Perspectives on Hebrew Scriptures II: Comprising the contents of Journal of Hebrew Scriptures, vol. 5 9781593336127, 1593336128

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Perspectives on Hebrew Scriptures II

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES AND ITS CONTEXTS 2 General Editor Ehud Ben Zvi

Perspectives on Hebrew Scriptures II Comprising of the Contents of the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures, vol. 5

EHUD BEN ZVI

GORGIAS PRESS 2007

First Gorgias Press Edition, 2007 Copyright © 2007 by Gorgias Press LLC All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise without the prior written permission of Gorgias Press LLC. Published in the United States of America by Gorgias Press LLC, New Jersey ISBN 978-1-59333-612-7 ISSN 1935-6897

Gorgias Press

46 Orris Ave., Piscataway, NJ 08854 USA www.gorgiaspress.com The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standards. Printed in the United States of America

TABLE OF CONTENTS

VOL. 5 (2004–2005) Table of Contents v Vol. 5 (2004–2005) v Reviews vol. 5 (2004–2005) vii Preface xv Abbreviations xvii Jubilee Calendar Rescued from the Flood Narrative S. Najm & Ph. Guillaume...............................................................1 Letting the “Bi-word” “Rule” in Joel 2:17 James R. Linville ............................................................................13 Uzzah’s Rebellion Ingrid M. Haase .............................................................................25 Shalmaneser III and the Levantine States: The “Damascus Coalition Rebellion” A. Kirk Grayson ............................................................................51 Ostraca KhQ1 and KhQ2 from the Cemetery of Qumran: A New Edition Greg Doudna .................................................................................59 Prolegomena for the Sociolinguistics of Classical Hebrew William M. Schniedewind...........................................................117 The Hard ‘Sell’ in Nah 3:4b Aron Pinker ..................................................................................143 Geminate Ballast and Clustering: An Unrecognized Literary Feature in Ancient Semitic Poetry Scott Noegel .................................................................................153 v

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New Light on the Nebiim from Alexandria: A Chronography to Replace the Deuteronomistic History Ph. Guillaume...............................................................................169 Regulating ‘sons’ and ‘daughters’ in the Torah and in Proverbs: Some Preliminary Insights Athalya Brenner ...........................................................................217 A Rejoinder to A. Brenner, “Regulating ‘sons’ and ‘daughters’ in the Torah and in Proverbs: Some Preliminary Insights” Francis Landy ...............................................................................227 On the meaning of ‫קשת נחושה‬ Aron Pinker ..................................................................................233 Tracing the Origin of the Sabbatical Calendar in the Priestly Narrative (Genesis 1 to Joshua 5) Philippe Guillaume......................................................................243 Job, Hopeful or Hopeless? The Significance of ‫ גם‬in Job 16:19 and Job’s Changing Conceptions of Death David Kummerow.......................................................................261 Death, Social Conflict, and the Barley Harvest in the Hebrew Bible Brian Britt .....................................................................................289 Could Saul Rule Forever? A New Look at 1 Samuel 13:13–14 Michael Avioz ..............................................................................311 The Origin of Biblical Israel Philip R Davies ............................................................................317 In Conversation with W. M. Schniedewind, How the Bible Became a Book: The Textualization of Ancient Israel (Cambridge, 2003) David M. Carr, Tamara Cohn Eskenazi, Christine Mitchell, William M. Schniedewind, Gary N. Knoppers (editor)...........................................................................................325 Response to W. M. Schniedewind How the Bible became a Book: The Textualization of Ancient Israel David M. Carr ..............................................................................326 Implications for and from Ezra-Nehemiah Tamara Cohn Eskenazi ..............................................................339 Implications for and from Chronicles Christine Mitchell ........................................................................349 Adrift: How the Bible Became a Book William M. Schniedewind...........................................................355 “The Hand of a Woman”: Deborah and Yael (Judges 4) Elie Assis.......................................................................................363

TABLE OF CONTENTS New Studies in Chronicles: A Discussion of Two RecentlyPublished Commentaries Melody D. Knowles (ed.) ...........................................................371 Introduction Melody D. Knowles, Guest Editor...........................................373 A Review of Gary N. Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9 and idem, I Chronicles 10–29 Christine Mitchell ........................................................................375 Comments on McKenzie’s and Knoppers’ Commentaries on Chronicles Klaus Baltzer ................................................................................381 In Conversation and Appreciation of the Recent Commentaries by Steven L. McKenzie and Gary N. Knoppers Ehud Ben Zvi...............................................................................389 Response to Recent Chronicles Commentaries by Gary N. Knoppers and Steven L. McKenzie Steven J. Schweitzer ....................................................................405 A Commentary on Commentaries on Chronicles John W. Wright............................................................................413 Of Rewritten Bibles, Archaeology, Peace, Kings, and Chronicles Gary N. Knoppers.......................................................................421 Recent Chronicles Commentaries: A Response Steven L. McKenzie ....................................................................437 Index 679

REVIEWS VOL. 5 (2004–2005) Walter Brueggemann, WORSHIP IN ANCIENT ISRAEL: AN ESSENTIAL GUIDE Reviewed by Brian P. Irwin .......................................................443 Jacob Milgrom, LEVITICUS: A BOOK OF RITUAL AND ETHICS Reviewed by William K. Gilders ...............................................445

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S. A. Nigosian, FROM ANCIENT WRITINGS TO SACRED TEXTS: THE OLD TESTAMENT AND APOCRYPHA Reviewed by John Kaltner .........................................................447 Elie Assis, SELF-INTEREST OR COMMUNAL INTEREST: AN IDEOLOGY OF LEADERSHIP IN THE GIDEON, ABIMELECH AND JEPHTHAH NARRATIVES (Judg 6–12) Reviewed by Gord Oeste ...........................................................449 M. Christine Tetley, THE RECONSTRUCTED CHRONOLOGY OF THE DIVIDED KINGDOM Reviewed by Steven L. McKenzie ............................................452 Sarah J. Dille, MIXING METAPHORS: GOD AS MOTHER AND FATHER IN DEUTERO-ISAIAH Reviewed by Mary Louise Mitchell...........................................454 J. P. Fokkelman, MAJOR POEMS OF THE HEBREW BIBLE. AT THE INTERFACE OF PROSODY AND STRUCTURAL ANALYSIS. Volume IV: Job 15–42 Reviewed by Wesley Hu .............................................................456 Robert T. Anderson and Terry Giles, TRADITION KEPT: THE LITERATURE OF THE SAMARITANS Reviewed by Alex Jassen ............................................................458 Mark S. Smith, THE MEMOIRS OF GOD: HISTORY, MEMORY AND THE EXPERIENCE OF THE DIVINE IN ANCIENT ISRAEL Reviewed by Ellen White ...........................................................461 Roy L. Heller, NARRATIVE STRUCTURE AND DISCOURSE CONSTELLATIONS: AN ANALYSIS OF CLAUSE FUNCTION IN BIBLICAL HEBREW PROSE Reviewed by Cristian G. Rata....................................................463 Norbert Lohfink, QOHELETH Reviewed by John L. McLaughlin.............................................466 Frances Flannery-Dailey, DREAMERS, SCRIBES, AND PRIESTS: JEWISH DREAMS IN THE HELLENISTIC AND ROMAN ERAS Reviewed by Scott B. Noegel ....................................................469 Z. Talshir and D. Amara, eds., ON THE BORDER LINE. TEXTUAL MEETS LITERARY CRITICISM. PROCEEDINGS OF A CONFERENCE IN HONOR OF ALEXANDER ROFÉ ON THE OCCASION OF HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY Reviewed by Ehud Ben Zvi.......................................................474 Bob Becking, BETWEEN FEAR AND FREEDOM. ESSAYS ON THE INTERPRETATION OF JEREMIAH 30–31 Reviewed by Kathleen M. O’Connor.......................................479

TABLE OF CONTENTS Marc Bregman, THE TANHUMA-YELAMMEDENU LITERATURE: STUDIES IN THE EVOLUTION OF THE VERSIONS Reviewed by Jason Kalman .......................................................481 Paul E. Fitzpatrick, S. M., THE DISARMAMENT OF GOD: EZEKIEL 38–39 IN ITS MYTHIC CONTEXT Reviewed by T. M. Lemos .........................................................486 Isaac Kalimi, AN ANCIENT ISRAELITE HISTORIAN: STUDIES IN THE CHRONICLER, HIS TIME, PLACE AND WRITING Reviewed by Paul Evans ............................................................488 Isaac Kalimi, THE RESHAPING OF ANCIENT ISRAELITE HISTORY IN CHRONICLES Reviewed by Ken Ristau.............................................................490 Carol Meyers, HOUSEHOLDS AND HOLINESS: THE RELIGIOUS CULTURE OF ISRAELITE WOMEN Reviewed by Ellen White ...........................................................493 André LaCocque, RUTH Reviewed by Lissa M. Wray Beal ..............................................495 Anthony F. Campbell, JOSHUA TO CHRONICLES AN INTRODUCTION Reviewed by Patricia Dutcher-Walls ........................................497 R. P. Gordon and J. C. de Moor, eds., THE OLD TESTAMENT IN ITS WORLD Reviewed by Mark W. Hamilton...............................................499 Rüdiger Schmitt, MAGIE IM ALTEN TESTAMENT Reviewed by Scott B. Noegel ....................................................501 Philip S. Johnston, SHADES OF SHEOL: DEATH AND AFTERLIFE IN THE OLD TESTAMENT Reviewed by John L. McLaughlin.............................................507 William K. Gilders, BLOOD RITUAL IN THE HEBREW BIBLE: MEANING AND POWER Reviewed by Jan A. Wagenaar...................................................510 John C. Reeves, ed., BIBLE AND QUR’AN: ESSAYS IN SCRIPTURAL INTERTEXTUALITY Reviewed by Christine Mitchell.................................................513 L. Juliana M. Claassens, THE GOD WHO PROVIDES: BIBLICAL IMAGES OF DIVINE NOURISHMENT Reviewed by Jane S. Webster.....................................................515 Stephen L. Cook and Corrine L. Patton, eds., EZEKIEL’S HIERARCHICAL WORLD: WRESTLING WITH A TIERED REALITY

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Reviewed by Dale Laundervile..................................................517 Tammi J. Schneider, SARAH: MOTHER OF NATIONS Reviewed by Ellen White ...........................................................519 Hyun Chul Paul Kim, AMBIGUITY, TENSION, AND MULTIPLICITY IN DEUTERO-ISAIAH Reviewed by Don Polaski ..........................................................521 Lillian Klein, FROM DEBORAH TO ESTHER: SEXUAL POLITICS IN THE HEBREW BIBLE Reviewed by Ken Stone .............................................................523 John J. Collins, INTRODUCTION TO THE HEBREW BIBLE WITH CD-ROM Reviewed by John Kaltner .........................................................525 Jodi Magness, THE ARCHAEOLOGY OF QUMRAN AND THE DEAD SEA SCROLLS Reviewed by Madelyn Yribarren ...............................................527 Ian Young, ed., BIBLICAL HEBREW: STUDIES IN CHRONOLOGY AND TYPOLOGY Reviewed by Bernon P. Lee.......................................................531 Alfredo Fabio Borodowski, ISAAC ABRAVANEL ON MIRACLES, CREATION, PROPHECY AND EVIL: THE TENSION BETWEEN MEDIEVAL JEWISH PHILOSOPHY AND BIBLICAL COMMENTARY Reviewed by Michael Carasik ....................................................534 Rodney R. Hutton, FORTRESS INTRODUCTION TO THE PROPHETS Reviewed by Paul Evans ............................................................537 Annette Schellenberg, ERKENNTNIS ALS PROBLEM: QOHELET UND DIE ALTTESTAMENTLICHE DISKUSSION UM DAS MENSCHLICHE ERKENNEN Reviewed by T. A. Perry.............................................................539 Heidi M. Szpek, ed., VOICES FROM THE UNIVERSITY: THE LEGACY OF THE HEBREW BIBLE Reviewed by Frank Anthony Spina ..........................................541 G. W. Lorein, THE ANTICHRIST THEME IN THE INTERTESTAMENTAL PERIOD Reviewed by R. Glenn Wooden................................................543 David Shepherd, TARGUM AND TRANSLATION: A RECONSIDERATION OF THE QUMRAN ARAMAIC VERSION OF JOB Reviewed by Jean Duhaime .......................................................545

TABLE OF CONTENTS Marvin A. Sweeney, and Ehud Ben Zvi, eds., THE CHANGING FACE OF FORM CRITICISM IN THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY Reviewed by Yehoshua Gitay....................................................547 William M. Schniedewind, HOW THE BIBLE BECAME A BOOK: THE TEXTUALIZATION OF ANCIENT ISRAEL Reviewed by Alex Jassen ............................................................552 Steven L. McKenzie, 1–2 CHRONICLES Reviewed by Ken Ristau.............................................................555 Leslie J. Hoppe, THERE SHALL BE NO POOR AMONG YOU: POVERTY IN THE BIBLE Reviewed by Michael S. Moore .................................................557 Victor H. Matthews, JUDGES AND RUTH Reviewed by Dr. Lissa M. Wray Beal .......................................560 M. Patrick Graham, Steven L. McKenzie and Gary N. Knoppers, eds., THE CHRONICLER AS THEOLOGIAN: ESSAYS IN HONOUR OF RALPH W. KLEIN Reviewed by Mark J. Boda.........................................................562 Gerald A. Klingbeil, ed., INICIOS, PARADIGMAS Y FUNDAMENTOS: ESTUDIOS TEOLÓGICOS Y EXEGÉTICOS EN EL PENTATEUCO Reviewed by Carluci dos Santos................................................567 Johan Renkema, OBADIAH Reviewed by Stephen L. Cook ..................................................569 John Pairman Brown, ISRAEL AND HELLAS, VOL. III: THE LEGACY OF IRANIAN IMPERIALISM AND THE INDIVIDUAL Reviewed by Jon L. Berquist .....................................................572 Philippe Guillaume, WAITING FOR JOSIAH: THE JUDGES Reviewed by Marie-France Dion ..............................................575 Marjo Korpel and Joseph Oesch, eds., UNIT DELIMITATION IN BIBLICAL HEBREW AND NORTHWEST SEMITIC LITERATURE Reviewed by Gary Martin ..........................................................578 J. J. M. Roberts, THE BIBLE AND THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST: COLLECTED ESSAYS Reviewed by Francisco V. Munoz ............................................581 Bill T. Arnold and John H. Choi, A GUIDE TO BIBLICAL HEBREW SYNTAX Reviewed by Bernon P. Lee.......................................................584 Oded Lipschits and Joseph Blenkinsopp, eds., JUDAH AND THE JUDEANS IN THE NEO-BABYLONIAN PERIOD Reviewed by Mark W. Chavalas ................................................586

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Don C. Benjamin, THE OLD TESTAMENT STORY: AN INTRODUCTION Reviewed by D. Dixon Sutherland ...........................................588 O. Lipschits, JERUSALEM BETWEEN DESTRUCTION AND RESTORATION. JUDAH UNDER BABYLONIAN RULE Reviewed by Michael Avioz.......................................................591 Richard S. Hess M. Daniel and R. Carroll., eds., ISRAEL’S MESSIAH IN THE BIBLE AND THE DEAD SEA SCROLLS Reviewed by Michael O. Wise...................................................593 Sandra L. Richter, THE DEUTERONOMISTIC HISTORY AND THE NAME THEOLOGY: LEŠAKKĒN ŠEMÔ ŠĀM IN THE BIBLE AND THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST Reviewed by Victor Hurowitz ...................................................595 Johannes J. van Dijk and Markham J. Geller, with the collaboration of Joachim Oelsner, UR III INCANTATIONS FROM THE FRAU PROFESSOR HILPRECHT-COLLECTION, JENA Reviewed by Martin Worthington ............................................599 Martin Kessler, BATTLE OF THE GODS: THE GOD OF ISRAEL VERSUS MARDUK OF BABYLON. A LITERARY/THEOLOGICAL INTERPRETATION OF JEREMIAH 50–51 Reviewed by Dale Patrick ..........................................................601 Michael V. Fox, JPS TORAH COMMENTARY: ECCLESIASTES Reviewed by Scott B. Noegel ....................................................604 Alberto R. W. Green, THE STORM-GOD IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST Reviewed by Steven J. Garfinkle...............................................607 Gale A. Yee, POOR BANISHED CHILDREN OF EVE: WOMAN AS EVIL IN THE HEBREW BIBLE Reviewed by Tammi Schneider .................................................610 Gregory L. Doudna, 4Q PESHER NAHUM: A CRITICAL EDITION Reviewed by Rob Kugler............................................................613 Timothy Lim, PESHARIM Reviewed by Adam L. Porter ....................................................616 Frederick W. Knobloch, ed., BIBLICAL TRANSLATION IN CONTEXT Reviewed by Paul S. Ash ............................................................618 Jack M. Sasson, Archie C. C. Lee, Craig Y. S. Ho, and Fook Kong Wong, HEBREW ORIGINS: HISTORIOGRAPHY, HISTORY, FAITH OF ANCIENT ISRAEL Reviewed by Mark J. Boda.........................................................620

TABLE OF CONTENTS Carolyn J. Sharp, PROPHECY AND IDEOLOGY IN JEREMIAH: STRUGGLES FOR AUTHORITY IN THE DEUTERO-JEREMIANIC PROSE Reviewed by Yair Hoffman .......................................................625 Max Rogland, ALLEGED NON-PAST USES OF QATAL IN CLASSICAL HEBREW Reviewed by Agustinus Gianto .................................................628 Duck-Woo Nam, TALKING ABOUT GOD: JOB 42:7–9 AND THE NATURE OF GOD IN THE BOOK OF JOB Reviewed by Michael Carasik ....................................................630 Yohan Pyeon, YOU HAVE NOT SPOKEN WHAT IS RIGHT ABOUT ME: INTERTEXTUALITY AND THE BOOK OF JOB Reviewed by Loren Fisher .........................................................633 V. Stephen Parrish, A STORY OF THE PSALMS: CONVERSATION, CANON, AND CONGREGATION Reviewed by B. J. Embry ...........................................................635 Peter Ochs and Nancy Levene, eds., TEXTUAL REASONINGS: JEWISH PHILOSOPHY AND TEXT STUDY AT THE END OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY Reviewed by Martin S. Jaffee.....................................................639 Mark D. Futato, BEGINNING BIBLICAL HEBREW Reviewed by Bernon P. Lee.......................................................641 Marvin A. Sweeney, ZEPHANIAH Reviewed by John D. W. Watts.................................................643 Richard J. Clifford, PSALMS 73–150 Reviewed by Bruce A. Power ....................................................644 Gerlinde Baumann, LOVE AND VIOLENCE: MARRIAGE AS METAPHOR FOR THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN YHWH AND ISRAEL IN THE PROPHETIC BOOKS Reviewed by Mark W. Hamilton...............................................646 Jay F. Shachter, trans., THE COMMENTARY OF ABRAHAM IBN EZRA ON THE PENTATEUCH, VOLUME 5: DEUTERONOMY Reviewed by Martin Lockshin...................................................649 J. P. Fokkelman, MAJOR POEMS OF THE HEBREW BIBLE: AT THE INTERFACE OF PROSODY AND STRUCTURAL ANALYSIS. VOL III: THE REMAINING 65 PSALMS Reviewed by Walter Brueggemann...........................................651 L. Allen and T. Laniak, EZRA, NEHEMIAH, ESTHER Reviewed by Charles D. Harvey ...............................................653 Myung Soo Suh, THE TABERNACLE IN THE NARRATIVE HISTORY OF ISRAEL FROM THE EXODUS TO THE CONQUEST

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Reviewed by Michael M. Homan..............................................656 William P. Brown, SEEING THE PSALMS: A THEOLOGY OF METAPHOR Reviewed by Carleen Mandolfo ................................................658 John Barton, UNDERSTANDING OLD TESTAMENT ETHICS: APPROACHES AND EXPLORATIONS Reviewed by Waldemar Janzen .................................................660 Gernot Wilhelm, ed., AKTEN DES IV. INTERNATIONALEN KONGRESSES FÜR HETHITOLOGIE. WÜRZBURG, 4.–8. OKTOBER 1999 Reviewed by Gary Beckman......................................................662 Kristin De Troyer, Judith A. Herbert, Judith Ann Johnson, and Anne-Marie Korte, eds., WHOLLY WOMAN, HOLY BLOOD Reviewed by Jon Baker...............................................................664 Donald R. Vance, A HEBREW READER FOR RUTH Reviewed by Carolyn J. Sharp ...................................................668 Israel Knohl, THE DIVINE SYMPHONY: THE BIBLE’S MANY VOICES Reviewed by Francis Landy .......................................................670 Danna Nolan Fewell, THE CHILDREN OF ISRAEL: READING THE BIBLE FOR THE SAKE OF OUR CHILDREN Reviewed by Marian Broida.......................................................673 Aron Dotan, ed., THE PARALLEL BIBLE, HEBREW-ENGLISH OLD TESTAMENT: WITH THE BIBLIA HEBRAICA LENINGRADENSIA AND THE KING JAMES VERSION Reviewed by Clinton Moyer ......................................................676

PREFACE The present publication includes all the articles and reviews published electronically in the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures vol. 5 (2004–2005). A companion including volume 6 (2006) will follow in a few months, and from then on, contributions published electronically in Journal of Hebrew Scriptures (JHS) will be regularly published by Gorgias Press, in addition to the freely available, full-text online format. The publication of a hard copy version of the journal follows the requests of readers who would like to have access to both forms. The Journal of Hebrew Scriptures has been and still is a great experiment, but one that has not failed. It still pioneers freely available, prompt, academically responsible electronic publication in the area. By doing so, it fulfills important academic needs, particularly in relation to the prompt and effective dissemination of knowledge and eventually in the creation of new knowledge through discursive interactions in ways that are not limited by a person’s ability to access recent scholarship. As such it opens increased possibilities for scholars in Third World countries, public libraries anywhere, graduate students and interested public. In addition, it is the policy of the Journal to include and disseminate not only contributions of established scholars but also appropriate contributions of scholars in their first stages in the field. JHS’s authors and readers have come from different countries and as such it contributes to a scholarly conversation that is not restricted by geographical boundaries. The Journal has grown substantially in the number of published contributions through the years, but it is still run in the main by volunteers. The journal is and has always been a demanding work of love. It is in this context that I want to mention its editorial board. It consists of Adele Berlin, Philip R. Davies, Lyle Eslinger, Michael V. Fox, M. Pat Graham, Gary N. Knoppers, Robert A. Kugler, Francis Landy, Niels Peter Lemche, Hindy Najman, Scott B. Noegel, Gary A. Rendsburg and Gene M. Tucker. I thank all of them. John McLaughlin took the position of Review Editor in January 2004 and continues to serve as such. He has contributed much to the jourxv

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nal. He deserves much praise and all the credit for the excellent reviews included here. I am particularly thankful to him and so should the readers of the journal. Terry Butler, an expert in Humanities Computing, has provided technical support and leadership for this enterprise since day one. The Journal of Hebrew Scriptures and its readers owe him a great debt of gratitude. Katie Stott prepared the present manuscript and many of the electronic articles. Her careful and thoughtful contribution permeates this volume. I would like to thank the Arts Resource Centre (and its predecessors), the Faculty of Arts, and the dept. of History and Classics at the University of Alberta for their continuous support. It is a pleasure to acknowledge the grant by the Social Sciences and Humanities Council of Canada that allows JHS to enhance its role as trailblazer in the area of electronic, open access journals in the field, and the willingness of the National Library of Canada to archive the journal. All of them contribute much to the success of JHS Readers have contacted me, expressed their support for the project, suggested ideas, encouraged me at different times, and provided very helpful feedback. My thanks to all of them. Finally, I would like to thank George Kiraz for agreeing to publish the printed version of JHS through Gorgias Press, for understanding the importance of maintaining the freely available electronic version of the journal, and for his own role in the development of open-access electronic academic journals. As I complete this preface and go over the many explicit thanks—and in my mind also those that are implicit here, or minimally mentioned—I can only think of how well they reflect the basic fact that the continuous existence of this open access journal and its present publication in hard copy are the result of a work of love carried out by and through so many willing hands. Ehud Ben Zvi University of Alberta, General Editor, Journal of Hebrew Scriptures

ABBREVIATIONS AB ABD AcOr AfO AGJU AJT ANETS AOAT AOS AOTC ARA ATD ATS BA BAR BAT BCSMS BDB BEATAJ BETL BHS Bib BibInt BibOr Bijdr BiKi BLH

Anchor Bible Anchor Bible Dictionary Acta Orientalia Archiv für Orientforschung Arbeiten zur Geschichte des antiken Judentums und des Urchristentums American Journal of Theology Ancient Near Eastern Texts and Studies Alter Orient und Altes Testament American Oriental Series Abingdon Old Testament Commentaries Annual Review of Anthropology Das Alte Testament Deutsch Arbeiten zu Text und Sprache im Alten Testament Biblical Archaeologist Biblical Archaeology Review Die Botschaft des Alten Testaments Bulletin of the Canadian Society for Mesopotamian Studies A Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament. F. Brown, S. R. Driver, and C. A. Briggs. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1907 Beiträge zur Erforschung des Alten Testaments und des antiken Judentum Bibliotheca emphemeridum theologicarum lovaniensium Biblia Hebraica Stuttgartensia. Biblica Biblical Interpretation Biblica et orientalia Bijdragen: Tijdscrift voor filosofie en theologie Bibel und Kirche Biblical Languages: Hebrew xvii

xviii BN BTB BTC BThS BWANT BZAW CAH CANE CAT CBQ CBR CBSC ConBOT CPJ CSJH DCH DJD EA ÉBib FAT FRLANT GM HAL HALOT

HAT HS HSAT HSM HTR

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES Biblische Notizen Biblical Theology Bulletin The Bible in the Twenty-First Century Series Biblisch Theologische Studien Beiträge zur Wissenschaft vom Alten und Neuen Testament Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Cambridge Ancient History Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Edited by J. Sasson. 4. vols. NewYork, 1995 Commentaire de l’Ancien Testament Catholic Biblical Quarterly Currents in Biblical Research Cambridge Bible for Schools and Colleges Coniectanea biblica: Old Testament Series Corpus Papyrorum judaicorum. Edited by V. Tcherikover. 3 vols. Cambridge, 1957–1964. Chicago Studies in the History of Judaism Dictionary of Classical Hebrew. Edited by D. J. A. Clines. Sheffield 1993– Discoveries in the Judaean Desert Ex Audita Études bibliques Forschungen zum Alten Testament Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments Göttinger Miszellen Hebräisches und aramäisches Lexikon zum Alten Testament. Edited by Ludwig Koehler et al. 5 vols.; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1967–1995. The Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament. Koehler, L., W. Baumgartner and J. J. Stamm. Translated and edited under the supervision of M. E. J. Richardson. 4 vols. Leiden, 1994–1999. Handbuch zum Alten Testament Hebrew Studies Die Heilige Schrift des Alten Testaments. Edited by E. Kautzsch and A. Bertholet. 4th ed. Tübingen, 1922– 1923. Harvard Semitic Monographs Harvard Theological Review

ABBREVIATIONS HTS HUCA IB ICC IEJ Int ITC JAAR JANES JAOS JB JBL JBQ JBR JETS JHS JJS JNES JNSL JPS JSHRZ JSJ JSJSup JSOT JSOTSup JSS JTS KAT KHAT KHCAT KJV LASBF LCL LSAWS LXX MT

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Harvard Theological Studies Hebrew Union College Annual Interpreter’s Bible. Edited by G. A. Buttrick et al. 12 vols. New York, 1951–1957 International Critical Commentary Israel Exploration Journal Interpretation International Theological Commentary Journal of the American Academy of Religion Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society of Columbia University Journal of the American Oriental Society Jerusalem Bible Journal of Biblical Literature Jewish Bible Quarterly Journal of Bible and Religion Journal of the Evangelical Theological Society Journal of Hebrew Scriptures Journal of Jewish Studies Journal of Near Eastern Studies Journal of Northwest Semitic Languages Jewish Publication Society Jüdische Schriften aus hellenistische-römischer Zeit Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic, and Roman Periods Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic and Roman Period, Supplement Series Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Journal for the Study of the Old Testament, Supplement Series Journal of Semitic Studies Journal of Theological Studies Kommentar zum Alten Testament Kurzgefasstes exegetisches Handbuch zum Alten Testament. Kurzer Hand-Commentar zum Alten Testament King James Version Liber annuus Studii biblici franciscani Loeb Classical Library Linguistic Studies in Ancient West Semitic Septuagint Masoretic Text

xx NCB NCBC NEB NGC NIBC NICOT NIV NJPS NJPSV NOAB NRSV NSBT NTOA NTS OBO OBT OLZ OTE OTL OtSt PBTM PEQ PL Proof Qad QC RB REB RevQ RIMA RSV RThPh SAAS SAT SBL SBLDS SBLEJL SBLMS

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES New Century Bible New Century Bible Commentary New English Bible New German Critique New International Biblical Commentary New International Commentary on the Old Testament New International Version Tanakh: The Holy Scriptures: The New JPS Translation According to the Traditional Hebrew Text New Jewish Publication Society Translation New Oxford Annotated Bible New Revised Standard Version New Studies in Biblical Theology Novus Testamentum et Orbis Antiquus New Testament Studies Orbis biblicus et orientalis Overtures to Biblical Theology Orientalistische Literaturzeitung Old Testament Essays Old Testament Library Oudtestamentische Studiën Paternoster Biblical and Theological Monographs Palestine Exploration Quarterly Philosophy and Literature Prooftexts: A Journal of Jewish Literary History Qadmoniot Qumran Chronicle Revue biblique Revised English Bible Revue de Qumran The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia. Assyrian Periods Revised Standard Version Revue de Théologie et de Philosophie State Archives of Assyria Studies Schriften des Alten Testaments Society of Biblical Literature SBL Dissertation Series Society of Biblical Literature Early Judaism and Its Literature SBL Monograph Series

ABBREVIATIONS SBLSBS SBLSS SBTS SBTSS ScrHier SHCANE SJOT SJSJ SJT SR SSN STAR STDJ SubBi TA TAPS TDOT ThR TimesLitSupp TOTC VT VTSup VWGT WBC WMANT WUNT ZAH ZAW ZDPV

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SBL Sources for Biblical Study SBL Semeia Studies Sources for Biblical and Theological Studies Studies of Biblical Theology Supplement Series Scripta hierosolymitana Studies in the History and Culture of the Ancient Near East Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism Scottish Journal of Theology Studies in Religion/Sciences Religieuses Studia semitica neerlandica Studies in Theology and Religion Studies on the Texts of the Desert of Judah Subsidia biblica Tel Aviv Transactions of the American Philosophical Society Theological Dictionary of the Old Testament. Edited by G. J. Botterweck and H. Ringgren. Eerdmans: Grand Rapids, 1974– Theological Review of the Near East School of Theology Times Literary Supplement Tyndale Old Testament Commentaries Vetus Testamentum Vetus Testamentum Supplements Veröffentlichungen der Wissenschaftlichen Gesellschaft für Theologie Word Biblical Commentary Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen Testament Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Alten und Neuen Testament Zeitschrift für Althebraistik Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Zeitschrift des deutschen Palastina-Vereins

JUBILEE CALENDAR RESCUED FROM THE FLOOD NARRATIVE S. NAJM & PH. GUILLAUME

NEAR EAST SCHOOL OF THEOLOGY, BEIRUT 1. INTRODUCTION 1.1 A jubilee ago, Annie Jaubert claimed that the calendar of the book of Jubilees is to be regarded as an ancient priestly calendar which the Essenes continued to use. 1 This Jubilees calendar is also called ‘sabbatical calendar’ 2 because it is based on a 364-day year made up of exactly 52 weeks, with four seasons of equal length (91 days: 1 En 72,8–32; 82,4–6.11–20). 3 Consequently, each date always falls on the same day of the week, Sabbaths fall on the same dates every year. 4 This is the purpose of such a calendar, as attested in Qumran texts, in Enoch literature and earlier in the Pentateuch, Ezekiel, Haggai, Zechariah, Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah. 5 The flood thus starts on a Sunday (Gen 7,11) and the ark duly stops on Ararat on a Friday in order to respect the Sabbath (Gen 8,4). 6 The travels of the Patriarchs are also planned to respect the seventh-day rest; during the Exodus the children of Israel do not start off or arrive on a Sabbath day (Ex 12,31;

1 A. Jaubert, Le calendrier des Jubilés et de la secte de Qumrân. Ses origines bibliques, VT 3 (1953), 250–264. 2 W. Vogels, The Cultic and Civil Calendars of the Fourth Day of Creation (Gen 1,14b), SJOT 11 (1997), 163–180 (177). 3 R. T. Beckwith, Enoch Literature and its Calendar: Marks of their Origin, Dates, and Motivation, RevQ 39 (1981), 363–404 (383); R. T. Beckwith, Calendar and Chronology, 2001, 93–95. 4 See table in J. C. VanderKam, The Origin, Character, and Early History of the 364-Day Calendar: A Reassessment of Jaubert’s Hypotheses, CBQ 41 (1979), 390– 411 (391) = J. C. VanderKam, From Revelation to Canon. Studies in the Hebrew Bible and Second Temple Literature, 2000, 82. 5 A. Jaubert, La date de la cène, 1957, 32–38. 6 F. H. Cryer, Gn 5,32; 11,10–11 & the Chronology of the Flood, Bib 66 (1985), 241–261.

1

2

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

16,1). 7 The perfect seven-day structure of this calendar and its ability to provide a perpetual table of Sabbath dates suggest links with Genesis 1. This leads us to ask whether the composer of Genesis 1 (P) also invented the sabbatical calendar. If so, the Jubilees calendar would be much older than the book of Jubilees.

1.2 James VanderKam has partly confirmed Jaubert’s hypothesis, 8 and recently B. K. Gardner has produced a monograph where he shows that ‘there was a covert, sophisticated synchronistic tradition of 364-day calendrics in the post-exilic Priestly Writer P’. 9 Otherwise, Jaubert’s hypothesis has received little support. Nina Collins holds that the sabbatical calendar was in use at the latest when the Torah was translated into Greek around 280 BCE. 10 Roger Beckwith reversed Jaubert’s argument: the Old Testament chronologies are not based on the 364-day calendar; it is the calendar that is based on the Old Testament, and the sabbatical calendar was created by the Essenes between 251 and 200 BCE. 11 Frederick Cryer even concludes a study of the Flood Narrative (FN) claiming that the only calendar not reflected in P’s system is the 364-day calendar of the book of Jubilees and Enoch. 12

1.3 This contribution tries to show that Cryer is mistaken. Rather than a mere ‘hobby horse of Jubilees sectarians’, 13 the 364-day calendar is clearly reflected in both the final Torah redaction of the FN and already in the Priestly writer’s version. This calendar may be as old as the Priestly Narrative (Pg) which opens with a cosmogony (Genesis 1) that supplies the basic components of the calendar attested in the book of Jubilees.

See Jaubert, Date, 32–33. VanderKam, Origin, 410 = VanderKam, From Revelation to Canon, 81–104. 9 B. K. Gardner, The Genesis Calendar: The Synchronistic Tradition in Genesis 1–11, 2001, 5. 10 N. L. Collins, The Library in Alexandria and the Bible in Greek, 2000, 115– 130. 11 Beckwith, Enoch Literature, 363–404; R. T. Beckwith, The Solar Calendar of Joseph and Asenath: a Suggestion, JSJ 15 (1984), 90–111 (99). 12 F. H. Cryer, Gn 5,32; 11,10–11 & the Chronology of the Flood, Bib 66 (1985), 241–261 (256). For a complete overview of the discussion and bibliography: VanderKam, Origin, 393–399. 13 As dubbed by Cryer, Gen 5,32, 257 n. 57. 7 8

JUBILEE CALENDAR RESCUED

2.

3

SEARCHING FOR THE PRIESTLY WRITER’S FLOOD CHRONOLOGY

2.1 Cryer’s conclusion is that P uses three systems: a schematic 360-day calendar, the 354-day lunar and 365-day solar calendars. Fractions are completely disregarded; all computations are based on whole numbers. ‘These are earmarks of a purely arithmetical, schematic system which has nothing to do with astronomical observation’. 14 This last point contradicts his discovery of a lunar and a solar calendar in the FN, but this is not the point we want to make. Our aim here is to show that it is possible to find the sabbatical calendar in the Priestly version of the FN. To do so, we reproduce Cryer’s useful table that lists all the chronological data provided in the FN, with just a few alterations: 15 Days Dates Gen 7,4.10 7 Gen 7,11–12 40 17/II Gen 7,17 40 Gen 7,24 150 Gen 8,3 150 Gen 8,4 17/VII (MT) or 27/VII (LXX) Gen 8,5 1/X (MT) or 1/XI (LXX) Gen 8,6 40 Gen 8,10 7 Gen 8,12 7 Gen 8,13 1/I Gen 8,14 27/II Then Cryer establishes a table of intervals (days, months in Roman numbers and years from Noah’s age): 16

Cryer, Gen 5,32, 260. See Cryer, Gen 5,32, 251–252. We have omitted four entries from Cryer’s table: the 120 years limit of human life (Gen 6,3) because it does not belong to the FN, the repetition of the 7 days in Gen 7,4 and 10 because verse 10 is clearly the accomplishment of the oracle in verse 4 and should not be tallied twice (so Cryer, Gen 5,32, 259). We also omitted Cryer’s x and y entries that are pure conjectures. Against Cryer, Gen 5,32, 259–260, who considers the 40 days of Gen 8,6 as a mere doublet of 7,17, we include both in the list because the 40 days of 7,11 and 8,6 are part of phrases in the narrative mode, suggesting that an extra 40 days are spent between the viewing of the mountaintops and the opening of the window. 16 Cryer, Gen 5,32, 259, table 3. 14 15

4

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Gen 7,6

Noah is 600 years old 1/I/ 600 47 days Gen 7,11 Flood starts 17/II/600 Gen 8,4 Ark rests 17/VII/600 73 days Gen 8,5 Mountaintops appear 1/X/600 Gen 8,13 Ark’s cover removed 1/I/601 57 days Gen 8,14 Ark opened 27/II/601 2.2 Cryer’s first interval is contrived because it is built on the assumption that the flood started on 1/I, although Gen 7,6 only mentions that Noah was 600 years old when the flood came on the land. It is therefore safer to remove this fragile piece of evidence and only take into consideration days and intervals based on dates provided by the text. The two other intervals are also disputable since, according to the procedure used to tally 150 days between 17/II and 17/VII (13 + 120 + 17), the days between 17/VII and 1/X amount to 74 (13 + 60 + 1) while from 1/I to 27/II we count 56 days (29 + 27). 17 Moreover, one episode of the flood is missing: the interval between the appearance of the mountaintops and the removal of the ark’s cover, both events duly dated by passages commonly attributed to P. 18 It should then be integrated into Cryer’s table with the amounts of days tallied with the same procedure as the 150 days.

J. Skinner, Genesis, 1910, 168. M. Rösel, Die Chronologie der Flut in Gen 7– 8: Keine neuen textkritischen Lösungen, ZAW 110,4 (1998), 590–593 (593), considers that P relies on schematic months of 30 days and counts 75 days between the resting of the ark in on 17/VII (Gen 8,4) and the appearing of the mountaintops on 1/X (Gen 8,5). To find 75 days between 17/VII and 1/X with only 30-day months, it is necessary to also count the first day (17th) as a whole day (14 + 30 + 30 + 1). This is hardly acceptable if one counts 150 days between 17/II and 17/VII (13 [instead of 14] + 30 + 30 + 30 + 30 + 17). 18 N. Lohfink, Theology of the Pentateuch, 1994, 145 n. 29. For the FN: Gen 6,9–22; 7,6,11,13–16a,17a,18–21,24; 8,1,2a,3b–5,13a,14–19; 9,1–3,7–17,28–29. 17

JUBILEE CALENDAR RESCUED

5

Table 1: corrected Cryer data Gen 7,11 Flood starts 17/II Gen 8,4 Ark rests 17/VII 150 days = 13 + 120 + 17 Gen 8,4 Ark rests 17/VII 74 days = 13 + 30 + 30 + 1 Gen 8,5 Mountaintops 1/X Gen 8,5 Mountaintops 1/X Gen 8,13 Cover removed 1/I 90 days = 29 + 60 + 1 Gen 8,13 Cover removed 1/I 56 days = 29 + 27 Gen 8,14 Ark opened 27/II Total 370 days = 52 weeks + 6 days Since the result is not a whole number of weeks, we consider it as an unlikely representation of P’s system. So, we tally both MT and LXX dates (different from MT in 8,4.5) with the sabbatical calendar which introduces an extra day at the end of months III,VI,IX and XII.

Table 2: MT and LXX dates with sabbatical calendar MT Gen 7,11 Gen 8,4 Gen 8,4 Gen 8,5

17/II 17/VII

Gen 8,5 Gen 8,13 Gen 8,13 Gen 8,14 Total

1/X 1/I

17/VII 1/X

1/I 27/II

152 = 13 + 31 + 60 + 31 + 17 75 = 13 + 30 +31 + 1 91 = 29 + 30 + 31 + 1 56 = 29 + 27

LXX 17/II 27/VII 27/VII 1/XI

162 = 13 + 31 + 60 + 31 + 27 95 = 3 + 30 + 31 + 30 + 1

1/XI 1/I

61 = 29 + 31 + 1

1/I 27/II

56 = 29 + 27

374 days = 53 weeks 374 days + 3 days Now we notice that the 150-day interval between the resting of the ark and the appearance of the mountaintops contradicts both the MT and the LXX dates, since they amount to 152 or 162 days. 19 J. M. Baumgartner and others after him have used this fact to reject Jaubert’s hypothesis and ascertain that the FN does not use the sabbatical calendar. 20 But if we consider this 150Beckwith, Calendar, 101. J. M. Baumgartner, The Calendar of the Book of Jubilees and the Bible, Tarbiz 32 (1962), 317–328 = Studies in Qumran Laws, 1977, 101–114. 19 20

6

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

day interval as secondary because it only makes sense within the MT system tallied with a 360-day calendar, then the argument is void and the very presence of these 150 days reveals that another chronological system was imposed upon an older version of the FN that did not follow the 360-day calendar. Therefore, the appeal to the FN to establish the use of the sabbatical calendar in Pg may be less absurd than Baumgartner has claimed. The following shows that the FN chronology makes plenty of sense if worked out on the basis of the 364-day calendar.

2.3 To prove this, we notice that the LXX counts seven months between the resting of the ark and its opening (27/VII to 27/II). We therefore take these seven months as a possible hallmark of P’s work since P ‘evinces a marked penchant for sevens’. 21 Then we notice that, according to the sabbatical calendar, the flood starts on Sunday while the ark rests on the next week-day, Monday, as if nothing had happened in between. P may thus indicate that the actual flooding period is not to be included into the FN chronology. Rather, the flood would be considered as a de-creation that suspends time and calendar as much as it destroys the other aspects of earthly life. The time between the beginning of the rain and the resting of the ark is thus a time-gap (except for fish!), a black hole in the calendar that should not be tallied. The time count resumes as soon as the ark rests, and it takes exactly seven months to recreate life on the land. It does not seem too far-fetched to claim that these seven months reflect the seven days of Genesis 1, and thus the LXX would be more likely to transmit P’s original date! This means that all who attempted to decipher the Flood chronology may have been misled when they counted the days of the actual flooding of the land. We should therefore remove them and establish a last table.

21

W. H. C. Propp, Exodus 1–18, 1998, 315.

JUBILEE CALENDAR RESCUED

7

Table 3: LXX dates, sabbatical calendar, and flood gap Days Gen 7,11 Gen 7,12 Gen 7,17 Gen 8,4

Flood starts Rain Ark afloat Ark rests

Dates 17/II Sunday

40 Time gap

Calendar gap 27/VII (LXX) 156 = 3 + 30 + 31 + 60 Monday Gen 8,13 Ark uncov- + 31 + 1 1/I Wednesday 56 = 29 + 27 = 8 x 7 ered Gen 8,14 Ark opened 27/II Wednesday Total 252 = 36 x 7 Now we have a total of days that make up a whole number of weeks, like the 364-day calendar. P’s FN starts after the seven days announced by God (Gen 7,10). Rain pours over the land for 40 days (Gen 7,4.12) before the swelling waters float the ark. These 40 days belong to the FN, but then the interval between 17/II and 27/VII is not tallied because it corresponds to the suspension of time. The FN is thus made up of three distinct periods: 40 days of rain, undated de-creation, 7 sabbatical months of recreation = 40 + 156 + 56 = 252 days = 36 weeks.

2.4 These seven months of re-creation strongly suggest that this version of the FN belongs to the chronological system established in Genesis 1. Rather than considering the whole first interval as secondary because its dates do not fit the 150-day interval, it is the 150 days that should be considered as secondary. The first interval itself, with its LXX dates, should be kept within P’s system. Since the sabbatical calendar always sets dates on the same day of the week, the last stages of re-creation both fall on Wednesday. By placing the removal of the ark’s cover on 1/I, P indicates that his calendar starts on a Wednesday, like the day of the creation of the heavenly luminaries that allow calendar calculations (Gen 1,14). Wednesday, day 1 of the sabbatical calendar, is not only New Year’s Day (Gen 1,14; 8,13), but also the day of new beginnings when the ark is opened (Gen 8,14). If the LXX transmits P’s original dates, the ark does not rests on Ararat on Friday in order to respect the Sabbath as claimed by Jaubert on the basis of the MT dates, 22 but on Monday in order to signify the time gap.

22

Jaubert, Date, 33; G. J. Wenham, Genesis 1–15, 1987, 180.

8

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

3. ALTERATION OF P’S ORIGINAL CHRONOLOGY 3.1 The interval between the beginning of the Flood and the resting of the ark contradicts the twice-mentioned sum of 150 days. It was necessary to reduce the date of the resting of the ark in 8,4 (27/VII LXX) by 10 days (17/VII MT) in order to get only 150 days. The aim of these 150 days is to impose the Egyptian calendar (12 x 30 + 5 supplementary days) 23 onto P’s sabbatical calendar by altering the year’s length to 360 days (150 + 150 + 60).

3.2 The removal of one whole month for the appearance of the mountaintops (1/XI > 1/X) has a different explanation, since the modification of the date provided by Gen 8,5 does not alter the overall chronology. The reduction of the first interval is compensated for by the lengthening of the following one by the same amount. It is probably due to a scribal error: the LXX actually mentions that ‘the waters continued to abate until the tenth month; in the eleventh month, on the first day of the month, the tops of the mountains appeared’. Haplography in the Hebrew can easily explain the transformation: ‫עד החדש העשירי בעשתי¯עשר האחד לחדש‬ ‫באחד לחדש‬

‫עד החדש העשירי בעשרי‬

Original? MT

The date corresponds to P’s date of Moses’ farewell (Deut 1,3).

4.

INTERCALATION?

Although there are no clues of intercalation relating to the Jubilee calendar, scholarship has supplied many suggestions to make up for the annual shortage compared to the solar calendar. 24 However, intercalation was not an issue for P when he composed his narrative around 530 BCE. 25 Although the 364-day calendar develops a one-month discrepancy every 24 years, 26 the marked tendency of this calendar to emancipate itself from natural phenomena like the lunar monthly cycle make it no less liable than other calendars to cope with the discrepancy. After all no ancient calendar reflects the exact length of the solar year. Moreover, the Zoroastrian calendar received its first intercalation in 505 BCE and the next one did not take effect before E. J. Bickerman, Chronology of the Ancient World, 1968, 40–43. Listed in VanderKam, From Revelation to Canon, 99 n. 57. 25 A. de Pury, Der Priesterschriftliche Umgang mit der Jakobsgeschichte, in R. G. Kratz, Th. Krüger & K. Schmid (eds), Schriftauslegung in der Schrift, BZAW, 2000, 33–60 (39). 26 Beckwith, Calendar, 108. 23 24

JUBILEE CALENDAR RESCUED

9

441 BCE. 27 This simply shows that calendars can survive without frequent intercalations. People know to cope with using several calendars at the same time.

5. MODIFIED PRIESTLY FLOOD NARRATIVE 5.1 These findings have three consequences on the extant of the Priestly FN: 28 y the LXX transmits the original Priestly dates. y the mentions of the 150 days (7,24; 8,3b) do not belong to P. y the 40 days of rain (Gen 7,4.12) should be attributed to P. g P thus reads between Gen 7,11 and 8,14 (changes in bold): Gen 7,11 (NRSV) In the six hundredth year of Noah’s life, in the second month, on the seventeenth day of the month, on that day all the fountains of the great deep burst forth, and the windows of the heavens were opened. 12The rain fell on the earth 40 days and 40 nights. 13One the very same day Noah with his sons, Shem, Ham and Japheth, and Noah’s wife and the three wives of his sons entered the ark, 14they and every wild animal of every kind, and all domestic animals of every kind, and every creeping thing that creeps on the earth, and every bird of every kind—every bird, every winged creature. 15They went into the ark with Noah, two and two of all flesh in which there was the breath of life. 16aAnd those that entered, male and female of all flesh, went in as God had commanded him. 17aThe flood continued forty days on the earth. 18The waters swelled and increased greatly on the earth; and the ark floated on the face of the waters. 19The waters swelled so mightily on the earth that all the high mountains under the whole heaven were covered; 20the waters swelled above the mountains, covering them fifteen cubits deep. 21And all flesh died that moved on the earth, birds, domestic animals, wild animals, all swarming creatures that swarm on the earth, and all human beings. 8,1But God remembered Noah and all the wild animals and all the domestic animals that were with him in the ark. And God made a wind blow over the earth, and the waters subsided; 2the fountains of the deep and the windows of the heavens were closed 4and in the seventh month, on the twenty-seventh day of the month, the ark came to rest on the mountains of Ararat. 5The water continued to abate until the tenth month; in the eleventh month, on the first day of the month, the tops of the mountains appeared. 13aIn the six hundred first year, in the first month, the first day of the month, the waters were dried up from the earth; and Noah removed the covering of

27 28

A. Panaino, Calendars I. Pre-Islamic, in Encyclopaedia Iranica IV, 1990, 662. As delimitated by Lohfink, Theology, 145 n. 29.

10

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES the ark. 14In the second month, on the twenty-seventh day of the month, the earth was dry.

Therefore, it seems a natural conclusion to claim that around 530 BCE, P was not simply the composer of Genesis 1 and of the rest of Pg; he also set up (and possibly invented) the sabbatical calendar that provides the chronological structure of the whole of Pg. The calendar data provided by the creation week is supplemented by the FN to establish New Year’s Day on Wednesday and to set the year’s length at 364 days. This bold affirmation certainly needs to be tested on the other chronological systems transmitted by Pg 29 before it can be declared valid. But it already suggests that Beckwith stretches the evidence when he claims that the solar and lunar calendars are the only “calendars definitely reflected in the Old Testament”. 30 The Essenes were not the only ones to be fascinated by numbers. Pg demonstrates a clear concern with symmetry precision and regularity. In spite of Beckwith’s claim, there is therefore no need to wait for Alexander and Greek arithmetic to date the invention of the 364-day calendar. 31

5.2 Politically, this new calendar has the same symbolic bearing as the French revolutionary calendar based on 10-day weeks and fancy month names. 32 In ancient Palestine, changes of rule also coincided with calendar changes: Nebuchadnezzar probably enforced the Babylonian calendar at Jerusalem in 604 BCE. 33 Pg and its sabbatical calendar reflect the next change, from Babylonian to Persian rule. The sabbatical calendar marks the end of Babylonian hegemony and turns a dark page in Jerusalem’s past. 34 The replacement of the Babylonian lunar calendar by a pure septenary system celebrates the downfall of the Babylonian Empire and the reconstruction of the Judaean political entity by the Persians, who present themselves as liberators and restorers of cults abrogated by Nabonidus. The introduction of the Egyptian system onto P’s calendar is thus likely to correspond to the beginning of Ptolemaic rule over Palestine around 300 BCE. However, the Egyptian calendar did not blot out P’s chronological structure. It can be See S. E. McEvenue, The Narrative Style of the Priestly Writer, 1971, 191. Beckwith, Calendar, 106. 31 Beckwith, Calendar, 106–107. 32 B. Blackburn & L. Holford-Strevens, The Oxford Companion to the Year, 1999, 742–745. 33 J. A. Wagenaar, Post-exilic Calendar Innovations. The First Month of the Year and the Date of Passover and the Festival of Unleavened Bread, ZAW 115,1 (2003), 3–24 (18 n. 46). 34 Ph. Guillaume, Genesis 1 as Charter of a Revolutionary Calendar, ThR 24/2 (2003), 141–148. 29 30

JUBILEE CALENDAR RESCUED

11

recovered in the FN if one uses the information provided by the books of Jubilees and Enoch. The authors of these books were probably closer to the Priestly traditions than is suggested by the wild sectarian image imposed on them by modern scholarship.

5.3 Finally, if the seven months of re-creation of the FN belong to P’s overall chronological system as much as the seven days of Genesis 1, Pg may contain other indications of numerical symbolism which may in turn help us to recover the theological meaning of Pg and even to provide extra criteria to delimitate its extant. To this end, the fact that the whole FN lasts 6 x 6 weeks is probably significant. It will be the object of our next study, devoted to the Priestly account of the plagues. 35

35

We thank David Kerry for improving our English.

LETTING THE “BI-WORD” “RULE” IN JOEL 2:17 JAMES R. LINVILLE

UNIVERSITY OF LETHBRIDGE I

INTRODUCTION

Joel 2:17 contains a prayer recommended to the priests as a liturgical response to a massive crisis: ‫ואל־תתן נחלתך לחרפה למשׁל־בם גוים‬. Scholars disagree as to which Hebrew root is represented by term ‫ משׁל‬in the verse. 1 The KJV reads: “Give not thine heritage to reproach, that the heathen should rule over them” and has considerable modern support in identifying ‫ משׁל‬II, “to rule”. 2 Alternatively, ‫ משׁל‬I is often proposed. NRSV recognizes a noun, “byword”: “Do not make your heritage a mockery, a byword among the nations”, and some commentators follow suit. 3 Others, howUsing the root-numbers from G. J. Botterweck, H. Ringgren, H.-J. Fabry, TDOT Vol. 9 (trans. D. E. Green; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), pp. 64–71 (TDOT). Earlier philological work identified three roots: cf. F. Brown, S. R. Driver, C. A. Briggs, The New Brown—Driver—Briggs—Gesenius Hebrew and English Lexicon (Peabody MA: Hendrickson, 1979), p. 605: I = “represent, be like”; II = “use a proverb” / “proverb/parable”; III “to rule”. As in the case of TDOT, it is now commonplace to regard BDB I and II as a single root: cf. A. R. Johnson, “‫”מ ָשׁל‬ ָ in M. Noth, D. W. Thomas (eds.), Wisdom in Israel and in the Ancient Near East (VTSup, 3; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1955), pp. 162–69; W. L. Holladay, A Concise Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament, based upon the lexical work of Ludwig Koehler and Walter Baumgartner (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1971), p. 219. 2 E.g., D. Garrett, Hosea, Joel (New American Commentary, 19a; Nashville: Broadman and Holman, 1997), p. 349; H. W. Wolff, Joel and Amos: A Commentary on the Books of the Prophets Joel and Amos (trans. W. Janzen, S. D. McBride Jr., C. A. Muenchow; Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1977), p. 39; P. R. Andi1

ñach, “The Locusts in the Message of Joel”, VT 42 (1992), pp. 433–41 (437). 3 NRSV, (Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America, 1989). See too, J. Barton, Joel

13

14

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

ever, find an infinitive, as vocalized in the MT (‫) ִל ְמ ָשׁל־‬: “to tell proverbs” or, “to mock” as in Crenshaw’s “Do not surrender your property to reproach, nations mocking them”. 4 Some interpreters recognize the potential for a double entendre between the two roots but defend one or another as most plausible. 5 Garrett says that only “to rule” is possible but adds that Joel permitted a paronomasia with the homonym “byword”, given the presence of “reproach”. 6 Sweeney is less hesitant about a possible word-play, but he does not develop his thought much in this regard. 7 A close examination of the various arguments reveals that, while some of the root I proposals are unlikely, “byword among the nations” remains very plausible. On the other hand, the simple grammar of “to rule” is persuasive while the contextual arguments often raised against it are not particularly weighty. The solution is to recognize a deliberate ambiguity here. A lengthy examination of the situation is instructive beyond merely cataloguing another example of biblical polysemy. First, it shows the need for careful analysis of difficult terms in their immediate literary context. Secondly, it shows that Joel 2:17 employs a somewhat irregular figure of speech found in a number of other biblical passages. Third, the contextual associations of the other “humiliation formulae”, as I label them, not only supports polysemy in Joel 2:17, but also suggests that perhaps the larger context of Joel is itself ambiguous regarding the circumstances of Judah’s depicted plight. The exact nature of the polysemy in Joel 2:17 is, however, indeterminate. There may be a simple double entendre. Alternatively, ‫ משׁל‬may function as a “pivot” word, one meaning corresponding to the preceding text, the other to the following words. As I will describe in closing, this creative use of language plays into other aspects of the book’s complex imagery. and Obadiah: A Commentary (OTL; Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2001), p. 83; O. Loretz, Regenritual und Jahwetag im Joelbuch. Kanaanäischer Hintergrund, Kolometrie, Aufbau und Symbolik eines Prophetenbuches (Ugaritisch-Biblische Literatur, 4; Altenberge: CIS-Verlag, 1986), p. 31. 4 J. L. Crenshaw, Joel: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB, 24; Garden City NY: Doubleday, 1995), p. 133. 5 Crenshaw, Joel, pp. 142–43; R. Simkins, Yahweh’s Activity in History and Nature in the Book of Joel (ANETS, 10; Lewiston / Queenston / Lampeter: Edwin Mellen Press, 1991) pp. 173–74, n 6. Both prefer “to mock”. On the other hand, M. Bič, Das Buch Joel (Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1960), p. 61, prefers “to rule” but acknowledges that the verse may read “to mock”. 6 Garrett, Hosea, Joel, p. 349, n. 20. 7 M. A. Sweeney, The Twelve Prophets. Vol. I. Hosea Joel Amos Obadiah Jonah (Berit Olam; Collegeville MN: Liturgical Press, 2000), p. 169.

LETTING THE “BI-WORD” “RULE”

15

THE CASE FOR ‫ משׁל‬II: “TO RULE OVER THEM”

II

The vocalization of ‫ל־בם‬ ָ ‫ ִל ְמ ָשׁ‬implies an infinitive construct linked to a preposition and pronoun combination. There are some fifty cases in the Hebrew Bible in which ‫ משׁל‬II and an adversative ‫ ב‬construction indicates “rule over x”. In the debated expression in Joel 2:17 the final word, “nations”, can easily serve as identifying the “ruler”. There are no clear biblical instances of ‫ משׁל‬I and an adversative ‫“( ב‬to tell a proverb about x”) and this is convincing evidence to many scholars that Joel should read “to rule”. 8 On the other hand, many scholars regard the military imagery in Joel 1:4–2:11 as metaphors of natural disasters. They therefore think “to rule” is out of place contextually as there is no obvious mention of foreign armies threatening the land and people in Joel 1–2. 9 Crenshaw also points out that 2:19, 27 speak of “reproach” and “shame” but not military subjugation. 10 This is countered with arguments that at least some of Joel 1:4–2:11 refers to a human or semi-divine army assaulting Judah. References to drought, fire and locusts may then be seen as metaphorical descriptions of these forces. 11 Both sides appeal to Joel’s use of traditional and generic forms of speech. 12 The situation is further complicated by some diachronic analyses Garrett, Hosea-Joel, p. 349, n. 64, lists Gen. 1:18; 3:16; 4:7; 37:8; 45:26; Deut 15:6; Josh. 12:5; Jud. 8:22–23; 9:2; 14:4; 15:11; 2 Sam. 23:3; 1 Kgs 5:1; Isa. 3:4; 19:4; 63:19; Jer. 22:30; Mic. 5:1; Hab. 1:14; Pss. 19:14; 22:29; 105:21 106:41; Prov. 16:32; Ecc. 9:17; Dan. 11:43. See also Andinach, p. 437; Stuart, Hosea-Jonah, p. 248; Wolff, Joel and Amos, pp. 39, 52. Wolff also notes that the Greek has κατάρξαι and the Vulgate has “dominentur”, while Rashi preferred the reading “to mock”. 9 Crenshaw, Joel: pp. 142–43; Barton, Joel and Obadiah, pp. 82–83; See too, L. C. Allen, The Books of Joel, Obadiah, Jonah and Micah (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1976), p. 77. Cf. 1:6, 2:2–11, invaders/locusts are considered a nation and a mighty people, while comparisons to horses, chariotry and soldiers are also made. 10 Crenshaw, Joel, pp. 142–43. 11 For the vision of an apocalyptic army (Joel 2) inspired by real locusts and drought (Joel 1), see Wolff, Joel and Amos, p. 52. For human armies throughout, see Andiñach, “Locusts”; D. Stuart, Hosea-Jonah (WBC, 31; Waco TX: Word Books, 1987), pp. 232–233; G. S. Ogden, “Joel” in G. S. Ogden and R. R. Deutsch, A Promise of Hope—A Call to Obedience. A Commentary on the Books of Joel and Malachi (ITC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1984), pp. 11–14; G. S. Ogden, “Joel 4 and Prophetic Responses to National Laments” JSOT 26 (1983), pp. 97–106. 12 Cf. the lament setting identified by Ogden, “Joel 4”, and the theophanic language found by Barton, Joel and Amos, pp. 72–73. A few scholars do not think there is a “real-life” disaster behind the text or think it is irrecoverable: Deist, F. E., “Parallels and Reinterpretation in the Book of Joel: A Theology of the Yom Yahweh” in W. Classen, ed. Text and Context: Old Testament and Semitic Studies for F. C. Fensham (JSOTSup, 48; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1988), pp. 63–79; R. J. Coggins, Joel and Amos 8

16

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

which hold the latter half of the book to be secondary. 13 It can be objected, however, that since foreign domination is recalled and vengeance promised in Joel 4:2–14 it is not unthinkable that 2:17 was included or at least edited to anticipate the current ending of the book. In sum, positive arguments for “to rule” carry considerable weight, but contextual objections against it are not decisive.

III FAILURE “TO RULE” OUT ALTERNATIVES Despite the strong case for the “to rule” reading, attempts to defend this reading as the only possible one are far less convincing. The variety of ‫משׁל‬ I root solutions (verb or a noun) is not generally recognized while the preposition ‫ ב‬may be construed as adversative or locative. Even if no other example of that root and an adversative ‫ ב‬appears in the Hebrew Bible, other combinations may remain possible. Critics sometimes also fail to notice the role of the verb ‫ נתן‬vis-à-vis the proposed ‫ משׁל‬I root, a combination which does find a few other instances in the Hebrew Bible. 14 For instance, Garrett challenges the NIV’s “byword among the nations” claiming that the normal understanding of ‫ משׁל ב‬is “to rule” which also fits contextually in Joel. Garrett also complains that some scholars are overly-impressed with the collocation of ‫ למשׁל‬and ‫ לחרפה‬and considers any proposed adversative preposition attached to ‫ משׁל‬I anomalous, citing a few verses in which ‫ ב‬is employed with a different sense, including Ezek. 12:23 and 18:3. 15 In those verses, however, a locative preposition is combined with ‫ משׁל‬I and that is just what NIV offers. Some 19th century scholars claimed that had ‫ משׁל‬been employed to speak of the denigration of Judah by foreigners, any one of a number of verbs, including ‫נתן‬, should have been present, but they maintain that such a word is lacking in 2:17. So focused were they on the combination of ‫ משׁל¯בם‬and the pointing of ‫משׁל‬ as a verb that they neglected to look at the start of the line: ‫ואל־תתן‬, and to

(NCB Commentary; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), pp. 29, 42. 13 E.g., Barton, Joel and Obadiah, p. 7, coining the phrase “Deutero-Joel” for 2:28–3:31. See R. Coggins, “Joel” CBR 2 (2003), pp. 85–103, for a survey of scholarly work on the book. 14As I will describe below, these kinds of oversights are also made by proponents of ‫ משׁל‬I. 15 Garrett, Hosea-Joel, pp. 348–49, n. 19, referring to Stuart, Hosea-Jonah, p. 248; and Wolff, Joel and Amos, p. 52. Garrett objects that ‫ משׁל‬I as a verb means “to use a proverb” and not “to mock” as Crenshaw, Joel, p. 133, would have it. This is not a fatal objection given the context.

LETTING THE “BI-WORD” “RULE”

17

question the Masoretic pointing. 16 Ahlström and Bergler hold that if Joel wanted to say that a byword was directed against Judah, the construction employed would have been ‫ משׁל‬+ ‫ על‬and not an adversative ‫ב‬, citing Isa. 14:4 and Mic. 2:4. 17 Micah 2:4 reads “he will lift against you a byword” ‫ישׂא‬ ‫עליכם משׁל‬. A comparable construction is also found in Hab. 2:4. 18 The writer of Joel 2:17 could have easily written, “Do not allow the nations to lift ‫ נשׂא‬reproach and a byword against ‫ על‬your possession”, had he meant to refer to the directing of an insulting epithet “against” Judah. Yet, the “byword against” proposal portrays those people becoming a “reproach [and] a byword among [the nations]”. Altogether, ‫ משׁל‬I (noun or verb) and adversative ‫ ב‬are a highly dubious combination. 19 Yet the “byword among” reading has not been demonstrated to be contrary to normal Hebrew usage.

THE ‫ משׁל‬I SOLUTIONS: THE CASE FOR THE NOUN “BYWORD” In view of the above discussion a nominal form of ‫ משׁל‬I is far more likely IV

in Joel 2:17 than the infinitive, despite MT’s vocalization. The pointing is a relatively late feature and should not be considered decisive. 20 Jeremiah 24:9 provides the strongest evidence for “byword among”.

16 E. Henderson, The Twelve Minor Prophets: Translated from the Original Hebrew with a Critical and Exegetical Commentary (Grand Rapids: Baker Book House, repr. 1980), p. 108; E. B. Pusey, The Minor Prophets: A Commentary Vol. I. Hosea, Joel Amos Obadiah and Jonah (Grand Rapids MI: Baker Book House, reprint, 1980), p. 154. 17 S. Bergler, Joel als Schriftsinterpret (BEATAJ, 16; Frankfort am Main: Verlag Peter Lang, 1987), p. 86, n. 85. He says ‫ אל‬+ ‫ משׁל‬is possible, too. G. W. Ahlström, Joel and the Temple Cult of Jerusalem (VTSup, 21; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1971), pp. 20–21. Ahlström supports ‫ משׁל‬II by claiming that the so-called covenant term ‫ נחלה‬in 2:17 implies that Yahweh is the true ruler. This, however, is taking a too narrow approach to the passage. 18 Cf. the different construction in Ezek. 16:44; 18:2 and Ps. 15:13. 19 Garrett, Hosea-Joel, p. 349 n. 20, offers the hypothetical translation, “Do not let your inheritance become a reproach, a byword against them—nations” which further highlights the dubiousness of the noun and adversative ‫ ב‬combination. 20 The lack of a conjunction between “reproach” and the proposed “byword” is also not a serious obstacle: cf. Jer. 24:9a, c below.

18

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

a

‫ ונתתים לזעוה לרעה‬I will make them a terror, an evil [thing] 21

b

‫ לכל ממלכות הארץ‬to all the kingdoms of the earth,

c d

‫ לחרפה ולמשׁל לשׁנינה‬a reproach and a byword, a taunt and a ‫ ולקללה‬vilification ‫ בכל־המקמות עשׁר־אדיחם‬in every place I will banish them. ‫שׁם‬

The same verb as in Joel 2:17 appears in v. 9a, but it clearly governs the two series of ‫ל‬-prefixed nouns. The second series (v. 9c) has four members, including the two terms from Joel. Here ‫ משׁל‬should be understood as “byword”, given that the rest of the terms are related nouns. A locative ‫ ב‬construction is found in v. 9d. Holladay comments how, in this verse, the Judeans become the words of ridicule, rather than just the victims of insults. 22 Oddly, some commentators who defend the “byword among” reading in Joel, such as Barton, only notice the collocation of ‫ משׁל‬and ‫ חרפה‬and not the other similar features. 23 There is, however, a syntactical problem that remains with this reading: that of the redundant pronoun suffix on the preposition:‫בם גוים‬: “among them, nations”. Barton does not comment on the difficulty, while others propose emendations. 24 One may, however, be able to meet the challenge. Williams identifies a rare construction he calls “anticipative apposition” in which a pronoun suffix appears before the noun. He provides three examples, albeit with the pronoun attached to verbs, not prepositions. 25 21 R. P. Carroll, Jeremiah: A Commentary (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1986), p. 482, translates MT here as “a horror for evil” and provides some textcritical data. 22 W. Holladay, Jeremiah 1: A Commentary on the Book of the Prophet Jeremiah Chapters 1—25 (Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986), p. 660. 23 Barton, Joel and Amos, pp. 82–83. More curiously, S. R. Driver, The Books of Joel and Amos. With Introduction and Notes (CBSC; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1907), p. 57, supports “to make proverbs of” in Joel by reference to Jer. 24:9. 24 Barton, Joel and Amos, pp. 82–83. J. A. Bewer, “A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Obadiah and Joel” in J. M. P. Smith, W. H. Ward, J. A. Bewer, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Micah, Zephaniah, Nahum, Habakkuk, Obadiah and Joel (ICC; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1911), p. 118, proposes ‫בגוים‬. 25 R. J. Williams, Hebrew Syntax: An Outline (2nd ed.; Toronto: University of To-

LETTING THE “BI-WORD” “RULE”

19

‫“ ותראהו את־הילד‬She saw (him) the child” Exod. 2:6 ‫“ בבאו האישׁ‬When (he) the man entered” Ezek. 10:3 ‫“ ויעדהו אנשׁי הבליעל‬The worthless men testified against 1 Kgs 21:13 ‫( את־נבות‬him) Naboth”. It is possible, therefore, to regard ‫ בם‬in Joel 2:17 as being in apposition to “nations”. Some lingering suspicions about this solution being a little forced could remain, but given the presence of Jer. 24:9 (and other verses, discussed below) the “byword among” reading remains very plausible.

V

AGAINST THE ‫ משׁל‬I VERB

If a verb is identified in Joel 2:17, the difficulty with ‫ בם גוים‬only grows. “Nations” would have to refer to those who “tell proverbs” or “mock”, while the preposition ‫ ב‬needs to be an otherwise unattested adversative: “against them”. Allen’s argument that an adversative ‫ ב‬marks the targets of other verbs of denigration (e.g., in 2 Kgs 2:23 and 2 Chr. 30:10) is of very little weight. 26 Rudolph and Marti both offer “über sie spotten” and prefer ‫ משׁל‬I on contextual grounds while Crenshaw has a comparable “nations mocking them.” Rudolph simply says that there is no reason why the ‫ ב‬in Joel 2:17 cannot be adversative. Marti cites Ezek 18:3 for the adversative preposition but Crenshaw rightly objects that the ‫ ב‬in Ezek 18:3 is locative. 27 All three scholars refer to the collocation of ‫ משׁל‬and ‫ חרפה‬in Jer. 24:9 to further establish a ‫ משׁל‬I root in Joel but then ignore the other comparative features of the Jeremiah passage which suggest that the root in Joel should be understood as a noun with a locative preposition. 28

ronto Press, 1976), pp. 15–16. 26 Allen, Hosea, Joel, p. 77, n. 64. His translation is idiosyncratic: “Do not permit your possession to be ridiculed, a swear word bandied about by the nations.” ‫חרפה‬ is an infinitive and ‫ משׁל‬a “denominative verb” from “byword”. What happens with the proposed adversative ‫ בם‬is not apparent. 27 Ezek. 18:2 has “proverb concerning the land” with ‫על‬, so v. 3’s ‫בישׂראל‬ should be differentiated in meaning. Context strongly suggests a locative sense, and that is supported in the LXX. Cf. Ezek 12:22–23. 28 W. Rudolph, Joel-Amos-Obadya-Jona (KAT; Gütersloh: Sütersloher Verlagshaus Gerd Mohn, 1971), p. 51, 53. K. Marti, Das Dodekapropheton (KHCAT, 13; Tübingen: Verlag von J. C. B. Mohr / Paul Siebeck, 1904), p. 130; Crenshaw, Joel, pp. 142–43.

20

VI

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

A HUMILIATION FORMULA IN JEREMIAH

Jeremiah 24:9 is one of a number of relevant verses in Jeremiah which employ a loose form of an expression I characterize as a “humiliation formula”. What links these passages together with Joel 2:17 are a number of features: a) ‫משׁל‬, ‫ חרפה‬and/or related terms which appear in a series. b) These terms are prefixed by the preposition ‫ל‬. c) The terms are objects of a verb which casts the ridiculed party as objects of insults or, metaphorically, as the insult itself. d) A locative ‫ ב‬construction identifying where or among whom the humiliation will take place, typically foreign nations. Not all of these features are present in each case below. In some the word ‫ משׁל‬itself is not to be found, although ‫ חרפה‬appears frequently. Besides Jer. 24:9, the latter part of Jer. 29:18 is relevant: ‫ונתתים לזעוה לכל ממלכות הארץ לאלה ולשׁמה ולשׁרקה ולחרפה‬ ‫בכל־הגוים אשׁר־הדחתים שׁם‬ I will make them a terror to every kingdom of the Earth, an execration, an appalling thing, a hissing and a reproach in every nation where I have driven them.

Of our Joel terms only ‫ חרפה‬appears here while the same verb ‫ נתן‬is also found. A list of four humiliation terms: ‫לאלה ולשׁמה ולקללה ולחרפה‬ (preceded by similar verbal forms of ‫ )היה‬appears in Jer. 42:18, which are obviously interrelated. 29 The Egypt-bound Judean refugees will become “an execration and an appalling thing and a vilification and reproach.” This verb is not the one employed in Joel 2:17 and Jer. 24:9, but, in context, it carries much the same meaning. Neither is a locative ‫ ב‬expression found, but the place of disgrace is clear from the larger context. In a similar context, Jer. 44:8 features only “vilification” and “reproach” appear with ‫ היה‬while a locative ‫ ב‬phrase, “in every nation of the earth” is found. In these Jeremiah verses “execration”, “hissing”, “vilification” and “reproach” indicate the metaphorical transformation of the Judeans into their enemies’ derisions. Also note how military defeat forms the backdrop to the international disgrace. A similar pattern emerges in Jer. 49:13 in which Bozrah is the victim: ‫“ לשׁמה לחרפה לחרב ולקללה תהיה‬An appalling thing, a reproach, a desolation, a vilification Bozrah will become.” 29 Jer. 42:18 is in the second person, 44:12 in the third. The conjunction on ‫ לשׁמה‬is not present in the latter verse.

LETTING THE “BI-WORD” “RULE”

21

VII OTHER HUMILIATION FORMULAE Solomon’s vision of Yahweh in 1 Kgs 9:7 has all the features of a humiliation formula. Impious Israelites will become a “byword and a taunt among all the peoples”: ‫והיה ישׂראל למשׁל ולשׁנינה בכל־העמים‬. 2 Chron. 7:20 says the temple itself will become the proverbial example of divine wrath. In both cases, however, international disgrace is linked to military defeat. Perhaps the writer of Kings was influenced by Deut. 28:37 (and cf. v. 25): ‫והיית לשׁמה למשׁל ולשׁנינה בכל העמים אשׁר־ינהגך יהוה שׁמה‬ You will become an appalling thing, a byword, and a taunt Among all the peoples to whom Yahweh will drive you.

Here foreign dominion and ridicule are to be the fate of a disobedient Israel. Exile and defeat are again envisioned in vv. 41, 43–44. On the other hand, Deuteronomy 28 also has numerous references to natural disasters as punishment. Verses 23–24 speak of nature turning against the Israelites. Verse 38 has locust infestations: ‫( ארבה‬cf. Joel 1:4, 2:25), while different insects appear in v. 42. On the whole, this chapter’s conflation of famine, infestation and domination suggests that in Joel 1:2–2:11 a similar mix of catastrophe may be in view. Moreover, a number of other biblical passages, including Ezek. 14:8, add to the list of reference to someone becoming a byword or an insult. 30 Of that Ezekiel verse, Polk finds that ‫למשׁל‬, governed by the verb ‫“ שׂים‬to place or set”, refers to the people as “not the thing signified but the signifier itself. They have themselves been made a sort of speech-act, a metaphor, a parable”. 31 A similar sense of transformation should be seen in Joel 2:17.

VIII TWO DOUBLE READINGS It appears that Joel 2:17 is closely related to a number of other biblical passages which denote metaphorical transformation of a party into its enemies’ words of insult. Even so, in a number of cases this loose formula is used in a context in which foreign domination is either explicitly stated or implied. The “to rule” reading, therefore, should not be discounted especially as it has absolutely no linguistic anomalies and foreshadows the closing of the book. Since both readings can be defended, it is best to regard Joel 2:17 as

Some other relevant verses are Pss. 44:15; 69:12 with ‫משׁל‬, and Ps. 79:4; Ezek. 5:15; 22:4; Mic. 6:16 with ‫ ;חרפה‬Job 17:6. 31 T. Polk, “Paradigms, Parables, and Mĕšāliˆm: On Reading the Māšāl in Scripture” CBQ 45 (1983), pp. 564–583 (577) 30

22

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

embracing a double reading, or better, two of them simultaneously. The first route to polysemy is to find a simple double entendre: Do not make your possession a reproach, a byword among [them] nations. … a reproach, to nations ruling over them.

On formal grounds readers should expect that they have encountered a humiliation formula complete with its series of nouns and a locative clause, however oddly constructed. Yet, the contexts evoked by the other attestations and the somewhat anomalous grammar suggest an alternative reading as an abridged humiliation reference and a comment on the foreign domination of Judah, anticipating, as it does, the closing of the book. 32 On the other hand, one can see ‫ משׁל‬as a “pivot” in 2:17, shifting from “byword” to “to rule”. In this sense, one might understand the line as technically requiring ‫ משׁל‬to be written twice, instead of just once. Given considerations of word order, it is hard to reproduce in English. Do not allow your possession to be a reproach, [and] a byword / to rule over them, [the nations]

Pivot patterns have been recognized in a number of other biblical and ancient near eastern texts. 33 If one is identified here, the full association between this verse and the so-called humiliation formula is lost, since ‫בם גוים‬ is not the expected “among the nations”. The pivot on ‫משׁל‬, however, solves the grammatical problem of ‫בם גוים‬, since those words do not need to be reconciled with “byword” at all. They need only relate to ‫ משׁל‬II “to rule” and this they can do without difficulty. Even if the latter proposal is accepted, it does not prevent the fuller humiliation formula to be evoked by the text following ‫משׁל‬. In reality, I do not see the value in choosing between the two proposed word-plays. The first combines the structure of the humiliation formula and clear grammar in the complimentary second meaning. The “pivot” has no grammatical difficulties and employs a recognized literary device. Perhaps it is best to posit that the writer was building on the

For the difficult grammar as suggestive of attempts to reconcile two alternative readings, I am indebted to E. Ben Zvi (personal communication). 33 See D. Sivan and S. Yona, “Pivot Words or Expressions in Biblical Hebrew and in Ugaritic Poetry”, VT 48 (1998), pp. 399–400, and the bibliography there. Also see P. Auffret, “‘Pivot Pattern’: Nouveaux Exemples (Jon. ii 10; Ps xxxi 13; Is. xxiii 7), VT 28 (1978), pp. 103–10. 32

LETTING THE “BI-WORD” “RULE”

23

two ‫ משׁל‬roots, but was not exploiting them in only one particular fashion. 34

IX

THE SIGNIFICANCE OF JOEL’S AMBIGUITY

The frequent and creative use of paronomasia in the Hebrew Bible is now very widely recognized, so saying that 2:17 is yet another example is hardly ground-breaking. Yet, this particular case plays into an extremely complex debate that is central to the interpretation of the book as a whole: determining the external circumstances which led to the book’s creation (invasion, locusts and / or drought). Whereas many scholars appeal to their understanding on these matters to determine a single meaning for ‫משׁל‬, it is worthwhile to consider the reverse: the ambiguous ‫ משׁל‬construction suggests that the rest of Joel 1–2’s references to disaster and calamity may be ultimately indeterminate. Formally, one expects in 2:17 a humiliation formula, yet, such formula are often predictions of a fate at the hands of an enemy: something that is avenged at the end of Joel. It is very plausible, therefore, that in the opening chapter and a half of Joel one encounters a complex imagery intended to allow any kind of major crisis to evoke the book’s call for a communal liturgy in response. While this issue cannot be discussed any further here, some additional comments can be made about our mysterious ‫משׁל‬. The polysemy in Joel 2:17 does seem to extend beyond a simple merging of two contextually appropriate meanings. The prophetic voice is advising priests how to pray to alleviate terrible suffering. Here God is the target of a dramatic rhetorical ploy. The closing words of the recommended prayer are, “Why should they say among the peoples, ‘Where is their God?’” 35 Oddly, there is not even a narrative describing that the priests actually performed the recommended prayer, but God does have compassion for his people in 2:18. 36 On the level of the story-world, one may take this text as describing (and hence legitimizing) a pattern of crisis-ritual: what to do to win divine favour when even the sacrificial rites must be abandoned. Yet, on the discursive level of the book as a whole, there is something more that is going on. One might also find other kinds of word plays on ‫ משׁל‬I / II in Isa. 14:4–5 and 28:14. The latter uses both roots in close proximity while the latter may be a double entendre. 35 Cf. Ps. 79:9–10. 36 Bewer, “Joel”, pp. 107–10, construed the relevant verbs of 2:15–17 as perfects instead of imperatives, thus producing a narrative of a fast, assembly and prayer of which v. 18 was the logical continuation. 34

24

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

As noted above, to make people a “reproach” or a “byword” is to reduce them to someone else’s spoken words. Their own identity is effaced as they become a weapon in an enemy’s verbal arsenal: God’s own “possession” ‫ נחלה‬is threatened with becoming a byword. One can find this “byword” anticipated in the question God fears the nations will ask. God’s possession becomes a ‫ משׁל‬which declares the deity’s own absence or impotence. To add injury to insult, with the shift from “byword” to “rule over them”, his “possession” is usurped by the nations. Although insinuating that God’s honour can be threatened in v. 17, the writer eventually preserves the divine inviolability by attributing the deity’s actions to saving the people, and not himself directly, from disgrace. 37 God speaks in 2:19, vowing not to allow his people to become the nations’ reproach (‫ נתן‬+ ‫;חרפה‬ Judah’s “shame” ‫ בושׁ‬is overturned in 2: 26, 27). Judah, then, does not become an international laughingstock. Fittingly, the duplicitous term ‫ משׁל‬is not found again in the book: God’s possession never does become the nations “byword”. The foreigners’ ‫משׁל‬, therefore, ultimately remains unvoiced. God has regained possession over his people and, it must be added, over words: his voice “roars” from Zion (Joel 4:16). It is certainly worth pointing out how the polyvalence of Joel 2:17 revolves around a word that can otherwise be used of the making of “proverbs” of the wise. 38 There is no prediction in Joel that Judah will learn wise, pious proverbs although there remains a promise of future interaction with divine speech. But this is the spontaneous inspiration of prophecy, dreams and vision (Joel 3), and that is perhaps even more mysterious.

37 D. A. Glatt-Gilad, “Yahweh’s Honor at Stake: A Divine Conundrum”, JSOT 98 (2002), pp. 63–74 (68–69). 38 Cf. the Book of Proverbs, ‫משׁלים‬. The full range of meanings for the noun is very wide: see the discussions in TDOT above and in Polk, “Paradigms”, D. W. Suter, “MAŠAL in the Similitudes of Enoch”, JBL 100 (1981), pp. 193–212.

UZZAH’S REBELLION INGRID M. HAASE

UNIVERSITY OF OTTAWA 1.

INTRODUCTION

The books of Samuel reflect a time in Israel’s history were many drastic changes were occurring. It was a period of transformation when Israel changed from an impotent tribal society, subject to a more powerful militant neighbour, to a temporarily independent and despotic monarchy. In transitional phases like this, struggles for power may be expected that result in murder, rebellions, and civil wars. Whereas the Bible explicitly describes three of these rebellions, the present author has been puzzled why there is no direct evidence of a mutiny by the influential priesthood against David’s ambitious plans. In this paper we would like to examine the passage from 2 Samuel 6:6–8 as an intimation of a coup against David’s plans for Jerusalem. The narrator of 2 Sam 6 gives a detailed account of the transfer of the Ark of the Covenant to Jerusalem by David, which process suffers a temporary setback due to the death of Uzzah, and this episode is related in verses 6–8. During his reign David had to cope with at least three major revolts from within the ranks of his followers. Although the Bible treats these insurrections as if they were entirely the product of self-seeking leaders, the reports are an indication that there must have been significant grievances that led the people, and even close associates like Absalom with his twohundred companions, to adopt a rebellion as a way of coping with their complaints. 1 G. W. Ahlström, “Der Prophet Nathan und der Tempelbau,” VT 11 (1961) 119–120, 124; James W. Flanagan, “Social Transformation and Ritual in 2 Samuel 6,” in The Word of the Lord shall go Forth. Essays in Honor of David Noel Freedman in Celebration of His Sixtieth Birthday, ed. by Carol L. Meyers and M. O’Connor (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1983) 364. 1

25

26

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES The three uprisings registered in the HB are: 1.) The coup led by Absalom, David’s first-born (2 Sam 15–18); 2.) The revolt under the leadership of Sheba, son of Bichri, a Benjaminite (2 Sam 20), and 3.) Adonijah’s bid for the throne, which was supported by Joab and Abiathar (1 Kings 1–2).

All three rebellions exhibit the same focus: A struggle between the premonarchial elements in Israel-Judah and the bureaucracy created by David in Jerusalem, the capital of his new empire. 2

2.

THE THREE REBELLIONS

Absalom appeals to a basic sense of justice in the populace and easily captures their attention. When men try to gain access to the king’s court, which is now set up in Jerusalem and does not come to them anymore as previously the circuit judges had done (1 Sam 7:16–17), Absalom is able to persuade them that they can more easily and immediately receive a hearing from him without having to grovel for it, as the new monarchial etiquette requires (2 Sam 15:2–6). Although the Biblical account endorses David as the chosen and anointed of YHWH, it cannot hide the ease with which Absalom is able to summon the tribes to his cause, especially since this summons is issued from Hebron, the city of Patriarchal and early Davidic renown. David is put to flight with only the support of his mercenaries and bureaucrats (2 Sam 15:15–18). Although the HB calls Sheba, the leader of the second revolt, a scoundrel, it does not deny the deep division and distrust that still existed between Israel and Judah, which David had not been able to eradicate (2 Sam 19:41–20). This second uprising was not only a secession of Israel from the union, but when David commands Amasa to come to his aid with the army, Amasa delays, exciting David’s apprehension that this rebellion could be more serious then the one fomented by Absalom (2 Sam 20:6). If David were to lose this conflict, he would lose the army as well as the major part of his kingdom, Israel (2 Sam 19:43), and he would be reduced again to the status of a tribal leader. Therefore, this time, with the help of his commander Joab, he goes to great lengths to annihilate the insurgent (2 Sam 20:6–22). 2

Flanagan, “Social Transformation,” 362–363.

UZZAH’S REBELLION

27

It is the last rebellion under Adonijah that emphasizes this conflict between the old guard in the provinces and the new power consolidated in the city of David. 3 Adonijah, the crown prince according to primogeniture (1 Kings 1:6), has the support of the pre-monarchial priesthood in the person of Abiathar, as well as the backing of the army in the person of Joab. Both of these men, with their followers, had been supporters of David in the beginning of his reign. 4 Through many of the changes or reforms, initiated by David from Jerusalem, these men had often been humiliated. Abiathar, the leader of the old Shilonite priesthood, had to share his power and prestige with a complete unknown, Zadok, 5 once the Ark had been moved to the new capital (2 Sam 8:17; 1 Chr 16:39–40). 6 Seemingly David wants to reform the service of the Levites. He gives orders to their leaders to make certain that only rightful members of the group minister in front of the Ark, 7 blaming the outcome of the incident at the ‫ גרן נכון‬on the illegitimacy of the personnel 8 at the time of the transfer of the Ark (1 Chr 15:11–15), but then he appoints his own sons, nonLevites, as priests (2 Sam 8:18). 9 It had also been his decision to abandon the Ark in the house of Obed-Edom, again a non-Levite, a Gittite. 10 Joab had been David’s steadfast companion-in-arms fighting many a battle for him (2 Sam 10:7–14; 11:1; 12:26–27), including the conquest of Jerusalem (1 Chr 11:6). He also did a lot of the dirty work so that David did not have to sully his hands with, for example, many of the equivocal murAhlström, “Der Prophet Nathan,” 123–5; Leonhard Rost, Die Überlieferung von der Thronnachfolge Davids, (BWANT, III/6) (Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer Verlag, 1926) 88. 4 Martin A. Cohen, “The Rebellions during the Reign of David. An Inquiry into Social Dynamics in Ancient Israel,” in Studies in Jewish Bibliography, History, and Literature in Honor of I. E. Kiev, ed. by C. Berlin (New York: Ktav, 1971) 96–7. 5 1 Chronicles 12:28 states that Zadok came to David while the latter was still in Hebron, but this passage describes him as an officer; s.a. H. H. Rowley, “Zadok and Nehushtan.” JBL 58 (1939) 118. 6 Rowley, “Zadok and Nehushtan,.,” 113–141, esp. p.113. 7 Exodus 25:14 and Numbers 4:15; 7:6–9. 8 Karl A. Leimbach, Die Bücher Samuel, (HSAT, Bd. 3, Abt. 1) (Bonn: Peter Hanstein Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1936) 151—here the author cites Kugler, Von Moses bis Paulus, 260 ff. where Kugler contends that the Levites refused to accompany the Ark to Jerusalem, although the reason he gives is that they with Zadok were the guardians of the sacred tent at Gibeon. 9 Rowley “Zadok and Nehushtan,” 116 n.13. 10 J.-M. de Tarragon, “David et l’arche: II Samuel, VI.” RB 86 (1979) 516. 1 Chronicles 15:18 ranks him among the Levites, the gatekeepers. 3

28

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

ders (Abner, 2 Sam 3:26–39; Uriah, 2 Sam 11:6–25; Absalom, 2 Sam 18:2– 14), as well as conducting the fatal census (2 Sam 24:1–9). At the first opportune moment David seizes the chance to free himself of this friend and removes him from the position of commander of the army, which then he gives, of all people, to Amasa, the army commander of Absalom’s choice in his revolt against his father (2 Sam 19:13). The faction supporting Solomon is represented by Zadok, the priest who owes his appointment to David’s favour, and Benaiah, who is in charge of David’s mercenaries (2 Sam 20:23). These men, their adherents, as well as Nathan, the court prophet, Shimei, and Rei, are all personally dependent on David’s approbation. 11 They are in full accord with Bathsheba, the wife from Jerusalem, that David acquired through adultery and murder, and they manipulate the dying king in giving his approval to Solomon, a man completely at ease in the halls of the capital but who has no connection to the people of the hinterland. This affair underlines the fact that, after about a forty-year rule in Jerusalem, David had not been able to overcome this breach between town and country. 12

3.

SAUL AND DAVID

It is only surprising that all of the above uprisings occur after the establishment of Jerusalem as the political and religious centre of Israel. Was there no one among the leaders, in the very beginning of David’s assumption of power, who had enough shrewdness to foresee that this personal union might be fraught with problems, especially, since these very leaders had, in former times, been so wary about letting Saul appropriate too much independent power? 13 Israel had been welded into a monarchy because of a need to preserve its existence against a superior military force, the Philistines, and because the people wanted “a king ... like other nations” (1 Sam 8:5). The people and their leaders did want a king, but there were forces among them who were ambivalent about the very idea of a king in Israel. It was these forces who were unwilling to give Saul the powers needed to fulfill his monarchial duties properly, forcing him and his government to vacillate between that of a tribal chiefdom and that of an autonomous kingdom. 14 The account narFlanagan “Social Transformation and Ritual,” 363. Martin. A. Cohen, “The Role of the Shilonite Priesthood in the United Monarchy of Ancient Israel,” HUCA 36 (1965) 59–98. 13 Cohen, “The Role of the Shilonite Priesthood,” 59–98. 14 Emily A. Schultz and Robert H. Lavenda, Cultural anthropology: A Perspective on the Human condition, 2d. ed. (New York: West Publishing Co., 1990) 244–253. 11 12

UZZAH’S REBELLION

29

rating the election of Saul seems to derive from at least two different sources, one being in favour of the monarchy, and the other being truculently anti-monarchial. 15 This ambivalence is further illustrated by the choice the tribes made of the incumbent to the throne. Saul, although from a good family, comes from Benjamin (1 Sam 9:1–2; 10:20–21), the weakest tribe, which had been dependent on the good will of the rest of the league for its very existence in the not too distant past (Judges 20–21). This choice of Saul of Benjamin was endorsed by the two major entities, the House of Joseph in the North and Judah in the South, because Benjamin posed no threat to either of them. As can be seen from the above outline of the three major revolts, David could always count on support from his private army which he had gathered around him during his days as a fugitive from Saul. Saul himself never built up his own army but continued in his reliance on the tribal militias (1 Sam 13:2–4). This peasant militia followed his inspired leadership enthusiastically, until their leaders felt that Saul’s growing success and autonomy might undermine the established order, and they, in the person of Samuel, a representative of the Shilonite establishment, curtailed Saul’s effectiveness (1 Sam 13:8–14). As a consequence, David took the opportunity to gradually establish himself as the person able to provide the needed leadership.

4. 4.1

THE UZZAH AFFAIR INTRODUCTION

Apparently, though, there were some people who had taken to heart the warnings against the monarchial form of government as voiced by Samuel (1 Sam 10:19; 12). The priests had experienced the wrath of a thwarted monarch to their sorrow before, 16 when Saul massacred their lineage at Nob John Bright, A History of Israel, 3d. ed. (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1981) 187–8. 16 At the time of our narrative the priesthood had settled in various locations according to family associations. The towns with their sacerdotal families of importance to this plot are Shiloh, Kiriath-jearim, Nob, and Jerusalem. The whole Ark Narrative is precipitated by the Ark which rests at Shiloh in the care of the priest Eli and his sons Hophni and Pinehas of the house of Ithamar. During a battle with the Philistines the Ark is lost, Eli’s two sons are killed, and Eli himself dies on hearing the bad news (1 Sam 4:10–11, 18). Although this event is always described as a destruction of the Shilonite priesthood, the Bible infers that the priests of Shiloh (the house of Ithamar) settled at Nob (1 Sam 14:3; 22:11). 15

30

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

(1 Sam 22:9–19). Abiathar, who had escaped the slaughter, had found refuge with David, who at the time was himself a fugitive from Saul’s anger (1 Sam 22:20–23). During Absalom’s revolt Abiathar still seems to be loyal to David and together with Zadok is left behind in Jerusalem as guardian of the Ark and as spy to David, although the passage (2 Sam 15:24–27) recording this incident is rather ambiguous in its wording. 17 David must have lived in Jerusalem for quite some time before he decided to transfer the Ark there. The chronology of the events detailed in the Book of Samuel cannot be taken at face value, but if we give any credence to 2 Sam 5:9–6:1 and 7:1–2, it can be deduced that David was well estabAfter the defeat of the Israelites the Ark was captured and brought to Ashdod. Since the Ark caused chaos in the temple at Ashdod, the Philistines got rid of it by returning it to Israelite territory with gifts for the Israelite Deity (1 Sam 5–6:12). Eventually it was deposited in Kiriath-jearim where Eleazar the son of the priestly family of Abinadab took care of the Ark (1 Sam 7:1–2). When David transports the Ark to Jerusalem we hear nothing of Abinadab nor of Eleazar, it is Uzzah and Ahio, other sons of Abinadab, who accompany the Ark (2 Sam 6:3–4). Uzzah dies during the procession. Ahio is not mentioned again. Nob is a priestly city just north of Jerusalem. A branch of the Shilonite priests has settled here. The Ark is never stationed at Nob and the priests are in charge of other sacred objects such as the showbread and Goliath’s sword (1 Samuel 4-6, 9). This priestly contingent, the remnant from Shiloh, gets massacred at Saul’s order and only Abiathar son of Ahimelech son of Ahitub escapes and seeks refuge with David (1 Sam 22:20). After David had brought the Ark to Jerusalem he appointed Abiathar (Ahimelech), from the house of Ithamar, and Zadok, from the house of Eleazar, priests to minister to the Ark (2 Samuel 8:17; 20:25). A person Zadok is mentioned in the company of David at Hebron (1 Chr 12:28). Chronciles also provides Zadok with a genealogy (1 Chr 6:3–10). Although both Eleazar and Ithamar were the sons of Aaron through whom the priesthood descended within Israel, according to the HB the house of Ithamar was the house of preeminence since the desert wanderings and the time of the Judges. It was the members of this house who had had responsibility for the Ark all along but now this office is shared with the rival house of Eleazar. When Abiathar sides with Adonijah (1 Kings 1:7) he loses his place and the Zadok family assumes the priestly leadership. They assert this authority until the exile about 400 years later. The question is never answered, why did Abiathar join Adonijah in his revolt(?). This summary illustrates the incessant troubles the priesthood experienced with the inception of the monarchy and that a second priest after the Uzzah affair, Abiathar, showed his dissatisfaction with David. 17 Cohen, “The Rebellions during the Reign of David,” 96–7—the author discusses the possibility that Abiathar might have supported Absalom in the first revolt, which in turn provoked David to have him removed from office.

UZZAH’S REBELLION

31

lished in Jerusalem as a sovereign of some repute, before he decided he needed the Ark. It was probably due to this time lapse that people, including the priests, had the opportunity to observe David and his government and become alienated from him and his policies. This is especially true if these policies included the integration of the Yahwistic cult into the indigenous cult of Jerusalem. Since David retained and honoured the local priest(s) of Jerusalem in the person of Zadok, and since there is no evidence that David destroyed the sanctuary(ies) after his conquest of the city, he in all likelyhood intended to re-utilize the Jebusite sanctuary and eventually deposit the Ark there. 18

4.2

THE LITERATURE

It is my contention therefore, that the incident recorded in 2 Sam 6:6–8 is an attempt at a revolt by the priests, before David had a chance to seize all the symbols of authority 19 and to manipulate them according to his own designs. The report of this uprising is more obscured in the telling than the accounts of the other rebellions because when it was written, it had to fit into the established literary schemae of the hieros logos of the Ark Narrative and the subsequent Königsnovelle. The authors of the hieros logos 20 of the Ark Narrative (1 Sam 4–6 and 2 Sam 6) were in all probability the priests of the sanctuary that housed the Ark in Jerusalem. This can be seen in the fact that besides the Ark, which naturally occupies the central role in this tale, and besides David, it is the guardians of the Ark who are the only persons identified by name: Hophni, Pinchas, Eli, Eleazar ben Abinadab, Uzza and his brother Ahio, and ObedEdom. 21 The story was composed for the purpose of acquainting the visitor to the Jerusalem sanctuary with the marvellous history of how this North Israelite cult object came to be in Jerusalem. 22 18 Konrad Rupprecht. Der Tempel von Jerusalem. Gründung Salomos oder jebusitisches Erbe? (BZAW, 144) (New York: de Gruyter, 1977); Konrad Rupprecht, “Die Zuverlässigkeit der Überlieferung von Salomos Tempelgründung,” ZAW 89/2 (1977) 205–214; Rowley “Zadok and Nehushtan,” 126–128, 138. 19 Tarragon, “David et l’arche,” 522. 20 Anthony F. Campbell, The Ark Narrative (1 Sam 4-6; 2 Sam 6): A Form-critical and Traditio-historical Study, (Dissertation Series, 16) (Missoula, MO: Society of Biblical Literature and Scholar’s Press, 1975) 39–40; Karl Gutbrod, Das Buch vom Reich. Das zweite Buch Samuel. (BAT, 11/2) (Stuttgart: Calwer Verlag, 1958) 84; Artur Weiser, “Die Tempelbaukrise unter David,” ZAW 77 (1965) 154. 21 The priestly editor mentions him as an interloper (2 Sam 6:10–12; 1 Chr 13:13–14, 15:25) although eventually he does get canonized (1 Chr 26:4-8,15). 22 Rost, Die Überlieferung, 33.

32

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

The subsequent chapter of 2 Samuel 7, dealing with David’s wish to build a Temple to YHWH, has been labelled a Könignovelle by Siegfried Herrmann 23 basing his research into the content, as well as the form, on a prototype of Egyptian literature. This Egyptian paradigm exhibits a design of three points: 1.) the king discloses his plans to his courtiers; 2.) he obtains their approval; and 3.) the king is recognized as the legitimate son of god through divine choice, he accomplishes his intentions, and the entire undertaking closes with sacrifices and prayers. These two stories, the Ark Narrative and the Königsnovelle, are so closely intertwined with each other, in that David exploits the occasion of the newly arrived Ark (Ark Narrative) as the justification for wanting to build a house to YHWH (Königsnovelle), that they have compressed any of the details 24 not absolutely necessary to the culmination of this tale, as for example, the facts surrounding the events at the ‫גרן נכון‬.

4.3

THE PRIESTHOOD

A second consideration to keep in mind is that any endorsement of public affairs by the Shilonite priesthood up until the establishment of the monarchy carried much weight with the leaders of the tribal confederation, as can be construed from their collaboration in the selection, as well as the rejection of Saul by Samuel. Therefore, it would have had more serious consequences for the reputation of the House of David, if it had ever been recorded more openly that the priesthood had had misgivings about the choice of David as aspirant in the role of sovereign than the mere disclosure that the crown princes or court officials had planned a coup d’état, especially if the story had been edited during the reign of either David or Solomon. 25 6. When they came to the threshing floor of Nacon, Uzzah reached out his hand to the Ark of God and took hold of it, for the oxen shook it. 7. The anger of the Lord was kindled against Uzzah; and God struck him there because he reached out his hand to the Ark; and he died there beside the Ark of God. 8. David was angry because the Lord had burst forth with an outburst upon Uzzah; so that place is called Perez-uzzah, to this day. (2 Sam 6:6–8)

Siegfried Herrmann. Die Königsnovelle in Ägypten und Israel. (Wissenschaftliche Zeitschrift der Karl-Marx-Universität Leipzig, Gesellschafts- und Sprachwissenschaftliche Reihe, 3) Jahrgang, 1954/55, 33ff. as discussed by Artur Weiser “Tempelbaukrise,” ZAW 77 (1965) 154–8 esp. n.5. 24 Flanagan, “Social Transformation and Ritual,” 361–363. 25 Rost, Die Überlieferung, 38. 23

UZZAH’S REBELLION

33

Over the centuries many people have looked at this passage and have noted a variety of problems with it. The watershed for the exegesis of this text came with Leonhart Rost 26 in 1926. It was Rost who posited the idea that 1 Sam 4:1b–7:1 and 2 Sam 6:1–23 form one unit, the Ark Narrative, which tries to explain how the former cult symbol from Shiloh was established in Jerusalem, after a detour through Philistia 27 and a delay created by the death of Uzzah. Uzzah and his brother Ahio were the sons of Abinadab in whose house the Ark had rested for twenty years after its return to Kiriath-jearim (Baalejudah 28) from the country of the Philistines. In most Bible translations Ahio is used as a proper name of a person. In Hebrew it has the meaning of “his brother.” 29 The LXX uses the plural αδελφoι—his brothers. Some of the commentators have opted for the singular and some for the plural form in their translations. 30 Eleazar, another son of Abinadab and thus a brother of Uzzah, had been consecrated by the men of Kiriath-jearim to attend to the Ark (1 Sam 7:1). McCarter even posits the idea that Uzzah and Eleazar are one and the same person. 31 Either way, Eleazar was either the brother or one of the brothers of Uzzah or Uzzah himself, who now is in charge of driving the new cart, made especially for the occasion, to transfer the Ark of God to Jerusalem. David had planned this occasion with great deliberation as a display of pomp and strength. He

Rost, Die Überlieferung. Rost, Die Überlieferung, 33. 28 P. Kyle McCarter, II Samuel: A new Translation with Introduction, Notes and Commentary. (AB) (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1984) 162–3 n.2. 29 Scholars such as Sellin propose Zadok to have been the brother of Uzzah— Sellin, Geschichte des israelitisch-jüdischen Volkes. I, 1924, 167, 169f.; also Budde, ZAW 52 (1934) 48f.—as cited by Rowley “Zadok and Nehushtan,” 120–121, notes 23 and 24. 30 McCarter II Samuel, 163 n.3, 169 n.3; N. H. Tur-Sinai, “The Ark of God at Beit Shemesh (1 Sam. VI) and Peres ‘Uzza (2 Sam. 6; 1 Chr. XIII),” VT 1 (1951) 284. 31 McCarter II Samuel, 169 n.3; but: Hans Wilhelm Hertzberg, Die Samuelbücher. (ATD Neues Göttinger Bibelwerk, 10) (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1960) 228, argues that semantically this idea would be quite acceptable, chronologically though it would present problems, in that it would make Uzzah=Eleazar, at this time, to be very old. He proposes that “sons of Abinadab” be translated as “grandsons.” 26 27

34

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES “.... again gathered all the chosen men of Israel, thirty thousand. David and all the people with him set out and went from Baale-judah, to bring up from there the Ark of God” (2 Sam 6:1–2). David consulted with the commanders of the thousands and of the hundreds, with every leader. David said to the whole assembly of Israel, “If it seems good to you, and if it is the will of the Lord our God, let us send abroad to our kindred who remain in all the land of Israel, including the priests and Levites in the cities that have pasture lands, that they may come together to us. Then let us bring again the Ark of our God to us” (1 Chr 13:1–3) 32

So Uzzah, in the company of David, surrounded by a military escort of thirty thousand men, drove the Ark on the new wagon to Jerusalem. The question bears repeating: was there no-one who saw that David, who had his own army, his own capital, independent of any of the tribes and their leaders, needed the Ark in order to give his own ambitions approval? Noone to question what would happen to this North Israelite cult symbol in Jerusalem, the Jebusite town? 33 At this point in his career David had already achieved a great deal by becoming king of Judah and Israel. It was due to his influence that Judah had become an entity by uniting within itself various clans and smaller tribes, such as Caleb and Simeon. But David also wanted the permanent allegiance of the North, and without the Ark in Jerusalem, his city would have remained a city state without an empire, 34 just as Jerusalem had always been throughout its long history. David and his Jerusalem, which had never

It is interesting to see how the two books introduce the story so differently. In Samuel David comes with his army of thirty-thousand men (or 150 to 420 men—McCarter, II Samuel, 168 n.1). In Chronicles David consults with his commanders and leaders, he also invites all the assembly of Israel, all the priests and Levites to accompany him in this God-willed enterprise. Chronicles has its own agenda in wanting to integrate and organize the priests and Levites after the return from Babylon and therefore both classes are dealt with extensively. Keeping that in mind the text nevertheless seems to give the impression of deferring unduly to the priesthood as though the author was well aware of the treatment given to the priesthood by the king(s) and the response that this treatment had aroused. 33 McCarter II Samuel, 168–9 n.2, also 179; Otto Eißfeldt, “Lade und Stierbild,” ZAW 58 (1940/41) 190–215, esp. 199; Otto Eißfeldt, “Silo und Jerusalem,” VTSup 4 (1957) 138–147, esp. 142–145. 34 McCarter II Samuel, 175–6. 32

UZZAH’S REBELLION

35

had any association with the Yahwist tradition, 35 certainly needed this symbol to legitimate his rule over the Yahwist population of Israel and Judah. 36

AT THE ‫גרן נכון‬

4.4

It was not until they had arrived at a threshing floor that Uzzah acted. A ‫גרן‬, a threshing floor, is replete with variety of connotations and some of them are that it is a place which could be used (a) for politic and cultic activities 37 (Genesis 50:10–11; 1 Kings 22:10; 38 2 Chr 18:9; Hosea 9:1), (b) by a divinity to manifest himself (Judges 6:37; 2 Sam 24:16; 1Chr 21:15, 28; Hosea 9:2), and (c) was a proper site to build an altar / a house there to worship God (2 Sam 24:18, 21, 24; 1 Chr 21:18, 22, 28; 2 Chr 3:1). 39 The word kept its meaning as a place for an assembly to settle matters of community interest for a long time. Already in the Ugaritic literature the term ‫ גרן‬is found indicating a place of judgement: Aqhat 17,V,7; 19,I,23. 40 The rabbis continued using this term, in Mishnah, Sanhedrin 4:3 A 41 and Midrash Rabbah, Leviticus, sect. 11 42 and Exodus, sect. 5 43, to denote a place

Flanagan “Social Transformation and Ritual,” 363–364. Ahlström “Der Prophet Nathan,” 113. 37 Ahlström “Der Prophet Nathan,” 115–9; John Gray, “Tell El-Far’a by Nablus: a ‘Mother’ in Ancient Israel,” PEQ 84 (1952) 111–112. 38 Sidney Smith, “On the Meaning of the Goren,” PEQ 85 (1953) 42–45. 39 Ahlström “Der Prophet Nathan,” 115–7; G. Münderlein, “‫ גרן‬goren,” TDOT III (1978) 62–65; Rupprecht Der Tempel von Jerusalem, 5–17. 40 J. C. L. Gibson, Canaanite Myths and Legends, (Edinburgh: T.& T. Clark, 1977) 107, 114; John Gray “The Goren at the City Gate,” PEQ 85 (1953) 118–123; Smith “On the Meaning of the Goren,” 43–45. 41 Jacob Neusner, The Mishnah. A New Translation, (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1988) 590. 42 Der Midrasch Wajikra Rabba. Das ist die haggadische Auslegung des dritten Buches Mose, Mit Noten und Verbesserungen von J. Fürst, (Bibliotheca Rabbinica. Eine Sammlung alter Midraschim zum ersten Male ins Deutsche übertragen von August Wünsche) (Hildesheim: G. Olms, 1967) reprographischer Nachdruck der Ausgabe Leipzig 1880–1885, 12v. bound in 5, XI, 78. Jacob Neusner, Judaism and Scripture. The Evidence of Leviticus Rabbah. (CSJH) (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986) 275. 43 Der Midrasch Schemot Rabba. Das ist die allegorische Auslegung des zweiten Buches Mose. Mit Noten und Verbesserungen von J. Fürst und O. Straschun. (Bibliotheca Rabbinica. Eine Sammlung alter Midraschim zum ersten Male ins Deutsche übertragen von August Wünsche) Hildesheim: G. Olms, 1967, reprographischer Nachdruck der Ausgabe Leipzig 1880–1885, 12 v. bound in 5, VI, 59. 35 36

36

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

where the Sanhedrin meets for the purpose of judgement and as a place of instruction. 44 According to 2 Sam 6:6 this particular ‫ גרן‬was called ‫ נכון‬and although here the label is used as a proper name, it can be translated as the “prepared” 45 threshing floor as ‫ נכון‬can also mean: “vorbereitet, geordnet, hergerichtet.” 46 as even in modern Hebrew it still means: “firm, fixed, stable; right, proper; ready.” 47 What relation this name has to the name of ‫כידן‬ given to the ‫ גרן‬in the parallel story as related in 1 Chr 13:9 has not been clarified as yet. 48 But somehow the name given in the main record, Samuel, seems to indicate that it is the “right place.” The right place for what? The right place to install the Ark again on Israelite soil, in a new sanctuary perhaps, after years of neglect, before David had a chance to take it to Jerusalem, its proposed unalterable residence! ‫וישלח עזא אל֠־ארון האלהים ויאחז‬ ‫—בו‬and Uzzah stretched out 49 his hand 50 to 51 the Ark of God and took hold of it. 52 Gray “The Goren at the City Gate,” 121–122. Gesenius’ Hebrew and Chaldee Lexicon to the Old Testament Scriptures. Translated with Additions and Corrections from the Author’s Thesaurus and Other Works by Samuel Prideaux Tregelles, (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1949) 550. 46 Ahlström “Der Prophet Nathan,” 116–7, n.3. 47 E. Ben-Yehuda, English-Hebrew, Hebrew-English Dictionary, (New York: Washington Square Press, Inc., 1964) 204. 48 McCarter II Samuel, 164 n.6; Otto Thenius. Die Bücher Samuels, 3. vollständig ... Auflage besorgt von Max Löhr. (KHAT) Leipzig: Hinzel, 1898, 111; here TurSinai’s theory is of interest in that he argues that ‫ נכון‬and ‫ כידון‬are related, both meaning “the threshing floor of pestilence and affliction,”—Tur-Sinai “The Ark of God at Beit Shemesh,” 282–285. The LXX calls the threshing floor: Νωδαβ. 49 Gesenius’ Hebrew and Chaldee Lexicon, 826 (3) .... (c) ‫ שלח יד אל‬to lay hands upon anyone, ....—Sometimes ‫ יד‬is omitted. .... to stretch (the hand) from on high, followed by ‫ אל‬Samuel 6:6,”—from on high because Uzzah was seated in a higher position than the Ark on the wagon or because he had higher intentions for himself?; McCarter II Samuel, 164 n.6; BHS. Editio funditus renovata, (Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelstiftung, 1967/77) 513 n. 6c: “Ms cit + ‫ אˉידו‬cf QGST-MsV.” 50 Ludwig Koehler und Walter Baumgartner, HALAT, 4 Bände, (Leiden: Brill, 1967–1983) IV, 1400: “qal - c) ‫ יד‬.... die Hand ausstrecken: α) .... um etwas in guter od. böser Absicht zu berühren, “was ja dem Ergreifen recht nahe kommt” .... von der Bundeslade ‫ שלח )ידו( אל‬2S 6:6, c. ‫ על‬1C 13;10.” Gesenius’ Hebrew and Chaldee Lexicon, 825–7 esp. 826 (3) (a)—“to send out, to stretch out, as a finger .... especially the hand .... (a) followed by ‫ על‬to any thing, 1 Kings 13:4 (in a hostile sense). 1 Chr. 13:10.” Why would Uzzah be hostile to the Ark? The very story line (or justification used by the author) negates that since Uzzah wants to protect the Ark from falling off the wagon—or was the intention hostile to David’s plans? 44 45

UZZAH’S REBELLION

37

The reason given for Uzzah stretching out his hand and laying hold of the Ark in 2 Sam 6:6 and 1 Chr 13:9 is “for the oxen shook it” (NOAB) 53, or “for the oxen had stumbled” (JPS). 54

4.5

UZZAH’S DEATH And thus he died for: The anger of the Lord was kindled against Uzzah; and God struck him there because he reached out his hand to the Ark; (2 Sam 6:7) The anger of the Lord was kindled against Uzzah; he struck him down because he put his hand to the Ark; (1 Chr 13:10) 55

Both of these passages assign God’s anger to the fact that Uzzah put his hand on the Ark. The JPS translation for 2 Sam 6:7 says that he was killed “for his indiscretion”, 56 and: “because he laid a hand on the Ark” (1 Chr 13:10). In other words, Uzzah who had lived in the presence of the Ark for about twenty years, 57 who had been assigned to drive the Ark to Jerusalem on the BHS, 513 n. 6d—“mlt Mss¯‫א‬.” Gesenius’ Hebrew and Chaldee Lexicon, 30—‫(—אחז‬1) to take hold of, to seize, especially with the hand.... Const. with an acc. of pers. or thing, ... also very often followed by ‫ב‬, (3) to hold something taken, followed by an acc. 1 Chronicles 13:9...; and ‫ב‬. The underlying meaning of this root ‫ אחז‬even in modern Hebrew seems to denote the taking of possession of something: A. S. Halkin, 201 Hebrew Verbs fully conjugated in all forms. (Woodbury, NY: Barron’s Educational Series, 1970) 8–9. 53 The New Oxford Annotated Bible with the Apocryphal / Deuterocanonical Books. Edited by Bruce M. Metzger and Roland E. Murphy, NRSV. (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991) 392. 54 NJPS, 478 n.f and 1550 n.a ‘had stumbled’—Meaning of Heb. uncertain; Gesenius’ Hebrew and Chaldee Lexicon, 136–7, esp. 137 (2)(b) with pl. verbs and adjectives, 2 Sa. 6:6, ‫“ כי שמטו הבקר‬for the oxen were restive”; also: p.834 ‫שמט‬- (1)—.... Hence—(a) 2 Sa. 6:6, ‫“ כי שמטו הבקר‬for the oxen kicked,” were restive (die Rinder schlugen, schmißen aus). 55 NOAB, 392 n.a “Meaning of Hebrew uncertain.” 56 NJPS, 478 n.g-g—‘for his indiscretion’ So Targum; McCarter II Samuel, 164– 5 n. 7, the question of whether God struck Uzzah down, or the name of God struck Uzzah, is discussed here by the author, or could it be that Uzzah was struck down in the name of God? 57 Rowley “Zadok and Nehushtan,” 121–122—“The Ark was taken to Kirjathjearim on its return from the land of the Philistines (1 Sam 7:1), some years before 51 52

38

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

cart constructed exclusively for this occasion, 58 who, as the Bible says, in both the Samuel and the Chronicles passages, wanted to protect the Ark from harm, which after all was his job as driver of the Ark, gets killed by God for doing his job. Scholars have always stressed the inherent sacredness of the Ark and that it did not need puny man’s attention to survive. 59 True, but obviously, for the past how many generations the Ark, the symbol of YHWH’s presence among his people, had depended on just this human assistance. There seems to be more to the story than this inherent taboo, which borders on magic. 60 After all, it was the Israelites who had believed in this magical quality when they brought the Ark out off the sanctuary at Shiloh in order to support their war effort against the Philistines and were sorely disappointed by YHWH’s failure to cater to their expectations. So, perhaps there is more to Uzzah stretching out his hand towards the Ark than the manifest solicitude for its safety. Uzzah might have stretched out his hand in order to retain the Ark at the ‫ גרן נכון‬and the consequent melee, as David’s military entourage clashed with the hostile priests trying to defend their domain, resulted in a number of deaths recorded variously in the HB. If Tur-Sinai’s 61 conclusion is correct, namely that the three stories (1 Sam 6:14–20; 2 Sam 6:6–11; 1 Chr 13:9–13), basically relate the same event, is correct, it gives an indication that as the Ark was being relocated something happened which entailed a confrontation between those in charge of the Ark and a war-like group, resulting in a number of deaths. To the authors of Samuel this story was of decisive importance, so that it has pre-

the elevation of Saul to the throne. It remained there throughout Saul’s reign, and was brought to Jerusalem during the reign of David.” 58 The traditional interpretation of this passage is that because the Israelites drove the Ark on an oxcart, in the manner of the Philistines when they returned the Ark to Beit-shemesh, instead of carrying it as instructed by God—Uzzah was slain by the Divinity. 59 NOAB, 392, n.6:7. Hugo Gressmann, Die älteste Geschichtsschreibung und Prophetie Israel. Die Schriften des Alten Testaments. II/1, 2d. ed. (SAT II/1) (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1921) 134; McCarter II Samuel, 169–70 n. 6–7; Hertzberg Die Samuelbücher, 228. 60 Since this has been the accepted way of looking at these texts, it might be to our advantage to examine the story from a different angle, otherwise scholars will find themselves trapped in regarding the Ark as an object from an Erich von Daniken type examination: D. Medina. God’s Weapon: the Deadly Ark of the Covenant. 61 Tur-Sinai “The Ark of God at Beit-Shemesh,” 283–286.

UZZAH’S REBELLION

39

served its place in the Bible, and subsequent events and editors have not been able to eliminate it, but the details of its telling have become mangled.

4.6

DAVID’S ANGER

The next action in this story is that of David who “was angry because the Lord had burst forth with an outburst upon Uzzah.” Why did David react so dramatically towards this event and even call off the rest of the procession leaving the Ark in the house of Obed-edom, the Gittite (v. 10)? Various Bible translations render the phrase ‫ ויחר לדוד‬with diverse nuances: “David was distressed” (JPS); 62 “David was displeased that” (Jerusalem); 63 “Da ward Dauid betrübt” (Martin Luther ; 64 “David wurde tief betrübt darüber” (Heilige Schrift); 65 “David was angry because” (NOAB); 66 “και ηθυμησεv Δαυιδ” (Septuaginta). 67 The grammatical constructions talking about YHWH’s anger in verse 7 and then David’s anger in verse 8 seem to be rather awkward. According to Gesenius 68 this is how they have been formed—“‫( חרה‬1) to burn, to be kindled .... Always spoken of anger, concerning which these expressions are used (a) ‫חרה אפו‬, ... followed by ‫ ב‬against any one,...”. This would be the expression used in v. 7 where it is said of YHWH: ‫—ויחר־אף יהוה בעזה‬ YHWH’s anger was kindled against Uzzah,” .... less often followed by ‫ אל‬...; ‫על‬

NJPS, 478. JB, (Garden City, New York: Doubleday, 1966) 390. 64 Martin Luther, Die gantze Heilige Schrifft Deudsch, (Wittenberg 1545) Letzte zu Luthers Lebzeiten erschienene Ausgabe. Herausgegeben von Hans Volz unter Mitarbeit von Heinz Blanke. Textredaktion Friedrich Kur. (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1972) I, 579. 65 Die Heilige Schrift des Alten und Neuen Testamentes nach den Grundtexten übersetzt und herausgegeben von Prof. Dr. Vinzenz Hamp et al. (Aschaffenburg: Paul Pattloch Verlag, 1957) 336. 66 NOAB, 392. 67 Septuaginta. Id est Vetus Testamentum graece iuxta LXX interpretes, edidit Alfred Rahlfs, (Stuttgart: Württembergische Bibelanstalt, 1935) I, 576. 68 The quotations cited in the following discussion have been taken from Gesenius’ Hebrew and Chaldee Lexicon, 303. See also: Wilhelm Gesenius, Hebräische Grammatik. Völlig umgearbeitet von E. Kautzsch. (Gesenius-Kautzsch-Bergsträsser) (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1985) 152, 53 e—hitzig werden; B. Davidson, The Analytical Hebrew and Chaldee Lexicon. (London: Bagster [n.d.]) cclxxiv—fut. ... to burn, be kindled; to become hot, angry, wroth; ... his anger was kindled against; Gerhard Lisowsky, Konkordanz zum Hebräischen Alten Testament. 2. Auflage (Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 1981) 530—cites 6:8 under Kal. 62 63

40

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

...—(b) without ‫(‘ חרה לו אף‬anger) was kindled to him;’ he was angry.” This would be the combination used for v. 8: ‫ויחר לדוד על אשר‬. The awkwardness of these two sentences lies in that the construction can be interpreted as though the idea of YHWH being angry at Uzzah is being continued in v. 8, YHWH is angry at David. But then there is this switch, where David is angry because YHWH made this breach on Uzzah, as though the editor could not bring himself to say that YHWH was angry at David and thus switched the object of his anger in mid-sentence. But then again: “These expressions sometimes rather denote sorrow than anger; and hence they are rendered in the LXX by the verb λυπεoμαι. .... Hiphil—‫ החרה‬fut. ‫(—ויחר‬a) to make to burn, to kindle anger, ...; followed by ‫על‬.” This could explain the divergent translations in the different Bible editions, except the LXX in 2 Sam 6:7 and 8 and 1 Chr 13:10 and 11 does not use λυπεoμαι but uses the verb ηθυμησεv from ὰθῦμεω meaning “to be disheartened, despond, ...”. For God’s anger in v.7 the LXX uses the verb ἐθυμώθη from θϋμόω—“make angry, provoke ...”. 69 So, according to the Septuagint translator, God was angry but David was despondent. If the actors of this ancient drama truly believed that sacred objects possessed an intrinsic quality which rendered them dangerous even to the humans responsible for them, why would David be so despondent, or even angry, and at whom or at what? After all the Divinity, by killing Uzzah, had manifested his integrity and might, and that really had been the reason why David had wanted the Ark in Jerusalem. He would not have wanted to be associated with an impotent god. And anyway, according to the existing texts, David knew that Uzzah had acted irresponsibly, that is why he later on tried to reform the cult personnel (1 Chr 15:11–14). But, he was angry/despondent, dropped off the Ark at the nearest place he knew 70 (could trust, or that was available) and terminated any further action re this North Israelite cult object.

4.7

ISRAEL’S RITE OF PASSAGE

In footnotes throughout the paper I have referred to an article by J. W. Flanagan. 71 This author uses the sociological model of the rite of passage adHenry-George Liddell, Robert Scott, Henry Stuart Jones and Roderick McKenzie, A Greek-English Lexicon: with a Supplement, (Oxford: At the Clarendon, 1968) 810. 70 Obed-edom, the Gittite, might have been known to David from his days among the Philistines in the city of Gath. 1 Chr 15:18 counts him among the Levites, the gatekeepers. 71 Flanagan “Social Transformation and Ritual,” 367–370. 69

UZZAH’S REBELLION

41

vanced by van Gennep 72 to explain the incident recorded in 2 Sam 6. There are three phases to this paradigm: 1.) separation, 2.) liminality, and 3.) reaggregation. The first phase is manifested in the event when David claims the Ark in order to move it to Jerusalem, a non-Yahwist town, legitimating the temporal, spatial and social transformation occurring at that time within the Israelite people, especially the shift in power from the house of Saul to the person of David. The third stage is evidenced when David’s interests are licenced by the prophetic oracle uttered by Nathan, which confirms his house on the throne of Israel forever. It is the second interval, liminality, which according to Flanagan is defined as: 73 In the midst of such changes is a period when people feel insecure and adrift, as if betwixt and between, on a threshold where they are at one and the same time “no longer” and “not yet” (liminality). Their uncertainty is often manifested in beliefs that doorways, midpoints, pilgrimages, processions, and the like are charged with extraordinary power and are spatially and conceptually sacred zones....

David’s organization of the national procession to accompany the Ark on its way to Jerusalem may be taken as an example of this conviction. .... It is the second phase however which is often the most complex and confusing because that is where the actual threshold of change is crossed....

And it is in this framework that the puzzle of Uzzah’s death and of David’s anger (or “betrübt sein”) acquires meaning. Whatever happened to bring about the death of Uzzah, a member of the established Yahwistic priesthood, it probably provokes both anger and sadness in David. He had laid his plans well. He had subdued the outside enemies. He had acquired much new territory including a new capital city. He had united the two parts of the kingdom through his charisma, and now he wanted to underline, symbolically, what had been achieved, but he meets serious opposition and he is uncertain of how to cope with it. He withdraws. ... Still, the air of uncertainty and opportunism that pervaded the atmosphere did not assure David’s triumph. He could expect potential heirs and successors to vie relentlessly, even after his own accession. They could be expected to raise any claim they might have for paramountcy. Continuity in office is always a problem, especially in societies evolving toward a permanent, centralized monopoly of force because of the in72 Arnold van Gennep, The Rites of Passage. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1960). 73 The three following passages are one continuous paragraph taken from Flanagan, “Social Transformation and Ritual,” 364–365.

42

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES tense competition for high office. ... Conspiracy, rivalry, and violence, the hallmarks of transitional periods, are intensified by indeterminate succession patterns, .... In such circumstances, preventing cleavages and maintaining solidarity requires a shrewd leader who plays his cards well.... To miscalculate or to withdraw from competition even temporarily—unless the withdrawal is timed and calculated for its long-term advantages—is to surrender opportunities and to risk failure.

Whether David withdrew in anticipation of an eventual, more commanding return, or whether he felt defeated, cannot be ascertained from the text. His action does set a pattern for dealing with the three subsequent revolts. It is only during the second rebellion, led by Sheba, that David fights to keep his throne. During Absalom’s rebellion he leaves the field, and during Adonijah’s revolt he eventually dies but not before he had acquiesced in the choice of a king made by his favourite wife and by his courtiers. On receiving affirmation that the Ark in Obed-edom’s house had not been a rallying point for discontented Yahwists, but that the family of Obed-edom has been favoured since the Ark was deposited there, David again sees an opportunity to seize the advantage, and he claims its benediction for his kingdom by resuming the procession to bring it to Jerusalem, with much rejoicing, dancing and music (2 Sam 6:12–15). It is in it, in a rite of passage, that role reversals, ritual dance, exceptional garb (or nudity), and ecstatic behavior are often employed as ways of manifesting the anti-structure and dialectical quality of the transition that are taking place personally, socially, and religiously. 74

5.

SUMMARY AND CONCLUSION

My conclusion would therefore be that after David had freed Israelite soil from the Philistine menace, he was able to move the Ark to a more appropriate place from Abinadab’s dwelling. He wanted it in Jerusalem, his new capital, where he needed a focal point for the Yahwistic portion of his subjects in order to counterbalance the Jebusite symbols of the city. Some of the priests who had been associated with the Ark throughout the generations had misgivings. Not that the Ark had to go back to Shiloh, but neither did they want it sequestered in Jerusalem and become part of the local cult there. So during David’s triumphal progress, when they came to a place that was acceptable according to Israelite theology of the time, the guardians of the Ark tried to retain it there. It is not certain what happened next, because each sentence of the various passages is obscure in its structure and wording, but the chief of the priestly contingent dies. Eventually this occurrence 74

Flanagan “Social Transformation and Ritual,” 367–8.

UZZAH’S REBELLION

43

gets to be interpreted as divine intervention in favour of David’s scheme. Initially though, the incident does upset David enough for him to abandon his plans. He deposits the sacred object in the first house that he comes to, and it is only after he receives assurances from the remainder of the population, that he resumes his first ambition and he brings the Ark into Jerusalem. The name of the place though, Perez-uzzah, remains a constant reminder to David that a break had been made in his strength, his, David’s, power. David was never able to overcome this breach, and neither was his son Solomon.

BIBLIOGRAPHY EDITIONS OF THE BIBLE: Biblia sacra iuxta latinam vulgatam versionem ad codicum fidem. Romae:Typis Polyglottis Vaticanis, 1926– Die Heilige Schrift des Alten und Neuen Testamentes nach den Grundtexten übersetzt und herausgegeben von Prof. Dr. Vinzenz Hamp et al. Aschaffenburg: Paul Pattloch Verlag, 1957. The Jerusalem Bible. Garden City, New York: Doubleday, 1966. Luther, Martin. Die gantze Heilige Schrifft Deudsch. Wittenberg 1545. Letzte zu Luthers Lebzeiten erschienene Ausgabe. Herausgegeben von Hans Volz unter Mitarbeit von Heinz Blanke. Textredaktion Friedrich Kur. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1972. The New Oxford Annotated Bible with the Apocryphal / Deuterocanonical Books. Edited by Bruce M. Metzger and Roland E. Murphy. NRSV. New York: Oxford University Press, 1991. The Old Testament in Greek, According to the Text of Codex Vaticanus, Supplemented from Other Uncial Manuscripts, with a Critical Apparatus Containing the Variants of the Chief Ancient Authorities for the Text of the Septuagint. Cambridge: At the University Press. Samuel. Hebrew Text & English Translation with an Introduction and Commentary by The Rev. Dr. S. Goldman, M.A. London: The Soncino Press, 1951. Septuagint Version of the Old Testament and Apogrypha with an English Translation by L. L. Breton. London: Samuel Bagster, 1851. Septuaginta. Id est Vetus Testamentum graece iuxta LXX interpretes. Edidit Alfred Rahlfs. Stuttgart: Württembergische Bibelanstalt, 1935. Septuaginta. Vetus Testamentum graecum. Auctoritate academiae scientiarum Gottingensis editum. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1931–. Biblia Hebraica Stuttgartensia. Editio funditus renovata. Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelstiftung, 1967/77.

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NJPS. Philadelphia: JPS, 1988.

REFERENCE BOOKS: Aharoni, Yohanan and Michael Avi-Yonah. 1977 The Macmillan Bible Atlas. Revised Edition. New York: Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc. Ben-Yehuda, Ehud. 1964 Ben-Yehuda’s Pocket English-Hebrew, Hebrew-English Dictionary. New York: Washington Square Press, Inc. 1967 Bibliotheca Rabbinica. Eine Sammlung alter Midraschim zum ersten Male ins Deutsche übertragen von August Wünsche. Hildesheim: G. Olms, reprographischer Nachdruck der Ausgabe Leipzig 1880–1885, 12v. bound in 5. Davidson, B. [n.d.] The Analytical Hebrew and Chaldee Lexicon. London: Bagster. Gesenius, Wilhelm. 1949 Gesenius’ Hebrew and Chaldee Lexicon to the Old Testament Scriptures. Translated with Additions and Corrections from the Author’s Thesaurus and Other Works by Samuel Prideaux Tregelles. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. 1952? A Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament with an Appendix containing the biblical Aramaic as translated by E. Robinson. Oxford: At the Clarendon Press. 1985 Hebräische Grammatik. Völlig umgearbeitet von E. Kautzsch. (Gesenius-Kautzsch-Bergsträsser) Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Gibson, J. C. L. 1977 Canaanite Myths and Legends. Edinburgh: T.& T. Clark. Koehler, Ludwig und Walter Baumgartner. 1967–1983 HAL. (4 Bände) Leiden: Brill. Liddell, Henry George and Robert, Scott, comp. 1968 A Greek-English Lexicon: With Supplement. Oxford: At the Clarendon. Lisowsky, Gerhard. 1981 Konkordanz zum Hebräischen Alten Testament. (2. Auflage) Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft. Neusner, Jacob. 1988 The Mishnah. A New Translation. New Haven: Yale University Press.

SECONDARY LITERATURE: Ahlström, G. W. 1961 “Der Prophet Nathan und der Tempelbau.” VT 11: 113–127.

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Bentzen, Aage. 1931 “Priesterschaft und Laien in der juedischen Gemeinde des fuenften Jahrhunderts.” AfO 6: 280–286. Bright, John. 1981 A History of Israel. 3d. ed. Philadelphia: Westminster Press. Brueggemann, Walter. 2001 “(I)chabod departed.” The Princeton Seminary Bulletin 22: 115–133. Budde, Karl Ferdinand Reinhardt. 1902 Die Bücher Samuelis erklärt. (Kurzer Hand-Commentar zum Alten Testament, 8) Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr. Busink, Theo A. 1970–1980 Der Tempel von Jerusalem von Salomo bis Herodes; eine archäologischhistorische Studie unter Berücksichtigung des westsemitischen Tempelbaus. 2 vols. Leiden: Brill. Campbell, Antony F. 1975 The Ark Narrative (1 Sam 4–6; 2 Sam 6): A Form-critical and Traditiohistorical Study. (Dissertation Series, 16) Missoula, MO: SBL and Scholar’s Press. Carroll, R. P. 1977 “Rebellion and Dissent in Ancient Israelite Society.” ZAW 89 / 2: 176–204. Cohen, Martin A. 1965 “The Role of the Shilomite Priesthood in the United Monarchy of Ancient Israel.” HUCA 36: 59–98. 1971. “The Rebellions during the Reign of David. An Inquiry into Social Dynamics in Ancient Israel.” In Studies in Jewish Bibliography, History, and Literature in Honor of I. E. Kiev. Edited by C. Berlin. New York: Ktav, 91–112. Deist, Ferdinand E. 2002 The Material Culture of the Bible. An Introduction. Edited with a Preface by Robert P. Carroll. London: Sheffield Academic Press. Dibelius, Martin. 1906 Die Lade Jahves. (FRLANT, 7) Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Dus, Jan. 1963a “Der Beitrag des benjaminitischen Heidentums zur Religion Israels. Zur ältesten Geschichte der heiligen Lade.” Communio Viatorum 6/1:61–80. 1963b “Die Erzählung über den Verlust der Lade I Sam. IV.” VT 13/3: 33–337. 1963c “Noch zum Brauch der Ladewanderung.” VT 13/2:126–132.

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Eissfeldt, Otto. 1940/41 “Lade und Stierbild.” ZAW 58: 190–215. 1957 “Silo und Jerusalem.” VTSup 4: 138–147. 1973 “Kultzelt und Tempel.” in Wort und Geschichte. Edited by Elliger. (AOAT, 18): 51–55. Fisher, L. R. 1963 “The Temple Quarter.” JSS 8: 34–41. Flanagan, James W. 1983 “Social Transformation and Ritual in 2 Samuel 6.” in The Word of the Lord shall go Forth. Essays in Honor of David Noel Freedman in Celebration of His Sixtieth Birthday. Edited by Carol L. Meyers and M. O’Connor. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 361–372. Freedman, David Noel and J. R. Lundbom.

1986 “‫ חרה‬ḥārâ, ‫ חרון‬ḥārôn, ‫ חרי‬ḥorî.” TDOT V: 171–176.

Gennep, Arnold van. 1960 The Rites of Passage. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Gray, John. 1953 “The Goren at the City Gate: Justice and the Royal Office in the Ugaritic Text ‘Aqht.” PEQ 85: 118–123. 1952 “Tell El-Far’a by Nablus: a ‘Mother’ in Ancient Israel.” PEQ 84: 110–113. Gressmann, Hugo. 1921a Die älteste Geschichtsschreibung und Prophetie Israel. Die Schriften des Alten Testaments. II/1, 2d. ed. (SAT II/1) Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. 1921b Die Schriften des Alten Testaments in Auswahl neu übersetzt und für die Gegenwart erklärt von Herrmann Gunkel, W. Staerk, Paul Volz, Hugo Greßmann, Hans Schmidt und M. Haller. 2. Abteilung: Prophetie und Gesetzgebung des Alten Testaments im Zusammenhange d. Geschichte Israels. 1. Band, 2. Auflage. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Gutbrod, Karl. 1958 Das Buch vom Reich. Das zweite Buch Samuel. (BAT, 11/2) Stuttgart: Calwer Verlag. Haran, Menahen. 1960 “The Nature of the ‘Ohel Mo’edh in Pentateuchal Sources.” JSS 5: 50–65. 1963 “The Disappearance of the Ark.” IEJ 13: 46–58. 1965 “The Priestly Image of the Tabernacle.” HUCA 36: 191–226. Hertzberg, Hans Wilhelm. 1960 Die Samuelisbücher. (ATD, Göttinger Bibelwerk, 10) Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.

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Kugler, Franz Xaver. 1922 Von Moses bis Paulus: Forschungen zur Geschichte Israels nach biblischen und profangeschichtlichen insbesondere neuen Keilinschriftlichen Quellen. Munster in Westf.: Verlag der Aschendorffschen Verlagsbuchhandlung. Leimbach, Karl A. 1936 Die Bücher Samuel. (HSAT, Bd. 3, Abt. 1) Bonn: Peter Hanstein Verlagsbuchhandlung. McCarter, P. Kyle. 1980 I Samuel: A new Translation with Introduction, Notes and Commentary. (AB) Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday. 1984 II Samuel: A new Translation with Introduction, Notes and Commentary. (AB) Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday. Martin, John A. 1984 “Studies in 1 and 2 Samuel. Part 1: The Structure of 1 and 2 Samuel.” Bibliotheca Sacra 141: 28–42. Medina, D. 1961 Mowinkel, Sigmund. Psalmstudien II. Das Thronbesteigungfest Jahwäs und der Ursprung der Eschatologie. Amsterdam: Verlag P. Schippers. 1977 God’s Weapon: the Deadly Ark of the Covenant. Münderlein, G. 1978 “‫ גרן‬goren.” TDOT III: 62–65. Neusner, Jacob. 1986 Judaism and Scripture. The Evidence of Leviticus Rabbah. (CSJH) Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Ohler, Annemarie. “Herrscher in einer Umbruchszeit. Nach dem historischen David fragen.” Ottoson, Magnus. 1980 Temples and Cult Places in Palestine. (Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis) (Boreas. Uppsala Studies in Ancient Mediterranean and Near Eastern Studies, 12) Uppsala. Ouellette, J. 1970 “The Solomonic Debir according to the Hebrew Text of I Kings 6.” JBL 89/3: 338–343. Ouellette, J. 1969 “Le vestibule du temple de Solomon était-il un Bit Hilani?” RB 76/3: 365–378. Rad, Gerhard von. 1975 Old Testament Theology. 2 vols. London: SCM Press.

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Rost, Leonhard. 1926 Die Überlieferung von der Thronnachfolge Davids, (BWANT, III/6) Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer Verlag. 1956 Das kleine Credo und andere Studien zum Alten Testament. Heidelberg: Quelle und Meyer. Rowley, H. H. 1939 “Zadok and Nehushtan.” JBL 58: 113–141. Rupprecht, Konrad. 1972 “Nachrichten von Erweiterung und Renovierung des Tempels in 1. Könige 6.” ZDPV 88/1: 38–52. 1977a Der Tempel von Jerusalem. Gründung Salomos oder jebusitisches Erbe? (BZAW, 144) New York: de Gruyter. 1977b “Die Zuverlässigkeit der Überlieferung von Salomos Tempelgründung.” ZAW 89/2: 205–214. Schmid, Herbert. 1970 “Der Tempelbau Salomos in religions-geschichtlicher Sicht.” RGG. Schmid, Herbert. 1955 “Jahweh und die Kulttraditionen von Jerusalem.” ZAW 67: 168– 197. Schult, Hermann. 1964 “Der Debir im salomonischen Tempel.” ZDPV 80: 46–54. 1972 Schult, Hermann. “Zum Bauverfahren in 1. Könige 6,7.” ZDPV 88/1: 53–4. Schultz Emily A. and Robert H. Lavenda. 1990 Cultural anthropology: A Perspective on the Human condition. 2d. ed. New York: West Publishing Co. Smith, Sidney. 1953 “On the Meaning of the Goren.” PEQ 85: 42–45. Stoebe, Hans Joachim. 1973 Das erste Buch Samuelis. (KAT VIII/1) Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn. Tarragon, J.-M. de. 1979 “David et l’arche: II Samuel, VI.” RB 86: 514–523. Thenius, Otto. 1898 Die Bücher Samuels. 3. vollständig...Auflage besorgt v. Max Löhr. (KHAT) Leipzig: Hinzel. Tur-Sinai, N. H. 1951 “The Ark of God at Beit Shemesh (1 Sam. VI) and Peres ‘Uzza (2 Sam. 6; 1 Chr. XIII).” VT 1: 275–286. VanderKam, James C. 1984 “Zadok and the spr htwrh hhtwm in Dam. Doc. V, 2–5.” RQ 11/4: 561–570.

UZZAH’S REBELLION Van der Toorn, Karel. 1994 “David and the Ark.” JBL 113/2: 209–231. Weiser, Artur. 1965 “Die Tempelbaukrise unter David.” ZAW 77: 153–168. Wright, David P. 2002 “Music and Dance in 2 Samuel 6.” JBL 121: 201–225. Zobel, H.-J. 1974 “‫‘ ארון‬arôn” TDOT I: 363–374.

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SHALMANESER III AND THE LEVANTINE STATES: THE “DAMASCUS COALITION REBELLION” A. KIRK GRAYSON

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO 1.

INTRODUCTION

To begin this paper, I shall quote, from the statement sent to me by Professor Andy Vaughn when he invited me to participate in a symposium “Biblical Lands and Peoples in Archaeology and Text”. 1 The goal of this session “is to promote the interaction between biblical scholars and archaeologists as well as other specialists in ancient Near Eastern Studies … the gap between biblical scholars and specialists in Assyriology and other fields like archaeology continues to grow wider”. The widening gap is certainly a real phenomenon, the main reason being the astounding increase in data through publications, archaeology, research in museums and related institutions, and the tremendous increase in numbers of scholars in the relevant fields. As a personal note on this theme, I—like many of my contemporaries—came to Assyriology from a base in the Hebrew bible. In those days, the 1960s, 1950s, and before, it was generally assumed that an Assyriologist, an Egyptologist, etc. would have a sound backing in, not only the Hebrew bible, but also Aramaic, Arabic, “Comparative Semitics,” etc. Today, this is 1 This article was originally presented as a paper at the annual meeting (2002), in Toronto, of the Society of Biblical Literature. The article published here keeps the oral flavor of that presentation. I would like to thank the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada, the University of Toronto, and generous private donors, who support the Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia Project, whose archives were an invaluable resource in the preparation of this article. My thanks go to Grant Frame and Jamie Novotny for reading a draft of this paper and for offering valuable suggestions.

51

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not the case. During the last few decades it has become apparent in my lectures and seminars that a number of students go blank when I make a biblical reference. Also in those days we did not have the Akkadisches Handwörterbuch or the Chicago Assyrian Dictionary. With the exception of a few polymaths, no one can have the breadth of knowledge of the Ancient Near East that was assumed until about the mid 1960s. There is just too much knowledge to absorb. Thus the focus of each one of us has become narrower and narrower. It is very timely to encourage serious dialogue amongst the many disciplines and sub-disciplines that have evolved over the last half-century. To use an analogy, if from this meeting we can begin to stop depending upon stepping stones to cross the river, and instead begin to build a real bridge, it will be a major achievement. I have chosen to speak upon the Assyrian king, Shalmaneser III (858– 24 BCE 2) because he was the first Assyrian king to concentrate a large proportion of his military campaigns on the “West” (eber nāri in Akkadian, which means “across the river”—the river being the Euphrates). In this paper I shall use the terms “West” and “Levant” interchangeably. 3

2.

SOURCES

The sources that we have for early Assyrian penetration into the Levant, and specifically for Israel and Judah, are the following. There are the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions that, as is well known, are full of details about conquests but hyperbolic to the point where one must never accept their claims at face value. 4 Another source, probably more reliable but exceedingly cryptic, are the Eponym Chronicles. 5 The Assyrian calendar was founded on the eponym system. Each year was given the name of an Assyrian official, called a līmu. Thus a scribe, at the end of a document would say līmu of PN. Lists of these officials, in chronological order, were prepared so that a scribe would know in what year this particular text was written. Some of these lists add, after the līmu’s name and title, a cryptic entry about what For the remainder of this paper all dates are BCE unless specified otherwise. For Assyria’s activities in the region of the Orontes river see Grayson, “Assyria and the Orontes Valley”, BCSMS 36 (2001), 185–87. 4 See Grayson, “Assyria and Babylonia”, Orientalia NS 49 (1980), 170–171; Van Seters, In Search of History (New Haven, 1983), 60–68; Carena, AOAT 218/1 (1989); Millard, “Story, History, and Theology”, Millard, et al. (eds.), Faith, Tradition, and History (Winona Lake, 1994), 37–64; Van Seters, “The Historiography of the Ancient Near East” CANE 4, 2433–44. For the Assyrian royal inscriptions themselves see Grayson, RIMA 1–3. 5 See Millard, A., The Eponyms of the Assyrian Empire, SAAS 2 (1994). 2 3

SHALMANESER III AND THE LEVANTINE STATES

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significant event (usually a military campaign against GN) took place that year which involved the king. Such texts are called “Eponym Chronicles”. For Shalmaneser III’s relations with the “West” there is really nothing else. The Damascus Coalition is not mentioned in the ancient Mesopotamian Chronicles, the Hebrew Bible, or Josephus.

3.

ASSYRIAN RELATIONS WITH THE LEVANT BEFORE SHALMANESER III’S REIGN

Tiglath-pileser I (1114–1076) certainly crossed the Euphrates on a number of occasions. This brought him into direct contact with the looming threat of the Aramaeans. Indeed on one occasion he claims to have defeated six tribes of Aramaeans at the foot of Jebel Bishri. But, as successful as these Assyrian attacks may have been, it did not stop the Aramaeans for very long. By the reign of Ashur-bel-kala (1073–1056), the last great king of the Middle Assyrian period, the Aramaeans were causing serious disruptions in communications between Assyria, Phoenicia, and Egypt. 6 Assyria went into decline until the ninth century that saw the emergence of some great Assyrian kings, notably Ashurnasirpal II (883–859) and his son and successor Shalmaneser III (858–824). 7 These two outstanding monarchs brought stability back to the region and began the creation of the Neo-Assyrian Empire, a fact that had great implications for the states of Israel and Judah.

4.

SHALMANESER III AND THE LEVANT

Much attention has been centered on Shalmaneser III in recent years. A major reason for this is the publication of the significant Calah inscriptions copied by Peter Hulin. 8 Some other new inscriptions have come to light over the last decade. An excellent major monograph on this king has been published by Shigeo Yamada. 9 All of these help shed more light on this topic. In this paper, concentrating on the “Damascus Coalition”, I shall attempt to incorporate the new material with the old, and see what kind of picture emerges.

See Grayson, RIMA 2, 5–112. See Grayson, CAH 3/1 (2nd ed., 1982), 238–81 and RIMA 2–3. 8 Grayson, RIMA 3, 5–170; Yamada, Iraq 62 (2000), 65–87. 9 Yamada, The Construction of the Assyrian Empire: A Historical Study of the Inscriptions of Shalmaneser III (859–824) Relating of His Campaigns to the West (Brill, Leiden, 2000). This is hereafter abbreviated as Yamada, Construction. 6 7

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Military campaigns were carried out in each of the 34 regnal years of Shalmaneser. 10 An outstanding feature of these campaigns is the concentration on two fronts, the North, especially Urartu, and the West. We do not know how this policy was developed—council of war, individual decision by the monarch, etc.? However it is clear that there was a grand design. Some historians of ancient Assyria reject the idea that the purpose of the military campaigns of the Assyrians followed a “grand plan”. My view is that there were such “grand plans”. 11 Here is the reasoning. The Assyrian state, especially the Assyrian army, was well organized and regimented. The Assyrians had great knowledge of, and interest in, foreign lands, their cultures, economies, and languages. It is hard to believe that they did not, with their disciplined structure and extensive knowledge of the world around them, have long-range plans to which the aims of the annual campaigns, barring emergencies, adhered. Imagine such a scenario as the following. One morning Shalmaneser III is woken by his rab-shaqe (cup-bearer and one of the highest ranking officers in the army) bearing the monarch’s morning bowl of wine and announcing that it is the fifteenth of Nisan. Still imagining, the king replies: “Fetch the tartanu [field marshal] and the rab-sha-reshi [chief eunuch, also a high ranking officer] and the die. 12 Time to decide where to lead our great campaign this year”. Is this scene credible? The Western policy begun by Shalmaneser III would continue, with interruptions, almost to the fall of Nineveh in 612. The long-range aims were to profit from the wealth of the Levant and to add Egypt to the NeoAssyrian empire.

5.

THE SITUATION IN THE LEVANT AT SHALMANESER III’S TIME

The situation in the Levant, specifically in Israel and Judah, when Shalmaneser III launched his assault, is not for me to describe in detail. There are many who are experts on this matter and have covered this topic extensively. Let me just summarize by saying that during this period most of the Levantine states forgot their bickering with their neighbours and formed two separate coalitions: the one was in the northern area where several small states, such as Sam’al and Patinu, formed a coalition and the second, This is in itself a phenomenal military achievement. See Grayson, BibOr 33 (1976), 134–38; CAH 3/1, 259–63; Yamada, Construction, 77–224. 12 For one of these dice which has been preserved see Grayson, RIMA 3, 155 and Millard, Eponyms, Frontispiece and p. 8 and the literature cited in these works. 10 11

SHALMANESER III AND THE LEVANTINE STATES

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which is our concern today, was in the south and I have called this the “Damascus Coalition” or the “Damascus-Hamath Coalition”. The chief powers in the southern group were Damascus and Hamath. Allied with them were a number of other states including Israel, Byblos, and Egypt.

6.

THE DAMASCUS COALITION 13

When Shalmaneser III attempted to move west, across the Euphrates, and then south along the Levantine coast he encountered something which none of his predecessors had confronted: the Damascus Coalition. This alliance consisted of Adad-idri (Hadad-ezer) of Damascus, Irhuleni of Hamath (these two cities being the leaders), Ahab of Israel, Gindibu the Arab, Byblos, Egypt, Matinu-ba’al of Arvad, Irqantu, Usanatu, Adunu-ba’al of Shianu, Ba’asa of Bit-Ruhubi, and “the Ammonite”. According to Yamada, there are six versions of the sixth campaign (853) in Shalmaneser’s royal inscriptions. To illustrate the kind of differences among them, let us look at two examples. Some versions include the rulers of Damascus and Hamath among the “12” kings of the coalition while others add “12” kings after Damascus and Hamath, thus giving “14” kings. Yet another version has “13”. The second example is the number of slain enemy troops. It varies from 14,000, up to 20,500, then 25,000, and finally the highest number is 29,000. 14 Traditionally many of these allies had been bitter foes before Shalmaneser’s invasion. The question, then, is why did they bury the hatchet at this time and agree to present a united front? Why not, for example, in Ashurnasirpal II’s time? No one, as far as I know, has tackled this question before. For a lack of sources to answer this question, one can only hazard a reason (or reasons) for this action. My own view—and this may well prove to be wrong some day as more evidence emerges—is that these states had been taken totally by surprise by the sudden appearance and overwhelming power of the Assyrian army under Ashurnasirpal II. The Assyrian army quickly crossed the Euphrates and thundered up and down the Levantine coast. After his incursions they, the Levantine states, became more astute and better informed about the intentions and movements of the Assyrian army. Receipt of such information would have been facilitated by the presence in the Assyrian heartland of tens of thousands of Levantines who had been carried off by Ashurnasirpal II and Shalmaneser III to work on their building projects and to create new cultivable land in the Jezirah to provide 13 14

For the relevant royal inscriptions see Grayson, RIMA 3, 5–179. See Yamada, Construction, 143–64.

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food for the increasing numbers of non-productive officials and residents of the Assyrian cities. Zablocka has estimated that in this period approximately 193,000 people were carried off from the West, and of these about 139,000 were Aramaeans. 15 Eventually some of these families insinuated themselves and rose in the Assyrian bureaucracy. We know that the Aramaeans were already doing this in the reign of Shalmaneser III. 16 It is impossible to believe that such people did not, by various means, keep in touch with their compatriots at home. This, certainly, could have provided a communicative network—an undercover operation—about Assyrian intentions and movements. The Damascus Coalition made its first stand at Qarqar on the Orontes in 853. The precise location of Qarqar on the Orontes is still questionable. The traditional identification of the site is at Tell Qarqur which is just south of where the main road between Aleppo and Latakia crosses the Orontes. 17 The location of Qarqar is one of two questions, the second being the outcome of the battle between the coalition and the Assyrian army. Naturally Shalmaneser, in his inscriptions, boasts of a great victory for himself. He had led his army from Aleppo up the Orontes to Qarqar with little opposition. But at Qarqar he was faced with the coalition which, according to the Kurkh Monolith (written shortly after the event), consisted of almost 4,000 chariots, almost 2,000 cavalry, over 40,000 infantry, and 1,000 camels. 18 Shalmaneser claims to have beaten them and to have slaughtered and plundered as the enemy fled the scene of battle. One must always be sceptical of Assyrian claims and the real outcome of the battle at Qarqar is debatable. The only clear indication that the Assyrian boast is justified is the statement, in the same Assyrian sources, that after the battle the Assyrian army proceeded on to the Mediterranean. On the other hand three further pitched battles were fought with the Damascus Coalition, one in each of 849, 848, and 845. If the coalition had suffered a setback at Qarqar, they had not been beaten. In fact it appears that they had displayed sufficient strength to encourage others to resist the Assyrians; in 849 and 848 Shalmaneser took goods by force from the cities of Carchemish and Bit-Agusi across the Euphrates, although these same states had freely paid tribute in 853 just before the battle at Qarqar. Thus Assyria did not win a great vic-

J. Zablocka, Tosunki Agrarne w Panistwie Sargonidow (Poznan, 1971). See Grayson, CAH 3/1 pp. 239–40. 17 Liverani, Studies Asn. 2, 77, 115; Yamada, Construction, 154–55. 18 Grayson, RIMA 3, 23 ii 90–95. 15 16

SHALMANESER III AND THE LEVANTINE STATES

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tory on this occasion but neither did she suffer a great defeat; the result was uncertain. Shalmaneser, unsatisfied with the outcome, concentrated on the Damascus Coalition as much as circumstances would allow until 845. By this time the states immediately west of the Euphrates seem to have been thoroughly subdued. There is no further reference to hostile acts in the region. Thus he was free to attempt once again the penetration of southern Syria. He amassed a force of vast numbers (in 845)—120,000 according to Assyrian sources—crossed the Euphrates and claimed a victory over the Damascus Coalition. 19 Was this claim justified? It is a fact that the coalition is never mentioned again, and four years later, in 841, it had disappeared. 20 But there had been a change of ruler at Damascus between 845 and 841: Adad-idri (Hadad-ezer) was replaced by Hazael. The pact, as usual in the Ancient Near East, was regarded as a highly personal affair, and it automatically dissolved with the death of Adad-idri. Certainly the Assyrians did not push farther into Syria immediately after the battle of 845. There is, then, no proof for or against the Assyrian claim to victory in 845 and the dissolution of the Damascus Coalition may have been an independent development. Whatever the reason, by 841 the Damascus Coalition was no more and the main obstacle to Shalmaneser’s expansion into southern Syria had vanished. In 841, Hazael of Damascus, in the face of the Assyrian advance, took up a position on a summit in the foothills of the Lebanon range. 21 The Assyrians gained the fortified position but Hazael escaped and was pursued and besieged in Damascus. Shalmaneser cut down the orchards and burned the surrounding country but it is not recorded that Hazael yielded. The circumstantial detail and absence of bombast, apart possibly from the large number of troops the Assyrian claims to have won from the Damascene, leave the impression that this is a reasonably faithful account of the events. Thus, although Damascus had not fallen, Shalmaneser could proceed to ravage cities by Mount Hauran and then erect a stele by the sea upon Mount Ba’li-ra’si, the location of which is still in question although Mount Carmel is a possibility. 22 He received tribute from Tyre, Sidon, and Jehu (Yaua), king of Israel. In 838–37 he turned his attention to southern Syria

See Yamada, Construction, 179–83. See Yamada, Construction, 185–95. 21 See Yamada, Construction, 185–95. 22 On the location question see Yamada, Construction, 91–92. 19 20

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

for the last time; he plundered cities of Damascus and received tribute from Tyre, Sidon, and Byblos. 23

7.

THE RESULTS OF SHALMANESER III’S LEVANTINE CAMPAIGNS: ISRAEL AND JUDAH

It is clear that Israel volunteered submission to Shalmaneser III, presumably in 841, since Jehu (Yaua), as is well known, is portrayed on the Black Obelisk kneeling before the king. 24 But there is no evidence that Shalmaneser entered central Israel, let alone Samaria, at any time. Nor is there any evidence of contact with Judah.

8.

AFTERMATH

Eventually Shalmaneser’s influence spread as far as Byblos, Sidon, and Tyre, on the Mediterranean coast, all of which paid tribute in 838 as we have just seen. Thus he prepared the way for succeeding kings to move right down the southern Levant, culminating, with many interruptions, in Ashurbanipal’s (668–31) invasions of Egypt. By that time, of course, both Israel and Judah were under Assyrian control. In more detail, Damascus was taken by the Assyrians in Adad-narari III’s reign (810–783)—in fact the officer who led the capture was Shamshiilu, the field marshal. 25 After Adad-narari III’s reign and the reign of Shamshi-Adad V (823–11), there was a decline in Assyrian power until the reign of Tiglath-pilaser III (744–27). Under his leadership Assyria campaigned once again to the Levant, including Israel and Judah. Indeed he went beyond these states to enter the Sinai up to the “Brook of Egypt” This penetration continued farther and farther under the following Sargonid kings and led to the campaigns in Egypt under Esarhaddon (680–69) and Ashurbanipal (668–31). All of this activity in the southern Levant was possible only with a firm Assyrian control over Israel and Judah, an aim which Shalmaneser III had initiated.

See Yamada, Construction, 205–209. RIMA 3, 149 A.0.102.88. The date of composition is either late 828 or 827. 25 See Grayson, RIMA 3 pp. 200–238. 23 24

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2 FROM THE CEMETERY OF QUMRAN: A NEW EDITION 1 GREG DOUDNA 1. INTRODUCTION 1.1 In 1997 two ostraca accidentally found in 1996 at the edge of the cemetery at Qumran by the University of South Florida excavations under the direction of James Strange were published by Frank Cross and Esther Eshel in Israel Exploration Journal. 2 Ostracon No. 1 (KhQ1) is the most extensive writing yet known from the site of Qumran itself, as distinguished from manuscripts found in nearby caves. This ostracon has 16 lines (the Cross/Eshel transcription had only 15, but traces of a 16th are visible). The letters are faded and sometimes unreadable, especially in lines 9–16, and the left ends of all lines are missing. Cross and Eshel identified it as a deed of gift of property, dated “the second year” of something. Ostracon No. 2 (KhQ2) contains only a few letters from four lines. According to early reports a third ostracon was found with the first two, containing only traces of ink; this third ostracon has not been published. 3 While the find spot for I gratefully acknowledge the financial support of the Danish Institute for Advanced Studies in the Humanities, Copenhagen, which made possible the preparation of this article. 2 F. M. Cross and E. Eshel, “Ostraca from Khirbet Qumrân”, IEJ 47 (1997), 17–28. The find site of the ostraca was described as “the base of the eastern face” of “the eastern perimeter wall separating the buildings and court of the community centre from the cemetery” (p. 17), that is, the cemetery side of the wall. Also, F. M. Cross and E. Eshel, “A New Ostracon from Qumrân”, Qad 30 (1997), 134–36 (Heb.); F. M. Cross and E. Eshel, “The Missing Link”, BAR 24/2 (March-April 1998), 48–53, 69. 3 A first report in Archaeology magazine, 1996: “Three ostraca, one inscribed with 16 lines of Hebrew text from the first century A.D., have been found in Qum1

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

ran, Israel … The sherds were spotted on the east side of the Qumran plateau by volunteer excavators led by James F. Strange of the University of South Florida. One ostracon, broken into two pieces, mentions several commodities and is believed to be a list of food and supplies. The text opens, ‘In the second year,’ probably referring to the second year of the First Jewish Revolt, or A.D. 68 … According to Strange, the pottery pieces were probably thrown out in haste or were part of the debris left after the Roman looting of the site. One of the other ostraca found nearby has parts of four lines of text. The last ostracon shows traces of ink” (S. Stanley, “New Texts from Qumran”, Archaeology 49/3 [1996] [http://www.archaeology.org/9605/newsbriefs /qumran.html]). James Strange, 1996: “… We proceeded to clean up, and behold an ostracon! It was lying on the ground at the base of the east wall east and north of the shade (the sukkah where tourists stand to look at Cave 4.) It was recovered by brushing. The ostracon was in two pieces which mend for a total of 18 lines of text in a clear Herodian hand. We can read the first two lines: ‘In the Second year./By the hand of El‘azar ben Nechumia’ … We also found a fragment of a second ostracon, which looks like a part of scribal practice or of schoolboy practice. A third was found by dipping. It appears to be merely some ink on a sherd, but it may be a name” (James Strange, forwarded to the Orion discussion list, 13 Feb 1996 (http://orion.mscc.huji. ac.il/orion/archives/1996a/msg00052.html). James Strange: “The excavators [Strange and crew] had excavated straight down into virgin soil in the center of the terrace and dumped beside the east wall. When cleaning up the soil, the volunteers were sweeping and scraping lightly with trowels beside the same outside wall of the ruin. The idea was to remove every last trace of the intrusive soil originating from the middle of the terrace. One volunteer [Joseph Caulfield of Everett, Washington] heard the clink of his trowel on a sherd, picked it up, and saw writing. The sherd— and others—therefore came from the top layer of the trench left by Père de Vaux when he excavated outside the wall” (Strange, 4 Oct 1997, quoted in P. Callaway, “A Second Look at Ostracon No. 1 from Khirbet Qumrân”, QC 7 [Dec. 1997], 145–170 at 156 [the opening reference to “the excavators” refers to Strange’s excavation, not de Vaux’s]). James Strange: “The volunteer was scraping the top of the next layer with a trowel. This sometimes results in what we call ‘overdigging’ in archaeology. While removing the upper, later layer it is preferable to scrape or dig slightly into the lower layer to insure that not one scrap from the upper layer was left to contaminate the lower layer. May I add that our ‘dump’ on top of de Vaux’s trench next to the wall was sterile of any human-made object. We were removing sterile marl, gravel, and clay which had been removed from 15 m. deep in the terrace. There was simply no chance that the ostraca came from that deep in the terrace. Since the volunteer was brand new, he did not know to leave a significant find in situ. Therefore, in his first encounter with a sherd in situ (the clink of the trowel), he picked it up to take a look and saw writing. He then took it to me (I was talking archaeology in front of the book shop with an official person), and I immediately recognized it as an ostracon. When we returned to brush the find spot, he picked up the second half from the small heap of dirt and sherds he had scraped up before he sought me out. In simple brushing we picked up several dozen sherds,

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61

these ostraca at the edge of the cemetery is out of their original context— likely put there from an ancient clearing of debris from the buildings—their origination at the site of Qumran is practically certain, since there is little plausibility in supposing that drafts written on the ancient equivalent of scratch paper would be imported from somewhere else.

1.2 KhQ1 received attention because of early claims that a specific point of contact with 1QS, the Community Rule, was present on the ostracon. In ֯ , line 8, Cross and Eshel reported the existence of a reading ‫[וכמלותו ליחד‬ “when he fulfills (his oath) to the Community [yaḥad]”. Cross and Eshel linked this to lines 2–3 in which property is ‫גתנ‬, “given”, but not, as in other deeds of gift, from a man to a woman family member. This property is given by a man to another man who does not appear to be of his family. Cross and Eshel saw in this a correspondence with 1QS 6.17–23 in which a new member of the yaḥad turned over his wealth to the community in his second year. As Cross/Eshel put it: “The receiver of the grant … is a certain ’El‘azar son of Naḥamanî … [We] take ’El‘azar to be a major official of the Yaḥad, probably the Overseer (‫ )מבקר‬or the guardian at the head of the congregation (‫ )פקיד בראש הרבים‬who handled the funds of the sectarian community living at Qumran.” 4 Cross/Eshel concluded, “The word Yaḥad, which appears on this ostracon, establishes the connection between Khirbet Qumrân and the scrolls which were found in the nearby caves.” 5 And again in 1998 in Biblical Archaeology Review Cross/Eshel stated, “the inscription [KhQ1] for the first time connects the site of Qumran directly with the documents known as the Dead Sea Scrolls”. 6 The Cross/Eshel publication included hand drawings, transcriptions with commentary, and photographs of the two ostraca taken by James Henderson, an Oregon City, Oregon specialist in photography of faded pigments in rock art. 1.3 Subsequently in 1997 two other editions of Ostracon No. 1 appeared independently. The late Frederick Cryer of the University of Copenhagen, writing in the Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament, argued that no word yaḥad existed on the ostracon and offered alternative readings. 7 And Ada mostly Iron II, but had to stop, as we had no permit to dig in that spot” (James Strange, forwarded to Orion, 2 Sept 1997 [http://orion.mscc.huji.ac.il/ orion/archives/1997b/msg00385. html]). 4 Cross/Eshel 1997 (IEJ), 22, 26. 5 Cross/Eshel 1997 (IEJ), 28. 6 Cross/Eshel, “The Missing Link”, 49. 7 The present article is dedicated to the memory of Frederick Cryer (1947– 2002). F. H. Cryer, “The Qumran Conveyance: A Reply to F. M. Cross and E. Eshel”, SJOT 11 (1997), 232–40.

62

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Yardeni of Hebrew University, Jerusalem, editor of the Dead Sea documents in Hebew and Aramaic of volume 27 of the Discoveries in the Judean Desert (DJD) series (1997), published an edition of KhQ1 in Israel Exploration Journal with corrections of a number of the readings of Cross/Eshel. 8 ׄ ‫[וכול אילנ‬, “and every oth[er(?)] tree”. According to Yardeni line 8 read ‫אח‬ Yardeni presented a new drawing and transcription of Ostracon No. 1 and a magnified photograph of line 8. (Neither Cryer nor Yardeni dealt with Ostracon No. 2.) In 2000 Cross and Eshel published the two ostraca in DJD 36 essentially unchanged from their versions of 1997. 9 A new hand drawing by Cross in DJD 36 replaced the former one of Cross/Eshel of 1997 and an excursus by Cross in DJD 36 defended the Cross/Eshel line 8 reading against Yardeni’s. The ostraca received their sigla, KhQ1 and KhQ2, in the DJD publication.

1.4 The present article offers fresh readings and analysis of KhQ1 and KhQ2. Sections 2–14 develop a new edition of KhQ1. First to be examined is line 8 of KhQ1, since that line has been the center of most interest. After that readings of all other lines of KhQ1 are studied leading to a reconstruction of the text in section 10. Sections 11–14 take up interpretive issues, the question of a relationship between KhQ1 and 1QS, and dating. Section 15 is a new edition of KhQ2. The readings were done from the black-andwhite photographs of KhQ1 and KhQ2 published in IEJ 1997 and in DJD 36 in 2000; study of KhQ1 on public display in the Israel Museum in 1997; a color photograph of KhQ1 published by the Israel Museum in 1997, in A. Roitman, A Day at Qumran; and a set of black-and-white and color photographs of KhQ1 taken in 1997 by Bruce Zuckerman and Marilyn Lundberg (West Semitic Research). 10 Also consulted was a photographic enlargement A. Yardeni, “A Draft of a Deed on an Ostracon from Khirbet Qumrân”, IEJ 47 (1997), 233–37. Also Yardeni, “Breaking the Missing Link”, BAR 24/3 (MayJune 1998), 44–47. 9 F. M. Cross and E. Eshel, “KhQOstracon”, in P. Alexander et al., Miscellanea, Part I (DJD 36; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2000), 497–507. 10 The black-and-white photographs in IEJ and DJD 36 published by Cross/Eshel were done by James Henderson using a procedure invented by him for photographing rock art. See “The Henderson Cross Polarized Enhancement Procedure: A New Image Enhancement Process for Pictographs and Other Pigmented Artifacts”, at www.rit.edu/~mrppph/Henderson CPE.PDF. A photograph of KhQ1 either identical with the one of the original Cross/Eshel publication of IEJ and DJD 36 or similar to it also appears at Cross/Eshel, “The Missing Link” (BAR, 1998), 50. My inspection of the original of KhQ1 involved about two hours of study, with notes and drawings, of the ostracon viewed through a glass case in Jerusalem in July 1997. I thank Marilyn Lundberg, Bruce Zuckerman, and the Israel 8

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

63

of lines 7–8 of KhQ1 in Yardeni’s IEJ article and another photograph of KhQ1 by Henderson discovered by accident, heretofore unnoticed and unremarked. 11 Cross is quoted by Philip Callaway in a letter of October 1997: “The photos published [of KhQ1/KhQ2, by Cross/Eshel] are the best that exist, and were done by a specialist. The actual ostracon is much more difficult to read than the photo.” 12 I agree with these statements of Cross. Citations of Cross/Eshel refer to the DJD 36 publication of 2000 throughout unless otherwise noted.

2. THE NON-EXISTENT “YAḤAD” READING OF KHQ1, LINE 8 2.1 As noted, in the original publication of KhQ1 a connection between the ostracon and the sect described in the Community Rule (1QS) was reported based on what Cross/Eshel claimed was a reading in KhQ1, line 8, of ‫וכמלותו ליחד‬ ֯ [, “when he fulfills (his oath) to the Community”. The Israel Museum in Jerusalem, where the ostracon is housed, published a statement from Cross and Eshel which concluded: “This ostracon is the first find from Khirbet Qumran that provides proof of the link between this site and the scrolls. Its discovery confirms that the site served as the community center of the sect.” 13 A press release announced that the ostracon had disproved the theory of University of Chicago professor Norman Golb of a Jerusalem origin of the scrolls, mentioning Golb by name. At the international conference, “The Dead Sea Scrolls—Fifty Years after their discovery”, held at the Israel Museum in Jerusalem in July 1997, Golb responded by displaying a photograph of the ostracon and showing from it that the Cross/Eshel reading of line 8 was in error. 14 Golb focused on the Antiquities Authority for permitting me access to the photographs of KhQ1 in black-and-white and color taken by Zuckerman and Lundberg. One of the Zuckerman/Lundberg black-and-white photos was published in 1998 in BAR (Yardeni, “Breaking the Missing Link”, 44); the others, including an excellent color photo, have never been published. The color photo published by the Israel Museum is at A. Roitman, A Day at Qumran (Jerusalem: Israel Museum, 1997), p. 36 of the Hebrew section. 11 Henderson, Fig. 11 on page 10 of “A New Image Enhancement Procedure” (see note 10). 12 Cross to Callaway, quoted at Callaway, “A Second Look at Ostracon No. 1”, 146 n. 1. 13 Cross/Eshel in Roitman, A Day at Qumran, 40. 14 I was present. An open comment from Golb of 31 Aug. 1997 shortly after this event can be viewed at http://orion.mscc.huji.ac.il/orion/archives/ 1997b/msg00380.html. See also N. Golb, “Qadmoniot and the ‘Yahad’ Claim”, QC 7 (1997), 171–73 (available at http://www-oi.uchicago.edu/OI/

64

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Cross/Eshel reading of the third letter from the end of line 8 as yod, which is essential to the “yaḥad” reading. In all published black-and-white photographs but especially clearly in the one displayed by Golb there is a vertical stroke with a foot to the left at the bottom, in the shape of a nun and bearing no resemblance to a yod. Without the yod the Cross/Eshel “yaḥad” reading collapses. Golb ended by noting (with permission) that both Joseph Naveh and Ada Yardeni also regarded the line 8 reading of Cross/Eshel as mistaken. However while in the view of many Golb had succeeded in showing that the reading of Cross/Eshel was not correct, the distinct issue of what line 8 does read remained unsolved until the publication of Yardeni. (Golb did not propose a reading of line 8.)

2.2 The 1997 study of Cryer in the Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament also criticized the Cross/Eshel “yaḥad” reading and astutely saw an aleph in the fifth letter position of line 8, but Cryer’s proposed line 8 reading was also incorrect. Cryer’s reading was ‫וכמלאו לנאח]ז‬, “and when/if he completes taking”. Cryer commented: “The verb is ml’, ‘fill’; here probably inf. cs. plus suffix, all rendered either temporally or factually conditional by the preceding k. The ’Aleph is faint and awkward, but seems to be present on the high-definition image”. 15 This was followed by what Cryer characterized as a niphal infinitive construct form ‫ נאחז‬from the verb ‫אחז‬. The problems with Cryer’s solution are: (a) A form nqtl for niphal infinitive construct is wholly unattested—not simply for ‫אחז‬ but for any verb in the entire Hebrew lexicon. Cryer argued that it was plausible that the form existed even though it is not attested in a single known case, but given the extent of the database this seems highly unlikely. 16 (b) The kaph prefix of ‫ וכמלאו‬is implausible (see below). (c) The infinitive construct ‫ וכמלאו‬has no object for the verb and therefore is also implausible (see below). And finally (d) the reading of the #3 letter of the line as mem is incorrect palaeographically, yet without that letter the reading of the first word collapses. The basic problem with Cryer’s reading is he accepted Cross/Eshel’s first word of line 8 as

PROJ/SCR/Yahad.html). 15 Cryer 1997 (SJOT), 235 n. 16. 16 Cryer 1997 (SJOT), 236 n. 17, citing a previous note he had published in SJOT 6 (1992), 211 n. 36. In the 1992 note Cryer suggested that nqtl for the niphal infinitive absolute, which is attested, was an artificial written form created to assist readers (i.e. not taken from spoken speech). In the 1997 note Cryer suggested it was plausible that the same phenonemon (an identical nqtl form) could have occurred for the same reasons in the infinitive construct as well, even though it is unattested.

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

65

correct and challenged only the second. In fact both words of Cross/Eshel’s line 8 reading are incorrect.

2.3 The correct reading of line 8 was shown by Yardeni in 1997 in Israel Exploration Journal (except for the last letter of line 8; discussed below). Yardeni read ‫[וכולאילנ א ׄח‬, “and every oth[er(?)] tree”. Yardeni cited parallels from Dead Sea documentary texts. As cited and rendered by Yardeni (without uncertainty markings in the letter readings): Mur 30.18 (deed of sale, Heb.)

‫התאנים הזיתים העץ‬ “the fig trees, the olive trees, the tree(s)” Naḥal Ḥever 44.2 (deed of lease, Heb.)

‫ותכל אילן שבהם‬ “and every tree within them” Naḥal Ḥever 46.4 (deed of lease, Heb.)

‫תדקלים ותשאר אילן שבהם‬ “the palms, and the rest of the tree(s) within them” Naḥal Ḥever 2.6 (deed of sale, Nabataean)

‫ותמ]ר[ין ושקמין ואילן‬ “and palms and sycamores and tree(s)” Naḥal Ḥever 7.48 (deed of gift, Aramaic)

‫וכות כל תמרין ואילן‬ “and, in like manner, all palms and tree(s)”

Yardeni concluded, “The reading wkwl ’yln ’ḥ[r in Line 8 of the Qumran ostracon thus fits perfectly into the context.” 17 Yardeni was convincing in her reading of the third letter of line 8 as waw (not Cross/Eshel’s uncertain mem); her reading of the structure of the fourth letter, lamed; her identification of the fifth letter as aleph (not Cross/Eshel’s waw plus taw); the eighth letter as nun (not Cross/Eshel’s yod); and the N-shaped ninth letter as aleph (not Cross/Eshel’s anomalous ḥet). 18 With undisputed readings of waw Yardeni 1997 (IEJ), 233–34. Yardeni: “Palaeographically, the medial waw in wkwl is composed of two strokes, while the additional stroke appearing in the editors’ [1997] drawing of this letter—which changes it into a mem—is actually part of the right downstroke of the lamed which touches it. The ‘roof’ of the lamed is damaged by a scratch running down near its upper right-hand corner and is actually wider than it appears in that drawing. The lamed is followed by an alef, drawn by the editors as two letters: a small waw and a taw. The construction of this alef, the first letter of the word ’yln, is similar 17 18

66

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

(#1), kaph (#2), and lamed (#4) at the start of the line (i.e. ‫ל‬-‫)וכ‬, the word ‫וכול‬ following a list of types of trees or fruit in line 7 is an obvious reading. And if so, the next letters, ‫אילנ‬, give the known “tree” word. Or the reasoning can work in reverse: once ‫ אילנ‬is recognized in letters #5–#8, the preceding ‫וכול‬ in turn emerges easily, proceeding from and connecting the trees of line 7. As for the plene spelling of ‫וכול‬, in DJD 27 examples of plene versus defective orthography in uses of waw or yod are cited as a routine feature of the Dead Sea documentary texts (texts which in any case display a general lack of uniformity in orthography); ‫ כול‬in KhQ1 is not unexpected. 19 (For example ‫ כול‬appears at XḤev/Se 8a, line 7, a text which, like KhQ1, also has a defective spelling, ]‫תחמ‬, a little later.) Yardeni’s reading of the two fully visible words of line 8 is clearly correct.

2.4 To the astonishment of many Cross/Eshel published their original transcription of the ostracon in DJD 36 in 2000 without accepting a single one to other occurrences of this letter in the ostracon. It is composed of three strokes: a right downstroke somewhat slanting to the left, a diagonal slanting downward to the right which occasionally extends beyond its meeting point with the right downstroke, and a left downstroke which is either vertical or somewhat slanting to the left. In the case under discussion, the diagonal of the alef is damaged near its crossing point with the right downstroke, leading to the editors’ interpretation of the form as two letters. The following letter, read as waw by the editors, is actually the yod preceding the lamed of the word ’yln (waw and yod are identical in structure). Although very faint on the ostracon, the nun following the lamed is clear in the photograph. Its form resembles a large medial nun, which curves to the left at its bottom. There is no stroke descending leftward from the top of the downstroke as drawn by the editors. The nun at the end of ntn in Line 2 also seems to curve to the left at its bottom … The letter which the editors read as a cursive ḥet is obviously an alef, which apparently begins a new word. The remains of the last letter surviving in this line may be the right part of a ḥet (the letter may be compared to ḥet in the word byrhw in Line 2); if so, the reconstructed word may perhaps be ’ḥr ‘other’ … In my view, the editors’ hand copy is based on a mistaken reading of the text and is, therefore, misleading, especially to those unfamiliar with the variety of letter forms, as well as the formulae, in the Hebrew and Aramaic deeds from the Judaean desert. Accordingly, their transcription and translation cannot be accepted. This means, in turn, that the identity of those who wrote the Qumrân scrolls and their place of residence cannot be determined on the basis of the present ostracon” (Yardeni 1997 [IEJ], 234–36). 19 Yardeni: “Two linguistic phenomena stand out in the documents, in spite of the relative paucity of material: (a) variant forms of individual words and particles and (b) lack of uniformity in orthography. Both of these are characteristics of a change-over period in the development of the language. The following examples may be noted…. [8th of 11 listed] Plene vs. defective orthography in use of waw or yod” (Yardeni, DJD 27, 11 and 13).

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

67

of Yardeni’s corrections, neither in line 8 nor any other line. In the bibliographic list termed “previous discussion” which appears at the start of KhQ1, Cross/Eshel cite their own journal publications and popular presentations in Roitman 1997 and Biblical Archaeology Review. But oddly, neither Yardeni’s nor Cryer’s studies are listed in this bibliographic list. There is an excursus of Cross appended to the end of the presentation of KhQ1 of DJD 36 addressing Yardeni’s reading, and the studies of Yardeni and Cryer are alluded to in the main discussion. 20 But neither Yardeni nor Cryer are in the starting listing of “previous discussion” where it is customary in DJD editions to list previously published scholarly studies of texts.

2.5 Cross/Eshel’s conservatism in rejecting changes to their transcription did not apply only to 100 percent of the corrections of Yardeni. In several cases the new hand drawing of KhQ1 of Cross in DJD 36 supports readings of Yardeni which differ from the 1997 Cross/Eshel transcription. But it made no difference: in not a single case is a change in the drawing of Cross in DJD 36 reflected in the Cross/Eshel transcription in DJD 36. That is, not even new information from Cross reporting what his eyes were seeing was enough to budge Cross/Eshel from their 1997 transcription. These instances are: At line 2, #8 Cross/Eshel 1997 (IEJ) mistakenly transcribed a final-form nun. Yardeni 1997 correctly drew and transcribed a medial nun. In DJD 36 Cross also correctly has a medial nun. But the Cross/Eshel transcription in DJD 36 repeats the erroneous final-form nun. At the end of line 11 Cross/Eshel 1997 had nothing in their drawing. In their transcription they reported an unidentified letter with this comment: “near the edge of the sherd there appears to be a mem or a kaph. No reading is possible” (p. 25). Yardeni 1997 drew the shape of a tsade in this position, transcribed as an uncertain tsade. In DJD 36 Cross has drawn a clear tsade, and Cross/Eshel now also comment in DJD 36: “near the left edge [of line 11] perhaps an awkward sade”. However the Cross/Eshel transcription of this letter in DJD 36 remains unchanged (an unidentified letter). At line 13, #2 Cross/Eshel 1997 drew and transcribed nothing but commented: “Line 13 reads ‫ ל] [נן‬... We may reconstruct ‫ל]ג?[נן‬, ‘to guard’ or ‘to garden’ ... Another possible reconstruction is ‫( ”ל]ח?[נן‬p. 25). Yardeni 20 Cross/Eshel refer to their line 8 transcription as “the preferred reading among those suggested” (DJD 36, 499), and note “a rival reading is taken up in the Excursus” (p. 503 n. 32). A point in Cryer’s study (his argument that ‫ נתן‬means sale, not gift) is objected to in a footnote (p. 501 n. 16).

68

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

1997 drew in the #2 position a lamed-like ascender plus what looks like part of a lamed’s hook, transcribed as an unidentified letter. In DJD 36 Cross has drawn a clear, unmistakeable lamed in the #2 position. But in their only change of a letter in transcription between IEJ in 1997 and DJD 36 in 2000, Cross/Eshel now transcribe line 13, #2 as an uncertain gimel (!) with the comment: “after lamed [#1] appears a damaged gimel [#2]” (p. 500)—even though what Cross draws for #2 in DJD 36 is a crystal clear lamed and bears not the slightest resemblance to a gimel. At line 14, #1–4 Cross/Eshel 1997 transcribed ֯‫חסדי‬, “Ḥisday”. The Cross/Eshel drawing in 1997 agrees with this transcription at letters #2, #3, and #4. Yardeni 1997 drew unidentifiable traces at #2, #3, and #4 transcribed as unidentified letters. In DJD 36 Cross has now also drawn unidentifiable traces at #2, #3, and #4 (no longer readable as letters as in the former drawing). Nevertheless the Cross/Eshel transcription in DJD 36 remains ֯‫ חסדי‬unaltered (letters #2 and #3 still reported as certain). At line 14, #7 Cross/Eshel 1997 drew a dalet, transcribed as a certain dalet. Yardeni 1997 drew an unidentifiable trace, transcribed as unidentified. In DJD 36 Cross has drawn for this letter a lightly outlined shape of a resh (no right ear), yet the Cross/Eshel transcription of this letter in DJD 36 is unchanged from 1997, still reporting a certain reading of dalet even though Cross’s drawing in DJD 36 suggests a different letter.

2.6 The Cross/Eshel transcription in DJD 36 in 2000 was not exactly the same as before. In 1997 Cross/Eshel transcribed all letters of their reading ]‫ ליחד‬in line 8 as certain. They characterized their readings of these letters in 1997 as “without serious objection”. 21 In 1998 they wrote: “even though the bottom of the [final line 8] letter has been cut off in our ostracon, it can only be a dalet. If that is so, no plausible reading other than Yahad can be suggested”. 22 But in the DJD 36 publication of 2000 these claims are omitted, and three of those final four letters, the yod, ḥet, and dalet, are now ֯ . The excursus from marked as palaeographically uncertain: ]‫וכמלותו ליׄ ׄח ׄד‬ Cross characterizes Yardeni’s study as having proposed “new plausible readings”. 23 At the same time Cross/Eshel no longer claim three out of four letters of their own reading of ‫ ליחד‬are palaeographically certain. Cross

Cross/Eshel 1997 (IEJ), 25. Cross/Eshel, “The Missing Link”, 52. 23 Cross, DJD 36, 505. 21 22

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

69

and Eshel maintain now only that their line 8 reading “is to be preferred” over Yardeni’s reading. 24 Cross explains: Yardeni reads ‫ וכול‬at the beginning of the line [8]. We read a mem not waw as the third letter. Clearly, on both our photographs and hers, there is a head on the letter, not part of the lamed. We read the entire phrase as wkmlwtw lyḥd, ‘when he fulfills (his oath) to the Community’. Yardeni reads wkwl ’yln ’ḥ[r. She runs together waw and taw to make an anomalous ’alep. In fact, the two letters do not touch. The so-called ’alep has a high right stroke that does not touch the putative diagonal as in all other ’aleps in these texts. Even more awkward is the unusually broad space between yod (Yardeni) or waw (Cross and Eshel) and the following lamed. It resembles a word-space. Yardeni reads kwl ’yln ’ḥ[r], ‘and every oth[er(?) tree’. The word ’îlån is questionable. These ostraca are written in ‘biblicizing’ Qumran Hebrew, but ’îlån is an Aramaic form, cognate with Hebrew ’elôn. To be sure, ’îlån is an Aramaic loan-word (or loanform) in Middle Hebrew, as early as the era of the Second Revolt. However, it is not expected here. 25

2.7 None of these points of Cross stand. To begin with, Cross’s claim that the word ‫ אילנ‬is “questionable … not expected here” in line 8 of KhQ1 is

simply astonishing. As noted above, Yardeni cited numerous uses of the word ‫ אילנ‬in other Dead Sea documentary texts, two in Hebrew. One of the texts in Hebrew, NaḥḤev 44.2, reads ‫ותכל אילן שבהם‬, “and every tree within them”, the identical sequence and sense as ‫ וכול אילנ‬in KhQ1. ‫אילנ‬ is considered a classical Hebrew word by the editors of The Dictionary of Classical Hebrew published by Sheffield Academic Press, who give it an entry and cite still another use in a Dead Sea documentary text in Hebrew: 5/6 Ḥev13BA 46.9, ‫של הירק ושל האילן‬, “of the vegetable(s) and of the tree(s)”. 26 The Qumran ostracon, KhQ1, speaks of “figs” in the immediately preceding line 7 according to both Cross/Eshel and Yardeni, followed by what Cross/Eshel read as “olives” and Yardeni suggests is “palms”. Therefore to find continuing in the next line (line 8) a routine expression for “trees” attested in identical contexts in other Dead Sea documentary texts in Hebrew from the same era surely is expected.

2.8 Cross’s suggestion in DJD 36 that the Qumran ostraca use a different kind of language than other Dead Sea texts (“these ostraca are written in ‘biblicizing’ Qumran Hebrew”) also is asserted without any disclosed or Cross, DJD 36, 507; Cross/Eshel, DJD 36, 499. Cross, DJD 36, 506. 26 D. J. A. Clines (ed.), DCH (Vol. 1, ‫ ;א‬Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993), 213. 24 25

70

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

actual basis or evidence. In 1998 Cross/Eshel wrote in Biblical Archaeology Review: “This [line 8] reading (as well as the Qumran dialect of the ostracon) is a staggering blow to the many theorists who do not accept the Qumran settlement as that of a communal sect holding common property.” 27 But again in that article no explanation was given for the claim that a “Qumran dialect” is reflected in the ostracon. One has to go back to the original Cross/Eshel publication of 1997 to find the only example claimed by Cross/Eshel in support of this statement: it is the mistaken reading of line 8 itself. 28 That is, the mistaken reading is cited as a reason to expect the mistaken reading. Once the incorrect reading of line 8 is removed from consideration there is nothing even claimed by Cross/Eshel in support of a notion of a unique “biblicizing” Hebrew as the language of KhQ1/KhQ2, as distinct from the alternative that the language of these ostraca is simply Hebrew, contemporary and idiomatic, of the kind in use in other Dead Sea documentary texts of the era.

2.9 As for the line’s third letter, Yardeni’s reading of ‫ וכול‬is certainly correct ֯ . What Cross/Eshel read as mem is rather than Cross/Eshel’s -‫וכמל‬

unparalleled as a mem structure anywhere in KhQ1 or KhQ2. The space between the yod and lamed which Cross describes as “unusually broad ... resembles a word space” is no different than the spacing between the yod and resh of ‫ ירחו‬of line 2, or the kaph and second waw of ‫ וכול‬of line 8. All of these letter spacings are within the range of routine writing in KhQ1. 29

2.10 On reading the N-shaped letter of line 8, #9, a routine aleph, as ḥet, Cross writes:

Cross/Eshel, “The Missing Link”, 52. Cross/Eshel: “‫ כמלותו‬is written [in line 8] for ‫ כמלאותו‬... The use of this form and of this construction suggests strongly that the writer of the document uses the Hebrew of the Qumrân community with its close biblical ties” (1997 [IEJ], 24 and n. 36). 29 As for the distinct issue of the absence of word-separation spacings in line 8 between ‫ וכול‬and ‫אילנ‬, and ‫ אילנ‬and the word which follows it, compare similar lack of word-separation spacings in line 4 between -‫ ;המקומ הל‬line 6 between ‫ ;ואת ׄחמו ֯הבית‬and line 10 between ‫לו את‬. There are word separations in KhQ1 in lines 1, 2, 3, 5, and 7 but not in line 4, most of line 6, and line 8. In KhQ2 word separations are clear in line 2 but are not in lines 3 and 4. Naveh comments on how common this variability is: “in the Copper Scroll which was written in the vulgar semi-formal style, as well as in the cursive documents from Murabba‘at, many spaces were omitted; but these are the results of neglect rather than scriptio continua” (J. Naveh, “Word Division in West Semitic Writing”, IEJ 23 [1993], 206–8 at 207). 27 28

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

71

The penultimate letter of the line is unlike the other ḥets on the ostracon. It is cursive while the others are more formal. There are, however, many parallels to this cursive ḥet in contemporary inscriptions. This example is easily confused with ’alep. The two can be distinguished, however, on the basis of the direction of the strokes. ’Alep is penned with the middle diagonal first, moving on to the left leg and then to the right arm. The ḥet here is drawn right leg first, then an oblique stroke ascending from the bottom to the top of the left downstroke. Despite the difference in the way the letters are made, they often resemble each other, especially when the lower parts of the legs are broken off the ostracon. 30

It is not clear how Cross can know line 8, #9 was penned with the right leg drawn first as opposed to last in alephs. Compare the alephs at line 3, #2; line 6, #2; and line 7, #4. The present letter at line 8, #9 is indistinguishable from those alephs in structure; that is because line 8, #9 is another aleph. The same words of Cross could be applied equally well to e.g. line 6, #2, to argue that that aleph is a ḥet, except in that case context confirms that letter is aleph (as Cross/Eshel correctly read). The line 8, #9 letter is in agreement with the N-shape of all nine other cases of aleph in KhQ1 and both of two cases of aleph in KhQ2. 31 On the other hand, as Cross/Eshel note, there is no case of an N-shaped ḥet elsewhere in either of the ostraca. 32 Cross/Eshel cite examples of N-shaped ḥets in other texts but the way ḥet is written in KhQ1/KhQ2 is known and it is not N-shaped. 33 To read a letter in the routine shape of an aleph, which is always N-shaped in these ostraca, as another letter, ḥet, which never is, is unwarranted.

2.11 For the preceding letter #8, Cross draws a massive tent-shaped blot of ink and defends reading a yod. The yod (third letter from the left) resembles an inverted ‘V’. If the right leg were not broken off at the base, it would be longer than the left leg. The legs are blotted together at the top but begin to diverge at the bottom just before the ostracon breaks off. Yardeni does not see the upper left side of the letter, but draws a medial nun. In her photograph, the upper left portion of the letter is visible, but much dimmer than in our earlier pictures, and on the ostracon when we examined it. I suspect that the repeated wetting of the ostracon to aid in its photography has in fact

Cross, DJD 36, 506. Alephs in KhQ1: line 3, #2; line 4, #1; line 5, #1; line 6, #2; line 7, #2, #4; line 8, #5, #9; line 10, #3; line 11, #2. In KhQ2: line 1, #2 and line 4, #6. 32 Cross/Eshel: “the ḥet of lyḥd is ‘N’-shaped, a cursive form … not used elsewhere in this ostracon” (DJD 36, 499). 33 Hets in KhQ1: line 2, #4, #9; line 3, #10 (?); line 6, #4. In KhQ2: line 2, #2. 30 31

72

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES faded the ink here. The yod that we see is not greatly different from the yod in štym (line 1), and the yod in ḥny (line 2). 34

All published black-and-white photographs show at line 8, #8 a vertical stroke and a left foot at the bottom, a routine nun. This is visible in the photograph published by Cross/Eshel in IEJ and in DJD 36, as well as the photograph accompanying the article of Cross/Eshel in Biblical Archaeology Review in 1998. Cross/Eshel have never acknowledged the existence of the base horizontal foot in either their drawings or discussions, which is puzzling since it is clearly visible. If the ink were as Cross has drawn and described, no other yod on the ostracon is remotely comparable in looking that huge. Cross’s drawing in DJD 36 shows the downward left stroke of the alleged yod running practically down to the line’s base level, curving out farther to the left and still going as the ostracon breaks off—but no actual yod in KhQ1 or KhQ2 does this. Contrary to Cross’s claim, the yods in lines 1 and 2 do not resemble the shape Cross draws at line 8, #8. In fact there is no inverted-V appearance of any yod on either ostracon, KhQ1 or KhQ2. 35 Also, as noted later there is no graphically discernible difference between waw and yod in this text (see below at section 4.4). In their 1997 hand drawing Cross/Eshel drew at line 8, #8 only the lined edge of an inverted-V or tent-like shape (transcribed as yod). In DJD 36 Cross has drawn the same inverted-V shape now filled in solidly with ink, rather than only the outline of the tent. Cross’s DJD 36 drawing now both includes and removes from perception the foot of the nun, since the solid, filled-in tent includes the foot.

2.12 Cross’s claim in support of the yod reading that more of the ink was visible in the photograph published by Cross/Eshel in 1997, and in the ostracon itself, prior to wetting of the ostracon for further photography, unintentionally provides an insight into what went wrong. Indeed there is a difference in the photographs but for a different reason than suggested by Cross. A comparison of a photograph of Henderson used by Cross/Eshel Cross, DJD 36, 507. Neither the drawing of Cross nor that of Yardeni accurately represents the shape of the yod of line 2, #2. Two blots not part of the letter but touching the letter on either side distort the letter’s appearance. These two blots are comparable to two others of the same kind above the upper left of the yod. The left one of the two marks which touch the yod was mistakenly seen and drawn by both Cross and Yardeni as part of the left stroke of the yod, giving an inverted-V appearance. In fact the actual letter is a routine yod like that of line 6, #9, or line 7, #6. An inverted-V in line 4 of KhQ2 read by Cross/Eshel as yod is an incorrect reading; that letter is an aleph (see discussion of KhQ2 below). 34 35

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

73

and a photograph of Zuckerman/Lundberg, positioned next to one another in the Yardeni Biblical Archaeology Review article, makes clear that Cross is commenting on slightly different contrast levels in the photographs having nothing to do with wetting or removal of ink. In the ostracon itself and the color photos the line 8, #8 letter is virtually invisible. The earliest known photograph of the ostracon—the Henderson black-and-white photo published by Cross/Eshel in 1997—shows the nun and its distinctive left foot. In the Henderson photograph published in the 1998 Cross/Eshel Biblical Archaeology Review article the nun is even clearer. Yet the Henderson photograph also shows a tent-like shading in this position which is not letter but which Cross/Eshel read as the letter. This shading at line 8, #8 should be compared to similar shadings in the same photograph surrounding the waw of line 9, #1, the letter at line 5, #7, and in the margin to the right of the start of line 5. The letters in the Cross/Eshel (Henderson) photo are darker and easier to read than in the Zuckerman/Lundberg photo due to enhancement, which has had the effect of making these non-letter shadings also appear darker in the Henderson photos. 36 Cross/Eshel misread a shading at line 8, #8 in their black-and-white photographs as if the shading was the letter, whereas the shading is an artifact of the enhancement process. In any case the strokes of the nun within this shading are clear and visible in all black-and-white photographs whether from Henderson or Zuckerman/Lundberg.

2.13 Furthermore, the Cross/Eshel reading of ‫וכמלותו‬ ֯ has a kaph prefixing

an infinitive construct instead of an expected bet prefix for “when”. Although it has not been remarked in previous discussions of the ostracon, such a use of kaph is nonexistent in Qumran texts or any other known text of the era, and therefore it would be highly odd for it to appear here. Cross/Eshel wrote in IEJ in 1997: “Qumrân Hebrew ... is a continuation of Biblical Hebrew ... and the biblical use of be and presumably ke plus an infinitive persists”. 37 But Cross/Eshel cited no example in a Qumran text for such a use of kaph. In DJD 36 the “presumably” qualifier is omitted and Cross/Eshel state more firmly and wrongly: “the biblical use of be- and keplus an infinitive persists”. 38 But still Cross/Eshel give no contemporary example of the structure with -‫( כ‬kaph) which they propose to read in KhQ1. In fact, according to Elisha Qimron’s study, The Hebrew of the

36 Compare Henderson on digital enhancement at “A New Image Enhancement Procedure”, 5, 9–10. 37 Cross/Eshel, 1997 (IEJ), 24 n. 36. 38 Cross/Eshel, DJD 36, 503 n. 34.

74

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Dead Sea Scrolls, “forms with kaf (‫ וכקטלו‬etc.—temporal) do not occur”. 39 The expected preposition for this structure and the one used in the 1QS parallels cited by Cross/Eshel is the ubiquitous bet preposition (-‫)ב‬, not kaph.

2.14 Apart from the kaph/bet issue, the Cross/Eshel line 8 reading also is not grammatical. ֗‫ וכ ֯מלותו לי֗ ֗חד‬has the literal sense: “when he ful-

fills/completes (to) (the) community”, with no direct object. Cross/Eshel ֯ “either as a Qal infinitive construct or, more likely, as the Pi‘el read ‫וכמלותו‬ infinitive construct of the root ‫ מלא‬with the preposition k- used in a temporal sense”. 40 In either case ‫ מלות‬should have a direct object, but it does not in Cross/Eshel’s reading. The late Shelomo Morag, the noted semitist, in public oral comment at the 1997 Jerusalem conference following Golb’s lecture stated that the syntax of the Cross/Eshel reading, “and when he completes yaḥad”, is not possible in any known form of Hebrew.

2.15 Only in the last letter of line 8 is there reason for contesting Yardeni’s line 8 reading, at the one point where Yardeni characterized her reading of ֗ , “perhaps” ‫אחר‬, line 8 as uncertain. Yardeni read the final word as ]‫אח‬ with a question mark (]‫אח‬ ֗ ‫וכולאילנ‬, “and every oth[er(?)] tree”). 41 The view here is that the last letter of line 8, where only the top of the letter is visible, was read correctly by Cross/Eshel as dalet. Cross comments: A key letter is the dalet at the end of line 8. Compare the example in line 12. Yardeni suggests a ḥet. However, I believe that enough remains of the left side of the letter to preclude either ḥet or he … The final letter of the line is dalet. 42

Although this letter is a very close call palaeographically, Cross appears here to be correct. If the letter is dalet, there would not be a vertical line below the visible roof at the left, whereas with a ḥet there would be. In the color photos, whereas a stroke goes above the roof in agreement with dalet, kaph, and ḥet, there appears to be no stroke continuing below the roof. If this visual analysis is correct the letter can be only dalet or kaph—ḥet is excluded. In addition, as discussed later, most ḥets in KhQ1 do not have left and right verticals above the crossbar at all, and in no case in KhQ1 as prominently as the present letter, although a ḥet of KhQ2 (line 2) does and 39

E. Qimron, Hebrew of the Dead Sea Scrolls (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1986), 72 n.

12. Cross/Eshel, DJD 36, 503. For Yardeni’s “perhaps” suggestion, see note 18. 42Cross, DJD 36, 506. 40 41

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

75

the ḥet of KhQ1, line 2, #4 comes close. Therefore this second point is not decisive, but the first point does appear to be. This has no effect on the first two words of Yardeni’s line 8 reading (‫ )וכול אילנ‬however; those two words are correct whether or not the third word is identified correctly, incorrectly, or not at all. Enough of the third word is identified, however, that the indicated reading of line 8 can be suggested: ‫וכול אילנ א ׄד]מה‬, “and all trees of the ea[rth”, on analogy with 4Q418 Instructiond 107.5,‫כול צמחי אדמה‬, “all sprouting plants of the earth”. 43

2.16 To conclude, the Cross/Eshel reading of line 8 is palaeographically incorrect, syntactically odd, and not an expression which occurs in any known text. Yardeni’s reading, on the other hand, continues from line 7 about trees with a reading in line 8 about trees using expected wording familiar from other Dead Sea documentary texts. It is palaeographically correct (for all but the final letter of the line) and grammatically routine. It must be emphasized that there is no reason from context calling for the unusual reading of Cross/Eshel. Although the public may be under the impression that the reading is disputed, the fact is not a single other scholar experienced with editing Qumran texts has defended the Cross/Eshel line 8 reading after the publication of Yardeni’s correction in 1997. 44 The confusion is caused entirely by the continued advocacy by Cross and Eshel of their mistaken reading and their publication of it in DJD 36 where it is now immortalized for all time, three years after the correction was published. After this necessary opening focus on line 8, attention will now turn to the other lines.

3. LINES 1–3 3.1 The name of the giver: Ḥoni. The proper name following ‫ נתנ‬in line 2 is read by Cross/Eshel and Cryer certainly as ‫ חני‬and Yardeni uncertainly as ׄ‫ ׄחנׄ י‬. The final two letters as nun and yod/waw are clear. The blurred first letter in the available photographs seems too unclear for certainty, but

The Sheffield DCH defines ‫ אילן‬as “n. [m.] tree—used collectively”. This statement is supported not only by the lack of a known published statement from an editor of a Dead Sea text endorsing the Cross/Eshel line 8 reading, but also anecdotally. Compare the comment of Cryer in 1997: “an unofficial canvass performed by myself of a fair number of [Dead Sea scroll] scholars who attended the 50th anniversary celebration and stock-taking in Jerusalem in July 20– 25, 1997, failed to discover any [Cryer’s emphasis] who would have read line 8 as did Cross and Eshel” (1997 [SJOT], 239). I know of no information in the years since then that would argue against the accuracy of a comparable statement said today. 43 44

76

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Cross/Eshel’s ḥet yielding the known name must be correct. 45 Although previously unrecognized, the same proper name may appear also in KhQ2, with plene spelling: ‫ חו]ני‬in line 2.

3.2 The recipient: Eleazar. There is no dispute over the name of the recipient; ‫לאלעזר‬, “to Eleazar”, is a clear reading beginning line 3. The second word

of line 3, introducing the patronymic of the recipient, is read correctly in all editions as ‫בן‬, with bet and final-form nun joined with a ligature, not ‫בת‬ which would indicate a woman recipient—despite a palaeographic similarity in the way ‫ בן‬and ‫ בת‬are written and an expectation from other known Jewish deeds of gift that the recipient might be a woman. 46

The first letter is not likely to be a blurred aleph giving ‫אני‬, ֯ “I”, because that would disagree with the third-person form of ‫נתנ‬. Nor is it likely to be a blurred he, since ‫ הני‬is not known as a proper name, but a proper name is expected following ‫נתנ‬. To Cross/Eshel’s note that both plene and non-plene spellings of the names ‫חני‬/‫ חוני‬occur in Mur 30 as read by Milik can be added ‫ חני‬read by Puech in the Tomb of Jason inscriptions (E. Puech, “Inscriptions funéraires Palestiniennes: Tombeau de Jason et ossuaries”, RB 90 [1983], 481–533 at 488). 46 Cross/Eshel note that in all other known cases of Jewish deeds of gift the recipients are women. Cross/Eshel: “Three other deeds of gift from the Roman period have been found in the Judaean Desert … Jewish deeds from antiquity were written only to female members of a family (wives or daughters) who needed such deeds in order to receive family property. They were not counted legal heirs. The ostracon from Qumran is the first Jewish deed of gift found in Israel in which the recipient is a man” (DJD 36, 503–4). The visible ink at KhQ1, line 3, #7–8 has a bet followed by a vertical stroke and another stroke curving or bending down from the top of the vertical to the base of the preceding bet. In light of the recipients of deeds of gift usually being women, it must be asked whether the reading is actually ‫בת‬, not ‫ בן‬with a ligature, and the recipient of KhQ1 also a woman. Palaeographically, this question might be reinforced by the observation that other nuns in word-final position in KhQ1 and KhQ2 are persistently medial, not final, forms (compare ‫ נתנ‬and ‫ אילנ‬in lines 2 and 8 of KhQ1, and ‫ בנ‬in line 3 of KhQ2), and in no other instance in KhQ1/KhQ2 is there a ligature. Palaeographically, taw in these ostraca is written with a vertical stroke and then a slanted stroke which starts at or near the top of the vertical stroke, going out very slightly horizontally to the right and then angling downward. But sometimes, as in KhQ1, line 6, #3, the angle downward looks like it starts immediately. Note that the preceding masculine proper name in line 3,‫לאלעזר‬, “to/of Eleazar”, is not proof against reading the next word as ‫בת‬, since the antecedent of ‫ בת‬could be in the lacuna at the end of line 2. Compare the following word orders from other Dead Sea texts: Deed of sale of land: Mur 30 i 6 and ii 25–26 (Heb., as read by Milik in P. Benoit, J. J. Milik, and R. de Vaux [eds], Les Grottes de Muraba‘at [DJD II; Oxford: 45

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

77

Clarendon Press, 1961], 145): ‫ואני שלום אשת דוסתס בת חני בר יהונתן‬ “and I, Salome, wife of Dositheus, daughter of Ḥoni son of Yehonathan…”

‫ואני שלום אשתו של דוסתס זה בת חוני בר יהונתן‬ “and I, Salome, his wife which is to this Dositheus, daughter of Ḥoni son of Yehonathan…” Deed of gift: Papyrus Yadin 7, line 3 (Aram., from Y. Yadin, J. C. Greenfield, and A. Yardeni, “A Deed of Gift in Aramaic Found in Naḥal Ḥever: Papyrus Yadin 7”, Eretz-Israel 25 (1996), 383–403 [Heb.]): ‫מרים אנתתי ברת יוסף בר מנשה‬ “Give and confirm, of my own free will … a gift in perpetuity … I, Simon the son of Menahem, who lives in Maḥoza, to you, Miriam wife of me, daughter of Joseph son of Manasseh, all that I possess … I give to you….” Deed of sale of land: XН̣ev/Se 8a, line 12 (Aram., as read by Yardeni in H. M. Cotton and A. Yardeni, Aramaic, Hebrew and Greek Documentary Texts from Naḥal Ḥever and Other Sites [DJD 27; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997], 34–37): ‫ואנה ש ֗לם ברת שמעון אנ]תת [חדד דנה‬ “I, Salome, daughter of Simeon, wi[fe of] this Hadad…” By analogy, lines 2–3 might be proposed to run something like this: [‫< אשה‬PN>‫< ל‬PN>‫בירחו נתנ חני ב]נ‬

]... ‫לאלעזר בת נ‬

“in Jericho, Н̣oni the s[on of ] gave [to , wife] to Eleazar, daughter of [______ ______ ______]” However a reading of ‫ בת‬in line 3 must be excluded for the following reasons. First, the downstroke of the second letter is lengthy, longer than expected for a left vertical of a taw but in agreement with a final nun. Second, there is a lack of a “hump” or “angle” in the slanting stroke which otherwise characterizes the start of the right stroke of taw, whereas this line’s stroke and angle is consistent with being a ligature. Third, the sloping line touches the preceding bet in agreement with its being a ligature, whereas usually letters in these ostraca do not touch. Fourth, ‫ לאלעזר‬preceding ‫ בת‬would mean the giver to the woman would be a man other than her father or husband, but who else would it be? Other deeds of gift are from men to wives or daughters. Fifth, it is questionable that reconstructions such as -‫ or ‫ at the end of line 2 are natural as ways by which the sense “wife” would be expressed. And sixth, a sporadic appearance of ‫בן‬

78

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

3.3 The proper name at the end of line 3, the name of the father of Eleazar, is difficult to decipher except for the first letter which is without dispute ֯ , “Naḥamanî”, must be nun. However the Cross/Eshel reading ]‫נחמני‬ ֯ , “Naḥšony”. (Yardeni suggests wrong; so also is the reading of Cryer, ‫נחשני‬ no readings of letters after the nun.) The nun-yod combination read by Cross/Eshel and Cryer at the end of the line cannot be correct because a yod would not be that close to a nun, directly above its foot. The final letter seems readable only as a mem or kaph. Was the name of Eleazar’s father e.g. ‫ נחוש‬on analogy with ‫ נָ ָחשׁ‬at 2 Sam. 10.2? Or some variant of ‫נקסן‬, “Naqson” (or “Nixon”), read by Milik at Mur 19 iii 26? Was it “Naḥum” ׄ , “Naḥum from [--”? Unfortunately this puzspelled defectively, i.e. ]‫נח ֯מ ׄמ‬ zle must be left unresolved.

4.

THE IDENTITY OF THE GIFT IN LINE 4: WHAT IS BEING CONVEYED

4.1 He and ḥet. Cross/Eshel wrongly read the #3 letter of line 4 as a ḥet, although the letter is in the shape of a routine he. 47 Cross/Eshel claim that “the reading of he and ḥet is a problem throughout KhQ1. It is clear that these letters are confused or interchanged.” 48 Cross/Eshel claim comparative parallels: “This is not a phenomenon peculiar to this scribe. Late Herodian scripts frequently confuse these two letters [he and ḥet]. This is true of many ossuary scripts, the Uzziah Plaque, and the so-called Copper Scroll, all from this period.” 49 In some of the cases cited the letters look similar and difficult to distinguish. In the Copper Scroll, confusions of he and ḥet seem to involve both errors in copying and similarity in appearance. 50 (That is, the Copper Scroll seems to have been copied from an exwith a ligature is plausible based on comparative parallels from Dead Sea documentary texts, e.g. Yardeni in The Book of Hebrew Script: History, Palaeography, Script Styles, Calligraphy & Design (Jerusalem: Carta, 1997), 188, notes that common or short words such as ‫ בר‬and ‫ מן‬are frequently ligatured in cursive; these are seen in passing in the documentary texts of DJD 27. Therefore the published readings of ‫בן‬of line 3 are correct; KhQ1 indeed refers to a conveyance of property from a man to a man. 47 Compare the other he’s in KhQ1 at line 4, #8; line 5, #5; line 6, #7 (?); line 7, #8; line 10, #5; line 12, last letter. In KhQ2 there may be a left end of a crossbar of a he at the start of line 2. For ḥet compare in KhQ1 at line 2, #4 and #9; line 3, #10 (?); line 6, #4; line 14, #1 (?); line 15:1; and in KhQ2, line 2, #2. 48 Cross/Eshel, DJD 36, 497. 49 Cross/Eshel, DJD 36, 497–98. 50 As summarized by Lefkovits the following groups of letters are confused in the Copper Scroll. First group: ‫ה‬, ‫ח‬, and ‫ ;ת‬second group: ‫ו‬, ‫ז‬, ‫י‬, and ‫ ;ן‬third group:

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

79

emplar—i.e. it is not an autograph—with letters read and punched into the metal and some errors from misreadings.) But in KhQ1 he and ḥet are distinguishable in form. In he of KhQ1/KhQ2 the crossbar by intention extends left beyond the left vertical and the right downstroke starts from above the crossbar. In ḥet the crossbar does not extend intentionally to the left beyond the left vertical. The crossbar of ḥet can be either at the top of both verticals (KhQ1 line 6, #4; line 14, #1; line 15, #1 [and if it is a ḥet, line 3, #10]), or the crossbar can be a little lower giving the appearance of two “ears” (KhQ1 line 2, #4; compare KhQ2 line 2, #2). 51 The difference is that in ḥet the verticals are symmetrical whereas in he the verticals are asymmetical; in he the left vertical is never above the crossbar, whereas the right one always is. Line 4, #3 is an unambiguous he, which is not surprising for the start of a word following ‫את‬.

4.2 Line 4 identifies what it is that Honi gives Eleazar, which is pivotal in interpreting the text. Cross/Eshel incorrectly read ]‫את חסדי מחו֯ לנ‬,

“Ḥisday from Ḥolôn[”, identifying the property given as a slave named “Ḥisday” (identified by Cross/Eshel as a slave based on another mistaken

‫מ‬, ‫כ‬, and ‫ ;ב‬fourth group: ‫ד‬, ‫ר‬, and ‫( ך‬J. K. Lefkovits, The Copper Scroll. 3Q15: A Reevaluation. A New Reading, Translation, and Commentary (Leiden: Brill), 16. Confusions between “open” and “closed” hes and ḥets in the Copper Scroll are also discussed in A. Wolters, “Palaeography and Literary Structure as Guides to Reading the Copper Scroll”, in G. J. Brooke and P. R. Davies (eds), Copper Scroll Studies (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002), 311–333 at 316–17. 51 There is a difference with Yardeni here in description. Yardeni also comments (correctly) that “contrary to the editors’ observation, the scribe clearly distinguished between ḥet … and he” (Yardeni 1997 [IEJ], 235). According to Yardeni the difference is that in ḥet “the left downstroke starts above the ‘roof’”, whereas in he “the left downstroke begins at the ‘roof’”. But there are at least three counterexamples, and perhaps four, in KhQ1 in which both left and right downstrokes of ḥet do not start above the roof. These are at 6.4, 14.1, and 15.1, plus 3.10 if that letter is a ḥet. (Of these, Yardeni considers only 6.4 a possible ḥet. Yardeni’s reading of 10.5 as ḥet would be another example if her reading were correct, but that letter is a he. Concerning the other letters see discussion elsewhere in this study.) Only at 2.4 is there a clear case of ḥet in KhQ1 in which the downstrokes do start from above the crossbar. Even there, in the color photo in Roitman 1997 the appearance of the top of the letter is more like cat’s ears than a goalpost or a capital “H”. Yardeni’s uncertain reading of the letter at line 8, #10, which has very prominent verticals above its crossbar or roof, as ḥet is argued in the present study to be dalet in agreement with Cross/Eshel. In KhQ2 there is one ḥet (incorrectly read as he by Cross/Eshel) at line 2, #2, which does have prominent verticals above the roof just as Yardeni describes for the ḥet of KhQ1. As discussed later this is one of several minor differences between KhQ1 and KhQ2.

80

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

reading in line 14). 52 Cross/Eshel read the #5 letter wrongly as dalet; that letter is clearly qof, as read certainly by Cryer and uncertainly by Yardeni. 53 Compare the qof of KhQ2, line 1, like the present letter, and the dalets of KhQ1, line 11, #4; line 12, #4; and line 8, #10 which are unlike the present letter. Yardeni did see a difference in form between qofs in the two ostraca (“the third letter [of Yardeni’s ‫ הס ׄקים‬of KhQ1] being a semi-cursive qof” whereas “a more formal variant of qof appears on ostracon No. 2, Line 1”). 54 In any case the letter of KhQ1, line 4, #5 is qof. The Cross/Eshel reading of the proper name ‫חסדי‬, “Ḥisday”, does not exist in the text, either here or in line 14.

4.3 The #4 letter of line 4 is either samekh (Cross/Eshel, Yardeni) or mem (Cryer). If samekh is correct the reading would be ‫את הסקימ‬, “the sacks”, ֗ ), a variant spelling for biblical Hebrew as Yardeni suggests (Yardeni: ‫הסקים‬ ‫ שׂקים‬in accord with sin/samekh variation in Dead Sea economic texts gen-

erally and attested directly for this word in Mishnaic Hebrew. 55 This word occurs in biblical Hebrew in contexts of bags of dry goods such as grain (Gen. 42.25, 27, 35). Cryer read the line 4 word, however, as ‫את המקום‬, “the place”.

52 Cross/Eshel: “The mention of a gift of a slave” (1997 [IEJ], 26); “the grant of the slave and estate of Ḥoni” (DJD 36, 502). 53 Cross responded to Yardeni’s reading of the line 4, #5 letter as a “semicursive qof” by arguing against reading the letter as “extreme cursive [with] head little more than a tick”. But that was not Yardeni’s claim. According to Yardeni the letter is “a semi-cursive qof with a small triangular upper part” in a text that Yardeni characterizes as “semi-cursive” and which Cross/Eshel characterize as “penned in a vulgar, semi-formal style, with an occasional cursive lapse” (DJD 36, 497). According to Cross, Vulgar semiformal hands “fluctuat[e] between formal and semicursive traditions” (F. M. Cross, “Excursus on the Palaeographical Dating of the Copper Document”, in M. Baillet, J. T. Milik, and R. de Vaux, Les ‘Petities Grottes’ de Qumrân [DJD 3; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1962], 217–221 at 217). Cross did not respond to Yardeni’s actual claim. (Cross’s full comment: “In the case of dalet versus qop [KhQ1, line 4] neither [Yardeni’s] drawing nor ours is entirely accurate. She shrinks the left side of the head of the letter; our drawing distorts the right side of the head. KhQ2 1 exhibits this scribe’s qop with its relatively large and distinct head. To be sure, there are extreme cursive forms in which the head is little more than a tick, but the ostraca are not in the extreme cursive tradition. As we have noted, they are inscribed in a vulgar semi-formal script” [DJD 36, 505].) 54 Yardeni 1997 (IEJ), 236. 55 On sin/samekh interchange in Dead Sea economic texts generally see DJD 27, 12–13. On ‫ שׂקים‬/‫ סקים‬specifically, M. Jastrow, A Dictionary of the Targumim, the Talmud Babli and Yerushalmi, and the Midrashic Literature (New York: Jastrow Publishers, 1967), 1019.

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

81

4.4 It is no argument in favor of Yardeni’s ‫( הסקים‬and is not claimed by Yardeni) that the fourth letter of the word (line 4, #6) seems short, more like yods in many Qumran texts compared to waws which tend to be longer. Yardeni herself notes correctly that “waw and yod are identical in structure” in KhQ1. 56 Analysis bears this out. On the basis of context (known words or syntactic expectations) seven yods can be identified in KhQ1 (1.7; 2.2; 2.11; 6.9; 7.6; 8.6; 12.3). Meanwhile, in the same way eight waws can be identified in KhQ1 (2.5; 4.6; 6.1; 7.1; 8.1; 8.3; 11.1; 12.1). (Uncertain waw/yods in KhQ1 remain at 5.4; 5.9; 6.6; 6.11; 9.1; 10.2; 12.4.) No systematic features or traits can be described that are specific to the confirmed yod cluster and not found in the confirmed waw cluster, and vice versa. For example, the waw of ‫ בירחו‬of line 2 and the second waw of ‫ וכול‬of line 8 are short in length like the present line 4, #6. In the present study every waw and yod reading in KhQ1 and KhQ2 is considered in principle palaeographically ambiguous between waw and yod, without marking this particular uncertainty in transcription. 4.5 For mem or samekh at line 4, #4, since there are no known cases of samekh in KhQ1 or KhQ2 for comparison this is difficult to evaluate. (Yardeni does not give reasons for reading samekh rather than mem.) But if palaeographic criteria are ambiguous, Cryer’s ‫ המקום‬is the expectation. ‫ המקום‬is repeatedly attested in Dead Sea economic texts as a general term for land in deeds of sale. 57 In the Aramaic deeds of sale published in DJD 27, which are closely related to deeds of gift in being conveyances of property, a standard word used is ‫אתרה‬, “place”, the equivalent of Hebrew ‫המקום‬. 58 These deeds of sale typically refer to houses and types of trees and fruit borne by the land, corresponding to identical elements recognizeable in KhQ1. “Sacks” is unattested in any known Dead Sea economic text, whereas ‫ המקום‬is routine and expected at exactly this point in KhQ1. The property being conveyed is neither a slave (Cross/Eshel) nor sacks (Yardeni),

Yardeni 1997 (IEJ), 234. E.g. readings of Milik in DJD 2: Mur 22.2 (Deed of Sale, heb.), ‫את ׄמקו ֯ם ֯של‬ ‫ ֯חז֯ ׄק ֯א‬, “Ce terrain-ci qui appartient à Ḥizqa”; Mur 22.11, ‫ ׄת]חומי המ[ ׄקוׄ ׄם‬, “the b[oundaries of the pl]ace”. ‫ המקום‬appears also at Mur 44.4–5 in a letter of Bar Kochba and in fragmentary contexts at Mur 49 1.1 and Mur 58 4.1. 58 For example XН̣evSe 9.2–5 as read by Yardeni in DJD 27: ‫את ׄרה דך‬ ׄ ... ‫ ]ת[ ׄחומי אתרה דך‬... ‫אנה מרעותי יומה דנה זבנׄ ]ת[ לך ׄלאתרה דלי‬ ‫בתחוׄ ]מה‬ ׄ , “I, of my own will, on this day have sol[d] to you the place of mine … [The bou]ndaries of that place … That place—within its bounda[ries …”, etc. Also see notes 100 and 101 below. 56 57

82

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

but rather land, a place (correctly, Cryer). The central line 4 word is ‫המקום‬. 59 This in turn resolves the palaeographic ambiguities: the second letter of the word is mem (not samekh) and the fourth letter of the word is waw (not yod). Ironically, both Cross and Yardeni agree that an estate of land is the thing being given in this text, despite their readings of words other than the natural word for an estate of land at the point where the thing given is named directly. Cross: “‘Sacks’ or ‘sackcloths’ as Yardeni translates here is most awkward in parallel with the following house boundaries and orchards. An estate is being deeded; one does not initiate such a deed with ‘sackcloths’ or ‘sacks’.” 60

Yardeni: “This is simply a deed of gift of an estate and all the trees on it … Despite our differences, we agree that one Ḥoni (ḤNY) ‘gave’ some property with fig trees and another kind of tree … to ’El‘azar.” 61

4.6 The next letter (#8) following ‫ המקומ‬is a he as read by Cryer and

Yardeni. Cross/Eshel wrongly read #8 as ḥet, then interpret the mistaken ḥet as belonging to a place name, ]‫מחוׄ לנ‬, “from Ḥolôn”. But the letter’s crossbar extends left beyond the left vertical, and only the right vertical (not the left vertical) is above the crossbar. The next letter (#9), lamed, is unproblematic. Cross/Eshel transcribe an uncertain waw between the he and lamed; Cryer and Yardeni no letter. From study of the ostracon in Jerusalem and the color photos no letter seems to be in this position nor is the space between the he and the lamed greater than expected between lamed and a next letter. The correct reading therefore is -‫הל‬. At the end of the line at the edge (#10) there is a vertical stroke with uninscribed space to the left, except close to or at the bottom a beginning of a left extension or foot may be discernible. The lack of a distinct flag at the top of the stroke seems to eliminate yod/waw. This final #10 letter could be nun, zayin, aleph, or tet.

4.7 A comment on medial/final mem is prompted by the reading ‫המקומ‬. According to Cross/Eshel, “unlike in the Copper Document, medial and final mem are distinguished [in KhQ1]”. 62 Cryer judged the opposite: “all the Mems on the ostracon have the same shape, with no distinction between See below on medial and final mem. Cross, DJD 36, 506. 61 Yardeni, “Breaking the Missing Link”, 44–46. 62 Cross/Eshel, DJD 36, 498. 59 60

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

83

initial and final Mem”. 63 Yardeni did not comment on this issue but transcribed final mem readings and medial mem possibilities conventionally in transcription. (There are no certain medial mem readings in Yardeni’s transcription of KhQ1.) The analysis here is that there is no distinction between medial and final mem in KhQ1. There are minor differences in the writing of other letters such as aleph, he, ḥet, lamed, shin, taw, and waw/yod. 64 A basic structure is the same for these letters with variations in writing the basic structure. Similarly a single basic form is used for all mems in KhQ1, normally open (line 1, #8; 65 line 4, #7; line 6, #5; line 7, #7), but twice closed (line 4, #4; line 5, #5). In each case a three-sided box is drawn and then a left vertical starts from above and cuts downward through the top horizontal. The two cases in which the left vertical closes the gap with the lower horizontal (4.4 and 5.5) appear to be non-significant. This is the same structure of the single exemplar of mem of the Qumran Practice Alphabet (KhQ3), found by de Vaux outside the buildings’ walls. 66 Compare Cross’s description of the semicursive hand of 4QXIIa: it “preserves a medial form of mem which resembles superficially final mem … The medial form is usually open at the bottom left. The left downstroke always cuts sharply through the crossbar.” 67 Similarly in analysis of a cursive final mem on an ostracon from c. early 1st century CE, Yardeni reconstructs it as “an independent development from a semiformal middle mem” which Yardeni Cryer 1997 (SJOT), 234 n 9. Aleph: different meeting points of the strokes (4.1; 7.2; 7.4). He: extra horizontal stroke (7.8 compared to 4.3). ḥet: difference in height of the crossbar (2.4; 2.9; 6.4; 15.1). Lamed: rounded hook (5.8) versus angled hook (3.3; 8.4). Shin: halfcircle corrected to curved base stroke (1.5 compared to 1.2). Taw: shape of sloping vertical to the right (1.4; 2.7; 4.2; 6.3; 6.10; 10.4; 11.3) and in one case addition of a partial slanting foot to the left (7.3). Waw/yods: differences in heights and sizes of heads. Some letter differences could be explicable as corrections in which the writer changed one letter into another rather than actual differences in automatic writing of letters. 65 This particular letter, line 1, #8, which must be mem because the identification of ‫ שתימ‬in the date formula is certain, seems to be missing part of the left downstroke in the black-and-white DJD 36 photo. However in the color photo in Roitman, A Day at Qumran, the left downstroke goes below the horizontal; at the bottom of the right downstroke a stroke to the left is visible; and the letter is readable as a routine mem structure. See the drawing of this letter of Yardeni 1997 (IEJ). 66 DJD 36, Fig. 3. 67 Cross, “The Development of the Jewish Scripts”, in G. E. Wright (ed.), The Bible and the Ancient Near East, Essays in honor of William Foxwell Albright (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1961), 133–202 at 186. The letters of 4QXIIa are at Fig. 4, line 1. 63 64

84

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

draws, and it (the reconstructed prior stage) looks like the KhQ1 mem. 68 Readings by Cross/Eshel of medial mems at KhQ1, line 5, #1; line 8, #3; and KhQ2, line 4, #4, are in each case mistaken. The removal of erroneous readings leaves the mem of KhQ1, line 4, #4 (the first mem of ‫ )המקומ‬as the only certain medial mem in KhQ1/KhQ2. The lack of distinction between medial and final mem in KhQ1/KhQ2 makes these ostraca like the Copper Scroll (and like the Qumran Practice Alphabet) on this point, not unlike it. In this study all mems of KhQ1 (there are none in KhQ2) are transcribed by the single notation ‫מ‬, even though this semicursive mem of the ancient writer looks closer to the final-form mem in the formal hands.

4.8 In fact no medial/final distinction for any letter is attested in either KhQ1/KhQ2 or the Qumran Practice Alphabet (KhQ3), with the single exception of one final-form nun of ‫ בן‬at KhQ1, line 3, #8 (but that is a special case in having a ligature; compare ‫ בנ‬of KhQ2, line 3). 69 Cross/Eshel mistakenly transcribe straight final nuns in lines 2, 13, and 15 of KhQ1, and in lines 3 and 4 of KhQ2. The final nun of ‫ נתנ‬of KhQ1, line 2, has a foot to the left in the photographs, drawn and transcribed correctly by both Yardeni in 1997 and drawn correctly by Cross in DJD 36 (but transcribed incorrectly by Cross/Eshel in DJD 36 as ‫)נתן‬. Yardeni does not draw or transcribe final-form nuns in either line 13 or 15. What Cross/Eshel see as a final nun in line 15 may be the right vertical of a dalet. Neither of the final-form nuns drawn and transcribed by Cross/Eshel in KhQ2 exist (see discussion of KhQ2 below).

5. LINE 5: “ALL OF” SOMETHING 5.1 The first letter of line 5 can be neither mem read certainly by Cross/Eshel and considered possible by Yardeni, nor ḥet read by Cryer. Yardeni’s other possibility, taw, could be possible palaeographically but the correct reading seems to be rather aleph. The letter agrees with the aleph of line 6, #2 except for the right vertical. It seems that the right vertical of the aleph at line 5, #1 was drawn separately from the short oblique stroke, with either the top of the right vertical defaced or the stroke written shorter than usual. But the structure is that of a three-stroke aleph, and only illusorily looks like a two-stroke taw. Line 5, #2 is wrongly read by Cross/Eshel as an Yardeni, “New Jewish Aramaic Ostraca”, IEJ 40 (1990), 130–52, at p. 150. The single examples of pe, tsade, and kaph in the Practice Alphabet are all written in medial forms. The letter in the Practice Alphabet’s nun position (between mem and samekh) has a vertical line with a prominent left horizontal oddly coming from the top, rather than the bottom, of the stroke; it is puzzling what that was intended to be. 68 69

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

85

uncertain he. The start of the left downstroke above the crossbar, whereas the right downstroke does not, excludes reading this letter as he. Yardeni reads line 5, #2 as either taw, mem, or unknown; Cryer as taw. Indeed the letter is taw; compare with line 4, #2. The taw is corroborated by the word that emerges: ‫את‬. Line 4 above starts with ‫את‬. Lines 6 and 7 below start with ‫ואת‬. It now becomes clear that line 5 too starts with the same word: ‫את‬.

5.2 The marks at #3 were read as yod by Cross/Eshel (certainly) and Yardeni (uncertainly) but the marks are too small to be a yod and do not have the head of a yod. The color photos make it clear that non-letter defacing has intruded at #3 (two dark specks close together are of a darker hue from an abrasion); however that does not account for all of the traces. In the Zuckerman/Lundberg color photo the ink at #3 could agree with the top of a taw (with the lower part of the letter missing). The letter at #4 is either a waw or a yod. The next letter (#5) is either mem (Cross/Eshel, Cryer, Yardeni) or samekh, followed by he (#6), read by all. The extent of the gap before the he of #6 suggests that this he starts a new word. If the #3 mark is not a letter, the reading would be -‫את} {ומ ה‬, that is, -‫אתומ ה‬, a short way of writing -‫את תומ ה‬, “the whole of the …”. In this case the taws ending ‫ את‬and starting ‫ תומ‬were written only once. Compare in line 6 the reading ‫ואתחמו‬ ׄ for ‫תחמו‬ ׄ ‫ ואת‬and in line 7 ‫ ואתאנימ‬for ‫ואת תאנימ‬. On the other hand, if the mark at line 5, #3 is a letter it would be a defaced taw giving the same outcome: -‫את ֯תומ ה‬. 5.3 For the marks at #7 a horizontal line could be from the writer striking out letters, or it could be unrelated to the letters like the extraneous horizontal line below and to the right of the start of line 4. A horizontal mark through the lamed to the left at #8 could be an extension of the same anomalous horizontal line. In any case the remains at #7 seem inconsistent with either Cross/Eshel’s zayin-he or Cryer’s gimel; they suggest rather the top of a mem (compare at line 4, #4, and line 3, #12). Following the lamed at #8 Cross/Eshel, Yardeni, and Cryer all read a waw or yod (#9). While this is possible, the lack of a normal-looking head on the letter and the possibility of defacing suggests caution concerning this reading. Finally, there are marks (#10) at the end of the line in the photographs which seem to defy rational solution. Cross/Eshel read an uncertain lamed, Cryer a lamed, and Yardeni undeciphered. The problem with the lamed reading is there is no clear lamed hook below the ascender(s). The marks are simply puzzling.

86

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

5.4 Cross/Eshel correctly note that a “from this day” expression is anticipated or expected in a deed of gift. 70 But their reading of this expression in line 5 is palaeographically incorrect. Comparative parallels from other Hebrew and Aramaic Dead Sea documents suggest such an expression would occur before the naming of what is given, in texts written in first-person voices speaking in the future tense. The corresponding position in KhQ1 would be not line 5 but rather the lacuna at the end of line 3. 71 However the voice of KhQ1 is not first-person, future but instead third-person, past tense, as in P. Yadin 19, a deed of gift in Greek. In that text the “from today” expression comes at the end of the full listing of the property and its boundaries and description. 72 In KhQ1 the corresponding position would be after line 8. In any case line 5, which follows the naming of the property in line 4, most likely has something to do with describing or further elaborating this property.

5.5 Might the line 5 reading be ‫לא ֯כ]תו‬ ֯ ‫המ‬ ֯ ‫ ׄאת) ֯ת(ומ‬, “all of [(its/his)] earning[s…”? 73 There would be a parallel with the same word and twofold distinction of wealth at 1QS 6.19, ‫גם את הונו ואת מלאכתו‬, “his property and his income will be given over to the Examiner in charge of the business ֯ ‫ ׄאת) ֯ת(ומ‬, “all of the of the Many”. Or might the reading be (‫המלו֯ ֯א])ו‬ fullness [of the …” or “all of [its] fullness”? But each of these conjectures are palaeographically problematic at letters #9–#10. In the end there is no claim here to identify the final visible word of line 5.

6. LINE 6: BOUNDARIES OF THE PROPERTY 6.1 In line 6 Cross/Eshel read ‫וא>ת< תחומי֯ הבית‬, “the boundaries of the

house”. Cryer and Yardeni each suggest other readings of the word before ‫בית‬, but here the reading of Cross/Eshel is in principle clearly correct. As

Cross/Eshel, DJD 36, 504. E.g. XḤev/Se 8 (ar and heb [Yardeni, DJD 27]), lines 1–2, “[I] sold to you today the house [that I own ] and the courtyard of…”; XḤev/Se 9 (ar [Yardeni, DJD 27]), line 2, “I, of my own will, on this day have sol[d] to you the place of mine that is called…”; XН̣ev/Se 64 (gr [Cotton, DJD 27]), lines 6–7, “I acknowledge that I have given you as a gift from this day and for ever my property in Maḥoza, which items are listed as follows…”, etc. 72 P. Yadin 19, lines 21–23, at N. Lewis, The Documents from the Bar-Kochba Period in the Cave of Letters: Greek Papyri (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1989), 83– 87. 73 Note also variant spellings cited by Cross/Eshel (DJD 36, 503 n. 33) of forms of ‫( מלא‬references here are updated): ‫ מולאת‬at 1QS 6.21 (twice) and 4Q256 7–8 xi 13; ‫ מלואת‬at 1QS 7.22, 24 and 4Q365 9a-b i 2; ‫ מולות‬at 4Q511 63 iii 2. 70 71

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

87

Cross/Eshel note, the word ‫תחום‬, “boundaries” (or “territory”), is basic to texts dealing with transfer of land and frequently is in close association with ‫בית‬. For example: 74 Mur 30, lines 16–18 (Heb. [Milik, DJD 2]) [ ]‫ המכר הזה ֯בתחומו ׄביׄ ת ו‬... ‫תחומ]י[ ֯המכר הז֯ ה‬ ֯ ‫◦ ֯ה ֯ת ׄאנׄ ים הזיתים העץ‬ “boundaries of this sale … this sale, in its boundaries: a house and [___,] figs, olives, trees …” XН̣ev/Se 8a, line 8 (Aram. [Yardeni, DJD 27])

‫תחמא בתה דך] דרומא‬ “The boundaries of that house (are):[ (To) the south …”

6.2 In the present line of KhQ1 (line 6) there are letters resembling ḥet at #4 and mem at #5 following a taw at #3. This is too coincidental not to anticipate a form of the expected ‫ תחום‬preceding ‫בית‬. As correctly read by all, the first three letters of line 6 are ‫ואת‬. The ‫ ת‬is interpreted here as serving “double duty” as the second letter of the particle ‫ את‬and at the same time as the first letter of the next word, on analogy with the start of line 7 where the same phenomenon is clearly the case. It is not necessary to suppose an omitted letter by haplography as Cross/Eshel suggest. The phenomenon can be understood phonologically: the ‫ את‬was considered by the ancient hearer/writer as prefixed to the following word, ‫תח)ו(מי‬, and as such, the taws ending ‫ את‬and starting ‫ תח)ו(מי‬were pronounced as a single sharpened consonant and written as a single taw. 75 The “doubled taw” phenomenon is seen in line 7 where the reading is ‫ ואתאנימ‬representing ‫ואת‬ ‫תאנימ‬, and perhaps in line 5 where ‫ אתומ‬may represent ‫את תומ‬. It is less likely that the same scribal mistake occurred two or three times in brief succession than that these two or three instances are a glimpse of a rule-based phonological phenomenon. 6.3 Line 6, #4 is ‫ח‬, ḥet, as read correctly by Cross/Eshel. Cryer read ‫ ת‬and Yardeni reads ‫ת‬/‫ ׄח‬. In a reading of #4 as taw a darkened area in the photo74 More: Mur 22 (heb [Milik, DJD 2]), line 2, ‫בתחו]מין‬, “in its boundaries”; line 11, ‫ ֗ת]חומי המ[ ׄקוׄ ׄם‬, “boundaries of the place”; XḤev/Se 50 (ar [Yardeni, DJD 27]), lines 8–9, ‫אתרא דך בתחומה ובמצרה תאניא‬, “this place: within its boundaries and in its borders are figs”, etc. 75 Compare Cross/Eshel’s comment: “Line 6 has been transcribed here as if one of the taws in the sequence ‫ וא>ת< תחומי‬had dropped out due to haplography. Actually, however, there are a number of instances in West Semitic epigraphy where a doubled letter is written only once; for example … wyšbh for wyšb bh, and mlkty for mlk kty” (DJD 36, 498).

88

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

graphs to the left of a striation is interpreted as the leftward extension of the taw. Yet there is no actual continuity of the ink, even faintly, between this mark and the ink of #4. This is clear in the color photos, unlike the aleph immediately below in line 7 where there is continuity of ink in the color photos. #4 has the structure of ḥet, with two verticals of equal height and a crossbar at the top. For the ḥet crossbar at the top compare KhQ1, line 2, #9; line 14, #1; and line 15, #1 (and, if it is a ḥet, line 3, #10). 76 The #5 letter is mem as read correctly by Cross/Eshel. 77 In other mems the top horizontal is not as sharply slanted as the present letter, although there are slants upward in the mems of line 4, #4 and line 5, #5. Possibly this mem (line 6, #5) was written over an originally-written waw which is now the right side of the mem. That might account for the “peaked” appearance at the top right of this mem. (That is, the writer may have written the first three letters of the word -‫ תחו‬spelled plene, then corrected by writing a mem over the waw giving the defective spelling, -‫תחמ‬.) Cross/Eshel read the darkened area between #4 and #5 as waw, but this is doubtful. If it is a waw it could be an ancient attempt to correct a defective ‫ תחמי‬to plene ‫תחומי‬. More likely, the darkened area is unrelated to the current text but is related to a similar-appearing defacing at #5 a little lower to the left. Compare the observation of Cross/Eshel that “there are several traces of ink [on KhQ1], some smeared, suggesting the sherd was reused after being scrubbed”. 78

6.4 Line 6, #6 is a waw or yod with defacing. The color photos show the defacing to be unrelated to the writing of the letter. The downstroke goes down to the base level, but as discussed earlier waw and yod in KhQ1 cannot be distinguished on palaeographic grounds. Yods whose downstrokes go down to base level can be compared in ‫ שתימ‬of line 1 and ‫ תאנימ‬of line 7. Letters #8–10 of the present line 6 are ‫בית‬, “house”, followed by a wordseparation space. Letter #7 preceding ‫ בית‬is a problem. Cross/Eshel read a certain he, Cryer a “scaled-down” he, and Yardeni an uncertain taw. If viewed in isolation #7 suggests either a taw, Yardeni’s reading, or ḥet. However he is expected. There is visible defacing of ink immediately preceding 76 At KhQ1, line 2, #4, and KhQ2, line 2, #2, the ḥet crossbar is below the tops of the verticals, but that seems to be part of the variation in writing the structure of ḥet. See discussion at note 51. 77 The line 6, #5 letter is not pe if the mark above its roof is ink, which it seems to be. An argument against this letter being kaph (another possibility to be considered) is there is no distinct right vertical going above the roof on the right, as in the kaph of line 8, #2. Therefore line 6, #5 seems to be mem since no other letter corresponds and since mem is expected. Compare the similar-appearing last letter of line 3 which may also be a mem. 78 Cross/Eshel, DJD 36, 502.

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

89

#7; did that defacing include a removal of the top of the right vertical of a he? Or is #7 indeed taw, with the word before ‫ בית‬having an otherwiseunknown ‫ות‬- feminine plural ending on the “boundaries” word, i.e. ‫תחמות‬ ‫בית‬, “boundaries of [the] house”? Qimron notes that some nouns which are only masculine in biblical Hebrew have feminine byforms in Qumran texts, and vice versa. 79 Against this, ‫ תחומ‬is not known to have such an ending elsewhere. Or is #7 a case of he of an exemplar miscopied as taw or ḥet? 80 #7 is considered here most likely to be he in agreement with Cross/Eshel, even though no right vertical above the crossbar is visible, presumably through defacing or a mistake (not because a different way of writing he was used). This is the sole case in the present study in which a letter is considered possible on the basis of context despite conflict with its apparent reading.

6.5 For #11 after ‫בית‬, Cross/Eshel read waw, Cryer waw, Yardeni waw or yod. This letter is likely waw on syntactic grounds (introducing a noun or a verb). Although unnoticed in previous editions, a trace of a #12 letter is visible at the edge in the DJD 36 photo and in the Zuckerman/Lundberg color photo. It is a vertical downstroke starting above the height of the top of the preceding waw/yod going down to slightly above the “base level” of the waw/yod. Possibly this letter is a nun or a shin. 6.6 The reading of line 6 is therefore either, with Cross/Eshel, ‫ואתחמי‬ ׄ ‫ ֯הבית‬, “and the boundaries of the house”, or else ‫ואתחמו ֯הבית‬ ׄ , “and its

boundary: the house …” The second alternative, with waw pronominal suffix, would introduce constituents of the place’s boundaries or territory,

Qimron, Hebrew of the Dead Sea Scrolls, 68–69. Cross/Eshel suggest KhQ1 could be a copy. “The text of KhQ1 is a draft or copy of a deed of gift” (Cross/Eshel, DJD 36, 503). Line 6, #7 is hardly ḥet giving ‫ת ׄפוח‬, “fruit”, e.g. ‫ת ׄפוח בית י ֯ה]וה‬, “fruit of the house of Yah[weh”. Based on Dead Sea documentary parallels the house likely belongs to the original owner, “Н̣oni”, as part of the property being given over to Eleazar. That is more likely than a theory of sacks of grain or fruit destined for or obtained from the temple in Jerusalem, etc. in a text which otherwise reads as a transfer of title of immovable property from one person to another. Also almost certainly to be excluded is reading #7 as aleph with part of the right arm defaced, giving ‫אבית‬, attested at Mur 42.4 and 1QpHab 11.6 as a contraction for ‫אל בית‬. In this case the sense would be “and its boundary (area) to the house of X”, with the “house of X” describing a limit of Н̣oni’s property (X would be some name other than Н̣oni). But phrases introduced by ‫אל‬ following ‫ תחום‬do not appear to be attested in Dead Sea texts; ‫ אבית‬naturally follows a verb, not a noun; and houses in Dead Sea deeds usually are part of the property being conveyed. 79 80

90

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

starting with the house. The waw suffix would refer back to ‫ המקומ‬of line 4 as its antecedent, i.e. its territory, its boundary. 81 The house would begin a list of items included in the place’s boundary or territory, rather than the house itself possessing the boundaries. But houses can have boundaries or territories, e.g. Elephantine Papyrus 25, line 8, ‫ביתא זי תחומוהי כתיבן‬, “This house, whose boundaries are described…” 82 The question is which reading of the word gives a more natural fit in KhQ1 in the apparently sequential ‫ ואת‬... ‫ ואת‬... ‫ את‬... ‫ את‬structure of lines 4–8. Structure #1 with yod suffix (‫( )ואת ׄחמי‬or with waw, ‫)ואת ׄחמות בית‬: (‫ )את‬the place … (‫ )את‬all of the … and (‫ )ואת‬the boundaries of the house and … and (‫ )ואת‬the fig trees, etc.

Structure #2 with waw suffix (‫)ואת ׄחמו‬: (‫ )את‬the place … (‫ )את‬all of the … and (‫ )ואת‬its boundaries: the house and … and (‫ )ואת‬the fig trees, etc.

The judgment here is that Structure #1 in agreement with Cross/Eshel gives a slightly more natural reading. The defective spelling of ‫ת ׄחמי‬, meanwhile, is routine. Compare ‫ תחמי אתריה‬at XḤev/Se 8, line 4 (one line after the same word spelled plene in line 3 of that same text, ‫;) ׄב ׄת ׄחוׄ ׄמה‬ and ‫ תחמא בתה‬at XḤev/Se 8a, line 8. In this last example (XḤev/Se 8a) there is a plene spelling of ‫ כול‬one line earlier in that text’s line 7, just as KhQ1 has both defectively-spelled ‫( ת ׄחמו‬line 6) and plene ‫( וכול‬line 8).

6.7 An implication of this analysis of line 6 is that it gives backward reinforcement to the correctness of reading ‫המקומ‬, “the place”, rather than ‫הסקימ‬, “sacks”, in line 4, as the nature of the property conveyed and des-

cribed in this text. The text is concerned with immovable property, i.e. a parcel of land.

Compare Mur 30, line 18, which Milik in DJD 2 read as ‫ ֯בתחומו ֗בי֗ ת‬, “in its boundaries: a house and …”; XН̣ev/Se 8, line 4, ‫תחמי אתריה‬, “boundaries of the place”; XḤev/Se 50, lines 8–9,‫אתרא דך בתחומה ובמצרה תאניא וכל די בה‬, “this place—within its boundaries and within its borders: fig-trees, and everything which is in it”, etc. 82 A. Cowley, Aramaic Papyri of the Fifth Century B.C. (reprint of 1923 edn; Osnabrück, Otto Zeller, 1967), 85–86. 81

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

91

7. LINE 7: OF FIGS AND PALM TREES 7.1 Cross/Eshel read ‫והתאנים הזיׄ ]תים‬, “and the figs, the ol[ives (?), ]”. The

first letter of line 7 is waw as read correctly by all. Cross/Eshel incorrectly read the second letter, a routine aleph, as an “N-shaped he” (and then cited this mistaken reading as supporting the plausibility of reading a routine aleph in line 8 as an “N-shaped Ḥet” 83). But alephs are always N-shaped in KhQ1 whereas he’s never are; #2 is an aleph. The third letter is taw as read correctly by all. The first three letters are therefore the familiar letter string ‫ואת‬ which starts line 6 above and line 11 below. However at the same time Cross/Eshel’s ‫תאנים‬, “figs” or “fig trees” is a good word in the context and must be correct. The phenomenon proposed by Cross/Eshel for line 6 in which two taws in a -‫ ואת ת‬sequence were written only once, explains the reading in line 7 as well. 84 That is, the writer seems to have heard or understood the taw sound of ‫ ואת‬as also beginning ‫תאנימ‬, such that a single taw was written instead of two.

7.2 Following the “fig trees” another type of tree or fruit is expected. At #8 a he is visible, read by all. 85 For #9 Cross/Eshel read zayin, Cryer waw, and Yardeni an uncertain dalet or yod. In fact #9 seems to be a taw; compare the taw at line 5, #2. Possibly the original right stroke of the line 7, #9 taw was overwritten by a stroke slightly to its left in order to put space between it and the preceding he, whose overwritten crossbar touched the right side of the originally-written taw. At the end of this line (line 7) there may be a trace of a #10 letter compatible with the right side of a taw or mem (compare the mems at line 7, #7 and line 6, #5), but not compatible with yod. The word ֯ , “palms”. A less likely alternative would therefore is readable as ‫התמ]רימ‬ be ‫הזת]ימ‬ ֯ , “olives”, spelled defectively. In this case #9 would be interpreted as a zayin written over a taw as a correction of a mistake by the same writer. In any case neither of Yardeni’s suggestions for #9, dalet or yod, seem possible. The wording “and fig trees, pal[ms,” of line 7 followed by ‫וכול אילנ‬ ‫אד]מה‬ ׄ , “and all trees of the ea[rth”, of line 8 parallels Naḥal Ḥever 2.6, ‫ותמ]ר[ין ושקמין ואילן‬, “and palms and sycamores and trees”, and Naḥal Ḥever 7.48, ‫וכות כל תמרין ואילן‬, “and, in like manner, all palms and (all) trees”. Cross/Eshel, DJD 36, 503 n. 36. See note 75. 85 There is a slight hint of a vertical waw-like stroke before the he in the DJD 36 black-and-white photograph, but in the Zuckerman/Lundberg photographs the waw-like stroke is less distinct than the preceding mem or other letters in the vicinity and is not likely to be ink. Also, it is unusually close to the he to be a naturallyspaced letter. 83 84

92

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

8. REMAINING LINES OF KHQ1: LINES 9–15 8.1 Line 9. #1 is a waw (compare above at line 8, #1). For #2 Cross/Eshel suggest ḥet whereas Yardeni reads nun. The color photo in Roitman 1997 and the Zuckerman/Lundberg photos show both upper and lower pieces of the KhQ1 joined together (unlike the DJD 36 photo which has the pieces slightly apart). In these photos with the pieces joined no lower part of a right vertical is visible on the lower piece of the ostracon. A trace of a left foot of a nun or left downstroke of a taw could be visible on the lower piece. A Henderson photograph suggests #2 is taw. 86 For #3, Cross/Eshel’s nun suggestion is excluded because no left foot is visible on the lower piece of the ostracon. Yardeni reads #3 as gimel. The color photo in Roitman 1997 shows a chip or dark spot on the edge of the ostracon crack, removing an apparent positive indication in the black-and-white photographs of a gimel. It is unclear what #3 could be (leading possibilities: zayin or gimel). Following these letters a cluster of marks in the DJD 36 black-and-white photo turn out in the color photo to be secondary damage marks from abrasions. (Notably, what looks like a left foot of a nun in the DJD 36 photo at #4 is illusory in the color photo.) After #4 there appears to be a word-separation space and then the ostracon breaks off. Marks at the left edge of the line in the lower piece in the DJD 36 photo also appear to be ֯ or secondary from abrasions in the color photo. The resulting reading ◦◦‫ות‬ ◦◦‫ ֯ונ‬starting line 9 could be either a noun or a waw-consecutive verb form.

8.2 Line 10. ‫ לו‬or ‫לי‬, “to him” or “to me”, is followed by a direct object marker ‫ את‬and then a word starting with he. This suggests some transitive verb preceded in line 9, very possibly the word ◦◦‫ ו ֯ת‬or ◦◦ ֯‫ ונ‬which starts line 9. Does this verb tell some additional action of the giver? Cross/Eshel and Yardeni each incorrectly read #5 as an uncertain ḥet. In the color photos there is an extraneous mark in the expected position of a he crossbar extension to the left (compare in both black-and-white and color photos an extraneous non-letter spot of identical hue and appearance just above it). A similar non-letter spot seems to be in the position where the top of a right vertical is expected if the letter is he. Nevertheless, against Cross/Eshel and Yardeni the letter seems to be he because ink from a left extension of the crossbar, distinct from the extraneous spots, seems visible in the color photo of Roitman 1997, and this seems confirmed in the Zuckerman/Lundberg images as well. The letter spacing associated with this letter may add an element of further weight in corroboration of he as opposed to ḥet. 86

Fig. 11 of Henderson, “A New Image Enhancement Procedure”.

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

93

8.3 Line 11. The readable letters ‫ ואת‬appear to introduce some second object of the verbal clause which began with the verb hypothesized in line 9. Traces of two illegible letters follow in most photographs, then either a word-separation space or totally defaced letter, and finally a last letter of the line which is probably tsade as Yardeni reads. In the black-and-white photo֯ , “and graphs there seems to be a faint suggestion of a reading, ]‫ואתה ֯א]ר[צ‬ the land […”. 87 The medial form of tsade in final position is consistent with uses of medial-form mem, nun, and pe in final position in KhQ1 and KhQ2. On another matter, Cross/Eshel write: “some of the ’aleps of KhQ1 are quite formal, with rudimentary keraiai. For example, see the ’alep in line 11.” 88 In the black-and-white photographs, the aleph of line 10, #3 appears to have a keraia at the bottom of its left foot, but the color photographs make clear that that is non-letter defacing; that line 10 aleph has simply a routine unembellished downstroke like any other. For the aleph of line 11, #2, what appears in the black-and-white photographs to be a keraia at the top of the right arm is also revealed in the color photographs to be illusory. Only an apparent kereia at the bottom of the left leg of the aleph of line 11, #2 remains not falsified by the color photographs. While this last item could not be confirmed to be illusory, the fact that no other arm or leg of an aleph in either KhQ1 or KhQ2 has a keraia suggests some accidental thickening at the bottom of this particular aleph downstroke, rather than an intentional keraia on the part of the ancient writer. 8.4 Line 12. A clear reading ‫וביד‬, “and into the hand of —”, or “and by the

hand of —”, is followed by a heretofore unrecognized proper name: ]‫י֯ ֯הו֯ ]ד[ה‬, “Judah”. This reading, though the letters are faint and difficult to decipher, is based on the Zuckerman/Lundberg photos and one photograph of Henderson. 89 The proper name is of interest since it is not the name of either of the two parties to the conveyance (Ḥoni or Eleazar). Who is this Judah? Is he a scribe, perhaps the writer of KhQ1?

8.5 Line 13. The first letter is lamed and the second also looks like a lamed which would give ‫לל‬, followed by what seems to be a space and then either a medial nun or some other defaced letter. It is difficult to interpret this sensibly; is #2 other than a lamed? The vertical stroke at #4 which Cross/Eshel read as a final-form nun is blurry and may be from previous writing on the ostracon. 87

See in particular Fig. 11 of Henderson, “A New Image Enhancement Proc-

ess”. Cross/Eshel, DJD 36, 498. Zuckerman/Lundberg photos 151 and 152, and the photograph of Henderson at Fig. 11 of “A New Image Enhancement Procedure”. 88 89

94

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

8.6 Line 14. #1 is probably ḥet as read by Cross/Eshel, not he read by Yardeni. What appears to be a right vertical intentionally above the crossbar seems to be part of a non-letter descending line just above it. The hairline extension of the crossbar to the left is too inconsequential to confirm that a he was intended. At #2 there is what looks like a lamed ascender but the letter is uncertain. #3 is undecipherable in all photographs except one: oddly, one photograph of Henderson shows a clear nun in the line 14, #2 or #3 position. This nun is not confirmed, even faintly, in any other photograph, including the Henderson photograph published by Cross/Eshel in IEJ and DJD 36. 90 #4 read by both Cross/Eshel and Yardeni as a certain ayin is probably in error; the letter appears instead to be tsade. 91 #5 does not seem to be bet read certainly by Cross/Eshel and uncertainly by Yardeni. 92 Is #5 a resh? The letters after this are unreadable. There is no reading of “Ḥisday the servant” of Cross/Eshel here or any other place on the ostracon. 8.7 Line 15. The first letter is a ḥet, in agreement with Cross/Eshel, against he read by Yardeni. The color photos show no extension of the crossbar to the left as illusorily appears in the black-and-white photos and as drawn by Yardeni (but, correctly, not drawn by Cross in DJD 36). In the color photos the supposed left extension is an extraneous non-letter mark below the height of the crossbar. The crossbar is at the top of the verticals. The mark which Yardeni draws rising upward from the middle of the roof of the letter also seems to be non-letter in the color photos; compare the black-andwhite photo in Cross/Eshel’s article in Biblical Archaeology Review. With these two clarifications #1 can only be ḥet. #2 is a lamed and after that all is indecipherable. Line 16. There is a trace of an undecipherable letter.

9. RECONSTRUCTION OF KHQ1 9.1 The left ends of all lines are missing in KhQ1. No line-length for KhQ1 can be determined from a secure “wraparound” line restoration. See Fig. 11 of Henderson, “A New Image Enhancement Procedure”. Although ayin and tsade resemble each other the structure is different. With ayin a left arm is added to the main slanting stroke which is straight (see at KhQ2, line 4, #5); with tsade a right arm is added to the main stroke which is curved (KhQ1, line 11, last letter). In the present case (KhQ1, line 14, #4) a right arm appears to have been added to the main stroke, the structure of tsade. 92 The apparent tick at the upper left of line 14, #5 is non-letter defacing in the color photo of Roitman 1997 (part of a horizontal line of defacing dots). The color photo shows another intrusive mark to the left of the left arm of the previous letter (#4) which renders illusory the impression in the black-and-white photo of a right ear on #5. 90 91

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

95

Cross/Eshel assume a line length not much longer than the visible letters of lines 1–8. They write in DJD 36: “It is possible that ‘Jericho’ [in line 2] refers to the district or toparchy, and that a specific place-name appeared at the end of line 1, possibly the ancient name of Khirbet Qumrân; however there is not much room left for such a reconstruction.” 93 But Cross/Eshel give no explanation for their line-length assumption. (Elsewhere Cross/Eshel assume the opposite, that there is enough room in line 1 for such a word, e.g. in Roitman 1997: “It may be presumed that the ancient name of Qumran appeared [at the end of line 1].” 94) There is no material limitation to significantly longer line lengths in KhQ1. 95 It may be that lines 1–8 of KhQ1 contain only a few more letters at the end of each line. But unless this is established it cannot simply be assumed.

9.2 It is possible that the line 2 lacuna continued with no more than ‫ ב]נ‬and

a proper name of Н̣oni’s father, and that line 8 continues after the completion of the word partly visible at the end of line 7 (with or without one more word), in agreement in spacing with a minimal reconstruction of line 2. But neither of these possibilities just named, at lines 2 and 7, are certain. In line 2 the name of Н̣oni’s father’s father, or a gentilic or town of origin of Н̣oni, could well have followed. 96 In line 7 there could be unknown additional elements in a list prior to the closing clause of line 8, although the parallels cited earlier to “palm trees” followed by “” are

Cross/Eshel, DJD 36, 501. Similarly earlier, “To be sure, there is not a great deal of room left in the line for such a reconstruction” (Cross/Eshel 1997 [IEJ], 20). 94 Cross/Eshel, in Roitman, A Day at Qumran (1997), 39. Also in Biblical Archaeology Review: “The end of line 1 may have included a more specific local place name, possibly the ancient name of Qumran, which remains a mystery” (Cross/Eshel, “The Missing Link”, 52). 95 The surviving KhQ1 ostracon measures 6.3 cm in width (Cross/Eshel, DJD 36, 497), and 15 letter spaces per line are visible in KhQ1 at its widest. Compare, for example, the Maresha ostracon from 176 BCE published by Eshel and Kloner which measures 14 cm in width with a visible line of 33 letter spaces, over twice that which has survived in KhQ1 (E. Eshel and A. Kloner, “An Aramaic Ostracon of an Edomite Marriage Contract from Maresha, Dated 176 B.C.E.”, IEJ 46 [1996], 1–22 at 2). 96 Yardeni commenting on the Dead Sea documentary texts in Aramaic and Hebrew: “The parties appear in their names and the names of their fathers, and sometimes their grandfathers’ or family names. In addition to the name, or in its place, an appellative may appear. The parties are further identified by their place of origin … ‫מן‬, or their place of residence …‫יתב ב‬, or by both of these” (Yardeni, DJD 27, 14–15). 93

96

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

perhaps an argument for a short column width. Most importantly, the successive lines beginning with ‫ את‬and ‫ ואת‬at lines 4, 5, 6, and 7 raise the question of whether the lines were the same lengths. The issue of column width of KhQ1 is unresolved. The reading of KhQ1 of this study is as follows.

10.

TRANSCRIPTION OF KHQ1 (OSTRACON NO. 1) 97 Translation

1 2 3 4 5 6

7

‫בירחו נתנ ׄחני ב]נ‬

1 2

](‫כ‬/‫לאלעזר בן נ◦◦)מ‬

3

]◦‫אתהמקומהל‬

4 5

and the boundaries of the house and [ …

‫ת(בית‬/‫ו() ֯ה‬/‫ואת ׄחמ)י‬

and the fig trees, the pal[m trees … and all trees of the ea[rth …

8 9

and it/you shall be (?) [… to him/me the [… and the land (?) [… and by (or, into) the hand of Ju[d]ah [… l … [… ḥ…. [… ḥl… [… … […

10 11 12 13 14 15 16

]◦‫בשנת שתימ ל‬

In the second year of [ … in Jericho, gave Ḥoni s[on of … (?) to Eleazar son of N< >, [… the place, the l[… all of the ml[…

]◦◦‫ׄאת) ֯ת(ומ ה ֯מל‬

](◦/‫ ֯ש‬/ ֯‫ו)נ‬ ‫ואתאנימ הת ֯מ]ימ‬

6

7

‫וכולאילנא ̇ד]מה‬ ] ◦◦( ֯‫נ‬/‫ו) ֯ת‬

8

]◦‫י(את ה‬/‫ל)ו‬ ]‫ואת ֯ה ֯א]ר[צ‬ ]‫וביד י֯ ֯הו֯ ]ד[ה‬

10 11 12

]◦ ◦◦◦‫ל‬ ]◦ ◦◦‫◦(◦ ׄצ‬/‫א‬/‫ׄח)נ‬ ] ◦◦‫ׄחל‬

13 14 15 16

]

◦

9

This Hebrew transcription reflects only word-separation spacings that actually exist on the ostracon, whereas in discussion in this article word-separations have usually been normalized for ease of reading. 97

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

97

11. INTERPRETATION OF KHQ1 11.1 A number of Dead Sea economic or documentary texts have been published which deal with transfers of title of land. Of particular interest are the documentary texts in Hebrew and Aramaic published by Yardeni in DJD 27 in 1997. As brought out in Yardeni’s introduction, although the documents are individually variant they use the same language and basic forms. The descriptive summary is worth quoting: Prominent in the legal documents from the Judaean Desert is the phenomenon of common phrases and frozen expressions characteristic of conservative legal language. Nevertheless, there is a wide variety in the orthography and morphology of the words themselves, and so too in the use of synonymous expressions … In addition to these, there are differences in formulation, such as change in person (subjective or objective formulation), expansion or contraction of the clauses, changes in the order of the boundaries of the property, etc. The differences in formula and linguistic variety reflected in the deeds from the Judaean Desert witness to the fact that their writers formulated the deeds independently according to the differing circumstances, and to the freedom allowed at that time in writing legal documents. Nevertheless, a picture emerges of a unified and well-established structure as to the order of the clauses in the most common deeds (deeds of sale for immovable property, and promissory notes)—evidence of an accepted tradition. 98

11.2 In this introduction Yardeni goes on to outline thirteen features which characterize Dead Sea deeds of sale of immovable property. 99 These features provide the best context for understanding KhQ1. (1) The date is visible in line 1, but it is year only; it is missing the day and month (discussed below). The rest of line 1 will have been occupied with the remainder of the date formula. (2) The place is either “Jericho”, the first word of line 2, or as Cross/Eshel have suggested, some place within the legal district of Jericho, named at the end of line 1. (3) The parties and the transaction are visible in lines 2–3; the giver is Ḥoni and the receiver is Eleazar. ‫ ב]נ‬plus the name of Ḥoni’s father will have followed in the lacuna at the end of line 2. Line 2 could end at that point or Ḥoni’s place of origin might also be named (-‫)מ‬. The lacuna ending line 3 following Eleazar’s father allows for a further word or words. This could be a place of origin, a descriptive word such as a title, or a statement of purpose for the gift. If places of origin for Ḥoni and Eleazar were not named, the estimated length of line 2 is perhaps c. 5–8 spaces beyond the visible end of line 2. (4) The property is named in line 4, introduced by a direct object marker continuing syntactically from ‫ נתנ‬of 98 99

Yardeni, DJD 27, 13. Yardeni, DJD 27, 13–17.

98

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

line 2: ‫את המקומ‬, “the place”, or land. 100 A clause in line 5, introduced by a ֯ ‫ ׄאת) ֯ת(ומ‬, “all of the ml- …”, might further direct object marker, ]◦◦ ‫המל‬ describe the property, although this is unclear. The lack of a waw preceding ‫ את‬starting line 5 could suggest that another verb, parallel to ‫ נתנ‬in sense, occurred at the end of the lacuna of line 4. Alternatively, ‫ את‬starting line 5 could be naming the second item in a series of four direct objects of ‫נתנ‬, each introduced with ‫את‬. (That two ‫’את‬s in lines 4 and 5 are followed by two ‫’ואת‬s in lines 6 and 7, instead of one ‫ את‬followed by three ‫’ואת‬s, could be simple accident.) The borders of the house of line 6 and the fruit and trees of lines 7–8 appear to be further naming of the property being conveyed.

11.3 Expected next is a (5) boundary clause in which the extent of the property ׄ ‫ וא‬is visible in line 6, “and the boundaries of the is named. ‫תחמי ֯הבית‬

house …”; however actual definitions of the boundaries do not seem identified in KhQ1. Yardeni notes in DJD 27 that first mentions of “the place” and “boundaries” can be separated from fuller descriptions of these items in this kind of document. 101 (6) Description of the property may occur in lines 7– 8 in terms of the figs, palms, and other trees produced by the land. (7) The sum would be skipped in a deed of gift. (8) Receipt, (9), ownership, (10), responsibility and ‘cleansing’, (11) guarantee, and (12) exchange of the deed, may or may not have correspondences in lines 9–16 which are largely undecipherable. (13) Signatures of the parties and witnesses are missing in the lower lines of KhQ1, although it is possible that a scribe is named in line 12, “and by the hand of Judah …”.

11.4 The structure ‫ ואת‬... ‫ ואת‬... ‫ את‬... ‫ את‬seems to follow from the verb ‫ נתנ‬of line 2, creating either one long sentence from lines 1–8, or else two consecutive sentences (lines 1–4 and lines 5–8, with a second verb parallel to “give” at the end of line 4). Either way the 3rd person, past-tense voice of ‫ נתנ‬is likely to have remained consistent throughout lines 1–8 (and did “The property is either indicated explicitly, or with the word ‫ אתרהא‬or ‫[ אתריא‬Aramaic equivalent of ‫( ”]המקום‬Yardeni, DJD 27, 15). 101 Yardeni comments at XḤev/Se 9, line 2, that ‫ אתרה‬indicates “the property, which is not described here” (Yardeni, DJD 27, 44). Compare XḤev/Se 50, lines 8–10,‫אתרא דך בתחומה ובמצרה תאניא וכל די בה ודי הזא עלה מעלא ומפקא בדי חזא‬, “That place—within its boundaries and within its borders: fig-trees, and everything which is in it and which is fitting to it, the entrance and the exit, as it is fitting”. The definition of the boundaries occurred earlier, in lines 6–8 of that text. In XḤev/Se 21 “places within their boundaries” are detailed in lines 3–5, said to be sold in line 5, and then referred to collectively as simply “places” (the meaning is understood) in line 7. 100

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

99

not, for instance, change to a 1st person future-promise voice by a verb introducing Ḥoni as speaking at the end of line 3). However the 3rd person, past-tense form of KhQ1 compares to none of the Hebrew and Aramaic documents published in DJD 2 and DJD 27.

11.5 The 3rd person, past tense of KhQ1 does compare, however, to the Greek document Papyrus Yadin 19 from 128 CE, one of the three known Jewish deeds of gift from the Roman period found in the Judean desert according to Cross/Eshel. 102 In P. Yadin 19, a Judah of Ein Gedi wills property to his daughter Shelamzion. The text is written in a 3rd person voice defining a transaction accomplished by the document, with intent for benefit to the recipient to run into the future starting from the completed event of the transfer (“so that the aforesaid Shelamzious shall have the half … from today, and the other half after the death of the said Judah”). If KhQ1 paralleled P. Yadin 19 on this point the corresponding expression in KhQ1 would follow the description of the property (that is, about line 9 a new verb would introduce a statement of promise or intent in the future). But KhQ1 is too broken to confirm or disconfirm this. As in P. Yadin 19, the voice of KhQ1 is not that of one of the parties to the transaction but rather that of a third party, perhaps a scribe or other official. But KhQ1 differs from P. Yadin 19 in other key points—KhQ1 has no signatures, the date is only a year date, and it seems generally more terse. In P. Yadin 19, after the statement of the gift a summary follows in the giver’s hand, in Aramaic: “Yehudah son of Eleazar Khthousion: I have given the courtyard and the house therein to Shelamzion my daughter according to what is written above … Yehudah wrote it.” Below that the scribe who drafted the deed states in Greek that he wrote it. On the back of the deed are signatures of seven witnesses (six in Aramaic, one in Greek). All of this seems missing in KhQ1.

11.6 Notably, although boundaries are mentioned in KhQ1, the definitions of those boundaries are missing. Yardeni notes: The boundaries clause is found in all deeds dealing with the transfer of immovable property, including Aramaic deeds from Elephantine, and mediaeval deed formularies. The boundaries are indicated according to the points of the compass. The order is generally: east, west, south, north … though sometimes this changes. 103

102 Papyrus Yadin 19, “Deed of Gift” is found at Lewis, Documents from the BarKokhba Period, 83–87. It is identified by Cross/Eshel as one of three deeds of gift known from the Roman period found in the Judean desert (DJD 36, 501 n. 17). 103 Yardeni, DJD 27, 15.

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Yet in KhQ1 there is no sign of definition of the boundaries. How is this terseness and brevity of KhQ1 compared to known deeds to be understood?

11.7 Cross/Eshel suggest that KhQ1 was a rough draft written in advance of the deed; that is why the month and day of the date are missing in line 1 of KhQ1. The full date would be written when the real deed was made in fuller form. 104 Cross/Eshel also note the missing signatures and the material of writing of KhQ1 (a potsherd) as calling into doubt an identification of KhQ1 as the deed itself. 105 But would not a draft be a draft of the intended deed (instead of an abbreviated form to be expanded later)?

11.8 These considerations caused Callaway to question whether KhQ1 is accurately characterized as a deed of gift (or a draft of one). Callaway suggested that KhQ1 is instead “a quasi-legal document attempting to make a particular claim about the current ownership of Ḥonî’s property in Jericho … It is a past tense account, a sort of after-the-fact claim about a property exchange between Ḥonî and Eleazar”. 106 11.9 Actual deeds typically contained a promise to certify ownership at later times upon request. In basic agreement with the suggestion of Callaway, KhQ1 could be not a deed of gift but rather a statement or certificate of title, referring back to what had been documented with a full deed of gift, but not itself that deed. If this conjecture is correct, certain implications would follow. First, “Year 2 of —” of line 1 would be the complete date, similar to year-only dates on coins or weights. (The actual deed with month and day and fuller details would exist somewhere else.) Second, “Year 2 of —” (whenever that was) would be some time before the writing of KhQ1, not necessarily the date of writing of KhQ1. And third, the lack of a visible future tense in KhQ1 would be accounted for. By this hypothesis nothing would be missing in KhQ1; the text would be complete in terms of its genre and purpose.

104Cross/Eshel: “Since we must suppose the ostracon is not the legal document itself, but a draft of the deed of gift, the scribe may have left open the precise date” (DJD 36, 500). 105 Cross/Eshel: “There appear to be no signatures of witnesses [in KhQ1] (though admittedly the lower part of the ostracon is virtually illegible). Moreover the date in the first line is incomplete. That the document is written on an ostracon also seems to lead to the same conclusion that this is not the original deed” (DJD 36, 505). 106 Callaway, “A Second Look at Ostracon No. 1”, 161–62, 164.

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

101

12. A 1QS CONNECTION? 12.1 With the line 8 yaḥad reading nonexistent, is there contact between KhQ1 and the literary texts found in the caves near Qumran on the basis of an accurate reading of the text? The Community Rule mandates that a new member’s property be given over to an officer of the community described in that text at the start of the new member’s second year, and a written record made of the gift. 1QS 6.17–20

‫ יקריבו גם את הונו ואת מלאכתו אל יד‬... ‫ובמילאת לו שנה בתוך היחד‬ ‫האיש המבקר על מלאכת הרבים וכתבו‬ ‫בחשבון בידו ועל הרבים לוא יוציאנו‬ “… and when he has completed one year within the community … his property and his earnings shall be given into the hand of the Examiner in charge of the business of the Many and they shall write it into the account-record in his (the Examiner’s) own hand and they shall not spend it for the Many …”

12.2 According to the Community Rule, at the end of the novitiate’s second year, if he was approved for full membership, his property (which up to then had been held in trust separately) would then be mingled with the community’s funds (1QS 6.21–23). Cross/Eshel suggest a parallel in Acts 4.34: “for as many as were possessors of lands or houses sold them, and brought the proceeds of what was sold”. 107 However as Cross/Eshel note, in Acts 4.34 the property is first converted to money before it is given over to the group. In KhQ1 the property is given with no conversion to money.

12.3 Is it possible the “second year” of line 1 of KhQ1 refers to the second year of the novitiate of 1QS? In 1997 Cross/Eshel considered this possibility but rejected it on the grounds that since other economic texts begin with date formula and location, that is how the visible “in the second year of —” and “in Jericho” of lines 1–2 of KhQ1 should be interpreted. 108 Cross/Eshel were correct that the overwhelming expectation is that KhQ1, line 1 is a date formula. The year-alone form does not affect this. As Cross/Eshel, DJD 36, 504. Cross/Eshel: “Prof. S. Goranson has suggested that we should consider the possibility that year two refers to the second year of Ḥonî as a neophyte. However, since Line 2 starts with the word Jericho, it seems that we are dealing with a regular formula of deeds, which begins with a date and the place where the deed was written” (Cross/Eshel 1997 [IEJ], 20 n. 8). 107 108

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Cross/Eshel note, a marriage contract ostracon in Hebrew from Maresha from 176 BCE has only month and year, but no day. 109 An ostracon in Aramaic published by Yardeni from c. 1st century CE—a record of grain deliveries—has a date formula with only a numbered year, without day or month, exactly like KhQ1. 110 Although the date formulas in these ostraca vary in specifics, they are still date formulas. Therefore there is no likelihood that the “second year” of KhQ1 without a month or year means it is the 1QS second year, despite the coincidence. 111 To keep the “year two” coincidence in perspective: in DJD 2 there are eight Dead Sea documentary texts in Hebrew and Aramaic in which a numbered year in a line 1 date formula is readable, and three of those eight are “in the second year of” (the others are years 1, 3, 4, 6, and 11). In DJD 27 there are an additional eight such texts of which one is “year two” (the others are years 3, 3, 3, 3, 8, 8, and 25). In this limited database 4 out of 16 total have “second year” date formulas, or a 25% incidence through random chance. Yet none of this is the relevant statistic. The relevant comparison is that one hundred percent of numbered years found in line 1’s of documentary texts are date formulas. Therefore this is the indicated interpretation of KhQ1, line 1.

12.4 Interestingly, the abbreviated, past-tense form of KhQ1 noted earlier is in agreement with the form which 1QS appears to indicate was to be made in recording gifts of property of new members to the yaḥad—presumably

109 Eshel and Kloner, “An Aramaic Ostracon”, 3–5. “[The ostracon from Maresha] is the first marriage contract written on pottery to be discovered in Palestine … [it] appears to be a copy or a draft, made in order to set out the marriage terms” (“An Aramaic Ostracon”, 19–20). 110 Yardeni, “New Jewish Aramaic Ostraca”, 132–33. Of this group, Ostracon No. 1, line 1, reads: ](‫ע‬/‫‫תליתיתא שנת‬, “The third, year 12 (or 13) to/of … […]”. As read by Yardeni, ‫ תליתיתא‬names a third delivery, followed by the date formula which consists of year only. 111 To make a case for a 1QS/KhQ1 “second year” identification, it might be proposed to restore lines 1–2 something like:‫נתנ הנו ב]יד מבקר[ לאלעזר‬, “In the second year of the [ of , ] at Jericho he gave his wealth (‫ )נתנ הנו‬into [,] to Eleazar son of N___, Ov[erseer of the Community].…”, etc. This would read ‫ הנו‬instead of ‫ חני‬after ‫ נתנ‬in line 2 (for the spelling, compare ‫ בהונו‬at 1QS 8.23). But against this, a proper name (i.e. ‫חני‬, “Ḥoni”) is expected to follow ‫ נתנ‬in line 2 as the verb’s subject; the restoration of line 1 just noted followed by a lamed prefixed to “Eleazar” beginning line 3 is questionable; and it would remove the date formula from line 1 which is expected on the basis of other documentary texts.

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

103

past tense, third person, and archived. 112 However 1QS 6.17–20 says that both the receiving of the novitiate’s earnings and property and the writing of the record of the gift were to be done by the same officer, the ‫האיש המבקר‬. But in KhQ1 these two functions are done by differently-named individuals (the recipient is “Eleazar”, line 3; the writer is “Judah”, line 12). Furthermore, as noted, the parallel between 1QS 6.17–20 and Acts 4.34 (to the extent Acts 4.34 can be invoked to assist in understanding 1QS) suggests that the property and earnings given to the officer of a community such as that of 1QS would have been liquid (money), whereas in KhQ1 the land itself is conveyed, not first converted to money.

12.5 Cross/Eshel note that whereas all previously known Judean deeds of gift are from men to women (wives or daughters), KhQ1 is a deed of gift from a man to another man. Cross/Eshel interpreted this as unusual and in light of the find site, significant: If these arguments are sound, we are dealing here with a deed of gift … addressed to a man which is a rare occurrence in the Second Temple period. Its subject matter is of great importance. The deed is not a grant to a family member, but, we believe, to a member of the community living where the ostracon was found, namely the bursar of the sectarian community. 113

12.6 But is the male-to-male giving evidence of a 1QS connection? Below are a range of possibilities for a context that might underlie a man giving property to another man without receiving money in return. Each has allusions in ancient texts. 114

1QS 6.17–20, quoted above. Cross/Eshel, DJD 36, 505. 114 For a ruler or patron giving a grant of land to a retainer, compare Herod the Great giving land to Jacimus the Babylonian (Ant. 17.29–30). For an estate going to a servant, compare Abraham’s wealth expected to be inherited by his servant Eleazar (Gen. 15.3). For giving to a son-in-law, compare Tobit 8.21 and 10.10: “[Raguel] handed over to Tobit Sarah his wife and half of all his goods” (10.10). For jubilee year conveyance of land without payment compare Lev. 25.28. (For possible echoes of sectarian interest in implementing jubilee year provisions compare Luke 4.17–21 and Matt. 6.12.) For support for a revolutionary leader, charitable giving, gift made under threat, etc. compare parables in the Gospels addressed to wealthy persons alluding to life-threatening consequences if wealth, including land, is not voluntarily given to “the poor” (Matt. 19.27, 29; 21.21; Luke 12.16–21; 16.9–25; 19.8–9), etc. 112 113

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a ruler or patron gives a grant of land to a retainer a man with no heirs gives an inheritance to a servant a deed of inheritance to a son-in-law a transfer of land related to a jubilee year practice repayment of a debt a tax payment charitable giving support for a revolutionary leader a gift made under compulsion or threat (not necessarily distinguishable from the previous three) a variant of a practice in 1QS, but not 1QS a new member giving over property to a community officer as enjoined in 1QS Is every alternative above, except the last, excluded or unreasonable as a possible background to KhQ1?

12.7 The fact is the visible text of KhQ1 says nothing about a community or about Eleazar representing anyone other than himself. Nevertheless, a lacuna at the end of line 3 allows for one more word following Eleazar’s patronymic and possible place of origin, compared to the spacing of equivalent wording associated with Ḥoni of line 2. This extra word at the end of line 3 could name a title or adjective for Eleazar, or alternatively a purpose for the gift. However, it was previously noted that lines 4, 5, 6, and 7 start with ‫את‬, ‫את‬, ‫ואת‬, and ‫ ואת‬respectively, and that this suggests that the lines may not have been the same lengths. If that is so, there is no actual reason to assume an additional word at the end of line 3.

12.8 Is the find site, Qumran, itself proof of a 1QS context or interpretation of KhQ1? The reasoning would be: Qumran was a site inhabited by persons practicing 1QS; the ostracon was found at Qumran; therefore KhQ1 reflects 1QS. The problem with this line of reasoning is it has not been confirmed (as distinguished from argued to be plausible) that 1QS was practiced at Qumran. In the excavations of Qumran that have been conducted to date, no archives or records of a religious community (e.g. membership lists, financial records, dated documents) have been identified at Qumran, either at the site or in the caves. In 1997 Cross/Eshel suggested that KhQ1 itself was such a document from the archives of the hypothesized community at Qumran. 115 But Cross/Eshel abandoned this claim in DJD 36 in Cross/Eshel: “It is not impossible that in the second year of the Revolt (if we prefer this dating), papyrus was in short supply … The donor is entering a communal sect which shared all of its possessions. This interpretation explains the gift of 115

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

105

2000. 116 The best case for such a text among the finds in the caves, the fragmentary 4Q477 “Register of Rebukes”—with its listing of infractions of three named individuals in a manner reminiscent of a procedure described in the Community Rule—is not confirmed to refer to persons located at Qumran, nor is the text’s genre certain. If 4Q477 does refer to persons at Qumran—which cannot simply be assumed—a question necessarily arises: why has only one of this kind of text emerged from the caves at Qumran and not more, if the texts in the caves reflect c. 150–200 years of a 1QSorganized group’s habitation at the site as many scholars suppose?

12.9 Furthermore, all archaeologists and scholars today suppose some inhabitants of Qumran of the era did not practice 1QS; for starters this is the conventional understanding of Qumran’s Period III. Some have also argued that Qumran’s periods Ia and Ib involved inhabitants unrelated to 1QS (Bar-Adon, Magen, Drori, Humbert, Garcia Martinez). 117 Some have thought that the inhabitants of Qumran at the end of Period II were zealots who had replaced sectarians of the scrolls at Qumran. 118 Cross himself elsewhere seems to express some uncertainty concerning the identity of those at Qumran at the time the Romans arrived in 68 CE. 119 Is it possible an estate … recorded in an ostracon which was once in the archives of the Qûmran community, and ended up in a dump outside the perimeter wall of the site” (1997 [IEJ], 26). 116 Cross/Eshel: “we must suppose that the ostracon is not the legal document itself, but a draft of the deed of gift” (DJD 36, 500). 117 P. Bar-Adon, “The Hasmonean Fortresses and the Status of Khirbet Qumran”, Eretz Israel 15 (1981), 349–52 (Heb.; Eng. summary p. 86); J.-B. Humbert, “L’espace sacré à Qumrân. Propositions pour l’archéologie”, RB 101–2 (1994), 164–214; F. Garcia Martinez, The Dead Sea Scrolls Translated. The Qumran Texts in English (2nd edn, Eng. trans.; Leiden: Brill, 1996), xli. According to a report in 1994, Y. Magen and A. Drori proposed that the Hasmoneans “settled residents [at Qumran], who were loyal to them … perhaps demobilized soldiers, possibly under the direct ownership of the Hasmonean family itself … [Later, 40 to 37 BCE] a lot of the fighting was in the Jordan valley, and we see the fire at Qumran dating from its capture by Herod” (A. Rabinovich, Jerusalem Post, May 8, 1994, quoted by Z. J. Kapera in Kapera [ed.], Mogilany 1995. Papers on the Dead Sea Scrolls offered in memory of Aleksy Klawek [Cracow: Enigma Press, 1998], 86). 118 Zealots at Qumran at the end of Period II was urged by e.g. Allegro in the 1950’s (G. Vermes, The Complete Dead Sea Scrolls in English [Middlesex, England: Penguin, 1997], 584). 119 Cross: “There is some likelihood that the Essenes, at least in part, put up resistance [in 68 CE]. Certainly someone resisted the Romans, using Qumrân as a bastion” (F. M. Cross, The Ancient Library of Qumran [3rd edn; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995], 62 n. 2).

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

that non-1QS-practicing inhabitants of Qumran might have left writing behind at Qumran? If so, can KhQ1/KhQ2 be excluded as belonging to them?

13. PALAEOGRAPHY AND DATING OF KHQ1/KHQ2 13.1 No writing found at the actual site of Qumran has yet been identified as matching any of the hundreds of scribes who produced the literary texts in the caves, nor has distinctive phrasing or wording associated with a text in the caves turned up in any writing found at the site. The present ostraca do nothing to change this situation. The shape of the bet of KhQ1 and KhQ2 is distinctive with an exaggerated “tick”. In the huge quantity and variety of scribal hands represented in the literary texts found in the caves at Qumran no such bet has been identified. Based on this point alone it appears that the writer of KhQ1 was not a copyist of any of the texts found in the caves. Davies, Brooke, and Callaway correctly note that “the script [of KhQ1] bears no resemblance to the beautiful and usually skilled hands known from the manuscripts from the caves”. 120 These ostraca only deepen the questions concerning the circumstances by which huge numbers of literary texts with their astonishingly diverse variety of professional scribal hands came to be deposited in the caves near Qumran.

13.2 On palaeographic grounds Cross/Eshel claim to know a 38-year maximum range of possibility for the date of writing of KhQ1/KhQ2. They write: “The script on the ostraca is Late Herodian. Cross has defined ‘Late Herodian’ as the period between 30–68 CE. The ostraca are penned in a vulgar, semi-formal style, with an occasional cursive lapse.” 121 Cross/Eshel suggest “year two” of KhQ1, line 1 refers to Year 2 of the Jewish Revolt, that is, 67 CE. 122 Cross/Eshel refer to “palaeography, which places the ostracon in the mid-first century CE”, as if this is a fact. 123 13.3 But there is a methodological problem in Cross’s palaeographic datings of texts in Vulgar semiformal. According to Cross, “the Vulgar semiformal P. R. Davies, G. J. Brooke, and P. R. Callaway, The Complete World of the Dead Sea Scrolls (London: Thames & Hudson, 2002), 186. 121 Cross/Eshel, DJD 36, 497. 122 Cross/Eshel, DJD 36, 500. Cross: “Particularly noteworthy is a recently discovered ostracon from Qumrân … dated ‘in the second year…,’ presumably the second year of the First Jewish Revolt against Rome (67 CE)” (Cross, “Palaeography and the Dead Sea Scrolls”, in P. Flint and J. VanderKam [eds], The Dead Sea Scrolls after Fifty Years [Vol. I; Leiden: Brill, 1998], 379–402 at 382). 123 Cross/Eshel, DJD 36, 500. 120

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

107

is a crude, simplified derivative of the Herodian formal character.” 124 A premise in Cross’s system is that “Herodian formal” and its derivative, Vulgar semiformal, started c. 30 BCE. 125 No evidence was ever set forth that the scribal writing hands termed “Herodian formal” started that late (i.e. at the start of the Herodian period), but the assumption that this is so has influenced hundreds of palaeographic datings of Qumran texts in DJD editions. This belief, without positive evidence, has been impervious even to directly contradicting information. For example, in 1968 Naveh reported Vulgar semiformal Hebrew writing on Alexander Jannaeus coins of 83 and 78 BCE—before the Herodian period. 126 According to Cross, Vulgar semiformal is derivative from “Herodian formal”. But if “Herodian formal”/Vulgar semiformal were in routine use decades earlier than they are supposed to have begun to exist in Cross’s system—as the Alexander Jannaeus coins testify—then there is no basis for certainty that true dates of Qumran texts in “Herodian formal” are as late as their published palaeographic dates. Curiously, although Naveh’s 1968 report has never been contested or refuted, it seems never to have affected a Qumran text palaeographic dating in any DJD edition published in the decades since then.

13.4 Cross/Eshel also characterized the script of KhQ1/KhQ2 as sharing traits with the script of the Copper Scroll and as contemporary to that text on the basis of palaeography. 127 In an earlier study, Cross concluded there 124 Cross, DJD 3, 217 n. 1. Similarly Cross, “Development of the Jewish Scripts”, 174. 125 Cross: “The term Herodian is used here and throughout our paper to apply to the era 30 B.C. to A.D. 70 ... At the same time, it applies fittingly to a stage of the formal script, which, owing to the emergence of a complex of new characteristics at the end of the Hasmonaean era, has its own style and integrity...” (Cross, “Development of the Jewish Scripts”, 173). 126 Naveh: “The [coins’] inscription is in the Jewish (so-called square Hebrew) script and in the Aramaic language. It consists of ‫מלכא אלכסנדרוס‬, and the word ‫ שנה‬followed by the numerals ‫ כ‬and, more often, ‫כה‬. These are dated coins of the 20th and 25th years of Alexander Jannaeus, corresponding to 83 and 78 B.C. respectively … the legend is written in the ‘vulgar semiformal’ in Cross’s terminology … The closest parallels to these letters are to be found on ossuaries. As the latter are generally attributed to the Herodian period and as the earliest known vulgar semiformal examples do not antedate this period, the palaeographical significance of this dated Hasmonean inscription is quite obvious” (J. Naveh, “Dated Coins of Alexander Jannaeus”, IEJ 81 [1968], 20–25 at 21–23). 127 Cross/Eshel: “The script of both ostraca [KhQ1/KhQ2] is Late Herodian, penned in a vulgar semi-formal style, and it shares many traits with the script of the Copper Document, a vulgar semi-formal hand of the same date” (Cross/Eshel

108

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

was a 50-year maximum range of possibility on palaeographic grounds for the Vulgar semiformal writing of the Copper Scroll, 25–75 CE. 128 This was an argument cited by Cross/Eshel for dating KhQ1 to the 1st century CE. In fact nothing in actual data rules out a 1st century BCE date for the Copper Scroll on palaeographic grounds, 129 but that is not the important point. The important point is that, as noted by Callaway, the script of the Copper Scroll is not closely like that of KhQ1 except in very general ways. 130 Therefore it is doubtful that either of these two texts could be used to precisely date the other, even if a specific date were confirmed for one of them.

13.5 Nor are there archaeological grounds favoring a dating of KhQ1/KhQ2 to Qumran’s Period II (1st century CE) over Qumran’s Period Ib (1st century BCE). Pottery was found with KhQ1 and KhQ2, none yet published. 131 In a recent communication, the excavator, James Strange, told the present author that none of this pottery found with the ostraca can be dated to Period II in a manner that excludes Period Ib. 132 13.6 There is, however, an archaeological argument against the separate suggestions of Cryer and Callaway for dating KhQ1/KhQ2 later than Qumran’s Period II: 133 there are no known dumps of Period III or Bar Kokhbaera material outside the buildings’ walls at Qumran.

1997 [IEJ], 17–18). Similarly Cross/Eshel, “The Missing Link”, 69 n. 6. 128 Cross: “The Herodian semiformal hand cannot be dated with quite the precision with which the elegant, formal Herodian scripts can be analysed … the script [of the Copper Scroll] is to be placed in the second half of the Herodian era, that is, within the broad limits A.D. 25–75” (Cross, DJD 3, 217). 129 This statement is based on the author’s study of the specifics cited by Cross in DJD 3. Again, see note 126. 130 Callaway noted correctly that “[t]his script [of the Copper Scroll] bears little detailed resemblance to the script on ostracon no. 1 [KhQ1]” (“A Second Look at Ostracon No. 1”, 153 n. 6). 131 For description see note 3. 132 James Strange, personal communication, 19 September 2003. 133 Cryer 1997 (SJOT); Callaway, “A Second Look at Ostracon No. 1”. Cryer identified the bet in KhQ1/KhQ2 with “figure–2” cursive bets of early 2nd century CE documentary texts and argued that this dated KhQ1 no earlier than the first attested occurrence of the figure–2 bet elsewhere, namely c. 120 CE. Cryer: “Cross and Eshel admit that the Beths on both of the Qumran ostraca are atypical, as they have a ‘tick’ which ‘descends to the rounded, clockwise stroke’. In actual fact, that ‘tick’ is reflected in the little elaboration at the top of some post-Herodian cursive Beths … It might be added that the loop where the lower stroke of the Beth doubles back on itself and extends beyond the letter on the right is visible in the second

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

109

13.7 A different palaeographical description of KhQ1 was given by Yardeni, who—it should be noted—has done the palaeography on nearly all of the other Dead Sea documentary texts in Hebrew and Aramaic. According to Yardeni the writing of KhQ1/KhQ2 is “early Herodian semi-cursive”. 134 Converted to absolute dating this suggests c. late 1st century BCE. 135 That is, if Yardeni had done the editions of KhQ1 and KhQ2 instead of Cross/Eshel, KhQ1/KhQ2 would be regarded by Qumran scholars as from either the end of Qumran’s Period Ib or early Period II (depending on the exact date of writing of the ostraca and for the end of Qumran Period Ib). And if KhQ1 and KhQ2 were dumped outside the buildings of Qumran from a clearing of debris from a destruction (as seems very reasonable) then it is more likely that KhQ1 and KhQ2 are from the end of a Qumran period than a beginning (since debris of archaeological destructions tends to be items in use at the time of the destruction). By this reasoning it is more likely that KhQ1/KhQ2 are from the end of Ib than early II. 13.8 In light of the names of the parties of KhQ1, Honi the giver and Eleazar the recipient, it is interesting that the name “Eleazar” was found at Qumran by de Vaux on a bowl among hundreds of others at locus 86, all from a Period Ib context. Like KhQ1, the writing on this bowl from locus 86 was given a 1st century CE palaeographic date by Cross. 136 However the true date of the locus 86 bowl is known on archaeological grounds to be 1st century BCE, earlier than its palaeographic dating. 137 No other name or writostracon published by Cross and Eshel [KhQ2]…” (p. 237). But contra Cryer, the base of the KhQ2 bet does not loop or double back on itself. The KhQ1/KhQ2 bet is not a figure–2 bet but is a predecessor of it. This removes Cryer’s principal argument for the late dating. Callaway proposed that the names Ḥoni and Eleazar in KhQ1 are not only paralleled in Bar Kokhba-era texts but reflect identical persons. But the common occurrence of the names, the find site of KhQ1 (Qumran), and the lack of known post-Period II dumps outside the buildings’ walls at Qumran make this proposal of Callaway unlikely. 134 Yardeni 1997 (IEJ), 233. 135 Note that absolute datings of the cursive and semicursive sequences by Cross and Yardeni are arrived at by different and arguably sounder bases than the absolute datings of the formal and semiformal hands (because there is a database of independently dated writing in semicursive and cursive hands in the 1st century BCE and 1st century CE). 136 Cross: “an inscribed bowl from 86/89 seems clearly to be dated palaeographically to the first century A.D.” (F. M. Cross, The Ancient Library of Qumran [3rd ed., 1995], 62 n. 3). 137 R. de Vaux, Archaeology and the Dead Sea Scrolls. The Schweich Lectures of the British Academy 1959 (Eng. trans.; London: Oxford University Press, 1973), 11–12; P.

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ing was reported found on these hundreds of locus 86 bowls. According to de Vaux the name had been scratched into the clay by the Period Ib potter prior to firing. 138 The meaning of “Eleazar” on the locus 86 bowl is obscure, especially since these bowls, stored in large numbers, may have been the ancient equivalent of disposable paper plates, used only once after removal from the store-room. That is, the bowl with Eleazar’s name on it might never have been used. Who was this Eleazar of Period Ib? Was he the potter? Or was this Eleazar a person at Qumran for whom the potter made the bowls (and the potter was marking a pile or allotment)? Was Eleazar of the locus 86 bowl Eleazar of KhQ1? In this case KhQ1 would be from Qumran Period Ib, just like the locus 86 bowl with its similarly erroneous 1st century CE palaeographic date. Or is this a coincidence of unrelated Eleazars? Since Eleazar is a relatively common name this is not known, but the coincidence is curious.

13.9 Additional arguments could be cited in support of a Period Ib dating of KhQ1/KhQ2. There seem to be more Ib dumps than II dumps outside the walls at Qumran. The lack of systematic medial/final distinctions for any letter in KhQ1/KhQ2 seems “early” (and in agreement with the Qumran practice alphabet from Period Ib). The Qumran practice alphabet (KhQ3), found in a Period Ib dump outside the north wall at Qumran, although from a different writer and with differLapp, Palestinian Cermaic Technology 200 B.C.-A.D. (New Haven, Conn.: American Schools of Oriental Research, 1961), 50–51; J.-B. Humbert and A. Chambon, Fouilles de Khirbet Qumrân et de Aïn Feshka (NTOA Series Archaeologica 1; Fribourg: Éditions Universitaires, 1994), 318–20; J. Taylor and T. Higham, “Problems of Qumran’s Chronology and the Radiocarbon Dating of Palm Log Samples in Locus 86”, QC 8 (1998): 83–95; R. Bar-Nathan, Hasmonean and Herodian Palaces at Jericho. Final Reports of the 1973–1987 Excavations. Volume III: The Pottery (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2002), 203–4; J. Magness, The Archaeology of Qumran and the Dead Sea Scrolls (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2002), 123. 138 De Vaux: “The crockery [at locus 86/89] (especially the plates and beakers) clearly belongs to the pottery group of Period Ib and is different from that of Period II which has been found on the upper level of the large room … The name ‫ אלעזר‬had been scratched on one of the bowls before it was baked and, so Milik argues, the lettering is typical of the writing of the first century A.D. [i.e. it is typical of Qumran texts which Milik and Cross thought were 1st century CE]. I am doubtful whether five letters (scratched, and not traced with a pen as are the manuscripts to which he compares these letters) can overthrow the sum total of the archaeological indications” (de Vaux, Archaeology, 12).

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111

ent forms of letters than KhQ1/KhQ2, is similar to KhQ1/KhQ2 in originating from an unskilled scribe and in being an ostracon found in a dump outside the buildings’ walls. Since the Qumran practice alphabet is from Period Ib, by analogy KhQ1/KhQ2 might be as well. By separate argument the compositions and copies of the Community Rule texts found in the caves near Qumran appear to be from the time of Qumran’s Period Ib. 139 If the giving of KhQ1 does reflect 1QS, Period Ib might be suggested as the first context to consider for KhQ1, in the absence of evidence suggesting differently. However none of these points are decisive. To be clear, the argument here is not that KhQ1 is from Period Ib but that there is no basis for Cross/Eshel’s exclusion that it could be.

14. SUMMARY AND CONCLUSION CONCERNING KHQ1 KhQ1 appears to reflect a deed of gift, but it could be some kind of record or statement of a transaction that has already occurred. KhQ1 and KhQ2 are dated to either Qumran’s Period Ib or Period II. The person or persons who wrote KhQ1 and KhQ2, like the writers of all other known writing found in the buildings of Qumran, did not produce any of the scrolls known from the caves, since no match is identifiable in the handwritings. Nothing in KhQ1 or KhQ2 testifies to a connection with 1QS or any other of the texts found in the caves—not in genre, content, or identity of the scribe. In favor of a community-gift interpretation of KhQ1 are indirect arguments: the find site at Qumran raises the question of a possible relationship to the 1QS/4QS texts due to association with the same site, and the male-to-male giving. These are intriguing but insubstantial; there is no “smoking gun”. Important differences have been noted between the 1QS giving and KhQ1—although due an unclear understanding of how ancient texts related to reality, these negative arguments could be less strong than they seem. In the end it is neither confirmed nor disconfirmed that KhQ1 is concerned with turning over of property to a religious community. If this conclusion is frustratingly equivocal it is because the evidence is insufficient to say more, at least so far as is known to the present study.

139 G. Doudna, 4Q Pesher Nahum: A Critical Edition (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 707–710.

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15. A POSTSCRIPT: KHQ2 (OSTRACON NO. 2) 15.1 Cross/Eshel reported that whereas KhQ1 is “a thick bodied sherd of a larger jar”, 140 “the smaller ostracon [KhQ2] is inscribed on a relatively thin sherd”. 141 Unlike KhQ1, no edition of KhQ2 has been published other than that of Cross/Eshel in 1997 in Israel Exploration Journal, repeated in DJD 36 in 2000. For KhQ2 only a single black-and-white photograph has been published, identically in IEJ in 1997 and DJD 36 in 2000. As was the case with KhQ1, some of the Cross/Eshel readings in KhQ2 call for correction. Here is Cross/Eshel’s reading of KhQ2 followed by my readings of the same lines.

KhQ2. Cross/Eshel transcription Line 1 2 3 4

] (?) [ ] (?) [ Jehose]ph son of Nathan[ his [s]ons from ‘En[ Gedi (?)

]‫[ק ֯ש‬ ]‫ [ת הו‬142 ] ֯‫יהוס[פ בנ נתן‬ ] ֯‫ב[ניו מעין‬

KhQ2. New transcription Line 1 2 3 4

…]q’[… … the prie]st(?), Ḥo[ni … … Jose]ph son of Natha[n(ael) … … ]ny and Reue[l ...

]‫[קא‬ ‫[ ֯חנ חו]ני‬ ‫יהוס[פ בנ נת]נ‬ ‫[ני ורעא]ל‬

15.2 In line 1, where Cross/Eshel read ]‫ [ק ֯ש‬the second letter should be

read as aleph. There are no other examples of sin/shin in KhQ2, but both of two cases in KhQ1 (line 1, twice) disagree in form with the present letter of KhQ2 in not having a sharp angle or “point” at the bottom. Also, the word-separation space transcribed by Cross/Eshel appears mistaken; the letters ‫ קא‬appear to belong to the same word, likely a proper name from the context. One possibility for such a proper name would be ‫ חזקא‬read by Milik at Mur 22.1–9 ii 4; another is ‫ נתקא‬read by Milik at Mur 74.3.

Cross/Eshel, DJD 36, 497. Cross/Eshel, 1997 (IEJ), 17. 142 Whereas the Cross/Eshel transcription in IEJ in 1997 has a bracket preceding the taw in line 2, DJD 36 has an incongruous ayin and no bracket in this position. It is clear this ayin in DJD 36 is a typographical mistake. 140 141

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113

15.3 In line 2, the Cross/Eshel reading of he for the letter starting the second word is mistaken; the letter is ḥet. Ḥet in KhQ1/KhQ2 is written with the left and right verticals of equal height (as in the present letter), whereas he has a structure in which the left vertical never is above the crossbar but the right one always is, and the crossbar extends intentionally to the left beyond the left vertical. The crossbar in the present letter goes out to the left very slightly but this was not intentional (if it were intentional it would have been more emphasized). The 1997 drawing of Cross/Eshel is mistaken in having an “inked triangle” at the top left of the letter above the crossbar; only the straight-line crossbar is there. The final letter of line 2 is waw. From context this second word ]‫ חו‬is likely to be a proper name which could be ‫חו]ני‬, “Ḥoni”. Cross/Eshel read the first letter of line 2, a vertical stroke with a prominent left foot, as ‫[ת‬. If taw were correct the word might be ‫ב[ת‬, “daughter of ”, but the taw reading is in error. The one clear taw in KhQ2 in line 3 has no left foot. The blot at the base of the left vertical of the line 3 taw is the end of the lower left vertical curving slightly to the left but without a foot. 143 Nor do taws in KhQ1 anywhere have fully-developed left foots. 144 The shape and prominent left foot of KhQ2, line 2, #1 is in exact agreement, however, with the nuns in KhQ2 in lines 3 and 4. Line 2, #1 is therefore a nun, with a mark from a preceding letter touching at mid-height. (For medial nun form in final position compare ‫ בנ‬one line below in line 3 [and in KhQ1, ‫ נתנ‬of line 2 and ‫ אילנ‬of line 8]. 145) By process of elimination the letter preceding this nun of line 2 must be he. No other letter matches. 146 A proper name might be expected based 143 Cross/Eshel incorrectly interpreted the taw of KhQ2, line 3 as having a short, distinct foot to the left at a 90-degree angle; see the drawing in IEJ in 1997 and the taw in the Cross/Eshel script chart for Ostracon No. 2 in IEJ, Fig. 3, line 1. Close study of the DJD 36 photo of KhQ2 shows the left vertical of that taw slants slightly to the left at about a 45-degree angle (not a 90-degree angle). Underneath the slanting lower part of the vertical is a non-letter dark spot (in texture like the background of the ostracon and unlike the ink of the letter strokes) which has given the illusory appearance of a 90-degree-angle foot. The slant at the end of this KhQ2 taw’s left downstroke is in agreement with taws in KhQ1. The foot of the letter starting KhQ2, line 2, agrees only, and perfectly, with the nuns of KhQ2. 144 Taws in KhQ1: line 1, #4 and #6; line 2, #7; line 4, #2; line 5, #2; line 6, #3 and #10; line 7, #3 and #9; line 10, #4; line 11, #3. KhQ2: line 3, last letter. 145 The two final-form nuns drawn and transcribed by Cross/Eshel at the ends of lines 3 and 4 of KhQ2 are both non-existent. See discussion below. 146 The letter cannot be from a preceding bet giving ‫בנ‬, however much that word might be anticipated, since if the mark were from the the top of a bet the lower part of the bet should also be visible, but it is not. Also and independently, the horizontal mark preceding line 2, #1 does not seem consistent with the top of a

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on context, but it is difficult to identify a proper name ending in ‫הנ‬-. The word is suggested here to be ‫)ה(כו[ ֯הנ‬, “priest”. Though this restoration is conjectural, there seem to be no good alternatives. ‫ )ה(כו[ ֯הנ‬would not be out of place in a list of proper names; presumably it would modify a preceding proper name.

15.4 In line 3, as just noted, the taw (#5) does not have a foot to the left. The spot of ink at the base of the left vertical is the bottom of the vertical which has curved only slightly to the left, in the same form as the taws of KhQ1. There is no final-form nun at the end of line 3 as drawn and transcribed by Cross/Eshel. There could be a trace of ink consistent with a medial nun (i.e. ] ֯‫ )נתנ‬although this is ambiguous in the photograph. A medial nun is expected: compare ‫ בנ‬of line 3 and medial ‫ פ‬in final position in line 3. 15.5 In line 4 Cross/Eshel have a word-division space following ‫[ניו‬, but a better placement of the graphically ambiguous word division seems to be ‫[ני‬ -‫ו‬. The ending –ny is likely the end of another proper name (another Ḥoni?) followed by “and”. However, it could also be read ‫וב[ניו‬, “and his sons: and , etc.” The Cross/Eshel reading of #4 as mem is mistaken; that letter is a resh. 147 The Cross/Eshel reading of #6 as yod is also mistaken. That letter is aleph. The main downstrokes of yod/waw in KhQ1/ KhQ2 are vertical or nearly vertical, 148 but the right stroke of #6 is a slope, starting from the top of a vertical and going down at an angle to the right, indicating the N-shape of aleph. 149 Finally, there is no ink from a final-form nun at the end of line 4 as represented in the Cross/Eshel drawing and tranbet which would have an emphasized tick going upward to the right. 147 The faint mark above the right shoulder of KhQ2, line 4, #4 is non-letter background. The tick on the left is drawn separately from the roof in agreement with the way resh is drawn in KhQ1, as opposed to dalet of KhQ1 which has the left ear and roof drawn in a single stroke. 148 The yod of KhQ1, line 2, #2 is not an exception (see note 35), nor is the yod of KhQ1, line 8, #6 (in this letter, the slope down to the right, then angle to straight down, drawn by both Cross and Yardeni is probably illusory; the stroke seems to be a defaced single line straight down). 149 Yods of KhQ1 (1.7; 2.11; 7.7) as well as at KhQ2 (4.2) illustrate the main downstrokes of yods, which are not like the angled stroke of line 4, #6. The ‘inverted-V’ shape of line 4, #6 is comparable to the alephs of KhQ1 (of lines 3, 5, 6, 7, and 8). The right vertical stroke of the present aleph in KhQ2 is faint but seems visible. Compare similar faint vertical letter strokes on KhQ2: the qof and aleph of line 1 and the vertical of resh of line 4. Compare also the angle at the bottom of the N-shape of line 4, #6 with the identical angle of the aleph above in line 1, and especially also the aleph of KhQ1, line 5, #1.

OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2

115

scription. There are no final-form nuns at all in KhQ2, and and based on ‫[ ֯הנ‬ of line 2 and ‫ בנ‬of line 3 there is no expectation that there should be. The line 4 letters seem to give part of another proper name, ‫ורעא]ל‬, “and ֵ ‫( ְר‬or, if the waw is atReu[el”, corresponding to the biblical Hebrew ‫עוּאל‬ tached to the preceding word: “and his sons: Reu[el…”). There is no reading of Ein Gedi or any other place name in KhQ2.

15.6 KhQ2 therefore appears to be almost entirely proper names: ]‫ [קא‬of line 1, ]‫ חו‬of line 2, ]‫ פ‬of line 3, ]‫ נת‬of line 3, ‫ [ני‬of line 4, and ]‫ רעא‬of line 4 are probably proper names. If the first word of line 2 is ‫)ה(כו[ ֯הנ‬, “the priest”, that too can be consistent with a list of names if it is associated with a preceding proper name. The lack of writing below line 4 means these lines are at the end of a text. What these names mean or represent is unknown, though their position at the end of a text is consistent with Dead Sea documents which typically end with names of signatories and witnesses. However these names of KhQ2 are not actual signatures since they were written by the same writer. 15.7 KhQ1 and KhQ2, although reflecting identical structures of letters in most if not all cases, nevertheless show minor differences in the writing of the letters: A difference in writing the head of qof, if Yardeni’s description is correct. According to Yardeni the qof at KhQ1, line 4, #5 is semicursive in form, whereas the qof of KhQ2, line 1, #1 has a different, formal skeleton. In KhQ1 (line 3) ‫ בן‬is written with final-form nun and ligature. In KhQ2 (line 3) the same word is written ‫ בנ‬with medial-form nun and no ligature. The bets of KhQ1 have a rounded, curved stroke down to the base stroke without a right-shoulder angle. But the one bet of KhQ2 (line 3, #2) appears to have an angle in its right shoulder. The verticals of the ḥet in KhQ2 are higher above the crossbar than in any ḥet in KhQ1 (including at KhQ1 line 2, #4, where the ears are less high than they appear in the DJD 36 photograph, as the color photos make clear). The left verticals of most ḥets in KhQ1 also tend to be slightly concave, whereas in KhQ2 the left vertical of the ḥet is ramrod straight. In the nuns of KhQ2 there is a long left foot at a 90-degree angle. In KhQ1 the nun foots are shorter in length and written at a slant less than a 90degree angle. Or to put it another way, visually the four nuns of KhQ2 have more pronounced foots than any of the numerous nuns of KhQ1. Although these differences seem to suggest different writers with similar or identical scribal training, in another case Yardeni suggested that dif-

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ferences in letters in ostraca which reflect the same distinctive letter structures could indicate the same writer writing at different times and circumstances. 150

150 Yardeni commenting on four ostraca written in Aramaic: “The script of the ostraca is generally the typical Jewish cursive script known from documents and ossuaries from the end of the Second Temple period to the end of the Bar Kokhba revolt. It is reminiscent of the cursive script in the finds from Masada and from Wadi Murabba‘at, though the shape of several of the ostraca letters is not identically attested in them. The occurrence of the same unique letter shapes in all four ostraca may imply they were written by one person. Differences in time and in writing conditions may explain the differences in size and execution of the letters in the four ostraca. The script was executed with a free hand, and the writer was apparently well trained in the common writing style of the period” (Yardeni, “New Jewish Aramaic Ostraca”, 147).

PROLEGOMENA FOR THE SOCIOLINGUISTICS OF CLASSICAL HEBREW WILLIAM M. SCHNIEDEWIND UCLA

[email protected] 1. INTRODUCTION 1.1 The modern study of linguistics has at its heart the problem of defining language. Is language fundamentally a communicative act between people or is it an expression of individual thought? To be sure, there is both a social side to language and a psychological side to language. Language cannot be situated only in the community or only in the individual. Still, the modern field of linguistics has been largely dominated by practitioners of a cognitive and structural view that have relegated the social and community aspects of language to “sociolinguistics”—as though this were a field unrelated to the scientific study of language. Yet, as William Labov pointed out in his critique of the very label “sociolinguistics,” all aspects of language must be seen through the prism of the society in which speakers live and function. 1 The present essay points out the inadequacy of the traditional and formalist approaches to our study of Classical Hebrew and suggests that we must integrate a sociolinguistic approach.

1 See W. Labov, Sociolinguistic Patterns (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1972) xiii; also note the introductory essay in the volume, When Languages Collide: Perspectives on Language Conflict, Language Competition, and Language Coexistence (eds. B. Joseph, J. DeStafano, N. Jacobs, and I. Lehiste; Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2003) vii-ix.

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1.2 In a few recent articles, 2 I have raised basic questions about the nature of language and about the approach to the study of ancient Hebrew. These basic questions in turn informed the way I analyzed the texts and their language. I suggested that we must begin by asking basic questions about the nature of language. The present essay is a prolegomenon to a book that I am writing on the social history of Classical Hebrew. This seems like an appropriate forum to outline the importance of a sociolinguistic and anthropological linguistic approach to Classical Hebrew in the hopes that it will generate further reflection on methodology and help me in crafting the larger monograph.

1.3 One of the basic problems in the scholarly study of Classical Hebrew has been its frequent reliance upon unstated linguistic assumptions. One virtue of an article in the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures by Vincent de Caën was its explicit discussion of linguistic methodology as he laid out a bold new “minimalist” agenda for Hebrew linguistics. Although de Caën tried to make an analogy with the debates in biblical criticism (de Caën, §2), the real theoretical framework for his approach was Universal (or “Generative”) Grammar based on the theories of Noam Chomsky (de Caën, §3.2). Chomskian linguistics have dominated American departments of linguistics for the past half century, while traditional historical linguistics along with sociolinguistics and functional linguistics have mostly prevailed in Europe. 3 Even if we could side with Chomsky in this debate (and I personally would not), Generative Grammar is not appropriate for the study of ancient written languages, and especially for a specific ancient language like Classical Hebrew, because the assumptions and methodology of Generative Grammar are based on vernacular and on the premise of linguistic universals in spoken languages. Since Classical Hebrew is known to us only as a written language, the traditional and formal linguistic approaches that underlie most modern studies of Classical Hebrew seem especially inappropriate. The linguistic anthropologist Alessandro Duranti criticizes this formal approach to linW. M. Schniedewind, “Qumran Hebrew as an Antilanguage,” JBL 118 (1999), pp. 235–52; “Linguistic Ideology in Qumran Hebrew,” in Diggers At the Well: Proceedings of a Third International Symposium on the Hebrew of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Ben Sira, (eds. T. Muraoka and J. F. Elwolde; Leiden: Brill, 2000), pp. 245–55; “Sociolinguistic Reflections on the Letter of a ‘Literate’ Soldier (Lachish 3),” ZAH 13 (2000), pp. 157–67; “Orality and Literacy in Ancient Israel,” RSR 26/4 (2000), pp. 327–32. This research actually was responsible for generating my recent book, How the Bible Became a Book: the Textualization of Ancient Israel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004). 3 For a critique of Chomskian linguistics see R. Botha, Challenging Chomsky (Oxford/New York: Blackwell, 1989). 2

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guistic analysis: “In general, phonologists, morphologists, and syntacticians are more interested in the relationship among different elements of the linguistic system (sounds, parts of words, phrases and sentences) than in the relationship between such elements and the ‘world out there’ that such a system is meant to represent.” 4 This disconnect between Hebrew language and its speakers, I will argue, takes the study of language out of context. Duranti continues, “It is hence a very abstract and removed homo sapiens that is being studied by most formal grammarians, not the kids in a Philadelphia neighborhood or the orators of Ghana.” 5 Or, in the present case, the scribes, poets and singers of ancient Israel.

1.4 Most linguists, including those in the field of Classical Hebrew, do not deal with social life at all. 6 As the British sociolinguist Suzanne Romaine notes, “Modern linguistics has generally taken for granted that grammars are unrelated to the social lives of their speakers”; at the same time, sociologists “have tended to treat society as if it could be constituted without language.” 7 The term sociolinguistics itself was only coined in the 1950s, and the discipline is still young. More recently, the term “anthropological linguistics” has begun replacing sociolinguistics, especially among American scholars. 8 Sociolinguistics tends to address issues like language change, language choice, language and gender, and speech register. Anthropological linguistics incorporates theories of culture into the study of language. To be sure, these two fields are closely related and sometimes seem indistinguishable. Given the youth of these linguistic disciplines, it can hardly be surprising that sociolinguistics and anthropological linguistics have yet to have an impact on the study of Classical Hebrew. Before turning to the academic study of Classical Hebrew, it will be helpful to place the study of Classical Hebrew in a more general linguistic context.

A. Duranti, Linguistic Anthropology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), p. 162. 5 A. Duranti, Linguistic Anthropology, p. 7. 6 See the observations of Labov, “The Study of Language in its Social Context,” in Advances in the Sociology of Language, volume 1, ed. J. Fishman (The Hauge: Mouton and Company, 1971), pp. 152–156. 7 S. Romaine, Language in Society: An Introduction to Sociolinguistics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), p. vii. 8 Cf. Duranti’s Anthropological Linguistics with P. Trudgill, Sociolinguistics: An Introduction to Language and Society (3rd ed.; New York: Penguin, 1995). 4

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2. THE STUDY OF LANGUAGE 2.1 Ferdinand de Saussure (1857–1913), the acknowledged father of modern linguistics, began his Course in General Linguistics with the premise that language is a social institution. 9 Saussure argued that language had both an individual and social aspect and that one was not conceivable without the other. 10 For this reason, Saussure’s Geneva school has been referred to as the “social” school of linguistics. De Saussure pointed out that language is both socially conditioned and socially constrained. A language is constrained by its role as a communication device. We do not talk to ourselves—at least we are not supposed to. A language is conditioned by the ebb and flow of social life—the vicissitudes of war and peace, the inroads of nationalism and imperialism, the upheavals of urbanization and immigration, and the ebb and flow of economic tides. As such, the history of a language mirrors the history of the society that speaks it. Languages take their cues from the social life of peoples and nations. As Edward Sapir put it, “the history of language and the history of culture move along parallel lines.” 11 They move along parallel lines because they are part of the same cultural system. 12 The history of Hebrew is no exception. The course of the Hebrew language tracks the life of the Jewish people. The view that language is a social phenomenon already was prominent in the English philosophers Hobbes and Locke and the French sociologist Emile Durkheim. The influence of Durkheim was particularly strong in Saussure’s understanding of language as a social institution. 13

2.2 Saussure also called attention to the arbitrariness of linguistic signs and especially the written code. Such arbitrary linguistic signs are not the creations of the individual, but the agreed upon code of the community. He emphasized that a language is a social institution composed of a structured system. Saussure’s structuralism was widely adopted in the humanities and social sciences influencing the work of such notable theorists as LéviStrauss and Jakobson. Saussure called attention to the primary nature of F. de Saussure, Course in General Linguistics (3rd ed.; trans. R. Harris; eds. C. Bally and A. Sechehaye; New York, 1983 [1972]), p. 33 [citation of page numbers in Saussure follows the standard pagination of the second edition]. 10 Saussure, Course in General Linguistics, p. 9. 11 E. Sapir, Language: An Introduction to the Study of Speech (New York: Harcourt & Brace,1921), p. 219. 12 On cultural systems see the classic work of C. Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures (New York: Basic, 1973). 13 See G. Sampson, Schools of Linguistics (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1980), pp. 43–48. 9

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oral speech that underpins all verbal communication, while criticizing the tendency to approach language primarily through its written manifestation. According to Saussure, writing is the complement to oral speech. Along the guidelines set forth by Saussure, linguistics developed primarily according to oral categories as a study of phonemics. To some extent, Saussure may be indirectly responsible for the focus in Classical Hebrew studies on phonology and morphology. The preoccupation of historical Hebrew grammar with phonology is particularly odd (and inappropriate) since phonology is the study of a system of speech sounds, while Classical Hebrew is known entirely as system of written symbols. Here is it important to keep in mind the distinction between graphemes (i.e., the written symbols that represent sounds) and phonemes (i.e., the actual speech sounds themselves). The phonemic ambiguities in all graphemic writing systems are well known and can hardly be overstated when we are dealing with ancient languages.

2.3 An individualist theory of language received its impetus from the 19th century linguist, Wilhelm von Humboldt. Von Humboldt emphasized the individuality of language, or the innere Sprachform. Language arises from man’s need to express himself. Language objectifies the individual’s thought. Undoubtedly reflecting the social currents of his day, von Humboldt argued that differences and developments in languages involve the speakers’ understanding of their world (Weltansicht). 14 A modified individualist position became prominent among the students of Noam Chomsky, who explicitly excluded social variation from the subject matter of linguistics. 15

2.4 The studies of Franz Boas, Edward Sapir and Benjamin Whorf added a social component to the individualist approach. 16 In general, they argued that the grammar of a particular language shapes the way we think about reality. Indeed, this approach received a boost from the remarkable diversity of Native American languages. Boas, for instance, suggested that languages classify experience and that these linguistic classifications reflect rather than dictate culture. Sapir defined language as “a purely human and non-instinctive method of communicating ideas, emotions, and desires by means of a system of voluntarily produced symbols.” 17 Whorf, although he acknowledged that cul14 W. von Humboldt, Über die Verschiedenheit des menschlichen Sprachbaues (Darmstadt, 1949), p. 26. 15 N. Chomsky, Aspects of the Theory of Syntax (Cambridge, MA, 1965), p. 3. 16 A summary of their contributions may be found in J. Lucy, Language Diversity and Thought: A Reformulation of the Linguistic Relativity Hypothesis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp. 11–68. 17 Sapir, Language: An Introduction to the Study of Speech, p. 8.

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ture might influence language, emphasized that it was through individuals and their habitual worlds that “language exerts pressure on the culture as a whole.” 18 By way of digression, it should be noted that the Biblical Theology movement laid hold of a rather simplistic and theologically driven form of these early studies of linguistic anthropology. In 1961, James Barr wrote his classic work, The Semantics of Biblical Language, whose biting critique devastated the Biblical Theology movement and its misappropriation of biblical language. Barr’s critique of this movement’s theologically driven appropriation of linguistic anthropology was appropriate; however, it did not justify a complete rejection of linguistic anthropology. In fact, although the famous Sapir-Whorf “linguistic relativity hypothesis” had gone out of fashion for a while, it has recently experienced a revival in the field of linguistic anthropology. 19

2.5 The study of Hebrew language also has been shaped by the neogrammarian revolution of the late 19th century. Historical linguistics had been dominated until lately by this movement, and neogrammarian theory influenced Hebrew grammar in particular. Neogrammarians argued that the principles or laws of language change could be analyzed accurately and completely once all the assembled facts were known. This lure of the neogrammarian immutable “scientific” laws has exerted continuing influence. Again, it should be noted that neogrammarian rules apply to spoken language, not necessarily to written language. 20

2.6 Rigidly applying neogrammarian rules to a strictly written ancient language is problematic. We may illustrate some problems with the example of the Hebrew word hykl “palace, temple.” It is universally acknowledged that this term derives from the Sumerian logogram É.GAL, literally “big house,” and comes into Hebrew through the related Akkadian word ekallu “palace.” A neogrammarian approach cannot adequately explain the spelling in Hebrew since neither Akkadian nor Sumerian apparently had a grapheme to represent h. This example highlights the problem of the simplified inventory of graphemes (written signs) used to represent phonemes (spoken sounds) or morphemes (larger units of sound). Indeed, in phoneme deletion experiments, untrained speakers could not separate the sounds forming a word like fly into individual phonemes; this certainly raises questions about the ability of ancient speakers and even scribes to perform linguistic analyLucy, Language Diversity and Thought, p. 66. Lucy, Language Diversity and Thought, pp. 127–187. 20 As Leonard Bloomfield remarked, “Writing is not language, but merely a way of recording language by means of visible marks” (Language [New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1933], p. 21). 18 19

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ses upon their own language. Yet, most formal approaches use grammatical analyses that assume the ideal speaker (i.e., the average university professor). 21

2.7 Another classic problem is the meaning of the grapheme -w (translated below as a dual) in the Gezer Calendar, a small Hebrew inscription dating to the tenth century BCE. We understand this grapheme as a pronominal suffix. But was it an attempt to faithfully represent the phonetic realization of a pronominal suffix of some type? Or, could the -w primarily a sign marking a dual or plural? It has even been suggested that this written sign was borrowed from Egyptian. Although the latter suggestion has been rejected on paleographic grounds, it does raise the issue of the relationship between written signs (letters or syllables) and their phonemic realization. Other near eastern writing systems, for example, often mark the plural with a linguistic marker that has no phonetic value. Akkadian, for instance, might write “gods” with the cuneiform signs AN.MEŠ = “god + plural,” whose phonetic realization was something akin to /ilū/.

2.8 If a language is a code of arbitrary linguistic signs (as Saussure claimed), writing is all the more so. With this in mind, another messy problem may illustrate the situation: the Akkadian term hāpiru “social outcast” (sometimes transcribed as hāpiru or ʿāpiru) mentioned ˘in the El-Amarna letters and the ˘ Hebrew term “Hebrew,” written consonantally in Hebrew as ʿbry, with the late (or ideologically contrived) etymological meaning “those who came from across (the river)” or the ethnic designation “the descendants of Eber” (see Genesis 10:21–25; 11:15–17). Scholars for generations have been tempted to identify the Akkadian word hābiru with Hebrew because it would give some insight into the early origins˘ of the Israelite tribes. This enterprise, however, has been roundly criticized. To begin with, the Akkadian (hābiru) and Hebrew (ʿibrî) are not written as precise phonetic equiva˘ lents. This objection, however, assumes a strict correspondence between graphemes and phonemes. Such an assumption is quite unfounded given the inherent flexibility of the syllabic cuneiform writing system, on the one hand, and the terse simplicity of the consonantal alphabetic Hebrew writing system, on the other. The different writing systems create difficulties; for instance, Akkadian does not have a grapheme to express the guttural ʿ 21 Linguistics has shown that the psychological reality of the phoneme is dependent on the linguistic training of the speaker (see Duranti, Linguistic Anthropology, pp. 126). This means that the ability to separate syllables into individual sounds such as consonants or vowels is dependent on the training of the person. It is not something that is recognized intuitively, which is one reason the alphabet is such an important linguistic innovation.

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(ʿayin), while Hebrew does not have a separate grapheme for h (a velar frica˘ tive). A strictly phonological analysis also does not factor the ideological component of language change; in this case, the Hebrew could be reetymologizing the negative social label into a geographically descriptive or neutral ethnic label. Since the early Hebrew writing system originally did not use vowels and these terms were likely used over a long period of time, it was easy for the phonology and meaning of a word to evolve for ideological or theological reasons. Moreover, pseudo-etymology is certainly an important form of commentary in the Hebrew Bible. This problem also highlights the chronological disjunction between the Late Bronze texts and the first Hebrew manuscripts a millennium later; and, manuscripts with vowel pointing are not known for yet another millennium. For these reasons, it is difficult to make judgments with certainty; and, such discussions cannot proceed based on graphemic transcriptions alone. The social context and content of language transmission plays a critical role. Linguistic change can be socially loaded.

2.9 Language is a social marker. This truism can be readily illustrated by the well known biblical example from Judges 12:4–6: Then Jephthah gathered all the men of Gilead and fought with Ephraim; and the men of Gilead defeated Ephraim, because they said, “You are fugitives from Ephraim, you Gileadites—in the heart of Ephraim and Manasseh.” Then the Gileadites took the fords of the Jordan against the Ephraimites. Whenever one of the fugitives of Ephraim said, “Let me go over,” the men of Gilead would say to him, “Are you an Ephraimite?” When he said, “No,” they said to him, “Then say Shibboleth,” and he said, “Sibboleth,” for he could not pronounce it right. Then they seized him and killed him at the fords of the Jordan.

While the problem how exactly the dialects differed is still a matter of debate (in part because of the imprecision of the graphemes), 22 the commonplace sociolinguistic observation that language and linguistic forms can index social groups is clearly played out in this text. 23 While traditional linguistic approaches have endlessly debated the precise pronunciation of the sibilants, the real linguistic import is sociolinguistic. It tells us, for instance, that language is a social boundary. Even among the Israelite tribes, linguistic distinctions were recognized and served as social markers. In the post-exilic For the latest attempt to unravel the phonemics of these passage, see R. Woodhouse, “The Biblical Shibboleth Story in the Light of Late Egyptian Perceptions of Semitic Sibilants: Reconciling Divergent Views,” JAOS 123 (2003), pp. 271–90. 23 See Trudgill, Sociolinguistics, pp. 1–21. 22

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times, Nehemiah suggests illustrates how highly charged language could be as a social marker: “In those days also I saw Jews who had married Ashdodite, Ammonite, and Moabite women; and half of their children spoke the Ashdodite, and the language of those various peoples, and did not know how to speak Judean” (Neh 13:23–24). The description of this foreign language as “Ashdodite” is socially loaded, especially since the language was probably some dialect of Aramaic. The condemnation is, simply put, that these “Judeans/Jews (‫ ”)יהודים‬couldn’t speak Judean. How can you be a Jew, Nehemiah asks, if you can’t speak the Jewish language (‫ ?)יהודית‬On the basis of language, we distinguish homelands, national and political affiliations, as well as social class. We also use language classification to cast aspersions. In the words of Henry Higgins, “An Englishman’s way of speaking absolutely classifies him.” 24 To change our classification, we try to change the way we speak. This is to say that language choice and language change can be socially loaded.

2.10 Even those who emphasize the universality and innateness of language must admit that there is a social aspect to language. Chomskian linguists have emphasized that language is innate in the human brain. Consequently, they find language universals that generate linguistic phenomena across the whole spectrum of languages, although their work has tended to focus on a few European languages. This approach to linguistics, usually called Generative Grammar, has had limited application to Hebrew until recently. Undoubtedly this is due to the emphasis on language universals. If language systems are universal, what point is there in focusing on Hebrew in particular? But even Chomskian linguists have to admit that language is both universal and particular. Steven Pinker, perhaps the most articulate defender of Chomsky’s theory of language, argues at length in The Language Instinct that language (or more precisely grammar) is part of the circuitry of the human brain. Even if this were correct, Pinker also admits that language is partly social: “language inherently involves sharing a code with other people.” 25 In his critique of generative grammar, William Labov argued that “one cannot make any major advance towards understanding the mechanism of linguistic change without serious study of the social factors which motivate linguistic evolution.” 26

24 Taken from the screen adaptation, My Fair Lady, of George Bernard Shaw’s play, Pygmalion. 25 S. Pinker, The Language Instinct: How the Mind Creates Language (New York: Morrow and Company, 1994), p. 243. 26 Labov, Sociolinguistic Patterns, p. 252.

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2.11 The historical study of the Hebrew grammar, focusing as it should on the diachronic developments of one particular language, fundamentally falls outside the universe of Chomskian linguistics. One recent problem in the field of biblical criticism has been the dating of texts and this issue has spilled over into the field of Hebrew linguistics. 27 De Caën correctly notes that Chomskian linguistics would help us around the diachronic issues. A Chomskian approach would be synchronic and ahistorical. But is this what we want? Indeed, Chomskian linguistics probably get us out of the whole business of the ancient Hebrew language itself since it is an approach that studies living, spoken languages and denies this importance of the study of particular languages. It is hardly surprising then (and quite appropriate) that Chomsky has not been extensively employed for the study of Hebrew grammar. Exceptions appear to be J. Naude’s study of Qumran Hebrew and the recent article by de Caën. 28 Neither justify the use of this methodology to study ancient Hebrew. 29

2.12 Recent trends in linguistics have emphasized the functional aspects of language. Functional linguistics have blossomed over the past decades in an almost bewildering display of color and variety. 30 They have in common the premise that language arises from man’s need to communicate (as opposed to the notion that language arises from man’s need to express himself). It is functional grammar that has most sharply been set against Chomskian Universal Grammar in the debate among linguistic circles.

2.13 While functional grammar has begun to make its way into the field of biblical studies, 31 the related fields of sociolinguistics and anthropological 27 For example, E. Knauf, “War “Biblisch-Hebräisch” eine Sprache?,” ZAH 1 (1990), pp. 11–23; A. Hurvitz, “The Historical Quest for “Ancient Israel” and the Linguistic Evidence of the Hebrew Bible: Some Methodological Observations,” VT 47 (1997), pp. 310–315. 28 J. A. Naudé, “Towards a Typology of Qumran Hebrew,” JNSL 20/2 (1994), pp. 61–78; V. de Caën, “Hebrew Linguistics and Biblical Criticism: A Minimalist Programme,” JHS 3/6 (2001) [http://www.jhsonline.org and http://purl.org/jhs]. 29 For a general critique of Chomskian linguistics see R. Botha, Challenging Chomsky. 30 See J. Nichols, “Functional Theories of Grammar,” ARA 13 (1984), pp. 97– 117. 31 See, for example, M. Rosenbaum, Word-Order Variation in Isaiah 40–55: A Functional Perspective (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1997); R. Buth, “Word order in the verbless clause: A generative-functional approach,” in The Verbless Clause in Biblical Hebrew. Linguistic Approaches, (ed. C. Miller; LSAWS, 1; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1999), pp. 79–108; R. Buth, “Functional grammar, Hebrew and Aramaic: an integrated, textlinguistic approach to syntax,” in Discourse Analysis of Biblical Lit-

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linguistics have not yet made headway into the study of Classical Hebrew. Sociolinguists argue that “attitudes to language clearly play an important role in preserving or removing dialect differences.” 32 One of the fathers of the field of sociolinguistics, William Labov, objected to the term sociolinguistics because he argued that language is a social behavior and that the term sociolinguistics was therefore redundant and misleading. 33 Language is used in social contexts for communicating needs, ideas, and emotions to one another. Labov argued that the study of languages could never be separated from their social contexts. He suggested a different term, “the sociology of language,” might be used to refer to the interaction of large scale social factors like dialect and language interaction, language planning, nationalism and language, or standardization of language.

2.14 Orality-literacy studies suggest that developments in literacy and writing technologies have had a critical impact on the relationship between oral speech and written texts. 34 Whatever the value of Saussurian linguistics for the study of modern languages (and this is debated), it seems clear that Saussure’s description of written language as merely the complement of oral speech is particularly inadequate for ancient societies that were primarily oral. Writing is a quite intentional act, much more so than oral speech. Indeed, writing is particularly artificial in primarily non-literate societies where writing is restricted to scribal schools and sponsored by state institutions. 35 2.15 The smaller phonetic and morphological issues have been a main focus of studies in the history of the Hebrew language, in spite of the fact that study of such linguistic phenomena normally depends on living oral speech. The conventions of writing often remain unchanged even after speecherature: What it is and What it Offers (ed. W. Bodine; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1995), pp. 77–102; J. Winther-Nielsen, A Functional Discourse Grammar of Joshua. AComputerAssisted Rhetorical Structure Analysis (ConBOT, 40; Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1995). 32 Trudgill, Sociolinguistics, p. 23. 33 Labov, Sociolinguistic Patterns, p. 183. 34 See J. Goody, The Domestication of the Savage Mind (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977); The Logic of Writing and the Organization of Society (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986); W. Ong, Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word (Padstow, Cornwall: T. J. Press, 1982); “Writing is a Technology That Restructures Thought,” in The Written Word: Literacy in Transition (ed. Gerd Baumann; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1986), pp. 23–50. 35 For the distinction between illiterate and non-literate see B. Holbek, “What the Illiterate Think of Writing,” in Literacy and Society (eds. K. Schousboe and M. Larsen; Copenhagen: Akademisk Forlag, 1989), pp. 183–96.

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forms have undergone profound linguistic changes. As Bloomfield pointed out, “The inadequacy of the actual [writing] systems is due largely to the conservatism of the people who write.” 36 As a result, we must view writing as much more than a complement to oral speech. It is socially defined by the scribal training sponsored by state institutions—temple and palace. Spellings are habitual, remaining long after speech-forms have changed as we readily observe in English words like knight, gnat, or doubt. Moreover, Bloomfield pointed out that “once a system of spelling has become antiquated in relation to the spoken sounds, learned scribes are likely to invent pseudo-archaic spellings.” 37 So, for example, the b in loanwords like debt, doubt, and subtle comes not from Old French, but rather the spellings were created by learned scribes who knew the Latin antecedents debtium, dubito, subtilis. Similarly, Qumran Hebrew contains many pseudo-classicisms invented by learned scribes. 38

2.16 The development of spelling tends to be ideologically driven. As sociolinguists have suggested, language “acts as an important symbol of group consciousness and solidarity.” 39 For example, the division of Europe into nation-states during the last century was accompanied by the increase in “languages.” One important way of distinguishing those closely related languages was the development of different orthographies. Once we realize this, we must question whether different graphemic realizations of hypothesized proto-semitic phonemes in languages like Hebrew and Aramaic reflect any actual significant differences in phonemic realization. What is really behind the different ways that Northwest Semitic languages appropriated the 22 letter Phoenician alphabet? It is certainly not to be assumed that it is merely an attempt to accurately assign graphemes to the phonemic inventory in the way that a modern linguist would. For example, why did Old Aramaic spell the Proto-Semitic word /*ʾarḍu/ “ground, land” as ʾrq and then change its spelling to ʾr while Hebrew spelled it ʾrṣ ? Surely, we cannot Bloomfield, Language, p. 291. Bloomfield, Language, p. 292. 38 Schniedewind, “Qumran Hebrew as an Antilanguage,” JBL 118 (1999), pp. 235–252; and, “Linguistic Ideology in Qumran Hebrew,” in Diggers At the Well: Proceedings of a Third International Symposium on the Hebrew of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Ben Sira (ed. T. Muraoka and J. F. Elwolde; Leiden: Brill, 2000), pp. 245–255. Also see J. Joosten, “PseudoClassicisms in Late Biblical Hebrew, in Ben Sira, and in Qumran Hebrew,” in Sirach, Scrolls, and Sages: Proceedings of a Second International Symposium on the Hebrew of the Dead Sea Scrolls, Ben Sira, and the Mishnah, held at Leiden University, 15– 17 December 1997 (eds. T. Muraoka and J. F. Elwolde; Leiden: Brill, 1999), pp. 146– 159. 39 Trudgill, Sociolinguistics, p. 128. 36 37

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explain these differences as phonetic. At best, this reflects the inadequacy of the graphemic inventory. It also likely reflects linguistic ideologies of the respective lands.

3. THE STUDY OF CLASSICAL HEBREW 3.1 The historical boundaries of Classical Hebrew have been organized according to the classical period of Jewish history as seen by Protestant scholars. That is, Classical Hebrew is the Hebrew of the Old Testament. As the sociolinguists Judith Irvine and Susan Gal observe, Linguistic ideologies are held not only by the immediate participants in a local sociolinguistic system. They are also held by other observers, such as the linguists and ethnographers who have mapped the boundaries of languages and peoples, and provided descriptive accounts of them. 40

In the case of Classical Hebrew—often understood as synonymous with Biblical Hebrew—it is mostly a construct of Protestant theologians. 41 It is circumscribed by the corpus of the Old Testament, in spite of the linguistic diversity of that corpus. It is separated from “Rabbinic Hebrew,” in spite of the similarities between direct speech in biblical literature and Rabbinic Hebrew. Thus, the rubric of “Classical Hebrew” is as Christian as the “Old Testament.” Classical Hebrew has usually excluded Rabbinic or Mishnaic Hebrew, which belonged to the next era of Jewish history—the period after Christianity’s decisive break with Judaism. For my part, I would prefer to use Classical Hebrew as a catch-all to refer to all Hebrew texts, both biblical and non-biblical, in the pre-Rabbinic period. It could even include the early phase of Rabbinic Hebrew (=RH1) if we understood defined it as the period when Hebrew was a living language in Palestine. This would include epigraphic Hebrew, Qumran Hebrew, RH1 as well as the Hebrew of the biblical corpus. Biblical Hebrew, in contrast, would describe the limited corpus of biblical Hebrew literature.

3.2 The discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls muddied the distinction between Biblical and Mishnaic Hebrew considerably. 42 Before the discovery of the 40 J. Irvine and S. Gal, “Language Ideology and Linguistic Differentiation,” in Regimes of Language: Ideologies, Polities and Identities (ed. P. Kroskrity; Santa Fe, NM: School of American Research, 2000), pp. 35–36. 41 For an account of the study of Classical Hebrew see S. Goldman, God’s Sacred Tongue: Hebrew & the American Imagination (Chapel Hill/London: University of North Carolina Press, 2004); P. Lapide, Hebrew in the Church: the Foundations of JewishChristian Dialogue (trans. E. Rhodes; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1984). 42 See, for example, the different approaches reflected in three symposium volumes: The Hebrew of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Ben Sira: Proceedings of a Symposium Held at

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Dead Sea Scrolls, it could be argued that the break was as much a reflection of a gap in the sources as it was a reflection of religious ideology. At least a half a millennium separated the later books of the Hebrew Bible from the codification of the Mishnah. The Dead Sea Scrolls have filled in this gap with a Hebrew language that is neither Biblical nor Mishnaic. It should force us to rethink categories like Classical Hebrew. One immediate consequence can be seen in the most recent dictionary project of “Classical Hebrew” carried out by Sheffield University, which tries not to privilege biblical texts. 43 The range of the dictionary ends at 200 CE, thereby excluding the Mishnah and later Jewish texts. Moreover, the approach of the dictionary is synchronic—a dubious methodology for a dictionary covering a millennium of the Hebrew language. The range of the dictionary, nevertheless, is a step in the right direction.

3.3 Jewish scholars, in contrast, have long emphasized the continuity of the Hebrew language. For example, Segal’s grammar of Mishnaic Hebrew begins by dividing Hebrew into roughly four periods with the first two defined as Biblical (ca. 1000–200 BCE) and Mishnaic (400 BCE–400 CE). Segal objected to the characterization of Mishnaic Hebrew as “new Hebrew” (e.g., in Brown-Driver-Briggs) because it obscured both the later phases of Hebrew and the relationship between Biblical and Mishnaic Hebrew. Segal’s categories of Biblical and Mishnaic Hebrew overlap and he notes (to some extent correctly) that “BH continued to be used as a literary idiom long after the rise of MH.” 44 No doubt this reflects in part the Jewish sense of the continuity in their own history. Although Hebrew ceased to be spoken as an everyday language sometime in the third or fourth centuries CE, it continued to be used as the language of sacred literature and even served as a trade language among Jews throughout the Diaspora who shared their knowledge of Hebrew religious texts. Leiden University, 11–14 December 1995 (eds. T. Muraoka and J. Elwolde; Leiden: Brill, 1997); Sirach, Scrolls, and Sages: Proceedings of a Second International Symposium on the Hebrew of the Dead Sea Scrolls, Ben Sira, and the Mishnah, held at Leiden University, 15–17 December 1997; and, Diggers At the Well: Proceedings of a Third International Symposium on the Hebrew of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Ben Sira. 43 D. Clines, DCH. Volume I, ‫( א‬Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993), p. 7. M. Segal, A Grammar of Mishnaic Hebrew (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1927), p. 1, n. 1. In contrast, the more recent book by the non-Jewish scholar M. Fernández begins by emphasizing the disconcerting and striking differences between Biblical and Rabbinic Hebrew (An Introductory Grammar of Rabbinic Hebrew [trans. J. Elwolde; Leiden: Brill, 1997], p. 1). 44

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3.4 Even while there is an ideological undercurrent to the classification of Hebrew, there is also a measure of truth to these classifications. Thus, for example, substantive differences exist between the Hebrew of the Bible and that of the Mishnah and these differences certainly justify a distinction between Biblical and Rabbinic Hebrew. At the same time, some diachronic developments evident within Biblical Hebrew, especially Late Biblical Hebrew, find their linguistic realization in Rabbinic Hebrew. Thus, there is both continuity and distinction and this is hardly a surprising linguistic development. Linguistic ideology comes into play in the ways we often choose to highlight either continuity or distinction. 3.5 It should hardly be surprising that the diachronic study of Classical Hebrew in its social context is relatively undeveloped territory. Indeed, a little more than two decades ago Labov described the study of language change in its social context as a virgin field. 45 Since then some scholars have begun to cultivate this field, but little work has been done specifically in Classical Hebrew. The tradition of the field of Semitic linguistics and Hebrew in particular has followed a descriptive and neogrammarian orientation with its emphasis on morphology and phonology. This is perhaps best illustrated by the fact that the classic grammar of Biblical Hebrew, Gesenius–Kautzsch– Cowley, gives almost no attention to syntax. The grammars of Joüon and Brockelmann are only slightly better. 46 The grammar by Waltke and O’Connor also focuses primarily on morphology and phonology in spite of its promising title, An Introduction to Biblical Hebrew Syntax. 47 To be sure, the study of Hebrew has not been consciously neogrammarian. It has usually not been consciously anything. This is perhaps one of the problems in the study of Hebrew historical linguistics. A quick perusal of the main historical grammars and histories of the Hebrew language will not turn up anything like a prolegomena to the study of language. One exception to this might be the somewhat neglected study of Zelig Harris, The Development of the Canaanite Dialects. 48 The study of Hebrew, especially Classical Hebrew, has been quite conventional, but unconsciously so. And, conventional means that

Labov, Sociolinguistic Patterns, p. 260. Joüon, A Grammar of Biblical Hebrew (trans. and rev. T. Muraoka; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1991); Brockelmann, Hebräische Syntax (Neukirchen: Neukirchen Verlag, 1956). 47 Bruce K. Waltke and M. O’Connor, An Introduction to Biblical Hebrew Syntax (Winona Lake, IN, 1990). 48 Z. Harris, Development of the Canaanite Dialects: An investigation in linguistic history (AOS, 16; New Haven, 1939). 45 46

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traditional grammars and histories of Hebrew have been neogrammarian and descriptive.

3.6 As early as the 1950s, Chaim Rabin wrote an article on the social background of Qumran Hebrew. 49 In the 1970s he published a very short book entitled, A Short History of the Hebrew Language, which was expressly concerned with the relationship between language and Jewish social life. 50 And, his now standard article on the emergence of Classical Hebrew gives a decidedly sociological interpretation. 51 Rabin’s work reflected his broad training in linguistics and his interest in practical fields like translation theory. While Rabin’s articles on the emergence of Classical Hebrew and on Qumran Hebrew have been well received, his sociolinguistic history of Hebrew is practically unknown.

3.7 Several authors have addressed issues that would fall into the purview of sociolinguistics. The classic, but now almost forgotten, work of Zelig Harris was concerned with the “Linguistic Conditions in Syria-Palestine” as these shaped the structure of Canaanite. The important work of Randall Garr employs a thoroughgoing descriptive approach in mapping a dialect geography of Syria-Palestine. 52 This begins to build the foundation for sociolinguistic analysis. Likewise, the many studies by Avi Hurvitz develop and employ a careful diachronic method for distinguishing between historical strata of the Hebrew language, especially establishing the parameters of late Biblical Hebrew; this research furthers the foundation for sociolinguistic analysis. 53 Gary Rendsburg’s revised dissertation published in 1990 under 49 Ch. Rabin, “The Historical Background of Qumran Hebrew,” ScrHier 4 (1958), pp. 144–61. 50 Rabin describes it as follows: “The tendency of this book is sociological, and approaches somewhat the methods of the science of sociolinguistics, without any pretence at either sociological profundity or the scientific evaluation of detailed facts as practiced by that science” (A Short History of the Hebrew Language [Jerusalem: Jewish Agency, 1973], p. 5). 51 Ch. Rabin, “The Emergence of Classical Hebrew,” in The Age of the Monarchies: Culture and Society (ed. Abraham Malamat; Jerusalem: Massada, 1979), pp. 71– 78. 52 W. R. Garr, Dialect Geography of Syria-Palestine: 1000–586 B.C. (Philadephia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1985). 53 Some of the more important studies by Hurvitz include The Transition Period in Biblical Hebrew (Jerusalem: Bialik, 1972) [Hebrew]; A Linguistic Study of the Relationship between the Priestly Source and the Book of Ezekiel (Paris: Gabalda, 1981); “Originals and Imitations in Biblical Poetry: A Comparative Examination of 1 Sam 2:1–10 and Ps 113:5–9,” in Biblical and Related Studies Presented to Samuel Iwry (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1986), pp. 115–21; “Continuity and Innovation in Biblical Hebrew. The

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the title, Diglossia in Ancient Hebrew, points to twelve grammatical features that he considers colloquial. He points out that the appearance of these features becomes especially prominent in Late Biblical Hebrew, but that they also appear in Standard Biblical Hebrew. He reasons that “the dialect that later emerged as MH [=Mishnaic Hebrew] was already in use in the early Biblical period too.” 54 Relying on Rabin’s analysis of the emergence of Classical Hebrew, he notes recent trends in linguistics that emphasize “the effect that political and social change may have on a language.” 55 The subject, unfortunately, is dropped there. Rendsburg’s more recent work focusing on dialect geography and the history of Hebrew is not explicitly sociolinguistic, yet his work nevertheless touches on sociolinguistic issues time and again.

3.8 Perhaps the most extensive foray into the social background of Hebrew is Ian Young’s Diversity in Pre-Exilic Hebrew. 56 Young eschews the traditional approach that tends to minimize linguistic diversity in order to create a standard Biblical grammar. Young argues that orthodox scholarship (as he terms it) relies too heavily on chronological explanations to account for the linguistic diversity in Biblical Hebrew. He describes the diversity of preexilic Hebrew that he argues begins with the social diversity of the Israelite tribes themselves. He points to the impact of social forces on the linguistic evolution of pre-exilic Hebrew. The United Monarchy, for example, becomes the catalyst for a standardization of Hebrew. Young’s work is an important foray. He collects and analyzes many of the possible types of preexilic Hebrew and ascribes a variety of social settings to account for diversity. Young’s work can be developed further in three important respects. First, there is little use of sociolinguistics or anthropological linguistics to inform Young’s social analyses. As Labov argued, “the forces operating to produce linguistic change today are the same kind and order of magnitude as those which operated in the past five or ten thousand years.” 57 This observation certainly invites broader interdisciplinary reflection on language diversity and change. Second, Young accepts quite superficial analyses of Case of “Semantic Change” in Post-exilic Writings,” in Studies in Ancient Hebrew Semantics (ed. T. Muraoka; Louvain: Peeters, 1995), pp. 1–10; Hurvitz, “The Historical Quest for ‘Ancient Israel’ and the Linguistic Evidence of the Hebrew Bible: Some Methodological Observations,” VT 47 (1997), pp. 310–315. 54 G. Rendsburg, Diglossia in Ancient Hebrew (AOS, 72; New Haven: American Oriental Society, 1990), p. 166. 55 Rendsburg, Diglossia, pp. 166–167. Rendsburg points here to the work of Saussure, though Saussure is by no means the main proponent of sociolinguistic analysis. 56 I. Young, Diversity in Pre-Exilic Hebrew (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1993). 57 Labov, Sociolinguistic Patterns, p. 275.

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the historical forces that shaped the evolution of Classical Hebrew. Without a clear idea of the social forces at work, it is impossible to draw proper conclusions about the evolution of the Hebrew Language. Finally, Young relies on assumptions about linguistic diversity generated by spoken languages. Biblical Hebrew, however, is a literary language. Biblical literature and its written linguistic forms were generated largely in well-defined scribal schools. For all these reasons, Young’s emphasis on synchronic linguistic diversity seems overstated.

3.9 Another way to describe the field of Classical Hebrew scholarship might be “formalist.” By this, I mean that Classical Hebrew has often been treated as though the essential nature of Hebrew is intrinsic. The Hebrew language has been studied in isolation from other external forces, most notably sociological forces. We may further illustrate the problem by analogy with the related field of literature. I. R. Titunik explains the formalist position in literary theory: ... literature was an extrasocial phenomenon, or rather, that which constituted the “literariness” of literature—its specificity—was something self-valuable, self-contained, and self-perpetuating that should and must be isolated from the social surrounding in which it existed in order to be made an object of knowledge; that while social forces and events could, and did sometimes even drastically, affect literature from the outside, the real, intrinsic nature of literature remained immune, exclusively and forever true to itself alone; that, therefore proper and productive study of literature is possible only in “immanent” terms. 58

Likewise, the traditional study of Classical Hebrew has eschewed social explanations. One can scarcely find any mention of social forces in traditional grammars. Historical linguistics has conceded only perfunctory that society might shape linguistic change. It is recognized, for instance, that the enormous influence that Aramaic exerted on Hebrew began with sociohistorical factors.

4. METHODOLOGICAL PROBLEMS 4.1 A significant obstacle to a sociolinguistic approach lies in the limited nature of the data. This pertains to both language and social history. To begin with, the evidence of Classical Hebrew comes only from sporadic written sources. There is little evidence for spoken Hebrew. A main literary I. R. Titunik, “The Formal Method and the Sociological Method (M. M. Baxtin, P. N. Medvedev, V. N. Voloßinov) in Russian Theory and the Study of Literature,” in Marxism and the Philosophy of Language (trans. L. Matejka and I. R. Titunik; Cambridge, MA, 1973), p. 181. 58

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source, the Hebrew Bible, was known largely from medieval manuscripts until the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls provided witnesses as early as the third century BCE. 59 Even the Dead Sea Scrolls come to us quite removed from the autographs, and incorporate some changes in their transmission. 60 Epigraphic sources, as well as the Dead Sea Scrolls, are primarily consonantal, although a restricted use of vowel letters does develop.

4.2 Unfortunately, the study of linguistic change in Classical Hebrew must be limited to the study of written language. In a way, however, this makes the task easier. Writing is a deliberate undertaking. It is learned in school settings. It follows conventions. It tends to be quite conservative. Innovations are usually prompted by strong social forces. Writing at first was entrenched in scribal schools, that is, in a social institution. Even when literacy begins to spread, it is socially marked. So, for example, when an Israelite junior officer writes to his commander he is insistent that he knows how to read since being literate was expected. 61 The paths of speech and writing tend to diverge because of the innovative nature of speech as against the conservative nature of writing. 62

4.3 Although this attempts to summarize the major phases, it should be recognized that written and spoken languages never actually merge; that is, the lines of development never touch. As a rule, “we must be able to measure both linguistic and social phenomena so that we can correlate the two accurately.” 63 It may be argued that we cannot sufficiently measure either. This is certainly true for the earliest stages in the development of Hebrew. Much of the social history of Israel, and especially those concerning early Israel, is the subject of some discussion by scholars in the field. Obviously, there are no native informants for Classical Hebrew. There is a relatively limited corpus of biblical and non-biblical literature. These problems certainly should give some pause, but they are not sufficient reason for paralysis. Rather, it only means that we must have an ongoing discussion about the relationship between language and society in ancient Palestine. See F. M. Cross, “The History of the Biblical Text in Light of Discoveries in the Judaean Desert,” in Qumran and the History of the Biblical Text (eds. F. M. Cross and S. Talmon; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1975), pp. 177–195. 60 E. Y. Kutscher, The Language and Linguistic Background of the Isaiah Scroll (IQ Isa) (Leiden: Brill, 1974). 61 See Schniedewind, “Sociolinguistic Reflections on the Letter of a ‘Literate’ Soldier (Lachish 3).” 62 Rendsburg, Diglossia in Ancient Hebrew, p. 184. 63 Trudgill, Sociolinguistics, p. 31. 59

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4.4 The aforementioned problem of studying linguistic change is well known. Indeed, it is one reason the science of linguistics has proceeded more along a synchronic rather than diachronic path. But the way forward is not hopelessly overgrown. William Labov took note of the grave difficulties: “we have too little information on the state of society in which most linguistic changes took place. The accidents which govern historical records are not likely to yield the systematic explanations we need.” 64 The problem of studying the sociolinguistics of Hebrew could not be more aptly put. Labov found a way through by positing his Uniformitarian Principle: “the forces operating to produce linguistic change today are the same kind and order of magnitude as those which operated in the past five or ten thousand years.” 65 To be specific, the forces of social change, economic and political history, and physical environment tend to produce rather predictable linguistic changes. If we can adequately identify and assess the social forces that contributed to linguistic change in ancient Palestine, we should also be able to identify the impression these forces left on the Hebrew language.

5.

MECHANISMS OF LANGUAGE CHANGE AND ITS MOTIVATIONS

5.1 Language change is shaped by both nature and society. As such, language is part of the nature versus nurture debate. This debate, at least in part, is a matter of semantics and emphasis. A well-known example from the history of English can illustrate. The transition to early Modern English was ushered in by the Great Vowel Shift. The great debate among linguists is how to account for such changes. Following a model of unconscious natural development, some argue that perhaps long vowels sounded too similar to short vowels that were present in English due to influence of Latin on Anglo-Saxon; the Great Shift compensated for this. A more conscious sociolinguistic approach, on the other hand, might explain the differences as resulting from the elite classes attempting to create linguistic distinction after Norman French became obsolete. 66 Both these explanations, however, involve sociolinguistics. In the former explanation, the Great Shift Labov, Sociolinguistic Patterns, p. 274. Labov, Sociolinguistic Patterns, p. 275. Labov details these principles in his monumental three volume work, Principles of Linguistic Change. The first two volumes are published and the third is forthcoming; see Principles of Linguistic Change: Internal Factors, volume 1 (Language in Society, 20; Oxford: Blackwell, 1994) and Principles of Linguistic Change: Social Factors, volume 2 (Language in Society, 29; Oxford: Blackwell, 2001). 66 Pinker, The Language Instinct, p. 250. 64 65

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still results from the migrations of Anglo-Saxons and the vestiges of Latin in the British Isles. To be sure, language change under this model was natural and unconscious, but it was conditioned nevertheless by social factors. The latter explanation, on the other hand, might be construed as unnatural by some grammarians—but they are only so if language is viewed primarily as part of nature rather than equally a product of human interaction.

5.2 Social class distinction is a part of human culture—utopian social experimentation not withstanding. Although some understanding of the innate cognitive and physical aspects of speech form the foundation for a study of language change, it is impossible to fully appreciate language change without attention to the social forces at work.

5.3 Changes in social life are important leading indicators of linguistic change. As the eminent sociolinguist Peter Trudgill pointed out, “Linguistic changes follow social changes very readily, but it is not always a simple matter to make them precede them.” 67 For practical as well as methodological reasons then, the study of historical Hebrew linguistics must begin with social changes in ancient Palestine. Mikail Bakhtin writes,

5.4 What is important about the word in this regard is not so much its sign purity as its social ubiquity. The word is implicated in literally each and every act or contact between people—in collaboration on the job, in ideological exchanges, in the chance contacts of ordinary life, in political relationships, and so on. Countless ideological threads running through all areas of social intercourse register effect in the word. It stands to reason, then, that the word is the most sensitive index of social changes, and what is more, of changes still in the process of growth, still without definitive shape and not as yet accommodated into already regularized and fully defined ideological systems. 68

5.5 In this respect, there is a symbiotic relationship between language and social history. On the one hand, social history provides clues for identifying periods when we might expect seminal changes in the Hebrew language. On the other hand, language change points to changes in the social life of ancient Israel and early Judaism.

5.6 Following Bakhtin’s supposition that the historical explanation of language change must directly follow changes in social life, the study of Biblical Hebrew grammar would have to be organized by the fundamental social changes in the history of the Jewish people over the course of nearly two 67 68

Trudgill, Sociolinguistics, p. 83. Voloßinov, Marxism and the Philosophy of Language, p. 19.

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millennia. The way we see the world religiously, culturally, socially, and politically determines how we learn language. How one sees the world socially colors the way we learn and use language. Thus, seminal religious, cultural, social, and political changes are antecedents for language change.

5.7 What were the major social contexts that shaped changes in Classical Hebrew? To the chagrin of those studying language, this messy question would have to be an important foundation. Some of the major social contexts that have been suggested (or should be addressed) would include the following. First, to what extent did the administrative structures of the Late Bronze City-States frame the learning of writing systems in the early Iron Age? Was there really a David-Solomonic state that shaped the origins of the Classical Hebrew language? Or, perhaps more plausibly, did the rise of petty nationalisms in Syria-Palestine during the ninth and eighth shape an individualization of the Northwest Semitic Languages? To what extent did the urbanization of the late Judean monarchy impact the Hebrew language? What about the pax Assyrica? Archaeologists generally posit a substantial growth in literacy (especially mundane literacy) during the late monarchy. To what extent would this spread of writing in the late Judean monarchy help shape the Hebrew language? The importance of the Babylonian destruction of Jerusalem, Judah and, more generally, the Levant certainly impacted the development of language. More importantly, the Persian Empire’s use of an Aramaic administrative language left a palpable impact on the subsequent changes in the Hebrew language. Reacting perhaps to the linguistic imperialism of Aramaic and then Greek, Jewish nationalism in the Hasmonean and Roman periods would be accompanied by the ideological use of Hebrew as a symbol of the Jewish nation. To what extent did religious sectarianism and social class distinctions would work themselves out in Qumran Hebrew and the emergence of Mishnaic Hebrew? These are just a few of the messy questions that to some extent shape the historical development of the Hebrew language

5.8 Many of the questions raised by sociolinguistics are beyond our reach. We are limited by both historical and linguistic data. Our knowledge of ancient Jewish society is also limited. The historical sources include archaeological evidence, ancient inscriptions, and biblical narratives. Each offers something, but all have their limitations. Archaeological data is perhaps the most significant, offering insight into the social and historical processes at work in ancient Israel. The limitations of the data mean that the sociolinguistic study of Classical Hebrew must remain an ongoing discourse refined both by new data and new perspectives.

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6. LANGUAGE AND CHANGES IN SOCIAL LIFE 6.1 Social history provides clues for periods when we might expect seminal changes in the Hebrew language. Conversely, significant changes in script and spelling point to seminal transitions in the social history of SyriaPalestine. Changes in social life are most readily measured in script and spelling. Immigration or conquest, for example, brings language contact and even new scripts. (For example, when Aramaic replaces Hebrew script). Social changes also are registered in lexicon and phonology. It is hardly surprising that Akkadian loanwords seem to appear in Classical Hebrew in the late 8th century, that is, in the context of the Assyrian conquests of Galilee, Samaria, and Lachish. Likewise, it is hardly surprising that Aramaic reshaped the Hebrew language when Aramaic was adopted as the lingua franca of the Persian Empire. Nor is it surprising that the use of Hebrew in Palestine finds a renaissance during the nationalism of the Hasmonean dynasty. 6.2 It is difficult to assess the relationship between social changes and syntax or verbal structure. Undoubtedly, the difficulty results from the slower rate of change in these structures of language. Language change in spoken language is measured more easily in phonology and morphology. In contrast, it is often difficult to quantify language change in syntax or verbal structure. For example, there is a seminal shift in the morphological structure of the verbal system from Classical Hebrew to Rabbinic Hebrew. 69 This change did not take place overnight. How can we quantify the change? When did this change take place (in spoken versus literary registers)? The linguistic interpretation of the Hebrew verbal system has been the subject of considerable debate. How does our understanding if these changes differ if we adopt a functionalist (i.e., discourse) approach as opposed to sentence grammar that often ignores genre? 70 Unlike a loanword that might be adopted over the course of just a few years, the changes in syntax or verbal

See, for example, L. McFall, The Enigma of the Hebrew Verbal System: Solutions from Ewald to the Present Day (Sheffield: Almond Press, 1982); M. Eskhult, Studies in Verbal Aspect and Narrative Technique in Biblical Hebrew Prose (Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell International, 1990); V. DeCaën, “Ewald and Driver on Biblical ‘Aspect’: Anteriority and the Orientalist Framework,” ZAH 9 (1996), pp. 129–151. 70 See M. Rosenbaum’s review of Y. Endo, The Verbal System of Classical Hebrew in the Joseph Story: An Approach from Discourse Analysis (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1996), in HS 38 (1997), p. 113–114. Also see Christo H. J. van der Merwe, Jackie A. Naudé and H. Kroeze, A Biblical Hebrew Reference Grammar (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), pp. 141–44; T. Goldfajn, Word Order and Time in Biblical Narrative (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998). 69

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structure undergo relatively slow evolution. They will be difficult to measure. And, they will be hard to isolate chronologically.

6.3 The most easily assessable written measure of changes in social life will be changes in orthography and paleography (i.e., spelling and script). In the words of Christina Eira, “the basis for orthography selection is fundamentally a question of the location of authority, which is in turn a function of the prevailing discourse.” 71 As the location of authority changes, orthographies change. The change from syllabic cuneiform to alphabetic writing, for instance, follows on the heels of changes that marked the transition from the Late Bronze Age to the Iron Age. The developments in local scripts, mater lectionis, the adoption of Aramaic script, and then the reappearance of the Hebrew script all correlate with social life in ancient Israel. Developments in orthography reflect “the religious, political, and intellectual discourses.” 72 It should hardly be surprising that other important developments in Hebrew language correlate with paleographic and orthographic changes.

6.4 Another gauge by which we may evaluate the impact of literacy on language is syntactical complexity. As Christopher Eyre and John Baines have pointed out, In principle ‘literate’ language can develop greater range and complexity of prosodic patterns and types of subordinate clause. For written communication [sic!] these need explicit grammatical or lexical marking and must follow set patterns if they are to form part of a clear sentence structure, since intonation and gesture cannot provide support. 73

In Hebrew the developing use of more complex syntax has been analyzed by Frank Polak. 74 Polak shows how the Patriarchal tales, the story of the Rise of the Monarchy, and the Elijah-Elisha narrative tend to use short clauses, limited noun strings, and frequently employ deitic particles. In contrast, texts that are usually ascribed to the Persian period use many subordinated clauses (hypotaxis), long noun strings and explicit syntactic constituEira, “Authority and Discourse: Towards a Model for Orthography Selection,” Written Language and Literacy 1 (1998), p. 172. 72 Eira, “Authority and Discourse: Towards a Model for Orthography Selection,” p. 221. 73 C. Eyre and J. Baines, “Orality and Literacy in Ancient Egypt,” in Literacy and Society (K. Schouboe and M. Treolle Larsen, eds.; Copenhagen: Akademisk Forlag, 1989), p. 104. 74 See the recent attempt by F. Polak, “Oral and Written: Syntax, Stylistics and the Development of Biblical Prose Narrative,” JANES 26 (1999), pp. 59–105. 71

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ents. This type of study provides important and objective tools for analysis for the study of Hebrew that can be socially contextualized. 6.5 Sociolinguistics will not completely replace traditional linguistics. However, sociolinguistics can help provide a more sophisticated approach to the synchronic and diachronic description of the Classical Hebrew. Hebrew linguists have often been content to work as if language were not part of a cultural system, as if the history of Hebrew were not part of the social history of the Jewish people. In conclusion, I might recast the observations of the noted British sociolinguist Suzanne Romaine cited earlier specifically for Hebrew. On the one hand, the modern study of Classical Hebrew has taken for granted that grammars are unrelated to the social lives of their speakers. On the other hand, biblical scholars—especially (and ironically) those taking seriously social scientific models—have treated society as if it could be constituted without language. We can no longer study Classical Hebrew as if it were spoken by abstract homo sapiens. We need to integrate sociolinguistics into the study of biblical literature and Classical Hebrew.

THE HARD ‘SELL’ IN NAH 3:4B ARON PINKER

[email protected] SILVER SPRING, MARYLAND, U.S.A.

Nahum 3:4 presents a rationale for the dramatic downfall of the mighty Nineveh, ‫מרב זנוני זונה‬ Because of the countless harlotries of the harlot, ‫טובת חן בעלת כשפים‬ The winsome mistress of sorcery, ‫המכרת גוים בזנוניה‬ Who ensnared nations with her harlotries ‫ומשפחות בכשפיה‬ And peoples with her sorcery 1 Her fate is described as being the direct consequence of her whore-like behavior, and her punishment metaphorically similar (Nah 3:5–6). It is easy to understand how the powerful, rich, and glamorous Nineveh exerted its bewitching allures in the region, entrapping as a whore the smaller and less developed and sophisticated nations (Nah 3:4a). However, one is baffled by Nahum’s statement that these very characteristics were used by Nineveh to sell (‫ )המכרת‬nations (Nah 3:4b). Certainly, Assyrian influence could have been bought in local or regional disputes (2Kgs 15:19), but such trades were based on the power that it wielded rather than whore-like allure. Moreover, “selling” presumes a priori possession and consequently acquisition, yet Nahum castigates the “selling” but not the acquisition. In what sense could the “selling” have been more horrific than the acquisition to warrant making it the prime cause for Nineveh’s downfall? It is clear that Nineveh was engaged in some “less than honest” practices that led to her demise, but the term ‫“( המכרת‬who sells”) describing these actions seems incongruous in the context of the metaphor. The purpose of this note is to discuss the attempts at understanding the word ‫ המכרת‬and suggest an approach to its possible meaning. 1 The translation is according to the NJPS, which also notes that its translation of ‫ מכרת‬by “ensnared” is uncertain.

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

That ‫ המכרת‬in Nah 3:4b is problematic is obvious already from the approach taken by the older Jewish exegetes, who correctly understood the gist of the verse, but could not reconcile it with the text per se. Ibn Ezra’s interpretation of the entire verse is ‫דרך משל שרמתה הכל‬, “It’s a metaphor, that she fooled all.” While this sets the framework for understanding the verse, the process alluded to remains unclear. Rashi’s explanation along this same line is “Because of the flattery of the city. It knew how to entice the heart of the kings of the land to join it, and then occupied them.” He seems to imply that ‫ המכרת‬refers to a practice of “diplomatic” persuasion that led to an alliance and subsequent occupation. The Assyrian used psychological warfare in their campaigns, and in particular in siege operations. 2 However, psychological warfare was not unique to them, though more frequently practiced because of their many campaigns. Kimchi understood the metaphor of the harlot as implying that Assyria upset the normal order in the region as infatuation with a harlot would upset the well being of a family. 3 He says, “All this came to her because of the magnitude of the disturbance that she brought about. And he compared her to a harlot, because a harlot does so. She sells those who follow her because of her witchery and adornment, and does with them whatever she wishes. So did she with the other nations.” To Kimchi the situation described is one of an infatuation, that inevitably leads to loss of independence and complete control by the harlot, so much so that she can sell those infatuated by her as her own possessions. One may well ask “To whom would Assyria sell ‘those who follow her’ being the superpower of the region?” Metzudot resolved this problem by saying, “she sells to herself,” 4 which is questionable economics. Alkumissi simply says, ‫“( המכרת מענהו המאבדת‬hammōkeret? Its answer is ‘she that annihilates’”). 5 This meaning imbues the term ‫ המכרת‬with much evil but has no biblical or etymological support. It would not be out of line to say that these commentators struggled in this verse with the “buy–sell” problem in the context of a harlot’s normal modus operandi. The harlot sells “her” body, in Nah 3:4b Nineveh sells “other” nations, which she would normally be interested to acquire and keep. Indeed, acquisitions rather than divestitures to a third nation characterized Assyrian imperial policies. I. Ephal, Siege and its Ancient Near Eastern Manifestations (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1996) 44–55. 3 Note the use of “families” (‫ )משפּחות‬in this verse. 4 ‫אשר אז מוכרת לעצמה עכו”ם‬ 5 D. Alkumissi, Commentarius in Librum Duodecem Prophetarum (ed. I. D. Markon) (Jerusalem: Societatis Mekize Nirdamim, 1958) 51. 2

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English versions of the Bible also struggled with the translation of Nah 3:4b, sensing that something incongruous in the use of the term ‫מכרת‬, “sell” or “deliver over to another.” 6 For instance, the KJV (NASB, ASV, Webster, Darby, Young) has the literal “sell,” but the RSV has “betrays,” the NEB has “beguile,” the NLT has “enticed,” and the NJPS has “ensnare.” 7 The normal meaning of ‫ מכר‬appeared improper in the context of Nah 3:4b because it does not make sense that Nineveh would sell other nations. While the concept of “selling a nation” occurs in the Hebrew Bible, it is exclusively used to describe handing over of Israel into the hands of others (Deut 32:30, Isa 50:1, 52:3, Ps 44:13, 1Sam 12:9, Jud 2:14, 3:8, 4:2, 10:7, Est 7:4). Some three decades ago Dahood categorized this word as “unexplained” and so it remained. 8 Haupt says, “The verb ‫ מכר‬means here, not sell, but to cheat, deceive, cozen, beguile, entice. Arab. makkâr means swindler.” 9 Similarly, Thomas argued for a Hebrew root ‫מכר‬, “practice deceit, guile.” 10 He focused his attention on the three passages 1Kgs 21:20, 25, and 2Kgs 17:17 where the hitpa’el of ‫ מכר‬occurs figuratively (followed in each case by the phrase ‫לעשׂות הרע‬ ‫)בעיני יהוה‬. 11 In each of these cases the Targum and the Peshitta translate ‫ המכרת‬differently then “who sells.” Thomas finds in this fact support for his view that underlying ‫ התמכר‬is not “sell” but a distinct root ‫מכר‬, which means as mkr in Arabic “practiced deceit, guile.” In his view such a sense would be more natural in each of the three cases that he uses, and perhaps also Sir 47:25. However, it is arguable whether the interpretation suggested by Thomas for the biblical sources (1Kgs 21:20, 25, and 2Kgs 17:17), which understands ‫ מכר‬as “practice deceit, guile,” is the better one. There is really no problem in interpreting ‫ התמכר‬by “has sold himself” as the older commentators have done. 12 The modern Hebrew meaning for ‫התמכר‬ ‫ מכרת‬is the Qal participle feminine (singular) of the root ‫מכר‬, which usually means in the Hebrew Bible “to give away,” “to hand over,” “to transfer,” or “to deliver.” In Akkadian makkûru is “possession, property.” 7 The Standard American Edition of the Revised Version of the Bible reverts to “selleth.” 8 M. Dahood, “Causal Beth and the Root NKR in Nahum 3,4,” Bib 52 (1971) 397. 9 P. Haupt, The Book of Nahum: A New Metrical Translation with an Introduction, Restoration of the Hebrew Text and Explanatory and Critical Notes (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1907) 24. 10 D. W. Thomas, “The Root ‫ מכר‬in Hebrew,” JTS 37 (1936) 388–389. 11 Cf. also Sir 47:25. 12 K. F. Keil, The books of the Kings (trans. J. Martin), (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1883) 315. 6

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“devote oneself, dedicate oneself” also connotes an act of transfer that is equivalent to the figurative ‘selling.’ 13 This meaning for ‫התמכר‬, while still quite close to “sell,” would also adequately translate ‫ התמכר‬in each of its biblical occurrences. Furthermore, while the Targum and the Peshitta do not translate ‫ המכרת‬using the meaning “sell” of the root ‫מכר‬, they do not assign it the sense of “practiced deceit, guile,” as suggested by Thomas; the Targum has “you have planned” and the Peshitta has “you have magnified yourself.” In a later note, Thomas finds support for his suggestion also in 1Mac 1:15. 14 Yet, his argument based on a Greek extracanonical source is too tenuous to be of value. 15 Lipinski observes that there texts (Joel 4:3, Nah 3:4) where ‫מכר ב‬ refers to a kind of barter. Parallelism of Nah 3:4 with Joel 4:3 would then imply that Assyria gives away nations to satisfy its perversities. This seems historically unreasonable. 16 Van der Woude felt comfortable with the meaning “sell” for ‫ מכר‬here, understanding that Nineveh ‘sells out’ nations, she betrays their trust gained with beautiful pleasantries and charm. 17 However, ‫ מכר‬never means in the Hebrew Bible “sell out” or “betray.” Smith suggested that “Selling and cheating were somewhat closely related and may easily have been denoted by the same root.” 18 A similar position is intimated by Thomas’ comment: “It is worth while asking whether ‘sell’ and ‘deal deceitfully’ are really distinct roots, as suggested above, or whether 13 E. Ben Yehudah, Thesaurus totius hebraitatis et recentioris, (Yerushalayim: BenYehudah, hoza’ah la-or le-zekher Eliezer Ben-Yehudah, c1940) 2998. 14 D. W. Thomas, “A Further Note on the Root mkr in Hebrew,” JTS 3 (1952) 214. Thomas surmises that the Hebrew behind the Greek at the end of the verse in 1Mac 1:15 is ‫ויתמכרו לעשׂות הרע‬, as in 2Kgs 17:17, and there too the more natural translation is “and they showed themselves deceitful by doing evil” rather than as translated into Greek “and sold themselves to do evil.” 15 C. C. Torrey, “A New Hebrew and English Lexicon,” AJT 11 (1907) 514. Torrey mentions the occurrence of ‫ התמכר‬in 1Mac 1:5 among a sample of words in canonical Old Testament the understanding of which could benefit from documents originally written in Hebrew, while it was still a living language, but now extant only in translation. Torrey does not suggest a meaning different then “sell” for ‫מכר‬. 16 E. Lipinski, “‫ מכר‬mkr,” in G. J. Botterweck, H. Ringgren, and H.-J. Fabry (ed.), TDOT vol. VIII (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997) 291–296. 17 A. S. van der Woude, “The Book of Nahum: A Letter Written in Exile,” OtSt 20 (1977) 111. Woude translates ‫המכרת‬, “who sold,” implying the perfect. 18 J. M. P. Smith, “Commentary on the Book of Nahum,” in J. M. P. Smith, W. H. Ward, and J. A. Bewer, Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Micah, Zephaniah, Nahum, Habakkuk, Obadiah and Joel (Edinburgh: T.& T. Clark, 1985) 338.

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they are in fact the same root. The Oriental seller habitually tries to deceive the buyer.” 19 How such a biased generalization, spanning centuries and encompassing nations with so little evidence, could have been reached defies logic. It is not clear how Christensen obtained the sense “enslaves” for ‫מכר‬. 20 Haldar, relying on Akkadian makāru “to trade” and Ugaritic ‫מכר‬ “merchant,” assigns ‫ מכר‬the basic meaning “to trade.” He explains “If we assume ‫ מכר‬in this sense here, the meaning would be that the hostile city throws nations under her dominion through manipulations compared with a cultic act and more exactly described as ‫ זנונים‬and ‫כשפים‬.” 21 It is difficult to see how “trade” is equivalent to “throwing under one’s dominion.” The existence of such meanings as “sell out,” “betray,” “enslave,” “deal deceitfully,” “trade” for the root ‫ מכר‬in Hebrew is uncertain. 22 None have been attested in the Hebrew Bible, where ‫ מכר‬is always “sell” or “deliver over to another.” 23 The word ‫ המכרת‬was also subject to various emendations. Dahood, argued for ‫( המכרת‬hammukkeret), “who was known.” He says, “The rest of the verse becomes syntactically viable when MT hammōkeret is repointed hammukkeret the hophal feminine participle of nkr, whose hiphil means ‘to know, recognize.’ 2Kings 12:6 ‫‘ מכרו‬his acquaintance,’ and 2Kings 12:8 ‫‘ מכריהם‬your acquaintances,’ derive from nkr ‘to know, recognize,’ and if their vocalization is authentic, one might also vocalize Nah 3:4 hammakkeret, the feminine counterpart of makkār. But syntactic considerations favor its vocalization as hophal passive participle.” 24 Cathcart adopts Dahood’s emendation. 25 However, Dahood’s translation “The one known by the nations for her harlotries and by the clans for her sorceries” would also necessitate the emendations ‫ בגוים → גוים‬and ‫ובמשפּחות → ומשפּחות‬, and would not provide a strong enough accusation against Nineveh. 26 BHS sug-

20

W. Thomas, “The Root ‫ מכר‬in Hebrew,” JTS 37 (1936) 389, note 4. D. L. Christensen, “The Acrostic of Nahum Reconsidered.” ZAW 87 (1975)

21

A. Haldar, Studies in the Book of Nahum (Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1947)

22

W. A. Maier, The Book of Nahum: A Commentary (St. Louis: Concordia, 1959)

19 D.

28. 67. 306. 23 F. Brown, S. R. Driver, and C. A. Briggs, Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament (BDB; Peabody: Hendrickson, 2001) 569. 24 Dahood, 398. 25 K. J. Cathcart, “Nahum in the Light of Northwest Semitic,” BibOr 26 (1973) 129. 26 Dahood, 396. Dahood recognizes some of the difficulties. He says, “Compare especially Isa 53:4 ‫‘ מכה אלהים‬the one struck by God,’ where the hophal participle is followed by the agent and Phoenician Karatepe I:1, hbrk b‘l, “the one

148

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

gested the reading ‫( הכמרת‬hakkōmeret), “who ensnares.” 27 However, the verb ‫כמר‬, in the sense “ensnare,” is not attested in the Hebrew Bible. Roberts, following Marti, emends ‫ המכרת‬to ‫המשכרת‬, “who intoxicates” (cf. Jer 51:7). Roberts claims that the reading in 4Q 169 (=4QpNah), col. 2, line 7, namely ‫ הממכרת‬could be explained as a corruption of ‫המשכרת‬. In the late paleo-Hebrew script ‫ מ‬and ‫ ש‬differ only slightly apart from the tail on ‫מ‬. Once ‫ ש‬had been corrupted to ‫מ‬, the second ‫ מ‬was later dropped by dittography, producing the present MT. 28 Roberts’ explanation is questionable. The reading ‫ הממכרת‬appears to be an internal corruption and nowhere in the Hebrew Bible is intoxication related to harlotry. 29 Spronk suggested that Nahum may have wanted to indicate that for Nineveh, her harlotry and sorcery were more important than nations and families (Joel 4:3). 30 Yet, Assyria has been known for its administration of its empire and strict discipline. The Assyrians were known for their love of beer but not for debauchery. It should be noted that the MT is supported by the Septuagint, Targum (‫)דמכרא‬, and Vulgate (quae vendidit). The Peshitta’s “who brings up” (‫ )דמרביא‬for ‫ המכרת‬is perhaps an internal corruption. 31 An interesting insight into the meaning of ‫ מכר‬is provided by Rashi in his commentary on Hos 3:2. Rashi understands ‫ ואכּרה‬as a corruption of ‫ואמכרה‬. He says,

ciple is followed by the agent and Phoenician Karatepe I:1, hbrk b‘l, “the one blessed by Baal,’ where the article plus genitive of agency resembles the syntax of hammukkeret gôyim ‘the one known by the nations.’” 27 A. Alt, O. Eissfeldt, P. Kahle, and R. Kittel, BHS (Fifth edition; Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 1997) 1047. This suggestion goes back at least to Horst (1938). 28 J. J. M. Roberts, Nahum, Habakkuk, and Zephaniah (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1991) 70. Cf. Isa 3:10, where ‫ אמרו‬should probably be emended to ‫אשרי‬. 29 R. Weiss, Studies in the Text and Language of the Bible (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1981) 213. Weiss considers the reading ‫ הממכרת‬to be the result of a (‫ )מ‬dittography. 30 K. Spronk, Nahum (Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1997) 122 31 Haldar, 67.

THE HARD “SELL” IN NAH 3:4B

149

‫ל' סחורה ברגניי˝א בלע˝ז כמו )בראשית נ( אשר כריתי לי‬:‫ואכרה לי‬ ‫ובכרכי הים קורין למכירה כירה‬ “‫ואכרה לי‬: An expression of merchandise, ‘bargain’ in foreign language, as ‫( אשר כריתי לי‬Gen 50:5), 32 and in the cities of the sea they say ‫ כירה‬for ‫מכירה‬.” 33 In Old French, to which Rashi refers, bargaine was an agreement to exchange, sell, or buy goods. It seems that to Rashi ‫ואכרה‬/‫ ואמכרה‬means “I bargained for her.” The sense of “bargain” for ‫מכר‬, without specific reference to the outcome of the process, would well fit Nah 3:4. Nahum would then perceive Nineveh as bargaining with other nations using the charms and witchcraft of a harlot. Yet, Rashi did not use in Nah 3:4 the interpretation that he suggested for ‫ מכר‬in Hos 3:2. Why? Perhaps Rashi felt that bargaining with other nations using a harlot’s tricks and sorcery was not sufficient cause for a total eradication of the Assyrian. 34 Obviously, the reference to a late anecdotal source deprives Rashi’s interpretation in Hos 3:2 much of its validity. Still, this interpretation points to an approach that would consider ‫ מכר‬in Nah 3:4 a corruption of ‫נכר‬. It seems that ‫ מכר‬and ‫ נכר‬may have shared some sense to result in confusion between the two. Mandelkern observed that in Aramaic ‫ מכר‬also means “purchase of wife,” and that the root ‫ מכר‬is perhaps close to ‫נכר‬. 35 Indeed, in Akkadian makkûru, namkur(r)u, nakkuru mean “possession, property,” depicting the possibility for an interchangeability of the m and n. Again, Hos 3:2 can provide some insight into the relationship between ‫מכר‬ and ‫נכר‬. Most commentators derive ‫ וָ ֶא ְכּ ֶר ָה‬in Hos 3:2 from the root ‫כרה‬, which can have the meaning “get by trade, trade.” However, Ibn Ezra’s suggestion that ‫ ואכרה‬is of the same derivation as ‫ הכר נא‬indicates that he entertained the possibility of the root being ‫נכר‬. 36 It seems from a piyut by

J. Greenberg, Foreign Words in the Bible Commentary of Rashi (Jerusalem: Self Published, Undated) 164. Greenberg translates ‫ ברגניי“ א‬as “bargain; trade, bargaining.” Rashi’s reference to Gen 50:5 is to the Midrashic explanation “which I bought.” The Peshat is “which I dig.” 33 Rashi’s comment “in the cities of the sea they say ‫ כירה‬for ‫ ”מכירה‬is based on a statement by R’ Akiba (TB Sotah 13a), which would be of no relevance to the biblical text. Rashi seems to suggest that ‫ כירה‬is a mispronunciation of ‫מכירה‬. 34 Note that the critical phrase in Rashi’s commentary on Nah 3:4 is ‫כובשים‬ ‫“ אותם‬conquer them.” 35 S. Mandelkern, Veteris Testamenti, Concordantiae Hebraicae Atque Chaldaicae (Lipsiae: Veit et Com, 1896) 671. 36 In his commentary on Hos 3:2 Ibn Ezra says on the meaning of ‫ואכרה‬, 32

150

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Eliezer ben Kallir (6th century) that he also took the root as ‫נכר‬. 37 More recently, Gordis proposed derivation of ‫ ואכרה‬from ‫נכר‬, “to purchase (for marriage).” 38 Tushingham tried to develop the meaning “to acquire possession” from the juridical meaning of nkr, “to acknowledge or recognize as a posssession.” 39 Dahood mentions that Albright took a similar approach, translating there “I acquired her in marriage.” 40 Yet, Andersen and Freedman felt there is no proof that ‫ נכר‬means “to purchase.” 41 Ginsberg dismissed such a meaning entirely. 42 Perhaps, ‫ מכר‬and ‫ נכר‬are close to each other in the sense that each is a bargain, as suggested by Rashi, though the end result of the bargain in each case is different, in the first case it is a “sell” and the second case it is a “buy.” Nah 3:4 has some affinity with Hos 3:2, sharing a context of adultery. There appears to be strong scholarly sentiment that ‫ ואכרה‬in Hos 3:2 contains a

‫יש אומרים ואקנה אותה כמו תכרו מאתם ואינו נכון בטעם ובדקדוק‬ ‫והוא מגזרת הכר נא רק ראוי היה להיות ואכירה‬ (Some say that it means “I will buy her” as it is said ‫( תכרו מאתם‬Deut 2:6). But it is not correct in sense and grammar. It is of the same derivation as ‫( הכר נא‬Gen 37:2, 38:25) but it should have been ‫)ואכירה‬. 37 Y. Kiel, Sepher Hoshea, In Tere Asar im Perush Daat Mikra, Vol I (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1973) 22, n. 13. 38 R. Gordis, “Hosea’s Marriage and Message. A New Approach,” HUCA 27 (1954) 25. 39 A. D. Tushingham, “A Reconsideration of Hosea, Chapters 1–3,” JNES 12 (1953) 153. 40 M. J. Dahood, “Review of T. H. Robinson and F. Horst Die Zwölf Kleinen Propheten (HAT, 14; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr (1954)),” CBQ 17 (1955) 104. Robinson derives the form ‫ ואכרה‬from ‫ כרה‬II, “to get by trade,” and explains the dagesh in the kaph as a dagesh forte dirimens. 41 F. Andersen and D. N. Freedman, Hosea (AB 24; New York: Doubleday, 1980) 298–9. Andersen and Freedman observe “The unique form ‫ ואכרה‬can be derived from ‫כרה‬, “to buy,” though the morphology is difficult. The root with this meaning has dubious attestation in Deut 2:6; Job 6:27; 40:30. In these the ‫ כ‬is raphe, as expected; the dagesh in the ‫ כּ‬here is inexplicable. If it is called dagesh forte dirimens (GKC §20h), to make sure that the shewa is pronounced, then we have two problems. First, if it comes from ‫ כרה‬the shewa should be silent; secondly, this would seem to be the only occurrence of such a dagesh in a ‫כ‬, and no phonetic explanation is in sight.” 42 H. L. Ginsberg, “Studies in Hosea 1–3,” in Yehezkel Kaufmann Jubilee Volume (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1960) (50)-(69).

THE HARD “SELL” IN NAH 3:4B

151

verb that means, “to get, to acquire, to buy.” 43 Some commentators identify this verb as ‫נכר‬. Perhaps, the term ‫הנכרת‬, having the meaning “which acquires, gets,” for ‫ המכרת‬in Nah 3:4, would not be altogether strange. In the paleoscript the ‫ מ‬and ‫ נ‬are orthographically very similar. It is not inconceivable that a scribe had subconsciously copied ‫ המכרת‬instead of the original ‫הנכרת‬, having just written the ‫ מ‬of ‫כשפים‬. 44 It is even possible that such scribe made this correction consciously, believing that he corrects an error, or makes the text clearer. Indeed, the Septuagint may have made such a change consciously; reading ‫ מכר‬for ‫ נכר‬in 1Sam 23:7, and it has been followed by many. 45 If this assumption is correct, then Nah 3:4b would read “She that acquires nations with her harlotry and clans with her 43 H. S. Nyberg, Studien zum Hoseabuche. Zugleich ein Beitrag zur Klärung des Problems der alttestamentlichen Textkritik (Uppsala: Almqvist und Wiksells, 1935) 23. Nyberg preferred for ‫ ואכרה‬the nuance “and I hired her” since the Arabic cognate of ‫כרה‬ means “to hire a beast.” 44 Hiebert, T. God of My Victory, The Ancient Hymn in Habakkuk 3, (HSM 38: Scholar Press, 1986) 19–20. Hiebert considers the scribe’s graphic confusion between the 7th century mem and nun as “common.” He effectively uses this confusion to emend the difficult ‫ שם חביון‬and ‫ ימדד‬in Hab 3:4–5. Cf. M. Bolle, Sepher Habakkuk, in Tere Asar im Perush Daat Mikra, Vol. II, (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1970) 22 note 11. Bolle also notes that that the ‫ מ‬can be exchanged with the ‫נ‬, resulting in the emended ‫ינדד‬. Zer-Kavod suggested to consider the problematic ‫ ממזר‬in Zec 9:6 as a corruption of ‫“ = מנזר‬garrison” (Nah 3:17) (M. Zer-Kavod, Sepher Zechariah, in Tere Asar im Perush Daat Mikra, Vol. II, (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1970) 35 note 19b). I am indebted to Rabbi A. Haramati for calling my attention to the following cases of ‫נ‬/‫ מ‬confusion: ‫ איין‬and ‫( איים‬Ez 26:18); ‫צדנין‬ (1Kgs 11:33) though ‫ צדנים‬in v. 5; ‫( רצין‬2Kgs 11:13) though ‫ רצים‬in vv. 6 and 19; ‫( חטין‬Ez 4:9) but ‫ חטים‬in a similar list in 2Sam 17:28; ‫( עיין‬Mic 3:12) but quoted ‫עיים‬ in (Jer 26:18); ‫( מלכין‬Prov 31:3) but ‫ מלכים‬in Prov 25:2, 3; ‫( מלין‬Job 4:2) but ‫ מלים‬in Job 8:10; ‫( אחרין‬Job 31:10) but ‫ אחרים‬in Job 34:24; ‫( שוממין‬Lam 1:16) but ‫שוממים‬ in Lam 1:4; ‫( תנין‬Lam 4:3) but but the Qere is ‫( ימין ;תנים‬Dan 12:13) but ‫ ימים‬in Dan 10:14; ‫( להם‬Ex 1:21) instead of ‫( אתם ;להן‬Lev 26:3) instead of ‫ להם ;אתן‬... ‫להן‬ (Num 27:7); ‫ עמכם‬... ‫( עשׂיתם‬Ruth 1:8) instead of ‫ עמכן‬... ‫( לכם ;עשׂיתן‬Ruth 1:9, 11) instead of ‫( מכם ;לכן‬Ruth 1:13) instead of ‫מכן‬. In Nah 2:6 instead of the MT ‫יכּשלוּ‬ Smith reads ‫ימשלוּ‬, “they take command,” justifying the emendation as a ‫כ‬/‫מ‬ confusion (J. M. P. Smith, “Commentary on the Book of Nahum,” in J. M. P. Smith, W. H. Ward, J. A. Bewer, Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Micah, Zephaniah, Nahum, Habakkuk, Obadiah and Joel (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1985) 330). Cf. Mic 2:1 for an example of a ‫מ‬/‫ כ‬confusion. Obviously, ‫ מ‬is also similar to ‫ כ‬as much as it is similar to ‫נ‬. However, the preceding ‫ מ‬in ‫ כּשפים‬makes the ‫ נ‬to ‫מ‬ scribal error more likely. 45 A sale requires a quid pro quo, which is not obvious in 1Sam 23:7. The Targum and Peshitta appear to be sensitive to the imbalance in the Septuagint’s use of ‫מכר‬,

152

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

“She that acquires nations with her harlotry and clans with her sorcery,” an apt description of Nineveh or Assyria. It is also possible to understand ‫ הנכרת‬as “she that alienates,” 46 the Qal participle feminine (singular) of ‫ נכר‬II with the basic meaning “foreign strange.” While the adjectives ‫נכרי‬, ‫נכריה‬, ‫נכריות‬, ‫ נכרים‬occur in the Hebrew Bible the verbal forms are only in Niphal, Piel, or Hithpa’el. 47 Reading Nah 3:4b as “She that alienates nations with her harlotry and clans with her sorcery,” would also make good sense. It is not difficult to imagine that “Assyrianism” was annoying many nations in the past, perhaps as “Americanism” does these days. In summary, I adopt the view that the root of ‫ ואכרה‬in Hos 3:2 is ‫נכר‬ “to get, to acquire, to buy.” In Nah 3:4 the problematic ‫ המכרת‬is the consequence of a ‫מ‬/‫ נ‬scribal confusion mitigated by similarity between ‫מכר‬ and ‫נכר‬, as well as the ‫ מ‬in preceding ‫כשפים‬. ‫ הנכרת‬would then have the sense of “she that acquires.” Such an approach would also help with understanding of 1Sam 23:7. It is also possible to construe ‫ הנכרת‬in the sense of “she that alienates,” though this grammatical form of ‫ נכר‬is not attested in the Hebrew Bible.

translating ‫ נכר‬as “delivered.” If, however, ‫ נכר‬could mean “acquire, get,” then no emendation of ‫ נכר‬is required in 1Sam 23:7. The meaning of ‫נכר אותו אלהים בידי‬ would then be “the Lord caused to get him (David) into my hand.” 46 BDB, 648. BDB note that ‫ נכר‬II is translated in the Syriac by terms “reject” or “alienus.” 47 In private communication, Professor Lawrence Zalcman suggested the piel, ‫המנכרת‬, which would explain both the reading in 4Q 169 (=4QpNah) and in the MT. I am indebted to Professor Zalcman for a number of helpful comments.

GEMINATE BALLAST AND CLUSTERING: AN UNRECOGNIZED LITERARY FEATURE IN ANCIENT SEMITIC POETRY SCOTT NOEGEL

UNIVERSITY OF WASHINGTON 1.

DEFINING GEMINATE BALLAST AND CLUSTERING

The essay below contains evidence for a hitherto unrecognized literary device in ancient Near Eastern literature, a device that I shall refer to as “Geminate Ballast and Clustering.”* My use of the word “geminate” is not restricted to the grammatical geminate forms, i.e., those forms derived from roots whose second and third radicals are identical, but includes any verb or noun derived from roots that contain any two identical root consonants, whether second and third, first and third, or even more rarely first and second. Since reduplicated and some quadraliteral forms also constitute gemination of this sort I include them as well. 1 The device has as its primary characteristic the clustering of geminate forms in close proximity, often, but not strictly in parallelism. I say not strictly, because the main aim of the device appears to have been a general * Different drafts of this paper were presented at Cornell University (October 4, 1999), the American Oriental Society annual meeting (Portland, OR, March 14, 2000), and the annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature-Pacific Northwest Branch (Spokane, WA, April 29, 2000). I gratefully acknowledge the helpful feedback of a number of individuals present at these meetings, especially Profs. Stephen Kaufman, Jerrold Cooper, Francis Landy, Ehud Ben Zvi, and David Owen. I extend my gratitude also to Profs. Gary Rendsburg and Wilfred G. E. Watson for their insightful correspondence on the contents of this article as well. 1 I realize that the name of the device I have suggested may be confused with so-called “true” geminate forms. Nevertheless, after having searched unsuccessfully for an alternative appellative, the proposed term comes closest, I believe, to capturing the essence of the device.

153

154

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

sense of ballast, and unlike word-pairs which are employed as parallels of sense or meaning, geminate clusters belong generally to the realm of sound devices, and serve to balance one stich’s use of gemination with gemination in another.

2.

GEMINATE BALLAST AND CLUSTERING IN BIBLICAL HEBREW POETRY

To demonstrate the device I turn first to a case-book example in Ps 74:13– 14. ‫אתה פוררת בעזך ים שברת ראשי תנינים על המים‬ ‫אתה רצצת ראשי לויתן תתננו מאכל לעם לציים‬ You parted the sea by your strength; you broke the heads of the Tannin in the waters. You crushed the heads of Leviathan, and gave him for food to the people of the wilderness.

Note how the passage parallels four geminate forms; three true geminates (i.e.‫פרר‬, ‫תנן‬, ‫ )רצץ‬and a first and third radical geminate ‫נתן‬. The latter verb, here written in the 2nd person with a suffix to permit the gemination of both the ‫ ת‬and the ‫נ‬, also constitutes a word play on ‫ תנין‬and ‫לויתן‬. The latter example belongs to a type that I shall refer to as “imitation geminates.” Also strengthening the geminate parallel and cluster is the passage’s chiastic compositional structure. As these stichs demonstrate, the biblical bard chose to parallel one geminate form with another. Put another way, the use of one geminate form inspired the use of others in the same passage. The example also demonstrates that it is best to distinguish the device from that of alliteration, though each of the geminate forms have an alliterative effect in and of themselves, since aside from the ‫ ת‬and ‫ נ‬in the word ‫תנין‬, the geminate consonants in the verbs ‫ פרר‬and ‫ רצץ‬are not resounded elsewhere in the passage in any significant way. Another striking example of geminate ballast and parallelism appears in Jonah 2:6. ‫אפפוני מים עד נפש‬ ‫תהום יסבבני סוף חבוש לראשי‬ The waters engulfed me, even to the throat; The depth surrounded me, the weeds were wrapped around my head.

Note how the geminate verb ‫“ אפף‬engulf” in the A line parallels the geminate verb ‫“ סבב‬surround” in the B line. As in the previous example,

GEMINATE BALLAST AND CLUSTERING

155

here too we find true geminate forms in parallelism, this time also containing a striking case of assonance with the repeated vowels /o/ and /u/. Jer 31:22 also evidences the device. ‫עד מתי תתחמקין הבת השובבה‬ ‫כי ברא יהוה חדשה בארץ נקבה תסובב גבר‬ How long will you waver, O apostate daughter? For Yahweh has created something new on the earth, a woman encircles a man.

Despite the difficulties that this passage poses for translators the presence of a geminate cluster is clear. The imitation geminate form ‫השׁובב‬ (from ‫ )שוב‬is clustered with the “true” geminate form ‫( תסובב‬from ‫)סבב‬ in the following line. The geminate cluster also takes paronomastic advantage of the consonant ‫ ב‬which appears nine times in this short verse. Another notable example of geminate clustering appears in Isa 24:19– 20a ‫רעה התרעעה הארץ פור התפוררה ארץ מוט התמוטטה ארץ‬ ‫נוע תנוע ארץ כשכור והתנודדה כמלונה‬ The earth is utterly breaking, the earth is utterly crumbling, the earth is utterly tottering, The earth is utterly swaying like a drunkard. It is rocking to and fro like a hut.

This passage artfully employs true geminate parallels, i.e., ‫ רעע‬and ‫פרר‬ with imitation geminate forms created by the normative duplication of the third radical in hithpo’lels of ‫ ע"ו‬verbs, in this case ‫ מוט‬and ‫נוד‬. The result is a geminate cluster. 2 Since the device is first and foremost one of sound and only secondarily one of structure (i.e., ballast) the writer was content to complement his geminate cluster with forms that mimic “true” gemination or reduplication. We already have seen in Ps 74:13–14 how the poet employed the ‫ ת‬and ‫ נ‬in the word ‫ תנין‬to achieve a fuller sense of geminate ballast. The imitation geminate forms in Isa 24:19 work much the same way. Moreover, since geminate ballast is primarily a sound device, poets could achieve geminate ballast simply by placing geminate forms, irrespective of their grammatical type (e.g., whether nouns or verbs), in both the A and B lines. They did not need to form an exact one to one form of gramThis passage also contains a remarkable word play. See Scott B. Noegel, “A Slip of the Reader and not the Reed,” JBQ 26/1 (1998): 12–19; JBQ 26/2 (1998): 93–100. 2

156

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

matical parallelism. As we have seen, where geminate parallelism does occur (e.g., Ps 74:13–14, Isa 24:19) perfect parallels were not required to create a sense of “sound” ballast. The next example, from Amos 9:13b, demonstrates this nicely. ‫והטיפו ההרים עסיס‬ ‫וכל הגבעות תתמוגגנה‬ When the mountains shall drip wine, And all the hills shall flow (with wine).

Observe how the prophet has employed a hithpo’lel of an ‫ ע”ו‬verb, here ‫מוג‬, in order to achieve the effect of geminate balance with ‫עסיס‬. The repeated consonant ‫ ה‬in the expression ‫“ ההרים‬the mountains” also may have added to the impact of gemination, as well as the repeated ‫ ת‬in ‫תתמוגגנה‬. Note a similar example of geminate ballast in Ps 6:8. ‫עשׁשׁה מכעס עיני‬ ‫צוררי‬ ָ ‫עתקה בכל‬ My eyes are wasted by vexation, Worn out because of all my foes.

In this instance it is the two geminate forms ‫ עשׁשׁה‬and ‫ צורר‬that chiastically balance the line even though the first geminate is a verb and the second is a noun. 3 We also find geminate clustering in the Book of Job (12:16–17). ‫עמו עז ותושיה לו שׁ ֹגג ומשגה‬ ‫מוליך יועצים שולל‬ ‫ושׁ ֹפטים יהולל‬ With him are strength and resourcefulness, erring and causing to err are from him. He leads counsellors away stripped, and makes the judges fools.

Here the geminate ‫“ שגג‬erring” in v. 16 forms a cluster with the geminate parallels ‫ שלל‬and ‫ יהולל‬in v. 17. Ps 12:7 offers yet another demonstration of the device. ‫כסף צרוף בעליל לארץ‬ ‫מזקק שבעתים‬ Silver purged in an earthen crucible, Refined sevenfold. 3

The same geminate couplet appears in Ps 31:11.

GEMINATE BALLAST AND CLUSTERING

157

Here too the device does not aim to achieve a one-to-one grammatical correspondence of lexeme to lexeme, but rather seeks only to parallel the sound of gemination, regardless of the particular word’s classification. Thus, the geminate noun ‫“ עליל‬crucible” in stich A matches the geminate participle ‫ מזקק‬in the B stich. In some cases, a geminate clustering is achieved only with the assistance of rare words and grammatical forms. See, for example, the geminate pairing in Ps 139:21. ‫הלוא משׂנאיך יהוה אשנא‬ ‫ובתקוממיך אתקוטט‬ Do I not hate, O Yahweh, those who hate you? And quarrel with your adversaries?

In this passage the poet has chosen to pair the two imitation geminate forms‫ תקוממיך‬and ‫אתקוטט‬, the former deriving from ‫ קום‬and the latter from ‫קוט‬. The latter root appears to be an Aramaism corresponding to the Hebrew verb ‫ קוץ‬suggesting that the poet reached deep into his lexical inventory to achieve the desired geminate pairing. See similarly a geminate cluster in Hab 2:6–7. ‫הוי המרבה לא לו עד מתי ומכביד עליו עבטיט‬ ‫הלוא פתע יקומו נשכיך ויקצו מזעזעיך‬ Ah, you who pile up what is not yours, how much longer? And make even heavier your load of indebtedness, right suddenly will your creditors arise, and those who remind you will awake!

Here clusters the imitation geminate forms ‫ עבטיט‬and ‫זעזע‬. The former is the only such form in the Bible (though the root ‫ עבט‬does occur) and the latter form is rare both as a reduplicated form and as a root (i.e., ‫ )זוע‬suggesting that the poet again sought rare forms to achieve the geminate cluster effect. The Song of Deborah (Jud 5:28) also employs a rare word to the same effect. ‫בעד החלון נשקפה ותיבב‬ ‫אם סיסרא בעד האשנב‬ Through the window she peered, Sisera’s mother whined behind the lattice.

Here the poet uses the “true,” but unique geminate form ‫( תיבב‬from ‫ )יבב‬in order to produce a geminate cluster with the name ‫סיסרא‬.

158

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES The use of a rare grammatical form is similarly used in Ps 135:9. ‫שלח אתות ומפתים בתוככי מצרים‬ ‫בפרעה ובכל עבדיו‬ He sent signs and portents against you, Egypt, against Pharaoh and all his servants.

Two imitation geminate forms here form a cluster: ‫ אתות‬and ‫תוככי‬. The former, the normal plural of ‫אות‬, naturally contains a reduplicated ‫ת‬, and the latter adds the suffix ‫ כי‬to geminate the sound of the ‫כ‬. 4 The deliberateness of the device is demonstrated in that the form ‫ תוככי‬is the only place in the Psalm where the poet departs from his third person address to employ a second person address in reference to Egypt. 5

3.

GEMINATION AND REDUPLICATION

Another way that a poet could exploit imitation geminate forms to create a geminate cluster was to employ reduplicated forms. Consider this example in Isaiah 7:19. ‫ובאו ונחו כלם בנחלי הבתות ובנקיקי הסלעים‬ ‫ובכל הנעצוצים ובכל הנהללים‬ And they shall come, and shall rest all of them in the desolate crevices, and in the holes of the rocks, And upon all thorns, and upon all bushes.

Here we find the geminate roots ‫ נקק‬and ‫ הלל‬used with the quadraliteral form ‫הנעצוצים‬. These geminate forms apparently also provoked the poet’s use of the hapax legomenon ‫“ הבתות‬crevices” in the plural, a form that requires repeating the consonant ‫ת‬. While neither the reduplicate ‫ הנעצוצים‬nor the feminine plural form ‫ הבתות‬may be considered “true” geminates, the overall sound result is the same. A related use of reduplicated forms for geminate effect appears in Isa 10:14, an example that we also may classify as onomatopoeia. ‫ולא היה נ ֵֹדד כנף‬ ‫ופצה פה ומצפצף‬ Nothing so much as flaps a wing, Or opens a mouth and chirps. 4

The rare suffix is presumably of an Aramaic-type or an archaic Hebrew vari-

ant. 5 Later, of course, God is addressed in the second person (i.e., vv. 13–18), but this is different.

GEMINATE BALLAST AND CLUSTERING

159

The prophet here has placed the reduplicated quadraliteral ‫מצפצף‬ “chirp” in the B line in order to provide ballast for the geminate participle ‫ נ ֵֹדד‬in the A line. When combined with repeated use of the consonants ‫פ‬ and ‫ צ‬the line mimics the fluttering and chirping of birds. The combination of onomatopoeia and geminate clustering occurs also in the famous words of Isaiah in 2:4. ‫וכתתו חרבותם לאתים‬ ‫וחניתותיהם למזמרות‬ They shall hammer their swords into plowshares, Their spears into sickles.

Here the geminate verb ‫“ כתת‬hammer” achieves ballast via the B line’s ‫חניתותיהם‬, a feminine plural form that mimics gemination. The verse obtains its percussive “hammering” sound by way of the same consonant ‫ת‬ in each of the other words in the verse. 6 Thus, the geminate verb ‫ כתת‬in the A line inspired gemination in the B line. One of the most impressive geminate clusters occurs in Job 3:5–9. Here again we find standard geminate forms employed alongside reduplicated forms. ‫יגאלהו חשך וצלמות תשכן עליו עננה יבעתהו כמרירי יום‬ ‫הלילה ההוא יקחהו אפל אל יחד בימי שנה במספר ירחים אל יבא‬ ‫הנה הלילה ההוא יהי גלמוד אל תבא רננה בו‬ ‫יקבהו אררי יום העתידים ערר לויתן‬ ‫יחשכו כוכבי נשפו יקו לאור ואין ואל יראה בעפעפי שחר‬ Let darkness and the shadow of death stain it; let a cloud dwellon it; let the blackness of the day terrify it. As for that night, let darkness seize upon it; let it not be joined to thedays of the year, let it not come into the number of the months. Behold, let that night be solitary, let no joyful voice be heard in it. Let those who curse the day curse it, who are ready to rouse up Leviathan. Let the stars of its twilight be dark; let it look for light, but have none; and let it not see the eyelids of the dawn.

Line 5 brings together two true geminates, ‫“ ענן‬cloud” and the crux interpretum ‫מרירי‬. Lines 6 and 7 build upon the cluster by repeating ‫ לילה‬twice and employing the geminate ‫“ רנן‬sing.” Lines 8 and 9, however, bring the 6 Noted by Wilfred G. E. Watson, Classical Hebrew Poetry: A Guide to Its Techniques (JSOTSup 26; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1986), 236.

160

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

pericope to a fever-pitch of geminate parallels in their use of ‫אררי‬, ‫ערר‬, ‫כוכב‬, and ‫עפעפי‬. See also the dense concatenation of gemination (and reduplication) in Job 16:12–16. ‫שלו הייתי ויפרפרני ואחז בערפי ויפצפצני ויקימני לו למטרה‬ ‫יסבו עלי רביו יפלח כליותי ולא יחמול ישפך לארץ מררתי‬ ‫יפרצני פרץ על־פני־פרץ ירץ עלי כגבור‬ ‫שק תפרתי עלי גלדי ועללתי בעפר קרני‬ ‫חמרמרה מני־בכי ועל עפעפי צלמות‬ ֻ ‫פני‬ I was at ease, but he broke me asunder; he also took me by my neck, and shook me to pieces, and set me up for his target. His archers surround me, he cleaves my insides asunder, and does not spare; he pours out my gall on the ground. He breaks me with breach upon breach, he runs upon me like a warrior. I have sewn sackcloth on my skin, and have laid my horn in the dust. (K) My face is reddish with weeping, and on my eyelids is the shadow of death.

A veritable tapestry of geminate and reduplicated forms, this passage parallels ‫ פרפר‬and ‫ פצפץ‬in line 12. In line 13 we find ‫סבב‬, ‫רבב‬, and ‫מרר‬. In line 15 there is ‫עלל‬, and in line 16, ‫ חמרמרה‬and ‫עפעפי‬. Moreover, it clusters these geminate parallels so that they resound in the words ‫ערף‬ “neck” in line 12, ‫“ תפר‬sewn” and ‫“ עפר‬dust” in line 15, as well as the entirety of verse 14: ‫יפרצני פרץ על־פני־פרץ ֻירץ עלי כגבור‬. Similarly, we hear the consonants of ‫ מררתי‬in verse 13 and ‫ עפר‬in ֻ and verse 16 echoed in the reduplicated forms of line 16, namely ‫חמרמרה‬ ‫עפעפי‬.

4.

GEMINATE BALLAST AND CLUSTERING IN UGARITIC POETRY

Since biblical literature shares many poetic forms and devices with the Ugaritic texts we should not be surprised to find geminate ballast also at work in Ugaritic literature. Since the reader by now is aware of the features of this device, I shall be content with merely citing the text and pointing out where gemination appears. I turn first to the Epic of Baal (CAT 1.4 IV:14–18). 14. yštn at̠rt lbmt ʿr 15. lysmsmt bmt pḥl

He sets Asherah on the back of an ass, On the beautiful back of a donkey,

GEMINATE BALLAST AND CLUSTERING 16. qdš yuhdm šbʿr ˘ 17. amrr kkbkb lpnm 18. at̠r btlt ʿnt 8

161

Qadish seizes, he leads. 7 Even Amrar like a star before him, Marches the Virgin `Anat.

This passage clusters several reduplicated forms. Note, for example, ysmsmt in line 15, as well as amrr and kkbkb in line 17. Here again, the poet’s word choice appears to have been influenced by a desire for reduplicated forms. Also of note is that one of the geminate forms exploited by the bard is a personal name, specifically the god Amrar. 9 Geminate ballast also is achieved in CAT 1.4 V:54–55. 54. ḥš. trmmn.hk[lm] 55. btk. s.rrt. s.pn

Quickly you shall erect a palace, In the midst of the summit of Saphan.

Earlier in the Baal cycle, Baal’s mountain is called ǵry il “my holy mountain” (CAT 1.3 III:29) or mrym s.pn the “heights of Saphan” (CAT 1.3 IV rev. 1; 1.4 IV:1; 1.4 V:23; 1.5 I:11), but here the term used is s.rrt. s.pn “summit of Saphan.” The geminate term s.rrt was employed in order to match the geminate form trmmn “you shall erect” in the previous stich. 10 In CAT 1.4 VI:16–17 we also find the following geminate cluster. 16. i[lm]. bhth. tbnn 17. x[xx.] trmm. hlkh 18. y[tl]k. llbnn. wʿs.h

He builds his house, He erects his palace, He g[oe]s to Lebanon for its wood.

Here the imitation form tbnn “he builds” (root bny with energic -n) creates geminate balast with both trmm in line 17 and llbnn in line 18. 7 On the meaning “leads” see Gary Rendsburg, “Modern South Arabian as a Source for Ugaritic Etymologies,” JAOS 107 (1987): 623–628. 8 With Simon Parker, ed., Ugaritic Narrative Poetry (Atlanta, GA.: Scholars Press, 1997), 126–127, I also understand the last four words in lines 17–18 as forming a couplet with the following line. Nevertheless, this does not impact the geminate cluster proposed here. 9 For word plays present in this passage see Scott B. Noegel, “A Janus Parallelism in the Baal and Anat Story,” JNSL 21/1 (1995): 91–94 (92–93); Janus Parallelism in the Book of Job (JSOTSup 223; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 176– 177. 10 In CAT 1.3 I:21–22 srrt also appears, but there the geminate cluster is .

achieved by repeating the consonants ʿl just before it, i.e., ʿl. bʿl. b s.rrt s.pn “Over Baal on the summit of Saphan.” The word s.rrt occurs also in CAT 1.6 I:16, and in the following line the imitation geminate form tštnn “she sets him” appears. Elsewhere in the cycle where s.rrt appears, there appears to be no geminate clustering at work (e.g., CAT 1.6 I:62, 57).

162

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES CAT 1.4 VII:45–50 also constitutes a geminate cluster. 45. dll. al. ilak. Lbn 46. ilm. mt. ʿdd. lydd 47. il. ǵzr. yqra. mt 48. b npšh. ystrn ydd 49. b gngnh aḥdy. dym 50. lk…

I will send a delegation to the son of the gods, Mot, A herald to the beloved, Of El, the hero. He will call Mot. With his throat, instruct the beloved, With his insides, I alone reign.

Several geminates create the cluster in this passage including dll “delegation” (l. 45), ʿdd “herald” (l. 46), ydd “beloved” (ll. 46, 48), and the reduplicate form gngn “insides” (l. 49). Note similarly El’s query to Athirat in CAT 1.4 IV:38–39. 38. ...hm. yd. il mlk 39. yhssk. ahbt. tr. tʿrrk ˘

Does the “hand” of El the king excite you? Or the love of the bull arouse you?

In this passage the words yhssk “excite you” (from the geminate verb hss) form a geminate parallel with˘ tʿrr “arouse you” (also from the geminate ˘ verb ʿrr). Another example can be found in CAT 1.19 III:50–53 where we also find geminate clustering. 50. ymǵ. lmrrt. tǵll. bnr 51. yšu. gh. wys.ḥ. y lk. mrrt 52. tǵll. bnr. dʿlk. mhs.. aqht ˘ 53. ǵzr. šršk. bars.. al

He arrived at Mararat-tag⁷ullal-banir. He lifted his voice and shouted, “Woe to you Mararattaǵullal-banir, near which Aqhat was killed. The hero! May your roots not(sprout) in the earth.”

The place name “Mararat-taǵullal-banir” contains two geminates (i.e., mrrt and tǵll). It is repeated in lines 51–52 for dramatic effect, and is complemented by the word šrš “root,” in line 53, itself a word that contains a geminated consonant (š). The geminate root ǵll appears to have been a Canaanite geminate favorite, since we find it in another geminate cluster in CAT1.3 II:25–28. 25. tǵdd. kbdh. bṣḥq. ymlu 26. lbh. bšmht. kbd. ʿnt ˘ 27. tšyt. kbrkm. tǵll bdm

Her liver swells with laughter, Her heart fills with joy, ʿAnat’s liver with victory, Knee-deep she plunges in soldier’s blood.

GEMINATE BALLAST AND CLUSTERING 28. dmr. ḥlqm. bmmʿ. mhrm

163

To the neck in the gore of troops.

Here tǵll clusters with the geminate forms tǵdd “it gluts” in line 25 and mmʿ “gore” in line 28. One of the most pronounced examples of geminate ballast and clustering in the Ugaritic texts appears in CAT 1.17 II:34–41. 34. …yšl 35. ḥm. ktrt wyššq 36. bnt hll snnt. hmš ˘ 37. tdt ym. yšlḥm. ktrt 38. wyš[šq] bnt. hll. snnt 39. mk bšb[ʿ] ymm tbʿ. bbth 40. ktrt. bnt hll. snnt 41. mddt. nʿmy ʿrš. hrt 42. ysmsmt. ʿrš hllt ˘

He feeds the Kotharot, and gives drink to The daughters of the new moon, the swallows, a fifth, A sixth day, he feeds the Kotharot, And gives drink to the daughters of the new moon, the swallows. Lo on the seventh day, there departed from his house The Kotharot, the daughters of the new moon, the swallows. Extended, the pleasantries of the bed of conception, The delights of the bed of penetration (?)

The cluster begins with the imitation geminate form wyššq “he gives drink” in line 35, and continues with the true geminates hll “new moon” and snnt “swallows” in line 36, which are followed by the form of the numeral tdt “sixth” in line 37. The geminates then repeat in lines 38 and 40. Bolstering the geminate cluster are the imitation geminate sounds of ymm “day(s),” and bbth “from his house,” in line 39, the difficult word mddt “extended” (?) in line 41, the reduplicate form ysmsmt, meaning “delights” from the root ysm, and also the word hllt in line 42. ˘ A similar example occurs in CAT 1.17 VI:35–39. 35. šrgk. hhm(?). mt. uhryt. mh. yqḥ ˘˘ ˘ 36. mh. yqḥ mt. atryt spsg. ysk 37. [l]riš. ḥrṣ. lẓr. qdqdy 38. [ap]mt. kl. amt. wan. mtm. amt

Your lies are loathsome. As for does he get as his destiny? What does man get as his fate? White glaze is poured out On (the) head, lye on top of my pate. [And] I’ll die the death of everyone, Yea I will certainly die!

164

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES 39. [ap m]tn rgmm. argm. qštm

[Also anoth]er thing I shall say: the bow [is a weapon] of heroes!

40. [ ] mhrm

Line 35 begins the geminate cluster with the difficult word hhm ˘˘ “loathsome” and continues in lines 36 and 37 with the terms spsg “white glaze” and qdqd “pate.” The passage then builds upon the cluster with a web of paronomasia utilizing the consonants /a/, /m/, and /t/. Note also the cognate accusative rgmm argm “a saying I will say.”

5.

GEMINATE BALLAST AND CLUSTERING IN AKKADIAN POETRY

Geminate ballast and clustering also appears in Akkadian literature. Again I shall be content with citing the text and briefly highlighting where gemination appears. The first example comes from Ludlul Bēl Nēmeqi III:7–8 (BWL, 48–49). 7. [u]r-ra u mu-šú iš-ten-iš a-na-a[s-su-us] Day and night alike I groan, 8. šuttu (MAŠ.GE6) mu-na-at-tú mal-ma-liš šu-um-r[u-ṣa-ku] In dream and waking moments I am equally wretched.

In this passage the geminate form anassus (from the verb nasāsu) in the A line has inspired the use of the reduplicate malmališ in the B line. We see the device also at work in the Contest between the Tamarisk and the Palm: 5–6 (BWL, 156–157) in which the Tamarisk boasts. 5. ...[iš-p]a-ra-ak-ma qé a-ma-ha-aṣ ú-la-ba-aš um-ma-nam-ma ˘ ...I am a weaver and beat up the threads. I clothe the troops. 6. [....m]a-aš-ma-ša-ak-ma bi-it i-li-im ú-la-al [...] I am the exorcist and purify the temple.

The A line’s ummanamma finds ballast in the B line’s use of the reduplicated noun maššmaššu and in the geminate verb elēlu/ullulu “purify.” See also Enuma Elish I:42–43. 42. i-zu-uz-ma il-ta-si e-li har-mi-ša ˘ She was furious and screamed at her lover, 43. mar-ṣi-iš ug-gu-gat e-diš-ši-ša

GEMINATE BALLAST AND CLUSTERING

165

Delirious, she was beside herself with rage.

The geminate verb ezēzu in the A line finds a match in the B line’s uggugat and also in the imitation geminate form ēdiššiša (from ēdiššī plus the suffix ša). As this and other examples demonstrate, the device does not constitute gemination in the service of alliteration, but rather alliteration in the service of gemination. The alliteration here thus aims to mimic or amplify other geminates. We find geminate ballast also in Enuma Elish I:74–75 74. dE-a uš-ziz-zu ir-nit-ta-šu UGU ga-ri-šu Ea set up his victory over his adversaries, 75. qir-biš kum-mi-šu šup-šu-hi-iš i-nu-u4-uh-hu ˘ ˘ ˘ Then he rested very quietly inside his room.

Here the Š-stem verb of uzuzzu is paralleled with an imitation reduplicated form, the Š-stem noun šupšuhu from the verb pašāhu. ˘ ˘ Another example occurs in the Tale of the Poor Man of Nippur 132– 133. 132. ir-ti-ma ina dun-ni qaq-qa-ri hamši sikkāti (GIŠ.GAG.MEŠ) ˘ And drove five pegs into the hard ground, 133. qātē (ŠU) šēpē (GIR.MIN) qaqqada (SAG) ú-pak-kir-šú Tied (his) hands, feet, and pate.

Here the noun qaqqari “ground,” finds a nominal match in the B line’s qaqqada “pate.” Compare also the geminate ballast and clustering in Gilgamesh X:272– 274 272. na-ad-na-áš-sú ana lil-li šur-šum [ši-ka-ri] To a fool is given beer-dregs instead of 273. GIM.Ì.NUN.[NA] butter. 274. tuh-hu ù ku-uk-ku-šá šá GIM [...] ˘ ˘ Garbage and cheap flour which like [...]

Here the geminate and reduplicate forms include lil-li “fool” and šuršum “dregs” in line 272, and ku-uk-ku in line 274. The use of na-ad-na-ášsú in line 272 and the repeated šá sign in line 274 add to the geminate effect.

166

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES See also Gilgamesh XI:183–184. 183. am-ma-ki taš-ku-nu a-bu-ba: barbaru (BAR.BAR.RA) lit-ba-am-ma nīšē (UKU.MEŠ li-ṣa-[ah-hi-ir] ˘ ˘ Instead of bringing a flood: would that a wolf had appeared to diminish the people! 184. am-ma-ki taš-ku-nu a-bu-ba: hu-šah-hu liš-šá-kin-ma mātu (KUR) ˘ ˘ ˘ lid... Instead of bringing a flood: would that famine had appeared to slay the land!

In this example the poet complements the geminate noun abūbu with the reduplicated noun barbaru “wolf” in line 183, as well as the first and third radical geminate noun hušahu “famine” in line 184. ˘ ˘ In a few cases, geminate clusters are created in combination with names that contain duplicated consonants, much as we saw in the Ugaritic passage above. Thus, in Ludlul Bēl Nēmeqi III:25–26 (BWL, 48–49) we find. 25. làl-úr-alim-ma a-šib nippuriki “Laluralimma, resident of Nippur, 26. a-na ub-bu-bi-ka iš-pu-ra-an-[ni] Has sent me to cleanse you.”

Here the name Laluralimma finds a reduplicated parallel in the B line’s ubbubika. Similarly, see the Preceptive Hymn to Shamash 35–36 (BWL, 128– 129). 35. te-te-ni-bir ta-ma-tum rapaštumtum šá-di-il-ta You never fail to cross the wide expanse of sea, 36. [šá] dí-gì-gì la i-du-ú qí-rib lìb-bi-šá The depth of which the Igigi know not.

The form tetenebbir with the duplicated consonant /t/ bolsters the B line’s geminates Igigi.

6.

CONCLUSION

The device examined above appears to be employed in all strata of biblical Hebrew poetry, and its widespread usage in other Semitic texts shows that it was acquired in scribal circles along with other sophisticated compositional techniques. Its appearance in Akkadian suggests that the device may have originated in Mesopotamia and moved westward with cuneiform cul-

GEMINATE BALLAST AND CLUSTERING

167

ture at an early date. However, regardless of its provenance, the evidence suggests that geminate ballast and clustering was yet another technique available to the ancient Semitic poet, and while this initial foray into the various aspects of the device remains in its infancy, I would like to suggest two avenues for future research. First, I would suggest that the device be examined for its relationship to other poetic features including chiasm, onomatopoeia, paronomasia, Janus parallelism, and key roots. 11 Indeed, a few of the examples we have examined occur in tandem with these devices. Second, the literary function of the device also requires research. 12 It appears to be related in a general sense to other types of parallelism, such as gender-matched parallelism and grammatical parallelism, though its reliance on sound, rather than meaning differentiates it. It also shares features with the clustering phenomenon noted first by Jonas Greenfield in biblical poetry, 13 but its relation to paronomasia, alliteration, and punning suggests that it has a referential function. 14 At the very least, as more examples of geminate clustering come to light, they perhaps will provide a key to poetic strategies for alliteration elsewhere in ancient Near Eastern literature. Nevertheless, while alliteration (or onomatopoeia) may be at times a result of the device, the clustering of ballast geminate, reduplicate, and imitation geminate forms cannot properly and solely be called “alliteration.” Instead, this device represents a learned compositional feature, a sophisticated aural technique which attracted other alliterative forms, and a device which now should be entered into the manuals and handbooks of ancient Semitic poetry.

11 Cf. Benjamin Uffenheimer, “The ‘Desert of the Sea’ Pronouncement (Isaiah 21:1–10),” in David P. Wright, David Noel Freedman, and Avi Hurvitz, eds., Pomegranates and Golden Bells : Studies in Biblical, Jewish, and Near Eastern Ritual, Law, and Literature in Honor of Jacob Milgrom (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1995), 686, who notes that this chapter also contains repeated roots (e.g., ‫ חלחלה‬in Isa 21:3, 21:8). 12 Prof. Wilfred G. E. Watson has suggested to me by way of private communication (July 19, 2000) that the device may function to denote reiterated action (e.g., Ps 12:7) or multiplicity of object (e.g., Isa 7:19). 13 Jonas C. Greenfield, “The ‘Cluster’ in Biblical Poetry,” Maarav 5–6 (1990): 159–168. 14 On word plays as referents see the essays contained in Scott B. Noegel, ed., Puns and Pundits: Word Play in the Hebrew Bible and Ancient Near Eastern Literature (Bethesda, MD: CDL Press, 2000).

NEW LIGHT ON THE NEBIIM FROM ALEXANDRIA: A CHRONOGRAPHY TO REPLACE THE DEUTERONOMISTIC HISTORY PH. GUILLAUME

NEAR EAST SCHOOL OF THEOLOGY, BEIRUT 1. INTRODUCTION The gradual demise of the traditional date for the formation of the Deuteronomistic History (ca. 562 BCE) leads to ask afresh the question of the origin of the chronological arrangement of the Biblical books from Joshua to Kings. 1 The Copenhagen school is pressing the case for a Hellenistic origin The place of Deuteronomy within the Historiography and the Tetra/Hexateuch debate are beyond the scope of this study since I take the demise of the Deuteronomistic History for granted: E. A. Knauf, ‘Does ‘Deuteronomistic historiography’ (DtrH) exist?’ in A. de Pury & Th. Römer (eds), Israel Constructs its History. Deuteronomistic Historiography in Recent Research (JSOTSup, 306; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), pp. 388–398; H. N. Rösel, ‘Does a Comprehensive Leitmotiv Exist in the Deuteronomistic History?’, in Th. Römer (ed.), The Future of the Deuteronomistic History (BETL, 147; Leuven: University Press, 2000), pp. 195–212. P. R. Davies, ‘Post-exilic Collections and the Formation of the Canon’, in J. W. Rogerson & P. R. Davies (eds), The Old Testament World (Cambridge / New York: Cambridge University Press, 1989), pp. 360–375. Th. Roemer, ‘Réponse à l’étude critique de Philippe Guillaume’ RThPh 135 (2003), pp. 39–62, calls upon new evidence in favour of DH, partly founded on H. M. Barstad, ‘Deuteronomists, Persians, Greeks and the Dating of the Israelite Tradition’, in L. L. Grabbe (ed.), Did Moses Speak Attic? (JSOTSup, 317; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), pp. 47–77 who concludes that ‘Any claim that the Deuteronomistic History (or the Chronicler for that matter) is influenced by Greek historiography must be regarded as highly problematic’. I agree because I do not consider the DH as historiography. Barstad shows that the books contained in the DH belong to the common theology of the Ancient Near East; which embraces Hammurabi, Mesha and Ashur1

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of most of the Bible 2 and for the recognition of the influence of Greek historiography on the Biblical presentation of Israel’s past. 3 Niels Peter Lemche considers that ‘From a chronological point of view, it is likely that the Septuagintal order of books should be considered older than the one found in the Hebrew Bible’. He adds that the ‘original order in both Greek and Hebrew traditions was the Law followed by the Prophets, while they differed when it came to the incorporation of other writings’. 4 In fact, the two traditions already differ widely on the Prophets, since the Greek Law is followed by Historical books whose content does not quite match that of the Former Prophets. These differences go beyond a simple matter of title; they reflect different canonization procedures and circumstances. The books of Joshua to Kings will be designated here as the Biblical Chronography. 5 Their canonization as part of the Prophets is generally dated ca. 200 BCE on the basis of the prologue of Ben Sira, 6 although recent banipal. So much for the date of DH! But Roemer has another joker in his sleeve: 3 tablets stolen from Babylonia which (perhaps) reveal the existence, somewhere, sometimes, of a town called Al-Yâhûdû which according to Roemer proves the existence of a Jewish centre that could have composed the DH in the Neobabylonian period: F. Joannès & A. Lemaire, ‘Trois tablettes cunéiformes à onomastique ouest-sémitique’, Transeuphratène 17 (1999), pp. 17–34. In fact, the only tablet mentioning the city (village?) in question records the sale of a two-years old ox by a woman; a bit short to suggest the establishment of an intellectual centre capable of a vast enterprise such as DH. And this is to say nothing about the ethics of publishing and quoting looted Iraqi tablets. 2 Th.L. Thompson, ‘The Bible and Hellenism: A Response’, in L. L. Grabbe (ed.), Did Moses Speak Attic? (JSOTSup, 317; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), pp. 274–286; N. P. Lemche, ‘On the Problems of Reconstructing preHellenistic Israelite (Palestinian) History’, in L. L. Grabbe (ed.), Like a Bird in a Cage. The Invasion of Sennacherib in 701 BCE (JSOTSup, 363; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2003), pp. 150–167. 3 J.-W. Wesselius, The Origin of the History of Israel: Herodotus’ Histories as Blueprint for the First Books of the Bible (JSOTSup, 345; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002). 4 N. P. Lemche, ‘The Old Testament—A Hellenistic Book?’ in L. L. Grabbe (ed.), Did Moses Speak Attic? (JSOTSup, 317; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), pp. 287–318 (288). 5 The term ‘Chronography’ is used instead of ‘Deuteronomistic History’ because the Joshua—Kings succession is not the product of an historian but the result of scribal joining books that had not been meant to be read in succession when they were first written. It is therefore similar to the work of the Alexandrian Chronographers of the third century BCE (see below). 6 S. Z. Leiman, The Canonization of Hebrew Scripture: the Talmudic and Midrashic Evidence (Transactions of the Connecticut Academy of Arts and Science, 47; Hamden:

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studies consider 150 BCE as the decisive moment in the history of the canonization of the Nebiim, thus insisting on the importance of the Hasmonaean factor. 7 These 50 years would be of little account if they did not straddle the upheavals of the Maccabaean revolt, and thus turn the canonization of the Nebiim into either a pre-Maccabaean process or a Hasmonaean endeavour. Deciding between 200 or 150 BCE has immediate bearings on the understanding of the function and purpose of the Nebiim. After considering afresh the date of the Wisdom of Ben Sira and its bearing on the formation of the Nebiim, the discussion will focus on the precursor of the Nebiim, namely the Alexandrian canon. The case for a revised Alexandrian canon hypothesis is put forward to deal with the chicken-and-egg debate over the primacy of Biblical “history” or “prophecy”.

2.

EARLIEST EVIDENCE OF THE PROPHETIC COLLECTION

The evidence for the existence of the prophetic collection is too well known to require a detailed account. 8 From the first century CE, the following texts mention the Prophets as a collection of books: Fourth Ezra 14:44–46 (ca. 90 CE): 9 94 books = 24 published + 70 reserved for the wise among the people.

Josephus, Contra Apionem I.38–40 (ca. 94 CE): Jews do no possess myriads of contradictory books but only 22 = 5 books of Moses + 13 Prophets + 4 remaining books (hymns to God and precepts for the conduct of human life). Philo of Alexandria, De vita contemplativa §25: ‘Laws and Oracles given by inspiration through Prophets, and Psalms, and the other books whereby knowledge and piety are increased and completed’.

Archon, 1976); R. Beckwith, The Old Testament of the New Testament Church (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1985); O.-H. Steck, Der Abschluß der Prophetie im Alten Testament: Ein Versuch zur Frage der Vorgeschichte des Kanons (BThS, 17; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1991). 7 A. van der Kooij, ‘The Canonization of Ancient Books Kept in the Temple of Jerusalem’ in A. van der Kooij & K. van der Toorn (eds), Canonization & Decanonization (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1998), pp. 17–40 (19); Ph.R. Davies, Scribes and Schools (London: SPCK, 1998), pp. 174–182. 8 Full discussion in Beckwith, Old Testament; van der Kooij, ‘Ancient Books’. 9 M. E. Stone, Fourth Ezra (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Augsburg Press, 1990), p. 10.

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The Law and the Prophets in the New Testament: Matt 5:17; 7:12; 22:40; Luke 16:16.29; 24:44; John 13:15; 24:14; Acts 13:15; Rom 3:21. Matthew 23:35 // Luke 11:51 are discussed below. In the second and first centuries BCE four witnesses already concur to establish the presence of a prophetic collection or canon: In 2 Maccabees 15:9, Judas encourages his men before the battle against Nicanor by reading ‘from the Law and the Prophets’.

The Law and the Prophets are mentioned in several Dead Sea scrolls (1QS 1.3; 1QS8.15–16). The ‘books of the Prophets’ occur in CD 7.17–18. 2 Maccabees 2:13–14 belongs to the second of two letters (2 Macc. 1:1–9 and 1:10–2:18) appended as cover letters to the Epitome of Jason of Cyrene’s lost history. It mentions books collected by Judas after a recent war and cannot therefore have been written before 164 but was most likely written in 103–102 BCE in connection with a conflict between Cleopatra III and Ptolemy IX. 10 These books correspond to the collection established by Nehemiah comprising ‘books about the kings, those about the prophets and the books of David and the letters of the Persian kings on dedicatory gifts to the temple’. 4QMMT, the so-called Halakhic letter is addressed to a national leader in Jerusalem, possibly a Maccabaean or Hasmonaean ruler, 11 which in any case places 4QMMT after 164 BCE. It states: ‘We have written to you so that you may study the book of Moses and the books of the Prophets and David…’. 12 Ben Sira’s grandson translated into Greek his grandfather’s Wisdom after 135 BCE. In the prologue, he explains: ‘My grandfather Jesus, who had devoted himself for a long time to the study of the Law, the Prophets, and the other books of our ancestors…’ Some time earlier, Ben Sira himself describes the subjects to be studied by scribes and he seems to refer to a specific prophetic collection: ‘How different it is with the person who devotes himself to reflecting on the Law of the most High: he studies the wisdom of all ancients and he occupies himself with the prophecies; the stories of the famous men he preserves and he penetrates the intricacies of proverbs; he studies the hidden meanJ. A. Goldstein, 2 Maccabees (AB, 41A; New York: Doubleday, 1983), pp. 162–164. 11 D. R. Schwartz, ‘MMT, Josephus and the Pharisees’, in J. Kampen & M. J. Bernstein (eds), Reading 4QMMT. New Perspectives on Qumran Law and History (SBLSS, 2; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996), p. 79 quoted by van der Kooij, ‘Ancient Books’, 26. 12 DJD X:59. 10

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ings of sayings and he knows his way among riddles of proverbs’ (Ben Sira 39:1–3). 13 Admittedly, the reference to a separate prophetic collection is far from clear here, as various types of writings are mentioned. However, the so-called Praise of the fathers (Ben Sira 44—49) names in the correct order the title of each book of the Nebiim. Before considering these chapters, it is crucial to check its date since Ben Sira is widely considered as the earliest witness of the prophetic canon.

3.

THE DATE OF BEN SIRA

The sole chronological anchor to date Ben Sira’s Wisdom is provided by the foreword to the Greek translation where Ben Sira’s grandson states that he arrived in Egypt in the 38th year of the reign of King Euergetes. This corresponds to Ptolemy VII Physkon Euergetes II (170–164 and 146–117 BCE) because the other Euergetes (Ptolemy III Euergetes I 246–221 BCE) only reigned 25 years. Euergetes II began his rule in 170 conjointly with his brother Ptolemy VI (181–146 BCE). Calculating from 170, Ptolemy VII’s official accession year, Ben Sira’s grandson arrived in Egypt in 132 BCE. 14 Since the grandson made the translation after his arrival in Egypt, Ben Sira wrote the last parts of his Wisdom 15 between 322 16 and 130 BCE. 17 These extreme points embrace both high priests named Simon, Simon I who officiated during the reign of Ptolemy I in the earliest years of the third century BCE (Antiquities 11.8.7 §347; 12.2.5 §43–44) and Simon II a century later (219–196 BCE). 18 This wide bracket is slightly narrowed down to 300—130 BCE to allow time for Simon I to die during the reign of the first Ptolemy because the panegyric for the high priest seems to presuppose the death of Simon: ‘Simon the High Priest, the son of Onias, who in his life

Van der Kooij, ‘Ancient Books’, 34. A. A. di Lella, ‘Wisdom of Ben Sira’ in ABD 6.932. 15 Some scholars consider that a first volume ended at 24:29 and that verses 30– 34 introduce a second volume spurred by the success of the first one: R. H. Pfeiffer, History of New Testament Times with an Introduction to the Apocrypha (New York: Harper, 1949), p. 353. Only the latest part is relevant here. 16 Assuming that he wrote his Wisdom at 20 and fathered a son at 70, that this son fathered the translator also at 70 and that the translator himself arrived in Egypt aged 70. 17 Assuming that Ben Sira wrote around the time of his grandson’s arrival in Egypt. In 130, Ben Sira could have been 70, his grandson 20 if both his father and grandfather became father at age 20. 18 J. C. VanderKam, ‘Simon the Just: Simon I or Simon II?’, in Idem (ed.), From Revelation to Canon (SJSJ, 62; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2000), pp. 224–240. 13 14

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repaired the House...’ (50:1). 19 Ben Sira offers no firm indication for the identification of Simon, although his building activities (Sira 50:1–4) fit the transitional period between Ptolemaic and Seleucid rule (Simon II) better than the little we know about the military activities of Ptolemy I against Jerusalem (Simon I). 20 David Williams claims that 175 BCE is more likely than the commonly accepted date of 195 BCE, although the 60 years intergenerational gap he is working with is a very rough estimate 21 and could be considerably reduced. Differences between the Hebrew and the Greek texts of the prayer at the end of Simon’s encomium 22 provide additional weight in favour of Williams’ proposal. The benediction (50:22–24) may have formed the original end of the whole work. 23 In the last verse, the Greek version’s rather general blessing ‘May he entrust to us his mercy, and may he deliver us in our day’ stands for the more specific Hebrew ‘May he entrust to Simon his mercy and may he maintain for him Phinehas’ covenant which will neither be broken for him or for his offspring as long as will the heavens last’. This verse makes more sense if it has been written while Onias, Simon’s son and immediate successor, was facing difficulties but before his situation became hopeless. 24 Collins cautiously warns that ‘we cannot know whether Ben Sira had an inkling of impeding problems when he prayed for the preservation of the line’, 25 but the Hebrew text can hardly refer to a period other than the sojourn of Onias in Antioch (175—172 BCE) or to the ten years leading up to it. However, such a late date for the Praise at the time of Onias has been rejected because Ben Sira ends his description with Simon and fails to mention Onias. David deSilva claims that ‘the lack of any comment on the subversion of the high priesthood by Jason, the younger son of Simon II… 19 J. J. Collins, Jewish Wisdom in the Hellenistic Age (OTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1997), p. 106. J. C. VanderKam, ‘Simon the Just: Simon I or Simon II?’ in Idem, From Revelation to Canon. Studies in the Hebrew Bible and Second Temple Literature (SJSJ, 62; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2000), pp. 224–240. But O. Mulder, Simon the High Priest in Sira 50 (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2003), p. 103, claims that Simon was probably still alive when Ben Sira wrote his Wisdom. 20 Pace VanderKam, ‘Simon the Just’, 237–238; but see Antiquities 12.1.1 §3–7. 21 D. S. Williams, ‘The Date of Ecclesiasticus’, VT 44 (1994), pp. 563–566; D. A. deSilva, Introducing the Apocrypha (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2002), p. 158 n. 7. 22 See Collins, Jewish Wisdom, 98–100. 23 Collins, Jewish Wisdom, 107. 24 So G. Sauer, Jesus Sirach (JSHRZ, III; Gütersloh: Gütersloher / Gerd Mohn, 1981), p. 490. 25 Collins, Jewish Wisdom, 107.

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indicates that Ben Sira’s work, and probably his life, were finished before those dark times. 26 I insist that Ben Sira’s anxious prayer in the Hebrew text reflects Onias or his brother Jason’s perilous position, but certainly one of them was still holding on to Simon’s office. Therefore, Ben Sira should have penned the original conclusion of his Wisdom between Jason’s deposition of his brother Onias (175 BCE) and Menelaus’ deposition of Jason (ca. 172 BCE). 27 By mentioning the father only, Ben Sira carefully avoided taking sides in the sons’ bitter rivalry. By the time the grandson arrived in Egypt (132 BCE), Jerusalem had been torn by worse fights, and with hindsight the end of Simon’s line only appeared as the first episode of a long and bloody conflict over the control of Jerusalem. The high priesthood was now firmly in the hands of the Hasmonaean rulers. Ben Sira’s grandson thus altered the prayer and broadened its application in order to avoid having a 50 chapter-long work centred around God’s covenant faithfulness close on a prayer that was not answered. Like unfulfilled prophecies, unanswered prayers are an excellent token of authenticity. Ben Sira supported the Oniad side, the sons of his previous patron, and he had good reasons to fear for Simon’s line and for his own future and career. So, although the last part of Ben Sira is closer to 175 than to 190 BCE, Ben Sira remains the earliest witness of a prophetic collection, at least one decade before the Maccabaean insurrection. Now, the location of the author is another important factor to clarify.

4.

BEN SIRA IN EGYPT

Are there any clues to locate Ben Sira? Until recently, the following elements were considered as ample proof for the Palestinian origin of both Ben Sira and of his grandson: The Wisdom of Ben Sira was known in Palestine: Hebrew manuscripts were found at Qumran, Massada and in the Cairo Geniza (B). 28 This does not imply that Ben Sira wrote in Palestine. The elaborate description of a liturgy performed at Jerusalem by Simon (Sira 50:5–21) is taken as indicating that Ben Sira personally witnessed DeSilva, Apocrypha, 158. So Collins, Jewish Wisdom, 61. For the dates, see E. S. Gruen, ‘The Origins and Objectives of Onias’ Temple’, Scripta Classica Israelitica 16 (1997), pp. 47–70; for slightly different dates: J. G. Bunge, JSJ 6 (1975), pp. 4–5. 28 The Cairo MSS may have been one of the documents found by Karaites in a cave near Jericho about 800 CE: P. W. Skehan & A. A. DiLella, The Wisdom of Ben Sira, (AB, 49; New York: Doubleday, 1987), p. 569. 26 27

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Simon’s performance. At most, this only implies that Ben Sira happened to be in Jerusalem once. In the last chapter, Ben Sira provides an autobiographic note suggesting that he spent at least his youth in Jerusalem: ‘When I was still young, before I went on my travels, I sought wisdom openly in my prayer. Before the temple I asked for her, and I will search for her to the last’ (Sira 51:13–14). However, there were Jewish temples elsewhere, and although the temple of Leontopolis is widely believed to have been founded by Onias IV after 175 BCE in reaction to Jason or Menelaus’ usurpations of the high priesthood, the existence of such a temple could be set back a century earlier. 29 The prayer ‘Have pity on the city of thy sanctuary, Jerusalem, the place of thy rest. Fill Zion with the celebration of thy wondrous deeds, and thy Temple with thy glory,’ (36:13–14) reveals Ben Sira’s particular attachment to Jerusalem. Emotional attachment does not prove continuous residence. Finally, Ben Sira’s signature ‘I have written this book, Jesus son of Eleazar son of Sirach of Jerusalem’ (50:27) would establish beyond doubt Ben Sira’s Palestinian origin; but since the words ‘of Jerusalem’ are absent in the Hebrew text doubts remain over both his birthplace and his location when he wrote his Wisdom. Paul McKechnie has therefore put forward a convincing case for a Ben Sira born in Jerusalem but who then travelled widely (Sira 34:9–12; 39:1–11; 51:13) and wrote his treatise in Hebrew, not in Jerusalem but at Alexandria. 30 This explains why the grandson, who does not indicate where he came from, tells his readers that it is upon arrival in Egypt that he found his grandfather’s book. 31 Against Elias Bickerman’s view that ‘there are no self-revelations in Ben Sira’, 32 McKechnie considers the passages where Ben Sira speaks in 29 There are no binding reasons to affirm that the Egyptian temple was founded by Onias III or IV, if there ever was a fourth Onias (on this see V. Keil, ‘Onias III, Märtyrer oder Tempelgründer?’, ZAW 97 (1985), pp. 221–231; Gruen, ‘Origins’. Since Manetho already mentions strong links between Jews and Heliopolis, the Leontopolis temple could have been established then to serve the large Jewish garrison around 300 BCE (see Against Apion 1.26, 237–239.250), it would be consistent with the ideology of both 1 Maccabees and Josephus to minimize as much as possible the antiquity of this competing sanctuary. 30 P. McKechnie, ‘The Career of Joshua Ben Sira’, JTS 51,1 (2000), pp. 1–26. 31 McKechnie, ‘Career’, 8. 32 E. J. Bickerman, The Jews in the Greek Age (Cambridge, MA, Harvard Univ. Press, 1988), p. 204.

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propria persona and the final prayer to insist that the repeated mention of accusations (Sira 12:10–12; 25:7; 27:21–24; 51:6–7) does not merely reflect literary conventions but reveal a real trauma and that Ben Sira actually faced trial following accusations made before the king. The question then is before which king was Ben Sira accused and tried? In the absence of evidence favouring a Seleucid 33 or a Ptolemaic ruler, McKechnie claims that, as a member of the elite at the time of Simon, Ben Sira is likely to have been evacuated from Jerusalem in 200 BCE. In the aftermath of the decisive Seleucid victory at Panion, the Ptolemaic general Scopas returned to Egypt ‘bringing away the upper-class supporters of Ptolemy with him’. 34 Ben Sira then served as courtier at Alexandria until allegations were brought against him before Ptolemy IV (Philopator), V (Epiphanes) or VI (Philometor). After having been cleared of the charges yielded against him (Sira 25:7), Ben Sira wrote his Wisdom at Alexandria, a location that accounts better than Jerusalem for the advanced level of Hellenization reflected throughout the work: 35 ‘It is really not plausible to suggest that Ben Sira calmly instructed upper-class Jews in the social graces of the symposium in a city [Jerusalem] where a generation later a gymnasium was a major scandal’. 36 The fact that Pharaoh is never mentioned in the entire work, except for a cryptic allusion in Sira 3:26, is another argument in favour of McKechnie’s claim that Ben Sira wrote his Wisdom in Egypt. Some time after his acquittal, after an honourable retirement from royal service, Ben Sira set up a wisdom school and was rich enough to offer courses for free (Sira 51:25). The structure of his Wisdom probably presents the substance of his teaching, since the book is organized into eight sections. 37 The Praise of the fathers comes last, probably at the end of the original second volume, 38 allowing the dating of its writing to some time 33 Sira 10:8.10 have been taken as pro-Seleucid clues: R. Smend, Die Weisheit des Jesus Sirach (Berlin: Reimer, 1906), p. 93, and M. Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism (London: SCM, 1974), vol. II p. 96 n. 280. 34 Jerome, In Danielem 11.14, PL 25 cols. 562–3, FGrHist 260 (Porphyrius of Tyre) F45. 35 Entertainment industry (9:9), banquets (32:1–13), and royal physicians (38:1– 15). On this last point, see the way LXX translates Exod. 21:19. 36 McKechnie, ‘Career’, 26. 37 J. D. Harvey, ‘Toward a Degree of Order in Ben Sira’s Book’, ZAW 105 (1993), pp. 52–62. 38 Sira 24:30–34 introduce the sequel of the first volume composed after the success of an earlier work (‘lo, my canal became a river ...’): Pfeiffer: History, 353; W. Roth, ‘On the Gnomic-Discursive Wisdom of Jesus Ben Sirach, Semeia 17 (1980), pp. 59–79.

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between 198 at the very earliest and 150 BCE at the latest. 39 This fits Williams’ date accepted in the previous section (175 BCE). How does the location of Ben Sira in Alexandria bear on the formation of the prophetic collection? If it has no bearing on the date, it certainly brings Alexandria to the fore as a much more likely locale than Jerusalem for book collection and canon making. The Zion-centeredness that dominates scholarship is blind to the relative insignificance of Jerusalem throughout the Hellenistic period, although its absence is notable from the list of military encounters throughout the wars between the Ptolemies and the Seleucids. Jerusalem never appears as a strategic location, its only importance derives from the deposits held in the temple treasury. And nothing indicates that these deposits were extraordinarily abundant. This is also in line with the overall picture that one can recover from the Ptolemaic rule in Palestine. 40 On the other hand, the importance of Alexandria cannot be overstated, especially when it comes to intellectual endeavours. Alexandria is the world centre for the canonization of ancient literature, for historiography and for philosophy, three domains directly pertaining to Ben Sira and to the formation of the Nebiim. 41 39 If Ben Sira was 20 when he was evacuated in 200, he might still be writing in 150 at age 70. If he was 60 in 200, he could be completing his Wisdom only a few years later, providing that the trial took place shortly after his arrival in Egypt in 200. 40 The Zenon archives (PCZ 59093; 59804;) attest intense slave trade towards Egypt through the coastal harbour cities, and the importance of the Ammonite city (rather than Jerusalem) for the control of Coele-Syria: Polybius, Histories, book V; F. Zayadine, ‘La campagne d’Antiochos III le Grand en 219–217 et le siege de Rabbatamana’, RB 97 (1990), pp. 68–84. C. Ord. Ptol. 21–22; R. S. Bagnall & P. Derow (eds), Greek Historical Documents: the Hellenistic Period (SBLSBS, 16; Chico: Ca: Scholars Press, 1981), p. 53, pp. 95–96; CPJ I.2; Letter of Aristeas 4,22; B. G. Wright, ‘‘Ebed/Doulos: ‘Terms and Social Status in the Meeting of Hebrew Biblical and Hellenistic Roman Culture’, Semeia 83/84 (1998), pp. 83–111. Jerusalem’s relative insignificance results from its isolated position, away from commercial routes: V. Tcherikover, Hellenistic Civilization and the Jews (Philadelphia: Jewish Publ. Society of America, 1959), pp. 108–109; hence the Ptolemies did not attempt to found a polis at Jerusalem as they did at Ailas, Amman, Akko and possibly Beth-Shean. 41 B. Lang, Ein Buch wie kein Anderes (Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker, 1980), pp. 16–17; A. de Pury, ‘Le canon de l’Ancien Testament’ in Protestantisme et construction européenne: actes du colloque des Facultés de théologie protestante des pays latins d’Europe (Bruxelles: Ad Veritam, 1991), pp. 25–45; A. de Pury, ‘Qohéleth et le canon des Ketubim’, RThPh 131 (1999), pp. 163–198. B. Lang, ‘The “Writings”: A Hellenistic Literary Canon in the Hebrew Bible’, in A. van der Kooij & K. van der Toorn (eds), Canonization and Decanonization (SHR, 82; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1998), pp. 41–65 (45–50).

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5.

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BEN SIRA’S PROPHETS

The first question to be answered is whether or not Ben Sira 44—49 prove the existence of the prophetic collection as claimed among others by Odil Hannes Steck. 42 Although it seems to be the case, Philip Davies claims that Ben Sira does not even ‘know the five books that now constitute the Pentateuch in their canonical form’. This radical claim is taken over by John Collins. 43 David Carr also rejects Steck’s conclusion that Ben Sira demonstrates the existence of a literary unit Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel and the Twelve. 44 On the other hand, Jean-Louis Ska reached the conclusion that although Ben Sira is not interested in books as such, he nevertheless introduces the principle of periodization found in the Nebiim. 45 Alon GoshenGottstein and Joseph Blenkinsopp agree that Ben Sira undoubtedly reflects a two-part canon 46 and Lester Grabbe concludes that ‘Ben Sira had essentially the present Biblical text of the Pentateuch, Joshua to 2 Kings, 1–2 Chronicles and the Prophets in front of him’. 47 Indeed, the praise does not mention every book of the Torah. Materials in Leviticus and Deuteronomy are not alluded to, and Moses’ meekness (Num. 12:3.7) comes in Sira 45:4, before verses 8–12 that describe priestly garments (Exod. 39:1–31). However, on reaching the Prophets, Ben Sira’s is Steck, Abschluß, 136–144. Ph.R. Davies, ‘Scenes from the Early History of Judaism’, in D. V. Edelman (ed.), The Triumph of Elohim (Kampen: Kok, 1995), p. 170; Collins, Jewish Wisdom, 19–20. His recent book on canonization, Davies, Scribes, does not mention Ben Sira 44—49 at all. 44 D. M. Carr, ‘Canonization in the Context of Community: An Outline of the Formation of the Tanakh and the Christian Bible’, in R. D. Weis & D. M. Carr (eds), A Gift of God in Due Season. Essays on Scripture and Community in Honor of James A. Sanders (JSOTSup, 225; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996). 45 J.-L. Ska, ‘L’éloge des pères dans le Siracide (Si 44–50) et le canon de l’Ancien Testament’ in N. Calduch-Benages & J. Vermeylen (eds), Treasures of Wisdom. Studies in Ben Sira and the Book of Wisdom. FS Gilbert, Maurice (BETL, 143; Leuven: Peeters, 1999), pp. 181–193 (192); 46 A. Goshen-Gottstein, ‘Ben Sira’s Praise of the Fathers: A Canon-conscious Reading’, in R. Egger-Wenzel (ed.), Ben Sira’s God. Proceedings of the International Ben Sira Conference. Durham—Ushaw College 2001 (BZAW, 321; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2002), pp. 235–267 (241 n. 18); J. Blenkinsopp, ‘The Formation of the Hebrew Bible Canon: Isaiah as a Test Case’, in L. M. McDonald & J. A. Sanders (eds), The Canon Debate (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2002), pp. 53–67 (61). 47 L. L. Grabbe, ‘Jewish Historiography and Scripture in the Hellenistic Period’, in L. L. Grabbe (ed.), Did Moses Speak Attic? (JSOTSup, 317; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), pp. 129–155 (147). 42 43

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much more precise, as if he is carefully making a point: each book is alluded to in almost perfect order 48 and the transition between Torah and Nebiim is well marked by an exhortatory blessing (45:26). The verses dedicated to Joshua (46:1–8, twice as many as for Moses) refer more to the book than to the figure Joshua. Since no text can sustain the presentation of Joshua as Moses’ helper (in the Hebrew) or successor (in the Greek) in the prophetic office, this only makes sense if the book of Joshua is meant as the first one of the prophetic collection, following the Mosaic collection. Then the transition between what we know as the Former and the Latter Prophets is also carefully effected by Sira 48:10: ‘At the appointed time, it is written, you are destined to calm the wrath of god before it breaks out in fury…’. This verse has been suspected of being secondary since its apocalyptic connotations seem out of place in the context of the passage. 49 However, this sudden apocalyptic outbreak has a canonical explanation: it combines oracles from Isa. 49:10 and Mal. 3:23–24 and applies them to Elijah in order to tie up the last book of the Former Prophets (Kings) with the first and the last of the Latter Prophets (Isaiah and Malachi). This inclusio suggests that the juxtaposition of the prophetic books and the “historical” ones into one collection is recent and thus it requires comment. In the Praise, the words ‘prophet’, ‘prophecy’ and ‘to prophesy’ only appear in the section that corresponds to the Nebiim (Sira 46:1—49:10). 50 At this point, I can do no better than quote Goshen-Gottstein: While the earlier part of the Praise, devoted to the Torah, makes no mention of the individual books of the Torah, the later part of the Praise, that addresses the Prophets, seems to make it a point to relate to all books in the prophetic corpus. This is particularly sticking in view of the fact that concerning some of these books Ben Sira really has nothing to say. Thus, 46:11–12 relates to the Judges, without really saying anything relevant concerning them, except to the fact that they are mentioned and blessed… if the point is to redescribe the prophetic canon, as part of a wider project in which Ben Sira is engaged, then all parts of the canon must be addressed, even where there is little to say concerning the individual works or the figures related to those works. 48 O. Mulder, ‘Two Approaches: Simon the High Priest and YHWH God of Israel / God of All in Sirach 50’, in R. Egger-Wenzel (ed.), Ben Sira’s God. Proceedings of the International Ben Sira Conference. Durham—Ushaw College 2001 (BZAW, 321; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2002), pp. 221–234 (223); Goshen-Gottstein, ‘Praise’, 241. 49 Collins, Jewish Wisdom, 104. 50 Ska, ‘L’éloge’, 182: the first prophet is Joshua, in spite of the fact that neither the Pentateuch nor the book of Joshua present Joshua as a prophet, the other prophets are Samuel (46:13.15.20), Nathan (47:1), Elijah (48:1) and Elisha (48:8 H; 48:13 G).

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The cases of the Judges and the twelve Minor Prophets are telling in another way as well. If Ben Sira wanted to make honourable mention of individual heroes in Israel’s history, he should have referred to individual figures by name. What is the point of referring to works by their title? Why not list the prophets and the judges individually? It seems to me the answer lies in the fact that Ben Sira is more interested in describing the canon than he is in describing individual lives. 51 Although the importance of Ben Sira for the formation of the canon has long been recognized, 52 Goshen-Gottstein follows Gerald Sheppard in insisting that Ben Sira is not merely providing information on the canon en passant, but he is ‘actively and consciously describing the canon’. 53 It is therefore all the more important to check the content of Ben Sira’s prophetic list. Besides minute irregularities concerning his presentation of Torah material, 54 the only deviations within the Prophets are David placing singers before the altar (47:9), an isolated quotation of Mal. 3:23–24 in the Elijah section (Sira 48:10b), the mention of Job in 49:9 between Ezekiel and the Twelve, and the out-of-place mention of Genesis at the very end of the Prophets (49:14–16). These deviations should be examined to determine the content of Ben Sira’s Prophets.

5.1

THE CASE OF CHRONICLES (SIRA 47:9)

Burton Mack found four common elements in Chronicles and Ben Sira: (1) the distinction between acceptable and unacceptable kings; (2) David’s links with the cult; (3) both tell a story that runs up into their own time; (4) both tell a story legitimizing second temple cult. 55 Ska evaluates these elements and concludes that since elements (1) and (3) are also characteristic of the books of Kings only (2) and (4) may be of interest. 56 However, David’s placement of singers before the altar (Sira 47:9) is beyond doubt a reference to 1 Chronicles 6:32 (Heb. 6:17) because the Goshen-Gottstein, ‘Praise’, 241–242. I. L. Seeligmann, ‘Voraussetzungen der Midraschexegese’, in Congress Volume, Copenhagen 1953 (VTSup, 1; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1953), p. 152; Leiman, Canonization; G. T. Sheppard, Wisdom as Hermeneutical Construct: a Study in the Sapientializing of the Old Testament (BZAW, 151; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1980); Beckwith, Old Testament; 110– 111. 53 Goshen-Gottstein, ‘Praise’, 242 n. 21. 54 A fourth allusion to Numbers (14:6–38 at 46:7–8) after the two allusions to Joshua (but this mentions Caleb and Joshua). 55 B. L. Mack, The Wisdom and Hebrew Epic. Ben Sira’s Hymn in Praise of the Fathers (CSJH; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985), pp. 117–118. 56 Ska, ‘L’éloge’, n. 28. 51 52

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books of Kings do not attribute such a move to David. The reference to Chronicles is confirmed by the use of the word ψαλτῳδὸς often found in Paralipomenon. 57 If this reference to Chronicles is clear in the Greek, it is the work of the translator, but it may not correspond to Ben Sira’s intent. Unfortunately, the very passage that would settle the question of Ben Sira’s relation to Chronicles is damaged in the only extant Hebrew text (MS B). The gaps within the brackets can be filled approximately on the basis of the Greek of Ben Sira 47:8–10:

57 1 Par. 6:33 (18); 9:33; 13:8; 15:16.19.27; 2 Par. 5:12; 20:21; 29:28; 35:15. Although one must notice that Sinaiticus (against Alexandrinus and Vaticanus) uses ψαλμῳδὸς instead of ψαλτῳδὸς, a word with no parallels in Paralipomenon.

NEW LIGHT ON THE NEBIIM

8a

ἐν παντὶ ἔργῳ αὐτοῦ ἔδωκεν ἐξομολόγησιν

183

‫בכל מעשהו נתן הודות‬ ‫לאל עליון֯ ]דבר כ[ ̊בוד‬

ἁγίῳ ὑψίστῳ ῥήματι δόξης· 8b

ἐν πάσῃ καρδίᾳ αὐτοῦ ὕμνησεν καὶ ἠγάπησεν τὸν ποιήσαντα αὐτόν.

‫בכל לבו אוהב עושהו‬ ‫[׃‬.....‫ובכל ]לבו זמר‬

9

καὶ ἔστησεν ψαλτῳδοὺς κατέναντι τοῦ θυσιαστηρίου καὶ ἐξ ἠχοῦς αὐτῶν γλυκαίνειν μέλη·

‫נגינות שיר ל]פני מזבח‬ ‫ו֯ ק]ו[ל]הם מתק נוג[נ֯ ים תיקן׃‬

10a

ἔδωκεν ἐν ἑορταῖς εὐπρέπειαν

[‫]נתן [ל]מועדים נאות‬ ‫]יעד מספרם ב[ ֯שנה׃‬

καὶ ἐκόσμησεν καιροὺς μέχρι συντελείας 10b

ἐν τῷ αἰνεῖν αὐτοὺς τὸ ἅγιον ὄνομα αὐτοῦ καὶ ἀπὸ πρωίας ἠχεῖν τὸ ἁγίασμα.

‫בהל] ולי[ ֯ם שם קדשו‬ ‫לפני בק]ר[ ירין משפט‬ ‫}מקדש{׃‬

The Greek is sufficiently close to the Hebrew text to get an idea of the Hebrew text of verse 9. 58 The word ‫ נגנה‬is never found in Chronicles but in Isa. 38:20; Hab. 3:19 and in the Psalms. In the second colon, the word μέλος corresponds to root ‫ הגה‬59 providing various technical terms in the Psalms, among them ‫ נגנה‬at the beginning of the verse. One thing is clear, apart from the word ψαλτῳδὸς, the Greek and Hebrew vocabulary of verse 9 is never used in Kings or Chronicles, while several connections with 58 I have just altered two letter marked as uncertain by the editor P. C. Beentjes, The Book of Ben Sira in Hebrew: A text edition of all extant Hebrew manuscripts and a synopsis of all parallel Hebrew Ben Sira texts (VTSup, 68; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1997), p. 84: in v. 9b the unclear letter after the second break read by break read by Beentjes, as ‫ ל‬into ‫ נ‬to fit attested plural masculine forms derived from ‫ הגה‬or ‫( גגן‬Isa. 8:19; Ps 68:26); in v. 10bα I replace the suggested ‫ ת‬by a ‫ ם‬to avoid the plural feminine ‫הוללות‬ found exclusively in Qohelet with the meaning ‘folly’. 59 E. Hatch & H. A. Redpath, A Concordance to the Septuagint (Graz: Akad. Druck, 1975), p. 909.

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

David are found in the Psalms, in particular Psalm 61 that uses the word ‫ נגנה‬in the Davidic title and the link of Ps. 51:1 with David’s sin, the only text, besides 2 Sam. 12:13, to sustain David’s forgiveness in Sira 47:11aα. 60 The reference to Chronicles is thus elusive, and the common claim that Ben Sira uses the books of Chronicles must be seriously curtailed: it is limited to one word in the Greek version and cannot be used to prove that Ben Sira himself explicitly refers to Chronicles and even less that he considers Chronicles as part of the Prophets. 61 Once this point is made, the possible references to Chronicles in the Gospels can be examined. Beckwith suggests that the canon listed in Baba Bathra 14b starts with Genesis and ends with Chronicles and may have existed in Pharisaic oral tradition of the 1st century CE. 62 The argument rests on Matthew 23:35 // Luke 11:51 that mention the blood of the martyrs Abel and Zechariah. Abel obviously marks the first book of the Torah but Zechariah does not provide such a clear canon boundary: Luke 11:51 supplies no patronym for Zechariah so it has been understood as referring to Zechariah ben Jehoiada mentioned in 2 Chron. 24:20–21. 63 The suggestion is reinforced by the fact that the parallel in 2 Kings 12 does not mention Jehoiada’s son or his murder, while the name Zechariah is a favourite of the Chronicler. However, if Luke’s Zechariah indicates that Luke considered that the canon ended with 2 Chronicles, this is not the case with Matthew. The parallel in Matt. 23:35 indicates that Zechariah is ben Barachiah which can only refer to Zechariah of the book of the same name (Zech. 1:1). Since there are no indications that this Zechariah ended as a martyr, Matthew’s canon-consciousness is 60 Ms B: ‫ ייי העביר פשעו‬compare Ps 51: 5 and 2 Sam. 12:13. David’s sin is not mentioned in Chronicles. 61 Pace J. L. Koole, ‘Die Bibel des Ben Sira’, OtSt 23 (1965), pp. 374–396 (385). The Chronicler’s reference text is not the Deuteronomistic History as claimed by R. Albertz, ‘An End to the Confusion? Why the Old Testament Cannot Be a Hellenistic Book!’, in L. L. Grabbe (ed.) Did Moses speak Attic? (JSOTSup., 317; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), pp. 30–46 (39); and Z. Talshir, ‘Several CanonRelated Concepts Originating in Chronicles’, ZAW 113 (2001), pp. 386–403 (397); but only the books of Samuel and Kings or Kingdoms. Chronicles may indicate that the books of Samuel and Kings were authoritative, or as their first commentary they revealed their canonicity: K. Peltonen, ‘A Jigsaw without a Model?’, in L. L. Grabbe (ed.), Did Moses Speak Attic? (JSOTSup, 317; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), pp. 225–273 (256–257.269). The same can be said about Ben Sira’s Praise of the fathers, it comments a new collection to attribute it a new status. But the Chronicler had never heard of a Deuteronomistic History. 62 R. T. Beckwith, ‘A Modern Theory of the Old Testament Canon’, VT 41 (1991), pp. 385–395 (396). 63 Beckwith, Old Testament, 123.

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185

clear. 64 Moreover, LXX 2 Chronicles 24:20 mentions Αζαρια for MT’s ‫זכריה‬, thus reducing the possibilities that Luke refers to Chronicles, unless Luke did not use the LXX. So Eissfeldt reckoned that the Gospels refer to a murder during the Jewish revolt in 66—70 CE. 65 The least we can say is that Matthew and Luke did not refer to the same unfortunate Zechariah. If they did mean to indicate the span of the canon through martyrs (this is more likely in Matthew’s case), they did not share the same canon: Matthew’s ended with the Twelve like Ben Sira’s, while Luke’s included Chronicles as claimed by Beckwith. But there are still two different ways to interpret Luke’s canon including Chronicles. Beckwith understands it as reflecting the traditional Jewish arrangement of the books (recorded in the Talmud) whereby Chronicles are placed at the end of the third group. 66 However, Luke the self-proclaimed historian could also reflect the sequence of the Historica as we know them from the Christian LXX whereby Chronicles follow Kings. The fact that Matthew the Jew disagrees is precious because it indicates the presence of two competing canons. For Matthew, Scriptures are the Torah and Nebiim, but for Luke it is the Alexandrian Torah and Chronography, which means that the two were in competition with each other.

5.2

THE CASE OF JOB (SIRA 49:9)

Since Ben Sira is quoting Job in the first part of his work, 67 his mention by name as a kind of fourth prophet between the references to Ezekiel and of the Twelve (49:8–10) could indicate that his list differs from the Nebiim. However, no Hebrew manuscript is extant as far as the word ‘Job’; and if the Hebrew original did mention Job, the grandson read ‫‘ איב‬enemy’ instead of Job (‫)איוב‬, referring to the Gog and Magog prophecy in Ezek. But H. G. L. Peels, ‘The Blood ‘from Abel to Zechariah’ (Matthew 23,35; Luke 11,50f.) and the Canon of the Old Testament’, ZAW 113,4 (2001), pp. 583– 601 considers that both Matthew 23 and Luke 11 cannot figure as crown witnesses for the view that the OT canon in Jesus’ days was fixed and closed. 65 O. Eissfeldt, Einleitung in das Alte Testament (Tuebingen: Mohr, 1956), pp. 702–703; P. Katz, ‘The Old Testament in Palestine and in Alexandria’, ZNW 47 (1956), pp. 191–217 (194 n. 6). Josephus, War 4.334–44 relates the murder of Zecharias ben Baruch (335) by Zealots in the middle of the temple (343). According to W. D. Davies & D. C. Allison, Matthew 19–28 (ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1997), p. 318, this recent event explains better the “you” of the gospel. 66 Beckwith, Old Testament, 115; Beckwith, ‘Modern Theory’, 387–388. 67 J. G. Snaith, ‘Quotations in Ecclesiasticus’, JBL 18 (1967), pp. 1–12: Job 9:12 in 33:10; Job 38:25 in 40:13; Job 39:28 in 40:15; Job 15:17 in 42:15. J. L. Koole, ‘Die Bibel des Ben-Sira’, OtSt 14 (1965), pp. 374–396. About Job 29:21 in Sira 13:23 see Collins, Jewish Wisdom, 57. 64

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

38:9.22. 68 The Greek text thus refers to the book of Ezekiel and not to Job as a book. In fact, in Sira 49:9 it is Ezekiel rather than God who remembers. Moreover, the figure of Job is mentioned with Noah and Danel in Ezek. 14:14.20. 69 Therefore, Ben Sira does not include Job in his list of books, although he does quote the book of Job several times. The conclusion is that Ben Sira is bound by the pre-existing list of the Nebiim, which prevents him from including the book of Job, in spite of clear theological affinities.

5.3

THE CASE OF THE TEMPLE BUILDERS (SIRA 49:11–13)

The perfect agreement of the order and content of the Prophets in the Praise of the fathers with the Nebiim seems to be ruined by the mention of Zerubbabel, Jeshua ben Jozadak and Nehemiah (49:11–13). These three figures are all credited with building activities, and thus introduce Simon, whose building endeavours are mentioned in the first four verses of the Praise of Simon (50:1–4). Although the mention of Nehemiah is problematic for a canonconscious reading of the Praise, he need not be understood as belonging to Ben Sira’s prophetic list, any more than Simon need be understood as the title of a prophetic book. Although the division between chapters 49 and 50 gives the impression that Nehemiah belongs to the Prophets, Zerubbabel, Jeshua and Nehemiah mark the end of the Prophets section and the beginning of Simon’s encomium. The subject matter indicates the change, the last mention of prophets and prophecy-related activities occurs in 49:10 for the Twelve, the next figures are builders of walls and of walls only, thus suggesting that the mention of Zerubbabel, Jeshua and Nehemiah does not stem from canonical concerns, but introduces the Praise of Simon. 70 The transition is very elaborate. Zerubbabel, who canonically still belongs to the Prophets, is mentioned first with a quote from Haggai 2:23 that compares Zerubbabel to a signet ring on God’s right hand. Then the building motif is introduced with Jeshua, who also belongs to the book of the Twelve (Haggai). Finally, the memory of Nehemiah is mentioned, only on account of the rebuilding of walls, city-gates and houses. Since the next verses present textual problems (see below), the Nehemiah verse can be considered secondary as the rest of the chapter. If so, Ben Sira closes the Prophets section of the Praise with Jeshua ben Jozadak (Sira 49:12). This creates a neat incluSee Beckwith, Old Testament, p. 73 and p. 97 n. 49. According to Goshen-Gottstein, ‘Praise’, 242 n. 22 who rejects this possibility (n. 24) and prefers to understand the reference to Job as growing out of its canonical context rather than out of his mention in Ezekiel 14. 70 Goshen-Gottstein, ‘Praise’, 256. 68 69

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187

sion with Joshua ben Nun at the beginning of the Prophets (Sira 46:1), while Jeshua’s building activities provide an apt transition to Simon. Ben Sira would thus follow the order and the content of the Nebiim. But this solution seems too good to be accepted so quickly, it smacks of circular reasoning, since it removes the parts of the text that do not fit the theory that it is supposed to prove. So another possibility is to claim that from Nehemiah onwards, the description engages a reverse movement back to Adam (Sira 49:16) in order to signify clearly the end of the canon. 71 The result is almost the same; both Jeshua and Adam provide a clear mark of the end of the canon, except that in the second case doubts remain over the status of the book of Nehemiah. Carr uses this to claim that Ben Sira did not have a prophetic collection in front of him. 72 Before examining the last verses of chapter 49, one can at least conclude at this point that if Ben Sira’s purpose had been to delimit the new prophetic canon, he considered Nehemiah as the last book of this canon. Now, there is another way to explain the mention of Nehemiah. The fact that he is never paired with Ezra reveals a different authorship for Sira 49:13–16. According to Joseph Blenkinsopp, Ben Sira’s silence about Ezra is polemical: Ben Sira objected to Ezra intransigent opposition to the Tobiads. 73 But this does not fit with Ben Sira’s clear pro-Oniad stance (Simon), which should have made Ezra sympathetic to Ben Sira. However, Blenkinsopp holds the key to the silence over Ezra if this silence is not attributed to Ben Sira but to a secondary addition. Blenkinsopp shows that these verses share the same high consideration for Nehemiah as the letter that was appended to 2 Maccabees (2 Macc. 1:10b—2:18) where Nehemiah alone, without Ezra, is considered as the founding father of the second temple. These interpolators are Hasmonaean apologists, a fact that dates both the addition in Sira 49:13–16 and Epistle 2 in 2 Maccabees at the end of the second century BCE. 74 The secondary nature of Sira 49:13–16 thus becomes more likely.

5.4

THE CASE OF THE CONCLUDING PATRIARCHS (SIRA 49:14–16)

After Nehemiah, the Praise of the fathers closes with Genesis figures. The common explanation for the belated mention of Enoch, Joseph, Shem, Seth, Enosh and Adam (49:14–16) is that it constitutes an echoing technique that rounds off the Praise of the fathers by returning to the starting Goshen-Gottstein, ‘Praise’, 251 n. 39. Carr, ‘Canonization’, 39. 73 J. Blenkinsopp, Ezra-Nehemiah (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1988), pp. 55–57. 74 See discussion in Goldstein, 2 Maccabees, 157–167.540–545. 71 72

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

point of the Biblical story with Adam, and that these Genesis figures are placed at the end because they are not associated to any covenant. 75 One may wonder why they are mentioned here since they do not fit any pattern of characterization in the book. 76 The only answer, if they do not belong to a secondary addition, is that they delimitate the end of the canon. So Mack’s claim that 49:14–16 are secondary textual additions should be considered. 77 The figures of Joseph and Enoch 78 have certainly caused problems to translators and copyists. Joseph may be alluded to in 44:23: ‘From his [Jacob’s] descendants, he brought forth a godly man who found favour in the sight of all and was beloved by God and people’, but the allusion is more likely to apply to Moses who is mentioned immediately after this phrase. Joseph is named at 49:15 ‘Nor was anyone ever born like Joseph’ (Mss H and S). The Greek adds ‘the leader of his brothers, the support of the people’; while in H and S these words are found at the beginning of 50:1 qualifying Simon. This reveals the existence of a previous form of the Hebrew with no verse 16, a notion strengthened by the wide range of differences between H and S at verse 16. Recently, Kister has offered a new proposal for the end of chapter 49: ‫ מעט נוצר על הארץ כחנוך וגם הוא נלקח פנים‬49:14 Few like Enoch have been created on earth; [but] he also was taken. 79

‫כיוסף אם נולד גבר וגם גוינו נפקד‬15 Like Joseph was ever a man born? Even his body was visited (by death).

‫ושם ושת ואנוש נפקדו ועל כל חי תפארת אדם‬16 Shem, Seth and Enosh were visited (by death), and above every creature possessing human form. 80

The passage is picking the root ‫ פקד‬in 50:1c where it means ‘to be renovated’ and uses it with the meaning ‘visited by death’ as in Num. Goshen-Gottstein, ‘Praise’, 251 n. 39, 260; Beckwith, Old Testament, 378. Mack, Wisdom, 201. 77 Mack, Wisdom, 201–203. 78 Another dubious mention in 44:16, but strophically isolated and missing from the Massada Hebrew MS. 79 S drops 14b, considered too polemical. 80 M. Kister, ‘Some Notes on Biblical Expressions and Allusions and the Lexicography of Ben Sira’, in R. Egger-Wenzel (ed.), Ben Sira’s God. Proceedings of the International Ben Sira Conference. Durham—Ushaw College 2001 (BZAW, 321; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2002), pp. 160–187 (179–180). 75 76

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189

16:29. 81 Probably for dogmatic reasons, the Greek and Syriac obscure the focus of this passage dealing with the inevitability of human death, in particular concerning Enoch, and the five figures are reinterpreted as members of the great men celebrated in the Praise. The theme of the inevitability of death belongs to Aramaic eulogies which catalogue ‘Jewish patriarchs in order to show that the Angel of Death could not be stayed… if so great a man as Adam or Noah had died, who then could escape death?’. 82 If this interpretation is correct, the strangeness of this theme compared to the rest of the Wisdom of Ben Sira is obvious, thus reinforcing suspicions about the secondary nature of these verses, 83 or at least that they are not dealing with the canon of the Prophet any more. They belong to the anti-Enoch polemic found also in Targum Onqelos 84 and in Bereshit Rabbah 25:1. 85 Since Enochite circles developed their own canon, 86 it is thus not surprising that the end of Ben Sira’s prophetic collection attracted such a polemical passage. Kister’s proposal for the final verses of Sira 49 is therefore dealing with a secondary stage of the development of the text, attested by the Greek. But Hebrew MS B definitely ascertains the secondary nature of 49:15–16 and

81

See Y. Yahalom, ‘Angels Do not Understand Aramaic’, JJS 47 (1996), pp. 38–

39. Yahalom, ‘Angels’, 38–39 quoted by Kister, ‘Lexicography’, 181 n. 89. The glossator also copied the word ‫ תפארת‬in 49:16b to smoothen the transition with 50:1a where this word forms an inclusion with 44:7: Mulder, Simon, 317. He did the same with ‫ אדם‬that creates an inclusion between 49:16 and 50:22 and ‫ כהניך‬that links 49:14 to 44:16: Mulder, Simon, 358. This wealth of inclusions with material before and after Sira 49 is another mark of the work of skillful glossators. 84 Targum Onqelos adds at Gen. 5:24 ‘And he was not because the Lord caused him to die’. But some manuscripts (Sperber U, yb, d1) add a negation: ‘he did not cause him to die’. J. Bowden, The Targums and Rabbinic Literature (Cambridge: University Press, 1969), p. 147. See also P. C. Beentjes, ‘The “Praise of the Famous” and its Prologue. Some Observations on Ben Sira 44:1–15 and the Question on Enoch in 44:16’, Bijdr 51 (1984), pp. 374–383; C. Begg, ‘Josephus’s Portrayal of the Disappearances of Enoch, Elijah, and Moses: Some Observations’, JBL 109 (1990), pp. 691–693. 85 Some Epicurians said to R. Abbahu: ‘We do not find that Enoch died’. R. Abbahu asked: ‘Why not?’ They said: ‘The word take is used here and it is also used of Elijah’. He replied: ‘If you rely on the word take, then in Ezekiel it is written, behold, I take away from thee the desire of thine eyes’. R. Tanhuma said, ‘He answered them well’. 86 Some parts date back to the 3rd century BCE: D. Dimant, ‘The Biography of Enoch and the Books of Enoch’, VT 33 (1983), pp. 14–29 (23). See also R. Argall, 1 Enoch and Sirach (SBLEJL, 8; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1995), p. 12. 82 83

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the later introduction of Enoch in v. 14 since it reads ‫“ כהניך‬your priests” 87 or “your priestly service”, 88 and there is no text-critical evidence to emend into ‫כחנוך‬. 89 Stone noted the strangeness of v. 16 since there is no other reference to the image and likeness of God reflected in human persons in Sira. 90 The conclusion is that even if in the final form of the text these Genesis figures function as transition markers, their presence here breaks the return movement effected by the Praise of Simon that links Simon with the first part of the Praise of the fathers, in particular Aaron and Phinehas. 91 They blur a previous transition that worked perfectly with Zerubbabel and Jeshua. 92 The conclusion is inescapable; the references to Nehemiah, Enoch, Joseph, Shem, Seth, Enosh and Adam belong to secondary additions that were effected in at least two stages. First, Nehemiah, Joseph, Shem, Seth 93 and Adam (Sira 49:13.16) are added by the Greek translator himself or by Hasmonaean apologists before the translation while they were canonizing the Nebiim. Then, the Greek received an anti-Enochite gloss (49:14–15); a gloss that was only partially harmonized in the Hebrew. The original Hebrew text linked Zerubbabel and Jeshua, both marking the end of the Nebiim and both temple builders, with Simon by moving directly from 49:12 to 50:1. It is now necessary to delve into the aim of Ben Sira’s Praise.

6.

BEN SIRA’S PURPOSE: PROPHETIC CHRONOGRAPHY

Ben Sira is not merely describing the Nebiim, he is reflecting upon their meaning. 94 The list of figures in the second part of the Praise of the fathers is so similar to the Nebiim that it is beyond doubt that the Torah and the Prophets had ‘not only come together but had become authoritative by 200 87 Cf. 2 Chron. 6:41; Ps. 132:9; Neh. 13:29 and S. Schechter & C. Taylor, The Wisdom of Ben Sira (Amsterdam: 1979). 88 Mulder, Simon, 93. 89 Mulder, Simon, 21, 63. 91. 90 M. E. Stone, A History of the Literature of Adam and Eve (Atlanta: SBL, 1992), p. 56; quoted by Mulder, Simon, 102. 91 Goshen-Gottstein, ‘Praise’, 263.240 n. 14. 92 Codicology sustains the fact that Jeshua serves as a point of delimitation in 49:12: Mulder, Simon, 28. Hebrew MS B seems to end page XVIII with Jeshua: Mulder, Simon, 28–29 and consistently starts a new passage on line 1 of a new page. The Nehemiah-Adam passage (49:13–16) is thus clearly transitional. 93 Enosh may be understood as “humanity”: Mulder, Simon, 98–99. 94 Goshen-Gottstein, ‘Praise’, 243–244.

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BCE’. 95

Ben Sira was working with a pre-existing list whose content was known to the audience although its authority was not yet fully recognized. By linking the Prophets to the Torah, Ben Sira demonstrates that this secondary collection deserves the same status than the Torah, but if nine chapters are required to demonstrate the theological value of the collection, it is obvious that in Ben Sira’s time, the Nebiim are a recent collection that has not yet gained wide acceptance. How does Ben Sira proceed to shore up the authority of the Nebiim? Rather than fusing the Prophets into the Torah, Ben Sira upholds the Torah as the sum of Wisdom (Sira 24:23) while affirming that the Torah is not self-sufficient but should be studied in light of wisdom and prophets (Sira 39:1–3). 96 Research displays a considerable vagueness over the characterization of the Praise of the fathers. Several answers have been suggested: the Praise is a pedagogical list of heroes to be emulated in the manner of 1 Macc. 2:49–61, 97 or it strengthens a particular religious ideology. 98 The sheer length of Ben Sira’s Praise of the fathers (six chapters against 15 verses) and the absence of clear injunctions as in Mattathias’ testament 99 show the inadequacy of these suggestions. 100 Mack favours a historiographic motive, 101 which is rejected by Goshen-Gottstein in favour of a canon-conscious readGrabbe ‘Historiography’, 147.153. Ben Sira considers his own writings also as prophecy (Sira 24:33), and he also seems to refer to the Solomonic collection (Sira 47:17). Although this falls beyond the scope of this study, Ben Sira provides precious information on the Hagiographa: Proverbs are mentioned in 1:25; 3:29; 6:35; 13:26; 20:20; 38:33; 39:3; 47:17, but do they correspond to the canonical ones? For Song of Songs see J. G. Snaith, ‘Quotations in Ecclesiasticus’, JBL 18 (1967), pp. 1–12, and GoshenGottstein, ‘Praise’, 250 n. 36. Ben Sira never mentions Daniel (too recent?): K. Koch, ‘Is Daniel Also Among the Prophets?’, Int 39 (1985), pp. 117–130. 97 R. T. Siebeneck, ‘May their Bones Return to Life. Sirach’s Praise of the Fathers’, CBQ 21 (1959), pp. 411–428; R. A. F. MacKenzie, ‘Ben Sira as Historian’, in T. A. Dunne & J. M. Laporte (eds), Trinification of the World (Toronto: Regis College Press, 1978), pp. 312–327. 98 Th.R. Lee, Studies in the Form of Sirach 44–50 (SBLDS, 75; Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1986), p. 48. 99 1 Macc. 2:51: Remember the deeds of the ancestors”; vs. 61–64: ‘And so observe… Do not fear… be courageous’. Mattathias’s testament looks like a Dtr remake of Ben Sira’s, listing Abraham, Joseph (disputed in Ben Sira), Phinehas, Joshua, Caleb, David, Elijah, Hannaniah, Azariah, Mishael, Daniel. The Maccabaean heroes and the patriarch of their Egyptian allies are added to Ben Sira’s list! 100 Goshen-Gottstein, ‘Praise’, 236–237. 101 Mack, Wisdom. 95 96

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ing: in spite of the fact that Ben Sira framed his Praise of the fathers with a Praise of God’s work in creation (Sira 42:15—43:33) and a Praise of Simon (Sira 50), Simon is not the fulfilment of the history of Israel, but the fulfilment of ideal religious types representative of Scripture in its entirety. As will later be the case with Jesus, Simon does not belong to the canon but fulfils its meaning, precisely because the canon is closed. 102 My feeling is that the difficulty in classifying the Praise within known categories 103 is inherent to Ben Sira’s position. Ben Sira and the Nebiim are reacting against a ‘profane’ Alexandrian Chronography, introducing within the Chronography the concept of prophecy to endow it with theological value, thus producing a Mischwesen, a prophetic Chronography. One thing is clear: for Ben Sira this prophetic Chronography is no Deuteronomistic History. Although covenantal succession is fundamental, the lack of repentance (except for Sira 48:15) as found in Nehemiah 9 is not an argument against history 104 but against Deuteronomism. Ben Sira is describing God’s unconditional actions through an understanding of the berit strikingly similar to that found in the Priestly document; 105 while in the second part, the heroes are mainly heroic because they are men of prayer 106 rather than simply part of God’s creation. 107 He is not creating a periodization of Israel’s past, 108 because this periodization already exists and he is reacting against it. His canonical concern turns heroes and events into books and collections of books. Ben Sira is not interested in events; he mentions the Israelite Exile in 47:24, but not the Judaean Exile and Return. Although he mainly selects righteous people, 109 he also mentions Solomon, because his name is atGoshen-Gottstein, ‘Praise’, 261. Mack, Wisdom; Lee, Studies; R. Petraglio, Il libro che contamina le mani. Ben Sira rilegge il libro e la storia d‘Israele (Teologia, 4; Palermo: Augustinus, 1993). 104 Pace Goshen-Gottstein, ‘Praise’, 238. 105 Goshen-Gottstein, ‘Praise’, 248; Ska, ‘L’éloge’, n. 17; Collins mentions the absence of references to dietary laws (31:16 is probably not referring to what is permissible to eat at the symposium, but about table manners) and the nonapplication of the death penalty for adulterous women, contrarily to Levitical prescriptions. Circumcision is only alluded to in 44:20 concerning Abraham. Ben Sira is thus no partisan of the enforcement of the Torah. His theology subsumes Torah into Wisdom at creation, Wisdom is accomplished by the transfer of the holy tent at Zion (24:10), not by the Sinai encounter: Collins, Jewish Wisdom, 47.57–58.69. 106 Goshen-Gottstein, ‘Praise’, 253. 107 Goshen-Gottstein, ‘Praise’, 239. 108 Goshen-Gottstein, ‘Praise’, 241 n. 19 rejects Ska’s claim that Ben Sira is the author of the periodization: Ska, ‘L’éloge’, 185–191. 109 Goshen-Gottstein, ‘Praise’, 238. 102 103

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tached to a collection. Rehoboam, whose policy drove the people to revolt, and Jeroboam, who led Israel into sin (Sira 47:23–24), both get an entry because they illustrate the consequences of Solomon’s sins; but they do not belong to the sequence as such because the next figure is Elijah (48:1), who lived before the Israelite exile. If Ben Sira is modifying the Alexandrian Chronography by introducing prophecy into it, why does he devote so little space to the “classical” prophets (Sira 48:20–23; 49:6–10) and so much to the Former Prophets (Sira 46:1—49:7)? Goshen suggests that it is because he is struggling with the religious meaning of the Prophetic corpus, and that, since this meaning is more obvious for the great Prophets, he needs to concentrate on the other books. 110 Joshua is thus cast as prophet, David is presented in the wake of Nathan’s prophetic activities, and Hezekiah is led by Isaiah (Sira 48:22–23); thus the books of Kings actually tell the story of prophets. 111 Ben Sira introduces prayer in the second part of the Praise because it helps to uncover the prophetic significance of the second part of the canon. So Ben Sira is certainly struggling, not with the religious meaning of the prophetic corpus as a whole, but more precisely with the part of the Chronography that has recently been coupled to the Prophets to turn Chronography into literary prophecy, the Nebiim. The Wisdom of Ben Sira thus appears as the first commentary of the Nebiim. The new collection was soon officially canonized by the Hasmonaean dynasty, and by then Ben Sira’s Wisdom became the first deuterocanonical book of the Nebiim in the same way that Joshua and Job were the first deutero-canonical books of the Torah. 112 Ben Sira’s Wisdom was rejected from the Ketubim because the work is signed (Sira 50:27) and there was thus no possibility to put him under Solomonic authorship. Nevertheless, Alexandria recognized its value, and it became the only non-Solomonic book of the wisdom books.

7.

RIVAL COLLECTIONS

Are there any clues of “canonical rivalry” 113 that would explain the formation of the Nebiim in reaction to an Alexandrian Chronography? The answer Goshen-Gottstein, ‘Praise’, 253–254. Goshen-Gottstein, ‘Praise’, 250. 112 E. A. Knauf, ‘Der Kanon und die Bibeln. Die Geschichte vom Sammeln heiliger Schriften’, BiKi 57 (2002), pp. 193–198: Job was the non-deuteronomistic “sixth book of the Torah” while Joshua was its deuteronomistic counterpart, both used to provide a particular commentary of the Torah. 113 Katz, ‘Old Testament’, 195; Carr, ‘Canonization’, 22–64. 110 111

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is positive; it is found in the Letter of Aristeas, whose historical value is increasingly recognized after two centuries of downgrading, thanks to Humphrey Hody. 114 Nina Collins claims that in spite of the fantastic and inaccurate elements it contains, the main story of the Letter of Aristeas is correct, and confirms that the Torah was translated in 280 BCE at the initiative of Ptolemy II, despite Jewish opposition. 115 Contrary to common opinion, the translation was not commissioned for synagogue use by Jews who needed a translation because they no longer understood Hebrew, but by Demetrius of Phalerum, who kept the original translation and supplied a copy to Jews who asked for it. The Library was part of the Temple of the Muses, a religious institution 116 which the Jewish leaders opposed. They considered the translation unnatural, although they reluctantly conceded to the royal desire (LetAris. 44–45), but not before having secured the emancipation of a huge number of Jewish slaves who had been carried away by Ptolemy I from Judah (LetAris. 12). The number of slaves, or even whether the deal was ever struck, is irrelevant. After presenting a number of convincing arguments, Collins concludes that the translation was not a Jewish initiative. 117 It is important for the discussion below to note that Albert Sundberg flatly rejects this idea. 118 In spite of initial Jewish resistance, the LXX gradually gained acceptance and was used in the liturgy, which caused the addition of several interpolations into the text of the Letter of Aristeas in order to assert the divine inspiration of the translation. 119 However, the acceptance of the LXX was not universal; Collins compares how Philo of Alexandria and Josephus used the Letter of Aristeas, and reveals that while Philo defended the divine inspiration of the LXX, Josephus removed from his account of the translation 114 H. Hody, Contra Historiam LXX Interpretum Aristeae nomine inscriptuam dissertatio (1684). 115 N. L. Collins, The Library in Alexandria and the Bible in Greek (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2000), pp. 115–130. A. van der Kooij, ‘The City of Alexandria and the Ancient Versions of the Hebrew Bible’, JNSL 25 (1999), pp. 137–149, shows that the LXX never mentions Alexandria, while the Vulgate and the Targumin translate MT’s ‘No Amon’ by ‘Alexandria’ in Jer. 46:25; Ezek. 30:14–16; Nahum 3:8, three passages announcing impeding judgment: this reveals at least a conscious desire not to attack the Ptolemaic capital city. 116 Collins, Library, 122. 117 Collins, Library, 115–126. 118 A. C. Sundberg Jr., ‘The Septuagint: the Bible of Hellenistic Judaism’, in L. M. McDonald & J. A. Sanders (eds), The Canon Debate (Peabody, MA : Hendrickson, 2002), pp. 68–90 (76). 119 Collins, Library, 127–140.

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any hint that would sustain its inspired status. 120 Josephus’ refusal to grant authority to the LXX reflected the sentiments of some of his Jewish contemporaries and thus provides the motive for the formation of a larger Torah-Nebiim collection in reaction to the Alexandrian Torah, its Chronography and the other two collections preserved in the Christian LXX, the Prophetica and the Poetica. Within the 80 years following the translation of the LXX, most Jewish books were translated and classified along the lines established for Greek and Egyptian literature. Bernhard Lang and Albert de Pury have recognized the influence of Greek literary canons on the formation of the Ketubim; 121 I suggest that this influence should be extended to the Torah, the Chronography and the Nebiim. The aim of the translation of the Torah was legal, to provide the administration with an official version of Jewish laws, in much the same way the Persian administration recorded the Egyptian customs as they stood upon their arrival in Egypt. 122 Concerning the Chronography, it must be noted that Alexandria established a literary canon of eight Greek historians; 123 while the surviving fragments of Hecateus’ Aegyptiaca indicate that Alexandrian historians had a keen interest in Jewish past, even if it was only in relation to Egyptian history. This provides enough evidence to counter any claim that the canonization of Biblical literature can only be done at Jerusalem by Jews. As for the Nebiim, although I claim that they reacted against the Greek Chronography of Israelite past, the model for their canonization is not particularly Jewish either. The evidence comes not from the canons of Greek literature that contained no prophetic class, but

Collins, Library, 147–164; Philo, De vita Mosis II.25–42; Josephus, Antiquities XII.2 (11–118). Josephus’ neutral position towards the LXX developed into bitter resentment: Collins, Library, 172: Megillat Taanit 9a., Masseket Sopherim 1.7. 121 De Pury, ‘Le canon’, idem, ‘Qohéleth’; Lang, ‘Writings’. 122 G. Posemer, La première domination perse en Egypte (le Caire: Institut français d’archéologie orientale, 1936); J. Blenkinsopp, ‘The Mission of Udjahorresnet and those of Ezra and Nehemiah’, JBL 106 (1987), pp. 409–421. J. MélèzeModrzejewski, ‘How to be a Jew in Hellenistic Egypt?’ in S. J. D. Cohen & S. Freirichs (eds), Diasporas In Antiquity (Brown Judaic Studies, 288; Atlanta, Georgia: Scholars Press, 1993), pp. 65–92; Idem ‘Law and Justice in Ptolemaic Egypt’ in M. J. Geller & H. Maehler (eds), Legal Documents of the Hellenistic World. Papers from a Seminar Arranged by the Institute of Classical Studies, the Institute of Jewish Studies and the Warburg Institute, University of London, February to May 1986 (London: Warburg Inst., 1995). 123 Lang, ‘Writings’, 48. 120

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from the ten prophetic books that constituted one of the five categories of Egyptian literature established at Alexandria. 124

8.

BEN SIRA AND HIS ALEXANDRIAN COLLEAGUES

Ben Sira’s Praise of the fathers and the whole of the book probably reflect the curriculum of a scribal school (51:23) and it can hardly be a coincidence that a contemporary of Ben Sira, the Peripatetic philosopher Sotion of Alexandria (ca. 200–170 BCE), wrote a Succession of the Philosophers in 13 books, 125 which may have inspired Josephus’s idiosyncratic listing of the Prophets (see below). At about the same time, the Jewish historian Eupolemus wrote a succession of kings and prophets. 126 For now it is enough to note that although the Nebiim seem to react against a pre-existing Chronography by imposing a prophetic category upon it, the canonizing paradigm of the Nebiim comes nevertheless from Alexandria. 127

9.

BEN SIRA’S GRANDSON: FIRST WITNESS OF THE NEBIIM AS CANON

In 132 BCE, Ben Sira’s grandson arrived in Egypt, found his grandfather’s Wisdom and decided to translate it. Was he sent to Egypt precisely for this purpose, or did he perchance find the book in the possession of family members? 128 Was the translator’s initiative entirely private or was he selected to accomplish a translation commissioned by Jewish authorities precisely because he belonged to the author’s family? The prologue supplies no answer; but the differences between the extant parts of the Hebrew text and the Greek version offer some clues. Ben Sira regarded most Hebrew books as the Torah of the Most High (Sira 38:34—39:3), 129 while his grandson thrice mentions the Law, the 124 Lang, ‘Writings’, 45–46 and Clement of Alexandria, Stomateis VI, 35–37: 2 books of hymns, 4 on astrology, 10 on geography and temple building, 10 on priestly education and the art of sacrifice, and 10 prophetic books dealing with priestly training and state administration. 125 Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers (transl. R. D. Hicks, LCL; London: Heinemann, 1966), xxiv. I.2. 126 See Eusebius, Prep. Evang. 9.30.447a; E. J. Bickerman, ‘La chaîne de la tradition pharisienne’ in idem (ed.) Studies in Jewish and Christian History (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1980), vol. II, 256–269 (263 n. 38). 127 Collins, Jewish Wisdom, 100. Van der Kooij, ‘Ancient Books’, 38 n. 35; S. Mason, Flavius Josephus on the Pharisees (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1991), pp. 235–240. 128 McKechnie, ‘Career’, 8. 129 Ben Sira tends to merge Torah and Wisdom, mentioning wisdom immediately after Torah, prophecies only coming in third rank, followed by discourses of

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Prophets and the other books, thus insisting on the presence of a third group of books. This does not indicate that a third collection has been canonized. On the contrary, it is the Nebiim that have recently received official approval and their canonization distinguishes them from all the “other books”. The aim of the translator may also be deduced from the particularities of the Greek translation. The translator copied the prayer ‘May their (the judges’) bones send forth new life from where they lie’ (Sira 49:10) found in the notice about the Minor Prophets, and added it into the verses dedicated to the judges (Sira 46:12a). 130 This corresponds to official Hasmonaean propaganda that consciously linked the Maccabees with the Biblical judges: ‘Jonathan took up residence in Michmash and began to judge the people, rooting the godless out of Israel’ (1 Macc. 9:73). The next verse (Sira 46:13) diplomatically avoids the mention of Judaean kings. In 46:20, the Greek drops the end of the verse that mentions Samuel’s prophesying to blot out the wickedness of the people. The Greek makes another diplomatic alteration by not cursing the Samaritans (47:23). As noted above, the translator appears to avoid the possible reference to Job in the Hebrew, transforming him into a storm (Sira 49:9). The translator avoids any mention of non-official Prophets because the Nebiim have been canonized. 131 As seen above, the end of chapter 49 was tampered with in all texts, but since the Greek alone attributes to Joseph the words that originally described Simon as ‘Leader of his brothers and pride of his people’ (Sira 49:15), this is probably the doing of Ben Sira’s grandson. These differences provide a clear picture of the aim of the translator. They elevate Joseph to the rank of the pre-Flood ancestors. To the elevation of the “Egyptian patriarch” corresponds a less obvious but no less effective homage to the Hasmonaean dynasty presented as the resurrected notable men, parables and proverbs: Davies, Scribes, 109. See also John 10:34; Rom. 3:19 and 1 Cor. 14:21 where books that do not belong to the Torah are called nomos. 130 Collins, Jewish Wisdom, 103. 131 This could reflect the translator’s careful avoidance of elements that may remind the reader of books of the Humanistic canon (see Pury, ‘Qohéleth’, 163– 198) which I suggest was formed or used during Menelaus’ reform (see J. Scurlock, ‘167 BCE: Hellenism or Reform?’, JSJ 31 (2000), pp. 125–161) in replacement of the Torah, which the Hellenizers rightly considered as the main source of Jewish particularism and a powerful hindrance to integration.

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line of the judges of the book of the same name. If one considers that the translator, a direct descendant of a supporter of Simon the Just, arrived in Egypt a year or two after John Hyrkanus (134–104 BCE) became prince and high priest in Jerusalem (1 Macc. 16:23–24; AJ 20.10.3.240), the chances are that Ben Sira’s grandson was encouraged or commissioned to translate the Wisdom into Greek because the Nebiim played an important role in Hasmonaean propaganda. By then, the Nebiim were officially canonized, and the excellent diplomatic relations between the Ptolemies and the Maccabees 132 naturally led to the recognition of the importance of the Nebiim. All the individual books of the collection were already translated into Greek. The translation of the Wisdom of Ben Sira put an official stamp on the collection that had reached canonical status. 133 John Hyrkanus soon demonstrated the frightening power of the new canon at the Gerizim, the destruction of its temple led to the rejection of the Nebiim by the Samaritans in 128 or 107 BCE. 134 The fact that the Greek translation omits to curse the SaB. Bar-Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus (Cambridge: University Press, 1989), pp. 47–89, suggests that the blazing successes of the Maccabees, who found themselves at the head of a powerful army overnight, must be partly due to the active support of the well-trained Jewish troop that controlled the Delta for the Ptolemies. The Ptolemies would have been glad to lend a helping hand against the Seleucids. 133 Although this is not directly relevant to the Nebiim, one can postulate that the Hasmonaeans’ canonizing activities were not limited to the Prophets. A. van der Kooij, ‘Canonization of Ancient Hebrew Books and Hasmonaean Politics’, in J.-M. Auwers & H. J. De Jonge (eds), The Biblical Canons (BETL, 163; Leuven: University Press, 2003), pp. 27–38 (36), has revealed the differences of opinion over the non-Torah and non-Prophets books before and after the Maccabaean coup. Ben Sira considers wisdom literature as vitally important (Sira 39:1–3) and J. C. H. Lebram, ‘Aspekte der Alttestamentlichen Kanonbildung’, VT 18 (1968), pp. 173– 189 even claims that Ben Sira knew a three-fold canon: Law, Wisdom and Prophets. However, all post Maccabaean witnesses steer clear of Wisdom literature, the grandson’s prologue mentions “other books of our ancestors”, Philo “Psalms and other books”, 2QMMT “David”, 2 Maccabees 2 “David and letters of the Persian kings” and Josephus “the remaining four books”. Solomon is conspicuously absent, and this absence can only be explained if one accepts de Pury’s hypothesis of a Humanistic canon enforced before 168 BCE (I suggest by Menelaus as a counterTorah), a canon suppressed by the Maccabees and the Hasmonaeans. The Hasmonaeans canonized Ben Sira’s Nebiim in order to decanonize Solomon’s wisdom books (Song, Job, Qohelet, Proverbs 10—29). These books were recanonized in the 2nd–3rd centuries CE by the rabbis who shared their Pharisaic ancestors’ dislike for the Hasmonaeans and their Nebiim. 134 J. Zsengellér, Gerizim as Israel. Northern Tradition of the Old Testament and the Early History of the Samaritans (Utrechtse Theologische Reeks, 38; Utrecht: Univ. Verlag, 1998), pp. 164–169. The script of the Samaritan Pentateuch branched off in 132

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maritans may indicate that the translation was produced before these dramatic events, or that it reflects the local situation, where Jews did not wish to aggravate the Samaritan communities living with them in Egypt. 135 The pro-Hasmonaean apologist who added Nehemiah, Joseph and the other Genesis figures in Sira 49:13–16 may have been Ben Sira’s grandson himself.

10. THE CHRONOGRAPHERS OF ALEXANDRIA An Alexandrian Chronography has been mentioned several times in the above discussion, and what is meant by it must now be clarified. The first step is to ask why the Former Prophets follow the same order as the first Historical books of the Septuagint, except for the book of Ruth that the Hebrew canon places within the Writings. This question is brushed aside by rejecting the Alexandrian canon (see Sundberg below), but this does not explain why the four books that have been painstakingly arranged chronologically although they obviously were not meant to be read in sequence (consider the Joshua/Judges transition), 136 are finally called Prophets rather than History, while the supposedly later arrangement of the LXX retains the obvious historical title. When the formation of a Deuteronomistic history in the 6th century BCE was accepted truth, the chronological arrangement by periods was attributed to DtrH in the wake of the destruction of Jerusalem by the Babylonians, but the gradual rejection of the Deuteronomistic History now requires a new answer. the late Hasmonaean period and the terminus a quo for the formation of an independent Samaritan canon is 128 or 107 BCE: J. Purvis, The Samaritan Pentateuch and the Origin of the Samaritan Sect (HSM, 2; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1968), pp. 18–52.86–87. 135 But in the list of detestable nations (50:26) G replaces Seir with the mountain of Samaria: Mulder, Simon, 221.304.328. 136 K. Schmid, Erzväter und Exodus (WMANT, 81; Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1999), pp. 218–220.374. Davies, Scribes, 112–113. Eupolemus Frag. 2:1–2 (157 BCE) does not mention the period of the Judges: ‘Then Joshua the son of Nun prophesied for thirty years; he lived one hundred and ten years and pitched the sacred tabernacle in Shiloh. After this Samuel was prophet’ (Charlesworth, Pseudoepigrapha, 2.866 and note e.). The Chronography which created the Period of the Judges is less than a century old when Eupolemus is writing. Therefore, as a historian, he is aware that it is only a literary period! (on the following see Charlesworth, Pseudoepigrapha, 2.843) And he was not alone: according to Charlesworth, Pseudoepigrapha, 2.292, Demetrius the Chronographer probably wrote a book titled On the Kings in Judaea that started with the Patriarchs, Justus of Tiberias wrote a history of Judaean kings which covered the period from Moses to Agrippa II. Philo calls Moses a ‘king’ (Vit. Mos 2.292).

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The incorporation of Judah into the Ptolemaic kingdom and the presence of a large Jewish community at Alexandria make it ‘unlikely that the famous Alexandria Museum and library had no influence upon the course of Jewish canonizing’. 137 The role of Alexandria has been recognized for the last part of the Hebrew canon. Pury and Lang argue convincingly that the governing principles structuring the Writings are found in the canon of Greek literature developed at the library of Alexandria. 138 Equally, the gradual demise of the Deuteronomistic History leads to Alexandria as the most likely place for the formation of the first part of the Former Prophets. Once the straightjacket of the exilic period is abandoned, Alexandria imposes itself as the most obvious place not only for the translation of the Torah into Greek, but also for the translation and the canonization of other Jewish books. It is there that the books of Joshua to Kings, written for some parts since the seventh century BCE, were finally put together to form the socalled Deuteronomistic History, consciously following the model of Berossus’s Babyloniaka (c. 290 BCE) and Manetho’s Aigyptiaka (c. 280 BCE). As Eratosthenes’ Olumpionikai created a chronological frame-work for Greek history, 139 chronological matters were introduced or expanded in the Chronography of the Jews. This was an essential step. Mythic and epic literature (Greek, Hebrew and all the others) had no concern for sequencing the past which was lumped together into one single period, or past events were only vaguely lumped together around major figures, with little attempt at coordinating them to each other. Chronology was the element that transformed Greek and Hebrew myths and epics into measured and sequenced periods, even if today we realize that some of these had little historical reality. Under the scrutiny of archaeology and history, the neat eras that used to organize every history of Israel are now relegated to the category of literature. Historically, the Hebrews did not wander for forty years in the desert, there was no such thing as a period of the Conquest not even premonarchic Judges. Mythical as they are, these eras and their carefully established durations successfully founded the historicism that modern Bible readers have great pains to give up.

Davies, Scribes, 30. De Pury, ‘Le canon’; Idem, ‘Qohéleth’; Idem, ‘Zwischen Sophokles und Ijob. Die Schriften (Ketubim): ein jüdischer Literatur-Kanon’, Welt und Umwelt der Bibel 28 (2003), pp. 25–27. Lang, ‘Writings’. 139 Eratosthenes (c. 275–194 BCE), the father of Chronology (he also wrote a Chronographiai): J. Blomqvist, ‘Alexandrian Science: The Case of Eratosthenes’, in P. Bilde (ed.), Ethnicity in Hellenistic Egypt (Studies in Hellenistic Civilization, 3; Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 1992), pp. 53–73 (61). 137 138

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So, who produced the historical collection of the LXX? Certainly not Christians since, as Swete noticed long ago, Christians had vested interests in prophecy, and they are the ones who placed the Prophets at the end of our LXX (Historica–Poetica–Prophetica) in order to present the New Testament as fulfilment of prophecy. 140 In so doing, they broke the inclusio Joshua 1—Malachi 3, which forms the backbone of the Nebiim. 141 Neither was the Joshua—Kings sequence created by the people who organised the Nebiim since the Joshua—Kings succession is congruent with the Hellenistic concept of historiographic periodization while the Nebiim, as collection of prophetic books, reject history. It took Ben Sira six long chapters to prove that the Former Prophets have something in common with the Torah and with the Latter Prophets, while the Joshua—Kings sequence is at home in the LXX’s Historika. 142 A cursory look at Christian canonical lists 143 reveals that in spite of the prophetic title of the second section of the Hebrew canon, the order and content of the Joshua—Kings succession, both in the Former Prophets and the Historica, is almost as stable as the Torah’s, 144 while the order of the Latter Prophets presents every possible combination. This stability of the Former Prophets points to a date of formation between the Torah and the Nebiim. In the framework of the Deuteronomistic History, the History is deemed older than the Torah, which goes against all canonical logic. This problem is recognized by Norman Gottwald, who explains that the Deuteronomistic History gained recognition during the Ptolemaic period, following a change in political climate after the collapse of the Persian Empire. 145 Gottwald identified the Ptolemaic period as the moment when the historical books came to the fore, but 140

H. B. Swete, An Introduction to the Old Testament in Greek (Cambridge, 1900), p.

219. Steck, Abschluß, 156.170. N. P. Lemche, ‘The Old Testament—A Hellenistic Book?’, in L. L. Grabbe (ed.), Did Moses Speak Attic? (JSOTSup, 317; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), pp. 287–318 (288). 143 Beckwith, Old Testament, 450–451. 144 Exceptions are the place of Ruth, the insertion of Job or Psalms after Deuteronomy. The Joshua—2 Kings succession is only broken once by the insertion of Jeremiah between Samuel and Kings (MSS Add. 21161). 145 This problem is recognized by N. K. Gottwald, The Hebrew Bible. A SocioLiterary Introduction (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985), p. 107. S. B. Chapman, The Law and the Prophets (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000) dismisses the problem by being more Nothian than Noth: he rejects the notion of a Torah-only canon in the postexilic period and tries to show that the Law and the Prophets were already canonized by the time of the redaction of the books of Ezra—Nehemiah. 141 142

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the pervasive Deuteronomistic History supposedly composed shortly after 586 BCE forced him to postulate a three-century gap between the formation of the history and its recognition. Is it not more convincing to consider that its formation is roughly contemporaneous its first mention, during the Ptolemaic period between Hecateus (ca. 300 BCE) and Ben Sira (ca. 200 BCE)? If the scholar responsible for the organization of the Biblical Chronography had to be named, the most likely candidate would be the Jewish chronographer Demetrius (c. 250 BCE at the earliest and before Ben Sira), the first witness to the use of the Greek Torah. 146 His treatise, On the Kings of Judaea, reveals a particular historical interest; and Frag. 6 of his work shows that he followed the chronology of the LXX. 147 If Demetrius was not one of the 70(2) to whom is attributed the translation of the LXX (torah only), his consistent use of the Greek text, his sober chronological precision and his readiness to disagree with the Hebrew text (see Frag. 3 and 5) indicates that he was very close to the school that organized Joshua—Esther into a Chronography and at the same time designed a chronology that differs from the Hebrew and Samaritan one. 148 The remarkably unprejudiced appraisal of non-Greek cultures by some of Demetrius’ contemporaries in Alexandria certainly fostered their emulation by Jewish scholars. 149 The Nebiim were then formed in reaction to the Alexandrian Chronography. This new collection upgraded the religious significance of the chosen books. The others which were not included into the Nebiim were not lost. Some found their way into the third Hebrew canon, 150 while retaining their position within the Alexandrian canon because canons are unable to destroy other canons. 151 146 147

Charlesworth, Pseudoepigrapha, 2.844. J. Hanson, ‘Demetrius the Chronographer’, in Charlesworth, Pseudoepigrapha

2.846. 148 On the problem of chronologies: G. Larsson, The Secret System (Leiden: Brill, 1973), p. 87 who draws attention on the intimate link between canon, chronology and alphabet. 149 On Hecateus, see D. Mendels, ‘Hecataeus of Abdera and a Jewish “patrios politeia” of the Persian Period’ (Diodorus Siculus XL,3)’, ZAW 95 (1983), pp. 96– 110. Towards the end of the introductory book of his Geography, Eratosthenes ‘criticized Aristotle’s advice to Alexander to treat Greeks as friends and barbarians as enemies and praised Alexander for ignoring it and bestowing his favours on men according to their talents but irrespective of their ethnic origin’: Blomqvist, ‘Alexandrian Science’, 64. 150 Davies, Scribes, 174–182. 151 Beckwith, ‘Modern Theory’, 389 n. 7 suggests that in the Prologue of Ben

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Claiming that the paradigms for the Nebiim as well as for the Ketubim come from Alexandria comes close to the so-called ‘Alexandrian canon’ hypothesis rejected 40 years ago by Albert Sundberg which now needs to be discussed.

11.

SUNDBERG AND THE ALEXANDRIAN CANON OF THE BIBLE

All studies dealing with the canon of the Old Testament quote Albert Sundberg who is credited with the final refutation of the Alexandrian canon hypothesis. 152 Sundberg’s thesis is that the LXX does not reflect an ancient Alexandrian canon, there was only one canon in Judaism before 70 CE, the Torah and the Nebiim, and a wide literature circulated both in Palestine and in the Diaspora besides it. This canon was later enlarged at Jamnia in 90 CE to define the content of the Writings and to exclude all other works from the Hebrew Scriptures. According to Sundberg, Christians separated themselves from the Jews before the formation of the Writings (around 70 CE), so Christians were not affected by the Jewish Writings and thus the church carried on using a wide Jewish literature for several centuries after Jamnia until the differences became so wide that the church was led to organise the Bible along its own lines. According to Sundberg, the LXX is therefore a

Sira there is no settled title for the Hagiographa, unlike the Law and the Prophets, because the books of the Hagiographa had only recently been divided off from a larger collection of non-Pentateuchal Scriptures. Here Beckwith thinks of a larger prophetic collection because he includes Daniel and Esther in Josephus’ list of the Prophets and Psalms, Proverbs, Ezra-Nehemiah and Chronicles in Ben Sira’s Prophets (Beckwith, Old Testament, 73).151 However, if Ben Sira (see above) and Josephus (see below) are both mentioning a prophetic canon that strictly corresponds to the Nebiim, the larger collection of non-Pentateuchal text from which the Writings were drawn has to correspond to a list of miscellaneous books similar to the LXX’s Poetica. The coexistence of Greek collections next to the Hebrew TorahNebiim canon explains the on-going debate over the two- or threefold nature of the Old Testament canon around the turn of the era. Beckwith is in favour of a threefold canon, while Barton supports the idea of a purely twofold canon with its second section indefinite in content: Beckwith, ‘Modern Theory’, 389; J. Barton, Oracles of God (London: Barton, Longman & Todd, 1986). E. Ulrich, ‘The NonAttestation of a Tripartite Canon in 4QMMT’, CBQ 65 (2003), pp. 204–214. J. Barr, Holy Scripture: Canon, Authority, Criticism (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1983), p. 55 and Carr, ‘Canonization’, 40f. There were more than one canon at any time, and the Beckwith versus Barton debate reflects debates already going on two centuries before Christ. 152 A. C. Sundberg Jr., The Old Testament of the Early Church (HTS, 20; Cambridge, Mass / London: Harvard University Press, 1964); Barr, Scripture, 56.

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purely Christian arrangement, clearly secondary to the Jewish order. The theory of a specific Alexandrian canon is thus redundant. Sundberg traces the genesis of the Alexandrian Canon hypothesis back to the dogmatic debates at the time of the Protestant reformation and the Council of Trent. This section demonstrates the overwhelming importance of political and dogmatic factors in canonization processes, an important reminder for theologians who tend to give too much weight to purely theological motives. 153 Canons are first and foremost political statements. In 1504, Elias Levita published a revised version of Moses Kimchi’s twelfth century Hebrew grammar, introducing Christian scholars to the Talmudic theory of the 24 books of the Law, Nebiim and Hagiographa collected and arranged in a three-fold canon by the men of the Great synagogue under the supervision of Ezra. 154 This venerable tradition would not have spurred much debate over the Old Testament canon had Levita not claimed that the vowels of the Hebrew text were not fixed by Ezra and his colleagues but by the Masoretes around 500 CE. The Catholics got hold of this claim to argue against the Protestants that the Bible cannot be understood apart from the traditional interpretation of the Roman Church. Dogmatics took over until Protestants settled in favour of Jerome’s theory of the Hebrew canon while the Catholics stuck to the Vulgate at Trent (1546), although very few theological factors prepared such decisions, and Protestants found plenty of pre-Trent Catholic authorities to quote in favour of the Hebrew canon. 155 However, the denial of the antiquity of the Hebrew vowels introduced critical studies into dogmatics, and a second onslaught was soon launched against the Talmudic dogma by Gilbert Genebrard, who postulated a canonization process in three stages: in Ezra’s time, in the time of Eleazar the high priest who convened a council in Jerusalem to authorize the 72 translators of the Septuagint to be sent to Egypt and to canonize Tobit, Sira and other books, and a last council under Shammai and Hillel that canonized the books of the Maccabees. 156 The main issue at the time was the Apocrypha and how they found their way into the canon in spite of Jerome’s esteem for the Hebrew canon. John Cosin answered that Diaspora Jews introduced them; they were first included in Theodotion’s Greek version and then passed into the Latin version. 157 Sundberg, Old Testament, 7–24. E. Levita, Journey on the Paths of Knowledge (1504). 155 Sundberg, Old Testament, 15.17. 156 G. Genebrard, Chronographia II (Lugduni, 1599), pp. 190ff. 157 J. Cosin, A Scholastical History of the Canon of the Holy Scripture (Oxford, 1849), p. 124. 153 154

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The Greek factor was pushed further by John Grabe who replaced Genebrard’s council of Jerusalem authorizing the translators with an Alexandrian Sanhedrin, based on the evidence that a large part of the Apocrypha originated in Alexandria. Grabe’s Greek edition of the Letter of Aristeas was translated into English by Thomas Lewis who asserted that a larger Old Testament collection was used at the Jewish temple of Leontopolis and then found its way into Palestine, and this is the version quoted by Jesus and the Church. 158 Sundberg considers that ‘Lewis’ theory is too fantastic to merit serious consideration’. 159 Johann Semler went further than Lewis and extended the scope of the Letter of Aristeas to the translation of the Nebiim, the Writings and the Apocrypha. The geographic and linguistic division between Palestinian and Alexandrian canons was thus firmly established. 160 Both Catholic and Protestant dogmatics resisted the idea of an Alexandrian canon larger than its Palestinian counterpart; until critical exegesis revealed that some of the books of the Old Testament were composed after Ezra. The traditional concept of the closing of the entire canon by Ezra was undermined. Abraham Kuenen dealt the last blow to Ezra’s great synagogue, 161 and it became generally accepted that the Pentateuch was canonized about 400 BCE, the Nebiim around 200 BCE and the Writings about 90 CE. W. R. Smith felt that the Alexandrian canon hypothesis implied a schism between Hellenistic and Palestinian Judaism that, according to him, did not exist. 162 This is an important point because the Alexandrian canon reduces the primacy of Jerusalem. This is also the first objection raised by Sundberg against an Alexandrian canon in general use throughout Diaspora Judaism and later taken over by the church: ‘does this not presuppose that Alexandria had become a kind of “Mecca” for non-Palestinian Jews?’. 163 This passage is quoted approvingly by J. Schaper who claims that the Alexandrian canon hypothesis ‘assumes that Diaspora Judaism had become sufficiently independent from the motherland to create and use a canon of its 158

J. E. Grabe, The History of the Seventy-two Interpreters (trans. T. Lewis; London,

1715). Sundberg, Old Testament, 19. Sundberg, Old Testament, 21. 161 A. Kuenen, ‘Over de mannen des Groote Synagogue’, Verslagen en Mededeelingen der Koninklijke Akademie van Wetenschappen (Amsterdam: 1876), pp. 207– 248. 162 W. R. Smith, The Old Testament in the Jewish Church (New York: 1890), pp. 138–194; See G. Bohak, ‘Hieropolis: a Single-Temple Policy and its Singular Ramifications’, JJS 50 (1999), pp. 3–16. 163 Sundberg, Old Testament, 51–52. 159 160

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own. The theory is built on the assumption that the importance of Jerusalem and its temple had diminished significantly’. 164 This objection to the Alexandrian canon is based on the false assumption that the first Jewish canons were the work of Diaspora Jews, while we now know that the Torah, its first Greek translation and the Chronography were more or less imposed on the Jews by Persian and Ptolemaic rulers. For canonization issues, the traditional Diaspora/Palestine opposition should be replaced by a Ptolemies/Jews divergence, later replaced for the Ketubim by a Christian/Rabbinic Judaism opposition. The evidence now available sets Alexandria not only as a Mecca but also as the Medina, the mother of all canons. The indisputable position of the Ptolemaic capital does not imply hostility towards Jerusalem as the traditional centre of Judaism; it only reflects Jerusalem’s position in the outer periphery of the Ptolemaic realm. But before entering the debate, let us follow Sundberg’s presentation to reveal once for all how dated it has become and how weak is any argument relying on it. The case of the Alexandrian canon was further bolstered by the work of Gustav Hoelscher, who believed that the Alexandrian canon represents the more primitive form of the Jewish Scriptures, since the early church fathers witness a similar form of the Old Testament, and that it was Palestinian Judaism that reduced it to 22 books by closing the inspiration period with Ezra. 165 Sundberg claims that Hoelscher’s priority of the Alexandrian canon was conclusively countered by Eduard Koenig, who pointed out that the Palestinian canon must be older than its Alexandrian counterpart because Palestinian Jews do not count Daniel among the Nebiim. 166 However, this in no way prevents the Alexandrian canon from being even older than the Nebiim, providing that one accepts Charles Torrey’s claim that the Alexandrian collection was a list that had no religious significance. 167 In the same direction, Otto Eissfeldt felt that at Alexandria only the Torah was canonical, that the Nebiim and the Ketubim were loose collections of edifying books including books that were never canonized in Palestine. 168 However, in Egypt Ben Sira’s grandson recognized the existence of the Nebiim, and 164 J. Schaper, ‘The Rabbinic Canon and the Old Testament of the Early Church: a Social-Historical View’, in A. van der Kooij & K. van der Toorn (eds), Canonization & Decanonization (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1998), pp. 93–106 (94). 165 G. Hoelscher, Kanonisch und Apokryph (Leipzig: 1905), pp. 22–25. 166 E. Koenig, Kanon und Apokryphen (Guetersloh: 1917), pp. 45–46; Sundberg, Old Testament, 42. 167 C. C. Torrey, The Apocryphal Literature (New Haven: 1945), pp. 3–29. 168 O. Eissfeldt, Einleitung in das Alte Testament (Tuebingen: 1931), pp. 226–228.

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Henry Cadbury found that he used a standard Septuagint text that renders antiquity to the Greek translations and collections. 169 After this detailed presentation of the origins of the theory, Sundberg presents his own critique. The “Mecca” objection mentioned above is first in the list and continues thus: Church usage: if the church adopted a more-or-less fixed canon from Diaspora Judaism, we should expect to find a rather exact correlation between the supposed contents of that canon and Christian usage. The evidence points out to the opposite. The New Testament, Church fathers and even Rabbis quote a large array of Jewish books extending even beyond the LXX’s Hagiographa. I reply that this argument certainly proves that the Writings and the Hagiographa were not canonized before the second century CE, and that the supposed Alexandrian canon did not contain the LXX’s Hagiographa, but it has no bearing on the canonization of the Nebiim. Linguistic division and apocalypticism: Sundberg easily disproves earlier theories claiming that most of the Apocrypha were composed in Greek at Alexandria 170 and that apocalyptic writings were more popular in the Diaspora than in Palestine, 171 thus rejecting the relevance of too sharp a distinction between Palestine and Diaspora. Again, this point has no relevance for the Nebiim. Recognition of the Prophets in Egypt: Sundberg takes issue against Pfeiffer and Eissfeldt who claimed that the special status granted to the Torah led Egyptian Jews and Josephus to disregard the clear-cut separation between the Prophets and the Writings. 172 The evidence clearly points to the contrary, and thus seems to allow Sundberg to affirm that the total abandonment of the Prophets / Writings distinction is a Christian innovation that had no root in an Alexandrian canon. 173 However, I will show in the next section that Josephus can actually be used to prove the antiquity of the LXX historical order and thus provides new evidence in favour of a reduced Alexandrian collection.

H. J. Cadbury, ‘The Grandson of Ben Sira’, HTR 47 (1955), pp. 219–225. J. S. Semler, Abhandlung von freier Untersuchung des Canons 1. (Halle: 1771), pp. 121–122. 171 S. Zeitlin, The Second Book of Maccabees (New York: 1954), pp. 91–94; Sundberg, Old Testament, 60–66. 172 R. H. Pfeiffer, Introduction to the Old Testament (New York, 1941), pp. 67–68; Eissfeldt, Einleitung, 626–627; Sundberg, Old Testament, 67–74. 173 Sundberg, Old Testament, 71. 169 170

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The Jewish temple of Leontopolis: Sundberg dismisses rather quickly the importance of the religious centre of the Egyptian Jews, claiming that Josephus does not indicate that the Egyptian Jews had forsaken their devotion to the Jerusalem temple. 174 However, the existence of such a temple adds up to the primary importance of the cultural centre of Alexandria and provides a most convincing context for Jewish canonical activities outside Jerusalem. The use of Baruch by Diaspora Jews: Sundberg rejects Thackeray’s farfetched hypothesis that Jews used Baruch in the 9th of Ab liturgy, based on a Syriac Sermon against the Jews. 175 Again, this argument reveals the late exclusion of the Apocrypha, but has no bearing on the Nebiim. Sadducee/Pharisee canon differences: Sundberg claims that where Josephus mentions that the Sadducees observed prescriptions from the Torah only (War II.8.14; Antiquities XIII.10.6; XVIII.1.2; XX.9.1) he is not referring to a different canon but to the Sadducees’ rejection of the Pharisaic oral tradition. Sundberg concludes that the Alexandrian canon hypothesis lacks primary evidence and cannot be proved. 176 His analysis definitely proves that a pre-Ben Sira Alexandrian canon could not be identical to the LXX because the distinction Hagiographa / Apocrypha belongs to the 2nd century CE at the earliest, but Sundberg was not able to draw this conclusion because he held to the canonization of the writings at Jamnia in 90 CE. He was then forced to postulate a very early and radical separation of Christians from Jews in order to explain why the Church used the Apocrypha after the canonization of the Writings. Ironically, the very year Sundberg published his thesis, Jack Lewis released an article that laid the basis for the rejection of the canonizing role of the Jamnia assembly (90 CE). 177 This new understanding of the canonization of the Writings renders the rest of Sundberg’s thesis obsolete. 178 This is not to say that the old Alexandrian canon hypothesis Sundberg, Old Testament, 74. H. St. J. Thackeray, The Septuagint and Jewish Worship, (London: 1921), pp. 107–111. 176 Sundberg, Old Testament, 79. In a recent article, Sundberg confidently claims that the Alexandrian canon is now defunct: Sundberg, ‘Septuagint’, 79. 177 J. P. Lewis, ‘What Do We Mean by Jabneh?’, JBR 32 (1964), pp. 125–132 = S. Z. Leiman (ed.), The Canon and Massorah of the Hebrew Bible (New York: Ktav, 1974), pp. 254–261. P. Schaefer, ‘Die sogenannte Synod von Jabne, II. Der Abschluss des Kanons’ Judaica 31 (1975), 116–124 = idem, Studien zur Geschichte und Theologie des Rabbinischen Judentums (SGJU, 15; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1978), pp. 56–74. 178 Beckwith, Old Testament, 385. But J. Lust, ‘Septuagint and Canon’ in J.-M. 174 175

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should be revived wholesale, it is enough to note that Sundberg’s rejection of the Alexandrian canon has no bearings on the canonization of the Nebiim. Davies thus considers that ‘Sundberg’s rejection of an “Alexandrian canon” is correct only in terms of a narrow definition of canon. That Jews in Alexandria recognized a canon or canons of Jewish scriptures seems clear enough’. 179 It is time to render to Alexandria what belongs to Alexandria and to accept that Alexandria is the cradle of Jewish historiography. It is also time to turn to Josephus who provides important data for the situation of the Old Testament canon at the end of the 1st century CE.

12. JOSEPHUS AND THE THIRTEEN PROPHETS Josephus stands on the other side of the canonization process of the Nebiim. Whereas Ben Sira is its first witness, Josephus offers a posteriori reflection that has the advantage of hindsight. Josephus claims that, contrary to the pagans, Jews do no possess myriads of contradictory books. Their books amount to 22: five books of Moses (from the birth of man to the death of the law-giver = 3000 years), thirteen Prophets (from the death of Moses until Artaxerxes) + four remaining books (hymns to God and precepts for the conduct of human life). He does not hesitate to contradict his previous affirmation by admitting that there are actually other books besides those 22: ‘From Artaxerxes to our own time the complete history has been written, but has not been deemed worthy of equal credit with the earlier records, because of the failure of the exact succession of the prophets’. 180 Auwers & H. J. De Jonge (eds), The Biblical Canons (BETL, 163; Leuven: University Press, 2003), pp. 39–55 (43) claims that Sundberg’s critiques of the Alexandrian canon are sound. He presents a very useful list of the 11 pre-Christian witnesses to the Greek translation (p. 42) to kill the Alexandrian canon hypothesis. However, out of these 11 fragments, 9 belong to the Pentateuch, the remaining ones are the Minor Prophets (p943 or 8HevXIIgr) and Epistle of Jeremiah 43–44 (p804 or p7QLXXEpJer), which means that 50% of the non Torah witnesses of a possible Alexandrian canon belong to a text (Ep.Jer.) that is transmitted only by the LXX! Of course, statistics are meaningless on such a small sample, but this data does not invalidate the hypothesis of an Alexandrian canon that predates the TNK and contained a much wider array of books, on the contrary, it tends to strengthen it. 179 Davies, Scribes, 188 n. 6. Koch, ‘Daniel’, 121, also opposes Sundberg by claiming that ‘the firm order which already appears in the earliest papyri of the Septuagint presupposes an old Jewish diaspora canon’. 180 Contra Apionem I.38–40. This does not mean that Prophecy had ended: J. R. Levison, ‘Did the Spirit Withdraw from Israel? An Evaluation of the Earliest Jewish Data’, NTS 43 (1997), pp. 35–57. See also W. J. Bergen, Elisha and the End of Prophetism (JSOTSup, 286; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999). E. M.

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The trouble with Josephus is that he presents too many prophetic books to match with the Nebiim. To make things worse, Josephus does not name the individual books, so various suggestions have been made (see table below). Josephus is consciously mixing two collections for his own purpose. He has no qualms doing this since he does not consider the LXX as inspired (see above) and since his aim is to defend the authenticity of Jewish records rather than to give an account of Jewish canons 181 His concern being historiographic, Josephus follows the LXX’s historical books until Artaxerxes, insisting that these books were written by prophets, which is a token of accuracy because they were inspired by God. Applying the canonical razor on the LXX’s Historica severs the period after Artaxerxes from Josephus’ Prophets. Since Artaxerxes is mentioned 14 times in the Old Testament, always in Ezra and Nehemiah (= 2 Esdras in the Christian LXX), all the historical books of our LXX are included except the Maccabees: Joshua, Judges, Ruth, Kingdoms, Paralipomenon, Esdras, Esther, Judith and Tobit. 182 These amount to nine books; to them the four prophetic books (Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Twelve) should be added since Josephus calls this collection ‘Prophets’, and according to the information they provide, the Prophets were written before Artaxerxes. Josephus’ thirteen Prophets are thus recovered simply on the basis of Josephus’ explanations and by following the order of the LXX. This, I suggest, is a more objective

Meyers, ‘The Crisis of the Mid-Fifth Century B.C.E. Second Zechariah and the “End” of Prophecy’ in: D. P. Wright, D. N. Freedman & A. Hurvitz (eds), Pomegranates and Golden Bells. Studies in Biblical, Jewish, and Near Eastern Ritual, Law, and Literature in Honor of Jacob Milgrom (Winona Lake, Indiana: Eisenbrauns, 1995), pp. 713–723. 181 P. Höffken, ‘Zum Kanonbewusstsein des Josephus Flavius in Contra Apionem und in den Antiquitates’, JSJ 32 (2001) pp. 159–177. J. C. Trebolle Barrera, ‘Origins of a Tripartite Old Testament Canon’, in L. M. McDonald & J. A. Sanders (eds), The Canon Debate (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2002), pp. 128–145 (132), notes that in Ant. 10.35 Josephus mentions Isaiah and “also others, twelve in numbers”, thirteen in all, which do not seem to correspond to those alluded to in Ap. 182 Esther is set at the court of a Xerxes whose reign could therefore be set before that of an Artaxerxes. Judith: In spite of the most flagrant “errors” of the opening verse: “It was in the twelfth year of the reign of Nebuchadnezzar, who ruled over the Assyrians from his capital Nineveh …” the book is set before the Persian period. The only limitation is the possible writing of Judith in the Hasmonaean period, although this is still early enough for Josephus to know it. Tobit is also situated during the Assyrian period.

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method than Thackeray and Beckwith’s who both include Job and Daniel instead of Judith and Tobit (Fig. 1). 183

Fig. 1: Josephus’ thirteen prophetic books Thackeray 184

Beckwith 185

Joshua Judges + Ruth Samuel Kings Chronicles Ezra + Nehemiah Esther

Job Joshua Judges + Ruth? Samuel Kings Isaiah

Zevit 186 Joshua Judges Ruth 1 Samuel 2 Samuel 1 Kings

LXX + Prophets Joshua Judges Ruth Kingdoms Paralipomenon Esdras

Jeremiah + 2 Kings Esther Lam? Job Ezekiel 1 Chronicles Judith Isaiah Twelve 2 Chronicles Tobit Jeremiah + Lam. Daniel Daniel Isaiah Ezekiel Chronicles Ezra Jeremiah Twelve Ezra-Nehemiah Nehemiah Ezekiel Daniel Esther Esther Twelve Josephus was not keen to inform his readers that the Jews, like everyone else, had all sorts of contradictory books, and that they even had at least two rival canons. Some Jews considered the Alexandrian canon as authoritative as the Nebiim. Although he rejected the divine inspiration of the LXX, Josephus did not hesitate to draw on it to find thirteen Prophets in

183 Beckwith, Old Testament, 79–80 fills the list by drawing information from Josephus’ Antiquities and War to include Daniel and Lamentations. He also includes Judges and Samuel although they are not mentioned in Josephus’ works, and Esther because she was married to Artaxerxes and also Ezra and Nehemiah (Ant. 11.5.1–2,6–8) who ministered during the reign of this same king. 184 Josephus, Contra Apionem (transl. H. St. J. Thackeray, LCL; London: Heinemann, 1966), p. 179. 185 Beckwith, Old Testament, 119. 186 Z. Zevit, ‘Canonization’, 140 n. 20: the prophetic books are excluded because they would have contributed nothing to the argument since most of the argument of Contra Apionem is to establish that the Jews possess authentic, accurate historical records.

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order to present them in Alexandrian style as perfect matches to Sotion’s succession of the schools of Philosophy in thirteen books. 187 This does not prove that the Historica of our LXX correspond exactly to the Alexandrian Chronography, 188 but it reveals that the order and contents transmitted by the Christian Septuagint should not be dismissed before counter-evidence sustains such a move. New Testament and early Christian evidence indicates that Christians did not hesitate to draw on an even wider array of Jewish books than those of the Christian Septuagint, 189 until it began to be felt as a problem. A common ground was necessary to debate with Jews. The Alexandrian canon was finally preferred because it provided more anti-Jewish ammunition, while possessing an antiquity that the Jews could not deny; otherwise the church would have had no choice but to accept the Hebrew canon. This is what Melito was thinking, what Jerome was pushing for; but it was the Jewish canon of Alexandria that prevailed because of its antiquity. The point is that even though the earliest Christian lists are very close to the TaNaK (Melito ca. 170 CE has just Esther missing; Origen ca. 200 CE includes 1 Esdras and the Epistle of Jeremiah), they do not follow the Nebiim and include Ruth and Chronicles within the second part like the LXX’s Historika. During the 3rd and 4th centuries CE, the difference with the Hebrew canon increased, always due to the inclusion of Greek books. Even Jerome, a staunch partisan of the Hebrew canon (although he counts Ruth in his Prophets), 190 included all the books of the LXX into the Vulgata. The conclusion is inescapable; the list that is transmitted by the LXX was always in a position to compete with the Hebrew canon because it could claim as great an antiquity as the Nebiim, and probably greater. However, the fact that the Maccabees are now part of both the Christian LXX and the Vulgate shows that the Alexandrian collections were literary canons that could be updated. But they nevertheless enjoyed great authority, even in the eyes of Josephus. Although he did not believe that the LXX was divinely inspired, his Antiquities follow the Alexandrian collection (Genesis to Esther) and then jumps to Maccabees. 191 Moreover, in the proDiogenes Laertius, Eminent Philosophers, xxiv. I.2. Admittedly, the status of Judith and Tobit remains problematic: Josephus does not mention them, although he refers to Ruth. 189 Including Enoch, Ascension of Isaiah: see table in Sundberg, Old Testament, 54–55. 190 Jerome, Prologus Galeatus, Beckwith, Old Testament, 120. 191 Because Judith and Tobit are not mentioned by Josephus, these books were probably not part of the Chronography in Josephus’ days, contrarily to Esther, Ezra, Nehemiah and Daniel, mentioned in Antiquities and recovered by the Ketubim. 187 188

NEW LIGHT ON THE NEBIIM

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logue to his War, Josephus explains that he is starting with Antiochus because it is where the Prophets leave off. Once again, Josephus happily amalgamates the Chronography and the Nebiim. 192

13. CONCLUSION Alexandria is the most likely place of origin of the Biblical Chronography. Soon after the translation of the Torah (280 BCE), other Biblical books were translated and organized onto a chronological pattern. The book of Joshua was long considered as a commentary and the natural sequel to the Torah. The books of Samuel and Kings formed a literary unit well before their translation into Greek, 193 while the book of Judges was a self-standing literary unit; and it is only at this point (between 280 and 180 BCE) that Judges and Ruth were inserted between Joshua and Samuel to create a new period in Jewish past. 194 The transitional passages, those connecting Joshua, Judges, Ruth, and Samuel are therefore much later that is postulated within the framework of a sixth century BCE Deuteronomistic History, and this may also apply to other transitions in the Historical books and the Prophets. Being crafted with books that were never meant to play this role, the period of the Judges thus remains artificial and the transition with the other periods is laborious. This was not in itself a problem since the aim of the Chronography was to organize ancient books chronologically rather than to provide a continuous narrative per se. The fact that Paralipomenon duplicates or contradicts the data contained in Kingdoms was not a problem, on the contrary. It was up to the historians who would use the Chronography as their main source to write the continuous narrative that we call histories. Consequently, there is no reason to doubt that Chronicles, Esdras and Esther (and possibly Tobit and Judith), 195 were also part of the Chronography, representing the Persian period. Since he is the first Jewish scholar to use both the Septuagint and the Chronography for his own work. 196 Demetrius the Chronographer (c. 250 BCE) was at least acquainted with the Josephus, War, Preface 6 (18). G. A. Williamson, The World of Josephus (London: Secker & Warburg, 1964), p. 288. 193 And thus constituted what could be saved of the original Deuteronomistic History. 194 Ph. Guillaume, ‘From a Post-monarchical to the Pro-monarchical Period of the Judges’, BN 113 (2002), pp. 12–17. 195 Judith and Tobit seem to be a late Christian addition, although they do fit into Josephus’ prophets while the main Eastern supporters of their canonicity come from Alexandria: Origen (Epistle to Africanus) for Tobit, Clement for Judith (see C. A. Moore in ABD). 196 Charlesworth, Pseudoepigrapha, 2.844 n.6. 192

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group of scholars who organized and translated the Chronography, unless he was one of them (Fig. 2). Later, other Biblical books were translated and included in the two other lists preserved in the Christian Septuagint: the Poetica and the Prophetica. These lists constituted the Alexandrian collections of Jewish literature rather than a fixed religious canon, because, apart from the Torah, the lists were updated. Maccabees were added to the Historica, thus providing a clue to the religious canonization and closure of the Historica. 197 The formation of the Chronography spurred the formation of the Nebiim, a collection composed of the first part of the Chronography and the Prophetica, whose theological value Ben Sira’s Praise of the fathers sought to demonstrate (ca. 170 BCE). Thanks to Ben Sira, the Nebiim were gradually accepted, in particular because they offered a welcome counterpart to the Alexandrian collections. Finally, the Hasmonaeans canonized the Nebiim, but they did not create the collection. 198 The Samaritans and the Sadducees refused to accept it; and even the Pharisees were reluctant to ascribe much authority to the Nebiim. The Mishnah quotes overwhelmingly from the Torah and to a certain amount from the Psalms and Proverbs, but very little from the Nebiim. 199 For the same reason, the Tosephta and the Minor Tractates mark a clear difference between rolls of the Torah and those of the Nebiim in terms of covers and line spacing. 200 The full and closed Hebrew canon as we know it did not emerge before the second century BCE at the earliest. 201 Claims that it was already closed in 150 BCE rest on faulty interpretations of Ben Sira. Christians at the intellectual centre of Alexandria logically kept in step with Philo who, contrary to Josephus, considered the LXX as divinely inThe onset of the Roman period marks the end of the growth of the Historica: according to Goldstein, 2 Maccabees, 83, 1 Maccabees was written by 90 BCE, Jason of Cyrene wrote his work by 86 BCE and the abridger produced his between 78 and 63 BCE. 3 and 4 Maccabees could have been produced in the 1st century 50 CE (H. Anderson, ABD 4.439–454), but the fact that they had to receive a ‘Maccabaean’ title which does not correspond to their content indicates that the Maccabaean period was considered as the natural end of Jewish past. The canonization of the Nebiim by the Hasmonaeans thus led to close the Historica. 198 Contrary to my previous claims: Guillaume, ‘Period of the Judges’; idem, Waiting for Joshua (JSOTSup, 385; London: Continuum, 2004). 199 Beckwith, Old Testament, 60. 200 See Beckwith, Old Testament, 113–115. 201 J. A. Sanders, ‘The Issue of Closure in the Canonical Process’, in L. M. McDonald & J. A. Sanders (eds), The Canon Debate (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2002), forthcoming. 197

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spired an attitude that probably spilled over to the other collections of Jewish books established in Alexandria. Christians thus accepted the Alexandrian collections and simply placed the Prophetica before the New Testament, because they had never been linked to the Historica as was the case within the Nebiim. Whether the Biblical Chronography is chicken or egg, it came at the end and not at the beginning of the redactional process of the books that were included in it. The Chronography was not created during the 6th century BCE but three centuries later in the Alexandrian chicken-coop of the Muses, where it fed on bookworms. 202

Fig. 2: Time line (dates approximate): 280 BCE: Translation of the Torah 250 BCE: Formation of the Chronography and its translation (by Demetrius?) 180 BCE: Formation of the Nebiim 200 BCE: Ben Sira settles in Alexandria 170 BCE: Ben Sira finishes his Wisdom 150 BCE: Jonathan (?) canonizes the Nebiim 130 BCE: Ben Sira’s grandson translates Sira

Timon of Phlius, Frag. 12 Diels, quoted by R. Barnes, ‘Cloistered Bookworms in the Chicken-Coop of the Muses: the Ancient Library of Alexandria’, in R. MacLeod (ed.), The Library of Alexandria (London: I. B. Tauris, 2000), pp. 61–78 (62). 202

REGULATING ‘SONS’ AND ‘DAUGHTERS’ IN THE TORAH AND IN PROVERBS: SOME PRELIMINARY INSIGHTS ATHALYA BRENNER

UNIVERSITY OF AMSTERDAM 1.

INTRODUCTION

This essay traces, in general lines, how the regulations a society presents as normative may reveal its deepest uncertainties, more so than its implied praxis. The case study chosen will be a vertical (chronologically and textually intersecting) as well as horizontal enquiry (from the Torah to Proverbs) into gendered regulations concerning second-generation members of the community. It will move from the general to the particular to the general again, in the following direction: 1. 2. 3.

Short description of my general premises Overview of Torah materials pertaining to ‘children’ and their obligations to and regulation by adults, with an assessment. Overview of relevant Proverbs materials, with an assessment.

4.

General reflections about the status of sons and daughters in these two literatures; and the tension endemic to prescriptive literatures, be they labelled as so-called ‘law’ or as so-called ‘wisdom’

2.

GENERAL GUIDELINES AND PREMISES FOLLOWED IN THIS ESSAY

My general guidelines for reading the relevant texts are: The ratio between literary or textual prescription and ‘reality’, or ‘history’, is seldom easy to define, even after assuming that we have ‘laws’—in our sense!—in the Bible. Laws, as we all know, have to be interpreted into praxis. Therefore, for us the Bible is a parallel universe not only to ours, but to the [social, moral] worlds we tease out of it. 217

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The interpretation process produces other texts, with similar problematics, and the need to uncover ideologies that underlie them, consciously or otherwise. In other words, a tension between text and praxis, cultures and the literatures they produce, can be assumed and perhaps also uncovered, if only to a limited extent. I prefer to anchor prescriptions and proscriptions in implied modes of production, subsistence and culture, rather than in alleged historical placing of the relevant texts. That this is not easy to do with any certainty, and is gained largely by applying selective methodologies and by considering the texts themselves (on a non-one-to-one ratio, of course) as well as external evidence, adds to the difficulties. In other words, my approach in this survey is social/cultural and literary/critical rather than historical. 1 It must be taken for granted that many aspects of HB ‘law’ and ‘instruction’ 2 literatures have antecedents and cognates in other ancient Near Eastern cultures. However, this aspect will not be dealt with in this essay, even though it largely and justifiably features in scholarly discussions. Moving from general considerations yet closer to the specific topic, I shall focus on offspring, that is, on the relational second-generation members of a household or ‫בית אב‬, rather than on the parents or firstgeneration members. I take it for granted that in biblical literatures the viewpoint of parents is privileged over that of their offspring: Parental, or metaphorically parental authority is privileged in a way that idealizes it as a cornerstone of society’s continuity. This is seemingly paradoxical: ‘be fruitful and multiply’ is a highly realistic ideology/policy in times and places of alarming child mortality, and could be supported by privileging the young. But power play intervenes. Obedience is required of children of whatever age and gender in relation to their elders. However, how this demand for obedience was met, how it was focused, which areas were apparently perceived as danger zones, and hence requiring at least a literary codification, which betrays them as the most vulnerable in relation to the authorial and authoritative parental demands, remains to be defined further.

See the work of Roland Boer in recent years (e.g., Boer, R., Marxist Criticism of the Bible [London: T&T Clark, 2003], and Gale Yee, Poor Banished Children of Eve: Women as Evil in the Hebrew Bible (Minneapolis; Fortress, 2003) for an overview and an extended example about narrative and prophetic texts. 2 I prefer this term to the conventional ‘wisdom’ literature/s. 1

REGULATING ‘SONS’ AND ‘DAUGHTERS’

3.

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OVERVIEW OF RELEVANT TEXTS IN THE TORAH (/PENTATEUCH)

A good place to start is with the linguistic terms, even if they seem to be basic and well known. The regular terms for son and daughter are ‫ בן‬and ‫בת‬, pl.‫ בנים‬and ‫בנות‬, respectively. A non-gendered collective noun is ‫טף‬, perhaps from *‫טפף‬, ‘to walk slowly’ (42 times in the HB, about half of these occurrences in the Torah). Another term, ‫ילד‬/‫ילדים‬, is grammatically gendered as masculine but in linguistic practice may serve as the equivalent of the gender-neutral child/children. Other terms for young children (‫עוֹלל‬, ‫עוּל‬, ‫ ;יונק‬the poetic *‫בר‬/‫ פרי בטן‬and so on) are quite rare. ‫נער‬/‫ נערה‬has an age and status significance, but is not kin-relational. In passing, it may be noted that the term ‫ בנים‬is problematic. Many readers interpret and translate it—in the absence of specific terms for ‘daughter/daughters’ in so many biblical contexts—as inclusive, and referring to both females and males. A recurring case of this is the understanding reflected in the translation of ‫ בני ישראל‬as ‘children of Israel’ (of both genders). This seldomdifferentiated readerly practice should by no means be automatic, even though reading ‫בנים‬/‫ בן‬as ‘son/s’ in most contexts is exclusive and raises theological as well as social questions. A more nuanced approach to textual contexts is perhaps warranted, considering the fact that when both daughter and son are included, as in the Sabbath commandment, both are specifically mentioned: …‫אתה ובנך ובתך‬ Further examples will be offered below. What are the prescriptive contexts in which sons/daughters are mentioned? Here I classify the materials under the dual headings of terms (gender-inclusive, son/s, daughter/s) and texts (Torah and other sources). Both sons and daughters have to keep the Sabbath (Exod 20:10; Deut 5:14). Both are included in festival joys and sacrificial meals according to Deut 12:12, 18, as also in the warning against worshipping other gods (Deut 13:7) and the curses for religious disobedience (Lev 26:29; Deuteronomy 28) and proscriptions against intermarriage (Deut 7:3; see also Exod 34:16), and incest (Deut 27:22). Both sons and daughters may or may not be sacrificed to a divinity (Deut 18:10; cf. Abraham and Isaac; Jephthah and his daughter; 2 Kings 3 and 23). ‫ טף‬is subject to the military ban (Deut. 2.34; and see Josh.). Where body harm is concerned, sons and daughters are equal in the case of a goring ox (Exod 21:29–31). Finally, Deuteronomy stipulates that no ‫ קדש‬or ‫( קדשה‬whatever the term may mean, esp. if the designation ‘sacred prostitution’ is rejected as an automatic explanation) from the daughters and sons of Israel are acceptable (Deut 23:18).

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In general, then, it would therefore seem that D authors take care to include ‘son and daughter’ in obligations/prohibitions pertaining to relational sons and daughters even where other sources—Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers—involve or address ‫( בנים‬either in the absolute or in the construct, ‫ )בני‬or an implied male you, singular or plural. Furthermore regulations concerning a mother’s purification after giving birth to a son or daughter exist for both cases, but are different (Lev 12:2–8), as are the regulations concerning a priest’s son or daughter (see below). However, apart from the inclusion of daughters alongside sons in the prescriptions for ‫ תרומה‬in Numbers (18:11,19; but see v. 10: ‘every male shall eat it’), daughters are excluded from most of the sacrificial meal benefits enjoyed by males in Leviticus-Numbers, and by implication in Exodus as well. Only sons seem to be the addressees of the liturgical/sacrificial obligation to remember the Exodus (Lev 23:41–43, Deut 5:12–15, by implication Exod 20:8–11). Sons seem to be the natural performers and participants in sacrifice and sacrificial meals for the authors of Leviticus and Numbers. Both sons and daughters are warned against incest (Deuteronomy 28, Leviticus 18, 20), directly or by implication; the addressee, however, is male. Sons’ inheritance is regulated in Deuteronomy. Let us also note that the Levirate marriage law (Deut 25:5–10) is concerned with producing an heir to a land portion. The commandment to ‘honour father and mother’, undoubtedly an economic necessity, is couched in the second-person masculine singular mode. Is it binding only on son/s, as the fathers-to-be and chief economic functionaries of their household? Similarly, the unrealistic law concerning a stubborn and rebellious son (‫ בן סורר ומורה‬in Deut 21:18–21), which apparently deals with an adult and his exemplary public execution, seems to be gender specific. 3 And now for the daughters: is a daughter responsible for her own initiative, for instance in the case of taking a vow? According to Num 30:17, 4 her responsibility is subject to her father’s behaviour and/or discretion, whose authority over her is much like his authority over his wife. A daughter’s sexuality is apparently her father’s asset, or potential honour/shame, and it is of the greatest concern in Deuteronomy, as evidenced by materials relevant to virginity and rape in Deuteronomy 22. Prohibitions against a daughter’s prostitution are emphatic (Lev 19:29) and in the case of a priest’s daughter, punishable by burning (21:9). A related issue is that of the socalled ‘Hebrew bondwoman/slave (‫אמה עבריה‬, Exod. 21:7–11), who was 3 See Sivan, H., Between Woman, Man and God; A new Interpretation of the Ten Commandments (BTC, 4; London/New York: Continuum/T&T Clark, 2004). 4 Is it a gloss?

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considered a potential sexual partner and treated as a ‘daughter’, with relative care and protection—as is the priest’s daughter who, upon widowhood, may return to her father’s household as a dependent and be a participant in the household’s priestly benefits (Lev 22:13). Finally, the extended story about Zelophehad’s daughters (Num 27:1–11 and 36:10–12) attempts to regulate daughters’ inheritance in the absence of male claimants related to their late father. 5 How, then, is this complex picture [pictures?] to be summarized, or reduced, to a coherent picture? Let me assume, as a matter of course, that regulations—be they enforceable or otherwise—emanate from an apprehension, a worry about group identity and limits and concerns; and from the need—imagined or actual—to control such uneasiness. Therefore, regulations point to their opposite, that is, problem areas. Seen in that light, several features may emerge. In Exodus as in Leviticus, participation of daughters in public life is minimal: sons are the true bearers of the covenant and its sign, the circumcision; females, including daughters, are taken care of but have a secondary status. Anxiety about sexual matters—intermarriage, female religiosity, female sexuality—is manifest, in Exodus as in Leviticus and Deuteronomy. This sexual anxiety is especially foregrounded in the priestly literature and is also a hallmark of Deuteronomy. While by comparison to other Torah sources D stipulates greater participation of daughters, esp. daughters under their fathers’ jurisdiction, in ritual and religious and public life in general, this in itself is perhaps no reason for rejoicing. Were such ‘laws’ ever practiced and even if so, by whom and when? This generosity may in fact point to a lack, or to different norms that operate in the same society. They can be read as a rough indication of the inferior status of daughters in a largely non-urban society. 6 Similarly, inheritance by daughters (Numbers) is indeed an innovation, apocryphally related to Moses, but does it give us much apart from the sour knowledge that, yes, sons inherited, especially so in the case of land, and this was the norm? Furthermore, both a commandment and the D passage about the wayward son show that ‘honouring’ parents, that is, supporting them in older age, as well as obeying them, was a social requisite but by no means an absolute or even a favoured norm. We therefore do remain, in the Torah, with the impression that agrarian societies, loosely knotted out of households and families, had their own Ben Barak, Z., Daughters’ Inheritance in Ancient Israel and the Ancient Near East (in Hebrew; Haifa: 2004). 6 Indeed, fearfully and contra many commentators, I doubt whether D modifications reflect a transition from agrarian-hill-rural to central-urban/agrarian economy. 5

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prescriptions for binding second-generation members with their elders. Some regulations were similar or identical for daughters and sons. Many others were gender-specific or gender-motivated and perhaps indicative not only of social insecurity (on the part of the law writers) but of shifty, contrary social customs. Sons would, in turn, become the owners of the Phallus, of the land or religious function, of economic responsibility. Hence, they’ll be accountable for their aging parents and must behave accordingly. Daughters, ultimately, will become mothers. In the interest of transparent paternity, and the ensuing economic responsibility of sons, daughters’ sexuality (that is, reproductive potential) would get the most attention and attempted control.

4.

OVERVIEW OF RELEVANT TEXTS IN THE BOOK OF PROVERBS

In the following remarks I shall focus on Proverbs 1—9 and 30–31. Prescriptions and proscriptions are rife here as well as in the ‘law’ passages of the Torah; the aim is, once again, to produce a younger person who will be a well adjusted member of society, as imagined in and to a certain extent also imaged or refracted by the text. However, the genre is of course different: it is largely an instruction; and the addressee or addressees are ‘son’ and ‘sons’. I suggest that we take this situation seriously. The plural ‫ בנות‬appears twice only in Proverbs, at its end (30.15, 31.29). ‫ חכמה‬seems to be god’s daughter in ch. 8, but only by implication. Otherwise, son/s are often addressed, by a father figure or a mother figure, or both, or by an implied instructor of either gender.

4.1

EDUCATION

An important trope of Proverbs is advice-giving; when an advice-giving situation is conjured, it is from a ‘parent’ to a ‘son’, or from an ‘elder’ or ‘elders’ who are ‘wise’, while the target audience is imaged implicitly or explicitly as male, young, ‘foolish’, ‘ignorant’, ‘insensitive’, in need of instruction and teaching. Whether this implies an actual family teaching praxis, or rather a teaching situation at schools where elder persons prepared younger males for the privileged life of public office, scribal activity or economic viability, remains uncertain despite heated discussions among scholars. What can be deduced, though, is that the literal trope points to the class situation in which such counsel could be formulated and transmitted: urban elite classes (Merchants? Royals? Court officials? Landowners? Scribes? Priests?). Those would have the leisure, means and inclination to invest in the continuance of their ways through the training of whoever needed prompting in the right (and Right) direction. That the producers as well as

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the consumers of this seemingly oral, but for us readers literary, training were ‘sons’ seems to be borne out by the texts themselves, as well as by the preoccupation with female figures, personifications and metaphors. That these texts hold incidental value for woman readers, 7 and those women could and must have educated their male and female children alike in the home, seeps occasionally into the largely male-dominated discourses. 8

4.2

TOPICS OF INSTRUCTIONS

The topics of instruction are recipes for good life, a life of economic solvency and societal stability, in a family circle, as a socially adjusted citizen who is successful and at peace with fellow citizens and the authorities, including religious authority and the divine. A middle way is advocated, without taking financial or other risks, with a conservative attitude toward excesses or impulses. Respect for superiors is a must. Industry and eloquence are highly regarded, as are social justice and legalism. Happiness and material possessions seem to be equated, at least to a large extent. The rewards of obedience, listening, acting decorously, seem in this optimistic worldview naturally to be expected.

4.3

NORMS AND VALUES

Norms and values are dictated by conventional social axioms. The family is the basic unit, to be preserved in its age hierarchy. Its authority, like other authorities, is just, correct and benevolent. The ways of the wise, the father, the ancestors are to be recommended and followed with obedience. Since the chief addressee[s] is [are] inferior or younger male[s], instruction in gender relations is necessary. Sexual temptation by ‘strange’ or Other or loose women is acknowledged but long-lasting monogamous endogamy is advocated: dallying with non-family women may lead to death. Attitudes to the young should be firm. Respect for wives and mothers is required but less so than for Alpha male relatives. Let me emphasize, once again, that ‘daughters’ are not the target audience of Proverbs: the ‘wise’ messages of this book are certainly not universal or gender inclusive. Even if the poem in Prov 31:10–31 is an instruction to daughters, 9 this reading remains an informed readerly speculation only. Fontaine, C. R, ‘Proverbs’, in C. Newsom and S. Ringe (eds.), The Women’s Bible Commentary (1992). 8 Newsom, C., “Woman and the Discourse of Patriarchal Wisdom,” pp. 116– 131 in T. K. Beal and D. M. Gunn (eds.), Reading Bibles, Writing Bodies: Identity and the Book (London and New York: Routledge, 1997; originally published 1989). 9 As proposed by the late Van Dijk Hemmes and A. Brenner over a decade ago. 7

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4.4

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

SHORT SUMMARY

This short summary of Proverbs’ opening and closing materials pertaining to sons, and with the absence of daughters as agents or addressees, foregrounds some points that are endemic to the collection as a whole and meaningful for understanding it. These units serve as the book’s frame and its framework: all the other units are enveloped by or embedded in the frame. This frame contains much sexual education for young males, that is, discourse that is concerned with femaleness and femininity; more specifically, materials that elaborate the roles of a legitimate wife/lover and mother as against illicit sexual ties of a man with Other women, in keeping with Proverbs’ general interest in safeguarding the family as an ongoing, [re]productive social institution. This impulse makes sense for social continuation and self-perpetration. At the same time, it betrays anxiety about the very social project it appears to promote.

5.

INTERIM REFLECTIONS

Ageism—in the sense of age superiority, diametrically opposed to what we call ageism nowadays—is the order of the day in both the Torah and in Proverbs, as it is in most of the HB, to a greater or lesser degree. The power structure within the ‫ בית אב‬and beyond it is unmistakable. For me, the implications of such a power structure are distasteful. This is a culture that, at least textually and in spite of its own prohibitions, lets fathers sacrifice their sons (Abraham and Isaac, Genesis 22) or their daughters (Jephthah and his nameless daughter, Judges 11) to their supreme divine father for the collective good. This is a culture that condones sending young persons to war by elder politicians, for the collective good, every single day in the Middle East, up to and including the present; and this is the culture that, eventually, allowed the divine father to sacrifice his divine son for the same purpose. From where I am, reflections about superior fathers and their control over their sons or daughters, in different ways, are more than disturbing. Ultimately, as already mentioned several times in this short paper, cultures may be characterized by their anxieties as much as by their promoted values and aspirations. Along this line, it seems that the mini-cosmos teased (perhaps unfairly) out of the Torah and Proverbs texts, regarding sons and daughters, may be generalized by its greatest fears: (1) Fear of being abandoned in old age. See Brenner, A. and F. van Dijk-Hemmes, On Gendering Texts: Female and Male Voices in the Hebrew Bible (Leiden: Brill, 1993).

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(2) Fear of being, or appearing, overtaken or controlled by the next generation for whose wellbeing society is ostensibly committed as a basic, pre-Mosaic requirement. (3) Fear of an early death, most certainly, as warranted by the harsh conditions and by low human life expectancy. (4) Fears of female sexuality, femininity and the mystery of productivity. In the Torah this fear focuses mainly on the figure of the ‘daughter’; it permeates Proverbs by warning the son/s against the Other (adult, sometimes married) woman, even though the book starts and ends with expanded female figures. Moreover, these fears must have been internalized into female consciousness, as is apparent from the few Proverbs texts that are perhaps delivered by a female speaker-in-the-text (ch. 7, perhaps more within 1–9). Therefore, this fear can be gendered from the perspective of its hopefully regulated target, but perhaps not from the perspective of its source or producers. Is it a male fear, or a female fear? How does ideology enter this complex picture, anchored in essential biological and environmental factors? Let’s look at an example. In Exodus 1–2 the Pharaoh decided to exterminate the Hebrews—he fears their multiplication and reproduction rate!—so he orders the midwives to kill every newborn son, whereas every newborn daughter would live. The midwives do not carry out this command, citing as self-justification that the Hebrew women are too quick to give birth. The Pharaoh then repeats his order, almost verbatim, to his men: the sons will die, the daughters will live. Consequently, a son is born, two daughters help him survive, and the surviving son will meet Jethro’s daughters, and the Pharaoh’s son will die in the plague, and so on. I’ve often wondered about this story. Why didn’t the textual Pharaoh, simply, decide to kill the productive Hebrew women instead? Wouldn’t this be a much easier final solution? Why is the story constructed as it is? In order to supply a background for the well-known ‘birth-of-the-hero’ paradigm? In order to sneer at the stupidity of the obtuse foreign ruler, especially entertaining if this is a women’s story, since 12 women save Moses, as noted by Siebert Hommes 10? Or because, ultimately, even if this can be gendered as a female story, ideology still dictates—and against nature—that sons are more important for a social group than daughters, and both genders internalize this value? Difficult to say; at any rate, it does seem that the 10 Siebert-Hommes, J., Let the Daughters Live!: The Literary Architecture of Exodus 1—2 As a Key for Interpretation (Biblical Interpretation, 37; Leiden: Brill, 1999)

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Pharaoh’s recourse to destruction of the male line instead of the female line proves costly to his cause. In the tension between expedience, knowledge and ideology, he chooses for gender ideology. Ideology displaces common sense. However, Hebrew female fertility and resourcefulness are presented as strong, manipulative, and victorious. This is perfectly in order as far as presenting the Pharaoh is concerned; it is stupid of the Pharaoh to forget about [Hebrew] female power. Here in-group solidarity overrides gender considerations. But within the group itself, this kind of gender possibilities should be kept in mind and treated as suspect and in need of regulation. And daughters’ sexuality should be checked and controlled, so that reproduction can be successfully controlled—as evidenced by this introductory vignette to the Exodus and the ‘laws’ and ‘wisdom’ texts.

A REJOINDER TO A. BRENNER, “REGULATING ‘SONS’ AND ‘DAUGHTERS’ IN THE TORAH AND IN PROVERBS: SOME PRELIMINARY INSIGHTS” FRANCIS LANDY

UNIVERSITY OF ALBERTA Athalya Brenner’s brief essay, as one would expect, is a fascinating, if necessarily preliminary, exploration of the treatment of sons and daughters in the Torah and Proverbs, and as such raises as many questions as it answers; I hope that I can contribute to its further development. I am a great admirer of Brenner, and am currently reading her book of autobiographical essays of biblical women, I Am, with much pleasure. One can say so much more, and with more subtlety, in fiction than in conventional academic exposition. Perhaps that is the point of this essay too, with its emphasis on the fictiveness of the Torah’s laws, on the uncertainty of their relationship to praxis, whatever that is. I must confess also a certain disappointment, precisely on the issue of the imagination. Neither the Torah nor Proverbs lack complexity; both require very close reading. I was expecting, in this essay, both more detailed attention to the text and a greater sense of ideological conflict. But I also wondered: Why Torah and Proverbs? Why these two texts, in a synchronous reading, and not the others in between? Why no context? And why the selection, for instance, of the Torah’s laws without its narratives, of Proverbs’ sandwich without its filling? I will begin with Brenner’s first sentence, which is in some respects the crucial one. “This essay traces, in general lines, how the regulations a society presents as normative may reveal its deepest uncertainties.” Indeed this may be or must be so; but surely there is spectrum of uncertainty. Some areas of life may arouse very great anxiety e.g. sexual practices, while others might be regarded as rather trivial, such as parking regulations. Careful analysis is required to assess the emotive value of each case. Then we go on to Brenner’s next phrase: “more so than its implied praxis.” But what praxis is implied by a regulation? Surely the regulation itself! Or shall we say that a 227

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regulation implies no praxis whatsoever? It is a simply a regulation. To infer a praxis, and certainly a praxis differing from a regulation, one needs historical evidence. The evidence is occasionally there, at least in texts, but the crucial point is that its source must be different from the regulation. Brenner’s may indeed be a “vertical (chronologically, textually intersecting) as well as horizontal enquiry,” but I am not sure that she has done this. Where is the vertical dimension here? I do not find a chronology, stratification, or the textual analysis that would produce such a thing. I am not sure, moreover, how this can be reconciled with Brenner’s subsequent statement that “my approach in this survey is social/cultural and literary/critical rather than historical”. Let us turn to Brenner’s “general guidelines and premises,” from which this quotation is taken. There are four: 1. The relation between text and “reality” is uncertain. 2. Texts produce other texts, with an equally uncertain relationship to reality. 3. Texts arise from “implied modes of production, subsistence and culture,” which are not easy to define (N.B. Why “implied”? Implied by what? The texts? If so, there is a circular argument). 4. The Ancient Near Eastern context will be ignored. I will focus on two issues: 1. “For us, the Bible is a parallel universe not only to ours, but to the [social, moral] worlds we tease out of it”. In fact, there are four worlds: the world of the Bible, that of the reality it addresses and in which it is written, the world(s) the interpreter “teases out of it”, and our world. None of these worlds is parallel to the others. It is the difference between them that is important. Indeed, Brenner’s earlier metaphor of “textually intersecting” is appropriate. The Bible is necessarily an apperception, as is our own interpretation of it. We don’t simply, naively, project our own world on to the text, just as we don’t equally simply leave it behind. 2. The “prescriptions and prohibitions” may be anchored in “modes of production, subsistence and culture,” but, as Roland Boer has argued in an excellent essay on Deutero-Isaiah, 1 the substructures of premodern societies are theological and symbolic. In other words, a proper materialist analysis of a society’s economy has to take into account its entire system of 1 Roland Boer, “Deutero-Isaiah: Historical Materialism and Biblical Theology” BibInt 6 (1998) pp.181–204.

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values, its total symbolic capital. I would note, also, that a materialist interpretation has to be historically grounded. The opposition Brenner interposes between social/cultural readings and historical ones does not exist (I am not sure where literary criticism fits into this). I suspect that by the “social/cultural” approach Brenner in fact refers to what historians of the Braudel school used to call the “long durée,” abiding trends and conditions rather than short term events. Nonetheless, even the long durée has to be historically located e.g. in the late monarchic or Persian periods, with their long term or cataclysmic changes. Now such locations are notoriously difficult to determine, whence the need, from Brenner’s point of view, to reconstruct the social world implied by the text. But then we run aground on the problem, mentioned above, that the worlds of the text and reality are not congruent. This is especially the case with the Torah, which projects a variety of utopias and dystopias that are the product of the human imagination whose relation to reality is always a matter of negotiation. From a materialist point of view, texts are the work of people, and people’s thoughts, emotions, pleasures and fears are never fully determined, at least by the cultural background. As a result of the preference for interpretations based on “modes of production” etc. an economic reductionism pervades the essay. There are two clear examples. One is the unsubstantiated assertion that the injunction to “Honour your father and mother” is “undoubtedly an economic necessity”. This ignores the primacy of honour as social currency in Mediterranean society, and in particular “the honour of the family.” Honouring father and mother, with its attendant rituals of deference, is a prerequisite for the family’s enactment of its status and the perpetuation of the patriarchal principle. It is relatively independent of economic circumstances; a family may be poor but honourable, or conversely, rich but discredited. Secondly, Brenner suggests that “‘be fruitful and multiply’ is a highly realistic ideology in times and places of alarming child mortality”. I can’t see, however, that in the creation narrative in which it appears it has anything to do with child mortality or even anxiety, especially when it applies to the animals. Its message is that the reproductive drive is mandated by God, as part of the general insistence of the creation narrative that there is no such thing as nature separate from God’s will. Turning to particulars, there are a number of omissions in Brenner’s overview of texts from the Torah, as well as points that require greater precision. She omits one inclusive term: ‫זרע‬, “seed,” as in the injunctions against sacrificing one’s seed to Molech (18.21, 20.2). It is true that one may not sacrifice children of either gender, but not that one may; the three examples Brenner gives are all from narrative (two from outside the Torah!)

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and hardly prescriptive. On the other hand, all firstborn sons are to be given to or belong to God (Exod.13.2, 22.28, Num.8.17), and are replaced either by the Levites (Num.3.41, 45, 8.16, 18) or by silver (Num.3.47, 18.15–16, and cf. Exod.13.13, 34.20). It is true, too, that “‫ טף‬is subject to the military ban”; however, women as well as children are spared in an attack on non-Canaanite cities (Deut.20.14–15). That such a woman is imagined as a daughter is clear from the sequel about the captive woman, who is permitted or required to “weep for her father and mother for a month” (Deut.21.13). Similarly, in the narrative of the war against the Midianites, Moses commands the death of all but virgin daughters (Num.31.15–18). The relevance of these texts for Brenner’s concluding discussion of Pharaoh’s sparing of the Hebrew daughters is clear. At other times Brenner misses some crucial distinctions. Sons and daughters must indeed rejoice in festivals and other sacred meals (Deut.12.12, 18, 16.11, 14), together with yourself, your manservant and your maidservant and the Levite in your gates in a celebration from which only the wife is conspicuously missing; here sons and daughters are simply listed as members of a happy family. On the other hand, only males are required to appear at pilgrimage festivals (Exod.23.17, 34.23, Deut.16.16); in Deuteronomy both prescriptions are, presumably deliberately, juxtaposed. Women and children, however, must attend the septennial Torah reading on Sukkot, and are assumed to accompany their men on pilgrimages (Deut.31.11–12). In Numbers 18, there is no contradiction between v.10 (“every male shall eat it”) and vs.11 and 18, in which daughters may eat of the ‫תרומה‬, since they refer to different things. Only males may eat of the “most holy” sacrifices—essentially expiatory offerings—while both males and females eat ‫תרומה‬, communion offerings, etc. which have a lesser sacred status. This is evident, too, in Lev.22.13, in which a childless divorced or widowed priest’s daughter, who has presumably married outside the priestly clan, may consume her father’s sacred food, “as in her youth.” Other significant omissions are the case of the man who sells his daughter as a servant (Exod.21.7–11), and the capital offences of striking and cursing one’s parents (Exod.21.15,17). Although, notoriously, there is no law against father-daughter intercourse, there are several proscriptions of intergenerational incest e.g. with one’s daughter-in-law (Lev.18.15) or granddaughter (Lev.18.10). In these cases it is transgressive paternal sexuality that is regulated, and hence the source of anxiety. In short, one has to look at the general verbal context and theme. If “sons and daughters” appear as part of a long list, clearly the regulation does not specifically concern them. It is not that D is more “generous” than

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the other Torah texts, but it has different rhetorical goals. Deuteronomy is interested in evoking communal solidarity, an ideally blissful Israel; other texts (including Deuteronomy at times!) in defining the sacred. Some texts, moreover, are slippery and ambiguous, like life. What is one to make of the father who sells his daughter, and the Torah’s attempt to protect her rights? Does the injunction to educate one’s “sons”/”children”(Deut.6.7, 11.19) or to narrate the Exodus (Exod.12.25–28, 13.14–15, Deut.6.20–24), apply also to daughters? To sum up, daughters are mentioned along with sons when it serves the text’s rhetorical agenda, sons exclusively when it wishes to delimit the sacred. Brenner is right that the laws reflect and presuppose an agrarian patriarchal society. This, however, is not to say very much. I would like to know more about specifically what kind of agrarian patriarchal society, and how the text deals with anomalies, such as matters of inheritance (the case of Zelophehad’s daughters) and vows (Numbers 30). It is not simply that the text assumes a patrilineal norm and patriarchal authority, but that in the one case it demarcates and then eliminates the exception (Numbers 27 and 36), while in the other it permits female autonomy within limits, an autonomy which, in the case of the Nazirite vow (Num 6), breaches the male monopoly on the sacred. Brenner’s treatment of Proverbs is short and generalized, and indeed there is little to say. Proverbs has no prescriptions and proscriptions for daughters, and a lot of advice for sons, from parents, substitute parents, or sisterly Wisdom. As Brenner says, it is conservative, and will help the recipient navigate an upper-class urban world. I missed two things in her account. One was a close reading of those instances when sons and daughters are mentioned. Does Lemuel’s mother’s instruction to her son differ from that of allegedly male parental figures (31.1–9)? Who are the daughters of the leech (30.15)? Why the description of the disrespectful and dissolute generation in 30.11–14? And so on. And secondly, I missed the playfulness of ch. 30, in particular, with its riddles and its wonder. Finally, I thought that Brenner’s reading of Proverbs might have benefited from Claudia Camp’s observation in her book Wise, Strange and Holy that the polarized figures of Wisdom and Folly tend to merge, that the book subverts itself. 2 In her conclusions, Brenner provides a list of fears (old age, usurpation, early death, and female sexuality) that these regulations counteract. I do not see that she justifies this list in the course of the paper. Are the commandments to respect and “fear” one’s parents motivated by a fear that 2 Claudia Camp Wise, Strange, and Holy: The Strange Woman and the Making of the Bible (JSOTSup; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000). See especially ch.1.

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otherwise they would be abandoned and superseded? Or are they simply a statement of essential values: “we are a nation that is defined by its proper treatment of parents.” It does not seem to me that for every law there is a pre-existing and normative condition of its breach. That there is a law to honour parents does not mean it was not a “‘favoured’ norm”. That would contradict what we know otherwise about Mediterranean societies. Brenner is right, however, about the anxiety concerning sexuality. It is not directed, however, exclusively or primarily against female sexuality. In Proverbs, for instance, it is the young man who is being warned against his own desires. In the incest code in Leviticus, the legislation is directed against infractions by both sexes. A few concluding observations. Brenner’s list of objectionable sacrifices (Abraham and Isaac, Jephthah’s daughter, the Crucifixion) consists of one that does not take place, a second that exemplifies the motif of the “stupid vow” and hardly meets with the narrator’s approval, and a third from outside the Hebrew Bible. The texts self-evidently emanate from an urban elite in an agrarian world; there is little that can be deduced about that world that cannot be explicated by the ideological and rhetorical goals of the text (to imagine an ideal Israel on the one hand, to train youth on the other). Finally, there is nothing very puzzling about Pharaoh’s attempt to eliminate only the infant boys, as the law concerning the conquest of distant cities and contemporary examples from Bosnia show. Males constitute the military potential Pharaoh fears (Exod.1.10) and the patrilineal identity of Israel. Without men, the women have no protectors and can be absorbed into the general Egyptian population, like the captive woman in Deut.21.10–14. I would like to thank Athalya Brenner for raising these issues about “regulating sons and daughters” in her fascinating contribution, awakening in me a desire to think further about them, and for shaping the challenge of responding to her insights.

ON THE MEANING OF ‫קשת נחושה‬ ARON PINKER

[email protected] 11519 MONTICELLO AVENUE, SILVER SPRING, MARYLAND, U.S.A.

1. The phrase ‫ קשת נחושה‬in 2Sam 22:35 = Ps 18:35 and Job 20:24 has been routinely translated “bronze or brass bow.” 1 So did at least the Versions and the standard English translations (KJV, NKJV, NASB, RSV, Webster, Young, Derby, ASV, NJPS). 2 Some Jewish medieval commentators take ‫ קשת נחושה‬as “bronze bow” (Abarbanel) and some consider ‫ נחושה‬a metaphor for strength, i.e. “strong bow, hard to pull bow” (Rashi, Kimchi, Ralbag). 2. Certainly, the phrase ‫ קשת נחושה‬cannot mean “a bow made of brass or bronze.” Neither of these materials is practical for construction of ‫ נחושה‬is missing in 2Sam 22:35 of the Lucianic recension of the Septuagint, probably on account of the meter. 2 KJV and Webster have “bow of steel,” which is corrected to “bow of bronze” in NKJV. It is inconceivable that ‫ נחושה‬means “of steel.” Steel, an alloy of carbon and iron (the metallic element, not the finished product), contains 0.2 to 1.5 percent of carbon. The production of steel requires the removal of the impurities in iron ore, often through the application of greater heat than ancient furnaces could produce. Several processes for accomplishing “decarburizing,” removal of carbon from cast iron were used in China beginning in the Han dynasty (206 BCE–220 CE). An important technique in steel production is “quenching,” heating the metal and then rapidly lowering its temperature again by plunging it into water. The result is a dramatic increase in the strength of the metal, which can be increased yet further by repeating the process. The earliest quench-hardened steel that we know about dates from about 1200 BCE or so. But steel was too difficult to produce dependably to come into wide use at that point. The medieval cross-bow was made of steel. It is interesting to note that the RSV translates ‫“ קשת נחושה‬bow of bronze” in 2Sam 22:35 = Ps 18:35 but “bronze arrow” in Job 20:24, reflecting the inadequacy of the standard translation. Some Jewish medieval commentators seemingly read ‫קשת‬ ‫( ]חצי[ נחושה‬Rashi, Ralbag). 1

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the bow’s body, which has to be light and pliable. 3 For the same reason the phrase cannot mean “brass or bronze plated bow” or “arc composite bound and/or inlaid with bronze.” 4 Metal plating of the body, even of ornamental kind, would undermine its pliability, increase its weight, and hamper aiming without adding any advantages. Perhaps, some ceremonial bows or bows used for votive purposes were of this kind. 5 However, neither a metal bow nor a metal plated bow that was used for warfare has ever been found in any archeological excavations, though it would have had a better chance for preservation than the wood based bow. 3. The phrase ‫ קשת נחושה‬cannot mean “strong bow, hard to pull bow” either. 6 Iron and bronze are often used in the Hebrew Bible as symbols of strength (Job 40:18, Deut 33:25, Jer 15:12, Am 1:3), however, it is difficult to see how a metaphor based on a known impracticality of making brass or bronze bows could convey a meaningful concept of unusual Pope, M. H. Job. AB 15. New York: Doubleday (1986) 153. Pope uses in his translation “bronze bow” nominally. He says “The meaning here is simply that if the wicked escape one disaster, an equal or worse one will befall him.” However, he does not offer a meaning for ‫ קשת נחושה‬per se. 4 Cross, F. M. and Freedman, D. N. “A royal song of thanksgiving: 2 Sam 22 = Ps 18a.” JBL 72 no 1 (1953) 31. The authors consider the MT of 2Sam 22:35 = Ps 18:35 as making no suitable sense. Using Ps 144:1 they reconstruct 2Sam 22:35 = Ps 18:35 into ‫ למלחמה‬ לקרב‬ or ‫למלחמה זרעתי‬ ‫חנית וקשת נחושה‬ ‫תתן לי מגן ישעכה‬ Translating ‫ קשת נחושה‬by “arc composite bound and/or inlaid with bronze.” Such latitude with the MT is prima facie suspect, and in the current instance unwarranted. 5 De Vaux, R. Institutions de l’Ancien Testament. Paris: Éditions du Cerf (1961) 53. De Vaux says, “Malgré 2 Sam., 22, 35; Ps., 18, 35 et Job, 20, 24, il n’y a jamais eu des «arcs d’arain», le terme s’explique par les garniture de métal de certains arcs.” 6 Couroyer, B. “L’arc d’airain.” RB 72 (1965) 513. Couroyer suggests for ‫קשת‬ ‫ נחושה‬the sense “solid” or “robust.” He says, “Il me semble donc plus vraisemblable que l’arc d’airain est un arc spécial, un arc composé, donc très fort, destiné à lancer des projectiles 3

à pointe de bronze plus pénétrants que les autres. Ces arcs très coûteux, moins en raison des matériaux dont ils sont faits que du temps {cinq à dix ans) requis pour leur fabrication étaient des armes assez rares, partant très recherchées, et dont seuls les chefs et peut-être certains tireurs d’élite étaient munis. Ainsi s’expliquerait la rareté de la mention de cet arc d’airain dans la Bible.”

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235

strength. 7 It seems prudent to reject both “bronze or brass bow” and “strong bow, hard to pull bow, or solid bow” as suitable interpretations for ‫קשת נחושה‬. What is then the meaning of ‫?קשת נחושה‬ 4. Dahood interpreted the ‫ קשת נחושה‬of Ps 18:35 as “the miraculous bow,” taking ‫ נחושה‬from ‫ נחש‬in the sense of “practice divination, to charm, enchant,” 8 and translated Who trained my hands for battle Lowered the miraculous bow into my hand.

5. He related it to the episode of the bow (allegedly miraculous) crafted by the artisan god Kothar in the Aqhat legend (2 Aqht v 9–13) for the huntgoddess Anath. In Dahood’s view the concept of the “marvelous bow” of Ps 18:35 = 2Sam 22, however, must be distinguished from the homonymous and much contested “bronze bow” of the passage in Job 20:24. 9 One may well doubt that an alien concept as a “charmed bow” would find such positive billing in this pious Davidic psalm (Deut 18:10, Lev 19:26). 10 One 7 Pinker, A. “The Lord’s Bow in Habakkuk 3,9a.” Bib 84 (2003) 417–420. Pinker suggests that enigmatic ‫ שבעות מטות‬in Hab 3:9a is symbolically the Lord’s composite bow made of seven strips. Such a bow would be an exaggeration of the practical composite bow, which had only a few strips. Since a bronze bow would be utterly impractical it is impossible to accept Barrois’ characterization “L’arc d’airain de IISam., xxii, 35, ou de Job, xx, 24, n’est sans doute qu’une hyperbole poétique sans valeur documentaire” (Barrois, G. A. Manuel d’archéologie biblique II. Paris: A. Picard (1953) 104). 8 Caquot, A. La Divination, I. Paris: Presses universitaires de France (1968) 85 note 1. Caquot says, “the verb ‫ נחש‬is employed for a divination that is not condemned in Gen 44:5, 15 and 1Kgs 20:33; one notes that the scene in Gen 44 happens to an Egyptian, that of 1Kgs 20 to an Aramean.” One may well wonder whether David’s bow had such a function. 9 Dahood, M. Psalms I. AB 16. New York: Doubleday (1966) 115. 10 Tur-Sinai, N. H. Ha-Lashon ve-Haseper, vol II. Jerusalem: Bialik Inst. (1959) 205. Tur-Sinai notes that in Arabic nhus means “luckless, cursed.” He suggests this sense also for the biblical ‫( נחוש‬Gen 30:23, Num 23:23). If this sense were adopted, then ‫ קשת נחושה‬would mean “luckless bow, cursed bow,” rather than “the miraculous bow.” The episode in 2Kgs 13:15–17 is the closest the Hebrew Bible comes to some unusual bow. However, no divination or charm is involved, and it is the arrow that is given a special name. See Barrick, W. Boyd. “Elisha and the magic bow; a note on 2 Kings 13,15–17.” VT 35 (1985) 355–363. Barrick suggests that 2Kgs 13:16 refers to a stringing operation depicted in an Assyrian relief from the mid-7th century BCE. The magico-symbolic element in the episode is the actual bow shot and Elisha’s pronouncement in v. 17b. It is the shot of the bow that has magic potency not the bow itself.

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may also wonder whether ‫קשת נחושה‬, which appears to be a terminus technicus, should be translated entirely differently in essentially two of its only biblical occurrences. 11 Similarly, Driver’s attempt to consider “bow” in Job 20:24 synecdoche for “arrow” should be rejected, since it does not provide a reasonable sense in 2Sam 22:35 = Ps 18:35. 12 Driver’s approach leads him to the strange conclusion that the translation “bow of steel” for ‫קשת‬ ‫ נחושה‬in 2Sam 22:35 = Ps 18:35 “though wrong, at any rate has the merit of making sense.” 13 6. Bruno suggested that ‫ נחושה‬does not mean in Ps 18:35 “copper” but is the Niphal of the root ‫חוש‬, “make haste,” though such a form is not attested in the Hebrew Bible. 14 Bruno’s suggestion is not only alien to Biblical Hebrew, a ‘quick bow’ does not even exist in archery. Tournay and Schwab understand ‫ קשת נחושה‬as referring to a bow that can shoot bronze-tipped arrows (l’arc qui lance la flèche d’airaine). 15 However, there is no evidence that such a distinction between bows existed in those time. Moreover, nowhere in the Hebrew Bible is the material of the arrowhead specified and accordingly the arrow designated, though bronze-tipped arrows existed. Schmuttermayr, suggests deleting ‫ נחושה‬in 2Sam 22:35 = Ps 18:35. This would improve the rhythm and concur with the L-recension of the Septuagint for 2 Samuel. 16 However, Schmuttermayr’s reasons for the Schmuttermayr, G. Psalm 18 und 2 Samuel 22; Studien zu einem Doppeltext. Probleme der Textkritik und Übersetzung und das Psalterium Pianum. München: Kösel-Verlag (1971) 145. Schmuttermayr observes, “Diese Differenzierung wirkt freilich etwas ungewönlich.” 12 Driver, G. R. “Problems in the Hebrew Text of Job.” In VTSup III (1960) 82. Driver says, “I have here rendered ‫‘ קשת‬bow’ by ‘arrow’ for the obvious reason that a bow of brass is an impossible weapon; for brass is neither flexible nor resilient. Only a god’s bow might be auralus ‘gilded’ or aureus ‘golden’, while bows of bronze were but votive offerings or weapons in the hands of statues; these were no ordinary weapons.” 13 Driver (1960) 83 note 5. 14 Bruno, A. Die Psalmen. Eine rhythmische und textkritische Untersuchung. Stockholm (1954) 240. 15 Tournay, R. and Schwab, R. Les Psaumes. JB. Paris (1955) 120. However, in the 3rd edition (1964) they added “Certains arcs avaient d’ailleurs une garniture de métal” (p. 138). 16 Schmuttermayr, 145–146. More recently McCarter revived this approach (McCarter, P. K. II Samuel. AB 9. New York: Doublday (1984) 459–60). The occurrence of the lectio brevior in one recension of the Septuagint and just in 2 Sam is not compelling. Schmuttermayr finds it plausible that the word ‫ נחושה‬is a later addition to the text of 2Sam 22:35 = Ps 18:35 under the influence of Job 20:24. This seems rather unlikely. The term ‫ קשת נחושה‬would then be a hapax legomenon. Why would 11

ON THE MEANING OF ‫קשת נחושה‬

237

deletion are not compelling and the occurrence in Job 20:24 clearly speaks against it. 7. The only possible meaning that has not been suggested for ‫ נחוש‬is “snake-like, serpentine.” The shape formed by a moving snake corresponds admirably to the shape of the wooden body of a double-convex bow. The meaning “snake-like bow” would be quite natural for the double-convex bow in the agricultural society of David’s time. There is ample archeological evidence for rather early use of the double-convex bow. Double-convex bows have been depicted on Egyptian artifacts (cylinder seal, Hunters’ Slate Palette) from the 4th millennium BCE. 17 Keel, in his study of symbolism in the biblical world brings a number of illustrations of the double convex bow. For instance, Pharaoh is instructed by his gods in the use of the double convex bow, 18 the double convex bows of Pharaoh’s enemies are trampled, 19 etc. 8. Because in the “snake-like bow” the cord was very close (almost flush) to the point-of-grip of the bow it allowed full extension of the cordpulling arm and imparting to the arrow great momentum, and consequently great range. 20 Its relatively small size gave much aiming flexibility and convenient portability. However, it was not easy to hold steady the “snake-like bow” when aiming, since the grip was at an apex of a convexity rather then concavity (as in a single arc bow). Consequently, some extra training and guidance (‫[ נחת‬2Sam 22], or the alternative form ‫[ נחתה‬Ps 18]) was required for controlling the “snake-like bow” when it was aimed. The unusual snake-like shape of the bow’s body required finding suitable wood and a any scribe proliferate an unclear term? 17 Yadin, Y. The Art of Warfare in Biblical Lands, in light of archeological discovery. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson (1963) 118–9. 18 Keel, O. The Symbolism of the Biblical World, Ancient Near Eastern Iconography and the Book of Psalms. Grand Rapids; Eisenbrauns (1997) 265. 19 Keel, O. “Der Bogen als Herrschaftssymbol.” In Studien zu den Stempelsiegeln aus Palästina/Israel, Band III Die Fruhe Eizenzeit (eds. Keel, O., Shuval, M. and Uehlinger, C.). OBO 100 (1990) 56. Cf. Schäfer, H. “König Amenophis als Meisterschütz.” OLZ XXXII/4 (1929) col. 233–244; Schäfer, H. “Weiteres zum Bogenschiessen im alten Ägypten.” OLZ XXXIV/2 (1931) col. 89–96; Dürr, L. “Der König als Meister in Bogenschiessen von Gottheit unterrichtet.” OLZ XXXIV/8 (1931) col. 697. 20 Bardi, U. “Reverse Engineering the Bow: A Simple Static Model.” Revised Aug. 2001. www.unifi.it/unifi/surfchem/solid/bardi/archery/ modelingbows/. The performance and ease of shooting a bow is determined to a great degree by the relation of force to elongation (draw length). In all traditional bows this relation is nearly linear. The effective range of a bow is approximately 175 meter, and it is deadly at 50–60 meter. The double-convex bow allowed maximum elongation.

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

process of shaping making the production of such bows expensive. Yadin estimates that the double-convex bow was used in Egypt and Israel for a long time. 21 Eventually the double-convex bow was replaced by the composite bow. It is not clear whether the double-convex bow was used in David’s time. Perhaps the texts in which ‫ קשת נחושה‬occurs are of an earlier period in which the snake-like bow was still used, or this bow was used in David’s day, or it was nostalgically referred to in poetic works. 9. The derivation of ‫“ נחושה‬snake-like” from ‫“ נחש‬snake” finds support in the occurrence of ‫ נחשתן‬for the bronze serpent in 2Kgs 18:4. It has been suggested that ‫ תן = נחשתן‬+ ‫נחש‬, ‫ יתן‬+‫ נחש‬22, or ‫ איתן‬+ ‫ נחש‬23, with ‫“ = נחש‬snake.” Thus the forms ‫ נחוש‬and ‫ נחושה‬from ‫“( נחש‬snake”) would appear possible. 24 Similarly derived forms would be ‫“ אלוף‬tame, cattle-like” (Mic 7:5) from ‫“ אלף‬cattle” (Deut 7:15), or ‫“ ארוז‬cedar-like, strong” (Ez 27:24) from ‫“ ארז‬cedar” (Ez 17:23). 10. Finally, the interpretation of ‫ קשת נחושה‬as “snake-like bow” is contextually meaningful in all of its occurrences in the Hebrew Bible. The texts of 2Sam 22:35 and Ps 18:35 differ only in the archaic ‫ ה‬of ‫( נחתה‬Ps 18:35), and can be treated as being the same. 25 As to the meaning of ‫נחת‬/‫נחתה‬, some find that the Versions support a reading ‫נחת‬/‫ נחתה‬and a meaning similar to it. 26 If no emendations are admitted still the root of ‫נחת‬/‫ נחתה‬is at issue. It has been suggested that its root is ‫“ חתת‬break,” ‫“ נחת‬descend, land,” or ‫“ נוח‬set.” 27 These roots led to the following meanings for ‫נחת‬/‫נחתה‬, “You made” (Septuagint on Ps 18, Vulgate), “seizes, takes hold” (Targum), “strengthens” (Peshitta), “You laid, You lowered” (Ibn Ezra, Ralbag, Young), “is broken” (Septuagint on 2Sam 22, Yadin, Y. “‫נשק‬.” In Encyclopaedia Biblica V. Jerusalem: Bialik Inst. (1968) 951. Brown, F., Driver, S. R. and Briggs, C. A. (BDB). Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament. Peabody: Hendrickson (2001) 639a. 23 Mandelkern, S. Veteris Testamenti, Concordantiae Hebraicae Atque Chaldaicae. Lipsiae: Veit et Com (1896) 739. 24 The linguistic utility of having in Hebrew an adjective derived from ‫= נחש‬ “snake” is highlighted by the fact that in some languages adjectives and verbs are derived from it (English, French, etc.). The New Hebrew word ‫“ = עקלתון‬winding” is derived from a hapax legomenon (Isa 27:1). 25 Schmuttermayr, 141. See also BHS. 26 One manuscript has ‫ חתת‬in 2Sam 22:35 (cf. 1Sam 2:4) and one manuscript has ‫ נחת‬in Ps 18:35. It is it interesting to note that this difference in ‫ ה‬effects the translation of the second hemistich in 2Sam 22:35 = Ps 18:35 by the Septuagint and the Targum, but not the Peshitta and Vulgate. 27 Kiel, Y. Sepher Shmuel II. Jerusalem: Mosad HaRav Kook (1981) 522. Cf. Ibn Ezra on Ps 18:35. 21 22

ON THE MEANING OF ‫קשת נחושה‬

239

Kimchi, KJV, Webster), “can bend” (Rashi, NKJV, NJPS, RSV, NASB, Darby, ASV). 28 BDB note that according to most commentators ‫נחת‬ means “cause to descend = press down.” 29 Unfortunately, neither of the suggested meanings for ‫נחת‬/‫ נחתה‬is an adequate parallel for ‫“ מלמד‬teach, instruct.” Couroyer suggested that ‫נחת‬/‫ נחתה‬refers to the stringing of the cord of the bow, which was a difficult exercise, and that it is a good equivalent of ‫דרך‬. 30 In that case it would be an entirely new meaning for ‫נחת‬/‫ נחתה‬without any etymological support from cognate languages. Reider assumed that ‫נחת‬/‫ נחתה‬is cognate with the Arabic nḥt, whose primary meaning is “to hew, to sculpt, to fashion out of hard material.” 31 Reider finds this expression as very apt, since it emphasizes both the strength and pliability of the arms. Yet one would be hard pressed to find a basis for parallelism between “train” and “fashion,” or a cogent need for “brass arms” in battle. 11. It seems more logical to assume that ‫נחת‬/‫ נחתה‬is the Qal perfect 2 ms. of ‫“ נחה‬lead, guide” (Ex 15:13, Ps 77:21). 32 This assumption requires only a revocalization of the MT yet provides a good parallel to ‫מלמד‬ “teach, instruct” as well as good sense for the hemistich. Because it was difficult to keep steady the “snake-like bow” when aiming, David ascribed his prowess with this bow to God’s guidance, saying “He trains my hands for battle, and guides a snake-like bow [in] my arms.” This sense for ‫נחת‬/‫ נחתה‬may not be altogether that far from what Driver suggested: derive ‫נחת‬/‫ נחתה‬from ‫ נחה‬in the sense of the Arabic naḥa “aim, direct.” 33

28 Schmuttermayr, 140–146. Schmuttermayr enumerates the various meanings that have been assigned to ‫נחת‬/‫ נחתה‬and ‫נחושה‬. 29 BDB, 639. 30 Couroyer, B. “NHT ‘Encorder un Arc’ (?).” RB 88 (1981) 18. 31 Reider, J. “Etymological Studies in Biblical Hebrew,” VT 2 (1952) 114. He translates 2Sam 22:35 = Ps 18:35 “Who trains my hands for war and fashions my arms into bows of brass.” 32 It is possible that the NEB’s translation of ‫נחת‬/‫ נחתה‬by “aim” aims in the same direction. Cf. Driver (1960) 83 note 5. Driver notes that in 2Sam 22:35 = Ps 18:35 the verb is not ‫ נחת‬but ‫ נחה‬with the Qal meaning “led, guided” and the Piel meaning “directed, aimed.” 33 Driver, G. R. “Hebrew Notes.” VT 1 (1951) 248. Driver claims that the meaning “direct” for ‫ נחה‬would also make good sense in Ps 38:3. Emerton notes that Michaelis derived the meaning of ‫ נחה‬from the same Arabic root as Driver, defining it by “contendere ad aliquem, vel virum, vel locum.” In Isa 7:2 Michaelis took ‫ נחה‬as “march.” Cf. Emerton, J. A. “Notes on Jeremiah 12 9.” ZAW 81 (1969) 189.

240

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

12. The understanding of ‫ קשת נחושה‬in Job 20:24 suffered from an incorrectly perceived synonymous parallelism in which ‫חרבי ׀׀ תחלפהו‬, ‫נשק ׀׀ קשת‬, and ‫נחושה ׀׀ ברזל‬. This parallelism convinced commentators that ‫ נחושה‬must be a metal (bronze or brass). However, while ‫קשת ׀׀ נשק‬ is a relation of likes (weapons and weapon(s)), ‫ חרבי ׀׀ תחלפהו‬is a relation of likes only in sharing the sense “go through.” 34 The two are, however, opposites with respect to where the “going through” takes place. In the case of it is near-by, while in the case of it is at a distance. 35 Consequently, the relation ‫ ׀׀‬is not uniform for the paired elements. To restore uniformity in the parallelism it is necessary to view it as consisting of an antithetic parallelism in which ‫ חרבי ׀׀ תחלפהו‬and (‫)נשק ברזל( ׀׀ )קשת נחושה‬. In the relation (‫ )נשק ברזל( ׀׀ )קשת נחושה‬short-range weapons (containing metals) are related to long-range weapons (not containing metals). The conclusion from Job 20:24 must be that ‫ קשת נחושה‬was a far-reaching weapon, as the “snake-like bow” with its arrows was. The verse is telling that anyone who will escape the metal weapons (axes, maces, swords, etc.) of close quarters combat, would be pierced through by the long-range weapons as the snake-like bow. Zophar the Naamathite describes the effectiveness of God’s anger in standard military terms “fleeing from metal (close quarters) weapons he is pierced by [an arrow of] a snake–like bow (long range weapon).” 36 In this interpretation it is assumed that the phrase “[an arrow of]” is an ellipsis (cf. Isa 41:2).

Tur-Sinai, 121–2, note 27. Tur-Sinai suggests the reading ‫“ תפלחהו‬cleave him” (Job 39:3), resulting from a metathesis of ‫ ל‬and ‫פ‬. This would seem an inappropriate term for the action of an arrow. Indeed, it can be conjectured that the author intentionally selected ‫ תחלפהו‬to indicate both the reach and effect of the arrow with respect to the escapees. Apparently, ‫ יברח‬is also intended to suggest both wounding by sword and escape. Consequently, the MT should be retained without any change of meaning (cf. Jud 5:26). 35 Driver (1960), 81. Driver says, “In verse 24 ‘he shell flee’ is not parallel to ‘it shall strike him through’ and cannot be right; the context suggests that ‫‘ יברח‬he shall flee’ ought to be vocalized yubraḥ ‘he shall be wounded’ on the assumption of a Heb. bāraḥ ’wounded’ = Arab. baraha ‘bruised’, whence barhu(n) ‘blow of a sword’ ¯ ¯ is derived.” 36 Pope, LII. Pope says, “It is difficult to find a clear case of antithetic parallelism in the Book of Job. Certainly iii 3 is not to be classed as such (so Terrien, S. The Book of Job. Introduction and Exegesis. IB III (1954) 894a), since no contrast is intended between the day of birth and the night of conception-both alike are damned.” Perhaps Job 20:24 is such a case. 34

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241

13. In conclusion, interpreting the technical military term ‫ קשת נחושה‬as “snake-like bow” provides a contextually meaningful and uniform sense for its occurrences in the Hebrew Bible. 37

37 I am grateful to Rabbi A. Haramati and Prof. S. Shneider for their helpful comments.

TRACING THE ORIGIN OF THE SABBATICAL CALENDAR IN THE PRIESTLY NARRATIVE (GENESIS 1 TO JOSHUA 5) PHILIPPE GUILLAUME

NEAR EAST SCHOOL OF THEOLOGY, BEIRUT 1.

INTRODUCTION

The Old Testament is replete with dates, 1 and its readers have calculated the date of many biblical events, even the date of the creation of the world. 2 This has led theologians to exalt the biblical commitment to historical time against mythological cycles, and the/a “history of salvation” against mythological nature religions. Of course this is folly; time reckoning does not turn mythology into historical reports. The biblical chronological data (at least in the Torah) have a different raison d’être. They are highly symbolic and are meant to be read so. However, it is difficult to make sense of these numbers, due to the sheer amount of data and to several complicating factors. The writing of biblical texts from beginning to their final, canonized form is spread over ten centuries. During this time, groups with diverging theologies and political agendas introduced competing calendars. They left us with three main chronological systems representing three main centres of biblical production: Alexandria’s Septuagint (LXX), Jerusalem’s Masoretic text (MT) and Samaria’s Pentateuch (SP). In a fascinating study, Jeremy Northcote identifies eight revisions of an original Progenitor chronology. 3 However, this original chronology is established from the onset by choosing the lowest available figures, a rather simplistic criterion for identifying the oldG. Larsson, The Secret System (Leiden: Brill, 1973), pp. 103–119 tabulates 300 entries between Genesis 1 and Ezra 3. 2 On 3761 BCE according to the modern Jewish calendar, or 5200 BCE (Eusebius of Caesarea) or 4004 BCE at 6 pm according to Archbishop James Ussher. 3 J. Northcote, “The Schematic Development of Old Testament Chronography: Towards an Integrated Model”, JSOT 29 (2004), pp. 3–36, based on the Progenitor chronology of A. Jepsen, “Zur Chronologie des Priesterkodex”, ZAW 47 (1929), pp. 252–255. 1

243

244

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

est chronological system of the Pentateuch that is likely to vitiate all subsequent attempts to understand its modifications. To unlock the chronologies of the Pentateuch, three keys are used here: the Sabbatical calendar, the Priestly Document and the latter’s overall weekly structure. At this point, a word of caution is due. The reader should realize that these keys are largely based on minority views regarding the nature, length and date of the Priestly document, and the origin of the seventh-day Shabbat. Since new advances are only possible when treading new ground, with all the dangers involved, the results of this enquiry are speculative, which is not necessarily something new in biblical studies. The following is a contribution to the debate over calendars in the Hebrew Bible, a debate that “has merely begun”. 4

2.

FIRST KEY: THE SABBATICAL CALENDAR

The Jewish apocryphal books of Jubilees (6:28–32.38) and of Enoch (1 Enoch 72–82) fervently uphold the value of a non-Babylonian way of reckoning time commonly referred to as the Jubilee or Sabbatical calendar. 5 This calendar is based on a 364-day year made up of 52 whole weeks and thus fixes the relationship of the days of the month with the days of the week. Every year every Sabbath falls on the same date; this was precisely the purpose of such a calendar. Its use is also reflected in the Pentateuch, Ezekiel, Haggai, Zechariah, Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah. 6 The travels of the Patriarchs are planned to respect the seventh-day rest and during their exodus the children of Israel do not start off or arrive on a Sabbath day (Exod. 12:31; 16:1). 7 Since some texts found in the caves near Qumran use this calendar, the Sabbatical calendar is viewed as an impractical invention of peripheral sectarian groups. 8 4 M. G. Abegg Jr., “The Calendar at Qumran”, in J. Neusner & A. J. AveryPeck (eds), Judaism in Late Antiquity. Part five: The Judaism of Qumran: A Systemic Reading of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Vol. 1: Theory of Israel (Leiden: Brill, 2001), pp. 145–171 (147). 5 J. Finegan, Handbook of Biblical Chronology (Princeton: University Press, 1964), pp. 49–57. 6 A. Jaubert, La date de la cène (Paris: Gabalda, 1957), pp. 32–38. 7 See Jaubert, Date, 32–33. 8 J. C. Vanderkam, “The Origin, Character, and Early History of the 364-Day Calendar: A Reassessment of Jaubert’s Hypotheses’, CBQ 41 (1979), pp. 390–411 = VanderKam, From Revelation to Canon. Studies in the Hebrew Bible and Second Temple Literature (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2000), pp. 81–104 (97 n. 55); Abegg, “Calendar at Qumran”, 150. The following Qumran texts reflect the 364-day calendar: 1Q32; 1Q34; 4QMMT; 4QShirShabb; 4Q252 frag. 1ii.3; 4Q317–30; 4Q319–336; 4Q365;

TRACING THE ORIGIN OF THE SABBATICAL CALENDAR

245

However, Uwe Gleßmer has shown that this calendar was almost as precise as ours with its 365.25 days per average year. The addition of one whole week every 6-year cycle, plus an extra week every 84 years yields an average year of 365.2068 days. This is 51 minutes short of the exact solar year (365.2422 days). 9 The aim here is limited to determining the origin of this calendar, rather than its practical use. James VanderKam suggests that the 364-day calendar was in use in Jerusalem ‘during the early centuries of the second temple’. 10 Before we can be in a position to decide whether or not it was actually used in Jerusalem during the Persian period, we need to find evidence of its theoretical existence. To do so, I look to the original Priestly Narrative. The following section attempts to prove that the notion of a 364day calendar already existed at the beginning of the Persian rule over Palestine, because it was used as the framework of the original Priestly Narrative.

3.

SECOND KEY: THE PRIESTLY DOCUMENT

Although not everyone agrees, I consider the Priestly Document (Pg = Priesterschrift Grundschicht) as a consistent narrative, rather than a late redaction layer, 11 its date being widely agreed upon (late 6th century BCE). Priestly 4Q559; 6Q17; 11QTemple; 11QPsa Dav Comp 27.6; cf. S. Talmon, “Calendars and Mishmarot”, in L. H. Schiffman & J. C. VanderKam (eds), Encyclopedia of the Dead Sea Scrolls (Oxford: University Press, 2000), vol. 1 pp. 108–117; T. H. Lim, “The Chronology of the Flood Story in a Qumran Text (4Q252)”, JJS 43 (1992), pp. 288–298. 9 U. Gleßmer, “Der 364-Tage Kalendar und die Sabbatstruktur seiner Schaltungen in ihrer Bedeutung für den Kult”, in D. R. Daniels, U. Gleßmer & M. Rösel (eds), Ernten was man sät. FS für K. Koch (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verl., 1991), pp. 379–398. U. Gleßmer, “Horizontal Measuring in the Babylonian Astronomical Compendium MUL.APIN and in the Astronomical Book of 1En’, Henoch 18 (1996), pp. 259–282. U. Gleßmer, “The otot-Texts (4Q319) and the Problem of Intercalations in the Context of the 364-day Calendar”, in H.-J. Fabry, A. Lange & H. Lichtenberger (eds), Qumranstudien, Vorträge und Beiträge der Teilnehmer des Qumranseminars auf den Internationalen Treffen des Society for Biblical Literature, Münster, 25.–26. Juli 1993 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996), pp. 125–164; U. Gleßmer, “Calendars in the Qumran Scrolls”, in P. Flint & J. VanderKam (eds), The Dead sea Scrolls after Fifty Years: a Comprehensive Assessment (Leiden: Brill, 1999), pp. 213–278. 10 VanderKam, “Origin”, 103. This hypothesis is at least a century old: B. W. Bacon, “Calendar of Enoch and Jubilees” Hebraica 8 (1891–92), pp. 79–88 (124– 131). See bibliography in Vanderkam, “Origin”, notes 9–10. 11 J. L. Ska, “De la relative indépendance de l’écrit sacerdotal”, Bib 76 (1995), pp. 396–415. W. H. C. Propp, “The Priestly Source Recovered Intact?”, VT 46

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

texts are easily recognized thanks to a very particular vocabulary and well defined theological categories, thus providing a fairly reliable textual corpus. 12 Pg also presents a large amount of chronological data that may represent the original framework and chronology of the Pentateuch. 13 Despite such promising data, the meaning of Pg’s chronology remains a mystery; studies either avoid it completely, or focus on particular segments like the Flood chronology or on the final form of the biblical text from Creation to Hanukkah. 14 Although Pg opens with a magnificent celebration of the seven-day week (Genesis 1), it has not yet been studied from the point of view of calendars. This text was written at the onset of Persian dominion over Palestine, either before or just after the first Persian conquest of Egypt (525— 522 BCE) 15 to celebrate the restoration of the Yhwh cult in Jerusalem (520 BCE). 16 Among the three hypotheses concerning the scope of Pg, I favour the long version that spans from Genesis to Joshua. 17 That is, from creation to the first Passover in the land, the end of manna (Josh. 5:10–12) and the setting of the tent of meeting at Shiloh (Josh. 18:1). Pg provides a comprehensive presentation of the Hebrews’ origin and the celebration of the beginning of a new era in Palestine: the transfer to Persian rule. In this context, Pg marks the end of Babylonian hegemony that led to the destruction of Jerusalem 70 years earlier, with the subsequent devasta(1996), vol. 2 pp. 458–478. 12 See list of verses in N. Lohfink, “The Priestly Narrative and History”, in Theology of the Pentateuch (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1994), p. 145 n. 29. 13 E. A. Knauf, “Die Priesterschrift und die Geschichten die Deuteronomisten” in T. Römer (ed.) The Future of the Deuteronomistic History (Leuven: University Press, 2000), pp. 101–118 (111 n. 45). 14 Bibliography in Northcote, “Development”, 33–36. 15 A. de Pury, “Der Priesterschriftliche Umgang mit der Jakobsgeschichte”, in R. G. Kratz, Th. Krüger & K. Schmid (eds), Schriftauslegung in der Schrift (Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 2000), pp. 33–60 (39); P. Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1996), pp. 67–69. 16 E. A. Knauf, “Der Exodus zwischen Mythos und Geschichte: Zur priesterschriftlichen Rezeption der Schilfmeer-Geschichte in Ex 14”, in R. G. Kratz, Th. Krüger & K. Schmid (eds), Schriftauslegung in der Schrift. Festschrift für Odil Hannes Steck zu seinem 65. Geburtstag (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2000), pp. 73–84. 17 N. Lohfink, Les traditions du Pentateuque autour de l’exil (Paris: Cerf, 1996); Knauf, “Priesterschrift”, 101–118. Others consider that the original document ended with the setting up of the tabernacle (Exodus 40): Th. Pola, Die urspruengliche Priesterschrift (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1995); de Pury, “Umgang”, 39; or at Moses’ death (Exodus 34): E. Zenger et al., Einleitung in das Alte Testament, (Stuttgart: Kohlhamer, 21996).

TRACING THE ORIGIN OF THE SABBATICAL CALENDAR

247

tion of the whole of the area south and west of Jerusalem down to the Egyptian border, the transfer of this no-man’s land to Edomite herders and the set up of a new administrative centre at Mizpah (Jeremiah 40). 18 The pro-Babylonians at Mizpah, the clergy at the ancient temple of Bethel and the whole of the Benjaminite population that remained in the area after the destruction of Jerusalem were far from enthusiastic about Persian rule, even less with the prospect of the massive return of deportees from Babylonia (a threat that did not materialize) and the possible rebuilding of the Jerusalem temple. However, a small group of Babylonian Jews secured official Persian backing to revive the Jerusalem cult, probably presented as a local form of the worship of the creator God. Pg was composed in this context and the notion that a new calendar would have been introduced at the same time does not seem extravagant. It would phase out the Babylonian lunar calendar and celebrate the demise of the Babylonians alongside the reconstruction of a Judaean political entity based in Jerusalem rather than at Mizpah. In spite of some similarities with Mesopotamian calendars, 19 the seven-day week of Genesis 1 bears striking parallels to the Zoroastrian calendar with its four monthly weeks with four days (1st, 8th, 15th and 23rd days of every month) dedicated to the Creator Dadvah Ahura Mazda. 20 Here, it becomes difficult to go any further since the date of (the origin of) the Zoroastrian calendar is not established. Mary Boyce understands the parallel with Genesis 1 as the influence of the Semitic week on the Zoroastrian calendar. 21 However, the typical “Semitic” week as it is attested in the older biblical strata divided the month in two parts, between the full and the new moon. On the basis of the modest influence of Jews within the Persian empire and the very favourable depiction of Cyrus in biblical literature (Isaiah 40—45), it is more likely that the direction of influence goes in the opposite direction, from the Zoroastrian calendar to the seventh day Shabbat of Genesis 1. 22 18 O. Lipschits, “The History of the Benjamin Region under Babylonian Rule”, TA 26 (1999), pp. 155–190. 19 In the seventh century BCE, Babylon reformed the Ashur hemerologies that counted nine unlucky days every month by reducing their number to the 7th, 14th, 19th, 21st and 28th days: R. Labat, Nouveaux textes hémérologiques d’Assur (Paris: 1957), pp. 306–307; E. Puech, “Requête d’un moissonneur du sud-judéen à la fin du VIIème siècle av. J.-C.”, RB 110 (2003), pp. 5–16 (note 19). 20 A. Panaino, “Calendars I: Pre-Islamic”, in E. Yarshater (ed.), Encyclopaedia Iranica (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1990), vol. IV pp. 658–668 (661). 21 M. Boyce, Zoroastrians, their Religious Beliefs and Practices (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 31985), p. 71. 22 See A. Lemaire, “Le Sabbat à l’époque royale israélite”, RB 80 (1973), pp.

248

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Another related problem arises, that of the religion of the first Persian rulers. Were the Achaemenids Mazdaeans? There is no evidence of it for Cyrus, 23 and it is more likely in Cambyses’ case: his mother was a Persian and the name of his sister Atossa appears to be the earliest trace of Zoroastrian influence among the early Achaemenids. 24 However, this does not prove that Cambyses used the Zoroastrian calendar. The evidence shows that Cambyses’ administration used the Late Babylonian luni-solar calendar, stabilized by an octaeteris (three months intercalated during an 8-year cycle) in 527 BCE. 25 More Zoroastrian input is likely during the reign of Darius I. 26 In any case, a Zoroastrian model may have inspired Jews from the Babylonian Diaspora, whether or not the Achaemenid rulers worshipped Ahura Mazda. The early Persian period remains a convincing backdrop for the design of a new cultic calendar marking the end of the Babylonian rule, so showing loyalty to the Persian benefactors, while the administration of the empire carried on using the Babylonian calendar. Although history provides no confirmation on this point, the early Persian period remains the most likely moment to introduce a new calendar in Jerusalem, a calendar independent of astral recurrent phenomena apart from the rising and setting of the sun, 27 a calendar that avoids the lunar cycle in favour of celebrating the Creator Ahura Mazda under the name of its local manifestation, Yhwh. The new calendar is embedded in a narrative (Pg) presenting the mythological origins of Israel from Creation to Israel’s entry into the land of Canaan. Within this narrative, secondary additions are easily recognizable. Its overall structure is built around numerous chronological mile161–185; J. M. Sasson, “Time… to Begin”, in M. Fishbane (ed.), “Sha’arei Talmon”: Studies in the Bible, Qumran, and the Ancient Near East (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1992), pp. 183–194. 23 Briant, Cyrus to Alexander, 105–106. 24 M. Waters, “Cyrus & the Achaemenids”, Iran 42 (2004), pp. 91–102 (99); M. Boyce, History of Zoroastrianism (Leiden: Brill, 1982) II.41. 25 A second reform was introduced by Darius I in 503 BCE, consisting of seven intercalary years in a 19-year period: G. R. F. Assar, “Parthian Calendars at Babylon and Seleucia on the Tigris”, Iran 41 (2003), pp. 171–191 (171). 26 J. Bremmer, “Canonical and Alternative Creation Myths in Ancient Greece” in G. H. van Kooten (ed.), The Creation of Heaven and Earth. Re-interpretations of Genesis 1 in the Context of Judaism, Ancient Philosophy, Christianity, and Modern Physics (Leiden: Brill, 2005), pp. 73–96 argues that Genesis 1:1 should be seen as a reaction to Darius’ statements about Ahuramazda as the creator of heaven and earth in Persian inscriptions from the end of the sixth century BCE. 27 J. M. Sasson, “Origins and Media. Creation Narratives in Ancient Israel and in Mesopotamia”, in L. J. Bord & P. Skubiszewski (eds), La création, liberté de Dieu, liberté de l’homme (Paris: Cariscript, 2001).

TRACING THE ORIGIN OF THE SABBATICAL CALENDAR

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stones, from the days of creation, the ages of ancestors, dates of the flood, Abraham’s migrations, the Exodus and Israel’s wanderings in the desert until their arrival in the Promised Land. 28 But so far the attempts to make sense of Pg’s chronology have not gained much acceptance, due to the lack of reliable criteria to sort out the Samaritan, Greek and Hebrew data, and because the wrong calendars have been used: previous studies all use solar and luni-solar categories.

4.

THIRD KEY: THE PRIESTLY NARRATIVE AS A WEEK OF SEVEN ERAS

Reflecting Pg’s marked penchant for heptads, 29 the whole extent of Pg from Creation to the settlement in the Promised Land can be divided into seven eras. This system of eras is based on a sequence of creation periods the lengths of which are reckoned in sevens and multiples of seven, followed by periods of purifying destructions. 30 There the number six and its multiples are the basic unit. The duration of each of these seven eras is designed to reveal key elements of the Jubilee calendar and its intercalation method, as indicated in the following table:

44 chronological indications: Gen. 1:14; 2:1; 7:6.11.12.17; 8:4.5.13.14; 11:10.26.32; 12:4; 16:3.16; 17:1; 21:5; 23:1; 25:7.17.20.26; 26:34; 35:28; 47:28; Exod. 7:7; 12:40; 16:1; 19:1; 24:16.18; 40:17; Lev. 9:1; Num. 1:1; 10:11; 13:25; 20:1.29; Deut. 1:3; 34:7; Josh. 4:19; 5:10.11. For a slightly different list see S. E. McEvenue, The Narrative Style of the Priestly Writer (Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1971). 29 W. H. C. Propp, Exodus 1–18 (New York, Doubleday, 1998), p. 315. 30 R. S. Kawashima, ‘The Jubilee Year and the Return of Cosmic Purity’, CBQ 65 (2003), pp. 370–389. 28

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

1 Creation Gen 1:1–2:4

2 Violence Gen.5:1– 6:10

7 days

600,000 days +6 years+ 6 months + 6 weeks + 59 days Creation to Flood

Cosmogony

Week

Time goes too fast

3 4 Re-creation Exiles Gen. 9:1–11:31 Gen. 6:11– 8:19 7 months 365 years

5 6 Exodus Wandering Gen Ex. 12:40 12:1– Josh. 4:19 Ex40:35 14 Jubi3 days short lees of 40 years minus 40 years

Resting of the ark to its opening 1 season = 91 days

Haran to Glory filling the tent Jubilee

Arphaxad’s birth to departure from Haran 1 week intercalated every sabbatical year

Sea to Jordan

7 Shabbat Josh. 18:1 For ever?

In the land

1 week interca-lated every fifth sabbatical year

These keys provide a set of criteria to test Pg’s chronological system and variant readings.

4.1

DAY 1: CREATION, THE FIRST WEEK

The basic unit of the calendar is spelled out: the seven-day week rendered sacred by its attribution to God. The Sabbatical calendar is the only truly perpetual calendar. Since its years are always made up of whole weeks, all festivals are set once for all within the week; such a perfect regularity thus avoids the kind of calendar chaos that requires moving the date of festivals so that the days of preparation of the Passover do not fall on the Shabbat. The rejection of the monthly unit is clearly marked by the absence of months in Gen. 1:14 and the absence of Babylonian month names in Pg. 31 Although the moon is created like the sun and the stars and it is accepted as one of the providers of signs, 32 in fact it plays no role in determining months, which are instead based on a purely mathematical count (3 x 30 + 1 days). This likely reflects Persian propaganda. After defeating the last As noted by F. H. Cryer, “The Interrelationships of Gn 5:32; 11:10–11 & the Chronology of the Flood (Gen. 6–9)”, Bib 66 (1985), p. 241–261 (248). It is not impossible that Pg also introduced the numerical naming of months. Although they do not suggest it, see D. & Z. Talshir, “The Double Month Naming in Late Biblical Books: a New Clue for Dating Esther”, VT 54 (2004), pp. 549–555. 32 Not necessarily calendar signs but omens and portents for coming events: E. Tigchelaar, “‘Lights Serving as Signs for Festivals’ (Genesis 1:14b) in Enūma Eliš and Early Judaism”, in G. H. van Kooten (ed.), The Creation of Heaven and Earth. Reinterpretations of Genesis 1 in the Context of Judaism, Ancient Philosophy, Christianity, and Modern Physics (Leiden: Brill, 2005), pp. 31–48. 31

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Neo-Babylonian king (539 BCE), Cyrus claimed that he was sent by Marduk, Babylon’s main divinity, to put an end to the heresy of Nabonidus. Cyrus gained the support of the Babylon clergy by interpreting Nabonidus’ building activities at Harran, the sanctuary of the moon-God Sîn, as the proof of his incompetence and the reason for his downfall. 33 Rejecting Sîn also involved an etymological feat: the presentation of the Sabbath as a day of rest on the seventh day is in itself a major innovation compared to the Babylonian system based on lunar months: the new moon marked the beginning of the month and the full moon its middle. Each month was thus made of two weeks (new to full moon and full to new moon), the full moon bearing the Akkadian name shapatum from the root shaba‘ “to be full” and not from sebet “seven”. The Hebrew term shabbat cannot derive from the root that provides the word sheba‘ “seven” because the transformation of the ayin into taw is impossible. The Hebrew Shabbat is thus directly borrowed from the Akkadian shabatum “full moon” since Akkadian regularly drops guttural letters, in this case the ayin. The Priestly writer(s) who composed Genesis 1 then transformed the Babylonian sabbath of the full moon into the seventh day. Such transformation could have been facilitated by the fact that the Babylonian Pleiades, the sibitti are pictured as seven dots. 34 Since the point of Genesis 1 is not teaching how the world was created but that the Sabbath is now a day of rest set on the seventh day, it is likely that the transformation of the Shabbat from the full moon to the seventh day was worked out by the writers of Genesis 1. The subsequent Hebrew, Syriac and Arabic meanings ‘to rest’ all derive from this theological transformation carried out in Genesis 1 and Exodus 16 (the manna story). As such, it has no etymological basis. 35

4.2

DAY 2: ANTEDILUVIAN ERA

This period is marked by long life-spans and increasing violence (Gen. 6:11) exemplified by the names of the last ancestors of the list. 36 The Flood begins when the rain started (Gen. 7: 11) on 17 II 1307 (SP), 1656 (MT) or 2262 (LXX). I choose MT’s date since it is the only one that makes sense within the framework of the criteria I selected. From creation to the 17th of W. W. Hallo, The Context of Scripture (Leiden: Brill, 2000), pp. 313–316. J. Black & A. Green, Art. “Seven Dots”, in Gods, Demons and Symbols of Ancient Mesopotamia—An Illustrated Dictionary (London: British Museum Press, 1992), p. 162. 35 Exod. 16:3 plays with the alliteration yashab “to sit” and saba‘ “to be full” to provide another (fake) etymology for the Shabbat. 36 Genesis 5: Little smith (Kenan), Renders God mad (Mahalel), Going down (Jared), Spear thrower (Methuselah), Sword (Lamech). 33 34

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

the second month 1656, there is a total amount of 602,467 days: (1655 x 364) + 30 (month I of year 1656) + 17 (in month II). It is one day short of 600,000 days + 6 years + 6 months + 6 weeks + 60 days: 600,000 + 2,184 (6 x 364) + 182 (30 +30 + 31 + 30 + 30 +31) + 42 (6 x 7) + 60 = 602,468 days. Symbolically, this indicates that the flood resulted in the complete destruction of all creatures except one family (Gen. 6:19), since number six has destructive value. This sum can only be reached with the Sabbatical calendar. There is no intercalation and for this reason years are too short. Consequently, people age too quickly. Hence violence prevails during the antediluvian era that Pg presents as the reason for the Flood (Gen. 6:11): violence against the sacred rhythm of time made explicit in Jubilees 6:32–38. High longevity underlines the need for intercalation. One can argue that the week of creation should be subtracted from year 1 since it is already counted as a separate period. According to the Sabbatical calendar, New Year’s Day is always on Wednesday (day four) because God created the calendar on the fourth day of creation when he created the heavenly luminaries. Thus, three days should be removed from year 1 yielding a total of 602,464 days. In this case, the four days missing symbolize Noah and his three sons who did not perish in the Flood.

4.3

DAY 3: RE-CREATION

Contrary to all previous studies of the Flood chronology, I have been led to consider the actual period when the earth was flooded as a time gap, which in fact is clearly indicated by an oddity that has defied the sagacity of exegetes: 37 Noah is 600 years old when the Flood is on the land (Gen. 7:6), he lives 350 years after the Flood and dies at age 950 (Gen. 9:28–29). The period of actual flooding does not count. This solves the crux of Shem’s age when he fathers Arphaxad “two years after the Flood” (Gen. 11:10). He is said to be 100 years old, but two years after the flood Shem should be 102 since Noah fathered him and his two brothers 38 when he was 500 (Gen. 5:32) and the flood came when Noah was 600 years old (Gen. 7:6). If the Flood is a time gap and a suspension of the calendar due to a return to chaos, Shem and Noah did not age during their stay in the ark. Shem is 100 Cryer, “Interrelationships”, (248) considers that Shem was born at some point after Noah’s 500th year. K. Stenring, The Enclosed Garden (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1966), p. 89 explains that the 2-year difference indicates the use of different calendars. 38 LXX solves the problem by considering Japhet as the older brother in Gen. 10:21: G. Larsson, “The Chronology of the Pentateuch: a Comparison of the MT and LXX”, JBL 102 (1983), pp. 401–409 (405). 37

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years old before and after the Flood. The missing two years represent the approximate duration of the Flood as it spans from the second month (Gen. 7:11) to the seventh month (Gen. 8:4) of the following year (Gen. 8:13). Indicating that Shem is still 100 years old after the Flood, Pg insists that the flooding period represents a time gap not reckoned by the calendar. 39 This is consistent with P’s theology that considers the Flood as a return to the chaotic tohu wabohu before creation. Thus this period does not start at the beginning of the Flood but at the end. Mirroring the creation week, it takes exactly seven months between the “resting” of the ark on Mount Ararat and its opening (27 II to 27 VII) if LXX’s 27 VII is chosen against MT’s 17 VII in Gen. 8:4. 40 The choice of LXX against MT is of course in contradiction to the previous section where MT’s Flood date was preferred to LXX’s. However, the fact that the seven months thus achieved mirror the seven days of Genesis 1 is too striking to be dismissed for the sake of consistency. Both LXX and MT have been subjected to revisions and I do not believe that one should be preferred against the other in principle. On the contrary, the recovery of a meaningful system of dates can only be achieved by remaining flexible. I thus feel justified to select the LXX dates when they fit the hypothesis I am trying to demonstrate, even if this inevitably smacks of circular reasoning. However, this 10-day difference between LXX and MT can easily be explained as resulting from the introduction of a 360-day calendar year with all 30-day months (5 months = 150 days), probably during the Ptolemaic domination of Palestine (320—200 BCE). The LXX would have been translated into Greek before this change and it thus retained the older reading. The LXX’s dates delineate the month-system of the Sabbatical calendar with its 30-day months except for months III, VI, IX and XII that have 31 days. This month system and the 40 days of rain before the actual flooding yields a sum of 36 full weeks or 6 x 6 x 7 days. 41 Days Gen. 7:11

Flood starts

Gen. 7:12

Rain

040

Gen. 7:17

Ark afloat

000

Dates 17/II Sunday Time gap

Calendar gap

For a similar phenomenon see F. Bovon, “The Suspension of Time in Chapter 18 of Protoevangelium Jacobi”, in F. Bovon, Studies in Early Christianity (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1991/2003), pp. 226–237. 40 S. Najm & Ph. Guillaume, “Jubilee Calendar Rescued from the Flood”, JHS 5 (2004), available at http://www.jhsonline.org, 41 To get this count, I integrate the 40 days of rain as the beginning of the Flood (Gen. 7:12) into Pg, contra Lohfink, “Priestly Narrative”. 39

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Gen. 8:4

Ark rests

Gen. 8:13

Ark uncovered

Gen. 8:14

Ark opened

Total

Days

Dates

156 = 3+30+31+60+31+1

27/VII (LXX) Monday 1/I Wednesday

056 = 29 + 27 = 8 x 7

27/II Wednesday

252 = 36 x 7

Symbolically, the destructive power of the six is softened by the seven.

4.4

DAY 4: POSTDILUVIAN ERA: ORPHANS, BARREN WOMEN AND EXILES

The Postdiluvian era spans from the begetting of Arphaxad to Abram’s 75th year when he left Haran (Gen. 12:4). It is marked by a sharp reduction of life-span ending with dislocation—the need to move out of one own land—in sharp contrast to the one people/one land principle featured by the table of nations (Genesis 9). Sarai is the first attested barren woman 42 and Lot is the first orphan (Gen. 11:28). Thus Terah moves out of Ur of the Chaldeans after the death of his son and goes to Haran with his childless son Abram and his orphaned grandson Lot. Then Abram and Lot leave for Canaan without Terah. According to MT and LXX, Terah dies at age 205, remaining on his own in Haran for 60 years, thus underlining the negative aspect of the period, in sharp distinction from the next era inaugurated by Abram’s departure. SP is clearly a lectio facilior since it has Abram leave when Terah died at age 145 but eliminates the extra 60 years, thus missing their symbolic value. 43 This time only whole years are counted since there is no mention of days and months. Adding the begetting ages of the Postdiluvian ancestors, from Arphaxad to Terah, plus Abram’s 75 years gives the length of this period: 35 + 30 + 34 + 30 + 32 + 30 + 29 + 70 + 75 = 365 years. These 365 years either contradict the notion that Pg is using the 364day calendar or reveal that one week is intercalated every seven years. The intercalation on the sabbatical year yields an average year of 365 days while the calendar remains based on a 364-day calendar year. Intercalating a whole week at the time does not interfere with the sacred succession of the Sabbaths and thus does not modify the principle of the calendar. These 365 years are also Enoch’s life span (Gen. 5:23), and his very positive presentation (he walked with God and did not die) makes him Verse 30 may be post-P: E. A. Knauf, “Supplementa Ismaelitica 17. ‫אין לה‬ ‫ ולד‬Gen. 11,30 18”, BN 86 (1997), pp. 49–50; but Sarai’s barrenness is nevertheless implied in v. 31. 43 Why Acts 7:4 follows SP rather than LXX remains to be explained. Is Stephen a Samaritan? 42

TRACING THE ORIGIN OF THE SABBATICAL CALENDAR

255

stand out within the list of antediluvian ancestors. The Book of Astronomical Writings, one of the works defending the validity of the Sabbatical calendar was attributed to Enoch (1 Enoch 82:1). However, the book of Jubilees only attributes to Enoch the invention of the art of writing (Jub. 4:17), and not the calendar. Jubilees disputes Enoch’s contribution to the calendar precisely because Enoch’s role in Pg is to introduce intercalation!

4.5

DAY 5: EXODIC ERA

Again, this era is calculated in full years, starting with Terah’s death in Haran, a highly symbolic event since Haran was the location of the sanctuary of Sîn, the Assyro-Babylonian Moon-god, to whom Nabonidus the last Neo-Babylonian king was very devoted. 44 Terah’s death in such a highly meaningful place underlines the rejection of the lunar calendar already attested in Gen. 1:14 by the absence of months. Then, Yhwh appears for the first time in Pg to spur Abram’s departure for Canaan at age 75. This new era spans the patriarchal period until the Exodus out of Egypt and the setting up of the tabernacle in the desert: Abraham begets Isaac at 100 (Gen. 21:5), 25 years after leaving Haran (Gen. 12:4) Isaac begets Esau and Jacob at 60 (Gen. 25:26) Jacob enters Egypt at 130 (he died at 147 and stayed 17 years in Egypt Gen. 47:28) The Israelites stayed 430 years in Egypt (Exod. 12:40) 45 The glory fills the tabernacle on 1 I of year 2 after crossing the sea (Exod. 40:34) Total

025 060 130 430 001 646

There are thus 646 years between Haran and the glory of the Lord filling the tabernacle. 46 646 years are 40 years short of 14 jubilees (14 x 49 = 686). These 40 years represent the duration of the last purification effected by the death of the exodus generation that slandered the Promised Land (Num. 12:32). The meaning of these 40 years is delineated in the next era.

4.6

DAY 6: WILDERNESS

Having slandered the good land given by Yhwh, the people need to undergo a last purification: the entire generation that came out of Egypt (600,000 men) will die in the wilderness (Num. 14:2.28–29). The exact duration of the purification, from the return of the scouts to the crossing of the Jordan is impossible to calculate since the day of their sending off is missing

See Hallo, Context of Scripture, 2.310–314. Again, I follow MT. SP and LXX include within these 430 years the sojourn of the patriarchs in Canaan: LXXB = 435. 46 This period is framed by the first two mentions of Yhwh’s name (Gen. 12:1; Exod. 40:34) which will be fully revealed only to Moses (Exod. 6:2–3). 44 45

256

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

and the length of the journey from Sinai to Paran is not mentioned (Num. 10:12; 12:16b). 47 Although the wilderness period is often stated to be forty years (Exod. 16:35; Num. 14: 33–34; 32:13; Deut. 2:7; 8:2–3; 29:5; Josh. 5:6) it was actually about 3 days short of 40 years. 48 These 3 days must be accounted for. I suggest that they correspond to the lag of the Sabbatical calendar against the solar year after 40 years, in spite of intercalation. But what kind of intercalation? If the Postdiluvian era reveals an average year of 365 days (intercalating a week every sabbatical year), after 40 years the calendar is about 10 days behind the sun. If another whole week is intercalated again sometimes within those forty years (into the fifth sabbatical year?), the gap is reduced to less than 3 days: 364-day year: 40 x 364 = 14,560 days Intercalation 1: 40 x 365 = 14,600 days Intercalation 2: 14,600 + 7 = 14,607 days Solar year: 40 x 365.2422 = 14,609.688 days

Such intercalation is similar to one of the methods suggested by Gleßmer. 49 I thus find no better explanation for the days that are missing to make up a whole 40 years in the wilderness apart from a desire to control the approximate lag of the calendar using intercalation. It is certainly less precise than the methods found in 4Q319, and this reveals early stages in the formation of the Sabbatical calendar. It also indicates that the 364-day calendar was not purely theoretical as is often claimed. 50 Its creators were eager to keep it in step with the yearly solar cycle and Pg used the length of the Exodus to indicate it. Theology need not cut theologians from observable reality.

4.7

DAY 7: SHABBAT

The arrival in the land marks the celebration of the first Passover, the end of the manna (Josh. 5:10–12) and the establishment of the tabernacle in Shiloh, while the land was subdued (Josh. 18:1), establishing a neat inclusio Num 10:33 is not attributed to P. From the crossing the sea on 14th or 15th I (Exod. 12:6.41) to 10 I of the 41st year after coming out of Egypt (Deut. 1:3 and Josh. 4:19) when the generation born after the Exodus crosses the Jordan. 49 Gleßmer, “Calendars”, identifies two possible methods on the basis of the text of 4Q319: adding a week every sabbatical year plus an additional week every fourth sabbatical year or adding a week every six-year cycle plus an additional week in the fourteenth cycle. 50 Pace Abegg, “Calendar at Qumran”, 150. 47 48

TRACING THE ORIGIN OF THE SABBATICAL CALENDAR

257

with Gen. 1:28. Jubilees places the arrival in the land halfway through the total duration of one century of Jubilees (4900 years) = 2410 + 40 = 2450 x 2 = 4900 years. But it is doubtful that Pg envisioned an end to the perfect world created by God. 51

5.

CONCLUSION

Is it possible to ascertain on the basis of Pg’s overall chronology that the 364-day calendar was used at the beginning of the Persian period? In spite of uncertainties due to insertions that greatly expanded the size of the original narrative, it is still possible to identify a coherent pattern that is unlikely to be the result of chance. All the elements of the calendar are spelled out in the course of the narrative: the week as the fundamental element (Era 1), the month system (Era 3), the year and the jubilee (Era 5). 52 The clearest instance of the use of the 364-day calendar is the chronology of the recreation period after the flood (Era 3). Only with the month system particular to the Sabbatical calendar (30 + 30 + 31 days) can an exact number of weeks be reached. That these 7 months not only contain a symbolic number of whole weeks (6 x 6) but also reflect the seven days of creation is not fortuitous, but denotes a coherent system that is preserved in spite of subsequent attempts to introduce other systems (150 days). Intercalation is also apparent. The antediluvian Era 2 presents a “fast clock” stressing the need for intercalation so that humans may reach more “natural” ages. Reckoned in full years, Era 4 spells out the number of days per year after a first intercalation of a week every sabbatical year. Era 6 presupposes a second intercalation of another whole week in the fifth sabbatical year. The overlap between Eras 5 and 6 is a weakness of the system since Era 5 ends when the Tabernacle is filled with the Glory of the Lord while Era 6 starts one year earlier at the crossing of the sea. So far, I have no better solution to offer, as the date of the arrival of the Hebrews at Paran is not recorded. Rather than transmitting a secret system, Pg presupposes the prior knowledge of the calendar. The specifics of the calendar are never spelled out explicitly and Pg appears as a scribal compendium teaching Israel’s mythological origins, its classical language and sacred calendar in narrative In Pg, the world is created very good (Genesis 1) and there is no story of the fall (Gen. 2—3). On the contrary, Pg has a number of other ‘original sins’, duly purified in order to preserve the world’s goodness: N. Lohfink, “Original Sins in the Priestly Historical Narrative”, in Lohfink Theology of the Pentateuch (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1994), pp. 96–115. 52 See R. S. Kawashima, “The Jubilee, every 49 of 50 years?”, VT 53 (2003), pp. 117–120. 51

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

form. Admittedly, this remained rather basic compared to Babylonian science. 53 As for the date of the Sabbatical calendar, it is highly unlikely that the sacred seven-day structure so obvious in Genesis 1 was not carried over into the other parts of Pg. The symbolic structure of Genesis 1 is reflected in the seven fold succession of eras. Since there is a rare scholarly consensus over a Late Babylonian or Early Persian date for Pg, it is hard to avoid the conclusion that its calendar is contemporary to Pg or earlier, at a point in time when the establishment of a non-lunar calendar makes the most political sense. The claim that the Sabbatical calendar is later than Pg requires that one understands Genesis 1 as the brilliant introduction of a calendar that was dropped as soon as it was invented only to be brought to the fore by the calendar disputes that tore Judaism in the last two centuries before the Common Era. Whereas Genesis 1:14 conceded a limited role to the moon while considering the sun as the chief regulator of the calendar, later works reflect entrenched positions. Ben Sira (ca. 175 BCE) denies calendar significance to the sun and favours the lunar calendar against 1 Enoch, Aramaic Levi, Jubilees, and Rule of the Community that all reject the moon’s role to set the date of festivals. 54 Those polarized positions do not reveal the origin of the Sabbatical calendar but rather later developments. The texts that defend the Sabbatical calendar come from traditionalists reacting against innovations rather than from innovators themselves. Ben Sira, written in Alexandria, 55 represents the Diaspora’s desire to keep the common luni-solar calendar as opposed to traditionalists of the “Holy Land” who would have liked to celebrate the re-establishment of an independent dynasty in Jerusalem with a return to the Sabbatical calendar. What had been a fitting way to celebrate the end of Babylonian rule 56 was expected to be done again at the withdrawal of the Seleucids. But the Hasmonaean rulers decided against it. They did bring about some chronological changes in order to set Hanukkah on a symbolic date, 57 but these innovations did not re-establish the SabbatiSee D. W. Young, “The Sexagesimal Basis for the Total Years of the Antediluvian and Postdiluvian Epochs,” ZAW 116 (2004), pp. 502–527. 54 B. G. Wright, “‘Fear the Lord and Honour the Priest’: Ben Sira as Defender of the Jerusalem Priesthood”, in P. C. Beentjes (ed.), The Book of Ben Sira in Modern Research (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1997), pp. 189–222 (204–208); J. C. VanderKam, Calendars in the Dead Sea Scrolls: Measuring Time (London: Routledge, 1998), p. 27; Tigchelaar, “Lights”, 37–46. 55 P. McKechnie, “The Career of Joshua Ben Sira”, JTS 51 (2000), pp. 1–26. 56 Ph. Guillaume, ‘Genesis 1 as Charter of a Revolutionary Calendar’, ThR 14 (2003), pp. 141–148. 57 J. Blenkinsopp, The Pentateuch (New York: Doubleday, 1992), p. 48. 53

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259

cal calendar. Why would the Hasmonaeans change the calendar? They entertained excellent relations with Egypt and thus retained the calendar of the Ptolemies. Hence the protests found in Jubilees and in the Dead Sea scrolls. However, despite their pleas, the traditionalists could not recover the tradition intact. Even had they wanted to, the original Priestly chronology had been updated to take into account the numerous textual additions inserted into Pg, and it was thus impossible to go back to the original system. This point is best exemplified by the chronological system described in the book of Jubilees (ca. 150 BCE) which, in spite of the fact that it upholds the value of the Sabbatical calendar, is interested in chronology rather than in calendar; 58 thus the dates provided by Jubilees bear little resemblance with Pg’s. 59 The calendars of the books of Jubilees and Enoch go back to the principles of the Sabbatical calendar, but its principles only. Their chronologies reflect secondary developments 60 rather than the original 364-day calendar. Hence, their chronologies disprove the notion that the Sabbatical calendar was invented around the second century BCE. Had a Maccabaean Sabbatical calendar been imposed on Pg’s earlier chronology, greater similarities between Jubilees and Pg would be expected. On the contrary, the fact that they remember a calendar that does not fit the narrative they are transmitting points towards the antiquity of the Sabbatical calendar that derived from Pg before it was expanded. VanderKam’s notion that the 364-day calendar was in use in Jerusalem ‘during the early centuries of the second temple’ should therefore be taken very seriously. 61

E. Wiesenberg, “The Jubilee of Jubilees”, RevQ 3 (1961–2), pp. 3–40 (4). See comparative table in Northcote, “Development”, 32. Flood in AM 1207, Exodus in AM 2410. Since Adam remained in the garden until the eighth year, there are 2401 years between his exit from the garden and the Exodus = 49 jubilees. Jubilees’ Flood chronology is a composite of the final form of Genesis, with a keen awareness of the differences between MT and LXX for the date of the grounding of the ark on Ararat. Jub 5:29 avoids the problem by mentioning that “on the new moon of the 7th month, all the mouths of the deeps of the earth were opened”. This omission is compensated by the addition of the 17th of the 7th month when the land was dry, before following again the Biblical text that sets the opening of the ark on the 27th of the same month. 60 J. T. Rook, “A Twenty-eight-day Month Tradition in the Book of Jubilees”, VT 31 (1981), pp. 83–87. 61 VanderKam, “Origin”, 103. 58 59

JOB, HOPEFUL OR HOPELESS? THE SIGNIFICANCE OF ‫ גם‬IN JOB 16:19 AND JOB’S CHANGING CONCEPTIONS OF DEATH DAVID KUMMEROW OATLEY NSW, AUSTRALIA [email protected]

1.

INTRODUCTION 1

1.1 Is Job hopeful or hopeless? Judging from the seemingly disparate and incompatible views of the kethib- and qere-readings of Job 13:15, this is a question that has divided over a long period of time and cuts to the heart of the book of Job: (kethib) ‫הן יקטלני לא איחל אך־דרכי אל־פניו אוכיח‬ (qere) ‫הן יקטלני לו איחל אך־דרכי אל־פניו אוכיח‬ “See, he will kill me; I have no hope” (NRSV following kethib). “Though he slay me, yet will I hope in him” (NIV following qere).

Central to each of these two paradoxical statements is Job’s understanding of God as it relates to his foreseen future, i.e. does Job’s eschatology involve God, or is God absent from any formulation of present hope for the future?

1 I am grateful for the comments of Kirk Patston on an earlier form of this article and for the comments of the anonymous JHS reviewer(s); any errors, however, remain my sole responsibility.

261

262

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

1.2 Certainly, there have been those who have defended the claim that Job declares his trust in God in the midst of his despair. 2 However, there are those who understand Job to have abandoned hope in God, either for “a personal private deity who is distinct from the high god and who is humanity’s advocate against the high god”; 3 or for his own “protestation of innocence and his formal deposition that requires God to give an account of himself.” 4 For Clines, Job “embarks on the most radical restatement of Israelite theology to be found in the pages of the Hebrew Bible.” In this regard, he states: Job’s new theology is that God is a monster, motivated by cruelty and spite, who has not only attacked the innocent Job, but is also guilty of negligence and injustice on a universal scale. Job has no doubt that there is a god, for it is he who is wrongfully assaulting him; but he denies the goodness of that god. 5

1.3 Not too long ago, Wilson proposed something of a mediating position. 6 He argued that Job’s witness is not God, but some other hypothetical figure. In this view, Job’s agony has driven him “to reach out to an imaginary figure, grasping at even the most remote possibilities.” 7 For Wilson, Job explores possibilities and pushes the bounds, since Job ultimately desires a restored relationship with God. Consequently, he argues that “despite the fact that Job’s arbiter is not to be identified as God, it is true that Job’s desire for a restored relationship with God actually undergirds these imaginative cries.” 8

1.4 Initially, Wilson’s proposal seems attractive: he has dealt with the paradoxical statements that have pushed Curtis and Clines to their extremes; and he has systematically shown how his interpretation fits with the allE.g., Francis I. Andersen, Job (TOTC; Leicester: IVP, 1976); Edouard Dhorme, A Commentary on the Book of Job (Nashville: Thomas Nelson,1967); Robert Gordis, The Book of Job: Commentary, New Translation and Special Studies (Moreshet; New York: The Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1978); John E. Hartley, The Book of Job (NICOT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1988). 3 John Briggs Curtis, “On Job’s Witness in Heaven,” JBL 102 (1983), 549. 4 David J. A. Clines, Job 1–20 (WBC; Dallas: Word, 1989), 390; cf. also 459– 462. 5 David J. A. Clines, “Job’s God,” Concilium 4 (2004), 44. 6 Lindsay Wilson, “Realistic Hope or Imaginative Exploration? The Identity of Job’s Arbiter,” Pacifica 9 (1996), 243–252. 7 Wilson, “Realistic Hope”, 248. 8 Wilson, “Realistic Hope”, 251. 2

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important passages 9:32–35; 16:18–22; 19:23–27; and 31:35–37. Regarding his proposal, he says that it “can best account for all the text, and does most justice to difficult verses like 16:21 and 17:3.” 9

1.5 Nevertheless, I said that Wilson’s proposal initially seemed attractive. I say this for I am not yet convinced that Job’s hope of a witness in heaven is someone other than God, even if that someone is said to be “hypothetical”. Indeed, Wilson argued for a “re-examination of the text” to decide the issue; and it is just such an examination I wish to conduct in the remainder of this article, since I judge Wilson to have (1) failed to interpret Job 16:19–21 in light of the initial ‫ ;גם‬and (2) missed the import of Job’s changing conception of death. It is, in fact, these two points that allow us to be certain that Job indeed has a hope in God. Failing to take these issues into account has unfortunately led many to deny such a hope for Job.

‫ גם‬AND JOB 16:19–21

2.

2.1 Job 16:19–21 is important for the present argument for the reason that the passage begins with the particle ‫גם‬, a word which we can now understand in the present context due to research having now been conducted on its usage, 10 but which has not figured in any analysis of which I am aware. Harley, for one, notices the deployment of the particle here, but unhelpfully says that it is “somewhat redundant.” 11 However, despite Harley’s claim, I assert that an appreciation of this particle reveals that its utilisation here is extremely important in the present context, since it leads the reader to the correct interpretation of the passage.

Wilson, “Realistic Hope”, 248. See Christo H. J. van der Merwe, The Old Hebrew Particle gam: A SyntacticSemantic Description of gam in Gn–2Kg (ATS 34; St. Ottilien: EOS Verlag, 1990); idem, “Old Hebrew Particles and the Interpretation of Old Testament Texts,” JSOT 60 (1993), 35–37; Christo H. J. van der Merwe, Jackie A. Naudé, and Jan H. Kroeze, A Biblical Hebrew Reference Grammar (BLH 3; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), §41.4.5. 11 Hartley, Job, 262,n.2. J. P. Fokkelman, in a different vein, writes: “[t]he importance of the witness is indicated in v.19 by a special signal, the long chain of no fewer than three words, gam ‘atta hinne” (Major Poems of the Hebrew Bible: At the Interface of Prosody and Structural Analysis. Volume IV: Job 15–42 [SSN 47; Assen: Van Gorcum, 2004], 42); beyond this he says no more. 9

10

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

2.2 At the outset it is necessary to notice that ‫ גם‬may modify a word, a constituent, or a clause. van der Merwe, for example, presents the following examples: 12 (1) ‫ גם‬modifying a word: ‫“ פן־ימות גם־הוא כאחיו‬Otherwise, he too will die, like his brothers!” (Gen 38:11) (2) ‫ גם‬modifying a constituent: ‫ וימת גם־אתו‬And he slew him also (Gen 38:10) (3) ‫ גם‬modifying a clause: ‫ ויאמרו אל־יהושע כי־נתן יהוה בידנו‬And they said to Joshua, “Certainly ‫ את־כל־הארץ וגם־נמגו כל־ישבי הארץ‬Yahweh has given all the land into ‫ מפנינו‬our hand, and, also, the inhabitants of the land melt away before us” (Josh 2:24) 13 The last example is particularly instructive, since it suggests that ‫גם‬ need not modify simply the following word or two; that is, ‫ גם‬can have a much larger expression within its scope. In this vein, van der Merwe writes of ‫ גם‬used to modify the clause in Josh. 2:24: ‫ גם‬is used to constrain the interpretation of the first of two propositions concerning a particular topic by the fact that it must be supplemented by a second proposition. 14

2.3 And so it would seem in chapter 16 that Job boldly realises that his characterisation of God as his violent enemy (16:7–18) needs to be radically supplemented by a second proposition. This second proposition, supplementing the first, is naturally introduced by ‫גם‬: 15

12 van der Merwe, Naudé, and Kroeze, Biblical Hebrew, §41.4.5; van der Merwe, “Old Hebrew Particles”, 37. 13 On the problematic use of ‫ כי‬here beginning a direct quotation, see Cynthia L. Miller, The Representation of Speech in Biblical Hebrew Narrative: A Linguistic Analysis (HSM 55; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2003), 113. 14 van der Merwe, “Old Hebrew Particles”, 37. 15 Using the Stuttgart Electronic Study Bible software (SESB) which utilises the phrase- and clause-level tagging of the Werkgroep Informatika database of the Vrije Universiteit (WIVU database), I retrieved other examples of ‫ גם‬deployed in this manner: Gen 20:12; 48:28; Exod 16:19; 2 Sam 19:44[43]; 1Kgs 7:31; and Ruth 3:12. See David Kummerow, “Review Article: Stuttgart Electronic Study Bible,” SEE-J Hiphil 2 (2005), 6 [http://www.see-j.net/hiphil].

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‫גם־עתה הנה־בשמים עדי ושהדי במרומים‬ ‫מליצי רעי אל־אלוה דלפה עיני‬ ‫ויוכח לגבר עם־אלוה ובן־אדם לרעהו‬ “But what is more, presently—look!—my witness is in heaven, and my advocate is on high. He who scorns me (‫יצי‬ ִ ‫ ) ְמ ִל‬is my friend (‫;) ֵר ִעי‬ to God my eyes pour out tears so that he might plead for man with God as a human pleads for his friend” (16:19–21).

2.4 Job asserts that even as he has declared God as enemy (16:7–18) he should just as quickly proclaim God as ‫( ֵר ַע‬16:20). 16 Indeed, the implication of ‫( עתה‬16:16), heightened by the appearance of ‫הנה‬, is that this is preeminently the case now. 17 The God who is ‫ מליץ‬is also ‫ ; ֵר ַע‬the God of perplexing anguish is also the God of deep friendship. A number of considerations have led to the conclusion that God is the “scorner” in verse 20: (1) as mentioned above, the employment of ‫ גם‬strongly suggests that what follows supplements his previous statements concerning a particular topic, in this case God; (2) the larger shift between enemy and friend seems summed up in this statement; (3) previously, God has been cast in the role of mocker/scorner (e.g. 9:23); (4) this interpretation does not rely on significant emendation nor connection with more obscure meanings but on ַ ‫ ְמ ִל‬and ‫( ֵר ָעי‬pausal form of ‫) ֵר ַעי‬ a small revocalisation, i.e. the plurals ‫יצי‬ with singular suffixes are repointed ‫יצי‬ ִ ‫ ְמ ִל‬and ‫( ; ֵר ִעי‬5) given the paradoxical nature of the statement, it is easy to see how the Masoretes preferred to point the consonantal ‫מליצי רעי‬, ‫יצי ֵר ָעי‬ ַ ‫( ; ְמ ִל‬6) a reference to the friends as 18 scorners is out of place, especially with the use of ‫ גם‬beginning the thought, which in context suggests that the referent is not the friends but God, since he has been the continuing topic of discussion; (7) it is more naturally taken as “scorner”, especially in the context of expressed grievous emotions such that negative connotations associated with the ‫ליץ‬-root carry

16 This is what Norman Habel’s (“‘Only the Jackal is my Friend’: On Friends and Redeemers in Job,” Int 31 [1977], 232–235) interpretation misses as he fails to take into account the use of ‫ גם‬beginning v.19. Similarly, inter alios, Clines, Job, 389– 391. 17 On ‫ עתה‬see van der Merwe, Naudé, and Kroeze, Biblical Hebrew, §41.2.6; van der Merwe, “Old Hebrew Particles”, 32–35. 18 See Clines, Job, 371,n.20.b.

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naturally into this context; 19 and (8) it explains Job’s torment and his otherwise ambiguous cry: “to God my eyes pour out tears, so that he might plead for man with God as a human pleads for his friend.”

2.5 Although Job is certainly not happy with the paradox, he is plainly aware that there is only one God. 20 Thus Job in a breath sums up the paradox which he cannot resolve—‫ ֵר ַע‬-‫—מליץ‬and simply pleads to God that he, God, would plead for man ‫( עם־אלוה‬16:20–21) as absurd as this may sound (cf. also 17:3). 21 The God Job knows as friend, whom he is presently experiencing as enemy, realises Job’s longing for mediation. 22 Job believes God himself represents him; indeed, for Job, there is no one else suitably qualified to perform this function, since only God can plead with God as man pleads as man for man (16:21). 23 Job continues to plead, for even now God is his witness. 24 Job recognises that at the most basic level—a level to which he has been stripped back—God himself must play the role of mediator with God—for Job has no other friend. 25

2.6 Paying attention to the words and syntax actually used means that I have been able to constrain the interpretation(s) of the passage. For those who claim that Job places his hope in something other than God—be it a hypothetical possibility, a lesser deity, or his own plea of innocence—must in the end grapple with the use of ‫ גם‬here also, which unfortunately nobody has done. Nevertheless, I assert that ‫ גם‬here functions as something of a Tim Poell, “‫ליץ‬,” in New International Dictionary of Old Testament Theology and Exegesis (ed. Willem A. VanGemeren; 5 vols.; Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1997), 2:799. 20 Cf. Meredith G. Kline, “Job,” in The Wycliffe Bible Commentary (ed. Charles F. Pfeiffer and Everett F. Harrison; Chicago: Moody, 1962), 475. 21 Cf. Derek Kidner, The Wisdom of Proverbs, Job and Ecclesiastes (Downers Grove: IVP, 1985), 68; also Kline, “Job,” 475; Andersen, Job, 182–183; Hartley, Job, 264; Walther Zimmerli, Man and his Hope in the Old Testament (SBTSS 20; London: SCM, 1968), 23; Paul R. House, Old Testament Theology (Downers Grove: IVP, 1998), 433– 434. 22 Clines’ understanding of God and Job’s contention with God in the book means that he cannot accept such a paradox (Job, 389–391). For a critique of Clines, see Robert S. Fyall, Now My Eyes have Seen You: Images of Creation and Evil in the Book of Job (NSBT 12; Leicester: Apollos, 2002), 42–43. 23 I take it that this comparison is meant by the use of the phrase ‫( בן־אדם‬cf. 25:6). 24 Cf. Fyall, Now My Eyes, 43. 25 Cf. House, Old Testament Theology, 434. 19

JOB, HOPEFUL OR HOPELESS?

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hinge, standing between Job’s two conceptions of God: the proposition that God is a ravenous beast etc. needs to be supplemented—‫—גם‬with the proposition that God is a witness, advocate, and friend. It is hard to see what other topic in the present context ‫ גם‬is modifying other than the immediately preceding portrayal of God.

2.7 Now if I am correct in my analysis of this passage, then I see it affecting two other important issues: (1) the other passages which in the past were said to be showing Job placing his confidence in God but which have been increasingly seen as evidence to the contrary (as chapter 16 had); and (2) Job’s changing conception of death. I shall (re-)examine these two issues in §§3 and 4 below.

3. RE-EXAMINING JOB’S EXPRESSIONS OF HOPE IN GOD 3.1 As stated above, if it is true that Job expresses a hope in, and dependence on, God in Job 16:19–21, then at the very least this opens the possibility that Job expresses similar affirmations elsewhere. Indeed, Wilson makes the following observation: [I]t [is] likely that there are not several different figures being called upon by Job [in the first three “redeemer passages”], but the one “hope” is variously described. 26

Now if Wilson is correct in this observation, then it means that if the referent of the “figure” could convincingly be identified in one of the three passages—even if it goes against his own positing of a “hypothetical figure”—then the referent of the other passages could be established. Since I have established that God is the figure of hope in 16:19–21, then it remains to be seen whether this is also the case in the other passages.

3.2

FIRST TEXT JOB 9:3–34

This passage is difficult, not least because some manuscripts, the LXX, and the Peshitta point to a text reading ‫ לוּ יֵ שׁ‬or ‫ ֻלא יֵ שׁ‬for MT ‫ לֹא יֵ שׁ‬beginning verse 33. I agree with Fokkelman that the clear jussives ‫ ישת‬and ‫ יסר‬point to the unreal conditional particle. 27 And Clines’ observation that ‫ לֹא יש‬is not found elsewhere in the OT probably confirms it. 28 Consequently, here Wilson, “Realistic Hope”, 249. J. P. Fokkelman, Major Poems of the Hebrew Bible: At the Interface of Prosody and Structural Analysis. Volume II: 85 Psalms and Job 4–14 (SSN 41; Assen: Van Gorcum, 2000), 350,n.25. 28 Clines, Job, 220,n.33.a. 26 27

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

the intimation of someone to arbitrate (‫ )מוכיח‬is raised (9:33–34), someone who effectively removes God’s disciplinary rod (‫)שבט‬. Thus life is the realm where Job longs for a mediator. However, the referent is clearly unexpressed, and it is simply the fact that he longs for a mediator which is described. But if God is the mediator in chapter 16, then it would be true to say that God realises Job’s longing for mediation in chapter 9, although this is only seen after having read chapter 16. Thus, chapter 9 does not bear witness to Job expressing a hope in God in the same way that chapter 16 does. However, it is the first stirrings of a hope which grows much more confident—and specific—in chapter 16 (and chapter 19, as I will demonstrate below).

3.3.

SECOND TEXT JOB 13:15–16

3.3.1 Though Job 13:15–16 was not included in Wilson’s analysis, it is here included due to the fact that Job either expresses hope in God (so qere ‫)לו‬ or does not (so kethib ‫)לא‬. I take it, though, that Job bravely asserts a confidence in God: ‫לו[ איחל אך־דרכי אל־פניו אוכיח‬/‫הן יקטלני ]לא‬ ‫גם־הוא־לי לישועה כי־לא לפניו חנף יבוא‬ “Behold, though he may slay me, I will hope in him; surely I should defend my ways to his face. Moreover, this will be my salvation since the godless would not come before him” (13:15–16).

3.3.2 As stated, I understand these verses as Job’s bold hope. Verse 16, by its use of ‫גם־הוא‬, 29 indicates that the implementation of the previous verse will result in Job’s ‫ישועה‬. In this context ‫ אך‬is a modal adverb, 30 expressing Job’s conviction as to the correctness of his defence. However, both these things are only feasible because God is ultimately a reliable object of hope (15a). If God were otherwise, Job’s hope is futile and the contemplation of ‫ ישועה‬self-deluded. From context I thus assert that the qere-reading is to Again, on the syntax of ‫ גם‬which my analysis is based, see van der Merwe, Naudé, and Kroeze, Biblical Hebrew, §41.4.5; van der Merwe, “Old Hebrew Particles”, 35–37. Cf. also idem, The Old Hebrew Particle gam. 30 Again, see van der Merwe, Naudé, and Kroeze, Biblical Hebrew, §41.3.3(i); cf. also T. Muraoka, Emphatic Words and Structures in Biblical Hebrew (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1985), 129–130. 29

JOB, HOPEFUL OR HOPELESS?

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be adopted. Collaborative confirmation may be observed in the fact that much manuscript evidence supports the reading of ‫לו‬. 31 Furthermore, the additional Masoretic notation of the Masorah parvum reads:

The Masoretes record that this is one out of seventeen other occurrences of ‫ לא‬where the oral tradition differed, instead reading ‫לו‬. 32 It is therefore not unheard of for ‫ לו‬to have become confused with ‫לא‬. 33 Although no significant theology hangs on the choice of ‫ לא‬vis-à-vis ‫לו‬, in these other examples to retain ‫ לא‬nevertheless would often result in absurd interpretations. The NET, for example, prefers ‫ לו‬thirteen times, 34 of which at least a further one is debateable. 35 It would therefore appear that the Masoretes’ correction is usually to be preferred, and I suggest that this is indeed the case with Job 13:15 for the reasons outlined above. However, even if ‫ לא‬is retained either because ‫ לא‬is judged to be lectio difficilior or the manuscript evidence is assessed to be insufficient, nevertheless the clause may communicate the same thought—albeit more emphatically—by identifying ‫ לא איחל‬as another instance of a construction Driver called “affirmation by exclamatory negation.” 36 ‫“ לא‬serves alone almost as an exclamation conveying a positive sense of surprise or assurance”: 37 “I will not have hope!” which implies “I will have hope.” The reason is again to do with God: ‫ ישועה‬is able to be found since the godless would not dare come before God (13:16b), presumably because Job understands God to be just, and thus a reliable object of hope. 31 Giovanni Bernardo de Rossi, “Job,” in Variae Lectiones Veteris Testamenti Librorum. Volumen IV: Libri Psalmi, Proverbia, Job, Daniel, Ezras, Nehemias, Chronica seu Paralipomena cum dissentatione praeliminaria de hujus collationis praestantia utilitate usv et appendice additionum (Bibliotheca Rossiana 7; Amsterdam: Philo Press, 1970), 111 provides the evidence. 32 Exod 21:8; Lev 11:21; 25:30; 1 Sam 2:3; 2 Sam 16:18; 2 Kgs 8:10; 1 Chron.11:20; Ezra 4:2; Job 13:15; 41:4[12]; Pss.100:3; 139:16; Prov 19:7; 26:2; Isa 9:2[3]; 49:5; 63:9. Cf. also Job 6:21. 33 Cf. James Barr, “A New Look at Kethibh-Qere,” OtSt 21 (1981), 31. 34 Fourteen out of eighteen times if we include Job 6:21, which the Masoretes failed to include in their count of seventeen. 35 Prov 26:2. 36 See Godfrey Rolles Driver, “Affirmation by Exclamatory Negation,” JANES 5 (1973), 107–114. 37 Driver, “Affirmation”, 108.

270

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

3.4 THIRD TEXT JOB 19:23–27 3.4.1 Chapter 19 follows a similar movement to chapter 16 in moving from despondency to hope, here centring on a ‫גאל‬-figure (19:25). Given his previous asseveration of God in 16:19 as witness (‫ )עד‬and advocate (‫)שהד‬ it is not surprising he should now declare him to be ‫גאל‬. Nevertheless, the claim by many is that this is not so; instead, the ‫גאל‬-figure is another

heavenly being or a heavenly hypothetical possibility. But the burden of proof must still surely reside with those who would deny that God is the referent of the term ‫ גאל‬here due to the fact that ‫ גאל‬as used of no heavenly figure(s) in the OT other than God and Job has already affirmed that God is his witness, advocate, and friend in chapter 16. 38 Fyall, critiquing Habel’s analysis that “viewing God as the gô’ēl … would mean a complete reversal in the pattern of Job’s thought to date”, 39 argues that such an interpretation also fails to sufficiently reckon with (1) “Job’s passionate desire to meet with God and his refusal to give up the struggle to see him”; 40 (2) the canonical status of Job; and (3) what Fyall calls “the full implications of verses 25b and 26”. 41 Thus although Wilson was incorrect in finding a referent other than God, he was nonetheless accurate to say that Job’s hope is “variously described,” 42 since now in chapter 19 God is said to be ‫גאל‬. Indeed, deserted, detested Job (cf. 19:13–19) has none besides his divine kinsman likely to perform the role of ‫גאל‬. 43 In contrast to his deathdestined self (19:26), Job’s ‫ גאל‬is characterised by ‫( חי‬19:25), 44 thereby eminently qualified to perform Job’s post-mortem desires. John Day (“The Development of Belief in Life After Death in Ancient Israel,” in After the Exile: Essays in Honour of Rex Mason [ed. John Barton and David J. Reimer; Macon: Mercer University Press1996], 251,n.58) notes that ‫“ גאל‬is never used in the Old Testament of any heavenly figure apart from God,” although he understands Job’s expectation of vindication in this life only. 39 Habel, Job, 306. 40 Note, however, that this point does not necessarily apply to Wilson’s analysis, for, as noted above, Wilson understands that “Job’s desire for a restored relationship with God actually undergirds these imaginative cries” (“Realistic Hope”, 251). 41 Fyall, Now My Eyes, 48–49. See these pages for Fyall’s elaboration and argument of these points. 42 Wilson, “Realistic Hope”, 249. 43 This is what Helmer Ringgren (“‫גָּ ַאל‬,” in TDOT [ed. G. Johannes Botterweck and Helmer Ringgren; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1980], 2:355) fails to notice. Moreover, he also fails to recognise that Job has already spoken in a paradoxical way in chapter 16 (see above). 44 Thus the phrase ‫ גאלי חי‬may be understood as “my Living Redeemer”, which, mutatis mutandis, is somewhat analogous to ‫( אלהים חיים‬see H. Ringgren, 38

JOB, HOPEFUL OR HOPELESS?

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3.4.2 My assertion of this point that Job understands himself here in chapter 19 as bound for death is based on an analysis of the controversial and difficult verse 26: ‫ואחר עורי נקפו־זאת ומבשרי אחזה אלוה‬ The diversity found within the ancient versions testifies to the difficulty of the verse, 45 as does the profuse emendation the text. 46 Although Dhorme, for one, took the two clauses as being parallel, 47 they are probably best seen to be sequential, which the construction [‫ ]­אחר… ו‬implies. However, the main puzzle I see with the verse is with the demonstrative ‫זאת‬. In order to leave the text unemended, ‫ זאת‬is said to be used adverbially. 48 However, while it may be the case that demonstrative ‫זה‬ originated as a demonstrative adverb, it is hard to see ‫ואחר עורי נקפו־זאת‬ as a surviving instance of this construction, since the semantics which would be implied are entirely different and difficult to reconcile with the evidence adduced by Joüon and Muraoka. 49 In any case, although both Zink and Janzen understand the form adverbially they see the form as essentially demonstrative in function, either pointing to Job’s skin disease (Zink) or to the content of the following clause (Janzen). The problem with Zink’s interpretation is skin is what Job understands he has barely escaped with (19:20) and ‫ נקף‬does imply some sort of violent action leading to death (cf. Isa 10:33–34) and not simply to some flaying skin. 50 Janzen, on the other “‫חיה‬,” in TDOT [ed. G. Johannes Botterweck and Helmer Ringgren; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1980], 4:338–339). The object of the clause is then ‫גאלי חי‬. Cf. Hartley, Job, 293–294; Jan Holman, “Does My Redeemer Live or is My Redeemer the Living God? Some Reflections on the Translation of Job 19,25,” in The Book of Job (ed. W. A. M. Beuken; BETL 64; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1994), 377–381. 45 Jean Lévêque (Job et son Dieu. Tome II: Essai d’exégèse et de théologie biblique [ÉBib; Paris: Gabalda, 1970], 469–473) provides a good discussion of the early versions. 46 E.g., Dhorme, Commentary, 285; Lévêque, Job et son Dieu, 477; R. Tournay, “Relectures bibliques concernant la vie future et l’angélologie,” RB 4 (1962), 489– 495. Lévêque provides a discussion of various attempts as does Clines (Job, 433,n.26.a), who prefers in the end to take the text as it stands. 47 Dhorme, Commentary, 284. 48 So Clines, Job, 434,n.26.c; J. Gerald Janzen, Job (Interpretation; Atlanta: John Knox, 1985), 143. James K. Zink’s (“Impatient Job: An Interpretation of Job 19:25–27,” JBL 84 [1965], 149) translation implies this also. 49 See Paul Joüon and T. Muraoka, A Grammar of Biblical Hebrew (SubBi 14; Rome: Editrice Pontifico Istituto Biblico, 1993), §143a. 50 This is also the problem with the treatment of J. Meek (“Job xix 25–27,” VT 6 [1956], 100–103). On ‫נקף‬, see Eugene Carpenter, “‫נקף‬,” in New International Dictionary of Old Testament Theology and Exegesis (ed. Willem A. VanGemeren; 5 vols.;

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

hand could be correct, since ‫ זאת‬does function in the way he suggests (e.g. Lev 26:16); however, in order to do so he has to connect ‫ עורי‬with the verb ‫ עור‬ii “to wake up”. But the following clause with ‫ בשר‬mitigates against this. Furthermore, to translate the verb as “things will come around to” the clause should have read ‫דברים נקפו‬. If ‫ זאת‬functioned as the subject of the verb, then the interpretation proposed by Janzen could still be retained; but this would mean that the verb would have to be emended to ‫נִ ְקּ ָפה‬. 3.4.3 My suggested solution is treating the verse as an example of poetic ellipsis. 51 The pointers to this analysis are the waw beginning the verse and the lack of a verb with ‫זאת‬. The use of waw suggests that verse 26 is somehow connected with the preceding verse and since ‫ זאת‬cannot be used adverbially with the sense required, a verb needs to be supplied. My suggestion is that ‫ ידעתי‬needs to be elliptically supplied from the previous verse. The thought of the verses runs as follows: ‫ואני ידעתי‬ ‫גאלי הי ואחרון על־עפר יקום‬ [‫ואחר עורי נקפו־זאת ]ידעתי‬ ‫ומבשרי אחזה אלוה‬ In the two verses Job verbalises two things that he knows: firstly, that his redeemer lives and that one day that redeemer will stand upon the earth; and secondly, that after he has had his skin destroyed he will nevertheless see God from his flesh. I thus understand ‫ אחר‬in verse 26 as an adverb and ‫ נִ ְקּפוּ‬as a third-person plural with the agent(s) unexpressed. 3.4.4 But what does Job mean when he says that his skin will be destroyed? I take it that if ‫ ואתמלטה בעור שני‬in verse 20 means that Job has narrowly escaped with nothing, 52 then the destruction of his ‫ עור‬in verse 26 poetically implies the further removal of this and consequently his death. Equally, ‫ עור‬may be synecdoche for the whole person as it is in Exod 22:27[26] and possibly Job 2:4, thereby signalling his death also. 53 Either way, Job’s statement expresses the understanding that death awaits him.

tionary of Old Testament Theology and Exegesis (ed. Willem A. VanGemeren; 5 vols.; Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1997), 3:157. 51 On ellipsis in BH, see Wilfred G. E. Watson, Classical Hebrew Poetry: A Guide to its Techniques (JSOTSup 26; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1984), 303–306. 52 So Clines, Job, 452. 53 See Gary Alan Long, “‫עור‬,” in New International Dictionary of Old Testament Theology and Exegesis (ed. Willem A. VanGemeren; 5 vols.; Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1997), 3:360; and Gordis, Job, 206.

JOB, HOPEFUL OR HOPELESS?

273

3.4.5 As a result, the office of ‫ גאל‬as one who righted wrongs, restored fortunes, upheld heritage, and avenged innocent blood is entirely necessary given Job’s prospects. 54 Thus in chapter 19 Job affirms that the Living Redeemer and the God he finally sees upon his resurrection–vindication are one and the same. 55 Job’s trust in God is fundamental and basic both to his eschatological outlook and present torment. The future reality is his hope in the present. Job understands his future is inextricably tied to God; he ultimately believes that the just God he previously knew is the God he will prove himself eschatologically to be. Consequently, this dominating Godfocus means that the afterlife is portrayed as consisting primarily of restored relationship, of life with God. Everything else seems to be secondary such that details aside from this point are not elaborated upon. The afterlife for Job is essentially one of God-centredness and divine priority. In other words, Job’s conception of the afterlife is one wholly focussed on God: in Job’s own words it is an experience of “seeing” God.

3.5 FOURTH TEXT JOB 31:35–37 3.5.1 Now I want to present an alternative proposal from the consensus on Job 31:35–37. 56 Many take it that here Job (metaphorically?) affixes his signature to his oath of innocence. 57 Needless to say, it is just this acceptance of the idea that Job appends his signature which has lead Hartley, inter alios, to relocate 31:38–40b prior to verse 35. For example, Hartley says: It appears doubtful that Job would add another specific item after affixing his signature (vv. 35–37), so most modern interpreters place these verses earlier in the declaration of innocence. Perhaps a scribe discovered that they had inadvertently been omitted from the text and copied them at the end to preserve them. 58

Kline, “Job,” 476. I take it that Job understands his resurrection to be bodily. However one understands the preposition ‫ מן‬on ‫ ומבשרי‬in 19:26, this is essentially what is conveyed by the context in that Job sees a time after his death when he and God will again be united. Moreover, given Job’s talk previously on resurrection (on which see below my comments on chapter 14), it would not be out of place to suggest that ‫ מן‬here conveys source, i.e. Job expects to be (bodily) resurrected and see God from his ‫בשר‬. This would also appear to be the implication of the verb ‫ חזה‬in vv.26–27. 56 I suggest that the weight of scholarly opinion for the consensus need not necessarily make that interpretation correct so much as entrenched. This, in itself, is hard to overcome. 57 E.g., Hartley, Job, 424. 58 Hartley, Job, 422. 54 55

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3.5.2 However, it is just the placement of verses 38–40b after 35–37 which counts against the “signature” interpretation, since, to use Hartley’s words above, it is “doubtful that Job would add another specific item after affixing his signature”. Furthermore, the “signature” view has lead to the numerous speculative, but in the end textually unsupported, relocations, which suggests to me creativity is more involved than seeking to understand Job’s words themselves. These points strongly suggest that perhaps we should examine more closely what is meant by Job’s use of the word ‫תו‬. That is, is there an alternative to having Job sign his signature since the context would seem to indicate that he is not?

3.5.3 Habel argues that the word ‫“ תו‬seems to mean ‘authenticating mark, signature’ in Ezek 9:4, 6 and hence the evidence of innocence.” 59 Alternatively, it might be better to see in Ezekiel that the ‫ תו‬is what Fohrer has called a “Schutzzeichen”, a mark of protection. 60 Köhler says: It was the ancient custom to mark one’s cattle, one’s implements and such like with a stroke, a circle, or a combination of strokes, circles and points, in short with a sign which ranks as the property of the clan, and was recognised, so as to protect from theft. 61

It would thus seem that while a ‫ תו‬could be understood in the sense of “signature”, it also bears a nuance—at least from the perspective of the one who is “signatured”—that it is a mark guaranteeing protection, a “signature” of protective ownership. Thus, ‫ תוי‬in Job 31:35 could be Job claiming that he (metaphorically) bears a “protective mark”. Exactly what this ‫ תו‬is and what it involves is enunciated in the following two clauses. Specifically, in the language of verse 35, it is the fact that Job believes God will give both answer to him and the charges of his accuser. That Job and ‫ספר כתב‬ ‫ איש ריבי‬are addressed by God’s “answering” is indicated by the use of ‫ו‬ on ‫ וספר‬and the fronting of that word. I have yet to read where anyone else has sort to address the reason(s) for the use of ‫ ו‬and the fronting of ‫ספר‬. I propose, as indicated, that the fronting of the word along with the waw binds it to the preceding object (the pronominal element ‫י‬- on the verb ‫ )יענני‬as a compound object. Both the first person singular object suffix as well as ‫ ספר‬come under God’s address. 3.5.4 Moreover, modal renderings such as the niv’s “let the Almighty answer me; / let my accuser put his indictment in writing” are completely out Habel, Job, 427. Georg Fohrer, Ezechiel (HAT 13; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1955), 54. 61 Ludwig Köhler, Hebrew Man (trans. Peter R. Ackroyd; London: SCM, 1956), 59 60

75.

JOB, HOPEFUL OR HOPELESS?

275

of place for a number of reasons. Firstly, for ‫ יענני‬to unambiguously signify jussive vis-à-vis indicative, we would have expected the word order ‫יענני‬ ‫ שדי‬rather than ‫שדי יענני‬, 62 since BH jussive word order has been conclusively shown to be (prototypically) verb–subject. 63 Secondly, for the jussive translation (and consequent interpretation) “let my accuser put his indictment in writing” we would have again expected the verb to head its clause, which it does not. Thirdly, though the BH qatal-form may express modal meanings such as performative/commissive, contingency, directive deontic, and past habitual, 64 I have yet to come across anyone who suggests a jussive rendering of a qatal-verb as is done in 31:35d. The verb simply is not jussive, and should not be rendered as jussive; doing so has been a contributing factor to the fact that until now we have not seen that ‫וספר‬ continues the object of the verb ‫ענה‬, i.e. that it is both the first person singular suffix as well as ‫ ספר‬which come under God’s address.

3.5.5 What Job means, then, is that because God will answer the document that has sentenced Job to judgement, the document has in effect become void; it no longer holds sentence over Job. The document has, in effect, become proof of Job’s reconciliation with God. He is thus, on that day, even able to wear it proudly (31:36), as divine proof of his restoration, the fact that he is once again “near to God” (31:37b). Consequently, Job’s Schutzzeichen is God himself! Job’s ‫ תו‬is the fact that God will “answer”. As in 14:13–14 (on which see below §§4.11–4.12), wish appears to give way to conviction in 31:35. Job’s present hope is centred on God and what he will

Gordis (Job, 355) similarly notes the problem with the word order. To overcome the problem, he treats ‫ תוי‬as being defectively spelt without ‫א‬, that is, = ‫תּ ֲאוָ ִתי ַתּ ֲאוִ י= ָתּוִ י‬.ַ He does not attempt a reading based on the word as it appears (i.e. as ‫)תּוִ י‬, ָ which I have tried to do above. 63 See Alviero Niccacci, “A Neglected Point of Hebrew Syntax: Yiqtol and Position in the Sentence,” LA 37 (1987), 7–19; E. J. Revell, “The System of the Verb in Standard Biblical Prose,” HUCA 60 (1989), 1–37; Vincent Joseph DeCaen, “On the Placement and Interpretation of the Verb in Standard Biblical Hebrew Prose” (PhD diss., University of Toronto, 1995); Ahouva Shulman, “The Use of Modal Verb Forms in Biblical Hebrew Prose” (PhD diss., University of Toronto, 1996); Robert D. Holmstedt, “The Relative Clause in Biblical Hebrew: A Linguistic Analysis” (PhD diss., University of Wisconsin–Madison, 2002); John A. Cook, “The Biblical Hebrew Verbal System: A Grammaticalization Approach” (PhD diss, University of Wisconsin–Madison, 2002); cf. also Robert D. Holmstedt, “The Phonology of Classical Hebrew: A Linguistic Study of Long Vowels and Syllable Structure,” ZAH 13 (2000), 145–156. 64 See, e.g., Cook, “The Biblical Hebrew Verbal System”, 223–232. 62

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

do in the future. Job has not abandoned his trust in God despite claims to the contrary.

3.6 As a result of the above discussion, all of the texts adduced by Wilson as pointing to a “hypothetical” hope of Job can be more readily perceived as otherwise. In §4 below I present the evidence of Job’s changing conception of death as collaborative support for the understanding that Job places his trust in God.

4.

JOB’S CHANGING CONCEPTION OF DEATH

4.1

DEATH AS POSITIVE

4.1.1 The book opens with a basic two-tier cosmology: the domain of heaven and the domain of earth. 65 Within this cosmological framework, Earth is where one originates and returns. Thus Job says: “Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return there. Yahweh gave and Yahweh has taken away; blessed be the name of Yahweh” (1:21).

Life, then, in Habel’s words, “is that interim period between originating from Earth and returning to Earth.” 66 Job declares that death is the great equaliser. Stripped of his possessions, Job assumes and accepts that he is headed for death. 67 Thus the reader knows more than Job: the reader knows that the removal of Job’s possessions is because he is God’s champion who is to win victory for him in a blessing-free life. 68 Job for his part knows none of this, and it will be this lack of knowledge that will drive his speeches as he begins to find the strict two-tier cosmology claustrophobic. 4.1.2 The cosmology—understood from Job’s perspective and not that of the larger perspective of the more-informed narrator and reader—may be represented thus:

Norman C. Habel, “Earth First: Inverse Cosmology in Job,” in The Earth Story in Wisdom Traditions (ed. Norman C. Habel and Shirley Wurst; The Earth Bible 3; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 66. 66 Habel, “Earth First”, 67 (italics his). 67 Cf. Clines, Job, 36. 68 See Meredith G. Kline, “Trial by Ordeal,” in Through Christ’s Word: A Festschrift for Dr. Philip E. Hughes (ed. W. Robert Godfrey and Jesse L. Boyd, III; Philipsburg: Presbyterian and Reformed,1985), 81–93 for this understanding of the book of Job. 65

JOB, HOPEFUL OR HOPELESS?

277

Heaven - place from which God “gives” and “takes” Life - realm in which the “giving” and “taking” of God are experienced - an interim between an origination from, and return to, Earth

Death - the equaliser

Earth - place of origination and return

This cosmology is somewhat deconstructed and reconstructed by Job as he seeks answers to his predicament. 69 4.1.3 Chapter 3 presents Job as gaining further awareness of his Godforsakenness. The friends’ week-long silence (2:12–13) resembled mourning for the dead (cf. Gen 50:10; 1 Sam 31:13). 70 Following this, Job considers himself as good as dead, 71 cursing his very existence. Firstly, he laments his birth, preferring it to be excised from history (3:3–10). 72 Secondly, given that he was born, he laments the fact that he was not stillborn or aborted, since he desires to rest peacefully in the earth (3:11–19). Thirdly, given that he was born alive, he laments the fact that his life continues, with God hedging him in (3:20–26).

4.1.4 Chapter 3 thus displays Job reacting within the cosmology of the first two chapters. However, this cosmology has become somewhat intolerable. Life now is not so much a gift but a burden. Under God’s judgement, life is intolerable and it is ultimately better to have not been born or to have it cut off. Within this framework, death is the preferable option: rather than being the great equaliser, now it is the great liberator, 73 setting one free from the injustice(s) of life (3:17–19). 74

Habel (“Earth First”, 68–77) only allows for a deconstructive aspect. Clines, Job, 61, 63–64; Kline, “Job,”, 464. 71 Andersen (Job, 95–96) thinks it “too literal to infer that the three considered Job as good as dead.” This may be right, but it is significant that Job reads his situation this way. 72 The structure of the passage corresponds to the use of the interrogative ‫למה‬ in verse 11 and 20. Similarly, Clines, Job, 76; Kline, “Job,” 464–465. 73 Pace Fyall, Now My Eyes, 102. 74 Norman C. Habel, “Interpretations of Death in the Discourses of Job,” (unpublished essay, 1998), 7. 69 70

278

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

4.1.5 It is important to notice that within this chapter the word ‫ שאול‬is not used. Fyall claims that the “basic indicator” that the netherworld is in mind is the word ‫( שם‬3:17, 19). 75 However, the deictic ‫ שם‬has its referent primarily from context, and here we need not specifically think of ‫שאול‬. It would seem that Job is primarily referring to death (e.g. 3:11, 21), with the only local emphasis (to use Fyall’s words) coming from the use of ‫ קבר‬in verse 22, which would point away from a “netherworld” interpretation. Certainly Job has his reasons for not yet using ‫שאול‬. The use of ‫שאול‬ throughout the OT primarily signifies the habitat of the wicked after death, 76 with nuances of captivity (Isa 38:10; Jon 2:6; Pss 18:5; 116:3). 77 For Job, life now has the characteristics of ‫שאול‬. By not employing the term ‫שאול‬, Job can—and does—associate positive nuances to death. Death sets one free from such captivity. Thus, death is freedom and life is bondage. This conclusion is primarily derived from Job’s vantage point of suffering and futility. 78 Thus if life under the judgement of God is neither peaceful (‫)שלה‬, quiet (‫)שקט‬, nor restful (‫ )נוח‬but one of turmoil (‫ ;רגז‬3:26), then death by way of contrast must be quiet(‫ )שקט‬and restful (‫ ;נוח‬3:13). 79 Fyall, Now My Eyes, 105; similarly Habel, “Interpretations of Death”, 7. Num 16:30, 33; 1 Kgs 2:6, 9; Job 21:13; 24:19; Pss 9:17; 31:17; 49:14(x2); 55:15; 141:7; Prov 5:5; 7:27; 9:18; Isa 5:14; 14:11, 15; 28:15, 18; Ezek 31:15–17; 32:21, 27. 77 On ‫ שאול‬see esp. Philip S. Johnston, Shades of Sheol: Death and Afterlife in the Old Testament (Leicester: Apollos, 2002), 69–124; idem, “‘Left in Hell’? Psalm 16, Sheol and the Holy One,” in The Lord’s Anointed: Interpretation of Old Testament Messianic Texts (ed. Philip E. Satterwaite et al.; Grand Rapids: Baker, 1995), 216–221; idem, “Psalm 49: A Personal Eschatology,” in “The Reader Must Understand”: Eschatology in Bible and Theology (ed. K. E. Brower and M. W. Elliott; Leicester: Apollos, 1997), 76; idem, “Death and Resurrection,” in New Dictionary of Biblical Theology (ed. T. D. Alexander and Brian S. Rosner; Leicester: IVP, 2000), 444–445; Desmond Alexander, “The Old Testament View of Life After Death,” Them 11 (1986), 41–44; contra, inter alios, John Barclay Burns, “The Mythology of Death in the Old Testament,” SJT 26 (1973), 340; David Powys, “Hell”: A Hard Look at a Hard Question: The Fate of the Righteous in New Testament Thought (PBTM; Carlisle: Paternoster, 1997), 69, 83; T. H. Gaster, “Dead, Abode of the,” IDB, 1:787–788; A. Dagan, “Olam Hada,” Encyclopaedia Judaica, 12:1356. This interpretation also removes the difficulties of R. L. Harris’ (“The Meaning of the Word Sheol as Shown by Parallels in Poetic Passages,” JETS 4 [1961], 129–135) interpretation, viz. the speculative nature of Sheol and its aversion to taking the definite article (cf. Alexander, “Old Testament View”, 43; Johnston, Shades of Sheol, 74). 78 Burns (“Mythology of Death”, 335) also notices the intense contrast between life and death, but has other reasons for suggesting this. 79 See Habel, “Interpretations of Death”, 6. 75 76

JOB, HOPEFUL OR HOPELESS?

279

These are the first stirrings of his “sufferer’s cosmology”. 80 The portrayal of the afterlife in this chapter is one of escape into death. Like the graverobber, Job longs for an experience of the grave (3:21–22). 81 For the time being, Job ignores the negatives of death. 82

4.1.6 Now the cosmology may be represented thus:

Heaven - place from which one is “hedged in” Life - under God’s judgement - intolerable - place of captivity and bondage - like ‫שאול‬ - turmoil (‫)רגז‬, place of suffering and injustice

Death - the liberator - freedom from captivity - desirable over life - quiet (‫ )שקט‬and resful (‫)נוח‬

Earth - place of the ‫קבר‬

4.1.7 In his second discourse, Job continues to understand death positively, although the term ‫ שאול‬is used once (7:9). Here it would appear that although death is viewed as punishment from God, nevertheless the positive overtones are continued from chapter 3. However, the emphasis has shifted slightly: 83 ‫מי־יתן תבוא שאלתי ותקותי יתן אלוה‬ ‫ויאל אלוה וידכאני יתר ידו ויבצעני‬ “Oh that I might have my request, and that God would fulfil my hope— that it would please God to crush me, to let loose his hand and cut me off” (6:8–9)!

The traditional terminology of ‫תקוה‬, usually synonymous with redemption and rebirth (Pss 71:5; 62:5–6; cf. Job 4:6), is here applied to the longing for violent death (‫)דכא‬. 84 Eliphaz’s fervent theistic interpretation The words are from Habel, Job, 154; idem, “Earth First”, 69. Fyall (Now My Eyes, 105) made me aware of the simile of the graverobber. 82 See Habel, “Interpretations of Death”, 6–7. 83 So Habel, “Interpretations of Death”, 8. 84 Habel, “Interpretations of Death”, 8. On ‫ דכא‬cf. Pss 72:4; 89:10[11]; Isa 53:5, 80 81

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

has wrought a change to the first somewhat aloof treatment of God in Job’s first speech—now Job confronts God openly and directly. 85 The oppression felt by Job initially has now given way to a recognition of God as the oppressor (e.g. 7:17–20); 86 he is on the attack as Job’s enemy: an archer (6:4a); a terroriser (6:4b); a spy (7:8); and a jailer (7:12). No more, it would seem, is God merely a “hedger” (3:23). The “sufferer’s cosmology” is now fully-blown. Life—the interim period before one returns to Earth—is an experience of forced labour (‫ )צבא‬and slavery (7:1–6). Unlike the Atrahasis myth where human labour had the purpose of freeing the gods from work, here Job emphasises his enforced labour is arbitrary and purposeless. 87 In his darkly ironic twist to Psalm 8, Job asserts that although humans are given greatness they have no chance of fulfilling it due to the penetrating divine scrutiny. 88 4.1.8 In such a world one can only hope for escape, 89 especially if life is all but bones: ‫ותבחר מחנק נפשי מות מעצמותי‬ ‫מאסתי לא־לעלם אחיה חדל ממני כי־הבל ימי‬ “… so that my throat prefers strangling; I prefer death rather than bones. I loath it; I will not live forever. Leave me since my days are nothing” (7:15–16).

Habel notes that here ‫ נפש‬is given a double-meaning: normally it means “throat” or “soul” in the sense of “life”. 90 Thus, since life is ‫הבל‬, death is much preferable. Job’s options are essentially a polarity: life/death. 10; Lam 3:34; W. R. Domeris, “‫דכא‬,” in New International Dictionary of Old Testament Theology and Exegesis (ed. Willem A. VanGemeren; 5 vols.; Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1997), 1:944; J. A. Motyer, The Prophecy of Isaiah (Leicester: IVP, 1999), 430. 85 Kline, “Job,”467–468. 86 Habel, “Interpretations of Death”, 8. 87 Habel, “Earth First”, 69–70; cf. idem, Job, 157–158; idem, “‘Naked I Came…’: Humanness in the Book of Job,” in Die Botschaft und die Boten: Festschrift für Hans Walter Wolff zum 70. Geburtstag (ed. Jörg Jeremias and Lothar Perlitt; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1981), 381–182; idem, “Interpretations of Death”, 10–11. 88 Habel, “‘Naked’”, 383. 89 Cf. Zimmerli, Man and his Hope, 19 comments. 90 Habel, “Interpretations of Death”, 13; cf. Ps 69:1[2], Jon.2:5[6]; H. Seebass, “‫נֶ ֶפשׁ‬,” in TDOT (ed. G. Johannes Botterweck et al.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 9:504–505; HALOT, 2:712; DCH, 5:725.

JOB, HOPEFUL OR HOPELESS?

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Viewed in this manner death becomes a victorious escape, its victory cry

‫אינני‬: 91

‫כי־עתה לעפר אשכב ושחרתני ואינני‬ “For now I will lie down in the dust; you will search for me—but I will not be” (7:21)!

For suffering Job, if life is a polarity, then death is the welcome reprieve to life; ‫ שאול‬is a place of thankful no return (7:9), and the afterlife experience is one of necessary death, a glad return to dust (‫ ;עפר‬7:21). 4.1.9 Thus Job has essentially inverted the cosmology presented in the opening chapters. His inverted sufferer’s cosmology may be represented in this way: Heaven - place from which God attacks Job - place of divine archer, terroriser, and jailer—no longer merely a hedger Life - place from which Job hopes (‫ )תקוה‬for violent death at the hand of God - place in wh ich Job is under constant divine attack and scrut iny - experience of forced labour and slavery - place in wh ich man has no hope of fulfilling Ps. 8 greatness because of divine scrutin g - bones and ‫הבל‬ - place from which Job longs to escape; escape is life’s opposite, death

Death - although understood as judgement (i.e. ‫)שאול‬, death nevertheless carries positive overtones - Job’s ‫תקוה‬ - preferable to life if life is but bones and ‫הבל‬ - escape; welcome reprieve - return to dust

Earth - place Job longs to return to - place of ‫עפר‬

4.2 DEATH AS NEGATIVE 4.2.1 In 4.1. I surveyed those passages in which Job expresses a positive attitude toward death. However, as his discourse with his friends continues, death for some reason becomes to be seen as a negative experience.

4.2.1 Chapter 14 is one such place. Humans appear to be unlike trees which inherently seem able to regain life (14:7–10); much more like water which disappears, humans lie down never to arise (14:11–12). Alternatively put, like mountains that are eroded and stones worn, so God appears to act upon humanity (14:18–20). ‫ שאול‬now is seen to be an ominous place: an 91

The language of “victory cry” is from Habel, “Interpretations of Death”, 12.

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

existence of some sort of consciousness characterised by pain, self-pity, and loneliness (14:21–22). 92

4.2.2 Indeed, Job even expresses a desire for being hidden from the divine anger in ‫( שאול‬14:13). 93 Job is blatantly aware he is suffering divine

judgement, although his claim is this is unjust. He is therefore under no false apprehension that he is destined for ‫שאול‬, the place of the divinely judged. 94 Sheol has thus become transformed into a place of “forced labour” (‫ ;צבא‬14:14c), 95 one from which Job “expectantly hopes” (‫;יחל‬ 14:14c) for the coming of his renewal (‫ ;עד־בוא חליפתי‬14:14d). What this “renewal” exactly entails is hard to say; but at the very least the context indicates that Job’s “renewal” involves such things as: God remembering (‫ ;זכר‬14:13d) Job, perhaps as Noah was (cf. Gen 8:1); 96 a call of longing from God to Job (14:15); and favourable divine scrutiny—in contrast to the earlier lamentable scrutiny—along with divine removal of sin (14:16–17). 97 All of this suggests that the rhetorical question of 14:14a appears to operate on two levels. 98 On the first level, the particle ‫ ה‬implies a negative answer. On the structure of the chapter, see Habel, Job, 236. On ‫ מי יתן‬see Joüon and Muraoka, Grammar, §163d; B. Jongeling, “L’Expression my ytn dans l’Ancien Testament,” VT 24 (1974), 32–40. I take it that ‫ מי יתן‬simply expresses the fact of the wish; it implies nothing as to whether the speaker believes the event will or will not occur, and this needs to be determined on other grounds. My reasoning for this is that in contrast ‫ מי יודע‬seems to encode a wish where the outcome is judged to be in doubt whereas ‫ מי יתן‬simply encodes that the speaker has a wish. See, briefly, van der Merwe, Naudé, and Kroeze, Biblical Hebrew, §43.3.1. Note, however, James L. Crenshaw, “The Expression mî yôdēa‛ in the Hebrew Bible,” VT 36 (1986), 274–288. 94 Cf. Johnston, Shades of Sheol, 76. 95 Contra Hartley, Job, 236,n.3. Clines (Job, 332) persuasively argues that ‫ שאול‬is now a place of labour; I have provided my reasons above why I also understand it this way. 96 Meredith Kline (“Death, Leviathan, and the Martyrs: Isaiah 24:1–27:1,” in A Tribute to Gleason Archer: Essays on the Old Testament [ed. Walter C. Kaiser, Jr. and Ronald F. Youngblood; Chicago: Moody, 1986], 241; idem, Kingdom Prologue II [privately published, 1985], 104–106) even suggests the ark was something of a burial chamber, a refuge through the waters of death. 97 Surprisingly, Harley (Job, 236–238) neither acknowledges nor defends his removal of ‫ לא‬from verse 16, which I judge to have occurred on the basis of his translation which reads: “But now you count my steps, / and surely you notice my sin”. But if ‫ לא‬is read, then Hartley’s interpretation begins to fall apart since 16b then says exactly the opposite of what he has made it say by the removal of ‫לא‬. Clines’ (Job, 333–334) interpretation is therefore much preferable. 92 93

JOB, HOPEFUL OR HOPELESS?

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els. 98 On the first level, the particle ‫ ה‬implies a negative answer. Thus, empirically, man does not, prima facie, live again. But from the perspective of hope? 99 At the second level the rhetorical question expects a positive answer: Job will live again, and he will be renewed, remembered, friendly scrutinised, and have his sin removed. In other words, Job and God will have relationship again. But it would seem to be quite plain that this is beyond the experience of Sheol and thus beyond death. Sheol in this chapter seems to be a half-way house for Job between life and restored relationship with God. The wish of 14:13 seems to give way to conviction in 14:14, signalled by the change to the indicative clause structure and the lack of the repetition of ‫מי יתן‬. 100 Somewhere, sometime, beyond the experience of Sheol, Job knows that he and God will again be friends. (This passage, then, could be added to those discussed in §3 as a further instance where Job places his trust in God.)

4.2.3 Therefore, while Job was at first happy to characterise death as a positive experience, when the full extent of his situation is grasped—namely that he is under God’s judgement and is thus headed for Sheol—death is no longer simply blessed reprieve but forced labour in Sheol. Sheol is the place from which Job understands he must be “renewed”.

4.2.4 Before I again present a diagram summarising Job’s cosmology, I shall discuss the second passage, Job 17:13–16, where Job views death and Sheol negatively. Here, well-aware of his shattered existence (17:11–12), under divine judgement and destined for Sheol (16:22–17:1), Job audaciously asserts: 101 ‫אם־אקוה שאול ביתי בחשך רפדתי יצועי‬ ‫לשחת קראתי אבי אתה אמי ואחתי לרמה‬ ‫ואיה אפו תקותי ותקותי מי ישורנה‬ ‫בדי שאל תרדנה אם־יחד על־עפר נחת‬ On the question of the bias of rhetorical questions with ‫ה‬, see Lénart J. de Regt, “Discourse Implications of Rhetorical Questions in Job, Deuteronomy and the Minor Prophets,” in Literary Structure and Rhetorical Strategies in the Hebrew Bible (ed. L. J. de Regt et al.; Assen: Van Gorcum, 1996), 59–64; idem, “Functions and Implications of Rhetorical Questions in the Book of Job,” in Biblical Hebrew and Discourse Linguistics (ed. Robert D. Bergen; Dallas: SIL, 1994), 364–368. He fails to recognise 14:14 as a further instance of ‫ ה‬expecting a positive answer. 99 Cf. Ben C. Ollenburger (“If Mortals Die, Will they Live Again? The Old Testament and Resurrection,” EA 9 [1993], 34–35) who also notices this tension. 100 See above n.63. 101 The following analysis is based on Habel, “Interpretations of Death”, 18. 98

284

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES “If I ‘measure’ Sheol for my home and make my bed in the darkness, if I say to the pit, ‘You are my father’, or to the worm, ‘My mother’, or ‘My sister’, where then is my hope? As for my hope, who sees it? It descends to the chambers of Sheol when we descend to the dust together” (17:13–16).

4.2.5 Faced with the grim prospect of Sheol, Job maintains he and his hope are inseparable. The word-play on the ‫קוה‬-root is profound: if he must “plan/measure” (‫ )אקוה‬his home in ‫שאול‬, 102 his hope (‫ )תקוה‬descends with him. Hypostasised, Job’s hope is his companion in ‫שאול‬. 103 The assertion is not that his hope is ultimately vacuous (contra NEB; NET note), 104 but that ‫ תקוה‬sustains him in Sheol, a place of otherwise acute separation and hopelessness. 105 No longer is Job’s ‫ תקוה‬death (cf. 6:8–9), but ‫תקוה‬ preserves him in death. As in chapter 14, Sheol for Job exists as a transition stage to a new life. Death is neither his destiny nor his final hope. 106 4.2.6 Now, the cosmology of chapter 14 and 17 may be represented thus:

The parallelism of ‫ אקוה‬with ‫ רפדתי‬suggests this. See Gordis, Job, 184. Cf. HALOT, 3:1082; REB; NEB. 103 This interpretation makes sense of the otherwise confusing Masoretic ‫ֵתּ ַר ְדנָ ה‬ and, to a lesser extent, ‫נָ ַחת‬. Thus it is probably preferable to vocalise the consonantal ‫ תרדנה‬as bearing an energetic nun: ‫( ֵתּ ֵר ַדנָּ ה‬see, e.g., Marvin Pope, Job: Introduction, Translation, and Notes [2nd ed.; AB; Garden City: Doubleday, 1965], 122).104 This is also against: Burns, “Mythology of Death”, 334; Clines, Job, 400–401; Hartley, Job, 271; Samuel Rolles Driver and George Buchanan Gray, The Book of Job (ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1971), 155–156. 105 This would appear to be the intention of the repetitious phrases: ‫לשחת‬ ‫( קראתי אבי אתה אמי ואחתי לרמה‬v.14), i.e. within Sheol Job’s only apparent father is ‫ שהת‬and his only recognisable mother or sister ‫רמה‬. However, ‫ תקוה‬provides sustenance and companionship. 106 Cf. Habel, “Interpretations of Death”, 18. 102

JOB, HOPEFUL OR HOPELESS?

285

Heaven - place from which God remembers, scrutinises, and removes Job’s sin Death (and Sheol) - place of pain and separation - place of forced labour - place from which Job will be renewed - place from which Job will be remembered by God, scrutin ised, and have his sin removed - place in wh ich Job his sustained by hope (‫)תקוה‬

Job’s “renewal” - experience of divine remembrance, divine scrutiny, and d ivine removal of sin - friendship with God again - Job’s hope (‫)תקוה‬

Earth - place of Sheol

4.2.7 It should now be readily apparent that Job’s conception of death and Sheol change from a realm of liberation and reprieve to a realm from which he expectantly hopes to be removed. The blissfulness of death has given way to the experience of Sheol—a place of forced labour, loneliness, and separation. Earlier I briefly suggested that this progression in thought could be put down to the nature of Sheol itself as the place of those under the judgement of God, i.e. as the dialogue continues Job allows the fact that Sheol is for those divinely judged to colour and transform his earlier positive portrayal of death. In this sense, it could be argued that Job progressively becomes more honest as to the nature of his foreseen death and beyond. But in the end, I still would like to know what has prompted such thoughts, i.e. has something provoked either Job’s honesty regarding Sheol or his recollection as to its true nature? Thus, while I take it that the progression in thought can be put down to the nature of Sheol itself, I would also like to suggest that there is more to it. And taken as a whole, the interpretation challenges the “heavenly-witness-as-a-hypothetical-figure” argument of Wilson. 4.2.8 It is interesting to note the progression of Job’s conceptions of death: positive in chapters 3 and 6–7, but negative in chapters 14 and 17. It is not that Job’s positive thoughts of death are interspersed with his negative thoughts; rather, his thought appears to change from one to the other. Significantly, prior to his negative portrayal of death in chapter 14 is none other than chapter 13, which I have shown to be a chapter involving Job’s expression of trust in God. Similarly, prior to chapter 17 is chapter 16 in which Job again boldly affirms his trust in God. It would thus appear from the text that as Job begins to reaffirm his trust in God in the midst of his despair, he discards his positive portrayal of death. Job understands that God is dependable and trustworthy, and that his future is centred around God. Consequently, from this perspective, death is negative—even more so as Job begins to concede and affirm that he is destined for Sheol. As one who will experience death in Sheol, Job realises he is out of relationship

286

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

with God as one who is under divine judgement. In the last analysis, then, death is supremely negative for Job. 4.2.9 It would thus appear that a strong motivating factor for Job to be changing his framing of death is his affirmations of trust in God standing as they do prior to his negative depictions of death. While not conclusive in and of itself, Job’s changing thoughts on this subject is strong collaborative evidence supporting the position that Job does not abandon his trust in God. Taken alongside the import of ‫ גם‬in chapter 16, the evidence points strongly in favour of the view taken here that Job continues to place his trust in God.

5.

COMMENTS ON RESURRECTION AND THE BOOK’S ENDING

5.1 As argued above, Job continues to place his trust in God in the midst of his despair. This trust at times involves a future hope of resurrection, however this be understood. 107 As expressed by Job, life after death is essentially a post-mortem experience with the God he will not let go. His hope of resurrection is then basically a means to an end: considered in and of itself it is empty. But viewed as Job’s “escape plan” from Sheol, it is his unquenchable hope that sustains his tenure there. 108 Ultimately Job’s hope firmly centres on God, a hope that will break free from the confines of Sheol itself. Resurrected, with the past behind them, Job foresees a future where he experiences the joy of knowing the Living God once again, where he and God dwell once again in communion together.

5.2 But within the larger context of the book, however, as far as Job’s “hope” is concerned, his experience of seeing God again is prematurely realised in the appearance of God (chs. 38–41). Pitted against God in a metaphorical belt-wrestling match, 109 Job is overcome by the “Godness” of God and the humanness of himself (40:1–5; 42:1–6). Confronted with such a reality, Job declares: “Therefore, I sink down in reverence and am comforted (‫ )נחם‬upon dust and ashes” (42:6). 110 Ultimately for Job, comfort is See my comments above on chapters 19 and 14 for my position. This would also appear to be the case with his desire for vindication. This is where I judge Clines (Job, passim) to have gone wrong in his interpretation of Job (aside from the fact argued here that he has left ‫ גם‬in chapter 16 not interpreted), and which is particularly prominent in his discussion of chapters 16 and 19. 109 Cf. 38:3; 40:7; Kline, “Trial by Ordeal,” 88–93; idem, “Job,” 487–489; Cyrus H. Gordon, “Belt-Wrestling in the Bible World,” HUCA 23 (1950–51), 131–136. 110 The rendering is much like Clines’ (Job, xlvi), although the understanding is 107 108

JOB, HOPEFUL OR HOPELESS?

287

only to be found in God. Job 2:11 and 42:6 would thus seem to form a kind of inclusio. Job’s longing is met in God, and not in the trappings normally to be associated with faith: assured that God was God, Job revealed his commitment to God as a commitment content to embrace the misery of life and beyond in death. The appearance of God does not therefore negate Job’s fervent hope of resurrection to see God, although this is somewhat anticipated in the appearance of God and the restoration of blessings. Job, however, is not back where he began, and so the LXX is “theologically correct” in adding to 42:17: γέγραπται δὲ αὐτον πάλιν ἀναστήσεσθαι μεθ᾽ ὧν ὁ κύριος ἀνίστησιν. 111

5.3 Here, too, lies, I suggest, the answer to the friends’ need for sacrifice. Their unwavering commitment to the principle of retribution has unmasked their hearts. Their rejection of the possibility of innocent suffering means that they have ultimately sided with a position positing a causal relation between piety and blessing; and as such it reflects their out-of-step character with the way things actually are to be in the divine–human relationship. Indeed, it was this very thing which was the subject of satanic attack at the book’s beginning and which has taken the life of Job to prove and establish. Their relationship with God, then, is not ‫ ; ִחנָּ ם‬their relationship is unlike Job’s. The issue is not so much that they were “bad theologians” but that their unmovable stance of perceiving the divine–human relationship to be one essentially of cause-and-effect has in effect exposed their own relationship with God as one based on cause-and-effect, which the book of Job judges to be deficient. It is no wonder, then, that prayer and sacrifice are called for at the end of the book.

6. CONCLUSION 6.1 I have sort to demonstrate in the above analysis that claims that Job does not have a hope in God are unfounded. I have sort to show that the use of ‫ גם‬in chapter 16 means that we cannot understand that chapter in this manner. Armed with this understanding, I argued that it would then not be out of place to suspect that Job elsewhere affirms his trust in God, and indeed this was found to be the case. The texts depict Job placing a bold, confident trust in God despite the tragic nature of his present experience. Despite its paradoxical nature, Job affirms that God is his witness, unlike his. 111 On the Greek translation of Job, see Donald H. Gard, “The Concept of the Future Life According to the Greek Translator of the Book of Job,” JBL 73 (1954), 137–143.

288

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

advocate, redeemer, friend, and mark of protection. Consequently, the interpretation which was prompted by the use of ‫ גם‬in that chapter, is found to be repeated at various times elsewhere in Job. These other affirmations of trust in God are consistent with the interpretation of chapter 16 I presented. Indeed, without this understanding of these passages it is unclear why Job’s conception of death changes from being negative to positive. Collaborative evidence is thereby provided by this changing conception. 6.2 Contrary voices have argued the point that Job does not have trust in God and have been able to do so because they have neglected to deal with the use of ‫ גם‬in chapter 16. The evidence outlined above has revealed that the analysis of chapter 16 also fits with the other disputed chapters: they can all be naturally understood as Job expressing a trust in God. The lines of evidence thus join to paint a consistent picture of Job as one who trusted God even though his world fell apart. In the midst of his despair, he trusted that God remained, somehow, his only friend.

DEATH, SOCIAL CONFLICT, AND THE BARLEY HARVEST IN THE HEBREW BIBLE BRIAN BRITT

VIRGINIA POLYTECHNIC INSTITUTE AND STATE UNIVERSITY 1.

INTRODUCTION

The stereotype of the Hebrew Bible as violent and harsh persists in churches and popular opinion. 1 The propitiation of an angry and jealous God, inscrutable misery, and harsh systems of justice (“an eye for an eye”) are all elements of this stereotype. There is no denying that the Hebrew Bible describes and prescribes a range of violent actions, but the stereotype often reads texts at face value, overlooking literary, religious, and historical context. Since most biblical narratives were written long after the events they claim to relate, often by many hands and over many centuries, biblical accounts of death and violence often represent the difference between past and present by narrative conventions. The approach I take here considers biblical texts primarily as representations of events rather than as transparent records of events. 2 Such representations have real historical and social pur1 A recent newspaper story about hockey, for example, begins as follows: “Hockey has always been the most Homeric and Old Testament-like of sports— the only one with its own code of vengeance and retribution, where eye-for-eye justice is meted out by large, short-tempered men hired expressly for that purpose,” (McGrath). 2 This is not to suggest that biblical texts can be studied exactly like singleauthor works of literature. Rather, like the work of such scholars as Michael Fishbane, J. Cheryl Exum, and Robert Alter, and in some ways like Jewish midrash, this approach attends to the language, structure, and thematic patterns of the text. Social scientific approaches in the tradition of Weber, Durkheim, and others, by contrast, tend to focus mainly on how the text reveals social and cultural realities. My criticism of such work is a tendency to read references to sacrifice and violence as transparent records of events. The task is to combine literary and social scientific approaches without reducing one to the other. Even those who recognize the sym-

289

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

poses, however, and in this essay I show how several biblical texts illustrate René Girard’s insight that religious violence can address social conflicts. The phrase “barley harvest” (‫ )קציר שערים‬appears only twice in the Hebrew Bible: 2 Sam. 21:9–10 and Ruth 1:22. 3 It also figures in the Greek apocryphal book of Judith (8:2). All three instances of the phrase occur in the context of scarcity (of food or water), death, and social conflict. Read on their own, the stories of death around the barley harvest may give the impression of being straightforward historical narratives. Each of these episodes, however, marks an important transition (e.g., end or beginning) in its narrative context. 4 Each case of death is a singular or special occasion that also refers to seasonal tradition. 5 As such, each text is at least as much a representation as a record of past events. Few scholars or general readers have linked the three episodes: a violent episode of David’s reign in the Deuteronomistic History; the prologue to a literary masterpiece about a Moabite woman of skill and virtue; and a story of an Israelite woman whose beauty and skill defeat the Assyrian enemy. This essay claims that Ruth 1, 2 Sam. 21, and Judith combine the seasonal occurrence of the barley harvest with violence and death in order to depict and address social conflicts. Each bolic nature of biblical sacrifice, such as Jonathan Klawans, make sacrifice, rather than texts about it, their primary object of study (149–55). In an age when the relationship between texts and their contexts has never been more deeply questioned, many studies of violence and sacrifice continue to treat texts about sacrifice as straightforward records of primitive rites. Even Girard, a scholar of literature, makes no clear distinction between reports of sacrifice in ancient Greek tragedy and modern ethnographies (Girard, Violence and the Sacred 39–67 et passim. See also Girard, Things Hidden Since The Formation of the World, 103–4, e.g., where Girard’s awareness of symbol and signification extends to sacrifice and the victim rather than to the production of texts depicting sacrifice). 3 In the longer phrase ‫ בימי קציר בראשנים תחלת קציר שערים‬in 2 Sam. 21:9, and ‫ מתחלת קציר‬in 2 Sam. 21:10, and ‫ בתחלת קציר שערים‬in Ruth 1:22. The fact has been noted in Bernard Gosse, “Le Livre de Ruth et ses liens avec II Samuel 21,1–14,” ZAW 108 (1996) 430–33. Gosse observes that the phrase “barley harvest” provides narrative context and transition in both texts and concentrates on the social implications of the parallel for Ruth’s social theology. He does not, however, discuss the issue of sacrifice. 4 Gosse, “Le Livre de Ruth” 431–32. More theoretical works include Schenker, McKenna, and Lohfink. 5 De Vaux tries to distinguish routine from extraordinary narratives of violence: “But the story [of Jephthah] is told as a quite extraordinary and shocking incident: so, too, was the action of the king of Moab, when he immolated his only son upon the rampart of his capital while it was being invested by the Israelites (2 K 3:27)” 442.

DEATH, SOCIAL CONFLICT, AND THE BARLEY HARVEST

291

of these stories moves from a state of disequilibrium, marked by death and violence, toward a new equilibrium in which famine and conflict are resolved. In each text, women (Naomi, Ruth, Rizpah, and Judith) play key roles in the resolution of these conflicts. Since the publication of Girard’s Violence and the Sacred, biblical scholars have increasingly explored the central roles of violence in traditions (Lohfink, McKenna). Is the religion of ancient Israel essentially violent? According to Girard, religion serves primarily to control and limit social violence. By channeling violence in this way, religion, through sacrifice, serves “to restore harmony to the community, to reinforce the social fabric” (Violence and the Sacred 8). 6 The biblical texts discussed here seek this harmony through literary rather than literalist means. The mention of barley harvest and the killing of Saul’s “sons” to end the famine in 2 Sam. 21 may suggest sacrifice as propitiation, but the story, like Ruth 1 and Judith 8, concerns social conflict in the context of the barley harvest, famine, and death. The three texts are carefully-written textual representations in a literary tradition, not merely straightforward records of events. The deaths reported in Ruth 1 are no more or less “real” than those in 2 Sam. 21. Nor is the killing in 2 Sam. 21 any less story-like or literary than the deaths in Judith and Ruth 1.

2.

SECOND SAMUEL 21

2.1

SACRIFICE AS MOTIF

According to Arvid Kapelrud, the killing of Saul’s sons and grandsons in 2 Sam. 21 demonstrates an ancient pattern linking the king to fertility. Citing 2 Kgs. 3 and 16, Pss. 15 and 72, and studies of ancient Near Eastern culture, Kapelrud argues that the killing of Saul’s descendants “took place at no accidental point of time. They were killed in the first days of the barley harvest, in the middle of April, and they were lying exposed till the rain came, in October-November. … The corpses had to remain exposed till the rain came, then their task was fulfilled” (301). According to Roland de Vaux, the “Gibeonites took their revenge in the form of a fertility rite (as a passage in the poems of Ras Shamra shows)” (491). Kapelrud’s account fits the sacrifice theory of Henri Hubert and Marcel Mauss more closely than A different theory of sacrifice, set forth by Georges Bataille, concentrates less on the deity and social relations than the object of sacrifice itself, which is removed from the world of things by sacrifice. For Bataille, sacrifice helps bring about the restoration of lost intimacy, 43–44. The theme of restored intimacy will appear in Ruth and 2 Sam. 21. 6

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

that of Girard: the sacrifice of Saul’s sons brings the sacrificers (Gibeonites, but by implication, David and Israel) closer to the God of Israel. The sacrifice is related to a natural cycle, and it seems to propitiate the deity in a way that yields fertility. Like Hubert and Mauss, Kapelrud focuses on how sacrifice relates to the sacred. 7 How convincing is Kapelrud’s view of 2 Sam. 21 as a sacrifice in the context of an agricultural fertility tradition? I propose that agricultural propitiation appears more as literary motif than ritual practice in this text, and that a more convincing case can be made that the narrative of these deaths addresses social conflict. Cultic and historiographic phenomena are not immediately or necessarily available on the surface of biblical (and other) texts. Corroborating physical and documentary evidence is very difficult to produce. Even more to the point, the high level of literary sophistication in biblical narrative, which includes a high incidence of inner-biblical exegesis, allusion, folklore, legend, pious glosses, and creative invention, calls into question the whole project of reading biblical narrative as a mere chronicle of historical events and everyday practices. Few issues in biblical tradition are more contested than the various forms and reports of sacrifice in ancient Israel and the ancient Near East. 8

2.2

DEATH AND SOCIAL CONFLICT

David’s permission to kill Saul’s descendents may appear to be a nonIsraelite propitiation, but it falls within the parameters of the religious pact made with the Gibeonites in Josh. 9. According to 2 Sam. 21, the famine is a punishment for Saul’s unwarranted killing of Gibeonites, a protected people. Even though there is no other report of this massacre, David appears prudent and pious in his efforts to overcome the famine. When God tells him about the bloodguilt against the house of Saul because of his unwarranted slaughter of the Gibeonites, David approaches the Gibeonites, who demand seven sons and grandsons of Saul to be impaled “before the Lord at Gibeon on the mountain of the Lord” (2 Sam. 21:6). The plan is carried out “at the beginning of barley harvest” (v. 9). Once the bones of the seven sons and grandsons are buried, along with those of Saul and Jonathan, the famine is lifted (vv. 10–14). Commentators have pointed out that David’s See also Hanson. Kapelrud allows that David’s action also strengthens his social position, but he characterizes this as a political maneuver rather than a basic function of sacrifice (as Girard would) (Kapelrud, 301). 8 The list of important works on Israelite sacrifice is too long to include here. See the recent summary of research in Klawans, esp. 133–39. Jacob Milgrom’s three-volume commentary on Levitucus offers a strong survey and analysis of priestly sacrifice traditions. See also Anderson and de Vaux, 415–32 and 447–56. 7

DEATH, SOCIAL CONFLICT, AND THE BARLEY HARVEST

293

actions eliminate not only the plague but also his remaining opponents in Saul’s family (McCarter 445–6). The justification for David’s action, bloodguilt, appears elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible, including Shimei’s charge that David bears bloodguilt for killing Saul (2 Sam. 16:8). 9 Is it a human sacrifice? Other sanctioned cases of human sacrifice or near-sacrifice in the Hebrew Bible include Gen. 22 and 2 Kgs. 3:27. But despite the thematic similarity between 2 Sam. 21 and these cases, the linguistic and structural relationship with Ruth 1, including the elements of barley harvest, famine, death, and narrative transition, is arguably closer, though its resemblance is more literary than cultic or historiographic. Is there any connection between sacrifice, death, and harvest? Are the deaths in 2 Sam. 21 cases of what Hubert and Mauss describe as those forms of sacrifice that are “repeated periodically because the rhythm of nature demands this regular recurrence” (89)? The most prominent form of human sacrifice mentioned in biblical tradition, the Molek cult, does not seem to be routine or related to the harvest. According to George Heider, the cult of Molek, while it may have been practiced in Israel until the reform of Josiah, specifically included the elements of fire, and the sacrifice of children. By this definition, not even the Moabite sacrifice in 2 Kgs. 3:27 would count decisively as a case of Molek sacrifice, much less the killings in 2 Sam. 21. The report that King Manasseh “made his son pass through fire” (2 Kgs. 21:6) is more probably a case of Molek sacrifice, but it makes no reference to an agricultural cycle (Heider 280–81, Cogan and Tadmor 47–48 n. 27). Mesha’s sacrifice of his son is an act of propitiation rather than a seasonal ritual, and, as Heider argues, it is not part of the Molek tradition (see Day 31). Even if “barley harvest” refers to the festival of first fruits, which would include an offering of grain (see below), there is no evidence that the term implies human sacrifice. Far from the images of fertility sacrifice one finds in literature about ancient traditions and modern fictions like Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery,” the deaths in 2 Sam. 21 lack overt chthonic and agricultural elements. At the same time, the reference to the sacrifice festival when grain offerings are made to the God of Israel may suggest a faint allusion to propitiation. In 2 Sam. 21, David facilitates the killing of Gibeonites in order to fend off a famine. Like other biblical and ancient stories of plague or famine, this episode makes the king responsible for overcoming the catastrophe through religious or sacrificial means. Nothing of this kind occurs in Ruth, See also Joab’s guilt after the succession struggle: 1 Kgs. 2:28 ff.; and the bloodguilt ceremony for unburied corpses, which involves a heifer sacrifice and cleansing by the priests: Deut. 21. 9

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

but the deaths of Elimelech, Mahlon, and Chilion during a time of famine also lead to the restoration of order and well-being. While there is no overt sacrifice in Ruth 1, the narrator “kills off” the father and two sons, so to speak, in order to obtain the desired outcome; they are “sacrificed” to the story, or for the story. Like 2 Sam. 21, Ruth 1 launches a story with a famine and follows the famine with deaths that lead to a resolution of the famine. In both stories, a mother’s grief for her sons (Naomi and Rizpah) moves the story toward its resolution. 10 Both scenes conclude with the narrative transition that describes the time of the barley harvest (Gosse, “Subversion” 45). The structural and thematic resemblance between the two texts suggests that literary and narrative artifice play an important and heretofore overlooked role in their composition.

3.

RUTH 1

The pattern of famine, death, barley harvest, and relief from famine in 2 Sam. 21 also appears in the book of Ruth. Famine initiates the book, just as it does in 2 Sam. 21:1–14. In both cases, famine motivates what comes next: David’s inquiry and Elimelech’s family sojourn in Moab. The consequent deaths in 2 Sam. 21 are carried out by David and the Gibeonites to alleviate the famine (and avenge Saul’s bloodguilt). The deaths of the three husbands in Ruth do not alleviate famine, but they immediately precede its end: the death of Elimelech is reported in v. 3; the two sons die (ten years later) in v. 5; and the famine then ends and Naomi decides to return in v. 6. Not only are the deaths of the three men associated with the end of famine; they are also necessary to carry the story forward, along with its main points about the virtue of “steadfast love” (‫)חסד‬, divine action in human affairs, and the lineage (partly Moabite!) of David. When the famine ends in both stories, it happens fittingly though paradoxically at the time of the barley harvest. This temporal marker ends the narrative sequence and forms a transition to the next scene. As Vincent Tollers argues, the narrator in Ruth controls the action and closely follows Naomi’s point of view (252– 9). On this interpretation, the narrator not only tells the story but also helps to shape it. Through structuralist analysis, Tollers demonstrates how the action of the story brings together the skillful power of Naomi with the “will of God worked out in history” (258). With Tollers, it is possible to understand the narrator of Ruth as an agent of the story, responsible in important ways for what happens, including such events as famine, death, and The role of the grieving mothers and family in the stories links sacrifice to the status of women, a central concern in Jay, who argues that some sacrifice traditions perform the function of overcoming matrilineal group structures. 10

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chance meetings. Just as modern playwrights and screen writers may speak about getting certain characters “out of the way” or “killing them off,” so to speak, the narrator in Ruth must eliminate the three Ephrathite men, Elimelech, Mahlon, and Chilion, in order for the story to proceed. The concept is close to what J. Cheryl Exum describes as “literary murder.” In the case of Saul’s daughter Michal, Exum notes (2 Sam. 6), “the murder does not take place in the story, bur rather by means of the story” (Exum, 16– 17). A similar notion is the “narrative mortality” developed by Walter B. Crouch (Crouch). By mixing famine and death with the time of the barley harvest, the narrator creates the dramatic tension and symbolic structure necessary for a story in which a Moabite woman will become the heroic ancestor of David.

4.

JUDITH AND THE BARLEY HARVEST

Like Ruth, Judith is a heroine whose bold action brings success to her people as well as to herself. Also like Ruth, she is a widow: “Her husband Manasseh, who belonged to her tribe and family, had died during the barley harvest” [θερισμου κριθωυ; the same phrase used in the Septuagint Ruth 1:22 and 2 Sam. 21:9]. For as he stood overseeing those who were binding sheaves in the field, he was overcome by the burning heat, and took to his bed and died in his town Bethulia” (8:2–3, NRSV). As in Ruth and 2 Sam. 21, the barley harvest in Judith is a time of death and crisis (a water shortage). Just as Ruth’s widowhood sets the story in motion, the death of Manasseh allows the widowed Judith to pursue Holofernes. Like Ruth (and Esther), Judith will approach Holofernes in the role as a submissive woman (Esler). Although she will kill rather than marry him, Judith still takes the position of a vulnerable supplicant asking a powerful man for help and protection. As if to highlight the parallel (and contrast), the narrator puts Ruth’s famous words into the mouth of Holofernes: “[Y]our God shall be my God” (11:23). Piety and beauty are given as Judith’s most distinguishing attributes, and both figure in her seduction and beheading of the Assyrian general Holofernes. But it is mainly Judith’s religious cunning that brings her triumph. She suggests that violating dietary laws will bring the wrath of God on her own people, and she uses prayer as a stratagem to guarantee her escape from the scene of the killing. The violation in question, she says, is that the people are about to eat religiously-forbidden foods, including the “first fruits of the grain” (11:13) that traditionally correspond to the barley harvest. Of course, the dietary laws alone are considered less important in Judith than pious wisdom. In her song of praise, Judith makes the point: “For

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every sacrifice as a fragrant offering is a small thing, and the fat of all whole burnt offerings to you is a very little thing; but whoever fears the Lord is great forever” (16:16). Nevertheless, Judith and the people carefully reinstate the practices of sacrifice when they return to Jerusalem (16:18–19). In one of the most extraordinary killings in biblical tradition, the book of Judith relates the extremes of war and death to the orderly domain of the barley harvest, ritual sacrifice, and feasts. In war, the most extreme form of social conflict, the death of Judith’s husband and her killing of Holofernes bring about the most desirable outcome: victory, a victory framed by two deaths: the first of Judith’s husband during the barley harvest, and the second of Holofernes. The embodiment of great piety and courage combined, Judith singlehandedly brings about a resolution to the disequilibrium of war and drought.

5. 5.1

THE BARLEY HARVEST IN CONTEXT FIRST FRUITS

It is difficult to establish exactly what the associations of the barley harvest are. Biblical accounts of festivals vary, and explaining their interrelationships raises questions of their relative dates. The festival of the first fruits harvest is one of three major feasts listed in Exod. 23:14–17 (usually considered E), the other two being the feast of the massot and the feast of ingathering. A slight variation appears in Exod. 34:22 (usually considered J), which refers to our feast as the “festival of weeks, the first fruits of wheat harvest.” Similarly Deut. 16:9–10 refers to a “festival of weeks” without using the term “harvest” (‫)קציר‬. Leviticus 23, however, specifies a grain offering of first fruits using the term for “harvest” (‫)ראשית קצירכם‬, to take place before the feast of weeks, at which point another grain offering (presumably of wheat rather than barley) will take place (vv. 15–21). The law of gleaning, so important to the plot of Ruth, appears immediately after this passage, in Lev. 23:22. According to this law, which also uses the term “harvest,” some grain must be left unharvested so that the poor and aliens may glean (see also Lev. 19:9–10 and Deut. 24:19, which also allows specifies that widows may glean). The festival of harvest of first fruits, mentioned in Exod. 23:16 and Lev. 23:9–14, was evidently a late spring festival that marked the barley harvest. According to H. L. Ginsberg, the Deuteronomic reforms of the seventh century led to changes in the calendar to accommodate the centralization of the cult. One of these changes, he suggests, was to replace the barley

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harvest festival with the festival of weeks. 11 Regardless of when and how the tradition changed, it is clear that the barley harvest festival was an ancient, pre-Deuteronomistic tradition with a clear agricultural basis. There are also later references to the tradition, in 2 Kgs. 4:42–44, e.g., where Elisha feeds a crowd of 100 with one man’s first fruits offering. In other words, the barley or first fruits harvest festival appears to be a familiar sacrificial tradition even in the Deuteronomistic history. The barley harvest in 2 Sam. 21, Ruth 1, and Judith 8 thus refers or at least alludes to an ancient agricultural festival. The barley harvest may have been known to the authors of 2 Samuel and Ruth as an early and important agricultural festival that would have been practiced in the days of Ruth and David. The possible associations of the barley harvest must not be overstated. Ancient Israel was an agricultural society, its calendar was shaped by agriculture, and so the mention of a harvest was on one level simply a useful temporal marker (Propp 383–90). (See Judg. 15:1, e.g.: “After a while, at the time of the wheat harvest...” See also 2 Sam. 23:13.) Indeed, as the position of the phrases on the barley harvest attest, they do play an important role in placing the narrative in agricultural time and setting the narratives off from other episodes. There is, however, no suggestion in the biblical texts that the first fruits festival is linked to the sacrifice of kings to propitiate the deity. The term “harvest” does appear once to describe divine punishment against Judah (Hos. 6:11), but in most cases it simply refers to the harvest. Nevertheless, the fact that the barley harvest was the occasion for one of the three pilgrimage festivals in ancient Israel makes the phrase allusive; a reference to the harvest is also a reference to the festival. In the context of famine especially, mentioning the barley harvest is poignant if not ironic, for how can there be a harvest during a famine?

5.2

BARLEY HARVEST IN BIBLICAL NARRATIVES

For Ruth, the barley harvest represents an essential plot element, since it enables the main character, who is a widow, an alien, and (presumably) poor, to go to the fields under the law of gleaning. The harvest festival itself is not central to the plot of Ruth, but it is evoked by the mention of the barley harvest. Ruth contrasts famine and bounty precisely through the barley harvest; the book’s elaborate references to biblical traditions of intermarriage (Ezra 9–10), treatment of widows and aliens (Deut. 24), gleaning (Lev. 19 and 23, Deut. 24), levirate marriage (Deut. 25:5–10), covenant language (“steadfast love”), and idealized womanhood (the “woman of substance” of Prov 31:10 and Ruth 3:11) all emerge in the context of the barley 11

H. S. Ginsberg, 55–83. See also de Vaux, 484–494.

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harvest. Ruth, like Judith, alludes to sacrifice by its prominent placement of the barley harvest. 2 Sam. 21:9 deals more overtly with sacrifice, yet the barley harvest seems mainly to mark the time at which the story occurs; there is no explicit connection to the harvest or the festival on which it is based. Like the famine and deaths in Ruth 1, the famine and deaths of 2 Sam. 21 stand against the background of a harvest and (at least by allusion) its attendant festival. For the reader who knows the religious festival of the barley harvest, the expiatory (if not propitiatory) killing of Saul’s descendents to stop a famine would certainly evoke an association between the harvest sacrifice and the bloodguilt killings. At the same time, such an association would not be mistaken for an equation—there is a vast difference between the killings in 2 Sam. 21 and the grain sacrifices of the first fruits festival. In this sense, Kapelrud’s attempt to link the killings to a fertility rite is overstated. As a literary composition, the text makes a subtle connection between the harvest sacrifice and the killing in 2 Sam. 21 without equating them.

6. 6.1

DEATH AND SOCIAL CONFLICT: RESTORING EQUILIBRIUM SOCIAL CONFLICTS ADDRESSED

Crucial to 2 Sam. 21 is sense of balance or proportionality: one Israelite king (Saul) acts against a foreign people (the Gibeonites), and another Israelite king (David) must compensate by handing over seven of Saul’s descendants to be killed. But the equilibrium is not restored until the grief over Saul’s family is resolved. Rizpah, a concubine widow of Saul and mother of Armoni and Mephibosheth, puts on sackcloth and watches over the bodies of the slain sons to keep birds and wild animals away. In response, David performs another transaction with a foreign people: he retrieves the bones of Saul and Jonathan from the Philistines. Like the seven sons of Saul, the bodies of Saul and Jonathan have been disgraced by public exposure. David buries the bones of Saul and Jonathan and gathers the bones of the seven sons. At that point the famine is lifted and “God heeded supplications for the land.” In Girardian terms, violence is resolved in 2 Sam. 21 in a number of reciprocal stages: Gibeonites are killed, Saul’s sons are killed in turn; when Rizpah grieves over the sons, David confers respectful burial on Saul and Jonathan. Through these actions, the struggle between the houses of David and Saul is presumably resolved. The story has also resolved the conflict with the Gibeonites, who are not mentioned again in the Deuteronomistic History (though see 2 Kgs. 3:4–10). At the same time, by recovering the disgraced bones of Saul and Jonathan, an act that symbolizes David’s just

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and merciful resolution of domestic conflict, Israel regains the upper hand in its struggle against the Philistines: the next episodes in the narrative relate the Israelite victories against them (vv. 15–22).

6.2

COMPARISONS

Like 2 Sam. 21, Ruth combines death and the barley harvest to address social conflicts among Israelites and between Israel and others. In Ruth, the fact that some terms and practices are explained in the text (the exchange at the city gate in ch. 4, e.g.) implies that those that are not explained must have been assumed to be familiar to readers. The intended audience must be familiar in some way with the barley harvest and its attendant festival; they must have recognized as least some of the biblical traditions regarding Moab, 12 levirate marriage, the covenantal term “steadfast love,” and King David. Ruth and Naomi’s attempt to gain their proper social position from a recalcitrant Boaz and the next-of-kin represents a social conflict that must be overcome. While this antagonism is less open than the story of Judah and Tamar in Gen. 38, the problem is serious enough that Ruth must risk approaching Boaz in stealth to bring her and Naomi to resolution with him. Even if the story of Judah and Tamar (Gen. 38) is not the object of direct allusion here, men’s reluctance to treat women justly and fairly is a familiar social pattern in ancient Israel, and the deaths and barley harvest in ch. 1 set this drama in motion. There are also two foreign parties in the story: the exceptional Moabite who joins Israel (Ruth) and all other Moabites (symbolized by Orpah). A number of biblical texts, including Num. 22, Deut. 23:3–6, Zeph. 2:9, and Neh. 13, single out the Moabites as enemies of Israel. Ruth’s decision to remain with Naomi, to assimilate to Israelite religion and society, sets her apart from Orpah and the Moabites in general. The implicit point here is that Ruth is exceptional among Moabites; her integration into Israel is the exception that proves the rule of separateness (and hence rivalry). The deaths and the barley harvest make this extraordinary harmony between a Moabite and Israelites possible. While 2 Sam. 21 addresses mainly the conflict between Israel and foreigners (Gibeonites), Ruth concentrates on the more delicate issue of conflict among Israelites without ignoring the question of foreigners (Moabites). As Regina Schwartz points out, the book of Ruth embraces its foreign André LaCocque regards Ruth as a late work written in part to challenge the ban on Moabites in the fifth century: 86–90. While my purpose is not to assign a date of composition to Ruth, I would argue that the internal evidence of the text suggests a late enough date to justify familiarity with anti-Moabite attitudes in the Bible (Zeph. 2:9, Num. 22, e.g.). 12

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main character when she embraces the God of Israel (90–91). In all three stories, innocent Israelites die in the context of a famine (or drought), and their deaths contribute to a resolution of the central conflict. As stories, these texts provide setting, characters, and a conflict to be overcome by an artfully constructed plot. What makes the stories’ resolutions possible, of course, is the death of innocent men and the barley harvest itself. While the deaths of the husbands trigger the narrative action in Ruth 1, the barley harvest, the antecedent to the first fruits sacrifice festival, is the setting for Ruth’s gleaning, the chance meeting with Boaz, and the eventual resolution of the crisis. And in 2 Sam. 21, the time of the barley harvest emphasizes the urgency of ending the famine; unless Saul’s sons and grandsons die, the whole growing season could be a disaster. Ruth, 2 Samuel, and Judith bear the signs of elaborate literary composition: extensive allusion, subtle characterization, and compelling plot. Like Greek tragedies (and unlike ethnographic reports), Ruth and 2 Samuel place significant historical distance between the narration of events and the events themselves (see Ruth 4:7 and 2 Sam. 21:1). By the time it enters written tradition, the barley harvest festival is a belated phenomenon; the narrative itself symbolizes and replaces the supposed real death in the story. To paraphrase Levi-Strauss, narrative death is more cooked than raw. Accordingly, the differences between 2 Sam. 21, Ruth, and Judith lie mainly on the level at which a function is carried out. In 2 Samuel 21, death is carried out by characters in the story (the Gibeonites, with David’s, and presumably YHWH’s, sanction). In Ruth, death is carried out by the story (or narrator, also presumably with YHWH’s sanction) itself. In Judith both kinds of death appear: her husband dies during the barley harvest, and later she performs the heroic act of killing Holofernes. Like Ruth, Judith becomes a widow at the hands of the narrator, but she then engages in her own act of killing. In all three cases, the deaths function to resolve social conflicts.

6.3

GIRARDIAN REPRESENTATIONS

The similarities between the Judith, Ruth, and 2 Samuel 21 narratives appear on a deep structural level as well as on the surface. 13 The contradic13 The distinction between function and character was theorized by Vladimir Propp in Morphology of the Folktale (1928): “Functions of characters serve as stable, constant elements in a tale, independent of how and by whom they are fulfilled” (21). By separating characters from their functions, Propp’s formalism enables the kind of analysis that understands stories to express certain kinds of cultural contents regardless of their dramatis personae. Claude Levi-Strauss carries this work further by identifying the structure of myths in terms of the cultural elements and oppositions they express, regardless of a story’s surface details (Levi-Strauss). By sepa-

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tions in these stories involve the kind of conflict described by Girard, that is, social antagonism. The stories involve conflicts between Israelites and foreigners and among Israelites. In each case, the untimely death of men contributes to the resolution of these conflicts. In 2 Samuel, there is a struggle between two groups of Israelites and between the Israelites and foreigners (Gibeonites, and less directly, the Philistines). Only when David and Rizpah have negotiated the death of the “sons” of Saul are these conflicts resolved (in favor of David and the Gibeonites). In Ruth, Naomi finds herself at odds with other Israelites in Bethlehem when she and Ruth return there. The conflict involves the social and religious position of Naomi, who announces to women of the town that she is “bitter” about her state of affairs. The conflict then develops into the women’s pursuit of a redeemer in the face of the kinsmen’s failure to act as redeemer (stipulated by the laws of levirate, e.g.). 14 The fact that Ruth is a Moabite complicates matters further, since it contrasts the biblical animosity toward Moabites. The resolution of the inter-Israelite conflict has implications, implicit but unmistakable, for the conflict between Israel and Moab. At the very least, Ruth suggests, the chasm between Israel and Moab does not obviate marriage between the groups, even a marriage leading directly to the birth of David himself (Ruth 4:13–22). In any case, there is considerable social conflict in Ruth which the story works to resolve. André LaCocque observes: “The story is no mirror of Judean pride during the Davidic empire, but of the deep split between Palestinian parties during the Second Commonwealth” (90). In Judith, the main social conflict, war, is unmistakable, and the allusion to the barley harvest, along with the killing of Holofernes, bring about its resolution. The narratives of 2 Sam. 21, Ruth 1, and Judith represent violence rather than simply record it. There is nothing primordial or primitive about the artifice of biblical narrative. The three narratives make rich use of storytelling devices, allusion to earlier biblical rating the core function of stories from the specifics of character and plot, Propp and Levi-Strauss make it possible to study narratives in terms of the cultural issues and meanings they articulate. The semiotician A. J. Greimas takes this approach to a more abstract, schematic level. Greimas distinguishes between the surface of a story, on which human subjects do things, and the deep grammar of a story, where logical operations occur (71). According to Greimas, any story posits some opposition or set of oppositions, and the logical operation of the story, on the level of its deep grammar, is simply how it resolves the opposition(s) it contains. Greimas also makes this distinction in terms of actors, who are characters in the story, and actants, which are the narrative function or operation of a story (106–7). 14 See Campbell, 132–38; though see the reservations summarized in Sasson, 125–30.

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traditions and texts, and the main characters’ confrontation with death, social conflict, and danger at the time of the barley harvest. A key divergence in the three stories is the identity of the men who kill and die: Gibeonites kill Israelites in 2 Sam. 21; Judith includes many killings, including Judith’s slaughter of Holofernes; and Israelites die at the hand of the storyteller in Ruth 1. The primary conflict in Ruth is among Israelites, but it is less tolerable, culturally speaking, to narrate the killing of Israelites by Israelites. In 2 Sam. 21, the primary conflict is between Israelites and Gibeonites, though the conflict among Israelites is hard to miss. But it would be a mistake to identify the death in 2 Sam. 21 as more “real” than the death in Ruth. In Algirdas Greimas’ terms, it comes down to a distinction between actors (2 Sam. 21) and actants (Ruth). Who does the killing (narrator or characters) is less important than the fact of death and its function to resolve conflict in the story. To consider one story to be more literal than another would also overlook the high level of literary artistry—the allusion to the “barley harvest” and the surprisingly key role of women, for instance—in all three narratives.

7. 7.1

BEYOND THE BARLEY HARVEST: FEASTING AND SHEEPSHEARING IN GEN. 38, 1 SAM. 25 AND 2 SAM. 13 SHEEPSHEARING

Like the barley harvest, the time of sheepshearing is an agricultural event marked by hard work and feasting. What is more, the time of sheepshearing may be associated with the festival of first fruits: “The first fruits of your grain, your wine, and your oil, as well as the first of the fleece of your sheep, you shall give him” (Deut. 18:4). Like the barley harvest, the work of sheepshearing involves cutting. In addition, sheepshearing is explicitly associated with sacrifice in Isa. 53:7, which describes the figure of the servant “like a lamb that is led to the slaughter, and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent, so he did not open his mouth.” The tales of Nabal and Abigail and Amnon’s murder of Absalom both occur during the time of sheepshearing (1 Sam. 25:2; 2 Sam. 13:23) and a feast (1 Sam. 25:8; 2 Sam. 13:28). As with many feasts, drinking is involved, and it contributes to the actions that follow (Walsh). Like the narratives of the barley harvest, these two stories include deaths, narrative transitions, and agricultural feast, and they address social conflict. The following brief survey of sheepshearing stories in parallel to the barley harvest narratives suggests some avenues for future study.

DEATH, SOCIAL CONFLICT, AND THE BARLEY HARVEST

7.2

303

GENESIS 38

Sheepshearing stories combine love, death, instability, and danger. In Genesis 31, Rachel steals Laban’s household gods when he goes to shear his sheep (v. 19). The story of Judah and Tamar, an artful tale of social and sexual instability and a strong parallel to Ruth, also begins at sheepshearing time: “In course of time the wife of Judah, Shua’s daughter, died; when Judah’s time of mourning was over, he went up to Timnah to his sheepshearers, he and his friend Hirah the Adullamite” (38:12). Like Ruth and Judith, the story begins with a widow (Er and Onan are both “killed off” by God) and an agricultural festival. Judah, like Ruth and Judith, will shift from a period of mourning to new sexual liaisons during the agricultural feast. Although ritual sacrifice is not part of the story, the description of Tamar as a temple prostitute (38:21), along with the setting at sheepshearing time, evokes a cultic context. And like the other narrative episodes identified here, Gen 38 marks an important narrative transition (Alter 10–13).

7.3

FIRST SAMUEL 25

In 1 Sam. 25, Nabal awakens from the drunken stupor of his sheepshearing feast to learn from his wife Abigail that David plans to kill him: “His heart died within him; he became like a stone. About ten days later the Lord struck Nabal, and he died” (25:37–38). David celebrates it as a victory for himself: “‘Blessed be the Lord who has judged the case of Nabal’s insult to me, and has kept back his servant from evil; the Lord has returned the evildoing of Nabal upon his own head’” (1 Sam. 25:39). The setting of the story is crucial: the sheepshearing and feast day set the story in motion, and the feast and drunkenness at the end bring its conclusion. There is social conflict between the parties of David and Nabal mediated by the death of Nabal and, more importantly, Abigail herself (Kessler 411). She invokes the concept of guilt (v. 24) and suggests she would offer herself as a kind of sacrificial victim in place of Nabal. But Abigail also uses the language of bloodguilt to signal that David should assure her own safety for his own good (v. 26). Like Ruth and Judith, Abigail invokes divine protection for herself, and it helps win David over, as his echo of her statement on bloodguilt in v. 33 suggests.

7.4

SECOND SAMUEL 13

The case in Absalom’s killing of Amnon is different: here the agent of death is not God but the brother avenging his sister’s rape. The occasion is another feast (2 Sam. 13:27–28), one which, as P. Kyle McCarter notes, would

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involve lots of drinking. 15 The killing is a straightforward act of revenge, but its occurrence at the time of sheepshearing suggests a seasonal festival. 16 In addition, it sets in motion Absalom’s divisive quest for the throne and kind of poetic retribution for David’s wrongful actions in the case of Uriah and Bathsheba immediately before this (Jensen). In the stories of sheepshearing in 1 Sam. 25 and 2 Sam. 13, an agricultural feast combines with the deaths of Nabal and Amnon to address social conflict; both episodes thus represent important narrative transitions, toward greater conflict in 2 Sam. 13, and in 1 Sam. 25, toward a further consolidation of power in David’s hands just after the death of Samuel (1 Sam. 25:1).

8.

CONCLUSION

Stereotypes of the Hebrew Bible as a violent text often overlook the difference between representation and reality. The tendency to identify biblical texts with specific social practices appears in the work of Max Weber, Emile Durkheim, Marcel Mauss, and, more recently, René Girard. But when narrative representations of violence are read primarily as accounts of real actions, the familiar stereotypes can surface in scholarship on biblical violence. 17 It would be equally simplistic, however, to assume that the artificial nature of biblical texts was a kind of art for art’s sake with no social or See the P. Kyle McCarter’s note to this effect in the Harper Collins Study Bible, 487 n. 13.27, as well as Walsh. 16 Sheep also represent a literary motif in the story, building on 2 Sam. 12:3 and 1 Sam. 16:11; see Rudman, 328. 17 Recent scholarly treatments of biblical violence include Bal, Delaney, Girard, Schwartz, and Williams. While all of these works contain valuable insights into biblical texts and traditions, they typically claim that biblical accounts of violence and sacrifice record real actions and incidents. For Bal, Schwartz, and Delaney, violence and sacrifice are characterized as typical of the Hebrew Bible, or at least of its reception. Schwartz calls for a rewriting and opening up of the Bible: “My re-vision would produce an alternative Bible that subverts the dominant vision of violence and scarcity with an ideal of plenitude and its corollary ethical imperative of generosity” (176). For Williams, the violence of the Bible is mythical, yet it refers to realities confronted by ancient Israel and the New Testament: “This story, the narration of a struggle against mimetic desire and for a good mimesis, God’s will for nonviolent human community, will lead us through the Law and the Prophets to the Gospels, where we find a radical articulation of the revelation in the story of the Innocent Victim,” (30–31). Williams thus suggests a kind of evolutionary schema, whereby ancient Israelite law and priesthood preserve sacred violence with some countervailing measures while the gospels more fully overcome the logic of divine violence (126, 232–40). A refreshing alternative to these approaches, in response to Girard’s work, is J. Z. Smith’s “The Domestication of Sacrifice.” 15

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historical value. Ruth 1, 2 Sam. 21, and Judith 8 combine the barley harvest with stories of death and social conflict within artfully-formed narratives. It may be that the combined elements of famine, death, harvest, and relief from famine represent a literary tradition, one that would reappear in the book of Judith, rather than a ritual prehistory. Instead of imagining biblical stories to be a transparent record of ancient ritual and myth, we may attribute the links between these texts to literary artifice. Similar stories of death around an agricultural feast in the sheepshearing episodes of Gen. 38, 1 Sam. 25, and 2 Sam. 13 suggest patterns for the future study of death, festivals, and social conflict in biblical narrative. In these texts, women often play a mediating and symbolic role, and often intercede as forceful agents in the story. Ruth, Rizpah, Judith, Tamar, and Abigail work to resolve conflicts that involve violence or the threat of it. Some of them—Ruth, Judith, Tamar, and Abigail—are objects of desire as well as agents in the story. The characterization of women in these stories is a subject that goes beyond this study, and it would include further discussion of the stories of Jephthah’s daughter, Deborah and Jael, Jezebel, Esther, and the Levite’s concubine in Judges 19–21. Like many other scholars of religion, Girard still locates “real” violence at the core of all religious tradition: “All religious rituals spring from the surrogate victim, and all the great institutions of mankind, both secular and religious, spring from ritual. Such is the case, as we have seen, with political power, legal institutions, medicine, the theater, philosophy and anthropology itself” (Violence, 306). In a recent elaboration of his position, Girard avers that the Bible (unlike Greek mythology) represents violence in order to criticize it. In his view, vivid depictions of violence in the Bible are designed to confront the reader with the horrors of injustice, thus laying the groundwork for contemporary ethics of nonviolence: “It is for biblical reasons, paradoxically, that we criticize the Bible” (“Violence,” 392). Girard’s statement is highly suggestive, but its high level of generality, which echoes the familiar dichotomy of “Athens and Jerusalem,” would require extensive textual analysis to gain cogency. Whether Girard is right that violence and religion are essentially linked, the simple difference between “actual” violence and complex written traditions about it deserves more scholarly attention than it receives. With Mauss and Girard, the analysis of sacrifice and violence still concentrates more on ritual than text, more on reality than representation. But the “real” sacrifice and violence of Mauss and Girard themselves belong to systems of representation, namely, modern theories of religion that pursue idealized

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and original forms of myth and ritual. 18 Studies that isolate ritual completely from the literary context reflect this pattern in scholarship on religious violence. 19

WORKS CITED Alter, Robert. 1981 The Art of Biblical Narrative. New York: Basic Books. Anderson, Gary. 1987 Sacrifices and Offerings in Ancient Israel: Studies in their Social and Political Importance. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Bal, Mieke. 1988 Death and Dissymmetry. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Bataille, Georges. 1992 Theory of Religion, trans. Robert Hurley. New York: Zone Books. Campbell, Jr., Edward E. 1975 Ruth. New York: Doubleday. Cogan, Mordechai and Hayim Tadmor. 1988 II Kings: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. New York: Doubleday. Day, John. 1989 Molech: A God of Human Sacrifice in the Old Testament. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Delaney, Carol. 1998 Abraham on Trial. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Esler, Philip. 2002 “Ludic History in the Book of Judith: The Reinvention of Israelite Identity?” BibInt 10 : 107–43. Exum, J. Cheryl. 18 A vivid example of this tendency is the recent controversy over Lindow Man, a prehistoric body found in Britain believed by some to have been a victim of human sacrifice. According to Ronald Hutton, scholars jumped to this conclusion because they were intellectually and culturally predisposed to interpret the evidence as human sacrifice: see Hutton. 19 This article grew out of an independent study course with Amy Emerson, who contributed to the argument and helped carry out the research. Julia O’Brien, Esther Menn, and Ananda Abeysekara provided detailed and insightful comments. I also wish to thank the members of the Virginia Tech Interdisciplinary Research Group (David Burr, Ann-Marie Knoblauch, Darleen Pryds, and especially Jane Aiken), and many other interlocutors, for their comments. An earlier version of this paper was presented at the International Society of Biblical Literature in Berlin, July, 2002.

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1993 Fragmented Women. Valley Forge: Trinity Press. Girard, René. 1977 Violence and the Sacred, trans. Patrick Gregory. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. 1987 Things Hidden Since the Formation of the World, trans. Stephen Bann and Michael Metteer. Stanford: Stanford University Press. 1999 “Violence in Biblical Narrative.” PL 3: 387–92. Ginsberg, H. S. 1982. The Israelian Heritage of Judaism. New York: Jewish Theological Seminary. Goodhart, Sandor. 1996 Sacrificing Commentary: Reading the End of Literature. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Gosse, Bernard. 1996 “Le Livre de Ruth et ses liens avec II Samuel 21,1–14.” ZAW 108: 430–33. 1998 “Subversion de la législation du Pentateuque et symboliques respectives des lignées de David et de Saül dans les livres de Samuel et de Ruth.” ZAW 110: 34–49. Greimas, Algirdas. 1987 On Meaning, trans. Paul J. Perron and Frank H. Collins. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Hanson, K. C. 1996 “When the King Crosses the Line: Royal Deviance and Restitution in Levantine Ideologies.” BTB 26: 11–25. Heider, George C. 1985 The Cult of Molek, JSOTSup 43; Sheffield: JSOT Press. Hubert, Henri and Marcel Mauss. 1964 Sacrifice: Its Nature and Function, trans. W. D. Halls. Chicago: University of Chicago Press (originally published in 1898). Hutton, Ronald. 2004 “What Did Happen to Lindow Man?” TimesLitSupp 30 January, 12. Jackson, Shirley. 1949 The Lottery. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Jay, Nancy. 1992 Throughout Your Generations Forever. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Jensen, Hans J. L. 1997 “Desire, Rivalry and Collective Violence in the ‘Succession Narrative.’“ In J. Cheryl Exum, ed., The Historical Books: A Sheffield Reader ; Biblical Seminar 40; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press:184–203.

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Kessler, John. 2000 “Sexuality and Politics: The Motif of the Displaced Husband in the Books of Samuel.” CBQ 62: 409–423. Klawans, Jonathan. 2001 “Pure Violence: Sacrifice and Defilement in Ancient Israel.” HTR 94: 133–55. LaCocque, André. 1990 The Feminine Unconventional. Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Levi-Strauss, Claude. 1963 Structural Anthropology. New York: Basic Books. Lohfink, Norbert. 1983 “Gewalt als Thema alttestamentlicher Forschung.” In Ernst Haag, Norbert Lohfink, et al., Gewalt und Gewaltlosigkeit im Alten Testament. Freiburg: Herder: 15–50. McCarter, P. Kyle. 1984 II Samuel, AB. New York: Doubleday. McGrath, Charles. 2004 “Just a Little Violence Among Enemies.” New York Times 14 March, Section 4: 14. McKenna Andrew J. ed. 1985 René Girard and Biblical Studies. Semeia 33. Propp, William H. 1999 Exodus 1–18, AB. New York: Doubleday. Rudman, Dominic. 1998 “Reliving the Rape of Tamar: Absalom’s Revenge in 2 Samuel 13.” OTE 1: 326–339. Sasson, Jack M. 1979 Ruth. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Schenker, Adrian ed. 1992 Studien zu Opfer und Kult im Alten Testament; FAT 3. Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr. Schwartz, Regina. 1997 The Curse of Cain; Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Smith, Jonathan Z. 2004 “The Domestication of Sacrifice.” In Relating Religion: Essays in the Study of Religion. Chicago: University of Chicago Press: 145–59. Tollers, Vincent L. 1990 “Narrative Control in the Book of Ruth.” In Mappings of the Biblical Terrain: The Bible as Text in Bucknell Review. Lewisburg: Bucknell Universtiy Press: 252–59. De Vaux, Roland.

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1961 Ancient Israel: Its Life and Institutions, trans. John McHugh. New York: McGraw Hill. Walsh, Carey. 2000 “Under the Influence: Trust and Risk in Biblical Family Drinking.” JSOT 90: 13–29. Williams, James G. 1991 The Bible, Violence and the Sacred. New York: Harper San Francisco.

COULD SAUL RULE FOREVER? A NEW LOOK AT 1 SAMUEL 13:13–14 MICHAEL AVIOZ

DEPARTMENT OF BIBLE, BAR-ILAN UNIVERSITY 1.

INTRODUCTION

In 1 Samuel 13, the battle between the Israelites and the Philistines at Michmash is described. Following military obstacles and a prolonged anticipation of Samuel’s arrival, Saul presents the burnt offering himself, though he was ordered in 1 Sam 10:8 to wait for Samuel. The resulting conflict between Samuel and Saul is presented in vv. 7–15a. Samuel delivers an oracle of judgment to Saul for his failure to heed the prophet’s command to await his arrival: You have done foolishly; you have not kept the commandment of the Lord your God, which he commanded you. The Lord would have established your kingdom over Israel forever, but now your kingdom will not continue; the Lord has sought out a man after his own heart; and the Lord has appointed him to be ruler over his people, because you have not kept what the Lord commanded you.

Scholars who deal with this pericope generally attempt to understand the nature of Saul’s sin which necessitated his rejection from becoming king. 1 Only rarely do they deal with Samuel’s words implying that Saul could have reigned forever. The main problems arising from Samuel’s word 1 See H. J. Stoebe, Das erste Buch Samuelis (KAT, 8/1; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus Gerd Mohn, 1973), 252–53; B. C. Birch, The Rise of the Israelite Monarchy. The Growth and Development of 1 Samuel 7–15 (SBLDS 27; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1976), 106. See also the bibliography cited in V. P. Long, The Reign and Rejection of King Saul. A Case for Literary and Theological Coherence (SBLDS 118; Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1989), 90–93; T. S. Vecko, “Saul—the Persecutor or the Persecuted One?”, in The Interpretation of the Bible: The International Symposium in Slovenia (ed. J. Krašoveç; JSOTSup 289; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998): 201–214.

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to Samuel are as follows: are we to understand Samuel’s words about Saul’s everlasting kingship as reflecting his own interpretation, or should they be understood as resulting from a divine oracle delivered to Samuel? This question arises since there is no indication in 1 Samuel 13 or earlier that God has promised this to Saul. Furthermore, how are we to reconcile these words with the divine promise to David in 2 Samuel 7, in which David was promised an everlasting rule? Wasn’t the promise to David exclusive and extraordinary?

2.

ANALYSIS

Some scholars are of the opinion that the narrator presents Samuel’s words as the prophet’s own innovation rather than God’s. 2 This opinion derives from the lack of an explicit divine oracle delivered to Samuel (or “messenger formula”), containing instructions to convey its content to Saul. 3 In Amit’s view, “this statement by Samuel can be interpreted as personal commentary that contains rhetorical exaggeration.” 4 She brings the text from 1 Samuel 13 as a demonstration of her thesis that biblical characters may be designated as unreliable. Brueggemann 5 argues that the narrator creates intentional ambiguity, so that the reader will doubt both Samuel’s and God’s intentions and interests. Other scholars consider vv. 13–14 deuteronomistic, since they allude to Nathan’s oracle to David in 2 Sam 7:12, 16. 6 And since 2 Samuel 7 is regarded as deuteronomistic, so is 1 Sam 13:13–14. 2 See for example Y. Amit, “‘The Glory of Israel Does not Deceive or Change His Mind’: On the Reliability of Narrator and Speakers in Biblical Narrative,” Proof 12 (1992), 209; R. Alter, The David Story. A Translation with Commentary of 1 and 2 Samuel (New York: Norton, 1999), 73. 3 W. Brueggemann, First and Second Samuel (Interpretation; Louisville, KY: Westminster / John Knox, 1990), 100; R. Polzin, Samuel and the Deuteronomist. A Literary Study of the Deuteronomic History, Part II: 1 Samuel (Bloomington: IUP, 1989), 127. This classification is based upon C. Westermann, Basic Forms of Prophetic Speech (trans. H. C. White; Philadelphia, Westminster Press, 1967), 100–115. 4 Amit, “The Glory of Israel,” 209. 5 Brueggemann, Samuel, 101. 6 M. Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972), 336, # 16; T. Veijola, Die ewige Dynastie. David und die Entstehung seiner Dynastie nach der deuteronomistischen Darstellung (AASF.B 193; Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1975), 56–57; P. K. McCarter, I Samuel (AB 8; New York: Doubleday, 1980), 228–30; M. A. O’Brien, The Deuteronomistic History Hypothesis: A Reassessment (OBO, 92; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag, 1989), 131; P. Mommer, Samuel: Geschichte und Überlieferung (WMANT, 65; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1991), 135–37; S.

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In the following, I intend to contest each of these arguments separately. (a) These scholars assume too much rigidity in Westermann’s formulaic categories. Westermann’s formulas of prophetic speech are, in fact, very flexible, as Westermann himself argues, and this example of prophetic speech in 1 Samuel 13 may still have been a prophetic judgment speech, even without the introductory “messenger formula.” (b) This view supposes that Samuel lied to Saul, or waited to the appropriate opportunity to get rid of Saul. However, there is no basis for this assessment of Samuel in the book of Samuel. On the contrary, Samuel is described as a reliable character, apart, perhaps, from 1 Sam 16:2–4, in which he was ordered by God to tell a lie. 7 (c) Was the principle of dynastic succession prevalent in the days of Samuel and Saul? A few scholars answer this question in the negative. 8 In their view, Saul and David ruled in virtue of a divine gift (charisma), rather than through any principle of dynastic succession. However, other scholars 9 argue that all kings in the ancient Near East were regarded as chosen by the deity. Moreover, there is serious doubt whether a charismatic view was held in ancient Israel in the time of Saul and David. 10 L. McKenzie, “The Trouble with Kingship,” in Israel Constructs its History: Deuteronomistic Historiography in Recent Research (ed. A. de Pury, T. Römer, and J. D. Macchi; JSOTSup 306; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 309–310. 7 For a discussion of this story as well as other stories in which prophets seem to lie, see Y. Shemesh, “Lies by Prophets and Other Lies in the Hebrew Bible,” JANES 29 (2002), 81–95. 8 See, among others, A. Alt, “The Formation of the Israelite State in Palestine,” Essays on Old Testament History and Religion (Oxford: Blackwell, 1966), 171–237; M. Noth, The History of Israel (London: A & C. Black, 2nd edn, 1960), 228–30; J. Bright, A History of Israel (London: Westminster/John Knox, 1972), 234–35, 271; F. Crüsemann, Der Widerstand gegen das Königtum (WMANT, 49; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchen Verlag, 1978). 9 See the references in R. R. Hutton, Charisma and Authority in Israelite Society (Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg Fortress, 1994), 71–83; Tomoo Ishida, History and Historical Writing in Ancient Israel: Studies in Biblical Historiography (SHCANE, 16; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 171; Z. Ben Barak, “The Status and Right of the Gebira,” JBL 110 (1991), 29; K. Spanier, “The Queen Mother in the Judean Court: Maacha—A Case Study,” in A. Brenner (rd.), A Feminist Companion to Samuel and Kings (Feminist Companion to the Bible, 5; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994), 187, n. 2. 10 See Beyerlin ,“Königscharisma,” 186–201; A. Malamat, “Charismatic Leadership in the Book of Judges,” in Magnalia Dei. The Mighty Acts of God: Essays on the Bible and Archaeology in Memory of G. Ernest Wright (eds. F. M. Cross et al.; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1976), 152–68. When speaking of the ‘charismatic leader-

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That monarchy in Israel was hereditary from its inception is clear from the law of the king in Deut 17:20 11: “That his heart may not be lifted up above his brethren, and that he may not turn aside from the commandment, either to the right hand or to the left; so that he may continue long in his kingdom, he and his children, in Israel.” According to this law, the covenant with the king includes a covenant with his dynasty. Saul himself hoped that his son Jonathan would inherit his throne (1 Sam 20: 30–31), and after the death of Saul and Jonathan, Abner appointed Ish-bosheth (Eshbaal) as king of Israel. A similar view is taken by J. Liver 12 who writes on Saul: “Saul also seems destined to have a kingdom not only for himself, but also for his descendants, and only circumstances caused the fall of the house of Saul”. As Laato has shown, the idea of the royal succession was inherent in the royal ideology of the ancient Near East. 13 After reviewing material from various texts from the ancient Near East, he concludes that “nothing indicates that the idea of an eternal dynasty was limited to either an early or a late period.” 14 (d) The argument that vv. 13–14 in 1 Samuel 13 are deuteronomistic (on the basis of the appearance of the eternal dynasty motif in 2 Samuel 7) seems like a circular argument: if 2 Samuel 7 is late, 15 than 1 Samuel 13, who alludes to it, must be late too. Space limit does not allow me to discuss Naship’, Malamat confines himself in the era of the judges and does not continue to the reign of Saul. 11 See A. D. H. Mays, Deuteronomy (NCB; Grand Rapids: Eardmans; London: Marshall, Morgan & Scott, 1979), 270; G. E. Gerbrandt, Kingship According to the Deuteronomistic History (SBLDS, 87; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1986), 108–16; D. Jobling, I Samuel. Studies in Hebrew Narrative and Poetry (Berit Olam; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1998), 80. 12 J. Liver, “King, Kingship,” Encyclopedia Biblica (Jerusalem: The Bialik Institute, 1964), IV, 1091 (Hebrew). Cf. W. Beyerlin ,“Das Königscharisma bei Saul,” ZAW 73 (1961), 197; M. White, “‘History of Saul’s Rise’: Saulide State Propaganda in 1 Samuel 1–14,” in “A Wise and Discerning Mind”: Essays in Honor of Burke O. Long (ed. S. M. Olyan and R. C. Culley; Brown Judaic Studies 325; Providence, RI: Brown Univ., 2000), 286. 13 See the references in A. Laato, “Second Samuel 7 and Ancient Near Eastern Royal Ideology,” CBQ 59 (1997), 244–69. 14 Latto, “Second Samuel 7,” 263. Cf. G. Beckman, “Royal Ideology and State Administration in Hittite Anatolia,” in CANE, ed. J. Sasson et al. (New York: Scribner, 1995), Vol. I, 533: “In most societies of the ancient Near East, kingship was normally passed from father to son.” 15 For a review of the various suggestions concerning the redactional layers in 2 Samuel 7, see Dietrich, W. and T. Naumann, Die Samuelbücher (Erträge der Forschung, 287; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1995), 153–56.

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than’s oracle in depth here, and therefore I will summarize briefly my views regarding the date and composition of 2 Samuel 7. Scholars who view Nathan’s oracle as a late composition, do it on the basis of the differentiation between conditional and unconditional covenants. According to their view, unconditional covenant is regarded as belonging to an early date, while the conditional reformulation is assigned to the hands of later (post exilic) editors. 16 However, this differentiation was contested by several scholars, most recently by Freedman and Miano. 17 It is my opinion that Nathan’s oracle should be dated to the Tenth century BCE. 18 The covenant between God and David contains elements of vassal treaties known to us from Hittite texts from the thirteenth century BCE. 19 In addition, the description of a king who desires to build a house for his god is well attested in hymns and royal building inscriptions from the early beginnings of civilization. 20 If my arguments are sound, then the conclusion might be that allusions made by the author of Samuel to Nathan’s See M. Weinfeld, “The Covenant of Grant in the Old Testament and in the Ancient Near East,” JAOS 90 (1970), 184–203. For a list of scholars following Weinfeld’s argument, see J. D. Levenson, “The Davidic Covenant and Its Modern Interpreters”, CBQ 41 (1979), 205–19. For a critique of Weinfeld see G. N. Knoppers, “Ancient Near Eastern Royal Grants and the Davidic Covenant: A Parallel?,” JAOS 116 (1996), 670–97. 17 D. N. Freedman and D. Miano, “The People of the New Covenant,” in The Concept of the Covenant in the Second Temple Period, eds. S. E. Porter and J. C. R. de Roo (JSJSup, 71; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2003), 7–26. See also M. Haran, “The Bĕrit ‘Covenant’: Its Nature and Ceremonial Background”, in Tehilla le-Moshe: Biblical and Judaic Studies in Honor of Moshe Greenberg, eds. M. Cogan et al. (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns), 203–19; J. Milgrom, “Covenants: The Sinaitic and Patriarchal Covenants in the Holiness Code (Leviticus 17–27)”, in Sefer Moshe: The Moshe Weinfeld Jubilee Volume, eds. C. A. Cohen et al. (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2004), 91–101. 18 For an early date of the book of Samuel, see recently B. Halpern, David’s Secret Demons: Messiah, Murderer, Traitor, King (Grand Rapids, MI: Eardmans, 2001), 57–72. 19 See P. J. Calderone, Dynastic Oracle and Suzerainty Treaty (Manila: Manila University, 1966); J. Kim, Psalm 89: Its Biblical-Theological Contribution to the Presence of Law within the Unconditional Covenant (PhD dissertation; Ann Arbor, MI, 1989), 351 ff. 20 V. A. Hurowitz, I Have Built You an Exalted House. Temple Building in the Bible in Light of Mesopotamian and Northwest Semitic Writings (JSOTSup, 115; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1992); Richard E. Averbeck, “Sumer, the Bible, and Comparative Method: Historiography and Temple Building,” Mesopotamia and the Bible: Comparative explorations (eds. M. W. Chavalas and K. Lawson Younger, JR.; Grand Rapids: Baker, 2002), 88–125; M. Avioz, Nathan’s Oracle (2 Samuel 7) and Its Interpreters (Bern: Peter Lang, forthcoming). 16

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oracle in 2 Samuel 7 cannot be used as a proof for presenting Samuel’s oracle to Saul as a late addition.

3.

SUMMARY AND CONCLUSIONS

According to the view presented in this paper, Samuel’s oracle to Saul in 1 Samuel 13:13–14 should be regarded as authentic rather than deuteronomistic or as a fabrication of Samuel himself. Neither the author of Samuel nor Samuel invented the idea of a royal dynasty. It was known many years before the time of Samuel. Therefore, Saul could have established a dynasty, in which his sons will be the future rulers of Israel. Why this did not happen is, of course, another matter. According to the book of Samuel, Saul’s religious misconduct as a king has made him lose the crown for the sake of David.

THE ORIGIN OF BIBLICAL ISRAEL PHILIP R DAVIES

UNIVERSITY OF SHEFFIELD I. The most important development in recent years in the study of the history of ancient Israel and Judah has been, in my opinion, the interest in Judah during the Neo-Babylonian period, a period previously somewhat neglected, and strangely so, since it offers the most peculiar anomaly: for the entire period, a province called ‘Judah’ was in fact governed from a territory that, as the Bible and biblical historians themselves would describe it, was ‘Benjamin’. The former capital of the kingdom of Judah, Jerusalem, was replaced by Mizpah. In the majority of modern histories of Israel/Judah that I have consulted, no explanation is offered for this choice. How long this state of affairs continued remains unclear: the narratives of Ezra and Nehemiah are silent about this (as they are confused about the rebuilding of the Temple), and, as Edelman has recently argued (Edelman 2005), Jerusalem was probably not restored as the capital of Judah until the middle of the 5th century at the earliest (indeed, if Jerusalem had been the capital before the time of Artaxerxes, the story of Nehemiah would be largely pointless!). Thus, for well over a century, the political life of Judah was centred in a territory which had once been part of the kingdom of Israel. How, when and why it became attached to Judah is unknown. The claim in 1 Kings 12:16–21 that Benjamin sided with Judah when the ‘kingdom’ was ‘divided’ is hardly to be taken as reliable. If, when the Assyrians divided the territory of the former kingdom of Israel into provinces, the territory we know as ‘Benjamin’ was allocated to Assyria’s vassal Judah, it seems not to have been involved in the campaign of Sennacherib€or had it been, it would have probably been removed from Judah. Perhaps it was annexed by Josiah: but if so, why would it not have been reclaimed by Egypt or by Babylon after his death?). The reign of Manasseh looks more probable, given the favourable relations between him and Assyria. 317

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II. But this territory€the most densely populated part of the NeoBabylonian province€was the focus of not only political but also religious life in Judah. Whether or not the remains of the Jerusalem temple continued as a site of religious activity, 1 such activity would not have involved those inhabitants of the territory of Benjamin, who had their own sanctuaries. Despite the rhetoric about the centrality and uniqueness of Jerusalem in Judah’s literature, we cannot take it as a historical fact that Jerusalem was the only sanctuary active in the territory of Judah-and-Benjamin prior to the Neo-Babylonian period. Thus, Mizpah itself (Tell en-Nasbeh; Zorn 2003), Bethel (Beitin; Kelso 1968) and Gibeon (el-Jib; Edelman 2003), to name three, presumably continued during the 6th and much of the 5th century as active cult centres; the archaeological evidence (usually rather poorly retrieved and reported) supports this conclusion, despite, in some cases, earlier opinions to the contrary. Blenkinsopp (2003) has argued that of these, Bethel was pre-eminent. In the first place, if the tradition of 2 Kings is correct, it has been a royal sanctuary during the existence of the kingdom of Israel. Second, another biblical tradition associates it with Jacob, the eponymous ancestor of Israel. Thirdly, the polemic in the Judean scriptural canon against Bethel in 1 Kings 12–13; 2 Kings 23; Amos passim points to it having been the chief rival to Jerusalem, as its geographical locations would in any cases suggest. Anti-Benjaminite (including anti-Saulide) sentiment in the so-called ‘Deuteronomistic history’ is also evident, perhaps emanating from the sixth-fifth centuries. In particular the stories associated with the transfer of the ark, and the golden calf episode (connected with the legend of Josiah’s destruction of Bethel), show that Bethel-Jerusalem rivalry constituted a major issue in the production of much of the material in Judean literature. This, it has been argued, may have its roots in the sixth century (Amit 2003), but must have achieved its literary expression in the period when Jerusalem reasserted its supremacy over Bethel (religiously) as well as over Mizpeh (politically).

III. As already said, these observations represent nothing new or original: they are essentially a summary of recent conclusions. My own contribution consists in exploring an important implication of these conclusions, starting from the fact that for over a century the most influential sanctuary in the province of Judah was almost certainly Bethel. Its connection with Jacob probably emerged during the period of the kingdom of Israel in connection with its status (or as the reason, if the connection is even earlier) as one of the two royal sanctuaries. The association of Jacob with Esau in the Jacob 1

As sometimes inferred from Jeremiah 41:4-8; but see Blenkinsopp 2003: 98.

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cycle, however, is perhaps not so old, because while Esau himself is possibly a figure from an earlier period, his identification with Edom in any case surely belongs to the Neo-Babylonian or early Persian period, when Edom was the immediate neighbour of the territory, and not when it was relatively remotely located beyond the Rift Valley to the southeast. The association of Israel and Edom in fact obliterates the name of ‘Judah’ from the territory of southern central Palestine. I will argue presently that the ‘Jacob’ of the cycle as a whole possibly includes Judah as his descendant. Although anti-Benjaminite (and anti-‘northern’) ideology can be found throughout the Judean canonical writings (though largely absent from the Pentateuch), pointing to a specific rivalry that requires a concrete setting, we can also suggest in some cases a substratum of Benjaminite material. There are grounds for concluding, as I have argued elsewhere (Davies, forthcoming) that the literati of Benjamin originated the skeleton of an account of the rise of the kingdom of Israel, beginning with a conquest of the territory by Benjamin, a sequence of ‘judges’ initiated by a Benjaminite, and how Benjamin finally provided the first king of Israel (no verdict on the historicity of all this is implied). Again, whether this account crystallized specifically in the Neo-Babylonian and early Persian period is difficult to establish, but the people of Benjamin perhaps had no great love of Judah, and supported the Babylonians during their hegemony of Judah (Blenkinsopp 2003; Davies forthcoming). They perhaps thought of themselves as the rump of ‘Israel’, an identity nurtured and sustained by the cult at Bethel, even after the Anschluss, whenever that occurred, and now, in a kind of reversed Anschluss, had the opportunity either to incorporate (or exclude) Judah in their own history. Was it to overturn such a chauvinistic Benjaminite, ‘history of Israel’ that the books of the ‘Deuteronomistic History’ were in fact composed? Certainly, in a sense, there existed a period of over a century in which Judah was really ‘Israel’, and this context to my mind offers the solution to one of the fundamental problems of biblical studies: why did Judeans subsequently call themselves by the name ‘Israel’?

IV. Until fairly recently, this problem was not seen as a problem because it was already answered; there had been a United Monarchy bearing the name Israel, in which Judah and Jerusalem were pre-eminent. But that assertion can no longer be made as a historical fact: on the contrary, it is counterindicated by the archaeological evidence. (That same evidence has also finally removed any suggestion of an ethnic entity prior to settlement in the highlands at the very end of the Late Bronze age.) When, then, did Judah come to see itself as part of ‘Israel’? Perhaps at a time when the kingdom of Israel effectively linked the two kingdoms, under a single king Jehoram (2

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Kings 3:1–2, 8:16, where the fact is possibly disguised by inventing a second Jehoram, the son of Jehoshaphat, and perhaps in a separate, later editorial process changing ‘Jehoram’ to ‘Joram’ for the king of Israel)? Whether or not there was at this time a period of political union, or even merely political collusion (as also narrated in 2 Kings under Jehoshaphat), the circumstances seem to have been short-lived. Judah pursued its own political career as independently of Israel as possible, and indeed, against Israel’s interests, by allying itself to Assyria. It seems unlikely, then, that we have here any plausible basis for the continued adoption of the name ‘Israel’ by Judah, if the name had ever been attached to the population. The reign of Hezekiah is frequently cited as a time when Jerusalem was swollen with Israelite refugees and when ‘northern’ influence might have been brought to bear on Judah. However, the undoubted expansion of the city is as well attributable to an influx of refugees from the Judean countryside or other Judean cities, and there is no positive evidence of a population move from Samerina to Judah. Even if such a move had taken place, this new population element from the north could hardly have imposed its name on its new host, and would hardly have been adopted voluntarily. Another possibility is the reign of Josiah. The current theory of Josiah’s expansion posits a recapture of territory claimed by Judah as part of the same political-religious entity, and as such implies a previous union that I have suggested did not occur. His reported destruction of Bethel may, of course, be a legendary retrojection to justify Bethel’s replacement by Jerusalem at a later time. But equally an attack on Bethel might have been undertaken by Josiah, since something is needed to explain his execution, if that is how he died. But in any case, one cannot see why a move by Josiah to annex Benjamin would result in the adoption of the name ‘Israel’ by Judah rather than the reverse (in fact, Bethel was probably part of Judean territory at this time in any case; see above).

V. Fundamentally, the reason why all these traditional alternatives fail is that they suppose a situation in which Judah is the stronger partner and thus unlikely to assume the name of the weaker. We are obliged, on the contrary, to look for a period when ‘Israel’ was dominant and ‘Judah’ subordinate, and a period of time in which an identity ‘Israel’ could be absorbed by a population that also saw itself as ‘Judah’ in such a way that it was irreversible. However, we do not need to look specifically for a political definition of ‘Israel’, since when it is defined so as to include Judah (especially the Pentateuch) rather than when referring to the kingdom that bore the name (especially Samuel and Kings), ‘Israel’ is used in a primarily religious (including ethnic) sense, not a political one. This accords well with its usage in the Neo-Babylonian and Persian periods. The ‘all-Israel’ political entity is

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part of an invented history that seeks, among other things, to undergird the integration of Judah into Israel (and of course deny Samaria any continuing claim in this entity). But it has its origin in the spread throughout much of Judah of the name ‘Israel’ in a religious sense, deriving from the Bethel cult. Addressed as ‘children of Jacob’ (or rather more simply, just ‘Jacob’) and induced to venerate him as their ancestor, worshippers at Bethel identified themselves as ‘Israel’; and while before 722 this identity coincided also with the kingdom in which Bethel was a royal sanctuary, this identity thereafter persisted more as a religious term (though probably without losing its ethnic connotation for Benjaminites). While Bethel may have attracted some Judeans into its orbit even before 586, it made a serious impact only after the demise of its rival Jerusalem. With the Jerusalem royal house and aristocracy removed, Judeans had no institutional support for any ‘traditions’ of ‘Zion’ or of ‘house of David’. In a period of over a century, spanning at least four generations, the identity ‘Israel’ could very easily permeate the population of ‘Benjamin-Judah’ in such a way that the later restoration of political and cultic supremacy to Jerusalem could not challenge it, let alone remove it. But with the reestablishment of Jerusalem, Bethel was defamed and destroyed; ‘Israelite’ stories were revised and overlaid with Judean ones, and (if Blenkinsopp [1998] is correct) its Aaronite priesthood was transferred to Jerusalem, thus relocating the religious centre of Jacob/Israel to the ‘city of David’. The name ‘Israel’ was thus retained and redefined: ‘biblical Israel’ was invented, with Judah at its head.

VI. It remains to consider whether the merging of Judah and Israel (or specifically ‘Jacob’) can be traced in datable Judean literature. We can begin with texts such as Isaiah 2:3: And many people will go and say, ‘Come let us go up to the mountain of Yhwh, to the house of the God of Jacob, and he will teach us his ways, and we will walk in his paths: for out of Zion shall go forth the law, and the word of Yhwh from Jerusalem’.

‘Jacob’ occurs at least 40 times in Isaiah, but is especially concentrated in chapters 40–55 (22 times). This is a totally unexpected phenomenon in a poet supposedly exiled among Zionists and addressing them (I use the term precisely: the ‘exile’ was a deportation of Jerusalemites, whose descendants presumably were responsible for supporting the restoration of their beloved city): Hear this, O house of Jacob, who are called by the name of Israel, and have come out of the waters of Judah, who swear by the name of Yhwh, and make mention of the god of Israel, but not in truth, nor in righteousness (Isa 48:1)

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I have argued before (Davies 1995: see also Barstad 1989, 1997) that the contents of Second Isaiah stem largely if not entirely from Judah in the fifth century, when the issue of Jerusalem’s claims and the claims of its ‘children’ were being advanced in a way that did not, as in Ezra and Nehemiah, seek to exclude the indigenous population. For this poet, the returning Zionists (to whom he is sympathetic, if not even one himself) are part of ‘Israel’; they are ‘Jacob’ and should be welcomed. The usage recurs in Trito-Isaiah: “And I will bring forth a seed out of Jacob, and out of Judah an inheritor of my mountains: and my elect shall inherit it, and my servants shall live there” (Isa 65:9). The usage is also found in Jeremiah; for example, “Declare this in the house of Jacob, and publish it in Judah ...” (Jer. 5:20) Are these two terms synonymous? Or is ‘house of Jacob’ a reference to Benjamin, the rump of Israel? McKane (1986) prefers the former: ‘The form of address in v. 20 is new, but ‫ בית יעקב‬almost certainly functions as a synonym of ‫ יהודה‬and is not a reference to the northern kingdom’. This seems to me also more plausible: in 30:10, 31:7, 11; 33:26; 46:27–8, ‘Jacob’ apparently refers to Judeans (2:4; 10:16, 25 cannot be decided). It is surprising that such language has not attracted more comment from commentators. Does the collocation date from the late Judean monarchy, or reflect a later period when which the book was assuming its canonical forms? A similar collocation in Lamentations fits the proposed period very well: Yhwh has swallowed up all the habitations of Jacob, and has not shown pity: he has thrown down in his wrath the strongholds of the daughter of Judah; he has brought them down to the ground: he has polluted the kingdom and its princes. He has cut off in his fierce anger all the horn of Israel: he has drawn back his right hand from before the enemy, and he burned against Jacob like a flaming fire, that devours round about (Lam. 2:2–3)

See also Lam. 17 where Jacob is collocated with Jerusalem: In the two collocations of Jacob and Judah in Hosea, on the other hand, the terms are not synonymous: ‘Judah’ and ‘Jacob’ apply to different entities: And Ephraim is like a heifer that is trained, and loves to tread out the corn; and I put a yoke upon her fair neck: I will harness Ephraim; Judah shall plough, and Jacob shall break up the ground (Hos. 10:11). Yhwh has also a dispute with Judah, and will punish Jacob according to his ways; according to his doings will he recompense him. (Hos. 12:2)

The same is true of the last collocation, in Micah 1:5:

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All this is because of Jacob’s rebellion, and for the sins of the house of Israel. What is the transgression of Jacob? is it not Samaria? and what are the high places of Judah? are they not Jerusalem?

Here, for reasons that it would be interesting to explore (they might be statements from the monarchic period or from a post-monarchic period, serving to distinguish Samarians from Judeans as faithful ‘Israelites’), the Deuteronomistic distinction of ‘Israel’ and ‘Judah’ is preserved: but this usage of ‘Jacob’ is definitely not Deuteronomistic. 2

VII. In this very brief paper I do not have the scope to examine any further the textual evidence of the identification of ‘Judah’ as ‘Jacob’, as opposed to ‘Judah’ and ‘Jacob’ as pairs. I hope to finish a more detailed presentation of this thesis in the near future. I have here only outlined my answer to the problem of the origin of ‘biblical Israel’. The implications of the answer for the history of biblical traditions are considerable and will of course have to be addressed: the antiquity or otherwise of the tribal system in particular, the invention of the ‘united monarchy’ and the functions of David and Solomon as historiographical and literary figures; the true nature of relations between the populations of Judah and Samaria in the Persian period, and the place of Benjamin between these. Also of some importance is the role of the conflict between Benjaminite and Judean religious traditions (whether real or invented) and the origin of the Judean scriptures themselves. For the historical roots of ‘biblical Israel’ in the religious discourse and practice of the sixth and fifth centuries may hold the key to the burst of Judean literary activity that laid the basis of the canon we know call the ‘Hebrew Bible’.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Amit, Yairah. 2003 “Epoch and Genre: The Sixth Century and the Growth of Hidden Polemics.” In Lipschits and Blenkinsopp (eds): 135–151. Barstad, Hans M. 1989 A Way in the Wilderness: The ‘Second Exodus’ in the Message of Second Isaiah, JSS Monographs, 12; Manchester: University of Manchester.

The only usage in this literature that refers to a distinct body of people is 2 Kings 17:34: ‘To this day they continue to practise their former customs. They do not worship Yhwh and they do not follow the statutes or the ordinances or the law or the commandment that Yhwh commanded the children of Jacob, whom he named Israel’. Is ‘Israel’ here meant to refer to the kingdom or to the ‘biblical Israel’€or is it deliberately ambiguous? 2

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1997 The Babylonian Captivity of the Book of Isaiah: ‘Exilic’ Judah and the Provenance of Isaiah 40–55, Oslo: Novus. Blenkinsopp, Joseph. 1998 “The Judean Priesthood during the Neo-Babylonian and Achaemenid Periods: A Hypothetical Reconstruction.” CBQ 60: 25–43. 2003 “Bethel in the Neo-Babylonian Period”. In Lipschits and Blenkinsopp (eds): 93–107. Davies, Philip R. 1995 “God of Cyrus, God of Israel: Some Religio-Historical Reflections on Isaiah 40–55”. In Words Remembered, Texts Renewed. Essays in Honour of John F. A. Sawyer JSOTSup, 195; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press: 207–225. “The Trouble with Benjamin”. In Auld FS, Leiden: Brill (forthcoming) Edelman, Diana V. 2003 “Gibeon and the Gibeonites Revisited”. In Lipschits and Blenkinsopp (eds): 153–167. 2005 The Origins of the Second Temple: Persian Imperial Policy and the Rebuilding of Jerusalem. London: Equinox. Kelso, James L. 1968 The Excavation of Bethel (1934–1960). Cambridge, MA: ASOR. Lipschits, Oded and Joseph Blenkinsopp. 2003 Judah and Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. McKane, William. 1986 Jeremiah Volume I (ICC). Edinburgh: T & T Clark. Zorn, Jeffrey R. 2003 “Tell en-Nasbeh and the Problem of the Material Culture of the Sixth Century”. In Lipschits and Blenkinsopp (eds): 413–447.

IN CONVERSATION WITH W. M. SCHNIEDEWIND, HOW THE BIBLE BECAME A BOOK: THE TEXTUALIZATION OF ANCIENT ISRAEL (CAMBRIDGE, 2003) DAVID M. CARR, TAMARA COHN ESKENAZI, CHRISTINE MITCHELL, WILLIAM M. SCHNIEDEWIND, GARY N. KNOPPERS (EDITOR) 1. David M. Carr, Response to W. M. Schniedewind, How the Bible Became a Book: The Textualization of Ancient Israel 2. Tamara Cohn Eskenazi, Implications for and from Ezra-Nehemiah 3. Christine Mitchell, Implications for and from Chronicles 4. William M. Schniedewind, Adrift: How the Bible Became a Book

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UNION THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY IN NEW YORK William M. Schniedewind’s How the Bible Became a Book (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004) is an extremely timely contribution to the debate about the formation of the Hebrew Bible. Indeed, it is so timely, that the present reviewer was both happy and anxious to hear of its immanent publication when asked to participate in a panel review of the book at the 2003 Society of Biblical Literature meeting in Toronto. 1 I myself was just completing a manuscript on similar topics, entitled Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature, which was not to appear for another year (it appeared in February 2005 with Oxford University Press). 2 My book, Writing on the Tablet of the Heart, focuses on the role of orality and textuality in ancient Israel and other cultures. So does William Schniedewind’s How the Bible Became a Book. His book was going into proofs, while mine was to be deposited with the publisher just after the meeting. As virtually any author would be in this situation, I was excited to see what kind of material Professor Schniedewind had put together on topics of mutual interest, but I also was concerned that he already would have said most of the things I meant to say in my book. As it turned out, this was an excellent opportunity to get an early look at an important book relevant to mine and many others’ work. To be sure, it is a book aimed at a broad audience, so it synthesizes earlier work by Schniedewind and others and does 1 The following review is a slightly modified version of the presentation given at that meeting, thus retaining a few of the generic marks of its original oral Sitz im Leben. Thanks are offered to Professor Schniedewind, the other panelists and attendees at the session for their helpful remarks. 2 Materials relevant to the book, including a full bibliography of all cited works (the book includes only a select bibliography) and a rough overview of ancient “curricula” in Mesopotamia, Egypt, and Greece, can be found at the reviewer’s web-site: www.uts.columbia.edu\~dcarr.

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not attempt to give detailed bibliography or engage other scholars at length. Nevertheless, Schniedewind pulls together some very important material, asks the right kinds of questions, and has propelled the discussion of these topics to a new level. This review has three parts. It starts with a list of some of the ideas I found most interesting, proceeds to several problems I see in the argument of the book, and concludes with specific comments regarding the yield of the book for Pentateuchal studies, my primary area of competence. Let me start with an overview of several things I liked about the book. First, this book provides a useful overview of epigraphic evidence, much of which is little known by Biblical scholars, let alone the general public. This material has been previously published, but the book provides an accessible overview of key finds organized by period. Second, contra arguments by Golka and the like, 3 Schniedwind provides a compelling case—built on epigraphic evidence from Moab to Tel Dan—that even smaller kingdoms like Israel had scribal systems at an early stage. Though the scribal systems of larger empires are better documented, we have good evidence that smaller city-states likewise had their own scribal-education systems, often bi-lingual. Third, building beyond earlier work by Lemaire, Jamieson-Drake and others, Schniedewind has expanded the case for the late-pre-exile—and by this I mean throughout the late eighth century to seventh century—as a key point for the formation of many Israelite traditions. 4 Below I will raise questions about just how many such traditions were written then, but Schniedewind and others have made a good case that early forms of numerous Biblical texts were written then. Fourth, Schniedewind makes some interesting arguments that link the growth in textuality in late pre-exilic Israel to Neo-Assyrian imperial dynamics of the time. These arguments appear, to this reviewer, to be relatively original and provocative. Fifth, Schniedewind’s eighth chapter, a discussion of the exile, includes good arguments for the royal retinue of Jehoiachin as the most plausible home for F. W. Golka, “Die israelitische Weisheitsschule oder ‘des kaisers neue Kleider,’” VT 33 (1983): 257–70; translation published as F. W. Golka, “The Israelite Wisdom School or ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes,’” in The Leopard’s Spots: Biblical and African Wisdom in Proverbs, by F. W. Golka (Edinburgh: T & T Clark). 4 For earlier work by Lemaire and Jamieson-Drake, see e.g. André Lemaire, Les Écoles et la formation de la Bible dans l’ancien Israël, OBO (Fribourg: Éditions Universitaires, 1981) and Lemaire’s more recent synthesis “Schools and Literacy in Ancient Israel and Early Judaism,” in The Blackwell Companion to the Hebrew Bible, edited by Leo Perdue, translated by Aliou Niang (Oxford: Blackwell, 2001), 207–17; and for David Jamieson-Drake, see Scribes and Schools in Monarchic Judah: A Socio-Archeological Approach, JSOTSup (Sheffield: Almond Press, 1991). 3

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key aspects of textuality in the exilic and early post-exilic periods. Some features of the Bible that may be located in that exilic/early post-exilic circle include: the adding of anti-Manasseh elements to Kings, the extension of the Deuteronomistic History after Josiah, the addition of similar elements to the MT/Babylonian version of Jeremiah, possible links of Isaiah 56–66 to the interests of the royal family in early post-exilic Judah, and even the formulation and transmission of early post-exilic prophecy. Sixth, I found suggestive his final comments on the comeback of orality in the wake of the destruction of that great repository of Greco-Roman Jewish textuality, the Second Temple. All too often people posit a one-way movement from “orality” to “literacy”/“textuality” in ancient cultures. Not only is this dichotomy problematic (on this, more below), but Schniedewind suggests that movement can go the other way too, particularly with the emergence of rabbinic Judaism. This list of positive aspects of the book could go on. Nevertheless, I turn now to consider potential shortcomings of the book. I start with one issue that appears key to Schniedewind’s argument, but may not be. Though Schniedewind is fully aware of those who speak of the overlap of oral and written, the argument of the book sounds at times as if it revives a now discredited opposition between orality on the one hand and textuality on the other. Consider, for example, the following quote that stands at the outset of a chapter entitled “Josiah and the Text Revolution”: With the emergence of literacy and the flourishing of literature a textual revolution arose in the days of King Josiah. This was one of the most profound cultural revolutions in human history: the assertion of the orthodoxy of texts. As writing spread throughout Judean society, literacy broke out of the confines of the closed scribal schools, the royal court, and the lofty temples...Basic literacy became commonplace, so much so that the illiterate could be socially stigmatized. 5

This dramatic opening of the chapter posits a massive shift from orality toward the “orthodoxy of the text.” “Basic literacy” he avers, became commonplace” throughout the populace. At other points he qualifies such remarks, noting that universal literacy levels were not characteristic of any ancient society, that texts were always bound up with orality, and that Scripture always functioned as such within highly defined and hierarchical social systems. I find Schniedewind’s more measured comments on this topic more helpful than the more sweeping formulations with which he introduces 5 William Schniedewind, How the Bible Became a Book (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 91.

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them. Though some sort of literacy appears to have spread through various parts of the Israelite bureaucracy in the late pre-exilic period, this is far from literacy becoming “commonplace.” The main testimony to possible stigma associated with illiteracy is the “Letter of a Literate Soldier,” at best evidence of stigma associated with illiteracy for a military officer. 6 The best recent studies of literacy levels in the ancient world have concluded that no such ancient society achieved general literacy, including the Greeks who once were thought to have achieved general literacy by virtue of the simplicity of their alphabet. 7 On the contrary, good arguments have been made against the idea that alphabetic textuality is necessarily a spur to an “alphabetic revolution.” 8 In addition, Schniedewind leans hard at this point on early work of Jack Goody, along with that of Walter Ong and Eric Havelock, all of whom pushed a now discredited idea of a large divide between orality and literacy. Subsequent scholarship, including some later work by Goody himself, has clarified that there is a constant interaction between orality and literacy, even in supposedly “literate” contexts. 9 Thus, at best, there is a move from orality to an oral-textual mix, and even in the latter instance one must be careful not to posit global shifts in thought patterns, cultural organization, 6 Schniedewind’s discussion of this letter is on pp. 101–103 of his Bible to Book, summarizing earlier work in “Sociolinguistic Reflections on the Letter of a ‘Literate’ Soldier (Lachish 3),” ZAH 13 (2000): 157–67. 7 The most influential work on this is that of W. Harris, W. V. Harris, Ancient Literacy (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989) on Greco-Roman literacy. A sampling of studies of other cultures includes: John Baines and Christopher Eyre, “Four Notes on Literacy,” GM 61 (1983): 65–96; P. Michalowski, “Charisma and Control: On Continuity and Change in Early Mesopotamian Bureaucratic Systems,” in The Organization of Power. Aspects of Bureaucracy in the Ancient Near East, edited by M. Gibson and R. D. Biggs (Chicago: Oriental Institute, 1987), 47–57 and Ian Young, “Israelite Literacy: Interpreting the Evidence,” VT 48 (1998): 239–53, 408–22. 8 See, in particular, Anna Morpurgo Davies, “Forms of Writing in the Ancient Mediterranean World,” in The Written Word: Literacy in Transition, edited by Gerd Baumann (Oxford: Clarendon, 1986), 23–50 and comments regarding the supposed ease of alphabetic systems in Christopher Eyre and John Baines, “Interactions between Orality and Literacy in Ancient Egypt,” in Literacy and Society, Karen Schousboe and Mogens Trolle Larsen (Copenhagen: Akademisk Forlag, 1989), 101–02. 9 For review of the major contributions and critiques of these thinkers, see Peter Probst, “Die Macht der Schrift: Zum ethnologischen Diskurs über eine populäre Denkfigur,” Anthropos 87 (1992): 167–82; John Halverson, “Goody and the Implosion of the Literacy Thesis,” Man (n.s.) 27 (1992): 301–17; and J. Collins, “Literacy and Literacies,” ARA 24 (1995): 75–93.

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etc. In so far as Schniedewind’s book aims to argue for a massive textual revolution in ancient Israel involving the triumph of textuality and the emergence of widespread literacy, it is a house built on sand. But, as suggested above, there is much more to Schniedewind’s work than this. Following Harris and other scholars who have studied ancient literacy levels, I think that it is highly unlikely that even “basic literacy” was “commonplace” across all of ancient Israel. Even the augmented epigraphic evidence that Schniedewind amasses won’t sustain this conclusion. 10 Though Schniedewind and others are probably right that literacy expanded outward in the late-pre-exilic period to include many bureaucrats and artisans who previously were not literate, it is anachronistic and unnecessary to his argument to posit a more general spreading of literacy—as he says—“throughout the populace.” He could still be right about a substantial increase in literacy and expansion of the Israelite textual corpus in the pre-exilic period, even without asserting that the society underwent a textual revolution including widespread literacy. In addition, we need to distinguish between different sorts of literacy cultivated in ancient societies. All too often scholars implicitly understand “literacy” to consist of basic reading and writing ability, a “literacy” corresponding to low-level definitions of literacy prominent in recent literacy politics (e.g. the U.N. literacy initiatives). Yet this was not the sort of literacy that counted in the ancient world. There we see the most intense focus on a “literacy” that consists of mastery of a given, textualized cultural tradition—like the Gilgamesh epic in the Sumero-Akkadian tradition, the Instruction of Kheti in the Egyptian tradition, or Homer in Greece. For now I’ll refer to this latter sort of text by Assmann’s term, “cultural text.” 11 And though literacy for business purposes and literacy in such “cultural texts” can overlap, each of these cultures shows a tendency toward conservation of cultural texts in an older language, sometimes an older script, and often using different—more perishable writing materials. This means that we can easily have a situation where—in a given period—we may find a wealth of ostraca and other hard inscriptional materials attesting to the business use of one language—say Aramaic—even as a small elite continues to educate itself through older cultural texts—say in Hebrew—and even extend them. For more detailed arguments for this conclusion, see my Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005), 116–22. 11 Published in full form as Jan Assmann, “Kulturelle und literarische Texte,” in Ancient Egyptian Literature: History and Forms, edited by A. Loprieno (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 60–82 and available in a shorter, English version as “Collective Memory and Cultural Identity,” NGC 65 (1995): 125–33. 10

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Yet those cultural texts are lost to us because they were written on more perishable media like parchment. This is particularly true in later periods of Israelite history where Hebrew assumed a primarily ideological function— as Schniedewind himself notes—and the Biblical tradition serves as a cultural symbol of access to an earlier past. Business was conducted in Aramaic and—later—Greek, while Hebrew is used—particularly within temple contexts after demise of the monarchy—to preserve the indigenous cultural tradition. Another problem I have with the argument of the book is that I think it over-emphasizes the eighth and seventh centuries as the formative time for the formation of Biblical literature. Part of this is an over-correction in response to those who have argued that there was no pre-exilic history of Israelite literature, that all was written in the post-exile, or that Israelite literature was formed primarily in the Hellenistic period. These are, indeed, implausible positions. Yet this book ignores indicators, some of which Schniedewind himself has gathered, that earlier—perhaps 10th or 9th century—temple and royal-bureaucratic Judean matrices already may have developed a nucleus of writings used to educate/form literate elites, some of which formed the core of later Biblical corpora. Moreover, Schniedewind does not highlight as much as I would like the possible extensive role of early Northern monarchal traditions—e.g. Omri-Ahab and Jeroboam II— in supplementing those early traditions and helping to stimulate the expansion of textuality in the seventh century South. The epigraphic and archaeological evidence that he uses with such good effect to argue for expansion of textuality in seventh century Judah would also point to some important developments in eighth century (or earlier) Israel. 12 In addition, Schniedewind’s position excessively de-emphasizes textual structures in the exilic and post-exilic periods. The examples of the latter portions of the book of Isaiah, late Psalms, and some later prophetic material show the ongoing vitality of the classical Hebrew tradition—promoted by sixth and fifth century masters of the oral-written Hebrew classical tradition. Furthermore, his argument that virtually all exilic Israelite textuality took place in the royal retinue of Jehoiachin is too narrow. The example of Ezekiel at the least, indicates that Israelites produced texts elsewhere as well. Moreover, following on Assmann’s concept of textual “excarnation” amidst crisis, I remain inclined to see the exile (and early post-exile) as an important time for the reproduction and reformulation of pre-exilic written traditions. 13 The written form of such traditions probably were lost amidst 12 13

See the summary of evidence in Lemaire, “Schools and Literacy,” 208. Jan Assmann, “Fünf Stufen auf dem Wege zum Kanon. Tradition und

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the destruction of Jerusalem. Nevertheless, because of the oral-written character of the ancient educational system, a fairly exact form of such writings were retained in the minds of Israelite scribal masters, masters who then could both reproduce and augment the tradition in light of intense dislocation and crisis. I will add just one more point of general argument vis-à-vis Schniedewind’s overall approach. If we were to look toward a “textual revolution” in ancient Israel, the Greco-Roman portion of the Second Temple period makes almost as much, if not more, sense as a candidate than the seventh and eighth centuries that Schniedewind so focuses on: we have writing and teaching patriarchs depicted in the pseudepigrapha, explicit mentions of a school possibly in Ben Sira 14 and certainly in later materials, clearly documented libraries including a temple library, explicit claims— however exaggerated—that all (male) Israelites were taught reading, writing and Torah, descriptions of ongoing reading rituals on the sabbath, etc. 15 Let me be clear: I am not proposing that the Bible was written then. Instead, I am arguing that this period is an important comparison point for the late pre-exile which Schniedewind so emphasizes, a comparison point that shows the limitations of what happened then. Though few texts in the Bible were written then, they achieved a decisively new status and shape. Let me turn now to a focus on the Pentateuch, particularly Schniedewind’s case that the work of creation of Mosaic Torah was already complete by the time of the exile and that the post-exile was basically a time of transmission of the Mosaic Torah by temple elites and did not involve substantial production of new material. Again, part of this is a welcome correction to older over-emphases of the post-exile as the formative time, particularly of Priestly material. As linguistic and comparative studies have shown, much of the Priestly Pentateuchal material is equally as early as the non-priestly material, and both bodies of literature have substantial preexilic elements. Furthermore, in my study of the Qumran finds I have found a remarkable pattern in the distribution of divergent editions of the Schriftkulture im alten Israel und frühen Judentum,” in Religion und kulturelles Gedächtnis. Zehn Studien, by Jan Assmann (München: Beck, 2000), 87–89. 14 For questions about the oft-cited reference in Ben Sira 51:23 as a reference to a “school” see Rainer Riesner, Jesus als Lehrer: Eine Untersuchung zum Ursprung der Evangelien-Überlieferung, WUNT (Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1981), 166–67; Oda Wischmeyer, Die Kulture des Buches Jesus Sirach, BZAW (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1995), 175–77 and Michael V. Fox, Proverbs 1–9: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, AB (New York: Doubleday, 2000), 7, note 7. 15 This is a brief synopsis of the results of an argument given in detail in my Writing on the Tablet of the Heart, 201–72.

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Torah and non-Torah portions of the Hebrew Scriptures. These finds and/or the evidence preserved in the Septuagint, show that the present Jewish Bible preserved the later forms of several non-Torah books like Joshua, Samuel, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and possibly the Song of Songs. These “prophetic books”—widely construed—were enough in flux that later redactions still were included in the authoritative, proto-Massoretic tradition. Yet it turns out that the version of the Torah included in the Jewish Bible is clearly earlier than extremely conflationary editions of the Torah represented by the so-called “proto-Samaritan” tradition, the so-called “4QRP” texts, and the Temple Scroll. As others have shown, these are variant editions of the Pentateuch that stretch back into the fourth century, yet they did not find their way into the stream of authoritative tradition. This reinforces points often made by Schniedewind about Qumran providing a terminus ad quem for Biblical traditions. In this case, Qumran establishes an earlier terminus ad quem for the Mosaic Torah than it does for non-Torah, “prophetic” traditions. Moreover, these revisions of the Pentateuch at Qumran provide clues about the final stages of the formation of the Torah. First, this material suggests that there was ongoing work of revision and supplementation of the Torah into the Persian and early Hellenistic periods, despite the fact that such revisions did not find their way into the authoritative tradition. Second, it suggests that the character of such work by that point was largely conflationary and harmonizing. This latter point becomes interesting when considering possible examples of conflation that are in the version of Mosaic Torah preserved in the Jewish tradition. In a volume on Exod 34:10–26 I surveyed the conflationary traditions at Qumran and used them to argue that the law in Exodus 34:10–26 exhibits quite similar conflationary characteristics. 16 This kind of phenomenon is important because Schniedewind puts much weight on another text that I would argue is a good candidate for such a late conflationary tradition, this time a section in Exodus 24:4–8 that links the Sinai Torah with Deuteronomy and particularly the Torah celebrated by Josiah. For Schniedewind, this text is a key thematization of textuality that may be a marker of the textual revolution begun in the time of Josiah. In this case, it adds an explicit scene of writing for a public to preexilic P and non-P Sinai narratives that lacked such public writing. Working David M. Carr, “Method in Determination of Direction of Dependence: An Empirical Test of Criteria Applied to Exodus 34,11–26 and its Parallels,” in Gottes Volk am Sinai: Untersuchungen zu Ex 32–34 und Dtn 9–10, vol. 18, edited by Matthias Köckert and Erhard Blum, VWGT (Gütersloh: Kaiser, Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2001), 107–40. 16

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from the above-discussed examples of conflationary traditions I would go further and stress the probable late character of this addition. Like the above conflationary traditions, this text in Exod 24:4–8 links P and non-P elements of the Exodus Sinai narrative, harmonizing both with Deuteronomy on the one hand and 2 Kings 23 on the other. Exod 34:10–26 is another example of such a tradition, indeed a tradition characterized—like Exod 24:4–8—by semi-Deuteronomistic language and themes. Exod 24:4– 8 is a likely part of this stream. Insofar as it can be taken as an index of the importance of textuality at a particular period in Israelite history, it probably reflects the ongoing importance of textuality in the Persian period. Schniedewind has other arguments for the early character of the Mosaic Pentateuch, but they have problems too. Though Hurvitz and others have established the probability of early strata in P, they have not successfully dated all of the P material to the pre-exilic period. Moreover, I am not as sure as Schniedewind that later scribal circles were unable to continue pre-exilic linguistic structures into the exilic period. Though the Qumran sectarians half a millennium later may not have been able to pull off an exact imitation of Biblical Hebrew, exilic or even early post-exilic scribal circles may have been able to maintain substantial continuity in language and style into the early Persian period. 17 Indeed, preliminary soundings suggest that early pre-exilic works such as Zechariah and Haggai are considerably different from books such as Chronicles in their linguistic profile and extremely close to their “classical Hebrew” counterparts. 18 Other minor problems whose treatment would take me beyond a response of this sort here include Schniedewind’s dependence on what I consider to be a problematic treatment of P and H in I. Knohl and J. Milgrom’s work and Schniedewind’s arguments that the twelve tribe focus of Pentateuchal materials should be located in the Hezekian period of re-integration of the North. It could be that such a twelve-tribe emphasis started then, but it appears in later texts as well. Moreover, it is striking that several of the texts On this point, however, see the important article by Jan Joosten, “PseudoClassicisms in Late Biblical Hebrew,” in Sirach, Scrolls and Sages, edited by T. e Muraoka and J. Elwolde (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 146–59 which extends and concretizes some methodological points made through work by A. Hurvitz. 18 On this see in particular Martin Ehrensvärd, “Linguistic Dating of Biblical Texts,” in Biblical Hebrew: Studies in Chronology and Typology, edited by Ian Young (New York: T&T Clark, 2003), 175–86. Other essays in the volume raise good questions regarding different explantory models to account for linguistic variation in Biblical texts. Certainly diachronic models are important, but some differences (e.g. that between Ezekiel and “P”) may be explained by factors such as dialect differences, diglossia, etc. 17

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that Schniedewind situates firmly in the Hezekian period, e.g. the four eighth century prophets, lack any emphasis on the twelve tribe structure. Enough on problems. In conclusion, I think Schniedewind’s book joins others in providing a useful corrective to an over-emphasis on the Persian or later periods as the generative time for the formation of the Pentateuch and other Scriptures. Moreover, though a popular work, it provides useful additional arguments for the importance of the late pre-exilic period in the formation of Biblical literature. All too rarely do Biblical scholars attempt this sort of broadly directed synthesis, partly because it is all too easy to critique works of this scope. Schniedewind deserves our appreciation both for his results and the way he raises important questions regarding the origins of Biblical tradition, questions that deserve further discussion.

WORKS CITED Assmann, Jan. 1995 “Collective Memory and Cultural Identity.” NGC 65: 125–33. 1996 “Kulturelle und literarische Texte.” In Ancient Egyptian Literature: History and Forms, edited by A. Loprieno, 60–82. Leiden: Brill. 2000 “Fünf Stufen auf dem Wege zum Kanon. Tradition und Schriftkulture im alten Israel und frühen Judentum.” In Religion und kulturelles Gedächtnis. Zehn Studien, by Jan Assmann, 81–100. München: Beck. Baines, John, and Christopher Eyre. 1983 “Four Notes on Literacy.” GM 61: 65–96. Carr, David M. 1995 Collins, J. “Literacy and Literacies.” ARA 24: 75–93. 2001 “Method in Determination of Direction of Dependence: An Empirical Test of Criteria Applied to Exodus 34,11–26 and its Parallels.” In Gottes Volk am Sinai: Untersuchungen zu Ex 32–34 und Dtn 9–10, vol. 18, edited by Matthias Köckert and Erhard Blum. VWGT, 107–40. Gütersloh: Kaiser, Gütersloher Verlagshaus. 2005 Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature. New York: Oxford University Press. Davies, Anna Morpurgo. 1986 “Forms of Writing in the Ancient Mediterranean World.” In The Written Word: Literacy in Transition, edited by Gerd Baumann, 23–50. Oxford: Clarendon. Ehrensvärd, Martin. 2003 “Linguistic Dating of Biblical Texts.” In Biblical Hebrew: Studies in Chronology and Typology, edited by Ian Young, 164–88. New York: T&T Clark. Eyre, Christopher, and John Baines.

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1989 “Interactions between Orality and Literacy in Ancient Egypt.” In Literacy and Society, Karen Schousboe and Mogens Trolle Larsen, 91– 119. Copenhagen: Akademisk Forlag. Fox, Michael V. 2000 Proverbs 1–9: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. AB. New York: Doubleday. Golka, F. W. “The Israelite Wisdom School or ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes.’” In The Leopard’s Spots: Biblical and African Wisdom in Proverbs, by F. W. Golka. Edinburgh: T & T Clark. 1983 “Die israelitische Weisheitsschule oder ‘des kaisers neue Kleider.’” VT 33: 257–70. 1989 Harris, W. V. Ancient Literacy. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. 1991 Jamieson-Drake, David W. Scribes and Schools in Monarchic Judah: A Socio-Archeological Approach. JSOTSup. Sheffield: Almond Press. 1992 Halverson, John. “Goody and the Implosion of the Literacy Thesis.” Man (n.s.) 27: 301–17. Joosten, Jan. 1999 “Pseudo-Classicisms in Late Biblical Hebrew.” In Sirach, Scrolls and Sages, edited by T. e Muraoka and J. Elwolde, 146–59. Leiden: Brill. Lemaire, André. 1981 Les Écoles et la formation de la Bible dans l’ancien Israël. OBO. Fribourg: Éditions Universitaires. 2001. “Schools and Literacy in Ancient Israel and Early Judaism.” In The Blackwell Companion to the Hebrew Bible, edited by Leo Perdue, translated by Aliou Niang, 207–17. Oxford: Blackwell. Michalowski, P. 1987 “Charisma and Control: On Continuity and Change in Early Mesopotamian Bureaucratic Systems.” In The Organization of Power. Aspects of Bureaucracy in the Ancient Near East, edited by M. Gibson and R. D. Biggs, 47–57. Chicago: Oriental Institute. Probst, Peter. 1992 “Die Macht der Schrift: Zum ethnologischen Diskurs über eine populäre Denkfigur.” Anthropos 87: 167–82. 1981 Riesner, Rainer. Jesus als Lehrer: Eine Untersuchung zum Ursprung der Evangelien-Überlieferung. WUNT. Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck. 2004 Schniedewind, William. How the Bible Became a Book. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 2000 “Sociolinguistic Reflections on the Letter of a ‘Literate’ Soldier (Lachish 3).” ZAH 13: 157–67.

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1995 Wischmeyer, Oda. Die Kulture des Buches Jesus Sirach. BZAW. Berlin: De Gruyter. 1998 Young, Ian. “Israelite Literacy: Interpreting the Evidence.” VT 48: 239–53, 408–22.

IMPLICATIONS FOR AND FROM EZRA-NEHEMIAH TAMARA COHN ESKENAZI

HEBREW UNION COLLEGE—JEWISH INSTITUTE OF RELIGION The angle of vision that shapes my present paper concerns the developments in 5th century Judah as Schniedewind interprets them. In an earlier work, In an Age of Prose: A literary Approach to Ezra-Nehemiah, I approached Ezra-Nehemiah (EN) from a literary perspective and concluded that EN is organized so as to express three themes (that are attributed to events in the 5 th century): the power and authority of the written text (with the Torah as most authoritative); the pivotal role of the community as a whole, not merely its leaders; and the expansion of the notion of the house of God to encompass the entire city of Jerusalem, not merely its temple, a notion that includes the dedicated people themselves as one aspect of that house of God (Eskenazi, 1988). What most interests me in examining Schniedewind’s book is investigating the historical context for this three-fold emphasis. Since Spinoza, Ezra has been credited with a major role with respect to the Torah. He has been described as the one who had the means, motive, and opportunity to shape the Torah into the book we now have. What the shaping entailed, and what the Torah included, remain contested topics. The traditional view that what Ezra introduces in Nehemiah 8 largely corresponds to the Torah as we know it has come under fire. The time and place for the composition of the sources that comprise the Torah remain subject to debate. Current studies that reassess the size of postexilic Judah and Jerusalem, and their economic resources, conclude (as Schniedewind also reports) that Jerusalem and Judah were small, and poor. These conditions challenge the supposition that much creative work such as composing the Torah would have been possible. From whence did the Torah come and what was it? Was it in the 5th century that the compilation as we know it emerged? Was the Torah simply 339

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edited at that point out of earlier sources? Were the sources actually composed in this century, as the so-called “invention of ancient Israel” theories suggest? Or was this period only the beginning, with Deuteronomy as the main available text, and with other strands developed only later by a priestly circle (as the so-called “Heidelberg school” suggests)? The questions for my part of the discussion concern the postexilic period. They are: In what way does my research support, challenge or require that Schniedewind modify his thesis? Conversely, in what ways does his thesis challenge, support or require that I modify my own? My remarks are very much work in progress, as is befitting the topic. The purpose of the SBL session for which this paper was written is to raise the questions and reflect on them together, rather than attempt to formulate final conclusions. With these points in mind, let me begin by summing up some of the basic claims and conclusions of Schniedewind’s engaging book as a way of focusing my response. Schniedewind offers an excellent review of how the Torah itself accounts for its own textuality (118). He then traces the textualization of the Torah and argues that a paradigm shift took place in the Josianic revolution (91–117). The tradition about sacred texts and the self-consciousness about the “importance of the written word” (accordingly) developed especially during the Josianic reforms (212). “As literacy became more prevalent, textuality became more plausible” (213). A particular emphasis in Schniedewind’s thesis concerns the role of the royal court. The documents of the Torah, according to him, are largely preexilic, written and preserved in the court under royal sponsorship. The process of writing and editing continued during exile as well, with the Judaean court in Babylon as the location for the transmission and preservation of the Torah. The postexilic era, according to Schniedewind, was not a fruitful time for these developments. Summarizing the book, Schniedewind states “Throughout this book I have contended that the making of books and the appeal to the authority of writing was largely derived from the institutions of state and temple. Writing was the domain of the royal court and then the priestly aristocracy. Writing was used as a tool of government and then taken over as a tool of religious authority and orthodoxy” (212). As will be discussed below, I am particularly interested in the shift from government, i.e., royal court, to religious authority. An intriguing aspect of Schniedewind’s thesis is the claim that the Judaean royal household in exile continued to be the main center for the transmission and preservation of the Torah, with Jehoiachin as a prominent figure. The royal family was comfortable and the royal house had the

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means, motive and opportunity, as it were, to produce and preserve texts. “Fundamentally, the writing of the exilic period was an extension of writing by the state. It was writing by and for the Judean royal family” (164). While I have many questions about the strength of this claim, my own issues do not depend on this particular point but have to do with the postexilic use of the written text. If I understand Schniedewind rightly, Zerubbabel and his entourage form a key link in the transmission of the (already largely completed) text. “Zerubbabel, representing the exiled Judaean royal family, returns to Jerusalem” (162). Although Schniedewind does not say so explicitly, the implication is that Zerubbabel was responsible for transporting the texts to Judah. What is explicit in Schniedewind’s book, however, is the view that EN reflects only the intensification of a process. Thus he writes: “Although the scribe Ezra circulated and publicized the Book of the Torah in the early Second Temple period (Ezra 7:6, 11, Neh 8:1, 4), this was only ‘an intensification of the process already started at the time of Josiah’” (136; citing B. Levinson’s Deuteronomy and the Hermeneutics of legal Innovation. New York/Oxford: Oxford, 1997). While the phrase, “intensification of the process,” comes from Levinson, the description of the events in the postexilic era as “only” intensification seems to come from Schniedewind or, at any rate, is accepted by him. According to Schniedewind, “the priests and scribes were preserving the literature of Israel rather than creating it” (166). “Although the Pentatuech was essentially composed in the pre-exilic period, its final editorial shaping took place in the Jerusalem temple” (166). Under the subheading “The Textualization of Jewish Religion” Schniedewind cites Neh 8:1–15 as the time when “Not only does Ezra read the Torah out loud to the people, but they also come together to study Torah” (184). Subsequent writings, Schniedewind shows, illustrate that textualization has taken place already. Thus, “In Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah, the reference to a written Mosaic legislation appears as a regular feature of the historian presentation. The last two expressions, ‘the Torah of Moses’ and ‘the word of YHWH,” point to a critical semantic shift from oral to written tradition” (189–190). Let me respond by stating first that I find Schniedewind’s elaboration of “how the Bible became a book” very compelling. My questions emerge regarding the time and nature of textualization of the tradition (to be differentiated from the composition of the text). My own research on EN leads me to the conclusion that much more than “only intensification” took place in the postexilic period with Ezra (as EN depicts Ezra and his era). I suggest that EN reflects and propagates a decisive paradigm shift. Although my conclusions differ from Schniedewind, it is precisely his study that helps

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articulate the nature of this shift and helps show how EN represents it. Indeed, some of the points I wish to make are already embedded in the Schniedewind’s book’s title, How the Bible Became a Book: The Textualization of Israel’s Traditions. Seemingly the part after the colon represents a subtitle. But the longer I thought about it the more convinced I became that in fact the title describes two related but very distinct questions and processes: becoming a book, and textualization of the tradition. Schniedewind addresses both topics in a most helpful fashion and this is what makes the book so valuable. However, “Textualization” of Israel’s traditions can signify something other than possessing a text. Indeed, Schniedewind’s discussion of orality, literacy and textualization articulates very well some of the things that textualization signifies. I very much appreciate Schniedewind’s observation that the road to textualization, of Israel’s traditions—to the establishment of the written word as a source of authority—was rocky. “Two issues shaped the path of this road. The first was the give and take between orality and literacy. As literacy became more prevalent textuality became more plausible. … The second was competition between orality and textuality as modes of authority. Orality and literacy were stages along the same road, whereas orality and textuality was the fork in the road” (213; emphasis added). “Although there is an ebb and flow to orality and literacy, orality and textuality stand on opposite and sometimes competing sides of cultural authority” (197). I fully agree with these observations and find them important for any analysis of Israel’s history. When one examines EN, one can make the case that the significant shift, as EN depicts it, was not from royal court to the temple but from royal and temple control to textualization as control, constructing a different infrastructure, separate from either court or temple. Textualization, in other words, means in EN a challenge to both the court and the temple. Here I fully agree with Schniedewind’s title for a subunit, that (for example) “Textualizing the ‘Word of YHWH’[meant]—The Eclipse of Prophecy”. I also agree that “… the spread of writing [after Hezekiah] into everyday life meant that now writing could become a tool for the subversion of centralized power of the government. Texts were no longer only the products of the palace or the priests” (192; emphasis added). He writes about Deuteronomy that “the deuteronomic revolution gave the rural elders a written voice. Ancient writings, which had been elevated as literary propaganda in the days of Hezekiah, were turned on their head. Writing becomes a typical mode of expression in the later days of the Judean monarchy. Biblical literature realized its apex in the last decades of the Judaean monarchy” (192; emphasis added).

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But I would go even further. In EN, textualization also meant the eclipse of the royal court and the temple’s priesthood. Let me use these observations to sum up my points and then briefly explain how and I why I interpret the era and the text this way. It seems to me that no book displays the subversive nature of textuality more fully than EN, and no book more fully demonstrates how textuality ought to be used to subvert an ultimate control by either monarchy or priesthood. Schniedewind moves too quickly, I think, between the shift from monarchy and priesthood. But EN illustrates a third option, one with Deuteronomy as the overriding model. Hence, as was true in Hezekiah’s time, the text gives voice to a broader segment of the population. EN consistently demonstrates such a shift in power. Schniedewind, as noted, systematically traces the textualization of the Torah, implying that a paradigm shift took place in the Josianic Revolution” (91–117). It is undoubtedly true that the first explicit and major sign of a shift to the text takes place at that date. But the literature that follows (see e.g., Jer 8:7–9) does not exemplify the kind of pervasive textualization of the symbols of power that EN represents (and that Schniedewind attributes to the early period). My point is that the importance placed on a written text can be dated to the time of Josiah and Huldah (2 Kings 22–23), but that the genuine paradigmatic shift is to be found in EN. The notion of a book of Torah, and especially a Torah of Moses, is not evidently normative until we come to EN. Other postexilic sources such as Mal 2:7, Hag 2.11–17 and Zech 7:3, imply that priests, as custodians of the teachings, were sources of authority, or rather, more explicitly, sources of torah, and were expected to offer new rulings when there was no precedent. A written Torah of Moses as the norm is not evidently the widespread, overriding assumption. (see, e.g., Japhet, “‘Law,” 102). We need to make it clear that possessing written traditions is not equivalent to textualizing the tradition, if by “textualizing” we mean granting authority to texts, not simply preserving traditions in texts. My contention is that the literature after Josiah and before EN does not show signs of textualization, even though texts seem to be available. Thus a major difference between Schniedewind’s and my reading of the postexilic period has to do with the assessment of relative importance. The writing of the Torah is of course the sinqua con non for textualization. But royal libraries, such as Assurbanipal or Hezekiah, do not achieve the kind of textualization of the tradition that we associate with “the peoples of the book.” This is true of the library in Alexandria as well. The transformation into a people of the book is a postexilic phenomenon. The availability of texts is a necessary condition, but not itself an explanation. Greeks do

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not become a people of the book despite the great reservoir of comparable literature in the same period. Herodotus, Sophocles and Homer— enormously significant as they are—do not become “Scripture.” I think this difference places the achievements of EN in a different light than what Schniedewind describes. Comparing EN (and its contribution) with Herodotus can show this difference in yet another way. When Herodotus seeks to establish the authority of a statement he refers to eye-witnesses as a source. When EN seeks to do so, it utilizes documents. As Sara Japhet has shown, EN’s historiography is driven but what Japhet calls “the documentary imperative.” This characteristic is rooted in the paradigm shift at work. A related point is EN’s position concerning the priests. A careful look at EN shows that it portrays Ezra as a priest who indirectly challenges the activities of certain priests (see the case of the so-called “mixed-marriage” and the large proportion of cultic personnel who are marked as violators— 17 out of 110 or 111; this includes the high-priestly family; see also Nehemiah’s conflict with the leading priestly families). The reading of the Torah in Nehemiah 8 is striking for the absence of priests and the lack of focus on any of the cultic activities associated with the temple. Although events are reported as taking place during what we now call Rosh Hashanah and for which Numb 29:1–6 prescribes sacrifices, there is no mention of sacrifices or any other temple related worship. The narrative focuses on understanding and implementing the written Torah. It is true that Nehemiah 10 includes support for the priesthood and the temple, but it grants them only financial support, not authority. The difference is crucial. Authority in EN is the prerogative of the written text and its interpretation. The scribal revolution challenges the powers of state and priesthood, the “state” being Persian government, and “priesthood” being the Jerusalem temple. The emphasis on the Levites (who are elevated at the expense of the priests) is but one aspect of this revolution (see J. Schaper on tension between Nehemiah and the priests and J. Min for tension between Ezra and the priests; see also my forthcoming essay on “The Missions of Ezra and Nehemiah” in the Lipschits and Oeming, ed., Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period). EN articulates the “coming out of the closet” of the Torah. It is not merely a case of a tradition preserved and available through a text. Rather, it is the case that the text becomes the primary, acknowledged source of authority. EN develops its narrative so as to illustrate how this new source of authority functions: communal reading (emphasis on “communal”) leads to implementation. The paradigmatic moment, as it were, is Nehemiah 8.

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Schniedewind rightly emphasizes the programmatic nature of this scene, under the subheading “The Textualization of Jewish Religion.” Citing Neh 8:1–15, he observes: “Not only does Ezra read the Torah out loud to the people, but they also come together to study Torah” (184). As I note in my book on the subject, In an Age of Prose, Ezra essentially disappears after this scene, leaving the community holding the book, so to speak. Everything that follows indicates that the book has become the source of authority. The pledge in Nehemiah 10 is a written oath to follow the Torah; the concluding ceremony includes a reading that leads to action: “On that day it was read in the book of Moses, in the ears of the people, and it was found written in it that an Ammonite and Moabite should not come into the assembly of God ever … . And it was upon their hearing the Torah, they separated all admixture from Israel” (Neh 13:1–3). Note that neither Ezra, nor priests in general, not even the Levites, play a role in this reading, although the previous chapters suggest that Levites have taken the role of readers and communicators (see especially Neh 9:4–5). The point I wish to stress is that with the Torah, priests become accountable to an authority outside their own circle. Publicizing the Torah demystifies their roles and makes them subject to another authority, authority that enables other segments in the community to scrutinize and challenge the priesthood. This option and its consequences are exemplified in Ezra 9–10. In sum, a new paradigm of authority has been installed. It is not insignificant therefore, and carries some symbolic meanings, that the reading of the Torah in Nehemiah 8 takes place outside the temple. The battle for “yehudit” as the language of the people, a battle that Schniedewind so effectively highlights, is integral to this paradigmatic shift. Nehemiah’s point in Neh 13:23–24 concerns the loss of yehudit— presumably Hebrew—and is a witness to the insistence in the 5 th cent that Hebrew is the national language.[19] Moreover, even if it contains many Aramaisms, not only Aramaic, EN is nonetheless written primarily in Hebrew, not Aramaic. The EM and NM in particular stand as witnesses, as do the records of what was said by the people (e.g. Nehemiah 9) and what was written by them (Nehemiah 10). While Aramaic is associated with the early stages of the return (Ezra 4–6), it is gradually and persistently displaced by a demonstrated revival of Hebrew. [20] The violation of such return to Hebrew incurs Nehemiah’s wrath—an attitude that would be inexplicable if Aramaic had become the accepted norm in postexilic Jerusalem. As Schniedewind argues throughout the book, the preservation and reproduction of Hebrew documents such as the Torah, would make less sense if there were not potential readers. Yet, Schniedewind’s work leads me in places to different conclusions from some that he draws. A commit-

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ment to the revival of Hebrew and literacy appear to be very much part of 5 th cent Jerusalem, and Judah. EN and the very shift it portrays and enacts, is one example. Chronicles shows the continuation of such a commitment, whereas Haggai and Zechariah illustrate the use of Hebrew in the 6th cent. This kind of renewal with its deliberate reaffirmation of national identity, and the insistence that texts represent a central power or expression of authority, is a postexilic phenomenon. The transition from a royal court to another authority is of momentous consequences. In Israel, such change takes place during the postexilic period. This makes the era a pivotal one, with inestimable consequences. Although the possibility of such a shift flows from earlier stages (as Schniedewind shows) and depends on them, the particular form the change takes is not a simple intensification. It constitutes a paradigm shift that undercuts prior structures of authority and enlarges the scope of public participation and power. When Ezra takes the Torah out of the closet and leaves it with the leaders (Nehemiah 8), he replaces royal and priestly monopoly on knowledge with communal power and with a new source. The source had existed earlier (in some form), but it only becomes decisive from this point onward. The emergence in the following centuries of what J. Kugel calls “the rewritten Bible,” namely, the proliferation of texts that are clearly dependent on the Bible, is one of the many testimonies to the shift that has taken place.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Eskenazi, T. C. 1988 In an Age of Prose: A Literary Approach to Ezra-Nehemiah. SBLMS 36. Atlanta: Scholars Press. 2005 “The Missions of Ezra and Nehemiah,” in: Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period (ed. O. Lipschits and M. Oeming; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns), 505–525. Japhet, S. 1991 “‘History’ and ‘Literature’ in the Persian Period—The Restoration of the Temple,” in: Ah, Assyria... Studies in Assyrian History and Ancient Near Eastern Historiography Presented to Haym Tadmor (ed. M. Cogan and I. Ehp’al; Scripta Hierosolymitana XXXII; Jerusalem), 174–188. 1988 “Law and ‘The Law’ in Ezra-Nehemiah,” In Proceedings of the Ninth World Congress of Jewish Studies, Panel Sessions. Jerusalem, 99–115. Lipschits, O. and M. Oeming, ed. 2005 Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 505–525.

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Min, K.-J. 2002 “The Levitical Authorship of Ezra-Nehemiah”. Ph.D. thesis, University of Durham. Schäper, J. 2000 Priester und Leviten im acämeninidischen Juda: Studien zur Kult-und Sozialgeschichte Israels in persischer Zeit. FAT 31. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Schiedewind, W. M. 2003 How the Bible Became a Book: The Textualization of Ancient Israel. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

IMPLICATIONS FOR AND FROM CHRONICLES CHRISTINE MITCHELL

ST. ANDREW’S COLLEGE SASKATOON, SASKATCHEWAN, CANADA As the title of my remarks here indicates (although I did not choose it), Professor Schniedewind’s book has some rather profound implications for the study of Chronicles. At the same time, the field of Chronicles studies also can have implications for how we read his book. In my remarks, therefore, I will address these two aspects of the relationship between his book and Chronicles. Certainly, as a cursory examination of the recent commentaries will show, we have been dating the authorship of Chronicles to the Persian period—more likely the end of it than the beginning. Schniedewind seems to hold to the Cross-Freedman scheme of a sixth century edition followed by a fourth century edition. The two-edition hypothesis of Chronicles authorship is not one I have seen asserted in print recently, other than by Schiedewind himself in an earlier essay. 1 To be sure, Schniedewind does not argue very hard for this dating, and at other points of the book he does suggest that we can really only argue for a Persian period date for Chronicles (fifth-fourth century). Given the central thesis of the book, that it was really in response to late-eighth and seventh century Assyrian domination that the majority of biblical texts were written, it would have been interesting to see how he might have developed the two-edition hypothesis of Chronicles authorship in that context. Perhaps one implication of his book might be the revisiting of the two-editions hypothesis—personally I must say that I would resist this revisiting, and in some part for the reason that he gives: since the literary frame and construction of 1 Chron. 10–2 Chron. 36 is so well integrated, other than the genealogies, it is very hard to see what 1 William M. Schniedewind, “The Chronicler as an Interpreter of Scripture,” in The Chronicler as Author: Studies in Text and Texture (ed. M. Patrick Graham and Steven L. McKenzie; JSOTSup 263; Sheffield: Sheffield AP, 1999), 158–59.

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might have been added in a “second edition.” And even the genealogies are well integrated into the ideological purpose of the book. Why I think the two-edition hypothesis might be worth revisiting comes out of the argument of this book—after reading Schniedewind’s book, I cannot see how one might possibly justify any literary activity in the Persian period, and in fact this is what he argues—that the Persian period was a period of collection, editing and interpreting. However, I wonder if perhaps instead of leaving Chronicles in the (late) Persian period—which date Schniedewind has always resisted 2—whether this book might not give us the arguments we need to push the dating of Chronicles into the Hellenistic period, when as he says, we have extra-biblical evidence for a literary culture in Hebrew once again. I suspect that he would be reluctant to do so, given his statements around the date of Qohelet in this book, and his arguments elsewhere about the language of Qohelet. One of the key arguments in Schniedewind’s book that pertains directly to Chronicles is the development of a textual culture in Israel (by which he really means Judah), i.e., a culture where written authority displaces oral authority. He notes at several points the importance of writing for Chronicles: the appeal to written word as authoritative, in terms of Temple plans and in terms of torah. It has always been clear, I think, that Chronicles shows a concern for the written word that most other biblical books do not show as overtly. But by drawing our notice to this overt textualization in Chronicles, Schniedewind’s book can help us see that this is perhaps a feature peculiar (in the canon) to Chronicles, although he argues that this is a key marker on a roadway towards a textualized culture in the late Second Temple period. After all, there are other biblical books that seem to depend on written texts, yet do not draw on the authority of the previously written word in order to bolster their own authority (as does Chronicles). Ezekiel’s scroll-eating antics (Ezek. 3.1–3) in fact might lead us in other directions. And of course, we know that where Chronicles did demonstrably cite/quote/plagiarize a source text, there is no citation formula of any kind! (The repetitive resumptions formula discussed by Schniedewind is a different kind of phenomenon.) There are other implications for Chronicles in Schniedewind’s arguments. There is a certain stream in Chronicles studies that suggests that Chronicles was produced at a time when there was a great deal of literary production happening. 3 Schniedewind suggests just the opposite: that 2 William M. Schniedewind, The Word of God in Transition: From Prophet to Exegete in the Second Temple Period (JSOTSup 197; Sheffield: Sheffield AP, 1995), 249. 3 A. Graeme Auld, Kings Without Privilege: David and Moses in the Story of the Bible’s

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Chronicles is a text interested in preserving and commenting upon the past, not in creative literary production. It is an archival text, in a way, a text of “retrenching.” This argument suggests that Chronicles is very much a product of a scribal culture in the sense of copyist/editor, rather than being a product of a scribal culture in the sense of literate elite. In his argument, we might imagine Chronicles easily growing out of a need to copy, re-copy, gloss, edit and retouch Samuel-Kings. This would not be proto-midrash (which implies a certain amount of creative re-articulation and interpretation), but simply scribal. It is unclear to me how Schniedewind is conceiving of the difference between a simple scribal culture of copying, minor glossing etc. (suggested to me by the term “retrenchment”), and a culture of literary creation—are editing and retouching considered scribal or creative processes? Schniedewind also suggests that we can see in Chronicles how textual processes in ancient Israel/Yehud/Judea actually worked. I think this is an important point. Chronicles, in this view, makes use of earlier texts in an expansionistic way. In no other canonical book do we have as clear a picture of the use of earlier texts. Really, if we want to know how almost all of the biblical books came to be, we should be looking at Chronicles as our model, and Schniedewind does draw on an extended illustration to show how Chronicles used Kings. This was a process with several stages, moving from the “deuternomic” to the “chronistic.” Although, as he notes, there is a good deal of “deuteronomic” ideology in Chronicles, in fact I would point out that they really are in many ways parallel histories, with differing ideological and theological concerns, and Chronicles is not merely the (expected?) extension of a textual process that began with Kings. Related to this issue is Schniedewind’s argument that in Chronicles we can see the move from reference to an oral tradition to reference to written texts, especially in the matter of the torah. I have one problem with this presentation, however: there are few comments on canonical processes in Schniedewind’s book—lots of comments on how individual books came to be created and what impact that had on the development of Judaism, but few on the canonical process, and deliberately so, I think. I would like to emphasize that there are serious implications of this discussion of canon for the creation of Chronicles. It comes down to this: was the Chronicler commenting on/expanding/interpreting an authoritative, perhaps canonical body of literature, or was the Chronicler adding his voice to an on-going theological Kings (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1994), 150, 173–74; Ehud Ben Zvi, “What is New in Yehud? Some Considerations,” in Yahwism After the Exile: Perspectives on Israelite Religion in the Persian Era (ed. Rainer Albertz and Bob Becking; STAR 5; Assen: Royal Van Gorcum, 2003), 32–48.

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debate? I think I know Schniedewind’s answer from other parts of the book (as well as from his previous work)—there was something authoritative or canonical or scriptural (if you like) out there, and the Chronicler was commenting on/expanding/interpreting it, not engaged in theological or ideological debate. However, as we move from “implications for” to “implications from” Chronicles in light of Schniedewind’s book, it is this tendency to see Chronicles as a product of a culture of “retrenchment” that I think we should resist. Schniedewind states that Chronicles is essentially a plagiarized text. This is a characterization of Chronicles that I think some recent readings of the text have tried to overcome. 4 Certainly the Chronicler used something like Samuel-Kings as a source text, and in some places deviated very little from this source. However, in other places the Chronicler did show remarkable creativity and literary awareness. In the Chronicler’s description of the reign of Asa, for example, we can find allusions to a variety of biblical books: 2 Chron. 13.23, “and the land had rest for ten years,” and 2 Chron. 15.3–6 (the speech of Azariah) both use language reminiscent of Judges; Asa’s preparation of his own grave in 2 Chron. 16.14, recalls the grave the patriarch Jacob prepares for himself in Gen. 50.5; the great fire made for him in 2 Chron. 16.14 recalls Jer. 34.5 which also alludes to the burning done in honour of the kings, and also does link to Saul’s death as depicted in 1 Sam. 31.12. Not only are there allusions, but also the allusiveness of the text is so well synthesized, that it is clear that we are not looking at a simple quotation-and-commentary text. Instead, we are looking at a sophisticated author, who both knew how to use his literary heritage in a creative way, and expected that his audience would hear this creative use of the heritage! This creative transformation of previous texts is also found in Hellenistic-period works such as Jubilees, the Temple Scroll, the Genesis Apocryphon, and so forth, as Schniedewind discusses in some detail. I wonder if research on Chronicles could not be used to stand at least part of Schniedewind’s argument about the date of the textualization of early Judaism on its head. Schniedewind seems to assume that authors write what they know—that is, they bring their stories up to their own day, or set their stories in their own times. This assumption operates from a notion of realism or realist literature—that authors try naturally to depict realistically their stories. Thus Schniedewind posits a seventh-century date for a great deal of biblical literature, compiled and edited in the sixth century in BabyCf. Christine Mitchell, “Transformations of Meaning: The Accession of Solomon in Chronicles,” JHS 4 (2002) 3. (http://purl.org/jhs); Gary Knoppers, “Greek Historiography and the Chronicler’s History: A Reexamination,” JBL (2003): 627–50. 4

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lon. However, as comparative research on Chronicles has shown, it is possible to conceive of an ancient historiographical work that does not bring the story down to the author’s day, 5 and perhaps it might be better to look at other ancient modes of authorship for our theoretical base. As well, I am intrigued by the two diametrically opposed views on the possibilities for literary production in the Persian period that emerge in current research: Schniedewind’s, who says that there simply was not the material base for textual production, and Ben Zvi’s, who says that the wealth of literary production from the small material base points to a certain kind of social organization (Temple-based). 6 Ben Zvi also points out that although almost all biblical literature is profoundly marked by the exilic experience or memory, there is almost no literature that directly describes that experience. 7 Perhaps we can draw on Smith-Christopher here, and suggest that the experience was so traumatic that it could not be written except in the most fragmentary, elusive and allusive way. 8 Chronicles, therefore, does not depict the Chronicler’s own times because his own times were so traumatic/marginalized in his thought. Implicit in Schniedewind’s book is that creative literary production and commentary or interpretation cannot co-exist. Thus, there is a period of intense creative activity in the late-eighth and seventh centuries, a period of copying/glossing/ interpretation in the sixth through fourth centuries, and a second period of creative activity beginning in the third century. In this scheme, if we see Chronicles as being primarily a work of scribal copying and interpretation, then it must belong in the Persian period—if it is a work of creativity, then it must go elsewhere. But if this scheme does not hold, and we see creative literary production (however defined) and commentary co-existing, then Chronicles can belong in any period after the events it describes. And more importantly, it can be an example of a literary culture where creative literary production and commentary overlap. I would like to thank Professor Schniedewind for framing these issues in this way—it has certainly given me much food for thought.

Cf. Knoppers, “Greek Historiography.” Ben Zvi, “What is New in Yehud?” 42–45. 7 Ben Zvi, “What is New in Yehud?” 38–39. 8 Daniel L. Smith-Christopher, A Biblical Theology of Exile (OBT; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2002). 5 6

ADRIFT: HOW THE BIBLE BECAME A BOOK WILLIAM M. SCHNIEDEWIND

DEPT. OF NEAR EASTERN LANGUAGES & CULTURES UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES Plato made a good point when he critiqued the written word: “Written words seem to talk to you as though they were intelligent, but if you ask them anything about what they say, from a desire to be instructed, they go on telling you just the same thing forever. And once a thing is put in writing, the composition, whatever it may be, drifts all over the place” (Phaedrus, §275d). Sometimes reading a review provokes the question of whether the reviewer has read the book that you wrote. Thankfully, this is not the case with the present reviewers. Indeed, it is quite an honor to be reviewed by such thoughtful and qualified scholars, and their reviews push my book in useful directions. I am grateful that they understood that my book was merely a hors d’oeuvre into the study of the textualization of the Hebrew Bible. To my mind, their reviews largely regard questions of emphasis or overemphasis, nuance or lack thereof, as well as issues with what I have left out. I did not write enough, and no living voice can prevent what I have written from drifting in directions that I had not intended or even imagined. Hopefully, this review process can help my written words come to rest on some solid ground. Unfortunately, I cannot react to all the comments, critiques, and observations by David Carr, Christine Mitchell, and Tamara Eskenazi. I wish to also acknowledge many helpful comments and observations in the SBL session by Oded Lipschitz and particularly Daniel SmithChristopher. Here I offer a limited number of reactions and clarifications to what I have written and how it has been read. Perhaps it will be useful to reflect on how my book became a book, and what I thought I was arguing. How the Bible Became a Book was an excursus from a larger research project on the “The Social History of the Hebrew Language.” This research is interested in the extra-biblical sources for the history of the Hebrew language and scribal institutions. One question that I 355

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asked was how the role of writing in ancient Judah and early Judaism might be paralleled in the history of the Hebrew language. This led to digressions on topics such as role of writing in the formation of the Hebrew Bible. In the end, the issue that attracted much of my attention was the tension between the authority of the oral and written tradition. Although there is a dynamic relationship between orality and literacy, the spoken and written word had different loci of authority. It is also important to point out that I did not intend my book to be primarily a critique of the so-called minimalist school, although I do argue that the main period of literary composition was the late eighth through the sixth centuries BCE. These reviews are focused on the import of my work for the post-exilic period because they were originally part of an SBL session devoted to the post-exilic period, yet this is only a small part of my book. Finally, my book arose out of an interest in the role of writing in society, and not in the canonical process. Clearly there are many implications that could be drawn from my arguments, but these are not always the implications that I would draw or the directions that I would go. But I have written what I have written, and I am not unhappy that it is now adrift. David Carr’s review takes issue with the style and rhetoric of my argument. For example, Carr writes, “Though Schniedewind is fully aware of those who speak of the overlap of oral and written, the argument of the book sounds at times as if it revives a now discredited opposition between orality on the one hand and textuality on the other.” Carr dislikes my “dramatic introduction[s]” to chapters, which he seems to fear will give the wrong impression. My response would be three-fold. First, the style of the argument is to begin with the larger, bolder claim and then to nuance it with the details in the development of the chapter. It would be a misreading to take such statements in the opening paragraph of a chapter and not allow the details given in the rest of the chapter to contextualize my argument. Second, I do make an important—and I think original—contribution in distinguishing between the continuum between orality and literacy, on the one hand, and the tension between the spoken and the written word as competing centers of cultural and religious authority, on the other. Moreover, my book charts an ebb and flow between orality and literacy as well as the authority of the oral versus written word. Finally, I think Carr too easily considers certain ideas “discredited” (both here and elsewhere), when in fact they are “debated.” I was certainly aware of the critiques of scholars like Goody, though I hardly think Goody has been “discredited.” Indeed, Goody has modified some of his views (as I myself continue to do); moreover, I believe that my distinction between the orality-literacy continuum and the oral-written tension is an important contribution to the discussion.

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Given the limited nature of our evidence, I find it unlikely that there will be scholarly consensus on the issue of literacy in ancient Judah. There is some evidence, however, that is beyond dispute. Namely, a great number and variety of extra-biblical Hebrew texts appear beginning in the late eighth century until the early sixth century BCE. The degree that this constitutes evidence for “literacy” will continue to be debated and will be partially dependent upon our definition of literacy. The word “literacy,” like the word “book,” is really an anachronism when applied to an ancient society like pre-exilic Judah. Although I was aware of the shortcomings of my terminology, I also was aware that such terms immediately draw scholars into an interesting and, I believe, often productive debate. My interest in raising the literacy debate was really concerned with the beginnings of textual authority. The increasing prevalence of writing in monarchic Judah made it possible to have a broader appeal to written authority and initiated a fascinating story of the written word in ancient Judaism. There is a tendency, I believe, to over-identify my arguments with that of Finkelstein’s The Bible Unearthed (2001). Specifically, Finkelstein argued for the Josianic period as the main locus of literary production in ancient Judah. This is decidedly not my argument. While I recognized the important role that the Josianic period played in the flourishing of biblical literature, I believe it is important to recognize the Hezekian and exilic periods as well. Moreover, as Carr recognizes, I even argue (contra Finkelstein) that there were scribes in early monarchic Judah (10th–9th C. BCE) so that the beginnings of biblical literature might be traced back to this earlier period; at the same time, I have argued that the flourishing of biblical literature as we have it preserved in the Hebrew Bible only began in the eighth century BCE. My line of reasoning begins with the history of the Hebrew language itself. I maintain (and will develop in more detail in my current book project) that Biblical Hebrew is largely the language of Judean scribes of the eighth through sixth centuries BCE. Archaic Biblical Hebrew (i.e., texts like Judges 5 and Exodus 15) is the pre-classical Hebrew dialect(s) of the 12th–9th century BCE; and, late Biblical Hebrew (i.e., Chronicles, Esther, EzraNehemiah) is the language of the 5th–3rd centuries BCE. 1 Moreover, I would certainly agree with the observations of both Carr and Mitchell that the Hellenistic and Greco-Roman periods were important periods of literary creativity. Indeed, if I were to offer some self-critique, I would say that I did not engage Ehud Ben Zvi nearly as much as his work warranted, and I See my review of this important linguistic debate in a book edited by Ian Young entitled, Biblical Hebrew: Studies in Chronology and Typology (JSOTSup, 369; Continuum: London/New York, 2004); Schniedewind, “Steps and Missteps in the Linguistic Dating of Biblical Hebrew,” HS, forthcoming. 1

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am pleased the current discussion partially redresses this deficiency. 2 Ben Zvi also pointed out the deficiencies with the Persian period, yet argued that biblical literature flourished within the temple. To be sure, the templebased elites could account for some creative literary activity in the Persian period (like Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah), or just as plausibly in the Hellenistic period (e.g., books like Esther). I am open to dating Chronicles, Ezra-Nehemiah, Esther, Qohelet, and the redaction of the Psalter in the Hellenistic period, although it is difficult to date them precisely. The alert reader will notice that while I sketch general outlines for the composition of biblical literature, I have not been specific on a number of texts. David Carr tries to defend the oft-stated, offhand suggestion that late Persian, Hellenistic or Greco-Roman scribes could have perfectly imitated Classical Hebrew style. But this is simply not in line with linguistic facts on the ground or with linguistic theory. Ancient Jewish scribes did not know historical linguistics, and the kind of data and linguistic theory that would lead to the development of the discipline of Historical Linguistics would only evolve centuries later. Moreover, even the suggestion that ancient scribes “classicized” implies a particular linguistic ideology and a knowledge of historical linguistics. The closest example of an ancient classicizing linguistic ideology would be the Qumran sect, but their linguistic ideology was religious and not historical; and, consequently, their language is not strictly an attempt at classicizing, and linguistic knowledge is better described pseudoclassicisms. 3 There are problems with the traditional approaches to the history of the Hebrew language that have lent credence to Carr’s critique of the periodization of Hebrew. One problem is the use of the exile as the watershed of 2 See Ben Zvi, “The Urban Center of Jerusalem and the Development of the Literature of the Hebrew Bible,” in Aspects of Urbanism in Antiquity: From Mesopotamia to Crete (edited by W. E. Aufrecht, N. A. Mirau, and S. W. Gauley; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1997) 194–209. 3 See Schniedewind, “Linguistic Ideology in Qumran Hebrew,” in Diggers at the Well: Proceedings of a Third International Symposium on the Hebrew of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Ben Sira (edited by T. Muraoka and J. F. Elwolde; Leiden: Brill, 2000) 245–55; J. Joosten, “Pseudo-Classicisms in Late Biblical Hebrew, in Ben Sira, and in Qumran Hebrew,” in Sirach, Scrolls, and Sages: Proceedings of a Second International Symposium on the Hebrew of the Dead Sea Scrolls, Ben Sira, and the Mishnah, Held at Leiden University, 15–17 December 1997 (edited by T. Muraoka and J. F. Elwolde; Leiden: Brill, 1999) 146–59, and “The Knowledge and Use of Hebrew in the Hellenistic Period: Qumran and the Septuagint,” in Diggers at the Well: Proceedings of a Third International Symposium on the Hebrew of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Ben Sira (edited by T. Muraoka and J. F. Elwolde; Leiden: Brill, 2000) 115–30.

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the history of the Hebrew language. 4 While the exile played a role, it was the changes in the scribal institutions and not merely historical events that shaped the history of the Hebrew language. As I allude to in How the Bible Became a Book, the scribal institutions of pre-exilic Israel continued into the early Persian period (i.e., the end of the sixth century BCE); however, these scribal institutions were eclipsed by the Achaemenid institutions that trained scribes to write Imperial Aramaic. There is no clear evidence for the reemergence of Hebrew scribal schools until the end of the third century BCE, although I suspect they began to resurface in the fourth century when the Achaemenid Empire declined in the west. Christine Mitchell has rightly identified vagueness in my discussion about the composition of the Book of Chronicles. I am indeed drawn to the Cross-Freedman hypothesis that would see at least a dual redaction of Chronicles, yet I am aware of the problems of this thesis. It seems hard to deny the power of the observations of Cross and Freedman for an early Persian (late sixth century) edition of Chronicles. 5 Yet, the book as it stands seems to date to the late Persian period. Mitchell would seem to prefer a Hellenistic date, but Hellenistic Jerusalem continued to be underpopulated and impoverished until the end of the 3rd century BCE. 6 The reign of Antiochus III (223–187 BCE) was marked by generous allotments to Jerusalem’s elites, an expanding population, and important construction projects. Although this was a favorable environment for literary flourishing, it is too late to locate much of biblical literature. To my mind, the later one pushes the final composition of Chronicles, the more necessary it also becomes (linguistically and ideologically) to posit an early edition/redaction of Chronicles. Although there is a trend in biblical scholarship be only interested in the final text and to pooh-pooh the search for earlier sources/editions/redactions, I fancy myself as a historian interested in the intellectual and social history of ancient Israel and early Judaism. The unCarr cites M. Ehrensvärd’s article, “Linguistic Dating of Biblical Texts,” for support of his critique; however, the article by David Talshir, “The Habitat and History of Hebrew During the Second Temple Period,” in the same edited volume [Biblical Hebrew: Studies in Chronology and Typology (edited by Ian Young; New York: Continuum, 2003) 251–75] is a better assessment of the linguistic situation. See my review essay on this volume, “Steps and Missteps in the Linguistic Dating of Biblical Hebrew.” 5 See especially F. M. Cross, “A Reconstruction of the Judean Restoration,” JBL 94 (1975) 4–18, and D. N. Freedman, “The Chronicler’s Purpose,” CBQ 23 (1961) 436–42. 6 See A. Berlin, “Between Large Forces: Palestine in the Hellenistic Period,” BA 60/1 (1997) 3–51. 4

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raveling of biblical sources, editions, and redactions is a window into history, and any scholar interested in the history of ancient Israel can ill-afford to neglect the traditional disciplines of biblical criticism. That said, I regarded an extensive redactional analysis of Chronicles too technical and outside the scope of my book, although I am glad if my work generates a renewed discussion. As Carr notes, How the Bible Became a Book also has implications for Pentateuchal research. The textualization of torah, and its transformation from teaching to text, has not received the attention it deserves. Carr draws attention to my interpretation of Exodus 24, which is certainly a powerful illustration for the development of the awareness of textual authority within the Bible. Carr thinks the redactional development (specifically vv. 4–8) of this text is Persian, but I think it is difficult to be certain about such dating. Too often dating of texts begins with the assumptions of the writer (myself included). In writing How the Bible Became a Book, I was impressed, and even amazed, by the lack of the awareness of written texts and their authority in the Priestly texts of the Pentateuch, especially in counterpoint to the role of written authority in Chronicles, Ezra and Nehemiah. P still has strictly an oral torah, while Ezra places great emphasis on the authority of the written Torah of Moses. 7 For me, this added another strong argument (in addition to the linguistic argument) for dating the Pentateuch, and specifically the Priestly writings, as pre-Persian. This does not mean that there was no editing of the Pentateuch in the Persian period, but certainly casts doubt on it as purely a product of Persian and/or Hellenistic scribes. Other scholars, particularly Tamara Ezkenazi, had already latched onto the important transformation in textual awareness and authority. Ezkenazi’s review elaborates this theme, which she had already developed in her important book, In an Age of Prose. For me, it was important to acknowledge that the textualization of ancient Judaism began already in the late monarchy; indeed, I would say that it began already in the time of Hezekiah, although I focused more on the period of Josiah. Eskenazi takes exception to my assertion that “only intensification” in the textualization process takes place in the postexilic period with Ezra. I understand her critique, and I do not wish to gainsay the editorial and literary activities of the Persian period. Perhaps I have been guilty of overemphasis for rhetorical effect. But we also have different perspectives. I was trying to sketch the larger story, whereas Eskenazi as well as Mitchell (especially in the context of the SBL I develop this observation further in “The Textualization of Torah in the Deuteronomic Tradition,” in Das Deuteronomium zwischen Pentateuch und Deuteronomistischem Geschichtswerk (edited by E. Otto and R. Achenbach; Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2004) 153–67. 7

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session hosted by the Chronicles, Ezra-Nehemiah group) are focused on the postexilic period. Moreover, I felt that the introduction of the textualization process in the 8th–6th centuries was the more remarkable story in my sketch of the textualization of ancient Israel. I believe that my reading of Jeremiah 8:7–9 served to argue that the textualization of ancient Israel introduced the tension between oral and written authority. I think that Ezra-Nehemiah represents one voice in the Persian period that advocated a further shift to written authority. As I point out in my final chapter however, it is clear that the tension between oral and written authority continued and intensified in the Second Temple period, in early Christianity, and in Rabbinic Judaism. I had a different objective than Eskenazi. In footnote two she writes, “I am not making a historical claim but rather a narrative one: this is how EN portrays the development.” This is an important distinction, and it is clear throughout that Eskenazi represents the narrative claims quite well and incisively. But I was more interested in making historical claims. Eskenazi writes, for example, “A commitment to the revival of Hebrew and literacy appear to be very much part of 5th cent Jerusalem, and Judah.” This is a legitimate narrative claim. However, the archaeological, inscriptional, and historical evidence that I outline in my book would only suggest that the commitment to the revival of Hebrew certainly began by the 3rd century BCE, and perhaps we can push it back to the 4th century. It was the disintegration of the Achaemenid Empire and its scribal institutions that facilitated the reassertion of nationalism and national languages. This is my historical claim. I would suggest that Ezra-Nehemiah dates to the late Persian period, and it projects back into the earlier postexilic period (its own golden age) the politics of the late Persian and Hellenistic period. A few clarifications. I cannot understand Mitchell’s objection to my description of the Persian period as a period of “retrenchment.” In my description, the word merely refers to the reduction and diminishment of the population and economy of Judah in the Persian period. I did not, however, ever speak of “a culture of retrenchment.” It would be difficult and problematic to describe cultures using such terminology. Mitchell is perhaps right in feeling unease at the description of Chronicles as “plagiarizing.” The term is anachronistic to the ancient world (as is the word “book”), but it does capture in the popular mind the way that Chronicles often borrows from sources without attribution. Indeed, plagiary isn’t my general understanding of Chronicles. In fact, I used the word only one time in my final draft (which is what Mitchell had for her SBL response), but I edited it out for fear that some might misunderstand my intention (“plagiarized” was replaced with the innocuous “closely follows” on page 184 of the book).

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Plagiary is a provocative and loaded term, which makes it nice for starting a discussion; however, it is also open to misreading so I guess I was right in replacing the term! Finally, to my mind, Mitchell creates a straw man when she concludes, “Implicit in Schniedewind’s book is that creative literary production and commentary or interpretation cannot co-exist.” I’m glad that this is not my statement because it would be quite foolish. My argument was simply that certain social, economic, and political situations favor intense literary production and others do not. Using the observations of linguistic anthropologists and the facts created by archaeological research, I tried to sketch out the social contexts that contributed to the formation of the Bible. One does need to be cognizant that the role of writing in the post-Babylonian destruction was quite different than in post-World War II. Literary creativity as a response to catastrophic ancient events would not have played the same role in the impoverished and largely illiterate society of Persian Yehud as it does in a modern literate society. More than anything else, I believe my book asked interesting questions and brought a different perspective to the formation of the Bible as a written text. I sketched out the contours of some answers to these questions, but much more can be done. The questions are now adrift, and it will be interesting watching where they run aground.

“THE HAND OF A WOMAN”: DEBORAH AND YAEL (JUDGES 4) ELIE ASSIS

DEPARTMENT OF BIBLE STUDIES, BAR ILAN UNIVERSITY, ISRAEL 1.

INTRODUCTION

The Deborah Narrative is unique in the Book of Judges. While the heroes of the Book are military leaders who save Israel from its enemies, the protagonist of Judges 4 is a woman who is not active in the battle against the Canaanites. All the saviours in the Book are called Judges (2:16–19), with the meaning of leader. Deborah is the only character who is called a Judge, but in the judicial sense. 1 I have dealt elsewhere with the function of Deborah in the narrative, demonstrating the prominence of Deborah’s leadership as a prophetess of God and not as a human heroine. 2 This is meant to clearly convey the idea that God alone is responsible for victory. Being a woman, she did not take part in the military campaign, and thus she was not a powerful charismatic saviour. In this short paper I wish to focus on the role of another woman in the story—that of Yael. Verses 14–22 describe the battle, but only verses 14–15 depict the actual campaign between the two forces; the remainder of the narrative provides a detailed and vivid description of Yael killing Sisera (vv. 17–22). Yael is the heroine of the last scene of the narrative, vv. 17–22. 3 Her words open (v. 18) and end the scene (v. 22). 4 In her first sentence she approaches SisOn the two meanings of the root ‫שפט‬, in the sense of ‘to rule’, and ‘to judge’ see: T. Ishida, “The Leaders of the Tribal Leagues ‘Israel’ in the Pre-Monarchic Period”, RB 80 (1973), 514–530. 2 E. Assis, “Man, Woman and God in Judg 4”, SJOT (Forthcoming). 3 On the meaning of the name Yael see: E. van Wolde, “Yael in Judges 4,” ZAW 107 (1995), 240–246; S. C. Layton, “Yael in Judges 4: An Onomastic Rejoinder,” ZAW 109 (1997), 93–94. 4 J. W. H. Bos, “Out of the Shadows: Genesis 38; Judges 4:17–22; Ruth 3,” Se1

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era and in her last she approaches Barak; in both instances the men respond positively. The depiction of the assassination of Sisera is detailed and extensive in comparison with the brief and generalized description of the war itself (vv. 14–15). Why does Yael occupy such a central position in the narrative?

2.

YAEL—DEBORAH’S HAND

I wish to propose that Yael’s function in the story is actually meant to shed light on Deborah’s prophetic image. Yael’s actions take the reader back to Deborah’s response to Barak’s request that she should accompany him: “I will go with you. However, there will be no glory for you on the road on which you are going, for the Lord will deliver Sisera into the hand of a woman” (v. 9). Some think that Deborah is referring to herself in these words, and that she is making a logical deduction in light of Barak’s request. 5 This interpretation is improbable. Firstly, in asking Deborah to accompany him to the battlefield Barak consciously subordinated himself to Deborah; thus if Deborah’s intention was to point out that the honour of victory would not be attributed to him, her words are absolutely superfluous. Secondly, the purpose of the operation is to overpower the enemy and bring glory to the Lord. It is thus not in the prophetess’s character to be concerned with human glory when Barak pronounced a humble statement. A more likely interpretation is that Deborah uttered a prophecy which was realized by Yael’s actions against Sisera in the last part of the narrative. 6 The advantage of this understanding is that Deborah’s words correspond perfectly to her character in the story. It is also possible that initially the intention of Deborah’s words is ambiguous, 7 and this is resolved in the last scene when Deborah’s prediction is fulfilled by Yael. 8 meia 42 (1988), 53. 5 Kimhi, Kera, Y. Kaufman, The Book of Judges (Jerusalem 1978), 124 (Hebrew); B. Lindars, Judges 1–5: A New Translation and Commentary, Edinburgh 1995, 190. 6 G. F. Moore, Judges (ICC), Edinburgh 1895, 116–117; C. F. Burney, The Book of Judges, London 1918, 89. 7 See also: L. Alonso-Schökel, “Erzäkunst im Buche der Richter”, Bib 42 (1961), 159; D. F. Murray, “Narrative Structure and Technique in the Deborah-Barak Story, Judges iv 4–22”, J. A. Emerton (ed.), Studies in the Historical Books of the Old Testament (VTSup, 30), Leiden 1979, 177–178). Against this interpretation see: H..D. Neef, “Der Sieg Deboras und Baraks über Sisra: Exegetische Beobachtungen zum Aufbau und Werden von Jdc 4,1–24)”, ZAW 101 (1989), 34 n. 46. 8 According to Boling, she did not understand her own words: she thought about herself but her words actually referred to Yael. R. G. Boling, Judges (AB),

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Yael is thus Deborah’s “hand”—an extension of Deborah who carries out her prophecy: “for the Lord will deliver Sisera into the hand of a woman” (v. 9). 9 This being the case, Rasmussen’s observation that Deborah disappears from the story after v. 14, is inaccurate. 10 Amit, too, claims that because Deborah is not apparent throughout the story she may not be considered as its main heroine. 11 Similarly, because Yael’s actions are predicted by Deborah, Schneider’s opinion that Yael is the heroine of the story is not plausible. 12 Contrary to these observations, if indeed the Yael scene is meant to depict the realization of Deborah’s prophecy then this scene actually intensifies Deborah’s prophetic character.

3.

YAEL’S UPPER HAND

Deborah’s words “for the Lord will deliver Sisera into the hand of a woman” (v. 9), mean to strike Sisera as well as Barak. Indeed, in the Yael scene Sisera and Barak are presented ironically in relation to Yael. 13 The rivalry between Sisera and his army and Barak and his army is dominant in the narrative. The summation of the two forces by the two army leaders is described in a similar manner: 14 “Barak summoned Zebulun and Naphtali to Kedesh; and he went up by foot with ten thousand men behind him” (4:10). “Sisera summoned all his chariots, nine hundred chariots of iron, and all the troops who were with him” (4:13).

New-York 1975, 96. Webb believes that the identity of the ‘woman’ is delayed until the end of the story in order to surprise the reader with the fact that God chose a foreign woman to save Israel. B. G. Webb, The Book of the Judges: An Integrated Reading (JSOTSup, 46), Sheffield 1987, 138. 9 Murray, “Narrative Structure and Technique in the Deborah-Barak Story,” 164–165. The generalized style of battle is not due to the lack of narrative skill as suggested by Alonso-Schökel, “Erzäkunst im Buche der Richter,” 162. 10 R. C. Rasmussen, “Deborah the Woman Warrior”, M. Bal (ed.), AntiCovenant: Counter-Reading Women’s Lives (JSOTSup, 81), Sheffield 1989, 70–93. 11 Y. Amit, “Judges 4: Its Contents and Form”, JSOT 39 (1987), 89–111. 12 T. J. Schneider, Judges (Berit Olam), Collegeville 2000, 76. 13 See: E. Assis, “The Choice to Serve God and Assist His People: Rahab and Yael” Bib 85 (2004), 84–85. 14 See also: Alonso-Schökel (“Erzäkunst im Buche der Richter,”160–167); Murray, “Narrative Structure and Technique in the Deborah-Barak Story,” 169– 171.

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Yet Sisera’s army is significantly stronger since it is fortified by his great defence of “nine hundred chariots of iron”, while the verse emphasizes the disadvantage of Barak’s infantry force: “and he went up by foot”. However, the situation between the armies is soon reversed. Barak descends from Mount Tabor to victory, “Barak went down from Mount Tabor” (4:14), while Sisera steps down from his chariot, a symbol of his power, and flees by foot: “Sisera went down from his chariot and fled away on foot” (4:15). Just as the reader is convinced of Barak’s victory over Sisera, Yael comes to overshadow both Sisera and Barak. She controls both men; she decides who will be defeated and who will be victor. 15 She comes out to greet both men, and the two encounters contain analogous terms: 16 Judg 4:18

Judg 4:22

Yael came out to meet Sisera, and said to him, ‘Turn aside, my lord, turn aside to me; have no fear.’ So he turned aside to her ‫)ויסר‬ (‫ אליה‬into the tent, and she covered him with a rug

Yael came out to meet him, and said to him, ‘Come, and I will show you the man whom you are seeking.’ So he went into her [tent] (‫;)ויבוא אליה‬ and there was Sisera lying dead, with the tent peg in his temple Contrary to the reader’s expectation, Barak does not complete the victory over his enemy; it is Yael who actually defeats Sisera; he foolishly believes that her invitation is genuine and that she wishes to show him hospitality. Sisera’s puerile dependence is marked by Yael’s offer of a cup of milk and a blanket. Irony is created by the fact that a woman may kill an experienced warrior: he survives the battlefield yet succumbs to the hand of a woman. 17 Sisera trusts Yael to the extent that he asks her to guard him while he sleeps in the tent (4:20). However, Barak’s ironic presentation, even though more subtle, is surprising and it should draw the reader’s attention. Barak is presented 15 A similar power is possessed by Rahab, see: Assis “The Choice to Serve God and Assist His People: Rahab and Yael” Bib 85 (2004), 84–85; E. Assis, From Moses to Joshua and from the Miraculous to the Ordinary: A Literary Analysis of the Conquest Narrative in the Book of Joshua, Jerusalem 2005, 68–74 (Hebrew). 16 Compare Murray, “Narrative Structure and Technique in the Deborah-Barak Story,” 172; R. H. O’Connell, The Rhetoric of the Book of Judges (VTSup, 63), Leiden 1996, 129. 17 Similarly, Abimelech (Jud 9:53–54) expresses his feeling of humiliation if he were to be killed by a woman.

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ironically by shifts between different points of view. Verse 21 describes Sisera’s assassination by Yael from the narrator’s viewpoint: “Then Yael Heber’s wife took a nail of the tent, and took a hammer in her hand, and went softly unto him (‫)ותבוא אליו‬, and smote the nail into his temples, and fastened it into the ground: for he was fast asleep and weary. So he died”.

The death of Sisera is mentioned again in a similar way in v. 22: “And he came into her (‫[ )ויבא אליה‬into the tent], behold, Sisera lay dead, and the nail was in his temples”.

The first report describes the assassination of Sisera by Yael from the narrator’s point of view. Now there is a shift to another scene indicated by the word “behold” (‫)והנה‬, and the narrative focus shifts suddenly to Barak: “And, behold, as Barak pursued Sisera, Yael came out to meet him” (v. 21). This second report of Sisera’s death is from Barak’s point of view and describes Barak seeing with his own eyes that Sisera has been put to death even as Barak was pursuing him. The shift in point of view when the assassination is discussed for the second time is meant to place Barak in a foolish light—he had continued to pursue Sisera although Sisera was already dead. 18 This ironic presentation is part of the actual realization of Deborah’s prophecy. 19

4.

THE POWER OF THE WEAKER SEX

Deborah’s prophecy that a woman will kill Sisera is significant. The involvement of women in wars in the Bible is rare; the unique quality of this prophecy is worthy of close examination to see just how it is fulfilled. In the course of the plot another aspect of the prophecy that a woman will kill Sisera becomes obvious. The weaker sex will overcome the stronger one by exploiting the weakness of men for women. Deborah’s prophecy “the Lord will deliver Sisera into the hand of a woman” (v. 9) does not refer merely to the identity of the assassin but also to the way in which the woman accomplishes her victory. Yael confronts a strong warrior, a general; physically she is inferior to him, so she uses her femininity to defeat him. Her greeting, “Turn in, my lord, turn in to me; fear not” is fraught with ambiguity. Does she offer shelter, or, perhaps the Murray, “Narrative Structure and Technique in the Deborah-Barak Story,” 173. Kaufman (Judges, 124) is mistaken in his statement that Sisera’s downfall at Yael’s hand is not offensive to Barak. 19 Alonso-Schökel, “Erzäkunst im Buche der Richter,” 161–166; Murray, “Narrative Structure and Technique in the Deborah-Barak Story,” 178–179. 18

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promise of a sexual encounter? Contrast the sexual innuendo in her invitation, with the innocence evidenced in Lot’s invitation to the angels, using nearly identical language: “And he said, Behold now, my lords, turn in, I pray you, into your servant’s house” (Gen 19:2). Lot’s words are a clear invitation into the house: “turn in…into the…house” ( ‫סורו אל בית‬ ‫)עבדיכם‬. Yael, however, applies the verb to herself: “turn into me” ( ‫סורה‬ ‫)אלי‬. This form resembles the oft-found sexual formula ‫ויבא אל‬. Yael’s greeting and invitation parallel the call of a prostitute in the Book of Proverbs: “calling to those who pass by, who are going straight on their way, ‘You who are simple, turn (‫ )יסר‬in here!’ ” (Prov 9:15–16; see also Prov 7:5–23). The sibilance of the phrase indicates a sense of sensuality in Yael’s voice. 20 The multiple references to Yael covering Sisera in bed (vv. 18, 19) have a sexual connotation. 21 It is reasonable to assume that Yael’s seduction of Sisera lulls him into false confidence. 22 As mentioned above, Yael’s encounter with Barak is parallel to her encounter with Sisera. First, she goes out to greet Barak “Yael came out to meet him”. Then she invites him into the tent to witness Sisera’s fate: “Come, and I will show you the man whom you are seeking”. In contrast with her invitation to Sisera these words contain no sexual allusions; however, when Barak’s entrance into the tent is described, a term is used that is sexually allusive: “he came into her” (‫ )ויבוא אליה‬connotes sexual intercourse. Scholars have remarked on some of the sexual allusions in Yael’s actions, but they have misunderstood the intention of these allusions in the narrative as a whole. The prominence of sexuality in the encounters of the Yael narrative fulfills and realizes Deborah’s prophecy that Sisera will be defeated by a woman. Yael’s motives in assisting Israel are not apparent in the story. She belongs to the Kenite clan which maintains good relations with the Canaanites A similar observation is found in a Midrash in the Babylonian Talmud, Megilah 15a: “Rahab inspired lust by her name, Yael by her voice, Abigail by her memory, Michal…by her appearance”. 21 A sexual allusion is found in the poetic form of the account, Judg 5:27. Sexual allusions are explicit in the Pseudepigraphic book Pseudo-Philo 31:3. See also Babylonion Talmud, Yebamoth 103a. 22 On sexuality in the story see also: Y. Zakovitch, “Sisseras Tod,” ZAW 93 (1981), 364–374. S. Niditch, “Eroticism and Death in the Tale of Yael,” P. L. Day (ed.), Gender and Difference in Ancient Israel (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1989), 43– 57. Niditch, War in the Hebrew Bible, 113–117. However, Bal sees Yael’s actions as motherly, M. Bal, et. al, Death and Dissymmetry: The Politics of Coherence in the Book of Judges (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1988), 213. 20

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and with the Israelites, vv. 11 and 17. The neutrality of the Kenites as emphasized in the story is necessary to explain the situation in which both generals trust Yael. However, this neutrality also obscures Yael’s motives, and avoids any explanation of her actions on a political plane. 23 Yael’s interference in favour of Israel is not logically predictable and therefore is meant to make the main motif of the story conspicuous: the prophetic personality of Deborah that prevails over Yael’s actions. While sexuality is a featured element of the Deborah narrative, it is so exclusively with reference to the actions of Yael. Deborah, the focus of the story, is, to be sure, a womanly figure. But her role in the story is purely that of a woman of God. It is she who reveals the hand of God in “the hand of a woman”. In conclusion: The depiction of the assassination of Sisera by Yael is detailed and extensive in order to demonstrate the realization of Deborah’s prophecy, and to reemphasize her prophetic personality. 24

Amit, “Judges 4,” 97. This is probably the problem Klein aimed to solve when she determined that Yael is an Israelite. L. R. Klein, The Triumph of Irony in the Book of Judges (Bible and Literature Series, 14), Sheffield 1988, 43. However, there are no real grounds for this hypothesis, indeed see: Webb, Judges, 137; Bos, “Out of the Shadows,” 37. Bos indicates the independence of Yael and how her actions are not in accordance with regular women’s behavior, Bos, “Out of the Shadows,” 52–53. See also Schneider, Judges, 77. 24 I wish to thank my colleague Dr. Yael Shemesh for her helpful advice. I would also like to acknowledge the kind and generous support of “Beit Shalom” Japan who made this research possible 23

NEW STUDIES IN CHRONICLES: A DISCUSSION OF TWO RECENTLY-PUBLISHED COMMENTARIES MELODY D. KNOWLES (ED.)

MCCORMICK THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY, CHICAGO IL 1. Melody D. Knowles, New Studies in Chronicles: An Introduction to a Discussion of Two Recently-Published Commentaries 2. Christine Mitchell, A Review of G. N. Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9 and idem, I Chronicles 10–29 3. Klaus Baltzer, Comments on McKenzie’s and Knoppers’ Commentaries on Chronicles 4. Ehud Ben Zvi, In Conversation and Appreciation of the Recent Commentaries by S. L. McKenzie and G. N. Knoppers 5. Steven J. Schweitzer, Response to Recent Chronicles Commentaries by G. N. Knoppers and S. L. McKenzie 6. John W. Wright, A Commentary on Commentaries on Chronicles 7. Gary N. Knoppers, Of Rewritten Bibles, Archaeology, Peace, Kings, and Chronicles 8. Steven L. Mackenzie, Recent Chronicles Commentaries: A Response

371

INTRODUCTION MELODY D. KNOWLES, GUEST EDITOR

MCCORMICK THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY, CHICAGO IL These are high times for the book of Chronicles. Two major commentaries have just been published, and several more are in the works. 1 The book has also been the topic of two recent presidential addresses of the Canadian Society of Biblical Studies/La Société canadienne des études bibliques. 2 Such a state might not have been predicted even a short time ago. Long considered derivative and hopelessly ideological, Chronicles lingered on the edges of scholarly interest and engagement. Things looked even worse when, in 1968, Sara Japhet and later Hugh Williamson began to argue that the text’s author did not also write the books of Ezra and Nehemiah. 3 Ironically, it was only after being shorn of a substantial part of the traditionally-ascribed corpus that Chronicles and its author began to re-engage the scholarly community. The ongoing work of Japhet and Williamson, the changed textual situation after the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, the growing realization that Chronicles was not the only biblical book to have 1 Steven L. McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles (AOTC; Nashville: Abingdon, 2004); Gary N. Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9 (AB 12; New York: Doubleday, 2004); idem, I Chronicles 10–29 (AB 12A; New York: Doubleday, 2004); Ralph W. Klein, 1 and 2 Chronicles (2 vols.; Heremeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, forthcoming); John Wright, 1 and 2 Chronicles (Berit Olam; Collegeville, Minn.: Liturgical Press, forthcoming). 2 The addresses are published as Ehud Ben Zvi, “The Book of Chronicles: Another Look,” Bulletin of the Canadian Society of Biblical Studies/Le société canadienne des études bibliques 62 (2002/2003): 5–26; idem, SR 31 (2002): 261–81; and Gary N. Knoppers, “What has Mt. Zion to do with Mt. Gerizim? A Study in the Early Relations between the Jews and the Samaritans in the Persian Period,” Bulletin of the Canadian Society of Biblical Studies/Le société canadienne des études bibliques 64 (2004/2005): 5–32. 3 Sara Japhet, “The Supposed Common Authorship of Chronciels and EzraNehemiah Investigated Anew,” VT 18 (1968): 332–73; H. G. M. Williamson, Israel in the Book of Chronicles (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 1–70.

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an ideological bent—all of this and more set the groundwork for the session at the Society of Biblical Literature during which two recently published commentaries by Steven L. McKenzie and Gary N. Knoppers were discussed. Under the auspices of the Chronicles-Ezra-Nehemiah Section, the session brought together scholars with differing perspectives and interests to examine these quite different commentaries on November 20, 2005 in Philadephia. On behalf of the Section, I would like to thank Steve McKenzie and Gary Knoppers for agreeing to submit their texts to such scrutiny, and Ehud Ben Zvi, John Wright, Steven James Schweitzer, and Klaus Baltzer for serving as panelists. My thanks are also due to Ben Zvi for the invitation to publish the session in The Journal of Hebrew Scriptures, allowing a wider audience to consider this reflection on the two commentaries at greater leisure. The following articles reflect the oral and public nature of the presentations. In addition, I am delighted to include with this section the review of Knoppers’ commentary by Christine Mitchell, originally commissioned for this journal as a separate book review. Given the overlap of subject matter, it seemed most logical to include her work here with the other presentations.

A REVIEW OF GARY N. KNOPPERS, I CHRONICLES 1–9 AND IDEM,

I CHRONICLES 10–29 CHRISTINE MITCHELL

ST. ANDREW’S COLLEGE, SASKATOON, SASKATCHEWAN When I first read this splendid commentary by Gary Knoppers, I was thrown into a pit of existential despair for a couple of days: what more is there to say, what do I have to contribute as a scholar of Chronicles, what is my purpose in life anyway? Eventually, of course, I emerged from the pit, upon further reflection and a second reading of the commentary. As befitting any truly excellent commentary, there is a wealth of material that is meticulously detailed, but there are also many opportunities left open for further work on this biblical text. All scholars and students of Chronicles will benefit from Prof. Knoppers’ careful and thorough study of 1 Chronicles, and it will, I think, stimulate further work on the text. The Anchor Bible has always aimed to provide a new translation; consistent with the format of the recent volumes in the series, this commentary begins with the new translation of the entire book of 1 Chronicles. This is followed by a 90-page introduction, a 100-page bibliography (which is alone worth the price of the first volume), and the commentary itself. First Chronicles 1–9 is covered in the first volume, and 1 Chronicles 10–29 is covered in the second volume (after a repetition of the translation of the entire book); the pagination is consecutive through the two volumes, which is very helpful. There is a collection of (the same) eight maps at the end of each volume. The 70-page collection of indices is found only at the end of the second volume. Unlike some other recent multi-volume commentaries in this series (e.g., J. Blenkinsopp on Isaiah), it is obvious that this is a onevolume commentary that has been split in two; there is some awkwardness in the format from this editorial decision (e.g., bibliography only in volume 1, indices only in volume 2). It means that both volumes of the commentary must be on hand when one of them is being read; they are not stand-alone 375

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volumes. But this should not be allowed to detract from the scholarship of the commentary itself. For the past decade, the two standard English-language commentaries on Chronicles have been those written by Sara Japhet and H. G. M. Williamson. 1 However, they have become dated, especially with respect to the textual issues and the great increase in scholarship on the Persian period in the past decade. Knoppers’ commentary thus provides a much-needed current commentary on a book that has received a great deal of recent attention. The first of this commentary’s great strengths is the discussion of textual criticism. Speaking generally, Knoppers says, “The categories of higher criticism and lower criticism have become blurred, if not obsolete.” 2 In the case of Chronicles, this fact has become most evident with the publication of the fragments of the Samuel scrolls from Qumran Cave 4. This commentary is the first to be able to make use of this insight about textual criticism. No longer is it possible (even if it was ever desirable) to place the MT of Samuel next to Chronicles and suggest that every difference is due to the Chronicler’s tendentious alteration of material. The evidence from Qumran suggests that the text of Samuel circulated in several versions, only one of which was used by the Chronicler. As well, following the insights of Emanuel Tov and Eugene Ulrich (especially), Knoppers points out that a privileging of the MT of Chronicles when 1 Esdras or the LXX of Chronicles preserves alternate readings “skews the investigation.” 3 Thus the versions of Chronicles also have to be taken into consideration. Throughout the introductory material as well as the commentary itself, Knoppers continually highlights the interrelationship of textual and literary concerns. By making these connections, and by having presented the groundwork here on the textual issues in a systematic way, Knoppers has opened up a whole new avenue of exploration for 1 Chronicles. There is now opportunity for sophisticated literary-textual work on Chronicles that does not have to begin from scratch each time a new passage is opened up. It is in his discussion of the relationship between Chronicles and EzraNehemiah that Knoppers’ second great insight emerges. Like most recent commentators, Knoppers sees Chronicles as separate in authorship from Ezra-Nehemiah. However, he points out that the style and theme are not Sara Japhet, I & II Chronicles (OTL; Louisville: Westminster/John Knox / London: SCM, 1993); H. G. M. Williamson, 1 and 2 Chronicles (NCBC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans / London: Marshall, Morgan & Scott, 1982). 2 Gary N. Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9 (AB 12; New York: Doubleday, 2004); idem, I Chronicles 10–29 (AB 12A; New York: Doubleday, 2004), 54. 3 Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 64. 1

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actually that different between the two works. 4 What emerges in his argument is that the only really convincing evidence for separate authorship has to do with ideological/theological differences between the two works. By uncoupling message from form, Knoppers opens up the way for examining the two works as sharing certain formal conventions without getting bogged down in a discussion about common authorship. Similarly, Knoppers rightly criticizes the various redactional hypotheses for Chronicles. For him, the Chronicler “mediate[d] different perspectives” and was “heir to and interpreter of a variety of older texts.” 5 In this way, the multiple voices heard within Chronicles are not because of a sloppy set of redactions, but because the Chronicler was consciously relating to a set of traditional texts. The question that comes out of this third insight is this: does Chronicles have an overriding ideology, or is it a pastiche of its sources’ or voices’ ideologies? Certainly Chronicles has certain themes that are important: Levites, Jerusalem temple, Davidic king, among others. But are the views presented in Chronicles consistent for each of these? And are these themes interrelated as to make up a consistent ideology (or theology)? Unlike in Japhet’s and Williamson’s commentaries, Knoppers does not outline what he sees as the main thematic elements of Chronicles; nor does he outline what the Chronicler’s ideology on each of the main themes might be. In fact, Knoppers defers his discussion of the Chronicler’s theology to the volume on 2 Chronicles. 6 Given what else Knoppers has to say about the Chronicler’s compositional techniques, the question of “What is the ideology/theology of Chronicles?” (and its corollary, “Why was Chronicles written?”) is an important one, and it is left unanswered. However, Knoppers does attempt to answer the question that we might call “What is this thing called Chronicles?” He describes Chronicles as a “rewritten Bible.” He laments that no genric definition of “rewritten Bible” is agreed-upon. Yet at the same time, he rightly notes that there was no canon at the time of the composition of Chronicles. So the label “rewritten Bible” is a misleading one. But other genric designations like exegesis or midrash Knoppers sees as “reductive”; he prefers “rewritten Bible” because it allows for other kinds of additions. He argues that Chronicles is not a commentary on Samuel-Kings; he seems to see it as an alternative to the earlier work. 7 This entire discussion is interesting, because Knoppers here Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 88. Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 92. 6 Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 137, n. 191. 7 Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 129–33. 4 5

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seems to be returning to an equation of form with message that he had seemingly dismissed in his discussion of the relationship of Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah. Yet, throughout the discussion here of Chronicles’ genre, he works first to describe Chronicles and then to draw inferences about it. The move to impose a genric label is a jarring one, one that is not consistent with Knoppers’ procedures in this section or elsewhere in the commentary. Knoppers’ discussion of the date of Chronicles is excellent and thorough. However, it leads (or could lead) to a relative date for Chronicles more easily than to an absolute date, which he suggests is early Hellenistic. 8 Similarly, although the section is entitled “The Debate over Authorship and Date,” there is very little discussion about the authorship of Chronicles. The mention of the “writers” of Chronicles in the section on the rewritten Bible is the only place I noticed where Knoppers gives the authorship of Chronicles as plural; otherwise we are left to assume that the Chronicler was a single individual, but Knoppers does not spell this out. 9 It seems to me that Knoppers feels he has a handle on the text of Chronicles itself, textually and literarily. But in keeping with the historical-critical emphases of the Anchor Bible series, he is required to look behind the text at issues like authorship and date and intention. It is precisely on these points that he becomes more tentative, even deferring the whole question of intention (the theology of Chronicles/the Chronicler) to another book. It is the first nine chapters of 1 Chronicles that most today find most daunting: the genealogies. Knoppers’ 20-page excursus on the genealogies makes excellent use of the comparative material from throughout the ancient Mediterranean, focusing especially on the Persian and Hellenistic periods. In this excursus, he deftly summarizes and comments on the research on ancient genealogies, and then uses the Greek material especially in order to elucidate the purpose of the genealogies in Chronicles. This is an excellent and most helpful reference tool. Throughout the commentary itself, Knoppers’ work is balanced and thoughtful. Space does not permit me full engagement with the sections on each unit. As noted previously, there is particularly good and thorough work on the textual issues. The discussion of sources, composition and structure of each unit and the comment on each unit contains a full and thorough presentation of previous scholarship that is then judiciously weighed. His own opinions are also well presented and supported. The material is not just a recapitulation of previous scholarship on all things Chro-

8 9

Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 116. Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 132.

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nistic but is also a significant original contribution to the field; this is true also for the introduction. I look forward to his volume on 2 Chronicles.

COMMENTS ON MCKENZIE’S AND KNOPPERS’ COMMENTARIES ON CHRONICLES KLAUS BALTZER

UNIVERSITY OF MUNICH I shall begin with the best thing about both commentaries: they are both readable for anyone who is interested. They have not been written just for the author’s colleagues in their own field. The special achievement of Steven L. McKenzie’s commentary is its brevity. We are told what is really important. Gary N. Knoppers’ commentary is a magnum opus. It is a treasure trove of information, but nevertheless the main lines never get lost. Both commentaries ask about the roots of our scholarly efforts—what we are enquiring about, and why; and we can see from them the development towards a better understanding of the historical works in the Bible, of which Chronicles is one. Where did the question about the historical works first arise in the history of research? Steven L. McKenzie is the editor, together with M. Patrick Graham, of the compilation The History of Israel`s Traditions, and this is appropriately sub-titled The Heritage of Martin Noth. 1 Here I can pass on an oral tradition, an anecdote I heard from Gerhard von Rad. He and Martin Noth met Albrecht Alt on the railway station in Leipzig. It was 1933, the year when the National Socialists seized power in Germany. In 1930 the Nazi ideologist Alfred Rosenberg (1893– 1946) had published his book Der Mythus des 20. Jahrhunderts (“The Twentieth Century Myth”). 2 At this meeting in Leipzig, Albrecht Alt said: “We Steven L. McKenzie and Patrick Graham, eds., The History of Israel’s Traditions: The Heritage of Martin Noth (JSOTSup 182; Sheffield Academic Press 1994). 2 Alfred Rosenberg, Der Mythus des 20. Jahrhunderts: Eine Wertung der Seelischgeistigen Gestaltenkämpfe unserer Zeit (5th ed.; Munich: Hoheneichen-Verlag, 1933 5th ed. 1933). 1

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must do something.” And the result was the confrontation between “the twentieth century myth” and “the biblical understanding of history”—we might almost say: the confrontation between “myth” and “history.” That is the background to Martin Noth’s concern with “The History of Israel.” Gerhard von Rad was not far removed from this concern either. We can see this from his book Das Gottesvolk im Deuteronomium (“The People of God in Deuteronomy”), which was published in 1929, down to his Theologie des Alten Testament, which was first published in 1957, volume one with the sub-title: “The Theology of Israel’s Historical Traditions.” 3 There is a reciprocal hermeneutical process between historical experience and the understanding of the texts. The more exactly we can contribute our “anterior understanding,” the better we can understand the texts, and vice versa. Knoppers’ commentary brings out the role played by the remembrance of David in the post-exilic period. It is the legitimation for Israel’s new constitution, down to the very details. The significance of the Temple and the Levites is made comprehensible. The plan of the Temple shows how the tradition of the tabernacle has been taken up. 4 Where the Levites are concerned, there is a striking note on 1 Chr 25:2, for example: 5 the Levites belonging to the family of Asaph, who are responsible for the music, “prophesy” while they play (variant Qere, LXX*, Vulgate, Targum). McKenzie’s commentary shows the significance of the conclusion of a historical work for the overall understanding. The mention of Cyrus (2 Chr 36:22–23) is not just by the way, but explains the political situation as well as the theological interpretation. McKenzie tracks down the way that quite small changes made in the texts compared with their Vorlagen have farreaching consequences for the interpretation. Examples taken from his comments on 2 Chr 33:1–20, “The Reign of Manasseh,” show this clearly: Gerhard von Rad, Das Gottesvolk im Deuteronomium (Stuttgart : W. Kohlhammer, 1929; repr. in Gesammelte Studien zum Alten Testament II [Munich: Chr. Kaiser Verlag, 1973], 9–108); idem, Theologie des Alten Testament (Munich: Chr. Kaiser Verlag, 1957); Eng. trans. Old Testament Theology (trans. D. M. G. Stalker; Edinburgh: Oliver & Boyd, 1962–65). I was present when, in 1954, G. von Rad read part of the manuscript of his theology to H.-G. Gadamer and K. Löwith in his study and discussed it with them. Von Rad wanted his understanding of history to be comprehensible beyond the bounds of his own discipline as well, because it has a bearing on our understanding of reality as a whole. 4 Gary N. Knoppers, I Chronicles 10–29 (AB 12A; New York: Doubleday, 2004), 940. 5 Knoppers, I Chronicles 10–29, note on 844. 3

COMMENTS ON MCKENZIE’S AND KNOPPERS’ COMMENTARIES 383 “The Chronicler’s reliance on Deut 18:9–13 is evident in [2 Chr 33:6], where he inserts the term ‘sorcery’ (Deut 18:10) into the list of sins in Kings (2 Kings 21.6);” and “As is typical of the Chronicler’s style, [2 Chr 33:10] 10 begins the same way as its counterpart in 2 Kgs 21:20, but then the Chronicler makes changes in accord with his message and theology.” 6 Both authors render a meticulous account of their methods. I should like to ask here how in a network of shared work questions about method could be further developed. Perhaps I may add another anecdote here: I can remember a weekend seminar in Heidelberg at the beginning of the 1950’s at which the Assyriological seminar, with Adam Falkenstein, and the Egyptological seminar, with Eberhard Otto, met together for the first time. Both Falkenstein and Otto were friends of Gerhard von Rad. Vessels were shown which had been found in Mesopotamia. The Assyriologists said: “Typically Egyptian!” Roars of laughter from the Egyptologists: the crowns were wrong, and so were some of the hieroglyphics. This was probably ware imported from Egypt, and deliberately altered for cultic reasons (or the vessels were copies made in the Egyptian style). I should like to use this example to make clear desiderata for the cooperation between different disciplines. And that then brings me to the subject of literary criticism. Literary criticism is not just something confined to research into the Hebrew Bible. A comparison with the way scribes worked in the ancient Near East and in the Egyptian “House of Life” is necessary. What could the scribes do, and what were they permitted to do? Of course there were different ranks of scribes, with different degrees of responsibility. That being so, the matter-of-course use of the term “the Chronicler” or “the Deuteronomist” becomes questionable. Each of ancient Israel’s three institutions had its scribes: “the king” (and his court), “the Temple” (and its priesthood), but also “the prophets” (for Jeremiah, see Jer 36:4; 48). In his essay “Order and Disorder: Some Mesopotamian Reflections,” 7 Peter Machinist has shown how three mythical traditions in Mesopotamia (Enuma elish, Erra, Anzu) have been linked together through the work of scribes. Here the preliminary work of Thorkild Jacobsen, Dietz Edzard and Claus Wilcke is helpful. We can find Egyptian texts where it can also be shown that earlier and more recent texts—each of which has survived separately as well—have Steven L. McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles (AOTC; Nashville: Abingdon, 2004), 354 and 355, respectively. 7 Peter Machinist, “Order and Disorder: Some Mesopotamian Reflections,” in Genesis and Regeneration. Essays on Conceptions of Origins (ed. Saul Shaked; Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 2005), 31–61. 6

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been fused together. Chronicles as well as Nehemiah/Ezra presuppose a library. They work with literary sources. One can ask: “How many scrolls were needed for the whole of Chronicles?” It is at all events the work of several hands. The question therefore also arises about the cost of such an undertaking on the part of the “scriptoria” in Mesopotamia, the “House of Life” in Egypt, down to the Temple in Jerusalem. E. Tov has shown the importance of such questions in evaluating the possibilities and limitations of literary criticism. 8 The function of genre definition and tradition history has to be seen. Only then can the historical and theological significance be determined more exactly. Gunkel’s formula about the “Sitz im Leben” must be broken down into a description of the function in the given social and political situation. There is not just an isolated “historical work;” for example, the psalms and parts of the prophetic books show that historical recollection is a form that has been taken up in different contexts. In my book on the covenant formulary I tried to show that a historical reminiscence as a “pre” or “antecedent” history was the legal presupposition for establishing the relationship to God in the covenant. 9 The goal and purpose of the reminiscence was the present. In this light, it is necessary to formulate what is relevant for the present in ever new ways. For the American situation the different understanding of law where the Supreme Court is concerned presents a difficulty. The Supreme Court decides the way in which a law is to be read and understood. The “antecedent history” has practically no legal significance. In ancient Israel the “antecedent history” is part of the cult. 10 It is publicly recalled, for example at the festivals. That does not exclude its private use, but the public proclamation makes its legitimating character evident. Both these commentaries adhere to the sequence of Ezra-Nehemiah. That accords with the statement in the Talmud tractate Baba Bathra 15a. 11 There is no question but that the two books in their present form have 8 E. Tov, “The Writing of Early Scrolls. Implications for the Literary Analysis of Hebrew Scripture,” in L’Ecrit et l’Esprit: etudes d’histoire du texte et de theologie biblique en hommage a Adrian Schenker, (ed. D. Böhler, J. Himbaza and P. Hugo; Fribourg: Academic Press; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 2005), 355–71. 9 Klaus Baltzer, Das Bundesformular (Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1960); Eng. trans, The Covenant Formulary (trans. D. E. Green; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1971). 10 See Josh 24; cf. among other times, at a renewal of the covenant: Neh 9–10; Ezra 9–10; Dan. 9.4b–19; at a confirmation of the covenant: 1 Sam 12; 1 Chr 33– 29; and elsewhere. 11 McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 21.

COMMENTS ON MCKENZIE’S AND KNOPPERS’ COMMENTARIES 385 been linked. The question is only whether Nehemiah has been interpolated into the book of Ezra, or, vice versa, Ezra into the book of Nehemiah. I myself believe that the latter is more probable. In form and structure the book of Nehemiah adheres most closely to the form and structure of the “ideal biography.” Gerhard von Rad already pointed this out. This form begins with an installation and is otherwise orientated towards the individual topoi of the person’s activity, more closely than towards the course of the biography itself. 12 Ezra is mentioned in the present text of Neh 8, on the occasion of the feast of booths. According to this account, Ezra is responsible for the reading of the law. In Neh 8:1, 4 he is referred to as a scribe, in Neh 8:2 explicitly as a priest. Nehemiah is described in his double function as Persian state official and as “representative” of the whole people. He expressly rejects his legitimation through descent from the royal family. That accords well with the development in the Persian period, when the hereditary city-kingdoms were replaced by a new order (compare the development in Athens). As a priest, Ezra is a representative of the theocracy, and is hence associated with the Temple as the location of the cult. This is the order which proved stable in Jerusalem. Stress is laid on the fact that the priest Ezra acts in the framework of the festal cult—it is he who reads the Scripture and not Nehemiah, the “layman”—as was then the practice in the synagogues. The institutional tensions of the time can be characterized through the following catchwords: in respect to the Temple, it is the relationship between the Zadokian and the Levitic priesthood; in respect to Jerusalem, is this “the city of the sanctuary” or “the Holy City”? What is the relationship between town and country? Is the relationship to the “Gentiles” exclusive or inclusive? The texts of Chronicles, Ezra, Nehemiah and Deutero-Isaiah reflect these questions in different ways. Could it not perhaps be that the sequence Ezra-Nehemiah—quite apart from their sequence in time—was supposed to be retrospectively legitimated? The question about the relationship to Chronicles must initially be discussed independently of this. The book of Nehemiah does not necessarily have to have the same “author” as Chronicles. My own particular interest is Deutero-Isaiah (Isa 40–55). McKenzie rightly cites Deutero-Isaiah in the case of the Cyrus edict. 13 Deutero-Isaiah has a number of points in common with Nehemiah and Chronicles. I believe that the subject here is not the historical Cyrus but Cyrus as later tradiSee Klaus Baltzer, Die Biographie der Propheten (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1975). See also now Jacob L. Wright, Rebuilding Identity: The Nehemiah-Memoir and its Earliest Readers (BZAW 348; Berlin/New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2004). 13 McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 371. 12

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tion saw him (cf., for example, Aeschylus, The Persians, 768–72). That means a positive view, which implies a critical attitude to the Persian administration in Deutero-Isaiah’s own time. But it is also clear that the person who views Cyrus as “his anointed” (Isa 45:1) probably no longer expects an anointed one from the house of David. In this respect Deutero-Isiaiah’s standpoint is not far from that of Chronicles, and differs from that of the deuteronomistic history. There it is assumed that if Jehoiachin is the last legitimate king, his grandson can again become a king according to law (see 2 Kgs 25:27–30). It must then be asked how and when the prophetic tradition and monarchic tradition were again linked.

HISTORICAL ASPECT With regard to the historical aspect, we must also read the texts with Persian eyes. Along with the coinage system, the Persian secret service was one of the instruments with which to rule this first global empire. That is for me one reason for concluding Deuteronomy, and thus the Pentateuch, with Deut 32–34. The “Torah of Moses” includes history and commandments. It is also the “biography of Moses,” following the antecedent history in Genesis. In this way the “Torah” can be accepted by the Persians, quite apart from the way one judges the “imperial authorization.” But the book of Joshua, with the distribution of the land, is impossible as an official document belonging to the Persian period. Land claims based on history, for example in the region of Ammon and Moab, bring unrest into the province of Aram-Nacharajim. With this the question of a “Pentateuch” (M. Noth) or “Hexateuch” (G. von Rad) arises in a new way. When we read in Chronicles “For the eyes of the Lord range throughout the entire earth” (2 Chr 16:9), or in Zech 4:10 “These seven are the eyes of the Lord, which range through the whole earth,” this acknowledgment of God as Lord of the whole world can very well be understood as having a political sting, over against Persian claims to domination such as are made clear, for example, in the titles conferred on the kings and which were also experienced in their secret services. As far as Deutero-Isaiah is concerned, this historical background is in my view one reason for the anonymity of the Servant of God. The four Servant texts take up the prophetic Moses tradition. But the Servant remains a “servant without a name.” 14 To laud “Moses” as liberator would have been See Klaus Baltzer, Deutero-Isaiah: A Commentary on Isaiah 40–55 (ed. Peter Machinist; trans. Margaret Kohl; Hermeneia; Mineapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 2001). For the historical aspect, see Gerold Walser, “Hellas und Iran“ in Erträge der Forschung, vol. 209 (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1984), esp. 16– 14

COMMENTS ON MCKENZIE’S AND KNOPPERS’ COMMENTARIES 387 problematical. Even in the ancient world, it was already clear that Moses is an Egyptian name. For the Persian empire, Egypt was the unruly province. Revolts in Egypt were supported especially by the Greek-speaking cities (see, e.g., the Inaro revolt of 460–454 BCE). Again and again the issue was the supply of grain in the Mediterranean region. And Egypt, with the Nile, was the granary. Deutero-Isaiah is part of the Book of Isaiah. In its present form this book is a history in the prophetic Moses tradition. It is a rival account to that of the Deuteronomistic history and Chronicles. It is divided into four epochs: the Assyrian period (Isa 1–35), the Babylonian period (Isa 36–39), the Persian period (Isa 40–55) and, with Trito-Isaiah, the future expectation (Isa 56–66). It is a four-kingdoms pattern such as we are also familiar with the outline of history in the book of Daniel (Dan 2 and 7). My presentation has been designed as a whole to show how important the two new commentaries on Chronicles are. These are no “paralipomena,” “what is left over,” 15 even though this is the title given to Chronicles in LXX, a title which was then taken over into the Latin Bible by Jerome.

19; Josef Wiesehöfer, Das frühe Persien, Geschichte eines antiken Weltreichs (Beck’sche Reihe Wissen 2107; Munich: C. H. Beck, 1999), esp. 43–40. 15 See McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 19–20.

IN CONVERSATION AND APPRECIATION OF THE RECENT COMMENTARIES BY STEVEN L. MCKENZIE AND GARY N. KNOPPERS EHUD BEN ZVI

UNIVERSITY OF ALBERTA, EDMONTON ALBERTA INTRODUCTION It is a pleasure to talk about these very different, though in some matters very much alike, commentaries on Chronicles. One (McKenzie’s) 1 is a compact, critical commentary aimed at a more or less general public, the other (Knoppers’) 2 is a comprehensive, detailed commentary that will be read mainly by scholars, and which will serve as a central reference for anyone involved in Chronicles research for many, many years. Both serve valid purposes and each has to be evaluated in terms of its own goals and target readership. As evaluated from the perspectives of style, readability and the like, McKenzie’s commentary is a prominent case of an introductory, teaching/instructional commentary at its finest. The volume is easy to understand and still provides a critical analysis of the text. Moreover, it entices the reader to learn more about Chronicles. As evaluated from the perspective of comprehensiveness, attention to detail, and depth of discussion, Knoppers’ work is one of the finest commentaries ever written. It will serve as a standard reference commentary on Chronicles for many years to come. In fact, I doubt very much that there will be many serious scholars in twenty years from now who will not consult this commentary as they study a particular verse or unit in Chronicles. Steven L. McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles (AOTC; Nashville: Abingdon, 2004). Gary N. Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9 (AB 12; New York: Doubleday, 2004); idem, I Chronicles 10–29 (AB 12A; New York: Doubleday, 2004). 1 2

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As different as these two commentaries are in terms of goals and target readership, they share a quite close outlook in many areas. In fact, it might be interesting to hear how Knoppers and McKenzie formulate the ways in which their works differ. I will turn first to McKenzie’s commentary, address a few issues, and then move to Knoppers’ and do the same. Some overlapping issues will be discussed only once.

MCKENZIE’S COMMENTARY McKenzie’s volume is important because it will likely have a strong impact in the way many people will understand or conceive the book of Chronicles, particularly outside the academic world and among those who would not read multiple commentaries, articles, and the usual forms of academic output. For them, McKenzie’s book will be the main, and for many, the only lens through which they will approach Chronicles. As such, it deserves serious engagement, and, notwithstanding some of the comments I advance below, much praise. The commentary begins with a short introduction of about 40 pages that brings forward basic information about the book and most of the central issues in the historical critical study of Chronicles. It deals with matters such as the name/s of the book, its outline, place in canon (significantly, not place in “the canon”), date, authorship, genre and purpose, sources, historicity and theological emphases—the latter divided into main theological emphases and supporting themes. This introduction continues with a unit-by-unit discussion that opens with a few introductory lines, and then follows the headings of “literary analysis,” “exegetical analysis,” and “theological analysis.” “Literary analysis” here does not mean “literary analysis” in the now usual sense (there is very little of that in this volume) but actually provides a brief explanatory note about the structure of the unit, its outer boundaries or inner subdivisions; in other words, the kind of matters that are often covered in form critical volumes under STRUCTURE. “Theological analysis” deals in the main with the ideology or theology conveyed or reflected in the text of the unit under discussion. Its focus is not the potential use of Chronicles to advance contemporary theological or ideological agendas. It is obvious, however, that at certain points, readers may find the text inspirational or of pastoral relevance, and that it is probably intended to be so. Two examples suffice: [t]he goal of human beings before God, as David articulates it, is the knowledge of God … Such a knowledge is not a merely intellectual assent or memorization but a personal acquaintance fostered by prayer

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and contemplation of the divine law and will… It is, in other words, spiritual perfection. 3 …Perhaps there is a tacit recognition in this equation [music as revelation] that music can be profoundly moving to the human spirit and can also express the deepest human feelings—especially when it occurs in a religious setting or conveys a religious message… On such occasions, music can be felt to ‘speak’ to people and perhaps in that sense to be revelatory or prophetic. 4

The exegetical analysis is the catch-all category that includes everything else. Matters that tend to appear in this section are comparisons between the texts of Samuel or Kings and Chronicles, explanations about the meaning of terms and subunits, and brief, though critical, references to previous scholarship. Of course, there are a few misprints. For instance, the outline on pp. 17–18 is not consistent with the following text because the required indentation of the accounts of the reigns of David, Solomon and the transition between the two is missing. But all in all, the volume reflects careful editing, with a good eye on readability. I agree with many of the points made by McKenzie, just as with many of those made by Knoppers. Certainly, I agree with McKenzie that the Chronicler “was a sophisticated theologian who used Israel’s past to convey powerful, if sometimes, subtle, religious messages to his contemporaries.” 5 I think, however, that McKenzie’s Chronicler is the actual author of the original version of the book, (whereas for me the Chronicler is the implied author of the volume, as constructed by its primary and intended readerships). In fact, I think that McKenzie, as many other scholars, is more interested in what “his” Chronicler thought or did with his sources than on the message of the book of Chronicles as a whole. It is for this reason, for instance, that he allocates a substantive amount of his limited exegetical space to the differences between Chronicles and its sources (mainly Samuel and Kings). The exercise seems helpful to understand the mind, craft, and actions of a human author who decides to change here and there from his sources, but less helpful to understand the didactic narrative that the book of Chronicles tells to its intended and primary readers. The focus on the actual author responsible for the first version of the book explains also his use of the loaded term “integrity” for his summary of the discussion on the

McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 224. McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 198. 5 McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 29. 3 4

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redactional history of the book and the stress on the ipsissima verba of the (/McKenzie’s) author as in If the mention of the exile in v. 1b [“And Judah was taken into exile in Babylon because of their unfaithfulness,” 1 Chr 9:1b] is original, it makes the point that the postexilic community is continuous with preexilic Israel. 6

What if it is not “original”? Would it not make the very same point? To be sure, there is nothing intrinsically wrong in McKenzie’s attempt to reconstruct his Chronicler, or in McKenzie’s focus on him, and on the book McKenzie thinks that his Chronicler wrote. But to be sure, his Chronicler is not the implied author of the book of Chronicles, and he is not commenting or focusing on the (present) book of Chronicles, but on the reconstructed book that his Chronicler wrote. McKenzie’s thrust regarding the main theological emphases in the book is shared by many. He ends up favoring the position that claims that the book conveys an eschatological hope for the restoration of Israel and claims that there is no question that Davidic kingship will continue after the exile because it is grounded in God. 7 He refers also to the centrality of the temple, the concept of all Israel, and the principle of retribution, reward, responsibility, and repentance. I would argue that all these matters are placed in proportion within the general frame of the book and its message, 8 but more importantly, within the setting of a review is that at points McKenzie seems not to develop the potential that his own insights have on the matter and unintentionally flattens the message of the text. For instance, he suggests that the building of the temple by Solomon was a divine gift in McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 60. McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 47–48. 8 McKenzie explicitly writes about “[t]he Chronicler’s belief that disaster does not occur arbitrarily but as the consequence of sin and that sin is inevitably punished” (McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 326; emphasis mine). Numerous examples, however, contradict the categorical character of this statement. Moreover, some examples even clearly suggest X’s suffering may be the result not of X’s sins, but those of Y, which is not what McKenzie intended. See, among others, the results of David’s census (1 Chr 21:14), the execution of Zechariah son of the priest Jehoiada (2 Chr 24:20–21) which was certainly not a blessing for him, the disaster of being outside the land (2 Chr 36:21), Hezekiah’s prayer (2 Chr 29:6–9) and possibly or by implication his failure (2 Chr 32:24–25); Josiah’s words and Huldah’s prophecy (2 Chr 34:20–28), the consistent motif of testing pious kings, which sometimes takes the form of invasions against a pious king (e.g., Asa, Jehoshaphat, Hezekiah), but may take other forms (e.g., David’s census, Hezekiah’s additional test, Josiah and Neco). 6 7

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response to his faithfulness. 9 This relevant statement is consistent with his discussion of retribution, reward, and responsibility. 10 But, of course, there is 1 Chr 22:9–10 (“See, a son shall be born to you; he shall be a man of peace. I will give him peace from all his enemies on every side; for his name shall be Solomon, and I will give peace and quiet to Israel in his days. He shall build a house for my name. He shall be a son to me, and I will be a father to him, and I will establish his royal throne in Israel forever”). McKenzie is, needless to say, well aware of this text. When he discusses this pericope, he correctly maintains that its message is that the construction of the Temple, as everything within the ideology of the book, depends on YHWH. 11 He also points at out that YHWH gave Solomon his name because it represents the nature of his reign. 12 To be sure, within the world of the book this happened not only before the reign started, but even before Solomon was born. Do these matters have no implications for matters of personal reward and responsibility? Can the divine gifts represented by name of the unborn child and the divine assurance that he will build the temple be understood in terms of YHWH’s response to Solomon’s faithfulness at the time they were given, or before that? Of course this cannot be the case because Solomon was not even born. Do these matters have no implications on the issue of Chronicles’ views on the principle of personal reward, punishment and individual retribution in general? As another example, McKenzie correctly remarks that “[n]either the Davidic dynasty nor the temple can be the ultimate object of Israel’s hope and trust … The Chronicler knows that both will be destroyed.” 13 How does this awareness, along with the corresponding awareness that Israel can survive without David and without the Temple, impact the reconstruction of the message of the book regarding the Davidic dynasty, eschatology, and the temple advanced in the introduction? 14

McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 48. McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 51–52. 11 McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 184. 12 McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 181. 13 McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 224. 14 Incidentally, McKenzie continues the text quoted above with “Israel’s hope resided, in the final analysis, entirely withYahweh, and that hope is well placed, for Yahweh faithfully keeps his promises to his people (1 Chr 29:14–16).” The mentioned verses read: 9

10

‫וּמיָּ ְדָך֖ נָ ַ ֥תנּוּ‬ ִ ‫י־מ ְמָּך֣ ַה ֔כֹּל‬ ִ ‫וּמי ַע ִ֔מּי ִ ֽכּי־נַ ְע ֣צֹר ֔כֹּ ַח ְל ִה ְתנַ ֵ ֖דּב ָכּ ֑ז ֹאת ִ ֽכּ‬ ֣ ִ ‫וְ ִ֨כי ִ ֤מי ֲאנִ ֙י‬ ‫ָ ֽלְך׃‬

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The volume contains many interesting and important observations but I wish their implications for understanding of Chronicles would have been developed, or developed more fully. I would include among them observations as diverse as those about (a) the shift to the written word or scripture as the locus of authority and the related association of the Levitical singers as prophets, (b) the Chronicler’s arrangement of the structures of at least some sections “in different ways and at different levels,” 15 or in other words, that multiple and overlapping structures are at work in the book, 16 (c) the kind of envelope of the history of the divided kingdom between the reigns (and speeches) of Abijah and Hezekiah 17 or (d) the social setting of the Chronicler and that “his primary interest was in the other members of the elite, the political and religious readership of Jerusalem’s society.” 18

KNOPPERS’ COMMENTARY Knoppers’ work is one of the finest comprehensive commentaries on any biblical book. It is a commentary that excels in the detail of the discussion. It clearly shows Knoppers’ interest in textual variants and his mastery of a very large body of secondary literature. As mentioned above, this commentary will remain a constant reference for further studies. I find much to agree with Knoppers, and there is no end to what we may talk about concerning these two volumes. I would therefore raise only two issues related to his introduction that I consider deserve further, and perhaps substantial, discussion and then observations concerning two particular discussions in ‫ל־ה ָ ֖א ֶרץ וְ ֵ ֥אין‬ ָ ‫יָמינוּ ַע‬ ֛ ֵ ‫ל־אב ֵ ֹ֑תינוּ ַכּ ֵ ֧צּל ׀‬ ֲ ‫תוֹשׁ ִ ֖בים ְכּ ָכ‬ ָ ְ‫ִ ֽכּי־גֵ ִ ֨רים ֲא ַנ ְ֧חנוּ ְל ָפ ֶנ֛יָך ו‬ ‫ִמ ְקֶוֽה׃‬ ‫שׁם ָק ְד ֶ ֑שָׁך‬ ֣ ֵ ‫וֹת־לָך֥ ַ ֖ביִ ת ְל‬ ְ ֽ‫שׁר ֲה ִכי ֔נ ֹנוּ ִל ְבנ‬ ֣ ֶ ‫ֹלהינוּ ֣כֹל ֶה ָה ֤מוֹן ַהזֶּ ֙ה ֲא‬ ֵ֔ ‫הוה ֱא‬ ֣ ָ ְ‫י‬ ‫וּלָך֥ ַה ֽכֹּל׃‬ ְ ‫ִמיָּ ְדָך֥ ) ִהיא( ֖הוּא‬ “But who am I, and what is my people, that we should be able to make this freewill offering? For all things come from you, and of your own have we given you. 15 For we are aliens and transients before you, as were all our ancestors [cf. Ps. 39:13]; our days on the earth are like a shadow, and there is no hope. 16 O LORD our God, all this abundance that we have provided for building you a house for your holy name comes from your hand and is all your own.” (NRSV) This is an important text, but I fail to see it as one that clearly communicates to its readers “that hope is well placed, for Yahweh faithfully keeps his promises to his people” (emphasis mine). 15 McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 18. 16 What does this mean in terms of the expected mode of reading of the intended readership? 17 Cf. McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 45. 18 McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 33.

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his commentary (one from each volume), that I think that are of wide importance. Since no conversation advances too far if the participants talk only about matters they fully agree, my choices for this particular exercise are biased towards issues in which, from my own corner, things may look a bit different.

THE MATTER OF THE REWRITTEN BIBLE Knoppers toys with the idea of Chronicles as a “Rewritten Bible.” McKenzie refers to this with more than a hint of approval in his commentary for the general public, and in a recent essay Segal already refers to Chronicles as an example of “rewritten Bible.” 19 To be sure, I am not accusing Knoppers of being the first to use the term, or more importantly, the approach the term embodies. Moreover he only toys with the term/approach rather than supporting it as others have done. But given what I expect to be the status of Knoppers’ commentary in the discipline for many years to come, his toying with, instead of advancing a clear cut rebuttal of this term/approach is, in my opinion, a bit dangerous. In fact, I worry on the basis of my reading that before too long the field will be flooded with references to Chronicles as “rewritten Bible” and this will become a cherished piece of our “widely shared knowledge.” I suggest that we stop for a moment and reflect on the matter before it is too late. Of course, we all know that Chronicles carries selections, paraphrases, comments, elaborations and the like of other texts. We all also know that Chronicles is more than an elaboration of other texts. Knoppers is certainly correct when he writes that Chronicles is a “second national epic,” “more than a paraphrase of literary elaboration of the primary history,” and “needs to be understood as its own work.” 20 Moreover, Knoppers himself states that the term is fully anachronistic, and claims that it is doubtful that this category will “explain all of Chronicles’ distinctive literary features,” 21 but still toys with it. It is a dangerous game because it is liable to develop a life of its own. The term Rewritten Bible is more than a bit misleading and muddles matters far more than clarifies them. Therefore its potential problems far outweigh its potential limited contribution. To begin with, Chronicles cannot be a Rewritten Bible because there was no Bible by the time the book was written and first read. Of course, one may argue for a more generic 19 M. Segal, “Between Bible and Rewritten Bible,” in Biblical Interpretation at Qumran (ed. M. Henze; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2005), 10–28. 20 Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 133–34. 21 Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 132.

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term, such as “Rewritten Scripture” and understand Scripture as pointing to a corpus of authoritative texts within the repertoire of the community within which and for which Chronicles was written, or to its core. Yet, to call Chronicles “Rewritten Scripture” obfuscates matters and conceals important differences. From the perspective of Chronicles—and likely among its authorship and intended and primary readerships—there seem to be a substantial difference between pentateuchal and Samuel-Kings material. If the former, or, probably better, its legal traditions, were considered Scripture by the Chronicler, the same cannot be said of the latter without losing much of the meaning of the term Scripture and of the role of Scripture at the center of the community. After all, there is a very substantial difference between the way in which the matter of the passover offering and the texts of Samuel-Kings are treated. In the first case, 2 Chr 35:13, in a way somewhat similar to that of later rabbinic literature, develops a new conceptual category so as to allow the readers to understand that by roasting the passover offering they also fulfill the commandment to boil it and such is the actual meaning of both Exod 12:9 and Deut 16:7 when properly understood. Exod 12:9 and Deut 16:7 were certainly considered Scripture by the authorship and readership of Chronicles. But when matters come to Samuel and Kings, the sources for the lion’s share of the book, Chronicles has a quite free hand, limited only by core facts agreed upon in its community. Second, there is no generally agreed definition of what counts as “Rewritten Bible” even in relation to the late Second Temple period or its immediate aftermath. Knoppers, who is well aware of this situation, raises a number of generalizations including: “such works take a point of departure an earlier biblical book or collection of books,” that “select from, interpret, comment on, expand portions of a particular book (or group of books), addressing obscurities, contradictions, and other perceived problems with the source text” and that “normally emulate the form of the source text and follow it sequentially.” To be sure, Chronicles uses sources that eventually became biblical texts (notably Samuel and Kings, but also Genesis, Psalms, and prophetic books) including some that were authoritative at the time of composition. But Chronicles is conceptually so different from each of the sources that it is misleading to say that as any of these can be considered the point of departure for the book of Chronicles. Although Chronicles, as Knoppers stresses, shows similarities with the Primary History, this fact is to a large extent a basic content (and genre) requirement of any “national” sequential history of Israel anchored in the original beginning of humanity. Moreover, the differences between the Primary History and Chronicles are also very obvious. Furthermore,

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whereas Chronicles partially emulates the narrative in Samuel and Kings in the relevant sections, it also balances this emulation with salient textually inscribed markers that signal to its readers a sense of sharp difference, such as the fact that it is written in LBH. 22 Of course Chronicles addresses obscurities, contradictions, and other perceived problems with the source texts. This is, in fact, a quite common way of dealing with sources. The Chronicler was certainly an exegete of written texts, and, as such, his voice is presented as one who communicates the true meaning of existing sources. Yet from this observation it does not follow that Chronicles is a Rewritten Bible. Finally, the value of using “Rewritten Bible” as a genre marker is doubtful for the period in which it is normally used (late Second Temple and its aftermath), because unless it is clearly narrowed beyond generalities it places in one genre category books as diverse as Josephus’ Antiquities, Jubilees, Joseph and Aseneth, and Genesis Apocryphon. I think that rather than talking about a generally envisioned concept of Rewritten Bible in the Persian period, it is better to focus on the historical and sociological reality of a textually centered society in which different kinds and levels of authority were given to texts within a general repertoire. Incidentally, some aspects of the relation of the book of Chronicles to Samuel-Kings or the Primary History in Persian Yehud may be heuristically approached by using an analogy of the relation between Deuteronomy and other legal pentateuchal material (especially what we call the Covenant Code) in the same Persian Yehud. In both cases, we are talking of coexisting texts, each with its own linguistic voice, and above all of a textually centered community of literati in which different ideological voices are seen as, and are meant to be seen as, complementary rather than exclusive of each other. Instead of Rewritten Bible, perhaps it is better to refer to texts as products of an ever evolving scripturing community.

Chronicles presents itself to its readers as a text written in a different sociolect than “classical” texts. By doing so, the book rhetorically positions its own voice within the repertoire of authoritative texts accepted by the intended community. These issues as well as the debatable position about the Babylonian roots of LBH are among the topics I tend to think that could have been (more) substantially addressed in the commentary. Still, one has to keep in mind that even the most comprehensive commentary cannot cover all possible topics, and Knoppers is not and should not be bound to discuss every imaginable thing in which a scholar of Chronicles might be interested. 22

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COHERENCE WITH ARCHAEOLOGICAL DATA AS CRITERIA FOR HISTORICITY I applaud Knoppers’ call to distance Chronicles’ source criticism from historical reconstruction. 23 He makes an important point when he states “Chronicler’s writing tells us first of all about the writer’s own compositional technique, style and ideology.” 24 A bit more debatable is the statement “[w]hat we primarily derive from Chronicles, or for that matter from any writing, is what the author(s) thought about a certain subject at a particular time.” I am not sure Knoppers, or any of us, can know what the author/s of Chronicles thought about any topic, but only what the implied author wanted the target readership of the book to read about a certain topic, within the interpretative frame of the book as a whole, and for particular didactic and socializing purposes. The difference is not necessarily minor. But my focus is on the secondary pieces of knowledge that Knoppers wishes to derive from Chronicles. He, as most of us, would like to derive as much knowledge as possible from the book for the reconstruction of the time of the composition of the book and for monarchic Judah. He suggests that a key criterion that may help to evaluate the testimony of Chronicles for the latter rests on the coherence or lack thereof between the archaeological (and epigraphic) evidence and the related narrative in Chronicles. Coherence, however, may result from accurate knowledge of the situation in monarchic Judah, however transmitted, and also from arbitrary convergences between literary and ideological features and archaeological data. The difficult trick is to know which is which. Perhaps the most famous case concerns Hezekiah. It is as certain as it can be that Hezekiah strengthened Jerusalem (2 Chr 32:5–6) and Judah before rebelling against Sennacherib until the Assyrian king came to Judah. Any king would have done so under the same circumstances. Archaeological evidence points to concerns about the defense of the kingdom. But how far can we go in using Chronicles as a source for information about Sennacherib’s campaign and its result? Can we learn from this case of coherence that when the text refers to other kings fortifying Jerusalem or other cities (e.g., Rehoboam, Uzziah) we should accept this information as an accurate representation of historical actions by these kings? Even when we turn to the famous reference in 2 Chr 32:30 to Hezekiah’s diversion of the water of the Gihon to Jerusalem, this may well be a popular tradition assigning a great engineering feat to Hezekiah and used by the author for the purpose of rhetorically enhancing the ideological claim 23 24

Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 126. Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 127.

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that Hezekiah prospered in all his works. But significantly, in Chronicles such an action is associated with preparations for the war. Certainly some towers in the wilderness were built and some cisterns were hewed out in the approximate half-century assigned to the reign of Uzziah (see 2 Chr 27:10). Of course the same holds true for many other regnal periods in Judah and elsewhere in the ancient Near East. But archaeological evidence pointing to towers and cisterns in Judah dating to the first half of the eighth century BCE does not and cannot contribute significantly to our understanding of the historicity (in its present meaning) of the relevant narratives in Chronicles, or even of the relevant verses unless one assumes beforehand that the Chronicler could not have told the readers of Chronicles about the building of cisterns by Uzziah (and fortresses by Jehoshaphat and the like), unless these activities were described in a historically reliable source available to the author. But certainly Chronicles did assign building activities to kings in response to ideological and literary concerns or constraints (e.g., the list of Rehoboam’s fortified cities). Conversely, should we use the lack of references in Chronicles to building activities during the thirty-one years of Josiah’s reign in Chronicles as a case of a lack of coherence between the testimony of Chronicles and the archaeological evidence (after all, something was built in thirty-one years)? Perhaps we are asking some mistaken questions, and perhaps we are a bit overzealous in our desire to reconstruct the history of monarchic Judah and a bit too excited when a particular piece of information in Chronicles may seem “authentic” or “accurate.” Granting that there are some nuggets of correct historical information, from our perspective, in Chronicles that appear nowhere else, the basic question is how to know which ones qualify. The principle of coherence, even if refined to an art and used in a very carefully manner, can only tell us that a minor, narrowly construed piece of information that can be abstracted out of its context in the book of Chronicles is historically correct because we already know that piece of information. As such it contributes nothing to the reconstruction of the history of monarchic Judah and only very marginal knowledge about Chronicles at best.

DAVIDIC GENEALOGY Knoppers writes very extensively about the genealogies. I have learnt much, and I will keep learning from his work on them. One of the most important genealogies is that of David in 1 Chr 3, and, of course, Knoppers deals with the matter extensively. One of the main and highly debated questions is how to understand the significance of the list in the book. Knoppers explicitly notes that there is no “explicit statement about a Davidic restoration in 1 Chr 3” but “von Rad … may be close to the mark in intimating that the

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whole point of abiding interest in David is to keep the Davidic tradition alive in hope of such a restoration at a later time.” 25 He maintains that the list traces “continuity through the United Kingdom, the Judahite monarchy, the Exile and the Persian periods,” shows that the line survived “the ravages of history” and “their supporters … [were] always free to hope for a restoration to power,” and concludes with “the vitality evinced by the Davidic genealogy speaks for itself.” 26 So although Knoppers recognizes the problems with messianic interpretations of the genealogy, his own reconstruction is to some extent a variant of them. Moreover, he argues against the position that the genealogy leads to an anti-climax or seemingly nowhere on the grounds that, given the structure and composition of the lineage, no titles or special signs of status are given to most figures and therefore there is no slight against those near the end of the list. 27 Yet one may easily argue that the readership of the book certainly knows the difference between the status of figures such as David and Hezekiah and those of the last members of the list. Already the language of future restoration to power, used by Knoppers and many others, presupposes a readership that is well aware that the figures at the end of the list do not commensurate with those at the beginning. In this sense, it is clear that the list conveys to the readership a sense of continuity, but also of drastic and negative discontinuity, with the glorious past. In this sense, it is not really anti-climatic; it is climactic in its pragmatic sense of decline. Yet a number of qualifications or added levels of meaning cannot be disregarded. For instance, one may ask: Was the past so glorious from the perspective shaped and reflected by Chronicles? If the readership of Chronicles was supposed to understand the book as informing them that monarchic Judah led to disaster and that there was a slow but consistent tendency towards decline in its blessings (a point on which I tend to think Knoppers would agree, but this goes beyond the matter discussed here), then one may doubt if the genealogy was read by the intended readership, in the main, as a fountain of hope for the restoration of a Davidic king, since after all, these kings failed. Is it for the coming of a new David or Solomon? After all, was not the temple already built and David alive and well as it were through the ordinances for the cult and the temple? In other words, the lineage of David may also be read as reflecting a status quo in which Davides need not play their “traditional” role in the present for the community to be pious and lead its life in accordance with YHWH’s will. In other words, it seems to me that the significance of the Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 333. Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 335–36. 27 Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 333. 25 26

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Davidic genealogy within Chronicles depends much on how the book as a whole is understood. Those who find in it a strong royalist or a messianic or quasi messianic trend would understand the list in a way different from those who find in it more of a tendency towards acceptance of the provincial status quo, and for which Chronicles’ “utopian” hopes focus on proper education, correct worship, and attitudes within its readership and larger community, as grounded in what the authorship and intended readership understand to be the true meaning of YHWH’s teachings, many of which were textually based or could be abstracted from texts. Latent, dormant messianic or quasi-messianic aspirations as those expressed in some prophetic books are a very different matter because they focus on hopes for a distant, utopian future that will be brought by YHWH at the time of the deity’s choosing and may co-exist, and in some cases even facilitate, the trends just described in Chronicles. They may well have been part of the discourse of the authorship and readership of Chronicles, but the case for reading them to the exclusion of other levels of meaning in the genealogy in 1 Chr 3 seems to me very problematic. I may note in passing that Knoppers himself suggests that we do not know how various Judaeans in Yehud viewed the Davides of their times. 28 Not incidentally, another issue arises, in which sense were they Davides? Knoppers seems to take at face value that Zerubbabel was a Davide, even if only here is he explicitly described as such. Given that Zerubabbel filled in the memory of Yehudites a kind of kingly role by the building of the Temple 29 one may expect the development of some form of kingly imagery in their characterization in the texts of the community (as actually shown in Hag 2:20–23 and Zech 3–4), even if in these pre-Chronicles texts, Zerubabbel is clearly not a king but a governor. From that perspective one may see Chronicles as representing and/or reflecting the obvious next step in the royalization of the figure of Zerubabbel within Yehudite discourses, namely to attach him to the only Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 329. Ideologically, temples are built by kings, not governors. The relevant aspect of the conceptual construction of the building of the Temple in Yehud’s discourses carried, at least, four layers of interrelated meanings. It was carried out (a) ultimately in accordance with and as a fulfillment of YHWH’s will (YHWH is of course the King), (b) by the order of the highest worldly (Persian) king of the time, (c) to re-establish a temple envisaged by David and built by Solomon—i.e., the most glorious kings of Israel—and to be operated according to the instructions of Moses and David instructions—the highest possible leaders of Israel—as written and interpreted by the proper interpreters, and also (d) by Israel’s leader/s in Yehud/Jerusalem, among whom Zerubabbel takes as it were the structural slot of the local king. 28 29

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legitimate kingly lineage. In other words, the lineage may not only point at some hope in a restoration of the Davidic line to power, but to the legitimatization of the present temple and the lack of need for a new David to build it anew. Significantly, in Chronicles even a relatively elaborate list of descendents of a kingly figure need not necessarily point to hope for restoration to power but to the importance of an ancestor or his deed, in this case both David and Zerubabbel (now intertwined through temple building 30) and cf. the lineage of Saul in 1 Chr 8. All in all, Knoppers’ conclusions regarding the message of the lineage of David in 1 Chr 3 are not necessarily wrong, but they may reflect some basic assumptions about Chronicles and perhaps be a bit too limited and limiting in scope. In any case, this is certainly an important topic for further discussion.

CHARACTERIZATION OF PERSONAGES Knoppers writes “if the superscription [of LXX Psalm 95 ‘When the House was being rebuilt following the exile. An Ode relating to David;’ (LXX Ps 95 corresponds to MT Ps 96)] had been part of the Chronicler’s source, it is unlikely that he would have quoted this psalm in the context of the presentation of David’s life.” 31 I plainly disagree with this statement. From my perspective, the communities of readers of Chronicles certainly were able to construe the authorial voice of the book as one that has no problems in portraying characters as aware of later events and texts, and in fact, as one who uses such double understandings (such as in this case in the LXX) to advance rhetorical and ideological aims. This voice could and did cross boundaries of narrowly understood historicity—in the present sense of the term—at the service of didactic goals. The matter is of major importance, for it concerns our understanding/construction of ancient Israelite historiography and its genre constraints as well as the expectations that the genre raised among its intended readers. It opens some and tends to close other interpretative paths in the study of Chronicles. In addition, although I may be wrong, I tend to think that Knoppers today would agree with me on this particular matter though he would phrase it in reference to the actual author of Chronicles. But if this is the case, is the stated comment a remnant of a previous position held by Knoppers? To be sure, his commentary represents the fruit of many years of work and although I am sure he read the entire manuscript before submitting it and thereafter the proofs, many comments here and there may 30 According to the MT, Chronicles enlists six generations after Zerubbabel; according to the LXX, eleven. 31 Knoppers, I Chronicles 10–29, 648.

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still represent the thoughts of Knoppers at some point in the past but not necessarily now. 32 Since I know Knoppers, I can advance an educated guess that he may agree with me on this matter. 33 But by doing so, I am in fact interpreting the intention of the author of the book, that is, Knoppers, according to a kind of (redactional) history of his thought on the matter. I assume, however, that most present-day readers and certainly those readers thirty years hence who will still be using the volume most profitably will not be able to make the guess I am making now. Does any of this say anything about a book meant to be read and reread for generations after the death of its author/s such as Chronicles? Does any of this say anything about the importance of distinction between implied and real author?

CONCLUSION I would like to conclude my comments and my invitation for further conversation by stressing my personal appreciation to both authors. One has contributed much to general literacy on Chronicles; the other, from whom I learned much, has meticulously worked through 1 Chronicles and its secondary literature and provided us all with a commentary whose vitality will endure for many years to come. I am glad of standing here today commenting on their works. I am glad of expressing in public my thanks to both of them. Thank you Gary Knoppers and Steve McKenzie.

32 This is a natural, unavoidable feature present in comprehensive studies which by necessity were written piece by piece through many years. 33 To be sure, I may be wrong regarding this example, but I am quite sure that there are instances in which the point I am making is still valid.

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ASSOCIATED MENNONITE BIBLICAL SEMINARY, ELKHART, IN Steven McKenzie begins his recent commentary on Chronicles with two sentences with which virtually all of us gathered here this morning would heartedly agree: “There has never been a better time to embark on a study of Chronicles. Nor is there a better example of the vitality of biblical scholarship than that on Chronicles.” 2 His commentary and the two volumes on 1 Chronicles by Gary Knoppers certainly provide ample evidence for such a hyperbolic claim. 3 As someone who defended a dissertation on Chronicles earlier this year, 4 I concur with McKenzie’s generally positive assessment of the present state of affairs in Chronicles’ scholarship. This area of our field has been undergoing a transformation (and sometimes a radical one) for several decades now. Indeed, in the last few years in particular, numerous works have appeared that are moving discussions about Chronicles in new directions. This present reassessment of and dynamic growth in Chronicles scholarship will result undoubtedly in more extensive research and further probing into the meanings of Chronicles and the repercussions of the book in the history and literature of its own time and throughout the subsequent These comments were originally presented as part of a panel discussion in a special session of the Chronicles-Ezra-Nehemiah Section at the national annual meeting of the SBL, Philadelphia, Pa., November 20, 2005. I wish to thank the session organizer Melody Knowles for her kind invitation to participate. 2 Steven L. McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles (AOTC; Nashville: Abingdon, 2004), 17. 3 Gary N. Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9 (AB 12; New York: Doubleday, 2004); idem, I Chronicles 10–29 (AB 12A; New York: Doubleday, 2004). 4 Steven J. Schweitzer, “Reading Utopia in Chronicles” (Ph.D. diss., University of Notre Dame, 2005), now under contract for publication with T&T Clark. 1

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centuries. It is in the context of this renewed interest in and rethinking the consensus opinion concerning what scholars have repeatedly called an “often-neglected book,” that I am honored to make a small contribution to this discussion. I will begin my comments by focusing on McKenzie’s treatment of Chronicles and then turn to that by Knoppers. McKenzie’s 42-page “Introduction” concisely surveys with great clarity many of the standard issues covered in such commentary sections: outline and titles of the book, its canonical positions, authorship, theories of redactional developments and the literary of the work as a whole, date and setting, genre and purpose, the ancient textual witnesses, sources and issues of historicity, constituent genres, primary theological concerns and what McKenzie terms “Supporting Themes.” McKenzie correctly notes the trend, especially in North American scholarship, to shift away from redactional schemes to explain the development of the book of Chronicles toward a greater emphasis on the integrity of the work as a coherent unit with less editorial insertions than previously asserted. 5 This new approach corresponds to a similar shift in appreciating the sophistication of the book, and to a substantial reevaluation of the Chronicler as an author and editor. As a result, the Chronicler should be viewed as the creator of a work that has no identifiable or known parallel in terms of genre in the ancient world, at least according to McKenzie, which is also in agreement with the assessment by Knoppers. 6 First, McKenzie notes that the Chronicler’s “unique work” is not sufficiently explained by recourse to labels such as “rewritten Bible” or “history writing.” Instead, McKenzie concludes his comments on genre and purpose with the suggestion that Chronicles could be understood as “a theological rewriting of Bible history for instructional purposes.” 7 I would like to press McKenzie on this point to explain further what his description means, as it appears to me to be a statement of content and function rather than literary form. What is the genre of Chronicles? McKenzie seems to state that Chronicles cannot be classified into any generic category, a point that seems correct to me as well. If Chronicles indeed stands alone in terms of genre, does this not suggest that the Chronicler is not only a sophisticated writer, but also a literary innovator not bound by the conventions of the past or present for communicating his message to his audience? Second, in describing the Chronicler, McKenzie states that this persona was most likely a single author, likely a scribe who was connected with McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 28. Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 34, 134. 7 McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 34. 5 6

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the temple, and perhaps even with the Levites in particular, 8 and was a “skillful editor and exegete. Above all, he was a sophisticated theologian who used Israel’s past to convey powerful, if sometimes subtle, religious messages to his contemporaries.” 9 McKenzie discusses at some length in his introduction many of these religious messages. Of course, I agree with many of his assessments and conclusions, but disagree with or would like further clarification on others. For example, in my opinion, his pointed discussions of date, authorship, and sources succinctly articulate a balanced approach to several complex issues. I certainly agree with his contention that the Chronicler was not a rigid legalist, 10 as a scholar such as Wellhausen may have portrayed him. Rather, as with McKenzie, I understand the Chronicler to be concerned about the broader spiritual condition of the community and not only as it is reflected in the cult’s organizational system, but as it is also expressed in four emphases throughout Chronicles that are noted by McKenzie: joyful celebrations of worship, prayer, humility, and the multivalent phrase “setting the heart to seek God.” 11 However, while I agree that the Chronicler is concerned to provide an authoritative heritage for his organizational scheme, I question McKenzie’s assumption that the Chronicler reflects the conditions of his present in describing details of the cult. And, of course, McKenzie is not alone in this presumption about the relationship between the content of Chronicles and whatever historical situation it may reflect. Most scholars working through its complicated relationships of the descriptions of temple personnel have concluded that Chronicles either reflects conditions from the preexilic period or, more commonly, that they are retrojections into the past from the Chronicler’s own day during the Second Temple period. McKenzie does note that the systems for the temple personnel are “in flux” both before and apparently after the composition of Chronicles, 12 but he continues to assume that its depiction in Chronicles serves to legitimate the present program. Thus, in this view, Chronicles functions as propaganda to reinforce the status quo of the cult. Instead, I would ask of McKenzie, who invokes this legitimacy explanation for the portrayal of the cult on several occasions, 13 what is the evidence that the Chronicler is indeed attempting to legitimate the present organizaIbid., 33. Ibid., 29. 10 Ibid., 49, 55. 11 Ibid., 55–58. 12 Ibid., 54. 13 Ibid., 34, 53–55. 8 9

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tion of the cult, especially since (1) none of the various descriptions of its structure that are contained throughout the book of Chronicles are in complete agreement (that is, no coherent organization of the cult is actually authorized by the overall presentation in Chronicles), and (2) that many of the cultic innovations in Chronicles are unique to the book and appear without external data for comparison? In other words, what confirms the hypothesis or theory that the details in Chronicles reflect the historical circumstances of any period, instead of this being one hypothesis that is based on other hypotheses that also lack supporting evidence? Instead, I see a recurring pattern depicted throughout the book, namely, that variation and adaptation of the cultic system in new historical circumstances, with the probability of continued renewal and change in the future, characterizes the Chronicler’s view of cultic organizational schemes. If the Chronicler is a masterful innovator from a literary perspective, why not also see in his depiction of the cult a historical innovation that will reorganize the temple personnel into a different operational program than what currently exists in the Chronicler’s present? In my opinion, another option besides the common view of the “Chronicler as legitimist” deserves consideration: the possible institutions of a utopian future are presented as if they were past realities. Thus, Chronicles does not present the cult as it is, but as it might be. Or, as McKenzie puts it “The past is idealized—history as it should have been,” 14 but I would add, not to reinforce the present but to change it into something better than what it currently is—a Better Alternative Reality, or, what is otherwise known as a Utopia. This assumption about the nature of the Chronicler’s relationship to his contemporary situation would thus be changed from the construction of propaganda literature to the promotion of continuing cultic reforms in the present and the future. As I find myself in substantial agreement with McKenzie on the majority of the issues discussed in the introduction, my concluding question is, honestly, why do you think that the Chronicler writes to legitimate the present and thus maintain the status quo? I would now like to turn to the two volumes on 1 Chronicles by Knoppers. In the light of my previous comments, I begin with three statements by Knoppers: (1) that “the methodology of source criticism needs to be distanced from the discipline of historical reconstruction,” (2) that “one cannot merely assume that Chronicles primarily tells us about either the preexilic period or the postexilic period,” and (3) that “Writers are not only shaped by their circumstances, they can also seek to shape those circumstances.” 15 Knoppers even explicitly allows in a footnote for the possibility 14 15

Ibid., 34. Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 126, 127, 105, respectively.

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which I am suggesting, namely, that Chronicles does not reflect the present, but rather “the writer’s preferred configuration of priestly polity” before Knoppers quickly states that the justification of postexilic institutions in Chronicles seems “more likely.” 16 As with McKenzie’s similar assertions, I would ask, why—could you please expand on your comment and clarify for me your reasons for this judgment concerning the Chronicler’s portrayal of the cult and its accompanying society? Shifting away from this topic that is obviously of great importance for my own reading of Chronicles, I applaud the research and detailed analyses undertaken in these volumes by Knoppers. The thorough, systematic, and logical discussions of topics, debates, and problematic issues provide a wealth of resources for those readers who venture into the deep with the Chronicler. With the same meticulous procedure that is evident in his previously published essays and articles, Knoppers engages critical scholarship and ancient primary sources with exacting precision and, at least in my opinion, cautiously responsible conclusions. His discussion of comparisons of Chronicles with Hellenistic works, especially the 20-page Excursus on the Genealogies, 17 is especially illuminating. I agree with his contention that it is the Hellenistic material rather than the typically addressed ancient Near East literature which provides the better parallel data for comparisons and contrasts to Chronicles. Knoppers’ analysis of this material is, I believe, in many ways paradigmatic for additional comparative studies that could and should be undertaken between the Hellenistic literary corpora and the books of the Hebrew Bible, including Chronicles. It would be rather easy for me to say that by-and-large I find Knoppers’ presentation of the material fairly convincing. However, a few points are worth further consideration: in his well-written section on the possibility of interpreting Chronicles as a form of rewritten Bible, Knoppers takes the position that Chronicles is neither a commentary on the Deuteronomistic History, nor does it treat the Pentateuch in some special way that would indicate “authoritative” or “sacred” status of the Torah, nor should “exegesis” or “theological reflection” on earlier texts or traditions be the explanation for all of the content of Chronicles. 18 While these judgments seem accurate to my mind, his subsequent conclusion that therefore Chronicles is not a replacement for the primary history but an “alternative” presentation of the past raises some questions. 19 Foremost, is the apparent contradiction Ibid., 115 n. 152. Ibid., 245–65. 18 Ibid., 131–33. 19 Ibid., 133. 16 17

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in the language that Knoppers uses earlier on this same page: In correctly asserting that Chronicles is not a commentary on Samuel-Kings, Knoppers affirms the view that the Chronicler “substitutes” his new writing for the old one, namely the Deuteronomistic History. Substitute, at least to me, suggests replacement, not only an additional option. While we cannot know the mind of the Chronicler, I would like to see Knoppers unpack this view a bit more than the few sentences at this point in his commentary. The Chronicler certainly expected his readers to be familiar with the earlier literary (and presumably oral) traditions, but what did he think was the character of his own independent (and lengthy) composition? Secondly, moving out of his introductory section to the commentary proper, Knoppers addresses at some length the highly-debated issue of the Chronicler’s reasoning for David’s disqualification as temple builder in 1 Chr 22:8, 28:3. 20 Knoppers concludes his clear rehearsal of the options and his own preference with the assertion that this language should not be used in a misleading and generalized manner to argue for a theology of pacifism in Chronicles. 21 His conclusion is substantially based on what he calls the “ad hoc” nature of this judgment against David. However, it is worth emphasizing that apart from the actual construction of the temple, this is one of, if not the, major distinction between the reign of David and the reign of Solomon. That is, I would be hesitant in affirming the unified nature of their individual reigns as they are presented in Chronicles. While there is absolutely consistency between their separate eras, Solomon’s reign not only continues what David had begun but adjusts, adapts, and exceeds the conditions associated with his illustrious father. Thus, in my view, it is not the Davidic-Solomonic era that portrays Israel’s utopian Golden Age, but it is the Solomonic kingdom that most fully typifies the hope for a better alternative reality in Chronicles. Also, I would be among those scholars who find a nuanced view of war and peace in Chronicles, and believe that the depiction of a quietistic and pacifistic Chronicler is consistent with the evidence from the book as a whole. While Knoppers may well address this point at length in his subsequent volume on 2 Chronicles—or at least I hope that he will— I would enjoy hearing his further reflections and arguments only alluded to in this brief remark that the Chronicler does not advocate such a position given the context of the late Persian or early Hellenistic period in which he was writing. Third, a structural question: the sections in Knoppers’ 91-page introduction labeled Roman numerals IV, V, and VI, which total almost exactly 20 21

Knoppers, I Chronicles 10–29, 772–75. Ibid., 775.

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half of its length at 45 pages, are obviously interrelated and concern issues of authorship, the unity and extent of the work, evidence for redactional activity, the relationship to Ezra-Nehemiah, and the complexities of dating the book. 22 While Section IV is titled “The State of the Field: Recent Studies on Chronicles,” its contents only concern what Knoppers labels “The Unity and Extent of the Chronicler’s Work.” In this section, I expected to find discussion of the redactional strata and its connection to EzraNehemiah, among other concerns. However, these topics are the subject of the separate Section V. Further, while the title of Section IV would suggest multiple issues in Chronicles to be a part of a survey of the state of the question, there is strangely only one subheading (Letter A without a Letter B). Finally, in Section VI, the title indicates a discussion of the debate over authorship and date, while the content focuses almost entirely on the issue of dating the text. While it could be argued that authorship was covered in or at least alluded to in Sections IV and V, these sections are mostly about redactional issues without ever addressing the issue of authorship per se or an identification of the Chronicler’s social location. I guess my question is: as I read these sections the structural logic and flow of the arguments from one section to the next are not readily apparent, at least to me, and would you please clarify how you see them functioning in this form and structural scheme? In his final footnote in the introduction of the volume covering 1 Chronicles 1–9, Knoppers suggestively states that a section in volume 2— by which I believe him to mean the next one on 2 Chronicles—will cover the theology of the Chronicler, 23 and perhaps this location will be the place to address more fully the identity of the author of Chronicles. I, for one, eagerly await the completion and publication of this volume on 2 Chronicles, which will apparently contain additional substantive introductory material that will supplement the extensive concerns already included in the first volume. In conclusion, these helpful, thorough, and well-reasoned commentaries by two leading scholars such as Steven McKenzie and Gary Knoppers ensure that those of us working on the book of Chronicles have much to ruminate over and to keep us busy for decades to come. Thank you both for your substantial contributions to the continued vitality of Chronicles scholarship and the field of biblical studies.

22 23

Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 72–117. Ibid., 137 n. 191.

A COMMENTARY ON COMMENTARIES ON CHRONICLES JOHN W. WRIGHT

POINT LOMA NAZARENE UNIVERSITY, SAN DIEGO, CA The Book of Chronicles is a writing of history, a textual remnant within the history of writing. The Book of Chronicles imposes a name upon a text from history that transforms this text to what it earlier was not, an authoritative Hebrew Scroll for formative Judaism and, simultaneously, a large Greek pamphlet within a massive codex for the gathering of a largely Gentile group that looked back to one they saw as the Jewish Messiah. Within the context of these polities, the text did not function to refract history, but to pre-form history, to call these different but same groups to a common past that was not historical but textual. To comment on the recent commentaries of Gary Knoppers and Steven McKenzie is to enter into a complex web of textual and political relationships that this text, what we have come to call the Book of Chronicles, has elicited. We are here to comment on commentaries, then to allow the commentators to comment on our comments, only to provoke more comments from later commentators who follow in our wake—not merely a wake as that which follows immediately after a boat, but also as that place where people gather after death. I mention this only so that we might here take pleasure in the texts, both of Chronicles and the commentaries, the achievement of the commentators, real human beings who sit here as part of us. Wakes are celebrations, but celebrations after death, after the disappearance of life that recalls the dead to life. A commentary marks the absence of the text, the trace of a text in a new text, a new text that keeps present that which has already disappeared to prevent its annihilation through repetition. As Michel de Certeau writes concerning Western historiography, a contemporary biblical commentary “tends to prove that the site of its production can encompass the past; it is an odd procedure that posits 413

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death, a breakage everywhere reiterated in discourse, and that yet denies loss by appropriating to the present the privilege of recapitulating the past as a form of knowledge. A labor of death and a labor against death.” 1 In other words, a wake, a celebration of the dead who nonetheless still live. How then might we celebrate the learned web of relationships that Professors Knoppers and McKenzie employ to resurrect the dead? Let us begin with Professor Knoppers’ irenic and extensive labor. 2 We should not underestimate the achievement of this repetition of the text of Chronicles. First, Knoppers’ work de-centers the BHS as ‘natural’ for reading Chronicles. For Knoppers, the MT of Chronicles no longer reigns supreme as the basis for any correction, but must compete on the open market for readings within wider textual traditions of Chronicles from antiquity. Knoppers constructs a completely novel text, an eclectic Urtext, to translate and upon which to comment. Every word of the text undergoes his disciplinary gaze. His text-critical work culminates over forty years of scholarly efforts to absorb the data and implications of the Qumran biblical texts into Chronicles scholarship. The attention to detail is staggering. Knoppers artfully alternates between observing and neglecting text critical “laws” to construct a text to translate and upon which to comment. All future academic commentaries on Chronicles will have to take Knoppers’ work into account. Yet the significance of these ancient textual networks goes far beyond the construction of a Chronicles text. The engagement of the textual flux of Samuel shifts the interpretation of the Chronicler from previous 20th century readings. Knoppers does not deny the intentional alteration of previously known scrolls to produce a new work; nonetheless Chronicles participates fully in the textual flux of the history of Judean scrolls and Christian codices. Knoppers utilizes the textual variation of Chronicles to construct textual histories and preferred readings of other Judean scrolls as well— particularly the complex Samuel textual traditions. Most delightfully, he creatively inverts direction of earlier commentaries from the texts of Joshua to Chronicles in order to reconstruct a primitive version of the Book of Joshua from Chronicles. 3 A second network of texts whereby Knoppers re-creates Chronicles is ancient Hellenistic genealogies and historiography. If Knoppers uses the textual networks to deconstruct an opposition between the MT and other 1 Michel de Certeau, The Writing of History (trans. Tom Conley; New York: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 5. 2 Gary N. Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9 (AB 12; New York: Doubleday, 2004); idem, I Chronicles 10–29 (AB 12A; New York: Doubleday, 2004). 3 See Knoppers’ discussion, I Chronicles 1–9, 442–48.

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textual traditions, here he subtly deconstructs an opposition between the Hellenistic and the Jewish, the Greek and the Hebrew. The emergence of the Jewish in Chronicles becomes itself a Hellenistic phenomenon. Knoppers pushes beyond ahistorical anthropological approaches to read the genealogies of 1 Chronicles in relationship to a similarly attested genre in Greek writings at the time. This historicist reading enriches the earlier anthropological readings, as well as consistently re-enrolls major parts of the genealogies of Chronicles from previous scholarly relegations as secondary or tertiary additions. The genealogies emerge as much more significant than earlier modernist readings. According to Knoppers, the ‘classical genealogies’ depicted and created power: …prestige, status, even moral character might be derived from the original progenitor, preferably legendary, heroic, or divine (van Groningen 1953: 47–61). One’s identity was intimately tied to one’s roots and social context. Whether one had the credentials to serve in certain public offices was determined to no small extent by one’s pedigree. 4

Chronicles emerges as a text deeply embedded in the contested social and political struggles of 4th century BCE Judeans. As Knoppers states in an important footnote, “the Chronicler’s genealogies were written not so much to present an alternative history to that presented in the Hexateuch as they were to situate Israel in the context of other nations and to make assertions about Israel’s tribal heritage, its identity, its internal configuration, and its relationship to the land.” 5 Knoppers extends this political reading of Chronicles through a third network of texts: texts concerning kings, temples, and temple personnel within the ancient Near East. Whereas the first two networks relate to Chronicles by particular types of textual traditions, Knoppers branches far and wide to enliven Chronicles through this third network of texts. Knoppers draws upon, to sample merely a few, neo-Bablyonian temple contracts, Ugaritic mythological texts, Aramean inscriptions, Assyrian Kings Lists, Hittite documents, Xenophon’s Cyropaedia, Hebrew inscriptions and Judean letters from Elephatine, all in order to explicate relationships of king, temple, and temple personnel within Chronicles. As a result, Knoppers animates the relationships of characters, buildings, and offices in Chronicles to re-present social and political contests in antiquity within which later Judean history and texts emerged.

4 5

Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 250–51. Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 260, fn. 29.

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Knoppers’ Chronicles seems remarkably at home within antiquity. His text presents Chronicles as a performance of Hellenistic Jewish historiography within the late Persian, early Hellenistic eras. It presents a pluralistic “all Israel” within the land with David as a “founding father” for the sociopolitical institution of the temple within a poor, small province of Yehud. Knoppers’ genteel rhetoric masks the strength, the creativity, the corrective of previous scholarship, and quiet persuasiveness of his text as he enfolds the reader into the web of textual relations that he spins. Never seeming to disagree completely with any previous reading, he nonetheless subtly shifts the ground in reading Chronicles within twentieth-century readings. He conquers by infiltration, a velvet revolution within and against the scholarly status quo, even as he entombs the text within that past by which he resuscitates it. Confining the text as dead in the past, Knoppers’ commentary allows Chronicles to live. His commentary is simultaneously a necrophilia and a necrophobia of Chronicles. Professor McKenzie has an even more difficult rhetorical task. 6 He addresses a specific audience—beginning theological students and pastors—whose office presupposes that the Book of Chronicles is alive and always has been, even if that life is not very important. Despite a blurb that Chronicles represents “one of the most important, but often neglected, books of the Old Testament,” this sentiment might not be obvious to a novice audience of academic readings of biblical texts. McKenzie undertakes the important task of burying the Chronicles of professional biblical scholars alive within the sociological context of those who, unlike us academics who understand that Chronicles is a relic of the past, do not naturally know that the text is dead. Writing without the benefit of footnotes and bibliography so as not to scare away the novice, McKenzie implicitly presupposes many of the same twentieth century academic texts that inform Knoppers’ comments. Knoppers’ comments themselves occasionally directly inform McKenzie’s comments, extending the life of the Knoppers’ text. McKenzie summarizes and briefly adjudicates textual relationships of Chronicles to ancient Hebrew scrolls and Greek codices, and relates the text to a discourse called the history of Israel, particularly in a chronological era before the Babylonian destruction of Jerusalem. A miscellanea of comments thus grant a “depth dimension,” to use the editors’ language, to enliven Chronicles for the reader. 7 Professor McKenzie relates Chronicles masterfully to a network of Steven L. McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles (AOTC; Nashville: Abingdon, 2004). For the important editorial constraints placed upon the McKenzie text, see Patrick D. Miller, “Foreward” in McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 11–13. 6 7

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textual discussions on the compositional history of its text, as well as clarifications of language and imagery as it relates to the discourse of historical critical scholarship of Chronicles. He effectively comments on the text of Chronicles to initiate the novice into a type of textual discourse found within academic readings of this text of the past forty years. Yet his comments differ from Professor Knoppers’ through the assignment to generate theological and ethical comments “with which the unit deals or to which it points” in order to “provide readers a basis for reflection” on “contemporary issues of faith and life.” 8 The dead text must live. McKenzie’s text must unfold into future texts meant to inform the life of certain contemporary ecclesial groups. At the same time, McKenzie’s comments create a text of Chronicles deeply formed by contemporary Western academic scholarship—a text long dead. The commentary becomes the site of moving the life of the church into the life of the guild, though a guild itself modified by this move. Two different polities, histories, and rationalities merge in a Hegelian-like synthesis. This synthesis opens Chronicles to become a different text than that constructed by Professor Knoppers. McKenzie’s Chronicles is, “above all, a theological work.” 9 Like Hegel, history becomes theology: “the essence of Chronicles in a single phrase is to call it a theological rewriting of Bible history for instructional purposes.” 10 “The Chronicler’s account of Solomon is really about the temple,” 11 but “it is not the temple as a building that is important but the temple as a conduit to God … . David’s interest in preparing for the temple exemplifies his concern for the sacred and also for the communion with God that the temple represents.” 12 The building of the temple, therefore, “is much more than a building project; it is a spiritual exercise.” 13 Yet in 2 Chronicles 10–36, the theological emphases of Professor McKenzie’s comments, that is, the theology of Chronicles, change: “the distinctively Chronistic doctrine that surfaces in 2 Chronicles is that of individual responsibility and immediate retribution/reward.” 14 For instance, “the reigns of Jotham, Ahaz, and Hezekiah in Chronicles together illustrate Miller in McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 13. McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 47. 10 McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 34. 11 McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 227. 12 McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 177. 13 McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 224. 14 McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 260. 8 9

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the principle that each person bears responsibility for his/her own behavior and that it is possible to choose the path of righteousness despite what one’s forebears have done.” 15 The personal spirituality expressed through the temple in 1 Chronicles must be lived out by the individual moral responsibility expressed in 2 Chronicles. What has happened in this web of relations, the casting of the lasso around the academy and theological students and pastors? Professor McKenzie’s Chronicles, dead or alive, seems remarkably at home within what the sociologist Christian Smith describes as the conventional religiosity of the contemporary United States, 16 a “moralistic therapeutic deism”, “a ‘softer,’ more inclusive, ecumenical, multireligious direction.” 17 Such a theology appropriates, abstracts, and revises doctrinal elements [and texts] from mostly Christianity and Judaism for its own purpose. But it does so in a downward, apolitical direction. Its social function is not to unify and give purpose … at the level of civil affairs. Rather, it functions to foster subjective well-being in its believers and to lubricate interpersonal relationships in the local public sphere. 18

“It teaches that central to living a good and happy life is being a good, moral person;” 19 it is “about feeling good, happy, secure, at peace. It is about attaining subjective well-being, being able to resolve problems, and getting along amiably with other people;” 20 it is “about belief in a particular kind of God: one who exists, created the world, and defines our general moral order, but not one who is particularly personally involved in one’s affairs.” 21 It combines a personal spirituality with a moral responsibility through theological convictions supposedly made apolitical. Professor McKenzie’s Chronicles, now alive and well, though dead, vibrantly addresses the contemporary theological student and pastor to form them into academically informed leaders to serve apolitically in guiding their congregations within the wider status quo of the United States. The commentary keeps Chronicles alive amidst a population who would not miss the text if it were dead. McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 333. See Christian Smith with Melinda Lundquist Denton, Soul Searching: The Religious and Spiritual Lives of American Teenagers (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005). 17 Smith, Soul Searching, 170. 18 Smith, Soul Searching, 169. 19 Smith, Soul Searching, 163. 20 Smith, Soul Searching, 164. 21 Smith, Soul Searching, 164. 15 16

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A wake is a celebration, a new celebration of mourning that opens into hope. The wake celebrates the eclipse of the one who is absent in her presence, that nonetheless opens and looks to the future presence of the one now past. A wake is the trace of the boat that speeds in front of us that calls us to follow before it dissipates. We follow onward into future commentaries so that additional comments might be made, elicited by, even as they create, the Book of Chronicles.

OF REWRITTEN BIBLES, ARCHAEOLOGY, PEACE, KINGS, AND CHRONICLES1 GARY N. KNOPPERS

THE PENNSYLVANIA STATE UNIVERSITY, UNIVERSITY PARK, PA I would like to begin my presentation by thanking the organizers of this special session of the Chronicles-Ezra-Nehemiah section, especially the chair—Melody Knowles—for devoting this focused attention to the recently published Chronicles commentaries authored by yours truly and Steven McKenzie. 2 I am truly honored by the careful, nuanced, gracious, and insightful readings of my work by the four critics participating in this special session. 3 As will become clear in what follows, I have learned much from their well-considered reflections and judicious comments. More broadly speaking, I would like to add that the participants in the Society of Biblical Literature’s Chronicles-Ezra-Nehemiah section have been a real source of support to me as I developed the research for this commentary. Their criticisms have been helpful, wonderfully diverse, and consistently constructive. Over the ten years or so that it took to develop this commentary, we have agreed, disagreed, and even on occasion felt resigned to agree to disagree. But throughout this period of many changes in the field of biblical studies, the Chronicles-Ezra-Nehemiah section has re1 This paper was originally delivered in the Chronicles-Ezra-Nehemiah Section of the Society of Biblical Literature on 20 November 2005. I have added footnotes for the convenience of readers. I wish to thank the editor of JHS, Professor Ehud Ben Zvi, for his kind generosity in publishing these proceedings of the SBL Chronicles-Ezra-Nehemiah Section. 2 Gary N. Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9 (AB 12; New York: Doubleday, 2004); idem, I Chronicles 10–29 (AB 12A; New York: Doubleday, 2004); Steven L McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles (AOTC; Nashville: Abingdon, 2004). 3 I also owe a debt of gratitude both to the editor of the Anchor Bible, David Noel Freedman, and to the staff of Doubleday, especially Andrew Corbin, for their meticulous work in editing my two volumes.

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mained a constant—a supportive and congenial context within which to carry out basic research. I am truly grateful for such constructive criticism. In what follows, I have found it useful to organize my responses to the observations, comments, and questions raised by Ehud Ben Zvi, John Wright, Klaus Baltzer, and Steven Schweitzer by topic, rather than by individual. I would give three reasons for this. First, some points were raised by more than one person. It is therefore convenient to respond to the observations in a single context. Second, some of the responses were rather detailed and involved. If I began my discussion, for instance, with the twenty-page response of Ehud Ben Zvi, a kind of magnum opus in its own right, I might never finish in the time allotted to me. Third, proceeding topically allows me to begin by talking about some general issues raised by the respondents before proceeding to more specific issues of interpretation. Given the substantive and detailed comments by our four panelists, I have tried to organize my response around five topics: 1. The Relationship of Chronicles to Ezra-Nehemiah 2. Chronicles: a “Rewritten Bible” or a New National Epic? 3. Archaeology, History, and Historicity 4. War and Peace, Chronicles Style 5. Active Genes: the Disputed Functions of the Davidic Genealogy

1.

THE RELATIONSHIP OF CHRONICLES TO EZRA-NEHEMIAH

Both Baltzer and Schweitzer raise the issue of the relationship between Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah, albeit in somewhat different ways. Baltzer asks about the process whereby the book of Ezra-Nehemiah was created out of essentially two different works: the narratives dealing with Ezra and the narratives dealing with Nehemiah. He asks: was Ezra was inserted into a book about Nehemiah or was Nehemiah was inserted into a book about Ezra? Schweitzer even inquires as to how precisely I view the development of Ezra-Nehemiah and its relationship to the editing of Chronicles. Looking at the testimony of 1 Esdras, the styles and characteristic language of the two books, the doublet in 2 Chr 36:22–23 and Ezra 1:1–3a, the issue of ideology, and the factor of compositional technique, I argue in my commentary for a fundamental separation between the two works: Chronicles on the one hand and Ezra-Nehemiah on the other hand. Although I think that Chronicles has some points of connection with Ezra and Nehemiah, I very much doubt that one individual is responsible for both works. It seems unlikely that the author(s) of the narrative portions of Ezra and Nehemiah was somehow also responsible for Chronicles. In this, I agree

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with the basic positions espoused by Sara Japhet, Hugh Williamson, and other recent commentators. Nevertheless, given the overlap between the ending of Chronicles and the beginning of Ezra, one is obliged to investigate the relationship between the two books. That is, we seem to be dealing with more than two literary complexes that have somehow been arbitrarily thrown together. My position is that certain elements in the description of the construction of the Second Temple, as portrayed in the early chapters of Ezra, have been modeled after the building of the First Temple as portrayed in Chronicles. 4 The editor responsible for the reshaping of the materials in Ezra depicting the early Persian period developed a series of ties between the two works by underscoring the restorative nature of the building activities pursued by the early leaders Zerubbabel and Jeshua. The editor alludes to a number of earlier writings to substantiate his case, but especially to certain texts in the Pentateuch and certain texts in Chronicles. 5 Perhaps this scribe lightly edited certain other parts of Ezra-Nehemiah, but the evidence for his activity can be most clearly be seen in the opening chapters of Ezra. This leaves open the question as to how the materials in EzraNehemiah were all brought together. The compositional history of the book of Ezra-Nehemiah is a complex, difficult, and extraordinarily fascinating issue. It is also an issue to which I would like to devote more attention in the years to come than I have been able to do in the past. As of yet, I have not settled on one particular theory of composition. In any case, if Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah are essentially two separate works written by different authors, it does not seem incumbent upon writers of commentaries on Chronicles to work out all of the compositional riddles in a work that they view as distinct from the Chronicler’s original work.

2.

CHRONICLES: A REWRITTEN BIBLE OR A NEW NATIONAL EPIC?

In his response to my work, Ben Zvi revisits the issue of whether Chronicles belongs to the category of rewritten Bible. He seems more than a little Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 75–80. In this context, I am in broad agreement with the position espoused by Williamson that the early chapters of Ezra (in my view Ezra 1–3; in his view Ezra 1–6) were edited with a view to certain interests evident in the compositional history of Chronicles (H. G. M. Williamson, “The Composition of Ezra i-vi,” JTS 34 [1983] 1–30; idem, Ezra, Nehemiah [WBC 16; Waco: Word, 1985], xxi-xxiv). I hesitate, however, to label this editor simply as “pro-Priestly,” as Williamson does, because the editor’s interests seem to be broader than the “pro-Priestly” rubric might suggest. 4 5

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troubled that I even “toy” with the theory and thus play a “dangerous game.” He writes, “Before too long, we will be flooded with references to Chronicles as ‘rewritten Bible’ and this will become a cherished piece of our ‘widely shared knowledge.’” I want to assure him that I did not invent the rewritten Bible theory out of whole cloth. I would love to be able to say that I was the first to entertain speaking of Chronicles in this connection, but many others beat me to it. Hence, in my introduction I was responding to a growing chorus of modern interpreters who had already found the rewritten Bible rubric a convenient one with which to categorize the Chronicler’s work. As I wrote in the introduction, I do not think that Chronicles belongs to the genre of rewritten Bible. In fact, I think that the very category of rewritten Bible is both anachronistic and problematic when applied to a Persian period literary work. To be sure, examining Chronicles in the larger context of earlier writings, such as Deuteronomy, and later writings, such as the Genesis Apocryphon, the Temple Scroll, the Reworked Pentateuch, the book of Jubilees, Josephus’ Jewish Antiquities, and Pseudo-Philo’s Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum (“Book of Biblical Antiquities”), serves some very useful purposes, because each of these writings reworks and rewites older literary works. Nevertheless, the application of the rubric “rewritten Bible” to Chronicles is anachronistic because there was no Bible as such in the time of the Chronicler. The use of the rubric is problematic, in part because scholars cannot agree on a precise definition of what a rewritten Bible is and in part because Chronicles, by virtue of its structure and unique content, does not fit the definitions of rewritten Bible that do exist. Chronicles is much more than an exegesis, paraphrase, and elaboration of earlier writings. I think that Ben Zvi and I are in essential agreement on this larger issue so I do not want to belabour this point any further. I do think, however, that I should clarify a few things that I said about viewing Chronicles as a kind of new national epic. Both Wright and Schweitzer helpfully spoke to this issue in their responses. In my view, Chronicles was composed not necessarily as a replacement of, but as an alternative to the Primary History (Genesis through Kings). In all likelihood, the Chronicler could not have replaced the Primary History even if he had wanted to do so. But he could create his own alternative to it. Allow me to provide one brief example. The very way in which the Chronicler’s work is structured, focusing on the era of the Davidic monarchy means that his work is distinctively centred around Jerusalem. 6 Jerusalem already ap6 See further P. C. Beentjes, “Jerusalem in the Book of Chronicles,” in The Centrality of Jerusalem (ed. M. Poorthuis and C. Safrai; Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1996), 15–

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pears a number of times in the genealogies of 1 Chronicles 1–9. All told, Jerusalem appears more often in Chronicles than it does in any other biblical book. By contrast, Jerusalem never appears explicitly by name in the entire Pentateuch. 7 Even in the Deuteronomistic History, Jerusalem appears as a relative latecomer in the long story of Israel’s emergence in the land. 8 The city is captured for good only after David has consolidated his rule over all of the tribes. But Chronicles is Jerusalem-centred practically from start to finish. In the international setting within which the author laboured in the late Persian or early Hellenistic era—a period in which Yahwists could be found residing in many lands—his depiction of the past redefines the very nature of Israelite identity to focus special attention on the important function of this site for all who affiliated themselves with the name of Israel. In this manner, the writer actively reacts to his own literary tradition and shapes his readers’ sense(s) of ethnic, religious, and national identity. One should not assume the course of later events in the Hasmonean and early Roman periods in which Jerusalem blossomed and became the destination of many pilgrimages from Judaeans residing in the diapora as inevitable or necessary phenomena. To explain such developments in later times, it seems likely that there had to be those literati in earlier times, such as the writers of Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah, who forcefully argued for the centrality of Jerusalem to the very character of Israelite identity. In my judgment, some commentators have been so interested in the extent to which the Chronicler was indebted to earlier writings that they have underestimated his literary and theological creativity. The Chronicler’s selective employment of mimesis suggests the value that he saw in a variety of older writings, yet his imaginative recontextualization, reinterpretation, rearrangement, and massive supplementation of select passages from within 28; N. Dennerlin, Die Bedeutung Jerusalems in den Chronikbüchern (BEATAJ 46; New York: Lang, 1999); M. J. Selman, “Jerusalem in Chronicles,” in Zion, City of Our God (ed. R. S. Hess and G. J. Wenham; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), 43–56; Isaac Kalimi, An Ancient Israelite Historian: Studies in the Chronicler, His Time, Place, and Writing (SSN 46; Assen: Royal Van Gorcum, 2005), 83–160. 7 Many think that the reference to Salem in Gen 14 is an allusion to Jerusalem. This may well be, but Jerusalem itself not explicitly mentioned. 8 The fact that Chronicles lacks systematic coverage of the period in which Israel emerged in the land (Joshua) and the period in which Israel struggled with its neighbours and with itself (Judges) plays an important role in shaping the focus of the larger work. That is, the narrative portions of the Chronicler’s work help to focus readers’ attention on what the ancient author deems to be the critical events and institutions that affected Israel’s development within the land.

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the Pentateuch, the Deuteronomistic History, the Prophets, and the Psalms all work together to create a distinctive new work. 9 One should not conclude that, because the Chronicler was indebted to a variety of antecedent writings, his work was essentially passive and derivative. The creation of a new national history is itself an active contribution to the author’s immediate community and to the larger world of Judaism of which the writer was a part. When I also spoke of the Chronicler justifying contemporary institutions, I may have inadvertently introduced some confusion into my discussion by not explaining my meaning clearly in context. When Chronicles describes certain kinds of temple staffing, such as the Priestly and Levitical courses, I think that the writer is describing Second Temple institutions, not necessarily First Temple institutions. In this respect, I see him as giving warrant to the existence of contemporary arrangements. Yet I would want to add that his particular configuration of these institutions may not have matched the realities of temple life in his own circumstances. In his response, Schweitzer raises the topic of utopian visions. In my judgment, the depiction of how King David implemented an elaborate system of Priestly and Levitical divisions may reflect an ideal of what such arrangements should be or should have been, rather than what those arrangements were in the author’s own times. Indeed, there may have been quite a gap between his ideal and the reality of temple hierarchies and rota as he knew them. In this respect, he was expressing his own views and perhaps attempting to influence the social and religious circumstances of his own age. Nevertheless, by positing the creation of these basic institutions in the last years of King David’s rule, the author justifies Second Temple institutions by recourse to their formation in a past classical age (the united monarchy). Rather than composing a work that would simply reflect the status quo, the Chronicler’s writing seeks to reflect upon and affect the status quo. Shaped by both the past and the present, the writer attempts to shape the future.

In this context, examining the Chronicler’s historical work would affect, if not change, the way people understood the Primary History. Known characters from the first work, such as David, Solomon, and Hezekiah, are presented in a new light. Such readings might lead interpreters to approach the way they understood the Primary History differently. By the same token, having reread Samuel-Kings, they might, in turn, also read Chronicles differently. See C. Mitchell, “The Dialogism of Chronicles,” in The Chronicler as Author: Studies in Text and Texture (ed. M. P. Graham and S. L. McKenzie; JSOTSup 263; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 311–26. 9

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ARCHAEOLOGY, HISTORY, AND HISTORICITY

In his response to my commentary, Ben Zvi raises the issue of “coherence with archaeological data as criteria for historicity.” 10 He correctly notes that I wish to distance Chronicles’ source criticism from the task of historical reconstruction. He also correctly observes that I see one of my tasks as a commentator to glean as “much knowledge as possible from the book for the reconstruction of the time of the composition of the book and for monarchic Judah” and that the witnesses of archaeology and epigraphy may help in this task. In their responses, Wright and Baltzer also noted this historical interest in my work. I should observe, however, that I do not view coherence with archaeological data as a criterion for historicity (at least in a narrow sense). In describing the Chronicler’s work as an example of ancient history writing, however theologically-loaded and complex from a literary vantage point, I am trying to make a form-critical assessment rather than a modern historical assessment. Hence, the literary categorization of the Chronicler’s work as a historical writing does not rise or fall depending on whether a particular king actually did (or did not) institute a public works campaign. In any case, since we are all in agreement that Chronicles can tell us something indirectly about the time in which this work was written, let me move on to the thornier issue of the possible relationship between the Chronicler’s portraits of the Judahite kings and the history of the southern Levant during the late Iron Age. I think that it is fair to say, in this context, that Ben Zvi is much more skeptical than I am about both the wisdom of and the profit to be gained from even entertaining such a question! He is especially suspicious of employing archaeology to evaluate the testimony of Chronicles about monarchic times. I think that this is an issue about which Ben Zvi and I will have to agree to disagree. I would concede that this is a very difficult area, especially since there is at best only a partial overlap between the matters with which archaeology and epigraphy deal and the matters with which our ancient texts deal. Yet the Chronicler’s work contains many claims about construction activities, building fortifications, wall fortifications, and military ventures during the course of the Judahite monarchy. In exhibiting such a keen in10 In making these remarks, Ben Zvi is also referring to my earlier treatment, “Historiography and History: The Royal Reforms,” in The Chronicler as Historian (ed. M. P. Graham et al.; JSOTSup 238; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press 1997), 178– 203 [Repr. in Israel’s Past in Present Research, ed. V. Philips Long (SBTS 7; Winona Lake, Ind: Eisenbrauns, 1999) 557–78]. Readers will also want to look at Ehud Ben Zvi’s article, “The Chronicler as Historian: Building Texts,” The Chronicler as Historian, 132–49.

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terest in geopolitical and structural reforms, Chronicles is broadly consistent with the interests of many ancient Near Eastern royal inscriptions and dedicatory texts. By contrast, the Deuteronomistic History contains little information about non-cultic activities for many Judahite monarchs until its depiction of the latter part of the eighth century. Much of the Deuteronomistic interest during the period of the dual monarchies is focused on the area of cult and on the story of the northern kingdom. 11 After portraying the fall of northern Israel, the authors of Kings start to devote more extensive attention to some of the later Judahite monarchs, especially Hezekiah and Josiah, than they had to earlier Judahite monarchs. We are left, then, with the unique testimony of Chronicles. Much of this information, one might argue, is typological. For example, good kings are usually builders, whereas bad kings are not. 12 But it still seems to me that at least some of us (by no means all of us) have an obligation to seek out how many of these claims, if any, cohere with the information available about the past gained through modern archaeology and epigraphy. 13 Admittedly, the latter methods also have their limitations, biases, and problems. As with literary studies, these disciplines are not static entities but are always subject to revision and change. But given the broader claims made by Chronicles about the past, I believe that it is helpful to potential readers to inquire how some of the stories about public works, building expansions, and wars correlate, if at all, with the literary and material remains that are relevant to the period in question. Even if such a basic correspondence proves to be accidental, the issue is still worth exploring. Incidentally, the other positions also have their problems. The position that no such correlations are possible, given the biased, late, or didactic nature of the Chronicler’s writing, the variant position that no such correlations exist, and the milder position that whatever correlations that do exist In this respect, it is the text of Kings, and not the text of Chronicles, that occasions surprise. The broad geo-political and military interests exhibited by the Chronicler in narrating the performance of Judahite monarchs overlap with the scribal interests evident in a variety of ancient Near Eastern royal texts. See Knoppers, “Historiography and History,” 178–203. Indeed, one could argue that this perceived lacuna in the narratives of the Deuteronomistic work was one of the many incentives for the Chronicler to write a new national epic. 12 P. Welten, Geschichte und Geschichtsdarstellung in den Chronikbüchern (Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1973), 42–78. 13 I am thinking, in this context, of commentators with historical interests. Clearly, scholars with other interests, who employ other approaches (e.g., textcritical, literary, theological), do not necessarily have to be concerned with matters of a historical, epigraphic, or archaeological nature. 11

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are insignificant, are all profoundly historical claims. In many respects, such generalizations are more sweeping and more positivistic than the approach which struggles with the issues on a case-by-case basis. The via negativa is, after all, still a via.

4.

WAR AND PEACE, CHRONICLES STYLE

Having touched upon, however briefly, the large issues of literary genre, archaeology, history, and historicity, it is now time to tackle relatively minor issues, such as the issues of war and peace. In his response, Schweitzer calls attention to the Chronicler’s reasoning for David’s disqualification as a temple builder (1 Chr 22:8, 28:3). He rightly observes that I conclude my discussion with the assertion that this ad hoc prohibition, based on David’s shedding of blood, should not be generalized to argue for a theology of pacifism in Chronicles. Schweitzer points out that “this is one of, if not the, major distinction[s] between the reign of David and the reign of Solomon.” By this, I take it that he means that even though both monarchs are esteemed highly in Chronicles, David is a man of war and Solomon is a man of peace. If this is so, which king is thought of more highly? In Schweitzer’s view, Solomon’s reign continues “what David had begun but adjusts, adapts, and exceeds the conditions associated with his illustrious father.” Thus, it is “the Solomonic kingdom that most fully typifies the hope for a better alternative reality in Chronicles,” not the Davidic-Solomonic kingdom as some sort of unified golden age. The complicated series of issues that Schweitzer raises would require an extensive, sustained treatment perhaps in a book-length monograph to do them all justice. As readers of my commentary on 1 Chronicles may be aware, I decided to delay any systematic attempt to deal with the Chronicler’s theology until after I had written the commentary to 2 Chronicles. Given the number of times I adjusted my positions and changed my views while working on 1 Chronicles, I thought and still do think that this was a sensible course to take. In brief, allow me to sketch my thoughts at the present time. 14 Schweitzer and I agree that the reign of Solomon is even more glorious than that of David and thus represents a highpoint in the Chronicler’s narration of the monarchy (1 Chr 29:25; 2 Chr 1:12). 15 The reign of ‫ שלמה‬is pre-eminently a time of ‫( שלום‬1 Chr 22:9, 18). In the story of Israel, as 14 Provisionally, see Knoppers, “Jerusalem at War in Chronicles,” in Zion, City of Our God (ed. R. S. Hess and G. J. Wenham; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), 57– 76. 15 What the work depicts as the particular accomplishments of each king repre-

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portrayed in Chronicles, this era of peace, rest, and divine blessing offers a stark contrast to the times of upheaval, unrest, and war that punctuate the reigns of many later Judahite kings and, for that matter, other eras in Israel’s past, as alluded to in the book (2 Chr 15:5–6). 16 Thus the text upholds a time of shalom as an ideal, rather than any time of conflict or war. That the text of Chronicles presents select portions of later reigns as times of peace, rest, and quiet in a very positive light confirms, in my view, that the book generally views such times as periods of divine blessing (e.g., 2 Chr 14:5–6; 20:30). So in sum, Chronicles upholds shalom as an ideal in the history of the Israelite people. However, whether one can go on from this observation to embrace the much stronger claim that Chronicles advocates a theology of pacificism or of quietism seems doubtful to me. One does not necessarily follow from the other. The reasons are numerous. Although there are some fascinating cases in which the divine plays a most prominent or even exclusive role in battle, as in the battle of Jehoshaphat against the eastern invaders (2 Chr 20:1–28) and the divine messenger’s massacre of Sennacherib’s forces (2 Chr 32:1–21), there are other cases in which the text seems to present Israelite involvement in wars as necessary, helpful, or inevitable. David’s reign may serve as one example. The Chronicler presents some of David’s campaigns and those of his generals as self-generated (e.g., 1 Chr 18:1–8, 12–13; 20:1–3), others as defensive (e.g., 14:8–17; 19:1–15), and yet others as simple facts (with no direct cause attributed; 20:5–8). In the case of the conquest of Jerusalem, both David and Joab play major roles and lead the offensive (1 Chr 11:4–9). Note in the latter case, the concluding editorial comment, “Yhwh Sebaoth was with him” (11:9//2 Sam 5:10). In short, the text seems to assume that conflicts and Israelite involvement in such conflicts are, at least in many cases, a fact of life. Looking at the reigns of David and Solomon in sequence, one might even come to the conclusion that it is David’s campaigns which make Solomon’s unusual time of peace possible. Indeed, David’s own speeches speak of his sacrifice, his shedding of blood, his many battles, and his selfdenial as working together to pave the way for the building of the temple in the era of unprecedented peace that is to characterize the reign of his divinely-chosen heir (1 Chr 22:14; 29:3–5, 17). This is one of David’s contributions to Israel’s legacy. Even though his shedding of blood prohibits David from building the promised sanctuary himself, his repeated successes sents a related but distinct issue. 16 Yet even the reign of this peaceable king includes at least one royal campaign (2 Chr 8:3)! Curiously, this foray finds no parallel in Kings.

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in battle place his successor in a most enviable position to take on the task with which God entrusted him. The concern with military matters is, of course, not a concern that is solely associated with the reign of David. 17 There are many cases in which Judahite monarchs construct fortresses, accumulate armaments, muster armies, repair defensive walls, and enjoy success against the enemy (e.g., 2 Chr 13:2–19; 14:7–14; 17:14–19; 26:9–15; 27:4; 32:5–6). Such activities almost always occur in the context of periods of divine blessing. 18 If the writer was a pacifist or a quietist, I am not sure whether he would uphold such public investments in military affairs as acts of piety or as indications of blessing from above. Finally, the Chronicler develops aspects of Solomon’s dedicatory prayer dealing with the prospect of military conflict in his depiction of the Judahite monarchy. One of Solomon’s seven petitions openly engages the prospect of military conflicts by beginning with the words: “When your people go forth into battle against their enemies along the way by which you sent them” (2 Chr 6:34//1 Kgs 8:44). In such a scenario, the people are to pray to Yhwh in the direction of Yhwh’s chosen city and the temple built by Solomon in the hope that Yhwh would uphold their cause (2 Chr 6:35//1 Kgs 8:45). Chronicles, much more so than Kings, develops the positive implications of Solomon’s seven petitions in its portrayal of the Judahite monarchy (2 Chr 7:12–16; cf. 1 Kgs 9:1–3). When some of Judah’s later kings (and their followers), such as Rehoboam (12:6–8), Abijah (2 Chr 13:4–12), Asa (2 Chr 14:10), and Jehoshaphat (2 Chr 20:5–13), humble themselves and cry out to God along the lines of Solomon’s prayer, he heeds their petitions and offers them some respite, if not outright victory. My point is that the writer of Chronicles, working perhaps in the context of the late Persian or early Hellenistic period, does not passively reproduce older ideas about divine involvement in sacral war. Far from it, he transforms older traditions and creates new ones. The Chronicler accords a new (or greater) importance to the divine promises made to Jerusalem and the house of God in Jerusalem when dealing with the prospect of military conflicts. The questions entertained in Chronistic texts do not seem to cenMy focus in this brief discussion is the story of the monarchy, but it is relevant that Chronicles also evinces interests in military matters in the anecdotes it provides about individual tribes (e.g., 1 Chr 4:40–42; 5:18–22; 7:4, 11). 18 By the same token, military defeat can signal divine involvement in the life of Israel in a negative way (e.g., 2 Chr 12:2–9; 15:6; 16:9). Such military divine action against the people, involving other nations and their armies, can even take the form of deportations from the land (1 Chr 5:25–26; 9:1; 2 Chr 6:36–39; 36:12–21). 17

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ter on whether Israelites should engage in or be involved in military conflagrations, but rather how they are to comport themselves in the case of such conflagrations. International conflicts are generally acknowledged as a fact of life. Divine activity in military theatres involves not only Yhwh fighting through his people, by himself, or through members of his divine council, but also acting in defense of the very temple and town that the text elsewhere affirms as central to the people’s identity.

5.

ACTIVE GENES: THE DISPUTED FUNCTIONS OF THE DAVIDIC GENEALOGY

The status of the Davidic descendants and the hopes that may or may not have been attached to them during the Persian and Hellenistic periods have been recurring interests among many scholars over the past few decades. The issues are complex and do not admit of any kind of easy resolution. In his comments, Ben Zvi revisits the long Davidic lineage in 1 Chronicles 3 and raises some questions about my interpretation of this material. He states that although I recognize the problems with messianic interpretations of the genealogy, my “own reconstruction is to some extent a variant of them.” Over against my claims about the Davidides’ continuing importance, Ben Zvi wonders whether the genealogy leads to an anti-climax or to seemingly nowhere. Or, to be more precise, he wonders whether the lineage is actually climactic in the sense of conveying a pragmatic sense of decline. If “the readership of Chronicles was supposed to understand the book as informing them that monarchic Judah led to disaster and that there was a slow but consistent tendency towards decline in its blessings …, then one may doubt if the genealogy was read by the intended readership, in the main, as a fountain of hope for the restoration of a Davidic king, since after all, these kings failed.” Perhaps it would be best if I respond to Ben Zvi’s point by discussing my treatment of the Davidic genealogy in the larger context of my treatment of the genealogies in 1 Chronicles 1–9. For many modern readers, these lineages are a sure-fire cure for insomnia. But I think that Wright, Baltzer, and Schweitzer all saw what I was attempting to do with the crosscultural comparisons I pursued. In examining the great assemblage of linear and segmented lineages in the first nine chapters of the book, I pointed to ancient Near Eastern and Classical analogues to the kinds of intense genealogical speculation one finds in Chronicles. The high regard of ancient Mediterranean elites for lineage was connected to the significance they attributed to pedigree and to the original ancestor in shaping the course of future generations. As I wrote, “In ancient Greece, prestige, status, even moral character might be derived from the original progenitor, preferably

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legendary, heroic, or divine.” 19 One’s identity was intimately tied to one’s roots, kinship ties, and social location. To have a genealogy was itself a mark of status, but most lineages attested from the ancient Mediterranean world are just a few generations in length. When one comes across the Davidic genealogy in Chronicles (1 Chr 3:1–24), one is immediately struck by its extensive nature and by its complexity in exhibiting both linear and segmented forms. Structurally, the Davidic lineage forms the centre-piece of the extensive lineages of Judah’s seed (1 Chr 2:3–4:23). Compared to the shallow depth of most ancient Near Eastern lineages, the great depth of the Davidic lineage is remarkable. Whether one counts David’s generations as twenty-six (MT) or thirty (LXX), the genealogy is the longest in the Hebrew Bible. If one were to count the earlier line of Hezron (2:10–17), which culminates in David and his sisters, one would have to add another eight generations to the total. Given the great care taken to compose such a lengthy and complex set of lineages, I hesitate to describe their function as conveying a pragmatic sense of decline. To be sure, such a reading is not impossible, but I find it difficult to believe that the great effort to put together such a literary work served primarily a negative purpose. It is true that the record of some of the later Judahite kings was not particularly glorious, Hezekiah and Josiah excepted, but one of the interesting aspects of the Davidic genealogies is that they continue for many generations beyond the Babylonian exile. In this, they may be distinguished from the important priestly lineage in 1 Chr 5:27–41, which ends with the Neo-Babylonian age. In any case, it is helpful to keep in mind that Chronicles democratizes the blame both for Judah’s decline and for northern Israel’s earlier decline (2 Chr 30:6–9; cf. 1 Chr 5:25–26). If the Deuteronomistic work places great blame on the sins of Manasseh, the Chronistic work blames priests, people, and royalty alike for the Judahite exile (2 Chr 36:12–16; cf. 1 Chr 9:1). Hence, I think that it is too strong a claim to say that readers of the Davidic genealogy in the late Persian or early Hellenistic period would read the names of the latter Judahite kings and inevitably think both of continuity and of drastic discontinuity with a glorious past. 20 Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 250–51. As I note in my commentary, the genealogy’s structure belies a preoccupation with the events and crises identified by many interpreters as the most significant in Jerusalem’s history: the conquest of the city by David and his forces, the division (ca. 931 BCE), the invasion of Sennacherib (701 BCE), the Babylonian invasion (598 BCE), the Babylonian exile (586 BCE), and the first return (538 BCE). The Davidic lineage “underscores an unbroken succession in spite of the vicissitudes of history” (Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 334). 19 20

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Given the ancient Near Eastern and Classical analogues to the genealogical interests evident in 1 Chronicles 3, I gave credence in my commentary to a variety of explanations for the great length and depth of the Davidic interest in Chronicles: royalism, dynastic continuity, the ongoing concern with the Davidic line in the postexilic period, messianism, and the need to document pedigree. 21 In examining the possible functions of this long history of generations, I was thus attempting to do justice to what Ben Zvi has elsewhere aptly called the “sense of proportion” in the Chronistic writing. 22 When I spoke of von Rad perhaps being close to the mark “in intimating that the whole point of abiding interest in David is to keep the Davidic tradition alive in hope of such a restoration at a later time,” I was thinking of three features of this genealogy. 23 The first is its sheer length into the fifth (MT) or fourth century (LXX). Such continuity established the vitality of the Davidic line. The second is that this genealogy traces an ongoing succession within the Davidic family throughout the generations. This is remarkable, because the concern to trace a succession continues even after the Babylonian deportations when (presumably) the Davidic line was out of power. 24 The third feature was the effect the very creation of such a text might have had on some ancient elite readers, who had an interest in the Davidic line. 25 Looking at such a case of documented continuity in the present back into the ancient past, the supporters of the Davidic family were “always free to hope for a restoration to power.” 26 “My purpose in what follows is not to refute all of these particular views. Quite the contrary, each contains a measure of truth” (Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 333). 22 E. Ben Zvi, “A Sense of Proportion: An Aspect of the Theology of the Chronicler,” SJOT 9 (1995): 37–51. 23 Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 333. 24 During the early Persian period, it is quite possible that some of the early Judaean governors attested in the biblical sources (e.g., Sheshbazzar, Zerubbabel) had connections to the Davidic line. That does not seem to be the case with the later Persian period governors of Yehud. Given this historical reality, it becomes all the more significant that the genealogist traces continuity in the Davidic line for a succession of later generations. 25 Absent a state governmental apparatus to support the Davidides directly, the supporters of the Davidic line may have found it necessary to bolster their claims and interests by other means. To put matters somewhat differently, one incentive to compose a genealogy and maintain a succession within this lineage may have been the absence of political authority, rather than the possession of it. 26 Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 335. 21

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Ben Zvi makes an insightful observation when he writes that “the lineage of David may also be read as reflecting a status quo in which Davidides need not play their ‘traditional’ role in the present for the community to be pious and lead its life in accordance to YHWH’s will.” This point is welltaken, because the community in Yehud did not need a Davidic king simply to be obedient to God. One of the things the Chronicler’s work shows is the resiliency of the Israelite people and its relationship to God in all sorts of different circumstances. Nevertheless, I would want to counter one aspect of Ben Zvi’s observations by stating that the temple itself may well have been understood differently by different Judaeans. For some people in Yehud, the Jerusalem sanctuary may have represented not so much the fulfillment of the Davidic promises as one important aspect of their present embodiment. In other words, while some Judaeans may have regarded the Second Temple as representing in some way the culmination of the Davidic hopes, others may have regarded the Second Temple as the present carrier of the Davidic hopes. For the Judaeans within the second group, the temple was the major institution which, aside from the Davidic family itself, sustained restoration hopes into the future. Both groups in Yehud may have shared concerns for education and proper worship, but differed on political issues. One group may have been satisfied with maintaining the provincial status quo, while others may have aspired to a more independent political status, one that hearkened back to the Davidic monarchy of old.

CONCLUDING COMMENTS I would like to thank the four scholars again for their insightful observations and many useful suggestions. Their work has inspired me to begin work on the 2 Chronicles commentary in earnest.

RECENT CHRONICLES COMMENTARIES: A RESPONSE STEVEN L. MCKENZIE

RHODES COLLEGE, MEMPHIS TN It is indeed an honor to have my work chosen for recognition in this special session and to appear with this distinguished panel. I am grateful to my colleagues on the panel for their insightful critiques. Most of all, I would like to thank them for the positive and constructive spirit of their reviews. It has been my privilege for many years to be associated with the Chronicles-EzraNehemiah program unit in its various incarnations at the Society of Biblical Literature. I have always found it to be a particularly cordial group of scholars, and I am pleased to be a part of it and to have a leading role in this session. I would also like to mention a special word of thanks to my fellow commentator, Gary Knoppers. One of the reviewers wondered how long Gary must have worked to produce the extremely high quality work that his 1 Chronicles commentary in the Anchor Bible series represents. I can attest to the fact that Gary spent at least the better part of a decade on this commentary. He had completed the manuscript of his commentary and submitted it to the publisher before I began writing mine. Aware of the quality of Gary’s work in general, I wanted to be sure to consult it when it came out. Through no fault of his, however, production of the manuscript was delayed in press. Yet Gary was gracious and generous enough to send me his entire manuscript, which was very helpful to me in my own project. When the chair of the Chronicles-Ezra-Nehemiah section, Melody Knowles, invited me to participate in this session, she suggested that I focus my remarks on the experience of writing a commentary. Since my commentary is on both 1–2 Chronicles and therefore, unlike Gary’s 1 Chronicles volume, is beyond revision or, borrowing John Wright’s analogy, post mortem, I am happy to reflect on my experience rather than reconsider positions I have taken with an eye toward future improvement. It happens that doing 437

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so will also address in some fashion most of the comments about the book made by my fellow panelists. There are, however, a few matters which they have raised that I would like to address more directly first. Ehud Ben Zvi has raised the question of whether the building of the temple in Chronicles is Solomon’s “destiny” according to Yahweh’s plan or whether it is a reward for Solomon’s faithfulness. He is quite right that logically it cannot be both. But I would suggest that Chronicles in fact presents both perspectives and that each is an important dimension of its theology. Yahweh is in control and has a plan for his people. At the same time, Yahweh rewards righteous behavior. The tension Ben Zvi observes between these two ideas in Solomon’s case is a logical tension not a theological one. Such a tension is no less troublesome than the ideas of divine transcendence and imminence or divine omniscience and human free will balanced by modern faith communities and their members. Prof. Baltzer, if I understand him, has suggested that the Chronicler stands closer to 2nd Isaiah than to the Deuteronomistic Historian in democratizing the Davidic promise rather than placing hope in a restoration of the Davidic monarchy. I am not convinced that this is the case but am open to hearing his further thoughts on the matter and the reasons that he has come to this conclusion. Dr. Schweitzer has raised the question of the genre of Chronicles, and the other panelists have highlighted this same question less directly. Dr. Schweitzer observes that the conclusion I reached in my discussion of genre (“a theological rewriting of Bible history for instructional purposes,” p. 34) is a description of function and purpose rather than a genre category. He is quite correct in this criticism. In fact, I am uncertain how to classify Chronicles generically. If pressed, I would probably want to call it history writing. However, I am not entirely comfortable with that designation because it seems to me that Chronicles evinces a much more didactic interest than the Deuteronomistic History. At the same time, while I agree with Dr. Schweitzer that the Chronicler is an innovative author, I might return the question to him, pointing out that “innovation” is not a genre designation. Moreover, there is such precedent in the Pentateuch and Deuteronomistic History for works very much like Chronicles in certain respects that I would be most hesitant to regard the latter as sui generis. Dr. Schweitzer also asks what evidence I would adduce for the view that the Chronicler wrote to legitimate the present and maintain the status quo rather than constructing a utopian future. The principal evidence to which I would point lies in the genealogies in 1 Chronicles 1–9 and the lists of Levites and gatekeepers in 1 Chronicles 22–29. In both cases, it seems clear that the Chronicler is working primarily with materials available to him

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that bring the names down to his day. It is difficult to believe that the rotations the Chronicler describes are the result of a utopian imagination. A particularly good example is the assignment of the singers in 1 Chr 25:8–31. The artificial nature of the list has long been noted; its regularity makes it extremely unlikely that it was generated by lot, as Chronicles claims. Rather, the list reflects a duty roster, the configuration of which the Chronicler explains and legitimates by means of a contrived lottery. That having been said, I see no reason why this process of legitimation necessarily precludes the possibility that the Chronicler also attempts to construct a utopian future. The orders and rotation of Levitical personnel may well be a component of the Chronicler’s vision of the ideal future. I would now like to turn to the topic that Melody Knowles initially asked me to discuss—my experience in writing a commentary. I should say, first of all, that this was the first commentary I had ever written. I was drawn to the project and ultimately agreed to accept the invitation to write because of the opportunity it afforded me to become more familiar with the “big picture” of Chronicles studies—both the biblical literature itself and the critical issues raised by scholars. My previous work with Chronicles had tended to focus on specific texts, and I was pleased to be able to consider the work in toto. When I received Knowles’ invitation, I dug up the prospectus of the series to which I was invited to contribute, the Abingdon Old Testament Commentary. I share portions of that prospectus with you now as a way of explaining certain features of my volume noted by the panelists. First and foremost, the AOTC was described as “a commentary that knows it is a textbook.” This point was emphasized in a letter sent to me by one of the series editors after I accepted the invitation to write. While the prospectus did state that the commentary should be useful for upper-level college students, pastors, and other local church leaders, it stressed that the primary audience of the series was seminary students. Thus, the first paragraph of the prospectus contains the following sentences: In addition to providing fundamental information and insights into the Old Testament writings, these commentaries will exemplify the tasks and procedures of careful, critical exegesis, so as to assist students of the Old Testament in coming to an informed and critical engagement with the biblical texts themselves. These commentaries are written with special attention to the needs and interests of theological students …

The structure of the commentary was fairly rigid, and I was admonished that it was imperative for contributors to adhere to the guidelines in the prospectus. Each volume was to consist of four parts: (1) an introduction with subdivisions dealing with key issues raised by the biblical writing,

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its literary genre, structure, and character, and its social and historical context; (2) the commentary on the text, organized by literary units rather than verse-by-verse; (3) an annotated bibliography; and (4) a subject index. The meat of the work, the commentary on each literary unit, was to be further subdivided into three sections: (a) “literary analysis,” discussing the genre of each unit, its most important stylistic features, and its overall structure; (b) “exegetical analysis,” considering the aim of the unit, its leading concepts, and its problematic words and phrases, in the light of the background of the historical, social, and cultural context of the book’s author and audience; and (c) “theological and ethical analysis,” clarifying the theological and ethical matters with which the unit deals or to which it points; this section, “though not aimed primarily at contemporary issues of faith and life, should provide readers with a basis for reflection on them.” This review of the series prospectus may help to account for some of the peculiarities of the approach and terminology (e.g., what is meant by “literary analysis”) noted especially by Prof. Ben Zvi. It may also help to explain why I refer to the Chronicler as the “actual” author of the work. Ben Zvi’s preference for the idea of an “implied author” may be useful on a theoretical level, but is less practical in a commentary of this nature, which is geared toward a broad audience and focused on the original context of a biblical book. The advantage that I found to such a structured program is that it helped me to organize my analysis and to make my approach to and aims in analyzing the text clear and direct. The disadvantage was the limitation that it imposed on analysis, and, even more problematic for me, the assignment to find something in each of the three categories in each unit. To be more specific, while I found the guidelines for the literary and exegetical analyses to be helpful and easy to implement, I often struggled to find something of a theological or ethical nature in a given unit that would provide a basis for reflection by a modern reader. I recognize that my difficulties with the “theological analysis” stemmed at least in part from my own setting—my training in and preference for historical criticism (though I hasten to point out that the guidelines in the prospectus specified an approach that was basically historical-critical in orientation) and the fact that I teach in a liberal arts college rather than a seminary. My experience in this regard, however, left me with some misgivings about the audience for whom I was writing and the value of the project as envisioned by the series editors. There was one incident in particular that raised these misgivings. About a year after I agreed to write the commentary, I received a letter from one of the series editors asking for a sample of the work in progress. I

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sent a draft of the section on 1 Chronicles 10–21. Several months later I received the editors’ response. While they were happy with the level of writing and overall discussion in the work, there were two complaints. The first was that I had transliterated Hebrew, thinking that I could presuppose some rudimentary acquaintance with the language on the part of seminary students. I was told that this was not the case and that the audience was broader than seminary students. Second, the editors thought that I spent too much time discussing Chronicles’ relationship to its Deuteronomistic Vorlage and not enough time fleshing out its theological points. I was told that I should treat Chronicles as though Samuel-Kings did not exist, just as I would treat Samuel-Kings as though Chronicles did not exist. This response left me wondering about the quality of seminary training if students are interested only in being told the modern theological relevance of the Bible’s contents but not in acquiring the tools to ferret out its message on their own. I was also bewildered by the instructions to treat Chronicles in complete isolation from its Vorlage. I responded to the editors that I could not in good conscience treat Chronicles without taking its Vorlage into consideration, that indeed, the fact Chronicles exists along with Samuel-Kings offers, in my view, a unique insight into how a biblical writer made use of sources. I argued that the existence of Samuel-Kings furnishes a control that actually affords a more precise understanding of the Chronicler’s theological perspective. I therefore informed the editors that I was willing to step aside if they wished to appoint another author for Chronicles—one who could ignore the source question. They assured me that they had overstated the case and that they merely wanted greater sensitivity to Chronicles’ integrity as an independent work. Obviously, the project continued to publication. I do not wish to leave the impression that the experience was a negative one. Quite the contrary, I learned a great deal as a result of it—about Chronicles and a good deal more—and all things considered, I am glad to have had the experience, despite the bumps along the way. I wish to reiterate my thanks to Melody Knowles and the ChroniclesEzra-Nehemiah Section steering committee for the invitation to participate in this session and for the honor so bestowed on my work, and to my colleagues on the panel for their thoughtful critiques.

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Walter Brueggemann, WORSHIP IN ANCIENT ISRAEL: AN ESSENTIAL GUIDE (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2005), 104 pp. Paperback. US $14.00, CAN $19.99. ISBN 0-687-34336-4. Reviewed by Brian P. Irwin Knox College Toronto School of Theology This volume is the latest offering in a series from Abingdon Press designed to introduce selected topics in Biblical studies to a student audience. In keeping with this aim, the volume is short and the writing clear and engaging. References to secondary literature are kept to a minimum and are presented as endnotes. Also included is an index of references to the Bible and Apocrypha. Readers looking to this work for a treatment of Israelite religion of the kind produced by Niditch, Smith, or de Vaux (Niditch, Susan. Ancient Israelite Religion. New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 1997; Smith, Mark S. The Early History of God: Yahweh and the Other Deities in Ancient Israel. Biblical Resource Series. 2nd ed. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2002; de Vaux, Roland. Ancient Israel. Vol. 2: Religious Institutions. New York, NY: McGraw-Hill, 1965.) will be disappointed. Brueggemann’s interest lies not in examining the institutional, Canaanite or broader ancient Near Eastern context of Israelite religion, but in highlighting some themes and characteristics within Israelite worship. As a result, the work is more theological than it is historical or reconstructive. Brueggemann begins with a chapter entitled, “Orthodox Yahwism in Dialogic Modes” in which he notes briefly the influence that Egyptian, Mesopotamian and Canaanite culture had on Israelite development and the variegated religion that resulted. From these various traditions, however, Brueggemann emphasizes themes that stand out as pervasive and even normative. Israel’s worship, he argues, “is to be understood as a practice of covenant” that enables a “dialogic interaction in which both parties are fully present, both parties are to some extent defined by the other, and both parties are put to some extent at risk by the transaction” (pp. 8–9). For Israel then, worship is not a reflection on a relationship that is static, but on one that is being ever redefined.

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The emphasis on worship as “dialogic interaction” shapes the subsequent chapters of Brueggemann’s work. In chapter two, he examines, “The Gestures of Worship and Sacrifice” and argues that in Old Testament worship, “emphasis is much more on the thing done than upon the meaning of the thing done” (p. 11). What ensues is an examination of the various contexts in which the Israelite festivals and sacrifices are presented. In both cases, the author emphasises that it is the act itself and not the meaning associated with it that is primary. In support of this contention, Brueggemann observes that in the Old Testament, nothing is said that explains the act of sacrifice. From this he argues for sacrifice as a communal act that “leaves the meaning and intent of the act quite open” (p. 22). This, however, is an argument from silence. The absence of comment on the meaning of sacrifice might just as easily be an indication that its essential meaning was widely understood and so required no formal explanation. In chapter three, “The Utterance of YHWH in Worship”, the author characterizes the god of Israel as one who “commands, guides, and assures” (p. 26) through both Torah and prophetic oracles. The following chapter treats “The Utterance of Israel in Worship” and touches upon various psalm-types as the primary means by which Israel expressed both its thanks and exasperation to its God. In his concluding chapter, “Worship: Israel at ‘Play’”, Brueggemann examines what he describes as “seven dimensions of indeterminacy that operate in Israel’s worship” (p. 63) that testify to the freedom and ambiguity that existed in the covenantal relationship that connected Israel with its god. Here, for example, the idea of obedience to Yahweh alone is set over against the freedom that Israel had to protest or complain about Yahweh’s acts. While most of the points of indeterminacy Brueggemann identifies highlight reasonable instances of tension in the covenant relationship, some are less clear. It is not immediately obvious, for example, why holiness should be set over against justice (p. 65–67). In light of the author’s declared intent to produce a work that is in “service of current theological and practical issues concerning the worship of the church in its ecumenical character” (p. 1), one wonders if here he is not so much analyzing a tension in the tradition so much as he is reading the biblical material in light of the current tension in the United States between fundamentalist and mainstream Christianity. With its characterization of Israelite worship as a “dialogic interaction” between God and Israel in which both parties are challenged, redefined, and changed, this work comes across more as a programmatic essay providing a theological foundation for the ecumenical enterprise than it does as an “essential guide” to worship in ancient Israel. For the treatment that it offers of the Israelite cultic calendar, Torah, prophetic oracles, or psalm types,

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students will be better served by consulting other monographs or the relevant articles in a source such as the Anchor Bible Dictionary. As a basic introduction to Israelite religion and worship, then, this latest volume in the Essential Guide series misses the mark. Its true value lies elsewhere—as an extended theological reflection that sees in Israel’s relationship with God elements that might be helpful for Christians as they wrestle with the issue of ecumenism in the contemporary context.

Jacob Milgrom, LEVITICUS: A BOOK OF RITUAL AND ETHICS (Continental Commentary; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2004), xx + 388 pp. Cloth. US $30.00, CAN $40.50. ISBN 0-8006-9514-3. Reviewed by William K. Gilders Emory University I must confess to some puzzlement at this new addition to the Continental Commentary series, which I had assumed was focused on providing English translations of commentaries produced by European scholars. With the addition to the series of a work written in English by an American-Israeli scholar it appears that the character of the series has changed. While puzzled, I am not disappointed that this concise, well-organized, and readable commentary has been made available in this series. Readers already familiar with Jacob Milgrom’s scholarship will find little in this volume that is truly new, but should nevertheless be most appreciative of the ready access it provides to his exegesis of Leviticus and his interpretation of Priestly religion. Following an introduction, in which he establishes the emphasis of his commentary on values and ethics, discusses the structure of Leviticus, and provides an overview of the Priestly theology of Leviticus 1–16, Milgrom works sequentially through Leviticus. For the most part, each chapter of Leviticus is treated in one chapter of commentary. However, Leviticus 5 is treated in three chapters of commentary and Leviticus 6–7 are treated together in one. Sub-units of Leviticus are introduced with brief preliminary discussions: Leviticus 1–7 (“The Sacrificial System,” 17–20); 8–10 (“The Inauguration of the Tabernacle Service,” 77); 11–16 (“The Impurity Sys-

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tem,” 101); 17–27 (“The Holiness Source [H],” 175–83). At the end of the volume there is a useful Glossary (335–36), bibliography, and three indices. Each commentary chapter except the last includes a section of “Selected Texts,” in which Milgrom discusses textual content requiring elucidation. Most chapters also include “Selected Theme(s),” which usually stand prior to the discussion of “Selected Texts.” Milgrom suggests that the “Selected Theme(s)” for each chapter should be given primary attention, as they function to highlight “some of the chapter’s important values” (xiii). As Milgrom indicates, this work is a supplement to his three-volume Anchor Bible (AB) magnum opus (xiii). For those with a special scholarly interest in Leviticus and Priestly religion, it will not replace the AB commentary. However, it will serve well as a collection of “abstracts” to that more elaborate discussion, a starting point to engagement with Milgrom’s scholarship. For those with less specialized interests, the commentary will serve as a valuable point of access to Milgrom’s work. This commentary is clearly designed to be of interest to religious professionals—Jewish and Christian clergy and religious educators. Milgrom has not written a commentary that leaves Leviticus in its ancient Israelite context. Instead, he emphasizes the importance and relevance of the book for present-day readers. According to Milgrom, Leviticus, “so long thought to be esoteric and irrelevant, will turn out to be an old-new guide toward achieving quality life” (xiii). Thus, several of the “Selected Themes” are oriented to present-day concerns. For example, we find a section titled, “Jubilee: A Rallying Cry for Today’s Oppressed” (311–12) that connects Leviticus’ Jubilee (Leviticus 25) with “Third World” debt-relief. In this work, Milgrom approaches Leviticus and Priestly religion from the same basic theoretical perspective as in his AB commentary and other publications. He follows a still-influential—but not unproblematic— approach to ritual that sees it as a vehicle for preserving and transmitting a culture’s “basic values” (xiii). Throughout the commentary, Milgrom refers to the symbolic significance of ritual actions and the ethical values communicated through that symbolism. According to Milgrom, “biblical rituals are symbolic acts that, in the main, contain within them ethical values” (30). Milgrom frequently—and characteristically—employs the word “system” in a strong sense when discussing Priestly legislation. In explaining this emphasis, Milgrom appeals to the metaphor of a forest and its trees: “one cannot understand the trees without encompassing the forest” (xii). Thus, Milgrom offers an approach to Priestly religion that seeks to identify the conceptual unity that holds together diverse rules and practices, an approach that eschews close attention to gaps and lacunae in our understanding of Priestly ritual and religious ideology. According to Milgrom, not only

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can the whole be interpreted as making coherent sense, but this coherent sense is what the Priestly authors themselves intended. Milgrom equates—problematically in my view—Priestly and “Israelite” religion (e.g., 133), and sharply distinguish this Priestly Israelite religious ideology from other, clearly inferior, forms of religion. Thus, according to Milgrom, “there is no animism in the Bible” in contrast to that found in “primitive religion” (107). In his discussion of “scale disease” (Leviticus 13) and the possible concern with contagion, Milgrom’s discussion takes on a somewhat apologetic cast. According to Milgrom, fear of contagion is “irrational,” and Israelite (that is, Priestly) law could not have been based on such irrational fear (128). In sum, all of the strengths and all of the weaknesses of Milgrom’s contribution to the interpretation of Leviticus and Priestly religion are present in this volume. Its clarity and accessibility make it a most valuable resource for anyone who wishes to engage with Jacob Milgrom’s important scholarly contributions.

S. A. Nigosian, FROM ANCIENT WRITINGS TO SACRED TEXTS: THE OLD TESTAMENT AND APOCRYPHA (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins Press, 2004), xvi + 270 pp. Paperback. US $18.95. ISBN 0-8018-7990-6. Reviewed by John Kaltner Rhodes College Memphis, TN S. A. Nigosian acknowledges at the outset that he has not written a commentary, theological study, or history of Israel. Rather, a guiding premise of his book is that the “the Bible is deeply connected with nonbiblical traditions” (xiv), and the primary task he sets for himself is to identify and explore those connections. The work is therefore best understood as an attempt to read and interpret the biblical material in light of its wider literary and cultural context. The five main chapters of the book divide the material under discussion into familiar categories based on content or genre: Pentateuch, history, poetry and wisdom, prophets, and apocrypha. These are preceded by an opening chapter that presents a clear and well-written treatment of impor-

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tant background information on the invention of writing, translations of the Hebrew text, and the development of the canon. This section is a useful overview that addresses key issues of the development of the Hebrew Bible without being too technical or theoretical. In other words, it is the sort of thing that will help students who are beginning academic study of the Bible orient themselves to the field. The book’s final chapter, titled “Biblical Authors, Editors, and Scholars,” seems somewhat out of place and would more appropriately be located at the beginning. Here Nigosian treats a number of topics that would be useful for the reader to know prior to the discussions of the various sections of the Bible. Why wait until the end of the book to introduce information on ancient Near Eastern topography, geography, and history? Wouldn’t it be more helpful if the reader knew from the outset how and when scholars tend to date biblical texts? These matters are mentioned and alluded to throughout the course of the five central chapters, so the decision to discuss them more fully at the end is an odd one. Although he tends to paraphrase biblical texts a bit too much in places, Nigosian provides some very fine analysis and fresh insights throughout the book. The section on the biblical legal codes is quite well done; here and elsewhere he is conversant with the various views put forward by scholars and the consensus positions that have been reached. The material on Isaiah is particularly well presented and it serves as a model example of why attention to context is essential when studying the Bible. Similarly, the analysis of the book of Esther demonstrates how awareness of the differences among the textual traditions can raise important questions and open up new ways of thinking about how the Bible has come down to us. Another strong component of the book is the chapter on the apocrypha, which offers brief overviews of works to which most readers will have had very little prior exposure. Strangely, though, Nigosian here abandons the approach he adopts throughout the rest of the book and does not discuss this material in light of similar literature found elsewhere in the ancient Near East. It is this consideration of the extra-biblical literature that is at the heart of Nigosian’s enterprise, and the overall impression it leaves on the reader is a mixed one despite his concluding assessment. “We have demonstrated that the authors of the Old Testament and the Apocrypha (or Deuterocanon) borrowed from the neighboring civilizations of the ancient Near East.” (214) This statement is true in some cases, but certainly not in all. Nigosian is on the firmest ground when he considers those ancient Near Eastern texts that have long been recognized by scholars as somehow cognate to the Bible, like Enuma Elish and the Babylonian flood stories. But

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when he ventures farther beyond the “canon” of that literature, his position is often less tenable. For example, it is not really the case that the account of Joshua’s conquest in Josh 12:7–24 parallels the inscription describing Merneptah’s defeat of his enemies on his famous stele (74–75). Similarly, the comment that the tales of Samson’s powerful acts can be related to the adventures of Gilgamesh and Enkidu in Babylonian literature can give the false impression that there is more connecting them than simply the presence of superhuman strength, a feature found in all kinds of stories from many different times and places (86). It is the same thing with Nigosian’s attempt to see a parallel between the account of David’s defeat of Goliath and the Egyptian story in which Sinuhe describes how he kills an Asian enemy (93–94). Elsewhere, Nigosian makes a more compelling case for the possibility that the biblical writers borrowed from their neighbors, but those just mentioned, and others like them, appear to be examples of shared use of standard conventions or features rather than outright copying. Even in those places where the connections seem questionable or not as certain as others, this book is valuable because it reminds the reader to always keep in mind the question of context. As the title suggests, the category “Bible” is the result of a complicated process that led down many roads. Nigosian’s work can assist us in trying to reconstruct part of that journey.

Elie Assis, SELF-INTEREST OR COMMUNAL INTEREST: AN IDEOLOGY OF LEADERSHIP IN THE GIDEON, ABIMELECH AND JEPHTHAH NARRATIVES (Judg 6–12) (Vetus Testamentum Supplements, 106; Leiden/Boston: Brill Academic Publishers, 2005), xiv + 263 pp. Cloth. €89,00, US $127.00. ISBN 90-04-14354-8. Reviewed by Gord Oeste Wycliffe College Questions about who should lead and the kind of leadership qualities necessary for effective leadership were key issues in ancient Israel. Elie Assis explores these questions via the narrative portrayal of three leaders in the book of Judges. He utilizes the tools of narrative analysis in order to ascer-

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tain the ideology of Judges 6–12. In accord with his synchronic approach, Assis notes that the presence of repetition or contradiction in an account has often been viewed as a sign of redactional or editorial shaping. He suggests that such narrative incongruities can often be explained at a literary level rather than at the level of textual composition (p. 5). The stories of Gideon, Abimelech and Jephthah then comprise subsequent chapters in which Assis explores this hypothesis with varying degrees of success. In his chapter covering Judges 6–8, Assis challenges the view that the name “Jerubbaal” is secondary to Judges 6–9 and 6:25–32 in particular. Assis suggests that use of the name “Jerubbaal” (“let Baal contend”) signals a Baalistic point of view in the story that doubts the power of Yahweh and here expresses the hope of the Baalists of Ophrah that Gideon would receive retribution for his destruction of Baal’s altar. On the other hand, Assis suggests that the name “Gideon” (from the root meaning “to cut down”) reflects a pro-Yahwistic orientation, expressed in the first part of the passage by Gideon’s cutting down of the altar of Baal. This clash of perspectives leads Assis to conclude, “the name ‘Jerubbaal’ reflects the Baalists’ hope that Gideon will lose his war against the Midianites as revenge for his attack on Baal” (p. 50). However, in the logic of the text, Gideon has not yet accepted the mantle of deliverer nor are the residents of Ophrah even aware of Gideon’s immanent battle against Midian, so it is not clear how “Jerubbaal” could here reflect the people’s viewpoint on the matter. His case could be more convincingly argued if this dialectic were attributed to the narrative’s proleptic perspective rather than the people’s unexplainable foresight. The strength of Assis’ interpretive model comes to the fore when he addresses a long-standing crux in the interpretation of the Abimelech narrative, i.e., the relationship between Jotham’s fable (Judges 9:7–15) and its application (Judges 9:16–20). Assis effectively shows how the fable’s critique focuses upon Abimelech and his eagerness to be king, while its application targets the Shechemites and their lack of faithfulness to Gideon. This change in “audience,” rarely noted by other interpreters, allows Assis to understand both passages as integral to the account while also acknowledging their differences. In line with most interpreters, Assis holds that Judges 9 characterizes Abimelech’s form of leadership in a uniformly negative manner (p. 247). However, the introductory framework of the book of Judges faults Israel for its failure to eliminate the Canaanite population along with their ensnaring deities (Judges 2:6–3:6). When viewed from this perspective, Abimelech’s razing of the temple of El/Baal-Berith and complete destruction of Shechem serves as a positive characterization (cf. Gideon’s destruction

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of the altar of Baal and the Asherah pole in Judges 6:25–27). Abimelech eradicates the locus of the worship of El and/or Baal-Berith and destroys the (presumably) Canaanite (cf. 9:27) inhabitants of this city. Thus, while Assis rightly shows how both positive and negative depictions function throughout the Gideon and Jephthah narratives, the characterization of Abimelech is much more ambiguous than Assis will admit. For Assis, these characterizations ultimately illustrate an ideology of leadership that values communal interest and derides self-interested leadership (p. 247). After exploring various monarchic and post-monarchic contexts for such an emphasis, Assis roots this ideology in the historical circumstances of the pro- and anti-monarchic debates of the pre-monarchic period. In support, Assis points out that the motif of the people’s decision in selecting a leader unites the three accounts; Judges 6–12 was therefore written for a public facing such a decision. Assis assumes that the people could only exercise such a choice between leaders in the pre-monarchic period (p. 245–246). However, the ability to choose between different leaders exists well past the advent of the monarchy. Rehoboam’s self-serving emphasis upon heavy taxation results in his rejection by the Northern tribes and in the choice of Jeroboam as king (1 Kings 12:16–20). Moreover, the people remain influential in the making of a king even up to the time of Josiah (2 Kings 21:24; cf. 2 Kings 11:14). Thus, Assis’ attempt to restrict these texts only to the pre-monarchic period based upon the ability to choose between different types of leaders lacks a solid foundation. Elie Assis reads with great literary sensitivity and attention to detail. His synchronic reading of Judges 6–12 illustrates how an ideology of leadership brings coherence and unity to these often-disparate narratives. Not all will agree, but all will find valuable stimulation.

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M. Christine Tetley, THE RECONSTRUCTED CHRONOLOGY OF THE DIVIDED KINGDOM (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2005), xiv + 194 pp. Cloth. US $39.50. ISBN 1-57506-072-8. Reviewed by Steven L. McKenzie Rhodes College Memphis, TN 38112 This volume, a revision of the author’s 2000 dissertation at the University of Melbourne, advances a new approach to and a new reconstruction of the chronology of Israel and Judah. The volume consists of nine chapters. The first provides an overview of the major issues involved in reconstructing the divided kingdom (DK) chronology. Here Tetley critiques “conventional approaches”—above all the work of Thiele—on four counts: (1) preference of the MT over the Greek chronology; (2) resort to various dating systems, including antedating, postdating, different calendars, and coregency; (3) reliance on the Assyrian Eponym Canon (AEC); and (4) making Menahem of Israel and Tiglath-Pileser III of Assyria contemporaries. The second chapter reviews the transmission history of and textual witnesses to the book of Kings. Tetley’s approach is unique in its reconstruction of chronology based primarily on that of the Greek witnesses, which Miller and Shenkel found to be superior in Kings to the MT’s. Chapter three surveys the chronological discrepancies between the MT/Kaige recension (KR) on the one hand and the OG/Lucianic (L) witnesses on the other. Tetley observes that these witnesses yield different totals for the length of the early DK (through the end of the Omri dynasty), when the figures for the two kingdoms and in the different witnesses should be the same. Likewise, while the witnesses agree on the length of the late DK of Judah (165 years), they give different totals for Israel. Tetley describes and further criticizes Thiele’s positing of different dating systems in the two kingdoms (as well as the mixing of the systems) and of coregencies as the means to explain these discrepancies. In chapter four Tetley focuses on the Lucianic manuscript c2, which frequently contains variant chronological data from those in the MT and the other L witnesses. Contrary to the common tendency to dismiss these

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variant data as artificial, Tetley concludes that c2 is a valuable witness to the L tradition in part because it is the only extant witness to “provide an internally consistent chronology for this period” (p. 63). Chapter five examines the regnal formulas. Tetley notes two types of closing formulas, one for all of the kings of Judah and those kings of Israel succeeded by a son, the other for assassinated kings of Israel who were not succeeded by a son. Because the first type predominates in OG/L, Tetley concludes that the second type is secondary. She also contends that the supplements that interrupt the direct transition from one king’s closing formula to the next king’s opening formula are additions. Tetley’s methodology for reconstructing chronology is the focus of chapter six. Tetley assumes the same dating system for both Israel and Judah; she eschews the postulation of interregnums and coregencies and proposes that the beginning of a king’s reign was reckoned from the time of his predecessor’s death, rather than by calendar year, and that the length of a reign was rounded up or down to the nearest whole year. Above all, she assumes that the original chronology was consistent, and while the OG/L text is generally the best witness to it, inconsistent variants in any witness must be secondary. As for absolute chronology, the likelihood that names are missing from the reign of Adad-nirari III in the AEC as well as inconsistencies between the AEC and the biblical account surrounding Israelite Joash’s payment of tribute in Adad-nirari’s fifth year render the AEC unreliable for dates before 763 BCE. The second half of this chapter sharpens Tetley’s critique of Thiele for his dismissal of the Greek textual evidence and frequent appeals to coregencies. In chapters seven and eight Tetley lays out her relative chronologies for the early and late DK, respectively. The former is largely dependent on the ascription of six years to Abijam’s reign, following the OG/L testimony, rather than MT’s three. For the late DK, Tetley corrects what she views as errors of transmission and proposes dates not actually attested by any textual witness for several kings. She also advances a new date, 719 BCE, for the fall of Samaria, contending against 2 Kgs 18:9, that the siege began under Sargon II rather than Shalmaneser V. The final chapter contains Tetley’s absolute chronology of the DK, beginning in 981 and synchronized with Assyrian, Phoenician, and Egyptian chronologies but with a preference for her reconstructed Hebrew chronology. On this basis, she restores forty-three years to the AEC and alters the dates for several Assyrian kings. She also identifies Pul with Shalmaneser IV rather than Tiglath-Pileser III, the Iaúa mar Humri who paid tribute to Shal˘ maneser III as Joram rather than Jehu, and dates the accession of Sheshonq I to 997 rather than 945.

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Tetley is to be commended for taking the Greek evidence seriously. Her text critical analyses are the most valuable part of this book and will have to be carefully considered by scholars dealing with the book of Kings and its chronology, although her tendency to make text-critical decisions on the basis of chronological consistency—especially where manuscript c2 is concerned—is methodologically problematic and will not be well received. Tetley’s boldness in tackling the tortured topic of chronology and her tenacity in handling the complex data are certainly admirable. While her criticisms of Thiele are well placed, it is not clear whether her insistence on consistency has produced a better result overall. Her sometimes radical proposals—above all the prioritizing of her reconstructed biblical chronology over the AEC and other texts—are mostly doomed for rejection. Still, the possibility that she may prove right on one or more points makes Tetley’s provocative work worthy of serious consideration.

Sarah J. Dille, MIXING METAPHORS: GOD AS MOTHER AND FATHER IN DEUTERO-ISAIAH (Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series, 398; Gender, Culture, Theory, 13; London/New York: T & T Clark International, 2004), xiii + 200 pp. Cloth. US $ 105.00. ISBN 0-8264-7156-0. Reviewed by Mary Louise Mitchell Calgary Dille examines five passages in Deutero-Isaiah in which she finds explicit or implied parental metaphors: Isa 42:8–17; 43:1–7; 45:9–13; 49:13–21; 50:1–3. She takes her methods in approaching these texts from the studies on metaphor of I. A. Richards, Max Black, and George Lakoff and Mark Johnson (p. 3). Richards is credited with foundational studies on metaphor as basic to language and with the standard terminology of “vehicle” (a figure, here parental language) and “tenor” (the subject, here YHWH) in which metaphor is discussed (p. 5). From Black she takes an interactive view of metaphor, as creating meaning through the interaction of vehicle and tenor, the idea of “associated commonplaces,” ideas concerning the vehicle of a metaphor which are generally thought to be true in a particular culture, and the idea of “emphasis and suppression,” that the commonplaces of a cul-

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ture which are associated with a vehicle present a particular view of the tenor (pp. 6–7). Dille credits Lakoff and Johnson with the idea of a metaphor as “conceptual structure,” organizing both experience and speech and the ideas of “entailments” as concepts which follow from metaphors, “metaphoric extension” as highlighting previously downplayed entailments, and their categories of “coherence vs consistency,” emphasizing coherence as a quality of metaphors which, while logically inconsistent, share entailments (pp. 8–15). In Dille’s interpretation of texts, use of these theoretical studies of metaphor is not generally obtrusive, in part because the biblical interpreter will recognize in them justification for conventional methods of reading biblical texts. In particular, “associated commonplaces” justifies study of the wider use and meaning of metaphors in the Hebrew Bible and in ancient Near Eastern cultures, while “emphasis and suppression” labels the results of such study. Dille employs the concept of “coherence” to identify common entailments in a series of metaphors in the text of Deutero-Isaiah which do not display “consistency.” I shall return to this particular method below as demonstrating her one approach to the study of metaphor in these texts which I view as less than successful. The introductory chapter on method is followed by a chapter discussing kinship and birth in Deutero-Isaiah and in the Hebrew Bible and the ancient Near East. Dille looks at “associated commonplaces” of birth and parental relationships in these cultures, concluding with a discussion of YHWH as father and mother in the Hebrew Bible. Subsequent chapters each interpret parental metaphors in one text of Deutero-Isaiah and in the larger literary context of each text. Textual problems are presented and positions taken which can reasonably be justified by textual study. Similarly, where ambiguity exists Dille convincingly argues for her attribution of direct speech to one or another potential speaker. Her notes indicate an awareness of scholarly debate, although she does not always choose the most popular positions. In short, she exhibits a competent and interesting handling of these poetic texts. In chapter three, Dille discusses the metaphors of YHWH as divine warrior and as woman in labour in Isa 42:8–17. Both metaphors are studied in their wider and immediate contexts, looking at the extensive material in the Hebrew Bible presenting YHWH as the divine warrior and use of the metaphor of the woman in labour. Dille names “associated commonplaces” of the warrior and the woman in labour: pain, blood, panic of battle, threat of death, the unstoppable nature of battle and labour, vulnerability, a sense of constriction common to labour and siege warfare (pp. 67–68). For her, this suggests metaphoric “coherence,” that the metaphor of the warrior

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leads into the metaphor of the labouring woman. I think it preferable to interpret these metaphors for YHWH starting from the “associated commonplaces” of YHWH as divine warrior and of women in labour in biblical texts. Continuity is seen in the loud shouts given by both figures; these tend to emphasize the contrast between the victorious divine warrior and the woman in labour. Dille’s interpretations of the other four texts in their varying contexts demonstrate how each metaphor functions in the wider context of the book, not presenting a single view of YHWH as parent, but integrated into each passage to further the progress of thought in the context. By writing a book on parental metaphors for God, Sarah Dille participates in two current movements of biblical reinterpretation, namely that aspect of feminist biblical interpretation which aims to see God in more inclusive gender terms and present theological interest in the place of biblical metaphors in forming our view of God. I found her book both interesting and thought provoking with respect to these two currents of thought, as well as contributing to a better understanding of Deutero-Isaiah through study of these metaphors in their contexts.

J. P. Fokkelman, MAJOR POEMS OF THE HEBREW BIBLE. AT THE INTERFACE OF PROSODY AND STRUCTURAL ANALYSIS. Volume IV: Job 15–42 (Studia Semitica Neerlandica, vol. 47; Assen, The Netherlands: Royal Van Gorcum, 2004), 466 pp. Cloth. € 109,50. ISBN 90-232-4072-3. Reviewed by Wesley Hu Wycliffe College and China Evangelical Seminary This book is the final volume in the series on the major poems of the Hebrew Bible and is the sequel to volume two, which deals with Job 4–14. In a time when scholars tend to focus on one or two aspects of poetic analysis or devote energy on one or two poems, Fokkelman’s study is a delight to read. His method has been explained in previous volumes or in a more popular format in Reading Biblical Poetry (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2001). Since poetry is the most compact and concentrated form of speech

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possible, to read a poem, or better, to find the poet in the words requires cautiously tackling complexity. Fokkelman offers a guide. First, one needs to probe each and every layer of syllables and words, cola and verses, strophes and stanzas and the whole poem to unfold the artistic design. To undertake this task, discovering all that is available in language and style is crucial. In this volume, Fokkelman notes, to name only a few, the pattern of vowels, word meanings, rhyme, distribution of conjugation, symmetrical distribution of the suffix, repetition of the verbal root, the use of preposition, the use and non-use of waw, chiasm, inclusio, etc. His close reading of the text brings out many insightful observations. Secondly, in the process of reading poetry, one needs to pay much attention to length of cola and verse, according to Fokkelman. This is perhaps the most distinctive part in his methodology. His observation (and calculation) of what he calls ‘numerical perfection’ can be found in every chapter of the book, covering every combination and level possible. A few examples may illustrate the point. (1) Taking all the poems into consideration, the total number of strophes in the book of Job is 412. Job speaks 206 of these, exactly half of the total number. The remaining half is shared by the three friends, Elihu and God (p. 333). Moreover, in the 206 strophes, Job speaks 103 short and 103 long strophes. (2) On the level of sections (Job 3–14, 15–27, 28–31), the numbers of short strophe and long strophe are: 28–48, 49–28, 25–25, forming a kind of chiasm (p. 334). (3) On the level of chapter, intriguing patterns are easily found too. In Job 15, Eliphaz speaks 14 strophes totaled 557 syllables. Job speaks exactly the same number of strophes and syllables (p. 21). In Job 31, taking the repetition of a nominal sentence as a clue to delimit the units, Fokkelman comes up with 3 sections of the pattern of 2 + 3, 2 + 2 + 2, 3 + 2, and the numbers of cola are: 26, 32, 26 (p. 190). A third approach one can employ in understanding poetry, according to Fokkelman’s contribution, is detecting the tension between sentence and verse structure. M. P. O’Connor in Hebrew Verse Structure (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1980) has argued that the poetic line is limited in length by syntactical constraints. Fokkelman takes the discussion to the higher level. He believes that a syntactic feature of the stanza as a whole is that in principle clause and colon coincide (p. 91). Based on this, he argues that the first three words of Job 31:12 constitute a nominal sentence and make a colon (p. 189). A few times though his decision seems disputable. In the discussion on Lamentations 5, Fokkelman argues that v. 21 should be analyzed as a

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tricolon rather than a bicolon (p. 14). But this delimitation requires reading

‫שׁוּב‬ ָ ָ‫ ֵא ֶליָך ְ ֽונ‬in colon B, which is syntactically unlikely, if not impossible.

Another case concerns Job 20. Fokkelman argues that we have to view v. 6 as the ending of strophe 2 rather than a conditional protasis of strophe 3 and v. 7 (p. 79). Surprisingly, no ancient versions support his view. This brings us to a deeper question. Since many textual issues and almost all the demarcation of strophe and stanza will affect the numerical analysis, how well is Fokkelman’s numerical perfection established? On the one hand, it seems, there is no doubt that Fokkelman’s extraordinary literary sense and meticulous examination have yielded fresh insights, although, perhaps because space is limited, not enough details are given. On the other hand, even if the picture needs to be adjusted somehow, Fokkelman’s modest request that we allow the possibility that the figures or dimensions of various textual levels are crucial (p. 344) should still be granted. All in all, this is an excellent book on the structural analysis of Hebrew poetry. For those who persevere to the end, the debate will only enrich their understanding.

Robert T. Anderson and Terry Giles, TRADITION KEPT: THE LITERATURE OF THE SAMARITANS (Peabody: Hendrickson, 2005), xvi + 432 pp. Cloth. US $34.95. ISBN 1-56563-747-X. Reviewed by Alex Jassen New York University The present volume represents the second attempt by Robert T. Anderson and Terry Giles to remedy a widespread scholarly neglect in the study of Samaritan history and literature. In The Keepers: An Introduction to the History and Culture of the Samaritans (Peabody: Hendrickson, 2002), Anderson and Giles drew upon a wide range of literary and archaeological sources to reconstruct the historical development of the community and some salient features of Samaritan religion and culture (see the review in JHS 4 by I. Hjelm). Tradition Kept: The Literature of the Samaritans, as a sequel to that earlier book, brings together in one volume a wealth of Samaritan literature (in translation) composed by the community throughout their long history.

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In deciding which Samaritan documents to include in this collection, Anderson and Giles employ three criteria: 1) how important is the work for the Samaritan community itself; 2) how accessible is the text to a general audience; 3) how helpful is the document for a beginning student (p. xiii). Tradition Kept divides Samaritan literature into two larger sections. The first part, “The Samaritan Story,” containing texts relating to the history of the Samaritan community, is divided into four chapters treating the Samaritan Pentateuch, the Samaritan book of Joshua, Kitab al-Tarikh (The Annals of Abu’l Fath), and various additional Samaritan chronicles (The New Chronicle, Sepher ha-Yamim). Section two is entitled “Samaritan Theology and Worship” and as its name suggests, includes portions of Samaritan theological treatises and liturgical documents. This section consists of three chapters. One contains excerpts from the Tibat Marqe (Memar Marqe), another documents concerning Samaritan liturgy, and a third, miscellaneous texts (inscriptions, amulets and astronomical texts). The volume also contains a bibliography, as well as three useful indices (modern authors, subject, and ancient sources). Based on the criteria they employ in their selection of texts, Anderson and Giles intend this book to be an introduction for an audience with little or no background in Samaritan history and literature. How well does Tradition Kept fulfill this goal? In labeling the first section “The Samaritan Story,” this initial collection of texts is intended to introduce the reader to the history of the community as told through their own writings. In the first chapter, Anderson and Giles discuss the various literary features that mark the sectarian character of the Samaritan Pentateuch and its importance for text critical study of the Hebrew Bible (though they do not present the actual text in full). In this sense, the Samaritan Pentateuch really does not belong in this section of the book, since it was not composed in its entirety by the Samaritan community. Only the sectarian textual variants are the product of Samaritan scribal intervention. It would have been better to treat this document within a larger framework of “Samaritan Scripture” or perhaps in the second half of the book as representative of the theological and ideological perspective of the Samaritan community. Notwithstanding these organizational shortcomings, this chapter is a very clear and readable introduction to the origins and textual character of the Samaritan Pentateuch. The Samaritan “story” really begins with the Samaritan book of Joshua, which is presented here in its entirety (ch. 2). The biblical material found in this document is filtered through the interpretive lens of later Samaritan history. More importantly, the document moves into the postbiblical period where it is singularly focused on the fortunes of the Samari-

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tan community. The full Samaritan book of Joshua is complemented by a series of excerpts from additional Samaritan chronicles (chs. 3–4). In excerpting these long documents, Anderson and Giles carefully chose those portions which highlight well the critical points and personalities in the Samaritan view of its own history and the manner in which Samaritan chroniclers conceptualized events outside of their own community (i.e. Christianity). A reader desiring a full synthesis of the historical data in order to reconstruct the “Samaritan story,” however, will not find it in these chapters. For this, the reader must consult the authors’ earlier work. The second half of the volume does provide the synthesis that is lacking in the first half. Chapter five contains a collection of excerpts from the Tibat Marqe, the central document of Samaritan theology. Anderson and Giles frame the excerpts around their own analysis of the principal features of Samaritan theology and cosmological speculation. In doing so, Anderson and Giles strike a delicate balance between allowing the document to speak for itself and sensing when the reader may become lost in the complexity of the material. The following chapter on “Samaritan Liturgy” takes the form of an extended essay on Samaritan liturgical practice accompanied by citations of a selection of documents employed by the Samaritans in the liturgical cycle. Here as well, the reader is provided with a portrait of the Samaritan liturgical process through Anderson’s and Giles’ carefully constructed synthesis in dialogue with the primary Samaritan documents. In the final chapter, Anderson and Giles round out the volume with a collection of additional sources such as inscriptions and amulets. Following the format of the previous chapter, they present these texts within an examination of their contribution to the Samaritan theological perspectives. In constructing an introduction to Samaritan literature, Anderson and Giles are successful in their stated goals. Tradition Kept is an attractive and accessible collection of often hard to find Samaritan literature that will likely become a standard tool for undergraduate students and educated individuals wishing to consult a wide range of Samaritan literature in translation. The various texts that Anderson and Giles include present the Samaritan community’s view of its own history and greatly illuminate the theological and liturgical framework of Samaritan religion and culture.

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Mark S. Smith, THE MEMOIRS OF GOD: HISTORY, MEMORY AND THE EXPERIENCE OF THE DIVINE IN ANCIENT ISRAEL (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2004), xviii + 187 pp. Paper. US $21.00. ISBN 0-8006-3485-3. Reviewed by Ellen White University of St. Michael’s College In the preface to his latest book, The Memoirs of God: History, Memory and the Experience of the Divine in Ancient Israel, Mark Smith states that he is writing for a more general audience in an attempt to bring that which is academic into the mainstream. Smith proves himself to be quite good at doing this. He is able to present complex scholarly arguments in a way that those without biblical training can understand without insulting their intelligence and at the same time present a text that is not boring or overly basic to the scholar. His success here is strengthened by his willingness to acknowledge where scholarly debates exist and point the reader to further sources for follow-up, without getting bogged down by the details and scholarly conventions. The introduction acquaints the reader with the basics of historiography and through this lens explores the history of Israel and the biblical text. Smith traces the history of Israel by examining the texts he has determined belong to each period. For example, he dates Judges 5 to the pre-monarchic period and uses it to draw historical information about that time, but he does not use all of the book of Judges, as its writing reflects the concern of the later period when it was composed. Chapter one details the history through various social-science perspectives (e.g., archaeology, biblical studies, anthropology) and attempts to reconstruct an accurate picture of the historical events. In contrast, chapter two explores that history through the lens of the Hebrew Scriptures, not limited to the Historical books and explores the interaction between history and literature. Smith focuses on the crises in the history of Israel and the responses to such events. He examines them in light of the categories established in chapter one (e.g., pre-monarchic,

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united and divided monarchy, etc.). While chapter two is billed as an examination of crises in Israel’s history and the responses to them, the main focus is the destruction of Jerusalem and the resulting exile, which is undoubtedly the most significant crisis the nation faced. The chapter takes the reader through a historical tour of Israel viewed with the lens of its literature, the historical purpose for developing that literature and its effect on the populace. Chapter three presents an excellent synopsis of Smith’s earlier famous works on Israelite religion. In this chapter, he explores Israelite religion and its responses to the events of chapter two. The chapter begins with an exploration of the ancient Near Eastern polytheistic context, particularly the Ugaritic divine council. Then Smith traces the history of Israelite religion from its earliest polytheistic phase to later monotheistic expressions. The final chapter provides the climax for the book. Smith attempts to embrace the biblical texts with the concept of collective memory. While this has been a popular study in the social sciences, it has been underrepresented in the realm of biblical studies. He begins the chapter by tracing the theory of collective memory through its major theoretical proponents. Then Smith explains how the theory of collective memory can be applied to the Bible, by exploring the theoretical framework of Halbwach and the Annales school in relation to formation and the study of the Bible. In the last third of this chapter, he explores collective memory in the biblical text specifically in relation to areas surrounding divinity, which allows for a nice tie to chapter three and brings the entire analysis to completion. This is really the part of this work that is groundbreaking and the piece that distinguishes it from the previous work of Smith and of other scholars. While for the most part Smith does an excellent job of presenting scholarly views to the laity, there are times when he uses forms that would confuse the average reader of the Bible (e.g., not a biblical scholar). For example, in chapter two he refers to the high priest as Jeshua, yet most English translations of the biblical text use Joshua. This could lead readers without the linguistic background to be confused and have trouble relating what Smith says to the biblical text. In addition, the book generally gets more technical and advanced as it progresses. However, this is a very minor observance in a work that is overwhelmingly beneficial to all readers.

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Roy L. Heller, NARRATIVE STRUCTURE AND DISCOURSE CONSTELLATIONS: AN ANALYSIS OF CLAUSE FUNCTION IN BIBLICAL HEBREW PROSE (Harvard Semitic Studies 55; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2004), xi + 412 pp. Cloth. US $49.95. ISBN 1-57506-918-0. Reviewed by Cristian G. Rata Anaheim CA This is a fine book that every teacher of Biblical Hebrew should own. In a clear and well organized manner, Roy L. Heller succeeds in giving us a good manual to assist us understand better the Hebrew verbal system in prose. Heller’s analysis is based upon the more intuitive work of Thomas Lambdin, and takes its methodological bearings from the work of discourse analysis (especially the work of R. E. Longacre). Like Lambdin before him, Heller provides a functional/pragmatic treatment of the various clause types within Biblical Hebrew prose (p. 3). The extended narratives examined for this work are the Novella of Joseph (Genesis 37, 39–47), and the Court Narrative of David (2 Samuel 9–20; 1 Kings 1–2). However, for his final conclusions he uses examples from other prose passages from the Bible as well. In the first chapter, the author introduces the problem with a brief survey of the approaches taken so far for the analysis of the Hebrew verb and clause types in the history of biblical scholarship. This is a fine and useful introduction in which he outlines the following four approaches to the Hebrew verb in prose: tense-based, historical-comparative, aspect-based, and discourse-linguistic. The existence of so many views (which are in no way mutually exclusive) show that no clear consensus on the function of the verb in Biblical Hebrew currently exists. Next, Heller discusses his methodology. His study is based on the methodological differentiation between two primary types of material found in prose: narrative and direct discourse. Expanding on the work of R. E. Longacre (who accepts only the first four of the following text-types), his analysis of direct discourse is based on five discourse text-types: Narrative Discourse (ND), Predictive Discourse (PD), Expository Discourse (PD), Hortatory Discourse (HD), and Interrogative Discourse (ID).

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In the two extended narratives mentioned above, Heller analyzes “each independent, main clause within the texts in order to determine the significance and function of each clause within itself and within its wider immediate context” (p. 27). This analysis takes place in the second chapter for the Joseph Novella, and in the third chapter for the Court Narrative of David. The following useful conclusions (many of them already well known) are the result of Heller’s functional approach, an approach which takes into account each individual clause, and which is indeed based on objective criteria and rigorous analysis: 1) The most predominant verbal form in Biblical Hebrew narrative prose is WAYYIQTOL (41% of the total clauses in the texts and 79.2% of the total clauses in the narrative portion of the texts analyzed). The use of this form in uninterrupted syntactical chains consistently implies sequentiality of action in the narrative. 2) All other clauses that occur within the backbone of the basic WAYYIQTOL chain and are governed by anything except WAYYIQTOL verbal forms provide two different types of information to the reader: a) Independent non-WAYYIQTOL verbal clauses often mark boundaries of paragraphs–the beginning and/or end of blocks of narrative. b) Nonfinite clauses (i.e. participial, verbless, or incomplete clauses), multiple non-WAYYIQTOL verbal clauses, and unchained independent WAYYIQTOL clauses provide background or off-line information, which does not occur within the sequentiality of the main narrative. These offline comments may occur either within a paragraph (“inner-paragraph comments”), or between paragraph blocks (“extra-paragraph comments”). 3) The initial markers of a paragraph are the ‫ ויהי‬Temporal Clauses and the QATAL clauses. 4) The main terminal marker of a paragraph is the QATAL clause. Much more rare is the use of WeQATAL clauses (3x), YIQTOL clauses (1x), We + Infinitive Absolute (1x), and Incomplete Clause (1x). 5) The “default” paragraph boundary markers are initial WAYYIQTOL clauses in a chain, and terminal WAYYIQTOL clauses in a chain. 6) The “inner-paragraph comments” (which provide information about immediate elements of the story) appear primarily in the following three types of clauses (named Type A): verbless, participial, and ‫ היה‬verbal. They are also found in incomplete clauses in combination with Type A clauses, in QATAL clauses in parallel (independent or in combination with Type A clauses), and in independent QATAL clauses after ‫ ויהי‬temporal clauses.

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7) The “extra-paragraph comments” (which provide information generally removed from any specific element in the story) are found primarily in the following three types of clauses (named Type B): QATAL, WeQATAL, and YIQTOL. They are also found in non-chained WAYYIQTOL clauses (singly or in combination with multiple Type B clauses), and in participial or verbless clauses (independent or multiple, in combination with multiple Type B clauses). 8) In Narrative Discourse (ND), the following discourse constellations (group of possible verbal forms for a particular discourse text-type) are found: Primary Verbal/Clausal Forms QATAL Basic Past WAYYIQTOL Continuative Past Off-line status Secondary Verbal/Clausal Verbless Forms ‫ היה‬Verbal Off-line status Participial Off-line action YIQTOL Off-line ongoing action 9) In Predictive Discourse (PD), the following constellations are found: Primary Verbal/Clausal Forms YIQTOL Basic Future WeQATAL Continuative Future Secondary Verbal/Clausal Forms Verbless Off-line status ‫ היה‬Verbal Off-line status Incomplete Off-line status Participial Off-line action 10) In Expository Discourse (ED), the verbal forms is found: Primary Ver- Verbless bal/Clausal Forms ‫ היה‬Verbal Incomplete Participial Secondary Ver- Obj. + bal/Clausal Forms QATAL/YIQTOL

following group of possible Primary Present Status Primary Present Status Interj./Oath/Voc./Answer Primary Present Action Secondary Present Action

11) In Hortatory Discourse (HD), the following constellations are found:

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Primary Forms

Verbal/Clausal Imperative

Secondary Forms

Cohortative Jussive ‘al-YIQTOL (We)YIQTOLnā’ Verbal/Clausal QATAL

Second Person Volitional First Person Volitional Third Person Volitional Negative Volitional Precatory Volitional Performative Utterance

WeQATAL Continuative Volitional YIQTOL Continuative Volitional WeYIQTOL Consequential/Purpose 12) In Hebrew narrative prose, the Interrogative Discourse (ID) is marked by the use of interrogative adverbs or particles, and cannot be defined by a set of verbal or clausal constellations. The rhetorical or true nature of a question is entirely dependent upon the narrative context. I wish that the rare cases under most categories listed above were analyzed and explained more thoroughly, though it is certainly true that in many cases there is not enough data to do that (we are “working with no data”). However, I am convinced that the expansion of this approach to larger blocks of narrative would bring additional insights on the more unusual verbal forms and clauses (e.g., the use of the WeQatal clauses for terminal boundary clauses may be to indicate simultaneity), and would also help to further support Heller’s conclusions.

Norbert Lohfink, QOHELETH (A Continental Commentary; trans. Sean McEvenue; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003), xviii + 158 pp. Cloth. US $23.00. ISBN 0-8006-9604-2. Reviewed by John L. McLaughlin Faculty of Theology University of St. Michael’s College Toronto Although this volume is listed on the publication page as a translation of Lohfink’s Kohelet (Die neue Echter Bibel; Würzburg: Echter Verlag, 1980), it is actually based on the author’s unpublished 1990 revision of the German

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original. Thus English readers are doubly blessed: not only do we finally have an English version of Lohfink’s commentary, but it is a more recent version than the German original, even if the revised version is now fifteen years old. In his brief Introduction, Lohfink dates the book of Qoheleth to the Ptolemaic period and envisions Qoheleth as being in dialogue with Hellenism, using Greek culture and literature against itself, while at the same time seeking to counter the injustice prevalent in Judea at the time. To that end, the book of Qoheleth served as a schoolbook for the priestly families of Jerusalem from which Qoheleth came. In keeping with this setting, the book contains little reference to the Law, the prophets or other Israelite wisdom because it presupposes an adult audience that was thoroughly familiar with such material. While admittedly speculative, Lohfink’s proposed setting and purpose for the book is plausible and would explain the frequently noted lack of interaction with Israel’s religious traditions within the book of Qoheleth. The commentary itself follows the book’s structure, which Lohfink identifies as a mirror pattern on the basis of the content, organized as follows: 1:2–3 Frame 1:4–11 Cosmology (poem) 1:12–3:15 Anthropology 3:16–4:116 Social Critique I4:17–5:6 Religious Critique 5:7–6:10 Social Critique II6:11–9:6 Deconstruction (refutation of other opinions) 9:7–12:7 Ethic (concrete application, with concluding poem) 12:8 Frame Following a translation of the entire book, individual pericopes within the larger structure mentioned above are discussed. In each case, the translation is repeated with some text-critical notes beneath the translation and cross references in the margins. The latter include verses in Qoheleth that are directly dependent either on other parts of the book or other biblical books as well as later texts that are dependent on Qoheleth, direct parallels containing comparable wording, and other relevant texts. The main commentary section includes observations on the structure, literary form and historical context of the book, with occasional footnotes noting material from contemporary literature. The volume is not a commentary per se as the term is traditionally understood. Rather, it might be described as Lohfink’s notes on his translation of Qoheleth for the Deutsche Einheitsübersetzung (1980), and is aimed at non-

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specialists rather than academics. Thus, Lohfink describes this work as a “bridge between the translation and the academic research papers” (p. vii). As such, the commentary proper does not directly interact with contemporary scholarship; instead he refers the reader to his published articles listed in the Bibliography for detailed discussion of scholarly issues. This is the book’s greatest shortcoming: one is frequently left wishing for a more sustained treatment of some of Lohfink’s ideas and translations in this volume. For instance, he offers no justification here for important matters such as his rendering of the thematic term hebel as “breath.” Similarly, he translates 7:26 as, “Again and again I find the claim that womankind is stronger than death” and interprets what follows as a statement of her power, with v. 28 a rejection of the idea that women can overcome death. While perhaps a more palatable interpretation in our day, this is in marked contrast to the usual understanding of the verses, namely that the woman who is a snare is “more bitter than death.” Lohfink’s only comment is that “strong” is the correct rendering “because of the continuation” (the meaning of which is still not clear to me) rather than “its other possible meaning.” In fact “bitter” is the primary (not just possible) meaning of the Hebrew root mrr; while the meaning “strong” has been proposed in cognate languages this is disputed for biblical Hebrew. In any case, the only other time the word occurs with “death” in the Hebrew Bible (1 Sam 15:22) it means “bitter” and that is how Qoh 7:26 was understood by the ancient versions. Thus, this volume cannot be used as a stand-alone commentary, but will need to be supplemented by other commentaries as well as Lohfink’s work published elsewhere. Despite this limitation, this volume is worth consulting. Apart from matters subject to scholarly debate, Sean McEvenue’s English rendering of Lohfink’s German translation of Qoheleth is generally fresh and fluid, while remaining faithful to the tone and meaning of the Hebrew. A notable example is “Better a name esteemed than scented creams,” which conveys the paranomasia of Qoh 7:1a (ṭôb šēm miššemen ṭôb) far better than any of the standard translations and commentaries. The marginal cross references alone are worth consulting, since they clearly demonstrate both Qoheleth’s familiarity with much of the Hebrew Bible and how later writers in turn depend on him. Regrettably, this is not developed in the actual comments. Nonetheless, brief as they are at points, the comments themselves are consistently full of insights too numerous to be treated here in the length they deserve. The combination of these features means that this commentary will repay frequent use by all those interested in the book of Qoheleth, although in conjunction with other commentaries. Its usefulness is further enhanced

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by the five Indexes: Ancient Sources (biblical and extra-biblical), Subjects, Ancient Authors and Groups, Greek Words and Phrases and Hebrew Words and phrases.

Frances Flannery-Dailey, DREAMERS, SCRIBES, AND PRIESTS: JEWISH DREAMS IN THE HELLENISTIC AND ROMAN ERAS (Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism, 90; Leiden/Boston: Brill Academic Publishers, 2004), xiii + 327 pp. Cloth. €115.00, US $155.55. ISBN 90-04-12367-9. Reviewed by Scott B. Noegel University of Washington In the last decade or so, dreams and dreaming have become intensely popular topics of publication by scholars of antiquity. While some of these endeavors represent the publication of new or neglected texts and useful updates on the available information, 1 others offer new theoretical models for assessing the data. 2 The work under review here falls mainly into the first Just a few of the more significant large-scale publications include: S. A. L. Butler, Mesopotamian Conceptions of Dreams and Dream Rituals (AOAT, 258; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 1998); Jean-Marie Husser, Dreams and Dream Narratives in the Biblical World (Biblical Seminar, 63; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999); Kasia Szpakowska, Behind Closed Eyes: Dreams & Nightmares in Ancient Egypt (Swansea, Wales: Classical Press of Wales, 2003); and Francis Breyer, Tanutamani: Die Traumstele und ihr Umfeld (Wiesbaden: Harrossowitz, 2003). 2 See, e.g., Patricia Cox Miller, Dreams in Late Antiquity: Studies in the Imagination of a Culture (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994); Robert Karl Gnuse, Dreams and Dream Reports in the Writings of Josephus: A Traditio-Historical Analysis (AGJU, 36; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1996); David Shulman and Guy G. Stroumsa, eds., Dream Cultures: Explorations in the Comparative History of Dreaming (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999); Diana Lipton, Revisions of the Night: Politics and Promises in the Patriarchal Dreams of Genesis (JSOTSup, 288; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999); Kelly Bulkeley, ed., Dreams and Dreaming: A Reader in Religion, Anthropology, History, and Psychology (Hampshire, UK: Palgrave-St. Martin’s Press, 2001); Ruth Fidler, “Dreams Speak Falsely”? Dream Theophanies in the Bible: Their Place in Ancient Israelite Faith and Tradition (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magness Press, 2005): (in 1

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camp. Its methodology is decidedly form-critical, and therefore, reminiscent (albeit with greater sophistication) of A. Leo Oppenheim’s now classic work. 3 Its primary contribution, however, is that it offers a thorough treatment of many Jewish dream-related texts hitherto neglected in the study of ancient dreams. These texts range in date from the 3rd century B.C.E. to the second century C.E. and include: 1 Enoch 1–36, 83–90; Daniel; Jubilees, 2 Maccabees; Additions to Esther; Pseudo-Philo; 4 Ezra; 2 Baruch; Ezekiel the Tragedian; Testament of Job; 2 Enoch; the Ladder of Jacob; Testament of Abraham; Testament of Levi (Greek); Testament of Naphtali; Testament of Joseph; Testament of Job; Jewish Wars; Jewish Antiquities; Life of Flavius Josephus; Against Apion, and two New Testament texts (the Gospel of Matthew and the Acts of the Apostles). Texts from Qumran studied include: 1Q Genesis Apocryphon, 1QJubilees, 4QEnoch; 2QBook of Giants; 11QTargum of Job; 4QApocryphon of Jacob; 4QAramaic Levi; 4QVisions of Amram; 4QVisions of Samuel; 4QPrayer of Nabonidus; and 4Q and 11Q Psalms. The book’s first two chapters provide a greater context for discussing these texts by considering a number of topics that confront the study of dreams and dreaming in ancient Near Eastern, Israelite, and early GraecoRoman literature (e.g., dream typology, vocabulary, literary motifs, social milieu, divination, dream interpretation, incubation, prophecy, and function). Though most of the texts studied in these chapters have been treated amply elsewhere, they have not been systematically examined from a rigorous form-critical perspective, and thus, they have not produced the sort of comparative data necessary for establishing a broad taxonomy of dream types and texts. The final three chapters of the book provide in-depth diachronic and synchronic analyses of the aforementioned Jewish texts and a summary of the author’s conclusions. The analyses seek to ascertain what is distinctive about the forms, vocabulary, and functions of dream texts in Hellenistic Judaism. It is in these chapters that one finds the author’s most significant contributions to the study of ancient dreams. It is learned, for example, that though these later Jewish dream texts adhere rather uniformly to the forms, vocabulary, and functions of earlier dream texts (both Jewish and nonJewish), they also are innovative in that they represent

Hebrew); Scott B. Noegel, Nocturnal Ciphers: The Allusive Language of Dreams in the Ancient Near East (AOS; New Haven, CT.), in press. 3 A. Leo Oppenheim, The Interpretation of Dreams in the Ancient Near East: With a Translation of the Assyrian Dream Book (TAPS, 46; Philadelphia, PA: American Philosophical Society, 1956).

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…a merging of alternate planes and dimensions of reality, whether spatial (heaven, earth, and the underworld), perceptual (sleeping and waking), ontological (humans and angels) or temporal (past, present and future) (p. 200). 4

They thus elaborate upon, even as they transcend, traditional dream categories in ways that reflect developments in Jewish cosmology and belief. (These dream texts) …construct and deconstruct symbolic orderings of the world. Their contents articulate categories that order cosmological, temporal, and ontological reality, revealing a heavenly sphere above earth, a present related to Israel’s past, and visible angels who bridge the gap between an invisible divine and human realm (p. 243).

Other developments represented in these texts include the sudden ubiquitous appearance of angelic dream messengers, which Flannery-Dailey attributes to the Hellenistic influence of the Greek oneiros (pp. 202–203), and an increasing connection between death and sleep, which is reflected in the thematic intertwining of death, dreams and ascents to heaven (p. 242). One also finds an increasing overlap in content and style between dream texts, apocalypses, and mystical literature. The texts’ frequent focus on priestly and scribal figures and themes further suggests that the social location of the texts be located in priestly and scribal circles. Thus Flannery-Dailey opines that …the authors of early Jewish dreams were male priests and/or scribes familiar with a temple milieu, including the practice of sacrifice, dream incubation, and dream interpretation, and furthermore that they were involved in the reading and interpretation of Scripture (p. 269).

One of the primary functions of these texts, therefore, appears to have been to establish or reify priestly and/or scribal status and authority. Such a conclusion offers additional evidence for the continuities that connect these dream texts with their Israelite and ancient Near Eastern counterparts. 5 Nevertheless, as the author continually demonstrates, it is only by paying careful attention to the elements that mark changes or differences in cultural attitudes concerning dreams and/or the influence of cultures one upon another that one may obtain what is culturally specific about a particular dream text. It is this attention to cultural specificity that distinguishes the book’s comparative methodology from many other works on ancient dreams, including that of Oppenheim.

4 5

Italics are the author’s. See especially Noegel, Nocturnal Ciphers.

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While the book’s methodology is certainly one of its strong points, it also raises a few issues that are worthy of critical comment. It could be noted, for example, that given the relative consistency in the way that dreams appear in ancient literary accounts it is understandable why the author would employ form criticism as a methodology of choice. Nevertheless, such consistency begs the question of whether a rhetorical-critical approach might be more usefully applied to the data. 6 All of the formal patterns established by the author are thematic. But do these texts share formal patterns in language as well? We are seldom told. The sheer volume of materials makes this a daunting task, as the author acknowledges (p. 117), and it is clearly a more difficult endeavor when comparing texts composed in different languages. But when comparing texts composed in the same or related languages, it can serve to temper the evidence. Indeed, the author’s exclusive reliance on thematic patterns results in the establishment of the following three-fold structure for dream accounts: 1) an introduction that establishes the setting of the dream; 2) the dream and its delivery; and 3) a conclusion in which the dreamer awakes and his/her mood is recorded (see p. 169). However, the simplicity of this structure gives one reason to question whether it is too basic to be of service. The continuity of this structure over such a long period of time and across so many cultural boundaries makes one wonder whether the human dream experience would permit any other logical structure. The aforementioned issues concerning the formal structures of dream texts are especially piqued by the author’s inconsistent treatment of current taxonomies for dream accounts. On the one hand, the author appears to collapse conventional typological distinctions (e.g., accounts of dreams, visions, ascents, otherworldly journeys, and apocalypses) and to treat them as if they exist on a continuum. On the other hand, the author appears to adopt Oppenheim’s formal categories for dream texts rather uncritically, 7 I note also that while the author informs readers from the start that she will adopt a form critical approach to the materials, a more detailed discussion of her methodology and its possible drawbacks does not appear until pp. 114–119. I suggest that this material might have served readers better in the introduction. 7 The author credits Oppenheim for establishing this typology, though Oppenheim himself (op. cited, p. 186) attributes this distinction to the 2nd c. CE oneirocritic Artemidorus of Daldis. In fact, Artemidorus may have borrowed the typology from the Stoics. See Carl Alfred Meier, “The Dream in Ancient Greece and Its Use in Temple Cures (Incubation),” in G. E. von Grunebaum and Roger Caillois, eds., The Dream and Human Societies (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1966), p. 306, who cites Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta III: 605. See also A. H. M. Kessels, “Ancient Classifications of Dreams,” Mnemosyne 23 (1970), 225–249. 6

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especially his oft-repeated distinction between so-called “message dreams” and “symbolic dreams.” 8 As many scholars have observed, not every dream account fits neatly into one of the two categories, and there is considerable overlap between them. There exist symbolic dreams that require no interpreter, and message dreams that do. Therefore, while the typology is not without heuristic value, our inability to apply it consistently to the evidence makes it problematic. 9 Such methodological questions notwithstanding, readers will find this a well-researched and well-written book. 10 It demonstrates a masterful handling of Hebrew, Aramaic, Greek, and Syriac materials. Moreover, it fills an important gap in the study of ancient dreams and offers scholars a number of new directions for exploration and research. Doubtless it will add a great deal to on-going interdisciplinary discussions concerning dreams and dreaming in antiquity.

8 The author’s only critique (pp. 48–49) focuses on Oppenheim’s argument that non-Israelites experience symbolic dreams in the Hebrew Bible whereas message dreams are reserved for Israelites. 9 For a thorough re-assessment of the typological issues surrounding the study of ancient dream texts see Noegel, Nocturnal Ciphers. 10 A few factual and typographical errors, however, appear in the book. These include: “from whence (sic)” (p. 46); incorrect Hebrew root given as ḥāzan (for ḥāzah) “envision” (p. 46); ša’īlu “diviner, augur” incorrectly derived from mušēlu (šstem of elû “ascend”) instead of šâlu “ask” (p. 28); apparent lack of awareness of the fragmentary dream manual at Ugarit (p. 32); mem-sophit incorrectly appears in medial position in the Aramaic word ḥalmā’ “dream” (p. 130); “we have do” (p. 209).

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Z. Talshir and D. Amara, eds., ON THE BORDER LINE. TEXTUAL MEETS LITERARY CRITICISM. PROCEEDINGS OF A CONFERENCE IN HONOR OF ALEXANDER ROFÉ ON THE OCCASION OF HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY (Beer-Sheva 18; Beer-Sheva: Ben-Gurion University of the Negev Press, 2005), xx + 270 pp. (Hebrew with English abstracts). Cloth. NP. ISSN 0334-2255. Reviewed by Ehud Ben Zvi University of Alberta Alexander Rofé has been one of the most prominent scholars of the Hebrew Bible in Israel for many years. A volume in his honor was somewhat expected. Since he refused to accept a Jubilee/Festchrift Volume, the present volume is as close as it can be to his well-deserved Festchrift. The volume itself developed out of a conference in his honor held in 2002. Several additional essays on the general theme of the conferences were then added. The volume includes a very helpful bibliography of 120 works by Rofé— the symbolism is obvious, whether the matter is the result of the editors’ design or not. The articles in this volume are all written in Hebrew, but English abstracts were included. The volume was built around a clear theme, which appropriately touches one of the topics close to the honoree’s heart, namely the relationship between textual criticism and “literary” criticism. In fact, the title of the volume is derived from one of Rofé’s articles, namely A. Rofé, “Textual Criticism in the Light of Literary-Historical Criticism: Deut 31:14–15,” Eretz Israel 16 (1982) pp. 171–76 (in Hebrew). Of course, “literary criticism” here does not point to approaches similar to those of, for instance, Clines, Exum, Brenner, Alter, Landy, Gunn, Fewell or Sternberg, but actually to source, and mainly redactional criticism. (Note the use of the term “Literary-Historical Criticism” in Rofé’s essay that led to the title of this volume, and his use of the term “historico-literary” in other works, including his essay in this book). It bears note that the presence (“inspiring shadow”?) of Rofé’s scholarship and research interests is felt throughout the book, not only in the choice of the theme of the volume and its title, but among oth-

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ers, in the concentration of articles dealing with the LXX, in multiple references to or constructions of ideational horizons, and even in the presence of a contribution whose explicit starting point is an article by Rofé himself. The particular contribution of this volume as such (to be distinguished from that of particular essays), rests the cumulative weight of different explorations of ways in which various types of redactional and/or textual critical considerations may (or may not) contribute to a better understanding of the textual and/or redactional histories of texts. The value of the volume is increased by the variety of texts that are studied. This feature serves well the goal of contributing to the development of a larger frame for addressing these matters in a way that is clearly non-contingent on the particular features of a specific genre or singular social or historical circumstances. The volume opens with Victor Avigdor Hurowitz’s words of introduction at the conference, and includes twelve essays (note also the intended or unintended symbolism), in addition to the honoree’s own contribution, which makes this volume unlike most Festchriften. The essays are: Zipora Talshir, “On the Border Line of Textual and Literary Criticism—Do-s and Don’t-s,” pp. 5–11. Erhard Blum, “The Connection between the Books of Genesis and Exodus and the End of the Book of Joshua,” pp. 13–32. Alexander Rofé, “The Biblical Text in Light of Historico-Literary Criticism. The Reproach of the Prophet-Man in Judg 6:7–10 and 4QJudga,”pp. 33–44. Tova Forti, “Developing Proverbs. Ideational Stratification in the Editions of the Book of Proverbs,” pp. 45–60. Dalia Amara, “Theological Corrections in the Various Versions of the Book of Daniel,” pp. 61–76. Zipora Talshir, “Synchronic Approaches and Diachronic Consequences in the Study of Parallel Redactions: New Approaches to I Esdras,” pp 77–97. Jan Joosten, “Considering the Septuagint’s Theological System,” pp. 99–112. Ronnie Goldstein, “From Gods to Idols—Changes in Attitude Towards Other Gods in Biblical Literature and the Revision of Isaiah 2:18– 21,” pp. 113–53. Jonathan Ben-Dov, “Treasures of Light,” pp. 155–62. Ruth Fidler, “‘Midrashic Dramatization’ or Drama Subdued? The Feminine Voice in the Dispute on the Queen of Heaven (Jer 44), pp. 163– 88. Leeor Gottlieb, “Repetition Due to Homoioteleuton,” pp. 189–208.

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Menahem Kister, “The Two Recensions of the Damascus Document,” pp. 209–23. Yitzhak Dana, “Plutarch’s Parallel Lives. From Manuscript to the Printed Book,” pp. 225–38 A review of a collected essays volume is not the place to interact with the particular arguments advanced in each of the chapters, nor does it seem proper to devote most of the space in such a review to a serious critical treatment of the claims and arguments advanced in a particular chapter. The survey below is meant only to illustrate the contents of the book and to show ways in which each of the diverse contributions sheds light on the main theme of the volume as a whole. Given this illustrative goal, no attempt is made to deal equally with these contributions. The core of the book opens with Talshir’s (first) essay, which serves, appropriately, an introductory role in the book. The essay also provides some examples (e.g., 1 Sam 1:24 in the MT, LXX and 4QSama) to illustrate the extent and limits of potential, relevant areas of convergence. Among others, she points out that at times earlier books may carry later readings or spellings and vice versa, later texts may attest to earlier readings. In these cases the (late or early) textual features cannot contribute to the study of the date of the text (e.g., later features in the text of Samuel do not make the book, as a whole, later than Chronicles). Blum’s essay is, as one may expect, a contribution to the study of the composition of the Pentateuch and the Hexateuch. Among his conclusions, “the Patriarchal stories and the Exodus stories were originally independent, and were first combined in the Priestly composition ... Gen 50:24–25 and Exod 1 verses 6 and 8 belong to a redactional stratum whose main contribution is Josh 24. While this redaction posits the transition from the era of Joshua to the era of the Judges inherent in the Deuteronomistic composition (see Judg 2:6–10), its purpose is actually to create a kind of a Hexateuch entitled ‘The book of the law of God (Josh 24:26)’ “ (all the quotations in this review are taken from the English abstracts). Rofé raises an interesting example of a potential contribution of source/redactional criticism to textual criticism. The text of Judg 6:7–10 is absent in 4QJudga, which goes directly from v. 6 to 11. Does the shorter version reflect an old edition of Judges? Rofé analyzes the language and contents of the pericope and find in them features “characteristic of the pre-Deuteronomistic, Ephraimite Document” and therefore concludes that “Judg 6:7–10 should be considered as an editorial layer of an ancient Book of Judges which originated about the Eighth century BCE” and that “it is not plausible that 4QJudga preserved a text that preceded that old edition.” (On the author’s position concerning the existence of a pre-

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deuteronomistic, Ephraimite layer embedded in Joshua 24–1 Samuel 12*— consisting essentially of Joshua 24–1 Samuel 12 excluding Judges 1:1–3:11 and Judges 17–21, see A. Rofé, “Ephraimite versus Deuteronomistic History,” D. Garrone and F. Israel (eds.), Storia e tradizioni di Israel: scritti in onore de J. Alberto Soggin [Brescia: Paideia, 1991], 221–35.) Forti deals with proverbs that appear in an expanded form in the LXX (in comparison with the MT), suggesting that the expanded form may have been part of the Vorlage used by the translators and points to “the hermeneutical activity of schools of Sages who probably contributed to the continuous ideational development of the Book of Proverbs.” The discussion focuses on Prov. 1:7; 7:1; 18:22; and 26:11, and particularly the latter (cf. Sira 4:20–21 and see Sira 41:14–42:8). Forti’s is only one of several contributions in which the LXX or LXX readings/texts figure prominently in this volume. For instance, Joosten investigates the possible theological system of the LXX and above all the ways in which such a system may be reconstructed by scholars today. The methodological focus of the paper leads to calls for methodological prudence. For instance, he cautions about understanding the well-known LXX reading of Am 9:12 (“in order that those remaining humans ... might seek me out,” which suggests a Hebrew text, ‫ למען ידרשו שארית אדם‬instead of the MT ‫)למען יירשו את שארית אדום‬ as certain proof that the translator responsible for the LXX text wanted to convey a universalist, theological system. The translator may have just wanted to translate faithfully the text he thought to be correct. All in all, Joosten is somewhat dubious of the potential of approaches based on the contents of the translation, but he is far more optimistic concerning approaches that focus on translational techniques. Amara discusses cases in which the LXX Daniel translates terms such as ‫ אלהים‬as angel or idol while Ben-Dov explores the background of an expression in LXX Jer 10:13 that refers to treasures of light within the cosmological imagination and vocabulary of the late Second Temple period. (MT Jer 10:13 reads ‫ויוצא רוח‬ ‫ מאצרתיו‬but the LXX refers to “treasures of light” and suggests a Hebrew texts ‫)ויוצא אור מאצרתיו‬. Fidler deals with a number of ancient versions (including the LXX and the Lucianic recension), but her focus is on midrashic features in textual transmission, and in particular on “midrashic dramatization,” that is, the distribution of utterances among several characters in the story. Appropriately, in a volume honoring Rofé, the cue is taken from his article on Ruth 4:11, in which he discusses this feature and illustrates it by comparing the MT and the LXX readings (A. Rofé, “Ruth 4:11 LXX—A Midrashic Dramatization,” Textus 20 [2000], 129–40). The speech placed in the mouth of “all the people” and the elders in the former is divided in the latter into

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two complementary speeches, one uttered by all the people and the other by the elders. Fidler raises the question whether the same midrashic process is at work in Jer 44:15–19, since the rendering of Jer 44:19 in the Lucianic recension and the Peshitta explicitly assign the relevant words to the women alone, as does the NRSV today. (Note also the difference in Jeremiah’s response between MT Jer 44:24–25 and the rendering of the verses in the LXX, the latter assumes that the women uttered the words in v. 19). Fidler’s tentative conclusion is that an explanation of this particular case in terms of “midrashic dramatization” is questionable. She suggests that perhaps, the “plus in v. 19 may be the original,” and the MT may reflect an attempt to subdue the drama, and the voice of the women, by embedding their words within those of the men. Other chapters deal with a variety of issues associated with or touching the main theme of the volume in different ways. For instance, Z. Talshir, a well-known expert on 1 Esdras, interacts with synchronic approaches to the book while keeping her focus on the diachronic character of the transmission process. R. Goldstein reconstructs Isa 2:18–21 to mean “And the gods will slip away like Lil/Night and they will enter caverns in the rock and hollows in the ground like moles and bats before the terror of the Lord and his dread majesty when he comes forth to overawe the earth”; he assigns it to the prophet Isaiah and maintains that the text was influenced by Mesopotamian texts. L. Gottlieb argues that since homoiteleuton—similar endings in two textual units—has led not only to textual omissions but also to numerous repetitions in the MT, which “should not be classified as dittography in the same way that omission due to homoiteleuton is not termed as haplography.” The essay includes some preliminary analysis of these repetitions. For instance, at times the repetition is full (e.g., 2 Kgs 7:13), but at times partial (e.g., 2 Kgs 11:17); at times ancient versions represent a textual tradition prior to the development of the repetition, but at times later than it. Moreover, some of these cases of repetition due to homoiteleuton led to “very difficult readings, sometimes using near impossible language, as in Lev 13:55.” Kister deals with matters of textual transmission from the perspective of the differences between ms A and ms B of the Damascus Document in the Geniza, and argues that the key for understanding these differences rests on their divergent understandings of ‫“( מלט‬escape” in ms A, “be saved” in ms B). Finally, Dana looks at matters of textual transmission from the perspective of Plutarch’s Parallel Lives, and focuses on the transition from codices to printed versions, and particularly on the drastic changes to the arrangement of the book in the third printed edition (1533), and notes that “[a]lthough nearly five centuries have passed since then, the

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old division still waits to be re-established” and calls for the “restoration of the original inner sequence of the paragraphs.” It goes without saying that not everyone would agree with the claims advanced in these contributions. Certainly, not everyone would concur with Blum and argue that there is no place for J—the existence of E has far less support—or follow Rofé regarding his proposed Ephraimite document, or necessarily agree with Fidler’s or Goldstein’s conclusions, to mention a few examples. Yet I am convinced that the immense majority of scholars would maintain that the present volume is a very fitting tribute to A. Rofé. The editors of the volume should be congratulated.

Bob Becking, BETWEEN FEAR AND FREEDOM. ESSAYS ON THE INTERPRETATION OF JEREMIAH 30–31 (Oudtestamentische Studiën 51; Leiden/Boston: Brill Academic Publishers, 2004), ix + 338 pp. Cloth. € 95.00, US $128.00. ISBN 90-04-14118-9. Reviewed by Kathleen M. O’Connor William Marcellus McPheeters Professor of Old Testament Columbia Theological Seminary Decatur, GA 30030 USA In his densely packed essays on Jeremiah 30–31, often called Jeremiah’s “book of consolation,” Becking sets out to interpret the text with methodological clarity. Borrowing a metaphor from Mark Smith that biblical studies are currently like a mall with competing shops set next to each other in profusion of confusion, Becking lays out his step-by-step method. Competent interpretation requires the interpreter to recognize patterns of communication in the text and to find ways to interpret social codes by examining modes of expression common to the ancient Near East. Becking gives this approach specificity by promising to do syntactical analysis, to discover inner dynamics of the texts, to refrain from the intermingling of methods, and to engage in sub-dialogue with other readers. By dialogue with readers, he does not mean reader-response analysis of interpreter but refers to dialogue with the history of interpretation, expressed here largely in terms of the last century or so.

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I do not believe methodological purity is possible, nor do I think Becking accomplishes it, though I would never accuse him of being unclear. Rather than thinking of interpretive methods as a confusing mall, I prefer the analogy of the text as a conversation partner—complex, multi-layered, contradictory, and amenable to dialogue and analysis from multiple directions at once—because this is the nature of poetic literature. But having stated my bias, I, nonetheless, congratulate Becking on what he has accomplished, that is, a comprehensive, thoroughly documented exegesis of Jeremiah’s two chapters that yields theological reflection. The book’s interpretative starting point is the matter of the literary coherence of the whole. The problem, according to Becking, is the presence of thematic dissimilarities wherein Jeremiah speaks of punishment and misery alongside hope and comfort, on the one hand, and syntactic similarities across the units, on the other. Becking finds and illustrates literary unity. Jeremiah 30–31 form one canto, divisible into ten sub-cantos and further divisible into canticles and cola. Becking analyses five subcantos (30:5– 31:37) in chapters four through nine of his book. The last chapter constructs theological conclusions emerging from the exegesis. Becking’s first three chapters survey Jeremiah’s text in search of macro structures. A careful study of textual variations leads him to prefer the Hebrew text to the Greek. The former is not an abridged version of the Greek, and, he rightly asserts, deciding which version is original is impossible. After dividing the text into ten subcantos by means of Hebrew Peṭuha and Seṭuma markings, he analyses poetic features that further enable him to distinguish the text’s subdivisions. These include uses of particles, prophetic formulae, types of parallelism, and other syntactic division markers. Presented in detailed charts, this work is like extensive exegetical notes one creates but then summarizes to spare the reader. Their benefit, of course, is to create clarity, making Becking’s work helpful both for reference and as an instructional tool for graduate students. His interpretation of the subcantos includes source-critical and syntactical investigations, word studies, and comparative study of ancient Near Eastern texts in relation to Jeremiah’s language, motif, and themes. This comparative work makes a new and significant contribution to the study of the chapters. But missing is any study of how Jeremiah’s chapters echo, allude to, and reverse other Jeremiah verses outside the book of consolation. In each of the five subcantos, Becking finds a double thematic pattern that he calls Transformation I and II. Transformation I, the first part of each subcanto, focuses on distress and looks back at history, and Transfomation II, the second part, presents hope for the future. This pattern, consistent across the chapters, does not require redaction-criticism to ex-

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plain it because it is the thematic design of the text. From these transformations follow theological conclusions. Becking argues that Jeremiah 30–31 does not present a paradoxical God—punishing and comforting at the same time—but rather testifies to a changing, passionate God who responds to human situations as required. This God restores cosmic order and new life in the days to come. Once separate essays, Becking’s chapters are now skillfully integrated into a developing argument. But, as Becking makes his case for methodological clarity and step-by-step investigation, the effect is to splinter Jeremiah’s beautiful, lyric poetry into small shards. The book does amplify the rich complexity of the poetry in new ways, but the analysis never draws the many splintered details back together to show how, as Becking claims, interpretation is art as much as painstaking science. It often seems as if Becking studies the notes and rhythms of a detailed musical score—cantos and canticles—and does not quite arrive at the sounds.

Marc Bregman, THE TANHUMA-YELAMMEDENU LITERATURE: STUDIES IN THE EVOLUTION OF THE VERSIONS (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2003) x + 299 pp. (Hebrew), x* + 9*, 2 plates. Paper. 65.00. ISBN 1-59333-095-2. Reviewed by Jason Kalman Hebrew Union College—Jewish Institute of Religion Cincinnati In the past decade three different translations of all or part of a rabbinic text referred to as “Midrash Tanhuma-Yelamdenu” have appeared. 1 These 1 John Townsend has produced a multivolume translation of Solomon Buber’s Hebrew edition [J. Townsend, Midrash Tanhuma Translated into English with Introduction, Indices and Brief Notes (Volumes 1–3, Hoboken: Ktav, 1989–2003); S. Buber, Midrash Tanchuma: Ein agadischer Commentar zum Pentateuch von Rabbi Tanchuma ben Rabbi Abba (Vilna: Romm, 1885)]. Samuel Berman has translated Midrash Tanhuma to Genesis and Exodus from the Hebrew “standard printed edition” (see below) [S. Berman, Midrash Tanhuma-Yelammedenu: An English Translation of Genesis and Exodus from the Printed Versions of Tanhuma-

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multiple translations of multiple Hebrew recensions highlight the importance of the volume reviewed here. Marc Bregman tackles the complex issue of the relationship of the preserved editions of Midrash TanhumaYelamdenu and the hundreds of text witnesses. The volume, essentially a xerographic reproduction of the author’s 1991 doctoral dissertation written at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, includes an updated bibliography as well as a new transcription and translation of Cairo Geniza Manuscript Fragment, Taylor-Schechter C146. It excludes a number of appendices to the original dissertation, but is otherwise identical. Describing Midrash Tanhuma, and the challenges that face modern scholars who treat it, is necessary before discussing how successfully Bregman’s volume resolves them. When used today the name TanhumaYelamdenu refers to a volume of homiletical midrashim organized partially on the basis of a triennial Torah reading cycle. The name Tanhuma appears in a number of medieval sources and derives from the attribution of teachings to the amora R. Tanhuma bar Abba. The name Yelamdenu seems to be synonymous when used in other medieval texts and stems from the frequent appearance of the introductory formula yelamdenu rabbenu. The two preserved versions are those of Solomon Buber, based primarily on MS Oxford Neubauer 154, and the so-called “printed edition” which first appeared in Constantinople in 1523 with the title Midrash Tanhuma ha-Nikra Yelamdenu and was frequently reprinted. A number of individual homilies referred to as Yelamdenu in medieval sources are not preserved in either recension. Earlier scholars posited an Urtext, from which the others borrowed, to explain this phenomenon. The two recensions differ quite radically in the portions devoted to Genesis and Exodus but less so in the sections devoted to Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy. They contain the expected textual variants (e.g., small variations in orthography and wording) but also substantial differences in the content of narratives and organization. Studies of both texts show a formulaic construction of individual homilies: (1) a halakhic proem followed by (2) one or more classical proems, (3) the body of the homily, and (4) a messianic conclusion. Examples of this form also appear in other rabbinic works. This fact has led, at least in part, to an understanding the term Tanhuma-Yelamdenu as referring to the two versions as well as to a genre or body of literature which also inYelammedenu with an Introduction, Notes, and Indexes (Hoboken: Ktav, 1996) and three volumes (Exodus 1–2, Deuteronomy) of a pious Hebrew-English edition have appeared [Avrohom Davis, The Metsudah Midrash Tanchuma (Lakewood: Israel Book Shop, 2004)]. These lack any clear indication of the source of the Hebrew text but it is quite similar to the “printed” edition.

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cludes Deuteronomy Rabbah, Pesiqta Rabbati, parts of Exodus Rabbah and Numbers Rabbah, and hundreds of manuscript fragments. In The TanhumaYelammedenu Literature, Bregman successfully attempts the complicated process of analyzing and classifying the material and sorting out the weblike relationships among the texts. The book / dissertation is divided into four chapters. In the first Bregman provides a literature review describing the references to TanhumaYelamdenu in medieval works as well as providing an overview of the scholarly work carried by Zunz, Buber, Bacher, Ginzberg, and others in editing the work and describing the transmission of this midrash. He concludes with a discussion of the more recent works on the matter, but, as expected in a work completed in 1991, the review ends with the writings of Avigdor Shinan and Yaakov Elbaum, which appeared in the late 1980s. The second chapter, the most extensive portion of the book, is a descriptive catalogue of some 200 witnesses to Tanhuma-Yelamdenu material, including the texts described above along with variant versions of the Rabbah midrashim and the manuscript fragments. Such texts, Bregman believes, belong to this genre. His choice to include these particular texts is based primarily on textual and literary factors (e. g., Hebrew orthography, the use of Greek and Latin loanwords, formulaic language). Bregman does not shy away from discussing codicological and paleographical issues, but his primary interest is in where and when a teaching developed, not where and when a manuscript was copied. His choice to deal with literary matters allows him to circumvent the problems raised by what sometimes appear to be early traditions preserved in late copies—raising the question of whether we can prove that a tradition is older than our oldest copy. In the third chapter Bregman provides a case study in order to present an applied method for establishing and describing the relationship among a number of text witnesses to a homily on Exodus 7:8ff. This homily appears in a variety of forms in Cairo Geniza manuscript fragment Taylor-Schechter C146, Tanhuma (Buber) Vaʿera 11–15, Tanhuma (Printed) Vaʿera 3–4, 11– 13, and Exodus Rabbah Ch. 9. Bregman concludes that the Geniza fragment preserves the earliest version of the midrash on the basis of its use of Greek and Latin loanwords (which are usually corrupted by later scribes but are well preserved here), its use of Galilean Aramaic, and its complex structure. He suggests that the complexity of the homily in this early version troubled later scribes / editors who then reordered it in order to simplify it. The linguistic argument here is somewhat stronger than the issue of the complexity of the narrative. Sometimes what begins in a complicated manner is explained more simply later, and sometimes simple tales expand. Bregman elsewhere acknowledges this problem (see his discussion of the

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late strata of Tanhuma-Yelamdenu literature in Ch. 4). Here, however, the combination of proofs provides a solid basis for the conclusion drawn. Bregman suggests that, although the two Tanhuma recensions differ somewhat, they shared a hypothetical Tanhuma model from which they both developed. However, in both cases they borrowed features from other midrashic sources (i. e., not Tanhuma-Yelamdenu) which allowed the “editors” to modify and expand their respective versions. He suggests that the Exodus Rabba version is an attempt to reorganize the homily in the form of an exegetical midrash and is thus likely the latest version of the text. In the fourth chapter, the author draws some broader conclusions based on the results of his case study. He suggests that the midrashic material he catalogued can be grouped into five divisions representing developmental stages. The earliest material developed in Byzantine Palestine around the 5th century. This conclusion is based on linguistic phenomena as well as the question of the historical and cultural milieu in which a given narrative might have developed. The middle stage he describes is somewhat difficult to classify, as he himself points out. In his English abstract he notes that this category includes “the vast amount of Tanhuma-Yelammdenu Midrash which shows no particular signs of earliness on the one hand…or relative lateness on the other.” (p. 4*). This material avoids Galilean Aramaic but still makes use of loanwords. It is in this period that the preserved volumes begin to take form. Interestingly, Bregman adds to his evidence the fact that early seventh century liturgical poets made use of material found in similar forms only in the preserved volumes of the Tanhuma. This, he suggests, proves that the Tanhuma-Yelamdenu genre was already well established before the end of the Byzantine period in Palestine. In the third stage, the late stage, the midrashic traditions found in the earlier versions were expanded by the addition of material that is stylistically different from the forms found in earlier Tanhuma-Yelamdenu material and more consistent with the intellectual products of geonic-era Babylonia (e. g., the inclusion of passages seeming to originate in the Sheiltot). These considerations suggest an editing of formal volumes of the material in the geonic or early Islamic period. Bregman posits that both the recension of Tanhuma on Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy preserved by Buber and that which became the printed Tanhuma on the whole Pentateuch were edited at the end of this period, while Buber’s Tanhuma to Genesis and Exodus are likely the product of later European, more specifically Italian, editing. He deduces so from geographical references in the text. The latest development occurred in what Bregman calls “satellite” works. These are texts that borrowed material from the already edited Midrash Tanhuma-Yelamdenu and incorpo-

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rated it in new literary contexts (e.g., the retelling of the homily on Ex. 7:8 in Ex. Rab. 9). The results of Bregman’s work are quite convincing. He provides a model of careful, serious text study. This volume should be required reading for those whose scholarly pursuits will take them into the chaotic world of the transmission history of rabbinic texts. The number of works which have cited Bregman’s dissertation prove its importance, but also its previous availability. This “new” edition unfortunately provides little that is new. Other scholars have shared Bregman’s conclusions in their footnotes and literature surveys and he has published a number of earlier articles as well. This volume presents results the scholarly world has already attributed to Bregman for the past decade. 2 It somehow seems silly to criticize an author for not writing the book the reviewer would prefer had been written, but here it seems necessary to point out that in 1991, this book was cutting edge. Although no study of this sort has appeared since, much scholarly work has been done and it is unfortunate that Bregman did not choose to a add discussion of these recent developments. Allen Kensky produced a critical edition of the printed version of Tanhuma to Exodus. 3 Bregman suggested this was needed in 1991 and it has been done. Critical editions, or synoptic editions, of other midrashim have become available, studies on the interrelationship of various midrashic texts have continued to appear. Bregman proves in this volume that he is best suited to comment on these recent developments, and this new edition provided him the opportunity to do so, but he declined. This criticism is not intended to take away from the great value of Bregman’s study. His scholarship is solid and his conclusions are important. This new edition will fortunately make this fine work more easily accessible to those entering the field. Unfortunately, it provides nothing new for those already toiling in it.

2 See, for example, Gunter Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1996) pp. 302–306. 3 A. Kensky, Midrash Tanhuma Shmot (Unpublished doctoral dissertation; New York: JTS, 1991).

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Paul E. Fitzpatrick, S. M., THE DISARMAMENT OF GOD: EZEKIEL 38–39 IN ITS MYTHIC CONTEXT (The Catholic Biblical Quarterly Monograph Series, 37; Washington: The Catholic Biblical Association of America, 2004), xviii + 243 pp. Paper. US $11.50. ISBN 0-915170-36-1. Reviewed by T. M. Lemos Yale University The Gog pericope in Ezekiel 38–39 has long perplexed scholars and lay readers alike. Among the many proposals regarding the identity of Gog, those of a historical nature have figured prominently: Gyges of Lydia, Alexander the Great, etc. In this book, however, Fitzpatrick offers an alternative explanation of Gog as a mythological, rather than historical foe. He is not the first to make such a suggestion, of course, but his reading goes further than others have in explicating not only the content but also the placement of this enigmatic passage. Fitzpatrick presents an intriguing reading of Ezekiel 38–39. In his assessment of previous proposals, he convincingly problematizes the thesis that Gyges of Lydia forms the basis for the character of Gog, and suggests that one should look at a mythological, rather than historical referent. In fact, he argues that this passage is mythopoeic in nature. In it Yhwh musters the forces of chaos that he battled at creation in order to destroy them once and for all, thus completing the act of cosmogony itself. In doing this, he addresses certain thorny issues (e.g., why it is that Yhwh himself leads out Gog against Israel, and the seemingly odd placement of 39:21–29). Fitzpatrick tackles these issues primarily in chapter four. In chapter five, perhaps the strongest in the book, Fitzpatrick discusses the mythic elements in the rest of Ezekiel. While his criteria for what features of the book qualify as myth seem at times overly generous, his assessment that Ezekiel is rife with mythic references is certainly convincing, even if it largely reiterates the work of others. His treatment of these elements brings his larger reading into sharper focus, giving him the opportunity to explicate why the Gog passage was placed where it was in the book and to argue that its placement was quite purposeful, contrary to what others have alleged. In Ezekiel 34, Yhwh establishes a covenant of peace with

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Israel. In Ezekiel 36–37, this covenant begins to be actualized. Israel will resettle the land and live securely without walls, Israel will be resurrected and reconstituted. But in order to ensure that this occur, Yhwh must call forth the foe of foes and destroy it, so that Israel will never again be threatened. Only after this momentous battle may the temple be rebuilt and the cult established once again. Fitzpatrick thus offers a broad reading that addresses not only the myriad interpretive issues presented by the Gog pericope, but also much of the material in the latter half of the book of Ezekiel. Though compelling, Fitzpatrick’s expansive reading is not unproblematic. One major issue concerns his argument that the passages in the book of Ezekiel were very consciously arranged—an argument upon which his overall reading is to a large extent dependent. This argument is not always convincing. A place of particular weakness is his explanation concerning the seemingly disjunctive placement of chapter 35. In addition, the book has certain organizational flaws. Rather than beginning the work with an introduction, he does so with a lengthy review of scholarship. This review of scholarship is thorough and accurate, but one finds strewn throughout it various comments introducing Fitzpatrick’s own arguments. Such asides interrupt the flow of the chapter. The lack of a proper introduction to the work proves to be problematic for the latter part of the book as well, for it necessitates that the actual argumentation in chapters three through five double, in some sense, as introductory material. This fact makes these chapters at times difficult to follow. The argumentation in chapter four, especially, is less focused than one might like. Fitzpatrick’s work also suffers at times from a certain lack of methodological sophistication. In the second chapter, he discusses the nature of myth, both in ancient Israel and more generally, and addresses such concepts as the “mythopoetic” and the “mythopoeic,” both of which are important to arguments presented in later chapters. The author does provide a good review of the scholarship on myth in ancient Israel here, but inadequately deals with certain highly contentious issues—for example, the relationship between myth and cult/ritual. While he does refer to certain nonbiblicists, his citations are limited to very general works, such as The Encyclopedia of Religion, or scholars such as Eliade, whose phenomenological approach is very unpopular among anthropologists and religious theorists today. Fitzpatrick seems unaware that his approach is at odds with that of more current religious and ritual theory, as exemplified by the work of Catherine Bell and others. Although such weaknesses lessen the force of Fizpatrick’s reading, the interpretation of the Gog pericope he presents here remains quite interesting. At the very least, Fitzpatrick offers in this volume a worthy alternative

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reading of a passage that many had deemed a perpetual interpretive crux, and for that he must be commended.

Isaac Kalimi, AN ANCIENT ISRAELITE HISTORIAN: STUDIES IN THE CHRONICLER, HIS TIME, PLACE AND WRITING (Studia Semitica Neerlandica, 46; Assen: Van Gorcum, 2005), x + 214 pp. Cloth, €79.50. ISBN 90-232-4071-5. Reviewed by Paul Evans Wycliffe College This volume consists of seven previously published essays (though reworked and updated) combined with two new essays to form a monograph presenting Isaac Kalimi’s “most recent treatment of fundamental issues of Chronicles” (p. 9). The book is divided into two parts: Part One deals with issues of date, genre and a literary characteristic found in Chronicles; Part Two (nearly 2/3 of the book) focuses on the Chronicler’s concern with Jerusalem. In Part One, Kalimi argues against contrary proposals by scholars (e.g., the Chronicler as theologian, exegete, midrashist, etc.) that the Chronicler was a historian in the true sense, implying that the historical trustworthiness of Chronicles is strengthened by this identification (a conclusion not selfevident to this reviewer). This section has much to commend it as it points out the historical nature of the Chronicler’s work; however, Kalimi’s demand of an absolute ‘either / or’ on this issue seems unhelpful. Kalimi himself acknowledges midrashic elements in Chronicles and on various occasions notes how the Chronicler “invented” elements of his history (e.g., the list of Bathsheba’s sons [p. 87]) or rewrote stories in such a way as to “create suspense”, but making their “historical trustworthiness…very uncertain” (p. 14). Regarding the date of the Chronicler and the scope of his work, Kalimi adopts conventional positions. He argues that Chronicles and EzraNehemiah are distinct literary works by different authors. On the basis of similar literary techniques and devices throughout the work, he also argues that Chronicles is a literary unity devoid of secondary additions (p. 56). Kalimi dates the Chronicler near the turn of the fourth century BCE. He considers the list of David’s descendants in 1 Chronicles 3 as the most impor-

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tant evidence for a terminus a quo (p. 65), but makes little mention of how the date of the composition of Ezra-Nehemiah assists in this regard. This is surprising since Kalimi argues that Chronicles relies on Ezra-Nehemiah (e.g., 1 Chronicles 9 / Nehemiah 11 and 2 Chronicles 36 / Ezra 1) and that this is the work of the Chronicler and not a later editor (pp. 13, 146–47). Regarding a terminus ante quem Kalimi suggests “the first quarter of the fourth century BCE” (p. 59) but then later suggests 332 BCE (p. 65). In fact, the chapter’s conclusion only states a terminus a quo with any conviction, while his earlier confidence regarding a terminus ante quem seems to disappear unexplainably. The third chapter deals with “paronomasia” in Chronicles. Here Kalimi offers insightful suggestions explaining some divergences between Chronicles and Samuel-Kings on the basis of this literary device. However, this chapter seems out of place and perhaps was better suited for his other recent book, The Books of Chronicles: Historical Writing and Literary Devices (The Biblical Encyclopaedia Library 18; Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 2000). In Part Two of the book Kalimi identifies Jerusalem as the location of the Chronicler and as a central motif in Chronicles. Kalimi points out the Chronicler’s interest in all aspects of the city, noting allusions to Jerusalem in the genealogies and how the Chronicler makes David’s conquest of the city his first act as king, even preceding his own coronation. One previously unpublished essay, the sixth chapter (only three and a half pages long) examines the Chronicler’s use of the name ‘City of David’ and argues that “according to the Chronicler, already from the very beginning it was inappropriate for King David even to allow the people to name the city of Jerusalem after him” (p. 111), and “accordingly tried to minimize” the use of “City of David” in reference to Jerusalem. Kalimi notes omissions of the term on two occasions, but both seem given to better explanations (1 Chr 29:26–28 [1 Kgs 2:10–12] omits not only the name, but the entire burial notice of David wherein the name was used, and the omission in 1 Chr 15:25 [2 Sam 6:12b] may be due to a textual difficulty). To further buttress his case, Kalimi notes that Chronicles uses ‘Jerusalem’ 151 times without changing it to the ‘City of David’; however, by this logic, we could argue similarly that the Deuteronomist was not in favour of the name ‘City of David’ since he uses ‘Jerusalem’ 123 times in Samuel-Kings. In fact, Samuel-Kings only uses ‘City of David’ slightly more than Chronicles (22 times vs. 19 times). Moreover, 1 Chr 15:1 contains an unparalleled occurrence, throwing further doubt on Kalimi’s conclusion here. The final chapter of the book focuses on the end of Chronicles. In light of the Chronicler’s emphasis on Jerusalem, Kalimi interprets the final verse in the book (drawn from Ezra, but ending mid-sentence, “let him go

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up”) as a “Zionist” call to immigration back to Jerusalem (p. 153). Interestingly, Kalimi suggests that the canonical placement of Chronicles at the end of the Tanak is due to its editors’ desire to conclude on a “hopeful theological and ‘Zionistic’-motivated” note (p. 155). He posits the rabbis likely positioned Chronicles so as to give hope and direction to Jews who experienced the destruction of Jerusalem by Titus in 70 CE (p. 155). This is a fascinating and quite plausible suggestion. The book is well organized with helpful summaries concluding each chapter and is well documented with numerous bibliographic references (including surprising references to anti-critical scholar E. J. Young [e.g., pp. 42, 52, 57, 144] with seemingly no awareness of the nature of Young’s work). The book contains numerous helpful charts and tables and some wonderful photographs of works of art, ancient manuscripts and epigraphic evidence. The book is very readable, allowing easy access to the well reasoned conclusions of a specialist in Chronicles studies. This book will benefit the student and scholar alike. It constitutes an important contribution to the study of this fascinating book.

Isaac Kalimi, THE RESHAPING OF ANCIENT ISRAELITE HISTORY IN CHRONICLES (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2005), xiv + 473 pp. Cloth. US $44.50. ISBN 1-57506-058-2. Reviewed by Ken Ristau Penn State University The purpose of this monograph is “to identify and define the literary and historiographical forms and techniques” of the author of Chronicles and place them within the broader context of biblical literature and ancient historiography (p. 2). The volume has an introduction, twenty chapters examining major devices and various sub-varieties, a short conclusion, a bibliography, and indices of authors, scripture, and ancient sources. The twenty chapters and accordingly, the major devices they discuss, are LiteraryChronological Proximity, Historiographical Revision, Completions and Additions, Omissions, Given Name-Equivalent Name Interchanges, Treatment of Problematic Texts, Harmonizations, Character Creation, “Measure for Measure,” Allusion, Chiasmus, Chiasmus between Parallel Texts, Repe-

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titions, Inclusio, Antithesis, Simile, Key Words, Numerical Patterns, Generalization and Specification, and Inconsistency, Disharmony, and Historical Mistakes. Each chapter begins with a short explanation of the technique, an example or two in biblical or extra-biblical literature, and a representative analysis of the technique in Chronicles, including exegetical, theological, and historical-critical comments. The monograph is a long-awaited English translation and revision of The Book of Chronicles: Historical Writing and Literary Devices (Biblical Encyclopaedia Library 18; Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 2000), which was itself a Hebrew translation and revision of Zur Geschichtsschreibung des Chronisten: Literarisch-historiographische Abweichungen der Chronik von ihren Paralleltexten in den Samuel- und Konigsbuchern (BZAW 226; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 1995), which was a revision of the author’s thesis. Ehud Ben Zvi reviewed the Hebrew translation in this journal (http://www. arts.ualberta.ca/ JHS/ reviews/review052.htm). Though, according to the preface, this is a significant revision of the Hebrew, the problems identified in Ben Zvi’s review persist in this volume and remain the major problems. In particular, Ben Zvi made two critical observations: omissions in the bibliography and an abbreviated conclusion. First, while Kalimi has expanded the bibliography, most notably to include, as Ben Zvi suggested, Japhet’s 1993 commentary on Chronicles, the bibliography still lacks significant and relevant works by prominent scholars of Chronicles, such as Ehud Ben Zvi, Gary Knoppers, and Ralph Klein, as well as the two-volume commentary by William Johnstone and Riley’s superb work, King and Cultus. There is also very little bibliography pertaining directly to the literary and rhetorical devices under examination, especially from the fields of linguistics and discourse analysis. These omissions in the bibliography are symptomatic of some of Kalimi’s more questionable analyses and interpretations throughout the monograph. Second, while Kalimi does raise some important implications of his work in the conclusion, the conclusion struck me as perfunctory and unsatisfying. This problem seems related to one of the peculiar aspects of this volume, which is the inconsistent application of historical-critical judgments. Kalimi sporadically makes judgments in his commentary regarding the historicity of particular passages. These historical judgments are often a digression from the literary analysis and so distract from it. Consequently, I think the volume would have benefited from a summary analysis of the significance and purpose of the literary techniques for the ancient readership(s) at the end of each chapter rather than these occasional digressions concerning historicity. In turn, this might have allowed Kalimi to develop a more cohesive thesis in the conclusion concerning the use of the various

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literary techniques as modes to communicate historical and/or theological messages for the text’s community, even or especially when it is not an accurate representation of wie es eigentlich gewesen. In this way, Kalimi might have more ably fulfilled his purpose to situate “the literary and historiographical forms and techniques” in their ancient context and also have provided greater insight into the purpose and form of ancient historiography in general. As it stands, the conclusion is not nearly thorough enough, perhaps begging a second volume. Despite these shortcomings, Kalimi’s work makes several important contributions to the ongoing study of Chronicles: (1) Kalimi proves that the Chronicler is a sophisticated author, who possesses an adroit command of his sources and considerable literary skill. Rather than treating Chronicles as the poorer sibling of Samuel-Kings, Kalimi invites students and scholars to appreciate Chronicles as an important source for the history of ideas and thought in post-exilic Yehud and as a creative literary production in its own right. While readers are unlikely to agree with all of Kalimi’s interpretations of the Chronicler’s communicative intent, Kalimi leaves no doubt about the Chronicler’s literary and intellectual sophistication. (2) Kalimi’s analysis of the literary techniques has and will continue to inspire students and scholars to take seriously the aesthetic value of the text in their analyses. The focus on a variety of literary techniques necessarily demands that students and scholars read the text more closely and so, it is hoped, they will draw more responsible conclusions about the actual claims made within it. (3) The catalogue of techniques and the supporting examples, while not comprehensive, can be regarded as thorough and seminal. As such, Kalimi’s volume is an important reference work for the study of Chronicles and should be consulted regularly by all scholars studying in this area. The excellent and detailed table of contents and indices make it particularly attractive in this regard. In addition, apart from these general contributions, scholars will draw on the many particular insights that Kalimi provides throughout the monograph. Whether through agreement or disagreement, this monograph will spur considerable research and discussion on Chronicles and remain a staple of scholarly articles and footnotes–an impressive accomplishment.

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Carol Meyers, HOUSEHOLDS AND HOLINESS: THE RELIGIOUS CULTURE OF ISRAELITE WOMEN (Facets; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2005), viii + 105 pp. Paper. US $6.00, CAN $8.50. ISBN 0-8006-3731-3. Reviewed by Ellen White University of St. Michael’s College Carol Meyer’s latest book is an expanded version of her 2001 keynote address for the International Organization for the Study of the Old Testament. Her mandate was to explore the impact of sociology and gender studies on Israelite religion. In the Introduction, Meyers traces the history of women in relation to Israelite religion. This is not an exhaustive exploration of the history of the topic, but it does set the stage for the current discussion and has the merit of pointing the reader to other sources for more detailed information. She clarifies that her approach will not focus on theology, which she claims is a masculine approach, but will examine the practice of religion where the experience of women is more evident. She also highlights what she perceives as flawed means of interpretation. The next chapter explains how she will avoid these traditional pitfalls and the benefits of exploring the religious culture of women, rather than the religion of women. This distinction is important for Meyers, because she incorporates both beliefs and practices (or responses) in the first term. By using an integrated anthropological approach to discover the ethnohistory of her group, Meyers finds that women’s cultic role was largely magical. She claims her study is unique because it avoids preconceived notions regarding the role of the father and the effect of patriarchy on religious expression. She uses archaeology to support her claims, as she rejects the position that the female pillar figurines represented a goddess. Instead, she claims that they were magical talismans used in the religious culture of reproduction. Because such pillar figurines are often found in conjunction with Bes figures, she claims that they must also have reproductive symbolism. These considerations do not explain why these figurines are often found in tombs. After all, one is no longer concerned about fertility, preg-

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nancy, and lactation after death. (Meyers attempts to explain the matter in chapter 6) Much of her thesis regarding women and their religious connection with magic comes from her use of ethnographic data. Despite the fact that Meyers claims the text of the Hebrew Bible does not explicitly refer to women’s religious culture, she does find expressions of women’s religious culture in biblical narratives and proverbs, as well as other Ancient Near Eastern texts, particularly those that refer to magico-medical issues. She finds expressions of women’s religious culture in ritual activities and apotropaic behaviours. Her conclusion begins by debunking two common assumptions. The first is that the home is a tertiary social unit. She demonstrates, as she has done elsewhere, that it is in fact the primary unit of Israelite society. The second has to do with the ideas that revolve around western beliefs about patriarchy and its implications for social structure. After tackling these stereotypes, Meyers explains how social structure led to an informal network of women that helped deal with the immediate concerns of life and death. Finally, she concludes that ancient Israel should be viewed as a heterarchy, a system not based on ranking, or in which ranking is not static. On the whole this is an excellent presentation of the religious culture of reproduction and, by extension, of women’s religious culture. However, a few of Meyers’ assumptions should be challenged. The first is that the religious culture of women is the same as that of reproduction. Whether intended or not, the book appears to leave women no cultic role outside of reproduction. She might have concluded thus, but she has not demonstrated that women did not participate in the cult in other ways. The second weakness is the brevity of the work. Many times it would have been helpful for her to give more detailed explanations. However, this problem is somewhat overcome by her notes, which refer the reader to more detailed explanations elsewhere. In sum, this book points at a vital piece of the Israelite religion pie.

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André LaCocque, RUTH (Trans. K. C. Hanson; A Continental Commentary; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2004), xix + 187 pp. Cloth. US $28.00, CAN $37.95. ISBN 0-8006-9515-1. Reviewed by Lissa M. Wray Beal Providence Theological Seminary André LaCocque’s work on Ruth follows on the heels of a previous version of the commentary in French (Le Livre de Ruth, CAT [Geneva: Labor et Fides, 2004]). The present commentary however, is “not a slavish duplication” (p. xvii). LaCocque presents Ruth as a post-exilic novella; a subversive, “midrashic fiction” (p. 12) that brings a “generous comprehension of the Torah” (p. 135). LaCocque views the narrative through social and legal lenses (p. 2), concluding that the novella critiques the exclusivist element (particularly priestly element [p. 135]) of post-exilic society. Using a hermeneutic of ḥesed the author moves beyond legalistic Torah observance to the application of the true commandment (although one wonders how its application is measured). In this way the Law is “no longer a means of control and power … but the instrument of peace, reconciliation, and equality” (p. 27). For LaCocque, such a reading makes the book a canonical bridge to the generous and inclusive ministry of Jesus (pp. 101, 108, 154). Much of LaCocque’s reading of Ruth as a subversive document rests on his placement of its composition in the post-exilic period. Throughout the commentary, he consistently mounts proofs (social, legal, linguistic, form-critical) for this late date, following up the main lines of his argument presented in the introduction. He includes the genealogy as an intrinsic and original part of the narrative, a fictitious (p. 15) presentation of the glorious king—whose family history included a non-Israelite. This genealogical fiction is offered to its post-exilic audience to urge the validity of interpreting the Law to include a foreigner into the people Israel. In a lengthy introduction, he gives an overview of the whole narrative, comments on textual criticism, literary criticism, style, canonicity, date, social environment, and theology. Following the introduction, he addresses each chapter in a new commentary chapter. Each begins with several refer-

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ence passages (pertinent canonical intertexts, and background social and legal texts). Next, LaCocque has a general discussion of each chapter (most substantial for chapters 3 and 4; minimal for chapter 2). These are wonderful exegetical interactions with the final form and narrative shape of the book of Ruth, unfolding it through a variety of means: social commentary, interaction with modern critical theories (particularly feminist), and theological commentary. Following the general discussion, LaCocque works through each chapter scene-by-scene, reproducing the biblical text (NRSV), providing annotations primarily concerning textual witnesses, and concluding with discussion of each verse. Much could be said of LaCocque’s very readable work with respect to the intertextual connections he cites (particularly to Genesis 19 and 38), but it is his work in detailing the interpretation of the levirate and redemption laws which stands as the most explicative part of his work. Here, he builds an argument that neither Naomi (due to her age) nor Ruth (due to her foreignness) is eligible for the application of the levirate law. Consequently, without hope of issue, there could be no application of the redemption law. Boaz subverts the Law’s strict application, transferring the claim a younger Naomi might make on the levirate law to the foreign, young woman Ruth, thus also enabling the activation of the law of redemption. Given LaCocque’s reading of the Law as exclusive and non-applicable, one catches the sense of wonder and joy at the discovery of such ḥesed. Surely, if written to a post-exilic, exclusionary audience, the book (at the very least) would chide their hardness of heart, and at the most, invite them into full participation with such a spirit of generosity. Not all will agree with LaCocque’s assessment of the non-applicability of the Laws in this particular instance. Victor H. Matthews’ work, published contemporaneously (Judges & Ruth, [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004]) assumes their applicability and stresses that the hospitality protocols of the day encouraged their application even to the foreigner. A further question is raised by LaCocque’s insistence that Boaz’s generous interpretation of the Law must necessarily be generated in a post-exilic setting; one wonders if such an interpretation (subversive, even) could not have also arisen in a pre-exilic setting. Throughout, LaCocque footnotes his work extensively; of particular interest here is his awareness of the rabbinic traditions which bring fresh and helpful insights not often found in non-Jewish readings of the Hebrew Bible. This commentary is highly recommended, suitable for graduate students and scholars, pastors and interested lay people. It provides careful

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interaction with both the biblical text and the original languages, but is also readable and theologically stimulating.

Anthony F. Campbell, JOSHUA TO CHRONICLES AN INTRODUCTION (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 2004), x + 267 pp. Paper. US $24.95. ISBN 0-664-25751-8. Reviewed by Patricia Dutcher-Walls Vancouver School of Theology In this introduction to the books of Joshua to Chronicles, Campbell provides a guide for the task of interpreting the “historical” books of the Older Testament. Campbell’s book is not a history of Israel, nor an introduction to historical-critical or newer literary, feminist, etc. methods, nor a detailed survey of the content of these biblical books. Rather, Campbell seeks to help a student or beginning reader see how the meanings and values inherent in these texts offer theological reflection on Israel’s experience. By including Chronicles and contrasting meanings found there with those in Joshua to Kings, Campbell supports his case that the “historical” books present a theological interpretation of Israel’s past. As Campbell explores it, the nature of the interpretive task in reading Scripture is shaped by the nature of Scripture itself. While the Bible does present information and convictions about the past, it is not history. And while Scripture is based on claims about the presence of God, it is not the unmediated revelation of God. So the interpretive task neither seeks to construct a history from the text (p. 11) nor to make fundamentalist claims about God (p. 12). Rather, Scripture is the record of ancient Israel’s reflections on its “experience of life in relation to God” (p. 4), its “discernment of the presence and activity of God” (p. 11), and its deep engagement with issues of human existence (p. 4). So the interpretive task seeks to understand Scripture as the articulation of these things, to explore how it communicates these things, and to be open to learning from it (p. 9). Keeping to his sense of the interpretive task, and the corresponding need for deep reflection on Scripture, Campbell structures his survey in the order of the biblical books. Each chapter is organized into: 1) an overview of the book(s) being considered, ending with a schematic chart of sections;

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2) a description of the “major text signals,” that is, the features in the text (for example, the ordering or duplication of stories, or the prominence of various characters) that should “govern its interpretation” (p. 20); 3) a close reading of the sections indicated in the chart using the text signals as interpretive guides; 4) a summarizing section, “Reading the Whole,” where various interpretive issues and observations are pulled together; 5) questions for review or discussion; and 6) a brief bibliography of works other than commentaries (which are listed at the end of the book). The close reading highlights structural pointers to the text’s focus, major themes and theological comments in the stories, and the presence of varying views on events and ideas. Throughout, Campbell shows how the text is best understood as the ancient writers’ attempts to articulate interpretations of their identity, past events, and the presence of God in their lives. The books of Chronicles are included in the appropriate chapters on Samuel and Kings. Campbell’s coverage of Chronicles is brief and consists largely of an overview and comparison with the Samuel/Kings materials in order to highlight the central concern for the temple that is the theological and interpretive focus of Chronicles (p. 117). As Campbell covers each book, he mentions related historical, archeological, compositional or form critical observations to orient his readers both to some of the contexts of the books’ composition and to the interpretive issues Biblical scholars have raised. A consistent underpinning is the assumption that this literature began with various sources and traditions, some perhaps oral, and underwent successive editions in the years of the monarchy and into the exile and post-exilic period. Not surprisingly, Campbell relies on his own past work on sources like the “Prophetic Record” underlying Kings to give a sense of earlier traditions behind the text. The concluding chapter of the book draws together the diverse observations about the compositional history and interpretations made in earlier chapters. Because the earlier compositional comments are not systematic, the book is best used in a setting where terms like “deuteronomistic” can be explained, or, perhaps the last chapter can be read first in order to orient a reader to the concepts about compositional history. Campbell’s book works well in insisting that biblical literature such as that found in Joshua to Chronicles is both an interpretive text and a text that needs interpretation. For any audience that might naively or doctrinally begin to read the text “straight off the page” as either historical truth or faith statement, such an emphasis, consistently carried out through sensitive readings of the stories, is necessary and welcome. Campbell’s tone is refreshing. Where a story presents a difficult or problematic reading for contemporary readers, he acknowledges that reality. Where scholarship is still

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unclear or unsettled as to resolving critical issues, he acknowledges that and sometimes offers a provisional reading. His own commitment to reading the text as Scripture and as formative and informative for people of faith recommends his approach for those who want to explore how such commitments can integrate with an active understanding of the task of interpretation.

R. P. Gordon and J. C. de Moor, eds., THE OLD TESTAMENT IN ITS WORLD (Oudtestamentische Studiën 52; Leiden/Boston: Brill Academic Publishers, 2005), x + 293 pp. Cloth. € 90.00, US $120.00. ISBN 90-041-4322-X. Reviewed by Mark W. Hamilton Abilene Christian University Comparative studies of the Hebrew Bible date back centuries, and the approach remains vital to our discipline because it helps eliminate dubious interpretations and sheds light on obscure words, literary conventions, social customs, and beliefs. Comparativism allows us to appreciate realistically the limits of biblical historicity, or the rhetorical dimensions of theological arguments within the Bible, to take obvious examples. Although such taxing research is nowadays often overshadowed by strictly literary (quasi-New Critical) readings of the Bible, also appropriate within their limitations, it continues to yield valuable results. Such basic research deserves the guild’s encouragement. This volume’s fourteen essays address major methodological and evidentiary problems confronting our understanding of Israel’s history, religion, literature, and culture within its ancient Near Eastern setting. Topics discussed include: comparative philology and the text of the Old Testament (Cathcart), annals and chronicles in Israel and its neighbors (Dijkstra), comparativism and the nature of YHWH (Gordon), the presence of Greeks in Palestine (Hagedorn), conceptions of death and afterlife in Egypt and Israel (Johnston), Neo-Hittite inscriptions and the Bible (Kitchen), disillusion among post-exilic Jews (Korpel), monotheism and rationality in Gerstenberger’s Theologies in the Old Testament (MacDonald), textual modification in Egyptian texts (Richardson), Abraham and his wives (Tollington), the inver-

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sion of pastoral metaphors for divine activity in ancient literature (van Hecke), priestly calendars (Wagenaar), word play in the Bible and Levantine inscriptions (Wesselius), and the Rephaim in Israel and Ugarit (Williams). Many of these are well-traveled paths, but the authors manage to find new twists in the road and take us to new destinations. The essays address several types of issues. On religion or theology, the essays by Gordon and MacDonald make astute, clarifying comments about Israel’s portrayals of God and our use of them in current theology, cautioning us against both an Albrightian contrast between YHWH and other deities and a facile elision of the distinctives of Israel’s faith. Johnston, drawing mostly on texts and not archaeological artifacts, argues for Israel’s lack of obsession with the dead, in contrast to neighboring cultures. Van Hecke shows how the inversion of a common topos, pastoral metaphors for divine action, allowed ancients to question conventional religion. Korpel finds a dissatisfaction with their faith among Achaemenid period Jews. Wagenaar shows connections between Israel’s and Mesopotamia’s calendars and their implications for cultic practice. On historical and historiographic issues, Dijkstra helpfully locates several biblical texts (including, innovatively, the book of Haggai) in their place among the historiographic genres of the Near East. Kitchen’s survey of Iron Age Neo-Hittite texts and their implications for biblical studies well introduces a too neglected field, though the piece suffers from the author’s idiosyncratic take of the United Monarchy and other controversial problems. Hagedorn traces evidence for Greeks in Israel before 600 BCE. On aspects of text-making, Richardson shows how Egyptian texts could be modified, while Wesselius finds polysemy in the Bible and the Kilamuwa inscription from Zençirli. Cathcart catalogues examples of comparative philology shedding light on the translation of selected texts. Given the temptation to speculate about the development of the biblical texts among (reconstructed) circles of editors, the existence of such controls holds out promise to future research. Naturally, readers may quarrel with arguments of the authors. To take some examples, Kitchen’s too-easy dismissal of problems with a United Monarchy or Korpel’s discovery of nihilism in Esther will be controversial. Wesselius’s ingenious identifications of wordplay in Kilamuwa seem difficult to accept, given the brevity and likely use of the inscription, though he convincingly identifies anomalies in its rhetoric. Johnston could have dealt with relevant archaeological evidence more extensively. The articles by Gordon and MacDonald, because they address highly controversial issues, deserve meaningful responses. In every case, however, the essays’ positive

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contributions far outweigh any shortcomings, and no truly weak article appears in the book. In most cases, the essays will prompt further discussion. Any collection of essays will have gaps, and it is not a criticism to hope that the editors will perhaps collaborate again on a volume revisiting such important topics as kingship, warfare, the sociology of elites and peasants, hymns and other poetry, or proverbs and other wisdom genres, among other topics that comparative approaches can elucidate. Still, the editors have managed to pull together articles of high quality that both address the state of their respective discussions and either clear away bad ideas or suggest new approaches that call for further research. The volume appears carefully edited and proofread, and the biblical and author indices are helpful, though a subject index would have been beneficial. Gordon and de Moor, along with their colleagues, have placed us in their debt. This book should be in every serious library of biblical studies, and we may hope for a cheaper edition making it available to individual scholars.

Rüdiger Schmitt, MAGIE IM ALTEN TESTAMENT (Alter Orient und Altes Testament, 313; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2004), xiii + 471 pp. Cloth. €94.00. ISBN 3-934628-52-4. Reviewed by Scott B. Noegel University of Washington The last few decades have seen an unprecedented rise in the number of publications on ancient magic. It seems that one can hardly pick up a publisher’s catalog without finding advertisements for new monographs and conference volumes devoted to the subject. 1 While this represents a vigorous renewed interest in the topic and healthy re-engagement with the ageold debate of whether one should distinguish magic from religion, it also makes it difficult for new works to remain up-to-date or engaged with the continually burgeoning interdisciplinary interest. Fortunately, the book under review here is a welcome exception. A slightly revised version of the I admittedly include my own work here. See, Scott B. Noegel, Joel Walker, and Brannon Wheeler, eds., Prayer, Magic, and the Stars in the Ancient and Late Antique World (Magic in History Series, 8; Pennsylvania State University Press, 2003). 1

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author’s doctoral dissertation (Universität Münster 2004), this masterful tome will doubtless become an important resource and focus of debate. 2 It is comprehensive, well organized, and shows a greater methodological sophistication than many works on magic to date, especially those that focus on the ancient Near East and the Hebrew Bible. At the heart of this book, and informing its conclusions, is the long debated relationship between magic and religion. Is magic something that is distinct from religion or is it an undifferentiated aspect of it? Early scholarship on ancient magic asserted a sharp dichotomy between magic and religion. This dichotomy was conceived of in various ways. For some, magic represented an earlier (often called “primitive”) evolutionary point in the history of a religion. For others magic was to be distinguished from religion in that its structure and goal was individual and not social. Still others asserted that the difference between them was one of process (magic is mechanistic and requires praxis, whereas worship requires moral rectitude) or intent (magicians coerce and manipulate, whereas worshipers supplicate). However, as scholars have increasingly become aware, a great deal of evidence from the ancient world flies in the face of these assertions, and so increasingly contemporary scholarship has begun to emphasize important areas of overlap between magic and religion. Various scholars, whose work focuses on Mesopotamia, Egypt, and the Hellenistic world, have begun to suggest that we should view both magical and religious practices as part of a continuum that encompasses both individual and communal forms of piety. For some cultures, this overlap is so extensive that scholars have urged that the term “magic” be abandoned altogether. Others, especially those whose research focuses on the religions of late antiquity, have argued that the term “magic” is best understood as the imagined or feared polemical projection of one individual or culture onto another. For them “magic” is a dirty word for other peoples’ religious practices, a label that marks “other-ness,” a stand-in for unsanctioned, foreign, or illegal forms of religious activity. 3 It is into this thorny and culturally specific debate that this book enters. The editors of the AOAT series also should be thanked for producing this work in such a timely manner in order to ensure its immediate relevance. The speedy turn around time, however, does result in the work reading more like a dissertation than a book and in a number of typographical errors. E.g., see inter alia p. 110 where one must read menaḥēš for menaḥēś pp. 115–116 where the diacritic for the ṭ appears is missing on the words harṭom (3X) and lehāṭîm; and p. 336 where one finds a lack of spacing in the Akkadian text quoted there. 3 The skepticism concerning whether magic is a legitimate category of thought and practice in antiquity informs the tendency to place “magic” in quotation marks—a tendency that has begun to influence biblical scholars. See, e.g., Todd 2

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Chapter One examines the sociology of knowledge concerning the study of magic by placing it within the larger context of comparative and theoretical approaches to religion and ancient Near Eastern and Biblical Studies. Here one finds a thorough but concise survey of the many theories that have influenced the study of ancient magic (e.g., those of the early modern philosophers, structuralists, evolutionists, sociologists, psychologists, phenomenologists, anthropologists, and historians of religion). This provides a useful context for the next section in which Schmitt surveys the study of magic by scholars of the Hebrew Bible (he divides this material into studies that appeared before World War II 4 and those that appeared afterwards). This section is then followed by brief descriptions of magic as treated in Egyptology, Assyriology, and the Classics. Schmitt concludes this interdisciplinary survey by considering the methodological and hermeneutic difficulties in reconstructing ancient conceptions of magic based on textual and archaeological, as opposed to living, resources, and by listing a series of subjects that one might reasonably hope to investigate given the limitations of the evidence. These various subjects (i.e., dimensions of the study of magic) become the focus of Schmitt’s examination. Chapter Two investigates the cosmological bases of ancient conceptions of magic and ritual practice as found in Egypt, Mesopotamia, Ugarit Klutz, ed., Magic in the Biblical World: From the Rod of Aaron to the Ring of Solomon (JSOTSup 245; London: T. and T. Clark International, 2003). Schmitt’s research usefully moves away from this tendency. 4 Though this work is very comprehensive, I note here in chronological order a number of important studies not cited by the author in this section: Anton Jirku, Mantik in Altisrael (Rostok: Rats- and Universitatsbuch druckerei von Adlers Erben, G.m.b.h., 1913); “Zur magischen Bedentung des Kleidung in Israel,” ZAW 17 (1917/18), 19–125; Alfred Bertholet, Kulturgeschichte Israels (Göttingen, Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1919); Gustav Hölscher, Geschichte der israelitischen und jüdischen Religion (Giessen, Alfred Töpelmann, 1922); S. Mowinckel, Psalmstudien, V: Segen und Fluch in Israels Kult und Psalmdichtung (Kristiana: Videnskapsselskapts Skrifter II, 1924); Franz Dornseiff, Das Alphabet in Mystik und Magie (Leipzig: Verlag und Druck von B. G. Teubner, 1925); A. Lods, “Les ideés des Israélites sur les maladies, ses causes et ses remèdies,” in K. Budde, ed., Von Alten Testament, Karl Marti zum 70 Geburtstag gewidmet (Giessen: Töpelmann, 1925), 181–193; “Le rôle des idees magiques dans la mentalite isráelite,” OTE (London: C. Griffin, 1927), pp. 55–76; “magique hébraïque et magie cananéene,” Revue d’Histoire et de Philosophie Religieuse 7 (1927), 1–16; E. G. Kraeling, “The Real Religion of Ancient Israel,” JBL 47 (1928), 133–159; A. Le Fèvre, “La Bible et la Magie,” in L. Pirot, ed., Dictionnaire de la Bible, Supplement. Vol. 5, (Paris: Librairie Letouzey, 1928–), pp. 732–739; Yehezkel Kaufmann, The Religion of Israel, from its Beginnings to the Babylonian Exile (Tel Aviv: Mosad Byalik, 1937) (in Hebrew).

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and Syria (Phoenicia), Hatti, and Israel. 5 Here Schmitt establishes and underscores the close relationship between performative practice and communication with the divine world, and how preoccupations with order and chaos inform cosmological, mythical, and ritual conceptions. His geographical and comparative approach allows him to establish a number of common conceptions shared by the peoples of the ancient Near East and leads him to formulate a functional definition of magic. Magie ist eine ritualsymbolische Handlung, die durchgeführt in einer adäquaten Situation, durch Nutzung bestimmter göttlich enthüllter Medien (Symbol, Wort und Handlung) und kosmischen wissens, ein bestimmtes Ergebnis vermittels symbolischer Antizipation der göttlichen Intervention erzieht (pp. 92–93). For Schmitt, magic is central to religion and communication with the divine. Its believed effectiveness depends on the practicioner’s mythological realization of the ritual, for which the ritual serves as precedent and justification. 6 Ritual materials used by the practitioner serve as symbolic media for communication with the divine, and thus as tools for realizing the effectiveness of the act. With this definition in mind Schmitt proceeds to a detailed study of magic in the Hebrew Bible. He begins in Chapter Three by turning his attention to those Hebrew words most commonly associated with magic. The terms are organized into three units: “Harmful Magic” (i.e., kāšap [passim], ‘ōrrê-yôm [Job 3:8], and šōḥar [Isa 47:11]); “Professional Magicians and their Fields of Activity” (i.e., lāḥaš [passim], nāḥaš [passim], ḥōber [Deut 18:11, Ps 58:6], ba’al lāšōn ‘îš lāšōn [Qoh 10:11, Ps 140:12], ḥakam ḥarāšîm [Isa 3:3], and lāṭ [Exod 7:22]); and “Loanwords” (i.e., ‘aššāp [Dan 1:20] and ḥarṭom [Exod 8:3]). Schmitt examines separately those terms that have been proposed but remain outside scholarly consensus (i.e., ‘āwen [Ps 10:7], šāw’ [Exod 20:7, Deut 5:11], and ‘ōkēr [1 Kgs 18:17]). This chapter offers a useful collation and assessment of the linguistic evidence, though here Schmitt appears to have overlooked the root hāgah “mutter” (e.g., hiphil Isa 8:19), noted for its connection to cursing and incantations already by I. Goldziher in 1896. 7 One important conclu5 The discussion of the contest between Moses and the Egyptian priests (pp. 97–100) appears to be unaware of Scott B. Noegel, “Moses and Magic: Notes on the Book of Exodus,” JANES 24 (1997), 45–59. 6 Given the author’s definition of magic, it might have been useful to integrate the following two relevant works: Jørgen Podmann Sørenson, “The Argument in Ancient Egyptian Magical Formulae,” AcOr 45 (1984), 5–19; Robert A. Yelle, “Rhetorics of Law and Ritual: A Semiotic Comparison of the Law of Talion and Sympathetic Magic,” JAAR 69 (2001), 627–647. 7 I. Goldziher, Abhandlungen zur arabischen Philologie vol. I (Leiden, 1896), p. 42.

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sion reached at this juncture, and revisited in greater detail in Chapter Six, is that one cannot recognize a critical religious attitude toward professional magicians in the early literary prophets until Isaiah. Indeed, one does not find such an attitude present until the Deuteronomistic corpus and exilic and post-exilic prophets. The fourth chapter is devoted to the performative character of words, 8 objects, and various techniques that constitute magical praxis as defined by Schmitt. This includes detailed studies on curse terms found in the Hebrew Bible (‘rr, qll, ‘lh, qbb, z’m, and nqb) and in epigraphic materials from Syria, Mesopotamia, and Israel. He also examines the ritually charged import of eyes, hands, hair, and other human parts of the body and the use of various materials (blood, flour, hyssop, crimson, cedar wood, water, and oil) in rituals of performative power. Schmitt also studies various terracotta remains and amulets that appear to have possessed performative significance. Useful illustrations are included. In chapter five one finds exhaustive discussions of figures in the Hebrew Bible who serve as practioners of performative rituals and symbolic acts. Naturally this includes the prophets, priests, and elders, and close examinations of a number of biblical pericopes (especially healing narratives and ritual descriptions). 9 This chapter is especially useful in that it considers the social functions of these figures and the roles of editors in shaping the narratives, and because it dialogues with important works by anthropologists (e.g., Mary Douglas) and historians of religion (e.g., Jonathan Z. Smith). Having laid the methodological and philological groundwork Schmitt devotes Chapter Six to biblical descriptions and definitions of elicit magic and the subject of polemic. Here Schmitt argues that magic played a vital role in the religious and daily lives of the ancient Israelites (at the state, offi8 In the discussion on the performative power of words (pp. 124–128), readers should be aware of the following important works not mentioned by Schmitt: I. Rabinowitz, A Witness Forever: Ancient Israel’s Perception of Literature and the Resultant Hebrew Bible (Bethesda, MD: CDL Press, 1993); Sheldon W. Greaves, The Power of the Word in the Ancient Near East (Unpublished Doctoral Dissertation; University of California, Berkeley, 1996); Sanders, Seth, “Performative Utterances and Divine Language in Ugaritic,” JANES 63 (2004), 161–181. The latter article appeared after the book under review was in press. 9 Schmitt’s discussion of Jacob’s manipulation of Labans flocks (pp. 302–305) treats this narrative as describing a ritual of performative power. However, the process is well known to those experienced in animal husbandry. See Scott B. Noegel, “Sex, Sticks, and the Trickster in Gen. 30:31–43: A New Look at an Old Crux,” JANES 25 (1997), 7–17.

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cial cult, local, and family levels) and that the polemics against various forms of magic are aimed only at foreign, harmful, and other forms of “unauthorized” magic. A concluding chapter then follows in which Schmitt summarizes the history of magic as represented in the Hebrew Bible from diachronic and synchronic perspectives. The material analyzed from a diachronic perspective is divided into the following eight sections: 1) The 9th Century BCE— the Time of the Great Holy Men; 2) The 8th Century BCE—the Differentiation of Ritual Specialists: Magic in the Service of Prophetic Proclamation; 3) Crisis and Reform during the Later Monarchy; 4) Magic in the Deuteronomistic Literature; 5) Magic in the Priestly Literature; 6) Magic in Prophetic Literature of the Exile and Post Exilic Times; 7) Magic in Jewish Literature from the Graeco-Roman Period until Late Antiquity; and 8) Archaeological Finds of the Iron Age II B-C. The synchronic treatment contains one section: “Magic as Cosmological Praxis and Its Socio-Religious Functions.” A useful list of abbreviations, a bibliography, and indices then follow. In many ways this is a bold work. While it may be grouped with a growing number of studies that approach “magic” as a category of ritual practice, 10 its integration of the cosmological concepts that inform ritual lend it an innovative theoretical framework. 11 This study thus broadens the definition of magic in a way that permits us to see magic in ancient Israel neither as a vestige of earlier “primitive” practices nor as the “negative” influences of its more dominant neighbors (though the issue of influence in general may be worth investigating further). Rather we may see it as an emic system and category of thought whose polemical use in Israel registers an ancient competition for ritual authority brought about by the increasing monopolization of the central cult. This is an important work for those engaged in the comparative study of ancient Near Eastern magic. It is certain to provoke a useful debate among Bible scholars, theologians, and historians of religion. See most importantly Einar Thomassen, “Is Magic a Subclass of Ritual?,” in David R. Jordan, Hugo Montgomery, and Einar Thomassen, eds., The World of Magic: Papers from the First International Samson Eitrem Seminar at the Norwegian Institute at Athens, 4–8 May 1997 (Norwegian Institute at Athens: Bergen, 1999), pp. 55–66. 11 Bolstering the author’s treatment of the cosmological underpinnings of ancient Near Eastern and Israelite religion are the following studies. Francesca Rochberg, “Heaven and Earth: Divine-Human Relations in Mesopotamian Celestial Divination,” in Prayer, Magic, and the Stars in the Ancient and Late Antique World, pp. 169–185; Mark S. Smith, “Astral Religion and the Representation of Divinity: The Cases of Ugarit and Judah,” in Prayer, Magic, and the Stars in the Ancient and Late Antique World, pp. 187–206. 10

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Philip S. Johnston, SHADES OF SHEOL: DEATH AND AFTERLIFE IN THE OLD TESTAMENT (Downers Grove: InterVarsity Press, 2002), 288 pp. Paper. US $22.00. ISBN 0-8308-2687-4. Reviewed by John L. McLaughlin Faculty of Theology University of St. Michael’s College This volume builds upon Johnston’s 1988 Belfast MTh thesis and his 1993 Cambridge PhD dissertation, but constitutes a substantial reworking and expansion of that material. The result is a comprehensive study that is accessible to non-specialists without sacrificing extensive interaction with scholarly literature on the subject. The material itself is organized under four main categories: Death, The Underworld, The Dead and The Afterlife. The first two chapters discuss Death in the Old Testament and in Ancient Israel respectively. The Hebrew Bible reflects a diversity of views, so it is difficult to identify a single understanding of death, but it was viewed as the natural end of one’s life and an early death was unwelcome. Death was not a common means of reuniting with those already deceased: the phrase “gathered to his peoples” is only used of the patriarchs, Moses and Aaron, while “slept with his fathers” was originally used of royalty; although it later became more widespread, by then the phrase simply connoted a peaceful death. The ancient Israelites had a variety of mourning customs. Initial reactions to death included weeping, ripping clothes, wearing sackcloth, sleeping on the ground and going barefoot; the latter two reflect an identification with the situation of the deceased. Such actions were generally accompanied by fasting (perhaps followed by a feast), stylized lamentation and a simple funeral ceremony conducted by the immediate family, with internment on family land, often in caves. Burial sites frequently contained bowls and jugs but Johnston finds no evidence of ongoing provision of food and drink for the dead. The most common term for the Underworld itself is Sheol but even it appears infrequently. The term never appears in third person narrative nor legal material, but only in first person contexts: i.e., an individual encounters Sheol directly and personally. Clear synonyms include bôr, bĕ’ēr, and šaḥat (all

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meaning “pit”) and’ăbaddôn (“destruction”); Johnston also considers a number of texts in which either earth\ground or water may also be synonyms for Sheol but concludes, “Water, like earth, is associated with the underworld, but is not confused with it.” (p. 124). Descriptions of Sheol are sparse, but it is a place where existence simply continued, without any vital experience for the dead. The term itself may have derived from the god Šu-wa-la, mentioned in texts from Emar, who is either a minor underworld deity or another name for Ereshkigal, the Queen of the underworld, but any divine associations had been lost by the Israelite period. The Dead themselves are called either rĕpā’îm (usually translated “shades”) or, rarely, “gods.” In the Hebrew Bible, in addition to rĕpā’îm meaning the dead, it also refers to certain ancient peoples (e.g., Gen 14:5; 15:20; Deut 2:11, 20) and possibly some later Philistines (e.g. 1 Chron 20:4, 6, 8) but the connection with the dead is confirmed by the Ugaritic texts as well as two Phoenician and one Punic inscriptions. As for the term “gods,” three texts use it to mean the dead: Psalm 106:26 understands the Moabite gods in Numbers 25:2 to be the dead, “gods” rise from the underworld in 1 Sam 28:13 and Isa 9:19 uses the term when describing the people consulting the dead. On the other hand, Johnston rejects such a connotation in 2 Sam 12:16; 14:16 and Isa 19:3. Since necromancy is prohibited in a number of texts Johnston concludes it was not widespread in ancient Israel. He argues that texts such as 1 Sam 14:31; Isa 28:7–22; 46:19; 65:4 may refer to necromancy, but even if they do it is not the central concern, and that clear instances like 1 Samuel 28 are aberrations that do not reflect “mainstream” Israelite practice or belief. Similarly, the dead were clearly honored in ancient Israel, as witnessed by respect for the body, kinship names, memorial pillars and sacrifices, etc., but these practices do not constitute worship of one’s ancestors, and Johnston finds all proposals in this regard unconvincing. Finally, Johnston addresses the question of an Afterlife, a late development in Israelite religious thought. Although Elijah and Elisha bring dead children back to life, Enoch “walked with God” and Elijah ascended in a flaming chariot, none of these were considered normal nor hoped for by others. The only clear references to bodily resurrection occur in Isa 26:19 and Daniel 12:2; extra-biblical references to resurrection (e.g., 2 Macc 7; 14; 1 Enoch 51:1; 61:5; 62:15, 4Q521:12, etc.) date from the 2nd century BCE on, which is consistent with the date of the two biblical texts. Despite afterlife beliefs in the surrounding nations, however, Johnston finds little evidence of direct influence and instead claims that Israel’s eventual belief in an afterlife is rooted in its experience of YHWH’s faithfulness and ongoing

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presence in their history, eventually understood as extending beyond death itself. While Johnston is to be commended for the breadth of his study, his treatment is coloured by the presupposition of a “yahwistic orthodoxy” from early in Israel’s history: “yahwism was or should have been the norm, unlike [Israel’s] neighbours” (p. 17). Specifically, since he considers monotheism characteristic of the pre-exilic period (e.g., pp. 69, 221, etc.), any belief or practice contrary to monotheism is either misunderstood by scholars or non-Israelite. Thus, he frequently concludes a chapter by asserting that the ancient Israelites were more interested in YHWH than death or the dead or the underworld, etc. (see, e.g., pp. 46, 65 and 124 respectively). But the majority of scholars date Israelite monotheism to the 7th–6th century BCE at the earliest, in which case Johnston’s evaluation of the material is based on a form of yahwism that did not exist at the time of at least some of the texts he is discussing. Johnston’s desire to make “orthodox” faith in YHWH determinative sometimes leads to an unbalanced evaluation of the evidence. For instance, as noted above, he views the prohibitions against necromancy as evidence that it was rarely practiced in Israel, and on the rare occasions it was done, he considers it heterodox. However, many scholars would take the opposite approach, arguing that laws are usually formulated in response to actual practice. Thus, the fact that a practice is condemned suggests that it occurred frequently enough to come to the legislator(s)’ attention. Similarly, he argues that since grave offerings are not condemned they must be compatible with yahwism, and therefore cannot constitute veneration of the dead. This fails to consider that an early, non-monotheistic form of yahwism may have allowed for ancestor worship. Johnston’s ultimate conclusion concerning grave offerings may well be correct, but is based on shaky grounds. More problematic is Johnston’s view of individual fates. He claims that “those destined for Sheol are predominantly the ungodly … . identification of the underworld with the wicked is paramount” (p. 81) whereas “the righteous only envisage Sheol when they face unhappy and untimely death, which they interpret as divine punishment” (pp. 81–82, emphasis added). Psalm 89:48–49 and Qoh 9:7–10 are presented as the only two exceptions where Sheol awaits all (see pp. 82–83). In other words, faith in YHWH entails a separate fate from those without such faith, and the latter’s fate is a form of punishment. This comes close to asserting a notion of hell without quite doing so, and to be fair, Johnston does not suggest a comparable “heaven” for the righteous. However, his evaluation of the righteous in relation to Sheol is incorrect. While those in question do see Sheol as a negative thing,

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that is because it is linked to an early death. Contrary to Johnston, there is nothing in the texts he lists on p. 80 (Gen 37:35; 42:38; 44:29, 31; Job 14:13; Ps 88:3; Isa 38:10) to indicate that the descent of those righteous individuals to Sheol is “divine punishment.” In fact, in Job 14:13 Job asks that God put him in Sheol as a place of hiding from divine “wrath,” while the underlying premise of the entire book is that Job is a truly righteous individual and that what has happened to him is precisely not divine punishment. At the same time, Johnston fails to consider texts such as Ps 139:8 where the pious psalmist’s resting in Sheol is not punishment, but rather a place of union with YHWH. In short, Johnston’s perceived dichotomy in the fates of the wicked and righteous cannot be supported from the texts he himself cites. Thus, although Johnston’s treatment does deal with all the relevant texts and issues, his evaluation of the evidence is flawed at times. As such, this book will not replace earlier works such as Theodore J. Lewis, Cults of the Dead in Ancient Israel and Ugarit (HSM 39; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989) and Brian B. Schmidt, Israel’s Beneficent Dead: Ancestor Cult and Necromancy in Ancient Israelite Religion and Tradition (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1996). Indeed, Lewis and Schmidt have to be used alongside Johnston as an occasional corrective.

William K. Gilders, BLOOD RITUAL IN THE HEBREW BIBLE: MEANING AND POWER (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004), x + 260 pp. Cloth. US $55.00. ISBN 0-8018-7993-0. Reviewed by Jan A. Wagenaar Utrecht University In this well written and often intriguing study Gilders discusses the meaning of blood in the rituals of the Hebrew Bible. Traditionally scholars have interpreted these blood rituals by referring to Lev 17:11: “For the life of the flesh is in the blood; and I have given it to you for making atonement for your lives on the altar; for, as life, it is the blood that makes atonement” (NRSV). The use of blood in the cult is thus linked to the identification of “blood” with “life.” In a short introduction Gilders challenges this traditional interpretation, offering a brief outline of his own approach. First of all, rituals are seldom univalent and may have been understood differently

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by different practioners. Moreover, the interpretation of a ritual is not exhausted with its “symbolic” meaning. Ritual practices as such create relations between the participants and order the space in which they are performed. Finally, a reader-oriented analysis of ritual texts shows that textual representations of rituals often require the reader to fill in gaps to arrive at a coherent picture. In the first chapter Gilders draws attention to the fact that Lev 17:11 must be attributed to H. In accordance with recent developments in Pentateuchal Criticism endorsed by Gilders, however, H may be considered as a supplement to P. As Lev 17:11 is the only text in the Hebrew Bible that explicitly links the atoning power of “blood” in the cult to “life,” this explanation may thus not be applicable to the earlier P materials without further ado. The ban on the consumption of blood in D (Deut 12:16, 23–25) and P (Gen 9:4), for example, admittedly identifies “blood” with “life,” but is never derived explicitly from the use of blood in the cult. In a short appendix to chapter one the exact meaning of the “blood manipulation terminology” in the Hebrew Bible is briefly discussed and clarified: e.g. zāraq, “toss,” nāzāh, “sprinkle,” nātan, “daub,” kipper, “effect removal.” Chapter Two discusses the few non-priestly texts in the Hebrew Bible that mention the manipulation of blood (Ex 24:3–8; Ex 12:21–22; Deut 12:27; 2 Kgs 16:10–18 and perhaps 1 Sam 14:31–35). Gilders emphasizes that these texts do not offer an “interpretation” of the blood manipulation rituals. The rituals, nevertheless, “index” relations between persons who are (Moses, elders) and are not (lay Israelites) allowed to manipulate blood, and the space (altar) in which ritual activities may be performed. The following chapters offer a meticulous study of the representation and interpretation of the blood manipulation involved in the Burnt Offering (Chapter Three), the Sacrifice of Well Being, the Ordination Offering, the Reparation Offering (Chapter Four), and the Ḥaṭṭā’t (Chapter Five). Over and over again Gilders demonstrates that the priestly (P) manual of sacrifice preserved in the Book of Leviticus does not offer a “symbolic” interpretation of the blood manipulation rituals involved. Scholars have often had recourse to Lev 17:11 to explain the “meaning” of these sacrifices, but the texts do not explicitly support such an interpretation. The few interpretative comments on the function of the ḥaṭṭā’t scattered throughout the priestly corpus (Lev 8:15; 16:18–19) admittedly attribute a purifying effect to the daubing of blood on the horns of the altar, but never refer to the link between “life” and “blood” to explain the purifying effect. However, the manipulation of the blood as such functions to “index” the relations between the persons who are allowed to handle the blood in certain circumstances (head priest, priests) and those who are not (Levites, lay per-

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sons), order the space in which the ritual actions may be performed (altar, shrine, adytum) and establish a relation between YHWH, the (head) priest and the community. The blood manipulation rituals in Ezekiel and 2 Chronicles discussed in Chapter Six are similar to those in the P texts. The rituals again “index” the special status of priests over against nonpriests in the manipulation of blood and map order onto space (Ezek 43:13–17; 45:18–20). Chapter Seven, finally, deals in detail with the enigmatic explanation of the blood ritual presented in Lev 17:11. Gilders makes a strong case for identifying the text in question as an interpretative addition by H putting forward a new interpretation of “atonement.” The interpretation is the result of an act of creative and idiosyncratic exegesis by a late H tradent who understood the equation of “blood” with “life” in the light of the kōper, “ransom,” ordered by H in case of a census: “making atonement for your lives” (Ex 30:11–16; Num 31:48–54). As P nowhere employs kipper in the sense of “ransom” in connection with blood manipulation, Lev 17:11 may obviously not be used to explain blood rituals in P or elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible. To round out the conclusions, Gilders summarizes the manifest (blood purifies, cleanses, makes holy and the like) and latent functions (the rituals establish and defines social-cultic relations, status and identity, as well as map and order sacral space) of the blood manipulation rituals. All in all, a thought provoking and stimulating book!

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John C. Reeves, ed., BIBLE AND QUR’AN: ESSAYS IN SCRIPTURAL INTERTEXTUALITY (Society of Biblical Literature Symposium Series 24; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), xiii + 245 pp. Paper. US $31.95. ISBN 1-58983-064-4. Reviewed by Christine Mitchell St. Andrew’s College This edited collection contains a brief preface by the editor, nine essays, a bibliography, and four indices. The nine essays are: “The Qur’ān and the Bible: Some Modern Studies of Their Relationship,” by Reuven Firestone (pp. 1–22); “A Prolegomenon to the Relation of the Qur’ān and the Bible,” by Vernon K. Robbins and Gordon D. Newby (pp. 23–42); “Some Explorations of the Intertwining of Bible and Qur’ān,” by John C. Reeves (pp. 43–60); “Israel and the Torah of Muxammad,” by Brannon M. Wheeler (pp. 61–85); “On the Early Life of Abraham: Biblical and Qur’ānic Intertextuality and the Anticipation of Muxammad,” by Brian M. Hauglid (pp. 87–105); “The Prediction and Prefiguration of Muxammad,” by Jane Dammen McAuliffe (pp. 107–131); “The Gospel, the Qur’ān, and the Presentation of Jesus in al-Ya’qūbī’s Ta’rīkh,” by Sidney H. Griffith (pp. 133–160); “Abraham’s Test: Islamic Male Circumcision As Anti/Ante-Covenantal Practice,” by Kathryn Kueny (pp. 161–182); and “Depaganizing Death: Aspects of Mourning in Rabbinic Judaism and Early Islam,” by Fred Astren (pp. 183– 199). This collection of essays had its origins in post-September 11, 2001 discussions about the lack of work being done (or at least presented/published) by members of the SBL on the interconnections between the Jewish and Christian Bibles and the Qur’ān. The editor commissioned a group of scholars to write essays for this volume, essays “that would address philological, historical, and/or cultural aspects of the textual and exegetical interfaces among the scriptures of the Abrahamic religions” (p. ix). In the preface, the editor notes that in the early years of the SBL, there were a number of scholars who worked in both biblical and Islamic studies, under a rubric that we might term “orientalist,” and suggests that it was a combination of the development of narrow academic specialization

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and distrust of comparative studies that led to the decline of such crossdisciplinary scholarship. The editor remarks in a footnote that the work done to produce the volume had the result of also creating an SBL program unit to study the relationships between Bible and Qur’ān. This reviewer is not competent to evaluate either the discussions of Qur’ānic scholarship or the specific exegetical readings done by this group of scholars. I did learn a great deal about Islamic exegetical traditions, which I thought was interesting and well-expressed. However, the book is marketed as an exercise in “scriptural intertextuality,” and this reviewer is competent in both intertextuality and in comparative studies. In my remarks, therefore, I will discuss the methodological underpinnings and approaches in this group of essays. The term “intertextuality,” while used in many of the essays, is one that should, in my opinion, be used carefully by biblical scholars. All of the essays in this collection use the term “intertextuality,” when they really should be using the terms “borrowing,” “allusion,” “interpretation,” or “influence.” That is, all of these essays look at how the Qur’ān or qur’ānic interpretation is in reaction to the Jewish and/or Christian scriptural traditions. To re-use, interpret, allude to, or re-write earlier material is not necessarily to be in intertextual relationship with it, and to use the term “intertextuality” in these cases is to use a neologism (only Griffiths defines how he understands the term [p. 134 n. 6]). The understanding of “intertextuality” demonstrated by these authors is much more like the theory of influence promoted by Harold Bloom, who suggests that literature is in a struggle to overcome its strong forbears (The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry, 2nd ed. [New York: Oxford UP, 1997]), than it is like the theories of intertextuality put forth by Julia Kristeva (Le texte du roman: Approche sémiologique d’une structure discursive transformationelle [The Hague: Mouton, 1970]) and others working with the thought of Mikhail Bakhtin. Kristeva defines literature as all discourse that uses the mode of intertextuality (p. 69), and suggests that intertextuality is the meeting and transformation of texts within other texts (p. 68); thus it is not enough simply to note an allusion or re-use in order to talk about intertextuality. True intertextuality requires the study of how the newly-formed text shapes our views of the other texts it relates to. However, it is largely a discrepancy between theory and practice that leads to this mis-use of the term intertextuality in this collection. That is, the editor and at least some of the authors (notably Firestone) suggest that seeing the Qur’ān in biblical terms was one of the great failings of earlier scholarship, and that the biblical scholarly guild should be using the insights of qur’ānic re-use/interpretation for our own readings. If properly implemented, this would indeed be intertextual reading. In practice, however,

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many of the essays in this collection tend to follow in the scholarly tradition that the editor decries: seeing the Qur’ān in biblical terms, or in terms of biblical scholarship (particularly Robbins & Newby). Whenever the Jewish and/or Christian scriptures are read through the lens of the Qur’ān, the Qur’ān is used as essentially another textual witness: a witness to a scriptural interpretation tradition either not attested in the surviving Christian or Jewish commentators, or attested similarly in those writings. As a first step, demonstrating the complex commentary on and re-use of biblical traditions by the Qur’ān, the collection is valuable. Hopefully there will be more to follow.

L. Juliana M. Claassens, THE GOD WHO PROVIDES: BIBLICAL IMAGES OF DIVINE NOURISHMENT (Nashville: Abingdon, 2004), xxiii +145 pp. Paper. US $20.00, UK ₤14.99, CAN $28.00. ISBN 0-687-03023-4. Reviewed by Jane S. Webster Barton College In a world where the over-fed and starving co-exist, Claassens examines the problematic biblical metaphor of the God who provides nourishment. Using a model of biblical theology, she invites the contemporary reader into a conversation started by a series of biblical and rabbinic texts, and developed “in the space where the texts interact” (p. xxi). In this way, she preserves the ambiguities and tensions, claiming that the countervoices will “help one to discover the richness and fullness of the metaphor of the God who feeds” (p. xxii). At the same time, she deliberately connects this metaphor with the sparse biblical and postbiblical images of a female God who feeds her children, thereby hoping “to surprise” the reader to imagine “an honest and comprehensive depiction of the God who feeds” (pp. 99, 108). In this way, she is also able to incorporate women’s experience into the theological conversation. In chapter one, Claassens examines the metaphor of the God who provides in the wilderness (Exodus 16, Numbers 11) and, through extension, connects this metaphor with those texts that depict God as a nursing mother (Deut 32:13–16; b.Yoma 75a; Sifre Num 89). In chapter two, she shows that God’s provision of food moves beyond the family, across

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boundaries of race, gender, and socioeconomic standing (Psalms 104, 147, Ruth). In chapter three, however, she addresses those times when God does not feed. On the one hand, famine may be understood as a form of punishment that leads to repentance and justice (e.g., Amos 8). On the other hand, famine may be understood as a form of “radical suffering” that can only lead to lamentation and utter dependence on God (Joel 1:5–18; Lamentations 2, 4). Lamentations, in particular, refers to a mother who fails to provide and even eats her own child. The image of God as abusive mother, then, is held in tension and balanced with the God who provides. In chapter four, Claassens describes the various restoration images of the God who provides food in abundance. First, there is hope for the immediate reversal of famine conditions (Amos 9:13–15, Joel 2:10–29), then, images of food are exaggerated in mythopoetic ways, such as mountains that drip with wine and milk (Amos 9:13) and a divine banquet (Isaiah 24– 27). Claassens argues that these restoration images serve both to challenge the complacent to create a society in which all are fed, and to comfort the helpless who need to be fed. Finally, she ties these images of restoration to a maternal God who nurses her children (Isaiah 66). In chapter five, Claassens connects the Wise Woman who creates and feeds in Proverbs 9 and the God who creates and feeds in Isaiah 55 (see also Sir 15:2–3; 24:12–31; Philo, Det. 115–118). In wisdom literature, however, feeding is often used as a metaphor for teaching, so that “learning, life, and communion with God is imaged as a lavish feast with rich foods and wine” (p. 98). In a final concluding chapter, Claassens very briefly traces the metaphor of a God who provides in the New Testament and beyond. She points to Luke’s emphasis on the God who feeds the hungry, initiated by Jesus and carried out by the disciples (Luke 9:10–17). The Gospel of John also emphasizes the God who provides through and in Jesus; Jesus provides wine (2:1–11), fish and bread (6:1–15; 21:1–14), but is also the Bread of Life (6:35). The Christian practice of the Eucharist appropriates the metaphor of the God who feeds, and preserves the tension between suffering and joy. Claassens rightly warns against romanticizing maternal imagery of God, and claims that it is problematic because of the positive and negative aspects of feeding. She does suggest that maternal metaphors “exhibit a potential to change the way we speak about the mystery of God… in terms of mutuality, beneficence, and empowerment, instead of the strict, authoritarian view that constitutes many people’s picture for God” (p. 109), and urges the adoption of female imagery in liturgical settings, especially in the Eucharist, as a way to enrich a relationship with God.

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This book provides a new way to think about God that is based on biblical metaphors, and an attempt has been made to apply this theology to a liturgical context in order to affirm the presence of women serving at the “Lord’s table.” There is some reassurance for those who struggle with paternal images of God or male-dominated clergy, but perhaps not for those “Marthas” who are tired of serving meals. As a textbook, it would be suitable for a course in biblical theology, or for an advanced home bible study, though the Hebrew is not transliterated.

Stephen L. Cook and Corrine L. Patton, eds., EZEKIEL’S HIERARCHICAL WORLD: WRESTLING WITH A TIERED REALITY (Society of Biblical Literature Symposium Series 31; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature Press, 2004), xiii + 288 pp. Paper. US $39.95. ISBN 1-58983-136-5. Reviewed by Dale Laundervile St. John’s University The core of this valuable collection consists of twelve revised seminar papers presented at the Ezekiel Consultation of the SBL chaired by Katheryn Pfisterer Darr from 1993 to 1995. In the Introduction, the editors make a persuasive case that hierarchies are important for the order and integrity of reality. The concluding section consists of balanced, critical responses to all the essays by Daniel I. Block and Steven S. Tuell. Five essays address the issue of whether Ezekiel was primarily a priest or a prophet. Friedrich Fechter (“Priesthood in the Exile according to the Book of Ezekiel,” pp. 27–41) claims that postexilic priestly redactors shaped the book’s picture of the priest. However, Ian Duguid (“Putting Priests in Their Place: Ezekiel’s Contribution to the History of Old Testament Priesthood,” pp. 43–59) extracts data from the book of Ezekiel to reconstruct Ezekiel’s understanding of the pre-exilic, exilic, and post-exilic roles of the priest. With this background, he claims that the exilic priest’s primary role was to distinguish between the sacred and the common. Suspending redaction-critical concerns about the historical Ezekiel, Corrine Patton (“Priest, Prophet, and Exile: Ezekiel as a Literary Construct,” pp. 73–89) allows the final form of the text to state that Ezekiel is primarily a

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prophet in chaps. 1–39, but primarily a priest in chaps. 40–48. The upshot of this arrangement is that by the end of the narrative Ezekiel the priest has become “a symbol of hope for the whole exiled audience after the fall of the city” (p. 83). By contrast, Baruch Schwartz (“A Priest Out of Place: Reconsidering Ezekiel’s Role in the History of the Israelite Priesthood,” pp. 61–71) states that Ezekiel was not a priest in the exile because he argues that a priest was by definition one who functioned within the sacrificial cult. He claims that Ezekiel would have seen no need for a priest to distinguish between the sacred and the common if there were no sacrificial cult. Risa Levitt Kohn, (“‘With a Mighty Hand and an Outstretched Arm’: The Prophet and the Torah in Ezekiel 20,” pp. 159–68) through her analysis of Ezekiel’s use of P and D traditions in Ezekiel 20 claims that this narrative highlights Ezekiel’s role as a prophet like Moses. The next five essayists address problems arising from Ezekiel’s view of Yhwh as an angry, punishing hierarch concerned about the glory of his name. Julie Galambush (“God’s Land and Mine: Creation as Property in the Book of Ezekiel,” pp. 91–108) notes that Ezekiel personifies the land of Israel as a body. The resulting solidarity of the inhabitants with the soil of their homeland was undercut by the exile. She claims that for the anxious exiles the forces of chaos, as symbolized by wild animals and arrogant trees, called into question the extent of Yhwh’s power. Keith Carley (“From Harshness to Hope: The Implications for Earth of Hierarchy in Ezekiel,” 109–26) and Norman Habel (“The Silence of the Lands: The Ecojustice Implications of Ezekiel’s Judgment Oracles,” pp. 127–40) dismiss Ezekiel’s image of a vengeful, egotistical God as a dominating hierarch who pays no attention to the voice of the earth. However, Daniel L. Smith-Christopher (“Ezekiel in Abu Ghraib: Rereading Ezekiel 16:37–39 in the Context of Imperial Conquest,” pp. 141–57) urges the reader to interpret the shocking imagery of divine punishment in Ezek 16:37–39 in its capacity to explain the traumatic experience of a prisoner of war. As male prisoner, Ezekiel could identify with the woman Jerusalem in Ezekiel 16 who was abused by her imperial conquerors. The remaining essays address the issue of the function of hierarchy in creating cosmic order. David L. Petersen (“Creation and Hierarchy in Ezekiel: Methodological Perspectives and Theological Prospects,” pp. 169–78) argues that creation traditions play no role in the book of Ezekiel, where Yhwh is portrayed as a God who demands that his sovereignty be acknowledged. Stephen L. Cook (“Cosmos, Kabod, and Cherub: Ontological and Epistemological Hierarchy in Ezekiel,” pp. 179–97) interprets the cherub as a mythic figure (like Mercurius or Athtar) with a pivotal role in the cosmic hierarchy. As a symbol, the cherub provides access to the ontological struc-

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ture of reality through reflection on typical human experience. Katheryn Pfisterer Darr (“Proverb Performance and Transgenerational Retribution in Ezekiel,” pp. 199–223) presents a theoretical model to understand more specifically the form and function of the proverb in Ezek 18:2, the performance of which raises a debate over the justice of God’s punishment by the exile. This volume is indispensable for those who wish to understand the current state of Ezekielian studies. A select bibliography is provided as well as indexes of authors, primary sources, and subjects.

Tammi J. Schneider, SARAH: MOTHER OF NATIONS (New York/London: Continuum, 2004), xii + 146 pp. Paper. US $24.95, CAN $32.50. ISBN 0-8264-1625-X. Reviewed by Ellen White Faculty of Theology University of St. Michael’s College In Sarah: Mother of Nations, Tammi J. Schneider examines this biblical mother in an attempt to provide a fresh exegetical examination of the literary portrayal of her character. Sarah is a strong, favoured, and important character in Genesis, according to her. Schneider’s presentation is full of new insights into the character of Sarah (and by association Abraham, God, and Lot) and every turn of the page provides the reader with innovative ideas. Even if not convinced by Schneider’s conclusions, after her analysis one is forced to grapple with the questions she raises. In chapter one, Schneider attempts to identify the beginning of the First Family Narrative, which she concludes begins with the genealogy of Terah, in which he is the focus. She emphasizes how this beginning links what comes before and what comes after and is not the dramatic break that is usually seen by Genesis scholars. Chapter two focuses on the relationships between Abraham and Sarah and Abraham and Lot in Genesis 12–13. Her claim is that these shorter narratives must be interpreted together because of the juxtaposition of Sarah and Lot. She also introduces the relationship between Sarah and the Deity, something which is often overlooked by other commentators. Her next section focuses on Genesis 14–17, particularly on chapter 16 because Sarah has received the greatest criticism because of this passage. In

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this chapter Schenider argues that the Deity makes his allegiance to Sarah, which was only implicit in Genesis 12, explicit. The next chapter focuses on the stories surrounding the messengers of Yahweh. The way in which she divides the text is important for her analysis because it suggests that the visit to Abraham, in which Sarah finds out that she will bear a child, is the primary purpose of the narrative, rather than a stopover on the way to Sodom and Gomorrah. In this chapter she is particularly critical of the character of Abraham. Her criticism of Abraham carries on into the next chapter, which focuses on his character rather than the character of Sarah. She argues that Genesis 20–22 highlights the faithful relationship of Sarah to the Deity, in contrast to the disbelief of Abraham, regarding the chosen seed. In her final chapter, which deals with the death and burial of Sarah, Schneider attempts to demonstrate that the relationship between the couple has deteriorated to the point that they no longer live together and that Abraham’s provisions for Sarah are merely ceremonial and his responsibility. Her concluding chapter and the short appendix on the New Testament address how scholars could have overlooked her analysis of the text for so long and what implications her conclusions have for the future of scholarship. Despite an overall excellent presentation, there are a couple of shortcomings in this monograph. The first area was her use of secondary material. She claims that she will be interacting with three commentaries, von Rad, Spesier, and Brueggemann and articles from the Anchor Bible Dictionary (p. 4). She has chosen these three because they represent different methodological approaches to the text, but this is really insufficient, especially since none of them use the same methodologies she uses. This makes it difficult for the reader to know what is new about her argument or what it contributes to the scholarship based on that methodology. However, she does not actually apply this method, as she often brings in the analysis of other scholars and does not always use the work of the three named commentators. The second area that needs improvement is her extensive discussion of other characters in the narrative. She often uses many details to explain what is happening in the structure of the text or in the development of other characters. While this may be important for understanding Sarah because she is a character in relationship with other characters and bound by the restrictions of the text, she does not take the second step of explaining how these details contribute to a better understanding of Sarah. Most of chapter one would fall into this category, with the notable exception being the discussion of Milcah; chapter five also suffers from this problem.

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These points notwithstanding, this is a very good, modern feminist literary approach to the character of Sarah, which is long over due. This is mandatory reading for any scholar who wants to study Sarah in a serious way and a significant contribution to the academy.

Hyun Chul Paul Kim, AMBIGUITY, TENSION, AND MULTIPLICITY IN DEUTERO-ISAIAH (Studies in Biblical Literature, 52; New York: Peter Lang, 2003), xvi + 289. Cloth. US $71.95. ISBN 0-82046213-6. Reviewed by Don Polaski The College of William & Mary Kim’s central question in this work is simple: Is Deutero-Isaiah universalistic or particularistic? But this book does more than address a long-standing concern of theological scholarship. Kim uses his central question to structure a work about reading Scripture, especially the prophetic literature. One seeking a hard and fast answer to its animating question might emerge from reading this book slightly frustrated—there is no one answer. However, those who are driven by interest in hermeneutics will find this work, if not completely persuasive, then at least suggestive. After summarizing scholarship on the question of universalism in Deutero-Isaiah, Kim delineates his central methodological presuppositions. Chief among these is his contention that texts correlate a surface dimension (what we would call the text, and what Kim often calls the “extant text”) with concepts that exist below the text’s surface. These concepts are vital to a text’s existence; in fact, they structure and in some way determine the surface features of the “extant text” (p. 43). To unearth these concepts, Kim makes three critical moves. First, he exposes the interrelationships of the subunits within a particular section of text (intratextuality). Next, he looks carefully at the texts adjacent to the text in question (contextuality). Finally, he considers texts beyond those close at hand (intertextuality). These moves, especially the first, allow Kim to construct exegeses which, while vitally involved in the details of the text, do not necessarily need to follow the results (settled or otherwise) of source and form critical surgery on Deutero-Isaiah.

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Kim offers detailed treatments of four passages from Deutero-Isaiah, each of which relates to the question of universalism: 42:1–13 (the first servant song), 44:24–45:8 (the oracle dealing with Cyrus as messiah), 49:22–26 (a picture of the return to Zion), and 51:1–8 (a “light to the nations” passage). Kim concludes with a solid summary chapter, which gathers the varied results of his readings together quite well. Kim claims that he has brought synchronic and diachronic readings together, exposing a “conceptual diversity within the unified but complex extant form of the text” (p. 205). Critiquing Western biblical scholarship’s drive for coherence in reading texts, Kim proposes a “yin/yang” hermeneutic which seeks to keep would-be opposites (like universalism and particularism) in a dynamic, unresolved, yet ultimately harmonious relationship (p. 212). Kim moves beyond an impasse over universalism through careful reading and clever reworking of terminology. His argument, however, could be much clearer. The work is not well edited, with many difficult constructions left from its previous life as a dissertation. One example will suffice. Describing the nature of his work, Kim claims “it focuses on the more reliable tangibility of exegetical attention to the concepts rather than to hypothetical conjectures of literary strata, sources, or origins, although these are still very much worthwhile” (p. 41). In other words, Kim’s exegesis will attend to the concepts underlying the texts rather than seeking meaning in the text’s development. Kim and his editors could have spent more time making the prose clearer and more concise. Kim’s readings are, first and foremost, readings of the final form of the text and tend to lean toward the synchronic. Some difficulties ensue. In his discussion of the image of the foreign kings as foster-fathers and their daughters as “lowly” nurses (p. 160), Kim is obviously discussing an honor/shame dynamic, but he does not bring sociological perspectives to bear on the text. Attention to the diachronic might serve to illuminate his point here. The lack of sociological analysis points to a larger lack of theoretical grounding in this work. Kim makes large claims about the nature of texts and reading without discussing his philosophical assumptions. In his chapter on method, Kim refuses to treat the role of the reader in discerning concepts or creating coherence, apparently granting to the text the power to demand its own (correct) reading (p. 49). But in his focus on multiplicity of meanings, Kim cannot remain purely within the text, introducing the reader as an important category in his last three pages. In addition, Kim’s appropriation of the language of “intertextuality” fails to account for this term’s use in literary theory, where it describes the inability of texts to remain bounded wholes outside the cultural play of signification. Kim’s readings

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often move in the opposite direction, pointing to texts (pericopes, biblical books, or the Christian canon) as sufficient in themselves to determine meaning. Despite these difficulties, and in some ways because of them, this book makes for interesting reading. Kim’s position on the “concept” driving the “extant text” sounds almost Platonic, while his fascination with the undecidability of meaning and textual aporia is almost Derridean. If Kim can keep the idealist yin and the yang of deconstruction working together he will produce more readings worth careful attention.

Lillian Klein, FROM DEBORAH TO ESTHER: SEXUAL POLITICS IN THE HEBREW BIBLE (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2003), 154 pp. Paper. US $15.00. ISBN 0-8006-3592-2. Reviewed by Ken Stone Chicago Theological Seminary This study by Lillian Klein examines a number of female characters and gendered images in biblical literature, giving particular attention to the books of Judges, Samuel, Esther and Job. Klein notes that most female characters in the Bible play peripheral roles, and she surmises that this representation is related to both the attitudes of male authors and the actual social conditions of women in the world that produced the texts. Thus, her literary investigation of female characters involves matters of ideology or worldview, and social context. Special emphasis is placed on the fact that the biblical texts are “narratives of females coping with male-imposed constraints, of living meaningful lives within social boundaries or by extending those boundaries” (8). Klein’s first two chapters consider the book of Judges. She begins with an overview of the book as a whole, classifying its female characters by asking about “positive” and “negative” evaluations, “active” and “passive” roles in the story, interactions with male characters, age, marital or sexual status and so forth. Notwithstanding the diversity of female characters in the book, all of the women of Judges are interpreted as acting in some relation to male interests and patriarchal constraints. Klein goes on to argue in a second chapter that such interests and constraints are at work even in the

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representation of Deborah and Jael, for Klein suggests that both Deborah and Jael are characterized in such a way as to play on male fears of the feminization of men, and in relation to the goals of men. Thus Deborah and Jael exemplify one of Klein’s major points, which is that even exceptional women must navigate a “sexual politics” structured by male domination. Klein’s third chapter interprets the story of Hannah by means of an interdisciplinary dialogue with both René Girard’s theory of “mimetic desire” and psycholinguistics. This strategy allows Klein to examine interrelations among Hannah, Peninnah and Elkanah in more detail than do most readers of the story; and it also results in a more negative account of the words and actions of Elkanah and Eli than one often finds. Klein interprets Hannah’s characterization in terms of an evolution from “marginalized other” to a “paradigm” of female, indeed Israelite, behavior. In her fourth chapter, Klein suggests that Bathsheba, often understood as passive victim of David’s desire, in fact lures David into desiring her by bathing on her roof when she knows David will see her. Bathsheba’s goal, however, is not simply sexual seduction but rather conception: she has been unable to bear children by her Hittite husband Uriah. While this interpretation is novel, Klein makes a case for reading Bathsheba’s motives in relation to the stories of Tamar and Ruth, women in the royal line who also secure offspring in enterprising ways. By attributing agency to Bathsheba in the earlier part of her story, Klein interprets Bathsheba as a consistent character whose efforts on behalf of her son at the beginning of 1 Kings are less unexpected. In a book that focuses on narrative literature and emphasizes female characters, Klein’s fifth chapter on Job initially seems surprising. In addition to examining the role of Job’s wife, however, Klein calls attention to sexual language that peppers the book’s poetic dialogues. Her analysis of the book’s repeated references and allusions to the “womb” coheres with her emphasis on female sexual reproduction elsewhere in her volume. Female sexual reproduction plays something of a negative role in Klein’s sixth chapter, which focuses on “Michal, the Barren Wife.” Here Klein’s emphasis on gendered characterization is extended to God, who becomes one of several male characters (along with Saul and David) who “persecute” Michal (93). Klein makes a strong case for finding in Michal the complexity of character more often extended to her father and husband. A final chapter reads the book of Esther from the point of view of anthropological notions of honor and shame. Klein underscores the gendered nature of these notions and argues that Esther partly transgresses such notions when the collective survival and honor of her people are at stake. By

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the end of the book, however, Jewish male honor and female modesty (or shame) are again safely in place. Most of the chapters in Klein’s book have previously appeared in various volumes of Sheffield’s “Feminist Companion” series, and so it is perhaps not surprising that the book at times reads more like a collection of disparate essays than a unified volume. Klein is not afraid to exercise her interpretative imagination when confronted with ambiguous passages, and individual readers will no doubt be more persuaded by some of her arguments than others. Taken as a whole, though, her book makes a lively and accessible, though seldom simplistic, contribution to contemporary discussions of sex, gender and biblical literature; and it should prove useful to all scholars and educated readers who wish to be involved in those discussions.

John J. Collins, INTRODUCTION TO THE HEBREW BIBLE WITH CD-ROM (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2004), xxv + 700 pp. Paper. US $49.00. ISBN 0-8006-2991-4. Reviewed by John Kaltner Rhodes College Memphis, TN This introductory textbook by John J. Collins adopts the standard format of such works with its division into four sections that follow the canonical order of the biblical material: Torah, Deuteronomistic History, Prophecy, and Writings. It also adopts the approach of most of its predecessors in that it tends to summarize and paraphrase the content of lengthy sections of the text, particularly its narrative portions. The thing that distinguishes it is its length, and the opportunity this affords the author to explore themes and issues that are typically given only cursory treatment in an introduction, if they are discussed at all. In this case at least, size matters, and it is the “addons” that make this book such a useful and valuable resource. Collins views the Hebrew Bible as the common heritage of Jews and Christians, and not the exclusive property of either, and this ethos of inclusion informs the work as a whole. He rejects an ideological or confessional approach, and prefers to take into account various viewpoints and opinions. A clear example of this can be seen in the second chapter, “The Nature of

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the Pentateuchal Narrative,” where he gives an excellent overview of the development of scholarly views on the background to the text with particular emphasis on the documentary hypothesis. In order to present a fuller picture, the pros and cons of the most important critiques of the hypothesis are considered and evaluated. The same balanced approach can be seen in Collins’ discussion of the background to the patriarchal traditions. In this section, and throughout the volume, he makes reference to the history of scholarship and the evidence that the versions bring to bear on issues of content and interpretation. Collins is an able and honest guide during these forays who does not hesitate to reserve judgment when the results are inconclusive. Some of the book’s excurses, like that on the royal ideology of Judah (pp. 236–39), are gems that are sure to enhance classroom discussions among students who are interested in academic study of the Bible. The same might be said of the appendix on the relationship between Deuteronomy and the Priestly Code (pp. 173–78), which is a succinct summary of the issues that draws on scholarship throughout the ages. In this case, Collins reaches the typically judicious conclusion that both sources contain ancient traditions and both have complex, lengthy histories of compilation that make things less cut and dry than some scholars would suggest. At the outset, Collins stresses the importance of studying the Hebrew Bible within its wider context. “This introduction is written in the belief that the best guide to the literary character of the biblical text is the comparative literature of the ancient Near East.” (p. 19) He cites and examines the relevant Mesopotamian material that is typically discussed when considering the creation accounts, the flood, and the legal corpus, but the most illuminating example of the relevance of the ancient Near Eastern literature is seen in Collins’ discussion of the Vassal Treaties of Esarhaddon as background for the treaty model of the Hebrew Bible. The inclusion of these texts from neighboring civilizations allows beginning students to broaden their horizons regarding critical matters of biblical methodology and interpretation. Even in seven hundred pages one cannot cover everything, and there are some places where it would be helpful to learn more about how Collins addresses some particularly thorny theological issues. One example of this is the hardening of the heart motif in Exodus, which is dismissed in a rather superficial way in one short paragraph. This is unfortunate because it is the sort of question that will be particularly interesting to the book’s intended readers, and they would benefit a great deal from learning how Collins might address it.

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His frequent rehearsals of the advances and developments made in scholarship relate directly to Collins’ general view of the biblical material itself. “Rather than impose principles of uniformity on this literature, we should recognize it for what it is: the literature of a people that reflects the ever-changing circumstances of that people’s history.” (p. 599) The reader comes to appreciate that this statement applies not only to the Bible, but to the efforts of those who have studied it. His approach demonstrates that the history of scholarship can be read as a body of literature that reflects the ever-changing circumstances of the people who wrote it. It is precisely his attention to matters of interpretation and context that makes Collins’ volume a useful and timely one. Toward the end of the book, he warns against the dangers of allegory, a warning that should be heeded in our day and age when the Bible is often allegorized to push political agendas or to defend positions on questions like who lives and who dies. The result, as Collins points out, is that the whole point of the text can be lost. “Perhaps the greatest irony of all in the history of the Bible is that it itself has so often been treated as an idol and venerated with a reverential attitude while its message is ignored.” (p. 604) Collins’ readers will find it much harder to ignore that message.

Jodi Magness, THE ARCHAEOLOGY OF QUMRAN AND THE DEAD SEA SCROLLS (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), 238 pp. Cloth. US $26.00. ISBN 0-8028-4589-4 Reviewed by Madelyn Yribarren Arizona State University Jodi Magness writes this book largely as a response to scholars who radically question the interpretation of Qumran by Fr. Roland de Vaux. Magness defends de Vaux’s basic interpretation that Qumran was inhabited by a Jewish sectarian settlement of Essenes, though she modifies certain aspects of de Vaux’s interpretation. Despite the few shortcomings of the book, this is a definitive up-to-date introduction to the archaeology of Qumran. The first aspect contributing to the success of the book is its literary style. This book is designed to be read by a wide popular audience, not just the academic community. Magness’ style of writing is short and direct, and

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her choice of language simple. The first few chapters serve as an introduction to the reader by providing some background information on the history of the site and the importance of the Dead Sea Scrolls in connection to it. More importantly, she explains some of the basics of her archaeological method. She describes dating techniques that can be used on both the Dead Sea Scrolls and other artifacts from Qumran. She briefly explains radiocarbon dating and paleography, while discussing the importance that coins and pottery have for the archaeology of Qumran. In this way Magness not only introduces archaeology, but also gives the reader insight into how she personally interprets the Qumran evidence. One of the issues that Magness addresses at the beginning of this book is the lack of data surrounding the excavations undertaken by Fr. Roland de Vaux. Magness is honest about these limitations. De Vaux died in 1971 without publishing a final report on his excavations (p. 2). He did publish some of his materials, but he never produced a final paper. His records and other materials are now held at the Rockefeller Museum in Jerusalem, but they are inaccessible to the general public and can be viewed only with special permission. In 1994 Jean-Baptiste Humbart and Alain Chambon published a report of de Vaux’s records (the first part of a planned series of volumes). Still there are many records not yet published, and Magness wonders whether some of these records and/or artifacts have been misplaced over the years since de Vaux’s original excavations (p. 4). By providing the reader with this information Magness demonstrates a degree of honesty and integrity lacking in many other academic studies. Her goal is to give readers the tools they need to look at any archaeological report, including her own, and decide whether its conclusions reflect the actual evidence. Magness’ conclusions rest more on the actual archaeological evidence than the evidence of texts like the Hebrew Bible and the Dead Sea Scrolls. Magness notes that de Vaux used information from the Damascus Document to place the beginning of the occupation at nearly four hundred years after the Babylonian invasion of Jerusalem (586 BCE). Then she adds sixty years to account for the life and death of the Teacher of Righteousness, which places the beginning occupation at 135 BCE. This coincides with de Vaux’s initial date for Period 1a at 130 BCE. Magness suggests that the archaeological evidence indicates that Qumran was not occupied until later. She cites the lack of pottery found at the site from the 2nd Century BCE and interprets some of the coins found at the site differently than de Vaux. De Vaux found a number of coins that dated to the reign of Alexander Janneus, and from this he concluded that the occupation level Period 1b should date to the period of the reign of Alexander Janneus. However, in antiquity coins remained in circulation many years after production. Mag-

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ness thus maintains that Qumran was not inhabited by the sectarian community until around 100–50 BCE (p. 65). Magness also speaks to the question of celibacy at Qumran. She takes into account the writings of the ancient historians Pliny, Philo, and Josephus. Philo and Pliny state that the Essenes renounced marriage and women. Josephus is the only historian who describes a sect of Essenes who marry (p. 165). Armed with this information, Magness looks at several artifacts found at the site, especially the information provided by the cemetery adjacent. So far, she argues, it has been impossible to date the graves found in the cemetery because typically there have been no grave goods found in these graves. The skeletons do not have enough organic materials to date via radiocarbon dating methods, and the wood in the coffins has been preserved with wax (which also prohibits radiocarbon dating; p. 169). The graves found in the western area of the cemetery contain a small number of females in comparison to the number of males. Due to the lack of grave goods in the burials, Magness believes that these graves cannot be Bedouin graves (p. 173). At the site of Qumran itself, the only objects related to female activity that were found include four beads and one spindle whorl (p. 178). Magness concludes that it is highly probable that women lived at the site of Qumran, but were clearly outnumbered by a greater number of male inhabitants. Despite Magness’ strong arguments regarding the nature of the sectarian settlement, she fails to engage opposing arguments in a meaningful way. Robert Donceel and Pauline Donceel-Voute, for example, have proposed that Qumran was a country villa. As outlandish as this might seem, considering the evidence Magness has already presented, one cannot ascertain from this book how or why these two scholars have arrived at this conclusion. In order to make her argument, Magness compares the architecture and nature of artifacts found at the ruins of royal and upper-class estates in Jerusalem, Idumaea, and outside of Caesarea (p. 90). Typical features of these sites include bathhouses, mosaics, and frescoes (e.g., Masada). None of these have been found at Qumran (p. 100). Donceel and Donceel-Voute support their conclusions with what they claim to be the ornate artifacts found at Qumran (p. 90). With what the reader assumes is the same evidence, Magness reaches a much different conclusion. She tries to explain how other scholars come to different conclusions, but this book fails to review the opposing views of other colleagues, which in turn gives readers a very one-sided view of the data itself. Magness’ arguments would seem much more solid were she to give readers more information about opposing interpretations. What artifacts do these two scholars cite in forming their conclusions?

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Although Magness places a great deal of emphasis on the need for a full report of the archaeological data, the structure of this book is not always easy to figure out. At the beginning of the book she collects a group of illustrations and diagrams to help readers envision the state of the ruins at Qumran and locate specific features on the site. The diagrams are formatted in a clear and consistent manner. The first diagram is a layout of the whole site with specific features represented by numbers. The following maps illustrate each occupation level and depict certain regions of the site. This clarity is lost when Magness begins to review the nearby sites of Ein Feshka and Ein el-Ghuweir (Figures 65 & 66). The diagram for Ein Feksha appears to have been shrunk to fit the page; this renders the feature numbers unrecognizable. The map of Ein el-Ghuweir is quite blurry, and the feature numbers are recorded in Roman numerals. The poor quality prevents the reader from being able to distinguish between “II” and “III.” These criticisms may seem superficial and irrelevant, but it is frustrating for readers who want to locate visually the specific items Magness discusses. Magness makes one point about “sectarian clothing” which contradicts her claim that the inhabitants of Qumran were anti-Hellenists. In order to determine if the linens found in Cave 1 could have been woven at Qumran, she cites rabbinic sources as well as evidence from Pompeii to conclude that in the ancient Roman Empire textiles were produced outside of the household (p. 199). Later in the chapter, Magness reviews the rejection of the Essenes to Roman values through their emphasis on modesty, privacy, and the practice of silent dining (p. 203). Because this author makes such a distinction between these two opposing cultures, it seems irrelevant, if not dangerous to use Pompeii as a point of similarity, especially when Magness herself emphasizes the differences among cultural values and practices. More caution should also be observed in her use of the rabbinic sources. The rabbinic tradition developed out of Pharisaic Judaism in the Second Temple Period. This distinction ought to be noted more often because the sectarians at Qumran are more concerned with ritual purity than ideological interpretation of Torah. In Magness’ search for applicable comparative material she tends to overlook these distinctions. These few inconsistencies and problem areas are slight in comparison to the overall quality and importance of this book. Magness successfully sketches a coherent picture which accounts for the identity of the inhabitants of Qumran, the history of the site, the religious practices of the sect, and the problematic question of “celibacy” at Qumran. This book comes highly recommended to anyone interested in the status questionis of the archaeology of Qumran.

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Ian Young, ed., BIBLICAL HEBREW: STUDIES IN CHRONOLOGY AND TYPOLOGY (Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series 369; London/New York: T. & T. Clark, 2003), xii + 389 pp Cloth. US $120.00. ISBN 0-8264-6841-1. Reviewed by Bernon P. Lee Grace College and Seminary In the current debate concerning theories of chronology accounting for the varieties of Hebrew within the Bible, Avi Hurvitz’s proposal is representative of one end in the spectrum of views: the language of Samuel-Kings (Standard Biblical Hebrew [SBH]) represents an earlier form of Biblical Hebrew, and the language of Chronicles represents Late Biblical Hebrew (LBH). This proposition stands on a general recognition, based upon factors apart from linguistic matters, that Samuel-Kings (First Temple period) is prior to Chronicles (post-exilic period). Hurvitz proceeds by creating a ‘typology’ of characteristics that defines the language of each corpus, defining the points of change through time. Support for this proposed development of the language is found in linguistic similarities (and, therefore, temporal proximity) between Samuel-Kings and Chronicles, and Old Hebrew inscriptions (pre-exilic) and texts from Qumran (post-exilic) respectively. Recent scholarship, however, has posed a challenge to this proposal. Do the linguistic typologies, by necessity, represent an historical development of the vernacular? Is it possible that social, geographical, dialectal and literary influences could account for the linguistic variety of BH, thus negating the need to resort to explanations of an historical nature? The essays in this volume are divided into two parts. The first part consists of essays working within the chronological paradigm; the essays of the second part point to shortcomings in the paradigm in all or part of their arguments. Within the first part, Mats Eskhult (“The Importance of Loanwords for Dating Biblical Hebrew Texts”; pp.8–23) explores the significance of loanwords from Egyptian, Akkadian, Aramaic and Persian for the dating of Hebrew texts. By and large, the distribution of such loanwords support the chronological framework expounded by, among others, Hurvitz. Persian

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words, for example, occur in texts frequently regarded as being ‘late’ (i.e., composed in the Persian period or later). Hurvitz’s essay (“Hebrew and Aramaic in the Biblical Period: The Problem of ‘Aramaisms’ in Linguistic Research on the Hebrew Bible”; pp. 24–37) understands the flood of Aramaic influence upon BH to have occurred in the Persian period, preceded by sporadic contacts in the pre-exilic period that resulted in a limited knowledge of the language prior to the Persian period (confined to the upper classes; cf. 2 Kings 18:26–27). The presence of ‘Aramaisms’ is significant for the dating of texts (and, by extension, the various strata of BH) on the provision that scholars demonstrate that the feature is a characteristic of texts commonly accepted as being ‘late’, that it deviates from the language of texts accepted as being ‘early’, and that it occurs widely in the Aramaic dialect of its (proposed) origin. Frank Polak (“Style is More than the Person: Sociolinguistics, Literary Culture, and the Distinction between Written and Oral Narrative”; pp. 38– 103) finds a ‘rhythmic-verbal’ style characteristic of speech in texts commonly associated with the pre-exilic period, and a ‘complex-nominal’ style, associated with the scribal profession, in texts associated with the post-exilic period. The contributions of Gary A. Rendsburg (“Hurvitz Redux: On the Continued Scholarly Inattention to a Simple Principle of Hebrew Philology”; pp. 104–28) and Richard M. Wright (“Further Evidence for North Israelite Contributions to Late Biblical Hebrew”; pp. 129–48) both take up and expand Hurvitz’s broad agenda of refining the typology of LBH, by identifying Aramaic features in BH that may be attributed to Israelian Hebrew. Consequently, the procedure for the definition of an ‘Aramaism’ entering BH in the Persian period receives clarification. Philip Davies (“Biblical Hebrew and the History of Ancient Judah: Typology, Chronology and Common Sense”; pp. 150–63) initiates the second part of the volume. In his view, Hurvitz, and those who accept his proposal, overlooks the possibility of linguistic discrepancies between literary applications and vernacular usage, of dialectal variation within a geographical region, and of a gradual transition in the form of the language of speech without uniformity in change across an area. For Davies, linguistic evidence from Qumran and Mesopotamia in the Old Babylonian period exposes such oversights within the premises of the chronological framework. Davies advocates closer attention to literary purpose, the intricacies of dialectal variation, and other socio-linguistic factors and motivations behind linguistic change and the adoption of a linguistic variant in a given text.

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The essays of Martin Ehrensvärd (“Linguistic Dating of Biblical Texts”: pp. 164–88), Robert Rezetko (“Dating Biblical Hebrew: Evidence from Samuel-Kings and Chronicles”; pp. 215–50) and Ian Young (“Late Biblical Hebrew and Hebrew Inscriptions”; pp. 276–311) demonstrate the unsuitability of strict divisions in BH along historical lines. Ehrensvärd argues for the conformity of SBH to texts displaying the characteristics of LBH. Rezetko’s investigation of synoptic passages in Samuel-Kings and Chronicles reveals the occurrence of LBH features across both corpora. He suggests that the variations between SBH and LBH may be explained best with reference to phonology, dialectal variation and ‘diglossia’ (e.g., variations in genre, shifts from discourse to narrative, from upper to lower class discourse, etc.). Young discourages the premature dismissal of the possibility of SBH being used in the post-exilic period, even as he weakens the links between SBH and the language of Old Hebrew epigraphy by demonstrating the latter’s linguistic distinctions. Jacobus Naudé (“The Transitions of Biblical Hebrew in the Perspective of Language Change and Diffusion”; pp. 189–214) makes a distinction between linguistic ‘change’ (the initiation of a linguistic variation) and ‘diffusion’ (the spread of the variant feature). When Naudé charts the features of LBH across texts such as Ezekiel, Ezra, Chronicles and others, no one corpus emerges to mark a definitive point of transition from SBH to LBH. The transition, as his evidence reveals, was a continuous process. David Talshir (“The Habitat and History of Hebrew during the Second Temple Period”; pp. 251–75) proposes that SBH was the language of Yehud until the fifth century BCE., when LBH was brought back by the returning exiles. The Hebrew of the Mishna was a development from SBH in the lowlands of Judah, while LBH and Qumran Hebrew remained in use within Yehud proper. The present volume offers a succinct description of the challenges facing those who would apply linguistic methods to investigating the genesis of the Hebrew Bible. The possibilities of linguistic heterogeneity effected by a host of socio-linguistic factors, and a graded and gradual procedure in linguistic transition complicate the generation of linguistic typologies and chronologies. The exposure of questionable assumptions behind the chronological paradigm–linguistic uniformity in speech and writing in any specified period and the inability to imitate the forms and styles of earlier periods–by Davies heightens awareness of the limits of the theory. However, as Young states in his conclusion to the volume (p. 313), the clear division of the contributors into two opposing factions may obscure certain similarities in approach. For example, the call by Davies to consider factors beyond those of a diachronic nature for linguistic distinctions is heeded in

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the treatment of Aramaisms by Hurvitz, Rendsburg and Wright. Among other factors, these scholars consider the impact of genre, the rhetorical aims of an author/character and the origins of a source in assessing the occurrence of Aramaisms. At issue is the strength of the support for the Persian period as the watershed of Aramaic influence in Israel (for Hurvitz, information on the extent of knowledge of Aramaic in Israel drawn from the historical books; see pp. 25–27), allowing for the assignment of all Aramaisms not accounted for by the categories identified, by default, to that period. Attention to matters of dialectal variation, genre and other literary features, therefore, bridges both factions despite disagreement over the validity of the chronological paradigm. Young’s effort to maintain the conversation between different voices on the subject in bringing together the present collection of essays is to be applauded. From the survey of the careful explorations on chronology and typology in BH within this volume, it would seem that a fruitful exchange of ideas has begun already.

Alfredo Fabio Borodowski, ISAAC ABRAVANEL ON MIRACLES, CREATION, PROPHECY AND EVIL: THE TENSION BETWEEN MEDIEVAL JEWISH PHILOSOPHY AND BIBLICAL COMMENTARY (Studies in Biblical Literature 53; New York: Peter Lang, 2003), xvi + 241 pp. Cloth. US $69.95. ISBN 0-8204-6236-5. Reviewed by Michael Carasik Philadelphia The volume under review is an attempt “to determine the nature of the relationship between Abravanel’s 1 philosophical treatise, Mifa’lot Elohim, and his exegetical corpora” (1) concentrating on the examination in both of miracles. Their frequent occurrence in the Bible makes miracles an obvious topic of exegesis, while their apparently unnatural aspect demands a phiI will use the author’s spelling of the name in this review; unlike Eric Lawee, who chose in his recent book to call the philosopher/exegete Abarbanel, Borodowski does not explain his choice. 1

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losophical explanation. For Abravanel, “Miracles constitute an actual testimony to the possibility of the greatest unnatural act: creation” (79), and Mifa’lot Elohim is devoted to a definitive proof of creation ex nihilo. Borodowski presents a clear review of the nature of miracles as explained by Maimonides and Gersonides; the latter is presented as Abravanel’s main antagonist in his work. (Indeed, one finds in Abravanel’s discussion of the Tabernacle in his Exodus commentary that he declines to reply to Gersonides’ “dreams” about what the Tabernacle represents, except to say that he has completely misunderstood the Torah’s intent.) For Gersonides, miracles are the result of “the activation of special natural laws, or being preordained to occur since creation at a particular time and place” (91), and do not share a common nature with creation. Abravanel, who does view miracles as sharing in the essential nature of the original creation, rejects their predetermined nature, seeing contingency as an essential attribute of miracles. His arguments against miracles having been fixed within nature since creation take seven forms, as Borodowski presents them: 1. Theory of the Preservation of Divine Justice: Since humans have free will, it is necessary to preserve divine justice that miracles be a response to actual behavior as it happens. 2. Theory of the Prophetic Proof: If such miracles as turning Moses’ hand into snowy scales were mechanical, they could not serve as prophetic proofs. Again, they must be an immediate response to the situation. 3. Rejection from the Non-Existence of Universals: Where in the nature of fire could (e.g.) the miracle of the fire that did not consume Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah have been inscribed? 4. Rejection from the Perpetual Character of Nature: The world is perfect as created and can only be altered (at God’s whim) to save the chosen people or punish the wicked. Pre-programmed miracles would have to be regarded as “patches” meant to repair a world that was not quite what it should be. 5. Rejection from the Literal Understanding of the Scriptures: To choose one example, Num 22:28, “Then the Lord opened the ass’s mouth,” indicates direct divine intervention and ought to be taken as it stands. (Biblical quotations, here and below, are given in the translation of the NJPSV.) 6. Rejection from a Reasonable Interpretation of the Rabbinical Sources: It is absurd to think (as a midrash suggests in Genesis Rabbah 5:5) that God literally established an agreement with water or earth to perform such-and-such a miracle at a stated moment in later history. 7. Rejection from Other Rabbinical Sources: According to Numbers Rabbah, when in Num 16:30 God “brings about something unheard-of, so

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that the ground opens its mouth” and swallows Korah and his followers, the nature of miracles is clearly explained. A further dispute between Abravanel and Gersonides centers on the nature of the human channel through which miracles are actuated. For the latter, the greater the prophet, the greater the miracle; this demands that he re-interpret the incident in Joshua 10 when Joshua makes the sun and moon stand still, a miracle in a much higher sphere than any that Moses ever achieved. “Gersonides explains that the real miracle was that the Israelite victory occurred in such a short time that the sun and moon appeared not to have moved” (178). But Abravanel detaches the level of prophecy completely from the level of miracles. Here is where the comparison of philosophy with exegesis proves interesting. According to Borodowski, Abravanel’s exegetical analysis of Moses’ prophetic superiority is almost the twin of that presented in the Mifa’lot, except that it contains an additional theory that directly opposes the Mifa’lot! For he demonstrates in his commentary that Moses’ miracles were indeed superior, and that he indeed (like Joshua) produced miracles in the heavenly domain. For Abravanel, Borodowski concludes, “Moses’ superiority with respect to miracles belongs to a type logically and causally independent from his superiority in prophecy.… [It] is the logical result of the historical circumstances in combination with prophetic readiness” (206). Why, then, does Abravanel analyze these two factors conjointly? The answer is found in Deut 34:10–11, “Never again did there arise in Israel a prophet like Moses—whom the Lord singled out, face to face, for the various signs and portents that the Lord sent him to display in the land of Egypt.” The apparent connection between Moses’ singularity and the “signs and portents” that he was sent to display demands an exegetical solution, but did not call for similar treatment in the philosophical work. As a reader with little formal training in medieval Jewish philosophy, I found Borodowski’s discussion of the treatment of miracles and creation both interesting and clear. I cannot speak for specialists in the field, but I found his conclusions plausible: 1 Abravanel wrote his exegesis for the philosophically informed reader; 2 in the Middle Ages, philosophy and exegesis were inseparable; 3 “the usual view of Abravanel as an unoriginal exegete whose contribution is limited to the politico-historical arena is untenable” (217). Perhaps it is Abravanel’s notorious prolixity that has tainted his reputation. I found Borodowski’s admiration for him justified. Note: Aside from such idiosyncrasies as hyphenating the Latin phrase ex-nihilo (passim) and an inexplicable reference to Avodah Zarah II,25:1 (198), there are some serious difficulties with the footnotes, bibliography, and index, which do not serve to help the reader as readily as might be

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hoped. Neither “Netanyahu” (9 n. 25) nor “Ruiz” (14 n. 41) is listed in the bibliography. There is an index entry for “Netanyahu, Benzion,” and a second for “Netanyahu,” which points (among other places) to 221, where he is not found; the index entry for Ruiz does point you to the footnote where his book is referenced, though not to any other places in this book where it is mentioned.

Rodney R. Hutton, FORTRESS INTRODUCTION TO THE PROPHETS (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2004), ix + 115 pp. Paper. US $16.00. ISBN 0-8006-3670-8. Reviewed by Paul Evans Wycliffe College In this brief volume Rodney Hutton introduces the reader to biblical prophecy and surveys ‘preexilic’ prophetic books. The work targets those studying the prophets for the first time or clergy who must “slug their way” through these texts due to the lectionary (viii), rather than advanced students or scholars. The first chapter begins with five questions which explore: whether prophetic literature witnesses to actual ancient Israelite prophecy; the relationship of classical prophecy to its preclassical predecessor; the origins/antecedents of Israelite prophecy; the social location of prophets; and the relation of prophetic books to other biblical books. These questions (which Hutton admits are ultimately “insoluble” [5]) facilitate an introduction to the major critical issues in the study of the prophets and help orientate the reader. The second chapter begins with a brief discussion of the origins of Israelite prophecy, with reference to analogous phenomena in the ancient Near East (particularly Mari) and highlights the variety found in ancient Israel (based largely on prophetic portrayals in the Deuteronomistic History). While surveying possibilities, Hutton admits that prophecy’s exact origins elude historians (14). Hutton’s study then proceeds chronologically through the ‘preexilic’ prophetic corpus. The length of discussion per prophet varies with Amos, Hosea and Micah each roughly receiving their own chapters, First Isaiah

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meriting two chapters, Zephaniah, Nahum and Habbakuk discussed under the umbrella of “interim” prophets in one chapter and Jeremiah receiving by far the lengthiest treatment. These chapters discuss historical and critical matters with helpful (though necessarily limited) summaries of the messages of each prophetic book. Most of the views espoused are fairly standard, though the author’s idiosyncratic views on some issues come through on occasion. Two pages of the concluding chapter look ahead to the exilic and postexilic prophets, with very limited comments highlighting developments in Israelite theology after the exile. Hutton suggests that preexilic theology was based on the idea of covenant as a contract with mutual obligations, but that postexilic prophecy stressed covenant as God’s eternal commitment to his people (108). He concludes that postexilic prophecy was a different form of literature than the preexilic variety and notes its evolution into “Apocalyptic” (109), though he fails to explain the latter adequately for the novice reader. Hutton’s volume is a welcome contribution to the world of introductions to Israelite prophetic books. It provides a well written overview of their messages with sensitivity to the historical context of each prophet. His innovative descriptions of ancient culture using contemporary idioms (Baal as “sugar daddy” [97]) make his work an enjoyable read which will appeal to beginner students. Hutton avoids excessive scholarly jargon but successfully whets the appetite of the reader for further study through his insightful analysis and creative theological appropriation of prophetic messages for contemporary audiences. Since his focus is on those approaching study of the prophets for the first time, Hutton does not include notes to engage secondary literature, which prevents the reader from following the trail to more detailed arguments or alternative viewpoints. While at the conclusion of the volume a helpful bibliography is given, endnotes or bibliographies at the end of each chapter would have greater benefit for the beginner student. Another shortcoming is the inordinate amount of attention paid to Jeremiah. While clearly meriting more attention than some of the shorter prophetic books, allotting half of the book to Jeremiah seems unwarranted. Even in chapters on other prophets, the focus often turns to Jeremiah. For example, in a chapter on Isaiah he highlights the problem Isaiah’s message of trust became for Jeremiah (44) and in the chapter on Micah he devotes nearly two pages to the connection of Micah with Jeremiah (46–47). It appears Hutton may focus on Jeremiah as a representative type of prophet but in light of the variety found in Israelite prophecy such an approach seems unhelpful. As an introduction to the prophets the reader would have been

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better served with some of these pages devoted to exilic or postexilic prophets. The greatest weakness of the volume is indeed its failure to cover the entire prophetic corpus. One suspects that the disproportional focus on preexilic prophecy may due to Hutton’s (unexpressed) affinities with Wellhausen’s view that true prophetic activity ceased with the end of the monarchy. This may be seen in Hutton’s equation of “Priestly tradition” with postexilic prophecy (108) and would explain his assertion that prophecy’s “major social function” was connected to the royal court (15). The latter view is not self evident. If based on evidence from Mari it is undermined by the fact our knowledge of Mari is based solely on the royal archives; if based on the Hebrew Bible it fails to fairly represent even the ‘preexilic’ prophets. While Fortress Introduction to the Prophets would be useful for a course on preexilic prophets it would be inadequate for other purposes. Still for Hutton’s target audience it will be a helpful guide, even if it would require supplementation in order to adequately introduce the entire prophetic corpus.

Annette Schellenberg, ERKENNTNIS ALS PROBLEM: QOHELET UND DIE ALTTESTAMENTLICHE DISKUSSION UM DAS MENSCHLICHE ERKENNEN (Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 188; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2002), xii + 333 pp. Cloth. €82.00. ISBN 3-525-53045-5. Reviewed by T. A. Perry University of Connecticut This is the first study to focus entirely on what may well come to be seen as Qohelet’s major theme: the problem of knowledge. Preceded in this regard by important insights by James L. Crenshaw and especially Michael V. Fox, Schellenberg brings this topic center stage and, thanks to its impressive scope and subtle analyses, this book will be required reading for anyone interested in Qohelet’s epistemology. Although this subject has been popular for some time as attempts to determine to what extent Qohelet is a skeptic and/or empiricist, such approaches are judged to be reductive in

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their wish to find what they are already looking for. Rather, Schellenberg’s sympathetic method of close readings and contextual analysis of the text itself will prove more productive. Qohelet’s explicit references to knowledge are here reduced to three, all focused on what limits human knowing: death, the future, and “God’s doing” (p. 194). The first seems of little consequence, for, unless thinking is expected to go on after death, why even bring it up? Here an opening is missed to introduce the importance of a scientific community and an everexpanding shared knowledge—didn’t Qohelet give the textual hint: “generations are born and die, but the human race remains” (1:4)? The second topic—the future—is equally suspicious, since it seems to Qohelet that we know the future as little as we know the past: “Everything is forgotten” (2:16), and what we do come to know are binary patterns such as live and die, mourn and rejoice. As for what has been the pet peeve of generations of critics, God’s doing (How could God put humans in such a situation?!) has energized the ongoing fixation on Qohelet’s pessimism but hardly— until the present study—an appreciation of human ignorance as a positive factor. Although these three limits to human knowledge do not in themselves make the case for its centrality in Qohelet, they are supplemented by indirect allusions to the sources of knowledge throughout the book. The main category here is personal experience (Erfahrung): living is the prime source of knowledge. Schellenberg’s case for knowledge could be made even stronger by relating Qohelet’s experiential “I” to his scientific or experimental “I,” both senses being captured by the French “expérience” but perhaps also by Qohelet’s own use of nsh (2:1; 7:23). Again, Schellenberg’s reversal of perspective transforms these limitations into both positive knowledge and useful human control. To take but one example, ignorance of past and future (pp. 199–200) frees humans for both enjoyment and energetic action in the only time that is really ours: the present moment. Ultimately, Schellenberg finds Qohelet’s method of greater import than the message; or, rather, the method is itself the message. Thus, Qohelet “does not present a closed teaching in which all problems are solved but rather a critical and reflective discussion of such problems from different perspectives” (p. 42). This perspectivism comes to the fore not only in the central part of this book—the study of Qohelet—but also in five additional studies of Hebrew Scripture that greatly expand the historical interest of epistemological inquiry: Job, “Theologized Wisdom” (Proverbs 1–9, Sirach, The Wisdom of Solomon), Genesis 2–3 and related texts, and excerpts from prophetical and apocalyptical literature (Isaiah and Daniel). The Hebrew Bible is thus viewed as the locus of dialogue in which recurrent

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epistemological questions of substance are explored. Thus, we are invited to consider critical thinking and discussion, both grounded in personal experience, as constitutive of the religious life. This book marks an advance over the gloom that continues to plague Qohelet criticism. For example, while King Qohelet admits “that he cannot reach the goal of his research” (p. 132), this conclusion is accepted as itself an important discovery. For if the real goal is Thoreau’s, which is only and always to seek the truth of what is, then even Qohelet’s motto that all is hebel (perhaps “transience” rather than the popular “vanity”), repeated from start to finish, has all the markings of progressive knowledge. The remaining goal of research is one of interpretation, seeing whether transience is so negative as we have all been taught, or whether, as I suspect, it forms the basis of a new spirituality. This project, long overdue, will turn from theologically-based world-hatred and presuppositions about the deficient or angry or all-controlling God of the Old Testament; it will seek to explain why Jews read Qohelet liturgically at the “time of our joy.” Promising younger scholars are leading the way: Rami Shapiro, Marie Maussion, Ethan DorShav. This book is a reliable prolegomenon to this interpretative desideratum.

Heidi M. Szpek, ed., VOICES FROM THE UNIVERSITY: THE LEGACY OF THE HEBREW BIBLE (New York/Lincoln/Shanghai: Writers Club Press, 2002), ix + 316 pp. Paper. US $22.95. ISBN 0-595-25619-8. Reviewed by Frank Anthony Spina Seattle Pacific University The essays in this book were produced by undergraduates in a course at Central Washington University (Ellensburg, Washington) entitled The Legacy of the Hebrew Bible. As such, the topics covered deal with an array of issues and perspectives thought to have been influenced in some way by the contents of the Hebrew Bible. Among these are land, popular culture (e.g., Jerry Springer), art, political theory, poetry, philosophy, creation(ism), feminism, clothing, prophecy, mysticism, and broader cultural or moral issues (sexuality, interest rates, economics, religion).

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Discussing the impact of the Hebrew Bible on culture broadly conceived is certainly a laudable enterprise. At the same time, there is little acknowledgment that the Hebrew Bible’s main impact on Western Culture was a function of its role in Christianity as a majority religious tradition. This does not necessarily mean that either the course or the essays needed to use the nomenclature of “Old Testament”—a distinctively Christian term (though some of the essays use “Hebrew Bible” and “Old Testament” more or less interchangeably). Still, an essay, or perhaps an introductory comment, that dealt with the difference between an “Old Testament” that along with a “New Testament” constitutes the Christian Bible and a “Hebrew Bible” that is properly a function of Judaism would have been helpful. Perhaps even some explication of what is meant by the popular term “Judeo-Christian” as it relates to the Bible (in its Jewish and Christian guises) might have been illuminating. It is difficult not to affirm the book’s project, both in terms of the history of ideas or cultural analysis. At the level of pedagogy, assigning students to write papers on the Hebrew Bible’s varied impact on ideas or culture is an excellent approach. However, I am puzzled about the wisdom of converting these essays into a book. The problem is not that some essays are stronger than others, for it is all but a truism that even books which contain essays written by specialists are “uneven.” Rather, the problem turns on the fact that while the students who wrote these essays doubtless learned a great deal, any who read them cannot equally be expected to benefit. More than anything else, what one learns from these essays is how modern university students conceived of and executed their assignments. The question is: Why might a reader be interested in that? These essays are precisely what one would expect from undergraduate essays. They are amateurish, given to infelicitous expression, replete with grammatical, syntactical, and spelling errors, confused about methodological issues, and unaware of standard scholarly literature on the various topics (the indiscriminate appeal to sources from the internet is unfortunate). These student authors are generally un-self-critical about their own social or religious location, often ignoring what the biblical text actually says, and given to overgeneralizations about both the Bible and culture. In short, they have produced the sort of work that one expects from undergraduates. They should not be criticized for that (though by no means are all the essays “A” level work even for undergraduates). But why others should be encouraged to read such a book escapes me. I suppose if the book had been competently edited, a more positive assessment might be in order. But the editing is deplorable. It doubtless

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seems curmudgeonly to be so negative toward what these students produced. In point of fact, I applaud their efforts. My criticism has to do with converting an excellent undergraduate assignment into a book. If one is curious about how undergraduates write, think, or research, then there is some merit in this book. But if one is interested in the topic the book is dedicated to—assessing the impact of the Bible on culture—then this book should remain on the shelf.

G. W. Lorein, THE ANTICHRIST THEME IN THE INTERTESTAMENTAL PERIOD (Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha Supplement Series, 44; London/New York: T&T Clark, 2003), xiv + 283 pp. Paper. US $55.00. ISBN 0-5670-8300-4. Reviewed by R. Glenn Wooden Acadia Divinity College Geert Lorein (Evangelische Theologische Faculteit, Leuven) focuses on the “theme of the Antichrist” (Title), the “Antichrist figure” (p. 1), the “image of the Antichrist” (p. 23), or more accurately, the Jewish “bases of the Antichrist theme” (p. 233), both Old Testament and intertestamental. After a literature review, beginning from 1895 (Bousset and Gunkel), L. concludes that “the Antichrist is a compound figure” (p. 26) and the source of a definition will be found not in the Intertestamental period, but in 1 and 2 John where ‘Antichrist’ first occurs. Surprisingly, he moves directly to the Church Fathers! There he finds three currents in which the Antichrist’s activities are mostly political or religious or a combination of both (p. 28). Using this overview, L. looks at the NT materials and asserts that the man of lawlessness in 2 Thessalonians “appears to be another description of the named Antichrist”; the author of the Epistles of John pays “more attention to the forerunners of the Antichrist, but that he assumes that an eschatological Antichrist is coming”; and “in the book of Revelation, ‘Beast’ proves to be the description of ‘Antichrist’” (p. 29). He settles on the following definition of the Antichrist: “… a man who will appear at the end of time, wholly filled with Satan. He will be the arch deceiver, as a tyrant (unjust, murderous) and as a false god (turning himself and others away from all existing religion). Other descriptions of the Antichrist are ‘man of lawlessness’,

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‘Beast’ and ‘false prophet’ (the latter only for his religious aspect).” It is unfortunate that he offers only a digest of others’ work, a detailed listing of the passages in the Church Fathers (reflecting work published elsewhere [“The Antichrist in the Fathers and their Exegetical Basis” Sacris eruditi 42 (2003): 5–60]), and his claims about the New Testament, where he makes only assertions. Maybe this introductory material is a truncated version of a more complete treatment. Nonetheless, it needed more careful crafting in order to help the reader follow the argument. The definition provides a focus for the body of research, which moves from the Old Testament to the various non-canonical works and the DSS. Wherever there are themes similar to the definition, L. finds the (theme of) Antichrist. In the OT, it occurs in the ‘false prophets’ in Deuteronomy 13:1–6, the bears and Goliath in 1 Samuel 17, the shepherd in Zechariah 11:15–17, and Antiochus IV in Daniel (which he dates with Zechariah 11 to the fifth century [p. 41, note 235]). This brief summary of the Old Testament section illustrates the main weakness of the rest of the research: Working back from the Church Fathers, L. looks for figures in the Old Testament and intertestamental Jewish literature that fit the definition, even though ‘Antichrist’ is not used and no dependence is demonstrated. When L. does not find “the Antichrist (theme)” he can still write: “We do not find the Antichrist figure in 1 Maccabees, but we do notice some elements that clearly existed around the year 100 and could therefore be used by other authors as they formed their ideas about the Antichrist” (p. 82). Unfortunately, there is no clear indication that they did. It is merely thematic similarity, rigorously applied, that L. uses to investigate texts. However, based upon this, any opponent of a Davidic ruler, any person in the Gospels or Acts who opposed Jesus, and anyone who opposed any messianic-like figure in Jewish literature is a possible source for the theme. But the existence of the figures tells us only that a variety of people were perceived as opposing God’s designated leaders, and even God—probably this was such a common motif in the literature that possible sources for the theme are endless! In defence of the research, L. seems to be debating the conclusion by the religionsgeschichtliche Schule that the origins of the Antichrist figure are in Iranian and Babylonian sources (cf. pp. 5, 7). He make this clear in the conclusion: “…all elements can be traced back to the Old Testament (core) and the history of Israel (actualization by idealization), and … at no point does it become necessary to appeal to an Iranian or Babylonian origin” (p. 233; NOTE: reading the conclusion first is actually helpful for understanding the body of this book). In the end, L.’s conclusions are not convincing. He does pull together many Jewish texts that could have been part of the basis for later writers’ de-

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pictions of the Antichrist, and that does serve as an answer to the religionsgeschichtliche Schule approach. As well, this research suggests some figures that might be studied further, in an attempt to determine whether they were incipient antichrist figures. However, as a study of the actual development of “the theme of the Antichrist” or proof that in the intertestamental period “the core of an individual eschatological opponent already existed” (p. 239), it fails.

David Shepherd, TARGUM AND TRANSLATION: A RECONSIDERATION OF THE QUMRAN ARAMAIC VERSION OF JOB (Assen, Neth: Van Gorcum, 2004), vii+317 pp. Cloth. €79.50. ISBN 90-232-4017-0. Reviewed by Jean Duhaime Université de Montréal In this revised dissertation (T. Lim and P. Hayman, supervisors), D. Shepherd explores the relationship of the so-called “targum” of Job from Qumran (henceforth 11Q10) with its counterparts in the Rabbinic (RtgJob) and Syriac (Peshitta or P-Job) traditions through a “systematic, synoptic threeway comparison” (p. 21). He also assesses the recent suggestion that 11Q10 should be simply identified as a translation of its Hebrew source rather than a “targum” (p. 22). Taking methodological insights from the previous work of H. M. Szpek on the Peshitta to Job, he uses the categories of syntax and style to test the formal representation of the Hebrew text (as preserved in the Masoretic tradition) in the sections of Job which have survived in all three witnesses. The research focuses on three criteria: omissions, transpositions, and the treatment of the waw conjunction. In spite of the limitation of both the sample and the criteria to study it, Shepherd is confident he can achieve reliable conclusions. The book is divided in three parts, one for each criteria. The omitted elements (chap. 1–5) are usually small functional words or morphemes, rather than large portions of text. Only one omission is shared by all three versions (37:13), and a second one by 11Q10 and P-Job (36:7), both being related to a “linguistic-stylistic adaptation of the source text” (p. 40). Shep-

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herd studies 28 instances where 11Q10 offers indications for a unique omissions. Sometimes (as in 19:14) the space in a lacuna is too short for “a word-to-word rendering of the source text”; the omission is not certain, however, since in several cases (as in 21:24) the word-order is unwarranted and could have been altered. When the omission is certain, it may have occurred for several reasons: the translator may have struggled to understand a difficult text (29:7); he may have done “preceding modification” that resulted in a minus a little further on in the text (34:13); he may have sacrificed an element “for the sake of idiomatic fluency” in the target language (33:24), or he may have omitted an element which he perceived “as either not required [...] or not permitted” (38:26–p. 73). The better preserved Syriac text displays 30 clear instances of omission with similar causes, the most frequent being a perceived redundancy in the source text (36:9–p. 110). Only two instances of minuses occur in the section of RtgJob wich overlaps 11Q10: the first (31:28) is apparently motivated by “the concern to avoid ambiguity with respect to the deity” (p. 115), whereas the second (42:5) seems to have been required as the result of a “prior and theologically constrained modification in the context” (p. 116). In the second part (chap. 6–10), Shepherd studies 21 cases in the preserved portions of 11Q10 where a transposition may have occurred; he finds 29 in P-Job and only two in RtgJob for this section of the book. In 11 additional instances, 11Q10 and P-Job deviate from the Hebrew word order, three times in the same way. There is no case of a transposition shared by all three witnesses. In a small number of instances of unique (11Q10 on 40:5) or shared instances (22:17), the transposition may have been found by the translator in his Vorlage. Most of them, however, seem to be the result of the translator’s intervention stimulated by a previous modification (11Q10 on 36:28), a difficult or potentially ambiguous text (11Q10 and PJob on 22:7 and 36:7), a willingness to harmonize the word order of parallel segments of texts (11Q10 and P-Job on 31:15), a linguistic or stylistic constraint or preference (11Q10 on 21:6; P-Job on 32:15). The third part (chap. 11) is devoted to the treatment of the waw conjunction in a series of selected examples. Unique omissions, additions or substitutions of the waw conjunction are far more frequent in 11Q10 and PJob than in RtgJob (p. 245). Unsurprisingly, 11Q10 and P-Job also share “a significant number” of modifications, but almost none with RtgJob (p. 256). 11Q10 and P-Job are apparently motivated by their willingness “to produce a more idiomatic rendering of their Hebrew source”, whereas RtgJob “is particularly scrupulous in its representation” of it (p. 257). From his investigation, Shepherd infers that the translators’ adaptation of a Masoretic type of Vorlage better accounts for most modifications found

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in Qumran and Syriac versions of Job. RtgJob is much more literal in its translation, but interpolates far more “midrashic material”. This leads Shepherd to conclude that “in terms of translation approach” Qumran and Syriac versions “are clearly and unequivocally independent of the targumic tradition” (284); this argument would support the view that 11Q10 “is no more deserving the title ‘targum’ than its counterpart in the Syriac translation tradition” (p. 286). A list of 188 works cited and five indices provide useful tools to retrieve specific information from the book. Shepherd’s “reconsideration” of 11Q10 and his attempt to locate it in the larger context of Aramaic translations of Job is a significant contribution to the field. This study is well informed and the general argument is clearly exposed, in spite of a sparse use of subtitles in several chapters. Shepherd’s precise examination of each case and his balanced judgment usually lead to convincing conclusions. Having restricted his definition of a targum to the characteristics found in RtgJob, Shepherd seems correct in suggesting that 11Q10 should not be labelled as such. But the question of what exactly defines a targum certainly deserves much more debate.

Marvin A. Sweeney, and Ehud Ben Zvi, eds., THE CHANGING FACE OF FORM CRITICISM IN THE TWENTYFIRST CENTURY (Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 2003), vii + 350 pp. Paper. US $54.00. ISBN 0-8028-6067-2. Reviewed by Yehoshua Gitay University of the Free State South Africa For a major part of the 20th century the aim of Biblical studies has been “archeological”, that is, revealing the origin as a clue to authenticity. The philosophical-theological assumption was that the search for the authentic is the aim of Biblical scholarship. In accordance, an appropriate methodology, Form-criticism (Formgeschichte)—under the leadership of Herman Gunkel and Hugo Gressmann—has been dominating Biblical scholarship for more than seven decades. Form-criticism developed philological tools for determining the assumed authentic Biblical literary atom, seeking as well to re-

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veal its social setting. Given its function the method provided a literary theory of the origin of the Biblical text. The scholarly presupposition was that the kernels of the Biblical text are designed through fixed literary shapes (genres), each of which has a different social-religious setting. The precise definitions of the genre: short and unified stylistically and grammatically have been the strength of the method which kept it for so long. Recently, scholars have shifted their focus from the search for the authenticity to the meaning of the whole. The aim has been altered now in light of the community of readers who read the Biblical text in its given shape. That is, the focus on the historiocity has been replaced from the authorship to the audience. The result was the growing interest in a synchronic study of the Biblical literature. This significant shift motivated scholars to assess Formcriticism questioning its merit. Did the new goal affect the employment of the old methodology in accordance with the new scholarship trend? The main question is whether the current synchronic interest gave birth to an appropriate new methodology. The book under review—based on presentations at the 2000 Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature—has set as its goal a fresh look at the methodological matter, i.e., reassessing the place of Form-criticism today. It appeared that Form-criticism was a synonym for Biblical criticism and the replacement of the classical method, considered as the “sacred cow” of Biblical studies, was hard to accept. However, the scholars who participated at the SBL meeting are determined to update the Form-critical study of the Bible. This is, in fact, the dramatic conclusion of Anthony F. Cambell in his article (which opens the volume following the editors’ introduction): “Form Criticism’s Future” (pp. 15–31). He writes as follows: “the meaning of a text emerges from the text as a whole, not substantively from the fragments that can be found in it” (p 24). Hence, in terms of the search for the meaning Form-criticism is the wrong method as he points out: Interpretation needs to know what sort of a text is being interpreted. Interpretation needs to know the shape and structure of the text being interpreted. Modern Form Criticism is concerned with precisely these two areas of knowledge. It has a future—if its past is allowed a decent burial (p. 31).

I have no quarrel with this conclusion as I have already buried Formcriticism about two decades ago due to my studies in Biblical Rhetoric (consult Y. Gitay. Prophecy and Persuasion [Forum Theologiae Linguisticae 14; Bonn: Linguistica Biblica, 1981] and more recently in “Prophetic Criticism:

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‘What are they Doing?’ The Case of Isaiah: A Methodological Assessment,” JSOT 96 [2001]: 101–128). Indeed, Campbell points out the problems but this is not sufficient today. Now the critic needs to develop a fresh methodology to pursue his goal of revealing the meaning of the text. The question is how? He speaks about the shape and the structure of the text. But for this he needs to develop a theory of the Biblical text. What are his criteria for defining the literary design of the text? What is a text? What does it mean a text as a whole? Cambell is vague. This leads me to Erhard Blum’s essay: “Formgeschichte—A Misleading Category? Some Critical Remarks” (pp. 32–45). Blum makes the effort to analyze the nature of the text and to point on the proper methodology as he sees it. He calls attention to C. Hardmeier’s work: Texttheorie und biblische Exegese: Zur rhetorichen Funktion der Trauermetaphorik in der Prophetie (1978) as his inspiration. Here, genres can be defined as transindividual patterns of text transformation. Such patterns are specified as a part of a culturally determined communicative competence of the individual author. Blum elaborates: “Biblical exegesis does not require its peculiar ‘form criticism’” (pp. 34–35). Blum reaches the following conclusion: In critical retrospective it therefore becomes clear that it is Gunkel’s criteria for genre definitions that in their breadth at least may provide something like “the raw material” for an appropriate genre analysis. Here his criterion of “thoughts and dispositions” would have to be transferred to the categories “content and structure” and “purpose of communication” (p. 43).

Content and structure and purpose of communication are hermeneutical issues that are beyond the search for the literary genre. A proper methodology needs to serve these goals. Actually, the matter of communication seems to be developed through Patricia K. Tull’s essay: “Rhetorical Criticism and Beyond in Second Isaiah” (pp. 326–334). The author starts her discussion through a paraphrase of Amos’ autobiography, indicating that she is not a Form-critic and even not a daughter of such a critic. This is promising as we might expect to discover in her writing a new approach which might follow Blum’s desire to detect the purpose of communication, and Rhetoric—the objective of Tull’s study—is the art of effective communication. Indeed, she does not disappoint her readers through her study of Deutero-Isaiah’s strategy of argumentation. She points out the prophet concern for the rhetorical trope of the appeal to “societal memory”, “and reshaping of memories in order to persuade” (p. 331). Tull claims to have discovered this argumentative tool but she needs to read deeper the works of M. Haran (Between Rishonot and Hadashot [Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1963])

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and Y. Gitay (already in Prophecy and Persuasion) among others in this regard. As a rule, it could be beneficial for her research to present the rhetorical trope of appeal in the context of a theory of argumentation in terms of memory (for instance, Aristotle’s Rhetoric 1361a 34 and 1362b 24). The appeal to memory is actually the example, which leads to induction, a proof based on logic: “Examples are most suitable to deliberative speeches; for we judge of future events by divination from past events” (Aristotle, Rhetoric 1368a). The advantage of such a systematic study of argumentation is that the rhetorical trope is not sporadic but an argumentative phenomenon that constitutes the prophetic strategy of appeal. Thus, the question of the prophetic argumentation as a rhetorical endeavor calls for a new methodology of research which transfers the study of the literary settings into a systematic study of Biblical prophecy as a persuasive discourse. The focus on effect needs to be translated into a proper methodology based on the nature of a text that seeks communication. This needs to be done in terms of a theory of text’s communication and a determination of the prophetic speeches as units of appeal rather than literary-stylistic genres. That is to say, a theory of the prophetic literary design—as a communicative discourse—is in need here. Thus, I am in full agreement with the editors who enlighten us in their methodological concern as their following outline of the future of research indicates: Form-critical studies will no longer concern themselves only or mainly with the typical features of language and text. Rhetorical criticism and communication theory have amply demonstrated that the communicative and persuasive functions of texts depend on the unique as well as the typical (p. 9).

Nevertheless, the solution is not the presentation of multimethodologies. Form criticism provided specific answers in the past because the method had its strength: it sought—at the time—to provide a theory of the text given its peculiar goals. However, in light of further studies regarding the nature of the Biblical texts—based, for instance, on field studies of the nature of orality—which present long speeches of multiply literary styles—we are able today to show the literary mistakes of the old methodology. We can today provide a new theory of the Biblical discourse. Then—as pointed out earlier—we need to engage ourselves with the matter of the determination of the proper methodology in correlation with the nature of the text. Did the new scholarship introduce another method which might challenge the old and well-established Form-criticism? As a rule, current scholarly concern revolves around the question of the content and meaning of

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the text as a whole rather than the atomic units. But still a new methodology that is correlated with the new aims is not emerging. The collapse of Form-criticism opens the door for a reevaluation of the nature of the biblical discourse. Then the proper methodology which is a product of the poetics of the Biblical discourse will capture its place. What we need now is a systematic presentation of a theory of the Biblical text. What are the characteristics of this text, what are its goals, how this text is designed given its features? Actually, we need to ask ourselves specific fundamental questions: what is a Biblical text—does it have a head, body and legs given Aristotle’s definition of a literary work? Is it a referential or emotional text? Does it represent a figurative speech? These questions might assist us in developing the proper hermeneutical means which will determine our methodologies. At the end of the day, it is important to mention that the scholarly motivation for the methodological evaluation is the new social-theological concern rather than the development of a new textual-philological methodology. However, the critical study of the Bible is determined through the methodology of research. Methodology is therefore the essence of scholarship and as such it cannot be uncertain or shallow. Space is limited, and I must conclude here given my methodological assessment. It is important to thank the editors for initiating the discussions and for including the following studies which will be mentioned here only through their contributors. Hence, in the context of methodology mention should be given to the important essays of Roy Melugin, “Recent Form Criticism Revisited in an Age of Reader Response” (pp. 46–64), Raymond C. Van Leeuwen, “Form Criticism, Wisdom and Psalms 111–112” (pp. 65– 84) and Hyun Chul Paul Kim, “Form Criticism in Dialogue with other Criticisms: Building the Multidimensional Structures of Texts and Concepts” (pp. 85–104). The book includes further studies on “The Bible and Ancient Near Eastern Literature” by Martin Rösel, Martti Nissinen, Margaret Odell and Tremper Longman III, “Narrative Literature” by Sue Boorer, Won Lee, Thomas Römer and Bob Becking, “Prophetic Literature” by David L. Petersen, Ehud Ben Zvi, Michael H. Floyd, Martin J. Buss and Marvin A. Sweeney. A well written book which appears at a period of methodological transformation thus it stimulates reactions and further thinking regarding the crucial methodological issues of Biblical hermeneutics.

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William M. Schniedewind, HOW THE BIBLE BECAME A BOOK: THE TEXTUALIZATION OF ANCIENT ISRAEL (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2004), xiii + 257 pp. Cloth. US $27.00. ISBN 0-521-82946-1. Reviewed by Alex Jassen New York University In this highly readable and informed study, Schniedewind opens with two equally provocative questions: “when was the Bible written?” and “why was it written?” (p. 1). The first question frames the present study as an inquiry into the social and historical context surrounding the composition of the Bible. The introduction of the second question signifies Schniedewind’s unique contribution to the larger discussion of the formation of the Bible and what sets this book apart from all other similar enterprises. In proposing this second question, Schniedewind is interested in the written character of the Bible that marks it as the product of a textual society. Ancient Israel was long an oral culture. The emergence of a written text such as the Bible reflects a gradual shift within ancient Israel from an oral culture to a textual society. Schniedewind is interested in charting this progression and exploring its implications for the question of the historical and social context of the origins of the biblical books. The results of recent anthropological and sociolinguistic studies are combined with exploration of the unique historical circumstances that gave rise to the production of the biblical books. Schniedewind argues that the introduction of textuality into this discussion completely revolutionizes long held assumptions concerning the dating of many biblical books. Here, he is in dialogue (or, perhaps debate) both with the classic source-critical position and with the recent trend among a minority of biblical scholars to date the majority of the Bible to the late Persian, Hellenistic, and even Hasmonean periods. After surveying the limited role of writing in the Near East in 2nd millennium (chs. 2–3), the discussion then shifts to writing in ancient Israel (ch. 4). In particular, Schniedewind identifies the minimal role of writing in Israel, which at that time was primarily an oral culture (pp. 52–56). As in contemporary Near Eastern societies, the emerging scribal class was closely tied to the administrative and monumental tasks of the state. Their scribal

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traditions and linguistic style display little deviance from Canaanite culture and language, offering no evidence of an independent writing tradition (pp. 56–60). As is readily apparent, this is hardly the appropriate social and historical context for the commissioning of great prose traditions of Israel’s past and argues against locating the composition of the earliest strands of the Hebrew Bible during the United Monarchy (p. 63). As Schniedewind moves to the late Monarchic period, he locates a wealth of archaeological and literary evidence that attests to the rapid spread of writing and literacy. In addition, the urbanization of Judean society, the growth of Jerusalem, and the expansion of royal power all served as catalysts for the formation of literary traditions. Following the collapse of the northern kingdom, Schniedewind argues, Hezekiah forged a “political ideology” focused on the restoration of the golden age of the United Monarchy which “would be textualized by the collection, composition, and editing of literature by the royal scribes of Hezekiah” (p. 73). Within this literary heritage, he locates much of the wisdom literature, the 8th century writing prophets, the first edition of the Deuteronomistic history, and significant portions of the Pentateuchal literature. Throughout, writing is still closely associated with the king and state. The remainder of the study continues Schniedewind’s exploration of the role of writing in Judean society and its impact on the formation of the Bible. Schniedewind identifies a rise in literacy and writing in the 7th century B.C.E. and the simultaneous emergence of the authority of the written word. This notion of textual authority was seized upon and became a cornerstone in the Josianic religious reforms (ch. 6). This in turn produced a whole new corpus of biblical literature that reflects new notions of textuality, the foremost exemplar being Deuteronomy. Schniedewind’s analysis of the exilic and post-exilic period (chs. 8–9) severely calls into question the long held assumption that the Persian period was a time of literary flourishing within which we should locate the composition of most of the Bible. To be sure, Schniedewind identifies this as a time of “retrenchment” in which much of the Bible is collected and edited into its final form (p. 166). Finally, he explores the impact of the results of the present study with respect to orality and textuality in later Second Temple Judaism and early Christianity (ch. 10). Schniedewind’s work represents a welcome shift in the discussion of the composition of the Bible. Though scholars may quibble with some of his reconstruction of historical circumstances or conclusions concerning the dating of individual books, this work is surely the most thorough treatment of orality and textuality in ancient Israel and the concomitant implications with respect to the formation of the Bible.

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Schniedewind should also be commended for the highly readable nature of this book. Discussion of intricate scholarly issues is relegated to the footnotes. Difficult points are often elucidated by recourse to instructive modern analogies. In addition, the book is complemented by a number of informative and attractive images. Schniedewind has accomplished the rare feat of writing a book that appeals to an informed popular audience while at the same time making a significant scholarly contribution.

ERRATA: p. vi: “Jehorachin” should be “Jehoiachin” p. xi: “Alttestamentlichye” should be “Alttestamentliche” p. xii: “Alttestamentlischen” should be “die Alttestamentliche” p. 119: a he is written as a het p. 130: “pes. 54a” should be “b. Pes. 54a” pp. 24, 118, 137: inconstant spelling for “m. Aboth/m. Avot” p. 197: “halachaic” should be “halachic” p. 200: “writng” should be “writing” pp. 201, 202 (2x): “Anti” should be “Ant” p. 226, n. 5: “Schriedewind” should be “Schniedewind” p. 238, n. 49: there are a number of Hebrew typographical errors in the biblical citations. Extra space needed between “2” and “Chr” p. 239, n. 18: “STJD” should be “STDJ” p. 239, n. 22: “Community Rule” should be “Damascus Document” passim: capitalization for “temple” (with respect to the Jerusalem temple) is inconsistent throughout the book.

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Steven L. McKenzie, 1–2 CHRONICLES (Abingdon Old Testament Commentaries; Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2004), 381 pp. Paper. US $36.00, UK £23.99, CAN $51.99. ISBN 0-687-00750-X. Reviewed by Ken Ristau Penn State University Abingdon Old Testament Commentaries is a relatively new series from Abingdon Press that is written for “theological students and pastors.” The present volume by Steven L. McKenzie covers the books of 1–2 Chronicles. The format of the series serves McKenzie’s task very well. The series allows McKenzie to divide and analyze the contents of Chronicles according to his own logical units rather than being forced to follow a strict chapter by chapter or verse by verse analysis. For each unit of text, he provides a summary introduction, a literary analysis, an exegetical analysis, and a theological analysis. This organization results in a well-rounded approach that provides a broader range of insights to the text than the formats of comparable commentaries usually allow. In the literary analysis, McKenzie typically chooses to engage in some form criticism and also provide analysis of the overall structure of each unit. In the exegetical analysis, he discusses key interpretive issues of the unit. This often involves a discussion, at some length, of the relationship between the Chronicler’s composition and parallel passages in Samuel-Kings or other texts. It also involves analysis of problematic or difficult words and phrases in the passage in a very accessible yet informative way. In the theological analysis, McKenzie supplies a pragmatic discussion of devotional and homiletic insights into the passage. Of the three sections, McKenzie generally devotes the most attention, as one might expect, to the exegetical analysis, while the others are less developed or irregular in length. For example, at some points, McKenzie provides extensive discussion in the literary analysis while elsewhere it is frustratingly short. On the other hand, the theological analysis is usually quite brief and appears primarily intended to stimulate thinking rather than provide definitive perspectives. Throughout the commentary, McKenzie works diligently to balance scholarship and accessibility. Most of the analyses are clear and consistent,

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reflecting a careful multi-dimensional methodology. He provides references to the leading scholarship yet never overwhelms the reader with the academic debate. Notably, while bringing his own extensive experience in Chronicles to bear as well as a reliable cross-section of recent scholarship, McKenzie is clearly influenced by Gary Knoppers’ recent contribution on 1 Chronicles to the Anchor Bible series. Given the limitations of this series, McKenzie’s discussion of the genre of Chronicles is quite short but it nevertheless points to one of the clear tendencies throughout the commentary. Considering proposals that Chronicles is rewritten Bible or historiography, McKenzie ultimately concludes that it is a “unique work”: “a theological rewriting of Bible history for instructional purposes” (34). McKenzie’s conclusion attempts to combine many different genres: theology, rewritten Bible, history, and didactic literature. While the definition is understandable, in that Chronicles does actually exhibit all of these forms, Chronicles certainly is not unique in combining them and I fail to see why it is not ancient historiography. The standards that McKenzie applies preclude a single genre classification for most significant works of literature. Theology, rewriting, and didacticism are elements in nearly all ancient and also classical historiography. Should we also say that Herodotus is not quite historiography but unique, and so conclude that it is “a schematized rewriting of folk tales, travelogues, myths, and history, with oracular pronouncements and didactic aims”? Microforms should not preclude a macro-classification. Moreover, as it pertains to McKenzie’s work, the focus on rewriting in particular shifts the commentary away from an analysis of Chronicles as its own work to a focus on differences between Chronicles and the literature it is rewriting. This, in turn, results in considerable speculation in paralleled passages about whether or not a given difference was in the Chronicler’s Vorlage and the possible intent for the changes. Although a common tendency in commentaries and studies on Chronicles, this is likely to be a tangential issue for the audience of this series, especially when such discussions come at the expense of commentary on the greater part of the narrative that, though identical to the Vorlage (or nearly so), is nevertheless a new and its own story in its context within the book. Finally, one additional observation: McKenzie comments on Chronicles through the lens of an established characterization of the Chronicler’s ideology. For example, (1) McKenzie’s emphatic stress on a theology of individual reward and punishment and (2) his position that the Chronicler envisions the restoration of the monarchy. In my opinion, McKenzie occasionally ignores the nuances of the text that contradict such perspectives and so does not adequately acknowledge the tension in aspects of the

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Chronicler theology. Also, while McKenzie refers to Riley on the latter issue, he does not refer to Ben Zvi’s important article, “A Sense of Proportion” in SJOT 9 (1995):37–51, either in situ or in the select bibliography, on the former. Still, the positions that McKenzie advocates remain majority opinions and so are representative of current scholarship on Chronicles. As such, McKenzie’s analysis serves the purpose of the series. Overall, McKenzie has succeeded wonderfully in writing a pastoral and lay commentary on Chronicles that utilizes recent research. Not only should the intended audience of theological students and pastors find this a useful resource for their research but scholars too.

Leslie J. Hoppe, THERE SHALL BE NO POOR AMONG YOU: POVERTY IN THE BIBLE (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2004), 197 pp. Paper. US $22.00, UK £15.99, CAN $31.99. ISBN 0-687-00059-9. Reviewed by Michael S. Moore Fuller Theological Seminary This book attempts to articulate a biblical theology of poverty for the benefit of interested post-moderns. Its objective is to “determine how the Bible can help individual believers and communities of faith shape their response to the poor and poverty today” (p. 7). The author surveys the Old and New Testaments for clues, using an eclectic mix of historical, literary, and sociological tools. Hoppe, a professor of Old Testament Studies at Catholic Theological Union in Chicago and a Visiting Professor at the Studium Biblicum Franciscanum in Jerusalem, divides his survey into eight short chapters, dealing in turn with the “Torah” (pp. 17–41), the “Former Prophets” (pp. 42–67), the “Latter Prophets” (pp. 68–103), the “Wisdom Literature” (pp. 104–121), the “Psalms” (122–30), the “Apocalyptic Literature” (pp. 131–42), the “New Testament” (pp. 143–65), and the “Rabbinic Tradition” (pp. 166–70). Chapters 1–3 are much stronger than chapters 4–8, and each chapter concludes with “questions for reflection” (e.g., “How did the prophets use ‘the vocabulary of the poor’?” [p. 103], and “What action does the wisdom tradition suggest as one response to poverty in the Jewish community?” [p. 121]). Footnotes are kept to a minimum and there are many gaps in the “select bibliography” (pp. 185–87; e.g., C. Blomberg, Nei-

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ther Poverty Nor Riches: A Biblical Theology of Material Possessions [NSBT 7; Leicester: Apollos, 1999]; J. Bassler, God and Mammon: Asking for Money in the New Testament [Nashville: Abingdon, 1991]; S. Rodin, Stewards in the Kingdom: A Theology of Life in All Its Fullness [Downers Grove: InterVarsity, 2000]). Still, this book has much to commend it. First, this subject stands in dire need of attention, particularly by informed biblical scholars like Hoppe. Addressing itself to an audience of readers living in the richest nations on earth, this paperback successfully surveys many of the key Old and New Testament passages on poverty and wealth and incorporates them into a user-friendly handbook. This alone should commend it to a wide audience. Second, the author occasionally uses creative new methods in his effort to suggest new insights into old problems. Both Hannah and David, for example, “identify themselves as poor” (p. 56, citing 1 Samuel 1 and 18), yet where Hannah’s poverty leads her to praise God, David’s poverty leads him to a life of manipulation bordering on ruthlessness. By noticing this intratextual juxtaposition, Hoppe shows how “poverty leads one person to prayer and another to scheming” (p. 56). This kind of creativity is refreshingly welcome. Third, Hoppe understands that readers who segregate deuteronomistic theology from prophetic morality do so at their own peril. This point becomes especially clear in his fascinating discussion about Jehu (pp. 62–63), a character many contemporary exegetes simply (and simplistically) label a “terrorist.” Hoppe, however, recognizes and explicates the socio-economic factors behind this text and concludes, on the basis of this analysis, that Jehu’s behavior, while morally problematic, nevertheless “shows the depth of alienation the people felt” under the hated Omride dynasty (p. 62). Thus, in contrast to fundamentalist literalists on the right and liberal universalists on the left, Hoppe steers a sane middle course through a difficult text (and a difficult issue: “violence”), articulating a socio-economic case for Jehu’s purge with clarity and precision, thereby challenging the simplistic ideological analyses of many of his colleagues. On the other hand, this book bristles with a number of problems. First, the author simply adopts one economic ideology to the exclusion of all others. This becomes clear in the first two paragraphs of the opening section entitled “The Economy of Ancient Israel” (pp. 8–9). Here the book’s opening argument breaks down as follows: (a) Israel is an agricultural economy; (b) various challenges to Israel’s agricultural productivity come from both land and climate; (c) further challenges come “more so from the social and economic structures of Canaan”; (d) these Canaanite sociopolitical structures force “the early Israelites” to “withdraw their allegiance from the political and economic system of Late Bronze Age Canaan”

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because “the governments of the Canaanite city-states supported themselves by taxing the peasants”; (e) this in turn forces the peasantry to “sell their children into slavery and, in some cases, sell their land to satisfy their creditors”; and (f) all this leads to one conclusion: “the city-states of Canaan, then, were responsible for the creation of poverty among their citizens” (pp. 8–9). Notice that the author does not say “contributed to the creation of poverty”—he simply removes the element of personal volition altogether. Nowhere does he discuss the rather wide range of scholarly opinion regarding the beginning of Israel and its economy, nor does he even introduce readers to a variety of economic theories. He simply presumes a hard and fast boundary between “Canaan” and “Israel” at its earliest stages, and reads the biblical material through a “peasant-revolt” lens like that most often associated with N. Gottwald and his primary theoretician, K. Marx. Such ideological bias may appear to work well when analyzing the prophetic literature, but elsewhere it breaks down completely. In the section on the wisdom literature, for example, the book makes several unwarranted presuppositions: (a) that Sirach’s assignment of the sages to a Hellenized “elite” class applies to earlier Hebrew wisdom as well (p. 104); (b) that both Torah and Prophets claim more “divine authority” than do the wisdom writings (p. 105); and (c) that in Qoheleth, “diligence and thrift are simply subtle forms of greed” (p. 112). Against this reasoning one should note that (a) Hans Heinrich Schmid and Erhard Gerstenberger long pointed out the deep ideological differences between old, Hebraic wisdom and late, Hellenized wisdom; (b) theories of “selective inspiration” usually lead to subtle forms of neo-Marcionism; and (c) to equate “thrift” with “greed” is simplistic and dangerous, and indicative more of ideological bias than exegetical balance (N.B. that Whybray’s Wealth and Poverty in the Book of Proverbs, though listed in the bibliography, is never even engaged in this chapter). The author seems well aware of these sandtraps, even as he falls into them. He knows that the task of “attempting a synthesis of what the biblical tradition says about the poor is risky and almost foolhardy” (p. 121). Unfortunately, he does not seem aware that the task becomes riskier when one set of ideological presuppositions is elevated over all others as universally normative. At times this book carefully recognizes that being “poor” does not automatically equate to being “righteous” (e.g., pp. 72, 75, 171), but the heavy ideological Tendenz within which it is packaged makes it difficult to see these remarks as anything other than “exceptions.” In sum, this would have been a much better book had it been (a) more transparent and (b)

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more variegated in its ideological presuppositions about the ultimate causes (pl.) of poverty and wealth.

Victor H. Matthews, JUDGES AND RUTH (New Cambridge Bible Commentary; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), xxi + 270 pp. Cloth. US $55.00. ISBN 0-521-80606-2. Reviewed by Dr. Lissa M. Wray Beal Providence Theological Seminary Matthews ably addresses his intended “wide audience” (frontispiece) of ministers, scholars, and intellectually curious laypeople. He examines the texts in their literary and cultural contexts, beginning his commentary on Judges with a literary, cultural, and archaeological analysis. He makes brief comments on the place of artifactual and textual witnesses in reconstructing the ancient history, and acknowledges the tentative nature of artifactual and cultural syntheses based on the material evidence. He affirms the received biblical text as an artifact that assists in reconstructing the society of ancient Israel (17). Beyond these affirmations, further engagement with this thorny question is found in both his both reading list and the footnotes. Compositional history questions are dealt with summarily (5–6; 209– 11), understandable in a commentary which does not engage historicalcritical methodologies as a primary commentary tool. Judges is given a redacted form in the exilic period (after an initial Josianic production). Ruth is given a post-exilic compositional setting. Using a multidisciplinary approach drawing heavily on newer critical methodologies, Matthews skillfully unfolds the biblical text in its ancient cultural context. His choice of methodological approaches varies and often one or more approaches are used to engage the biblical text. For example, he sets the Deborah-Jael narrative in its cultural context by considering related extra-biblical texts and genres (e.g., 64–65, 77). The cultural context is further examined through critical studies on ancient hospitality codes. Additionally, the Deborah-Jael narrative is examined from a feminist perspective which addresses modern, literary questions such as the construction and reversal of male-females roles in the narrative (66, 68, 78; a similar intertwining of feminist studies and ancient hospitality codes informs his discus-

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sion of Judges 19–20). Ultimately, many of the critical approaches are used by Matthews to show the strong thematics he discerns within the books (such as Israel as the underdog, and the reversal of roles within Yahweh’s program of deliverance). A commitment to canonical reading is also apparent in many ways throughout the commentary. In Judges, the individual stories of judges are read as part of a coherent narrative of Israel’s downward spiral (8, 79), Judges 19 is read in light of Genesis 19; Judges 20 pairs with Joshua 7 as commentary on purging the evil from Israel (194), and Jotham’s vineyard fable sparks a discussion of the canonical use of the vineyard image (106). In Ruth, canonical reading is apparent as the narrative is explored as analogically related to both the Exodus, and the return from exile. Further, Ruth’s transformation into a true Israelite is read in light of Isaiah 56–66’s universalism (212). Matthews’ work with Ruth continues his commitment to set the text in its literary context by using narrative analytical techniques (for instance, patterns of progression of loss, and progression of gain, are traced through the book [218–19]). He also continues his commitment to place the text in its cultural context as he explores her encounters with Boaz through the ancient hospitality protocols during a time of gleaning. Her entry into his field is compared to a stranger’s entry into a town, which triggers the hospitality obligations which then continue throughout Ruth 2–4. A new focus as he engages the book of Ruth is that he understands the book as voicing “resistance against the increasing emphasis on endogamy … during the time of Ezra and Nehemiah” (212), thus providing a canonical counterpoint to the “ethnic purity” of Deuteronomy 12–16 (212, 241). Matthews works hard to engage the interested reader. A suggested reading list is provided with bibliographic entries grouped according to critical approach (e.g., literary studies, redaction studies, social and archaeohistorical studies, social scientific studies, and historical critical studies for Judges; literary studies, and legal and social world studies for Ruth). Recommended commentaries are included, with brief annotations. Other helps include “Closer Looks” addressing cultural aspects that inform the text. They are appropriately placed (e.g., a discussion of Baal with the Gideon narrative; a discussion of endogamy and Levirate obligations with the Ruth narrative), brief, and not especially technical and thus accessible to his intended audience. Homiletical concerns are scattered throughout in sections entitled “Bridging the Horizons” (in connection with Judges 3, 12, 16, 21, and Ruth 4). For instance, he addresses the moral ambiguity apparent in the “hero” Samson (165), and the integration of immigrants into a new society (242). Although these homiletical sections could

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appear more frequently than they do, Matthews speaks warmly and honestly in them, revealing his personal interaction with the biblical text and his commitment to its continuing relevance. The strength of this commentary is the skillful blending of various methodological approaches in service of textual commentary, and the commentary’s commitment to the text as a coherent and thematic whole. While much of the critical discussion is relegated to the footnotes and suggested further readings, this is not a drawback for the broad-spectrum audience it intends to address.

M. Patrick Graham, Steven L. McKenzie and Gary N. Knoppers, eds., THE CHRONICLER AS THEOLOGIAN: ESSAYS IN HONOUR OF RALPH W. KLEIN (Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series 371; London/New York: T. & T. Clark, 2003), xvi + 285 pp. Cloth. US $110.00. ISBN 0-8264-6671-0. Reviewed by Mark J. Boda McMaster Divinity College McMaster University This collection of essays is the third in a series arising from the ChroniclesEzra-Nehemiah Section of the Society of Biblical Literature, the first two having dealt with The Chronicler as Historian (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1997) and The Chronicler as Author (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999). In this volume, dedicated to Ralph Klein, whose role in the biblical guild as well as theological education is celebrated in the first two chapters, thirteen contributors highlight various aspects of the theology of the books of Chronicles. Five of these contributions approach this theological framework through a limited portion of text while the remaining eight highlight broad themes discerned throughout the books. Gary N. Knoppers’ contribution (“Shem, Ham and Japhet”) provides a superb review of the ideology lying behind the genealogy of 1 Chron 1:1– 2:2 in the larger context of 1 Chronicles 1–9 and the Chronicler in general. He contradicts Rudolph’s view that the section is not only disunified within itself, but also disconnected from the rest of Chronicles, before proceeding to highlight five theological aspects of the genealogy: its provision of a universal context for the work as a whole; its lack of a special title for Adam or

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any figure, this being left for the sections on Israel where the name of YHWH is introduced for the first time; its provision of a spatial context for Chronicles; its admission that Israel is a latecomer to the stage of world history, lending legitimacy to the nations; and finally its admission that Israel was not indigenous to the land of Canaan since their lineage is linked to Eber in Shem’s line. Although Gerrie F. Snyman (“A Possible World of Text Production for the Genealogy in 1 Chronicles 2.3–4.23”) does not provide a close reading of the genealogy, by leveraging perspectives gleaned from observing South African (both Apartheid and post-Apartheid) uses of genealogy he advances a helpful reflection on the role of genealogy within the early Persian period (boundary maintenance, conflict resolution, elite justification, group solidarity, social order). According to Snyman, genealogies are powerful in the hands of the elite and assuredly the elite are the ones responsible for its creation and preservation in the books of Chronicles, for writing is the activity of the elite in this period of history. Snyman narrows the functions to Wilson’s tripartite structure: domestic (determines social position), juridical (regulates relations and controls land) and religious. After linking these functions to 1 Chron 2:3–4:23, Snyman concludes that the genealogies have been created by elites who came from outside but who sought to include others beyond themselves. In his article (“The Secession of the Northern Kingdom in Chronicles”), Ehud Ben Zvi enters the theological world of the Chronicler through the Chronicler’s presentation of the secession of the North. In this he presents some of the theological tensions in the book (why YHWH caused the secession, thus making possible an anti-Jerusalem), but also notes the implications for Yehud-Samaria relations. Therefore, for the Chronicler Samaria is Israel, even if their polity is to remain separate from Yehud. In tension is the fact that the theological pious Israelite is one who must embrace “the exclusivity of the Jerusalem temple, its personnel and associated elite” (p. 78). Philippe Abadie’s “From the Impious Manasseh (2 Kings 21) to the Convert Manasseh (2 Chronicles 33)” uses the classic example of Manasseh to echo classic interpretations of the theology of Chronicles, focusing on its theology of retribution and exile-restoration. Mark A. Throntveit’s article “The Relationship of Hezekiah to David and Solomon in the Books of Chronicles” is a reprint of a paper presented in 1988. He draws together earlier research that argued for Hezekiah as a Second David or Second Solomon in order to argue that he is both. He concludes that the intention of the Chronicler’s presentation of Hezekiah is to show that under this king there was a restoration of the United King-

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dom, providing a solution to the thorny problem of the Divided Kingdom. For Throntveit this has implications for the structure of Chronicles as whole: 1 Chronicles 1–9 (Genealogies), 1 Chronicles 10–2 Chronicles 9 (United Monarchy), 2 Chronicles 10–28 (Divided Monarchy), 2 Chronicles 29–36 (Reunited Monarchy). Leslie C. Allen (“Aspects of Generational Commitment and Challenge in Chronicles”) traces the use of the phrase “God of the fathers” in Chronicles, showing that it is used to refer to the Patriarchs, the Exilic generation, David, the immediately preceding generation as well as to previous generations in general. He concludes that it functions as a rhetorical device for spiritual challenge so that the Chronicler’s and later generations may grasp the baton of faith. Focusing on “The Ark in Chronicles,” by tracing the story of the ark from Saul to Josiah, Christopher T. Begg suggests that the Chronicler may harbor hope for its return to the Second Temple. He finds it interesting that the Chronicler adds references to the ark in his account that are not found in his Vorlage, that the ark is linked to the Davidic-Solomonic period for which there is much hope of renewal both of objects as well as royal rule, that the Chronicler has been highly influenced by P, which also betrays hope for such renewal, that the ark was key to the legitimation of the First Temple and that by portraying David assembling all Israel to fetch the ark 1 Chron 13:1–4 is the Chronicler’s call to his own generation to “turn its attention to the ark once again” (p. 144). Roddy L. Braun (Cyrus in Second and Third Isaiah, Chronicles, Ezra and Nehemiah”) focuses his attention on OT passages that refer to Cyrus, seeking to delineate the nature of the Chronicler’s hope and discern whether Cyrus could be in any way “the messiah”. Braun argues that Second Isaiah transferred the Messianic hope (“or at least part of its function”) to Cyrus and the people as a whole. The Chronicler, however, concentrated on the rebuilding of the temple and remained silent on the issue of Cyrus and Zerubbabel. In this way the future remained open even as the focus was on the renewal of worship under the high priest. John C. Endres traces the “Theology of Worship in Chronicles” and identifies these key features: the regular incorporation of the great litany (“his mercy endures forever”), the regular description of the mood as one of joy, and the regular pattern of worship as burnt offerings, public sacrifices, music and song, thanksgiving sacrifices and eating of joyful meals together. Endres argues that this theology of worship (praise, thanks, petition offered to God in this ritual complex) can help the people realize their identity as the people of God.

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Isaac Kalimi’s focus is on the dominance and importance of Jerusalem in the Chronistic history (“Jerusalem—The Divine City”). He demonstrates that Jerusalem is the only capital of the “kingdom of the Lord” where God’s presence is timeless within his legitimate temple. This is made clear by contrasting the Chronistic presentation with that of prophetic and apocalyptic Hebrew works which spiritualize and idealize Jerusalem. In contrast, the Chronicler treats Jerusalem in “realistic, earthly, geographic terms, rather than according to some heavenly ideal” (p. 198). He links this to the fact that the Chronicler lived in an era without dramatic events, thus “his environment did not provide the appropriate historical context to develop a completely new Jerusalem” (p. 201). Brian E. Kelly (“Retribution Revisited”) continues his attack on the traditional view of retribution in Chronicles established by the likes of Wellhausen, von Rad, North and Japhet. Within this stream of research, however, he is able to draw on Japhet, Rudolph and Williamson to show the accent placed on penitence within the Chronicler’s history. Kelly provides an extended review and critique of the recent work of Johnstone before providing his own overview of the Chronicler’s theology related to sin and punishment. Kelly argues that the Chronicler presents YHWH as personally active in the history of Israel, eschewing any “mechanical” sense of retribution. Although the Chronicler does present the punishment of Israel as deserved, one should not assume that the blessing is anything less than God’s “electing love for his people” (p. 214). In the end, Kelly points to the centrality of the Davidic Covenant to the theology of grace in the books of Chronicles and demonstrated most poignantly in the two divine addresses in 1 Chron 17:3–15 and 2 Chron 7:12–22. This leads him then to conclude that the “message of prayer, repentance and restoration is the central theme of the subsequent presentation in 2 Chronicles 10–36, rather than a supposed theory of divine rewards and punishments” (p. 217). Such prayers are to be seen “as a benefit that Israel derives directly from its constitution by the Davidic covenant” (p. 217). William M. Schniedewind traces “The Evolution of Name Theology” in Hebrew tradition. He argues that the pre-exilic Deuteronomic History uses the phrase “house of YHWH’s name” to focus on the exclusivity of worship at that sanctuary, rather than to produce an abstraction of God’s presence. With the destruction of the temple, the exilic literature (Lamentations; 1 Kings 8; Ps 103:19) envisions YHWH dwelling in heaven while only his name is present in the temple. In “post-exilic” texts there is a hypostasization of God’s name, that is, God’s name is equated with YHWH himself (Is 56:6; 60:9; Zech 14:9) and ultimately the name “God” replaces “YHWH” in the Second Temple period (even in personal human names).

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This trend can be seen in book of Chronicles where “God” replaces “YHWH” (“house of God” 33x; “house of YHWH” 70x, half of latter are synoptic; see also “ark of YHWH” v. “ark of God”), showing that the Chronicler has a marked preference for “God” over “YHWH”. This trend should be seen as a move away from the exilic abstraction of God’s presence, something confirmed in the Chronicler’s inclusion of an excerpt from Psalm 132 in 2 Chron 6:41–42, an insertion that emphasizes the personal return of YHWH to the temple. Thus the Chronicler “underscores the importance of the temple by re-emphasizing the physical presence of Yahweh in the face of the theology of the name, which implied that only God’s name dwelt in the temple” (p. 238). According to Schniedewind, this can be transferred to the Second Temple because of the notation in Ezra 3:8 that the Second Temple construction began at the same time of year as the First Temple, a conclusion only possible if Ezra was originally part of Chronicles. Using rhetorical critical methodology, John W. Wright (“Beyond Transcendence and Immanence”) challenges the traditional caricatures of YHWH as transcendent (Wellhausen, von Rad) or immanent (Japhet). Wright accomplishes this by calling into question the usefulness of such binary dogmatic categories. Much more significant for Wright is the “where or when of divine presence and activity, and how this presence and activity is simultaneously, at least to some degree, absence and silence” (p. 265). Thus for Wright, “God is not simply immanent or transcendent but epiphanal …a strange and different character in the narrative world of Chronicles” (p. 266). With so many contributions, each with their own argument, it is a challenge to present much more than their ideas. However, reading through this rich collection of research one would like to listen in on conversations between participants that should have arisen from their presentations. In some cases it would be nice to hear how the insights of one article may enrich another. So, for instance, it would be fascinating to see how Knoppers’ focus on the nations and Israel’s status relates to the genealogical functions that Snyman has highlighted. Does this show a greater embracing of the nations by this exclusive group? In some cases divergent views need to challenge one another. For example, it would be nice to hear Throntveit’s response to Ben Zvi’s contention that the kingdoms are never “reunited” from the Chronicler’s perspective. Furthermore, does not Abadie’s leveraging of traditional views of the retribution theology in Chronicles need to be reevaluated now in light of Kelly’s refashioning of this theological stream? Finally, in other cases one sees how two writers may be lending support to each other. Thus, Schniedewind’s focus on the Chronicler’s allusion to God’s presence may find support from Begg’s contention that the Chroni-

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cler expects the ark to return to the temple. Or, one can see how Ben Zvi’s sensitivity to the mystery of God in Chronicles is highlighted even more strongly by Wright. Finally, Braun, Endres, and Kalimi reveal the satisfaction of the Chronicler with the political, liturgical, and civic realities of his day, emphasizing the centrality of Jerusalem, its temple and worship to his conception of restoration. It is Allen who remains unmentioned and ironically he is the one who highlights the importance of previous generations to challenge us to take up the “baton”. This volume truly showcases the way in which the later generation has truly taken the baton from not only Allen but also the one to whom this volume is dedicated. Both the maturity of reflection represented by the group that has been assembled in this book as well as the very fact that my reading of this volume leads me to imagine further conversations, is a fitting tribute to Ralph Klein whose early activity made possible such research and dialogue through the establishment of this enduring section at SBL.

Gerald A. Klingbeil, ed., INICIOS, PARADIGMAS Y FUNDAMENTOS: ESTUDIOS TEOLÓGICOS Y EXEGÉTICOS EN EL PENTATEUCO (River Plate Adventist University Monograph Series in Biblical and Theological Studies 1; Entre Ríos, Argentina: River Plate Adventist University, 2004), xxviii + 264 pp. Paper. US $24.95. ISBN 987-98248-6-5. Reviewed by Carluci dos Santos Wycliffe College This volume is a collection of 11 essays by scholars connected with the recently accredited Adventist University in the Province of Entre Ríos, north of Buenos Aires, Argentina. The University is one of the very few universities in South America that offer a doctoral program in biblical and theological studies. This series purports to come both as a response and an invitation to engage in dialogue with critical scholarship from a conservative, confessional standpoint. Apparently three of the contributing authors are from South America; the others are from North America, South Africa and France. The essays cover different aspects of the Pentateuch: three of them

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deal with the issue of methodology, five contain exegesis of a selection of texts (Exodus 40; Leviticus 8 and 26; Numbers 15:22–31; Deut 24:10–11), and three deal with theological topics (Yhwh standing before Abraham in Gen. 18:22; the firstborn motif in Exodus; and the cities of refuge). The articles, written in Spanish and English, reject the Historical-Critical Method, although there is some attempt to situate the biblical literature in the world of the Ancient Near East. The not-so-new proposed approach is synchronic; it works with the assumptions of the biblical writers and with a Christological key. The first three articles are foundational and somewhat programmatic. They cover different methodological aspects which will be reflected in the other articles. In the first article (in Spanish), the longest, Raúl Kerbs dismisses the historical critical method on the basis of its philosophical presuppositions. Kerbs argues that the philosophical model made explicit by Kant in the 18th century lies at the foundation and has determined the development of the modern exegetical tradition of the Pentateuch, from the inception of the historical critical tradition to the new literary criticisms and even into the post-modern approaches. The modern philosophical model explains not only the medium of transmission of the biblical narrative through natural categories but its content as well. So ‘miracle’ stories are explained from simple natural facts at their core. The next article (in English) studies a new discovered inscription in Egypt which offers support to an earlier dating of the Semitic alphabet and opens up the possibility for Mosaic authorship of some considerable parts of the Pentateuch. The patriarchs could have written their own biographies and handed them down to Moses in written form and not just in oral form. W. H. Shea discusses the Egyptian inscription of Wadi el- Hol (cf. Biblical Archeology Review, January-February, 2000). He reads the inscription as bearing the name of a certain ‘Meqet-Re’ who is then compared to ‘Meket-Re’ of Deir el Bahri. If these two individuals are the same, then Abraham could have entered Canaan in 2095 BCE; and if not, then at about 1875 BCE. According to Shea’s dating of the inscription, and based on 1 Kings 6:1, the Exodus is dated at ca. 1446/1445 BCE. The third foundational article (in Spanish) tackles the issue of inset poetry in the macrostructure of the Pentateuch; it analyzes four major poetic units (Genesis 49; Exodus 15; Numbers 23–24 and Deuteronomy 32–33) with three distinct interpretative tools—textual markers, linguistic integration and the narrative function. Christological features are identified in the poems, but Leviticus 16, the Day of Atonement, offers the most complete typological description of the work of the Messiah, and thus constitutes the center of the Pentateuch.

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The articles are well written and engage with German and English critical scholarship, particularly on the critique of the historical-critical method. In the articles dealing with exegesis and theology, a Christological interpretation is brought to bear upon the texts under study without any attempt to explain the hermeneutical processes involved. The articles reflect the conservative, confessional standpoint of the authors as the editor indicates in the introduction. The present volume seeks dialogue with the larger academic community. However, the outright rejection of the Documentary Hypothesis and whatever newer developments within the Historical-critical tradition, as well as the absence of any suggestion regarding alternative approaches to address the literary problems of the Pentateuch, leaves the reader wondering on what ground such dialogue can take place. Moreover, it essentially ignores the context of scholarship in South America. Despite a few contributions from indigenous scholars, the articles hardly attempt to interact with Latin American literature or social realities. For example, no dialogue or critique is intended with the liberation theologies of the Latin continent.

Johan Renkema, OBADIAH (Trans. Brian Doyle; Historical Commentary on the Old Testament; Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 224 pp. Paper. US $33.00. ISBN 90-429-1345-2. Reviewed by Stephen L. Cook Virginia Theological Seminary Johan Renkema’s exegesis of Obadiah, newly translated from the Dutch original of 2000, is a welcome addition to the commentary literature on this most diminutive of minor prophets. The author provides a sensible description of Obadiah’s historical context and message, a thoroughgoing poetic analysis and translation of the book, and successive, detailed treatments of the contents of each of the book’s poetic cola. The volume conveniently includes transcriptions of the five Greek manuscripts employed in researching the study (pp. 94–105). Renkema understands Obadiah as an essentially unified composition, lacking a long history of development. Only v. 20, he concludes, is a later interpolation, added a century after the original prophecy. Obadiah wit-

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nessed the atrocities of vv. 10–14 at Jerusalem’s destruction in 587 B.C.E., Renkema believes, but only constructed the book’s present message three decades later on the eve of Nabonidus of Babylon’s attack on Edom (554/3 B.C.E.) His original audience was his fellow countrymen and women, either in the exile or in Judah, directly under Edomite oppression. As implied in the form of the future-oriented prohibitives of vv. 12–14, Obadiah’s theological message transcends its original context. Future generations should take Edom’s behavior as an example of what is unacceptable and damning for any of earth’s peoples. Readers unfamiliar with the Kampen School of poetic analysis may find striking the commentary’s extensive, multi-leveled treatment of Obadiah’s literary structure. Renkema isolates a whole series of interrelated tiers of poetic coherence in Obadiah, including cola, strophes, canticles, subcanto’s, canto’s, and, finally, the cantata as a whole. Most American scholars will probably be most interested in the reconstructed sub-canto’s, which we normally think of as “strophes.” Probably the most distinctive feature of this commentary is Renkema’s intricate use of ancient Greek and Syriac textual traditions in analyzing Obadiah’s poetry. Alongside a close use of the Masoretic accentuation of the book, he relies on a study of the separators (paragraph divisions, rosettes, and dividing points of varying strength) in the texts of ancient versions such as Alexandrinus and Marchalianus in interpreting Obadiah’s colometric arrangement. The approach often serves him well. He aptly places strong section breaks after both v. 4 and v. 7, for example, buttressed by a major divider in Marchalianus in the former case and by two rosettes in each of two Syriac manuscripts in the latter case. At other points, the evidence of the text tradition leads Renkema to some unique and even problematic conclusions. I doubt we should follow Alexandrinus, for example, in placing v. 12 in a separate sub-canto from the similarly worded prohibitives of vv. 13–14. By the same token, I believe Alexandrinus has misled Renkema when he groups v. 16 with preceding verses of Obadiah rather than subsequent ones. Before v. 16, the text prophesies Edom’s judgment in its own land; starting with v. 16 it describes a more global judgment of all nations on God’s holy mountain. Verse 15a is a hinge line between these two halves of the book. In his section on detailed exegesis, Renkema proceeds through Obadiah colon by colon, devoting one to four pages to each of these verse-line components. There is plenty of room for detailed interpretive comments. Discussion here consists of both lower and higher critical matters, often including considerations of text and translation issues, grammar, formulaic

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language, flow of argument, geography, historical context, and theological intention. Scholars will surely debate various of Renkema’s interpretations. One sure point of contention will be his assertion of only one day of YHWH in Obadiah’s book, a day lacking real eschatological dimensions. Certainly, Edom experienced an initial day of YHWH in its historical defeat by Nabonidus in 554/3 B.C.E., but that event hardly encompassed the fullness of Obadiah’s prophecies. It entailed neither a divine judgment on all earth’s nations (vv. 15–16) nor an establishment of YHWH’s reign (v. 21). The Historical Commentary on the Old Testament aims to emphasize the history of interpretation of biblical tradition. In this vein, Renkema does make a distinctive use of the Greek and Syriac presentations of Obadiah, as noted above. Aside from that, however, the only other way this commentary fulfills the series goal is in giving persistent attention to Obadiah’s careful adaptation of Jeremiah 49:7–22. When in v. 1 Obadiah proclaims, “We have had word from YHWH,” the “we,” Renkema argues, refers to Jeremiah and Obadiah, twin biblical witnesses to a divine word against Edom. Obadiah, close to the circumstances of Edom’s doom, adds details of which Jeremiah could not have been aware. He goes beyond Jeremiah in v. 3, for example, adding that Edom, impervious to all that is transpiring around it, continues to ask, “Who will bring me down to the earth?” The volume includes helpful bibliographies, including a list of Obadiah commentaries current through 1997 (thus Ben Zvi’s and Raabe’s recent work is present but not Barton’s commentary of 2001). The book’s usefulness would be improved through the addition of indices. There are about a dozen spelling and typographical errors in the work, not enough to be a great distraction. All told, I have no hesitation recommending this commentary as an accessible, thoroughly researched, and carefully considered volume. It is a fine credit to the scholarly tradition of Kampen.

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John Pairman Brown, ISRAEL AND HELLAS, VOL. III: THE LEGACY OF IRANIAN IMPERIALISM AND THE INDIVIDUAL (BZAW 299; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2001), xxxii + 548 pp. Cloth. US $166.40. ISBN 3-11-016882-0. Reviewed by Jon L. Berquist Flemington, New Jersey Brown’s massive comparison of Israel and Greece as the two free and innovative societies of the ancient world comes to its conclusion in this third volume of Israel and Hellas. The first volume appeared as BZAW 231 in 1995; the second volume, subtitled Sacred Institutions with Roman Counterparts, was published as BZAW 276 in 2000. This trilogy, in excess of 1450 pages itself, possesses a complex redactional history. Brown began the project in 1960 and several parts of the first two volumes appeared in separate articles. Of the seven chapters in the third volume, three chapters were previously published (as early as 1991) and three other chapters have been republished elsewhere. This subsequent publication was Ancient Israel and Ancient Greece: Religion, Politics, and Culture (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2003; xiv, 229 pages), which combined one chapter from volume I of Israel and Hellas, two chapters from the second volume, and three chapters from the third volume. As such, Ancient Israel and Ancient Greece offers a relatively brief and affordable paperback compendium of BZAW’s three-volume collection of Brown’s essays. Except for matters of typography (mostly concerning original languages), errata sheets, and cumulative indexes, the essays in the fulsome Israel and Hellas are virtually unchanged from their original or subsequent publications, with the result that some of the research may seem dated. Volume III of Israel and Hellas offers a variety of material. Included are Brown’s two best summary and overview statements: Chapter 22, “Complementarity of Israel and Hellas,” and Chapter 24, “From Particularity to Universalism.” (Both of these chapters also appear in Ancient Israel and Ancient Greece.) In these chapters, Brown presents in relatively succinct fashion the overall concepts that drive this vast array of scholarly erudition. Brown

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seeks to answer the old question about the relationship of Greece and Israel (or, in the popular phrase to which Brown fortunately resorts only once, “What has Athens to do with Jerusalem?”) with more sensitivity to the commonalities shared by these two complex cultures. For Brown, both Israel and Greece developed within the overarching context of the dominant ancient Near Eastern imperial powers from Egypt to Mesopotamia. Both Israel and Greece resisted these empires, expressing themselves as free societies and as cultural innovators, albeit in differing ways: Israel is an old inland society just inside the ancient Near East, the terminus of trade routes by land, struggling to escape, which however it can do only in the most critical areas. Hellas is a new seaboard society just outside the ancient Near East, to which the Mediterranean is open for trade and colonization, enjoying indigenous cultural resources, on which the Near East exercises an ongoing fascination. (III: 160).

Thus, two societies are similar in their resistance to and rejection of ancient Near Eastern imperial culture. The chief differences between Israel and Greece reside in Israelite monotheism, survival themes, and emphasis on lineage, compared to Greek pantheons, themes of tragedy, and emphasis on language (III: 163). Brown, a former professor of New Testament and Christian ethics at Church Divinity School of the Pacific, sees the confluence of Hellas and Israel in the New Testament and early Christianity, which produced a non-tragedy of language that could build on the cultural innovations of both cultures in ways more basic and more advantageous to civilization’s subsequent development. Even today in western civilization, these two cultures continue their influence in the classroom (the Greek heritage of critical questioning) and in the congregation (the Israelite, JudeoChristian heritage of priestly faith communities). Rather than understanding the legacies of Greece and Israel as opposites of West and East or as competing forces of Reason and Faith, Brown envisages both as continuing traditions of resistance and critique to the imperialism continuing in the world today, where the classroom critiques from just outside the empire (as did ancient Greece) and the congregation provides a complementary resistance from just inside the values of the empire (as did ancient Israel) (III: 200– 201). Thus, a portrayal of Brown’s work as a comparison of Greece and Israel fails to comprehend adequately the scope of these volumes. Brown provides a large-scale cultural critique via a metahistory that unites the past three thousand years (and perhaps more) into a single dialectical story. In a scholarly era that snubs metahistories, an appreciation of Brown’s Israel and Hellas offers a reminder of the power of metahistories to bring together

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fragmented academic discourses—and to produce a discourse itself that can resist the dominant metahistories of the present age. Brown’s vision of (Western) history as the resistance to empire is, in this sense, quite refreshing and extremely powerful as an intervention in the evolutionistic histories so common. At the same time, Brown’s metahistory falls prey to the same problems of other metahistories. Most scholars will find that the particularity of separate cultures falls short of necessary detail in the face of the sweep of connections that tie together Ugaritic tales of Mot, Hesiod, the Iliad, Amos, Plato, Plutarch, and even on toward Milton, Einstein, Lonergan, and Buddhism. The idealism of “Israel” and “Greece” as cultural units spanning centuries proves problematic, and at times the concept of “cultural innovation” in the face of a broadly defined imperialism seems to operate as an assumption rather than a result of the argument. The concepts of personal individualism that arises as a resistance to empire and a shift to affinity groups of shared language rather than shared lineage may appeal in (Romantic) fashion to postmodern sensibilities just as the notion of “free societies” that achieved “cultural innovation” may comfort those of modernist leanings, but all of these concepts demand more rigorous and specific development. Readers of a more theoretic inclination will find themselves repeatedly longing for treatments of imperialism and culture grounded in sociological and anthropological scholarship; readers of a more historical bent will wish for greater specificity and context to the allusions; and readers with interests in philosophy and literature of these cultures will want much more context than Brown’s emphasis on words and phrases could supply. In some ways, Brown has produced a theory of language, beginning with concrete examples of linguistic borrowing between adjacent cultures and developing a grand theory of language’s ability to shape culture through vocabulary and eventually through the production of books. Future scholarship will thank Brown for the careful linguistic work to gather comparisons for reflection, even when in disagreement with Brown’s conclusions. We should learn much from Brown’s treatment of topics such as the imperial influences on Jesus’ Aramaic (even though Brown’s reconstruction of Jesus’ Aramaic leaves room for questions), beatitudes and blessings (in the New Testament, Greek and Latin literature, the Hebrew bible, and some rabbinic literature), and the chapters on parks (from mythic paradises to the native forests of Lebanon and elsewhere surrounding the Mediterranean Sea, to the practices of imperially-controlled logging and the creation of satrapal hunting grounds). The old scholarly dichotomies of West and East or Greece and Israel cannot stand; Brown provides extensive indication of this impossibility,

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which had already been established from other directions. Such hoary dichotomies are as unproductive as the evolutionary models of cultural progression. The work at hand requires careful attention to the specifics of cultural interaction and the interplays of imperialization and resistance in the periods known as Achaemenid and Hellenistic.

Philippe Guillaume, WAITING FOR JOSIAH: THE JUDGES (London/New York: T &T Clark International, 2004), xiii + 325 pp. Cloth. $125.95. ISBN 0-8264-6988-4. Reviewed by Marie-France Dion Concordia University In this book, Philippe Guillaume proposes a hypothetical reconstruction of the compositional history of the book of Judges by reading it independently of the books commonly ascribed to Noth’s Deuteronomistic History. His analysis relies essentially on the data that archaeology has made available for the Assyrian period. He is attentive to the ideology and theological views within the biblical texts to set these in specific political contexts. His dating of the different editorial stages of the book of Judges is also supported by comparing the geographical data (e.g., territorial divisions) provided in the texts with information deriving from the Assyrian era. After a brief review of the state of research on the book of Judges, the first chapter discusses and retains Richter’s Book of Saviors (BS) and Beyerlin’s conclusion that the introductions to the savior narratives contain two opposing theologies: one in the ‘frames’ and another in the ‘schema’. The frame belongs to the original BS composed in Bethel around 720 BCE (Knauf). According to Guillaume, this BS is Assyrian-friendly and was intended to remind Israel that they remain the people of God despite their integration within the Assyrian provincial system. An analysis of the terminology, ideology and theological perspectives of the stories of Ehud, Shamgar, and Deborah-Barak-Jael provides the criteria to analyze the compositional history of the remaining stories of the BS. A closer look at the Assyrian religious policies (Cogan) supports Guillaume’s dating of the original BS as well as its re-editions. The parallels Guillaume draws between the Assyrian era and the biblical text are astute if somewhat complex. For instance, in chapter 2 Guil-

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laume argues that the Assyrian-friendly BS was brought to Jerusalem from Bethel and re-edited to support Manasseh’s pro-Assyrian policy (700–642). To prove his point, he presents an extensive study of the names within the short story of Othniel (3: 7–11), which according to him initially contained no names. Cushan-rishathaim of the two rivers would be a fictitious figure and alludes to a time when the Kushite and Mesopotamian powers ruled over Syria and Mesopotamia (715–701 BCE). The ‘king of Aram’ is Sargon (722–704) who integrated Aram and Israel into the Assyrian empire. Because Sargon, dying in battle far away from home, was deprived of a funeral, it was believed that the gods had rejected him, hence the epithet rishathaim (double evil). Othniel is a name symbolizing Manasseh’s proAssyrian policy. He (this policy) saved Israel from total destruction— although this ‘saving act’ was accomplished by becoming loyal subjects of the Assyrians. The dating of this editorial stage is corroborated by comparing the names of the areas mentioned in Judges 1:31 to Sennacherib’s list of Sidonian fortresses that had rebelled against Assyria. Another interesting parallel is that of the theological development from the ‘frames’ to the ‘schema’ and Assyrian theology. In the original BS, the ‘evil in the eyes of the lord’ is left unspecified. It is only during the time of Josiah (640–609 BCE), when the ‘schema’ was inserted into the introductions of the savior stories, that the evil committed is spelled out as being the pursuit of the baalim. This development corresponds to that of the Ancient Near Eastern texts. From the second millennium to the ninth century BCE military defeats are regularly attributed to the wrath of a divinity as a consequence for the evil in the land. The nature of the evil is left unsaid. However, inquiry into the nature of the evil first appears in Assyrian texts. The Assyrian theology presented Sargon’s death and Sennacherib’s defeat by explaining that they had offended the gods of the lands, which they had conquered, by honoring their own God at the expense of these gods. The Josianic editors adapted this theology to serve their now anti-Assyrian policy, by indicating that the evil Israel committed was to honor other gods beside Yhwh—they pursued the baalim (an allusion to the Assyrian gods). A significant contribution to research is Guillaume’s analysis of the different meanings the term ‘judges’ acquired over time. He argues that the locution was first used by the Josianic editors when inserting the schema into the introductions of the BS. Here the heroes are identified as judges, which in a Josianic context means that they are local substitutes ruling in the absence of the king (Tyrian conception of judges). The list of judges was also integrated at this time (10:1–5; 12:8–15). Guillaume observes that none of them come from Judah or Benjamin and care is taken to describe them as true Israelites (i.e., they are born, bred and died in Israel). These

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short notices portray a time of peace and prosperity and are intended to present the takeover of Israel by Judah as the restoration of the ancient tribal structure. However, these judges are answerable to the king (Josiah). Around 200 BCE more additions were brought to the BS, by then the book of Judges. The purpose was to make this book fit between the books of Joshua and Samuel and integrate it within a historiography of Israel. The judges were then presented as living in a period prior to the monarchy. In short, the judge’s period is a literary construct and according to Guillaume should never be presented as a historical period. My main difficulty with this study pertains to those texts that he sets in the Babylonian period, namely the Jephtah and Samson cycles. Although he states that the introduction to these stories indicates that they should be read together, he omits discussing the history of the growth of these texts prior to their insertion within the book of Judges. This, of course, may be justified, considering that he follows Noth and Richter in removing both Jephtah and Samson from the BS. However, the development history of the Jephtah story especially remains significant for studies pertaining to the growth of the book of Judges. For the most part scholars agree that the pericopes Guillaume uses to date the integration of the Jephtah narrative into the book of Judges are late (e.g., Jephtah’s vow). This is precisely the problem. What about the rest of the text and the triple(!) introduction to the story of Jephtah? Since he does discuss the growth of other stories within the book of Judges (e.g., Othniel, Deborah/Barak), it would seem appropriate that he also discuss the development history of this story. On the other hand, this may have required a detailed analysis of the text that Guillaume intentionally wanted to avoid. His primary concern was to set each literary stage of the book of Judges in a specific historical context and he has done this efficiently.

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Marjo Korpel and Joseph Oesch, eds., UNIT DELIMITATION IN BIBLICAL HEBREW AND NORTHWEST SEMITIC LITERATURE (Pericope 4; Assen: Van Gorcum, 2003), vii + 320 pp. Cloth. €75.00. ISBN 90-232-3978-4. Reviewed by Gary Martin University of Washington This is the fourth volume in the Pericope series that “aims at making available data on unit delimitation found in biblical and related manuscripts to the scholarly world and to evaluate these data for the benefit of biblical interpretation” (back cover). In Volume 4 eight authors contribute ten articles that were read during the Third Pericope Meeting at the International Meeting of SBL in Berlin, 2002. Two of the articles are in German; the rest are in English. Unfortunately, the meeting’s opening lecture by Emanuel Tov could not be included in this volume; it appeared elsewhere. For those new to the Pericope series, and hence to this volume in particular, it will prove helpful to read the reviews to the previous three volumes found on the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures web site at the following URLs: Volume 1: Delimitation Criticism: A New Tool in Biblical Scholarship (2000) http://www.arts.ualberta.ca/JHS/reviews/review054.htm Volume 2: The Structure of the Book of Ruth (2001) http://www.arts.ualberta.ca/JHS/reviews/review116.htm Volume 3: Studies in Scriptural Unit Division (2003) http://www.arts.ualberta.ca/JHS/reviews/review109.htm In addition, it is particularly advisable to read in Volume 1 the first article by M. C. A. Korpel, “Introduction to the Series Pericope” (pp. 1–50) and the last article by E. Tov, “The Background of the Sense Divisions in the Biblical Texts” (pp. 312–350). The first article defines key terms and outlines the main issues of “delimitation criticism.” The article by Tov documents the non-uniformity of sense divisions as found in various manuscript traditions. Throughout the volumes in the Pericope series, one finds a certain tension among the various contributors in regard to the feasibility of cap-

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turing something of the “original” in regard to sense divisions. All agree that the critical evaluation of delimitation markers in the various manuscript traditions is a long-neglected task which the Pericope series with justification has taken on. Not all agree on the interpretation of the data being collected by the Pericope project. This is not surprising in view of the relatively recent onset of this enterprise. I provide here a brief summary of each chapter in Volume 4. I will then end the review with a couple general observations and a list of errata. R. de Hoop begins the volume with two articles, the first of which, entitled “Genesis 49 Revisited: The Poetic Structure of Jacob’s Testament and the Ancient Versions,” examines the macrostructure (via setumot and petuhot) and microstructure (via Masoretic accents and structural analysis of the cola) of Genesis 49. The delimitation detail is provided at the end of the article in Appendix 1. Hoop’s second article is entitled “‘Trichotomy’ in Masoretic Accentuation in Comparison with the Delimitation of Units in the Versions, with Special Attention to the Introduction to Direct Speech.” The Masoretic accents are generally considered to divide textual units successively in half (hence, “dichotomic structure”). Hoop examines cases of trichotomic accentual patterns against the versions and provides in appendices detailed data for the Obadiah, Micah, Haggai, and Ruth. M. C. A. Korpel’s first of two articles is “The Priestly Blessing Revisited (Num. 6:22–27).” Delimitation is thoroughly examined beginning with the Ketef Hinnom inscriptions, which are the oldest witnesses to any biblical text (not just the Priestly Blessing). Korpel continues with observations on other Hebrew texts as well as the following textual traditions: Samaritan, Targum Pseudo-Jonathan, Greek, Syriac, Latin, Rabbinic. The following structural analysis points to “the conclusion that the three verse-lines of Num. 6:24–26 should be taken as one canticle,” with 6:22–23 forming the introduction and 6:27 the epilogue. Korpel’s second article, “Who Is Who? The Structure of Canticles 8:1–7” is an important contribution not only to delimitation criticism, but more broadly also to textual criticism, comparative religion, cultural history, history of interpretation, and the connections between these approaches. Whether one agrees or not with Korpel’s conclusions that “Cant. 8:1–4 and 8:5b–7 both consist of four strophes and probably belong together” and “Cant. 8:5b–7 could have been spoken by both partners...,” Korpel explores in greater depth than many articles in the series what the data actually mean for interpretation issues. It would have been nice to have dates provided next to each of the 62 Hebrew manuscripts listed in Appendix 2.

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I. Kottsieper’s article “Zu graphischen Abschnittsmarkierungen in nordwestsemitischen Texten” (Engl. “On Graphical Delimitation Marks in Northwest Semitic Texts”) is the primary reason for the second half of the volume’s title, “…and Northwest Semitic Literature.” Kottsieper systematically presents a wealth of information on the practice of delimitation in numerous Northwest Semitic texts and shows that the use of delimitation marks found in continuous texts (as opposed to lists) of pre-Persian and Achæmenid periods was not a standard practice of Northwest Semitic scribes. Texts that have such marks are typically from outlying areas and may be influenced by non-Northwest Semitic scribal practices. It is very interesting that this distinction holds for the Amarna letters: Division lines occur frequently in letters from Amurru and Egypt, which show HurrianAkkadian influence, but occur rarely in other groups of letters, such as those from Byblos and Jerusalem. In addition to the evidence presented by Kottsieper, one may also note the two division lines found in the continuous first two lines of the Gezer calendar, but not in the following lines, which assume the form of a list. (This is noted in HAE, Bd. 1, 31: “Es finden sich ‘Satztrenner’, wenn mehrere Einheiten auf einer Zeile zu stehen kommen [Z. 1–2]”). J. Oesch investigates the manuscript differences in handling setumot and petuhot by drawing upon key rabbinical discussions in his article “Skizze einer formalen Gliederungshermeneutik der Sifre Tora” (Engl. “Outline of a Formal Delimitation Hermeneutic of the Sifre Torah”). J. Olley’s “Trajectories in Paragraphing of the Book of Ezekiel” explores especially how paragraphs relate to dating phrases and speech phrases in Ezekiel. G. Prinsloo’s “Unit Delimitation in the Egyptian Hallel (Psalms 113– 118)” begins by noting that, whereas many Psalms come pre-demarcated by virtue of their superscripts, Psalms that do not have superscripts are problematic in the various textual traditions. Prinsloo discusses exegetical implications for problems associated with Psalms 113–118. P. Sanders’ “Pausal Forms and the Delimitation Cola in Biblical Hebrew Poetry” identifies inconsistencies in the correlation between pausal forms and Masoretic accents. Sanders recommends the creation of a database to further “discussion about the relevance of the pausal forms for the delimitation of cola.” E. Ulrich’s “Impressions and Intuitions: Sense Divisions in Ancient Manuscripts of Isaiah” challenges the hypothesis that delimitation criticism is capable of providing evidence of the “original” authors’ intentions. The inconsistency of the data from Qumran leads Ulrich to the conclusion that “there was no ‘system’ of sense divisions…The scribes copied or inserted

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divisions in the text, but we have no idea who ‘originally’ inserted them.” The content of this final chapter of Volume 4 is exactly parallel to that of E. Tov’s final chapter of Volume 1 of this series, in which Tov issued a similar challenge. Future discussions of delimitation criticism should more deeply discuss real implications, if any, for exegesis. Collection of data is a necessary beginning, but, with a few notable exceptions, the significance of the collected data has generally received too little attention. Inclusion of more photographs of manuscripts to illustrate key issues would be helpful.

ERRATA: p. 2, line 4: “worthy of discussion them” p. 34, line 4: “However” needs a comma after it p. 61, line 6: a comma is needed after “follow suit” p. 65, bottom paragraph, line 3: “an open space the to left after” p. 104, line 10: “is supporting ithe division”

J. J. M. Roberts, THE BIBLE AND THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST: COLLECTED ESSAYS (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2002), xiv + 434 pp. Cloth. US $42.50. ISBN 1-57506-066-3. Reviewed by Francisco V. Munoz Claremont, California Roberts’ book is a collection of essays he has published over the last thirty years. The exception is the previously unpublished essay on Mari prophetic texts. The primary objective of the book is the elaboration of Roberts’ methodology in using extrabiblical sources to help us better understand the Biblical text. His essays are organized in a manner that demonstrates the application and illustration of Roberts’ methodology on issues big and small. That is, big and small in scope, not in importance! A big issue may involve a broad theme such as the topic of myth versus history in the Ancient Near East or it may be a small or specific issue like a verse from scripture that eludes understanding. Roberts’ approach

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strives to avoid an oversimplified understanding of extrabiblical texts when utilizing them to shed light on the biblical text. Roberts stresses the need for a more rigorous methodology when comparing the “OT” with extrabiblical texts. Both textual materials should be understood in their own settings before making comparative judgments. Roberts also encourages biblical scholars to be conversant with fields outside their own discipline. He acknowledges the biblical scholar’s need to choose and follow the lead of an extrabiblical expert yet he emphasizes there is “no substitute of knowledge of the primary sources.” The book is divided into five parts. In the first part, Roberts lays out some of the “Fundamental Issues” he deals with in his work. Roberts discusses the textual complex of Ancient Near Eastern sources and how they bear on the various genres of the biblical text. He also touches on important issues such as our definition of historiography, pointing out how that definition influences our understanding of “myth versus history” and “divine freedom and cultic manipulation” when we compare Ancient Near Eastern texts with Biblical texts. The essays in the second part of the book, “Themes and Motifs,” illustrate Roberts’ methodology when he deals some of the big issues like the expression the “Hand of Yahweh” or the motif of the “Weeping God.” Also found in this second part of the book is Roberts’ important essay titled, “The Mari Prophetic Texts in Transliteration and English Translation.” The essays in third part of the book, “Solving Difficult Problems: New Readings of Old Texts,” demonstrate Roberts’ methodology when it is applied to small issues like the linguistic enigma of verse Psalm 22:17c or the religio-political setting of Psalm 47. The essays in part four, “Kingship and Messiah” are devoted to an area to which Roberts has devoted much time and work. Roberts is known as a champion for the “Davidic-Solomonic” origins of the Zion tradition and with these essays provides a minihandbook on the royal theology of ancient Israel. In the last and fifth part of the book, “Interpreting Prophecy,” Roberts tackles two difficult subjects: the unending criticism of historical-criticism and, for some segments of Christianity, the future tense of prophetic tradition. For the critics of historical-criticism, Roberts offers an elegant and balanced defense for the continued role and importance of historical-criticism in the study of the Scriptures. For those segments of Christianity struggling theologically with the predictive element of prophetic texts, Roberts offers the wisdom he has gained from a life-long study of those texts. At first glance, this last essay seems out of place in this book but this is just another demonstration of Roberts belief in his methodology. In this case, the relevance of a balanced and rigorous approach to Biblical study to issues found in the church.

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The synchronization of the book’s objective and organization is exemplary. This book seeks to present and define the comparative methodology of Roberts by primarily illustrating it within the essays of this book and that goal is accomplished in a splendid manner. Perhaps, this volume will prove more helpful for those students of Scripture who are in an advanced stage in their studies or careers. Whereas the arrangement of the content is superb, Roberts’ methodology does not go far enough in its comparative treatment of texts from the Ancient Near East and the Hebrew Bible. This book is apparently designed for those who study the Biblical text from a certain Christian perspective and thus limits the range of Roberts’ methodology. Roberts has a commanding grasp of a vast array of texts from the Ancient Near East but he appears to compare and analyze them in a two-dimensional manner. Roberts criticizes scholarly work that oversimplifies the contrast between Israelite history and Pagan myth but he does not define what he considers to be truly historical or truly mythological. What is his criteria for a historical event referenced in a text? The latest archeological developments, especially those that may challenge the Davidic-Solomonic claims as found in the biblical text, are not referenced in Roberts’ section on Kingship and Messiah. Also, despite his efforts to improve comparative methodology Roberts continues to retain the polemic categories of Israelite and Pagan when contrasting Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern texts. Sperling in his book The Original Torah notes how Greek critics, commenting on Homer and his successors, suggested three kinds of textual reality: historia, describing what actually happened, plasma, relating imaginary events as if they were real, and mythos, telling what never happened. Readers who interpret mythos as historia or plasma may incorrectly identify the genre of the text. Ancient texts may be more interested in plasma or mythos over historia for political and theological reasons. Also, texts may be written to project an earlier historical period for the same aforementioned reasons. Roberts’ book is a step in the right direction in the field of comparative ideological/theological studies between the Hebrew Bible and Ancient Near Eastern texts. Broadening the book’s target audience, including the latest relevant archeological research, and utilizing sophisticated literary analysis could make Roberts’ methodology truly three-dimensional.

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Bill T. Arnold and John H. Choi, A GUIDE TO BIBLICAL HEBREW SYNTAX (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), xii + 228 pp. Cloth. US $45.00. ISBN 0-521-82609-8. Reviewed by Bernon P. Lee Grace College and Seminary The authors of this guide to Biblical Hebrew (henceforward, BH) syntax have undertaken the task in response to the need of students in seminaries to cultivate an understanding of the subject, given the multifarious demands of seminary curricula, with little time to expend upon the task. The challenge of this circumstance is compounded by the absence of a textbook at the intermediate level, functioning to introduce students to recent developments in the study of BH syntax. The overview of BH syntax, as opposed to the larger focus on BH grammar, is defined as the study of “the way words, phrases, clauses, and sentences relate to one another in order to create meaning.” The goal is to achieve a comprehensive description of the syntactical relationships that bind the various components of speech together, without the complexities of the extensive discussions found in works directed at students at an advanced level of study. Toward this end, matters pertaining to an elementary understanding of BH morphology and phonology are omitted with allowance for reference, within footnotes, to introductory grammars for those seeking explanation. Also largely omitted is explanation for complex issues of grammar more suited for advanced reference grammars. The first chapter and the preface articulate the challenges facing the student, the motives of the authors and the resultant features of the guide. The second, third and fourth chapters deal with matters of syntax pertaining to the various constituents of the clause: nouns, verbs and particles. A fifth chapter is concerned with structures of syntax beyond the level of the clause, identifying the relationships that bind clauses and sentences together. Two appendices identify the various verbal stems with their functions. Included at the back of the volume is a glossary for terms relevant to the description of BH syntax, and indices for ease of reference to the various topics and biblical verses quoted for example.

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Within each chapter there is adequate explanation for categories and terms employed in the description of the syntactical relationships between the various components of speech. Where appropriate, detail pertaining to the historical development of the Hebrew language within the context of the Semitic languages receives mention in brief. Also under observation, where possible, is the distinction between categories of syntax and semantics. The second chapter offers ample illustration of these last two features. The chapter begins with mention of the occurrence of endings for nouns indicative of case in early Semitic languages, a feature largely lost in the language of the Hebrew Bible. The discussion proceeds with justification for ‘case’ as an appropriate category for the discussion of the syntactical function of nouns within phrases and clauses, before listing the semantic functions within those categories of syntax. For example, the definition of the syntactical category ‘genitive’ in §2.2 occurs prior to the list of semantic functions ‘possession’ and ‘relationship’ in §§2.2.1 and 2.2.2 respectively. The result is an orderly presentation that is mindful of syntax as a feature of grammatical form and/or function, with each category being admissive of one or more semantic functions. It seems to me, however, that the distinction between syntax and semantics characteristic of the approach just outlined breaks down later in the guide. The identification of subordinate clauses (§5.2) by the authors proceeds with the observation that BH does not always make a formal grammatical distinction between coordinate clauses and subordinate clauses with the deployment of the appropriate particle of conjunction before the clause. On this point, in my estimation, it is best to distinguish grammatical form (e.g., the presence or absence of a subordinating conjunction) and syntax as an independent system of signification from semantic function (substantival, conditional and final clauses in §§5.2.1–3). This distinction allows for the identification of a function pertaining to discourse grammar and pragmatics (continuity and discontinuity in inter-clausal syntax as indicated by consistency and variation in the choice of a clause-type) in the choice to indicate (or not to indicate) the subordinate relationship of a clause to a preceding or following clause. In this manner, the syntactical cohesion (or lack thereof) in a larger unit of text may be comprehended prior to the identification of the semantic structures of meaning that accompany, and perhaps motivate, the structure of syntax. Closely related to the preceding observation is the absence of a description of the features of syntax pertaining to the cohesion of clauses beyond the level of the sentence. Given the compact nature of the guide and its target readership, it is inevitable that issues of a more complex nature be omitted. Notwithstanding this feature of an intermediate textbook on BH

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syntax, it is unfortunate that the fifth chapter does not venture beyond the level of the sentence in its discussion of BH syntax. Recent research–for example, consult the volumes edited by R. D. Bergen (Biblical Hebrew and Discourse Linguistics. Dallas: Summer Institute of Linguistics, 1994) and W. R. Bodine (Discourse Analysis of Biblical Literature. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1995)– has shed much light on how variations in the type of clause in a sequence of clauses delimit boundaries within texts, introduce new characters in narrative, and even mark the climactic moment in a story. These shortcomings, however, do not diminish the value of the work and its ability to fulfill the functions appropriate to its design. This work by Arnold and Choi is an admirable endeavour that succeeds in meeting the needs of students seeking a concise guide to the essential elements of BH syntax at an affordable price.

Oded Lipschits and Joseph Blenkinsopp, eds., JUDAH AND THE JUDEANS IN THE NEO-BABYLONIAN PERIOD (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2003), xii + 612 pp. Cloth. US $49.50. ISBN 1-57506-073-6. Reviewed by Mark W. Chavalas University of Wisconsin-La Crosse The material in this volume is the result of an international conference held at the University of Tel Aviv, 29–31 May, 2001, entitled, Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period. The goal was to bring together scholars from different specializations to discuss various aspects of the history and culture of the Neo-Babylonian kingdom and its relationship with Judah and the Jewish population. This period has often been considered a dark age in Jewish history, an idea that must be revised in part because of this book. There are five sections in the book, each containing between two and five papers each. The first section centers on the ideas of Hans Barstad (The Myth of the Empty Land: A Study in the History and Archaeology of Judah during the ‘Exilic’ Period. Oslo: Scandinavian University Press, 1996) and the myth of an uninhabited Palestine after the invasion of Nebuchadnezzar II in 586 B.C.E. He clarifies and updates his article in this volume (‘After the Myth of the Empty Land: Major Challenges in the Study of Neo-Babylonian Judah’),

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concluding that the land of Judah operated in much the same way after 586 as it had before. L. Fried (‘The Land Lay Desolate: Conquest and Restoration in the Ancient Near East’) claims that the land was drastically changed since now both temple and palace were removed, and that the residents of Judah did not start the temple rebuilding until after the vessels were brought back from Babylon. B. Oded (‘Where is the “Myth of the Empty Land” to be Found? History versus Myth’) argues, similar to Fried, that there was a marked decline in population in the region. S. Japhet (‘Periodization: Between History and Ideology: The Neo-Babylonian Period in Biblical Historiography’) uniquely theorizes that the biblical writers exhibited somewhat of a comparative indifference towards this period. The second section (‘Cult, Priesthood, and Temple’) contains articles concerning information (or lack thereof) about the religious system after the conquest. J. Blenkinsopp (‘Bethel in the Neo-Babylonian Period’) sees Bethel as an alternate sanctuary in this period while Y. Hoffman (‘The Fasts in the Book of Zechariah and the Fashioning of National Remembrance’) provides material from which to understand the fasts in Zechariah. The next three contributors attempt to make a case that various exilic and postexilic biblical texts mirror inner-Judean politics and conflicts (G. Knoppers, ‘The Relationship of the Priestly Genealogies to the History of the High Priesthood in Jerusalem’, Y. Amit, ‘Epoch and Genre: The Sixth Century and Growth’, and D. Edelman, ‘Gibeon and the Gibeonites Revisited’). The third section (‘Military and Governmental Aspects’) has articles by R. Sack (‘Nebuchadnezzar II and the Old Testament: History and Ideology’), D. Vanderhooft (‘Babylonian Strategies of Imperial Control in the West: Royal Practice and Rhetoric’), who take opposite sides concerning whether the Babylonians continued the Assyrian policies of statecraft. Sack argues for continuity, Vanderhooft against. J. Betlyon (‘Neo-Babylonian Military Operations Other than War’) exposes the weaknesses of Babylonian policies towards its conquered peoples, and A. Lemaire (‘Nabonidus in Arabia and Judah in the Neo-Babylonian Period’), describes new documents pertaining to Nabonidus. The fourth section (‘The Sixth Century B.C.E.: Archaeological Perspectives’) has four contributions. C. Carter (‘Ideology and Archaeology in the Neo-Babylonian Period: Excavating Text and Tell’) claims that the paucity of archaeological material for this period does not argue for or against the ‘empty land’ theory. O. Lipschits (‘Demographic Changes in Judah Between the Seventh and Fifth Centuries B.C.E.’) posits that the land lost about 65–70% of the population during the exile. A. Zertal (‘The Province of Samaria [Assyrian Samerina] in the Late Iron Age [Iron Age III])’ believes that Samaria was the administrative capital during this period, and J. Zorn

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(‘Tell en-Nasbeh and the Problem of the Material Culture of the Sixth Century’) sheds light on this important site during this period. The last section (‘Exiles and Foreigners in Egypt and Babylonia’) has two articles: B. Porten (‘Settlement of the Jews at Elephantine and the Arameans at Syrene’) contends that the Elephantines were descended from the northern tribes, and R. Zadok (‘The Representation of Foreigners in Neo- and Late-Babylonian Legal Documents [Eighth through Second Centuries B.C.E.])’ compiles a massive amount of evidence for West Semites in Mesopotamia during the first millennium. The book has a tremendous wealth of data and interpretive research, and thus will no doubt be a focal point in future discussions and research concerning the early part of the Jewish Exile, which has also now been addressed by R. Albertz (Israel in Exile: The History and Literature of the Sixth Century B.C.E. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2003). The editors are to be commended for their labors.

Don C. Benjamin, THE OLD TESTAMENT STORY: AN INTRODUCTION (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2004), xxvi + 470 pp. Paper. US $29.00. ISBN 0-8006-3621-X. Reviewed by D. Dixon Sutherland Stetson University Don Benjamin has provided a fresh introduction to the Old Testament. Separating himself from the teaching tradition of Bernhard Anderson, Benjamin joins what he calls, “a new generation of introductions to the Bible” that focus less on history. Instead, he works from insights drawn from the various criticisms by which we can interpret the biblical traditions themselves. As a result, Benjamin claims that his introduction “teaches students how to listen to the words that the Bible speaks, and how to understand the people of ancient Israel who crafted these remarkable words” (19). The text is supplemented by a CD-ROM that provides the text, biblical citations, and helpful web sites. It also provides the student with a guide of questions and pertinent issues tied to each chapter that functions to steer the student toward some important material.

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All in all, Benjamin makes good on his promise. The Old Testament Story orients students to hear the text as story, not history. This is very appealing, especially since most religious studies teachers face classrooms full of students fundamentally ignorant about the nature and purpose of the biblical traditions. They have years of misinformation about the Bible that often rests on some type of literal revelation doctrine or they do not know the stories at all. Benjamin’s approach confronts the student primarily with what the ancient stories say. He offers his own translations of pertinent texts, and shows the structure and form of the text so that the student can begin to understand the logic and force of Hebrew literature. Presenting the Hebrew traditions in the diversity of their literary shapes sometimes leads Benjamin to confront popular, theologically orthodox views. For example, he deftly presents the creation narratives in their Hebraic context, while at the same time debunking later usages of these stories as biblical proof texts for doctrines of original sin, women as seductive and subordinate to men, work and childbearing as punishment for sin, and connecting the snake in the Garden with the Devil. Eve is therefore not the gullible temptress bringing sin into the world, but intelligent, moral and heroic in action. A few times this effort to keep consistency within his reading of the narrative leads Benjamin to force the issue. He struggles to explain the explicit statement in Gen 3:16 that the man “will rule over you” by positing that originally, this consequence may have applied to the snake and not to Eve (38). While this is a fascinating idea, no textual evidence exists for it, so far as I am aware. Yet, in proposing it, Benjamin opts out of dealing with the direct statement as it appears in the text. He does it again with his treatment of the story of Abraham’s offering of Isaac in Genesis 22, this time more by omission than by commission. The portrayal of this story in its Hebraic context is excellent. Benjamin shows its role in settling the vital issue of how God’s covenant with Abraham and Sarah will be inherited. He corrects common western theological readings of the text as an interior crisis of faith for Abraham. Then, Benjamin announces that this story is not about human sacrifice, since that ritual was practiced only when the clan leader set off to war or founded a city (68–69). Of course, it is clear to any student who reads the biblical text that Abraham is commanded to make a sacrifice and the plot of the story moves toward that action. It is this very issue that has made Genesis 22 one of the most interpreted biblical texts in the history of theology and philosophy. Like his treatment of Eve, Benjamin avoids the problems that a “plain reading” of the text present by opting out of the problems altogether. Why does the element of the sacrifice occur at all in such a narrative? Benjamin perhaps should have said more in this

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regard. But these are not major flaws. Benjamin still offers one of the most sensitive presentations of the Hebraic world view that I have seen. It is clear that archaeology forms an important basis for Benjamin’s work. In fact, at times reading The Old Testament Story could provide a challenge for someone not familiar with other ancient near eastern literature. I got the feeling that the student was supposed to also have Benjamin’s other book (with Victor Matthews), Old Testament Parallels: Laws and Stories from the Ancient Near East at hand. Reading his new introduction without such a supplement could be difficult for the student. While the CD-ROM helps, it is uneven in its offerings, and some of the sites were not accessible or difficult to find (e.g., Tanach: Resources for Academic Study http://www.milligan.edu/iTanakh did not go to the site; Gilgamesh (Search: Hero Choking a Small Lion) http://www.louvre.fr/anglais /collec/ao/ao_f.htm did not work, but could be found by browsing). This is not Benjamin’s fault, but the nature of the internet. These comments do not diminish my enthusiasm for this book. I found it invigorating to read, and written in a way that will attract undergraduate students. This introduction can help students to listen to the Hebrew stories in a way that loosens preconceived notions about the irrelevancy of the Bible and shakes rigid ideology into facing the biblical text itself.

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O. Lipschits, JERUSALEM BETWEEN DESTRUCTION AND RESTORATION. JUDAH UNDER BABYLONIAN RULE (Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 2004), 551 pp. $NP. ISBN 965-217-225-1. In Modern Hebrew with English Table of Contents. Reviewed by Michael Avioz Department of Bible, Bar-Ilan University Ramat-Gan 52900, Israel This book is a revised version of the author’s doctoral dissertation written at Tel Aviv University in 1997 under the direction of Prof. Nadav Na’aman. It deals with one of the most problematic eras for the study of the ancient Israelite history—the years between the destruction of the First Temple (586 BCE) and the beginning of the Persian period (538 BCE). The relative lack of evidence from this period of time makes it almost impossible to reconstruct its history (see, at length, A. Faust, “Judah in the Sixth Century B.C.E.: A Rural Perspective,” PEQ 135 [2003]: 37–53). The book consists of five parts divided into sub-chapters. After a short introduction that deals with the scope and aims of the book, the first part (divided into six sub-chapters) presents the geopolitical and historical background situation in Judah and its neighbors in the seventh century. The second part focuses on the Babylonian dominion in the Hattu-land. Most of this part is devoted to a detailed analysis of the biblical accounts in the book of Kings that describe the destruction of the First Temple and the Babylonian exile. Issues related to the demographic and geopolitical processes in Judah in the six century BCE are dealt with in the third part. Here Lipschits also compares the biblical accounts in Ezra-Nehemiah with the archeological finds and tries to depict the borders of Judah in that period. The fourth part focuses again on archeology but this time it used to evaluate the population in Jerusalem and in other regions. The final part examines the nature of the biblical sources that describe the destruction of the First Temple and the Babylonian Exile, i.e. the so-called ‘Deuteronomistic History’ and the ‘biographic source’ in Jeremiah (Jer 37–45). Lipschits deals with the date and redaction of these sources, the place in which they were written, and their purposes.

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Maps, tables, and illustrations accompany the various chapters. A bibliography and indices round up the book. Specific points of critique are: 1. The book could have been more focused and therefore shorter had the author narrowed his focus to the historical and archeological data. Instead, he deals thoroughly with the composition of the books of Kings and Jeremiah, rather than dealing with artifacts and their meaning. It is doubtful whether such a thorough discussion was necessary at all. 2. The footnotes throughout the book are too long. In fact, in some cases the footnotes are spread over most of the page. Some of the footnotes could have been part of the upper text, while other could have been avoided or abridged (see for example, pages 79–81, 103–105, 227–228). 3. The bibliographic list seems to be too extensive. It consists of 100 pages, that is, a fifth of the whole book. Though the author makes efforts to update the bibliography written from 1997 and onwards, still, it does not contain some very important items, such as Faust’s article (listed above), various books on Jerusalem in biblical times and especially recent studies dealing with the troublesome question of the historical reliability of the Bible. 4. Usually one can feel that the book was well proofread, except in pages 292–305, where the title of the chapter reads ‫ יהדדה‬rather than ‫יהודה‬. One can hope that these matters will be corrected in the English version that will probably appear in the future. On the whole, Lipschits’ book is a very welcome addition to the study of biblical history and historiography, the relationship between Bible and archeology, and the early Persian period.

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Richard S. Hess M. Daniel and R. Carroll., eds., ISRAEL’S MESSIAH IN THE BIBLE AND THE DEAD SEA SCROLLS (Grand Rapids, MI.: Baker Academic, 2003), 192 pp. Paper. US $19.99. ISBN 0-8010-2611-3. Reviewed by Michael O. Wise Northwestern College This book represents the fruit of a conference held at Denver Seminary on February 2–3, 2001. The organizing principle behind the conference’s discussions emerges from a quick glance at the table of contents: for each of four subdivisions of the title topic, a leading evangelical Christian scholar was asked to present a substantial paper. Then one or two shorter responses followed. The presentation of the materials here follows the same pattern. Thus Daniel Block addresses himself to the Hebrew Bible with, “My Servant David: Ancient Israel’s Vision of the Messiah.” Responses are offered by J. Daniel Hays and M. Daniel Carroll R. Craig A. Evans engages the Qumran materials with, “The Messiah in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” to which Richard S. Hess responds. Craig L. Blomberg investigates, “Messiah in the New Testament,” with a reaction by William W. Klein. Finally, in a paper perhaps less expected in a volume of this sort, Gerardo A. Alfaro Gonzalez offers, “Jesus’ Messianism: A Proposal and an Assessment from Latin America,” upon which Karen Jobes then reflects. Indexes of biblical and other ancient writings, and of modern authors, complete the volume. Of the three major textual essays Block’s is the most evidently confessional, guided more by theology than by historical method. This statement is not a criticism, merely an observation; different sorts of readers will react to Block’s theological lense in different ways, depending on the questions each is hoping to find help in answering. The effect of his approach is to give the issues involved in understanding ancient Israel’s messianic thought a predictable teleology: Jesus was always the telos or goal, and any ideas held by Jews or ancient Hebrews that were not contributory to this end are outside the pale. Further, only a Christological reading of the given Hebrew Bible passages is considered. The undoubted fact that most ancient Jewish readers of the Hebrew Scriptures will have found this reading of their texts

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alien is not allowed to intrude, since, as it were, the correct answer is now known. One can almost hear a shadowy Luther nodding his agreement: nur was Christum treibet. Yet even fellow believers will probably find Block’s major thesis hard to swallow. He asks us to believe that all of the so-called messianic portions of the Hebrew Bible have in their view a Davidide— even the Suffering Servant portions of Isaiah. His interlocutors rightly express skepticism. Evans’ assessment of the Qumran writings is workmanlike and detailed, possessed of a certain methodological elegance—yet simultaneously suffering from a fundamental oversight. The elegance inheres in Evans’ conscientious attempt to differentiate within the Qumran corpus between sectarian (i.e., writings connected to the Teacher of Righteousness and his followers) and non-sectarian writings. His focus becomes the sectarian writings, because it is here that Evans finds the most evidence for messianic ideas. His approach recognizes some of the advances of modern Qumran research and is thereby a major step forward from analysis such as Ringgren’s The Faith of Qumran. On the deficit side, Evans does not consider the possibility of development within the sectarian corpus. The texts are read together in essentially fundamentalist fashion, as though lacking any historical dimension, as though all of the authors will have agreed in all essentials and meant the same things by all key terms. In the process Evans fails to consider the earliest evidence for sectarian thinking, the “Teacher Hymns,” those portions of the Hodayot that consensus assigns to the very founder of the sectarian movement. These writings are redolent with echoes of messianic passages (as Jews of the time thought) from the Prophets, especially Isaiah. The best of the major textual essays, because it is the most nuanced, is Blomberg’s. In relatively short compass he surveys all of the New Testament, underlining in the process the very considerable variation found therein with respect to Christology. Indeed, Blomberg’s treatment lies ill at ease within the same binding as Block’s. How could such variation in Christian thought about Jesus the Messiah have arisen, one wonders, if understanding of the biblical background were ever as monolithic as Block would urge? Ultimately, of course, the reader will have to decide whose way of thinking has the better of it. Israel’s Messiah in the Bible and the Dead Sea Scrolls affords a fair portrait of the variety of thinking on the topic that exists today within the evangelical spectrum. Perhaps that will be its greatest contribution. Not very much here is new, and what is new is not always good. Moreover, what is not here—dimensions from social anthropology or insight into eschatological figures from the history of religions—is badly

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missed. In an earlier day I would have awarded this book the famous “gentleman’s C.” In today’s climate, I suppose a B would be the equivalent; for an A, the place to begin remains the ten-year old volume edited by James Charlesworth, The Messiah.

Sandra L. Richter, THE DEUTERONOMISTIC HISTORY AND E E THE NAME THEOLOGY: L ŠAKKĒN Š MÔ ŠĀM IN THE BIBLE AND THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST (Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft, 318; Berlin/New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2002), xiii + 246 pp. Cloth. €68.00, US $82.00. ISBN 3-11-017376-X. Reviewed by Victor Hurowitz Ben Gurion University of the Negev Not everyday does a linguistic parallel with cuneiform texts revolutionize our understanding of a major tenet of biblical theology. Yet just such an upheaval is now proposed by Sandra L. Richter in her partially revised Harvard PhD dissertation (2001). Most biblical scholars have long recognized the so called “Name Theology” as a hallmark of Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic History. According to this belief, YHWH is not present in his temple in any perceivable manifestation (cult statue, radiant cloud, Šekīnāh, etc.). Instead, he causes only his name to dwell there (škn D), essentially as a hypostasis. This novel, supposedly less mythological or anthropomorphic conception distinguishes D and Dtr from more ancient sources, as well as P and Ezekiel which speak of God residing (yšb, škn G) in a temple enveloped by his Kavod (majesty, substance). Richter would abandon this interpretation, claiming that it is based on a questionable theory, “nominal realism,” which she defines as (15): “the supposed perception on the part of the ancient Semite that the name of an item or person, as a symbol of the thing or person named, was in fact real, having consubstantial existence with the name bearer.” She also indicates that the perception of “Name Theology” in biblical scholarship is based on an outmoded belief that biblical thought evolved from immanence to transcendence, the late D/Dtr revising earlier beliefs by demythologization. Both these approaches have been challenged by others as well.

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Having discarded the accepted opinion, Richter goes on to explain the terms šakkēn šēm and śîm šēm respectively as a loan idiom and a calque from Akkadian šuma šakānu (< Sumerian MU GAR) meaning “inscribe/set up a monument bearing the name and proclaiming ownership and hegemony”. Her core claim is that šakkēn šemô is not an expression with a factitive D verb form meaning “cause his name to dwell”, as it should on the basis of Hebrew alone, but a loan idiom adapted from Akkadian šuma šakānu meaning “place the name”. Proof that this is the meaning of the idiom in Hebrew comes from its replacement in Dtr by śîm šēm and even hāyāh šēm. Equating the terms as synonyms is further strengthened by the appearance of śym šm in some Northwest Semitic inscriptions, and in particular the bilingual statue from Tell Fakhariyeh where Akkadian šumīma liškun appears opposite Aramaic wšmym lšm bh. The Akkadian expression is linked to the terms šuma šāṭāru, “write a name”, and šumu šāṭru, “written name,” “monument” (see also musarrû < Sum. MU.SAR.RA), and šuma šāṭra šakānu, “place a written name/monument” and developed more or less as follows: “to place/write a name (on an inscription)” > “to place an inscription (bearing a name in a building)” > to establish ownership > to make a reputation > establish hegemony. As a result of this two pronged argument, nothing remains of YHWH’s presence in the temple. Instead the temple is primarily and essentially not a place of divine presence but a monument owned by YHWH commemorating to perpetuity the Divine Warrior King’s victory over his and Israel’s enemies, permitting him to claim dominion over the newly conquered land where it stands, and demand allegiance of his people whom he has freed from subjugation. Richter’s systematically and vigorously argued proposal can be either right or wrong, with no apparent middle ground. At the same time, it is too consequential to be accepted or rejected without serious consideration, something impossible in the scope of a brief review. In hope of contributing to the examination which should now ensue, I offer the following preliminary thoughts. On the positive side, there seem to be no phonological or semantic impediments to transferring the Akkadian idiom to a Hebrew context. Moreover, the theory explains the Hebrew expressions on the basis of well attested Sumerian and Akkadian parallels with clear, well established meanings, and not on the basis of detached, ad hoc exegesis. In addition, the Sitz im Leben of the foreign idioms is building in general, and temple building in particular, which is precisely the context of the Hebrew idioms in D and Dtr. Finally, the new interpretation integrates the historically and ideologically significant building the temple into the “Divine Warrior” pattern of

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ancient near eastern mytho-historiography discussed widely by other scholars, (especially in the Harvard school). 1 Interestingly, this concludes the Divine Warrior Saga of Divine Warrior vanquishing foes and returning to take up permanent residence in a newly built temple, at the precise place where remnants of the famous Sefer Ha-yashar/Sefer Ha-shir appear for the last time (see LXX to 1 Kings 8:12–13). Some scholars have claimed that this mysterious book was also known as Sefer Milḥāmôt YHWH (cf. Num 21:14–15), and started with the Song of the Sea (see especially Ex 15:17–18). If this is the case and if Richter is right, then we have an interesting situation in which the Divine Warrior Saga as reflected in D-Dtr parallels what U. Cassuto called the ancient Israelite Epic. All these considerations would make Richter’s proposal a necessary but welcome revision of long held views. On the other hand, Richter has not convincingly ruled out the accepted “Name Theology” interpretation, so it is still not impossible. She herself admits (p. 11): “it is apparent in certain biblical contexts, to speak of the name of YHWH is to speak of the deity himself”. Ps 20:2 (ET 1) is one such case, where we read “May YHWH answer on a day of distress; may the Name of the God of Jacob exalt/protect you”. Another place is Ex 23:21 (tr. NJPS) “Pay heed to him (the angel)… since my Name is in him”. In addition, the expression weśāmû ‘et šemî ‘al benēy yiśrā’el appears in the conclusion to the non-Deuteronomistic Priestly Benediction, Num 6:27, “and they [the priests] shall put my name on the children of Israel and I shall bless them”. What does this mean according to Richter’s theory? Are the priests, by blessing the people using a formula containing the Tetragrammaton three times and thereby placing YHWH’s name on the people, declaring his ownership of Israel, declaring his fame, or are they invoking his presence so that he may do the honor? There is, accordingly, no inherent philological or theological difficulty demanding that the regnant view be abandoned, and even without parallels, an ad hoc interpretation is not necessarily a wrong one. Moreover, the Akkadian idioms adduced always refer to building inscriptions and other types of monuments, and never to the buildings or the victories themselves. The name is put/written directly on the inscription and only secondarily on the building itself. To be sure, no building inscription is referred to anywhere in 1 Kings 5–9. This has prompted John van Seters to posit another questionable (?) proposal that the name placed in the Temple is the Deuteronomic Law code itself, serving as a building The overwhelming influence of Dr. Richter’s academic pedigree is noticed throughout the book with numerous references to Harvard professors and protoges such as F. M. Cross, R. E. Friedman, B. Halpern, J. Huehnergard, J. Levenson, S. Dean McBride, P. Mankowski, and K. Slanski. 1

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inscription. 2 In addition, Richter points to no case of a deity “placing his name”, the subject of the action always being a king. Monarchs write inscriptions; not gods. Does YHWH putting his name on the temple imply, somehow, that he is also considered the builder, thereby transferring to the historical realm a belief held in Mesopotamia and Ex. 15:17; 23:20 that the gods built their own temples in mythological times? Richter may be undercutting herself by claiming constantly and consistently that “placing the name” refers to an inscription, and does not carry its secondary meaning of establishing a reputation. This would mitigate, however, the advantageous coincidence of “placing the name” and building the temple. In brief, there are several weak or missing links in Richter’s connection of the Akkadian with the Hebrew idioms which must still be addressed. If the theory will turn out to be right, it will demand correctives in how we understand Deuteronomistic theology, and especially its perception of the Temple. It is clear that D and Dtr have removed YHWH to his heavenly abode, but without Name Theology, the Temple on earth will be rendered completely void of divine presence, serving at most as a forwarding station for prayer and periscope into the true divine residence above. Is it reasonable to assume that even reformers such as the Deuteronomists could deviate so far from the ancient near eastern norm as to devoid the highly esteemed place of worship of all vestiges of its original essence as a house of God? Was there no intermediate step between the old view of the temple and the conception of the temple as a House of Prayer or a place of sacrifice of the post-exilic sources? In conclusion, Richter’s book ably presents a tantalizing thesis which can potentially revolutionize current understanding of the Deuteronomists’ conception of the central place of worship. The thesis is reasonable and well argued, but leaves certain gaps to fill and others may find it more problematic than I have indicated; and a final verdict can emerge only after broader dialog. Let the next speaker now speak up. 3

J. van Seters, “‘To Put His Name There’: The Problem of Centralization in D and DtrH.” Paper delivered at SBL International Meeting, Cambridge, England, 2003. 3 A most unusual error has occurred on p. 49 fig 3 where a three line Hebrew citation from 1 Kings 9:3 has come out total gibberish. Collateral damage seems to have also afflicted the following paragraph in English. 2

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Johannes J. van Dijk and Markham J. Geller, with the collaboration of Joachim Oelsner, UR III INCANTATIONS FROM THE FRAU PROFESSOR HILPRECHT-COLLECTION, JENA (Texte und Materialien der Frau Professor Hilprecht Collection of Babylonian Antiquities im Eigentum der Friedrich SchillerUniversität Jena 6; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2003), x + 157 pp, 49 plates. Cloth. €68.00. ISBN 3-447-04707-0. Reviewed by Martin Worthington St John’s College, Cambridge This volume edits 23 Sumerian incantations from the Third Dynasty of Ur (late 3rd millennium) housed in Jena. 1 The project was initiated by Jacobus van Dijk, who copied the tablets and undertook preliminary editions, and continued after van Dijk’s death by Markham J. Geller, who not only collated the tablets, but revised and improved the translation and commentary. Several other distinguished Sumerologists were shown the book before it was published, and contributed philological suggestions. Thus while, as Geller modestly notes in his introduction, problems do remain to be solved, it is also true that the editions in the book are of a very high standard. This is all the more welcome and necessary because the texts are of great, and in several respects unique, interest. To date, only 21 Sumerian (and 2 Akkadian) incantations were known from the Neo-Sumerian period, so the book under review more than doubles the corpus. They bridge the gap between the rather laconic and obscure Early Dynastic incantations from earlier in the third millennium and the stream of tradition originating with the Old Babylonian scribal schools. Moreover, many of them are in a good state of preservation, and students of Near Eastern culture and of the history of Magic will read them with interest and profit (though the philological commentary, mostly in standard Assyriological jargonese, is written for specialists). 1 The last, text 23, is actually more likely to be a proverb than an incantation. There are also six re-editions of related texts in an appendix.

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We will here discuss a few points of detail. Geller notes (p. 3) that in two incantations (n. 1 and 2) the Ur3 kings Šulgi and Amar-Suen feature as patients. The Šulgi text (n. 2) has an Early Dynastic forerunner, and Geller comments (ibid.): “what this shows … for the first time, is how incantations were recycled from one period to the next, and applied to specific contexts, in this particular case, to an ailment of the great Šulgi himself.” The point is taken up again in the commentary to the text (p. 16): “it seems clear that this incantation was first composed as a single anti-snakebite incantation, then used in the royal court referring to the king by name, and finally the incantation was incorporated into a larger composition with at least two other incantations.” While the point about textual development is well taken, one might question what degree of historicity informed that development. Geller appears to suggest that the incantation attests to an illness truly suffered by Šulgi, the historical person. On the other hand, mention of Šulgi could have been introduced independently of any real historical ailment of his. For example, perhaps we can connect mention of the suffering Šulgi with another unusual feature in this interesting group of texts highlighted by Geller (p. 2): the motif of gods as sufferers. If this was current at the time, portraying Šulgi as sufferer could have aimed to flatter the king’s vanity, and if done after his death could be connected to state propaganda about deification (though his name on the tablet in question lacks the divine determinative). Otherwise, the very inclusion of Šulgi’s name, regardless of the role in which he featured in the incantation, might have been thought to lend it effectiveness. The mention of Šulgi and Amar-Su’en in incantations which are virtually contemporary with them can be compared profitably with texts which attribute medical recipes to Naram-Sîn and Hammurapi, the extant manuscripts in these cases being considerably later than the real historical figures. 2 2 For Naram-Sîn see Köcher, “Ein verkannter neubabylonischer Text aus Sippar”, AfO 20 (1963), 156–8, citing Assur 13955/gn ii 5 and Assur 13956/er 5’: 14 NA4.MEŠ GÚ mna-ram-dSîn(BÀ) ‘fourteen stones to be put on the neck’ of (i.e. recipe of) Naram-Sîn and restoring NA4 GÚ mna-r[am-sîn] in K 10220+10463 Rv 3: (Editio Princeps Borger, AfO Bh. 9, p. 118 + pl. v). For Hammurapi see BAM 159 iv 22’ and Köcher, AfO 20, restoring [na4 gú šá mha-am-m]u-ra-pí in K 10220+10463 Rv. 4. Note that a tradition about Naram-Sîn (and other Sargonic kings) also found its way into omen texts. See H. Hirsch, “Die Inschriften der Könige von Agade”, AfO 20 (1963), pp. 1–82. Further references are given by D. R. Frayne, RlA 9, 174a. For another example of the importance of a traditional name in magic see ‘Gilgamesh in exorcistic rituals’ in A. R. George, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic (Oxford, 2003), vol. 1, pp. 132–5.

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Other minor points: for the “subtle tension in later incantations between Enlil and Enki” (p. 2) see the theory expounded by van Binsbergen and Wiggermann in the first chapter of Tz. Abusch and K. van der Toorn, eds., Mesopotamian Magic (Brill, 2000); for some background to assessing the literary similarities of the Ur3 incantations with later ones see A. J. Ferrara, “Topoi and stock-strophes in Sumerian Literary tradition: Some Observations, part I”, JNES 54 (1995), 81–117. The volume’s format and layout are attractive, with noticeably good quality paper, clear photographs of all the tablets, a comprehensive glossary, and hand copies of the cuneiform texts and collations. Regrettably it suffers from a number of typographical errors, but none of these are serious or detract significantly from this welcome and important achievement.

Martin Kessler, BATTLE OF THE GODS: THE GOD OF ISRAEL VERSUS MARDUK OF BABYLON. A LITERARY/THEOLOGICAL INTERPRETATION OF JEREMIAH 50–51 (Studia Semitica Neerlandica, 42; Assen: Royal Van Gorcum, 2003), x + 263 pp. Cloth. €69.50. ISBN 90-232-3909-1. Reviewed by Dale Patrick Drake University Kessler’s monograph studies the last two chapters of the oracles against foreign nations in the Masoretic text of Jeremiah, a cycle of oracles pronouncing doom on Babylon, concluding with a narrative of the symbolic “delivery” of the words of judgment. These chapters have not attracted much scholarly attention in the critical era. Scholars were satisfied with demonstrating that Jeremiah was not their author. The prophecies against Babylon are repetitious; the antiBabylonian animus appears to contradict the role Jeremiah understood Nebuchadnezzar to play in God’s plan (see esp. Jeremiah 27–29); the violent fury of the oracles repulses modern sensibilities; and their anonymous origin allows them to be ignored in theological construction.

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Kessler identifies his approach as post-critical, refusing to dismiss non”authentic” passages. Jeremiah 50–51 not only lacks the stamp of the prophet under whose name it is communicated, it does not match the events that it announces. Since Babylon capitulated to Cyrus peacefully, the “truth” of this prophetic cycle must not reside in history. Instead, Kessler proposes that a “literary” approach, beginning with the extant text and focusing on communicative functions, will succeed where critical history fails. The chapters exhibit a variety of genres. As one would expect, there is the oracle of judgment with an accusation and a sentence. To dramatize punishment, the poet employed “calls to battle” addressed to imaginary foes of Babylon, and “calls to flee” along with promises of salvation addressed to the Judean exiles. According to Kessler, none of these genres functions within its traditional Sitz im Leben; they form a drama with a multiplicity of speakers and addressees, and a narrative voice as well. He proposes the New Testament Apocalypse as an analogy. The chapters weave together a number of themes. Babylon will experience a reversal of fortune: the ruler will become subject; God’s instrument will be thrown on the trash heap of history. Babylon was its own judge, but it will bear guilt incurred against the Lord and His people. The gods of Babylon, especially Marduk, will be exposed as empty idols. Kessler believes the foundation of analysis must be laid by dividing chapters into units or sections. He combines “markers” and themes to accomplish division into sections longer than strophes, shorter than poems. Movement is circular rather than linear; the poem repeats a cycle of themes. Kessler is convinced the rhetorical objective of these prophecies was to motivate Judean exiles to return to their homeland. The reason for punishing Babylon is its violent destruction of Judah and the temple. Judgment takes power over Jewish destiny out of the hands of Babylon and evens the score between Babylon and Israel: hence, the repeated use of words for requital, revenge. Judah’s election imparts guilt to any power that treads on it. Babylon is eclipsing Assyria as symbol of arrogant empire and will become the cipher for Rome. Though Kessler is not offering an historical analysis, he cannot avoid the possible historical situation to which the oracles were originally addressed. Because they do not depict the fall of Babylon as it actually happened, they are not vaticinia ex event. Kessler surmises that the cycle originated after Nebuchadnezzar and before Cyrus. One distinctive thing about the pronouncement over Babylon is that Babylon cannot be saved, though the other nations prophesied about in Jeremiah 45–49 can be. For Judah to rise again, Babylon must be destroyed

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and its cultural and religious influence eliminated. Babylon has become more than an historical entity, it has taken on a supernatural quality. This brings us to the title. The title is rather misleading, promising a glimpse of a juicy myth no one had noticed before. There is in fact no depiction of a battle between YHWH and Marduk. Kessler intends an implied battle that YHWH has won: “the text gives Marduk short shrift. As soon as he is mentioned he is declared defeated and is smashed…” (p. 215). The battle is entirely on the ideological level. If I understand Kessler correctly, the central interpretive problem for Jeremiah 50–51 is “the contradiction between YHWH’s use Babylon as his punitive instrument (Jer. 25:8–11) and the fierce anti-Babylon polemic in chpts. 50 and 51” (p. 218). His solution is: “the contradiction needs to be resolved by the schema which the canonic book itself suggests” (p. 218). That schema, according to Kessler, periodizes—first Judah suffers judgment, then the people of God are restored and the oppressor receives its due. Kessler’s book resembles the passage it studies in being rather repetitious and wooden in applying methods. Still, the reader who perseveres will be rewarded with knowledge about a rarely investigated passage. Though it lacks dramatic conclusions, it does begin to chart the trajectory of prophecy of judgment against powerful empires toward apocalypse, and Babylon toward its symbolic status as the “evil empire.”

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Michael V. Fox, JPS TORAH COMMENTARY: ECCLESIASTES (Philadelphia, PA.: Jewish Publication Society, 2004), xxxviii + 87 pp. Cloth. US $34.95. ISBN 0-8276-0742-3. Reviewed by Scott B. Noegel University of Washington This commentary, the latest in the fine JPS Commentary Series, underscores Koheleth’s peculiar place in the biblical canon by making accessible the book’s literary style, rich interpretive history, and rather subversive philosophy. Its primary contribution lies in its ability to provide a useful philosophical framework for Koheleth’s often self-contradictory and dissenting views. Fox opens the commentary with a series of brief discussions that establish Koheleth’s literary, historical, and philosophical contexts. Here one finds brief treatments of the meaning of book’s title and the issues surrounding its authorship, Koheleth’s place in “Wisdom Literature,” and its philosophical outlook. Also treated are Koheleth’s various literary forms (proverbs, maxims, autobiography, royal testament, and narrative), its date and place in Jewish literature (in the canon and liturgy), its structure and unity, and its use of keywords. These discussions are then followed by brief synopses of the major interpretations and interpreters that have influenced our understanding of Koheleth including: midrashic texts, Abraham ibn Ezra, Rashbam, Samuel b. Judah ibn Tibbon, Moshe Alsheikh, Moses Mendelssohn, Samuel David Luzzatto, George Barton, H. L. Ginsberg, Martin Hengel, Roland Murphy, and Choon-Leong Seow (pp. xxv-xxx). These sources, and others not discussed in the synopses, are then judiciously referenced throughout the volume. The synopses conveniently also provide readers with a context for understanding Fox’s own commentary, which is then summarized (pp. xxxxxxiii). The useful synopses open a window into Koheleth’s interesting reception history, but also demonstrate, perhaps incidentally, how closely tied the process of interpretation is to the time and worldview of the interpreter. Consequently, they also place into historical relief Fox’s own interpretation,

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which at times brings Koheleth much closer to our “Post-Modern” world of inherent contradictions and complexities. A life with strict correspondence between deed and consequence, virtue and reward, vice and punishment, would make sense. But Koheleth sees that this does not happen, and he is weighed down by the collapse of meaning, as revealed by the contradictions that pervade life. These are antinomies, contradictory propositions that seem equally valid. These antinomies should not be eliminated by harmonization, for they are the essence of what Koheleth observes. He is not consistent because the world is not consistent (p. xxx). For Fox, Koheleth’s internal struggle can be ameliorated only in part by embracing the things that bring happiness. His God is transcendent, distant, dangerous, and omnipotent. His God neither comforts, nor feels compelled to respond to righteous prayers or cries for help. Nevertheless, Koheleth is not a radical skeptic in utter disregard for traditional beliefs, but a frustrated sage, a complex individual who embodies life’s many contradictions. Of course, as Fox discusses, Koheleth’s historical context is the Ptolemaic era (p. 35), and so as one might expect, it bears the imprint of Hellenistic philosophy. This is especially apparent in the book’s perception of pleasure in Epicurean terms, its restriction of freewill, and its emphasis on fate and reason. The boldest, most radical notion in the book is not Koheleth’s contradictions, his pessimism, or his observations of injustices. It is the belief that the individual can and should proceed toward truth by means of his own powers of perception and reasoning; and that he can in this way discover truths previously unknown. There are no external rules, no doctrines or traditions to which conclusions must conform. This is the approach of philosophy, and its appearance in Ecclesiastes probably reflects a Jewish awareness of this type of thinking among foreign intellectuals (pp. xi-xii). This is an insightful and accessible commentary that reflects many years of deep engagement with the text. It is also surprisingly brief (it is only eighty-seven pages in length). Effective commentaries like this one naturally leave readers wanting more information. Nevertheless, a more comprehensive treatment of some topics in appendices (as in several other JPS Commentaries) might have provided greater depth for more eager readers. For example, though Hellenistic influence on Koheleth is noted parenthetically throughout the commentary (e.g., Qoh 2:14, p. 16; 3:21, p. 26; 5:7, p. 35) and referenced in various footnotes, it is never fully discussed. Consequently, some readers will be left with questions. Were there any specific Hellenistic philosophies that influenced Koheleth? Is it impossible to

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know? Certainly Koheleth’s philosophy stands as rather unique among Hebrew writings prior to the Middle Ages (p. xii), but is there anything distinctive about Koheleth’s philosophical approach vis-à-vis Hellenistic philosophies? Periodically the commentary also alludes to the existence of Phoenician parallels for certain passages (e.g., p. 14), but the significance and implications of these parallels are not spelled out. Do they tell us anything about Koheleth’s intended audience or the cultural context of his worldview? Do the literary parallels imply a sophisticated adoption or subverting of “foreign” styles, or do they represent a shared repertoire of literary tropes? Similarly, the commentary identifies a number of keywords (pp. xviixxi), but does not offer a full discussion of their literary functions other than to note that they “indicate the book’s major themes and give coherence to its varied contents” (p. xvii). Several keywords, however, may be serving additional functions. Fox shows, for example, that Koheleth’s sometimes exploits the full semantic ranges of his keywords. Thus the word hevel, might mean “vanity” in one passage, but “futile” or “incomprehensible” in another, and so on. Such a device more properly belongs to the realm of antanaclasis, and thus aims, much like Koheleth’s philosophy, to subvert expectations. Notwithstanding these minor observations, 1 there is much in this commentary that will benefit lay readers and scholars alike. It is concise and informative, and it makes accessible a world of learning on Koheleth. Perhaps more importantly, it makes Koheleth’s dissent and contradicting statements historically and philosophically understandable.

1 There are a few typographical errors that have crept into the manuscript and I offer them here in anticipation of further editions. On page xxxiv, nn. 17, 25, one finds the abbreviated citation C. D. Ginsburg, Coheleth, 27–245, but a full citation does not appear earlier. Some word appears to have been dropped on p. 11 where one reads: “They all reasonable and respectable…”; and on p. 69 one also finds: “how to do do so…”

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Alberto R. W. Green, THE STORM-GOD IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST (Biblical and Judaic Studies from the University of California, San 8; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2003), xviii + 363 pp. Cloth. US $42.50. ISBN 1-57506-069-8. Reviewed by Steven J. Garfinkle Western Washington University In the volume under review, Alberto Green presents a comprehensive study of the storm-god and his function in the many societies of the ancient Near East. The storm-god has attracted significant attention from observers of the ancient Near East, but Green points out in his acknowledgements that no single work has fully explored this concept. With this book, he seeks to remedy this situation (the work under review joins another recent volume in its comprehensive treatment of the storm-god; see S. Schwemer, Die Wettergottgestalten Mesopotamiens und Nordsyriens im Zeitalter der Keilschriftkulturen [Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2001]; reviewed by Scott Noegel in JHS volume 4). After an excellent introduction, the author explores the topic in five exhaustive chapters. Chapters 1–4 survey the evidence for the storm-god within the different regions of the ancient Near East: Mesopotamia, the highlands of Anatolia, Syria, and coastal Canaan. Chapter 5 then offers a synthesis of the evidence and conclusions. The two goals of this project are very well defined in the introduction. First, Green seeks to isolate the ideological and social functions of the storm-god and his attendants in each of the region’s cultural contexts. Second, he seeks to locate the intercultural connections among the ancient Near East’s storm-gods and to draw some conclusions about the function of this deity on a larger regional scale. The remainder of the introduction establishes the methodology used to examine the storm-god, and presents the different socio-cultural units that will be the focus of the investigation. Critical to his comprehensive approach to the topic is Green’s insistence on treating both the iconographic as well as the textual evidence. This is a study that closely examines both text and image, as well as the often complex relationship between them.

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Throughout this study, Green also remains sensitive to the peculiarities of the different regions under investigation, in areas ranging from environment to language. For example, he notes of Mesopotamia on page 11 that, “The ecological and topographical differences between the hilly north and the flat riverine south were responsible for the development of different patterns of thought.” The careful effort to note such variation is valuable, as are some of his observations on the consequences of these differences. For example, the early emphasis in Anatolia on terrestrial rather than atmospheric storm-gods is explained in chapter 2 on the basis of the environmental realities of the Anatolian Plateau. Ultimately, Green offers conclusions both about the role of the stormgod in ancient Near Eastern societies, and about the appearance of Yahweh as a storm-god. About the storm-god, he determines that this divinity was, “primarily responsible for three major areas of human concern: (1) the Storm-god as the ever present nucleus of religious power, that everdominant environmental force upon which peoples depended for their survival; (2) the Storm-god as the foundation of centralized political power; and (3) the Storm-god as the foundation of a continuously evolving sociocultural process, symbolically projected through his accompanying attendants” (p. 281). Though Green sees Yahweh as a storm-god, whose settling in Canaan displaced the traditional Canaanite storm-god, Baal, he also identifies a number of characteristics as being unique to Yahweh. He posits Yahweh, “as the only creator god of all that is created, Yahweh as a god who acts in history and not in mythology, and Yahweh as the only self-existing god, without the need of another” (p. 292). To further his analysis, Green offers in the introduction a very broad definition of the storm-god that closely associates the storm-god with fertility. Therefore, “…this deity gradually evolved in the mythical realm as the presider over a pantheon of gods and within cultic and historical settings as the fearless warrior, the provider of sustenance for society, and the preserver of life” (p. 2). This is, however, a much broader definition for the storm-god than one usually encounters in discussions of the ancient Near Eastern pantheons. The author’s approach to storm-gods is hence more inclusive than is ordinarily the case, especially in his consideration of the Mesopotamian pantheon. Green examines not only the more traditional storm/weather gods of the ancient Near East, such as Ishkur, Adad, IturMer, Teshub, and Baal, but also Enlil and Ninurta/Ningirsu. The latter gods are more commonly regarded as fertility, farming, and warrior deities with strong associations with royal authority. It is certainly the case, as Green points out, that Enlil’s power is occasionally equated in literature with the destructive force of the storm; but does this make him a storm-

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god? For Ninurta, the recent book by Amar Annus, The God Ninurta in the Mythology and Royal Ideology of Ancient Mesopotamia (SAAS XIV; Helsinki: NeoAssyrian Text Corpus Project, 2002), captures the more established consensus: “Ninurta is the defender of the divine world order; he is the god of warfare, agriculture, and wisdom” (p. 5). Green highlights Ninurta’s association with storm imagery, but as Annus point out, it was also Ninurta, in the poem Lugal-e, “who is depicted as the savior of the land from the threatening deluge” (p. 127) when he built a wall to keep the waters off of the fields. Green’s expansive definition of the storm-god serves his overall thesis, and helps to buttress his conclusion. At the same time, this more inclusive approach is not adequately defended, nor is it carried out comprehensively. In his treatment of the different regions of the ancient Near East, Green adopts something of an evolutionary chronological approach that follows the conventional archaeological periodizations of the Near East, and anticipates his conclusions. Hence his treatment of Mesopotamia is largely confined to the third and early second millennia BCE (the Early Bronze Age and the beginning of the Middle Bronze Age), the highlands of Anatolia and Syria are largely examined in the second millennium BCE (the Middle and Late Bronze Ages), and his discussion of Coastal Canaan is confined to the late second millennium BCE (the Late Bronze Age and the early part of the Iron Age). These choices allow Green to present a progressive development of storm-god ideologies that culminates in the appearance of Yahweh. This also suggests that the regions outside of Canaan and Syria remained inherently static over the passage of time; however, throughout the Late Bronze and Iron Ages, the ideas and ideologies of Mesopotamia and Anatolia remained dynamic and continued to influence the regions around them. Some references are made to later Babylonian and Assyrian developments, but these developments are never fully examined. This is especially problematic when considered in light of some of Green’s conclusions. The unique characteristics that he identifies for Yahweh when compared with other Near Eastern storm-gods are certainly accurate, but fruitful comparisons could be made with other pre-eminent gods of the Near Eastern pantheons, most notably Marduk. Useful comparisons could also be made with the Egyptian pantheon and its influence on Canaanite religion. Green alludes to this on pages 229–30, but his exclusion of Egypt from his Near Eastern focus prevents him from pursuing this observation. One could certainly argue that for the Babylonians and the Egyptians respectively, Marduk and Amun were actors in history; and Marduk was clearly regarded as an archetypal creator god. These avenues, however, are left unexplored. On the whole, this is a comprehensive and valuable treatment of an important topic. The author’s conclusions would be enhanced by a more

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thorough defense of his broad vision of the storm-god, as well as by a more critical review of recent work on the topic. The bibliography shows very little engagement with the scholarship of the last quarter century. An exception to this are the frequent citations of articles in J. Sasson, ed., Civilizations of the Ancient Near East (New York: Scribner’s, 1995) and these references highlight the value of this excellent reference work, but there are limitations to relying too heavily on these volumes without pursuing the extensive additional references that these articles often provide. This is especially the case for the discussion of Mesopotamia; numerous inconsistencies can be traced to a reliance on outdated sources, e.g., Shulgi’s son Amar-Sin is called Bur-Sin on page 26, but correctly identified on page 83. The reliance on older works detracts from the otherwise excellent presentation of the texts from Mesopotamia. The last few decades have witnessed a tremendous amount of scholarly work on Mesopotamian religion, and on the Sumerian and Akkadian literary corpora. Green has included references to B. Foster, Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature (CDL Press, 1993), and this is an excellent place to begin an examination of the Akkadian literature. For the Sumerian literature, the reader is referred to the translations and bibliography maintained on-line at the Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature (http://www-etcsl.orient.ox.ac.uk/).

Gale A. Yee, POOR BANISHED CHILDREN OF EVE: WOMAN AS EVIL IN THE HEBREW BIBLE (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2003), xii + 298 pp. Paper. US $24.00. ISBN 0-8006-3457-8 Reviewed by Tammi Schneider Claremont Graduate University In this volume the author investigates the problem of the symbolization of woman as the incarnation of moral evil in the Hebrew Bible and how this symbolization interconnects with issues of race/ethnicity, class, and colonialism during the times of its production. The author achieves that and more because of her firm grounding in social theory and thorough knowledge of the biblical text. The author begins with two chapters presenting the theories she uses and why they are appropriate for application to the biblical text. The following four chapters apply her theories to specific examples in

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the biblical text including: Eve in Genesis; Faithless Israel in Hosea; the Two Sisters in Ezekiel; and the Other Woman in Proverbs. “Ideological Criticism and Woman as Evil” is the first chapter devoted to theory. Here she focuses on the method, “ideological criticism,” which she later uses to analyze the texts (p.9). She begins by defining ideology and outlines strategies of ideologies in its complex representations of the reality of gender relationships. She unpacks the complexity of ideology and how it functions, clarifying, even before her application to the biblical text, how ideology impacts the production of the biblical text; that is her next topic: the literary text as a production of ideology. She then focuses on the presuppositions of ideological criticism of texts, namely that, “the text constitutes an ideological production of an already established ideology that universalizes, legitimates, and naturalizes the world that produces it” (p. 23– 24). Finally she defines the tasks of ideological criticism for her purposes using the terms extrinsic and intrinsic analysis. She defines “extrinsic” analysis as recovering the concrete social and historical conditions of the text’s production and “intrinsic” as determining how the text reworks the ideologies of the text that produce it. Despite the complicated theory used and material unfamiliar to some of us in the field, her clear prose provides a thorough, well footnoted discussion and she ably reveals how fundamental these ideas are to understanding the biblical text. Since, as she argues, an extrinsic analysis of literary texts demands an understanding of the social world, particularly of gender relationships, in the next chapter (“The Social Sciences and the Biblical Woman as Evil”), the author tries to reconstruct, to some extent, the social world that created the text. Since the nature of the literary sources is such that they cannot be used to reconstruct gender relationships to understand women’s lives in ancient Israel, she draws upon interdisciplinary resources to help interpret the data available, especially anthropological ethnographic studies on gender in non-Western pre-industrial societies. She examines: the general modes of production in ancient Israel during the course of its history; the ramifications of the familial mode of production for the social structure of pre-state Israel; the ideological value system of honor and shame; and the power relations between the genders as expressed in the domestic and jural-political spheres. The author continues to ground her comments in theory, and in this chapter, archaeology and the biblical text. The following chapter begins her critique of specific examples from the biblical text. In each chapter she begins with a short introduction to the book and/or chapters under discussion and then turns to her extrinsic analysis followed by her intrinsic analysis. The biblical examples are not

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random but reflect the history and evolution of Israel from the premonarchic through the post-exilic period. She begins with, “Eve in Genesis: The Mother of All Living and We Her Children.” This chapter is the weakest in an otherwise outstanding work not because of her analysis but because of assumptions about Eve that are somewhat ironic in a volume where the author is careful to dispel unfounded notions about the biblical text. Her discussion of the shift from tributary to a familial mode of production in pre-monarchic Israel establishes the timing of the production of the text and raises intriguing points about the ramifications that shift has on society in general and women in particular. My critique is the base notion that there is a “fall” which is the source of evil and caused by women, something heavily stressed in Christian understandings of the verses under discussion but less so in other circles. Thus some of the discussion seems to be fighting issues in Christianity not necessarily rooted in the biblical text. The following chapter (“Faithless Israel in Hosea: She Is Not My Wife and I Am Not Her Husband”) is outstanding. She tackles the scholarly assumption that what is at issue in Hosea is the cult of Asherah and dispels the notion that there was such a thing as “cultic prostitution.” She argues persuasively that Hosea does not condemn Asherah, the cult, or the women involved, which allows her to highlight other issues so important to the book of Hosea. In, “The Two Sisters in Ezekiel: They Played the Whore in Egypt,” the author situates the historical production of these metaphors in a system of colonial relations that lead to the eventual conquest and exile of the Judean elite. She explores the use of pornography in the text as coming from the author’s personal and collective experience of conquest and exile that manifests itself as humiliation and emasculation. As is the case throughout this work, by unpacking the situations where the mode of production took place and what the authors of the text were experiencing clarifies the message of the text and the means they used to articulate it. Finally the author examines, “The Other Woman in Proverbs: My Man’s Not Home-He Took His Moneybag with Him.” Issues raised here include: Yehud under Persian Colonization, Class Conflict in Yehud, Economics, Endogamy, and Ideology. This important volume examines the biblical text from perspectives rarely applied to it. My one criticism is that the title of the book is somewhat misleading. The author is careful in her use of words and their meanings and yet nowhere does she define the term “evil.” Her analysis provides solid ideas concerning how and why women were portrayed as they are in the biblical text and her critique lifts up what issues brought that to the fore

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that often reveal more about the issues facing the male elite than anything about the women. Furthermore many of her analyses reveal that women are functioning as a metaphor for bigger problems that does not necessarily translate into their designation as evil. This criticism aside, the volume breaks new ground in analysis of the biblical text. Her copious notes (there are 102 pages of footnotes), clear prose, and insightful analysis make this text something that all biblical scholars and students should read.

Gregory L. Doudna, 4Q PESHER NAHUM: A CRITICAL EDITION (Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha Supplement Series 35/Copenhagen International Series 8; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 813 pp. Cloth. US $185.00. ISBN 1-84127-156-X. Reviewed by Rob Kugler Lewis & Clark College It is important to begin by setting the context for this enormous treatment of 4Q Pesher Nahum, a key text from Qumran for those wishing to trace some of that community’s history. The book is Gregory L. Doudna’s disputats, the Danish doctorate. Doudna reports in the Preface that the disputats is written without a director or advisory committee. As such it is roughly equivalent to a German Habilitationschrift. To be approved toward the awarding of a degree the disputats must be published, and only then is it defended before opponents. Doudna defended it slightly after his publication, in March 2002. The reason for providing this contextual explanation is clear when looking carefully at the book. It has all the marks of a work that enjoys the bane and blessing of a dissertationist’s zeal. The blessing is the comprehensive nature of the treatment the author provides for his subject matter. The bane lies in how that comprehensive treatment ends up on occasion being too much of a good thing. A survey of the book’s contents will suffice to make this clear. In an introductory chapter to Part I Doudna lays out the “Preliminary Considerations and Methods” that govern his analysis of the text of 4QpNah. Among other things he calls into serious question the standard paleographic assumptions that govern the dating of the scrolls, suggesting

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instead that “scribal generations” could have been as brief as days or even hours, reflecting the generation of several drafts of a text by a single scribe. This permits Doudna to telescope in almost startling fashion the period of the scrolls’ composition and to make the equally controversial claim the all of the scrolls must have been deposited at Qumran no earlier than around 40 BCE. In the rest of Part I Doudna provides a partially rebuilt text of 4QpNah. He offers detailed solutions to “difficult letter readings, completion of broken words and letters, reconstruction of words from syntactic considerations, and reconstruction of quotations from Nahum. Semantic, text-critical, and scribal behavior considerations are discussed as well” (47). In attending to this list of items Doudna catalogues the efforts of virtually everyone who has worked on the Pesher before. As a result, Part I not only offers its own clear reconstruction of the text, but also provides all the necessary resources for understanding how others have viewed it. Not surprisingly Doudna differs considerably from his predecessors, and the upshot of those differences becomes clear in his discussion of exegetical issues in Part III. But before coming to that Doudna devotes the vast majority of the book in Part II to a second run at reconstructing the text. He begins with the reconstruction achieved in Part I and adds further reconstructions “as deemed possible by this study on the basis of existing information” (47). It is impossible to provide sufficient coverage here of what Doudna accomplishes in this section because the undertaking is so vast, but it suffices to say that he goes well beyond what others have argued regarding a plausible reconstruction of the Pesher. On numerous occasions he fills lacunae left vacant by most others. He will surely come in for some criticism on this score, but to gainsay his proposals effectively will require careful consideration of a virtual mountain of detailed argumentation. His reconstruction does most definitely deserve serious consideration. As for the promised exegetical conclusions in Part III, here is where Doudna offers readers the most easily grasped results of his hard work in Parts I and II. First, he challenges the standard view that the references in this Pesher and other Qumran texts to Ephraim point to the Pharisees, that references to Manasseh point to the Sadducees, and mentions of Judah refer to the Qumran community. He argues instead that these associations arose from an early consensus that never merited the weight given it. Rather, his own analysis of the pertinent texts shows that the Nahum pesher “is opposed to a wicked Jerusalem regime and sympathizes with Ephraim which it regards as oppressed by the Jerusalem regime. There is no reason to suppose that either Ephraim or Judah are operating as sobriquets in 4QpNah, any more than in any other Qumran or biblical text” (598). As

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for the Lion of Wrath, he is not Alexander Jannaeus as is widely thought, but rather a “real or imagined Roman threat” (635) whom Doudna ultimately identifies as Pompey. On the basis of that identification and on the basis of a series of temporal indicators he identifies especially in fragments 3–4, columns i, ii, and iv, Doudna claims the Pesher must have been composed in 63 BCE before Pompey’s defeat of Aristobulus II. Thus he assigns to Aristobulus II the titles Spouter of Lies, Manasseh, and Wicked Priest, and the Seekers-After-Smooth-Things are Aristobulus’ men. The Pesher, then, anticipated Pompey’s defeat of the oppressive regime in Jerusalem. Notably, although Doudna set out to treat the Nahum Pesher, the foregoing (partial) list of his exegetical conclusions makes clear that he also managed in the bargain to attend to a wide range of very important issues in the study of the Qumran community’s history, and to provide in the doing of it some very unusual hypotheses. Clearly Doudna should expect considerable opposition to his work. He manages to challenge, and occasionally seriously dent, many cherished consensuses in scrolls scholarship, not the least of which is his attack on the standard theories regarding paleography as a tool for dating the scrolls. On this score alone his views, if we accept them, are so different as to necessitate a sea change in how we think about the scrolls. Likewise, his (admittedly partial) rejection of the notion that the scrolls use sobriquets to identify key figures and groups would require a massive revisioning of historical constructions, were he deemed correct. (And to be fair, he would have to provide a clearer explanation for why sobriquets are nonetheless used on occasion; e.g., “Seekers-After-Smooth-Things”?) On a much more mundane level, it is also certain that many will not always find room to agree with Doudna’s readings of broken texts, let alone his reconstructions of missing text. But that is a way of life in the study of the scrolls, and should hardly come as a surprise. To conclude, whatever one’s judgment is on the textual, exegetical, and historical conclusions Doudna reaches in this book, it must be appreciated for its capacity to raise a host of interesting questions and possibilities. Always an iconoclast, Doudna manages to poke and prod some of the Dead Sea Scrolls scholarly community’s most cherished doctrines. He should get plenty of response for that effort. And though at times the book provides too much detail—recall that this is a disputats!—Doudna is also to be thanked for having assembled in a single volume such a wealth of resources for study not only of this Pesher, but the scrolls and their history in general.

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Timothy Lim, PESHARIM (Companion to the Qumran Scrolls 3; London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002), x + 106 pp. Paper. US $29.95. ISBN 1-84127-273-6. Reviewed by Adam L. Porter Illinois College Timothy Lim’s goal is to create a handbook for students of “varying backgrounds” in biblical studies and linguistic skills (ix). It differs from other handbooks on the Dead Sea Scrolls in that it focuses narrowly on one genre of texts. Lim tackles a wide variety of subjects in the first chapter, including (a) whether the scrolls were written by the inhabitants of Qumran and (b) if Qumran was settled by Essenes. He also discusses (c) the use of the DSS to shed light on early Christianity or Rabbinic Judaism. Next, (d) he provides a definition of pesharim as a “form of exegesis … that identifies events and people in biblical texts with contemporary historical figures” (13). Lim distinguishes between thematic pesharim, which gather proof-texts around one idea, and continuous pesharim, which provide commentary on a section of biblical text. The chapter concludes with (e) two catalogues. The first lists the ten thematic pesharim and fifteen continuous pesharim and the biblical passages to which they refer. After discussing palaeographic and radiocarbon dating issues, the second catalogue lists orthographic styles and dates for the 25 pesharim. The second chapter examines the continuous pesharim. The Qumran community believed biblical prophecy was “predictive rather than admonitory” (24). God told prophets what would happen at the end-time, but God did not explain the exact historical references. These mysteries were revealed to the Teacher of Righteousness, who transmitted them via pesharim. Lim argues that pesharim use a diverse body of exegetical methods. He lists ten “exegetical method[s],” but some of them are scribal practices rather than exegetical methods. Lim does not distinguish between these clearly enough. Finally, Lim points out interesting features of individual pesharim in the catalogue, such as the condition of the scrolls. Lim is especially interested in their historical content, citing possible references to historical figures.

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The third chapter begins with a discussion of how to relate pesharim to other known forms of ancient exegesis, especially rabbinic midrashim. Pesharim use literary devices similar to those of rabbinic midrashim, but since their interpretation is based on the teachings of Teacher of Righteousness, they are quite distinct. Lim includes a brief discussion of thematic pesharim, arguing that they are similar to other short biblical anthologies known from ancient sources for use in devotion or disputation. One feature of these anthologies is a diversity of formats and themes. The chapter concludes with a discussion of the interpretative categories of ‘midrash’ and ‘midrash eschatology.’ Chapter four considers the implications of the Qumran scrolls for text criticism. Where the DSS differ from the MT, do they reflect a proto-MT text or are they variants introduced by the Qumran scribes for their own exegetical purposes? Lim notes that until recently there has not been “a sustained discussion of how one identifies a variant … [as] exegetical or textual.” He briefly examines these issues, illustrating the need for further work in this area. Lim considers whether pesharim contain reliable historical information in chapter five. The use of “code words” by the Qumran community makes identification difficult. Some terms are generally agreed upon, such as “Kittim” for Romans, but scholars have no consensus about others, such as the identity (or identities) of the “wicked priest” and the “liar” (who may be the same or different individuals) and the “teacher of righteousness.” Lim offers a review of scholarship and summarizes the current discussion of these issues. Finally, in chapter six, Lim considers similarities between pesharim and the New Testament. Previously, some scholars saw enough similarities between Paul and the Scrolls to call Paul’s interpretations “midrash pesher.” Lim agrees that the Qumran community and the Early Church drew on common traditions but argues that when Paul and the Qumran scrolls cite the same scriptural passage, they intrepret them very differently. I found the second three chapters of this book more successful than the first. The first three chapters contain a wealth of information but could be more clearly organized. For example, in chapter one, Lim devotes time to reviewing several debated issues but these seem tangential to the rest of the chapter (providing a definition and catalogue pesharim). Similarly, in the third chapter, the discussion of thematic pesharim disrupts his discussion of different types of ancient interpretation. Oddly, given his interest in historical figures, he provides no discussion of the history of the Qumran sect. The second three chapters, however, are more focused, offering helpful reviews of scholarship and explaining his positions on the issues.

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Lim’s book would be appropriate for his intended audience (upper level undergraduates and/or graduate students) but would need to be supplemented with a more general introduction.

Frederick W. Knobloch, ed., BIBLICAL TRANSLATION IN CONTEXT (Studies and Texts in Jewish History and Culture 10; Bethesda, MD: University of Maryland Press, 2002), xiii + 223 pp. Cloth. US $35.00. ISBN 1-883053-404. Reviewed by Paul S. Ash Reinhardt College This volume is a collection of thirteen essays discussing the role that societies have on the translations of the Bible that they produce. It began as a conference held at the University of Maryland, College Park, on April 26, 1998, and most of the papers included in the volume were presented at that time. The book is divided into three parts. In Part 1, two essays discussing the Bible in the Ancient World are included. The first, by Benjamin G. Wright III entitled “The Jewish Scriptures in Greek: The Septuagint in the Context of Ancient Translation Activity,” discusses the role of translators in the ancient world. The second, by William Adler entitled “What the Hebrews Say: Translation, Authority, and the Story of Susanna and the Elders,” provides an analysis of why the story of Susanna failed to be included in the Jewish Bible, and the processes that led to the decision to exclude it. Part 2 comprises eight studies on the relationship between Scripture and the communities that translate it. They include: “How Jews Translate the Bible” by Frederick E. Greenspahn, “‘Their Faces Shine with the Brightness of the Firmament’” by Steven Fine, “Between Religion and Culture” by Abigail E. Gillman, “Top Dollar, Bottom Line?” by Leonard Greenspoon, “Text, Translation, Commentary” by Adele Berlin, “‘Lost in the Translation’” by Magdalena Teter, “The New American Bible” by Deirdre Dempsey, and “Accuracy and Readability” by Tremper Longman III. Finally, Part 3 offers three studies on using the Bible in the classroom and translation issues in that context. Here we have “The Literary Approach to the Bible and Finding a Good Translation” by Gary A. Rendsburg, “The Problem of Facile

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Translations’ by Paul R. Raabe, and “Translation and Mimesis” by Michael V. Fox. These essays provide us a very timely look at several critical issues that we need to keep in mind when we consider biblical translation. In this postmodern era, in which we continually grow more aware of the degree to which our own perspectives, views, and concerns, color and shape our understanding of the Bible and its message(s), this volume brings to bear this same awareness to the very act of translating the Bible. It reminds us pointedly that translations of the Bible, whether ancient or modern, are not made in a social/cultural/theological/political vacuum and are shaped, even dominated, by the concerns and views of the translators themselves. As Longman notes, “scholarly neutrality has appropriately been revealed as a myth” (p. 165). The contributors make several very salient points. First, translation itself is subjective. As noted in the preface, “… in reality the translator cannot be a transparent, interference-free channel for the author’s thoughts” (xii). Certain words and phrases in the Greek and Hebrew languages cannot be adequately, or necessarily even accurately, rendered with a single English (or whatever language) word. Different translators, working within their own theological and cultural position, will translate these words in accordance with those positions. As an example, Greenspahn argues, regarding Jewish translations of the Bible, that “Jewish renderings are typified by two general features: an attachment to the Hebrew original and a commitment to Jewish tradition” (p. 43). He concludes that the translations are not “neutral renderings of Scripture” but are “profoundly Jewish” (p. 60). Second, because of the non-continuity of meaning from language to language, some of the meaning of the Greek and Hebrew (and Aramaic) is lost in translation. Fox gives an example of this problem regarding the Hebrew word for heart (p. 211). Third, no translation is capable of conveying the exact sense and nuance of the original languages. Consequently, no translation is perfect and variety is necessary. If a student or reader of the Bible wants to get a “three-dimensional” understanding of the text, then either multiple translations or familiarity with the original languages become necessary. Fox concludes, “different translations are needed for different purposes” (p. 220), Fourth, differences in the cultural background of the readers will affect translations. Teter points out how a Mongolian translation of the Bible struggled to find equivalents for the flora and fauna of the Bible in the East Asian world (p. 151). A short review such as this cannot elucidate thoroughly the many subjective issues inherent in the act of translating the Bible, but this volume makes an excellent starting point for detailing case studies regarding this

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phenomenon. As a teacher of Biblical languages and exegesis, I find this volume refreshing and a powerful reminder of the many complications regarding translation that we need to convey to students and readers of the Bible. Even if those students and readers do not learn the original languages, it would be of considerable benefit for them to become familiar with the issues and principles of translation, as well as some of the basics of linguistics that render each translation subjective.

Jack M. Sasson, Archie C. C. Lee, Craig Y. S. Ho, and Fook Kong Wong, HEBREW ORIGINS: HISTORIOGRAPHY, HISTORY, FAITH OF ANCIENT ISRAEL (Chuen King Lecture Series 4; Hong Kong: Theology Division, Chung Chi College, 2002), xiii + 163 pp. Paper. $18.95. ISBN 962-713-725-1. Reviewed by Mark J. Boda McMaster Divinity College This volume comprises three lectures delivered by Jack Sasson at Chung Chi College of the Chinese University of Hong Kong in February 2001. Three Chinese scholars offered responses to each of the lectures and the text of these responses are also included in the volume after the pertinent chapter. It appears that the main purpose of Sasson’s opening lecture (“History as Literature in Ancient Israel”) was to review the narrative qualities evident within the ancient Hebrew “historical” tradition. Because Hebrew historiography relies on “conventions,” generates “theological themes” and constructs “paradigms,” its presentation (“optimized and didactic”) of the past is not acceptable for modern historical research. Nevertheless, at the tail end of the chapter Sasson does suggest that there is evidence of reliance on oral traditions and written records that were based on “historical reality” (27). This final suggestion is the focus of the second lecture (“On Hebrew History”), which reviews the present status of sources and conclusions on the history of Israel. Sasson argues that little from the Hebrew Bible can be corroborated from ancient history. Furthermore, much of what the Hebrew Bible speaks about is outside the purview of modern historians: “historians

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cannot rely on historical testimony in which a deity is a major player and cannot explain historical events by assigning them to divine causes, historians must posit more mundane explanations” (42). Sasson proceeds to note the various ways in which scholars have sought to corroborate the history found in the Hebrew Bible, before summarizing the present state of debate on the various eras of Israel until the exile of Judah. In the end, Sasson delivers little of what he suggested at the end of chapter 1 (“this detailing of how little we actually we know or can confirm about Israel’s origins or real history,” 61) and does suggest that the way forward appears to be “to find other ways to penetrate the world of the Hebrews,” favouring interdisciplinary work, which focuses not on “what exactly happened in Israel,” but rather on “what Israel imagined happened in her past” (61–62). At the end of the chapter Sasson does try to “defend” the Hebrew Bible with three key principles. First, the lack of evidence does not necessarily mean the events described in the Hebrew Bible did not happen. Secondly, one cannot entrust to historians (and archaeologists) matters which go beyond historical truths. Finally, whether Israel’s historical writing is accurate does not undermine its ability to communicate spiritual truth, whether that be its view of God, its moral code, or its secrets of faith. It is again this final point (and only the first point: “its view of God”) that is taken up in more detail in the third lecture. This third lecture (“On the Origins of the Hebrew God and of the Hebrew Faith in God”) is by far the longest as it traces the development of the Hebrew conception of God throughout its history against the backdrop of the ancient Near East. Sasson begins with a consideration of the names of God found in the Hebrew Bible and then notes connections with extrabiblical evidence. He argues that there is no credible evidence of the worship of a god named YHWH outside of Israel’s borders. Thus there is no clear evidence as to the origins of the god YHWH in the ancient Near East. At the same time, the extra-biblical evidence reveals that “monotheistic faith was soft” (88), showcased poignantly in the Kuntillet ‘Ajrud votive invocation referring to “YHWH of Samaria (or Teman) and of his Asherah” (early 8th Century BCE). Unable to locate the source of YHWH as god, Sasson looks for roots of other aspects of Yahwistic faith. He honestly notes the many connections between Yahwism and other ancient religions (notions about the gods, shunning of idolatry, the role of the prophet, conceptions of covenantal justice and law, practice of herem), but then notes points of uniqueness related to Sabbath, circumcision, priestly codification, legal detail and female access to the deity. The key point of distinction, however, is identified as monotheism. After reviewing the history of debate over the view of God (accenting the evolutionary view of the late 19th century), Sas-

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son identifies a tension in the Hebrew Bible between the prophetic emphasis on the uniqueness of God alongside the depiction of God as territorial. He leverages the earlier view that the priests and elite of Israel held to a “henotheistic” or “monocratic” territorial notion of YHWH while the masses accepted a “less than pristine theology” which could embrace a consort like Asherah alongside YHWH. The search for the origins of this monotheistic strain (Kenites, Assyrians [Assur], Egyptians [Aten]) came up empty handed, and led to a reconsideration of the view that monotheism must be understood against its polytheistic backdrop. In contrast to the ancient Near East, Israel offered no explanation of the origins of their god, by opening their creation account without theogony and by making no mention of a battle between the gods. In doing this, Israel’s theologians argued for the singularity, the transcendence and the omnipotence of God. At the same time, Israel’s theologians carefully present their God’s creation of humanity and this, mixed with their presentation of earthly (rather than cosmic) victories of this god on behalf of Israel, reveals a God “absorbed in the creation and destiny of human beings” (106). Such a monotheistic faith seems odd in light of Israel’s precarious existence in the ancient world: “why would Israel place its fate in one God, when that God has not been especially successful against the competing gods?” (109). The answer to this lies in two key events connected to Jerusalem. The first is the fall of the Northern Kingdom in 722 BCE in which a significant group of elite escaped to a Jerusalem in the midst of a campaign to rid the capital of pagan worship. These events led to a greater focus on YHWH as supreme (although not yet unique, cf. Jer 44:24–25). The second (and more important) came with the fall of Judah in the 6th Century BCE and the subsequent returns to the land. It was the later returns under Ezra and Nehemiah in the 5th Century BCE that had the greatest influence on the Hebrew conception of God: “fragments of the pre-Exilic theology of God integrated with new themes about that God to deliver the theology of monotheism that is familiar to us” (114). Before the exile YHWH was seen as unbegotten, local yet transcendent, omnipotent, omnipresent, (mostly) omniscient, and universal. To this was added in the 5th Century: unique (there are no other gods) and international. Sasson highlights especially the Torah reading in Neh 8: “In the absence of native rule in Jerusalem and in the uncertainty about religious leadership, the conviction about the unique God and the fulfillment of his promise gained for monotheism organic coherence, constancy, structure, and goal” (115). This is what Sasson calls the democratization of monotheism, a conception which “did not come together in 18th Dynasty Egypt or in Imperial Assyria; but they gelled in hap-

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less Yehud, among people who had little invest except faith and blind hope” (116). It is a rare opportunity to sit and listen to an accomplished scholar as he offers his conclusions from a lifetime of study of the Hebrew Bible and the History of Israel. At times the lectures lack integrity, not in terms of character, but in terms of their flow. The argument is not always constructed in clear form as we move from the beginning to the end of the lecture, nor is the purpose of some of the material to the main argument made clear (this is especially evident in the first half of the initial lecture which reviews the Bible’s origins and debates over such, even though the main thrust of the chapter ultimately is on the narrative quality of Israelite historiography). Sasson is very cautious in his approach to history, clearly a minimalist who accepts little as historical evidence for Israel. Such caution is a helpful reminder, but at times seems overly sensitive. Historical study of the ancient Near East does offer us patterns of event, life and society that can be discerned within the Hebrew Bible, lending credibility to its presentation, without claiming that it is video footage of the events in view. Sasson’s recognition of the narrative quality of Hebrew literature, does not undermine the usefulness of this literature for historical reconstruction, any more than recognition of such in other ancient Near Eastern literature undermines their usefulness. In all cases the historian is asked to weigh the evidence carefully and fairly, noting trends that may be evidence of narrative or theological license, and even in those cases to be open to such as historical reality. Sasson is sensitive to the broader theological issues at stake with his claims, addressing these at times in his presentation, if often as an apology or excursus, rather than as part of his main argument which is clearly historical. Sasson’s view that monotheism triumphed only in the Persian period is as difficult to refute as to sustain. Clearly there is early evidence for the worship of YHWH, but also early evidence within Israel’s material remains and textual traditions for the worship of other deities. Such diverse worship is admitted and even highlighted within textual traditions that emphasize the ascendancy (if not exclusiveness) of YHWH. This, however, does not mean that these texts are somehow compromising on monotheistic religion, only that the sociological reality defied the theological emphasis of a certain group within Israel. If one was to embrace fully Sasson’s view of the triumph of monotheism in the Persian period (and he is not unique in this), even more compelling evidence could have been drawn from the iconographic archaeological record from this period (see the debate between Stern and Niehr in The Crisis of Israelite Religion: Transformation of Religious Tra-

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dition in Exilic and Post-Exilic Times [ed. Bob Becking and Marjo C. A. Korpel; Leiden: Brill, 1999). After each of the lectures, a Chinese scholar responded to the material presented by Sasson. Although Archie Lee’s response to the first lecture was poorly written he does provide space for Sasson’s fixation with historical critical methodology and his focus on “Ancient West Asian” evidence. However, Lee is critical of Sasson for not moving from West to East Asia, from ancient to modern, that is relating his research to today’s Asian and Chinese Christians. Unfortunately, Lee does not engage the main emphasis of Sasson’s lecture: the focus on the narrative quality of ancient Israel historiography. Craig Ho’s response to the second lecture is a solid contribution to the volume. In his paper he engages Sasson’s material brilliantly, and struggles with the implications of Sasson’s minimalism to “evangelical” Chinese faith. In this he deals with the crisis as personal faith and modern history collide and thus brings Sasson’s lecture to bear on crucial issues within Chinese faith. The same can be said of Fook Kong Wong’s response to the third lecture. Adding a bit more clarity to some of Sasson’s material, Wong largely affirms the overall thrust of Sasson’s argument. However, he is not so confident of the triumph of monotheism in the Persian period, citing evidence from Chronicles which recognizes the existence of other gods. Furthermore, he challenges Sasson’s assumption that the books of Ezra and Nehemiah offer us a truly a view of the common people (democratization of monotheism), for they were shaped by the elite of the Persian period. Wong also rounds out the volume by engaging the hermeneutical validity of the kind of historical criticism showcased by Sasson throughout the lecture series. He admits such critical thought is bound to be “nerve wracking” and possibly “painful” for Christians, but reminds us that our view of God cannot be drawn exclusively from one period of Israel’s history, but rather as Brevard Childs encouraged, should be derived from the Christian canon as a whole. These responses are invaluable to this volume, for they bring the Lecturer into broader conversations, especially, in this case, in a majority world context that is often ignored by western scholarship. The respondents also help the reader think through the deeper hermeneutical issues that are inevitable (and necessary) in lectureships taking place in an academic context. This is even more important in the theological context in which these lectures had their genesis.

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Carolyn J. Sharp, PROPHECY AND IDEOLOGY IN JEREMIAH: STRUGGLES FOR AUTHORITY IN THE DEUTEROJEREMIANIC PROSE (Old Testament Studies; London/New York: T & T Clark, 2003), 288 pp. Cloth. US $60.00. ISBN 0-5670-8910-X. Reviewed by Yair Hoffman Department of Bible, Tel Aviv University Tel Aviv, Israel This is a detailed study of selected prose sections of the Book of Jeremiah. The first chapter (pp. 1–40) reviews the redaction theories of the books of Kings and Jeremiah, commonly considered Deuteronomistic editorial works. In the next three chapters the author examines some prose passages (mainly chapters 7; 26; 35; 44, 25; 29; in this order) in the Book of Jeremiah under the following titles: “‘My Servants the Prophets’: Exegetical Observations” (pp. 41–80); “‘A Prophet to the Nations’” (pp. 81–102); “False Prophecy in the Book of Jeremiah” (pp. 103–124); the fifth chapter, “Prophets in Jeremiah, Kings and Deuteronomy 18” (pp. 125–156) discusses Deut. 18:15–22 and 2 Kings 17:7–23. Then comes the concluding chapter (pp. 157–169), appended by a very useful bibliography and indexes of biblical and post-biblical citations and authors. The subtitle of this interesting and meticulous study clarifies (just as most subtitles do) its particular essence more than the main title does. It also serves another important goal: at the present situation of biblical research, when studies are based on contradictory paradigms, it is methodologically valuable to elucidate right at the beginning within which paradigm the specific survey is conducted; this elucidation is also supplied in the subtitle by the term “Deutero-Jeremianic”. When indicating the existence of a Deutero-Jeremianic layer, Sharp lets us learn about her implied paradigm of the Book of Jeremiah as a core of the prophet’s authentic prophecies that absorbed late, non-Jeremianic prose accretions. This paradigm implies the concept of Jeremiah as a real historical, (see mainly pp. 126–127) figure, who acted as a prophet in 6th century Jerusalem. This paradigm diametrically opposes the one depicted, e.g., in Carroll’s 1986 Jeremiah’s commentary. According to Carroll there was no historical prophet Jeremiah, and the

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one depicted in the book should be considered no more than a literary figure, like Macbeth, King Lear and so on. The point of departure, therefore, for any fair evaluation of Sharp’s study should be her paradigm, whether one accepts it (as I do) or not. Within this paradigm Sharp generally follows the idea expressed already by B. Duhm in his 1901 commentary on Jeremiah, developed more systematically by S. Mowinckel (1914), and since then has become a widely common hypothesis, namely, that the prose sections in the Book of Jeremiah are late accretions. Yet, while Mowinckel has made a clear distinction between source B (the ‘biographical’ prose) and source C (the prose sermons), claiming only the latter to be of deuteronomistic origin, Sharp does not make such a distinction (correctly, in my opinion) and so the term “Deutero-Jeremianic” refers to the whole prose in the book. By this she rejects (once again: properly, to my judgment) H. Weippert’s notion (see p. 26) that the prose might be as authentically Jeremianic as the poetic prophecies in the book. This, however, by no means leads Sharp to the notion of one harmonious prose redaction layer; on the contrary. An examination of some specific sections has led Sharp to conclude that two different prose layers, “were either composed or decisively shaped in editorial processes” by two contradictory groups: “a group of Jeremiah traditionalists who remained in Judah after 597” (p. 157) and “pro-gola” “traditionists resident in Babylon after 597 BCE “, whose “platform is strikingly different from the Judah-based traditionist perspective in a number of ways” (p. 158). The following texts are said to have been written by the first group: 7:4, 13b, 15,16, 20, 21–8 (29?); 11:14; 14:11; 25:1–5 (6–7?), 8–11a*, 13–17, 19–33*; 26:5,6b–8*, 9b, 17–19, 24; 28:8–9; 29:8–9, 15, 21–2; 35:1–19; 44: 1–4, 11, 27 (pp. 157–158). The texts classified as the product of the “progola” group are: 7:1–3, 5–7, 8, 9–13a, 14, 17–19, 30–4; 8:1–3; 24:1–10; 25:9b, 11b–12a, 18; 26:1–4, 6a, 9a, 10–16(20–3?...) 27:1–22; 28:1–7; 10–17; 29:1–7, 10–14, 16–19, 23, 24–32; 44: 7, 9–10*,12–23, 26, 28–30. (p. 158). These two redactions are called by Sharp ‘Deutero-Jeremianic’ rather than merely ‘Deuteronomistic’ (pp. 21, 23, and more). The very idea of two different approaches in the Jeremianic prose towards the gola and other issues is not a new one, and it can hardly be suspected. Indeed, Sharp elucidates some interesting contradictory viewpoints, which do prove her major thesis. Yet, I have some reservations regarding Sharp’s methodology and consequently her conclusions. I have listed above Sharp’s fine analysis of the discussed sections in order to raise serious doubts as to our ability to really make such a surgical distinctions. E.g., I wonder if there is any philological or ideological justification to detach 7:4 from its context; to separate 7: 13a from 7: 13b, and

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26:6a from 26:6b. The methodological problem in such cases is that the enforcement of one’s thesis on the text by unnecessary surgeries (and injuries!) without any corroboration except one’s own thesis creates a vicious circle, which should definitely be avoided. Another methodological question is, should some slightly different emphasizes within the text should be considered ‘contradictions’, which support a two redactions theory. Such questions are raised, e.g., in Sharp’s discussions on Jer. Chapters 7 (pp. 41 ff), 44 (p. 75; see also the summary in p. 123). I am not sure that a critical conclusion derived from a presupposition that an author should always stick to the same emphasis (i.e., repeat himself to death) is acceptable. Why not allow the ancient author what we expect of any good writer—to be complementary rather than repetitive, emphasizing in one part of his address one aspect, e.g., prophecy, and another aspect— say, law—further on? Such different accentuations, which are not contradictory, do not create a sufficient condition for classifying them as representing different systematic redactions. This approach if applied to Josephus or Herodotus, e.g., would have led to a total dismembering of their historical works, including the speeches ascribed there to the historical figures. Why couldn’t a historiographer, a biographer of a sermon writer, whose main agenda is the responsibility of the kings for the dire situation and eventually the deportation of their nation, refer both to the law and the prophets? As to inconsistencies: here too one should not turn each tension into a contradiction that apparently proves a redaction layer (see Sharp’s slight dispute with me on this issue on pp. 128, 153, 155). Tensions and minor inconsistencies could be found even in modern historiographies, but we are lucky to have the tools to handle them elegantly: we express one view in the upper part of the page, and then, in a note, we can suggest a slightly different interpretation. This technique was developed within the academic world exactly in order to avoid strict, totally unequivocal answers to complicated questions. The fact that it was yet unknown to the poor biblical authors have made tensions and polyphony a generic exigency of biblical historiography and deutero-prophetic prose, which should not automatically mistranslated as an evident for a systematic redaction. These methodological hesitations have to do with my disagreement with Sharp’s claim that the two editorials should not be referred to as ‘deuteronomistic’, but as ‘deutero-Jeremianic’. On p. 23, following an examination of the phrase …‫השכם ו‬, Sharp decides to consider it ‘deuteroJeremianic’, and not merely deuteronomistic, since it appears only in the prose sections of Jeremiah, and not in Deuteronomy or DtrH. Yet, the fact that it occurs both in Jeremianic sermons (Mowinckel’s C) and (‘biographical’) stories (Mowinckel’s B), combined with the clear Dtr. character of C.

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justifies the terminology of JDtr (Jeremianic Dtr) as suggested by the author of this review and referred to by Sharp (p. xii n. 2). Now, Sharp agrees that it is “possible, of course, that the same editorial hand(s) may be responsible for differing conceptual uses and semantic styles in Jeremiah and Deuteronomy/ DtrH, that the same redactor or editorial group has responded flexibly to the requirements of varied literary and thematic contexts” (p. 26). If so-why coin another term (deutero-Jeremianic), rather than referring to the various Dtr. voices in Jeremiah (as well as in Deuteronomy and Kings!), especially if one considers Dtr. a school, and not a single person, like Noth? The problem is not with the very coining of another (redundant) term, but with the conclusion (reached in spite of the cited sentence above) that actually denies Dtr.’s polyphony, which distorts, to my mind, its very essence. However, neither such reservations, nor some small slips (e.g., the MT, which is the version referred to in the study, of 1 Kings 21:28 does not use the phrase “my servants the prophets”—‫—עבדי הנביאים‬as indicated in p. 19; it rather reads ‫אליהו התשבי‬. The Greek version is “in the hand of his servant Elijah”—εν χειρι δουλου αυτου Ηλιου, Βασιλειων ΙΙΙ, 20: 28) cannot, and should not, diminish the importance of this intriguing book. It is really an enjoyable, well-balanced investigation of the Book of Jeremiah, which helps us to understand better the ways the original message of the prophet have been used in order to advance contradictory ideologies by ascribing them to the prestigious historical Jeremiah.

Max Rogland, ALLEGED NON-PAST USES OF QATAL IN CLASSICAL HEBREW (Studia Semitica Neerlandica, vol. 44; Assen: Royal van Gorcum, 2003), vii + 164 pp. Paper. €49.00. ISBN 90-232-3973-3 Reviewed by Agustinus Gianto Pontifical Biblical Institute, Rome As the title indicates, this book deals with the use of qatal in Hebrew to refer to situations that take place in the present or even in the future rather than, as expected, in the past. And indeed, cognate forms of qatal in other Semitic languages are known to include such non-past uses. The question is whether one can take such usage as part of the meaning of qatal, a form that

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prima facie expresses the past, or should one look for some other explanation. Terminology apart, the alleged non-past uses of qatal discussed in this book fall into three groups presented in the three main chapters of the book: (1) those which seem to express a general truth in sayings—this is what is usually known as “gnomic perfect” (pp. 15–51); (2) those which present some future happening as if it were already a reality—this is generally called “prophetic perfect” since this use is mostly found in prophetic literature (pp. 53–114); (3) those instances in which the situation takes place during the moment of utterance. This third group is now known as “performative perfect” (pp. 115–126). The main contribution of the book is not so much to provide a new explanation about these uses as to examine critically the assumptions made to describe those uses of qatal as referring to non-past events. Basically the author attempts to maintain the past meaning as much as possible. Alternative explanations are sought when this meaning does not fit. Each of the three main chapters dealing with the non-past usages starts with a summary of what has been said about it both by the traditional grammars and by more modern approaches. The strength of the work lies in the discussion on the individual examples which often lead to a re-evaluation of the alleged non-past uses of qatal. Hence, in the case of the gnomic perfect, often claimed as stating a general truth such as is found in proverbs, the author comes up with cases in which the proverbs state reports of specific experience or observation of some situation in the past. One such example is Prov 18:22 “He found (‫ ) ָמ ָצא‬a wife, he found (‫ ) ָמ ָצא‬a good thing, and he received (wayyiqtol) favor from YHWH”. This statement is definitely about the past rather than a general truth, which, in this case, is a lesson from which one may learn. Hence the meaning is not, as is often thought, “he who finds ....”, which has often been taken as the basis for the non-past qatal meaning there. A number of other cases usually treated as gnomic perfects are shown to belong to the realm of the past and so it is no longer necessary to insist on the “general present” interpretation. The same sound critical procedure also appears in the chapter dealing with the prophetic perfect. The author notes that this term can no longer be used to label diverse uses of qatal which have something to do with futurity. To remedy this, he introduces the notion of relative tense, namely that the situation may be anterior to a future event. It is clear that the anteriority expressed by qatal has something to do with some future event, but this does not mean that the form as such refers to the future. One of the examples given is Balaam’s words in Num 24:17 “I see (impf.) him, but not now;

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I regard (impf.) him, but he is not near. A star went forth (‫ ) ָד ַרְך‬from Jacob....a scepter rose up (‫ )וְ ָקם‬...” The first qatal is often labeled as a prophetic perfect and rendered as “will go forth”, especially since the next form seems to be a converted perfect weqataltí. But the author considers it as conjunctive waw plus qatal instead. He also proposes to see the situation spoken about here as simply belonging to the past. This is especially clear when one realizes that the passage merely reports a vision. The use of qatal in dream reports also belongs here. Apparently, it is the use of this verbal form in reporting an irreal situation that suggests its non-past reference. But the dream and the vision themselves are past events. The performative perfect, on the basis of cross-linguistic evidence, is shown not to have inherent connection with tense, aspect or mood. Even if this is true, the question remains why in Hebrew precisely qatal can express this sense. This is an area that still awaits further study. Following up that line it may be suggested that qatal, being a form that indicates a past event, also expresses a lingering relevance to the moment of utterance. That is to say, the event is not completely separated from the present, or for that matter from the future. This also gives the impression that the activity spoken about happens at the moment of utterance. Lingering relevance may also explain the relative tense/anteriority mentioned above. Given its clarity and generally sound approach, this book will be a welcome addition to Hebrew studies.

Duck-Woo Nam, TALKING ABOUT GOD: JOB 42:7–9 AND THE NATURE OF GOD IN THE BOOK OF JOB (Studies in Biblical Literature 49; New York: Peter Lang, 2003), ix + 240 pp. Cloth. $65.95. ISBN 0-8204-6139-3. Reviewed by Michael Carasik University of Pennsylvania As its subtitle indicates, Duck-Woo Nam’s book Talking About God is an attempt to understand what the Book of Job has to say about God by analyzing it in light of God’s remark to Job’s three friends, ‫לא דברתם אלי‬ ‫נכונה‬. The book’s purpose is to attempt to answer “In what has Job spoken about or to God more ‫ נכונה‬than the friends?” (1). A brief introduction (including two pages of “Personal Background” which are not in fact very

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personal or revealing) sets up the problem. This is succeeded by a chapter analyzing Job 42:7–9, followed by three chapters discussing “the nature of God” in the speeches (respectively) of the three friends, Job, and YHWH. (For religious reasons, I will substitute these letters for the full name spelled out, as Nam uses it. Oddly, though this name is printed throughout the book in roman type, every other divine name used–e.g., El–is printed in italics.) A brief conclusion summarizes the work. There is a bibliography, separated (for some reason) into separate sections for books, articles, and dissertations, and two indices, one of sources (mostly biblical) and another of the many modern scholars to whom reference is made. Endnotes are unhelpfully grouped at the end of each chapter. Hebrew text, fortunately, appears in Hebrew characters, but the difficulty this poses in an English work has led to a few mistakes: misarranged text when a phrase runs over to a second line (35, 93) and cases where characters appear inappropriately in the opposite language (e.g., m for ‫מ‬, p. 101; ‫ דנא‬for “and,” p. 130; seghol for comma [?], p. 156). Nam is clearly familiar with a wide range of scholarship, both Jewish and Christian (he is a pastor by profession); but the three pages devoted to “The Meaning of ‫( ”נכונה‬pp. 22–24) left me dubious about the potential value of the book for scholars as opposed to those with a primarily religious interest in the book of Job. He notes that the words “you have not spoken about me” are misleading if the rest of the line is not taken into account (22), since the friends have indeed spoken about God; but this is obvious. He plausibly argues that an adverbial usage of ‫ נכונה‬seems more syntactically appropriate than a verbal one, first proposing translations of “reliably” or “what is sincere” (23). But the translation he finally chooses, on which the rest of the book will be based, is justified in only a single sentence: “As the root (‫ )כון‬suggests something established, the adverbial word ‫ נכונה‬can be rendered as ‘constructively’” (23). The important points he derives from God’s use of the phrase are that “one may conclude that Job has spoken about God constructively (erectum) and to God in the manner of Y’s servant (directum)” (24); erectum and directum are taken from a comment of Delitzsch. The friends, by contrast, never address God directly, and their comments are not ‫נכונה‬, not “constructive.” An analysis of the friends’ speech about God demonstrates that (with minor differences) they all view him as being at the top of a hierarchy, from which position he offers the proper retribution for human actions. This picture is not “constructive,” apparently because they have not responded adequately to Job’s challenge; “the friends’ God is shaped as the object of lifeless systematization, without being formed into a constructive portrait.… This may be the reason why [YHWH] gets angry with them in

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terms of their theological testimony that needs to be deconstructed” (59). Job, by contrast, agrees that God is transcendent, but not that the failure of correct retribution shows that God is indifferent to humanity; he insists that “the divine power sometimes overwhelms divine justice and mercy” (106). The constructive element here would seem to be that “Because of Job’s questions and challenges … God has to remove his curtain and to break his silence in order to take his turn in the disputation…” (107). God’s own words present him as (1) wise designer of creation who upholds the world order; (2) sovereign lord; (3) sustainer of creation (134f.). We thus learn that, though God is the “ultimate legal authority,” he is “willing to have disputation with his servant.” The introduction of Behemoth and Leviathan reshapes Job’s “moral vision” by assuring him that “there are no powers in the world beyond the control of God.” The upshot of YHWH’s presentation of himself is that “it is certain that God is unconventional by normal human standards” (163). All of these points are “more compatible with the speeches of Job than with those of the friends” (164). It would seem, then, that Job has spoken constructively in two ways: (1) by forcing God, with his challenge in direct address, to speak to him, that is, to encounter humanity directly; and (2) by creating a situation in which Job himself can develop theologically, by “elucidating divine power and freedom which are not restricted to the law of retribution ordinary humans understand.” The friends, by contrast, demonstrate no theological development because “they do not take Job’s human existential inquiries seriously” (191). The book concludes that Job is a model for correct behavior: “Therefore, whoever seeks God in the same manner as Job may experience a new vision from [YHWH] the personal God and find a favor in him” (192). Though framed as a work of scholarship, the book succeeds better as a work of theology (though even here it is not to my taste). I cannot see any justification for the contention that ‫ נכונה‬implies that Job spoke “constructively” and directly “to” God as a “protesting servant” (108, 164, 189). The latter point has absolutely no connection with the word, while the former point is contradicted by ‫’נכונה‬s being a Niphal and not an active form. Job’s words may be “constructed,” but they cannot be “constructive.” More seriously, Nam’s approach fails to take into account the real reasons for God’s actions, which we the readers know but Job is never told, even in the speeches “from the whirlwind,” when God pretends to take up his challenge. There is a higher level of reality that Job is not privy to, but no “higher levels of moral order” (190) are found there, as Nam wishes to show. There are a number of observations in the book for which I am grateful: a comparison of Job 7:21 and Exod 34:7, showing (among other things)

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how ‫ נצר‬is reversed in the Job verse (83 f.); his remark that the ‫( רננים‬ostrich) in 39:13 is a counterpoint to Job’s “May no sound of joy [‫ ]רננה‬be heard in it” (3:7) (142); and his juxtaposition of Job’s belief in an “advocate / witness / interpreter in heaven” with “the opposite fact” that the frame story gives Job not an advocate but an Adversary (98). Beyond these, I found little here that I will add to my presentation when next I teach the book of Job.

Yohan Pyeon, YOU HAVE NOT SPOKEN WHAT IS RIGHT ABOUT ME: INTERTEXTUALITY AND THE BOOK OF JOB (Studies in Biblical Literature, 45; New York: Peter Lang, 2003), xvi + 239 pp. Cloth. $ 69.95. ISBN 0-8204-5652-7. Reviewed by Loren Fisher Willits, CA “This book represents, with only minor changes, a doctoral thesis submitted to Claremont Graduate University in January 2001.” The book is neatly packaged, and the author makes his methodology clear. He informs the reader what he is going to do, and he follows his plan in every chapter. So it is easy to read and to see how he arrives at his conclusions. If you accept his presuppositions on the unity of the book of Job and other things such as his dating of the book (“between the fifth and the third centuries B.C.E.” p 48) plus his dating of other texts used in the book of Job, most of his conclusions will follow. Professor N. H. Tur-Sinai wrote several books on Job, and some of these books disagreed with each other. Not many books on Job agree with each other. Therefore it will not surprise Professor Pyeon that my conclusions about Job are different than his (My book is Who Hears the Cries of the Innocent). One of my students, from my tenure at the Claremont Graduate University, wrote to me recently that my book on Job was interesting, but he had a better way. So here we go again. During the last few years many so-called new methodologies have been developed for the study of the Hebrew Bible. There is a New Literary Criticism, another method that makes use of the social sciences, Intertextuality, and several more. As a student I was taught to use every possible method.

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We approached a text from every angle; we were historians and we did not develop a single methodology. One of my problems with this book can be illustrated by looking at the title and the subtitle. The title comes from Job 42:7 and the author is aware that this verse contains a difficult problem. When Yahweh says, “You have not spoken what is right about me,” to what text is this statement related? Pyeon relates it to “the disputation between Job and his friends in Job 3–14.” (p 213) So if this is the case, Yahweh is saying that the three “friends” with their orthodox theology are wrong and the rebel Job is correct. To me this makes no sense, and this illustrates the difficulty in using the method of Intertextuality. I think there are two books of Job: the ancient story or folktale, Job I, and the rebel Job, Job II (Job 3–26). The three “friends” of the prologue and epilogue of Job I are not to be confused with the three “friends” in Job II. No one in Job II appears in the epilogue of Job I. This is why H. L. Ginsberg (Conservative Judaism, 1967) thought that the three “friends” in the prologue must have gone along with Job’s wife in 2:9 who urged Job “to curse God and die.” This was their mistake. From Pyeon’s point of view the “friends” in Job 3–14 are not wrong, but they have made the mistake of trying to use old traditions in a new situation. This seems to be a weak argument. The rebel Job certainly thinks that the words of the “friends” are false (Believe it or not, the innocent have perished in many settings [4:7]). Given my point of view there are many places where I could not agree on the way he states things. He says, “Job is at odds with his former self (p 83).” But when I compare Job 1–2 with 3, I would say that the rebel Job of chapter 3 is not at all like the Job of the prologue. This sort of thing makes this review difficult. Since I have just translated Job, Pyeon’s translation is interesting to me. My translation needs more work (like for the rest of my life), and his needs more work. I am embarrassed by leaving out some words, and he also has some typos (In 10:8 he has the word “nit.” I don’t understand.). I do have some suggestions concerning the translation: 1) The Hebrew word for “heart” should be translated as “mind” in 9:4; 12:3, and 24. 2) There should be some consistency in dealing with the names of God: either translate them or give them as names. 3) 12:6c is not “Those who carry God in their hands!” but “Whom Eloah carried in his hand.” 4) The negative does not work for him in 13:20a (according to his own discussion, p. 200). He has, “Yet two things you should not do with me!” I read this, “O El, do only two things for me.” 5) His 10:18 and 19 reads: “Then, why did you bring me out from the womb? / I perish and eyes will not see me. /As I was never born, I would be, / Carried from the womb to tomb.” I would read: “Why did you bring me from the womb? / I would have expired; /

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Not an eye would have seen me. / That which I was not, I would have been; / From womb to tomb, I would have been carried.” These examples show that our task is endless. I thank Professor Pyeon for his book. I have learned something of recent work on the book of Job. Also this has sent me back, once again, to correct my own work.

V. Stephen Parrish, A STORY OF THE PSALMS: CONVERSATION, CANON, AND CONGREGATION (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2003), 168 pp. Paper. US $ 14.95. ISBN 0-8146-2906-7 Reviewed by B. J. Embry Durham University V. Stephen Parrish presents us with a novel study of the Psalter in which he asserts that the “…Book of Psalms narrates a story of Israel…” that “…closely parallels the Church’s story…” (143). Parrish’s proposed critical format ranges from form-critical to redaction-critical to synchronic evaluations (vii-viii and passim). He attempts to evaluate the Psalter’s structure according to its canonical state, to demonstrate how this “final-form” details a “story” that is being told in chapters 1–150 (as Parrish states, “…major moments of Israel’s story…” [20]), and then suggests how that “story” might hold meaning for the modern Church congregation. The first chapter introduces the author’s intentions, and chapters 2–5 are divided according to the paradigm he sees at work in the Psalter (that is, “emergence,” “establishment,” “collapse,” “reemergence”). Parrish follows the standard scholarly opinion regarding the five-fold division of the Psalter, and, proceeding systematically through the books, each chapter begins with his assessment of selected Psalms followed by sub-sections entitled “Preliminary Observations,” “Canon and Congregation,” and “Summary.” This work is intended exclusively for a Christian audience, and the term “congregation” is used rather loosely to describe both the ancient Israelite community and a modern Protestant one (compare 42–47 with 71). While Parrish hints at the broader issue of ecclesiastic harmony with statements such as “[t]he special claims of faith, denomination, or sect suddenly stand challenged by the overarching admission that everything that moves

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and breathes belongs to God,” (129) such an appeal is neither set in terms that might be acceptable within Catholic or Orthodox religious contexts nor sustained with the amount of rigor necessary to justify it. That assertion notwithstanding, Parrish’s plan is not to syncopate varying Christian traditions, but to offer an evaluation of the Psalter that applies the paradigm of Israel’s relationship with God to the modern Church context. I have some fundamental objections to Parrish’s thesis, its execution, and his derived conclusions. First, more care is needed in defining several terms. For instance, he states that his study is “synchronic” (cf. viii and 143) but much of his application for the Church is diachronic. For instance, he states: “The conversation (of the Psalms) is deeply focused upon the experiential moment from which the psalmists speak, but it draws from the past and looks to the future” (13—my parenthesis and italics). His reliance on the diachronic continues with his statement that a congregation’s ability “…to embrace this dynamism means to remain open to the ‘yes, but…’ character of canon, and to remain flexible in the event of ecological change” (45) and his suggestion that “…all theology is ultimately and inevitably contextual…” (91). These are diachronic statements, whereas synchronism is defined by its detachment from history, resisting especially the schismatic symptoms of historical-criticism (cf. Jon Levenson, Hebrew Bible, Old Testament and Historical Criticism, 71–76). Parrish’s use of “synchronic” reflects the perspective of a modern Church congregation in which the unity and divine authority of the Hebrew Scriptures is understood in relationship to the sensibilities of the contemporary culture (North American). How else could Parrish juxtapose his selection of modern “voices” (i.e., of the “laity,” “women,” “victims”) with the “voices” of lament in book three of the Psalms and then conclude that three “ecological” voices (a “diminutive world,” “radical demographic shirts,” and “different faiths”) “…announce the end of one era and the beginning of a new one” for the Church (96– 103)? Setting aside the disputable nature of this conclusion, it does not reflect a synchronic application of the Psalter and actually replaces the lord of historical-criticism with the king of cultural- or social-criticism. Moreover, Parrish speaks routinely of events such as the monarchy (it defines the discussion of the book) and the Exile (chapter 4) helping to shape the production of particular Psalms specifically and the arrangement of the Psalter generally. The only real “synchronic” moment in the book is his use of “congregation” to define both the ancient Israelite worship and the modern Church community (compare 42–46 with 71). He is equally loose with his definition of “canon.” For instance, in his discussion of Psalm 74 Parrish states, “It is nothing short of an appeal to Israel’s canonical memory, to ancient life-giving and sustaining traditions”

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(85—italics mine). Are we to believe that a canon had been established at this time? Parrish probably means “Scriptural” or “religiously authoritative” (cf. John Barton’s distinction between canon and Scripture in Oracles of God; some interaction with Jon Levenson on this point would also be beneficial). A more precise definition of canon is certainly called for from a project that predicates many of its observations on a “canonical context.” Nonetheless, Parrish’s attempt to view the canon as authoritative for the modern Protestant Church is admirable (what Parrish might make of the Catholic or Orthodox “canon” is another matter). I think he runs into particular problems in terms of the sense of “tradition” implicit in his view of congregation. His charts demonstrating the relationship between “canon,” “culture,” and “ecology” (read: Scripture, modern context, specific Church community; cf. 44 and 46) assume that the Church community and the modern cultural context influence our understanding of canon, our views of doctrine (see especially his diatribe on the terms “omnipresence,” “omniscience,” and “omnipotence” on 91), and the ways in which we understand the “congregation of God.” This implies a “tradition” not unlike that espoused by Reform Judaism, which holds doctrinal and biblical precedents in tension with contemporary culture and expression (cf. the “Pittsburgh Platform” of Reform Judaism). I also have a few objections to the book’s general argument. Parrish attempts to argue two points. The first is that this “story” of the Psalter, namely, emergence, establishment, collapse, and reemergence, is reflected too in the life of the Church (16–17; 136–137). This thesis relies heavily on Loren Mead’s “Christian Paradigm” but two paradigms (views of history?) are only summarily related and the project needs a more sustained comparison of the ancient Israelite view of history in the Psalter and that espoused by the New Testament writers (and early Church?). The second general point is that the individual “voices” that constitute the Psalter can be didactic tools for modern congregational living. Parrish presenta these voices within the Psalter, which are often seen as “competing” (compare “voices of advocacy” 52ff with “voices of protest” 62ff), as both evidence of corresponding moments between the Psalter and the history of the Church (as in Mead’s paradigm, although no evidence from the New Testament or early Church is given; cf. 74–77) and indications of how modern congregations should engage in the act of being Christian. Yet the overlap between the two propositions is difficult to see and their juxtaposition strains the logical pattern of the book. Finally, there are two related disagreements. First, Parrish deals directly with only 33 of the 150 chapters of the Psalter in his book (see index). Given his “canonical” approach to the Psalter, it would certainly be worth-

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while to place these 33 Psalms in the wider context of the other 117. Secondly, Parrish rarely speaks of the New Testament or Christian theology in his critique of specific Psalms. This seems an acute oversight given his desire to relate the Psalter to both the life of the Christian Church in general and the modern Christian congregation specifically, i.e., canonically (as Levenson has pointed out in The Hebrew Bible, the Old Testament, and Historical Criticism, 37–38, one does Christian theology with both testaments and not a Christian theology of the Old Testament). Parrish speaks of “cognitive dissonance” in which the Davidic monarchy is promised but not realized (123–128; cf. Ps. 120–134), but does not coordinate this with the Church’s claim of God’s universal sovereignty (Kingdom of God in Christ, a son of David; cf. the genealogical tables in the Synoptics and e.g., Matt. 3:2; 6:9ff, 10:7). In particular, there is no discussion of the Incarnation. This seems an essential point given his consistent comparison between the pattern in the Psalter and that of the Church as well as his insistence on a “canonical” reading of the Psalter. Christian existentialism posits a present reality to the Psalter’s future hope, namely the realization of the kingdom of God through the Advent of Christ. In short, Parrish’s critical framework is actually “North American, Protestant congregational-context criticism” and not a canon-criticism. This is actually one of the book’s strengths: it continually attempts to view the text of the “Old Testament” through the prism of Church experience and to allow the text to influence Church praxis. I do not think that Parrish ultimately accomplishes this objective, but he is successful in highlighting the on-going need for Christians to re-engage with this testament. Parrish’s work has several serious shortcomings. It is a social-scientific composition intent on presenting a novel way of expressing the character of the Psalter to local congregations. But his observations often get lost in that impulse and it becomes difficult to see the cohesion between the book of the Psalms and the need for a community to act with “…restrained speech and passionate listening” (76). In the final analysis I do not think that he has offered a commendable reading of the Psalter. Having said this, he does present some interesting challenges to the modern, Christian congregation of North America. His study, which ultimately advocates a variety of critical approaches and reaches many different conclusions, displays characteristics of post-modernity at its most eclectic.

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Peter Ochs and Nancy Levene, eds., TEXTUAL REASONINGS: JEWISH PHILOSOPHY AND TEXT STUDY AT THE END OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2002), x + 310 pp. Paper. US $28.00. ISBN 0-8028-3997-5. Reviewed by Martin S. Jaffee University of Washington Editors Ochs and Levene have gathered a challenging and provocative collection of essays that, in the aggregate, proclaims and embodies what its editors and most of its contributors take to be a radical departure in contemporary Jewish textual hermeneutics. The “textual reasoning” of the volume’s title expresses the sense among many of its authors that the received methods of appropriating the Jewish textual tradition for diverse intellectual projects have exhausted their value. This is not, in their view, a uniquely Jewish problem; rather, it is one that haunts members of all the classical religious traditions that seek to retain the integrity of their received discursive traditions at the other end of the modern transformation. On the one end of the spectrum, it seems, there stands the skeptical “hermeneutics of suspicion,” spawned by the European Enlightenment tradition, that insists on subjecting all texts to the acids of historical/historicist criticism. On the other stands the resisting “hermeneutics of embrace,” represented by various authoritarian interpretive discourses that do not critique enlightened secularist heremeneutics as much as they walk away from it as if it did not exist or drown out its voices of doubt with ever louder shouts of authenticity. Textual reasoning seeks to carve out a discursive space that by-passes the dichotomous fetishism that structures secularist fundamentalism’s worship of individualist interpretive autonomy and religious fundamentalism’s romantic genuflection to ahistorical mythologies. That is, they claim to bring modernity’s critique of textual authority into communication with pre-modernity’s capacity to hear the texts of tradition as a claim to truth. As such, the “movement” of “textual reasoning” (and whether it is a genuine “movement” or merely an intellectual fashion remains to be seen) is of

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great potential significance, since it self-consciously holds out for itself the task of constructing new forms of textual dialogics that might heal the modernist breach between “knowledge” and “faith.” Herein would lie the hope of a transformative new form of inspirited knowledge that might overcome not only modernism’s battle of the “secular” versus the “religious,” but also pre-modernity’s war of “faith” against “heresy.” Consistent with its dialogical model of thought, the volume unfolds as a series of inter-acting essay-clusters that stake out fundamental hermeneutical issues. These are gathered into two rubrics, “Textual Reasoning” and “Reflections on the Process of Textual Reasoning.” The book begins with each editor offering a cogent (if somewhat messianic and, at times, self-congratulatory) assessment of the nature of textual reasoning as a selfconscious transformative discourse in the world of Jewish textual study, with editor Ochs focusing upon the upon the essays gathered in the first section of the volume and editor Levene focusing upon the second group. The essay-clusters under the rubric of “Textual Reasoning” offer examples of textual reasoning as a hermeneutical praxis focused on biblical and rabbinic genres. Those gathered together as “Reflections on the Process of Textual Reasoning” offer a series of meta-discourses—interpretations of the interpretative praxis of textual reasoning. These are curiously divided into “Jewish” and “Christian” reflections, about the act of textual reasoning. I say “curious” since, for most of the volume, the self-evident dichotomies of modernism—”truth/error,” “reason/unreason,” “secular/religious,” “historical/mythical”—are routinely placed under great pressure. The three Christian contributors seem aware to varying degrees that the “Jewish/Christian” dichotomy might be no less problematic from a postmodern point of view. For her own part, however, editor Levene does acknowledge that the Christian contributors function as a kind of chorus reflecting on ways in which both Christian and Jewish textual reasoners share common concerns and a common intellectual situation, even as they bear personal responsibility for healing rather different traditions. Readers of the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures should know that the biblical tradition is not the primary focus of the hermeneutical essays. Rather, these essays are more concerned with the strategies of reading brought by rabbinic and later medieval tradition to bear upon both scriptural and rabbinic texts. Nevertheless, readers interested in the cutting edge discussions of the humanities will find this a very stimulating and worthwhile glimpse of one small corner of the world of contemporary Jewish thought. And, one might add, it is a corner that shows every sign of commanding ever more space in the larger room of Jewish hermeneutical reflection.

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Mark D. Futato, BEGINNING BIBLICAL HEBREW (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2003), xi + 351 pp. Cloth. US $35.00. ISBN 1-57506-022-1. Reviewed by Bernon P. Lee Department of Religious Studies Grace College Winona Lake, Indiana Professor Mark D. Futato’s compilation of a teaching grammar for Biblical Hebrew is an ambitious project: students are to receive a thorough introduction to the language in a format friendly to those unfamiliar with linguistic and grammatical terminology. It is envisioned that users of the grammar would master the pronunciation of the language, its forms and functions, a vocabulary of 400 words, and the analysis of any Hebrew word upon the successful completion of the prescribed program of study. Furthermore, students would mature in their enjoyment of and commitment to the study of the language in reading the Hebrew scriptures. There is much in the form and content of this grammar to suggest that the author will achieve his goals. The grammar offers comprehensive coverage of the fundamentals of Biblical Hebrew grammar, while remaining attentive to the situation (familiarity with the use of English) and interest (to gain a practical knowledge of a language of the Hebrew Bible with little or no interest in linguistic theory and/or comparative Semitic linguistics) of the average student of Biblical Hebrew who understands English. The author begins with the smallest elements of the language, the units of sound (phonology is the subject matter of chs. 1–3). Subsequently, Futato proceeds with an introduction to the constituents of the sentence (nouns, pronouns and the verb in chs. 4, 5 and 6 respectively), and onward to the structure of the sentence with a verb (ch. 7). Henceforward, the increasing complexity in the forms of the verbal patterns governs the pedagogical progression of the grammar; the exposition of the verb is punctuated by explanation for complications in the morphology and function of other components of the language (e.g., basic forms of the noun in ch. 4, plural forms in ch. 8, singular and plural construct forms in chs. 12 and 13 respectively). The back of the grammar provides paradigms for the various verbal patterns, a list of vocabulary keyed to Ray-

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mond B. Dillard’s Hebrew Vocabulary Cards (Springfield, Ohio: Visual Education Association, 1981), and answers to the exercise drills from each chapter. Each chapter of the grammar is divided into three sections: grammar, vocabulary and practice. The third section especially is helpful. A separation of new material from previous material learned occurs, prior to a demonstration of the place of the new material in the larger scheme. Constant reference to select portions from the Hebrew Bible maintains a practical focus in this third section of each chapter. There are numerous other examples of the grammar’s sensitivity to the average students’ penchant for practical application, and desire to find satisfaction that the principles studied bear upon their use of language. The following examples are representative of an approach that pervades the book. At the beginning of the second chapter, Futato offers a brief outline of the historical development in the representation of vowels in Hebrew texts. In concluding the exposition, the simple statement that situates the student as a reader at the latest stage in the process (see §2.3) underscores the relevance of the exposition. In order to lay emphasis on the relevance of the correct pronunciation of the vowels, the author offers practice through the pronunciation of English words represented by the Hebrew alphabet and the Masoretic system of signs for vowels. Subtle variations in the quality of the vowels immediately bear significance for students familiar with the pronunciation of English words. Once the student’s attention to the importance of this matter is arrested, the author proceeds to explain the difficult subject of the relationship between the quality of syllables and the distinction between vocal and silent shewa (§§3.1–3.5). Later, in explaining the effect of syllabic structure on changes in the quality of vowels with shifts in the place of stress in a word (§§8.1–8.9), the grammar immediately brings the details to bear upon changes in the morphology of nouns with the addition of the endings denoting plurality (§§8.10–8.18). The emphasis on relevance in the author’s pedagogy retains a student’s interest through subject matter (phonology and morphology) often perceived as dry and being of marginal importance for the student of elementary Biblical Hebrew. The close correspondence between the presentation of information and its application in the layout of the grammar extends to the compilation of the vocabulary lists. The vocabulary pertinent to the exposition of a point of grammar quite often is introduced in the preceding chapter. For example, the segment on the forms and functions of personal pronouns in chapter five (§§5.1–5.5) is preceded by the relevant vocabulary in chapter four. The methodological advancement this grammar makes in communicating the content of Biblical Hebrew grammar to the newcomer places it

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among the best of teaching grammars on the market today. The misalignment of the Hebrew text with its translation in the adjacent column at various places in the grammar is one flaw in the presentation. This minor factor, however, does not adumbrate the positive achievement of the grammar.

Marvin A. Sweeney, ZEPHANIAH (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2003), xviii + 227 pp. Cloth. $47.00. ISBN 0-8006-6049-8. Reviewed by John D. W. Watts Sweeney’s concise Introduction to Zephaniah shows how readers of the book have constantly been torn between different understandings of the purpose of the work. The superscription (1:1) places Zephaniah and his writing in the reign of Josiah (640 to 609 BCE). The placement of the book in the Book of the Twelve is in the 9th position, after Habakkuk (dated in the Babylonian period of the late 7th century after Josiah) and before Haggai (dated in the early Persian Period). The Hebrew Masoretic Text favors the earlier dating, before the fall of Jerusalem, by calling on the people to respond to God and avoid the judgment to come. The Greek text favors the latter view, after the fall of Jerusalem, by implying that it knows that the people will not respond and thus will be a part of the judgment to come. The New Testament follows the Greek’s interpretation and uses the book to picture a coming universal judgment which presumes that people have not repented. Sweeney treats 2:1–3 as the as the “rhetorical center of the book” which states its “basic premise or purpose” (p. 50). This purpose is parenetic, that is, it is an appeal for the people to turn to YHWH to avoid the wrath to come. 1:2–18 reports what God has said, which 2:4–15 tells of the judgments against the nations and 3:1–20 tell of the restoration of Jerusalem after its own period of punishment. Both the elements that precede (1:2–18) and those that follow (2:4–3:20) serve the basic purpose of parenesis contained in 2:1–3 which calls on the hearers (readers) to seek YHWH to avoid the effects of the terrible Day of YHWH. Hermeneia’s format contains an original translation of the passage, followed by notes about the text and translation, a section on Form and Set-

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ting, which contains much of the technical critical assessment of the unit, and verse-by-verse, comments. Sweeney is a master of this format. His commentary allows the Hebrew nuances to be heard, while giving adequate attention to the trend of the Greek and the New Testament. He carefully distinguishes between the superscription’s information for the reader about the prophet, his name and his family, and the time of his ministry, in the reign of Josiah when the king was trying to take advantage of the disintegration of the Assyrian empire to expand Judah’s control of adjacent territories and reestablish Jerusalem’s religious influence through the temple located there. The message of the prophecy in 1:2–3:20 is what he calls a “parenesis”, a call to persuade the hearers or readers to seek YHWH and to hold to his teachings. This exhortation is alternately balanced with admonitions, warning the people about the results of an opposite conduct. To achieve these results 1:2–18 announces the Day of YHWH as the time when “YHWH will take action against those who act contrary divine expectations.” (p. 51). This is an important commentary which will undoubtedly find its place in all serious future discussion. It is very readable, relates to scholarly concerns, but explains them in a way that allows the general reader to understand.

Richard J. Clifford, PSALMS 73–150 (Abingdon Old Testament Commentaries; Nashville: Abingdon, 2003), 334 pp. Paper. US $28.00. ISBN 0-687-06468-6. Reviewed by Bruce A. Power Booth College, Winnipeg This second volume on Psalms completes Richard Clifford’s work on the Psalter for the Abingdon Old Testament Commentaries series, the mandate of which is to provide “compact, critical commentaries … for the use of theological students and pastors” as well as others engaged in teaching scripture. As might be expected in a second volume, introductory matters covered in volume one are not included here, and when appropriate, reference is made to matters discussed in the previous book. This volume includes an “Index of Psalms According to Type” as well as a topical index

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which indicates where the primary discussion of main subjects is to be found in the complete work. Each book concludes with a list of works cited, with volume two also providing a select bibliography for additional study. The brief notations on each work in the bibliography provide a useful guide, directing readers to appropriate materials by distinguishing between works appropriate for scholars and those for the general reader. Specialists in the Hebrew Bible will be well aware of Clifford’s contributions to the field, and would expect a volume which draws from a wealth of knowledge of ancient Near Eastern texts and culture as well as biblical traditions. In this they will not be disappointed. As a guide to this collection of worship materials, Clifford writes with sensitivity to the spiritual as well as the technical dimensions of the text and draws in information when it will benefit the reader in understanding the core meaning of the psalm under consideration. In other words, his expertise is used to contextualize the nuances of particular psalms without his allowing himself to be distracted from the central task of interpreting the text for the intelligent reader. The invitation is constantly to engage with the biblical text rather than the commentary. As such, it is a volume to be commended to those who would like to work through the Psalms on their own, or whose concerns are to prepare to lead others in a discussion of the text. While reading this commentary for review I was teaching a graduate course on Psalms, and leading a congregational group largely comprising young adults who were reading through the Psalter. Whenever possible, I tried to read through the relevant sections as I prepared for one or other of these tasks, and found the volume was able to be commended without reservation as a resource for further study and reflection in both of these contexts. The structure of the series compels a division of the commentary on each psalm into three sections which consider, in turn, literary, exegetical, and theological and ethical matters. Reading through the volume and the associated psalms it becomes increasingly evident that you are in the company of a skilled guide. Literary matters are presented with clarity, while repetition is avoided as far as possible by directing the reader to primary discussion elsewhere in one or other of the volumes. Clearly the size of the commentary necessitated numerous decisions about which elements of each psalm would be discussed in its exegetical sections. In choosing what elements are analyzed Clifford has demonstrated a concern to make sense of the overall shape of the particular psalm being considered, while also giving direction to the connections to be observed with other psalms. There is no doubt that the author is a master of the technical literature, but this is not the context for the parading of scholarship, and his observations are

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marked by clarity and common sense. This prepares well for the final comments on the theological and ethical implications of each psalm. The presumed text for the series is the NRSV, and on those occasions when Clifford provides his own translation his rationale is clearly provided. In fact clarity is one of the hallmarks of this work, to which we might add the qualities of considered thought and contemporary relevance. References to prayers and pray-ers are one of the elements of the text that makes it evident that Father Clifford never loses sight of the fact that these celebrated texts have a long history in the lives of real men and women, and their worship of God. There is much to absorb here, with sound judgments offered to guide the modern reader in thinking, praying and worshipping. As such, the book is to be savored and used as a trusted resource by all those whose desire is to engage with the God praised by, wrestled with, and prayed to by the poets whose work has been collected in Psalms.

Gerlinde Baumann, LOVE AND VIOLENCE: MARRIAGE AS METAPHOR FOR THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN YHWH AND ISRAEL IN THE PROPHETIC BOOKS (trans. Linda M. Maloney; Collegeville, Minn.: Liturgical Press, 2003), xii + 271 pp. US $39.95. Paper. ISBN 0-8146-5147-X. Reviewed by Mark W. Hamilton Abilene Christian University What are readers who take the prophets seriously, whether as a religious text or as a cornerstone document of Western history, to make of its attribution of frightful behavior to God? The association of religion with violence both historically and in contemporary experience makes this question acute. In this translation of her 2000 German work, Liebe und Gewalt, Baumann investigates biblical texts about a particular form of divine violence, YHWH’s abuse of his notional wife Israel/Jerusalem. More significantly, she raises the question of how today’s readers, of whatever commitment, should read these texts. Her twin-pronged approach of allowing prophetic texts “themselves to speak out of their own metaphoric background, and also to be accountable to a present-day frame of reference” (3)

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undergirds both a thoroughgoing description of the Israelite prophets’ use of the metaphor of violent marital abuse and a close theological engagement with (read: rejection of) the metaphor of divine marital abuse. The book’s fourteen chapters fall into three parts. Part I (Chapters 1– 5) offers an overview of the scholarly discussion of violence against women and of the hermeneutics of appropriating metaphor, in particular the metaphor of YHWH’s abuse of “his” wife. Baumann also examines here the terminology of marriage and harlotry and of covenant, as well as of the ancient Near Eastern background of the imagery. Part II (Chapters 6–10) examines divine marriage imagery in Hosea, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Isaiah, and the Book of the Twelve (with a too brief excursus on Lamentations following Chapter 8 on Ezekiel). Baumann argues that Hosea first makes the connection between the two older themes of royal marriage to Israel and divine violence. Later prophets play out the metaphorical linkage in different ways, with Ezekiel opting for pornographic violence, the Isaiah tradition for an internationalization of the image, and the Twelve frequently locating it upon individual Israelites rather than the nation as a whole, among other recastings of the imagery. Part III (Chapters 11–14) weaves together the threads of the previous units and offers brief reflections on the difficulties of adopting any stance vis-à-vis these texts other than rejection, precisely because they offer an unacceptable view of God and thus an appalling model for human behavior. In assessing this work, one should note significant strengths. Baumann cuts through the passion for euphemism characterizing so much research on these texts. She unflinchingly explicates the unfolding of the imagery of YHWH’s marriage and its attendant savagery, without succumbing to strident moralizing. Frequently she sheds new light on old texts, and her analysis of the relevant pericopes is consistently careful and insightful. On the other hand, problems do exist. Engagement with Englishlanguage scholarship could be deeper, and the discussion of ancient Near Eastern antecedents and parallels of the prophetic marriage imagery (67–81) cites mostly German secondary texts, not primary sources. Baumann notes that research on the religious dimensions of domestic violence is further developed in America, but she does not discuss the American scene. At times, one may quibble with the rhetorical analysis of the texts under consideration, and indeed much work needs to be done to understand the rhetorical conventions and canons of persuasion of Iron Age Israel. For example, Baumann carefully examines Jeremiah 3 and 13, two notorious texts about divine marital violence, properly noting the disconnection of the imagery from the prophet’s life and thus the loss of any ability to excuse the

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imagery of charges of savagery. But one wonders whether the editors of Jeremiah were not themselves aware of the problem, at least to some degree. Chapter 13 leads immediately into two laments (14:1–10, 17–22) interrupted by a prose expansion in dialogue form critiquing the prophet’s lament and responding to it. Does the complex as a whole not offer some degree of qualification to the grotesque images of 13:15–27? The dialogue of Jer. 4:19–22 reflects a similar awareness of the problem. Or, in other words, while the book of Jeremiah does not explicitly contradict the image of marital violence, the larger reality of war, attributed to YHWH’s actions, does elicit the prophet’s (or redactor’s) legitimate protest. This raises again the troubling hermeneutical question, the subject of the Baumann’s regrettably cursory last chapters. This is the most disappointing part of the book, because Baumann merely hints at solutions and sometimes pursues secondary issues. For example, she fears that males who identify with the abusive God will themselves be abusers. While such linkages between religion and violence do unquestionably exist, Baumann offers no evidence that precisely these texts play such a role. Nor does she, in the final analysis, help us move beyond the image of the violent God to an image more befitting the divine. In fairness, such a move will not be easy. Divine violence emerges from the earliest portrayals of YHWH as the divine warrior, and the image of conquest is intimately linked to notions of creation, justice, liberation, and the constituting of the elect people. Moreover, the description of violence against Israel at YHWH’s behest reflects ancient Israelite observations of geopolitical realities (foreign powers dominated Israel) read through the mytho-theological lens of YHWH as cosmic lord. In short, the notion of divine violence lies at the heart of biblical portrayals of the divine and of Israelite modes of interpreting history. On the other hand, Baumann’s hermeneutic of protest, with its antecedents in the prophetic corpus itself (especially Jeremiah) offers a place to begin. Her book deserves a wide circulation and appreciative reception, and we may hope that she will pursue this line of argument further. Much is at stake in our violent world.

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Jay F. Shachter, trans., THE COMMENTARY OF ABRAHAM IBN EZRA ON THE PENTATEUCH, VOLUME 5: DEUTERONOMY (Hoboken, N.J.: KTAV, 2003), iii + 204 pp. Paper. US $ 35. ISBN 0-88125-745-1. Reviewed by Martin Lockshin York University, Toronto Abraham ibn Ezra was an intellectual giant of the twelfth century. He traveled widely, wrote prolifically and displayed vast erudition in such fields as poetry, grammar studies, neo-Platonic philosophy, astronomy and astrology. He also had some level of expertise in classical rabbinic texts. (Scholars argue about how much.) Of his many books, most well known are his Bible commentaries. Jews who study the Bible in the traditional manner are well acquainted with these works due to the somewhat surprising decision of the printers of the first rabbinic Bibles (the Miqraot Gedolot) in Italy at the beginning of the sixteenth century to include ibn Ezra’s commentary right beside that of Rashi, the great northern French Bible commentator who died when ibn Ezra was a child. Baruch Spinoza made ibn Ezra’s Torah commentary famous outside of the limited circle of rabbinic readers when he portrayed ibn Ezra as the first Jewish proto-critic of the Bible, who hinted broadly, Spinoza argued, that Moses could not have written the Torah. Considering the importance of ibn Ezra’s commentaries to rabbinic Jews and to critical Bible scholars, an English translation would be welcome. Yet the task is extremely difficult. The translator ideally should be an expert in all the many areas of study in which ibn Ezra was expert. Furthermore, ibn Ezra relished writing his commentaries in cryptic wording— especially, but not exclusively, when they contained heterodox messages— and there are many passages in his works that still baffle scholars. Added to that, the state of our texts of the commentaries is very poor; there are no critical editions. Jay F. Shachter has now published his translation of ibn Ezra’s commentary on Deuteronomy. This is his second volume—Leviticus was pub-

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lished in 1986. The translation is accompanied by a very small number of explanatory notes. Any translator of a classical text from a culture very different from our own must decide how much use to make of explanatory notes. Shachter does provide a few useful short notes such as when he points out (e.g., commentary to Deut. 16:22 and 17:15) that ibn Ezra is promoting a position that is not in conformity with standard Jewish law (halakhah). True, lengthy notes in translations can sometimes get out of hand. Yet Shachter has chosen inappropriately to err in the opposite direction, perhaps reasoning that cryptic passages in the medieval Hebrew ought to remain cryptic in English. Consider, for example, this passage, near the beginning of the commentary: If you can grasp the mystery behind the following problematic passages: (1) the final twelve verses of this book; (2) “Moshe wrote” … you will then understand the truth.

Shachter adds no explanatory note to clarify that the “problematic” issue is, according to most readers, the question of Mosaic authorship. Nor does he help the reader understand why a discussion of this issue is appropriate in a commentary on Deuteronomy 1:1 (where the troubling phrase “on the other side of the Jordan” appears in reference to the east side of the Jordan, suggesting an author who is situated on the Jordan’s western bank). True, ibn Ezra also does not help the reader make that connection. But translators generally do provide that service. Shachter does reasonably add many helpful words to his translation. For example, in the above short quotation almost half of the words in the English text (“behind the following problematic passages” and “the final twelve verses of this book”) have no equivalent in the Hebrew. Shachter does interpret as he translates (as every good translator must) but he stops interpreting too quickly for my taste. The translation is marred by a number of troubling errors. The word kaved in the commentary to Deut. 6:5 is rendered “kidneys,” instead of “liver.” The Hebrew words ‫( אף כי‬commentary to Deut. 23:3) are incorrectly rendered “even in,” changing considerably the import of ibn Ezra’s comment, since ibn Ezra generally uses the words ‫ אף כי‬in the sense of “how much more so,” the same way that they are used in the Bible itself (e.g., Deut. 31:27). Shachter’s grammatical and syntactical terminology is often non-standard and not helpful. For example, in the commentary to the first verse of Deuteronomy we read that “the phrase that Moshe spoke is modified by the entire remainder of the verse.” These words are an interpo-

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lation by the translator and I confess that I do not know what they mean in context. Perhaps the biggest problem with this translation is that the translator frequently changes the order of ibn Ezra’s comments to make them conform to the translator’s sense of what would be most logical. For example, it is unusual that ibn Ezra began his commentary on Deuteronomy by mentioning an interpretation that he had read (or heard) about the phrase in verse 2, “eleven days from Horev by way of Mount Seir.” But that is what ibn Ezra did. So if a reader were to open ibn Ezra’s Hebrew commentary, fail to understand the first words of the commentary and turn to Shachter’s translation for help, she or he would expect to find their explanation on the first, not the second page of Shachter’s translation. Occasionally footnotes appear in the translation, such as on page 80. (Note that the Torah does not reveal whether one can accept the testimony of a blood relative, or a woman, or a deadly enemy.) The reader might assume that such footnotes are interpolations from the translator but they are not. For some reason the translator has chosen to relegate some of ibn Ezra’s comments to the footnotes. The scholarly community must still await a more useful English translation of ibn Ezra’s Deuteronomy commentary.

J. P. Fokkelman, MAJOR POEMS OF THE HEBREW BIBLE: AT THE INTERFACE OF PROSODY AND STRUCTURAL ANALYSIS. VOL III: THE REMAINING 65 PSALMS (Studia Semitica Neerlandica 43; Assen: Royal Van Gorcum, 2003), 446 pp. Cloth. US $95. ISBN 90-232-3936-9. Reviewed by Walter Brueggemann Columbia Theological Seminary J. P. Fokkelman is well known in circles of biblical scholarship, preeminent for his prolific publication concerning structural analysis and particularly for his discernment of chiastic patterns in a rich variety of textual materials. The present volume completes his three volume project on “Major Poems of the Hebrew Bible.” Volume I concerned Exodus 15, Deuteronomy 32, and Job 3. Volume II offered analyses of eighty-five Psalms plus Job 4–14.

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This volume then concerns the remainder of the Psalms—65 in all—that were not considered in volume II. Thus volumes II and III together provide a critical analysis of each of the Psalms. These volumes, including the present one, are of special interest for Fokkelman’s acute attention to method. His detection of chiasmus in a variety of texts indicates his commitment to structural analysis. But behind that recurring chiastic observation, Fokkelman undertakes “numerical analysis” that evidences the “poets’ love of precision” and that leads to the wonder of “numerical perfection” in the several poems. Fokkelman’s intention is a “clean and consistent poetics” that avoids methods “such as form, tradition, and redaction history” that are “intellectualist,” sometimes textinimical, and largely hypothetical. Fokkelman’s own work, y gives attention to length (in syllables) of cola and verses, y parallelism that serves verse structure, and y the testing of proportions and tension arcs in sentence structure. This method proceeds by syllable counting that has antecedents in the Netherlands in the work of C. J. Labuschagne and that is in some ways paralleled in the U.S. by the work of David Noel Freedman and some others of the Albright school. The intention of the method is to interpret according to the actual shape and occurrence of the text without reference to imported assumptions. The book begins, in a preliminary way, with a close reading of Proverbs 15 in which Fokkelman traces a chiastic structure from verse 2a through verse 33a with the focal point on “love/hate” at the center of the passage in verse 17. This verse “constitutes the central line with its powerful polarity of love and hate.” Out of the analysis Fokkelman opines that it is made clear that the collection of the Proverbs is not, as commonly assumed, “beads randomly strung together,” but that the text is an artistic, intentional whole. There is no doubt that Fokkelman is an acute reader of the text, and that his close reading characteristically yields fresh insight. One may wonder, however, if the claim for chiastic structure is as clear as his charting of the text seems to indicate. It is to be observed, in his presentation, that an element in his proposed chiasmus sometimes includes part of a verse and at other times several verses. The focus is not upon parallel phrasing, but upon the recurrence of key words. Perhaps in broad sweep the pattern of key words is illuminating. Except that one may wonder if the key words are not so characteristic of sapiential discourse that they will, perforce, recur in some pattern simply because the vocabulary is limited and much repeated. Thus it may well be that verse 17 is the center of the text; but it is to be

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recognized at the same time that Fokkelman is a strong reader and sometimes, so it seems to this reviewer, “makes it so,” when another strong reader might make it otherwise. The method is pursued through the book for the Psalms that follow. It is clear in the course of the discussion that Fokkelman’s sensibility is much stronger and more sweeping than simply attention to syllable counting and chiastic structure, for in fact he engages in rhetorical analysis of the kind championed by my teacher, James Muilenburg. In that respect, the work of Fokkelman stands alongside a growing literature of “close reading.” It is to be recognized that Fokkelman’s work is loaded with technical and sometimes obscure vocabulary and that very often he does not develop his reading to exhibit the interpretive gain of his analysis. In the end, I judge that his process of syllable counting and structural analysis have a clear and rich heuristic value, but that leaves this reviewer with skepticism about how reliable and objective the approach is, even when it is so immediately text based. With that reservation, however, Fokkelman’s work is to be appreciated for the close, patient way he attends to the text in illuminating ways. Such a return to the elemental reality of the text is to be applauded, even though a good reading requires more than technical competence. Fokkelman himself knows this as when he himself draws conclusions that are more than the sum of technique.

L. Allen and T. Laniak, EZRA, NEHEMIAH, ESTHER (New International Biblical Commentary “” Old Testament Series, 9; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2003), xiv + 290 pp. Paperback. US $11.95. ISBN 0-85364-730-5. Reviewed by Charles D. Harvey Brunswick, GA Hendrickson’s New International Biblical Commentary—Old Testament Series has a welcome addition in the volume, Ezra, Nehemiah, Esther. The editors of the series seek to offer commentaries that engage the books of the Old Testament seriously, while assisting readers in the often difficult navigation of the OT’s “literary and spiritual terrain” (vii). This particular task is performed ably and well in this book by Leslie C. Allen (EzraNehemiah), and Timothy S. Laniak (Esther).

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In his contribution to this commentary volume, Leslie Allen presents Ezra-Nehemiah as “a book of new beginnings”—“the OT equivalent of the Acts of the Apostles” (3). Consistent with the literary and spiritual foci of the NIBC series editors, Allen’s offering is structured with primary emphasis on investigating the literary text, while also being attentive to theological concerns therein. In the midst of this, care is taken not to eclipse or diminish historical matters as they are relevant to the commentary task, even though Allen no longer sees the task of reconstructing postexilic history as the best way into an exploration of Ezra-Nehemiah material. Allen views the content of Ezra-Nehemiah as a literary whole and organizes his approach to the text into three parts, or literary sections. As he describes it, “[T]he three parts tell the story of three missions, and each mission falls into two parts after it is assigned and described” (4). The initial mission is presented in Ezra 1–6, and reports regarding the early Jewish returnees from exile. The second mission, found in Ezra 7–10, concerns mainly the commission and return of Ezra, who is charged with the tasks of temple refurbishment and the encouragement/admonition of Torah obedience among the returnees. These things are to be undertaken (embraced) in order that life back in the land might be a source of future hope. The material in Nehemiah 1–13 describes the third and final mission, that of Nehemiah. Nehemiah’s central task is one of rebuilding: reconstructing the walls of Jerusalem; and overseeing the repopulation process—in other words, to build up a community. Allen contends that the three literary parts of the text “run along parallel lines,” although readers should not mistake this clear structural pattern to be void of distinctiveness and complexity in the ways the various missions are presented. For example, even though the theme of opposition is a central one in the majority of the missions (sections), the way in which conflict is presented and worked through in each narrative instance is by no means cut-and-dried or simplistic. Allen’s style is lucid and inviting as he assists the reader in an exploration of Ezra-Nehemiah. And by no means attempting to be a stand-alone, exhaustive commentary, this work will communicate to a wide audience while also serving to guide readers into a broader dialogue with EzraNehemiah scholarship (esp., Williamson, Clines, Rudolf, Blenkinsopp), with which Allen is in regular contact (esp. in the very helpful ‘Additional Notes’ sections). Timothy Laniak’s work on the book of Esther provides an equally compelling, yet markedly different, venture into a biblical text. Laniak begins his ‘Introduction’ with several paragraphs concerning the interpretation of biblical stories in general—material that is very helpful broadly speaking, and especially so as the story of Esther is encountered. “A biblical story

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calls its readers to enter its world,” contends Laniak, “to be captivated by its characters, intrigued by its plot, and affectively engaged through suspense and complication till its final denouement” (169). Laniak sets out to help readers become increasingly competent in ancient conventions (e.g., of literature, of historiography), so that the discernment of contemporary relevance will flow naturally and fairly from the story read as a whole. The interpretive approach employed by Laniak is set up by a serious look at a wide variety of factors necessary and helpful to any reading of the Esther story. Concerning the literary aspect, the following elements are briefly introduced: point of view, setting, plot, themes, characterization, intertextuality, and genre. By having a better handle on these “rudiments,” Laniak proposes that the already well-loved story of Esther might be even more deeply appreciated. Integral as well to a broader grasp of the book of Esther is a beginning apprehension of the stages of development and the existence of multiple Esther stories (MT, LXX, and AT). Laniak’s presentation of this important aspect of Esther studies and possible interpretive implications is quite useful, but suffers from the lack of at least some interaction with the work of Kristin De Troyer (esp., The End of the Alpha Text of Esther [Atlanta: SBL, 2000]). Space is also allotted and well utilized concerning the following issues: the story of Esther and its relationship to history; honest grappling with matters of morality in the story of Esther; the story of Esther and its theological presentation; and the range of hope-filled messages that the story offers in its subtle, rich complexity. Laniak communicates very well, and this is especially helpful in the commentary format in which precision and clarity are at a premium. In large part due to his experience and expertise in Esther studies (cf. Shame and Honor in the Book of Esther [Atlanta: SBL, 1998]), Laniak is able to offer a rich resource here that will be of interest and use to a wide audience. Moreover, the very helpful ‘Additional Notes’ sections provide the reader an opportunity for further exploration of notable resources in Esther studies (esp., Fox, Clines, Levenson, Bush).

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Myung Soo Suh, THE TABERNACLE IN THE NARRATIVE HISTORY OF ISRAEL FROM THE EXODUS TO THE CONQUEST (Studies in Biblical Literature 50; New York: Peter Lang, 2003), xvii + 182. Hardcover. US $59.95. ISBN 0-8204-6152-0. Reviewed by Michael M. Homan Xavier University of Louisiana Myung Soo Suh’s monograph furthers scholarship concerning the function of the tabernacle. Claiming that previous authors focused narrowly and excessively on the cultic function of the tent, Suh argues that the tabernacle is best understood in a dual role: 1) a cultic center and 2) the military headquarters and treasury of Yahweh, ancient Israel’s divine warrior. Suh makes this case by employing narrative history, defined as a mixture of history and fiction in narrative form, as Suh argues that the Bible is not “history” in the modern sense of the discipline. Thus Suh takes the reader through the narrative of the tabernacle, beginning with the procurement of the tabernacle’s materials (precious metals, linen, livestock) with the despoiling of the Egyptians (Exodus 3) and ending with the Cisjordanian tribes being sent home with permission to keep the metal spoils of war (Joshua 22). Suh’s scope ends here, as he points out that the tabernacle “all but vanishes” in the narratives of Judges and Samuel, as the shrine at Shiloh is never called a “tent of meeting” or a “tabernacle”; instead, it is referred to as a “house” and a “temple” (p. 2). Following an introductory chapter on the topic, methodology and previous research, chapter two makes the case that the spoils from Egypt are in fact war booty for a triumphant Yahweh. These spoils will eventually decorate the tabernacle, just as other victorious armies in the ancient Near East used the spoils of war to decorate their temples. Chapter three explores Yahweh’s role as a divine warrior, and here Suh does an excellent job of illustrating how warfare and religion in antiquity were intimately linked. Suh claims that both the ark and the tabernacle owned dual purposes, one cultic, one martial. Thus the ark was the cultic centerpiece for ancient Israel, and a palladium as well. Similarly, the tabernacle served as a shrine and Yahweh’s military headquarters and war treasury. Here Suh’s argument would have

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benefited from expanding the parallels between Rameses II’s war camp and the tabernacle, by interpreting the pillar of fire in a martial context, and by examining David’s use of a tent to store Goliath’s armor (1 Sam 17:54; see Homan, “The Divine Warrior in His Tent,” BR 16.6 (2000): 22–33, 55). Suh explores in chapter 4 the story of the golden calf, thought by many scholars to be out of place in the narrative. However, Suh argues that it fits well, as the narrator shows how the instructions to build the tabernacle are betrayed in the construction of the golden calf. This calf, Suh argues, is created by the people to symbolize Moses’ military leadership. However, God instead symbolizes Moses’ leadership with either horns or a shiny face (Exod 34:29). The materials belonging to Yahweh as booty are here used with the golden calf to construct a symbol of Moses, and for this, the Israelites are punished. The final two chapters before the conclusion discuss the narrative elements of the rebellions and the ark and tabernacle’s role in the conquest. Suh claims that the tabernacle, as the cradle of both the priesthood and the cultic military leadership, comes to stand as a symbol for the integrity of Israel. Suh is to be commended on such a broad work that incorporates a wide variety of sources. The book is a revised doctoral thesis completed in 1998 at the University of Sheffield, though the extent to which it was revised is questionable. Consequently, the book reads much like a dissertation, as best exemplified in the section on methodological considerations in which he covers the methodological theories of the advisors on his committee (pp. 2–7). Furthermore, while the bibliography is impressive for publications before 1996, nothing written after that date makes it into the discussion, which is surprising in that Suh’s book was published in 2003. Notable absences include: W. H. C. Propp, Exodus 1–18 (AB 2; Doubleday, 1998) and several publications from the reviewer, especially To Your Tents, O Israel: The Terminology, Function, Form, and Symbolism of Tents in the Hebrew Bible and the Ancient Near East (CHANE 12; Brill, 2002; revised dissertation 2000). Also, as a bi-product of narrative criticism, much of the book covers narrative elements such as the rebellions and nehushtan which have little to do with the tabernacle. Other difficulties include the citation of long quotations with the author’s name buried in the endnotes, the overuse of rhetorical questions, arguments from silence, and spelling inconsistencies and errors such as bible/Bible (p. 25) and Jebusites (p. 27). Some sentences reveal redundancy. For example: During the wilderness wandering the main cause for the Israelite murmuring is the matter of food and drink. In most cases, for the Israelites in the wilderness, the key issue is indeed food and drink (p. 35).

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Yet, these difficulties are dwarfed by the book’s great value. This monograph is an asset for tabernacle scholarship and provides a sound application of the discipline of narrative historical criticism.

William P. Brown, SEEING THE PSALMS: A THEOLOGY OF METAPHOR (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002), xiii + 274 pp. US $24.95. ISBN 0-664-22502-0. Reviewed by Carleen Mandolfo Colby College Although in Seeing the Psalms, Brown (who identifies himself as a Calvinist) notes Calvin’s iconoclastic fear that a focus on images as formative for theological understandings might bring one into breach of the second commandment, Brown pays little attention, and instead absolutely revels in the iconographic richness of the Psalter. He chooses to concentrate on a few central metaphors that have broad associations, and thus help to illuminate even those psalms that do not include the particular metaphor being addressed. The metaphors covered include “refuge” (“rock”); “tree”; “sun”; “pathway”; “water” and several animals. The final chapters focus on more human images for God, such as “king” and “teacher”, although it is hard to understand why ch. 8, which seems to rehearse metaphors that could have been treated with “refuge” and “water”, needs to stand alone. While paying lip service to the importance of form critical approaches, Brown is clearly little interested in questions of form or function. Furthermore, he does scant more than note in passing the recent contributions of redaction criticism in Psalms study. Content is his concern, but not in the sense of rhetorical issues, even. He narrows his focus onto the word—the imagistic word, the metaphorical word, more precisely. Such a focus is welcome, given the traditional as well as more recent nearly exclusive concentration on structure and function. That said, his goal is not to chart exhaustively the use of metaphors throughout the Psalter (though he covers a broad range); in fact, his is hardly a linguistic study at all. The only place where linguistic theory is overtly conveyed is in the introduction, and even there it is fairly cursory. The names of Lakoff and Ricoeur are invoked, but then not really put to work in the interpretive task. Brown’s preference is

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clearly for reading, and his readers will benefit most from approaching his book as an illustration of a fresh way to read psalms. Beyond reading, however, Brown’s business is theological. It should come as a surprise to no one that Israel’s understanding of its God was conceived in the people’s imagination and eventually conveyed through the verbal images they crafted. Brown should be applauded for foregrounding that imaginative process. The seeming lack of methodological structure could be considered a weakness, at least by those hoping for a more systematic linguistic mapping of the Psalter’s deployment of metaphors. As it is, Brown’s style seems occasionally random, both in terms of which metaphors he chooses to pursue, and which semantic tack he takes with each metaphor. This situation is aggravated by his decision to enlarge our range of semantic possibilities by reading biblical metaphors alongside those displayed in the iconography of Israel’s neighbors. The resulting readings are genuinely, uniquely insightful, but at times, ungrounded. For example, in his discussion of “the tree” in Psalm 1 (ch. 3), Brown seems to abandon the “natural” connotations the metaphor has in favor of cultic ones that seem something of a stretch. Apparently, the poet is not constructing a simple image, based on observation of the natural world, of the righteous one as a tree that when planted near nourishing streams reaches its maximum fruitful potential. Rather, the image of the tree is tracked throughout its appearances in ANE iconography, where it has powerful cultic connotations, usually in association with goddess worship. The conclusion is that “the didactic poet has turned a controversial cultic object into an evocative metaphor, an image of apostasy transformed into an icon of righteousness” (p. 74–75). Still, in this case the conclusion is far less important than the journey on which Brown takes us. His impressive knowledge of ANE iconography vastly enriches our ability to read the depth and breadth of metaphors employed in the psalms. It opens up avenues that are otherwise shut down by temporal and cultural distance. The way in which he demonstrates the web of associations related to the cosmic and solar imagery displayed in Psalm 19 is a particularly impressive case in point (ch. 4). The cosmic import that Psalm 19 maps onto torah is thoroughly rehearsed, both in its simple, “natural” associations, as well as its cultic and iconographic ones: Torah “is as lucid and firmly established in the heart of the community as the sun is radiant and permanently fixed in the heavens” (p. 93); and “[t]hrough the juxtaposition of sun and torah, solarized worship of God is wrapped in the scroll of torah-piety” (p. 99). His rehearsal of sun-worship, both inside and outside of Israel, as well as the imagery associated with it, allows readers to understand how profoundly the sun, for ancients, was connected to issues of justice and law, and thus

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how “natural” is Psalm 19’s linkage of solar metaphors and torah. In addition, the use of related images—such as “dawn” and “light”—throughout the Psalter are given new force. Brown gives psalms’ readers new hermeneutical issues to care about. Whether or not one agrees with the degree of importance Brown pins on understanding psalmic metaphors, it would be hard to read Brown’s book without it impacting all subsequent engagements with the Psalter.

John Barton, UNDERSTANDING OLD TESTAMENT ETHICS: APPROACHES AND EXPLORATIONS (Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox Press, 2003), xi + 212 pp. US $ 24.95. ISBN 0-664-22596-9. Reviewed by Waldemar Janzen Canadian Mennonite University Winnipeg, Canada This volume contains eight shorter studies and one monograph (Amos’s Oracles against the Nations) by Oxford professor John Barton, all of them previously published over the last twenty-five years. Revisions are limited to the introduction of inclusive language and the addition of some more recent literature in the older articles. Framed by an “Introduction: The Moral Vision of the Old Testament,” and a “Conclusion: The Future of Old Testament Ethics,” and grouped under two sub-headings (“Part One: Morality and Justice in the Hebrew Bible,” and “Part Two: Explorations in the Prophets”), they are: Part One: “1. Understanding Old Testament Ethics” [1978], “2. Natural Law and Poetic Justice in the Old Testament” [1979], “3. The Basis of Ethics in the Hebrew Bible” [1995], “4. Reading for Life: The Use of the Bible in Ethics” [1996], and “5. Virtue in the Bible” [1999]. Part Two: “6. Amos’s Oracles against the Nations” [1980], “7. Ethics in Isaiah of Jerusalem” [1981], “8. Ethics in the Isaianic Tradition” [1997], and “9. Theological Ethics in Daniel” [2001]. A Bibliography, an Index of Biblical Passages, and an Index of Modern Authors conclude the volume. A collection like this invites looking not only for the author’s focal pursuits, but also for their development within his thinking. B.’s early monograph on Amos’s Oracles against the Nations (ch. 6) offers a good starting point. Two such pursuits emerge prominently: 1. While employing a

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rigorous historical-critical methodology, B. here already pays considerable attention to the texts’ particular rhetorical-literary form. 2. As to content, B. seeks to uncover not only Amos’ explicit ethical pronouncements, but also their deeper generating source. In this case (and often subsequently) it proves to be “natural law,” which B. designates cautiously as “a kind of conventional or customary law,” shared at least by Amos and his hearers. The other studies develop these two focal interests. Methodologically, B. continues to affirm a rigorous historical approach, supplemented by refined sociological nuancing, since these two co-ordinates can prevent a premature systematizing as he sees it in the work of J. Hempel and W. Eichrodt (ch. 1). B.’s admiration for, and ongoing dialogue with Eckart Otto’s Theologische Ethik des Alten Testaments (1994) makes him the more conscious, however, of Otto’s virtual ignoring of Old Testament narrative and prophecy. Martha Nussbaum’s studies of Greek tragedy and drama hold out a promise to B. for the literary study of narrative and prophetic texts for the elucidation of ethical issues. (Introduction; chs. 1, 4, 5). B. himself offers impressive samples of interpretations of narrative and prophetic materials, demonstrating their capacity to guide the perceptive reader along the detailed paths of moral development of individuals toward ethical insights without premature abstraction of general principles (Introduction.; ch. 4). Narrative and prophetic materials further offer B. rich scope for searching out foundations (or rationales) for Old Testament ethics other than Divine command and obedience, often presupposed to be its only rationale underlying explicit ethical norms (chs. 1, 3). Repeatedly B. highlights the pervasiveness of “natural law” (loosely defined; chs. 1, 2, 3, 6, 7, 8, [and 9?]), but also highlights the “imitation of God,” which “may indeed lie near the heart of what the Hebrew Bible has to say about human morality” (p. 53; chs. 1, 3). In narrative texts, B. even sees?very tentatively?an implicit basis for the currently popular “virtue ethics” (e.g., in the stories of David; Introduction; ch. 5). Barton’s Conclusion, projecting the future of Old Testament ethics, begins with an extensive review of E. Otto’s work (cf. also Introduction). B. is basically committed to a descriptive, historical approach like that of Otto, whom he admires greatly but also criticizes for various shortcomings, especially his almost exclusive concentration on law and wisdom, to the neglect of prophecy and narrative. That neglect is particularly puzzling to B. in light of Otto’s claim that “Ethics begins to operate when one reaches the bounds of the legally enforceable” (p. 171). Ethical resources in this sense, however, are preeminent precisely in narrative and prophecy! And since B. has found

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literary analysis of the latter particularly fruitful for uncovering their ethical thrusts, he welcomes Gordon Wenham’s focus on narrative texts in his Torah and Canon (2000) as a helpful corrective, even though Wenham employs literary theory to study the final form of the text synchronically (pp. 170–73). Nevertheless, B.’s final paragraphs re-iterate his commitment to a descriptive historical approach, warn of systematizing in a synchronic way, and express concern that even Otto’s work is “a little too teleological for my taste” and too focused on continuities with the New Testament and Christianity. A continuation of Otto’s work, a “volume two,” as it were, with focus on implicit ethical rationale and including coverage of prophecy and narrative, seems to be B.’s ideal for future studies in Old Testament ethics. This rather rigid delimitation of the task ahead seems to me to stand in some tension with B.’s openness to combine a descriptive historical approach with other methods in search of guidance for ethical living, then and now (Nussbaum; cf. p. 63f.). Thorough research, meticulous nuancing of issues, and clarity of presentation characterize this stimulating collection.

Gernot Wilhelm, ed., AKTEN DES IV. INTERNATIONALEN KONGRESSES FÜR HETHITOLOGIE. WÜRZBURG, 4.–8. OKTOBER 1999 (Studien zu den Boğazköy-Texten, 45; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2001), xxiv + 759 pp., 18 Tafeln. € 88. ISBN 3-447-04485-3. Reviewed by Gary Beckman University of Michigan Beginning in 1990, researchers specializing in the study of the Hittites, their language and culture have gathered every three years to exchange their latest discoveries and insights. These congresses have been held alternately in Çorum, the major Turkish city nearest the Hittite capital of Boğazköy/Ḫattuša (1990, 1996, 2002), and in a European center—Pavia (1993) and Würzburg (1999). The next session is scheduled for Rome in 2005. The volume under review presents the proceedings of the Würzburg meeting, dedicated by the editor to the memory of Professor Erich Neu, who rallied from a terminal illness to deliver the keynote address (“Hethi-

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tologie heute”) only to succumb less than three months later. Another melancholy aspect of the convention was the absence due to poor health of Professor Sedat Alp, doyen of Turkish Hittitologists and founder of the Congress. Nonetheless he sent his official greetings as well as a lecture to be read to his colleagues. Around one hundred and fifty participants were in attendance in Würzburg, of whom sixty-three provided contributions to this book. Thirty of these have been composed in German, nineteen in English, eight in Turkish, and six in French, which gives some indication of the international character of contemporary Hittitology. Indeed, the variety could have been much greater, but scholars whose mother tongues are Japanese, Chinese, Hebrew, Dutch, Italian, or a Slavic language kindly chose to write in a more widely accessible idiom. Almost all areas of pre-Classical Anatolian studies are represented here: I. Anatolian Philology. A. Hittite (J. Boley, R. Lühr, M. Mazoyer, G. Neumann, N. Oettinger, M. Ofitsch, G. T. Rikov, J. de Roos, K. Yoshida, S. Zeilfelder). B. Old Assyrian (V. Donbaz). C. Hattic (O. Soysal). D. Hurrian (T. Richter). E. Hieroglyphic Luwian (S. Alp, A. M. Dinçol, B. Dinçol, D. Hawkins, S. Heinhold-Krahmer, I. Klock-Fontanille). F. Phrygian (R. Gusmani). G. Comparative Linguistics (Jin Jie). II. Early Anatolian History. A. Assyrian Colony Period (O. Carruba). B. Old Hittite (J. Miller). C. Hittite Empire (H. Klengel, J. Orlamünde). D. Late Empire (Th. van den Hout, A. M. Jasink). E. Hittite Historiography (J. Klinger). F. Hittite Geography (R. Lebrun). III. Hittite Culture. A. Society (Y. Cohen, Y. Soysal). B. Literature (M. Giorgieri, E. Otto, F. Pecchioli Daddi, E. Rieken, I. Rutherford). C. Religion (M. Hutter, H. C. Melchert, M. Nakamura, S. Ö. Savaş, P. Taracha). D. Diplomacy (S. de Martino/F. Imparati, I. Singer, N. Wazana). E. Realia (Y. Coşkun, H. A. Hoffner, J. Puhvel, C. Zinko). IV. Anatolian Archaeology (E. Lafli, E. Masson, V. Müller-Karpe, A. T. Ökse, A. S. Öenir, M. Özsait/N. Özsait, J. Seeher, M. Süel, M. Süel, J. Yakar/A. M. Dinçol/B. Dinçol/A. Taffet). The papers of greatest interest to more general audiences are probably those of J. Seeher (“Die Zerstörung der Stadt Ḫattuša”), who shows that the Hittite capital did not perish in a general conflagration at the close of the Bronze Age, but was rather gradually abandoned by the royal court and most of its inhabitants; of J. Klinger (“Historiographie als Paradigma. Die Quellen zur hethitischen Geschichte und ihre Deutung”), full of insightful observations on how the Hittites represented their past; and of N. Wazana (“Border Descriptions and Cultural Barriers”), who makes the (to my mind questionable) argument that the precise delineation of the confines of the

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Promised Land in the Hebrew Bible “is drawn from a literary and ideological heritage rooted in [a] Hittite worldview.” The great majority of these essays are of high quality, and this collection well deserves a place in institutional libraries, although those scholars not directly participating in Anatolian research will likely find it too expensive to acquire for personal use.

Kristin De Troyer, Judith A. Herbert, Judith Ann Johnson, and Anne-Marie Korte, eds., WHOLLY WOMAN, HOLY BLOOD (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2003), 250 pp. US $28.00. ISBN 1-56338-400-0. Reviewed by Jon Baker Fuller Seminary Southwest Passages in the Bible regarding women and their natural functions have frequently been interpreted as indicating the intrinsic unholiness or sinfulness of women. The editors of Wholly Woman, Holy Blood attempt to correct these misinterpretations by viewing several of these passages in a new light through ten articles written by both men and women. In “The Semantics of Taboo: Menstrual Prohibitions in the Hebrew Bible,” Kathleen O’Grady studies the etymology of the English word taboo (and its Polynesian roots), as well as the Hebrew terms ‫ נדה‬and ‫נדר‬. She discovers that while these terms do refer to someone or something that is set apart, they do not intrinsically indicate either holiness or unholiness. Then examining the laws regarding women’s menstruation, she finds that a prescribed separation does not necessarily indicate a sinful condition, as many have construed over the years. In fact, she finds little difference (in terminology and ritual offerings) between the conditions of a menstruating woman and a nazirite. Careful to point out that this does not mean there is no difference between holiness and unholiness, she does suggest that some cultures treat them basically the same—as taboo, untouchable, or set apart for whatever reason. Deborah Ellens takes a look at the overall structure of Leviticus 15 in “Menstrual Impurity and Innovation in Leviticus 15.” Acknowledging that

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the word used to describe a menstruating woman has a negative connotation, based on other usages throughout the Old Testament, she concludes that the chiastic structure of the chapter indicates a woman’s discharge is viewed no differently from that of a man. Both cause a similar nature of impurity. What she finds striking is that while the wording of the original laws may have intended to attribute greater impurity to women and place them in a subordinate, objectified position to men, the final redactor has structured the presentation of the laws to mollify this effect. Why were women prohibited from Levitical priesthood, and why do they continue to be prohibited from Roman Catholic priesthood? Kristin De Troyer investigates this question in “Blood: A Threat to Holiness or Toward (Another) Holiness?” From an analysis of Leviticus 12 she concludes that attributing uncleanness to menstruating women, those who have just given birth, and an extended period of uncleanness for giving birth to a daughter, do not reflect an intrinsic uncleanness attributable to women but rather were a reaction against Canaanite pagan religious practices where women’s fertility was deified and personified in the form of temple priestesses who served as prostitutes. While her discussion of the nature of the uncleanness of women during menstruation and after childbirth is extensive, including comparison of the Masoretic, LXX, and Vulgate texts as well as related Qumran texts, she only provides brief references to other works related to Canaanite practices. In “Purity and Impurity in Halakic Sources and Qumran Law,” Mayer I. Gruber examines commentary on Leviticus 12 and Exodus 19 to determine if these passages should be understand as indicating that women intrinsically convey impurity. Based on a careful examination of commentary from Rashi and Qumran, he concludes that female menstrual discharge as well as male seminal discharge equally convey uncleanness, but that women alone do not. Kathleen P. Rushton takes a fresh look at John 16:21 in “The Woman in Childbirth of John 16:21.” She sees a clear parallel with the suffering Daughter of Zion from Isaiah, in that both metaphors involve five aspects ofchildbirth: an embodied woman, pain, birth, offspring, and subsequent joy. She takes an excursus into the Barren Woman traditions that, while interesting, seems to have little bearing on her prime focus. She also examines how the Johannine community, early Judaism, and Christianity up to the twentieth century have viewed women, pregnancy, and childbirth, though again with little apparent bearing on the main topic. In the end, she concludes that the audience would have understood this reference as a parallel to Isaiah, and as viewing Jesus’ death as some sort of new life, and en-

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courages feminist interpretation of other childbirth metaphors throughout the Bible. Jennifer Shultz explores the roots of the marginalization of women in the Christian church in “Doctors, Philosophers, and Christian Fathers on Menstrual Blood.” Beginning with the writings of Hippolytus of Rome and Dionysius of Alexandria, she traces the roots of their prejudice back to Greek antiquity in the writings of physicians and philosophers, and confirms that those views were widely held as they are also expressed and assumed in literature. She then traces the prejudices forward to the Penitential of Theodore (7th century CE) and the writings of Theodore Balsamon (12th century CE). Her analysis is succinct yet thorough. In “The Old Rite of the Churching of Women after Childbirth,” Susan K. Roll examines that practice in antiquity and looks for vestiges of it in modern rites. She traces the roots back to Leviticus 12 and finds varied discussion of it among the writings of early church fathers, including Origen. Well into the Middle Ages throughout Europe there persisted a general view that women were stained after childbirth and in need of ritual purification. Unable to expunge the traditional practice entirely, Luther attempted to shift the emphasis from purification to thanksgiving. A Roman Catholic rite existed until 1964 that, to Roll’s reckoning, had shifted towards thanksgiving but still retained elements of purification. She sees remnants of the purification motif in modern rites, though here I believe she is seeing hobgoblins where none exist, as this rite places no greater emphasis on the need for redemption than any other. Grietje Dresen further explores the practice of churching women after childbirth in “The Better Blood.” Like Roll, she finds ambivalence towards the practice through the Middle Ages, yet it continued to be expected by society and pastors well into the twentieth century, at least in Europe. And also like Roll, she finds that it fell heavily out of favor in the mid-twentieth century as more and more women objected. She explores new territory in wondering, though, to what extent the view of women, either menstruating or bearing children, as unclean continues to preclude them from the priesthood. She draws a sharp contrast between women’s involuntary shedding of blood and the voluntary shedding of blood by men throughout history either in ritual sacrifice, warfare, or in the celebration of the mass. She concludes that the most likely explanation has its roots not in Leviticus 12, but much earlier than that, in a sort of reproductive envy among men. Unable to ascertain paternity with certainty, and unable to shed blood in the giving of life, they co-opted those functions with their own creations in which they deliberately shed blood. Although she certainly provides some food for thought for modern theologians pondering the male, celibate clerical hierar-

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chy of the Roman Catholic Church, her argument could have carried far more weight had she considered the church’s stated reasons for restricting ordination to men. In “Female Blood Rituals: Cultural-Anthropological Findings and Feminist-Theological Reflections,” Anne-Marie Korte examines the rites and emphases of a dozen contemporary female-centered religions from around the globe, and finds in them a conspicuous absence of emphasis on blood or female physiology. The few exceptions could be attributed to creeping androcentrism. Rather, they emphasize relationships among women. Shifting gears, she then examines the treatment of women in Judaism and Christianity, culminating in modern times with several feminists attempting to either totally redefine old rituals which demean women’s physiology, or create new rites that celebrate the most significant physiological moments in women’s lives. This creates a tension, as on the one hand they wish to be treated as persons, not just as women (different, distinct, outside), but on the other hand monthly menstruation serves as a constant reminder that they are distinct, and must either be ashamed of it or celebrate it. Judith Ann Johnson pulls it all together in “Shedding Blood: The Sanctifying Rite of Heroes.” She picks up on Dresen’s reproduction-envy theme to explain how men have usurped power. Male lineages of priesthood, kingship, or military leadership are handed down by anointing, not matrilineage. Unable to create life, men have developed power to destroy it. She concludes by examining the modern hero/priest/king roles in the form of military generals, military elite corps, and geneticists who now seek to take away even the role of creating life from women. Her modern antitypes are worth consideration, and her presentation of military elite corps (naval aviators is one example) and generals excluding women from their ranks does bear a striking parallel to male priesthoods, but the professions of geneticist and astronaut are just as open to women today as men, with no discernable discrimination or harassment “rituals” designed to exclude them. While many of the arguments in the various chapters are weakly supported and sometimes stray rather far into left field, overall these essays give the modern reader a good overview of how the shedding of blood, and women’s bloodshed in menstruation and childbirth, have been viewed and dealt with throughout history. They present a compelling argument that men have experienced a sort of reproduction envy and have devised methods, including blood sacrifice and warrior heroes, abortion and euthanasia, to take control of the other end of the life course by controlling death. They present women, and bloodshed, as something numinous, ominous, and too close to the thin red line between life and death for comfort.

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Donald R. Vance, A HEBREW READER FOR RUTH (Peabody, Massachusetts: Hendrickson, 2003). Paper. US $12.95. ISBN 1-56563-740-2. Reviewed by Carolyn J. Sharp Yale Divinity School This helpful guide to basic grammar and syntactical issues in the Book of Ruth is intended for students who have completed introductory instruction in biblical Hebrew. The format is simple: going verse by verse, Vance provides parsing information for each form, along with information on basic syntactical analysis culled from the standard reference grammars. The presentation of this deductive analytical material in a format structured by inductive reading should prove very appealing to intermediate-level students. Blank “worksheets” are available on the Hendrickson website for student use. It should be noted that these sheets simply replicate the Hebrew text and do not offer teaching questions or exercises of any kind. As regards language pedagogy, a number of issues may be mentioned whose merits will be adjudicated variously by different teachers of biblical Hebrew. It is unquestionably true that Vance’s book will save students much time slogging through reference grammars. But some crucial components of learning will thereby be missed. Consulting reference works such as those of Joüon or Waltke and O’Connor over time, the student gains a feel for their organizational structure and their authors’ conception of relationships of grammatical and syntactical phenomena. Using these tomes, one glimpses other fascinating grammar or syntax issues on the way to the particular question about which one is consulting the work; one can compare a number of like and unlike biblical examples of grammatical forms and syntactical relationships; and so on. Teachers ought not underestimate the importance of this kind of oblique learning. First, it builds conceptual pathways for a macro-structural understanding of the language, providing a kind of cartographic overview that can be valuable for understanding how different grammarians and philologists understand meaning-making in biblical Hebrew. Second, it allows students to compare many examples of a particular form or syntactical function throughout the biblical corpus, gleaning information both lexical and historical about idioms, variations,

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nuances of meaning, and the semantic range of words. All this is lost if a student uses Vance’s book alone, because his annotations discuss only forms in Ruth and provide only the briefest of definitions. In essence, Vance’s book functions as a well-annotated answer key. Ideally, students would work through the Hebrew on their own and then review their work using the book. Will students do this in practice? Or will they evade the demanding intuitive and deductive work required to read Hebrew by taking hasty stabs at the text and moving quickly to the answers in Vance’s book? The answer depends, of course, on individual students’ discipline and study habits. The risks might be well worth it for students working independently with no teacher or peers to help. But it is less clear how this kind of guide could be used effectively in the classroom. Excellent pedagogical gains can be realized from having students collaborate in teams to create parsing and syntax annotations like those in Vance’s guide. But teachers will want to consider carefully how providing an already completed answer key would help their students to learn. Finally, there is the perennial problem of how to balance simplicity and complexity in the presentation of a language to intermediate-level students. Vance opts for simplicity, which has important benefits in reducing student frustration and encouraging a sense of mastery. But another pedagogical view would hold that oversimplifying does not serve students well, because it allows a false sense of coherence to obscure the fundamentally complex nature of semantics and translation. A case in point is the notoriously obscure syntax of the last clause in Ruth 2:7. Remarkably, Vance translates the difficult phrase (“This break of hers inside has been a little one”) without comment, adducing not a single observation from reference grammars or commentaries. A second problem that Vance allows to pass without comment is the euphemism of “uncovering the feet(-place),” used to describe what Naomi instructs Ruth to do to Boaz and what Ruth subsequently does. A grammar workbook may not be the place for a protracted discussion about whether sexual activity is being signaled here. But it is downright misleading to render simply “uncover his legs” (albeit with a question mark, Vance’s uncertainty apparently related more to the unusual noun form than the phrase’s euphemistic implications). If no information is provided regarding idiomatic usage in such a case, then the lexical information may be judged as not just simplified but fatally incomplete. Given Vance’s willingness to provide entire paragraphs of annotation on minor points of vocalization and accentuation, it is disappointing that two of the most interesting semantic problems in Ruth are left entirely without comment.

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Students using this resource should remain vigilant to ensure that it does not supplant the active learning in which they should continue to engage. Mastery of a new language requires continual refinement of a highly complex set of skills, and one would not want a beautifully prepared answer key to derail that essential learning process for students. That caveat noted, this valuable guide provides a wealth of grammatical and syntactical information in an accessible format especially well suited for independent study and for review. Students will welcome it with joy.

Israel Knohl, THE DIVINE SYMPHONY: THE BIBLE’S MANY VOICES (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society), 208 pp. Hardcover. US $30. ISBN 0-8276-0761-X. Reviewed by Francis Landy University of Alberta Israel Knohl is best known for his The Sanctuary of Silence (Philadelphia: JPS, 1995), in which he defended an early dating for P, and proposed that the Holiness Code is a priestly response to prophetic critique. His latest book builds on his earlier research to suggest that the Bible consists of a number of separate different literary and ideological currents which developed in relative isolation from each other and were only combined at a late stage. The multiplicity of traditions resulted in attempts to reconcile contradictions, for instance in Chronicles, but also in the tolerance for diversity characteristic of later Jewish literature. He proposes strong readings of the different schools; each, according to Knohl, had a clearly demarcated and profound ideological position, whose legacy was sectarian controversy in the Second Temple period. His interpretations are invariably fascinating and insightful; however, their very clarity and definitiveness, as well as the succinctness of the book, often makes one wish for more argumentation and uncertainty. Literary history is rarely clear; especially when one is dealing with the ancient past, one is often arguing in a vacuum. The longest chapter is, as one might expect, that concerning P. As in The Sanctuary of Silence, Knohl holds that P is the work of priests closeted in the Jerusalem Temple, for whom God was an abstract deity utterly remote from human affairs. No action is attributed to God; he could only be wor-

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shipped in silent apprehension of his sublime majesty (p. 73). The priests rigidly divided the realms of good and evil, represented by primordial chaos and Azazel, holiness and impurity, light and darkness (p. 19). They also proposed a revolution in the understanding of God, from the creator, ethical God of Genesis, signified by Elohim, to the revelation of the impersonal deity as YHWH to Moses (p. 33). The priestly conception of God, in Knohl’s exposition, sounds remarkably like that of medieval philosophy. However, his thesis provokes several questions. What is the evidence for the silent worship of the deity? Does an argument ex silentio, that P is concerned mostly with sacrifice and impurity, suffice? Knohl acknowledges that there were songs sung in the Temple by the Levites, but considers that there was a radical ideological disjunction between the Levites and the priests, who performed their duties on “an island of silence in a sea of hymns and prayer” (p. 73). For centuries, priests and Levites maintained different views of the cult, without crossfertilization or even awareness, by the Levites, of the difference. This does seem improbable. I also was not persuaded by Knohl’s proposal for an evolution of the concept of God from Elohim in Genesis to YHWH in Exodus. The problem is that both concepts, according to Knohl, are true, but are they compatible? Did God evolve from one to the other? What does the revelation of the abstract deity, YHWH, do to that of the creator God in Genesis? The question is especially pertinent since Knohl’s reconstruction of P’s theology is derived largely from an analysis of the creation account. Another issue Knohl does not address is the nature and meaning of sacrifice. Why is it that P is almost exclusively preoccupied with details of sacrifice and impurity? The austerity of the priestly concept of God is difficult to reconcile with the materiality of his cult. Chronologically, Knohl follows his account of P with one of J. In contrast to P, J sees the realms of good and evil as entirely interwoven. Like many Jewish commentators, Knohl resists interpreting the story of the garden of Eden in terms of “original sin” and a “fall” (p. 40). Instead, J traces how good can emerge from evil, as in the case of Cain’s foundation of cities, and vice versa. He argues that J constitutes a democratization of royal myths of origin, whose traces we still find in Ezekiel (pp. 42–43). In J, moreover, we find the transition from the universal to the particularist perspective, with the commission of Abraham. The emphasis on the national responsibility of Israel is “at the core of the Hebrew Bible” (p. 49). The next chapter pursues the discussion of good and evil in Isaiah and the Holiness Code. Knohl thinks that Isaiah reintroduced the universal perspective in response to Assyrian imperialism (p. 56). Isaiah was the first to link holiness to morality (p. 63), in the context of increased prosperity and

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social disparity. Alongside Isaiah, and reacting to prophetic critique, the Holiness school affirmed the sanctity of Israel, the interdependence of ritual and ethical commandments, and proposed an ambitiously egalitarian social program. They also endorsed popular religion, such as the bringing of first fruits, in tandem with priestly ritual. The next two chapters broach matters of controversy in Ancient Israel, one concerning the sanctuary, the other the monarchy. The priestly concept of God’s immanence in the Tabernacle is contrasted with the prophetic tradition of a Tent of Meeting outside the camp, in which God is encountered in his transcendence, with the veneration of the calf at Bethel, and the Deuteronomic insistence that only God’s name resides in the Temple. The prophetic and Deuteronomic views led to a reduction in the importance of the cult and the development of the study of Torah and the practice of prayer as the means of communication with God. A very brief chapter contrasts the divinization of the king as the son of God, which we find in some Psalms, with the Deuteronomic ideal of a limited monarchy and the radical critique of kingship in certain naratives. Knohl continues, historically, with the crisis of the Babylonian deportation and the destruction of the institutions of state, which led to a renewed focus on the problems of evil and suffering. Ezekiel, according to Knohl, adopts two extreme positions, one asserting total freedom of the will, the other absolute determinism. Deutero-Isaiah, through the figure of the suffering servant, transforms Israel into a high priest for the nations which expiate their sin of idolatry (p. 115). The chapter concludes with a discussion of Job, which regards suffering simply as part of the fabric of life (p. 121). The final chapter concerns the afterlife of ideological movements in the Hebrew Bible in the Second Temple period. This is a fascinating subject to which Knohl contributes rich insights. For instance, he suggests that the School of Shammai was imbued with a sense of human inadequacy and existential guilt before God, while the School of Hillel stressed the intimacy between human beings and God in all aspects of their lives. This is manifested, for instance, in their different approaches to the recitation of the Shema. The Sadducees perpetuated the priestly tradition of the mystery of the cult, while the Pharisees promoted its popularization. The community of Qumran attempted to harmonize different scriptural traditions, for instance in the Temple Scroll. This is a very stimulating book, from which I will benefit greatly, especially because of the clarity, forthrightness, and comprehensiveness of its views. However, it is selective; there is very little, for instance, on historical narrative and Wisdom literature. Secondly, it is historically conservative.

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Knohl dates most biblical literature to the First Temple period; he assumes without question the historicity of rabbinic figures and anecdotes, and the attribution of sources. One notes the omission of Christianity from his discussion of Jewish sectarianism. Finally, he does not take into account the complexity of each of his traditions. While the Bible may be many-voiced, each component of it is univocal. I am not sure that this does justice to the tensions and dialogic openness of the texts. Nevertheless, Knohl has a real gift for discerning the wood from the trees, and is to be congratulated on another splendid book.

Danna Nolan Fewell, THE CHILDREN OF ISRAEL: READING THE BIBLE FOR THE SAKE OF OUR CHILDREN (Nashville, TN: Abingdon Press, 2003), 243 pp. Paper. US $26. ISBN 0-687-08414-8. Reviewed by Marian Broida Seattle Washington Danna Nolan Fewell’s spunky, creative book is tricky to categorize. It is a scholarly work, certainly, containing a collection of well-annotated essays and other material addressing the condition of children in the Hebrew Bible. But it incorporates other genres: dialogues between modern mothers and daughters; Fewell’s poetry; even a skit. Disparate as the collection may seem, it hangs together—cemented by Fewell’s passionate advocacy for the rights of children, past, present, and future. As Fewell notes, she writes as a biblical scholar (she is Professor of Hebrew Bible at Drew Theological School), but also “...as a mother, a teacher of ministers, and a citizen who is both astonished by and implicated in the plight of the world’s children” (p. 38). Her book incorporates all these roles. Part I, “Reading the Bible for the Sake of Our Children,” opens with unsettling statistics on modern children’s death, starvation, illness, and abuse; then homes in on the author’s query: “What difference does reading the Bible make?”—obviously, she says, “a vocationally driven question.” She rejects theodicy as senseless, even dangerous, as it variously tries to justify children’s agonies in biblical texts, or treats such suffering as insignificant. Instead she presents us with a different approach to these texts: “in-

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terrupting” the passages to discuss the suffering they describe, and thus “to encounter and to contemplate the experiences and needs of children and of the adults who try to care for them” (p. 24). Part I includes essays on maltreated children in the Bible and associated characters: Ishmael and Hagar; the children of the “foreign women” expelled by Ezra; Jephthah and his daughter; and the Shulammite woman, her son, and Elisha. Between the essays, “interruptions” of the author’s serve as counterpoints to the texts—-dialogues between an unnamed mother (presumably Fewell) and a respected and listened-to little girl. Part II, “Heroes of their Own Lives, Redeemers of their Own Worlds,” focuses on biblical children equally endangered, yet who responded by acting to improve their society: young Daniel, Esther, and Samuel. Here Fewell becomes more experimental, sometimes matching the genre of her chapter to her text—writing the chapter on Samuel and Hannah in poetry, and the chapter on Esther as a Purimspiel. Themes from Part I are elaborated: maltreatment of children and other innocents, a critique of complacency, the association between dehumanizing attitudes and violence—but besides these, she dwells more on positives: learning, humor, and imagination. Fewell presents her work in the spirit of midrash, reinterpreting biblical texts in light of today’s issues, and allowing for multiple simultaneous viewpoints. She is at her best when attempting to show us the interior life of the characters, particularly females: her intimate renderings of Hagar, Hannah, and the Shulammite woman are evocative and at times startling. Her chapter on Ezra is the driest, mainly a dialogue presenting possible political motives for Ezra’s expulsion of foreigners. Fewell is a master at showing as well as telling, particularly in the Purimspiel. Here Fewell’s multiple roles are most evident. Her script retells the book of Esther in the context of a theater piece being developed by teenage girls and two young religious leaders: a minister and rabbi. As the girls discuss the story, they relate it to their own experiences. The leaders model the approach Fewell would have us take toward the Bible in general: revealing painful “secrets” in the biblical text (such as the creation of eunuchs), and from these, launching discussions of modern issues: anti-semitism, racism, female circumcision. Fewell’s religious views are evident in the line the rabbi speaks: “...what other hands does God have besides ours?” (p. 193). The chapter is worthwhile as a piece of young-adult religious literature: the characters are believably rendered, and the script has a bit of plot. The skit also serves as a scaffold for a series of scholarly notes. When the girls tell off-color jokes about painful subjects, for instance, the notes describe the

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carnival-like nature of the book of Esther. Fewell thus acts as critic to her own piece. The author puts her all into this book, including her relationship with her child. After naming some of her sources—scholars and students— Fewell says, “Quite honestly, I think it’s time Derrida met my daughter!” (p. 39). She also makes her political views plain. She chastises leaders, including the president, who allow children’s welfare to be superceded by other issues, for example by refusing to sign a document protecting children’s lives because (among other reasons) it interdicted capital punishment of children (p. 21). Fewell’s book is a passionate call, not only to understand children’s plight, but to act to improve it. Like the prophetic books, hers is meant to unsettle—and her ending prayer, “in the spirit of Isaiah 11,” seems an appropriate acknowledgment of this intent (p. 227). In the chapter on Hannah and Samuel, she has young Samuel tell his master that Eli should have listened to Hannah’s song (p. 223). “Can you...sing it for me now?” asks Eli. “Yes I can,” says Samuel. “But it will make your ears tingle.”

And so may Fewell’s book.

Aron Dotan, ed., THE PARALLEL BIBLE, HEBREW-ENGLISH OLD TESTAMENT: WITH THE BIBLIA HEBRAICA LENINGRADENSIA AND THE KING JAMES VERSION (Peabody, MA.: Hendrickson, 2003), viii + 1883 pp. Hardcover. US $49.95. ISBN 1-56563-692-9. Reviewed by Clinton Moyer Cornell University While the study of the Hebrew Bible (Old Testament) in the original language holds a certain general appeal, particularly in Jewish and Christian communities, the time-intensive task of developing a working knowledge of Hebrew can be prohibitively daunting, even for the most interested reader. For this reason, parallel and interlinear editions of the text provide a convenient medium by which the gap between original language and modern reader may be bridged. Hendrickson’s 2003 volume is a welcome addition to the rather limited selection of such publications. The most popular parallel Hebrew Bible, the JPS Hebrew-English Tanakh (2nd ed., 2000), is one of several that retain the original order of the books in the Hebrew canon. To my knowledge, prior to the volume under review, the only publication to adopt the Protestant canonical order was Zondervan’s Interlinear NIV Hebrew-English Old Testament (1987). The English translation used in the present volume is the King James (Authorized) Version (hereafter, KJV), which is generally considered a relatively good, albeit archaic, rendering of the original. To its additional credit, the KJV utilizes a literary diction that in some ways mirrors that of the original, and in others yields an aesthetic sensibility of its own. Its longstanding association with Christianity notwithstanding, this translation lends itself more effectively to a close examination of the linguistic nuances and subtleties in the Hebrew than do many other English renderings including the NIV, and thus is better suited to a parallel edition. The Hebrew text used is an adapted version of A. Dotan’s excellent edition of the Leningrad Codex (hereafter, L), also published by Hendrickson (Biblia Hebraica Leningradensia, 2001). The preface of the volume under 676

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review includes only an extremely brief discussion of the manuscript itself and the editorial processes applied by Dotan. It seems to me that little would have been lost by extending the two-page preface to perhaps four or five pages, and including a summary of these issues. Instead, I can only direct the reader to the foreword that appears in Dotan’s volume, which is very useful but perhaps more detailed than necessary for the present purpose. A similar shortcoming in the preface is that it provides no details about the relationship between the KJV and the L. It calls attention to the most pronounced divergences between the two, such as in Joshua 21 and Nehemiah 7, where the English includes verses that, while attested in some Hebrew manuscripts, do not appear in the L. But since it does not address the development of the KJV, it is unclear whence these extra verses come, except for a note at each of the two passages that mentions “a few other manuscripts.” I believe the present volume could benefit from some further discussion of these details. In lieu of this, I direct the reader to articles such as L. J. Greenspoon’s “How the Bible Became the Kynge’s Owne English” (Bible Review, December 2003), and the volumes reviewed therein. Most importantly, I think that a brief explanation of the Kethiv-Qeri system should have been included in the preface. To the inexperienced reader of the Hebrew text, this system is potentially very confusing. While it is very brief, however, the preface does provide a concise explanation of various textual points of interest and the ways they are treated in the volume, including such issues as: conflicting versifications in the Hebrew and the English; the treatment of the superscriptions of several psalms as verses in the Hebrew but not in the English; and certain readings in the L that were not adopted in this edition, noted in the text and enumerated in the appendix (which is taken directly from Dotan’s volume). These things being said, I would like to emphasize the excellence of the volume as a whole. The English and Hebrew fonts are very readable and the layout is both attractive and clean. Dotan’s edition of the Hebrew text rightly includes a wide array of obscure markings, some of which, such as the “inverted nun” that appears in Numbers 10 and Psalm 107, may be unfamiliar to a beginning student of Hebrew; but overall, its crisp simplicity is second to none. Students seeking further information on these symbols may consult outside resources such as Y. Yeivin’s Introduction to the Tiberian Masorah (Scholars Press, 1980). The book’s visual presentation matches Hendrickson’s most recent reprintings of two other important resources: The Brown-Driver-Briggs Hebrew English Lexicon (1995) and M. Jastrow’s Dictionary of the Targumim, the Talmud Bavli and Yerushalmi, and the Midrashic Literature (2003). These three volumes

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together make a superb set of reference materials, of which the volume under review may be seen as the centerpiece.

INDEX “THE HAND OF A WOMAN”: DEBORAH AND YAEL (JUDGES 4), 363 1–2 Chronicles (MCKENZIE), 555 4Q Pesher Nahum: A Critical Edition (DOUDNA), 613 A COMMENTARY ON COMMENTARIES OF CHRONICLES, 413 A Guide to Biblical Hebrew Syntax (ARNOLD AND CHOI), 584 A Hebrew Reader for Ruth (VANCE), 668 A REJOINDER TO A. BRENNER, “REGULATING ‘SONS’ AND ‘DAUGHTERS’ IN THE TORAH AND IN PROVERBS: SOME PRELIMINARY INSIGHTS”, 227 A REVIEW OF GARY N. KNOPPERS, I CHRONICLES 1–9 AND IDEM, I CHRONICLES 10– 29, 375 A Story of the Psalms: Conversation, Canon, and Congregation (PARRISH), 635 ADRIFT: HOW THE BIBLE BECAME A BOOK, 355 Akten des IV. Internationalen Kongresses für Hethitologie. Würzburg, 4.–8. Oktober 1999 (WILHELM), 662

Alleged Non-Past Uses of Qatal in Classical Hebrew (ROGLUND), 628 ALLEN, L., 653 AMARA, D., 474 Ambiguity, Tension, and Multiplicity in Deutero-Isaiah (KIM), 521 An Ancient Israelite Historian: Studies in the Chronicler, His Time, Place and Writing (KALIMI), 488 ANDERSON, ROBERT T., 458 ARNOLD, BILL T., 584 Ash, Paul S., 618 ASSIS, ELIE, 449 Assis, Elie, 363 Avioz, Michael, 311, 591 Baker, Jon, 664 Baltzer, Klaus, 381 BARTON, JOHN, 660 Battle of the Gods: The God of Israel Versus Marduk of Babylon. A Literary/Theological Interpretation of Jeremiah 50–51 (KESSLER), 601 BAUMANN, GERLINDE, 646 Beal, Lissa M. Wray, 495, 560 BECKING, BOB, 479 Beckman, Gary, 662 Beginning Biblical Hebrew (FUTATO), 641 BEN ZVI, EHUD, 547 Ben Zvi, Ehud, 389, 474 BENJAMIN, DON C., 558 Berquist, Jon L., 572 679

680

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Between Fear and Freedom. Essays on the Interpretation of Jeremiah 30–31 (BECKING), 479 Bible and Qur’an: Essays in Scriptural Intertextuality (REEVES), 513 Biblical Hebrew: Studies in Chronology and Typology (YOUNG), 531 Biblical Translation in Context (KNOBLOCH), 618 BLENKINSOPP, JOSEPH, 586 Blood Ritual in the Hebrew Bible: Meaning and Power (GILDERS), 510 Boda, Mark J., 562, 620 BORODOWSKI, ALFREDO FABIO, 534 BREGMAN, MARC, 481 Brenner, Athalya, 217 Britt, Brian, 289 Broida, Marian, 673 BROWN, JOHN PAIRMAN, 572 BROWN, WILLIAM P., 658 BRUEGGEMANN, WALTER, 443 Brueggemann, Walter, 651 CAMPBELL, ANTHONY F., 497 Carasik, Michael, 534, 630 Carr, David M., 325, 326 CARROLL, R., 593 Chavalas, Mark W., 586 CHOI, JOHN H., 584 CLAASSENS, L. JULIANA M., 515 CLIFFORD, RICHARD J., 644 COLLINS, JOHN J., 525 COMMENTS ON MCKENZIE’S AND KNOPPERS’ COMMENTARIES ON CHRONICLES, 381 COOK, STEPHEN L., 517 Cook, Stephen L., 569 COULD SAUL RULE FOREVER? A NEW LOOK AT 1 SAMUEL 13:13– 14, 311 DANIEL, M., 593 Davies, Philip R., 317

DE TROYER, KRISTIN, 664 DEATH, SOCIAL CONFLICT, AND THE BARLEY HARVEST IN THE HEBREW BIBLE, 289 DILLE, SARAH J., 454

Dion, Marie-France, 575 DOTAN, ARON, 676 Doudna, Greg, 59 DOUDNA, GREGORY L., 613 Dreamers, Scribes, and Priests: Jewish Dreams in the Hellenistic and Roman Eras (FLANNERY-DAILEY), 469 Duhaime, Jean, 545 Dutcher-Walls, Patricia, 497 Embry, B. J., 635 Erkenntnis als Problem: Qohelet und die alttestamentliche Diskussion um das menschliche Erkennen (SCHELLENBERG), 539 Eskenazi, Tamara Cohn, 325, 339 Evans, Paul, 488, 537 Ezekiel’s Hierarchical World: Wrestling with a Tiered Reality (COOK AND PATTON), 517 Ezra, Nehemiah, Esther (ALLEN AND LANIAK), 653 FEWELL, DANNA NOLAN, 673 Fisher, Loren, 633 FITZPATRICK, PAUL E., 486 FLANNERY-DAILEY, FRANCES, 469 FOKKELMAN, J. P., 456, 651 Fortress Introduction to the Prophets (HUTTON), 537 FOX, MICHAEL V., 604 From Ancient Writings to Sacred Texts: The Old Testament and Apocrypha (NIGOSIAN), 447 From Deborah to Esther: Sexual Politics in the Hebrew Bible (KLEIN), 523 FUTATO, MARK D., 641 Garfinkle, Steven J., 607 GELLER, MARKHAM J., 599

INDEX GEMINATE BALLAST AND CLUSTERING: AN UNRECONGNIZED LITERARY FEATURE IN ANCIENT SEMITIC POETRY, 153 Gianto, Agustinus, 628 GILDERS, WILLIAM K., 510 Gilders, William K., 445 GILES, TERRY, 458 Gitay, Yehoshua, 547 GORDON, R. P., 499 Grayson, A. Kirk, 51 GREEN, ALBERTO R. W., 607 GUILLAUME, PHILIPPE, 575 Guillaume, Philippe, 1, 169, 243 Haase, Ingrid M., 25 Hamilton, Mark W., 499, 646 Harvey, Charles D., 653 Hebrew Origins: Historiography, History, Faith of Ancient Israel (SASSON, LEE, HO, AND WONG), 620 HELLER, ROY L., 463 HERBERT, JUDITH A., 664 HESS, RICHARD S., 593 HO, CRAIG Y. S., 620 Hoffman, Yair, 625 Homan, Michael M., 656 HOPPE, LESLIE J., 557 Households and Holiness: The Religious Culture of Israelite Women (MEYERS), 493 How the Bible Became a Book: The Textualization of Ancient Israel (SCHNIEDEWIND), 552 Hu, Wesley, 456 Hurowitz, Victor, 595 HUTTON, RODNEY R., 537 IMPLICATIONS FOR AND FROM CHRONICLES, 349 IMPLICATIONS FOR AND FROM EZRA-NEHEMIAH, 339

681

IN CONVERSATION AND APPRECIATION OF THE RECENT COMMENTARIES BY STEVEN L. MCKENZIE AND GARY N. KNOPPERS, 389 IN CONVERSATION WITH W. M. SCHNIEDEWIND, HOW THE BIBLE BECAME A BOOK: THE TEXTUALIZATION OF ANCIENT ISRAEL (CAMBRIDGE (2003), 325 Inicios, Paradigmas y Fundamentos: Estudios teológicos y exegéticos en el Pentateuco (KLINGBEIL), 567 Introduction to the Hebrew Bible with CD-ROM, 525 Irwin, Brian P, 443 Isaac Abravanel on Miracles, Creation, Prophecy and Evil: The Tension Between Medieval Jewish Philosophy and Biblical Commentary (BORODOWSKI), 534 Israel and Hellas, Vol. III: The Legacy of Iranian Imperialism and the Individual (BROWN), 572 Israel’s Messiah in the Bible and the Dead Sea Scrolls (HESS, DANIEL, AND CARROLL), 593 Jaffee, Martin S., 639 Janzen, Waldemar, 660 Jassen, Alex, 458, 552 Jerusalem between Destruction and Restoration. Judah under Babylonian Rule (LIPSCHITS), 591 JOB, HOPEFUL OR HOPELESS? THE SIGNIFICANCE OF ‫ גם‬IN JOB 16:19 AND JOB’S CHANGING CONCEPTIONS OF DEATH, 261 JOHNSON, JUDITH ANN, 664 JOHNSTON, PHILIP S., 507 Joshua to Chronicles An Introduction (CAMPBELL), 497

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

JPS Torah Commentary: Ecclesiastes (FOX), 604 JUBILEE CALENDAR RESCUED FROM THE FLOOD NARRATIVE, 1 Judah and the Judeans in the NeoBabylonian Period (LIPSCHITS AND BLENKINSOPP), 586 Judges and Ruth (MATTHEWS), 560 KALIMI, ISAAC, 488, 490 Kalman, Jason, 481 Kaltner, John, 447, 525 KESSLER, MARTIN, 601 KIM, HYUN CHUL PAUL, 521 KLEIN, LILLIAN, 523 KLINGBEIL, GERALD A., 567 KNOBLOCH, FREDERICK W., 618 KNOHL, ISRAEL, 670 KNOPPERS, GARY N., 562 Knoppers, Gary N., 325, 421 Knowles, Melody D., 371, 373 KORPEL, MARJO, 578 KORTE, ANNE-MARIE, 664 Kugler, Rob, 613 Kummerow, David, 261 LACOCQUE, ANDRÉ, 495 Landy, Francis, 227, 670 LANIAK, T., 653 Laundervile, Dale, 517 LEE, ARCHIE C. C., 620 Lee, Bernon P., 531, 584, 641 Lemos, T. M., 486 LETTING THE “BI-WORD” “RULE” IN JOEL 2:17, 13 LEVENE, NANCY, 639 Leviticus: A Book of Ritual and Ethics (MILGROM), 445 LIM, TIMOTHY, 616 Linville, James R., 13 LIPSCHITS, ODED, 586, 591 Lockshin, Martin, 649 LOHFINK, NORBERT, 466

LOREIN, G. W.,

543 Love and Violence: Marriage as Metaphor for the Relationship between YHWH and Israel in the Prophetic Books (BAUMANN), 646 M. PATRICK GRAHAM, 562 Magie im Alten Testament (SCHMITT), 501 MAGNESS, JODI, 527 Major Poems of the Hebrew Bible. At the Interface of Prosody and Structural Analysis. Volume IV: Job 15–42 (FOKKELMAN), 456 Major Poems of the Hebrew Bible: At the Interface of Prosody and Structural Analysis. Vol III: The Remaining 65 Psalms (FOKKELMAN), 651 Mandolfo, Carleen, 658 Martin, Gary, 578 MATTHEWS, VICTOR H., 560 MCKENZIE, STEVEN L., 555, 562 McKenzie, Steven L., 437, 452 McLaughlin, John L., 466, 507 MEYERS, CAROL, 493 MILGROM, JACOB, 445 Mitchell, Christine, 325, 349, 375, 513 Mitchell, Mary Louise, 454 Mixing Metaphors: God as Mother and Father in Deutero-Isaiah (DILLE), 454 MOOR, J. C. DE, 499 Moore, Michael S., 557 Moyer, Clinton, 676 Munoz, Francisco V., 581 Najm, S., 1 NAM, DUCK-WOO, 630 Narrative Structure and Discourse Constellations: An Analysis of Clause Function in Biblical Hebrew Prose (HELLER), 463

INDEX NEW LIGHT ON THE NEBIIM FROM ALEXANDRIA: A CHRONOGRAPHY TO REPLACE THE DEUTERONOMISTIC HISTORY, 169 NEW STUDIES IN CHRONICLES: A DISCUSSION OF TWO RECENTLY-PUBLISHED COMMENTARIES, 371 NIGOSIAN, S. A., 447 Noegel, Scott B., 153, 469, 501, 604 O’Connor, Kathleen M., 479 Obadiah (RENKEMA), 569 OCHS, PETER, 639 OELSNER, JOACHIM, 599 OESCH, JOSEPH, 578 Oeste, Gord, 449 OF REWRITTEN BIBLES, ARCHAEOLOGY, PEACE, KINGS, AND CHRONICLES, 421 On the Border Line. Textual Meets Literary Criticism. Proceedings of a Conference in Honor of Alexander Rofé on the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday (TALSHIR AND AMARA), 474 ON THE MEANING OF ‫קשת נחושה‬, 233 OSTRACA KHQ1 AND KHQ2 FROM THE CEMETARY OF QUMRAN: A NEW EDITION, 59 PARRISH, V. STEPHEN, 635 Patrick, Dale, 601 PATTON, CORRINE L., 517 Perry, T. A., 539 Pesharim (LIM), 616 Pinker, Aron, 143, 233 Polaski, Don, 521 Poor Banished Children of Eve: Woman as Evil in the Hebrew Bible (YEE), 610 Porter, Adam L., 616

683

Power, Bruce A., 644 PROLEGOMENA FOR THE SOCIOLINGUISTICS OF CLASSICAL HEBREW, 117 Prophecy and Ideology in Jeremiah: Struggles for Authority in the DeuteroJeremianic Prose (SHARP), 625 Psalms 73–150 (CLIFFORD), 644 PYEON, YOHAN, 633 Qoheleth (LOHFINK), 466 Rata, Cristian G., 463 RECENT CHRONICLES COMMENTARIES: A RESPONSE, 437 REEVES, JOHN C., 513 REGULATING ‘SONS’ AND ‘DAUGHTERS’ IN THE TORAH AND IN PROVERBS: SOME PRELIMINARY INSIGHTS, 217 RENKEMA, JOHAN, 569 RESPONSE TO RECENT CHRONICLES COMMENTARIES BY GARY N. KNOPPERS AND STEVEN L. MCKENZIE, 405 RESPONSE TO W. M. SCHNIEDEWIND, HOW THE BIBLE BECAME A BOOK: THE TEXTUALIZATION OF ANCIENT ISRAEL, 326 RICHTER, SANDRA L., 595 Ristau, Ken, 490, 555 ROBERTS, J. J. M., 581 ROGLAND, MAX, 628 Ruth (LACOCQUE), 495 Santos, Carluci dos, 567 Sarah: Mother of Nations (SCHNEIDER), 519 SASSON, JACK M., 620 SCHELLENBERG, ANNETTE, 539 SCHMITT, RÜDIGER, 501 Schneider, Tammi, 610 SCHNEIDER, TAMMI J., 519

684

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

SCHNIEDEWIND, WILLIAM M., 552 Schniedewind, William M., 117, 325, 355 Schweitzer, Steven J., 405 Seeing the Psalms: A Theology of Metaphor (BROWN), 658 Self-Interest or Communal Interest: An Ideology of Leadership in the Gideon, Abimelech and Jephthah Narratives (Judg 6–12) (ASSIS), 449 SHACHTER, JAY F., 649 Shades of Sheol: Death and Afterlife in the Old Testament (JOHNSTON), 507 SHALMANESER III AND THE LEVANTINE STATES: THE “DAMASCUS COALITION REBELLION”, 51 SHARP, CAROLYN J., 625 Sharp, Carolyn J., 668 SHEPHERD, DAVID, 545 SMITH, MARK S., 461 Spina, Frank Anthony, 541 Stone, Ken, 523 SUH, MYUNG SOO, 656 Sutherland, D. Dixon, 588 SWEENEY, MARVIN A., 547, 643 SZPEK, HEIDI M., 541 Talking About God: Job 42:7–9 and the Nature of God in the Book of Job (NAM), 630 TALSHIR, Z., 474 Targum and Translation: A Reconsideration of the Qumran Aramaic Version of Job (SHEPHERD), 545 TETLEY, M. CHRISTINE, 452 Textual Reasonings: Jewish Philosophy and Text Study at the End of the Twentieth Century (OCHS AND LEVENE), 639

The Antichrist Theme in the Intertestamental Period (LOREIN), 543 The Archaeology of Qumran and the Dead Sea Scrolls (MAGNESS), 527 The Bible and the Ancient Near East: Collected Essays (ROBERTS), 581 The Changing Face of Form Criticism in the Twenty-First Century (SWEENEY AND BEN ZVI), 547 The Children of Israel: Reading the Bible for the Sake of Our Children (FEWELL), 673 The Commentary of Abraham ibn Ezra on the Pentateuch, volume 5: Deuteronomy (SHACHTER), 649 The Chronicler as Theologian: Essays in Honour of Ralph W. Klein (KNOPPERS), 562 The Deuteronomistic History and the Name Theology: lešakkēn šemô šām in the Bible and the Ancient Near East (RICHTER), 595 The Disarmament of God: Ezekiel 38– 39 in Its Mythic Context (FITZPATRICK), 486 The Divine Symphony: The Bible’s Many Voices (KNOHL), 670 The God who Provides: Biblical Images of Divine Nourishment (CLAASSENS), 515 THE HARD ‘SELL’ IN NAH 3:4B, 143 The Memoirs of God: History, Memory and the Experience of the Divine in Ancient Israel (SMITH), 461 The Old Testament in Its World (GORDON AND MOOR), 499 The Old Testament Story: An Introduction (BENJAMIN), 588 THE ORIGIN OF BIBLICAL ISRAEL, 317

INDEX The Parallel Bible, Hebrew-English Old Testament: With the Biblia Hebraica Leningradensia and the King James Version (DOTAN), 676 The Reconstructed Chronology of the Divided Kingdom (TETLEY), 452 The Reshaping of Ancient Israelite History in Chronicles (KALIMI), 490 The Storm-God in the Ancient Near East (GREEN), 607 The Tabernacle in the Narrative History of Israel from the Exodus to the Conquest (SUH), 656 The Tanhuma-Yelammedenu Literature: Studies in the Evolution of the Versions (BREGMAN), 481 There Shall Be No Poor Among You: Poverty in the Bible (HOPPE), 557 TRACING THE ORIGIN OF THE SABBATICAL CALENDAR IN THE PRIESTLY NARRATIVE (GENESIS 1 TO JOSHUA 5), 243 Tradition Kept: The Literature of the Samaritans (ANDERSON AND GILES), 458 Understanding Old Testament Ethics: Approaches and Explorations (BARTON), 660 Unit Delimitation in Biblical Hebrew and Northwest Semitic Literature (KORPEL AND OESCH), 578

685

Ur III Incantations from the Frau Professor Hilprecht-Collection, Jena (DIJK AND GELLER), 599 UZZAH’S REBELLION, 25 VAN DIJK, JOHANNES J., 599 VANCE, DONALD R., 668 Voices from the University: The Legacy of the Hebrew Bible (SPZEK), 541 Wagenaar, Jan A., 510 Waiting for Josiah: The Judges (GUILLAUME), 575 Watts, John D. W., 643 Webster, Jane S., 515 White, Ellen, 461, 493, 519 Wholly Woman, Holy Blood (DE TROYER, HERBERT, JOHNSON, AND KORTE), 664 WILHELM, GERNOT, 662 Wise, Michael O., 593 WONG, FOOK KONG, 620 Wooden, R. Glenn, 543 Worship in Ancient Israel: An Essential Guide (BRUEGGEMAN), 443 Worthington, Martin, 599 Wright, John W., 413 YEE, GALE A., 610 You Have Not Spoken What Is Right About Me: Intertextuality and the Book of Job (PYEON), 633 YOUNG, IAN, 531 Yribarren, Madelyn, 527 Zephaniah (SWEENEY), 643