Perspectives on Hebrew Scriptures IV 9781593339203, 1593339208

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Perspectives on Hebrew Scriptures IV

Perspectives on Hebrew Scriptures and its Contexts 4  

Perspectives on Hebrew Scriptures IV Comprising the Contents of Journal of Hebrew Scriptures, vol. 7

Edited by Ehud Ben Zvi Volume IV

Gorgias Press 2008

First Gorgias Press Edition, 2008 Copyright © 2008 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 978-1-59333-920-3 ISSN 1935-6897

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

VOL. 7 (2007) Found But Not Lost: A Skeptical Note on the Document Discovered in the Temple Under Josiah David Henige ..................................................................................................1 In Conversation with Oded Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2005) David Vanderhooft (ed.) .............................................................................21 Introduction David S. Vanderhooft, Guest Editor...............................................23 A Response to Oded Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem: Judah under Babylonian Rule, Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2005 Rainer Albertz ......................................................................................25 Reflections on Oded Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem Tamara Cohn Eskenazi ......................................................................33 The Demise of Jerusalem, the De-urbanization of Judah, and the Ascent of Benjamin: Reflections on Oded Lipschits’ The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem Gary N. Knoppers...............................................................................41 Comments on Oded Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem Daniel M. Master .................................................................................53 Comments on Oded Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem H. G. M. Williamson...........................................................................61 v

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The Babylonian Period in Judah: In Search of the Half Full Cup Oded Lipschits.....................................................................................69 Did Second Temple High Priests Possess the Urim and Thummim? Lisbeth S. Fried.............................................................................................81 “Word Play” in Qoheleth Scott B. Noegel ...........................................................................................111 “White Trash” Wisdom: Proverbs 9 Deconstructed Mark Sneed..................................................................................................139 Keeping It Literal: The Economy of the Song of Songs Roland Boer.................................................................................................151 Expatriates, Repatriates, and the Question of Zion’s Status—In Conversation with Melody D. Knowles, Centrality Practiced: Jerusalem in the Religious Practices of Yehud and the Diaspora in the Persian Period (Archaeology and Biblical Studies 16; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2006). Gary N. Knoppers, ed. ..............................................................................169 Introduction Gary N. Knoppers.............................................................................171 A Response Deirdre N. Fulton..............................................................................173 A Response David Janzen ......................................................................................179 A Response Ralph W. Klein...................................................................................187 Flames, Candles, and Humility: A Response to the Session Discussing Centrality Practiced Melody D. Knowles ..........................................................................193 A Goat to Go to Azazel Aron Pinker .................................................................................................197 Author or Redactor? John Van Seters ..........................................................................................221 Scribes Before and After 587 BCE: A Conversation Mark Leuchter, ed. .....................................................................................243 Introduction Mark Leuchter....................................................................................245

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Zadokites, Deuteronomists, and the Exilic Debate Over Scribal Authority Mark Leuchter....................................................................................247 Writing the Restoration: Compositional Agenda and the Role of Ezra in Nehemiah 8 Jacob L. Wright..................................................................................265 The Levites and the Literature of the Late-Seventh Century Jeffrey C. Geoghegan........................................................................279 A “Holiness” Substratum in the Deuteronomistic Account of Josiah’s Reform Lauren A. S. Monroe.........................................................................293 Composition, Rhetoric and Theology in Haggai 1:1–11 Elie Assis.............................................................................................309 Revisiting the Composition of Ezra-Nehemiah: In Conversation with Jacob Wright’s Rebuilding Identity: The Nehemiah Memoir and its Earliest Readers (BZAW, 348; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004) Gary N. Knoppers, ed. ..............................................................................323 Introduction Gary N. Knoppers.............................................................................325 A Response: In Search of Nehemiah’s Reform(s) Deirdre N. Fulton..............................................................................327 A Response David M. Carr ....................................................................................335 A Response Ralph W. Klein...................................................................................347 Looking Back at Rebuilding Identity Jacob L. Wright..................................................................................357 Crime Scene Investigation: A Text-Critical Mystery and the Strange Death of Ishbosheth Keith Bodner...............................................................................................369 Rereading Oracles of God: Twenty Years After John Barton, Oracles of God: Perceptions of Prophecy in Israel after the Exile (London: Darton, Longman and Todd, 1986) Ehud Ben Zvi, ed. ......................................................................................391

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES Introduction Ehud Ben Zvi.....................................................................................393 ‘Beginning at the End’ Philip R. Davies .................................................................................397 The Bible of Changed Meanings: Some Thoughts on John Barton’s Oracles of God James Kugel........................................................................................405 Reflections on John Barton’s Oracles of God Hindy Najmann .................................................................................417

Oracles of God revisited John Barton ........................................................................................427 The Unlikely Malachi-Jonah Sequence (4QXIIa) Philippe Guillaume.....................................................................................433 A Reconsideration of Manuscripts Classified as Scrolls of the Twelve Minor Prophets (XII) Philippe Guillaume.....................................................................................445

REVIEWS VOL. 7 (2007) Piotr Bienkowski, Christopher Mee, and Elizabeth Slater (eds.), Writing and Ancient Near East Society: Papers in Honor of Alan R. Millard. Reviwed by Juan Manuel Tebes, ..............................................................461 Antony F. Campbell and Mark A. O’Brien, Rethinking the Pentateuch: Prolegomena to the Theology of Ancient Israel Reviewed by Lissa M. Wray Beal .............................................................464 JoAnn Scurlock, Magico-Medical Means of Treating Ghost-Induced Illnesses in Ancient Mesopotamia JoAnn Scurlock and Burton Andersen, Diagnoses in Assyrian and Babylonian Medicine: Ancient Sources, Translations, and Modern Medical Analyses Reviewed by Scott Noegel ........................................................................467

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Mary Douglas, Jacob’s Tears: The Priestly Work of Reconciliation Reviewed by Bernon Lee...........................................................................471 Oded Lipschits and Manfred Oeming, eds. Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period Reviewed by Ken Ristau Penn State University ....................................475 George Athas, The Tel Dan Inscription: A Reappraisal and a New Interpretation Reviewed by Daniel Miller ........................................................................478 Wesley J. Bergen, Reading Ritual: Leviticus in Postmodern Culture Reviewed by Bernon P. Lee......................................................................483 Mark W. Hamilton, The Body Royal: The Social Poetics of Kingship in Ancient Israel Reviewed by Dale Launderville, OSB .....................................................486 Cheryl Anderson, Women, Ideology and Violence: Critical Theory and the Construction of Gender in the Book of the Covenant and Deuteronomic Law Reviewed by Athalya Brenner ..................................................................489 Marvin A. Sweeney, Form and Intertextuality in Prophetic and Apocalyptic Literature Reviewed by James Linville.......................................................................491 Diana Edelman, The Origins of the Second Temple: Persian Imperial Policy and the Rebuilding of Jerusalem Reviewed by Mark Boda............................................................................495 David H. Aaron, Etched in Stone: The Emergence of the Decalogue Reviewed by T. R. Hobbs .........................................................................504 Oded Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem: Jerusalem under Babylonian Rule Reviewed by Ken Ristau............................................................................507 Peter B. Dirksen, 1 Chronicles Reviewed by Christine Mitchell................................................................510 Philip F. Esler, ed. Ancient Israel: The Old Testament in its Social Context Reviewed by Patricia Dutcher-Walls .......................................................513 Jerome T. Walsh, Ahab: The Construction of a King Reviewed by Keith Bodner .......................................................................515 Gershom M. H. Ratheiser, Mitzvoth Ethics and the Jewish Bible: The End of Old Testament Theology Reviewed by Dale Patrick .........................................................................517

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Richard M. Davidson, Flame of Yahweh: Sexuality in the Old Testament Reviewed by Heather Macumber.............................................................520 Ronald Hendel, Remembering Abraham: Culture, Memory, and History in the Hebrew Bible. Reviewed by Wesley Hu ............................................................................523 Carol Dempsey, Jeremiah: Preacher of Grace, Poet of Truth Reviewed by Kathleen M. O’Connor......................................................526 Eric A. Seibert, Subversive Scribes and the Solomonic Narrative: A Rereading of I Kings 1–11 Reviewed by Mark W. Hamilton..............................................................528 Alice Hunt, Missing Priests: The Zadokites in Tradition and History Reviewed by Adam L. Porter ...................................................................530 Victor H. Matthews, Manners and Customs in the Bible: An Illustrated Guide to Daily Life in Bible Times Reviewed by Bruce Power ........................................................................533 Diane Banks, Writing the History of Israel Reviewed by Iain Provan...........................................................................535 Joseph Azize and Noel Weeks, eds., Gilgameš and the World of Assyria. Proceedings of the Conference held at Mandelbaum House, The University of Sydney, 21–23 July 2004 Reviewed by Scott Noegel ........................................................................538 David Toshio Tsumura, The First Book of Samuel Reviewed by Steven L. McKenzie ...........................................................544 J. Maxwell Miller and John H. Hayes, A History of Ancient Israel and Judah Reviewed by Michael Carasik ...................................................................547 Alice Mouton, Rêves hittites: Contribution à une histoire et une anthropologie du rêve en Anatolie ancienne Reviewed by Scott Noegel ........................................................................549

PREFACE The present publication includes all the articles and reviews published electronically in the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures vol. 7 (2007). A companion including volume 8 (2008) will be published in 2009. The Journal of Hebrew Scriptures provides 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 that are not limited by financial or geographical barriers. By doing so, the journal allows public libraries anywhere in the world to distribute top academic knowledge to its users, and serves graduate students and the interested public. The open access character of the journal enables scholars in the so-called Third World countries to access and contribute to the production of new academic knowledge. 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. At present it consists of Adele Berlin, Mark J. Boda, Philip R. Davies, Michael V. Fox, William K. Gilders, Gary N. Knoppers, Robert A. Kugler, Francis Landy, Niels Peter Lemche, Hanna Liss, Hindy Najman, Scott B. Noegel, Saul M. Olyan, Gary A. Rendsburg, Gene M. Tucker and Jacob L. Wright. I thank all of them. John McLaughlin serves as Review Editor since January 2004. 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. 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, the Faculty of Arts, and the dept. of History and Classics at the University of Alberta for their continuous support. It is pleasure to acknowledge a grant from the Social xi

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Sciences and Humanities Council of Canada, and the willingness of the Library and Archives Canada (an organization that combines the collections and services of the former National Library of Canada and the former National Archives of Canada) to archive the journal. All of them contribute much to the success of JHS. Finally, I would like to thank George Kiraz for agreeing to publish this printed version of the electronic contents of JHS through Gorgias Press, for his understanding of the importance of maintaining a complete and 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 AASF AASOR AB ABD ABRL ACJS AJS AOAT APOT ASTI BAR BASOR BBB BEATAJ Bib BJS BN BZAW CAH CBQ DDD DJD DSD ESV FAT

Annales Academiae scientiarum fennicae Annual of the American Schools of Oriental Research Anchor Bible Anchor Bible Dictionary Anchor Bible Reference Library Annual of the College of Jewish Studies Association for Jewish Studies Alter Orient und Altes Testament The Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha of the Old Testament. Edited by R. H. Charles. 2 vols. Oxford, 1913 Annual of the Swedish Theological Institute Biblical Archaeology Review Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research Bonner biblische Beiträge Beiträge zur Erforschung des Alten Testaments und des antiken Judentum Biblica Brown Judaic Studies Biblische Notizen Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Cambridge Ancient History Catholic Biblical Quarterly Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible. Edited by K. van der Toorn, B. Becking, and P. W. van der Horst. Leiden, 1995 Discoveries in the Judaean Desert Dead Sea Discoveries English Standard Version Forschungen zum Alten Testament xiii

xiv FAT FCB FOTL FRLANT HAR HAT HBM HS HSM HTR HUCA ICC IDB Supplement IEJ IOSOT JANER JJS JNSL JPS JQR JSOT JSOTSup JSPSup JSS JTS KJV LAB LHBOTS LXX MT NASB NCBC NIV NJB NRSV

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES Forschungen zum Alten Testament Feminist Companion to the Bible Forms of the Old Testament Literature Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments Hebrew Annual Review Handbuch zum Alten Testament Hebrew Bible Monographs Hebrew Studies Harvard Semitic Monographs Harvard Theological Review Hebrew Union College Annual International Critical Commentary Interpreter’s Dictionary of the Bible: Supplementary Volume. Edited by K. Crim. Nashville, 1976 Israel Exploration Journal International Organisation for the Study of the Old Testament Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions Journal of Jewish Studies Journal of Northwest Semitic Languages Jewish Publication Society Jewish Quarterly Review Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Journal for the Study of the Old Testament, Supplement Series Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha: Supplement Journal of Semitic Studies Journal of Theological Studies King James Version Pseudo-Philo, Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies Septuagint Masoretic Text New American Standard Bible New Century Bible Commentary New International Version New Jerusalem Bible New Revised Standard Version

ABBREVIATIONS OBO OTL OtSt PEQ PMLA RB RQ RSV SBL SBLDS SBLMS SBLSCS SBLSS SDSSRL SJOT SSEJC ST SVTP TA ThB TynB VF VT VTSup WBC WdO WMANT WTJ WUNT ZA ZAW

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Orbis biblicus et orientalis Old Testament Library Oudtestamentische Studiën Palestine Exploration Quarterly Publications of the Modern Language Association Revue biblique Revue de Qumran Revised Standard Version Society of Biblical Literature SBL Dissertation Series Society of Biblical Literature Monograph Series Society of Biblical Literature Septuagint and Cognate Studies Society of Biblical Literature Symposium Series Studies in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Related Literature Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament Studies in Early Judaism and Christianity Studia theologica Studia in Veteris Testamenti pseudepigraphica Tel Aviv Theologische Bücherei Tyndale Bulletin Verkündigung und Forschung Vetus Testamentum Vetus Testamentum Supplements Word Biblical Commentary Die Welt des Orient Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen Testament Westminster Theological Journal Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament Zeitschrift für Assyriologie Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft

FOUND BUT NOT LOST: A SKEPTICAL NOTE ON THE DOCUMENT DISCOVERED IN THE TEMPLE UNDER JOSIAH DAVID HENIGE

MEMORIAL LIBRARY—MADISON The account in 2 kings 22–23 was written in the time of Josiah and can be very much trusted. 1 . . . But we do not know if the story of its ‘discovery’ (or some modern rationalization, like a deliberate planting of the scroll soon after composition) is true! 2 Was there really a book behind the story. . . ? 3 For a long time the critics favoured the idea that this ‘discovery’ was a pious fraud . . ; to-day this opinion has long been abandoned. It is quite certain that the work belongs to an older age . . . 4 The discovery of a law book in the Temple is not implausible. . . 5 1 Nadav Na’aman in L. L. Grabbe, “Reflections on the Discussion” in Good Kings and Bad Kings, ed. Lester L. Grabbe (London, 2005), 348. Cf. idem, “Royal Inscriptions and the Histories of Joash and Ahaz, Kings of Israel,” VT 48 (1998), 337–44; idem., “Josiah and the Kingdom of Judah” in Good Kings and Bad Kings, 229–33; Lowell K. Handy, “The Role of Huldah in Josiah’s Court Reform,” ZAW 106 (1994), 46, 46n17. The advantages in believing in an early contemporary report are blindingly obvious; among other things, it would be largely concomitant with accepting the reality of the discovery. 2 Philip R. Davies, “Josiah and the Law Book” in Good Kings and Bad Kings, 70. 3 W. Boyd Barrick, The King and the Cemeteries: Toward a New Understanding of Josiah’s Reform (Leiden, 2002), 131, emphasis in original. Barrick thinks not, on the basis of the found-manuscript topos. 4 Roland de Vaux, Ancient Israel: Its Life and Institutions (New York, 1961), 338.

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I. INTRODUCTION The story is familiar to students of the Bible. A king comes to the throne of Judah and becomes intent on restoring his people’s past political glory and spiritual righteousness. As part of this program, he institutes repairs to the Temple. One day his scribe reports to him that the high priest has found some kind of document during the repairs—a document that the high priest thinks is the “book [scroll, etc.] of the law [covenant, etc.].” On learning of its contents, the king tears his garments because the new text seems to prophesy bad news. Nonetheless, the newly-discovered text serves as inspiration for a series of reforms, which, if they do not long postpone the fall of the kingdom, at least restore Judaism to its purportedly primeval condition.

II. ASSUMPTIONS AND PRESUMPTIONS The authorship of “the book of the law”—usually thought to be Deuteronomy—has been attributed to numerous figures, ranging from Moses to figures in Josiah’s (ca. 640–609) court, and it is generally held to have been a physical object, capable of being found, touched, carried, and read—as per the Biblical narrative. The present paper has a restricted goal: to test whether the Biblical story of the provenance of this text can make practical sense as an explicatory narrative. My premise is that related larger issues can only be sensibly addressed after first testing the reliability of the story of the discovery itself. If, given the numerous and elevated discussions of this text and its consequences, this seems a narrow and pedestrian approach to the Biblical testimony, so be it In this exercise, I situate the terms of my argument squarely in the traditionalist model. The hypothesis I seek to test is that the Biblical testimony about both the discovery and the history of the Temple before that occasion are reliable. I assume, along with the Bible and most modern opinion, that any book/scroll in question must have been a physical object of some kind, and not particularly inconspicuous—that is, it could be readily descried if one happened to be looking in its direction before or after it had been lost. Mordechai Cogan, “Into Exile: from the Assyrian Conquest of Israel to the Fall of Babylon” in The Oxford History of the Biblical World, ed. Michael D. Coogan (New York, 1998), 346. Cogan goes on: “for as dwellings of the gods temples often became depositories of documents of state as well as of religious interest, their divine residents often being called on to defend and protect the agreements deposited with them,” which strikes me as an argument against a fortuitous finding rather than one for it. 5

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My particular purpose is to inquire about the contextual plausibility of this Biblical account, which is all that is left to us, now so far removed from the events and relying, as we must, on a small set of interdependent sources. And about nothing else; I explicitly disclaim any interest in a number of related issues: e.g., the general historicity of Kings and Chronicles; the redactional history of any of our sources; whether or not the Josianic reforms were carried out or what they consisted of; any reader-response issues; or the mysterious death of Josiah. I look at the account as someone who might be reading a text with a jaundiced eye—say, a detective novel—that has not achieved scriptural status, therefore one that can be judged strictly on its content, context, and presentation. The modus operandi in such cases is usually to see if there are incongruities or anachronistic aspects and then try to explain them, or explain them away. Contextual plausibility can be treated at two levels. The first is internal—e.g., whether a story conforms to any ancient or modern topoi. Of course, in this case it resoundingly does just that, but this aspect has recently been treated by Katherine Stott, as well as by others before her. 6 This allows me to concentrate only on aspects of the story itself, and to treat it as though it were not a topos. In fact, the very notion of the ‘found’ manuscript as topos can be dismissed in the following argument, except as a logical alternative, although it should always feature in more general discussions of the matter, since this analytical approach offers endless exemplification. The second level, which is internal, concerns what might be termed the narrative line: does the account come across as self-consistent and transparent; does it raise questions about itself that it cannot, or at least does not, answer; does it try to justify its own claims; are there unresolved issues of authorship and timing? 6 Katherine Stott, “Finding the Lost Book of the Law: Re-reading the Story of ‘The Book of the Law’ (Deuteronomy-2 Kings) in Light of Classical Literature,” JSOT 30 (2005), 153–69. A few discussions that Stott does not mention are A. J. Droge, “’The Lying Pens of the Scribes’: of Holy Books and Pious Frauds,” Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 15 (2003), 117–47; Thomas C. Römer, “Transformations in Deuteronomistic and Biblical Historiography: On ‘Book-Finding’ and Other Literary Strategies,” ZAW 109 (1997), 1–11; David Henige, “In Good Company: Problematic Sources and Biblical Historicity,” JSOT 39 (2005), 29–47; and Wolfgang Speyer, Bücherfunde in der Glaubenswerbung der Antike (Göttingen, 1970). Speyer made a brief excursus into medieval and modern times, but his work on the Middle Ages has been thoroughly superseded by Fälschungen im Mittelalter (5 vols.: Hannover, 1988), which addresses some 150 case studies.

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In this regard, I treat the Biblical narrative simply as a story with a plot and a purpose, as if to ask the question: if it were read as a bedtime story, would it hold up to the critical scrutiny of an inquisitive child? Even scripture deserves this kind of attention. It will not do to grant texts that eventually achieve scriptural status special terms that are so lenient that they so often result in self-fulfilling prophecies. In following this line, I make certain assumptions. Of these the most important is that the ancient Israelites were no less pragmatic and rational in discerning and fostering their self-identified best interests than other societies, including our own. I assume the concomitant right to suggest motives and opportunities for both action and inaction, as if these events were occurring today. At the same time, it is obvious that those who take the discovery story seriously must do much the same, even if they proceed along distinctly different argumentative lines. 7

III. RECENT APPROACHES TO THE FINDING The narrative of the discovery and its aftermath has generated an enormous response since the advent of Biblical criticism. 8 Like earlier discussions, recent studies fall along abroad interpretative continuums: accepting it unreservedly; questioning the contents of the text, but not the circumstances or reality of the discovery; concentrating on its possible effect on the reforms that reportedly followed; doubting that these reforms ever took place; etc. 7 It should be understood that my argument does not apply to those who suggest that the book was produced under Josiah and might have been brought to public attention in this way to clothe it with the sanction of antiquity, since they posit no long period of occultation or incubation. Even so, contemporaries would have found themselves asking some of the same questions I ask here. This brings up a further issue, not discussed here: would the author/s of Kings and Chronicles not have seen the discrepancies in these accounts as noted here? If they did, was their response simply to press on, regarding the accounts as both true and miraculous? Is it wrong then to suggest, as I did above, that we ought to assume certain similarities in ‘rational’ responses to arising exigencies between moderns and ancients? If it is wrong, then where are our warrants to believe anything at all in the Biblical text? 8 As R. H. Lowery, The Reforming Kings: Cults and Society in First Temple Judah (Sheffield, 1991), 190, put it: “[i]f laid end to end, the scholarly pages written about Josiah’s reform might well reach to the moon. Much has been written, because interpreters long have recognized that in Josiah’s reform lies the key to Deuteronomy, and in Deuteronomy lies the key to much of the Old Testament.”

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Most regard this as one of the crucial moments in the Biblical story, and are loath to interrogate the meaning and implications of the account by asking awkward questions. Whatever the case, the discovery is treated surprisingly gingerly. Roughly speaking, it is possible to discern in the relevant literature a continuum of at least five attitudes toward this story, which I label blind acceptance/paraphrasis (yes, because this is what the Bible says); defended acceptance (yes, but with justifications); unconcerned/oblivious (maybe, maybe not, but it doesn’t really matter); dubious (could have been, but probably was not); and reflexive rejection (no way!). 9 The wellsprings of the first are self-evident: whatever the Biblical text says is ipso facto true in every possible respect. This view is probably less popular than it once was, but is hardly without a following. It tends to surface in seminary journals or Biblical dictionaries, which typically prefer to elucidate rather than contradict and are reluctant to sow doubt and confusion. But not always. An interesting outlier is T. C. Mitchell’s discussion in the second edition of the Cambridge Ancient History. Aimed at an audience that is probably unfamiliar with the terms of the debate, or even that there is a debate, Mitchell’s account follows the Biblical account slavishly, if implicitly: “Suffice it to say that the description of its discovery and use suggests that at the time it had the appearance of age, being immediately accepted as authoritative . . . It is unlikely, therefore, to have been a recent compilation expressly placed in order to be found, pseudo-accidentally, soon after its deposit.” 10 Defended acceptance displays an awareness that possibly legitimate alternative opinions exist and need to be dealt with, and is typified by Iain Provan’s discussion of the matter. Provan argues that “the impression [sic] throughout Kings [is] that [‘the book of the law’] was available to the various rulers of Israel and Judah” who preceded Josiah and who had the opportunity to follow its tenets. 11 For Provan, the book’s disappearance was 9 A possible sixth position would be not to address the occasion at all; for my purposes I include this under the unconcerned/oblivious rubric. 10 T. C. Mitchell, “Judah until the Fall of Jerusalem (c. 700–586 B.C.)” in CAH2 III/2 (Cambridge, 1991), 388. Mitchell cites no sources other than the Bible for his description. 11 Iain Provan, 1 and 2 Kings (Peabody MA, 1995), 271. This somewhat peculiar way of saying things reflects, if implicitly, the uncongenial fact that this is the very first mention of such a text. Undaunted, Provan continues (emphasis in original): “Whether Hilkiah really found it, of course, or whether his choice of words is dictated by a desire to remain distanced from it until he discovers how Manasseh’s

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“a recent event”; perhaps it had been secreted during the reign of Manasseh (ca. 697–642), no more than two generations previously. The procedure in these cases is not simply to assert, but to defend claims by way of hypothesizing that certain things (must have) happened that tend to lend credibility to the story as told. Christof Hardmeier also has a hypothesis, albeit a different one: “Moses’ torah book could only be found again in the course of the temple refurbishment (2 Kings 22.3–8) if this book was lost on the construction site before the completion of the temple.” 12 Nadav Na’aman suggests that “an old inscription,” which he believes existed in some profusion, was discovered during Josiah’s repairs and was somehow transformed into “the book of the law,” the metamorphosis occurring almost immediately. Na’aman does not speculate how. 13 The third category—unconcerned/oblivious—is by far the most common in the literature. Discursively, it has virtually no boundaries, consisting of passing references to the occasion more or less as described in the Biblical text in a matter-of-fact throwaway manner; as Mark A. O’Brien bluntly put it, “[t]he question of whether the book was actually discovered in the temple during repairs . . . need not concern us here.” 14 This approach might even be termed an as-if one, in which readers are not quite told what the authors believe, because whether a discovery did or did not happen as specified is seldom seen to be a crucial part of the arguments. 15 Any mengrandson will react, must remain open to question. The circumstances in which it “comes to light” are entirely veiled in mystery.” Quite so. 12 C. Hardmeier, “King Josiah in the Climax of the Deuteronomic History (2 Kings 22–23) and the Pre-Deuteronomic Document of a Cult Reform at the Place of Residence (23–4–15*): Criticism of Sources, Reconstruction of Literary PreStages and the Theology of History in 2 Kings 22–23” in Good Kings and Bad Kings, 130, 135–36, with emphasis added. 13 Na’aman, “Royal Inscriptions,” 343. See as well, Antti Laato, Josiah and David Redivivus (Stockholm, 1993), 46. Simon B. Parker, “Did the Authors of the Books of Kings Make Use of Royal Inscriptions?” VT 50 (2000), 357–78, takes issue with the notion that royal inscriptions were a standard form of documentation at the period. The fact that none have survived allows almost any argument to be made about their use or non-use without fear of refutation. 14 Mark A. O’Brien, The Deuteronomistic History Hypothesis: a Reassessment (Freiburg, 1989), 239–40 n.41 15 A good case in point is Gösta Ahlström, who, in his History of Ancient Palestine (Sheffield, 1993), 770–75, first conceded that the story “may be fictional” and then proceeded to make arguments that assume that it was not.

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tion serves only as token prolegomena for discussing concerns of greater moments recorded in the Biblical text as happening—or not happening—as a result of the discovery. The discovery itself is often studiously ignored, as if somehow inconsequential to assessing the larger issues of the case. The skeptical position is the most complex of these five, and the most common outside evangelical circles whose adherents actually venture an opinion. It can be expressed by anything from a few tactically-placed quotation marks to a full-barreled argument. 16 Qualifying, and perhaps distancing, phrases like “[i]t is reported that” or “[a]ccording to” can leave the reader in doubt as to the position of the author, if any. More straightforwardly, it automatically includes all those who regard the story as (in Garbini’s words) “a literary expedient.” 17 Reasons for doubt include the found-manuscript motif, the striking similarity to the earlier account regarding Joash, or the belief that Deuteronomy was written after Josiah’s reign. 18 Any position of caution is unquestionably the most justifiable, since it will never be possible to learn more about the finding of the book than we already know, which is not quite enough to believe in it. The fifth category, reflexive rejection, is more or less just a technical rubric. It is the mirror image of the fundamentalist stance; in this case the story cannot be true precisely because it is part of the Biblical text. This dogmatic argument probably has even less substance than the fundamentalist position, which is at least based on textual matter. It can exist, but is only very infrequently mooted. The first and last positions depend on reflexive belief and unbelief, and to address them would only be to arrogate them beyond the respective credibilities. I would place my own point of view somewhere between Positions 4 and 5, since it comes with an argument that the story is wildly implausible, but also that this alone does not render it incontrovertibly untrue. To do more would be to advance well beyond the safety of the available evidence. 16 That is, they could bracket “book” or “discovery” or “found.” In each case this could convey a message, but not entirely the same message, to readers 17 Giovanni Garbini, Myth and History in the Bible (Sheffield, 2003), 64. 18 Among others, A. D. H. Mayes, Deuteronomy (Greenwood SC, 1979), 90–91, 100–03; K. L. Noll, Canaan and Israel in Antiquity: an Introduction (Sheffield, 2001), 230–36; Römer, “Transformations,” 50–55; idem., The So-Called Deuteronomistic History: a Sociological, Historical, and Literary Introduction (London, 2005), 50–55; Barrick, Kings and Cemeteries, 111–35.

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Whatever the position taken, disputation about this narrative has tended to follow literary rather than historical approaches and conventions, and is more concerned with what was found or concocted rather than whether it was found. In contrast, it is the latter question that concerns me here. I raise several questions that spring to mind when considering the Biblical report of the finding, but I don’t think that these can be answered. 19 My fundamental premise is that in both content and context, the story of the finding should arouse suspicion in the minds even of those with the most embryonic sense of the incongruous. 20 In short, it is a pragmaticallycentered approach focusing on the evidence rather than a literary or theological one, and is not at all concerned with anything that occurred after the purported discovery was brought to Josiah’s attention. It will be clear that I share K. L. Noll’s assessment that this account is “a very odd tale.” 21

IV. THE BIBLICAL TEXT AND ITS IMPLICATIONS The preferred version, that in 2 Kings 22:8–11, runs as follows: Hilkiah the high priest said to Shaphan the scribe, “I have found the book of the Teaching in the House of YHWH.” Hilkiah gave the book to Shaphan and he read it . . . Then Shaphan the scribe told the king, “Hilkiah the priest gave me a book,” and Shaphan read it before the king. When the king heard the words of the book of the Teaching, he rent his garments. . . 22

19 Caetano Minette de Tillesse did discuss several incongruities in the discovery account—although not the one treated here—and concluded that the account was “not the official record of a historical event, but a literary and theological construction invented from whole cloth by the Deuteronomist” and was based on the Joash model, with Jeremiah 36 serving as an “anti-model” for parts of it. See Minette de Tillesse, “Joiaqim, repoussoir de ‘Pieux’ Josias: parallélismes entre II Reg 22 et Jer 36,” ZAW 105 (1993), 371, 375. 20 Lowell K. Handy almost addresses this point in his “Historical Probability and the Narrative of Josiah’s Reform in 2 Kings” in The Pitcher is Broken. Memorial Essays for Gösta Ahlström, ed. Steven W. Holloway and Lowell K. Handy (Sheffield, 2005), 254–55. 21 Noll, Canaan and Israel in Antiquity, 230. 22 A slightly different account, generally deemed to be derivative and embellished, is in 2 Chronicles 34:14–24, where an early attempt seems to have been made to add persuasive detail to the more exiguous account in 2 Kings. See, e.g., Isaac Kalimi, The Reshaping of Ancient Israelite History in Chronicles (Winona Lake IN,

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Given the purported magnitude of the occasion, this text is surprisingly, even astonishingly, brief and unilluminating, almost cryptic, beginning in medias res, with not the slightest attempt at verisimilitude. Moreover, the verse specifying the discovery is clearly intrusive—a narrative barnacle. All this makes it hard to understand why so many find this account unproblematic as narrative. Yet they do. Martin Noth suggested that it was “probably based on an official record of this important event,” thus awarding it serious documentary status. 23 Robert L. Cohn is uncompromising, indeed complacent: “. . . every step of the transmission of the news [of the discovery] is chronicled.” 24 Unfortunately, the crucial first step—the critical transformation from unawareness to awareness—is not “chronicled” at all. The simple testimony that Hilkiah “found” the text in question naturally encourages interested parties to wonder exactly what “found” means. 25 Was Hilkiah skulking around the construction site and spied the text lying unnoticed in some rubble? 26 Where would it have been for this to happen, and why did the workers not see it themselves—and report it—first? Maybe the workers did make the first discovery, but we are not told this—the recorded “transmission” process begins only with Hilkiah, who then showed it to the (head?) scribe, and they went off to show it to Josiah—apparently all in short order,

2005), 370–71, where the text is briefly treated without any attempt to suggest motivation. If details increased in 2 Chronicles, this did not correlatively improve plausibility, but the slightly different chronology offered there would have the effect of validating an existing reform agenda rather than generating a new one. 23 Martin Noth, The Deuteronomistic History (Sheffield, 1981), 73. 24 Robert L. Cohn, 2 Kings (Collegeville MN, 2000), 153. 25 And the wondering is rampant. One of the most recent fantasy scenarios is that of Richard E. Rubenstein, Thus Saith the Lord: the Revolutionary Moral Vision of Isaiah and Jeremiah (Orlando, 2006), 97: “a Book of the Law was found wedged into a cranny of an old wall . . .” 26 Arguing from silence, Oded Lipschits, “On Cash-Boxes and Finding or Not Finding Books: Jehoash’s and Josiah’s Decisions to Repair the Temple” in Essays on Ancient Israel in Its near Eastern Context: a Tribute to Nadav Na’aman, eds. Yairah Amit , Ehud Ben Zvi, Israel Finkelstein and Oded Lipschits. (Winona lake IN, 2006), 240– 41, thinks that the author of 2 Kings meant to tell us that the book was discovered even before repairs had begun, a hypothesis that seems especially implausible, despite his further argument that no book could have been discovered under Joash because that ruler undertook no repairs as such, but only finalized a system by which these could be carried out efficiently.

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but long enough that each was able to read the document—or perhaps only parts of it. Other peculiarities characterize this exiguous text. It leaves the impression that Hilkiah recognized the contents immediately—but how? Did he know that such a text had once existed—if so, again, how? Did the text come with a title? Or had at least some of the wording been orally preserved for whatever period of time was involved? If the last, why had there been no sustained search for the original text? Or why weren’t spoken words turned into written ones? If Hilkiah could recognize the text so easily, how was it that Judah had drifted so far from the prescribed law code? And why the great surprise and consternation when it—finally—surfaced?

V. WHEN WAS THE BOOK LOST? Although most regard the chief consequence of the discovery as a revivification of the Mosaic law, some also use the story to give a much-needed boost to claims that writing had existed in Israel for several centuries, thereby allowing for some or most of the so-called historical books to have been written up to several centuries before the reign of Josiah, perhaps even contemporaneous with the events they describe. If the account of the ‘discovery’ is judged to be trustworthy, any claims to its—and by extension the historical books’—being both authentic and reliable would be measurably enhanced, even if a bit circular. While not entirely implausible, this argument endemically suffers from the handicap of lacking any evidence that is not inferential. As Provan reluctantly implies, we have no information as to when the book might have gone ‘missing.’ 27 We could assume, for instance, that it— or a predecessor—had existed since well before the United Monarchy, or we might assume instead that it was a product of the golden age of David and Solomon. Or any other time before or after. I choose a few specific occasions about which to speculate, although it doesn’t really matter, since the problems that arise are relevant to any period chosen. Taking the indirect testimony in 2 Kings 23:22 as their guide, some attribute the disappearance to the time of the Judges, or 400 years or more 27 As noted, there is not a shred of evidence that any “book of the law” spent even a moment housed in the Temple before being “found” there. Although the Ark of the Covenant is prominently mentioned in respect to Solomon’s dedication of the Temple, no “book” is, itself suspicious unless there was nothing about which to report.

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before Josiah by Biblical chronology. 28 If this were the case, how did the book get into the Temple a century or so later under Solomon, a view widely shared, although with no explicit Biblical evidence? It seems that this particular argument suffers from a surfeit of handicaps. No less inexplicably, the Bible relates that only a few years after Solomon’s death, the Egyptian ruler Shoshenq exacted tribute from Solomon’s son Rehoboam, and that this amounted to “everything” in the Temple. 29 Was this “everything” in a generic, and possibly not literal exact sense, or was it “every thing?” We have no way of knowing, and it could even be that Shoshenq found this scroll onsite, but thought it not resplendent enough to qualify as treasure and left it behind. But if there had been secure hiding places in the Temple, then we might expect that some of the paraphernalia would have been secreted there so that “everything” would not have been removed by the Egyptians. But would these not have been restored to their rightful places once the Egyptian forces retreated? By the time of the reign of Joash, another century later, the fabric of the Temple had apparently deteriorated and the Bible credits Joash with undertaking its refurbishment. We assume, ex hypothesi and pace Shoshenq, that the book and the Ark still reposed somewhere in the Temple in Joash’s time, either in plain sight or at least routinely available to the priesthood for cultic purposes. Although, once again, it is not mentioned in the Biblical account of this renovation. Some have argued that during these repairs— the first recorded—the book somehow fell into some crevice or another, and became a former-day cask of amontillado by being mortared up. 30 Another hypothesis, possibly the most common, is that the text did not disappear until it was hidden away during the reign of Manasseh to save it from his paradigmatically godless attentions. 31 This too is not entirely implausible on its own terms, and it minimizes the time during which the book would have been hors de combat. It would also help explain why it was apparently readily recognized by Hilkiah and Shaphan the scribe, who might well have been alive to see it before it vanished. What remains unexplained in this argument is how it could have escaped Manasseh’s mercies in order E.g., D. J. Wiseman, 1 and 2 Kings: an Introduction and Commentary (Downers Grove IL, 1993), 293–96; Hardmeier, “King Josiah,” 135–56. 29 1 Kings 14:25–28; 1 Chronicles 12:1–12 30 E.g., Lipschits, “Cash-Books,” 239–54. 31 Among others, Provan, 1 and 2 Kings, 271, and Walter Wifall, The Court History of Josiah: a Commentary on First and Second Kings (St. Louis, 1975), 179–80. 28

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to survive at all. 32 Provan thinks that it “is not a book that [Manasseh] would want to have in the temple. Nor would the priests have wished to provoke him by leaving it there.” 33 While obvious and reasonable, this seems oddly stated (and prompts a response of “so . . ?”). It conjures up a preternaturally docile Manasseh, even though Biblical descriptions of his actions carry a much different message. It also raises the question of what an alternative site might have been. Was it hidden outside the Temple during Manasseh’s (and Amon’s?) reign, only to be hidden inside the Temple again when Josiah came to the throne just two years after Manasseh’s death? But why? And if hidden inside the Temple, how could Manasseh have failed to discover it? It seems unlikely that the Manasseh of the Biblical record would have been content to let this “book of the law”—a potential tool against his regime—remain hidden throughout his long reign if he had designs on it. And it seems even more unlikely that he would not have had designs on it— if it existed. Surely, Manasseh would ruthlessly have sought out the text in the Temple, and could have brought forth sufficient resources to uncover anything that might have been hidden in a structure of finite dimensions and architectural complexity or even, one might rightly conjecture, anywhere else in the small kingdom. The notion that he could not, would not, and did not do this flies in the face of any sensible interpretation of the Biblical account of his reign, character, and resources. 34 Still, for the sake of the overall argument, we surmise that Manasseh had no designs on the text after all, but that devout Judahites secreted it anyway, fearing otherwise. This would help explain why Manasseh did not track it down and destroy it, but probably does so at the expense of common sense. But, as noted, even if this latter contingency were the case, a second complication exists: how did the “book of the law” get back into the Temple, and why did the rediscovery or rescue not take place until some twenty years after Manasseh’s death, long after it would have become clear that the new ruler Josiah would respect and protect the ‘hidden’ text. And why, After all, only a few years later Jehoiakim is reported as having had no compunction about publicly destroying a text he found inimical to his interests. Jeremiah 36:21–23. 33 Provan, 1 and 2 Kings, 271. 34 There have been modern efforts to rehabilitate Manasseh (see below), but that hardly affects the course of the Biblical account as it stands, which is the position of the present discussion. 32

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when it finally did happen, was the discovery—if we trust the Biblical account—in the nature of an accident? Could all parties really have forgotten about such a crucial text so quickly? All these suggestions raise the same set of questions. The first concerns the lack of follow-up by the priestly authorities if this, or something like it, happened. Would not the text have been consulted routinely and frequently, perhaps even on a daily basis, to resolve issues as they arose? After all, it is usually held to have been the guiding legal authority for unadulterated Mosaic law and, if so, it would hardly have been relegated to the margins had it actually existed in physical, usable form. 35 It is reasonable, although not demonstrable, that its disappearance would not have—could not have—gone unnoticed for longer than a very short time. And, if in fact it had disappeared around any of the particular times noted, the authorities were without its guidance for as much as four hundred years—another fact not alluded to in the Biblical text at all. 36 If the relevant authorities were really surprised by its discovery, it implies two things. First, that any concealment had occurred at least a couple of generations before it was found, and, second, that existed no other means existed to preserve its contents over time. This brings up another puzzle: given its central importance and assuming a certain degree of elite, even commoner literacy—as so many do—would it not have been likely that there would have been more than a single copy of the text? Thus, if one copy had truly disappeared and could not be found, there would be at least one proxy copy, and a further replacement copy would then be taken in train, so that at all times there would be two copies extant, and known to be extant by those who needed to know. 37

35 This leads to further questions such as: while the text was ‘missing,’ how was legal business conducted? Did the relevant authorities lapse into an oral frame of discourse, trying to remember its contents, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing? If so, why would they have found this so sufficient that they made no serious efforts to redeem the situation by ferreting out the arrant text? 36 Indeed, a further question would be: why, if the “book of the law” was a physical object that disappeared at some point, is there no mention of this fairly cataclysmic event anywhere in the Old Testament? 37 That is pretty much what Jeremiah is reported (Jeremiah 36:32) to have done in quick response to Jehoiakim’s burning of the text mentioned in note 32 above.

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VI. HOW COULD THE BOOK REMAINED LOST? No theory of the text’s disappearance adequately explains the timing of, and the reaction to, its re/discovery. If it was “the book of the law,” it was simply too important to lie undiscovered for generation after generation. If it was not the book of the law, then such non-occurrence would be more plausible, but would also mean that we are wasting our time imagining its contents and effects. If, however, the “discovery” was either fabricated onsite, or later, when 2 Kings and 2 Chronicles were written or re-written, there is no connection with the distant past, and any notion of preserving the “Mosaic law” disappears. Rather than being too saturnine too soon, let us consider scenarios in which the discovery would be as accidental and astonishing as it was portrayed, and the contents were as moderns tend to speculate—some or all of Deuteronomy, bequeathed unchanged and unchanging from the tenth century or before until late in the seventh century. One way to effect this would simply be to assume that, once the book got itself lost, no one cared and it was allowed to pass the centuries behind brick and mortar, presumably without deteriorating physically in the process. Another possibility would be that at some point right-thinking authorities absconded with the book for safety and then later on returned it to the Temple, only to hide it again. A third possibility would be that Hilkiah and his contemporaries were expecting to find something other than the book of the law—hence their surprise. If all these suggestions seem inadequate to readers, they seem no less inadequate to me. A fourth possibility, advanced by Jack Lundbom and others, is that only a small portion of Deuteronomy, as we know it, was found, because “[i]t is very difficult to believe that a document of this size [Deuteronomy in its entirety] and importance could possibly get lost in the temple archives.” 38 By this reasoning, belief in the discovery also requires believing that “the book of the law” in question was miniscule in size. Lundbom does not explain how the discovery of a small part of the book of the law would excite such a feverish response and generate the reforms that allegedly resulted, nor how only part of the book could have been lost and not been 38 Jack R. Lundbom, “The Lawbook of the Josianic Reform,” CBQ 38 (1976), 295. Lundbom thinks it was Deut. 32. This too is a peculiar way to phrase things; archives generally become archives by being controlled and preserved for a specific purpose—later consultation—and their contents are less likely to go astray, regardless of their size.

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noticed—a singularly unlikely contingency. Or where the rest of Deuteronomy was. In effect, he is constrained by his own sense of implausibility to seek a solution for which there is not the slightest credible evidence—not least for any “archives.” Three alternative hypotheses make better sense of the extremely limited evidence. Hypothesis 1 is that Hilkiah—possibly alone, possibly with the assistance of others—created such a book out of whole cloth and convinced Josiah that it was an artefact hailing from the distant past. If Josiah was looking for an excuse for reform, he would have been happy to accept this providential sign. He would have needed to turn a blind eye to the fact that what he was presented with could not have looked (paleography, grammar, physical appearance) ‘old’ enough to be the Mosaic “book of the law.” Hypothesis 2 is that no book was required—and none was found—to set the long-awaited reforms in motion, but merely the claim of its existence, antiquity and contents. Finally, hypothesis 3 is that the Biblical writers conjured up this story sometime later to ‘explain’ Josiah’s belated call to action after such a long interim of ungodliness under his father and grandfather, as well as his own indifference for as long as eighteen years. 39 Still and all, given the number of “bad” kings recorded in the Old Testament, the very survival of any “book of the law” needs to be questioned. If we take the Bible at its word in this regard, almost every ruler strayed— often very far indeed—from the purported Mosaic law, presumably codified in this very text. Why did these rulers not arrange to have such a book, which condemned their activities by its very existence, destroyed? Even if it had been hidden away, its existence would have been fairly common knowledge, at least for a while. In sum then, if there really had been a “book of the law” in continuous existence, whether or not continuously visible, it would not have—almost could not have—surfaced as late as it did. We can only conclude, along with many others, even if using different ar39 This last solution is proportionately weaker for those who follow the chronology of 2 Chronicles, which attribute Josiah with several fewer years of indifference. Giovanni Garbini suggests that these eighteen years were occupied by an Ammonite usurper named Hananel. Garbini, “Biblical Philology and North-West Semitic Epigraphy: How Do They Contribute to Israelite History Writing?” in Recenti tendenze nella ricostruzione della storia antica d’Israele (Rome, 2005), 125–28. The evidence Garbini adduces seems slim, but it would be unfair not to point out that instances of damnatio memoriae are included in historical sources ranging from preHan China to the Aztecs to precolonial Africa. But where was Josiah during this interregnum? Or wasn’t he the son of Amon after all?

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guments, that its fortuitous appearance coincided with a particular need at the time to provide justification for the Josianic reforms, which, after all, prominently featured, possibly unpopularly, the centralizing of royal authority. Creating it then—or creating a later memory of it—would make perfectly good political and ideological sense, even if this notion undermines the probability that other Biblical books harkened back several centuries before Josiah.

VII. BELIEVING THE IMPLAUSIBLE I have looked at the story of the discovery of the book of the law in one respect only—its plausibility as measured against the Biblical narrative regarding its prior existence. Admittedly, this approach is not without its own problems. After all, the historical record is littered with stories of incidents and events that fall somewhere between implausible and impossible, and these must be doubted ipso facto—otherwise there would be no point in making such distinctions, even diagnostically. Nor should it be presumed that implausible and impossible are virtual synonyms. Take the case of the assassination of the Nepalese royal family in 2001. Ten members were killed by the crown prince, who then shot himself, only to die a few days later. During those few days, however, he was duly recognized as the legitimate sovereign and, when he died, he was succeeded by an uncle who had reigned briefly over fifty years earlier. 40 If such an account had appeared in a single source—say, the Bible—it would have been rightly laughed out of court. But it is true, and we know it is true because the evidence converges and overwhelms. But for that, we would have the obligation to doubt. Nor are notions of plausibility timeless—hundreds of things that were once universally believed are now doubted or disbelieved. Nor are they culture-specific as such. Rather, they are basically individual-specific, although individuals sharing the same broad spectrum of experiences are likely to agree that certain ranges of phenomena are either plausible or implausible, while at the same time regarding other ranges variously, based on their personal experiences and personal hard-wiring. That said, I have no trouble in maintaining that the likelihood that any “book of the law” lay unnoticed in the bowels of the Temple for any period of time is . . . remarkably implausible, and nothing less. See David Henige, “The Implausibility of Plausibility/The Plausibility of Implausibility,” Historical Reflections 30 (2004), 311–35, for a more extended discussion of this bizarre episode. 40

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Others take a radically different approach to the warrants, not only of this particular story, but of all Biblical testimony that seems unlikely to modern minds. Iain Provan nicely encapsulates this point of view regarding sources from the past, a view that quite common: There is no good reason, . . . to believe that just because a testimony does not violate our sense of what is normal and possible, it is more likely to be true than one which does, nor that an account which describes the unique or unusual is for that reason to be suspected of unreliability. 41

Much could be said about this viewpoint much, since a comforting and covering—but also insidious—epistemology is so industriously at work. By tactically conceding one point, and an obvious and expedient one at that, Provan retains the prerogative of not conceding one that is far more important in the world of Biblical scholarship. Contra Provan, and numberless others, any account that describes “unique or unusual” circumstances is nothing less than an invitation to “suspect,” and therefore to inquire further, which is the preferred outcome of suspicion. And when the account is—by our own collective human experience—so implausible as to verge on the impossible, then we must not only suspect but doubt—even, although always reluctantly and provisionally, disbelieve. In the meantime I suggest that it always pays to look both ways before crossing a busy street. Bereft of persuasive detail and innocent of explication, the Biblical account of the discovery attributes unimaginable carelessness, followed by unimaginable indifference, to the priestly and royal elements of Judahite society. Just the same, it has the decided advantage of transcending all the problems usually associated with the transmission of texts over long periods of time. Words are evanescent, and a physical object is subject to decay and loss through prolonged exposure or heavy usage. But if that object had been lying out of sight, and therefore out of danger, then its contents can be held not only to be old, but to be unchanged as well—a doubly-desirable denouement. Despite its deftness in dealing with these issues, the discovery Iain Provan, “In the Stable with the Dwarves: Testimony, Interpretation, Faith, and the History of Israel” in IOSOT Volume Oslo 1998 (Leiden, 2000), 299– 300. This argument, the so-called appeal to ignorance (argumentum ad ignorantiam) is prominent in all fields of inquiry since it greases the skids for accepting otherwise unverified evidence. For pros and cons of this fallacy see Douglas Walton, Arguments from Ignorance (University Park PA, 1996). 41

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story is far too propitious to be treated as the real thing without serious reservations.

VIII. UNPLEASANT ALTERNATIVES However we care to interpret these Biblical passages, only three possibilities exist: an old manuscript was actually discovered; a new manuscript was created and ‘found’; nothing was found, but the episode became part of a later etiological confabulation. By the first interpretation, surprise might have been mingled with relief because Hilkiah (at least) could have known that the text in question had been missing in action for an undetermined time, even though apparently no efforts to locate it had been made, or had been so feeble that they had been totally ineffective. In fact, the irony—or the paradox—is that the more we accept the larger Biblical account as accurate, the greater the implausibilities like this that we must assign to this story. 42 This has typically been addressed by accepting certain parts of the account while rejecting others—for example, as noted above, some feel that the object in question was only a small portion of Deuteronomy, although apparently just the very part that would rouse the royal household and priestly caste and stimulate their members to further reforms, a kind of textual prodigal son. The second alternative, as Stott and others have shown, is so widespread that it cannot be ruled out on faith-based grounds alone. There is no evidentiary argument that can safely include it or exclude it, however desirable either alternative might be. The most plausible scenario in this particular alternative world—at least given the tenor of the Biblical account— would be that Hilkiah and/or Shaphan concocted the deception and beguiled Josiah into believing it, he being more credulous than the inquisitive child mentioned above, since we have to assume that some of the arguments offered here would also have occurred to anyone who was about to become involved in the ramifications of the discovery. The third alternative is simply that this story is just that—a story— devised at some later point to explain why Deuteronomy was both Mosaic However, if it is true that Manasseh was not the wicked paradigm described in the Bible—as many scholars now argue—then those in attendance on such an occasion would not have needed to ask themselves how any book antithetical to his regime had survived his long reign. For one recent rehabilitation of Manasseh see Francesca Stavrakopoulou, King Manasseh and Child Sacrifice: Biblical Distortions of Historical Realities (Berlin, 2004). 42

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and canonical. This alternative does not require any on-the-spot duplicity or credulity, merely a later interpolation that made these seem as if they were in play. In many ways this is the most economical explanation, as well as the most plausible. The creation of stories about the past that have no basis in fact has been far, far more widespread than even the ‘found manuscript’ topos, occurring again and again from time immemorial to the present and indefinitely beyond. 43 Choosing from among these is hardly incumbent on any of us, although a surprising number have opted for the first choice for simplicity’s sake, but, as I have argued, what works for simplicity does not always work for plausibility. Still, deciding not to choose requires some justification as well; the present discussion has as its purpose to circumscribe the kinds of justification that can reasonably be deployed. Even so, looking at the pragmatics of the case, rather than its linguistics or its theological agenda, leads inexorably to a single conclusion. The story of the finding of the “book of the law” in the Temple during the eighteenth year of the reign of Josiah of Judah was a post-facto fabrication designed to lend legitimacy to the reforms being carried out at the time or to justify them retrospectively. To put it another way, it is more likely that the content of the text—whenever there actually came to be a text—conformed to the tenor of any reforms than the contrary.

IX CONCLUSION The story of the discovery of “the book of the law” has proved congenial to those inclined to believe in the essential historicity of as much of the Biblical narrative as possible. It is not hard to see why. It not only provides the opportunity to accept the early textual development of one particular book, but it also allows us to extrapolate that premise to all the other books of the Old Testament that relate to earlier times. If one book could be ‘discovered’ intact after a long period of dormancy, could not other books have been preserved in the same way? In fact, it would be almost obligatory to assume this fortunate case. Thus the discovery account serves, and rather effecFor one example close to home, see Louis H. Feldman, Studies in Josephus’ Rewritten Bible (Leiden, 1998). Normally we are left with only the bastardized latest version of a text, but just because we cannot make comparisons is no reason to assume that the original and derivative texts are identical or even very similar. Imagine how different arguments would be if we were forced to reconstruct the history of Judah and Israel solely on the basis of Josephus’ account. 43

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tively, as a deus ex machina. Those who accept the discovery story at face value need only to speculate on the contents that so exercised the royal court. Those who imagine a newly-minted text retain a vestigial interest in this, but the question becomes less interesting as the content becomes less ancient. Finally, of course, those who attribute the story to later times need neither occasion nor content, because there was no physical object—no text—in the time of Josiah or before—and maybe after as well. Stanley Ned Rosenbaum considers the notion that the book of the law was “planted” to be an “uncharitable” one. 44 Maybe so, maybe not. But critical historiography is not an eleemosynary enterprise that takes its sources—any of its sources—as read, and that routinely grants the benefit of the doubt presumptively. Its sole purpose is to establish, by the best means available, an interpretative structure that, like the little pig’s brick house, is as invulnerable to assault as possible. First and last, historians are servants of the evidence—and not of any confessional beliefs.

44 Stanley Ned Rosenbaum, Understanding Israelite History: a Reexamination of the Origins of Monotheism (Macon GA, 2000), 284.

IN CONVERSATION WITH ODED LIPSCHITS,

THE FALL AND RISE OF JERUSALEM

(WINONA LAKE, IND.: EISENBRAUNS, 2005) DAVID VANDERHOOFT (ED.) BOSTON COLLEGE

1. David Vanderhooft, Introduction 2. Rainer Albertz, A Response to Oded Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem: Judah under Babylonian Rule, Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2005 3. Tamara Cohn Eskenazi, Reflections on Oded Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem 4. Gary N. Knoppers, The Demise of Jerusalem, the De-urbanization of Judah, and the Ascent of Benjamin: Reflections on Oded Lipschits’ The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem 5. Daniel M. Master, Comments on Oded Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem 6. H. G. M. Williamson, Comments on Oded Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem 7. Oded Lipschits, The Babylonian Period in Judah: In Search of the Half Full Cup

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INTRODUCTION DAVID S. VANDERHOOFT, GUEST EDITOR BOSTON COLLEGE

I am very pleased to serve as guest editor for this number of the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures. During the November, 2005 Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in Philadelphia, a book review panel occupied one of the sessions of the “Literature and History of the Persian Period” group. The book under review was Oded Lipschits’s The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem: Judah under Babylonian Rule (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2005). The book represents a significant contribution to study not only of the Babylonian period, but also of the following Persian era. At the suggestion of Professor Ehud Ben Zvi (University of Alberta), the editor of the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures, the reviews are presented here to a wider audience, and I thank him for his willingness to publish them. Even before the book appeared in print, five eminent scholars graciously agreed to serve as panelists for the SBL session. They are, in the order of their appearance in the session, Professor Hugh Williamson (Oxford University), Professor Daniel Master (Wheaton College, Wheaton, IL), Professor Rainer Albertz (Münster), Professor Gary Knoppers (Pennsylvania State University), and Professor Tamara Cohn Eskenazi (Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion, California). The response of Prof. Lipschits (Tel Aviv University) is also included below. All of these scholars are to be thanked for their original willingness to offer their reviews to the scholarly community just as the book appeared in print, and again now in this edition of the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures. They are also especially to be congratulated for their collegiality, incisiveness, and determination to make the SBL session both a valuable exchange of ideas and a venue for meaningful conversation. Jim Eisenbraun also deserves thanks for his willingness to distribute electronic versions of the book to the panelists before its appearance in print. The peril in publishing such reviews as they were delivered is twofold: the remarks themselves were crafted for oral presentation to an audience that had not yet had the opportunity to engage the book. The reviews there23

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fore tend to be rather more informal and conversational in tone than a normal book review. Second, the oral remarks presume, in a way the written ones cannot, a lively personal setting in which the exchange of ideas is calibrated with a view to looking one’s interlocutor in the eye. Nothing can be done to recreate the latter setting. With respect to the informal aspect of the remarks, the panelists took the opportunity to reshape their remarks slightly for print, and occasionally to add a footnote or reference. I think, in any case, that the benefits of making the results available outweigh the costs. I would like also to thank John Wright (Point Loma Nazarene University), the previous program unit chair, for suggesting the idea of reviewing Lipschits’ book and for presiding over session. The large audience that attended the SBL session reinforced by their presence the fact of renewed interest in the period of the late Iron Age and the Persian Period. Lipschits’s book opens up new angles of research that others must follow or refine in future analyses of these periods. In his effort to range across numerous disciplinary boundaries—historical, archaeological, epigraphic, textual—he also displays a model for historical scholarship that deserves emulation. The reviews that follow, in any case, give evidence of the successes, limits, and remaining questions that Lipschits’s book offers.

A RESPONSE TO ODED LIPSCHITS, THE FALL AND RISE OF JERUSALEM: JUDAH UNDER BABYLONIAN RULE, WINONA LAKE:

EISENBRAUNS, 2005 * RAINER ALBERTZ

WESTFÄLISCHEN WILHELMS-UNIVERSITÄT, MÜNSTER As someone who has written a book on the exilic period a few years ago (Israel in Exile, 2004, German ed., 2001), I recognize the enormous difficulties in reconstructing a period for which we have so little historical data. Oded Lipschits is extremely well trained for this difficult task. He is one of the few scholars who is not only a distinguished expert of Israelite archaeology, but also a learned historian of the ancient Near East and even a well trained Biblical scholar who can deal with the biblical text in a sophisticated manner. Therefore, he is able to offer the reader three different approaches. The book consists of two historical chapters (pp. 1–133), two archaeological chapters (pp. 134–271) and one exegetical chapter (pp. 272–359), each of them showing a high academic standard. With regard to the notes, which often cover half or even more of the page, Lipschits’s book even tops many German academic studies, sometimes ridiculed for being too sophisticated. How happy I would have been if I had received this book 10 years earlier, when I wrote the historical chapters of my study! As a Biblical scholar, I looked longingly for archaeological surveys and demographic calculations for Judah in the 6th century, but I was not very successful. In most archaeo* Editor’s Note: These remarks also formed the basis for his review of Oded Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem: Judah under Babylonian Rule (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2005) that was published online in the Review of Biblical Literature (2006). http://bookreviews.org/pdf/50665512.pdf. They are reprinted here in a modified form with permission.

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logical reports I read, the Babylonian period was left out. And I am happy to hear now from Lipschits: “Archaeologists generally have not focused their attention on the period when Babylon ruled Israel” (p. 185). So it was not only my fault. It is now Lipschits who is able to present to us the material culture along with detailed demographic calculations for Judah in the 6th century and beyond. I think, therefore, that the main merit of this book is to draw a much more well-founded, a much more detailed, and a much more realistic picture of Judah during the exilic period than it has ever been possible to present before. When I wrote my book, I was confronted with two extremely divergent opinions: On the one hand, one suggested a total destruction of Judah and a high number of deportees, which significantly reduced the population of Judah (W. F. Albright, D. L. Smith); on the other hand, others minimized the extent and impact of the deportations and stressed the continuity of life for the great majority in Judah (M. Noth, H. Barstad). Lipschits can now demonstrate that both opinions were accurate, but with regard to different parts of the country: Compared with the Judean settlements of the 7th century, there were dramatic population losses in Jerusalem and its environs (nearly 90%), large losses in the Southern Judean hills, the Shephelah, and the Negev (about 75%), a halving of the population in Benjamin, but very little reduction in the northern Judean hills. Lipschits reckons with a total loss of 60% and estimates the population of Babylonian Judah at about 40,000 inhabitants, compared with some110,000 in the late Judaean kingdom (see table p. 269). Thus, according to him, the Babylonian invasion had a severe impact on Judah. Judah lost a lot of people through death, starvation and flight; it lost most of its elite through deportation; and, although its new administrative centre was established in Benjamin, it lost its largest urban centre, Jerusalem. I am happy that my own calculations, which I performed based on more theoretical considerations, are not too different from Lipschits’s results (cf. Israel in Exile, 81–90). I am also pleased that Lipschits and I agree on many other details, for example the Babylonian origin of the exilic Deuteronomistic History, the Judaean origin of the Gedaliah account and the Jeremiah biography, and the ideological conflict between these literary units. But, of course, I also differ with him over several points. I would like to name five of them.

1. ASSYRIA, EGYPT AND JOSIAH According to Lipschits, Egypt immediately established its rule over Palestine and Syria when Assyria withdrew from the Levant (since 627 B.C.E.). Following N. Na’aman, he regards Egypt as a “Successor State” of Assyria

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and its legal heir (p. 27). For some scholars such a view is reason enough to deny the possibility of a reform under king Josiah (e.g., H. Niehr). Nevertheless, Lipschits assumes a “void in the political arena” (p. 361), but stresses that “the ‘intermission’ granted to Judah was brief indeed” (p. 362). Thus, he still reckons with a cultic and a limited national reform under Josiah, but thinks that the king was “an Egyptian vassal in his final years” (p. 362). How can we reconcile both views? Were the Egyptians only interested in the coastal plain? If this was the case, when did they interfere in the hill country? How should such Egyptian rule be imaged? Lipschits admits: “It is not clear what steps were taken by Psametichus and Necho to solidify their rule in central and southern Syria, but it seems that, after the final disappearance of Assyria, they did not have enough time to consolidate their control all the way along the Euphrates” (pp. 362–63). After Nebuchadrezzar’s victory in Karkemish “Necho was forced to withdraw inside the borders of Egypt” (p. 363). Thus, can we really speak of an established Egyptian rule in the Levant? Not by chance, Lipschits mentions this problem among his open questions (p. 376).

2. NEO-BABYLONIAN IMPERIAL POLICY Lipschits primarily describes the history of the Neo-Babylonians as a rivalry of powers, first with the Assyrians for freedom, then with the Egyptians for ascendancy in Hatti-land. He mentions the constant Babylonian revolts as the main reasons for Assyria’s decline (p. 361), but he does not take into consideration the ideological background of Babylonian policy. In my view, the “revenge of Marduk” for the total destruction of Babylon by the Assyrian king Senacherib in the year 689 B.C.E. became a kind of “foundation myth” of the emerging Babylonian state (cf. P.-A. Beaulieu, The Reign of Nabonidus, 1989, p. 115) and the ideological engine behind the wars against Assyria and its last ally, Egypt (Albertz, Israel in Exile, pp. 47–60). For example, the Babylonians used one-way deportations in contrast to the twoway deportations of the Assyrians, as Lipschits correctly pointed out (p. 48). What was the reason? I think they used one-way deportations because it was not the first aim of the Babylonians to stabilize their empire, but to recover the severe losses and repair the destruction they had suffered in the long civil war with the Assyrians. Lipschits states something similar: “It also appears that the Babylonians used the devastation of this region to leverage the rebuilding of areas in Babylonia that had been laid waste by the Assyrians during their long years of war against Babylon” (p. 365), but he does not link this policy with the Babylonian foundation myth. Thus, I would

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like to know whether Lipschits thinks that my thesis is wrong or whether he deliberately avoids such religious-ideological issues in his historiography. In this connection it is interesting that Lipschits, having noticed an economic decline of Judah and the Levant during the Babylonian rule, gives the following explanation: “In contrast to the Assyrian kings, Nabopolassar and Nebuchadrezzar did not consider themselves rulers of the world and did not develop an imperial ideology like the Assyrian kings” (referring to D. S. Vanderhooft, The Neo-Babylonian Empire, 1999, 9–59). The consequence was that they did not invest great resources in establishing their rule in the areas conquered. “This policy led to a drastic decline throughout the Levant in the economy and trade ...” (p. 188). Here Lipschits himself thinks of an ideological background of Babylonian policy. I think he is basically right. As “kings of Babylon,” the Babylonian rulers were only interested to win tribute and human resources for the development of Babylonia. Only Nabonidus, who took over the Assyrian title “king of the four world regions,” tried to change this Babylonian policy to develop the remote Harran province by using the resources of the centre, but he failed (cf. Albertz, Israel in Exile, pp. 60–70). In my view, even this unilateral economical policy of the Babylonians can be understood in view of their “foundation myth.” For me, Lipschits’s remark is very interesting that apart from some hints at some Babylonian wine and oil production in Gibeon and Mizpah (mwsh@ seals, gb(n gdr inscriptions) there is “no historical or archaeological evidence of any attempt by the Babylonians to develop the region or to establish a logistical scheme to reinforce their control” (p. 366). Apart from that, Lipschits stresses a change in Nebuchadrezzar’s policy after the anti-Babylonian coalition in 594 B.C.E. After interfering previously as little as possible in the internal political structure of the vassal states, the king now decided to make “them provinces under direct Babylonian control .... On the border between the Babylonian and the Egyptian empires, a buffer zone consisting of impaired and weakened provinces was created” (p. 365). I think Lipschits is right, but I do not see much between this and the imperial Assyrian policy of the three stages of dependency; only the loss of interest in developing well organized and flourishing provinces is new.

3. THE DEPORTATIONS Lipschits accepts the information of 2 Kgs 24:14 that the deportees of the year 597 numbered “approximately 10,000 people” (p. 59). Later, he regards this verse as a literary intrusion from the early post-exilic period, but he thinks that it gives a generalized total of all other figures named in the texts

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(7,000+1,000 in 2 Kgs 25:16; and 3,032 in Jer 52:28). Compared with a loss of 60,000 people, which Lipschits estimated on the basis of the archaeological evidence, the number of 10,000 deportees is very small. Is it possibly that such a large number—50,000 people—were killed or lost as refugees? As far as I have seen, Lipschits, following the Books of Kings, gives no numbers for the deportation of 586. I regard the 10,000 people of the secondary verse 2 Kgs 24:14 as the number of the second deportation, but it was deliberately displaced lest it interfere with the impression given by 2 Kgs 25:21 that “all Judah was exiled” (cf. Israel in Exile, p. 90). In this case, we would have to add the numbers and would have approximately 20,000 deportees. It remains unclear to me why Lipschits has chosen the minimalistic solution concerning the extent of deportations. I think Lipschits is right to state: “Among them (the exiles) were many of the nation’s elite, some of the top military units, and craftsmen with technical skills” (p. 364). If he concludes, however, that with the deportation of the elite “for the first time, the nation was split along social and class lines” (p. 367), then in my opinion he overstates the social effect of the deportations. He admits that a smaller part of the elite, like the Shaphanides, Jeremiah and several military leaders remained in Judah (pp. 102–107). There are clear indications that the Babylonians drew a distinction between those Judaeans who supported the revolt against them, and those who did not. So they probably deported mainly those elite who were members of the nationalistic party, and apart from them all others whom they did need for economic reasons. In my opinion, the elite was affected more by the deportations than other groups in society precisely because it was more involved in politics than the lower social classes.

4. THE REIGN OF GEDALIAH I totally agree with Lipschits that the reign of Gedaliah was a very important factor for the history of Judah in the exilic period (pp. 84–102). It constituted a real chance for a non-monarchic restoration, as the Gedaliah account in Jer 40:7–41:8 suggests. I am therefore all the more surprised to notice that Lipschits limits Gedaliah’s rule to “a bit longer than seven weeks after the destruction” (p. 101). Even if one grants that his rule could already have started in Mizpah some months before the final occupation of Jerusalem, it would have been extremely short. How could it achieve such an importance? Of course, Jer 41:1 does not mention a particular year for the murder of Gedaliah; but Lipschits’s conclusion that the late summer of the same year must be meant, because Jer 40:12 does not mention the olive harvest—

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which starts in Benjamin during Tishri (Sept./Oct.)—is not very convincing, since the harvest of olives is not mentioned in any Biblical narrative. Not celebrated by a feast, it obviously stood more in the mental background. In my opinion, it is much more realistic to date the murder of Gedaliah in the year 582, when a third deportation took place (Jer 52:30). For this event, Lipschits cannot give any explanation. Likewise he overlooks the fact that Jehoiachin must have been taken into prison before he could be released from it by Amel-Marduk (2 Kgs 25:29). What could be the cause for the imprisonment? In my opinion it was the murder of Gedaliah, when at the same time several Babylonian officials were killed (cf. Albertz, Israel in Exile, pp. 94–95; 103–04).

5. DTRH AND THE JEREMIAH NARRATIVES I fundamentally agree with Lipschits’s exegesis of the exilic edition of the DtrH (Dtr2), the Gedaliah narrative, and the Jeremiah biography (Jer 37:1– 43:7*), apart from some minor differences. And I am glad to see that Lipschits has also discovered the controversies that were furthered through these literary works in spite of their common Deuteronomistic shape. I do not believe in a late pre-exilic edition of the DtrH (cf. Israel in Exile, pp. 276–78); therefore, I have my doubts whether a first exilic edition (Dtr2) can be dated in the early exilic period, as Lipschits has done (pp. 289; 304). In any case, Lipschits’s proposal that the passages on Gedaliah’s reign (2 Kgs 25:22–16) and the release of Jehoiachin (25:27–30) should be seen as later additions (pp. 297–98), because the history could well have ended with the final statement that all Judah went to exile (25:21), is a good idea. In addition, his exegesis that these additions show how the basically nationalistic exiles in Babylon became ready to accept the existence of those who remained in Judah and wanted to come to terms with the Babylonian authority (p. 298) has some basis in reality. However, I already see a similar hope for better co-operation with the Babylonians in 1 Kgs 8:50. Should we regard this verse as a later addition too? Thus, there are still some open questions. Lipschits takes 2 Kgs 24:13–14 and 25:12, which consist of the statement that only the “poorest of the land” remained in Judah, as a late “nomistic addition” to DtrH, by which the returnees to Zion wanted “to depreciate the value of those who remained” (p. 302). Admittedly, 24:14 and perhaps also 24:13 are insertions, but not necessary that late. For 25:12, I cannot see any literary critical indication that this verse was later inserted;

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rather, verse 24:13 depends on 25:12. So this last stage of redaction, which Lipschits has tried to reconstruct, is founded on a slippery slope. With regard to the Jeremiah narratives, Lipschits reconstructs in detail how an original account of Gedaliah’s rule (Jer 40:7–41:18) was redactionally inserted in the Jeremiah biography (37:11–21; 38:14–28; 39:3.13–14; 42–43:7*). Although I see the redactional process a little bit differently (Israel in Exile, p. 318), I agree with Lipschits’s material statements: “The account of Gedaliah’s time and the biography of Jeremiah reflect a tendency toward reconciliation with Babylonian authority”; they “emphasize the possibility of national rehabilitation under Babylonian rule”; and “their authors opposed all kinds of political activism” (p. 349). I would only like to ask, whether the phrase “political activism” is correct; of course, Gedaliah and Jeremiah were politically active too, but in a pro-Babylonian direction. So I would propose: “nationalistic activism.” Lipschits wants to date the combined Jeremiah-Gedaliah narrative around 550 B.C.E., where I dated my first edition of the Deuteronomistic book of Jeremiah (Jer 1–25*). On p. 335 he is bothered that I date the second edition, to which the narratives belong (Jer 1–45*), a little bit later (545–540; cf. Israel in Exile, p. 318). But that looks to me like a misunderstanding; I spoke of the second Dtr. Book of Jeremiah (JerD2), which contained much more than the Jeremiah-Gedaliah narratives. The composition and redaction of the latter could have happened earlier, of course, be it in 550 B.C.E. or even earlier, after the pupils of Jeremiah probably returned from Egypt during the Amasis usurpation (571–567; cf. Jer 44:28). That leads me to a methodological problem, which I see in Lipschits’s exegetical chapter: This chapter is restricted to “Perceptions and Trends in Biblical Historiography,” that is, a comparative exegesis of DtrH and the Gedaliah-Jeremiah narrative. But comparing the literary historical development of both pieces of historiography through the period of exile, Lipschits is not aware of the fact that the Gedaliah-Jeremiah-narrative had already became a part of the larger book of Jeremiah, at least by 540 B.C.E., and cannot be interpreted any longer as a unit on its own. There are now Dtr. insertions into the narrative (e.g. 37:1–2; 39:4–10.15–18*; 40:1–3*; 42:6–10– 16.18.22; not noticed as such by Lipschits), and there are other chapters like Jer 18 and Jer 29 belonging to the same literary level, which supplemented the view of a possible restoration and that went beyond the older historiographical material. So the restricted focus on the “Biblical Historiography” turns out to be problematic. Methodologically speaking, the later stages of DtrH should have been compared with JerD (or at least JerD2).

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In any event, I am very thankful that Oded Lipschits included this important component of exilic literary production and theological discussion into his book, which is so rich in archaeological and historical data and analysis. At present, many Old Testament scholars tend to isolate literature and theological thought from political and social history. Oded Lipschits counters this tendency and combines both aspects of ancient Israel’s historical reality in a sophisticated manner. I congratulate Oded Lipschits for this wonderful book. I am sure it will become a standard for all further studies on the exilic period.

REFLECTIONS ON ODED LIPSCHITS, THE FALL AND RISE OF JERUSALEM

TAMARA COHN ESKENAZI

HEBREW UNION COLLEGE/JEWISH INSTITUTE OF RELIGION, LOS ANGELES I wish to thank Oded Lipschits for the rich new data and insights that his book contains and, also, for the kind of balanced and balancing synthesis that his work offers. By “his work” I do not only refer to the book which is the focus of this paper, but also the conferences he has organized over the years on the subject of Judah and the Judeans during the Persian Period. In both venues, Lipschits promotes collaborative work that is both rare and necessary. In this excellent book, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem: Judah under Babylonian Rule, Lipschits strides boldly through the minefield of politicized scholarship. He does so sensitively and sensibly, and presents a clear, cogent and constructive analysis of the Babylonian period in Judah. By “constructive” I mean that in addition to constructing models for investigating the historical features of the period, Lipschits also models a non-positivistic use of biblical narrative in conjunction with archaeological data. The synthesis of the relevant information that he presents brings order to a chaotic time and almost equally chaotic scholarly debates. The book, therefore, is indispensable for all future studies of the topic. Fortunately for those of us who concentrate on the Persian period, Lipschits extends his fine analysis beyond the scope of the Babylonian period to include aspects of the postexilic era. My paper is a brief reflection on how Lipschits’s book contributes to the interpretation of the postexilic era, especially to Ezra Nehemiah’s (EN) depiction of the era. The term that Lipschits uses for the early Persian Era is “Return to Zion,” an English translation of the Hebrew designation shivat Zion. But there is a built-in, inevitable, irony here because Lipschits maintains that there was no real “return” (at least not in the sixth century B.C.E.). He writes: 33

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES The ‘Return to Zion’ appears to have had no demographic impact on the land of Judah: no change in population density is detectable between the end of the sixth century and the beginning of the fifth century B.C.E. Moreover, the dwindling of the total population of the province after the destruction of Jerusalem continued into the beginning of the Persian Period: the population of the province of Judah in the middle of the fifth century B.C.E. may be estimated at approximately 30,000 people (Lipschits, 372).

The estimated number for the province immediately after the destruction of Jerusalem that Lipschits suggests is about 40,000. Lipschits supposes that at most several thousands of the nation’s elite returned to Judah at the beginning of the Persian Period, but nothing more. Jerusalem itself remained very poor. At first glance Lipschits’s picture of the period shatters that of EN. At a second glance, however, looked at critically, his work suggests fresh ways for understanding aspects of EN in the context of the fifth century. In this short response to the book I will focus only on the interesting light that Lipschits sheds on Ezra 1, a section that most scholars consider as the latest section of EN, ever since H. G. M. Williamson’s influential article on the subject. 1 At a time when the consensus tilts increasingly towards late (that is, Hellenistic) dating of all of EN, but especially Ezra 1–6, Lipschits’s analysis actually highlights other possibilities. Although Lipschits himself does not say so, and may not even agree with my conclusion, his works helps make sense of otherwise puzzling details in Cyrus’s decree in Ezra 1:2–4 and in the narrator’s summary of the response to it in 1:5–6. Let me begin with observations that Joseph Blenkinsopp made a few years ago, in two conferences organized by Lipschits (one in Tel Aviv and one in Heidelberg); the observations are now included in the papers from the conferences. 2 Blenkinsopp has called attention to the implicit hostilities between Judah and Benjamin that are reflected in biblical texts. He examined texts that led him to conclude that such hostility existed in the NeoBabylonian and early Persian periods (Blenkinsopp, 2005, 624–643). Ac“The Composition of Ezra i-iv,” JTS (1983) 33:1–30. “Bethel in the Neo-Babylonian Period,” in Judah and the Judeans in the NewBabylonian Period, ed. O. Lipschits and J. Blenkinsopp (Eisenbrauns, 2003), 93–107, and “Benjamin Traditions Read in the Early Persian Period,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period, ed. O. Lipschits and M. Oeming (Eisenbrauns, 2005), 629–645. 1 2

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cording to Blenkinsopp, the assassination of Gedaliah “signaled the beginning of a period of Benjaminite-Judean hostility which continued throughout the first century of Persian rule” (Blenkinsopp, 2005, 629). The probable existence of a cult center in Bethel seems to be relevant in this connection. According to Blenkinsopp, Bethel remained a cult center—possibly the cult center—in the Neo-Babylonian period and into the early Persian period. Its proximity to Mizpah, the administrative center after the fall of Jerusalem, enhanced its importance (Blenkinsopp, 2003, p. 99). The ways that Lipschits’s book highlights the reversal of fortune of these two areas—Judah and Benjamin—provide supportive evidence or reasons for this enmity. Combining literary sources and archaeological data, Lipschits concludes that Mizpah in Benjamin was established as a Babylonian administrative center even before Jerusalem fell. On the eve of the destruction “Most of the inhabitants of the province gathered in the region of Benjamin and in the environs of Bethlehem” (Lipschits, 182). Lipschits notes that “Archaeological evidence from the Benjamin region covers the entire sixth century B.C.E. and reveals almost complete settlement continuity from the end of the Iron Age to the Babylonian and Persian Periods ” (182). The continuity allows scholars to discover that Benjamin did not suffer the same dire fate at the hands of the Babylonians that Judah experienced. Benjamin most likely cooperated with the Babylonians and thus remained stable. Therefore, “Many of those who did not believe that the rebellion could succeed took advantage of the respite to ‘go to the land of Benjamin’ (Jer 37:12). They joined the residents of the Benjamin region who had from the start practiced a policy of capitulation to the Babylonians. Jeremiah of Anathoth also tried to escape from Jerusalem” (Lipschits, 366). Lipschits’s fine exegesis of the last chapters of 2 Kings, and the comparison that he draws between that version and the Gedaliah material in Jeremiah, support a parting of the way between Judah and Benjamin. And the archaeological and demographic analysis that he provides further contributes to such an interpretation. When destruction came, Lipschits writes, the land was not left uninhabited. . . . Judah apparently registered a decline of 60% in settled area. This means that, although 110,000 people lived in Judah at the end of the kingdom, only 40,000 remained in the Babylonian province that was established in the same area. The archaeological evidence shows that the time of the Babylonian war against Judah is a sharp cut-off point marking the termination of one of

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Mizpah, however, became a prominent center and Benjamin represented the continued existence in the land, i.e., “those who remained.” The Motzah seal impressions are among the signs of Babylonian provincial administration located in Benjamin. Things changed in the Persian period, and seals impressions are one of several archaeological data that illustrate this change. Lipschits writes: “A comparison of the distribution data of the mws@h and yhwd seal impressions shows that during the Persian Period a sharp change took place in the settlement pattern and the location of the province’s primary center” (179). In the Babylonian period, “approximately 80% of all the mws@h seal impressions were found there [in Benjamin], with only 5% of the yhwd seal.” However, soon Jerusalem reverted to its former importance and “the region of Benjamin lost its importance as an administrative center” (Lipschits, 179–180). Thus, 80% of the yhwd seal impressions were discovered in Jerusalem and Ramat-Rahel (Christoph 1993: 187–89, and additional literature there). 3 This set of data was one of Na)aman’s main arguments for his theory, according to which the Persian rulers favored Ramat-Rahel as an administrative center instead of Mizpah, after Jerusalem once again became the center of the Persian province (Lipschits, 180). 4 In due course, “Mizpah declined in importance and became the site of a small, impoverished, unwalled settlement” (Lipschits, 181). Lipschits considers his data to be in conflict with certain material in EN, especially the lists of Ezra 2 and Nehemiah 7. Regarding these chapters, he writes: “The archaeological data show that the population of the northern Judean highland during the Persian Period remained as it had been

The reference is to J. R. Christoph, “The Yehud Stamped Jar Handle Corpus: Implications for the History of Postexilic Palestine,” unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Ann Arbor, 1993. 4 Lipschits lists cross-references to N. Na’aman, “An Assyrian Residence at Ramat Rahel?” TA 28/2 (2001) 260–280, as well as to the following section in his own book: §4.3.2a, esp. pp. 213–215. 3

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during the sixth century (about one quarter of the total population of the province)” (Lipschits, 373). He continues: “There is no evidence of a deportation of these dimensions at the beginning of the sixth century B.C.E., nor is there any evidence of a massive return . . . . On the contrary, the archaeological data from the end of the sixth and beginning of the fifth centuries B.C.E., . . . show that there was a decrease in the population, particularly in Benjamin” (Lipschits, 160). Lipschits suggests that the population shifted to the Shephelah, which shows an increase (Lipschits, 373). But could we not also conclude that Judah is probably revitalized at the expense of Benjamin, and that this accounts for demographic shifts? Lipschits’s work illuminates the first chapters of EN and offers a correlation between his findings and EN. Given Blenkinsopp’s observations about what he calls the Benjaminite-Judaean hostility, which (according to Blenkinsopp) continued throughout the first century of Persian rule, we can see how Lipschits’s book supplies the data and interpretations that can account for these hostilities: EN can be understood (in part) as a response to such hostilities. I propose, therefore, that the first two chapters of Ezra illustrate a response to the kind of Judah-Benjamin enmity that Blenkinsopp observes and that Lipschits’s book explains, namely the different histories of the two areas: the ascendance of Benjamin and Mizpah during Jerusalem’s demise, and the subsequent reversal of fortunes. Lipschits’s work can account for why Cyrus’s edict in Ezra 1 repeatedly emphasizes that the authorized temple is to be restored “in Jerusalem which is in Judah.” (twice in two verses, with Jerusalem mentioned 3 times; Ezra 1:2–3); it is because there are sanctuaries elsewhere in Benjamin, especially in Bethel. Jerusalem’s competition is not the Samarian temple (as the older interpretations supposed) but rather the status of Benjamin and its cultic site or sites. This accounts also for the repeated emphasis on Benjamin in precisely these early chapters. In the interpretation that follows from Lipschits’s study, the writer of Ezra 1:1–4 is responding to Jerusalem’s co-option of the provincial center, or the reconfiguration of the center in relation to Benjamin. For this reason it is important to EN to show that the residents of Benjamin agreed to participate in re-building Jerusalem’s temple (1:5). The question of the unity and cooperation between Judah and Benjamin is, thus, an early Persian period issue. Understood in this way, the issues that Ezra 1–2 addresses can be situated in the early years of the Persian

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period when the need to reunite these two groups around Jerusalem (instead of Benjamin) would have been an actual challenge. Such a debate would not be as pertinent in the Hellenistic period, for example, when other conflicts occupied center stage. Lipschits writes at one point: “It should be noted that there is no satisfactory explanation for the absence of Mizpah in the list of the returnees” (Lipschits, 167, n. 111). But Lipschits’s analysis has given us the best explanation of all for such an absence: there is no “return” to Mizpah because there was no exile from Mizpah. Moreover, the concern with Benjamin accounts for the expansion in the list of returnees, in particular the lists of the men from different towns in Benjamin (Ezra 2:22–28), a point that I argue elsewhere. 5 These men need not be considered as returnees but as Benjaminites who supported the building of Judah. In other words, they are included to emphasize that Benjaminites also “went up,” and supported Jerusalem’s restoration, that is, the building of the house of YHVH in “Jerusalem which is in Judah.” Let me make clear that I am not arguing that Cyrus’s edict is an actual sixth century document, or even fifth century document, or that it is historically reliable. Rather, I am suggesting that its formulation, along with the proleptic summary in Ezra 1:5–6, grows out of an attempt to depict or to forge reunification between Judah and Benjamin. We need to bear in mind what Ezra 1:5–6 says and what it does not does not say, as well as what the edict does and does not. Neither speaks of a return. They speak of supporting the building effort. We read: “And they rose up, the household heads of Judah and Benjamin and the priests and the Levites, all whose spirit God has roused, to build the house of YHVH which is in Jerusalem” (1:5). All who remain (In Babylon? In Benjamin?) are expected to support them, and, according to Ezra 1:6, they do so. These issues about the relations between Judah and Benjamin may be still in ferment when Chronicles is written, since the particular combination of Judah and Benjamin is vocabulary that is distinctive to EN and Chronicles (and I defer to Joseph Blenkinsopp and Gary Knoppers on this subject). But to the best of my knowledge, the tension between Judah and Benjamin does not appear to be an issue in the literature of the later Hellenistic periods. This suggests that the issues that Ezra 1 and 2 address are those of the fifth century B.C.E., and we can see this possibility more clearly thanks to Lipschits’s book. 5

See T. C. Eskenazi, Ezra-Nehemiah, Anchor Bible, forthcoming.

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Let me conclude: On the one hand, Lipschits’s masterful book The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem: Judah under Babylonian Rule, which does not aim specifically at explicating EN, fractures in some ways the picture that EN so carefully pieces together. On the other hand, Lipschits’s excellent book nonetheless also illumines why EN crafts the story of the Persian period as it does. For this and for much else, Oded, thank you! Todah rabbah.

THE DEMISE OF JERUSALEM, THE DE-URBANIZATION OF JUDAH, AND THE ASCENT OF BENJAMIN: REFLECTIONS ON ODED LIPSCHITS’ THE FALL AND RISE OF

JERUSALEM

GARY N. KNOPPERS

PENNSYLVANIA STATE UNIVERSITY UNIVERSITY PARK, PA 1.

OVERVIEW AND GENERAL ASSESSMENT

One of the strengths of Lipschits’s recently published book is its ample use of archaeology, textual criticism, source criticism, redaction criticism, historical geography, and Northwest Semitic epigraphy to shed new light on the Neo-Babylonian and early Persian periods in ancient Judah. 1 Lipschits has performed a real service to the profession by bringing together so much data, especially material evidence from various archaeological excavations and site surveys, all of it bearing on the study of a difficult and highly contested subject. His book is well-written, clearly-organized, and carefullydeveloped. Methodologically, his work pursues the intricate relationships between scripture and artifact, text and tell, written remains and material remains. In this respect, I think that it is helpful that Lipschits draws upon sources as diverse as the LXX of Jeremiah, the mws@h seal impressions, the Zenon papyri, and 1 Maccabees to engage the nature of life in Jerusalem, Judah, and Benjamin during the Neo-Babylonian and Persian periods. 1 This text is only slightly changed from the version of the talk I gave in the Persian Period History and Literature Section of the Society of Biblical Literature in November 2005. I have added a few sentences of clarification, as well as a few footnotes for the convenience of readers.

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Given the nature of the written materials, both biblical and extrabiblical, the many gaps in our knowledge, and the many different interpretations of the archaeological data, this is a rather complicated enterprise requiring considerable methodological sophistication. Lipschits is aware of these difficulties, but he does not let them get in the way of pursuing his larger task of historical reconstruction. Indeed, I think that it is fair to say that even in many of those cases in which the evidence is still somewhat limited or ambiguous, Lipschits’s goal is to push the discussion forward by boldly proposing new theories to bridge the gaps and clarify the ambiguities. Some might contend after reading this book that Lipschits presses the evidence too far or is too optimistic in assessing our ability to ascertain the precise function, date, and relevance of certain epigraphic, archaeological, and literary materials. Some may wonder whether the grand attempt to marshal all of the available evidence into a clear and comprehensive synthesis results in an overly-tidy reconstruction of Judaean demography and administration during this era. Whatever the case, I am grateful for the bold attempt to shed new light on this neglected era in post-monarchic Judah. Better to push the discussion forward in a daring way than to repeat old canards about this epoch being a virtual tabula rasa in the history of Judah. The sustained focus on the land of Judah and on Jerusalem, as opposed to shifting attention away from Judah to the diaspora (following the storyline of the historical books), is very helpful in getting a grip on the continuities and discontinuities in the history of the southern Levant. Also quite useful are the specific comparisons Lipschits draws between the literary evidence pertaining to the borders of Judah during the late Iron Age and that pertaining to the borders of Judah during the Hellenistic Age, because these comparisons shed light on the transformations that occur during the Achaemenid era. Finally, Lipschits’s command of the secondary literature pertaining to several sub-fields is impressive. The writer’s research needs to be seen against the background of two distinct trends in the study of the Neo-Babylonian period. One position, represented recently by the work of Ephraim Stern, holds that the invasions of Nebuchadnezzar resulted in a very extensive, if not complete, population gap in the southern Levant during the Neo-Babylonian period. 2 Seen from Stern’s views may be found in his Material Culture of the Land of the Bible in the Persian Period 538–332 B.C. (Warminster: Aris and Phillips / Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1982). A recent defense and extension of his views may be found 2

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this particular perspective, whole sections of the kingdom of Judah became a kind of wasteland in the aftermath of the Babylonian campaigns. Other scholars, most famously Robert Carroll and Hans Barstad, have reacted very strongly against the thesis typified in the work of Stern. As the titles of their works imply, “The Myth of the Empty Land” (by Carroll) and The Myth of the Empty Land: A Study in the History and Archaeology of Judah during the “Exilic” Period (by Barstad), these scholars have argued for major continuity in the occupation of the land in spite of the Babylonian victories against the Judaean kingdom. 3 Asserting that only a small elite was deported from the land, these writers argue that life, for those who survived, went on pretty much as usual. In the context of this larger debate, the research of another scholar should be mentioned, David Vanderhooft. In this substantial and wellargued book, The Neo-Babylonian Empire and Babylon in the Latter Prophets, Vanderhooft compares the very limited amount of inscriptional material available from the Neo-Babylonian kings with the testimony provided by the late Judahite prophets. 4 Vanderhooft’s position is much more nuanced and focused on a particular set of issues than those advocated by the aforementioned scholars, but his work overlaps with theirs in so far as he questions the extent to which one can posit a continuously active and coherent Babylonian administrative presence in the land of Judah during the exilic period. The general background of these scholarly debates provides a suitable context for understanding the force of Lipschits’ work. He presents a highly-nuanced picture of the various regions in Judah that were affected by the events of the late eighth, late seventh, and early sixth centuries BCE. Although destruction levels have been detected at many Judahite sites dating to the sixth century, there is also evidence for continuation of settlement at others, especially north of Jerusalem. As Lipschits points out, large areas of Benjamin and some areas of the northern Judahite hill country, including the area south of Jerusalem, seem to have been unaffected by the in his Archaeology of the Land of the Bible, vol. II: The Assyrian, Babylonian, and Persian Periods 732–332 BCE (ABRL; New York: Doubleday, 2001) 303–50. 3 R. Carroll, “The Myth of the Empty Land,” Semeia 59 (1992) 79–93; H. Barstad, The Myth of the Empty Land: A Study in the History and Archaeology of Judah During the “Exilic” Period (Symbolae Osloenses, Fasc. Suppl. 28; Oslo: Scandinavian University Press, 1998). 4 The Neo-Babylonian Empire and Babylon in the Latter Prophets (HSM 59; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1999).

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early sixth century destructions. Indeed, a Benjaminite town—Mizpah— becomes the administrative capital of Judah during Gedaliah’s rule in the wake of the destruction of Jerusalem and the downfall of the Davidic dynasty (2 Kgs 25:22–24; Jer 40:5–12; Neh 3:7). According to the author, Jerusalem and its environs remained completely empty during the Neo-Babylonian period. There is thus a certain irony in the title of Lipschits’s book. According to his reconstruction, the fall of Jerusalem was swift and disastrous in all respects, but the rise of Jerusalem was very much a long and drawn-out process. If the demise of the city occurred within just a few decades time, the recovery took centuries to complete. Even at its peak during the Persian period, Jerusalem did not exceed 3,000 people. The bulk of his book is thus not about Jerusalem per se, but about the rest of the areas traditionally associated with Judah and Benjamin. In his estimation, the kingdom of Judah suffered a decline of approximately 60% in settled area and a precipitous decrease in population from about 110,000 down to approximately 40,000 in the transition from the Neo-Babylonian to the Persian era. Many of those who survived the Babylonian campaigns no longer lived in large urban centers, but rather in small villages and rural areas. Judah suffered from a marked reduction in geographic area (especially in its frontier areas, such as the Negev, the Jordan Valley, and the Shephelah), a sharp drop-off in residential population, devastation to many large towns, and a large transfer of the remaining inhabitants from urban to rural areas. This process of ruralization was never effectively reversed during Achaemenid times. Most Judaeans continued to reside on farms and in small villages and hamlets. Nevertheless, the land was hardly empty. In fact, the above statistics are deceptive in some respects, because there was terrible damage in some areas, but hardly any damage in others. In this respect, the area of Benjamin plays a crucial role in Lipschits’ study. Benjamin’s relative prominence during the Neo-Babylonian era diminished somewhat during the course of the Persian period as other areas and sites, such as Jerusalem, began to recover from the Babylonian onslaughts, but Benjamin retained significant importance in the larger context of the province of Judah. In sum, Lipschits argues that both the extent of the Babylonian deportations and the extent of the returns during the Achaemenid era have been greatly exaggerated in much of biblical scholarship.

2.

SPECIFIC COMMENTS

In what follows, I would like to offer a series of questions and reflections on select aspects of Lipschits’s work. Some of these comments will rein-

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force points made by the author, while others will seek further clarification or qualification. Recognizing that others reviewing this book will focus on archeology and the relevance of certain literary texts, such as EzraNehemiah, I will focus most, albeit not all, of my attention on Kings, Jeremiah, and Chronicles. First, with respect to the archaeology of the region during the late Iron Age and early Persian period, Lipschits draws upon the results of both site surveys, which try to capture long-term demographic trends, and rural archaeology, which studies life in small towns, villages, and farmsteads. Both of these approaches promise to inform us about demographic trends and have the potential to correct some of the broader historical claims made by those focusing solely on the results of tell-centered archaeology. In this context, I think that it would be helpful if Lipschits would engage the results of Avi Faust’s research in a more sustained way. 5 Faust’s work in rural archaeology draws a contrast between the situation in rural Judah and that in rural Samaria, discussing a large number of farmsteads— as well as some hamlets and villages—that have been excavated in the Samaria highlands. Almost all of these Iron Age rural sites exhibit continuity into the Persian period. By contrast, there is a dramatic drop-off in Judah. This is an important comparison, because some have claimed that the Neo-Babylonian campaigns only involved the larger urban sites and not many of the smaller villages and hinterland of Judah. Faust’s study argues for an extremely low continuity in the rural sphere. I know enough from Lipschits’ footnotes that he avidly disagrees with Faust, but it would be useful to pursue this matter and explain why. The issues very much affect how 5 Among the relevant studies are Faust’s “The Rural Community in Ancient Israel during Iron Age II,” BASOR 317 (2000) 17–39; idem, “Jerusalem’s Countryside during the Iron Age II—Persian Period Transition,” in New Studies on Jerusalem: Proceedings of the Seventh Conference, ed. A. Faust and E. Baruch (Ramat-Gan: Ingeborg Rennert Center for Jewish Studies, Bar Ilan University, 2001) 83–89 (Hebrew); idem, “Judah in the Sixth Century B.C.E.: A Rural Perspective,” PEQ 135 (2003) 37–53; idem, “The Farmstead in the Highlands of Iron Age II Israel,” in The Rural Landscape of Ancient Israel, ed. A. M. Maeir, S. Dar, Z. Safrai (BAR International Series 1121; Oxford: Archaeopress, 2003) 91–103; idem, “Farmsteads in the Foothills of Western Samaria: A Reexamination”; in “I will speak the riddles of ancient times”: Archaeological and Historical Studies in Honor of Amihai Mazar on the Occasion of his Sixtieth Birthday, eds. A. M. Maeir and P. De Miroschedji (Winona Lake, Ind. : Eisenbrauns, 2006). All of these works deal with the insights afforded by rural archaeology.

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one should think about the material consequences of the Babylonian campaigns in Judah. Second, Lipschits’s work devotes extensive attention to exploring the import of certain texts in Jeremiah which deal with the consequences of the Babylonian campaigns. This is one of the real strengths of those sections of his book devoted to literary issues, because these texts in Jeremiah make no attempt to obscure the fact that only a portion of the people were deported (e.g., Jer 37:12; 40:7–12). 6 The compositional history of the relevant section within the book of Jeremiah (37:1–43:13) is a major topic in its own right, one that goes beyond any possible discussion here. Nevertheless, my question focuses on whether the points made by Lipschits about the Gedaliah narrative (embedded within Jer 40:7–41:18) and the larger biography of Jeremiah (embedded within Jer 37:11–12; 38:14–28; 39:3, 12 and 42:1–43:7) could be sharpened and extended? 7 The Gedaliah narrative, concentrating on the people who remained in the land and those who had gone down into Egypt, depicts the process that led to Gedaliah’s assassination and intimates the negative consequences of this murder for any possibility of (continuing) reconstruction. The latter work, the so-called biography of Jeremiah, depicts the prophet’s activities from the time of the first destruction, including his repeated warnings to Zedekiah and his officials, until the time of the prophet’s forced-exile into Egypt. As Lipschits points out, these sources blame Zedekiah, Ishmael, Johanan, and their associates for missing a crucial series of opportunities to enhance the condition of the people in the land. The biography also casts special aspersions on Johanan, the army officers, and their supporters, because they adamantly refuse Jeremiah’s counsel to stay put in the land and not to run away to Egypt. I wonder whether one function of these reconstructed literary narratives is to focus more attention on the culpability of the officials, army officers, and all their supporters than in the short treatment in Kings (2 Kgs 25:22–26). Zedekiah is, after all, also cast in a negative light in the Deuter6 Note also the story of how the prophet purchases real estate (Jer 32:6–15) and wishes to remain in the land despite the deportation of many Judahites and the assassination of Gedaliah (Jer 39:14; 40:1–6; 42:10; cf. 2 Kgs 25:25–26). 7 In Lipschits’s reconstruction, a series of stories (38:1–13; parts of 40:1–6; 39:15–18) and scattered comments were later added to round off the work. Like many scholars, Lipschits views the shorter version of Jeremiah found in LXX Jeremiah as older (and more historically reliable) than the longer version found in MT Jeremiah.

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onomistic redaction of Kings. There, he receives a blanket negative evaluation (2 Kgs 24:20a) and his reign is inevitably associated with the highly destructive consequences of Nebuchadnezzar’s invasion (2 Kgs 24:20b25:21*). 8 The placement of the later appendix of 2 Kgs 25:22–26 near the end of the book underscores the folly of those who oppose Gedaliah (so Lipschits); it may present the Egyptian gôlâ community in a negative light by creating an inclusio marking the violation of the Deuteronomic warning against the people’s return to Egypt. 9 In any case, Kings does not mention any officials, high or otherwise, who influence Zedekiah’s insurrection. 10 Nor does Kings contain any reassurances to the survivors in the land, following the time of Gedaliah’s murder, informing such survivors that things may still go well for them if they properly accommodate themselves to Babylonian rule. The Gedaliah story and the Jeremiah biography thus highlight the stubborn refusal by royal courtiers, army officers, and certain other Judahites to accept the possible benefits of Babylonian hegemony as these are spelled out by the weeping prophet. If such texts point out the folly of those who eventually depart the land for other lands, principally Babylon and Egypt, one has to ask a question about the function of this literature— cui bono, “to whose benefit?” It would seem that these literary narratives favor the position of the remnant of Judah, those who remained in the land and thus adhered to the counsel of Jeremiah. To be sure, the portrait of royal indecision in Jeremiah casts Zedekiah in a bad light (inasmuch as he is convinced to act against his own inclinations by rebelling against his Babylonian overlord), but the same material seems to cast the anti-Babylonian groups in an even worse light. The attention given to the officials, officers, 8 This is despite the fact that the exilic Deuteronomist singles out an earlier monarch, Manasseh, as responsible for Judah’s captivity (2 Kgs 21:9–15; 23:26–27; 24:3–4). 9 Hence, the title of R. E. Friedman’s treatment, “From Egypt to Egypt: Dtr1 and Dtr2,” Traditions in Transformation: Turning Points in Biblical Faith. Essays Presented to Frank Moore Cross, Jr., ed. B. Halpern and J. Levenson (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1981) 167–92. The repeated warnings against going down into Egypt in Jer 42:13–22 are also noteworthy in this context. 10 The situation is, however, different in Chronicles. The Chronicler underscores the culpability of a variety of subjects, including Zedekiah (who refused to humble himself before Jeremiah), “all of the leaders of Judah (kol-śārê yĕhûdâ; so the LXX; the MT’s reading of kol-śārê hak-kōhănîm evinces a haplography), the priests, and the people” (2 Chr 36:12–14).

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and their followers makes them culpable for their own fate. By broadening the range of responsibility from the king himself to encompass a number of anti-Babylonian factions, the writers indict many of those who left the land, because these people chose to abandon their own estates. One function of such literature may be to justify the loss of land holdings to those who remained in Judah. By implication, the survivors left in the land are the ones left to deal with the mess left by those who exited the land. My third comment about Lipschits’s book is really a question about the historiographic focus of the last chapters of Kings. This question was inspired by the detailed and highly nuanced archaeological discussions found in several of Lipschits’s chapters dealing with the material evidence for destruction in some areas of Judah, but not so much in others. These data led me to return to the portrait of the Babylonian invasions found in Kings as it relates to the reigns of Jehoiakim, Jehoiachin, and Zedekiah. It is striking how much the Deuteronomistic treatment focuses on Jerusalem and its institutions—the royal family (2 Kgs 23:36–37; 24:5–6, 8–9, 12, 15, 17; 18–19, 20b; 25:4–7), the royal palace (25:9), the temple (25:9, 13), the temple furnishings (25:14–17), the temple priests (25:18), the temple and palace treasures (24:13), the siege(s) (24:10–11; 25:25:1–3), the city walls (25:4), the domiciles of the city (25:9), and the execution of various governmental officials (25:19–21). 11 In contrast to the copious attention they pay to Jerusalem, the writers pay no attention whatsoever to the fate of other specific towns in the kingdom, whether large or small. Mention is made of the international activities of Egyptian and Babylonian kings (2 Kgs 23:29–35; 24:1, 10–11, 17, 20; 25:1, 21), including the extent to which the Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar seized lands west of the Euphrates from the control of the Egyptian king (24:7). There is a notice about Yhwh sending bands of Chaldeans, Aramaeans, Moabites, and Ammonites against Jehoiakim and Judah to destroy Judah (24:2–3). There are sweeping statements made about the exile of Jerusalem and of Judah (23:27; 24:3, 14, 20; 25:21), as well as about the forced deportation of thousands of people (24:14, 16).

11 One function of this detailed Deuteronomistic coverage of the repeated plundering of the Jerusalem temple is typologically to establish an inclusio, calling attention to the inverted parallel between the construction and outfitting of the temple by Solomon and the destruction and looting of the temple by the Babylonians.

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For the sake of comparison, one can point to the Deuteronomistic narration of the process that led to the dissolution of the northern kingdom and to the Deuteronomistic narration of Sennacherib’s invasion of Judah. The account of the northern kingdom mentions the loss of specific towns and regions to the Assyrians (2 Kgs 15:29; cf. 2 Kgs 14:25–27), while the account of Sennacherib’s campaign mentions the capture of all the fortified towns of Judah (2 Kgs 18:13). To be sure, in each case, the focus is on the main centers of Samaria and Jerusalem, but at least some coverage is given to the hinterland. My question is what Lipschits makes of the lack of attention to the specific regions of Judah and to towns outside of Jerusalem in the Deuteronomistic narration of the fall of Judah? I should add that the situation is even more acute in the Chronicler’s work. There, the focus is almost entirely on Jerusalem. Even though the Chronicler uses the Deuteronomistic History heavily in composing his own work, the Chronicler sometimes departs radically from the presentation of his Vorlage. 12 The Chronistic depiction of Judah’s last four kings is much briefer and less gruesome than that of the Deuteronomistic work. Whereas the authors of 2 Kings 24–25 detail massive destruction to Jerusalem and upheaval for the people in three separate deportations (598/7, 587/6, 582 BCE), the Chronicler depicts only one major deportation (587/6 BCE). The exile in the time of Jehoiachin is limited solely to him and to some of the temple furnishings (2 Chr 36:6–7). The description of destruction in the second Babylonian conquest of 587/6 BCE is mostly limited to Jerusalem and to its temple (2 Chr 36:16–20). To be sure, the Chronistic democratization of guilt to include king, leaders, priests, and people (36:13–14), the Chronistic reference to Nebuchadnezzar’s deportation of “all” those who survived (36:20), and the Chronistic reference to the empty land observing its Sabbaths (36:21) imply a larger exile of the people. 13 Nevertheless, it is Other clear examples of this difference in historiography is the description of David’s rise: tortuous and prolonged (1 and 2 Samuel) as opposed to smooth and immediate (1 Chronicles); the description of Solomon’s rise: contested and bloody (2 Samuel 9–20; 1 Kings 1–2) as opposed to unanimous and graceful (1 Chronicles 22–29); and the description of the division: the culpability of Solomon and the promotion of Jeroboam (1 Kgs 11:1–12:24) as opposed to the relative innocence of Solomon and the treachery of Jeroboam (2 Chr 13:4–12). 13 In this respect, I would disagree with the important and provocative treatments of W. Rudolph (Chronikbücher [HAT; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1955] 337) and S. Japhet (The Ideology of the Book of Chronicles and Its Place in Biblical Thought [BEATAJ 9; Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 1989] 368–69), which contend that the ma12

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striking that Chronicles, even more so than Kings, narrows its coverage to Jerusalem. Fourth (and finally), I would like to underscore one of the points that Lipschits makes in his book, but to do so from a different vantage point. Lipschits points to recent archaeological surveys of the Benjaminite region that indicate the extent to which various areas associated with the tribe of Benjamin, excepting Jerusalem and its environs, did not undergo any significant population decrease until the late sixth century BCE. This is one of the factors that leads him to suggest that the Babylonians must have established a province in Judah and maintained an official presence in the area until the ascent of Achaemenid rule. He acknowledges, however, that there “is no historical or archaeological evidence of any attempt by the Babylonians to develop the region or to establish a logistical scheme to reinforce their control.” 14 Lipschits points out that the continuing importance of Benjamin is suggested by Persian period texts, such as the list of Ezra 2 (//Nehemiah 7), which mentions many Benjaminite names and toponyms (e.g., 2:20, 24, 25, 26, 28, 33, 34). Some fourteen out of a total of twenty-two names in Ezra 2:20–35 are Benjaminite in character. To be sure, Lipschits also notes the apparent demographic decline of certain sectors of the Benjaminite region during the course of the Persian era. Nevertheless, within the larger context of the province of Judah, Benjamin retained an important place throughout the post-monarchic era. These insightful observations can be expanded to include the book of Chronicles. Allow me to give three examples. First, by virtue of position, content, and length of coverage, the critical role played by Benjamin within Israel is underlined in the Chronistic genealogies. Judah, which appears as the first sodality, and Benjamin, which appears as the last, establish the larger context in which the other tribes are considered. Of all the Israelite tribes, Judah, Levi, and Benjamin receive the vast majority of coverage (approximately 74%) and the critical positions in the overall presentation (2:3– 9:1). In coverage, Benjamin receives approximately 15% of the total coverage devoted to all the Israelite tribes (7:6–11; 8:1–40; 9:35–44). 15 jority of the people (mentioned in Chronicles) actually remain in the land. In the words of Japhet: “Foreign armies may come and go, but the people’s presence in the land continues uninterrupted” (Ideology, 373). 14 Fall and Rise, 366. 15 These texts do not appear, however, to stem from a single hand, G. N.

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Geographically, Benjamin’s clans occupy towns that are not assigned to them in Joshua (18:21–28), including sites such as Ono and Lud/Lod (1 Chr 8:12), which only appear in late biblical writings (Ezra 2:33//Neh 7:37; Neh 6:2; 11:35). 16 When seen against the backdrop of late Babylonian and early Persian developments, the keen attention paid to Benjamin in the genealogies makes eminent sense. In Chronicles a conscious effort has been made to contest earlier claims of Benjamin’s relatively minor role in Israelite history. 17 Another indication of Benjamin’s importance is the prominence given to Gibeon during the united monarchy. Taking as his cue the Deuteronomistic notice of Solomon’s pilgrimage to the great high place of Gibeon (1 Kgs 3:4; cf. 2 Chr 1:4), the Chronicler has David honor the Gibeon sanctuary by stationing a complement of priests, including Zadoq, and Levites there (1 Chr 16:39–42). The tabernacle remains stationed at Gibeon until it is moved to the temple during the reign of Solomon (2 Chr 1:4; 5:1–14). Just as the ark in the City of David has its own Levitical choir, musical instruments, and set of gatekeepers (1 Chr 16:4,7), so the tabernacle in Gibeon has its own Levitical choir, musical instruments, and set of gatekeepers (16:38, 41–42). It is the high place at Gibeon, however, and not the ark cultus in the City of David that has its own regular litany of sacrifices (16:40; 21:26). Indeed, the narrator comments that the sacrifices performed there accorded with “all that was written in the Torah of Yhwh” (16:40). Eventually, both the ark and the tent of meeting will be brought together in Jerusalem, but in the meantime the Chronistic narration bestows a special privilege upon one of Benjamin’s traditional centers. Hence, both Judah and Benjamin are privileged with major, pan-Israelite cultic centers in the critical time of the united monarchy. 18

Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9 (AB 12; New York: Doubleday, 2004) 459–60, 474–92; idem, I Chronicles 10–29 (AB 12A; New York: Doubleday, 2004) 515–21. 16 The mention of these toponyms reflects Benjaminite movements during the Persian and early Hellenistic periods; see Lipschits, “The Origins of the Jewish Population in Modi`in and Its Vicinity,” Cathedra 85 (1997) 7–32 (Hebrew); Idem, Fall and Rise, 148–49, 155–58, 248–49. 17 Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9, 260–65. 18 In this respect, the elevation of the ark and the Davidic investiture of the Gibeon tabernacle cultus are penultimate events to the construction and dedication of the Jerusalem temple; see G. N. Knoppers, I Chronicles 10–29 (AB 12A; New York: Doubleday, 2004) 633–61.

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In line with importance assigned to Benjamin in the genealogies and the early reign of David, Benjamin plays a sustained role in the Judahite monarchy. 19 Over against some earlier biblical texts in which Benjamin is associated with the northern tribes, the Chronicler emphasizes close ties between Judah and Benjamin. Given that Benjamin occupied an area between Samaria and Yehud in the Persian period, the Chronicler’s insistence that Judah and Benjamin were closely allied throughout the monarchy is important. The Chronicler has clearly made an attempt to align Benjamin with Judah in contradistinction from the traditional association of Benjamin with the northern tribes, as found in many of the earlier biblical sources. For instance, in his depiction of the crisis brought on by the northern secession, the Chronicler has Benjamin, together with Judah and Levi, remain loyal, at least initially, to the normative institutions established during the united kingdom (2 Chr 11:1–4,13–17; 13:4–12). In the continuing portrayal of the Judaean monarchy, it is a consistent practice of Chronicles, over against the uneven presentation of Kings (1 Kgs 12:21), to mention Benjamin’s involvement with Judah (2 Chr 11:12, 23; 14:7; 15:2, 8–9; 17:17; 31:1; 34:9). In this manner, the Chronicler links two tribes throughout his narration. Because the past is related to the present, his work provides a sense of Judaean-Benjaminite solidarity to those who associated themselves with the sodalities of Benjamin and Judah in Yehud. The attention given to Benjamin in the past ratifies the prominence of this group in the present. The close ties between Judah and Benjamin in the Persian period are validated by recourse to their shared past. In conclusion, the achievement of Lipschits’s book is to bring a multidisciplinary approach to a very difficult and controversial subject. His copiously-researched, sophisticated, and nuanced treatment of the NeoBabylonian and Persian periods successfully moves the scholarly discussion forward. 20 I congratulate him for writing a comprehensive, stimulating, and insightful book. Benjaminites, including relatives of Saul, are also among those who support David’s rise to kingship (1 Chr 12:1–6,17–19; cf. 21:6). 20 In this connection, see also the collection of essays that Oded Lipschits and Joseph Blenkinsopp assembled in Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period (Winona Lake, Ind: Eisenbrauns, 2003), as well as the more recent collection of essays that Lipschits co-edited with Manfred Oeming, Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period (Winona Lake, Ind: Eisenbrauns, 2006). 19

COMMENTS ON ODED LIPSCHITS, THE FALL AND RISE OF JERUSALEM

DANIEL M. MASTER

WHEATON COLLEGE, WHEATON, ILLINOIS It has been my pleasure to read Oded Lipschits’s recent work on the sixth century. It is rare to read a synthesis of ancient Levantine history that is so well versed in geography, ceramics, stratigraphy, demography and text criticism. Lipschits has ably filled a “Babylonian gap” in scholarship even if he would decry the use of this term for the history of the sixth century B.C.E. Now the gauntlet has been laid down for others to provide studies of the seventh, eighth, or ninth centuries which live up to this high standard. When attempting a synthesis of such breadth, it is important to think through the nature of various forms of evidence. What are the limits of site surveys or pottery analysis? What are the limits of texts such as Jeremiah or Ezekiel or Ezra/Nehemiah? Our author decides, in the end, that the archaeological information is primary and that all of the biblical data should be sorted through a matrix derived from demographic reconstructions. In his discussion of demography he writes, “The possibility of formulating an independent historical picture that does not depend on the Bible and is as unfettered as possible by prior historiographical and theological perceptions is a privilege of modern research and is of prime importance even for an examination of the biblical descriptions themselves” (258). Footnotes make it clear that the modern research on which he relies is supplied by archaeological investigation (n. 247). As an archaeologist, I am flattered by this pride of place in history and biblical studies. At the same time, however, I worry that archaeology may not be able to sustain the weight of this expectation. Archaeologists are hard-pressed to evaluate most of the biblical claims from this period, much less to avoid the difficulty of doing so with without prior “historiographical and theological perceptions.” Typically, the results of archaeology are both too broad and too individual to evaluate the events portrayed in biblical 53

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texts. Archaeology is quite good at portraying “big picture” trends like changes in technology and the environment or the way in which these changes shaped civilizational possibilities. But the events described by the biblical writers in the sixth and fifth century have no discernable influence on these grand movements. Archaeology is equally good at recording snapshots at the level of the individual: a specific street, or tomb, or house. Unfortunately, these snapshots rarely catch the specific individuals described in the biblical text. Archaeological pictures frequently miss, either by location or time, the individual political and social relationships described in the Bible. A discernable convergence between archaeological finds and the specific events of the biblical text is most likely in periods of sudden dramatic change. In this sense, the destruction of Lachish in 701 B.C.E., the complete destruction of Ashkelon in 604 B.C.E. or the destruction of Jerusalem in 586 B.C.E. are cases in which the political events described in the biblical or Babylonian texts have such an overwhelming material reflex that archaeologists have been able to correlate the text with a large body of material culture. But most of the time, it is quite difficult to talk about, for instance, political alliances which shifted on a yearly basis, or religious reforms that may have only lasted a decade, or an exile and return which took place within a single century. Does a religious artifact from a “seventh century” tomb, for instance, show us something about life in the time of Josiah or Manasseh or both? From the Deuteronomistic perspective these would be radically different eras; archaeologically, they are indistinguishable. Simply stated, it is important to realize the limits of archaeology for evaluating the claims of the biblical text. Because of the foundational way in which this book uses archaeology to reconstruct political history, it becomes particularly important to revisit the archaeological evidence and examine what type of synthetic superstructure it might be able to support.

1.

POTTERY

Lipschits argues that the pottery of the sixth century documents “an unbroken material culture tradition in Judah from the end of the seventh century B.C.E. to the fifth or fourth century B.C.E. This means that the population of Benjamin and the northern highland of Judah at the end of the Iron Age survived, even after the destruction of Jerusalem, and continued to produce the same pottery vessels” (192). To demonstrate this, Lipschits turns to Ephraim Stern’s classic work on Persian pottery (1982) and highlights instances where Stern mentions forms limited to the southern half of the country that have affinity for earlier and later periods.

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In several cases, while similarity exists between forms from the seventh and fifth centuries, that similarity has nothing to do with continuous potting traditions in the highlands. For instance, the well-known mortarium is an oft-imitated North Syrian import with a history unrelated to anything occurring in the highlands. In addition, Stern’s comment (1982:93; 2001:514) that potting fabrics remained constant in the highlands may merely reflect a common geology rather than continuity in pottery production. Other forms, including cooking pots, four handled storage jars, and certain types of jugs show continuity with local Iron Age potting traditions into the sixth century. Still others, including large pilgrim flasks and the sack shape of certain storage jars appear at some point in the sixth century and continue into the Persian period. Like Stern, Lapp, and Barkay before him, Lipschits is able to outline some components of a transitional sixth century ceramic assemblage. In the case of pottery that comes from sites in the Benjamin region, the presence of mid-sixth century assemblages in association with some architecture shows that some sites were occupied in the period following the fall of Jerusalem. But moving beyond rough epochal observations is difficult. The conclusion that a substantial percentage of the early sixth century population survived overlooks a host of social processes, including a dramatic decrease in production, which could also account for these ceramic continuities. And the conclusion that this unbroken tradition was centered in the northern highlands of Judah cannot be sustained from this ceramic presentation. Ephraim Stern is rightly cautious about any attempt to move from this broadly dated assemblage to conclusions about demography, social organization, or the details of sixth century history (2001: 342–44).

2.

ARCHAEOLOGICAL SURVEYS AND EXCAVATION

In most cases, the presentation of the survey data in this book parallels that described by many others and summarized by Stern in 2001. Most of the country was destroyed by the Babylonian army. Even Jerusalem did not recover from its thorough destruction (contra Barkay 1994:105–106). By the second quarter of the sixth century, most regions of Judah were virtually empty. Our author reiterates the consensus opinion that this population collapse was either the direct work of the Babylonians or related to the economic disintegration which the followed their conquest. In three regions, the Negev, Benjamin, and the Judahite highlands, different processes were at work.

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In the Negev, a “wave of devastation” overtook the thriving Beersheba valley in the sixth century to the extent that the population declined by 75%. This destruction has typically been connected in some way to biblical accounts of Edomite treachery during the fall of Jerusalem. In addition, some scholars point to an increasing volume of epigraphic evidence for Edomite presence, whether in the form of an ostracon from Arad warning of Edomite advances or in the form of names with Qaus as the theophoric element (Beit-Arieh 1995: 311–314). Lipschits, by and large, discounts the inferences commonly drawn from these records and prefers to begin his reconstruction in the relative silence of II Kings. Our author argues that the loss of central authority disrupted the balance between the settled and more transient groups and that the region gradually declined. It is not clear who these transient groups were, except that they were not related to Edom. In this section, our author adopts a much more cautious stance regarding the implications of ceramics. In particular, “Edomite” pottery forms might not be directly linked to “Edomite” people. While these cautions are wise, it is not clear what positive evidence exists for placing the destructions of the Negev settlements later in the sixth century. It seems that this perspective of gradual decline is merely an elaboration of Finkelstein’s skepticism (1992) about connections between sites like Qitmit and Horvat Uza and the rise of Edom. Turning to Benjamin, scholars agree that there is evidence of continued occupation following the events of 586. The Babylonians did not devastate this region. At Tell en Nasbeh, biblical Mizpah, Jeff Zorn has heroically reconstructed plans of the sixth century city from McCown’s severely flawed excavations. But given the records available to Zorn, it is impossible to be too precise. For instance, were the sixth century structures which Zorn isolated inhabited through the entirety of the sixth century or were most abandoned within a few decades after the fall of Jerusalem? It is extremely difficult to know. Another important site, el-Gib, biblical Gibeon, was also so poorly excavated that it is very difficult to say anything other than that the site was active in wine production for some time in the middle of the sixth century. We are on somewhat firmer ground at Beitîn, biblical Bethel, which also continued later into mid-sixth century until it was destroyed. Again, the destruction at Beitîn is later than the destructions of Jerusalem, but it is not clear how much later. After this later destruction, Bethel was abandoned until sometime in the middle of the fifth century. At Tell el-Ful, likely ancient Gibeah, stratigraphic excavation has provided secure evidence of both a partial destruction early in the sixth century and continued occupation for some time through the middle of the sixth cen-

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tury (judged by Lapp [1981] to last until approximately 538). The site was then abandoned. In his reading of the Benjamin evidence, Lipschits contends that occupation at these sites was “uninterrupted” (241, n. 210; 244) and that these sites only “gradually declined” (259) over the fifth and fourth century. He argues that the survey information for the later Persian period, from the mid-fifth century, reflects a “low point” in a gradual process of decline. In this gradual process, he feels it unnecessary to argue for the abandonment and restoration that he sees the biblical authors envisioning. All would agree that these excavations show occupation in Benjamin after the destruction of Jerusalem. The nature, boundaries, and density of this occupation, however, are poorly understood. It is not clear how long these sites flourished or when they began to decline. The best excavated sites of the region in this period, Tell el-Ful and Beitîn, do not support Lipschits’s contention of demographic continuity through the middle of the fifth century. Rather their abandonment or even destruction points to a rather precipitous decline as early at the second half of the sixth century. While most of the demographic contentions of our author revise the consensus understanding of Benjamin or the Negev in the sixth century, his reconstruction of the northern Judean Hills is much more radical. He sketches out a region roughly from Beth-Zur in the South to Bethlehem in the North. In this area, Avi Ofer’s survey (1993) proposed that the population was the same size at the end of the Iron Age as at the height of the Persian period. While there are, at the local level, a fair number of sites which were only occupied in either the Iron Age or the Persian period and site size and distribution was rather substantially changed, the aggregate population was virtually identical. Lipschits argues, based upon these population estimates, “that most settlements persisted unchanged from the Iron Age to the Persian Period.” Further, he argues that this region “did not suffer destruction during the Babylonian campaign against Judah.” Or again, “there was not dramatic change in the demographic profile of the region.” In some ways, this conclusion reminds me of a photograph of City of David taken from the Mt. of Olives. From the photograph alone one might be misled into believing that the walk between Silwan and the City of David is a gentle downhill slope. But to anyone who has walked that path, it is clear that between the two ridges is a deep gorge of the Kidron valley. In a similar sense, Avi Ofer’s survey provides us with a glimpse of two population ridges: one on the eve of Babylonian conquest, another in the fifth century (actually a 5th-4th century amalgam). The details of the mid-sixth century must be inferred. Is there a gorge, an occupational gap in this region, or

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complete continuity between the two populations, or something in between? The surveys are inconclusive. Archaeological survey and the politics of the sixth century are calibrated on very different time scales. Unlike the situation in Benjamin, where one might appeal to a series of excavations, there is not a single stratified sequence in the highlands of Judah that demonstrates Lipschits’s claim of demographic continuity. 1 At Beth-Zur, on the southern fringe of this region, excavators argued for a gap in the sixth century, and Lipschits concurs. At Khirbet Abu Tuwein, the sixth century was limited to a poor re-occupation of one small part of the destroyed Iron Age site.

3.

SUMMARY

In the end, the archaeological evidence does not demonstrate that the highlands of Judah and the cities of Benjamin were relatively “unaffected” by the Babylonian conquest and exhibit substantial population continuity between the seventh and fifth century. The archaeological evidence does show destruction in most regions of Judah at the hands of Babylon. It further indicates that several cities in Benjamin survived this onslaught for an indeterminate period. Accepting our author’s population estimates, the evidence does show a population of just a few tens of thousands in the middle of the fifth century. But this is all. This is not to say that there is some key bit of archaeological evidence that our author has missed. On the contrary, this book shows a comprehensive awareness of the archaeological work that has taken place in this region over the last century. It is merely that the pottery analysis, survey work, and excavation in the sixth century in Judah and Benjamin are not specific enough to answer the question of population continuity. More than this, at Beitîn, Tel el-Ful, or Khirbet Abu Tuwein, the few places in Benjamin or Judah where reliable city excavations have been conducted, the sequences do not, at this time, support the contention that substantial portions of the Iron Age population continued unchanged into the fifth century. Some may say this is merely a skeptical unwillingness to allow Lipschits’s synthetic connections across the disciplines. However, with the current state of archaeological research into sixth century Judah, this is more than just seeing the archaeological glass half-empty. Rather, the arIt is more difficult to accept Lipschits’s thesis when it is realized that salvage expeditions in this same region show marked discontinuity in this region rather than the continuity that Lipschits proposes (Faust 2003). 1

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chaeologist is left to cry for a mere drop of water from any well in the region of Bethlehem. In such a richly synthetic book such as this, much is related to the weighing of different forms of evidence. Textual evidence should be weighed against the archaeological. Biblical texts should be analyzed in light of the finds of surveys and excavations. But we must be careful not to overextend either sphere. In the end, I would argue that the historical synthesis in this book is perched on an uncertain archaeological foundation. In this book, tentative archaeological conclusions are often treated as assured results with which to reconstruct the history behind the biblical text. It may be that the textual and historical conclusions found here can be established through an examination of biblical and ancient texts without reference to archaeology. Perhaps Oded Lipschits’s reconstruction of the sixth century still holds; however, many of his central archaeological and demographic assertions lie beyond the reach of current archaelogical evidence.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Barkay, G.1994 Excavations at Ketef Hinnom in Jerusalem. Pp. 85–106 in Geva, H. (ed.). Ancient Jerusalem Revealed. Jerusalem. Beit-Arieh, I.1995 Horvat Qitmit: An Edomite Shrine in the Biblical Negev. TelAviv. Faust, A. 2003 Judah in the Sixth Century b.c.e.: A Rural Perspective. PEQ 135: 37–53. Lapp, N. L. (ed.) 1981 The Third Campaign at Tell el-Ful: The Excavations of 1964. AASOR 45. Cambridge, Massachusetts. Ofer, A.1993 The Highland of Judah during the Biblical Period. Ph.D. Dissertation. Tel-Aviv. Stern, E. 1982 Material Culture of the Land of the Bible in the Persian Period, 538– 332 b.c. Warminster. 2001 The Assyrian, Babylonian, and Persian Periods (732–332 b.c.e. ). Vol. 2 of Archaeology of the Land of the Bible. New York

COMMENTS ON ODED LIPSCHITS, THE FALL AND RISE OF JERUSALEM

H. G. M. WILLIAMSON UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD

As I have the privilege of speaking first in this session, and as most of you will not yet have had the opportunity to study this brand new book by Oded Lipschits, I should perhaps begin by just saying a word or two about what is in it, so that you know what my colleagues and I are talking about for the rest of the afternoon. Despite its title, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem, the book goes further afield than solely the history of the city during the Neo-Babylonian period both geographically and chronologically. Geographically, it is really a history of the whole region of Judah during the Babylonian and Persian eras. Admittedly, the post-exilic province of Yehud was considerably smaller than the pre-exilic kingdom, but still there is more to it, as Oded shows so well, than just Jerusalem. Indeed, if he is right in one of his contentions, that the city was pretty well deserted through the exilic period, then it is a history of everything except Jerusalem! Chronologically too, though the focus is on the period of the exile, Lipschits trawls much more widely for evidence, encompassing detailed historical and geographical surveys of the preceding period as a way into this dark age. He also makes intelligent use of what may be culled from the later books of Ezra and Nehemiah, in particular, to reflect on what must have happened in the intervening decades. In terms of source material, we find a wide range exploited, mostly with enviable skill and clarity. The biblical texts are naturally treated critically, but they are mined for what they reveal about topics which they may not on the surface have been appearing to address. The lists in EzraNehemiah, for instance, tell us much of the geographical extent and the political divisions of the Persian-period province; the several editorial layers that may be hypothesized in Jeremiah and in the closing chapters of the books of Kings reveal differing ideologies of the Judean, Babylonian and perhaps even Egyptian communities during the exilic period, and so on. 61

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Archaeological evidence from tel, survey and epigraphy are exploited with particular expertise, as we shall see in a moment, and extra-Biblical sources (such as the Babylonian chronicles) are naturally drawn into the discussion as appropriate. The result is a more detailed and, I venture to suggest, more authoritative collection of relevant data than we have enjoyed before, and for that we should be most grateful. There are, of course, particular points of contention, and we may hope that ongoing discovery will add new data to refine the presentation here and there, but to me Oded has succeeded in bringing clarity to what was in danger of becoming a sterile dialogue, with protagonists largely talking across one another. I refer, of course, to what has become known in shorthand as “the myth of the empty land.” Taking its title from Hans Barstad’s well-known little book, there are those who have suddenly caught on to the fact that life at some level continued in Judah throughout the Neo-Babylonian period. As I pointed out in a review of Barstad’s book at the time, this was really not at all a new discovery either by literary-based scholars or by archaeologists, though it was useful to have the data collected again and re-presented. On the other hand, there continued to be others who emphasized the devastation suffered by, and massively attested at, such major sites as Jerusalem and Lachish. Thus, even if the description in a few (but please note by no means all) Biblical sources of Judah being deserted was hyperbolic, nevertheless it contained more than a grain of truth. And in some publications, which shall remain nameless, the debate between the two sides got quite heated. For me, one of the most helpful aspects of Oded’s book, reiterated in several places as the evidence is accumulated from different sources, is to bring sense and clarity to this debate, which in principle is the sort of argument that it ought to be able to settle with reasonable certainty from the archaeological record. The solution is elegant and simple—the sort of thing that is obvious as soon as it is said, but is not said often enough in the first place. On the one hand, the evidence not just for destruction but also for abandonment of sites like Lachish and Jerusalem, which I have just mentioned, is clear. But here for the first time to my knowledge (but of course this may simply be ignorance on my part) this pattern of destruction is clearly linked to Babylonian military and political strategy. Lachish and the Shephelah were destroyed as a deliberate means of securing safe entry into the interior of the country, and from that secure base there is a wedge to be traced up to Jerusalem the capital, which was then systematically destroyed.

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The Babylonians probably prohibited its restoration, rather like Hadrian in much later times, and no doubt for similar reasons. This being so, we find a natural explanation for the movement of the political centre from Jerusalem to Mizpah, and to a lesser extent Ramat Rahel. That Mizpah and the surrounding traditional Benjamite territory continued to flourish has been well known and universally accepted for decades now. It is probable that already before the fall of Jerusalem the Babylonians established their headquarters there, and it was natural that it should have continued thereafter as the administrative centre, of which an echo remains as late as the time of Nehemiah (Neh. 3:7). The decline in that region is found to have occurred only much later (5th-4th centuries), possibly under the reverse influence of the re-emergence of Jerusalem later in the Persian period. Similarly, the decline (rather than the destruction) of a region like the Jordan Valley or the southern Judean hill country is to be explained more by the shift in economic activity following the fall of Jerusalem than to a deliberate policy of destruction or abandonment by the Babylonians. I find all this helpful and clarifying. Justice is done to the undoubted evidence for destruction, but it is limited to what may be seen as making strategic sense from the Babylonian perspective. Similarly, the continuity, decline or re-emergence of this region or that is shown to be causally linked to this strategy rather than to some policy of wilful and purposeless destruction. To me it is also demonstrated that once ideology is removed from the agenda of historical research an intelligible picture emerges which seems to do justice to both sides of the previous debate without either being able to lay claim to Oded’s research as a full vindication of their stated position. Let me move on, then, from an appreciation of what I found most helpful to a question which has been in my mind for some time and which has been sharpened by some of Oded’s discussion. Right in his introduction, Oded repeats what is to be found in virtually all the textbooks of the period, namely that when the time came for some of those in Babylon to return to Judah early in the Persian period they met with hostility from those who had remained in the land. The latter were displeased, to say the least, that the old elite were seeking to restore their hegemony. Although the argument is not advanced in this particular book, this is often linked with such things as the change in meaning of the phrase (am ha)arets, “the people of the land,” from its honourable connotations in the late monarchical period to its pejorative overtones later on, and so on. I want at least to raise the question whether this widely accepted view is justified. The most secure first-hand evidence that we have for the situation immediately consequent upon the first returns, so far as I am aware, is

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to be found in Haggai and Zechariah 1–8. I see here no trace of an innercommunity division along the lines commonly suggested. Indeed, it is not even clear whether these two prophets should be included among the returning exiles or whether they were rather among those who had remained in the land. Haggai addresses the community as one without distinction, and although he has criticisms to raise they are not, apparently, determined by this sort of consideration at all. He is clearly supportive of the returning leadership as represented by Zerubbabel and Joshua, but the implication of his address to the people is that they have been settled in the land for some considerable time. It is only surmise on our part that this relates exclusively to the seventeen or eighteen years since the earliest possible return; in principle, it could equally well stretch back further. Similarly, while Zechariah is also supportive of the returning leadership and at least shows awareness of the Babylonian community (e.g. 6:9), his focus is very much Jerusalemcentred and the difficult passage at the start of chapter 7 seems to address concerns of the Judean community quite as much, if not more, than those of the exiles. At any rate, there is certainly no hint of any tension here between the two communities. The same, I maintain, is true of Trito-Isaiah, although here, I am aware, the question of date is less secure. Many scholars regard the central chapters 60–62 as the earliest material, and with good reason. Here once again, however, the community shows no sign of division. In the surrounding chapters, the divisions begin to open up quite sharply, but on the one hand this is probably a reflection of a more developed stage in the history of the community and on the other the division is determined quite selfevidently along lines other than geographical. Whatever we make of Hanson’s theory of disenfranchised Levites, the fact that he sees them carrying a torch for Deutero-Isaiah suggests that they were not originally out of sorts with the Babylonian community, since part, at least, of Isaiah 40–55 must still be understood as addressed to that community whether or not the prophet was physically present there or in Judah (as Barstad has argued). Contemporary evidence, I would therefore maintain, presents a very different picture from the normal view. Where, then, does the latter come from? Oded does not tell us where he gets it from, but for most it is, of course, the early chapters of Ezra. Closer examination suggests that things are not so simple, however. First, the only explicit evidence for tension with the Judean community comes from Ezra 3:1–4:5, a passage which differs from all others in Ezra 1– 6 in not even purporting to be based on archival documents. In 3:3 we are told that those engaged in the rebuilding of the temple “set the altar in its

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place, for fear was upon them because of the peoples of the lands” and this seems to be resumed in 4:4 where “the people of the land discouraged the people of Judah and made them afraid to build.” While it is more usual for the plural form of 3:3 to refer to foreigners, the familiar singular form of 4:4 suggests that this is meant to refer to those in the land who were not part of the so-called golah community. Whichever way it is interpreted in detail, however, the fact remains perfectly clear that it differs from the usage in the genuinely contemporary writings of Haggai and Zechariah. At Hag. 2:4 the phrase refers without any doubt to the very community that the prophet is encouraging to engage in the rebuilding: “Yet now take courage, O Zerubbabel, says the Lord; take courage O Joshua, son of Jehozadak, the high priest; take courage all you people of the land, says the Lord; work, for I am with you ….” This is the very opposite of the usage in Ezra 3 and 4. Somewhat similarly, in Zech. 7:5 we find, “Say to all the people of the land and the priests, When you fasted and mourned in the fifth month, etc.” Admittedly, it is not clear (as in principle it is not clear in Haggai) whether the reference is to the returned exiles or to those who had remained in the land, or to the two combined without distinction. What is clear, however, is that here too it is the community focussed on the temple that is addressed, not some alternative hostile element in the population. The conclusion is obvious. The language of Ezra 3:3 and 4:4 reflects the usage of a much later editor, by whose time the phrase had come to have negative overtones. It cannot be used to analyse the state of relations between the various people groups at the time of the return itself, and it does not provide evidence of tension between the two communities. Similarly, the section at the start of Ezra 4 about the “adversaries of Judah and Benjamin” whose offer of help is rebuffed by the Judeans is difficult to evaluate historically. My own view is that there is some sound tradition behind this, and that it relates to inhabitants from the north (Samaria), not to the exilic Judean community at all. Certainly that is how it seems to have been understood by the later editor who inserted the “dischronologized” account in the remainder of chapter 4 about accusations being sent to the Persian court regarding the work of the Judeans; I have elsewhere suggested that the editor may have extracted whatever is historical in these verses from the letter which is mentioned, but not cited, in 4:6. But that goes beyond our concern here. Finally, if my remarks on Ezra 1–6 so far have been negative, that is to say, to suggest that they do not give us reliable information about a supposed conflict at the time of the early returns, then I should now want to pick up an attractive suggestion advanced long ago by Sara Japhet about the

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long list in Ezra 2. It purports to be of those who returned, but may in fact reflect a combination of those who returned and of those who remained in the land who were working together on the temple rebuilding. This suggestion builds on Galling’s proposal that behind the list lies a record of the response of the elders of the Jews to Tattenai’s request (Ezra 5:3–4, 9–10) for a list of names of those engaged in the rebuilding. Certainly, there are several elements in the list which seem to presuppose the conditions in the early post-exilic period, not the later period of Ezra, as some have suggested. But Japhet then observes that the variations in the way that the families are listed can be explained by her hypothesis, namely that those listed by family will have been those who returned from Babylon while those listed by place of domicile will be those who had remained in the land throughout the exile. This analysis differs in detail from Oded’s, since he is inclined rather to see this list as an amalgamation of a number of censuses stretching over fifty years or more, largely based on the numbers involved (which always strikes me as a bit hazardous), but as regards the main point that I am making he does not disagree with the conclusions reached. Now, the reason I have gone into all this at some length is not just to suggest that a detail of Oded’s Introduction might have been worded differently, but to lay the basis for raising a further question which it seems is never addressed, but which arises in part out of what I have been saying and even more out of complementary considerations of a literary nature that Oded discusses later on in the book. In his chapter 5, Oded undertakes a detailed source and redaction critical analysis of the closing chapter of 2 Kings and of Jeremiah. In both, he finds evidence of material that is most naturally understood as having been originally composed either in Babylon or in Judah (possibly Egypt in the case of Jeremiah), and he shows well how each part might have served the ideology of its respective community. My concern here is not to quibble with the detail of the analysis, but to applaud the general idea that the two communities were both producing reflective literature during the exile. Along with others I have been arguing this for years and I am totally convinced that the outlook of a prayer such as that included in Nehemiah 9, for instance, can only be that of the Judean community. What Oded has done is to expand the range of such analyses to more material. The impression that so much intricately related, yet separately originating, material leaves me with, however, is that there may have been far more extensive communication between the two communities during the exile than we have ever previously considered. Let us consider the probabilities. We know pretty well that, unlike the Assyrians, the Babylonians did not

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disperse the peoples whom they removed to Babylon but kept them together, so allowing them to retain and even strengthen their sense of national or religious identity. Smith-Christopher’s work on this is clear, and the evidence seems indisputable. Furthermore, we have direct evidence that there was some communication between the two centres early in the exilic period, at least, from the letter that Jeremiah is said to have sent to those in Babylon (Jeremiah 29) and from accounts of news reaching Babylon from Jerusalem in the book of Ezekiel. In addition, apart from any other incentives, it seems to me in the highest degree probable that families were divided between the two centres. If the number of deportees was relatively limited, as generally maintained nowadays, and if they were restricted predominantly to the elite, then it is unlikely that every member of an extended family will have neatly fallen into the category that was singled out for deportation. If even in the case of the royal family an Ishmael could somehow have been left behind, how much more would this be likely in the case of lesser families? The picture Oded paints from the literature therefore seems to me to be worthy of much more thorough research at all levels. We know a good deal about communications during the Persian period because of the Persepolis tablets and other such sources, but I am not aware that the Akkadian sources have been trawled with this question in mind; it might prove instructive, for I should be surprised if the really very sophisticated communications networks of the Achaemenids only a few years later sprang completely out of nowhere. And of course the drift of these random speculations is that if there was closer contact than we have hitherto supposed then the notion that those returning after the exile barged their way uninvited into Judah to the dismay of those who had remained might be further undermined. Perhaps we should be thinking rather of welcome-home parties between families long divided but not necessarily, therefore, forgotten. After all, the exile did not last so long, and both Haggai and Ezra seems to imply that there would have been those still living who would have survived the whole period. To sum up, then, I have enormously enjoyed and appreciated Oded’s book, and learned much from it. I have deliberately not picked up on smaller points of disagreement (we have exchanged correspondence previously, for instance, on the interpretation of Nehemiah 3) but have allowed myself rather to indulge in a little broader thinking about the exilic communities and their relationship both in the Neo-Babylonian and in the early Persian periods. If these wishful musings lead to more productive research

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that results in a better understanding of this key period of Judean history, then let that be put down to the stimulus of this masterful publication.

THE BABYLONIAN PERIOD IN JUDAH: IN SEARCH OF THE HALF FULL CUP ODED LIPSCHITS

TEL AVIV UNIVERSITY This paper was originally delivered in the Literature and History of the Persian Period Group of the Society of Biblical Literature on November 19, 2005. 1 I would like to thank the panel members for the good and warm words they delivered then and have now written. Even more importantly, I thank them for their critiques and for the problems they emphasized, as well as for their remarks about things that could have been done or remain to be done in the future. In our field of research, ideas that have already been written are no more than bibliography and footnotes for future ideas. There is only one direction to continue the research: forward. Any note or comment that can lead us in this direction must be welcomed with an open mind and an open heart. The book under discussion, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem: Judah under Babylonian Rule (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2005), is based on my PhD thesis, which was presented to the senate of Tel Aviv University in January 1997, under the supervision of Prof. Nadav Na’aman. I submitted this thesis only because it was the time to do so. Most of my teachers where quite satisfied with it, but I was not. Even if the general picture was clear to me, I saw many problems and “holes” in this picture of Judah in the 6th century BCE and thought that many of them could and should be filled. Thus, the Hebrew version of the book only appeared in 2001, and I at1 I am presenting here my lecture with minor updates, changes and adaptations, and have added footnotes where needed for the convenience of readers. I would like to thank Prof. John Wright for the idea of having this SBL session. I would also like to thank Prof. David Vanderhooft for helping to arrange the session and for editing the contributions. I wish to thank the publisher of the book, Jim Eisenbraun, for sending PDF files of the book to all the participants, and the editor of The Journal of Hebrew Scriptures, Professor Ehud Ben Zvi, for his kind generosity in publishing this Panel Discussion.

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tempted in the meantime to ground the archaeological and geopolitical elements more securely, along with the Biblical discussion. Some of my new thoughts and conclusions were also published as papers during those years. 2 I submitted the Hebrew version of the manuscript to Yad Yizhak Ben Zvi in 2001 because it was time to do so, and even if the book was accepted for publication, and actually was published in April 2003, I was not entirely satisfied. I still saw problems and “holes” in my picture of Judah in the 6th century BCE, and still thought some of them could and should be filled. Thus I waited until 2004 to submit the English manuscript of the book, trying meanwhile to solidify the biblical analyses in it, along with the historical discussions and demographic evaluations. I worked on these revisions especially during my Sabbatical year in Heidelberg as a visiting scholar in the Wissenschaftlich-Theologisches Seminar of the Ruprecht Karls Universität. 3 Some of my new thoughts and conclusions were also published in papers between 2001 and 2004. 4 The overall picture was then presented in the English edition of the book, even though I choose to end the book with a series of questions and subjects that remain open. Some of them should See Lipschits, O. “The History of the Benjaminite Region under Babylonian Rule,” TA 26 (1999), 155–190; Nebuchadrezzar’s Policy in ‘hattu-Land’ and the Fate of the Kingdom of Judah. Ugarit-Forschungen 30 (1999), 467–487; “The Formation of the Babylonian Province in Judah,” Proceedings of the Twelfth World Congress of Jewish Studies, Division A: The Bible and Its World. Jerusalem (1999), 115–123 (Hebrew); “Judah, Jerusalem and the Temple (586–539 B.C.),” Transeuphratène 22 (2001), 129–142; “The Policy of the Persian Empire and the Meager Architectural Finds in the Province of Yehud,” Faust, A. and Baruch, E. (eds.). New Studies in Jerusalem (Proceedings of the Seventh Conference) (Ramat-Gan, 2001), 45–76 (Hebrew); “Was There a Royal Estate in Ein-Gedi by the End of the Iron Age and During the Persian Period?,” Schwartz, J., Amar, Z. and Ziffer, I. (eds.) Jerusalem and Eretz Israel (Arie Kindler Volume; Tel-Aviv, 2000), 31–42 (Hebrew). 3 During this year I was hosted by my good friend and colleague, Prof. Manfred Oeming, and I would like to thank him for it. 4 See Lipschits, O. Demographic Changes in Judah between the 7th and the 5th Centuries BCE., Lipschits, O. and Blenkinsopp, J. (eds.) Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period. (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2003), 323–376; “Ammon in Transition from Vassal kingdom to Babylonian Province,” BASOR 335 (2004), 37–52; From Geba to Beersheba—A Further Discussion. RB 111–3 (2004), 345– 361; “Achaemenid Imperial Policy, Settlement Processes in Palestine, and the Status of Jerusalem in the Middle of the Fifth Century BCE,” Lipschits, O. and Oeming, M. (eds.). Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period. Winona-Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns; 2006), 19–52. 2

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be the subject of further research and some of them should probably wait for future developments and future finds. When I started to prepare my research for publication, with the main goal of presenting a synthetic overview of the history of Judah under Babylonian rule, I knew that I would have two options: to focus on the half empty cup; or to focus on the half full cup. To focus on the half empty cup would necessitate demonstrating the gaps in our knowledge, emphasizing caution in treating archaeological and historical problems and probably avoiding an overall synthesis. To focus on the half full cup would mean taking full cognizance of the gaps in our knowledge while treating in an exhaustive way each of the different fields of research: biblical, archaeological and historical. My goal was to study each of them independently, without interference from the other fields, but with a clear purpose: to get to a point where a positive summary could be offered, and then a synthesis. Of course it is possible that I misunderstood some details or that I misinterpreted others. Naturally future discoveries can change our knowledge and perspectives concerning some parts in this big puzzle, and thus how we reconstruct the entire picture. However, I felt that enough information exists and that the time was ripe to try to go one step further and present a synthesis. In some aspects I can agree with Prof. Daniel Master’s observation that much of the overall synthesis depends on the way I interpret the archaeological material. He is right in the way he understood the importance I assigned to the options we have in modern research. I did argue that “formulating an independent historical picture that does not depend on the Bible and is as unfettered as possible by prior historiographical and theological perceptions is a privilege of modern research and is of prime importance even for an examination of the biblical descriptions themselves.” Master was too hasty, however, in asserting my primary reliance on archaeological evidence to achieve this goal. The results of archaeological research can release us from religious, political and ideological preconceptions when researching the biblical period in general and the exilic and post-exilic periods in particular. Archaeology can thus open the way to ask new questions and provide a firm foundation for understanding this period in a neutral way. Archaeological reconstruction, however, does not control the research in each of the different fields of research that contribute to my synthesis and final historical reconstruction. Between scholars supporting the idea of the “real empty land” and those supporting the idea of the “myth of the empty land” there is apparently a huge gap in the way they understand the history of the Babylonian period in Judah, but the actual differences between the two “camps” are not

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so great. Both sides in this argument have much more in common than they admit. The debate between them on how many people remained in Judah is not terribly important, nor is the debate on the form and function of the sparse administration in Judah under Babylonian rule. Just as in the case of the different emphases in 2 Kings 25: 12, 22, both sides agree that after the very harsh blow that the Babylonians dealt Judah at the beginning of the 6th century BCE—a blow that fell especially on the urban, military and administrative centers of the kingdom—at least some people remained in Judah, especially in the rural areas north and south of Jerusalem. We may assume that those who remained in Judah continued to cook, eat and drink; they probably had some kind of (local and/or imperial) administration, social and religious-cultic life; and from time to time some of them died and were buried. Therefore, there must have been a degree of continuity in the material culture. If it remains true that we cannot see a drastic change at the beginning of the Persian period, in connection with either a mass or a symbolic return, and if most scholars agree that the main characteristics of the Persian period material culture crystallized in a long and gradual process, then we have no other choice but to treat the sixth century BCE as a kind of intermediate period between the ‘classical’ Iron Age II and Persian Period in terms of the material culture. 5 Within this broad framework there is plenty of room for different and contrasting ideas. 6 However, any attempt to drag this “middle way” reconstruction of the situation in Judah in the direction of a total “empty land” interpretation, 7 or in the direction of an argument for total continuity folA very similar conclusion about the slow and graduate change from the Persian to Hellenistic periods, with an emphasis on the continuation of the local material culture, was expressed recently by O. Tal, in his The Archaeology of Hellenistic Palestine: Between Tradition and Renewal (Jerusalem: The Bialik Institute, 2006). 6 Cf., for example, the opposing opinions expressed by Vanderhooft on the one side and Middlemas on the other: D. S. Vanderhooft, The Neo-Babylonian Empire and Babylon in the Latter Prophets (HSM 59; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1999); J. Middlemas, The Troubles of Templeless Judah (Oxford Theological Monographs; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005). 7 See E. Stern’s basic view in his Material Culture of the Land of the Bible in the Persian Period 538–332 B.C. (Warminster: Aris and Phillips / Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1982). See also Stern’s ‘The Babylonian Gap’, BAR 26/6 (2000), 45– 51, 76, and also in his Archaeology of the Land of the Bible, vol. II: The Assyrian, Babylonian, and Persian Periods 732–332 BCE (ABRL; New York: Doubleday, 2001), 303– 50. 5

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lowed by the later creation of the “myth of the empty land,” 8 derives, I think, from historical preconceptions about this period. This may also be the principle reason why the material culture of this period was not identified until now in archaeological research. The short period of time that elapsed between the Babylonian destruction and the return is not a sufficient reason for the absence of finds, and may represent an example of “structural habits of thought” in archaeological research. Historical conclusions inform the chronological divisions usually drawn in historical and archaeological research. In the case of the Babylonian destruction, it can work only if one accepts the reconstruction of a total devastation of the land and a population vacuum created because of it. Scholarly inability to assign material culture to the 6th century BCE, therefore, is a combination of two elements: a) The fact that many of the archaeologists were never looking for material remains from this period. The historical assumption of an empty land during the 6th century BCE is a starting point for many archaeological studies, and since nearly no one was looking for remains from this period, nothing was found. b) If indeed people continued to live in Benjamin and in other places in Judah after 586, we should expect the same material culture as before (pottery production, burial customs, building techniques etc.). The impact of historical preconceptions on archaeological research caused most archaeologists to assign all the finds familiar to them as belonging to the late Iron Age to the period before 586 BCE. It is correct in the case of Jerusalem, Lachish and other places destroyed by the Babylonians. It is not correct in places and areas where there are no signs of destruction. The changes in this local material culture between the 7th and the 5th centuries were probably small and gradual, and there are no archaeological tools to distinguish and define those changes. The model that I am offering, as theoretical as it is, suggests that archaeologists take this continuation as a possible option, at least in some areas. I hope that future excavations will

8 See R. Carroll’s paper, “The Myth of the Empty Land,” Semeia 59 [1992] 79– 93, and H. Barstad’s book, The Myth of the Empty Land: A Study in the History and Archaeology of Judah During the “Exilic” Period (Symbolae Osloenses, Fasc. Suppl. 28; Oslo: Scandinavian University Press, 1998).

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find the site that will demonstrate this continuation in a clear stratigraphical sequence, and will make this theory into an archaeological reality. A support for this model can be found in the similarity in shape, form and other characteristics of some pottery types of the late Iron Age and the Persian period. If we were dealing here with other, more “neutral” transitional periods such as the beginning of the Early Bronze period, the transition to the Middle Bronze or to the Late Bronze period, the assumption of some continuity in forms would be interpreted as a common archaeological method. It is hard for me to understand the attempt of Prof. Master to explain that continuity has nothing to do with continuous potting traditions in the highlands, especially since we now have other examples for this same continuity. Such an example is the continuation in using stamp impressions on jar handles as part of the local administration. It is becoming clearer now that the early types of the Yehud stamp impressions, dating to the end of the 6th and to the 5th centuries BCE, preserve some of the phenomena that characterized the ‘private’ stamp impressions of the Late Iron Age (in form, decoration, etc.) as well as those of the mwṣh stamp impressions, usually dated to the 6th century BCE. Bigger changes occurred at the end of the 5th or the beginning of the 4th centuries BCE, and were probably slow and gradual. 9 Daniel Master’s cautiousness and his unwillingness to go beyond the similarities and conclude from them that there probably was continuity of life in Judah, in contrast to my attempt, is an example of concentrating on the half empty cup. The consequence of this approach, however, is much wider, since by taking this view he is supporting the historical interpretation of two different periods with a gap in between. I am not sure that this is really what he means. My archaeological view stands: If the researcher looks for signs of continuation, he might find it, but if he will ignore the possibility of such continuity, he will never have the chance to find it. For me, the most important historical conclusion from the archaeological material is not new. Other scholars also pointed to the fact that after the destruction of Jerusalem there was a sharp decline in urban life, which is See Vanderhooft, D. S. and Lipschits, O., “A New Typology of the Yehud Stamp Impressions.” TA (forthcoming); Lipschits, O. and Vanderhooft, D. forthcoming. Yehud Stamp Impressions of the Fourth Century BCE: A Time of Administrative Consolidation? Lipschits, O., Knoppers, G., and Albertz, R. (eds.). Judah and the Judeans in the 4th Century BCE. (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns), forthcoming. 9

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in contrast to the continuity of the rural settlements in the region of Benjamin and in the area between Bethlehem and Beth-Zur. 10 This settlement pattern continued throughout the Persian Period when, despite the rebuilding of Jerusalem and the restoration of its status as the capital of the province, there was no strengthening of urban life, and the settlement in Judah remained largely based on the rural population. 11 The unavoidable conclusion is that the Babylonian period is the most important point of change in the characteristics of the settled areas, when the settlement center of gravity moved from the core to the close periphery, and a new pattern of settlement was created, in which the core was depleted and the nearby periphery continued to exist almost without change. This was not a homogenous process that occurred all over the land in the same way. There were differences between the different regions in Judah, and one should check carefully each one of the regions, understanding its history and fate during the periods before and after the Babylonian destruction of Jerusalem. A similar archaeological situation—the continuation of the rural settlement from the end of the Iron Age to the Persian period—is discerned in Ammon, although there too one can discern different geopolitical and demographic processes in the different areas of the kingdom. 12

10 On this subject, see C. E. Carter, The Province of Yehud in the Post-Exilic Period: Soundings in the Site Distribution and Demography, in Second Temple Studies 2: Temple and Community in the Persian Period, eds. T. C. Eskenazi and K. H. Richards (JSOTSup 175; Sheffield: JSOT, 1994), 106–45; I. Milevski, “Settlement Patterns in Northern Judah during the Achaemenid Period according to the Hill Country of Benjamin and Jerusalem Survey,” Bulletin of the Anglo-Israel Archaeological Society 15 (1996–1997), 7–29; O. Lipschits, “The Yehud Province under Babylonian Rule (586–539 B.C.E.): Historic Reality and Historiographic Conceptions” (Ph.D. dissertation, Tel Aviv University, 1997), 171–336 (Hebrew); 1999 (op. cit. n. 28); 2003, 326–55 (op. cit. n. 30); N. Na’aman, “Royal Vassals or Governors? On the Status of Sheshbazzar and Zerubbabel in the Persian Empire,” Henoch 22/1 (2000), 43. It is difficult to understand either the archaeological or historical basis for Barstad’s conclusions (1996, 47–48) regarding the difference between the area north of Jerusalem and the area south of it. 11 On this subject See Lipschits, O. 2006 “Achaemenid Imperial Policy, Settlement Processes in Palestine, and the Status of Jerusalem in the Middle of the Fifth Century BCE,” Lipschits, O. and Oeming, M. (eds.) Judah and the Judeans in the Persian (Achaemenid) Period (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2006) 19–52. 12 Lipschits, O., “Ammon in Transition from Vassal kingdom to Babylonian Province,” BASOR 335 (2004), 37–52.

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The change from urban to rural society and the importance of the rural society in the Babylonian and Persian periods force us to base our knowledge mainly on surveys and salvage excavations. The problems with the accuracy of surveys have been discussed exhaustively in the literature, but surveys are still a basic tool for creating regional maps for examination of the settlement and demographic changes between different periods. The data from salvage excavations are of great importance for the research of the rural settlements and supply an option for greater depth in viewing specific rural sites. The methodology of using surveys and salvage excavations is not simple, and should always be used in the broadest perspective, while acknowledging the danger of getting problematic and erroneous results while using the data in partial or tendentious ways. In this connection I recall Prof. Knoppers’ request to explain why I can’t agree with Faust’s study, where he argues for an extremely low continuity in the rural settlement in Judah. 13 The main methodological problem with Faust’s study is the discussion of all the territory of the former kingdom of Judah without any attention to the different fates of the different regions. I think it is a mistake for Faust to focus on regions in Judah known to have been destroyed at the beginning of the sixth century B.C.E. and which had no settlement continuation in the Persian period (the Jordan valley, the Negev, the southern Shephelah, etc.), combined with only a minor representation of the areas where, according to the excavations of the main sites (e.g., the region of Benjamin) and the surveys (e.g., the northern Judean hills), there is a clear continuity. Against the background of an overly general discussion of the entire territory of the kingdom of Judah, without division into different regions and without discussion of the different fate of those regions, Faust chose the Samaria foothills as a control group. This is a very limited and defined area, part of the Samaria province since the end of the 8th century BCE, and one of the most stable regions in demographic and political terms from the 7th to the 4th centuries BCE, with clear continuity between the end of the Iron Age and the Persian period. The Samaria data, thus, provide no control for assessing processes in Judah. In the overall archaeological picture I have tried to present in the book under review, one can criticize specific details, but the general picture of 13 Among A. Faust’s papers on the rural settlement, see especially: “Judah in the Sixth Century B.C.E.: A Rural Perspective,” PEQ 135 (2003), 37–53, and my response: “The Rural Settlement in Judah in the Sixth Century BCE: A Rejoinder,” PEQ 136 (2004), 99–107.

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significant regional differences within Judah in the sixth century is one of the strongest and best documented facts in the material culture of Judah at the end of the Iron Age. This is a point of great importance for biblical studies, and can be used in discussions about the significance of Benjamin, the Simeonite territory, the location of Beth-El, Mizpah, Gibeon, or even about the status of Jerusalem in biblical texts from the exilic and post-exilic periods. The notes made by Prof. Knoppers, using the three examples from the book of Chronicles; the way Prof. Eskenazi invoked archaeology to reassess Ezra 1–6; the way Prof. Albertz considered the history of the time of Josiah and the description of his cultic reform; or Prof. Blenkinsopp’s treatment of Judahite-Benjaminite hostility: 14 all are examples of the value of archaeological and historical observations in Biblical studies. The same is true, as emphasized by Prof. Williamson, with the attempt to explain how the pattern of the Babylonian destruction was clearly linked to the Babylonian military and political strategy near the western border of Judah and around Jerusalem, and how it was as a consequence of the collapse of the military and administrative power of the kingdom in the border zones (the Negev, the southern Shephelah, the southern part of the Judean hills and the Jordan valley). I also have tried to connect the archaeological situation in the area around Jerusalem to the Babylonian interdiction against its restoration, like Hadrian’s in a much later period and for similar reasons. One may also compare the wider picture of regional differences between the former Assyrian provinces in the territory of the former Israelite kingdom. There is a clear continuation in the material culture and no sign for a change in the demographic or geopolitical situation between the seventh and the fifth centuries BCE, and the destiny of the conquered Babylonian small kingdoms where a destruction and change can be noticed mainly in the urban centers and in the peripheral areas. This is also a subject with great importance for understanding of the history of the region not only during the Babylonian period, but also during the Persian and up to the Hasmonean period, when things changed again in a very drastic and dramatic way. All in all, I can’t accept the ideas of destruction without a plan, or of ruling without a policy. In this respect, Prof. Albertz made a very important differentiation between the policy of Nabopolasar and Nebu-

J. Blenkinsopp, “Bethel in the Neo-Babylonian Period,” O. Lipschits and J. Blenkinsopp (eds.), Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period (Winona Lake, Ind: Eisenbrauns, 2003), 93–107. 14

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chadrezzar and between the ideology behind their policies. There is much more to discuss on this subject. The similarities between the Babylonian policy in Ammon and in Judah can’t be ignored. 15 It was a different policy from that of the Assyrians, but not so different from the policy of the Persians. The Babylonians conquered vast territories that were organized by the Assyrians as provinces whose inhabitants had lost their national and cultural identity. Only in the periphery there remained kingdoms with distinctive national characteristics. These kingdoms were relatively small, with well-defined political and religious centers where the elite resided. Consequently, the Babylonians were able to establish their rule over those centers or alternately to destroy them, and to deport only (or mainly) the elite of such kingdoms. In doing so, they left in place large sectors of the population, particularly the rural sector, without making any effort to rehabilitate the economy and administration. 16 The Achaemenid rule continued with the same policy towards the provinces in the hill country. 17 The weak urban society in the hill country was a result of the Assyrian and Babylonian destructions and deportations, as well as the outcome of the agricultural economy, so characteristic to this region. 18 We can assume that just like the Babylonians, the Achaemenids were also interested in the continued existence of the rural settlement in the hill country. It was an important source for agricultural supply, which was probably collected as tax. 19

15 Lipschits, “Ammon in Transition from Vassal kingdom to Babylonian Province,” op.cit., note 4. 16 Vanderhooft, op.cit., note 6. 17 Lipschits, “Achaemenid Imperial Policy, Settlement Processes in Palestine, and the Status of Jerusalem in the Middle of the Fifth Century BCE.” op.cit., note 4. 18 See Briant, P., From Cyrus to Alexander: A History of the Persian Empire (Transl. Peter T. Daniels. Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2002; English translation of 1996 Histoire de l’empire perse de Cyrus à Alexandre: Volumes I-II. Achaemenid History 10. Leiden) 976. The distribution of Greek pottery, as summarized by Lehman, is one more example of the differences between the urban and commercial economy along the coast and the agricultural economy in the hill country. See Lehman, East Greek or Levantine? Band-Decorated Pottery in the Levant during the Achaemenid Period, Transeuphratène 19 (2000), 83–113. 19 The many ‘yehud’ stamp impressions found in Judah are the best proof for the role of the agricultural economy of Judah. The same situation probably existed in the area of the Negev and the Southern Shephelah, as we can learn from the many ostraca from this region, most of them dated to the 4th century B.C.E.

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This historical—archaeological situation in post-exilic Judah is of importance for understanding the developments there during the Persian period. Prof. Williamson raised doubts and questions whether some of those who returned to Judah early in the Persian period met with hostility from those who had remained in the land. I can just agree with Williamson’s thoughts, which he demonstrated it in a persuasive way based on the biblical texts from the early Persian period. This view also gains support from the above described historical, archaeological and social-demographic processes. As many biblical scholars, historians and archaeologists have observed, there is no more room for theories regarding a ‘mass return’ at the beginning of the Persian period. 20 It seems that beside the rebuilding of the temple and the renewed Jerusalemite cultic life in Judah after 70 years, the actual ‘return’ was a slow and graduate re-establishment of the power of the local social, religious and fiscal classes around the temple in Jerusalem. This process may have crystallized around the middle of the fifth century BCE. We cannot detect the details of this process with archaeological tools, since the changes were too slow and incremental. It is clear, however, that at the middle of the fifth century B.C.E. Jerusalem had arrived at a point of a change. 21 In this period, the fortifications of Jerusalem were rebuilt. Beside the scanty archaeological finds, we have a clear description of this event in the Nehemiah narrative. The list of the builders of the wall (Nehemiah 3) that was combined with Nehemiah’s memoirs by a later editor is another testimony for it. Even more, the impression of this event as one of the most conspicuous and most important at that time led to enormous expectations for the renewed status of Jerusalem. This impression stands behind the composition of Nehemiah 11. The significance of such a change in Jerusalem in the middle of the fifth century B.C.E. can only be interpreted in one way: Jerusalem became the capital of the province (Bîrāh) and replaced Mizpah. In this period, one historical circle was closed. Jerusalem’s status was renewed. A temple, fortifications and the status of a central political city 20 See, for example, B. Becking, ‘‘‘We all returned as One’: Critical Notes on The Myth of the Mass Return,” O. Lipschits and M. Oeming (eds.), Judah and the Judaeans in the Persian Period (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 3–18, with further literature. 21 Stern worked with the same assumption, basing his view on the archaeological material, but he interpreted the cause and the results in a different way. See Stern, E., Archaeology of the Land of the Bible, Volume II: The Assyrian, Babylonian, and Persian Periods (732–332 B.C.E.), 581–582.

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were restored in Jerusalem. The actual situation in Jerusalem was, however, probably still poor and the city was far removed from the splendid memories and descriptions of how it was in the first temple period. The combination of its poor status and the high expectations of the past fueled national hopes and aspirations in the late Persian period, and was a starting point for another process in the history of the city. This is, however, a subject quite distant from the title of the present session, and is probably the right point once again to thank the panel members, the organizers of this session and the audience that showed their interest through their presence.

DID SECOND TEMPLE HIGH PRIESTS POSSESS

THE URIM AND THUMMIM? LISBETH S. FRIED

UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN 1.0 INTRODUCTION According to the TB Yoma 21b, the urim and the thummim and the spirit of prophecy were among the five things missing from the Second Temple. ‫אלו חמישה דברים שהיו בין מקדש ראשון למקדש שני ואלו הן – ארון‬ ‫וכפורת וכרובים אש ושכינה ורוח הקודש ואורים ותומים‬ These five things [distinguish] between the first and second temple: the ark, the ark cover, the cherubim (which all count as one), the fire [from heaven], the Shekinnah, the spirit of holiness (i.e., of prophecy), and the urim and thummim (TB Yoma 21b).

The absence of the urim and thummim from the second temple is supported by this statement in Ezra/Nehemiah: Ezra 2:61–63 (Neh.7:63–65): ‫וּמ ְבּנֵ י ַהכּ ֲֹהנִ ים ְבּנֵ י ֳח ַביָּ ה ְבּנֵ י ַהקּוֹץ ְבּנֵ י ַב ְרזִ ַלּי ֲא ֶשׁר ָל ַקח ִמ ְבּנוֹת ַבּ ְרזִ ַלּי ַהגִּ ְל ָע ִדי ִא ָשּׁה‬ ִ ְ ‫וַ יִּ ָקּ ֵרא ַע‬ ‫ן־ה ְכּ ֻהנָּ ה׃‬ ַ ‫ ֵא ֶלּה ִבּ ְקשׁוּ ְכ ָת ָבם ַה ִמּ ְתיַ ְח ִשׂים וְ לֹא נִ ְמ ָצאוּ וַ יְ ג ֲֹאלוּ ִמ‬62 ‫ל־שׁ ָמם׃‬ ‫אוּרים‬ ִ ‫אכלוּ ִמקּ ֶֹדשׁ ַה ֳקּ ָד ִשׁים ַעד ֲעמֹד כּ ֵֹהן ְל‬ ְ ֹ ‫אמר ַה ִתּ ְר ָשׁ ָתא ָל ֶהם ֲא ֶשׁר לֹא־י‬ ֶ ֹ ‫וַ יּ‬63 ‫וּל ֻת ִמּים׃‬ ְ

This paper is a revised version of a paper read for the Ezra-NehemiahChronicles section of SBL 2005. It has benefited immensely from the comments of C. Batsch, H. Eshel, C. Fletcher-Louis, V. (A.) Hurowitz, L. H. Schiffman, H. G. M. Williamson, and anonymous reviewers on an earlier draft.

81

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES 61…the sons of the priests, the sons of Havaiah, the sons of Haqqoz, the sons of Barzilai who married one of the daughters of Barzilai the Giladite and was called by their name. 62These sought the registry of their genealogies but they could not be found and therefore they were [considered] unfit for the priesthood, 63so the Tirshata’ said to them that they should not eat from the most sanctified food [lit. food of the “holy of holies”] until a priest appears to administer the urim and thummim.

This passage in Ezra (and Nehemiah) is part of the list of returnees, and likely stems from the first decades of the return, perhaps around 500 BCE under Joshua and Zerubbabel (Ezra 2:2/Neh. 7:7). According to this verse, the urim and thummim were missing from the second temple. Josephus, on the other hand, states that the urim and thummim did exist for a while in the second temple and were used by second temple priests. He writes in his Antiquities (3:218) that the urim and thummim stopped shining, that is, ceased to function, only 200 years before he wrote the Antiquities, that is around 104 BCE, the death of John Hyrcanus (134–104): But in the empty place of this garment [i.e., the Ephod] there was inserted a piece of the size of a span, embroidered with gold, and the other colors of the ephod, and was called Essen (ἐσσὴν) [the breastplate,] which, in the Greek language, signifies the Oracle (λόγιον). Yet will I mention what is still more wonderful than this: for God declared beforehand by those twelve stones which the high priest bare on his breast, and which were inserted into his breastplate, when they should be victorious in battle; for so great a splendor shone forth from them before the army began to march, that all the people were sensible of God’s being present for their assistance. Where it came to pass that those Greeks who had a veneration for our laws, because they could not possibly contradict this, called that breastplate the oracle (τὸν ἐσσῆνα λόγιον καλοῦσιν). Now this breastplate, and this sardonyx, stopped shining two hundred years before I composed this book, God having been displeased at the transgressions of his law (Ant. 3: 163, 216–218).

Josephus also connects the high priestly office with the gift of prophecy, but always to high priests living before Hyrcanus’ death. 1 Moreover, 1 Gray lists the following: Ant. 5:120, 159; 6:115, 122–23, 254–58, 271–74, 359–60; 7:72–76 (R. Gray, Prophetic Figures in Late Second Temple Jewish Palestine [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993] 17, 172 n.30). Two of these 8 instances specifically mention the high priest’s vestments as the vehicle for the prophecy (6:115,

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83

the priest’s prophetic ability is always executed through the high-priestly vestments, the ephod, the breastplate, and the urim and thummim, which Josephus calls the oracle. 2 Josephus believed that the high priest used his urim and thummim to inquire of God. He states, for example (Ant. 4:311), that “Moses taught them … how they should go forth to war, making use of the stones [of the high priest’s breastplate] for their direction.” Josephus’ alleges (Ant. 13:282–83), for example, that Hyrcanus heard a voice from above which revealed that his sons had just defeated Antiochus in battle: Now a very surprising thing is related of this high priest Hyrcanus, how God came to discourse with him; for they say that on the very same day on which his sons fought with Antiochus Cyzicenus, he was alone in the temple, as high priest, offering incense, and heard a voice, that his sons had just then overcome Antiochus (Antiquities of the Jews 13:282).

He heard the voice while in the temple, thus while wearing the priestly vestments. To Josephus, Hyrcanus “was accounted by God worthy of three of the greatest privileges: the rule of the nation, the office of high-priest, and the gift of prophecy” (Ant. 13:299; Wars 1:68). Which view is correct? Shall we take the word of Josephus that second temple priests prior to John Hyrcanus employed the urim and thummim and possessed the gift of prophecy? Or shall we accept the view of the Talmud that the urim and thummim and the spirit of prophecy were not present at all in the second temple? The hypothesis that second temple priests before the 359–60), and the other occurrences are so similar to them in terms of the situation and procedure that it is reasonable to conclude that Josephus understood the vestments to have been the key ingredient in these cases as well. 2 Gray is likely correct when she says that Josephus refers to the priest Abiathar as “the prophet” (Ant. 6:271; Gray, Prophetic Figures, 18, pace (L. H. Feldman, “Prophets and Prophecy in Josephus,” JTS 41 (1990) 386–422; idem, Flavius Josephus, Translation and Commentary: Judean Antiquities 1–4 (Steve Mason; ed.; Leiden: Brill, 2000) 288 n. 566). Feldman quibbles when he says that Josephus “nowhere calls the high priest a prophet, but rather speaks of him as ‘prophesying’ or uttering ‘prophecy’.” Josephus deliberately introduces prophetic terminology into these accounts. There is nothing in the biblical narrative either in the MT or the LXX requiring this interpretation. Moreover, although the MT reports that Doeg slew the priests at Nob “who wore the linen ephod,” plus their wives and children (1 Samuel 22:18), Josephus reports that he killed “three hundred priests and prophets” ἱερέας καἰ προφήτας. It seems likely that to Josephus, the priests who wore the ephod were those prophets. See Gray, Prophetic Figures, 173, n. 44, for a discussion of these issues.

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

death of John Hyrcanus had access to the urim and thummim (and consequently shared the gift of prophecy) can be tested against the alternative hypothesis that the urim and thummim did not exist at all in the second temple and that second temple priests were not perceived as having prophetic abilities. 3 This can be done by examining second temple texts which describe the contemporary high priest and which can be dated prior to 104 BCE. If these texts imply that their contemporary high priest had access to urim and thummim and to God’s word it will support the view of Josephus over that of the Talmud. If these texts do not include a reference to the urim and thummim or imply that priests did not have privileged access to God’s word, it will support the view of the Talmud over that of Josephus.

2.0 THE URIM AND THUMMIM IN THE BIBLICAL CORPUS Before examining extra-biblical second temple texts, it is worthwhile to look at the biblical corpus. According to the biblical text, the urim and thummim were attached to the high priest’s breastplate which hung from his ephodapron by gemstone buttons on his shoulders (Exodus 28:28–30; Lev. 8:8). With the urim and thummim attached, the breastplate becomes the breastplate of judgment, ‫חושן המשפט‬, and the entire ephod becomes a method for accessing the divine will, a method of prophecy (Num. 27:18–21). These biblical sections are customarily assigned to P, which is usually considered second temple. The urim and thummim appear more frequently in the LXX and the Samaritan Pentateuch than they do in the MT. Rofé suggests therefore that several references to them have been expunged from the MT. 4 In the MT of 1 Sam. 14:18, for example, we read that the priest Ahijah, carried the ark, but in the parallel verse in the LXX he carries the ephod with urim and thummim: ‫ֹלהים ַבּיּוֹם ַההוּא‬ ִ ‫י־היָ ה ֲארוֹן ָה ֱא‬ ָ ‫ֹלהים ִכּ‬ ִ ‫ישׁה ֲארוֹן ָה ֱא‬ ָ ִ‫אמר ָשׁאוּל ַל ֲא ִחיָּ ה ַהגּ‬ ֶ ֹ ‫וַ יּ‬ ‫וּבנֵ י יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬ ְ

For the applicability of hypothesis testing in historical studies see L. S. Fried, “Historians Can Use the Scientific Method,” Transeuphratène 31 (2006): 125–27. 4 Alexander Rofé, “‘No Ephod or Teraphim’—Oude Hierateias Oude Delon: Hosea 3:4 in the LXX and in the Paraphrases of the Chronicles and the Damascus Document,” Sefer Moshe: The Sefer Moshe Weinfeld Jubilee Volume (ed. A. H. C. Cohen, and S. Paul; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2004) 135–49. 3

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85

And Saul said to Ahijah who carried the ark of God, for the ark of God was on that day before Israel (1 Sam. 14:18; MT). 5 καὶ εἶπεν Σαουλ τῷ Αχια προσάγαγε τὸ εφουδ ὅτι αὐτὸς ἦρεν τὸ εφουδ ἐν τῇ ἡμέρᾳ ἐκείνῃ ἐνώπιον Ισραηλ And Saul said to Ahijah, “Bring the ephod,” because he took up the ephod that day before Israel (1 Sam. 14:18, LXX).

Rofé suggests that the ephod was deliberately erased from this passage of the MT and replaced with the ark. 6 He finds a similar substitution in the MT in Hosea 3:4. The LXX reads “and no priesthood and no urim,” against the MT which reads “no pillar, no ephod, and no teraphim.” Hosea 3:4 (MT): ‫יָמים ַר ִבּים יֵ ְשׁבוּ ְבּנֵ י יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל ֵאין ֶמ ֶלְך וְ ֵאין ָשׂר וְ ֵאין זֶ ַבח וְ ֵאין ַמ ֵצּ ָבה וְ ֵאין‬ ִ ‫ִכּי‬ ‫וּת ָר ִפים‬ ְ ‫ֵאפוֹד‬ For the sons of Israel will remain many days with neither king, nor ruler, nor sacrifice, nor pillar, nor ephod or teraphim

Whereas Hosea 3:4 (LXX) reads: διότι ἡμέρας πολλὰς καθήσονται οἱ υἱοὶ Ισραηλ οὐκ ὄντος βασιλέως οὐδὲ ὄντος ἄρχοντος οὐδὲ οὔσης θυσίας οὐδὲ ὄντος θυσιαστηρίου οὐδὲ ἱερατείας οὐδὲ δήλων Therefore the sons of Israel will live many days with neither king, nor ruler, nor sacrifice, nor altar, nor priesthood, nor urim.

The Greek makes better sense in the context. Hosea 3 is intended as a threat, a prediction of a dire future. Pillar and teraphim connote idolatrous practices, unrelated to the passage. Hosea does not intend that Israel will no longer have her idols; rather that she will no longer have a correct way of interacting with God. Support for the LXX comes from Josephus’ paraphrase of 2 Chron. 15:3, a verse based on Hosea 3:4. 7 Josephus paraphrases this verse, but his Vorlage is not the text of our MT or even of the present LXX, but of a text 5 Emending “sons of Israel,” ‫ובני ישראל‬, to the orthographically similar ‫לפני‬ ‫ישראל‬, “before Israel.” 6 Rofé, “No Ephod or Teraphim,” p. 145. 7 See Sara Japhet, I & II Chronicles (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1993) 719, for discussion and references.

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which contains an allusion to the oracle of the priesthood, the urim and thummim. 2 Chronicles 15:3 (MT and LXX): ‫תוֹרה‬ ָ ‫וּללוא‬ ְ ‫כוהן מ ֶוֹרה‬ ֵ ‫וּללוא‬ ְ ‫לוהי ֱא ֶמת‬ ֵ ‫וְ יָ ִמים ַר ִבּים ְליִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל ְללוא ֱא‬ καὶ ἡμέραι πολλαὶ τῷ Ισραηλ ἐν οὐ θεῷ ἀληθινῷ καὶ οὐχ ἱερέως ὑποδεικνύοντος καὶ ἐν οὐ νόμῳ For a long time Israel [was] without the true God, and without a teaching priest, and without law;

Josephus Ant. 8:296: καὶ γενήσεσθαι χρόνον ἐκεῖνον ἐν ᾧ μηδεὶς ἀληθὴς εὑρεθήσεται προφήτης ἐν τῷ ὑμετέρῳ ὄχλῳ οὐδὲ ἱερεὺς τὰ δίκαια χρηματίζων and a time should come, wherein no true prophet shall be left in your whole multitude, nor a priest who shall reveal to you a true revelation from the oracle

The text of Chronicles that Josephus quotes reflects the LXX of Hosea, not the text of the Chronicler of either the MT or the LXX. In agreement with Rofé, Josephus’ Vorlage seems to reveal an earlier, perhaps original, version of both Hosea and 2 Chronicles. The Samaritan Pentateuch also preserves traces of the urim and thummim absent from the MT. Exodus 28:30 of the MT commands their placement on the priest’s breastplate and describes the command’s fulfillment in Lev. 8:8, but nowhere does it ordain their actual manufacture. The command to create them is preserved in the Samaritan Pentateuch however. ‫ועשית את הארים ואת התמים ונתתה על חשן המשפט את הארים ואת‬ ‫ ונשא אהרון את משפת בני‬:‫ והיו על לב אהרן בבאו לפני יהוה‬:‫התמים‬ ‫ישראל על לבו לפני יהוה תמיד‬ And you shall make the urim and the thummim; and he shall put the urim and the thummim on the breastplate of judgment. They shall be over the heart of Aaron when he comes before YHWH. Aaron shall carry the judgment of the people Israel on his heart before YHWH for ever (Samaritan Pentateuch Exod. 28:30).

The Samaritan version is identical to the MT, except it includes the phrase “and you shall make the urim and the thummim.” Not only is the

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87

command to make them preserved in the Samaritan Pentateuch, but also its fulfillment. ‫ויעשו את הארים ואת התמים כאשר צוה יהוה את משה‬ And they made the urim and the thummim just as YHWH had commanded Moses (Samaritan Pentateuch Exod. 39:21b).

Either the Samaritan Pentateuch fills in a perceived gap, 8 or it preserves an earlier version, a version which was “sanitized” in the MT. The originality of the Samaritan Pentateuch is supported, however, by 4Q17 (4QExod-Levf). ‫ויעש את האורים ו]את התמים כאשר צוה יהוה את[ משה‬ And he made the urim and [the thummim just as YHWH had commanded] Moses (4Q17 (4QExod-Levf), Col II: Fragment 1ii, line 5–6, Exod. 39:21b).

This fragment states that the command to make the urim and thummim has been fulfilled. Cross holds that 4Q17 is among the earliest manuscripts found at Qumran, dating to the mid-third century, and is original. 9 If so, then the Samaritan version of Exod. 28:30, which includes the command to make them, must also be original. It is not likely that there would be a statement that the command has been fulfilled without the command itself being present in the text. The command to make the urim and the thummim may have dropped out inadvertently from Exod. 28:30, but it is not likely that both the command to make them and the statement that they have been made would both have dropped out inadvertently. 10 It is more likely,

8 As suggested by C. Fletcher-Louis who argues that the point of the MT is that they are uncreated (C. H. T. Fletcher-Louis, All the Glory of Adam: Liturgical Anthropology in the Dead Sea Scrolls (Studies on the Texts of the Desert of Judah 42; ed. F. Garcia Martínez; Leiden: Brill, 2002) 234–35. 9 F. M. Cross, “4QExod-Levf,” DJD 12 1994:133–44, Pl. XXII; quote on p. 134, text on p. 139. 10 The command to make the urim and thummim and the statement that Moses made them is also present in Pseudo-Philo (LAB 11:15 and 12:1, respectively). Daniel J. Harrington concludes that LAB witnesses to an early Palestinian text type similar to the Samaritan or proto-Lucianic text and similar to the one used by Josephus (D. J. Harrington, “The Biblical Text of Pseudo-Philo’s Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum,” CBQ 33 [1971]:1–17).

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

as Rofé suggests, that references to the urim and thummim have been excised from the Hebrew text. In view of these discrepancies it seems possible that the urim and thummim were in favor and in use in the second temple when 4Q17 and the Samaritan Pentateuch were copied—in the mid-third century, but were excised from later editions of the MT when these devices went out of favor.

3.0 THE URIM AND THUMMIM IN EXTRA-BIBLICAL SECOND TEMPLE TEXTS If the urim and thummim were part of the accoutrements of the high priest, and if the high priest was credited with prophetic ability, then this should be visible in extra-biblical second temple texts. This third section of the paper will examine second temple extra-biblical texts composed prior to the death of John Hyrcanus which refer to the garments or abilities of the high priest. 3.1 Hecataeus of Abdera Perhaps the earliest of extra-biblical second temple texts which refer to the garments of the high priest are the remarks of Hecataeus of Abdera regarding the Jews. They are dated to the time of Alexander the Great and the period of the Successors since he apparently served in the court of Ptolemy I (323–282). 11 His books are no longer extant but passages attributed to him are found in the Histories of Diodorus Siculus (XL 3:1–8) and in Josephus’s Against Apion (1:183–204, 2:43). In contrast to the passages quoted in Against Apion, the passages quoted in Diodorus are believed authentic. 12 The attitude toward the Jews expressed in them is not particularly enthusiastic and is negative about the Jewish way of life (3:4). In a passage quoted by Diodorus, however, Hecataeus reports the awe in which the high priest is held and the high priest’s role as a conduit between God and Israel: He [Moses] picked out the men of most refinement and with the greatest ability to head the entire nation, and appointed them priests; and he 11 Bezalel Bar-Kochva, Pseudo-Hecataeus On the Jews: Legitimizing the Jewish Diaspora (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 7–8. Information on Hecataeus’s life is based on testimonia collected in FGrH IIA 264 T 1–9 and on the remarks of Josephus in Ag. Ap. 1:183, 189, 201. Bar Kochva suggests 302/301 as the terminus ante quem for Hecataeus’ remarks (Pseudo-Hecataeus, 15). 12 Ibid., 3, 39. One statement only was likely added by Diodorus (XL. 3:8), the statement that the traditional practices of the Jews were disturbed when they became subject to foreign rule (Ibid., 24).

DID SECOND TEMPLE HIGH PRIESTS

89

ordained that they should occupy themselves with the temple and the honors and sacrifices offered to their god. These same men he appointed to be judges in all major disputes, and entrusted to them the guardianship of the laws and customs. For this reason the Jews never have a king, and authority over the people is regularly vested in whichever priest is regarded as superior to his colleagues in wisdom and virtue. They call this man the high priest, and believe that he acts as a messenger ἂγγελος to them of God’s commands. It is he, we are told, who in their assemblies and other gatherings announces what is ordained, and the Jews are so docile in such matters that straightway they fall to the ground and do reverence to the high priest when he expounds the commands to them (Hecataeus of Abdera, quoted in Diodorus Siculus’ Historical Library XL 3:4–6).

Hecataeus states that the high priest is viewed as a conduit, a messenger (angelos), of God’s commands. Thus, according to Hecataeus, and in contrast to the Talmud, in the mid-third century, the contemporary high priest was viewed as having prophetic ability. Bar Kochva points out that Hecataeus, writing under Ptolemy I, would not on his own advocate a society without kings whose sole authority was placed in the hands of a high priest. 13 It must be concluded, therefore, that the information that Hecataeus reports concerning the high priest reliably reflects the attitudes of his Jewish informants. We are not told if the high priest served as a conduit of God’s commands even while not wearing the priestly garments, or if it was the garments which transformed him into a messenger of God. According to the passage, he acted as God’s messenger in public assemblies, presumably while wearing the official priestly vestments. Hecataeus does not specifically mention the urim and the thummim, but he states that the people were so convinced that the high priest participated in the divine word that they fell down in reverence when he spoke. Why were they so convinced? Did the high priest access God’s word through a public device, such as the urim and the thummim, or did he possess God’s word simply through his office, or through the force of his personality? Other texts may provide an answer.

13

Ibid., 36.

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

3.2 Jesus Ben Sirach Ben Sira wrote perhaps between 195–175 BCE and his work was translated into Greek by his grandson who arrived in Egypt in 132 BCE. 14 According to Ben Sira, the contemporaneous high priest wore the oracle of judgment, the urim and the thummim, just as every priest before him had done. 15 He describes the first high priest thusly (45:7–13): He [God] exalted Aaron, a holy man like Moses who was his brother, of the tribe of Levi. 7He made an everlasting covenant with him, and gave him the priesthood of the people. He blessed him with stateliness, and put on him a robe of Glory (περιστολὴν δόξης). 16 8He clothed him in perfect splendor, and strengthened him with the symbols of authority, the linen undergarments, the long robe, and the ephod (ἐπωμίδα). 9And he encircled him with pomegranates, with many golden bells all around, to send forth a sound as he walked, to make their ringing heard in the temple as a reminder to his people; 10with the sacred garment (στολῇ ἁγίἁ, ‫ )בגדי קודש‬of gold and violet and purple, the work of an embroiderer; with the oracle of judgment (‫ ;חושן משפט‬λογείῳ κρίσεως) of the urim and thummim; 11with twisted crimson, the work of an artisan; with precious stones engraved like seals, in a setting of gold, the work of a jeweler, to commemorate in engraved letters each of the tribes of Israel; 12with a gold crown upon his turban, inscribed like a seal with “holiness,” a distinction to be prized, the work of an expert, a delight to the eyes, richly adorned. 13Before him such beautiful things did not exist. No outsider ever put them on, but only his sons and his

14 The date of Ben Sira is surmised from the sure date of his grandson and from the supposition that the high priest Simon II was a near contemporary. 15 Fragments of the Hebrew text of Ben Sira are known from Qumran, from Masada, and in six separate manuscripts from the Cairo Geniza, Mss A-F. Versions also exist in Greek (LXX), in Old Latin, and in Syriac. For a discussion and comparison of the Hebrew manuscripts see Pancratius 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 (VT Supp 68; Leiden, Brill, 1997). For a review of recent discussions of Ben Sira, see P. C. Beentjes, The Book of Ben Sira in Modern Research (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1997). For a recent discussion of the date, see F. V. Reiterer, “Review of Recent Research on the Book of Ben Sira (1980–1996),” in The Book of Ben Sira in Modern Research), 23–60, esp. 37. 16 The Hebrew reads ‫וישרתהו בכבו‬, “he ministered to him in glory.”

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descendants in perpetuity (διὰ παντός; ‫)לדורותם‬. 14His sacrifices shall be wholly burned twice every day continually (Ben Sira 45:6–14).

Ben Sirach’s description of the first high priest, Aaron (BS 45:6–14), is based on the LXX of Exodus 28:6–30, but it is not a slavish copy of it. 17 More importantly, Ben Sira assumes that the description in Exodus 28, in which Aaron is said to wear the urim and thummim, also applies to Simon, the contemporary high priest. Whatever Aaron wore, so also did all of his descendants in perpetuity (διὰ παντός, ‫ לדורותם‬45:13). 18 Ben Sirach maintains, moreover, that “for the sensible person the law is as dependable as the urim” (BS 33:3). ἄνθρωπος συνετὸς ἐμπιστεύσει νόμῳ καὶ ὁ νόμος αὐτῷ πιστὸς ὡς ἐρώτημα δήλων (BS 33:3) The sensible person will trust in the law; for him the law is as dependable as inquiring of the urim. 19

One would not say that “the law is as dependable as the urim,” if the urim no longer existed and was no longer available to the contemporary high priest. 17 Three texts testify to the crucial verse 45.10—the LXX, MS B from the Geniza, and the Old Latin. The entire passage is present in all three texts, but unfortunately 45:10c of MS B has become corrupt. Table 1 presents a comparison of 45:10c in the three versions. The Hebrew in MsB does not have “urim and thummim” as the Greek is usually translated and as exists in the LXX version of Exodus. Rather the Hebrew has ‫אפוד‬ ‫ואזור‬, “ephod and girdle.” This may be an attempt to sanitize the text, as Rofé has argued for other texts, or it may simply be a scribal error. The Greek texts never translate ‫ אפוד ואזור‬by δήλοις and ἀληθείας. This pair of Greek words always translates “urim and thummim.” Moreover, in only two verses above this one, Greek Ben Sira uses the term ἐπωμίδα to translate ephod. Had ephod been in the grandson’s Vorlage, he would have translated it as he did there, not by the terms usually reserved for the urim and thummim. The word after ephod in MS B 45:10c is ‫אזור‬, girdle. The word appears as a noun only seven times in the Hebrew Bible. It never appears in the Pentateuch and is never used to refer to priestly garments. It is extremely unlikely that a term like this is original to Ben Sira. The phrase ‫אפוד ואזור‬, ephod and girdle, which appears in manuscript B from the Geniza, cannot be the Vorlage of δήλοις ἀληθείας, that is, it cannot be original to Ben Sira. The Greek is to be preferred. 18 As Table 2 shows, the three extant witnesses agree on this verse (BS 45:13). 19 Unfortunately, this verse is missing or broken in the extant Hebrew manuscripts.

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For Ben Sira, then, writing at the beginning of the second century, the urim and thummim were a viable and valuable means of learning God’s will. The praise of Simon in Chapter 50 echoes the description of Aaron in Chapter 45. Aaron is described as clothed in “perfect splendor” (45:8; συντέλειαν καυχήματος) and Simon is described as clothed in “perfect splendor” (50:11; συντέλειαν καυχήματος). This perfect splendor includes the urim and thummim (45:10), which converts Simon’s robe into a robe of glory, στολὴν δόξης, ‫( בגדי כבוד‬50:11). This “robe of glory” is both the glory of wisdom (6:29, 6:31) and the glory of God, the Kabod, which fills the sanctuary (MS B; 36:13; ET 36:19): 20 ‫בעטותו בגדי כבוד והתלבשו בגדי תפארת בעלותו על מזבח הוד ויהדר עזרת‬ ‫מקדש‬ ἐν τῷ ἀναλαμβάνειν αὐτὸν στολὴν δόξης καὶ ἐνδιδύσκεσθαι αὐτὸν συντέλειαν καυχήματος ἐν ἀναβάσει θυσιαστηρίου ἁγίου ἐδόξασεν περιβολὴν ἁγιάσματος When he puts on his robe of glory and clothes himself in perfect splendor, when he goes up to the holy altar, he makes the court of the sanctuary magnificent (Ben Sira 50:11, MS B and LXX).

It is Simon’s garments, not he himself, which makes the sanctuary magnificent. The awe with which the garments of both Aaron and Simon are described is reminiscent of Hecataeus’ words, and is consistent with other passages in Ben Sirach expressing Ben Sira’s attitude toward the priesthood (e.g., BS 7:29–31, also in MS A). 21 Most instructive is the paean to wisdom (BS 24). 22 Ben Sirach asserts that wisdom has made her dwelling in the temple and from there makes instruction enlighten (φωτιῶ) like prophecy for all future generations (24: 20 The translation is based on the Hebrew, MS B; the Greek reads “fills the people.” 21 In BS 7:29–31, the language of the Shema (Deut. 6:5) is adapted so that the honor due God is also commanded toward his priest (B. G. Wright, “‘Fear the Lord and Honor the Priest’: Ben Sira as Defender of the Jerusalem Priesthood,” The Book of Ben Sira in Modern Research (ed. P. C. Beentjes; Berlin: De Gruyter, 1997), 189–222. See also, S. M. Olyan, “Ben Sira’s Relationship to the Priesthood,” HTR 80 (1987), 261–86. 22 Unfortunately, this passage does not appear in any of the extant Hebrew manuscripts.

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32–33). Like wisdom herself, the priest in the temple also enlightens the people with God’s law. ἔδωκεν αὐτῷ ἐν ἐντολαῖς αὐτοῦ ἐξουσίαν ἐν διαθήκαις κριμάτων διδάξαι τὸν Ιακωβ τὰ μαρτύρια καὶ ἐν νόμῳ αὐτοῦ φωτίσαι Ισραηλ [Moses] gave him (=Aaron) authority and statutes and judgments, to teach Jacob the testimonies, and to enlighten φωτίσαι Israel with his law (BS 45:17).

The role of wisdom and the high priest is thus the same—to “enlighten” Israel. Batsch suggests that the word “to enlighten” here may refer to the shining oracle of the urim. 23 O. Mulder writes: In his use of symbolism in the praise of wisdom (24:13–17) and in his description of Simon’s radiance (50:5–10), [Ben Sirach] identifies Simon with wisdom created from the beginning to minister in the presence of YHWH in the holy tabernacle, to be established on Zion and to wield authority in the temple of Jerusalem. 24

To Ben Sirach, the wisdom of the high priest stems not from his human imagination, nor even in his office, but from the glory of his vestments (45:8; 50:11), particularly from the breastplate which contains the oracle of judgment, the spirit of prophecy, the urim and thummim (45:10). Wearing his priestly vestments, Simon becomes wisdom herself (50:11). In his robes, he shines like the sun and gleams like the rainbow in the clouds (50:7, cf. 24:4,5); he blossoms like the roses, the lilies, and like the green shoot in Lebanon (50: 8–10, 12, cf. 24:13–17). Like her, his entrance into the sanctuary transforms it into a court of glory. The high priest’s vestments of perfect splendor include the breastplate of judgment and the ever dependable urim and the thummim. According to Ben Sira, they were worn by Aaron and by every priest after him in perpetuity (‫)לדורותם‬, including, of course, the contemporary high priest, Simon, son of Onias.

23 C. Batsch, La Guerre et les Rites de Guerre dans le Judaïsme Du Deuxième Temple (Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism 93; Leiden: Brill, 2005), 324– 5. Unfortunately, this line is missing from the Cairo Geniza B Manuscript. 24 Otto Mulder, Simon the High Priest in Sirach 50 (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 340.

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3.3 Aramaic Testament of Levi The role of the priestly vestments in transforming an ordinary man into a messenger of God’s word is paramount in the Testament of Levi. Aramaic fragments of the Testament of Levi (hereafter called Aramaic Levi Document, or ALD) have been found at Qumran and in the Cairo Geniza. 25 The Aramaic documents are fragmentary, and a complete text does not exist. Qumran fragments overlap and confirm the fragments from the Geniza (Cambridge Col. A =1Q21 Frag 3; Bodleian Col. A =4Q213b; Bodleian Col. C=4Q214b; Bodleian Col. D = 4Q214; Cambridge Col. C= 4Q214), and both groups provide parallels to the Greek T. Levi, a Christian document. 26 Since Qumran Cave 4 yielded 6 separate manuscripts of ALD, overlaps among their fragments also assist in determining their order. In addition, there is a Greek insertion, labeled E, which is found only in the version of Greek T. Levi from the monastery at Mt. Athos. This insertion overlaps with 4Q213. The result is still very fragmentary, so that in spite of the Christian interpolations, the Greek T. Levi is indispensable for reconstructing a complete text from the Aramaic fragments.

25 For the most recent study of all the Aramaic Levi fragments see now Jonas C. Greenfield, Michael E. Stone, and Esther Eshel, The Aramaic Levi Document: Edition, Translation, Commentary (Studia in Veteris Testamenti Pseudepigrapha 19; Leiden: Brill, 2005). For a list of the fragments and the various versions, see pages 4–6 of this work. See also H. Drawnel, An Aramaic Wisdom Text from Qumran: A New Interpetation of the Levi Document (Leiden: Brill, 2004). Also relevant for a comparison of the versions is Robert A. Kugler, From Patriarch to Priest: The Levi-Priestly Tradition from Aramaic Levi to Testament of Levi (SBL: Early Judaism and its Literature, 9; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996), and idem, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 47–56. Greenfield, et. al. note that although there are textual variants, “in general the Geniza Aramaic text resembles that of the Qumran fragments” (Aramaic Levi Document, 8). 26 John J. Collins, “The Testamentary Literature in Recent Scholarship,” in Early Judaism and Its Modern Interpreters (ed. Robert A. Craft and George W. E. Nickelsburg; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1986) 268–85, esp. 269. For the English translations of the Greek T. Levy, see M. de Jonge, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs: A Study of their Text, Composition and Origin (Leiden: Assen, 1953); M. de Jonge, ed. Studies on the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs: Text and Interpretation (SVTP 3; Leiden: Brill, 1975); H. W. Hollander and M. de Jonge, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs: A Commentary (Leiden: Brill, 1985). The Greek text is available in R. H. Charles, The Greek Versions of the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs (Oxford: 1908; Reprinted Hildesheim, 1960).

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The ALD should be dated no later than the reign of John Hyrcanus (135–104), since paleographically the Qumran manuscripts date from the second half of the second century, so that the terminus ad quem is easily established. 27 Its composition should be assigned at least to the end of the third or the beginning of the second century, however. 28 It served as a source for the Damascus Document, probably composed in the first third of the second century, and it was surely a source for Jubilees, also usually dated to the beginning of the second century. 29 Because the text of the ALD is fragmentary, scholars may disagree on the order of the fragments and on the degree to which the Greek T. Levi can be used as a guide to reconstruction. According to the Greek T. Levi, Levi is feeding the flocks with his brothers on Abelmaul, when he prays, falls into a deep sleep, and has a vision. In the vision an angel opens the 27 K. Beyer, Die aramäischen Texte vom Toten Meer samt den Inschriften aus Palästina, dem Testament Levis aus der Kairoer Genisa, der Fastenrolle und denalten talmudischen Zitaten (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1984), p. 189. 28 J. Greenfield et. al., Aramaic Levi Document, p. 19–22. Other dates have been proposed. Charles suggests the time of John Hyrcanus I (R. H. Charles, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, Translated—with Notes [London, 1908]), as does Blenkinsopp (J. Blenkinsopp “Prophecy and Priesthood in Josephus,” Journal of Jewish Studies 25/2 (1974), 251). Kee suggests early second century (H. C. Kee, “Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs,” in The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha: Volume One [ed. James H. Charlesworth; Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Company, INC, 1983] 775–828, esp. 778); as does Stone (M. E. Stone, “Ideal Figures and Social Context: Priest and Sage in the Early Second Temple Age,” Ancient Israelite Religion: Essays in Honor of Frank Moore Cross [eds. J. P. D. Miller, P. D. Hanson, and S. D. McBride; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987] 575–86, esp. 578.) 29 For the date and recent discussions of the Damascus Document, see Magen Broshi (ed.) The Damascus Document Reconsidered (Jerusalem, 1992); Philip R. Davies, The Damascus Covenant. An Interpretation of the “Damascus Document” (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1983). For the date and discussion of Jubilees, see James C. VanderKam, Textual and Historical Studies in the Book of Jubilees (HSM 14; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1977); idem, The Book of Jubilees (Guides to Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001); O. S. Wintermute, “Jubilees: A New Translation and Introduction,” in J. C. Charlesworth, ed., The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, Volume 2 (Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1985), 35–142; R. H. Charles, The Book of Jubilees or The Little Genesis (New York: The MacMillan Company, 1917). Drawnel dates the Aramaic Levi document to the period of Ezra and Nehemiah, treating these two literary texts as if they were an historical source for Persian period Judah—a dubious proposition (An Aramaic Wisdom Text from Qumran, pp. 67–71).

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heavens and bids him enter, telling him “you shall stand near the Lord and be his minister and declare his mysteries to men” (2: 9, 10). These events are also portrayed in the Aramaic, evidently the Vorlage of this first vision (4Q213 Frag. 2 supplemented by passages from the Greek MS of Mt. Athos to 2:3 which are in italics): [You] my Lord, have blessed my father Abram and my mother Sarah, and you have said to give them a just offspring which will be blessed forever. Listen then to the prayer of your servant Levi, to be near to you. Let him share in your words to pass just judgment for all the centuries, me and my sons for all eternal generations. And do not remove the son of your servant from before you all the days of eternity.” And I became silent, when I was still praying… Then I went to …to my father Jacob and whe[n] … from Abel-Mayin. Then … I lay down and settled up[on] …. (Vacat.) Then I saw visions … in the appearance of this vision I saw the heaven opened, and I saw a mountain underneath me, high reaching up to heaven … to me the gates of heaven and an angel said to me, Levi, Enter. 30

As in the Greek, so too in this Aramaic passage Levi prays to be near to God, to share in God’s words, and to pass just judgment for all the centuries. While he is praying he lays down, sees visions, the heavens open, and an angel bids him enter. The Greek T. Levi continues with a description of the heavens and with the angel telling Levi that his prayer is heard and that he will become a son to the Most High, a servant, and a minister of his presence (4:2). This part of the vision is not present in any of the Aramaic fragments, but since the request is in a fragment that we have, doubtless its fulfillment would have been there too. That is, he would have been granted his wish to be near to God, to share in his words, to pass just judgment for all the centuries, he and his sons for all eternal generations. As in the words of Hecataeus, and according to this text too, it is the role of the priest to participate in God’s word, that is, to have prophetic ability. In the Greek Testament, the angel then commands Levi to execute vengeance on Shechem because of Dinah’s rape. Because the end of the first vision is missing in the ALD, we are also missing the command to attack Shechem. Such a command must have existed in the ALD however, since Jubilees (which seems to be based on the ALD) states that a judgment

30 This is taken from F. García Martínez and E. J. C. Tigchelaar, The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition Vol. 1 (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 451.

DID SECOND TEMPLE HIGH PRIESTS

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had been ordered in heaven against the men of Shechem because they caused a shame in Israel (Jub. 30:5). Both the Greek T. Levi (6:3) and the Aramaic fragments (1 Q21 Frag. 3= Cambridge Col.A) then continue with the story of Shechem. Both then state that Levi “[advises/consults] Jacob my father and Re[euben my bother]….” The Aramaic sentence continues with “and so we said to them …. ‘circumcise the foreskin of your flesh’,” whereas the Greek reads “to tell the sons of Hamor to be circumcised.” 31 The Aramaic has direct speech, as is customary in biblical texts, whereas the Greek has the more natural indirect speech. Both texts state, however, that Levi talked to Jacob and Reuben before acting, an event not in the Genesis story. It is impossible that both the Greek T. Levi and the Aramaic would have this odd passage without one having copied from the other. According to the Greek T. Levi, after killing Shechem and Hamor and destroying the city, Levi and his brothers take their sister to Bethel, where Levi has a second vision. In that vision, seven men dressed in white present Levi with the accoutrements of the priesthood. I saw seven men in white clothing, who were saying to me, “Arise, put on the robe of the priesthood, the crown of righteousness, the oracle (λόγιον) of understanding, the robe of truth, the breastplate of faith, the turban of the sign [of the tetragrammaton?], and the ephod of prophecy.” Each carried one of these and put them on me and said, “From now on be a priest of the Lord, you and your posterity forever” (Greek T. Levi 8:1–4).

The oracle (λόγιον) refers to the urim and thummim, the breastplate of faith is the breastplate which houses them, and the ephod of prophecy refers not only to the apron upon which the breastplate rests, but also to the breastplate and the urim and thummim within it. The ordination ceremony described here is characterized by a change in clothes from the normal apparel of the shepherd to the (prophecy enabling) vestments of the high priest. Although this section of the vision is missing from the Aramaic, other parts of this vision are represented. The Greek version of the vision includes the following passage which may be present in the Aramaic:

The Aramaic is from García Martínez and Tigchelaar, The Dead Sea Scrolls, p. 50–51. The translation of the Greek is from H. W. Hollander and M. de Jonge, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs: A Commentary (Leiden: Brill, 1985), 146. 31

98

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES Every desirable thing in Israel will be for you and your seed; and you will eat everything beautiful to see, and your seed will divide among themselves the table of the Lord. And from them there will be high priests and judges and scribes, because the holy place will be guarded on their command. (Greek T.Levi 8:16–18)

An Aramaic fragment is as follows: ….] because they will be three […. … to] your [s]ons, the kingdom of the priesthood is greater than the kingdom [of … …] for [G]od the [most] h[igh] (1Q21 Frg. 1)

This fragment mentions “three” of something for the sons, the greatest being the priesthood. This may have included a reference to three classes of people stemming from Levi’s sons: high priests, judges, and scribes, the priesthood being the greater. The Greek version of the second dream-vision continues as follows: And when I awoke, I understood that this (vision) was like the former. And I hid this also in my heart and I did not tell it to anyone on earth. And after two days I and Judah went up with our father to Isaac. And the father of my father blessed me according to all the words of my visions which I had seen. And he did not want to come with us to Bethel. And when we came to Bethel, my father Jacob saw in a vision concerning me that I should be a priest for them to God. And after having risen early in the morning he paid tithes of all to the Lord through me. (Greek T. Levi 8:18–9:4).

This ending exists among the fragments: Now see how we have made you greater than all, and how we have given you the greatness of eternal peace. [Vacat.] And these seven departed from me and I awoke from my dream. Then I thought, “this vision is like the other one. 32 I am amazed that the whole vision is to fall This is according to the reconstruction of Drawnel, An Aramaic Wisdom Text, pp. 112–18. Most scholars translate ‫ אף דן‬here as “also this one” (also this vision), implying that that there was a previous vision. Kugler translates it “this very thing,” due to his contention that there was only one vision. Kugler (From Patriarch to Priest, p. 78) is alone in arguing that the Greek T. Levi has split a single vision in the Aramaic document into two dream-visions, one before the Shechem incident at AbelMayin and one after at Bethel. 32

DID SECOND TEMPLE HIGH PRIESTS

99

to me.” And I hid this one too in my heart and did not reveal it to anyone. And we went to my father Isaac, and he also did the same [i.e., bless me]. Then when Jacob my [father] was tithing everything that belonged to him according to his vow [and because now] I was first at the head of the [priest]hood, then to me from all his sons he gave the offering of a tith[e] to God, and he clothed me in the priestly clothing and he filled my hands. And I became a priest of God the most high, and I offered all his offerings. And I blessed my father in his life, and I blessed my brothers. Then they all blessed me, and also the father blessed me. And I completed to offer his offerings in Bethel. (MS A, Bodleian A = 1Q21 Frag. 3 and 4Q213 b: 7–23, + Bodleian b: 1.)

Although the Aramaic vision is pieced together from various fragments, the last part of Greek T. Levi’s second dream is present here almost verbatim. The Aramaic witnesses to Levi’s investiture into the priesthood by seven (men) in a vision. Both include a journey to Isaac and to Jacob after the dream-vision and in both Jacob tithes to Levi. Thus, the ALD or something similar must have served as a Vorlage to the Greek. It is not possible that two such similar stories would have been written independently. According to both the Greek and the Aramaic fragments, Levi’s earthly investiture occurs when Jacob dresses him in priestly clothing. A change of dress connotes a change of status. The question is whether the ALD would have included the bit about the angels dressing Levi in the priestly robes including the oracle of judgment with the urim and thummim. We know the Aramaic dream-vision ended with the phrase “the seven left him.” It is presumably those seven who before they leave say to Levi, “Now see how we have made you greater than all, and how we have given you the greatness of eternal peace.” We do not know how they make him greater than all, but presumably it is by ordaining him as priest, an ordination that would necessarily have included being robed in the priestly vestments. Receiving new priestly attire is a normal part of priestly ordination in the biblical corpus (Exod. 28:1,2; Zech. 3:4, 5; cf. ALD Bodlleian A: 6), so it very likely was part of the second dream-vision as well. 33 Greenfield et. al. suggest that the material lost from the second vision describes Levi’s priestly Martha Himmelfarb, Ascent to Heaven in Jewish and Christian Apocalypses (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 31; L. Schiffman, Reclaiming the Dead Sea Scrolls, 258; J. Greenfield et. al., Aramaic Levi Document, 73. 33

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consecration and investiture similar to that described in Greek T. Levi 8:2– 17. 34 Himmelfarb agrees, suggesting that since the list of garments in T. Levi 8:2 is taken from Exodus 28, the priestly interests of the writer of the ALD imply that it would have appeared there as well. 35 In view of the great amount of agreement between the Aramaic fragments and the Greek T. Levi, we may conclude that this passage existed in a fragment now lost to us. By putting on the priestly vestments, Levi and all his posterity are changed from ordinary men, to priests. In the Greek T. Levi, these vestments include the oracle (λόγιον) which elsewhere refers to the breastplate holding the urim and the thummim (e.g., LXX Exod. 28:30; Jos. Antiq. 3:163), and the ephod of prophecy, the apron-like garment from which the breastplate hangs (Exod. 28: 4–30). Hollander and de Jonge state that the genitives in the passage reflect the author’s attitude toward the priesthood as having both priestly and prophetic functions. 36 Support for the prophetic nature of the high priesthood is found in the book of Jubilees, likely based on the ALD. It states that “the seed of Levi was chosen as priests and Levites to minister before the Lord just as we (the ministering angels) do” likely a reference to Levi’s second dream-vision (Jub. 30:18, cf. 31:14). In this passage, Jubilees confirms an angelic role for the high priest, suggesting the high priest’s prophetic ability to declare God’s secrets to men. 37 This power of prophecy begins with his investiture, when he puts on the priestly robes (Jub. 32:4; ALD 4Q213b:19). 3.4 Letter of Aristeas The fictional Letter of Aristeas alludes to the urim and the thummim in its description of the vestments of the contemporary high priest. It has been dated to about 134–104, the period of the high priesthood of John Hyrcanus. 38 It was an occasion of great amazement to us when we saw Eleazar [the high priest] engaged on his ministry, and all the glorious vestments, including the wearing of the robe with precious stones upon it in which he J. Greenfield et. al., Aramaic Levi Document, 16. M. Himmelfarb, Ascent to Heaven, 128, n. 34 36 Hollander and de Jonge, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, p. 152. 37 M. Himmelfarb, Ascent to Heaven, 37, 129, n.36. 38 Sylvie Honigman, The Septuagint and Homeric Scholarship in Alexandria: A Study in the Narrative of the Letter of Aristeas (London: Routledge, 2003), 87, convincingly argues for this late date. 34 35

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is vested; golden bells surround the hem (at his feet) and make a very special sound. Alongside each of them are tassels adorned with flowers all of marvelous colors. He was clad in an outstandingly magnificent girdle, woven in the most beautiful colors. On his breast he wears what is called the “oracle” (λόγιον), to which are attached twelve stones of different kinds, set in gold, giving the names of the patriarchs in what was the original order, each stone flashing its own natural distinctive color— quite indescribable. Upon his head he has what is called the tiara, and upon this the inimitable miter, the hallowed diadem having in relief on the front in the middle in holy letters on a golden leaf the name of God, ineffable in glory. The wearer is considered worthy of such vestments at the services. Their appearance makes one awe-struck and dumbfounded. (Letter of Aristeas #96–99).

This passage does not name the urim and thummim directly, but refers instead to the “oracle” of judgment of the high priest’s breastplate which contains them. Although a paraphrase of Exodus 28, the passage claims to be a description of the reigning high priest. Honigman details the extent to which the author goes to convince his readers of the authenticity of the narrative. 39 Because the author wants his readers to regard his work as a “narrative of events that really happened,” he did not “write fabulous accounts,” or “legends.” There you have, Philocrates, as I promised, my narrative (diēgēsis). These matters I think delight you more (terpein) than the books of the mythographers (ta tōn mythologōn biblia). 40

Rather than including legends in his writing, the author follows the strict rules of historiography set by the Greco-Roman grammarians and rhetoricians. 41 Although the Letter is fictional, it enables us to discern what its Ibid., 65–91. Translation is that of S. Honigman, ibid., 33, 66. 41 Chief of these is the use of first person, a fixed feature of history-writing since Herodotus. Because the text would have seemed less believable if the narrator had been an Alexandrian Jew, rather than an Egyptian courtier, the choice of narrator was dictated by the story to be told (S. Honigman, The Septuagint and Homeric Scholarship, 65–91). The author also follows other contemporary practices of good history writing. The insertion of “official” documents in a narrative was general historiographic practice. These may be reworked for the sake of rhetorical embellishment. Sometimes these are entirely fabricated, as in the Letter of Aristeas. The 39 40

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

readers, apparently literate and sophisticated Alexandrian Jews, would have assumed to be true. The use of Exodus 28 (itself a second temple text) as the basis for the description of Eleazar’s vestments suggests that both the author and his readers assumed the contemporary high priest to be equipped in every way exactly as was the first high priest, Aaron. 3.5 Three Sectarian Scrolls from the Dead Sea Sectarian scrolls from Qumran testify to the awe in which the high priest’s garments are held and the importance of the urim and thummim to that community as an oracular device. 4Q ShirShabbat consists of 13 Sabbath Songs for the liturgy of the Sabbath day on thirteen consecutive weeks. The series climaxes at the thirteenth week with the thirteenth song, a description of the high priests’ garments. The texts are fragmentary, but the awe in which these garments are held is still visible and echoes the awe felt by Ben Sira and related by Hecataeus. 4QShirShabbat: Song XIII (A) (11Q17 IX) 3. […]acceptable [offering]s …[…] all th[eir] works 4. […] for the sacrifices of the holy ones […] the aroma of their offerings …[…] 5. […]… and the ar[o]ma of their libations for …[…] of purity with a spirit of holi[ness] 6 […] eternity, with [splendor and] majesty for […] the wonder and the pattern of the breastplates of (‫ )חשני‬7. […] beautiful [th]reads […] multicolored like [woven] wo[rk …] purely blended, the colors of 8. [… splen]dor [and] majesty …[…]… figures […] … ephod 9. […] angels/messengers […] his [holi]ness

4QShirShabbat Song XIII (B) (4Q405 XXIII 2): 1. …] the beauty of the engravings of [ 2. they approach the King (=God) when they minister be[fore inclusion of lists of all kinds was also a popular mechanism used by historiographers to convey narrative veracity. Genuine lists were used if available, and spurious ones if not. As with Thucydides’ speeches, the intention was always to convey matters as they “must have been” (Thuc. Hist. I:XXII). The clear indication that the Letter’s author was writing history and not myth, however, was his eschewal of the fabulous. Every detail is completely plausible in every way. Moreover, to be understood as history-writing by its readers, it had to conform to what its contemporary readers already knew to be true. Thus, its kernel must be a pre-existing oral tradition.

DID SECOND TEMPLE HIGH PRIESTS

103

3. King and he inscribed his Glory [ 4. holiness, the sanctuary of all [ 5. their ephodim; they will spread out [ 6. holy ones, good will […..]spirits of the ho[ly ones 7. their holy places. (vacat) In their wonderful positions are spirits, many colored as the work of a weaver, engravings of figures of splendor (‫)פתוחי צורות הדר‬ 8. in the midst of Glory an appearance of scarlet, colors of the light of the spirit of the holy of holies standing firm in their holy place before [… 9. the King. The spirits of the colors of […] in the midst of the appearance of splendor and the likeness of the Spirit of Glory as works of fine gold shedding 10. lig[ht]. And all their crafted things are blended purely; the woven band as the woven work. These are the chiefs of those wonderfully dressed for service.

The song praises “the wonder and pattern of the breastplates” (line 6, Song A) and the ephod (line 8, Song A), as well as the “engravings of figures of splendor” (‫ פתוחי צורות הדר‬line 7, Song B). These latter can only refer to the “engravings of signets” on the twelve stones of the breastplate described in Exodus 28 (Ex. 28:11, 21: 39:6, 14) which appear in the midst of glory (line 8, Song B). 42 Their colors are the “light of the spirit of the holy of holies.” The spirit of the holy of holies is the spirit of God himself, the spirit of glory (line 8), and it is the spirit of the stones of the breastplate. 43 The color and purity of the high priest’s garments are those of the Kavod of the Glory of God. 44 Although the urim and thummim are not specifically mentioned in this fragmentary text, when the high priest puts on the priestly garments he puts on the Kavod of God himself. This high priest is the contemporary high priest, the one participating in the temple liturgy on the Sabbath day. The Dead Sea Scroll sect not only glorifies the garments of the high priest, but it also stresses the role of the urim and thummim in decisionmaking. The scroll 4Q 164 Pesher Isaiahd, dated to the second half of the Crispin H. T. Fletcher-Louis, “Heavenly Ascent or Incarnational Presence?” SBL Seminar Papers: Part One (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1998) 367–99, esp. 388. 43 The plural “ephodim” and the phrase “chiefs” of those dressed for service may suggest that twelve chief priests wear the ephod (line 9) (C. Fletcher-Louis, All the Glory of Adam, 228–32, 357–8). 44 Ibid., 394. 42

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

second century (150–100), gives pride of place to judgment by means of the urim and the thummim. [He will mak]e all Israel like eye-paint around the eye (Isa 54:11). And I will found you in sapphi[res. Its interpretation] They will found the council of the Community, priests and the peo[ple …] the assembly of the elect, like a sapphire stone in the midst of stones (Isa. 54:12). [I will make] all your battlements [of rubies]. Its interpretation concerns the twelve […. which (who?)] illuminate/enlighten with the judgment of the urim and the thummim [without] any from among them missing, like the sun in all its light (Isa 54:12). And a[ll your gates of glittering stones.] Its interpretation concerns the chiefs of the tribes of Israel in the l[ast days… of] its lot, the posts of… 45

The statement that the twelve enlighten with the judgment of the urim and thummim provides a clear association between the twelve stones of the breastplate and oracular divination. 46 The Qumran community evidently believed that true judgment (and true enlightenment) was by means of the urim and thummim. This is made even more explicit in 4Q 376, the “Moses Apocryphon,” also called the “Liturgy of the Three Tongues of Fire.” The text presented here is supplemented by two pre-Qumran texts (shown in italics), 1Q29 and 4Q375, according to the suggestion of J. Strugnell. 47 J. Allegro, DJD 5 1968:27–8, Pl. IX. C. Batsch, La Guerre et les Rites de Guerre, 328; C. Fletcher-Louis, All the Glory of Adam, 229; C. Van Dam, The Urim and Thummim: A Means of Revelation in Ancient Israel (Winona Lake: IN: Eisenbrauns, 1997), 18. The reference to the twelve is likely triggered by the mention of the city’s gates in Isaiah 54:12, of which there were 12. Ten gates are enumerated in Nehemiah 3, but then two other ones—the Gate of Ephraim and the Gate of the Guard—appear in Neh. 8:16 and 12:39, respectively, making twelve. Twelve gates to the city, one for each tribe, are mentioned, of course, in Ezekiel 48 and in Revelation 21. According to Baumgarten’s reconstruction the twelve refer not to the 12 stones of the breastplate, but to twelve chief priests (Joseph M. Baumgarten, “The Duodecimal Courts of Qumran, Revelation, and the Sanhedrin,” JBL 45 (1976) 59–76). That is also the reconstruction accepted by F. García Martínez and E. J. C. Tigchelaar, The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition Volume 1 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), 326–7. See also, C. FletcherLouis, All the Glory of Adam, 229–32. 47 John Strugnell, “Moses-Pseudepigrapha at Qumran: 4Q375, 4Q376, and Similar Works,” in Laurence H. Schiffman, Archaeology and History in the Dead Sea Scrolls (Sheffield, JSOTSup 8, 1990) 221–256, esp. 238. 45 46

DID SECOND TEMPLE HIGH PRIESTS

105

[…before the anointed priest, upon whose head has been poured the oil of anointment, […and before the de]puty of the anointed priest […a young bul]lock from the herd and a ram […. …] for the urim ….[….the stone when…] … they will provide you with light and he will go out with flashes of fire; the stone of the left side which is at its left side will shine to the eyes of all the assembly until the priest finishes speaking. And after [ (?)] has been removed […] and you shall keep and d[o] all [that] he (i.e., the priest) tells you … in accordance with all this judgment (of the urim and the thummim? 48).

Although the text is fragmentary, it seems that the urim (and thummim) flash their lights in the eyes of the whole congregation while the high priest speaks. 49 This passage may explain the words of Hecataeus. The flashing lights of these stones may demonstrate that what the high priest speaks is true, that he speaks with divine authority, ex cathedra, as it were. While the lights flash and while he speaks, the people bow down hearing the word of God. This text commands the anointed priest to consult the urim (and thummim) and commands the congregation to obey the priest when he speaks in accordance with the judgment (of the urim and thummim). This certainly implies that the contemporary high priest had access to the urim and thummim and that they were an important and active part of the priestly office. 3.6 The Temple Scroll The role of the urim and thummim in the second temple is even clearer in the non-sectarian Temple Scroll (11QT), also found at Qumran. Its date is disputed. L. Schiffman argues it was written during the second half of the reign of John Hyrcanus, while others date it prior to the Hasmonian period. 50 In it the Judaean king is commanded not to go to war until he has consulted the high priest with urim and thummim (LVIII:15–20). Suggested by J. Strugnell, ibid., 244. C. Batsch, La Guerre et les Rites de Guerre, 330, suggests that the author of this song considers all fourteen stones, the twelve of the breastplate and the two on the shoulders as comprising the urim and the thummim. In any case, the oracle manifests itself by shining (C. Batsch, ibid.; C. Fletcher-Louis All the Glory of Adam, 223–4; C. Van Dam, The Urim and Thummim, 17). 50 Lawrence H. Schiffman, Reclaiming the Dead Sea Scrolls (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1994), 257, and personal communication; Christophe Batsch, “Ourîm et Toummîm, un Oracle de Guerre dans le Judaïsme du Second Temple,” 48 49

106

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES ‫ לוא יצא עד יבוא לפני הכוהן הגדול ושאל‬... ‫ו}ע{אם ]המלך[ יצא למלחמה‬ ‫לו במשפט האורים והתומים על פיהו יצא ועל פיהו יבוא הוא וכול בני ישראל‬ ‫אשר אתו לוא יצא מעצת לבו עד אשר ישאל במשפט האורים והתומים‬ .... ‫והצליח בכול דרכיו אשר יצא על פי המשפט אשר‬ And if he [the king] goes out to war … he is not to go out until he [the king] has come before the high priest and he has enquired for him by means of the judgment of the urim and the thummim. On his orders he shall go out and on his orders he shall come in. He and all the people of Israel who are with him shall not go out on the council of his own heart unless he has enquired by means of the judgment of the urim and thummim. He will succeed in all his ways which are taken according to the judgment which ….

The Temple Scroll commands the king not to go to war at the dictates of his own heart, but rather first to consult a high priest with urim and thummim. This strongly implies that the urim and thummim existed at the time of the scroll’s composition, and that they were being used by the contemporary high priest as an oracular device. It is very unlikely that a command to consult the urim and thummim would have been written if there was no way for the command to be obeyed. The urim and thummim must have been operative at the time of the scroll’s composition, i.e., before the death of John Hyrcanus. Strugnell concludes, as do we, that these manuscripts from Qumran all written before or at the death of John Hyrcanus give laws which presuppose the ready availability of the magical jewels of the high priest’s vestments. 51 3.7 1 Maccabees 1 Maccabees is dated to just after the death of John Hyrcanus (1 Macc. 16:23). Its author also seems to have believed that the gift of prophecy inhered in the vestments of the high priest. 52 Chapter 3 records how Judas Zwischen Krise und Alltag : Antike Religionen Im Mittelmeerraum = Conflit et Normalité : Religions Anciennes dans l’Espace Méditerranéen (ed. C. Batsch, Ulrike Egelhaaf-Gaiser and Ruth Stepper; Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1999) 43–56; citing D. Swanson, The Temple Scroll and the Bible. The Methodology of 11QT (Leide: 1995), 171–2; and D. Dimant, “Signification et importance des manuscrits de la mer Morte. L’état actuel des etudes qoumrâniennes,” Annales 51 (1996) 975–103. 51 J. Strugnell, “Moses-Pseudepigrapha at Qumran.” 52 J. Blenkinsopp, “Prophecy and Priesthood in Josephus,” Journal of Jewish Studies 25/2 (1974) 239–62, esp., 250. C. Batsch (“Ourîm et Toummîm, un Oracle de

DID SECOND TEMPLE HIGH PRIESTS

107

Maccabee and his brothers rescued the priestly vestments when they prepared for battle against Nicanor and Gorgias. 46 They gathered together and went to Mizpah, opposite Jerusalem, because Israel formerly had a place of prayer in Mizpah. 47 They fasted that day, put on sackcloth and sprinkled ashes on their heads, and tore their clothes. 48 They opened the book of the law to inquire into those matters about which the Gentiles consulted the likenesses of their gods. 49 Then they brought the vestments of the priesthood and the first fruits and the tithes, and they stirred up the Nazirites who had completed their days; 50 and they cried aloud to Heaven, saying, “What shall we do with these? Where shall we take them? 51 Your sanctuary is trampled down and profaned, and your priests mourn in humiliation. 52 Here the Gentiles are assembled against us to destroy us; you know what they plot against us. 53 How will we be able to withstand them, if you do not help us?” 54 Then they sounded the trumpets and gave a loud shout. 55 After this Judas appointed leaders of the people, in charge of thousands and hundreds and fifties and tens (1 Maccabees 3:46–56).

Prior to battle, Judas and his men consult the book of the law in order to obtain an answer from their god (vs. 48). They then bring out the priestly vestments, plus the first fruits and the tithes. Goldstein suggests that they bring out the latter because it was the third or sixth year of the sabbatical cycle and they had no place to put them, the temple having been defiled. 53 Goldstein does not say why they brought out the priestly vestments, but it may have been to suggest first, that Judas was of the high priestly line and entitled to wear them, and second, to mimic the stories of Saul and David in which each consults a priest with ephod and urim and thummim before engaging in battle. A third reason may have been the command in Numbers (Num. 27:18–23), and in the Temple Scroll (cited above), that neither Joshua (nor as in the case of the Temple Scroll, the king) may go to war without first consulting a priest with urim and thummim. It may be that the author of 1st Maccabees understood that Jews did not go to war without

Guerre,” 319–320) misses the fact that Judah Maccabee had with him the vestments of the high priest when preparing for battle. 53 Jonathan Goldstein, 1 Maccabees (Anchor Bible 41; New York: Doubleday, 1976) 263.

108

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

consulting a priest with urim and thummim and they consulted Judas himself by means of the urim and thummim in the priestly vestments.

4.0 CONCLUSIONS According to the TB Yoma 21b, the urim and the thummim and the spirit of prophecy were among the things which were missing from the Second Temple. This statement may have been based on that in Ezra 2:61–63 (Neh.7:63–65) which states that the urim and thummim were lacking at the time of the return. Josephus suggests the urim and thummim stopped shining, that is they ceased to function, only around 104 BCE, about the time of John Hyrcanus’ death. Thus, according to Josephus, they were functioning and used by second temple high priests before then. To decide between these two claims we examined those second temple texts which can be dated to before Hyrcanus’ death and which describe the vestments of the contemporary high priest. All these texts reveal the awe that the people held toward the high priest and toward the priestly vestments. They suggest that the high priestly garments conveyed prophetic ability to the bearer. Ben Sira describes the high priest, Simon, wearing the breastplate of judgment, and dressed in every way as did Aaron, the first priest. He portrays the high priest putting on the garments of wisdom and even of his putting on the Glory of God himself when he puts on the high priestly vestments. The temple scroll commands the king not to go to war on his own, but first to consult a high priest wearing and using the urim and the thummim. Other texts from Qumran command the people to obey the high priest when he speaks according to the judgment of the urim and thummim. All these were composed before the death of John Hyrcanus and all imply that the contemporary high priest had access to viable urim and thummim. The hypothesis that the urim and thummim were used as an oracular device by high priests of the second temple at least until the death of John Hyrcanus cannot be rejected. In contrast, these texts place in doubt the Talmud’s contention that the urim and thummim and the spirit of prophecy were absent during the entire period of the second temple. If the urim and thummim did exist for a period of time during the life of the second temple, they evidently went out of existence (or stopped working) at the time of John Hyrcanus’ death. When were they installed? According to Ezra 2:61–63 (Neh.7:63–65), they were missing from the second temple in the early decades of the return. May we conclude then that a priest arose in the interim with urim and thummim, a priest who was able to restore the family of Haqqoz to the priesthood (cf. 1 Chron. 24:10)? It is a tantalizing thought.

DID SECOND TEMPLE HIGH PRIESTS

Geniza ms B

LXX BS 45:10

LXX Exod. 28:30

‫חשן משפט‬

λογείῳ κρίσεως

καὶ ἐπιθήσεις ἐπὶ τὸ λογεῖον τῆς κρίσεως

‫אפוד ואזור‬

δήλοις ἀληθείας

MT Exod. 28:30 ‫וְ נָ ַת ָתּ‬

ὴν δήλωσιν καὶ τὴν ἀλήθειαν

109

Vulgate Viri sapientis

‫ֶאל־ח ֶֹשׁן‬ ‫ַה ִמּ ְשׁ ָפּט‬ ‫אוּרים‬ ִ ‫ת־ה‬ ָ ‫ֶא‬ ‫ת־ה ֻתּ ִמּים‬ ַ ‫וְ ֶא‬

iudicio veritate praediti

Table 1 Jesus Son of Sirach 45:10c compared MS B ‫ל]פניו[ ל]א היה‬ [‫כן‬

‫]ל[עולם ל]א‬ ‫ילבשה[ זר‬

‫לבניו‬.... ‫האמן‬ ‫כזה‬ ‫וכן בניו‬ ‫לדורותם‬

Greek πρὸ αὐτοῦ οὐ γέγονεν τοιαῦτα

Vulgate ante ipsum non fuerunt talia

ἕως αἰῶνος οὐκ ἐνεδύσατο ἀλλογενὴς

usque ad originem non indutus est illa alienigena aliquis sed tantum filii ipsius soli

πλὴν τῶν υἱῶν αὐτοῦ μόνον καὶ τὰ ἔκγονα αὐτοῦ διὰ παντός

et nepotes eius per omne tempus

English Before him such beautiful things did not exist No outsider ever put them on,

but only his sons and his descendants eternally

Table 2 Jesus Son of Sirach 45:13 compared

“WORD PLAY” IN QOHELETH SCOTT B. NOEGEL

UNIVERSITY OF WASHINGTON ‫י־ח ֶפץ‬ ֵ ‫ִבּ ֵקּשׁ ק ֶֹה ֶלת ִל ְמצֹא ִדּ ְב ֵר‬ Qoh 12:10

Despite centuries of scholarly awareness of “word play” as a literary phenomenon in ancient Near Eastern literature, the topic remains underresearched. While for the most part, scholars have been content to note examples of “word play” or punning in various Near Eastern texts, typically in footnotes, few full-scale studies on “word play” exist.1 In fact, we currently lack a comprehensive and consistent taxonomy for the various devices usually categorized as “word play” and their proposed functions. This

1 I resist citing the numerous contributions on the subject and instead cite only recent representative examples: Mario H. Beatty, “Translating Wordplay in the Eighth Petition of the Eloquent Peasant: A New Interpretation,” Cahiers Caribéens d’Egyptologie 9 (2006), pp. 131–141; Jonathan Grossman, Ambiguity in the Biblical Narrative and its Contribution to the Literary Formation (Ph.D. Dissertation, Bar-Ilan University, 2006) (in Hebrew); “The Use of Ambiguity in Biblical Narratives of Misleading and Deceit,” Tarbiz 73/4 (2006), pp. 483–515 (in Hebrew); Joel Kalvesmaki, Formation of the Early Christian Theology of Arithmetic Number Symbolism in the Late Second Century and Early Third Century (Ph.D. Dissertation, Catholic University of America, 2006); Ludwig Morenz, Sinn und Spiel der Zeichen: Visuelle Poesie im Alten Ägypten (Köln/Weimar: Böhlau Verlag, 2006); Scott B. Noegel, Nocturnal Ciphers: The Punning Language of Dreams in the Ancient Near East (American Oriental Series, 89; New Haven, CT, 2007); Noegel and Kasia Szpakowska, “‘Word Play’ in the Ramesside Dream Manual,” Studien zur altägyptischen Kultur 35 (2007), 193–212. For a comprehensive and up-to-date bibliography on “word play” in ancient Near Eastern texts please visit: http://faculty.washington.edu/snoegel/wordplay.html.

111

112

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

is especially the case with regard to the Hebrew Bible,2 for which no exhaustive examinations of any one “word play” device exist. Indeed, not a single biblical book has ever been mined for all of its various types of “word play.” This brief contribution, which is part of a more comprehensive project,3 intends to help in filling this gap by offering analyses of the various types of “word play” found in the book of Qoheleth, a book largely neglected in terms of research on punning.4 However, before providing said analysis, I note that I have placed the term “word play” in quotation marks in order to draw attention to its problematic nature. Indeed, neither the term “word” nor “play” is particularly useful when discussing the phenomenon of punning in ancient texts. This is because in Near Eastern languages, the word does not constitute the basic linguistic unit upon which puns are based. In Akkadian and Egyptian, for example, it is the sign that constitutes the fundamental element.5 In Hebrew and other consonantal scripts, it is arguably the syllable that serves as the basic linguistic unit for punning.6 Moreover, there is little that is “playful” 2 Compare, e.g., the very different taxonomies and approaches presented in Immanuel M. Casanowicz, “Paronomasia in the Old Testament,” JBL 12 (1893), 105–167; Jack M. Sasson, “Word Play in the Old Testament,” IDB Supplement (Nashville: Abingdon, 1976), pp. 968–970; and Edward L. Greenstein, “Wordplay, Hebrew,” in D. N. Freedman, ed., Anchor Bible Dictionary, Vol. VI (New York: Doubleday, 1992), pp. 968–971. 3 I currently am writing a monograph entitled “Word Play” in Ancient Near Eastern Texts, in which I survey the various functions of “word play” in ancient Near Eastern texts and provide a comprehensive taxonomy for the phenomenon. Also discussed in the book are issues of terminology, genre, audience, grammaticality, interpretation, and methodology. Languages included in the study include Akkadian, Egyptian, Ugaritic, biblical Hebrew, and Aramaic. 4 Consequently, since so few commentaries refer to the phenomena discussed herein, I cite commentaries only where relevant. Indeed, I am able to locate only one article devoted to “word play” in Qoheleth: Anthony Ceresko, “The Function of Antanaclasis (msʾ) ‘to find’ // (msʾ) ‘to reach, overtake, grasp’ in Hebrew Poetry, especially in the Book of Qoheleth,” CBQ 44 (1982), 551–569. Casanowicz, “Paronomasia in the Old Testament,” offers only a few examples from Qoheleth. 5 For a preliminary discussion along these lines see Scott B. Noegel, Nocturnal Ciphers. Friedrich Junge, “Zur Sprachwissenschaft der Ägypter,” in F. Junge, ed., Studien zu Sprache und Religion Ägyptens zu Ehren von Wolfhart Westendorf, Band I (Göttingen: Seminar für Ägyptologie und Koptologie, 1984), pp. 257–272, argues that it is the colon that constitutes the basic linguistic element in Egyptian. 6 The same can be said of Greek and Roman punning. See F. Ahl, Metaformations: Soundplay and Wordplay in Ovid and Other Classical Poets (Ithaca: Cornell Univer-

“WORD PLAY” IN QOHELETH

113

about punning in the ancient Near East. On the contrary, it appears to have been a rhetorically serious device of some performative power. Nevertheless, the term “word play” is so pervasive in the literature, that it is often heuristically useful to use it. But I opt throughout to use the term “punning,” which is general enough to encapsulate all the devices collected in this study.7 With this in mind, I proceed to the data. I have divided the study into six sections, according to the six types of punning found in Qoheleth. The first focuses on alliteration, or the repeated use of consonants.8 This is the largest of the six categories. The second section collects examples of assonance, the repeated use of vowel patterns. Though both alliteration and assonance both fit generally under the category of paronomasia or “similarities of sound,” it is important to keep in mind that all examples of paronomasia are also effective on a visual register. The third section focuses on illustrations of polysemy; cases in which words bear more than one meaning in a single context. The fourth section, which is related to polysemy, details cases of antanaclasis. Antanaclasis occurs when a word is used multiple times, but with different meanings. In the fifth section, I provide an example of allusive punning, i.e., the use of words or forms that imply by way of similarity of sound another word that does not occur in the text.9 The sixth section is devoted to instances of numerical punning. After providing the data for each of these devices, I offer some general observations on punning in Qoheleth.

sity Press, 1985). 7 See, e.g., Andrew Welsh, “Pun,” in The New Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetics, p. 1005, who notes that verbal puns “play with sound and meaning.” 8 Like Casanowicz and others since him, I do not consider the repetition of the same root, even if found in a different form, to constitute alliteration. Thus, while a line like ‫ ֲה ֵבל ֲה ָב ִלים ָא ַמר ק ֶֹה ֶלת ֲה ֵבל ֲה ָב ִלים ַהכֹּל ָה ֶבל‬in 1:2 may have an overall alliterative effect by repeating the root ‫הבל‬, it lies outside this study (though some alliteration perhaps obtains in the consonants ‫ ה‬and ‫ ל‬which appear in both ‫הבל‬ and ‫)קהלת‬. Similarly, I leave out instances of the so-called cognate accusative construction, e.g., ‫ ִתּדּ ֹר נֶ ֶדר‬in Qoh 5:3. 9 On this form of punning see the many examples found in Moshe Garsiel, Biblical Names: A Literary Study of Midrashic Name Derivations and Puns (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1991).

114

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

1. ALLITERATION Qoh 1:4–6 ‫עוֹלם ע ָֹמ ֶדת‬ ָ ‫ דּוֹר ה ֵֹלְך וְ דוֹר ָבּא וְ ָה ָא ֶרץ ְל‬4 ‫זוֹר ַח הוּא ָשׁם‬ ֵ ‫וֹאף‬ ֵ ‫ל־מקוֹמוֹ שׁ‬ ְ ‫וּבא ַה ָשּׁ ֶמשׁ וְ ֶא‬ ָ ‫ וְ זָ ַרח ַה ֶשּׁ ֶמשׁ‬5 ‫רוּח‬ ַ ‫הוֹלְך ָה‬ ֵ ‫סוֹבב ס ֵֹבב‬ ֵ ‫ל־צפוֹן‬ ָ ‫סוֹבב ֶא‬ ֵ ְ‫ל־דּרוֹם ו‬ ָ ‫הוֹלְך ֶא‬ ֵ 6 ‫רוּח‬ ַ ‫ל־ס ִביב ָֹתיו ָשׁב ָה‬ ְ ‫וְ ַע‬ This passage provides an excellent instance of alliteration of the consonants ‫ ד‬and ‫ר‬, which we hear twice in v. 4 in ‫“ דּוֹר‬generation,” and again in ‫“ ָדּרוֹם‬south” in v. 6. In addition, the use of the verb ‫ הלך‬in v. 6 creates the anticipation that ‫ דּוֹר‬will appear, as it did twice in v. 4, but instead the poet uses the alliterative word ‫ ָדּרוֹם‬. Thus, the repetition of ‫ דּוֹר‬in v. 4 and the use of ‫ הלך‬in vv. 4 and 6 permit the alliteration to be perceived over the stretch of an intervening line.10 Also, the consonants ‫ ש‬and ‫ מ‬in the repeated word ‫ ֶשּׁ ֶמשׁ‬in v. 5 echo in the word ‫ ָשׁם‬at the end of the verse. Qoh 2:2 ‫וּל ִשׂ ְמ ָחה ַמה־זֹּה ע ֹ ָשׂה‬ ְ ‫הוֹלל‬ ָ ‫ִל ְשׂחוֹק ָא ַמ ְר ִתּי ְמ‬ Alliteration is achieved in this verse by repeating the consonants ‫ שׁ‬and ‫ ח‬in the words ‫ ִל ְשׂחוֹק‬and ‫וּל ִשׂ ְמ ָחה‬ ְ . The alliteration serves to strengthen

the relationship between “laughter” and “merriment,” underscored also by their parallelism. Also alliterative is the consonant ‫מ‬, which appears four times in this brief line. Qoh 3:3 ‫ֵעת ַל ֲהרוֹג וְ ֵעת ִל ְרפּוֹא‬ ‫ֵעת ִל ְפרוֹץ וְ ֵעת ִל ְבנוֹת‬

10 While alliteration is more effective when the consonants that alliterate are in close proximity, such devices help fill the gap. Moreover, I would argue that the peoples of the ancient Near East generally were more attuned to such devices, given their common practice of reading texts aloud. If we consider also the importance placed on the memorization of text, especially among the erudite elite, then we may assume that some visual puns also functioned even when not in close proximity. I develop this argument more thoroughly, and the evidence in support of it, in my forthcoming monograph “Word Play” in Ancient Near Eastern Texts.

“WORD PLAY” IN QOHELETH

115

In this line it is the consonants ‫ פ‬and ‫ ר‬that appear in the words ‫ ִל ְרפּוֹא‬and ‫ ִל ְפרוֹץ‬. The repeated use of ‫ ל‬to mark the infinitive and the consonant ‫ ר‬in ‫ ַל ֲהרוֹג‬add to the alliterative effect. The alliteration here

helps to connect the chain of famous merisms and lends cohesiveness to them. Qoh 3:5–6 ‫ ֵעת ְל ַה ְשׁ ִליְך ֲא ָבנִ ים וְ ֵעת ְכּנוֹס ֲא ָבנִ ים‬5 ‫ֵעת ַל ֲחבוֹק וְ ֵעת ִל ְרחֹק ֵמ ַח ֵבּק‬ ‫ ֵעת ְל ַב ֵקּשׁ וְ ֵעת ְל ַא ֵבּד‬6 ‫ֵעת ִל ְשׁמוֹר וְ ֵעת ְל ַה ְשׁ ִליְך‬

This passage repeatedly employs the consonants ‫ב‬, ‫ח‬, and ‫ק‬. See the two-fold use of the root ‫ חבק‬in v. 5, the use of ‫ ִל ְרחֹק‬in v. 5, and the word ‫ ְל ַב ֵקּשׁ‬in v. 6. Bolstering this example is the fact that, unlike the other merismic pairs in this list, ‫ חבק‬does not have an antonymic root. Instead, it is negated by the alliterative phrase ‫ ִל ְרחֹק ֵמ ַח ֵבּק‬. As in the previous example, here alliteration binds the sequential merisms and strengthens the cohesiveness of the list. Qoh 3:11 ‫ת־הע ָֹלם נָ ַתן ְבּ ִל ָבּם‬ ָ ‫ת־הכֹּל ָע ָשׂה יָ ֶפה ְב ִעתּוֹ גַּ ם ֶא‬ ַ ‫ֶא‬ ‫ֹלהים‬ ִ ‫ר־ע ָשׂה ָה ֱא‬ ָ ‫ת־ה ַמּ ֲע ֶשׂה ֲא ֶשׁ‬ ַ ‫ִמ ְבּ ִלי ֲא ֶשׁר לֹא־יִ ְמ ָצא ָה ָא ָדם ֶא‬ ‫ֵמר ֹאשׁ וְ ַעד־סוֹף‬ Here Qoheleth offers alliteration between the consonants ‫ל‬, ‫ב‬, and ‫מ‬ in the words ‫ ְבּ ִל ָבּם‬and ‫ ִמ ְבּ ִלי‬, and with the word ‫ ָהע ָֹלם‬, which echoes just the ‫ ל‬and the ‫מ‬. The device serves to draw into contrast the concept of eternity (‫ ) ָהע ָֹלם‬that God has put in the human mind (‫ ) ְבּ ִל ָבּם‬with humankind’s inability (‫ ) ִמ ְבּ ִלי‬to fathom it truly. Qoh 3:18 ‫ֹלהים‬ ִ ‫ל־דּ ְב ַרת ְבּנֵ י ָה ָא ָדם ְל ָב ָרם ָה ֱא‬ ִ ‫ָא ַמ ְר ִתּי ֲאנִ י ְבּ ִל ִבּי ַע‬ ‫ם־בּ ֵה ָמה ֵה ָמּה ָל ֶהם‬ ְ ‫וְ ִל ְראוֹת ְשׁ ֶה‬ Similarly, Qoh 3:18 echoes the consonants in the word ‫ ְבּ ִל ִבּי‬by employing the words ‫ ִדּ ְב ַרת‬, which uses the closeness in sounds between the liquids ‫ ל‬and ‫ר‬, and ‫ ְל ָב ָרם‬, which resounds both the ‫ ב‬and ‫ל‬. Here the

116

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

alliteration connects the matter (‫ ) ִדּ ְב ַרת‬of humankind to which Qoheleth has set his mind (‫) ְבּ ִל ִבּי‬, and his pondering that God has established it to test them (‫) ְל ָב ָרם‬. In addition, the words ‫ם־בּ ֵה ָמה ֵה ָמּה ָל ֶהם‬ ְ ‫וְ ִל ְראוֹת ְשׁ ֶה‬ provide two illustrations of epanastrophe, a subclass of alliteration in which the final syllable of one word is repeated in the next word.11 Qoh 4:6 ‫רוּח‬ ַ ‫טוֹב ְמל ֹא ַכף נָ ַחת ִמ ְמּל ֹא ָח ְפנַ יִ ם ָע ָמל ְוּרעוּת‬ The alliteration of the consonants ‫ח‬, ‫פ‬, and ‫ נ‬in the uncommon expression ‫ ַכף נָ ַחת‬and rare word ‫ ָח ְפנַ יִ ם‬helps to emphasize the contrast between the small handful of ease and the two fistfulls of toil. The contrast is supported by additional alliteration of the ‫ מ‬and ‫ ל‬in the root ‫מלא‬, which appears twice, and the word ‫ ָע ָמל‬. Qoh 4:13 ‫וּכ ִסיל‬ ְ ‫טוֹב יֶ ֶלד ִמ ְס ֵכּן וְ ָח ָכם ִמ ֶמּ ֶלְך זָ ֵקן‬ ‫ֲא ֶשׁר לֹא־יָ ַדע ְל ִהזָּ ֵהר עוֹד‬ Here again Qoheleth uses alliteration, specially of the consonants ‫ס‬, ‫מ‬, ‫ל‬, and ‫נ‬, to strengthen a contrast, this time between a poor wise youth ( ‫יֶ ֶלד‬ ְ ‫) ִמ ֶמּ ֶלְך זָ ֵקן‬.12 ‫ ) ִמ ְס ֵכּן וְ ָח ָכם‬and an old, but foolish king (‫וּכ ִסיל‬ Qoh 4:14–15 ‫סוּרים יָ ָצא ִל ְמֹלְך‬ ִ ‫י־מ ֵבּית ָה‬ ִ ‫ ִכּ‬14 ‫נוֹלד ָרשׁ‬ ַ ‫ִכּי גַּ ם ְבּ ַמ ְלכוּתוֹ‬ ִ ‫ ָר ִא‬15 ‫ל־ה ַחיִּ ים ַה ְמ ַה ְלּ ִכים ַתּ ַחת ַה ָשּׁ ֶמשׁ‬ ַ ‫ת־כּ‬ ָ ‫יתי ֶא‬ In this passage, the poet alliterates the consonants ‫ל‬, ‫מ‬, and ‫ כ‬in the words ‫ ְבּ ַמ ְלכוּתוֹ‬, ‫ ִל ְמֹלְך‬, and the rare piel participial form ‫ ַה ְמ ַה ְלּ ִכים‬. Qoheleth has set up a motif of reversal in which one born without status, and presumably unfit for rule, comes to rule a large body of apparently willing

11 First noted by M. Casanowicz, “Paronomasia in the Old Testament,” p. 112, and repeated in Sasson, “Word Play in the Old Testament,” p. 969. 12 The contrast is bolstered also by a partial assonance between the segholates ‫ יֶ ֶלד‬and ‫ ֶמּ ֶלְך‬.

“WORD PLAY” IN QOHELETH

117

followers. The alliteration underscores this reversal by drawing into comparison the institution of kingship (‫ ִל ְמֹלְך‬and ‫ ) ְבּ ַמ ְלכוּתוֹ‬and those who follow (‫) ַה ְמ ַה ְלּ ִכים‬. Qoh 5:7 ‫ל־תּ ְת ַמהּ‬ ִ ‫ִאם־ע ֹ ֶשׁק ָרשׁ וְ גֵ זֶ ל ִמ ְשׁ ָפּט וָ ֶצ ֶדק ִתּ ְר ֶאה ַב ְמּ ִדינָ ה ַא‬ ‫יהם‬ ֶ ‫ל־ה ֵח ֶפץ ִכּי גָ בֹ ַהּ ֵמ ַעל גָּ בֹ ַהּ שׁ ֹ ֵמר וּגְ ב ִֹהים ֲע ֵל‬ ַ ‫ַע‬ This verse contains two words in which the final ‫ ה‬is pronounced: ‫ ִתּ ְת ַמהּ‬and ‫גָ בֹ ַהּ‬, the latter of which appears three times. The rarity of such

words in biblical Hebrew suggests that the usage was deliberately chosen for reasons of alliteration. While I can see no immediate reason for the alliteration other than poetic choice, perhaps the repeatedly pronounced ‫ה‬ helped to add emphasis to the statement. Qoh 5:9 ‫א ֵֹהב ֶכּ ֶסף לֹא־יִ ְשׂ ַבּע ֶכּ ֶסף‬ ‫בוּאה גַּ ם־זֶ ה ָה ֶבל‬ ָ ‫וּמי־א ֵֹהב ֶבּ ָהמוֹן ל ֹא ְת‬ ִ

In this verse Qoheleth alliterates the consonants ‫ ה‬and ‫ ב‬in the word ‫א ֵֹהב‬, which appears twice, and in the words ‫ ֶבּ ָהמוֹן‬and ‫ ָה ֶבל‬. The consonant ‫ ב‬resounds also in ‫בוּאה‬ ָ ‫ ְת‬. The alliteration serves to connect the love of wealth with futility (i.e., ‫) ָה ֶבל‬. Qoh 6:6 ‫טוֹבה ל ֹא ָר ָאה ֲהל ֹא ֶאל־‬ ָ ְ‫וְ ִאלּוּ ָחיָ ה ֶא ֶלף ָשׁנִ ים ַפּ ֲע ַמיִ ם ו‬ ‫הוֹלְך‬ ֽ ֵ ‫ָמקוֹם ֶא ָחד ַהכֹּל‬ Note in this passage the repeated use of the ‫ א‬and ‫ ל‬in the words ‫וְ ִאלּוּ‬ (rarely used in Qoheleth) and ‫ ֶא ֶלף‬, and in the phrase ...‫ל ֹא ָר ָאה ֲהל ֹא ֶאל‬. The use of the liquids ‫ ל‬and ‫ ר‬also may be considered alliterative. The repeated use of these consonants helps to place reiterated emphasis on the hyperbolic ‫ ֶא ֶלף ָשׁנִ ים‬, which is contrasted ultimately with the same (‫ ) ֶא ָחד‬place all go upon death. As such the verse also contains an example numerical punning (more on this below).

118

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Qoh 7:1 ‫טוֹב ֵשׁם ִמ ֶשּׁ ֶמן טוֹב וְ יוֹם ַה ָמּוֶ ת ִמיּוֹם ִהוָּ ְלדוֹ‬ Alliteration occurs here between the word ‫ ֵשׁם‬and ‫ ִמ ֶשּׁ ֶמן‬, as noted already by Casanowicz.13 Here the device underscores the contrast that the poet has established between the value of a good name and the value of ַ ‫ ֶשׁ ֶמן‬.14 fine oil. A similar alliteration appears in Song 1:3: ‫תּוּרק ְשׁ ֶמָך‬ Qoh 7:4 ‫ֵלב ֲח ָכ ִמים ְבּ ֵבית ֵא ֶבל וְ ֵלב ְכּ ִס ִילים ְבּ ֵבית ִשׂ ְמ ָחה‬ Qoheleth employs an anagramic use of the consonants ‫ ל‬and ‫ ב‬in the words ‫ ֵלב‬, which occurs twice, and ‫ ֵא ֶבל‬. The alliteration allows him to state that the ‫ ֵלב‬of the wise rests both figuratively and literally within the ‫ ֵא ֶבל‬. The alliteration is reinforced by the two-fold use of the ‫ ב‬in the word ‫ ְבּ ֵבית‬, which also appears twice. Qoh 7:5–6 ‫מ ַע גַּ ֲע ַרת ָח ָכם ֵמ ִאישׁ שׁ ֹ ֵמ ַע ִשׁיר ְכּ ִס ִילים‬ ֹ ‫ טוֹב ִל ְשׁ‬5 ‫ ִכּי ְכקוֹל ַה ִסּ ִירים ַתּ ַחת ַה ִסּיר ֵכּן ְשׂחֹק ַה ְכּ ִסיל‬6 ‫וְ גַ ם־זֶ ה ָה ֶבל‬ As also noted by Casanowicz,15 this passage repeats the consonants ‫ס‬ and ‫ר‬, in the words ‫ ַה ִסּ ִירים‬and ‫ ַה ִסּיר‬. The consonant ‫ ס‬is also repeated in ִ ‫ ְכּ ִס‬and ‫ ַה ְכּ ִסיל‬. The liquids ‫ ר‬and ‫ ל‬alliterate in the words the words ‫ילים‬ ‫ ַה ִסּ ִירים‬and ‫ ַה ִסּיר‬, on the one hand, and the words ‫ ְכּ ִס ִילים‬and ‫ ַה ְכּ ִסיל‬, on the other. The word ‫ ְשׂחֹק‬also alliterates with ‫קוֹל‬, and possibly with ‫ ַה ְכּ ִסיל‬. ִ ‫ ְכּ ִס‬and ‫ ַה ְכּ ִסיל‬also illustrate antanaclasis (see In addition, the words ‫ילים‬ below). According to Jacob Klein and Michael Fox,16 the alliterative effect Casanowicz, “Paronomasia in the Old Testament,” 161. Noted also by Rashbam. See Sara Japhet and Robert B. Salters, The Commentary of R. Samuel ben Meir Rashbam on Qoheleth (Jerusalem/Leiden: Magnes Press, E. J. Brill, 1985), pp. 150–151. 15 Casanowicz, “Paronomasia in the Old Testament,” 128. Also observed by R. B. Y. Scott, Proverbs, Ecclesiastes (AB 18; New York: Doubleday, 1965), p. 235, who includes the word ‫ ִשׁיר‬. If we are to include ‫ ִשׁיר‬, however, because of the ‫ש‬, then we also should include ‫שׁ ֵֹמ ַע‬, which appears twice, and ‫ ִאישׁ‬. 16 Jacob Klein and Michael Fox, “Qoheleth,” in ʿOlam ha-Tanakh (Tel-Aviv: 13 14

“WORD PLAY” IN QOHELETH

119

is onomatopoeic, providing the crackling sounds that passage’s image evokes. Qoh 7:8–9 ‫רוּח‬ ַ ‫רוּח ִמגְּ ַבהּ־‬ ַ ‫ טוֹב ַא ֲח ִרית ָדּ ָבר ֵמ ֵרא ִשׁיתוֹ טוֹב ֶא ֶרְך־‬8 ‫נוּח‬ ַ ָ‫רוּחָך ִל ְכעוֹס ִכּי ַכ ַעס ְבּ ֵחיק ְכּ ִס ִילים י‬ ַ ‫ל־תּ ַב ֵהל ְבּ‬ ְ ‫ ַא‬9

‫רוּח‬ ַ , which appears three times in this short verse, and ‫ יָ נוּח‬demonstrate again Qoheleth’s interest in alliteration. Both words employ the conַ are sonant ‫ח‬. In addition, the consonants ‫ ר‬and ‫ ח‬in the word ‫רוּח‬ ַ and ‫ יָ נוּח‬also demonstrate anticipated by ‫ ַא ֲח ִרית‬. Moreover, the words ‫רוּח‬ assonance, specifically rhyme (see below). The use of alliteration again emphasizes the difference between patience and pride, the latter of which is connected with fools. Additional alliteration is achieved in v. 9 between the ִ ‫ ְכּ ִס‬. The repeated consonants ‫ כ‬and ‫ ס‬in the words ‫ ִל ְכעוֹס‬, ‫ ַכ ַעס‬, and ‫ילים‬ ִ ‫) ְכּ ִס‬. sound effect connects angry behavior (‫ ) ַכ ַעס‬with fools (‫ילים‬ Qoh 7:14 ‫וּביוֹם ָר ָעה ְר ֵאה‬ ְ ‫טוֹבה ֱהיֵ ה ְבטוֹב‬ ָ ‫ְבּיוֹם‬ ‫ֹלהים‬ ִ ‫גַּ ם ֶאת־זֶ ה ְל ֻע ַמּת־זֶ ה ָע ָשׂה ָה ֱא‬ Here the expression ‫ ָר ָעה ְר ֵאה‬serves to alliterate the ‫ר‬. Though the ‫ע‬ and ‫ א‬cannot be considered alliterative, the close juxtaposition of the two in words bookended by identical consonants achieves an alliterative effect. As we have seen, alliteration tends to emphasize or establish contrast. Here again the poet has contrasted good times with bad times in life. His use of alliteration here serves to emphasize the importance of being circumspect (‫ ) ְר ֵאה‬when times are bad (‫) ָר ָעה‬. Qoh 8:8 ‫רוּח וְ ֵאין ִשׁ ְלטוֹן ְבּיוֹם ַה ָמּוֶ ת‬ ַ ‫ת־ה‬ ָ ‫רוּח ִל ְכלוֹא ֶא‬ ַ ‫ֵאין ָא ָדם ַשׁ ִלּיט ָבּ‬ ‫ת־בּ ָע ָליו‬ ְ ‫וְ ֵאין ִמ ְשׁ ַל ַחת ַבּ ִמּ ְל ָח ָמה וְ לֹא־יְ ַמ ֵלּט ֶר ַשׁע ֶא‬ This passage reverberates three consonants (‫ל‬, ‫מ‬, and ‫ )ח‬in the words ‫ ִמ ְשׁ ַל ַחת‬and ‫ ַבּ ִמּ ְל ָח ָמה‬, two of which reverberate also in the word ‫יְמ ֵלּט‬ ַ . Davidzon-ʿIti, 1997), pp. 191 (in Hebrew). Repeated in Michael V. Fox, JPS Torah Commentary: Ecclesiastes (Philadelphia, PA.: Jewish Publication Society, 2004), p. 45.

120

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Additional alliteration obtains by way of the consonants ‫ ש‬and ‫ ל‬in the words ‫ ַשׁ ִלּיט‬and ‫ ִמ ְשׁ ַל ַחת‬, and by way of the consonants ‫ ט‬and ‫ ל‬in the words ‫ ִשׁ ְלטוֹן‬, ‫ ַשׁ ִלּיט‬, and ‫יְמ ֵלּט‬ ַ . The contrastive purpose of alliteration is again clear. This time the poet contrasts the lack of control (‫ ) ַשׁ ִלּיט‬that one has over determining one’s future, and the absolute control that wickedness ַ ), in a way similar to not receiving a has, allowing none to escape (‫יְמ ֵלּט‬ discharge (‫ ) ִמ ְשׁ ַל ַחת‬during wartime (‫) ַבּ ִמּ ְל ָח ָמה‬. Qoh 8:12–13 ‫וּמ ֲא ִריְך לוֹ‬ ַ ‫ ֲא ֶשׁר ח ֶֹטא ע ֹ ֶשׂה ָרע ְמ ַאת‬12 ‫ם־יוֹד ַע ָאנִ י ֲא ֶשׁר‬ ֵ ַ‫ִכּי גּ‬ ‫ֹלהים ֲא ֶשׁר יִ ְיראוּ ִמ ְלּ ָפנָ יו‬ ִ ‫יִ ְהיֶ ה־טּוֹב ְליִ ְר ֵאי ָה ֱא‬ ‫יָמים ַכּ ֵצּל‬ ִ ‫ וְ טוֹב לֹא־יִ ְהיֶ ה ָל ָר ָשׁע וְ לֹא־יַ ֲא ִריְך‬13 ‫ֹלהים‬ ִ ‫ֲא ֶשׁר ֵאינֶ נּוּ יָ ֵרא ִמ ִלּ ְפנֵ י ֱא‬ This passage alliterates the consonants ‫ר‬, ‫א‬, and ‫ י‬in the hiphil form of the roots ‫ ארך‬and the root ‫ירא‬, the first of which appears twice, and the latter three times. The alliteration allows Qoheleth to bring into sharp relief the acts of evil doers that may appear to prolong punishment and the long lives of those who fear God. Qoh 9:5 ‫וּמה‬ ָ ‫יוֹד ִעים ְמא‬ ְ ‫יוֹד ִעים ֶשׁיָּ ֻמתוּ וְ ַה ֵמּ ִתים ֵאינָ ם‬ ְ ‫ִכּי ַה ַחיִּ ים‬ ‫וְ ֵאין־עוֹד ָל ֶהם ָשׂ ָכר ִכּי נִ ְשׁ ַכּח זִ ְכ ָרם‬ Note in this line the alliteration between the consonants ‫ כ‬and ‫( ר‬and possibly the ‫ שׁ‬and ‫ )ז‬in words ‫ ָשׂ ָכר‬and ‫זִ ְכ ָרם‬.17 The consonant ‫ כ‬also reverberates twice in the phrase ‫ ִכּי נִ ְשׁ ַכּח‬in the same stich. Observe also ְ , used twice in this line, resounds in the preposition how the word ‫יוֹד ִעים‬ ‫ עוֹד‬in the expression ‫וְ ֵאין־עוֹד ָל ֶהם‬. As Johannes Hempel long ago noted, the “wortspiel” here serves to contrast “...die Toten wissen gar nichts, haben keinen Dank (śakar), denn ihrer denkt (zakar) keiner!”18 Indeed, by

17 Suggested first by Casanowicz, “Paronomasia in the Old Testament,” 157, and n. 144, who noted that the poet has opted to use ‫ שכר‬instead of ‫ חלק‬or ‫יתרון‬, as elsewhere in Qoheleth, for the sake of paronomasia. 18 Johannes Hempel, Die althebräische Literatur und ihr hellenistisch-jüdisches Nachleben (Wildpark-Potsdam, Akademische Verlagsgesellschaft Athenaion, 1930), p. 192.

“WORD PLAY” IN QOHELETH

121

linking ‫ ָשׂ ָכר‬and ‫ זִ ְכ ָרם‬via sound, and by preceding these words with the expression ‫וְ ֵאין־עוֹד ָל ֶהם‬, Qoheleth allows his audience to perceive a contrast between the lack of any knowledge or reward among the dead and the forgotten knowledge of them among the living. Qoh 9:11 ‫ת־ה ֶשּׁ ֶמשׁ ִכּי‬ ַ ‫אה ַת ַח‬ ֹ ‫ַשׁ ְב ִתּי וְ ָר‬ ‫בּוֹרים ַה ִמּ ְל ָח ָמה‬ ִ ִ‫לֹא ַל ַקּ ִלּים ַה ֵמּרוֹץ וְ ל ֹא ַלגּ‬ ‫וְ גַ ם ל ֹא ַל ֲח ָכ ִמים ֶל ֶחם וְ גַ ם ל ֹא ַלנְּ בֹנִ ים ע ֹ ֶשׁר‬ ‫ת־כּ ָלּם‬ ֻ ‫י־עת וָ ֶפגַ ע יִ ְק ֶרה ֶא‬ ֵ ‫וְ גַ ם ל ֹא ַליּ ְֹד ִעים ֵחן ִכּ‬ In this verse, the poet repeats the consonants ‫ ל‬,‫מ‬, and ‫ ח‬in the words ‫ ַל ֲח ָכ ִמים‬, ‫ ַה ִמּ ְל ָח ָמה‬, and ‫ ֶל ֶחם‬. The aim of the alliteration here again appears

to be to create a comparison and contrast, in this case between the warrior’s ability to achieve victory in battle (‫ ) ַה ִמּ ְל ָח ָמה‬and the ability of the wise (‫ ) ֲח ָכ ִמים‬to obtain food (‫) ֶל ֶחם‬. Qoheleth then subverts his own comparison ֻ ‫ ֵעת וָ ֶפגַ ע יִ ְק ֶרה ֶא‬. by concluding that ‫ת־כּ ָלּם‬ Qoh 10:1 ‫רוֹקח‬ ֵ ‫יע ֶשׁ ֶמן‬ ַ ‫וּבי ָ֔מוֶ ת ְיַב ִאישׁ ִיַבּ‬ ֵ ‫זְ ב‬ In this line, Qoheleth twice repeats the consonant ‫ ב‬in ‫יַבּיע‬ ִ ‫ ְיַב ִאישׁ‬in a way that reverberates the onomatopoeic word ‫“ זבוב‬fly.” The alliteration is perhaps strengthened by the consonant ‫ מ‬in ‫ ָמוֶ ת‬and ‫ ֶשׁ ֶמן‬, which is also a bilabial. Qoh 10:5–11 ‫יתי ַתּ ַחת ַה ָשּׁ ֶמשׁ ִכּ ְשׁגָ גָ ה ֶשׁיּ ָֹצא ִמ ִלּ ְפנֵ י ַה ַשּׁ ִלּיט‬ ִ ‫ יֵ שׁ ָר ָעה ָר ִא‬5 ‫רוֹמים ַר ִבּים וַ ֲע ִשׁ ִירים ַבּ ֵשּׁ ֶפל יֵ ֵשׁבוּ‬ ִ ‫ נִ ַתּן ַה ֶסּ ֶכל ַבּ ְמּ‬6 ‫ל־ה ָא ֶרץ‬ ָ ‫ל־סוּסים וְ ָשׂ ִרים ה ְֹל ִכים ַכּ ֲע ָב ִדים ַע‬ ִ ‫יתי ֲע ָב ִדים ַע‬ ִ ‫ ָר ִא‬7 ‫גּוּמּץ בּוֹ יִ פּוֹל וּפ ֵֹרץ גָּ ֵדר יִ ְשּׁ ֶכנּוּ נָ ָחשׁ‬ ָ ‫ ח ֵֹפר‬8 ‫בּוֹק ַע ֵע ִצים יִ ָסּ ֶכן ָבּם‬ ֵ ‫יע ֲא ָבנִ ים יֵ ָע ֵצב ָבּ ֶהם‬ ַ ‫ ַמ ִסּ‬9 ‫א־פנִ ים ִק ְל ַקל‬ ָ ֹ ‫ם־ק ָהה ַה ַבּ ְרזֶ ל וְ הוּא ל‬ ֵ ‫ ִא‬10 ‫וַ ֲחיָ ִלים יְ גַ ֵבּר וְ יִ ְתרוֹן ַה ְכ ֵשׁיר ָח ְכ ָמה‬ ‫לוֹא־ל ַחשׁ וְ ֵאין יִ ְתרוֹן ְל ַב ַעל ַה ָלּשׁוֹן‬ ָ ‫ ִאם־יִ שּׁ ְֹך ַהנָּ ָחשׁ ְבּ‬11

122

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

A close examination of this pericope reveals an astonishing abundance of sibilants––twenty-two in all (sixteen shins, five samekhs, and one sin).19 In addition, the word ‫ ָל ַחשׁ‬alliterates in the passage the with the words ‫ַהנָּ ָחשׁ‬ in one direction, and ‫ ַה ָלּשׁוֹן‬, in another. One wonders whether the many words containing sibilants were chosen in order to mimic the sound of the snake mentioned in vv. 8 and 11. In any event, the alliteration between the words ‫ ָל ַחשׁ‬, ‫ ַהנָּ ָחשׁ‬, and ‫ ַה ָלּשׁוֹן‬underscores the irony of a snake charmer being bitten before having the chance to charm the snake. The pericope is a veritable tapestry of alliteration. Note also the alliteration between ‫ יִ ְשּׁ ֶכנּוּ‬in 10:8 and ‫ יִ ָסּ ֶכן‬in 10:9; the repeated ‫ פ‬and ‫ ר‬in ‫ח ֵֹפר‬ and ‫ וּפ ֵֹרץ‬in 10:8; ‫ ע‬and ‫ צ‬in ‫ יֵ ָע ֵצב‬and ‫ ֵע ִצים‬in 10:9, and the ‫ ב‬and ‫ ר‬in ‫ ַה ַבּ ְרזֶ ל‬and ‫ יְ גַ ֵבּר‬in 10:10. The device here appears to have been used to strengthen the cohesiveness of the occurrences listed. Qoh 10:11–12 ‫לוֹא־ל ַחשׁ וְ ֵאין יִ ְתרוֹן ְל ַב ַעל ַה ָלּשׁוֹן‬ ָ ‫ ִאם־יִ שּׁ ְֹך ַהנָּ ָחשׁ ְבּ‬11 ‫י־ח ָכם ֵחן וְ ִשׂ ְפתוֹת ְכּ ִסיל ְתּ ַב ְלּ ֶענּוּ‬ ָ ‫ ִדּ ְב ֵרי ִפ‬12 A brief demonstration of anagramic alliteration occurs in these two verses between the words ‫ ְל ַב ַעל‬and ‫ ְתּ ַב ְלּ ֶענּוּ‬. In addition, two of the consonants in these words (‫ ב‬and ‫ )ל‬appear also in ‫ ְבּלוֹא‬in v. 11.20 The alliteration allows Qoheleth to bring into contrast the irony of a snake charmer being bitten before being charmed and the fool’s lips which likewise have a destructive result. Qoh 10:18 ‫וּב ִשׁ ְפלוּת יָ ַדיִ ם יִ ְדֹלף ַה ָבּיִ ת‬ ְ ‫יִמְּך ַה ְמּ ָק ֶרה‬ ַ ‫ַבּ ֲע ַצ ְל ַתּיִ ם‬ Here we find alliteration between the words ‫וּב ִשׁ ְפלוּת יָ ַדיִם יִ ְדֹלף‬ ְ . Note how they reverberate the consonants ‫ד‬, ‫פ‬, and ‫ל‬.

For sibilants as a category of alliteration, see already Casanowicz, “Paronomasia in the Old Testament,” 28–29, and W. G. E. Watson, Classical Hebrew Poetry: A Guide to Its Techniques (JSOTSup, 26; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1984), p. 225, who categorizes them as cases of “near-alliteration.” 20 For a similarly alliterative use of these words see Prov 19:28 (with ‫ ְבּ ִליַּ ַעל‬and ‫)יְב ַלּע‬ ַ and 23:2 (with the hapax legomenon ‫ֹלעָך‬ ֶ ‫ ְבּ‬and ‫) ַבּ ַעל‬. 19

“WORD PLAY” IN QOHELETH

123

Qoh 10:20 ‫ל־תּ ַק ֵלּל ָע ִשׁיר‬ ְ ‫וּב ַח ְד ֵרי ִמ ְשׁ ָכּ ְבָך ַא‬ ְ ‫ל־תּ ַק ֵלּל‬ ְ ‫גַּ ם ְבּ ַמ ָדּ ֲעָך ֶמ ֶלְך ַא‬ ‫וּב ַעל ַה ְכּנָ ַפיִ ם ְכּנָ ַפיִ ם יַ גֵּ יד ָדּ ָבר‬ ַ ‫ת־הקּוֹל‬ ַ ‫יוֹליְך ֶא‬ ִ ‫ִכּי עוֹף ַה ָשּׁ ַמיִ ם‬ Note here the frequent appearance of the consonants ‫ ק‬and ‫ ל‬in the verb ‫ ְתּ ַק ֵלּל‬, which appears twice, and the word ‫ ַהקּוֹל‬. The ‫ ק‬and ‫ ל‬also ִ . The ‫ ל‬also resounds alliterate with the ‫ כ‬and ‫ ל‬in the words ‫ ֶמ ֶלְך‬and ‫יוֹליְך‬ in the word ‫וּב ַעל‬ ַ . According to Graham Ogden, the words ‫וּב ַעל ַה ְכּנָ ַפיִם‬ ַ also echo ‫ ְל ַב ַעל ַה ָלּשׁוֹן‬in 10:11 cited above.21 Again the alliteration provides contrast by connecting one’s cursing of another with its possible consequence. Qoh 11:1 ‫י־בר ֹב ַהיָּ ִמים ִתּ ְמ ָצ ֶאנּוּ‬ ְ ‫ל־פּנֵ י ַה ָמּיִ ם ִכּ‬ ְ ‫ַשׁ ַלּח ַל ְח ְמָך ַע‬ Another example of alliteration appears in this verse in the first two words ‫ ַשׁ ַלּח ַל ְח ְמָך‬, which repeat the consonants ‫ ל‬and ‫ ח‬in the same sequence. This particular form of alliteration is again a form of epanastrophe (see above). There is additional alliteration between the words ‫ ַה ָמּיִם‬and ‫ ַהיָּ ִמים‬. The latter encourages the reader to connect action and consequence. Qoh 12:3 ‫וּב ְטלוּ ַהטּ ֲֹחנוֹת ִכּי ִמ ֵעטוּ וְ ָח ְשׁכוּ ָהר ֹאוֹת ָבּ ֲא ֻרבּוֹת‬ ָ Particularly striking here is the alliteration of the consonant ‫ ט‬three times in the first stich. The deliberateness of the alliteration is further suggested by the fact that this is the only place in biblical Hebrew where the root ‫ בטל‬occurs.22 Perhaps this alliteration aimed to mimic onomatopoeically the sound of grinding. If so, it is noteworthy that the consonant is not repeated again until the sound of the mill (‫ )קוֹל ַה ַטּ ֲחנָ ה‬is said to grow dim in the next verse (12:4). Additional alliteration (and partial assonance) occurs in the words ‫ ָהר ֹאוֹת ָבּ ֲא ֻרבּוֹת‬.

21 22

Graham Ogden, Qoheleth (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987), p. 175. Though it appears in biblical Aramaic (e.g., Ezra 4:21, etc.).

124

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Qoh 12:6 ‫רחק יֵ ָר ֵתק ֶח ֶבל ַה ֶכּ ֶסף וְ ָת ֻרץ גֻּ ַלּת ַהזָּ ָהב‬ ַ ִ‫ַעד ֲא ֶשׁר לֹא־י‬ ‫ל־הבּוֹר‬ ַ ‫וּע וְ נָ ר ֹץ ַהגַּ ְלגַּ ל ֶא‬ ַ ‫ל־ה ַמּבּ‬ ַ ‫וְ ִת ָשּׁ ֶבר ַכּד ַע‬ Alliteration obtains here by way of the repeated use of the consonants ‫ ג‬and ‫ ל‬in the words ‫ גֻּ ַלּת‬and ‫ ַהגַּ ְלגַּ ל‬, the consonants ‫ ר‬and ‫ צ‬in the words ‫( וְ ָת ֻרץ‬from ‫רוץ‬, see below under allusive punning) and ‫( וְ נָ ר ֹץ‬niphal of ‫)רצץ‬, and the consonants ‫ ב‬an ‫ ר‬in ‫ וְ ִת ָשּׁ ֶבר‬and ‫ ַהבּוֹר‬.23 The alliteration lends cohesiveness to the line and abets the polysemy contained therein (see below). Qoh 12:11 ‫וּכ ַמ ְשׂ ְמרוֹת‬ ְ ‫ִדּ ְב ֵרי ֲח ָכ ִמים ַכּ ָדּ ְרבֹנוֹת‬ ‫טוּעים ַבּ ֲע ֵלי ֲא ֻספּוֹת נִ ְתּנוּ ֵמר ֶֹעה ֶא ָחד‬ ִ ְ‫נ‬ Here I note the alliteration between the words ‫ ִדּ ְב ֵרי‬and ‫ ַכּ ָדּ ְרבֹנוֹת‬, which are essentially anagrams of each other.24 The alliteration brings the two words into comparison, thus underscoring the power of the simile.

2. ASSONANCE25 Qoh 7:8–9 ‫רוּח‬ ַ ‫רוּח ִמגְּ ַבהּ־‬ ַ ‫ טוֹב ַא ֲח ִרית ָדּ ָבר ֵמ ֵרא ִשׁיתוֹ טוֹב ֶא ֶרְך־‬8 ‫נוּח‬ ַ ָ‫רוּחָך ִל ְכעוֹס ִכּי ַכ ַעס ְבּ ֵחיק ְכּ ִס ִילים י‬ ַ ‫ל־תּ ַב ֵהל ְבּ‬ ְ ‫ ַא‬9 The words ‫רוּח‬ ַ and ‫ יָ נוּח‬provide one of the clearest examples of assonance in the Bible. Moreover, since both words occur at the end of their respective stichs they also demonstrate a rare use of rhyming.

The ‫ שׁ‬and ‫ ב‬in ‫ וְ ִת ָשּׁ ֶבר‬also resound in the verb ‫ישׁב‬, which occurs twice in the next verse. 24 Casanowicz, “Paronomasia in the Old Testament,” 131. 25 As with alliteration, I do not include here the repetition of similar grammatical forms. Thus the list of merisms in Qoh 3:2–8, which makes repeated use of infinitival forms, does not appear in this study. For other examples of assonance in the Hebrew Bible, see Watson, Classical Hebrew Poetry, pp. 222–225. 23

“WORD PLAY” IN QOHELETH

125

Qoh 10:11 ‫לוֹא־ל ַחשׁ וְ ֵאין יִ ְתרוֹן ְל ַב ַעל ַה ָלּשׁוֹן‬ ָ ‫ִאם־יִ שּׁ ְֹך ַהנָּ ָחשׁ ְבּ‬ I have discussed this line above with regard to its alliteration, but as Ogden also has observed, assonance occurs between the words ‫ ַהנָּ ָחשׁ‬and ‫ ָל ַחשׁ‬.26 Qoh 10:18 ‫וּב ִשׁ ְפלוּת יָ ַדיִ ם יִ ְדֹלף ַה ָבּיִ ת‬ ְ ‫יִמְּך ַה ְמּ ָק ֶרה‬ ַ ‫ַבּ ֲע ַצ ְל ַתּיִ ם‬ Assonance here occurs between the dual forms ‫ ַבּ ֲע ַצ ְל ַתּיִ ם‬and ‫יָ ַדיִ ם‬, and also with ‫ ַה ָבּיִת‬. Scholars have had difficulty understanding the form of ‫ ַבּ ֲע ַצ ְל ַתּיִ ם‬, but regardless whether one understands it as a dual of intensity or as a metaphor for the hands (i.e., “the two lazy ones”),27 it here serves the poet’s need for assonance.

3. POLYSEMY Qoh 1:7–8 ‫ל־היָּ ם וְ ַהיָּ ם ֵאינֶ נּוּ ָמ ֵלא‬ ַ ‫ל־הנְּ ָח ִלים ה ְֹל ִכים ֶא‬ ַ ‫ ָכּ‬7 ‫ל־מקוֹם ֶשׁ ַהנְּ ָח ִלים ה ְֹל ִכים ָשׁם ֵהם ָשׁ ִבים ָל ָל ֶכת‬ ְ ‫ֶא‬ ַ ֹ ‫ל־ה ְדּ ָב ִרים יְ גֵ ִעים ל‬ ַ ‫ ָכּ‬8 ‫א־יוּכל ִאישׁ ְל ַד ֵבּר‬ ִ ֹ‫ל‬ ‫אזֶ ן ִמ ְשּׁמ ַֹע‬ ֹ ‫א־ת ָמּ ֵלא‬ ִ ֹ ‫א־ת ְשׂ ַבּע ַעיִ ן ִל ְראוֹת וְ ל‬ As noted by Fox,28 the use of ‫ל־ה ְדּ ָב ִרים‬ ַ ‫ ָכּ‬in v. 8 is ambiguous. It can mean “things” or “words.” Not noted by Fox, however, is the fact that as such, the passage constitutes an example of Janus Parallelism, a device in which a word points back to the previous stich in one of its meanings, and ahead to the following stich, in another of its meanings.29 In this case, when Ogden, Qoheleth, p. 171. The various approaches to this word are summarized by A Schoors, The Preacher Sought Pleasing Words: A Study of the Language of Qoheleth (Leuven: Department Oriëntalistiek/Peeters, 1992), pp. 70–72. Compare similarly the form ‫ וְ ִשׂ ְפתוֹת‬in 10:12 instead of the expected dual form. Perhaps it was chosen to anticipate the two feminine abstract forms in the following line. 28 Fox, JPS Torah Commentary: Ecclesiastes, p. 6. 29 The list of Janus parallels continues to grow. See Scott B. Noegel, Janus Parallelism in the Book of Job (JSOTSup, 223; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 26 27

126

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

read as “things,” ‫ ַה ְדּ ָב ִרים‬points back to the natural phenomena described in the previous verses that weary Qoheleth.30 But as “words,” ‫ ַה ְדּ ָב ִרים‬looks ahead to ‫א־יוּכל ִאישׁ ְל ַד ֵבּר‬ ַ ֹ ‫“ ל‬one is unable to speak” and the weariness of the other human senses (i.e., seeing, hearing) in v. 8. Qoh 1:13–14 ‫ל־א ֶשׁר נַ ֲע ָשׂה ַתּ ַחת ַה ָשּׁ ָמיִ ם‬ ֲ ‫ת־ל ִבּי ִל ְדרוֹשׁ וְ ָלתוּר ַבּ ָח ְכ ָמה ַעל ָכּ‬ ִ ‫ וְ נָ ַת ִתּי ֶא‬13 ‫ֹלהים ִל ְבנֵ י ָה ָא ָדם ַל ֲענוֹת בּוֹ‬ ִ ‫הוּא ִענְ יַ ן ָרע נָ ַתן ֱא‬ ‫רוּח‬ ַ ‫ל־ה ַמּ ֲע ִשׂים ֶשׁנַּ ֲעשׂוּ ַתּ ַחת ַה ָשּׁ ֶמשׁ וְ ִהנֵּ ה ַהכֹּל ֶה ֶבל ְוּרעוּת‬ ַ ‫ת־כּ‬ ָ ‫יתי ֶא‬ ִ ‫ ָר ִא‬14 The polysemy in this passage occurs in the expression ‫ ַל ֲענוֹת בּוֹ‬which may be translated either as “to busy him with it” or “to afflict him with it.”31 The device is anticipated by the phrase ‫ ִענְ יַ ן ָרע‬which could mean a “wicked or harmful task or business.” The expression ‫ ַל ֲענוֹת בּוֹ‬appears again in Qoh 3:10, where again its meaning may be ambiguous,32 but there ‫ ָה ִענְ יָ ן‬appears without the adjective ‫ ָרע‬. Qoh 2:25–26 ‫וּמי יָ חוּשׁ חוּץ ִמ ֶמּנִּ י‬ ִ ‫אכל‬ ַ ֹ ‫ ִכּי ִמי י‬25 ‫חוֹטא‬ ֶ ‫ ִכּי ְל ָא ָדם ֶשׁטּוֹב ְל ָפנָ יו נָ ַתן ָח ְכ ָמה וְ ַד ַעת וְ ִשׂ ְמ ָחה וְ ַל‬26 ‫רוּח‬ ַ ‫ֹלהים גַּ ם־זֶ ה ֶה ֶבל ְוּרעוּת‬ ִ ‫נָ ַתן ִענְ יָ ן ֶל ֱאסוֹף וְ ִל ְכנוֹס ָל ֵתת ְלטוֹב ִל ְפנֵ י ָה ֱא‬ Here the verb ‫ יָ חוּשׁ‬in v. 25 is ambiguous, meaning “feel pain” or “feel pleasure.”33 As such it allows Qoheleth to encapsulate and anticipate the two men mentioned in v. 26, i.e., the one who pleases God and enjoys himself, and the other who displeases God and suffers loss in the end. With one breath he rhetorically asks “For who eats and feels pain/pleasure other than me?” and thus captures the futility of merriment.34 and the online bibliography cited above for publications on the subject. 30 So Rashbam who translates ‫כל מעשה עולם יגיעים הם‬. See Japhet and Salters, The Commentary of R. Samuel ben Meir Rashbam on Qoheleth, p. 95. 31 Fox, JPS Torah Commentary: Ecclesiastes, p. 9, notes that “both connotations may come into play here.” 32 Thus Fox, JPS Torah Commentary: Ecclesiastes, pp. 22–23. 33 It also can mean “hurry, excite” (e.g., Job 20:2), and this is how Ibn Ezra understood it, but I do not see how this meaning is operative here unless it refers to the rapid gathering of personal wealth. On the various translations of this word see Fox, JPS Torah Commentary: Ecclesiastes, p. 19. 34 Perhaps this verb was selected for its aid in creating partial alliteration with

“WORD PLAY” IN QOHELETH

127

Qoh 3:14 ‫עוֹלם‬ ָ ‫ֹלהים הוּא יִ ְהיֶ ה ְל‬ ִ ‫ל־א ֶשׁר יַ ֲע ֶשׂה ָה ֱא‬ ֲ ‫יָ ַד ְע ִתּי ִכּי ָכּ‬ ‫וּמ ֶמּנּוּ ֵאין ִלגְ ר ֹ ַע‬ ִ ‫הוֹסיף‬ ִ ‫ָע ָליו ֵאין ְל‬ ִ ‫וְ ָה ֱא‬ ‫ֹלהים ָע ָשׂה ֶשׁ ִיּ ְֽ ראוּ ִמ ְלּ ָפנָ יו‬ This passage contains polysemy in the words ‫ ֶשׁיִּ ְֽ ראוּ ִמ ְלּ ָפנָ יו‬, which one can read either as “(mankind) will fear him” (from the root ‫ירא‬, and as implied by the metheg) or as “see him” (from the root ‫)ראה‬, in the sense of “observe him, learn from” (e.g., the idiom in Judg 7:17 with ‫)מן‬, or perhaps in the sense of “choose him” (e.g., 2 Kgs 10:3 also with ‫)מן‬.35 Qoh 4:3–8 ‫א־ר ָאה‬ ָ ֹ ‫ר־ע ֶדן ל ֹא ָהיָ ה ֲא ֶשׁר ל‬ ֲ ‫יהם ֵאת ֲא ֶשׁ‬ ֶ ֵ‫ וְ טוֹב ִמ ְשּׁנ‬3 ‫ת־ה ַמּ ֲע ֶשׂה ָה ָרע ֲא ֶשׁר נַ ֲע ָשׂה ַתּ ַחת ַה ָשּׁ ֶמשׁ‬ ַ ‫ֶא‬ ָ ‫ת־כּ‬ ִ ‫ וְ ָר ִא‬4 ‫ל־כּ ְשׁרוֹן ַה ַמּ ֲע ֶשׂה ִכּי ִהיא‬ ִ ‫ל־ע ָמל וְ ֵאת ָכּ‬ ָ ‫יתי ֲאנִ י ֶא‬ ‫רוּח‬ ַ ‫ת־אישׁ ֵמ ֵר ֵעהוּ גַּ ם־זֶ ה ֶה ֶבל ְוּרעוּת‬ ִ ‫ִקנְ ַא‬ ‫ת־בּ ָשׂרוֹ‬ ְ ‫ ַה ְכּ ִסיל חֹ ֵבק ֶאת־יָ ָדיו וְ א ֵֹכל ֶא‬5 ‫רוּח‬ ַ ‫ טוֹב ְמל ֹא ַכף נָ ַחת ִמ ְמּל ֹא ָח ְפנַ יִ ם ָע ָמל ְוּרעוּת‬6 ‫ וְ ַשׁ ְב ִתּי ֲאנִ י וָ ֶא ְר ֶאה ֶה ֶבל ַתּ ַחת ַה ָשּׁ ֶמשׁ‬7 ‫ יֵ שׁ ֶא ָחד וְ ֵאין ֵשׁנִ י גַּ ם ֵבּן וָ ָאח ֵאין־לוֹ‬8 ֲ ‫וְ ֵאין ֵקץ ְל ָכ‬ ‫ם־עינָ יו ֵעינוֹ לֹא־ ִת ְשׂ ַבּע ע ֹ ֶשׁר‬ ֵ ַ‫ל־ע ָמלוֹ גּ‬ ‫טּוֹבה‬ ָ ‫וּמ ַח ֵסּר ֶאת־נַ ְפ ִשׁי ִמ‬ ְ ‫וּל ִמי ֲאנִ י ָע ֵמל‬ ְ Although he does not elaborate, Fox notes that the expression ‫ְוּרעוּת‬ ‫רוּח‬ ַ in v. 5 (but also v. 4) is “rich in the potential for wordplays and secondary connotations.”36 This is because the orthography of the word ‫ ְרעוּת‬,

especially in the consonantal text, permits us to derive it from several Proto-Semitic roots: ‫“ רעה‬pursue, shepherd” (PS rʿy1), ‫“ רעה‬associate with, be friends or companions with (PS rʿy2). ‫“ רעה‬desire, longing” (PS rdy), ‫“ רעע‬break, destroy” (PS rdd), or ‫“ רעע‬be bad, evil” (PS rʿʿ).37 In ַ as “wind” and addition, this passage exploits the double meaning of ‫רוּח‬

the late idiom ‫חוּץ ִמ ֶמּנִּ י‬. 35 The polysemy is made possible by the defective spelling of ‫ יראו‬for the expected ‫ייראו‬. See similarly ‫ וַ יֵּ ַחתּוּ וַ יִּ ְראוּ ְמאֹד‬in 1 Sam 17:11. A similar pun may be at work in Qoh 12:5. 36 Fox, JPS Torah Commentary: Ecclesiastes, (2004), p. xx. 37 On the various interpretations of the root, see already George Aaron Barton, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary of the Book of Ecclesiastes (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1908 [1959]), pp. 85–86.

128

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

“spirit.” The doubly polysemous phrase here constitutes a Janus parallel, but one of the most elaborate examples of it in the Bible. In this instance, ַ ‫ ְוּרעוּת‬in v. 4, when understood as “wickedness of the expression ‫רוּח‬ spirit,” points back to ‫“ ָה ָרע ֲא ֶשׁר נַ ֲע ָשׂה ַתּ ַחת ַה ָשּׁ ֶמשׁ‬every evil under the sun” in v. 3. But when understood as “befriending the wind” or as “longing ִ ‫“ ִקנְ ַא‬mankind’s envy of his for the wind” it points ahead to ‫ת־אישׁ ֵמ ֵר ֵעהוּ‬ ַ ‫ ְוּרעוּת‬appears again in friend” in v. 5. However, when the expression ‫רוּח‬ v. 4 it exploits the other meanings inherent in these words to form another Janus parallel. This time, when read as “destruction of spirit,” the same exְ ‫“ וְ א ֵֹכל ֶא‬eats his own flesh” in v. 5, an idpression points back to ‫ת־בּ ָשׂרוֹ‬ iom for destruction (see, e.g., Ps 27:2, Mic 3:3, Isa 49:26), and when read as “pursuit of wind,” it points ahead to ‫“ ֶה ֶבל‬vanity, breath” in v. 7.38 Similar polysemy may be at work wherever the expression appears in Qoheleth (e.g., 1:14). Qoh 5:8–9 ‫ וְ יִ ְתרוֹן ֶא ֶרץ ַבּכֹּל ִהיא הוּא ֶמ ֶלְך ְל ָשׂ ֶדה נֶ ֱע ָבד‬8 ‫ א ֵֹהב ֶכּ ֶסף לֹא־יִ ְשׂ ַבּע ֶכּ ֶסף‬9 ‫בוּאה גַּ ם־זֶ ה ָה ֶבל‬ ָ ‫וּמי־א ֵֹהב ֶבּ ָהמוֹן ל ֹא ְת‬ ִ The case of uni-directional polysemy in this passage involves the word

‫בוּאה‬ ָ ‫ ְת‬, which can be rendered either as “agricultural produce” (e.g., Exod 23:10) or as “revenue” (e.g., Isa 23:3). In its former meaning ‫בוּאה‬ ָ ‫ ְת‬points back to the words ‫ ְל ָשׂ ֶדה‬and ‫וְ יִ ְתרוֹן ֶא ֶרץ‬, and in its latter meaning, back to ‫ ֶכּ ֶסף‬and ‫ ֶבּ ָהמוֹן‬. Qoh 8:8 ‫רוּח וְ ֵאין ִשׁ ְלטוֹן ְבּיוֹם ַה ָמּוֶ ת‬ ַ ‫ת־ה‬ ָ ‫רוּח ִל ְכלוֹא ֶא‬ ַ ‫ֵאין ָא ָדם ַשׁ ִלּיט ָבּ‬ As in Qoh 4:6, here again Qoheleth employs the word ‫רוּח‬ ַ ‫ ָבּ‬for its dual meaning of “wind” and “spirit.”39 Upon reading the first stich in this verse, readers are encouraged to think that he is contemplating the futility of life by likening it to controlling the wind. However, when one reads the 38 The words are a pair in Isa 57:13: ‫ח־ה ֶבל‬ ָ ‫רוּח יִ ַקּ‬ ַ ‫ת־כּ ָלּם יִ ָשּׂא־‬ ֻ ‫“ וְ ֶא‬The wind will carry all of them off, a mere breath will blow them away.” 39 Noted by Scott, Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, p. 241; Fox, JPS Torah Commentary: Ecclesiastes, (2004), p. 56.

“WORD PLAY” IN QOHELETH

129

ַ indeed meant second stich, the mention of ‫ ְבּיוֹם ַה ָמּוֶ ת‬suggest that ‫רוּח‬ “spirit.” Qoh 12:2 ‫ימי ְבּחוּר ֶֹתיָך‬ ֵ ‫וּזְ כֹר ֶאת־בּ ְוֹר ֶאיָך ִבּ‬ ‫יְמי ָ ֽה ָר ָעה‬ ֵ ‫ַעד ֲא ֶשׁר לֹא־יָ בֹאוּ‬ ‫ין־לי ָב ֶהם ֵח ֶפץ‬ ִ ‫אמר ֵא‬ ַ ֹ ‫וְ ִהגִּ יעוּ ָשׁנִ ים ֲא ֶשׁר תּ‬ As has long been recognized, the word ‫ בּ ְוֹר ֶאיָך‬in v. 1 suggests several meanings.40 Two in particular are possible: “your creator” (from ‫ )ברא‬and, with Fox,41 “your vigor, health” (from a homophonous root ‫)ברא‬. Both make sense in the passage, and both point back to the end of the last chapter where Qoheleth admonishes his audience to enjoy life in your youth because God will call one to account (11:9). Qoh 12:6–7 ‫רחק יֵ ָר ֵתק ֶח ֶבל ַה ֶכּ ֶסף וְ ָת ֻרץ גֻּ ַלּת ַהזָּ ָהב‬ ַ ִ‫ ַעד ֲא ֶשׁר לֹא־י‬6 ‫ל־הבּוֹר‬ ַ ‫וּע וְ נָ ר ֹץ ַהגַּ ְלגַּ ל ֶא‬ ַ ‫ל־ה ַמּבּ‬ ַ ‫וְ ִת ָשּׁ ֶבר ַכּד ַע‬ ‫ל־ה ָא ֶרץ ְכּ ֶשׁ ָהיָ ה‬ ָ ‫ וְ יָ שׁ ֹב ֶה ָע ָפר ַע‬7 ‫ֹלהים ֲא ֶשׁר נְ ָתנָ הּ‬ ִ ‫ל־ה ֱא‬ ָ ‫רוּח ָתּשׁוּב ֶא‬ ַ ‫וְ ָה‬ Of specific interest here is ‫ ַהבּוֹר‬in v. 6, the common meaning for which is “cistern.” However, the same word can mean “grave” (e.g., Isa 14:9, 45:15, 38:18, Prov 28:17). In its meaning “cistern,” ‫ ַהבּוֹר‬faces back to ‫“ ַה ַמּבּוּע‬spring” in the same line, but as “grave” it faces ahead to the description of death in the next line;42 thus, another Janus Parallelism.

4. ANTANACLASIS Qoh 4:1 ‫ל־ה ֲע ֻשׁ ִקים ֲא ֶשׁר נַ ֲע ִשׂים ַתּ ַחת‬ ָ ‫ת־כּ‬ ָ ‫וְ ַשׁ ְב ִתּי ֲאנִ י וָ ֶא ְר ֶאה ֶא‬ R. Aqiva understood it midrashically as suggestive of “your well” (semen) from ‫באר‬, “your pit (the grave) from ‫בור‬,” and “your creator” (God) from ‫ברא‬. Cited in Fox, JPS Torah Commentary: Ecclesiastes, p. 78. 41 Fox, JPS Torah Commentary: Ecclesiastes, p. 78. 42 See, e.g., Ezek 31:14, 31:16 where ‫ בור‬and ‫ ארץ‬with the same meanings occur in parallelism. 40

130

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES ‫ַה ָשּׁ ֶמשׁ וְ ִהנֵּ ה ׀‬ ‫ִדּ ְמ ַעת ָה ֲע ֻשׁ ִקים וְ ֵאין ָל ֶהם ְמנַ ֵחם‬ ִ ‫יהם כֹּ ַח וְ ֵאין ָל ֶהם ְמנַ ֵחם‬ ֶ ‫וּמיַּ ד ע ֹ ְשׁ ֵק‬

The existence of antanaclasis in this passage was identified first by Jack Sasson, who observed that the expression ‫ וְ ֵאין ָל ֶהם ְמנַ ֵחם‬occurs twice, the first time meaning “no one to comfort them,” and the second time, meaning “no one to avenge them.”43 Qoh 7:5–6 ‫מ ַע גַּ ֲע ַרת ָח ָכם ֵמ ִאישׁ שׁ ֹ ֵמ ַע ִשׁיר ְכּ ִס ִילים‬ ֹ ‫ טוֹב ִל ְשׁ‬5 ‫ ִכּי ְכקוֹל ַה ִסּ ִירים ַתּ ַחת ַה ִסּיר ֵכּן ְשׂחֹק ַה ְכּ ִסיל‬6 ‫וְ גַ ם־זֶ ה ָה ֶבל‬ In addition to demonstrating alliteration, the words ‫ ַה ִסּ ִירים‬and ‫ַה ִסּיר‬ also illustrate the poet’s use of homophonous nouns in the service of antanaclasis. The first time the lexeme occurs it means “thorns” (as in Isa 34:13). The second time it appears it means “pot” (as in Ps 60:10).44 Qoh 7:12 ‫ ִכּי ְבּ ֵצל ַה ָח ְכ ָמה ְבּ ֵצל ַה ָכּ ֶסף‬12 ‫יה‬ ָ ‫וְ יִ ְתרוֹן ַדּ ַעת ַה ָח ְכ ָמה ְתּ ַחיֶּ ה ְב ָע ֶל‬ In this verse the word ‫ ֵצל‬means “shelter.” However, we have previously heard these consonants used to refer to “shade” in 6:12.45 Its use here for “shelter,” thus constitutes a case of antanaclasis. Qoh 7:23–29 and 8:17 ‫יתי ַב ָח ְכ ָמה‬ ִ ‫ ָכּל־זֹה נִ ִסּ‬7:23 ‫חוֹקה ִמ ֶמּנִּ י‬ ָ ‫ָא ַמ ְר ִתּי ֶא ְח ָכּ ָמה וְ ִהיא ְר‬ Sasson, “Wordplay in the Old Testament,” p. 970. Noted by Greenstein, “Wordplay, Hebrew,” p. 969. The polysemy of these same words is similarly exploited in the vision of Jeremiah in Jer 1:13. 45 Is it possible that the juxtaposition between ‫“ ֵצּל‬shadow” in 6:12 and ‫ַה ָמּוֶ ת‬ in the next verse (7:1) is meant to allude to ‫“ צלמות‬darkness”? This would be especially meaningful in light of the statement in 6:12 that one cannot know what will occur under the sun after one is gone. If such is intended, it would belong in the category of allusive punning above. 43 44

“WORD PLAY” IN QOHELETH

131

‫יִמ ָצ ֶאנּוּ‬ ְ ‫מק ִמי‬ ֹ ‫מק ָע‬ ֹ ‫ ָרחוֹק ַמה־ ֶשּׁ ָהיָ ה וְ ָע‬24 ‫וּב ֵקּשׁ ָח ְכ ָמה וְ ֶח ְשׁבּוֹן‬ ַ ‫וֹתי ֲאנִ י וְ ִל ִבּי ָל ַד ַעת וְ ָלתוּר‬ ִ ‫ ַסבּ‬25 ‫הוֹללוֹת‬ ֵ ‫וְ ָל ַד ַעת ֶר ַשׁע ֶכּ ֶסל וְ ַה ִסּ ְכלוּת‬ ‫וּמוֹצא ֲאנִ י‬ ֶ 26 ‫צוֹדים‬ ִ ‫ר־היא ְמ‬ ִ ‫ת־ה ִא ָשּׁה ֲא ֶשׁ‬ ָ ‫ַמר ִמ ָמּוֶ ת ֶא‬ ‫יה‬ ָ ‫וַ ֲח ָר ִמים ִל ָבּהּ ֲאסוּ ִרים יָ ֶד‬ ‫חוֹטא יִ ָלּ ֶכד ָבּהּ‬ ֵ ְ‫יִמּ ֵלט ִמ ֶמּנָּ ה ו‬ ָ ‫ֹלהים‬ ִ ‫טוֹב ִל ְפנֵ י ָה ֱא‬ ‫אתי ָא ְמ ָרה ק ֶֹה ֶלת ַא ַחת ְל ַא ַחת ִל ְמצ ֹא ֶח ְשׁבּוֹן‬ ִ ‫ ְר ֵאה זֶ ה ָמ ָצ‬27 ִ ‫ ֲא ֶשׁר‬28 ‫אתי‬ ִ ‫עוֹד־בּ ְק ָשׁה נַ ְפ ִשׁי וְ ל ֹא ָמ ָצ‬ ‫אתי‬ ִ ‫ל־א ֶלּה לֹא ָמ ָצ‬ ֵ ‫אתי וְ ִא ָשּׁה ְב ָכ‬ ִ ‫ָא ָדם ֶא ָחד ֵמ ֶא ֶלף ָמ ָצ‬ ‫אתי ֲא ֶשׁר‬ ִ ‫ ְל ַבד ְר ֵאה־זֶ ה ָמ ָצ‬29 ‫ת־ה ָא ָדם יָ ָשׁר וְ ֵה ָמּה ִב ְקשׁוּ ִח ְשּׁבֹנוֹת ַר ִבּים‬ ָ ‫ֹלהים ֶא‬ ִ ‫ָע ָשׂה ָה ֱא‬ ‫יוּכל ָה ָא ָדם ִל ְמצוֹא‬ ַ ‫ֹלהים ִכּי ל ֹא‬ ִ ‫ל־מ ֲע ֵשׂה ָה ֱא‬ ָ ‫יתי ֶא‬ ַ ‫ת־כּ‬ ִ ‫ וְ ָר ִא‬8:17 ‫ת־ה ֶשּׁ ֶמשׁ‬ ַ ‫ת־ה ַמּ ֲע ֶשׂה ֲא ֶשׁר נַ ֲע ָשׂה ַת ַח‬ ַ ‫ֶא‬ ‫אמר‬ ַ ֹ ‫יִמ ָצא וְ גַ ם ִאם־י‬ ְ ‫מל ָה ָא ָדם ְל ַב ֵקּשׁ וְ ל ֹא‬ ֹ ‫ְבּ ֶשׁל ֲא ֶשׁר יַ ֲע‬ ‫יוּכל ִל ְמצ ֹא‬ ַ ‫ֶה ָח ָכם ָל ַד ַעת ל ֹא‬ In his study of the antanaclastic use of the verb ‫ מצא‬in Qoheleth, Anthony Ceresko pointed out that the verb occurred eight times in 7:23–29 with four different nuances: “grasp, understand” (7:24), “find” (7:26, 7:28a, 7:28b, 7:28c), “learn” (7:27a, 7:29), and “reach” (7:27b).46 In Qoh 8:17, he observed that the verb appears three times. The first and third times it requires that we translate “grasp, understand,” since there it parallels the verb ‫“ ידע‬know.” However, the second time it occurs, we must render it “find,” because of its connection there with the verb ‫“ בקש‬seek.” As he concluded: Qoheleth exhausts the possibilities of the verb msʾ as he exhausts all avenues of investigation to try to understand (msʾ) “what God is doing under the sun.” Despite his skill in the use of language in his rigorous Ceresko, “The Function of Antanaclasis (msʾ) ‘to find’ // (msʾ) ‘to reach, overtake, grasp’ in Hebrew Poetry, especially in the Book of Qoheleth,” 551–569, especially 565–569. According to Ceresko, the sophisticated employment of ‫ מצא‬in Qoheleth may be due to two proto-Semitic roots concealed by the orthography of ‫מצא‬: the first is msʾ/mzʾ “find,” and the second is perhaps derived from mǵy “reach, arrive, overtake.” On the punning use of this verb in Qoheleth, see also Diethelm Michel, Untersuchen zur Eigenart des Buches Qoheleth (BZAW, 183; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1989), p. 236. Perhaps we should include the verb ‫ מצא‬among the many key words used by Qoheleth and noted by Fox, JPS Torah Commentary: Ecclesiastes, pp. xvii-xxi. According to Greenstein, “Wordplay, Hebrew,” p. 970, “word play” can serve to enforce what he calls “leading words.” 46

132

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES search (Qoh 12:9–10) he cannot find (msʾ) the answer; in honestly admitting such, he marks the boundaries for human wisdom beyond which one dare not attempt to reach (msʾ) in order to grasp (msʾ) the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and bad.47

Qoh 10:4 ‫ל־תּנַּ ח‬ ַ ‫קוֹמָך ַא‬ ְ ‫רוּח ַהמּוֹ ֵשׁל ַתּ ֲע ֶלה ָע ֶליָך ְמ‬ ַ ‫ִאם־‬ ‫דוֹלים‬ ִ ְ‫יח ֲח ָט ִאים גּ‬ ַ ִ‫ִכּי ַמ ְר ֵפּא יַ נּ‬ Antanaclasis in this passage is demonstrated by ‫ ַתּנַּ ח‬and ‫יַ נִּ יח‬. Though both forms derive from the same root (‫)נוח‬, the first instance means “leave, forsake” and the second “put to rest.”48

5. ALLUSIVE PUNNING Qoh 2:1–3 ‫ ָא ַמ ְר ִתּי ֲאנִ י ְבּ ִל ִבּי ְל ָכה־נָּ א ֲאנַ ְסּ ָכה ְב ִשׂ ְמ ָחה‬1 ‫ְוּר ֵאה ְבטוֹב וְ ִהנֵּ ה גַ ם־הוּא ָה ֶבל‬ ‫וּל ִשׂ ְמ ָחה ַמה־זֹּה ע ֹ ָשׂה‬ ְ ‫הוֹלל‬ ָ ‫ ִל ְשׂחוֹק ָא ַמ ְר ִתּי ְמ‬2 ‫ת־בּ ָשׂ ִרי וְ ִל ִבּי נ ֵֹהג ַבּ ָח ְכ ָמה וְ ֶל ֱאחֹז‬ ְ ‫ ַתּ ְר ִתּי ְב ִל ִבּי ִל ְמשׁוְֹך ַבּיַּ יִ ן ֶא‬3 ֶ ‫ְבּ ִס ְכלוּת ַעד ֲא ֶשׁ‬ ‫ר־א ְר ֶאה ֵאי־זֶ ה טוֹב ִל ְבנֵ י ָה ָא ָדם ֲא ֶשׁר יַ ֲעשׂוּ‬ ‫יהם‬ ֶ ֵ‫יְמי ַחיּ‬ ֵ ‫ַתּ ַחת ַה ָשּׁ ַמיִ ם ִמ ְס ַפּר‬ Allusion in this passage is achieved by way of the word ‫הוֹלל‬ ָ ‫ ְמ‬in v. 2, which ordinarily means “praiseworthy,” but here “madness” in the sense of ָ ‫ ְמ‬may mean “folly.”49 But the mention of wine in v. 3 suggests that ‫הוֹלל‬ “drunkenness,” as it does in Jer 25:16. In addition, ‫“ ֲאנַ ְסּ ָכה‬I will test you” in v. 1 suggests by way of sound the verb ‫“ נסך‬pour out,” again reinforcing the allusions to liquids and drinking. Qoh 2:20–21 ‫ל־ה ָע ָמל ֶשׁ ָע ַמ ְל ִתּי ַתּ ַחת ַה ָשּׁ ֶמשׁ‬ ֶ ‫ת־ל ִבּי ַעל ָכּ‬ ִ ‫וֹתי ֲאנִ י ְליַ ֵאשׁ ֶא‬ ִ ‫ וְ ַסבּ‬20 47 Ceresko, “The Function of Antanaclasis (msʾ) ‘to find’ // (msʾ) ‘to reach, overtake, grasp’ in Hebrew Poetry, especially in the Book of Qoheleth,” 569. 48 Noted by Sasson, “Wordplay in the Old Testament,” p. 970. 49 Thus already Rashbam. See Japhet and Salters, The Commentary of R. Samuel ben Meir Rashbam on Qoheleth, p. 65.

“WORD PLAY” IN QOHELETH

133

‫וּל ָא ָדם ֶשׁלּ ֹא‬ ְ ‫וּב ִכ ְשׁרוֹן‬ ְ ‫וּב ַד ַעת‬ ְ ‫ ִכּי־יֵ שׁ ָא ָדם ֶשׁ ֲע ָמלוֹ ְבּ ָח ְכ ָמה‬21 ‫ָע ַמל־בּוֹ יִ ְתּנֶ נּוּ ֶח ְלקוֹ גַּ ם־זֶ ה ֶה ֶבל וְ ָר ָעה ַר ָבּה‬ This passage is very sophisticated in the way it alludes to the word

‫ ָא ָדם‬twice used in v. 21. Note, for example, how both the verbal hapax legomenon ‫ ְליַ ֵאשׁ‬and the phrase ‫ ִכּי־יֵ שׁ‬echo the word ‫“ איש‬man,” which is not

present in the text. Here the allusion underscores the mortality and fragility of mankind that is the focus of the passage. Qoh 10:8 ‫וּב ִשׁ ְפלוּת יָ ַדיִ ם יִ ְדֹלף ַה ָבּיִ ת‬ ְ ‫יִמְּך ַה ְמּ ָק ֶרה‬ ַ ‫ַבּ ֲע ַצ ְל ַתּיִ ם‬

Allusive punning occurs in this line in the hapax legomenon ‫“ ַה ְמּ ָק ֶרה‬the rafter,” which reminds us by dint of sound of Qoheleth’s repeated use of the word ‫“ ִמ ְק ֶרה‬fortune, fate” (e.g., Qoh 2:14, 2:15, 3:19 [3X], 9:2, 9:3). The allusion allows readers to equate poor fortunes with laziness. This alluַ (from ‫“ )מכך‬be low,” sion is bolstered by the presence of the verb ‫יִמְּך‬ which appears elsewhere means “humiliation” (e.g., Ps 106:43, Job 24:24).50 Ogden also sees here a “play” between the lowering of the rafter in 18a and the lowering of hands in 18b.51 Qoh 12:5 ‫וְ יָ נֵ אץ ַה ָשּׁ ֵקד וְ יִ ְס ַתּ ֵבּל ֶה ָחגָ ב וְ ָת ֵפר ָה ֲא ִביּוֹנָ ה‬ The phrase ‫ וְ ָת ֵפר ָה ֲא ִביּוֹנָ ה‬has evoked a good deal of comment from exegetes because of its difficulty. The versions make it clear that the word ‫ ָה ֲא ִביּוֹנָ ה‬means “caper-berry” or “caper bush,”52 though the word is a hapax legomenon in Hebrew. On the other hand, the verb ‫וְ ָת ֵפר‬, presumably a hiphil form of the root ‫“ פרר‬frustrate, make ineffectual,” makes little sense here. Some interpreters have opted to resolve this difficulty by seeing the line as a metaphor for the diminishment of sexual desire or ability in old age, since the caper-berry appears to have been considered an aphrodisiac (hence its derivation from the root ‫“ אבה‬desire”).53 Others have suggested The root ‫ שפל‬also carries the connotation of “humiliation, baseness.” Ogden, Qoheleth, p. 178. 52 Thus LXX, Syriac, and Vulgate. 53 Cf., C. F. Keil and F. Delitzsch, Keil & Delitzsch Commentary on the Old Testament: Psalm LXXXVIII to Isaiah XIV. Trans. German by M. G. Easton (Grand 50 51

134

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

that we emend the verb to ‫“ ותפרח‬and buds.”54 I suggest that we have allusive punning at work. Though the pointed text forces us to translate ‫הא ִביּוֹנָ ה‬ ֲ ‫ וְ ָת ֵפר‬as “(even) the (aphrodisiac) caper-berry is ineffectual,” the verb is close enough in sound to suggests also a hiphil form of the root ‫“ פרה‬bear fruit,”55 especially since it immediately follows the mention of the almond tree. Moreover, the phrase ‫ וְ יָ נֵ אץ ַה ָשּׁ ֵקד‬is similarly allusive. The mention of the almond suggests that we read the verb as a hiphil of the root ‫נצץ‬ “blossom,” but its orthography demands that we derive it from ‫נאץ‬, “contemn, spurn.” In addition, early interpreters saw the almond here as denoting the testicles.56 Read in this way, this stich too would suggest the lack of sexual appetite or ability in old age. Qoh 12:6 ‫רחק )יֵ ָר ֵתק( ֶח ֶבל ַה ֶכּ ֶסף וְ ָת ֻרץ גֻּ ַלּת ַהזָּ ָהב‬ ַ ִ‫ַעד ֲא ֶשׁר לֹא־י‬ ‫ל־הבּוֹר‬ ַ ‫וּע וְ נָ ר ֹץ ַהגַּ ְלגַּ ל ֶא‬ ַ ‫ל־ה ַמּבּ‬ ַ ‫וְ ִת ָשּׁ ֶבר ַכּד ַע‬ In addition to employing fine examples of alliteration, this passage contains examples of allusive punning. On the one hand, the Qere in the ַ ִ‫ י‬suggests that we read the stich as referring to expression ‫רחק ֶח ֶבל ַה ֶכּ ֶסף‬ the snapping of a silver chord (seeing here the root ‫)רתק‬, i.e., “the cord of life.” On the other hand, the fact that the word ‫ ֶח ֶבל‬may also mean one’s lot or portion suggests that we may retain the Kethib and render the stich “...before the portion of silver becomes distant,” i.e., one is separated from one’s wealth upon death (cf., Job 1:21). The words ‫ וְ ָת ֻרץ גֻּ ַלּת ַהזָּ ָהב‬are typically translated as if the verb here derives from the root ‫“ רצץ‬crush, break.” However, the way the verb is pointed, coupled with the fact that ‫ גֻּ ַלּת ַהזָּ ָהב‬can refer to a lamp containing golden oil (e.g., Zech 4:12)57 suggests that we derive the verb from the root Rapids, MI.: Eerdmans, 1886 [1960–1969]), pp. 1119–1120, who point out that its use as an aphrodisiac is not attested until the Middle Ages. 54 See Fox, JPS Torah Commentary: Ecclesiastes, (2004), p. 81. 55 i.e., the form ‫וְ ַת ְפ ְר‬. 56 Note the comment of Keil and Delitzsch, Keil & Delitzsch Commentary on the Old Testament: Psalm LXXXVIII to Isaiah XIV, p. 1116, “...we leave to those interpreters who derive ‫ ינאץ‬from ‫נאץ‬, and understand ‫ השקד‬of the glans penis (Böttch, Fürst, and several older interpreters) to follow their own foul and repulsive criticism.” 57 See the discussion in Keil and Delitzsch, Keil & Delitzsch Commentary on the

“WORD PLAY” IN QOHELETH

135

‫“ רוץ‬run,”58 and see the line as referring to the running out of golden oil, i.e., the end of one’s life.

6. NUMERICAL PUNNING Qoh 4:8–14 ‫ יֵ שׁ ֶא ָחד וְ ֵאין ֵשׁנִ י גַּ ם ֵבּן וָ ָאח ֵאין־לוֹ‬8 ‫א־ת ְשׂ ַבּע ע ֹ ֶשׁר‬ ִ ֹ ‫ם־עינָ יו ֵעינוֹ ל‬ ֵ ַ‫ל־ע ָמלוֹ גּ‬ ֲ ‫וְ ֵאין ֵקץ ְל ָכ‬ ָ ‫וּמ ַח ֵסּר ֶאת־נַ ְפ ִשׁי ִמ‬ ְ ‫וּל ִמי ֲאנִ י ָע ֵמל‬ ְ ‫טּוֹבה גַּ ם־זֶ ה ֶה ֶבל וְ ִענְ יַ ן ָרע הוּא‬ ‫־ל ֶהם ָשׂ ָכר טוֹב ַבּ ֲע ָמ ָלם‬ ָ ‫ן־ה ֶא ָחד ֲא ֶשׁר יֵ שׁ‬ ָ ‫טוֹבים ַה ְשּׁנַ יִ ם ִמ‬ ִ 9 ‫ת־ח ֵברוֹ וְ ִאילוֹ ָה ֶא ָחד ֶשׁיִּ פּוֹל וְ ֵאין ֵשׁנִ י ַל ֲה ִקימוֹ‬ ֲ ‫ ִכּי ִאם־יִ ֹפּלוּ ָה ֶא ָחד יָ ִקים ֶא‬10 ‫וּל ֶא ָחד ֵאיְך יֵ ָחם‬ ְ ‫ גַּ ם ִאם־יִ ְשׁ ְכּבוּ ְשׁנַ יִ ם וְ ַחם ָל ֶהם‬11 ‫ וְ ִאם־יִ ְת ְקפוֹ ָה ֶא ָחד ַה ְשּׁנַ יִ ם יַ ַע ְמדוּ נֶ גְ דּוֹ וְ ַהחוּט ַה ְמ ֻשׁ ָלּשׁ ל ֹא ִב ְמ ֵה ָרה יִ נָּ ֵתק‬12 This passage exploits the idiomatic use of numbers in a way that constitutes numerical punning, a device also known from elsewhere in the ancient Near East.59 Though Fox notes here the presence of key words based on the number “two,” which can mean “‘companion’ or ‘fellow,’ and possibly ‘successor,’”60 the numerical punning operating in this passage is more elaborate. While words based on two do appear in vv. 8, 9, 10, 11, and 12, the number one (‫ ) ֶא ָחד‬also appears in vv. 8, 9, 10 (2X), 11, and 12, as does the number “three-fold” (‫ ) ְמ ֻשׁ ָלּשׁ‬in v. 12.61 The numerical punning here Old Testament: Psalm LXXXVIII to Isaiah XIV, p. 1123. Charles F. Whitley, Koheleth: His Language and Thought (BZAW, 148; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1979), p. 100, points out that the verb could derive from the root ‫ רצץ‬if we take it as an imperfect Qal form ‫ יָ רוּן‬on analogy with from the root ‫( רנן‬e.g., Prov 29:6). 58 As does the Vulgate’s recurrat. 59 See A. G. Wright, “The Riddle of the Sphinx Revisited: Numerical Patterns in the Book of Qoheleth,” CBQ 42 (1980), 38–51. It also has been identified as an important device in so-called “Wisdom Literature.” See, e.g., W. M. W. Roth, Numerical Sayings in the Old Testament (VTSup, 13; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1965); “The Numerical Sequence x, x + 1 in the Old Testament,” VT 12 (1962), 301–308; Graham Ogden, “The Mathematics of Wisdom: Qoheleth iv:1–12,” VT 34 (1984), 446–453. 60 Fox, JPS Torah Commentary: Ecclesiastes, p. 27. 61 The word ‫שּׁנִ י‬ ֵ ‫ ַה‬apparently meaning “successor” appears also in v. 15. On Qoheleth’s use of numbers, see also J. L. Crenshaw, Ecclesiastes: A Commentary (OTL; Philadelphia, PA.: Westminster Press, 1987), p. 112; Schoors, The Preacher Sought Pleasing Words, pp. 75–76, 218–219; See also the observations in Klein and Fox, “Qoheleth,” pp. 182, 184. However, the aforementioned authors do not remark on the other numbers “hidden” in the text.

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adds significance to the Qoheleth’s main point that the more companions one has, the better off one is. Qoh 6:6 ‫טוֹבה לֹא ָר ָאה ֲהלֹא ֶאל־‬ ָ ְ‫וְ ִאלּוּ ָחיָ ה ֶא ֶלף ָשׁנִ ים ַפּ ֲע ַמיִ ם ו‬ ‫הוֹלְך‬ ֵ ‫ָמקוֹם ֶא ָחד ַהכֹּל‬ In this line numerical punning occurs in the words ‫“ ֶא ֶלף‬thousand,” ‫“ ַפּ ֲע ַמיִ ם‬two times,” and ‫“ ֶא ָחד‬one” (here meaning “the same [place]”), but also the word ‫“ ָשׁנִ ים‬years,” which subtly suggests the word ‫“ שנים‬two.”

The numerical punning follows closely upon another use of numbers in v. 3 which mentions ‫“ ֵמ ָאה‬one hundred,” ‫“ וְ ָשׁנִ ים‬years” and ‫“ ָשׁנָ יו‬his years,” ִ ‫ִא‬ themselves perhaps puns on the number two ( ‫ם־יוֹליד ִאישׁ ֵמ ָאה וְ ָשׁנִ ים‬ ‫יְמי־ ָשׁנָ י‬ ֵ ‫) ַרבּוֹת יִ ְחיֶ ה וְ ַרב ֶשׁיִּ ְהיוּ‬. The examples of numerical punning given above makes sense in light of the numerical idiom that Qoheleth later employs in 7:27 to express the process of reasoning that lies behind his words: ‫ ַא ַחת ְל ַא ַחת ִל ְמצֹא ֶח ְשׁבּוֹן‬.62

CONCLUSION The aggregate evidence shows Qoheleth to be a linguistically sophisticated text. Its manipulation of language, especially by way of alliteration and numerical punning, serves to underscore the many contrasts to which Qoheleth draws our attention.63 His puns contribute to Qoheleth’s rhetoric of ambiguity. As Doug Ingram observes, the ambiguity of his words “...often leaves the reader in a state of perplexity, confusion or indecision. By doing so, the implied author has consciously constructed a text which he experienced in real life.”64 Indeed, the text’s clever use of ambiguity, in the form of polysemy, allusive punning, and antanaclasis, forces readers to contemplate the meaning of Qoheleth’s words at every turn, and thus, to partici62 The numbers one and ten also appear in 7:19 as do one and one thousand in 7:28, and one hundred in 8:12, but there they are used literally. The idiomatic uses of seven and eight in 11:2 and of one and two in 11:6 do not constitute punning, though the use ‫“ ָשׁנִ ים‬years” of in 11:8 may be a play on two. 63 On these contrasts see E. H. Horton, “Koheleth’s Concept of Opposites,” Numen 19 (1972), 1–21. 64 Doug Ingram, Ambiguity in Ecclesiastes (Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies, 431; London: T&T Clark, 2006), p. 263.

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137

pate in the quest for meaning that is central to the book. Both in its content and in the manner in which that content is delivered, Qoheleth conveys his frustration with words and deeds, and his inability to know anything with ַ ‫יוּכל ָה ָא ָדם ִל ְמצוֹא ֶא‬ ַ ‫ִכּי לֹא‬ certainty. As he reminds us in 8:17: ‫ת־ה ַמּ ֲע ֶשׂה‬ ‫ת־ה ֶשּׁ ֶמשׁ‬ ַ ‫ ֲא ֶשׁר נַ ֲע ָשׂה ַת ַח‬. It is as if Qoheleth uses ambiguous words in a way that embodies the impossibility of interpreting the vagaries of life. Inֵ ‫וּמי‬ ִ , “who is (wise and) able deed, as Qoheleth puts it in 8:1: ‫יוֹד ַע ֵפּ ֶשׁר ָדּ ָבר‬ to interpret any thing/word”?65

On the interpretation of this line as posing the following stich as a riddle, see Klein and Fox, “Qoheleth,” p. 196. 65

“WHITE TRASH” WISDOM: PROVERBS 9 DECONSTRUCTED MARK SNEED

LUBBOCK CHRISTIAN UNIVERSITY 1. INTRODUCTION James L. Crenshaw supplies a reason for the personification of wisdom and folly 1 in Proverbs 1–9: boredom. 2 The sages had to spice things up to keep their student’s attention. He points out that teachers used suggestive language to open the students’ eyes: Because students almost without exception were males, wisdom was described as a beautiful bride, and folly was depicted as a harlot enticing young men to destruction. In this way language became highly explosive, and the quest for wisdom suddenly took on erotic dimensions, but teachers often stood in the way of learning, unintentionally encouraging sleep. 3

This eroticization of wisdom seems benign enough. Some scholars have even seen something positive in it. Preferring to view Woman Wisdom as a metaphor, Claudia Camp believes her to be a symbolic replacement of the then defunct monarchy; with her, the home becomes prominent, and she 1 “Woman Wisdom” ‫( חכמות‬1:20–33; 3:13–18; 4:5–13; 8:1–31; 9:1–6) and “Woman Folly” ‫( אשת כסילות‬9:13–18), closely related to the “strange woman” ‫אשה זרה‬, who is a literal adulterer (2:16–19; 5:1–23; 6:24–35; 7:5–27). 2 James L. Crenshaw, Education in Ancient Israel: Across the Deadening Silence (ABRL; New York: Doubleday, 1998), 2, 118. 3 Crenshaw, Education, 118; cf. Athalya Brenner, “Some Observations on the Figurations of Woman in Wisdom Literature,” in Athalya Brenner (ed.), A Feminist Companion to Wisdom Literature (FCB 9; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995), 51–52.

139

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helps promote egalitarian values. 4 Similarly, Silvia Schroer believes Woman Wisdom is a postexilic figure who “is the one and only acceptable feminine image of God in ancient Israel.” She shares elements of the goddess figure. 5 Similarly, David Penchansky considers her to be a goddess, which he claims opens up a possibility for seeing the divine in a new image. 6 And Joseph Blenkinsopp goes so far as to view the feminine personification in Proverbs as representing the return of the repressed in predominately chauvinistic literature. 7 In this article, however, I will show how the eroticization of wisdom has a darker and more sinister side. Instead of serving to liberate woman, it reinscribes traditional ideology along the lines of gender, social class, and race. I will illuminate this ideology and then show how the wisdom/folly dichotomy, the dominant one in these chapters, deconstructs, with a little prodding, exposing its ultimately tenuous character.

2. GENDER Carol Newsom’s famous article “Woman and the Discourse of Patriarchal Wisdom: A Study of Proverbs 1–9” treats the topic of ideology and gender in Proverbs 1–9. 8 She argues that the main issue is the transfer of patriarchal power from one generation to the next. She demonstrates how, in these chapters, two discourses compete for the hearts of the youth. The discourse of the father, that governs these chapters, relates hierarchically to the son. Woman Wisdom, couched in the voice of the father, represents an attempt to ground patriarchal authority in the transcendent realm. The rival discourse displays a certain “egalitarian subtext.” Newsom explains that this discourse has “a horizontal rather than a vertical structure of authority, and one that offers young men immediate access to wealth 4 Claudia Camp, Wisdom and the Feminine in the Book of Proverbs (Bible and Literature 11; Sheffield: Almond, 1985), 116, 120, 286, 290–91. 5 Silvia Schroer, “Wise and Counseling Women in Ancient Israel: Literary and Historical Ideals of the Personified HOKMÂ,” in Feminist Companion, 68, 71. 6 David Penchansky, “Is Hokmah an Israelite Goddess, and What Should We Do about it?” in A. K. M. Adam (ed.), Postmodern Interpretations of the Bible—A Reader (St. Louis, Mo.: Chalice, 2001), 89–92. 7 Joseph Blenkinsopp, Sage, Priest, Prophet: Religious and Intellectual Leadership in Ancient Israel (Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 1995), 41–51. 8 Carol Newsom, “Woman and the Discourse of Patriarchal Wisdom: A Study of Proverbs 1–9,” in Peggy L. Day (ed.), Gender and Difference in Ancient Israel (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1989), 142–60.

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rather than the deferred wealth of inheritance.” She says regarding Woman Folly, “She is not simply the speech of actual women, but she is the symbolic figure of a variety of marginal discourses. She is the contradiction, the dissonance that forces a dominant discourse to articulate itself and at the same time threatens to subvert it.” Similarly, Camp describes her “strangeness” in the sense of deciding to stand outside the family structure as defined by its sexual roles and restrictions.” 9 Celebrations of woman, instead of lauding her, actually assume her inferior and supplementary character. Jonathan Culler states, . . . discussions of woman that appear to promote the feminine over the masculine—there are, of course, traditions of elaborate praise— celebrate the woman as goddess (the Ewig-Weibliche, Venus, Muse, Earth Mother) and invoke a metaphorical woman in comparison with which actual women will be found wanting. Celebrations of woman or the identification of woman with some powerful force or idea—truth as a woman, liberty as a woman, the muses as women—identify actual women as marginal. Woman can be a symbol of truth only if she is denied an effective relation to truth, only if one presumes that those seeking truth are men. The identification of woman with poetry through the figure of the muse also assumes that the poet will be a man. While appearing to celebrate the feminine, this model denies women an active role in the system of literary production and bars them from the literary traditions. 10 9 Claudia Camp, “What So Strange About the Strange Woman?” in The Bible and the Politics of Exegesis: Essays in Honor of Norman K. Gottwald on his Sixty-Firth Birthday (Cleveland: Pilgrim, 1991), 26. Similarly, Gail Corrington Streete writes, “These two figures embody the positive qualities of the woman possessed by a man (Wisdom as wife) and the negative qualities of the woman incapable of being mastered by any man” (The Strange Woman: Power and Sex in the Bible [Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 1997], 105); cf. Mieke Heijerman, who sides with the “strange woman” because she questions patriarchal authority (“Who Would Blame Her? The “Strange” Woman of Proverbs 7,” in Feminist Companion, 105–106. 10 Jonathon Culler, On Deconstruction: Theory and Criticism after Structuralism (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1982), 166–67; contrast this with Jacques Derrida’s discussion of Nietzsche’s view of woman as truth and a style (Spurs: Nietzsche’s Styles [trans. Barbara Harlow; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1979]); cf. Carol R. Fontaine, who argues that the figures of Woman Wisdom and Woman of Worth (Prov 31:10–31), “may be inversely proportional to the truth of real women’s lives. That is, such fine figures may just as easily be an index of

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Culler’s comment applies directly to Woman Wisdom (ch. 9), whose gender reflected the exclusion of Israelite women from the search for truth and wisdom. There is nothing positive in that!

3. SOCIAL CLASS Social class is another ideological feature that surfaces with close reading. Woman Wisdom is clearly an aristocrat. 11 She has a grand seven-pillared mansion. She owns livestock, from which she makes a great banquet. She mixes her wine with spices, and she has female slaves, who go out to invite people to her great banquet. To the contrary, Woman Folly has a house, but no features are used to describe it. She has no servants, so she must invite guests herself. She is also loud, a stereotype of the poor. On the literal level, she offers only bread and water; no wine or meat is mentioned. She, then, is not inviting a group of young men to a banquet, as is the case with Woman Wisdom. Rather, she singles out an individual male to come enjoy her “food.” She is obviously poor. The connecting of wisdom with wealth is also clearly articulated. The father’s voice says regarding Woman Wisdom, “Long life is in her right hand, in her left hand are riches and honor” (3:16); she says, “I endow with wealth those who love me, and filling their treasuries” (8:21). 12 This implies that folly is connected with poverty. Regarding relations with the “strange woman,” in 5:10, the father’s voice warns, “Strangers will take their fill of your wealth, and your labors will go to the house of an alien.” And, of course, Woman Folly leads her victims to Sheol (9:18).

4. RACE Several scholars have proposed that the closely related “strange” woman represents the threat of exogamous marriages during the period of Ezra and Nehemiah instead of just being a “loose woman” as translated in NRSV. 13 women’s lack of power and status as a reflection of a gentler, kinder social reality for women” (“The Social Roles of Women in the World of Wisdom,” in Feminist Companion, 25). 11 Cf. Gale Yee, Poor Banished Children of Eve: Woman as Evil in the Hebrew Bible (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003), 150. 12 All Scripture citations are from NRSV (1989), unless otherwise indicated. 13 Harold Washington, “The Strange Woman (‫נכריה‬/‫ )אשה זרה‬of Proverbs 1– 9 and Post-Exilic Judean Society,” in Feminist Companion, pp. 157–84; Joseph Blen-

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But as Camp argues, “Such an understanding is hard to square with the context, however, which assumes a male listener who is being persuaded against a future liaison with a female who has forgotten (in parallel) her youthful companion and the covenant of her God.” 14 There is, however, a way that this ideology can be detected. That these chapters are in Hebrew, of course, indicates the racial makeup of the intended audience. Also, all the women of these chapters are perceived as Jewish, even the adulterous “strange woman.” The question of non-Jewish marriages never surfaces.

5. DECONSTRUCTION Structuralists and deconstructionists have informed us about how the human mind uses dichotomies to construct the world. 15 The first term of a dichotomy assumes a superior position to the second term. The first term is primary and dominant, while the second is secondary and submissive. The man/woman or white/black dichotomy is an example of this. What deconstruction tries to do is show how these dichotomies are ideological and that their rhetoric breaks down under analysis. Deconstructionists demonstrate how the two terms are not wholly antonyms, how they are complicit in each other, and how each term needs the other in order to exist. Deconstructionists also like to show how the first term lacks presence, that it has no content or presence in itself, that it exists only as it is the opposite of the second term. Presence is the illusion of supposed self-present truth that needs no justification. Thus, the first term’s identity is based on absence instead of presence. Also, deconstructionists like to reverses the dichotomy and show how the second term can be shown to be central and the first term marginal. Jacques Derrida has developed the notion of the supplement to describe this lack. 16 A supplement usually adds something to another thing that is not necessary. However, supplement can also mean to complete an kinsopp, “The Social Context of the “Outsider Woman” in Proverbs 1–9,” Bib (1991): 457–73; Schorer, “Wise and Counseling Women,” 80–81. 14 Camp, “Strange Woman,” 26. 15 For an introduction to deconstruction, see Jim Powell; illust. Joe Lee, Deconstruction: For Beginners (Writers and Readers Documentary Comic Book; Danbury, Conn.: Writers and Readers Publishing, 2005); Nicholas Royle, ed., Deconstructions: A User’s Guide (pap. ed.; Hampshire, UK: Palgrave, 2000). 16 See Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology (corrected ed.; trans. Gayatri Spivak; Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1997), 141–64.

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

item. This means that the supplement reveals the lack in the term it is supporting. Only the second term can provide that completion. Thus, the identity of the first term is dependent on the second. And the first term’s identity is formed from absence, not presence. The boundary between the two terms begins to become blurred.

6. WISDOM/FOLLY So the appropriate question, then, is how does Woman Wisdom need Folly in order to exist? How might she disclose a lack in Woman Wisdom, and, thus, the absence of pure presence? How does Folly supply a lack in Wisdom? First of all, that the wisdom tradition needs to be eroticized to make itself more interesting to young men shows that fundamentally, wisdom has a lack and is never fully present. If it were truly superior to folly, it would not need to use sexuality to bolster its claims. Secondly, Woman Wisdom needs Woman Folly in order to exist. She constructs her identity only in relation to her Other. 17 Wherever she is, Woman Folly is close behind; she haunts her. This is even true at the beginning of the creation of the world. In ch. 8, Woman Wisdom brags about being the first of God’s creations (v. 22) and about aiding him in the rest of the creative acts. But can she brag only from the standpoint of pure presence, only in terms of positive essence, without reference to any lack, to any absence? The birth of Woman Wisdom means the birth of Woman Folly, for you cannot have one without the other. In ch. 8, there are four verses where the Strange Woman (related to Woman Folly) raises her ugly head, not as personified, but nonetheless there (vv. 7, 8, 13, and 36). Also, Woman Wisdom says in v. 13, “The fear of the Lord is hatred of evil. Pride and arrogance and the way of evil and perverted speech I hate” (italics mine). Thirdly, from a source critical perspective, Woman Wisdom also needs Woman Folly to complete what she lacks. R. B. Y. Scott theorizes that the poem about Woman Wisdom originally concluded after 9:12, minus vv. 7–

Claudia Camp explores the complementary character of both women by using the notion of the trickster (“Wise and Strange: An Interpretation of the Female Imagery in Proverbs in Light of Trickster Mythology,” in Feminist Companion, 34– 45); cf. Roland Boer, who argues that the identities of each Woman coalesce (Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door: The Bible and Popular Culture: Biblical Limits [London: Routledge, 1999], 84–85). 17

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145

9, which were a later expansion of the language of v. 12. 18 The poem of vv. 13–18 is also secondary. He states, “When . . . we observe that the collection has already been formally concluded with vs. 10–12, it seems at least very probable that vv. 13–18 form a later supplement (italics mine). Its material is derived from earlier passages, especially ch. vii, and v. 16 is similarly repeated from v. 4, where it is clearly more suitable than here.” 19

So why did the editor add the poem on Woman Folly? Did he sense a lack, an absence he wanted to fill by balancing out the portrayal of Women Wisdom with a contrast? Did he feel the need to present, in detail, what the opposite of Woman Wisdom might look like so that young men might recognize her duplicity and, thus, not stray from the wise path? Fourthly, Women Wisdom appears to echo or mimic Woman Folly, and the related strange woman. 20 Both Woman Wisdom and Folly woo or seduce their disciples. Here the wisdom tradition becomes eroticized. The “strange woman” uses “smooth” words (2:16; 7:5), has a “smooth tongue” (6:24) and “smooth lips” (7:21). “For the lips of a strange woman drip honey, and her speech is smoother than oil” (5:3). “With much seductive speech she persuades him; with her smooth talk she compels him” (7:21). She tells the gullible youth that her husband is away on a trip and that she has food (7:14, 19), implying that there will be no negative consequences in this tantalizing affair. She is beautiful and captures her victim “with her eyelashes” (6:25). Basically, she is both seductive and deceptive. Woman Wisdom also uses erotic overtones, though none as overt as that of Woman Folly. In ch. 4, the father says, Get wisdom; get insight: do not forget, nor turn away from the words of my mouth. Do not forsake her, and she will keep you; love her, and she will guard you. . . . Prize her highly, and she will exalt you; she will honor you if you embrace her. She will place on your head a fair garland; she will bestow on you a beautiful crown. (vv. 5–6, 8–9). R. B. Y. Scott, Proverbs. Ecclesiastes (AB 18; Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday & Company, 1965), 75–76. 19 Scott, Proverbs, 76. 20 Cf. J. N. Aletti, who points out that both Women share the same vocabulary and that this effect of ambiguity is intentionally designed by the author to portray the seductive character of Woman Folly (“Seduction et parole in Proverbes I-IX,” VT 27 [1977]: 129–44). 18

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

In 3:18, the father states, “She is a tree of life to those who lay hold to her; those who hold fast to her are called happy.” In 8:17, she says, “I love those who love me.” The father says, “Say to wisdom, ‘You are my sister,’ and call insight your intimate friend, that they may keep you from the loose woman, from the adulteress with her smooth words.” “Sister” is the term used by the male lover to describe his beloved (Song 4:10; 5:2). Woman Wisdom also mimics Woman Folly’s use of “food” to lure her victim. The eating of food often symbolizes sexual indulgence (cf. Prov 5:15, 20; 30:20; Song 4:13–15). Though Woman Wisdom intends a literal referent, a double-entendre appears, and so her “feast” can metaphorically symbolize sexual indulgence, something she would be aghast to admit. Thus, both women “seduce” their adherents, but what is absent in the words of or about Woman Wisdom is any acknowledgment that this sexual enticement will be ever satisfied. This is where the imagery breaks down and deconstructs. Her seduction has no telos. Her eroticism is gratuitous. At least Woman Folly’s seduction is up front about the consummation; she only lies about the consequences. Thus, she has a kind of integrity as a character that Woman Wisdom lacks. Though seductive language is used to portray Woman Wisdom’s “allurement” of potential disciples, there is a strange, non-sexual, virginal quality to her. She does not “put out.” Basically, wisdom and sex do not mix. And in Proverbs 1–9, while the sage attempts to use sex to make the path of wisdom more appealing, he attempts to downplay or repress it as well. Prov 9:1–6 contains no allusions to sexual fulfillment. Woman Wisdom sends out her slaves to invite potential adherents to a great banquet, literally. Interestingly, David Jobling has noted how sexuality is repressed in 1 Kgs 3–10, before Solomon’s “fall” in ch. 11. 21 These chapters depict a monarchical Golden Age, in which the king’s sexuality is strangely absent. Thus, Woman Folly has been shown to serve as a supplement to Woman Wisdom. Though Woman Wisdom might try to keep her at bay, Woman Folly continually haunts her very presence; she, in fact, enables her very existence. For Woman Wisdom to appeal to young males, she has to take on the beguiling qualities of Woman Folly. But Woman Wisdom promises what she will not deliver. She is the truly deceptive one of the two. Thus, she remains a ghostly, ethereal, non-sexual being, who entices but never satisfies. 21 David Jobling, “‘Forced Labor’: Solomon’s Golden Age and the Question of Literary Representation,” Semeia 54 (1991): 63–66.

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7. FOLLY/WISDOM Now we need to turn the tables. We will let Woman Folly take center stage and ask how she might have a certain lack, how she might need Woman Wisdom as a supplement. The question then is how is folly like wisdom? Woman Folly is described as ignorant and knowing nothing (9:13). She also addresses those who are simple and without sense, using the same wording as does her opponent (9:4). The Hebrew for “ignorant” in both places is from the same Hebrew root: ‫פתה‬. So, in the case of Woman Folly, we have the ignorant seducing the ignorant. Earlier descriptions of the “strange woman” emphasized her deceit rather than her ignorance (2:16– 19; 5:3–6; 6:24; 7:21). But to be the opposite of Woman Wisdom, she must be ignorant. The former passages that emphasize Woman Folly’s deceit, however, imply a person who is not so ignorant, but instead cunning and crafty—should we say, “wise”? We might call her “white trash” wisdom. What is amazing is how Woman Folly’s seductive ploy seems in a way more sapiential than that of Woman Wisdom. After an invitation to come to her, Woman Wisdom tries to win over potential followers with the enticement of fine food (9:5). In contrast, Woman Folly does something remarkable: she quotes a proverb (v. 17), “Stolen water is sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant.” And it is not just any proverb, but one that focuses on a paradox. It expresses the truism that things forbidden ironically seem to entice us. C. H. Toy points out that “stolen waters” refers to anything illicit, “The inducement she offers is the delight of secret enjoyments, things prohibited by law or condemned by society, more tempting because they are forbidden.” 22 Compare the following paradox observed in 17:9, “Like a gold ring in a pig’s snout is a beautiful woman without good sense.” The sages were apparently fascinated with the paradoxes of life, and with putting that wonderment in proverbial form. Also, in v. 17, Woman Folly wisely uses a “neutral” proverb that does not contain or imply an ethical directive. In Proverbs 20:17, we find a proverb about this same paradox, “Bread gained by deceit is sweet, but afterward the mouth will be full of gravel.” But unlike 9:17, it contains a moral lesson in the second colon. This sophisticated quoting of a proverb clashes with Woman Folly’s earlier characterization as ignorant. Prov 1:6 is part of an editorial preface that suggests one purpose in studying the proverbs of chs. 10–31 is to learn 22

C. H. Toy, Proverbs (ICC 16; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1899), 190.

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how to interpret them. It reads, “To understand a proverb and a figure, the words of the wise and their riddles.” According to Richard Clifford, “‘To understand’ here means not only to comprehend the sayings but to apply them appropriately to particular situations.” 23 So how is it that the ignorant Woman Folly knows how to astutely use a proverb to allure her victims? Of course, the sages, being quite territorial, might quip, “The legs of a disabled person hang limp; so does a proverb in the mouth of a fool” (26:7). Or “Like a thornbush brandished by the hand of a drunkard, is a proverb in the mouth of a fool” (26:9). There is another way that Woman Folly indicates that she is no fool when it comes to the understanding and use of proverbs. The proverb of v. 17 refers to the enticement of forbidden things. However, in the context, she is not referring generally to any sort of thing tabooed. We have doubleentendre here. The secret bread and stolen water refer specifically to adultery. Compare 5:15–17, “Drink water from your own cistern, flowing water from your own well. Should your springs be scattered abroad, streams of water in the streets? Let them be for yourself alone, and not for sharing with strangers.” Finally, the type of proverb in v. 17 is identical to the kind of proverbs that we find in the book of Proverbs (10:1–22:16). This proverb has two cola that parallel each other synonymously. Thus, Woman Folly not only quotes a sophisticated proverb that contemplates a paradox, her author puts it in good literary form, as those composed by the wise. At his hands, she turns out to be quite the female sage, showing more sapiential finesse than Woman Wisdom. The fact is that, here in ch. 9, she is simply a more interesting character than Woman Wisdom. She seems more life-like, more corporeal, compared to the ethereal and ghostly Woman Wisdom. And Robert Alter demonstrates the exquisite craft involved in depicting the “strange woman” in ch. 7. 24 The sage has taken great care in fleshing out colorfully the images of both the “strange woman” and Woman Folly. He seems enticed by his own creation. Here at this particular point, the text about the two women begins to deconstruct as the tight boundaries between both women begin to become porous and blurred. Who is now wise, and who is fool?

Richard J. Clifford, Proverbs: A Commentary (OTL; Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 1999), 35. 24 Robert Alter, The Art of Biblical Poetry (New York: Basic Books, 1985), 56–64. 23

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8. CONCLUSION While some scholars view Woman Wisdom as positive and redeemable, I find nothing to substantiate this. Rather, the eroticization of wisdom reinscribes the typical ideology of the time, along gender, social class, and racial lines. The binary opposition, wisdom/folly, is what enables the discourse of Proverbs 1–9. My reading, however, has exposed the fragility of the boundary between both women. In their presentations, each is shown tainted by the Other. For success, Woman Wisdom must be deceptive like Woman Folly. And Woman Folly is revealed to be quite wise and crafty. Both women are accomplices to each other’s path. Each supplements the other.

KEEPING IT LITERAL: THE ECONOMY OF THE SONG OF SONGS ROLAND BOER

MONASH UNIVERSITY 1.

INTRODUCTION

The ultimate drive of this essay is to identify the underlying worldview of the Song of Songs. There are two ways one might go about such a task: one would be to take the text at face value and derive a worldview from there. The other, more preferred approach assumes that texts do not give out their worldview so easily. It is there, but only indirectly. So we need to find a means of looking awry, redirecting our attention to other features that show up that worldview despite the text. In other words, this essay might be regarded as an exercise in estrangement—an effort to make the text strange again so that we see it differently. In order to carry out such an estrangement effect, I focus on three matters: metaphor, ecocriticism and Marxism. Let me state my argument before unpacking it. I argue that the Song of Songs, or rather the second chapter that is my focus, operates according to what may be called an allocatory worldview. Rather than represented directly, it shows up in the fabric of the language, particularly its imagery. So we need to look elsewhere in order to locate it; hence my focus on metaphor, breaking the metonymic axis and then exploring what world is constructed when the images of nature coalesce. In developing this argument, I question the so-called “literal” readings of the Song, ones that assumed and continue to assume in various ways that the Song is about human love and sex (rather than about divine love). 1 How 1 From the time of modern criticism at least, if not at a few moments in the medieval era, one may safely say that nearly all interpretations operate with this

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this can be a literal reading is beyond me, for it merely substitutes one allegory for another, a carnal allegory for a divine allegory. The Song has as much to say directly about human sex and love as it has about divine love— that is, almost nothing. So, interpretations that take, in all the senses of the word, the Song as literally about sex between human beings must make allegorical moves comparable to the long-standing patristic and medieval tradition which took it as an allegory of God’s love for Israel or the Church. 2 Elsewhere I have challenged such literal readings by taking them as far as they will go. Following a challenge from Stephen Moore (personal communication), I wrote a carnal allegory of the Song, a pornographic reading no less. 3 By contrast, here I pursue directly what a purely literal reading might yield. 4 assumption. See the collections, Athalya Brenner, ed. A Feminist Companion to the Song of Songs. Vol. 1, A Feminist Companion to the Bible (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993); Athalya Brenner, ed. A Feminist Companion to the Song of Songs 2, A Feminist Companion to the Bible, Second Series (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000). As well as Dianne Bergant, The Song of Songs (Collegeville, Minnesota: The Liturgical Press, 2001); Cheryl J. Exum, Song of Songs: A Commentary (Lousville, Kentucky: Westminster John Knox, 2005); Phyllis Trible, God and the Rhetoric of Sexuality, Overtures to Biblical Theology (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1978); Marvin H. Pope, Song of Songs: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (New York: Doubleday, 1977); Michael V. Fox, The Song of Songs and Ancient Egyptian Love Songs (New edition. Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1985). My argument also diverges from the approach of Daniel Grossberg who, though he admirably highlights the centrality of the natural world in the Song, also concentrates on the role of natural metaphors in the evocation of human love. See Daniel Grossberg, “Nature, Humanity, and Love in Song of Songs,” Interpretation 59 (2005):229–42. 2 See Pope (1977: 89–229). 3 Roland Boer, Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door: The Bible and Popular Culture (London: Routledge, 1999), 53–70; Roland Boer, “The Second Coming: Repetition and Insatiable Desire in the Song of Songs,” Biblical Interpretation 8 (2000):276–301. See the response by Virginia Burrus and Stephen Moore, “Unsafe Sex: Feminism, Pornography, and the Song of Songs,” Biblical Interpretation 11 (2003) 24–52. 4 For a very different focus on literal readings, this time in terms of the grotesque function of the images and metaphors and the production of ugliness, see Fiona C. Black, “Unlikely Bedfellows: Allegorical and Feminist Readings of the Song of Songs 7.1–8,” in A Feminist Companion to the Song of Songs 2, edited by A. Brenner (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000); Fiona C. Black, “Nocturnal Egression: Exploring Some Margins of the Song of Songs,” in Postmodern Interpretations of the Bible, edited by A. K. M. Adam (St. Louis, Missouri: Chalice Press, 2001); Fiona C. Black, The Artifice Of Love: Grotesque Bodies And The Song Of Songs (London:

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METAPHOR, ECOLOGY AND MARXISM

I may be given the epithet of ‘Captain Obvious’ for pointing out that the Song deals in metaphor and its hangers-on such as simile, metonymy, synonymy, hyperbole and the ever-present allegory. There is nothing particularly new in such a point, and perusing the recent commentaries of Exum (2005) or Bergant (2001), or the older ones of Pope (1977), Landy (1983) and Fox (1985), let alone the collection of comments from the venerated ‘fathers’ of the tradition (Norris 2003), I can find adequate discussions of metaphor. Yet they all stay with the idea that metaphor involves the relation, however subtle or crude, complex or simple, between two terms that have no immediate connection. Or, to put it in more technical terms, the vehicle and referent are connected by the tenor: that link, the tenor, opens up all manner of multifaceted and delicate connections between the vehicle and the referent. 5 For example, ‘his banner over me was love’ makes use of a characteristic (the tenor) to set up a series of links between the banner (vehicle) and love (the referent). The key lies in leaving precisely what that characteristic might be unnamed, for the metaphor may go off in all manner of directions. A banner announces, goes at the forefront of the army, flutters in the wind, stands above the tent, flies from a turret, and so on. And love may flare up, wane, become bumpy—each verb of course being a metaphor in its own right. In the Song the metaphors come primarily from plants and animals, but we also find them drawn from geography, art, architecture and the military. This is all very well, if one assumes that the mechanism of metaphor remains intact. Or rather, let me speak of the ‘metonymic axis’. That axis is none other than the tenor that links the two items, vehicle and referent, in a way that is metonymic—they come together by means of the tenor. However, what happens if I block or break that metonymic axis, closing down or cutting the link between vehicle and referent? What if the metaphor is no longer a ‘thinly veiled erotic’ allusion (Exum 2005: 115)? What if the vehicle floats free, no longer anchored to a referent? What if the ‘banner’ from my earlier example is not necessarily connected with ‘love’? These questions, which comprise my effort at estrangement, will exercise me in what follows.

T. & T. Clark, 2006). 5 For instance, see Fox’s nuanced discussion of metaphor, where he distinguishes between presentational and representational metaphor and explores the idea of metaphoric distance (Fox 1985: 272–6).

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As for ecocriticism, I am not interested in the versions that are off with the pixies, far too much entwined with the conglomerate of New Age spiritualisms, suggesting that the real problem with our current economic order—capitalism—is a loss of spiritual connection with the earth. Rather, I understand ecocriticism in the strong sense, namely as a political approach: it arises from and contributes to political, social and cultural change in terms of a natural, material environment of which human beings are a part but also profoundly construct. Further, as is now widely recognised, ecocriticism is very much concerned with making connections, specifically of a materialist nature. 6 As far as the first point is concerned, rather than the more neutral definition of Glotfelty and Fromm—“ecocriticism is the study of the relationship between literature and the physical environment” 7—I follow the definitions of Michael Branch et al 8 and Michael Cohen. 9 As Branch and company point out in the introduction to Reading the Earth: “Implicit (and often explicit) in much of this new criticism is a call for cultural change. Ecocriticism is not just a means of analyzing nature in literature; it implies a move toward a more biocentric world-view, an extension of ethics, a broadening of humans’ conception of global community to include nonhuman life forms and the physical environment” (Branch 1998: xiii). Or, in Michael Cohen’s terms, “ecological literary criticism must be engaged… Ecocriticism needs to inform personal and political actions” (Cohen 1999: 1092–3). My only addition to such definitions is that they tend to leave the agency with human beings. What happens if political change arises as a response to non-human activity? Or, to put it more bluntly: given that the ultimate contradiction we face now is between the unlimited growth of capitalism and a limited planet, the possibility for political change—the breakdown of capitalism—may well lie with large-scale environmental collapse. As for the second point—the making of connections—there is wider agreement. So Glotfelty and Fromm: “Ecocriticism expands the notion of ‘the world’ to include the entire ecosphere. If we agree with Barry Com6 For an excellent survey see Simon Estok, “A Report Card on Ecocriticism,” AUMLA: The Journal of the Australasian Universities Language and Literature Association 96 (2001):220–38. 7 Cheryl Glotfelty and Harold Fromm, ed. The Ecocriticism Reader: Landmarks in Literary Ecology, (Athens, Georgia: University of Georgia Press, 1996): xviii. 8 Michael P. Branch, et al, ed.. Reading the Earth: New Directions in the Study of Literature and the Environment, (Moscow, Idaho: University of Idaho Press, 1998). 9 Michael Cohen, “Letter,” PMLA 114 (1999):1092–3.

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moner’s first law of ecology, ‘Everything is connected to everything else’, we must conclude that literature does not float above the material world in some aesthetic ether, but, rather, plays a part in an immensely complex global system, in which energy, matter, and ideas interact” (Glotfelty 1996: xviii). I would also like to stress the phrase “material world,” for ecocriticism is very much a materialist approach. Up until now (in my writing) I have concerned myself largely with what I felt were the two great materialisms, namely Marxism and psychoanalysis—the one demystifying the patterns of human history and the other of the human psyche in thoroughly materialist terms. If one took on the name of historical or dialectical materialism, the other might be termed a materialism of the psyche. But of course both approaches are in fact human materialisms, resolutely concerned with human beings and not the materialism of the non-human world. By taking the other-than-human world as its basis, ecocriticism shifts the emphasis away from human beings. In short, ecocriticism’s political nature and its critique of anthropocentrism interest me for this essay. What, then, of Marxism, my third port of methodological call? Despite the fact that ecocriticism brings out that dimension of Marxism that is so often forgotten, namely the inseparable connection between theory and political practice, there is a profound question that Marxism poses for ecocriticism. Here I draw on one of David Harvey’s best essays, ‘What’s Green and Makes the Environment Go Round?’ 10 He argues that although human beings may be formed by nature, they also form nature itself. In other words, the natural environment may shape a particular social formation, but that social formation fundamentally shapes the natural environment that shapes the formation. Thus, the availability of raw materials, the types of animals and plants available in an area, the climate, rainfall, and fertility of the soil obviously shape the type of social formation that may arise. It is not for nothing that a hunter-gatherer existence characterized life in large parts of Australia for millennia, while the naturally occurring sheep, goat, cow and pig in Mesopotamia profoundly influenced the development of a sacred economy there. But mode of production also shapes nature. For instance, in Australia the introduction of a host of plant species since British colonization in the late 18th century, along with animals such as the cat, dog, goat, deer, camel, water buffalo and rabbit—all of which have gone “feral”— means that nature in Australia means something far different under capital10 In Cultures of Globalization, edited by F. Jameson and M. Miyoshi (Durham, North Carolina: Duke University Press, 1998).

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ism than it did under an earlier mixture of hunter-gatherer economy and settled agriculture economy. Add to this the fact that much of the arable land is shaped by a mix of fertilizers and pesticides and any notion of an Australian “nature” is impossible to separate from capitalism. All of this may seem like common sense, but too often one comes across the assumption that nature has ultimate precedence, setting the agenda for language, culture, textual production and society. 11 Harvey’s argument puts paid to that assertion. But his argument also puts a new spin on Barry Commoner’s first law of ecology that I mentioned above, “Everything is connected to everything else.” If Commoner’s law of interconnectedness overcomes the opposition between human beings and nature, asserting that human beings are part of a much larger nature, then Harvey shows that more extensively than other species human beings are part of nature by profoundly shaping it. There is nothing more or less natural, he points out, about a freeway overpass than a field full of grass and trees. Thus, what we know as nature is held together and sustained by capitalism—all the way from agribusiness, with its pesticides, herbicides, patented hybrids and genetic modification, to forest management and national parks. Harvey’s focus, as a Marxist geographer, is of course on capitalism. I assume, however, that Harvey’s points are not restricted to capitalism, but that they apply, with all the appropriate modifications and attention to difference required, to other very different modes of production such as the one(s) in which the Bible came together. In other words, I am interested in how Harvey’s argument relates to a text produced in a distinctly non- or pre-capitalist environment. The question remains, however, as to how my three areas of metaphor, ecocriticism and Marxism come together for reading the Song of Songs. Let me put it as follows: to begin with, if I block the metonymic axis and focus on the released vehicles of the multitude of metaphors in the Song, it turns out that most of these vehicles are flora and fauna. Secondly, once the connection to human beings that is assumed in the metaphors of the Song is gone, the animals and plants take on lives of their own, one of sap-filled fecundity, and one that is open to the insights of ecocriticism. However, before we get too enthusiastic about such an ‘anthropo-fugal’ or non-anthropocentric reading, about ecocriticism as the

See, for example, Kate Rigby, “Ecocriticism,” in Literary and Cultural Criticism at the Twenty-First Century, edited by J. Wolfreys (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2002): 156. 11

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saviour of biblical criticism, if not literary criticism as a whole, 12 my final step picks up the point that ‘nature’ is a construct, not merely at the hands of language but also at the hands of social and economic formations. Such an anthropo-fugal reading is of course an interpretive fiction, for the Song of Songs is, after all, a product of human hands and minds. So I am also interested in how the flora and fauna of the Song are constructed by human beings.

3.

BREAKING THE METONYMIC AXIS

The theory is all very well, but let me see how it works out with the text. 13 I take as my initial sample the collection of poems conveniently if somewhat arbitrarily gathered into chapter two. Here we find a series of metaphors, similes and images that have fallen into a distinct pattern, if not a certain hierarchy, with interpretation of the Song. The vast weight of interpretation assumes that the Song is anthropocentric, that it speaks of love and/or sex between human beings. To the aid of that assumption come a few explicit metaphors. By ‘explicit metaphors’ I mean those that provide the full works of vehicle, tenor and referent, and for which the referent is one or more human beings. For example, ‘your eyes are doves’ (Song 1:15) provides us with a human referent—‘your eyes’—to which the vehicle (‘doves’) is connected via the tenor. In other words, these explicit metaphors are anthropocentric. Yet another large group of metaphors is implicit; that is, they may supply a vehicle, but the referent is left out. In this group we find metaphors like ‘the rains are gone’ and ‘the flowers appear on the earth’ (Song 2:11–12). There is no explicit connection made with human beings in these metaphors, and yet in some way they are drafted in to do the work of anthropocentric metaphors. The reason: these implicit metaphors come under the spell of both the anthropocentrism of the poems and the explicit metaphors. What if the rains that are gone are not the bondage of Israel in Egypt, or the reign of Jewish Law, but simply the winter rains? What if the blossoms that appear are not the Saints, Apostles and Martyrs but simply the

12 A not uncommon assumption, but one that has also bedevilled other forms of political criticism, such as postcolonial criticism, or feminism, or gay and lesbian criticism—and the list goes on. 13 In this essay I am particularly indebted to the masterly commentary of Exum (2005).

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flowers of spring? 14 That is, what if we release these implicit metaphors from the service of anthropocentrism? They become metaphors without referents, or rather images at large, freed from human-centred power of the explicit metaphors. The first step of my reading, then, is to reverse the hierarchy. Rather than a hierarchy of anthropocentrism, explicit and then implicit metaphors, I would like to privilege the lowly, rag-tag implicit group. Let us see what we have: 15 Sustain me with raisin cakes, refresh me with apples (v. 5) …by the gazelles or the does of the open field (v. 7). For look, the winter is past, the rains are over and gone (v. 11). The blossoms appear on the earth, the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land (v. 12). The fig tree ripens its unripened fruit, and the vine-buds give forth fragrance (v. 13). My dove in the clefts of the rock, in the covert of the cliff, Let me see your form, Let me hear your voice, For your voice is sweet, And your form is beautiful (v. 14). Catch us foxes, little foxes, who spoil vineyards, for our vineyards are in blossom (v. 15). He grazes among the lilies (v. 16) Until the day breathes and the shadows flee (v. 17).

Released from the connections with human beings, the natural world that appears before us is one at the end of winter and its rains. A day begins and shadows fade, there are blossoms, fig trees, vines and vine-buds, vineyards, lilies, ripening fruit, fragrance, raisin cakes, apples, gazelles, does, a dove, 16 turtledoves, foxes, and even the odd cleft, covert, cliff and uncultivated field (‫) ָשׂ ֶדה‬. One or two items do have some human taint, but they are few and don’t diminish the picture. For instance, the vineyard is cultivated by human beings. At a stretch the vines and fig trees might also fall See Pope (1977): 394–97. Unless indicated otherwise, the translations are mine. 16 Although ‘dove’ (yonah) is usually understood as a term of endearment for a human being, there is nothing in the text that suggests it is necessary so, especially in light of my argument. 14 15

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into such a group, but there is nothing in the text that suggests such a connection, except perhaps by association with the vineyards. Finally, the imperatives ‘sustain’ (‫ )סמך‬and ‘refresh’ (‫ )רפד‬in verse 5 are second person masculine plural, and may refer to men (the plural is intriguing), but the masculine plural is also the general plural with no specific referent needed, human or otherwise. The overwhelming number of these items, the flora and fauna, the rhythm of days and seasons and even landforms, taken on their own are anything but anthropocentric. And there is nothing about them that suggests that they might refer intrinsically to human love. Indeed, they are hardly metaphors in any sense of the term, for the mechanism of vehicle, tenor and referent must be imposed upon them. It is best then to speak of a collection of images, a collection that constructs a distinct natural world in its own right. So much for the images that once were implicit metaphors. What, then, happens to the explicit metaphors in light of my argument? To begin with, the metonymic axis is fully functional, at least initially. In each case they make the connection between human beings and the various items, whether flora, fauna, geology, or indeed the built environment. Yet, at this point I need my machete in order to cut this axis and release the metaphors from their human connections. Let us see how this might work. I begin with listing the explicit metaphors. I am a crocus of Sharon, a lily of the valleys (v. 1). As a lily among thorns, so is my lover among the daughters (v. 2). As an apple tree among the trees of the forest, so is my lover among the sons. In its shadow I delighted to sit, and its fruit was sweet to my taste (v. 3) Look, he’s coming now, leaping over the mountains, bounding over the hills (v. 8) My lover is like a gazelle, or a young deer. Look, there he stands, behind our wall, Gazing in through the windows, looking through the lattice (v. 9) Turn, my lover, be like a gazelle, or a young deer upon rugged mountains (v. 17)

Similar images appear to those of our previous collection. In this case they are flowers such as crocuses and lilies (if indeed they can be identified so readily from Hebrew), trees such as apple trees, trees of the forest, even

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some thorns, and then the fruit of the apple tree. As far as fauna is concerned, there is a gazelle and a deer (a standard pair for the Song), twice in different metaphors. Finally, apart from the odd rugged or broken (‫) ָב ֶתר‬ mountain or valley, we also come across built structures like a wall, window and lattice. But just when we thought we were safely in the realm of metaphor, the literary device slips to simile. The first ‘I am…’ is a metaphor, and the vehicle is both a crocus and a lily, either in the valley or among brambles, but the rest are in fact similes, for the connection is made via an ‘as’ (‫ ) ְכּ‬or a ‘like’ (‫) ְל‬. Indeed, there are two extended similes: the apple tree simile goes as far as mentioning its shade and its sweet fruit; the gazelle-deer simile stretches to the animal leaping and bounding over the hills, and then looking in through the windows and lattice while standing by the wall. What about the referents for these metaphors? They are, surprisingly, rather muted. To begin with, the first person is ambiguous, at least in terms ִ of gender. 17 Thus, the possessive suffix, on words such as ‘my lover’ (‫)דּוֹדי‬ and ‘my friend’ (‫)ר ְעיָ ִתי‬, ַ or ‘my taste’ (‫ ִח ִכּי‬in v. 3) do not indicate the gender of the pronoun. At least we can assume they are indeed human, but that is not the case with the third person masculine suffix on words such as ‘its fruit’ (‫ ) ִפ ְריוֹ‬and ‘its shade’ (‫) ִצלּו‬, or indeed the emphatic third person pronoun—‘it’—in verses 8 and 9 (‫)זֶ ה‬. In each case it could be either ‘its’ (that is, the apple tree) or ‘his’, or it might be ‘it’ (the gazelle or deer) or ‘he’. At least the first person possessive pronouns do refer to humans, as also the separate first person pronoun, ‫ ֲאנִ י‬, at the beginning of the first verse and the verbal suffix, ‘I sat’, in v. 3. And we might argue that the ambiguity over the third person pronouns is part of the magic of metaphor. But a slippage does set in, one in which the anthropocentrism is not as secure as it might seem. 18 All the same, there is enough to make human beings the referents of the metaphors and similes in this chapter. The ‘I’, ‘he’ and ‘my’ become the referents to which the metaphoric vehicles are connected. Thus, ‘my friend’ is like a lily, the maidens are like brambles, ‘my lover’ is like as apple tree, the young men are like trees in the wood, and so on. Or with the metaOn the absence of gender specific language, and especially the indeterminacy as to who is addressing whom, see further on this my chapter ‘Night Sprinkles’ in Boer (1999). 18 Grossberg (2005: 235–37) also comments on the way that this pronominal ambiguity ‘raises several possibilities of affinity between the man and the animal.’ (237) 17

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phors, we find the lover morphing into an apple tree, with ‘his/its fruit’ and ‘his/its shade’ (v. 3). Of course, these connections trigger all sorts of questions and associations: why is a lover like an apple tree with fruit and shade? Why is a lover like a lily in the valley or among thorns? Are these sexual— phallic trees and their ‘fruit’, or opening flowers in the thickets? Do tree and lover end up being connected so much that the sensuality of the tree is that of the lover and vice versa? I have written enough to show how the metaphors and similes function, and indeed I have written elsewhere of the myriad sexual allegories such metaphors and similes generate. But my agenda is different here, for the question is what happens when we break the metonymic axis between the flora and fauna of this text and their human referents. The cut should not be too difficult to make, since the link is not as strong as it might have been. Let us see what we end up with: a crocus of Sharon, lily of the valleys or among thorns, an apple tree with its fruit in the trees of the forest, a gazelle or a deer on the mountains, or perhaps by a wall, window or lattice. Once we remove the various personal pronouns and connectors, the items of the explicit metaphors and similes slip away from the humans and join their comrades in the earlier group of images that were once implicit metaphors.

4.

A FECUND WORLD

I have not sought to isolate the metaphoric vehicles merely on a whim, or perhaps as an exercise in literary dilettantism. Rather, there is a distinct agenda that arose first from lingering with the ecocritics, namely to resist the pull of anthropocentrism. Yet when I pondered the Song in more detail, it soon turned out to be a willing partner, for it all too readily gives up its footing in the human realm. Taken on their own, the implicit metaphors are hardly metaphors at all, but images in their own right, and the explicit metaphors are attached to their referents only by slippery and ambiguous pronouns—not the strongest connections one might want. What we have is a rather large collection of bits and pieces from the natural world. Let me rearrange them slightly and do a little botany and zoology. As far as the plants are concerned, fig trees sprout figs, flowers, perhaps crocuses and lilies, spring up from the earth, vines and vineyards blossom and spread their perfumes, the branches are laden with raisins, and apple trees are heavy with sweet and refreshing fruit. The first day of spring, it seems, is in the air—after all, the shadows flee, the winter is past and the rains have done their thing (v. 11). The sap is rising, so to speak, and we are in the midst of a fecund, pulsating world of ripening and opening plants. Of

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course, one might make the mundane point that such images of spring are entirely appropriate metaphors for the sensuality of sex and love. Yet, this is to my mind a belittlement of the fecund world that the text creates. Now for some zoology: gazelles and does and deer bound and leap over the hills, fields or rugged mountains, or perhaps stand and look, turtledoves are singing, foxes run through the vineyards, helping themselves to the free food. Although are there some suggestions of a built environment, with mention of lattice, wall and window, the world evoked is one of open fields and wild mountains, in short, the natural earth itself. There is, however, a distinct feature of the animals at a syntactical level: they are the active agents in a series of participles, often in the hiphil. Thus, in v. 9 the gaֵ ), is gazing (‫יח‬ ַ ִ‫ ) ַמ ְשׁגּ‬and is looking zelle and/or deer is standing (‫עוֹמד‬ (‫) ֵמ ִציץ‬, and in v. 15 the foxes are spoiling (‫ ) ְמ ַח ְבּ ִלים‬the vineyards. The agency lies with them. Indeed, the inability to rope the foxes into the overriding concern with metaphors of human love has disconcerted more than one commentator (see Bergant 2001: 31–2; Exum 2005: 128–30). Spoilers to the vineyard and metaphor itself, they operate in a world of their own. It turns out that the plants too are agents, subjects of their verbs: the flowers ‘appear’ (‫ נִ ְראוּ‬v. 12), the fig tree ‘ripens’ (‫ ָ ֽחנְ ָטה‬v. 13), and the vines ‘give’ (‫ נָ ְתנוּ‬v. 13). Less a series of free-floating images, severed from their anthropocentric anchor, what emerges is a distinct world. The text constructs a natural world with its own agency, a world that operates perfectly well without human beings. 19 Even more, it is a fecund, sensual and pulsating world, eager to get on with the job of sprouting, pollinating, mating, and reproducing. Too often the sensuality of sex is assumed to be a peculiarly human trait: only human beings, it is implicitly assumed, flirt, parade, chase and lust, all for the sake of that elusive moment of sex. But that is a rather impoverished idea of sex, for the world of nature beyond human beings is far more

19 This is a world in which the commentators unwittingly immerse themselves with their obsessions over the identity of the plants, flowers and animals. For one example among many, see Bergant (2001): 23. Early Christian and medieval commentators, in their search for allegorical hints, often give detailed attention to the features of the plants and animals—for instance, the ‘gazelle is so-called because of its native sharp-sightedness’ (Theodoret of Cyrus in Richard A Norris. ed. The Song of Songs: Interpreted by Early Christian and Medieval Commentators, (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Eerdmans [2003]:117)—to the extent that they come to life in these commentaries see further Norris (2003: 90–133).

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varied and sensual in its celebration and pursuit of sex than ever human beings might be able to achieve.

5.

ALLOCATION

Before I get too carried away, bounding with the deer on the mountains, or perhaps sinking into orgiastic raptures with the flowers, I do need to remind myself that this fecund world is after all constructed by a text, a text produced by one or more human beings at some point or other. Indeed, it is worth reiterating the commonplace point that the idea of ‘nature’ is a human construct, indeed that ecocriticism itself is a discourse by human beings about nature, and not in some strange way the voice of ‘nature’ itself. In a sense, then, the effort to produce an ‘anthropofugal’—over against an anthropocentric—reading is a fiction. Yet it is a fascinating fiction, although now for another reason, a distinctly economic one. Economics? The Song couldn’t be further from the realm of economics with its celebration of a fecund nature, or, if one wants, of human sex. The underlying assumption of my argument is that economics is prevalent in the Song, but that we need to look awry to find it. One might reverse the point and say that economics has a knack of turning up when one is least expecting it. So far I have traced a path through the language of the Song, particularly its penchant for metaphor, which has allowed me to get as far as the fecund world of the Song. And it is that fecund domain of nature in the Song’s second chapter that gives off all manner of economic signals. To begin with, the plants produce of their own accord. Apples appear on apple trees, figs on fig trees, grapes on vines, and before the fruit come the flowers with their various pollens and smells. As for flowers such as crocuses and lilies, they spring from the earth where they will. While the animals do not produce young in this passage, preferring to stand and look or gambol over mountains, the agency of the animals is a crucial signal of what is going on here. As I pointed out above, they are the active agents of a number of verbs, a feature the plants seem to have acquired as well. Note what the plants actually do: they ‘appear’, ‘ripen’ and ‘give’ (vv. 12 and 13), especially fruit and flowers and smells. Human beings can do what they will, and there are suggestions of cultivation (vineyards in v.15) and husbandry (grazing in v. 16), but they cannot actually make the plants and animals produce. Nor does the Song fall back on the position that some deity is responsible for making the plants and animals produce, for the Song is notable for the absence of any reference to a deity.

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The natural world of the Song is, then, a fecund, self-producing world, a point that will turn out to be the key to its economic assumptions. However, before exploring that point further, let me finally consider the human beings themselves. As above, I list the relevant texts: He brought me to the house of wine, and his banner over me is love (v. 4) I place you under oath, daughters of Jerusalem… that you do not excite or awaken love until it desires (v. 7) The voice of my beloved! My lover answered me said to me: “Arise, my friend, my fair one, and come away (v. 10; see v. 13) My lover is mine and I am his (v. 16)

Three items interest me in these verses, three signals of economic assumptions. The first is what I might call the agency of ‘love’ (‫ ) ָה ַא ֲה ָבה‬in verse 7. The daughters of Jerusalem are not to ‘excite or awaken love until it desires’. Is this a profound comment on the nature of love, or of lovemaking (see Exum 2005: 117–19)? Perhaps, but the verbs suggest something further: love (‫ ) ָה ַא ֲה ָבה‬is the subject of ‘excite’ (‫ עור‬in the hiphil), ‘awaken’ (‫ עור‬in the polel) and then ‘desire’ (‫)חפץ‬. Love, in other words, is the agent, and in that capacity it echoes the agency of the plants that ‘appear’, ‘ripen’ and ‘give’. In other words, something arises of its own accord, whether that is fruit, flower, scent… or love. Its awakening is inexplicable; one may assist in some way, but it arises in its own time and in its own way. Love, like the plants and indeed the animals, is self-sufficient and self-producing. In other words, it is of the realm of nature, of the flora and fauna of the Song, drawing near to what we might now call instinct than any flights of emotion. The second signal comes in what appears at first sight to be a statement about the mutuality of love: ‘My lover is mine and I am his’ (v. 16). Now, while I might be suspicious about such a verse as an ideological screen that in the end supports gender hierarchies, dowry systems and the use of women as exchange objects, the point I want to draw out here is somewhat different. There is a pattern of mutual giving, or allocation. I might paraphrase it as, ‘My lover gives himself to me and I to him’. This ideology of mutuality, if I may call it that, belongs to the fiction of love 20— This fiction of mutual love in the Song is well explicated by Alicia Ostriker, “A Holy of Holies: The Song of Songs as Countertext,” in Brenner (2002), although she does buy into it. 20

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that it does not necessarily partake of power plays, of the instincts for reproduction, security and economic exchange. What we find, in other words, is that love itself is part and parcel of an ideology of mutual allocation: it is given and taken in turn. If one suspects that this signal of allocation is a little too flimsy, then the third signal reinforces it. Verses 4, 10 and 13 present a work-free environment: rather than the toil required to plough, seed, water, weed and harvest various crops, or indeed to pasture, protect and nurture animals, what we find is that everything is already available. It simply produces of its own accord and all one need do is reach out and pick something to eat. We might imagine a Song that foregrounds work—something like, ‘Come, my lover, and help me with weeding the barley field’, or perhaps ‘My lover is better than the tribute gatherer’, but that would be a somewhat different collection of poems. Rather, the call in verses 10 and 13 is, ‘Arise, my friend, my fair one, and come away’. And where do they go? Into a somewhat bucolic, even Edenic, realm of self-producing nature, where the flowers, figs, apple trees and vines fill the air with scents and their branches and vines hang with fruit, albeit with an occasional fox tearing about the place. Or they go into the wine house (‫ ֵבּית ַהיָּ יִ ן‬in v. 4), there to feast and drink to their heart’s content, the food and wine laid out before them. The three signals now come together: when the human beings do actually appear in their own right, they operate in a world of mutual giving, the inexplicable and almost instinctual self-production of love, and the sweat-free availability of food. On top of this the plants and animals live happily in their own fecund, self-producing world, oblivious to the human beings. All of these characteristics indicate that the Song ought to be considered an important text within the pastoral genre, broadly conceived. 21 Bucolic and Edenic it is, and the connections to the garden in Genesis 2 are not fortuitous. 22 However, here I want to suggest that what is operating in this world—one that is, I repeat, a constructed literary one—is what might be called an economics of allocation. Rather than an economics of extraction, in which produce is extracted from the ground, or tax is extracted See the entry on ‘pastoral’ in M. H. Abrams, A Glossary of Literary Terms, 4th ed. (Holt, 1981). 22 On the connections with Genesis 2–3, see Francis Landy, Paradoxes of Paradise: Identity and Difference in the Song of Songs (Sheffield: Almond Press, 1983): 183–9, who argues that the Song is an inversion of the Genesis narrative—the couple goes back to the garden. See also Grossberg (2005: 234). 21

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from those who enable such production, the Song operates in terms of a very different logic—one of allocation. All too briefly, under such an allocatory economics, 23 the key items that produce do so apparently of their own accord: the land, animals, plants and women produce food and young inexplicably. One may attribute such activity to a deity or three, as we find elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible, or indeed in the Ancient Near East, but the crucial economic feature of such production is that there needs to be a complex system of (re-)allocation in order to ensure the (un-)equal distribution of the produce. Various modes of allocating the produce turn up at various points, such as kinship, or patron-client relations, or the military: according to these modes crops, animals, women and land are allocated and re-allocated. The catch with all of this is that the Song is not merely a reflection of an economic system. For this reason I have focused on its language and the unwitting world it creates—the natural ‘scenery’ as it is sometimes disparagingly termed. Further, it does present an ideal pastoral world, even a fantasy of escapism. However, in the very act of producing such an ideal world for lovers to inhabit, it can only construct such a world out of the social, economic and cultural tools available. So the question then is: what tools does it use? We might distinguish two levels in an economics of allocation, one that concerns the self-producing agents of earth, plants, animals and women, and the other that focuses on the ways in which such producing agents and their produce may be distributed. The second chapter of the Song only implicitly refers to the modes, or regimes, of allocation—the banqueting house, the mutual giving of lovers to each other, although elsewhere in the Song we do find hints of kinship in 6:9; 8:1–2, 8, patron-client relations in 1:4 and 9, and the military in 3:6–11. Its main concern, however, is with the first level, namely, the fecund, self-producing realm of nature. It constructs a world that operates at the primary level of self-production.

6.

CONCLUSION

My effort at estranging given readings of the Song—that it is about human love, or rather, sex—has led me on a path through the thicket of literary matters, ecocritical concerns and out into economics, of all places. At first I sought to break the metonymic axis of the Song’s metaphors, or at least those in its second chapter. Such a move then led me to consider how the 23 See further, Roland Boer, Political Myth (Durham, North Carolina: Duke University Press, 2007).

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world of nature is constructed by this text, and it turned out that this constructed world makes sense within what I have called an economics of allocation, particularly at the level of self-production. It seems, then, that rather than a bucolic world of infatuated love, this is a very economic text. Lest the charge of reductionism be laid at my feet, particularly with my move to economics as the ‘ultimately determining instance’, I would point out that any text does not and cannot exist in a vacuum. It is part of a larger network in which politics and economics loom large. Indeed, I would go further, and argue that the Song as we have it could be told and written only within a certain social formation. Its achievements—and many continue to be amazed at what it does achieve— and its limits are determined by that social context. My thesis, then, is that it is a small piece of the culture of an allocatory economics, an economics that inescapably seeps through the way in which the world—a fecund, natural world—of the lovers is constructed. Love may not make the world go round, but it ensures that the economy does. That such a thesis is preliminary, that it needs to be tested on the remainder of the Song hardly needs to be said.

EXPATRIATES, REPATRIATES, AND THE QUESTION OF ZION’S STATUS—IN CONVERSATION WITH MELODY D. KNOWLES,

CENTRALITY PRACTICED: JERUSALEM IN THE RELIGIOUS PRACTICES OF YEHUD AND THE DIASPORA IN THE PERSIAN PERIOD

(ARCHAEOLOGY AND BIBLICAL STUDIES 16; ATLANTA: SOCIETY OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE, 2006). GARY N. KNOPPERS, ED.

PENNSYLVANIA STATE UNIVERSITY UNIVERSITY PARK, PA 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Gary N. Knoppers, Introduction Deirdre N. Fulton, A Response David Janzen, A Response Ralph W. Klein, A Response Melody D. Knowles, Flames, Candles, and Humility: A Response to the Session Discussing Centrality Practiced

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INTRODUCTION GARY N. KNOPPERS

PENNSYLVANIA STATE UNIVERSITY UNIVERSITY PARK, PA It is a great delight, as a guest editor of the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures, to introduce the following series of reviews of Melody D. Knowles’ Centrality Practiced: Jerusalem in the Religious Practices of Yehud and the Diaspora in the Persian Period (Archaeology and Biblical Studies 16; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2006; pp. 192; U.S. $24.95; ISBN: 1-58983-175–6). Dr. Knowles is a professor of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament at McCormick Theological Seminary in Chicago. A special session of the Chronicles-Ezra-Nehemiah section was held at the national meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in November 2006 (Washington, DC) to honor, discuss, and evaluate her recently published book (a revised and updated version of her dissertation at Princeton Theological Seminary written under Professor C. L. Seow). The same special session at the 2006 Society of Biblical Literature meeting also featured a series of collegial reviews of Jacob L. Wright’s recently published book, Rebuilding Identity: The Nehemiah Memoir and its Earliest Readers (BZAW 348; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004). It is my sincere hope that the reviews (and Professor Wright’s response) will be published in a future issue of the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures. I wish to extend my thanks both to Professor Tamara Eskenazi of the Hebrew Union College (Los Angeles) for suggesting this special session and to the chair of the Chronicles-Ezra-Nehemiah section of the Society of Biblical Literature, Professor Christine Mitchell of St. Andrew’s College (Saskatoon, Saskatchewan) for all of her diligent work in helping to organize this special symposium. Special thanks also go to each of the reviewers: Ms. Deirdre N. Fulton a graduate student in ancient history at Penn State University (University Park, PA); Professor David Janzen of North Central College (Naperville, IL); and Professor Ralph W. Klein of the Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago for their willingness to revise and publish their re171

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views in the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures. Finally, I would like to thank Professor Melody Knowles for her thoughtful and creative response to the reviewers’ comments. Readers should be aware that the following reviews and authorial response were originally given in an oral setting. As a guest editor, I asked the reviewers to revise their works for publication, but I did not ask them to convert their works into formal articles with extensive documentation, footnotes, and so forth. This means that the responses still retain some of the stylistic characteristics of reviews delivered in an originally oral setting. To be sure, reviewers were allowed to add any footnotes that they deemed helpful for readers to understand the context, force, and setting of their evaluations, but the decision whether to do so was left to the discretion of the individual participants. I wish to thank the editor of the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures, Professor Ehud Ben Zvi of the University of Alberta (Edmonton) for his generosity in publishing this collection of reviews, as well as the response to those reviews by Professor Knowles. Ehud’s unstinting work in providing a timely and suitable forum for scholarly discussions is in itself a most appreciated contribution to the larger field. In concluding, I think that I can speak for all of the reviewers and for the author as well in saying that we hope that our discussion will be conducive to further study of the Persian period in general and of the books of Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah in particular.

A RESPONSE DEIRDRE N. FULTON

THE PENNSYLVANIA STATE UNIVERSITY Second Temple period studies have flourished over the past few decades with the rise in interest of this pivotal period of history. Melody Knowles and Jacob Wright continue this trend with their recent works, which synthesize textual, literary, historical, and archaeological arguments, and together represent a capsule of contemporary biblical research in America. In her book, Centrality Practiced, Melody Knowles adeptly balances text with material culture in order to evaluate better the importance of centralization of the Yahweh cult during the Persian Period. Jacob Wright’s work skillfully balances text, source, and literary critical models in order to explain the composition of Nehemiah. I have been asked to examine the issues and methodologies these works take into consideration, and will specifically focus on Melody Knowles’ work in this review, with the goal of adding to the ongoing dialogue in Second Temple Period studies. 1 Melody Knowles’s book Centrality Practiced is a thorough examination of the textual references to Yahwistic practices during the Persian Period, both in Yehud and in the Diaspora. This study ultimately examines the “construction of sacred space centrality” and its “change throughout time” (p. 7). Concentrating on the concept of geography and its role in the centralization of the cult, she presents several issues, particularly animal sacrifice, tithing, pilgrimage, incense, and figurines and then proceeds to discuss I would like to thank Gary Knoppers and Tamara Eskenazi for inviting me to participate in the Chronicles-Ezra-Nehemiah panel at the 2006 Society of Biblical Literature. I would also like to thank Melody Knowles and Jacob Wright for their significant contributions with their respective works. The original review included an analysis of Jacob Wright’s book. The review of Wright’s work will appear in JHS at a later date. 1

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the references to such practices found in various Persian Period biblical and extra-biblical texts. Knowles sets up a clear model for her approach to this study: First, an examination of the textual material and then the archaeological material. Thus, with the biblical text framing her study, she examines the material culture. By means of her exegetical studies, Knowles tackles several issues concerning centrality during the Persian Period. She discusses the Persian Period biblical sources that mention these issues, such as Haggai, Zechariah, Malachi, Trito-Isaiah, Ezra, Nehemiah, Chronicles, and Psalms 120–34. All reflect a concern for religious devotion to Yahweh, but some point to a deeper concern relating to the centralization of specific cultic practices. Beginning with an examination of Yahwistic manifestations of animal sacrifice, she tracks biblical references to this practice chronologically, examining Haggai and Zechariah first, and ending with Chronicles. She concludes that the biblical texts indicate that the “circumscription of animal sacrifice outside Jerusalem became increasingly important within the texts that now comprise the Hebrew Bible” (p. 38). Turning then to the archaeological evidence for animal sacrifice, she examines the most important known sites for addressing the issue of sacrifice both inside and outside of Yehud in order to ascertain whether the material culture agrees with the biblical texts. She examines Bethel, Tell enNasbeh, and Jerusalem as possible places for animal sacrifice within Yehud. Bethel and Tell en-Nasbeh do not reveal clear signs of animal sacrifice and Jerusalem is problematic, because of its continued occupation. She deduces that not all evidence points to Yahwistic centralization concerning animal sacrifice and thus, the “centralizing tendency was only partially realized” (p. 53). This conclusion does clarify her earlier literary analysis of the Persian Period textual references to animal sacrifice. But this evolving landscape, which Knowles argues appears to emerge in the biblical texts, is more obscure in the archaeological record. As Knowles affirms, animal sacrifice to Yahweh is difficult to spot both within Yehud and also outside of Yehud. She uses three main sites outside of Yehud in her study, namely, Elephantine, Lachish, and Mount Gerizim. In the case of Elephantine, Knowles uses the extant textual evidence to point to animal sacrifice. In the Elephantine papyri, the Yahwistic community indicates that they were offering burnt sacrifices prior to the destruction of their temple, dated to 410 BCE. Scholars also point to these letters to argue for the cessation of this practice. Unfortunately, the material remains from Elephantine do not make it possible to identify whether animal sacrifice actually continued or discontinued

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after 407 BCE, and hence we must rely on the written record for this information. Further, regarding the issue of Lachish as a cult center to Yahweh and the local practice of animal sacrifice, Knowles argues that the archaeological evidence is not conclusive enough to provide a compelling argument. This conclusion concerning the issue of animal sacrifice is prudent, considering the lack of evidence pointing to sacrifice. In particular, the question of two drains in the floor of the Persian Period solar shrine allows for all sorts of possible interpretations, including animal sacrifice. Whether these drains have any connection to animal sacrifice is debatable, and Knowles wisely does not use this evidence to address her primary question, which is whether behavior, particularly the possible centralization of animal sacrifice, marks a shift in the overall centrality of certain cultic practices to Jerusalem. Pointing to Mount Gerizim as an example of a community that offered animal sacrifices to Yahweh, Knowles asserts that animal sacrifice to Yahweh was never fully centralized in Jerusalem during the Persian Period. Thus, the archaeological evidence and biblical evidence seem to diverge from each other. Although most of the archaeological evidence cannot clearly point to a shift in cult centralization, Jerusalem had a direct connection to these other communities outside of Yehud during the Persian Period. This is most evidently reflected in the Elephantine papyri, which ties Jerusalem, Samaria, and Elephantine together. She notes that the issue of a centralizing tendency in the biblical texts may be due to the “rising prominence of Jerusalem in texts such as Chronicles: the author’s portrayal of the city is a ‘promotion’ of Jerusalem in a context of rival shrines” (p. 53). This conclusion provides a reasonable solution to the discrepancies between the textual and archaeological material. Knowles examines “The Geographical Protocols of Non-Sacrificial Worship” in chapter 3. Promoting a connection between the Jerusalem community and other Yahwistic communities, she turns to other pieces of evidence mentioned in texts and discovered in archaeological digs. This part of her study considers the use of incense and figurines, and follows the same pattern as her study of animal sacrifice. First, she explores the textual references to these practices and then turns to the archaeological evidence, both inside and outside of Yehud. Knowles points out that it is often difficult to connect the use of incense and figurines to the worshipers of Yahweh. She does point to the Elephantine papyri, as well as remains from Lachish, as evidence for the use of incense in Yahwistic worship. But the case

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of figurines is less compelling, since there is only one possible case in which they could be connected to Yahweh worship. 2 She concludes that the use of incense had no geographical limitations, whereas Yahwists seem not to have used figurines at any location, with the possible exception of Lachish (p. 75). Rounding out her study of how different communities manifested their religious beliefs, she examines pilgrimage to Jerusalem and tithing. The biblical texts offer insight into both of these issues, but different authors reflect different concerns about how these practices could or should be carried out. Concerning pilgrimage, prophetic references view this as something that involves the community, as well as the nations at some point in the future, whereas historical narratives present pilgrimage as a contemporary practice of the community. Finally, in the book of Ezra, one finds this as a significant event that directly “shapes the accounts of the returns” (p. 103). Regarding tithing and ultimately the economics of centrality, Knowles examines paying taxes and tithes to Jerusalem in order to discover how ritual practices can be “registered on an economic plane” (p. 119). She concludes that the examination of the archaeological and biblical evidence points to devotees providing money to the Jerusalem temple. In fact, the temple could have also functioned as a tax depot for the larger population of Yehud. She does doubt, however, the validity of Ezra’s claim that the temple benefited from imperial support. In Centrality Practiced, Knowles concludes her study of the textual references and material evidence with an examination of Jerusalem as a landscape. She ties the idea of Jerusalem as a landscape to the idea of Jerusalem as a palimpsest, or a changeable landscape. Knowles states, “understanding this landscape of Jerusalem as a palimpsest captures the inherited and evolving nature of Jerusalem’s centrality vis-à-vis its many constructions and reconstructions” (p. 124). This conclusion, which examines the reality of Jerusalem in the Persian Period, argues for the changing nature of Jerusalem’s centrality. In the end, Knowles focuses on more of a literary critical reading of the Persian Period sources. She does briefly address some text-critical issues in her discussion of “rewriting centrality” in Nehemiah 10, where Knowles argues new material is inserted into the text so as to initiate new rules for paying tithes to Jerusalem. Thus the text of Neh 10:38b-40 is inserted after 2 Knowles points to several figurines present in the archaeological remains at Lachish as the only possible case for their use in Yahweh worship (p. 73).

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Neh 10:36–38a in order to “ensure the offerings would be brought to the temple” (p. 125). Her literary critical reading of the text makes the connection to the archaeological material clearer, because it is concerned with change over time. She brings new awareness to centrality in the Persian Period, both through her literary approach to the material as well as through a discussion of the archaeological material. She also helps illuminate the thesis that behavior does become a more important marker for identity in the Persian Period—or that the identity of Persian Period worship clearly evolves over time—which she argues is evident in both the text and the tell. But in the end, she concludes that the “practice of centrality was neither entirely univocal or consistent,” which is an important observation in light of certain archaeological oddities (p. 128). In fact, the reader is struck by the number of regional cults present in the Persian Period, and thus that centrality was not necessarily the norm for Yahwistic worship. Knowles’ study of Persian Period texts and archaeological material highlights the evolution of centralization, which becomes increasingly significant for the worship of Yahweh in later periods.

A RESPONSE DAVID JANZEN

NORTH CENTRAL COLLEGE I would like to begin by thanking Melody Knowles for this book. I have had an interest in the social world and the texts of the Persian period since my days in graduate school, and this was a work I was excited to read. I understand that the book has only recently come out in print, and since I do not imagine that most people have had a chance to read Centrality Practiced yet, I am going to begin with some summary of the work. The title is clear enough in expressing what Knowles wants to examine in this work: did the Yahwists of the Persian period understand Jerusalem to be central; and if so, how was this expressed in actual practices enacted by those Yahwists of that period? To ask how this centrality was practiced is to ask specifically after the way people expressed their worldview in which Jerusalem was central through physical expressions, which have left a record either in the Persian period texts or in the archaeological record. Human activity, as Knowles puts it, is a way of describing or enacting belief (p. 4). Having set out this agenda in the opening chapter, Knowles also notes, though, that the interpretation and construction of sacred space changes over time. What people believe, and the ways in which they practice this belief, is not static. This is “evident” for Jerusalem in the Persian period, says Knowles, because understandings of Jerusalem’s centrality were reinterpreted by different communities during this time (p. 7). To say that Jerusalem was central for Yahwists in the Persian period is not to say that it was central for all of them in the same way. The religious practices of Yahwists at this time were not all identical, but varied from group to group. (I should add, by the way, that Knowles defines people who lived within the province of Yehud as Yahwists, unless there is evidence that seems to contradict this. She sees the opposite as holding for people who lived outside of the prov179

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ince: she does not consider them to be Yahwists unless there is evidence that suggests they are [p. 9].) I should probably add as well that not all scholars believe that Jerusalem was central for Yahwists of the Persian period. Rainer Albertz, for example, sees the law and not the cult in Jerusalem as providing Yahwists with their center in this period. Robert Carroll believes that the centrality of the temple in the biblical texts reflects the ideological interests of those who wrote them. 1 Knowles acknowledges such views, although she does not explicitly confront these arguments (for a “quick sketch of current scholarship” on the issue, see pp. 10–12), but her work as a whole provides her cumulative answer in regard to Jerusalem’s centrality. One of the benefits of her approach, in my opinion, is the fact that she uses the biblical texts only as part of her evidence. She correlates such texts with the archaeological record, and I largely find her judgments in weighing the evidence to be judicious. To move first to the biblical texts that Knowles considers, she relies only on texts that scholarly consensus dates to the Persian period: Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, Third Isaiah, Malachi, Ezra, Nehemiah, Chronicles, and Psalms 120–134, the latter in its edited final form. She acknowledges that these texts are not the extent of Persian period composition in the Hebrew Bible, and that they are mixed with earlier sources and later additions, but sees them as “a reliable picture of the textual traditions of this time period” (pp. 12–13). Her method in the book is to examine different practices that point to Jerusalem’s centrality: animal sacrifice; the use of incense and figurines; pilgrimage; and the paying of taxes and tithes. In each case, she examines what each of these texts has to say about the particular issue, and in each case, she examines each text separately. That way, should a particular reader believe that Chronicles, say, was composed following the Persian period, then he or she would be free to discount the evidence that Knowles presents from the work on all of the practices that she discusses. She also discusses Ezra and Nehemiah as separate works. I want to say a bit about Knowles’ specific conclusions regarding the practices that she examines. It will help, though, to begin by noting that she concludes that it is better to speak of “centralities” in the plural, rather than to conclude that that all Yahwists of the Persian period understood JerusaWhere I refer to other scholars besides Knowles in this response, I have not, unless otherwise noted, included bibliographic information. Readers may find such information in the footnotes on the relevant pages of Centrality Practiced. 1

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lem to be central in the same way. Nonetheless, she does see “a discernable trend” of “a general reorientation of religious practice toward Jerusalem” (p. 15). Specifically in this regard she points to a movement toward centralizing sacrifice in the city. To move quickly through her conclusions regarding particular issues that she examines, we may begin with sacrifice. Among the prophetic works, Knowles sees brief and allusive condemnations of sacrifice outside of Jerusalem in Haggai 2:13; Zechariah 5:5–11 (not all agree that this is what this passage is about, though); and in Third Isaiah. Malachi seems to assume that sacrifice takes place only in Jerusalem. Ezra appears to be the first work for which sacrifice is central, and it is done there only at the temple. Chronicles has more references to sacrifice at the temple than the Deuteronomistic History does, and fewer references to sacrifice outside of the city. Her conclusion as regards the biblical evidence on this point, then, is that animal sacrifice within the Jerusalem temple becomes increasingly emphasized as the Persian period goes on (pp. 19–38). For Yahwistic worship outside of Jerusalem, Knowles points out that the correspondence from Elephantine suggests that when that community attempted to rebuild its temple, it explicitly made the move to eliminate animal sacrifice there. In their first letter to Bagohi, the governor of Judah, they describe the temple as a place for burnt sacrifices, among other kinds of offerings. The memorandum that they receive in reply allows for the rebuilding, but says nothing about animal sacrifice even while it does mention the other kinds of offerings, and when Yahwists in Elephantine offer money to rebuild the temple, they do so on the condition that animal sacrifices not be offered there. Do these attempts at an elimination of animal sacrifice there arise out of a worldview that makes Jerusalem central in the sense of the only legitimate place of sacrifice to the God of Israel? Quite possibly; especially when one considers that the Elephantine temple seems to have been rebuilt on an alignment with Jerusalem (pp. 40–44). Outside of Elephantine, there is little current scholarly consensus that Yahwists sacrificed elsewhere in the Persian period (although Lachish, Bethel, and Mizpah have been offered as possibilities), with the exception of Mount Gerizim. For Knowles, then, the picture we get from the biblical texts about a growing concern for a centralization of sacrifice in Jerusalem is largely borne out by the archaeological record. On the other hand, the fact that there was a Yahwistic shrine at Gerizim suggests that a text , such as Chronicles, promotes centralization in Jerusalem “in a context of rival shrines” (p. 53). So, if there is a growing movement toward the centrality of Jerusalem in this sense, Yahwists of the period would appear to have had

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more than one opinion on the matter. Here we see a fine example of Knowles’ use of the archaeological evidence in order to check and, in fact, to better interpret the ideological spin of the biblical writings. Knowles also examines how the religious use of incense was handled among Yahwists of the Persian period (pp. 55–71). Incense burning in the Persian period is normally linked to small stone or clay platforms that can be found throughout the Near East, although it is not always clear that these are used in religious practice. Among the Persian period texts, Chronicles condemns incense offerings by anyone outside of cultic officials and anywhere outside of the temple. Third Isaiah sees incense as belonging only inside the temple as well, but Malachi permits offerings of incense to God anywhere. Incense altars from the Persian period have been found in tombs in Gezer, and a Yahwistic name appears on such an altar in Lachish, where others have been found in cultic contexts. The Elephantine correspondence also shows that incense was used in the cult there. In the same chapter, Knowles notes that while Persian period figurines (mainly of women and bearded men on horseback) are common throughout the Near East, none have been discovered in Yehud or Samaria (pp. 71–74). Ephraim Stern, for one, sees religious significance in this. Certainly the biblical texts never speak favorably of their use, and Chronicles and Nehemiah speak negatively of their use in Israel’s past, which may indicate Yahwistic employment of them during the Persian period. When combined with the evidence involving incense offerings, then, Knowles concludes that we see “both the cultic hegemony of Jerusalem and the practice of religion outside the city walls” (p. 75). Although pilgrimage is not widespread among Yahwists until the Hasmonean period, it is clearly something that pre-existed the exile. In Zechariah, Haggai, and Third Isaiah we see pictures of a future or eschatological pilgrimage to Jerusalem by the diaspora and nations (pp. 77–81). In Ezra, we see the celebration of the pilgrimage festivals of Booths (in Ezra 3) and Passover (in Ezra 6), and Knowles argues extensively that the stories of the returns in Ezra 1–2 and 7–8 are constructed on the pattern of a pilgrimage rather than an exodus (pp. 81–90). As a result, the community in Ezra 1–10 “is portrayed as a worshipping community and one that is open to its Diasporic components” (p. 90). Knowles also points to Psalms 120–134 (a corpus which she dates to the Persian period for linguistic reasons) as utilizing pilgrimage themes and motifs (pp. 93–102). It is unclear, however, whether or not Jerusalem truly was an important pilgrimage destination during the Persian period, especially considering the small size of the city at

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that time. It is possible that the biblical texts only reflect the desire that Jerusalem be seen as a center of worship and pilgrimage (pp. 102–3). In the final part of her investigation, Knowles asks whether Jerusalem was an important center for taxes and tithes. Some texts, such as Haggai, Malachi, and Nehemiah emphasize community support of the temple cult. Zechariah 1–8, on the other hand, sees support of the temple as coming from the Diaspora, while in Ezra the bulk of the donations for the temple come from the Persians. Chronicles, too, emphasizes gifts to the temple by the monarchy, although such generosity is met by a response of giving by the people (pp. 105–15). When Knowles turns to the archaeological record, she finds that temples in the Persian period had to finance their own operations, and of course Cambyses ordered a reduction and in some cases elimination of imperial funding for temples in Egypt. As a result, it makes most sense to see the temple in Jerusalem as supported by its adherents, and to see the picture in Ezra as, at best, an exaggeration of imperial support, if not an outright fabrication (pp. 115–20). It is also possible, as Joachim Schaper argues, that the temple was a depot for taxes, although Knowles, rightly, regards this as unclear. For Knowles, then, there was no one way in which communities of Yahwists in the Persian period understood Jerusalem to be central. While she talks about a connection of Jerusalem to these communities as “visible” and “desired and mandated” (p. 121), she also talks about the ideological landscape of Jerusalem of this period as a palimpsest. The centrality of Jerusalem was something that evolved, that was written and then overwritten, that was constructed and reconstructed. It makes more sense to talk of communities (again in the plural), each with its own picture of how Jerusalem should be central, and each thus advocating different practices that reflected such centrality. And while we can see overlaps in the different ways in which these centralities were practiced, these overlaps are not absolute. When it comes to describing pilgrimage (either actual or future), Haggai, Zechariah, and Third Isaiah are ethnically inclusive, but Nehemiah is not. For some communities, the practice of the religious use of incense points to the centrality of Jerusalem, for other groups it does not. It is unlikely that all Yahwists regarded Jerusalem as intrinsically central, as the establishment of a shrine with sacrifice at Gerizim suggests, a case of an attempt to erase the centrality of Jerusalem without overwriting it (pp. 119–28). As I hope this summary has made clear, Knowles’ book is an ambitious one, and we have a lot to thank her for. Although a short monograph, it discusses seven different biblical books (eight, if you separate Ezra and Nehemiah, as Knowles does) as well as the archaeological record for the

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period. The material is well researched, well organized, and judiciously evaluated. Anyone working on the issues discussed here—centrality in the Persian period, sacrifice, figurines, incense, and tithing—will want to consult this book. I do not always come to the same conclusions that Knowles does concerning the material that she evaluates, but the evidence from each of her sources is presented clearly enough and on its own so that one can see how she comes to her evaluation of it, even as one may come to a different conclusion. Let me supply two kinds of examples in this respect. As the first, smaller kind of example, I am not as convinced as Knowles is that Ezra really portrays a community that “is open to its Diasporic components,” or at least not in the same way as Knowles understands this. Her clear and distinct presentation of the material, however, allows me to see clearly that our difference of interpretation lies largely in a difference of translation of a particular verse—Ezra 6:21, specifically. 2 As a second, larger scale example, I am also not as convinced as Knowles is that the biblical texts evince a growing concern with the centrality of Jerusalem regarding sacrifice. Her argument would be more persuasive for me if some discussion of the respective dates of the particular writings had been included. It is just as easy, I think, to see in the different texts that Knowles presents various snapshots of beliefs concerning the Jerusalem cult, some of which focus on sacrifice and some of which do not. If Ezra or Chronicles says more about sacrifice than Haggai does, that may or may not be because Haggai has less of a concern that sacrifice be practiced only in Jerusalem. But it is Knowles’ clear arrangement of the material, discussing each book separately, that helps me come to this conclusion. This leads me to one last point, and I am still not sure if I see this as a lack in the work or as a future project that could build on it. It certainly does reflect my own interests in texts. Knowles largely uses the various biblical texts as sources of information for how their authors (or editors) believe particular acts should be practiced. How does the author or editor of Ezra feel about sacrifice outside of Jerusalem? Does Malachi believe it to be Knowles’ interpretation of this verse clearly follows the interpretation of the majority of scholars, however; for the defense of my minority position, see David Janzen, “The Cries of Jerusalem: Ethnic, Legal, and Geographic Boundaries in Ezra-Nehemiah” in (Dis)Unity of the Books of Ezra and Nehemiah (ed. Mark J. Boda and Paul L. Redditt; Old Testament Monograph Series; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, forthcoming 2007) n. 28. 2

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legitimate to offer incense to God outside of the Jerusalem cult? And so on. For my interests, though, I would like to know more about how the texts understand the centrality of Jerusalem in general. That is, I think it is possible that the way in which Ezra-Nehemiah (I would connect the texts rather than separate them) understands Jerusalem to be central is more than just the sum of what it says about sacrifice, pilgrimage, and so on. From my perspective, a useful chapter (or two) would have been one that examined the basic theological tendencies of the different biblical texts that Knowles uses, with an especial emphasis on how each text understands Jerusalem. The benefit of this kind of study would be two-fold. First, it could help us better interpret the information drawn from each text when approaching each topic that Knowles discusses. For example, such a study of Ezra-Nehemiah would show that Jerusalem is, to Ezra-Nehemiah, “the holy city” (Neh 11:1) that should be reserved for “the holy seed” (Ezra 9:2). Clearly, as Knowles notes, Ezra-Nehemiah takes it for granted that sacrifice to God should only take place in Jerusalem; but for this work, what is more important than where sacrifice to God takes place is who gets to perform the sacrifice in the temple. If the work can be said to focus on one thing, it is on the formation of a community: who gets to be part of it (descendants of the exiles); and what barriers are erected in order to protect it from outsiders. The cult is one of these barriers, in the sense that participation in it is limited to those who belong to the community of Ezra-Nehemiah, since God, through the Persians, has chosen only them to rebuild the temple (Ezra 1:2–4; 4:1–3; 6:6–12). So would the Persian period community that read and preserved Ezra-Nehemiah have cared if Yahwists outside of their own community sacrificed elsewhere? On the one hand, maybe this would be true. But, on the other hand, maybe not. When, in Ezra 4, “the adversaries” of the exiles want to help build the temple, the exiles do not try to stop them from sacrificing to God; they just do not want them to sacrifice in Jerusalem. We do not see any polemic in Ezra-Nehemiah against sacrifice outside of Jerusalem, but that is likely because the community of Yahwists who would have agreed with the message of the book did not care. What mattered is that only descendants of the exiles got to sacrifice in Jerusalem. With this kind of study we would see that a lack of criticism of extraJerusalem sacrifice in Ezra-Nehemiah is not necessarily evidence that Yahwists did not sacrifice outside of the city. The second benefit to this kind of study would be that it would help us answer the question of how or in what ways did different communities see Jerusalem as central. For Ezra-Nehemiah, for example, Jerusalem is ethnically central—that is, it is the place that God has sent the ethnos, the nation,

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from Babylon. People not part of this nation may live there, but that is more or less an annoying fact that Ezra-Nehemiah would like to ignore (although cannot do so completely—see Neh 13:16). When Ezra 1–10 talks about the temple, it is for the exiles alone. When Nehemiah 1–13 talks about the walls, they are for the exiles alone. Jerusalem is central to EzraNehemiah because, even if not all of the exiles live in Jerusalem or even in Yehud, Jerusalem is their city, the holy city. So, how is Jerusalem central to this community? It is a geographic symbol of their status as “Israel.” But the way in which the temple is central to the community or communities that prized Ezra-Nehemiah would certainly not have been the way Jerusalem was central to the Yahwistic community in Elephantine, even though they put a stop to animal sacrifice there. Their vision of how Jerusalem was central might be seen as closer to that of Chronicles’, which, as Knowles points out, seems to want to urge an elimination of sacrifice outside of Jerusalem, even while admitting Yahwists outside of Judah and Benjamin to the temple cult. It may be that this extra work I am suggesting really goes beyond the scope of one extra chapter, although I believe that a chapter along the lines of what I have been describing would have been helpful. Perhaps a thoroughgoing examination of the ideology of each biblical work and Jerusalem’s place in it is really something that should be built on the work that Knowles has already accomplished here. I think that Knowles has met basic objections to Jerusalem’s centrality in the Persian period, and I would like to hear what she has to say about the different ways that Jerusalem was central. How literally should we take her palimpsest metaphor? Did the different ways of picturing the centralities of Jerusalem follow one upon the other, or did some of them coexist? Does the picture of Jerusalem within the worldview of the Chronicler really fit that of the Yahwistic community in Elephantine? Is there any biblical work from the Persian period that might reflect the place of Jerusalem within the thought of the community at Gerizim? These are questions that I hope Knowles will take up in the future.

A RESPONSE RALPH W. KLEIN

CHRIST SEMINARY-SEMINEX PROFESSOR OF OLD TESTAMENT LUTHERAN SCHOOL OF THEOLOGY AT CHICAGO The book under review is an encouraging promise of what the next generation will contribute to our knowledge of the history, literature, and theology of early Judaism in the Persian period. The Knowles’ volume, which was originally her dissertation at Princeton Seminary, looks at God’s geographical location and the role of the temple in the physical expressions of the Yahwists of the Persian period in order to see how the centrality of Jerusalem was practiced. The bases of her argument are, on the one hand, biblical texts—Haggai, Zechariah, Malachi, Third Isaiah, Ezra, Nehemiah, and the so-called Psalms of Ascent (pp. 120–134)—and, on the other hand, archeology, in terms both of inscriptions and material finds insofar as they can contribute to our understanding of these questions. After an opening chapter in which she defines basic terms and describes her methodology, including the limitations of the evidence, successive chapters are devoted to the centralities of animal sacrifice, the use of incense and figurines, Jerusalem as a pilgrimage center in the Persian period, and paying taxes and tithes in Jerusalem. A final chapter is entitled The Palimpsest of Jerusalem’s Centrality. In the chapter on animal sacrifice, in many ways the most important and the most convincing, Knowles takes note of what we do not know and what we do know. She remains undecided whether Joseph Blenkinsopp is right in proposing that sacrifices were carried on at Bethel during the exilic period, and it is not clear who used the temple or altar at Lachish in the Persian period—that is, were these people Yahwists and do they therefore contribute to our understanding of Israelite worship? The “house of Yahu” inscription, dated to the fourth century BCE and discovered south and west of Yehud, indicates at least that a temple of YHWH was located in this area. But of course we do not know what kind of cultic practices were practiced at this temple. Knowles believes that Ezra 4:3 implies that sacrifice took

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place in Jerusalem before the exiles came back from Babylon, 1 and that would seemingly be supported by Jer 41:5: “Eighty men arrived from Shechem and Shiloh and Samaria, with their beards shaved and their clothes torn, and their bodies gashed, bringing grain offerings and incense to present at the temple of the LORD.” Surprisingly there is no reference in the bibliography to the fine essay by Douglas Jones in 1963 about the cessation of sacrifice after the destruction of the temple in 586. 2 A pair of passages in Trito-Isaiah (57:5 and 65:3) contain polemics against animal sacrifice outside Jerusalem in locales that are now unidentifiable (p. 122). 3 One could argue, I suppose, that the polemic in these passages is not so much about the locale as about the syncretistic character of these cultic actions. In Malachi, although worship of the LORD in general transcends the borders of Yehud (1:11, 14), animal sacrifice is primarily/exclusively localized in the Jerusalem temple. Hence the restrictions on animal sacrifice outside Jerusalem became increasingly important within the texts of the Hebrew Bible. We do know that animal sacrifice ceased at Elephantine in 407 BCE, 4 although apparently this Jewish colony did practice grain sacrifice and the cultic burning of incense after that date (just as in Jer 41:5). She agrees with the latest excavator of Mt. Gerizim that animal sacrifice took place there, due to the mention of a “house of sacrifice” in an inscription in lapidary Aramaic for which she does not supply a date and because of the large number of animal bones in the recent excavation. This excavation and the recent publications of Ingrid Hjelm have complicated the assessment of when the definitive split between Samaria and Jerusalem took place. 5 Does the Chronicler’s plea for the central importance of Jerusalem and his more or less open invitation to the north to rally around the Jerusalem temple have Gerizim in mind as a contemporary rival Less convincing, in my judgment, is the claim, p. 30. that the Jewish builders in this verse asserted that they worshiped a different god than their adversaries from Judah and Benjamin 2 Douglas Jones, “The Cessation of Sacrifice after the Destruction of the Temple in 586 B.C.,” JTS N.S. 14 (1963) 12–31. 3 See also Hag 2:14. 4 How they would have correlated animal sacrifice with Deuteronomy 12 before 407 is unclear. 5 Ingrid Hjelm, The Samaritans and Early Judaism. A Literary Analysis (JSOTSup 303; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000) and “What Do Samaritans and Jews Have in Common? Recent Trends in Samaritan Studies,” CBR 3 (2005) 9–59. 1

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to the exclusiveness of Jerusalem? Until the rise of the Hasmonaean state, did Yehud have any way of enforcing its theological claims in Samaritan territory? This is the question behind the question in the Knowles dissertation. What authority did the Jerusalem temple have, and how was that authority exercised. Neither in her bibliography nor in the text of the book does she address the challenge of Diana Edelman, who has recently redated the construction of the temple to the tenure of Nehemiah instead of 515. 6 While this is not the place to discuss Edelman’s proposal, I wonder how Knowles would have to reframe her argument if the Edelman hypothesis were true, or is the data gathered by Knowles sufficient to call Edelman’s proposal into question? Knowles does not address the type of worship that was carried on by the Jews in Babylon during and following the exile. She notes early on Ezekiel’s reference to God’s functioning “for a little while” or “to some extent” as a sanctuary there (Ezek 11:16), but does not discuss the meaning of this except for a reference to a chapter dealing with this question by Andreas Ruwe. Was animal or grain sacrifice ever practiced in Babylon, and if so, when did it stop? Perhaps we cannot know. If the Elephantine colony could erect a temple in the “unclean land” of Egypt, could the Babylonian Jewish community have had some kind of cultic worship? She also mentions “the place” Casiphia (Ezra 8:17), but finds this designation too vague to identify this place as an area for animal sacrifice (p. 30). Incidentally she errs in stating that Ezra recruited priests from there, since it was instead Levites and 200 Nethinim that Ezra acquired from this site. I am not convinced by her conclusion that Zech 5:5–11, the woman in the ephah pot, means that any kind of worship involving iconographic representations of the deity in Babylon is unsanctioned and ultimately powerless (p. 38) or again that it offers a critique of worship outside Jerusalem, that is, of non-sacrificial worship in Babylon. Carol L. Meyers and Eric M. Meyers conclude that this vision means that foreign elements brought to Jerusalem must be thoroughly excised from the place of Yahweh in his restored temple. Perhaps this vision is also an expression of the semi-independence of Yehud, with the Yehudite God alone residing in the land. 7 David L. Petersen argues that Jerusalem is being purified and Babylon contaminated in this vision. The Babylonians will fix and venerate this new cultic object. Evil Diana Edelman, The Origins of the ‘Second’ Temple: Persian Imperial Policy and the Rebuilding of Jerusalem (London: Equinox, 2005). 7 Haggai, Zechariah 1–8 (AB 25B; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1987) 316. 6

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and impurity have been collected, and they must be removed from the land. 8 If these commentators are correct, the discussion of this vision could have been omitted from this chapter. It is unclear to me what Sanballat means in Neh 3:34 by asking “Will they sacrifice?” Knowles takes it to imply that the community in Yehud was not sacrificing up to this point. H. G. M. Williamson admits the obscurity of Sanballat’s questions, but translates “Will they commit their cause to God? Will they simply offer sacrifices?” and believes that Sanballat is ridiculing the suggestion that God can be cajoled into prospering the work as if by a magic wand. 9 In general, I believe Knowles could have given more indepth exegesis for many of the passages she cites. (I also think that Knowles is unduly pessimistic about determining what the Chronicler’s source in Kings had to say). In her concluding chapter, Knowles notes that the Jerusalem authorities would have considered sites outside Jerusalem transgressive, whereas those who worshiped there held them to be honorable. When did the time come that the Jerusalem authorities could enforce their point of view and not just criticize alternative practices? Chapter 3 addresses the question of the cultic use of incense, noting that Chronicles condemns the religious use of aromatics outside Jerusalem (pp. 55, 62); incense is acceptable only when offered by temple personnel in the temple itself. Uzziah and Ahaz are condemned for their inappropriate use of incense, while Asa, Hezekiah, and Josiah are commended for destroying (incense) altars outside Jerusalem. Is the polemic in Chronicles against incense part of a wider rejection of syncretistic practices? References in Malachi (1:11, where the deity speaks approvingly about incense offered among the nations) and Elephantine and the archeological recovery of incense burners from the Persian period at Tell en Nasbeh, Gezer, and Lachish indicate that use of incense was engaged in by Yahwists outside of the city. Incense burners have also been found at Samaria and Shechem. A conclusion might be drawn that the Chronicler’s prohibition of incense-burning outside the temple was not effective. Knowles concludes that the use of images or figurines was forbidden everywhere—both in the temple and outside the temple. Hence this neither contributes to nor detracts from her thesis about the practice of centrality, and perhaps could have been omitted. Or it could have been used to docu8 Haggai 9

and Zechariah 1–8 (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1984) 261–62. Ezra, Nehemiah (WBC 16; Waco, TX: Word Books, 1985) 216.

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ment the authority of the Jerusalem temple throughout the community? Or does the prohibition of images indicate the authority of the Ten Commandments throughout early Judaism? The discussion of Pilgrimages is taken up in chapter 4. The returns of exiles from Babylon usher in a future pilgrimage from the Diaspora and the nations in Zech 6:9–15, 8:7–8, 21–23. . Haggai and Third Isaiah foresee the journeys of nations to the temple bearing rich offerings (Hag 2:6–8; Isa 56:6–7; 60:9, 13). The best part of her argument about pilgrimages to Jerusalem are the centralized celebrations of booths and unleavened bread in Ezra 3:1–4 (cf. Neh 8:13–18) and Ezra 6:19–22 respectively. Less convincing to me as pilgrimages are the trips home from Babylon to Jerusalem reported in Ezra 1–2 and 7–8 (cf. Isa 51:9–11). Knowles notes the presence of Exodus and pilgrimage motifs in these passages and they surely underscore the importance of Jerusalem, but I am reluctant to call these one-way journeys pilgrimages. In the Chronicler’s account of the Passovers of Hezekiah (2 Chronicles 30) and Josiah (2 Chronicles 35), pilgrims come from both Judah and Israel to the centralized celebration in Jerusalem. The other evidence adduced by her for pilgrimage comes from Psalms 120–134, and Knowles calls attention to wording or editing in these Psalms that could indeed come from the Persian period. It seems to me, however, that the pilgrimages implied here can hardly be limited to one period. As far as taxing and tithing are concerned, Knowles engages in a rare exercise of Literarkritik in distinguishing between an earlier text in Neh 10:36–38a, describing annual journeys to Jerusalem to pay tithes, whereas the later layer in Neh 10:38b-40 demonstrates that this scenario was not practiced and that an alternative solution was designed, namely, that the Levites collected the tithes locally and transported them to Jerusalem. She notes a wide variety of positions on financial support for the cult in literature from the Persian period. Haggai expects the costs for reconstructing the temple to come from the community in Yehud, although additional treasure will come from the nations in the future. In Zechariah the temple is funded by the returned exiles as well as by the Diaspora, while in Trito Isaiah it is the future Diaspora and the nations who support the temple. Malachi and Nehemiah report that the local community alone brings offerings to the temple. While the Diaspora and the nations give some support for rebuilding the temple in Ezra, the cult is largely supported by the Persian kings. She finds this unusual and historically doubtful. Chronicles reports lavish and generous gifts of kings like David, whose example is intended to inspire lay people to be similarly generous.

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The bottom line: the practice of centrality was neither univocal nor consistent. I hope that in future studies Knowles might attend to the question of the authority of the temple and its regulations—which is somewhat different than the question of religious practices. If her interpretation of Gerizim is correct, the Jerusalem temple lacked authority in Samaria long before the definitive split and in fact achieved authority only through the Hasmonean rise to power. Also the interface between centrality practiced and the authority of Deuteronomy 12 might be pursued further. Her proposal of a palimpsest as a model for this period is only partially successful. While centrality was constantly being rewritten and nuanced, the palimpsest metaphor does not encompass as well the competing voices that she has so clearly uncovered.

FLAMES, CANDLES, AND HUMILITY: A RESPONSE TO THE SESSION DISCUSSING

CENTRALITY PRACTICED MELODY D. KNOWLES

MCCORMICK THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY It is a great honor to be a part of this session, and I would like to thank Tamara Eshkenazi and Gary Knoppers for suggesting it, and for the panelists who read Centrality Practiced: Jerusalem in the Religious Practice of Yehud and the Diaspora in the Persian Period (SBLABS 16; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2006) with such thoroughness, acumen, and generous spirits. In the middle of writing the dissertation on which Centrality Practiced is based, I walked across the bridge in Paris under which Princess Diana had been killed in a car crash more than a year previously. Just past the bridge was a public square, Place de l’Alma, in which was a statue of a golden flame. Photos of the Princess, handwritten notes, and bouquets of flowers covered the base of the statue. The notes were mostly vows to remember and encomiums of praise, with the exception of one large sign that presented a history of the statue itself. “This is not the ‘Candle in the Wind’” it said in French, “this flame preceded Diana. It is ‘la flamme de la liberté,’ a copy of the flame that the Statue of Liberty carries in New York. It is a symbol of the friendship between France and America.” As a doctoral student, this scene (like so many scenes for doctoral students!) reminded me of my dissertation. The surprising re–use of the statue was another instance of what my superb doctoral advisor, Leong Seow, was teaching me to see, namely, the liveliness of tradition. What was originally a symbol of the friendship between France and America became a symbol for an English Princess and her too–short life. The flame of liberty became the candle in the wind. The scene was also a reminder of the significance of geography. The statue’s new life was a product of its proximity to the sad site under the bridge. Of course, the statue had to have some small relation to Diana in its basic field of significance—proximity alone probably could not have trans193

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formed a statue of a general on a horse to a shrine for the anti–land mine Queen of Hearts—but I think that the popular imagination could have transformed a statue of a female queen or saint, or even an obelisk or reflecting pool. All of these monuments would also have worked as made– over memorials, I think, if they had the correct geography. In Place de l’Alma, feelings (including love, admiration, longing, and grief) were enacted in time and space. What I wanted to do in my dissertation was to see another feeling, that of Jerusalem’s significance, also enacted in time and space. In the absence of surviving bouquets of flowers, I had to find other ways to trace this sense of centrality. Hoping to capture more than just one person’s (or one school’s) textual perspective on what Jerusalem should be or stand for, I wanted to see if a sense of Jerusalem could be seen in popular religion. So I focused my research on activities that demonstrated and constructed ties to the city even for people outside the city itself: the avoidance of rituals such as animal sacrifice outside the city, ritual visits to the city (pilgrimage), and the sending of tithes. In later periods, many of these practices would become more popular, and others, such as sending bodies to Jerusalem for burial, would develop, but I wanted to see acts such as these in their earlier form. After the death of Princess Diana in 1997, the flame in Place de l’Alma was inscribed with a new meaning. It became, in some way, a palimpsest. Looking at photographs of the statue on the internet recently, I noticed that it actually has a bronze plaque on its base with the information about its original significance. But when I visited in 1998, the plaque was papered over with photographs and letters, which were themselves partially covered by the handwritten poster telling the viewer of the statue’s earlier history. So first there was the plaque, then it was obscured by Diana posters, and these posters were themselves later obscured by another poster reminding viewers of the information on the plaque underneath the posters. Yet no poster, no matter the size, can now take Princess Diana out of the meaning of this statue. Announcing that “this flame preceded Diana” simply reminds the viewer that this flame of liberty will always call to mind the candle in the wind. Symbols are supple, and adherents creative. In my final chapter of Centrality Practiced, I used the imagery of a palimpsest to talk about Jerusalem and its geographic connections (i.e., its landscape) partially to highlight the liveliness of tradition. Symbols can change their meaning through time, and in the Persian period Jerusalem was reinventing itself as a central place that looked different than what it previously looked like as a central place. When the Chronicler re–wrote the narratives in Kings, he included several stories of rulers giving financial gifts to

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the temple and followed these stories with accounts of the people responding with their own offerings to the temple (1 Chr 26:26–28; 29:5–9; 2 Chr 30:24; 31:3–10; 35:7–9). Given the frequency of this pattern, it is difficult not to come to the conclusion that the stories aim to foster a new financial generosity to the temple. In what I take to be a later expansion of Nehemiah 10, verses 39b–40 were added to ensure that the people brought their tithes annually to Jerusalem. But seeing such changes under the rubric “liveliness of tradition” implies an openness that is not necessarily always present. With the metaphor of palimpsest I also wanted to gesture to the contested nature of these attempts to efface and cover over. The Chronicler could emphasize again and again that incense was not to be used outside the city, but Malachi commended the practice to his readers. The picture of the very generous imperium in Ezra, so different in comparison with other Persian period biblical texts, leaves one with the impression that the author seeks to cover over and obscure a contradictory picture in other biblical and extra–biblical texts. Yet with the canon and the archaeological record, the communities that produced texts, such as Chronicles and Ezra, are individually unable to tell the whole story. The image of a palimpsest reminds us that meanings and authorized practices are not set in stone, despite the wishes of the communities that produced them. Even though contemporary historically correct poster–makers can tape up large signs to instruct viewers (“This flame preceded Diana”), such signs cannot completely obliterate the past and do not get the final say in assigning meaning to the statue. And the metaphor was also intended to point to the ways in which several competing meanings can coexist at any one time. Erasures are not always complete around the edges and texts can sometimes be detected underneath other texts. The image of palimpsest additionally points to the doomed nature of some of these attempts to reconstruct history: not all are recoverable, and it is tempting to wonder what parts of the story are now lost forever. In Place de L’Alma we can peel back the Princess Diana layer to see the American– French friendship layer, but one wonders which of these layers will survive 2,000 years hence? What new layers will be added? What will this monument be reconstructed to signify? Perhaps we could add an additional layer of meaning to this statue, that of academic humility. At the same time that we see several layers of significance in operation, we also are reminded of what may be lost in time. Will the flame ultimately snuff out the candle? Or will they both continue to exist together? The esteemed panelists have made several helpful suggestions to enrich Centrality Practiced, and I think that attention to Jerusalem’s growing au-

196

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thority to enforce its regulations and the specific ideology of Jerusalem suggested by individual biblical books are helpful avenues of research. Yet I hope that such questions can proceed with continued attention to Jerusalem within its own landscape and the role of religious practices to shape and be shaped by perceptions of geography. That is, my work in this book has led me to realize that study of this city must engage its place on the map and the ways in which other places on the map (Elephantine, Lachish, Gerizim, etc.) enacted or dismissed their bonds to Jerusalem, bonds that were influenced by received memories and traditions.

A GOAT TO GO TO AZAZEL ARON PINKER

SILVER SPRING, MARYLAND, U.S.A. 1. INTRODUCING THE QUESTION The ritual of the scapegoat is described in Lev 16:5–26. Each step of the ritual is clear, yet it remains enigmatic to this day. 1 Ehrlich succinctly summarized the situation saying, “Azazel—No one knows who he is or what he is. What previous scholarship said about him has no substance and cannot be relied upon.” 2 This is also true at the present time, almost a century later. Scholars focused their attention mostly on understanding the term Azazel (‫)עזאזל‬, which occurs only in Lev 16:8, 10 (2t), and 26, and on the occurrence of similar rituals in other ancient Near-East cultures to reveal its origins and purpose. Yet, the ritual poses a number of perplexing problems in addition to the studied issues. How is the ‫ עזאזל‬ritual related to atonement? Why were just two he-goats prescribed as atonement for the entire congregation of Israel rather than a bull (Lev 4:13–15)? Why were lots cast to select the scapegoat? What was the status of all the iniquities and transgressions of the Israelites that were symbolically placed on the scapegoat’s head? Were these sins forgiven, or in suspension? Why was the sacrifice of a single he-goat as a sin offering insufficient? Was each of the he-goats supposed to take care of the same kind of iniquities and transgressions? Why only on the Day of Atonement sacrifice is this ritual of a scapegoat enacted? Why was the ritual changed in the time of the Second Temple (m. Yoma 6:4–6)?

1 The term “scapegoat” was coined by the translators of the King James Bible because they did not know how to translate the Hebrew term Azazel. The translators understood the ‫ ל‬in ‫( לעזאזל‬Lev 16:10) in the sense “as a” rather than “to.” 2 Ehrlich, A. B. Mikra Ki-Pheshuto. New York: Ktav (1969) 227.

197

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Albright collected material on the scapegoat ritual for years, but except for some remarks on this topic never published anything comprehensive. 3 Certainly, the complexity of the issues associated with the scapegoat ritual is rather daunting. In this paper I will try to discuss the scapegoat ritual within the framework of competing notions of God’s abode on earth. I hope to show that within this framework many of the questions posed find a natural explanation.

2. BACKGROUND 2.1 MEANING OF AZAZEL (‫)עזאזל‬ 2.1.1 INTRODUCTION Already the Versions struggled with the term ‫עזאזל‬, trying to harmonize between the practice of the ritual at the time of the second Temple and the meaning of the name. The Septuagint translates ‫ עזאזל‬τῷ ἀποπομπαίῳ (“for the one carrying away the evil”) in Lev 16:8, τοῦ ἀποπομπαίου and τὴν ἀποπομπὴν in Lev 16:10, using a newly coined word. Such a sense would fit the context and usage. 4 In Lev 16:26 it has for ‫ עזאזל‬τὸν διεσταλμένον εἰς ἄφεσιν (“that has been set apart to be let go”). This appears to be an attempt at explaining what the term means. Thus, ‫עזאזל‬ only describes a function, which is “set apart to let go.” In MT ‫ עזאזל‬occurs twice in Lev 16:10. However, the Samaritan Bible has in Lev 16:10 once ‫ עזזאל‬instead of ‫עזאזל‬, though it agrees with MT in all the other cases. This might be a scribal error, or a case that escaped a later editor’s deliberate change of ‫ עזזאל‬into ‫עזאזל‬. The Peshitta has in Lev 16 ‫( עזזאיל‬Azazael), 5 Targum Onqelos ‫עזאזל‬, and the Temple Scroll (11 QTemple 26:13) and other texts (4Q180 1 7–8 [2 times])6 at Qumran conAlbright, W. F. “The High Place in Ancient Palestine.” VTSup 4 (1956) 245– 6, note 1. 4 Wevers, J. W. Notes on the Greek Text of Leviticus. SBLSCS 41 Atlanta: Scholars Press (1997) 244. 5 Zipor, M. A. The Peshitta Version of Leviticus. Jerusalem: Simor (2003) 135–139. 6 Allegro, J. M. “Some Unpublished Fragments of Pseudepigraphical Literature from Qumran’s Fourth Cave.” The Annual of Leeds University Oriental Society IV. Leiden (1964). These fragments from Qumran’s Fourth Cave have been collated in two documents. Document I line 7 contains the following: ‫פשר על עזזאל והמלאכים‬ ‫אשר ]יל[דו להם גברים‬. Allegro felt that these fragments are “of the wealth of the pseudepigraphical literature that must have been circulating within Judaism at the 3

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199

tain the form ‫עזזאל‬. 7 Symmachus and Aquila in Lev 16:10 use τράγος for ‫עזאזל‬, i.e., a designation associated with going or sending. In Lev 16:8 Aquila uses for ‫ עזאזל‬a term that means “strong.” Zipor felt that Symmachus and Aquila had in mind the following, ‫ אזל‬+ ‫עז‬. 8 The Vulgate’s caper emissarius considers ‫ עזאזל‬a description of the goat, as the Septuagint does. As in the MT, ‫ עזזאל‬or ‫ עזאזל‬seem to be names of some entity. Targum Pseudo-Jonathan in its translation for Lev 16:10 supplies an explanation for the second ‫עזאזל‬, ‫( אתר תקיף וקשה = עזאזל‬a hard and difficult place); i.e., the word characterizes the place to which the goat was taken. It is interesting to note that Tg.-Ps.-J. Gen 6:4 explains ‫שמחזאי ועזאל הינון נפלן מן‬ ‫שמיא‬, again using the form ‫עזאזל‬. Scholars believed that if the meaning of Azazel could be deciphered all would fall in place. However, to this day the meaning of Azazel eludes categorical definition. The approaches that have been adopted for interpreting the term Azazel essentially fell into four types: name of a supernatural entity, name or description of a place, abstract noun, description of the dispatched goat, and, miscellaneous opinions.

2.1.2 NAME OF A SUPERNATURAL ENTITY This approach capitalizes on the parallelism ‫ יהוה || עזאזל‬in Lev 16:8 and the fact that the scapegoat was sent out into the wilderness, which was considered to be one of the abodes of supernatural entities (Hab 3:3, Isa 13:21, 34:11–15). 9 In m. Yoma 6:1 Azazel is understood as a being, as clearly shown by ‫“ ואם של עזאזל מת‬and if that of Azazel died.” This is also the dominant opinion in the Midrashic literature from the early post Biblical period to the turn of the era.” Hoenig disputes Allegro’s assertion. In his view “these new documents belong to the period of early medieval Midrash, and Karaitic teachings, and are not to be included into the literature of the Second Commonwealth” (Hoenig, S. B. “The New Qumran Pesher on Azazel.” JQR 56 [1966] 253). 7 Grabbe, L. L. “The Scapegoat: A Study in Early Jewish Interpretation.” JSJ 18 (1987) 156. 8 Zipor, 135. Though ‫ אזל‬is Aramaic it occurs in Prov 20:14 and Job 14:11. 9 Kluger, R. S Satan in the Old Testament. Evanston: Northwestern University Press (1967) 44. The author notes that “the wilderness was already in the Babylonian conception the abiding-place of demons. This is shown by the following incantation against the evil Alu: Evil Alu, go to the desert place! Your dwelling is a destroyed ruin.

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very late Midrashim. 10 In 1Enoch, Azazel is the tenth in the list of fallen angels and is the source of all evil and corruption. 11 Azazel appears as a fullfledged demonic being in 1Enoch 8:1–2, 9:6, 10:4–8 and 13:1. 12 In a later Midrash one finds, “the lot of the Lord is a burnt offering, and the lot of Azazel is a goat as a sin offering” (Pirqe Rabbi Eliezer 46). 13 The Midrash tells that “Aza’el did not repent and still remains in his perverted state, corrupting the people by means of the multi-colored dress (attire) of women” (Yalkut Shimoni on Genesis 44). 14 References to Azazel as an entity can be found in Sifra (on Ahare Mot 2:8), Tob 8:3, and Matt 12:43. In later literature Azazel is identified as Semael or Satan. Azazel as Satan tempts the people of the world into sinning and for this reason the scapegoat was sacrificed to him on the Day of Atonement. 15 It is possible that some of the Israelites portrayed in Deut 32:16–17 thought that rendering worship to minor semi-divine spirits was quite compatible with their faith and loyalty to the God of their ancestors. Perhaps, similar reasoning can be detected in the opinions of the medieval Jewish 10 Ginzberg, L. The Legends of the Jews. (1945) vol I, 25, 126, 148–151; vol III, 472; vol V 123, 170–171, 230, 311; vol. VI 124, 291. 11 Charles, R. H. The Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha II. (1964) 193–196, 220, 235. In Enoch I Azel or Azzel (the forms change) is one of the angels that lust the daughters of man (Gen 6:1–4) and taught man to make weapons and adornments (8:1–2). It is clear from what follows and its connection with the M. Yoma 6:4 that the reference is to the biblical Azazel. 12 Grabbe, 153. The relevant verses in 1Enoch tell: “And to Raphael he said, ‘Bind Asael hand and foot and throw him into darkness. Make an opening in the wilderness, which is in Dadouel, and throw him into it. Place rough, sharp stones under him and cover the darkness over him. Let him reside there forever; cover his countenance and let no light shine. In the day of great judgment he will be led away to conflagration. And the earth, which the angels ruined will be healed. ... All the earth was made barren, ruined through the works of the teaching; of Azael, so write on him all sins.” 13 The text makes it clear that the reference is to the Azazel in the Scriptures, “Yet Azazel persisted obdurately in his sin of leading mankind astray... For this reason two he-goats were sacrificed on the day of Atonement, the one for the Lord, that He pardoned the sins of Israel, the other for Azazel, that he bear the sins of Israel and this is Azazel of the Torah.” Note that it is assumed here that the scapegoat is a sacrifice to Azazel (Samael) intended to bribe him, so that he would mute his accusations. 14 Jellinek, A. Beth ha-Midrash, IV. Wien: Schlossberg (1865) 127. 15 Shiloni, Y. (Ed.). Yalkut Shimoni I. Jerusalem: Mossad Harav Kook (1973) 155. It is not clear from the text whether the scapegoat was considered a sacrifice.

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exegetes Ibn Ezra and Nachmanides. Ibn Ezra gives essentially two explanations for ‫עזאזל‬. 16 His mystical (‫ )סוד‬explanation alludes to the demonic nature of Azazel and his simple (‫ )פשט‬explanation considers ‫ עזאזל‬a name of a place. Nachmanides note that Ibn Ezra did not have to obscure his mystical explanation because it has been revealed in many places. 17 He also believed that Azazel was one of the demons or one of God’s angels (servants). 18 Standard English translations in general consider ‫ עזאזל‬an entity. KJV uses for ‫ עזאזל‬its coined term ‘scapegoat’ in Lev 16:8 and 26 (for the scapegoat) understanding it as an entity. NASB also uses “for the scapegoat” in Lev 16:8 and first ‫ עזאזל‬in Lev 16:10. HNV has “for the scapegoat” for each occurrence of ‫עזאזל‬. JB notes that Azazel is a demon of the 16 Ibn Ezra’s commentary on Lev 16:8 reads: “Rabbi Shmuel [R. Shmuel Ben Hofni c. 997–1013] said, ‘Although it is (only) with reference to the goat of the sinoffering that it is written (explicitly) that it was for the Lord, the scapegoat was also for the Lord.’ But there is no need for this (comment). For the goat which was sent away was not an offering since it was not slaughtered. Now if you can understand the secret of the word after Azazel, you will know its secret and the secret of its name, since it has parallels in the Scriptures. And I will reveal to you part of the secret by hint: when you will be thirty-three, you will know it.” The clue, to count 33 verses from this verse, brings us to Lev 17:7 “they may offer their sacrifices no more to the goat-demons.” Ibn Ezra clearly considered Azazel a demon. However, it seems that in a different version of his commentary Ibn Ezra considered Azazel to be a heavenly constellation, according to Abarbanel (cf. Abarbanel’s seventh question in his commentary on the Torah, where he says: ‫)ובין שיהיה עזאזל כנוי למערכות השמים כדברי הרב״ע‬. 17 In Nachmanides’ commentary on Lev 16:8 one reads: “Now the Torah has absolutely forbidden to accept them (angels) as deities, or to worship them in any manner. However, the Holy One, blessed be He, commands us that on the Day of Atonement we should let loose a goat in the wilderness, to that ‘prince,’ which rules over wastelands, and this (goat) is fitting for it because he is its master, and destruction and waste emanate from his power, which in turn is the cause of the stars of the sword, wars quarrels, wounds, plagues, division and destruction... Also in his portion are the devils called ‘destroyers’ in the language of our Rabbis, and in the language of our Scriptures ‘satyrs (demons)’.” In Nachmanides’ view Azazel is the angel Samael or Satan, one of God’s servants, to whom God commands to give a portion of God’s own sacrifice. Samael gets a bribe (‫ )שוחד‬that he might not annul the effect of Israel’s offerings. 18 Yonge, C. C. (Ed.). The Works of Philo. Hendrickson (1995) 152. Philo says, “Those beings, whom other philosophers call demons, Moses usually calls angels; and they are souls hovering in the air.”

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desert and uses Azazel in the translation. NJPS leaves ‫ עזאזל‬untranslated, a name of some entity. Most modern scholars believe that Azazel is a supernatural entity 19 of ancient origin connected to demons, believed to live in the desert, and the ritual is an adaptation of purification rites of the ancient Near-East. 20 Duhm felt that Azazel is the leader of the ‫שעירים‬, 21 a desert-goblin. Cheyne considered Azazel the leader of the fallen angels to which Enoch refers. The name of this angel has been deliberately changed from ‫“ עזזאל‬out of reverence, to conceal the true derivation of the fallen angel’s name.” 22 Albright noted the parallels between the scapegoat and the Greek Pan and the satyrs as well as a number of Southwest-Asiatic goat deities. He felt that it is impossible to separate the ‫ שעירים‬from the scapegoat. It seemed reasonable to Albright “to suppose that popular fancy identified the scapegoat with the class of goat demons, giving rise to objectionable ideas which later ritual eliminated by the expedient of killing the goat.” 23 De Vaux also thought that Azazel is a supernatural being associated with demons. 24 It should be noted that there is a significant difference between ‫ שעירים‬and ‫שעירי עזים‬. 25 Felix identifies ‫ שעיר‬as the “scops owl” (Otus scops), a small bird of prey. 26 Its inclined posture, the two horn-shaped crests of hair-like feathers on its head, hopping, dance-like gait, recall the 19 Smith, W. R. Lectures on the religion of the Semites, II. Edinburgh: A. and C. Black (1889) 418, 422, and 468. 20 Zatelli, I. “The origin of the Biblical scapegoat ritual: the evidence of two Eblaite texts.” VT 48 (1998) 254–63. 21 Duhm, B. Das Buch Jesaia. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht (1968). See Isa 13:21. 22 Cheyne, T. K. “The Date and Origin of the Ritual of the ‘Scapegoat’.” ZAW 15 (1895) 155. 23 Albright, W. F. “The High Place in Ancient Palestine.” VTSup 4 (1956) 245–6, note 1. 24 De Vaux, R. Le sacrifice dans l’Ancien Testament. (1964) 88–91. 25 Albright, W. F. “The High Place in Ancient Palestine.” VTSup 4 (1956) 245–6. Albright says, “The ‫ שעירים‬were naturally rustic divinities, originally goat demons, and evidently included a heterogeneous lot of old pagan divinities, which were still worshipped, or at least venerated, in rustic areas, farthest removed from the influence of militant Yahwism.” He adds, “It seems reasonable to suppose that popular fancy identified the scapegoat with the class of goat demons, giving rise to objectionable ideas which later ritual eliminated by the expedient of killing the goat.” 26 Felix, J. The Animal World of the Bible. Tel Aviv: Sinai (1962) 80

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long-hair goat (‫)שעיר עזים‬. This might have led to some semantic confusion between the two. In Isa 13:21, which has been often quoted in support of a demonic Azazel, it seems contextually more natural to understand, ‫“ ושערים ירקדו שם‬and the Scops Owl shall dance there.” Similarly, ‫ושעיר‬ ‫ על רעהו יקרא‬in Isa 34:14 is “and the Scops Owl shall cry to his fellow.” Perhaps this verse alludes to the male’s hooting during the hatching period, which sounds like a moan. The Scops Owl apparently symbolized some devil and was worshipped. However, the association of the ‫ שעיר עזים‬with demons, via the ‫שעיר‬, is not warranted. 27 In Tawil’s opinion the term ‫ עזאזל‬consists of ‫ עזז‬and ‫ אל‬having the meaning “a fierce god.” He thinks “the spelling of this word as employed in the MT seems to be a scribal metathesis deliberately altered to conceal the true demonic nature of this supernatural being.” 28 There is some support for this position in the Samaritan Bible and the Peshitta. Tawil proposes to identify ‫ עזאזל‬with Mot, the Canaanite god of the underworld. 29 Zadok was able to show that the Neoassyrian Ab-di-a-zu-zi and Phoenician ‘bd ‘azz are theophoric personal names in which ‫ עזז‬is a divinity, as ‫עזזאל ==< עזאזל‬ = ‫ אל‬+ ‫‘( עזז‬Els strength” or “God’s power”). 30 Some base the name ‫עזאזל‬ on a posited Egyptian ̔ḏ3ḏr/l (“the expelled culprit”), associating the Israelite ritual with elements of the Egyptian religion pertaining to demons (in some respects resembling Seth). 31 Milgrom, J. Leviticus 1–16. AB 3. New York: Doubleday (1991) 1020. The references that Milgrom provides for the notion that the desert is the habitation of demons are, except for Isa 13:21 and 34:14, all post–biblical. 28 Tawil, H. “Azazel the Prince of the Steepe [sic]: A Comparative Study.” ZAW 92 (1980) 58. 29 Tawil, H. “Azazel the Prince of the Steepe [sic]: A Comparative Study.” ZAW 92 (1980) 58. Tawil makes the assumption that ‫עזמות=מות‬+‫=עז‬Mot+(is fierce) and that ‫עזז‬+‫=עזאזל=אל‬Demon+(is fierce) obtaining Demon=Mot. Certainly in the HB ‫ מות‬could mean the “angel of death.” However, it is questionable whether this is the meaning in ‫עזמות‬. Further, while Tawil gives an extensive presentation of Babylonian beliefs in demons, their raging and ferocity, abode in wasteland and netherworld, and source of sickness and misery, he fails to establish any plausible links between these many beings and the ‫ עזאזל‬of the HB. Finally, the switch from Babylonian to Canaanite mythology, as if they were just one and the same, is not justified. 30 Zadok, R. “Phoenicians, Philistines and Moabites in Mesopotamia.” BASOR 230 (1978) 57–58. 31 Görg, M. “Beobachtungen zum sogenannten Azazel-Ritus” BN 33 (1986) 10–16. 27

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Tawil’s position has been adopted by Zatelli. She says, “Perhaps the spelling ‫ עזזאל‬in Qumran texts is acceptable for ‫ ;עזאזל‬it has been changed into the more neutral ‫ עזאזל‬in the textus receptus. Probably it was originally a kind of Canaanite demon—which developed in the Hebrew tradition— connected with the chthonian power expressed by goats. The wilderness is a symbol of the underworld.” 32

2.2.3 NAME OR DESCRIPTION OF A PLACE This approach capitalizes on the correspondence in Lev 16:22 between ‫עזאזל‬, ‫ארץ גזירה‬, and ‫במדבר‬. Tg. Ps.-J. Lev 16:10, which reads as follows ‫ באתר תקיף וקשׁי דבמדברא דצוק דהוא בית הדורי‬translates ‫ עזאזל‬as “in a rough and hard place in the desert at a cliff that is in Beit Hadure” drawing on b. Yoma 67b and m. Yoma 6:8. The discussion in b. Yoma is summarized in Sifra (on Ahare Mot 2:8): ‫ ומנין שיהיה בצוק‬.‫ יכול ביישוב תלמוד לומר המדברה‬.‫לעזאזל למקום הקשה בהרים‬ ‫תלמוד לומר אל ארץ גזירה‬

The text there explains that ‫ עזאזל‬is a hard to access mountain precipice exploiting the biblical details, namely ‫( המדברה‬thus not in an urban place) and ‫( אל גזירה ארץ‬thus to a precipice). Sa’adiah has rendered ‫“ עזאזל‬to the Mount ‫עזאז‬,” as in ‫ כהררי אל‬Ps 36:7 or ‫ יקתאל‬in 2Kgs 14:7, consisting of a descriptor and ‫ אל‬for exaggeration. Ibn Ezra’s simple (‫ )פשט‬explanation for ‫ עזאזל‬seems to be “name of a mountain near Mount Sinai,” to which the goat was chased and then pushed off. Thus, the ritual during the Second Commonwealth was no different from in the desert. Kimchi explains that Azazel is the name of the mountain to which the goat was led (‫ אוזל‬+ ‫)עז‬, and because the goat was led there the mountain acquired this name. Rashi, following the description in b. Yoma 67b, takes Azazel as a “precipitous place” or “rugged cliff,” reading ‫ עזזאל‬for ‫עזאזל‬. Rashbam understands that the scapegoat was sent to the desert where goats pasture (Ex 3:1), as in the case of the birds of a leper (Lev 14:7) [Also cleansing a house suspect of being infected Lev 14:53]. The term ‫ עזאזל‬is then another word for “desert.” Note, however, that “desert” here carries a positive meaning, it is a grazing place sustaining life, and not the forsaken “out-place.” R. Behai says that the simple meaning of ‫ עזאזל‬is “hard.”

32

Zatelli, 262–263.

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Driver, who adopts Sa’adiah’s interpretation, considers the ‫ ל‬as formative, similar to its use in ‫( כרמל‬from ‫ )כרם‬and ‫( ערפל‬from ‫)ערף‬. He finds similarities between ‫( עזאז‬or ‫ )עזז‬and the Arabic ʿazâzu(n) “rough ground” or ʿazâzilu “jagged cliff/precipice.” 33 Milgrom felt that “in pre-Israelite practice he [‫ ]עזאזל‬surely was a true demon, perhaps a satyr (cf. Ibn Ezra on Lev 16:8), who ruled in the wilderness—in the Priestly ritual he is no longer a personality but just a name, designating the place to which impurities and sins are banished.” 34 Milgrom devotes a whole section to “Azazel and Elimination Rites in the Ancient Near East,” yet none of the Hittite and Mesopotamian rites that he mentions are associated with an entity called Azazel (or similar name). Demonolatry was universal and deeply rooted in ancient religions. Some Israelites apparently worshipped various ‘spirits’ and the Hebrew Bible warns against these practices (Ex 20:4–5, 22:19, Deut 5:7–8). “However, within the world of Pentateuchal traditions, demonolatry was construed as a practice that the Israelites have acquired only in Goshen or the desert, and could not have too deep roots (Deut 32:17). Moreover, there is no evidence in the Hebrew Bible or Ancient Near East literature for a demonic entity called ‫ עזאזל‬that would warrant Milgrom’s confidence.

2.2.4 ABSTRACT NOUN Roskoff considered Azazel as the personification of impurity. He says, “Azazel is not a power to whom a sacrifice would be offered in atonement, and the dualism which suggests itself through him is only shadowy. He is merely the qualification of abstract impurity as against the absolute purity of YHWH; he is only a shadow image without reality against the solely real power of YHWH.” 35 BDB understand ‫ עזאזל‬as an abstract noun such as “destruction” or “entire removal.” 36 Gesenius says “I have no doubt that it should be rendered averter ἀλεξίκακος (‫ עזאזל‬for ‫עזלזל‬, from the root ‫עזל‬, to remove, to separate).” 37 Hertz accepts Gesenius’ view and translates 33

98.

Driver, G. R. “Three Technical Terms in the Pentateuch.” JSS 1 (1956) 97–

Milgrom, 1021. Roskoff, G. Geschichte des Teufels, 2 vols. Leipzig: F. A. Brockhaus (1869) 186. 36 Brown, F., Driver, S. R. and Briggs, C. A. Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament. Oxford: Oxford University Press (1955) 736. 37 Gesenius, H. W. F. Gesenius’ Hebrew-Chaldee Lexicon to the Old Testament Scripture (Trans. Tregelles, S.). Grand Rapids: Baker Books (1996) 617. 34 35

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‫ עזאזל‬as “dismissal.” 38 Janowski and Wilhelm found similarities between the ‫ עזאזל‬ritual and South Anatolian North Syrian ancient practices, in which donkeys and birds were used as substitutes for humans to appease an angry deity. They consider ‫ עזאזל‬a metathesized form of the original ‫“ = עזזאל‬divine anger.” 39 Concerning ‫ עזז‬Janowski and Wilhelm (158) say: “Im Westsemitischen, so im Ugaritischen und Hebräischen, bezeichnet die Wurzel ebenfalls oft eine göttliche Qualität, die aber nicht in der Weise des Akkadischen negativ Festgelegt ist, sondern auf die Macht und Starke abhebt, die sich freilich auch hart und zornig veräußern kann.” Yet, Janowski and Wilhelm do not give any evidence in support of the idea that ‫ עז‬or ‫ עזז‬can express God’s powerful wrath. De Roo tries to rectify this omission reintroducing a similar notion. He quotes Ezra 8:22, Ps 66:3, 90:11, and Isa 42:25 in support of his contention that “a plausible rendering for the word ‫ עזז‬is ‘furious power’ or ‘powerful wrath’.” Unfortunately his effort is of no consequence, since the quoted cases do not support his thesis. In Ezra 8:22 ‫ ועזו ואפו‬clearly indicates that “strength” and “anger” are two separate qualities; in Ps 66:3 ‫ עזך‬does not warrant his translation “your furious power” as evidenced by standard English translations, which uniformly render ‫“ עזך‬your power/strength” (cf. KJV, NKJV, NLT, NIV, ESV, NASB, RSV, ASV, Young, Darby, Webster, HNV, JB, NJPS); in Ps 90:11 ‫ עז אפך‬is “power/strength of your anger” not “furious power of your anger”; and, in Isa 42:25 ‫ עזוז‬does not parallel ‫אפו‬, rather ‫חמה אפו‬, the latter and ‫ ועזוז מלחמה‬are two construct forms in a list. No wonder Janowski and Wilhelm did not quote any biblical sources. De Roo says, “The first goat is for YHWH: it will be offered to him as a sacrifice. The second goat is ‘for the powerful wrath of God’, that is ‘for placating God’s anger’.” 40 This notion, of one goat sacrificed to the deity and the other goat to its mood, appears artificial for it introduces a separation where one is naturally not expected. 38

481.

Hertz, J. H. (Ed.). The Pentateuch and Haftorahs. London: Soncino Press (1977)

Janowski, B. and Wilhelm, G. “Der Bock, der die Sünden hinausträgt. Zur Religionsgeschichte des Azazel-Ritus Lev 16,10.21f.” In Religionsgeschichtliche Bezeihungen zwischen Kleinasien, Nordsyrien und dem Alten Testament. Internationale Simposion, Hamburg 17–20 März 1990 (eds. Janowski, B., Klaus, K. and Wilhelm, G.). Freibur-Göttingen: OBO 129 (1993) 106–169. 40 De Roo, J. C. R. “Was the Goat for Azazel Destined for the Wrath of God?” Bib 81 (2000) 236–237, 238. 39

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Kluger says, “Azazel, originally probably an ancient demonic deity, is now nothing more than a concept, still extant as such, but largely hollowed out. He is no more than a symbol of the desert.” 41 Recently, Dietrich and Loretz argued that ‫ עזאזל‬originally meant “for the removal of God’s anger.” 42 In their view, the concept, stemming from a Canaanite tradition of ritual, was mistakenly linked by the Israelites with the desert associated demons.

2.2.5 DESCRIPTION OF THE DISPATCHED GOAT Many consider Azazel to be a combination of ‫אזל‬+‫“ עז‬the goat that goes,” which would be a description of the goat. The Septuagint and the Vulgate seem to support this position. R. Behai (13th–14th century) considers both goats presents to God, one being slaughtered and the other sent free to the desert as in the ritual for a person cleared of leprosy, where one of the birds is set free (Lev 14:2–9). Thus, the scapegoat has been designated ‫לעזאזל‬ because it was sent into the desert. 43 KJV uses its coined term ‘(e)scapegoat’ as a description of the dispatched goat in Lev 16:10 (to be the scapegoat, for a scapegoat). NKJV seems to consider ‘scapegoat’ everywhere a description, using it in the phrases for the scapegoat (serve as a scapegoat?), to be the scapegoat, as the scapegoat. NLT and NIV understand azazel = ‘scapegoat’ as “the goat of removal.” NASB uses “for the scapegoat” for the first ‫ עזאזל‬and “as the scapegoat” for the second ‫ עזאזל‬in Lev 16:10 and in Lev 16:26. Young renders ‫“ עזאזל‬a goat of departure.”

2.2.6 MISCELLANEOUS NOTIONS 1. R. Isaac says, “‫( ונשא עליו השעיר‬Lev 16:22) this is Esau as it is written ‫( הן עשו אחי איש שער‬Gen 27:11); ‫( את כל עונתם‬Lev 16:22) ‫ תם = עונותם‬+ ‫ עונות‬as it is written ‫”ויעקב איש תם‬ (Gen. Rab. 65:10). The rite on the Day of Atonement symbol-

Kluger, R. S. Satan of the Old Testament. Evanstone: Northwestern University Press (1967) 47. 42 Dietrich, M. and Loretz, O. “Der biblische Azazel und A1T*126.” UF 25 (1993) 99–117. 43 R. Behai son of R. Asher Ibn Hilavah. Commentary on the Pentateuch, Leviticus, Vol. II. Benei Braq: Mishor (1990) 79. This commentary was originally written in 1291. 41

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2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

izes the transfer of Israel’s sins to its sworn enemies the Edomites, descendants of Esau. The scapegoat is called ‫ עזאזל‬because it brings atonement for the deeds of ‫ עזא‬and ‫( עזאל‬b. Yoma 67b), symbolically sins of incest. 44 In this explanation ‫ עזאל = עזאזל‬+ ‫עזא‬. Rashi explains “Uzza and Azael are demonic angels who came down to the earth in the days of Naamah the sister of Tubal Cain (Gen 4:22). Of them it is said that ‘the sons of God saw the daughters of men (Gen 6:2)’ that is to say (Azazel) atones for the sins of incest.” The Gaon (917–926 CE) R. Mevaser Kahana Bar R. Kimoi read ‫ עזזל‬instead of ‫ עזאזל‬assuming that the ‫ א‬was inserted between the ‫ ז‬and ‫ ז‬to ease the pronunciation (apud Ibn Ezra on Lev 16:8). According to Isaac of Antioch, the pagan Arabs worshiped the Venus Star under the title Al-‘Uzza “The Strong (Female),” and Syrian women ascended the roof tops to pray to the star to make them beautiful. 45 Grintz suggested that the Aza’el or Uza of 1Enoch 8:1 is none other than the goddess Al-‘Uzza. 46 Indeed, Enoch tells that Aza’el taught men to make among other things bracelets, and ornaments, and the use of antimony, and the beautifying of eyelids, and all kinds of costly stones, and all coloring tinctures. 47 Azazel is no ordinary demon, but a deity to be propitiated on equal footing with Yahweh. The sending of the goat for Azazel (= ‘Uzza, “Strong Lady,” i.e. ‘Astart-Anat) to the wilderness or steppe-land (midbar) is appropriate for the goddess whose Akkadian title was belit seri, “Lady of the Steppe.” 48 Some Standard English translations (ESV, RSV, ASV, Darby) leave Azazel untranslated, implying by the capitalization that it is an entity.

44 According to the Midrash (Deut. Rab. 11) Uzza and Azel were “the divine beings [who] saw how beautiful the daughters of man were and took wives from among those that pleased them” (Gen 6:2). 45 Pope, M. H. Song of Songs. AB 7C. Garden City: Doubleday (1977) 315–316. 46 Grintz, J. M. “Do Not Eat on the Blood.” ASTI 8 (1971) 103 note 57. 47 Charles, R. H. The Book of the Secrets of Enoch. APOT II. Oxford: Clarendon (1896) 192. 48 Pope, 315.

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7. Tertullian suggested that the two goats represent Jesus. He says, “The two goats, which were offered at the Fast, are not these also figures of Christ’s two activities? The goats have to be alike, because both represent Christ. According to Tertullian, the goat ‘driven into perdition’ (a clear reference to the goat for Azazel) marks the Lord’s suffering: he was ‘cursed and spit upon and pulled about and pierced.’ The other goat symbolizes Christ’s offering for sin.” 49 8. Carmichael suggests that the Azazel rite has a commemorative function. It harks back to the concealment of a transgression by the sons of Jacob with regard to Joseph. The rite is intended to imply that the descendants of Israel should not conceal their offenses, but should confess them when seeking forgiveness. 50 9. Fauth suggests that ‘Azazel originates from the circle of gods close to the Canaanite El (‘Azazel als einer originär dem kanaanäischen El bzw. Dem ihm zugeordneten Götterkreis nahestehenden Gestalt Rückhalt zu verschaffen). 51 10. Rudman shifts the focus from ‫ לעזאזל‬to ‫מדבר‬, claiming that the ritual as described by P, cleanses Israel (understood as a microcosm of creation) of sin (understood as chaos), and removes it outside creation itself into the chaotic area of wilderness. 52 49 Tertullianus. Adversus Marcionem (trans. Evans, E.). Oxford: OECT (1972) 191. Cf. also Treat, J. C. “Epistle of Barnabas.” ABD vol. I. New York: Doubleday (1992) 611–614. 50 Carmichael, C. “The Origin of the Scapegoat Ritual.” VT 50,2 (2000), 167– 181. Carmichael’s basic thesis is that all the laws in the Hebrew Bible stem from actual episodes found in Genesis–2Kings. At some time an anonymous lawgiver invented the nation’s ancient laws by reviewing the historical episode and judging them according to his own ethical and legal thinking. 51 Fauth, 534. 52 Rudman, D. “A note on the Azazel-goat ritual.” ZAW 116 (2004) 400. The shift of focus from ‫ לעזאזל‬to ‫ מדבר‬obviates ‫לעזאזל‬, which occurs three times in the MT. Also, the ultimate destination of the scapegoat is ‫“ ארץ גזרה‬precipitous area,” which presumably the scapegoat could reach, not the desert per se. Furthermore, it is doubtful that the Hebrew Bible ever considers “desert” as chaos, according to the definition given by Rudmen, which is on a par with the mythological sea monsters. Finally, Rudmen’s notion of “desert” that is part of the creation as being uncreated, “places which God’s creative power has failed to penetrate” (see p. 399) seems

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2.2.6 CONCLUSIONS: 1. Most scholars are comfortable with the notion that ‫ עזאזל‬has been originally an epithet of a demonic personality, 53 which over time degenerated into a representation of “the geographical goal of the scapegoat’s dispatch,” because the figure became peripheral and impotent. 54 However, it seems inconceivable that Israel’s monotheistic religion would give equal footing, in a major annual rite in the Temple, to a competing demonic personality, even of reduced potency and significance. 55 Segal seems correct in saying, “It is also incredible that a priestly writer would have embodied in the Book of Leviticus a divine command to offer a sacrifice to a demon just immediately before the divine oracle in chapter 17 denouncing the sacrifices to the se‘irim.” 56 2. The theory that Azazel is the name of a place in the desert rules itself out, since its juxtaposition to the name of God obviously points to a personal being. Attempts to associate ‫עזאזל‬ with a specific place, or characterization of a place, seem to aim at forming a bridge between an old concept and new practices. 3. There is ample evidence in the Versions, midrashic sources, Qumran scrolls, pseudepigraphic literature, and later sources 57 contradictory. 53 Wright, D. P. “Azazel.” In Anchor Bible Dictionary (ABD), I. (1992) 536–567. 54. Wright, D. P. The Disposal of Impurity: Elimination Rites in the Bible and in Hittite and Mesopotamian Literature. Atlanta: SBLDS 101 (1987) 21–25. 55 Duhm, H. Die bösen Geister im Alten Testament. Tübingen and Leipzig: (1904) 28, 32. 56 Segal, M. H. “The Religion of Israel before Sinai.” JQR ns 53 (1962/63) 251–252. 57 Fauth, 521. Fauth says, “der name ‘Aza(z)el in seinem verschiedenen formalen bzw. Orthographischen Ausprägungen überwiegend Engeln eignet, die ihrer Natur nach als einem Hochgott, zum Beispiel dem alttestamentlichen “Herrn der (Streit)kräfte” (Ps 59:5 ‫ אלהים צבאות‬Sept. ὁ θεὸς τῶν δυνάμεων) unterstellte und auf sein Geheiß handelnde Potenzen minderen Ranges (δυνάμεις) innerhalb der Arkan- und Magiesphäre dessen “Macht” repräsentieren, worauf der Name ‫“ עז)ז(אל‬Kraft Els” oder “El [ist] stark”) von sich aus hindeutet.” De Roo (235) also claims that “The idea that ‫ עזאזל‬is a metathesized form of ‫ עזזאל‬is very plausible.”

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211

that biblical ‫ עזאזל‬was originally the homophone ‫עזזאל‬ (“strong God”). 58 While late post-biblical sources cannot directly attest to the original form of writing ‫עזאזל‬, and in particular whether it was ‫עזזאל‬, they indicate that the variously derived orthographic forms predominantly refer to angels, the nature of which is God-like and who act on God’s behalf. Since the terms ‫ עז‬or ‫ עזז‬are associated with the deity, it would be reasonably to assume the same for ‫עזזאל‬. 59 What was the motivation for the metathesis is less clear. If the metathesis is assumed late, it might have been occasioned by a wish to more closely tie the later practice of the ritual with the designation of a goat. If the metathesis is assumed early, it was perhaps motivated by an attempt to divert the Israelites from a desert dwelling deity (‫ )עזזאל‬and direct them to the Temple dwelling deity. 4. It seems reasonable to conclude that the ritual described in Lev 16:5–26 was to the same God, identified as ‫ יהוה‬and ‫עזזאל‬, respectively.

2.3 SUPPORT FOR THE CONCLUSIONS FROM SIMILAR RITUALS The conclusion advanced in the previous section is bolstered by an analysis of rites in other ancient cultures that have some similarity with the scapegoat rite, even if there is no known rite in other ancient cultures that closely resemble the rite of the scapegoat described in the HB, nor do any of the potentially relevant rites mention a supernatural figure whose name is Azazel (or any name close to it). This said, the concept of B assuming the inconveniences of A and thereby leaving A unencumbered is psychologically very appealing. The Midrash (Yalkut Shimoni on Bereshit 44) says: “The sins are sent to Azazel, so that he may carry them.” Such rituals were probably practiced since early antiquity to this day. The following are some potentially relevant examples:

Fauth, W. “Auf den Spuren des biblischen ‘Azazel (Lev 16) Einige Residuen der Gestalt oder des Namens in jüdisch-aramäischen, koptischen, äthiopischen, syrischen und mandäischen Texte.” ZAW 110 (1998) 514–534. Fauth provides a variety of sources that attest to the use of ‫ עז‬or ‫ עזז‬in archaic names for supernatural beings of a lower order. 59 Tawil, 58–59. 58

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

In the 14th and 13th centuries BCE, in Mesopotamia as well as in the Hittite kingdom, when unfavorable astrological omens threatened the life of a ruler, a prisoner was chosen, anointed and invested with royal insignia, and installed as a substitute king. He was then sent to a distant land. It was believed that this ceremony averted the danger to the King and transferred it to the scapegoat. 60 At the festival of Akitu, the Babylonian New Year, a goat in lieu of a human was sacrificed to Ereshkigal, the goddess of the abyss or netherworld. An Assyrian document dealing with the case of a person who could not drink or eat suggests tying a he-goat to his bed and transferring the disease to the goat. On the next morning the he-goat was to be taken to the desert, his head cut, meat cooked and with honey and fats put into a hole. 61 The Hittite in time of a plague used to send a ram, crowned with colorful wool, to the enemy land, so that it would transfer the plague there. The Roman year began on the Ides of March. On that day, a man clad in skins was driven through the streets of Rome, beaten with rods, and driven out of the city. For additional cases see Milgrom, Tawil, Wright, Zitteli, and particularly Eberhart, etc. 62 In many of these rituals an offended or angry deity or demons must be propitiated so that a plague or other evil might be averted or lifted from mankind or an individual. The offerings made are of appeasement and substitution intended to assuage the demonic wrath. Wright rightly notes that Leviticus 16 does not speak of Azazel in any of these terms. 63 Indeed, 60 Kümmel, H. M. Ersatzrituele für den hethiteschen König. StBoT 3. Weisbaden Harrassowitz (1967) 111–12. 61 Ebeling, E. Tod und Leben nach dem Vorstellungen der Babylonier. Berlin: DeGruyter (1931) 73–75. 62 Eberhart, Ch. Studien zur Bedeutung der Opfer im Alten Testament. Die Signifikanz von Blut- und Verbrennungsriten im kultischen Rahmen. NeukirchenVluyn: Neukirchener (2002), p. 211. Wright 1987, 31–74. 63 Wright claims that Azazel receives no offerings (the scapegoat is not a sacrifice) and prayers are not made to him. This is debatable (cf. Volgger, 258–9). He says, “Such a laconic treatment of Azazel in view of these other rituals suggests that Azazel is not an active being that is due any sort of veneration or attention.” Yet, Azazel is clearly venerated. Wright suggests that the reason that he [Azazel] was retained in the Priestly version of the rite may be due to popular belief which would not allow total expunging of the personality. One would think that the Priestly ver-

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213

Azazel, on the Day of Atonement is not angry or offended, he causes no harm, and he is not malicious. In fact, on this day Azazel as a deity is no different from God. As YHWH, he also receives a sin-offering, 64 which is a he-goat, just as YHWH’s. Moreover, the he-goat is selected by lot to eliminate any bias or preference. The goat to YHWH was presented at YHWH’s abode—the Temple, Azazel’s goat was presented to Azazel at the latter’s abode—the desert. This is the essence of the thesis in this paper, which would be elaborated in subsequent sections.

2.4 APPENDIX: AZAZEL IN LATER SOURCES Only in pseudepigraphic literature (1Enoch 8:1, 9:6, 10:4–8, 13:1, cf. 54:5–6, 55:4, 69:2; Apocalypse of Abraham 13:6–14, 14:4–6, 20:5–7, 22:5, 23:11, 29:6–7, 31:5) 65 does Azazel appear as a full-fledged demonic being, and the scapegoat rite is viewed as a symbol of demonic expulsion and eschatological victory over demonic forces. 66 I have mentioned that in 1Enoch, the demonic fallen angel Azazel is considered the source of all the sin and evil on earth. This would correspond to a personification of the ‫“ יצר הרע‬bad inclination.” God commands the angel Raphael to exterminate Azazel the source of all iniquities and corruption and thus purify the land. Raphael is instructed to bind Azazel hand and foot, make an opening in the desert, which is in Dudael, and cast him there onto the darkness. Raphael should also place upon Azazel rough and jagged rocks, and cover him with darkness, and let him dwell there forever, and cover his face that he may not see light. Hanson finds direct links between the binding of Azazel in 1Enoch 10 and the rite of purgation associated with the scapegoat. 67 Azazel is being treated in a way similar to that of demons and other hostile powers in Akkadian magical and incantation texts. Why did the author of 1Enoch link sion, which has very little to say about demons, would be more anxious to expunge such reference, yet nowhere else but in Leviticus is Azazel mentioned. Wright’s mistake was in comparing Azazel only with the supernatural beings in similar rites, rather than with God in the Day of Atonement rite. 64 Fauth, 534. 65 Volgger, D. “The Day of Atonement according to the Temple Scroll.” Bib 87,2 (2006) 258–9. 66 Sparks, H. F. D. (ed.). The Apocryphal Old Testament. Oxford: Calderon (1984) 173–177, 188–191, 195, 251, 364–366, 378–379, 383–389. 67 Hanson, P. D. “Rebellion in Heaven, Azazel, and Euhemeristic Heroes in 1Enoch 6–11.” JBL 96 (1977) 221–222. See 1Enoch 9:6, 10:4–6.

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the goat designated “for Azazel” with Azazel? Helm suggests that the answer to this question could be found in the fact that “the scapegoat was regarded the focus of evil, a visible representative of the demonic.” 68 He speculates that in addition to Leviticus 16 existed an oral tradition upon which both Leviticus 16 and Enoch drew, since Azazel is introduced abruptly in Leviticus 16, as if assuming general knowledge. However, it seems that stories about Fallen Angels were not circulating during the Second Commonwealth. 69 In the Apocalypse of Abraham (80–100 CE?) Azazel is also portrayed as a fallen angel and tempter of humankind. Azazel is described as an unclean bird that flies down on the carcasses of the animals sacrificed by Abraham and starts a verbal dispute with Abraham. He is rebuked by an angel and called “wickedness” (Apoc. Ab. 13:7). Azazel is depicted as an evil spirit. The image of Adam’ and Eve’s temptation, refers to a winged snake that tempts as Azazel (Apoc. Ab. 23:12). A number of attributes commonly associated with Satan appear in the depictions of Azazel contained in these works. Certainly, they depict an aberration of the biblical concept of Azazel. How this aberration developed is a subject for a separate study. It should, however, be noted that it is a product of a mainly urban Jewish society that lost its link with the desert and tradition of a God that dwells in the desert.

3. PROPOSING A SOLUTION 3.1 PURPOSE OF THE RITUAL The purpose of the scapegoat in Leviticus 16 is seemingly to carry the confessed sins of the Israelites into the desert to Azazel. Maimonides explains, “The goat [of the Day of Atonement] that was sent [into the wilderness] (Lev 16:20, seq.) served as an atonement for all serious transgressions more than any other sin-offering of the congregation. As it thus seemed to carry off all sins, it was not accepted as an ordinary sacrifice to be slaughtered, burnt, or even brought near the Sanctuary; it was removed as far as possible, and sent forth into a waste, uncultivated, uninhabited land. There is no 68 Helm, R. “Azazel in Early Jewish Tradition.” Andrews University Seminary Studies 32,3 (1994) 217–226 (221). Helm finds support in ‫ שעיר‬being a “male goat” or “demon,” and the possibility of understanding ‫“ לעזאזל‬on behalf of Azazel.” 69 On the problems of the early Jewish tradition regarding ‫עזאזל‬, see Hanson (220–33) and Grabbe (153–55).

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215

doubt that sins cannot be carried like a burden, and taken off the shoulder of one being to be laid on that of another being. But these ceremonies are of a symbolic character, and serve to impress men with a certain idea, and to induce them to repent; as if to say, we have freed ourselves of our previous deeds, have cast them behind our backs, and removed them from us as far as possible.” 70 Cheyne agrees with Maimonides that the purpose of the scapegoat ritual was to provide the primitive folk with a visible act of removal of the sins and of the consequences of those sins (cf. Lev 14:53). However, he also believes that the second purpose was to do away with the cult of the ‫שעירים‬. 71 However, one wonders how giving such a prominent role to a demonic Azazel in a major festival would undermine the cult of the ‫שעירים‬. Leviticus 16 details the solemn ceremonies and underscores the spiritual significance of the Day of Atonement. It naturally follows a section of Leviticus that deals with various impurities (of animals, human body, human clothing, and human dwelling) and their purification (Leviticus 11–15). Leviticus 16 concludes with the purification on the Day of Atonement of the sanctuary and the purification of the people from the spiritual impurities of their sins. The two he-goats were a sin-offering (Lev 16:5) for these two purposes. Goats were selected for their symbolic value. The goats of the land of Israel (Capra hircus mambrica), usually black and long haired, perhaps adequately symbolized long term or persistent sinning. The jumpy behavior of the goat reminded the sinner’s deviations from the norm, and their eating habits (cf. the later expression, ‫ )מקצץ בנטיעות‬the destructiveness of sin. The ‫ שעיר עזים‬also conveniently alluded to ‫עזזאל‬. On the Day of Atonement the Israelite wanted to be cleansed of his transgressions and wanted his Temple cleansed of any infractions made by its users. He wanted a clean slate and a new beginning. With so much at stake and God’s abode on earth uncertain, he could not gamble. Two he-goats were thus used one for each of God’s possible abodes on earth. The two he-goats were one sinoffering, but split for two different destinations. 72 This would explain the 70 Maimonides, M. The Guide to the Perplexed. (Trans. Friedlander, M). New York: Dover (1956) 366. 71 Cheyne, 154. 72 The term ‫“ קרבן‬offering, oblation” is derived from the root ‫“ קרב‬near,” drawing on the presentation ritual to deities. There appear to be essentially two

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

meticulous insistence on the two he-goats being alike in every possible way and the selection by lot for the different functions.

3.2 TIME THE RITUAL WAS INTRODUCED Cheyne thought it reasonable that the scapegoat ritual was one of the latest additions to the Priestly Code, about the 4th century BCE, but he does not supply any support for this opinion. 73 Modern critics who date Leviticus 16 late usually refer to Neh 9:1, which claims that a special fast and day of mourning was held on the twenty-fourth day of the seventh month. It is argued that if the tenth of the seventh month had been observed as the fast of the Day of Atonement there would have been no need for holding a special fast on the twenty-fourth day. Segal notes that “this argument is fallacious. The Day of Atonement is not only a fast but also a holy festival on which mourning in sackcloth with earth upon the head is strictly prohibited.” 74 Many felt that the ritual of the scapegoat is of ancient origins. Loehr observed: “Asasel, the Holy Tabernacle, above all the ‘camp’ of Israel, are signs seeming to point back to the period before the settling in Canaan, to an existence in the shepherd steppes of southernmost Palestine. Perhaps the sending of a goat to Asasel is a pre-Mosaic ritual of atonement of one of the Leah tribes, which for some unknown reasons was adopted into the cult of Yahweh when Yahwism arose.” 75 Driver says, “No doubt the ritual is a survival from another stage of popular belief, engrafted on and accommodated to the sacrificial system of the Hebrews....” He draws attention to the primitive character of the ritual, which has many analogies in the Old Testament itself (Lev 14:4, 49) and in other countries. 76 Bergmann considers the phrase “before the Lord” a clumsy attempt to demonstrate that the goat destined for the demon was still under God’s jurisdiction. He surmises “that the custom must have been a very old one types of animal ‫קרבנות‬: ‫ זבח קרבן‬and ‫קרבן שילוח‬. Thus, the scapegoat is a sacrifice, albeit it is not slaughtered but sent away. Its function is the same as that of the slaughtered before YHWH. Certainly, Leviticus attests to few ‫( קרבנות שילוח‬Lev 14:2–9, 53). 73 Cheyne, 155. 74 Segal, 248, note 32. 75 Loehr, M. “Das Ritual von Lev. 16. Untersuchungen zum Hexateuchproblem III.” Schriften der Königsberger Gelehrten Gesellschaft (1925) 11. 76 Driver, G. R. “Azazel.” Dictionary of the Bible, vol. I (ed. Davis, J. D.). Philadelphia: The Westminster press (1923) 207–8.

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217

going back to the time when YHWH did not yet have full dominion over the Hebrews. ... Much later, during the Second Temple, the custom was incorporated into the rites of the Day of Atonement (m. Yoma) once more. 77 In Zatelli’s view “The material in Lev. xvi is pre-exilic. In this chapter, however, a strong distinction must be made between the textual and literary traditions with different levels, and the religious operative tradition that may have survived even from very remote times, obviously undergoing transformations and adaptations of various types.” 78 Determining whether the scapegoat ritual was pre-exilic or post exilic does not appear trivial. Most of the opinions expressed do not rest on solid foundations. The ritual of the scapegoat is presented in Leviticus 16 as if its purpose and ‫עזזאל‬/‫ עזאזל‬are well known. This would seem to imply a tradition that was venerated for some time. Yet, except for Leviticus 16 ‫עזזאל‬/‫ עזאזל‬does not occur. Baffling is also the seeming predominance of ‫ עזזאל‬in later sources. Perhaps, ‫עזזאל‬, which originally depicted God in the deity’s desert abode, was intentionally suppressed, but continued to exist in the oral tradition.

3.3 GOD IN THE DESERT It has been indicated that the basic thesis of this paper is that on the Day of Atonement the goat to YHWH was presented at YHWH’s abode—the Temple and Azazel’s (‫ )עזזאל‬goat was presented to Azazel at the abode of the latter—the desert. The distinction is in the abodes and ritual, not the deities. The ritual of the scapegoat on the Day of Atonement was a compromise, attempting to satisfy those who believed that God dwells in the desert when on earth and those who believed that He dwells in the Holy Tabernacle. It was not a compromise between two deities. Indeed, the Gaon (c. 997–1023 CE) R. Shmuel Ben Hofni says, “Although it is (only) with reference to the goat of the sin-offering that it is written (explicitly) that it was for the Lord, the scapegoat was also for the Lord” (apud Ibn Ezra on Lev 16:8, cf. R. Behai Ben Asher of Barcelona on Lev 16:7). Loretz argued that the passages Lev 16:8, 10, and 26 do not point to an original desert abode of Azazel. In Leviticus 16 Azazel is “eine Potenz neben Jahwe und gleich diesem ohne Ortsbestimmung.” 79 While the text 77 Bergmann, M. S. In the Shadow of Moloch, The sacrifice of children and its impact on Western religions. New York: Columbia University Press (1992) 38. 78 Zatelli, 262. 79 Loretz, O. Ugarit und die Bibel. Kanaanäische Götter und Religion im Alten

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does not specifically say that God’s abode was in the desert and Loretz’s contention is theologically appealing, the context of the scapegoat ritual provides a strong basis for the argument that the scapegoat was sent where Azazel would get it. Furthermore, the ritual cannot be viewed in isolation from the Israelites’ history of encounter with God in the desert. Segal surmises that during their sojourn in Egypt, until they became enslaved, the Israelites must have continued their ancestral practice of sacrificing animals and could do so only in the wilderness near Goshen. 80 Indeed, the nation’s record of direct experience with God’s presence in the desert is unique and unmatched by the deity’s presence in the Temple in Jerusalem. God’s self-revelation to Moses on the “mountain of God” is crafted in terms of speaking from a burning bush (Ex 3:1–5). This very mountain in the desert would be a place of worship (Ex 3:12). The request to be presented to Pharaoh: “The LORD, the God of the Hebrews, has met with us; let us now go a three days’ journey into the wilderness, so that we may sacrifice to the LORD our God” (Ex 3:18) is not considered a ridiculous ruse. When the request is actually made (Ex 5:1–3), Pharaoh has only problems with the identity of the God of the Hebrews and the latter’s stature but not of the deity’s being in the desert, and finally acquiesces to this seemingly strange request (Ex 8:23–24, cf. Ex 10:7–12, 24–26). There might have been an early tradition that God’s abode on earth is in the wilderness of the deserts. Inscriptions from Kuntillet ‘Ajrud contain the expressions brktk lYHWH tmn wl’šrth (“blessing to the Lord of Teman and to its Asherah”) and lYHWH šmrn wl’šrth (“to the Lord of Samaria and its Asherah”). 81 The occurrence of the tetragrammaton in these inscriptions raised the possibility that YHWH was at some time worshipped in that region. Emerton analyzed the available evidence and reached the conclusion that this is unlikely. 82 However, Cross considers Teman to be a pre-Israelite sanctuary of YHWH in the southern mountains Sinai-Teman-Se’ir. 83 SimiTestament. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft (1990) 115–117. 80 Segal. M. H. “The Religion of Israel Before Sinai.” JQR ns 53 (1962/63) 226. 81 Meshel, Z. Kuntillet ‘Ajrud. A Religious Centre from the Time of the Judean Monarchy on the Border of Sinai. The Israel Museum, Catalogue No. 175. 82 Emerton, J. A. “New Light on Israelite Religion: The Implications of the Inscriptions from Kuntillet' Ajrud.” ZAW 94 (1982) 10–13. 83 Cross, F. M. “The Epic Traditions of Early Israel: Epic Narrative and the Reconstruction of Early Israelite Institutions.” In The Poet and the Historian; Essays in Literary and Historical Criticism. Harvard Semitic Studies (Ed. Friedman, R. E.). Chico: Scholars (1983) 33.

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219

larly Weinfeld feels that YHWH was particularly esteemed in this area since YHWH also appears from Teman in all the different types of inscriptions from ‘Ajrud. 84 This would agree with the Song of Deborah: O Lord, when You came forth from Seir, advanced from the country of Edom, the earth trembled; The heavens dripped, Yea, the clouds dripped water, The mountains quaked—Before the Lord, him of Sinai, Before the Lord, God of Israel (Jud 5:4–5). A few years ago, Dan reopened the possibility that contrary to the accepted view, which links ‫( רכב בערבות‬Ps 68:5) with a similar phrase in Ugaritic meaning “rider on clouds,” ‫ רכב בערבות‬means “rider in the steppes.” 85 Dan shows that the meaning “deserts” for ‫ ערבות‬enriches the text ideationally and in a literary sense. If correct, this would provide another aspect of God’s association with the desert and its place in the national memory. Dan says, “The historical memory of the Exodus and wandering in the desert is anchored in the Bible in the tradition of appearance from the south.” 86 The desert is usually considered in negative terms in the Bible (Deut 20:5, 8:15, Jer 2:2, 6, 31, Ps 107:4–5, Job 30:3). Yet, the Bible also construes positive memories of the desert that are linked to the Israelites’ encounter with God that dwells in Sinai. Amir says, “[i]ndeed, this tradition about the main residence of the God of Israel on Mount Sinai continued to live for many generations after they reached the Promised Land.” 87 God was very close and visible to the Israelites in the desert for forty years. The pillars of cloud and fire were a constant presence (Ex 13:21–22, 14:19–20). Miraculous things happened at times of distress (Ex 15:22–25, 16:4–5, 11–12, etc.). God’s self-revelation occurred on Mount Sinai and there God spoke to them. YHWH’s presence was visible when God descended onto the sanctuary in the Tabernacle, a place he chose to dwell in (Ex 25:8). No wonder that in the theophanies, God usually appears from the abode in the desert marching to war. It is there that God visibly manifested the deity’s “strength and fierceness” (‫)עזזאל‬, and it is from there that the prophets saw Weinfeld, M. “Further Remarks on the Ajrud Inscriptions.” Shnaton 5–6 (1981–82) 238. 85 Dan, D. ‫( = לרוכב במדבריות‬5 ,‫עיון מחודש בצירוף לרכב בערבות )תה' סח‬, Beit Mikra 184 (2005) 43–62. 86 Dan, 49. 87 Amir, Y. ‫מדבר‬. In Encyclopaedia Biblica Vol IV. Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik (1962) 674–678. 84

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YHWH come in time of distress in the theophanies (Deut. 33:2, Jud 5:4–5, Mic. 1:4, Hab 3:3, Ps 68:5, 8–10). 88 During the monarchic period the leadership was probably interested to promote a central and unifying place of worship, the Temple in Jerusalem, as God’s dwelling on earth (1Kgs 8:13). It was necessary for the sake of national unity to minimize the historical notion of YHWH’s dwelling in the desert, in an uncertain and hard to access location. The fact that in ancient Near-Eastern cultures the desert was a place of evil spirits might have played a role in this intent. The use of aziz in reference to a Phoenician deity, to whom the powerful effects of the sun are ascribed, and of bel-aziz “Bel the Strong,” might have made the retention of ‫ עזזאל‬problematic. This could be the reason for such thorough eradication of ‫ עזזאל‬from the biblical text. Yet, history could not be erased or rewritten. History clearly states that the Israelites found God in the desert. On the Day of Atonement, as in the magnificent theophanies, they addressed YHWH with their most urgent concerns in the desert.

4. CONCLUSION Jewish tradition associates the outstanding manifestations or attributes of God with the deity’s various names. Thus with ‫ יהוה‬is associated “mercy,” with ‫“ אלהים‬justice,” with ‫“ שלום‬peace,” etc. It has been shown that significant evidence suggests that biblical ‫ עזאזל‬was originally the homophone ‫“ עזזאל‬Powerful God,” whose abode on earth was in the desert. Perhaps, ‫ עזזאל‬was associated with the deity’s attribute of strength, explaining the coming of the deity from the desert in theophanies. The ritual described in Lev 16:5–26 was to the same God, potentially being at two locations—the Temple or the desert, and identified as ‫יהוה‬ and ‫ עזזאל‬respectively. This would explain the meticulous rite of ensuring sameness of sacrifice and leaving the final pick of the scapegoat to God via the procedure of a lot. On the unique Day of Atonement God (as ‫ יהוה‬and ‫ )עזזאל‬was approached at both locations, there could not be even the slightest show of preference. In later times, God’s abode in the Temple or Jerusalem completely displaced God’s desert abode, relegating it to evil forces as was the belief in Near-Eastern cultures. In this process ‫עזזאל‬, or a derivative of this name, became a satanic figure. 88 Avishur, Y. Studies in Hebrew and Ugaritic Psalms. Jerusalem: Magness Press (1994) 154. See also Ibn Ezra on Deut 33:2 and Hab 3:3.

AUTHOR OR REDACTOR? JOHN VAN SETERS

WATERLOO, ON, CANADA 1. INTRODUCTION The choice of whether a certain form of literary activity reflected in the biblical text should be characterized as that of an author or a redactor, and whether or not these terms are even appropriate, has now come to the fore in biblical studies. In a couple of preliminary articles, as well as in a recent monograph, I have challenged the use of “redactor” and “redaction criticism” in biblical studies as anachronistic and inappropriate for antiquity. 1 To this challenge Jean-Louis Ska has offered a significant response in his Sigmund Mowinckel lecture to the University of Oslo: “A Plea on Behalf of the Biblical Redactors.” 2 Eckart Otto has defended the notion of the redactor in what seems to me a quite hostile recent review of The Edited Bible. 3 Christoph Levin has just published an article in defense of the understanding of (his) Yahwist as an editor, not as an author, as he rejects my critique of the notion editor in The Edited Bible. 4 J. Van Seters, The Edited Bible: The Curious History of the “Editor” in Biblical Criticism (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2006); idem, “The Redactor in Biblical Studies: A Nineteenth Century Anachronism,” JNSL 29/1 (2003) 1–19; idem, “An Ironic Circle: Wellhausen and the Rise of Redactional Criticism,” ZAW 115 (2003) 487– 500. 2 J-L. Ska, “A Plea on Behalf of the Biblical Redactors,” ST 59 (2005), 4–18. Ska, of course, responded to my articles, not to the monograph, which was published later than his response. 3 Eckart Otto, Review of John Van Seters, The Edited Bible: The Curious History of the “Editor” in Biblical Criticism, Review of Biblical Literature [http://www.bookreviews.org] (2007). 4 C. Levin, “The Yahwist: The Earliest Editor in the Pentateuch,” JBL 126 (2007), 209–230. 1

221

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So the debate has begun—it was long overdue—and I am sure that it will continue for some time to come. This article is meant to advance this debate by dealing with the issues raised along with its historical and methodological underpinnings. In addition, this article will attempt to remove some misrepresentations of my position that not only do not contribute to this necessary scholarly debate, but actually hinder it.

2. A RESPONSE TO JEAN-LOUIS SKA’S POSITION ON THE QUESTION OF ‘AUTHOR OR EDITOR’ Ska briefly summarizes my two earlier articles before he begins his response to them. Although I am not entirely happy with his summary of my views, I will not quibble about the details and turn directly to his position. Rather than attempt to defend the notion of editor in antiquity, Ska attacks the appropriateness of the notion of author for any work “both in Greece and in Israel.” The concept of author is held to be a product of the “Romantic Movement” in the modern world and as such is inappropriate for antiquity. Of course, notions of authorship covering a wide range of literary genres changed over time, even when there was quite conscious imitation of classical models for centuries in the modern era. But this is hardly reason for regarding ancient poets, dramatists, historians and other writers as “editors” rather than authors. The claim by Ska, and others, that an author is an invention of 18th and 19th century “romanticism” is, however, worth examining because a large part of the present problem results from the application of this very anachronistic understanding of authorship and the corresponding romantic understanding of redactor to biblical studies. 5 Prior to the rise of romanticism numerous texts were part of the educational curriculum and the object of academic study. There were, of course, the great classics works of the Greeks and Romans in many different genres, the theological classics of the early church and the medieval and early modern period. There were the great poets and playwrights, the philosophers of many ages, the historians, and the like. There is little point in denying authorship to this large corpus of traditional work, all of it held in the highest esteem. The primary function of academia at all the great centers of learning at the time was the transmission and perpetuation of this traditional corpus as For a thorough discussion of the rise of academic authorship in the Romantic Era as a form of “academic charisma,” see William Clark, Academic Charisma and the Origins of the Research University (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006). 5

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the embodiment of wisdom and truth with little room for innovation. 6 With the rise of the natural sciences and historical criticism from the sixteenth century onwards, however, this whole system was challenged. Now, innovation and new truth that was not based upon the old “canonical” tradition was seen to be possible, and this in literary studies was most keenly reflected in the “battle of the books.” 7 The Romantic Movement of the late eighteenth century through the nineteenth century was the ultimate flowering of this new spirit as reflected in what William Clark calls the “academic charisma,” not in the mere transmission of the older tradition, but in works that reflected creativity, originality and individuality, and the author’s own persona. 8 As in the arts and music, these works consciously broke with tradition, were distinctive, and challenged the accepted wisdom and truth. They aspired to be judged by the labels of “inspirational” and “charismatic” and as such were judged on the basis of consistency, unity, coherence. These became the attributes and fundamental criteria of authorship. All authors were artists subject to certain ideals of craftsmanship that typified this romantic period. Under the influence of romanticism older works were judged on the basis of whether they corresponded to these ideas. Consequently, what we are really talking about is a particular form of authorship that arose in this period, which revolutionized the study of literature up to the post-modern period. Furthermore, it is in this same Romantic Era that there was a great fascination with the collection and editing of folklore and folk traditions that are understood as the work, not of authors, but of the Volk as a whole and the embodiment of their Volksgeist. Such folklore was considered as reflective of oral tradition, so that it was expressed in terms of the contrast between the oral and the written, the traditional and that which is new and original. Those responsible for the collection and transmission of the traditional lore in written form were editors or redactors, as distinct from authors in the romantic sense as stated above. The oral sources, the singers and storytellers, could remain quite anonymous; they were of no consequence. It is no surprise that this romantic understanding of authorship and redactor came to the fore in the Germanic states and was pervasive in the German academic world and within biblical scholarship in particular in the All this is spelled out in great detail in Clark’s book, cited above. See J. Levine, The Battle of the Books: History and Literature in the Augustan Age (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1991); Van Seters, The Edited Bible, 121–24. 8 See Clark’s work in n. 4 above. 6 7

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nineteenth century. What is astonishing is that this romantic notion of the author/editor dichotomy still persists in biblical studies to this day. It should, therefore, be quite unnecessary to say that such an understanding of author and redactor prior to the romantic era is an anachronism, and this is certainly the case with respect to classical and biblical authorship. Yet it is precisely this romantic ideal of authorship that is being used to judge whether any of the writers in the Bible are authors and to dismember texts if they do not meet the strict “romantic” standards of organic unity, coherence, originality and consistency of theme and outlook. The slightest deviations from such norms lead to the invoking of the redactor, who, of course, is not an artist but a mere collector of traditional lore, with no regard for coherence and consistency. However, the very essence of much of the activity of ancient authorship is based upon the collection of ancient lore and of giving it some form of cohesion and continuity, especially as it had to do with presentations of the past. Herodotus is a good example. It is a marvelous collection of very diverse material that hardly has an obvious coherence or thematic unity, most of it, according to him, based upon oral tradition. Furthermore, scholars have long debated the question of the theme of the Histories without much agreement because there is no single theme and no reason why there should be. To apply the criteria of modern authorship to Herodotus and then deny that he is an author is anachronistic, but to assert that because he is primarily a collector of oral tradition he is merely an editor, this is doubly anachronistic. Yet that is precisely what has happened in biblical studies. The Pentateuch and the historical books become merely anonymous collections of popular tradition and the expression of Israel’s Volksgeist put together by editors. Consequently, one often encounters the argument that, unlike most of classical literature, the literature of the Hebrew Bible is anonymous and therefore of a different character from those works in which the author is known. This notion likewise rests upon the romantic construction of authorship, which stresses the importance of originality, individuality, and notoriety as reflecting the persona of a particular writer and his genius, his distinctiveness from his predecessors. In the pre-romantic period it was the text that was all-important and the source of truth and wisdom. To be sure, it was mediated by means of a charismatic or inspired person and his name attached to the text gave it a certain authenticity as “canonical” or classical, but his individuality and persona was of little concern as far as the content of the text was concerned. It is true that from classical times authorship implies identity and authority, the one who takes responsibility for a written work or document, and thus it was that at a certain point in the biblical

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“canonization” process, in imitation of the classics, names of authors were attached to biblical writings. Nevertheless, because a literary work does not have a known author and is therefore anonymous does not necessarily make it a different kind of work from one whose author is known or assumed to be known. The mere loss of “the title page” does not make a piece of writing different in origin or mode of composition, although it may affect the reception of the work and its interpretation. Pseudonymous works try to influence their reception by falsifying the true authorship of their writings. The author (or authors) of Deuteronomy is unknown, but it is reputed to be the written words of Moses (Deut 1:5; see section III), in order to imbue it with greater authority. Nevertheless, it is entirely appropriate to use the term author for the writer of a literary work in the sense of the one who is responsible for its composition, whether the name of such a person is known or not. There is nothing inappropriate or contradictory in speaking about an unknown or anonymous author. And if a name is associated with a literary work and we know nothing more than that about the author, how does that fact make it any different from a work that is anonymous? Ska, however, wants to attribute a quite different significance to biblical anonymity. He suggests that ancient texts in general and biblical texts in particular are anonymous “since they are not the works of individuals, or not considered as such, but works belonging to the ‘tradition’ of the communities. The ‘author’ or ‘writer’ is the mouthpiece of the community and ‘says,’ interprets and actualizes the tradition, the common possession of all members of the community.” In this capacity, Ska claims: “Their task is twofold. First, they are to be spokespersons of the common tradition, to be the living tradition for their contemporaries; second, they are to ‘actualize’ the tradition or traditional texts, because the writer is always the bridge between the past and the future. This is the reason there is ‘editorial,’ ‘redactional’ or ‘compositional’ activity in antiquity.” 9 Here we come to the heart of the matter. Ska is not speaking about biblical literature in general, much of which would hardly fit this description, but the Pentateuch and, to a lesser extent, the historical books. Ska presents this description of the literary nature of the Pentateuch as if it were a self-evident truth, without the slightest need for justification, and as such, the reason for speaking about redactors rather than authors.

9

Ska, “A Plea,” 7.

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

As I have suggested above, it is this redactor and his relationship with the traditional that is also a product of the Romantic Era, a corollary of the romantic author, and both equally anachronistic. In fact, it has its origins in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in which there was great concern to collect and edit and transmit into written form the folk traditions of Europe and other peoples. 10 Friedrich Wolf was strongly influenced by this movement and saw in Homer this same collection of oral folk traditions and he anachronistically reconstructed the same process by which oral traditions of the Iliad and the Odyssey were gathered together and put into their written form by editors in 6th century B.C.E. Athens. 11 The same understanding of the Pentateuch as a collection of small units of oral tradition was taken up by Wilhelm de Wette and was extensively developed by Hermann Gunkel and Hugo Gressmann, although they thought more in terms of collections of tradition made by story-tellers, rather than editors. 12 Noth also pursued this approach to Pentateuchal tradition with his block model of tradition transmission, which was wedded to the Documentary Hypothesis with its redactors. 13 This modern process of collection and transcription of oral tradition to ensure its preservation is completely anachronistic for antiquity. Those writers that made use of traditional materials to create new compositions to address the concerns of their contemporaries were certainly not editors or redactors; they were authors. Thus the great Greek dramatists who used primarily the well-known traditional themes of the heroic age were certainly individual authors and not merely editors and “channels of transmission” of communal tradition. Even Homer, whose treatment of the older traditions becomes the most authoritative and “canonical,” can hardly be described as an editor and “channel of transmission,” and few would so characterize him today. In order to support this romantic notion that the Pentateuch consists almost entirely of very primitive oral tradition that was continuously transmitted and “actualized” Ska creates a body of writers who transcribed the tradition into written form and then were responsible for its continuous transmission and “actualization” (by which he means the interpolations) over several centuries. These writers are neither authors nor editors but 10 Of course the editors of folklore in the modern period were not anonymous, anymore than authors, and some like the Grimm brothers, quite famous. 11 Van Seters, The Edited Bible, 133–51. 12 Ibid., 205–15, 247–56. 13 Ibid., 265–69.

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anonymous “redactors.” The distinction is not new but quite familiar in the 19th century between two kinds of editors or redactors, the critical scholarly editor (diorthotēs) of the Alexandrian type, who never made additions to the text, but tried to identify mistakes and corruptions made by earlier scribes, and the “revisers” (diaskeuastai), those responsible for interpolations in the text. 14 The terminology comes from the scholia of Homer but Wellhausen and Kuenen, among others, made use of these terms as a useful distinction between different types of redactors of the Pentateuch. Kuenen merely lumped together all types of redactors under the single rubric R, which results in the completely contradictory notions about the editor/redactor in biblical studies today. 15 The diaskeuastai who simply represent scribes who “corrupted” the text with longer or shorter interpolations for their own personal reasons should never have been regarded as editors in the first place. This 19th century confusion is the origin of Ska’s “redactor.” Ska seeks to account for the existence of the “redactor” as he understands it by pointing to certain kinds of “redactional activity” that cannot be attributed to either authors or editors. He asserts that in their role as “living channels of transmission” they “actualize” the text by means of “succinct and relevant additions.” This seems to be a polite way of referring to the diaskeuastai, the “revisers” or corrupters of texts, as they were regarded in the Homeric tradition. Ska argues that the textual variation to be found in the Qumran texts reflect precisely this kind of editorial activity. Thus he points to the two different versions of the text of Isaiah and suggests that they “can hardly be attributed to the same ‘author’.” 16 Of course, critical scholars have never attributed any particular text of the book of Isaiah to a single author and therefore, single authorship is not the real issue. To be sure, the two texts reflect scribal variation related to different text traditions, though it is not clear that this is the result of a conscious, actualizing, “editorial” activity. There is certainly no ideological tendenz that can be attributed to either version to suggest a deliberate “actualization” of the text by the religious sect at Qumran. Ska also calls attention to the pre- or proto-Samaritan texts of Exodus and Numbers (i.e., 4QpaleoExodm and 4QNumb) which have many of the same expansionist characteristics as that exhibited in the Samaritan Pentateuch. While similar to SamP in their expansionist additions and therefore Ibid., 35–45, 140–51. Ibid., 235–38. 16 Ska, “A Plea,” 8. 14 15

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belonging to the same text-family, they nevertheless lack the one distinctive ideological feature, that of the command to build the altar on Mount Gerizim as an addition to the Decalogue, so this clearly attests to a late ideological addition by a member of the Samaritan community. Yet it would appear that the rabbis at a still later date deliberately altered the reference to Mount Gerizim in Deut 27:4 to Mount Ebal in order to counter the claims of the Samaritans. 17 From these examples one may draw the following conclusions: (1) expansionist texts are not necessarily the result of an editing meant to turn the text into one that is particularly relevant to the needs of a singular community; two quite different sects of Judaism made use of the same expansionist text-tradition; (2) a particular addition can be made to a text for ideological purposes, even when one sect uses an expansionist text-family and the other sect a more conservative text-family; and (3) there is no reason to attribute such deliberate “corruptions” in the textual tradition to editors or “redactors.” There are, likewise, long texts, medium texts and short texts within the text-tradition of Homer, just as there are in the Hebrew Bible. The expansionist texts of Homer betray the same tendencies that one finds in Qumran, to include within one part of the text quotations drawn from another part of the text or a parallel text-tradition. Thus the expansionist text of Numbers (i.e., 4QNumb) contains quotations from Deuteronomy where they are deemed appropriate. This kind of text expansion appears to have been a habit of both Homeric and Pentateuchal scribes, to perhaps recall from memory closely related texts in order to fill out a particular narrative with more detail. This appears to have been a widespread habit of ancient scribes which editors of texts resisted. Even in the fairly rare case in which we have such a blatant “correction” as the altar on Gerizim in SamP or its further “correction” to Ebal in MT, these should not be attributed to editors but to religiously zealous scribes. 18 What becomes abundantly clear from the great variety of text-families represented at Qumran is that there was no attempt to edit the biblical texts to make them fit a particular religious bias. The Essenes could easily make any text fit their religious perspective just by giving it the appropriate interpretation in their commentaries. RedacThe Edited Bible, 334–40. For a comparable example in New Testament textual criticism see Bart D. Ehrman, The Orthodox Corruption of Scripture : the Effect of Early Christological Controversies on the Text of the New Testament (New York : Oxford University Press, 1993). 17 18

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tors had nothing to do with either textual transmission or the commentaries associated with the biblical texts. Ska further argues that evidence for “redactional” activity is the best explanation to account for the contradictions and inconsistencies between the sources of the Pentateuch and he appeals to the “pioneers and forefathers of the documentary hypothesis” throughout the 19th century in support of this view. Since I have reviewed this scholarly development in considerable detail in my new book, The Edited Bible, and concluded that the notion of such editors making diplomatic copies of archival texts and conflating them into a single document is both anachronistic for editorial activity in antiquity and very problematic as a literary theory, I will not repeat that discussion here. 19 The non-biblical parallels are nevertheless worth brief consideration. The Akkadian Gilgamesh Epic appears to be a case of a writer using several different stories about Gilgamesh and Enkidu, along with some other materials, such as the flood story, to create a quite remarkable composition. Even though it is quite possible to identify some of the writer’s sources, based on older versions of the stories, there is no reason whatever to suggest that he should not be considered as the author of this epic and be demoted to the role of mere editor. That other ancient authors, such as all the great dramatists of Greece, made use of traditional stories which they then reshaped for their own purposes, does not make them any less authors than Shakespeare, who also did the same thing. It is likely that the Gilgamesh Epic was also subject to some later expansions, but even these should not be regarded as editorial. Since there was no ancient notion of copyright, a scribe could do whatever he or she liked with the text. Furthermore, Ska points to a parallel between Gilgamesh as a collection of traditional material and that of Gunkel’s approach to Genesis. Gunkel, however, treated the Yahwist’s collection of small units as the gradual accumulation of traditions by a school of story-tellers, not as the work of a redactor, and von Rad directly challenged Gunkel’s position by arguing that the Yahwist was indeed an author and historian in the way in which he put his quite diverse materials together. 20 Ska likewise points to the parallel between research on the composition of Homer and that of the Pentateuch, which supports “the idea that the long poems [of Homer] we know are actually compilations of originally See The Edited Bible, chap. 6. G. von Rad, The Problem of the Hexateuch and Other Essays (Edinburgh: Oliver and Boyd, 1966), 50–52. 19 20

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independent poetic pieces.” 21 As such the poems also contain “inconsistencies” and these are Ska’s primary point of comparison with the Pentateuch and which have been used in the past to argue that Homer was the work of redactors. However, after citing a number of examples from the Odyssey, Ska comes to the surprising conclusion: “To be sure, J. Van Seters would rejoin that nobody considers Homer as the ‘redactor’ of the Odyssey because he may have used and re-elaborated earlier poems. The mere presence of inconsistencies in a literary work is not sufficient to deny its writers the title of ‘author.’” Ska goes on to point out that the inconsistencies are far greater and more numerous in the Pentateuch and consequently, Homer is not a legitimate parallel to the Pentateuch. Contrary to Ska’s guess as to how I would respond to the comparison between Homer and the Pentateuch, I have tried to show in my recent publication that for 150 years leading classical scholars did believe that the inconsistencies in Homer were the result of redactors. Furthermore, it was the literary analysis of the Odyssey and the notion of parallel sources combined by a final redactor that so strongly influenced similar documentary theories in Pentateuchal studies. 22 It is true that over the last 50 years or so, the notion of the final redactor has largely disappeared from Homeric studies—in contrast, redactors have proliferated in biblical studies. It should also be pointed out that in Ska’s examples from the Odyssey the most serious cases of contradiction are to be found in the ending in book 24, with that of earlier episodes. Now the editors of Alexandria already recognized this as “unhomeric” and marked it with obeli in their editions, and this judgment has been almost universally accepted by classical scholars in modern times. This ending was the work of a later poet (not an editor) to “improve” the older poem, and in spite of the Alexandrian scholars it remains in the vulgate text. It is such supplementations and interpolations that are often the cause of contradictions in the extant form of the text, but these can hardly be blamed on editors. Ska cites a number of examples of contradictions in the Pentateuch and historical books as indisputable evidence of redactors in the formation of the biblical text. I would not for a moment dispute the existence of such contradictions, so that is not the issue. The question is how best to account for such contradictions, and Ska’s answer is the editor or redactor. That explanation only works if one adopts the original view of Richard Simon 21 22

Ska, “A Plea,” 11. See The Edited Bible, chap. 5.

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that the Bible consists of numerous archival documents that were rather artificially combined by editors without any addition or intervention in the text, a view which can hardly be sustained today. As soon as the editor is allowed to intervene in the compositional process with his own additions and modifications, then there is no reason why an editor should tolerate contradictions any more than an author. Indeed, editors are scholars who are especially sensitive to mistakes and contradictions, and they regard it as their task to correct, not corrupt, the texts that they edit. On the other hand, ancient texts without copyright are notoriously prone to interpolation, supplementation and modification, usually in a very unsystematic fashion and at the whim of a copyist. Many such interpolations can be identified by contradictions because the interpolator is usually concerned with only the immediate context in the original to which he/she is making an addition and not the literary work as a whole. 23 However, there is no single explanation for all contradictions and each case must be evaluated on its own merits. Nevertheless, the attribution of contradictions to the role of an editor seems to me the least likely of all the possibilities. It is not a self-evident solution to the problem. The final evidence for redactors that Ska discusses is that of “interpreters of ancient texts.” 24 Here the editor has changed from his role as one who merely conflates parallel sources in the classical Documentary Hypothesis to that of a theologian and interpreter of the traditions that he takes up, so that texts once attributed to the sources are now reassigned to editors. Indeed, an increasing volume of texts are attributed to redactors in the new “redaction criticism” so that the very existence of authors and historians such as the Yahwist (von Rad) and the Deuteronomistic Historian (Noth) have been completely supplanted by editors who are the new interpreters of ancient tradition. Ska and others seem quite oblivious to the fact that two entirely contradictory notions of redactors are being advocated, which seems to confirm the fact that even modern authors can incorporate quite contradictory notions into their works. It seems much more reasonable to me, following von Rad, to attribute the texts of Genesis, cited by Ska as redactional, to the author and historian, the Yahwist, and to make 23 See especially William McKane’s discussion of interpolations in Jeremiah and his conception of a “rolling corpus” in A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Jeremiah, vol. 1: Introduction and Commentary on Jeremiah I-XXV (ICC; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1986), xlvii-li, lxii-lxxxiii. 24 Ska, “A Plea,” 14–15.

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him responsible for the reformulation of older traditions in a programmatic way so as to make them fit his history from creation to Israel’s arrival in the promised land. That is what we know ancient historians did in their writing of “archaic histories” by which they constructed national identity. In his conclusion, Ska states that the issue is just a matter of terminology and convention and suggests that the term author in the modern romantic sense of the term is just as problematic as redactor. As indicated above, however, there has never been any great problem in the past about discussing authors of the pre-Romantic Movement period, or those of the classical world, only with anachronistically attributing to ancient authors the expectations of modern authorship. The term redactor, which is used as a justification for all kinds of literary theories about the formation of the biblical text, is likewise anachronistic and a serious abuse of language and should be avoided at all cost. We do know what ancient editors, who were the forerunners of their modern counterparts, did in antiquity and they did none of the things that biblical scholars have attributed to this class of persons. Ska ends with a quote from von Rad that he says addresses “the very question we have discussed at length.” 25 It is worth repeating because it actually makes quite a different point from the one he suggests: “None of the stages in the age-long development of this work [the Hexateuch] has been wholly superseded; something has been preserved of each phase, and its influence has persisted right down to the final form of the Hexateuch.” 26 This statement, however, must be set in the context of an earlier remark in which von Rad discusses the relationship of the sources E and P to J. He states: “The process by which E and P are superimposed on J, as well as their relationship to one another, is a purely literary question, which adds nothing essentially new to the discussion so far as form-criticism is concerned. The form of the Hexateuch had already been finally determined by the Yahwist. The Elohist and the priestly writer do not diverge from the pattern in this respect: their writings are no more that variations upon the massive theme of the Yahwist’s conception, despite their admittedly great theological originality.” 27 What von Rad attempted to argue in Das formgeschichtliche Problem des Hexateuch, against Gunkel and the suggestions made above, is that the Yahwist was the one responsible for combining a number Ibid., 15. Von Rad, The Problem of the Hexateuch, 78. 27 Ibid., 74. 25 26

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of different traditions into one “massive theme” that constituted the basic form and structure of the Hexateuch, and while later authors, E and P, may have added some of their own theological perspective to this work as authors with their own “originality,” they made no fundamental change to its underlying theme. For von Rad, the redactors of the Documentary Hypothesis played a very minor role in this whole process as the ones who preserved the source documents in a combined form and he quite specifically says of this redactional process that it “adds nothing essentially new to the discussion” of the Hexateuch’s form. Apart from its rather passive role, it is hard to find in von Rad’s work any significant function for the redactor in the formation or interpretation of the biblical traditions.

3. A RESPONSE TO ECKART OTTO’S POSITION ON THE QUESTION OF ‘AUTHOR OR EDITOR’ AS EXPRESSED IN HIS REVIEW OF

THE EDITED BIBLE

Eckart Otto’s response to The Edited Bible is of a different kind. In fact, it bears such a tone that makes it more difficult for me respond to the important issues at stake in this discussion. To put it bluntly, his review is a collection of serious misrepresentations and errors that scarcely reflects the book’s thesis, its main arguments, or its contents. He makes reference to less than ten percent of the whole book and ignores the rest. I am left with the definite impression that he has not even cared to read it, at least fully. Whatever the case might be, the scholarly issues in the present debate are important. Thus to further a more fruitful discussion, I will attempt to identify the salient issues that his review raises and then address them. In his very first statement Otto charges me with using the terms editor and redactor “promiscuously.” Quite apart from the fact that such a derogatory remark sets a dismissive tone from the outset, it is not clear what he means, since I am criticizing the quite indiscriminant use of the terms editor and redactor in biblical scholarship. If he means that I do not accept the recent trend by some scholars to create a distinction between the two terms, then I have already address this issue at great length in my book, which he ignores. To the point, the preferred term in English is editor and in German it is Redaktor/Redakteur (from the French rédacteur), but they mean the same thing. 28 How biblical scholarship has abused these terms is the whole point of The Edited Bible. 28

The Edited Bible, 13–15.

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Otto then goes on to attribute to me the view: “During the past several hundred years scholars have worked within a framework that was developed by postbiblical editorial practices in antiquity and in the Middle Ages. In the twentieth century, these assumptions of postbiblical editors became ‘the new science of German biblical scholarship’.” I am not sure how to square this statement with the gist of The Edited Bible. To be sure, the citation is correct, 29 but was taken entirely out of context—in fact, this case demonstrates well the perils involved in such actions. To the point, the whole idea that modern redaction-criticism developed out of “editorial practice in antiquity and the Middle Ages” is completely contradicted in the first six chapters of the book. What follows in his review is a caricature of my historical discussion in summary form, which completely contradicts the earlier statement so that any reader of the review would be quite confused about the thesis advanced in The Edited Bible. Likewise, Otto discusses the treatment of the relationship of classical studies to biblical studies in the 19th century in The Edited Bible, but contrary to what he reports to be my view, I explicitly stated, and provided ample evidence in the book that there was a lot of influence between the two in both directions. Eichhorn certainly did influence Wolf. The close friendship between Wellhausen and Wilamowitz-Moellendorff on the same faculty clearly indicates that intellectual stimulation was a two-way street, as I point out in some detail. Biblical scholars made constant reference to Homer in their treatment of the Pentateuch and even borrowed the technical Greek terminology used for redactors from Homeric studies. All this is well documented in The Edited Bible. But more important for the present conversation is that while suggesting that Homeric studies had no influence upon the development of the Documentary Hypothesis, Otto then asserts that the literary inconsistencies within Homer support the notion of ancient redactors as in biblical studies. 30 The “editors” of Alexandria, however, identified them as corruptions. They themselves did not make any such additions to the text. Otto criticizes the use of the work of Parry on oral tradition in Homer in The Edited Bible. He suggests that this work has now been discredited and thereby dismisses the whole discussion. 31 I maintain that the work Ibid., 297, Contrary to Otto’s suggestion, I did not ignore these contradictions in Homer—in fact, I cited a number of serious problems in Homer, and significantly, many of them were already well known to the ancients. 31 Several pages in The Edited Bible are devoted to a review of the development 29 30

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of Parry played an important part in undermining the older consensus regarding the role of redactors in Homeric studies, while at the same time I clearly indicated the limitations of the Parry-Lord method in The Edited Bible and that I do not subscribe to its use in biblical studies. More important, however, is the fact that The Edited Bible sets the work of Parry and Lord within a far larger context of discussion on oral tradition that continues to be relevant for both Homeric and biblical studies. It is above all the recent work on oral tradition that makes the notion of ancient redactors as the transmitters of this tradition quite superfluous. Moreover, contrary to Otto, such a discussion on oral tradition does not lead inevitably to a “unitarian” view of Homer and I cited strong criticism against the “unitarians” as a kind of classical “fundamentalism.” Otto’s rhetorically charged, and clearly hyperbolic suggestion that the only alternative to redaction criticism in biblical studies is the position that Moses is the author of the Pentateuch is well beside the mark and contributes nothing to the debate. 32 A major part of Otto’s review of The Edited Bible, however, is taken up with a critique of my treatment there of G. von Rad and M. Noth, whom he labels as my “heroes” although I never use that term. The fact that Otto devoted so much space to that secondary issue is in itself telling. Certainly the case in favor or against “author” vis à vis “editor” cannot be decided by appeals to any scholarly authority—be it von Rad’s or Noth’s. Therefore I will skip these matters at this point. 33 But that Otto tries to silence the objections raised to redaction criticism in The Edited Bible (and previously mentioned articles) by an equally “curious” appeal to biblical authority belongs to the discussion here. Otto states: “The Pentateuch itself knew that Deuteronomy was an interpretation of the Covenant Code (Deut 1:5) and this is exactly what modern exegesis of Deuteronomy says. If the literary theory of the Bible and critical exegesis concur, we can accept a modern historicalof the study of oral tradition as it relates to Homer, from the research of Millman Parry and Albert Lord down to present time, because it has an important bearing upon the question of the so-called redactor’s role in this whole process of transmission from oral delivery to written text. 32 It goes without saying that I have outlined my own critical position on the Pentateuch in numerous publications for over thirty years. His not so veiled comment speaks more about him than me. 33 This said, the tone of the response to my understanding of the positions of von Rad and Noth, as well as comments by others on these matters show, however, that this issue deserves serious discussion. To further this scholarly debate I attach a relevant appendix to this article.

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critical hypothesis as reliable.” But do they indeed concur? The text in question states: “Beyond the Jordan, in the land of Moab, Moses undertook to make plain (‫ ) ֵבּ ֵאר‬this law, saying. . . ” and what follows is the direct speech of Moses that includes the whole of Deuteronomy until the account of his death in chap. 34. The obvious meaning of the text is that Moses is the author of Deuteronomy, and comparison with Deut 27:8 suggests that the quoted statement has to do with Moses producing this law in a legible written copy. 34 It is therefore unwarranted special pleading to read into the text a reference to the Covenant Code. There is certainly no basis here for a biblical literary theory that agrees with redaction criticism. On the contrary, the biblical text advocates Mosaic authorship of the written Torah (i.e. Deuteronomy), which was eventually extended to the whole of the Pentateuch! That claim is in complete contradiction to all modern historical criticism. Otto’s proof-text confirms nothing. As I try to make clear in The Edited Bible, the fundamental problem of the Documentary Hypothesis does not involve the authors J or P, who are the products of source criticism—which is indispensable for any historical criticism—but the theory about redactors, which reflects merely one of a number of theories about how the sources were combined. This is the basic difference between my critique of the Documentary Hypothesis and that of Rendtorff, who saw the problem in the notion of authors, especially J. About thirty years ago both Rendtorff and I independently offered our different views of what was wrong with the Documentary Hypothesis. German scholarship has, for the most part, followed Rendtorff’s lead. This development, in my opinion, is a grave mistake. The Edited Bible, is the latest and most extensive attempt I made to show why I believe that to be the case.

4. A RESPONSE TO CHRISTOPH LEVIN’S POSITION ON THE QUESTION OF ‘AUTHOR OR EDITOR’ Within the recent discussion on the expanded role of the editor in Pentateuchal studies, especially as it has to do with the demise of the Yahwist as author, the position advocated by Christoph Levin demands particular attention. He has defended the existence of the Yahwist, not as an author but as an editor; in fact, as the earliest editor, among many, of the Pentateuch. 35 See especially the discussion by A. D. H. Mayes, Deuteronomy (NCBC; Grand Rapids, MI: W. B. Eerdmans, 1979), 116. 35 C. Levin, “The Yahwist: The Earliest Editor in the Pentateuch,” JBL 126 34

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This is not the place to undertake a detailed comparison between his understanding of the character and limits of the Yahwist and those of others, including my own, but to focus only on why he should regard this work as the product of an editor and not an author. It is significant—and relevant to the scholarly context within which he works—that he seems to regard this central claim as self-evident, based upon his own redaction history of the text. Levin justifies his designation of the Yahwist as an editor in the following way: For a long time scholars saw the development of the pre-Priestly Pentateuch not as a question of redaction, or editorial, history but as a problem about the history of the transmission. The narrative foundation of the Pentateuch was interpreted as a composition that drew on current oral tradition. The diversity that can be detected behind today’s text was put down to popular narrative tradition. This approach reflects the influence of romanticism; the activity of collectors such as the Brothers Grimm and others at that time suggested a model. 36

Levin does not say, however, that that the romantic model that was suggested was that of the editor of such traditions, not that of an author, and it is that model that Levin and other are perpetuating. Levin goes on to say: But even in the nineteenth century, people became aware of tensions that can be explained only in literary terms. Since the 1960’s the internal lack of unity has come to be explained as a result of the redaction history. It is emerging ever more clearly that the Yahwist is an editorial collection with a distinctive literary profile that has fused older written sources into a new whole. Editorial compositions of this kind do not stand at the beginning of the history of a literary culture. Numerous indications point to the period after the end of the Judean monarchy, that is to say, the sixth century B.C.E.

These statements are debatable on a number of points. First, the problem of tensions and contradictions within the Pentateuchal narrative that gave rise to the notion of multiple sources throughout the nineteenth century also called for an explanation of their combination within the present text. One of those explanations was that of an editor who put together older sources or collections of tradition without making any additions of his (2007), 209–230. 36 Ibid., 211–212.

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own. However, the hypothetical editor was not the only possibility, and not even the most likely one. Secondly, well before the 1960’s there was a proliferation of source division which led to a corresponding proliferation in editors. This process of fragmentation was resisted by von Rad (see appendix), but the tendency has been to revert to the earlier trend of multiple redactors. The only difference is that now some of the features of von Rad’s Yahwist that resemble the literary activity of an author are combined with the notion of collector-editor, which von Rad resisted, and thus Levin speaks of “an editorial collection with a distinctive literary profile,” which is a completely artificial hybrid. It is authors not editors who have “distinctive literary profiles.” Third, dating has nothing to do with editing. 37 In a footnote Levin explicitly rejects the criticism of the notion of the editor advanced in The Edited Bible as it applies to the Yahwist 38 by stating: “The inconsistencies in the Yahwistic source make a separation between narrative and editorial text inescapable. The tensions are literary, even textual, in kind and do not fit the concept of a renarration (sic) of traditions by a historian.” 39 But his division between the older narrative and the “editorial additions” is often arbitrary and not based on literary criteria, as he suggests. Most importantly, what Levin does not establish is that additions made to the text at any level of its development were ever made by an editor. By ignoring this issue, he simply misses the whole point of the critique advanced in The Edited Bible. The editor is his invention to justify his form of literary analysis and there is nothing that can be offered as evidence to prove or disprove its existence.

37 Levin’s dating of this “editorial composition” to the exilic period merely follows my own late dating of the Yahwist, which I advanced over thirty-five years ago. 38 It should be noted that Levin’s Yahwist as set forth in his major work, Der Jahwist, is highly idiosyncratic and not widely accepted as very close to the traditional understanding of this term. For his full treatment of the Yahwist see, C. Levin, Der Jahwist (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1993). The full extent of J, including both the original source material and J’s extensive “redactional” additions are set out on pp. 51–79. One can see at a glance there that Levin includes only a very small portion of Exodus and Numbers within J. It scarcely resembles the J of von Rad or Noth. From the perspective of the present conversation, it is particularly important to stress that Levin’s Yahwist is different from the Yahwist referred to in The Edited Bible. 39 C. Levin, “The Yahwist: The Earliest Editor,” 212.

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5. AN INVITATION It is not possible, within the short space of this response to Professors Ska, Otto, and Levin, to take up all of the questions and issues related to the use of the redactor in biblical criticism. I leave that to The Edited Bible. What is important, in my view, is that the discussion has begun and this will hopefully lead to greater clarity in our use of terminology with respect to the composition and transmission of the biblical text, as well as the careful use of comparison in the explanation of these phenomena. The concept of the “biblical editor” cannot be taken for granted. It deserves and demands close and serious scrutiny. This article is an invitation to further this scrutiny.

6. APPENDIX: WHAT DID VON RAD AND NOTH THINK ABOUT THESE MATTERS? The tones of the response to my understanding of the positions of von Rad and Noth, as well as comments by others on these matters show that a serious debate on these matters is necessary. This is not the place to repeat what I wrote in The Edited Bible, or to indulge in a kind of personal apologia, but to further the conversation on these issues. This said, since Otto has simplified my discussion of their position to the point of misrepresentation, I would like to begin by stressing that I simply pointed out that von Rad identified the Yahwist as a historian, a view that simply cannot be denied as all the documentation shows. Noth regarded his Dtr in Joshua to Kings as a historian, and not merely a “redactor.” He compared him to Greek and Roman historians, as I also did. It is true that although Noth originally accepted von Rad’s understanding of the Yahwist as a historian—this inspired his treatment of Dtr as a historian, but in his later work on the Pentateuch he developed a quite different view of the Yahwist that eventually led to the redaction criticism reflected in Rendtorff. It is also true that von Rad originally accepted Noth’s view of Dtr, but then had trouble reconciling it with his Hexateuch and reverted to some talk of editors in the historical books. All this is set out in detail in The Edited Bible—no reader of Otto’s comments on the book would have guessed that this is the case. 40 Otto’s major argument against my position seems to be that all the students of von Rad and Noth and their students (including himself) to the third generation could not be wrong in their use of redaction criticism. That, for him, is the

40

See The Edited Bible, 256–83

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true tradition of von Rad and Noth, and not the aberration that I represent. Of course, this is just an ad hominem argument. 41 Otto devotes much space in his review to outline his own view of the supposed development of redaction criticism from von Rad and Noth to Rendtorff, Koch and Smend, but does not address any of the specific arguments I have advanced in The Edited Bible about the points in which they have gone wrong. Most significantly, Otto does not address the evidence from the writings of von Rad and Noth provided in The Edited Bible. In fact, Otto chides me for providing too many references from these authors to support my view, but he himself does not offer a single one that contradicts the evidence that I have collected. Instead he interprets von Rad’s presentation of the Yahwist to suit his own purposes. Thus he states: “[Von Rad’s] famous ‘Das formgeschichtliche Problem des Hexateuch’ (1938) demonstrates the Yahwist as a redactor of the Shechem and Gilgal traditions, incorporating a great number of narratives that were until then handed down independently from the source of the Yahwist.” 42 What von Rad actually says is that the Yahwist was responsible for bringing together a body of scattered oral traditions into a unified literary work “around one central coordinating conception and by some massive tour de force [to] achieve literary status,” 43 without any reference to an intermediate source. 44 Nowhere does von Rad ever identify J as a redactor. That is Otto’s own prejudicial interpretation of von Rad’s remarks. For von Rad, a redactor was someone who combined written sources, such as J, E and P. The Yahwist is viewed only as an historian comparable to the author of the Succession Narrative, both of which he regarded as standing at the apex of Israelite historiography. 45 Likewise, Noth considers Dtr a historian and quite specifically denies that Dtr is merely a “redactor” as my quotations of Noth prove. Otto’s review, therefore, is just self-serving in favor of his own position.

41 I too studied for a year under von Rad, but that has nothing to do with my being right or wrong. I discuss in The Edited Bible, the views of Otto’s teachers, including Koch and Steck, and why I disagree with their attribution of redaction criticism to von Rad and Noth. See The Edited Bible, 269–96. These matters cannot be resolved in terms of “(proper) discipleship” but on the basis of the evidence. 42 Eckart Otto, Review of John Van Seters, The Edited Bible, 2–3. 43 Von Rad, The Problem of the Hexateuch, 48. 44 This intermediary source G was Noth’s invention. 45 G. Von Rad, Old Testament Theology, vol. 1 (New York: Harper & Row, 1962) 49.

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It should be noted that Levin also seeks to manipulate the views of von Rad and Noth in support of his redaction history. Concerning von Rad’s demonstration, in “The Form-critical Problem of the Hexateuch,” of the literary unity of the Yahwist as an author and historian, Levin states in a footnote that this conclusion “taken as a redaction-history hypothesis, meets the facts with astonishing accuracy.” 46 There is, however, no justification for turning von Rad’s support for the Yahwist as an author into support for Levin’s view of the Yahwist as an editor. His misuse of Noth seems, at least to me, even more egregious. In support of his view that the Yahwist reflects an “editorial collection” of narratives in written form he outlines six different blocks of narrative tradition, a modification of Noth’s block theory of primitive oral confessional traditions. These blocks have apparently experienced numerous (redactional?) interpolations prior to the time at which they were combined by the Yahwist, the first great editor. The blocks that cover the exodus, Sinai and wilderness traditions are reduced to very small fragments with editorial expansions by the Yahwist and hardly what Noth had in mind. Noth, of course, did not regard the Yahwist as a redactor of the tradition blocks, nor even as the one who initially put them together. That unity was already reflected in his Grundlage. So Noth’s work on the Pentateuch is not helpful at this point in supporting Levin’s thesis. However, in order to explain the editorial process Levin appeals instead to Noth’s work on DtrH. He states: “Considering the redaction of the Deuteronomistic History, Martin Noth spoke of the ‘evidence that the work is a self-contained whole.’ To support his view Noth mentions a number of common characteristics that hold the work together.” 47 It is just such characteristics that Levin also finds in his Yahwist. This should come as no surprise because Noth follows von Rad’s example in arguing that Dtr is also an author and historian, just as von Rad did for the Yahwist. Moreover, what is most remarkable is that in the very chapter from which Levin takes his quote, Noth strongly rejects the then prevailing view that Dtr was an editor or editors in favor of the view that Dtr is an author and all of his arguments are meant to support this thesis. This completely contradicts Levin’s statement quoted above and all of his arguments based upon it. I have already pointed out these facts at considerable length in The Edited Bible, but this evidence is simply ignored. Furthermore, not only does Noth argue Ibid., 211, n. 10. Ibid., 217. Levin’s quotation from Noth comes from the chapter heading of chap. 2, p. 4 in M. Noth, The Deuteronomistic History. 46 47

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throughout chapter two that Dtr is an author and historian, but he even offers the concluding statement: “Thus Dtr.’s method of composition is very lucid. The closest parallels are those Hellenistic and Roman historians who use older accounts, mostly unacknowledged, to write a history not of their own time but of the more distant past.” 48 The same thing could be said of the Yahwist. 49 Thus, the substitution of “editorial features” as a description for those characteristics that both von Rad and Noth regarded as the basic literary characteristics of an ancient author is, in my opinion, entirely inappropriate and a case of special pleading. To be sure, my interpretation of the positions of von Rad and Noth on the issues discussed here (and in The Edited Bible) may still be shown to be mistaken, but it seems to me that the case for that has not yet been made. I look forwards to the continuation of a frank and open debate on these matters.

Noth, The Deuteronomistic History, 11. J. Van Seters, “Is There any Historiography in the Hebrew Bible? A Hebrew Greek Comparison,” JNSL 28/2 (2002) 1–25. 48 49

SCRIBES BEFORE AND AFTER 587 BCE: A CONVERSATION MARK LEUCHTER, ED. UNIVERSITY OF SYDNEY

1. Mark Leuchter, Introduction 2. Mark Leuchter, Zadokites, Deuteronomists, and the Exilic Debate Over Scribal Authority 3. Jacob L. Wright, Writing the Restoration: Compositional Agenda and the Role of Ezra in Nehemiah 8 4. Jeffrey C. Geoghegan, The Levites and the Literature of the LateSeventh Century 5. Lauren A. S. Monroe, A Pre-Exilic ‘Holiness’ Substratum in the Deuteronomistic Account of Josiah’s Reform

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UNIVERSITY OF SYDNEY The papers collected here were presented at a special session at the 2006 Annual Meeting of the Association of Jewish Studies in San Diego, CA devoted to the shifting role of scribes in Biblical texts spanning the pre-exilic, exilic and post-exilic periods. The presenters at the session—Lauren A. S. Monroe (Cornell University), Jeffrey C. Geoghegan (Boston College), Jacob Wright (Emory University) and myself—independently attempted to address scribal matters related to the Temple culture in various literary contexts within the Hebrew Bible. It is widely recognized that scribes in the ancient Near East were either loosely or closely connected to the cultic institutions of their social worlds; the papers presented at the AJS session and collected here contribute to this understanding in relation to Israel’s scribal tradition and affirm it when looking at the commonalities of the texts and scribal groups under examination. At the same time, though, the papers address the great diversity of methods, perspectives, and compositional processes within Israel’s scribal tradition. A brief summary of the papers collected here elucidates these points. My paper (“Zadokites, Deuteronomists, and the Exilic Debate Over Scribal Authority”) attempts to reconstruct the polemical culture of the Babylonian Exile as witnessed by literature commonly associated with two literate groups: the Deuteronomists and the Zadokites. Jacob Wright (“Writing the Restoration: Compositional Agenda and The Role of Ezra in Nehemiah 8”) reconsiders the place of Nehemiah 8 within the corpus of Ezra-Nehemiah; its compositional purpose reveals both the degree to which the Temple loomed large in the community of Yehud and the views of those who stood at a distance from its cultic purpose. Jeffrey C. Geoghegan (“The Levites and the Literature of the Late-Seventh Century”) identifies the manner in which Levites in the late pre-exilic period attempted to categorize and transform the cultic history of the nation. Lauren A. S. Monroe (“A Pre-Exilic ‘Holiness’ Substratum in the Deuteronomistic Account of Josiah’s Reform”) provides an examination of the Josiah narrative to determine how 245

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scribal groups from diverse backgrounds (the Holiness School and the Deuteronomists, respectively) reframe that historical episode in vastly different terms. The papers appear here in the order of their presentation at the session. We wish to extend our thanks to Marc Zvi Brettler for chairing the session and to Ehud Ben Zvi for including these works into the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures in order for a larger audience to have access to them.

ZADOKITES, DEUTERONOMISTS, AND THE EXILIC DEBATE OVER SCRIBAL AUTHORITY MARK LEUCHTER

UNIVERSITY OF SYDNEY Most members of our guild would agree that in the literary history of Biblical Israel, two events stand above all others as defining moments that shaped communal identity and religious belief—the Exodus from Egypt and the Babylonian Exile. 1 While there may have been groups in ancient Israel who neither bought into the Exodus tradition as a defining myth nor endured deportation to Babylon in the 6th century BCE, the Israel that emerges from the pages of the Bible is clearly identified by these two events, which serve as essential bookends, one marking the nation’s birth and the other signifying the end of their adolescence. In the story of Israel’s life in the land, the nation rebels against the authority of their patron and caregiver, and like most rebellious teenagers, they suffer a punishment as a result of their insolence. Regardless of the actual historical forces that brought about the destruction of Jerusalem, the depopulation of the Judean countryside and the deportation of Judah’s elite, the Biblical text ultimately declares that this turn of events is a direct result of national impiety, especially concerning the lack of adherence to the words of the prophets. 2 It is perhaps not surprising, then, that prophecy became the primary vehicle for ideas and agendas in the exilic community, and two prophetic works—those of Jeremiah and Ezekiel—stand out as the dominant traditions during this time. While we cannot ignore the fact that the final shape of these literary works come from a much later time, it is quite likely that I do not suggest here that the Exodus was a single moment in history akin to the Babylonian conquest of Jerusalem and deportation of its populace, but rather that the literary tradition regarding the Exodus is presented as such. 2 For a recent and thorough examination of the fall of Judah and its fate during the neo-Babylonian period, see Oded Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2005). 1

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they obtained a fairly mature form during the exile, each addressing the pressing needs of people now separated from what was familiar and safe and facing uncertainty and desperation. 3 Few scholars, however, would look to the book of Jeremiah and the book of Ezekiel and see works that complement and support each other. This, too, is not surprising, for it is well known that Jeremiah and Ezekiel, as literary repositories, preserve two rather different ideological streams— the former is generally recognized as part of a Deuteronomistic stream of tradition, while the latter is equally recognized as reflecting Zadokite priestly thought. 4 Traditionally, scholars have often viewed these perspectives in literary form as emerging in sequence, one after the other, though there has been very little agreement concerning which was earlier and which was later. 5 However, a number of studies over the last two decades have made a strong case for both traditions as rooted in different socio-religious circles and reflecting different but contemporaneous understandings of the divinehuman relationship. It is not uncommon today for scholars to argue that many of the Zadokite texts reflected in the Priestly traditions of the Pentateuch should be viewed as pre-exilic alongside the Deuteronomistic tradi3 Theories regarding the formation of both prophetic works vary considerably, though strong arguments have been advanced for the primary form of Jeremiah and Ezekiel as largely complete by the end of the exile. For the book of Ezekiel as deriving mostly from the prophet himself, see Risa Levitt Kohn, A New Heart and A New Soul: Ezekiel, The Exile and The Torah (JSOTSup 358; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002); Jon D. Levenson, Theology of the Program of Restoration in Ezekiel 40–48 (HSM 10; Missoula: Scholars, 1976). The book of Jeremiah is a more complicated corpus to date, though much of its material should be seen as spanning the late pre-exilic and exilic periods. For a succinct discussion, see William M. Schniedewind, How The Bible Became A Book: The Textualization of Ancient Israel (New York/Camrbidge: Cambridge University Press, 2004) 153–57. 4 For the Deuteronomistic connections to the book of Jeremiah, see among others Richard E. Friedman, “The Deuteronomistic School,” in A. Beck et al (ed.) Fortunate The Eyes That See (Fs. D. N. Friedman; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995) 70–80; Jeffrey C. Geoghegan, The Time, Place and Purpose of The Deuteronomistic History: The Evidence of “Until This Day” (BJS 347; Atlanta: Scholars, 2006) 159–64. On Ezekiel as a Zadokite, see Marvin A. Sweeney, “Ezekiel: Zadokite priest and visionary prophet of the exile,” SBL 2000 Seminar Papers (Atlanta: SBL, 2000) 728–51. 5 One recent example of this view, albeit with a different concept of the scope of these works, is found in David Noel Freedman and Brian Kelly, “Who Redacted The Primary History?” in C. Cohen et al (ed.) Sefer Moshe: The Moshe Weinfeld Jubilee Volume (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2004) 49–62.

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tions, with the latter growing out of a Levitical perspective and the former inheriting the ancient worldviews adopted by the Jerusalem priesthood. 6 These disparate systems of thought persisted into the exile, a condition that has been the subject of much critical inquiry, especially concerning investigations into the literary traditions of Jeremiah and Ezekiel. What has perhaps not been adequately addressed is the inter-relationship, indeed the polemical relationship, which obtained between the trustees of these prophetic texts and the currents of thought they each represented. Ezekiel did not simply carry on where Jeremiah left off as the major prophetic voice of his generation; 7 likewise, the scribes who developed the Jeremiah tradition as well as the Deuteronomistic texts did not work in isolation from the Zadokite culture Ezekiel sought to advance through his own written oracles. These groups were responsive, feeding off of each other’s earlier accomplishments for the sake of advancing their specific ideologies to the exclusion of the other, often making overt references to each other’s written texts, but primarily for the purposes of subordination or condemnation. Let us first consider what I will suggest is the basis for this culture of exilic polemics, namely, the pre-exilic oracles of Jeremiah. Though there have been a number of scholars who question the likelihood that any of these oracles may be attributed to the historical Jeremiah, 8 the majority of researchers accept that much of the tradition bears the mark of this prophet’s personal thought in varying degrees. This is especially the case in Jeremiah chapters 1—25, versions of which must have existed already by the beginning of the exile in 587 BCE, and which already contained Deuteronomistic ideas and language. 9 Though the book of Jeremiah developed in different ways among the Babylonian and Egyptian communities that 6 For an overview, see Deborah Rooke, Zadok’s Heirs (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000) 12–13. See also Moshe Weinfeld, The Place of the Law in the Religion of Ancient Israel (Leiden: Brill, 2004) 80–94; Israel Knohl, The Sanctuary of Silence: The Priestly Torah and the Holiness School (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995) 204–220; Jacob Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16 (AB; New York: Doubleday, 1991). This is not to say, though, that a literature’s origins in the pre-exilic period preclude its development in later times; see below. 7 Pace Freedman and Kelly, “Primary History.” 8 See, most notably, Robert Carroll, Jeremiah: A Commentary (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1986). 9 For the presence of Deuteronomistic thought already in Jeremiah’s pre-exilic oracles, see Mark Leuchter, Josiah’s Reform and Jeremiah’s Scroll: Historical Calamity and Prophetic Response (HBM 6; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2006) chapters 4–8.

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gave us the respective MT and LXX texts of the book, both traditions maintain the basic integrity of these chapters. 10 Despite the ideas introduced through some later redaction, the prevailing sentiment in the pre-exilic layers of these chapters is simple: the nation has sinned and Babylon will be their punishment. I do not wish to address here the complicated relationship between the MT and LXX versions of the Jeremianic texts. 11 Rather, what I wish to suggest is that both traditions bear witness to Jeremiah’s insights into history and world politics as historically accurate. Babylon came and conquered, and the prophet’s oracles regarding this eventuality were preserved among those taken into exile. The story of how this took place is largely related in the supplemental material in the book of Jeremiah, chapters 26—45. 12 Many scholars have looked to this Supplement—which we may loosely identify as Deuteronomistic—as an exilic attempt to prove that Jeremiah was a true prophet, but this would hardly have been necessary for an exilic audience. 13 History proved Jeremiah’s words to be authentic, and if his Schniedewind, Book, 155. The majority scholarly view on this relationship is that the LXX is an earlier version of the book, with both the sequence and content of material in the MT resulting from subsequent expansions and reworking. See Emanuel Tov, “The Literary History of the Book of Jeremiah in the Light of its Textual History,” in Jeffrey H. Tigay (ed.) Empirical Models for Biblical Criticism (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1985) 211–37; Jack R. Lundbom, “Baruch, Seraiah, and Expanded Colophons in the Book of Jeremiah,” JSOT 36 (1986) 108–109 (though Lundbom’s recent Anchor Bible commentaries suggest that many LXX passages are textually inferior to the MT); Richard C. Steiner, “The Two Sons of Neriah and the Two Editions of Jeremiah in the Light of two Atbash Code Words for Babylon,” VT 46 (1996) 74–84. Though I agree with the view that many texts in the LXX are indeed earlier, I do not believe the LXX corpus en masse to have been the first “edition” of the book of Jeremiah in a recognizable form. Individual LXX units and passages bear witness to an early stage in their respective development in relation to their parallels in the MT, but the LXX (or proto-LXX) collection as a whole should not be viewed as the starting point for evaluating the growth of the MT. I discuss this matter in detail in the monograph cited immediately below. 12 For a full examination of these chapters and their role in the development of the larger book of Jeremiah, see Mark Leuchter, The Polemics of Exile in Jeremiah 26— 45 (Cambridge/New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007). 13 As per my discussion in The Polemics of Exile (see especially the introduction and chapter 5), the Supplement comprising Jeremiah 26—45 was generated by the same Shaphanide scribal circle that stood behind the Deuteronomistic literature of the late pre-exilic period. Jack R. Lundbom also makes the connection between the 10 11

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words were preserved by those taken into exile, they would have become central to the intellectual and spiritual curriculum of that community in their search for a meaningful existence by the rivers of Babylon. That Jeremiah’s oracles became central to exilic thought is the main point for our current discussion. The prophet Ezekiel was among those who saw Jeremiah’s oracles come to fruition, and this invariably affected his thinking as he too lingered in exile. But as many scholars have pointed out, Ezekiel is first and foremost a Zadokite priest and advocates a Zadokite agenda. 14 His turn to prophecy as a vehicle for Zadokite ideology represents an attempt to appropriate a tradition that had largely been Levitical in the past and recently claimed by the Deuteronomists. 15 This also meant the appropriation of Jeremiah’s prophetic message, but this was a delicate matter, since the exilic public would have viewed Jeremiah’s time-tested authentic oracles as sacrosanct. As such, we can detect a careful strategy in Ezekiel’s oracles, namely, the exegetical development of Jeremiah’s oracles in a Zadokite manner. In Jeremiah tradents and the scribal school of Shaphan, though he views the composition of materials in Jeremiah as arising primarily from the prophet and Baruch rather than from a slightly larger scribal school; see his Jeremiah 1–20 (AB; New York: Doubleday, 1999) 92 and passim. See also Friedman, “The Deuteronomistic School,” 79–80, for a brief outline of the compositional sequence placing Jeremiah 26—45 in direct succession to the pre-exilic Deuteronomistic literature. 14 See especially the discussion by Sweeney, “Ezekiel”; Paul Hanson, “Israelite Religin in the Early Postexilic Period,” in Patrick D. Miller et al (ed.) Ancient Israelite Religion (Fs. F. M. Cross; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1987) 486; Avi Hurvitz, A Linguistic Study of the Relationship Between the Priestly Source and the Book of Ezekiel (Paris: Garbala, 1982); Menahem Haran, “The Lawcode of Ezekiel xl–xlviii and its Relationship to the Priestly Source,” HUCA 50 (1979) 45–71. We should, however, draw distinctions between what I have termed here a Zadokite agenda and an active Zadokite priesthood. There were doubtlessly Zadokite supporters of Ezekiel’s prophetic activity, but Baruch J. Schwartz cautions against seeing Ezekiel (or any Zadokite supporters he had) as members of a consolidated priesthood in any traditional sense of the term; see his article “A Priest Out of Place: Reconsidering Ezekiel’s Role in the History of the Israelite Priesthood” in Stephen L. Cook and Corrine L. Patton (ed.) Ezekiel’s Hierarchical World: Wrestling with a Tiered Reality (Atlanta: SBL, 2004) 61–71. 15 For an example of Levite associations with pre-Deuteronomistic prophetic literature, see Stephen L. Cook, “The Lineage Roots of Hosea’s Yahwism,” Semeia 87 (1999) 145–62. The Deuteronomists themselves are equally concerned with both prophetic and Levitical thought (Geoghegan, The Time, Place and Purpose, 149).

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many places, Ezekiel takes up the language and themes of Jeremiah’s preexilic oracles but crafts them into a Zadokite-centric lesson. The following brief examples are instructive: Ezek 3:17/33:2,6 Ezekiel 16 Ezekiel 18 Ezekiel 23 Ezekiel 38—39

prophet as a “watchman” ( cf. Jer 6:17) 16 Israel’s “youth” and “harlotry” (cf. Jeremiah 2) “New heart” covenant (cf. Jer 31:31–34) 17 Two harlot sisters (cf. Jer 3:6–11) Gog and Magog (cf. Jer 1:11–19; Jer 25:1–13) 18

16 See Lena Sofia Tiemeyer, “The Watchman Metaphor in Isaiah lvi—lxvi” VT 55 (2005) 378–400. The idea of a prophet as a watchman discussed by Tiemeyer may be traced to distinctively Ephraimite prophetic traditions; the ‫ צופים‬constitute a prophetic typology associated with Shiloh, and Hosea identifies himself as a member of their ranks in contradistinction to the ecstatic prophetic guilds of his day (Hos 9:7–9). See Leuchter, Josiah’s Reform and Jeremiah’s Scroll, 24–25. Jeremiah’s connection to northern tradition places him much closer to this typological qualification than does Ezekiel’s Zadokite Jerusalemite heritage. The latter’s adoption of the term is very likely motivated by an attempt to identify himself as the inheritor of prophetic authority paradigmatically defined by Jeremiah and thus as part of a long succession of well known (mostly Ephraimite) prophets (pace Hendrik Leene, who does not consider the connection between the term ‫ צפה‬and earlier Ephraimite/Shilonite circles to which Jeremiah boasted a familial connection; see his article “Blowing the Same Shofar: An Intertextual Comparison of Representations of the Prophetic Role in Jeremiah and Ezekiel,” in Johannes C. de Moor [ed.] The Elusive Prophet: The prophet as a Historical Person, Literary Character and Anonymous Artist [Leiden: Brill, 2001] 187–192). 17 Many scholars would date Jer 31:31–34 to 587 or later, but it is better seen as directed to the exiles of 597 in the attempt to sever ties to the community remaining in the land under Zedekiah, a group Jeremiah viewed as corrupt (cf. Jer 24:8– 11). The passage is part of the larger redaction of Jeremiah 30—31 directed to the exiles of 597; see Mark Leuchter, “Jeremiah’s 70–Year Prophecy and the ‫ לב‬/‫ששך‬ ‫ קמי‬Atbash Codes,” Bib 85 (2004) 516–20. 18 Gog and Magog take on the pseudo-mythic “enemy from the north” tradition evident in Jeremiah’s pre-exilic oracles fashioned after the prototype of Assyria. See Peter Machinist, “The Rab Šāqēh at the Wall of Jerusalem: Israelite Identity in the Face of the Assyrian ‘Other’,” HS 41 (2000) 151–68 (166–68. The identification of these enemies with Indo-Aryan peoples is geographically consistent with the shift eastward from a Syro-Palestinian setting to a Mesopotamian setting. On the “enemy from the north” motif as pseudo-mythic in Jeremiah, see Brevard S. Childs, “The Enemy from the North and the Chaos Tradition,”in Leo G. Perdue and B. W. Kovacs, A Prophet To The Nations: Essays in Jeremiah Studies (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1984) 151–161. On Ezekiel’s merging of mythic motifs with political

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In these cases, and in others, Ezekiel presents himself as the inheritor of Jeremiah’s authority, empowered by his own priestly heritage to advocate an ideology he believed should replace the outdated and failed program of Deuteronomy that was the true cause of the exile. 19 Relying upon Jeremianic lexemes and motifs simply reinforced his ability to make a case for the Zadokite agenda, suggesting that while it stood in contrast to the Deuteronomistic tradition, it was consistent with the proven oracles of the revered Jeremiah. One can imagine that with the failure of the Deuteronomic reform and the demolition of Jerusalem, many of the exiles would have found Ezekiel’s arguments compelling, and there are indications within the book of Ezekiel that this was indeed the case. 20 If Ezekiel was an effective spokesperson for the Zadokites, this might account for the rehabilitation of the Holiness School doctrines of the pre-exilic period and the development of the Holiness Code as an example of proper conduct. Israel Knohl has made a strong case for the beginnings of the Zadokite Holiness School in the preexilic period, 21 but recent examinations by Bernard Levinson and Jeffrey Stackert make clear that the Holiness Code as it now stands responds to and revises some key passages in the Deuteronomic lawcode. 22 The audience that heard Ezekiel’s oracles was likely the same audience that ultimately saw the Holiness Code take on its final form. 23 The Zadokites conentities, see Michael Fishbane, Biblical Myth and Rabbinic Mythmaking (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004) 60–61. 19 Leuchter, Polemics of Exile, chapter 5. For Deuteronomy as the cause of the exile, see Scott W. Hahn and John S. Bergsma, “What Laws Were ‘Not Good’? A Canonical Approach to the Theological Problem of Ezekiel 20:25–26,” JBL 123 (2004) 201–18. 20 See Dalit Rom-Shiloni, “Facing Destruction and Exile: Inner-Biblical Exegesis in Jeremiah and Ezekiel,” ZAW 117 (2005) 194–98. 21 Knohl, Sanctuary of Silence, 204–220. 22 Levinson: “The Manumission of Hermeneutics: The Slave Laws of the Pentateuch as Challenge to Contemporary Pentateuchal Theory” in Andre Lemaire (ed.) Congress Volume 2004 (VTSup; Leiden: Brill, 2006) 281–324. Stackert: Rewriting the Torah: Literary Revision in Deuteronomy and the Holiness Legislation (Ph.D. Dissertation; Brandeis University, 2006). 23 This does not mean, though, that the redaction of H occurred at the same time that Ezekiel was active. As the many thematic and linguistic parallels suggest, Ezekiel may have been a member of the Holiness School, reviving and advancing their theological agenda, but the redaction of H as a literary work likely occurred only after Ezekiel’s oracles were completed and committed to writing. There are

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structed a legal tradition to replace that of Deuteronomy as an example of how the nation should have behaved during its tenure in the land…a status that would eventually be restored, if Ezekiel 40—48 are any indication. 24 In short, this was a time when the Zadokite priests flexed their muscle, demonstrating the integrity of their traditions and the need for the exilic public to adopt them as a theological standard, one consistent with Jeremiah’s own thought. What did this mean for the Deuteronomists? Three things. First, it meant that Jeremiah was in danger of losing his position as the prophetic symbol of exclusively Deuteronomistic ideas. 25 Second, it meant that the competing Zadokite doctrines threatened to marginalize the Deuteronomists’ impact in exilic society and religious thought. Finally, it meant that Ezekiel’s status as a prophet of YHWH provided the community with direct access to divine will. Any Deuteronomistic appeal to tradition could be obviated by a fresh declaration from YHWH that would certainly benefit the Zadokites and their public standing. 26 strong indications that the H author or authors knew a fairly well-developed form of Jeremiah 26–45 (which, as I discuss in the present study, post-dates Ezekiel) and respond to it, even if the themes and ideas in H were stimulated by Ezekiel’s activity. See below for a proposed sequence of composition and redaction regarding Ezekiel and H. I discuss this and related matters more thoroughly in a forthcoming study entitled “The Manumission Laws in Leviticus and Deuteronomy: The Jeremiah Connection.” 24 It is clear, though, that the H legislation is meant to be theoretical and to a degree utopian, in contradistinction to Ezekiel’s practical (if idealistic) reform program. See, among others, John Seitz Bergsma, “The Jubilee; A Post-Exilic Attempt to Reclaim Lands?” Bib 84 (2003) 225–46; Levinson, “Manumission of Hermeneutics,” 322, 324; even Knohl recognizes that certain laws in H were meant to establish ideological principles rather than legislation that could be implemented (Sanctuary of Silence, 220). 25 The Jeremiah tradition certainly adjusts Deuteronomistic ideas from the Josianic period, but it is within a Deuteronomistic paradigm that these adjustments take place. See Adele Berlin, “Jeremiah 29:5–7: A Deuteronomic Allusion?” HAR 8 (1984) 3–11; Mark Leuchter, “The Temple Sermon and the Term ‫ מקום‬in the Jeremianic Corpus,” JSOT 30 (2005) 93–109. Furthermore, these adjustments are not inconsistent with the Deuteronomic legislation, which allows for exegetical development when the extant corpus of laws/ideology is unable to address communal needs or problems (Deut 17:8–13). 26 See the discussion of Ezekiel 20 by Rom-Shiloni “Facing Destruction,” 194– 198, 201. The chapter declares new oracles while simultaneously engaging in a sophisticated exegesis of older traditions. Stephen L. Cook makes a similar observa-

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The Deuteronomists therefore spearheaded a counter strategy: they redefined the very parameters of the Jeremianic literary tradition that all the exiles would have revered. Chief among this strategy would be the construction of the composite Supplement we now encounter in Jeremiah 26—45, which repeatedly places scribes on par with the prophet (but cast in typological distinction from the prophet) and presents them as the true inheritors of Jeremiah’s authority. 27 The examples below summarize some of the major points at which this Supplement carries forward the scribal argument against the Zadokites. In each case, the Ezekiel tradition and the Zadokite agenda are alternately countered, criticized, or condemned: Jeremiah 26 Jer 32:6–15

Jer 34:8–22

Jeremiah 36

Jeremiah 44

Citations interpret earlier prophets and prophecy (vv. 4–6, 18, 20–23) and place them in opposition to Jerusalem priests and affiliated prophets. Baruch the scribe facilitates prophecy via land transaction, but it is hinterland territory in Benjamin, not Jerusalem, which will be restored and repopulated. 28 Criticism of the royal and priestly circles in Jerusalem is cast in Deuteronomistic language (v.14), and Jeremiah is presented Deuteronomic law (cf. Deut 31:9–11; see also below). Deuteronomistic scribes are entrusted with Jeremiah’s prophetic words, not the Zadokite priesthood (see especially vv. 17–18; cf. Ezek 2:9– 3:4). Rejection of Jeremiah–Dtr. tradition=foreign status; compare to Ezek 20:25–26.

tion regarding Ezekiel 44; see his “Innerbiblical Interpretation in Ezekiel 44 and the History of Israel’s Priesthood,” JBL 114 (1995) 193–208. 27 As many scholars have recognized, the author or authors of Jeremiah 26— 45 periodically have the prophet recede into the background while the scribes step into his shoes as the primary dramatic personalities within the Supplement. Nevertheless, it is still Jeremiah whose personality looms largest in the book, as the redactors of the MT hermeneutically ascribe the entirety of the tradition to him via the ‫ דברי ירמיהו‬inclusio in Jer 1:1/51:64. 28 The redaction of this text into the Supplement contributes to a larger agenda, but it appears to have originated independently immediately before the exile; see Lundbom, “Baruch, Seraiah,” 97–98.

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Baruch as a second Jeremiah and trustee of his legacy, who is told not to pursue “greatness” (‫;)גדלות‬ in Jeremiah the root ‫ גדל‬most often refers to prophetic status (claimed in exile, of course, by Ezekiel). 29

At various points, authentic oracles and writings of Jeremiah have been worked into this Supplement, and this would serve to authenticate the larger composition. 30 But it is primarily a scribal assault on Zadokite exclusivity, appealing not only to the role of scribes as facilitators of Jeremiah’s prophecy but identifying these scribes as Levitical figures as well. Whereas Deuteronomy charges Levites to read and execute the teachings of Moses, these same responsibilities are carried out by the scribes in Jeremiah: Jeremiah 36

Baruch reads Jeremiah’s scroll publicly Deut 31:11: Levites charged with reading the torah publicly 31 Shaphanide scribes read/summarize the scroll to the king Deut 17:18–19: Levites charged with teaching the torah to the king

Jer 40:7

Gedaliah congregates the remaining people in the land Deut 31:12: Levites charged with congregating all the people in the land: Jer 40:7 ‫ כי הפקיד אתו אנשים נשים וטף‬32

29 See the discussion by J. E. Wright, Baruch Ben Neriah: From Biblical Scribe to Apocalyptic Seer (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2003) 32. 30 These may be found especially in Jer 27–31, though other smaller authentic oracles may be discerned throughout the work. See the closing discussion in Leuchter, Polemics of Exile, chapter 3, regarding Jer 36:30. 31 See also J. Andrew Dearman, “My Servants the Scribes: Composition and Context in Jeremiah 36,” JBL 109 (1990) 409 n. 17, who makes a similar observation regarding the parallel to Deut 31:11, but not in connection to the Levitical context of the latter. 32 The LXX does not allow for this parallel due to the absence of these lexemes, but considering the consistency in the Supplement of associating the Shaphanides and related scribes with Levites, this is very likely the result of haplog-

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257

Deut 31:12 ‫הקל את העם האנשים הנשים הטף‬ Gedaliah’s decree as implementation of Jeremiah’s teachings/oracles: 33 Service to the king of Babylon (cf. Jer 27:12–17) “It will be good for you” (‫ ייטב לכם‬cf. Jer 29:10) Summer Fruit (‫ ;קיץ‬cf. Jer 24:5–7) 34 Dwelling in the [new] cities ‫ ;ערים‬cf. Jer 29:7) Many scholars view Deuteronomy as reflecting the interests of Levites. 35 Amplifying those interests in the construction of the Supplement would prove that the Deuteronomistic scribes, like Ezekiel and the Zadokites, were advocating an ancient priestly perspective that could not simply be rejected or ignored. Furthermore, since Jeremiah himself had been a Levite, the Deuteronomists positioned themselves as closer to the prophet in outlook and authority than Ezekiel or his Zadokite peers. It is worth noting that Gedaliah’s decree not only presents him as a Levite administrator of a Mosaic prophet’s words, but that it draws primarily from oracles that Jeremiah had earlier directed to the exiles of 597 (the “good figs” of Jer 24:5–7). It was this community that the author viewed as fit for ongoing blessing; the author behind Jeremiah 40 suggests that had it not been for Ishmael’s massacre and the subsequent flight to Egypt (Jeremiah 41–43), Gedaliah’s decree would have bestowed upon the remnant group the same blessed status as the exiled community. To a post-587 exilic audience in Mesopotamia, the lesson learned here is that the members of the Shaphanide circle such as Gedaliah were instrumental to the sustenance of that community’s status as “good figs.” Rejection of their role— even in the furthering of Zadokite interests—would result in the dissolution Jer 40:9–10

raphy, and the MT preserves the better reading. See Jack R. Lundbom, “Haplography in the Hebrew Vorlage of LXX Jeremiah,” HS 46 (2005) 317. 33 This must be categorized alongside the aforementioned passages, as Jeremiah is presented within his book as a Mosaic prophet (Jer 1:9; cf. Deut 18:18). 34 Significant here is Lipschits’ observation that the summer fruit in question would have likely been figs (The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem, 99, n. 224), the metaphorical vehicle for Jeremiah’s vision in Jer 24. 35 For a current overview of scholarship and new proposals regarding the status of the Levite in Deuteronomy, see Mark Leuchter, “‘The Levite In Your Gates’: The Deuteronomic Redefinition of Levitical Authority,” JBL 126 (2007) n.p. (forthcoming).

258

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

of that legitimacy, the fate that befell those who fled into Egypt (Jeremiah 44). Judging by the fact that the Supplement became a standardized part of the book of Jeremiah, we can safely assume that it was a compelling piece of work that strongly affected the exilic community. 36 We can also see a variety of places where the now-expanded Jeremiah corpus exerted influence on the exilic redaction of Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic History, further strengthening the connection between the Jeremiah and Deuteronomistic literary works. 37 The emphasis on Jeremiah and the scribes’ Levitical status must have affected other Levites in exile, which would in turn affect the exilic population that looked to these Levites for leadership and religious stability. Indeed, through the Supplement, the Deuteronomists may have secured a coalition of sorts with exilic Levites, whose interests and authority were well represented therein. 38 But if this collection of material evoked a strong public reaction, it also appears to have prompted an equally strong Zadokite response. Many scholars have suggested that the redaction of the Pentateuch began during the period of the exile as a way of setting important legal and narrative traditions beyond the homeland, and it is generally recognized that this was primarily a Zadokite enterprise. Yet the production of the Pentateuch, in some form, may well have been conceived as a historiography to compete against the Deuteronomistic works, with both vying for the same audience. The linchpin in all of this is the book of Deuteronomy. As Jon D. Levenson demonstrated over 30 years ago, Deuteronomy was eventually inserted into the Deuteronomistic History, setting the ideological stage as a law code for what would follow in the historical narratives. 39 Yet its position at the end of the Zadokite Pentateuch deflates the idea that the Deuteronomists had an

As is well known, the Supplement appears at the end of the LXX and in the middle of the MT. See Schniedewind, Book, 155. 37 Leuchter, Polemics of Exile, chapter 7 (conclusion). See also Baruch Halpern, “Why Manasseh is Blamed for the Babylonian Exile: The Evolution of a Biblical Tradition” VT 48 (1998) 510–514; Friedman, “The Deuteronomistic School,” 79– 80. 38 Leuchter, Polemics of Exile, chapter 6. 39 “Who Inserted the Book of the Torah?,” HTR 68 (1975) 303–333. Though Levenson argues that this occurred during the exile, Halpern and Vanderhooft suggest a late pre-exilic background to this redactional reflex (“The Editions of Kings,” 237). 36

SCRIBES BEFORE AND AFTER 587 BCE

259

exclusive claim to the authority it represented, and argues that this authority was truly at home in a Zadokite work. I have argued elsewhere that the inclusion of the Blessing of Moses into Deuteronomy should be assigned to a Zadokite redaction of the book. 40 Deuteronomy 4, an exilic Deuteronomistic composition, makes allusions to material in Deuteronomy 31—32 but not to the Blessing of Moses in Deuteronomy 33, suggesting that the latter was only subsequently brought into the book and by a non-Deuteronomistic hand. 41 Furthermore, the Blessing of Moses establishes a parallel to the Blessing of Jacob in Genesis 49, forging the basic expanse of the Pentateuch as a single, cohesive unit and suggests that Moses, great as he was, occupied a typology similar to that of the Patriarchs in Genesis, i.e., a founder of traditions entrusted to Israel’s priesthood. In addition, the retrospective note in Deuteronomy 34:10–12 looks back not simply upon Deuteronomy, but upon the entire collection of Moses narratives in the Pentateuch beginning with the Exodus. 42 We might also view the statement that no comparable prophet arose after Moses (Deut 34:10–12) as a Zadokite attempt to place limits on a persistent prophetic tradition which the Deuteronomists claimed as their own ideological nahala. With respect to the hermeneutical shape of the Pentateuch, then, Moses’ great interpretation of tradition in Deuteronomy is entirely contingent upon the Zadokite laws now at the center of the Torah. Like Ezekiel before them, the Zadokite redactors of the Pentateuch realized that if Deuteronomy could not be ignored, it could at least be kept in check. 43 All of this suggests a sort of pre-Rabbinic responsa literature emerging among the various intellectual and religious elites of the exilic community, with each group acutely aware of the views and arguments of their opposition. We may tentatively propose the following sequence of composition (with some likely dates provided): Leuchter, “Song of Moses,” 299–300. For Deuteronomy 4 as an exilic work, see Marc Zvi Brettler, “A ‘Literary Sermon’ in Deuteronomy 4,” in Saul M. Olyan and Robert C. Culley (ed.) A Wise and Discerning Mind: Essays in Honor of Burke O. Long (BJS; Providence: Brown University, 2000) 33–50. 42 See Marc Zvi Brettler and Thomas C. Römer, “Deuteronomy 34 and the Case for a Persian Hexateuch,” JBL 119 (2000) 403–404, 406–407. 43 Risa Levitt Kohn also notes the similarities here between Ezekiel’s approach to Deuteronomy and that of the Pentateuchal redactors “A Prophet Like Moses? Rethinking Ezekiel’s Relationship to the Torah,” ZAW 114 (2002) 250–54. 40 41

260

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Jeremiah’s pre-exilic oracles are redacted (between 597–587 BCE). 44 Ezekiel’s oracles are formed (between ca. 592–572 BCE) as an attempt to appropriate both Jeremiah’s rhetoric and the language of Deuteronomy for the Zadokite circles. 45 The Shaphanide-Deuteronomistic scribes construct Jeremiah 26— 45 as a counter-measure to the influence of the Ezekiel tradition (ca. 570 BCE). 46 The Holiness Code is redacted as a Zadokite response to Jeremiah 26—45 (though not as a rebuke of that work). 47 Amel-Marduk’s pardon of Jehoiachin prompts the exilic redaction of the Deuteronomistic History (between 562–560 BCE), which relies upon and reinforces Jeremiah 26—45. 48 On 597–587 as the date range for the redaction of substantial collections of Jeremiah’s pre-exilic oracles, see Leuchter, Polemics of Exile, Excursus 1. 45 On these dates for Ezekiel’s activity, see Sweeney, “Ezekiel.” 46 We may date the princinpal redaction of this material to circa 570, and no later than 567. The last datable oracle in the Supplement (Jer 44:30) presupposes Hophra’s deposition in 570, but Nebuchadnezzar supported Hophra’s attempt to reclaim power before the latter’s death in 567. A relatively pro-Babylonian text such as Jer 44 would not have lashed out so viciously at Hophra if he had already aligned himself with Nebuchadnezzar. For a historical overview, see Rainer Albertz, Israel in Exile: The History and Literature of the Sixth Century B.C.E. (Atlanta: SBL, 2004) 56– 57. 47 The H author behind Leviticus 25 relies upon certain literary and hermeneutical precedents in Jeremiah 34 in the creation of his Jubilee legislation; the H author felt compelled to engage the rhetoric of Jeremiah 34 but did not attempt to negate the content of that narrative so much as present H as the legal standard that Jeremiah would have personally emulated (see my forthcoming discussion in “The Manumission Laws”). 48 Lipschits sees 2 Kgs 25:27–30 as a later addendum to a work already largely complete by the time of Jehoiachin’s release (The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem, 297–99), but this redaction is unlikely to have taken place after the deposition of that king in 560 BCE. See the recent examination by Serge Frolov, “Evil-Merodach and the Deuteronomist: The Sociohistorical Setting of Dtr in the Light of 2 Kgs 25,27–30,” Bib 88 (2007) 174–190, who makes a strong case for this small window of opportunity as the likely circumstances for the exilic redaction of the Deuteronomistic History. I disagree, though, with Frolov’s suggestion that the entirety of this work was constructed during this period (“Evil-Merodach,” 182–189) which, while plausible, does not account for a variety of intertextual dynamics with the Jeremianic material 44

SCRIBES BEFORE AND AFTER 587 BCE

261

The Zadokite Pentateuch (or the core of this work) is redacted as an alternate or competing historiography to the Deuteronomistic History. 49 Strong arguments have been made for dating the exilic redaction of the Deuteronomistic History to a specific historical period. But determining whether the Holiness Code was constructed before, during, or after this time is a more difficult assessment. As noted above, the author behind the final form of the Holiness Code knows the Jeremiah tradition, thus establishing the temporal priority of the latter. However, this does not automatically mean that the Holiness author’s work must have preceded that of the Deuteronomists. The Holiness Code could have been redacted after the redaction of the Deuteronomistic History or independently from it during the same period of time. In this case, we may restructure our proposed sequence of composition to allow for items 4 and 5—the Holiness Code and the Deuteronomistic History, respectively—to reverse their order of composition or to be presented as emerging as fairly contemporaneous compositions. It seems likely, though, that the final Zadokite redaction of the Pentateuch is indeed a response to the Deuteronomistic History, and that this Pentateuchal redaction is an enterprise independent of the activity of the authors behind the Holiness Code and subsequent to it. 50 Saul Olyan has noted that certain lexical considerations suggest that the author responsible for the current shape of various Pentateuchal texts combines the P and H ideologies. 51 Moreover, though the Zadokite redactors of the Pentateuch favor H over D (as many scholars recognize, the placement of H in the center of the work is a strong indication of this favoritism), their appearance in a single literary corpus suggests that these redactors did not view them as mutually exclusive. By contrast, Levinson and Stackert have argued conthat should be dated before the exilic redaction of the Deuteronomistic History. 49 It is possible that the rise of Cyrus prompted the redaction of the Pentateuch; Rooke, Zadok’s Heirs, 12–13. The fall of the regime presented as dominant in 2 Kgs 25:27–30 would have been a useful moment for the Zadokite redactors of the Pentateuch to lodge a counter-argument by producing an alternate historiography. However, it is also possible that this process began earlier, when AmelMarduk was deposed by Nergal-Sharezer in 560 BCE. For an overview of these events, see Albertz, Israel In Exile, 60–62. 50 Pace Knohl, Sanctuary of Silence, 103. 51 Saul M. Olyan, “Exodus 31:12–17: The Sabbath According to H or the Sabbath According to P and H?,” JBL 124 (2005) 201–209.

262

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

vincingly that the Holiness authors did indeed attempt to push aside the Deuteronomic legislation. 52 We may suggest that the evolution of the Zadokite perspective regarding Deuteronomy from that of the Holiness authors to that of the Pentateuch’s final redactors presupposes the need to abstract Deuteronomy from its place in the Deuteronomistic History, thereby dissolving the applicability of that work in the formation of their own. 53 Thus however we choose to date the construction of the Holiness Code and the exilic redaction of the Deuteronomistic History, both must predate the final redaction of the Pentateuch, which evidences an evolution of Zadokite consciousness and an attempt to keep their characteristic literature as current as possible. The foregoing discussion points to a flurry of literary activity in a fairly limited period of time by scribal groups in furious dialogue with each other. We should not be surprised by this; separated from the land and facing a fragmented community overwhelmed by an indomitable Mesopotamian culture, a strictly literary revolution was the only real option for any type of connection to older national traditions. 54 What we must note is that despite the spatial and temporal proximity, the Deuteronomists and Zadokites behind this literary activity could not be more distant from each other in terms of their respective visions for Israel’s self-identity during the exile. No longer could geography create or sustain social cohesion—the underlying purpose of Jeremiah 44 suggests as much—even among a population that saw itself as the “true” Israel by virtue of their experience of exile. 55 It was adherence to literary ideologies that provided the basis for any understanding of Israelite identity among those no longer living in Judah. 56 Perhaps most significantly, the development of Israel’s priestly lines during the exile became a matter of literary expression. Separated from regional shrines, village gates or a central national sanctuary, priesthood and scribalism became inextricably linked. 57 The hostility in the battle for scribal See above, note 22. Leuchter, “Song of Moses,” 299–300. 54 So also Levinson, “Manumission,” 322, 324. 55 We will recall that Jeremiah 44 equates the Zadokite agenda with the Egyptian remnant group who relinquish their claims to Israelite ethnic identity; see above. 56 The circumstance was much different, though, for the substantial number of those who remained behind. See Jill Middlemas, The Troubles of Templeless Judah (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005). 57 See especially Joachim Schaper, “Exilic and Post-Exilic Prophecy and the 52 53

SCRIBES BEFORE AND AFTER 587 BCE

263

authority of the time may have been the defining characteristic of Israel’s exilic intellectual and ideological development, and this hostility no doubt continued in subsequent generations during the period of Restoration under Persia and beyond. 58 And yet the development of a rich intellectual tradition in Judaism would be characterized in subsequent generations by similar literary legacies of disagreement, creating a multifaceted culture that invited committed inquiry and challenges rather than conformity and complacency. 59

Orality/Literacy Problem,” VT 55 (2005) 324–342 for a full discussion of this phenomenon. 58 Tensions between the Zadokite priesthood and the scribal class from the eastern Diaspora may be sensed with the selection of Ezra as judicial administrator of Yehud by Artaxerxes. The authenticity of the letter of Artaxerxes preserved in Ezra 7:11–26 is disputed, though most scholars agree that it is based on an authentic charge similar in nature to the contents of the present passage. See Richard C. Steiner, “The MBQR at Qumran, the Episkopos in the Athenian Empire, and the meaning of LBQR’ in Ezra 7:14: On the Relation of Ezra’s Mission to the Persian Legal Project,” JBL 120 (2001) 623–46; Lisbeth Fried, “You Shall Appoint Judges”: Ezra’s Mission and the Rescript of Artaxeres,” in James W. Watts (ed.) Persia and Torah: The Theory of Imperial Authorization of the Pentateuch (Atlanta: SBL, 2001) 63–89. Ezra’s identification as both a Zadokite and as a trained scribe suggests a diplomatic strategy with the aim of reconciling disparate traditions of authority within the Second Commonwealth. For a preliminary discussion, see Hugo Mantel, “The Dichotomy of Judaism in the Second Temple Period,” HUCA 44 (1973) 55–87. 59 Mantel, “Dichotomy of Judaism.” See also Shaye J. D. Cohen, “The Significance of Yavneh: Pharisees, Rabbis and the End of Jewish Sectarianism,” HUCA 55 (1984) 50–51; Israel Knohl, The Divine Symphony: The Bible’s Many Voices (Philadelphia: JPS, 2003).

WRITING THE RESTORATION: COMPOSITIONAL AGENDA AND THE ROLE OF EZRA IN NEHEMIAH 8 JACOB L. WRIGHT EMORY UNIVERSITY

1. INTRODUCTION For the present paper I was asked to treat scribal activities in the early Second Temple period. In deciding how to approach this assignment, I thought rather than presenting a general research overview, it would be best to confine my attention to Ezra, the scribe par excellence in Second Temple history. 1 With regard to Ezra’s historical role, much has been written. 2 Thus, in what follows, instead of attempting to say something more about the historicity of this figure, I would like to examine how he is imagined in the book of Ezra-Nehemiah (hereafter EN), and above all, in the pivotal eighth chapter of Nehemiah. 3

2. COMPARISON OF EZRA 3 AND NEHEMIAH 8 The account of Ezra’s Torah-reading in Nehemiah 8 is a rich source for studying scribal activities. But it would be a mistake to focus on this pas-

Generous financial support for my attendance to the AJS meeting was provided by a faculty prize from the University of Heidelberg as well as a travel grant from the German Research Society. 2 See most recently Yitzhak Avishur and Michael Heltzer, “The Scribe and Priest Ezra: A Leader under Achaemenian Rule,” Transeuphratène 29 (2005), pp. 17– 36. 3 For a recent discussion of my book on EN, see G. N. Knoppers (ed.), “Revisiting the Composition of Ezra-Nehemiah: In Conversation with Jacob Wright, Rebuilding Identity: The Nehemiah Memoir and its Earliest Readers (BZAW, 348; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004),” Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 7 (2007), article 12 soon to be available at http://www.jhsonline.org. 1

265

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

sage, as has sometimes been done, 4 without considering its place in the wider context of EN. One of the most striking aspects of the scene portrayed in our text is that it is set at the beginning point of the cultic calendar (see Neh 7:73, 8:2, 14). This is not the first time the book refers to the 7th month. Already Ezra 3 recounts how Zerubbabel and Joshua erected the Altar in Jerusalem and reinitiated the sacrificial cult during this month of Cyrus’s first year. Significantly, both Nehemiah 8 and Ezra 3 are directly preceded by the same register of ‘ōlîm in Neh 7:5–72 and Ezra 2. The presence of this lengthy list in both halves of the book would seem to indicate an intentional literary structure, and thus we may follow others in viewing these chapters as a kind of inclusio in the narrative of the book: Ezra 2–3, on the one hand, and Nehemiah 7–8, on the other. 5 Although many scholars agree that these chapters serve to bracket the narrative of EN, they often fail to appreciate the significance of the radical shift in emphases from one end of the book to the other: The authors of Ezra 3 go to great lengths to demonstrate how the first generation of ōlîm, under the leadership of Zerubbabel and the High Priest Jeshua, hastened to have everything in place for the sacrificial ordinances required by the Torah for the seventh month. In contrast to Ezra 3’s depiction of orthopraxis, Nehemiah 8 affirms that the subsequent generation who built the Wall of Jerusalem under the leadership of Nehemiah was governed by one desire when the seventh month arrived, namely that Ezra the Scribe “bring” the book of the Torah. 6 Now what has transpired in the chapters between Ezra 3 and Nehemiah 8 to prompt this profound change in the way the Judeans celebrate the seventh month—from sacrificing on the Altar in compliance with the 4 A good example of this neglect may be found in the otherwise original and thoughtful interpretation of the passage by Thomas Willi, Juda-Jehud-Israel: Studien zum Selbstverständnis des Judentums in persischer Zeit (FAT 12; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1995), 116. In attempting to demonstrate that the narrative does not portray a cultic event but rather the political ratification of the Torah as the legal constitution of Yehud, Willi fails to pay sufficient attention the Tendenz of the account and the intertextual threads connecting it to other parts of EN. 5 See the articles in the forthcoming volume edited by Mark J. Boda and Paul L. Redditt, The (Dis-)Unity of Ezra-Nehemiah (Hebrew Bible Monographs; SheffieldPhoenix: Sheffield, 2007). 6 I capitalize the words “Wall,” “Temple” and “Altar” in this paper as a way of signifying the symbolic value these building projects possess in the narrative of EN.

SCRIBES BEFORE AND AFTER 587 BCE

267

Torah, on the one hand, to reading Torah without a particular interest in the Altar, on the other? In offering a response to this question, I hope to show that the book of EN provides us a glimpse into the incipient tension between Temple and Torah, and that this tension has informed the book’s portrayal of Ezra the Scribe. Let us begin by comparing these texts more closely. The lengthy list of the returnees in Ezra 2 concludes by reporting that “all Israel were in towns” (‫וכל ישראל בעריהם‬, v. 70b). Ezra 3 begins by repeating this statement, yet it makes a significant addition: “And when the seventh month arrived, the children of Israel were in (their) towns” ( ‫ויגע החדש‬ ‫השביעי ובני ישראל בערים‬, v. 1a). 7 By referring to the seventh month, the author prepares the reader for an account of cultic activities. And sure enough, the following account describes how Jeshua and Zerubbabel set up an Altar in order to inaugurate the cultic calendar with abundant sacrifices. The paragraph goes on to describe how the Altar served from this point on (“from the first day of 7th month...,” v. 6) for the various sacrifices prescribed in the Torah. Turning now to the other half of the book, we would anticipate the authors of Nehemiah 8 to report how the Judeans, when celebrating the seventh month, were still using the Altar built almost a century earlier before. But this is not the case. Just as in Ezra 2–3, the account in Nehemiah 8 follows the long list of returnees in chap. 7. The introduction to the account resembles the introduction to Ezra 3: “When the seventh month arrived, the children of Israel were in their cities” ( ‫ויגע החדש השביעי ובני ישראל‬ ‫בעריהם‬, Neh 7:72b). As in Ezra 3, they all assemble unified (‫ )כאיש אחד‬in Jerusalem (Neh 8:1). But in sharp distinction to Ezra 3, the public gathering does not take place in the Temple precincts, but rather in the plaza before the Water Gate, which stood at a significant distance from the Temple. 8 And it is at this gate that they all call on Ezra the Scribe to bring the Book of the Torah (… ‫)ויאמרו לעזרא חספר להביא את ספר תורת משה‬. 7 For an analysis of the development of these lines and their relationship Neh 7:72–8:1, see Juha Pakkala, Ezra the Scribe. The Development of Ezra 7–10 and Nehemia 8. BZAW 347. Berlin/New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2004, pp. 137–40, 165–67, and Jacob L. Wright, Rebuilding Identity: The Nehemiah Memoir and Its Earliest Readers. BZAW 348. Berlin/New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2004, pp. 301–303. 8 See M. Burrows, “Nehemiah 3:1–32 as a Source for the Topography of Ancient Jerusalem,” AASOR 14 (1933–4): 115–140 and H. G. M. Williamson, Ezra, Nehemiah. WBC 16. Waco, Texas: Word, 1985, p. 287.

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

The account of Ezra’s compliance with this popular petition emphasizes two aspects of the activities. On the one hand, there is the cognitive: Torah is both read and explained. At the end of the day the people are happy because they understood what they had heard (v. 12; cf. vv. 3 and 8). On the other hand, there is the cultic: The Torah is treated as an iconic book. 9 When Ezra opens it, the people stand, utter blessings, respond with “Amen! Amen!,” then prostrate themselves, and so on. Finally, Nehemiah and Ezra proclaim the day holy to God and send the people away to make merry. Given this emphasis on the cultic aspect of the day, we would expect at least a passing reference to the High Priest, the Altar or at least the Temple. But our expectations are disappointed, and the rest of chaps. 8–9 fails to compensate for the neglect of the Altar. The following paragraph in chap. 8 describes a second assembly at a peculiar place (vv. 13–18). On the first day of the seventh month, the people had gathered at the Water Gate, rather than at the Temple. 10 On the second day, the representatives of the people now assemble, with the priests and Levites, around “Ezra the Scribe to study the words of the Torah” (v. 13). In the narrative world of EN, time, space and characters are imbued with symbolic significance. Just as the authors of Nehemiah 8 use a particular month of the calendar, so they also use particular places and characters to get their message across to their readers. With regard to “Ezra the Scribe” here, the authors of Nehemiah 8 employ the verb “gather” (‫אס’’פ‬, niphal) to represent Ezra as both a person and a place where the leaders

9 For the expression “iconic book” in biblical studies, see Martin Marty, “America’s Iconic Book,” Humanizing America’s Iconic Book (Gene Tucker and Douglas A. Knight (ed.), Centennial Publications—Society of Biblical Literature; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1982), 1–23; Karel van der Toorn, “The Iconic Book. Analogies between the Babylonian Cult of Images and the Veneration of the Torah” in The Image and the Book. Iconic Cults, Aniconism, and the Rise of Book Religion in Israel and the Ancient Near East (idem. (ed.), Contributions to Biblical Exegesis and Theology 21; Leuven: Peeters, 1997), 229–48. See also the description of the “Iconic Book Project” at Syracuse University in J. W. Watts, “The Ten Commandments: Monuments and the Rivalry of Iconic Texts,” Journal of Religion and Society 6 (2004) http://moses.creighton.edu/JRS/2004/2004–13.htm. 10 In Esdras α, which has a pronounced priestly orientation (see below), the gathering takes place in the square before the East Gate of the Temple (9:38).

SCRIBES BEFORE AND AFTER 587 BCE

269

gather. 11 Ezra thus personifies in this passage an institution that contends with the Temple for a leading role in Judean society. In their study of Torah with Ezra, the Judean leaders discover the commandment to dwell in Sukkoth during the festival of the seventh month. According to this passage, however, the prescribed way to celebrate the festival is different from both the pentateuchal ordinances and Ezra 3. For example, the Torah study group overlooks the sacrificial ordinances. In Ezra 3:4 we are told the Judeans celebrated Sukkoth “as it written” (‫)ככתוב‬ by sacrificing “day by day” (‫)יום ביום‬. Instead of sacrifices, the account in Nehemiah 8 reports that during this festival Torah was read “day by day” ( ‫יום‬ ‫ביום‬, v. 18). The people also celebrate the festival by gathering branches in order to make and live in Sukkoth. This emphasis on constructing a dwelling place is appropriate in a book devoted to the rebuilding of Jerusalem. But notice the order of places where they make the Sukkoth: “on their roofs, in their courtyards, in the courtyards of the Temple, in the square of the Water Gate and in the square of the Ephraim Gate” (v. 16). Strange about this list of locations is that the Temple is mentioned so casually rather than having a position of prominence. In describing the final activities of the seventh month, chap. 9–10 continues to avert attention away from the Temple. When the people gather again on the 24th day, Ezra the Scribe, whose role in the second paragraph of chap. 8 was symbolic and passive, is now not even mentioned. 12 The location of the assembly this time is left undefined; the Israelites gather among themselves. In the absence of a prominent personality, they read in the Book of the Torah and engage in worship on their own. Rather than sacrificing, they offer confessions. The lengthy prayer of the Levites reviews the history of Israel in great detail. However, it passes over the Temple and cult in silence. 13 Instead, it focuses on God’s faithfulness in keeping his 11 Cf. v. 13 with v. 1; 9:1 and Ezra 3:1. A similar dynamic is at work in Ezra 9:4, 10:1, 7, 9. See my Rebuilding Identity, p. 251 and 327–30. 12 See T. C. Eskenazi, In An Age of Prose: A Literary Approach to Ezra-Nehemiah (SBLMS 36; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1998), 97–104. 13 The comparable psalms with lengthy historical reviews (e.g. 105 and 106) also do not mention the Temple, but they, in stark contrast to Nehemiah 9, focus on Israel’s history before the conquest and loss of the land. Not only is Nehemiah 9 the most comprehensive of these prayers, but it is found in a book that recounts at length the building of the Temple. Furthermore, it is uttered in the seventh month.

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

promise of land to Abraham. The precondition for possession and tenure in this promised land is obedience—above all obedience to the Torah and Mitzvoth. 14 Finally, the prayer prompts the community in chap. 10 to pledge themselves to the Torah. At this point the reader would assume that the Temple had passed into complete oblivion if it were not for the stipulations of the pact, especially the concluding affirmation: “We will not forsake (‫ )ולא נעזב‬the House of our God” (v. 40). 15

3. THE PROBLEMS POSED BY NEHEMIAH’S ACCOUNT FOR THE PRIESTHOOD

How should one explain this shift in EN from a focus upon the Temple to a focus upon the Torah? 16 It is important to note that Deut 31:9–13 requires an assembly and reading of the Book of the Torah during the festival of Sukkoth every seventh year (the ‫)שנת השמטה‬. These directions for the septennial haqhēl share many features with Nehemiah 8. Given that Nehe14 The priests are mentioned twice, yet among the groups who failed to follow the Torah. The Levites, who utter the prayers, significantly do not mention themselves in these groups (see 9:32 and 34). 15 These stipulations are widely thought to have been heavily expanded, and the list of the pact’s signatories are considered by many to be completely secondary; see the discussion in Rebuilding Identity, pp. 212–20. 16 Reviewing Rebuilding Identity, E. Ben Zvi points out that “in the discourses of the period, acceptance of the Torah served pragmatically to legitimize temple worship” (regrettably, the copy-editors of his review decided, without consultation, to remove the statement from the published text of the review, for the latter see CBQ 69 [2007], 568–70). I agree: Given the prominent Priestly stratum in the Torah, it certainly promotes the Temple cult and could easily be cited in support of Priestly interests, such as Temple-building and—“glorification” (‫לפאר‬, Ezra 7:27) projects (see Ezra 3:2–4; 6:18 and chaps. 7–8). However, the growth of Torah study in the late Persian and early Hellenistic period accompanied in many cases a critical stance vis-à-vis cosmopolitan Temple-aristocratic circles. Within the composition-history of EN, this critical stance, adopted by Nehemiah, is originally independent of Torah-study. Indeed, it seems to have elicited the composition of the Temple-oriented accounts in Ezra 1–6 and 7–8, until it finally places Torah at the center of Judean society (beginning in Ezra 9–10 and then in Nehemiah 8–10) rather than subsuming it to the Temple (as in Ezra 3:2–4, 6:18 and chaps. 7–8). It is thus probably not a coincidence that the pericopes highlighting the Torah in Nehemiah 8–10 are found in the middle of Nehemiah’s wall-building account, between passages criticizing the aristocracy (6:17–19) and the Jerusalemite priesthood (13:4–31). See below.

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271

miah three chapters earlier calls for a cancellation of all debts (5:1–13), it is quite possible that the authors of chap. 8, like many readers since, understood this as “a year of remittance” and thus portrayed the reading of the Torah as the haqhēl in keeping with Deuteronomy. Ezra 3 would accordingly have been influenced by P, and Nehemiah 8 by D. This is a nice neat scheme, but the problem persists: If the book begins by following the priestly traditions so closely, why does it also not end by doing the same? A more adequate response requires that we begin with an examination of Nehemiah’s first-person account. This work would have posed serious problems for priestly circles: It presents Jerusalem as a whole in a condition of ruins. It fails to even acknowledge the munificence of the Persian court with regard to Jerusalem’s Temple, priesthood and cult. 17 It does not identify the builders of the Wall with the ‘ōlîm. Indeed, the account never even refers to an aliyah, which contrasts with the emphasis upon the aliyot in Ezra 1–8. 18 It presents his Wall-building project as the Restoration of Judah after the Babylonian captivity (see 1:1–3). Before his arrival, the Judeans lived in trouble and disgrace (1:3). 19 This situation was remedied not only by the rebuilding of the Wall, but also by the various social and religious reforms, which he, as a layperson, had introduced. 20 The Temple is mentioned only in passing (see 2:8 and 6:10–11). After Artaxerxes has just sent Ezra to Jerusalem with lavish funds for the Temple, and after Cyrus and Darius had manifested similar generosity for this institution, Nehemiah’s comment in 2:3 that the city is in ruins (see also the report in 1:1–3 which also reports that the Judeans were in dire straights) and his failure to acknowledge the court’s magnanimity vis-à-vis the Temple is shocking. Although this silence may be ascribed to rhetorical considerations, it would nevertheless have prompted Templecircles to set the record straight in order to avoid any confusion. 18 When Nehemiah inquires about the inhabitants of the province in 1:2–3, he refers to them as “(the Judeans) the escapees/remnant who have been left from the captivity (there in province)” (vv. 2–3). He fails to acknowledge, with the Ezra 1–8, the presence of additional—and sizeable—groups that had returned from Babylon. The only place he does evince knowledge of aliyot is Neh 7:5b-73. But this text, which portrays the discovery of a “book” with a passage equivalent to Ezra 2, represents, as many agree, a late addition to his account depicting a discovery that expands Nehemiah’s historical consciousness. 19 This contrasts starkly with the upbeat tone concluding Ezra 1–6 and 7–8. 20 In his work to remedy this situation, Nehemiah strongly promotes the role 17

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

It portrays the decentralization of the city: the holiness spreads out from the center (the Temple) to the periphery, symbolized by the municipal Wall (see Neh 12:27ff.; 13:15–22). 21 And perhaps most importantly, it both praises the Levites and dares to accuse the Jerusalemite priesthood of radical corruption. 22 Because of these unholy alliances, Nehemiah, as a layperson, must interfere in the internal affairs of the Temple and “purify” the priesthood, as he claims in the final lines of his account. 23 Among the Jerusalemite priesthood, these disconcerting aspects of Nehemiah’s account would have certainly ruffled a few feathers. One had a choice between different responses. For example, one could cut Nehemiah’s account completely out of the history of the Restoration and reword the latter to render his Wall-building project superfluous, as the authors of Esdras α seem to have done. 24 Another strategy would be to reinterpret the work of Nehemiah, either excluding his criticisms of the high-priesthood, as the priest Josephus does, 25 or making Nehemiah into a champion of the of the Levites (7:1; 12:27; 13:5, 10, 22), while at times mentioning the priests with other groups rather than in a position of prominence (e.g. 2:16). 21 See Eskenazi, In An Age of Prose, 119–122. 22 When criticizing the aristocracy, Nehemiah does not confine himself to laypeople. In chap. 13 he points his finger at the High Priest’s family who had intermarried with Judah’s archenemies, Sanballat and Tobiah, and had even provided the latter with a pied-à-terre in the Temple (see vv. 4–9 and 28–29). 23 See also his command to purify the Temple chambers, which had been polluted by Eliashib and Tobiah, in 13:4–9. 24 For example, Artaxerxes’ allowance that the city could only be rebuilt if he issues a further decree in Ezra 4:21, which seems to have Nehemiah 2 in view, is not transmitted in Esdras α 2:28–29. As already noted above, this version locates the assembly in Nehemiah 8 before the Temple. It also refers to Ezra in this context consistently as “the chief priest and reader” or simply as “the chief priest.” It does not transmit the account of the celebration of Sukkoth without sacrifices in Neh 8:13–18. There are countless further examples of the pro-Priestly orientation of this version. 25 Although in his Antiquities Josephus is careful to report each change in the office of the office of the High Priest, he simply states in 11.5.5. that Eliashib took office. He does refer to Nehemiah’s reforms for the Levites (Neh 13:10–14), yet he skips over the setting of these reforms (Eliashib’s provision of Tobiah with a Temple chamber in 13:4–9). Although he has no qualms about transmitting stories of intrigues and fratricide later in his history, these stories are well suited to his polemics against the Samaritans. Indeed, he offers a different version of the incident re-

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273

Temple-cult, as in the Nehemiah legend transmitted in 2 Macc 1:18–36. Finally, one could attempt to counterbalance Nehemiah’s account by telling about the great things that happened in Judah before the construction of the Wall. This is, I claim, what the authors of Ezra 1–6 and 7–8 do. In briefly looking at how they do this, we will be in a better position to appreciate the role (or roles) assumed by Ezra.

4. NEHEMIAH 8 AND THE COMPETING AGENDAS WITHIN EN Although Ezra 1–6 and 7–8 include older sources and perhaps even authentic documents, it is important to observe how the authors have shaped this material in keeping with their compositional agenda. In the book’s first block, Ezra 1–6, they underscore for their readers, in keeping with their compositional agenda, that the Restoration did not begin with Nehemiah’s building project and reforms, but rather with the construction of the Temple. Whereas Artaxerxes only permits Nehemiah to repair the city ramparts, the authors of Ezra 1–6 recount how the first Persian king in the first year of his reign issued an edict that demanded the Judeans to undertake the construction of the Temple. At the end of this section, Darius confirms this edict and issues an additional one that includes generous funding for the Temple service (chap. 6). The center of this section explicitly addresses the Wall-building project: In his correspondence with the local officials, Artaxerxes identifies the Wall with Jerusalem’s history of rebellion, and therefore decrees the building to cease (chap. 4). Due to this prohibition, the construction of the Temple is also stopped, and it is not resumed until the reign of Darius (chaps. 5–6). Thus, the Wall-building project, and all that it stands for, is presented here as jeopardizing the good relations between the Judeans and the imperial court. Although Ezra 1–6 attempts to place Nehemiah’s Wall in the shadows of the Temple, its emphasis upon the centrality of the textual tradition and the supremacy of the written word anticipates Ezra’s scribal activities, especially as they are portrayed in Nehemiah 8. In Ezra 1:1 the prophetic “Word of Yhwh” (‫ )דבר ה׳‬is fulfilled when Cyrus commands the Temple to be rebuilt. Because this command was put into writing (‫)וגם במכתב‬, it could also be lost in the administrative archives. And precisely this happens, until, at the end of the story, Darius finds the Cyrus edict in the royal geniza of Ecbatana and the work on the Temple is allowed to resume. Previously the ported in Neh 13:28 that emphasizes the connections with the Samaritan cult.

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work had been interrupted when the local officials, Rechum the Commissioner and Shimshai the Scribe, petitioned the Persian court to consult their records in order to establish that Jerusalem was historically a rebellious city. Before the imperial court directs the construction to cease, and before it later repeals its ban and orders that the project be resumed, it consults the historical record. 26 The text thus has an authority that supercedes that of the Persian kings. In this way the authors of Ezra 1–6 demonstrate to their Judean readers the point that in a new age in which Judah had lost her monarchy and was now subject to a foreign empire, the community could survive without a king of their own. Not only do the great Persian kings submit themselves to the authority of the written tradition, but the edicts they issue simultaneously fulfill the prophetic “Word of Yhwh” (Ezra 1:1). Similarly, the Judeans have their own written traditions, which not only include these edicts (Ezra 1, 4, 5–6) but also genealogical records which one can consult in questions of ethnic boundaries and priestly purity (see 2:59–63). Above all, however, the Judeans have the written tradition of Torah, to which they adhere “as it written” (‫ )ככתוב‬when building the Altar and reinitiating sacrifices in the seventh month (3:1–7; see also 6:18). Whereas in Ezra 3 the Torah serves merely to support the building of the Altar and re-inauguration of the sacrificial calendar, in Nehemiah 8 it appropriates, or claims a share in, the cultic status of the Altar and sacrifices. The transition to the portrayal of Ezra the Scribe treating the Torah as an “iconic book” in Nehemiah 8 is a gradual one and can be traced in Ezra 7–10. This section begins by introducing the twofold identity of the protagonist: By birth he is a priest from the line of Zadok and by training he is “a scribe skilled in the Torah of Moses” (‫ספר מהיר בתורת משה‬, 7:6) who “had prepared his heart to study Torah, and to observe and to teach Israel law and ordinance” ( ‫הכין לבבו לדרוש את תורת ה’ ולעשת וללמד בישראל‬ ‫חק ומשפט‬, 7:10). Whereas Ezra 1–6 presents texts as the ultimate authority governing the progress of the Restoration, Ezra 7 presents the figure who is qualified to interpret the most important of these texts. As the story progresses, however, Ezra is primarily concerned not with texts or the Torah but rather with the Temple. The Artaxerxes rescript reFor more on this aspect of Ezra 1–6, see my article “Seeking, Finding, and Writing in Ezra-Nehemiah,” forthcoming in, Boda and Redditt (ed.) The (Dis-)Unity of Ezra-Nehemiah. 26

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275

fers only briefly to Ezra’s function as a guardian of the Torah and devotes the greatest amount of space to delineating his duties of making aliyah and transporting prodigious donations for the Temple. 27 In chap. 8 Ezra tells of this successful journey which concluded with the sacrificing of almost two hundred animals on the Altar in Jerusalem. The Torah is never even mentioned in this chapter. 28 In Ezra 9–10 the story takes a sudden turn, and a grave problem is revealed: the people of Israel, the priests and Levites, instead of separating themselves from the peoples of the land, had intermarried with them. It is this problem which paves the way for Ezra to turn his attention to the Torah and Mitzvoth. And it is this problem that also paves the way for him to join Nehemiah and the Wall-building project. The Wall is not simply about the physical ramparts around Jerusalem; it is also a symbol representing Judah’s renewed strength and unity. 29 The greatest danger to this unity, according to Nehemiah’s account, is not the extramural enemies but rather those among the Judeans who had entered into unholy alliances with the enemy, i.e. the aristocracy and priesthood. Because the High Priest Eliashib had disqualified himself through his family’s marriage practices, he and Nehemiah, in contrast to the Templebuilders Zerubbabel and Jeshua, could not form a harmonious diarchy. For the authors of EN, the role of Nehemiah’s sidekick was open for someone who was worthy of it. Martha Himmelfarb writes: “The worthiness of priests is the subject of great anxiety in a wide range of literature in the Second Temple period. [...] The conflation of the scribe with the priest...brings to the entirely hereditary, and thus unmeritocratic, role of the priest, a dimension in which individual virtue and skill are determinative. [...] To look at the problem from a different angle, it may be that by the period 27 See 7:14, (21), 25–26. Ezra’s blessing, which concludes chap. 7, refers solely to the king’s decision to glorify the Temple and the Ezra’s favor with the court. 28 Many scholars claim that the account of Ezra reading the Torah in Nehemiah 8 originally served as a continuation of the journey report in Ezra 7–8. But this thesis is unconvincing. The Ezra of Nehemiah 8 fully neglects the Altar and the Temple. The Ezra of Ezra 7–8, in contrast, is completely focused on the Altar and Temple. These chapters continue the priestly responses to Nehemiah’s account begun in the Temple-building account in Ezra 1–6. For an evaluation of the transposition arguments, see my Rebuilding Identity, pp. 321–30. 29 The list of the builders in chap. 3 gives expression to this communal solidarity insofar as it maps the circumference of the wall by naming the donors who supported the construction project

276

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

of the Second Temple the ideal of the priest required a transfusion of merit.” 30 Against the backdrop of Himmelfarb’s remarks, we can better appreciate the portrayal of our subject: In Ezra 7 he is depicted not only as a priest with a prestigious pedigree but also as a scribe with extraordinary talents. And when the authors of Nehemiah 8 present him joining the builder of the Wall to organize a celebration of the seventh month without the presence of the High Priest, they place great emphasis on his profession, citing one of his titles, “the scribe,” no less than five times. 31

5. CONCLUSION The presentation of Ezra the Scribe in Nehemiah 8 deserves more attention than I can afford to devote to it here. My aim in this paper has been to align several features of the chapter with other themes in EN in order to appreciate the place of the chapter in the larger agenda of the book. Moreover, I hope to have shown that the account, which has figured so largely in discussions of scribes in the Second Temple period, was composed, or at least heavily edited, for its present context. The portrayal of Ezra’s activities in Nehemiah 8 did not develop in a vacuum, but rather as a response to a conversation provoked by the polemical nature of the Nehemiah Memoir. And this conversation in EN is to a great extent nothing less than a discourse on the nature, and institutions, of authority in Judean society: imperial, monarchic, gubernatorial, priestly, Levitical, scribal, prophetic, aristocratic, communal, etc. 32 Finally, in order to avoid any misunderstandings, I should emphasize that neither the Nehemiah Memoir nor Nehemiah 8 presents a supersession of the Altar, sacrifices and priests. 33 To the contrary, Nehemiah is firmly 30 “‘A Kingdom of Priests’: The Democratization of the Priesthood in the Literature of Second Temple Judaism,” Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 6 (1997): 89–104, here pp. 102–3. 31 His other titles ‫ הכהן‬and ‫ הכהן הספר‬appear only once each: vv. 2 and 9. 32 The attention this paper pays to EN’s portrayal of authority in Judean society has been inspired by my recent reading of Michael S. Berger’s exemplary study of Rabbinic Authority (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1998). 33 Such an approach could be compared to the prophet-priest dichotomy that has characterized much protestant Hebrew Bible scholarship (yet see also Elias Bickerman, From Ezra to the Last of the Maccabees: Foundations of Post-Biblical Judaism, New York: Shocken, 1962, pp. 67–71). As a corrective to this trend, see Ehud Ben Zvi, “Observations on Prophetic Characters, Prophetic Texts, Priests of Old, Persian Period Priests and Literati,” in The Priests in the Prophets. The Portrayal of Priests,

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277

committed to the sanctity of the Temple and priests, and he seeks to safeguard these institutions by criticizing specific priests for negligence and corruption. Although he attacks incumbents of the priestly office, he never questions the legitimacy of the office itself. The literary complex in Nehemiah 7–10, situated between the censure of the aristocracy and priesthood in 6:17–19 and 13:4–31, 34 builds upon this censure and sets forth the institutions of Torah, scribes and prayer as the means for the community as a whole to participate in the sanctity of the Altar, priests and sacrifices. 35 Although these texts deny the basis for any claim of priestly hegemony, the Temple and its personnel still constitute essential features of this narrative world, as the stipulations to the communal pact in Nehemiah 10 demonstrate. EN may thus be compared to other biblical and post-biblical literature which assigns royal, priestly, prophetic and military prerogatives to the people of Israel as a whole. 36 Prophets and Other Religious Specialists in the Latter Prophets (Lester Grabbe and Allis Ogden Bellis (ed.), JSOTSup 408; London/New York: T&T Clark, 2004), 19–30; Ziony Zevit, “The Prophet versus Priest Antagonism Hypothesis: Its History and Origin,” in ibid, 189–217; and Jonathan Klawans, Purity, Sacrifice, and the Temple: Symbolism and Supersessionism in the Study of Ancient Judaism (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005). 34 In Rebuilding Identity 153–60 and 197–202, I attempt to show that these passages were originally connected before the insertion of the material in Neh 7:1–13:3 severed them. 35 Whether the tension between Temple and Torah is part of later Hellenistic social developments, or whether it merely anticipates them, is a question that remains to be clarified but cannot be addressed here. 36 For Deuteronomy, see most recently Joshua Berman’s study “Constitution, Class and the Book of Deuteronomy,” Hebraic Political Studies 1 (2006): 523–548. For biblical priestly literature, see the Israel Knohl’s suggestions on the Holiness Code in The Sanctuary of Silence; The Priestly Torah and the Holiness School (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), 175–86 and 204–16. Prophetic activities gradually expand to include the study of the sacred tradition, as witnessed by the shift of the term ‫דרש‬ from oracular consultation to textual study. This shift begins already in EN (see e.g. Ezra 7:10) but is especially pronounced in later literature; see Michael Fishbane’s article “Torah” in vol. 8 of Encyclopedia Miqra’it, Jerusalem: Bialik, 1982, cols. 469– 83 (Hebrew), and Annette Steudel, “‘Bereitet den Weg des Herrn.’ Religiöses Lernen in Qumran,” in Religiöses Lernen in der biblischen, frühjüdischen und frühchristlichen Überlieferung (Beate Ego and Helmut Merkel (eds.), WUNT 1.180; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 99–116. With respect to the military, the war traditions in ExodusSamuel include many polemics against chariots (one of the most important catalysts for social stratification) and emphasize the non-professional nature of Israel’s ar-

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mies. In comparison to king, priest and prophet, the transformation of traditional military roles has received much less attention. See, however, my forthcoming book War and the Formation of Society in Ancient Israel (Oxford Univ. Press). It should be emphasized that the reassignment of the traditional royal, priestly, prophetic and military prerogatives to all Israel has a complex history. It was propelled by the major crises of 587/6 BCE and 70 CE, but even here one witnesses sophisticated attempts to maintain the privileges and responsibilities of these offices under new sociopolitical conditions.

THE LEVITES AND THE LITERATURE OF THE LATE-SEVENTH CENTURY JEFFREY C. GEOGHEGAN BOSTON COLLEGE

Herodotean and Thucydidean scholars have, as their names imply, a distinct advantage over their biblical counterparts: they know the authors of the histories they study. Certainly there remain significant questions to be answered when interpreting these histories, such as what intellectual, cultural, and political forces influenced their writings, what underlying beliefs or theories of causation shaped their retelling of the past, and how reliable, really, are they or their sources for a particular event. Still, knowing who wrote Greece’s earliest histories, when, and, ostensibly, why, 1 provides a tremendous interpretive advantage over biblical scholars who, if the present state of the field is any indication, know precious little about such matters. There was a day when we knew more. Nearly two thousand years of tradition told us who wrote Israel’s earliest histories: Moses wrote the Torah, Joshua the book of Joshua, Samuel the book of Judges and the first part of Samuel, etc. 2 With the Enlightenment, however, came a period of darkness. Don Isaac Abravanel, Thomas Hobbes, Baruch Spinoza, and others pointed out the inadequacies of the traditional authorial ascriptions. 3 1 Both Herodotus (Histories 1.1.0) and Thucydides (Peloponnesian War 1.1.1–3; 1.22.1–4) state their reasons for writing, though subsequent scholarship has identified additional purposes. 2 For early Jewish tradition on the authorship of the Bible, which was adopted by Christianity, see B. Bat. 14b–15a. 3 The relevant sections of Abravanel are in his introduction to the Former Prophets. For the comments of Hobbes, see Leviathan, III:33.4, 6, 9. For the contributions of Hobbes to the emerging field of critical scholarship, see H.-J. Kraus, Geschichte der historisch-kritischen Erforschung des Alten Testaments (3rd ed.; Neukirchen-

279

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Abravanel, for example, noted that the author of the book of Joshua consistently makes reference to objects and institutions established by Joshua that still existed in his own day. Following the miraculous crossing of the Jordan River, for instance, the author of Joshua reports that the Israelites erected a memorial of twelve stones, after which he interjects, “And they (i.e., the stones) are still there until this day” (Josh 4:9). Abravanel asks, “If Joshua wrote all of this, how can it say ‘until this day’?...The phrase ‘until this day’ demonstrates by necessity that the book was written long after the affairs it reports.” Abravanel comes to similar conclusions for the other historical books, saying of the book of Samuel, for example: …in the same way, that which is written demonstrates that Samuel did not write his book, for regarding the matter of the Ark in the land of the Philistines which occurred in his day, it says “therefore the priests of Dagon and all those entering the temple of Dagon do not tread upon the threshold of Dagon in Ashdod until this day” (1 Sam 5:5), and it says when the Philistines returned the Ark “and as far as the great field they made the Ark of Hashem to rest upon it until this day in the field of Joshua of Beth-Shemesh” (1 Sam 6:18), and if these matters were in the days of Samuel, how can it say “until this day” which indicates a long time after the events?

Abravanel’s insights, made at the beginning of the sixteenth century, were instrumental in initiating the modern-critical study of the Bible. Yet, he and his successors left many questions unanswered, such as who did write these books and who compiled them to form a relatively unified account of Israel’s past. 4 It was not until the mid-twentieth century, with the publication of Martin Noth’s Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Studien, that significant new light was shed on these questions. 5 For Noth, Israel’s earliest history, Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1982) 57–58. For Spinoza’s criticisms of the traditional authorial ascriptions, see his Tractatus Theologico-Politicus, VIII:2, 4. 4 These early investigators did have their theories about who brought these works together, though these seemed based more on tradition than on textual evidence. For Abravanel, for example, Moses still wrote the Torah, but Samuel wrote Joshua and Judges, and Jeremiah compiled the traditions making up Samuel and Kings. Hobbes and Spinoza remained uncertain as to the authorship of the Torah and Former Prophets, though they attributed the final compilation of Israel’s history to Ezra. 5 M. Noth, Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Studien (Halle: Niemeyer, 1943); English translation: The Deuteronomistic History (JSOTSup 15. Sheffield: JSOT, 1981).

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281

which spanned from Deuteronomy through 2 Kings, was compiled shortly after the fall of Jerusalem in 586 BCE by an individual wishing to make clear to those in exile the reason for the nation’s demise. The nation, according to this historian, had continually violated its covenant with God as established by Moses in the book of Deuteronomy and, as a consequence, God brought upon the nation the judgment promised for such disobedience (see, for instance, Deut 28:58–68). As Noth observed, Dtr did not write his history to provide entertainment in hours of leisure or to satisfy a curiosity about national history, but intended to teach the true meaning of the history of Israel from the occupation to the destruction of the old order. The meaning which he discovered was that God was recognizably at work in this history, continuously meeting the accelerating moral decline with warnings and punishments and, finally, when these proved fruitless, with total annihilation. 6

Over the past sixty years Noth’s theory has undergone significant reassessment and revision, with some scholars even calling for its abandonment altogether. 7 Even for the majority of scholars who still find Noth’s overall theory compelling, there remain significant questions over its particulars: Is this history really the work of a single exilic redactor, as Noth argued, or is Noth, The Deuteronomistic History, 89. See, for example, C. Westermann, Die Geschichtsbücher des Alten Testaments. Gab es ein deuteronomistisches Geschichtswerk? (ThB 87; Gütersloh, Germany: Kaiser, 1994); R. G. Kratz, The Composition of the Narrative Books of the Old Testament (London and New York, NY: T & T Clark, 2005. German original; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000). For others arguing against or raising serious doubts about the viability of Noth’s theory of a unified DH, see E. Würthwein, Studien zum deuteronomistischen Geschichtswerk (BZAW 227; Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 1994) esp. 1–11; A. G. Auld, Joshua Retold: Synoptic Perspectives (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1998) 120–26; E. A. Knauf, “Does ‘Deuteronomistic Historiography’ (DtrH) Exist?” in Israel Constructs Its History, 388–98; and H. Rösel, “Does A Comprehensive ‘Leitmotiv’ Exist in the Deuteronomistic History?” in The Future of the Deuteronomistic History, 195–211; idem, Von Josua bis Jojachin: Untersuchungen zu den deuteronomistischen Geschichtsbüchern des Alten Testaments (VTSup 75; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1999); K. Schmid, Erzväter und Exodus. Untersuchungen zur doppelten Begründung der Ursprünge Israels innerhalb der Geschichtsbücher des Alten Testaments (WMANT 81; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1999), esp. 162–65; idem, “Das Deuteronomium innerhalb der ‘deuteronomistischen Geschichtswerke’ in Gen–2 Kön” in Das Deuteronomium zwischen Pentateuch und deuteronomistischem Geschichtswerk (eds. R. Achenbach and E. Otto; FRLANT; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2004) 193–211. 6 7

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it the product of several redactors working at different times and representing different segments of Israelite society? Related to these questions is how to account for the diversity of perspectives preserved within this history (e.g., royal, prophetic, priestly). Are these the result of an individual who was willing to countenance differences of opinion in his history, as Noth argued, or are these the result of successive redactional levels, each with its own interpretation of Israel’s past? Finally, what is the purpose of this history? Is it an extended diatribe against a nation in exile, as Noth contended? Is it royal propaganda for the reform efforts of Josiah or another Judean monarch in the preexilic period, as the so-called “Cross school” has argued? 8 Does its purpose change with each new redactional level, from royal to prophetic to priestly, as the so-called “Göttingen school” has proposed? 9 8 Cross’s theory of a dual redaction of the DH—one preexilic, the other exilic—originally appeared in “The Structure of the Deuteronomic History,” in Perspectives in Jewish Learning (ACJS 3; Chicago: College of Jewish Studies, 1968) 9–24. It was subsequently reprinted in his Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1973) 274–89. For others following Cross’s general model, See, R. G. Boling, Judges (AB 6a; 1975); M. Cogan, “Israel in Exile—The View of a Josianic Historian,” JBL 97 (1978) 40–44; J. Rosenbaum, “Hezekiah’s Reform and the Deuteronomistic Tradition,” HTR 72 (1979) 23–44; Boling and G. E. Wright, Joshua (AB 6; 1982); P. K. McCarter, 1 Samuel (AB 8; 1980); idem, 2 Samuel (AB 9; 1984); G. Vanoni, “Beobachtungen zur deuteronomistischen Terminologie in 2 Kön 23,25–25,30,” in Das Deuteronomium: Entstehung, Gestalt und Botschaft (ed. N. Lohfink; BETL 68; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1985) 357–62; Cogan and Tadmor, 2 Kings (AB 11; 1988); A. Moenikes, “Zur Redaktionsgeschichte des sogenannten deuteronomistischen Geschichtswerks,” ZAW 104 (1992) 333–48; H.J. Stipp, Jeremia im Parteienstreit: Studien zur Textentwicklung von Jer 26, 36–43 und 45 als Beitrag zur Geschichte Jeremias, seines Buches und judäischer Parteien im 6. Jahrhundert (BBB 82; Frankfurt: Hain, 1992); G. N. Knoppers, Two Nations Under God. The Deuteronomistic History of Solomon and the Dual Monarchies (HSM 52–53; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1994); M. Cogan, 1 Kings (AB 11; 2000); S. McKenzie, The Chronicler’s Use of the Deuteronomistic History (HSM 33; Atlanta: Scholars, 1984); idem, The Trouble with Kings. The Composition of the Books of Kings in the Deuteronomistic History (VTSup 42; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1991). 9 The main works of the Göttingen school include: R. Smend, “Das Gesetz und die Völker: Ein Beitrag zur deuteronomistischen Redaktionsgeschichte,” in Probleme biblischer Theologie (ed. H. W. Wolff; Munich: Kaiser, 1971) 494–509; idem, Die Entstehung des Alten Testaments (Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer, 1978); W. Dietrich, Prophetie und Geschichte (FRLANT 108; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1972); idem, “David in Überlieferung und Geschichte,” VF 22 (1977) 44–64; idem, “Josia und das Gesetzbuch (2 Reg. XXII),” VT 27 (1977) 13–35; T. Veijola, Die ewige

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Or is it a fabrication intended to justify territorial seizures and political structures in Persian-period Yehud or even Hellenistic-period Palestine, as the so-called “Scandinavian school” has argued? 10 In view of the diversity of scholarly opinion about when this history was written, by whom, and for what purpose, it would seem as though we have once again entered a period of darkness. I would argue, however, that such is not the case. The answers to the questions of who wrote Israel’s earliest history, when and why can be found in the very evidence that led Abravanel and others to dismiss the traditional authorial ascriptions: namely, the phrase “until this day.” This formula, like similar formulae employed by Herodotus, Thucydides, and other classical historians, was the biblical historian’s way of highlighting artifacts and institutions mentioned by his sources that still existed at the time of his writing. 11 Based on what the historian says exists during his day, we are able to identify when he lived, where he lived, and even why he wrote. 12 As I have presented a detailed analysis of this evidence elsewhere, 13 I will only highDynastie. David und die Entstehung seiner Dynastie nach der deuteronomistischen Darstellung (AASF, B 193; Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1975); idem, Das Königtum in der Beurteilung der deuteronomistischen Historiographie. Eine redaktionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung (AASF, B 198; Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1977). 10 Some of the works representative of the so-called Scandinavian school include: T. L. Thompson’s The Early History of the Israelite People: From the Written and Archaeological Sources (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1992); idem, The Mythic Past: Biblical Archaeology and the Myth of Israel (New York: Basic Books, 1999); N. P. Lemche, “The Old Testament—A Hellenistic Book? SJOT 7 (1993) 163–93; idem, The Israelites in History and Tradition (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 1998). See also P. R. Davies, In Search of ‘Ancient Israel,’ (JSOTSup 148; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1992); K. W. Whitelam, The Invention of Ancient Israel: The Silencing of Palestinian History (London: Routledge, 1996). 11 See, e.g., Herodotus, Histories 2.135.4; 2.141.6; 4.10.3; 4.12.1; 7.178.2, etc.; Thucydides, Peloponnesian War 1.93.2, 5; 2.15.2, 5; 6.54.7, etc.; Pausanias, Description of Greece 3.22.12; 8.15.4; 8.44.1, etc. For a comparison of the biblical historian’s use of “until this day” (‫ )עד היום הזה‬with the classical use of similar formulae, see B. S. Childs, “A Study of the Formula ‘Until This Day’,” JBL 82 (1963) 279–92. 12 I speak of the historian in the singular for convenience sake, realizing that more than one person was likely involved in compiling so vast a work. However, the overall unity of this history, both in redactional procedure and Deuteronomistic perspective, suggests a singularity of mind, even if involving more than one person. 13 J. C. Geoghegan, The Time, Place, and Purpose of the Deuteronomistic History: The Evidence of “Until This Day” (BJS 347; Brown University, 2006). The arguments presented here are re-workings and expansions of material presented in this book. I

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light a few representative samples here, after which I want to discuss what all this has to do with “The Levites and the Literature of the Late-Seventh Century.” One thing that becomes apparent from an analysis of “until this day” is that the historian (Dtr) consistently follows this personal witness formula with material reflecting his own interests and concerns. For example, in Josh 9:27, Dtr follows “until this day” with his characteristic phrase “at the place he will choose,” which highlights Dtr’s concern for centralized worship, a concern that shows up elsewhere in this history in connection with “until this day” (see, e.g., Judg 6:24; 2 Kgs 10:27). In Josh 14:14, Dtr again follows “until this day” with another of his characteristic phrases, “because he followed fully after YHWH,” which reflects his concern for singular devotion to Israel’s deity, a concern that similarly shows up elsewhere in his history (see, e.g., Deut 1:36; Josh 14:8, 9; 1 Kgs 11:6). In fact, it is noteworthy that these two phrases—“at the place he will choose” and “because he followed fully after YHWH”—both of which appear in connection with Dtr’s use of “until this day,” embody Dtr’s criteria for judging the kings of Israel and Judah, respectively. Northern kings, as is well documented, are judged based on their response to the alternate sites of worship established by Jeroboam, reflecting Dtr’s concern for centralized worship (i.e., “at the place he will choose”), while southern kings are judged based on whether or not they share David’s heart-felt devotion to YHWH, reflecting Dtr’s concern for complete fidelity to Israel’s deity (i.e., “to follow fully after YHWH”). As Cross has pointed out, these themes find their denouement in the reign of Josiah, who destroys Jeroboam’s golden calf at Bethel (2 Kgs 23:15–18; cf. 1 Kgs 13:2) and who “walked in the way of his father David” (2 Kgs 22:2), turning to YHWH “with all his heart, all his soul, and all his might” (2 Kgs 23:25)—the only king to receive so glowing an evaluation from Dtr. 14 In view of Dtr’s positive assessment of Josiah, as well as his practice of incorporating redactional material after “until this day” that reflects his own interests and concerns, it should not surprise us to find allusions to this reformer king in connection with his use of this phrase. 15 In Josh 5:9–12, for want to thank Brown Judaic Studies for permission to reprint these ideas here. 14 Cross, CMHE, 284. 15 Scholars have long noted that Deuteronomistic additions to the book of Joshua prefigure events from the reign of Josiah. For a discussion of the literature, see R. D. Nelson, “Josiah in the Book of Joshua,” JBL 100 (1981) 531–40. For

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example, Dtr follows “until this day” with the account of Joshua’s Passover observance (Josh 5:10–12), an observance that is not mentioned again until Josiah, who institutes the Passover as part of his reforms. Indeed, the account of Josiah’s Passover seems to allude to this earlier observance: “No such Passover had been observed from the days of the judges who judged Israel, or during all the days of the kings of Israel or the kings of Judah. But in the eighteenth year of King Josiah this Passover was observed to YHWH in Jerusalem” (2 Kgs 23:22–23). We encounter another allusion to Josiah’s reforms in Josh 8:29–35, where Dtr follows “until this day” with his account of Joshua’s covenant renewal ceremony, which not only fulfills Moses’ command to carry out such a ceremony (Deut 27:2–8), but also mirrors Josiah’s covenant renewal, where he similarly summons all the people and reads the entire law to those gathered (2 Kgs 23:1–3). 16 R. D. Nelson says of Joshua’s covenant renewal: Scholars have generally been puzzled by the inclusion of these verses in such an awkward place in the sequence of events, but Dtr clearly went to some effort to break into the sequence of his source (cf. the reference of 9:1 to 8:29) to include them… The emphasis on Joshua as covenant maker and the additional details concerning Joshua’s personal copy of the law (Josh 8:32), the reading from a law book (v 34), and the attendance of absolutely everyone (v 35)…point forward in time directly to the royal covenant mediator Josiah. 17

Similarly, in connection with Joshua’s Passover observance, Nelson writes: Dtr’s editorial activity is more subtle in the case of Josh 5:10–12 than with Josh 1:7, 23:6 or Josh 8:30–35, but once again Joshua serves him as Joshua as royal figure in general, see J. R. Porter, “The Succession of Joshua,” in Proclamation and Presence: Old Testament Essays in Honour of Gwynne Henton Davies (eds. J. I. Durham and J. R. Porter; London: SCM/Richmond: John Knox, 1970) 102– 32; Weinfeld, Deuteronomic School, 170–71; G. E. Gerbrandt, Kingship according to the Deuteronomistic History (SBLDS 87; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1986) 116–23. What has not been observed in previous studies is that two of the more important allusions to Josiah’s reign (Josh 5:10–12; 8:30–35) appear in connection with “until this day.” 16 For the parallels between Josiah’s covenant ceremony and Deuteronomy more generally, see N. Lohfink, “2 Kön 23,3 und Dtn 6,17,” Biblica 71 (1990) 34– 42; Ibid., “Die Ältesten Israels und der Bund: Zum Zusammenhang von Dtn 5,23; 26,17–19; 27,1.9f und 31,9,” BN 67 (1993) 26–42. 17 Nelson, “Josiah in the Book of Joshua,” 535.

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One other example where Dtr uses “until this day” to highlight his own interests is in connection with the “Ark of the Covenant of YHWH,” Dtr’s characteristic phrase for this sacred object. 19 In Deut 10:8, Dtr reports that the Levites are appointed by Moses to bear the “Ark of the Covenant of YHWH,” a duty they fulfill “until this day.” In Joshua 3–4, the “Levitical priests” (Josh 3:3), another of Dtr’s characteristic phrases, carry the “Ark of the Covenant of YHWH” into the Jordan River to provide dry passage for the Israelites (Josh 3:3; 4:7), after which they build a memorial that stands “until this day” (Josh 4:9). In Josh 8:30–35, which, as observed above, is Dtr’s own redactional insertion immediately following “until this day” (Josh 8:29), the “Levitical priests” (Josh 8:33) are once again bearing the “Ark of the Covenant of YHWH” (Josh 8:33) as Joshua conducts his covenant renewal ceremony. Following these positive encounters with the Ark, Dtr highlights several places where the Ark is mishandled with disastrous results for those involved. In 1 Samuel 5, the Philistines bring the captured Ark into Dagon’s temple, resulting in the destruction of Dagon’s image and a cultic practice (skipping over the threshold of Dagon’s temple) that can still be observed “until this day” (1 Sam 5:5). In 1 Samuel 6, the Ark returns from Philistia and is set upon a large rock that remains “until this day” (1 Sam 6:18), the same rock where Israelites peer into the Ark and are struck dead by YHWH (1 Sam 6:19). In 2 Samuel 6, during the Ark’s transport to Jerusalem, a man named Uzzah touches the Ark with his bare hand and is similarly struck dead, giving rise to the place-name Perez-Uzzah, which is still its name “until this day” (2 Sam 6:8). Fortunately, the adventures of the Ark end well when, in 1 Kings 8, the “Ark of the Covenant of YHWH” (1 Kgs 8:1, 6) is brought safely into the temple, where its poles protrude from the Holy of Holies “until this day” (1 Kgs 8:8). Dtr’s concern for the proper handling of the Ark, as well as his comment that it resides in the temple “until this day,” points to another important finding from an analysis of this phrase: Dtr is writing in the preexilic period. This conclusion has been already hinted at by Dtr’s allusions to the reforms of Josiah, though these could be reflections upon these events 18 19

Nelson, “Josiah in the Book of Joshua,” 537. See, e.g., C. L. Seow, “Ark of the Covenant,” ABD 1:387.

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from the exilic or even postexilic periods. Yet, it is the consistent use of “until this day” to refer to preexilic realities that indicates Dtr is active prior to the fall of Jerusalem. Thus, not only do the Levitical priests still have responsibility for carrying the Ark of the Covenant (Deut 10:8; cf. Josh 4:7–9; 8:29–35) and not only do its carrying poles still protrude from the Holy of Holies “until this day” (1 Kgs 8:8), but non-Israelite forced laborers still work at the Solomonic temple (Josh 9:27; 1 Kgs 9:21), the “kings of Judah” still possess Ziklag (1 Sam 27:6), and both Israel (1 Kgs 12:19) and Edom (2 Kgs 8:22) remain in rebellion against the house of David “until this day.” The evidence of “until this day” also allows us to identify where the historian is active: the southern kingdom. We have already noted Dtr’s use of the phrase in connection with centralized worship in Jerusalem and, as a corollary, the reign and reforms of Josiah. We have also observed that Dtr has a significant interest in the proper handling of Ark, as well as other matters related to Jerusalem’s cult (e.g., Levitical rights to “the offerings of YHWH” [Deut 10:9]; non-Israelite forced labor at the “altar of YHWH” [Josh 9:27]; etc.). In addition, those items just mentioned as pointing to Dtr’s preexilic provenance also point toward his southern orientation, as they refer to either the Davidic throne (1 Sam 26:6; 1 Kgs 12:19; 2 Kgs 8:22) or the Jerusalem temple (Josh 9:27; 1 Kgs 8:8; 9:21). Finally, Dtr’s southern provenance is discernible in his use of “until this day” to highlight specific geographical and topographical details in the south, such as springs of water (Judg 15:19), threshing floors (2 Sam 6:8), monuments (Josh 4:9; 2 Sam 18:18), city ruins (Josh 8:28), caves (Josh 10:27), piles of rock (Josh 7:26; 8:29), and even a single rock (1 Sam 6:18). In contrast, Dtr makes reference to only two individual objects in the north (Judg 6:24; 2 Kgs 10:27), both of which represent destroyed sites of Baal worship. Yet, even here we see Dtr’s agenda at work, as both sites are destroyed according to Deuteronomic protocol (see Deut 7:5) by individuals (Gideon, Jehu) demonstrating their wholehearted devotion to the God of Israel. Dtr’s only other references to northern entities by means of “until this day” involve large geographical areas in the far north: the Cabul (1 Kgs 9:13) and Havvoth Jair (Deut 3:14; Judg 10:4). Yet, here again Dtr appeals to these regions for his own purposes: in this case, to highlight the inheritance rights of the Levites. This interest is most obvious in Josh 13:14, where Dtr interrupts his source (the inheritance lists of Joshua) with the redactional comment: “Only to the tribe of Levi he did not give an inheritance. The offerings of YHWH the God of Israel are his inheritance, as he said to him.” This notice parallels Dtr’s earlier comment in Deuteronomy, which also immediately follows “until this day”: “Therefore, Levi does not have a portion and an inheri-

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tance with his brothers. YHWH is his inheritance, as YHWH your God said to him” (Deut 10:9). Thus, Dtr is active in the southern part of the country, most likely Jerusalem, and is writing in the late-preexilic period, most likely during or shortly after the reforms of Josiah. This brings us to the question raised at the beginning of our study: Who is this historian? The answer, I would suggest, lies within the Ark of the Covenant (though, in light of the biblical evidence, I would not recommend looking into the Ark to find the answer). Dtr’s repeated use of “until this day” in connection with the Levitical priests’ right to bear the “Ark of the Covenant of YHWH,” along with his other uses of this phrase to highlight the rights and responsibilities of this group, demonstrates that the Levites were much more than a passing interest for Dtr, or a group he had to appease when writing his history. Rather, the Levitical priests, as Dtr consistently points out in redactional material following his use of “until this day,” played a central role in Israel’s past and held the key—quite literally in the “Ark of the Covenant” and the “torah of Moses”—to Israel’s future. It was the Levites, after all, who were commissioned by Moses “to carry the Ark of the Covenant of YHWH,” a task which they fulfill “until this day” (Deut 10:8). It was the “Levitical priests” (Josh 3:3) who, in obedience to the Mosaic command, carried “the Ark of the Covenant of YHWH” in front of the Israelites to make possible their entrance into the promised land (Josh 4:9). It was the “Levitical priests” who, in lieu of distinct tribal landholdings, were given “YHWH as their inheritance,” including the “fire offerings of YHWH” (Deut 10:9; Josh 13:14). And it was the “Levitical priests” who bore “the Ark of the Covenant of YHWH” while Joshua read the “torah of Moses” to all the people (Josh 8:30–35). In fact, it is only when a ruler heeds the “torah of Moses,” “meditating on it day and night” and “turning neither to the right nor to the left” in his obedience to the law that the nation is promised blessing and longevity in the land. These sentiments, which are only realized in Joshua and Josiah, are expressed in the law of the king (Deut 17:14–20), which prepares the reader for the emphasis observed in connection with “until this day” throughout the DH—namely, the role of the “Levitical priests” in mediating between YHWH, the king, and the people. Thus, immediately prior to the explication of the law of the king, the people are commanded to go “to the place YHWH will choose” and present their difficult cases before the “Levitical priests” and the judge at that time (vv. 8–9). Following these directives, the king is commanded “to have a copy of this torah written for him on a scroll by the Levitical priests” (v. 18). The law then turns to the rights of the

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“Levitical priests,” who, though having “no inheritance among their brothers” are guaranteed “the offerings of YHWH as their inheritance” since “YHWH is their inheritance, as he said to them” (Deut 18:1–2). That these concerns, even these exact phrases, show up in editorial material following Dtr’s use of “until this day” elsewhere in the DH is significant. It is also significant that Deuteronomy moves from describing the central role of the “Levitical priests” in Israel’s royal and cultic administration to the criteria for determining a true prophet (vv. 15–22), since the confirmation of the prophetic word is another central interest of Dtr, manifest not only in his use of the prophecy-fulfillment pattern throughout his history, 20 but also in his use of “until this day” to attest to the power of the prophetic word (Josh 6:25–26; 1 Kgs 16:34; 2 Kgs 2:22). 21 In view of Dtr’s interest in the rights and responsibilities of the Levites, as well as his emphasis on the efficacy of the prophetic word, I would agree with those scholars who trace Dtr’s heritage to northern priestlyprophetic circles who had migrated south following the fall of the northern kingdom. 22 Deuteronomy prepared us for this eventuality. 23 In the section For the theme of prophecy-fulfillment in the DH, see esp. G. von Rad, “Die deuteronomistische Geschichtstheologie in den Königsbüchern” in Gesammelte Studien zum Alten Testament (ThB 8; Munich: Kaiser, 1958) 189–204; I. L. Seeligmann, “Die Auffassung der Prophetie in der deuteronomistischen und chronistischen Geschichtsschreibung,” Congress Volume: Göttingen, 1977 (VTSup 29; Leiden: Brill, 1978) 254–84; E. Würthwein, “Prophetisches Wort und Geschichte in den Königsbüchern: Zu einer These Gerhard von Rads,” in Altes Testament und christliche Verkündigung: Festschrift für A. H. J. Gunneweg zum 65. Geburtstag (eds. M. Oeming and A. Graupner; Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer, 1987) 399–411; H. Weippert, “Geschichten und Geschichte: Verheissung und Erfüllung im deuteronomistischen Geschichtswerk,” in Congress Volume: Leuven, 1989 (ed. J. A. Emerton; VTSup 43; Leiden: Brill, 1991) 116–31. 21 Also noteworthy, though I have yet to understood its full significance, is that both of these prophetic uses of “until this day” relate to Jericho. For possible explanations, see Geoghegan, Time, Place and Purpose, 72–74. 22 See, e.g., E. W. Nicholson, Deuteronomy and Tradition (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1967). 23 The book of Joshua seems to have prepared us for this eventuality as well. During the standoff over the altar built by the Transjordanian tribes, they explain: “We did it out of fear that in time to come your descendants might say to our descendants, ‘What have you to do with YHWH, the God of Israel? For YHWH has made the Jordan a boundary between us and you, you Reubenites and Gadites! You have no portion in YHWH.’ …Therefore we said, ‘Let us build an altar, not for 20

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of law relating to the rights of the Levites mentioned above, which, importantly, serves as the bridge between the law of the king and the criteria for determining a true prophet, we read: If a Levite leaves any of your towns from wherever he has been residing in Israel and comes to the place YHWH will choose (and he may come whenever he wishes), then he may minister in the name of YHWH his God, like all his fellow Levites who stand to minister there before YHWH. They shall have equal portions to eat, even though they have income from the sale of family possessions. (Deut 18:6–8).

These refugees would have likely brought with them various traditions from Israel’s past, including northern priestly-prophetic tales (e.g., the Elijah and Elisha cycles, etc.), as well as cultic and legal traditions similar to those making up the Deuteronomic law code discovered during Josiah’s reign. 24 Deuteronomy had prepared us for this eventuality as well. In Deut 31:25– 26, Moses entrusts the law to the “Levitical priests” just before his death, commanding them to place it next to “the Ark of the Covenant of YHWH,” the other sacred trust of these priests. Then, in Josiah’s eighteenth year of reign, the high priest Hilkiah discovers the law while cleaning out the temple, setting in motion Josiah’s reforms, which we also were prepared for, both by allusion following Dtr’s use of “until this day” in Joshua

burnt offering, nor for sacrifice, but to be a witness between us and you, and between the generations coming after us, that we do perform the service of YHWH in his presence with our burnt offerings and sacrifices and peace offering, so that your descendants may never say to our descendants in time to come, “You have no portion in YHWH”’.” (Josh 22:24–27). That Dtr would twice use “until this day” to refer to former Levitical landholdings in this same region (i.e., the Bashan/Gilead/Havvoth Jair; see Deut 3:14 and Judg 10:4) suggests that this standoff, like the Josianic allusions in Joshua, prefigures the migration of these northern Levites to the Jerusalem cult. As Phinehas, the high priest during the time of Joshua, declares: “If your land is unclean, cross over into YHWH’s land where YHWH’s tabernacle now stands, and possess for yourselves an inheritance among us. Only do not rebel against YHWH, nor do not rebel against us by building an altar for yourselves other than the altar of YHWH our God” (Josh 22:19). 24 What precisely was found (e.g., the Song of Moses, a version of Deuteronomy 12–28, etc.) and whether this served as the basis or justification for Josiah’s reforms are matters of ongoing debate. See J. Lundbom, Jeremiah 1–20. A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 21A; New York, NY: Doubleday, 1999) 105–6.

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(Josh 5:9–10; 8:29–35) and by explicit prediction in Dtr’s account of Jeroboam’s dedication of the golden calf at Bethel (1 Kgs 13:2). Thus, as a supporter of the Josianic reforms, Dtr was willing to acknowledge the benefits of kingship, particularly when a righteous ruler exercised his authority to lead the nation into covenantal renewal and obedience (Deut 18:18–20; 1 Sam 12:14–15). Joshua, the prototype of the ideal king, exercised his authority for just this purpose (Josh 5:10; 8:30–35), as did Josiah in the more recent past (2 Kings 22–23). As a consequence, Dtr was willing to incorporate Judean royal ideology concerning the inviolability of the Davidic dynasty (2 Sam 7:4–16), especially since recent events seemed to prove its veracity (e.g., Jerusalem’s survival in the face of Assyrian aggression). However, Dtr’s priestly-prophetic heritage meant he would accept this ideology only on his own terms. Therefore, Dtr includes the many confrontations between prophets and kings in his history, lest the nation, and particularly its royal elite, forget the numerous abuses of Israel’s past monarchs. Dtr is also careful to point out that the inauguration of monarchy itself, which was overseen by Samuel, one of Dtr’s northern priestly-prophetic heroes, came with great hesitation and with its own list of Deuteronomic concerns (1 Sam 8:5–22) and conditions (1 Sam 12:12–15). Even the Davidic covenant, which in its earliest formulation in the DH lacks any specific conditions (2 Sam 7:11–16), takes on Deuteronomic obligations upon its retelling. As David says in his Deuteronomic commission to Solomon—a commission, it should be noted, that echoes the commission given to Joshua prior to his leading the nation (Josh 1:6–9): Be strong and show yourself the man. Keep the charge of YHWH your God, walking in his ways and keeping his laws, his commandments, his judgments, and his testimonies, as is written in the law of Moses, in order that you may prosper in everything you do and everywhere you turn. Then YHWH will establish his word that he spoke concerning me: “If your descendants guard their way, to walk before me in faithfulness, with all their heart and with all their soul, there shall not be cut from you a successor on the throne of Israel” (1 Kgs 2:2–4).

Although we may never know the actual name of the one compiling Israel’s earliest national history, 25 we can be relatively sure about matters of However, we probably need look no further than the priests and scribes associated with the discovery of the law during Josiah’s reign who are later associated with the northern priestly-prophet Jeremiah, whose own book shares so much in 25

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equal, if not greater, importance: where he lived, when he lived, and, most importantly, why he wrote. Dtr was a “Levitical priest” or, at minimum, someone with close ties to this group. Moreover, he lived in the south prior to the Babylonian conquest of Jerusalem, where he had access to royal records from both north (e.g., “the Chronicles of the Kings of Israel”) and south (“the Acts of Solomon,” “the Chronicles of the Kings of Judah,” etc.), as well as priestly traditions, both from his own northern Levitical heritage and from Jerusalem’s temple archives. 26 As part of his Levitical heritage, and in the pattern of the great priestly-prophets of Israel’s past (Samuel, Ahijah, Elijah, etc.), Dtr was not reluctant to confront the abuses of Israel’s kings. In fact, few kings escape his prophetic rebuke. Yet, it was precisely because Dtr was willing to provide the nation and its royal elite with a critical assessment of its past, even while incorporating traditions from various and, in some cases, conflicting perspectives, that he produced the world’s first history—a history that predates those of Herodotus and Thucydides by nearly two centuries. 27 common, both in language and perspective, with the DH. For the similarities between the redactions of the DH and the book of Jeremiah, see, e.g., R. E. Friedman, “From Egypt to Egypt: Dtr1 to Dtr2”; idem, “The Deuteronomistic School” in Fortunate the Eyes That See. David Noel Freedman Festschrift (A. Beck, A. Bartlet, P. Raabe and C. Franke, eds.; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1995) 70–80. T. Römer, “Is There a Deuteronomistic Redaction in the Book of Jeremiah?” in Israel Constructs its History, 399–421; B. Gosse, “Trois etapes de la redaction du livre de Jeremie: La venue du Malheur contre ce lieu (Jerusalem) puis contre tout chair (Judah et les nations) et enfin de noveau contre ce lieu, mais identifie cette fois en Babylon,” ZAW 111 (1999) 508–29; W. L. Holladay, “Elusive Deuteronomists, Jeremiah, and Proto-Deuteronomy.” CBQ 66.1 (2004) 55–77. 26 For the circumstances allowing for the production of a history in the lateseventh, early sixth century BCE, see esp. W. M. Schniedewind, “Jerusalem, the Late Judahite Monarchy, and the Composition of Biblical Texts,” Jerusalem in Bible and Archaeology: The First Temple Period (A. G. Vaughn and A. E. Killebrew, eds.; SBLSymS 18; Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003) 375–93. 27 J. Van Seters’s comments regarding the conditions necessary for history writing seem apropos to the present study: “It may even be argued that history writing arises at the point when the actions of kings are viewed in the larger context of the people as a whole, so that it is the national history that judges the king and not the king who makes his own account of history” (In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History [New Haven: Yale University, 1983] 2). Van Seters, therefore, rightly concludes that Dtr “is the first known historian in Western civilization truly to deserve this designation” (In Search of History, 362).

A “HOLINESS” SUBSTRATUM IN THE DEUTERONOMISTIC ACCOUNT OF JOSIAH’S REFORM LAUREN A. S. MONROE CORNELL UNIVERSITY

1. INTRODUCTION The account of Josiah’s reform in 2 Kings 23 has long been understood to be a cornerstone of the Deuteronomistic History. It is widely accepted that through his eradication of local Israelite cult places, installations and personnel in and around Jerusalem, the biblical authors present Josiah as putting into effect the laws of centralization and purification of Israelite worship set forth in the legal code of Deuteronomy. Similarities between the language and themes of 2 Kings 23 and the laws of centralization in Deuteronomy have led many scholars to assume a direct connection between Josiah’s reform measures and an early version of the book of Deuteronomy, and thus to date the appearance of Deuteronomy in the southern kingdom of Judah to the period of Josiah’s reign in the late 7th century BCE. 1 For many, the connection between the account of the reform and the laws of Deuteronomy, and the relatively lengthy account of Josiah’s reign are lynchpins in the attribution of a Josianic date for a first edition of the Deuteronomistic History. 2 1 See for example, B. Levinson, Deuteronomy and the Hermeneutics of Legal Innovation (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997) 9–10; N. Lohfink “Kultzentralisation und Deuteronomium: Zu einem Buch von Eleonore Reuter,” Zeitschrift für Altorientalische und Biblische Rechtsgeschichte 1 (1995): 115–48; I. Knohl, The Sanctuary of Silence: The Priestly Torah and the Holiness School (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995) 207. Also, implicitly, Milgrom, Leviticus 17–26 (New York: Doubleday, 2000) 1510. 2 F. M. Cross, Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic: Essays in the History of the Religion

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A sea of scholarship has been generated on the compositional history of the books of 1 and 2 Kings. The role of one or multiple Deuteronomistic historians in the writing, editing and redacting of this biblical corpus is a source of considerable debate. 2 Kings 23 is an essential text in this discussion. In the present work I will draw attention to certain principal interests and key terms concentrated in 2 Kings 23:4–20 that find their closest parallels not in Deuteronomy, but rather in Leviticus 17–26, known as the Holiness Code. I will focus on three cruxes in 2 Kings 23 the interpretations of which have been hampered by an approach to the text that privileges a Deuteronomistic orientation. These are: the reading ‫ במות השׁערים‬or “high places of the gates” in 23:8, reference to mlk offerings in 23:10 and the recurrent theme of eradication of ‫ במות‬or “high places,” especially as punishment for transgression. When these references are disentangled from scholars’ assumptions about the Deuteronomistic nature of the text and considered instead in light of unique parallels in the Holiness Code, their significance within the account of the reform becomes clearer. Indeed, 2 Kings 23 shares its worldview as much with the circles that produced the Holiness Code as it does with those that produced and promoted Deuteronomy. Therefore, it is necessary to re-evaluate the historical relationship between 2 Kings 23 and the book of Deuteronomy, and to reconsider both the compositional history of the account of reform and its literary relationship to the larger Deuteronomistic History. 2 Kings 23 is often understood to be comprised of at least two sources, a Reformbericht (corresponding roughly to 2 Kings 23:4–20) and an Auffindungsbericht (2 Kgs 22:3–23:3), which differed from one another with regard to narrative style. 3 As Eynikel has noted, these designations have had of Israel (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1973) 274–287. Cross does not provide sufficient text critical analysis to support either the distinction between Dtr1 and Dtr2 or the Josianic attribution of Dtr1. On this see the discussion in E. Eynikel, The Reform of King Josiah and the Composition of the Deuteronomistic History (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1996) 16; I. Provan Hezekiah and the Book of Kings: A Contribution to the Debate about the Deuteronomistic History (BZAW 172; Berlin and New York: DeGruyter, 1988) 48. Others after Cross have gone farther in providing a textual foundation for his, and their own conclusions, with specific attention devoted to stylistic variations in the judgment formulae that introduce each king’s reign in the book of Kings, as well as variations in the attitudes towards ‫במות‬. For a detailed discussion of this scholarship see Provan, Hezekiah, 33–55. 3 This idea was first proposed by T. Oestreicher, Das deuteronomische Grundgesetz (BFCT 27/4; Gutersloh, 1923) 12–57. For a discussion of Oestreicher’s work as

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considerable influence on subsequent exegesis, with varying degrees of modification. 4 In support of this division one may point to the following discordances between 2 Kings 23:4–20 and the surrounding narrative: 1) the phrase ‫“ ויצו המלך‬the king commanded” which opens verses 4 and 21, creating brackets around the intervening material; 2) the ten references to ‫ במות‬in verses 4–20 and their conspicuous absence elsewhere in chapters 22–23; 5 3) the wiederaufnahme, or “repetitive resumption” formed by the words ‫הספר הזה‬-‫דברי הברית הזאת הכתבים על‬-‫“ להקים את‬to uphold the words of the this covenant written on this scroll,” in 2 Kings 23:3, and ‫“ ככתוב על ספר הברית הזה‬as is written on this scroll of the covenant,” in 2 Kings 23:21. I shall propose here that shared elements between 2 Kings 23:4–20 and the Holiness Code may be understood to belong to a preDeuteronomistic “reform report” that was generated within the late preexilic “holiness” circles of the Jerusalem temple priesthood prior to the codification of the Holiness Code as a fixed, quotable text. 6 This source material was revised and reworked by a Deuteronomistic author/editor who brought it into conformity with his own interests. 7 Before proceeding, it is necessary to comment briefly on the state of research on the Holiness Code (H). Leviticus 17–26 reflects a particular interest in the Holiness of God and Israel expressed with distinctive diction and terminology that has led to its identification by many as a separate cor-

well as a comprehensive overview of the history of exegesis of 2 Kings 22–23 see Eynikel, The Reform, 7–31. 4 Eynikel, The Reform, 8. 5 More shall be said on this below. 6 Throughout this article, the term “holiness” with a lower-case “h” will be used to designate material that shares its outlook with the Holiness Code, but does not exhibit an identifiable literary connection to that Priestly corpus. 7 A comment is required here regarding a recent article by B. Levinson, “The Manumission of Hermeneutics: The Slave Laws of the Pentateuch as a Challenge to Contemporary Pentateuchal Theory,” (VTSup 109; Congress Volume Leiden 2004; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2006) 281–324 in which the author convincingly argues that H rewrites and transforms the manumission laws of Deuteronomy 15:12–18. The working hypothesis of the present work, that the earliest activity of the Holiness School informs an early version of the account of Josiah’s reform and predates the Deuteronomistic redaction of 2 Kings 23 need not contradict Levinson’s conclusions. Rather, when taken together, his work and my own contribute to a more nuanced picture of the relationships between the Deuteronom(ist)ic and Holiness schools that are responsible for shaping much of the corpus of biblical literature.

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pus within priestly literature. 8 Among those who accept the separate existence of H, there is debate about whether it should be understood as an isolated source, as Milgrom contends, or as the work of a separate priestly school, identified by Knohl as HS. 9 In addition, while there is some consensus among scholars regarding a late pre-exilic date for at least some portions of the Holiness Code there is disagreement over the details. The possibility that an early account of Josiah’s reform shared certain fundamental interests with the circle that produced the Holiness Code lends support to the view that a Holiness School was in operation during the late pre-exilic period, and points to the likelihood that its early activity overlapped with the period of Josiah’s reign. A connection between Josiah’s reform and the Holiness Code was proposed once before, by G. R. Berry, in two articles published in JBL, in 1920 and 1940 respectively. 10 In the first of these articles Berry questioned the “practically unanimous opinion of adherents to the documentary theory of the Hexateuch” that the book of the law discovered by Josiah was the book of Deuteronomy. Drawing attention to certain key similarities between D and H, Berry argued that there are insufficient grounds to assume that Josiah’s book of the law was D and not H. For example, he comments that the consternation of Josiah and the reference to the words of the book as forebodings of disaster show that the book contained threats that are found in both Pentateuchal codes, in Deuteronomy 28 and Leviticus 26. 11 In addition, abolition of all worship of other gods, a central theme in 2 Kings 23, appears in both D and H . 12 An interest in centralization, a guiding principle behind the reform, is also found in both D and H . 13 Both codes oppose Molek worship, and both contain regulations concerning the Passover. 14 8 For a list of scholars who object to the identification of H as a separate unit within the priestly source see I. Knohl, Sanctuary, 3 n.9. 9 Milgrom, Leviticus 17–22, 1345; Knohl, Sanctuary, 204–224 10 G. R. Berry “The Code Found in the Temple,” JBL 59 (1920): 44–50; Berry, “The Date of Deuteronomy,” JBL 59 (1940): 133–139. This second article focuses primarily on establishing additional grounds for a post-exilic date for Deuteronomy, but in this context Berry reaffirms his original contention that the code found by Josiah was H. 11 Berry, “The Code,” 49. 12 Deut 17:3; 12:2–3, etc.; Lev 17:7; 19:4; 26:1, 30 13 Deut 12:5–14, etc.; Lev 17:3–9 14 Berry, “The Code,” 49. As Berry acknowledges, Deuteronomy does not

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Berry’s identification of the Holiness Code as Josiah’s book of the law was uniformly rejected by his contemporaries as it failed to account for language that the text clearly shares with Deuteronomy. The work of Berry and others of that generation lacks the nuance that has come with our deepened understanding of the Bible’s compositional history. The identification of the Deuteronomists in shaping biblical literature has re-focused and reoriented scholarly discourse in the post-Noth era, and the preoccupation with identifying the book of the law is now understood to assume a greater degree of historicity than the biblical text can sustain. However, in challenging the status quo by suggesting that H not D was the code found in the temple, Berry touched on an important set of evidence for establishing the Sitz im Leben of 2 Kings 23. With the developments in biblical scholarship that have taken place in recent decades, the question deserves to be revisited.

2. GATES OR GOATS IN 2 KINGS 23:8? The phrase ‫במות השׁערים‬, “high places of the gates,” which appears in

verse 8 of the Masoretic text of 2 Kings 23, has been a thorn in the side of interpreters for millennia. There are two interconnected issues at stake in the translation of this verse. The first is the plural form ‫( במות‬high places), which if read together with ‫ שערים‬suggests the presence of multiple high places in multiple gates located at the entrance of Joshua’s gate. From an architectural standpoint this is difficult to envision, although Barrick has noted that the plural is not impossible if one supposes that ‫ במות‬were small installations that could be clustered. 15 Some scholars have suggested emending the verse to the singular ‫במת‬, instead of ‫במות‬, a reading that is provisionally supported by the Targum and Peshitta, 16 but again as Barrick rightly comments, the reliability of the versions is compromised by the fact

mention Molek by name. This is significant and shall be discussed at greater length below. 15 Barrick, The King and the Cemeteries, 78. On some of the difficulties associated with the reading ‫ שׂערים‬see, e.g. J. A. Emerton, “‘The High Places of the Gates’ in 2 Kings XXIII 8,” VT XLIV, 4 (1994) 545–456. 16 For example, N. Snaith, “The Meaning of ‫שׂערים‬,” VT 25 (1975) 116; B. Stade and F. Schwally, The Books of Kings (trans. by R. E. Brünnow and P. Haupt; SBOT 9; Baltimore/Leipzig: Johns Hopkins University, 1904) 294; J. Gray, II Kings: A Commentary (2nd ed., OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1970) 664 reads ‫ בית‬for ‫ במות‬based on the Septuagint’s τòν οίκον. Barrick, op. cit., draws attention to the fact that only the Peshita is unambiguous in its use of the singular.

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that they seem to have had as much difficulty making sense of the verse as modern commentators have had. 17 In 1882 H. Hoffmann proposed to resolve this difficulty by repointing the second term to ‫ שׂערים‬yielding the translation “high places of the satyrs. 18 Hoffmann’s reading was widely accepted by his contemporaries as well as by subsequent scholars, and is suggested as an alternative reading in the apparatus to BHS. 19 Nonetheless, many scholars and most English Bible translations persist in reading “high places of the gates.” 20 Many of those who have rejected Hoffmann’s proposal have done so on the basis that satyrs are not a concern of the Deuteronomists. 21 This rationale does not apply however, if one suspends the assumption that 2 Kings 23 is a purely Deuteronomistic composition. In light of its grammatical, textcritical and practical simplicity, the reading ‫במות השׂערים‬, literally “high places of the goats” requires further consideration. 22

Barrick, The King and the Cemeteries, op. cit. H. Hoffmann, “Kleinigkeiten,” ZAW 2 (1882): 175. For a detailed discussion of the term “satyr” see B. Jankowski in van der Toorn, Becking and van der Horst, eds. DDD (2nd ed.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans 1999) 1381–84. 19 For example, Eynikel, The Reform of King Josiah, 137–138; 236–238. Also, A. Spieckermann, Juda unter Assur in den Sargoniedenzeit (FRLANT 129; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1982) 99–100, 426 who likens the term to the Akkadian šēdu a type of demonic spirit similar to the lamāssu. In early scholarship for example, Berry, “The Code,” 49. For additional bibliography on this reading see Brown, Driver and Briggs, Hebrew English Lexicon of the Old Testament (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1951) 972. 20 For example JPS, NASB, NIV, NJB, KJV, NKJ, RSV, NRSV and ESV. Of the many translations consulted, only the NAB translates “high places of the satyrs.” 21 For example, H.-D. Hoffman, Reform und Reformen. Untersuchungen zu einem Grundthema der deuteronomisticher Geschichtsschreibung (Zurich: Theologischer Verlag, 1980) 235. 22 For a recent survey of scholarship on this issue, and an assessment of proposed readings, T. H. Blomquist, Gates and Gods: Cults in the City Gates of Iron Age Palestine. An Investigation of the Archaeological and Biblical Sources (Coniectanea Biblica; Old Testament Series 46; Stockholm: Almquist and Wiskell International, 1999) 151–163. Blomquist comes down in favor of preserving the MT and taking the construction as a noun followed by a genitive in which the plural is used on both nouns to communicate a compound idea. She cites 1 Chr 7:5, Ezra 9:11 and Neh 9:30 as supporting examples. 17

18

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The term ‫ שׂערים‬is used frequently in the Hebrew Bible in reference to a type of goat that was offered as a regular part of the Israelite sacrificial cult. 23 In addition to the possible reference to ‫שׂערים‬, in 2 Kings 23:8, the term appears four times in the Bible in reference to animals not intended for sacrifice. These are: Leviticus 17:7; Isaiah 13:21, 34:14; and 2 Chronicles 11:15. Finally, there is an entirely unique reference to ‫ שׂערים‬in Deuteronomy 32:2 where it describes a downpour of rain. Leviticus and Chronicles use the term similarly; the former prohibits sacrifices to ‫שׂערים‬ and the latter uses the term in parallel with ‫אגלים‬, “calves,” to describe the cult objects installed by Jeroboam I in the sanctuary at Bethel. In Isaiah the term is used in conjunction with jackals (‫ )אחום‬and ostriches (‫ )בנות יענה‬in 13:21 and with hyenas (‫ )איים‬and the creature designated as Lillith in 34:14. Reference to Lillith, a mythological figure well attested in Mesopotamia and in later Jewish texts but a hapax in the Hebrew Bible, has led some scholars to suppose that ‫ שׂערים‬were legendary animals that populated the desert regions. 24 Whether or not the Israelites believed in such creatures is the subject of debate. Snaith, for example, argues against a belief in the existence of so-called satyrs in ancient Israel, and suggests (correctly in my view) that this translation reflects the importation of Greek and Roman images into the ancient Israelite world by biblical scholars. 25 Based largely on the unusual use of the term in Deuteronomy 32:2 in reference to a downpour of rain, and the reference to Lillith in Isaiah 34, he concludes that the ‫ שׂערים‬were “the rain gods, the fertility deities, the baals of the rain-storms.” Snaith’s model seems overly reductive, and leaves open the semantic relationship between these “fertility deities” and the goats designated by the term ‫ שׂערים‬that were a regular part of the sacrificial cult. Nonetheless, his line of thought may be worth pursuing with some refinement. The term ‫ שׂערים‬in Deuteronomy 32, appears in parallelism with ‫מתר‬ (rain) ‫( טל‬dew) and ‫( רביבים‬showers) and clearly refers to the water itself 23 For example, Lev 4:24; Nu 7:16; Gen 37:31; Ez 43:22, etc. The designation ‫ שׂערים‬may be compared with other terms for goats including ‫עתוד‬, ‫עז‬, and ‫גדי‬. On animal taxonomy in the Hebrew Bible see, R. Whitekettle, “Where the Wild Things Are: Primary Level Taxa in Israelite Zoological Thought,” JSOT 93 (2001): 17–37; Idem., “Rats are Like Snakes, and Hares are Like Goats: A Study in Israelite Land Animal Taxonomy,” Biblica 82/3 (2001): 345–362. 24 For example, H. Duhm, Die bösen Geister im Alten Testament (Tübingen; Leipzig: Mohr, 1904) 47. 25 N. Snaith, “The meaning of ‫שׂערים‬,” VT XXV/1 (1975): 118.

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that falls upon the grass. It is quite possible that by metonymy the word comes to refer to both the water and the divine being that produces it, just as the name Mot connotes both the name of a deity and the phenomenon with which he was associated. If this were the case, we might speculate that the ‫ שׂערים‬referred to in Leviticus and Chronicles were divine images associated with fertility that were rendered in caprid form. This reconstruction finds support in glyptic evidence from Iron II Israel. Keel and Uehlinger’s analysis of Iron Age seal impressions depicting caprids is instructive. 26 A calcite conoid from Dor shows two suckling horned caprids facing each other, with the rudimentary form of a goddess between them. 27 The authors comment that these and other images featuring cows arranged similarly, “is clear evidence for the relatively fragile status of the anthropomorphic ‘Mistress of the Mother Animals’ in Iron Age IIA Syro-Palestinian glyptic art.” 28 On a conoid from Tell en Nasbeh a worshipper with upraised arms is shown in a horizontal position beneath two suckling caprids that face each other. 29 Regarding this image Keel and Uehlinger assert “The goddess is missing, which means this collection of figures Keel and Uehlinger, Gods ,Goddesses and Images of God in Ancient Israel (trans. T. Trapp; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998) 142–144; 147–151. 27 Keel and Uehlinger, Gods, Goddesses and Images of God, 142. Fig. 166b. This image calls to mind a plaque from Ugarit featuring a female figure holding bundles of grain in each hand, with goats feeding on either side. For bibliography on the publication of this object see Smith, The Early History of God: Yahweh and the Other Deities in Ancient Israel (2nd ed.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002) 113, n.20. Smith comments that “if this plaque were a depiction of the goddess Asherah, it would indicate that the tree found in comparable later iconography was a symbol of the goddess giving nourishment to the animals flanking her.” The two wild goats flanking a stylized tree are attested on pithos A from the 8th century site of Kuntillet ‘Ajrud, on the second register of the Ta’anach cult stand and on the Lachish ewer inscription. For drawings and recent discussion of the Kuntillet ‘Ajrud pithoi and the Ta’anach cult stand, Z. Zevit, The Religions of Ancient Israel: A Synthesis of Parallactic Approaches (London and New York: Continuum, 2001) 370–405; 318–328. On the Lachish ewer inscription, R. Hestrin, “The Lachish Ewer Inscription and the Asherah,” IEJ 37 (1987): 212–223. The drawings in “Understanding Asherah: Exploring Semitic Iconography,” BAR 17 S-O (1991): 51 are clearer than those in IEJ and are accompanied by an exceptional photograph. Against the dendrical associations of the goddess Asherah, see S. Wiggins, “Of Asherah’s and Trees: Some Methodological Questions,” JANER 1/1 (2002): 158–187. 28 Keel and Uehlinger, Gods, Goddesses and Images of God, 143. 29 Keel and Uehlinger, Gods, Goddesses and Images of God, 148. Fig. 176b. 26

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301

depicts an impersonal, numinous power that brings blessing and has, as such, itself become the object of worship.” 30 In addition to these images of the suckling mother animals, in which female gender is implicit and the image is clearly associated with fertility, single caprids are also featured on locally produced limestone conoids. Keel and Uehlinger draw attention to a whole group of locally produced limestone seal amulets that show a human figure standing in front of a single caprid with arms raised in worship. 31 Five pieces of this type were found at Beth-Shemesh, at least four in a tomb that contained material from the end of the Iron Age I through the beginning of the Iron Age IIB. 32 When all of these images are considered in light of references such as those in Leviticus and Chronicles, it appears likely that ‫ שׂערים‬were either objects of worship, or at the very least symbols of divine presence in some ancient Israelite circles during the monarchic period. 33 Eynikel asserts that all of the occurrences of ‫ שׂערים‬in the Old Testament are found in exilic or post-exilic texts. While the reference in Chronicles is surely late, and as Barrick has noted, anachronistically associates the practice with the northern cult, 34 the lateness of the references to ‫ שׂערים‬in Isaiah 13:21 and 34:14 is hardly a foregone conclusion, nor is there consensus regarding a date for Leviticus 17. In light of the evidence discussed here which suggests that the goat had divine associations in Iron II Israel, it is feasible that cult installations associated with the image of the goat existed in Josiah’s Jerusalem. Textual, grammatical and material considerations thus suggest that ‫“ במות השׂערים‬high place(s) of the goats” may be the most plausible rendering of 2 Kings 23:8. If this reading were correct, Josiah’s eradication of these installations would constitute an imKeel and Uehlinger, Gods, Goddesses and Images of God, 147. Keel and Uehlinger, Gods ,Goddesses and Images of God, 150. Figs. 178a, 178b. 32 Keel and Uehlinger, Gods, Goddesses and Images of God, 150. 33 While far removed from Iron Age Israel both temporally and geographically the ornate “rearing goat with flowering plant,” sculpture discovered in the Royal Cemetery at Ur may suggest that the association of the goat with fertility was quite ancient and indigenous in a Near Eastern context. J. Reade, “The Royal Tombs of Ur,” in Art of the First Cities: Third Millennium BC from the Mediterranean to the Indus (ed. J. Aruz and R. Wallenfels; The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York; New Haven: Yale University Press, 2003) 122, comments, “[The statue] encapsulates in a highly symbolic manner the basic Sumerian concerns with plant fecundity and animal fertility. Further, the plant combines the rosette, often seen as a symbol of the goddess Inanna with a shape that on this plant does not function as a leaf.” 34 Barrick, The King and the Cemeteries, 76. 30 31

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portant point of connection between Josiah’s reform and the Holiness Code, as Leviticus 17:7 provides the only specific prohibition against offerings to ‫ שׂערים‬in the Hebrew Bible.

3. THE MLK SACRIFICE IN 2 KINGS 23:10 2 Kgs 23:10 describes Josiah’s defilement of the Tophet in the ben Hinnom valley, "so as to prevent a man from making his son or daughter pass through fire ‘to’ or ‘as a’ mlk. The mlk sacrifice is widely attested in the ancient Mediterranean world, but the significance of this term within an ancient Israelite context is hotly disputed. 35 There is little debate, however, that the mlk offering was a known practice in the late pre-exilic period, and that it involved the presentation of children, either to Yahweh 36 or to another deity within the Israelite pantheon. 37 The prohibition of child sacrifice is a theme that appears in both Deuteronomy and Leviticus, but the term mlk itself does not appear in association with prohibitions against child sacrifice anywhere in Deuteronomy, 38 nor is it used anywhere in the Deuteronomistic History except 2 Kings 23:10. 39 It appears five times in the Holiness Code (Leviticus 18:21; 20:2, 3, 4, 5) and nowhere else in Leviticus. 40 Despite the fact that the term does not appear in Deuteronomy, scholars often presume that Deuteronomy and Leviticus share this common concern. However, the absence of the term in Deuteronomy and its presence in Leviticus may suggest a different set of intentions and concerns underlying the prohibitions in each text. The absence of the term mlk in Deuteronomy is peculiar if the intention of the authors was to prohibit offerings to a particular deity by this name. In general the Deuteronomists are hardly reticent to point out Israel’s acts of faithlessness to Yahweh. The fact that the term mlk appears only in LevitiExtensive bibliography is provided by Smith, Early History of God, 171–181. Eg. Jer 7:31; Ezek 20:25–26 37 Eg. Jer 19:5; 32:35; Ps 106:34–38. On the idea that this was a legitimate, Yahwistic practice, see for example, M. Smith, Early History of God, 172; Z. Zevit, The Religions of Ancient Israel, 469–470. 38 Deuteronomy 12:31 contains a prohibition against child sacrifice, and 18:10, a prohibition against passing one’s son or daughter through fire, but neither uses the term mlk. 39 The name ‫ מולך‬appears as a designation for the god of the Ammonites in the MT of 1Kings 11:7, but this reading is not secure. 40 Leviticus 18:21; 20:2, 3, 4, 5. This difference between H and D is acknowledged by Berry, “The Code,” 50. 35 36

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303

cus, where an interest in cultic regulations is most pronounced, may support the theory that mlk was a technical term signifying a specific type of sacrifice. How ever the term is to be understood it seems likely that the aspect of the sacrifice that is signified by the term mlk, was not a concern for the Deuteronomic authors. The fact that the term occurs only in 2 Kings 23:10 and the Holiness Code and nowhere else in the Pentateuch or historical books, once again connects 2 Kings 23 more strongly to the Holiness Code than to Deuteronomy. 41

4. DEFILEMENT OF ‫ במות‬IN 2 KINGS 23:4–20 AND LEVITICUS 26:30 The emphasis on ‫ במות‬in 2 Kings 23 and in the Kings history more gener-

ally has presented something of a conundrum to biblical scholars. In 2 Kings 23 the term ‫במות‬/‫ במה‬appears a total of ten times in verses 4–20, far exceeding references to these installations in any other single biblical text. All of the positive evaluations of Judah’s kings include the qualification “nevertheless the ‫ במות‬were not removed,” 42 with the exception of Hezekiah whose removal of ‫ במות‬is referred to in the opening lines of the account of his reign. Paradoxically, Josiah is the only positively evaluated Judean king for whom eradication of ‫ במות‬is not mentioned at all is his regnal formula. 43 The use of ‫ במות‬is cited as an essential reason for the destruction of the Northern Kingdom (1 Kings 17), and the perpetuation and proliferation of ‫ במות‬constitute a primary basis for the negative evaluations of the reigns of the Judean kings Ahaz and Menassseh. In contrast to the emphasis on ‫ במות‬in the Kings history, there are no references to these cult installations anywhere in the book of Deuteronomy itself. 44 This tension has not escaped the attention of biblical scholars. For 41 Barrick, The King and the Cemeteries, 102 notes that reference to ‫ מולך‬in 2 Kings 23 links this passage more closely to Leviticus 18:21 and 20:2–5 than to Deuteronomy 18:10. 42 1 Kings 15:14; 22:44; 2 Kings 12:3, 14:4, 15:3, 15:35. The Hebrew in these verses varies slightly with regard to the disjunctive marker. Variations include use of the particles ‫רק אח‬,and ‫ו‬. 43 This is surely significant for understanding the relationship between the historian(s) who revised and transformed the account of Josiah’s reform in 2 Kings 23, and those responsible for the regnal formulae of the other kings of Judah. The precise implications of this require additional consideration. 44 Deuteronomy 32:13 features an unusual use of the term ‫ במות‬in a non-cultic context, where it simply signifies a topographic feature in the landscape.

304

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

example, Barrick has commented that a connection between the reform and Deuteronomy would imply that Josiah’s actions were related in some fashion to the proscriptions in Deuteronomy 12, but those proscriptions do not mention bāmôt. 45 Knoppers suggests that “even though the Deuteronomist applied the law of centralization to cover bmwt, the very fact that Deuteronomy does not mention them suggests some distance between this work and the Deuteronomistic History.” 46 Indeed, in as much as the term “Deuteronomistic” designates material that derives from and relies upon language and ideology set forth in the book of Deuteronomy, a concern for ‫במות‬ can not be identified as a “Deuteronomistic” theme. It is possible that a preoccupation with ‫ במות‬constitutes a particular interest unique to the Deuteronomistic historians, and was independent of their reliance on Deuteronomic law and ideology, but to leave it at that begs the question of the socio-religious context in which this idea emerged and why it came to be a defining feature in the historiography of Israel’s kings. We may once again shed a dim light on the problem by considering the unusual concentration and particular orientation of references to ‫ במות‬in 2 Kings 23:4–20, in light of the Holiness Code. In 2 Kings 23:4–20, Josiah’s destruction the ‫ במות‬in Judah and Samaria is presented as a direct response to a sudden awareness of a history of Israelite transgression. 47 This is made evident when, upon hearing the words of the book of the law Josiah rends his garments and exclaims, “Great is the wrath of the lord that is kindled against us because our fathers have not obeyed the words of this book…” Josiah’s acts of defilement are connected to his fear of divine retribution. His reform measures are undertaken with the idea in mind that it is better for him to take matters into his Barrick, The King and the Cemeteries, 9. G. Knoppers, “Solomon’s Fall and Deuteronomy” in The Age of Solomon: Scholarship at the Turn of the Millennium (ed. L. K. Handy; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1997) 402–403. 47 The description of Josiah’s destruction of the cult places of Samaria, with the exception of Bethel, are likely to belong to the secondary, Deuteronomistic revision of 2 Kings 23, and not to the earliest version of the account of the reform. I have discussed some of the literary historical issues at stake in my dissertation, Josiah’s Reform and the Dynamics of Defilement, 190–200. For a discussion of archaeological evidence from Judah and Bethel that may be relevant to the question, see Barrick, The King and the Cemeteries, 27–60; and my critique, L. Monroe, review of B. Barrick, The King and the Cemeteries: Towards a New Understanding of Josiah’s Reform, RB (2005): 420–421. 45 46

SCRIBES BEFORE AND AFTER 587 BCE

305

own hands than to wait for God to act. In light of this we might expect Josiah’s actions to find parallel in God’s own promises of destruction; and indeed though do, in Leviticus 26:30. Nowhere else in the Pentateuch or historical books, do we find the idea of destruction of ‫ במות‬as a response to breach of covenant. Here amidst a long list of curses against the Israelites should they fail to uphold God’s commandments, God promises: ‫חמניכם ונתתי‬-‫במתיכם והכרתי את‬-‫והשמדתי את‬ ‫פגרי גלוליכם וגעלה נפשי אתכם‬-‫פגריכם על‬-‫את‬ I shall destroy your high places and cut down your incense altars and cast your corpses on the corpses of your idols. My very being shall abhor you.

This verse provides an exceptional point of contact with the underlying ethos of Josiah’s reform. While the curse sections of Leviticus and Deuteronomy share many common features, both linguistic and syntactic, only Leviticus makes reference to eradication of ‫ במות‬as punishment for transgression. In fact, there are no references anywhere in Deuteronomy to the destruction of Israelite cult places of any sort as a response to breach of covenant. The fact that Leviticus 26 refers not only to ‫ במות‬but also to their defilement as recompense for Israelite disobedience suggests that on this point as well, 2 Kings 23 has more in common with the concerns of the Holiness Code than it does with Deuteronomy. While 2 Kings 23:4–20 and Leviticus 26 share an interest in eradication of ‫במות‬, the two texts do not express this idea using common linguistic conventions. Rather the description of Josiah’s defilement of ‫ במות‬and the curse section of the Holiness Code reflect a similar set of concerns that suggests that they may have originated in a similar time and place when these ideas were current. It does not seem likely that they are the work of a common author nor is it probable that 2 Kings 23:4–20 was generated with a fixed text of Leviticus 26 in mind. The same may be said of the references to mlk offerings and the destruction of ‫במות השׂערים‬. In neither case is the formulation in 2 Kings 23 identical to that found in the Holiness Code. This situation may be contrasted with the parallels between 2 Kings 23 and Deuteronomy, where the use of explicitly Deuteronomic conventions in the received version of the reform indicates that the author “either retouched his source to conform to Deuteronomy or that he composed the reforms

306

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

himself, imitating the style of his source.” 48 It would seem that while the Deuteronomist wrote his account of Josiah’s reform subsequent to, or at the same time as the codification of Deuteronomic Law, the holiness material in 2 Kings 23:4–20 belongs to a period before the establishment of the Holiness Code as a fixed composition. On the basis of evidence presented here, we may postulate an original account of Josiah’s reform that shared some of its fundamental interests with the Jerusalem centered holiness school, including its outlook on the eradication of ‫במות‬. In this early source a connection was wrought between Josiah and the destruction of ‫במות‬, that either reflected real events that took place during Josiah’s reign, or served the religio-political interests of the text’s authors who, themselves, were writing to promote the agenda of the central institutions of temple and palace in late pre-exilic Jerusalem. Either way, this pre-exilic, ‫— במות‬centered account of the reform became the source material for a Deuteronomistic historian, who identified the reforming king Josiah as the ideal agent of Deuteronomy’s centralization movement. This historian revised his source material to bring it into more explicit alignment with Deuteronomistic interests, casting Josiah as his hero and introducing the idea of eradication of ‫ במות‬as the gold standard by which all of Israel’s kings were judged. The pre-occupation with ‫ במות‬on the part of the Deuteronomistic Historians would thus originate with Josiah and the earliest account of the events of his reign, generated from within the “holiness” circles of late pre-exilic Jerusalem.

5. CONCLUSION In the above discussion I have demonstrated that in certain fundamental respects 2 Kings 23 is shaped by concerns that are given their clearest expression in the Holiness Code. In general, correlations between these two texts have not been recognized by scholars, largely due to circular reasoning that posits, implicitly, that because 2 Kings 23 is part of the so-called “Deuteronomistic History,” it must adhere to our expectations of a DeuteronoG. Knoppers, Two Nations Under God: The Deuteronomistic History of Solomon and the Dual Monarchies (vol. 2, The Reign of Jeroboam, the Fall of Israel, and the Reign of Josiah; HSM Monographs 53; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1994) 179. The most notable points of contact between the two texts are the repeated references in both, to the destruction of ‫מצבות‬,‫אשרים‬, and ‫( מזבחות‬eg. 2 Kings 23:4,6,7, 14 and 15; Deut 7:5; 12:3) as well as prohibitions against the worship of ‫בעל אשרה וכל צבי השמים‬ “Baal, Asherah and the whole host of heaven” (2 Kings 4,5 and Deut 17:3). 48

SCRIBES BEFORE AND AFTER 587 BCE

307

mistic text; that is, it must be shaped by concerns that find their clearest expression in Deuteronomy. While this is often the case, for 2 Kings 23 this approach consistently has proven inadequate. Shared elements between 2 Kings 23:4–20 and the Holiness Code suggest that embedded in the Deuteronomistic account of Josiah’s reform is a source that held some of the same interests as the Jerusalem centered Holiness School. This early account, with its particular priestly orientation, became the source material for a Deuteronomistic historian who transformed and appropriated it to suit his particular historiographic interests. By relying upon and reworking priestly material in his formulation of Josiah’s reform, the Deuteronomist established his reformed version of Israelite religion on the foundation of traditions already in place. He thus lent legitimacy not only to his own innovation, but also to the traditions of the Jerusalem temple, which he sought to assert as the primary axis of Israelite religious life. The existence of a pre-Deuteronomistic holiness substratum in 2 Kings 23:4–20 severs any primary connection between the account of Josiah’s reform and the book of Deuteronomy, and precludes the use of 2 Kings 23 as a basis for arguing a late 7th century date for the both appearance of Deuteronomy in Judah, and for the activity of a Deuteronomistic School responsible for writing and compiling the history of which 2 Kings 23 is a part. However, the text may help to situate the early activity of the so-called “Holiness School” more precisely within its socio-political and temporal milieu, as well as to illuminate aspects of the relationship between the late 7th century Jerusalem temple priesthood and the proponents of Deuteronomistic ideology, both before and after the exile.

COMPOSITION, RHETORIC AND THEOLOGY IN HAGGAI 1:1–11 ELIE ASSIS

BAR ILAN UNIVERSITY 1. INTRODUCTION The importance of Haggai in the history of Yehud at the beginning of the Second Temple period is in sharp contrast to the length of the book. Haggai initiated the construction of the Temple in the second year of Darius’ reign, about twenty years after the return from Babylon and the cessation of the construction following disturbances perpetrated by Yehud’s neighbors (Ezra 4). This time, the attempt to build the temple succeeded (Ezra 6:14– 15). 1 Haggai’s instruction to the people to build the temple reflects the people’s reluctance to do so (Hag 1:4). Several explanations have been offered to the people’s claim that it was not the time to rebuild the temple. Some scholars believe that the economic difficulties were at the heart of the problem. 2 Others proposed that the people expected a seventy year period to elapse from the destruction. 3 Others believe that the situation did not live up to the people’s theological and eschatological expectations. 4 1 According to the book of Ezra, the role of Haggai, together with Zechariah, was very crucial in the renewed efforts to rebuild the ruined Temple of Jerusalem (Ezra 3:1–2; 6:14). 2 J. Bright, A History of Israel (2nd ed., London: SCM Press, 1972), p. 366; H. W. Wolff, Haggai, A Commentary (trans. M. Kohl, Minneapolis: Augsburg Publishing House, 1988), p. 41; J. Kessler, The Book of Haggai: Prophecy and Society in Early Persian Yehud (VTSup, 91; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2002) p. 126. 3 C. L. Meyers and E. M. Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8 (AB, 25B; New York: Doubleday, 1987), p. 20; P. R. Bedford, “Discerning the Time: Haggai, Zechariah and the ‘Delay’ in the Rebuilding of the Jerusalem Temple,” S. W. Holloway and L.

309

310

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Indeed, the people faced numerous problems. Beside the political and economic difficulties the position of Zerubbabel, a descendant of David, was very weak. Zerubbabel, as governor of the Persian king, represented the lack of political independence of the people and their dependence on the Persian emperor. All these facts caused great disappointment among the people and reality did not fit their expectations that Judea would assume its status prior to its defeat by the Babylonians. This disappointment led the people to raise doubts whether this reality was part of the divine scheme. Therefore, Haggai repeats that God is with them (1:13; 2:4). 5 It is my contention that the people’s refusal to take part in the rebuilding of the Temple was due to their belief that God has not returned to God’s people and to God’s land, after destroying the Temple and driving the people out of ‘their’ land. Haggai promised the people that their hopes and aspirations will be fulfilled in the future, but meanwhile they would have to be satisfied with the gradual and slow process of their realization. Haggai required the people to build the Temple in his first prophetic speech, and in it he put forward his main arguments. To understand fully its meaning and the people’s beliefs against which he fought, one has to grasp properly its rhetoric, and the latter requires an understanding of the structure and composition of the speech.

K. Handy (eds.), The Pitcher is Broken: Memorial Essays for Gösta W. Ahlström (JSOTSup, 190; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995), pp. 78–82; H. Tadmor, “‘The Appointed Time Has Not Yet Arrived’: The Historical Background of Haggai 1:2,” R. Chazan, W. W. Hallo, L. H. Schiffman (eds.) Ki Baruch Hu: Ancient Near Eastern, Biblical, and Judaic Studies in Honor of Baruch A. Levine (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1999), pp. 401–408. J .Tollinton, “Readings in Haggai: From the Prophet to the Completed Book, a Changing Message in Changing Times,” B. Becking and M. C. A. Korpel, The Crisis of Israelite Religion: Transformation of Religious Tradition in Exilic and Post-Exilic Times (OtSt, 42; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1999), p. 197 and n. 11. See also R. Albertz, Israel in Exile: The History and Literature of the Sixth Century BCE, (Studies in Biblical Literature, 3; Atlanta: SBL, 2003), p. 128. 4 J. Wellhausen, Die kleinen Propheten übersetz und erklärt (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1898), p. 173; O. Steck, “Zu Haggai 1:2–11,” ZAW 83 (1971), pp. 375–376; R. G. Hamerton-Kelly, “The Temple and the Origins of Jewish Apocalyptic,” VT 20 (1970), pp. 1–15, esp. p. 14. P. D. Hanson, The Dawn of Apocalyptic: The Historical and Sociological Roots of Jewish Apocalyptic Eschatology, (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1979), p. 244. Bedford, “Discerning the Time,” pp. 71–94. 5 It is worth noting that the expression ‫ ֲאנִ י ִא ְתּ ֶכם‬occurs in “divine speech” and with this meaning in Hag 1:13 and 2:4, but nowhere else in the HB.

COMPOSITION, RHETORIC AND THEOLOGY

311

THE FOCUS OF HAG 1:4–11 Following the formal introduction in v 1, 6 the oracle commences in v 2: ‫“( העם הזה אמרו לא עת־בא עת־בית יהוה להבנות‬These people say the time has not yet come to rebuild the LORD’s house”). 7 The sentence stands separate not only from the preceding, but also the following text, since v 3 opens with a messenger formula, namely ‫ויהי דבר ה' ביד חגי הנביא לאמר‬. The standing alone statement in v 2, which represents the people’s declaration, plays thus the role of a topic marker or thematic focal point of the entire prophetic unit, from 1:4 to 1:11. 8

2. BACKGROUND: A BRIEF SURVEY OF POSITIONS ON THE COMPOSITION OF HAG 1:4–11 INTRODUCTION This passage contains several repetitions and a seeming unevenness. This has led many scholars to conclude that it was composed out of separate sayings that were eventually assembled together through a redactional process. 9 The crucial issue has been the occurrence of repetition between vv 9– 11 and vv 4–6. Verses 6 and 9 present, although with different words, the same theme, namely the difference between the people’s expectations of a large crop and the scant produce. The repetition between 5b and 7b and between 4b and 9b, respectively, involves the same words. 10 6 This introduction includes information about the date, the name of the prophet and the identity of the addressees of the divine word. 7 English translations follow the NRSV. 8 Because v 2 is the foundation on which the whole prophecy is based, the suggestion that this verse is a later addition should be abandoned, see e.g. W. A. M. Beuken, Haggai—Sacharja 1–8: Studien zur Überlieferungsgeschichte der frühnachexilischen Prophetie, Studia semitica neerlanica, Assen: Van Gorcum, 1967, pp. 29–30). 9 Wolff, Haggai, pp. 33–34; Beuken, Haggai—Sacharja 1–8, pp. 187–189; O. Steck, “Zu Haggai 1:2–11,” ZAW 83 (1971), pp. 355–379; K. Koch, “Haggais unreines Volk,” ZAW 79 (1967), pp. 52–66. 10 Wolff (Haggai, p. 33) remarked that the repetition of messenger speech formulae (5a, 7a, 8b) and divine oracles (9b) indicates that the passage is not a single, self-contained utterance. I agree with Boda that the messenger formula is characteristic of the Persian Period, and is meant to reinforce the status of the prophet as a deliverer of God’s words in a period of crisis. See M. J. Boda, “Haggai: Master Rhetorician,” TynB 51 (2000), pp. 295–304, esp. 298–299. A similar function is attributed to the term ‫ה' צבאות‬, “Lord of hosts,” which was meant to forcefully reassert the sovereignty of God, against the background of an extremely powerful

312

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

ILLUSTRATIVE APPROACHES According to Wolff, vv 4–11 do not represent a single unit. They were written by a disciple, as a sketch of a scene. In this series of oracles written by a disciple, new prophecies were stimulated by remarks of listeners. 11 Koch views vv 9–11 as a separate speech from vv 4–8, which appear in an abbreviated form of the preceding verses. 12 Steck sees vv 9–11 as a fragmented parallel unit to vv 2–8. The sayings were addressed to different audiences. (Verses 2–8 were addressed to the Judeans who remained in the land, and vv 9–11 to the exiles who returned from Babylon). 13 Graffy believes that vv 2–11 are a composite disputation speech made up of two refutations, vv 5– 8 and 9–11. 14 Other scholars, however, consider Hag 1:4–11 a unified piece. 15 According to J. W. Whedbee, for instance, the text, in its present form, has at its center the command to rebuild the temple (v 8), and this center is sert the sovereignty of God, against the background of an extremely powerful Persian king. P. A. Verhoef, The Books of Haggai and Malachi (NICOT, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1989), pp. 52–53. 11 Wolff, Haggai, p. 33. Beuken holds a similar view, see Beuken, Haggai— Sacharja 1–8, pp. 184–189. 12 Koch, “Haggais unreines Volk,” p. 58; For a variation of such an approach see also W. Rudolph, Haggai—Sacharja 1–8—Sacharja 9–14—Maleachi (KAT, Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus Gerd Mohn, 1976), p. 35; F. Horst, Die zwölf kleinen Propheten (HAT, Tübinden: Mohr, 1954), p. 205. 13 Steck, “Zu Haggai 1:2–11,” pp. 355–379. 14 A. Graffy, A Prophet Confronts His People: The Disputation Speech in the Prophets, (AnBib, 104; Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1984), pp. 98–104. 15 M. H. Floyd, “The Nature of the Narrative and the Evidence of Redaction in Haggai,” VT 45 (1995), pp. 470–490; W. S. Prinsloo, “The Cohesion of Haggai 1:4–11,” M. Augustin and K.-D. Schunck (eds.) “Wünschet Jerusalem Frieden”: Collected Communications to the XIIth Congress of the International Organization for the Study of the Old Testament, (BEATAJ, 13; Frankfurt am Main 1988. pp. 337–343; J. W. Whedbee, “A Question-Answer Schema in Haggai 1: The Form and Function of Haggai 1:9–11,” G. A. Tuttle (ed.), Biblical and Near Eastern Studies: Essays in Honor of William Sanford LaSor, (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1978), pp. 184–194. Petersen, who accepts the general analysis of his predecessors regarding the framework of the book, believes that it is impossible to reconstruct the different settings of the oracles D. L. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8 (OTL, Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1984), pp. 37–39. For further discussion on the diachronic approach versus a rhetorical approach to Haggai, see: Boda, “Haggai: Master Rhetorician,” pp. 295–304. See also: Verhoef, The Books of Haggai and Malachi, p. 69.

COMPOSITION, RHETORIC AND THEOLOGY

313

framed by the parallel passages vv 2–7 and 9–11. 16 W. S. Prinsloo also considers this pericope a unified piece, but finds a climactic structure in which the climax is v 11. 17 Both positions are problematic. 18 It is difficult to accept Prinsloo’s view regarding the centrality of v 11, since v 8 contains the central element of the periscope—it is this verse that instructs the people what they should do, and promises them that God will take pleasure in what they should build and be honored. 19 Whedbee is correct when he considers v 8 the focal point of the unit, but his position that v 8 is also the centre of a concentric structure is not convincing because vv 3–7 and vv 9–11 can not be seen as parallel components that enclose the unit. The contribution of these scholars is extremely important; they have led us to reevaluate and rethink issues of repetition, inconsistencies and tensions within the text. However, I believe that there is room for further study of the structure, rhetoric and purpose of Hag 1:4–11.

3. A NEW APPROACH: STRUCTURE, RHETORIC AND PURPOSE STRUCTURAL CONSIDERATIONS AND A NEW PROPOSAL Whether scholars consider Hag 1:4–11 a composite text or one unit, there is widespread agreement that the passage consists of two sections: (a) vv 4–8 and (b) vv 9–11. This division was rather assumed than argued. I think that it was widely assumed because (a) 1:8 ends with the closing words '‫אמר ה‬, and (b) the repetition between 1:9 and 1:6. Neither argument is conclusive. '‫ אמר ה‬is not necessarily a closing formula, it serve as a quotation formula. Verses 6 and 9 may belong to the same section, since thematic repetitions may fulfill rhetorical functions. Is there room for alternative structural proposals? A thematic analysis of this text that is supported by a structural marker such as inclusio suggests the following division: A (vv 4–9) First economic problem: Much work and little produce B (vv 10–11) Second economic problem: Drought

16 Whedbee, “A Question-Answer Schema in Haggai 1,” pp. 189–199. Kessler has adopted a similar structure, Kessler, The Book of Haggai, pp. 110–112. 17 Prinsloo, “The Cohesion of Haggai 1:4–11,” pp. 338–340. 18 And so are the positions surveyed above. On them, see below. 19 Kessler, The Book of Haggai, p. 110–111.

314

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Two structural elements support this proposal: (a) Verses 10–11 constitute a thematic unit: Verse 10 refers to the drought and v 11 to its implications. (b) There is a clear inclusio between verses 4 and 9bb. 20 Hag 1:4 ‫“( העת לכם אתם לשבת בבתיכם ספונים והבית הזה חרב‬Is it a time for you yourselves to live in your paneled houses, while this house lies in ruins?”) Hag 1:9bb ‫“( יען ביתי אשר־הוא חרב ואתם רצים איש לביתו‬Because my house lies in ruins, while all of you hurry off to your own houses”) 21 This proposal has, of course, to address two issues: (a) How are the repetitions in 1:4–9 to be explained? and (b) What is the relation between the reference to the first economic distress (vv 4–9) and the second economic distress, that is, the drought (vv 10–11).

THE REPETITION IN THE FIRST ECONOMIC DISTRESS, VV 4–9 An examination of the repetitions of different elements within this unit points at a subdivision into two parallel sections, A and B, as described below: A

A1 (v 4) ‫העת לכם אתם לשבת בבתיכם ספונים והבית הזה חרב‬ Is it a time for you yourselves to live in your paneled houses, while this house lies in ruins? A2 (v 5) ‫ועתה כה אמר ה' צבאות שימו לבבכם על־דרכיכם‬ Now therefore thus says the LORD of hosts: Consider how you have fared A3 (v 6) ‫זרעתם הרבה והבא מעט אכול ואין־לשבעה שתו ואין־לשכרה‬

‫לבוש ואין־לחם לו והמשתכר משתכר אל־צרור נקוב‬ You have sown much, and harvested (=‫ )והבא‬little; you eat, but you never have enough; you drink, but you never have your fill; you clothe yourselves, but no one is warm; and you that earn wages earn wages to put them into a bag with holes.

This inclusio is at the very least as strongly marked as the one between v 4 and 8a, which may seem to support the traditional division. 21 The relation between these two verses will be discussed below. 20

COMPOSITION, RHETORIC AND THEOLOGY

315

B

B2 (v 7) ‫כה אמר ה' צבאות שימו לבבכם על־דרכיכם‬ Thus says the LORD of hosts: Consider how you have fared B4 (v 8) ’‫עלו ההר והבאתם עץ ובנו הבית וארצה־בו ואכבדה אמר ה‬ Go up to the hills and bring wood and build the house, so that I may take pleasure in it and be honored, says the LORD B3 (v 9a) ‫פנה אל־הרבה והנה למעט והבאתם הבית ונפחתי בו‬ You have looked for much, and, lo, it came (=‫ )והבאתם‬to little; and when you brought it home, I blew it away B1 (v 9b) ‫יען מה נאם ה' צבאות יען ביתי אשר־הוא חרב ואתם רצים‬

‫איש לביתו‬

Why? says the LORD of hosts. Because my house lies in ruins, while all of you hurry off to your own houses A1 stands in parallel to B1. A 1 opens the first section (A) and B1 closes the second. Thus A1 and B1 form an envelope structure that frames the whole unit (vv 4–9). The connection between A1 and B1 is communicated by a similar style of opening with rhetorical question (v 4) ‫העת לכם‬, (v 9b) ‫יען מה‬. This connection is reinforced through chiasmus: ‫יכם ְספוּנִ ים‬ ֶ ‫( ַה ֵעת ָל ֶכם ַא ֶתּם ָל ֶשׁ ֶבת ְבּ ָב ֵתּ‬1) ‫( וְ ַה ַבּיִ ת ַהזֶּ ה ָח ֵרב‬2) ‫יתי ֲא ֶשׁר הוּא ָח ֵרב‬ ִ ‫( יַ ַען ֶמה נְ ֻאם ה' ְצ ָבאוֹת יַ ַען ֵבּ‬2) ֹ‫( וְ ַא ֶתּם ָר ִצים ִאישׁ ְל ֵביתו‬1) (1) Is it a time for you yourselves to live in your paneled houses, (2) while this house lies in ruins? (1) Why? says the LORD of hosts. Because my house lies in ruins, (2) while all of you hurry off to your own houses As for A2 and B2, they are almost identical. The addition of the word

‫ ועתה‬in A2 shows that it is a direct continuation of A1, and a conclusion

deriving from it. The absence of this word in B2 establishes that it opens a literary subunit and a new argument. The thematic connection between A3 and B3 is clear. Both relate the contrast between the extensive work of the people and their expectations for a large crop on the one hand, and the small yield, on the other. Despite

316

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

differences in style between A3 and B3, they share three key words, namely ‫ מעט‬,‫הרבה‬, and ‫הבא‬/‫הבאתם‬. The similarities mentioned above highlight two differences between sections A and B: (a) there is no parallel to B4 in A, and (b) the order is different. These differences point at the reason for the duplication of A and B. The function of the repetition is rhetorical. Section A (1:4–6) is designed to correct a mistaken conception of the people. They thought that they should not build the temple as long as the economic situation was so severe. Haggai admonishes them with a rhetorical question: “Is it a time for you yourselves to live in your paneled houses, while this house lies in ruins?” (v 4). The people believe that they should deal first with their basic existence and only afterwards with the major national enterprises, a belief based on a rational and normal view of reality. Haggai, however, points to the deleterious results of their decision, and demands that they consider well their ways: “Thus says the LORD of hosts: Consider how you have fared.” 22 The fact that they work but with little result, they eat and drink but are not satisfied proves that their attitude is wrong. They should conclude that their order of priorities must not be set according to regular rational human thought that ignores God and God’s will. After showing that the logic behind their order of priorities does not yield positive results, Haggai proposes a correct way of thinking in the second half of his message, which again begins with a request to the people to consider their acts. 23 Now in 1:8 the prophet tells them what they must do: “Go up to the hills and bring (=‫ )והבאתם‬wood and build the house (=‫)הבית‬, so that I may take pleasure in it and be honored, says the LORD.” The instruction to go up to the mountain, to a high place, contrasts with their present action—sitting hidden in their homes (1:4). This element is the only element in the second part that does not appear in the first. In this instruction Haggai uses two words which also appear in the description of their current acts, 1:9: “it came (=‫ )והבאתם‬to little; and when you brought it home (=‫)הבית‬, I blew it away.” The people bring the little that they derive from their labor to their houses; 24 as an alternative, Haggai proposes that Koch, “Haggais unreines Volk,” pp. 59–60. Thus it is difficult to maintain that v 7 should be omitted (e.g. BHS) or relocated (e.g. T. Chary, Aggée, Zacharie, Malachie [Sources bibliques, Paris: J. Gabalda et Cie, 1969], p. 20). See Graffy, A Prophet Confronts His People, p. 100. 24 See: Rudolph, Haggai—Sacharja 1–8—Sacharja 9–14—Maleachi, p. 29. Contrary to those who hold that “the house” here refers to the Temple: see P. R. Ack22 23

COMPOSITION, RHETORIC AND THEOLOGY

317

they should rather bring it to the Lord’s house. Then it will be pleasing to the Lord: “so that I may take pleasure in it and be honored” (1:8), 25 as opposed to the present situation: “I blew it away” (1:9). After presenting the prescription for correct conduct, Haggai can then turn to the people’s current behavior. In 1:9 he once more describes the present situation in which the people work and expect much but obtain little. Because they bring the produce to their own houses instead of to the Lord’s house, God disperses this small quantity. The closing verse is also connected to the opening verse. In the opening verse Haggai asked a rhetorical question: “Is it a time for you yourselves to live in your paneled houses?” (v 4). The prophet explicitly answers his rhetorical question using the same language and wording in the closing verse: “Because my house lies in ruins, while all of you hurry off to your own houses” (v 9). The closing and opening verses (1:4 and 1:9b) are related in a more complex way. Above I discussed the chiastic relationship between 1:4 and 1:9b. In 1:4 the homes of the people are mentioned first and then the God’s house, in 1:9 the order is reversed. v 4 Is it a time for you yourselves to [live] sit (‫ )לשבת‬in your paneled houses, while this house lies in ruins? v 9b Because my house lies in ruins, while all of you [hurry] run (‫ )רצים‬off to your own houses The grave offense to God described in 1:9 is shown by presenting of the people’s conduct in a different way in the two verses. In 1:4 the people are passive. They sit in the sheltered houses and neglect the Lord’s house: “you yourselves to [live] sit (‫)לשבת‬.” In 1:9, the people are active. They are running, but to their private affairs: “you [hurry] run (‫)רצים‬.” The text builds on and exaggerates the common contrast between ‫ ישב‬and ‫הלך‬ (“sit—walk”) by replacing ‫ הלך‬with ‫“( רוץ‬walk” with “run”). royd, Exile and Restoration: A Study of Hebrew Thought of the Sixth Century BC (London: SCM Press, 1968), p. 158. F. Peter, “Haggai 1.9,” TZ 2 (1951), 150–121. 25 For the idea that the Temple will be welcomed (‫ )רצה‬by God see, for instance, Isa 56:7. The root ‫ רצה‬is regularly used and with this meaning in the context of the Temple, the priestly garments, and the sacrifices (e.g., Exod 28:38; Lev 22:20, 21; Isa 60:7). The acceptance of the Temple by God leads to glorification (e.g., Hag 1:8; Exod 14:4, 17, 18; Lev 10: 3; Ezek 28:22). The concept of ‫ כבוד‬is further developed later in the book of Haggai (see Hag 2: 3, 7, 9).

318

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

There is also a difference in the designation of God’s house in the two verses. 26 In 1:4 it is called ‫“ הבית הזה‬this house.” This can be interpreted as a casual expression, or an expression with a hint of contempt. 27 In 1:9 ‘house’ bears a possessive suffix. It is ‫“( ביתי‬my [God’s] house”) to emphasize the direct offense to God. 28 The occurrence of the word ‫ אתם‬in ‫ העת לכם אתם‬29 (v 4) results in an unusual and unexpected syntax, but can be easily understood as a literary device meant to strengthen the link between vv 4 and 9, and cf. ‫בבתיכם‬ ‫ אתם לשבת‬with ‫ואתם רצים איש לביתו‬. The word ‫“—בית‬house” is a leitwort in vv 2–9. It appears seven times—verses 2; 4 x2; 8; 9 x3, and refers to the people’s houses and the temple. This play on words is particularly prominent in verses 4 and 9. 1:4. Haggai’s claim that the people prefer to deal with their private affairs rather than build the temple is rhetorically intensified by his use the same word ‫בית‬. The people sit in their houses or run to them, but neglect God’s house THE SECOND ECONOMIC DISTRESS (VV 10–11)

In 1:10–11 Haggai relates and explains the meaning of another economic misfortune, the drought. The function of the natural disasters described in 1:10–11 can be understood in light of the explanation of the rhetorical function of the repetition in 1:4–9, and the meaning of the description of the economic distress. There is a link through a play on words between the drought and the command to build the temple. Haggai describes the disaster of the drought with the words ‫“( וָ ֶא ְק ָרא ח ֶֹרב ַעל ָה ָא ֶרץ‬And I have called for a drought on the land,” v 11). He uses ‫ חרב‬to describe the Temple ‫וְ ַה ַבּיִ ת ַהזֶּ ה ָח ֵרב‬ (“while this house lies in ruins”). The play on words is designed to create a meaning of measure for measure; the people neglected the house that lies

See also Kessler, The Book of Haggai, pp. 112. Verhoef, The Books of Haggai and Malachi, p. 54. 28 This nuance between the verses is one of the main arguments for Steck’s theory that v 4 is meant for those who remained in Judah while v 9 is addressed to those who returned from the Babylonian exile. See Steck, “Zu Haggai 1:2–11,” pp. 370–371. 29 The use of the double pronoun ‫ לכם אתם‬is understood by many as a form of emphasis see e.g.: Meyers and Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, p. 23; Wolff, Haggai, p. 30. 26 27

COMPOSITION, RHETORIC AND THEOLOGY

319

waste (‫( ) ָח ֵרב‬1:4, 9), and as punishment God brought a drought (‫ )ח ֶֹרב‬on the land (vv 10–11). 30 But what is the rhetorical function of the description of the drought following the elaborated reference to the economic difficulty of extensive labor and little produce? The description of the drought here and its interpretation as divine punishment for turning aside from God seems to be based on, principally, Deut 11:17, 14–15: Haggai 1:10–11

‫ על כן עליכם כלאו שמים‬10 ‫מטל והארץ כלאה יבולה‬

‫ ואקרא חרב על הארץ ועל‬11 ‫ההרים ועל הדגן ועל‬ ‫התירוש ועל היצהר ועל‬ ‫אשר תוציא האדמה ועל‬ ‫האדם ועל הבהמה ועל כל‬ ‫יגיע כפים‬

Deuteronomy 11: 17, 14–15

‫ וחרה אף ה’ בכם ועצר‬17 ‫את השמים ולא יהיה מטר‬ ‫והאדמה לא תתן את‬ ‫יבולה‬ ‫ ונתתי מטר ארצכם בעתו‬14–15 ‫יורה ומלקוש ואספת דגנך‬ ‫ונתתי‬...‫ותירושך ויצהרך‬ ‫עשב בשדך לבהמתך‬ ‫ואכלת ושבעת‬

30 See Ibn Ezra; Wolff, Haggai, p. 49; Kessler, The Book of Haggai, p. 139. The principle of measure for measure is very well attested in biblical literature (e.g., Hos 4:6b) and at times plays an important role in narratives. Cf. J. Jacobs, Measure for Measure in the Storytelling Bible (Alon-Shvut: Tvunot, 2006). I. Kalimi, The Reshaping of Ancient Israelite History in Chronicles (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2005), pp. 186–193; Y. Shemesh, “Measure for Measure in the David Stories,” SJOT 17 (2003), pp. 89– 109; J. A. Berman, Narrative Analogy in the Hebrew Bible. Battle Stories and Their Equivalent Non-battle Narratives (VTSup, 103; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2004), pp. 55–77; Y. Shemesh, “Punishment of the Offending Organ in Biblical Literature,” VT 55 (2005), pp. 343–365.

320

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Haggai 1:10–11 10 Therefore upon you the heavens have withheld the dew, and the earth has withheld its fruit. 11 And

I have called for a drought on the land and the hills, on the grain, the wine, the oil, on what the soil produces, on human beings and animals, and on all their labors.

Deut 11: 17, 14–15 then the anger of the LORD will be kindled against you and he will shut up the heavens, so that there will be no rain and the land will yield no fruit; 14 then he will give the rain for your land in its season, the early rain and the later rain, and you will gather in your grain, your wine, and your oil; 15 and he will give grass in your fields for your animals, and you will eat your fill. 17 for

Natural disasters are included among the punishments for transgressions of covenants in the HB and many other ancient near Eastern texts. 31 This association of disaster with covenant transgression may explain the order in which Haggai presented the two economic disasters and its rhetorical function. The main problem faced by Haggai was the feeling of the people that God has abandoned them. The people did not build the temple because they felt that God had rejected them, and that the present enterprise was not divinely sanctioned. 32 Hence, Haggai could not begin explaining their difficult economic reality in terms of the divine covenant theology of Deuteronomy (and other biblical books), because the people thought that their covenantal relation with God was irrelevant at this point in time. Haggai, therefore, began to build his case with the human issue of extensive labor and little produce. After explaining God’s place in the unfolding events, Haggai goes on in 1:10–11 to a realm that does not depend on man, rain. Once the people have realized this abnormal situation derives from a 31 See M. Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972), pp. 116–119. 32 E. Assis, “Haggai: Structure and Meaning,” Bib 87 (2006), pp. 110–124. See also E. Assis, “Why Edom? On the Hostility towards Jacob’s Brother in Prophetic Sources,” VT 55 (2006), pp. 1–20. See also “To Build or Not to Build: A Dispute between Haggai and His People (Hag 1),” ZAW (forthcoming). See also the recent work of F. Patrick, Haggai and the Return of Yahweh (Ph.D. Diss., Duke University, 2006), pp. 84–104.

COMPOSITION, RHETORIC AND THEOLOGY

321

divine response to the failure to build the temple, he can turn the people’s attention to the economic problem of the drought, which involves the covenant between the people and God. Only when Haggai convinced the people that God has not rejected them, he could turn to the theological concept of the covenant, as expressed in Deuteronomy and other Pentateuchal texts.

4. CONCLUSION The present analysis of Haggai 1:4–11 points at a sophisticated structure that differs at some points from those widely accepted. In addition, while some scholars explain the complexity of the passage as a composite process of formation, this paper has shown a well structured sermon designed to influence an adversary audience. The first part of the prophet’s words (1: 4– 6) is meant to demonstrate to the people their erroneous approach. The second part (1: 7–9) intends to show the people the right way. The last part of Haggai’s words (1: 10–11) construes the economic stress in terms of the covenantal relationship between God and Yehud that continues to play a central role, as in the pre-destruction period. 33

33

search.

I would like to acknowledge the support of “Beit Shalom,” Japan, in this re-

REVISITING THE COMPOSITION OF EZRANEHEMIAH: IN CONVERSATION WITH JACOB WRIGHT’S REBUILDING IDENTITY: THE

NEHEMIAH MEMOIR AND ITS EARLIEST

READERS (BZAW, 348; BERLIN: DE GRUYTER, 2004)

GARY N. KNOPPERS, ED.

PENNSYLVANIA STATE UNIVERSITY UNIVERSITY PARK, PA 1. Gary N. Knoppers, Introduction 2. Deirdre N. Fulton, A Response: In Search of Nehemiah’s Reform(s) 3. David M. Carr, A Response 4. Ralph W. Klein, A Response 5. Jacob L. Wright, Looking Back at Rebuilding Identity

323

INTRODUCTION GARY N. KNOPPERS

PENNSYLVANIA STATE UNIVERSITY UNIVERSITY PARK, PA It is a real pleasure, as a guest editor of the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures, to introduce the following series of reviews of Dr. Jacob L. Wright’s recently published book, Rebuilding Identity: The Nehemiah Memoir and its Earliest Readers (BZAW, 348; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004). Dr. Wright is an assistant professor of Hebrew Bible at Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia. A special session of the Chronicles-Ezra-Nehemiah section was held at the national meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in November 2006 (Washington, DC) to honor, discuss, and evaluate Jacob’s monograph, a revised and updated version of his dissertation at the University of Göttingen (written under the direction of Professor Reinhard G. Kratz). The same special session at the 2006 Society of Biblical Literature meeting also featured a series of collegial reviews of Melody D. Knowles’ Centrality Practiced: Jerusalem in the Religious Practices of Yehud and the Diaspora in the Persian Period (Archaeology and Biblical Studies 16; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2006). The reviews of this work (and Professor Knowles’ response) were published in a recent issue of the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures (vol. 7, 2007). Readers are encouraged to read both sets of reviews not only because both books deal with Ezra-Nehemiah, but also because the scholarly discussions about these books provide a useful introduction to current debates about the application of various forms of literary and historical criticism to the biblical text. In the case of Wright’s book, its focus is on the compositional history of the Nehemiah memoir. In examining this complicated issue, Wright also deals with the composition of other parts of EzraNehemiah. Hence, his book contains many observations about the ways in which different sections of the biblical book may relate (or fail to do so) to each other. In the discussion of Wright’s views, some of the contributors (and Wright, as well) revisit the relationship of the composition of EzraNehemiah to that of the Apocryphal (or Deutero-canonical) book of First Esdras (Esdras α). 325

326

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

I wish to extend my thanks both to Professor Tamara Eskenazi of the Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion (Los Angeles) for suggesting this special session and to the chair of the Chronicles-EzraNehemiah section of the Society of Biblical Literature, Professor Christine Mitchell of St. Andrew’s College (Saskatoon, Saskatchewan) for all of her diligent work in helping to organize this special symposium. Special thanks also go to each of the reviewers: Ms. Deirdre N. Fulton, a graduate student at Penn State University (University Park, PA); Professor David M. Carr of Union Theological Seminary (New York); and Professor Ralph W. Klein of the Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago for their willingness to revise and publish their detailed reviews in the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures. Finally, I would like to thank Professor Jacob Wright for his informative and extensive response to the reviewers’ comments. Readers should be aware that the following reviews and authorial response were originally given in an oral setting. As a guest editor, I asked the reviewers to revise their works for publication, but I did not ask them to convert their works into formal articles with extensive documentation, footnotes, and so forth. This means that the responses still retain some of the stylistic characteristics of reviews delivered in an originally oral setting. To be sure, reviewers were allowed to add any footnotes that they deemed helpful for readers to understand the context, force, and setting of their evaluations, but the decision whether to do so was left to the discretion of the individual participants. In closing, it is appropriate to express our many thanks to the editor of the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures, Professor Ehud Ben Zvi of the University of Alberta (Edmonton) for his willingness to create a productive context for pursuing cross-disciplinary conversations among scholars by publishing this collection of reviews, as well as the response to those reviews by Professor Wright. In this context, it is also fitting to express a special word of thanks to the family of Terry Butler. He handled many of the electronic logistics for the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures over the course of the past decade. He was instrumental in ensuring that the rise of the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures went as smoothly as possible. His fine work served the interests of many contributors, who were much less proficient in internet publishing than he was. His wonderful work on behalf of the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures is much appreciated and his untimely death is much to be mourned. This collection of essays is dedicated to his good memory.

A RESPONSE: IN SEARCH OF NEHEMIAH’S REFORM(S) DEIRDRE N. FULTON

THE PENNSYLVANIA STATE UNIVERSITY The composition of Ezra-Nehemiah has become a significant area of research within biblical studies in recent years. Jacob Wright’s monograph, Rebuilding Identity: The Nehemiah-Memoir and its Earliest Readers, is a noteworthy contribution to the ongoing debate regarding the composition of both Ezra and Nehemiah. His work employs literary and source-critical models for the purpose of understanding the process of the construction of Nehemiah. In this review, I will address the methodological framework underlying Wright’s study and outline his reconstruction of the composition of the book of Nehemiah. 1 I will also make some comments on the textual criticism of Ezra-Nehemiah and how the discipline of textual criticism may intersect with the disciplines of source criticism and redaction criticism as practiced by Wright in his recent book. Wright’s detailed examination of Nehemiah develops out of two areas of study: earlier source-critical models for considering the chronological sequence of the composition of the work and literary-critical models for considering the final form of the book. Wright acknowledges the methodological contributions of earlier scholars, such as W. Zimmerli and O. H. Steck 2 to his study of Ezra-Nehemiah (p. 4). His work also follows on the heels of the studies undertaken by his Doktorvater, Reinhard Kratz, most notably Kratz’s important work, The Composition of the Narrative of the Old TesI would like to thank Gary Knoppers, Tamara Eskenazi, and Christine Mitchell for inviting me to participate in the Chronicles-Ezra-Nehemiah session at the 2006 Society of Biblical Literature. 2 See W. Zimmerli, Ezekiel: A Commentary on the Book of the Prophet Ezekiel (2 vols.; Hermeneia. Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1979, 1983); O. H. Steck, Exegese des Alten Testaments: Leitfaden der Methodik—ein Arbeitsbuch für Proseminare, Seminare und Vorlesungen (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1989). 1

327

328

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

tament, 3 which examines the compositional history of Ezra-Nehemiah, as well as those of several other individual historical books found within the Hebrew Bible. Wright begins by examining the need for a literary-critical analysis of the material in question and proceeds to focus on a sourcecritical and redaction-critical analysis of Nehemiah 1–13. In his study, Wright proposes to establish several successive layers in the development of the Nehemiah memoir. Reminiscent of the model of excavating various layers of an archaeological tell, Wright uses archaeological terminology to excavate the history of the text and present his source-critical findings to modern readers. His goal is to uncover and explain the various strata that may be discerned in the complex growth of the biblical text. He concludes that the creation of the Nehemiah memoir was a “process (a creatio continua), rather than a static entity consisting of sources that have been shaped and molded according to the providential plan of one (or two) editor(s). The literary process in Ezra-Neh was initiated by the composition of Nehemiah’s report and continued by generations of active readers” (p. 330). In some older models of source criticism, the book of Nehemiah was thought to contain many different sources that were strung together, placed in sequence, and eventually edited by one or more writers/redactors. In Wright’s investigation, the source—critical history of Nehemiah is a much more complicated process. Individual layers in the history of the composition of the book themselves became sources that subsequent writers (re)interpreted and (re)edited. Moreover, such later writers added their own material to the layers of material contributed by earlier writers. Each of these writers addressed the issue of identity by focusing on a certain issue, such as the rebuilding of Jerusalem’s wall, the rebuilding of the temple, overcoming local opposition, the restoration of Judah, and so on. Hence, Wright argues that through several intentional additions to the Nehemiah memoir, the text developed and grew substantially over a long period of time. The literary process of composition, interpretation, and redaction, reinterpretation, re-editing, and further composition began in the Persian period and continued well into the Hellenistic period. Wright’s book is divided into four sections: I. In Susa (pp. 7–66); 3 R. G. Kratz, The Composition of the Narrative of the Old Testament (London: T & T Clark, 2005), which is John Bowden’s translation of R. G. Kratz, Die Komposition der erzählenden Bücher des Alten Testaments: Grundwissen der Bibelkritik. (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000).

REVISITING THE COMPOSITION

329

II. From Susa to Jerusalem (pp. 67–188); III. Additional Reforms during the Work on the Wall (pp. 189–269); IV. The Dedication of the Wall and the Formation of a New Climax (pp. 271–339). Within these four sections, Wright lays out the themes found in Nehemiah and examines individual texts, placing them into both the topical context and the chronological sequence in which they were composed. To assist the reader in understanding his argument, Wright provides a summary chart that outlines his proposed seven major layers of the composition of Nehemiah. In his source-critical and compositional analysis, Wright envisions three significant redactional periods. Although this summary is helpful for understanding how Wright envisions the composition of Nehemiah, it should be noted that throughout the book Wright presents a more complex process of the composition of Nehemiah than his final summary details. That is, there are additions to layers, as well as several texts that by Wright’s own admission do not fit neatly within the several strata that he reconstructs. In the course of his study, Wright attempts to piece together the various intentions that motivated the additions to the original composition of Nehemiah (reflected in the first stratum). The first compositional layer of Nehemiah, which is fairly brief, begins with the first person account of Nehemiah’s request to Artaxerxes and consists of Nehemiah’s wall-building account found in several verses (and parts thereof) in chapters 1–2, as well as in 3:38, 6:15. Wright employs a form-critical analysis, when examining the contours of the original building report. The work done investigating the contours of this original building report is perhaps the most substantive form-critical analysis found in the monograph. Wright’s second stratum is combined with the first-person account from stratum 1, as well as with new material comprising the register of builders. His second stratum ties together the record of builders present in 3:1–32 and other minor additions added to chapter 2. With the addition of this pro-Priestly material, the focus of rebuilding shifts away from the walls, which was the concern of the original Nehemiah material, and turns to the temple. In Wright’s third stage of composition, other texts are added to assert “the positive implications of the building project by way of the negative reactions of the enemy; characterized by the use of the ‫שמע‬-formula” (p. 340). This material may be found in several scattered verses, particularly in chapters 2–6. In stratum 4, specific texts found in chapters 2, 5, and 6 refer to Nehemiah as governor. These materials were inserted into the story to depict

330

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Nehemiah as the great builder of Jerusalem. The writer of this stage in the growth of the Nehemiah memoir employed the motif of the “relentless builder,” for which Wright finds extra-biblical parallels in several building inscriptions in the ancient Near East (e.g., Assyrian texts and NeoBabylonian texts involving Nebuchadnezzar I and Nabonidus) that reflect similar themes (p. 137). With the addition of Nehemiah 5, the attention of the memoir shifts away from simply being a building report to being a report on Judah’s restoration. Hence, in stratum 5 one finds that the Nehemiah memoir has been augmented yet again. The focus is now on “extramural reforms,” characterized by the use of the ‫ זכרה‬prayers. In this phase, Wright argues that the account stops focusing on building and turns into a story of the restoration of Yehud. Stratum 6 of Wright’s proposed reconstruction contains additions that relate to the (re)population and dedication of the city. Incidentally, these texts presuppose, in the author’s reconstruction, the addition of Ezra 1–6 to the expanded text. Finally, Wright completes his analysis of the primary layers of Nehemiah with his final (seventh) stratum, which draws attention to the struggle between the temple and the Torah (p. 340). In reconstructing each of these layers, Wright considers evidence from the book of Ezra and whether material in Ezra comes before, simultaneous with, or after layers in Nehemiah. Such cross-references to the composition of Ezra aid the reader in clarifying how Wright views the overall compositional process leading to the emergence of the entire Ezra-Nehemiah corpus. Rebuilding Identity is a carefully-written and meticulous study. Wright carefully surveys where each text should be placed, paying close attention to patterns, parallels, and specific phrases in order to organize the material into a larger coherent model, which reflects his analysis of the composition of Nehemiah. There are, however, certain passages that do not align with Wright’s broad interpretation of the context of Ezra-Nehemiah. Consequently, these verses do not appear to be included in any of his seven primary layers. For example, the reader is left wondering where he places large sections of material, such as Neh 11:4–25, within his greater literary scheme. Wright notes that the composition(s) of the lists in 11:3–12:26, in particular, are difficult to place in a chronological context, but he does argue that 12:1– 26 was inserted into stratum 7. This brings up the larger issue of textual criticism and how text-critical analysis may or may not relate to source-critical and redaction-critical methods. Since there are clear discrepancies present in the LXX and MT versions of Neh 11:12–12:9, it would be helpful to address these textual discrepancies and examine how they fit (or do not fit) into Wright’s broader

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reconstruction. Additionally, a text-critical analysis of Neh 3:34–37, found in Wright’s stratum 3, might also benefit his overall study. This stratum consists of several insertions that present a positive picture of Nehemiah’s building project (including 3:34–37). Wright comments that 3:34–37b is particularly problematic, because it contains material with different agendas. In 3:34a, Sanballat, “spoke before his brethren and the host of Samaria,” but in 3:37b the (MT) text states, “they provoked you to anger in the presence of the builders” and thus provides a competing context for Sanballat’s antagonistic behavior (p. 117). Wright believes that verse 34a is a later gloss. It is important to note, however, that verse 37b is not present in the LXX, thereby bringing to the fore the question of his conclusion that verse 37b is older than verse 34a. In one context, Wright does acknowledge that there is MT material lacking in the LXX. He observes that 3:38 is not present in the LXX, but adds that this is because of inter-textual discrepancies. The LXX translator does not “transmit 3:38,” because of the “confusion created by the composition of 4:1–6:14” (p. 122). If Wright’s idea that the LXX writer omitted material in order to avoid contradictions, then perhaps he would also see a similar factor at work in why (MT) 3:37b does not appear in the LXX. 4 In addressing differences among the various witnesses to the biblical text, it should be noted that most text-critical differences between the MT and the LXX arise from accidents in the transmission of the text, such as haplography, parablepsis, dittography, transposition (metathesis), and so on. 5 This is not to rule out the possibility of a tendentious addition here and there in either the tradition represented by MT or the tradition represented by the LXX. Tendentious omissions are, however, relatively rare. My point is that an analysis of the text-critical issues that are present in LXX and MT Nehemiah would help elucidate (and perhaps complicate) certain aspects of Wright’s proposal for a long history in the composition of Nehemiah. Traditionally, textual criticism has been seen as foundational to other kinds of literary criticism (source criticism, redaction criticism, historical criticism, form criticism, etc.). The establishment of a text (earliest and best) from several different witnesses is pivotal to analyzing the literary-critical dimen4 One of his comments on the text in question on p. 117 (n. 86) points in this direction. 5 E. Tov, The Text-critical Use of the Septuagint in Biblical Research (Jerusalem Biblical Studies, 3; Jerusalem: Simor. 1981) and idem, Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible (2nd rev. ed. Assen: Van Gorcum, 2001).

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sions of such a text. In some cases (e.g., MT Jeremiah, LXX Jeremiah, 4QJera and 4QJerb), textual criticism proves also to be of enormous help in reconstructing the redactional history of a given biblical book. Thus, such a meticulous and systematic treatment of the literary-critical issues, as Wright has provided readers, would benefit by including a discussion of the textcritical differences between the LXX and the MT. There is another way in which text-critical issues may come into play in discussing the source criticism and redaction criticism of Ezra-Nehemiah. Wright sees the compositional process of the Nehemiah memoir as extending well into the Hellenistic epoch. This raises the question of how the compositional history of Ezra-Nehemiah may relate to the translation of this work (or, at least, parts thereof) into two different works in the Septuagint (Esdras A [a.k.a. 1 Esdras] and Esdras B [a.k.a. LXX Ezra-Nehemiah). Given some of the proposed dates, for example, the second century B.C.E. dating of Nehemiah 12:1–26 (p. 314), the reader is left to wonder how such proposals mesh with the evidence for the range of dates traditionally assigned to the LXX translations of Ezra-Nehemiah? Since Wright dates much of the overall composition of Nehemiah to the Hellenistic period, it would be beneficial to see a more thorough discussion of how the proposed dates for the composition of the several layers in the text represented by MT Nehemiah relate to the translations of LXX Ezra-Nehemiah (Esdras B) and 1 Esdras (Esdras A). In the work of past biblical scholars, the composition of LXX EzraNehemiah and 1 Esdras have been much debated. Some commentators, such as Batten, 6 date the translation of Ezra-Nehemiah to the Hellenistic period. Batten also contends that the Vorlage of 1 Esdras actually represents the earlier of the two texts. 7 In his commentary, Myers also argues at length for the importance of the witness of 1 Esdras (which he dates to some time in the second century B.C.E.), but with more caution than did Batten before him. 8 Recently, this general view has been revisited at length by Böhler not only with respect to the dates of the two LXX translations, but also

6 L. W. Batten, The Books of Ezra and Nehemiah (ICC, 12; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1913). 7 See Batten, Books of Ezra and Nehemiah, pp. 6–14. 8 J. M. Myers, I & II Esdras (AB, 42; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1974), pp. 5–16.

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with respect to the relevance of 1 Esdras for understanding the compositional history of Ezra-Nehemiah. 9 There are, of course, other opinions. Blenkinsopp takes a different approach. 10 He contends that the two LXX versions are independent from one another and dates 1 Esdras to the late 2nd-1st centuries B.C.E. 11 In contrast to Böhler, Talshir maintains that 1 Esdras is a compilation based on the Hebrew text underlying the MT of Chronicles-Ezra-Nehemiah. Nevertheless, she thinks that the text was translated in the late-third or early second century B.C.E. 12 Clearly Wright does not have to resolve all of these issues. But it would be helpful if he discussed them and situated his own proposal in the context of the longstanding debate about the dates and purposes of the two LXX translations. In one short excursus in his book (pp. 322–24), Wright does discuss the work of Böhler on 1 Esdras. Wright contends (in contradistinction to Böhler) that the scattered references found in 1 Esdras (but not in Ezra) to the rebuilding of Jerusalem are all deliberate additions made by the author of 1 Esdras to compensate for the fact that he has not included most of the Nehemiah material within his own work. This is a creative proposal, but it is largely asserted and not argued. It needs to be demonstrated on a case-by-case basis with reference to each of the texts in question. Moreover, does Wright think that 1 Esdras was authored as a Greek composition or does he think that there was a Hebrew/Aramaic Vorlage that was subsequently translated into Greek? Again, the answer to this question may bear on the larger issue of dating the final stages in the composition of the Nehemiah memoir well into the Hellenistic period. Since the compositional process of the last stages in the Hebrew (MT) text may be intimately connected to the dates one might attribute to the formation of the 1 Esdras translation of the LXX, it would be useful for Wright to provide a detailed discussion outlining his position on these important issues. Rebuilding Identity is an admirable and noteworthy contribution to the field of source and redaction-critical studies, making the reader more acutely aware of the complexity of the development of the text of Nehemiah. Wright’s work is especially helpful in drawing attention to seams within the larger work. By pointing out areas where there are discrepancies D. Böhler, Heilige Stadt. J. Blenkinsopp, Ezra-Nehemiah (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1988). 11 Blenkinsopp, Ezra-Nehemiah, p. 70. 12 Z. Talshir, I Esdras, p. 261. 9

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in flow and content, he helps illuminate the compositional, albeit complex, history of Nehemiah. His seven-strata model of the Nehemiah memoir offers one approach to explaining these tensions. Wright’s argument that “rebuilding identity” took place “through active reading,” is clearly outlined in his book (p. 339). Consequently, his study allows the modern scholar to be an active reader of Wright’s own work. Even if the reader disagrees with Wright’s highly-complicated redactional reconstruction, there is much that can be learned from his individual exegetical observations. This commendable study calls attention to the ongoing debate about the composition of Ezra-Nehemiah which, as Wright persuasively argues, was more of a complex process than was previously recognized.

A RESPONSE DAVID M. CARR

UNION THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY IN NEW YORK I was asked to reflect on Wright’s attempt in this book to move from a source/compiler model for the growth of texts, which is often presupposed in earlier research, to an emphasis upon the gradual process of the book's formation—what he calls “creatio continua.” The essay that follows starts with general comments about Wright’s Rebuilding Identity and then focuses on a comparison and contrast of Wright’s approach to textual growth on the one hand and that advocated most recently by Dieter Böhler on the other. From the start, Wright’s Rebuilding Identity shows a remarkable combination of intense diachronic interest with an obvious feel for the shape and movement of texts. For example, in chapter 1 Wright puts together a multidimensional argument that the prayer in Neh 1:5–11 postdates the description of continuous praying in Neh 1:4. Not only does this argument include various observations about the verses in Nehemiah itself, but a good brief survey of cases where we have manuscript documentation of prayers being added to earlier versions. 1 Yet in the same chapter Wright sensitively discusses how the chiastically structured prayer in Neh 1:5–11, “consciously reinterprets both its immediate context and the book as a whole in new theological categories.” 2 Though the prayer, according to Wright, is based on Solomon’s temple dedication prayer in 1 Kings 8, it downplays the temple and uplifts the commands of the Torah, much like later chapters in Nehemiah 9–10 with which this prayer at the outset of Nehemiah is linked. There are other examples of how Wright joins a focus on the diachronic with focus on the synchronic. In chapter two he devotes attention Jacob Wright, Rebuilding Identity: The Nehemiah Memoir and Its Earliest Readers (BZAW, 348; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004), pp. 10–14. 2 Wright, Rebuilding Identity, pp. 14. 1

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both a) to how the quoted Aramaic letters in Ezra 4 are later additions to the story and b) how their addition was made to accentuate anti-foreign and other themes implicit in the first chapters of Nehemiah. 3 Or, to take just one more general example: chapter 7 of the book begins with a beautiful synchronic survey on the “unity” of Nehemiah 1, before Wright analyzes it into at least five layers and a series of glosses. 4 Clearly, Wright has moved far beyond a stage in scholarship that once was prevalent, in which one either thought a Biblical passage to be an artful whole or one thought that it was formed over time by clumsy redactors. For Wright, the Ezra-Nehemiah corpus was shaped gradually over time by artful narrators, authors who reshaped what came before them through careful additions to the preceding material and the creation of major new sections that set older material in a new context. The books of Ezra-Nehemiah as a whole are the product of the addition of at least six layers of material, culminating in the extension backward of a multi-layered Nehemiah narrative with successive portions of the Ezra chapters that progressively privileged the temple and priestly leadership of Ezra over the wall and lay leadership of Nehemiah. This, needless to say, is a big idea, one that contrasts sharply with many other construals of the growth of the Ezra-Nehemiah tradition. The majority of past reconstructions have posited a fundamental duality at the outset of the Ezra-Nehemiah tradition: an originally separate Ezra tradition of some kind alongside an originally separate Nehemiah memoir. Already in 1783 Michaelis had concluded on the basis of the lack of overlap of Ezra and Nehemiah that two histories—one about Ezra and one about Nehemiah—had been combined in the book. This approach, in far more refined form, is the one advocated in two other major publications of recent years on Ezra-Nehemiah, Böhler’s Die heilige Stadt (1997) and Pakkala’s Ezra the Scribe (2004) along with a more recent article published in 2006. 5 And it is this kind of separate source model that Wright is offering an alternative to in Rebuilding Identity (2004). Wright, Rebuilding Identity, pp. 35–43. Wright, Rebuilding Identity, pp. 129–30. 5 Dieter Böhler, Die Heilige Stadt in Esdras α und Esra-Nehemia: Zwei Konzeptionen der Wiederherstellung Israels (OBO, 158; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1997); Juha Pakkala, Ezra the Scribe: The Development of Ezra 7–10 and Nehemiah 8 (BZAW, 347; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004); idem, “The Original Independence of the Ezra Story in Ezra 7–10 and Nehemiah 8,” BN 129 (2006), pp. 17–24. 3 4

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At this point it is instructive to look at the major points of this older approach that Wright seeks to replace. Probably the most comprehensive recent presentation of this approach is Dieter Böhler’s 1997 book, Die Heilige Stadt. Though it promotes a version of an older hypothesis, this book is distinguished in the extent to which it uses text-critical evidence from the Esdras α tradition to support Michaelis’s older two-source theory. 6 On the basis of a survey of major variants between Esdras α and the MT Ezra tradition, Böhler argues that the version of the Ezra tradition found in the MT has been systematically revised to prepare for the account of Nehemiah rebuilding Jerusalem and its wall in Nehemiah 1–7 and his resolution of the divorce problem in Nehemiah 9–13. “In the beginning,” so Böhler, was a Hebrew Ezra tradition much like the Vorlage of Esdras α minus the secondary addition of the story of the three bodyguards seen in Esdras α 3:1–5:6, an addition which Böhler maintains is secondary to 1 Esdras and the Hebrew tradition it reflects. This early Hebrew Vorlage to the Esdras α tradition speaks not just of Jerusalem as a place, but specifically of the rebuilding of Zion, the temple forecourt, city gates, marketplaces, etc. Böhler shows that these references to a built Jerusalem before Nehemiah are missing in the MT version of Ezra. Instead, there are only general mentions of Jerusalem as a place, thus leaving space in the narrative for Nehemiah to oversee the rebuilding in Jerusalem. So also, where the Esdras α tradition has Ezra as the one, who effects divorces of foreign women, the same reference in MT Ezra is obscured and Nehemiah becomes the one who leads the community in divorcing foreign women. Overall, so Böhler, the conflator of the Ezra and Nehemiah tradition revised an early, separate form of the Ezra tradition so that there was room for Nehemiah’s city-building work. He even moved the correspondence with Artaxerxes from the outset of this early Ezra tradition—where it temporarily halted the Temple rebuilding before Zerubbabel’s return—so that it was relocated after the return of Zerubbabel. This Artaxerxes correspondence is the main instance in the Ezra-Esdras tradition to speak of a halt to Here I will not attempt to cite specific pages for the overview of Böhler. His position can be found first and foremost in Böhler, Heilige Stadt. An English language summary is published as “On the Relationship Between Textual and Literary Criticism: The Two Recensions of the Book of Ezra: Ezra-Neh (MT) and 1 Esdras (LXX),” in The Earliest Text of the Hebrew Bible (ed. Adrian Schenker; SBLSCS, 52; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), pp. 35–50. 6

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city construction. Through relocating this episode later in the Ezra tradition, the author of Ezra-Nehemiah could explain why the city was not rebuilt until the time of Nehemiah. Nevertheless, Böhler argues that this relocation of the Artaxerxes correspondence in Ezra-Nehemiah created certain problems. In the Esdras α tradition, the roles of Sheshbazzar and Zerubbabel in temple building are distinct, and the focus on city rebuilding in the Artaxerxes correspondence is but a pretext for the stoppage of temple rebuilding. This is made clear in the notice that follows the correspondence, in which the effect of the correspondence is the ending of the rebuilding of the temple, not the city as one would expect from the correspondence (1 Esdras 2:26 [ET 2:30]; Ezra 4:24). Overall, the sequence of Esdras α starts with Sheshbazzar’s return under Cyrus with temple implements, and it is Sheshbazzar who starts rebuilding the temple foundations as per Cyrus’s order. The opponents of this rebuilding deviously enlist Artaxerxes’ support in stopping the temple rebuilding through a letter framing it as an issue of city rebuilding (1 Esdras 2:12–26 [ET 2:16–30]). Soon Zerubbabel returns (1 Esdras 5:7), resumes the work of laying the temple foundation (1 Esdras 5:57), and completes the temple rebuilding, eventually overcoming the objections of opponents (1 Esdras 5:66–71 [ET 5:66–73]) through the prophetic help of Haggai and Zechariah and the political help of a decree from Darius (1 Esdras 6:1–7:4). Toward the end of the narrative, the support of all three Persian kings for temple rebuilding is noted (1 Esdras 7:4//6:14), including even Artaxerxes who had only been tricked into delaying the temple rebuilding through a ruse focused on city rebuilding. In MT Ezra, Sheshbazzar and Zerubbabel’s once distinct roles are fused, Zerubbabel’s career now spans the time from Cyrus to Darius, and the Artaxerxes correspondence is only partially adapted to serve a new purpose of halting city rebuilding until the time of Nehemiah. Sheshbazzar returns with temple implements, then Zerubbabel returns and builds the altar only to have his building of the temple interrupted by the correspondence with Artaxerxes. Ultimately, in MT Ezra the Artaxerxes correspondence only stops the city building (once just the pretext for stopping temple building), since Darius’s edict allows Zerubbabel to complete the temple. Nevertheless, despite this reinterpretation, the MT Ezra tradition preserves the older conclusion to the Artaxerxes correspondence that focuses exclusively on the end of temple not city rebuilding (Ezra 4:24; cf. 1 Esdras 2:30). It preserves the older summary which depicts Artaxerxes not as an actual opponent of temple rebuilding (so 6:14), but as one of its supporters (7:4). And it transforms what once was a precise retrospective summary of two phases of

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opposition to temple rebuilding (5:69–70 [ET 5:72–73]). In Ezra 4:4–5 this retrospective blurs into a more general account of opposition to such rebuilding, both summarizing the just-narrated opposition to Zerubbabel’s rebuilding (Ezra 4:4) and looking ahead to an as-yet-unnarrated account of use of Persian power to hinder rebuilding (Ezra 4:5). Thus the redactor who rearranged these and other texts modified them somewhat to fit their new contexts, eliminated elements of the Ezra tradition that prematurely anticipated the work of Nehemiah, and radically re-positioned a correspondence with Artaxerxes that used city construction as a pretext for opposing temple construction so that the correspondence now explains the end of city construction in actuality. Such are some of Böhler’s text-critically supported, text-internal arguments for the primacy of the Esdras α version of the Ezra tradition. Since the time of Michaelis, scholars have added to these arguments some external considerations, particularly the apparent witness of book XI of Josephus’s Antiquities (159–183) to separate forms of both the Ezra and Nehemiah traditions, a Nehemiah memoir and a separate Ezra tradition like 1 Esdras. To this, Böhler and some others would add the witness of Ben Sira’s praise of the fathers, which fairly comprehensively reviews biblical figures, including Nehemiah (Ben Sira 49:13) but strikingly omits any mention of the major figure of Ezra. Though an argument from silence, this can be taken as an indication that Ben Sira had a form of the Nehemiah tradition which had not yet had the Ezra traditions added onto it. According to Böhler, the redactor who conflated these traditions separated their conclusions from their beginning, first giving the bulk of the Ezra tradition, then the bulk of the Nehemiah memoir in Neh 1:1–7:5. Moreover, this redactor effected a substantial change in how the Torah reading of the Ezra tradition was conceived. In the older, independent Ezra tradition, the Torah reading in the separate Ezra tradition was immediately preceded by a list of those who divorced (Ezra 10:19–44//1 Esdras 9:17– 36 [ET 9:16–36]) along with a notice that—once free of foreign wives—the priests and Levites settled in Jerusalem and environs while the others Israelites were in their settlements (1 Esdras 9:37a). This, so Böhler, was part of a broader pattern in 1 Esdras where the returnees separate from foreigners, a list is given of those separating—and then the temple and Torah are instituted. Böhler argues that the conflator of the Ezra and Nehemiah traditions kept the list of divorcees that once stood right before the Torah reading but eliminated the settlement notice at the end of the divorce list, added the bulk of the Nehemiah memoir (Neh 1:1–7:5) and then added the list of returnees taken from Ezra 2 (//1 Esdras 5:7–45; now in Neh 7:6–71 [ET

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7:6–7:72]). Only at this point did the redactor include a settlement notice, now one parallel to the one that concluded the Ezra 2 list (Neh 7:72 [ET 7:73a]). As a result, in this newly created Ezra-Nehemiah corpus, both the temple building and the Torah reading are preceded by a highly similar block of materials: list of returnees, settlement and gathering in the seventh month. This repositioned climax to the old Ezra tradition, this Torah reading after city rebuilding, now sets the stage for a swathe of new, special redactional material about Sukkoth and Nehemiah’s confession in the rest of Nehemiah 9 and 10, along with Nehemiah’s reforms in Nehemiah 11–13. This new redactional material is distinguished from the older Ezra and Nehemiah material by its more intense focus on Torah obedience, its hostility toward foreign rulers, and its argument that the concrete political protection from foreigners provided by Nehemiah’s measures was essential to Torah obedience. As one might expect, Böhler’s arguments have not been accepted by all, though he receives guarded approval in Grätz’s recent monograph on Artaxerxes edict and an inversive acceptance by Jacob Wright that I will discuss in a moment. 7 The most vigorous challenge to Böhler’s approach so far is undoubtedly Zippora Talshir’s article-length review of his book in Biblica, in which she maintains, following another older thesis (Trendelenburg in 1795), that the distinctive features of the 1 Esdras tradition are mostly explained by understanding the work as an adaptation of traditions from the Chronistic History so that they can frame the large interpolation of the story of the three bodyguards. 8 Thus, Talshir sees no evidence that the conclusion of the Artaxerxes correspondence in Ezra 4:24 (//1 Esdras 2:26 [ET 2:30]) is a subtle note about how temple building stopped as a result of a correspondence with Artaxerxes focused on the city. Rather the focus on the temple in this verse comes from the fact that it rounds out the story of the correspondence with Artaxerxes with a resumptive repetition of the summary of opposition to temple building in Ezra 4:4–5. If Böhler’s acceptance of the 1 Esdras sequence is correct, why, she asks, would Artax7 For Grätz, see Sebastian Grätz, Das Edikt des Artaxerxes: Eine Untersuchung zum religionspolitischen und historischen Umfeld von Esra 7, 12–26 (BZAW, 337; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004), pp. 5–34. 8 Zippora Talshir, “Ezra-Nehemiah and First Esdras: Diagnosis of a Relationship Between Two Recensions,” Bib 81 (2000), pp. 566–73. This direct response to Böhler builds on her extensive work she had earlier carried out on the textual history of 1 Esdras and Ezra-Nehemiah, in particular, in Z. Talshir, I Esdras: From Origin to Translation (SBLSCS, 47; Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 1999).

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erxes be able to interrupt the first steps of a rebuilding process that started almost a century earlier by Sheshbazzar under Cyrus. Finally, in addition to some issues with Böhler’s positive assessment of certain variants in 1 Esdras, Talshir takes the settlement notices in Neh 7:72 and 1 Esd 9:36 as decisive evidence that the author of 1 Esdras had a form of Ezra-Nehemiah before him. “What possible connection,” she asks, “can there be between the priests, Levites and Israelites settling . . . and the separation from foreign wives?” 9 She suggests the Ezra-Nehemiah tradition was first and already had this list of returnees and settlement as a natural part of the conclusion to the Nehemiah rebuilding narrative. The incongruous link of the divorce list and the settlement found in 1 Esdras was created by the author of the early Esdras tradition. When this author eliminated the Nehemiah memoir and joined the Torah reading story in Nehemiah 8 to the end of the other Ezra traditions, the author accidentally added the end of Nehemiah 7 as well. Other critics have added other objections, such as Pakkala’s note that 1 Esdras 9:55 (Neh 8:12)—“and they came together”—is a strange ending to an originally independent text. 10 Or there are Hanhart’s arguments about how the book of 1 Esdras simplifies the chronological system preserved in Ezra-Nehemiah. 11 And there are various responses that could be made to these objections. But let me return now to Wright, both his response to Böhler’s model and a comparison of their two methodologies. In contrast to Grätz’s tentative acceptance of Böhler’s model and Pakkala and Talshir’s rejection of it, Wright proposes a distinctively different course. He agrees with Böhler that many textual differences between 1 Esdras and Ezra-Nehemiah are on the level of comprehensive redaction, something confirmed, most recently by the way, by David Marcus’s edition of Ezra-Nehemiah in the new BHQ—Quinta edition. 12 Where Wright disagrees with Böhler is in what kind of redaction is testified to. As Wright puts it in a note toward the outset of his discussion, “The weightiest argu-

Talshir, “Diagnosis,” p. 571. Pakkala, Ezra the Scribe, 19. 11 This is related particularly to the correspondence in 1 Esdras 2:15–25//Ezra 4:7–24, Robert Hanhart, Text und Textgeschichte des 1. Esrabuches (Mitteilungen des Septuaginta-Unternehmens, 12; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1974), p. 12. 12 David Marcus, Ezra and Nehemiah: Quinta Edition (Biblica Hebraica Quinta, 20; Stuttgart: German Bible Society, 2006). 9

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ment against Böhler’s conclusions is that the development of EzraNeh[emiah] takes its point of departure from Nehemiah’s account . . . .” 13 Throughout the rest of the book, Wright argues in various contexts for a dependence of the Ezra tradition on the Nehemiah tradition. The Artaxerxes correspondence in Ezra 4, so Wright, is an extension backward of the motif of “seeking and finding” seen already in earlier parts of the EzraNehemiah tradition. This extension serves to accentuate the origins of hostility to rebuilding among foreigners. 14 Similarly, though even though the scholarly consensus and Wright’s own sensitive analysis of Ezra 7–8 would suggest that this description of Persian sponsorship of Ezra would predate similar descriptions of Persian sponsorship in Nehemiah 2, Wright believes that the Nehemiah 2 version is earlier because of its lack of closer parallels with Ezra 7–8 and lack of mention of Ezra. 15 Wright presents a more complex view of dependence in the case of Ezra and Nehemiah’s opposition to foreign marriage in Ezra 9–10 and Nehemiah 13:23–27. Whereas the echo of Deut 7:3b in Neh 13:23–25 predates an expanded version of this echo of Deut 7:3b in Ezra 9, the additions about Solomon in Neh 13:26–27 represent still later layers than that seen in Ezra 9. 16 Finally, toward the conclusion of his book, Wright comes full circle back to Ezra 4. This time he argues that the report of opposition to temple building by “adversaries of Judah and Benjamin” in Ezra 4:1–5 postdates and provides a new context for the report of opposition to wall building by Sanballat, Tobiah and Geshem in Neh 2:19–20, while also drawing on other parts of Nehemiah that mention bribing of counselors (Neh 6:12–13) and frustrating plans (Neh 4:9). By this point Wright appears less concerned to establish direction of dependence. Instead, he builds a list of possible indicators of genetic relationship and then shows how the Ezra passage can be read as an adaptive inversion and recontextualization of its earlier counterparts in the Nehemiah tradition. 17 This then leads to Wright’s own inversion of Böhler’s proposal. Where Böhler interprets many variants between 1 Esdras and Ezra-Nehemiah as evidence for a comprehensive revision of an early Esdras tradition through its conflation with the Nehemiah memoir, Wright interprets these variants Wright, Rebuilding Identity, p. 39, note 34. Wright, Rebuilding Identity, p. 39–43. 15 Wright, Rebuilding Identity, 86–93. 16 Wright, Rebuilding Identity, 243–57. 17 Wright, Rebuilding Identity, 322–24. 13 14

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as signs of a comprehensive redaction by the author of proto-Esdras to eliminate Nehemiah from the Ezra-Nehemiah tradition. He notes that Nehemiah appears to have had a certain currency in the early second century as reflected in Ben Sira and the larger Ezra-Nehemiah tradition, but points out that Nehemiah is a less prominent a figure in later periods. Indeed, he is almost totally eclipsed by Ezra in later Jewish and Christian interpretation. Wright sees signs of the beginning of this occlusion of Nehemiah in 2 Maccabees 1–2, in which Nehemiah’s work is already being subsumed to the construction of the temple. He takes this as a parallel to a broader redactional process seen in the formation of the Ezra-Nehemiah tradition, in which the Nehemiah tradition is expanded backward through ever increasing emphasis on Torah and Temple in the Ezra materials, before Nehemiah is completely eliminated in the 1 Esdras version. Thus in the writings of Böhler, Talshir, and Wright, we are dealing with fundamentally different conceptualizations of the growth of the Ezra tradition, with the differences based somewhat on the privileging of different evidence and somewhat on radically different interpretations of the same evidence. As mentioned, Böhler joins with many earlier scholars in seeing a fundamental duality at the outset of the Ezra-Nehemiah tradition, a duality attested to in the manuscript evidence for the books, the lack of overlap of the two figures, and in the apparent separation of traditions about Nehemiah and Ezra in Ben Sira and particularly Josephus. In contrast, Talshir sees many of the most important variants between 1 Esdras and Ezra-Nehemiah as being explained by the insertion of the story of the three guards into the Esdras tradition and a concomitant replacement of the figure of Nehemiah with the figure of Zerubbabel. Wright poses a fundamental unity at the outset of the Ezra-Nehemiah tradition: a unity starting with Nehemiah’s autobiographical building account and a series of expansions of it, a unity eventually encompassing the expansion backward of the Nehemiah account through the addition of successive layers of the Ezra tradition, and a unity that eventually evolves, in certain contexts, toward a unitary focus on Ezra at the expense of Nehemiah. I will not presume here to offer a final resolution, but I will make some points. First, much of Wright’s argument depends on establishing both a genetic relationship between texts and a particular direction of dependence between them. At times, however, it seems he assumes what he is aiming to show. For example, the emphasis on archival searching across different parts of the Ezra-Nehemiah tradition has been interpreted by others, such as Crüsemann, not as a sign of genetic dependence of parts of that tradition on each other, but as a sign of especially intensified emphasis on

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textual authority in the Persian period. Despite Wright’s work both in this book and in an article soon to be published on this motif in EzraNehemiah, I do not see clear evidence for a genetic relationship of Ezra 4 with the Nehemiah tradition. So also, though there are vague parallels between depiction of Persian sponsorship of Ezra and Nehemiah, I do not see the level of sustained verbal similarity that would establish genetic textual dependence between these texts either. Perhaps the best case for a closer relationship between Ezra and Nehemiah texts has to do with the statements against foreign marriage in Ezra’s confession (Ezra 9:12) and Nehemiah’s report of purifying the priesthood (Neh 13:25). Nevertheless, it is striking to me that this one point where one sees a sustained verbatim parallel between Ezra and Nehemiah traditions is in the citation and similar adaptation of a pre-existing text, Deut 7:3. Indeed, if the book of Ezra postdates and was written as an expansion backward of Nehemiah, it is surprising that there are not far more such verbal parallels between them, indeed multiple and sustained parallels that are not related to similar dependence on pre-existing materials. This particular parallel in the prohibition of foreign marriage might reflect a dependence of the Ezra tradition on the Nehemiah tradition in some way, or it might reflect the circulation of this adaptation of Deut 7:3 in some form outside the books of Ezra and Nehemiah. In either case, one sometimes gets the impression from literary critical treatments of this kind that they presuppose a model in which biblical authors worked in a closed literary system made up exclusively of texts that we know, and they could only gain material for their later productions by borrowing and adapting—often quite freely— formulations embedded in other texts now in the Bible. Certainly, I am among the first to think that much such adaptation did occur, and I have presented models recently for how that might have happened in a book called Writing on the Tablet of the Heart. 18 Nevertheless, my sense is that the model of intertextual borrowing has gained a dangerous primacy in some circles, without the methodological controls to establish both the existence and direction of genetic textual dependence. 19 Meanwhile, seen from another vantage point, Wright’s model has some difficulties vis-á-vis the kind of textual evidence featured by Böhler. If 18 David M. Carr, Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005). 19 I am at work on a manuscript on the history of Israelite literature that attempts to do this.

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Wright is right, then the redactor who produced 1 Esdras not only eliminated the entire Nehemiah tradition, but also added a number of microscopic mentions of city gates, marketplaces, temple forecourts, etc. to our proto-Esdras. Why? The reasoning for such multiple expansions is less clear, in my mind, than Böhler’s model, which posits that these often random mentions of specific elements of the city were eliminated by an author who was adapting the Ezra tradition so it could precede Nehemiah’s city building. Similarly, I would add, all things being equal, I think it much more likely that the overall variants between Ezra-Nehemiah and 1 Esdras were caused by the addition of the Nehemiah memoir to Ezra-Nehemiah than that all of these changes were caused by the addition of the story of the three guards to 1 Esdras. Perhaps some of the variants, perhaps even the switch in order related to the correspondence of Artaxerxes, are connected to the insertion of the story of the three guards. Nevertheless, the Nehemiah memoir is more massive, and most of the smaller variants between 1 Esdras and Ezra connect better to the themes of the Nehemiah material than to the story of the three guards (which actually seems to have been incorporated into 1 Esdras without the elimination of conflicts with the surrounding tradition). Moreover, given the proclivities of redactors to preserve what preceded them, a proclivity that Wright himself decisively affirms, it is much more likely that our present collection of texts was produced by the expansion of a proto-Esdras through the addition of Nehemiah than by the subtraction of Nehemiah traditions from Ezra-Nehemiah to produce a 1 Esdras. I am aware, of course, that all of these models have problems, certainly including Böhler’s, and I do not find his treatment of all variants equally convincing. Nevertheless, I find myself imagining what it would be like if we suddenly found an Old Greek translation of the Non-Priestly strand of the Pentateuch, let’s call it “Non-Pesdras.” Imagine that we had a first century Jewish historian, such as Josephus, who reviewed events in this nonPriestly strand of the Pentateuch separately from events in the Priestly strand, and imagine that we had a “Praise of the Fathers,” such as that of Ben Sira, which focused exclusively on events in the P strand. Imagine, furthermore, that a systematic study of variants between our Greek nonPesdras and the present Pentateuch revealed that our present Pentateuch included a lot of apparent adaptations to P—say in the names of Abram, Sarai, and God—that were not present in our non-conflated version of the non-P tradition, the proto non-Pesdras. I suspect that scholars would consider this find of a Greek non-Pesdras Pentateuch to be a fantastic confirmation of a centuries-long theory about the division of P and non-P, a huge

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find. Scholars have long posited a duality at the outset of the formation of the Pentateuch on the basis of differences far less significant, I would suggest, than those differences that distinguish the Ezra and Nehemiah blocks from each other. Yet, for a variety of reasons, I suspect that there would be less debate about the traditio-historical significance of this imaginary nonPesdras than there is now about the significance about 1 Esdras. I myself must continue to work through the variants debated by Böhler, Hanhart, Talshir and others before I will be convinced that Böhler and his precursors are right. Nevertheless, I would maintain that we are on far firmer ground when we work with such textual resources than when we posit multiple and successive layers of unattested traditions. This is a methodological, not an ontological point. It has to do with how much we can know about the formation of traditions, not just what actually happened to them. With Wright and others with whom he has worked, I think some passages in the Bible grew in very complex ways over time, often through complex processes of adaptation and transformation of the language of other passages. I also think that in some instances, in which the Biblical authors have left us enough data, we can reconstruct parts of those complex processes of ongoing revision. In other instances, we have evidence that authors did not just expand earlier texts, but combined originally separate traditions, often adding adapting and expanding those traditions in the process. In so far as this happened, the original separateness of the traditions can aid us in identifying the different profiles, providing us more to go on than we have in cases where authors subtly built around and on earlier traditions. This leads to my final methodological point: because such originally separate traditions are more recognizable, we may be better able to reconstruct examples of conflation than examples of what Wright calls creatio continua. Nevertheless, this difference in what we can reconstruct in a methodologically controlled way, does not mean that conflation actually was more common than gradual expansion. So, I think Jacob Wright’s book, Rebuilding Identity, represents an important marker of how far we have come in considering biblical texts both diachronically and synchronically. At the same time, I think it raises important questions about the models we presuppose and use to explain textual growth, the criteria needed to establish the genetic dependence of one text on another, and our ability to reconstruct different kinds of growth— whether conflation of originally separate traditions or an authorial creatio continua.

A RESPONSE RALPH W. KLEIN

CHRIST SEMINARY-SEMINEX PROFESSOR OF OLD TESTAMENT LUTHERAN SCHOOL OF THEOLOGY AT CHICAGO FIRST COMMENTS The book under review is a promise of what the next generation will contribute to our knowledge of the history, literature, and theology of early Judaism in the Persian period. Written at Göttingen, under the supervision of Reinhard Kratz, Wright’s dissertation proposes a new and dramatic hypothesis, but uses, in my judgment, a questionable methodology. The methodology from beginning to end is what Germans call Literarkritik, which has quite a different meaning, at least in some circles, than “literary criticism” does in English and in North America these days. Jacob identifies all sorts of tensions—in content or in syntax within the book of Nehemiah (and Ezra for that matter) and divides the materials from Nehemiah up into at least seven strata, whose chronological sequence of composition can be reconstructed. I say at least seven strata since he often identifies secondary supplements within the strata. Wright does not discuss the method itself or what kinds of tension in content or syntax might have been tolerated in a work such as Nehemiah. Such a discussion would be expected, I believe, in an American context, which has become increasingly skeptical of this method and doubtful about the ability to reconstruct something as complicated as seven or more sequential strata. In general, the book is well written, although with quite a few typos, and the argument is advanced with both confidence and passion. Frequent charts show how a given passage has been assigned to several strata, and a concluding survey (pp. 330–339), is followed by a final chart in which the judgments of the previous pages are summarized in a table entitled “The Primary Compositional Layers of Neh 1–13” (p. 340). The final chart is a somewhat simplified presentation of his findings since it does not indicate the supplementary elements within the strata, and the reader would be considerably helped by a chart indicating the sequence of the strata in Ezra. While he considers 347

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Ezra 10 subsequent to Ezra 9, it is not clear to me when Ezra 10 was added in the process. I will concede at the start that an exhaustive and fair review of this proposal would involve testing and debating each of the dozens and dozens of cases of Literarkritik, which he proposes. Since that is clearly impossible within our limited time period, we will have to settle for test cases and more general criticisms of his proposal. It may be well to begin with a brief review, from a more centrist position, of the introductory problems of Nehemiah. Scholars normally identify a first-person Nehemiah Memoir, consisting of most of 1:1–7:72a, followed by Nehemiah’s account of the dedication of the wall in 12:27–43, and concluding with at least some of the materials in 13:4–31. The materials in chapter 13 are dated in the received text at least twelve years after Nehemiah’s initial coming to Jerusalem, in his so-called second term in office. Within these parameters, the list of workers on the wall in 3:1–32 is generally recognized as secondary, or at least not written by Nehemiah himself, and there is a bewildering range of opinions on the relationship of Ezra 2 to Nehemiah 7 (the list of those who returned)—was it incorporated first in Ezra or first in Nehemiah, which is the better text, etc.? There are supplementary materials within 7:72b—Neh 12:26 and 12:44–13:3, and perhaps elsewhere, and it is generally agreed that Nehemiah’s spirited defense of himself in 5:14–19 belongs historically with the materials in chapter 13. In my own commentary in the New Interpreter’s Bible, while conceding with most scholars that Nehemiah 8 was once part of the Ezra account, I proposed that now it has become part of a new unit in which Ezra’s reading of the law in Nehemiah 8 is followed by a confession of sin in Nehemiah 9, and concluding with “the firm agreement” in Nehemiah 10, and this unit is designed to portray an ideal response to the law. 1 While Tamara Eskenazi has given a highly influential reading of the final form of Ezra-Nehemiah, 2 almost everyone would agree, including Eskenazi, that the canonical text arose through a complicated evolutionary process. Where Jacob Wright diverges from this consensus is his dissection of the Nehemiah Memoir itself into multiple layers, leaving us with a very brief “original” Nehemiah Memoir, dealing only with the building of the wall, and consisting of some 1 Ralph W. Klein, “The Books of Ezra & Nehemiah,” in The New Interpreter’s Bible, 3 (ed. L. E. Keck et al; Nashville: Abingdon, 1999), 796–798. 2 Tamara Eskenazi, In an Age of Prose: A Literary Approach to Ezra-Nehemiah (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988).

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thirteen verses, and five clauses within these verses are identified as secondary (1:1, 11b, 2:1–6, 11, 15, 16a, 17, 18b, 3:38 and 6:15). He conjectures that this original document may have been a building inscription. This first wall-building stratum is followed by a second, not attributable to Nehemiah himself, consisting largely of the list of builders from chapter 3 and related verses. Because Eliashib commenced the work in chapter 3, Wright assigns to the high priesthood the redactional efforts contained in this second stratum. The role of the high priest and his colleagues in initiating the work in 3:1 creates a tension that will propel the composition of Ezra Nehemiah from its origins to its culmination. That is, there emerges a conflict between a pro-temple faction and a pro-Torah (antitemple) faction, and these two factions jockey back and forth in stating their cases. A third stratum introduces Nehemiah’s conflict with Sanballat, Tobiah, and Geshem. This supplementary material illustrates the positive implications of the building project by way of the negative reactions of the enemy. It is only in the fourth stratum that Nehemiah is identified as the governor. In a fifth stratum “Nehemiah” undertakes the reforms mentioned in chapters 5 and 13 although these materials “originally,” that is, in this fifth stratum, were done during Nehemiah’s first 52 days in Jerusalem, before the completion of the wall. It is in this stratum that the “Remember me, O my God, for good” motif was introduced into the book. The original building report, according to Wright, has now become a report of the general restoration of Judah. At this point, Wright proposes that Ezra 1–6 was composed, largely in response to the criticism of Eliashib and the priesthood in general in Nehemiah 13 although he also reconstructs an earlier version of Ezra 1–6 in which the friction with Nehemiah’s account is minimal. The erection of the altar in Ezra 3:1–6 is one of the latest texts in Ezra-Nehemiah (note 68, p. 335) but it is not clear to me exactly when it was introduced into the work. Ezra 1–6 (7–8) concede that Nehemiah may have been correct in pointing out the corruption of the priesthood at the time of Nehemiah, but insist that the first repatriates followed the decrees of the Persian kings and initiated the reconsolidation of Judah with the construction and glorification of the temple. The sixth stratum of the Nehemiah Memoir was then composed, with additions related primarily to the population and dedication of the city. Next comes the composition of Ezra 7–8, 9–10. With respect to style, the first person Ezra account in Ezra 7 and 8 eases the transition to the first person Nehemiah account. With respect to content, Artaxerxes tells Ezra to

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make Aliyah and to take funds to Jerusalem to glorify the temple. The subsequent addition of Ezra 9 to the growing Ezra-Nehemiah corpus treats Nehemiah’s work much more positively. Instead of the tension with the wall detected by Wright in Ezra 1–6, the addition of Ezra 9 recognizes the wall and the subsequent reforming acts of Nehemiah as the only solution to the community’s problems. The seventh stratum of Nehemiah advocates firm adherence to the Torah, to the neglect of any mention of the temple, especially in Nehemiah 8–10. Because Ezra in Ezra 9 had acknowledged the importance of Nehemiah’s ethnic wall, he can now join the builders in preparation for the dedication ceremonies in Nehemiah 8. Study of the Torah and the confession of the sins of fathers are interpreted as an alternative to the temple and sacrifices performed by a high priest, who was allegedly in league with the enemies of the restoration. Nehemiah 8–10 intends to portray a cultic service in which the temple and high priest are dispensable and have been replaced with the Torah and a scribe (p. 336 and n. 72). In Nehemiah 9, the land, Moses, and Torah have replaced the temple. Final supplements to the seventh stratum (Neh 10:31–40; 13:30b-31a) redress this “imbalance” and introduce once more cultic concerns. Without these secondary additions to the seventh stratum, Wright observes: “We wonder whether the temple had fallen into complete oblivion” (p. 338). In short, there was a dialectical process between laity/wall and priests/temple that produced the book of Ezra-Nehemiah. Instead of the events involving the rebuilding of the temple and the missions of Ezra and Nehemiah, Wright has reconstructed a social history, in which tradents score political and theological points by alternate expansions to the book that became Ezra-Nehemiah, but that originated in a Nehemiah Memoir of about 13 verses.

CASE STUDIES IN LITERARKRITIK PRACTICED BY WRIGHT Case I One argument for the secondary character of chapters 5 and 13, is its use nine times 3 of the Qal waw consecutive with the imperfect of the form “and I said” with a paragogic he. That is unusual for Nehemiah, who uses “and I said” seven times without a paragogic he in the rest of the book although those forms appear in five different strata! (Neh 1:5 (7th), 2:3, 5 (1st); 4:8 (3rd), 13 (3rd); 5:9 (5th); 7:3 (6th). The only attested use of “and I said” with 3

Neh 5:7, 8, 13, 17; 13:9, 11, 19, 21, 22.

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the paragogic he elsewhere in Nehemiah is in 6:11, which Jacob Wright also identifies as secondary. Wright denies that the addition of the paragogic he can be attributed to copyists. But in the Masoretic text of the book of Isaiah, the form “and I said” occurs five times (Isa 6:5, 8, 11; 24:16; 41:9), all without the paragogic he. Nevertheless, in the great Isaiah scroll from Qumran, in three cases—60% of the time—the copyists replaced this with a form of the waw consecutive with a paragogic he. Hence I believe Wright does not make a convincing case that the forms with paragogic he in Nehemiah must of necessity be secondary and cannot result from changes introduced by copyists. I cite this example only to illustrate the precarious basis on which I feel many of his observations are built.

Case II According to Wright’s understanding, the original version of Nehemiah 8– 10 expresses a temple-critical, or at least temple-avoiding, particularistic viewpoint, focused on the Torah. The temple focus in Ezra 1–6, on the other hand, represents the universalistic and cosmopolitan interests of the priests and the aristocracy. Wright claims that Ezra according to Nehemiah 8 is a scribe rather than the priest he is in Ezra 7 (where there is a genealogy going back, with a significant gap, to Aaron). One could argue that intertextuality would identify Ezra as a priest in any case also in Nehemiah 8. But even more embarrassing is Neh 8:2 where Ezra is explicitly called “the priest.” Wright dismisses this verse as secondary for a number of reasons. In fact, he writes that this verse is quite easy to identify as a later insertion (p. 321). “All the people” from v. 1 has been replaced by “the assembly” in v. 2. Ezra is not called a scribe in v. 2 as he is in vv. 1, 4, 9, and 13, but a priest. The reference to the first day of the seventh month in Neh 8:2 forms a doublet with Neh 7:72. The description of the audience in Neh 8:2 overlaps with the description of the people in 8:3. The masculine suffix in v. 3 referring to what Ezra read—he read in it—does not agree with the feminine noun torah in v. 2. Rather, it refers to the book of torah of Moses in v. 1. Without v. 2, as Wright admits, the transition from v. 1 to v. 3 is rough. Although we are told that v. 2 is probably not original, we are also told by Wright that the information it provides is exactly what the reader desires. This dissonance between vv. 1 and 3 is why the verse was added according to Wright. Or, I would propose, this alleged dissonance between vv. 1 and 3 is why Neh 8:2 must be original. If so, Ezra is identified as a priest in Nehemiah 8. And he is called Ezra the priest the scribe in Neh 8:9—deleted by Wright.

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Case III A similar observation might be made about Neh 10:31–40. In Neh 10:1–30 the community ratifies a new covenant to abide by the Torah. According to Wright, the authors of Nehemiah 8–10 present Torah-reading and confession as an alternative to the temple cult-promoted in Ezra 1–6 (7–8). Final supplements to the book, in Neh 10:31–40 and 13:30b-31a, counterbalance the concentration on Torah-study and penitence in 8:1–10:30 by redirecting the reader’s attention back to the temple. Nehemiah 10:1–30 is part of the seventh stratum written in Hellenistic times according to Wright. If we would assume for the sake of argument that vv. 31–40 were secondary, would not the Torah by this time include virtually all of what we call the Pentateuch, including all the cultic regulations in the broad Sinai account? Would not Torah-reading inevitably include stipulations from the last third of the book of Exodus and nearly all of Leviticus? I am not at all sure that it is legitimate to pit torah-reading or torah allegiance over against the temple cult since so much of the Torah deals with cult. But would a “firm agreement” be so lacking in definite content and specificity as it would if the original account ended with v. 30? If Wright therefore is wrong, and vv. 31–40 are in fact original to the firm agreement, then its stipulations against mixed marriage, its ban of commerce on the sabbath, and its legislation about a temple tax of one third of a shekel, about the wood offering, about the offering of first fruits and the firstborn of humans and livestock—all in support of the temple—make his proposal to consider Ezra 9 and Nehemiah 8–10 as an intentional neglecting of the temple in favor of a society centered on the Torah unconvincing. In short, he creates his hypothesis about a group that urged neglect of the temple by deleting contrary evidence, especially in Neh 8:2, 10:31–40, and 13:30b-31a.

Case IV My fourth case study deals with Wright’s removal of the chronological data concerning the length of Nehemiah’s service in Jerusalem and in fact the complete separation of Nehemiah from the office of governor. Wright contrasts Nehemiah’s cautious efforts to win the support of the rulers in Neh 2:16, whose support he desperately needed to build the wall, with his attitude in Neh 13:4–9 where he was not at all concerned to make friends with the ruling classes (p. 202). Wright argues that the criticism of Eliashib implicitly involved the entire Jerusalem priesthood (13:28) and that it creates an incongruity with Neh 2:16ff. in which Nehemiah attempted to secure the

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approval of the priests for his wall-building project. He writes: “One finds it difficult to believe that he both needed the approbation of the priesthood and at the same time overruled their decision with respect to the use of the temple chambers . . . . [T]he violation of the priesthood’s sphere of sovereignty would certainly have precluded their cooperation in building the wall” (p. 203). Of course a lot can happen in twelve or more years to sour the relationship between Nehemiah and the rulers of the people. Most of the difficulty Wright describes here, however, is self-created since he has eliminated the twelve year term of Nehemiah by literary critical judgments.

Case V In his reconstruction of the literary history of chapter 5, which together with chapter 13 was not in his judgment an original part of the Nehemiah’s Memoir and not written by Nehemiah, Wright proposes that vv. 14–18 antedate vv. 1–13, and v. 19. He also proposes that vv. 16–18 are the earliest part of this chapter (part of his third stratum) and are parallel to Neh 4:15ff., which they may have originally followed. Nehemiah 4:15ff. report how people worked all day and stayed in Jerusalem overnight, working so hard in fact that they never took off their clothes at night. Nehemiah 5:14– 15, in Wright’s judgment, have been secondarily prefaced to vv. 16–18, since v. 14 and v. 16 both begin with the word gam and because Nehemiah’s waiver of the governor’s allowance in v. 15 is based on the fear of God, whereas the waiver in v. 18 is based on the heavy load on this people. But cannot both motives be true and complementary? From a humanitarian or even political point of view Nehemiah did not want to impose additional burdens on his hard-working people, but from a religious point of view he did this out of fear of God. Even in v. 15, that ends with the reference to the fear of God, the first half of the verse reads: “The former governors laid heavy burdens on the people and took food and wine from them.” Thus both motivations are actually contained in that one verse! Wright implies that Nehemiah’s not taking the food allowance of the governor in v. 18 does not mean that Nehemiah was governor (an argument of desperation in my opinion), since the explicit claim that Nehemiah himself was governor arose only in vv. 14–15 which Wright assigns to his fourth stratum. Verse 14 in the Masoretic text reads: “Moreover from the time that I was appointed to be their governor in the land of Judah, from the twentieth year to the thirty-second year of King Artaxerxes, twelve years, neither I nor my brothers ate the food allowance of the governor.” Wright judges that the chronological information in bold face is not directly rele-

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vant to the interpretation of the context and hence appears to stem from a foreign hand (appealing to Kurt Galling for support). He also feels that the syntax is smoother without this information (p. 174). Wright argues that the date in Neh 13:6b (his fifth stratum)—noting that Nehemiah had left Jerusalem in the thirty-second year of Artaxerxes and returned to the king and then came back to Jerusalem some time afterward for a second term—is itself based on this very secondary information in Neh 5:14 that he assigns to his fourth stratum.. The bottom line is that by literary critical judgment he dismisses the notion of Nehemiah’s governorship itself and its chronological data. This makes it possible for him to locate the dispute with Eliashib in chapter 13 during the initial wall-building activities. Only after all of these changes and deletions has he created a Nehemiah who simultaneously seeks the support of the leaders of the community in chapter 2 and severely criticizes them in chapter 13. Nevertheless Wright argues that the reference to twelve years may be authentic, but indicating only the time of Nehemiah’s death. In Wright’s reconstruction, the additions made by various redactors in chapters 5, 6 and 13 put the blame on the Judeans themselves for the situation of affliction and reproach that necessitated the building of the wall, and not the threat from foreign nations, as was true in chapters 2– 4 (p. 176). Moreover Wright argues that it was the nobles, rulers and the rest of the people in Neh 4:8 and 13, who appointed Nehemiah governor and not Artaxerxes. Would these people have dared to make such a move that could be construed as subverting the authority of Artaxerxes? Wright concedes this objection but insists that the Hebrew text allows for several interpretations and “one cannot be certain that the Persian court appointed him.” Nehemiah’s charge that his predecessors had laid heavy burdens on the people and Nehemiah’s generous provision of food are both taken as allusions to the reign of Solomon and are without historical importance. Nehemiah’s acting out of the fear of God is construed as an allusion to the last words of David (2 Sam 23:3). Wright therefore concludes: “The institution of governor—if it ever existed before Nehemiah—was not firmly established in Judah until after Nehemiah, and he himself did not serve in this capacity” (p. 179). Wright does not discuss the extensive epigraphic evidence assembled by Avigad and others that there were in fact governors of Yehud long before Nehemiah.

IN SUM There is no question that Jacob Wright has made many astute observations about Nehemiah throughout this book, and no one can study Nehemiah in the future without attending to his work. Nevertheless the case studies I

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have presented suggest that a number of his literary critical judgments might be called into question, and with them the sequencing of the seven strata in Nehemiah with the sections in Ezra that represent various attempts to work out the balance between Torah and Temple. Nevertheless, if early Judaism in the fifth and fourth centuries needed to work out the tensions between temple and Torah, the Chronicles-EzraNehemiah Section of SBL should pay continued attention to the divergent methods practiced on both sides of the Atlantic and attempt to work out a modus vivendi in order to assess the potentially complementary contributions of our divergent methods Perhaps this synthesis could be pursued with as much passion as Jacob Wright has detected in the composition history of Ezra-Nehemiah.

LOOKING BACK AT REBUILDING IDENTITY JACOB L. WRIGHT EMORY UNIVERSITY

First of all, I would like to thank both Gary Knoppers for suggesting this special review session to the committee of the Chronicles-Ezra-Nehemiah Section at the Annual SBL and my esteemed colleagues for honoring my work with such close readings. I am deeply grateful not only for their praise but also for their appreciation of the book’s implications for the field of biblical studies as a whole. My intention in studying Ezra-Nehemiah has indeed been to gain a better understanding of the nature of biblical literature and the communities that produced it. Rather than addressing the respondents’ comments point-by-point, 1 it may be more useful to contextualize my work by reflecting upon the process that led to its formation. I will also discuss the broader hermeneutical principles that informed my attempt to forge in this book a new path in diachronic methods of analysis, one which diverges sharply from older approaches, such as Literarkritik. I believe that by describing how and why I chose to abandon the source-critical approach to Ezra-Nehemiah (hereafter, EN), this response will enable readers to appreciate more fully the dialogue with David M. Carr, Deirdre N. Fulton and Ralph W. Klein on my book. A similar autobiographical account by the ancient authors of EN on the composition of their book would have rendered my own work superfluous. Yet it also would have robbed us of the opportunity to engage each other in a meaningful way on our most fundamental presuppositions as biblical scholars.

I plan to address individual points in future articles as well as in a commentary on EN that I am writing for the new International Exegetical Commentary on the Old Testament (IECOT) series. 1

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I chose EN as a subject for my dissertation at the University of Göttingen for several reasons. My advisor, Reinhard G. Kratz, was writing an introduction to the narrative books of the Hebrew Bible at the time, and he was seeking a doctoral student who was interested in testing the various approaches scholars have adopted in interpreting this complex book. I agreed to assume this task not only because of the challenge it presented but also because of the history of disparaging interpretations of EN in past—particularly German—scholarship. My aim was to offer a more sympathetic reading of the book. Simultaneously, I had joined a research group that was funded by the German Research Society (DFG) to study early Jewish prayer texts. Because the so-called Nehemiah Memoir includes numerous and diverse types of prayers, it soon became the focus of my study. My original intention, therefore, was not to present a new model for the formation of EN. That my project soon took a different direction had to do with the weaknesses of older compositional models that I confronted from the outset. One of the problems these models posed relates to the use of first-person style as a criterion for isolating the book’s sources. My examination of pre-critical interpretations of EN revealed that interpreters introduced this criterion at a relatively late point and continued to dispute its validity for a long time thereafter. In virulent reactions to Baruch de Spinoza’s claim that the historical Nehemiah authored only the first-person portions of Nehemiah 1–13 (a claim that is rarely, if ever, contested today), many commentators from the 18th century on insisted that the superscript in Neh 1:1 and the first-person style of the book’s final passages indicate that all of Nehemiah 1–13 must be ascribed to Nehemiah’s own hand. These criticisms of Spinoza’s view are, in fact, bolstered by the history of critical scholarship on EN, which is characterized by a range of views on the precise demarcation of the Nehemiah Memoir. One should not dismiss the lack of consensus in EN research on this issue as just another petty quibble of factious scholars. The problem is inextricably woven into the warp and woof of the material. First-person passages are used occasionally to introduce third-person passages (see Nehemiah 3 and 7), and thirdperson passages are conversely used to introduce first-person passages (see Neh 12:27–47). By simply extracting all the first-person texts, we are left with an incomplete and incoherent account. The use of the first- vs. thirdperson narration in these and many others cases throughout EN seems to be a deliberate literary strategy, rather than a trustworthy diachronic tool for distinguishing earlier material from later material. The second problem I faced in my research related to Nehemiah’s prayers, the original focus of my project. A number of passages conclude

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with prayers for remembrance addressed directly to the deity and lacking an introduction, such as “I prayed and said . . . ” (see 3:36–37; 6:14; 5:19; 13:14, 22, 29, 31). These succinct orisons indicate that the passages they conclude were written ostensibly for a divine rather than a human reader. Yet in other places Nehemiah either recalls praying (2:4 and 4:3) or introduces a prayer with “I said, ‘O YHWH, God of Heaven. . .’” (1:5). Due to the presence of this second group of texts, I found it difficult to convince my colleagues in the research group that we should treat the Nehemiah Memoir as an extended prayer—or at least as a text addressed to a deity. Hence, the problem of the account’s genre forced me to deal with the compositional unity of the account. In searching for solutions to these problems in past scholarship, I found the influential thesis of Hugh G. M. Williamson to be most helpful. As is well known, Williamson distinguishes two stages in the composition of the Memoir: an earlier building account and later additions written by Nehemiah himself after twelve years of gubernatorial service. In contrast to the first account, which would have been written for a human reader (perhaps the Achaemenid court), the secondary passages do not refer to building of the wall. Their focus is rather the reforms that Nehemiah instituted for all of Judah. Each of these reform accounts concludes with short prayers for remembrance addressed directly to Nehemiah’s god (“Remember me, O my God . . .”; 5:19; 13:14, 22, 29, 31). Thus, in redacting his account, Nehemiah transformed the building report into a votive text. The thesis is appealing and represents a major advance in our effort to define the genre of the Memoir. However, it also encounters a serious obstacle: the presence of prayers that are addressed directly to the deity in passages recounting the construction of the wall (3:36–37 and 6:14). With Williamson and others, one could argue that Nehemiah added these prayers to the building account when he inserted the texts recounting his reforms. Yet in examining the placement of the prayers, I discovered signs of a gradual reshaping of the account that render this explanation problematic. My most significant observation in this respect was the stylistic and thematic connections between 6:17–19 and 13:4–9. Both passages report that key individuals were related and allied to Tobiah. Moreover, in the former text Tobiah exerts his influence in Judah by way of written correspondence. The latter reports that “before this” Eliashib had built a chamber for Tobiah in the temple precincts. When Nehemiah came to Jerusalem (for the first time; the date in 13:6bα is, as many scholars agree, secondarily drawn from 5:14), he cast Tobiah out of the chamber. Tobiah thus resorts

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to writing letters to his allies in Judah (6:17–19) after Nehemiah had chased him out of Jerusalem (13:4–9). By means of this observation, an older structure of chaps. 5–13 reemerged. Without the material in chaps. 7–12, five consecutive units would conclude with prayers for remembrance (5:1–19; 6:1–14; 6:17–19+13:4–14; 15–23, 24–31). Moreover, the three paragraphs that followed the notice of completion in 6:15–16 would not only conclude with prayers for remembrance, but also begin with variants of the expression “in those days,” evince a similar language and inner structure, and report three of Nehemiah’s “extramural” reforms. Analysis of chaps. 7–12 confirmed my suspicion that this material had broken the earlier connection 6:17–19+13:4–9 and had gradually pushed chap. 13 back to the end of the book. For instance, the final line of chap. 6 (v. 19b), which appears to be redactional, introduces the aspect of intimidation in order to realign vv. 17–19 to the overarching theme of vv. 1–14 (the attempted assassination of Nehemiah—or at least that of his character). This statement contrasts sharply with the rest of vv. 17–19 and 13:4–9, which recounts how Tobiah attempted to exert influence in Judean politics and establish a pied-à-terre in Jerusalem. This new conclusion creates a unified “chapter” in the building project that is clearly demarcated from the account of the events following the completion of the wall in 7:1ff. Furthermore, the first-person material in chaps. 7–12 usually attributed to the Nehemiah Memoir has either been heavily edited or has been composed with the third-person narrative of EN in view. For example, the contents of the scroll Nehemiah quotes in chap. 7 flow smoothly into the thirdperson account of the festivities celebrated during the seventh month in chaps. 8–10. Later, in the account of the dedication of the wall, Nehemiah’s own voice is heard again, yet faintly and fragmentarily (12:27–13:3), being drowned out by third-person material. Such seamless transitions between first- and third-person material in chaps. 7–13 characterize the greater part of EN (see esp. Ezra 4–6, 7, and 9–10). Although this fact continues to plague the attempt to isolate older material in EN, the book has long served in biblical scholarship as a parade example for the legitimacy of the source-critical approach. In EN we can supposedly see how one or two compilers or editors pieced together earlier historical documents, fitting their sometime contrasting perspectives into a unified historiographical framework. The editing of the text in this work contrasts with that of the Pentateuch, where one has much more trouble ascertaining the original shape of sources. Indeed, the book of EN had served in early biblical criticism—and probably unconsciously in later gen-

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erations—as a model for understanding the formation of the Pentateuch. Conversely, the influence of the source-critical method in Pentateuchal criticism had contributed directly to the often unsuccessful struggle to achieve a consensus on the precise contours of the sources in EN. The discovery of an earlier “join” between 6:17–19 and 13:4–9 and the gradual reshaping of the account demonstrated to me the necessity of relinquishing the source-critical approach and rethinking the formation of EN. I noticed that what one usually attributed to the book’s editor(s) often varies in perspective to such an extent that the assumption of compositional unity threatens to flatten the book’s diversity into what a particular interpreter wished to emphasize as the point of unity. Yet, where the sources would be expected to diverge in perspective from the ideology of the editor, they often agree—a problem that raised further questions regarding the adequacy of employing the first-person style as a criterion for identifying earlier source material. Above all, I saw that the source-critical approach had failed to appreciate the real dialogue and conversation going on in every part of the book. My intention in taking a more diachronic approach, therefore, has not been to be positivistic about the exact nature of literary growth in EN or to dissect large polyphonic texts into smaller, more monophonic ones. Rather, my aim has been to do justice to, and bring out the vibrancy of, the conversation that propelled the composition of the book and the later traditions that developed out of it. In order to reveal this conversation, I adopt a diachronic approach in my book. For the sake of summarizing my results, I even present a table on the last page in which I assign texts to seven different layers. But it would be wrong to confuse my work as a whole with this table. I never refer to these strata in the study itself. Nor do I place much weight on the dating of layers. Instead, I begin by isolating the smallest circumscribable textual units and then compare their perspectives and emphases. At times it is easy to see how one unit presupposes another. At other times, the question of dependency must be left open—although I do not hesitate to set forth tentative reconstructions. Whether these units can be assigned to various authors or whether they were redacted by one individual over an extend time period is for me by and large insignificant. With respect to larger material blocks, it seems quite likely to me that they stem from different authors or circles. Yet the central objective of my book is to impress upon interpreters an appreciation for the plurality of voices that converse with each other in EN. In my study I therefore dispense with the idea of one or two editors of EN who combined a plurality of sources. Instead I postulate a process (a “creatio continua”) in which generations of readers take inherited tradition

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and draw out its relevance for contemporary issues facing their communities. In a manner similar to other bodies of Jewish literature, these generations of readers produce commentary upon commentary. My inspiration for this model of understanding biblical literature was bequeathed to me by my Doktorvater, Reinhard G. Kratz, who inherited it from his Doktorvater, O. H. Steck. Formative influences have also been Walther Zimmerli’s notion of Fortschreibung, which he developed in his commentary on Ezekiel, and not least Michael Fishbane’s idea of inner-biblical exegesis, which has made a profound impact on both Steck’s and Kratz’s hermeneutical approach. Although I would by no means dispute the existence of older source material in EN, my study has demonstrated that the authors of EN have selected and reshaped this material in response to the Nehemiah Memoir. The Memoir’s first generation of readers saw in its author a hero of Judean history and took it upon themselves to draw out the significance of his work. In their hands, his highly nuanced yet succinct account unfolds, like a bud that blossoms, into a beautiful story depicting a transformation in Nehemiah’s individual identity that sets in motion a project of rebuilding Judah’s identity. As part of this literary maturation, the first chapters tell how a Judean, living in a foreign land and occupying a position of prominence in the Achaemenid imperial court, was spurred to act on the part of his people after a conversation with his kin. In this pivotal encounter, he learns that not only Jerusalem’s walls were in a state of disrepair but first and foremost that his people were in state of distress. The physical condition of the wall is here part of, and simultaneously mirrors, a larger social predicament. In keeping with this correlation between the condition of the wall and that of the people, the following passages describe how each construction phase marks a new stage in the rebuilding of Judah’s collective identity. The province’s diverse population comes together and finds its unity in mending the walls of the Jerusalem, a central site of their collective memory. This unity is expressed graphically in the list of chap. 3, which maps the circumference of the city wall by listing the names of the districts, families and social groups who join forces “side by side,” building the segments of the wall from beginning to end. The wall is here indistinguishable from the unified circle of people who build it. This (re-)construction of Judean identity develops in two closelyrelated directions in the account. On the one hand, Nehemiah describes an external opposition to the building project, and in so doing, demarcates those who belong to Judah (the builders) from those who do not (those who attempt to thwart the progress on the wall). Judah’s chief antagonists

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are the representatives of her neighbors (Sanballat, Tobiah and Geshem), whose jeering and threats of physical attack progressively bolster the resolve of the newly-consolidated community. These passages create “texture” in the account by differentiating construction phases, each beginning with the expression “as PN heard.” On the other hand, a large portion of the account treats the internal problems of the community. The nexus between the first and second group of texts is found in the number of Judeans who are related to the external opponents through (marriage) alliances (see 6:17–19; 13:4–9, 28). The presence of this “enemy within” necessitates a change of attitude on the part of Nehemiah. Whereas at an earlier point he was concerned to bring together diverse groups in Judah whose participation was indispensable to the success of the building project, now he points his finger at these very same groups and takes them to task for failing to recognize the true nature of the project. Repairing the physical ramparts did not suffice. One must adopt a new form of behavior by treating Judean kin properly (5:1–19), being wary of corruptible prophets (6:10–14), breaking off alliances with Judah’s inimical neighbors (6:17–19, 13:4–9), caring for the economic welfare of the Levites (13:10–14), ceasing from all labor and commerce on the Sabbath (13:15–22), and agreeing to marry only Judean women (13:23–30). These reform accounts are closely connected to the introduction in 1:1–4. Both emphasize the social aspects of the wall-building project, highlighting two key terms (‫ חרפה‬and ‫)רעה‬. Although the reforms have little or nothing to do with the construction of Jerusalem’s physical ramparts, they serve the larger objective of the account. They expand the notion of “wall” by delineating Judah’s social, political, cultic and ethnic boundaries. Nehemiah demarcates not only a physical but also a temporal space that was peculiarly Judean—or perhaps better, Jewish. 2 For example, he censures the nobility in 13:15–22 for allowing work in the winepresses to continue on the Sabbath, and in Jerusalem itself he uses the city gates to prohibit foreign traders from entering the holy city on the holy day. In instituting this reform, he appeals to the past and Judah’s collective memory (13:18). Here, with the help of the wall, time and space in Judah are reconfigured according to spheres of holiness. 2 By “Jewish,” I mean something that goes beyond “Judean” insofar as more self-conscious behavior and choice are involved. Ezra-Nehemiah paves the way for the distinction between Judeans, who live in Judah, and Jews, who build an identity that is distinct in many ways from that of mere Judean inhabitants.

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Significantly, these accounts describe abuses that Nehemiah identifies and treats during the course of the building project. Whereas 5:1–19 and 6:10–14 precede the notice of completion in 6:15–16, the three remaining passages, in keeping with the join between 6:17–19 and 13:4–9 described above, are dated to “those days.” From the proximity between the notice of completion in 6:15–16 and and the unit in 6:17–19+13:4–9(10–14), “those days” are clearly the 52 days of work on the wall mentioned in the notice of completion. By virtue of these appendices to the building report as well as the similar accounts in chaps. 5 and 6, the 25th of Elul represents the day not only when the ramparts were repaired but also when Judah initiated a new era in her history, one surrounded by a wall marking her new social, ethnic, cultic and economic identity. In my research I slowly came to the realization that these texts, which amplify and interpret the deeper significance of Nehemiah’s wall-building project, provided the impetus for the formation of EN as well as other textual traditions such as First Esdras. In its expanded form, the Nehemiah Memoir would have provoked great consternation in priestly circles, which are unquestionably responsible for the production of much of EN and First Esdras. The Memoir presents Judah and Jerusalem in dire straits before the advent of its eponymous hero. It fails to acknowledge the largesse demonstrated by the Achaemenid court in bestowing generous funds for the construction and glorification of the temple. In 1:1–4 Nehemiah inquires only about those who had remained in the land and neglects the multitudes who had made Aliyah. Likewise, he fails to mention his predecessor Ezra. But above all, he accuses the high priesthood of widespread corruption and subordinates high-priestly jurisdiction to gubernatorial authority (13:4–14 and 28–31). In many priestly circles, these aspects of Nehemiah’s account would have necessitated a sophisticated (literary) response. It is difficult to imagine that the priestly circles responsible for EN or First Esdras would have added, of their own volition, the vituperative Nehemiah Memoir to their history of Judah’s Restoration. The witness of First Esdras, despite occasional insistence to the contrary, does not furnish weighty support for assuming that the Nehemiah Memoir was secondarily interpolated. Insofar as I have demonstrated that many texts in Ezra 1–10 probably have the Memoir in view, it is quite unlikely that First Esdras represents an older version than EN. That this version transmits older readings in some places is probable, yet here one must distinguish between textcritical questions and redaction-critical questions. Rather than being inserted at a later stage in the tradition, the Nehemiah Memoir is easiest to explain as its point of departure. Both external

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and internal evidence indicates that the Memoir was read relatively widely. 3 Because of its importance, priestly circles could not afford to simply ignore its portrayal of the Restoration. Creating the larger account of EN, they allow Nehemiah to expose the uncharacteristic troubles plaguing his age. But they also show how the Restoration began earlier. Before Artaxerxes simply allowed Nehemiah to go to Jerusalem and repair her ramparts, he had commanded the priest-scribe Ezra to make Aliyah and transport imperial donations for the maintenance of the temple (Ezra 7–8). And before Ezra received this commission, the first Persian kings had issued decrees allowing the construction of the temple (Ezra 1–6). Whereas the family of Eliashib had brought reproach upon the high-priestly office in the time of Nehemiah, the early phase of Restoration was characterized by a harmonious diarchy of lay and priestly leadership. The narrative style of Ezra 1–10 not only transforms the Nehemiah Memoir from an independent account into one source among others in the history of the Restoration, but also relegates it to a depiction of one year in the reign of a Persian king who, along with several of his predecessors, had for many years devoted his resources to making the temple the center of Judean society. I would not deny that each of the units in Ezra 1–10 includes older material and has been shaped to communicate its own distinct message. The narrative of Ezra 1–6, for example, is sustained by a focus on texts as the primary bearers of authority in Judah’s new post-monarchic age. 4 Yet even here the temple is at the center insofar as the authority of texts ultimately validates this institution. While Ezra 1–6 seems to have been composed originally to redress the—for priestly circles—incommodious nature of the Nehemiah Memoir, the conversation with the Memoir intensifies in later stages. The insertion of the Artaxerxes correspondence in Ezra 4, for instance, allows the same ruler who later permits Nehemiah’s building project to prohibit initially any work on the wall. Before revoking this order, the temple is first completed (Ezra 5–6). Then he commissions Ezra “to glorify” the temple (Ezra 7:27). The account of Ezra’s Aliyah also alludes to the Nehemiah Memoir. For instance, whereas Artaxerxes sends army offiThe external evidence is late (e.g. Ben Sira and 2 Maccabees). That the Memoir was already widely read in earlier generations is suggested by the internal (redactional) evidence. 4 See my forthcoming article, “Seeking-Finding-Writing in Ezra-Nehemiah” in (Dis)Unity of Ezra-Nehemiah (ed. Mark Boda and Paul Reditt; Hebrew Bible Monographs; Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2007). 3

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cers and cavalry with Nehemiah (2:9), Ezra remarks that “I was ashamed to ask the king for an army and cavalry to protect us against the enemy on the way, since we had told the king that the hand of our God is gracious to all who seek him, but his power and his wrath are against all who forsake him” (8:22). As a unified book, EN in the end affirms the importance of Nehemiah’s project. The shift towards a more positive stance vis-à-vis Nehemiah is already apparent in Ezra 9–10, which mitigates the happy end of chaps. 7–8 by revealing severe fractures in the community’s foundation. The solution to the problem of mixed-marriages described in these chapters is only temporary. Before the book concludes with an account of Nehemiah’s marriage reforms, the community has built a cultic, ethnic, and social wall, which they fortify through a written pledge to follow the Torah and its requirements. The insertion of the material in Nehemiah 8–10 and the date in 13:6 reinterprets Nehemiah’s reforms. Now Nehemiah returns to Jerusalem in prophetic fashion, prosecuting (‫ )ריב‬the community for failing to adhere to its pledge to the Torah. Thus, the opposing forces that produced the book of EN finally come together in the Torah and the community that places it at its center. In this way, the indispensable role of the temple is reaffirmed (see 10:33–40 and 13:4–14, 28–31). This larger perspective on the composition of EN made it possible for me to understand better the dynamics at work in other traditions that do not share the vision of EN. The Nehemiah legend transmitted in 2 Macc 1:18–36 makes Nehemiah a champion of the temple-cult and portrays him as figure very similar to Zerubbabel (whom various later Jewish traditions identified with Nehemiah). Similarly, the authors of First Esdras complete the process begun in Ezra 1–8 by giving Nehemiah the final coup de grâce. They respond to the criticism of the priesthood and the subordination of high-priestly jurisdiction to gubernatorial authority by completely cutting Nehemiah’s account out of the history of the Restoration. Anything that anticipates Nehemiah’s project (such as Ezra 4:21) they deleted, and other parts they subtly reformulated in order to render the reconstruction of the city superfluous. The implications of my analysis for the treatment of First Esdras are so clear that I could afford not to enter into detailed discussions of cases in which this work likely transmits earlier readings. Nevertheless, in my future work on EN I plan to consider these cases at greater length. I should emphasize that my study attempts to sidestep for the moment historical problems posed by EN and to appreciate the strategies its authors have provided for reading Nehemiah’s Memoir. Nevertheless, my work does directly affect historical reconstructions of Judah under Achaemenid

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hegemony. Of course, reliable information would often have been introduced secondarily by redactors. Yet sometimes what serves as the foundations for attempts to write histories of this period turns out in my analyses to be solely literary aspects that developed in the tradition, and they deserve to be appreciated as such. I should reiterate that my aim in writing Rebuilding Identity was not, in keeping with the old method of Literarkritik, to isolate the “original” form of the Nehemiah Memoir. Rather, I wanted to retrace the trajectory leading to the formation of the book we have inherited. I attempted to repristinate older material not for its own sake, throwing out later tradition with the bathwater. Rather, my desire was to allow the Nehemiah Memoir once again to speak for itself and share its own, sometimes unconventional views, without subordinating them to the more dominant voice of EN’s narrator. Such indeed may have been also the intention of EN’s authors inasmuch as the book utilizes a variety of voices and texts. However, it seems to me that these authors wanted us to read Nehemiah’s account through their own lenses. Thus, when Nehemiah asks about the fate of “the Judeans who had survived and escaped the captivity,” it is not at all clear that he is also referring to Babylonian captives who had in the meanwhile joined the remaining inhabitants. Yet after telling us about massive Aliyot that preceded Nehemiah and after defining the prior inhabitants of Judah as the antagonists of the Restoration, the authors of EN probably wanted us to understand Nehemiah’s question as if it were referring to the returning exiles. In contrast to the harmonizing tendency of much prior scholarship, my aim has been, both here and in other cases, to reveal all the possibilities and to show how texts have been reread in the earliest interpretive tradition found already in EN. To conclude I would like to once again thank the respondents not only for their generous praise and insightful comments but also their critiques and questions. Both enabled me to articulate my position here in a manner that I hope will be useful for further discussion.

CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATION: A TEXT-CRITICAL MYSTERY AND THE STRANGE DEATH OF ISHBOSHETH KEITH BODNER

ATLANTIC BAPTIST UNIVERSITY, NEW BRUNSWICK, CANADA A. INTRODUCTION The troublesome reign of Ishbosheth comes to a graphic conclusion when he is assassinated—audaciously, at midday while reclining on a couch in his own house—by two of his own captains, the brothers Rechab and Baanah. Ishbosheth himself is something of an enigmatic figure in the Deuteronomistic History; he does not do a great deal in the narrative apart from tremble in fear. Ishbosheth only speaks one line in the entire narrative (2 Sam 3:7), and this sentence itself is awkward and indirect. In light of the artful enterprise of the Deuteronomist with respect to Ishbosheth’s characterization, perhaps it is not overly surprising that the manner of Ishbosheth’s death should be shrouded in ambiguity. That Ishbosheth is assassinated (while sleeping in his house at high noon) there is no doubt: the guilty confess, are charged, and duly executed. But the puzzle is how exactly the murder takes place—and this is the subject of my analysis—as there are significant discrepancies between the Hebrew and Greek texts. The MT seems to imply that the brothers gain access to the house by impersonation and stealth, and subsequently eliminate their target. The LXX, by contrast, introduces a new character into this somnolent drama: a doorkeeper of presumably feminine gender whose apparent siesta allows the assassins to enter the inner chamber of the Saulide king. After some necessary background discussion of the story as narrated in 2 Samuel 2–3 and 4:1–5, I will assess the problem of Ishbosheth’s murder. My plan is to survey a number of “solutions” posited by scholars and evaluate various attempts that have been made to resolve this text-critical mystery. I will then move toward a conclusion by summarizing the key differences between the MT and LXX in this 369

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passage and discussing some of the literary implications that emerge when these textual trajectories are compared. As a witness to the murder, the LXX provides an exciting and compelling testimony, but the MT account features several important details that cannot be ignored in light of the larger storyline.

B. TWO PREVIOUS DEATHS IN THE “FIFTH” DEGREE I should begin by stressing that Ishbosheth is not the first victim of homicide in 2 Samuel. Indeed, there are two other killings in earlier sections of this narrative that involve the specific anatomical area referred to as ‫ח ֶֹמשׁ‬, often translated in English as the “fifth rib.” Since—in my view—the death of Ishbosheth presupposes these two prior events, it would be wise to give them a brief review.

DEATH # 1 After the self-skewering of King Saul on the slopes of Mount Gilboa, David is anointed king over Judah, while Saul’s son Ishbosheth is crowned at Mahanaim , largely through the efforts of Abner, the commander of the army. Here the protracted struggle between the houses of Saul and David begins, with formal hostilities commenced at Gibeon in 2 Sam 2:12. In the ensuing battle, the “swift of foot” Asahel chases after Abner, and with a single-minded determination that proves fatal, does not swerve to the right or left. “Abner was saying to Asahel, ‘Turn away from following me! Why should I strike you to the ground? How could I lift up my face to Joab your brother?’ But [Asahel] refused to turn away. Then Abner struck him with the end of his spear in the fifth rib (‫ח ֶֹמשׁ‬o), and the spear came out behind him” (2:19–23). As one commentator summarizes, “The account seems to be at great pains to show that Abner was forced into combat against his will in killing Asahel. Others come to where Asahel lies and stand … still, perhaps in shock at the loss of one of these seemingly invincible brothers.” 1 This death will certainly be remembered as the narrative continues.

DEATH # 2 The central reason for Abner’s hesitancy to slay Asahel—in his own words—is the fear of Joab: “Why should I strike you to the ground? How 1 B. C. Birch, “1 & 2 Samuel,” in New Interpreter’s Bible, Volume 2 (Nashville: Abingdon, 1998) 1217.

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could I,” Abner says to fleet-footed Asahel in hot pursuit, “lift up my face to Joab your brother?” It will be some time before this question is finally answered, and other great affairs of state seem to deflect attention from this unreciprocated fatality; yet a brother’s death is not so easily forgotten, and certainly not by such a character as Joab—commander-in-chief of the southern forces of Judah. The most controversial affair is probably Abner’s surprising offer to “bring around” all Israel to David, to the profound detriment of Ishbosheth’s tenure. To this end Abner journeys to Hebron to make a deal with the southern potentate. The hard negotiations take place, one should note, all during the rather convenient absence of Joab who is out “raiding” (‫מ ַהגְּ דוּד‬eֵ ). But Joab returns to Hebron just as Abner has departed and hears the news. Outraged with David for cutting a deal with Abner, Joab proceeds to send messengers to bring Abner back. Then Abner returned to Hebron, and Joab swerved him toward the midst of the gate to speak with him quietly, and struck him there in the fifth rib [‫ח ֶֹמשׁ‬o]. So he died because of the blood of Asahel his brother. … (But Joab and his brother Abishai killed Abner because he put their brother Asahel to death in Gibeon, during the war.) (3:27–30)

“There is a fraternal symmetry,” notes Robert Polzin with respect to this developing theme that is far from over, as “brothers kill brothers for the murder of a brother.” 2 Such fratricide, I would argue, is woven into the fabric of the larger narrative design, and such killings will be seen again. But for the moment, the death of Abner is an important prelude to the death of Ishbosheth, not least because Joab is palpably a man with two motives— blood vengeance and his own job security. 3 Since it is not unreasonable to

2 R. Polzin, David and the Deuteronomist (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993) 48. 3 Again, Bruce Birch provides a convenient summary: “Joab must be seen as a figure with two interests that work against the acceptability of an alliance with Abner. The first is his hatred and distrust of Abner, stemming from Abner’s killing of Joab’s brother Asahel in the battle described in 2:12–32. Joab sees himself as the legitimate bearer of a claim for vengeance against Abner, although ordinarily bloodguilt would not be recognized for a death suffered in war—i.e., it was not considered murder. The second of Joab’s interests in this matter has to do with influence on David. Joab eventually becomes commander of David’s armies (8:16), but it is reasonable to think that Abner might have assumed this role if he had lived. In any case, Abner would have been a powerful and influential military ad-

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assume that Abner would have assumed control of the army had he lived, Joab’s own interests are obviously threatened, and hence these twin motives should be kept in mind.

C. THE BACKGROUND/BUILD-UP OF 2 SAM 4:1–5 1. A ROYAL REACTION TO ABNER’S DEATH The prior slayings of Asahel and Abner need to be kept in mind by the reader, as these deaths present essential background information that any reading of chapter 4 must reckon with. Consider v. 1: Then Saul’s son heard that Abner was dead in Hebron, and his hands hung loose, and all Israel was dismayed.

The death of Abner is no doubt a bitter blow for the house of Saul, yet one recalls that the relationship between Abner and Ishbosheth was not without its acrimonious moments. For instance, in 3:7 the reader is told that “Saul had a concubine, whose name was Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah; and he said to Abner, “Why have you gone in to my father’s concubine?” The ֶ ֹ ‫“( וַ יּ‬and he said”) is presumably Ishbosheth, yet the proper subject of ‫אמר‬ name is not used in the MT. But it is clear enough from the context as Abner retorts “Am I a dog’s head for Judah?” and goes on to announce his plans for defection. Of course, Abner never really responds to Ishbosheth’s charge, and neither does Ishbosheth himself as we read in 3:11: “But he was not able again to return a word to Abner because of his fear of him.” This conversation triggers the defection of Abner, a fellow Benjaminite, a switch in loyalty that is certainly not to Ishbosheth’s advantage. 4 As we will see, this is not the last defection that will victimize the hapless Ishbosheth. viser and leader within David’s kingdom, and this would make him Joab’s natural rival for David’s favor” (“1 & 2 Samuel,” 1225). 4 Abner sends word of his intentions to David, who agrees. “However,” David says, “there is one thing I’m asking from you, namely, you will not see my face unless you bring before me Michal, daughter of Saul, when you come to see me.” There is nothing particularly unusual about David’s request; the odd part of the episode comes next: Then David sent messengers to Ishbosheth son of Saul, saying, “Give up my wife Michal, whom I acquired for myself with 100 Philistine foreskins.” So Ishbosheth sent and took her from a husband, from Paltiel, son of Laish. Her husband went with her, weeping as he followed her until Bahurim. Abner said to him, “Go! return!” And he returned.

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When the news comes about Abner’s death, the (already weak) hands of Ishbosheth grow limp. 2 Sam 4:1 begins with another avoidance of Ishbosheth’s name, continuing the trend from the previous chapter: he is referred to simply as “Saul’s son.” At least, he is referred to as “Saul’s son” in the MT, whereas the LXX reads “Mephibosheth.” Scholars agrees that this is an error, a judgment with which I readily concur. 5 I want to stress that avoidance of the proper name in the MT is an intentional part of his characterization, and the textual error in the Greek happens because of this very strategy. Ishbosheth has certainly been afraid at previous points in the narrative, and his limp hands in this case indicate his psychological state of alarm and loss of confidence. Walter Brueggemann understands this image as, “He lost his grip on power.” 6 Further, “all Israel is dismayed” by these events, though whether the disturbance is caused by the death of Abner in Hebron or by the “limp hands” of Ishbosheth is not specified in the narrative. However, the net effect of all these details suggests that chapter 4 is intimately related to the preceding narrative, and that Ishbosheth’s failing courage is an ominous portent for things to come. Ishbosheth was fearful when Abner was alive; he remains fearful now that Abner is dead and presumably without protection.

2. TWO MURDERERS AND A MOTIVE Verses 2 and 3 present us with the two murderers and a motive. Now there were two men, captains of raiders, they were to Saul’s son. The name of the first one was Baanah, and the name of the second one was Recab. They were sons of Rimmon, the Beerothite from Benja-

In all likelihood Abner is guilty of vile treachery, but it must be said that the return of Michal by Ishbosheth himself does paint him in a rather bizarre light, and it is somewhat incredulous that he should so strengthen David’s position by acquiescing to this demand. Ishbosheth has been disparagingly labeled by one commentator as a “thoroughly unkingly invertebrate” (P. K. McCarter, II Samuel: A New Translation with Introduction, Notes, and Commentary [AB 9; Garden City: Doubleday, 1984] 122) and to be sure he does have weaknesses, but it is hard to deny that his position is a vulnerable one, and he has been ill-used by Abner. 5 On this particular matter, and the issue of nomenclature in general (eg., the variants of Ishbosheth/Ishbaal, Mephibosheth/Meribaal), see McCarter, II Samuel, 124–25. 6 W. Brueggemann, First and Second Samuel (Louisville: John Knox Press, 1990) 233.

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES min—for Beeroth was also reckoned to Benjamin. The Beerothites fled to Gittaim, and they are there as sojourners to this day.

Two new characters are introduced to the story, who hitherto have not been seen. The two are brothers, and we learn of their occupation before ִ ְ‫) ָשׂ ֵרי־ג‬. Graeme Auld obtheir names: they are “princes of raiders” (‫דוּדים‬ serves that “raiding” is the exact same term applied to Joab in 2 Sam 3:22, when Joab had just returned from “raiding” and the plot was hatched to stab Abner in the “fifth rib.” 7 Thus, Joab engages in the same activity as the sons of Rimmon: raiding. This similarity could be intended to establish in the reader’s mind that both David and Ishbosheth rely on “royal raiders.” More plausibly the point could be to underscore that some raiders are more or less loyal, or that raiders often act with a hint of self-interest. At any rate, the character zones of Joab and the sons of Rimmon intersect at this point of “raiding,” and it remains to be seen if there will be further similarities between Joab and these Benjaminite brothers. 8 For Bruce Birch, such data is far from irrelevant: The account is at some pains to establish that they were Benjaminites, even though they were from Beeroth, which was a traditional Gibeonite city. This makes Ishbosheth’s assassins his own kinsmen. Although details are not supplied, it is clear that Beeroth was annexed by the tribe of Benjamin, forcing the Gibeonite inhabitants to relocate in Gittaim (v.3). These events may lie behind the blood feud that led the Gibeonites to exact vengeance upon the house of Saul in 2 Sam 21:1–9. 9

The extended mention of “Beeroth,” and the identities of Baanah and Rechab as “Benjaminites” has evoked different responses from commentators—some see the brothers as politically disaffected from Saul (Hertzberg), while others see them simply as opportunists looking for profit (McCarter)—but the majority of interpreters suggest that this description of 7 G. Auld, “1 and 2 Samuel,” in Eerdmans Commentary on the Bible (eds. J. D. G. Dunn and J. W. Rogerson; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003) 232. 8 J. P. Fokkelman, Narrative Art and Poetry in the Books of Samuel. Vol. 3, Throne and City (2 Sam. 2–8 and 21–24) (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1990) 122–23, notes that their occupation and ties to Benjamin are presented in a certain order, an order that in v. 2a “establishes their duty to Ishbosheth as military personnel before 2b divulges their names as Baanah and Rechab … [from Benjamin, and thus] they are bound to their master by ties of kinship.” 9 Birch, “1 & 2 Samuel,” 1230.

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the Beerothites somehow provides a clue as to the motives of the two brothers’ activity in this chapter. As Victor Hamilton notes, “Possibly, their actions were in revenge for what Saul, Ishbosheth’s father, had done to the Gibeonites (2 Sam. 21:4).” 10 Alternatively, Hamilton cites the work of George Mendenhall, who “calls them ‘two disreputable turncoats [that] commit political assassination in order to ingratiate themselves with the man who will inevitably win power.” 11 I would venture to submit that the brothers’ activity in this chapter could be motivated by both reasons: a quest for vengeance and an opportunity for profit; after all, this seems to be the case with Joab as I have outlined above. Not only, then, do the brothers have “raiding” in common with Joab, but they also have the twin motives of “vengeance” and opportunism on their curriculum vitae. At the same time, these two brothers also resemble Abner in certain ways, as made evident in chapter 3. They are all from the tribe of Benjamin, and this, at the very least, will continue the trend of treason against Ishbosheth by fellow Benjaminites. With Abner, there is expected loyalty, but instead there is a deal with David. With the Beerothite brothers, there is expected loyalty, but instead there is interest in the Davidic cause. A slight complication emerges, however: the brothers are Benjaminites (tied by kin, therefore, to Ishbosheth), but are also Gibeonites (genetically predisposed to deception, perhaps, according to Joshua 9) and the victims of annexation (possibly by Saul). The brothers are supplied with an ostensible motive for murdering Ishbosheth, and if so, then the “blood feud” theme continues to drive this plot similar to the case in chapters 2 and 3. As far as opportunism, Abner is dead, and the two brothers seem to be looking to do what is right in their own eyes. “All Israel is dismayed,” and so these two captains take matters into their own hands and, following the example of Abner, attempt to curry favor with David.

3. A PARENTHETICAL ASIDE Verse 4 presents a brief “interruption” of the main storyline and by means of a flashback provides an introduction to another Saulide:

10

309.

V. Hamilton, Handbook on the Historical Books (Grand Rapids: Baker, 2001)

11 G. E. Mendenhall, The Tenth Generation (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973) 86.

376

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES (But Jonathan son of Saul had a son, stricken of feet. He was five years old [‫ן־ח ֵמשׁ‬ ָ ‫]בּ‬ ֶ when the report of Saul and Jonathan came from Jezreel. His nurse lifted him up and fled, and as she was hurrying to flee away, he fell and became lame. His name is Mephibosheth.)

With the son of Saul on his “deathbed,” as it were, the Deuteronomist pauses and provides the reader with information about another relative of Saul. Commentators have strenuously argued that this notice about Mephibosheth is “out of place” and “accidentally” slipped in through faulty editing. Just as Mephibosheth has an unfortunate accident, so this verse itself is an accidental inclusion. Alternatively, other readers find a certain narrative currency in the mention of another descendant of Saul appearing immediately before the murder of the present king of the north. Whether this implies that the house of Saul will live on, or that loyalties to the house of Saul may linger, is beyond my scope just now, but it is worthwhile to keep this verse in mind for two reasons. First, there is a wordplay between the description of Mephibosheth as “five” years old and the “fifth” rib of Ishbosheth, a rib that is about to be on the wrong end of a knife: one Saulide is “struck” of the feet at five, and the other is “struck” in the fifth. Second, the negligent nurse who drops young Mephibosheth will have a parallel character—at least in the Greek version of our story—in the form of a negligent doorkeeper who falls asleep at the wheel.

D. THE REGICIDE(S) OF KING ISHBOSHETH We now arrive at the central moment of the story: the murder of Ishbosheth himself. It is a great shame that Ishbosheth sleeps throughout the entire ordeal, that is, until his otherwise forgettable reign is abruptly terminated by the sons of Rimmon; however, given the paralysis of his rather short period in office, it is somewhat fitting that he is reclining in the horizontal. Compare, though the MT and LXX, of the regicide itself: MT: 5 And sons of Rimmon the Beerothite, Rechab and Baanah, departed and came during the heat of the day to the house of Ishbosheth, while he was laying down: the laying down of noon.6 And there they came, as far as the middle of the house, taking wheat, and they struck him in the fifth rib [‫]ח ֶֹמשׁ‬. Then Rechab and Baanah his brother escaped.7 And they entered the house, but he was lying upon his couch in the inner part of his bedroom, and they struck him, and killed him, and turned aside his head, and took his head and went the way of the Arabah all night.

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LXX: 5 And the sons of Remmon the Berothite, Rechab and Baana went, and they came in the heat of the day into the house of Memfibosqe and he was sleeping on the bed at noon.6 And behold, the doorkeeper of the house cleaned wheat, and slumbered and slept, and the brothers Rechab and Baana escaped notice, 7 and went into the house, and Memfibosqe was sleeping on his couch in his bedroom, and they smite him, and slay him, and take off his head, and they took his head, and went the way of the west all that night.

The most striking divergence between the Hebrew and Greek texts occurs at verse 6, where the MT reads “And there they came, as far as the middle of the house, taking wheat, and they struck him in the fifth rib, then Rechab and Baanah his brother escaped” while the LXX text has “And behold, the doorkeeper of the house cleaned wheat, and slumbered and slept, and the brothers Rechab and Baana escaped notice.” 12 A. F. Campbell’s recent commentary on 2 Samuel in the FOTL series has a useful summary of the problem: “The account of Ishbaal’s murder,” says Campbell, “has caused textual confusion (the RSV follows the LXX for v. 6; the NRSV notes that the meaning of the Hebrew of v. 6 is uncertain).” As an aside, I find it remarkable that it is the RSV that follows the Septuagint; in the vast majority of cases that I am aware of in 1 & 2 Samuel, it is the NSRV that is usually far more Greek friendly than its predecessor, so this runs counter to expectation. Campbell continues: “Verse 6 has both captains enter the house, kill Ishbaal, and escape. Verse 7 goes into greater detail; Ishbaal was having an afternoon nap; after killing him, the murderers cut off his head and traveled through the night with it. Verse 6 is needed for entry into the house; v. 7 is needed for the gruesome beheading.” 13 While Campbell’s comments are helpful as far as the general sense of the Hebrew story is concerned, there have been nonetheless some objec-

12 For a convenient clarification and overview of the complicated matter of the LXX and its variety of witnesses, see P. K. McCarter, Textual Criticism: Recovering the Text of the Hebrew Bible (Guides to Biblical Scholarship; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986). In this article I am simply following the widely disseminated version of the Septuagint edited by A. Rahlfs. Unfortunately, the text of 2 Sam 4:5–8 is not attested in the fragments of 4QSama (for the portions of 2 Samuel 4 that are attested in 4QSama, see F. M. Cross, D. W. Parry, R. J. Saley, and E. C. Ulrich, Qumran Cave 4. XII. 1–2 Samuel [DJD 17; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2005] 113–120). 13 A. F. Campbell, 2 Samuel (FOTL 7; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005) 48–49.

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

tions to the MT on textual grounds. 14 There have been various attempts to explain the reason for the divergence and attempts to recover the original text, an enterprise that has had mixed results. The positions of earlier scholars are admirably summarized and critiqued by Dominique Barthélemy and the CTAT committee. 15 They begin by saying: “*M and *G offer for this verse two very different texts. The one from *M inconveniently presents us with the murder of Ishbosheth and the escape of the two assassins before the next verse again describes for us their entrance into the house, the murder and the long nocturnal journey of the murderers. The text from *G is much more satisfying: the description of the caretaker who dozes off while picking over the wheat well explains how the two assassins were able to intrude into the house.” Not surprisingly, a host of commentators opt for the Greek reading, and Barthélemy lists upward of 25 scholars or translations that prefer the LXX. But what is the best explanation for the divergence between the Greek and Hebrew texts? We would be tempted to consider the two very clear forms of 6a offered by *G and by *M as distinct in literary terms and refuse to consider this a case of textual criticism. However, the quasi-identity of what precedes and what follows invites one to research whether these two textual forms do not have more in common than “the house” and “some wheat”. Wellhausen has noted the similarity between ‫ב)או( עד‬ (‫ ת)וך‬and ‫ שוערת‬which separates ‫ והנה‬from ‫ הבית‬in the two textual traditions. One of these textual traditions seems, therefore, to have constructed the beginning of its verse on the ruins of the other’s. But, in what follows 6a, innovative textual tradition has improvised much more liberally since no one has put forward a convincing relationship between *M and the eventual Vorlage of 14 The first ‫הנָּה‬ ֵ ‫ ְו‬has caused problems. It seems obvious that the LXX reflects “and behold” (kai. ivdou.) while the MT points the word as either a 3f pronoun, or, and this is more likely in my view, as an adverb of place (this is how the Authorized Version translators understood the matter: “And they came thither into the midst of the house”). But this is a minor difficulty compared with the considerable difference between the MT and the LXX on verse 6. For the use of ‫ הנה‬as an adverb of place, the best comparable use is in 2 Sam 1:10—where ironically, the Amalekite miscalculates David’s reaction just like Rechab and Baanah! Another similar use is Joshua 2:2. 15 D. Barthélemy (ed.), Critique textuelle de l’ancien Testament 1. Josué, Juges, Ruth, Samuel, Rois, Chroniques, Esdras, Néhémie, Esther (OBO, 50/1; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1982).

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evka,qairen [“cleaned”] or of kai. evnu,staxen kai. evka,qeuden [“grew drowsy and fell asleep” in the Greek text].

The absence of a “convincing relationship” through known mechanical lapses or errors of transmission strikes me as containing the heart of the matter. As Stanley Walters has cautioned: “When the text critic assumes that two MSS have developed from each other or from a common original text—however many generations of copyists back—the posited original text should be one from which the development of both texts can be accounted for by known processes of textual change; and the reconstruction is plausible only as the critic shows what those processes might have been. You cannot simply replace the actual texts with a theoretical one that reads more smoothly; you must account for the given texts.” 16 It is this “accounting” that has not, in the committee’s judgment, been persuasively demonstrated, and hence they move closer toward a resolution: Let us restate: *G is much more satisfying than *M, because it offers us in one colourful scene exactly what is needed to advance the narrative. But does his Vorlage render the original text more probably than does *M?

Since the Committee goes on to discuss various points in favor of the MT and reasons why Greek differences can result from secondary clarification, one suspects that their answer to this question is negative. I will return to the types of divergence between the two texts in my conclusion, but it first should be noted that other solutions to the strange death of Ishbosheth have also been proffered, and here are two. Consider, first, H. W. Hertzberg. He translates 4:6–7a as follows: “And they had already [Hertzberg notes, “Read wehinnē”] come into the midst of the house (as though) fetching wheat, when they found a woman cleaning wheat. And they smote her in the belly; and thus Rechab and Baanah his brother escaped, and came into the house, as he lay on his bed….” 17 Hertzberg then comments as follows: MT is so completely different that corruption or paraphrase is out of the question; in its present form, however, it is incomprehensible. It seems 16 S. D. Walters, “Hannah and Anna: The Greek and Hebrew Texts of 1 Samuel 1,” JBL 107 (1988) 386. 17 H. W. Hertzberg, 1 & 2 Samuel (Trans. J. S. Bowden. OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1964) 262.

380

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES that the murderers sneaked into the house as wheat-carriers, where they then meet someone whom they killed by stabbing in the belly. Perhaps this person was originally the woman found cleaning wheat, and whom LXX made into a doorkeeper. The alteration of the originally feminine suffix to the masculine suffix wayyakkūhū can easily be explained, because the person stabbed was expected to be Ishbaal, and because a sentence such as wehinnē ’iššā bōreret ḥiṭṭīm, ‘and behold there was a woman cleaning corn,’ fell out after the word ḥiṭṭīm. It is in any case improbable that the king’s house was watched over only by a woman worker. But if the two had come in appearing to have some business at the house, they could easily have got past the guard, which would, of course, have been there. It continues to remain strange that LXX should merely have retained the clause supposed to have fallen out here and should have given it its present form. One reason could be the corruption of wayyakkūhā; after that, the whole sentence would have become obscure. 18

For a second opinion from another textual coroner, consider A. A. Anderson. He contests Hertzberg’s position, though his criticisms are not necessarily posited on precise text-critical grounds, but rather on the overall sense of the story’s construction. Anderson translates 4:6–7a: “So they came inside the house pretending to fetch wheat, but they stabbed him in the abdomen; subsequently both Rechab and his brother Baanah escaped. Thus they entered the house while Ishbosheth was asleep on the couch in his bedroom, and they struck him and killed him. …” 19 Anderson notes that in 6a he is “[f]ollowing G ‘and behold’ and repointing MT’s ‫ֵהנָּה‬ ‘thither’ to read ‫‘ ִהנֵּ ה‬behold,’” while of 6b he says: “The translation of the ptcp. ‫ לקחי‬by ‘as though fetching wheat’ (cf. KJV) is doubtful (see Driver, 255); perhaps, we should read the qal inf. Constr. ‫‘ לקחת‬to fetch’.” 20 Anderson proceeds to comment on the text as follows: These verses have created considerable problems for the exegetes. It is possible that we have here not only a textual corruption (in v 6) but also a conflation of two alternative accounts (cf. Ackroyd, 51). The words, “…and they escaped” in v 6 may well mark the end of one version while v 7 may form part of another more detailed account. … Hertzberg, 1 & 2 Samuel, 264–65. A. A. Anderson, 2 Samuel (WBC 11; Dallas: Word, 1989) 66. 20 Anderson, 2 Samuel, 68, Citing S. R. Driver, Notes on the Hebrew Text and the Topography of the Books of Samuel, 2nd edition (Oxford: Clarendon, 1913). 18 19

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Many scholars follow G in v 6, rendering “And behold, the doorkeeper of the house had been cleaning wheat, but she grew drowsy and slept; so Rechab and Baanah his brother slipped in” (RSV). However, it is somewhat odd that the king’s residence had no guards and that a female doorkeeper (cf. John 18:16) was the only “security officer”! Of course, it is not impossible that the sons of Rimmon were part of the royal bodyguard. Kirkpatrick (77) suggests that they gained entry to the house by mixing with the “wheat-fetchers” (‫)לקחי חטים‬, but this interpretation would create further exegetical difficulties. Equally speculative is the view that v 6 refers to the killing of an unnamed guard or porter (so Hertzberg, 264; Stolz, 203). It is by no means certain that G has preserved the authentic reading of v 6; it may well be an ingenious attempt to make one version out of two. We prefer the MT (with minor alterations), and we assume that vv 6 and 7 provide a parallel account of the slaying of Ishbosheth. 21

E. HUNG JURY This brief survey indicates to me that as far as the text-critical murder mystery of the assassination of the hapless Ishbosheth is concerned, the jury is still out. In this instance it seems that among the various commentators the disputed zone is not so a much text-critical decision as it is a governing literary sensibility. It is, by any measure, a literary decision for J. P. Fokkelman, who in the end opts for the Greek reading in a manner somewhat counter to expectation, given his general regard for the MT throughout his massive fourvolume 2,441 page treatment of the books of Samuel. Fokkelman observes the different emphases on time and space in verses 5 and 7, and as for verse six, notes that “The subtle play of repetition and consecutiveness is now catastrophically disturbed if we leave the corrupt sixth verse as it is.” He argues, contra S. R. Driver, that nimlatu must mean to “escape,” not “slipped in.” “That is why verse 6c can only refer,” and here Fokkelman is surely right, “to the departure of Rechab and Baanah. 22 Anderson, 2 Samuel, 70. Fokkelman, Throne and City, 124–25. He further notes, “Consequently the whole of verse 6 must be described and recognized as a coherent system in itself: in 6a is the entry of the murderers, in 6b the murder, and in 6c the unimpeded departure. Well then, what can be said of all three parts is that they are intolerable, or 21 22

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In fact, Fokkelman goes on to argue that for him the crux of the matter does not involve a text-critical decision. He says: “I will not be undertaking an attempt to trace the Greek text back to, or employ textual criticism to link it with, the Hebrew original. But I do consider defending the matter of the porter worthwhile, on grounds which, to my surprise, have not been put forward earlier, and which are narratological or structural.” 23 Fokkelman’s position vis-à-vis the Greek text will be further delineated in a moment, but his footnotes do contain a good deal of interaction with Barthélemy and others. Yet Fokkelman seems to concede that the Hebrew and Greek readings are so different that it must result in a decision that is, as he puts it, “narratological.” Fokkelman’s honesty here is laudable: given that a putative “original” is hard to find on text-critical grounds, his decision in the matter is made according to literary sensibility: this is what makes the best sense in the context. I am reminded here of the historical appraisal of James Sanders in his programmatic essay “The Task of Text Criticism.” “Text criticism,” says Sanders, “since the formulation of its task by Johann David Michaelis in the mid-eighteenth century, had been understood to be a part of exegesis of the text in the sense that one can better judge which reading to choose if one knows first what the fuller context is about. There can be no doubt that the observation is true. But the practice developed to the point that, by the time of Julius Wellhausen’s work on Samuel in the mid-nineteenth century, textcriticism was not limited to choice among available ‘variants’ but was obligated to include conjecture in the conviction that it was possible to reconstruct Urtexte of much of the biblical text.” 24 In the case of 2 Sam 4:6, a consensus has not emerged on a probable Urtext, and thus we are left with two stories, each having, in my view, its own literary integrity. 25 The absence of a definitive text-critical explanation and the fact that the two texts unfold such alternative readings cause me to posit that a qualitatively different dramatic sequencing is at work in the MT and the LXX. much too redundant duplications which add virtually no information, and do a lot of damage, to the report enclosing v.6.” 23 Fokkelman, Throne and City, 126. 24 J. A. Sanders, “The Task of Text Criticism,” in Problems in Biblical Theology: Essays in Honor of Rolf Knierim (edited by H. T. C. Sun and K. L. Eades, with J. M. Robinson and G. I. Moller; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997) 316. 25 Note also, in general terms, the approach to the LXX by J. J. Collins, Daniel (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993).

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I would propose, then, to explore the strange death of Ishbosheth from a new angle, and in the remainder of this paper I will focus on some of the key differences between the MT and LXX in this passage, and highlight some of the literary implications and interpretative possibilities that emerge when these textual trajectories are compared. Indeed, as Moshe Greenberg has already argued at length, there can be a host of advantages that accrue during a close reading of divergent texts: “…although there is no logical basis for choosing one version over another when they both make sense, a comparison of the divergences, each read in its own context, provides a powerful heuristic resource that can alert us to the particular focus of each version.” 26 Along such lines, the remainder of my analysis will be a comparative study of what I understand as two rather different texts. In placing the MT and the LXX side by side, as it were, I am primarily interested in the various configurations of plot, character, and point of view that are discernable in each narrative. 27

F. SOME CONCLUSIONS So, if a case can be made that there are two different stories here, then let me move toward a conclusion by summarizing the literary advantages of the respective Greek and Hebrew texts. First:

1. LITERARY ADVANTAGES OF THE GREEK READING To reiterate the words of Dominique Barthélemy, “*G is much more satisfying than *M, because it offers us in one ‘picturesque’ scene exactly what is needed to advance the narrative.” Since other commentators do not have dissimilar reasons, I would outline the advantages of the LXX as follows: 26 M. Greenberg, “The Use of Ancient Versions for Interpreting the Hebrew Text,” VTSup 29 (1977) 131–48 27 There are grounds for suggesting that certain exigencies of storytelling exist here. One way or another, the MT has made enough sense to enough readers that one is forced to concede that it can be understood in its larger context. Yet the LXX has an undeniable attractiveness and is adopted by a legion of commentators. A neutral observer might say that there is value in each, and make the assertion that both versions are governed by their own literary logic. The Greek text has a certain internal consistency, since a new minor character emerges, and this phenomenon is attested elsewhere in the books of Samuel. The Hebrew is also consistent, since there is thematic repetition that integrates within the larger context of the story. Each narrative can be read on its own terms, and attending to the unique subtleties of both has that “heuristic” value which Greenberg adumbrates.

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a. There is an uninterrupted focus on the brothers Rechab and Baanah as they enter, destroy, and exit. Indeed, they resemble Hemingway’s killers, with a string of verbs tracing the lineaments of their movement. Even their perception is refracted through the “and behold” (kai. ivdou.), and the camera angle on the sleeping doorkeeper is presented from their visual perspective. 28 The killers enjoy a generous slice of luck in the Greek text: the doorkeeper could represent an obstacle, but the drowsiness caused by cleaning wheat eliminates any opposition, and they enter the bedchamber unimpeded within and without to dispatch their mission with clinical effectiveness. Whether the (female!) doorkeeper was supposed to restrain them or sound the alarm (both ideas have been proffered) I suppose is up for debate, but from Rechab and Baanah’s point of view, the plan unfolds perfectly. As far as a linear unfolding of event on the temporal plane, from the vantage of the killers the Greek text is the smoother. By the end of verse 6 in the Hebrew text, the murder is committed; in contrast, by the end of verse 6 in the LXX the brothers have just slipped by the sleeping doorkeeper and—for those who prefer suspense—they are only about to enter the bedchamber. b. The Greek text has the exciting new character of the doorkeeper. This napping character produces symmetry in the story: everyone is sleeping, which in turn symbolizes the rather dormant state of the house of Saul in general. But the more compelling argument—and this is Fokkelman’s point at length—is that the drowsy doorkeeper of 4:6 matches the butterfingered nurse of 4:4. Fokkelman examines the larger context of the unfolding chapter, and sees here “another example of an anonymous woman as a functionary in a literary unit on Saulide misery.” 29 Just as Rizpah and Michal are crucial in the political earthquake that rocks the house of Saul in chapter 3, so here two more female characters further underscore “the decline of the house of Saul.” 30 On the two characters in chapter 4, Fokkelman says that “Their contributions are, in themselves, unfortunate. In her haste to 28 As Fokkelman (Throne and City, 128) puts it, “One might interpret the line as what the brothers come across and what they see with their own eyes after their entry. The reader, who has gradually become uneasy, can almost feel, between the words, the vulnerability of the man who lies asleep, and who is about to become the target throughout the entire length of his armorless body.” It is possible that Rechab and Baanah’s point of view continue right into the entrance of Ishbosheth’s bedchamber, since there is an uninterrupted succession of verbs. 29 Fokkelman, Throne and City, 126. 30 Fokkelman, Throne and City, 127.

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flee with Mephibosheth, the … nurse has the terrible misfortune of crippling Jonathan’s little boy, and the porter, when it is her turn, is unable, through tiredness, to help her master, Ishbosheth, by sounding the alarm for instance.” 31 This provides, by Fokkelman’s reasoning, a cogent reason for “postponing” the report of Mephibosheth’s crippling accident to this point in 2 Samuel 4: the “flashback” is now downloaded immediately before the fatal accident to his regal relative Ishbosheth, thus heightening the theme of the entire chapter, “the adversity of the house of Saul.” 32 In both cases, a woman’s negligence (to whatever degree) results in a serious injury to a Saulide: in the case of the nurse in 4:4, she drops Mephibosheth; in the case of the doorkeeper in 4:6, her drift into subconsciousness allows unfettered access to the royal bedchamber. It should be noted in this discussion that this is not the first occasion where a “new” minor character appears in the Greek text of Samuel. One recalls a previous occasion in 1 Samuel 1:14, where a hitherto unknown “servant of Eli” is the one who delivers the rebuke to the (allegedly) drunken Hannah: MT: And Eli said to her, “How long will you be drunken? Put away your wine from you.” LXX: And the servant of Heli said to her, “How long will you be drunken? Take away your wine from you, and go out from the presence of the Lord.”

Similarly, servants of Joab in the Greek text of 2 Samuel 14:30 have no Hebrew counterparts: MT: And he said to his servants, “Behold, Joab’s field is next to mine, and he has barley there; go and set it on fire.” So Absalom’s servants set the field on fire. LXX: And Abessalom said to his servants, “Behold, Joab’s portion in the field is next to mine, and he has barley in it. Go and set it on fire.” And the servants of Abessalom set the field on fire, and the servants of Joab come to him with their clothes torn, and they said to him, “The servants of Abessalom have set the field on fire.”

The relevant scholarly literature on these subjects naturally proffer the standard arguments to account for the differences (haplography or the like), 31 32

Fokkelman, Throne and City, 127. Fokkelman, Throne and City, 127–28

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and of course, the customary arguments on the other side of the ledger as to why the secondary characters are secondary additions. 33 So it is that our case of the doorkeeper in 2 Samuel 4 is not altogether unique. It is hard—in absolutely every case—to point to mechanical errors in transmission that give rise to the alternative reading; instead, I would submit that it is another way to tell the story, with different shades of plot, character, and point of view that hails from an alternative literary imagination. In each of these cases, there is a dramatic element that is added in the LXX through the actions of minor characters, and the respective profile of a nearby major character is enhanced or diminished accordingly. In the judgment of A. F. Campbell, the breathless report of Joab’s servants that relay the news of Absalom’s arsonists: “offers a classic case of what may be regarded as a reminder to storytellers of the possibilities of the situation.” 34 At the very least, a case could be made that 2 Samuel 4:6 provides an example of the same kinds of narrative possibilities.

2. LITERARY ADVANTAGES OF THE HEBREW READING Let me turn, finally, to some perceived literary advantages of the Hebrew text. The MT portrays no sleeping doorkeeper. Only the king is slumbering in what appears to be a comparatively less insomniac household. Consequently, the MT captures a different profile of the Gibeonite killers: the stealth of the brothers as they gain access to the center of the house as “takers of wheat”—presumably a handy charade for “taking” the head of Ishbosheth out of the house without raising a host of inconvenient questions. Such deception, incidentally, would not be out of character for Gibeonites; one recalls disguise and deception in Joshua 9, so such Gibeonite activity does have some precedence. In the Greek text the brothers can walk right past the sleeping doorkeeper with the head of the king, whereas the MT implies at least some modest opposition that requires the pretence of “taking wheat.” A number of commentators understand that verses 6 and 7 provide two views of the death of Ishbosheth: hence, the MT has a different plot configuration that requires a different use of the imagination: verse 6 is one view of the killing, while verse 7 provides a 33 See A. Rofé, “The Methods of Late Biblical Scribes as Evidenced by the Septuagint Compared with the Other Textual Witnesses,” in Tehillah le-Moshe: Biblical and Judaic Studies in Honor of M. Greenberg (eds. M. Cogan, B. L. Eichler, and J. H. Tigay; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1997) 259–70. 34 Campbell, 2 Samuel, 127.

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flashback with added data. 35 Only the MT, it should be stressed, brings out the disguised dimension of the Gibeonite assassins. Many scholars incline toward the LXX not just because it is a smoother reading, but also because of the “picturesque” quality of the scene, no doubt heightened by the nodding portress. However, there is a crucial piece of evidence that the Greek text does not include: in the MT, the assassination of Ishbosheth is a murder in the “fifth” degree; that is, the “fifth rib” (‫ )ח ֶֹמשׁ‬is the place of the stabbing, and I would submit this physiological location of the king’s death is a vital organ within the larger narrative design. With the mention of the fifth rib, the reader gains insight into the motive for the killing and connects the death of Ishbosheth with other slayings in 2 Samuel. First, with respect to the motive, in my view Martin Noth is a fine detective when he describes the crime scene as follows: “One day the weak Eshbaal, who now lacked the strong hand of Abner, was murdered … during his midday sleep by two professional soldiers (‘captains of bands’) from the originally Canaanite city of Beeroth which had been absorbed by the tribe of Benjamin, and the inhabitants of which had probably been forced to leave the city in a conflict with Saul and [whose relatives] now took their revenge on the son of Saul.” 36 Of course, the death of Ishbosheth represents a forthcoming public relations problem for David, just like the fifth rib murder of Abner in chapter 3. Abner’s funeral is deftly handled by David as he distances himself from the brothers Joab and Abishai who are responsible for the dirty deed. So, just as chapter 3 is a public relations triumph, the public hanging of more killers, the brothers Rimmon, successfully distances David from the murderers. So, the “fifth rib” represents two problems for David with respect to the deaths of Abner and Ishbosheth, but it also serves to align the perpetrators of the deeds; that is, the brothers Rechab and Baanah are now aligned with the brothers Joab and Abishai. These two sets of brothers have something in common: namely, a twin set of motives for the respective kill35 In favor of the MT, Dominique Barthélemy and the CTAT committee observe: “The repetitive character of verse 7 in relation to the form of *M in verse 6 can be explained by the fact that 7 resumes the tale of the murder so as to add a new fact: the removal of the head as proof to be taken to David. Elsewhere we also find repetitions of the arrival of Joab in 3,22.33 and in the coming of the tribes of Israel to Hebron in 5,1.3.” The flashback of 4:7 indicates that a different kind of dramatic sequencing is at work here. 36 M. Noth, The History of Israel (London: A. & C. Black, 1960) 185.

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ings. As I discuss above, the motives of the brothers Joab and Abishai are both blood vengeance for a previous crime (the slaying of their brother Asahel) by Abner along with the fact that the interests of their military careers are served in having Abner eliminated. The situation is not dissimilar with the brothers Rechab and Baanah. As Martin Noth argues, they have an opportunity for revenge on the house of Saul by killing Ishbosheth (their boss) and simultaneously they have a chance to further their careers in the new regime of David by ingratiating themselves to a new employer with the severed head of their (previous) master. The fact that they underestimate David and end up impaled by the pool of Hebron is merely beside the point: it is their motives that are of interest here, and their motives resemble those of Joab and Abishai. This is the reason why, I would propose, the MT provides the reader with two different descriptions of the murder. In verse 6 the stress is on the body part of the fifth rib: “And there they came, as far as the middle of the house, taking wheat, and they struck him in the fifth rib. Then Rechab and Baanah his brother escaped.” In verse 7 the stress is on the body part of the head: “And they entered the house, but he was lying upon his couch in the inner part of his bedroom, and they struck him, and killed him, and turned aside his head, and took his head and went the way of the Arabah all night.” The twin motives are thus represented by the twin description: verse 6 underscores the motive of revenge while verse 7 shows the crass opportunism of the “head” which represents their hope for compensation. On the latter, Julius Wellhausen noted years ago in his Prolegomena that David indeed becomes king in succession to Saul, but “What a length of time these affairs demand, how natural is their development, how many human elements mingle in their course,—cunning, and treachery, and battle, and murder!” It would not be a stretch to add that a specific literary device for representing David’s throne secured by “cunning, and treachery, and battle, and murder” is through the use of the unique term “fifth rib” (‫ח ֶֹמשׁ‬o). The deliberate emphasis of the “fifth rib” in verse 6 connects the death of Ishbosheth with other murders in 2 Samuel. The term ‫ח ֶֹמשׁ‬, according to the statistical data of BDB, only occurs 4 times and is unique to the books of Samuel. It is used in chapter 2 to describe the killing of Asahel, in chapter 3 for the death of Abner, here chapter 4 for the death of Ishbosheth, and later in 2 Samuel 20 for the death of Amasa at the hands of Joab. Conspicuously, each of the four deaths all have something to do with the stability of the Davidic throne, and competition among and within houses. Through this specific use of “fifth rib” the Deuteronomist is connecting all four deaths and showing the fraternal cost of this stability. As

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Polzin comments: “Murder and mayhem caused by the pursuit of kings not only include intra-tribal killing within the house of Saul but will even involve intra-familial murder within the house of David. Thus we have a variegated series of capital crimes revolving around matters of royal succession, with each instance in the narrative series progressing toward an ever more narrow meaning for fratricide.” 37 (1993: 52). If we consider the reason for inclusion of the “fifth rib,” we gain this subtle narrative critique, and Ishbosheth’s death thus takes place within this larger network of allusion. Similarly, the two descriptions of the murder in 6 and 7 highlight the dual motives that the MT is at pains to show. And so, finally, at the risk of turning this higher-critical issue into the low art stuff of murder mystery pulp fiction, I would contend that there are different shades of plot, character, point of view, and theme configured in the Hebrew and Greek texts, leading to different reports of execution in the narrative. While I think this kind of literary analysis has value in itself, a corollary of such (a comparative) exploration is that it may well help formulate a new solution in the future to this assassination in the house of Saul, and shed light on reasons for the textual divergences that we find in 2 Sam 4:5–7. As far as the history of interpretation goes, this offers some evidence that the dramatic contours of this narrative were not lost on early audiences; someone went to the trouble to preserve the Greek text, and it behooves me as an interpreter to try and make sense of the variant descriptions of the strange death of Ishbosheth.

37

Polzin, David and the Deuteronomist, 52.

REREADING ORACLES OF GOD: TWENTY YEARS AFTER JOHN BARTON, ORACLES OF GOD: PERCEPTIONS OF PROPHECY IN ISRAEL AFTER THE EXILE (LONDON: DARTON, LONGMAN AND TODD, 1986) EHUD BEN ZVI, ED.

UNIVERSITY OF ALBERTA 1. Ehud Ben Zvi, Introduction 2. Philip R. Davies, ‘Beginning at the End’ 3. James Kugel, The Bible of Changed Meanings: Some Thoughts on John Barton’s Oracles of God 4. Hindy Najman, Reflections on John Barton’s Oracles of God 5. John Barton, Oracles of God Revisited

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INTRODUCTION EHUD BEN ZVI

UNIVERSITY OF ALBERTA As we exchanged e-mail notes on a variety of matters, by late June 2006, Hindy Najman brought up that John Barton, Oracles of God is about to be reprinted, twenty years after its publication. She suggested that it is about time to revisit this book, its claims and its impact in the field. I could not agree more. Kugel correctly states that this is “a subtle and important book.” Oracles of God challenged some important positions and approaches that were “mainstream” in the mid 80s and in many ways pointed at stances that will be developed only much later in research. Oracles of God was clearly one of the most important books published by the mid 80’s in terms of new approaches to prophetic (and related) literature and its reception in late Second Temple Period. It was time to reread, re-evaluate and re-enter into conversation with the book, with the hindsight of twenty more years of research. 1 Moreover, at a personal level, revisiting Oracles of God fit well with my research interests and my institutional commitments (see below). As soon as Najman raised the issue, I thought it would create an opportunity to rethink the question of whether much of Barton’s observations about the 1 The number of works on matters covered in Oracles of God in the last twenty years is astonishing. This by itself demonstrates that this volume focused twenty years ago on areas of research that will eventually become central in much of the present-day scholarly debate. For a few, illustrative examples of publications in some of the relevant areas during the last decade, see M. H. Floyd and R. D. Haak (eds.) Prophets, Prophecy, and Prophetic Texts in Second Temple Judaism (LHBOTS, 427; New York/London: T & T Clark, 2006); L. M. McDonald and J. A. Sanders (eds.), The Canon Debate: On the Origins and Formation of the Bible (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2002); P. R. Davies, Scribes and Schools. The Canonization of the Hebrew Scriptures (LAI; Louisville, Ky: Westminster/John Knox, 1998); J. J. Collins, The Apocalyptic Imagination (2nd. ed.; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1998) and L. L. Grabbe and R. D. Haak (eds.), Knowing the End from the Beginning (JSPS, 46; London: T & T Clark International, 2003).

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reception of prophetic books in the late Second Temple apply also to the processes that shaped the present compositional level of the prophetic book, left clear marks in the texts themselves and not only or even mainly at the level of isolated pericopes within the books, and contributed much to their acceptance as “authoritative” within the communities that produced them, likely, in the Persian period, that is, a few centuries earlier than the late Second Temple period. Several of my colleagues and I have been discussing these matters for a while. As co-chair of a Research Programme of the European Association of Biblical Studies (EABS) entitled “Israel and the Production and Reception of Authoritative Books in the Persian and Hellenistic Periods,” I immediately saw the many ways in which such a renewed conversation with the book and the author could contribute to the goals of the Research Programme. Prof. Diana Edelman, the co-chair of the Programme, immediately agreed and by early July 2006 Hindy Najman and I began organizing a session panel for the 2007 annual meeting of the EABS devoted to a discussion on Oracles of God, in addition to the regular sessions of the Programme. Philip Davies, James Kugel and Hindy Najman agreed to present their viewpoints on the book. John Barton agreed to provide a response. The following contributions represent the revised versions of the papers presented by the mentioned panelists during the session along with John Barton’s response. I would like to mention also that following the papers and the response a wide range and enlightening discussion developed. Without attempting to reconstruct the actual discussion, which in any case, would have been perceived differently by the various participants, a few illustrative issues may be mentioned. The matter of how or why does Oracles of God reconstruct the historical, monarchic prophets was brought up, along with the question of whether it lionizes them. Issues associated with sociology of knowledge were raised in this regard. There was some discussion on the question of whether the fact that prophetic books in the form of the fifteen books from Isaiah-Malachi were not produced after a certain period (late Persian-early Hellenistic?) may indicate a literary (and ideological?) genre awareness, independent at least in part of later developments in the conceptualization of prophet and prophecy. Finally, there was an observation about the absence of any sustained analysis or discussion of the testimony of the Book of Chronicles on the matters discussed in Oracles of God. It was suggested that the absence may be seen as indicative of the relatively lack of interest in Chronicles within the scholarly community twenty years ago.

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All in all, the panelist’s papers, Barton’s response and the discussion that ensued are proof positive of the enduring significance of Oracles of God and the questions and issues that it raises. This being so, it was decided that the papers and the response warrant wide publication. Following the precedent of colleagues who edited similar ‘conversations’ for this journal, I asked the contributors to revise their works for publication, but I did not ask them to convert their works into formal articles with extensive documentation, footnotes, and so forth. This means that their contributions retain many of the stylistic characteristics of a paper delivered in an originally oral setting. To be sure, contributors were allowed to add any footnotes that they deemed helpful for readers to understand the context, force and setting of their evaluations, but the decision whether to do so was left to the discretion of the individual participants. Finally, I wish to extend my thanks to Hindy Najman for suggesting that we should revisit the book, and for her characteristic energy and good sense as we organized the panel. I would like to thank each of the contributors: Philip R. Davies; James Kugel and Hindy Najman (again) for their willingness to revise and publish their papers in the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures and John Barton for his informative response.

‘BEGINNING AT THE END’ PHILIP R. DAVIES

UNIVERSITY OF SHEFFIELD There are, unfortunately, not that many scholarly books that combine common sense and wholesale iconoclasm as does this one. The main argument of Oracles of God is that in the Second Temple period (as we have since come to call it) prophecy was understood differently than now, in two major respects. First, it embraced more than the fifteen books that we now generally mean by the term (Isaiah to Malachi), and included everything in the scriptures outside the Torah, the books of Moses; thus historiographical books in particular were treated as products of prophecy, and indeed as such came to be called ‘Former Prophets’. Until the rabbinic era there was no Jewish canon of scriptures, but only ‘scriptures’, which were generally referred to in the Second Temple era as ‘law and prophets’. Everything outside Torah was secondary in authority, undifferentiated in status and without any fixed ‘canonical’ sequence or ‘canonical’ hermeneutical significance. Daniel and David were also regarded as prophets, while in Contra Apionem Josephus treated the writers of the biblical historiography as prophets also. Second, the individual prophets themselves were understood not as having addressed a particular historical or social context but as mediating a divine knowledge, heavenly mysteries, valid for all time. It is therefore meaningless to distinguish prophecy from ‘apocalyptic’ and indeed the latter category should really be abolished. John Barton’s book challenges to many received ideas, and remains a challenging thesis twenty years after its publication. The book thus deals with canon, prophecy and apocalyptic; but in a way that closely relates them all, and it is easier for me not to separate them either. I will start by noting that my own definition of ‘canon’ is rather different; for me a canon is not necessarily closed, but represents the classical corpus of the literate guild (Davies 1998). 1 John Barton and I agree that 1 I apologize for referring to my own publications; but I have been engaged closely with all these topics over many years and have no space to rehearse what I

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with allowance for our different definition, we have fairly similar views about the growth of the collection of books of scripture, including the conclusion that some books, such as the Enoch writings, omitted from the Masoretic canon once belonged to them. We differ, however, on the basis for their exclusion from the canon (see below), and because I accept a notion of ‘canon’ as an ongoing venture, I am prepared to see some hermeneutical maneuvering at a large level—though we would both agree in resisting any ‘canonical’ dimension of the kind promoted by Brevard Childs John argued that in the Second Temple period contemporary ‘prophecy’ embraced a range of divinatory activities, and the books of prophecy were interpreted in accordance with this range. The prophet was understood to be more ‘like an apocalyptist’ than the moral spokesman of modern scholarship (132), and ‘non-esoteric’ media, such as the speaking of oracles, were probably even regarded as inferior to the supernatural knowledge displayed by other forms of supernatural divination (137). There was no recognition of prophecy as a genre: rather, prophets were understood as (a) moral instructors; (b) predictors of the future in a general way; (c) revealers of secrets about the end of history and (d) mysteries about the transcendental world; ‘speculative theology’ (152–3). All of these are certainly typical of ‘apocalyptic’ literature; I would use the term ‘mantic’ for this culture, a belief not only that there were heavenly secrets—which nearly everyone shared—but that they could be divined or revealed by specialized techniques. The one fundamental point that Oracles of God makes, then, is that Second Temple Judaism reflects a society quite different from that of monarchic period Israel and Judah, and that the literature inherited from an earlier era was read in terms appropriate to its own times. There is no smooth development between prophecy and its later interpretation. John even hints that even the classical scholarly understanding of the prophets themselves (which he has, he admits, taken for granted) may be in need of revision. For if Amos, Hosea, Jeremiah et al. were ‘prophets’ then they were not like most of their own contemporaries. (‘It remains to ask whether modern scholarship can do better in establishing what the ‘old prophets’ were really like. I believe that it can….’ (273).

have said elsewhere.

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FROM PROPHECY BACK TO PROPHETS ‘Beginning at the end’ (the phrase is used on p. 4) is indeed a fruitful way to understand not only prophecy and canon, but the history of ancient Israel and Judah. John Barton cannot be accused of ignoring the complexity of the process leading from prophets to prophecy. Some careless readers may nevertheless retain the impression from Oracles of God that there is a perceptible gap between ‘prophecy’ and its interpretation. But of course there is not, and the prophetic books themselves cannot be placed on either side of such a gap. Every single one—Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, the Twelve—bears clear marks of having been composed, produced, or completed ‘after the exile’. The books themselves neither come directly from prophets, nor have they been transmitted from disciples of prophets. There may be in some cases original prophetic oracles at the core, but the creation of scrolls in which these and others are collected and expanded is the work of scribes (Davies 2000). Of most of the ‘minor’ prophets—especially Habakkuk, Micah, Malachi, Joel, Nahum and Obadiah (Jonah does not really count!)—we know little or nothing, and the biographical data on all of them are almost entirely editorial. We know of other prophets (and prophetesses) in ancient Israel and Judah, including ‘false’ ones’; there must have been many more than fifteen. What or who singled these particular ones out and put twelve of them into a single scroll? We can hardly deny that the ‘Scroll of the Twelve’ is itself as much creating as preserving (I would even say: ‘defining’) what came to be understood as ‘prophecy’ in the sense of a recognized determinate list of divine spokesmen to Israel prophecy? But that process is perhaps already reflected within the collection itself. Zech. 1:4 reads: ‘Do not be like your ancestors, to whom the former prophets (‫ )הנביאים הראשנים‬proclaimed, “Thus says Yhwh Sebaot, ‘Return from your evil ways and your evil deeds’”. But they did not hear or pay attention to me’, says Yhwh. John thinks (19) that ‘former’ indicates a reference to a body of preexilic prophets as opposed to postexilic ones like Haggai and Zechariah themselves. But who does the author of Zechariah mean, and where does he get his information? Why and how can he reduce their message to such a simple formula? Or is this a later editorial expansion? The reference to ‘my servants the prophets’, found a couple of verses later (v. 6)—and also in 2 Kings, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Amos and Jeremiah, as well as Ezra and Daniel— suggests a standard (Deuteronomistic) formula, and implies that ‘prophecy’ is already canonized (in my own definition of the term) into a literary collection. The prophets themselves have already become literary figures. But

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Zechariah’s characterization of their message surely applies to what we know as ‘Latter’ Prophets’, and not the books of Joshua, Samuel or Kings, later to be referred to, on John’s argument, as ‘prophecy’. The same is true of Deuteronomy. When Deut. 18 legislates about prophets, it clearly understands them as (a) foretellers and (b) moral or legal instructors. Hence, they are true prophets only if their predictions are correct. But even this is not enough; if they encourage others to do what is not prescribed in the torah, they are false (and hence prophecy is really unnecessary). Prophecy can be validated, according to Deuteronomy, only after the event it predicts; and even then it is judged by written Torah. There is surely some evidence here of an understanding of ‘prophecy’ that accords neither with our modern anthropological notion, nor with the understanding that John has so thoroughly exposed in the Second Temple period, but with what we find in Zechariah, or perhaps even in the Book of the Twelve as a whole. At any rate, in Deuteronomy, not only is prophecy defined as ‘repeated torah’, but torah itself is the product of a prophet, the greatest and definitive prophet, Moses. Deuteronomic ideology also understands prophecy to be, like torah, a written corpus that reinforces its covenantal status by ethical exhortation as well by embellishing the threats and promises (Jeremiah 36 makes the parallel with torah, and the mechanisms of transmission, quite plain, in describing the transition from a word from God to prophet, then from prophet to scribe and finally from scribe to reader). 2 The Deuteronomic prophet, therefore, is a covenant mediator, underscoring torah and the blessings and curses that the covenant invokes. Torah and prophecy are complementary resources. This ideology played a major role in the production of the Book of the Twelve, and such a precise view of what a prophet was therefore existed in the Second Temple period—prior to, or perhaps alongside the wider view that, as John puts it (147–8) ‘prophetic scriptures existed to teach truths that one could not know otherwise’. What, then, explains the fact that historiography also came to be associated with prophecy, that these ‘truths’ would include a knowledge of the past as well as the future? One possible answer is close to hand: Moses himself, the Deuteronomic prophet, is also the archetypal historian. Deuteronomy itself (though perhaps by means of a later expansion of a lawcode) supplies a historical retrospect to the speech that forms the main body; and hence Moses also becomes a narrator of history. The entire Torah—which 2 On the whole question of the relationship between torah and prophets as canons, see Blenkinsopp, 1977.

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became substantially a work of history—then comes to be assigned to Moses (thus a work of prophecy) and, just as the ‘Latter’ Prophets are repeaters of the law in torah, so the ‘Former Prophets’ are his successors as narrators of the past—an equally inspired product of divine revelation. The narratives of the Torah and of Joshua-Kings are, arguably, histories of the covenant and the consequences of its failure; closely linked to the theme of the Deuteronomic prophets, but, perhaps, a development of it rather than an intrinsic component. These observations do not undermine the thesis of Oracles of God. They complicate it a little, however, suggesting that there are ‘perceptions of ancient prophecy’ that also belong to the Second Temple, and are found in the scriptures themselves. ‘Prophecy’ (as opposed to simply ‘intermediation’, a culturally well-established range of activities) is a developing concept—personally would say an emerging concept—during the Second Temple era, and developing in various ways. But of course we should not assume that all Jews were Deuteronomists. The New Testament view of Satan and his evil spirits, and its attention towards an expected climax of history, is much closer to the books of Enoch than to Genesis 2–4, where disobedience to divine commands seems to be the root of evil and the Serpent is a mere crawling snake. The world-view of late Second Temple Judaism, is certainly closer to what we call ‘apocalyptic’ and hence its understanding of the processes of intermediation were essentially mantic. We can now say this without much fear of contradiction; in 1986 it was a viewpoint that was only just emerging. The view that Second Temple Judaism was different from the earlier religions of Israel and Judah goes back a long way, but that the Jewish scriptures themselves did not always reflect, far les dictate what most Jews in the Second Temple period believed and did still needs repeating. The Deuteronom[ist]ic perception of prophecy restricts the modes of prophetic divination to two: voices and visions. These are clearly not understood as divination; the initiative rests always with the deity, and the prophet is no more than a mouthpiece (who increasingly needed the assistance of a second, angelic intermediary). Divination was bad, prophecy good: ergo, prophecy was not divination. These other forms of divination (for prophecy is of course, one of the types of divination) are glimpsed within the canon and even more outside it. But were these uncanonized (or, in my own terminology, ‘decanonized), mostly so-called ‘apocalyptic’ books finally omitted from the scriptural canon because they were deemed unfit for public consumption, as John Barton suggests? Yes: the divine mysteries were not supposed to be investigated. But their rejection may not be alto-

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gether benign as Oracles of God suggests, and while we have hints, within the canon, of traditions about the great Adam and about Enoch himself, in P (Gen. 1:26; 5:22–24) as well as of a great spilling of blood leading to the Flood (as the Noachic covenant implies), we also have hints that everything to do with Enoch was effaced. Compare Enoch’s treatment in J, Gen. 4:17– 18; Adam’s disobedience and punishment, and the curiously truncated story in Gen. 6:1–4 (for more argumentation, see Davies 2006). This antipathy to what it regards as divination is consistent with the Deuteronom[isti]c definition of the prophet who simply utters what God tells or shows him, namely the dangers of disobeying the covenant and the rewards of keeping it. But regardless of these qualifications, I agree fully with John’s attack on ‘apocalyptic’ as a special category, in which he follows Rowland (Rowland 1982— another book that was generally less heeded than it should have been). ‘Apocalyptic’ writings are an entirely normal and natural product of the ancient world’s obsession with divination. Rather, it is the biblical ‘prophecy’ that looks artificially restricted. Why this antipathy to divination took root is a matter for a major study. But it was the primary occupation of many priestly guilds and we can speculate on what the priests of the Second period Jewish temples in Jerusalem, Gerizim, Samaria, and elsewhere did by way of it. We get next to nothing in the Pentateuch or Psalms; even the ephod becomes a piece of costume! Replacing the dispensing of justice with an authoritative lawcode and intermediation with covenant prophecy, and emasculating both by reducing them to sets of books purportedly from long dead recipients of the divine word, the most powerful omen of all was created: a religious canon whose author was God himself. As Oracles of God brilliantly shows, the scriptures themselves became omens, signs of the divine world. They could in their turn be deciphered by further inspiration (Daniel, the Qumran pesharim) or, in the manner of the ancient divining guilds, such interpretation could be codified, not into omen-lists but into rabbinic rules of exegesis, middot. Or allegorized (Philo), or subjected to atbash or gematria. Or ‘fulfilled’ by more recent events. ‘Bible codes’ are as old as the Bible itself. And of course even today many devout Christians regard a randomly taken (but divinely prompted) scriptural text to supply the divine message for the here and now. The perception of ancient prophecy that John’s book investigates is still alive and well. I have really done no more than add a few footnotes to a book that I greatly admire and that thoroughly deserves its imminent reprinting. I also look forward to reading, before too long, the fruits of that study on which

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John had embarked when he was distracted by this one, where he will move even further from the end towards the beginning.

REFERENCES Blenkinsopp, Joseph 1977 Prophecy and Canon. A Contribution to the Study of Jewish Origins. Notre Dame: Notre Dame University Press. Davies, Philip R. 1998 Scribes and Schools. The Canonization of the Hebrew Scriptures, Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1998 2000 ‘Pen of Iron, Point of Diamond’ (Jer 17:1): Prophecy as Writing’ in M. Floyd and E. Ben Zvi (ed.) Writings and Speech in Israelite and Ancient Near Eastern Prophecy (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 2000), pp. 65–81. 2006 ‘And Enoch Was Not, for Genesis Took Him’, in C. Hempel and J. M. Lieu (eds), Biblical Traditions in Transmission: Essays in Honour of Michael A. Knibb, Leiden: Brill,: 97– 107. Rowland, Christopher 1982 The Open Heaven. A Study of Apocalyptic in Judaism and Early Christianity, London: SPCK.

THE BIBLE OF CHANGED MEANINGS: SOME THOUGHTS ON JOHN BARTON’S ORACLES OF

GOD

JAMES KUGEL

BAR ILAN UNIVERSITY John Barton’s Oracles of God is a subtle and important book, and for both these reasons I am reluctant to try to summarize it in a few too-general sentences. Since, however, it is necessary for me to put at least one or two of its main points into evidence at the start, I hope I will be forgiven the oversimplification that such summary necessarily entails. Barton begins with a challenge to the idea of an original, tripartite canon; he seeks to argue, convincingly, to my mind, for an originally bipartite conception of Scripture, that is, the Pentateuch on the one hand and everything else on the other. In a remarkable tour-de-force, Barton marshals evidence from the apocrypha and pseudepigrapha, Philo and Josephus, the New Testament and rabbinic writings, to try to understand significance of Scripture and its components for the ancient communities, Jewish and Christian, that held them sacred. Finally, he proceeds to examine how prophetic writings were interpreted in the period when Scripture’s contours had not yet, or were just attaining, their final form. He shows that prophecy was perceived as ethical instruction; as predictive of events in the reader’s own day or the near-future; as setting forth the great divine plan in history; and as providing insider information (mystical revelations) about the nature of God and His interaction with mankind. All this, it seems to me, is altogether persuasive, and it is certainly encouraging that, after a brief sleep, this important work is now being awakened and republished for reconsideration by the scholarly community. In the following I wish to explore briefly the broader implications of Barton’s presentation of the Second Temple period’s understanding of prophecy—or, rather, misunderstanding, as he might say, since his book 405

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sharply juxtaposes what prophecy really was, as far as we understand it today, to what Second Temple exegetes thought it was. The question I wish to address is what this view of prophecy’s misinterpretation seems to suggest for the Bible as a whole. For surely, Barton’s depiction of biblical interpretation in the Second Temple period applies to more than the prophetic books; it is equally valid for other parts of Scripture. They too came to be wildly misunderstood, or, as I would prefer to put it, radically reconfigured. So it was that biblical narrative was interpreted and expounded by Second Temple exegetes (whether this was done on purpose or quite unconsciously is a complicated issue, and one that need not detain us here) in a way utterly out of keeping with what we now think we know about the texts’ true significance. I believe that most scholars nowadays agree that the stories of Genesis were by and large originally written as etiological tales (in Gunkel’s sense); 1 that is, they aimed at using figures from the ancient past (sometimes wholly invented ones) to explain various aspects of the writer’s own world—using, for example, the figure of Cain to “explain” the murderous and lopsided vengeance practiced his alleged descendants, the Kenites; 2 or depicting the early rivalry of two brothers, Jacob and Esau, in order to explain the close connection yet unceasing rivalry of their putative offspring, the peoples of Israel and Edom. 3 If this modern understanding of the Genesis stories is correct, then surely the way these same stories were interpreted in Second Temple times was profoundly out of keeping with their original character. In the book of Jubilees, 4 in the writings of Ben Sira, 5 in the Genesis Apocryphon and in the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, 6 the figures depicted in these and other stories are no longer taken as representative of their descendants, the Kenites or Israel and Edom, in illo tempore. Instead, these figures are understood to be individuals, real people from the ancient past, whose lives are being narrated in Scripture because they essentially constitute lessons in ethics and H. Gunkel, The Legends of Genesis (New York: Schocken, 1964), 25. J. Kugel, How to Read the Bible: A Guide to Scripture, Then and Now (New York: Free Press, 2007), 62–68. 3 Gunkel, Legends, 19–23. 4 Jub. 4:1–6, 31–32; 19:13–14, 26:13–18, etc. 5 For Jacob and the stolen blessing, see Ben Sira 44:22–23; for this approach to biblical figures as a whole, chapters 44–50. 6 For the overall approach of these and other texts, see my Traditions of the Bible (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1998), esp. 9–35. 1 2

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proper behavior. Cain, for example, becomes quite literally demonic, the offspring of the devil, whereas his brother Abel becomes what he never was in the biblical story, good, indeed, angelic. 7 Jacob and Esau similarly become ethical type and antitype: everything Jacob does is right and proper, and everything Esau does is the opposite. 8 Needless to say, this required a certain interpretive dexterity, since such is certainly not the picture of the two brothers as presented in Genesis. How was this done? Here is Jubilees’ rewording of the opening portrayal of the two brothers in Genesis 25:25– 27: Rebekah bore to Isaac two sons, Jacob and Esau, and Jacob was a perfect and upright man, while Esau was rough, a man of the field and hairy; it was Jacob who dwelt in tents. When the boys grew up, Jacob learned to write; but Esau did not learn, for he was a man of the field and a hunter, and he learned war, and all his deeds were rough. And Abraham loved Jacob, but Isaac loved Esau (Jub. 19:13–15). 9

In the corresponding Genesis verses, Jacob is not really a virtuous bookworm, nor is Esau, as in the words of this passage, “rough” or someone who “learned war.” Actually, Jacob is something of a homebody and a momma’s boy (that is why Rebekah is said in Genesis to love Jacob, while Isaac prefers Esau). Nor is Esau is presented in the Genesis passage as wicked or even “rough”: he’s more of an unreflective, athletic type—the proverbial “dumb jock”—who is beloved by his father Isaac precisely because he brings home for dinner the game he hunts in the great outdoors. Pressed to explain how he arrived at his rather different description of the two brothers, the author of Jubilees would no doubt insist that its main elements are all there in the Genesis text. Thus, the biblical assertion that Jacob “dwelt in tents,” seemed to Jubilees’ author odd because of the plural, “tents”; how many tents does one person need to dwell in? (To Gunkel, of course, the use of the plural would probably only have confirmed the etiological character of this narrative: in it, “Jacob” really stands for the people of Israel, who of course need more than one tent for their dwellings.) But how to explain this plural in Second Temple times? Someone who wished to think ill of Jacob in those days would no doubt have said that this Ibid., 146–69. Ibid., 352–76. 9 Translation based on: J. VanderKam, The Book of Jubilees (Louvain: Peeters, 1989, 112–13. 7 8

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showed that he was a philanderer, hopping from tent to tent while the other men-folk were off hunting with Esau. But of course Second Temple exegetes did not wish to think ill of Jacob—quite the contrary. And so the other “tent” that he was deemed to frequent was that of a school-teacher. While Esau was off hunting, exercising his atavistic love of killing animals and thus (Jubilees’ author would say) gaining practice for war (see Gen. 27:40), Jacob was a diligent student; as Jubilees says, “he learned to write.” (This same approach is continued in later Jewish exegesis: Targum Onqelos, Targum Neophyti, Sifrei Deuteronomy and other texts all repeat the idea that Jacob attended school, indeed, in the words of this last source, he “observed the entire Torah” even though it had not yet been promulgated at Mt. Sinai.)10 This was certainly a good start at Jacob’s rehabilitation, but the bare biblical narrative still left Jacob doing a number of things with questionable ethical implications. How, for example, to explain Jacob’s bald-faced lie when he pretended to be Esau in the incident of Isaac’s blessing in Genesis 27? Poor Isaac, even though old and blind, senses something is wrong when he asks, “Who are you, my son?” And Jacob’s answer—“I am Esau, your firstborn” (Gen. 27:18–19)—could not but bring the blush of shame to the cheek of any Second Temple reader of this text. To the rescue came the same sort of creative exegesis I have been describing (though again, I’m not at all sure it did not start off rather tongue-in-cheek). According to this approach, attested both in Jubilees and later in rabbinic midrash, Isaac did not ask one question, but two: “Who are you? My son?” Jacob answers the second question first, “I am,” then adding as an afterthought, “Esau is your firstborn (that is: ‫[ אנכי‬stop] ‫)עשו בכרך‬.” 11 Through such strategies were the stories of Genesis—and other stories as well—converted into what they never were intended to be. David similarly becomes a model of probity, and even his great ethical slip-up, his sin with Bathsheba, is converted by ancient interpreters into a tale of sin and repentance (which it certainly is not in 2 Samuel). The beginnings of David’s transformation into penitent sinner are attested as early as the psalm superscription of Psalm 51, “A Psalm of David, when the prophet Nathan came to him after he had gone in to Bathsheba,” followed immediately by: “Have mercy on me, O God, in keeping with Your kindness, and according to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin.” Indeed, as Barton and others 10 11

Kugel, Traditions, 354. Ibid., 359–60.

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have shown, David came to be utterly transformed in Second Temple exegesis: he becomes the author of all 150 of the canonical psalms, indeed of some 4,050 liturgical compositions according to the Qumran text 11Q5 “David’s Compositions,” 12 while at the same time becoming a prophet in his own right; according to this same Qumran text, he was gifted with “prophecy from the Most High,” 13 and a similar assertion is found in a passing mention in Philo of Alexandria. 14 David’s prophetic standing later becomes a commonplace—“David, being therefore a prophet”—it says in the book of Acts, and the same assertion is found in other early Christian writings as well as here and there in the rabbinic corpus. 15 It was not just biblical narratives that were transformed in post-exilic times, but laws as well. The law forbidding the worship of Molech in Lev. 18:21—“You shall not give of your offspring to be passed to [the god] Molech”—was interpreted in post-exilic times as having absolutely nothing to do with that particular deity. Instead, it was understood, in Jubilees, in Targum Neofiti and Pseudo-Jonathan, in the Peshitta, and in the Babylonian Talmud, as referring to the prohibition of intermarriage: “You shall not give of your seed for sexual relations with a daughter of the nations, to pass over to idolatry, and you shall not profane the name of God.” 16 The Hebrew Bible mentions a number of polygamous men, Abraham and Jacob and David and so forth, with no an apparent approbation expressed in the text. But in the “camps” of the Dead Sea Scrolls community a man was forbidden to be married to two women simultaneously. 17 To 12 column xxviii; see F. Garcia-Martinez and E. Tigchelaar, The Dead Sew Scrolls: Study Edition (Leiden: Brill, 1998) vol. 2 :1178–79. 13 Ibid., loc cit. 14 Philo, Quis Haeris, 290, refers to the author of Psalm 84 (apparently David) as “a certain prophetic fellow.” 15 See J. A. Fitzmyer, “‘David, Being Therefore a Prophet…’” CBQ 34 (1972), 332–39; J. Kugel, “David the Prophet” in Kugel, Poetry and Prophecy (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1990), 45–55. 16 G. Vermes, “Leviticus 18:21 in Ancient Biblical Exegesis,” in E. Fleischer and J. J. Petuchowski, eds. Studies in Aggadah, Targum, and Jewish Liturgy in Memory of Joseph Heinemann (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1981), 108–24. 17 For the implications of this statement for divorce there is a considerable literature; see, inter alia: G. Vermes, “Sectarian Matrimonial Halakhah in the Damascus Rule,” JJS 25 (1974), 197–98; J. Baumgarten, “The Qumran-Essene Restraints on Marriage” in L. Schiffman, Archaeology and History of the Dead Sea Scrolls (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1989), 14–15; D. D. Swanson, The Temple Scroll and the Bible (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 138; G. Brin, “Divorce at Qumran,” in M. Bernstein et

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support this practice, the Damascus Document cited the law of Deut. 17:17 prohibiting the king from “having multiple wives”; this was interpreted as forbidding any more than one wife, and the prohibition was to taken to apply to the people as a whole. To further buttress this understanding, the Damascus Document cited two other biblical verses, the biblical assertion that “male and female He created them” (Gen. 1:27) and “two by two they entered the ark” (Gen. 7:9), neither of which, however, appears to be addressed to the issue of polygamy. 18 There could scarcely be a more straightforward biblical law than “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth” (Exod. 21:24), yet it is clear that this law ultimately came to be understood by Jewish exegetes in exactly the opposite sense, not an eye for eye, but monetary compensation for an eye. 19 In fact, it is difficult to point to very many biblical laws that were not changed, slightly or fundamentally, by post-exilic interpretation—laws of the sabbath and of festivals, laws of warfare, laws of commerce and the taking of interest, sabbatical year laws, and on and on. The Psalms also underwent a radical transformation (this case is rather better known, so I will not need to elaborate much). 20 Mention has already been made of the tradition of Davidic authorship of the psalms, but this is only the tail-end of a transformation that began far earlier. In a nutshell, compositions that were for the most part created to be recited in cultic circumstances, as an accompaniment or complement to the animal sacrifices offered there, eventually came to be de-contextualized. “I come before You” was no longer the declaration of a worshiper arrived at the sacred precinct of God’s dwelling-place, but the affirmation of God’s omnipresence by a worshiper praying in church or synagogue or in his or her own home. Indeed, in this same period the psalms were becoming more than the personal prayers of a divinely inspired servant of God (that is, David); they were now interpreted as Scripture, prophecy (again I refer to Barton’s book among others), full of hints about God’s ways with mankind or His plans for mankind’s future. 21 al., Legal Texts and Legal Issues (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 236–37. 18 Dam. Doc. 4:20–5:2. 19 This interpretation is first attested in Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 4:280 and then fully articulated in the b. Talmud, Baba Qamma 83b-84a. 20 Among the earliest studies of this process was S. Mowinckel, The Psalms in Israel’s Worship (Nashville: Abingdon, 1962), vol. 2, esp. 109.; also S. Hølm-Nielsen, “The Importance of Late Jewish Psalmody,” in Studia Theologica 14 (1953) and J. Becker, Israel deutet seine Psalmen (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1966).. 21 Above, note 12.

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To summarize a case that doubtless should be presented in far greater detail: post-exilic biblical interpretation utterly transformed the meaning of every part of the Bible. It became—I think this is no exaggeration—a different book, one whose several parts would be quite unrecognizable to their original authors in their new interpretation. The question I wish to pose in mentioning all this—in a sense, it is a question that arises naturally out of John Barton’s book—is: what is one to make of this circumstance? It would not be a mischaracterizing of Barton’s approach to say that, despite his evident care and sympathy in amassing his evidence of the great reconfiguration of classical prophecy that took place in postexilic times, to him this transformation is ultimately wrong and in need of correction. “In reality,” he writes, “we should have to say [that] they [the classical prophets] were not what the ancient world called prophets; they were individuals without a status, lone geniuses whom any generic title belittles.” 22 To the extent that their misunderstanding as “prophets” is still with us, then, it should be set aright; what we need to understand is who these prophets really were, not who they were misconstrued to be. Barton further writes: “The classical prophets were eccentrics, strange and alarming figures who broke the mould of accepted beliefs and values but who, in the process, changed those values and altered the national religion into something scarcely paralleled in the ancient world. For postexilic Judaism, [however,] especially in its development from the time of Ezra, the prophets were characters in a book written by the finger of God. Their utterances were not the words of mortal men, but divine oracles.” 23 It is an article of faith—or at least an article of some faiths—that the true study of the various parts of the Hebrew Bible is all about recovering their real meaning, by which is meant their original meaning, indeed, recovering to the extent possible the real people and events behind those texts, the real Isaiah and Jeremiah as they actually were. This proposition seems so self-evident that it hardly needs to be stated—and yet, the question I wish to pose (I am afraid that, in the present format, I can do no more than pose it) is whether this is really so. Was not the original Bible, the Bible that was accepted as such by ancient Jews and Christians, in fact the highly transformed Bible that John 22 John Barton, Oracles of God: Perceptions of Ancient Prophecy in Israel after the Exile (New York: Oxford, 1986) 272. 23 Ibid. 269.

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Barton and I describe—the one in which the stories of Genesis had become ethical tales and moral parables, in which old laws had acquired entirely new meanings, in which the psalms had become the promptings of every heart in any place, and in which prophecy had long ago ceased to be understood as the eccentric words of “strange and alarming figures” but instead had become divinely dictated teachings about right conduct, about prophetic knowledge of the present day, about the divine plan for history, and so forth? This was, after all, the book that ancient Jews and Christians canonized. Just as much as they canonized its table of contents, they canonized a way of reading it and a set of assumptions about the people in it and what they wished to impart. The canonizers did not canonize ancient Israelite history; they canonized the words of this book, and a very specific (and easily describable) way of reading those words. (Barton has described it quite well.) So the Bible that modern scholarship is so eager to discover is really a Bible that never was: it is actually the raw material that only became the Bible following its radical reconfiguration in post-exilic times. There is something thrilling—I certainly do not wish to deny it—in contemplating that raw material on its own, including thinking about the real Isaiah and Jeremiah before their radical make-over. But there is also a paradox inherent in that operation. To the extent that we are successful in unmasking the oracles of God and showing them to be the work of altogether human eccentrics, have we not, in some basic sense, undone Scripture as well? I am aware, of course, of the answer of some: “Oh no, on the contrary! We will have acquired a more realistic, a more truthful, sense of who these people really were.” I know that answer; I just do not believe it. Rather, I should say that, after nearly two centuries of modern biblical scholarship, that paradox is still with us, still unresolved. We want to have our Bible and criticize it too. The result is a kind of compromise Scripture. Those are indeed etiological tales in Genesis, but somehow—even if one reads the most hard-nosed of modern commentators—there is still a little ethical lesson lurking between the etiological lines. Take, as only one brief example, that other narrative in which Jacob ends up supplanting his brother, the one in which he gets Esau to sell him his birthright for a bowl of stew. For modern scholars, this is generally understood in very much the same way as the story of the stolen blessing: here too is an etiological narrative in which the two brothers really represent the two nations they were deemed to have founded, Israel and Edom. If, in later times, Israel came to dominate its once more powerful neighbor Edom, then this story (like that of the stolen blessing) will seem to have predicted and explained that

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change: Jacob was indeed once the “younger” brother (that is, the smaller and newer nation), but one day, back in illo tempore, he took advantage of his famished brother and got him to sell his birthright for a pittance. As a result, Jacob and the nation descended from him acquired their superior status; as in all etiological tales, the distant past explains the (biblical) present. This was fine as an etiological tale, and the stereotypical portraits that it embodies (already discussed in regard to the story of the stolen blessing)—Jacob is the clever but somewhat ruthless stay-at-home, Esau is the muscle-bound but not-too-clever outdoorsman—must have brought a smile of satisfaction to ancient Israelites who heard the tale. But such a tale can hardly sit well with our own idea (inherited from the ancient interpreters) that the Bible is a book replete with moral instruction, in which figures like Jacob are necessarily models of ethical probity. So, at least in a great many modern commentaries and introductions, the etiological side of things is down-played as the commentator desperately seeks to save Jacob’s reputation: Esau parts with the birthright.—The superiority of Israel to Edom is popularly explained by a typical incident, familiar to the pastoral tribes bordering on the desert, where the wild huntsman would come famishing to the shepherd’s tent to beg for a morsel of food. At such times the ‘man of the field’ is at the mercy of the tent-dweller; and the ordinary Israelite would see nothing immoral in a transaction like this, where the advantage is pressed to the uttermost. 24

Here, one cannot but notice the delicately worded heading, “Esau parts with the birthright,” along with the (quite unsupported) assertion that this was a “typical incident” in ancient times. Note also the implied description of Esau as “wild,” and the insinuation that Jacob was a shepherd—neither of these has any basis in this biblical narrative itself. Finally, the commentator’s observation that “an ordinary Israelite” would see nothing immoral in Jacob’s behavior is meant to argue against our own, unavoidable impression that Jacob was indeed doing something immoral. Another commentator sums up the episode thus: “Esau, slave of his appetites, fell into Jacob’s trap like a hungry bird.” 25 No doubt every John Skinner, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Genesis (International Critical Commentary) (Edinburgh: T & T. Clark, 1910), 361. 25 J. H. Tullock, The Old Testament Story (Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 24

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starving person might be described as a slave of his appetites, but what exactly was Jacob’s “trap”? There is no indication that he planned to cook up his lentils so as to tempt Esau, only that he cruelly withheld them after Esau showed up until Esau would agree to the deal. Yet another scholar opines: The purpose of the action is to illustrate the superiority of the younger brother, who is astute and farsighted. Esau’s words and actions are a deliberate caricature: he is uncouth, coarse, and stupid. Jacob, on the contrary, is farsighted; he thinks of the future and is determined to rise in the world. 26

The apologetic character of this observation hardly requires commentary. But consider another assessment of this incident: The Bible is not here condoning what has been obtained by trickery. On the contrary, the way the narrative is handled makes clear that Jacob has a claim on the birthright wholly and solely by virtue of God’s predetermination. In the other words, the presence of the oracle in the story [in Gen. 25:23] constitutes, in effect, a moral judgment upon Jacob’s behavior. 27

Here, at least, the commentator is prepared to accept that Jacob behaved unethically (though again, it was not so much by “trickery” as by exploitation). But he goes on to say what the biblical text does not even imply, that Jacob’s real claim to his brother’s birthright comes “wholly and solely by virtue of God’s predetermination” as expressed in Gen. 25:23. On the contrary, what this story says is that Jacob officially acquired his brother’s birthright thanks to Esau’s sale of it in extreme circumstances. That is why Jacob makes Esau take an oath, to make it official. The rest is just the commentator’s wishful thinking; there is no hint of any “moral judgment upon Jacob’s behavior” in the story itself. Such apologetics are really a holdover from the overall approach and interpretive assumptions championed by the Bible’s ancient interpreters. These modern commentators are thus mixing two different ways of reading, that of modern scholarship (etiological narratives, individuals representative of corporate entities) and that of the ancient interpreters (tales about real 2000), p. 50 26 C. Westermann, Genesis (London: T & T. Clark: 1987) 183. 27 N. Sarna, Understanding Genesis (New York: Schocken, 1970) 183.

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individuals whose stories are narrated for the purpose of moral instruction). The two cannot truly coexist; anyone who maintains that the stories of Genesis are largely etiological in character cannot honestly claim that they also have seem to have some moral lesson to impart; this is true not only of Jacob and Esau, but of a most of the Genesis tales. Thus, Cain’s brother Abel was not, as ancient interpreters maintained, “good” 28—he was just a victim. And Jacob was not (as we have seen) particularly good either, especially in the stories that touch on his youth. Indeed, the trickiness or outright dishonesty that characterized his behavior was shared by his mother Rebekah (whose idea the stolen blessing was in the first place, Gen. 25:7– 10); her brother Laban, Jacob’s uncle (who switched the brides on Jacob’s wedding night and later tried to cheat Jacob out of his wages, Gen. 29:23– 29; 31:17, 39–43); Laban’s daughter Leah, who must have done a certain amount of pretending on that same wedding night too (Gen. 29:25); and Laban’s other daughter Rachel, who was actually a thief, stealing her father’s valued teraphim from under his own nose (Gen. 31:19). There are not a lot of ethical lessons to be learned from this family unless one is prepared to follow the ancient interpreters in their dogged remaking of the text. The same paradox holds for Scripture’s other parts—for prophetic books, for the psalms, for Proverbs, perhaps most strikingly of all for the Song of Solomon, which for centuries was taken as an allegory of God’s love for Israel, or Christ’s love for the Church. Now that scholars have demonstrated conclusively that it was really, originally, no allegory at all, but a pastiche of erotic poetry that in fact bears a striking resemblance to ancient Egyptian writings of the same genre 29—now that this has been shown, what is it still doing in the Bible? Or is it just possible that its transformation into an allegory of divine love amounted to an act of radical rewriting, in fact, the creation of a new text (even though not a word of the original had been changed)? And is it not so that it was this rewritten text, this allegory (and not the erotic love poem), that gained entry into the Bible in the first place? If that is true of the Song of Solomon, is it not also true of the re-understanding of the psalms outside of their original cultic context, the re-understanding of the Genesis stories as little lessons in ethics, and even Kugel, Traditions, 151–52. This theme is elaborated in numerous modern commentaries: see M. V. Fox, The Song of Songs and Ancient Egyptian Love Songs (Madison, Wisc.: University of Wisconsin, 1985) ; for other comparative material, M. Pope, The Song of Songs (AB) (Garden City NY: Doubleday, 1977) 54–89 28 29

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the re-understanding of the words of Israel’s classical prophets as oracles of God? Can they cease to be oracles of God and still be our Bible?

REFLECTIONS ON JOHN BARTON’S ORACLES OF GOD HINDY NAJMANN

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO “Philosophy is perfectly right in saying that life must be understood backwards. But then one forgets the other clause—that it must be lived forwards.” Soren Kierkegaard Over 20 years ago John Barton published Oracles of God (London: Darton, Longman, and Todd, 1986). And yet, we are only beginning to catch up with his courageous and decisive break from prior scholarly presuppositions. But our challenge now, perhaps for the next twenty years, is to internalize the insights of Oracles of God and then to imagine what should come next and how we are to take his challenges and rethink the existing scholarly assumptions about prophecy. It has taken biblical studies sixty years to accept that the Dead Sea Scrolls require us to rethink many of the presuppositions that have been part of our field for well over two hundred years. Indeed, many biblicists have refused to do so, claiming that they are responsible only for the canonical materials that are part of the Protestant or Jewish biblical tradition. Barton courageously embraced the new information from the scrolls and sought to work out some of the implications for thinking about (1) canon; (2) genre; (3) prophecy and apocalyptic; (4) OT and NT; and (5) hellenistic Jewish traditions, not to mention (6) how to conceive of pseudepigraphic texts. Barton argued against the consensus in the early eighties that a tripartite canon was fixed in late second temple times. Here are four passages from Barton’s book where this position is argued:

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES (A) An ‘untraditional’ view of the history of the canon in the age of the New Testament might be characterized by three essential theses: (1) The classification of scriptural books was bipartite, not tripartite, and a ‘Prophet’ was any book with scriptural status outside the Pentateuch. (2) The word ‘canon’ itself is a most inappropriate term to describe the Scriptures of Jews and Christians in the first few centuries of our era. (3) The books of Scripture were not arranged in any particular order from which theological implications can be derived. (44)

(B) If the word ‘canon’ is to be used at all, then it should probably be in the sense in which the term was sometimes used in the early Church, to denote a ‘norm’ or regulative standard rather than a closed body of texts. In this sense there is no doubt that the Pentateuch can very well be said to have been the ‘canon’ for post-exilic Judaism, at least from the time of Ezra. Almost all the ancient writers we have so far discussed make it clear that ‘Moses’ had a higher status than any other prophet, however venerable, and it is very unusual for the boundary between the Torah and the rest of the Scriptures to be blurred. Though I have been arguing that the distinction between ‘Prophets’ and ‘Writings’ is unattested in our period, the same can most certainly not be said of the boundary between the Prophets and the Law. While, as we have seen, Christian writers tend to see no divide between the end of Deuteronomy and the beginning of Joshua, this is not so in Judaism, where ‘words of qabbalah’ cannot overrule ‘words of torah’. But in the more common sense, even the Torah is not a ‘canon,’ for it was never selected from any larger collection. (63)

(C) The purpose of this section has been to argue that the term ‘canon’ obscures more than it clarifies if we are trying to understand what Scripture—and in particular ‘prophetic’ Scripture—meant in Judaism in New Testament times; and to find a way of describing how Scripture functioned that would do more justice to the categories in which people at the time actually thought. (80)

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(D) The positive of advantage of setting aside the notion that there was a ‘canon’ of Scripture in our period is that we are free to register various nuances of emphasis in the attitudes to Scripture that prevailed in various groups. (80)

In the above passages, Barton argues in a compelling manner that the term “canon” itself is not helpful. Moreover, Barton asks us, as have other scholars in recent times, 1 to stop employing a term that only reinforces anachronistic assumptions about our ancient traditions. He calls upon scholars to release themselves from any hierarchical ordering of texts. While, at the same time, Barton maintains through Oracles of God that the Pentateuch was primary and authoritative. He nevertheless argues that we cannot speak of a canon as late as the New Testament and even later for Jewish groups. Thus, the writing of new scripture remains possible within the various communities of Second Temple Judaism and even beyond. Related to the challenge that we should not assume a fixed canon is the assumption that the canon is composed of discrete generic categories 1 Eugene Ulrich,“The Bible in the Making: The Scriptures at Qumran,” in The Community of the Renewed Covenant (ed. E. Ulrich and J. C. VanderKam; Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame, 1994), 77–94; Julio Trebolle Barrera, “The Authoritative Functions of Scriptural Works at Qumran,” in The Community of the Renewed Covenant (ed. E. Ulrich and J. C. VanderKam; Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1994), 95–110; James A. Sanders, “Introduction: Why the Pseudepigrapha?,” in The Pseudepigrapha and Early Biblical Interpretation (ed. J. H. Charlesworth and C. A. Evans; JSPSup 14; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993), 13–19; Frank Moore Cross, “The Old Testament at Qumrân,” in The Ancient Library of Qumran (3d rev. ed.; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press and Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995, 1st ed. 1958), 121–42; Frank Moore Cross and Shemaryahu Talmon, eds., Qumran and the History of the Biblical Text (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1975); James C. VanderKam, “Authoritative Literature in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” DSD 5 (1998) 382–402; Julio Trebolle Barrera, “A ‘Canon Within a Canon’: Two Series of Old Testament Books Differently Transmitted, Interpreted and Authorized,” RQ 19 (2000) 383–99; Stephen B. Chapman, “‘The Law and the Words’ as a Canonical Formula within the Old Testament,” in The Interpretation of Scripture in Early Judaism and Christianity: Studies in Language and Tradition (ed. C. A. Evans; JSPSup 33; SSEJC 7; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 26–74; Eugene Ulrich, The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Origins of the Bible (SDSSRL; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans; Leiden: Brill, 1999); “Para-Mania: Beside, Before, and Beyond Bible Studies (SBL Presidential Address, 18 Nov 2006),” JBL 126 (2007) 5–27.

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(e.g., prophecy, law, liturgy, history and wisdom). Barton challenged assumptions such as: prophecy ended and was replaced by apocalyptic and wisdom. First he says that prophecy is transformed, but that the revelatory persists. I believe that the concession that prophecy is transformed is unnecessary in light of what he argues elsewhere in the book, but nevertheless I agree strongly with his claim that it is inaccurate to speak of a prophetic end or closure. Secondly, Barton challenges the tradition of generic definitions between prophecy and apocalyptic. The nature of generic definition has been subjected to recent challenge. 2 But this path was paved already in Oracles of God: No one in our period, if asked to define a ‘prophetic book’, would have said anything about genre: one would have heard only about the book’s divine origin, and the inspiration of the author which made it possible for him to write down the divine oracles he was given. And—to come now to the point—the kind of information that the reader would expect to obtain from the book would not be determined by any internal criteria, based on a judgment about its genre, but solely on his conception of the kind of information prophetic inspiration had existed to impart. As we have already seen, for a great many writers in our period that meant arcane information. Prophetic scriptures existed to teach truths that one could not know otherwise. What literary genres they adopted in doing so was quite beside the point. (147–148)

As this passage shows (along with the much more elaborate discussion in Oracles of God), Barton rejected sharp distinctions between what was called wisdom/apocalyptic and prophetic literature, three groups of texts that should not have been separated generically. But more to the point, he understood how the communities themselves were not only thinking in terms of their idealized past, but rather living forwards. Thus, Barton described how traditions were solidified and the past was transformed in new historical and spiritual contexts. 2 See recent discussion of genre distinctions by Carol A. Newsom, “Spying out the Land: A Report from Geneology,” in Seeking Out the Wisdom of the Ancients: Essays Offered to Honor Michael V. Fox on the Occasion of his Sixty-Fifth Birthday (ed. R. L. Troxel, K. G. Friebel, D. R. Magary; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2005), 437– 460; Benjamin G. Wright and Lawrence M. Wills, eds., Conflicted Boundaries in Wisdom and Apocalypticism (Symposium Series; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2005); Hindy Najman, Seconding Sinai: The Development of Mosaic Discourse in Second Temple Judaism (JSJSupp 77; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 16–17.

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Once we give up on a small and pre-exilic (with a few exilic exceptions) genre called “prophecy” and once we accept that there is no fixed canon, the logical next step is to accept texts such as Jubilees (texts that are pseudepigraphically attributed to earlier figures) as scriptural. They, like the later book of Revelation or even 11QT, can be included in a larger collection of scriptural traditions that become part of an authoritative scriptural collection. Barton wrote: In light of our discussion of the state of the canon in our period, I would suggest that Jubilees stood, for the groups that recognized its inspiration, within ‘Scripture’ rather than over against it, but in a direct relationship to the Pentateuch rather than to the rest of Scripture taken together. For me… I would put it as follows: as the oral Law is to the Pentateuch in its character of halakah, so the ‘prophetic’ books, in so far as they are understood as ‘secret’ books, are to the Pentateuch in its character as the revelation of the divine nature and the origins and character of the universe. For, as we have seen, it is not only ‘pseudepigraphical’ works that are treated in our period as esoteric in character; the same was believed about Ezekiel and probably also about the Song of Songs and Ecclesiastes. Once we eliminate the anachronistic category of ‘canonicity,’ which drives an artificial wedge between Ezekiel and Jubilees, the picture that results is quite a simple one. Some ‘scriptures’ were thought by some to provide secret information that Moses had not thought it good to communicate to the generality of the people, and this at one and the same time increased the prestige of such books and suggested that they should remain concealed from the general public— while also conveniently explaining the fact that no one had ever heard of them before. (75)

In addition, Barton offers what I consider to be a very subtle understanding of how the later representation of the earlier figure can be more real to the community than the earlier historical figure. Early on in Oracles of God, Barton writes: The heirs of those who change the life and thought of a nation as much as both pre- and post-exilic prophets did may not, however, remember them for what they really achieved, but for reasons with little or no basis in historical reality. Equally, they may remember other people as great leaders or teachers who to the modern historian seem likely to have been scarcely important at all, or even not to have existed. The importance of Moses for Judaism of the Second Temple has very little to do

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES with ‘the historical Moses’; for the historian of Judaism nothing would be changed if it could be shown that Moses was a pure invention. His importance in the post-exilic age lay in what he was thought to have done, and questions about reliability of the post-exilic picture of him are questions about the history of the second millennium BC, not about Second Temple Judaism. It so happens that there are historical figures for whom both sorts of question are equally interesting: the real Socrates and the Socrates of Plato and the Plato of Platonism. The same is unlikely to be true of Abraham, Isaac, or Jacob, who are surely more important for the traditions about them than they ever were in life, at least if the criterion of a person’s importance is his influence on subsequent history. Of them we might say what H. G. Gadamer said of Achilles: ‘The reality of the representation is greater than that of the original it represents: the Achilles of Homer is more real than the original Achilles.’ (2)

It is not that traditions are invented in order to glorify a founding figure, still less that they are invented in order to deceive their audience; rather, the place occupied by the founder in the minds of certain people attracts certain traditions to the man. To this I should like to add, however, that the founder is not unaffected by this accumulation of traditions under his name. His identity evolves at the same time. Moreover Barton argues for the authenticity of pseudepigraphic works as part of the second temple scriptural corpus that is not closed in a fixed canonical collection: It may appear an irrelevance to bring pseudepigraphical works into the discussion, for are not most such works outside the canon in any case? But my point is that one of the effects of such pseudonymity is to confer on these books the same kind of potential authority that the books to which the canon was eventually limited were felt to possess. The same considerations apply to the Ezra or the Enoch literature as to Daniel. It is said that ‘the canon of the Prophets’ must have been closed before Daniel was written, or the book would have been included in it. But if the canon of the Prophets was closed, what point can there have been in attributing the book to Daniel, rather than calling it by the name of its real author? If the attribution confers no authority, it is pointless. In the same way it makes good sense to attribute a book to Ezra, if it is known that any book by Ezra is bound to bear a seal of divine approval; but if it is held that all the genuine Ezra books have been found, and are in a closed canon, then the false attribution becomes an obvious confession of spuriousness. This does not necessarily undercut the common

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observation that ancient ideas of ‘authorship’ were different from modern ones, and that people may have been willing to countenance such false attributions without accusing the author of ‘forgery’; indeed, it is because ‘authorship’ was so much more fluid a concept that it is hard to believe in a canon, with its implication that certain books claiming the authority of some ancient worthy should be disregarded as ‘inauthentic.’ Pseudonymous writers were not trying to get their works ‘added to the canon’: the whole idea is an anachronism. Questions about whether pseudepigraphy was an attempt to gain ‘canonical’ status for a book, whether sects that used particular pseudepigrapha regarded them as ‘canonical,’ and so on, are in reality non-questions, proceeding from a misunderstanding of the attitude to ancient writings that prevailed in our period. All are agreed that one purpose at least of pseudonymous attribution was to confer on a book the authority of a figure from the past, from a time when divine wisdom was available to the great inspired figures whose names were held in honour; and that kind of authority was all there was to get, in a period which knew nothing of officially approved lists of canonical works. (61)

To take one step further, Barton breaks with the assumption—of longstanding importance within biblical scholarship, especially scholarship of Protestant provenance—that earlier traditions are more authentic than later ones. One consequence of this assumption is the idea that the earliest prophetic texts, or the earliest strata of those texts, are the most authentic, while later texts attributed to prophetic figures are inauthentic: mere pseudepigrapha. In contrast, Barton states that when we put aside our customary assumptions and look at pseudonymously attributed Second Temple texts, we find that these newer texts should be understood as making a genuine claim for authenticity, a claim that could trump the earlier “more authentic” traditions in the eyes of their Second Temple readers: Indeed it is tempting to say that the gift of interpreting prophecies is a higher gift than that required to deliver them in the first place: one would not be surprised to find someone who had it, such as the Teacher of Righteousness, described as a ‘prophet’! (197) On the whole, indeed, writers of our period regarded what may be called ‘non-esoteric’ prophecy as a lower, not a higher skill than supernatural knowledge of the remote future and of cosmic secrets. It is difficult to imagine a culture before the Enlightenment that would not have done so; for the direct inspiration from God which reveals mysteries is surely

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES greater than the most sublime of natural skills. We may if we wish regard the political sensitivity of a prophet like Isaiah as greater than the visions of Enoch, but we should be clear that in doing so we are at variance with most of our predecessors in any religion. For the people of our period, if Isaiah was as great as Enoch that would have to mean that he too had journeyed through the heavens: decuit, ergo factus est—the Ascension of Isaiah tells us all about it. (137) Authors of pseudonymous works, then, were making a claim that was capable of being true or false, and it was in fact false. It is, however, perfectly conceivable that they were themselves convinced that it was true. If ordinary ancient attitudes to authorship have some features that seem alien to us, it is even harder for us to get inside the mind of someone who believes that a revelation he has just received from God was in reality made to a prophet who lived many hundreds of years ago; but such ideas are by no means without parallel even in the modern world. (211)

So, attributing new traditions to earlier prophets does not necessarily suggest a compromised state of divine interpretation, but rather suggests an extended and even more authentic tradition. This on its own would have been an enormous contribution to scholarship (both in 1986 and today in 2007), but it is only Barton’s starting point. He goes on to question the definitions and distinctions of genre that have played a major role in biblical scholarship: There is, however, another consequence which may be less obvious, but is important for thinking ourselves back into the frame of mind of our period. I have been suggesting that many of the pseudonymous works of Second Temple Judaism are, as one might say, pastiche ‘Prophets’: artificially produced ‘holy books,’ put into circulation under the fiction that they dated back to the ‘prophetic age.’ If one tries to imagine how one might go about writing such a book, the immediate question will arise: what type of book is one trying to write?—or, in other words, with what conventions is the book to work? In our terms this is a question about genre. But for people in our period, as we have seen, genre is not a central concern in reading Scripture. In their context, the kind of book that a ‘scriptural’ or ‘prophetic’ author will produce will have to be merely an imitation of whichever of the (genuinely old) prophetic books he has read and values most. And since most of these are composite, heavily redacted, inconsistent works, it will not be surprising if a pastiche of them manifests the same characteristics. This explains, it seems

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to me, many of the puzzling features in works from the Second Temple period, which cause such agonies when scholars have to produce classified anthologies of them. Is Jubilees ‘apocalyptic’? Are the Testaments of the Twelve patriarchs wisdom or apocalyptic? Are the Psalms of Solomon hymnody, oracles, or apocalypses? And so on… The fact is that the people who wrote most of these works [Pseudepigrapha] did not trouble their heads about genre at all, but simply looked at their scriptures and wrote more of the same. Because we read Isaiah, or Proverbs, or Job, as reconstructed by critical scholarship, we tend not to notice that in their present form these books are just as formless as the Pseudepigrapha. (148–149)

In conclusion, how might we go beyond Barton’s work? First, the role of interpretation in the history of revelation and ongoing text production must still be developed along the lines that Barton has only suggested in his book. Moreover, a deeper engagement with early rabbinic traditions would deepen Barton’s insights into the ongoing prophetic traditions within New Testament and early Christian tradition. Still, Barton has opened the door for both of these endeavors and it is up to us to keep moving forward as we struggle to understand these texts and the communities that produced them. What makes historical understanding so difficult and so valuable is that it requires one to think oneself out of the presuppositions of one’s own time and to project oneself imaginatively into the presuppositions of another time. It is perhaps because John Barton saw his way into the past with historical precision and unparalleled imagination that he then wrote a book that was far ahead of his own time. We are still trying to catch up with him.

ORACLES OF GOD REVISITED JOHN BARTON

OXFORD UNIVERSITY I am both delighted and surprised to find that there is room for a fresh edition of this book, first published in 1986. I am especially indebted to Hindy Najman, the moving force behind this session, for her interest in the book, and grateful to other readers whose comments on it helped to suggest to the publishers that the time might be right to reissue it. Apart from corrections to misprints, this is a reprint of the 1986 edition. The book represented a particular moment in scholarship, and to update it I would have had to write a fresh book. I hope of course that new readers will find it still relevant to the question of how ancient prophecy was perceived in later times. There is nothing in it I feel the need to retract, though my thinking on some of the issues has moved on in various ways, as reflected in more recent publications. The book was originally conceived as a seamless whole, but with hindsight it can be seen to have engaged with two separate though interlinked questions. The first of these questions is the process by which the Bible came to contain a section called ‘the Prophets’. My examination of this question was intended purely as prolegomena to the books’ main task, the question of how prophecy thus defined was read in later years. But it inevitably raised large questions about the canonization of the Old Testament as a whole, and this is a matter which, though already being discussed in the 1980s, has burgeoned enormously since. On the whole it is this part of Oracles of God that seems to have attracted the most attention in subsequent scholarship, precisely because the origins of the canon have now become a topic of such general interest, to a degree that I would not have expected in 1986. 1 I have also contributed further myself in The Spirit and the Letter: Stud1

The following two works are central to recent discussion of the canon, and

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ies in the Biblical Canon, London: SPCK, 1997 (American edition Holy Writings, Sacred Text: The Canon in Early Christianity, Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1997). But also to be mentioned, of course, is the important work of Philip Davies, Scribes and Schools: The Canonization of the Hebrew Bible, London: SPCK 1998, which accepts many of my positions but very reasonably argues that the Bible in the New Testament period was probably sometimes conceptualized as twofold and sometimes as threefold, whereas I had argued for a bipartite structure only. I think he is right about this, though the fact that a bipartite idea did exist alongside the tripartite one remains important. Recent work on the Dead Sea Scrolls has on the whole I think supported my suggestions, taken further in The Spirit and the Letter, that the term ‘canonical’ is often an anachronistic term to use for this period. The discussion of the various arrangements of the Psalms is a good case in point: it seems impossible to say that there was a canonical order (the Massoretic one) but that other arrangements were sometimes made for liturgical purposes. So far as the evidence goes, there seems simply to have been a number of ways of arranging the Psalms, none more ‘canonical’ than any other. Similar issues arise even in the case of the Pentateuch, where we cannot be sure that the Qumran community recognized as authoritative ‘our’ Pentateuch and rewrote it for specific purposes, rather than that they regarded it too as capable of existing in several editions. The evidence from this period is that certain books were certainly authoritative, but the exact form of those books was as yet unfixed. The Temple Scroll may even suggest that some of the laws in the Pentateuch were still subject to revision into a form that seemed to the Qumran community even more authoritative than the form they had received. 2 The Scroll may be what Hindy Najman describes as a ‘divine pseudepigraphon’. The second question addressed in the original book is the one signalled in the subtitle, Perceptions of Ancient Prophecy in Israel after the Exile. How did people in later times read whichever books it was that they regarded as contain extensive and up-to-date bibliographies: L. M. McDonald and J. A. Sanders (eds.), The Canon Debate, Peabody: Hendrickson, 2002; and J.-M. Auwers and H. J. de Jonge (eds.), The Biblical Canons, Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2003. 2 There is an important discussion of this in Molly Zahn, ‘New Voices, Ancient Words: Characterizing Biblical Reuse in the Temple Scroll’, a paper given at the Society of Biblical Literature Annual Meeting, Toronto 2002, and now published in Temple and Worship in Biblical Israel, ed. John Day, London: T & T Clark, 2005.

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‘the prophets’? On the whole I do not think my discussion of this has been so widely received as my work on the canon. The suggestion that attention to the reception-history of ‘prophecy’ might render the term ‘apocalyptic’ unnecessary, for example, does not seem to have been taken up at all, and perhaps it was wishful thinking to imagine that it would be. Just two years before, John Collins had published his major work The Apocalyptic Imagination: An Introduction to the Jewish Matrix of Christianity, New York: Crossroad, 1984, and it was a serious failure on my part not to take account of that in my own work. Subsequent work on prophecy, however, has continued to concentrate on the ‘real’ prophets rather than on their reception in the Second Temple period; and the assumption that ‘apocalyptic’ is a different phenomenon is firmly ingrained. No one seems to have looked carefully at my four proposed ‘modes’ of reading prophetic literature, and in particular at the distinction between the second and third, which I still believe might contribute to greater clarity in thinking about biblical ‘eschatology’. The four types of reading, I might just recall, are prophecy as ethical instruction, prophecy as divine foreknowledge of the present day, prophecy as a divine plan for history, and prophecy as insight into divine mysteries. I still think that as a piece of mapwork this classification is useful. The first and the last modes tend to be overlooked in discussion of the reception history of the prophets, though this may change as reception history becomes ever more important in our field. And the second or third are still, I believe, widely conflated, though in fact they are very different ways of approaching what most biblical scholars would still call eschatology. In the second, there is a belief that prophetic predictions have come or are coming true even as we speak, a type of reading very common at Qumran and among the early Christians, while the third is compatible with a belief that human history still has plenty of time to unfold and can be found, for example, in some rabbinic eschatological thinking as certainly also in what emerged as mainstream Christianity. In some respects the two modes are diametrically opposed, and I think this is still not widely grasped. So far as I can tell not much work has been done since this book was published on this second question, the ‘profile’ of ancient prophets in post-exilic times, which is one reason why I think that republication is justified. If Oracles of God can continue to make any contribution, however, perhaps it lies in the fact that as originally conceived it did not separate the two questions just highlighted, but did indeed see them as inextricably linked. What people in later times thought constituted ‘prophecy’, and how they both read existing examples of the genre and also wrote pseudonymous prophecies of their own, are completely interconnected. This fact is relevant

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to such matters as the pesher interpretations at Qumran, as I tried to show, and to the attitude there towards works which some scholars regard as ‘biblical’ and others as ‘non-canonical’, and also towards the genre commonly called ‘rewritten Bible’. My own conviction is that there is often anachronism in these distinctions, and that the Dead Sea community—like early Christians and other Jewish groups of the time—saw genuinely old and purportedly old writings (which they were not in a position to distinguish), together with reworkings of such texts, as forming a continuum. When one adds that some of the pseudonymous works claimed to interpret the genuinely old one (as, for example, Daniel interprets Jeremiah), then the whole of the available literature tends to coalesce into a single mass, within which terms such as ‘canonical’ are rather unhelpful. What I tried to do in the book was to draw a map of how ancient ‘prophecy’ was interpreted, both in exegetical literature (such as the writings of Philo and Josephus) and in the ways it was imitated, which would recapture the thought-world of the time, rather than impose on it what are essentially later questions, such as the question of the canon surely is. In summary, my purpose was to expose the characteristics (often very strange to our eyes) both of literature composed in the Second Temple period and of the modes in which it understood earlier texts, and to show how each aspect contributed to the other. Reception history, in 1986 only beginning in biblical studies, is now a major field in its own right, but it is seldom used to explain the origin and character of works written in the period when earlier works were being ‘received’. I hope that Oracles of God still has something to contribute to that task. In response to Philip Davies, I would accept his point that my discussion took as given that the ‘real’ pre-exilic prophets were very much as Old Testament scholarship, particularly in the German-speaking world, has presented them: that is, as very different from what was made of them in later times. It may be that later perceptions of the early prophets were not so wrong after all: that they actually were prognosticators of the future, mystics, even ethical teachers. If I do return to trying to reconstruct the ‘real’ prophets, I may well find that I drew too sharp a distinction between them and what was made of them in later times, and there was more of a continuum in biblical prophecy than I supposed. I would still argue that for heuristic purposes it is important not to let our reading of later prophecy, and of the reception of earlier prophecy in later times, be clouded by presuppositions drawn from scholarly study of the pre-exilic prophets. We must try to see how people in Second Temple times actually read the old prophets, whether or not they perceived them correctly.

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James Kugel made the point that in later Judaism it is my mode 1 that prevailed: the prophets, like everything else in the Tanakh, came to be seen as important mostly for their ethical value. Narrative, prophecy, even psalmody became a source of instruction in how to keep Torah. While continuing to stress that the other modes were important too, especially perhaps in movements that did not flow on into rabbinic Judaism (Qumran, the early Christians, Jewish mysticism), I would agree that the normative model in traditional Judaism has been the ethical one. Kugel asks whether we should seek to get back behind this anyway: why not accept the way the Bible came to be read, and eschew the quest for some earlier or ‘original’ marks of prophecy? Here I would reply that the quest is interesting and important for the historian of early Judaism as it began to form in the Second Temple period, but also (as I said in the panel discussion) for those religious readers of the Bible who think that the ‘original’ meaning is significant (as Protestants generally do). Hindy Najman backed up my suggestion that the term ‘canon’ is often anachronistic in the period I was studying. Jubilees and the Temple Scroll may well have counted as ‘scripture’ for some groups, but to ask whether or not they were therefore ‘canonical’ is to ask a question that belongs to a later time, unless one treats ‘canonical’ as simply synonymous with ‘scriptural’. She also agreed that there is often a weak sense of genre-differences in early Judaism, so that just as (compare Kugel’s arguments) prophecy and psalmody can be treated as Torah, so wisdom and prophecy can be read as what we would call apocalyptic. I think this is extremely important. Modern biblical criticism hangs very much on the ability to distinguish genre, but to study the Second Temple period we must try to project ourselves back into a world before criticism, when the inspiration of holy books was much more important than their genre, and so they could all be read for the sake of whatever kind of information people supposed God was most concerned to provide for the community. God could use any genre to communicate any kind of information: on this all agreed. I am most grateful for the discussion, and it is now much more likely that I will go on to try and get back to the ‘original’ prophets, as I intended to do twenty years ago when I began what I then thought of as mere prolegomena!

THE UNLIKELY MALACHI-JONAH SEQUENCE (4QXIIA) PHILIPPE GUILLAUME SWITZERLAND

In 1988, a Harvard thesis by Russell Earl Fuller presented the first critical edition of six manuscripts of the Minor Prophets from Cave 4 near Qumran, concluding confidently that these remains of scrolls originally contained all twelve Minor Prophets and that 4QXIIa preserves a unique sequence with Jonah following Malachi. 1 At the time, there was no way to evaluate Fuller’s conclusions since the section of his thesis dealing with 4QXIIa nowhere discusses how the Malachi and Jonah texts join. The relevant fragments are reproduced on two different plates (Pl. A.2 and A.3) with no attempt to physically join Jonah after Malachi. A thesis by Barry Jones concluded that the Malachi-Jonah sequence reflects the original position of the Book of Jonah in the Minor Prophets (XII). The argument is based on the manuscript published by Fuller which Jones describes as apparently exhibiting a previously unattested sequence of books where Jonah most likely followed Malachi as the final book of the scroll. 2 A year later, Odil-Hannes Steck integrated the Malachi-Jonah sequence preserved by 4QXIIa into a discussion on the origin of the Book of the Twelve. Steck checked the photographs in March 1995 with Qumran specialists in Göttingen and refers to a letter by A. Maurer confirming that the end of Malachi on col. IV was followed by the beginning of Jonah on col-

1 R. E. Fuller, The Minor Prophets Manuscripts from Qumran, Cave IV (PhD Diss., Harvard 1988; published Ann Arbor: UMI, 1995), pp. 151–2. 2 B. A. Jones, The Formation of the Book of the Twelve (Atlanta: Scholars, 1995), p. 6.

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umn V. 3 Since 4QXIIa is one of the oldest witnesses of the Minor Prophets, dated to the second century BCE, it was legitimate to suggest that Jonah, a most unusual narrative within the anthology, was originally appended to the collection of Minor Prophets, after Malachi. The same year, Fuller published an article based on a paper presented at the SBL Consultation on the Formation of the Book of the Twelve, offering a convenient overview of the evidence provided by the most ancient manuscripts. 4 Fuller is more cautious than he was in his thesis, writing that around 150 BCE, 4QXIIa&b seem “to confirm that the collection of the XII is complete” and may “preserve the unique transition/order Malachi—Jonah.” The transition is deemed “uncertain” and a question mark is added to the Malachi—Jonah (?) transition. 5 Yet, in the same volume, James Nogalski presses the case for a single Book of the Twelve. He affirms that the “ancient traditions irrefutably establish that the writings of the twelve prophets were copied onto a single scroll and counted as a single book from at least 200 BCE. Naturally, one presumes that someone intended these twelve writings to be read together. 6” Within a few pages, the existence of the XII becomes irrefutable and moves back 50 years. The following challenges the validity of the reconstruction in order to temper the excessive confidence with which it is widely claimed that originally, Jonah was set at the end of the XII. The evidence for the connection between Malachi and Jonah was finally provided when Fuller’s work was integrated into the Discoveries of the Judean Desert series. 7 Among the 4QXIIa fragments, the end of the Book of Malachi is well preserved with a column bearing 40% of the text of Mal. 3.14–24 on four large fragments with top, left and bottom margins. Thanks to these margins and to the fact that only one line is totally missing, 3 O. H. Steck, ‘Zur Abfolge Maleachi-Jona in 4Q76 (4QXIIa)’, ZAW 108 (1996), pp. 249–53 (249). 4 R. E. Fuller, ‘The Form and Formation of the Book of the Twelve’, in J. W. Watts & P. R. House (eds), Forming Prophetic Literature (JSOTSup, 235; Sheffield: Academic Press, 1996), pp. 86–101. 5 Fuller, ‘Form and Formation’, pp. 91–2. 6 J. A. Nogalski, ‘Intertextuality and the Twelve’, in J. W. Watts & P. R. House (eds), Forming Prophetic Literature (JSOTSup, 235; Sheffield: Academic Press, 1996), p. 102. 7 R. E. Fuller, ‘The Twelve’, in E. Ulrich, F. M. Cross, R. E. Fuller, J. E. Sanderson, P. W. Skehan & E. Tov (eds), Qumran Cave 4.X DJD XV (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997), pp. 221–318 and plate XL-XLIII.

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the reconstruction of the end of Malachi is undisputable. This column was clearly not the final column of the scroll since the left side of frg. 9 (Mal. 3.19–21) transmits three letters of the beginning of two lines of the next column (see below Fig. 1). 8 Thanks to the preservation of column IV, there is no doubt that these lines correspond roughly to lines 10–11 of column V. The question is what came after Malachi in 4QXIIa ? It was reasonable for Fuller to postulate that Jonah and Malachi were closely connected since all but one of the 23 fragments attributed to 4QXIIa transmit parts of Jonah and Malachi. Hence, Fuller managed to establish a physical join between frgs. 9 and 15, linking the end of Malachi and the beginning of Jonah (Fig. 1). The physical joint is very narrow (5 mm) and there are no letters or marks in the leather running directly from one fragment to the other to confirm the validity of the joint. Moreover, Plate XLI shows a marked difference in the colouration of the leather. The left hand side of frg. 15 comes out as dark as frg. 9 but the right hand side of frg. 15 that joins with frg. 9 is almost transparent. I am not in a position to evaluate the significance of such difference in colour. It may be due to the way the two fragments were photographed and thus may not be significant. It is important to remember that the image is computer generated which is not exactly the same as a physical joint. In fact, the joint may be less perfect than it looks since the scale indicated on Plate XLI only applies to frgs 11– 18. Since no scale is provided for frgs 7–10, it is possible that the fragments of the last column of Malachi were reproduced on the same plate at a different scale than the fragments of the first column of Jonah.

Fig. 1: Joint between frgs 9 and 15 with first letters of lines 10–11 (from Plate XLI) 8

Fuller, DJD XV, p. 228.

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Fuller logically seeks confirmation of the joint from the reconstruction of the column bearing Jonah 1. The task is, however, daunting as Jonah 1 is in a much more fragmentary state than Malachi. The text of Jon. 1.2–5,7–8 is preserved on eight small fragments which transmit no more than 30% of the text (Fig. 2 below). There is no doubt that frg. 15 belongs to the initial column of Jonah but it is necessary to verify that its position at the level of lines 9–11 of the previous column bearing the end of Malachi is acceptable in order to confirm the Malachi-Jonah joint. At this point, Fuller faces insuperable difficulties entailed by the poor state of preservation of the Jonah 1 column. The length of the lines of this column is indeed attested by frgs 17 and 18 which preserve portions of the bottom and left margins of the column. Unfortunately, there is no physical contact between the end of the column and the fragments above. The crucial frg. 15 is separated from the fragments transmitting the bottom of the column by a vertical gap of at least four lines which are entirely missing. Fragments 11–14 bearing elements of Jon. 1.2 are also “floating” and bear no trace of margins that would have helped positioning them. Hence, rather than confirming the validity of the Malachi-Jonah joint, Fuller’s placement of frg. 15 presupposes its validity. Methodologically, there is nothing wrong with the procedure as long as one remembers that the joint is a working hypothesis requiring confirmation. The confirmation is, however, impossible since, in addition to the vertical gap of four lines, there is also a horizontal gap of 4–5 letters that separates the beginning of the two lines on frg. 9 and their purported continuation on frg. 15. This gap prevents confirming the alignment of the lines suggested by the physical join and cannot dispel doubts over the validity of such a narrow point of contact between the end of Malachi and the beginning of Jonah. The difficulty of establishing the validity of the “physical” joint between Malachi 4 and Jonah 1 is illustrated by the evolution of Fuller’s reconstructions. At first, in his thesis, Fuller read a ‫ ל‬at the beginning of what he then called line 6 on frg. 9ii and a clear ‫ ה‬followed by a possible ‫ ט‬at the beginning of the following line. Then, in the DJD edition, Fuller modified the reading of the initial letters, the line numbering and the verse distribution because he realized that the text of Jonah would better fit column V if Jonah did not start immediately at line 1 of the column but at line 3, the blank lines indicating the beginning of a new book. 9 In spite of the modifi9 Jones, Formation, p. 6, quoting R. E. Fuller, The Minor Prophets Manuscripts from Qumran, Cave IV (PhD Diss., Harvard 1988; Ann Arbor: UMI, 1995), p. 5.

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cation, the photograph published as Plate XLI does not entirely support the reconstruction: ‫ׄל]בוא‬ Fuller’s thesis, Fig. A.6 line 6 (Jon. 1.3) ]‫ו]ייר[ ֯או֯ ] המ[לחים ויזעקו‬ DJD XV, p. 229 line 10 (Jon. 1.5) ] ‫לחים ויזעקו‬ ֯ [ ] ֯‫וי‬ My reconstruction on the basis of Plate XLI To shore up the connection between Malachi 3 and Jonah 1, DJD XV suggests the presence of aleph and waw (] ֯‫ )[ ֯או‬on line 10 as part of the first words of Jon. 1.5 (‫)וייראו המלחים‬. However, the photograph (redrawn as Fig. 1 above) shows the trace of a second letter after the initial waw on frg. 9 line 10 but then the lacuna extends all the way to the lamed on frg. 15 with no material to bear traces of the purported ֯‫ ֯או‬. There seems to be the shade of the top of two letters on the right side of frg. 15 just before the joint with frg. 9 but they are too small and too faint to support the reconstruction of ֯‫ ֯או‬, and they are too high to belong to line 10 as it is reconstructed. I have thus not drawn them on Fig. 1. Hence we are left with the warning in the introduction of the DJD XV volume which suggests that parts of letters, especially around the manuscripts, may have since broken off. 10 The photograph on PAM 43.099 11 does not support the purported ֯‫ ֯או‬which would have partly filled the crucial lacuna between frgs. 9 and 15 and would have considerably consolidated the Malachi-Jonah sequence. At line 11, ֯ but Plate XLI only shows the top Fuller reconstructs ]‫הכ]ל[י֯ ם אשר באניה‬ half of the final mem of ‫ הכלים‬while there is no trace of the previous yod. No firm conclusions can be drawn on the sole basis of the photograph, but the DJD edition shows that the Malachi-Jonah sequence is based on a maximalist reconstruction of the evidence. Deprived of a firm basis, the rest of the reconstruction of Jonah 1 is necessarily hypothetical. There is no physical evidence of the top margin of column V that would have indicated at which line Jon. 1.1 started and would have greatly helped the reconstruction of the beginning of Jonah. Since frg. 8 does attest the top margin of column IV (see Fig. 2 below), Fuller postulates it for the next column thanks to the joint at lines 10–11. According to Fuller’s reconstruction, the first line of Jonah 1 (line 3 of the DJD XV, p. 4. Published in R. H. Eisenman & J. M. Robinson (eds), A Facsimile Edition of the Dead Sea Scrolls (Washington DC: Biblical Archaeology Society, 1991), plate 1183. PAM 42.629, apparently an earlier photograph of PAM 43.099 mentioned in the index volume DJD XXXIX, p. 46 is not published in Facsimile. 10 11

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column) is attested by the bottom parts of four letters (two on the photograph) at the top of frg. 11.

Fig. 2: Reconstruction of the top of Col. V with purported blank lines (from Plate XLI)

It is impossible to identify these letters and thus equally impossible to be sure that this fragment transmits Jon. 1.1. The same fragment (frg. 11) bears three readable letters belonging to the following line. Therefore Fuller places frg. 11 next to frgs 12, 13 and 14. However, they do not fit well and Fuller has to postulate a hypothetic flaw on the leather to explain the presence of an unusually large space on line 4 between ‫ העיר‬on frg. 12 and ‫ הגד]ולה‬on frg. 11 to reconstruct the words “the great town” from Jon. 1.2. 12 There is no doubt that frgs. 12, 13 and 14 transmit letters from Jon 1.2–3, but the small size of frg. 11 (1.5 x 1.5 cm), its lack of fit with the adjacent fragments and the necessity to postulate a flaw in the leather suggest that the three legible letters (‫ )הגד‬on frg. 11 could just as well belong to other occurrences of the adjective ‫הגדול‬. Hence frg. 11 could be part of Jon 1.12 and would easily fit in the 7–9 missing lines of Fuller’s reconstruction of the next column. Or, frg. 11 could transmit a piece of Jon 3.2 and would then fit next on the right of frg. 22. This means that there is no evidence of 12 Note that Col. V line 4 is based on frg. 11 as well as frg. 12 contrary to what is indicated in Fuller, DJD XV, p. 229.

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the first line of Jonah and no way to know on which line of the column it started. It is reasonable to postulate that it started at the top of a column but whether or not it was preceded by a blank space is beyond the evidence. Considering that the top margin on frg. 8 of column IV provides an indication of a top margin for column V is entirely dependant on the precarious connection of Jonah 1 with Malachi 3 at lines 10–11. The question of the top margin of col. V provides no confirmation for the Malachi-Jonah sequence. Another problem with Fuller’s reconstitution is that it requires verse 3 to be shorter than MT’s. 13 For this reason, Heinz-Josef Fabry considers Fuller’s reconstruction most unlikely. 14 In fact, 4QXIIa does transmit variants which produce a shorter text in Jonah. 15 In the text below, I added in shadow letters the words Fuller omitted from his reconstruction to show that in fact only the words ‫ עמהם תרשישה‬are clearly in excess of the average length of the bottom lines of the column:

The words ‫ עמהם תרשישה‬can be removed and verse 3b still makes sense: “He went down (to) Jaffa. He found a boat going to Tarshish. He gave its fare. He went down in it to go away from in front of Yhwh.” Fuller, DJD XV, p. 230. H.-J. Fabry, ‘Die Nahum- und Habakkuk-Rezeption in der LXX und in Qumran’, in E. Zenger (ed.), „Wort JHWHS, das geschah…“ (Hos 1,1) (Freiburg: Herder, 2002), pp. 159–190 = H.-J. Fabry, ‘The Reception of Nahum and Habakkuk in the Septuagint and Qumran’, in S. M. Paul, R. A. Kraft, L. H. Schiffman & W. W. Fields (eds), Emanuel. Studies in Hebrew Bible, Septuagint and Dead Sea Scrolls in Honor of Emanuel Tov (VTSup, 94; Leiden: Brill, 2003), pp. 241–256 (245). 15 Fuller, DJD XV, p. 230. 13 14

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Therefore, the necessity for verse 3 to be shorter than MT’s is not enough to invalidate Fuller’s reconstruction. However, postulating a variant is no evidence, only a possibility. Hence, the only certainty about col. V is that frgs 17–18 (Jon 1.7–8) belong to the bottom of a column since the bottom and left margins are preserved. 16 The gap of at least four lines between line 11 and line 17 precludes using the firm base of the bottom of the column to support the reconstruction of the joint at lines 10–11 (Fig. 3).

Fig. 3: Fuller’s positioning of the fragments of Columns IV and V (from Plate XLI)

Finally, Fuller claims that the greater fragmentation of Jonah compared to Malachi supports the Malachi-Jonah sequence. 17 The idea is that the beginning of the 4QXIIa scroll which found itself on the most external parts of the rolled-up scroll would have deteriorated first and only the end of the scroll remains with its final columns. Statistically, however, about half of the fragments of the 800 scrolls from the caves come from the middle of the 16 17

Fuller, DJD XV, p. 230. Fuller, DJD XV, pp. 221–222.

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scrolls because the ends, close to the inner hole of the scrolls, were also subject to more deterioration than the scrolls’ middle parts. 18 Hence Jonah’s greater fragmentation can either indicate that it belonged to the end of the scroll, or that it came before Malachi on a scroll recording only a few prophetic books. Fuller provides no diagram of the position of fragments for 4QXIIa, presumably because, apart from the stitches holding col. II and col. III together which were separated in the course of photographing, the scroll was already made up of loose fragments when it was bought. 19 This adds an extra layer of uncertainty and provides no confirmation that Jonah was the last book of the 4QXIIa scroll. In a recent reconsideration of the textual evidence from the Dead Sea Scrolls, Georges J. Brooke warns that the Malachi-Jonah sequence has been too easily accepted as factual. Brooke claims that the reconstruction in light of the damage pattern strongly suggests that the end of the scroll was on the outside when the scroll was put in the cave and that it is far from certain that there would be enough room on this scroll to preserve all twelve Minor Prophets. Brooke also claims that Malachi and Jonah, in that order, belonged to the middle of the collection, or that the manuscript contained some rather than all of the Twelve. 20 The possibility that the scroll was rolled with the end out rather than inside invalidates any argument based on the comparative states of preservation of Malachi and Jonah. In fact, it is not even sure that the Jonah and the Malachi fragments attributed to 4QXIIa belonged to the same scroll. Cave 4 is the most problematic of all the Qumran caves since it is in fact constituted of two caves, 4a and 4b. There is no way to know from which side fragments came from and whether a given set of fragments classified as belonging to the same scroll were actually collected from the same side of Cave IV. 21 The number of actors involved in the recovery and the publication of the fragments and the long time it took to complete the entire process multiplies the uncertainty as to the accuracy of the allocation of fragments to individual scrolls. Moreover, 4Q76 has been renamed 4QXIIa on 18 J. Trebolle Barrera, ‘A Preliminary Edition of 4QKings (4Q54)’, J. T. Barrera & L. Vegas Montaner (eds) The Madrid Qumran Congress (Leiden: Brill, 1992), pp. 229–46 (244). 19 Fuller, DJD XV, p. 221. 20 G. J. Brooke, ‘The Twelve Minor Prophets and the Dead Sea Scrolls’, in A. Lemaire (ed.), Congress Volume Leiden 2004 (Leiden: Brill, 2006), pp. 19–44 (22). 21 S. A. Reed, ‘Find-Sites of the Dead Sea Scrolls’, DSD 14,2 (2007), pp. 199– 221.

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

the presumption that the handful of letters on frg. 1 (Plate XL) are part of Zech 14.18. In his 1996 article, Fuller includes Zechariah in the contents of 4QXIIa but eight pages later he does not. 22 The words ‫ לא‬and ‫ אשר לא‬on frg. 1 could come from Jon 4.10–11 since the fragment is unconnected and bears no evidence that it belongs to the postulated Column I. Attributing this fragment to Zechariah was dictated by the presupposition that a scroll containing two Minor Prophets is a scroll of the XII. Brooke mentions a fragment of Joel 4.1–4, supposedly coming from Cave 4, and 5QAmos, containing only Amos or Amos at the beginning of a collection. 23 There is thus a considerable amount of unconnected fragments of the Minor Prophets that calls for a reconsideration of the 4QXII phenomenon. As far as 4QXIIa is concerned, it is sure that Malachi 3 is not the end of the scroll. That the Book of Jonah was copied by the same hand on leaves of a similar size as the ones used for Malachi is also sure. But the point of anchorage of Jonah 1 after the last Malachi column cannot be confirmed. The column transmitting the beginning of Jonah bears no evidence of a top margin and the gap of at least four lines between the joint and verse 8 preclude all confirmation of the Malachi-Jonah sequence with the aid of the textual reconstruction. It is thus impossible to affirm that Jonah came after rather than before Malachi. If Malachi and Jonah were copied on the same scroll, a point over which a considerable amount of uncertainty remains, it is not sure that this scroll contained other books of the Minor Prophets. The renaming of 4Q76 as 4QXIIa is thus misleading. Something like 4QJon, Mal-? would be preferable if it was clear that the position of Jonah and Malachi relative to each other remains entirely open. Brooke’s 2006 article signals the end of the period of euphoria and the dawn of a more careful evaluation of the evidence concerning the collection of the Twelve Minor Prophets. Brooke does not challenge the MalachiJonah sequence but the above evaluation of the evidence indicates that the hypothesis is far too fragile to be used as evidence of a scroll of the XII ending with Jonah. The hypothesis of a Malachi-Jonah sequence was too quickly adopted as factual. Ben Sira 49.10 remains the earliest mention of a collection of Twelve Minor Prophets with no indication of the sequence of the individual books. The notion of a widely accepted literary unit already in the second century BCE is not supported by the evidence. That Ben Sira Compare Fuller, ‘Form’, pp. 91 and 99. Brooke, ‘Twelve Minor Prophets’, p. 20 n. 9 www.nb.no/baser/ schoyen/ MS 4612/1. 22 23

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referred to the twelve prophets as the Twelve around the time of the production of 4QXIIa&b is insufficient to claim that other scholars considered the Twelve as a unit and that all twelve Minor Prophets were already copied together onto single scrolls in Palestine. The words of Ehud Ben Zvi should be heeded. The most complete manuscripts of the Minor Prophets dated before the turn of the era are 4QXIIg and 8HevXIIgr with eight and seven (six attested!) Minor Prophets respectively. Before the turn of the era, the Twelve constituted no more than an anthology gathered in a somewhat flexible order, which later on became fixed. 24 A shift by a century or two of the period when the writings of the twelve prophets were copied onto a single scroll and counted as a single book is bound to have major consequences on the reconstruction of the formation of the collection since most studies of the subject give too much credence to hypothetical reconstructions of Dead Sea Scrolls and have embraced the 4QXII designation uncritically. 25 I will deal with the larger 4QXII issue in a coming article.

E. Ben Zvi, ‘Twelve Prophetic Books or “The Twelve”: a Few Preliminary Considerations’, in J. W. Watts & P. R. House (ed.), Forming Prophetic Literature (JSOTSup, 235; Sheffield: Academic Press, 1996), pp. 125–156. M. Beck, ‘Das Dodekapropheton als Anthologie’, ZAW 118 (2006), pp. 558–583. 25 Among others, J. D. Nogalski & M. A. Sweeney (eds), Reading and Hearing the Book of the Twelve (SBLSymS, 15; Atlanta: SBL, 2000). 24

A RECONSIDERATION OF MANUSCRIPTS CLASSIFIED AS SCROLLS OF THE TWELVE MINOR PROPHETS (XII) PHILIPPE GUILLAUME SWITZERLAND

1. INTRODUCTION I have raised questions in a previous article in this journal about the proposed original Malachi-Jonah sequence on the basis of 4QXIIa (4Q76). In this article, I proceed with a reconsideration of the other manuscripts classified as scrolls of the Twelve Minor Prophets (XII). 1 It is my argument here that none or very few of the so-called 4QXII scrolls should actually bear the “XII” designation. To be sure, there are scrolls that contain fragments of several prophetic books, which were later characterized as “Minor Prophets.” (For simplicity, I will refer to them here as Minor Prophets). But the fact that a scroll contains fragments of several Minor Prophets does not prove it was a scroll of the Twelve. The sample is meager and it has to be closely investigated. A critical assessment of the contents of the DSS scrolls is necessary before formulating new hypotheses concerning the formation of the collection of the XII.

2. ANCIENT HEBREW MSS OF THE XII? The work of Emmanuel Tov represents a minimalist approach on this matter. Since Tov calls for a high level of certainty before advancing any claims, he maintains that only three manuscripts (MurXII, 4QXIIb and 4QXIIg) show that the entire collection of the XII was copied on one scroll. 2 George Ph. Guillaume, “The Unlikely Malachi–Jonah Sequence (4QXIIa),” Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 7 (2007) article 15, available online at http://www/jhsonline.org. 2 E. Tov, “The Biblical Texts from the Judean Desert—An Overview and 1

445

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Brooke thinks it is probable that 4QXIIc and 4QXIIe and possibly 4QXIId, with its wide opening margin, as well as 8ḤevXIIgr also contained the complete collection of the Twelve. 3 My suggestion is that even Tov’s position is a too generous interpretation of the evidence. 4QXIIa transmits Jonah and Malachi, possibly on the same scroll, but the presence of Zechariah is highly hypothetical. 4 4QXIIb contains Zephaniah followed by Haggai as in both the MT and LXX sequences. 4QXIIc is said to contain Hosea, Joel, Amos, Zephaniah and Malachi, but Malachi is attested by only one fragment (frg. 35) with eleven legible letters on three different lines. Hence the editor added a question mark to Malachi although he notes that frg. 35 belongs to another unknown manuscript because the lines are half the length of the 4QXIIc average. It is thus illegitimate to add Malachi to the contents of 4QXIIc, in spite of the question mark. This fragment should be considered as a scroll of its own, 4QMal. The Joel–Amos transition is only suggested by some traces of ink at the bottom edge of frg. 20 (invisible on Plate XLV). Russell Fuller admits that “the text is quite damaged, so it is impossible to be certain.” 5 The introduction of DJD XV states that 4QXIId is not a complete Biblical book but excerpted texts, 6 while, on the basis of margins and of the fact that the extant text at the beginning of the scroll is from Hos. 1.6–2.5, Brooke believes that it is quite possible that this manuscript contained the whole of the Twelve. 7 This is a generous interpretation. How can two fragments of the first column provide evidence that Hosea was followed by another Minor Prophet? Analysis of the Published Texts,” in E. D. Herbert and E. Tov (eds.), The Bible as Book: The Hebrew Bible and the Judean Desert Discoveries (London: The British Library; New Castle, DE: Oak Knoll Press; Grand Haven, MI: The Scriptorium, Center for Christian Antiquities, 2002), p. 142. 3 G. J. Brooke, “The Twelve Minor Prophets and the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in A. Lemaire (ed.), Congress Volume Leiden 2004 (Leiden: Brill, 2006), pp. 19–44 (33). 4 Guillaume, “Unlikely Malachi–Jonah.” 5 R. E. Fuller, “The Form and Formation of the Book of the Twelve,” in J. W. Watts & P. R. House (eds.), Forming Prophetic Literature (JSOTSup, 235; Sheffield: Academic Press, 1996), pp. 86–101 (92); DJD XV, p. 245. 6 DJD, XV, p. 1. G. Nebe, “Eine neue Hosea—Handschrift aus Höhle 4 von Qumran,” ZAW 91 (1979), pp. 292–4; L. Sinclair, “A Qumran Biblical Fragment: Hosea 4QXII d (Hosea 1:7–2:5),” BASOR 239 (1980), pp. 61–5. 7 Brooke, “Twelve,” p. 23.

A RECONSIDERATION OF MANUSCRIPTS

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4QXIIe contains Haggai–Zechariah. On the hypothetical superposition of frgs 6 and 7 which are of approximately the same shape and size, Brooke indicates that there would have been enough room before the end of the manuscript for the rest of the Book of Zechariah and the book of Malachi, although there is no evidence of the height of the columns. From this, Brooke concludes that the earlier sheets of the manuscript may have contained the whole of the Twelve. 8 Again, this is pure conjecture. According to the editor, 4QXIIf contains Micah-Jonah, but Brooke reduces the number of fragments attributed to this scroll to four fragments all of which contain elements of the Book of Jonah. Fragment 5 containing nine letters of Mic. 5.1–2 was originally assessed as belonging to a separate manuscript. It was later integrated into 4QXIIf because of the similarity of the script. Brooke adds that if this manuscript is a copy of Jonah alone, it provides evidence that the place of Jonah in the Twelve was an ongoing issue in the first century BCE. 9 The question of what to do with frg. 5 remains open. The most complete scroll of the XII is 4QXIIg with fragments of eight Minor Prophets (Hosea, Joel, Amos, Obadiah, Jonah, Micah, Nahum and Zechariah). 10 The DJD edition adds Habakkuk? and Zephaniah to the list. The question mark after Habakkuk is salutary since frg. 102 bears only three legible letters. With only four legible letters (frg. 103), the presence of Zephaniah in 4QXIIg is also questionable. Brooke adds a fragment of Joel 4.1–4 to the data on the XII, supposedly coming from Cave 4 11 and 5QAmos which is more likely to have been a copy of Amos alone than a copy of the XII. 12 The conclusion is that none of the Qumran scrolls contain physical remains of all twelve Minor Prophets. The 4QXII phenomenon has been overstated. To begin with, the way the Bedouins recovered and sold what they found in what was actually 2 caves, 4a and 4b, and the fact that three generations of scholars worked on the fragments brings uncertainty to proposed reconstructions of entire 4QXII manuscripts. Fragment 38 edited with 4QXIIc is a case in point. It is now recognized as belonging to 4QPsa with a dozen letters from Ps. 38.4– Brooke, “Twelve,” p. 24. Brooke, “Twelve,” p. 24. 10 Ten according to Brooke, “Twelve,” p. 25. 11 P. 20 n. 9 www.nb.no/baser/schoyen/ MS 4612/1. The top margin is clearly preserved. 12 Brooke, “Twelve,” pp. 25, 34. 8 9

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

6. 13 One can suspect that the number of actual scrolls was higher than is claimed in regard to the Minor Prophets since the evidence is skewed by the editors’ presupposition that each identified scroll was a scroll of the Twelve. The attribution of small fragments to a particular scroll on the basis of a similar handwriting is precarious since a scribe can produce scrolls of individual books or multiple books scrolls. In most cases, it is impossible to say more. The identification of small fragments in the future is unlikely to alter the overall picture dramatically. Strictly speaking, we have evidence of a dozen different scrolls of the XII from the caves near Qumran (4QXIIa,b,c,d,e,f,f5,g; 4QMal [ex4QXIIc frg. 35], Shoyen 4612/1 and 5QAmos). Half of those transmit fragments of a single book of the Minor Prophets (4QXIId,f,f5, 4QMal, Shoyen 4612/1, 5QAmos). Only two manuscripts transmit more than two Minor Prophets (4QXIIcg) and they are the only ones that could reasonably be presented as evidence of scrolls transmitting the entire collection of the Twelve. And yet, designating these two large scrolls as 4QXII is misleading 14 since it lends support to the notion that the Minor Prophets were copied and read as a unit at the time of the oldest of these two manuscripts, 4QXIIc dated approximately c. 75 BCE. It should be clear that no second century BCE Hebrew scrolls deserve the 4QXII label and that the probability that scrolls transmitting more than one Minor Prophet would have been scrolls of the entire collection of the XII increases as the date of their Hebrew script gets closer to the turn of the era. This, however, is only a probability. It only becomes a certainty at the end of the first century CE with the ten Minor Prophets copied on Mur88 dated c. 100 CE. This is a far cry from James Nogalski’s claim that the “ancient traditions irrefutably establish that the writings of the twelve prophets were copied onto a single scroll and counted as a single book from at least 200 BCE” 15 unless one takes into consideration the Greek evidence.

DJD XV, p. 251. “The twelve Minor Prophets evidently were considered to comprise one book”: E. Ulrich, “The Bible in the Making: the Scriptures found at Qumran,” in P. W. Flint (ed.), The Bible at Qumran (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001), p. 55 note 8. 15 J. A. Nogalski, “Intertextuality and the Twelve,” in J. W. Watts & P. R. House (eds.), Forming Prophetic Literature (JSOTSup, 235; Sheffield: Academic Press, 1996), p. 102. 13 14

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3. 8ḤEVXIIGR 8ḤevXIIgr is a late Ptolemaic to early Roman scroll. Emanuel Tov, the editor of the DJD VIII volume, claims that it transmits the MT sequence although it is written in Greek. For the sake of simplicity the editor assumes that he is dealing with a single scroll of the XII written by two different hands. To sustain the assumption, Tov adduces that there is no textual overlap between materials copied by the two hands. 16 Moreover, there is no presumption for the presence of two different scrolls because the first lot contained many hand A fragments and one small fragment written by hand B 17 while the second lot brought a year later by the Bedouins to the Ecole Biblique contained one large fragment of Zechariah and four fragments by hand B plus parts of three lines of Mi. 1.2–3 by hand A. 18 Robert Kraft considers that a “damaged mass of material abandoned in antiquity seems somewhat more probable than the model of a neatly rolled consecutive text.” 19 This claim reduces the probability of attributing the two hands to a single scroll. That hand B is attested only for Zechariah by 2 fragments brought at a year’s interval further reduces the probability of a single scroll. The second fragment (b) bears 4 lines with a total of 22 letters (Figure 1). Figure 1: DJD VIII, Plate XIX col. B1 frg. b

16 E. Tov (ed.), The Greek Minor Prophets Scroll from Nahal Hever (ḤevXIIgr) (DJD VIII; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990), p. 14. 17 D. Barthélemy, Les devanciers d’Aquila (VTSup, 10 ; Leiden: Brill, 1963), p. 167: une bande contenant les extrémités de quatre lignes » PAM 40.559 = DJD VIII, Plate XX frg. 6. 18 Barthélemy, Devanciers, Planche II; DJD VIII, Plate IV frg. b. 19 R. A. Kraft, “Description of the Materials and their State of Preservation,” in DJD VIII, p. 19.

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

The writing is indeed similar, but the reconstruction postulates a 10 lines interval between frgs a and b plate XIX. Moreover, line 28: AIΣEKEI reconstructed as ἡμέρ]αις ἐκεί[ναις on lines 31 and 32 in spite of the fact that hand B marks word divisions with a blank. 20 The same problem crops up with NTAIΔE at Line 29 as the reconstruction postulates a word division between ἐπιλάβω]νται and δέ[κα that is not visible. The last lines transmit common letter combinations: ΩN TΩN and NΩN K which were identified as part of Zechariah because frg. a is a part of Zechariah. If frgs Ba and Bb both transmit Zechariah, the probability that Hand B copied an independent scroll of Zechariah increases. The small amount of hand B text preserved (Zec. 8.19–21,23–9.5) renders the argument based on the lack of overlap inoperative. Since there is a significant amount of preserved Zechariah material (Zec. 1.1–4,12–14; 2.1–12,17; 3.1–2,4–7) written by hand A, the likelihood that we are dealing with two different copies of Zechariah is as great as that of a change of hand somewhere between chapters 3 and 8.

4. 8ḤEVXIIGR’S SEQUENCE: MT’S OR LXX’S? The editor in DJD VIII claims that 8ḤevXIIgr follows the sequence attested by the MT. 21 This is a crucial point for anyone trying to understand the formation of the collection of the XII and it needs to be checked. It is certain that col. IV (beginning of Micah) is not the beginning of the scroll since the last letter of a previous column is visible on frg. J (Plates III–IV). However, there is no physical evidence that Jonah came before Micah. Plate IV shows a large margin at the top of frg. a onto which seven lines of the following lines would fit (Figure 2).

20 21

DJD VIII, p. 13. DJD, VIII, p. 8.

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451

Figure 2: DJD VIII, Plate IV col. 4 frg. a

The editor only allowed six such blank lines in order to fit the remaining verses of Jonah on col. 4 above Micah. The reconstruction is thus problematic and it must be carefully reviewed since upon it hangs whether or not the scroll follows the MT sequence. The editor claims that the reconstruction of the Jon–Mic sequence is sound since “the fragments containing col 3 (end of Jo) and 4 (beginning of Mi) make a convincing joint (see plates I, III, IV). 22 However, the fragments do not make a joint at all. They are merely juxtaposed (Figure 3).

22

DJD, VIII, p. 8.

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Figure 3: DJD VIII Plate III col. 3 frgs f–j (detail)

The editor shores up the Jonah–Micah sequence by pointing out that the fragment containing col 4 (on the right-hand side of Figure 3) also contains two letters of the ends of lines of col 3 (E on l. 25 and H on l. 33).” 23 However, letter E at line 25 is not visible on the photograph and letter H merely proves that something came before the Book of Micah. It is unlikely that Jonah came before Micah and it is impossible to be certain that Amos did not precede Micah as it does in the LXX sequence since one of the small fragments, frg. 2 was identified by Lifshitz as belonging to Am. 1.5. Barthélemy left these two and a half letters unidentified but Tov attributes them to Jon. 3.4–5 because it fits his working hypothesis of a single scroll. 24 Unfortunately, the fragment is too small to be decisive. The only certainty is that fragments classified as 8ḤevXIIgr contain two different hands which may or may not belong to the same scroll. Hand A copied Habakkuk and Zephaniah on the same scroll since the reconstruction of col. 17–23 is secure thanks to the presence of large fragments with the transition between the two books on col. 20 (plate XIV). 25 This Hab– DJD VIII, p. 8. DJD VIII, pp. 1–2. 25 Kraft, “Description,” in DJD VIII, p. 17 and 19: “When all is said and done, the reconstruction does not seem to work for all of the preserved fragments, although it may be satisfactory for the middle portion (col 13–23 = Nahum 1—Zep. 23 24

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453

Zeph transition is the only transition attested, and is the same in MT and LXX. From this, it is natural to infer that the fragments of Micah, Jonah, Nahum and Zechariah which were copied by the same hand belong to the same scroll. This is, however, only an educated guess for which there is no clear-cut evidence. Were Micah, Jonah, Nahum and Zechariah copied on the same scroll as Habakkuk and Zephaniah, their sequence is impossible to ascertain. Micah was definitely preceded by something, but it is impossible to know whether it was Jonah or Amos since frg. 2 could belong to either. The position of Nahum and Zechariah is equally unknown. Claiming that 8ḤevXIIgr followed the MT sequence is thus beyond the evidence. Hand B copied a patch at the end of Zechariah or a different Zechariah scroll. Tov admits that the reconstructed complete scroll of the XII would have been longer by two meters (a good 10 m in total) than any Qumran scroll published at the time of the publication of the manuscript. 26 Against the notion of a single scroll is the fact that fragments bearing Hand A were glued while those bearing Hand B were stitched. 27 This, of course, is not decisive. Despite these caveats concerning its contents, 8ḤevXIIgr remains with 4QXIIg the most complete manuscript of the Minor Prophets dated around the turn of the era. The Greek scroll may be earlier than 4QXIIg, but the dating methods are too imprecise to be sure. Table 1 below lists in chronological order (oldest at the bottom) the Minor Prophets attested on different scrolls of the Twelve and the various sequences of the XII known elsewhere. “Jon–Mic” signals a physical transition. Books whose position in the scroll cannot be ascertained, if they appeared in the scroll at all, are placed in brackets. A question mark indicates that the presence of the book is doubtful because the fragments are too small. “Hag” indicates a book that should not be attributed to the scroll.

3.7) as a subunit of the original scroll” and “the model of a damaged mass of material abandoned in antiquity seems somewhat more probable than the model of a neatly rolled consecutive text.” 26 DJD, VIII, p. 9. 27 DJD VIII, p. 15.

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES Table 1: Sequence of the Minor Prophets

LXX & 4 Ezra 1.39– 40 MT Ascension Isa. 4.22

1 Ho

2 Am

3 Mi

4 Joel

5 Ob

6 Jon

7 Na

8… Hab…

Ho Am

Joel Hos

Am Mic

Ob Joel

Jon Nah

Mic Jon

Nah Ob

(Joel)

(Am)

(Ob)

Jon-

-Mic

(Nah)

Hab… Hab, Hag, Mal (Hab) ZephHagZec

Mur 88 100 CE

Shoyen 4612/1 Lives of the Prophets 4QXIIg c.25

(Joel) Ho

Mi

Am

Joel

Ob

Jon

Nah

Hab…

(Hos)

(Joel)

(Am-

-Ob)

(Jon)

(Mic)

(Nah)

(Hab?) (Zeph?) (Zec)

BCE

5QAmos 4QXIIf c.50

(Am) (Jon)

BCE

4QXIIf5 c.50

(Mic)

BCE

4QXIId c.50

(Hos)

BCE

4QXIIe c.75–50 BCE 8ḤevXIIgr hand B 8ḤeevXIIgr c.50–50 BCE 4QMal = 4QXIIc frg. 35 4QXIIc c.75 BCE

4QXIIb c.150–125

(Hag) (Zec) (Zec) (Jon)

(Hos)

(Joel?

?Am)

(Mic)

(Na)

(HabZeph) Hag (Zec?) (Mal) (Zeph) Mal ZephHag

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2

3

4

5

6

455 7

8…

BCE

4QXIIa c.150–125

(Jon)

(Zec?) (Mal)

BCE

Note to Ascension Isa. 4.22: Last verse of the so-called Testament of Hezekiah: “(Namely) in those which have not the name written, and in the words of my father Amos, and of Hosea the prophet, and of Micah and Joel and Nahum and Jonah and Obadiah and Habakkuk and Haggai and Malachi, and in the words of Joseph the Just and in the words of Daniel.” But E (versione etiopica) has the Twelve plus Joseph and Daniel.” 28 Note to Lives of the Prophets: The order mentioned above is transmitted by the anonymous recension 1 (the oldest textual witness of the Lives) 29

One can note that a good century after Ben Sira’s mention of the XII, we still have no physical evidence of a scroll upon which all the Minor Prophets were copied together. Despite the narrowness of the sample, a trend can be observed whereby the scrolls become more complete with the passing of time. Whether 8ḤevXIIgr is a single scroll or two separate scrolls, the Greek evidence is ahead of the Hebrew evidence in terms of number of books per scroll in Palestine. From this point on, we leave the realm of evidence to enter the interpretative process.

28 P. Bettiolo, A. Giambelluca Kossova, C. Leonardi, E. Norelli, L. Perrone (eds.), Ascensio Isaiae (Turnhout: Brepols, 1995), p. 72. 29 Isidore of Seville, De ortu et obitu prophetarum et apostolorum (ed. Dolbeau 1986), Arabic and WaR 10,2. But anonymous II, Epiphanius and Dorotheus recensions follow the LXX order while Syriac has Hos-Am-Joel-Mic: A. M. Schwemer, Studien zu den frühjüdischen Prophetenlegenden: Vitae Prophetarum (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1996), p. 28–9. In spite of the different numbers (between 18 and 23 “prophets”) and the different sequences, the order Jonah–Nahum was never reversed in spite of the Christian interpolations inserted, even in the abbreviated recension of Theophylact which has Hosea, Habakkuk, Jonah, Nahum and Micah: A.-M. Denis, Introduction à la literature religieuse judéo-hellénistique (Turnhout: Brepols, 2000), 2.577–605. In fact, Nahum is said to have given an oracle after Jonah (Lives, 11,2). I consider the Lives of the Prophets to be a 1st century CE work.

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5. THE FORMATION OF THE TWELVE AT ALEXANDRIA? Two recent factors should be taken into account when discussing the formation of the XII. First, Diana Edelman notes that there are more compelling catchword links between Jonah and Nahum than between Jonah and Micah which suggests that the LXX sequence Jon–Nah maybe more original than MT’s Jon–Mic sequence. 30 Second, Paul McKechnie has presented arguments in favour of the possibility that Ben Sira composed his wisdom in Egypt. 31 The notion of a widely accepted literary unit already in the second century BCE is not supported by the evidence. That Sira 49.10 refers to Twelve Prophets at around the time of the production of 4QXIIa&b ]‫פר‬ ̇ ‫ )וגם שנים עשר הנביאים תהי עצמתם‬is insufficient to claim (‫[תם‬ that Ben Sira and other scholars considered the Twelve as a unit copied together onto single scrolls in Palestine. The clearest evidence for the existence of the Twelve is provided by the LXX since the Minor Prophets were probably translated by a single person. 32 Hence, the LXX represents the shape of the collection of the Twelve at the time of its translation. 33 If Ben Sira wrote his wisdom in Alexandria as McKechnie suggests, it becomes possible to argue that Sira 49.10 reflects the current opinion at Alexandria which was not necessarily shared by Jerusalem. The Minor Prophets could have been organized as a canon of twelve prophetic books in Alexandria at the time of their translation. Jerusalem could have sent one-prophet scrolls similar to the earliest “4QXII” scrolls to Alexandria. Writing in Alexandria, Ben Sira is the first to mention the Twelve due to his geographic proximity or professional affinity to the scholars who created the XII. This accounts to the fact that 8ḤevXIIgr is the earliest manuscript which can reasonably be considered as a scroll of the XII since it transmits at least half the collection. The difference with 4QXIIc, dated 25 years earlier than 8ḤevXIIgr and bearing only four Minor 30 D. Edelman, “Jonah among the Twelve,” paper presented at the 2007 meeting of the European Association of Biblical Studies. A revised version is forthcoming in a collective essays volume. 31 P. McKechnie, “The Career of Joshua Ben Sira,” JTS 51 (2000), pp. 3–26. 32 E. Tov, “Approaches towards Scripture Embraced by the Ancient Greek Translators,” in U. Mittmann-Richert, F. Avemarie & G. S. Oegema (eds.), Der Mensch vor Gott (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2003), p. 216 n. 11. 33 G. J. Brooke, “The Twelve Minor Prophets and the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in A. Lemaire (ed.), Congress Volume Leiden 2004 (Leiden: Brill, 2006), pp. 19–44 (33).

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Prophets, is insignificant and it is safe to claim that scrolls bearing more than two Minor Prophets appear in Palestine simultaneously in Hebrew and in Greek. In light of the role played by Alexandria in textual criticism and canonization, the hypothesis that the anthology 34 of the XII was created there in the wake of the translation is as plausible as the opposite notion, that the Hebrew Twelve pre-existed the translation and that Alexandria merely translated the collection supplied ready-made by Jerusalem. 8ḤevXIIgr could be a copy of the scroll that was forwarded to Jerusalem upon the completion of the work. Since it is impossible to know whether 8ḤevXIIgr followed the LXX or the MT’s sequence, there is no way to decide whether Jerusalem altered Alexandria’s sequence when the Greek text was aligned on the proto-MT text or whether the MT’s sequence is original. The number of days before Nineveh’s destruction in Jon. 3.4 is certainly significant here. The three days of the LXX make sense within the LXX sequence which places Nahum immediately after Jonah and the MT’s forty days reflect the MT’s insertion of Micah between Jonah and Nahum. Going a step further, Jonah could have been composed in the wake of the formation of the XII and their translation and for the position it holds in the LXX. It is a lot easier to visualize the universalism and positive assessment of the foreigners in Jonah if it reflects the situation of Alexandrian scholars. Moreover, the assertion in Jon. 4.11 that Yhwh will not spare Nineveh 35 followed by Nahum’s gloating over its destruction made sense in Alexandria in regard to the ongoing rivalry with the Seleucids. This is hypothetical, but it fits a critical assessment of the evidence supplied by the earliest scrolls of the XII.

34 M. Beck, “Das Dodekapropheton als Anthologie,” ZAW 118 (2006), pp. 558–583. 35 See A. Cooper, “In Praise of Divine Caprice: the Significance of the Book of Jonah,” in P. R. Davies & D. J. A. Clines (eds.), Among the Prophets (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993), pp. 144–163; T. M. Bolin, “‘Should I not Also Pity Nineveh?” Divine Freedom in the Book of Jonah,” JSOT 67 (1995), p. 120; T. M. Bolin, Freedom Beyond Forgiveness: The Book of Jonah Re-Examined (JSOTSup, 236; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), pp. 159–64; Ph. Guillaume, “The End of Jonah is the Beginning of Wisdom,” Biblica 87 (2006), pp. 243–50. However, students who will use W. D. Tucker jr., Jonah. A Handbook on the Hebrew Text (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2006), p. 103 will continue repeating that the end of Jonah is best understood as a rhetorical question.

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

6. CONCLUSION In conclusion, the Dead Sea scrolls reveal that the number of Minor Prophets copied on individual scrolls increases as time goes by and scrolls holding multiple books appear in Palestine in Greek as early as their Hebrew counterparts. The poor state of conservation of the scrolls and the narrowness of the sample undoubtedly skew the interpretation. It is likely that there were more scrolls and more books on each scroll that what has been recovered. But how much more? So much so that the juxtaposition of two fragments is sufficient to call it a physical transition between two books on the same scroll? If it was legitimate for the editors of the DSS manuscripts to try to reconstruct as much as possible from the remains, it should be acknowledged that the editors’ presupposition that they were dealing with scrolls of the XII has skewed the interpretation of the evidence in the opposite direction. The number of manuscripts transmitting the complete collection of the XII is lower than the DJD edition suggests and none are earlier than the first century BCE. Nothing supports claims that the XII formed a collection before their translation in Greek. Nothing prevents suggesting that the composition of Jonah and the formation of the XII are contemporary to the translation of Jerusalem’s prophetic literature at Alexandria.

REVIEWS

Piotr Bienkowski, Christopher Mee, and Elizabeth Slater (eds.), Writing and Ancient Near East Society: Papers in Honor of Alan R. Millard (LHBOTS, 426; New York and London, T & T Clark International, 2005). Pp. 319. Hardcover. US$ 135.00. ISBN 0567026914. Reviwed by Juan Manuel Tebes University of Buenos Aires Argentine Catholic University Argentine National Research Council As the preface of this book correctly indicates, Alan Millard is one of those few scholars who have taken during their academic careers a very “holistic” approach, focusing on a wide range of subjects, in the case of Millard, Semitic languages, biblical studies and archaeology. Whatever we think of the disciplinary overspecialization that is current in our days, it should be recognized that the kind of scholar that Millard represents is nowadays (unfortunately) very atypical. So this commendable Festschrift is both a justified present to an exemplary scholar and a salutary contribution to the studies on writing in the ancient Near East. This book contains most of the papers presented in a colloquium held in honor of Alan Millard in Liverpool in April 2003 (including a paper of Millard himself), with contributions of scholars that were unable to attend the meeting. The topic that connects all of these articles is ancient writing in the Near Eastern world, from the Cuneiform system to the Greek alphabet. Not only do these papers address the (mostly traditional) question of ancient writing, but they also concentrate on the sociohistorical framework that shaped the form and the ideology of the inscriptions. Since the papers are loosely arranged in chronological order, the first contribution is the wide-ranging study of Pierre Bordreuil (“Migraines d’Épigraphiste”). Alasdair Livingstone’s work (“Taimā’ and Nabonidus: It’s a Small World”) focuses the attention on some newly discovered Taimanitic inscriptions that refer to local supporters of Neo-Babylonian king Nabonidus during the latter’s hitherto not well explained residence in Tayma, north-west Arabia. A significant feature in this inscription, and in the Tai461

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

manitic/Thamudic inscriptions in general, is that they are records of the activities of private individuals, a characteristic that deviates to some extent from the standard inscriptions of the ancient Near East. Following the very brief study of Dennis Pardee (“Dresser le bœuf à Ougarit”) on some inscriptions from Ugarit, stands M. C. A. Macdonald’s study on “Literacy in an Oral Environment.” This impressive 69–pages paper, certainly the most important contribution in this book, studies the different kinds of literacy in ancient and modern societies. By drawing examples from all over the world (e.g., 17th-18th century Sweden, the modern Tuareg of north-west Africa, or the Safaitic inscriptions of the Arabian peninsula), Macdonald scrutinizes the strong relationships that exist between the socioeconomical background of one’s society and its respective writing. Specifically, Macdonald states that “Literacy is not necessarily desirable (…) Nor is it a homogeneous state. It can exist in many degrees and many quantities. One can be literate in one’s second language but not in one’s mother language (…) Their scripts [here the author is referring to the Tuareg and Vai, but the conclusions are relevant to most non-literate societies] have not penetrated the basic functions of their own communities –which therefore remain nonliterate- and are incomprehensible to the wider literate societies in which their communities are encompassed” (p. 64). Following the steps of scholars such as Lord, Goody, Watt, and Ong, Macdonald’s paper will almost certainly become a landmark work in the studies of orality and literacy in ancient societies. More akin to traditional studies, but nevertheless very comprehensive specific studies, are Wolfgang Röllig’s “Keilschrift versus Alphabetschrift: Überlegungen zu den epigraphs auf Keilschrifttafeln,” John F. Healey’s “The Writing on the Wall: Law in Aramaic Epigraphy,” David T. Tsumura’s “‘Misspellings’ in Cuneiform Alphabetic Texts from Ugarit: Some Cases of Loss or Addition of Signs,” and Graham Davies’ “Some Uses of Writing in Ancient Israel in the Light of Recently Published Inscriptions.” For scholars making research on the development of writing in ancient Israel, Davies’ paper is a comprehensive up-to-date review of published and unpublished inscriptions found in recent years in Israel (though a potential drawback is that some of the material presented may come presumably from the antiquities market). One of the most interesting findings is an inscription written on a bowl unearthed at Horvat ‘Uza, in the northern Negev, which Davies suggests, reminds some parts of the Book of Job. Interestingly, V. Sasson has recently reached quite similar conclusions (see his “An Edomite Joban Text. With a Biblical Joban Parallel,” ZAW 117 [2006]: 601–615).

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K. A. Kitchen, with his distinctive colloquial yet very appealing writing, makes a wide-ranging survey on the writing in monuments of the ancient Near East (“Now You See It, Now You Don’t! The Monumental Use and Non-use of Writing in the Ancient Near East”). More in the line of the sociohistorical studies of writing are Daniel I. Block’s “What has Delphi to do with Samaria? Ambiguity and Delusion in Israelite Prophecy,” Christopher Tuplin’s “Darius’ Accession in (the) Media,” and K. Lawson Younger’s “‘Hazael, Son of a Nobody’: Some Reflections in Light of Recent Study.” The book finishes with the papers of George J. Brooke (“4Q341: An Exercise for Spelling and for Spells?”), John Davies (“The Origins of the Inscribed Greek Stela”) and Alan Millard (“Only Fragments from the Past: The Role of Accident in our Knowledge of the Ancient Near East”). The concluding chapter, a perfect illustration of Millard’s erudition, deals with a topic seldom addressed in such detailed terms: the importance of the fortuitous discoveries and the probabilities of survival of ancient documents for our understanding of the history of the Near East. Millard’s conclusion, which should apply for most cases in the Near East, is that in sites where there have been several phases of occupation, it is the last phases that will offer the largest amounts of remains and documents to the archaeologists and historians. Of course, this conclusion is not without consequences. In the case of the archaeology of Iron Age Palestine, it means that the archaeological evidence is strongly biased towards the last part of that period -i.e., those strata destroyed by the Assyrians and Babylonians (as Millard points out in p. 311)-, thus leaving an archaeological “dark age” in the 11th-10th centuries BC. This assumption is already known for those who remember the debate between Millard and J. M. Miller in the 1990s, in which the earlier defended the historicity of the Biblical narrative on king Solomon against the latter’s minimalist views. As is usual with the volumes edited by JSOT Supplement Series, Writing and Ancient Near East Society is a carefully edited hardcover book, with a couple of useful illustrations and photographs complementing the text. As far as I can judge, there are not misprints in this volume, whereas the frequent transcriptions and transliterations of ancient inscriptions are free of errors. I recommend this book not only to those studying ancient writing systems, but also to anyone interested on knowing why and how these mostly non-literate societies produced those most fascinating systems of writing.

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Antony F. Campbell and Mark A. O’Brien, Rethinking the Pentateuch: Prolegomena to the Theology of Ancient Israel (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2005). Pp. xv + 183. Paper, US$29.95. ISBN: 0-664-22809-7. Reviewed by Lissa M. Wray Beal Providence Theological Seminary

Campbell and O’Brien propose a “radically new insight that eliminates the documentary sources from the Pentateuch altogether” (p. xiii). It is not an “obligatory replacement” (p. 5) of the Documentary Hypothesis, but a nonexclusionary possibility for describing the pentateuchal compositional process and purpose. Two “major transformations of mind-set” (p. 16) are argued. First, the pre-canonical text is not composed of fragmented sources but is a base-text of acknowledged varying and optional traditions. Second, users (storytellers and others) found in the base-text a resource for instruction and entertainment by the narration of Israel’s story. The first transformation moves attention away from recovery of sources behind the variant and seemingly repetitive traditions; sources are no longer a necessary explanation. The second transformation focuses attention on the given form of the user’s base-text as a resource for theological reflection. Rethinking, in a conscious reference to Wellhausen’s seminal work, is a prolegomena to this new enterprise. The need for such a new proposal, its shape, and its consequences are treated in the preface and chapter one. Chapter two presents evidence for moving from a source approach to a base-text approach, namely, the lack of a P text in Genesis (and the Pentateuch [which then suggests the elimination of a J or E text]), and the brevity and variance (repetition) of story texts, which suggests user-selection to build a sustained narrative. Chapter three applies the base-text-for-user approach to the Pentateuch. Identifying varying traditions within the base-text (e.g., Abraham family traditions, ElShaddai tradition, Rebekah tradition, etc.), the authors present “one possible outcome” of the method (p. 25). This outcome traces the story in Genesis as stories of humanity, the Abraham and Jacob cycles, and a Joseph story; in

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Exodus-Numbers as two alternate narratives of the exodus; and in Deuteronomy as a call to ideal human living. The chapter demonstrates the places where choices of expansion, selection, and enhancement of the text were made by users. For instance, options are present in Jacob’s reunion with Esau: one recounts reconciliation; the other hostility (p. 44). Reuben’s part in Joseph’s tale is a “valued enhancement” (p. 64). The storyteller selects the options, enhancements, etc. according to the theological reflection pursued. Appendices, including an annotation of base-text Genesis 1–Exodus 40 and Numbers 1–24 revealing expansions, enhancements, and alternate traditions, support the arguments. No longer fragmenting the text in a search for sources, Campbell and O’Brien work with blocks of narrative supplemented by editorial enhancements, blendings, and linking bridges in a manner similar to a redactioncritical approach. The approach is selective, however, as it does not apply to legal texts. Only narrative texts, and specifically, “storytelling texts” provide the base for such selection (comprising less than 45% of the Pentateuch by the authors’ calculation [p. 18]). It is partly on these criteria that Leviticus is not considered base-text, and a slight page is devoted to it (p. 89). This appears problematic on three counts: first, narrative still exists within the legal materials of Leviticus, and Leviticus is an integral part of the pentateuchal narrative complex—can it be so readily set aside without further comment or exploration? Second, traditional P texts are included elsewhere in the base-text (p. 15); if such texts are included as base-text, why not Leviticus? Third, Campbell and O’Brien pass over Leviticus because of its “unmoving focus on the life of the postexilic community [which] gives Leviticus a unity of its own and withdraws it from the purview of the discussion here.” But since dating of the base-text is not explored, it seems arbitrary to limit the process to a period before the postexilic era. Finally, even Deuteronomy, although described as a legal and hortatory text, is given several pages; why not the legal narrative of Leviticus? The work is presented as prolegomena to a new possibility. The new nature of the text as base-text-for-user raises questions for further exploration: while it is possible, is it probable? For instance, if a base-text-for-user approach was accepted in ancient Israel, why were there not other such collections produced by different communities of thought? Would not such alternate (or earlier) versions be extant? How to account for a text of alternates and options that can be read as a coherent presentation (a coherency argued by recent narrative approaches)? Why not simply collect the traditions thematically, or by affiliation to group? Why go to the effort of com-

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PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

bining the various alternates only for disbanding in selective retellings? The idea of base-text-for-user is one of the areas that this prolegomena must explore further. Finally, it is claimed that the base-text approach “gives identity, meaning, and a sense of destiny to a people” (p. 100). But, can a strong identity be forged when one’s past recorded in a discrete collection is intentionally able to be told differently every time? Does that not instead suggest an amorphous identity shaped by the exigencies of the storyteller’s situation? This book enables a new way to think about the text’s nature and its users, and refocuses on the theological reflection the present text supports. Although its vision is possible, the above comments limit its probability in this reviewer’s mind. I would recommend this book for those interested in exploring issues of pentateuchal composition.

JoAnn Scurlock, Magico-Medical Means of Treating GhostInduced Illnesses in Ancient Mesopotamia (Ancient Magic and Divination, III; Leiden: Brill/Styx, 2006). Pp. xi + 788. Cloth, €199,00, US$269.00. ISBN 90 04 12397 0. (= A).

JoAnn Scurlock and Burton Andersen, Diagnoses in Assyrian and Babylonian Medicine: Ancient Sources, Translations, and Modern Medical Analyses (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2005), Pp. xxiii + 879. Cloth, US$150. ISBN 0-252-02956-9 (= B). Reviewed by Scott Noegel University of Washington

Given the overlapping subject matter between these two books, and the fact that the first book (A, p. 10) directs readers to the second (B) for definitions of its medical terminology and the interpretations of diseases, I have chosen to review them together. Nevertheless, before offering a combined review concerning the contributions of both volumes, I provide below individual summaries of each book’s contents. Opening the first volume is a well-organized overview of ghostly affliction in Mesopotamia in which the author discusses the relevant texts and their formats, the numerous symptoms associated with ghostly afflictions, and the time and place of the accompanying ritual performances. Also discussed are the division of labor between healers and patients, the types of Akkadian and Sumerian recitations, and the elements that are specific and not specific to ghost rituals. Here the author also provides a typology for the numerous rituals based on whether a recitation or an adjustment to a recitation is present. From here the book proceeds to the ritual praxes in-

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volved with curing ghostly afflictions, including offerings, libations, figurines, ritual burial and dispatch, encirclement, amulets, fumigants, bandages, salves, potions, washes, and suppositories. This section is then followed by a brief summary of the many medicaments mentioned in the ritual texts. The introduction ends with a discussion of the problematic natures of the dichotomies that have informed previous works on Mesopotamian medicine (e.g., “sin” versus “sanction,” “divination” versus “diagnosis,” and “magic” versus “medicine”). The second and largest portion of the book comprises 352 textual editions (A, pp. 161–677). The texts are organized according to their apparitions and the physical ailments that result from hearing and seeing a ghost (i.e., headaches, eye and ear problems, various intestinal pains, shortness of breath and dizziness, fever, neurological and mental disorders, and the appearance of living skeletons). The volume concludes with a useful arrangement of the prescriptions according to the original tablets along with individual text bibliographies, and a concordance that equates the prescription numbers found in the author’s 1988 dissertation (whence this book derives) with the numbers found in this tome. Also provided is a bibliography and series of indices to facilitate reference. The second tome (B), co-authored with Burton R. Andersen, Professor of Medicine and Microbiology at the University of Illinois College of Medicine, offers a more general treatment of diagnoses in Babylonian and Assyrian medicine. Each of the afflictions discussed is informed by a modern medical taxonomy, e.g., the section on public health practices includes a discussion of environmental hazards such as parasites, bites and stings, river toxins, etc. The authors provide similar treatments for infectious diseases, sexually transmitted diseases, genitourinary tract diseases, gastrointenstinal diseases, metabolic and nutritional diseases, as well as ailments of the heart, circulatory system, lungs, eyes, ears, nose, bones, and joints. Also covered are obstetrics and gynecology, neurology, trauma and shock, poisons, mental illness, dental and oral diseases, ancient etiologies, and prognostics. For each affliction the authors give a brief explanation as well as representative examples from Mesopotamian texts (all cross-referenced). Like the first volume, this book concludes with a number of appendices, notes, and useful indices. Photographs of some of the most important texts also appear in this section.

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These two magisterial tomes offer a nearly comprehensive analysis of the medical profession in ancient Mesopotamia. 1 The only topic not covered in these volumes, but promised by the authors for future volumes, is that of the medical treatments used (though a preliminary discussion appears in A, pp. 62–71). Both volumes are the result of many years of deep engagement with the subject and both represent the best in interdisciplinary thinking. For the first time, they make the vast learning of the Mesopotamian healing profession accessible to educated laypersons, and to other Assyriologists and medical doctors. Thus, they also provide invaluable comparative materials to those in other disciplines, especially, I would think, Egyptologists, Classicists, and experts in late antique Judaism. 2 Both books are filled with fascinating insights on Mesopotamian medical practice. For example, one learns that ghostly apparitions were likely the result of “visual hallucinations accompanying severe abdominal discomfort” (A, p. 10), and that they were not associated with medical symptoms that affect women and children, such as “barrenness, excessive vaginal discharges, difficulty giving birth, puerperal fever and the like, or infantile afflictions, or jaundice, gall bladder, urinary tract problems or DÚR.GIG” (A, p. 19). One also learns that patients were considerably more involved in the application of their own medicaments (and also the recitation of spells) than their modern counterparts, that the physician (āšipu) made house calls, and that his colleague, the asû, who provided the āšipu with materia medica, Due to circumstances beyond the author’s control, the publication of MagicoMedical Means of Treating Ghost-Induced Illnesses in Ancient Mesopotamia was delayed by eight years. Consequently, as the author notes (p. x), studies published in the last eight years, including the other book under review here, have not been integrated, nor has Nils Heessel, Babylonisch-assyrische Diagnostik (AOAT 43; Münster: Ugarit Verlag, 2000). 2 I note, for example, that the use of unbaked fermenting vessels to trap ghosts and prevent them from breathing air (A, p. 51) might be fruitfully compared to the so-called “magic bowls” of late antique Iraq, and that the drainage hole as a place to deposit performative figurines (A, p. 52), has a similar counterpart in the GrecoRoman world. The instruction to avoid looking behind oneself after receiving medical treatment for ghostly affliction (A, p. 217), is reminiscent of the Odyssey, X: 526–530: “But when with prayers you have entreated the glorious hordes of the dead, then sacrifice one ram and one black female (ewe), turning them toward Erebos, but yourself turn away from them and make for where the river runs, and there the numerous souls of the perished dead will come and gather about you.” Many similar comparative observations could be made with reference to Egyptian documents. 1

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worked out of his shop. One finds that the diagnostic/prognostic tablets that give us our medical information were used like medical textbooks today. We further learn that autopsies were likely performed, that physicians knew the importance of good hygiene, how to take a patient’s pulse, and how treat some afflictions surgically (e.g., empyema, B, pp. 46–47). When cases looked hopeless, they even practiced euthanasia, albeit rarely. Indeed, the authors provide far too many interesting observations to list here. Perhaps the most important contribution of these volumes is that they offer a healthy corrective to many long-held assumptions concerning the Mesopotamian medical profession. For example, they illustrate that disease was only rarely viewed as a punishment for personal action (A, pp. 73– 74)—indeed, “sin” (especially in the Christian sense), is a concept that would have been wholly foreign to ancient Mesopotamians. In addition, the āšipu, often regarded as a “conjurer” or “magician” because of his connection to performative incantations and his knowledge of ritual texts, is shown in these volumes to be an astute and rational observer whose profession was built upon millennia of inductive medical testing. Though he attributed afflictions to the “hands” of gods, demons, and ghosts, these attributions only registered his inability to see the source of the affliction in much the same way that bacteria are invisible to us without a microscope. Moreover, as the authors explain, it is impossible to label such diagnoses as “supernatural,” because the Mesopotamians did not recognize a category “supernatural.” While the polytheistic world in which the āšipu lived encouraged him to equate certain ailments with particular gods and demons, there is no evidence of a higher theory that served as a basis for medical treatment (unlike the often wildly unsuccessful theories of Hippocratic physicians [A, p. 81]). As Scurlock observes: “the ancient Mesopotamian āšipu tailored his understanding of the demoness to fit what he observed to be happening to his patients, and not the other way around” (A, p. 77). Indeed, his belief in gods, demons, and ghosts did not prevent him from providing a rational treatment for illnesses. Moreover, in many cases, his powers of observation led him to correct conclusions. “…it is now clear that many of the apparently disparate symptoms attributed by the āšipu to various trouble causers, including ghosts, are, in fact, related. For example, the āšipu was not entirely mistaken in attributing what appear from the descriptions to be meningitis and otitis media to “hand” of ghost. These can indeed be attributed to the same cause, not, admittedly, ghosts, but other assailants equally invisible to the patient, namely bacteria such as haemophilus influenzae”(A, pp. 77–78).

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What becomes patently clear from reading these volumes is that the Mesopotamian medical profession was extremely sophisticated. It is no exaggeration to say the skill of ancient Mesopotamians in diagnosis and therapy was only surpassed in the late nineteenth century C.E., a starling tribute to the potential of the human mind to reason, if armed with an observation-based approach and an attitude of “use whatever works” (B, p. 12).

These volumes are a veritable goldmine of information on the Mesopotamian medical profession. They are encyclopedic, copiously documented and cross-referenced, and provide all the relevant Sumerian and Akkadian medical terminology. They will undoubtedly serve as indispensable reference works for many years. I eagerly await the anticipated volumes on Babylonian and Assyrian medical treatments.

Mary Douglas, Jacob’s Tears: The Priestly Work of Reconciliation (Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 2005). Pp. vi + 211. Cloth, US$90.00, CAN$141.00. ISBN 0-19-926523-2. Reviewed by Bernon Lee Grace College Winona Lake

This book is a collection of essays on the priestly work by Mary Douglas. Some of the subject matter under discussion has been dealt with in earlier publications (see, for example, material concerning the analogical relationships between the bodies of sacrificial beasts, the tabernacle and the holy mountain [the subject matter of chapter 6] in Leviticus as Literature [Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 1999], pp. 66–86). The essential and underlying thesis of the collection is that the priestly authors were concerned with the exclusion from legitimacy of their sacerdotal counterparts in the north within the political world of the south towards the end of the southern kingdom. For Douglas, the xenophobic tendencies of the postexilic province of Yehud regarding Samaria, as reflected in the rhetoric of

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Ezra, is the continuation of this religio-political tension between north and south. Working against this trend, the priestly writers selected from sources emphatic upon the unity of the tribes of Israel. The final product was a document, the Pentateuch, that stood in contrast with the ethos of EzraNehemiah with its proscription of intermarriage and application of an understanding of impurity for the purpose of exclusion. The eight essays in the volume come under four divisions. The first division (The Legacy of Jacob’s Sons) deals with narratives and laws in the Pentateuch supportive of solidarity amongst the tribes, the offspring of Jacob/Israel. Within the first division, Chapter One focuses upon priestly narratives in Numbers and Genesis. In Numbers, for example, recurring reference to the twelve tribes in census lists and elsewhere (e.g., Num 2:2) and grave concern regarding defection (e.g., Numbers 32) betray priestly consternation regarding religious schism between north and south in the sixth century. Chapter Two offers a new interpretation of the scapegoat ritual of Leviticus 16. The scapegoat does not carry away impurity arising from human transgression, but rather functions as an envoy of peace and salutation to the tribes not chosen to enter the covenantal relationship with Israel’s god. Within the context of the post-exilic period, the ritual becomes a priestly gesture of peace and reconciliation, on behalf of Yehud, to the former kinsman of the north so bitterly excluded by Ezra’s policies. The two chapters (chapters 4 and 5) of the second division (Who is ‘All Israel’?) concern the definition of ‘Israel’ in the post-exilic period. For Douglas, the priestly texts challenge the view of Ezra that the inhabitants of the land encountered by the returnees from Babylonia were outsiders, apostates who had adopted the illegitimate religious practices of the nations. Chapter Four defines a likely historical situation productive of this conflict of perspective. The returnees under Ezra’s leadership expect allotments of land upon arrival. Charges of impurity and religious syncretism become reasons for the forceful removal of settlers who stand in the way. The priests, on the other hand, are mindful of the financial support from a cosmopolitan populace for the Jerusalem cult in pre-exilic times; any talk of confining national membership and cultic participation to the returning group could jeopardize the fiscal status of the temple. Priestly texts, therefore, emphasize the inclusion of the sojourner and the claims of the northern tribes to membership in Israel. Chapter Five presents the story of Balaam as a satire. The story supports the priestly agenda through Balaam’s reference to earlier words of blessing and promise in the Pentateuch. Some of these references combine and alter the language of earlier pronouncements, for the sake of enforcing the view that the pronouncements apply to all Israel, not just

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Judah (compare Num 24:17 with Gen 49:10). As political satire the story of Balaam, in the period of the Second Temple, represents the folly of the Persian monarchy (represented by Balak) in sponsoring an agenda of national restoration under the auspices of a misguided governor (represented by Balaam) at odds with the aims of the priests. The third division (Before and After Exile: The Gap in Learning) within the collection is focused upon the literary features of Leviticus. Chapter Five argues that the Babylonian exile created a gap in the traditions of interpretation, leading to misinterpretation and misunderstanding of the priestly literary agenda. Literary features like ring-composition and parallelism are passed over; a preoccupation with impurity leading to an abhorrence of things foreign arises in their place. Chapter Six focuses on one consequence of misinterpretation. Readers in the period of the Second Temple fail to see the analogical and structural correspondence between the text of Leviticus, the tabernacle, the bodies of sacrificial beasts on the altar, human bodies and the holy mountain (Sinai). The analogies explain otherwise obtuse features of priestly laws. For example, the categories of animals forbidden to human consumption are the same classes excluded from the sacrificial altar. The purpose of the correspondence is to point to the mystery of the divine encounter with humanity on the holy mountain and the tabernacle. Through this imagery the mediation of the covenant with Israel and the closeness of God become occasions for celebration. The fourth and final division (Magic and Monotheism) views priestly conceptions of impurity and assessment of ancestor cults against the broader designs of priestly rhetoric. Chapter Seven discusses theories for the function of notions of taboo and impurity in various societies. Douglas concludes that the priestly understanding of impurity reinforces the analogical relationships proposed in Chapter Six. Chapter Eight argues that the priestly diatribe against ancestor cults is part of its argument against the proliferation of cultic sights, leading to divergent loyalties, in a region already torn by strife and mutual suspicion. The proposition of a priestly agenda for reconciliation over and against tendencies to exclusion in the closing decades of Judah’s existence, and beyond into the post-exilic landscape, provides the common framework for the author’s interests in various aspects of priestly texts, religious and literary. The arguments are cogent and persuasive in many places, but some problems remain. I shall confine my comments to two areas. In Chapter Five, Douglas presents an insightful comparative reading of Balaam’s blessings, pointing to a priestly agenda of fostering unity. However, in view of the negative portrayal of the prophet in Numbers 31, she must postulate a

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later priestly hand from the Second Temple period working to soften the summons to solidarity. The perception of Samaria as a haven for idolatry had become too prominent by that time to endorse blatant remonstrations against the exclusion of Samaria (p. 107). This suggestion of a motive for interpolation is not implausible. However, by my estimation, it points to a need for more stringent criteria in identifying and explaining divergent tendencies within the text by appeal to historical circumstances. Elsewhere, in arguing for a tripartite partition in the structure of Leviticus reminiscent of the structure of the tabernacle, Douglas designates chapters 17–24 as representative of the middle compartment of the tabernacle (pp. 127, 149). For Douglas, the content of these chapters mark this portion of the text as corresponding to the middle portion of the tabernacle. The focus is on instructions for priests (on marriage, food and avoidance of corpses), the only ones permitted in this area, and things in that portion of the tabernacle (the altar of showbread and the candelabra). But this material must be confined to chapters 21, 22 and a portion of 24 (vv. 1–9). Chapters 17 (on the sacrifice of domestic animals), 18 and 20 (on sexual relationships), 19 (stipulations on various ethical and religious matters), and 23 (calendar of festivals) contain instructions applicable to the larger community. To the credit of Douglas, it should be noted that the more comprehensive correspondence between textual content and cultic edifice in the other two portions of Leviticus makes up for weaknesses in this portion of her argument. In my judgment, these points constitute minor problems in a brilliant synthesis of literary, historical and anthropological perspectives in understanding the priestly contribution. Thank you, Professor Douglas, for a stimulating hypothesis and an insightful engagement with the particular emphases of the priestly work.

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Oded Lipschits and Manfred Oeming, eds. Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2006). Pp. xxii + 721. Cloth, US$59.50. ISBN 978-1-57506-104-7. Reviewed by Ken Ristau Penn State University This volume is a collection of articles presented at the similarly titled symposium “Judah and the Judeans in the Achaemenid Period,” held in Heidelberg on July 15–18, 2003, and sponsored by the University of Heidelberg, the Hochschule für Jüdische Studien Heidelberg, and Tel Aviv University. The symposium and the volume are the second in a series of three, being preceded by Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period and followed by the yet-to-be published Judah and the Judeans in the 4th Century BCE. The volume is organized in two parts. The first part, entitled “Historical, Epigraphical and Archaeological Perspectives,” features eighteen articles: “‘We All Returned as One!’: Critical Notes on the Myth of the Mass Return” by Bob Becking (pp. 3–18), “Achaemenid Imperial Policy, Settlement Processes in Palestine, and the Status of Jerusalem in the Middle of the Fifth Century B.C.E.” by Oded Lipschits (pp. 19–52), “Constructions of Identity in Postcolonial Yehud” by Jon L. Berquist (pp. 53–66), “Remapping Yehud: The Borders of Yehud and the Genealogies of Chronicles” by John W. Wright (pp. 67–90), “Persia’s Loyal Yahwists: Power Identity and Ethnicity in Achaemenid Yehud” by John Kessler (pp. 91–122), “The ʿam hāʾāres in Ezra 4:4 and Persian Imperial Administration” by Lisbeth S. Fried (pp. 123–146), “The Borders and De Facto Size of Jerusalem in the Persian Period” by David Ussishkin (pp. 147–166), “Redating Lachish Level I: Identifying Achaemenid Imperial Policy at the Southern Frontier of the Fifth Satrapy” by Alexander Fantalkin and Oren Tal (pp. 167–198), “The Religious Revolution in Persian-Period Judah” by Ephraim Stern (pp. 199–206), “Tyrian Trade in Yehud under Artaxerxes I: Real or Fictional? Independent or Crown Endorsed?” by Diana Edelman (pp. 207– 246), “The Second Temple of Jeb and of Jerusalem” by Reinhard G. Kratz

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(pp. 247–264), “Revisiting the Samarian Question in the Persian Period” by Gary N. Knoppers (pp. 265–290), “Bethel: The Israelite Impact on Judean Language and Literature” by Ernst Axel Knauf (pp. 291–350), “Cyrus II, Liberator or Conqueror? Ancient Historiography Concerning Cyrus in Babylon” by David Vanderhooft (pp. 351–372), “Neo-Babylonian and Achaemenid State Administration in Mesopotamia” by M. A. Dandamayev (pp. 373–398), “New Evidence for Judeans in Babylonia” by Laurie E. Pearce (pp. 399–412), “New Aramaic Ostraca from Idumea and Their Historical Interpretation” by André Lemaire (pp. 413–456), and “Social Economic and Onomastic Issues in the Aramaic Ostraca of the Fourth Century BCE” by Bezalel Porten and Ada Yardeni (pp. 457–488). Most of the articles in part one contribute significantly to ongoing scholarship with new evidence or new perspectives. Most notably, the articles by Pearce, and Lemaire provide new textual evidence for Persian period studies. Pearce’s contribution is a “preliminary report” of the TAYN, or Texts from āl-Yāhūdu and Našar, Corpus, which she is preparing for publication. Lemaire has provided an introduction to a large corpus of Aramaic ostraca from Idumea as well as a very valuable description, transcription, translation, paleographical notes, commentary, and interpretation of thirty previously unpublished ostraca. These two articles are complemented by three important (re-)interpretations of relevant material and archaeological remains. Ussishkin has re-analyzed the archaeological evidence for the walls of Jerusalem in the Persian period and attempted to revive a theory that the walls circumvallated the western hill, repairing the lines of the Iron II walls; Fantalkin and Tal have provided an excellent synopsis and dating of the Persian period level at Lachish; and Porten and Yardeni have drawn attention to several important issues in the analysis of fourth century Aramaic Ostraca, making an excellent companion article to Lemaire’s. The rest of the articles in part one provide proficient historical analysis of select issues. The articles by Becking, Kessler, Edelman, and Knoppers are especially insightful and, whatever the relative merits of the conclusions of each, they illustrate a skillful wedding of exegesis with archaeological, historical, and also theoretical analysis. The second part of this volume, entitled “Biblical Perspectives,” features an additional eight articles: “Periodization between History and Ideology II: Chronology and Ideology in Ezra-Nehemiah” by Sara Japhet (pp. 491–508), “The Missions of Ezra and Nehemiah” by Tamara Cohn Eskenazi (pp. 509–530), “The ‘Persian Documents’ in the Book of Ezra: Are They Authentic?” by Lester L. Grabbe (pp. 531–570), “‘See, We Are Serving Today’ (Nehemiah 9:36): Nehemiah 9 as a Theological Interpretation of

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the Persian Period” by Manfred Oeming (pp. 571–588), “Sociolinguistics and the Judean Speech Community in the Achaemenid Empire” by Frank H. Polak (pp. 589–628), “Benjamin Traditions Read in the Early Persian Period” by J. Blenkinsopp (pp. 629–646), “The Saul Polemic in the Persian Period” by Yairah Amit (pp. 647–662), and “The Imaginary Sanctuary: The Priestly Code as an Example of Fictional Literature in the Hebrew Bible” by Hanna Liss (pp. 663–689). Part two contains a significantly smaller selection of articles, less than half the number in part one, and unfortunately feels like something of an afterthought in this volume. Still, most of the articles are excellent. The articles range in methodology from a traditional exegetical paper, exemplified by Oeming’s article on Neh 9:36, and studies of ideology and historicity, such as the articles by Japhet and Grabbe, to a fascinating sociolinguistic study by Polak and a short yet excellent comparative analysis by Eskenazi. The papers by Blenkinsopp and Amit highlight some of the literary tension in the post-exilic texts, especially as reflected in the Benjamite and Saulide traditions. In doing so, the authors draw attention to the under-investigated problem of potential or even likely political and social controversies between Judah and Benjamin. Finally, Liss contributes an analysis of the Priestly literary traditions that claims P fictionalizes and spiritualizes Israel’s cult in order to move focus away from “a God ‘wrapped up’ by events” towards a god who meets Israel through the word and liturgy (pp. 688– 689). Despite the generally excellent quality of all the articles, it is very surprising that there are no articles on Haggai, Zechariah, and Chronicles. This seems to me a glaring and unfortunate omission in the volume. In addition to the articles, the volume includes the contents table (pp. v-vii), an introduction by the editors that brings together and reflects on the articles (pp. ix-xvii), and a list of abbreviations (pp. xviii-xxii) as front matter and, as back matter, three helpful indices: “Index of Authors” (pp. 691– 700), “Index of Scripture” (pp. 701–715), and “Index of Sites and PlaceNames” (pp. 716–721). The volume would have benefited from abstracts of the papers either at the front or back or simply at the outset of each article, but this is a minor grievance. On the whole, the binding, editing, and presentation is excellent and the volume, like its predecessor on the NeoBabylonian period, is an outstanding and necessary collection for scholars and students of the Persian period.

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George Athas, The Tel Dan Inscription: A Reappraisal and a New Interpretation (Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series, 360; Copenhagen International Seminar, 12; New York: T. & T. Clark, 2005). Pp. xii + 331. US$49.95. ISBN 0-567-04043-7. Reviewed by Daniel Miller Bishop’s University

This work, a re-impression of a 2003 publication, constitutes an extensive revision of the author’s University of Sydney dissertation. Numerous articles on the Tel Dan inscription have appeared since Fragment A was discovered in July 1993 and the bifurcated Fragment B (sigla: B1 and B2) was unearthed in June 1994, but this is the first full monograph devoted to this Iron Age II text from northern Israel, one of the most important epigraphic finds from the Levant in recent decades. As the author indicates in laying out his methodology (pp. 1–3), his objective is to provide extensive discussions of all salient areas of enquiry: archaeological context, epigraphy, palaeography, textual analysis and historical significance. Athas begins his investigation in Chapter Two by detailing the circumstances of the discovery of the pieces of the inscription within Area A at Tel Dan: Fragment A from the base of a wall inside the city (p. 6); B1 about 2 m south of a platform shrine along the base of the Iron Age city wall (p. 13); and B2 incorporated into the pavement at the base of that wall (pp. 14– 15). Here he makes some preliminary estimates regarding the time span for the creation and destruction of the stela, viz. from early in the latter half of the ninth to the beginning of the eighth century BCE (pp. 13, 16), already challenging the conclusions of the excavator Avraham Biran and original epigrapher Joseph Naveh. In Chapter Three (“Epigraphical Analysis”), the author provides his own reading of the lines on the tablet fragments, based on a painstaking personal examination of the artifact (pp. 35–92). Prior to this, in part

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through his own physical experiments with hammer and chisel (see p. 21), he describes methodically the mechanics involved in writing and incising the letters, with helpful drawings and photographs (pp. 21–35). This remarkable undertaking allows him to posit the approximate dimensions of the original stela’s writing surface prior to fracture—height not much more than 110 cm, width 35 cm (p. 35)—the significance of which will become apparent in Chapter Five. Chapter Four (“Palaeographical Analysis”) is an exhaustive comparison of the forms of all of the letters on the tablet (complete with miniature photographs) with the corpus of West Semitic inscriptions dating from the mid-tenth to the mid-fourth centuries BCE (pp. 94–174). Athas’s objectives are to determine “whether a plausible connection exists between Fragment A and Fragment B in terms of palaeography” (p. 96)—it does (pp. 164– 65)—and to establish a palaeographical date for the stela to go along with the earlier-proposed archaeological dating (it is ca. 800 BCE, plus or minus twenty years [pp. 136, 164]). The following chapter (“Arrangement of the Fragments”) provides arguably the most arresting observation of a monograph that is replete with them. As currently displayed in the Israel Museum in Jerusalem, Fragment B is positioned immediately to the left of Fragment A, the top edges of each of the two essentially level with each other, in accordance with the conclusions of Biran, Naveh, epigrapher Ada Yardeni and three restorers (pp. 175–76). The first eight lines of Fragment A thus supposedly continue on Fragment B, although Biran and Naveh have expressed “a modicum of doubt as to the present configuration” (p. 177). Due in part to problems with the ostensible two parts of these eight lines, particularly in lines 2, 4 and 8 (pp. 183–87), Athas has proposed an entirely new arrangement of the fragments, one which severs the physical connection between A and B. The implications of his proposed dimensions for the original, unbroken stone, determined during his epigraphical analysis, now become clear. Asserting that “different physical circumstances governed the writing of Fragment A and Fragment B” (p. 180), Athas proposes to place B some 32 cm below A, about 45 cm from the bottom edge of the theoretical unbroken stela, with Fragment A’s first line being the third line of the full stela (pp. 190–91). Athas moves in Chapter Six to an extensive textual analysis, confirming that the language of the inscription is indeed Old Aramaic (pp. 201, 245–46), as has been asserted since the Biran-Naveh editio princeps (1993, 1995). His translation (pp. 193–94) is, of course, much discrepant from all previous interpretations that have been based upon the configuration of a Fragment B contiguous with Fragment A. Obviously, space does not permit

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a full summary of his reasoning here, but we must at least note his conclusions regarding the crucial lexeme ‫ ביתדוד‬in line A9 (pp. 217–26). While the majority of commentators have assumed it to be “House of David,” taken as a dynastic name for the southern Israelite kingdom of Judah, Athas interprets what he vocalizes as “Bayt-Dawid” (p. 221 and passim) to be a reference not to the nation Judah but to the city(-state) Jerusalem (pp. 223–24; also 275–81), the reasons for which will be discussed presently. Chapter Seven is a lengthy historical commentary, assembling and correlating the data from 1) the inscription; 2) other relevant extra-biblical texts; 3) biblical testimony; and 4) the archaeological record. Several points bear mentioning here. First, Athas now arrives at precise dates for both the production (ca. 796 BCE) and the destruction (ca. 791 BCE) of the stela (p. 296). Secondly, he determines that its author is not, as has been thought by most scholars, the Aram-Damascus monarch Hazael but rather his son and successor Bar Hadad (p. 263), and further that this “Bar Hadad” is not to be considered the third (or even fourth) king of that name, but only the second, hence Bar Hadad II (pp. 263–68; 289–94). Thirdly, the “king of Israel” referred to in line A8 is Jehoahaz ben-Jehu (not Jehoram ben-Ahab), and ‫ יהואחז‬must thus be entirely restored at the end of line A7 (see pp. 269, 193). The corollary to this is that the king of “Bayt-Dawid” (i.e., Jerusalem) is therefore Joash ben-Ahaziah (p. 281), and not Ahaziah ben-Jehoram. Fourthly, based on the date given for the destruction of the stela, it must have been purposely shattered by Jehoahaz ben-Jehu’s son and successor, Jehoash (pp. 270–71). Fifthly, given the juxtaposition of a state (Israel) with a city (Bayt-Dawid/Jerusalem) by Bar Hadad II in the inscription, Judah was negligible as a state entity at that time; “Jerusalem, in all likelihood, had only token sovereignty over the regions of Judah” (p. 278) and “was only a small feudal estate” (p. 281). This, of course, has the further implication that the biblical portrayal of a powerful tenth-century BCE DavidicSolomonic kingdom centred on Jerusalem cannot be accurate; indeed, as the archaeological record suggests, “in the tenth century BCE, Jerusalem was only a fortified compound with a small population—not a bustling metropolis” (p. 305). (Athas does, however, conclude that “‫ דוד‬must refer back to the eponymous ancestor of Jerusalem’s king—namely, David benJesse” [p. 303].) Finally, two passages from 1 Kings that have elicited great scholarly debate may now conclusively be placed chronologically: 22:1–40 is actually describing the death in battle of Jehoahaz ben-Jehu (at the hands of Bar-Hadad II, as described in the Tel Dan inscription!) rather than of King Ahab (pp. 283–84); and in 20:23–43, the unnamed king of Israel is not to be taken as Ahab, as the placement of the narrative would suggest, but rather

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Jehoash ben-Jehoahaz (destroyer of the inscription), with the Damascene king “Ben Hadad” being none other than the erector of the inscription, i.e., Bar Hadad II (p. 286). Athas concludes the book with some brief summarizing comments about the implications of his findings, and some suggestions about how scholars might proceed in future when faced with artifacts of such potentially great significance. As he correctly notes, “[t]he Tel Dan Inscription produced one of the biggest divides in the scholarly community” (p. 318). In particular, he asserts that nothing can replace first-hand examination of the artifact itself; determinations based on photographs and hand-drawings can be misleading (p. 318). The conclusions of George Athas in the Tel Dan Inscription are, to put it mildly, far-reaching and novel. They are also, in the opinion of the present reviewer, largely compelling. Athas stresses that in conducting his analysis he has attempted to follow a prudent methodology that, among other things, neither takes “all the information derived from the inscription at face value” nor “dismiss[es] the biblical evidence from having any value for historical reconstruction” (p. 255). He has hewn to this path admirably, and he has coupled this with archaeological, epigraphical, and palaeographical work of extreme rigour and erudition. It is difficult to find weaknesses in the volume, but two matters treated in Chapters Six (“Textual Analysis”) and Seven (“Historical Commentary”) do warrant some comment. The first concerns the vexatious ‫ ביתדוד‬in line A9. Athas asserts that due to the absence of a word divider between ‫ בית‬and ‫דוד‬, this form cannot refer to “two separate ideas” (pp. 218–19), and is thus to be taken as “a composite toponym transcribed as a single lexeme” (p. 224). This toponym is, as already explained, “Bayt-Dawid,” a reference to Jerusalem, limited ca. 800 BCE “to the narrow spur between the Qidron Valley and the Central (Tyropoean) Valley” (p. 279). Athas likens “Bayt-Dawid” to an alternate biblical term for Jerusalem ‫“[ עיר דוד‬City of David”] (pp. 279–80; also 224) reasoning that ‫ ביתדוד‬would have been the Old Aramaic equivalent for ‫ עיר דוד‬since the noun ‫ עיר‬is (at least thus far) unattested in Old Aramaic (p. 280). While the suggestion is novel, it is potentially undermined by the fact that there are only two relevant cases in which a composite toponym is written as a single lexeme: ‫[ ביתחרן‬Beth-Ḥoron] in Ostracon B from Tell Qasilé and ‫[ ביתאל‬Bethel] from Sefiré I (p. 222). Athas neglects to mention, however, that the second component in both is a DN (“Horon” and “El”) rather than a PN (“Dawid”). The ostensible parallel is thus weakened. Similarly, Athas does not adequately explain why it is that biblical ‫“( דוד בית‬House of David,” as a dynastic name for the

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kingdom Judah) is two separate ideas but ‫“( ביתדוד‬Bayt-Dawid,” the supposed Old Aramaic name of Jerusalem ca. 800 BCE) is not two separate ideas. Presumably, what he means is that in using “House of David” to refer to Judah, a speaker would have been mentally separating the concept of the eponymous man “David” and the concept of “house” as a reference to a “socio-political label” (p. 300), whereas “Bayt-Dawid,” while originally two separate ideas, would no longer have been thought of thus (just as we no longer think of “New York” as being a new version of the English city York). Another conclusion that readers may find somewhat tenuous is Athas’s assertion that line A4 contains a reference to the supposed deity ‫“[ אלביתאל‬El-Baytel”] (pp. 309–15; also 193, 210–11). Athas describes this as “the hypostasis of the deity El, who came later to be known simply as ‘Baytel’ or ‘Bethel’” and says that it “refers to the deity El in the form of a massebah or sacred Bethel-stone at the city gate” (pp. 210–11). Thus, he posits an evolution of the DN El from “El” to “El-Baytel” (meaning “‘The Bethel-stone, El’” [p. 311]) to “Baytel/Bethel.” Given, however, that this DN is not otherwise attested and that its last three letters must be entirely restored (see pp. 193, 210–11), this reading and interpretation should be treated with caution. It is, however, highly intriguing and cannot be rejected out of hand. The Tel Dan Inscription is, undeniably, a scholarly tour de force, subverting virtually all previous scholarship on the text. The author’s assertions are wide-ranging and provocative, and even in the rare cases when not entirely convincing they are nevertheless imaginative. At a minimum, it is difficult to argue with Athas’s determination that Fragment B is to be placed well below Fragment A rather than immediately to its left, meaning that most of the previous scholarship on the inscription, based on the current arrangement, is misleading. The amount of data that confronts the reader in this volume can be overwhelming and even exhausting (the sheer volume of information doubtless explains the sporadic typographical errors and problems in phrasing), but navigating through it is a richly rewarding experience. All subsequent work on the Tel Dan inscription will have to contend with this monumental treatment.

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Wesley J. Bergen, Reading Ritual: Leviticus in Postmodern Culture (Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplements, 417; London/New York: T & T Clark International, 2005). Pp. 140. Cloth, US$120.00. ISBN 0-5670-4081-X. Reviewed by Bernon P. Lee Grace College and Seminary

Wesley Bergen’s book Reading Ritual: Leviticus in Postmodern Culture has as its primary purpose the genesis of an encounter between Leviticus 1–7 and the (post)modern North-American reader. The book offers a cross-cultural comparison of ritual (a search for parallels in ritual-observance in presentday, mostly, North American society) that seeks to illuminate the effects of reading ritual texts, as well as of watching and performing rituals. Insights abound from the comparative study, shedding light upon the experience of reading ritual in Leviticus and uncovering the relevance of ritual in modern and western practice. The first chapter of the book lays down the purpose and the interests (as outlined above) of the volume. A series of five ‘stand-alone’ chapters follows, each pursuing an aspect of Leviticus 1–7 in the world today. The insights gleaned from the exercise in comparison are brought to bear upon a careful analysis of Leviticus 7 in a final chapter. Chapter Two considers the relationship between implications in the portrayal of ritual in Leviticus 1–7 and the practices of the meat-packaging and meat-consumption industry in the United States and Canada. Like the external demands of a deity that drive the reading and practice of sacrifice in the Hebrew Bible, the demigod which is the economic system motivates the slaughter of animals in our world today. Chapter Three examines the function of enculturation which is endemic to the observance of ritual. Enculturation is effected at the social level (e.g., the element of patriotism inherent to a passion for football) and

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the individual level (e.g., readerly identification with an individual concerned with the effects of transgression) in Leviticus and through the cultural norms of watching football in numerous homes in North America. Chapter Four regards theological and practical differences between North Americans and Africans in their views of sacrifice. Bergen’s purpose in the cross-cultural comparison is the highlight assumptions in North American attitudes toward ritual (and religion) that would remain hidden otherwise. For example, an African emphasis on the efficacy of ritual in the aversion of calamities in the natural world reveals, through contrast, a dominant focus upon metaphysical realities (atonement) and afterlife matters (justification) in Christian readings of Leviticus 1–7. Chapter Five continues with the concern for sacrifice in Leviticus 1–7. The comparison turns to the unique current usage of the term and its attendant concepts in American propaganda for national defense. Bergen explores the perceived requirement for the loss of human life in the cause for ‘freedom’, the defense of American Civil Religion/Society, and the maintenance of national cohesion. The mutation of the concept of sacrifice between Leviticus and understandings of the term in current national propaganda (e.g., from the sacrifice of animals to that of humans) is evident. Chapter Six picks up the matter of changes in the interpretation of sacrificial rites. Bergen’s survey begins with transformations of the concept in biblical texts (the Prophets and the Psalms), proceeds through New Testament texts and the writings of the church in various periods, and concludes with current discussions within feminist and post-colonialist theological discourse. The unique trajectories of interpretation developed within each geographical and historical location are shown to be influenced by the particular demands and interests of each community. In Chapter Seven, Bergen presents a dialogue on Leviticus 7 in three voices: the perspectives of the scholar, the pastor and the poet. The last perspective offers imaginative, critical and even subversive insights unfettered by the unique interests and protocols of the first two. Bergen’s penchant for finding aspects of ritual in the world today and his incisive criticism of the mythological constructs that sponsor those rituals are the most attractive features of the volume. The author, for example, demonstrates convincingly the role the Superbowl’s program plays in promoting a particular brand of patriotism (p. 37). Repeated references to members of the military overseas viewing the game promote sympathy for the national agenda for defense (and aggression), and suppress non-violent

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expressions of patriotism. The rhetorical methods of sports programming are laid bare, and political agenda exposed. But this emphasis of the volume on comparison between Leviticus 1– 7 and events of our contemporary situation, with its preference for finding ‘ritual’ in mundane acts, is also its most troubling characteristic. The definition of ‘ritual’ becomes crucial for the success of the comparison. The polyvalence inherent to the semiotic significance of any given action in a ritual (p. 6) infects also the semantic range of the term ‘ritual.’ Whose conception of ‘ritual’ and ‘ritualized action’ within a given historical context should we proceed with in demonstrating continuity and discontinuity across historical and cultural distances? In order to lend accuracy to comparison, Bergen deploys Catherine Bell’s criteria for the identification of “ritualized actions” (p. 5). These characteristics of ‘ritualized action’ are formalism, traditionalism, disciplined invariance, rule-governance, sacral symbolism and performance. While these characteristics are attributed to the industrialized actions of animal slaughter in Chapter Two (see pp. 15-18), Bergen does not maintain the discipline of justifying his selection of ‘ritualized actions’ throughout the volume. The use of language (e.g., ‘sacrifice’) commonly associated with ritual becomes the basis for the discernment of ‘ritualized action’ in the collective acts of the American military at war (p. 69). Specificity in the designation of series of concrete actions beyond the general descriptive category ‘war’ is missing. What actions of aggression is a reader to think of as possessive of ‘sacral symbolism’ and the element of ‘performance’ so as to qualify as a ‘ritualized action.’? I believe that Bell’s categories are quite applicable to the various maneuvers of national governments and the military in times of war; but the volume does not demonstrate this applicability consistently. However, this last matter, in my opinion, is a minor oversight that does little to mar an astute work of comparison between the rituals described in Leviticus 1–7 and those of different times and places. Professor Bergen is to be congratulated for his daring effort, which I consider a success, to reveal the use of ritual in the (post)modern world, and the light this sheds upon the function of Leviticus 1–7.

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Mark W. Hamilton, The Body Royal: The Social Poetics of Kingship in Ancient Israel (Biblical Interpretation Series, 78; Leiden/Boston: Brill Academic Publishers, 2005). Pp. xv + 316. Cloth, €88,00, US $119.00. ISBN 9004-14541-9. Reviewed by Dale Launderville, OSB Saint John’s University School of Theology/Seminary Collegeville, MN 56321

This dissertation (Harvard University, Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations, 2000; readers: Peter Machinist, Jo Ann Hackett, and Sarah Coakley) argues that “kingship, far from being an alien intrusion on Israelite life, became a bundle of signs quintessentially representing its notions of human and divine power and nurturance” (pp. 30–31). Hamilton examines how the body of the king in its appearance and functioning participates in a network of signs (i.e., a code) that links the king to the divine realm and to the body politic. His attention to the language about the king’s body and the king’s use of and attention to his body uncovers ways that these bodily actions shaped relationships of power in Israel. Operating according to an interpretive model informed largely by the semiotic theories of Charles Sanders Pierce and Umberto Eco, Hamilton shows how the king’s display, discipline, and care for the royal body constituted an essential part of the politics of monarchic Israel. Hamilton aims to articulate “how” the language of the royal psalms and other biblical narratives evoked the networks within which the meaning of the king’s social body was debated by participants from various social locations in the polity (pp. 15, 31, 112). To uncover the royal body language, Hamilton undertakes a historicalcritical analysis of the royal psalms, narratives from the Deuteronomistic History, and a few passages from the prophets. His careful analysis of the royal psalms (chapters 2–3) creates a necessary context for interpreting royal body language and, at the same time, yields a number of interesting

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proposals for translating and interpreting difficult verses. The royal psalms, as identified by Hermann Gunkel and dated to the preexilic period (Psalms 2, 18, 20, 21, 45, 72, 89, 101, 110, 132), provide a window into the Davidic dynasty’s understanding of the person of the king. Drawing upon the model mapped out by the medievalist Ernst Kantorowicz (The King’s Two Bodies: A Study in Mediaeval Political Theology [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1957]), Hamilton identifies three types of bodies: (1) the male body of the king, (2) the body politic or social body of the king, and (3) the permanent or “immortal” body of the King. On the relationship of the earthly king to the divine king Yhwh, Hamilton argues that the royal psalms present “a sliding scale” between the divine and human dimensions of the royal person. Hamilton makes daring, controversial claims about the identity of the king’s body with that of Yhwh, where a dissenting opinion would want to place more emphasis on the difference between the king and Yhwh and understand the points of identity in more metaphorical terms. As a contrast to the “official” view of the royal psalms on the king’s body, Hamilton presents (chapters 4–7) a more ambivalent view toward the kingship from various DtrH narratives that doubt the exalted claims of a “petty ruler” to be the “universal sovereign” (p. 116). H. pays special attention to descriptions about the king’s height, heart, eyes, and other body parts. He repeatedly argues against reducing these body parts to mere metaphors of invisible processes. For example, in 1 Sam 16:7, Hamilton claims that Yhwh actually knows the shape of David’s heart rather than simply knowing his “inner goodness” (p. 129). But Hamilton’s bias toward rescuing the physicality of body language from metaphorization encounters difficulty in passages such as 2 Sam 5:1–3 where the Israelite elders proclaim that they are David’s bone and flesh. Hamilton sees in this expression the notion of the king’s body as “‘literally’ embodying the nation in his own body” (p. 133). Although the Israelite elders accent in this phrase their biosocial connection with David, the identification of their collective existence with the king’s physical body can only be made figuratively. The difference between the king’s body and the body politic must be acknowledged at the same time their identity is promoted. Hamilton recognizes the figurative character of the Israelites’ identification of their body with that of David but seems to want to accent something more stable than metaphorical truth in this identification. In the coronation rituals, Hamilton pays more attention to the dynamic, creative character of the relationships constituting the body politic. With regard to Joash’s installation as king (2 Kings 11), Hamilton claims that the body of the king created by ritual is the one that makes a difference politically (p. 143).

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Hamilton claims that royal burial practices illustrate the Israelites’ belief that there was a sacral dimension to the royal person. When Saul’s head was displayed on the walls of Bethshean, the people of Jabesh-Gilead rescued his head and remains, burned them, and then conducted a mourning period. Hamilton claims that Saul’s superhuman status is a reason for the extraordinary action of cremating his remains. Hamilton insightfully associates this cremation with the later report in 2 Sam 21:13–14 that the bones of Saul and Jonathan were transferred to the land of Benjamin and buried with the remains of his seven sons who had been executed by David as expiation for Saul’s breaking a treaty with the Gibeonites. There was a curse hovering over Saul that needed to be countered. Hamilton shows how foreign kings—e.g., the king of Tyre, Ben-hadad, and Hazael of Aram—were evaluated according to the same standards as Israelite kings. So just as the Israelite king was viewed as both dangerous and endangered, so also were the kings of Tyre, Egypt, Assyria, and Babylonia. The same sliding scale between God and king in the royal psalms is operative in the Israelite depiction of foreign kings. Hamilton has presented a well-researched interpretation of a coherent range of texts in which he highlights the semiotic character of the king’s body. His emphasis on the physicality of the king’s body will spur further examination of how to articulate more accurately the measure of physicality in the relationships between God, king, and people.

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Cheryl Anderson, Women, Ideology and Violence: Critical Theory and the Construction of Gender in the Book of the Covenant and Deuteronomic Law (Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series, 394; New York: T. & T. Clark, 2005). Pp. xii + 148. Paper, US$39.95. ISBN 0-567-08252-0. Reviewed by Athalya Brenner University of Amsterdam The Netherlands

This book, based on Anderson’s PhD thesis, has five chapters. In an introductory Chapter 1 basic concepts are set out, together with a review of previous research about the role and function of so called ‘biblical law’ and considerations of methodology (pp. 1–20). Chapter 2 contains a survey of laws on women in the Book of the Covenant (BC; Exodus 20:23–23:19) and in the law passage in Deuteronomy (DL), broadly divided into inclusive laws and exclusive laws (pp. 21–50): for Anderson, an ‘inclusive’ law is one that treats women and men in the same or similar ways and hence does not construct gender while ‘exclusive’ laws treat men and women differently, hence both shaping and reflecting gender ideologies. On the basis of this classified survey, in Chapter 3 Anderson proceeds to discuss how identities are constructed in both corpora (pp. 51–76). Here she moves from discussing class, age and national identities to the construction of gender identity and legitimization of identity. In Chapter 4, entitled ‘Law, Gender, and Violence,’ ‘law’ is analyzed as ‘violence’ if by its nature it represses the feminine in order to construct masculinity (pp. 77–100). The implications are summarized in Chapter 5 (pp. 101–117). There are two useful Appendixes: A, reproducing the NRSV for the laws read, classified according to topic; and B, of relative social privileges as constructed by the law. A bibliography and two indices—of references and authors—conclude the work.

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As can be seen from this brief outline, the book’s structure has a lot to recommend it. It is simply well done. Anderson first states her basic assumptions, namely, that there are certain properties of biblical and any other ‘law’ that should be taken into account: ideologies, reflected and created; its nature as a speech act; potentiality of constructing identity, including gender identities; potentiality of oppression, built in according to the laws’ bias and ideologies. Her survey of previous literature highlights two basic questions: is biblical Law actually ‘law’, i.e., is it legal literature? And can it be used, historically, for reconstructions of ancient Israelite societies, at any time? Her answers are measured and, in general, she opts for caution, preferring mental history over history, ideology over [dubious] reconstructions of guessed ‘realities, which seems to this reader a good move. Why, then, Anderson continues to bow to the Guild’s wisdom in calling this type of literature ‘law’ (understandable in a dissertation, but is it necessary in this book?) remains obscure. Caution continues to be a hallmark of the work, and it is coupled by sound judgment. Yes, not every ‘law’ concerning females is gender-specific; and the division into inclusive and exclusive categories makes sense: both modes are significant for constructing gender, in different ways, as dictated from their ideologies. Consequently, the presentation and short discussions of the relevant BC and DL materials (Chapter 2) are lucid and form a solid building block for the next moves: considerations of identities, gender and law as violence, which are at this work’s core. Anderson restates that female sexuality, as apparent from the law collections studied, is controlled by males. However, as she further states, privilege and penalty (which are the law’s business) are relational: some males, some females, according to their place in the social hierarchy (marriage, parenthood, origin, economic situation) are more privileged than others, which is relevant to the understanding of gender as well (see Appendix B). This nuancing is highly welcome, and timely. What about violence? In Anderson’s words, “The BC and DL, because they inscribe a patriarchal ideology that constructs masculinity as male dominance and, correspondingly, female subordination, are inherently a form of violence” (p. 98), which may promote male violence in order to ascertain predominance, and male violence on women, even today. In Chapter 5 the inherent violence in additional biblical texts is studied, from the prophetic collections and elsewhere in the bible, and some reading strategies are suggested as countermeasures. This conclusion is hardly new, but its careful extraction from a nuanced consideration of inclusive and exclusive laws, and its anchoring in a relational analysis, lends it extra strength

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and additional authority. I find that restating accepted wisdom, after a reexamination and deployment of additional feminist (biblical and non-biblical) literature, is certainly of value. This book is a welcome addition to the growing volume of feminist readings/writings on biblical ‘law’, readings that mostly reaffirm older feminist views on biblical literature’s ideo-social bias on women, but are anchored in a broader theoretical and critical base. It ought to be helpful for anyone interested in biblical ‘law’. And I recommend it, among other reasons, also for its brevity: it is short, but backed with selective erudition and good sense.

Marvin A. Sweeney, Form and Intertextuality in Prophetic and Apocalyptic Literature (Forschungen zum Alten Testament, 45; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005). Pp. xiii + 295. Cloth, €79,00. ISBN 3-16-148655-2. Reviewed by James Linville University of Lethbridge Lethbridge AB, Canada This collection of nineteen articles and book chapters is an excellent selection of Marvin Sweeney’s work on the biblical prophetic literature and includes a few forays into post-biblical materials. Most have been published in the twelve years prior to the volume’s 2005 publication date, but three are published here for the first time. In his introduction, Sweeney situates his work in the long history of diachronic studies of the prophets, noting the shift in scholarly interest from the study of independent elements in these books to study of how the documents came into their current forms. He also provides an overview of work on “intertextuality, particularly the role played by the reading and interpretation—or reinterpretation—of earlier texts” (p. 5), commenting that rather than a product of late rethinking of the prophetic corpus, intertextuality is ubiquitous in the prophets. Sweeney observes that not only should apocalyptic and proto-apocalyptic literature

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be studied in terms of its mythical and eschatological imagery, but also for the social and historical contexts of its production. Sweeney, of course, has contributed considerably to scholarship in all of these fields, and this representative sample of his writings illustrates well not only his views in these matters, but the significance of his work in the larger field of biblical studies. The collection of essays is divided into five parts. The first, of four previously published essays, deals with Isaiah. “The Book of Isaiah as a Prophetic Text” argues that the final form of Isaiah served Ezra’s Persianera reforms by linking divine rule over the nations to conceptions of torah as the deity’s instructions as a kind of new Exodus. Sweeney argues that the word tôrâ “takes on a hermeneutical life of its own” (p. 24) within Isaiah as a whole, despite each of the twelve occurrences having specific meanings relevant to their place in the book. The adaptability of Isa 9:1–6 to successive editions of the book is the subject of “On Multiple Settings in the Book of Isaiah,” which demonstrates how later readers and writers saw earlier prophecies as concerning themselves. The next essay, “On ûměśôś in Isaiah 8:6,” offers a solution to the difficult reading in 8:6 by studying how Isa 66:10–14 employs a related term. From this, Sweeney draws some additional insights about Isaiah 8 and how the end of the book corresponds to the beginning. This final point is also raised in “Prophetic Exegesis in Isaiah 65–66,” but here Sweeney is more concerned with these chapters as a conclusion to the book as a whole, drawing the conclusion that earlier material inspired new scribal prophecy. Part Two concerns Jeremiah and opens with one of the previously unpublished papers, “The Masoretic and Septuagint Versions of the Book of Jeremiah in Synchronic and Diachronic Perspective.” Sweeney’s insightful study merges various sub-disciplines. He asserts the importance of synchronic analysis of the two Jeremiah versions and relates text-critical issues to the intertextual relationship between Jeremiah and Isaiah. He finds that both versions of Jeremiah build on Isaiah’s portrayal of destruction and restoration of Judah. The MT version, however, shows far more influence from Isaiah’s oracles of restoration. The second Jeremiah paper addresses the criteria by which one might judge “The Truth in True and False Prophecy” and is again interdisciplinary and intertextual. Noting that prophets appear to disagree with each other on a number of points he observes that Jeremiah reflects a debate over whether the Isaian tradition implies that peace is immanent. Sweeney concludes by observing that truth is relative to the interpreter who may find that the biblical prophets may be considered false and that “truth must be recognized as a debated or contingent cate-

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gory, both within the Bible itself and among its interpreters” (p. 93). A synchronic study on the “Structure and Redaction in Jeremiah 2–6” leads the author to a new foray into redaction criticism. He demonstrates that the prophet was an active supporter of reunification in the reign of Josiah. Jeremiah 2–6 includes passages originally addressed to inhabitants of the northern territories, but adapted towards a Judean audience by a redactor. The discussion of earlier forms of Jeremiah continues in the final essay in Part Two, “Jeremiah 30–31 and King Josiah’s Program of National Restoration and Religious Reform.” Part Three opens with “Ezekiel: Zadokite Priest and Visionary Prophet of the Exile,” which argues that priestly and prophetic identities merge in Ezekiel. The book is profoundly marked by priestly conceptions of temple and creation in which “the Temple itself is sacrificed in order to bring about the purification or even reconstitution of creation at large” (p. 127). Many of these themes continue in the next essay, “The Destruction of Jerusalem and Purification in Ezekiel 8–11.” Previously unpublished, this essay studies the intermixing of priestly elements in Ezekiel’s prophetic vision. It relates the victims of divine judgment in Jerusalem to the scapegoat ritual outlined in Leviticus 16. Also appearing for the first time in this volume is “The Assertion of Divine Power in Ezekiel 33:21–39:29.” The passage in question is interpreted not merely as a pronouncement of restoration but as a far deeper meditation on the nature of the divine. The series of oracles seeks to demonstrate that God is both active and righteous in view of the eternal covenant, factors important in the Zadokite worldview. Once again, Sweeney finds the impact of Leviticus (Chapter 26) on Ezekiel. The Book of the Twelve is the subject of the fourth part, which opens with an essay entitled, “Sequence and Interpretation in the Book of the Twelve.” This well-known foray into the Twelve as a coherent composition again compares the MT with LXX, finding that differing theological concerns may explain the different sequences of component documents. In the next essay, “The Place and Function of Joel in the Book of the Twelve,” this issue arises again as Sweeny looks to one particular document. Intertextual discourses are the subject of “Micah’s Debate with Isaiah” and the following essay, “Zechariah’s Debate with Isaiah.” The former finds that impressions of coming world peace differ greatly between Micah 4–5 and Isaiah 2–4. Micah looks ahead to an era of a Davidic monarchy while Isaiah adopts a position more like Ezra and Nehemiah, that Judah’s destiny is as part of the Persian empire. The latter essay finds that Zechariah also differs with Isaiah on similar issues.

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Part Five, “Apocalyptic and Proto-Apocalyptic Texts,” is the most diverse section of the volume and it takes the reader from the Hebrew Bible to the Dead Sea Scrolls and early rabbinic literature. Sweeney first offers a study of “The Priesthood and the Proto-Apocalyptic Reading of Prophetic and Pentateuchal Texts” in which he examines Joel, Zechariah, Ezekiel 38– 39, and Isaiah 24–27; 56–66. Again, he finds Zadokite ideology at work with prophetic and pentateuchal passages adapted to demonstrate that the restored temple is the center of creation. The only real apocalyptic book in the Hebrew Bible is the subject of the next essay, entitled, “The End of Eschatology in Daniel? Theological and Socio-Political Ramifications of Changing Contexts of Interpretation.” Not only does Daniel 1–6 reflect the goals of the Hasmonean revolt, but priestly concerns can be found as well. Daniel declares the end of prophetically declared divine punishment and that a new age of Israelite and Judean splendor is dawning. “Davidic Typology in the Forty Year War Between the Sons of Light and the Sons of Darkness” is a longer version of a 1990 paper that draws links between the War Scroll’s portrayal of the eschatological battle with the traditions of David in Chronicles, even if the Qumran document envisioned a future era in which the failures of the Davidic period would not be repeated. Sweeney completes his volume by turning to rabbinic literature in “Pardes Revisited Once Again: A Reassessment of the Rabbinic Legend concerning the Four Who Entered Pardes.” He argues that the association of a biblical verse with each of the four rabbis, three of whom do not make a successful entry, suggests a link between the mystical journey and the proper interpretation of scripture. As a whole, this is an instructive and insightful collection. Many of the essays are very recent and all merit close attention even if, on any given point, objections might be raised. Each paper stands on its own. That being said, rather than merely show the range of Sweeney’s thought or a progression in their author’s thought throughout a long career, the nineteen studies hang together incredibly well around the themes advertised in the collection’s title. A reader may feel justified, therefore, in lamenting the lack of a more comprehensive introduction, or even a postscript, in which the implications of the selection of essays are drawn out or future directions proposed. In particular, a reader may finish the volume wishing for a more dedicated study of Sweeney’s perception of Zadokite ideology and prophetic temple imagery besides more methodological issues in view of the all of the data and arguments that are provided. This complaint, however, implies a compliment: Sweeney has offered us a collection that is actually far

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greater than the sum of its parts. He is to be congratulated on a fine, thought provoking volume.

Diana Edelman, The Origins of the Second Temple: Persian Imperial Policy and the Rebuilding of Jerusalem (BibleWorld; London: Equinox Press, 2005). Pp. xvi + 440. Paper, US$37.95; Can$41.13; £18.99. ISBN: 1845530179. Reviewed by Mark Boda McMaster In her recent book, The Origins of the ‘Second’ Temple, Diana Edelman challenges most traditional interpretations of the biblical and archaeological evidence for the history of the early Persian Period in the province of Yehud. After a brief introduction presenting past hypotheses, Edelman begins her argument by analyzing genealogies in books describing the Persian period (Chronicles, Ezra-Nehemiah) and concludes that Nehemiah was probably only one generation younger than Zerubbabel; thus there was at most a 23 year gap in age between the men. This means that Zerubbabel and Nehemiah could have functioned as Persian appointed officials at the same time (in light of the generic meaning of the term peḥâ, often translated as “governor”) or could have succeeded one another in the same office. Since the date for Nehemiah is placed firmly at 445 BCE (especially because AP 30 places Nehemiah’s nemesis Sanballat as old or dead in 410), the return of Zerubbabel and Jeshua, the prophetic work of Haggai and Zechariah, and the reconstruction of the temple must have occurred at the end of Xerxes’ or beginning of Artaxerxes’ reign (around 465 BCE). The city wall would then have been completed under Nehemiah in 445 BCE as part of a larger coordinated plan for the renewal of Jerusalem as the capital of the province. This fusing of temple reconstruction and wall building at or around the time of Nehemiah not only makes sense strategically (why build a temple without a protective wall?), but also is reflected in the later tradition of 2 Macc 1:18 and Josephus’ Ant. 11.165 which claim that Nehemiah built the temple and altar.

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Of course, this reconstruction based on genealogical evidence runs counter to the presentation of the rebuilding of the Second Temple in the books of Haggai, Zechariah and Ezra. The next two chapters (chs. 2, 3) then argue that the dates found in Haggai-Zechariah and the account found in Ezra 1–6 are unreliable. According to Edelman, the prophecies found in Haggai and Zechariah 1–8 appear to be authentic prophecies delivered in connection with the construction of the Second Temple, but that these have been secondarily arranged using the template for temple reconstruction in the ancient Near East, and at a later time have been assigned historically unreliable dates. Ezra 1–6 contains no reliable sources that stem from the events in the early Persian period. Rather the author of this account combined existing biblical traditions (1–2 Chronicles, Ezekiel 40–48; Haggai 1–Zechariah 8; Jeremiah, Second Isaiah, Nehemiah) with the basic template for temple reconstruction in the ancient Near East to create the fiction of a temple project in the reign of Darius. Edelman’s skepticism toward these textual accounts is also evidenced in her work on artifactual evidence in chapters 4 and 5. Seeking to determine the boundaries of the province of Yehud at the time of Artaxerxes I she concludes in chapter 4 that the lists found in Nehemiah 3, 7, and 11:25– 35 and the various stamp jars normally used for determining the borders are either unreliable or provide insufficient and uncertain evidence. The coastal plain around Lod and Ono was most likely not part of the province until the Hasmonean period. Based on texts in Ezekiel, Obadiah, and Malachi as well as archaeological evidence from the region, Edelman concludes that control over the Beersheva Valley and the Negev was probably ceded by the Neo-Babylonians to Edom after the fall of Jerusalem in 586 BCE. Artaxerxes I was the first Persian emperor to transfer these regions back to Yehud. Thus, the large number of returnees to Yehud in the book of Nehemiah reflects the broader project of Artaxerxes to develop southern Yehud. In chapter 5 Edelman investigates patterns of settlements and military installations in Persian period Yehud. She casts doubt over the ability of scholars to ascertain settlement patterns in Yehud in the 2nd half of the 5th Century BCE, especially as they relate to earlier settlement patterns. She does, however, note the appearance of a number of newly established farmsteads or hamlets in the regions of Benjamin, Shephelah, central and southern Judean hills during the Persian period. Patterns for free-standing forts are more promising. At the end of the monarchy they were regularly spaced in the Shephelah to guard the western edge of the kingdom, constructed along internal main roads to maintain stability in the kingdom, and placed in

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the Beersheva Valley to guard the southern edge of the kingdom and protect trade routes. In the Persian period there was no longer a need for fortification of the province since it was within the Persian Empire. Instead forts were maintained along the main road from Jerusalem to Beersheva, from Jerusalem to the coastal plain (via Lachish), and from Jerusalem to Samaria in order to send fire-signals from the outlying regions to the capital in Jerusalem. The construction of these Persian forts, however, cannot be firmly dated in the reign of Artaxerxes I. Her final chapter seeks to clarify the reasons behind the reconstruction of temple and city during Artaxerxes I’s reign. Artaxerxes decided to move the capital from Mizpah to Jerusalem because the latter possessed a reliable spring and protected water tunnel system and the city lay at a major juncture intersecting the east-west and north-south road system in Yehud. This move was part of a larger assessment of the province conducted by the emperor in anticipation of sending an army to Egypt early in Artaxerxes’ reign. In addition to the transfer of the provincial capital, the master plan included sending a group of new settlers to increase agricultural productivity in the province, installing a new governor with ancestral ties to the region to oversee implementation of the plan, building a new series of structures to serve as fire-relay stations, and transfering jurisdiction of the Beersheva Valley to the governor of Yehud. Artaxerxes’ motivation was not “piety,” but rather pragmatic concern to integrate Yehud more fully into the empire’s economic and military systems. There is no question that Edelman provides an innovative and provocative perspective on old evidence. She has assembled most of the key witnesses (whether textual, artifactual, or archaeological) for dealing with this fascinating period of Jewish history and so provides a superb resource for future research. She shows the result of adopting a skeptical attitude toward all evidence used to reconstruct this period. In the latter chapters Edelman provides a more cautious depiction of Yehud in the period of Artaxerxes I which provides insight into the pragmatic political agenda of this period. There is so much detail in this book that this review will be limited to the first two chapters in which she presents her most radical contribution to early Persian historiography, the shift of the temple reconstruction from the reign of Darius to that of Artaxerxes I (or very late Xerxes). It is clear that the foundation of her revisionist account is built on the evidence presented in the opening chapter with its focus on genealogies, for it is the evidence marshaled here that calls into question the witness of Haggai/Zechariah 1–8 and Ezra (“The analysis of the genealogical information in the book of Nehemiah in the foregoing chapter has shown that

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Zerubbabel and Nehemiah were not separated by some seventy years but rather, were either a generation apart or possibly even members of the same generation,” p. 80). So one key question that needs to be asked is whether Edelman’s analysis of the genealogies is appropriate. It appears that the historical solid ground for Edelman is the generation and account of Nehemiah. Key characters that appear in this generation are Eliashiv as high priest (Neh 3:1), Sanballat as governor of Samaria, and Tobiah the Ammonite. The rebuilding of the wall for the creation of a fortress is considered factual. It appears that four families are key to Edelman’s argument: the high priestly Zadokite family, the royal Davidic family, the priestly family of Shekaniah ben Arah, and the Levitical family of Iddo. As for the high priestly family, based on Neh 3:1 and 12:26 Edelman assumes that Yoiakim was high priest at the outset of Nehemiah’s tenure, followed quickly by his son Eliashiv. If Yoiakim was still alive in 445 BCE when Nehemiah arrived then it is difficult to imagine that his father Yeshua arrived in 520 BCE. Edelman’s supposition, however, is unjustified. Nehemiah 12:26 claims that the gatekeepers listed served in the time of Yoiakim and in the time of Nehemiah and Ezra, thus it is at most claiming that these gatekeepers bridged these two eras. Thus Yoiakim need not be alive when Nehemiah appeared on the scene in 445 BCE. One can discern throughout Edelman’s argument regular attempts to collapse the length of tenure of the first few high priests. Thus, for instance, she suggests that Yeshua “exercised the office only a short time before his death and succession by his son, Yoiakim” (p. 18) and argues that Yeshua and Zerubbabel need not be members of the same generation. For her Yoiakim was already middle-aged when he arrived in Yehud (p. 22), a view established only on the unsubstantiated possibility that Yeshua was an elderly man (pp. 18–19). In response it must be said that the tenure of the five high priests from Eliashiv to Yaddua (460–330) reveals an average of 30 years per high priest and, even if there are some questions over whether two of these were brothers, the thirty year average is also used by Edelman herself for the Davidic line (p. 21). In light of this there is no reason to question a dating scheme which would place Yeshua at 520 BCE, Yoiakim at 490 BCE, and Eliashiv at 460 BCE. This would also make sense of 1 Chron 6:14–15 which places only Yehozadaq between Seraiah and Yeshua (a list that Edelman must call into question for her theory to work). The Davidic line is also important to Edelman’s argument. Edelman highlights Nehemiah’s appointment of Hananiah as commander of the new fortress in Jerusalem (Neh 7:2) and then links this Hananiah to one of Zerubbabel’s son (1 Chron 3:19). No explicit link, however, is ever estab-

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lished between these two men who share a common name during this period (cf. Ezra 10:28; Neh 3:8, 30; 10:23). With Zerubbabel’s son linked to Nehemiah’s era, it is not surprising that Edelman then pushes Zerubbabel to a later period. This she does by emending the Davidic genealogy in 1 Chron 3:17–18 in order to add two more generations between Jehoiachin and Zerubbabel so that in her view Zerubbabel was born in 500 BCE. There is, however, no clear justification for such an emendation. If Jehoiachin was born in 616 BCE, then (using Edelman’s thirty year generational spans, p. 21) Pedaiah’s generation was born around 586 BCE, Zerubbabel’s generation was born around 556 and Hananiah’s generation was born around 526. Thus, Zerubbabel was around 36 years old in 520 when he journeyed to Jerusalem. As for the priestly family of Shekaniah ben Arah, Edelman finds a figure named Shekaniah serving as one of the chief priests during the era of Yeshua and Zerubbabel (Neh 12:3). Interesting to her is the fact that a Shemaiah ben Shekaniah appears in the wall building list in Neh 3:29 and that Tobiah’s father-in-law is identified as Shekaniah ben Arah in Neh 6:17– 18. Although Edelman readily admits that this connection cannot be confirmed, for some reason she still considers this a “strong possibility” (p. 23). Finally, Edelman refers regularly to the family of Iddo, noting how Iddo returned with Yeshua and Zerubbabel (Neh 12:4), while Zechariah his grandson was chief of the family of Iddo during the tenure of Yeshua’s son Yoiakim (Neh 12:16). Edelman highlights a certain Meshullam ben Berekiah in Neh 3:30, arguing that this Meshullam was the brother of Zechariah and lived during the time of Nehemiah. However, this Berekiah is not explicitly linked to Iddo or to Zechariah. Interestingly, Neh 3:4 also records a Meshullam ben Berekiah, but there makes it clear (ben Meshezabel) that this is not from the family of Iddo. If Iddo returned with Yeshua in 520, Berekiah may have served in the period between the list created under Yeshua and the one created under his son Yoiakim. Zechariah may have been a young man when he prophesied in 520 BCE and took up his family headship after 490 when Yoiakim assumed the mantle of high priest. Edelman’s genealogical evidence is thus built on questionable treatments of genealogical lists and unsubstantiated links between various figures in the early Persian period. Her argument is interesting, but is hardly strong enough to overturn the tradition that places the generation of Yeshua and Zerubbabel and thus their temple reconstruction early in the reign of Darius. Edelman’s attack on the authenticity of the dates in Haggai and Zechariah in chapter 2 is also not convincing. She seeks to explain why the editor

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of Haggai/Zechariah 1–8 chose the 2nd and 4th years of Darius as the fictional setting for these prophecies. The first reason is that the editor was drawing on Jeremiah for the rough figure of Babylon’s 70 year hegemony over the world, and applied it instead to the length of the exile of the people. Actually, the editor of Zechariah has properly interpreted Jer 25:11 which looks to the destruction of Judah by Babylon and counts the period until Babylon would be judged by Yahweh as 70 years. This is precisely what is being portrayed in the book of Zechariah, which focuses on the judgment of Babylon, which did not occur under Cyrus, but rather under Darius. 1 Edelman must admit that an exact 70 years is not being portrayed, something surprising for an editor who had the freedom to create this (according to her) out of whole cloth. Interestingly, this editor (according to Edelman) did know enough about Darius’ account of his rise to power (that he was preoccupied in his first year to focus on temple rebuilding, and that after quashing Gaumata he rebuilt temples) not to place the temple reconstruction in his first year. How Edelman can distinguish between an editor who had access to reliable tradition and an editor who had experienced it is uncertain. The second reason that the editor placed the temple rebuilding in the 2nd-4th year of Darius is that the editor was aware of the tradition of 1 Kings 4–5 which emphasizes that peace must prevail before temple construction. She claims that such a motif can be discerned in Zech 1:15–17. However, the problem with this is that “peace” in the first night vision is not seen as a positive condition, but rather the obstacle that stands in the way of the new era of renewal (thus the cry of the Angel to Yahweh in 1:12). The point is that Babylon has not yet been punished for abuses against Judah. The transition between the reign of Cambyses and Darius is precisely the first time that Babylon is severely disciplined by Persia and this comes in connection with revolts against Cambyses and Darius. A similar misuse of the theme of “peace” is also found in her treatment of Zech 6:1–6 [sic] on p. 136 where she claims that the “North country…was now at rest again.” In this pericope, however, it is “my spirit” which has found “rest” in the North country, a reference to the exhaustion of Yahweh’s wrath upon abusive Babylon. 2

Mark J. Boda, “Terrifying the Horns: Persia and Babylon in Zechariah 1:7– 6:15,” CBQ 67 (2005): 22–41. 2 Ibid. 1

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Edelman also seeks to explain why the various days and months were chosen by the editor in Haggai/Zechariah 1–8. Although her review of the various chronological and hemerological traditions in the ancient world is extremely helpful, in the end her evidence undermines her argument. Assuming that the dates in Haggai/Zechariah 1–8 must be incorrect (p. 80, although she protests on p. 123: “while I did not presuppose their editorial origin”) she looks for a pattern that would explain how these texts were linked to such specific dates during Darius’ reign (Hag 1:1, 15; 2:1, 10, 20; Zech 1:1, 7; 7:1). The fact is that Edelman is unable to find a consistent system that was used either for dating the sections in Haggai/Zechariah 1–8 or linking the various sections to favorable days. At times one senses her frustration with the evidence as she argues that when the editor does not follow the Babylonian almanac traditions the editor was “deliberately selecting an unpropitious day to show that Yahweh was not bound by this foreign system…an oblique attack on the almanac tradition, implying it was not relevant to life in Yehud” (p. 116). This evidence merely shows that the scheme is not being used. While most likely Edelman is correct that such a building project would not be undertaken in the Persian Empire without official permission, there is no evidence that the Persians practiced the Babylonian almanac system (p. 118), especially in relation to temple rebuilding since such structures were not part of their heritage. 3 In the end the variety of dating schemes is strong evidence in favor of their authenticity. If an editor was creating a fictional structure one would expect consistency across the collection. Even if Edelman’s attempts to link the various dates found in Haggai/Zechariah 1–8 to the harvest or ritual cycles of Yehud or the ancient Near East were successful, one has to ask how one would distinguish between dates that fit this because they reflect the original context and dates that fit this because an editor was trying to create an original context that fit his ancient world. It is thus only because Edelman has presupposed the in-

Mark J. Boda, “From Dystopia to Myopia: Utopian (re)visions in Haggai and Zechariah 1–8,” in Utopia and Dystopia in Prophetic Literature (ed. Ehud Ben Zvi; Publications of the Finnish Exegetical Society 92; Helsinki/Göttingen: Finnish Exegetical Society/Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2006), 211–249; see Mark J. Boda and Jamie R. Novotny, eds., From the Foundations to the Crenellations: Essays on Temple Building in the Ancient Near East and Hebrew Bible. (AOAT; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, forthcoming). 3

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authenticity of these dates based on her work on the genealogies in the previous chapter that leads to her belief in a later editorial fiction. Her work on the temple rebuilding scheme draws heavily on the patterns identified by Hurowitz, but his scheme is more appropriate for the account in 1 Kings rather than the temple foundation texts such as those found throughout the ancient world and in Haggai and Zechariah 1–8. 4 Edelman argues that the root ysd, found in Hag 2:18 and Zech 4:9 does not refer to foundation laying, but rather to temple construction in general. In this way Hag 2:15–19 refers to the dedication of the temple, rather than to its foundation laying and Zech 4:9 is merely referring to Zerubbabel’s role in reconstruction in general. However, a close look at ancient Near Eastern rituals reveals that much greater emphasis is placed on the act of temple foundation, rather than on its dedication. The overall shape of the book of Haggai as well as the oracles within it reflect patterns associated with such temple refoundations in the ancient Near East. 5 Edelman sees in Zechariah 1–8, however, an overall scheme related to temple reconstruction, especially drawing on the scheme articulated by Hurowitz. Key to this is Edelman’s argument that Zechariah 7 depicts the temple as already completed by the fourth year of Darius’ reign (p. 91), a fact that contradicts the date given in Ezra 6:15 (day 3, month 12 Adar, year 6 of Darius), but also identifies chapters 7–8 as part of the latter phases of the temple rebuilding schema. However, the fact that cultic officials are functioning in connection with the temple and that people are “entreating the face of Yahweh” (Zech 7:2–3) does not mean that the temple was completed. Hurowitz has marshaled evidence for the existence of temporary sacred structures for use during the reconstruction of temples in the ancient world. 6 The book of Haggai suggests that some sacrificial activity had been taking place on an altar at the temple site (see Hag 2:14—“and that which they offer there”) even prior to what is clearly the official foundation laying ceremony in 2:15–19. Furthermore, the fact that the people are asking about fast(s) commemorating the destruction of the temple does not necessarily mean that the temple was completed nor even that it was to be completed within the year (p. 92). The foundation laying ceremony was the Boda, “Dystopia,” 211–249. Mark J. Boda, “Haggai, Book of,” in The New Interpreter’s Dictionary of the Bible (ed. K. D. Sakenfeld; Nashville: Abingdon, 2007). 6 Victor Hurowitz, “Temporary temples,” in Raphael Kutscher memorial volume (ed. Anson F. Rainey; Tel Aviv Tel: Aviv University, 1993), 37–50. 4 5

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most significant marker in the reconstruction of the new temple, marking a new day of blessing (see Hag 2:19). The book of Zechariah never mentions the completion of the temple, and this appears to be part of the progressive argument of the book as a whole. 7 Other attempts by Edelman to force Zechariah 1–8 into the mold of temple reconstruction are not successful. She fails to see that, although temple rebuilding can be discerned at points throughout Zechariah 1–8, the vision for renewal is far broader, including the physical reconstruction of the city and province, the social organization of the leadership, and the spiritual and moral transformation of the community. The template for temple reconstruction does not do justice to the shape of her “editor’s” text. It should be obvious that the evidence presented in these key initial chapters is not convincing to the present reviewer and space does not permit a full review of her analysis of Ezra 1–6. Edelman has indeed been innovative in her rereading of these various texts in light of her new hypothesis, and such is certainly welcome to force scholars to reconsider assumed traditional readings and positions. Throughout the book Edelman consistently displays skepticism toward all her sources. The danger of such a skeptical attitude is that once the evidence and witnesses have been deconstructed, one wonders how the same or similar witnesses can be used to reconstruct a new picture. Nevertheless, Edelman’s revisionist account of the early Persian period has certainly accomplished two key purposes of the academic guild: to question accepted positions and to stimulate further research, and for this she should be applauded and her work considered in further study of this phase of Jewish history.

7Mark J. Boda, “From Fasts to Feasts: The Literary Function of Zechariah 7– 8,” CBQ 65 (2003): 390–407.

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David H. Aaron, Etched in Stone: The Emergence of the Decalogue (New York/London: T & T Clark, 2006). Pp. xv + 352. Paper. US$39.95. ISBN 0-567-02971-9. Reviewed by T. R. Hobbs Hamilton, Ontario

It appears as though the recent public discussions concerning the role of the Decalogue (“Ten Commandments”) in American public life inspired the writing of this volume, although it is perhaps more correct to say that the recent public discussions inspired the publication of the volume. The work itself is a solid, academic study of the date and authorship of the versions of the Decalogue found in the Hebrew Bible. The author’s intention is to “argue that the Decalogue is a late literary creation, written by a group of postexilic authors (i.e., writers working not before the middle of the sixth century B.C.E. and perhaps as late as the fifth century B.C.E.)” (p. 1). There is little new in this assertion, and it is certainly in keeping with the current trends in biblical studies. Where the author seeks to go beyond these trends is to examine “intertextual links” hitherto unexplored, and to provide students with a methodological blueprint for studying the sequencing of texts in the Hebrew Bible. The main tools in this latter task are not so much the examination of literary sources as a focus on literary and ideological content. In this endeavour, Aaron offers an Introduction and ten carefully argued, well-written chapters. In the first of these, “Authorship Theories: A Brief Survey,” Aaron opts for what has become academic orthodoxy, namely that older theories of the development of the Pentateuch, including the Decalogue, are inadequate, and that a late, postexilic date, and relatively brief time of composition should be accepted. Although he continues to use classical designations such as D and P, by these terms he does not mean discrete literary sources, but rather “ideological approaches manifest in lit-

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erature” (p. 35). As an alternative to source analysis, Aaron opts for intertextuality, a notion mediated through Fishbane’s early work on the Biblical text which he labeled “inner Biblical exegesis,” and also the more nuanced ideas of Kristeva. Aaron looks for the transfer of signs, notions, and ideas between texts in a broader cultural context. Chapter 2, “Prophetic Innovations” is to this reviewer’s mind, the best in the book. It is an excellent analysis of the notion of “prophet” within the Hebrew Bible, and the role of Moses as unique among the prophets. References to the work of Iser and Ricouer on reading and ‘realization” complement the study of the narrative presentation of Moses (the “Moses persona,” p. 66), which now becomes the subject of interpretation by other writers inside and beyond the Pentateuch. Chapter 3, “Non-Pentateuchal Historical Retrospectives” analyzes several passages and concludes that in their portrayal of the Moses persona, the tablets of the Decalogue are absent. This observation is broadened in the following chapter 4, “A Silence Too Loud,” which looks at the absence of the Sinai/Horeb adventures outside the Pentateuch. Chapter 5, “The Covenant at Shechem” examines the manner in which Joshua 24 conforms to the themes and notions of the covenants portrayed elsewhere in the Bible. It is extremely difficult to do justice in such a short space to the richness and value of the examination of the “Deuteronomist,” the wilderness motif, the golden Calf episode and the appearance of the second set of tablets that Aaron undertakes in Chapters 6 through 9. The value of these chapters cannot be overstated. The author’s knowledge of and interpretation of the literary and symbolic links are profound and enlightening. The final chapter on the Decalogues themselves brings together the methodological questions underlying the study. These include the date of the writing of the literature, the nature of the literature written, reconceptualizing motifs and intertextuality, and finally, the purpose of Biblical literature and its relationship to community. Prominent in this discussion is the “stabilization” of memes in writing and the relationship between oral and written. Then follows a detailed analysis and interpretation of Exodus 34, Deuteronomy 5 and Exodus 20, highlighting the literary genius of the first of these and the intent to transform the covenant scene “into a highly charged assertion of Israel’s ethnicity by handing the people commandments that distinguished them from the surrounding peoples” (p. 319). This in contrast to the non-religious, and rather uninspiring vision of Exodus 20 and Deuteronomy 5.

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Criticisms are few. First, the volume suffers from the absence of a subject index, and, given the comprehensive bibliography listed, could have dispensed with the author index. In dealing with the notions of orality and literacy this reviewer is disappointed not to see a discussion of the research of Jack Goody and his Cambridge colleagues on the topic. Goody’s insights and assertions would prove most valuable when incorporated in such a study. The brief Epilogue picks up where the Introduction began, namely with reference to the public and legal debates over the display of the Ten Commandments in public spaces. The relationship of the substance of the book to this more general public debate is marginal at best. Aaron admits that his detailed, literary-thematic discussion is “fundamentally irrelevant” (p. 322) to that debate. But this in itself is perhaps an important admission. At a time in American culture and world history when religious commitment, and actions based on that commitment, become the stuff of news headlines, and in which help and guidance are sought to delineate the boundaries or links between faith and culture, religion and politics, belief and morality, some relevance ought to be established between academic Biblical studies and the living of these days. If one is dealing with the social and cultural role of symbols such as the Decalogue[s] in ancient societies, and offers hints (always unfulfilled) at the importance of the modern cultural context, then a deeper appreciation of the precise role of bonding symbols in groups or societies is needed. A most important place to begin would be the work of the late Mary Douglas, especially in her later work on risk and culture, and the books of the Torah, especially Leviticus. The Israeli sociologist and political scientist, Daniel Bar Tal, has offered an amazingly rich body of work on the political strategies of group leaders to ensure conformity around central beliefs and symbols of the social group. I would also argue that notice of such work might well have helped bridge the gap of “relevance” acknowledged by Aaron. The book was an enjoyable, and informative read. The style is pleasant, detailed, academically responsible, but never patronizing or overwhelming. Given the innovations offered, and the methodological limitations the author set himself in this study, the book is worth reading.

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Oded Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem: Jerusalem under Babylonian Rule (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2005). Pp. xiv + 472. Cloth, US $47.50. ISBN 1-57506-095-7. Reviewed by Ken Ristau Penn State University This work is a revised and updated version of a Hebrew edition published in 2004, and reviewed in volume 5 (2004–5) of this journal by Michael Avioz . The Hebrew edition is a revision of a doctoral dissertation written under the direction of Nadav Na’aman and submitted to the Tel Aviv University in January 1997. The English edition is the definitive edition of the work. It was the subject of a session at the SBL History of the Persian Period Literature Group. The contents of that session are reflected in an article in this journal, namely David Vanderhooft (ed.) “In Conversation with Oded Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2005),” JHS 7 (2007). The book itself consists of five chapters bounded by a short introduction and summary and relevant front and back matter. The first chapter is a historical review of the geopolitical situation through the Babylonian-Egyptian conflict in 609–605 BCE. Lipschits carefully traces the collapse of the Assyrian Empire, the rise of the Babylonian kingdom and the Saite dynasty in Egypt, and the competing strategic interests of the Babylonians and the Egyptians in the wake of the collapse. The historical reconstruction is very well written and argued, making it very enjoyable to read aesthetically and intellectually. The second chapter continues the narrative of the first chapter, discussing the ongoing conflict between Babylon and Egypt, the early rule of Babylon over Judah, the fall of Jerusalem, and then a critical presentation of the biblical evidence concerning Babylonian rule in Judah from 586 to 538 BCE. Again, the historical reconstruction is well written and argued. The breadth of material that Lipschits handles is impressive and his footnotes in

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this chapter, and those that follow, are extensive and even by themselves make this book very useful. The third chapter is a demographic and geopolitical analysis of the borders of Judah. Lipschits analyzes the evidence for the borders of Judah in the Iron Age, Persian period, and Hellenistic period and then argues for a geopolitical evolution. He argues for an essential continuity in the borders through the periods and so argues that the Babylonians largely created and maintained the administrative system that emerged in the Persian period. The discussion could have been improved with greater attention to Nabonidus and possible implications for Judah of his campaigns in Arabia. The chapter includes an extensive discussion of the lists in Ezra-Nehemiah as well as an archaeological analysis of settlement patterns, the distribution of fortresses and seals and stamped jar handles, and the evidence for Edomite presence in the Negev. The fourth chapter discusses and analyzes the material culture of Palestine in the Babylonian period and concludes with another demographic analysis of Judah. In light of the title of the book, it is disappointing that Lipschits does not spend more time assessing the archaeological data for Jerusalem. Footnotes 104–106 might easily have provided the basis for such a discussion. Another conspicuous drawback of this chapter is the absence of pottery plates or photographs in support of the ceramic analysis. Nevertheless, on the whole, the chapter provides a valuable and important contribution concerning the period in question. Most importantly, Lipschits does not take Avi Ofer’s publications of the survey data at face value and has valuably consulted the raw data in order to reach more judicious conclusions (see especially p. 231, fn. 169). The fifth chapter recapitulates much of the historical discussion of chapter two, though this time with a view to the composition of the relevant biblical narratives and the nature of biblical historiography more generally. It is a somewhat frustrating chapter in that its purpose is not immediately apparent and indeed its overall contribution to the subject seems limited. It is especially here that I would have expected attention to the literary presentations of Jerusalem in the Babylonian period (or later) texts rather than a compositional argument concerning the Deuteronomistic history and the book of Jeremiah. My chief criticisms of the book are not so much with what it states but what it does not state. First, Lipschits is almost entirely concerned with political and military history and only superficially exploits the information in biblical and extra-biblical materials related to the economic reorganization of the area. This avenue could have been pursued and would have greatly

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enhanced the discussion of Babylonian rule. Second, Ezekiel, Lamentations, and Habakkuk are not exploited to their potential. For example, Ezekiel 27 could have added substantially to a discussion of the economy of the Levant in the period and so Neo-Babylonian policy in the region. Third, Lipschits never provides a detailed analysis of the literary portraits of Jerusalem in the biblical texts in order to elucidate the different theological and ideological perspectives on the city, its destruction, or life in the city after the destruction. While the literary portraits do not always provide reliable political and military information, they do provide access to elite representation and ideologies current in the communities after the destruction. This is valuable historical insight in its own right and could have been contrasted with Lipschits’s historical reconstruction of the political and military events or compared with the presentation and interpretation of other city destructions in Near Eastern literature. The absence of this information, in turn, highlights one of the ironic characteristics of the work, namely that it is primarily a discussion of Judah and Benjamin rather than Jerusalem in particular and so might more aptly be titled, The Fall and Rise of Judah. Most of my criticisms, however, should not so much reflect negatively on the book but rather point to Lipschits’s ability to stimulate and encourage critical reflection and my desire to have seen him deal as judiciously with the topics he omits as he does with the topics he explores. Overall, Lipschits has created an exceedingly valuable and insightful book that will undoubtedly remain one of the essential works of scholarship on Judah in the Neo-Babylonian period.

Peter B. Dirksen, 1 Chronicles (Historical Commentary on the Old Testament; trans. Anthony P. Runia; Leuven/Dudley, MA: Peeters, 2005). Pp. xvii + 358. Paper, €30,00. ISBN 90-429-1619-2. Reviewed by Christine Mitchell St. Andrew’s College

Peter B. Dirksen’s commentary on 1 Chronicles is a translation of his Dutch-language commentary published in 2003. He notes (Preface) that few changes have been made during the preparation of this volume. In some ways, this volume does not entirely live up to the description of its series (Historical Commentary on the Old Testament): it does not pay “explicit attention to the history of interpretation of biblical tradition in all its stages” (back cover)–unless one considers the history of interpretation to be limited to scholarship post-Wellhausen; nor does it “stand in the Christian exegetical tradition” in that it is not specifically Christologically oriented; nor is it well-suited to pastors (below). That aside, this is a competent commentary on a difficult book. The volume begins with a brief preface, followed by a general bibliography (each section of the commentary has its own detailed bibliography and references). Next is a short introduction to 1 Chronicles, of necessity also serving as a short introduction to the whole of 1–2 Chronicles. Dirksen begins by discussing the state of recent scholarship on Chronicles, highlighting the major commentaries and monographs, and pointing out some of the critical issues. Then he turns to the book itself: its title, place in the canon, relationship to Ezra-Nehemiah, relationship to its sources, and current textual condition. His discussion of authorship and date is key: he thinks that the entire book of 1 Chronicles is the product of one author, the Chronicler, with the exception of 1 Chronicles 23–27 and some short passages in the genealogies of 1 Chronicles 1–9 (5:27–41; 6:33–38; 9:26b, 28– 33) (p. 5). As such he diverges from the most recent scholarship, and this conception of authorship has implications for his position on the purpose

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of the book (below). He dates the book to the first half of the fourth century BCE, which is in line with current consensus. The sections on form and purpose lay out what Dirksen argues throughout the rest of the commentary, namely that 1 Chronicles has the form of a “thematic historiography” with the purpose of arguing that “the temple is the culmination point of God’s saving actions for Israel” (p. 13). The temple is the most important part of Israel’s life and faith and the entire biblical book is dedicated to expounding on its importance. All other aspects of Chronicles are subordinate to this over-arching purpose; Dirksen deals with contradictions or inconsistencies in the book (e.g., the post-Saul genealogies given in 1 Chr 8:34–40 // 9:40–44, and the notice that Saul’s whole house had ended in 1 Chr 10:13–14 [p. 156]) by suggesting that accuracy was subordinate to this theme. The other major themes of the book that he names are subordinated to the over-arching theme. Unlike most commentators, Dirksen does not highlight the Levites as an important theme of the book, because he excises 1 Chronicles 23–27 from the “original” text of the book (above). Dirksen concludes the introduction with a discussion of particular terms important in the book; these are well-known to scholars, but Dirksen’s analyses are thoughtful and useful. The commentary itself breaks 1 Chronicles into sections: 1–9, 10–12, 13–16, 17, 18–20, 21:1–22:1, 22:2–19, 23–27, 28:1–29:25, and 29:26–30. Generally, the commentary on each section begins with an overall introduction to the section. Then each subsection is introduced by the provision of a “new” translation (a new translation into Dutch then translated into English?), followed by a summary of the main points of the subsection, followed by a detailed verse-by-verse exposition. The general introductions to the sections are very useful in setting the section in its context; the summaries of the subsections lay out Dirksen’s arguments about the purpose of the subsection. The exposition is weighted heavily towards discussion of text-critical and thematic issues: emphasis is placed on Chronicles rather than on a comparison with the source-text(s) or on a discussion of the historical events recounted in Chronicles. I might note that there is some tension between the desire to deal with the final form of the text, and the actual excision of passages as not “original” to the book. For example, as the book stands today, surely the role of the Levites is a central theme. By excising 1 Chronicles 23–27 as not original, Dirksen has effectively eliminated the Levites from consideration. The Chronicler’s book then becomes a book focused on the Temple, but without a discussion of the Temple personnel. In essence, Dirksen is torn be-

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tween writing a commentary on 1 Chronicles and writing a commentary on the work of his reconstruction of the Chronicler. One of the best features of this volume is its pre-2003 bibliography and critical analyses of (particularly) continental European scholarship. Dirksen assumes that the reader has access to Isaac Kalimi’s bibliography (The Books of Chronicles: A Classified Bibliography [Jerusalem: Simor, 1990]), and in many places directs the reader to that volume. However, he offers his own succinct analyses of the arguments of previous scholarship on Chronicles. These summaries are the most useful parts of the book. The timing of the publication of this volume will not work in its favour. It was published just after Gary N. Knoppers’ magisterial Anchor Bible commentary (I Chronicles 1–9: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [New York: Doubleday, 2003]; I Chronicles 10–29: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [New York: Doubleday, 2003]), just before Ralph W. Klein’s elegant Hermeneia commentary (1 Chronicles: A Commentary [Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006]), and at roughly the same time as Steven L. McKenzie’s Abingdon commentary (1–2 Chronicles [Nashville: Abingdon, 2004])–this latter being aimed at the same audience of pastors as well as scholars. The insights and analysis of both Knoppers and Klein did not appear in time to be considered for this volume; McKenzie’s volume is more concise and clear for the pastor or student. There is a little glut of commentaries on 1 Chronicles at the moment, and this volume may not be able to compete. That is unfortunate, because Dirksen’s critical analysis of previous scholarship is sound, and some new exegetical insights are given. Scholars will want to check this volume for those additional insights, but this volume will not replace either Knoppers’ or Klein’s commentaries on their shelves.

Philip F. Esler, ed. Ancient Israel: The Old Testament in its Social Context (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2006). Pp. xvii + 420. Cloth, US$35.00, CAN$54.50. ISBN 0-8006-3767-4. Reviewed by Patricia Dutcher-Walls Vancouver School of Theology

This volume is a collection of papers presented at the St. Andrews Conference on Old Testament Interpretation and the Social Sciences in 2004, along with two introductory chapters. Within the wide range of authors, topics, and biblical texts reflected in the collection, the common thread is an application of social scientific models and perspectives to the interpretation of the Old Testament. The two introductory essays accomplish respectively a general defense of the use of social scientific models in biblical research and an excellent brief survey that reviews three periods in the history of such interpretation and the major practitioners in each period. These two essays ably set the context for the papers that follow in the volume. The papers are then arranged in three sections: “Themes,” which covers broad social scientific topics such as “tribalism” and “wealth;” “Texts,” in which the papers focus on particular books or passages using social scientific approaches; and “Hermeneutics,” which raises questions of interpretive issues in the use of such methods. The seven papers in the “Themes” section explore aspects of their named topics and do not attempt a definitive characterization. Some of the essays, however, succeed in giving a needed broad or fresh discussion of the topic. For example, “Tribalism” by Coote offers an excellent discussion of the possible definition and limits of the concept using anthropological and sociological perspectives. “Polygyny” by Leeb uses cultural anthropology in the study of polygyny in rural Haiti to clarify possible meanings of these types of social relations in ancient Israel. Other essays in the section critique or extend social scientific models currently in use in biblical studies. Grabbe

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on “Prophecy” uses a study of Mormon prophet Joseph Smith to suggest broadening the possible prophetic models used to understand the phenomena. Neufeld examines how trance/ecstasy studies help understand women’s strategic behaviours in his essay on “Barrenness.” Destro and Pesce study “Sacrifice” in an essay that could make clearer its use of social scientific methods. Crook on “Reciprocity” critiques the use of clientpatron model in favour of a “covenant exchange” model that better fits the types of reciprocity and exchange in the Hebrew Bible—a refinement in the model that could apply helpfully to the very next article in the section, on “Wealth” by Stansell. Each of the eight papers in “Texts” articulates a particular model drawn from the social sciences that is then used to read a particular text or book. In this section, the wide range of sociological and anthropological models currently used by biblical scholars is evident, as are the range of insights and analyses possible when appropriate models are used, and the range of texts that have come under scholarly study. In some cases, such a method clarifies the results of other critical methods, as when Chaney on Micah 6 uses social dynamics models to unravel text critical questions and reveal repeated paronomasia; or Hagedorn uses ethnicity theory to read the redactional layers in Nahum; or Aguilar uses the anthropology of warfare to complement the theological reading of war in 1 Maccabees; or Elliott uses cross-cultural sociolinguistic studies of euphemism to understand a particular law in Deuteronomy. In other cases, the use of social science models rereads well-studied texts to reveal new insights, as when Esler reads 2 Samuel 10–12 using anthropological studies of challenge/response and patron/client or Pilch reads Ezekiel 1–3 through the lens of “altered states of consciousness” examined by cultural anthropology and cognitive neuroscience. Some papers employ social scientific models to produce valuable new readings of texts. DeMaris and Leeb read the Jephthah story through the lens of ritual theory and honour/shame culture to demonstrate how its otherwise disturbing outcome can be a socially integrative result in its context. Jokiranta uses social identity theory to suggest that the “teacher of righteousness” in the Qumran pesharim might be understood not as a historical or unique individual but as a figure who functions as a prototypical group member. The last and smallest section, “Hermeneutics,” contains three papers that variously consider more general hermeneutical impacts of the use of social sciences in biblical studies. Oakman’s paper on “Biblical Hermeneutics” suggests that social science models of cultural development provide generative analyses of contemporary interpretive stances, from fundamen-

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talist to critically reflective, and possibilities for informed discussion about biblical theology. Malina uses information about the New Testament social world to critique the anachronistic use of group identity labels in a Vatican document in “Interfaith Dialogue.” And Mayes investigates the impact of Freud’s Moses and Monotheism to give insight into the shaping of tradition within groups from archaic memory. The papers in this volume, taken together, present a portrayal of the lively use of social science methodologies in Hebrew Bible studies today. However, the overall impact of the volume is signaled in the title of the final section—the impact for hermeneutics. This book asks us to consider the differences for biblical interpretation demanded by the fundamental recognition created through the use of social science methods, i.e., the recognition that the Hebrew Bible emerged from, was shaped by and in turn shaped its particular ancient social contexts and that those ancient social contexts are radically different from the contexts of interpreters today.

Jerome T. Walsh, Ahab: The Construction of a King (Interfaces; Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 2006). Pp. xv + 125. Paper, US $14.95. ISBN 0-8146-5176-3. Reviewed by Keith Bodner Atlantic Baptist University Moncton, NB

Under the editorship of Barbara Green, the Interfaces series has the stated aim of focusing on a single figure within the biblical corpus, and has already published numerous volumes (featuring major personalities such as Saul and Jeremiah, in addition to more minor characters such the Cannibal Mothers and Herodias). Books in this series are not overly long, and explicitly have the classroom in mind; Green herself refers to them as “curriculum adventures,” and she aims to have original pieces of scholarship became the site for some collaborative exchange. Within this purview, the task of Jerome Walsh is to write on Ahab. Walsh already has written a substan-

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tial commentary on 1 Kings for the Berit Olam series (1996), and draws on that work throughout this present study. Walsh’s book is structured in three parts. After a short introduction that outlines the kinds of questions that will be asked, Walsh turns to “the Ahab of History” in Part One. Here he discusses how one goes about the task of historical reconstruction—mainly by evaluating written sources and archeological material—and although he concedes that in the case of Ahab there are limitations to the availability of outside evidence, the findings suggest an era of luxury and expansion. Such data must build, therefore, on the biblical text, so in Part Two he turns to the “Ahab of Narrative.” The chapters in this section review the main facets of Ahab’s characterization, beginning with “first impressions” in 1 Kings 16. After an eight page overview of basic narrative analysis (highlighting especially the ways that characters are constructed, the role of the narrator’s voice, and the place of the reader), Walsh notes that Ahab’s introduction comes as the son of Omri. Since Omri falls under the sway of Jeroboam’s cultic abuses, Ahab enters the story under a cloud of heterodox suspicion. Marrying the Sidonian princess Jezebel surely does not help. At the end of chapter 16, there is a curious note about the rebuilding of Jericho by Hiel of Bethel. As Walsh explains, this is not incidental, but rather demonstrates a dismissive attitude toward YHWH in the days of Ahab. The king himself, by extension, may display a frivolous posture towards God’s word. After these (not overly positive) first impressions, Walsh next explores the presentation of Ahab in 1 Kings 17–19, primarily defined in terms of his confrontation with the prophet Elijah. Walsh highlights the ideological struggle in this narrative: Elijah versus Ahab stands for YHWH versus Baal. Since one of Baal’s appellations in Canaanite mythology is “Rider of the Clouds,” Walsh points out that a major question in this section of text is: who controls the weather? By contrast, Elijah is not quite as prominent in the next segment—1 Kings 20–22—where Walsh observes that different contours of Ahab’s character emerge. In this next chapter Walsh discusses the key events, such as the Aramean wars with Ben-Hadad, the infamous annexing of Naboth’s vineyard (with assistance from Jezebel), and the confrontation with the prophet Micaiah. The “Ahab of Narrative,” as Walsh concludes this section of his book, is a complex piece of work. Part Three of the book (“The Construction of the King”) features three chapters that revisit some earlier issues, including matters of historical and redaction criticism, Ahab’s interaction with various prophets, and the wars with Aram. His conclusion (“Of Methods and Meanings”) summarizes

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the earlier discussion of reading approaches and interpretive presuppositions. If one were to use this book in a classroom situation, there are a host of questions that emerge here, allowing the instructor to go in a variety of directions. Why is it that so much attention—more than any other northern monarch—is focused on Ahab? Is it because they way this king is characterized in the narrative, or because this era in Israel’s story is one fraught with idolatrous compromise? How does the portrait of Ahab contribute to the overall storyline of the Deuteronomistic History? Of course, I am not meaning to suggest that the Deuteronomistic History has to be the regnant hypothesis, but what happens when one gives further consideration to the contribution of Ahab (as a literary figure) in terms of the larger narrative complex of Joshua-Kings? Naturally, there are other kinds of inquiries that spring to mind. In terms of Ahab’s cultural cache for the liberal arts undergraduate student, is the captain of Melville’s ship in Moby Dick aptly named? Why does Northrop Frye—the great Canadian literary critic—refer to Ahab as a “sinister clown”? My hunch is that those who use this volume for a seminar-style discussion will have lots to talk about.

Gershom M. H. Ratheiser, Mitzvoth Ethics and the Jewish Bible: The End of Old Testament Theology (Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies, 460; New York/London: T & T Clark, 2007). Pp. xiv + 409. Cloth, US$145.00. ISBN 0-567-02962-X. Reviewed by Dale Patrick Drake University

The title states the double-edged thesis of the book. It is time to replace theology of Hebrew Scripture with a method suited to its nature: descriptive study of ethics founded on the divine commandments of the Pentateuch. Ratheiser clearly regards the critique of OT theology to be an important dimension of his argument: nearly half of the book is devoted to the

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review of theological works from Gabler to Brueggemann. His reviews, while generally accurate, are rather tedious, with two thirds of each page in footnotes, frequently in German. Old Testament theology, he concludes, has been primarily Protestant, though it has begun to include others. It has been supersessionist, though less so in the last half century. It has insisted on digging out the theology of literature whose primary concern isn’t theological. For these reasons, Jewish scholars have been indifferent to Biblical theology for most of this time. Only in recent years have some, e.g., Y. Kaufmann, J. D. Levenson, Goshen-Gottstein and M. Tsevat, entered into the discussion. Ratheiser seems indifferent to the rhetorical exigencies of the various generations of Biblical theologians. Gabler sought to free the theology of the Bible from church doctrine, while later theologians sought to save it for the church. Biblical theology is justified by its capacity to respond to the exigencies that arise within scholarship and in the religious communities. Jewish scholars became interested once they absorbed historical criticism. Now both Jewish and Christian Biblical theologians are trying to articulate a post-critical way of interpreting the text. Ratheiser maintains we should begin by recognizing that this is the Jewish Bible, of and for Jews. He proposes what he terms “ethics” as an alternative to “theology.” His premise is that the Jewish Bible is an “ethical identity marker.” Because God’s character is the same as his will, narratives of his deeds are lessons for Jews, which are congruent with the commandments of the covenant. Ratheiser does not explore the content of the commandments, but rather seeks to identify leading attributes of an ethic based on them. One is holiness, defined as being set apart for YHWH, purified of contamination by the profane and unclean. Ḥerem is the opposite. Israel is holy in its being, by virtue of election, but must become holy in fact by obeying the commandments. Holiness is the essence of Jewish life: Jews must be separated from the rest of creation to live in close contact with God. The other attribute is justice, an attribute shared with ANE cultures. The poor, who are under YHWH’s protection, are the primary beneficiaries of justice. The kings, responsible for maintaining a just order, served as agents of the divine. The cult characterized persons as ‫ צדיק‬or ‫רשע‬, according to whether they conformed to or violated cosmic order. Since righteousness was being in harmony with cosmic order, the result should be shalom, peace and well-being. The instructions for life needed to be communicated to the people. Besides the commandments themselves there are narratives, which function

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as lessons, paradigms of cases governed by commandments. Some narratives center on problems calling for theodicy, e.g., stories involving persons who suffer for no fault of their own. The Bible teaches readers to tough it out without answers, but in hope of redemption. Ratheiser applies his ethics to Joshua, who is an example of a YHWHpleasing life, a legitimate successor to Moses. He makes appearances in the Pentateuch as Moses’ understudy and as one of two faithful spies. He succeeds Moses by divine election. He earnestly adheres to divine law and is confirmed by divine miracles. When the land is conquered, Joshua distributes it to tribes, thereby establishing justice. When he is about to retire, Joshua consolidates his accomplishments with a renewal of the covenant. Although Ratheiser eschews theology, he does not ignore the role of the divine warrior. Indeed, the battles in the book of Joshua resemble sacred ritual; the humans simply perform roles in a divine enactment. Holiness and justice result. The execution of ḥerem separates Israel from others. YHWH demonstrates that Israel is his chosen people and that he is guarantor of the covenant. There is a synergism between YHWH’s action and that of humans. Joshua is an exemplary army leader who knows his limits and the source of Israel’s power. He calculates tactics deliberately and conforms scrupulously to the law. He is a just ruler who responds to complaints and preserves the memory of the acts of God while providing stable institutions for time to come. As Ratheiser summarizes his life, the encouraged one becomes the encourager. In evaluating this book, it is doubtful whether Ratheiser’s mitzvoth ethics can be distinguished from Biblical theology. At first reading, his scheme is rather like W. Eichrodt’s, in which all other subjects can be subsumed under covenant and commandment. Like Eichrodt, too, Ratheiser treats the commandments as an abstraction, characterized by the praise-worthy attributes. Despite his characterization of his project as ethics, Ratheiser describes YHWH’s role in the wars of conquest and notes the frequent references to his deeds and promises—further evidence that this is theological discourse. Ratheiser fends off the morally questionable character of what he depicts by insisting that his is a descriptive, not normative account. The result is discordant: ethnic cleansing to protect the nation from temptation is characterized as just and holy. A normative or “confessional” theology would have to be more honest and forthright. Finally, Ratheiser at times seems to be engaged in special pleading. “Jewish scholars . . . insist that (Judaism) has a greater interpretive value

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than the Christian vis-à-vis [Hebrew Scripture], for it accepts the pluriformity of the biblical text. Judaism need not look for a historical and theological connection between the Jewish bible and halakhah…” (p. 152). This is undoubtedly the “instinct” of the Jewish religious community. However, the Hebrew Bible/Old Testament in fact spawned a number of reading communities, and each has a living connection with the text. If in fact the meaning of a text is in interpretive transactions, Biblical theology should include as broad a representation as possible; each has a distinctive and potentially valuable contribution to make. Ratheiser’s Jewish theology/ethics of the commandments could contribute significantly, especially since Christians tend to downplay the divine commandments in favor of promises and fulfillment.

Richard M. Davidson, Flame of Yahweh: Sexuality in the Old Testament (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers, 2007). Pp. xxix + 844. Paper, US$29.95. ISBN 978-1-56563-847-1. Reviewed by Heather Macumber University of St. Michael’s College

In Flame of Yahweh: Sexuality in the Old Testament, Richard M. Davidson presents a conservative perspective that explores the theology of sexuality in the final canonical form of the Old Testament. This compilation balances both the exegesis of specific passages and traces the development of sexuality throughout the many eras of Israelite history. Davidson clearly states in the preface that the purpose of this work is to present a “wholistic theology of sexuality in the OT” (p. 2). His research has led him to the conclusion that the Old Testament attests to a unified theology of human sexuality. This conclusion is a result of his analysis of the final form of the canonical text, with an emphasis on literary criticism and new biblical theology. A second crux of interpretation for Davidson is his focus on the importance of creation theology as the foundation for the

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interpretation of the Old Testament. Genesis 1–3 is the lens through which he interprets the development of human sexuality. In the opening chapters of his book, he lays out basic tenets found in Genesis 1–3 that become the standard by which he judges sexual practices found in the Old Testament. In the first section, Davidson analyzes human sexuality in what he labels the “divine design” of Genesis 1–3. For Davidson, the beginning of Genesis “provides the interpretive foundation for the rest of Scripture” (p. 16). This foundation consists of ten observations drawn from Genesis 1–3: sexual differentiation, heterosexuality, monogamy, equality of the sexes, sexual wholeness, exclusivity in marriage, permanence, intimacy, procreation and the goodness of human sexuality. From these observations, Davidson argues that Genesis 1–3 provides a paradigm for a heterosexual, monogamous, and egalitarian marriage between men and women. In addition, this section also addresses the complexity of gender relations as revealed in the events of Genesis 1–3. Davidson upholds that the original design for humanity was that of an egalitarian relationship between the sexes without one gender assuming headship. However, he argues that this original mutual and egalitarian relationship is disrupted by the fall and that the woman is now subject to her husband. He advocates for a gradual return to the original egalitarian relationship but admits the need for the “voluntary submission of the wife to her husband’s leadership as a result of sin” (p. 76). He rejects the view that this is a negative judgment but instead argues that this a positive promise for the couple. In the second section, Davidson explores the many facets of human sexuality throughout the Old Testament. This is life “post-fall,” and according to Davidson, the Old Testament reveals how humanity has both preserved the positive pattern of human sexuality upheld in Eden and also distorted the original egalitarian design. Each of these chapters deals with one of the ten observations gleaned from Davidson’s study of Genesis 1–3. In each chapter, Davidson outlines which behaviours constitute a positive affirmation of the Edenic pattern and which ones are a departure and distortion of God’s design. As an example, one of the ten observations he draws from Genesis 1–3 was the emphasis on heterosexuality as normative for human sexuality. Davidson argues that heterosexual relationships uphold the original pattern of Eden, while homosexuality, transvestism and bestiality are “distortions of the creation norm” (p. 133). The majority of this section is a comparison between the law codes of the ancient Near East and those of the Old Testament that address the paradigm outlined in Genesis. Davidson concludes his book with an examination of sexuality as presented in the Song of Songs. For him, the Song of Songs is the holy of ho-

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lies of human sexuality, embodying a positive affirmation of the Edenic paradigm. He argues that the book upholds the Edenic design of a relationship between a monogamous and heterosexual married couple. It is, for him, a return to Eden but not a perfect parallel as “the poetry of the Song reveals the existence of a world of sin and its baleful results...” (p. 553). As with the previous section, Davidson analyzes the ten principles found in the Edenic design and outlines their presence in the Song of Songs. The final principle, the goodness (or wholeness) of sexuality, is relegated to its own chapter. According to Davidson, this is the high point of the Song of Songs in which sexuality is upheld for its beauty. The book ends with an afterword that discusses the implications of this study for a New Testament theology of human sexuality. Davidson has produced an enormous volume dealing with every conceivable facet of human sexuality as it appears in the Old Testament. It is a rich resource that helps to situate the development of sexual practices in the Old Testament. A particular strength of this work is the continual comparison and contrast between the law codes of the ancient Near East and those of Israel. Although Davidson does not employ a feminist hermeneutic, he continually interacts and dialogues with feminist scholars. He outlines the strengths and weaknesses of a variety of views before advancing his own argument. Moreover, he makes an admirable effort to mediate between both liberal and conservative perspectives on gender relations. The methodology of elevating Genesis 1–3 as the authoritative and normative model for human sexuality is problematic. The Edenic paradigm becomes Davidson’s sole model for a unified theology of sexuality. This is apparent when applied to earlier texts that do not adhere to the ten categories Davidson draws from Genesis 1–3. His reliance on the final canonical form while neglecting traditional historical-critical methods complicates his interpretation of monogamy and polygamy. Davidson concludes that the Edenic ideal of a single husband and wife is proscriptive of marriages throughout all Israelite history. For Davidson, the presence of polygamy in the pentateuchal narratives does not attest to an earlier practice that predates the tenets of Genesis 1–3 but instead he argues that the strife and family conflict found in these texts demonstrates an implicit “theology of disapproval” (p. 180). Thus, the observations that Davidson draws from Genesis 1–3 are continually placed upon other texts as normative instead of examining each text in its own context and historical situation. In addition, an area that is underdeveloped is the consideration of positive aspects of sexuality as found in ancient Near Eastern texts. Davidson’s thorough exploration of ancient Near Eastern documents is com-

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mendable but they are usually relegated to areas which he deems as “distortions” of the divine ideal he finds laid out in Genesis 1–3. It would benefit his argument to examine any similar positive examples of sexuality that might be comparable to that of the Song of Songs in other ancient Near Eastern texts. Davidson has produced a useful volume detailing many areas of human sexuality in the Old Testament. The bibliography is more than extensive and provides a wealth of helpful information.

Ronald Hendel, Remembering Abraham: Culture, Memory, and History in the Hebrew Bible (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005). Pp. xi + 200. Cloth, CAN$45.50, US$35.00. ISBN 0-19-517796-7. Reviewed by Wesley Hu China Evangelical Seminary Ronald Hendel’s book starts with a discussion of the identity of Israel. Situated among the nations, Israel had to differentiate itself by constructing and maintaining a variety of cultural, religious and ethnic boundaries. The most distinctive markers were male circumcision, the dietary law, and the institution of the Sabbath. The origin of the first two, in Hendel’s judgment, was facilitated by the dangerous presence of the Philistines (pp. 21–22). As for the Sabbath, pre-exilic observance was evident, although the precise time frame was less clear (p. 23). The past always comes alive in special times. Memories evoked, however, are not simply events recalled. In Chapter Two, the author beautifully demonstrates that the remembering of Abraham as witnessed in the Hebrew Bible serves to activate conventional social, religious and political ideals, and to create from the past stories new fissures, oppositions and understandings. The counter-memory claim in Ezek 33:23–24 (p. 42) highlights the fact that Israel did resort to their identity as Abraham’s offspring and that the remembrance of him was not enshrined. In other words, memory was subject to negotiation, critique, and even revision.

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In Chapter Three, Hendel examines the archaeological evidences and affirms that the biblical traditions of the patriarchs can be stretched back to the second millennium memories of El and the old Amorite tribal home. In Chapter Four, combing through ancient documents, he argues that the tradition of the Exodus preserves many ancient memories, such as the oppressive rule of Pharaoh (pp. 59–60), the enslavement of the Canaanites (pp. 60–62) and the “Egyptian diseases” (pp. 64–65). A powerful story it is, and the Exodus functions as a paradigm to be remembered and reinterpreted both in the temporal rhythm of everyday life and in the lifespan of human species. Chapter Five is an exercise and an illustration. Assuming Israel Finkelstein is right in lowering the so-called “Solomonic” strata by 75–100 years, the author reads anew the biblical text of 1 Kings 9:15–19 in which Solomon was credited with many building activities. When the narrative is read in light of the low chronology, it illustrates the thesis of the book that the later literary composition makes use of history to shape and reinforce a certain ideology. The last chapter of the book, “The Biblical Sense of the Past,” is an interesting and fitting development of the main thought. Having perused the biblical text in seeking the social function of history, Hendel now looks at the nature of history as it is reflected in the biblical material. He observes, “The biblical practice of historiography is one of interpretation and combination, rather than verification and falsification” (p. 97). This finding corroborates with Gershom Scholem’s observation that interpretation and commentary became for the Jews what philosophy was for the Greeks, the preferred method for discerning truth (p. 103). If the task of the modern biblical scholar is to negotiate the complex circulation of meanings in and among the texts, attending to matters of language, history, religion, literature and culture (pp. ix-x), Hendel has done his job superbly in this book. Running the risk of venting empty words, I offer one critique and one reflection for further thoughts. My criticism is that in a few places the discussion is not thorough. For example, Hendel locates the origin of circumcision in the period of the Philistine migration without much discussion. This seems less than satisfactory since there are traces in the biblical texts that this institution may have been established in earlier times. It is true that circumcision was not foreign to the Egyptian society. We know from several temple reliefs, however, that it was limited to a certain group and was not performed on babies. The enigmatic passage in Exodus 4:24–26 in all likelihood reflects such disparities

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for Moses and should be an important text for Hendel. Unfortunately, he does not elaborate on this incident. Similarly he dates the earliest trace of the food law to the same period while the biblical view has it in the Wilderness after the Exodus. Hendel builds his case by appealing to Larry Stager’s find that pig bones were rare in the highland village of Iron I but were common in Philistia (p. 22). The problem, however, is more complex. Pig constitutes only one source of food. The comprehensive list of prohibited food requires a more substantial explanation. It is true that Israelite meals celebrated and maintained the boundaries of society. Nevertheless, whether these boundaries were set simply to counter a common practice of the Other or to reflect a systematic thought and a particular ideology is a legitimate question. My reflection stems from Hendel’s experiment with the low chronology and the passage describing Solomon as the great builder, which we have briefly discussed. The chapter deserves another look because Hendel also scrutinizes the literary representation of Solomon in 1 Kings 1–2. He concludes that this shady Solomon, because it conflicts with the otherwise idealized portrayal of Solomon, is probably as close to the historical Solomon as we are likely to get (p. 93). What is of interest here is that this does not lead Hendel to posit a multiple-source theory or to a path of redactional speculation. Rather, he writes, “Careful attention to each of the two Solomons–the dimly perceived historical king and the textual representation–is crucial to a coherent understanding of the other” (p. 94). “Did the author or redactor realize this?” we may wonder. If narrative discourse had always been a tool in fashioning public opinions, wouldn’t some of the competent ancient readers attain as homogeneous an understanding as Hendel’s? If so, what does this tell us about the writing or editing of the text? Moreover, what does this reveal to us as to the nature of the text? “The future too is implicit in the past,” Hendel writes (p. 37). Perhaps the answer is already in the book and we should read it again!

Carol Dempsey, Jeremiah: Preacher of Grace, Poet of Truth (Interfaces; Collegeville: The Liturgical Press 2007). Pp. xxxii + 124. Paper, US$15.95. ISBN 0-8146-5985-3. Reviewed by Kathleen M. O’Connor Columbia Theological Seminary

A goal of the Interfaces Series, edited by Barbara Green, is to bring faculty research interests into conversation with teaching and learning. Each of the series’ fifteen books focuses on a biblical character who “‘interfaces’ with his or her historical-cultural world and its many issues” (p. x). Carol Dempsey, a seasoned professor of college students, meets the goals of the series with suggestive interpretations and lively writing. This book will be immensely helpful in undergraduate classrooms and adult faith formation groups because it treats Jeremiah as vulnerable, suffering, and Godbesotted. Like the life of Jesus, the life of Jeremiah has undergone many conflicting assessments from that of pietistic biography, to historically reconstructed prophet, to symbolic cipher that acts as a magnet for accruing traditions. Dempsey stands somewhere in the middle of this dispute. She joins her voice with those of other interpreters for whom Jeremiah is a literary persona who delivers prophetic words to audiences before, during, and after the Babylonian invasions. After locating the prophet within the history of Judah, Dempsey uses rhetorical and narrative criticisms to analyze the literary portrait of Jeremiah. She writes clearly about the connotations of language, delineations of rhetorical units, and literary techniques, such as, the shifting and merging of poetic voices, narrative movement, and elements of characterization. She also expands usual textual resources for discussing the character of the prophet. Besides drawing on texts where the prophet figures prominently—the call narrative, biographical accounts, and the confessions—she also uses other passages where Jeremiah is a background figure. It is not

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only Jeremiah’s prayers of lament assigned to him by first-person speech that make him a person of prayer but also other prayers where connections to this voice are not clear, such as the psalm in Jeremiah 10. Dempsey’s assignment of texts to Jeremiah himself that arguably belong to other voices in the book make him an all-encompassing presence in the book. In her hands, Jeremiah functions in relation to his book as Moses does in relation to the Pentateuch; Jeremiah is the book’s underlying force and spirit, and all texts somehow flow from him and reveal his character. At the same time however, the conflict among voices in the text disappears. Dempsey emphasizes Jeremiah as a lover of God, an observation she expands for contemporary readers. The book’s prayers, along with its language of wounded love, make Jeremiah a “mystic” figure, a contemplative prophet, an intuitive receiver of visions, and an absolutely faithful spokesperson for God. In his prayerful, contemplative life, Jeremiah functions as a model for his audience and for contemporary readers. As a literary figure, therefore, Jeremiah is a multifaceted symbol for Dempsey rather than simply a prophet set against the people. Stories and poems about Jeremiah’s suffering work are not primarily reports of historic events or comments on the prophetic role; they are also expressive of the suffering of the people. Jeremiah suffers for the pain of the people in the balm of “Gilead” poem (8:18) and participates in the wounds of the Judean community in the first-person lament over “my hurt” (10:19–20). Influenced by the writings of Walter Brueggemann, Dempsey is primarily concerned with theological appropriation of the text. She builds on Jeremiah’s relationship with God and depicts that relationship in appealing fashion, greatly diminishing some of the book’s harsh theological rhetoric while inviting readers into Jeremiah’s life in ways that will enhance spirituality and appreciation for the text. Although Dempsey makes clear that Jeremiah is a poetic as much as an historical figure, this perspective is not consistently clear. The marriage metaphor material (2:4–3:10), for example, provides “insights” into the character of Jeremiah and what type of person the historical Jeremiah might have been.” (p. 20). The prophet is “wedded to God” and committed to restoring relationship between God and the people. But in the marriage poetry, the main character is God, while Jeremiah himself is nearly invisible, functioning as prophetic spokesperson rather than as independent character. Although it is possible to quibble about assignments of passages to Jeremiah himself and to challenge particular exegetical decisions, Dempsey is masterful is making Jeremiah approachable for contemporary audiences.

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Eric A. Seibert, Subversive Scribes and the Solomonic Narrative: A Rereading of I Kings 1–11 (Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies, 436; New York/London: T & T Clark, 2006). Pp. xiv + 209. Cloth, US$120.00. ISBN 0-567-02771-6. Reviewed by Mark W. Hamilton Abilene Christian University

When I first picked up this book, its title made me expect a deconstructive, trendy analysis of an ancient text portraying cardboard cutout authors and characters operating with easily identifiable motives. Instead, this book analyzes the problem of scribal motivation and technique with sympathy and sophistication. Even when one does not accept one of Seibert’s specific proposals, his careful attempt to be “sociologically sensitive while combining insights from traditional historical criticism with newer literary modes of reading” (p. 101) deserves both applause and cooperation. Meeting such a goal would help us escape the reductionist traps into which we too often fall. Seibert’s book falls into two major parts. The first consists of two chapters: “Propaganda, Subversion, and Scripture” and “Scribes and Scribal Subversion.” These chapters together examine a range of earlier studies of the problems they name and rescue the terms “propaganda” and “subversion” from obloquy by defining them, respectively, as “a form of persuasion consciously deployed with the intention of convincing others to see things from the point of view of the propagator” (p. 13) and “a form of propaganda whose persuasive efforts are directed toward undermining, criticizing or otherwise ‘corroding’ an ideology, institution, or individual” (p. 16). Seibert shows considerable subtlety when he notes that elite groups themselves may have conflicting ideologies or factional goals, and that subversion may be either concealed or conspicuous.

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His treatment of scribal motivation (Chapter 2), with similar awareness of complex motivations, constructs a pair of ideal types of scribes, “tethered” and “untethered,” i.e., those employed by a patron whose views they must celebrate and those not. He recognizes that even such categories may not take into account the motivations or ideas of an individual scribe, even if they do accurately describe such a person’s relationship to his written product. Seibert also suggests clues to seek in identifying a scribe who practices subversion: rhetorical excess, multiple examples of evaluative ambiguity, unchallenged inclusion of corrosive elements, the lack of other explanations for contradictory readings, and (perhaps most questionably) the precedent in the exegetical tradition of finding ironic or subversive elements in a text. Though a bit repetitive, this chapter identifies elements in prior scholarship that will help future research, and it offers replicable tests for subversive scribal activity in a text under consideration. The second half of the book succeeds less well in my view, because of an overly sketchy treatment of 1 Kings 3–11. Chapter 3 argues that 1 Kings 1–2 show little Deuteronomistic coloring and therefore must be older. Thus any subversion of the text would take place against the backdrop of the ideology of the Judahite monarchy, probably even constituting a Solomonic apologia. Chapter 4 fleshes out this idea regarding 1 Kings 1–2. Picking up earlier studies (Walsh, Conroy), Seibert notes however, that the text repeatedly leaves the reader with a sense of unease at the actions of Solomon, as though the scribe protests too much his master’s innocence. At times, Seibert’s reading is compelling, and his overall argument is plausible if not irresistible. Yet, on occasion, other interpretive options present themselves, as for example, with the case of the execution of Joab. It may be, as Seibert suggests, that 1 Kings 2:28–35 shows a scribe’s discomfort with the execution as an act “simply replacing the old guard … with [Solomon’s] own supporters,” rather than as an act of justice (p. 149). Perhaps, but on the other hand, the text places in the mouth of David himself the damnatio memoriae of his erstwhile hatchetman. Arguably, 2 Samuel’s portrayal of Joab has led the reader to expect or even desire his demise. How one reads the text depends on how much of the material in the final version of the Deuteronomistic History one wishes to consider. Much the same goes for chapter 5, which sketches stories about Solomon that seem somehow subversive. This chapter is perhaps the least satisfactory in the volume, primarily because of its brevity and, on a few occasions, a failure to attend to which level of the text’s history is under consideration (p. 170).

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Perhaps the most difficult aspect of this work centers on a simple question: what precisely does 1 Kings 1–11 subvert? At times, Seibert assumes that we have here a Solomonic apologia, while at other times he speaks more loosely of the pre-Deuteronomic text coming from the royal court and thus being an advertisement for some post-Solomonic ruler’s agenda. But none of this is certain. The court did not offer the only location for a scribe’s work, nor is it necessary to think that every later king would have found Solomon’s rule a happy model. In short, the diversity of the goals of the elites of ancient Judah means that an ambiguous picture of Solomon–which Seibert has demonstrated–need not reflect subversion at all, or at least not of a patron’s ideas. For this reason, Seibert’s work, though careful and often very insightful, does not end the discussion, though it does force us to consider these texts in a new light. For that we owe him a debt.

Alice Hunt, Missing Priests: The Zadokites in Tradition and History (Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies, 452; New York/London: T & T Clark, 2006). Pp. xiv + 218. Hardcover, US$120.00. ISBN 0-567-02852-6. Reviewed by Adam L. Porter Illinois College Most histories of ancient Israel suggest that David appointed Zadok to be one of his priests in Jerusalem. When Solomon expelled Abiathar, Zadok became the sole (high) priest in Jerusalem and his family, the Zadokites, retained the office throughout the monarchy. After the exile, they regained control of the Jerusalem temple. They continued to administer the Temple and Judea until the Maccabean revolt, when the Hasmoneans established themselves as a new dynasty. In this revision of her 2003 dissertation, Alice Hunt argues that this model is incorrect. Rather, she suggests that there was no priestly dynasty before the Oniads, who were replaced by the Hasmoneans (p. 190).

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Hunt’s argument against the existence of a Zadokite priestly dynasty is persuasive. She carefully examines the references to “Zadok” in the Hebrew Bible (HB) and concludes that they generally refer to David’s priest, Zadok. Zadok was succeeded by his son, but there is no suggestion that this family continued to officiate at the Jerusalem Temple in the Deuteronomistic history. “Zadok” appears in priestly genealogical lists in Ezra-Nehemiah and Chronicles, but Hunt argues their primary goal was to show descent from Aaron, not Zadok. Although her argument is largely one based on the silence of the sources, the silence is deafening: surely if the Zadokites controlled the priesthood from around 1000 to 586, there would be some evidence of them. The only suggestion in the HB of a Zadokite dynasty are the references to the “sons of Zadok” in Ezekiel 40–48. Hunt notes, however, that there is no consensus about when these verses were written, their function, or their historical reliability. Perhaps they represent a future, idealized restored Israel or perhaps they are a midrash on other material in Ezekiel. In any case, Hunt concludes that it is difficult to postulate a Zadokite priestly dynasty from these few references, especially in light of the silence from older sources. Outside the HB, references to “Zadok” also refer to David’s priest. Hunt suggests that the “sons of Zadok” mentioned in the Dead Sea Scrolls were members of the Qumran community, but concludes that they were a sub-group, not the founders or leaders of the community. This conclusion runs contrary to the scholarly consensus about Qumran, which suggests that Zadokites founded the Qumran community after the Hasmoneans displaced them. Since Hunt argues there was no Zadokite priestly dynasty, she concludes that this model is incorrect. I found Hunt’s argument persuasive, to this point. She reviews significant prior scholarship, examines the biblical and extra-biblical sources closely, and draws cautious conclusions. The last chapter, presenting a reconstruction of the origins of the “sons of Zadok” group at Qumran, was less persuasive. Hunt applies Lenski’s social-scientific methodology to the Hasmonean state, but needs more careful documentation and argumentation. For example, she asserts that “Economic surplus created a situation where between five and ten percent of the population consumed up to twothirds of the state’s income. . .” (p. 183). She suggests that the “governing class,” which comprised “less than 2 per cent of the population,” controlled “at least one-fourth of the national income” (p. 185). Hunt does not cite sources for these statistics, which is troubling since ancient demographic and economic statistics are difficult to establish. Similarly, she comments

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that “we understand . . . from Talmudic accounts and others, that many regarded [Hyrcanus] as unfit” to be high priest (p. 187). She offers no citations to support this, nor does she address the difficulty in using later Talmudic sources with complex redactional histories to shed light on contemporary attitudes towards Hyrcanus. Later, she says that “most likely, by [the time of Hyrcanus]—a quarter century after the revolt—the Hasmoneans were . . . trying to shift from the rule of might to the rule of right” (p. 187). I would argue that Hasmonean attempts to legitimate their control of Judea began much earlier. Jonathan was the first Hasmonean to become High Priest (152 BCE). And activities like restoring the Temple (164 BCE) and sending envoys to Rome (around 161 BCE) could also be regarded as legitimizing activities by the Hasmoneans. In short, Hunt seems on solid ground when arguing against the existence of a Zadokite priestly dynasty. But her explanations of where this language comes from is vague, perhaps necessarily so. She suggests that the “sons of Zadok” group inserted material into the Qumran documents. Someone added the “sons of Zadok” material to Ezekiel at an undetermined time. And someone, “perhaps a member of this group,” inserted materials about Zadok into Chronicles (and perhaps Ezra-Nehemiah) (p. 190). It seems unlikely that the “sons of Zadok” would have the ability to affect all these different documents, especially if they were a marginal group of outsiders. Hunt may be planning to explain this in a future work, since her final sentence is “who [the sons of Zadok] were before or after [the time of Jannaeus] remains to be seen” (p. 190).

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Victor H. Matthews, Manners and Customs in the Bible: An Illustrated Guide to Daily Life in Bible Times (3rd ed.; Peabody: Hendrickson Publishers, 2006). Pp. 256. Hardcover, US$24.95. ISBN 1-56563-704-6. Reviewed by Bruce Power William and Catherine Booth College Winnipeg

Many will already be familiar with Matthews’ introductory guide to ‘Daily Life’ in the biblical period, this being the third edition of the handbook. What has changed from earlier versions of the volume? Matthews has revised and updated the text to take into consideration developments in the understanding of life and culture during the almost two decades since the revised version of the book appeared. Bibliographies and sources cited have been supplemented, updated and modified, and the text rewritten for readability. The overall size of the book has remained about the same, but significant changes in the presentation need to be noted. The revised version of the book (1988) was laid out in a single column taking up about two thirds of the page, the remaining ‘white space’ being peppered with biblical citations, line drawings and black and white photographs. This new edition is a thorough revision and updating of a work that had already proven its usefulness. Printed in double columns, with its numerous photos, charts and maps presented in full color on glossy paper, this hardcover volume is attractive and affordable, and should appeal to its intended audience: those looking for a concise introduction to the basic elements of daily life in the biblical period. Matthews, an Old Testament scholar with numerous publications concerning the social world of Israel and its place in the broader ancient Near East to his credit, proves an able guide to summarizing the vast amount of information available on the topic. Matthews divides the work into five sections, corresponding to five historical eras—the ‘Ancestral Period,’ ‘Exodus-Settlement Period,’ ‘Monar-

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chy Period,’ ‘Exile and Return,’ and ‘Intertestamental and New Testament Period.’ Each section begins with an overview of the developing and changing political situations in which Israel and/or Judah find themselves. The historical overviews essentially follow the biblical narratives, from the patriarchal age to the Bar Kochba revolt in the 2nd C CE. (Matthews notes that “the exact dates of the ancestral period are still uncertain” [p. 24] but a date ca.1800 BCE is implied.) Inevitably, some social and cultural concerns begin to be addressed in the historical summation, but it is in his description of each time period that Matthews excels as a trusted guide, outlining and detailing numerous aspects of daily life in order to facilitate an understanding of the biblical text. Information about cooking and dress, work and worship, military equipment and legal matters and a multitude of other aspects of ordinary life which the biblical texts allude to, assuming a basic awareness on the part of the reader, are presented in clear and concise prose. The carefully chosen illustrations are helpful in this regard, allowing the novice an introduction to art and artefacts from the ancient world. A few further features are to be noted. Internal cross-referencing facilitates reference back to customs or practices which have already been discussed yet remain pertinent to understanding a later period. Each section concludes with a series of review questions that can be used by the reader to assess one’s comprehension of the main points of the chapter, or might find a role in the use of the book as a class text in an introductory course. To this edition has been added a glossary so that unfamiliar terms can be looked up. The volume also contains four indices—subject, personal names, place names, and ancient texts—which enhances the usefulness of the work. Students beginning serious biblical study in the context of a college or university program, or those in the church seeking for a readable volume to answer some of their many questions arising from their reading of the Bible should find this volume helpful. The lack of footnotes however, limits the usefulness of the book for more serious scholarship. While the bibliography is helpful, a beginning student would certainly need guidance to pursue any of the topics introduced. Certainly specialists will find things to quibble with in Matthew’s summation of the biblical world (e.g., “the ancestral period”). Nonetheless, the book can be recommended as an up-to-date resource presenting an understanding of the current state of scholarship regarding the political, social and cultural contours of the biblical period, and as such should be helpful to beginning students.

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Diane Banks, Writing the History of Israel (Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies, 438; New York/London: T & T Clark, 2006). Pp. xi + 248. Cloth, US$145.00. ISBN 0-567-02662-0. Reviewed by Iain Provan Regent College, Vancouver

This book explores the influence of the discipline of history on the work of history writing in biblical studies since the late nineteenth century until the opening years of the twenty-first. An introduction (Chapter 1) prepares the ground for a discussion of historiography in nineteenth-century Germany and of Julius Wellhausen (Chapters 2 and 3). We progress then to a description of historiography in Germany and the United States in the first part of the twentieth century (Chapter 4), and of the work of Martin Noth and John Bright (Chapter 5). Chapter 6 concerns developments in and debate about historiography in the more recent past, and leads on to discussion in Chapter 7 of more recent work on Israel’s history specifically. A conclusion follows (Chapter 8). The argument of the book, as stated near its beginning (pp. 2–3), is that “while the influence of professional history on the work of history writing in biblical studies is clearly apparent in each of the historical periods chosen as examples, there are strong countervailing influences related to audience”; indeed, that while Wellhausen’s work “set in motion the general tendency toward ever greater congruence between historiography in biblical studies and in academic departments of history,” the “influences” just mentioned hindered that project, which has only recently been revived. These “influences” are related by the author to audiences holding to the authority of the Bible, and thus (it seems) holding also the “presupposition that the Bible is a book of history or, at the very least, contains the historical record of the people of Israel to a greater or lesser degree.” Any volume that increases our understanding of the development of the modern discipline of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies in relation

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to the academic trends of its time(s) is welcome, and this particular volume does fall into that category, with its many interesting observations on the history of historiography in general and the connections between this history and well-known historians of Israel like Wellhausen, Noth and Bright. Pondering such matters should lead on, among other things, to greater selfconsciousness as to our own approach to the Bible and to history, and greater understanding in respect of that of others; and these are good things. It is true at the same time that all accounts of the past, including the one in this present volume, are presented from particular points of view and with particular purposes in mind, and that this must be borne in mind when we are reading them and trying to work out that which we are ready to embrace as really true, objectively speaking, and that which we are not. Here the “story” towards which the facts of history are pointed, as it were, is a fairly well-known one, particularly in these recent times. It involves uncritical religious people, desperate to hold onto “the Bible as history” at all costs, and impeding “progress” at all turns; critical heroes who seek to change things but do not entirely succeed in the short term, only to be succeeded by others who pick up their swords and carry on the good fight; and a secular and academic kingdom that is always just around the corner, to be ushered in as soon as residual faith can at last be removed from the field. Thus in this present story, we meet (for example) Julius Wellhausen “committed to seeking truth, to the critical use of evidence, to writing history without bias” (p. 75); we are invited to consider the following half-century in which “scholars worked to salvage history in the Bible” (p. 226), and on the same page to behold the 1970’s, for only then “did historiography in biblical studies begin to reclaim a position comparable in rigor to professional academic historiography.” And finally, we are invited to gaze upon the promised land: a history of ancient Israel, unconstrained by theological interests, written without reference to the Bible and, if successful, permitting us to draw conclusions about the history of the Bible “with some certainty” (pp. 233–234). This is a deeply implausible story, from beginning to end, obscuring in its simplicity a reality that is vastly more complicated—at least, I find it so. My world is not made up quite so clearly of critical, clear-headed and secular heroes, on the one side, and obscurantist, muddled and religious villains (or idiots) on the other. The critical thinking, and the obscurantism, seems more democratically distributed. Some of those who shout most loudly about being “critical” appear to me, in fact, to be the least capable of true criticism, including self-criticism. They hold their tradition just as uncritically, in the end, as those whom they would dismiss as fundamentalists; and

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they are just as unlikely to reflect, as those others are, on the accuracy of their world-view or the defensibility of their epistemology, among other things. They hold these things to be self-evident (to borrow a line). The telling and re-telling of “the story”—as tedious and unconvincing as it may be to others—itself diverts the attention of the tellers away from such matters, and indeed absolves them from ever having to justify to themselves or anyone else some fairly major assumptions or assertions embedded in the story. To take one important example from the volume under discussion here: why should we believe for a moment that a history of ancient Israel, written without reference to the Bible, would permit us to draw conclusions about the history of (I believe that the author means “in”) the Bible “with some certainty”? I see no argument in this book in justification of this assertion; nor, come to that, do I see a proper argument as to why we should try in the first place to write a history of Israel without reference to the Bible. It’s just what “critical people” do nowadays, I suppose, in line with the great Wellhausen (whom we all know was fundamentally right); but is it sensible? Is it justifiable? Is it even coherent? Discuss … or perhaps simply assert; perhaps simply question the “presupposition that the Bible is a book of history or, at the very least, contains the historical record of the people of Israel to a greater or lesser degree” (p. 2), without seeking to justify the opposite. Happily, and precisely because the story that the author of this book has woven out of the facts does not arise directly from the facts themselves, but comes from elsewhere, it is not necessary to be a believer in “the story” to derive benefit from the book, which remains in substantial part an interesting read.

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Joseph Azize and Noel Weeks, eds., Gilgameš and the World of Assyria. Proceedings of the Conference held at Mandelbaum House, The University of Sydney, 21–23 July 2004 (Ancient Near Eastern Studies Supplement Series, 21; Leuven/Paris/Dudley, MA.: Peeters, 2007). Pp. viii + 240. Cloth €84.00. ISBN 978-90429-1802-3. Reviewed by Scott Noegel University of Washington This volume brings together fourteen essays originally delivered at a conference on Gilgameš held at the University of Sydney in 2004. The editors have organized the articles into three sections: I) “Gilgameš and the World of Assyria,” II) “Gilgameš and the Hebrew Bible,” and III) ìPhoenician and Assyrian Studies.” Below I offer a general synopsis of each article as it appears by section. I conclude with a brief remark concerning the volume as a whole.

SECTION I Opening the book is “An Anti-Imperialist Twist to The Gilgameš Epic” by T. Davenport. By employing a structuralist approach Davenport argues that one should read the epic as a form of covert political criticism against the monarchy, and thus see it in line with the Babylonian texts known as “Advice to a Prince” and the so-called “Letter of Gilgameš.” To illustrate how the Gilgameš epic addresses the “fate of imperial powers under the cover of a heroic image” (p. 21) Davenport underscores the many anti-heroic aspects of Gilgameš’s character (such his tyranny over his subjects that is revealed from the start of the epic) and the paradigmatic nature of the epic itself, which serves to demonstrate what a good king should and should not do. Thus Davenport suggests that we see the epic conveying “the fate of imperial powers as unavoidable decline” and the epic’s closing scene, in which Gilgameš finds solace in gazing at Uruk’s walls, as a “mockery on the mentality of imperial powers, in which expansion and imperialism was viewed as a source of fame and immortality” (p. 21).

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J.-D. Forest, “L’Epopée de Gilgameš, ses origins et sa postérité” provides another structuralist reading of the epic. Here, however, Forest views the epic through a cosmological lens, one that he feels conveys the cyclical nature of archetypal history. Specifically, Forest seeks to establish correspondences between the twelve episodes that comprise the epic and the twelve astrological (zodiacal) phases. Thus Forest argues that the epic’s opening with Gilgameš in his ascendant phase portrays him as a solar hero, who, like the sun, embodies a cosmic journey. The opening of the epic, therefore, corresponds to the winter solstice (i.e., the period of Capricorn), an association that is brought out by the text’s reference to Ea (whose boat elsewhere is labeled the “Ibex of the Apsu,” i.e., like Capricorn who is half horse and half fish) and the episode concerning the birth of Enkidu, who, like Capricorn, represents the embryonic nature of life. The pericope involving the Bull of Heaven relates to Taurus, the fall, death, and funeral of Enkidu represent the period from Cancer to Virgo. The remaining portions of the epic are similarly tied to the various astrological symbols that mark the progression of the solar cycle. While a few of the cosmological readings of the epic offered provoke interest, most are strained, requiring that one accept the associations given to these periods as universals. One wonders what evidence exists contemporaneous with the Gilgameš epic for the associations that the author attributes to the zodiacal phases, especially since Babylonian “horoscopes,” as they have come to be called, did not emerge until late in the 5th c. BCE. 1 A. R. George’s “The Epic of Gilgameš: Thoughts on Genre and Meaning” examines the epic from the perspective of genre. While acknowledging the difficulty in establishing literary genres in Mesopotamia generally, George nevertheless is able to show how the epic integrates hymnic praise, prayer, blessing, lament, and many other genres. Indeed, as he remarks, the epic represents “an anthology of genre” (p. 52). Moreover, these genres developed over time, interacted, and modulated each other through the course of the epic’s reworking. In its most recent reworking, the Standard Babylonian version, the text underscored “the new mood and actively didactic tone of the poem,” thus serving as a “vehicle for wisdom” (p. 57). As

1 See Francesca Rochberg, “Babylonian Horoscopes,” Transactions of the American Philosophical Society 88 (1998), pp. 1–164. Of course, there is a long history of collecting celestial omens from the Old Babylonian period on, but the omen materials are not considered in Forest’s article.

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such George’s contribution offers a useful exploration of native function and generic taxonomy. V. A. B. Hurowitz’s “Finding New Life in Old Words: Word Play in the Gilgameš Epic” examines the epic for its manifold use of word play, with particular attention to alliteration and polysemy. Especially insightful is his treatment of the word napištu “life” as a Leitwort that is punned upon in various ways throughout the epic. Hurowitz builds nicely upon the works of authors who have examined the topic previously 2 and demonstrates the need for further attention to the topic of word play in Assyriology generally. Concluding this section is “Assyrian Imperialism and the Walls of Uruk,” by N. K. Weeks. As Weeks observes, the epic opens by selfreferentially identifying itself as the text one is reading, and thus as a royal inscription now placed as a foundation deposit in the walls of Uruk. It therefore classifies itself as a royal inscription, and not a text for general consumption. Since Assyrian royal inscriptions typically are addressed to future rulers and not contemporaries, they cannot serve as forms of royal propaganda (a purpose that some scholars have asserted for royal inscriptions generally). The implied audience for the epic thus underscores the “social and psychological isolation of the Assyrian king” (p. 85) and has at its primary purpose the legitimation of imperialism “in terms of divine selection and endowment” (p. 89). Weeks’ attention to the implied audience of the text raises important questions as to its interpretation and gives reason to reconsider the commonly held assumption concerning how “popular” the epic of Gilgameš really was.

SECTION II The second section of the tome opens with “L’Epopée de Gilgameš et la Genèse” by J.-D. Forest. As in his other study summarized above, Forest Though appearing too late to be incorporated into Hurowitz’s study, I note here the recently published in-depth study of word play in the Gilgameš epic. See Scott B. Noegel, Nocturnal Ciphers: The Allusive Language of Dreams in the Ancient Near East (American Oriental Series, 89; New Haven, CT, 2007), especially pp. 57–82. I also take this opportunity to note what appears to be an editorial oversight. Though the studies by Carl Frank (“Zu den Wortspielen kukku und kibāti in Gilg. Ep. XI,” ZA 36 [1925], 216) and myself (“Raining Terror: Another Wordplay Cluster in Gilgameš Tablet XI [Assyrian Version, ll. 45-47],” Nouvelles Assyriologiques Brèves et Utilitaires-75 [1997], 39–40) appear in the bibliography, they do not appear in the footnotes on pp. 71–73 where the author discusses the dual meanings of the words kukku, kibāti, and zanānu, i.e., the subjects of the aforementioned articles. 2

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offers a structuralist analysis of a text, this time the narrative cycles in Genesis. Here, however, Forest argues that the redacted and cyclical structure of Genesis (especially with regard to moments of divine interaction and alliance and the births of the patriarchs) correlates to seasonal patterns, solstices, equinoxes, and astrological cycles, and that as such, the book reflects the integration and adaptation of portions of the Gilgameš epic into the patriarchal narratives. David L. Jackson’s “Demonising Gilgameš” focuses on the mention of Gilgameš in two Aramaic fragments found at Qumran, where he appears as one of the giants produced by the elicit offspring of angels and mortal women. Jackson places these references within the context of the sectarian religious beliefs concerning order and purity represented in the Qumran texts, especially the belief that Gentile wisdom derived from the spirits of this elicit offspring. According to Jackson, the identification of Gilgameš and the other giants as a “demonic Gentile force” (p. 112), served as a sort of anti-language code that represented Seleucid culture as a whole. In “The Biblical Flood Story in the Light of the Gilgameš Flood Account,” G. A. Rendsburg draws attention to the difficulties posed for source critics when reading Genesis 6–8 in conjunction with its parallels in the Gilgameš flood narrative. Though source critics have long suggested that the biblical flood story shows the hands of the J (Yahwist) and P (Priestly) sources, neither of the hypothesized sources provides all of the parallels. In fact, only when one reads Genesis 6–8 as a complete story does it provide complete point-by-point parallels with the Gilgameš flood account. Rendsburg also examines the instances in which the biblical and Akkadian flood stories differ for what they tell us about the theological agendas of the Israelites. M. A. Shields, “To Seek but not to Find: Old Meanings for Qohelet and Gilgameš” examines a number of themes that the book of Qohelet and the Gilgameš epic share in common. For example, Shields notes that both employ a “motif of failure as a method for conveying meaning” (p. 129), and hold as central to their message, death and the belief that one should make the best of life while alive. There are, of course, differences: Qohelet looks for what is advantageous in life, whereas Gilgameš looks for eternal life; Qohelet’s failure “reflects the ultimate failure of the wisdom movement” (p. 132) and serves to “deter prospective novices from enrolling as students of the sages” (p. 144), whereas Gilgameš’s failure, when coupled with the knowledge that he now serves as a ruler and judge in the underworld, tends to personalize the great king and thus allow his readers to empathize with him when facing their own deaths.

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R. Todd Stanton’s, “Asking Questions of the Divine Announcements in the Flood Stories from Ancient Mesopotamia and Israel” compares the different methods by which news of the biblical and Mesopotamian floods come to their heroes. In the Sumerian flood story the news of the deluge is revealed in a vision, whereas in Gilgameš it is revealed in a dream. The biblical account is silent on the matter. Based on a number of linguistic and thematic links that connect Noah to Adam and Moses, Stanton argues that the pattern of revelation given in the biblical account is that of a direct faceto-face encounter with the divine. The final piece in this section is I. M. Young’s, “Textual Stability in Gilgameš and the Dead Sea Scrolls.” Young here compares the types, numbers, and relative proportions of textual variants as found in the various recensions of the Gilgameš epic with those found among the Qumran biblical fragments and Masoretic Text. He finds that “the Hebrew evidence seems to move from fluidity to stability rather rapidly. The evidence for the Standard Babylonian Gilgameš epic stretches across much of the first millennium” (p. 181). In the final analysis Young observes: “The scribal transmission of Gilgameš adds therefore to the case that the transmission of Biblical Hebrew was subject to high fluidity” and that the “language of the current texts may tell us much more about the scribes who transmitted the text than the original authors” (p. 183). He adds that this suggests that the trigger for rapid stabilization for the Hebrew text should perhaps be sought in the influence of Hellenism or other factors within early Judaism.

SECTION III The final section of the book is the least connected in terms of content. The first article, J. Azize, “Was There Regular Child Sacrifice in Phoenicia and Carthage?” argues for a more nuanced treatment of the topic of child sacrifice and suggests that some of the texts that scholars have seen as evidence for the practice may attest to sacrifice for children, not of children. He also calls attention to the potential polemical nature of ancient claims of child sacrifice, which may belie defamatory motives. In S. Jackson’s second contribution to the volume, “Phoenicians and Assyrians versus the Roving Nomad: Western Imperialism, Western Scholarship and Modern Identity” the author delves into the racial stereotyping and political motives of Ernest Renan, whose well-known travels in the Middle East and written works reveal an anti-Semitism that nevertheless found redeeming qualities in the Phoenicians, whom Renan associated with the Maronites (an association that Maronites were quick to accept). As allies of the French, the understanding of Maronites as descendents of the Phoe-

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nicians, allowed Renan to distance the obvious accomplishments of Phoenician cultures from the Muslim Semitic population, underscore what he saw as the victory of Christianity, and to fit the Maronites neatly into French imperial designs. The author offers a similar, albeit more brief, treatment of the writings of Henry Layard and Hormuzd Rassam with respect to modern Nestorian Christian claims of genealogical descent from the ancient Assyrians. Concluding the volume is L. R. Sidall, “A Re-examination of the Title ša reši in the Neo-Assyrian Period.” Sidall revisits the long-debated meaning and role of the office of the ša reši (also rab ša reši) in the Neo-Assyrian period. Though often understood as an eunuch, sources prior to the NeoAssyrian period offer little evidence for this connection. Instead, these texts suggest only a court official with inner access to the king. Sidall also argues that although some texts may suggest that the title is used of an eunuch in the Neo-Assyrian period, not all of the pictorial bas-reliefs of beardless men that some have connected to this figure can be used as evidence. It is not until the Persian period, Sidall asserts, that the title is clearly used of eunuchs. The author also dates the references to these titles in Gen 40:7 and Isa 56:3–5 to the Persian period, and thus sees them as referring to eunuchs. The article concludes by suggesting that the ša reši in Assyria may have been a “symbolic institution” (p. 235) connected to the Ishtar cult, which would also explain the ambiguous gender of some of the beardless figures securely connected with the title. Taken as a whole the volume lacks consistency in the quality of its papers and cohesiveness; the book’s third section appears as something of a “catch-all” for papers falling outside the conference’s central theme. Nevertheless, we may thank the editors for organizing the conference that brought these papers together and for reminding scholars in both Biblical Studies and Assyriology that there is still reward in comparative analysis, especially when demonstrating influence or dependence is not the ultimate goal.

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David Toshio Tsumura, The First Book of Samuel (New International Commentary on the Old Testament; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2007). Pp. xxii + 698. Hardcover, US$50.00. ISBN 978-0-8028-2359-5. Reviewed by Steven L. McKenzie Rhodes College, Memphis

The NICOT series is written by evangelical Christian scholars and aimed at an evangelical Christian audience. Unlike some commentary series designed for a broad audience, however, it seeks to employ contributors who are trained biblical scholars. David Tsumura’s specific areas of expertise are Ugaritic and Semitic languages, and he makes extensive use of stylistic and linguistic analysis in this volume. Not surprisingly, given the evangelical orientation, Tsumura dates 1–2 Samuel to the tenth century (based largely on the “to this day” reference regarding Ziklag in 27:6), affirms its historicity, and eschews the existence of the narrative sources frequently postulated behind Samuel (the Ark Narrative, the History of David’s Rise, the Succession Narrative). More surprising is Tsumura’s dismissal of text-critical work in Samuel and his insistence throughout on following the MT, consistently rejecting variant readings, especially those of the LXX and 4QSama. The commentary’s introduction is unusual for its focus on the topics of grammar and syntax, discourse analysis, and poetic analysis, all of which are devices to which Tsumura appeals throughout his work in defense of the MT’s readings. Tsumura’s working principle, articulated on p. 380, is that “‘textcritical’ solutions miss the characteristics of linguistic expressions.” There may well be instances where the MT has been imperfectly understood and where scholars have, therefore, too readily accepted variant readings. There are certainly places in the commentary where Tsumura’s methods lead him to propose innovative and intriguing explanations of readings in the MT. I found his proposal regarding the crux, tēred mĕʾōd in 20:19, as an idiom for nightfall to be one such intriguing possibility. However, the volume is pep-

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pered with other cases where Tsumura’s explanations for the MT are forced and nonsensical, if not patently inaccurate. Before noting a sample of these, it is worth returning to Tsumura’s discussion of 20:19, where he states, “I would like to assume that the MT is correct …” Here is the basic flaw of Tsumura’s approach. Tsumura nowhere justifies this assumption, and without such justification, there is simply no reason to privilege one textual witness over other, more ancient, and by most appearances, better ones. It is this assumption above all that leads, nay forces, Tsumura to engage in the sorts of “gymnastics” that one finds here in defense of the MT. To cite a few examples, Tsumura contends that the word na‛ar, a noun of the “segholate” pattern, can also be an adjective meaning “young,” primarily so that he can make sense of the MT reading hanna‛ar na‛ar (1:24). Tsumura rejects the genuineness of the famous 4QSama plus in 10:27a, though he fails to explain how this verse with the unusual information it supplies would have been added, and in fact, he later draws on the “tradition preserved in 4QSama” to explain the events described in the MT (p. 305). In another famous case—that of the regnal formula for Saul in 13:1, which states that Saul was a year old (ben-šānāh) when he began to reign and reigned two years, Tsumura rather disingenuously says that “no age [for Saul] is specified.” While begrudgingly admitting a “possible textual problem,” Tsumura speculates that ben-šānāh may mean “a certain age” and that while “it is almost certain that the actual length of Saul’s reign was more than two years,” the figure here is from God’s viewpoint, even though from a human standpoint Saul occupied the throne longer than two years. In 14:25, Tsumura follows the MT reading, “all the land entered the forest,” but he can only guess at what this means. In 17:4, he accepts the larger figure for Goliath’s height (six cubits = 9 feet rather than LXX’s four cubits = 6 feet) and turns to a discussion of gigantism. Parenthetically, though it is not a text-critical matter, Tsumura similarly suggests that Jonathan was hypoglycemic, based on the statement in 14:27 that his eyes brightened when he tasted honey—a proposal that is ironic in view of Tsumura’s common appeals elsewhere to idioms as a means of avoiding textual emendation. Beyond issues of textual criticism, Tsumura’s working principle regarding literary criticism is articulated on p. 479: “A synchronic reading should have priority, not because a diachronic approach is useless to the correct understanding, but because methodologically synchrony has priority, as a diachronic approach involves a hypothesis about composition …” But Tsumura’s synchronic approach also involves a hypothesis about composition, and practically, Tsumura goes to lengths to defend this hypothesis in the face of indications of diachronic development. For instance, David’s

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designation as both the seventh son and the eighth is the result of the Samuel writer adopting “the practice of epic writing,” though Tsumura does not explain how or why the poetic form of epic was transferred to prose. In order to resolve the tension between depictions of David in 16:18 and chapter 17, Tsumura treats the expressions gibbôr ḥayil (“a powerful person”) and ʾîš milḥāmāh (“a man of war”) together as designating social status. While this is likely for the former expression, it is not likely for the latter, as the juxtaposition of the two expressions indicates. In chapter 17 as a whole, where textual- and literary-criticism merge, Tsumura ignores the double death of Goliath (vv. 50–51) and again ironically, is compelled to take Saul’s question in v. 58 (“Whose son are you?”) literally, as an inquiry about the identity of David’s father, rather than an idiomatic way of asking about David’s identity—none of which resolves the tension with chapter 16, where Saul is informed about David’s family and social background (16:18) and even sends to Jesse (16:19, 22). There is, to be sure, a great deal of value in this commentary, especially in Tsumura’s linguistic and structural analyses. But so much of the volume is preoccupied with attempts to counter previous text-critical and diachronic work on Samuel that one cannot help but approach Tsumura’s explanations with skepticism. Tsumura’s linguistic expertise is a rich resource for the study of biblical narrative and the book of Samuel in particular. It is a shame that he is unable to employ it in cooperation with other valuable critical tools of biblical scholarship, specifically textual and literary (source) criticism.

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J. Maxwell Miller and John H. Hayes, A History of Ancient Israel and Judah (2nd ed.; Louisville/London: Westminster John Knox Press, 2006). Pp. xxii + 562. Paper, US$39.95. ISBN 0-664-22358-3. Reviewed by Michael Carasik Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Twenty years after the publication of the first edition, Miller & Hayes’ wellregarded History of Ancient Israel and Judah has been given a thorough, welcome updating. The book maintains a moderate position between the two extremes that have been labeled “maximalism” and “minimalism.” They expected their earlier volume to draw fire from both sides of the debate, and “[t]his turned out to be the case” (p. xvii). The new edition perhaps takes a slight step further toward the minimalist side, but (as the authors note) “the center of gravity of the discussion” (p. xvii) has moved even farther in that direction. My tack in this review will be to discuss the general nature of the changes, and particularly those pointed to by the authors themselves, and then to look at two specific sections more closely to see how they have changed. The book follows the same outline as in the first edition, but has been significantly expanded, with more pages, more charts, maps, and pictures, and more references. The maps, even those that are essentially the same as in the first edition, have been redrawn (perhaps for technical reasons?). Instead of a chapter-by-chapter bibliography at the end of the book, there are now footnotes, plus a “General Bibliography” at the end of every chapter. The most noticeable expansions are two: The first edition’s chapter 2, “The Question of Origins,” is now split into two, with “The Biblical Evidence” left in a chapter on its own, preceded by a greatly expanded chapter on “Epigraphy and Archaeology.” Next, most of “Separate Kingdoms,” Chapter 7 in the first edition, has been renamed after one of its sections, “Four Decades of Hostilities,” and a new “Separate Kingdoms” chapter examines

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“the strengths and limitations of our sources of information” pertaining to that period. A further step away from the influence of the Bible is felt in slight adjustments of the names of the first few historical chapters of the book: “Before Any King Ruled in Israel,” “The Early Israelite Monarchy,” “David, King of Jerusalem,” and “The Reign of Solomon” have become “Earliest Israel,” “Eli, Samuel, and Saul,” “David,” and “Solomon.” As you can see, the historical discussion still begins in the period Bible readers think of as that of the “Judges.” The book ends with the same two paragraphs as did the first edition, beginning with the remark, “[w]e know practically nothing about the history of the Jewish community between Ezra-Nehemiah and the conquest of Alexander the Great” (p. 538). (My perhaps mistaken impression is that we do know somewhat more about this period now than we did twenty years ago.) But the preceding subsection, “Ezra’s Attempted Reform,” can demonstrate the nature of the revision and the stance taken by Miller and Hayes. It, too, is essentially the same as in the first edition, but with the addition of two paragraphs discussing the suggestion that the Torah was produced “through the influence or at the bequest [behest? request?] of Persian imperial authority” (p. 537). “Such a theory would help to explain” both the “compromise” nature of the work as well as how it became sacred scripture for the Jews both in Samaria and in Judah. But there is “no direct evidence” for this theory, and the Torah is “much more than a collection of laws.” At this point, the new edition returns to the first edition at the paragraph beginning with “Ezra learned that intermarriage with foreign women was widespread” (p. 473, 1st ed.)—but with a slight revision: “Ezra, we are told, learned that intermarriage with foreign women was widespread in the community.” The following biblical quotation differs as well; Miller and Hayes now use the NRSV, rather than the RSV, as their base text for the Bible. Compare, similarly, the treatment of Hezekiah. It retains the same structure as in the earlier edition. But the subsection “Sargon and Hezekiah” has a much expanded discussion. Where the first edition ended the Hezekiah section with two quotations from the book of Isaiah, the second omits them in favor of a new half-page’s worth of historical summary. One of the quotations from Isaiah simply disappears; the other is relegated to a single sentence 13 pages earlier. The book concludes, as did the first edition, with a Scripture Index and a Name Index, though the Scripture Index now comes first. (It continues to follow the order of the books in the Christian Bible, appropriately since a few references to the Apocrypha and the New Testament are in-

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cluded.) Some of the translations of ancient texts have been updated: “Ramesses III’s War against the Sea Peoples” still comes from ANET, but the Amarna letter of Abdi-Hepa is now taken from Moran’s 1992 translation, and the Merneptah Stele excerpt comes from an article by Rainey in IEJ. No doubt those who take a more extreme position on how Israelite history should be written will continue to snipe at this book from either side. For those who are looking for a sober and scholarly attempt to understand that history, Miller and Hayes’ new edition can be highly recommended. The major issues that have arisen in the last 20 years are dealt with here (e.g., Finkelstein’s lowering of the date of the “Solomonic” gates of Gezer, Megiddo, and Hazor to the 9th century), but they are treated with a solid dose of “on the one hand this … on the other hand that.” Personally I find that Miller and Hayes seem to base their judgment on a quite careful evaluation of the facts that we have. If their delicate balancing act often leaves a reader wondering about what “actually happened,” this is the inevitable result of any honest examination of the past.

Alice Mouton, Rêves hittites: Contribution à une histoire et une anthropologie du rêve en Anatolie ancienne (Culture and History of the Ancient Near East, 28; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2007). Pp. xxix + 344. Cloth €84.00, US $112.00. ISBN 978-900416024-8. Reviewed by Scott Noegel University of Washington This work constitutes the first systematic collection and study of Hittite texts concerning dreams and dreaming. Consequently, it offers a number of contributions to the study of Hittite culture specifically and to our understanding of ancient conceptions of dreams generally. 1 1 Though not expressly stated, this volume appears to derive, at least in part, from the author’s 2003 doctoral dissertation earned jointly from Sorbonne and

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Mouton divides her study into four sections. The first defines and explains the Hittite terms associated with dreams and dreaming. The second examines the nature of dreams from the perspective of Hittite beliefs especially as they concern “message dreams” and “bad dreams.” 2 The third discusses dreams and dreaming in Hittite daily life, with particular attention to the relationship between dreams, purity, sickness, and death. The fourth section, the largest of the book (pp. 87–313), offers textual editions and translations of 133 Hittite texts, along with pertinent bibliographical data. The collection of primary texts is divided into the following categories: historical documents (1–11), catalogues (12–17), literary excerpts (18–19), mythological texts (20–21), hymns and prayers (22–27), ritual texts (28–44), divinatory texts (45–92), votive offerings (93–123), documents concerning festival and cults (124–127), texts in a foreign language (i.e., Hittite texts that contain Hurrian and Luwian elements, and thus likely hail from Kizzuwatna [128–129]), and miscellaneous texts (130–133). A representative bib-

University of Leiden entitled Le rêve au Proche-Orient au deuxième millénaire avant J. -C.: étude des sources hittites mises en perspective avec le reste du Proche-Orient ancien. I also note that the book’s subtitle might lead one to expect that the author will apply anthropological models and methodological frameworks to the data, but this is not the case. Instead Mouton employs a very broad definition of anthropology: “Je prends le terme ‘anthropologie’ dans son acception la plus large, à savoir ‘l’étude de l’homme et de son comportement’” (p. xxiii, n. 14). 2 Mouton classifies all Hittite dreams into two categories: “rêves-messages” or “mauvais rêves” (p. 29). This represents a revision of A. Leo Oppenheim’s typology (The Interpretation of Dreams in the Ancient Near East: With a Translation of the Assyrian Dream Book [Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, 46/3; Philadelphia, Pa.: American Philosophical Society, 1956], p. 186), which distinguishes “message” dreams, in which a god or important figure appears in a dream and delivers an auditory missive to the dreamer, from “symbolic” dreams, in which the dreamer witnesses enigmatic visual images that require an interpreter. While Mouton rightly notes the problematic nature of this typology given her data, it is unclear to me how the new typology she proposes resolves the problems inherent in the category “message dream,” which many have pointed out. See, e.g., S. A. L. Butler, Mesopotamian Conceptions of Dreams and Dream Rituals (AOAT, 258; Münster: UgaritVerlag, 1998), Ruth Fidler,“Dreams Speak Falsely”? Dream Theophanies in the Bible: Their Place in Ancient Israelite Faith and Tradition (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 2005 [in Hebrew]), and now Scott B. Noegel, Nocturnal Ciphers: The Punning Language of Dreams in the Ancient Near East (American Oriental Series, 89; New Haven, CT, 2007).

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liography and useful indices of proper names, topics, and texts concludes the book. Much of the data collected here demonstrates that the Hittites shared a number of conceptions generally with other peoples in the ancient Near East. 3 Thus, one finds in these texts that dreams and visions are nearly indistinguishable, that dreams were understood as external to the dreamer, and that the dream provided a meeting place between the mortal and divine worlds. Like other peoples in the ancient Near East, the Hittites had no specialist whom we might call a dream interpreter. Instead, a skilled priest would serve in this capacity. Also like other peoples, the Hittites viewed dreams as especially ominous when they recurred or had a high emotional impact on the dreamer, or when dreamt by kings, queens, priests, and others with privileged access to the divine. Of course, if a deity appeared in a dream it was automatically ominous. Other beliefs and practices found in these texts reveal the direct influence of Mesopotamian culture. Thus, diviners verified the interpretations of dream omens by means of extispicy. They also made oracular requests when the information obtained in a dream was deemed insufficient (e.g., when they needed to know which deity had sent a dream). As in Mesopotamia, the Hittites employed rituals of exorcism or substitution in order to nullify the impact of bad dreams. At times, they even referred to the god of dreams by his Akkadian name Zaqīqu. One also sees the imprint of Mesopotamian culture in the only extant Hittite dream manual, whose format follows exactly the Assyrian dream manuals (KUB 43.11 [+] KUB 43.12, text 45, pp. 170–171). Unfortunately, the tablet is poorly preserved and contains only a handful of dreams (and none of their apodoses), in this case dreams involving animals. The Hittite corpus also provides the only analogue to the claim of collective dreaming found in an account of Assurbanipal. In the Hittite text each of the allies of Hattushili III experiences the same dream (KUB 1.1, text 2, pp. 33, 88–91). One of the more fascinating aspects of these texts is that they attest to Hittite beliefs and practices that are found elsewhere only in the Aegean world. Thus, incubation (i.e., the provocation of oracular dreams) could be 3 Curiously, it appears that Mouton does not include Egypt among the cultures of the ancient Near East. Even though she offers a number of relevant parallels from Egyptian texts in various footnotes, she excludes the Egyptian materials when providing brief synopses of all dream texts known from the ancient Near East, though the Hebrew Bible and Iliad and Odyssey are included (pp. xxv-xxvi).

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used in both cultures to ascertain a dreamer’s state of purity. Similarly, only in Greek and Hittite cultures do we find incubation employed to identify or affect a cure for a patient. One lengthy ritual text (KUB 9.2, text 29, pp. 129–141) is especially significant in that it appears to provoke sexual dreams with the deity as a means of curing impotence. This practice has its only analogue in a votive text found at the Temple of Asclepius at Epidauros (p. 72). Perhaps of greatest interest to readers are those Hittite texts that reveal something unique about dreams in Hittite culture. From a comparative perspective it appears that with the possible exception of the Greek world, incubation appears to have been practiced more widely in the Hittite world than elsewhere in the ancient Near East, especially by members of the royal house. 4 Indeed, most of the relevant Hittite texts record dreams that were provoked in response to a request by a king, queen, or someone of their entourage. One Hittite text (KUB 43.55, text 34, pp. 147–149) is of special interest in that it appears to use incubation as a form of necromancy. As Mouton notes (p. 80), this practice is attested only here. One of the most unique features of this corpus, however, is the importance placed on dreams experienced by the queen, especially Puduhepa. With the exception of a few Demotic texts of a much later time, 5 no other ancient Near Eastern document includes the dreams of women, much less a queen. Of course, the role and status of the queen was greater in the Hittite world than elsewhere in the ancient Near East, and Puduhepa was certainly a more prominent queen than most, 6 but one wonders whether these texts tells us something more about the roles and status of women generally in Hittite society. At the very least, such texts, like so many in this volume, will supply the building blocks for future comparative work. Indeed, this book provides a great deal of comparative material for those in adjacent fields, in addition to a wealth of philological, literary, cul4 Incubation was practiced in Mesopotamia, but it does not appear to have been as common. See Annette Zgoll, “Die Welt im Schlaf sehen-Inkubation von Träumen im antiken Mesopotamien,” WdO 32 (2002), pp. 74–101. 5 See Aksel Volten, Demotische Traumdeutung (Pap. Carslberg XIII und XIV Verso) (Analecta Aegyptiaca, 3; Copenhagen: Einar Munsgaard, 1942). 6 See Heinrich Otten, Puduhepa. Eine hethitische Königin in ihren Textzeugnissen (Akademie der Wissenschaften unde der Litertur, Mainz. Abhandlungen der Geistes- un Sozialwissenschaftlichen Klasse, Jahrgang 1975, No. 1; Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1975).

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tural, religious, and historical information for the specialist. We may thank Mouton for making accessible these materials, which hitherto had been restricted to Hittitologists. This book is a welcome addition to the growing corpus of published research on dreams and dreaming in the ancient world.

INDEX

1 Chronicles, 510 Davidson, Richard M., 520 Davies, Philip R., 397 Dempsey, Carol, 526 Diagnoses in Assyrian and Babylonian Medicine: Ancient Sources, Translations, and Modern Medical Analyses, 467 Did Second Temple High Priests Possess the Urim and Thummim?, 81 Dirksen, Peter B., 510 Douglas, Mary, 471 Dutcher-Walls, Patricia, 513 Edelman, Diana, 495 Eskenazi, Tamara Cohn, 33 Esler, Philip F., 513 Etched in Stone: The Emergence of the Decalogue, 504 Expatriates, Repatriates, and the Question of Zion’s Status—In Conversation with Melody D. Knowles, Centrality Practiced Jerusalem in the Religious Practices of Yehud and the Diaspora in the Persian Period, 169 Flame of Yahweh: Sexuality in the Old Testament, 520 Form and Intertextuality in Prophetic and Apocalyptic Literature, 491 Found But Not Lost: A Skeptical Note on the Document

A Goat to Go to Azazel, 197 A History of Ancient Israel and Judah, 547 A Reconsideration of Manuscripts Classified as Scrolls of the Twelve Minor Prophets (XII), 445 Aaron, David H., 504 Ahab: The Construction of a King, 515 Albertz, Rainer, 25 Ancient Israel: The Old Testament in its Social Context, 513 Andersen, Burton, 467 Anderson, Cheryl, 489 Assis, Elie, 309 Athas, George, 478 Author or Redactor?, 221 Azize, Joseph, 538 Banks, Diane, 535 Barton, John, 427 Ben Zvi, Ehud, 391, 393 Bergen, Wesley J., 483 Bienkowski, Piotr, 461 Boda, Mark, 495 Bodner, Keith, 369 Bodner, Keith, 515 Boer, Roland, 151 Brenner, Athalya, 489 Campbell, Antony F., 464 Carasik, Michael, 547 Carr, David M., 335 Crime Scene Investigation: A TextCritical Mystery and the Strange Death of Ishbosheth, 369

555

556

PERSPECTIVES ON HEBREW SCRIPTURES

Discovered in the Temple Under Josiah, 1 Fried, Lisbeth S., 81 Fulton, Deirdre N., 173, 327 Geoghegan, Jeffrey C., 279 Gilgameš and the World of Assyria. Proceedings of the Conference held at Mandelbaum House, The University of Sydney, 21–23 July 2004, 538 Guillaume, Philippe, 433, 445 Hamilton, Mark W., 486, 528 Hayes, John H., 547 Hendel, Ronald, 523 Henige, David, 1 Hobbs, T. R., 504 Hu, Wesley, 523 Hunt, Alice, 530 In Conversation with Oded Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem, 21 Jacob’s Tears: The Priestly Work of Reconciliation, 471 Janzen, David, 179 Jeremiah: Preacher of Grace, Poet of Truth, 526 Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period, 475 Keeping It Literal: The Economy of the Song of Songs, 151 Klein, Ralph W., 187, 347 Knoppers, Gary N., 41, 169, 171, 323, 325 Knowles, Melody D., 193 Kugel, James, 405 Launderville, Dale, 486 Lee, Bernon, 471, 483 Leuchter, Mark, 243, 245 Linville, James, 491 Lipschits, Oded, 69, 475, 507 Lissa M. Wray Beal, 464

Macumber, Heather, 520 Magico-Medical Means of Treating GhostInduced Illnesses in Ancient Mesopotamia, 467 Manners and Customs in the Bible: An Illustrated Guide to Daily Life in Bible Times, 533 Mark Leuchter, 247 Master, Daniel M., 53 Matthews, Victor H., 533 McKenzie, Stephen L., 544 Mee, Christopher, 461 Miller, Daniel, 478 Miller, J. Maxwell, 547 Missing Priests: The Zadokites in Tradition and History, 530 Mitchell, Christine, 510 Mitzvoth Ethics and the Jewish Bible: The End of Old Testament Theology, 517 Monroe, Lauren A. S., 293 Mouton, Alice, 549 Najmann, Hindy, 417 Noegel, Scott, 467 Noegel, Scott, 538 Noegel, Scott, 549 Noegel, Scott B., 111 O’Brien, Mark A., 464 O’Connor, Kathleen M., 526 Oeming, Manfred, 475 Patrick, Dale, 517 Pinker, Aron, 197 Porter, Adam L., 530 Power, Bruce, 533 Provan, Iain, 535 Reading Ritual: Leviticus in Postmodern Culture, 483 Remembering Abraham: Culture, Memory, and History in the Hebrew Bible, 523

INDEX Rereading Oracles of God: Perceptions of Prophecy in Israel after the Exile, 391 Rethinking the Pentateuch: Prolegomena to the Theology of Ancient Israel, 464 Rêves hittites: Contribution à une histoire et une anthropologie du rêve en Anatolie ancienne, 549 Revisiting the Composition of EzraNehemiah: In Conversation with Jacob Wright’s Rebuilding Identity: The Nehemiah Memoir and its Earliest Readers, 323 Ristau, Ken, 475 Ristau, Ken, 507 Scribes Before and After 587 BCE: A Conversation, 243 Scurlock, JoAnn, 467 Seibert, Eric A., 528 Slater, Elizabeth, 461 Sneed, Mark, 139 Subversive Scribes and the Solomonic Narrative: A Rereading of I Kings 1– 11, 528 Sweeney, Marvin A., 491 Tebes, Juan Manuel, 461 The Body Royal: The Social Poetics of Kingship in Ancient Israel, 486

557 The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem: Jerusalem under Babylonian Rule, 507 The First Book of Samuel, 544 The Origins of the Second Temple: Persian Imperial Policy and the Rebuilding of Jerusalem, 495 The Tel Dan Inscription: A Reappraisal and a New Interpretation, 478 The Unlikely Malachi-Jonah Sequence (4QXIIa), 433 Tsumura, David Toshio, 544 Van Seters, John, 221 Vanderhooft, David, 21, 23 Weeks, Noel, 538 Williamson, H. G. M., 61 “White Trash” Wisdom: Proverbs 9, 139 Women, Ideology and Violence: Critical Theory and the Construction of Gender in the Book of the Covenant and Deuteronomic Law, 489 “Word Play” in Qoheleth, 111 Wright, Jacob L., 265, 357 Writing and Ancient Near East Society: Papers in Honor of Alan R. Millard, 461 Writing the History of Israel, 535