiah as ‘one shepherd, my servant David’. 73. Gerhard von Rad, Old Testament Theology, vol.II (San Francisco: Harper & Row Publishers, 1965), 284. 74. One could attribute the bold statements of the rebuilding of Jerusalem (44:26b-28) and the installation of Cyrus (45:1-4) in Deutero-Isaiah to this excitement. 75. Von Rad claims that both Haggai and Zechariah thought of themselves as living at a time of a ‘sudden great and critical change’. Von Rad, 286. 76. Meyers and Meyers believe that by using a living individual in his future prediction Haggai bridges the gap between present and future. Meyers and Meyers, 84.

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the throne proves the prophet’s failure. However, by refocusing the emphasis from the temple to the Davidic descendant, Haggai showed that the temple is the catalyst not just for fecundity but also political change. Haggai delivered his oracles around 520 BCE. This was a time of turmoil for the Persian empire. Cambyses died and Darius ascended the throne after a power struggle with another contender.77 The rocky dynastic transition was taken as a sign of political instability, which generated revolts all over the empire. Thus, scholars have wondered whether Haggai was inciting rebellion against the Persians.78 He could be trying to take advantage of the political climate in order to declare independence for a monarchical state in Judah.79 There are several elements that support such a hypothesis. Haggai talks about the overthrow of the nations and minimizes the importance of the community’s enemies; the Persians could very well be included under this category. He also referred to Zerubbabel using royal terminology when he knew that he was appointed only as governor. He affixes the appellation ‘Sabaoth’ to the name YHWH. This title was current in the Zion ideology of the monarchical period and could be taken as a sign of his pro-monarchical proclivities.80 Last, scholars point out that Zerubbabel disappeared from the political stage soon afterwards and that could be an indication that the Persian overlords did away with him because he posed a political threat. The evidence we have indicates that the Persians did not see the events in Judah as an insurrection. It is important to notice that the Persians appointed

77. Miller and Hayes, 450–51. Briant, 97–105. Grabbe, A History of the Jews, 268–9. 78. Mason asserts that Haggai envisaged political independence for the community in the new age. Rex Mason, The Books of Haggai Zechariah and Malachi (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 25. Waterman goes as far as to claim that this rebellion led to Zerubbabel’s execution. L. Waterman, ‘The Camouflage Purge of Three Messianic Conspirators’, JNES 13 (1954): 73, 77–8. Albertz has argued that the leaders of the returnees attempted a restoration of the monarchy in the early Persian period. He believes that they were able to get Zerubbabel appointed as governor because Darius needed allies during the 522–520 rebellions. Albertz, ‘The Thwarted Restoration’, 6. On the other hand Bickerman proposed that Zerubbabel was sent to Yehud by Bardiya-Gaumata in order to assist him against Darius, and when Darius won, he killed Zerubbabel as a usurper. E. J. Bickerman, Studies in Jewish and Christian History III (Leiden: Brill 1986), 335–6. Other scholars believe that the sources at our disposal are not adequate to reconstruct such a rebellion. Cf. von Rad, 284 and Japhet, ‘Sheshbazzar and Zerubbabel’, 78. There are also scholars who believe that Haggai delivered his oracles during the year that Darius gained firm control of the empire, which would suggest that the prophet was speaking ‘on the basis of a situation that had just become stable’. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 43. See also Kessler, The Book of Haggai, 114. 79. Lemaire offers a compromising position. He suggests that Haggai wanted Zerubbabel to become king but of a vassal state within the Persian empire. A. Lemaire, ‘Zorobabel et la Judée à la lumière de l’épigraphie (fin du Vie s. av. J.-C)’, RB 103 (1996): 55. 80. Meyers and Meyers note that when Haggai uses this term he revitalizes the language of First-Isaiah and Jeremiah in order to denote the divine presence in the sanctuary and in order to assert YHWH’s return to Zion and the re-establishment of his power. Meyers and Meyers, 19. See also Bedford, 237–40.



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Zerubbabel as governor probably because he was a Davidic descendant.81 This implies that the people in Yehud enjoyed their autonomy because of the nature of the imperial policy. It seems that the Persians were regarded as a means toward the community’s aspirations not an obstacle to them.82 Furthermore, any military intervention would have affected the rebuilding of the Temple but there is no indication of a disruption of this project.83 Then one has to be mindful of the distinction between prophetic rhetoric and political declarations. Haggai’s oracle uses exaggerated figures of speech and symbolic language, while at the same time it retains a degree of ambiguity.84 For example, while he uses royal terminology to establish Zerubbabel’s credentials and states that he is YHWH’s chosen, he does not refer at all to the nature of future political developments. These are left on his audience to imagine. Kessler argues that the avoidance of explicit language is due to Haggai’s deliberate reticence to portray the future as an exact replica of the past.85 Furthermore, one has to keep in mind that the arrival of the new age according to the prophet was firmly tied to divine intervention alone. As Meyers and Meyers put it, Haggai was depicting an eschatological world upheaval not a political insurrection.86 Human agency was limited to the rebuilding of the Temple.87 Thus, the supposition that he was calling for 81. Ackroyd maintains that the Persians chose Zerubbabel in order to re-establish continuity in Jerusalem and hence ‘the descendant of the Davidic line would obviously have considerable advantages over any other personage. If risk there was, it was a calculated risk’. P. R. Ackroyd, Exile and Restoration: A Study of Hebrew Thought of the Sixth Century BC (London: SCM, 1968), 165. Meyers and Meyers believe that the lineage and pedigree of Zerubbabel and Joshua were critical components of their appointments. They praise the sagacity of Persian administration, which allowed Yehud to overcome a period of economic and national despair with this appointment. Meyers and Meyers, 40. 82. Kessler argues that the absence of an epithet or qualification to the name Darius in the date formulae denotes that his position as king over Yehud was not challenged. Kessler, The Book of Haggai, 115. Cf. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 43. 83. Ackroyd observes that ‘we detect no change of policy, nor of violent action against the Jews such as might be anticipated if Zerubbabel’s claims were looked at askance’. Ackroyd, 165. 84. Petersen maintains that the ambiguity of the terms used by Haggai, particularly when it comes to the term ‘my servant’, enabled him to reflect about the role of the Davidide without actually causing a political crisis. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 103, 106. Kessler observes that the use of highly evocative language in a generalized fashion that makes the determination of a precise referent difficult corresponds to the way religious traditions are handled elsewhere in Haggai. Kessler, The Book of Haggai, 235. 85. Kessler, The Book of Haggai, 237. He argues that Haggai wanted to assure his audience that the post-exilic temple, priesthood, and governor, even though they were not optimal, constituted a provisional yet valid equivalent, which was acceptable in the eyes of YHWH. Kessler, The Book of Haggai, 242. 86. Meyers and Meyers postulate that while the language was rooted in old pre-exilic ideas it was not tied to current political expectations. Meyers and Meyers, 53. 87. As Petersen notes the success will not come as an automatic result of human action, rather it will come from YHWH’s response to the human initiative. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 51. Later he adds that this scheme was true for Israel for centuries, i.e. ‘that Yahweh was involved in its fate as a warrior and worked through and with human political instrumentalities’. Ibid., 105. Meyers and Meyers add that the ‘Davidic model of a warrior

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the immediate reconstitution of the kingdom could be only true secondarily. One has also to consider the possibility that the prophecy of Haggai was not known to the Persian administration. Even in the case that it was known, there is a fair chance that, as Bedford notes, the Persians would dismiss it as wishful thinking.88 In light of these observations, I can infer the following about Haggai’s intentions when he decided to focus on Zerubbabel. The prophet commissioned the governor for leadership as he began to spearhead the rebuilding of the Temple. It stands to reason that Haggai wanted to strengthen the royal/ monarchic aspect of Zerubbabel because he wanted to present him as the legitimate builder of the Temple.89 According to ancient Near Eastern tradition, it was important to pay attention to two factors when it came to the rebuilding of a temple. First, the timing had to be right, otherwise the deity would not return to the dwelling place. Second, the king had to prepare the building site and the building materials to ensure institutional continuity. Haggai seems to be aware of both these factors. In 1:2, he reports YHWH’s chastisement to those who doubted that the time for the rebuilding had arrived.90 Then, when Haggai stresses that Zerubbabel is the right person to undertake this project, he may be trying to put to rest some of the worries that the people had about the propriety of the rebuilding, i.e. that it required a king from the legitimate dynastic line, in this case, from the line of David. If the prophet were thinking along the lines of cultic propriety then his concern with Zerubbabel would only be to the extent that his role was deemed indispensable. Bedford argues that according to Haggai Judean kingship will be reinstated only after the temple is constructed and YHWH returns to Jerusalem.91 Haggai was aware that he was living at a transitional point. The people of Yehud had to make several key decisions that would shape their future. Some of these decisions involved determining to what degree the present identity of the community should be in continuity with the identity of the past. Haggai presents the inclusion of the Temple in this future as non-

king’ is absent from this oracle, only suprahuman intervention can bring about the desired result. Meyers and Meyers, 82. 88. Bedford notes that ‘Judean expectations of the renaissance of Yahweh’s authority over the earth, and hence their own political renaissance’ could be dismissed as wishful thinking. Bedford, 235. 89. Meyers and Meyers argue that Haggai uses Zerubbabel’s name because ‘he was profoundly aware, in light of his political and cultural heritage, of the implications of temple building’. Meyers and Meyers, 68. 90. Meyers and Meyers claim that Jeremiah’s words about the seventy-year period (Jer. 25:11-12 and 29:10) of ruin and waste were taken seriously and probably caused considerable anxiety. Thus, Haggai’s desire to stress the time factor derived from his belief that the seventy years were almost over. Meyers and Meyers, 20. 91. Bedford believes that both Haggai and Zechariah have reworked pre-exilic monarchic ideology in order to convince their audience that the building of the temple has to come before the elevation of Zerubbabel to the throne. Bedford, 253–4, 259.



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negotiable.92 The reality of the situation, however, made the rebuilding a daunting task. The prophet managed to reverse the scepticism regarding the feasibility of this project. With every successive oracle he would emphasize more the intervention of YHWH in human history that would enable the community to overcome the various problems it was facing. The pinnacle of this line of argumentation was the employment of restoration eschatology, i.e. the promise that the future would start in the present.93 Instrumental for this type of eschatological promise was the presence and suitability of Zerubbabel for a messianic role. His eschatological viewpoint was successful because it acknowledged the post-exilic socio-economic reality and found a way to address the people’s objections while maintaining a high level of excitement and hope for the future. 5.5 Zechariah 1–6 The book of Zechariah has been divided in three parts, chapters 1–8, 9–11, and 12–14. Each section is introduced by a separate superscription, and each superscription seems to have functioned independently of the others. Furthermore, there is no direct literary dependence between the three parts, and they seem to reflect different historical periods.94 Zechariah 1­8, also known as Proto-Zechariah, is taken as a unit. However, most scholars agree that chapters 7 and 8 were appended to the first six chapters soon after the cycle of the eight visions was put together.95 In this study I will focus on Zechariah 1:7–6:15, which has long been considered as a precursor of apocalypticism. As I mentioned at the beginning of this chapter Zechariah was not the first prophet to employ visions in order 92. Kessler concludes that Haggai ‘sees and employs both temple and governor as realities in the present which provide a link with the past and hope for the future’. Kessler, The Book of Haggai, 238. 93. Tollington maintains that Haggai viewed these changes as imminent ‘for otherwise they could not be related to change in Zerubbabel’s status brought about by Yahweh at that particular time’. Tollington, 136–7, 143–4. 94. Petersen concludes that chapters 9–14 have grown out of originally diverse material and have been configured secondarily into two oracles. Petersen, Zechariah 9–14 and Malachi, 28–9. 95. Commentators agree that the First Zechariah consists of three sections: 1:16; 1:7–6:15 and 7:1–8:23. Meyers and Meyers claim that chapters 7–8 as a literary unit share more cross-references with Haggai than the ones shared between Zechariah 1–6 and Haggai. Meyers and Meyers, lxi. Cf. Petersen characterizes chapters 7 and 8 as an oracular appendage to the visions. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 124. See also, Redditt, 38–9, L. A. Sinclair, ‘Redaction of Zechariah 1–8’, BR 20 (1975): 43., and A. Petitjean, Les Oracles du Proto-Zecharie; Un Programme de Restauration pour la Communauté Juive après l’Exile (Paris: Gabalda. Louvain: Imprimerie Orientaliste, 1969), 1–2, 304–305. Recently Boda has argued that Zech 1:1-6 is based on the literary tradition of Jeremiah, and thus presents Zechariah as declaring the old message to a new generation, and that 7:1–8:23 is influenced by the penitential prayer which developed in response to the fall of Jerusalem. M. J. Boda, ‘Zechariah: Master Mason or Penitential Prophet?’, 66.

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to communicate his message. His visions, however, are different stylistically; they are also longer and more complex.96 Zechariah argues that there is a relationship between the heavenly and the earthly world.97 Sometimes the actions that take place in the heavenly plane have a direct effect on earth.98 It is because of these innovations that Zechariah is said to stand at a transitional phase between the visions of the previous prophets and the later apocalyptic writers. The superscription of chapters 1–6 dates them in the same period as the prophecy of Haggai. Even though Haggai and Zechariah are contemporaries, they have different styles. As Japhet puts it, ‘they express the simultaneous unity and variety which existed in the spiritual world of the period’.99 I believe the variety is illustrated by Haggai’s preference for oracles and Zechariah’s choice of visions.100 The unity is exemplified by the fact that they are interested in the same broad themes, i.e. the rebuilding of temple and the leadership of the community, and that they evince the same eschatological viewpoint. To the extent that Zechariah believes that the order prevailing in the visions affects the reality of the post-exilic community in a way that solves the problems and displaces the chaos, he too advocates the restoration type of eschatology.101 Zechariah reportedly sees eight visions in a single night. The sweep of the visions is cosmic in embrace and through them he gains access to a more profound state of reality. YHWH controls the heavenly world that he 96. Petersen argues that Zechariah’s visions have three distinct characteristics that set them apart from other visions in the Hebrew Bible. First, they stand somewhere between utopian social vision and concrete physical and social detail. Second, they are filled with movement. And third, the scope of the activity is international. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 113–15. 97. Hanson asserts that Zechariah argues for an archetype/copy relationship and that this connection provides the theological foundation for Zechariah’s message. The prophet’s point is that people who look at the earthly happenings and conditions are deceived because they are mere reflections. In the visions, however, ‘the prophet has been made privy to the prototype from which all reflections derive’. Hanson, 176. 98. In this sense the visions of Zechariah have more to do with the vision that Micaiah ben Imlah reports in 1 Kings 22:19-23 than with the visions of the writing prophets. Tollington adds that Zechariah’s visions are likened to Jacob’s and Solomon’s to indicate continuity ‘with the founders of Israel’s faith whose obedience to God’s purposes, revealed to them in dreams, led eventually to the building of the first temple’. Tollington, 90. 99. Japhet calls the period of the restoration a period of ferment. Japhet, ‘Sheshbazzar and Zerubbabel’, 79. 100. In Zechariah 1–6 there are also many oracles, some of them are considered secondary, particularly Zech. 3:8-10 and 6:9-15. I agree with Rose’s conclusion that this material should not be separated from the visions. Rose, 175–6. 101. Hanson argues that with the visions Zechariah introduces a symbolic universe. Through the use of symbols the prophet ‘painted a picture of the new community which God was already raising up from the ruins of national calamity’, Hanson. ‘In Defiance of Death: Zechariah’s Symbolic Universe’, in Love and Death in the Ancient Near East (Guilford: Four Quarters Publishing Company, 1987), 173. Petersen adds that the visions represent ‘a highly symbolic theological reflection on the process by means of which the Judahite society might be (re)ordered and restored’. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 113.



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observes and an angel explains to him the events that he witnesses.102 Thus, there are no unforeseen complications because YHWH is in control. There are no tormenting doubts since authoritative explanations are spelled out and no insurmountable problems, as YHWH rectifies everything through his agents. Furthermore, the events that unfold there do so in a structured manner. More importantly, Zechariah frames his argument in such a way that the events transpiring in the heavenly plane seem to create the ideal conditions in earth for restoration.103 Since the heavenly plane, where the court of YHWH is located, is viewed as the definitive reality, one is led to expect that the changes happening there can spill over to the earthly plane blurring the distinction between what is, what should be, and what will soon come to be.104 It is through this technique that Zechariah brings the events of the ‘eschaton’ very close to the present creating a new version of an almost realized eschatological expectation that I call restoration eschatology. These visions remain abstract and symbolic, and as such lend themselves to a number of interpretations. Nevertheless, I would argue with Petersen that they are grounded in the political cultic and social concerns of postexilic Yehud.105 If this line of interpretation is correct the first vision would explain why the time for restoration has come and why it is possible. The second vision would illustrate why the community should not worry about its enemies. The third would show the signs revealing YHWH to be present in Jerusalem once the restoration is underway. The fourth would exemplify why the priesthood should be restored.106 The fifth would point out how the 102. Tigchelaar believes that it is the prophet’s presence in the heavenly world that ‘allows him to observe which divine actions will affect the world’. Tigchelaar, Prophets of Old, 66. 103. Meyers and Meyers claim that in Zechariah’s fifth vision real objects and circumstances are mixed with imaginative elements that transform the underlying image in a way that it is difficult to distinguish between the imaginary elements from the ones drawn from reality. Meyers and Meyers, 230. 104. Ben Zvi maintains that utopian visions in prophecy are meant to defy and negate the status quo despite its seeming stability because that status quo is not representative of YHWH’s long-term will and desires and as such it will eventually vanish. He adds that ‘within these discourses the present must and will be replaced by a new world, namely the one that the literati imagine…and in which the perceived wrongs of the present status quo will be fully redressed’. Ehud ben Zvi, ‘Utopias, Multiple Utopias, and Why Utopias at All?’, in Utopia and Dystopia in Prophetic Literature, ed. Ehud ben Zvi (Göttingen: Vanderhoeck & Ruprecht, 2006), 62. 105. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 119. 106. Scholars have noticed that in form-critical grounds this vision stands apart from the other seven visions. Redditt observes that in this vision Zechariah understands what is happening and participates in the procedure, while in the other visions he does not seem to understand. Then there is no interpreting angel in this vision and the stereotypical introductory phrases are also missing. Redditt, 40. However, it fits nicely with Zechariah’s concerns and thematic interests that some scholars believe that it was added soon after the original seven visions were put together. Hanson maintains that even though it originated separately it seems that it belongs to the authentic Zechariah tradition. Hanson, 174. Petersen believes that this vision is an integral and original part of the visionary sequence. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 112. Meyers and Meyers maintain that even though

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leadership of the community should be organized. The sixth would elucidate how YHWH has dealt with human sin, and, in the seventh vision, how he dealt with metaphysical sin and uncleanness. Finally, the eighth vision, which comes full circle matching in content the first vision, would confirm that YHWH as the master of creation has actually undone the results of his anger with the community’s ancestors. In order to get a clearer picture of Zechariah’s eschatology, I now turn to the most representative parts of his prophecy. In his first vision, the prophet establishes that the ‘whole earth remains at peace’ (1:11). This would be a necessary precondition for any rebuilding project. Order can be restored only when the time of crisis is over and people are able to focus on reassembling their lives without distractions. In order for this opportunity at restoration to be theologically viable, Zechariah needs to prove that YHWH approves of the timing and the project. He does just that immediately afterwards when he reports that the seventy years of YHWH’s anger towards Jerusalem have expired and that his anger is now directed to the nations (1:12-15).107 In 1:1617 a most powerful reassurance is given: 1:16 Therefore, thus says the LORD, I have returned to Jerusalem with compassion; my house shall be built in it, says the LORD of hosts, and the measuring line shall be stretched out over Jerusalem. 17 Proclaim further: My cities shall again overflow with prosperity; the LORD will again comfort Zion and again choose Jerusalem.

The prophet relates that God has returned to Jerusalem and that he has decreed the rebuilding of the city and his sanctuary.108 God also guarantees the prosperity of the land and reaffirms the election of Jerusalem.109 It is very important to notice the fine balance Zechariah strikes among the past, the present, and the future. The seventy years have recently run out. YHWH is now present in Jerusalem and the rebuilding should start in the near future.110

this chapter is distinct from the seven visions it contains information integral to them, and it permits the central vision to stand alone with its image of diarchy. Meyers and Meyers, 215–16. Cf. Rose, 37–41. Pola concludes that ‘Zech 3 must have been written before the consecration of the temple by Zechariah himself…or one of his students’. T. Pola, ‘Form and Meaning in Zechariah 3’, in Yahwism after the Exile, 167. 107. Boda claims that Zechariah’s concern with the proper timing in 1:12, as well as Haggai’s in 1:2 parallels the ancient Near Eastern sensitivity of Temple reconstruction. Boda, ‘From Dystopia to Myopia’, 232, 235. 108. Petersen notes that the return of YHWH balances out the call for the return of the people in 1:6. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 156. See also Meyers and Meyers, 123. 109. Petitjean noticed that Zechariah is the first prophet who speaks of Jerusalem’s election. The notion of election was traditionally associated with the line of David. A. Petitjean, Les Oracles du Proto-Zecharie, 71. 110. Meyers and Meyers maintain that the contact with the past in this oracle has a positive tone because ‘it anticipates the happy effects of God’s renewed favor toward a people returned to him’. Meyers and Meyers, 133–4.



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Having assured the people that the powers that have scattered Judah are receiving their due in the second vision, the prophet offers a very powerful image in the third: 2:4b Jerusalem shall be inhabited like villages without walls, because of the multitude of people and animals in it. 5 For I will be a wall of fire all around it, says the LORD, and I will be the glory within it.

Zechariah likens YHWH’s presence to a wall of fire around the city offering a more tangible alternative to Ezekiel’s transcendent description of God’s glory. The point that the prophet wants to make is that God’s presence in the midst of the restoration community translates into supernatural protection.111 This sentiment is repeated in the oracle that follows the third vision, where YHWH declares that he will come and dwell amidst his people, an event that will seal the fact that God will ‘again choose Jerusalem’ (2:10-12).112 This idea is not novel. It taps into the ideology of the inviolability of Zion, but this time the imagery is driven up a notch, so much so that it seems more at home in the realm of fantasy than in the realm of everyday experience. Yet in Zechariah’s vision, these two realms are blended so seamlessly that one expects to see what can be described as a wonder of the eschaton operative in the present.113 The sign, which demonstrates in a clear fashion that Zechariah promotes an almost ‘realized eschatological’ viewpoint, is his inclusion of contemporary figures in the heavenly world. In the next two visions Joshua and Zerubbabel figure prominently. Each one is charged with a different role from YHWH and each one’s participation is deemed essential in the greater scheme of things. The point seems to be that these two leaders are the catalysts, which will usher the community to a state comparable to the supernatural world. As such the high priest and the governor partake of both worlds exemplifying for the first time a human being, other than a prophet, being privy to and having an active part in the heavenly court. In the fourth vision Zechariah offers a close examination of Joshua. 3:3 Now Joshua was dressed with filthy clothes as he stood before the angel. 4 The angel said to those who were standing before him, ‘Take off his filthy clothes.’ And to him he said, ‘See, I have taken your guilt away from you, and I will clothe you with festal apparel.’ … 7 Thus says the LORD of hosts: If you will walk in my ways and keep my requirements, then you shall rule my house and have charge of my courts, and I will give you the right of access among those who are standing here, 8 Now 111. Cf. Meyers and Meyers, 155, 157. 112. Petersen states that Zechariah differs from Ezekiel in proclaiming that YHWH’s holiness will not be limited to the temple but will spread to the entire city. In this topic Petersen finds that Zechariah is in continuity with Second Isaiah. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 172. 113. Meyers and Meyers postulate that ‘the vision of the man measuring Jerusalem has the effect of unifying the historic role of Jerusalem as the capital and symbol of a political state with its eschatological significance as a holy center, the site of God’s earthly dwelling and locus of his universal rule’. Meyers and Meyers, 161.

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listen, Joshua high priest, you and your colleagues who sit before you! For they are an omen of things to come: I am going to bring my servant the Branch.

The goal of the vision seems to be the absolution of Joshua of all guilt and his reinstatement to ritual purity. This implies that in the opinion of the prophet, and possibly of the people, Joshua was not up to standard. Probably he had been the object of some critique by the community and his defects would have been a topic of debate in Jerusalem.114 Zechariah with his vision attempts to rectify the situation and restore his prestige. It is interesting to note that this restitution happens through a direct act of YHWH’s agents in the supernatural plane. Even though none of the known purification rituals from the earthly plane were employed, the result is uncontested. The action in the heavenly world has a concrete and immediate impact in the real world.115 The prophet was aware of the effect this visionary report would have on his audience so he communicates to Joshua that this removal of guilt is not repeatable and that he should be careful in the future if he wants to enjoy it. That can be inferred from 3:7 where Joshua is explicitly told that his position of power will be retained only as long as he is faithful to YHWH.116 The conditionality of Joshua’s rule is emphasized further by the theme that Zechariah touches upon next. Joshua is told that the Lord is bringing forth an individual designated with a term that bears messianic connotations in Isaiah and Jeremiah.117 114. Von Rad suggests that it is better to perceive Joshua here as representing the guilt of the community in the eyes of YHWH rather than to think that he is accused of a personal transgression. Von Rad, 287. Ackroyd and Petersen have also argued that this purification does not suggest a lapse on Joshua’s part. Ackroyd, 184. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 194–6. Meyers and Meyers offer that his uncleanness is related to his having lived part of his life in exile away from the earthly locus of holiness and purity – i.e. Jerusalem and the temple. Meyers and Meyers, 188–9, 218. I too think that it is more likely that he is tried for his personal guilt since the guilt of the community is removed later in 3:9. Furthermore, I agree with ben Zvi’s observation on prophetic utopias that ‘the very portrayal of an imaginary ideal world carries a critique and ideological rejection of present conditions’. Ehud ben Zvi, ‘Utopias, Multiple Utopias, and Why Utopias at All?’, 59. 115. This is a new development in the visionary tradition of the Hebrew Bible. In Isaiah’s call vision (6: 1-13), one of the seraphim touches the prophet’s lips with burning coal from the altar and thereby removes his guilt. This act affects the prophet who participates in the vision. In Zechariah’s visions, however, the actions do not affect the prophet who comes in contact with the heavenly world but people from the world of common experience. 116. This conditional clause poses a syntactical problem. It is difficult to decide where the protasis ends and where the apodosis begins. See Rose, 68. However, the various suggestions to overcome this problem do not affect my argument. Tollington asserts that with these clauses Zechariah wants to remind Joshua of his responsibilities toward the community and constrain him to fulfil all that is required of him. Tollington, 160. 117. Isaiah11:1 and Jeremiah 23:5. Holladay states that because Zerubbabel’s name means ‘scion of Babylon’ in Akkadian some scholars have argued that the use in Zechariah is the original and in Jeremiah it is used secondarily. Other scholars have taken for granted that the term ‘branch’ was a technical term for the Davidic king who would restore the monarchy. Holladay believes that the term became a technical term for the future Davidide and it is in that sense that Jeremiah uses it. He concludes that Jeremiah uses the term ‘branch’ as a general North-west Semitic term for the legitimate king. He adds that behind this noun is the assumption in Israel that YHWH ‘brings the growth’. Holladay, 618. Blenkinsopp



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Zechariah and his audience would be familiar with the previous prophetic oracles. The reference here is to Zerubbabel, the Davidic descendant who is a contemporary of Joshua.118 By broaching the theme of the Davidide in a vision that is concerned primarily with the absolution and glorification of the high priest, the prophet seems to want to balance out the importance of Joshua with that of Zerubbabel.119 This is a theme which Zechariah will flesh out further. The vision culminates with the high priest purified and ready to fulfil his part, which is the witnessing of the removal of all guilt from the land. As Petersen puts it, ‘Yahweh and the purified high priest cooperate to engender a newly purified community’.120 The vision concludes with an image of peace and good fortune, which describes succinctly how the purified community will live their life. On that day, states Zechariah, the people shall invite each other to come under the vine and fig tree (3:9-10).121 The prophet once more succeeds in offering a picture that looks very attainable. The fifth vision turns our attention to the governor. Unlike Haggai, Zechariah does not leave any room for misunderstanding when it comes to prescribing how Zerubbabel will fulfil his role. The prophet affirms that the governor is going to receive supernatural help from God, but he also tells him explicitly that he should avoid both might and power (4:6-7).122 The point seems to be that God’s spirit is in control of human events. Subsequently, Zerubbabel is specified as not only the leader who laid the foundation of the asserts that the use of the term ‘branch’ in Isaiah 11:1 aligns with dynastic aspirations that are expressed from other texts that date from the post-destruction period (Jer 23:5-6; 33:1422; Ezek 37:24-28; Amos 9:11-15: Mic 5:1-3 [2-4]). Therefore, he would date the use of the term with the messianic connotation after the destruction of Jerusalem but before the return of the exiles. Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 1–39, 258. 118. Meyers and Meyers argue that since Zechariah does not identify Zerubbabel by name as the royal figure he could be pointing to a future time when kingship might be reestablished. They believe that Zechariah avoided this identification because the restoration of kingship was not a possibility under Darius. Meyers and Meyers, 203. See also Tollington, 172. Cf. Rose, 140. However, the identification of the ‘shoot’ with Zerubbabel would be inescapable for Zechariah’s audience, since, as Petersen remarks, the fulfilment of such promises at the time rested with one person, the returned Davidic heir, Zerubbabel. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 210. Furthermore, as Collins states, the fact that Zerubbabel was subservient to Persian rule ‘would hardly have carried much weight with a prophet who relied not on power or might but on the spirit of the Lord’. Collins, 79. 119. Meyers and Meyers maintain that the importance of the reference to the ‘shoot’ in a priestly context is to be found in the implied future reversal of the present order. Meyers and Meyers, 224. 120. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 212. 121. Petersen enumerates among the important features of this picture its inclusiveness and its peaceful social interactions. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 213–14. Meyers and Meyers suggest that the phrase ‘in that day’ can refer to the eschatological future that we may associate with the ‘shoot’. They add that ‘that day is rendered nearer and more attainable by the situation which has been effected by the Persian political wisdom and decisions and by the Yehudite response to Persian policy’. Meyers and Meyers, 212–13. 122. Meyers and Meyers believe that Zechariah with this statement wanted to show that Zerubbabel may lack external political legitimacy but possessed the internal legitimacy of Yahweh’s spirit. Meyers and Meyers, 270.

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temple but also as the one who will oversee its completion.123 It is important to notice that as this unit reaches its end the scope broadens in order to include both leading figures of the post-exilic community. 4:2 He said to me, ‘What do you see?’ And I said, ‘I see a lampstand all of gold, with a bowl on top of it, with seven lips on each of the lamps that are on the top of it. 3 And by it there are two olive trees, one on the right of the bowl and the other on its left.’ … 11 Then I said to him, ‘What are these two branches of the olive trees, which pour out the oil through the two golden pipes?’ 13 He said to me, ‘Do you not know what these are?’ I said, ‘No my Lord.’ 14 Then he said, ‘These are the two sons of oil who stand by the Lord of the whole earth.’

As it becomes clear from the angel’s explanation, the lampstand probably represents the cult.124 What is peculiar, however, is that there are two figures flanking the lampstand, both of whom share a heraldic position and seem to have the same prerogatives with respect to the cult.125 Although their names are not mentioned, the most likely candidates for these two figures are Joshua and Zerubbabel.126 What seems strange is that the olive trees provide oil for the lampstand. If my explanation of the image is correct, then one does not have to wonder why the cult would need any contribution from the leaders of 123. Petersen believes that Zechariah emphasizes Zerubbabel’s prerogatives by highlighting his role in the rebuilding of the temple. From this he infers that the prophet viewed Zerubbabel as a royal figure whether or not he had been invested as king. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 242. Meyers and Meyers note that some people may have regarded the temple founding or refounding rituals as of little consequence since the necessary royal figure was lacking. Zerubbabel as a Persian appointee was not equal to a king. Zechariah, however, was confident that Zerubbabel was the appropriate figure. Meyers and Meyers, 252. 124. Niditch believes that the lampstand is significant because it evokes the temple. More precisely it evokes the tabernacle and the cult. S. Niditch, The Symbolic Vision, 104. Petersen claims that the lampstand symbolizes God because of the association of light with the presence of the deity. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 228. Cf. Meyers and Meyers, 256. Other scholars have argued that the lampstand should be understood as a symbol of either a) the Jewish community, or b) Zerubbabel. See Rose, 178–9. 125. The word for oil, in the phrase ‘anointed ones’, is yishar, which refers to new olive oil rather than s˘emen, the word usually used in connection with anointing. Cf. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 231. See also Meyers and Meyers, 258. Collins states that the idea of anointing does not seem as implausible as the terms would suggest since Joshua would have been already anointed and Zerubbabel would be anointed in order to assume kingship. J. J. Collins, ‘The Eschatology of Zechariah’, 81. 126. Meyers and Meyers maintain that the two figures are not named because Zechariah sees their positions as generic offices not tied to specific individuals. Meyers and Meyers, 275. One has to question, however, if Zechariah needed to name the two individuals in this instance. Most probably his audience would know whom he refers to based on his comments on Joshua and Zerubbabel in the adjacent material. Rose suggests that the two figures could also be a) two prophets, i.e. Haggai and Zechariah – or b) two heavenly beings. Rose, 202–203. The first suggestion seems improbable because Zechariah would probably have recognized himself in the vision. The second seems equally improbable since Zechariah has been identifying several heavenly beings as such in his visions. Rose admits that there are problems with his second suggestion for which he cannot offer a satisfactory explanation. Rose, 206.



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the community. The answer lies on the role that the prophet wants to ascribe to them. Zechariah believes that the two leaders not only play an essential role in the rebuilding of the temple, but also in watching over the proper function of the cult.127 As Petersen comments, the fact that there are two persons with equal rights towards the deity ‘entails a significant restructuring of the Judahite/Jerusalemite polity’.128 First, the polity envisioned by the prophet is not monarchic but diarchic; the divine authority is transmitted to two representatives of YHWH’s sovereignty.129 Second, the image that Zechariah uses stresses the reciprocity of this relationship more than was customary in the past. Nevertheless, as in the previous vision, the prophet wants to underline that God will be the ultimate overseer who will give them their power and ensure their lawful behaviour. Thus, the diarchic administrative structure is given a most powerful theological authorization. When the cycle of visions reaches its completion Zechariah offers an oracle at the end of chapter 6, which demonstrates in clear fashion the ideas he developed in the fourth and fifth visions.130 This oracle contains the most celebrated crux of the book: 6:11 Take the silver and gold and make crowns, and set (one) on the head of the high priest Joshua, son of Jehozadak; 12 say to him: Thus says the LORD of hosts: Here is a man whose name is Branch: for he shall branch out in his place, and he shall build the temple of the LORD. 13 It is he that he shall build the temple of the LORD; he shall bear royal honour, and shall sit and rule on his throne. There shall be a priest by his throne, with peaceful understanding between the two of them.

The diarchic polity advocated in the fifth vision is taken further with the command to make crowns from the gold and silver of the exiles.131 While 127. This interpretation agrees with Rose’s conclusion that the phrase ‘sons of oil’ should be understood ‘as referring to those who provide oil’. Rose, 195. It is also interesting to notice that the prophet uses filial language to describe their relationship to God. Up to this point in Israel’s history one would use this terms to describe the relationship between God and the king. Therefore, we can conclude that the appropriation of filial language means that these two figures are viewed as community leaders. Cf. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 233. 128. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 233. 129. Rose does not believe that this image constitutes a diarchy because the two persons do not rule in the same capacity. He adds that even when two people occupied a throne in the history of Israel, e.g. King Solomon and his mother Bathsheba, no one argued for the existence of the diarchy. Rose, 67. Rose seems to misunderstand the fact that a diarchy presupposes two people who represent different types of authority, in this case priestly and political/royal. In the case of King Solomon and Queen Bathsheba both persons come from the royal/political sphere of authority. 130. Petersen observes that oracles within Zechariah 1:7–6:15 function as responses to, elucidations of, or corrections to the visions. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 120–21. Meyers and Meyers argue contra Beuken and Petitjean that the relationship between oracles and visions in Zechariah is far more direct and attributable to the times of the prophet than any of these two scholars allow. Meyers and Meyers, lxxi. 131. Rose proposes that we should accept ‫ תורטע‬as a rare form of a singular noun. Rose, 84–6. However, since verse 13 clearly refers to two persons, I do not see why we should

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one would expect the future king to wear a crown, the crown in the text is set on the head of the high priest. This coronation points to the elevated position of the high priest in the post-exilic community.132 While it is true that priests wore a specific headdress, this has never been called a crown.133 This becomes even more puzzling because no other coronation is mentioned.134 One would expect to find out who gets to receive the second crown that the prophet made and there is only one other candidate. As Tollington notes, ‘the claims that “he shall build the temple” and “bear royal honour” appear to be more appropriate references to Zerubbabel’.135 It seems clear that we no longer have the original form of this text since the coronation of Zerubbabel is edited out.136 Scholars have long speculated as to what were the reasons that led to this omission.137 As Collins points out, the apparent reason is that ‘the coronation of Zerubbabel never took place’.138 However, it is typical of accept the exception rather than the rule. It is true that verse 11 does not include the numeral ‘two’ before the word ‘crowns’, but that is not required. 132. As Schniedewind notes this is an important development because it sheds light on the process through which the priesthood managed to take complete control by the third century. Schniedewind, 127. Cf. Hamerton-Kelly who also observes that the compromise suggested by Haggai and Zechariah failed with the triumph of the priestly theocracy. Hamerton-Kelly, 14. Meyers and Meyers in connection with the fourth vision state that this is a transitional period in the relationship of the community to the Torah and to the authority that is supposed to uphold the validity of that material. Meyers and Meyers, 201. 133. Meyers and Meyers observe that except for this verse in Zechariah the word ‫הרטע‬ has never been used for priests but is used only to refer to crowns of civil authority. Meyers and Meyers, 351. Rose concludes that the word ‫ הרטע‬is not ‘an especially likely candidate for a “coronation crown”’. Rose, 56. 134. Tollington suggests that the coronation of Joshua has symbolic and proleptic significance. She argues that since Joshua is accepted as the religious head of the community then he is a suitable person to play a symbolic role. Tollington, 168. 135. Tollington, 166. Later in her analysis she postulates that these claims can be interpreted ‘in terms of Zerubbabel’s honor and authority which he had in his official capacity as civil governor’. Tollington, 174. 136. Petersen and Rose want to avoid the term ‘coronation’ in this instance because it implies an investiture ceremony and prefer to use the term ‘crowning’. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 275. Rose, 57. I would agree with Petersen that the crowning most probably was honorific but since this oracle relates a symbolic act rather than an actual one I would be inclined to believe that the prophet would choose the most powerful symbol of the two to convey his message. 137. Ackroyd doubts that Zerubbabel has been omitted. Ackroyd, 196–7. However, several recent commentators have argued that the text referred to two coronations. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 279–80. Meyers and Meyers, 349–50. Coggins, 46–7. Lemaire presents a hypothesis on the basis of some Persian period seals from Judah according to which members of the Davidic family held public offices even after the disappearance of Zerubbabel from the political scene. A. Lemaire, ‘Zorobabel et la Judée à la lumière de l’épigraphie (fin du VIe s. av. J.-C.)’, RB 103 (1996): 48–57. Scholars are also divided on the issue of the recipient of the second crown, i.e. whether it was Zerubbabel or a future messianic king. He concludes that it was meant for Zerubbabel. See Collins, ‘The Eschatology of Zechariah’, 77. 138. Collins also prefers the hypothesis that the text was altered to avoid implication of rebellion over against the supposition that the prophet wanted to crown a priest in order



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the biblical text to allow loose ends to stand.139 The fact that the priest is standing by the throne of the king seems to imply that his status is lower than the Davidide. Nevertheless, the prophet hastens to mention that despite this difference in status there is going to be ‘peaceful understanding between the two’, and thus underlines the co-operative character of their leadership. With this oracle Zechariah casts messianic hope into a new form radically different from previous expressions. Whenever the messianic topic comes up, Joshua and Zerubbabel are presented in an intertwined way. One could speculate that Zechariah supports this kind of polity because he wants the one to hold in check the other. He does not want any of them to have absolute power, probably because he wants to avoid the mistakes of the past when a king could abuse power because there was no other type of authority powerful enough to check on him.140 Also, he does not miss a chance to clarify that YHWH himself, the ultimate source of power, will constantly be behind these two figures, observing their lawful conduct. The prophet refers to the near future, using people from the community’s present. This future is eschatological insofar as it constitutes a renewal, a definitive break with the present order. This future also happens to have a clear political character. With Haggai and Zechariah the messianic candidate is a real live human being who lived in the midst of their community. He is not an obscure person that will appear in the indefinite future. In the history of the messianic ideas and eschatological expression, this is exceptional and it constitutes an innovation. It is appropriate, then, to recognize it as such. I chose to label it as restoration eschatology because it offers a clear example of an eschatological transformation that is about to happen in the specific context of the restoration period. 5.6 Conclusion Mowinckel states boldly that the message of Haggai and Zechariah had ‘nothing to do with eschatology’.141 My analysis attempts to show exactly the opposite. The social context determined this as a period of change and both prophets tried to shape a new and cohesive cultic community around the newly rebuilt temple in Jerusalem. This transformation would mark a to indicate that the monarchy would be restored in the indefinite future. Collins, ‘The Eschatology of Zechariah’, 80. 139. Rose lists some of the most representative comments that express the frustration scholars have felt because of the lack of consistency in this particular text. Rose, 171–2. 140. It is interesting to notice that this idea constitutes a reversal. During the monarchy prophets often assumed the role of a judge in relation to the king. They were the ones who would privately or publicly pass judgment on royal authority in the name of YHWH. With Zechariah, however, we have a prophet who hands over this role to the high priest. 141. Mowinckel asserts that Haggai and Zechariah were waiting for a historical revolution in the ancient Near East that would be guided by YHWH but work through normal human means. For Mowinckel this view qualifies as fantastic and unrealistic expectation but ‘that does not make it eschatology’. Mowinckel, 121.

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momentous change in the status quo. Therefore, both prophets justifiably considered this change to have eschatological proportions. The difference was that the ‘eschaton’ seemed within arm’s reach from a temporal point of view.142 If people would heed their advice then the transformation would take place in their own lifetime. That is what they tried to demonstrate with their prophecy. As Albertz remarks, with Haggai and Zechariah 1–6 prophecy had a direct influence on politics ‘to a degree which it had not attained previously in Israel and was not to achieve subsequently’.143 The reason why it was so successful has to do with its immediacy, and I think that we could identify it as ‘restoration eschatology’ since it is peculiar to the time. The two prophets wished to show that the future was possible. That is why they identified the leaders of the community as the people responsible for ushering in the new era. Their argument was that the future will follow the present if only people would be bold enough to discern and accept it.

142. Meyers and Meyers assert that although Zechariah’s views were rooted in the historical present they are also linked to the eschatological future ‘when the present order will give way to another’. Meyers and Meyers, 374. Grabbe argues that eschatology is one of the common themes between the books of Haggai, Zechariah and Malachi. For the eschatology in Haggai and Zechariah he states: ‘Haggai seems to focus most of his energies on the present, though present events will inaugurate a new beginning. Zechariah has number of passages relating to the future (seen as imminent).’ ‘Zechariah 8 ends the first part of the book with a prophecy of prosperity and idyllic existence in Jerusalem now that God’s presence is again there.’ Grabbe, A History of the Jews, 86. 143. Albertz, A History of Israelite Religion, 452.

Chapter 6

The Rhetorical Function of the Heavenly World: Zechariah’s Role and the Role of Visions

6.1 Proto-Zechariah’s Role The scholars who have tried to analyse the social matrix of the early Second Temple period have also tried to establish the social background of Zechariah and then tried to illuminate his role in the post-exilic society. Hanson and Cook have looked into the matter of social setting in conjunction with the issue of literary genre. Behind their approach lies the presupposition that the rise of apocalypticism should be sought in a time of social crisis. Hanson posited that the period of restoration should be understood as a struggle for power between two parties. Eventually the hierocratic party won, and the prophetic one was marginalized and was denied any power. According to Hanson’s reconstruction, Zechariah owed his allegiance to the priests but appropriated some of the appealing eschatological elements of their rivals, the disenfranchised prophets, in order to make the priestly programme more attractive to the masses.1 This picture stems from Hanson’s belief that postexilic prophetic eschatology was the medium which deprived groups used to voice their discontent and seek consolation. Cook, reacting to this proposal, argued that deprivation is not a necessary precondition for eschatological fervour. Relying on data gathered from the study of millennial movements, he claimed that groups in positions of power often produce writings with strong eschatological emphasis. Accordingly, he proposed that Zechariah, who held a position of relative power in his society, could very well deliver a prophecy with eschatological features because groups in a position of power can also

1. Hanson, Dawn, 240–62. Hanson believes that Zechariah’s use of visions arose from a conscious attempt to inject enthusiasm into the official temple programme. Thus, visions that in Hanson’s mind are a revolutionary element meant to criticize the status quo were placed in the service of the political system. Since, however, the hierocratic party was incapable of sustaining and developing an eschatological viewpoint Zechariah with his visions summoned the divine realm ‘not to disrupt those structures but to sanctify and maintain them’. Ibid., 259.

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use this mode of expression to vent their frustration.2 Bedford, who has offered a more recent interpretation of Zechariah’s role, takes a conciliatory position between Hanson and Cook. He wants to retain the idea of Zechariah as a millenarian prophet but he wants to do so under the provision that Zechariah is best viewed as a prophet resisting colonial oppression. In his opinion, Zechariah is comparable to millenarian prophets because he experienced oppression or political estrangement.3 In this respect, Bedford retains Hanson’s proposal that eschatological visions belong to the oppressed, but he shares Cook’s standpoint that the millennial context provides the best social analogue. Given the contradictory nature of these proposals, one has to wonder whether a comparison with millennialism offers a helpful frame of reference. All three scholars present Zechariah as a spokesman of a group caught in a power struggle. While it is true that Zechariah most probably expressed concerns felt by several members of his community, there is not compelling evidence showing that he represented one or another faction exclusively. Zechariah’s inclusiveness is one of the reasons why his message found wide appeal in the early post-exilic community. The visions seem to address several different issues, and Zechariah does not seem to promote a partisan agenda. He seems equally engaged in issues that would relate to both the priesthood and the leaders of the community, while keeping an eye on the sentiments of the common people and the international political scene. The attempt to make him conform to the goals of a single party flattens his message. I will try to come up with a more complex picture of Zechariah’s project and goal.4 In this chapter, I will argue for a more constructive view of Zechariah in his social situation. A way to avoid casting Zechariah’s prophecy in a single mould is to venture a triangulation of his role by considering the relation among the visionary method of expression, his message, and his function. In my discussion of restoration eschatology, I touched briefly on all three issues. Here, however, I will try to achieve a sharper focus. I will try to explain the effect of the prophet’s visions taking under consideration their 2. Cook claims that ‘Zechariah was not merely supported by those in power…he was himself a member of the priestly establishment of the restoration community’. Cook, Prophecy and Apocalypticism, 139. 3. Bedford defines millenarian movements as protest movements whose participants seek justice and political power. He adds that they often expect a divine intervention that is meant to redress their desperate situation. He believes that the disparity between the recognition of YHWH’s supremacy on the one hand and the plight of the people of Judah on the other is what generates the similarities between the prophecies of Haggai and Zechariah and millenarian movements. He observes, however, that there is one important difference. While in millenarian movements the focus for the community’s hopes is commonly the prophet, Haggai and Zechariah pointed to Zerubbabel and Joshua as leaders. Bedford, Temple Restoration, 266–70. 4. Weber argued that even though the prophets were private citizens their predominant concern was the destiny of the state and the people. ‘Unlike the Hellenes they did not posit the problem: how can man be a good citizen? Their question was absolutely religious, oriented toward the fulfillment of Yahweh’s commandments.’ Max Weber, Ancient Judaism (New York: The Free Press, 1952), 275.



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socio-rhetorical aspects. It is my contention that the prophet’s message does not need to be explained with a millennial comparison. To the contrary, his concern was with the immediate present, and he wanted to illustrate that the most opportune time for action had come. I will also attempt to show that Proto-Zechariah tried to function as a prophet in an unstable social situation. His idiosyncratic visionary technique and his effort to enhance the importance of the leadership should be ascribed to his desire to set in motion the process that would lead to the restoration of the post-exilic society. 6.2 The Rhetorical Potential of Visions Proto-Zechariah employs visions to communicate his message with a greater frequency than the other prophets in the Hebrew Bible do, and this choice has been one of the reasons that prompted scholars to compare his prophecy to apocalypticism. I will argue that the selection and enhancement of the visionary medium constitute an innovation, which can be explained independently from any connection with apocalypticism. In order to uncover the prophet’s motivation, it is necessary to explore the socio-rhetorical factors that rendered the use of this method of communication preferable. The visions in Zechariah 1:7–6:15 contain several signs which remind the audience that the heavenly world is very different from their own. Supernatural beings seem to be the primary residents of this world and few human beings are admitted there. Nevertheless, several images appear relevant if not familiar to the post-exilic social setting in a way that would have the people see the visions as relevant to their situation. One could argue that it is this verisimilitude that establishes the connection between the two worlds. However, objects and topics are depicted in a markedly unrealistic way. A case in point would be the fortification of Jerusalem with the presence of God in the form of a fiery wall. This observation begs the question, why would the prophet or the audience find attractive an unreal way to address real problems? The literary theorist Michael Riffaterre asserts that it is these very signs of ‘fictionality’ that ‘point to a truth invulnerable to the deficiencies of mimesis or to the reader’s resistance to it. They do so by suspending belief, by radically displacing verisimilitude.’5 Therefore, one should not stop with the similarities but also look beyond the points of contact between the heavenly plane as Zechariah describes it and the reality of post-exilic Judah in order to understand fully why his visions were so compelling. Riffaterre adds that ‘fictional truth spurns referentiality’; he argues that fictional truth ‘relies

5. By ‘mimesis’ Riffaterre means what is shown or enacted. In his opinion the signs of fictionality in a literary text ‘are not blunted or compensated for by corrective verisimilitude’. Michael Riffaterre, Fictional Truth (Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990), 33.

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entirely on the text itself as if the latter were self-sufficient’.6 In this sense, the validity of the visions is independent of any similarity they bear to the world of experience. Riffaterre continues: ‘Veridictory discourse is outside of and parallel to the narrative, a metalanguage of it, and therefore rests entirely on the logical presupposition and entailment.’7 Therefore, the visions derive their efficacy from the cognitive processes they generate. Thus, Zechariah may have chosen to address real problems using an unreal medium because he did not want to be bogged down by the gravity of these problems. Riffaterre specifies that there are four possibilities in which truth is generated in a fictional narrative. Two of them seem to apply to Zechariah’s visions. According to one, ‘truth is inferred from apodeictic discourse, from predications framed in axiomatic formulas’.8 The prophetic authority of Zechariah and the way he establishes his credentials as a legitimate prophet in order to express his ‘axiomatic formulas’ have been the object of a long scholarly discussion.9 There are a number of key observations that have fuelled this line of inquiry. On the one hand, visions seem involuntary as the prophet’s consciousness is overcome by his communication with the divine. Thus, his visionary reports are less filtered and changed by the prophet’s conscious faculties. On the other hand, Zechariah allies himself with the former prophets (1:4) in order to show that he stands in continuity with the prophetic tradition of Israel. All of these innovations are usually explained as adaptations, which prophecy had to undergo in order to survive in the new demands of the post-exilic social milieu.10 Given the prevailing fragmentation of the social situation, it would be virtually impossible for a prophetic voice to rise above the other competing factions. Prophecy had to acquire a strong sense of authority in order to attract people’s attention and propose a course of action that would get a following. A prophetic message given in a visionary context, which presented a direct and prolonged contact with the world of YHWH, would certainly command more attention than a formulation that would simply mention YHWH in the introductory formula.11 In .

6. Riffaterre asserts that ‘fictional truth spurns referentiality that raises the specter of whether or not the reader acknowledges its accuracy’. Riffaterre, 84. 7. Riffaterre, 85. Niditch seems to make a similar point about the visions of Zechariah when she claims that the disappearance of the word-play or the simile of the associative technique, ‘the use of repetition of the symbol object, if only for the purposes of reference, also diminishes’. Niditch, The Symbolic Vision, 100. 8. Riffaterre claims that ‘truth is a modality of text generation’. Riffaterre, 84. 9. Von Rad argues that already in the exilic period one sees that prophets make a conscious effort to ‘give an axiomatic definition and explanation of the phenomenon of the word of Jahweh’. Von Rad, Old Testament Theology, vol.2, 265. 10. Wilson states that the concern that authors of late prophetic books had about prophetic authority was more intense than the concern pre-exilic prophets faced. He maintains that the post-exilic prophets in order to enhance their authority tried to gain support from the past. This is reflected in their tendency to edit an existing prophetic book rather than to create a new one and by the reuse of earlier prophetic oracles. Wilson, Prophecy and Society, 290–91. 11. One should keep in mind an important qualification since according to Tigchelaar the prophet does not mention anywhere that he saw YHWH. He adds that ‘Yahweh never



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Zechariah’s visions, YHWH is not just the source of the prophecy nor is he merely mentioned in the beginning with the formulaic phrase ‘thus says the Lord’. Rather, he figures prominently as the ultimate power of reality.12 Furthermore, the heavenly messenger appears within the vision to interpret its meaning. Hence, both the visions and the interpretations are divinely given. This technique enhances the importance of the vision, while removing any doubt of misunderstanding or misinterpretation of the vision.13 In the visions, Zechariah stands in proximity to YHWH and is present at the heavenly council. More importantly, the prophet converses with YHWH’s angels and witnesses divine action in the world. This privileged status places him in an elevated position, which adds prestige and stature. Thus one would observe that Zechariah’s presentation of his message via the visionary medium is very fortuitous since it enabled him to frame his suggestions axiomatically, and in what is deemed to be apodeictic discourse. According to Riffaterre, the other method to generate truth in a fictional narrative is through inference ‘from the tautological verification of a lexical or phrasal given by the text it generates: in this case truth is derivative, idiolectic, paradigmatic, and, eventually circular’.14 An illustration of this technique in Zechariah would be found in the relation between the first and the last vision. In the first vision, the riders who patrol the earth report to the Lord that ‘the whole earth remains at peace’ (1:11b), while in the last vision the chariots go to patrol the earth and the angel proclaims, ‘Lo, those who go toward the north country have set my spirit at rest in the north country’ (6:8). The thematic continuity between the two visions strengthens the ‘reality’ of the heavenly plane, which seems to be governed by the same principles of cohesiveness as the ‘real’ world. Niditch adds that the last vision also completes the scene set by the first. She claims that whereas the first vision involves a pre-battle survey, ‘vision VIII involves a post battle assertion of the

speaks directly to the prophet, and only once (Zech. 2:3) is it told that Yahweh lets the visionary see a scene’. Tigchelaar, Prophets of Old, 68. 12. Von Rad claimed that before Zechariah Deutero-Isaiah divides the empirical world in two realms. ‘On the one side is the world of flesh and the transience of everything in it; on the other, the word of Jahweh, the only thing creative and productive of blessing (Is. XL.68, LV.10f.).’ He deduces that the exilic prophets as the bearers and spokesmen of the ‘word of Jahweh’ occupied a key position between YHWH and his government of the world. Von Rad, Old Testament Theology, vol.2, 266. 13. Wilson argues that Zechariah intentionally changed the structure of his visions, when compared with earlier prophetic visions, in order to assure the reader of the truth of his message. Wilson, Prophecy and Society, 291. Oppenheim observes that it was important for ‘symbolic dreams’ to receive divine confirmation in order to show that the dream and its interpretation originate from the same source. A. Leo Oppenheim, Interpretation of Dreams in the Ancient Near East (Piscataway, New Jersey: Georgias Press, 2008), 207–208. 14. In the other possibility truth may issue ‘from textual transformations of a given, regulated by the mechanisms of continuous semiosis and formal substitutability’. In the last possibility, truth ‘is represented by symbols, themselves developed into subtexts, whose sign systems comment on the narrative and repeat its elements in a different form thus presupposing the reality of what it glosses’. Riffaterre, 85.

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rule of the victor’.15 Tigchelaar suggests that the ‘reference to the land of the north primarily refers to the exiled Judeans living there, and that the settling of the spirit in that land implies that, just as the nations were living at peace in the first vision, it is the turn of the Judeans now to be at ease’.16 In this sense, the last vision presents a reversal of the situation described in the first one. If these suggestions are correct, then the last vision depends on and builds on the events stated in the first. Even though the visions are separate and distinct there is continuity and interdependence in the world they construct. It is this continuity and repetition that solidifies the truth of the heavenly world that is imperceptible to the audience. Another example of the derivative character of truth would be recovered in the fifth vision. The image of the golden lampstand is most probably derived either from the golden lampstand of the tabernacle or from the golden lampstands decorating Solomon’s temple.17 As Niditch notes, ‘within the context of the larger Zechariah cycle, evocation of the tabernacle places the restored temple which Zechariah advocates in an ancient line of tradition’.18 Thus, Zechariah’s use of an idiolectic term with specific cultural connotations from Israel’s past adds credibility and weight to the world of the visions by generating a tautology with both mythic and historic memory. In the process he creates a circular truth. Riffaterre continues: ‘once truth is given as a type in abstracto, and once this given is consequently marked as fictional, verisimilitude is recovered through textual expansion and repetition of the given’.19 This technique is illustrated lucidly in the fifth vision. In first verse of chapter 4, the prophet states that the angel wakened him ‘as one is wakened from sleep’. This marks clearly the liminal and hence the super-terrestrial character of what follows. In 4:2-3 the prophet gives us the description of the central image for this vision. However, it is 4:4-6a and 4:10b-14 where a new motif in the prophetic visionary tradition appears. Niditch calls this development ‘revelation through interpretation’.20 The explanations that the angel provides in this unit expand the vision presented in the first four verses of the chapter and repeat certain of its aspects. The information imparted during the dialogue between the angel and Zechariah concretizes the abstract nature of the initial image, while at 15. Niditch also claims that the chariots affirm the Lord’s presence ‘in the sense of divine rule, to rest securely over the land of Babylon. The lord’s will is being asserted and finalized’. Niditch, The Symbolic Vision, 159–60. 16. Tigchelaar continues that the addition to the last vision (6:9-15) also suggests that ‘the prime beneficiaries of the mission of the chariots are Yahweh’s people’. Tigchelaar, Prophets of Old, 64. 17. According to 1 Kings 7:49 Solomon’s temple had ten golden lampstands. The golden lampstand of the tabernacle is described in Exodus 25:31, 37:17-24 and in Numbers 8:4. 18. She adds that the menorah points ‘not only ahead to a rebuilt temple but also back to the tabernacle’. Niditch, The Symbolic Vision, 107. 19. Riffaterre, adds that ‘the narrative can also be seen as the testing of a hypothesis’. Riffaterre, 37. 20. Niditch believes that this mode or revelation is significant not only for the changing nature of prophecy, ‘but also about the relationship between God and man as perceived by the author of the vision’. Niditch, The Symbolic Vision, 96, 119.



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the same time it comments on the relevance of the similarities that this image shares with the real world. Thus, through this expansion the vision capitalizes on the relation it shares with the world of experience in order to cement the reality of its own fictional world. From a literary standpoint, Zechariah’s visions, which refer to a world inaccessible to everybody and yet address the world everybody lived in, achieve two goals. They create a narrative that is appealing and hooks the audience. As the audience follows the narration and attempts to comprehend the images from the heavenly world, they engage in a process of logical presupposition and entailment. The more they invest in the internal logic of the visions the easier it becomes to discern and accept the prophet’s message. During this process, the audience meta-commentates on the ‘invisible’ heavenly plane and thus verifies its validity. Furthermore, the visions are framed with axiomatic formulas and enhanced with textual expansions in a subsequent editorial level in an effort to buttress their claim to truth and credibility. In addition to the literary considerations one should take into account the phenomenological aspects of visionary discourse. These aspects emerge from a consideration of the character of the visionary form of prophecy, as that is distinguished from the oracular one. In phenomenological terms, visions as a communicative process would be similar to a ‘symbolic’ form of communication whereas oracles would be parallel to ‘signal’ communication. Timothy Stephen defines these two forms of communication as follows: The nature of the symbolic processes may be more specifically stated. The relationship between the human experience of a stimulus object and the object itself is metaphoric, emergent or systemic. Elements of a stimulus object are understood through a combining of present experience with aspects of the total symbolic store in such a way that present experience is transformed by encountering the symbolic store and, reciprocally the symbolic store is transformed as it encounters present experiencing. … The process of communication is therefore a process of metaphoring. In signal communication, by contrast, the process does not involve a remaking or a recreation of reality. Rather the process is a linear one in which reality, in the form of a stimulus, directly presents itself. When signal communication is present, the process is mechanical and direct rather than metaphoric and transformational.21

Therefore, if I am correct in the distinction I want to draw between these two forms of prophetic communication, then we are dealing with two different ways of giving expression to meaning. The oracular form of speech would be more immediate and direct while the visionary would be more creative and

21. Stephen maintains that ‘in a symbolic relationship, meanings are arbitrary, varying from one person to the next, while in a sign or signal relationship meanings are fixed and invariant’. He adds that insofar as human experience is symbolic and metaphorically structured then human communication is also symbolic in nature. Timothy Stephen, ‘Toward a Phenomenological Methodology for the Study of Symbolic Communication’, in Phenomenology in Rhetoric and Communication, ed. Stanley Deetz (Washington, DC: University Press of America, 1981), 38–9.

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reciprocal.22 It would follow then that each form would be better suited to serve in different circumstances and fulfil different communicative needs. I would argue that Zechariah’s emphasis on visions led to a more interactive form of communication between him and his audience. A clear illustration of the reciprocal communicative relationship is found in the third vision. Here an angel promises that Jerusalem will be inhabited by so many people and animals that there will not be any walls big enough to surround the city. However, God will provide protection to this unfortified city since God will be ‘a wall of fire all around it’ and ‘the glory within it’. As powerful as this image is and as many options were available for the audience to understand it, the more plausible ones did not involve actual pyrotechnics.23 The image presupposes that the audience, while deciding whether or not to place its trust in the promise, will also have to decode the spectacle and find a way to understand the divine protection in terms relatable to everyday life. During this process, the audience transforms the symbol of the vision by trying to adapt it to their present experience. Once they achieve it, their current experience is transformed as it is reconceptualized in a manner that permits it to be related to the symbol of the vision. Zechariah’s visions are full of powerful and memorable symbols, which feed off of the reader’s imagination. Therefore, I would conclude that the prophet employs a medium that elicits an active participation from the audience and makes for a more interactive mode of communication.24 The emphasis on the attempt to energize the audience is further exemplified once we focus on the particular effect the visions of Zechariah had. 22. Geels corroborates this evaluation from a psychological perspective. He states that ‘the symbolic function can serve as a starting place for creativity’. He adds that: ‘in order to be creative, regardless of the subject area, the individual must be able to go beyond the conventional interpretations of reality’. Antoon Geels, ‘Mystical Experience and the Emergence of Creativity’, in Religious Ecstasy, ed. Nils G. Holm (Stockholm/Sweden, Almqvist & Wicksell International, 1982), 35. 23. Petersen states that the image of an unwalled city that is inhabited by the deity and is surrounded by fire can be understood in terms of the royal city of the Achaemenids, Pasargadae, which did not have any walls. ‘In and around it were a number of fire altars that symbolized the cosmic god Ahura Mazda.’ Thus, he concludes that YHWH as fire probably reflects ‘Persian notions of a mighty, ritually proper urban complex’. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 171. Additionally, God’s fiery presence in Jerusalem could be understood in conjunction with return of God’s glory to the temple, even though the temple is not specifically mentioned. See Meyers and Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 157. Cf. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 171. Niditch adds that the wall of fire could evoke the pillar of fire that accompanied the Israelites during the Exodus or it could be understood in conjunction with the theophanic images related to the imagery of the divine warrior. Niditch, The Symbolic Vision, 172. 24. Niditch makes a similar point in her discussion of the innovations of Zechariah’s vision. She states that ‘the symbols themselves become more mythologized; their meaning is not always explained in the vision’s motif of interpretation’. Since Niditch is interested in the current decoding of the imagery of the visions rather than the reaction of Zechariah’s contemporaries, she continues that ‘one must use a comparative approach and seek the background of the symbols in the fund of ancient Near Eastern mythology’. Niditch, The Symbolic Vision, 11.



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J. Lindblom distinguished between pictorial and dramatic visions in Hebrew Bible prophecy.25 The basis of this distinction lies upon the feature that is stressed in each vision. Thus, in pictorial visions the attention is directed to the objects or the figures which are seen. In dramatic visions the essential element is the action. The stress lies in what the persons who appear in the vision undertake or do. Zechariah’s visions are primarily of the dramatic category. The prophet’s visions were not only a rhetorically powerful form of prophetic address, but they also emphasized action. His goal was to get things started and the effect of his medium is to induce action. Furthermore, in these visions the essential element is dynamic not noetic.26 In the oracular form of prophecy, the dynamic element is compromised because the message is placed in an actual social context governed by practical considerations. In the oracular mode of prophecy action that contradicts everyday practical considerations usually fails to produce the intended effect. People are less likely to take action against their well-being even for the sake of their longterm interests. In the visionary reconstruction of reality, however, everyday considerations are put on the background. The attention of the audience is captured by the wondrous events in the supernatural plane. This way people are more likely to take action, which they would find less appealing than if it was presented in a way that could not raise the same level of excitement. There also seems to be another reason why visions would seem more effective in Zechariah’s context from a phenomenological point of view. A visionary form of address allows greater freedom of expression to the prophet. Though what the visionary sees may be described vividly and in detail, there is a looseness in expression and the structural connection is more pliable.27 Like a dream, a vision is composed of different elements taken from the world of normal experience, but is often caricatured and combined in a unity that does not have to abide by the rules of reality.28 One is free to move beyond the constraints imposed by the actual social context without jeopardizing one’s credibility. More importantly, in the visions certain aspects of reality 25. Lindblom states that a typical example of a pictorial vision would be the inaugural vision of Ezekiel (1:4-28) as well as the vision in the valley of dry bones (37:1-14) and the majority of the visions in the book of Amos. Visions with a markedly dramatic character according to Lindblom are the inaugural vision of Isaiah (6:1-13) and Jeremiah (1:4-10). J. Lindblom, Prophecy in Ancient Israel (Philadelphia, Fortress Press, 1965), 124. 26. Niditch remarks that Zechariah prefers to use ‘dramatic happenings instead of static symbols’ because it allows him more vivid narrations. She notes that ‘the mythology comes alive as the prophet is seen to interact with the visionary images’. Niditch, The Symbolic Vision, 139. 27. Niditch provides a good example of the creativity allowed by the visionary form in her analysis of the first vision. She claims that Zechariah was able to weave ‘three threads of literary tradition into the cloth of the symbolic vision form’, i.e. the victory/enthronement pattern, the lament form and the call form. Niditch, The Symbolic Vision, 136–9. 28. Oppenheim maintains that ‘of the two levels of consciousness which are alternatingly experienced by man – the waking world and the realm of dreams – the latter is subject to a characteristic dichotomy. In dreams intermingle in many and curious ways the influences of the conceptual conditioning of the waking world…and that fundamental inventory of dream contents.’ A. Leo Oppenheim, Interpretation of Dreams, 184.

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are highlighted and depicted in a most striking way. A case in point would be the equality of authority in the proposed diarchic administration, in the fifth vision, as that is communicated by ‘the relationship between the olive trees as symbol and the anointed ones as interpretation’.29 These are aspects that otherwise would have not attracted so much attention. As Kwant puts it, the audience of the prophet having lived briefly in the fictitious world was able to return to their real situation with their vision sharpened. They were able to learn something about reality from their short visit in the fictitious world.30 In this case, they learned that an unprecedented form of administration was a viable option since it was already in place and worked seamlessly in the heavenly plane where events unfold ideally. According to my analysis in the previous chapter, every one of the visions makes a specific point about the situation in post-exilic Yehud. As ben Zvi observes, they also point at a social need and they develop some ideological discourse to deal with such social lacks and wants, since as a product of the imagination they depict a situation in which these lacks are no more.31 This observation opens the way for an examination of the socio-rhetorical function of Zechariah’s visions. I. M. Lewis, discussing the sociology of ecstasy/enthusiasm, comments that ‘the circumstances which encourage the ecstatic response are precisely those where men feel themselves constantly threatened by exacting pressures which they do not know how to combat or control, except through those heroic flights of ecstasy by which they seek to demonstrate that they are the equals of the gods’.32 This argument demonstrates that enthusiasm thrives on an unstable social environment, where groups are small and fluctuating. The post-exilic social setting presents such a fractured picture. According to my analysis and presentation of the post-exilic social context, there are many reasons that fuelled a situation of social unrest and political strife. Hence, the social context in which Zechariah 29. Niditch argues that this relationship emphasizes the fact that Zechariah ‘does place the sacred priest and the secular ruler on equal levels’. Niditch, The Symbolic Vision, 110. 30. Kwant discusses the bond between the fictitious world of literature and reality. He claims that even though we may not know how we learn about reality from fictitious situations, artists and humorists have great influence upon real life because they enable their audience to do so. Remy C. Kwant, Phenomenology of Language (Pittsburgh, Pa.: Duquesne University Press, 1965), 93. 31. Ben Zvi makes this remark while discussing the function of utopian images. He claims that such images ‘point at wants in the perceived present as well as communicate a certainty that they will be overcome’. Ehud ben Zvi, ‘Utopias, Multiple Utopias, and Why Utopias at All?’, 57. 32. I. M. Lewis, Ecstatic Religion; A Study of Shamanism and Spirit Possession, (London and New York: Routledge, 1989), p.30. Lewis offers two examples from the Sudan Republic in order to show how closely the circumstances from social environment influence enthusiasm. ‘There, when the first national football team was formed and public enthusiasm for the sport was high among men, women begun to be preyed upon by footballer zar spirits. Similarly, during the military régime of General Aboud, a rash of military spirits appeared; and significantly in political circumstances, which were widely felt to be oppressive, a new category of anarchist spirits also entered the lists.’ Ibid., 89.



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was active lent itself to a more enthusiastic form of prophetic expression. This argument is also supported from a psychological point of view. Geels observes that the visionary religious revelation is often preceded by doubts or conflicts.33 A comment should also be made on the social function of visionary experiences. Enthusiastic forms of prophecy are considered to be a response to a situation of crisis. P. M. Yap holds that for this mode of prophecy to occur one must be confronted with a problem, which he sees little hope of solving.34 What this mode of prophecy seeks to proclaim is humanity’s triumphant mastery of an intolerable environment. Zechariah was trying to cut through the despair and hopelessness of the social conditions and to energize the people with a promise of viable hope. He was fully aware of the severity of the social problems but thought that these could be overcome, if the various factions of the post-exilic community could be unified. His message was an affirmation of the survival and prosperity of the community despite the insurmountable odds. Niditch claimed that Zechariah turned to visions because he found himself at a time when ‘the older direct forms of prophecy, oracles, were in decline’.35 I have tried to argue that it was not strictly a matter of using the mode of expression that was in fashion. Instead, I have focused on the effect of Zechariah’s visions in light of the enhanced metaphorical expression allowed by this medium. According to my analysis, a medium with strong metaphorical dimensions would have a better effect because of social instability, Zechariah’s attempt to augment his authority, the vividness, and inherent freedom of expression this method offered. These factors are not necessarily interrelated or part of a unified system. One could conclude the visionary method was better suited for the prophet’s context than plain oracles were. 6.3 Zechariah’s Message The reason why Cook and Bedford chose to draw a parallel between Zechariah 1–8 and millennial movements is because one finds in both potent 33. Geels agrees with a number of psychologists that an important condition for a mystical experience is ‘a state of overbelief’, in other words, ‘a foundation in a religious tradition’. He notes that ‘the mechanisms of the primary process [Geels accepts the division of the distinct cognitive processes into three main categories. The first such category is called the ‘primary process’ and it dominates the cognitive process in dreams and certain states of mental illness] can mean the solution to a conflict situation or can be seen as evidence that the deity is on the individual’s side’. Antoon Geels, ‘Mystical Experience and the Emergence of Creativity’, 37. 34. Yap adds that it is the shared cultural belief in the reality of possession that allows the subject to achieve an unrealistic solution to the problem. P. M. Yap, ‘The Possession Syndrome: A Comparison of Hong Kong and French Findings’, Journal of Mental Science 106 (1960): 126. 35. Niditch pinpoints this transition at the late sixth century. Niditch, The Symbolic Vision, 140.

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eschatological expectations and because some millennial movements happen to be also apocalyptic. I have explored at length the eschatology of the visions in Zechariah 1–6 and now I can complete the discussion of his relationship to apocalypticism and millennialism. The best way to begin is by consulting the definition of the apocalyptic genre as Collins has formulated it: ’Apocalypse’ is a genre of revelatory literature with a narrative framework, in which a revelation is mediated by an otherworldly being to a human recipient, disclosing a transcendent reality which is both temporal, insofar as it envisages eschatological salvation, and spatial insofar as it involves another, supernatural world.36

Zechariah’s visions can be compared with this definition with regard to both the method of revelation and the eschatological content. There are several examples of prophecy where the prophet gets his information from an otherworldly being rather than from YHWH himself.37 R. North observed that Zechariah 1–8 used a literary technique that became integral to the apocalyptic genre: the use of ‘dream-riddles’.38 Thus, on the grounds of the shared manner of revelation he argued that the prophet should be regarded as a kind of forerunner for the later genre. Furthermore, one can see how his use of the Angelus Interpres introduces a feature that became standard in the later genre. Nevertheless, instead of positing a genetic link between Zechariah and apocalypticism, it would be best to maintain that both share the same visionary technique. In the matter of eschatological content, there is a clear difference. As I have established in Chapter 2, apocalyptic eschatology is a distinct category easily identified from its belief on the transcendence of death. In the previous chapter I argued that Zechariah proposes an eschatological view according to which the time of change has arrived and the new world is ‘at hand’. Even though the prophet describes a supernatural world, this is not the world in which humans will live, and, most importantly, there is no transcendent salvation. Therefore, when it comes to eschatological content apocalypses and Zechariah differ significantly. We will follow a similar method in order to investigate the usefulness of the millennial analogue for understanding Proto-Zechariah’s message and role. In Chapter 3 I examined the problems created by scholars who adopted in their research vague definitions of millennialism. For a more reliable evaluation of this comparison I should proceed with a more precise definition of this phenomenon:39 36. J. J. Collins, ‘Towards the Morphology of a Genre’, Semeia, 14, (1979): 9. 37. Cf., Numbers 22:31, 2 Kings 1:3, Ezekiel 40:3ff. 38. R. North, ‘Prophecy to Apocalyptic via Zechariah’, 70. 39. We discussed at length the difficulties regarding the definition of millennialism in Chapter 3. Here we will reiterate Talmon’s reflections of the problem. She states that internal differentiation has resulted in partial and unsatisfactory attempts to construct a systematic typology of millennialism. Yonina Talmon, ‘Millenarism’, International Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences, ed. David L. Stills, vol.10 (New York: The Macmillan Company & The Free Press, 1968), 352.



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Millennialism is the belief that the end of this world is at hand and that in its wake will appear a New World, inexhaustibly fertile, harmonious, sanctified and just. The more exclusive the concern with the End itself, the more such belief shades off toward the catastrophic; the more exclusive the concern with the New World, the nearer it approaches the utopian.40

Even a cursory reading of this definition reveals the similarities between millennialism and Proto-Zechariah. They both share a concern with the end of the present order of things and the onset of a new world. Once more the unifying characteristic is a marked concern with the eschaton. One must take account of these similarities in eschatological outlook, but one must also consider how they differ. According to Schwartz’s definition, the traits that are prominent for millennialism are the end of the contemporary world and the coming of a new one. The stress in this change is placed in the catastrophic dimensions of the end and the utopian characteristics of the new.41 Zechariah speaks of a change in the status quo, but this change is neither annihilatory nor utopian.42 Zech 1:21 and 2:9, which refer to the punishment of the nations, convey a message of retribution rather than complete destruction. As he states in the second vision, the prophet seems concerned with balancing the scale between Israel and the nations.43 Furthermore, according to the first and the last vision (Zech 1:11, 6:8), what is stressed is the peaceful state of the cosmos. There is no proclamation of a coming catastrophe. This predominance of serenity 40. H. Schwartz, ‘Millenarianism: An Overview’, The Encyclopedia of Religion, vol.9 (New York, Macmillan Publishing Company, 2005), 6028. Schwartz also claims that ‘altogether as a system of thought and social movement, millenarianism spins on two axes: golden age or new era; primitive paradise or promised land’. Ibid., 6032. Talmon offers a more general but similar definition of millennialism: ‘The term “millenarian” (or “chiliastic”) is now used not in its specific and limited historical sense but typologically, to characterize religious movements that expect imminent, total, ultimate, this-worldly, collective salvation. Used thus, the term applies to a wide range of movements.’ Talmon, ‘Millenarism’, 349. She also believes that in millennialism ‘the notion of the perfect time is accompanied by the notion of the perfect space’. Ibid., 351. 41. Schwartz maintains that millennial movements are always interested in a process of transformation, even when the image of the New World is that of a golden age, or a distant galaxy or a supernatural transformation of the world. Schwartz, ‘Millenarianism’, 6029. Later he reasons that this transformation is necessary in order to establish the ultimate harmony between human and the natural. Ibid., 6031. 42. Talmon comments that since millenarian movements view the impending redemption as ultimate and irrevocable they espouse that ‘the new dispensation will bring about not mere improvement but a complete transformation and perfection itself’. Talmon, ‘Millenarism’, 351. She also emphasizes the destructive aspect of millennialism when she specifies that ‘redemption is preceded by premillennial catastrophe’. Ibid., 353. 43. Meyers and Meyers in their discussion of the second vision state that it communicates a miraculous reversal between the fortunes of Israel and the nations. Meyers and Meyers, Haggai Zechariah 1–8, 148. According to Petersen Zechariah shares the view of Deutero-Isaiah, who views the nations as the instruments of YHWH. Thus, Zechariah is of the opinion that since the nations went beyond what YHWH had originally intended they deserved to be destroyed by the artisans in the second vision. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 154, 166.

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and the continuity with traditional structures is in sharp contrast to the tumultuous upheavals that typify millennialism.44 There is also an important qualitative difference that one has to take into account. Zechariah’s visions reflect a concern for a political rather than cosmic change. The prophet works carefully in order to establish the credentials of the two figures he considers crucial for this change (3:1-10 and 4:1-13) because his goal is to present and set on a firm basis the innovative form of rule he proposes: the diarchy. This agenda is further illustrated by the description of the coronation of the branch (Zech 6:9-14). The changes Zechariah advocates have to do with the present world, and they are by no means catastrophic. More to the point, he pushes for a restructuring of the present system of administration rather than its replacement by something out of this world.45 The new order that Zechariah describes is ideal but not utopian. Zechariah does not proclaim a primitive paradise/new creation the way Trito-Isaiah does (Isa. 65:17-25).46 In the third vision (2:5-9), a number of important claims are made about Jerusalem. The most striking one is that YHWH will be a wall of fire around the city. The thrust of this claim is to present Jerusalem as a restored, repopulated city, not a recreated one.47 As I mentioned earlier, the world which the visionary relates is full of wondrous creatures performing miraculous actions. This feature of the visions, however, must be understood in light of the prophet’s rhetorical technique. In conclusion, although certain millennial traits can be found in Zechariah 1–8 there are other more important characteristics of millennial movements, 44. Zechariah’s respect for past tradition and desire for continuity contradicts the millenarian quest for complete transformation. Talmon notes that millenarian movements display antinomian tendencies which may vary from moderate to radical. She adds that ‘many millenarian movements deliberately break accepted taboos and overthrow hallowed norms’. Talmon, ‘Millenarism’, 351. 45. It is important to keep in mind that there are texts which describe and anticipate a future disaster; 4 Ezra would be a representative example. 46. Blenkinsopp comments that this unit presents a transformation of the natural world, ‘a return to the first creation’. He adds that this new creation can be viewed as an apokatastasis, ‘a return to origins, to the lost world of innocence that came to an end with the great deluge’. Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 56–66, 290. Blenkinsopp also suggests that the renewal of the cosmos in this unit should be understood in the context of the vindication of YHWH’s servants and chosen. Their vindication is enlarged to such a degree that ‘the new name of these chosen ones is taken up into a new heavens, new earth, and a new city’. Ibid., 285. Whybray also believes that this unit speaks of a ‘completely new beginning’. Whybray, Isaiah 40–66, 276. Westermann claims that only verses 17a and 25 speak of a transformation of conditions in the present world. He believes that the rest of the unit communicates the transition from trouble to salvation for Judah and Jerusalem. Westermann, Isaiah 40–66, 410. 47. The idea of a recreated Jerusalem appears in Trito-Isaiah. In 65:18 God announces: ‘But be glad and rejoice forever in what I am creating; for I am about to create Jerusalem as a joy, and its people as a delight.’ Whybray comments that by using the verb to create in connection with Jerusalem the prophet implies that ‘the city will be more than simply a restoration of the old: when Yahweh creates it is always something quite new’. Whybray, Isaiah 40-66, 276–7. Koole also suggests that verse 18b along with 17a emphasize the fact that ‘God will bring about something unheard of and new’. Koole, Isaiah, Part III, 453.



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which are lacking. Most importantly they differ markedly in their eschatological viewpoint. At the root of the misunderstanding regarding their compatibility seems to be the observation that Zechariah shares with millenarian movements messianic ideas and metaphorical thinking. Schwartz observes that messianic leaders are often associated with millennial movements: ‘we can make no easy distinctions between messianic and millenarian movements.’48 However, this is a limited parallel, and it is not free of its own complexities.49 Furthermore, as I have discussed, the reasons that led Zechariah to employ metaphorical language can be explained independently from millennial thinking. Hence, one should be wary of drawing comparisons with millennial groups to analyse this material. 6.4 Zechariah’s Function Hanson and Cook argued that Zechariah 1–8 was a spokesperson for a group of ‘central priests’ who were in a position of power.50 Hanson believes that Haggai and Zechariah were representing priestly interests because they ‘tied their eschatological predictions to the specific details of the hierocratic program’.51 Cook defends this argument because he wants to draw an analogy between Zechariah and priests, who act as the catalyst figures that lead millennial groups.52 Since Zechariah is part of the prophetic collection of books in the Hebrew Bible, I need to take a closer look at Zechariah’s ties to the priesthood by examining his lineage and his interests.

48. Schwartz adds that ‘where there are no focal messianic leaders millenarians usually take upon themselves a collective messianic mantle’. Schwartz, ‘Millenarianism’, 6031. 49. Schwartz believes that the messianism in millennial movements is related to the new world. He states: ‘the New World implied by most millenarian movements presumes not only a new natural physiognomy but also a new human physiognomy, one that is messianic in import’. However, he adds that ‘few messianic leaders appear without heralding an instantaneous New World’. Schwartz, ‘Millenarianism’, 6031. Talmon shares the same opinion. She notes that: ‘millenarism usually involves messianism, but the two do not necessarily coincide’. She clarifies that ‘redemption is in certain cases brought about directly by the divine’. Talmon, ‘Millenarism’, 353. 50. Cook maintains that Zechariah not only received the support of the Yehudite elders according to Ezra 6:13-15, but he was himself a priest. Cook, Prophecy and Apocalypticism, 138–9. 51. As we discussed, Hanson bases his assertion that Haggai and Zechariah were affiliated to the hierocratic party on the type of language they use and their mode of expression. He claims that these two prophets ‘did not cast their prophecy in the elevated language of the visionaries; they did not portray a cosmic redemption by Yahweh alone unrelated to the particulars of historical events’. Hanson, Dawn of Apocalyptic, 245. 52. Cook presents evidence from different millennial movements according to which the roles of millennial prophet/catalyst figure and spokesman overlapped. Cook, Prophecy and Apocalypticism, 71–4.

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According to the superscription of the book (1:1), Zechariah was the grandson of Iddo. This Iddo could be identified with the priest mentioned by Nehemiah (Neh. 12:4), which would mean that Zechariah was eligible to be a priest by birth.53 One would expect that if he had a priestly background his prophecy would have been shaped by it. Indeed, he is favourable to priests and priestly concerns; after all, the effect of Zechariah’s fourth vision is to absolve Joshua, the high priest. Nevertheless, Zechariah states that Joshua ‘was dressed with filthy clothes’ (3:3-4) and hence acknowledges the fact that the high priest was not blameless. Later on (3:6-7), when he relates YHWH’s message, he sets specific terms for Joshua: ‘if you will walk in my ways and keep my requirements, then you shall rule my house and have charge of my courts’. Zechariah implies that the blessing upon the priests is conditional and that the priests have certain standards to meet in order to maintain their privileges. Therefore, although Zechariah could have a priestly background, his position over against the priesthood was not completely uncritical, as one would expect from a designated spokesperson of the group. The fourth vision is not the only place in which Zechariah voices cultic concerns.54 The sixth vision that discusses the removal of moral impurity and the seventh vision that treats the ousting of cultic impurity deal also with subjects that one would relegate to the priesthood. However, Zechariah in his visions does not discuss exclusively cultic matters. The issue of political administration is equally prominent. It is true that Zechariah uses priestly imagery in his visions, like the altar in the second vision and the lampstand in the fifth. However, he does not confine himself to one type of imagery. Scholars have argued that the equestrian images in the first and the last vision originate from a military context.55 He also seems to use imagery from a variety of sources.56 Furthermore, one has to consider that there were other factors that would require Zechariah to address in detail cultic concerns and particularly the issue of purity. It would have been virtually impossible to touch on the issue 53. Despite the fact that Iddo is usually identified with the priest mentioned in Neh 12:4, R. R. Wilson has suggested that we should also consider the person with the same name mentioned by the Chronicler. In 2 Chron 9:29 and 12:15 Iddo is identified as a prophet and a visionary. Wilson posits that the goal of the superscription in Zech. 1:1 could be to connect Zechariah with this figure in order to enhance his prophetic authority. Wilson, Prophecy and Society, 288–9. 54. Niditch ascribes Zechariah’s cultic concerns to his desire to re-establish the ‘positive tabernacling relationship with God’. Niditch, The Symbolic Vision, 106. Cook does not try to establish a priestly background for Zechariah on the basis of his language. I agree with his view that there are considerable methodological problems regarding the identification of groups on the grounds of distinctive language because of the complexity around post-exilic literary activity and redaction. Cook, Prophecy and Apocalypticism, 140. 55. Niditch concludes that the martial potential of the chariots invokes the battle theme in Zechariah. Niditch, The Symbolic Vision, 156. 56. Tigchelaar argues that the winged heavenly creatures in Zechariah have precedents in Canaanite mythology. Tigchelaar, Prophets of Old, 62.



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of return to the land and the temple past Ezekiel without counterpointing effectively his argument.57 This is further demonstrated by the fact that every post-exilic prophet delves into cultic issues. The arguments based on Zechariah’s imagery, Zion theology and prominence of the high priest cannot prove conclusively that he was a priest.58 They do show, however, that he had priestly sensibilities. This is further demonstrated in Zechariah 7:3 when the people go both to ‘the priests of the house of the LORD of hosts and the prophets’ to inquire about proper procedure for fasting. In 7:4-7 the prophet provides the answer to this question showing thus his aptitude in cultic matters.59 One should also qualify the centrality of priesthood upon the return. The social conditions during this period were rather unstable and fluid. The temple became the centre of the society when it was built and priests then acquired the stable position of power, which Cook wants to ascribe to them right from the beginning. It is true that priests were closer to the centre of power than the other competing social factions. However, they were still struggling to establish and consolidate this position of power in Judah. After all, if they already had the power Cook seems to imply they had, they would not have needed Zechariah’s assistance to get the temple built. Thus, one has to conclude that in such a complex social situation, priests had only relative power next to Zerubbabel and the elders who were mediating between the people and the Persian authorities. 57. In his discussion of Ezekiel’s vision in 8:1–11:25 Zimmerli states that the prophet shows to the people that God is no longer in the temple. The divine presence has abandoned the Temple because of the sins of the people in the elect city. W. Zimmerli, Ezekiel 1, 253. Zechariah’s sensibility regarding past prophecies is corroborated by his reference to Jeremiah’s prophecy about the seventy-year span before the completion of the Babylonian rule (Jer 25:11, 29:10). 58. Cook argues that Zechariah’s advocacy of the theology of the election of Jerusalem signifies his priestly identity. He adds that Zion theology is evident in several points of Zechariah’s visions. Cook, Prophecy and Apocalypticism, 142. Given that Zechariah wanted to promote the rebuilding of the Jerusalem temple, it would be impossible for him not to use the most convincing argument in the arsenal, i.e. Zion theology. The return to Jerusalem had been framed in terms of the divine election of Jerusalem before Zechariah. Another claim that Cook makes in order to ground the prophet’s priestly identity is the emphasis that the high priest receives in Zechariah’s polity. Cook asserts that the participation of the high priest in the highest level of authority demonstrates the Zadokite prominence. Ibid., 143. Indeed the dyarchic administrative model reserves a prominent role for the high priest. However, it does not necessarily mean that Zechariah was himself a priest. If we have interpreted the phrase ‘with peaceful understanding between the two of them’ (Zech 6:13b) correctly, then it is equally probable that the reason why he wanted the high priest at the helm of the community was to keep in balance the royal authority. A similar model was in effect in the early days of the monarchy when the prophets exerted a greater influence over the decisions of the king. 59. Wilson argues that the fact that people go to both the priests and the prophets shows that by the early post-exilic period the two prophetic traditions of Israel had merged. According to the Jerusalemite tradition the people would go to the priest with such a question, while in accordance with the Ephraimite norm they would consult a Mosaic prophet. Wilson, Prophecy and Society, 289.

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More importantly, it should be noted that Zechariah, despite his priestly sensibilities, perceives himself as a prophet. The fact that he sees and presents himself as a prophet is evident from the allusions made to the ‘former prophets’ (Zech 1:4-6 and 7:7). The claim made in these verses is a historical one, specifically, that the prophets in an earlier time spoke to the fathers of the Judeans to whom Zechariah was now speaking. The underlying idea is that despite the differences in prophets, former versus contemporary, their authority is identical. They all speak directly the words of YHWH, within the context of a particular situation, and so does Zechariah. Therefore, while it is correct to associate Zechariah with the cult it is simplistic to think of him solely as a priest.60 One could say that if Zechariah was just another priest then his message would not have been as successful. It was his identity as a prophet and the fact that he kept a fairly critical position towards the priests that lent credibility and appeal to his message. 6.6 Is Zechariah a Sui Generis Prophet? We determined that branding Zechariah a priest is not accurate given his role. Both the prophet himself and biblical tradition view him as one of the prophets. Nevertheless scholars have viewed Zechariah as a unique case and have resorted to comparisons with apocalypticism and millennialism in order to explain his function. Zechariah is not unique in terms of what he tried to achieve. He made a concrete effort to determine the structure of the post-exilic community by influencing public opinion and decision-making. Specifically, he tried to help surmount discord and promote co-operation among the competing factions. He also tried to affect leadership, by supporting the election of specific political leaders. Additionally he addressed cultic issues of general interest for his society and he attempted to control social morality in a broad scale.61 There are several prophets in the Hebrew Bible who share these goals. One of the factors that set Zechariah apart is his visionary technique. According to my discussion, Zechariah uses visions in a distinct manner and 60. As D. L. Petersen states, the date formula of the first vision (1:7) precludes mention of Israel or Judah or mention of a monarch by means of which to date his work. Instead, the introductory formula emphasizes the ‘foreign’ context in which YHWH and Israel find themselves. This situation was dictated by a foreign ruler and is reflected by foreign vocabulary. In this aspect there is a distinct parallel, of this verse, with the first vision of Zechariah, which comprises a lament against the permanence of an unsatisfactory status quo. By admitting that the prophet was setting off from an unsatisfactory status quo a new spin is already given to his message, a spin which precludes simplistic approaches that present the prophet as a priestly agent with a single goal. D. L. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 138. 61. Vallier maintains that ‘a religious specialist is a person in possession of ritual authority, esoteric knowledge, or spiritual gifts who is recognized as competent in the solution of religious needs’. Ivan A. Vallier, ‘Religious Specialists: Sociological Study’, in International Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences, ed. David L. Sills, vol.13 (New York: The Macmillan Company & The Free Press, 1968), 444.



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relies on them in a greater degree than other prophets. As I have shown, several scholars have pointed out that this is a real point of similarity with apocalyptic literature. Instead of articulating clearly his opinions with a straightforward oracle, Zechariah employs visions that address the world of everyday experience by describing events transpiring in the heavenly world. He seems to imply that the actions in the spiritual plane can actually influence the exigencies in his present. In order to shed some light on Zechariah’s function, I should try to analyse the goal he was trying to achieve with his visions. 6.7 The Visionary Technique Since as I have claimed Zechariah’s message is neither apocalyptic nor millennial, I have to define positively what it is. I will argue that Zechariah delivers a prophetic message that emphasizes the singular opportunity for Temple rebuilding that is presented to the post-exilic community. The visions of Zechariah presuppose that there is a spiritual world, visible only to the prophet. This visionary world forms the backdrop of historical reality. In the first vision, he asserts that in the world of the visions the earth is at peace and that the Lord has returned to Jerusalem, an unhoped-for event given the demoralizing historical experiences of the exile and the prevailing disorder in post-exilic society.62 The implication is that his contemporaries should realize the importance of this change and take advantage of the opportunities it offers for their own world. The second vision reveals that the Lord has appointed ‘four blacksmiths’ to strike down the ‘horns of the nations’, who terrified and scattered Judah in the past. Therefore, this is an opportune moment for restoration and the rebuilding of the Temple since God grants them rest from their enemies. The rest from the enemies is a theme that resonates deeply with the circumstances that marked the erection of the Solomonic temple. Therefore, the prophet implies that the preconditions for building the Temple are right. In the third vision God and his agents are grooming Jerusalem for rebuilding. In this case, the underlying message is that people should try to get on the same timetable in order to capitalize on the divine assistance available at this juncture. The fourth vision drives the timeliness of the rebuilding up a notch by offering a clear demonstration of the synchronization of the two worlds. Joshua, the high priest, is absolved of all guilt in the heavenly plane and at the same instant he is considered ritually pure and fit to rule and have charge of the Temple in Jerusalem. As 62. Meyers and Meyers claim that Zech 1:11 and 1:15a ‘reflect the measure of stability that had been achieved by Darius at the end of his second regnal year’. Meyers and Meyers, Haggai Zechariah 1–8, 133. Petersen observes that the term ‘peacefully’ is used ‘as something of an antonym for Yahweh’s military activity, and this especially in exilic and postexilic prophet texts: cf. Ezek. 16:42; 38:11; Isa. 62:1; Jer. 47:6-7’. He adds that in Zechariah the implication is that ‘there is no disturbance, whether by earthly or divine agents’. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 145–6.

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far as the prophet is concerned this is a fait accompli and he discloses it to his audience in order to render them cognizant of the event. In this particular vision the two worlds are synchronized. After an elaborate introduction and exposition the fifth vision concludes with a messianic statement: ‘these are the two anointed ones who stand by the Lord of the whole earth’ (4:14). Despite how the people may have evaluated the current situation, God has chosen, anointed, and placed next to him two figures, who most probably are going to extend his rule in the earthly plane. The prophet is effectively asking the people to acknowledge God’s choice and facilitate his rule as they had done in the past. In the next two visions, Zechariah relates the removal of moral and ritual impurity respectively. In the first case the preservation of the ethical purity is conditional and depends on the people’s co-operation, while in the second God effectively transposes the iniquity to another land.63 The underlying message is that God and his servants have taken all the requisite measures for a new period of blessing and people have only to open their eyes to what has transpired and seize the day in order to profit from the favourable conditions. The last vision winds up with the angel assuring the prophet that God’s chariots have managed to effect the intended result; God’s ‘spirit is at rest in the north country’.64 This statement provides an appropriate completion to Zechariah’s project. It shows that God has taken action and has succeeded in mending the rupture in the time axis that had torn asunder the two worlds putting a distance between God and the people. As Petersen puts it: ‘now the earth can respond to the deity’s initiatives.’65 The repeated message of the visions is that the time for action has arrived.66 Zechariah tries to convince his audience that this time period marks a new beginning.67 The question that I want to pursue is why the people found his argument cogent and proceeded to build the temple under adverse conditions. This is particularly interesting when one considers that most of the biblical 63. Petersen observes that the conditional statement communicates that ‘Yahweh’s intentionality for the new community is not, therefore, fully routinized within the new human structures’. He adds that ‘Yahweh, rather than these authorities, has primary responsibility for the articulation and defense of Israel’s social contract and norms’. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 254. 64. Whether or not the term ‘north country’ refers to the enemies of Israel or to the benevolent Persian policy, I agree with Petersen that the thrust of the verse is that the universe is now ordered. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 271. 65. Petersen comments that the vision sequence ends with a sense of conclusion as well as movement, noting that at that point it is the time for the human agents to act. He adds that ‘the intermediate realm in which so much of the visionary action has taken place symbolizes the transition from divine to human action’. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 272. 66. Oppenheim argues that the ‘symbolic dream’ of the ancient Near East in regards to its function is a message dream. Leo A. Oppenheim, Interpretation of Dreams, 206. 67. Tigchelaar makes a similar point when he analyses the fifth vision. He states that ‘by relating the temple to creation Zechariah expresses his belief in a new beginning’. He concludes that: ‘Zechariah’s central vision announces the high point of Yahweh’s new beginning with his people, a fresh start linked to the construction of the temple.’ Tigchelaar, Prophets of Old, 45–6.



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prophets had to face the daunting frustration of being perpetually ignored by their audience. I believe that the prophet was successful for two reasons. On the one hand, the timing was conducive to a momentous change in the history of Israel.68 The particularities of Persian administration had generated hopes for the rebirth of the Israelite nation. Furthermore, his message cut across the dividing lines among priests, politicians, and laity. He presented an attractive scenario for everyone, and he persuaded his compatriots to act in unison because after a long stretch of affliction the time was right to turn the tide. To paraphrase ben Zvi, he managed to overcome the obstacles of social fragmentation because according to his message the eschatological temperature was hot and the new world was ‘at hand’.69 On the other hand, if my interpretation of the fourth and sixth vision is accurate, the prophet communicated that the situation was ideal at that very point but also conditional,70 the implication being that it was not immutable; it could soon change. If my analysis is correct, the window of opportunity the people were facing was short. They had to make up their minds fairly soon if they wanted to benefit from the favourable circumstances. It was the combination of these two factors that convinced the people to listen to his message and follow his suggestions. Therefore, I would argue that Proto-Zechariah should not be viewed in a separate category. Instead, I would argue that he is a prophet with some distinctive features. 6.8 The Peculiarity of the Social Context Zechariah’s social context is the other factor, which lends to his distinctive status as a prophet and affects his role. As regards this context, the lack of an indisputable political and religious authority in the form of the king or the established high priest influenced the way Zechariah functioned. Prophets in the Hebrew Bible are intermediaries. Largely they mediate between people 68. Meyers and Meyers note that ‘in the late sixth century B.C.E., under very difficult conditions, Zechariah offered the hope of a glorious future, which provided comfort to the soul of the people and enabled them to remain in readiness to achieve consummation of their efforts and aspirations’. Meyers and Meyers, Haggai Zechariah 1–8, 375. 69. Ben Zvi argues that the increased social tensions in the late Second Temple Period along with the decrease in the extent to which ideological construction could be controlled by the centre led to incongruent visions of the future. However, he adds that this incongruence was ‘far less likely to lead to permanent social fragmentation when the eschatological temperature was hot and the new world is “at hand”’. Ehud ben Zvi, ‘Utopias, Multiple Utopias, and Why Utopias at All?’, 81. 70. Another conditional statement is found in the prose section at the end of chapter 6. Zech 6:15 reads: ‘This will happen [those who are far off shall come and help to build the temple of the LORD] if you diligently obey the voice of the LORD your God.’ Meyers and Meyers comment that several other Pentateuchal passages contain similar statements (Exod 15:26, Deut 11:13 and Lev 26:14). However, Zechariah shifts the covenant orientation of the Pentateuchal examples. They believe that the anticipated result of obedience to YHWH in Zechariah will be the renewal of the Davidic covenant with the temple signifying dynastic legitimacy. Meyers and Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 366.

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and/or God and the authorities of the community. Zechariah had lost the one pole of his mediatory function. To put it differently, the traditional forum for discussion and resolution of issues maintained by the royal court or the cultic functionaries of the temple, which were used by so many other biblical prophets, is absent. Haggai, who is thrown into the same situation, tries to recreate a sense of the traditional social order by addressing most of his oracles to Zerubbabel, Joshua, and the people. With this salutation he strives to recreate the veneer of a central and structured organization that would put his message in context and elevate his voice above the chaotic polyphony of the contesting parties in the post-exilic society. It is almost as if Haggai and Zechariah were operating in a stateless society. This is another factor that places Zechariah in a distinct category. Thus, one is hard pressed to find analogies with other prophets that would illuminate aspects of his function that are not explicitly reflected in his prophecy. As I have discussed, Zechariah’s social context has featured prominently in almost every discussion about his function. I believe that this difference has also prompted scholars to look for parallels in apocalyptic or millennial material. 6.9 Zechariah’s Societal Contribution The vast majority of the prophets in the biblical canon made their career by criticizing the authorities of their time whether these were political or religious. There is evidence that the kings in Israel and Judah employed court prophets whose task was to deliver favourable oracles to the monarch when the situation called for one. There is also evidence of cultic prophecy and its goal seems to have been the support of the cult in its various forms. ‘Central intermediaries’ were not alien to Israelite culture.71 Indeed, their existence is also widely attested in the ancient Near East.72 Nevertheless, the prophets

71. Wilson explains that societies control possession carefully within the central cult, since ‘this type of possession is an established part of the central social structure’; anthropologists refer to these individuals as ‘central intermediaries’. Robert R. Wilson, Prophecy and Society, 40. 72. Most of the extant Near Eastern prophecies belong to a monarchic social context. This is probably the case because the kings had an interest and the means necessary to collect and preserve prophetic oracles. Nissinen specifies that ‘the overwhelming majority of the material in the Assyrian archives derives from the reigns of Esharhaddon and Ashurbanipal, while the percentage of sources from the time of earlier Sargonid kings is modest indeed’. Martti Nissinen, ‘The Socioreligious Role of the Neo-Assyrian Prophets’, in Prophecy in its Near Eastern Context (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2000), 106. Van der Toorn states that there are several indications that prophetic oracles were collected and preserved by royal bureaucracy. He also offers examples where the dynastic perspective of the NeoAssyrian prophecies becomes explicit. Karel van der Toorn, ‘Mesopotamian Prophecy between Immanence and Transcendence: A Comparison of Old Babylonian and NeoAssyrian Prophecy’, in Prophecy in its Near Eastern Context (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2000), 74–5.



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that made the canon are of a different ilk.73 One could claim that most of the writing prophets in the Hebrew Bible were anti-conformists and refused to collaborate with the ruling figures of their time.74 Tradition seems to recognize and accept prophecy as a checking mechanism conceived to hold civic and religious authorities from overstepping their boundaries. Prophets have often been celebrated as the advocates of social change.75 In this context, it is surprising that Proto-Zechariah was included in the prophetic canon. On the one hand, he claims that he relates the ‘words of the Lord’ like the former prophets, but on the other, he defends the power structures of his time. Despite his criticism and the modifications he makes to both the office of the high priest and the governor, he is very supportive of both these figures and promotes their interests. Even though he specifies that Joshua’s rule over the house of the Lord will be conditional, he also states, via a rhetorical question, that Joshua is ‘a brand plucked from the fire’. The implied message is that people should tolerate from the current high priest a bit more than they normally would due to extenuating circumstances.76 Similarly, he amplifies Zerubbabel’s political aspirations by placing them in a different context. The prophet declares that it is not by power or might that the governor will accomplish the task ahead but by YHWH’s spirit. This statement compels Zerubbabel to continue as the political head of the community despite his lack of military power. Furthermore, he does not shy away from declaring that Zerubbabel’s task that now looks like a great

73. Wellhausen observes that Isaiah, Micah and Amos agree with Hosea who complains that the priests ‘cultivate the system of sacrifices instead of the Torah’. J. Wellhausen, Prolegomena, 57. 74. Weber asserts that prophets were ‘interested in ethics not in cult’. M. Weber, Ancient Judaism, 299. Wolff adds that the classical prophets in general opposed strongly the ‘official temple prophets and also the priests (Isa. 28:7ff; Hos. 4:5; Mic. 3:5-8; Jer. 23:11; 26:7ff; Ezek.7:26; 22:25ff)’. H. W. Wolff, ‘Prophecy from the Eighth Through the Fifth Century’, in Interpreting the Prophets, ed. J. L. Mays and P. J. Achtemeier (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1987), 18. 75. Barton maintains that the idea that ‘classical’ prophets are distinguished by their desire to challenge and protest and be morally serious is a modern judgment that people in ancient times had not formed. Barton believes that the modern discussion about the survival of prophecy in post-exilic time is missing a sense of historical perspective of cultural change. He adds that ‘for pre-exilic Israel, the classical prophets were eccentrics, strange and alarming figures who broke the mould of accepted beliefs and values’. He concludes that classical prophets ‘fit into no categories that were recognized even by very early readers of the prophetic scriptures’. ‘They were not what the ancient world called prophets; they were individuals without status, lone geniuses whom any generic title belittles.’ The task for modern scholarship according to Barton is to ‘do better in establishing what “the old prophets” were really like’. John Barton, Oracles of God, 267–73. 76. Meyers and Meyers believe that according to Zechariah the fact that Joshua survived the exile and returned to Jerusalem ‘in the capacity of high priest is hardly accidental’. Meyers and Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 187. Petersen argues that the metaphor of the burned piece of wood snatched out of fire serves to suggest Joshua’s innocence. D. L. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 193.

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mountain will become a plain before him.77 As far as this prophet is concerned, Joshua and Zechariah are ‘the two anointed ones who stand by the LORD of the whole earth’. In his last oracle he is even told to crown them. Therefore, two questions emerge. In what way is Proto-Zechariah similar to the other canonical prophets if he contradicts their basic function so sharply, and why would he choose to follow such an atypical path? Before I answer these questions, I have to offer a couple of qualifications. As I noticed, Zechariah is not devoid of criticism and he also dared to make statements that did not communicate unconditional support towards either Joshua or Zerubbabel. However, his tempered criticism does not seem to change the overall impression that the prophet was overtly supportive of the two leaders and sought to establish a state and cultic authority – authorities that most of his predecessors made a career criticizing. However, one should keep in mind that Zechariah should not be judged with the same criteria as other prophets for the simple reason that during his time the whole society had collapsed and the task was to build rather than demolish. Indeed, the pressing challenge he and his community had to face was to pick up the remaining pieces and move forward with the restoration. This is the reason why Zechariah advocated a course of action that would bring back institutions which had proved problematic and sometimes untrustworthy in the past. Establishing some sense of order, even if that order would come with well-known drawbacks, was preferable to the chaos that was plaguing post-exilic society, particularly if one ponders the threat that this chaos would pose for the existence of this society in the long term. The divisive tendencies would lead to a fragmentation of the social fabric. The loss of the internal cohesive elements that held this community together would mean that its survival would depend on its identity as Yehud, the province of the Persian empire. Considering this alternative, one can understand why ProtoZechariah would want to get his society back to a more reliable structure, a structure that had ensured the survival of his nation for so many centuries in the past. Furthermore, one has to consider that his proposition is neither unimaginative nor retrogressive. He did not argue for a wholesale acceptance of past institutions. Navigating within the realm of possibility allowed by the post-exilic circumstances he was able to come up with a refined proposal. According to his diarchic political system, both figures seem to serve under the supervision of YHWH and their primary responsibility is providing for the cult. Furthermore, the authority of the one is held in check by the authority of the other and the two will have to strive for a co-operative and understanding relationship. We should note that Zechariah’s attempts at winning widespread approval for the High Priest and designating the legitimate successor from the line 77. Petersen notes that according to this statement Zerubbabel will receive ‘shouts of approbation’. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 239. Meyers and Meyers add that the prophetic sanction in this passage extends from the suitability of the site for the rebuilding of the temple to the suitability of the supervisor. Meyers and Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 251.



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of David could potentially have an interesting side effect. Prophecy in the Israelite context was always viewed in conjunction with the monarchy and the cult. Without these two institutions the necessity for prophecy would diminish; the forum in which they could be active, as well as the institutions that they were expected to scrutinize, were extinct. It is possible then that Zechariah opted for a mild critique of the leading figures because a failure to establish a solid civic and religious authority would also mean the extinction of prophecy. The perpetuation of an environment without an indigenous cult and governance would mean that traditional prophecy would soon lose its frame of reference. As a prophet, Zechariah probably hoped to maintain the parameters that would ensure that his vocation would retain its cultural relevance, at least until there was established some sense of order in the postexilic society. Zechariah lived in a peculiar social context. The traditional institutions had dissolved and people’s priorities did not include the reinstatement of past institutions. They were also reticent to recognize a hierarchy comprised mostly of returnees, possibly with the fear that they would represent only the interests of the exiles. Furthermore, among the aspiring officials there did not seem to be a leader that would inspire confidence or would promote unity around a cause and as a result the society was in disarray. The classic argument of Wellhausen states that all that the prophet aims at is ‘the restoration of the temple and perhaps the elevation of Zerubbabel to the throne of David’.78 It is true that Zechariah devotes a great part of his message promoting the cult and the Davidic heir. However, Zechariah’s intervention was appreciated for its constructive contribution. Being supportive of leaders was not unusual in the history of prophecy; it may have been the norm. It is, however, unusual to find such a prophet in the canon. The fact that Zechariah was included in the canon is because subsequent generations recognized his pivotal societal role in the rebuilding of the community. 6.10 Conclusion Apocalyptic and millennial models do not provide the most fruitful comparisons with the early post-exilic period. They detract from the complexity of Zechariah’s message, visionary mode of expression and societal function. I have tried to show that the superimposition of the millennial parallel on Proto-Zechariah disregards the particularities of the early postexilic period and presents the prophet as the mouthpiece of various groups. According to my analysis, there are more dimensions to his role than voicing the concerns of a particular segment of the community. Zechariah was neither an apocalyptic visionary nor a millennial priest. He was a prophet. His prophetic message employed eschatology to promote restoration. This particular type of eschatology addresses the immediate future and it has both 78. Julius Wellhausen, ‘Zechariah, Book of’, in Encyclopaedia Biblica, ed. T. Cheyne, vol.4 (New York: Macmillan, 1903), 5394.

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a cultic and a political character. As such, the eschatology of both Haggai and Zechariah is indicative of the early post-exilic period which itself was a time of transition, and hence the potential for a considerable change was almost tangible. Proto-Zechariah’s metaphorical way of thinking and visionary mode of communication emphasized the timeliness of such a change. His significance as a prophet is not restricted to his designation of the anointed future leaders. His intervention was crucial in stabilizing a volatile social situation by promoting the rebuilding of the temple and by proposing a better type of political administration.

Chapter 7

Conclusion

In the middle of the twentieth century, R. H. Charles and H. H. Rowley maintained that apocalypticism was the child of prophecy. The umbilical cord that connected the two was their shared interest in eschatology. Eschatology is understood to refer to expectations and events that are going to transpire at the end-time. However, eschatological expectations are not identical throughout time or within the same literary genre. There are significant variations regarding the nature of the end and the addressee of the eschatological message. In Chapter 2 I set out to distinguish between the various types in order to gain a more nuanced understanding of the widely accepted connection between prophecy and apocalypticism. I came up with the following results: • In pre-exilic prophetic eschatology, eschatological messages are distinctive in one important respect: they address that nation in its entirety. The examples I examined from Amos and Isaiah show that in pre-exilic prophecy there was a clear distinction between Israel and the rest of the world. • Post-exilic prophetic eschatology is comparable to the apocalyptic variety, but it is not the same. Mowinckel, Hanson and Cook have argued that the two are similar and that this similarity constitutes a break between preexilic and post-exilic prophecy, a break that brings post-exilic prophecy and apocalypticism closer together. They base their argument on the fact that both types use heavily mythological language and motifs in order to give expression to eschatological ideas. I countered that the difference in the mythic motifs between pre-exilic and post-exilic eschatology is in degree, not in kind. Put differently, it is quantitative, not thematic. Therefore, this criterion is not helpful in distinguishing between eschatological types or tracing connections. • Plöger and Hanson offered an additional argument. They asserted that the grey area between post-exilic prophecy and apocalypticism is to be found in the growing tensions within the community. These tensions are evident in the eschatological expressions of both genres.

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• Following their suggestion, I posited that the socio-historical changes brought about by the exile redefined the addressee between pre-exilic and post-exilic in prophecy. Looking at passages from Third Isaiah and Malachi, I pointed out that their eschatological message is restricted to a specific group within the community and not the entire nation. Israel was not defined over against the world, but over against itself. • The fracturing of the community in interest groups is a point of contact between post-exilic prophecy and apocalypticism. However, apocalypticism pushes the eschatological envelope even further with the belief in the resurrection of the dead. This change constitutes a significant difference between the restoration of a deserving interest group in history and the restoration of the righteous in the afterlife. While examining the connection between prophecy and apocalypticism via eschatology, my findings led me to the conclusion that eschatological expectations in the various genres were tailored to the circumstances of the audience they addressed. Put differently, I argued that eschatological outlooks are influenced by the social situations in which they are expressed. Nothing is created in a vacuum. All the scholars who researched the relationship between prophecy and apocalypticism found it necessary to reconstruct the social setting in which eschatological thinking developed. The Second Temple period, during which post-exilic prophecy develops, is a transitional period for Israel. Scholars have commented on the socio-political changes, the religious innovations and the new class stratification, which led to the constitution of a new identity. However, there are several different propositions regarding the reconstruction of the politics that influenced the flourishing of apocalypticism. The ones I critiqued in Chapter 3 are the following: • Plöger, while trying to discover the origin of the Hasidim, looked back at the literature that displays affinities with their ideology. He argued that the key for the rise of apocalypticism is to be found in the transformation from a political state to a theocracy. He believes that this transformation led to the creation of dissident sects that produced the apocalyptic literature because they were seeking hope beyond the stifling bounds of the realized eschatology of the theocratic regime. I found Plöger’s approach evolutionistic and simplistic in the sense that it implied a straightforward correlation between texts and group formation. Furthermore, scholars doubt the existence of a theocracy in the early post-exilic period. • Hanson posited that what led to the eclipse of prophecy and the dawn of apocalypticism was a power struggle between ‘hierocrats’ and ‘visionaries’ between the fifth and the sixth centuries BCE. Most scholars would agree that this is the time when prophecy declines, but the chronological origin of apocalypticism is a less agreed upon subject. Furthermore, several more literary genres flourish when prophecy began fading. I observed that Hanson’s way of analysing social phenomena is mechanistic, viewing



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society as a closed reactionary system where a crisis is always required to produce a new form of expression. • Hanson further maintains that the result of this power struggle is the reason for the difference in expression between the losing and the winning side. The hierocrats, who won, opted for a pragmatic method of expression in order to consolidate their power, while the visionaries resorted to a mode of expression with strong other-worldly orientation because they had given up on any claim to power in their society. I argued that the mode of expression of a group and their position to power is a lot more complex than Hanson allowed. His two-pronged social division seems to depend more on Troeltsch’s two types of religious organization in Christianity than on biblical evidence. • Cook presents a different view from the ones encountered thus far, claiming that power-holding priestly groups produced ‘proto-apocalyptic’ instead of marginal and deprived texts, which was the contention of Plöger and Hanson. His argument relies on research conducted on millennial movements. Cook’s valuable contribution was the need for a model that allows more complexity in the development of eschatological ideas in biblical prophecy. Scholars have relied on inter-disciplinary methods and theories in order to reconstruct the social setting out of which apocalypticism emerged. There are different conclusions to be drawn from the way each scholar handled these theories. • Plöger’s reasoning of the process, which explains the background of apocalyptic texts, becomes circular. It also introduces a methodological problem by postulating an uninterrupted trajectory of a conflict that was not linear. • Hanson’s presupposition that all ethical religions develop in a similar manner sociologically is wrong. When he integrates inter-disciplinary material into his biblical research, he does not take into account the historical specificity of that material. Furthermore, he seems to appropriate the theories by Troeltsch and Mannheim partially in his reconstruction, omitting integral elements of these models that do not fit with the picture he wants to paint. • Cook runs into problems with the introduction of new categories in the discussion. First, he uses the term ‘proto-apocalypticism’ as if it were a clearly defined genre like prophecy or wisdom. Second, he selects a very broad definition of millennialism that conflates the different millennial movements into one phenomenon that is hardly comparable to post-exilic Judah. Biblical research has gained several insights from the attention these scholars have given to social dynamics after the exile. However, there are two important rules to keep in mind. First, one has to use inter-disciplinary material critically

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when one attempts to supply data for which there is no clear evidence in the biblical text. Second, one has to pay close attention to the particularity of the historical context of the biblical record when one engages in the use of interdisciplinary material that leads to cross-cultural comparisons. Following the two rules stated above, I proceeded to establish a clearer picture of the post-exilic social setting by utilizing extra-biblical sources in Chapter 4. My goal was to avoid the circular reasoning of previous scholars. Thus, I sought to establish a stable framework of the socio-historical context that would guide the interpretation of the biblical text and allow the use of inter-disciplinary material without losing sight of the particularity of the context. In the first part of this chapter I looked into the administrative policies of the Achaemenids in order to understand Yehud’s place in the Persian empire. I argued that the vast geographical area of this empire, as well as its ethnocultural diversity, called for a new administrative system that could promote unity despite the lack of uniformity. This system used a combination of coercive and voluntary mechanisms. The coercive mechanisms were enforced by the satraps. The voluntary mechanisms were adaptively duplicated in the various lands. I proposed that these external/voluntary mechanisms constituted a threefold policy that took advantage of national, political and religious sensibilities. The three aspects of this policy were the following: • An attempt to create the impression of dynastic continuity between the deposed royal lines and the conquering Persians. • An attempt to make allies of the indigenous aristocracy. • An attempt to gain the good will of the local sanctuaries. In order to underline the consistency and importance of this policy I examined each aspect in detail. • Cyrus presented himself as the Median king’s rightful successor, according to Greek historians. The Cyrus cylinder confirms that this was also the case in Babylon, where Cyrus wanted to show that his rule was a natural dynastic development. • Cambyses followed the exact same strategy in Egypt. Literary and archaeological sources show that Cambyses wanted to present himself as an Egyptian pharaoh. • Darius showed the same concern for dynastic continuity. He first linked himself with the Achaemenid family line and afterwards presented himself as the legitimate heir to the pharaonic throne. Archaeological evidence and Greek historians are again in agreement on his efforts. The Achaemenids tried consistently to promote dynastic continuity over disjunction in their empire. Their goal was to enhance their legitimation by connecting local traditions with imperial symbols. I maintained that the



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multiple levels of the relationship between Cyrus and the Judean exiles should be seen in this context. • Cyrus’s attempt to befriend the local aristocracy is evident in the benevolent way in which he treated the Median and Lydian kings once he conquered them. Xenophon highlights how important was the co-operation of the local rulers for the Persian king. • The evidence from the reign of Cambyses illustrates that this benevolence was conditional. The aristocrats who betrayed the trust of the emperor were slaughtered. • Darius articulated this same policy in the Behistun inscription. The information provided by Herodotus corroborates this tactic. The co-operation of the local elite was valuable for many reasons. First, they could influence the opinion of the population to the Persians’ favour. Second, the work of the satraps was simplified as indigenous personnel got incorporated in the Persian bureaucratic machine. A case in point would be the collection of tribute. I offered that the work of the Persians with Zerubbabel, as well as with Ezra and Nehemiah, should be viewed in this context. • Archaeological evidence and Herodotus show that both Cyrus and Darius made an effort to win the favour of the Greek sanctuaries in Asia Minor and the Mediterranean world. The evidence also shows that the benefaction was expected to be reciprocal. • In Babylon and Egypt, Cyrus and Cambyses made consistent efforts to take advantage of the considerable financial resources of the local temples. The Achaemenids wanted to ingratiate the local sanctuaries because of their political and economical power. They wanted to manipulate group loyalties through them and also gain revenue for their empire. I posited that the reported return of the temple-vessels by Cyrus and the endorsement of the rebuilding of the Jerusalem temple by Darius should be seen in connection with this political philosophy. Both of these actions served an ideological purpose. Furthermore, I argued that the Jerusalem temple would function as a focal point for the newly re-established community in Yehud. The interest of the Persians was located in its ability to act as catalyst that would form and solidify an infrastructure that the empire would be able to exploit. In this sense the temple in Jerusalem was necessary for the unimpeded operation of the other two aspects of this policy. The consistency with which the Persian emperors employed these measures all across their empire leads me to believe that they were intentional aspects of their policy. Scholars have focused on the strategic and financial reasons in order to explain the actions of the Achaemenids. I argued that these actions should be seen in tandem as aspects of an administrative policy intended to promote the cohesiveness and stability of the empire.

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In the second part of this chapter, I looked at the population size of Yehud since population density impacts social dynamics. There have been several demographic estimates of Yehud that vary from one another. It seems to me that the variant opinions are influenced by disagreements in ideology and interpretation. I grouped these demographic estimates into three categories: • Weinberg’s proposal offers the greatest population size. He takes the information provided by the biblical text at face value and presupposes the transformation of the post-exilic community into a citizen-temple community. This proposal suffers from the uncritical use of biblical information. It is also problematic since the basic characteristics that encapsulate the nature of a citizen-temple community are not found in Yehud. • Barstad advocates more eloquently the third estimate. He maintains that the Babylonian exile had negligible impact on the size of the population and that the biblical information serves ideological and aesthetic purposes. Barstad overestimates the stability of the economy during the exile and the picture he wants to paint does not agree with archeological evidence. He also underestimates the impact that the Babylonian military operations had in the area. • Carter puts forth a proposal that is mostly based on archaeological evidence. He believes that there was a population decrease after the Babylonian exile, and he estimates that the population of Jerusalem in the early post-exilic period was around 1,500 people. This seems to be the most reliable estimate. One cannot deny that the biblical record pertaining to the information around the exile has been embellished. This is why I based my reconstruction of the post-exilic social setting primarily on extra-biblical evidence. The emerging picture portrays a small province facing financial challenges. It also points to the emergence of certain inner-community conflicts. Nevertheless, this province was not devoid of significance. It too had to be integrated into the imperial administrative structure and come into its own as yet another land that made up the vast world of the empire. In Chapter 2 I argued that the shared ground between prophecy and apocalypticism should not be sought in changes found in literary forms; instead, it should be looked for in eschatology. Since Zechariah 1–8 is seen to occupy the shared ground, in Chapter 5 I tried to categorize his eschatological thinking. My argument is that Proto-Zechariah does not fit in the category of postexilic eschatology. My contention is that his eschatological viewpoint among the post-exilic prophets is sui generis. I opted to call it ‘restoration eschatology’ because it is peculiar to the socio-historical developments pertaining to the restoration of the Second Temple under the Persian empire. In order to understand the context of the prophet, one has to examine who returned to Jerusalem and what was happening at that time.



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• Zerubbabel, the great grandson of King Jehoiakim, and Joshua the high priest returned around 528–530 BCE. It is safe to assume that both would aspire to establish themselves as leaders of the people in the province of Yehud. • It seems like the majority of exiles decided to stay in Babylon. The restoration project raised questions pertaining to legitimacy of authority, ownership of land, necessity and financial responsibility for the rebuilding of the temple. • Zechariah’s fourth vision alludes to debate around Joshua’s suitability for high priesthood. It seems that Zechariah was successful in absolving Joshua and assuaging the people. The lists in Ezra 2 and Nehemiah 7 show that after the return there was a concern for establishing communal legitimacy and priestly pedigree through traceable ancestry. • The deportations led to redistribution of land as some of the remainees took over the land vacated by the ones taken into exile. This led to an argument when the returnees attempted to reclaim the land that belonged to their ancestors. • Yehud was one of the poorest satrapies. Haggai and Zechariah confirm that the fiscal situation was so tight that it had led to inner-community strife. This was probably one of the reasons why the people were not eager to commit to the expensive undertaking of rebuilding the temple. The social circumstances of the return created a climate that was conducive to eschatological thinking in the sense that it generated a number of desired changes. The difficulty was that the expectations among the different social strata were mutually exclusive. This situation became a source of conflict. Haggai and Zechariah succeeded in showing that the expectations were feasible despite the problems. The prophets advocated change through a definitive divine intervention. However, they did not place this radical change in the indefinite future but in the immediate one. Haggai and Zechariah receive credit for being the two prophets who managed to get people to build the temple. I argued that Haggai’s success ought to be attributed to the way he integrated the rebuilding campaign with the topics of finances, cultic purity and community leadership. • In his first oracle Haggai offers a theological rationale for the problem that the community faces and suggests the appropriate course of action. • With his second oracle Haggai helps the people overcome their disappointment by declaring that in the near future God would reverse the current conditions and provide the funds that are missing. • It is with his last oracle that Haggai shapes his eschatological viewpoint. Haggai is the first to focus messianic expectations in one of his contemporaries, i.e. Zerubbabel. With this move the prophet was fixing the point of change in the lifetime of his audience. Haggai was bringing

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the eschaton to the present. Scholars have wondered whether Haggai was inciting rebellion against the Persians by supporting Zerubbabel as a royal candidate, but I argued against this theory. I concluded that Haggai was successful because he acknowledged the post-exilic socio-economic reality and found a way to address the people’s objections while maintaining excitement for the future. Proto-Zechariah is seen a precursor of apocalypticism because he employs visions in order to communicate his message. I posited that insofar as Zechariah presents that the order in the visions affects the post-exilic community in a way that solves the problems they were facing, his viewpoint can also be called ‘restoration eschatology’. • Even though Proto-Zechariah’s visions are symbolic I argued that they are grounded in the reality of post-exilic Yehud. For the prophet the heavenly plane of the visions is viewed as the definitive reality. The changes happening in the heavenly plane seem to spill over to the earthly plane, blurring the distinction between what is, what should be and what will soon come to be. It is through this technique that Zechariah brings the events of the eschaton very close to the present, creating an almost realized eschatological expectation. • In his first vision the prophet assures the audience that the necessary preconditions for the building project have been met. • With his third vision the prophet brings God’s presence in the midst of the community. Thus, the prophet blends seamlessly the world of the visions and the earthly world, so much so that a wonder of the eschaton can be operative in the present. • Like Haggai, Proto-Zechariah includes his contemporaries in his prophecy and they are seen as the catalysts who will usher the community to a state comparable to the supernatural world. The fourth vision focuses on Joshua, while the fifth vision refers to both Joshua and Zerubbabel. • The oracle at the end of chapter 6 refers to two crowns and two persons who can receive them. The most likely candidates are Zerubbabel and Joshua. Proto-Zechariah refers to the near future using people from the community’s present. For the prophet the messianic candidate is not an obscure person who will appear in the indefinite future. In the history of eschatological ideas this is an exceptional viewpoint, and it should be recognized as such. I proposed that we do so by calling it ‘restoration eschatology’. Scholars disagree in terms of the role that Proto-Zechariah played in the post-exilic context and resort to millennial social analogies in order to illustrate his societal contribution. In Chapter 6 I strove to offer a more nuanced understanding of the prophet’s project and goal. I proposed to do so by triangulating his role considering the relation between his visionary mode of expression, his message and his function.



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Proto-Zechariah adopted and enhanced the visionary medium in order to communicate his message because he wanted to employ an ‘unreal’ way to address ‘real’ problems. Building on the work of Michael Rifaterre, I argued that from a literary standpoint: • Proto-Zechariah’s visions remove any doubts of misunderstanding or misinterpretation since the heavenly messenger appears within the vision to reveal its meaning. • Even though the visions are separate from one another they create a continuity. In this continuity repetition solidifies the claims of the visions and in that sense truth exists independently from the ‘true’ world. • The visions derive their efficacy from the cognitive process they generate. As the audience follows the narration, they engage in a process of presupposition and entailment. During this process the audience metacommentates on the ‘unreal’ world and thus verifies its validity. The use of visions makes sense also from a phenomenological point of view. • The visionary way of communication is more creative and reciprocal, and, as such, it is a more interactive method of communication. This method of communication makes better sense in the Proto-Zechariah’s social context. • Proto-Zechariah’s visions are primarily dramatic and their essential element is dynamic. As such they are likely to convince people to take action, which they would decline if it were presented to them in a less exciting manner. • The visionary form of address allows greater freedom of expression to the prophet without jeopardizing his credibility. • Visions, as a product of the imagination, develop an ideological discourse in which the social lacks and wants are overcome. The prophet’s context lent itself to a more enthusiastic form of prophetic expression. His message was an affirmation of survival and prosperity despite the insurmountable odds. Regarding the comparisons of Proto-Zechariah’s message to apocalypticism and millennialism I argued the following: • The message is similar to apocalypticism with regard to the method of revelation. However, it is different in terms of eschatological content. • It is similar to millennialism in their concern for the eschaton. However, the definitive change in Proto-Zechariah is neither catastrophic nor utopian. The similarity between Proto-Zechariah and literature from millennarian movements is a shared interest in messianic ideas and metaphorical thinking. However, both these features in Zechariah 1–8 can be explained independently of comparisons to millennial thinking.

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Regarding Proto-Zechariah’s function, scholars argued that the prophet could be perceived as a priest. I argued the following: • He was critical of the priesthood, which is something that goes against the duties of the designated spokesperson of the priestly group. • Indeed he uses cultic imagery, but that is not the only source from which he derives his material. • He has priestly sensibilities but he perceives himself as a prophet. It is his prophetic identity that in the end lent him credibility and made his message compelling. Proto-Zechariah is not unique in terms of what he tried to achieve. However, he is unique in terms of the way he used the visionary technique. • The goal of his visions was to show that his audience is presented with a singular opportunity to rebuild the temple. I offered that he was successful for two reasons: • The timing was conducive to a momentous change for the post-exilic community. • His message cut across the dividing lines among priests, politicians and the laity. Haggai and Proto-Zechariah are distinct among prophets because they operated in a stateless society. Therefore, it would be hard for them to play the anti-conformist role that most of the writing prophets played in the Hebrew Bible. The prophet’s society had collapsed and the task ahead was to build rather than demolish. Establishing some order was the challenge that the post-exilic society had to face successfully. Zechariah was included in the canon because subsequent generations recognized his pivotal role in empowering the people to rebuild their community.

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—— Isaiah 28–39. Minneapolis: Fortress Press. 2002. Williamson, H. G. M. 1 and 2 Chronicles. New Century Bible Commentary. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans and London: Marshall, Morgan & Scott, 1982. —— Ezra, Nehemiah. WBC. Vol. 16. Waco, Texas: Word Book Publisher, 1985. —— ‘The Concept of Israel in Transition’, in The World of Ancient Israel: Sociological, Anthropological and Political Perspectives. Edited by R. E. Clements. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989. —— ‘Judah and the Jews’, in Achaemenid History XI, Studies in Persian History: Essays in Memory of David M. Lewis. Edited by M. Brosious and A. Kuhrt. Leiden: Nederlands Institut voor Het Nabije Oosten, 1998. Wilson, R. R. Prophecy and Society in Ancient Israel. Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1980. —— ‘From Prophecy to Apocalyptic: Reflections on the Shape of Israelite Religion’, Semeia 21 (1981): 79–95. —— ‘The Problems of Describing and Defining Apocalyptic Discourse’, Semeia 21 (1981): 133–6. —— Sociological Approaches to the Old Testament. OTGBS. Edited by G. Tucker. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984. Wolff, H. W. ‘Prophecy from the Eighth Through the Fifth Century’, in Interpreting the Prophets. Edited by J. L. Mayes and P. J. Achtemeier. Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1987. Yap, P. M. ‘The Possession Syndrome: A Comparison of Hong Kong and French Findings’, in The Journal of Mental Science (The British Journal of Psychiatry), 106 (1960): 114–37. Yarbro Collins, A.Crisis & Catharsis: The Power of the Apocalypse. Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1984. —— ‘Introduction: Early Christian Apocalypticism’, in Semeia, 36 (1986): 1–174. Zertal, A. ‘The Pahwah of Samaria (Northern Israel) during the Persian Period. Types of Settlement, Economy, History and New Discoveries’, TRANSEUPHRATÈNE 3 (1990): 9–30. Zevit, Z. The Religions of Ancient Israel: A Synthesis of Parallactic Approaches. London, New York: Continuum, 2001. Zimmerli, W. A Commentary on the Book of the Prophet Ezekiel. Hermeneia, vol. 1. Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1979.

Index

Hebrew Bible Genesis 19 21 20:3 20f 20:6 20f 28:12 20f 31:24 20f 46:2 20f Exodus 13:21 117f 14:19 117f 14:24 117f 15:1-18 22f 15:26 157f 19:5 30f 25:8 117f 29:45 117f 32:32-33 30f Leviticus 26:14 157f Deuteronomy 4:1-40 28f 4:25 29f 6:18 29f 7:6 30f 9:18 29f 10:12–11:17 28f 11:13 157f 11:24 31f 12:25 29f 13:19(18) 29f 14:1-2 28f 14:2 30f 17:2 29f 21:29 29f 26:18 30f 28 29f 31:29 29f

of

References

Joshua 15–18 90 15 90f Judges 7:13 20f 1 Kings 3:5 20f 7:49 142f 11:34 120f 22 21 22:19-23 20f, 126f 2 Kings 15:19-20 89 24:13 81f 24:11-22 89 24:14-16 89f 25:12 96f 25:13-17 81f 1 Chronicles 3:16-19 106 28:10 117f 2 Chronicles 3:2 117f 9:29 152f 12:15 152f 36:22-23 39f 36:7 81f 36:10 81f 36:18 81f 36:22-23 116f Ezra 1:1 85 1:1-3 39f 1:1-4 90f 1:5 107, 116f

1:5-11 81f 1:6 105 1-2 90f 1-6 90f, 107f 2 87f, 89, 90f, 107, 169 2:2 106f, 108f 2:36 106f 3:2 106f 3:8 106f, 117f 3:8-9 105f 3:14 105 4:1-24 111f 4:2 113f 4:2-3 113 4:3 106f 4:4 76f 4:4 112f 4:4-5 110f 4:7-16 112f 4:9-10 113f 4:11-16 111 4:20 111 5:1 82f 5:2 106f 5:4-10 108f 5:14-16 81f, 105f 5:16 105 6:1-4 111 6:1-5 111f 6:5 81f 6:10 82f 6:10-14 111 6:17-19 111f 7 98 7-8 90f 7:13-26 90f 7:21-24 82f 7:24-26 92 8 87f 9 55f 10:18 106f

188 Nehemiah 1–9 55f 1:8 82f 3 90f 4:15 30f 5 113 5:4 92 5:4-5 76f 5:6-13 76f 5:14-19 76f 5:17 30f 6:5-9 112 6:6-12 30f 6:18 112f 7 90f, 107, 108f, 169 11:25-35 90f 11:25-36 90 12:1 106f 12:4 152 12:7 106f 12:10 106f 12:26 106f 13 77f Esther 6:1 30f Job 14:7-9 13 21:7-25 29 Psalms 2:9 12f 18 22f 19 10f 69:28 30f 73 29f 74:10 13f 79:5 13f 80:8 13f 87:6 30f 94:3 13f 97 22f 104 22f 106 22f 135:4 30f Isaiah 3:14 28f 4:2-6 31, 32, 33 5:1-7 28f 5:18-20 29f 6:1-13 130f, 145f

Index of References 6:11-13 12 7:1-17 13f 10:21 31f, 32f 11:1 131f 11 18 11:11 32f 11:1 130f 13 24 16 32f 24–27 6f, 14, 39f 26:19 35 27:2-5 28 28:5 32f 28:7 159f 30:9 12 30:12-14 9f 30:13-14 11, 12, 43:10 120 44:26b-28 121f 45:1 73f 45:1-4 121f 56:1-8 26 56:2b 26 56:6b 26 62:1 155f 63:17 28f 65:1-7 28f 65:8-15 27 65:17-25 150 25:18 150f 65 21f 66:18-24 26 Jeremiah 1:4-10 145f 2:21 28f 4:23-27 97f 4:44 97f 5:12 97f 14:15-16 97f 19:10 12f 21:7-9 97f 22:24-30 120 22:28 12f 23:5 130f 23:5-6 121f, 131f 23:11 159f 24 110 25:11 153f 25:11-12 124f 26:7 159f 27: 8 97f 29:1 108f

29:10 124f, 153f 29:15 99f 31:27-30 26 33:14-22 131f 39:10 109 40:10 109 47:6-7 155f 51:34 97f 52:16 96f 52:17-23 81f 52:28-30 89 Lamentations 5:2 109 Ezekiel 1:4-28 145f 7:26 159f 8 102f 8:1 108f 8:1-11:25 153f 11:15 109, 110 11:15-21 109 14:1 108f 16:42 155f 18 26f 20:1 108f 20:3 108f 22:25 159f 33:23-27 96f 33:23-29 110 33:24 109f 33:33 99f 34:23-24 121f 37 35 37:1-14 145f 37:24-28 131f 38–39 6f, 14, 20, 20f, 22f, 50f, 62f 39:8 22f 40–48 102f, 114 Daniel 1:2 81f 5:2-4 81f 12 21f 12:1 30f 12:1-2 34 12:1-3 38f

Hosea 4:5 159f 6:2 35 10:1 28f Joel 2:1-11 14, 60f 2:3-4 14 3 36 3:5 (2:32) 26f 3 6f Amos 1:8 11 3:12 10f, 11f 4:1-3 10, 10f, 5:3 10f, 11 5:14-15 10f, 11f 6:9-10 10f 7:14-17 9f 8:1-3 9 9:1-4 10f 9:7 28f 9:11-12 10f 9:11-15 131f 9:12 11 Micah 3:5-8 9f, 159f 4:1-3 (2-4) 131f Habakkuk 1:6 97f 1:9 97f 1:13 29f 1:17 97f 2:8 97f 2:17 97f Haggai 1:1 103f, 106f 1:1-15 115 1:2 124 1:4 115f 1:6 112 1:10-12 112 1:12 106f 1:12-15a 116f 1:13 116f 1:12-15 116f 1:14 106f 2:1 103f 2:1-9 116

189

Index of References 2:2 106f 2:4 106f 2:10 103f 2:10-19 118 2:15-19 118f 2:20-23 77, 118f, 119 Zechariah 1–6 2–3, 103, 104, 148 1–8 9–14 6f, 14, 22f, 50f, 62f, 102, 107f, 148, 151, 168, 171 1:1 152 1:1-6 125f 1:4 140 1:4-6 154 1:7 103, 154f 1:7–6:15 125, 133f, 139 1:8–6:8 102f 1:11 128, 149, 155f 1:11b 141 1:12-15 128 1:14 114f 1:15a 155f 1:16 114f 1:16-17 128 1:17 114f 1:21 149 2:2-5 114f 2:4b-5 129 2:5-9 150 2:6-9 108 2:9 149 2:10-12 129 3:1 106f 3:1-10 150 3:3 129 3:3-4 152 3:6-7 152 3:7 106, 130 3:8 106f 3:8-10 126f 3:9-10 131 4:1-13 150 4:2-3 142 4:2-14 132 4:4-6a 142 4:6-7 131 4:9 105 4:10 112 4:10b-14 142 6:8 141, 149 6:9-14 150

6:9-15 126f 6:11 106f, 133 6:13b 153f 6:15 157f 7:1–8:23 125f 7:3 153 7:4-7 153 7:7 154 7:14 112 8:1-7 114f 8:10 112 12–14 39f Malachi 2:17 29, 29f 3:1b-5 30f 3:14-15 29 3:16 30 3:17-18 30 4:1-2 31 Apocrypha, Pseudepigrapha and Hellenistic Literature 1 Maccabees 9:27 38f 1 Enoch 22:1-13 34f 72–82 48f 89:70-77 34f 90:10 34f 102–104 34 103:3-4 34f 104:1-6 34f 104:7-8 34f 1 Qs 3–4 21 4 Ezra 4:33-37 4:35-36 5:41-42 7:75-99

34f 34f 34f 34f

Josephus Contra Apion ii, 17 40f Antiquities XI, 8 108

190 Testament of Levi 5:6-7 34f Testament of Dan 6:1-5 34f New Testament Matthew 11:20-24 26f 25:31-46 29f Luke 10:13-15 26f 11 26f Revelation 3:17 48f

Index of References Ancient Near Eastern Sources Cyrus Cylinder 15-17 69f 22b 69f 30-36 82f Babylonian Chronicle 7, iii 70f 12-16 70f Darius to Gadatas 78f Classic Sources Xenophon VIII, 6:10 67f VIII, 2:22 74f

Herodotus II, 2–5 71f II, 20–23 70f II, 36-39 70f II, 158–9 71f III, 1–2 71f III, 279 70f IV, 137 75f VI, 109 75f Diodorus Siculus I, 33 71f I, 58:4 71f I, 95 71f

Index

of

Achaemenids 64–6, 69–72, 166, 167 Ahura-Mazda 72, 144 Amasis 71, 78 Amos 163 Amun in Hibis 84 Anabaptists 5 7, 58f angelology 2f Angelus Interpres 102, 148 Antiochus IV 41 Apis bull 70 Apis-Osiris 71 apocalypse/apocalyptic literature/apocalypticism 1–3, 5–8, 14–15, 17–18, 22, 25, 35, 37–40, 44–6, 48–9, 51–4, 56, 59–60, 62, 102, 139, 148, 163, 164, 171 apocalyptic eschatology 2, 15, 19–20, 23–5, 33–5, 42f, 44–5, 48, 148 apokatastasis 150 Apollo 78 Apries 71 Artaphernes 79 Artaxerxes I 83f, 90f, 111f Ashurbanipal 70f, 158f Asia Minor 75 Astyages 69, 73 Baal 116f Bactriana 7 6 Behistun inscription 69, 71, 75 Bethel 98 branch 130f, 131f Bubastis 71f Cambyses 70, 71–4, 79, 80, 84, 108f, 122, 166, 167 capitalism 93 Cilicia 7 citizen-temple community 88, 90–3, 168 Claros 78 Coniah 120

Subjects

Croesus 73, 78 Cyaxares 71 Cyprus 76 Cyrus 65, 69–73, 79, 80, 82, 84, 85, 108f, 111f, 120, 166, 167 Cyrus cylinder 68f, 69, 70f, 72–4, 166 Darius 67, 71, 72, 75, 78f, 79, 80, 84, 103, 111f, 122, 166, 167 Darius I 72f, 80f, 82, 86 Datis 78 day of the Lord 24, 31 day of Yahweh 16f, 27f, 30f Delian 78 Demotic Chronicle 67, 80f Diaspora 26 Didyma 78, 79 Diodorus 71 Divine Warrior 47 Diyala river 70 dualism 20, 21, 50 Eanna 79 El Jîb’ 100f Elephantine 83f Ephesus 78 Esarhaddon 82f, 158f eschatology 1–3, 6–9, 13–17, 19–25, 35, 37, 42, 45, 49, 59, 135, 161, 163 Essenes 38f Ezekiel 121, 152 Ezra 77, 84, 105, 167 Fayyûm 71 feudalism 93 fictionality 139 former prophets 154 Gog 22f, 60f

192

Index of Subjects

Haggai 3, 101, 104, 162, 169 Hasidim 38, 42, 164 Hasmoneans 43 Hebron 98, 112 Herodotus 69, 71, 75, 76f, 78, 167 Hibis at El-Khãrga 80 hierocrats 20, 44, 58, 164, 165 Histiaeus 75 Holiness School 41f, 43 holy seed 13 Horus 72 Iddo 152 Imet 72 Ionian League 75 Isaiah 163 Ishtar 79 Jacob 126f Jehoiakim 106, 169 Jeremiah 120, 121 Jericho 98 Jewish apocalyptic 18f Joshua the High Priest 105, 113, 119, 130–1, 134f, 135, 138f, 152, 155, 158–60, 169, 170 Levites 113 Magnesia 78f Malachi 164 Marduk 72, 73, 81 Mazares 78 Media 69 Memphis 71f, 80f Menahem 89 messiah/messianic 2f, 9f, 169 Michaiah ben Imlah 126f Miletus 75 millennial/millennialism 2, 50–1, 60–1, 138, 147–9, 151, 154, 161, 164, 171 Mot 116f Murashû 109 Mylasa-Olymos 93 myth 16 Nabonidus 71, 72, 79 Nazarenes and Rechabites 41 Nebuchadrezzar 80, 81f, 82, 97, 109f, 113 Neco 71f Negev 96 Nehemiah 76, 77, 90, 92, 104, 167

Neith 72 Ninetis 71 Nippur 109 Perapis 80f Persepolis 69f Pharisees 38f Pherendates 80f Phoenicia 66f, 76, 105f Phrygia 76f proto-apocalyptic 14, 50, 59, 165 Psammetichus 70 Psammetichus III 74 Pseudo-Aristotle 84 radical eschatology 20–2, 50 remnant of Jacob 31f remnant of Joseph 10, 11 restoration eschatology 2, 103–4, 125, 136, 168, 170 resurrection 6f, 33 Sadducees 38f Saïs 80 Samaria 110, 112 Samaritan schism 41 Sargon 82f Satrap 68 Scythians 75 Sebaoth 122 Sesostris 71f Shephelah 98f Sheshbazzar 105, 108f signal communication 143 Sippar 93 Sogdiana 76 Solomon 120, 126f symbolic communication 143 Tattenai 111f TAYN corpus 109f Tell el-Hesi 100f Tell el-Maskhuteh 72f theocracy 2, 19f, 24, 38–44, 83, 92, 164 third-Isaiah 164 Tiglath-Pileser III 89 Tralles 78f Transjordan 96 Udjahorresnet 73f, 74, 77f, 80 Uruk 79, 93 utopia 17f, 57–8



Index of Subjects

visionaries 19, 20, 44, 54, 58, 151, 164

193

Yehud 3, 77f, 84, 86, 87, 88f, 98, 99, 100, 112, 127, 160, 167, 168, 170

Wajet 72 Xenophon 73, 167 Xerxes 72

Zadokite 55 Zerubbabel 77, 84, 105, 113, 119, 120, 121, 123–4, 131–2, 134–5, 138f, 153, 158–61, 167, 169, 170